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Bucky scowled and kicked at some of the slush around him, which made his feet slip a little so he had to grab the side of a building to keep from falling on his ass. Winter was his least favorite season. Winter was extra bills and lean working hours. Winter was hands chapped from cold and wind. And, most importantly, winter was his greatest opponent in his fight to keep Steve alive.
He trudged up the stairs, straining his ears to see how far away he could hear Steve's struggling breaths today. On really bad days, he could hear it before he hit the first landing, but today he didn't hear a wheeze until he was almost to their door. That was a good sign, at least.
Steve was sitting up in bed, better than the prone position he'd been in when Bucky had left that morning, and had his sketchbook open across his bent knees. The mulish look he adopted the second Bucky walked in told Bucky he was working again, but there was color in his cheeks so Bucky only rolled his eyes and let the argument lie for now.
They ate dinner and Bucky tried his hardest to push the bigger lumps of meat onto Steve's plate while Steve did the same right back, and Bucky used his larger frame to block Steve out of the kitchen so he had no choice but to abandon his ideas about helping wash up and get back in bed.
Bucky filled the ancient hot water bottle Steve had inherited from his ma, who had inherited it from her ma, and they went through their nightly argument about where to put it. Steve never bought Bucky's argument that the optimal spot for warmth was under Steve's hips, the place in his lower back the cold seeped into the most and left him aching and hobbling when he woke up. Steve wanted to put it between them, to make sure they bought got its warmth, but he also always fell asleep first so Bucky always won.
Once Steve was out and Bucky won the hot water bottle fight, he curled his body up so he could press his face against Steve's neck without crushing him. “Someday, Stevie,” he murmured close to Steve's skin, “we'll get out of here. Go to California, maybe, or Arizona. Get somewhere warm. Get out of this damned winter.”
It was a promise he'd been making since Steve's first run-in with scarlet fever, the winter Steve was eight and Bucky was nine. He tried to never dwell on how impossible a promise it was.
Steve could hear Bucky's teeth chattering, but he wasn't reaching for Steve and Steve wasn't sure he'd appreciate being coddled. The Bucky he'd always known was a snuggler, what Bucky's ma had laughingly called a cuddle bug—he'd latch on tight when he slept, latch on tight when he was cold, latch on tight when he was sad, latch on tight when he was excited.
But this Bucky, this wartime Bucky, had laid out his bedroll a full foot from Steve's even though they had a tent to themselves. Steve knew Bucky was different since his time on the table in the HYDRA base; he had new scars Steve had never seen before, had ghosts behind his eyes Steve couldn't quite chase away, and now, apparently, liked to sleep all the way across the tent and keep his hands to himself, prim as a pilgrim.
There was snow on the ground beside their tent, and the inside was freezing. Steve had his hands down his pants for strictly functional purposes, and it was depressing as hell to have a space alone with Bucky and only be worried about his nether regions in terms of frostbite.
But still. Bucky's teeth were chattering. It was something of a novelty, really. Obviously Bucky had felt the cold their whole lives, but he'd always put on such a show of being fine so Steve would accept another blanket or the first bath with hot water. He'd gained almost a mythical image in Steve's mind, Bucky the Warm. Steve pulled his hands out of his pants so he could roll over onto his side.
“Buck?” He whispered, and he heard Bucky's breath stutter a little. The chattering stopped, but Steve could faintly see the outline of the muscle in Bucky's jaw. He was clenching his teeth to stop the chattering. “You cold?” Steve pressed.
“'m fine,” Bucky ground out. His voice shook a little and that was all Steve needed to make up his mind. If Bucky wanted to push him off, fine, but he wasn't going to sit idly by while his best friend slowly froze to death. He rolled over again, gracelessly, still a little surprised by how much more of himself there was to move and how easy it was to do. He ended up sprawled half on top of Bucky, who was still lying on his back and going cross-eyed in an effort to give Steve an unimpressed look.
“What are you doing?” His voice came out muffled where Steve's shoulder was covering the bottom of his face.
“I'm cold.” Steve shrugged. It wasn't a lie, but he would've made it through the night on his own. He had no idea why he'd want to, though. Bucky bit at his lower lip, anxious and worried in a way Steve had never seen him.
“Steve,” he said softly. Steve shifted down a bit so he could bury his face in Bucky's neck and stick his cold nose under the collar of Bucky's jacket. Bucky didn't even react. “I could hurt you.”
Steve didn't pretend to be confused. Bucky's nightmares lately had included an awful lot of kicking and thrashing. He'd landed a punch three nights ago that left Steve with a shiner for an entire day, and he'd been steadily backing off ever since. Steve was having none of it.
“Can't hurt me too bad,” he insisted. Bucky's annoyed breath ghosted over Steve's ear. “Save it, Buck. I ain't moving.” Bucky's breath started going ragged.
