Chapter Text
Bucky Barnes couldn’t breathe.
It wasn’t something he was used to. He could outrun all the boys in his class by almost a full second, and was always the last to call it quits after a long day in the sun, dripping sweat and begging for just one more inning, aw c’mon, it ain’t even dark yet. Bucky took the deep, easy breaths of the healthy, inhaling and exhaling without a thought. But he knew what it was like, not being able to breathe, because Steve had told him about it a bunch of times—how it felt like someone sitting on your chest until you got dizzy and couldn’t stop coughing and had to gulp for air like a fish on land, and Bucky had laughed at that, and they had run around Sarah Rogers’ tiny apartment puckering their lips and flopping around on the floor and flapping their arms like useless fins before collapsing into a giggling heap.
This was kind of the same, Bucky thought, except kind of different. He was dizzy and gasping, sure, but his mouth also tasted tangy, like that time Charlie Dorato punched him so hard in the face he lost a tooth. Steve never mentioned anything like that. Bucky's legs felt heavy, like sandbags, but he kept running.
He was crying, too, his throat raw and his nose leaking and his face sticky. It wasn’t actually funny, when Steve gasped like a fish for real, and sometimes Steve cried because he couldn’t breathe. That wasn’t why Bucky was crying, though it didn’t help. He’d have to remember to tell Steve that, if he got there in time. If you cry, it only makes it worse, Bucky would tell him. So don’t cry, Stevie. Breathe.
Steve was sick a lot. Bucky would get the flu, spend a day in bed puking, and bounce right back. But Steve would always miss a few days of school, no matter what kind of sick he had. That was alright with Bucky, because then he’d get to swing by the Rogers’ with a tin of soup from his Ma and Steve’s homework, most of which he did for Steve, sitting cross-legged on the bed, while Steve made up stories that had Bucky’s sides aching with laughter. Steve was the funniest guy Bucky knew.
But this time was different. Steve had missed a whole week, and when Bucky tried to bring soup over, Sarah Rogers hadn’t even let him through the door. Bucky had stood on his tip-toes, craned his neck to see if Steve was bundled up on the couch, so he could stick his tongue out and cross his eyes and make Steve laugh. “You’ll just wake him up,” Sarah said, giving Bucky’s shoulder a light shove. “Or worse, I’ll send you back to your ma having caught what he’s got.” And Bucky hadn’t worried, not really, because Steve was sleeping, and sleep was good for getting better. Bucky was tired of playing center field and right field during baseball after school, even though when Steve played right, Bucky still caught most of the balls for him anyway. That didn’t matter. It was just boring without him.
So that day—Monday, a brand new week—Bucky had brought his new comic book for Steve to read, since he figured Steve would still be too tired to play. But Steve wasn’t there. And Bucky still didn't worry, he didn't, he was just disappointed, because he and Steve hadn’t been apart this long, not since the day Bucky, at the top of his lungs, had declared them best friends during their third trip around the Wonder Wheel, while Steve smacked him with the teddy bear they'd won together on the boardwalk. He just missed Steve. That wasn’t the same as worrying.
He was tired of playing ball without Steve, though, so he sat down on the curb to read his comic, even though he’d already read it twice, when Joey Farrell came over with Dick Olsen and asked, “What’s the matter with Rogers?”
Bucky shrugged. He didn’t like Joey or Dick. They always gave Steve a hard time because he couldn’t run very fast to first base. “Dunno. He’s just sick, is all.”
“My ma says it ain’t right, how much he’s sick,” Dick said. “Says there’s something wrong with him.”
“You and your ma can shut up,” Bucky said, hands clenching around the comic. “Ain’t nothing wrong with him.”
“Well my ma says because he’s so sick this time, he’s probably not gonna last much longer. Says once it gets cold again, he’s probably done for,” Joey said, and Bucky was on his feet, shoving Joey so hard he skidded down to the street, nearly toppling ass over head.
“I told you to shut up,” Bucky growled.
Dick scowled at him, and Joey cradled his bloody elbow, seethed, “He’s probably dying right now,” though he couldn’t keep his lower lip from wobbling.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Bucky lunged for Joey, but Dick shoved him back, spat, “Maybe he’s already dead,” and Bucky lost it.
