Explosions. Shouting. Shooting.

I hear all of that and more every night, it sickens me, it’s so real and vivid that I just can’t help but start screaming orders to ghosts of the past, people that are no more.

Sometimes I even start hitting and kicking, but they’re always the kind of dreams where you move in slow-mo and your limbs feel weak, I end up waking myself up with my screams. And I wake Steve as well.

“Bucky.” He gasps worried while hugging me. “Bucky, it was a dream. Remember, we’re in Wakanda, in your hut.” He whispers while caressing my cheek. “We’re not in a war anymore, we’re alive, we’re together.”

I’m gasping for air, my heart drumming in my ears and chest. I look at him and smile.

“Deep breathing remember?” he asks and I nod slowly.

I take my time to breathe in and out, rhythmically and slowly, calming my heart and nerves.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“PTSD is a fucking shit.” I whisper while laying down again. “I’m sorry, Steve.”

“Well, at least you’re taking less time to calm down.” Steve smiles and lays over my chest.

We stay silent for a while, staring at the ceiling. I’m just hugging my boyfriend, sometimes outlining his muscles with a finger and he’s doing the same with my abs.

“Which war was it this time?” he asks genuinely curious.

“Can’t remember nor I want to.” I answer, feeling my eyelids heavy. “What time is it?”

“Around three in the morning.” He whispers back while retaking his place by my side. “Why?”

“Wanted to check… if…” I can’t finish the sentence, because I fall asleep again.

I can’t tell why or how, but whenever Steve’s near he smells… good? Familiar? Comforting?

I’m not sure. He still uses enough cologne to last the whole day. His aftershave cream fits him too. His deodorant, his shampoo, everything smells like him! I don’t know how to explain it. You’ll understand if you’ve smelt someone and said “Yes, that’s their smell.” If you haven’t, well, I guess there’s not a way to explain that makes sense.

I don’t really care though, his smell, even the one he has after a day of saving the world or after a workout session, he smells good.

Maybe it’s a placebo effect. Maybe it’s the need of something or someone familiar in the middle of a time in which gods, aliens and robots coexist.

Steve’s my anchor to reality. And for that, I love him.