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Steve had never seen himself going to prison. For some reason he'd thought that doing the right thing had been some kind of shield he could throw around to protect himself. It's not even that he'd wanted to avoid consequence so much as that he'd never thought through exactly how far the right thing and the law might stray from each other.

None of that really matters, anyway, because the trial is over and Steve is looking at a minimum of two years in minimum security prison. This is his life for the next two years. It puts college on hold and it may stick with him for the rest of his life and he still doesn't think he did a damn thing wrong, but that doesn't make the prospect of being in prison any less daunting. His sentence would have been worse if the judge hadn't had a soft spot for veterans, too. Steve had hated letting his lawyer play that card, but he hadn't had much of a choice.

He's got muscles, at least. As he's going through the intake process, he notices most of the men are smaller than him and a few of them eye him warily. He says nothing to anyone unless he's supposed to, leaving the chatter to a skinny man with a face tattoo and whoever he can manage to pull answers from.

There's a pile of clothes and sheets and toiletries in his arms and as they're led in, the group is split up among the blocks. Steve is in C block, he's told, and his cell mate will be a man named Barnes. It all means nothing to Steve, but he remembers the details, anyway. Everything looks the same in here and he wonders what kind of criminal he'll be sharing a cell with. Enough of the men in here come from unwinnable situations. It's not something Steve would look down his nose at. His neighborhood wasn't exactly a safe suburban haven, either, and he could have easily fallen in with a bad crowd or made the wrong decision and wound up in their shoes. He doesn't let himself forget that. Most of them are minor drug offenders or small time thieves, maybe a few bigger offenders moved here for years of good behavior.

When he finally gets to his cell, the top bunk is made and there are a few personal items strewn about. Steve puts his pile on the bottom bunk and starts to unfold his bedding. He resists the urge to dig through Barnes' things to learn more about him.

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Don't worry, Steve. Barnes isn't a repeat offender either, though while technically this is his first time he's also two years into his five-year sentence. He's seen plenty of people come and go, and come back again if they're particularly unprepared for the world beyond the walls. He's seen countless first days from the eyes of an observer, and he has a certain set of expectations for the kinds of questions Steve's likely to ask.

At least he doesn't seem like a crier. Bucky fucking hates the criers.

He leads the way; his hands slip absently into his standard issue bottoms as he walks, leaving only the thumbs poking out of the fabric. He travels with a little hunch, a little dip at the top of his spine like he's used to a bowed head. Terrible posture, yeah, but you develop bad habits in a place like this.

He's given this tour a few times before, not to his roommates but to pathetic looking kids who seemed lost and twitchy. Sometimes all they need is a calm voice and a sense of familiarity with their surroundings, so typically the first place he starts is the hall by the cafeteria. He leads them past, but doesn't turn down it proper, just gestures vaguely.

"You eat in there, meals are at seven, eleven, and five. They close it off between, so there's no getting in unless you work the kitchens." Which he'd done for a grand total of two months before he realized what a fucking nuthouse it was. Everyone goes scrambling to you for something, and it's a political fucking game. "They ever try and get you to work in there, just know it's basically Westeros."

And he's missed two whole fucking seasons of Game of Thrones too, it's a tragedy. At least the whole thing'll air before he's out and he can binge watch it three years from now. He's getting it on god damn blue ray.

Steve follows after Bucky, nodding and taking everything in. He hadn't even thought about work yet, but he guesses he'll have to figure out which job will be a good fit for him. Maybe that's something else Bucky can help him with, but he's not going to press his luck just yet by asking too many questions, especially ones that are effectively favors.

"Don't work in the kitchens. Got it."

He figures at least the food shouldn't be too bad compared to what he'd eaten in the army. He can handle a few more years of low-grade cafeteria food. It will probably be the easiest part of all of this. Well, that and the fact that for now he's got a roommate who seems halfway sane and who certainly isn't difficult to look at.

