Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Depression had hit hard, sparing no one from hardship. After Sarah had died and he’d convinced Steve to live with him he’d hoped things would start to look up, God knew Steve deserved it, but that couldn’t have been farther from the truth. Jobs dried up and with it so did the money, and soon they were scraping by on what little they could scrounge up from tough, demanding labor. The last few months of winter had been especially tough and it showed on their bodies. Steve’s breathing was wobbly and wheezy while Bucky’s ribs stood out from his skin; he never let Steve see, wearing shirts a few sizes too big to hide how gaunt he’d become from skipping meals so Steve could keep his strength up.

Winter had been bitter and unrelenting, but last night the radiator had gone out and Bucky was sure that Steve’s asthma was getting worse. They didn’t have enough money for a good meal, how the hell was he going to get him medicine and in to see a doctor? If it came down to it he wasn’t above stealing; it wasn’t like he hadn’t done it before, and if it would save Steve’s life he’d gladly risk the jail time and shoulder the guilt. Guilt was nothing compared to losing Steve; nothing was comparable to losing Steve.

Bucky let out a long, weary exhale, a wispy puff of warmth in the bitter Brooklyn morning. Steve had had a restless night of fever-induced fits, sweating through his clothes even in the chill of the apartment. It was why he was out this early in the morning, with the sun barely touching the crystal snow that powdered the rooftops, shimmering like so many gemstones in the thin air. He had needed to get another bottle of aspirin to try and get Steve better, at least until Friday when he’d be paid and he could get him in to see a doctor.

What little money he’d managed to scrounge up for the singular bottle of aspirin and pack of asthma cigarettes had been the remainder of his food money for the week, so he’d just have to try and get Steve by with what little they had in the apartment. He clutched the paper bag that held the bottle and cigarettes tightly, not willing to let anything or anyone try and take it from him, knowing it just might be the only thing to tide Steve over until he called the doctor. He and Steve’s reputation as “troublemakers” tended to keep most of the petty thieves away but the tough times had given even the meekest criminals teeth enough to try and strike at any potential mark, and as such Buck didn’t dare let his guard down.

Even with the sun licking the snow on the rooftops it felt oddly dark, with shadows darting and deep and refusing to let the day take hold. It was unusual for this late in the season and it didn’t bolster Bucky’s confidence much at all. His jacket was worn thin and wasn’t much protection against the bite of the cold winds but he’d left his heavy one at home for Steve; he needed it so much more than him even if he was too sick to go to classes today. He had the day off from the docks, thank God, so he hoped that if he tried his best to nurse Steve well he’d last through the night. If only Sarah was still alive, she’d know what to do.

The sound of snow crunching loudly behind him rattled Bucky out of his thoughts, cold fingers tight on the paper bag and his free hand pulled free of his coat pocket. Most people weren’t out this early and with his nerves already on edge from Steve’s condition it did little to settle him. He just kept walking, not wanting to look too suspicious although he was well aware he looked rather out of place out and about this early in the morning.

There’d been rumors of strange muggings and attacks on people floating around but Bucky had paid it little mind. That sort of thing happened all the time, even more so with the tough times, but the fact that people were being bitten and even killed was what made it odd. He tried not to think too much about it, chalking it up to frustrated desperation and some bad hooch. Stories tended to get twisted up and details misheard or added in as they passed from street to street and mouth to ear so he took them all with a grain of salt.

Dropping off, the footsteps behind him faded away as the other turned down another street, leaving him alone on the sidewalk. A barely audible exhale, a fragile wisp of breath, left Bucky before he straightened his back and continued on as if nothing had happened. Gettin’ worked up over nothin’, Buck. If he kept getting all strung up with worry he’d end up sick as Steve and that couldn’t happen. If he got sick then he couldn’t work, and more importantly couldn’t look after Steve, and the thought of that alone sent a shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

He turned a corner after checking the street, not wanting to walk past the police officer a few blocks down. He and Steve had had more than their fair share of run-ins with the law and had spent more than a few overnights in the clink, so even just walking near the cops was enough to sometimes get them stopped. They knew their faces well enough that they always thought he and Steve were up to “no good”. Didn’t help that Steve’s voice lapsed into an Irish accent when he got really heated; no one took kindly to any semblance of foreignness these days, especially the cops.

Going the roundabout way would take him a few minutes longer to get home but it’d keep him out of the cop’s view; well worth the risk of cutting through a few of the sketchier alleyways. At least he didn’t have Steve running out ahead of him like a dog on a leash looking for anyone starting trouble. He didn’t think he had the energy to deal with that right then, although he would have given anything to be dealing with that instead of worrying over the younger boy currently bedridden and wheezy.

A shadow darted across the edge of his vision when he turned a corner, a steely grip clamping onto his shoulder as he was thrown up against a brick wall. Bucky barely had any time to comprehend what all had happened before he felt icy fingers tugging desperately at his coat collar, his body taking a long second to react to the realization that he was being mugged. He swung without thinking, his free hand forming a fist and hitting his attacker solidly on the jaw. They let out a shriek—a high, pitchy sort of noise no human had any business making—and the pressure at his shoulder dropped away, Bucky ducking out and away from his attacker before he could be pinned again.

Ancient, primal fear gripped him when his attacker spun to face him, eyes flashing silver with reflected light and teeth bared in a feral snarl. There was something disturbingly inhuman about the way the now-identified male moved, lithe and silent and weightless, or in his appearance, which was sharp and sleek and predatory. He looked human but at the same time didn’t; it was like human skin had been stretched over the wrong body, producing a gaunt and awkward creature that looked neither man nor beast. Whatever it was Bucky knew he wanted not a fucking thing to do with it. The thing lunged at him, sharp-nailed fingers and razored teeth bared, moving far faster than any human should. He managed to duck, lethal teeth finding the crook of his neck instead of his unprotected throat, tearing straight through his shirt collar and into soft skin.

Bucky’s scream died in his lungs, only a strangled gasp leaving him as he was violently shoved up against the wall again. The pain was sharp and bright, flashing through his mind with an electric intensity, body freezing on some sort of buried instinct. He could hear a sickening wet noise next to his ear, the sound akin to someone gulping down water on a hot day, his stomach turning in disgust. His grip on the bag of medicine remained steel, unwilling to risk breaking the bottle of aspirin when Steve needed it so. A million thoughts raced in his mind—what the hell is he biting me? Is he sick?—but his focus snapped back to the present when he felt pointed nails hook into his coat collar, pulling it down roughly as the sharp pain as his neck suddenly ceased. Pulling back, Bucky caught sight of his face, smeared sticky crimson with his own blood and mouth twisted up in a toothy grin, and his heart stumbled over itself in fear.

