Imagine Bucky having a really bad day and JARVIS helping him to get through it.

imaginebucky:

He’s flat on his back and the agony is all encompassing, and he can’t see – can’t breathe, choking on the tube down his throat –

“Sir.”

– can’t scream, can’t –

“Sir.“

He doesn’t so much wake up as open his eyes, and he’s still on his back, still frozen with terror, but he can wheeze desperately. Bed. He’s in a bed. His bed, in the Tower. Fuck. He manages to move enough to curl onto his side.

“Your heart rate was considerably elevated, sir.” It’s JARVIS.

His heart rate is still considerably elevated, pounding hard enough to make his chest ache. He’s had this particular nightmare-memory on loop enough times to know exactly how it ends. He gropes for his left arm, and the metal is a relief, the lack of a bloodied stump is a relief.

“Thanks,” he rasps.

“You’re welcome,” JARVIS says, and there’s no snide there. Eventually, Bucky’s able to sit up. “Would you like me to rouse anyone, sir?”

He wants… fuck. He doesn’t want anyone seeing him like this, still shaking and unable to draw a steady breath. He shakes his head. “Could you just… warmer?”

“Certainly.”

It doesn’t actually help with the shaking much, but it helps with the breathing, and he can close his eyes for more than a moment without horrible things rising behind his eyelids.

“Would you…” he doesn’t quite have words. “Could you just talk to me?“

JARVIS doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s Tuesday morning, sir, Dawn will be in twenty minutes. It’s going to be partly cloudy, and 74 degrees…”

He dresses slowly, and goes up onto the roof to watch the sun rise over the skyline. JARVIS sends up one of the kitchen staff to unobtrusively deliver dry toast and black coffee, and Bucky doesn’t ask how JARVIS knows it’s about the only thing he could keep down right now.

By the time everyone else is up and moving, he’s ensconced himself with a book so it’s okay that he doesn’t talk much. Steve notices, though, and quietly joins him on the couch, also reading, and it’s good.

Steve also brings him a plate of food from lunch, and it smells amazing – roast meat and vegetables, but he picks up the cutlery, and the metal reflects the light – his own goddamn hand reflects the light, and all he can think is scalpel and all he can hear is the whine of the saw and fuck everything –

“Sargent Barnes,” JARVIS says, neutral as ever. “Mr Stark requires your expertise down on Level 17.” Bucky carefully puts the plate down and excuses himself to Steve.

“He doesn’t actually, does he?” Bucky asks when he’s out in the corridor.

“Not precisely,” says JARVIS. “But the gym on Level 17 is empty, and contains the new reinforced sparring apparatus. It needs testing.”

Working out until he’s too exhausted to think helps a lot.

It helps enough that he’s okay enough to eat dinner with everyone else, and lasts a whole hour in the common room afterwards before needing to plead tiredness and bailing.

His apartment is … warm, and there’s quiet music playing from above. “JARVIS, are you serenading me?” He aims for a joke, but he can’t deny the relief that’s easing his muscles. The staff have changed the bed, too, and slipping between clean, smooth sheets feels like an unspeakable luxury. JARVIS dims the lights, enough that Bucky can see the room at a glance, but also close his eyes to darkness.

“Would you wake me, if I…?“

“Immediately, sir,” JARVIS says.

“Thanks,” Bucky whispers.

“Sleep well, sir.”

He really, blessedly, does.