Work Text:
"Don't think this is over, you little freak!"
The parting words of the two burly men rang in his ears as the sound of their retreating footsteps faded, and Steve found himself alone in the alley. The building super who had chased the two off cast him a sympathetic glance, then turned and headed back into his apartment; Steve was glad for it. Sympathy was bad enough. He didn't need to be babied.
Leaning against one wall, he slid down until he was sitting, breathing with deliberate slowness in spite of his lungs screaming at him. He could feel a warm wetness trickling down his chin- from his nose or the split lip, he wasn't sure, and instinctively he leaned forward so none of the blood got on his clothes. Closing his eyes, he spent a little while just listening to the sounds of cars and pedestrians going by outside the alley, until his heart finally slowed to a normal rhythm and breathing felt a little less like knives in his chest.
At first, the strange 'pop' sound didn't even register in his mind. Focused as he was on keeping his body from trying to kill him, it barely occurred to him that something had happened that didn't match the soft background hum of cars zipping by, horns honking, people chattering too distantly for him to make out the words. Not only that, the sound had been close- almost right next to his ear. His left ear, mind, the nearly deaf one, which meant it must have been louder than he'd actually perceived it.
Very slowly, he opened his eyes.
The ground in front of where he was sitting was marked by what looked like sidewalk chalk, and a small puddle of blood from Steve's nose or lip or both had dripped onto the markings; Steve spared a second to feel a little guilty for ruining some kid's art, but his attention was quickly diverted by the bare feet in his peripheral vision. He jumped a little- the feet were standing right where he'd heard the 'pop' sound a moment ago, and covering up a large portion of the chalk drawing. And facing him.
On the plus side, if this guy was going to beat him up, he probably would have started already, so Steve let his curiosity win (as usual) and looked up.
He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting to see, but a tall, dark, and handsome man with wavy brown hair and horns and fangs and cat eyes was not it.
The longer he stared, unable to find his voice, the more confused the man looked. Finally, he spoke first, saving Steve the trouble of finding something to say that was a little more polite than what the hell are you? “Are you all right?”
Steve laughed- he couldn't help it, the question was so out of place with all of this. He was being pranked somehow, he was sure of it. “More or less,” he said, honestly. “A little confused, though.” He gestured at the stranger, who looked even more puzzled. “I mean… where did you come from? And what's with the whole...” He gestured at his own head, where the horns were on the other man. This did nothing to clear up the confusion, apparently.
“You did summon me, did you not?”
“Summon…?” Steve took in the stranger's appearance again, then looked down- the chalk was not a child's drawing, as he'd first thought, but something that looked like it came straight out of some cheesy movie about witchcraft. And there, he realized with reluctant amusement, was his blood inside the drawn circle, just like in those movies. “Jeez. That's a hell of a way to go for a prank. Were the guys that beat me up working with you, too? Cause I'm pretty sure that's not only going way too far for a joke, but actually illegal.”
To his credit, the 'demon' didn't falter a bit- only stared at him with those disconcerting silvery-blue cat eyes. “Joke?” he repeated blankly. “I don't understand.”
“Yeah, I guess you wouldn't,” Steve sighed, amusement quickly giving way to irritability. He could admit when he'd been had, but this really was a little much. Standing, he waited until the inevitable dizziness subsided, then reached out to give a hard tug to one of the horns that he was sure were attached to a headband hidden in the man's shoulder-length hair. “Come on, fun's over-”
He nearly threw himself off balance when the horn didn't give at all as he pulled it. The man yelped in pain, and Steve didn't miss the flash of hurt in those strange eyes. “Sorry,” he apologized automatically. “Um. That's awkward. How are those attached? I thought it would just come off.”
“Come off?” The man looked shocked, but he bent his head quickly and parted his hair with his fingers to show Steve. A little awed, Steve reached up much more carefully this time to touch the base of the horn, where it looked for all he could see as if it were actually emerging from the man's skull.