The man made a rumbling sort of noise, something that sounded distinctly feline, licking the blood off his lips. Despite his gaunt frame his grip was strong, holding Bucky up off the ground and forcefully against the brick wall with only one hand. The bite, strangely enough, didn’t hurt anymore; it felt tingly and numb, a fuzzy warmth spreading from it through his veins. He was vaguely reminded of when he was eight and was bitten by a spider. It was a softly buzzing heat, not normal but not altogether uncomfortable; the strangely velvety warmth swirled around in his body with each beat of his heart, and with every second that passed he felt himself growing more and more drowsy. His mind hazed over, thoughts muffled and confused and nowhere near coherent, vision losing focus and hearing bleeding into background noise.

‘Good, good’, a voice as sharp and clear as broken glass shot through his mind, ‘Just stay still, soon enough you won’t even have enough blood to feel it’ the words twisted pointedly, bristly in his skull like metal shards, and Bucky pulled himself out of the daze. The man leaned in as if he was going to bite again, teeth bared and reflective pupils narrowed to predatory slits, but Bucky was not going to just sit passively and let that happen. He inhaled deeply to shout, lungs sluggish with the warmth in his veins, but the man covered his mouth with his free hand, nails digging into his cheek in warning. Bucky ignored it. He choked out an aborted shout and bit into the hand, breaking the skin. Thick, bitter blood filled his mouth, swallowed in disgusted desperation, and the man hissed like a snake and jerked his hand back. Distracted with his own wound his eyes were off Bucky, who took the chance to kick with all his strength, hitting him in the ribs and sending him staggering backwards.

Steve might have been too stubborn to run from fights but Bucky knew when to cut his losses. Trying to fight was going to end with him dead so he bolted out of the alleyway, out into the street as fast as his legs could carry him. The blare of a horn and he ducked out of the way of an oncoming car, stumbling onto the opposite sidewalk and towards the apartment building. He knew it was dangerous running straight home, knowing the man could follow him to Steve, but he wasn’t sure how long he could stay on his feet. With his heart pounding from fear and running the warmth was practically all through his body now. His lungs were moving too slow to keep up, breathing too deep and too even for running, and he found himself clutching onto the railing of the stairs when he got to the building.

He couldn’t hear anything else, no loud footfalls of someone chasing him or the inhuman growling and hissing of his attacker, so he let himself exhale weakly in relief. His clumsy fingers still had a death grip on the brown paper bag clutched close to his chest, pills rattling faintly in their glass bottle from how much he was shaking. At least the damn trip wasn’t a waste. The warmth seemed to seep straight through his muscles, making it hard to move, but he forced himself up the stairs knowing that if he collapsed out here he’d either freeze or the man would track him down. Neither option was pleasant.

Before he attempted the walk down the hallway Bucky pulled a clean handkerchief from his coat pocket, wrapping and tying it around his neck to stem the lazy flow of blood. He’d expected to bleed more from a neck wound but the trickle was sluggish and constant, nothing life threatening at least. His mouth still held the revolting taste of the man’s blood, bitterness like dirty pennies and acid on his tongue. It didn’t taste like normal blood, God knew he’d had enough of his own in his mouth from all the fights he and Steve had found themselves in. He spit furiously onto the ratty decking, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as he tried not to retch right then and there from the sickening taste.

The whole situation had been as strange as it had been terrifying. Where the hell had the man even come from? It was like he’d just appeared next to him in that alleyway and attacked. Normally he could hear people trying to sneak up on him but the man moved like a ghost; he still hadn’t even realized there was anyone there until he saw the man’s face in front of his own. Now that he thought on it, the man hadn’t been familiar at all. He’d met most of the neighborhood through fights and through Steve, so to see someone he had no prior knowledge of was strange in and of itself. The man must have come from somewhere, but he’d lacked the Brooklyn accent everyone here wore thick. Nothing added up in his mind.

He didn’t even realize he’d been walking until he absentmindedly bumped into the door to their shared apartment, leaning on it heavily once he came back to awareness. Bucky rested his forehead against the rough, weathered wood, trying to suck in more oxygen to settle the budding lightheadedness. His fingers felt like rubber as he dug through his pocket to produce his key, nearly dropping the small metal fixture due to how shaky he was. It took several attempts to get it into the lock, doorknob jerkily turned and the door swinging open under his weight. He silently thanked God when he didn’t fall flat on his face, catching himself on the doorframe, knowing that such an ungraceful entrance would draw Steve from the bed when he was the one who needed all the rest he could get.

“M-M’back, Stevie.” His voice slurred a bit, shucking the bloodstained jacket off onto the floor after he pushed the door shut with his foot. He didn’t have the energy to put it away proper; he’d do it later after he slept off whatever the hell was wrong with him. The spider bite had passed on its own overnight, so he could only hope whatever this was would do the same. He didn’t hear an answer from Steve, but then again he hadn’t really expected one, seeing as he’d been deeply asleep for the first time in days when he left.

He made sure the door was locked tight as a bank safe before he stumbled into the bathroom, digging through the cabinet for the half-empty bottle of hydrogen peroxide he kept towards the back for when Steve got banged up bad. Fumbling fingers got the cap off after several frustrating moments, the bottle brought to his lips in urgency. The liquid stung and burned and made his eyes water but he swished it through his mouth anyway, spitting it out into the sink. It was brown and struck through with bolts of sludge black from the remnants of the man’s blood. He felt like vomiting.

Soaking a gauze pad with the peroxide he tugged at the makeshift bandage around his neck, exposing the wound. Now that he could see it in the mirror he couldn’t help but grimace, seeing the raggedly torn flesh and deep twin punctures. It looked like he’d been chewed on by a dog. His mind still felt slow from the bite but he struggled regardless to try and rationalize what had just happened. This had to be the attacker that the neighbors had been talking about. They were both elderly women, immigrants from Europe that arrived before the Great War, and they used a term to describe the man, but what was it? Bucky’s eyebrows knit together and he bit his lip, staring down into the blood-smeared sink as he racked his brain trying to remember the word.

Strigoi. She called it a Strigoi. Vampire.

