Chapter Text
Steve
Steve does his best to control his fear, not wanting to freak Bucky out through their bond. He’s not sure how aware his husband even is right now, what exactly his brain is processing while in his coma, but he’ll be damned if all Bucky feels is terror right now because of him. Steve hasn’t been getting anything solid from Bucky through their bond, just random flashes of pain and panic. He gets one such wave now, and rushes to soothe his mate.
“Shh, you’re okay. I’m here. I’ve got you. I love you,” he whispers for what feels like the millionth time that day. His hand tightens around Bucky’s, and he brushes his lips across knuckles that have long since healed from the accident. “Everything is going to be fine, sweetheart. You just need to wake up for me.”
Please let him wake up, Steve begs, praying to whatever god might be listening. It’s been a week since Steve’s world nearly ended, as he watched Bucky come crashing through the glass fifty stories high and land in a pile of blood and broken bones. The pain he’d felt—Bucky’s pain, through their bond—had been unlike any he’d ever felt before, more agonizing even than what he’d felt when his own body grew a foot taller in the span of just a few minutes.
Worse than the pain, though, had been Bucky’s thoughts. I love you, he’d said to Steve while falling. I’m sorry.
He’d felt it all, the weightlessness, the impact, and then nothing the moment the love of his life had lost consciousness.
It’s the nothingness, the emptiness of a second awareness, that is destroying Steve.
Exhaling heavily, he drops his head onto Bucky’s stomach, lets himself close his eyes. Even he can’t go without sleep forever, and he hasn’t left Bucky’s side since he was stabilized and brought to this recovery room. It had been no small feat for the rest of the team to keep him out of medical, out of the operating room, and out of the doctors’ way when they’d first arrived back at the compound, but all that fear and adrenaline has long since worn off.
Please, he begs again, this time directing the thought to Bucky. He turns his head so that he’s looking up at Bucky’s face. Just in case Bucky opens his eyes before Steve wakes up. He wants to be the first thing Bucky sees, wants Bucky to know that he’ll never leave him, never abandon him.
Please don't leave me.
○☆○☆○☆○
Bucky
Pain.
Bucky’s whole world is just pain.
… there is order through pain…
Bucky forces the memory away, tries to focus on what he’s feeling now.
Steve’s pain.
“Don’t leave me.”
Hurts, he thinks. Or tries to, anyway. Steve can’t seem to hear him, which Bucky thinks should probably worry him more than it does at the moment. Thinking takes effort, though, so he lets the darkness take him once more.
****
It’s quiet, minus the soft hum of electricity, the sound of many screens being powered and used. And the sound of Steve’s breathing, deep and even, indicating that he’s soundly sleeping.
That doesn’t mean Steve is far away, though.
Bucky can feel the heat on his right side; Steve’s head pressed against Bucky’s waist, one arm thrown over his thighs, the other wrapped around Bucky’s forearm and holding his hand.
Bucky laces their fingers together and slips back beneath the waves, follows the pull of the sedatives into that place where his pain is not a constant presence, sharp and insistent.
****
When Bucky wakes again, it’s to the sound of Steve’s voice. It’s soft, hushed, and it takes a minute for Bucky to parse the words.
Steve is praying.
In Latin.
“Ave Maria, gratia plena
Dominus tecum
benedicta tu in mulieribus,
et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesus.
Sancta Maria mater Dei,
ora pro nobis peccatoribus,
nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.
Amen.”
Well.
That’s something.
In all their time together, Bucky has never heard Steve utter a single word of prayer, never once went to church. The prayer begins again, and this time Bucky can hear the soft clink of beads. Memories of his grandmother surface, with the rosary beads that were never out of her reach. Where the hell has Steve been keeping a rosary all these years?
Must look even worse than I feel, if it’s got you praying, Bucky thinks. He half-heartedly pushes the thought in Steve’s direction, but apparently he’s actually conscious enough for it to go through, because Steve stops praying.
“Buck?” Steve gasps, and he feels the surge of hope and relief flood through his husband.
Yeah, he thinks back.
“Oh thank god.”
How bad is it?
“It doesn’t matter, sweetheart, don’t worry about that. It’ll all be fine. Everything will be fine.”
That doesn’t sound too reassuring, you know.
