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But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us. -- 2 Cor 4:7 KJV
Bucky knows every inch of Steve's body; he's stopped it from bleeding, nursed it back to health, bathed it and loved it in a silent agony of devotion, pressed kisses on it, on the sweet line of Steve's shoulder and the painful curve of his spine. When he left for the war he dreamed of it every time he fell asleep, and woke hungry for it again.
And now it's gone, gone forever, and he's still not sure what he thinks about it. He can't be angry that Steve is tall and beautiful now, that he has a lion's frame to match his lion's heart. But he misses him. He misses the way Steve would slowly, reluctantly melt into him at night, going from stiff and proud with pain, to soft and yielding against him, curled against Bucky's heart like a missing piece.
He's sitting in the half-crumbling room the Army is calling NCO's quarters: he thinks he can see bedbugs crawling in the mattress and he knows he saw a rat poke its nose out before withdrawing again before he could get his pocket knife out. He feels pretty numb. He's glad, in a distant sort of way, that he's no longer in pain, but now that he's not filled with agony and fire or keeping up grimly with Captain America, hiding his lingering pain under a smile, he doesn't feel much of anything at all. Shouldn't he be glad, at least, to be free?
The only thing he really feels is a dull desire to just. Stop.
There's a knock on the door: Steve's complex rat rat ratta tat tat signal. He doesn't know why Steve bothers: the door is more hole than wood and doesn't close all the way anyway. "Buck?" says Steve. If Bucky closes his eyes he can imagine they're back home, and Steve's voice is a surprise coming out of his small frame. "Buck, you in there?"
He opens his eyes. "Yeah, Rogers," he says. "Come in, pull up a bedbug."
Steve pushes the door open and looks around at the tiny, squalid room. His lip curls up like a disgusted cat. "You're not staying here," he says flatly.
"These are my assigned quarters, Captain," says Bucky. He spreads his arms out. "Best the Army has to offer!" There's an actual blanket on the shitty cot and a pad of fabric alleged to be a pillow, so it's already better by a power of infinity than his recent living conditions.
"Hmmm no," says Steve. He reaches out, hooks one enormous paw around Bucky, and drags him out. It's such a reversal of their usual roles that Bucky lets him. And Steve is so warm, almost hot, like a giant blond angel furnace. That thought is almost enough to make Bucky pull away, but he's not strong enough, physically, mentally, or spiritually, to do it.
Steve drags him to Colonel Phillips' quarters, pokes his head in, gives the Colonel a sweet, stubborn smile, and says, "It's not fair for me to have a room to myself, so Sgt Barnes will be rooming with me."
Colonel Phillips' face must mirror Bucky's, but after a minute he just says, "If you get yourself blue-carded out of the Army, Rogers, I'm going to let Agent Carter have words with you," and turns back to his papers.
"St - Captain Rogers!" hisses Bucky, in an agony of embarrassment. At least he's feeling something again, even if that feeling is an overwhelming desire to wrap his hands around Steve's dear neck and squeeze until his head pops off.
"Go away," says Colonel Phillips.
Steve salutes, pokes Bucky until he salutes too, and drags him away.
Steve's quarters are much nicer than the shithole they stuck Bucky in: he has a cot that might not dissolve into a pile of rust in the middle of the night, a mattress with actual springs, and apparently one of the god damn USO show girls Steve has been keeping company with, Jesus fucking Christ, had knitted him an actual red, white and blue blanket. It's soft wool, and Steve throws it carelessly around Bucky's shoulders as if Bucky isn't filled with lice and fleas and probably worse.
Bucky's duffel is sitting next to Steve's steamer trunk, looking a little battered and out of place. Bucky thinks about yelling at Steve, but Steve's mouth is set tight like his mother's and his shoulders are braced aggressively. Bucky knows how to pick his battles, unlike Steve, so he just sighs heavily.
"Grab some clean clothes and I'll show you where the showers are," says Steve. He opens his trunk and pulls out an actual towel and soap.
Bucky follows him, like he's followed him in and out of trouble for almost thirty years. He's too tired to argue, but he feels silently, viciously vindicated when a lieutenant says, "Rogers, this is the officers' area," staring at Bucky like he can see contagion crawling over Bucky's skin.
Steve just stares at him, mouth tight, and raises his eyebrows. "This is Sgt Barnes," he says, as if the lieutenant is perhaps a little stupid.
"He's a non-commissioned officer," says the lieutenant, who is giving Steve the same look he had just given Bucky. You USO fake, he doesn't add.
Bucky's dead tired and he wants to scrub himself raw and eat twice his own weight in anything, even Army slop, but he straightens his back anyway and smiles at the lieutenant. He's never shown this smile to Steve. I know you, you stupid asshole, he thinks. You hid behind the lines and wrote condolence letters to my sisters and mother and you would have never, ever thrown yourself to Zola and his table for the men you sent off to be captured. I know where you sleep and where you shit and you'd better fucking hope Steve Rogers is the worst you ever face, you son of a bitch.
The lieutenant takes a step back even before Steve says, in his reasonable voice, "He's still an officer, and I think after his experiences as a prisoner of war he's entitled to at least a hot shower, don't you?" He squares his shoulders, and what was once just bantam posturing is now a real threat, one that makes the lieutenant decide to pick up his towel and clothes and choke out "We're grateful for your service, sergeant," like it tastes bad.
"Sir," says Bucky.