He'd gotten a few good punches in before Joey and Dick scattered, black-eyed and covered in dirt; took a couple, too—he could feel his lip stinging, his cheek swelling. His knuckles were scraped raw. But it hadn’t mattered because he suddenly remembered something his Ma had said to his Dad a few nights before, while he’d been sprawled out on the floor doing a puzzle with Becca, when they thought he wasn’t listening—“Gonna be a rough go for that Rogers boy.”
He’s probably dying right now.
And Bucky started running.
He ran and ran, and somewhere along the way he’d started crying and couldn’t stop, and couldn’t breathe, because what if they knew something he didn’t, what if they were right, what if Steve actually was dying, he’d been gone for so long and Bucky hadn’t even been allowed to see him, and Bucky was smart, he knew when adults were trying to hide things from him, how they talked in low voices and stared at him for a little too long and smiled so tight their eyes squinted.
What if Steve was dying? What if Steve was dead?
By the time Bucky got to the Rogers’ apartment, he was shuddering with sobs. He pounded on the door until he had to bend over and put his hands on his knees, chest and shoulders heaving.
“James Barnes,” Sarah Rogers breathed as she answered the door, startled, “what in heaven’s name—”
“Steve,” was all Bucky could wail, wiping his eyes frantically with the backs of his hands.
Sarah’s eyes softened. “Bucky, honey,” she said, cupping the back of his head with a gentle hand. “Come inside, c’mon.”
Steve wasn’t on the couch in the living room, and Bucky cried even harder, because Steve hated being in bed during the day, only stayed there when he was really sick, when he got cold and shook so hard his teeth chattered.
“Sweetheart, calm down,” Sarah said, kneeling in front of Bucky and taking his shoulders, rubbing his arms. “Calm down, shh. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Bucky sniffled, his breath hitching. He knew he was too old to be crying like a baby, to be scared like one, too, but the empty couch and all those words jumbled up in his head—sick, wrong, done, dying, dead—made his stomach feel icy, like he’d swallowed a bunch of cold water too fast. “Steve,” he babbled, “is he…where is…I want to…can I…I need to…is he…is he?”
“Slow down,” Sarah said, brushing Bucky’s hair off his sweaty forehead and frowning. “Steve’s in the bedroom. He’s sleeping.”
“He’s not…” Bucky’s gaze darted around the room, restless fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt. “He’s okay?”
“Oh, Bucky,” Sarah said, pressing a rough kiss to his forehead and pulling him to her. Bucky threw his arms around her neck, buried his face in her shoulder as she rubbed his back. “Steve’s fine. He’s just fine. Feeling better today, but still tired. Too tired to go to school, but that’s all, hmm? That’s all.”
Bucky nodded. He felt a little stupid for getting so worked up, but most of him shivered with relief. He let Sarah hold him and squeezed his eyes shut and tried to forget all the stuff he’d been thinking—what it would feel like if there was no one in right field to tell him Nice catch, Buck; if there was no one to lend him pencils when he’d chewed all his up; if there was no one sitting beside him at the top of the Wonder Wheel, helping him rock the cart back and forth and pretending not to see how tight Bucky gripped the rail because he was just a little afraid of heights. Bucky thought it might feel like never wanting to laugh again, because without Steve, things just weren’t as funny.
Bucky squirmed, impatient to see Steve, and Sarah pulled back to wipe her thumbs across his cheeks. “Did someone tell you Steve wasn’t alright?” she asked, and Bucky nodded, but was already looking past her, over her shoulder. “Bucky,” she said, turning his chin towards her. “Who said that?”
“Joey Farrell and his ma,” Bucky said, his eyes flickering back and forth from her face to the bedroom door. “And Dick Olsen and his ma.” He decided not to say anything about his own Ma.
Sarah huffed. Her shoulders slumped, and she looked tired, suddenly. “I suppose you want to see him, then?” Bucky nodded, overenthusiastic, and Sarah laughed. “Alright, but you can’t go in there all excited and work him up, you hear me? He’s still trying to get better.”
“I swear I’ll be quiet,” Bucky said, “I swear,” and Sarah nodded.
“Let’s get you cleaned up first,” she said, got a rag and some cold water and wiped Bucky’s face and hands, dabbed at his lip and shook her head but didn’t say anything about it. By the time she was done, Bucky was bouncing on his toes. “Alright, go on in,” she said, and Bucky had to stop himself from running.
