Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Becs, what’s the word for when you’re searching for stuff. For the mystery stuff. On a mystery.”

Shockingly, Bucky’s sister doesn’t understand this. “Um, detective?”

Bucky rolls around in his office chair, definitely not acting like a five year old who just discovered the wheel. His laptop sits waiting on his desk, the cursor blinking languidly. “No, you know, the search. The official searching thing…”

It’s a Wednesday in October, and Bucky is getting just about nothing done. Pretty apt for a Wednesday to be fair. Or most days of the week. No one had ever said writing a novel was a lucrative use of time. Too bad Bucky wants write a novel.

Just about giving up, Bucky glances back toward his phone. His sister’s visible through the screen, half of her face and her kicking feet up behind her head. She’s in her dorm room, doing homework on the bed, probably. Or texting one of her many friends. She cares so much about the damn word that Bucky can’t remember currently.

“I don’t know,” Bucky concludes, putting in brackets and trying to move on. The words don’t always want to come, and writing sessions these days have been more in the vein of drag-the-words-out-screaming. Maybe he should take a break. Maybe he should go vacation in Thailand. Although with what money, it’s not exactly clear.

Becca snorts at something on her phone and then goes quiet again. Bucky shoots her a glare that he hopes she can sense through her computer screen. Maybe she does, because she mutters, “Ray’s texting me again about you-know-who.”

Middle sister Rachel and her newest crush of the hour is no more interesting than the blinking cursor on Bucky’s screen, but at least it’s not the blinking cursor. “Who is it now?”

“Well, that’s hard to say. It seems to be some jock named Sasha who doesn’t know she exists, but she’s also worried about this girl.”

Bucky makes a gagging noise. “A Russian? God no, someone smack some sense—a girl?”

Becca sighs, unimpressed. “She says she’s maybe bisexual and there’s a girl she hates so bad in her math class, but maybe it’s not hate, just, and I quote, sexual tension all cooped up with nowhere to go.”

“Man,” Bucky says blankly. “I do not miss high school.”

“Me neither, boss.”

Bucky spins his chair around. “Tell her she can’t be bisexual, that’s my thing and she’s got to get her own hobby.”

“That’s great, what a supportive brother,” Becca replies, but her fingers clack away, doing Bucky’s good work for him. “Oh, Mom wants to know if you’re eating.”

“Investigation!” Bucky calls triumphantly, adding the word, and then swiping at his phone. There are no new notifications. “Why the fuck didn’t Mom just text me?”

“Cause she knows it’s writing time and you don’t answer anyways.”

Bucky says, “Rude,” and the doorbell rings.

Hanging up on Becca abruptly and nearly tipping his chair over, Bucky sprints for the door. It’s at the other end of the apartment from his office/living room, of course. But the ring likely means a package has arrived, and Bucky can’t remember just what it was that he ordered, but it’s bound to be good because he has excellent taste in buying himself things.

It’s not a package. It’s not even a delivery boy. Delivery person, whatever. It’s Bucky’s neighbor that he has never actually met, but unconsciously refers to as big eyes and guns to match from 206.

Big eyes and guns to match is standing outside Bucky’s door holding three bags, some kind of blanket, and a full on baby. He looks extremely confused, short blond hair sticking straight up on one side, and tie and button up trying their best not to wrinkle under the baby’s fist.

“God, what a way to finally introduce myself,” he says, and then tries for a smile. “Hi, neighbor!”

Do people even say that anymore? Bucky thought that was a thing farmers did, like, back in the fifties. Yell hey neighbor from their tractors or something. “Hey,” he says cautiously. “What can I do for you?”

It does seem like big eyes and guns to match needs the help; he’s only looking more frantic by the second. “Yeah, so, I’m so sorry to bother you like this, but I need a huge urgent favor, and I was wondering if you were around this afternoon?”

“Yeah, all day,” Bucky says, still unsure where he’s going with this.

The guy exhales. “Oh, thank goodness. I had something come up—kind of an emergency, and I don’t have babysitting. Um—”

He hands the baby to Bucky, who takes the kid out of sheer instinct.

“Thank you,” he says, now handing Bucky the three bags. “Diapers in there, wipes and extra clothing in there, cheerios in there—he can have as much as he likes—and my number’s right there if anything goes horribly wrong. Thank you!”

“Wait,” Bucky manages, bags on one arm, baby on the other. “Are you sure—I’m a vet,” he points out, trying to wiggle his left hand under all the bags. “And a stranger? I could be some kind of pervert and you wouldn’t know it?”

Big eyes and guns to match waves, almost at the stairwell. “Thank you so much, I’ll be back in a few hours!”

His footsteps echo down the stairs, growing quieter and quieter, until all that’s left to hear is the slam of the building’s front door.

Bucky stares at the baby. The baby stares right back. Eyes huge and blue as the summer sky, but not very big guns, at least not that are visible, anyway.

“Well, at least you’re not a screamer,” Bucky says, half dazed, kicking open his door and dragging them both through. “My sister Rachel was, and I almost killed her before the first year was out.”

The baby doesn’t reply.

“Was that your dad?” Bucky asks. Of course, that was the kid’s dad, they look almost identical. Lucky kid. “Is your dad a total moron with no mothering instinct whatsoever?”

The bags go on the kitchen table to be analyzed later; the baby goes on the couch to be analyzed now.

“So…this is the place.” Bucky would feel like a moron himself, but he’s still feeling like he’s been run over by a garbage truck. “Um, it’s not very baby-friendly, I’m afraid. Sorry.”

The baby looks over his shoulder toward the door and starts mumbling, growing slightly louder and confused-sounding.

Shit. Distract the baby, distract the baby now, if you don’t want screaming. It seems like even though Bucky’s littlest sister is fifteen already, he’s still got the skills needed to be an excellent nanny. “Hey there,” he says, scooping the kid up. “What’s this?”

This, happens to be Bucky’s watch, but the baby’s never seen it before, and immediately stretches out a little hand to touch. Up close, his hair is soft and fluffy, and his nose is so tiny and perfect, and great. Bucky’s big brother instincts are back in full swing.

“Alright, kid,” he says aloud, head whirring a mile a minute. “I would now die for you. Shall we look into some lunch ideas?”

Lunch is leftover fried rice for Bucky, and cheerios for the kid. Bucky doesn’t have a high chair or anything, so the kid goes on the table, where he sits upright with a grubby handful of cereal and stares as Bucky scoops rice into his mouth.

“Wish I knew your name,” Bucky says offhandedly. “But your dad didn’t tell me nothing. Mine’s Bucky, by the way. Wish I knew if you were deathly allergic to…I don’t know, rice? Am I gonna kill you by eating this rice near you? I don’t fuckin’ know!”

The kid giggles and claps his hands together, scattering cheerios over the tabletop. Bucky makes a big face at him, and he laughs harder.

“Yeah, yeah, alright there, charmer.”

After lunch, Bucky attacks the bags. He finds diapers, which are much appreciated, and the neighbor’s phone number, hastily scribbled on a post it. He puts it in his phone underneath big eyes and bigger idiot from 206. It’s too much to display at once, and his phone just shows big eyes, which doesn’t placate Bucky at all.

He finds a goddamn inhaler. Showing it to the baby has him reaching toward it, and Bucky thinks oh god he’s asthmatic before the inhaler is being chewed on loudly, and he rips it away. But leaves it on the table, in case he has to grab it quickly later. Even though the kid’s lungs seem to be in perfect order—he gets pretty loud at one point, but at least it’s a happy loud.

The kid is adorable, to put it bluntly. The kid is the sweetest cheeriest bean and such a good sport, going along with whatever Bucky’s up to, tilting his head curiously and reaching toward every new thing. He does try to pee on Bucky while Bucky’s changing his diaper, and Bucky, unexperienced with baby boys, nearly gets a face full. Scarred, he doesn’t make that mistake twice. But still. A small price to pay for the most evenly dispositioned baby in the world.

“My sisters could learn a thing or two from you,” Bucky tells him from his end of the couch. The baby, sitting and playing with his socked feet at the other end, mumbles nonsense back, like they’re having a real conversation. “Yeah, you’d think so, cause of how cool I am, wouldn’t you. But nope! Holy terrors, all of ‘em. Abigail’s still like that, to be honest—she cries more than you do.”

The baby makes a concerned noise. Maybe because of Abigail, or maybe because Bucky’s toes need further inspecting.

“What the fuck is your name?” Bucky asks, propping himself up on one elbow. “Is it Joe?” he tries. No reaction. How old are kids when they start responding to their names? “Charlie? David? Shit, I don’t know enough names. Michael? Jacob? Richard? Leonardo?”

The baby laughs at that one, but probably because Bucky’s gotten higher and higher pitched and Leonardo’s a stupid name. Bucky swears loudly, and then wonders what age kids start mimicking sounds. Wouldn’t that be a laugh and a half, big eyes and guns to match coming home and finding his kid cheerfully saying fuck!

Bucky thumbs open his phone, one eye still on the kid sitting on his feet. “Hi Mom,” he says when she picks up the phone. “How are you?”

“Good, Jaime dear, so nice to hear from you. How are you? Is today a good day?” His family has been pretty easy going about how different his life feels after coming back from overseas—good days and bad days seemed to be the most understandable, and now Bucky gets asked by all of them which day it is before they talk any further. It’s not perfect, but…it helps, it really does.

Bucky smiles. “Yeah, thanks, Mom. Actually, I had a few questions? What age do babies start mimicking language, aka cussing? And what age do they start walking?”

“Is this for your book?” his mother asks suspiciously.

“Yes,” Bucky says, staring into the eyes of the baby on his couch. “Yes. Is it bad to swear around a baby who can’t even crawl yet?”

Winnifred sighs and there’s a rustling noise over the phone. “Well, Jaime, every baby is different. You almost came out of the womb making noise, and talked early, at about fifteen months. Becca walked first, at twelve months. She didn’t really start forming sentences until she was nearly two.”

“So, fifteen months is early for talking,” Bucky says. “And I was long crawling by then.”

“Mmm hmm.”

Whew. So, Bucky’s probably not going to impart the gift of cursing on the kid. That’s good news. “Okay, thanks Mom.”

The baby makes a loud noise. “Wwwbbbbmumbbbb!”

“What was that?” Winnifred says.

“Nothing! I gotta go write all this down before I forget it thank you Ma I’ll be in touch sometime okay byyyye.” Bucky slams the phone down and glares. “Young man, are you trying to get us in trouble?”

The baby says, “Fwfffbbb.”

Before too long, Bucky wakes up to the sound of knocking on his door. Groggily, he pushes himself up enough to peer over the back of the couch. Who the fuck is knocking at his door? Then he realizes his left ankle is totally wet—what the hell?

Bucky jolts upright, nearly faints from dizziness, and spots the baby drooling on his leg. Oh god, the baby. Scooping him up fast enough that he resettles on Bucky’s shoulder again, Bucky dives for the door, opening it in time to see big eyes and guns to match opening his phone worriedly.

“Hi, don’t worry, your kid is still alive,” Bucky says breathlessly, keeping his voice down.

The guy blinks. Pockets his phone. “I see that,” he says, eyes trained on the baby snuffling quietly into Bucky’s shoulder.

He looks more rumpled than before, but at least he stopped to smooth his hair down at some point. His button up’s undone at the top, and his tie hangs loosely. He still looks hot as fuck, maybe more so now that the stress practically oozing off him has lessened.

“Um…” he says, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck.

Bucky says, “Why dontcha come on in?”

There’s a briefly awkward moment where Bucky tries to hand over the sleeping baby and big eyes and guns to match isn’t ready for it and they nearly drop the kid on his head. Frozen, Bucky starts laughing lowly, and big eyes and guns to match joins in. He raises his hands up and shrugs for Bucky to keep holding the baby.

