Coming back from missions was always particularly difficult for Bucky.
Adrenaline was usually still thrumming in his veins. His muscles still tense, on guard and ready to attack or defend at a moment's notice. His mind raced with what-if's, raked over the mistakes he made on a loop.
He was always keyed up, rattled.
And that was if the mission was successful.
The journey home was never a good time for him. It didn't matter if the jet ride was an hour or 18 hours, it was always grueling, like being forced to run a race after running a marathon.
His shoulders would ache from tension by the time they made it back, his jaw would be sore from clenching his teeth, sometimes he'd find small fingernail marks in the palm of his hand if it was bad enough.
Most of his team-mates slept.
He could never understand how any of them could go from being in life or death situations to peacefully dozing off into a restful slumber. He envied that about them, he had certainly never been able to do that. He desperately wished that could be him.
Sometimes they'd go on about their excitement of returning home, to their loved one's, prattling on about plans and events that welcomed them.
For a long time, Bucky didn't have that. He didn't have anything to anticipate, to welcome him back.
Even after you'd entered his life, even though he knew if you weren't with him, you'd be waiting for him at the jet hangar with a warm smile and embrace, the return home was arduous at best, downright agonizing at worst.
Most of the time, Bucky sat and stared. He'd focus on the loud roar of the engine just to give him something else to think about. He'd mentally recite the service number on his dog tags on a loop. Count the lightbulbs flickering above and then count them again.
Tonight, after a mission gone awry, he's especially anxious. Even as you finish bandaging up Sam and Nat with a lighthearted smile, he's unnerved.
It just never gets easier.
He can tell himself over and over that everything and everyone is okay. It doesn't make a difference.
Not the fact that he can see you standing there, sharing laughs and quips.
Not the fact that no one is severely injured.
Not the fact mission was technically successful.
It seems like a purgatory specially reserved for him.
The lights dim in the back of the jet as they prepare for an almost 8 hour journey back to the Compound.
You offer a small smile, not uttering a single word as you sidle up in the seat next to him. You don't ask him if he's okay. You don't make small talk. You don't say anything as though you know any words he'll offer will be for the sole purpose of humoring you.
He almost jolts when he feels your warm hand reach for his, your fingers lacing with his.
He looks down at your hand, your thumb rubbing small circles into the back of his hand.
It takes him a moment, but slowly he feels himself physically relax. You rest your head on his shoulder, slotting perfectly in the crook of his shoulder and neck. And to his surprise, he finds himself resting his head on top of yours.
You continue drawing small circles on his hand, each movement slow and soft, keeping a gentle, steady rhythm.
He doesn't even really register his eyelids slowly dropping, his breathing synchronizing to the slow pace of your fingers.
You breathing slows, each slow inhale and exhale lulling him to sleep.
His eyelids droop, watching as yours do the same.
And with one last exhausted smile, you're both fast asleep.
At ease.
At peace.