Work Text:
-z-
From shipyard to sea, from factory to sky
From rivet to rifle, from boot camp to battle cry
I wore the mask up high on a daylight run
That held my face in its clammy hand
Crawled over coconut logs and corpses in the coral sand
-z-
Bucky never was one for fighting.
-x-
He mostly didn’t have to – a few kids would try to bully him every now and then, but Bucky was big enough, his words fast and cutting enough, that he never had to actually raise a fist. And it’s fine, it’s how he gets through – he keeps to himself, and no one bothers him.
So no, Bucky’s never had to fight.
Not until he does.
Not until he meets Steve and his entire world comes crashing down around him.
-x-
Bucky watches from the mouth of an alley as the painfully thin boy falls backwards, his head knocking sharply against the brick wall behind him.
“Don’t get up,” Bucky says to himself, his voice a mere whisper, “please don’t get up.”
That thin boy gets up.
“You idiot,” Bucky snaps, taking a few strides into the alley, “just stay down!”
“You want some, too?” the boy shouts, his lips curled into a snarl. And Bucky almost has to take a step back because the boy’s eyes, blackened and bruised, are burning with fire.
Bucky’s never believed in love at first sight – always thought it was something the lonely comfort themselves with. But now, staring down this fiery little thing who refuses to give an inch, he feels something like love curl deep in chest – warm and almost choking.
“Find someone else to beat up,” one of the two bullies says, trying to push Bucky back towards the lip of the alley.
Then, Bucky’s fist is in the guy’s mouth, the backswing of the punch planting his elbow in the gut of the second bully. And he doesn’t stop – just lets his fists fly until the two boys are whimpering and hurriedly limping their way out of the alley.
Bucky looks down at his hands, at his torn and bloody knuckles – then over to the too-skinny kid.
“I’ve never been in a fight before,” he says.
“First time for everything,” the kid says. His eyes are softer now before he looks away from Bucky, down to Bucky’s shoes. “Thanks.”
“Sure,” Bucky says as he flexes his hands, trying to work the pain from his knuckles – making a fist before spreading his fingers wide and then making another fist.
“Should probably get something on those,” the boy says, gesturing to the cuts on Bucky’s hands.
“I’m out of soap,” Bucky says. “I was just on my way to get some.”
The boy looks up at him, staring into his eyes as if searching for something, before he jerks his head and tugs at Bucky’s sleeve and heads out of the alley. Bucky doesn’t know why he follows him or that following this too-skinny kid will soon become a habit he’ll not break for years and years.
-x-
“What’s your name?” Bucky asks he lets the boy clean at his torn knuckles; his hands are bigger than he would have thought, gentle and steady.
“Steve,” he says, looking up at Bucky with a tentative smile – as if he wasn’t quite sure how to or even if Bucky deserved it, “my name is Steve Rodgers.”
“Bucky Barnes,” Bucky says, taking the hand Steve is working on and turning it to shake Steve’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Yeah,” Steve says, “you, too.”
Damn, Bucky thinks to himself as watches Steve furrow his eyebrows at him before turning back to his work, I’m in trouble.
-x-
It’s a week to the day when Bucky hears the tell-tale signs of a fist against flesh echoing from the alley he’s passing. His feet stutter to a stop and he’s almost afraid to look down – and yep, there’s Steve, his lip split open as he tries to lift his arms to protect his face.
Bucky doesn’t see anything else, just flies into the fray. And by the end of it, the scabs on his knuckles from his last fight have peeled away and split back open, accompanied by all new scrapes.
“I had him on the ropes,” Steve says, his chest heaving and blood dripping into his eye.
“I know you did,” Bucky says, can’t help but grin as he pulls Steve’s jacket straight.
-x-
Steve is always fighting.
-x-
“You don’t have to keep doing that,” Steve says once they’re back in the apartment he shares with his mother. He’s treating Bucky’s hands again and Bucky wonders if Steve’ll let him take care of his cut.
“If I don’t, then who will?” he asks instead.
Steve doesn’t say anything.
“I’ve got a date tonight and she’s bringing a friend,” Bucky says when the silence stretches too thick between them, “want to join us?”
Steve pauses before looking up at Bucky, his eyes narrowing. It’s that same searching look that makes Bucky feel as if Steve is peering down into the depths of his soul.
“I don’t think so, Bucky,” Steve says as he begins to wrap Bucky’s wrists.
“Oh, come on,” Bucky smiles, “it’ll be fun. No one will beat you up – I promise!”