"Who's your friend?" It's asked in a hushed voice when Steve catches sight of a guy glaring down the hall at them. He can't be glaring at Steve, because Steve has no clue who he is, but he suspects Bucky might. Then again, maybe that's just that guy's face. Maybe walking around with Bucky is already marking him in some ways, but Bucky's given Steve no reason to doubt him so far.

Steve's not wrong, the prison system's got the same low-grade food that some barracks had overseas. They're definitely a step up from MREs, that's for sure, even if it's no Olive Garden. He's about to comment on as much, but the hushed follow-up question derails that thought. His eyes flicker down the hall and settle on the glowering figure that doesn't flinch back from Bucky's flat and unimpressed look.

He does, however, take his punchable face somewhere else when he realizes he's been found out. Bucky's eyes roll to the ceiling, and he puffs out a put-upon sigh.

"Long story," He mutters, undeniable distaste tinging the words. It does sound like a long story if Steve's only judge is the sheer amount of bitterness one human can pack onto two words. "Guy's been carrying a grudge for practically two goddamn years at this point, but he's not gonna do anything to you unless you provoke him."

At least, Barnes thinks he won't, word spread pretty well after what he did to Rumlow. He doesn't get too many people stepping up to try anything on him, but that won't stop Alex if he gets a group of them to turn on him for some reason. Two or three guys, sure, he can probably handle. Six or more and all the muay thai in the world won't do him any favors. "Do yourself a favor and steer clear. He might not be able to outpunch you, but he's got money on the outside. You got it out there, you got it in here. People'll do anything for the right price so long as it doesn't get them bounced to max."

Edited 2018-09-03 08:28 (UTC)

Steve makes an agreeable sound, mulling the words over. Someone who slings money around like that is dangerous and he doesn't doubt it, but that's also the kind of person who steps all over the little guy and that's not something Steve can tolerate. He'll keep an eye and steer clear to a point, but if he sees anyone getting knocked down who can't stand up for themselves, he's not going to turn a blind eye.

Then again, that's what landed him here in the first place. Steve might not have learned his lesson on that one, because it had felt damn good and he doesn't regret a thing. Too many people think they can push everyone around, whether it's with money or muscle. There's nothing Steve hates more than a bully in any form.

"Did you scuff his fancy shoes or something?" That hint of a smile pulls at the corner of his lips again. Maybe it's a long story, but he wouldn't mind hearing it some time. It's not like they won't have plenty of time, especially since they'll be in a cell together for a long time.

"Somethin' like that," he mutters, lips turning down as they amble on around the corner toward the library. A few other faces pass and definitely take in Steve, but none of them hold quite the same ire as Alex's had. Scuffing his shoes might be one thing, Alex probably wouldn't have minded if he'd scuffed them in the process of getting on his knees like the guy wanted. "He's not too used to people he can't buy."

He isn't offended by the probing question, but he doesn't seem so inclined to tell his story just yet to a veritable stranger. It'll undoubtedly come up again, Steve's stuck in his cell for potentially years and Alex sure as shit isn't going anywhere any time soon. Bucky'd just like to have a few miles under his belt before he has to get into the whole shady affair. He gestures toward the library doors, and opts for a swift and unsubtle change of subject.

"Not really a whole lot of anything newer than 2005, think they had some kind of prison literacy revival back then but after they cut funding the only thing they update's the law school stuff." For prisoners vocally and unrelentingly insistent on reading up about their own cases, their rights, the legal precedent surrounding their offenses. Some things never change.

Steve doesn't press for the story, but even what Bucky gives him is telling and not just about Alex. Either Bucky is someone who can't be bought or he dislikes Alex enough that he can't be bought by Alex. The more Bucky reveals of himself, the more Steve has a good feeling about him. Regardless of the circumstances that got them here, Steve would like to think he has some integrity and Bucky certainly seems like he has his own share of it, too. Maybe he really did luck out with his cellmate.