“Fuck.” He wasn’t one to believe readily in fairy tales but then again he didn’t have a better explanation for what the hell had just happened. He suddenly felt cold and he grabbed on to the edge of the chipped porcelain sink as hard as he could, trying not to let his wobbly legs give out under him. God, what if that really was a Strigoi? He’d heard both women talk about the myths before when they sat on the shared decking, about how they tracked down and ate their loved ones before going on to hunt anyone they could find. His mouth went dry and he swallowed thickly, gaze cutting out the open bathroom door and into the bedroom where he could just make out the lump that was Steve curled up on the thin mattress.

Bucky shook his head and pressed the gauze pad to the wound, gritting his teeth at the expected sting. There wasn’t any pain, however, although he could see the peroxide bubbling and hear it hissing. Even though he hadn’t felt any pain from the injury before applying the medicine he’d expected to still feel the sting of it through whatever was numbing it. He rinsed the wound out the best he could, wiping and cleaning it until the bleeding picked up just to be sure. He folded up a fresh square of gauze and pressed it against the wound, sticking some tape over it to hold it in place.

Exhaustion clawed at his awareness, eyes drooping a bit as he shuffled into the bedroom. The air was cold from the broken radiator, Steve burrowed under every blanket they owned on his corner of the mattress. Bucky leaned over the bed and brushed some of his sweat-sticky blond hair from his forehead, pressing his palm there to try and see if he could feel well enough to tell how bad Steve’s fever was. He felt warmth from him but he didn’t feel like he was burning up anymore, but he fished the bottle of aspirin out and set it on the nightstand anyway for when Steve woke up.

It probably wasn’t a good idea to try and sleep while in his state but he was so tired. He wasn’t any use to Steve with him barely able to walk or even so much as hold the damn bottle of aspirin so he hoped that after a few hours of rest he’d be back to normal. He kicked off his boots before flopping heavily on his side of the bed, face down into the soft pillows, exhaling loudly with relief. Even just lying down felt better. He heard Steve hum at him sleepily, moving the slightest bit, and he responded by reaching over and blindly feeling for the top blanket.

“S’just me, Stevie. Go back ta sleep.” He murmured tiredly, muffled through the pillow as he pulled a corner of the blanket over and covered himself up the best he could without tugging too hard and disrupting Steve’s cocoon. He could have gone and slept in his room but with the heat out he figured it’d be better to stay with Steve, share his body heat. He was still dressed in his bloody shirt and snow-wet pants but he didn’t care; he was beyond tired and wanted to sleep this damn feeling off so he could be bright and alert to keep an eye on Steve later. With a sleepy exhale he burrowed into his pillow and got comfortable, falling asleep faster than he had in weeks. It wasn’t going to be a peaceful sleep.

Chapter Text

He didn't know how much time had passed, or what was reality and what was dream. The fever had taken hold swiftly and completely, burning through his veins like liquid ice. His insides felt like a roiling molten fire, a sensation the likes of which he'd never experienced before. The warmth from the bite had turned to a maelstrom of broken glass in his blood and brain, blurring the lines between dream and waking. Everything felt real and imaginary at the same time and he struggled to tell the difference.

Bucky's awareness was a haze of red, the smell of copper and sweet warmth coating his tongue. The images remained the same whether his eyes were open or closed, shadows darting to and fro that he tried to grab onto but always slipped through his fingers like sand. His limbs buzzed and felt far too heavy, unable to tell if he was actually moving them or imagining it. Sounds were nothing more than an indecipherable mess, seeming to come from outside and in his own head all at once. He thought he heard Steve say his name at one point but there was no way he could be certain.

The darkness of unconsciousness was welcomed willingly, putting an end to the pain blazing through his body and the incessant drone in his ears. Some dim part of him screamed that he needed to stay awake, that what if Steve needed him and he couldn't hear, but he just couldn't fight it any longer. Consciousness hurt too much and he just couldn't hang on any longer. The darkness was blissful, painless silence.

He didn't know how long he was unconscious, or what spurned his abrupt return to awareness, but he had a feeling the hot burn in his throat was the culprit. It felt like he'd chugged powdered glass or drunk straight moonshine; that was a mistake he was only going to make once. The burn in his veins had ebbed, replaced with a faintly pulsing ache in tune to his heart. When he moved his mouth he felt something between his lips, and as soon as he chanced breathing proper through his nose he realized it was an asthma cigarette. Steve musta givin' it to me. That put him a bit at ease, knowing that Steve was awake and okay enough to give him something. He just hoped the damn punk took his aspirin.

"… Bucky?" he almost missed his voice, hearing still muffled and unclear, but he turned his head slightly towards the source of it. His throat hurt too much to try and speak so he merely groaned tiredly, feeling worse and worse as more feeling came back. At least nothing seemed permanently damaged so far, so he was cautiously optimistic that he was going to be just fine.

The bed moved slightly, Bucky's eyes fluttering open just enough to see Steve drop to his knees on his side of the bed and lean over him, before he let them slide shut again. It hurt too much to keep them open; everything was bright and blurry and saturated with color. He could feel the heat of Steve's body on his skin, found himself drawn towards it for some reason, and before he knew it he'd turned onto his side, curling up around him like an oversized cat. He didn't care that Steve's bony knees were now jabbed into his ribs he just wanted to be close. He heard Steve sigh loudly in mock annoyance but he knew that he didn't care; they both got disgustingly affectionate when they didn't feel well so Steve had no room to complain.

Steve said something undecipherable, grabbing the asthma cigarette out of his mouth. Oh, right, he forgot about that. As soon as he could talk he was going to ask just why the hell he'd given him one when he was the one who needed them. It wasn't like he was having an asthma attack, although his lungs still felt rather uncomfortable. He wanted to sleep for the next week, honestly; it felt like his bones had been forcibly rearranged and his muscles picked apart and stitched back together. There was no way he was going to be able to cover his shift at the docks tomorrow; he'd have to have Toro get his paycheck for him if he was going to get Steve in to see the doctor.

"… how you feelin', Buck?" Steve asked suddenly, breaking him out of his stumbling train of thought. Bucky's only reply was to shove his face into Steve's stomach and grunt, which roughly translated to "like shit". He didn't have to see to know that Steve rolled his eyes. He hooked his arm around Steve's hip and felt for the blanket before pulling it over him to keep out the cold, resting his cheek on his thigh, content to just fall back asleep right there in his lap. It wouldn't have been the first time they'd fallen asleep all tangled up in each other; usually the culprit was the cold or a particularly bad illness but sometimes they were too tired to go to their respective beds or just felt like it. They both knew their closeness would likely alarm a good deal of people but they didn't care; they were the only things the other had in the world and trusted one another completely.