“I swear I am actually a competent parent,” he says, accepting a seat at Bucky’s small kitchen table. “Normally. It’s just been…it’s been a day, actually.”

“Tell me about it,” Bucky says, but not in commiseration. Genuinely wanting to listen; he’s got the sleeping baby and nothing else to do with his afternoon. Maybe the story will inspire him and he’ll be able to put down more than a word at a time later.

The neighbor guy squints at him. “Wait,” he says slowly, “Did I ever—I didn’t ever introduce myself did I, oh my God—” He facepalms and then exhales. There’s another beat while he looks to be regaining the will to live and then he sits up calmly and says, “Steve Rogers. My name is Steve.”

Bucky finds the whole thing terribly amusing. He sits next to Steve at the table, jiggling slightly so as to keep the baby down. “Nice to put the name to the face after livin’ next to you for months,” he says. “I’m Bucky.”

If Steve thinks the name is funny, he doesn’t show it. “God, I’m sorry. Really, for everything. And now you’re holding my kid and inviting me in—”

“It’s fine. Really.” Bucky still wants to know just what the emergency was, wants to hear Steve Rogers explain what prompted him to throw his baby at a total stranger and make a run for it. Wants to start untangling in his head this strange neighbor. “Like I said, I was home anyway, and your son is just about the sweetest kid this side of the Hudson.”

Steve pauses and smiles, and damn that’s a smile. Twice as large and twice as many watts as the baby’s; Bucky feels a little blind in the face of it.

“He is, isn’t he?” Steve agrees, eyes fond. “God, he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Realizing that Bucky maybe needs some more information, the smile disappears and it’s all back to business. Furrowed brow, hands folded on the tabletop.

“You know I moved in here about three months ago,” he begins, and Bucky nods. “After his mom died. Um—” Steve swallows and goes on. “Well, it’s been a gig here, a gig there, but my friend alerted me to an interview today, super short notice, and…” he shrugs. “I had to take advantage of my kind, quiet neighbor.”

Bucky rolls his eyes at him. “What’s the interview for?”

Steve crinkles his nose. “Magazine illustration? Nothin’ big, but it’d be constant work, which is what I need right now. Just, you know, drawings of recipes, cartoons, cover art.”

“That’s pretty cool,” Bucky says, eyeing Steve in a new way. “I didn’t know you were an artist.”

“Well, I got there on time, barely,” Steve continues hurriedly, clearly not wanting Bucky’s attention on that particular detail. “And it went well, I think? I managed not to put my foot in my mouth, insult anyone, or look like a baby had been burping on me five minutes before.”

He’s so serious and endearing Bucky can’t help but laugh at that. “Well, no worries, pal. Glad it went well.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, cheeks reddening slightly. “For everything. And I’m really really sorry again.”

Bucky pats the baby’s back. “You got nothin’ to be apologizin’ about. You probably know I don’t go out much—ain’t got back to working after comin’ back stateside yet. So, if you ever have an emergency again, you know where to come.”

Steve smiles, one side of his mouth crooked. “Thanks. I hope it doesn’t come to that, but thanks.”

He stands up and begins gathering up the baby bags. Bucky points out the inhaler, sitting on the coffee table behind them. “Um, don’t forget that.”

Steve turns and blinks. “Oh. That’s where that went.” He smiles self deprecatingly. “Needed that after running out of the subway and up three flights of stairs today.”

Bucky stares. “The inhaler’s yours? And you didn’t have it on you?”

“You thought it was for Jaime,” Steve realizes, still holding the diaper bag.

“His name’s Jaime?” Bucky demands. He sounds like a headless chicken, he knows, but still.

Steve pales. “I never told you his name.”

“No, Steve,” Bucky says wryly, “You never fuckin’ told me his name.” He claps his free hand over his face—thank goodness it’s the flesh and bone one—“Shit, don’t swear around the baby. –Shit!”

Steve stares for a beat more and then bursts out laughing. “Thank fuck I’m not the only one,” he says when he can talk again. “This is great. I’m never gonna forgive his mother for dying on me.”

He’s joking about it, that’s a good sign. Bucky sighs and presses his lips at Steve. “You’re something, aren’t you.”

Steve’s face changes, goes all mulish and fearful. Braced for a blow. Bucky immediately wants to eat his words. “Well, now we’re all introduced,” he says quickly, and Steve relaxes slightly. “I suppose this is as good of a time to tell you my name’s also Jaime.”

“But you said—”

“James,” Bucky explains. “But you can see the problem—there have always been at least three Jameses wherever I go, and it’s no different now, see? My ma calls me Jaime, and my friends call me Bucky. It’s—my middle name. Long story.” This is going so great. “I got a lot of names, that’s all.”

Steve raises his eyebrows and Bucky wants to melt into the carpet.

“I should go—”

“Yeah, probably,” Bucky says almost at the same time. Thank you, Steve, dear lord. “But like I said, you need help, just knock.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, looking so young holding the bags and the blankets and now his son on top of that. “I really appreciate it…Bucky.”

Bucky closes the front door and leans on it for a long time.

Bucky learns several things about the Rogerses over the next few days. One, he goes into the kitchen in the middle of the night, and he hears just the faintest snatch of baby Jaime crying from across the hall. He stands there, lights off, hand outstretched towards the fridge, but not quite touching. Bucky is no stranger to nighttime demons, but there’s something terrible about envisioning Steve over there all by himself with the kid in the dark. Bucky goes back to bed without ever getting his milk.

Two: everyone in the building seems to know of the adorable Jaime and his adorable father, but not much else. “Keeps to himself, poor dear,” Mrs. Estisito says wistfully, like she’s remembered what a hardship being young was. “I wish he’d be more friendly,” Darcy on the ground floor says hungrily. “I asked him if he wanted to go out for drinks with some of the guys, and he just about died,” Pietro the mailman reports.

It seems like Bucky’s not the only one who doesn’t have a social life. Or much of a life in general. He would feel a little bad about all this snooping, this recon, but clearly this is Bucky coping with adjusting to civilian life. His government mandated therapist mentioned it—continuing surveillance that wasn’t necessary anymore, just for a sense of familiarity. Harmless in the short run. So Bucky’s having a bit of a relapse at the moment. He’ll get over it.

Three is this. Bucky told Steve to stop by anytime he needed babysitting, and he meant it. This is how Bucky works, how he’s always worked, how he’s grown up in a large family used to saying what they mean and meaning what they say.

Steve thanked him and said he would. Bucky assumed this meant that he actually would, because that’s how words work.

Three, is Steve Rogers of number 206 has a head unlike any other, and in his head, apparently Yes doesn’t mean yes, and Thank You I Appreciate It doesn’t mean anything’s actually appreciated.

Bucky’s a little insulted, if he’s honest.

He stews. Becca calls him out as soon as they facetime and he’s wearing what she refers to as his Pouty Face. She’s loony, of course Bucky doesn’t have a pouting face, but he sure can stew with the best of them, and how can he tell Becca that he’s mad because he randomly told a stranger that he liked his kid and the stranger didn’t immediately ask Bucky to move in and mother the goddamn child?

Rachel decides she’s not bisexual, at least not currently, and goes on mooning over Russian Sasha. Abigail gets past a test at school and wins a photography contest that has her walking on cloud nine and calling Bucky to explain again how she just knew the lighting was a godsend the moment she saw it, and yes, the judges said it was the skillful angles that got her the prize.

Bucky is about ready to wash his hands of everything in life when he happens upon Steve Rogers of 206 holding about eight grocery bags and coughing on the stairway.

Jaime is strapped to his back, and making scratchy noises like he’s copying his dad, because that’s what you do when you climb stairs holding half a restaurant’s menu.

“So,” Bucky calls from the landing below, enjoying the way Steve’s shoulders immediately try to run up the stairs without the rest of him, “Is asking for help against your religion or something? You Catholic?”

Steve marches up to the top and then turns, facing Bucky like he’s ready to throw a punch despite the baby and cartons of orange juice. “As a matter of fact I am, not that it’s any of your business.”

Bucky follows him and smirks. “Should’ve guessed. Give me one of your bags, moron.”

It’s the wrong thing to say apparently; Steve’s ears go red and his eyes go wide and angry and he spins on his heel and stomps down the hall to his door, where he resolutely fumbles with his key while Not looking at Bucky. He slams the door too.

Well. Two can slam, but Bucky’s a bigger man. He shuts his door quietly, to prove that he can. He bets that fucker didn’t even have his goddamn inhaler on him.

When Bucky goes out later for the mail, there’s a box of cookies on his doorstep, and it’s been drawn on with sharpie. Sorry. Take this shitty excuse of an apology; now you have cookies. It’s maybe the funniest not apologetic apology Bucky has ever received.

The next time he’s out walking, he buys a couple inhalers and leaves one right inside his front door.

He writes two thousand words in his document one day and celebrates by actually going out to get a drink and have a good time. Look at Bucky, he’s a functional writer and human being to boot. Predictably, he writes absolutely nothing the next five days.

Then he dreams of bullets and shrapnel and Gabe’s blood cooling on his hands and spends half an hour sitting at his table remembering how to breathe.

He can still hear it; the loud bang of explosions and the smell of the smoke that means you can’t tell if the explosions are theirs or theirs and—someone is actually banging something somewhere.

Bucky stands up and unlocks his front door. No one’s knocking, but if he sticks his head out, he can see someone knocking diagonally across the hall. It’s an older man in a bathrobe, and when the door opens, he barks, “Can you keep it down? Some of us are trying to sleep, you know!”

Steve looks like he just rolled out of bed or maybe a clothes dryer. Jaime is wailing on his shoulder, little head frantically shaking back and forth like he’s refusing life itself. “Sorry we disturbed you,” Steve says, remarkably calm and even. “I’ll do my best.”

He's got glasses on, rounded modern frames that make his eyes larger and luminous in the bright lights of the hallway.

“You’re being really loud,” the bathrobe man points out needlessly.

“He’s a baby,” Steve says, and there’s the tension bleeding into his voice. “Sometimes he’s loud. I’m sorry, sir.”

The man in the bathrobe raises his hand and Bucky finds himself over there, gently taking the man’s hand and shaking it. Stopping himself from yanking hard and getting him in a headlock, searching him for extra weapons. No, no, no, stand down, Barnes.

“Nice to meetcha,” he says instead, grip hard. “And you are?”

The bathrobe man huffs and pulls; Bucky lets him go. He stomps to the staircase and disappears with a huff. Jaime stops crying and stares at Bucky with large watery eyes.

“Havin’ a bad night, lil fella?” Bucky says kindly, finding it easier to talk to him than explain himself to Steve. “Me too. Some nights are just like that, aren’t they. It’ll pass, at least that’s what my ma tells me.”

It’s grounding, seeing the kid. Like reminding himself where he is, who he is. There were no babies over There, no big blue eyes watching Bucky like he was the most interesting thing in the world. Bucky finally drags his gaze up and grimaces at Steve.

“Sorry I butted in.”

Steve holds his gaze for a beat longer, and then huffs out a small smile, looking away down the hallway. “You like a national champion at that?”

“Goin’ for the worlds,” Bucky fires out, whip fast. “Olympic gold medal is what I got my sights on, but I gotta refine my nosiness. It’s not quite up to snuff.”

“If anyone could go further, higher, and farther, it’d be you,” Steve retorts, one eyebrow creeping up.

Bucky grins at him. Runs a hand through his short hair, likely making the back stick up almost as bad as Steve’s. After a moment, Steve rolls his eyes, pushes his glasses back up, and smiles back. Jaime’s still staring.

Steve seems to come to a decision, and opens his door. “So, you’re good at babysitting, butting in, and jokes. You know anything about teething?”

