Work Text:
Bucky knows it is going to be a bad day when he feels Steve roll out of bed, taking the warmth with him. Bucky's shoulder aches and the phantom pain from his missing arm stabs and burns in his stump. He sits up, pulling his robe over his shoulder. "Why is it so cold in here?" he mutters.
Steve comes out of the bathroom, toweling his hair dry. "The wind is straight from the northeast, and our windows face that direction." He pauses and gives Bucky a hard look. "Are you okay?"
Bucky isn't but he gets up without groaning and makes his way to the warm and steamy bathroom. "I hope you left some hot water."
"Just for you." Steve comes in wearing jeans and nothing else. "You didn't answer my question."
Bucky scowls. "I'm fine. Just slow starting is all."
"I'll make coffee."
"Thanks." He turns on the water, which is mercifully hot, and stands underneath the spray waiting for the ache to lose its teeth. Eventually, his muscles loosen and the pain subsides. He gets out of the shower, dries off and downs two ibuprofen. Dr. Banner had offered him a stronger painkiller, but Bucky had declined even though days like this make him reconsider his decision. C'mon, Barnes, you can do this, he tells himself as he gets dressed. He puts on a red thermal henley, a hoodie and thick socks. He stomps his feet into his boots and thanks the Gods of Velcro as he fastens them. By the time he gets out to the kitchen, Steve is finishing his coffee. He slides a plate of toast spread with peanut butter and honey, Bucky's favorite combination, across the counter, followed by a mug of coffee.
"Sorry, babe. I've got to get to work." He leans in and kisses Bucky, tasting like coffee and faintly of minty toothpaste. "See you later. I'll bring soup home for dinner."
"Sounds good," Bucky manages a smile. "See ya."
Steve pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "Can you take the day off, stay in and keep warm?"
"Not what I'm paid to do," Bucky says tersely. "I'm fine. I'm not sick." It's true. He's not sick, not with anything contagious. He's in pain, but he's been in pain before and this is nothing like bleeding out in fucking Afghanistan. He pours the rest of the coffee into a thermos, eats his toast, and heads up to the fifth floor where he's supervising another rehab.
The fifth floor apartment is roughly the same temperature as the outdoors despite the space heater the crew has running. They're replacing windows and the wind is wicked. Bucky can't help much with that job, but he can operate a bandsaw and caulking gun. Anything he can do to get the damn windows in before he freezes.
It takes the better part of an hour and Bucky is shivering hard enough that he slops coffee over the rim of his cup as he tries to pour it. His truncated shoulder spasms and he barely stays upright. He edges close to the space heater and hopes that the heat will ease his discomfort. Discomfort? Hell, pain. He wants to sink to the floor and let his body absorb the warmth flowing from the small fan. At least the wind isn't whistling in any longer. He kicks a step ladder closer to the heater and eases on to the top step gingerly.
One of his crew crouches next to him. "Hey, Sarge, we're about finished for the day. The caulk has to set and we're waiting for more casing from the hardware store, so maybe we can cut out early? Weather Channel says there's a storm heading in."
Bucky knows that he must look like shit because these men will usually work until it's too dark to see. He nods, though, knowing that their kindness aside, his crew deserves time to get home early before it starts to snow. "Sure. Don't worry about getting to work tomorrow if the storm is as bad as they're predicting. We'll catch up."
"Thanks, Sarge. You take your own advice, okay?"
"I will." Bucky hangs out until the last man has packed up and left. Then he unplugs the heater, turns off the work light, and locks the door. He takes the stairs down one flight and opens the apartment door, hoping for a rush of welcoming warmth. It's more like a lukewarm reception. He sighs. Steve isn't back from work, yet. There is no hot soup waiting for him, and coffee is too much of an effort to make. He turns on the hot tap in the bathtub, letting it fill with steamy water. While he waits, he strips down, which takes more time and effort than it should, and then slides into the hot water.
It's almost painful, but he knows it will cool quickly, so he sinks down as deep as he can, making sure his left shoulder is below the surface. If he had a pillow, he'd fall asleep, even so, he drifts a while, his body slightly buoyant and less heavy. He only rouses when he hears Steve's key in the door.
Steve peers in the door. "You decent?"
Bucky laughs. "Hardly."
"Okay, are you ready to rise from the waters like --"
"Don't say it." He sits up and makes a grabby hand towards the towel rack. "Please?"
