Work Text:
Her voice sounds like home, almost like his Gran Buchanan, gentle and soft. His father's accent is all but gone, washed away in the Hudson and whisky, and he's surrounded by odd bastardizations of accents in his melting pot of a tenement block.
“You come here whenever you like; doesn’t matter what the time is, we’re always glad to see you.” She says, dabbing ointment on the bruises on his cheekbone. “You're always welcome.”
“It's nothin’ big, Mrs Rogers,” He winces and fights to keep his head still when she examines it. He’s been boxing for long enough that he can just write off any suspicious injuries as training; a lie he supplants to Steve when the need arises. She makes him tilt his head, trained eyes assessing his face, eyes that he can’t lie to.
“No, you're right, it's just a bruise.” She has the same cold hands as Steve and her thumb cautiously runs over the red skin. “I thought this nonsense stopped.”
“I got bad timin’.” He shrugs with one shoulder and when she takes her hand away, he replaces it with his own hand, fingertips feeling along his cheekbone. It stings the same as it always has done, but he's sure that nothing is broken, nothing but his pride. “I guess I just didn't see it coming.”
“Darling, you never do.” She says with a sadness that jolts him from whatever faraway thought he had. She wraps her arms around him and he's almost an entire foot taller than her and probably has near on fifty pounds on her, but he feels like a boy. He doesn't hug back for a moment, but she is insistent and he squeezes her gently before pulling back. It reminds him of when she taught him to dance under the watchful eye of Steve, after he broke his arm and spent a week straight living under the same roof as them.
“You and Steve are too big to be sharing a bed.” She says finally, patting his chest gently. “Though you should be thankful, when I was a girl, five of us slept in one bed, like sardines.”
“I don't mind taking the couch.” He sits on the couch and Sarah moves away to turn the radio on, filling the small room with the sound of a soft brass band.
“I wouldn't dream of it. You're a guest in my house, James.” She hums along to the song while she finishes cleaning the kitchen. The apartment has two windows, unlike his own home, with one window that serves as a fire escape. He lives on the sixth floor and Sarah and Steve only live on the second. His building is older, the electricity is unreliable and his floor shares a single lavatory. Here, it’s practically a five star hotel.
“How many times I gotta tell you, ma, it's Bucky--” His face flushes scarlet and if she noticed, she doesn't blink an eye.
“It's Bucky to Steve, to me, you're just little James, runnin’ around my kitchen in nothin’ but short trousers and scraped knees.”
“Still Jamie at home.” He says with no small amount of bitterness. He lets his head loll back on the back of the couch, only regretting it for a moment when the knot at the back of his neck protests. Still, he presses on, savoring the burn of his tired muscles. In the small apartment, he has no sisters to mind, no questions about the lack of girls he brings home, why he only brings Steve back. He can sit on the couch, his hand brushing Steve's when they sit together, shoulder to shoulder on the couch, listening to the wireless and when Bucky rests his head on Steve's shoulder as the night draws in, no one pays them any attention.
"You can always be Bucky here."