Neither spoke or moved for a solid five minutes, Bucky not entirely convinced he could do either and Steve letting him get his bearings. He'd wrapped the blanket around himself tightly, sore and miserable but at least Steve seemed to be doing alright. Once he got his voice back he'd see about getting him to the doctor to be sure. The last thing they needed was him getting worse.

"… seem pretty comfortable there, Buck." Steve teased quietly, brushing his fingers through Bucky's hair absentmindedly. It was a mirror of what Bucky did whenever Steve got really sick to help keep him calm and grounded. He shamelessly leaned into it and heard Steve snort out a laugh, feeling it more than he heard. It was good to hear him laugh. He focused on the feeling of his fingers, thinly boned and uncalloused, and the sound of his off-beat heart and rattily lungs. His lungs always sounded bad but they weren't gurgling and sputtering as much as they had been.

"… s'better." Bucky slurred a bit, mumbling the word out the best he could. 'Sounds better' was beyond his ability to say at the moment so he tapped a finger against Steve's chest and hoped he got the message.

"Yeah, feelin' a lot better now," Steve's voice was a little muffled; Bucky guessed he'd probably put the asthma cigarette that he'd taken from him in his mouth so it wouldn't go to waste, "Whatever you did really settled my lungs right down and the aspirin got the fever kicked in a jiff. Feel right as rain." Wait, what? He did something? The last thing he remembered coherently was flopping down into bed next to him a few hours ago.

"… did somethin'?" he mumbled in confusion, a knot of worry building up low in his stomach. Did he do something in his sleep that helped? He hoped Steve remembered what it was because he didn't have a damn clue, and if it'd helped then hell, maybe he was finally onto something and could help keep his illnesses in check.

"Yeah, you gave me a shot or somethin', didn't you?" Steve's fingers stopped, hand resting before moving to tug up his sleeve, "I mean, that's what it felt like. You get it with the aspirin? 'Cause if you get another few it'd be nice to have on hand when I get bad like that. Must'a been one of those weird new needles since I've never had a needle leave a mark like that before."

Bucky forced his eyes open at that. That knot in his stomach turned into an icy knife, fear making his heart speed up. His vision was blurry but cleared rapidly, the worn fibers of Steve's shirt clear as day and every detail sharp and crisp. It was alarming, but he shoved it to the back of his mind. He rolled off of Steve's lap and onto his back again, not having the energy to sit up, and looked up at Steve fearfully.

"Show me." he croaked hoarsely, trying to swallow around the lump in his throat. He kept thinking back to what had happened that morning, to the bite and the soothing acid of the words in his mind, and he was completely terrified by the thought of that happening to Steve. He didn't feel terribly different outside of the ache and uncomfortable loudness of everything around him but he was scared to death by the possibility that whatever his attacker had been suffering with could have been passed on to him, and that he'd somehow given it to Steve.

Steve just looked down at him quizzically before he pulled his sleeve up all the way, holding his arm in front of Bucky's face. His skin was pale, almost translucent, peppered with freckles and old scars from fights. What held his gaze, however, were the two tidy wounds right over his wrist. The edges were an angry red, raised and puffy yet when he gently ran a finger over them they lacked the warmth of infection. It looked like someone had sliced two neat lines into his skin with all the precision of a surgeon, carefully situated between the major veins and arteries and not a lick of bruising to be seen.

Bucky felt his mouth go dry, breath freezing solid in his lungs as he held onto Steve's thin wrist with trembling fingers. Those hazy hours of half-awareness trickled back into his mind, how he heard Steve cry his name, tasted that strange gamey sweetness and felt heat flow over his tongue and how his nose had filled with the scent of softly warmed copper. He scrambled to shove those thoughts out of his head but the connections had already clicked into place. An apprehensive swipe of his tongue along the back of his teeth produced the ghost of taste, a lingering sliver of something sweet and bright with a shadow of acrid bitterness. He thought he was going to vomit.

"Buck…?" he barely heard Steve's voice over his own screaming, panicked thoughts, and before he knew it he had kicked the blanket off and scrambled out of bed, bolting into the bathroom before Steve could stop him. He fumbled with the light switch, eyes locked on the mirror as he opened his mouth, hoping beyond hope that he wouldn't see a thing, that maybe it'd just been some awful fever dream.

His teeth held a faint stain towards the gums, rust red and faded. He'd seen it plenty of times after one of Steve's aggressors got a good blow in on his mouth but he knew that wasn't where this had come from. His teeth looked different, tapered and sharp and bright, flashing white. When he ran his tongue over his teeth he could feel how sharp the edges were, honed like a fine blade, refined for a predatory purpose. They didn't look terribly different outwardly, perhaps a bit too long and a bit too narrowed at the tips but nothing that would be noticed in casual conversation, but they felt all wrong to him.

"Bucky?" Steve was getting up off the bed, he could hear the slight rustle of fabric even through the walls, "Buck, the hell's gotten into you?" Now that he was more or less fully awake he realized he could hear Steve's heartbeat, hear his lungs straining to fill and exhale, hear how his damn joints creaked when he moved. It wasn't natural for a person to hear that well from so far away.

"Buck, is something—what's wrong with your eyes?" Steve suddenly froze in the bathroom doorway, looking into the mirror with a confused and startled expression. Bucky hadn't even looked at his eyes before Steve said anything, having been far too focused on his teeth, but now he realized just how disturbingly wrong they were.

His pupils were narrowed to slits in the yellow light of the aged vanity, looking more like a cat or a snake than human. When he moved his head they would flash silver, not at all unlike how cat eyes reflected light at night. He felt a chill lick up his spine, remembering how the man's eyes had done the same thing before he'd lunged at him and put the deep wound on his neck.

"I—" Bucky choked on his own breath, hands shaking where he was gripping the sink as hard as he could. Steve's heartbeat was pounding in his ears, too quick and skipping, and the dawning horror that he could seriously hurt Steve, that Steve might be scared of him, hit him like a punch to the gut. What little breath left in his lungs wheezed out, his own heart thudding against his ribs as if he'd just run five blocks. His gaze fell down into the sink, a shudder working its way through every inch of his body, throat tight and back crooked from the tenseness of his muscles. In some dim part of his mind he realized in grim humor this must be what Steve felt like on a daily basis.

