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"i'll take care of you."
"it's rotten work."
"not to me. not if it's you."
— sophocles, elektra (trans. anne carson)
Steve’s almost become accustomed to this—to his shoulders tucked securely under Bucky’s arm as they stumble to their shared apartment through back alleys after Steve had gotten into yet another scuffle.
Almost, because there’s not really a way he can get accustomed to the blood that drips from his face and down onto his clothes or to the constant, pounding ache in the back of his head.
He doesn’t need to look at Bucky to sense that he’s concerned; he grips Steve’s shoulder tightly as he ushers him down a familiar alleyway. It’s worse this time than usual, but Bucky’s still got a grin plastered on—he always does at times like this, and whether it’s to reassure himself or Steve that everything’s gonna be alright, Steve isn’t sure.
“You know,” Bucky starts, voice low, concern masked in his tone by a layer of false waggishness, “I’ll be sporting a full head of grey hair by the time I’m twenty-five if you keep this up.”
Steve attempts to let out an amused kind of snort, but it comes out as more of a wheeze.
Bucky drops the facade, giving Steve’s shoulder a squeeze before he says, “We’re almost home. I’ll get you cleaned up, alright?”
Half-heartedly, Steve starts to say softly, “I can take care of myself.”
Bucky shakes his head, and though Steve isn’t looking, he can tell there’s a slight, fond smile pulling at Bucky’s lips. “Sure you can, pal. But I won’t let you.”
And that’s the way it always goes, except usually Steve has a bit more energy to put into resisting. Now, though, he lets Bucky support his weight until they get to the apartment, Bucky slipping away to unlock their door as Steve leans against the wall and then the doorframe.
He watches Bucky shrug off his coat with a weary gaze, and then as he steps out of his shoes and turns back to Steve.
“Let’s get you taken care of,” he says as he swings his arm over Steve’s shoulder, leading him towards their couch. His tone is gentler, low and gravelly. The step over the threshold of their apartment and into privacy is a welcome one, and Bucky lets his head fall so that their temples press together for a moment before Steve drops onto the couch.
Admittedly, he had questioned why Bucky took him into this area of the apartment instead of the bathroom, but as he lets himself relax against the worn-in couch, he definitely understands; even the persistent throbbing sensation in his head seems to die down slightly. As Bucky prepares some sort of makeshift medical kit, Steve slips out of his coat and lays it over the back of the couch. He then bends over to take off his shoes, grimacing at the pain in his abdomen. He doesn’t think anything’s broken in there—even if there was, he’s not sure they’d be able to do anything about it—but he’s certain his skin is blooming with fresh purple bruises.
“You seem a little over prepared,” Steve chuckles on an exhale, once he’s settled back into the couch.
Bucky shrugs, setting a small carton of bandages on the coffee table. “Living with you gives me no other choice,” he says with a wink and not a touch of annoyance. He turns on his heel to grab an old rag from the kitchen and dampen it slightly under the faucet. “You get hurt every time somebody so much as glances at you,” he comments teasingly over his shoulder.
Steve knows there’s no use to argue, so he keeps his mouth shut as Bucky saunters back over with the rag and a bottle of alcohol.
The floorboards creak underneath Bucky as he kneels in front of Steve, tearing a package of bandages open and then setting it back on the table. Gently, he takes hold of one of Steve’s wrists and takes a closer look at his knuckles.
“You got a few good ones in this time, eh?” Bucky remarks, corner of his mouth twitching upwards.
“I always do,” Steve lies blatantly, causing Bucky to laugh and Steve’s cheeks to begin to color.
They’re quiet for a few moments, then, Bucky dragging the damp cloth across Steve’s knuckles to clear off the grime. He pays special attention to the space between Steve’s index and middle fingers, where he’d gotten a cut.
After wetting a corner of the cloth with alcohol, Bucky murmurs, “I think we use more of it like this than actually celebrating.”
Steve blinks. “Sorry.”
“Nah,” Bucky responds, gaze flickering up to meet Steve’s for just a second before he looks back down. “I don’t mind that you pick fights with those assholes; they sure as hell deserve it.” He pauses. “But, I do mind that you get hurt. I just know you ain’t gonna knock that off anytime soon.”
There’s another lull as Bucky moves to Steve’s other hand; Steve’s gaze stays locked intently on Bucky, on the way his eyebrows furrow just slightly as he works.
Though the sting of the alcohol is only minimal, Steve can’t help but wince and reflexively draw his hand back. There’s an apology on the tip of his tongue, but instead he lets Bucky finish his work—carefully covering the abrasions with bandages as he goes.
Intently, Steve watches Bucky glance over his shoulder at their living room’s only window, his freshly-bandaged hand still resting atop Bucky’s palm. Bucky’s shoulders seem to relax when he sees that the curtain is drawn shut.
It’s a brief, quiet moment before he turns back to face Steve and raises Steve’s hand up to press a prolonged kiss to the inside of his wrist in a comforting, familiar gesture. It’s far from the first time that Bucky has done this, but Steve’s cheeks flush pink at the tenderness all the same.
Their fingers brush together as Bucky pulls his hand away and sits back, like he’s admiring his handiwork—like he’s admiring Steve.
“You blush so easy,” Bucky comments, gaze flickering around Steve’s face. “It’s a wonder you got enough blood in ya’ after all this to still blush.”
Steve huffs, turning his head to the side.
“Oh, don’t get mad,” Bucky chuckles, lifting a hand to Steve’s jaw to angle his face back forward, “It’s sweet.”
Hardly a moment passes before Bucky’s lifting the rag to Steve’s face, first to the swelling on his cheekbone—he mumbles something to himself about icing it—and then to a cut on Steve’s bottom lip.
Steve hisses when the alcohol touches the wound, but Bucky’s being as gentle as he can, so Steve grimaces through it.
And without even thinking, after Bucky’s finished cleaning Steve up, he leans forward to lightly kiss the opposite corner of Steve’s mouth before he gets up to go ring out the rag and get some ice.
Steve watches as Bucky pops ice out from the tray into a dry cloth and then as he approaches again, pressing the makeshift ice pack to Steve’s cheek before he sits down on the couch beside him.
“Anything else?” Bucky inquires, eyes scanning the length of Steve’s body for other injuries.
After he shakes his head, Steve lets himself lean into Bucky’s side, head resting on his shoulder.
“Thanks, Buck,” he says, eyes fluttering closed. “Really, thank you.”
Bucky hums, long and low. “Anything for you.”