“Sure,” Bucky says, mind racing through everything in that file. “He’s about the right age—six months or so. Front bottom ones, right?”

Steve’s apartment is dim, only light coming out of the bathroom off the main living area. The place is laid out similar to Bucky’s, with the kitchen on the left, table on the right, and large living space behind. Where Bucky has his desk set up in his place, is a colorful mat littered with toys and small books. There’s a tiny pair of socks on the back of the couch.

Jaime lets out another fretful wail. “I know, baby,” Steve says wearily, walking into the kitchen and filling a glass from the tap. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Bucky leans against the counter. “You got any teething rings?” he asks quietly.

Steve turns around and hands Bucky the water. “Like the chewy ones? I think so.”

“The ones you can freeze.” Bucky can tell from Steve’s frown that he hasn’t, so Bucky pulls out his phone to order some immediately. “My parents have amazon prime, so I’ll get some here tomorrow morning, okay? In the meantime, let’s chill a washcloth or somethin’.”

Steve goes looking for one, coming back from the bathroom and handing the cloth to Bucky. Bucky wets it at the sink and then sticks it in Steve’s freezer.

“You get any sleep tonight at all?” he asks, watching Jaime clutch at the fabric of Steve’s shirt.

Steve runs his hand up and down the baby’s back. “I think I got two hours in. I’m sorry we disturbed you—”

Bucky waves his metal hand at him. “Nah, I was up already, that’s how I heard. This arm ain’t the only thing I brought back with me.”

Steve nods, brow furrowed. “I get ‘em too, sometimes. Nightmares. Ones where I can’t breathe right and my ma’s tryin’ to talk to me and I can’t hear her…” he ducks his head and presses a kiss on Jaime’s hair. “Even after things are better, I still remember far too much.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Yeah.”

After a little while, they take the cold washcloth out and give it to Jaime to gnaw on, and it seems to help a little bit. Steve takes him over to the couch and the poor guy falls asleep right alongside his kid, both of their breathing going slow and steady, blond heads tipped together. Bucky stays as long as can be allowed without being a total creep, and then quietly lets himself out.

His own apartment is dark in a different way, and it crawls under his shoulder blades and sits there, heavy enough to press him down into bed.

Bucky’s apartment isn’t really close enough to Steve’s that he can hear Jaime crying on a normal day. This is unfortunate for many reasons.

He can’t tell when Steve needs help. Steve won’t ask for it, the moron, so it’s up to Bucky to figure it out himself. He can’t tell when they’re awake in the middle of the night too, and maybe they want company as badly as he does. He can’t tell when the other neighbors below and next to Steve that can hear Jaime crying complain about it. Bucky doesn’t mind crying—he’s used to it, for fuck’s sake. He sure does mind useless complaining though.

Is he fixating? Maybe. He texts Becca to ask her in a really vague way and receives at grumpy cat meme in return. She didn’t say yes, so he continues. The teething rings do seem to help, even if they bring a stern Steve over with twenty dollars, demanding that Bucky take the money.

Bucky retaliates by buying Jaime a one piece outfit covered in pandas.

“Stop it,” Steve says, cornering Bucky in the mailroom.

He’s leaning against the boxes, arm up, trying for intimidating. It’s pretty good; Bucky barely manages to keep a hold on his reflexes. Jaime’s on his back in the carrier as usual, but even with him, Steve’s a menacing sight. All height and leather jacket and sharp jaw. Bucky smacks himself mentally.

“Stop what?”

Steve follows him down the row. “You know damn well what.”

Bucky finds his box and opens it with the tiny key. Not much; just bills. “Not if you don’t tell it to me.”

“Buying us things.” Steve sounds mad enough to spit. “I don’t want—”

“I can’t give my neighbors a gift?” Bucky asks, going for a strong offense. He’s guessing the way forward when Steve gets like this is to throw him off, confuse him, give him more to pick over. “I can’t make my own decisions for the first time in a long while, make my own decisions about what I want to do?”

It works. Steve inhales, takes a step back. “No, of course you can—”

“Then if I want to buy your kid a onesie, I’m fuckin’ gonna.” Bucky slams his mailbox shut aggressively and raises his eyebrows, pleased to see Steve looking a little thrown off. “Fuck off, Steve.”

It’s the end of it for another two weeks. In that time, Bucky notices a lack of bibs, bath toys, and a second carrier. So, he fixes it, simple as that. It’s when Steve’s unpacking the carrier, the sling—one long piece of fabric designed to cradle the baby close to the chest—that he blows up again.

“Bucky goddammit, how much did this cost?”

Bucky looks up from where he’s tickling Jaime. “I dunno, I got it on sale.” He’s very proud of himself, the carrier was an excellent deal. Overnight, it feels like, Bucky has gotten very knowledgeable about baby carriers and the new styles versus the old fabric and the made in chinas versus the specially embroidered.

“Stop buying me things,” Steve yells.

Jaime curls into Bucky’s chest and watches him. Bucky takes a deep breath and looks up at Steve. “Steve—”

“I can take care of us all by myself,” Steve explains explosively, big hands gesturing wildly. “And you think you can waltz in here and take care of everything—well, no one asked you to and no one wants you to!”

“I’m not trying to take care of—”

Steve cuts him off. “I don’t want your charity!”

Bucky is very aware of the baby, of the tiny human in his arms. If not for Jaime, Bucky would push his chair back with a harsh noise and stomp out, stomp out and kick something maybe. God, Steve is the most aggravating, pig headed, stubborn—

And Bucky is holding his baby, his tiny baby whose tiny fists are clenched tightly around a piece of Bucky’s shirt.

“I’m not trying to butt in,” Bucky says, keeping his voice low. “I would never try that. I just—look. Let me babysit, babysit for real, every day. And in exchange, I buy you a new set of socks so your kid can have tons of socks.”

Steve tightens his jaw and looks down at Jaime. Jaime’s watching him, eyes wide and fearful, still holding on to Bucky. Bucky feels awful about that; a highlighted pointer to Steve’s you think you can waltz in and take care of everything. Bucky does try to take care of everything. It’s how he’s always been; oldest of four, bossy mcbossy. Maybe he owes Steve an apology.

“Steve—” Bucky stands up and untangles Jaime’s hands. “I’m sorry. I do butt in a lot—I know that. I just met you, for god’s sake. Here—”

Jaime goes willingly but immediately whips his head around to stare back at Bucky. Steve’s face changes from irritated to the same big eyed confusion. It’s a little blinding, being the cause of all that forlornness.

“I’m sorry about the overstepping,” Bucky says, trying not to wring his hands together. Because Steve’s right, but he’s something else, him and his kid and Bucky maybe really enjoys the tiny bit of contact with them he has, and he doesn’t want to lose it for god’s sake. He’s sorry, he is. “I didn’t mean—”

“Wait a minute,” Steve interrupts. “How is it a fair exchange of you babysitting and also buying him things? Where in there do you get compensated for working? What the fuck?”

Bucky laughs—he can’t help it. It made sense in his head, Steve doesn’t want Bucky to buy things, so in exchange for helping out, Bucky can buy whatever he wants. “If you let me—”

“I don’t even need a babysitter,” Steve continues, pointing a finger at Bucky. “I need a good couch to sleep on when I’m inevitably evicted. So, unless you got a good couch hidin’ out somewhere—”

“Hey,” Bucky says. “You’re gonna damn well need one when you land your artist job. What are you gonna do with Jaime all day? Bring him along and have him knock over your brushes? Your…turpentine? Your…um…paint cans?”

Steve cracks a smile and then looks pissed at Bucky for being the cause. He’s not mad anymore though. He’s not going to kick Bucky out. Yet.

“You think I’m gonna leave my kid with you, you crazy man? You think I want him pickin’ up how to butt in and offer shit advice?”

Bucky relaxes in his chair. “I dunno, he’s doin’ alright here with you as a role model, dumbass.”

“You’d babysit him here?” Steve asks, all businesslike. They’re bargaining, they’re bargaining, it’s happening. Bucky feels like maybe he’s suffering from whiplash. Or maybe that’s just what it’s like around Steve Rogers. Bucky’s getting a bit of an inkling.

“All day,” he reminds. “Whatever hours you want—whenever you got home from work. We’d work out a schedule, make sure everything was happening the way you wanted it to. I’d call if there was a real problem. The minute there was a real problem.”

“I’m gonna pay you,” Steve says without any room for bargaining there. “I don’t wanna hear your arguments; you don’t have a job right now either and if you want one you gotta be ready for all the conditions, one of which is getting paid.”

Bucky bites back his next words: with what money, you complete meatball? Steve wouldn’t appreciate them, to say the least. “Five an hour.”

“Minimum wage at the least,” Steve says, outraged at the very thought. Jaime makes a loud indignant noise back at him, looking up hopefully. Steve looks down at him and nods. “Minimum wage at the least, isn’t that right, Jaime?”

Jaime grins and claps his hands together, seemingly relieved the fight has dialed down. Bucky can’t help but smile back. “Fine. Ten.”

“Minimum wage here is $12.75,” Steve sniffs. “And I said at the very least.”

Bucky stares at him. Steve is smiling just the slightest bit at one corner of his mouth, like he’s got Bucky’s number well and good. Jaime stretches out his little hands, reaching for Bucky’s gaping face.

Steve rolls his eyes and forks him over. Jaime promptly drools on to Bucky’s shoulder. “We got a deal, Barnes? I get my job, you get yours.”

Bucky’s not done, not in a long while, but Steve doesn’t need to know that. “Deal.”

Steve hears back from his magazine a few days later, and Bucky hears from Steve a few minutes after that, and to his utter shock and amazement, the magazine wants Steve to work for them.

“They said they like my work,” Steve repeats for the billionth time, sounding like he can’t quite believe it if he doesn’t tell Bucky whenever he forgets.

Bucky balances the phone on his shoulder and stirs the vegetables in his frying pan. “Of course they do, Steve.”

“You haven’t even seen anything of mine,” Steve says petulantly. “You’re just saying that.”

“Well then show me.” Bucky dices garlic and removes the vegetables. “Show me your work. I swear I’ll give you a full review in return.”

Steve makes a rude sound and hangs up. Bucky guesses that means he’s got a job too now.

He reports for duty early the next morning, going all out in getting up early, teeth brushing and breakfast fixing and even styles his hair a tiny bit—gotta look alright for first impressions, okay?—and makes it to the front door before realizing he’s lost his marbles and he simply can’t go barging across the hall like he knows what he’s doing.

Hey, he texts Steve quickly, something calm and normal to disguise the fact that he’s breathing heavily from putting his feet in his sneakers too fast. We starting today? I’m flexible, let me know. It is, he thinks, a most calm and normal text.

Steve answers back a minute later, that’d be great, thank you, and Bucky’s at his door before he can finish reading it.

Steve opens the door and lets him kick off his shoes and go in to find Jaime at the kitchen table. The kid’s sitting on top of the table in some round sort of foam seat with little holes for his legs to poke out.

“What the hell are you wearing?” Bucky asks, trying not to be too judgmental sounding.

“It’s called a Bumbo,” Steve says, voice pinched at having to say bumbo with a straight face. “For obvious reasons.”

Bucky turns back to Jaime. “Well, it’s super cool. Very hip. I hear all the kids are wild for these things nowadays.”

“He’s too little for a highchair,” Steve says defensively, running around the kitchen. “And this way he can be right there—it’s immersive, you know? And it was a gift from his grandparents, I didn’t pay a dime for it, which was really the reason I kept it.”

Bucky laughs. “It’s fine, Rogers, I’m not gonna tell you how to parent your kid. They didn’t have these things when my sisters were little, that’s all. He looks very distinguished.”

They turn and look at Jaime, who is slurping loudly on a very soggy cracker.

“So,” Bucky says. “His grandparents, huh?”