Warm, thin fingers wrapped around his wrist, grip sturdy and stubborn. Bucky only lifted his vacant gaze when he was given a small squeeze, eyes darting towards Steve but head still lowered, feeling a burning sense of horrified shame from his inhuman changes. Bony fingers dug into his arm, prompting him to finally look up. Steve's eyes were hard and his jaw was set firm, wispy smoke from the asthma cigarette he'd spat into the sink a moment before still clinging to his cheekbones and wiry hair. That look never proceeded something good; he'd seen him wearing that same expression a hundred times before a hundred damned fool decisions and back alley fights.

"Buck," he starts, back as ramrod straight and tall as the scoliosis will allow, "Buck I don't know what happened but you need to calm down. It's gonna be fine, you're gonna be fine." It was then that Bucky realized that he was shaking, violently, and his breathing was fast and labored. He tried to keep his eyes locked on Steve's, tried to hold his unyielding gaze, but he kept finding himself glancing downwards, resting on his open throat before he could wrench himself away just to drop his eyes once again.

Something dark and ancient and unknown crawled its way up his spine, nesting at the base of his skull and the back of his throat, threading tendrils into his brain. He felt his jaw go slack and his mouth start to water, the sound of Steve's heartbeat impossibly loud in his ears. Steve was talking, he could see him speaking and the way his throat moved around each word, but he didn't hear a single sound other than the blood being pushed through his body. It was like something in his mind had been switched off and something else flipped on, a sort of hunger that wasn't for food and a thirst that wasn't for water.

Steve was still talking and now he was trying to get him to move, tugging at his arm and tilting his head just a bit. Bucky forced his legs to move, let Steve lead him wherever he wanted him to go, eyes going unfocused and hazy the moment they were no longer on his throat and hearing attuned to every fluttering and straining beat of his heart. It was like the rest of the world melted away, the only thing that mattered was getting closer and chasing the sound and scent of his blood.

He was jarred out of his focus when he was roughly shoved into sitting on the mattress, bringing him down to Steve's height. He sorely wished Steve hadn't done that as it bright him right at the level of his throat. Steve was talking again but he didn't hear any words; Bucky didn't even respond at all until he felt Steve's hand press against his forehead then slide down to cup his cheek, using his thumb to pull his lower eyelid down to look at his eye better. His nostrils flared, air thick with Steve's warm, inviting scent from his wrist being right next to his nose, the wounds within an inch of his mouth.

Before he was fully aware of himself he'd leaned into his hand, eyes half-lidded and lips pressed against the thin skin of his wrist. It'd be easy, so obscenely easy, to just open his mouth and bite, to listen to what instinct was screaming at him to do. It'd be easy—"Buck?"—so easy, he nuzzled himself closer, drawn in by his warmth, eyes glazed over with a primal sort of want, of need. It'd be easy—"Buck, c'mon you're scarin' me"—to blot out the corner of his mind screaming at him to stop, that this is Steve and you can't do this Buck you're going to hurt him, but the coiling ice in his stomach, the nausea of guilt and fear, wasn't something he could easily ignore.

His teeth ached and his throat was so dry and he opened his mouth, newly-sharp teeth itching to sink into something, but he managed to shove the want away as soon as he heard Steve's fearful gasp. His eyes snapped open and he dropped Steve's arm—when did I even grab him?—recoiling like a snake had bitten him and scrambling away and cowering on the far end of the mattress. He shook and curled in on himself, more scared than he'd felt in years. He was almost as scared at that time three winters ago when Steve caught pneumonia real bad and he swore he was going to lose him.

"Buck, Buck it's okay." Steve soothed softly, climbing up onto the bed after him, "You just startled me was all, it's okay. It's okay, I promise." Bucky tried to tell himself that, to let the words sink in, but he knew they weren't true. He was scared out of his damn mind and he knew Steve was too. Something was horribly wrong with him, he was some sort of monster or a demon or something, and whatever-it-was was trying to make him hurt Steve.

He buried his face in his knees when Steve got close, trying to make himself as small as possible. It didn't work, it never worked he could never really hide himself away from Steve, and soon enough he felt Steve's smaller frame pressed up against his side, his thin warmth bright against his ribs. Steve rested his forehead against his shoulder, slinging his arm around his back and rubbing slow, soothing circles there. It was something Sarah had done a million times a hundred lifetimes ago when he was up worried sick over Steve's latest illness. No matter how mad or how withdrawn he got it always seemed to do the trick, the simple movement working down through his tense muscles and right into his core.

"You're gonna be fine, Buck. You're gonna be fine." Steve repeated it over and over, as if by saying it enough he'd get him to believe it. Bucky wished it was that easy, would give anything for it to be that easy, but it wasn't so. He knew he wasn't fine, that he wasn't going to be okay. He'd nearly hurt Steve and the urge to do so had set in at the drop of a hat, leaving just as quickly. He'd hurt him already and he knew deep down it'd likely happen again.

"It's gonna be fine, Buck."

Steve had never been good at lying.

Chapter Text

He should have known that the moment Steve felt good enough to go outside trouble was going to find him. Or rather, he'd go sniff out trouble and try and get into a fist fight with it. Bucky had just hoped that Steve would give him a few more days of peace before he went out and got himself into a scrap but of course that wasn't to be. The kid was going to be the death of him one of these days but, honestly, he couldn't bring himself to care. Steve might have been a hell of a headache to keep in line but he was his headache, just as much as he was Steve's personal pain in the ass. So in the end it balanced out quite nicely.

After the disaster that had been his return to consciousness Bucky hadn't moved from the bed all day. He was still wobbly in his knees and scared of himself, and Steve, despite Bucky's weak protests, had stayed glued to his side the entire time. Bucky gave up on trying to wriggle away from him by the third attempt, since no matter what he'd tried Steve would latch onto his arm or tackle him and drag him back into bed, hissing about how everything was fine and that if he tried to run away he was just gonna go right after him, so he just grumbled and sagged into Steve's stubborn grip and resigned himself to moping with him in the bed.

Just when he'd dozed off he wasn't sure, but he only realized he'd done it when he woke up. He hadn't dreamed, hadn't felt any of the same pain as when he woke up the first time; for all intents and purposes he felt like his old self. Something tickled his nose whenever he inhaled so he opened his eyes, blinking the haze out of them. He realized that sometime during the night Steve had scooted up next to him and that his nose was buried into his blond hair; he smelled of charcoal and paper and the warmth of the sun. He halfheartedly noted he needed to get Steve in for a haircut; it was getting pretty unruly and the last time he tried to cut it for him had been laughably bad.

