imaginesteverogerss:

There’s a box that Steve keeps under his bed. It’s the first thing he’d hunted down in the future, the first part of his old life he’d reclaimed.

Mostly it just sits, slid in behind the bedpost closest to where he lays his head, collecting dust; but he pulls it out from time to time. He still has nightmares every few weeks, and these are the times that this little box brings him the most comfort.

Tonight, in the pool of amber light cast by his bedside lamp, he sits cross-legged on the floor, bent with the weight of memory. Bucky is in the next room, hopefully asleep. Some nights Steve considers visiting him, maybe waking him. Asking what he remembers.

He doesn’t consider it tonight; he’d been woken not by his own dreams but by Bucky’s, his moaning sobs clear as day through the wall. Other nights Steve has tried to comfort him, but it never works. Bucky always pushes him away, locks the door. After that days are spent in silence.

It’s quiet, now. Steve hopes Bucky’s gone back to sleep, but he supposes it’s more likely he’s awake in the dark, watching the shadows.

Steve sighs and closes the box. The window is going grey, the first rays of sun peeking over the horizon. He should try and get a bit more rest. He tucks the box back into its hiding spot and gets to his feet, only to feint back and reach for his shield. There’s someone in the doorway, outside the circle of light.

But it moves, comes closer. Just Bucky.

“Are you – ” Steve starts, but what is he supposed to ask? Are you okay? The answer seems too obvious to bother.

Bucky’s eyes search his face, as they always seem to, like Bucky’s trying to read something that isn’t there. “What’s that,” he says, pointing at where Steve had just hidden the box. He hasn’t quite managed to make his questions sound like questions.

“Oh, it’s – it’s nothing,” Steve says. Bucky’s head tips like he’s considering getting past Steve to look for himself. “It’s just.” Steve hits his knees, pulls out the box again. Sets it on the bed.

On silent feet Bucky walks over and kneels next to him. Together they stare at the box, flat, black leather, a bit of dust clinging to one corner where Steve hadn’t wiped it all away.

The box’s hinge opens with a click. It looks the same as it had when Steve’d closed it a moment ago. “It’s yours,” Steve says after a moment. “They awarded you a purple heart posthumously. Sort of. I guess you were – still out there somewhere.” When Bucky doesn’t speak, Steve continues, panic rising in his throat and making him babble: “I tracked it down when they thawed me. I needed – I knew they’d given you one. Your mother – um, accepted it in your stead. Becca donated it to a museum, the Museum of – I mean, it doesn’t matter. Back in the ‘80s. The guy in charge of donations told me she said she couldn’t look at it anymore. But I – ” he swallows, hard. “I was in there so many days in a row that he, he finally just gave it back to me.”

He rubs his hands over his knees, feeling awkward as hell. And sad. Kneeling there next to Bucky, he misses him. “You can,” he says. He doesn’t want to lose it, but. “You can have it back, if you want. I mean, it was never mine.”

The silence stretches so long he wonders if he should leave Bucky to think. But finally, Bucky shifts. His tentative hand reaches over, fingers curling around Steve’s thumb, just barely. His touch is so light that if Steve weren’t watching it happen he might think he was imagining it. “It was always yours.”