“Huh,” he said, because it was all he could really think of to say. “Pretty impressive. I guess if you're gonna go this far anyway, better make it look convincing, right?”
The man straightened up once Steve had let his hand drop. “I genuinely don't know what you're talking about,” he said, sounding a little frustrated now. “You summoned me, I'm here, and now you're questioning my existence?”
Steve snorted. “Prove it, then,” he challenged. “If you're a demon or whatever it is you're supposed to be, prove it.”
“Okay.” It' was calm, easy, and suddenly Steve found himself floating in a void.
Panicking, he struggled to breathe- the darkness was complete, all-encompassing, almost tangible. Definitely tangible. Breathing was even harder than usual, but somehow it also didn't seem necessary; he was managing well enough without it, anyway.
It was the strangest feeling he'd ever had, and he was more than grateful when he was back in the Brooklyn alleyway, doubled over and gasping.
“You're an actual demon,” he managed, when he could speak again. “Holy shit.”
“I didn't mean to scare you,” the demon said, and wasn't that something. “I just… you said to prove it. And I didn't want to just… start lighting fires.”
Steve took another steadying breath, in and out. “Okay,” he said, though it wasn't. “What now?”
The demon looked as uncertain as he felt. “You summoned me, so I'm supposed to serve you.”
“Oh, no. Not a chance. There will be no serving here.” Steve's response was immediate and forceful, and he tried to ignore the way the demon flinched back in hurt. “I didn't mean to summon you. I'm just… some guy. I don't need a servant, okay? Especially not a demon one.” He closed his mouth firmly before he could insert his metaphorical foot any further and paused to regroup. “Sorry. I'm just a little caught off guard right now.”
“I could just… help with things?”
Never in a million years would Steve have guessed he'd be getting puppy eyes from an honest to goodness creature of the underworld. He sighed. “Okay. We'll go with that for now until we figure out something better. What's your name?”
He was absolutely certain that he'd make a laughingstock of himself if he tried to repeat the strange, fluid language that came out of the demon's mouth, so he seized on the syllables that sounded closest to something he could actually say. “How about Bucky for short?”
“Bucky,” the demon repeated, thoughtfully. “… I like it.”
That was a step in the right direction- at least, Steve thought it was, and given how topsy turvy everything suddenly felt, he'd take it. “Good. Come on, then, let's go to my place and get this sorted out.”
*
Bucky seemed fascinated by his apartment, and wandered around looking at things and asking questions. It was oddly endearing, and Steve answered queries about his mother and family and about the function of every appliance in his kitchen with surprising patience. Finally, though, he interrupted Bucky in the midst of him asking for more detail about the rice cooker.
“We need to figure out what to do about this.”
Bucky's demeanor immediately shifted from curious and delighted to subdued, almost timid. “I thought… you were going to let me stay and se- uh, help with things.”
“Look, I really don't feel right about having a servant. I mean, that kind of thing is just… it's not right. People should all be equal. Why do you want to stay so badly anyway?”
A bit sheepishly, Bucky admitted, “I've always wanted to learn about the human world. There's only so much we can see without entering your world, and we have to be summoned for that. I've just… always wanted to see it for myself, and learn whatever I can.”
There's really very little Steve could say to argue with that, and Bucky's odd charm was steadily diminishing his resolve to argue anyway. “Okay,” he said, giving in. “You can stay, but here's the deal...”
*
Bucky, Steve found out in the weeks that followed, actually made a very good roommate. He didn't eat much- didn't need to, he said, and the one time he tried eating a full meal he ended up feeling vaguely ill for two days, after which he decided to restrict himself to small tastes of new foods. Steve had made up a chore chart for the two of them and flatly forbid Bucky to do more than his assigned share, and he had to admit that having someone to help with the housework was pretty nice. The rest of the time, Bucky spent learning everything he could- watching movies and documentaries and TV, reading as many books as the library let him check out at a time, sitting at the front window and just watching and listening to the people going by. People were his favourite way of learning; he could disguise the less human aspects of his appearance with a combination of wardrobe tricks and, apparently, magic, and he would talk to just about anyone, charming them into telling him all kinds of stories.