Steve was sprawled all over the bed, one arm draped across Bucky's back and his face pressed up into his collarbone, drooling a bit and snoring. Bucky couldn't help but roll his eyes a bit. Steve had always latched onto things like an overly-affectionate limpet in his sleep. He knew that trying to untangle himself from Steve's limbs would be about as effective as trying to get out of an octopus's grip so he just opted to poke his cheek, and couldn't help but laugh low in his throat when Steve suddenly snorted and jerked his head back, only just avoiding smacking it against Bucky's jaw.

"Mornin' sunshine." Bucky teased with a wide grin when Steve sat up, hair standing up every which way and a bit of drool half-dried on his chin, shirt all disheveled and pulled almost down over his shoulder. Steve just blinked tiredly and sniffed loudly, but at least he looked like he'd had a good night's sleep for once.

"Shut up," he grumbled, wiping his chin on the back of his hand before stretching, joints creaking and popping loudly, "you don't look pretty as a rose either, Buck." He added before he smoothed down his hair. He made a disgusted face a half-second later. "Ew, you drooled in my hair, you ass." Bucky laughed loudly before he could stop himself. It was almost like the last day hadn't happened, like he was fine and the strange heat that pulsed under his skin was merely a figment of his imagination.

"Yeah well you drooled all over my shirt, punk. I'd say we're even." Bucky grinned, pushing himself up and stretching with a loud groan. He felt his back crack back into his place and his previously-aching muscles only twinge a bit at the movement, an improvement over the pain of the previous day. He was honestly tempted to go back to sleep but he knew he needed to go to the docks to get his paycheck, and hopefully get some food so Steve could eat.

Dragging himself out of bed was definitely harder than he thought it would be, his joints feeling oddly stiff and balance still a little off. He stumbled a bit before he got himself centered, Steve moaning tiredly at the loss of his heat and slumping back to the warm mattress. Bucky rolled his eyes and decided to get himself dressed in clean clothes, the ones he had fallen asleep in beyond wrinkled and flecked with blood. He shucked off the dirty clothes, uncaring that Steve was just a few feet away. They'd known each other so long and seen every inch of the other so modesty was usually forgone between them.

"Do we really gotta go shopping right now, Buck?" Steve whined, stretching out lazily like a cat before going limp with a long exhale, "S'not like the shops won't be there tomorrow." His voice was muffled from where he was half-burrowed into the blankets, one eye cracked open to watch Bucky as he pulled a new shirt out of the closet, having already changed into clean pants.

"C'mon Stevie, fresh air will probably do ya some good. 'Sides, gotta get you some liver and molasses; you haven't had any for a few days, have you? You know meat's always cheaper at the first of the week." Bucky replied, pulling the shirt over his head and smoothing it out. Steve groaned dramatically and pulled the blanket over his head, mumbling something that Bucky didn't catch into the fabric. He knew Steve hated raw liver, but he had to eat it to keep his anemia in check. He could go on his own, but honestly he wanted to take Steve out for the grocery run this week, let him pick out a treat or something special. God knew they'd had a hell of a week.

"Fine." Steve grumbled in mock-annoyance, peeling himself out of the covers and motioning for Bucky to throw some clothes to him. Buck grabbed a simple pair of pants and a loose shirt and tossed them to him, slipping on his jacket as Steve stripped and changed. He wrapped a loose scarf around his neck to cover the bandage, not wanting Steve to see it and ask questions. He knew that Steve likely already knew something was very wrong with him after the events of the night before, but he wanted to prevent him from seeing the wound for as long as possible.

While Steve finished getting dressed he took a comb to his unruly hair, making it look a little bit presentable at least. He'd draw a bath once they finished shopping. He normally prided himself on his appearance but he couldn't seem to bring himself to look in the mirror for too long, every second he stared he would see more and more changes that had occurred to his features. His skin was paling but still held more color than Steve's, his teeth looked even sharper than the day before, his eyes had returned to normal but they didn't look familiar to him, too cold, too faded, too feral.

He could hear Steve starting to tidy himself up in the kitchen, the water running as he wetted his toothbrush. Bucky must have brushed his teeth three times since he got into the bathroom, convinced that maybe he could scrub away the sharp edges and the sweet taste still lingering on his tongue. He would have tried for a fourth time if Steve calling for him hadn't drawn him out of the small room. Steve had already pulled on his too-large overcoat and bundled up in his heavy jacket, a scarf wrapped around much of his neck and face. He held out a glove-covered hand and dropped a bundle of wrinkled bills into Bucky's palm when he held it out.

"Toro slipped 'em under the door. Musta picked up your pay for you." Steve's voice would have been barely decipherable behind the thick scarf if Bucky's hearing wasn't as sharp as it was now, "We should be able to get enough for a few weeks at this rate. Maybe pay off the rent sooner to get the landlord off our tails."

"Sounds good, or," Bucky replied, "we can get food and tuck the rest away in case either of us gets sick again. With you workin' at the papers I'm sure we'll have enough to cover rent." Steve looked like he was going to argue but he didn't give him the chance. "It'll be fine, Stevie. Now c'mon, we don't wanna wait around while the stores get busy." He grinned and slipped out the front door, wanting to be outside first just in case his attacker had sniffed him out. The last thing he wanted was that fiend getting his hands on Steve.

The air was just as cold as it had been on that morning, perhaps even more so. Most of the snow that had littered the ground had melted away in the weak sunlight, although great swaths of white still hid in the shadowy places between buildings. The blood on the decking from where he'd dragged himself home was missing, scrubbed clean to the point only a few reddish specks remained on the aged wood. It was likely one of the neighbors; if he found out who he'd have to give them a hell of a thank you.

He squinted and put his hand up to shield his eyes as soon as he was out from under the apartment decking, the sun so much brighter than he remembered it being. The edges of his vision blurred and bled together due to the overwhelming, painful brightness, detail and color washed out and faded to the point he nearly ran into a trashcan that had been carelessly left on the sidewalk. Even with his senses overstimulated like this, he couldn't find any trace of his attacker.

"S'matter, Barnes? Get into some bad hooch? Or'd that punk a'yours keep ya up all night with his coughin'?" he angled his head up and narrowed his eyes, only just able to make out the silhouette of Mrs. O'Donnell, cigarette balanced between two fingers as she leaned over the deck railing to watch him from two floors up, her frizzy red hair going every which way. She must have just woken up.