"No Twilight, then? I'm sure I'll make do." He glances into the library with a private little smile and thinks he might actually spend some time here. It's quiet and reading is probably the best source of entertainment he'll get. "There's plenty of older books that are worth reading, right?"

Maybe he'll luck out and they'll have some books he'll need to read for school when he gets back to it, but even if they don't, reading for pleasure isn't a half bad hobby to pick up if he's going to be here with all this personal time and no access to the internet or television. It seems like there's not much other than reading or social activities like cards. Steve's not averse to socializing a little, but he likes having self-motivated hobbies, too.

The last person(s) that bought him was the US Government, and he thinks he's well and truly beyond it now. Nothing good ever comes from carrying out your deeds behind the face of another person, and that may well be one of the reasons Bucky's in prison now -- not that his offense has anything at all to do with his military career. It's good that Steve finds it commendable, but he may be less optimistic about his cellmate after the first round of night terrors in the nebulous but inevitable future.

His little quip does earn him his first laugh, though. It's just a breathy little chuckle accompanied by a little shake of the head.

"So long as you're a fan of the classics," he agrees, shuffling them onward again at an amble. Normally he's a brisk tour guide, but Steve's probably the easiest initiate he's ever given this thing to and he finds he's not already eager to push the guy onto someone more empathetic than himself for the post-tour therapy bonding session most newbies seem to want to have with a regular. Hard to find good company in here, so he'll take what few minutes he can get until he and Steve wind up hating each other over something like his last two roommates. "Slaughterhouse Five's usually in stock, turns out people who give a shit about Vonnegut don't typically wind up in jail."

Which is, obviously, a fallacy considering he's in here along with dozens of other reasonably intelligent people with unfortunate judgement or luck or circumstance. If you can't make jokes about the population you're a part of, though, you're in for a long stint.

Steve likes to think of himself as a fairly tolerance and understanding person. He's sure things will come up, because no one is perfect, especially living on top of someone else, but he's pretty sure anything that comes up between them will be something he can understand or reason his way through as long as Bucky stays this reasonable himself.

"Yeah? You think the rest of them were smart enough to not get caught?" Steve can't help chuckling. Vonnegut's subversive enough that plenty of people who enjoy him break laws. Maybe Steve's just one of the few idiots who got caught.

He never said he was smart.

"Guess that means more reading material for us."

And really, that's not endearing Bucky to him any less. At this point, he might actually be disappointed if Bucky turns out to be a Nazi or something, but he's pretty sure the Nazis in here are a little more obvious.

He snorts in answer, idly musing over the possibility that Steve just gave him shit for getting himself caught like a goddamn idiot. That's fair though, he's not so easily offended and he accepts the ribbing with an amused and world-weary grace. Look who else is in prison, pal, and keep talking, he wants to say, but they're not quite on that level yet. He doesn't know Steve's temperament well enough to fire back, and his dry attitude's gotten him into more than one fight since his stay began.

Steve's fear of his SS tendencies can be assuaged when Bucky leads him into the rec room, pretty well-populated with card tables and a t.v. at the back end. They actually enter this one, because it's not a landmark like the Library so much as entire social environment that warrants being broken down.

He gestures vaguely to the various groups dispersed about the place, obviously broken up into factions over interests. It's not a maximum or even medium security joint though, so there's no real tension and many people intersperse with one another like you might expect from a half-decent reasonable community.

"Television's got one remote and one person's in charge of it a day on a rotating schedule. When it's your turn and it turns four, don't try and switch off Ellen or Pumba will stab you in your sleep," He gestures to the back of a bald man with more rolls on his neck than any human ought to have. Pumba raises a hand in an OK gesture to acknowledge them but doesn't peel his eyes away from Mrs. Degeneres even for a second. He moves on briskly, "Our group gets the card table on Tuesdays for poker, we play for smokes even though they're contraband, but the guards don't care unless you piss 'em off, so don't piss 'em off. If you don't smoke, well, nobody's asking you to start, but it's a two-stick minimum to play either way."

