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Steve’s gotten good at waiting. Sitting on the hard kitchen chairs, or, if he dares, on the couch, where he isn’t in direct view of the door. No matter where he’s chosen to put his body, he’s on edge. His heart pounds, and he tries to breathe quietly, lest he miss the sound of feet on the doormat. Bucky’s not always been good at letting himself in these days, slumping on the porch until he’s rescued.
It’s still daylight, but Steve feels he’s been waiting an inordinate amount of time. He’s not working at the shelter today, and he’s positive he told Bucky this. Repeatedly. Last night. And again this morning. Still he wonders if Bucky’s memory has held. If he showed up in the food line, though, Sam or whomever is serving would be in the know enough to send him back home.
Steve knows that’s unlikely, though. Bucky’s probably out with his… friends? Steve hates to call them that, but it’s most definitely true. So what if they’re crack slingers; they make Bucky feel happy and welcome. They seem to fill a need Steve can’t begin to understand, let alone try to fill.
Steve thinks he trusts Hawk, the ringleader of their little organization. He might be the supplier, but he’s the one who has brought Bucky home when he’s too sick to stand on his feet. Steve assumes he knows how to dial for an ambulance as well.
Nat Steve trusts as well, though a bit more loosely. Steve’s never seen her sober, and she does dumb things, like crossing the street in front of speeding cars, but her intentions are pure. Playing guitar for world peace ebbs lazily into heroin coma, with bouts of sporadic logic in between. Steve’s seen it all. Over the course of a day. Probably over the course of an hour.
Then there’s Darcy, the tag-along, who Steve gathers is either so misguided, or so addicted, that all she seems to do is lie around beside Bucky and try to neck him. Steve’s shocked that sometimes he lets her. But, he can put two and two together, even if Bucky doesn’t tell him. There were drugs in ‘Nam. Probably girls. A lot of laying around waiting for shit to happen.
It’s not really Bucky’s fault, per se. Steve can’t blame him for coming home with addictions that are far above his ability to break. Steve just wishes he wasn’t gone so much. Not that he’d let him shoot up in the house, but he hates the anxiety of not knowing where Bucky is, but also knowing that he isn’t meant to go look for him.
Well, Steve can guess where Bucky is. Probably in one of two deserted alleys, one typically full of cardboard boxes from the furniture store out in front. Or under one of a handful of fire escapes. They may have found a new one to colonize, now that the weather’s changed, and with it, the daily patterns of sun and shade.
What he can’t begin to fathom, though, is Bucky’s current state of being. He could be buzzed. Napping. Doing the dirty with his clothes on. Or he could be overdosing. Seizing, choking to death on his own saliva and vomit, maybe with the others too stoned to notice.
Steve gets hung up on that one. It seems random, lucky, almost, that Bucky was wounded in the line of fire. That he was presumed dead after a mission, an explosion that was clearly on record. Even though they hadn’t found him for a few days, at least he ended up on a KIA list. Steve wonders how many bodies were left overseas of men who’d died from drugs. Disease. Factors of their own carelessness.
He can’t keep his mind from fluttering back to the possibility that Bucky could be unconscious. Dying. Dead. He knows what it feels like, that sense off loss. The wish to know what happened, but not really. The profound sense of heartbreak.
Steve sighs. He can’t sit still and wait. He ca’t leave, for then Bucky won’t be able to find him if he wanders home. When he wanders home. Steve stands and walks quietly to the entryway, avoiding the creaking spots in the floorboards. He pauses beside the coat tree and surveys the shoes lined up against the wall. Bucky’s coat and boots are missing. Probably unbuttoned and untied and leaving him looking careless at the very least.
Steve takes another to steps and presses his palm to the flat of the front door, just above the doorknob. He’s only there for a second when something slams hard into the wood on the other side. It bounces off as Steve starts and nearly yells in surprise.
Steve yanks the door open to Bucky, pale and slightly green around the cheekbones. His cuff covers his mouth, but there’s vomit on the doorstep. Steve wants to wrap his arms around Buck, but he quickly diverts to alternate plan. He takes the sleeve dangling below Bucky’s stump shoulder and uses it to guide him into the sun bleached rocking chair on the other side of the porch. The wicker seat creaks as Bucky sits down, but Steve holds the rocker in place with his foot so the seat will remain steady.
“Head down, ok?” Steve presses gently on Bucky’s upper back, and he bends so his forehead hovers above his kneecaps. Bucky takes his arm and winds it around his head. Then he retches painfully, bringing up fluid that splatters between his feet.
“It’s ok. You’re home.” Steve refrains from saying ‘You’re alive.’
Bucky groans and makes a minuscule nod. “Felt… felt good…” he manages to whisper. “N-not anymore…”
“Yeah…”. Middle ground, Steve thinks. Maybe they can find some? “You want to come inside? Clean up?”
“In a minute…”. Bucky’s voice sounds choked. Steve can’t tell if he has more to throw up or if he needs a cry.
“On your time,” Steve says. “There’s no rush.”
“Hm.”
Steve wants to thank Bucky for coming back, to admit he was afraid he never would. But it would be too much. Neither one of them is quite ready to process the emotion. Instead he just nods, even though Bucky can’t see him from the way he’s sitting. He inhales and exhales quietly and goes back to calmly waiting.