"No ma'am," Bucky started to reply, "I got mugged the other day and—"

"Wait you got mugged?" she blurted out, her breath misty and mingling with the smoke, "Marge's boy got mugged a few days ago. Got his throat all torn up. Doesn't remember a damn thing 'bout what happened." Bucky felt his stomach turn in his gut, flashes of his own attack blazing through his mind.

"Y-yeah, that happened to me too. I didn't get a good look at his face, though." It was a lie, he'd seen the man's face plenty, but he knew no one would ever believe his story. He didn't want to believe his own story, honestly. Some part of him was still desperately hoping that it'd been a bad dream and the wound on his neck was just from him being careless.

"Shame. Lucky you didn't end up in the hospital like he did. Better watch that boy'a yours, Barnes. Knowin' him he'll go out huntin' that mugger down himself and get killed." Bucky swallowed thickly and just nodded up at her, turning when he heard Steve shuffle down the decking stairs to meet him. As soon as he was at his side he hastily waved her goodbye and started off. He didn't want to risk her seeing his eyes, or think about Steve ending up in the same awful situation he had been in. Just the thought of him pinned up against a wall with his throat bloodied by the man's teeth was enough to send a violent shiver through him.

His vision slowly started to adjust to the harshness of natural light but everything still felt too bright and too intense. Everything seemed to be too loud as well; he could hear people talking two blocks away, hear a cat scratching its fur from the third floor fire escape, even pick up on Steve's heartbeat through all the background noise. And, God, everything smelled so good. He just wanted to get his hands on everything. He could smell cookies baking at the little Polish bakery three streets over, smell the ocean spray over the heavy exhaust of the cars and, perhaps the most worrying one, he could pick up on the sharp, sweet scent of blood from somewhere two blocks over.

The scent of it made his mouth suddenly fill with saliva as if he hadn't eaten in weeks, sucking in a deep lungful of air and eyes closing. He almost stumbled over his own feet as he veered towards where he could tell it was coming from but jolted to a halt as Steve grabbed his arm to steady him, eyes flying open and breath freezing in his throat. That was how he'd almost hurt Steve, and the thought sobered him instantly, better than a bucket of cold water.

"M'fine. Just… lost my balance s'all." He mumbled quickly, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets as he ducked his head, slinking off at a pace a bit faster than Steve's so he couldn't hear his heartbeat so loudly in his ears. It was a tempting sound that made his throat ache like he was parched, the thought of it disturbing him thoroughly. He felt like one of the thylacines he'd seen at the Bronx zoo when he was three, pacing just behind the bars and wanting to break out and bolt and hunt. Steve didn't press and just fell in beside him after he caught up, occasionally bumping up against his side when he started to stray off after some scent. He doubted if Steve knew what he was doing, but he was thankful for it anyway.

Thankfully the shops on the street were mostly empty with only a scattering of people here and there, Bucky breathing a sigh of relief as he stopped to take stock of just what they were going to get. Fruit and vegetables if they could afford it, definitely canned food, maybe a bar of chocolate at the confectioners if they had enough left over. He knew they really should be saving up with the job situation being so rocky but he didn't care in all honesty; they'd had a rough week, they deserved a treat.

"Stevie, I want you to go to the butcher and get some liver, a few pieces of chicken, and see if they have any cheap cuts of beef. If not just get some pork. If you have anything left after that why don't you get a bar of chocolate to keep on you in case your sugar drops while you're workin'?" Steve made a face but he knew he'd do it anyway. He didn't like going to the butcher, the smell of it bothered his asthma, but Bucky didn't trust himself around blood. If just smelling it made him giddy to bite there was no telling what might happen if he walked into there and saw it.

"I'll probably finish before you so I'll head on back." Steve added as he glanced up at the sky, where clouds were starting to gather. It looked like it was going to snow. Bucky nodded, not wanting him to stay out any longer than necessary after only just getting over being sick.

"Sounds good. I'll get everything we'll need for soup and stew and anythin' else we might need. If I finish first I'll meet up with you but if not don't wait on me." Bucky handed Steve a couple of the bills, enough for him to get everything he needed and a handful of treats. He had enough money tucked away to cover most of the rent for the month, so he wasn't concerned with them being a bit free with spending for the moment. Things had been so tough as of late that they deserved a few hours of shopping to get what they wanted, not just what they needed.

The clouds had grown into a storm by the time Bucky had finished shopping, with thick white snowflakes falling in wet clumps to the deserted streets. He clutched the paper bag of groceries close to his chest, the wind tugging at his clothing and hair with sharp, cold teeth. I really hope that punk got home before this started up. It wasn't long before heavy globs of the stuff started to collect on his jacket, the street eerily silent as he trudged back to the apartment building. It was almost as if everyone else in the whole city had retreated into their homes; it made him feel isolated and alone in a way he couldn't describe. The faint brushing of snow on the concrete hadn't been disturbed, but as he walked up the stairs to the second floor of the apartment building he could make out a pair of footprints leading to his door.

With a bit of jiggling the lock finally clunked open in the cold, the rusty hinges squeaking a bit as he carried in his bag of groceries. There was a rumpled paper bag on the counter and Steve's gloves and keys, but he himself wasn't anywhere in Bucky's line of sight. He didn't think a thing of it, assuming Steve had gone back out so he wouldn't have to carry everything in one go. He was just a little nervous about him being out in this weather. Curiosity got the better of him, and before he knew it he was poking through what Steve had picked up.

"Container of chicken, container of liver, beef, and two chocolate bars." Bucky listed off to himself, putting the items away as he did so. It was cool enough in the apartment that nothing had gotten too warm, but just why he'd left them out was what troubled him a bit. Steve wasn't one to risk wasting anything but he tried not to think into it too much, lest he get himself worked up over nothing.

He quickly put away his own purchases before he went to check the bedroom, seeing if Steve had laid down or was changing out of his clothes. He'd fully expected to see him curled up back in bed and resting but the bed was empty, just as disheveled as they'd left it that morning. There weren't any dirty clothes on the floor or snow-soaked boots propped up near the radiator; it looked as if he had left his groceries on the counter and headed out again. But in this weather? It didn't make sense in Bucky's mind, unless something had drawn him outside.