“There are other ways to beat on someone without using a fist,” Steve says as he ties off the bandages and stands, beginning to pick up the bloody wash cloths and emptying the bowl of soapy water.
“Steve—” he just wants Steve to look at him, he wants to look into his eyes, see if he can tell what Steve’s thinking. But Steve doesn’t turn around, just gathers up the cleaning supplies and starts to disappear into the kitchen.
“Thanks for helping me today,” and it’s a clear dismissal if Bucky’s ever heard one. So, quietly, Bucky stands and leaves the apartment.
-x-
It is two weeks before he sees Steve again. And it wasn’t for a lack of trying. Bucky had purposefully checked each alley he walked by – both hoping to find Steve and dreading the fact that he might just find him surrounded by more boys twice his size.
When he does see him, it’s at the general store and Bucky can’t help the sigh of relief when he sees that Steve doesn’t have any new bruises or cuts.
They make eye contact through the window and Bucky waves. Steve cocks his head to the side and waves back, almost unsure. The thought makes Bucky laugh, so he walks into the store and joins Steve in line.
“What’re you getting?” he asks.
Steve holds up a packet of hard candies. “Every time I go a week without getting into a fight, my mom give me candy money.”
“You must hate the candy,” Bucky says before he can stop himself. His words startle a laugh out of Steve, though, so he counts it as a win.
-x-
Bucky never was one for fighting – but then he found something worth fighting for.
Steve fights when he can – for his pride, for someone else, for some ideal he feels has been violated.
-x-
But, there’s something inside of him that recoils at the thought of someone shoving Steve around, something that rages against the thought of someone knocking him down and drawing his blood. So he balls up his fist, throws his weight around – listens as Steve yells at him for putting himself in unnecessary danger.
And always, Bucky just rolls his eyes, grins and pulls Steve close.
-x-
Steve’s mom dies on a cold August morning, the tuberculosis finally taking her.
“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, walking into the apartment Steve lives in alone now. They’ve been arguing about couch cushions and Bucky’s tired of it.
“What are you gonna do?” Steve’s voice is cold and Bucky can tell that he’s shut down.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he says and when Steve’s head whips around, Bucky moves in – slow and sure, giving Steve enough time to back away.
Steve doesn’t.
And the years between them – all of the waiting and pining, all of the new scars on Bucky’s knuckles – it all comes back around because Steve is pressing back in. Bucky laughs against Steve lips.
“Always fighting,” Bucky says when Steve pulls back, levels him with a look. So Bucky softens his smile, brushes his thumb against Steve’s jaw. “Fight the rest of the world all you want,” he says, “you never have to fight with me.”
-x-
Bucky and Steve are sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in a theater, watching as waves of Japanese planes fly down low over Pearl Harbor. When they leave the theater, Steve leads them to an Army recruiting station.
Bucky is accepted. Steve isn’t.
-x-
Bucky never was one for fighting – but he would always fight for Steve.
-x-
He never wanted to go to war, not really.
But, just like every other time he’s seen Steve plant his feet – Bucky is there behind him, hands curled into fists.
Bucky figures putting on a uniform, going to Germany or wherever it is they’ll send him – it’s all the same. He’s still fighting for Steve.
Because Steve can’t come over here himself, so Bucky has to go in his stead.
“You don’t, though,” Steve says when Bucky tells him so. “I’m not trying to guilt you into this.”
“I never had anything worth fighting for,” Bucky answers, stretching out next to Steve on the bed they share. “Then I saw you, Steve, and I did. I know you can handle yourself, I know. But it doesn’t mean that I have to like seeing you get hurt.”
And Steve looks up at him, that searching look that Bucky has come to dislike – it means that Steve is still looking for truth in Bucky’s words. Like he can’t quite believe that Bucky is real, that Bucky loves him like he does or still wants to stay with him. Like he expects Bucky to leave any day now.
“Please be careful,” Bucky says, reaching out to run his hands through Steve’s hair, “while I’m gone, please – just be careful.”
Steve nods, says that he will be.
“Liar,” Bucky can’t help but huff out even as he pulls Steve close, presses a kiss to Steve’s temple.
-x-
Bucky never was one for fighting. But then he was strapped down to a table and he was fighting to remember Steve’s voice and Steve’s skin and the way Steve tasted – anything and everything to fight off the blackness that was threatening to close in and drown him.
He had always fought for Steve.
And then, as if hearing a voice from on high – he sees Steve.
And this time, Steve is fighting for him.
-z-
End