Steve’s pouring milk in a sippy cup. “Yeah. His mom’s folks don’t live nearby, and they try to make up for it by sending cards and gifts when they can.” He sounds slightly bitter about it, and Bucky forces himself not to poke. Better to save that for day two.

“None on your side?” he asks instead.

“Nope.” Steve says, sliding the milk across the counter to Bucky. “My mom died five years ago.”

Yikes, whoops, back up, Bucky-you-butt. “That must be hard,” he says, mind frantically vetting responses too dumb, too naive, too insincere. “To have had them miss each other like that. I’m sure she would’ve loved him.”

Steve looks back at him steadily. “Yeah,” he says softly. Then, “God, I’m gonna be late, thank you again for this, I’ll be back around five, is that okay?” he barely waits for Bucky’s assurance. “Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge, text me if you have any questions, and call me if there’s any real problem, I’ll drop everything and come home. Okay? Okay.”

He makes it to the door and freezes, staring at the wood. His bag is over his shoulder, and the strap looks taut enough to kill.

Bucky walks over and gently spins him around. His eyes are a little too wide, knuckles white around the shoulder strap. “Hey, pal,” Bucky says. Keeps it all low and simple. “You’re gonna be fine. You’re gonna blow ‘em out of the water. Go on.”

“Okay,” Steve repeats, voice rough. “Thanks, Bucky.”

“See you at five,” Bucky replies, and shoves him out the door.

The first day goes fine. In fact, it goes so well that Bucky doesn’t even notice time passing, like time just stops in the Rogers apartment. Jaime and he play blocks and then they color with huge chunky crayons—of course, Steve the artist got crayons for his son who can barely scribble—and they line up stackable cups and knock them over. Jaime and Bucky drink some milk together, they explore the vast and climbable regions of the couch, and they have naptime in a sunny spot on the rug.

Bucky can’t really believe the whole day’s gone by. He’s lying on the floor and there’s a grinning, mumbling baby reaching out for his nose.

“You like that?” Bucky asks, grinning so hard his face might split in half. “Yeah, I get good reviews on the old honker—it’s my dad’s nose, and he used to be quite the looker, so they say. Your nose ain’t so bad either, little fella—”

“It’s his mom’s, thank God,” Steve says from above and to the right.

Bucky rolls over, alarmed. “You’re back! Is everything okay?”

Jaime, mad about the nose near his grasp disappearing, kicks out at Bucky and lets out a stream of gibberish. Steve smiles. “It’s five,” he says.

“It’s five?” Bucky repeats, turning back to Jaime so he can get control over his face before he lets it show how bummed he is. “Should we trust the fella with the crooked nose, Jaime?”

“How dare you,” Steve says, muffled as he walks further away, over to the fridge. “I’d like to see you reset a broken nose any better.”

Bucky tickles Jaime on the stomach. “Broken, broken?” he sings. Jaime rewards him with a huge smile, his new teeth poking up adorably. “How the fuck did you break it?” he calls over his shoulder.

“Which time,” Steve says absently.

Bucky sits up. “You’ve broken it more than once?”

“Four times.”

“Four times?” Bucky doesn’t even know how he’d do that if he was trying. Four times, what was Steve in the NFL? “How?”

Steve lists off on his fingers. “One, someone pushed me into a wall. Two, runaway baseball. Three, tripped at a protest and hit the curb. Four, someone punched me.”

Bucky jerks his head back, reeling. “You play baseball? You protest? Wait, who the fuck punched you into a wall?”

Jaime makes an irritated grunt and reaches for Bucky to lie back down.

“Wait a second, kid, I’m just askin’ your dad why he doesn’t fuckin know how to walk around without blowing his nose off.”

“I played ball as a kid,” Steve says dismissively. “Or tried to, anyways. Let’s just say it’s good my ma was a nurse. And the protest wasn’t much—it was some stupid neo nazi bullshit. I punched someone and then they shoved me and down I went.”

Bucky widens his eyes, shooting Jaime a look. “What the fuck? Some random dude pushed you down just like that?”

Steve comes over, plops on the couch armrest. “I didn’t always look like this. Was scrawny and short for most of my life. Late growth spurt and too much time at the gym during college and here I am.” He spreads his arms ruefully, as though everyone and their mom aren’t saying prayers of thanks to late growth spurts and workout tendencies.

“And?”

Steve frowns. “And people beat up on people smaller than them. People different and uncool, and…people who maybe yell at them.”

Bucky wishes he could picture it, all that Steve in half the container. “I wouldn’t’ve beaten on you, if I’d known you.”

“I know,” Steve says, offering him a small smile. “I don’t think you’ve ever beat up anyone, no matter who they are.”

“Well, I have shot people,” Bucky says quickly. “But—”

Steve says, “That’s different,” like it is, like he can make some silly distinction. Bucky lets it slide.

“I’ll get outta your hair,” he says, tearing himself away from the baby on the floor. “Did your first day go well?”

Steve beams. “Oh—yeah. Yeah, it did. I met some coworkers, and they seem really nice. And my boss isn’t too bossy. Yeah, it was a good day. I start illustrating tomorrow.”

He follows Bucky to the door and hands him an envelope.

“Thanks,” Bucky says, even though he hates taking the money. He should be paying Steve for letting him hang out with the kid. “See you tomorrow.”

“See ya,” Steve says, holding on to the door handle. “Same time, if it works for you.”

Bucky says, “Okay.”

Steve says, “Okay.”

After another shared awkward smile, Steve closes the door, leaving Bucky in the hallway. For a moment, Bucky’s chest contracts horribly, and he rests his forehead on the door. Ever fiber in his body wants to bang on the polished wood, beg Steve to let him back in, curl up on the floor with Jaime, make dinner and sleep on the vast and climbable couch. He doesn’t think he can bear walking back and letting himself into his dark and empty apartment. He doesn’t think he can—

Forcing himself upright, he waits a moment longer, like maybe Steve will open the door back up and tell him he forgot something, and Bucky will say Yeah, my lungs, I think, thanks.

Steve doesn’t open the door, and Bucky walks across the hall, thumbing open his phone. “Hi, Mom?” he says. “You home? Can I come over?”

October passes by in orange leaves littering the sidewalk and frequent rainstorms sweeping them away. Bucky forces himself to go on early walks, and between babysitting Jaime and writing, his days fill up pretty quickly. It’s something else, spending all day in Steve’s apartment with a delicious and wonderful baby, to go home and whip up dinner and write till bedtime.

Steve starts teaching Jaime simple sign language, things like more, or toilet. He seems to think it will have a positive effect, open communication lines. Jaime refuses to learn with a stubborn streak that rivals his dad. Bucky places a bet with himself that it’ll be a whole three weeks before one of them gives an inch.

Bucky has monthly psychiatry appointments that they made him sign up for, and the therapist that normally spends the entire time asking if he’s talking to anyone outside his family remarks on his mood seeming better, and is he finally taking her advice on talking to some strangers? Bucky tells her to fuck off, and she writes that down on her silly little clipboard.

Bucky brings her flowers the day after, feeling bad about that fuck off, and the look on her face makes it doubly worth it.

There’s a new schedule now, a new routine, and it’s a good one. Even if Bucky wishes it was a little different, wishes he could stop trekking back across the hall at five each day, wishes he could stay and make Steve dinner. That’s just his loneliness talking, and well, he’s working on it.

Steve has friends over on the weekends sometimes. Bucky knows this not because he’s the type to peek through his door like a stalker, but because…he peeks. Fine. Sue him. There’s a redheaded woman who immediately grates on Bucky’s nerves because she moves like she kills babies and then eats them, and if she harms a hair on Jaime’s head…there’s also the black guy and his friend, and a couple kids a few years younger than Steve too—maybe his coworkers?

Bucky facetimes Becca those nights, fills his space up with jokes and fun too.

Abigail calls one Friday while Bucky’s cleaning the dishes Steve left in the sink with Jaime strapped to his front.

“Hello, this is Bucky, what do you want?” he says, applying some real elbow grease to the frying pan. Jaime is singing, delighted by the vibrations made when Bucky shakes particularly hard.

“Bucky?” and she sounds scared, and Bucky drops the brush immediately.

“What is it, are you okay? Is someone hurt?”

Abigail exhales loudly. “We missed the subway and the next one’s delayed and Rachel is crying about something, and I don’t know what to do.”

Bucky wipes his hands off and moves toward the door. “Where are you?”

“Kensington Church Avenue.”

“Okay, I can be there in ten minutes. Are you and Rachel somewhere you can wait till then?”

There’s the sound of muffled talking and then, “Oh, Rachel’s not with me, she’s texting me and crying. She was out with friends, and I guess she made it home, but something’s wrong. And Mom went to visit Becca for the afternoon, remember? Can you call Rachel while you’re picking me up? Oh shit—” where the fuck Abigail learned that Bucky has no clue. “—Is it a good day?”

Rolling his eyes, Bucky jams his feet into his shoes, swipes Jaime’s jacket off the wall and slips out into the hallway. “Yes, thank you, Abigail,” he says pointedly. “It’s a great day, because one of my sisters is having a tantrum, and the other has got herself marooned on the public transit.”

“Such is life,” Abigail sings, back to being obnoxious. “Okay, hang up on me and call Rachel. I’ll wait for you at the top of the steps.”

Luckily it’s not raining; if it was, Bucky was going to charge Abigail for this. Come to think of it, what is he doing? She’s not in imminent danger of dying, she has two working legs, she knows where he lives, dammit, she can do the walking. When Bucky was fifteen, he was running all over the borough himself. Stupid spoiled youngest kid, doesn’t even know how to metro home from school.

“Rachel, are you dying?” he says when she picks up. Jaime finds his foot near his face and decides to try licking it. Bucky is surrounded by morons. “Does that taste good, you freak? Does it really? When was the last time you had a bath, huh?” Jaime grins up at him, little teeth poking up and he’s so adorable Bucky snaps a quick picture to send to his dad.

“Are you talking to a dog on my precious cell time?” Rachel asks, and yep, she definitely sounds sniffly. “Really, you too, Brutus?”

“Don’t pretend to be all witty and Latin and shit,” Bucky scoffs, waiting impatiently for a light to turn green. Should he just jaywalk? He doesn’t remember what his mom did when Abigail was little. Is it really bad to jaywalk in front of a kid? “What’s the matter, Abigail said you were upset and home alone.”

Rachel makes a rude noise. Oy, Bucky’s in for it. “You live alone and you’re always grumpy and annoying, and no one gives you any shit about it cause you’re some dumb hero. But if I do anything, everyone’s gotta jump on me—I told Abigail not to tell anyone!”

“Hey,” Bucky says sharply, sending Jaime a smile to let him know he’s not the cause. “Back up there, Barnes, I’m gonna let you off because I know you didn’t mean all that. And you should know not to tell Abigail anything you don’t want passed around.”

A woman passing him eyeballs him appreciatively. Maybe because Bucky is wearing the sling carrier like a pro. Or cause Jaime’s chewing on his toes like there’s no tomorrow.

Rachel says, “Sasha broke up with me.”

Bucky says, “You were dating Sasha? I thought he didn’t know you existed.”

“Someone else is tattling on me?” Rachel wails, and shit, Bucky can’t expose Becca like this, he can’t.

“I am the eldest sibling,” he says sternly, scattering pigeons as he powerwalks past a Starbucks and a bank. “I know everything, Ray.”

Rachel sighs. “I was dating Sasha and then he broke up with me. Everything’s shit, Bucky. I just want to go to sleep and never come back ever again.”

Dramatic, but understandable. God knows Bucky feels that way sometimes. He sidesteps a couple watching a busker and crosses another street. “I’m sorry I’m not there to give you ice cream behind Mom’s back.”

