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Sometimes he felt like he was drowning. Which was the worst feeling in the world, especially after the ice. Every time he got that way he feared that when he came back to that he wouldn’t know where he was, who he was, or what he was supposed to be doing. Being grounded back in reality always hurt. Always felt like a pistol whip to the face when he realized that there was no Bucky, there was no Peggy, and there was absolutely nothing familiar. Nothing he knew. Bucky hurt more though. At night, when he got cold, and the bed was too soft, even the damn floor was too soft. All he wanted was Bucky, all he wanted was to be wrapped in his warmth, and his love, and feel Bucky’s soft lips on his hair, on his face. But it was too cold, and too soft, and too new.
Even the suit was new, better, but new. It was stronger, it smelled different. It didn’t fit the same, and didn’t have the pocket on the inside that Bucky would slip notes and little charms in. They all got left in the ocean. All the notes, all the promises, all the small glass beads and buttons that Bucky knew Steve would love. And he did, he loved every damn one of them that Bucky had found him. Some of them he found in his perches, when he was waiting to take a shot. Some of them he found on the ground, or in enemy camps. He always came back with one. Always felt bad that he couldn’t shower Steve with extravagant gifts and real gems. Steve didn’t care, he would always tell Bucky that too, and then call him a punk and pull him down, later up, by his collar for a kiss. Buck would always smirk afterwards and pull Steve back in for another, always showing him up with his skills. Not that Steve ever care.
It hurt though, when he would reach to rub where the pocket used to be, especially mid battle. He could be mid throw of the shield, and feel the absence of the trinkets, of Bucky at his six, and it always made him pause. Always made him worry that maybe he wasn’t good for the team, that he would get stuck mid fight, and they would all die too. Especially when the memories got really bad. When the weather got cold, and the air got grey and all of the battles led him to memories of looking for Bucky in HYDRA’s base. The snow and ice would sting his face, and the air would chap what his cowl didn’t cover, but he never felt it. Never felt anything but the absence of Bucky. Especially after the battles when he would just want a warm shower with him, or just a nap. Damn he missed the naps.
Food was a slap in the face too, all of it too fake, too chemically, and none of it made by Bucky. Bucky who could cook like a chef and would jokingly taunt Steve about his ability to burn water and wilt the cabbage just by looking at it. Steve would always stay away from cooking, just because he was so terrible at it. Because he didn’t want to waste any of the food they had. He would help in other ways though, when he could. He would do the washing and the cleaning when he had the energy, and push himself to do it even when he didn’t. When Stark took them out for Italian food, or had it called in, he could remember the smells of when Bucky would get a raise, or help out the butcher and get paid in scraps of meat. He would always come home and cook a meal just like his mother taught him. He made the best pasta that Steve had ever eaten. Even in the 21st Century none of it compared. And nothing ever would. Nothing would ever compare to Bucky. Ever.
Sometimes he felt like he was drowning. He could feel the water freezing in his lungs. He didn’t care either. Because there would be no Bucky when he came back. So what was the point.