Steve complies, a look on his face that is a mix of humor, concern, and kindness. Bucky takes the towel and braces himself. "A little help?" He hopes Steve mistakes the blush on his face for a flush of heat.
Steve holds out his hand, keeping his eyes on Bucky's as he pulls him upright, then turning slightly to give Bucky privacy. Bucky sighs. "Steve, we've both been soldiers, seen more naked bodies than most people see in a lifetime. I'm not shy."
"Maybe I am."
"Punk," Bucky says as he wraps the towel around his waist. "Thanks. I'll be out in a minute."
He's pulling on a pair of flannel sleep pants because they're about all he can handle right now, when Steve opens the door and holds out a soft blue hoodie. It's not one of Bucky's. It's Steve's. "It's warm," he says. "I hardly wear it."
Bucky takes it and as he pulls it over his head, it releases a fragrance like Steve's skin. It's wonderful, and Bucky inhales it, wondering if Steve lied or if he's just had the shirt for so many years that his scent is ingrained in the fabric. It doesn't matter. Bucky's never giving it back.
He feels Steve's hands gently free his hair and tug down the hem of the shirt. He's perfectly able to do that on his own, but it's nice to be taken care of, like he's somebody important to Steve. They've been doing this dance back and forth. They kiss, they cuddle. Sometimes, Bucky shares Steve's bed, particularly when the nights bring dreams or Bucky's room is too cold and his body aches. He asks, and Steve never refuses, always welcomes him and sometimes, holds him close all night. Sometimes they both wake up with morning wood and Bucky thinks maybe this will be the day Steve will make a move. Bucky isn't going to push; they both have too many issues for any pressure, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want Steve, or doesn't get hard thinking about what it would be like if they did take that step forward. To tell the truth, Bucky knows he's a mess, but he can be patient, because this doesn't hurt at all.
Steve sits him down, hands gentle on both of Bucky's shoulders and he puts thick, warm socks on Bucky's feet. Bucky should feel shame at his weakness, but he can't muster the energy. "Did you bring soup?" He asks as he studies the patterns Steve's ridiculous eyelashes make on his cheeks.
"Chicken and dumpling," he says as he stands and offers his hand to Bucky. "Darcy outdid herself. I made sure to put some away before we sold out. And I have cherry cobbler for dessert."
"Mmm. Vanilla ice cream?"
"Stopped at the bodega on the way home."
"You're a genius," Bucky sighs.
"Nah," Steve grins. "I just know what you like."
That really shouldn't make Bucky feel as warm inside as it does. He lets Steve lead him over to the couch and eases down with a sigh. Steve brings him two ibuprofen and a glass of water. Bucky takes the pills while Steve ladles out soup and butters crusty rolls from the bakery. The soup is thick, rich, and hot. It settles in Bucky's middle comfortably and he eats it slowly to savor every spoonful. The bread is fresh and aromatic with butter and herbs sprinkled on top. When he's finished, Steve looks at him. "Do you want more?"
Bucky pats his stomach. "I feel like I've got a pot belly as it is."
Steve laughs. "Yeah, right. I swear I can count your ribs."
"That's my six pack," Bucky teases. He sinks back against the pillows. It's too much effort to flirt. He just wants to lie back and relax, maybe curl into Steve's warmth, and watch him reading, or drawing, or just watching the Food Network. Steve loves that stuff, while Bucky can barely stand to watch anything on HGTV without feeling completely inadequate as far as his carpentry skills go.
Steve clears their dishes and washes them, then sits on the sofa. "You want to move closer?"
Bucky nods. Steve opens his arms and pulls Bucky against his chest. Bucky rests his head on Steve's chest, which is soft and hard at the same time and smells like herbs and lime. It's wonderful. "Thanks," he murmurs. For the first time that day, his pain has eased into the tolerable range. He's warm, fed, and is being held by Steve. He sighs and as he nestles closer, he feels Steve's lips on his hair.
He's half asleep, but he thinks he hears Steve whisper, "Love you, Buck."
Or maybe it's just his woozy imagination. "Love you, Stevie."
"Yeah?" Steve's fingers comb through Bucky's hair. "We'll talk about that tomorrow." His arms tighten around Bucky, not enough to hurt, just enough to comfort.
The End