The water is almost hot in the officers' quarters, and Bucky stays under the water until Steve says, "Hey, Bucky, come on, Bucky, let's go, pal," and pulls him gently from the stall and helps him towel off, carefully not looking at the needle scars on Bucky's arms.
"You're real, right?" says Bucky, half-drunk with sleep. "You're really here, and I'm really here?"
"Yeah, Buck," says Steve, letting Bucky lean against him and listen to the sound of his strong beating heart, "We're really here."
He wakes up in Steve's cot, which smells like wool and a little like the cheap brilliantine Steve favored and nothing like the menthol rub he used to spend hours rubbing into Steve's chest. There's a note beside him on the pillow with a monkey in an Army uniform saluting a bear. "Duty calls!" says the monkey. "I'll come find you when I'm done."
The bear is asleep and snoring in Zs that take up most of the page. Bucky folds it up carefully and tucks it in with the rest of Steve's letters in his duffel.
His clothes smell a little -- a lot -- like mildew, but they're clean and they haven't been through hell with him, so he gets dressed and then sits down on the cot again. He isn't due to be debriefed until tomorrow. When he was in with the other guys, talking about what they would do when they escaped or were rescued, he talked real big about drinking himself into a coma, flirting with every girl he could see, eating steak and potatoes until he threw up. He just wants to sit now. He picks at the afghan on the bed. There's a couple little threads where Steve's USO ladyfriend didn't quite weave in the ends. He's fascinated by them. He doesn't want to unpick the afghan but it seems very important that he look at every little detail of it.
He's so tired. He's so very tired.
He must doze off sitting up, because the next thing he knows there's a big hand cupping his face with gentle care and Steve's voice crooning, "Bucky, Bucky, hey, Buck."
He blinks once, twice, and Steve's face resolves itself in front of him. Even his face is different.
"Stevie, what did you do to yourself?" he says.
"It's a long story," says Steve.
Bucky doesn't care.
He reaches out and touches Steve's face, the strong jaw and the stubble just coming in through, and Steve leans against his hand like he always does. "Tell me about it," he says. "So I know who I'm going to yell at."
Steve laughs, a puff of air against Bucky's hand. He never really laughs, not out loud; if he starts, he laughs so hard that he starts coughing and then nothing's funny at all. Maybe he can, now. Bucky could be glad of that, at least. "All right. What do you want to know?"
Bucky slides his hand in to Steve's golden hair and closes his eyes. That's the same, at least, thank God, still soft and silky under his fingertips. He lets his hand slide down to tangle his fingers with Steve's. "Start at the beginning," he says, dropping his head to Steve's newly broad chest. He still smells like he let Bucky put his aftershave on him, like wool and the damp English air, and not of sickness for once, thank God, thank God.
Steve curls his free hand around the line of Bucky's skull and begins to tell him the story. Bucky listens to the rumble of his voice and the clear sound of his lungs and heart, and drifts again.
He wakes up a little when Steve shifts enough to lift him onto the cot again. "No, 'm listenin', Stevie," he says.
"Go back to sleep, Buck," says Steve, and presses a kiss against Bucky's forehead. Bucky's always been greedy for Steve's affection. He turns his head toward Steve's, and Steve kisses him softly on the mouth, lips just barely parted. Bucky sighs and Steve kisses him on his eyelids, his cheeks, even his nose. "I'll find you later, Barnes," he promises.
"You better," sighs Bucky, and sinks deeper into sleep.
Agent Carter, as it turns out, is a real class act, the sort of dame Bucky had hardly dared dream existed, let alone for Steve, and Steve looks at her like she lit the sun on fire. Bucky wants to hate her.
He can't.
He stays out late, thinks about trying to cozy up to a girl or one of the guys who always hang around places like this, but he's too tired to care enough. When he gets back to their quarters, Steve is just beginning to take off his jacket. "Hey, Bucky," he says.
Bucky looks at him, really looks at him, and says, "I wanna."
Steve doesn't ask what. He lets his hands drop to his sides and stands waiting, while Bucky moves to him and carefully unbuttons his jacket and slides it off Steve's broad shoulders. He hangs it neatly and then starts on Steve's tie, the starched shirt with the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons beneath. Steve's wearing a cotton undershirt underneath, even though the warmth of his body is radiating out to Bucky's cold hands. His dogtags are hanging against his throat, and Bucky touches one carefully before he pulls the shirt up and off Steve's body.
Steve's chest is broad and sturdy now, sculptured muscle. Bucky reaches out and trails one finger on the side of his abdomen, waiting for the flinch. Steve twists slightly, trying to get away. "I guess being ticklish isn't a flaw, huh," says Bucky.
"Shut it, you jerk," says Steve, dipping his head and looking at Bucky from under his long lashes.
Bucky snorts and unbuckles Steve's belt, pulling it from his trousers and coiling it neatly on the chair. He kneels down and Steve lifts his foot to let Bucky take off one shoe, then the other, and then Bucky unfastens Steve's pants and pulls them and his wool socks off. He reaches over and puts the pants on the chair and the socks in Steve's shoes, and then he sits back on his heels and looks up at Steve. He's wearing thin muslin skivvies and he glows with a healthy golden light like the pictures of St Michael at the church back home.
"Well?" says Steve, his mouth crooking up in a nervous, self-depreciating smile. "What do you think?"
"I'll get used to it, I guess," says Bucky, and reaches up so Steve can help him stand.