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"Here, kitties..."
Steve's voice is high and sweet when he walks into the alley next to the apartment building. It's a crisp autumn morning, and clusters of dead leaves swirl in the breeze that disturbs the lapels of Steve's jacket.
In his small hands he holds an old pie tin full of food scraps that he and Bucky would have otherwise thrown away.
At the sound of Steve's voice, a group of cats appear from different places in the alley. Furry heads poke out from overturned garbage cans. A few come through a hole in the bottom of a wooden fence. One jumps down from a windowsill. There's about ten of them and they're all hungry.
Steve crouches down as the cats surround him. He sets the pie tin on the ground and hand feeds the ones that can't get their heads in the dish. They meow and purr, happy to see him. An orange tabby winds around his legs. A black and white one rubs its head on his sharp knee.
They're surprisingly friendly for alley cats, even coming for pets when Steve has nothing for them.
"You're gonna get fleas," Bucky calls.
He's standing at the end of the alleyway, dressed for work and holding his lunch pail.
"Shut yer trap," Steve says over his shoulder, not as loud as he would like. A sudden noise will scare all the cats away.
Bucky walks over to him, kicking a rusted can out of his way.
"Steve Rogers, the patron saint of alley cats," he says.
"Least 'm not the patron saint of hair pomade," Steve says as he scratches a gray tabby behind the ears.
"If I didn't have work I'd tan yer hide for that one."
Steve snorts and continues petting the cats. He likes them. Their jewel-toned eyes and little motors inside.
A cat winds around Bucky's legs but he doesn't stoop to pet it. "Yeah, I see ya, fella. Gettin' hair on me," he says.
"Oh geez, no one at the docks is gonna care," Steve says.
"Ya know, if you keep feedin' 'em, they're just gonna multiply. You have ten now and there'll be 20 in the spring."
Steve rolls his eyes. They've had this conversation a dozen times. And the cats never proliferate.
"They're not fed well enough to do that," he says.
"And you're not fed well enough to be out here in the cold like this," Bucky says. "Get back inside before you catch your death."
Steve waves Bucky off. He was up before dawn to deliver newspapers, out in the elements while Bucky slept for a few more hours. Taking some time to pet the cats won't do him any harm.
Bucky leaves to catch the bus and Steve spends the rest of the morning doing things around the apartment. His first class at the art school doesn't start until after lunchtime.
He can only afford to take a few classes at a time, mainly because the supplies are so expensive. The watercolor set he purchased for this semester is the most luxurious thing he's ever bought for himself.
It's hard for him to get lost in making gradient washes on thick Bristol paper that afternoon. He's painting goddamn sunsets while Bucky is slaving away at a horrible manual labor job. But Bucky's never been anything but supportive of Steve's art. Steve wouldn't even have applied to the school if it weren't for his friend's encouragement.
It just seems like a silly thing to be doing given their financial situation. But they still make rent on time (usually) and there's food on the table (sometimes). They always manage to make things work. Somehow.
There's a cat on the fire escape when Steve gets home from class. It's basking in the warmth of the late afternoon sunlight, little eyes closed in happy slants.
Steve wants to open the window and pet it, but he needs to start dinner instead. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes again. The meatloaf is more crackers than hamburger, but it's good. Steve prides himself in his frugality, honed by living his whole life in poverty.
After kneading the crushed crackers and raw meat together, Steve can't help himself. He opens the window and lets the cat lick his fingers. It purrs as it tickles him with its sandpapery tongue.
Steve is still petting the cat when Bucky comes home, filthy and exhausted. He leans back against the door after he closes it behind him.
“You and those damn cats,” Bucky says.
“Rough day?” Steve asks over his shoulder.
“I had a rat crawl up the inside of my pant leg, so I’d say it was,” Bucky says.
Steve reaches up to close the window and it won’t go down. He fights with it until Bucky comes over and closes it for him.
“Didn’t get bit, did ya?” Steve asks, not looking at Bucky.
The space between them has closed considerably; they’re almost touching.
"No, all the boys got a laugh, though," Bucky says, turning to face Steve.
"So you screamed?" Steve asks.
Bucky narrows his gray eyes. “Imagine you have a rat headed straight for your nutsack. What would you do?”
“You screamed,” Steve says with a knowing smirk.
Despite living in New York City his whole life—where seeing rodents is a normal occurrence—Bucky is terrified of mice and rats. Steve once saw him leap onto a chair when a little mouse scurried across the kitchen floor.
“I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation, Rogers,” Bucky says.
“You know I’m just teasin’,” Steve says.
He hooks his fingers in the belt loops of Bucky’s pants and pulls him in until they’re touching. Steve is trying to be smooth, but that’s usually Bucky’s game. His whole face is burning when Bucky leans down and kisses him. It’s quick, but it makes Steve feel hot all over.