“I just—” Rachel says, and then she’s off to the races, crying into the phone while Bucky navigates to his other sister stuck in the middle of the city with a baby strapped to his chest.

Life is just a peach.

At least Bucky had recently changed Jaime’s diaper before foolishly running out of the house without a single supply. Steve must never find out about this. Bucky resolves to stock Steve’s pantry behind his back as an apology for being an absentminded babysitter. And also so he can give back all the money Steve’s intent on giving him.

“That really sucks,” Bucky says sympathetically into the phone. “I’m so sorry, Ray.”

Jaime points to something; Bucky looks up.

“Airplane,” he says. “Airplane, Jaime.”

Jaime doesn’t say anything back. The kid still won’t sign either.

“I really liked him, Bucky,” Rachel sobs. “I thought he was really special.”

Bucky’s heart cracks open, and his head almost follows as some food deliver guy on a bike swerves on to the sidewalk and zips past. “Watch where you’re goin’, fuckin’ dick!” he yells. “God, Ray, I know, I know you did. You wanna come over tonight, you’re welcome, okay? I know anythin’ anyone says ain’t gonna be much comfort, but I got a couch and tv shows. Okay?”

“Okay,” she says, and then she just breathes a little.

“Bucky!” Abigail calls, running over from the subway stairs. “What the hell is that?”

Bucky looks down and sees nothing beyond Jaime’s fair hair. “Did I step in something?”

“Mom just got home, bye, Bucky,” Rachel says in his ear, before the telltale click of her hanging up.

“The baby?” Abigail squawks, eyes bugging out. “Did you get pregnant and not tell anyone?”

Bucky rolls his eyes and they start back the way he’d come, Abigail keeping a suspicious frown directed toward Jaime. “Are you learning anything at school, you moron? No, I wasn’t pregnant, I am a queer man, Abigail.”

“He doesn’t look anything like us,” she agrees, now sticking her nose right into Jaime’s business like she’d better make sure he isn’t hiding dark curls and squinty eyes underneath what he’s got. Jaime spots her ponytail and swipes out for it.

She dodges back and then narrows her eyes at Bucky. “He’s nearly as grabby as you though. Are you sure he isn’t yours? You look very…” she pauses, shivers and says, “Fatherly.”

“I’m babysitting,” Bucky explains wearily, gently sticking Jaime’s hands back inside the sling. “And in the middle of it, my kid sister called and said she was lost and confused.”

“Sorry.”

“And my other sister’s crying over a fuckin’ Russian.”

Abigail says, “It’s not my fault I wasn’t born with the sense of direction gene. And Ray’s bad taste in men isn’t my fault either. And neither is the fact that you apparently got a job finally and didn’t tell anyone—do you know how long Mom’s wanted that?”

Bucky sticks his arm out to keep her from walking into a speeding taxi. “It’s not a real job.”

“Wow, okay boomer.”

Bucky glares at her. “I’m just saying, that Mom’s not gonna be super impressed her son is carryin’ around a baby for a living.”

“It’s not about a living, the army gave you plenty of money to live off of, if you don’t eat every few days,” Abigail says reasonably, pushing the button for the crosswalk. “It’s about you having real human contact with someone that isn’t a Barnes. And Bucky, she’s not exactly gonna be surprised. Babysitting is what you do.”

Bucky stares at her incredulously.

“It is,” she protests. “You’re babysitting me, kinda. And Ray, from across town. And we don’t live together anymore, so it’s definitely babysitting. You’re maybe only good at babysitting, and writing. And uh—guns,” she finishes, looking guilty.

“Guns is fine,” Bucky says flatly, yanking her across the crosswalk. “I’m not gonna shrivel up and cry if you mention automatic weapons.”

It’s nice of her, in some backwards twisted sibling way. It’s a compliment somewhere, buried underneath all the rest of the crap. And the cat’s out of the bag, as far as Jaime. Now that Abigail knows, as soon as she’s out of Bucky’s sight, he can just about guarantee that his entire family will, and probably even that couple Scott and Luis who live next door to them.

“Too bad you can’t just like, marry the baby’s dad or mom,” Abigail says thoughtfully. “That’d really tie it all together, ya know?”

“Too far,” Bucky says, cuffing her on the head and trying not to let Jaime see him redden. This was definitely too far, too far, too invasive and creepy. Too far. “Do yourself a favor, Beebee, and shut up.”

Abigail goes to hit him, remembers Jaime, and puts her hand down. “Shut up yourself, Buckywucky.” Maybe Bucky should ask Steve if he can rent Jaime for family gatherings in the future.

Abigail hangs out in Bucky’s apartment for the rest of the afternoon and he takes Jaime back to Steve’s. At five, Steve comes home, takes his kid and hands Bucky the weekly pay. Bucky purses his lips and takes it, giving Steve a salute on the way out.

Abigail’s in his bathtub.

“Why.” Bucky says, banging his face into the door.

“Your tub is nicer than ours,” she explains, sounding like their mother. “And the door locks. Do you know how long it’s been since I had a bath?”

Bucky groans and leaves her to it. “That’s because no one grows past ten and still takes baths. The water costs alone—”

“Go be a prude somewhere else!”

Bucky decides to make dinner very aggressively, and if Abigail asks to stay, he’s going to hem and haw and point out all the reasons she shouldn’t before saying yes. She has to work for it.

The next day, Bucky receives no less than eight facetime requests. He only has five other family members, so this kind of behavior is truly disgusting. He’s busy, so he ignores them; Jaime is trying to climb the couch again.

Hours later, his mom is the eighth and final call—fed up, Bucky answers it. “What the hell is wrong with you all!”

“God forbid a woman check on her son,” his mother replies immediately, glint in her eyes.

“I literally was at your house half a week ago, Ma.”

“And I love you very much. Now where’s this baby I’m hearing about.”

Abigail, peeking over her mother’s shoulder, looks sheepish. Rachel, hiding any remaining signs of tears behind thick winged eyeliner, sneaks a look in too. They’re all of them freaks.

“Maybe the Barnes family should just open a daycare,” Bucky says scathingly.

Mrs. Barnes shakes her finger at him. “I know my son isn’t sassing me so early in the day.”

“It’s noon,” Bucky complains. “This is why I moved out, dammit.”

He’d moved out because he’d come back home and everything had felt jarring and slightly off of where it had been when he’d left, and he woke up crying some nights, and what kind of sister wants to hear their perfect older brother crying in the bathroom at 3am? He’d moved out because he needed a different kind of schedule, and then with Becca living at school Rachel and Abigail could have their own rooms. He’d moved out because he was fucking twenty seven and didn’t need to be hanging around taking advantage of his parents’ good nature.

“Where’s the baby,” his mother asks, because she has her priorities straight.

“Napping,” Bucky retorts. “And no, you can’t see him, because if you wake him up with your freakish cooing, you will hear my cursing from across the borough.”

Winnifred makes shooing motions to her daughters and once they disappear out of the screen, turns back to Bucky. “Honey, I’m sure you don’t want to hear it, but I’m very happy you’re getting out and making friends and commitments again.”

Bucky doesn’t want to hear it, but he hears how much she wants to say it. “Thanks, Mom.”

“How did you get this gig?” she asks, and what is he supposed to say? Oh, met the neighbor during an emergency and the practically foisted myself on him till he gave in?

“Neighbor,” Bucky ends up with, giving her a one armed shrug. “Went back to work and needed childcare.”

His mother grins like a shark. “Are they single?”

“Ma,” Bucky complains. “I’ll hang up, you know I will.”

“I’m sorry, baby, I’ll stop.” She exhales and just watches him through the screen. “I’m just proud of you. That’s all.” She squints at something over his shoulder. “Mets poster hmm? Glad your employer has good taste at least. Although the lack of food around the counters is concerning.”

“Mom!” Bucky angles his phone away from the kitchen. Even if she’s right about both those things, it doesn’t give her the right—“I’m going to hang up now. Good bye.”

She doesn’t go down without a fight. “Bring the baby to Thanksgiving, you ungrateful butt!”

Bucky hangs up forcefully, tapping the little red icon with enough force to almost crack his screen. Then he turns over his shoulder and stares at the kitchen. Now that his mother has pointed it out…it’s obvious. At home, at the Barnes home, there’s jars of sugar and flour, and the pantry overflows out on to the butcher block, bread and cracker boxes shoved to the side and forgotten. There’s a fruit bowl, someone’s leftovers, and three bottles out at any given time.

All Steve has is one bottle of olive oil, salt and pepper, and a few apples. It’s not military neatness either, Bucky’s familiar with that. It’s something else.

He wants to make some food in this kitchen. Could leave it for Steve to eat for dinner—what does Steve eat for dinner anyway? Quietly, Bucky opens the fridge. Bare minimum; milk, cheese, eggs, a few vegetables. There’s bread in a cupboard, and three jars of peanut butter. It’s the peanut butter that has Bucky worried. He’s gone through days where all he ate was peanut butter—is that what Steve’s eating? What he’s feeding Jaime?

Bucky runs over and peeks on Jaime. He’s still passed out in Steve’s room, all rolled up like a blanket burrito. Pausing to smile over how adorable that is, Bucky contemplates the ethics of leaving him alone for a brief minute while he runs across the hall.

He can wait till the kid wakes up. He can…take stock of Steve’s pantry and order him more groceries while he waits.

Jaime wakes up a little while later, and Bucky hears him start to move around so he makes it to the door in time to see a fluffy blond head poke out of the mess of blankets. Jaime blinks confusedly and then catches sight of Bucky and breaks into a grin. “Abububbubububababaa,” he says, voice still foggy with sleep.

It takes every single bit of willpower in Bucky’s body to keep him from launching himself up to snuggle him. Steve’s bed, Steve’s bed, he reminds himself. Don’t be weird, Barnes. “Hi, bub,” he says instead, sitting on the edge and scooping up the baby. “Did you have good dreams?”

Jaime plops his head down on Bucky’s shoulder and blows raspberries, hot breath fanning across Bucky’s neck. God, Bucky loves this kid so much. Too much. He’s just the babysitter, for fuck’s sake. He sticks Jaime in the sling and goes over to his place for supplies.

There’s a brief pause in the process when Jaime has a truly explosive diaper situation, but nothing can stop Bucky now, and he handles it like a pro, if he does say so himself.

In all, he’s got two meals-worths freezing in the freezer and a third in the oven, when Steve gets home. He’s tired, rubbing his eyes as he shuts the door, and he looks just like his kid. Looking up, he smiles at Bucky and Jaime, dropping his bag on the floor.

“Hi, fellas.” He looks a little confused about the smell wafting through the apartment. “Did you bake something?”

Bucky puffs his chest out and prays for the best. “Made some dinner while I was bored.”

Steve stares blankly. “Out of what?”

“What you had lyin’ around.” Bucky gestures, careful not hit Jaime, safely perched in his Bumbo on the counter. “And a few things I had lyin’ around. It’s not much, but it’s hot.”

“Wow.” Steve kicks his shoes off, the slob. “Jeez, thanks, Buck. Man, Jaime, we got the best babysitter in the whole world, didn’t we?”

Jaime makes grabby hands toward his dad. Bucky lets them say hello, bending over and checking on his casserole. It needs another fifteen minutes or so. Just in time for Steve to set the table.

“I’ll get my stuff,” he says, heart splintering the tiniest bit, watching Steve and Jaime play together under the bright kitchen lights. “I’m sure you—”

“Bucky, are you kidding?” Steve stands up and goes over to the cabinet with the glasses in it. “You made dinner, you hafta stay and eat with us.”

Bucky freezes. “Are you sure?” he gets out, hoping his voice isn’t actually as squeaky as it sounds to him.

“Yes,” Steve says easily, lifting Jaime to one hip. “Duh. You’re our friend too, Buck. Come on, you know where the silverware is, let’s eat.”

