[Routines in the Night — Twenty One Pilots]

The apartment is quiet, the kind of quiet that echoes. 3:18 a.m. Bucky sits on the edge of the bed, shirtless, knuckles raw. He hasn’t slept. Again. The streetlight outside flickers through the blinds in rhythmic flashes He taps the heel of his metal hand against his thigh, just to feel something.

He’s not sure when the nights started blurring together. Maybe they always had. Wake up in sweat. Walk the perimeter. Check the locks. Sit still. Repeat. And try not to remember.

But memories come anyway. He drags his hand down his face and leans forward, elbows on knees. Shadows stretch along the floor like they’re reaching for him. You’re still asleep. Or pretending to be. Bucky isn’t sure which.

He hadn’t meant to stay the night. Hell, he hadn’t meant to show up at all. But the weight of his own apartment was too much .Yours was lighter. Still haunted, maybe, but differently.

He gets up quietly, careful not to wake you. The floorboards creak anyway. He stands near the window, arms crossed, watching the fog settle over the city like a secret.

You shift again. “Come back to bed.”

It’s not a command. Not even a plea. Like something that could anchor him. He hesitates. He always does. But he turns back and slides under the blanket.

You say nothing else. You just reach, hand brushing over the back of his. Eventually, Bucky lets his eyes close. Even though he may not fall forget about it all.