If Steve's friends were suspicious of the sudden addition of a roommate into his life, they didn't say it to his face; Bucky actually got along quite well with them all, especially Natasha. She even started teaching him Russian. Steve relaxed quite a bit after that- if Natasha liked someone, they were well worth liking and more than safe to be around. (He'd never met anyone quite so paranoid as her.)
He was starting to settle quite comfortably into this new, less lonely life when he got sick for the first time since meeting- well, summoning- Bucky. It was to be expected, of course; it had been a couple of months now, well into autumn, and the change in temperature and pressure always got him. Still, he'd been so caught up with everything else that he'd forgotten… and, more importantly, he'd forgotten to warn Bucky.
He'd never imagined that a demon could fret so much. It was really sort of endearing.
“Bucky, calm down,” Steve rasped eventually, about halfway through that first morning of waking up achy and sniffly. “It's fine. I get sick all the time, you're gonna have to get used to it if you're sticking around.”
“Are you really sure you don't need anything else?” Bucky asked plaintively. “I feel so helpless.”
Steve smiled in spite of himself; Bucky had already tucked an extra blanket around him, positioned a space heater at the foot of his bed, brought him water and painkillers and made him tea with honey and looked up six different chicken noodle soup recipes to try making the instant Steve said he felt the slightest bit hungry. “You're a big help already,” he assured the demon gently. “It's a lot better than being miserable all on my own. And I don't even have to worry about infecting you.”
That got a smile out of Bucky, and he stretched out on the bed next to Steve, finally letting himself relax a little. “Okay, but if you need anything...”
“I'll let you know, yeah,” Steve assured him. “Maybe you could read to me a bit for now?”
He dozed off halfway through the third chapter of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, and only barely felt Bucky's fingers gently combing through his hair. In his dreams, it was his mother brushing his hair and humming to him, and he slipped deeper into a restful sleep that lasted well into the evening.
*
Bucky, as it turned out, loved snow. He played in the first snowfall of the year with a joyful abandon that made Steve's heart melt, and took just as quickly to all the other trappings of winter- hot chocolate, fluffy scarves, mint everything. He honestly seemed to enjoy shovelling people's walkways and driveways and sidewalks, and made quite a bit of unintentional cash for himself doing so; Steve refused to take any of it, but when Bucky learned about Christmas gifts and Steve saw his face light up, he knew he'd be getting a fair bit of it in the form of presents anyway. He'd already started setting aside a little money from each paycheck for gifts for Sam, Natasha, and Bucky, so he didn't feel too bad.
Every year, Sam threw a Christmas party for his friends on the last weekend before the holiday. Steve usually had to work during the day, but always did his best to make sure he got out in time for the party- especially this year, with Bucky so excited for it.
“Do you think it's too silly?” Bucky asked anxiously, examining his reflection in the bright red sweater with a big reindeer on the front. “It looks silly.”
Steve raised an eyebrow and pointed at his own torso, clothed in an equally bright green sweater with a frankly ridiculous pattern of holly leaves covering it. “Silly is what we're going for, Buck,” he reminded him. “Everyone's gonna be wearing silly Christmas sweaters. It's a tradition.”
Bucky's worried face softened into a smile, and he nodded. “I like Christmas,” he said, not for the first time and surely not for the last. “Even the weird traditions like this one. Everything's so… warm.”
In spite of the chill outside, creeping into their little poorly-insulated apartment, Steve figured he knew what Bucky meant.