He opened the bedroom door and walked softly to the bed, where Steve was curled up on his side, wrapped in blankets, snoring. He was a little pale, but not much more than usual, and his hair was sticking up all over the pillow. One of Steve’s hands was dangling over the edge of the bed, out of the covers, and Bucky stared at it, his fingers curling, itching to touch.
“You won’t break him, sweetheart,” Sarah said from behind him, not quite whispering, and Bucky reached out, took Steve’s hand in both of his and squeezed. He felt the creases of Steve’s palm and the ridges of his knuckles under his thumbs, closed his eyes and imagined he could trace Steve’s fingerprints onto his own hands. He could already feel his breath easing in his chest, and he wished, childishly but fervently, that he could ease Steve’s breath, too, just by holding his hand.
When Bucky opened his eyes, Steve was blinking back at him. He yawned, wriggled under the covers, but didn’t pull his hand away. “Hey,” he said, smiling. “You trying to tell my fortune?”
Bucky smiled back so hard his face hurt. “Hmm,” he said, his forehead knitting in fake concentration as he brought Steve’s hand up to eye level. He squinted at Steve’s palm, traced his finger over the line at the top, the longest wrinkle. He had no idea what any of them meant, but he said, anyway, “Think this is the life line. Look how far it goes. All the way around to the back of your hand. You’re gonna live forever, Stevie,” he whispered with mock reverence, and Steve laughed, and Bucky felt like someone had untied a knot inside him. He laced his fingers through Steve’s and let their hands drop down beside the bed. He wasn’t ready to let go just yet.
“I miss much at school?” Steve asked, and Bucky shrugged, swinging their hands back and forth. Steve's eyes narrowed. “What's wrong with your face?”
“What’s wrong with your face?” Bucky scoffed, looking down at his shoes.
“Is your lip swollen? And why are your eyes so red?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Did you get in a fight? Did someone hit you?” Steve tried to lift himself up against the pillow, but a cough bubbled its way out of his chest and he reached over for a handkerchief, hacking into it.
“Ew,” Bucky said, wrinkling his nose.
“Yeah,” Steve said, inspecting the blob of rubbery mucus he’d spit out. “At least it’s not green this time.”
“Gross!” Bucky nearly squealed, and they grinned at each other.
“Alright, I think that’s quite enough for one day,” Sarah said, putting a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “You’ll already be home late, not to mention filthy and with a shiner and probably whatever’s left of Steve’s chest infection, and you’re gonna hear all about it from your ma.” Bucky winced. It was his Dad, really, who didn’t like him hanging out with Steve too much, said he was a bad influence, that Bucky’s grades were down, that he was getting into more trouble, but it was only because he was helping Steve—with his homework, because he missed so much; with the fights he always seemed to find, or that always seemed to find him—and his Ma always said it was good to help people. Still, if his Dad found out he’d been fighting, especially because of Steve, he knew he wouldn’t be allowed to play ball, not for a few weeks at least.
Bucky sighed. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess,” he said.
“Maybe,” Sarah said, before Steve could answer. “If he isn’t coughing as bad. Which means he needs to rest. Which means you need to scoot.”
“Okay,” Bucky said, squeezing Steve’s hand again—once, twice, three times, and Steve did the same—before letting go, the heat of Steve’s fingers lingering. “Come back as quick as you can, okay?” His voice caught a little at the end, but that was alright, because it was just Steve, and Steve understood.
“Okay,” Steve said, and tucked his hand back under the covers, where he could keep it warm while Bucky was away.
“You go straight home,” Sarah said as she nudged Bucky out the door. “Don’t go looking to stir up trouble with Joey Farrell or Dick Olsen. I’ll talk to their mothers and set them straight, so you leave them alone, understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky said.
Sarah placed her hands over Bucky’s ears, shook him a little, and kissed the top of his head. “Don’t listen to what anybody else says, Bucky Barnes. You don’t need to be scared for Steve. If he's got you, he'll be just fine.”
Bucky nodded, solemn, feeling the echoes of Steve’s hand in his. He would not let anything happen to Steve, not as long as he could reach out, hold something of Steve to him. Bucky would always be reaching for him, and maybe someday, he'd find a way to soothe Steve's aches with the brush of their fingers, the same way it soothed Bucky’s worried heart.