( he really, truly hadn't expected to fall asleep, and if so, especially not to fall asleep like this: utterly dead to the world.
bucky is a light sleeper even at the best of times — long habits, old history, always ready to wake up in the field to the patter of gunfire — and a restless one at that, usually only catching a couple hours before waking up, then falling back unconscious, wash rinse repeat. he'd half-expected having someone else in the bed with him would have made it even worse. that had been a thing, once: struggling to rest with the unaccustomed weight of someone else on the mattress beside you, a warm body tipping the scales askew, nerves bringing you out of your light slumber.
but there's something about the exhaustion that settles in after some a good, strenuous fuck which just knocks him out for the count. the weight of karen near him is more like a weighted blanket rather than an anvil; it turns out to be more soothing than disorienting. so he sleeps (almost the whole night through; only waking up once, and that alone is still a miracle).
when they eventually both stir, her body is a cacophony of small, pleasant aches; his own has bounced back quicker, that healing working away on it overnight, sweeping away the fatigue as if it had never been. he almost wishes it hadn't. he wants that wobbly-legged feeling of having used muscles he hasn't in so very long. wishes he had the reminder.
instead, though, at least there's this: karen's strawberry-blonde hair across the pillows, her face still burrowed against his chest. his human arm's fallen asleep where she's lying against it, and it's probably going to tingle with stinging pins-and-needles when she eventually moves — but that, too, is a pleasant ache. when the dawn sunlight through the curtains is enough that bucky notices it, he's awake — still too early, considering their late evening, but it was still a good few hours of rest. he breathes in; breathes out; looks up at the unfamiliar ceiling, lets his memories skitter around before they finally catch and he realises where he is. an unfamiliar ceiling doesn't have to be a terrible thing. it's fine. he's fine.
he's still in bed. with karen. in her bedroom. in her apartment.
all of these facts settle like keys in a lock. he exhales again, scrubs at his face with his metal hand. intellectually, it feels like the moment should be more awkward or uncomfortable than it is — what's morning-after etiquette like nowadays? another blank spot on the map that he's going to have to feel his way through — and yet bucky finds that he doesn't much mind. because it's nice. her bed is comfortable. having another warm body beside him— is comfortable. )
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bucky is a light sleeper even at the best of times — long habits, old history, always ready to wake up in the field to the patter of gunfire — and a restless one at that, usually only catching a couple hours before waking up, then falling back unconscious, wash rinse repeat. he'd half-expected having someone else in the bed with him would have made it even worse. that had been a thing, once: struggling to rest with the unaccustomed weight of someone else on the mattress beside you, a warm body tipping the scales askew, nerves bringing you out of your light slumber.
but there's something about the exhaustion that settles in after some a good, strenuous fuck which just knocks him out for the count. the weight of karen near him is more like a weighted blanket rather than an anvil; it turns out to be more soothing than disorienting. so he sleeps (almost the whole night through; only waking up once, and that alone is still a miracle).
when they eventually both stir, her body is a cacophony of small, pleasant aches; his own has bounced back quicker, that healing working away on it overnight, sweeping away the fatigue as if it had never been. he almost wishes it hadn't. he wants that wobbly-legged feeling of having used muscles he hasn't in so very long. wishes he had the reminder.
instead, though, at least there's this: karen's strawberry-blonde hair across the pillows, her face still burrowed against his chest. his human arm's fallen asleep where she's lying against it, and it's probably going to tingle with stinging pins-and-needles when she eventually moves — but that, too, is a pleasant ache. when the dawn sunlight through the curtains is enough that bucky notices it, he's awake — still too early, considering their late evening, but it was still a good few hours of rest. he breathes in; breathes out; looks up at the unfamiliar ceiling, lets his memories skitter around before they finally catch and he realises where he is. an unfamiliar ceiling doesn't have to be a terrible thing. it's fine. he's fine.
he's still in bed. with karen. in her bedroom. in her apartment.
all of these facts settle like keys in a lock. he exhales again, scrubs at his face with his metal hand. intellectually, it feels like the moment should be more awkward or uncomfortable than it is — what's morning-after etiquette like nowadays? another blank spot on the map that he's going to have to feel his way through — and yet bucky finds that he doesn't much mind. because it's nice. her bed is comfortable. having another warm body beside him— is comfortable. )