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No, he can't do this again. Please, God, he doesn't want to do this again. Make them stop. Make this time be the last.
Chest heaving, t-shirt damp, eyes tight-shut with the pressure of the images slowly flickering out in his brain like a dying projector, he tries to focus on something else - anything else - to shut them off.
Here. He's right here. This is real. He's here. He's...he's...home. This is his apartment. This is his room. It's real. It's real. Right here and now - this is real and he's awake... Not asleep. Not a dream. It's real…
For the millionth time, he goes through a list of similar reassurances. It's always a fighting, lung-busting effort for him to come up for air, especially when he's under as deep and for as long as he was just now. There are always those few lingering seconds - minutes, even - where he can't snap out it, where it's all still sticking to him like a second skin, invading his reality, fusing with his cells, becoming him. Always keeping him guessing.
Is what he's seeing true or not? Is he truly himself, James Barnes, seeing it? James Barnes, born and raised? Or is this the dream, and he's going to wake up soon and find that he's been someone else all along? Someone cold and muzzled and...made.
That uncertainty never fails to kick his heart into overdrive, to twist his gut in an unrelenting grip, to lock his jaw in a vice that’s had him grinding his teeth every night for the past who knows how long. It’s a wonder they’re not down to nubs. Like an old dog. Like…like an amputee. Those poor devils are the ones that get passed by on the street, the ones with troubles so burdensome that nobody wants to get involved.
How the hell did he become one of them.
The ceiling fan is on low, humming rhythmically as it spins, an uneven drone modulating between two tones like a stuck record. Singling out a blade, he easily tracks its rapid circles with his eyes for a minute or two. A gray line of layered dust clings to the opposing edge, built up over the summer. He stares, and he lets the slight stir of cooler air dry the sweat on his neck while his heart continues to slow, lets the images melt back into the shadows of his brain, for now. When he finally blinks, he's met with the distinctly crunchy sound of his lids skidding over his eyeballs.
Too dry. They're usually dry, afterwards. No tears. Tonight is no exception; he certainly doesn't feel like crying right now. Hell, he feels wired. And exhausted, at the same time. The more tired he is at night, the worse the dreams tend to be. He needs sleep, but he's too worked up for it. Even though he desperately needs it. Even though he avoids it like a plague. Catch-22.
Eventually his body has to sleep. Even his body - he admits that to himself at this point, after multiple failed attempts at staying awake for days on end. He'd still lasted longer than any normal person should be able to stay awake - he lasted almost a week once. But it'd been a disaster, and he'd been barely coherent, barely functioning. He'd been a wreck. A wrecked wreck. So yeah, he has to sleep at some point; it's inevitable. Even so, he's got a death grip on consciousness and he dreads the moments he has to let go, the moments when the metaphorical chair he's wedged firmly under that metaphorical doorknob is yanked away and all the memories come rushing at him hard and fast. Reminding him, assaulting him, reverting everything to agony. That place is ruthless and he finds no forgiveness there; he's back to being a cold, clinical machine and he's powerless against the past. It's him but it's not him. He's not there but he is.
It doesn't help that he's been through this ringer more times than he can count. At this point all he can do - all he’s ever been able to do - is let the shame and terror collide. Wait it out. All he can hope for is the chance to pick up the pieces of himself all over again once he's back in reality and gasping for breath, can only try to reassemble and stick them back together with fraying willpower and thin spit into whoever it is he's supposed to be.
Until the next time he falls apart.
He's restless. For a while he was calming down, but now what first set his heart speeding has settled in his nerves. It can't be later than three or four in the morning, and he briefly considers getting up, maybe getting a cup of coffee. Then he remembers they're out of coffee as of yesterday afternoon and... It's just as well, he doesn't really want to move out from under the covers anyway.
There are too many things piled on top of the bureau. It's the first time in a very long time that he's owned enough stuff to even be capable of making a room messy. Too much to fit into a backpack now. But the various accumulated belongings strewn around the room aren't that messy, really. They're...homey. It looks homey, looks like something ordinary people have, a space studded all around with little inanimate testimonies of a life he thought he'd never get to live. It looks like roots, tender and fragile but attempting to grow. So he typically leaves the stuff where it lands if only so he can look at it and appreciate the effect, can see the proof that yes, this is real and he's here and he's trying. Granted, the clutter is constantly catching his eye and distracting him, but he counts that as a good thing. He needs to be distracted in a way that will keep bringing him back to earth and grounding him.
If he was going to tidy up, he could move some of the buildup off the tops of the furniture though. The current mess in his head isn't going to be sorted out any time soon, so he might as well do some housekeeping to otherwise occupy his mind, and begins to mentally organize the items he can see across from the bed.
A row of paperbacks, well-thumbed. They can stay. A bottle of periwinkle nail polish. Bathroom medicine cabinet, maybe. His upside-down Dodgers cap, cradling his wallet, knives, spare change, and whatever else had ended up in his pockets that day. He'll need them soon enough, so they can stay too. Both of their cell phones, plugging in and charging, his housed in a new life-proof case thanks to Anya's insistence that it wouldn't survive him otherwise. Stay.
Looks like the bureau's just going to be cluttered.
A tube of lip balm. Bathroom drawer. That sheer, lacy bra of hers that does nothing to disguise her nipples. Top drawer of the bureau with her others. Actually...it can stay too.
At this he smirks at himself, and something, small though it may be, relaxes inside of him, lightening the weight in his chest, if only by a tiny fraction.
He keeps going. An empty water bottle and some used tissues; bathroom trash can. Three colorful magnets; back to the fridge. A couple of dark gray t-shirts; in the next drawer down with his socks, and his boxers, and a tattered stack of black, unlabeled notebooks. Pictures that Anya gives him, clipped from the Sunday comics; on the small bulletin board leaning against the wall.