It’s difficult to pinpoint when all of this started. It’s like they’ve always been stupidly in love. They can only show it within their crackerbox apartment. The four ratty walls within a building where they can often hear the Lithuanian neighbors yelling and breaking dishes upstairs. It is here they are safe to get busy and screw around. They just have to be quiet. But that doesn’t stop them from becoming a sweaty tangle of skinny limbs and twisted sheets as often as possible.
“If you were a dame, I woulda married you a long time ago,” Bucky says, chucking Steve under his sharp chin.
Steve rolls his eyes as Bucky steps away. Like he’s never heard that one before.
Bucky goes to wash up while Steve makes mashed potatoes from scratch. It’s dark out when they finally sit down to eat and Bucky is fading fast. Steve keeps up the conversation because if there’s a lull, Bucky will fall asleep in his meatloaf. It’s happened before.
Tonight, Steve breaks form and leaves the dishes in the sink for tomorrow. Bucky turns on the radio and flops on the couch. Steve gets his drawing supplies while the tubes warm up. He has to prod Bucky to move over so he can sit on the couch too. Bucky snoozes while Steve draws for one of his art classes. It’s quiet, except for the scritching of Steve’s pencil and the tinny warbling of a singer on the radio.
Steve is getting sleepy too, but he wants to hear the news and weather before turning in. Drawing suddenly feels like it commands too much concentration and effort. Steve lays down on Bucky, who barely registers his featherweight friend stretching out on his chest. Steve doesn’t realize he’s falling asleep, so he’s confused when he feels himself being lifted.
He makes a noise of complaint in the back of his throat. Bucky is carrying him like a child.
“Not a kid,” he says roughly.
But the walk to their bedroom is short enough that Steve doesn’t have time to resist any further. Bucky practically breaks his back unloading ships all day and he will still carry Steve to bed. Not like he weighs very much.
“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky chides in his own tired voice.
They fumble into pajamas and pass out in their separate beds. Steve curls up because he’s perpetually cold and Bucky sprawls out on his stomach because it’s the only way he can properly fall asleep. Steve sleeps like the dead and snores louder than anyone Bucky has ever heard. He sometimes has to get out of bed and turn Steve’s tiny body over so he’ll stop.
Steve wakes up shivering. He has a headache and there’s a sharp pain in his throat every time he swallows. It’s a rush to turn off the alarm clock and reset it before Bucky wakes up. Steve sniffles as he gets bundled up for his paper route. It seems like he just got over his last cold. Being sick puts Steve in a foul mood and he lobs rolled up papers at people’s front doors in the dark. That is, until he’s out of breath.
It’s cold and the air feels heavy and wet, like it’s about to snow. The sun isn’t even up by the time Steve returns. He wants to go feed the cats, but feels too sick. He doesn’t really have anything to give them anyway.
When Bucky wakes up, Steve is back in bed, curled up and willing his splitting headache to go away. Bucky brings his clothes over and sits on the edge of Steve’s bed to get dressed.
“You all right?” he asks.
“Sick,” Steve says hoarsely. “Again.”
Bucky reaches over and puts his hand on Steve’s forehead. Definitely running a fever.
“Did you go out in the cold?” he asks.
“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” Steve says, eyes closed.
Bucky sighs. “Well, you’re burnin’ up,” he says. “I want you to stay in bed. No cats, no class, no nothin’ today. I don’t want you out in this weather.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Steve says. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
“I mean it. Just rest.”
Before Bucky leaves for work, he brings Steve a glass of water and some graham crackers. What Steve really wants is the inky cough syrup that knocks his ass out with one tablespoon. But he’s not coughing. Not yet, at least.
Bucky pulls the blankets off his own bed and covers Steve with them, tucking them around him until he’s satisfied that Steve won’t freeze to death in their drafty apartment. Steve is already half-asleep when Bucky leans down and kisses the top of his head to say goodbye.
It’s almost noon when Steve wakes up again. He feels so lazy knowing that he’s slept almost half the day away. But his body hurts too much to get up. He rolls over to look out the window, squinting at the bright whiteness he’s confronted with. It’s snowing heavily and has been for a long time by the looks of it. The streets are completely covered. Steve watches as a car with whitewall tires tries to come to a stop and slides sideways slowly.
Steve lays there and listens to the wind howl around the corners of buildings. It has to be freezing out. Poor Bucky. Poor kitties.
Steve begins to worry. He can't do anything about Bucky, who is surely bundled up and moving around enough to keep himself warm. But the cats… A sudden fall snowstorm before they’ve filled out their winter coats might kill them. Steve’s heart breaks to think about them all freezing to death in the alley, huddled together and stiff.
It’s Steve’s vivid imagination that drives him out of bed. Surely the cats can stay in the apartment until the storm blows over. Steve’s body aches as he gets dressed. Wool slacks over long underwear, one of Bucky’s sweaters under his own heavy coat.
