Work Text:
1942
Bucky tries to give himself rules. It works. A little. Most of the time.
He tells himself to try not to hover. He tells himself to try not to be weird about Steve.
He tells himself he can’t go looking for Steve unless it’s been hours. He tells himself he can’t intervene unless Steve is backed into a corner.
Bucky tells himself he can’t check up on Steve to make sure he’s not going to the recruitment center.
(Again.)
He tells himself can’t tell Steve to stop, breathe, and maybe spend some time with him. He tells himself he can’t say: please don’t; I don’t know what I’d do if any of this ever got you killed. Bucky tells himself he definitely can’t ever tell Steve that he’d trade away the entire rest of the world if the two of them could hide away, right here in Brooklyn, and stay safe. There are rules, after all.
There are rules, but Bucky’s only human.
Tonight, they’re supposed to meet for sandwiches at that diner on the water Steve likes. Bucky’s not crazy about it—the coffee is too bitter, and the bread gets soggy—but Steve likes it, so they come. At least, they usually do.
Tonight, Bucky has been here for two hours. He’s had three cups of coffee and one overly sweet piece of pie that gets sticky in his throat when the waitress says, did your girl stand you up, kid? The pie is on the house. Better luck next time.
He thinks that maybe Steve forgot. He thinks that maybe he’ll go to Steve’s, and Steve will be lost in drawing or reading the paper. Steve does that. He gets caught up and lost in things sometimes.
Bucky thinks everyone in this diner is staring at him, and he has to leave.
(He pays for the pie.)
He takes the path to Steve’s that he knows it’s most likely Steve would have walked to get here. He hopes he finds Steve at home so that he can yell at him but not mean it. He hopes he can tell Steve he owes him a coffee, and then he can listen to Steve talk about whatever it is he’s been doing that made him lose track of time.
Steve’s not at home. He’s crouched in an alley. He's breathing heavily and hardly conscious. He’s bleeding. Bucky swallows down a lump of something that's heavy and just as sticky as the pie. He kneels down, and he tries to force himself to make a joke. It doesn’t feel funny at all.
“Get them this time?” Bucky says. He pulls Steve up, and then he slides his arm around Steve to steady him. Steve huffs a little laugh. There’s fire in his eyes. He looks as if he’s mad that he couldn’t keep fighting.
“Almost,” Steve says, coughing.
“You gotta stop this,” Bucky says as he starts to walk them towards Steve’s apartment. Steve shakes his head.
“You didn’t even ask me what happened. It could be different this time,” Steve says.
“Was it?” Bucky asks. He knows it wasn’t. He knows Steve too well for that. He doesn’t have to know the details to know exactly what happened. Steve can’t ever back down from a fight, even against people twice his size. Sometimes, especially against people twice his size.
“He was yelling at kids,” Steve says, frowning. “Saying—you’d have wanted to hit him too.”
“Maybe, but I probably wouldn’t have,” Bucky says. He thinks, often, it would be easier if Steve was wrong when he did these things. It would be easier if he wasn’t always absolutely right. It would be easier if it all didn’t leave Bucky feeling like the world was hopelessly unfair.
“You might have,” Steve says. His voice sounds dark and bitter like the blood Bucky is sure Steve can taste in his mouth. Bucky doesn't answer that. He pulls out his key to Steve’s, and he opens the door.
Bucky leads them both inside and gets Steve a washcloth and water before he says anything else.
“Thanks,” Steve says. “Sorry about dinner.”
“Thought you forgot,” Bucky says as he sits down and watches Steve apply the damp washcloth to his head. He wants to do it for Steve, but there are rules. “I had the pie.”
“I wouldn’t forget,” Steve says. He sounds as if the idea offends him. Bucky shakes his head.
“I’d rather you forgot,” Bucky says. He keeps his voice soft and low because it seems like the sorta thing he probably shouldn't say. Steve frowns.
“Buck,” Steve says. He shakes his head, and he winces a little as he does. He leaves the washcloth rested against his forehead. Then he sets his hands down on his lap and starts rolling and stretching out his wrists.
“Finding you bleeding in an alley wasn’t exactly how I saw my night going,” Bucky says.
“You don’t always have to come find me,” Steve says, meeting Bucky’s eye.
“Yeah, I do, Steve,” Bucky says, frowning.