Head rolling over that you’re our friend too, Buck, Bucky goes through the motions of setting the table. Nobody had ever tried shortening one of Bucky’s nicknames even farther, but then, Steve had never met a challenge he couldn’t meet. Nobody had ever invited Bucky to a dinner he’d cooked, but then, he’d never really done much cooking for anyone that wasn’t his family before.

Dinner is shockingly nice. Used to the heavy press of awkwardness, Bucky sits down with his shoulders threatening to creep up around his ears, but almost instantly, Steve and Jaime have a fight about going back into the Bumbo, and it’s only natural that Bucky should intervene and distract the baby while Steve sticks him in. After that, there’s not much point in being anxious—if Bucky’s tired of talking, he can make faces at Jaime or get him more milk.

For a while they talk, and Bucky siphons up all the information Steve drops absently, in the same manner he’d kicked his shoes off earlier. Jaime’s mother died, Bucky knows, but he also learns she was English. She and Steve weren’t ever married, and in fact, left things sort of strained at the end.

There’s a picture of her in the living room next to the ones of Jaime and also a smiling blond woman who can only be Steve’s mother.

Tentatively, Bucky asks about it.

“Peggy and I were…” Steve sighs and puts down his fork. “Fighting, for lack of a better word. In the end, we were always fighting. Over our lifestyle, our friendships, each other’s habits…you ever make some dumb decision and then even a year later you just wish you could chop it away you’re so embarrassed and regretful?”

Bucky widens his eyes. “Yeah. That sounds…really rough, Steve, I’m sorry.”

Steve sighs. “It was good for a while, and then I guess I stayed because of some dumb sense of pride. Like, I wouldn’t be the first one to break. Isn’t that just the dumbest thing ever?” he flicks a self deprecating smile Bucky’s way. “We had a serious fight before Jaime was born, and then…at first I was too angry to even look at her picture. But…well, she’s Jaime’s mom, he should know what she looks like.”

“There’s plenty of time,” Bucky assures, catching Jaime’s bottle as it falls to the tabletop. “I’m sure the whole situation is still so raw for you. But you got him out of it, right?”

“God,” Steve says, running a hand over his face. “I know, I know. How can something so wonderful come out of something so bad? I just—” To Bucky’s horror, he shrinks in on himself, folding his arms across his huge chest protectively. “I didn’t exactly come from a close knit, happy family. What if I don’t know how to give him anything good? What if I’m the reason—”

“Hey,” Bucky says, half out of his chair in an instant. “That’s no way to think. You’re already doin’ so much for him. No use beatin’ yourself up for what’s past, come on, Steve.”

Jaime makes an unsure noise, gaze flicking between them both.

“Come here,” Steve says wearily, lifting the baby up and into his lap. “Everything’s okay, pal. You know what?” he says to Bucky, bitterness seeping into his voice, “I read that babies feel grief too, even if they don’t know why. That he’s mourning his mom without even remembering her, and all I can do is be angry.”

Bucky wishes, all of a sudden, that he could throttle this Peggy. Well, not really, he doesn’t even know the woman, but still. Throttle her for causing these two any tiny bit of strife. Throttle her for dying on them. It’s an ugly thought, but Bucky’s shrink told him to let those float by, to acknowledge them and watch them pass.

“I’m just so tired,” Steve says, bowing his head. “And I would never change things, would never wish Jaime away, but I don’t know how to do this, Bucky, I don’t know what I’m doing and I miss my ma so much and I never—”

Bucky moves without thinking, wrapping his arms around Steve and patting wherever his hands land. It’s haphazard, one of his arms around Jaime, one of them tucked between Steve and the back of his chair, but Steve lets himself lean over and buries his face into Bucky’s shoulder. Jaime watches Bucky solemnly, leaning in to be a part of the hug.

“And now what,” Steve says, muffled. “Now he’s got more to grieve over because he can fuckin’ tell when I’m upset. I’m messing up the only important thing.”

Bucky doesn’t trust himself to say the right thing. Instead, he glances at Steve’s almost empty plate, and then lifts, urging Steve up and away from the table. Over to the couch, where he can slump among the pillows and rest.

“You need to tell your boss what you need,” Bucky says, because all this is going nowhere good. “You’re always tired, don’t think I ain’t noticed. You’re workin’ too many hours drawing.”

Steve sighs and lets Jaime bounce on his chest. “It’s not my boss’s fault. Either of them.”

“Either?”

Steve bites his lip and stares up at Bucky through his lashes, like that’ll distract Bucky or something. “Um. Yes?”

Well, no wonder he’s tired. “So, magazine illustration. What’s the other job, construction?”

“It’s part time,” Steve says hastily. “Graphic design for this new company. Just stuff I can do at night, on my computer.”

And between the baby and the late work, how much sleep is this guy even getting? Bucky wants to wrestle him into bed and sit on him, and no, not in that way. God, Steve is gonna push himself to the limit one day, and then where will his kid be? Steve’s a fucking kid himself, and this kind of weight on him…

“Well, you’re not alone,” Bucky says, feeling just as young and confused as ever. “You hear me? You need help with the kid, I can stay late—as late as you want. No extra charge.”

“Bucky—”

“I mean it, Steve.” If he’s not careful, he’ll get angry, at no one in particular, but the world in general. He doesn’t want to get angry. “Okay? I’m your friend, pal. That’s what friends do.”

Steve smiles at him crookedly. He still won’t take Bucky up on his offer, but that’s okay. They’re friends now, friends who have dinner together. Bucky can certainly wiggle his way to the next level of friendship. Which is clearing the table, promising to leave the pans for Steve to clean, because Steve is a pig headed idiot, and then quietly letting himself out and across the hall.

And opening his door a few hours later to see Steve in his pajamas—pajamas, woooooo! a voice inside Bucky’s head screams—Bucky takes in the glasses and the faded blue t-shirt and flannel pants before he sees the twisted annoyance on Steve’s face.

“What?” Bucky asks, irritated to be disturbed in some pajamas of his own—nothing fancy, just sweats. He’s not fond of answering the door shirtless for many reasons, but he knows if he shuts the door Steve will simply punch it down anyways.

“Why is my freezer full of food?”

Bucky decides to play dumb. “Wow, those freezer malfunctions are getting so commonplace these days—that’s what gentrification does to a city, I guess.”

“Bucky.” Steve presses his lips together and Bucky gets the feeling if he’d been wearing a shirt Steve would’ve grabbed him by the collar. Check in the pros of answering the door shirtless. Bucky can collar grab but no one can get him back. “I don’t need—”

Bucky steps forward and sticks his finger in Steve’s face. “No, you know what you need? A proper nights sleep, a day spent entirely with your kid, a homecooked meal, and maybe a hug or two. Do you have time to make a healthy and hearty dinner right now? Do you?”

Steve opens his mouth and then closes it, chin lowering and glare deepening. He knows Bucky’s got him well and good, and he’s pissed.

“Steve—”

“I can’t pay you, and I don’t want—”

Bucky’s insulted. He knows what Steve means, but he’s still insulted, he can’t help it. “Am I a friend of yours, Steve Rogers?”

Steve rears back. “Yes.”

“Am I? Because you’re not actin’ like it.”

Steve sets his jaw. “Fine. But you’re coming to dinner every night then, whether you like it or not.”

Bucky watches him stomp back across the hall and fiddle with his door. He’s not sure who won this round, or why fighting with Steve is so different from any fight he’s ever known. It’s a little like fighting with a sibling, like no matter what’s said they’ll come back the next day and go on. But it’s nothing like the ordeal of a sibling fight. It’s something else.

Thanksgiving is always a big affair at the Barnes house, mostly because Winnifred really appreciates a huge warm meal with her entire family around, and everyone else gets so stuffed with food they can’t complain.

Bucky’s used to Barnes holiday gatherings again, after his first Rosh Hashana back, when there’d been all sorts of drama that ended with him throwing Abigail’s brisket at Becca and hiding in his old room for hours afterwards.

That’d been when the Is it a good day trend had begun, come to think of it.

Bucky’s mother tells him—not invites, but tells—to come around four in the afternoon and to bring whip cream and blackberry jelly. “I’m telling you a week out because I want you to write it down on every available surface and not forget,” she explains over the phone. “And you’re to come over promptly at four. I’m having Becca get potatoes, so remind her for me day of, won’t you?”

And then, the icing on the pie, so to speak, “Are you bringing anyone special?”

“It’s Thanksgiving,” Bucky says, exasperated, rolling his eyes at Jaime who giggles and waves his fists happily. “Can’t I come as I am?”

“At least invite the boys,” his mother says. “I know they’re spread far and wide now, but if they’re nearby. Timothy and Gabe, hmm? And what about that baby of yours?”

Jaime chooses this moment to screech triumphantly, probably because he’s gotten a hold of Bucky’s finger and is chewing on it thoroughly. The teething has only gotten worse lately, if the dark circles under Steve’s eyes and Jaime’s fussiness are any indications.

“Hi baby,” Mrs. Barnes coos even though only Bucky can hear her. “Don’t you wanna come meet Winnie?”

“Ma,” Bucky says. “Please.”

She’s not deterred. It’s ironic, really. Clearly, Bucky didn’t get his nosiness from his dad. “Then give me your neighbor’s number and let me text them myself. What if they have nowhere to go for the holiday?”

This was a real worry of Bucky’s, almost from the beginning of November. He doesn’t want Steve and Jaime at Thanksgiving, mostly because it’s a lot, the Barnes family, but the thought of Steve heating up frozen food or worse, takeout, had him inquiring about this a long time ago.

“He’s going to his in-laws, actually.”

“So, it’s a he!” Winnifred exclaims. “Well, you’ve let the cat out of the bag, what are their names? Give me something, Jaime.”

Bucky grins at Jaime the baby, and receives a slobbery kiss on the finger in return. “Jaime,” he says, and the baby gurgles.

“Yes, what are their names, James,” his mother says impatiently.

“Jaime is his name,” Bucky says. “He’s currently chewing on my right hand. He’s got the second biggest eyes in the world and his hair is the color of white corn silk and god, he knows I’m gonna take care of him and the way he looks at me…it’s the biggest responsibility in the world.”

Winnifred says, “Is that the baby or the father I’m hearing about.”

“Haha,” Bucky says sardonically.

“He sounds wonderful. Of course, I wouldn’t know, since I haven’t m—”

“Ookay, thanks, Ma,” Bucky says, enough guilting gone on for him. “I’ll see you next week with whip cream and blackberry jam, and not a moment before! Cheerio, pip pip.”

His mother says, “Aw, don’t pretend you love me, you shit.” And then she hangs up.

Bucky blinks at Jaime. It’s occurring to him in his old age—yes he is twenty seven and yes he is old—that he’s more like his mother than he’d have liked. He loves his mother dearly, but the things that make her up really belong in an older woman, not a young and dashing and traumatized man. Not a man partly responsible for raising a child.

“Do I swear too much around you?” he asks, scooping Jaime up and kissing his little tummy. “I know you ain’t gonna start talkin’ for months yet, but still. Am I setting a bad example?”

Jaime reaches out and grabs Bucky’s nose.

“It’s not like your fuckin’ dad doesn’t swear,” Bucky points out, lazing on the couch and letting Jaime sit on his collar bone and pat his whole face. “Or like your fuckin’ dad doesn’t have problems of his own. God, what a schlemiel your dad is. Two jobs, the dumb fuck, while his kid is teething. Can’t ever accept help like a normal person.”

Jaime grunts assent while holding on to two chunks of Bucky’s bangs and bouncing.

“But he’s a good dad,” Bucky says, because Jaime needs to hear it from someone. “You don’t even know kid. I got one of the good ones too, but boy we can barely imagine how bad it gets. He’s trying so hard, and that’s what counts, even though he’s got a slightly traumatized soldier here taking care of you now. He just—he tries so hard, you know? It’s addicting.”