Shadows cast from the streetlights shining through the curtains swirl across the board, overlaying its contents with a floral pattern. Below that he can see the silhouettes of a few small items spaced along the window sill, and he tries to identify what they are without turning to check. First is the shadow of another paperback, it's front cover curling upwards in a gentle “C”, disguising the shape. Then the downy tendrils of fluff at the base of a feather he'd found in the park, appearing deceptively sharp and solid in profile. Then the tiny outline of…
Rolling onto his side, he faces the window anyway. In the ocher light from outside he gazes at the miniature clay animal. A gray-speckled narwhal, its spiraled tusk only about an inch long.
It's from Steve. Steve, who'd bought it on a whim at some flea market in Brooklyn.
He's learned that Steve loves narwhals. This isn't one of those facts he's forgotten and has had to remember - it's a recent fascination, apparently. One time in recent history he’d even made him watch this TV documentary, which Bucky had tried to get out of but had ultimately sucked him in. They're strange creatures, but also strangely...fantastic. Like something from a myth, something that shouldn't be real. He stretches out a hand in the dark and picks it up, running a flesh finger over the graceful contour of its back and tail. He guesses he can see the appeal.
Why Steve hadn't kept the figurine for himself he doesn't know, only that he'd said he wanted Bucky to have it, had promptly held it aloft, christened it with a name and a twinkle in those ridiculously earnest eyes, and then tucked it into the pocket of Bucky's hoodie before he could argue.
Steve Rogers still does odd things for reasons of his own, reasons that Bucky still doesn’t fully understand. That hasn’t changed, at least.
Their relationship is different these days, like it or not. They're different. The Steve from Before has become clearer and clearer in his mind, little facts and memories having fallen into place over the months. But this Steve isn't that Steve, not all of him, not anymore. And if Steve is drastically changed, then what does that make him? What does that make them? He doesn't quite know.
The thought of Steve doesn't sit comfortably and is one that's unlikely to get him back to sleep anytime soon. That restless, unsettled feeling stirs up again like silt in a perpetually muddy river, and he returns to lying on his back. The mattress springs creak sharply and he pauses.
Then he sighs. "I know you're awake." She hasn't made a peep, but he can tell.
"Mm."
"How long?"
"A while... Where are you?" She asks it in her usual, measured way, almost in a monotone. As non-threateningly as possible, really. She's good at that.
"Here," he says after a beat or two, knowing exactly what she means. "...I'm here."
After another minute he faces her. Takes in her rumpled camisole, her mussed hair, clean and soft-looking even in the low light. The pale lavender shadows in the inner corners of her eyes. Just looks at her for a while, quietly.
Until she murmurs, ”You should give it a name," breaking through his musings and drawing his attention back to the creature in his hand.
"Steve named it already."
The lift of her dark brows clearly prompts, and?
A ghost of a grin kicks up one side of his mouth. "Stonewhal Jackson," he whispers.
In a second or two the pun hits her, and she huffs a drowsy laugh through her nose. "Comedian," she observes.
Bucky nods, still grinning. "Always was. Not always intentionally, but..."
He's silent. Then she's pressing her lips just below his ear with a soft exhale.
"Not everything has changed, then." Her voice is steady but soft. "Just because the two of you are more than you were...doesn't mean you can't work at figuring out how to make peace with that. With him."
The thoughts are crowding in, packing his head, burning behind his eyes. He can feel his focus going hazy and vacant. Going somewhere else. Going back. Getting lost again. How do I do that? He wants to say, he can't say. Tell me. Show me how. Can't even make himself look at her, can't drag his gaze back to her face so that there's even the slimmest possibility she can read it all in his eyes.
He forgets that she rarely needs to.
Trailing a finger of her own along its speckled back, she pokes at its tusk with the pad of it. "He seems to have some idea. Maybe you could follow his lead."
"Yeah," he says, watching her finger like his life depends on it. "Maybe." Steve always did have the big ideas.
With light pressure she coaxes the figurine out of his fingers, lets him see that she's tucking it under his pillow before wordlessly pulling him closer. He runs careful fingers through her rich brown hair, sliding his hand around the back of her head to play with the shorter, nearly buzzed hairs at the nape. Overall it’s considerably longer than it used to be, having had time to grow out from the shaved head she had sported courtesy of HYDRA, back when they first met. Her eyes shine out at him, dark as her hair, framed by darker lashes at a lazy half-mast from his attentions.
Will he ever stop being amazed that somehow he's allowed to be here with her? That she wants to be here? That they can touch each other like this, so freely? The way she just reaches for his hand, and he just takes it - it's so natural as to be almost...casual. But casual isn't the right word. There can be nothing casual about this - the soft heat radiating from her scalp and interacting with the artificial nerves embedded in the metal of his fingers, the specific scent of her skin combining with his in their nearness. This isn't nothing. This is her giving him something, every time. And every time he feels immeasurably guilty, because whatever it is, he doesn't deserve it. It feels too big. Too much.
"Will you be here tomorrow?" He has to ask, suddenly desperate. Whispers it, damn him, fighting just to heft the heavy, stale air out of his lungs in order to speak the words.
To her credit and to his gratitude, her expression doesn’t change. Doesn't seem to think it an unreasonable question. She simply says, “Where else would I be.”
And then she’s scooting herself forward until their foreheads meet and her legs are woven with his as if to prove a point. He can feel her breath, ghosting in gentle, warm waves across his chin, and he tries to arrange his mouth into some semblance of a smile. “You didn’t answer the question.”
She knows that kind of smile. “I’ll be here.”
He knows that she knows. And her response will have to do, because I’ll be here is as close to a promise as he dares to ask for.