The howling wind hits him like a sharp slap and ducking into the alley does little to shield him from it. It’s snowing so hard that it’s difficult to even see across the street and drifts are already forming. The cats are nowhere in sight. But Steve persists, even though he’s certain there’s snot freezing on his face at this point.
Five of the cats are crammed together in a small wooden crate by a group of trashcans, and he finds the others hiding in the alley’s many crannies. They’re all shivering lumps of fur, heads and limbs hidden from the elements. Steve knows he’s doing the right thing as he takes them into the apartment two at a time. He has to keep them hidden in his coat as he enters the building. There are no pets allowed and, in a building mostly inhabited by nosy old people, there are snitches everywhere.
After five trips up and down two flights of stairs, Steve is wheezing and exhausted. But he still grins like an idiot as he watches the cats explore the apartment, cautiously looking around and sniffing. He feeds them the little bit of leftover meatloaf and hopes Bucky didn’t have his heart set on it for dinner tonight.
He is coughing as he sets down a bowl of water for the cats, hacking so hard into the bend of his elbow that a few of the more skittish felines run for cover. He wants to lay down again, but only makes it as far as the couch. The apartment is cold and Steve immediately covers himself with the afghan draped over the back of the couch.
The cats are still spooking around. The black and white cat jumps up on the back of the couch and peers down at Steve with its green eyes.
“You wanna lay down with me?” Steve asks with a wet sniff.
The cat starts purring and jumps down onto Steve’s chest. Its small weight is enough to force the air out of Steve’s lungs with a little oof. The cat rubs on his feverish face before settling down. It’s not long before more cats are coming to visit Steve on the couch. One lays down on his legs, another curls up by his neck. Despite sleeping for half the day, Steve is still tired. He pets the cats he can reach and closes his eyes.
Steve is both startled and confused by the door opening. The apartment is small enough that he can see it’s Bucky, looking half-frozen. There is snow on his hat and the shoulders of his coat; his cheeks and nose are bright red from the wind and cold. A cat jumps up onto the kitchen counter to greet him and Bucky turns to Steve. He’s not happy.
“Are you stupid or somethin’?” he asks.
“What are you doing home so early?” Steve asks, ignoring the question.
It’s still light outside, not even two o’clock in the afternoon.
“We got sent home early. Fuckin’ blizzard,” Bucky says as he pulls off his gloves. “You should know that. Looks like you were out in it.”
“Don’t you cuss at me,” Steve scolds.
“What did I say to you before I left this morning? You didn’t listen,” Bucky says.
Steve snorts. “Have I ever listened to you? You’re not the boss of me.”
“Your mom told me to take care of you. And if I’d known how much work that was gonna be, I’d have politely declined the opportunity,” Bucky says.
“Don’t you bring my ma into this either,” Steve snaps.
It’s a sore spot. Steve knows he’s a burden. And his mom’s been in the ground for two years, but Steve still cries sometimes. Bucky’s body language softens as he shrugs out of his heavy wool coat.
“These cats can’t stay here,” Bucky says. “You know that.”
“Bucky, they were literally freezing. They had frost in their fur.”
“If the super finds out, he’s gonna tell the landlord and we’re gonna be out in the alley too.” Bucky takes off his hat and slaps the melting snow off it. “We can’t have one cat in here, let alone…”
“Ten,” Steve says with a sigh. “And I know. But I couldn’t lay in bed and just think about ‘em dyin’ out there.”
Bucky nods. “I know you love ‘em,” he says. “And look at ‘em all over ya. They love you too.”
Steve smiles as he pets one and it immediately starts purring. “Can they at least stay until the storm blows over?” he asks hopefully.
“I guess,” Bucky says. “Just until then, though.”
Bucky comes over and puts his frigid hand on Steve’s forehead, more to soothe him than to take his temperature. It feels good on Steve’s hot, dry face.
“You’re lookin’ rough, Stevie,” he says, an edge of concern in his voice.
“I’m fine,” Steve says, even though he’s not.
Bucky knows better and starts gently moving cats so he can get to Steve. He protests, but doesn’t have the strength to fight against Bucky picking him up and carrying him again. Bringing the cats in must have worn him out on top of being sick.
“You went out in the weather feeling like this,” Bucky says. “Tisk, tisk.”
Most of the cats have followed them into the bedroom and are jumping on Steve’s bed as he gets his achy body settled in once more. Bucky scratches a few behind the ears and under the chin.
“I’m gonna run across the street before the store closes,” Bucky says.
“Good idea. Since I fed the cats your meatloaf,” Steve says. “Sorry.”
“Sounds like you’ll just have to make me more,” Bucky teases. He pulls up the blankets and tucks Steve in like he always does when he’s sick. “But when you’re better.”
Bucky’s trip to the grocery is quick because they’re not exactly flush right now. But from their room, Steve can hear Bucky opening a few tin cans in the kitchen.
“Here, kitties…” Bucky calls. Just like Steve does in the alley.
All the cats go running and Steve decides that he has never been more in love with Bucky.