Work Text:
He didn't want to go out tonight but his shift started in an hour.
His entire back was cramped with pain, and he couldn't help but blame it on his own mood. Illogical, but he felt as if every god awful feeling inside his head was being brought to life in the very bottom of his spine. He couldn't afford to skip the shift. He also knew that his other job this morning killed his back.
The tiny bottle didn't rattle when he picked it up. He gave up, and closed the medicine cabinet. Steve splashed water over his face again, trying to instill even a bit of energy into himself. He only worked twenty minutes away, but he left early. Extra stops, extra slow walking, conserving energy.
He knew what he was doing, it was fine.
Closing the door to his apartment felt like a bucket of cold relief after coming home. He slumped against the door, because he knew he wasn't going to sleep anytime soon. Stood by the little window, only illuminated by the dull shine of the streetlights outside, was his half finished canvas propped on its easel. It was nights like this that Steve felt as though his 'art side job' was a pipe dream at best.
Especially when he still had the funeral to pay off.
He walked further into his home, pulling at his father's tie around his neck and kicking off his neighbours old shoes. Only, a soft scraping could be heard from inside the kitchen. Maybe he should have been afraid, but he was too goddamn tired for this. Not tonight.
"Bucky."
A head poked from around the corner, floppy brown hair and a stupidly big grin for this late on a Wednesday night. Bucky's smile dropped a little as he took in Steve's look, but he still skipped over.
"What are you doing here?" Steve shoved his coat onto the kitchen chair, and walked to the sink. Bucky trailed behind him.
"Can't a guy meet his friend?"
"You have work tomorrow. I have work tomorrow. What's going on?" Steve grabbed a cup from the sink, but Bucky intercepted him. It took Steve a startled second to realize Bucky was filling the glass for him.
"Bucky."
"You just looked tired, is all," he responded, handing the full glass back to him. Steve didn't take it. He leaned back against the counter, hating himself for wishing Bucky wasn't here.
"We've talked about it. And talked about it. When the fuck are you planning on actually listening to me?"
Steve regretted it the moment he spoke, when Bucky grimaced and set the glass down.
"Well. You could use the hel-"
"I don't need any goddamn help!"
A sickening silence filled the air. Steve turned around, and leaned against the counter.
His back really hurt.
He just wanted it all to stop, and Bucky wasn't helping. Why couldn't he just listen, for once?
"I'm the one who's not listening? It's been two weeks already, and you haven't once actually considered what I'm-"
"Oh, I'm sorry, was I supposed to get over it in two weeks?"
"That's not what I'm saying. You know that's not."
"Do I?"
Steve had to grip the counter to breath through another spike of hurt. He's been sitting all day, he should stretch first, lay down for a bit. He should sleep, but that's not happening any time soon.
"How could you not?" Bucky whispered. Steve's throat clogged, he had to grab the abandoned glass. The water didn't help either.
"You don't think I'm worth it either, do you?"
He could feel Bucky pause, and that's when he realized Bucky had been walking closer. Too close, in fact, nearly touching him. Steve kept facing the counter.
"Steve-"
"How am I supposed to say yes to what you want? Do you really want me to say that I can't take care of myself that badly?" He choked out, and finally spun around when Bucky reached to place a hand on his lower back. He couldn't take that, not now. Not when his very bones hurt.
Bucky stared at him, eyes wide. Steve couldn't meet his eyes, nor could he swallow the lump in his throat.
"Oh, Stevie," the gentlest voice spoke out.
Abruptly, Steve realized he was crying. He pulled back as Bucky reached out to touch, knowing he couldn't handle that either. He just-he needed to be alone, he needed to sleep.
Bucky stepped in closer, so Steve was pressed against the counter. He should push Bucky away, or tell him to back off a bit, he needs space-
"That's not what I want Steve," Bucky speaks into the space between them. They're close. Not that they haven't been closer, not that Bucky hasn't spent the nights in Steve's apartment before but, but now Bucky's close.
Steve ducks his head a bit, still not able to meet Bucky's eyes when his own are wet. Bucky shifts to touch him again, and before Steve can protest, his hand lands softly on the back of his neck. Not his back.
"I want to make coffee for you in the mornings, even though I know you're better at it."
Steve presses his face into Bucky's shoulder, and tries not to break down.
"I want to come back home to you, and get pissed that you never put your coat up, and then model for your paintings."
He reaches his arms up a bit, just enough to hold onto the Bucky shirt. To hold him back, a little.
"I want to sit with you when you think of your mom, I don't want you to sit alone."
"Bucky." Steve mutters into his shoulder. Bucky seems to understand he doesn't have words right then, because he holds Steve's head against him, and wraps his other arm around his shoulders.
"I know you can take care of yourself. I know that, better than anyone. I just wish you didn't have to."
Bucky hand traces lightly down his back, hovering over where Steve could feel the pain eating away at his spine. His breath hitched as the hand rested over the worse of the pain, but it never pressed down any harder. Steve held onto Bucky as he rubbed soft circles into his back. Soothing.
"How could you think I want anything less?" Bucky whispered.
"I didn't think anyone would want more."
Bucky ducks down, holding him tighter. His voice is soft against Steve's hair.
"I love all of you."