Chapter Text
New York, 1943
Bucky had meant it when he offered to have Steve move in with him. Steve wasn’t going to be alone, not after his mother’s death, not on Bucky Barnes’ watch. And they were getting along alright, a natural progression of their friendship. Coming home to see Steve frowning at a canvas was a balm after hours of labor. Even if Steve couldn’t boil a potato for shit, he made the small tenement feel like home.
Steve worked hard, but his flare ups lost hours and medications cost money which was already precarious with the freelance work he did. Bucky knew his hours would be reduced at the factory. A whole slew of English immigrants had come in last week, and the boss was consistently favoring them being English himself. Bucky sighed. Maybe he shouldn’t have let slip that he was Jewish, but being with Steve had made him complacent: the easy way that Steve didn’t mind the Torah left out and happily made latke as he did a loaf-casserole. A passing comment and an “ethnic” lunch and suddenly Bucky saw his hours decreasing and overheard the muttered comments. Buck was used to it, but when he came home Steve would offer to massage the tension from his shoulders. Sitting on the floor in front of their tiny couch, Bucky could settle between Steve’s knobby knees and just drift for a moment, not worry for a moment of warm hands on his neck.
Sitting at the couch, Steve had his pencil caught between his teeth as they went over the finances. It didn’t look good but between the two of them, they’d figure it out.
They always did.
“Think you can do a couple more scribbles this month?” Bucky asked, ruffling Steve’s hair.
“They’re not scribbles. And while I could do some more drawings,” a drawl on the a, “I don’t know if the pap will buy more. I could try doing advertisements again,” Steve made a little frown. His bird wing shoulders tried to join Steve’s ears, all hunched up.
“The Inquirer won’t know what they’re missing. I’ll get some more hours,” Bucky said.
Even if he had no idea how.