Despite his exhaustion, Bucky forces his eyes open. The first thing he sees is Steve’s face. Steve’s very haggard face. His hair is wild, sticking out in a dozen different directions as though Steve has been running his hands through it a million times an hour. The bags under his eyes are dark and sunken, and he’s clearly lost weight from not eating.
“You-” Bucky croaks, and stops to swallow a few times. Steve, bless him, grabs a cup of water with a straw in it and holds it up to Bucky’s lips.
“You look like I feel,” he finally manages to get out after a few sips.
Steve huffs, but at least his expression softens from worry into relief.
“That’s because he’s only left your side long enough to shower and change clothes. And even then, that’s only when we force him to.”
Bucky shifts his gaze to see Dr. Cho entering the room.
“Hey, doc.”
“Good evening, James. Jarvis informed me that you had awoken. I was about to go home for the night.”
“Sorry.”
“No worries. I'm glad to see you alert. If only so this one will stop fretting himself to death.” She gives him a soft smile as she tips her head at Steve before she steps over to a screen, tapping and swiping at images Bucky can’t see.
“How bad?” he asks. Managing more than a couple words at a time takes far too much energy and concentration at the moment.
“You’ve been out for six days,” she answers matter-of-factly.
Well.
That explains a lot.
Bucky glances at Steve and squeezes his hand. Sorry, baby, he sends.
“Quite honestly,” Dr. Cho continues, “If you were anyone else, except for Steve or Bruce, you wouldn’t have survived. The serum that you received is the only thing that saved your life. And even then you very nearly died from blood loss. It was extremely touch-and-go for a bit, even after the transfusions.”
Bucky’s stomach flips.
“Shh,” Steve soothes, despite the daggers he’s throwing at Dr. Cho with his glare. He runs a hand through Bucky’s hair and cups his jaw. “You’re still here. That’s all that matters.”
He lets out a shuddering breath. “What about…” Bucky swallows nervously. He hasn’t had the courage to look at the left side of his body. Nerve damage in his shoulder always made the sensitivity of his left arm lessened. But he knows he can’t feel his hand at all. And he remembers quite clearly the searing pain in his bicep, the metal slicing into him as he fell…
“Sweetheart.” Steve’s voice is rough, pained. “It’s… Your arm, the metal, it…”
“Just say it, Steve.”
Bucky is staring a hole into the ceiling, not wanting to see the pity on either of their faces. He doesn’t need to hear the words, not really. He can feel it – or not, as the case may be – now, and had seen the flash of an image in Steve’s mind before he’d controlled his thoughts. But still. He needs to hear it. Needs to hear the confirmation, the acknowledgement, the truth of it all—
“It’s gone. The damage was too severe, there was no way…” Steve’s voice breaks. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and regulates his breathing, trying not to spiral out of control.
“Bucky,” Dr. Cho says softly.
“Well. At least it wasn’t my right one. Won’t need to relearn how to wipe my own ass, thankfully.”
His eyes are still closed, but he hears the soft snort from the doorway. He can’t smell anything beyond Steve’s stress, but he hazards a guess.
“Nat, can you take Steve for a walk? Maybe get some food in him?”
“Certainly,” she answers.
“I'm not—” Steve immediately protests.
“Yes you are,” Bucky interrupts, leveling a determined glare on him. “I will be okay. I want to talk to Dr. Cho, and your distress is distracting me. I need a few minutes, Steve. Please.”
“Steve,” Nat murmurs gently, one hand on his shoulder. “He’s awake. Give him what he needs now.”
Steve’s eyes search Bucky’s face. Finally, he relents. He leans forward to press his lips against Bucky’s forehead.
“I love you,” Steve tells him earnestly.
“I love you too,” Bucky reassures him.
****
It takes another two days before they’ll release Bucky.
Once they’re back in their rooms, Steve frets over him, always hovering close by, never out of the same room for more than a minute or two.
It’s exhausting.
After three days of it, Bucky breaks.
“Steve, I’m not a fucking invalid! Let me do it!” he snaps, when Steve follows him to the bathroom on the fourth morning.
“Buck, I never… I just want to help…”
Bucky sighs at Steve’s stricken expression. He runs his hand over his face before he continues, consciously keeping his voice calm.