Sam greeted them at the door of his apartment in a Grinch sweater, which made Bucky laugh with glee. The two of them broke into a startlingly good rendition of “You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch” while Natasha and Steve exchanged long-suffering looks and Darcy recorded the duet- and the delighted audience- on her phone. “Welcome to the fifth annual Wilson Christmas Extravaganza,” Sam announced once the song was over, a bit breathless and still laughing. “The stragglers have arrived, so the party can get started!”
Steve was more than grateful to have the kind of friends who never gave him a chance to feel like he didn't have a family, and as he watched Bucky flirt with Darcy and ask Jane all kinds of questions about her latest research and challenge Thor to an arm-wrestling match (which Bucky lost with a remarkable amount of good grace), he wondered if there was any better Christmas gift than seeing that Bucky had found the same sense of family here. They ate Sam's delicious cooking and far too much pie, exchanged gifts- Bucky had bought something small for everyone- and watched Christmas movies until they were all half-dozing. At last, close to midnight, everyone roused themselves enough to say their goodbyes and trickled out of the warm, comfortable house into the chilly night air.
“That was wonderful,” Bucky breathed as they set off to walk the few blocks home. “I've never had so much fun in my life.”
Steve smiled up at him, enjoying the way the streetlights made his handsome features glow. “You were a hit. Everyone loves you, Buck. You'll definitely be invited to next year's Wilson Christmas Extravaganza.”
Something flickered across Bucky's face- something sad and wistful- but it was gone too quickly for Steve to have any hope of explaining it, replaced by the happiness he'd seen there all night. “I'm glad,” he replied, tilting his face up to the sky and opening his mouth wide to catch the falling flakes of snow on his tongue.
*
Christmas morning dawned spectacularly cold, and at about six Bucky wormed his way under the covers next to Steve, shivering but grinning widely. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered when Steve opened sleepy eyes to peer at him.
“Merry Christmas, Buck,” Steve replied, stifling a yawn. “We don't have to get up yet, right?”
“Nah,” Bucky whispered, snuggling closer. “Go back to sleep.”
It was pretty easy to do, with nearly six feet of warm, cuddly demon in his bed. He barely had time to be surprised at how natural this felt before dropping off again.
*
Steve made it through three more bouts of the flu and two more colds before spring finally came, and with it, allergies- annoying, to be sure, but much less hazardous than what he tended to deal with during the winter. He was always grateful when it got warm enough that he could spend a significant amount of time outside again, and Bucky seemed to be happy for the same reason- he loved to go on walks, and he was thrilled when Steve was finally able to join him again, albeit sneezing and sniffling the whole way.
In the weeks since Christmas, Bucky had seemed a little less vivacious, a little more subdued than he'd been before, though Steve could never get him to admit it, much less tell him the reason. It was a relief to see him excited about things again, bouncing around to every flower and tree that was sprouting and exclaiming in delight. He even talked about planting a garden- but when Steve mentioned the difference between perennials and annuals, of all things, Bucky's smile seemed to fade a bit and he stopped darting around, sticking close to Steve's side for the remainder of their walk.
It all had to do with time, Steve realized, and wondered with a shock if Bucky thought he'd want him to leave eventually. Sure, it wasn't like he'd exactly been receptive to the idea of having Bucky around at first, but now… it sent a pang through him to imagine his little apartment empty of his odd, charming roommate's laughter.
He'd accepted, not long after Christmas, that he was falling hard for Bucky, but he'd never said anything; it had never felt like quite the right time. Maybe now was the right time, though. Maybe it would make Bucky see that Steve wanted him to stay for as long as he wanted to be here.
Steve discovered quickly that making the decision to tell Bucky about his feelings was the easy part. Actually doing it… not so easy. He thought of a thousand ways to say it, to show it, but some were too casual and some were too serious and some were much, much too corny. He deliberated for a week before deciding that simple was best- it would be harder for him to mess it up, that way.
So that night when Bucky was cooking dinner, he sidled up next to him, close enough that their arms were touching. “Hey, Buck,” he said, casually, and when Bucky turned to look at him inquisitively, he just leaned up- not giving himself time to think about it- and kissed him.