A cold weight settled into his stomach when that thought crossed his mind, a sort of niggling feeling in his brain drawing him back outside. Part of him wanted to ignore it, but another wanted him to try and find Steve. Normally he wouldn't have minded, since he wasn't Steve's keeper by any means and they commonly went off on their own for the day, but something like alarm settled thick over his awareness and refused to let him rest. He didn't even realize he was moving until the bite of the wind hit his face as he opened the front door, his eyes adjusting to the sunlight much faster this time.

There was a strange weight in the air, as if the sky had taken on solid form and was bearing down on him with urgency. It made the hair prickle on the back of his neck in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. Everything was silent even with his hearing, only the sounds of the thick snow settling in a sheet across the abandoned sidewalk drifting past his ears. Something isn't right. Inhaling deeply, the air smelled sharp and clean, but he could pick up on something underneath it, dark and virulent and familiar.

That was when he heard the startled cry of panic.

Bucky broke into a run. He bolted down the decking stairs and across the street, a car's horn blaring as it skidded to avoid him, but he didn't even give it a glance as he hit the sidewalk and practically flew into the nearest alleyway. He could hear the sounds of a struggle, of punches being thrown and kicks landing on flesh, the echo of blood splashing onto brick. A heartbeat was ringing in his ears, fast and fluttery and skipping from panic. Steve. The maze of alleys made it hard to pinpoint just where the noise was coming from, reverberating off the pavers and brick walls, but as soon as he picked up on the sickly-sweet smell of blood some strange, foreign instinct took over, guiding him as fast as his legs could carry him.

"Steve!" he shouted as he slid to a stop in front of a particularly dim dead-end service alley, two hunched figures hidden away in the dark shadow of the neighboring building. The blood-smell was thick in the sheltered air, almost intoxicating in its intensity. His mouth began to water in response, nostrils flaring as he inhaled deep, sharp eyes catching sight of a splash of crimson across the pavers, still fluid in the cold.

"B-Buck!" Steve wheezed out, squirming against the wall where he was being held against it by a pair of strong hands, unable to get free or properly swing at his attacker. His frightened voice jarred Buck out of his daze instantly, and before he knew it a feral, inhuman roar tore itself free of his throat, loud enough to make even Steve and his damaged hearing wince and the man attacking him freeze. It was the sound of a predator declaring its territory, challenging a rival, guarding prey.

The hunched-over man jerked his head towards him at the sound, pupils blown almost completely black and blood dripping from his mouth, clothing torn and his nose bloodied and broken, likely from Steve's vicious attempts to fight him off. Bucky's heart froze solid, recognizing him instantly. It was the same man that had attacked him, that'd brought on this nightmare, and now he had Steve.

"Let go of him!" Bucky covered the distance between them in a half-second, too consumed with rage to realize that that would have been impossible just a few days ago, shoving the man away from Steve as hard as he could. He was startled when the attacker nearly crumpled under the force of it, dropping Steve in a heap as he tumbled away. Bucky lunged at him like a hunting cat, pouncing and pinning him down with his body weight to prevent him from making another go at Steve, and from escaping.

Something took control of him the moment he struck, a hot fury as thick as tar and just as poisonous threading through his spine and twining down his limbs, burning him from the inside out. A noise that could only be described as a hiss bubbled out of him as he ducked under a blow aimed for his face, his own hands tightening their grip on the man's shoulders, earning a high-pitched shriek of pain. His rational thinking sputtered to a halt, primal instinct taking its place as he snarled and tore at his struggling enemy, blood and bits of fabric coating the cobblestone. His fingers ached sharply but he scarcely cared, all of his focus on the singular task of defending his 'territory'.

The man twisted underneath him inhumanly, getting one of his legs up enough to kick him squarely in the gut, knocking the air out of his lungs and sending Bucky sliding across the icy pavers. He rolled to his feet easily enough, bolting to intercept the man as he made another go for Steve, his bloodied hands latching onto his arm and biting with his newly-sharp teeth as hard as he could. The man yowled and tried to jerk his arm free but Bucky held firm, sinking his teeth in deeper in defiance like a dog, feet planted firmly to hold his ground.

With a feral hiss and lightning-fast movement the man swiped across Bucky's stomach, sharp claws tearing through his clothes and slicing skin. Bucky whined and tensed but didn't dare let go, instead using his body weight to pull backwards, tearing his teeth out of the man's arm before swiping back on pure instinct. The man's howl of pain was completely unexpected, as was the hot spray of blood as he collapsed to the ground in a heap, shuddering and convulsing as he held his face.

Bucky had no idea why until he looked at his own hands, coated with both his and his attacker's blood, and saw that the skin of his fingers had cracked and split and long claws extended out several inches. His stomach lurched in horror at the sight, bile in his mouth as he realized that he hadn't imagined the previous day, that he was turning into the same twisted creature that he was fighting tooth and nail to protect Steve from. The sight of it was so sobering it knocked him clean out of the instinct trance, his body beginning to shake from fear and shock. He was soaked in blood and the other man was only just staggering to his feet, whimpering like a wounded animal before he backed away, retreating down the alleyway and disappearing down one of the side streets like a dog with its tail between its legs.

Every thought dropped away as he turned to Steve, falling to his knees and crowding over him, desperate for any sign of life. There was a sluggishly bleeding bite wound on Steve's throat, his shoulder scratched and clothes torn and shredded. His thin chest rattled with slow, barely-there breaths, skin pale and ghastly in a way that made a coil of ice tighten in Bucky's chest. The blood, God did it smell good, was a bright splash of color across his pallor form, and the worst part was that it made his stomach growl, made him sniff at the air hungrily and lean in close.

The smell of it was thick, filling the air and choking Bucky's lungs to the point it drowned out every other scent. There was blood everywhere; covering Steve, covering him, running in rivulets down his chin and painting his lips a smear of crimson. His mind was a whirling fog of instinct and hunger, the high of the fight still burning in his veins even as his heaving lungs evened and his heart began to slow. Everything had happened too fast, too quickly for him to even realize what all he had done. The small pinprick of icy dread in his gut began to grow into a heavy weight of fear, his clawed fingers feeling for a pulse among the tacky blood drying on Steve's throat.

"S-Steve…?" he croaked, voice still low with the growl of hunger, "Are you… c-can you hear me, Stevie…?" He didn't answer. He didn't answer, and as Bucky gathered him up in his arms he didn't even make a sound, not a single whimper of pain or half-aware groan.

"S'alright," Bucky breathed, more to himself than Steve, unconscious in his arms, "s'gonna be alright, Stevie."