(anyway this is me trying to pretend everything is okay!)
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22 May 2019
When Steve lurches awake, his heart is pounding in his chest. His shirt, soaked in sweat, clings damply to his skin. One fist is clutching the sheets of the bed, and the other is clenched so hard he can feel his fingernails making little half-moons in his palm.
The Stones. Dust drifting through the air, ash so thick you could choke on it. Five endless, aching years of white noise. His team. The lunacy of time travel, the mind-bending, fuse-blowing reality of hand-to-hand combat with himself. The bruise blooming across his cheek to serve as proof. A soft jazz song playing on a record, a crackling hearth, red lipstick. Death, death, death—
Beside him, Bucky shifts in his sleep, turns over so he's facing Steve. His eyes are closed and his mouth is parted, and Steve can see the dark shadow of his hair spread across the pillow like an ink-stain.
(or, Steve and Bucky in the aftermath of Endgame, picking memories apart.)