Bucky's reply was so enthusiastic that dinner went entirely neglected, and the next night as they were scraping congealed rice and beans out of the pot, neither of them could stop laughing.
*
For a while, Bucky was happy again- happier even than he'd been at first, all glowing smiles and bright eyes. He took every opportunity to touch Steve, to kiss him, to take him to bed… it was exhausting, but in the best possible way, and Steve honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so good about everything.
As summer approached, though, Bucky seemed to fade again; he still smiled, but not as frequently, and his kisses were less joyful and more needy, like he was desperate to hold on to Steve however he could. Steve tried to reassure him in subtle ways that he was wanted for as long as he wanted to stay, but nothing seemed to work, and without Bucky admitting that there was a problem (which he still refused to do) Steve wasn't sure what else he could do to fix it.
And then he came home from work one day to find Bucky lying on the kitchen floor, pale and breathing too shallowly, and all his fears came crashing down on him at once.
He got Bucky into bed, made him as comfortable as he could manage, and called Natasha. Beyond caring if she believed him, only hoping desperately that she could help, he told her the whole story; somewhat to his surprise, she took everything at face value. Dimly, he wondered if she hadn't already known, or at least suspected.
“I've got some good sources,” she said, reassuringly. “I'll find out what I can. I'll be over in an hour, okay?”
“Okay,” he whispered, watching the steady but too-slight rise and fall of Bucky's chest. “I'll call you if anything changes.”
When Natasha arrived and let herself in, her face was grim, and she took in Bucky's condition with a single glance and nodded to herself. “It's not terrible news, not exactly,” she said, and if the situation were any less dire Steve might have laughed at how very not encouraging a statement that was. Her next words sucked any desire to laugh out of him, though. “Apparently, a demon can't stay in the human world for more than a year and a day, or they'll die.”
“How the hell is that not terrible news?!” Steve felt like she'd just punched him in the kidney. He had to fight to inhale deeply, to not let the panic seize up his lungs. Her hand landed on his back and rubbed soothingly.
“There's a way to stop it,” she said quickly. “That's the not exactly terrible news. It's not great news, but it'll keep him from dying or having to be sent back.” She paused, gathering her thoughts, and Steve stayed quiet, waiting. “There's a ritual, a spell I guess. It'll turn him human.”
“That doesn't sound so bad,” Steve said, encouraged. “I mean, we'll have to ask him, of course, but he loves the human world. And he loves me. He's been so happy here, I'm sure he'd be okay with it.”
Natasha sighed. “The problematic part is that the spell works by basically binding your life force with his. And it has a fifty-fifty chance of either working as intended, or killing both of you.”
Oh. No wonder Bucky had been so willing to die quietly.
“We still have to try,” Steve said. It wasn't even a choice, as far as he was concerned. Natasha's hand shifted up to squeeze his shoulder, and when he looked up at her, she was smiling sadly, as if she'd expected nothing else.
“I know.”
*
They recruited Sam to help as well, not telling him what they needed him for until he arrived; Natasha figured that seeing Bucky without the glamours that had hidden his true appearance would be enough to eliminate any doubts Sam might have. Sure enough, he was skeptical until he saw Bucky laying on the bed, horns curling up out of his hair, at which point he swore creatively under his breath and agreed without hesitation to help however he could.
Everything they needed for the spell, they gathered as they waited for Bucky to wake up. Natasha and Sam moved Steve's couch against the living room wall and pushed the coffee table up to the entertainment centre in order to make enough room for the chalk circle. The chalk, knife, and pages with the ritual words written out in Natasha's neat, loopy handwriting were arrayed on the coffee table so as to be within easy reach when they were needed. Natasha even sharpened the knife to make sure it would hurt as little as possible when Steve had to draw first his own blood, then Bucky's. Sam looked a little green around the gills as he watched her do it, sitting calmly on the relocated couch as if she did things like this every day, but he didn't protest.