“I know you do. But I need to learn how to shower by myself. How to dress myself. How to make my own food. You can’t keep doing everything for me. If I want help I’ll ask for it. You gotta let me try, Steve.”
Steve swallows heavily. “Okay, Buck. I’m sorry,” he practically whispers.
Bucky feels a little bad as he watches Steve head back to the bedroom. But it’s been stifling having Steve’s constant attention. If he shows the slightest bit of discomfort or pain, Steve rushes to fix pillows or blankets, or asks if he wants any meds.
He wants none of that. He wants space to just exist. He wants to relearn his body. He wants the pain, because as much as this situation sucks, it means he’s alive. He hadn’t expected to survive that fall, when the AIM lab had exploded before he’d been able to haul ass out of there.
Fuckin’ booby traps.
But Bucky lets Steve give him the meds, because it’s better than seeing the anguish on his face as he watches him. He lets Steve fuss, because he knows how happy Steve is to still have him. Except. It’s making him feel completely useless and weak. And Bucky had promised himself, all those years ago when his parents and sister had died, that he’d never be a burden on anyone ever again. That he’d never be too weak to take care of himself. That he’d never be forced to rely on someone else in order to survive.
It takes him twice as long without Steve to wash his hair for him, but he finally manages his shower. Getting dressed is a little trickier, but thank god for elastic waistbands and oversized shirts. He considers a long sleeved shirt, since it’s a little chilly outside, but immediately discards that idea for one of Steve’s t-shirts. He doesn’t want to see the empty sleeve just flopping around and getting in his way.
Bucky pauses at the door of the room. Across the hall, the nesting room is open, and he thinks about going in there to wallow for a bit. Down the hall, he can hear Steve in the kitchen, no doubt making way more food than Bucky will eat for breakfast. He doesn’t have much appetite at the moment, and Steve is going all-out with food preparation in attempts to get him to eat. He steps out into the hallway, heading for his nest.
Before he knows it, he finds himself on the balcony.
He’s never had a problem with heights before, loves this balcony and the view of the city. But suddenly he's terrified. He forces himself to go to the railing despite the fear making him shake.
Chest heaving, he grips the railing tight as he shuffles forward. The freezing tile turns his feet numb, but he ignores that as he peers over the edge. The people on the sidewalk, some eighty stories down, are tiny, ants scurrying in the late-November cold. Icy wind whips at his hair, chills his skin through his light clothing. His head spins, heart racing as he begins to hyperventilate, his breaths come in tiny, fast puffs that cloud the air.
“Bucky? Bucky!”
His dizziness intensifies as his body is ripped from the edge.
Warmth surrounds him, crushes barely healed ribs.
“What are you doing?” Steve cries, anguish clogging his voice. Bucky doesn’t need to look or open their bond to see the tears he knows are in Steve’s eyes.
“Steve,” Bucky sobs, turning in his arms. Steve braces for an attack, but Bucky throws his arm around Steve’s shoulders and buries his face in Steve’s neck.
“I’m here,” Steve chokes. “I’m here, Buck. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” He holds Bucky tight, one arm around his waist, the other cradling the back of his head.
Bucky finally lets it all in. Lets Steve in. Lets it register, process in his brain. Lets Steve feel his fear, his pain, his utter hopelessness at ever being himself again.
He doesn’t know how long they stand there like that, just inside the doorway, as Bucky cries on Steve’s shoulder, Steve’s own tears falling into Bucky’s hair. Eventually, he sighs, a long, shaky exhale that takes some of the weight from Bucky’s shoulders with it.
Even after nearly a decade, sometimes Bucky forgets that he doesn’t need to hide himself from Steve.
“It’s going to be okay, sweetheart.”
“I need help,” he whispers, tightening his hold on Steve. “Please.”
“Okay.” Steve presses a kiss to the top of his head. “What do you need? Tell me what to do.”
“Nest,” he sniffs.
“Of course.”
“And then…” Bucky suddenly has no energy, feels completely overwhelmed and exhausted. Dr. Cho, he thinks at Steve. Tell her I’ll do the therapy.
Steve presses another kiss to the side of his head, since Bucky refuses to move his nose from Steve’s neck, soaking in the calming scent of earth and hay and fresh air.
“I will, honey.”
I love you. I’m sorry.