“I just—you gotta gimme my leg back.” There was an edge of panic in Bucky's voice and Steve wanted to throw up as the restraints around Bucky's arms and legs flashed through his mind. He moved his bulk off Bucky's legs as quick as he could, murmuring apologies the whole time. Bucky took a few deep breaths.
“Arm good?” Steve asked guiltily.
“I can still move it.” Bucky wiggled his hand around on Steve's back to prove it and sighed, relaxing a little against Steve, pulling the blankets higher and covering the half of Steve close enough. They were getting quiet, settling in, Bucky's breaths getting deeper and slower, when Bucky mumbled,
“I hate the fucking winter.”
Steve rubbed their noses together a little, his warm enough now he could actually feel it again, and pulled Bucky tighter to him. “I know,” he whispered. “Someday we're going to go somewhere warm.”
That got a smile out of Bucky, though it was small and a little sad. “California or Arizona.”
“Away from this damned winter,” Steve finished the familiar litany.
“Sure we will, Stevie,” Bucky said. Steve tried to ignore the defeat in Bucky's voice.
For a long time, winter was all either of them knew.
The first winter after Steve defrosted, as Stark so flippantly liked to say, was truly awful. Not only was he extra sensitive to cold now, but it was also his first winter without Bucky. Steve told the doctor about how cold he got, how he could sit in his apartment with the thermostat at eighty and his fingers would still go numb, and the doctor told him it was psychosomatic.
“There's no physical reason you'd be more sensitive to cold,” the doctor told him. “The suspended animation left no lasting physical problems.”
So Steve wore three pairs of gloves, wore a hat, wore a scarf, put layers upon layers of wool between him and the wind. None of it mattered. He ended up shivering in his bed no matter how many blankets he piled on, no matter how many heaters he cranked up.
One January night, with the wind somehow managing to get through the cracks in his apartment and slice into his body, Steve let himself break a little. He was miserably cold and miserable in general. He rested his head against a pillow and pretended it was Bucky's shoulder and let himself cry a little. There was no one to see or hear; no one would know.
“Need to get somewhere warm,” he murmured into the pillow, voice choked and harsh. “California. Arizona, maybe. Out of this damned winter.” He fell asleep clutching the edge of the pillow the way he used to clutch the hem of Bucky's shirts.
Bucky liked living with Steve again. He liked that they fell into a routine of cooking and cleaning, a division of labor that they didn't even have to talk about because Steve still hated cooking and Bucky still hated cleaning toilets. He liked waking up and hearing Steve puttering around in his room or in the kitchen, liked walking out and finding coffee waiting for him.
He knew they didn't share a room because Steve wasn't sure if Bucky remembered what they'd been, or maybe thought Bucky didn't want him anymore, and Bucky was actually glad; he didn't know what would happen if he woke up in the midst of a nightmare and didn't know when or where he was and found Steve lying beside him.
But then it got cold. And then it snowed. And suddenly Bucky's mind was a confusing jumble of terror because of the cold seeping into his limbs and terror because of the cold seeping into Steve's limbs. He kept waking up in the middle of the night thinking he needed to refill the hot water bottle. He kept reaching for a bony hip to tug Steve's body closer to him. His chattering teeth made him turn his head, expecting Steve's neck to be there to press his face into.
Bucky could withstand quite a bit, truth be told. But he woke up one night with his hands shaking and he heard a noise from Steve's room and that was his limit. He pulled the blanket behind him and let himself into Steve's room. Steve's eyes were open, facing the door, and they widened when Bucky came in.
Bucky didn't even say anything, just climbed onto the bed and slipped under the covers, unfolding his quilt on top of them, and Steve slipped across the empty space like he was on autopilot.
“It's cold,” Bucky murmured.
“I can turn up the heat,” Steve said, making no move to get up. Bucky slung an arm around his waist and pulled him in closer.
“Nah.” He nosed at Steve's neck. “Just stay.”
They melted into one another, freezing fingers and toes thawing against each other's skin, and Bucky gave one last shiver before he felt warmer.
“Someday,” he started, and Steve's breath hitched a little. “We'll go somewhere warm.” He waited, but Steve just watched him, presumably unsure if Bucky realized what he was saying. “California. Arizona maybe.” He pressed a kiss to the side of Steve's neck. “Out of the damned winter.”
Steve rolled over so fast he almost took them out of the bed and Bucky grunted in surprise, but then Steve was pressing their lips together and it was so warm. It wasn't that Bucky was thinking of going back on his promise or anything, because he fully intended to get Steve somewhere warm one of these winters, but at that moment all he could think was nowhere could possibly be as warm as Steve's lips pressed tight to his.