eatingcroutons:

kaciart:

Stop. Following. Me.

Imagine it though:

It’s a testament to just how exhausted Steve is, how much the search has taken out of him, that Bucky manages to catch him in his sleep. A blade at his jugular, a hand that Steve knows could tear his throat out fisted in his shirt.

Could. But won’t.

“Bu—”

“Stop.“ The flat of the blade presses against Steve’s jaw, forcing his head back. "Stop calling me that. And stop. Following. Me.” Bucky’s face is inches away, eyes wild but still so familiar it aches.

“Can’t do that, Buck.” Steve swallows, feels the serrated edge of the knife against his skin. “I’m with you —”

“Stop, just STOP!” The knife clatters to the floor and Bucky clenches his left hand around Steve’s throat and squeezes. It takes everything Steve has not to give in to the urge to fight back. He fists his hands in the sheets, forces down the instinctive panic. He will not hurt Bucky again. And Bucky will not hurt him.

Bucky’s face twists with rage. “Fight back, damn it! You think — you think I won’t —”

Steve doesn’t have the air to reply even if he wanted to. His vision’s getting fuzzy, blood pounding in his ears, but he clings to one thought: Bucky will not hurt him.

And then everything goes dark.

—-

When he comes to, there’s a knife buried to the hilt in the pillow beside his head.