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Steve brushed the dirt from his Levi’s as he stood from the edge of the pond. They were starting to wear nicely, Steve hated the ‘clean-cut’ public image thrust onto him by the press. Sure, he liked Glenn Miller and books over the internet, but he also liked his drinks hard, his jeans scuffed and his profanity filthy. ‘Language’ my ass .
“Ready to go in, pal?” He started with a smile, Bucky was still digging eagerly into the small flower bed next to the pond. The rooftop garden was a wonderful idea, allowing the couple to experience the outdoors without the terrible rush of a New York induced panic attack. Bucky was caked in mud, the knees of his jeans sodden with dirt and more than half of the watering can. But a little got on the plants, and that was better than usual with Bucky’s dexterity.
Bucky frowned and held a gentle hand over his pocket protectively. Steve sighed and smiled sadly. The former soldier had spent half the afternoon completely hypnotized by the croaking of the frogs, following as quickly as his shaky legs would let him as they darted across the water. The way Bucky chewed on his bottom lip and avoided Steve’s eye told him everything he needed to know.
“Buck, frogs don’t belong in apartments, and they definitely don’t belong in pockets. They need to be near the water, it’s their home.” Steve said, dropping down to crouch next to the edge of the large pond. Reasoning with Bucky was somewhat of a minefield, some days he was receptive and other days it was a painstaking process of unpicking all the complexities in things Steve once believed were simple.
“Put in the bath.” Bucky mumbled, averting his gaze. Steve coughed away a chuckle at the unsubtle way his boyfriend was edging towards the fire-exit, clearly done with the conversation.
“Buck, it won’t be happy in there. It’ll-” Steve winced as he committed to the lie, “miss all of it’s friends and family.” Steve was a coward, a big, fat coward who couldn’t face a two hour conversation in the waning spring-sun about the needs of the amphibian kind.
“We friend.” Bucky said decisively, petting his pocket with a single wobbly finger. Steve allowed himself a moment of weakness and grinned at Bucky’s back. He wouldn’t want his adoration to be misconstrued as mockery. There was nothing funny about the events that had led Bucky’s brain to the state it was in today, nothing humorous about his difficulty processing or communicating. But some things he did were just so Bucky . He was still the same stubborn asshole he’d known most of his life. Hell, Steve could remember Bucky trying to convince a 14 year old him that babies came out of the belly button. He was always smart, smarter than he’d ever admit, but his obstinance was always stronger. Really, Steve should’ve known that cajoling Bucky into grumpily ‘releasing’ (‘“ abandoning ”, according to Buck) the frog back into the pond was never going to be so straightforward.
Frog, seemingly, relocated, the two made their way back into the apartment. They spent the next thirty minutes pottering about, making dinner plans and checking Bucky’s schedule for the day. Bucky’s speech therapy sessions had dropped down from twice weekly, to once. Bucky’s neurologist had made it clear that the damage to his frontal lobe wasn’t reversible, and Steve had begrudgingly accepted that more therapy wasn’t always productive.
Bucky was quiet, but he got like that sometimes. Especially if he was tired. And they had spent half the day gardening. Okay, well about 40 minutes gardening and 3 hours lounging as Steve indulged in painting a vibrant watercolor of Bucky swirling his fingertips in the mossy water. But it wasn’t just quiet. Bucky looked guilty . Steve wondered, briefly, if he’d done the right thing by outright shutting the frog dilemma down. Maybe he should have called Lisa. Maybe he hadn’t given Bucky enough autonomy or explanation. Maybe. Or maybe the way Bucky kept retreating to the bathroom every two minutes and coming out with a look akin to delight and panic was a tell in itself.
“I’m gonna go get your bath ready.” Steve said slowly, raising an eyebrow at his partner, giving him an out. Expectedly, the flash of panic in Bucky’s eyes grew. He shook his head and Steve let him organize his words. He worried he’d done the wrong thing, alarmed the man he was supposed to care for, to keep calm. Bucky dragged his still muddy hand through his sweaty hair, eyes anywhere but Steve.
“I do it.” Bucky said, breathing picking up. Steve smiled gently and shook his head.
“No, honestly, it’s no problem, Bucky. You’ve had a long day, let me.” Bucky couldn’t run the bath. Couldn’t twist the tap or unscrew the bubble bath. And that was fine. Steve loved the responsibility of caring for Bucky, wouldn’t change if for the world. And normally, Bucky was accepting of his limits. But sometimes they still did this age old song and dance.
Bucky was looking edgier the closer Steve got to the bathroom door, face pinching as the blonde opened the door and sighed. ‘ Abandoned’ my ass. And really, Steve shouldn’t have been at all surprised, if there was one thing that made an assassin, it was sneakiness.
“Buck, let’s go put the frog back outside.”
—-------------------------------------------------------
“He’s jumpin’.” Bucky observed indisputably from his sun-chair. Steve grinned softly, pausing his latest watercolor to peer over at his partner’s relaxed form. The long-haired man was in his unofficial ‘frog watching’ spot, languidly squeezing a stress ball and occasionally sipping from a twirly straw adorned orange juice. “Little guy.” He added after a long drink, clearing his throat and settling back into his comfy position.
“You thought of a name yet?” Steve prompted, brush stroking carefully over the thick artist paper in his pad. Bucky’s hair was a double edged sword - beautiful to touch and look at, but impossible to paint. Bucky hummed and the foam ball dropped from his hand.
“Glenn.” He said decisively, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Right, of course.” Steve grinned, dipping into the coral to capture the sudden upturn of his love’s lips.