The door opens.

“Home already? Finally take some advice about not wearing yourself out like you’re trying to set world records?” Bucky says, eyes still on the baby taking up all his vision.

“Um, you must be the babysitter.”

Bucky sits up so fast Jaime’s lucky he doesn’t go flying across the room. Truthfully, luck has nothing to do with it—Bucky’s reflexes are still refined as hell. Bucky has that baby on one arm and a pocket knife in the other before he can focus on just who it is who’s walked through Steve’s door.

It’s the handsome black guy, one of Steve’s friends, the one who’s mostly accompanied by his white companion. Just cause he’s Steve’s friend doesn’t mean he can waltz in without notice though.

“How the hell did you get in here?”

Handsome black guy frowns. “With the spare key Steve leaves under the mat like a moron.”

Damn. Bucky knows about that key, even if he hasn’t had cause to use it yet. “Oh yeah? And why are you here, exactly?”

“Told Steve I’d meet him here in a few,” the man says, still unmoving and suspicious in the doorway. “I guess Steve didn’t tell you that.”

Bucky keeps one eye on him and uses the other to locate his phone, thrown haphazardly on the coffee table after his mother had hung up.

“Sorry to disturb you,” the man says, but he doesn’t sound too sorry.

Calmer now, Bucky puts down the pocket knife and shifts Jaime over to his other hip. “I’m sorry. I was just startled and—”

“I get it. I’m a vet myself,” the man says, coming a little closer. “I’m Sam.”

“James Barnes.”

Sam smiles and woo his smile is blinding. “Like James here?”

Bucky jiggles Jaime. “Yup. Believe it or not, my mom calls me Jaime. We’re a match made in heaven.”

“And you live nearby, right?”

The front door clicks open again and Steve comes rushing through, coughing. Concerned, Bucky moves around the couch but Steve waves a hand at them and quiets, going to the sink for a cup of water after he sets his things down. Jaime makes a coughing noise in reply.

“You talk to the landlord about the elevator recently?” Sam asks idly.

Steve finishes his water and shoots Sam a look. “I’m fine.”

Sam makes a face at Bucky and sits down. Bucky inhales. “The stairs hard for you?”

“Buck, I said I was fine,” Steve complains. “If there was a problem, you’d know about it.”

Jaime starts wiggling and making more coughing noises, and Bucky walks over to hand him over and continues on to the fridge for a snack. Steve starts talking to the baby, whispering into his hair and kissing his outstretched hands.

“Want a drink, Sam?” Bucky asks, in the middle of getting one for himself.

Sam’s got a slightly weird look on his face, but maybe that’s because Bucky isn’t very familiar with his face. “Uh, thanks, James, that’d be great.”

He and Steve make small talk over the counter—apparently Sam’s usual companion is his friend Riley and Riley is reputably even more of a dumbass that Steve. Highly unlikely. Sam’s coworker at the VA is quitting and does Steve need a third job?

Bucky coughs pointedly and goes on wiping down the countertop. Steve shoots him a glare and then ignores him.

They go on—someone named Carol is getting married and what is Sam going to say in his speech? Jaime starts fussing and mid word, Steve opens the freezer and takes out a frozen ring for him to gnaw on. It make’s Bucky’s heart expand with pride, and for what? Buying the damn ring? He’s not Steve’s mother for God’s sake, or his sugar daddy, whichever’s worse. For Steve learning and being such a good dad? He’s not Jaime’s mother, for fuck’s sake.

Well, Bucky’s work is done. “I’ll see ya tomorrow, Steve,” he says, rummaging through his pockets for his key.

“Okay,” Steve says over his shoulder. “Bye.”

Bucky manages a good writing evening, which is nice. Becca calls and they chat in bits and pieces while Bucky throws out words in a frenzy. The next week passes uneventfully, with the exception of Jaime grinding his face into the leg of the couch and splitting open the soft skin on the bridge of his nose. Mortified, Bucky apologizes and kisses the shit out of it—kisses Jaime, not Steve—but Steve just laughs and presses a red white and blue band aid on the baby’s nose.

Bucky shows up to his parents’ house with whip cream and blackberry jelly, and to put the cherry on the metaphorical cake, Becca manages to show up two minutes later with the potatoes Bucky reminded her to get.

“Hey, bumpkins,” Winnifred says warmly, enfolding them both in her arms and it’s like being small and whole again. “Alright, alright give me the food.”

“Aha, now the truth comes out,” Becca jokes, handing over her potatoes and beaming up at Bucky, cheeks rosy above her thick gray scarf. “She was hugging the vegetables. We’re just bonus.”

Bucky hugs her. “Missed you, you dumbo.”

“I go to school not a half hour away!”

He refuses to let her go, even when she wriggles. “Well, with the traffic, it might as well be across the country.”

She punches him and makes a break for it, braid flying. Thumping from the stairs has Bucky turning into the heavy flopping embraces of his other two sisters.

“Hi, Rachel and Abigail,” he says, slightly bemused but not complaining. “Didn’t I see you guys a few weeks ago?”

“It’s different, you being home again,” Abigail says, smile wide. She’s wearing a thick brown sweater with the ugliest turkey Bucky has ever seen on it. And matching socks, oh God. “But you can’t have your own room back!”

“I wouldn’t want it with your punk ass decorations,” he calls after her but she’s already gone running down the hall in search of Becca.

Rachel disentangles herself and sizes him up. Her bangs are growing out and threating on her eyeliner, and he’s pretty sure she’s taller than she was a few weeks ago. “How long until Ma shoves you into a chair and gives you a haircut?”

She shrugs, trying for unaffected but coming off more unsure. “I’ll just tell her I could be asking for a shaved head, are long bangs so bad?”

Bucky ruffles her hair. “Come on, you menace. I hear we got a turkey to cook.”

Their father is already in the kitchen working under their mother’s watchful eye. Bucky’s the last of them to crowd around the worn table and over his sister’s heads he can see his mother at the stove, red apron tied tight. George Barnes is avidly storytelling in great detail as he yanks organs from the huge pale dead bird in front of him. It’s loud, it’s crazy, it’s full of accidental profanity, it’s home.

Bucky walks over to his father and gets a turkey heart thrust in his face. “Hello, Jaime, just in time for the great Barnes heart feast!”

“There is no great Barnes heart feast, Dad,” Bucky says, swatting him away. “Nice to see you, I guess.”

“Aww, is Jaime grumpy cause it’s been too long since he ate a raw heart?” Becca asks, mock worry dripping off her voice.

Bucky winks at her. “Give me yours, dearest sister, and we’ll see.”

“Sit down,” his mother says from behind him, and wasn’t she just by the stove? “Peel the potatoes your sister brought us, like a good child.”

“I brought what you asked for too—” Bucky points out, but gets thrown the peeler for his troubles.

The food is delicious, and as usual Bucky eats way too much and ends up on the couch contemplating his life choices. Winnifred ‘volunteers’ Rachel and Abigail to bring a couple plates of leftovers next door to Scott and Luis. Abigail points out that likely, Scott and Luis have too many leftovers of their own, but only gets a smack on the rear for her troubles.

Bucky is just about to slip into a thanks and giving induced nap when his phone rings. Blearily, he holds it up high enough to see the caller id and almost drops it. Steve. Panic grabs ahold of Bucky’s spine—what’s wrong? “Hello?” he gasps out.

Steve sounds tired and quiet, nothing like what he’d sound like if there was really problem, Bucky is sure of it. “Is this a bad time? I know you’re with your family—”

“No, hey, what’s up?” Bucky says, getting off the couch and seeking the relative privacy of the stairs.

“Nothing,” Steve says immediately, the punk. “Peggy’s parents are here and…it’s a lot. I’m hiding in the bathroom.”

Bucky can’t pretend he isn’t amused. And picturing it; Steve staring in the mirror anxiously, or leaning on the sink, phone tucked under his ear. Chewing a nail, maybe. Pushing his bangs aside in that way he has—

“Where’s Jaime?” Bucky asks, because he’s got his priorities straight.

“With them,” Steve answers. “They’re not gonna harm him or anything. I have to be careful of him getting spoiled, really. We tiptoe around each other for him, and that’s what I want, I just…”

Bucky hums sympathetically.

“They never liked me,” Steve whispers into the phone. “And I used to pretend I didn’t care, but now I’m just pretending I do. I feel so fatigued by the pretending.”

Bucky exhales. He can hear Steve breathing over the line, and he doesn’t really know what to say, but when Bucky doesn’t know what to say, he talks. Call him a hypocrite, call him a Barnes yakker; both are true enough.

“It’s really easy to feel like these things are the end all, isn’t it? Like this time, it really will kill you and honestly you want it to.” Why is he saying this to an already fatigued Steve, is he trying to endorse suicide? “Um—I just mean I get like that sometimes. And it feels like it’ll never change. But it will. And for the better.”

“Thanks, Buck. I know—” he stops and takes a minute. “You’re coming over tomorrow, right?”

Bucky pulls one of his knees up to his chest. “Duh. Unless you hired some other random ass babysitter you picked up in the elevator?”

“There isn’t an elevator in our building,” Steve says reproachfully. “And no, I didn’t. Why would I, when I’m perfectly thrilled by the babysitter I have?”

They hang up not long after, and Bucky tries to ignore how those last words stay with him, warm in his chest like an extra serving of mashed potatoes.

A week later, Bucky’s walking up the steps late, half buried in the newspaper, and he passes Steve’s door and hears a cough.

Two voices start arguing loudly in his head; the bossy voice and the other bossy voice. Don’t do it, don’t do it, everybody coughs once in a while and that was a totally normal cough.

But what if it wasn’t a normal cough? It sounded bad.

The first bossy voice says, So, you’re gonna eavesdrop outside his door and then barge in like a maniac demanding him to take a cough drop?

When put like that, there isn’t much second bossy voice can do.

The next morning, when Bucky knocks, Steve yells from inside, “Just use the damn key, Bucky!”

Bucky lets himself in and hovers by the door. “What if you were…I don’t know.”

“What,” Steve says, popping up from behind the couch, wipes in hand. “Changing a diaper or something like that?”

“Yeah,” Bucky grumbles, but then is caught off guard by the red in Steve’s cheeks. “You alright?”

Steve stomps over and throws out the used wipes. “Just fine, except that my tiny roommate just pooped about twice his body weight all over the inside of his perfectly good clothes.”

Bucky reaches up as he passes and presses the back of his hand to Steve’s forehead. Hot, but nothing too noticeable. Steve swats him away and goes back to the baby lying very solemnly on the rug.

“Hello there,” Bucky says, leaning over. “No denying these terrible claims made against you?”

Jaime gurgles hello and kicks twice.

“Oh no you don’t,” Steve scolds, grabbing his tiny feet and throwing him roundly into a clean diaper in a way that most mothers would probably call violent. “You butt. Why can’t you just use the toilet like us normal people? Toilet. See?” he signs with one hand and pokes Jaime with the other. “Can you do it? Toilet.”

Jaime looks delighted and kicks again.

“Hey, I’m here now, give him to me,” Bucky says, making a gamble and placing his hand on Steve’s left shoulder. The tension seeps away, Steve bowing his head and exhaling defeat.

“Thank you,” he says in a small voice. “It’s…been a long morning.”

He sneezes twice on the way out the door.

Bucky shoots Jaime a look. “You tired your dad out so bad you gave him the flu or somethin’?” Jaime kicks again—this is clearly becoming a trend Bucky isn’t sure he likes. “Come on, bub, we’re going to the bathtub!”