And then a point over to the corner of the room, where the actual nazis are.

"Those are the skin-heads, and unless you plan on adopting a swastika tattoo above your eyebrow you'd better just leave the crazy bastards alone. They usually keep to themselves." He leans in a couple inches from Steve's ear to conspiratorially mutter, "They're not actually all that devout, they're mostly just rednecks in for meth charges, not actual Klan-type effigy shit. They get real defensive, though, if you call them out on it. One time they tried to fight a black guy in the hall and I think six teeth fell out."

Steve's intention had been to give himself shit, though inadvertently it does seem to be a joke at the expense of the both of them, anyway. He's glad that Bucky takes it in stride or at least seems to. It wouldn't be the first time Steve's big mouth got him in trouble, but it's only in recent years that he's had the muscle to back it up. When he'd been younger, he'd been the target of more than a few bigger guys trying to get him to keep it shut. The lesson never really stuck.

It's not hard to see the way the groups are broken up in the rec room. It's a tribal sort of thing that he's seen in plenty of more wholesome environments than a prison. Humans are tribal by nature, even if Steve himself strives to judge a man by his actions and not whether or not they have trivial things in common. Most people crave the familiar and in here, finding people who feel familiar is probably what keeps some people feeling sane and normal.

He nods to Pumba, not sure if the man sees the gesture, but if he finds joy in a talk show, Steve's not going to be the one to pull his attention away from it. Everyone deserves a little happiness.

Then he catches up with Bucky's words. Our group. Steve wonders if that means he's welcome that easily. It's a nice thought. He's used to being on his own a lot of the time, but it's not because he's some anti-social loner.

He makes a noncommittal sound at the description of the skin-heads. Even if they're not devout, Steve plans to steer clear and make sure that really is true from afar. Even pretending to be a Neo-Nazi isn't something Steve thinks too highly of, even if he knows that he's got the look like he'd be welcomed in with open arms. He's got no love for them.

"What kind of group is your group?"

"Bunch of fucking idiots," is Barnes' wry answer, and he nods to a table of guys settled casually in an almost sprawl. It's not Tuesday so they don't get the card table, but they seem to have set up some kind of makeshift Scrabble board written in permanent marker on cardboard. Someone's laying down paper letters, but for the most part they're eyeing Bucky and Steve with undisguised amusement.

"Vets, mostly," He adds, and then nods to each of them in turn as he speaks. "Sam Wilson, air force. Rhodey was marines. Nobody's really sure what Barton was, he says if he told us he'd have to kill us. And then Lang, who... well, he's just an asshole, I think he worked at Baskin Robbins or something."

"I have a masters in Electrical Engineering!" Lang calls back defensively, like it's the hundredth time he's had to say it. Bucky just shakes his head and loudly responds, "Really helped him keep those freezers in pristine working condition."

They're spared Scott's commentary by Rhodey sagely pointing out Zaxby's doesn't count as a real word, and Scott launches into pleading his case why it does. There's some good-natured debating that takes over the group, with Barton agreeing it is and Wilson accusing him of siding with Lang because he tried to pull that same shit last time with Arby's.

Barnes can only shake his head, and then gesture toward the exit. Few more places left on the tour, and there's no chance Steve wants to pick sides already in their shithead debate.

Steve smiles at all of them. The banter is familiar and playful, from Bucky's introductions to the way they all interact, and Steve doesn't tend to see himself as a veteran first. There are a lot of other ways he'd describe himself before that, but he thinks he could see himself falling in with this crowd easily. They all seem to be making the best of their situation and he finds that a hell of a lot more appealing than the alternative.

"Steve Rogers, army." He introduces himself, gets a few nods and a friendly handshake from Rhodey, who seems to be the most senior of the group.

