Tag: stucky

imaginesteverogerss:

When Bucky gets back to the apartment (not home, not yet), he doesn’t call out for Steve, not like he wants to. It’s late, and Steve, if he knows what’s good for him, should be asleep. Not waiting up, not like he used to, back when Bucky would come home from bars drunk as a skunk and with lipstick stains on his collar. 

So Bucky lets himself into the darkened apartment as quietly as possible, takes his boots off at the doorway. He’s halfway to the kitchen, planning on getting himself a glass of water, when he hears the sobbing. 

The thing about Steve is, he’s never been much of a crier. Well, he has, but not the kind that makes a fuss about it. Always these little gasps, shoving his fist into his mouth to keep himself from getting any louder. 

So when Bucky hears a choked-off sob cut through the apartment, he doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t bother to take off his gear, just heads to Steve’s bedroom, only hesitates for a moment at the closed door. 

A large, shaking bundle of blankets is in the center of Steve’s bed, and oh. It’s one of those nights.

This time there are at least seven blankets. It’s hard to count, really, because even though most everything Steve does tends to Army-neat, this isn’t. He’s all tangled up in them, so much so that Bucky wonders how he can even breathe. 

A few seconds of peeling away blankets, and, there, Steve’s looking at him, face suspiciously shiny in the moonlight. The sight of Bucky seems to just make him cry harder. “B-uck, I-i-i-i wanted to be—” deep, heavy breath, “wanted it to be ov-er before you…” And then he’s just crying, the hitches in his breathing letting Bucky know a panic attack might be close. 

He’s a little surprised, honestly, when he finds Steve naked under the blankets, but doesn’t stop, just keeps moving them around, making space for himself. 

Steve stiffens at first, and Bucky imagines the uniform must feel strange, pressed against his skin, but a second later he’s pressing closer, tangling their legs together. Steve’s always been tactile, especially like this, so Bucky goes with it, brings his flesh arm up to cup the back of Steve’s neck. “Where are you, Stevie?” he asks, trying to be gentle. It’s still hard for him, sometimes. He’s still scared.

“C-old,” Steve says, his breathing already a little better.

“Just like old times then, huh? Me keeping your skinny ass warm in Brooklyn.” Bucky smiles at the memory. “But where are we right now?”

It takes Steve a minute, but that’s okay. Bucky waits. “Stark Tower. 2014.”

“You know what we’re gonna do tomorrow?”

“D-debriefing?”

Bucky laughs, but makes sure to keep it soft. “Well, first I’m gonna tell Fury to fuck off. I can debrief later. But we’re gonna go to that park, the one that Sam always walks his dog at? That’s your favorite, isn’t it?”

Steve nods.

“We’re gonna go to that park, and, hell, maybe we’ll invite some other people too—” Steve shakes his head. “Ok, just the two of us. And you’ll bring your sketchbook and make like the artsy nerd you are, and I’ll bring that new magazine Nat bought me, and about every five seconds some nervous little kid is gonna approach you and ask for a picture and then give you a hug and you’re gonna tear up every time.”

“Will not.”

“Shush, you big sap, I’m trying to talk. We’ll just be there, the two of us, and the sun’ll be out—checked that app on my phone just before I got back, said the sky’s gonna be crystal clear. You’ll be able to feel it on your skin, all nice and warm. Sound all right to you?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, clears his throat. “Yeah.” Their noses are touching, breaths mingling. 

Bucky hesitates. “Want me go change? The kevlar can’t feel that great—”

“Stay. Please.” Steve’s chewing his lip, not meeting Bucky’s eyes.

So Bucky stays.