Finally, after what felt like years of waiting, Bucky stirred a little and moaned softly. “Steve?” he whispered, hoarsely, and Steve was at his side immediately.
“I'm here, Buck,” he said softly, trying to keep his voice steady and mostly succeeding. “Hey,” he added when Bucky managed to open his eyes. “You gave me a good scare there, jerk.”
Bucky winced, apologetic. “Steve, I gotta tell you… what's happening to me.”
Steve shook his head, brushing his fingertips across Bucky's cheek. “I know what it is,” he told him. “We're gonna stop it. If you'll let us… we know how to make you human. If that's what you want.”
“Steve, no-” He interrupted himself with a coughing fit, and Steve rubbed his chest to ease it, heart in his throat until Bucky's breathing started to even out again. “Stevie, you can't. You could die.”
“Yeah, and you will die for sure if I don't try.” Steve scowled, having anticipated that Bucky would take this line of argument, but not having realized how mad it would make him to hear. “Fifty percent or one hundred percent? I'll take my odds on that, thanks very much.”
Bucky looked a little less certain, but he still shook his head. “It's too big a risk.”
Steve sighed and climbed onto the bed, stretching out in the empty space and propping his head up on one hand. “Buck, how do you think it'd be for me to go on tryin' to live like normal knowing I had a chance to save you and didn't try? What would you do if it were you?” He could see that Bucky was torn between the truth of his words and his need to protect Steve, so he softened his voice. “Do you wanna be human? If there was no risk, no chance I'd get hurt… would you do it then?”
“In a heartbeat,” Bucky said immediately. “I've wanted to be human since that very first day.”
“Then let me do this. Please. Let me try.”
The room was silent for a long while, the only sound the soft rasp of Bucky's breaths. Finally, Bucky gave the smallest of nods, a pained expression twisting his features.
Steve had to fight not to whoop with joy.
*
The ritual was complicated, but Natasha coached him through it with an ease that made Steve even more convinced she'd dealt with this sort of thing before, in some capacity. There was no room for errors, though, so he put that and all other thoughts aside to focus wholly on drawing the seven concentric circles and all the symbols that went in between them, on saying the right words at the right time with the right inflection, and when the time came, on drawing the now razor-sharp knife across his palm to let his blood drip onto the chalk, then doing the same for Bucky.
The pain was almost instantaneous, and in the back of his mind- the one part that was still somehow thinking clearly- Steve thought wryly that this either meant he'd done it right, or very, very wrong. He'd never felt this kind of agony before, not even during his worst illnesses; it was like someone was running a white-hot poker along every nerve in his body. It might have lasted for days or only a minute, he couldn't tell, but finally it was over and he was left panting in a heap on the floor, the echoes of the pain slowly fading out along his limbs.
“Bucky?” he breathed.
Someone came to sit behind him- Sam, he realized, smelling the familiar cologne- and pulled him gently back up to a sitting position. He leaned back against his friend's chest and forced his eyes open, heart leaping with fear and hope at what he might see. Natasha was carefully laying Bucky on the couch, putting a pillow under his head and draping a blanket over him… and he was breathing, slow and steady, and his hair was still the same but there were no horns parting it, no fangs poking into his bottom lip…
Steve's vision blurred with tears and he closed his eyes, letting Sam hold him as he cried just a little from sheer relief.
*
That Christmas, Bucky wore the silliest pair of tinsel-covered reindeer antlers Steve had ever seen to go with his garish, ridiculous Christmas tree sweater. He ate enough for three people, lost to Thor in yet another arm wrestling match, and kissed Steve under the mistletoe for far longer than was strictly appropriate. Sam gave him a box with a dozen packets of flower seeds to plant in his garden in the coming spring. They were all perennials, and Sam winked at Natasha and Steve as Bucky exclaimed delightedly over them and started planning how he'd arrange the flowerbeds.
Steve was positive he'd never been happier.