Steve’s got papers and files scattered all over the kitchen table—Bucky doesn’t dare tidy them for fear of messing something up, so he eats lunch at the island counter, Jaime in the Bumbo next to him. At nap time, when Bucky carries Jaime to the bed, the covers are a mess, a pillow on the floor. Steve is messy, yes, but not like this.

“Something is wrong,” Bucky whispers, leaving the door open a crack to listen for the baby’s snores.

Steve gets home a little late, and because Bucky was worried, he made curry. The house smells pretty damn fine, if he says so himself.

“Look, it’s Daddy,” Bucky says to Jaime on the counter, signing I love you. “Can you say I love you, Daddy?”

Jaime just stares.

Sighing, Bucky turns to roll his eyes at Steve and stops in his tracks. His nose is red and his hair’s sticking up and he squints. “What’s that smell?”

If he can’t smell the yummy curry smell, something is definitely wrong. “Yeah, you’re sick pal,” Bucky says, going over and yanking his bag away to set it on the table. “Go take a shower and get dressed in your warmest clothes.”

Steve must be really tired, because he goes without a fight. Bucky makes a face at Jaime and offers him some mashed potato to eat with. Or play with, since that’s Jaime’s usual modus operandi. Bucky stirs the rice he’s made, and worries one lip between his teeth.

“That looks really good,” Steve says when he comes out in a cloud of steam, towel around his neck. “God I’m hungry.” He’s wearing thick sweats and a dark blue sweater, and he looks very huggable.

“Socks,” Bucky orders. “And then curry.”

“Curry,” Steve sings, going without any fuss. Damn. Bucky should make curry more often. They still can’t eat at the table because of Steve’s dumb papers, so Bucky dishes up two bowls and leaves them on the counter. Yes, he’s inviting himself over for dinner, but Steve’s hardly in the right mindset to extend the invite himself, and Bucky isn’t leaving them alone.

Jaime takes the bottle offered to him, and when Steve has socks, they eat dinner on the couch. Steve finishes his third bowl and almost falls asleep, all curled up and soft-looking. Bucky hates to bother him, to move him, so he postpones.

“What’s your get ready for bed routine?” he asks Jaime. Jaime who can’t even sign more, definitely doesn’t answer.

“I can figure it out,” Bucky says confidently, and he does, flying through diaper changes and clean onesies and little scrubs on the two teeth the kid possesses. At the end of it, Jaime is as drowsy as his dad, little blond head flopping on to Bucky’s shoulder as he walks around turning off lights and cleaning up.

Steve is definitely asleep on the couch, all curled up and making slight snuffling noises that shouldn’t be as adorable as they are. Bucky doesn’t feel great about leaving the two of them, not with Steve down like this, but he also doesn’t feel great about staying over. Dinner, he can invite himself too. Sleepovers, not so much.

Idea hitting him, he shifts all of Jaime’s weight to his left arm and nudges Steve. “Steve, hey, can you give me Sam’s number real quick?”

Steve grumbles and swats at him. Bucky presses his phone into his hand and tries again. Steve swipes it unlocked and throws it back.

Laughing, Bucky searches through the contacts, finding Sam’s number and texting it to himself. Back on his own phone, he opens up a new chat with the contact Steve’s Friend Sam.

Hi, this is Bucky the babysitter, Steve’s babysitter. Steve’s a little under the weather and he’s fine, but he and Jaime are both asleep and probably shouldn’t be left alone. I’m gonna camp out on the couch and I’m letting you know for obvious reasons.

He gets a text back a few minutes later. Thanks for letting me know. I promise to call the cops if you murder them.

Bucky gets Jaime in the bed and then goes back for Steve. Steve is big, big enough that scooping him up and carrying him might prove a bit of a problem on a good day. Bucky settles for shaking him gently and yanking one of his arms.

“Come on, Rogers, time to get that heavy head of yours into bed.”

“Don’t tell me what to do—”

Bucky gets close to smacking him. “You fuck, you were literally already asleep!”

Steve frowns and punches out. Luckily, he’s still half asleep and Bucky sees it coming a mile away. Ducking, he grabs him and hoists, tugging Steve half over his shoulder.

“You leave me no choice, dickwad.”

Steve wriggles, only succeeding in falling into Bucky’s arms a little more securely—Bucky can carry all of Steve apparently, look at him go—sighing defeat, Steve wraps his arms around Bucky’s neck and snuffles back to sleep. Bucky is so going to tease him about this the next morning, after Bucky’s screamed it all out into a pillow maybe. This is not fair. Steve’s doing it on purpose, Steve knows how adorable he is all balled up like a little kid, and he’s launching an attack at Bucky’s weak ass defenses.

Steve, Bucky knows, is a real conniving sonofabitch.

Bucky somehow gets through the final tucking into bed of both Rogerses, and staggers out to the couch. Their curry bowls get put in the dishwasher, the leftovers in the fridge. Then, tuckered out, Bucky collapses on the couch and falls asleep.

He wakes up the next morning early, because the sunlight comes streaming through Steve’s living room like it knows it’s illuminating an artist’s home. There’s a baby yelling things from the bedroom. Bucky lurches off the couch and goes looking, knocking gently on the door.

There’s no response, but Jaime doesn’t quiet. Bucky pushes on the door just until it’s open enough he can peek through. Steve is flat on his back, one arm over his face and one outstretched; Jaime is sitting up in the crook of his elbow, holding on to the cotton of his t-shirt and bouncing impatiently.

He spots Bucky instantaneously and his babbling gets more pointed, arms outstretched.  “I’m happy to see you too, Jaime,” Bucky says distractedly, eyeing Steve as he scoops up the kid. Almost absently, he brushes Steve’s forehead again.

Hot. Fuck. Bucky shifts Jaime on to his right hip and pulls the blankets up over Steve. Steve still doesn’t respond. Bucky inhales shakily and leaves the door open as he goes back out into the main room. Jaime needs a new diaper and a bottle, and then Bucky wraps him in the sling carrier and thumbs open his phone.

Abigail’s in school so there’s no point in calling her, but he can text. Beebee, can you call me when you get out today, I might need you to stop by. Don’t worry, I’m fine.

Jaime is finicky and hesitant all morning, like he knows what’s going on, and he probably does. Or he’s sick too. He starts crying any time Bucky tries to set him down, so Bucky gives up and accepts wearing the sling all day. From his perch against Bucky’s chest, Jaime gets front row seating to the Take Care Of His Dumb Dad Show.

Soup, water, and three wet washcloths later, Steve is very much awake and grumpy, and keeps trying to push his way out of bed.

“God, fuck you, Bucky,” he rasps, throwing back the covers only to have Bucky throw them right back and then sit on his legs pointedly. Bucky would throw the baby on him too, but there’s some slight chance he isn’t already ill and they should try to keep it that way.

“Indeed He is, pal,” Bucky says, thoroughly done after Steve’s third escape attempt. “That’s the only reason He would give me you to take care of.”

Steve glares balefully from under his arm. “I didn’t ask you to take care of me.”

“Yeah, well, too bad. You’re getting taken care of.”

“Busybody,” Steve calls as Bucky gets up to refill his bedside water glass. “Meddler!”

“Cantankerous single minded bullhead,” Bucky sings back. “I just need one thing from you.”

Steve snorts. “My bank password so you can take care of me?”

Bucky ignores that and sets the full glass down carefully before jabbing pointedly at Steve’s phone where it’s resting next to it. “Call and tell every goddamn boss you have you’re not coming in today. Or I will.”

“You wouldn’t know how to find their numbers,” Steve says smugly.

“I’d ask Sam.”

Steve pales, which is something since he’s already all pasty and sick. “You snooping, intrusive—”

“Call in. Now, please.”

Steve flips him off and goes swiping for his phone, nearly knocking the waterglass aside. Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose. If he’s not careful he’s going to punch Steve before the day is up, and that’s not going to look good no matter how the cards fall. Punching babysitter? Terrible. Punching nursemaid? Even worse.

Steve calls both of his fucking bosses, and though not happy, they let him off. Good. Bucky has half a mind to call them back himself and yell a bit about running employees to the ground, especially single parent young employees. It wouldn’t do any good anyway, and knowing Steve Rogers, it probably was solidly his fault.

Abigail calls after high school lets out, and Bucky convinces her to come over for a bit. Is it crossing a line to bring his sister into Steve’s apartment? Maybe, but they’re crossing a lot of lines today so Bucky is going to go out with a bang at least.

“Wow,” she says upon unceremoniously throwing down her backpack, “His place is a lot more tasteful than yours.”

Bucky doesn’t even know what that means and he’s too peeved to work it out. “Look, can you not give me any lip right now? I’ve called you here to be my assistant, and that means helping because it’s needed, not because you want to, or it’s fun. Do you understand?”

“Yeesh, if I’d known I was signing up to be a slave, I would’ve just gone home,” she grumbles, but nudges her bag a little closer to the wall.

Bucky gives her the baby and strict instructions on feeding him, and then goes back in to check on Steve with more soup.

Steve is lying there morosely, tissues surrounding him in tiny mountain ranges. He sends Bucky a displeased red eyed frown, which Bucky ignores.

“It’s time to have a talk.”

Steve blanches. “You’re quitting? Please, not today, just give me one more day, Bucky—”

Whoops. In hindsight that wasn’t a good opener. “No, I’m not quitting,” Bucky says quickly, sitting down and shoving Steve’s legs out of the way. “Wow, on top of all the other insults, now you’re calling me a coward?”

Steve smiles, just the tiniest corner of his mouth moving. He tries to hid it in his pillow, but Bucky’s not fooled. “Not a coward. Just a quitter.”

“For that, you have to eat this whole bowl of soup,” Bucky says, mock stern. “Barneses don’t quit.”

“Damn right!” Abigail peeps from the living room.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “So, no, I’m not leaving you or your child, but you can’t go on like this.”

Steve looks worried, but sits up the slightest bit and accepts the bowl. “Like what?”

“Working yourself to the bone. You’re already gone all day and working half the evening for your two jobs, and Sam comes over and brings you another one? And don’t try to tell me you’re not seriously considering it, because I know you, and I know that idiot brain is considering it.”

Steve slurps loudly, avoiding Bucky’s eyes.

“Ha,” Bucky says.

“My friends are used to bringing me job offers,” Steve ends up saying into his chicken noodle. “Because I’ve been looking for so long. That’s all.”

God, he is a moron. “You have two jobs right now. Are they paying you enough?”

He looks up at that, eyes wide. “—Yeah. Plenty.”

“Then you don’t need a third. God, Steve, I don’t know why you have this—this martyr complex, but you don’t have to be the best illustrator and the best artist. You don’t have to be the best dad, you just have to be a dad.”

Steve blinks back at him, and he looks startled, a deer in headlights. Surprised at being seen, and not sure if he likes it. Bucky’s a little surprised too, to be honest.

He’s known Steve for a little over a month now, and what, he can just say that? Say that he knows Steve, that he can anticipate Steve’s moves as if they’ve been friends for decades instead of days? He can, he realizes. He is. It feels like he’s known Steve for decades, like their first fight and deal was made in the gravel of a playground, knees red and elbows knocking.

“You’re a real jerk,” is what Steve says. And then starts coughing like there’s no tomorrow and his lungs are going on strike.

Bucky takes the soup bowl away and gets him the water, holding it for him while his hands shake. Steve calms enough to drink, gaze fastened on Bucky the whole time, and it’s like giving Jaime something new—being watched so intently, being trusted so fully, those big blue eyes taking note of every little thing, relying so dependently and intentionally on Bucky.

Steve doesn’t say thank you, Steve never says thank you where it really matters. He just keeps looking at Bucky like…like Bucky’s the life preserver and Steve’s just caught a glimpse of land on the horizon.

“You’re one to talk, you stubborn punk,” Bucky says gently, and then gets up to go check on his sister and make sure Jaime isn’t dead.