“I can take care of myself; you don’t have to clean up after me all the time,” Steve says. “I don’t want you to feel like you do. I’m sorry you do.”
“And I don’t want you to feel like every damn fight is your fight,” Bucky counters. “I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to be safe.”
Steve sucks in a breath, and Bucky thinks it’s his fault. He thinks he’s breaking his own rules. He can’t seem to stop himself right now.
“I know,” Steve says, softer and with a long exhale of breath. “I know you do.”
“Every fight isn’t your fight,” Bucky repeats. He says it again because it feels important, and because it’s true. He thinks sometimes that Steve is going to explode with it all. He thinks Steve is going to come apart from taking on the whole world like that.
Steve is just a kid from Brooklyn.
Steve is the biggest person Bucky has ever known.
(Sometimes, Bucky thinks maybe Steve could do it. Sometimes, he thinks that if anyone could, it would be Steve. And that scares him even more.)
“I have to try,” Steve says. “I can’t just stand still when bad things are happening. I can’t.”
“Isn’t there something in between standing still and fighting?” Bucky asks, shaking his head.
“Not fighting is standing still,” Steve says. Then he frowns. “I’m sorry, I know you worry.”
“I do,” Bucky says, shrugging. Steve’s head is still bleeding, and he looks less fired up now. He's starting to look something a lot closer to sad. Bucky wants—
Bucky wants to break every damn one of his own rules and pull Steve in close enough to hold him.
“I’m sorry,” Steve says again. “but I have to take a stand.”
“You could,” Bucky says, and then he stops. He tries to swallow down his words, but he fails. “You could just—you don’t have to be alone. At least let me be with you when you fight? Don’t fight alone.”
“I’m okay,” Steve says. “really, I am.”
“I wouldn’t—" Bucky starts, but this time, he does stop. He doesn’t say, I wouldn’t worry as much. He doesn’t say, I could keep you safer, and he definitely doesn’t say, maybe I’m not okay.
“Really, you don’t have to do that,” Steve says. He still looks sad. He looks like he’s holding a million thoughts in his head somewhere right behind his eyes. Bucky thinks it shouldn’t feel heavy like this. He thinks it shouldn’t hurt deep in his gut like it does. Bucky knows it’s his fault. He’s breaking his own rules. He’s being weird about Steve. He’s making too much out of it. He thinks he's thinking too much about it. He’s making it more than it is. He's—
“The offer is always open,” Bucky says. Steve nods.
“I know, thanks,” Steve stays. He winces again. It makes Bucky think that the cut that is bleeding and cracked across his forehead stings. The washcloth is dripping water onto the couch, and it's not really sitting over the cut at all. Bucky watches it for several seconds. Then he reaches out, and he moves the washcloth on Steve’s head. He places it on the cut and applies pressure.
“You were missing it,” Bucky says, catching Steve’s eyes. He knows Steve's eyes are maybe a little too close to his own. Steve nods. Bucky doesn't move away.
“I’ll be more careful,” Steve says. It sounds like a peace offering. He’s giving Bucky one of those looks he does sometimes. His eyes are big and there's a little bit of something in them Bucky can never quite read.
“No, you won’t,” Bucky says, shaking his head. He moves his other hand up to Steve’s face, too, just for a second, and he pushes away some drops of water that are rolling down Steve’s cheeks.
“I’ll try,” Steve says. He watches Bucky’s hand when he pulls it back. Then Steve reaches his own hands up, and he grabs the wrist of the hand Bucky’s got holding the washcloth. He squeezes Bucky's wrists for a minute, and says, “for you, I’ll try.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Bucky says.
If Bucky were a better person he’d say, don’t go changing for me. If he were a better person, he’d have moved his hand away from Steve by now. If he were a better person, he wouldn’t care if Steve did this. If he were a better person, he’d cheer him on, tell stories to other people, say, oh yeah, my pal Steve, always fighting for the little guy, even though he’s a little guy himself. If he was a better person, he’d be able to work around the wall in his brain that just wants to keep Steve fucking safe.
“Fair enough,” Steve says. He takes his hand off Bucky’s wrist, and Bucky moves his hands and the washcloth. Then he tilts his head to examine Steve’s cut.
“You need more water,” Bucky says, standing up. He needs a minute anyway.
He needs to take a minute to breathe and to remind himself of the rules.
*
*