"Good luck." He sends a quick wink to Scott as he follows Bucky back out.

Once they're in the hall again, he falls into step next to Bucky again, this time with a little smile in place. "Well, they seem like my kind of idiots."

Maybe the smile isn't quite appropriate and when the thought catches up to him, he schools his face again, but it's not really quick enough to hide the fact that he'd been smiling a little.

"You the type to conspire with criminals?" He asks, lips curling up just a hair as Steve settles in toward his right. Obviously rhetorical, and for the first time he wants to ask what Steve did to get himself landed here. He doesn't though, that's a rookie mistake and he hasn't made it in eighteen months.

Asking what someone did wrong with their life is a can of worms at best and a lifetime enemy from the jump at worst, so he pockets the urge and guides them past the commissary. "You can stock up on junk food and hygiene supplies there. Think the max amount you can have on your account is like three hundred bucks or something, but if you keep a steady job and don't blow through the Cup Noodles you'll be fine."

They pass a set of chained and guarded double doors, which Bucky doesn't go into detail on, just vaguely says, yard. They can't head out there now anyway, too late in the day and it's raining outside. And the last stop is the bathrooms, rows of urinals and toilets across from showers partitioned by tear-away curtains.

He points to one on the far left, "That's got the best water pressure. Two doors down the cold doesn't work so if you like scalding water, you're in for a treat. Annnnd-"

A point at the one on the furthest right. "That one's got a glory hole, so unless you're aiming to suck or be sucked, best steer clear."

Steve can't say that he isn't the type to conspire with criminals. It's not exactly something that would be a deterrent for him, even before. Maybe it would depend on the crime. Some laws just aren't worth following. Some are downright wrong. He just smiles at the question, looking like he's got a few secrets to keep. It's a teasing look to be sure and maybe he's getting a little too friendly, but it seems like a worthwhile risk.

His eyes skim over the commissary as they pass, thinking of what he might actually buy there once he's got the funds. Between his appetite and personal grooming needs, he really will need to make sure he finds a job that pays enough. He can't expect any money from anyone outside.

Passing the door to the yard gives him pause and he takes a moment to look out the little window. Maybe more than the bars, the fact that he knows he can't be outside without permission is what really drives the point home that he's trapped here. This is real. He's really in prison.

The last steps to the bathroom feel more somber, but he follows Bucky into it, a little too distracted by his thoughts to really commit which shower is best to memory until--

"Doesn't the limited number of guys in here take some of the mystery out of a glory hole?"

"It's called a glory hole, not a mystery hole," He points out, though he sounds no small amount of amused. Can't say that he's taken up with the option, knowing what he does about the guys around here. The few that would be open about sucking dick aren't exactly his type, and the few dicks he'd want to suck all seem to be more or less straight.

With a little shake of his head, he's got to admit, "Not a whole lot of fish in the pond, though."

Fish that'd be happy to take a nibble at some bait now that Steve's broad shoulders wandered in, maybe, but that still doesn't make it worth the risk for him. He'll just... kindly lead them out of the bathroom and back toward the cell blocks.

"That's basically it. Aside from Alex and the Skinheads, everyone else'll more or less leave you alone if you do the same. It's pretty quiet until it isn't." And then they're ambling back toward their designated room, and he curls his fingers around the bars at their entranceway. "Questions?"

Edited 2018-09-04 06:00 (UTC)

The number of fish in the pond isn't something Steve is too concerned with. He figures he can go two years without sex and he'll be better off for it. The idea of hooking up with anyone in here feels a little too vulnerable for his comfort and it's not like he goes around hooking up with people all the time, anyway. It might be a little lonely, but his hand is going to have to do. At least the army trained him for stealthily handling himself, since it's unlikely he'll manage to find himself more than 10 feet from another guy at any given time.

