I'm Here | ✓

11 - Stay

When did this happen?

I glanced down. Steve's arm hugging around my torso, his other hand caressing my head, my legs twisted in his, the blankets on the floor.

I thought back to last night. Oh. Oh. I poured out all my memories to him, and he tried to comfort me.

But you welcomed it.

I smiled, just a little bit.

I did.

That's okay. He was already stirring, just a little. He didn't know I was awake yet, but I could hear him yawning and murmuring in confusion. For a second, he tensed up, and then relaxed, his arm still draped over me.

I realized I didn't have another nightmare after he got here. That was a relief.

I did have to get up though, and after a few minutes, I feigned slowly waking up. I stretched, and Steve took the opportunity to slip backward out of bed, thinking I hadn't noticed. He wasn't fooling anyone, but I simply rolled over and glanced at him.

"Morning," I mumbled in a sleepy tone.

"Good morning, Buck. Did you feel better after you got to bed last night?"

"Actually, yeah." I was telling the truth. "How 'bout yourself?"

He chuckled a bit. "The floor isn't really all that comfortable to sleep on, I'll admit, but I'm fine."

I raised an eyebrow. "Probably not." Steve smiled at me, oblivious.

I grunt and hoist myself out of bed, pacing to the kitchen to see what kind of food there was. It was... limited. A few boxes of cereal, some fruit in the fridge, some protein bars, and a small box of pasta noodles. Wow. I grab a box of granola cereal and pour it out into a bowl.

Steve washes an apple from the fridge as I go to sit on the couch in the living room. It's gonna be another day of hiding, I guess. I'll have to find something to do. Steve plops down next to me despite the recliner across the room.

"So," he says in between bites, "whatchu wanna do today?"

I look down at my bowl. "I don't really know. I've never really had this kind of time."

"Here, lemme give you some suggestions." He reaches for the TV remote that I left sitting on the armrest last night and flicks the TV on. It's still on the news channel, but fortunately, they're talking about stock market ups and downs. I scoff. They didn't live through the roaring 20's and the Great Depression. They don't get an opinion when it comes to the stock market.

He pushed a few buttons on the remote and the TV switched channels. It pulled up a cooking show, where a woman was making what was captioned as "Anne's Breakfast Special."

Her voice was calming as she described her ingredients. She planned to make pumpkin pancakes, eggs, jelly toast, and donut bites. She got to work making them, slowly, methodically, explaining each step. It's not particularly interesting, and I would never replicate a recipe like that, but it's just something to pass the time.

I feel Steve's hands in my hair, drawing the stray strands back from my neck, and I shiver. He tugs on them gently, bringing them out of my face, and there's a slight tension as he adds something to it. I feel my head. He put my hair up in a messy bun. I don't take it out; it feels nice not having to constantly brush it back.

Steve giggles, just a little bit, staring at his handiwork.

"Do I look weird?"

"No, no, you look fine." He waves me off. "Go look in the mirror."

I stand up and pace to the bathroom, looking at myself. I look really different, and I can't help but laugh too. Strands of hair are still hanging over my ears on the sides, and the bun Steve made is only doubled over and spilling out of its hair tie. Regardless, it's fine. I pat it back into place and head back out into the living space with Steve.

He laughs again as I enter, and I playfully shove him a little as I sit down. "Reminds me of the one time in the 70's, I got really fed up with my hair getting in my eyes on some sniper mission, so I took a pocketknife and sawed off some of it in the front. I had these ridiculously choppy bangs on missions for years." Steve looked a bit concerned, but as soon as I started laughing, he did too. That's probably the only funny memory I have as the Winter Soldier. I left out the part where I shot a man in the head for laughing at my new hairstyle when I got back from the mission. I got in trouble for that one; he was another Hydra soldier. Regardless, I couldn't imagine how I looked; this Soviet super-assassin, the most feared in the world, with the bangs of a 6 year old.

"I'm glad I missed that. That would've been quite the look," Steve wheezed in between his laughter.

At the same time, some music started playing from the bedroom.

"Shit," he muttered, leaping off the couch and jogging to the room. I fiddled with the remote and turned the TV off before following him anxiously. When I got there, he had his phone pressed to his ear.

"Yeah, hey." Pause. He leaned to glance at the clock on my nightstand and winced. "Yeah, I didn't realize it was so late." It was only 8:53 in the morning. "Yeah, I left my truck at the apartment and... borrowed a different one." He grinned sheepishly at me when I face palmed. He stole another car? This boy is gonna get himself arrested. "Yeah, I know, I know. I really don't want to talk to them." Another pause. "I know. I'll be on my way in a few minutes here. Yeah. Bye." He clicked the phone shut.

I tapped my foot.

"Natasha," he said, waving his phone like that was an explanation. "The media is swarming my apartment again. Somebody important wants to do an interview with me. I really don't care, but I probably should go."

Yeah, I knew he'd say that. "Sure, okay. Just pack up your stuff there then. Don't forget your shield," I said, giving it a tap on my way out the door.

"Listen, Buck, I just want to keep you safe," he calls. "This war isn't over yet. People are desperate. Nobody knows where they stand."

"Except for you and me." And you're leaving me to go talk to some reporters who don't give a damn about you or what you have to say. They want me, or an opinion on the Avengers divide, and then they'll forget they ever did that interview. You're the only definite thing I have right now, and we're on each other's side.

Right?

"I'll stay."

"No, no, go talk to your reporters."

"Bucky!" He steps out of the room and grabs my shoulder. My left hand flies up to choke him on instinct, and for a second, I hear the Winter Soldier whisper in my head.

I stop myself inches from his neck. My hand is shaking.

I'm terrified of the murderer inside me, and he's terrified of who I've become because of it.

After a moment, his gaze softens and he pulls my shuddering arm down. "God, I'm sorry, Steve," I whisper.

"It's okay, Buck. It's okay. I'm here, alright?"

I hated being touched. Touching meant pain, touching meant torture, but somehow, with Steve, it was different.