In fact, the army seems to have prepared him for a lot of aspects of life in prison. No wonder Bucky and his friends seem like they're staying relatively sane. The food's no worse, the accommodations might actually be a little better in some ways and he's guessing almost all of them have had to entertain themselves alone in the god damned desert at some point. At least the prison is air conditioned and no one is trying to make them kill anyone or step on a land mine.

"Yeah. Did I miss lunch?" This time when he smiles a little, he doesn't try so hard to hide it. Maybe this won't be so bad. Two years here can't be any worse than two in Afghanistan and the company seems alright. He can make the best of this.

It's pleasant, isn't it? Like, it's too pleasant for god damn prison, and Bucky's last two roommates have set such a bad standard that he can't help but feel wary. It's that last little quip that sets Steve over the line - too easy, too agreable.

Too attractive, and friendly, and possibly smart although Barnes hasn't had any real confirmation for that. Too good to be true, the roommate lottery, so he points accusingly.

"Alright, what's the catch? What's your deal? I'm not gonna walk in one day to find you licking my shoes or something, right?"

That whole line of questioning catches Steve off guard. Maybe it shouldn't. He'd been wondering just how bad this place would be to him, after all, and Bucky's been a pleasant surprise so far.

"I would really rather not lick your shoes if it's all the same to you." Steve throws an unimpressed look at him.

"I don't do drugs. I don't have any weird agendas to push on you. I'm not planning to touch any of you personal belongings. I don't particularly like violence, but that doesn't mean I'm going to let anyone push me around about it. I just want to get through my time here and leave."

A pause.

"Sometimes I talk in my sleep. That's your catch."

Nightmares, actually, but he hasn't woken up yelling in a while.

Steve gives his little speech and Bucky eyes him as he does it, like he's searching for any hidden kernels of bullshit spattered among the words. It all seems to come across as pretty genuine, though, and so he shrugs in mild acceptance.

"Fair enough," he deems, because if the worst he's going to have to deal with is ridiculous sleep-mumbling then maybe things'll be better with Steve than they were for the entirety of the last year with Brock.

And thus, Barnes giveth his blessing and the tour is officially over. Circles back around to Steve's question, with an apologetically wry smile, "Lunch is in twenty. Settle in."

He pats the bars absently, and with that, disappears from the cell to give Steve his space. It's a tiny little measure of trust, he doesn't watch his shit like a hawk and that's a pretty good start.

So Steve might have a penchant for speeches. This place is only going to be able to change him so much and it seems like the approach works on Bucky, anyway. Even with his tendancy to go on and on a little, he doesn't pack it with bullshit. Steve's always been a man of his word.

He watches Bucky go with a hint of amusement and maybe even a little relief and then he finishes putting his few belongings away before lunch.

After that, he finds himself spending considerable time with Bucky and his group. Maybe not all of it, because Steve still likes his space and the quiet of the library, but enough that he's starting to feel like they're accepting him. They're all friendly enough and Steve isn't going to pry into anyone's lives, but he does fall easily into their banter. Where he might have imagined fights with the sharpened back end of a tooth brush, he mostly gets playful barbs and the occasional middle finger.

For the first week, he manages to live in the space with Bucky without incident, too, but it's about nine days in that he has his first big nightmare, not that he knows it. He's still sleeping, but the whimpers aren't exactly quiet and when he shifts violently on the bottom bunk, it shakes Bucky's top bunk.

They seem to settle into one another comfortably. Steve takes to the group like a missing puzzle piece, that nice gap-bridging persona that hovers the line between 'reasonable' and 'troll', it appeals to both sides of the crew. Wilson takes to it with particular enthusiasm, which is nice because he'd been getting real sick of Lang's shit. Rhodey's always been too impartial and Barton's a loose cannon, so it's nice to give him a little bit of back-up.

At night they take to their bunks with casual conversation and a little laughter. They talk about whatever either of them happens to be reading that night, or speculate on the state of affairs of the people around them. They joke about the five-star aspects of prison like they both haven't been somewhere a million times worse.

Bucky still doesn't know what he's in for, or how long. That's the kind of deep question you only bring up when the timing is right, and so far he thinks it hasn't been. They've been surface level and not a foot beyond.

Until tonight, apparently, when the gentle shaking of his bunk wakes him. Steve murmurs into the dark and - yeah, he can spot a nightmare from a mile away. He gets them himself sometimes, he imagines Rhodey and Wilson do too but they don't talk about it. They don't have Vet Group here, after all, this is god damn prison.

Barnes shifts, curls over the edge of the bunk with his left harm holding tight against the frame to keep himself from spilling over.

"Steve," he mutters, and only once he's said it does he realize it probably isn't enough to wake anyone. He tries again a little louder, conscious of the people in the cell on either side of them. "Steve."

The nightmares come and go. Some nights, he's silent as a ghost when he has them and no one knows, but others are like this. It's been like this since he came home. Really, since he saw his first body. It hadn't been a friend and that was almost worse, because he'd recognized the man, but not enough. He'd been like some ghost to Steve. A man he couldn't save because he hadn't let himself try. After that, he'd thrown himself into everything until his tour had ended.

Steve's always taken on responsibility for everything around him. He can't help it and the army hadn't done much to take that away. Even in here, he knows he'll look after his new friends for as long as they'll have him. It might not be some dangerous no man's land, but there are still dangerous people in here. He hadn't liked the way Alex had looked at Bucky, for one thing, and he's been keeping an eye out for Alex as a result. Dumb as it might be to get wrapped up in someone else's business, Bucky had been kind right off the bat. He's easy to get along with and not because Steve just doesn't have to think about it.

"No." The word is muttered in his sleep. He's managed to kick off the blanket halfway, but his legs are tangled in it and he's struggling against the binding of it. It's that motion that's shaking the bed frame. "I'm sorry."

It's become quickly apparent that just talking him through it isn't gonna cut it. Bucky's fingers wrap around the edge of his frame, and he uses forearm strength to shift his body over the edge, to lower himself silently and gracefully to the ground. He takes a knee by Steve's bunk and chews the inside of his cheek for a second, debating. On the one hand, it's sort of an intimate invasion of privacy. On the other, he'd want to be woken from a nightmare - especially the one about Syria.

Plus, if he gets any louder he'll wake up the craggy asshole next door and Bucky's not trying to deal with that for the next week, thanks.

Decision made, he eases a hand forward and settles it on Steve's shoulder just shy of the neck. Doesn't shake so much as grip, because being shaken awake is a hell of an experience. He opts for soothing, with pressing fingertips and a sliding thumb along fevered skin.

"Steve," It's a little more firm this time, but at a closer range maybe a little more impactful.

The hand is what reaches him. It's a warm and solid grip and even in sleep, Steve can feel that connection to another person. It grounds him against all the ghosts that haunt him in his sleep and he fights his way towards it.

One moment, his movements are settling and the next his eyes snap open. It still takes a moment for him to take in his surroundings and focus on Bucky's face, though. It feels like he was just in the desert and it takes a moment for him to catch up with the fact that he's in prison.

"Bucky." He closes his eyes and lets out a slow sigh. "Sorry."

He starts to push himself up to sit, voice low in the dark cell. "What's it going to take to make this up to you?"

He can feel the sudden shift in Steve the second he hits wakefulness. Tension shifts in his shoulder from fight to fright for a second, before it ultimately bleeds out when he recognizes his surroundings. He allows his hand to fall away to make room for Steve as he rises. Barnes shifts back on his haunches, bare feet flat on tile, and he purses his lips into something that's almost a close approximation to a smile.

"Don't worry about it," he says, even as the lines under his eyes indicate a wash of tiredness. "Pay it forward when I start kickin' holes in the bunk above you some time."

Because god knows if they start keeping score on nightmares they'll tally up the entire wall and never really figure out who owes who in the end.