Archive of Our Own

Stillness is something Bucky had grown to appreciate. He had spent his entire life being busy, running, in one way or another. Chasing his siblings, running to the market for his ma. War. The Winter Soldier. Thanos . He’s tired, and he’s grateful for the stability that night brings. All-encompassing.

It’s a nice quiet, a good quiet. Bucky is far too used to the vast emptiness, the harrowing, gnawing silence, and the panic that comes with darkness. But this isn’t that. His apartment is warm, and soft, and most of all, safe. 

Steve lies asleep beside him, arm slung across Bucky’s torso, breathing deep and steady. Bucky can feel his hair brushing against his chest. Feel his nose pressed into his side. This moment is one Bucky wishes he could stay in forever. The gentleness of it all, feeling the love of his life, asleep beside him, in their apartment, safe. Nothing to run from. Just them. 

What a phrase that is, Bucky thinks. Love of my life. The person who taught me to be soft. The person who loved me through it all. This connection is unequivocally what this had all been for. The pain, the running, the trauma, it had all been for now. For here. For Steve. 

The lamp on his bedside table provides a small string of yellow warmth that spills onto the pages of his slightly tattered, albeit well-loved copy of The Great Gatsby

He leans against the headboard of the bed, his metal arm holds his book, the other flips the pages. He likes the feeling of the paper on his fingertips, the tactile touch against his hand. He finds himself absentmindedly fiddling with each page, flipping it between his fingers. The book suggestion had come from Sam, something he was begrudging to take on board. He’d had the book for a long time now, and admittedly, he’d been putting off reading it, it’s just not my speed, he’d told Sam, who grinned a little and said, Sure, man, that’s what I said. 

A while ago, Steve had taken Bucky to a small bookstore in Brooklyn.  It was one of those old, full of life bookstores, with messily stacked shelves, and intertwining corners, jammed full of classics books and old newspapers, that’s down a few allies and backroads, tucked away.

Stepping foot in there felt like walking into the past again; it was the closest thing they had to something resembling what they remembered of Brooklyn. It very quickly became one of their favourite places. Bucky enjoyed the books, the quiet anonymity it brought, the way he could get lost in stories and poems. Steve enjoyed the company. He’d sit in the backroom of the store, and drink coffee with the elderly lady who ran it with her husband. They talked about Brooklyn and about all the times he missed. They had visited this bookstore so many times that they were on a first name basis with the owners, who greeted them the same way every time. Brooklyn accents thick, smiles wide. Bucky had missed that. People. Connection. 

He finds himself to be made up of the people he loves. Habits he’s picked up on from his friends. Phrases his mother used seventy years ago still intertwine with his speech pattern. Knowing the back streets of Brooklyn like the back of his hand. Perhaps that’s the beauty in life? Truthfully, what is anybody, if not a shattered mosaic? A collage of everyone they’ve known, glued together with gold paint, memories sparking and intertwining through decades of love, and pain, and loss, and laughter.

He turns and glances over at the clock. 2:43am.

Maybe he was getting into this book. Sam’s would have a field day with that one. Bucky can already see his smug face in his head. He’s just about to flip down the top corner of the page, to mark where he got to, but he hears fifteen year old Steve in his head. You can’t disrespect a book like that! Just use a bookmark! He’d said incredulously, expression crumpled.  Bucky still laughs at that, even now. Always a drama queen. 

So instead, he reaches into the drawer in his bedside table, and grabs a little green bookmark with gold birds embossed into it. Steve had bought it for him, knowing how much Bucky was getting into his reading, and clearly having remembered his less than favourable habit. It makes his heart twinge. 

It was the small things that Steve did, such tiny, insignificant gestures. The way he thought of things nobody else would have, and remembers details of things that happened decades ago. It was unequivocally Steve. To know someone so intimately. To remember someone as though they’re the rhythm to his favourite song. 

It made Bucky fall for him more and more as each day went by. It didn’t seem possible, he was sure his heart was already full to the brim of Steve Rogers. 

But somehow, everyday, he found a way, found something new. 

Bucky doesn’t think he’ll ever run out of reasons to love Steve. 

Once he flicks the lamp off, the blue light of the evening sky begins to spill into their apartment, and the street lights give a soft glow, letting in enough light for the room to not be entirely black. Bucky exhales softly, his eyes growing slightly heavy. He leans his head against the headboard, not ready to sleep just yet, but finding a quiet moment to himself. His eyes close, chest rising and falling steadily. His book sits in his lap, fingers still fiddling with the pages.

Steve has shuffled around a bit now, lying on his back. Bucky smiles a little to himself. He loves his life now. It’s soft, and quiet, and exactly what they had needed. 

The rain hits the window gently, and there’s a soft hum of traffic outside, something that he found weirdly comforting, even at this hour, it serves as a gentle reminder that he’s not the only one awake.

Beside him, Steve’s body twitches, stirring in his sleep. It’s small, but enough to get Bucky’s attention. He shuffles down in the bed, his attention now lies solely on the details of his husband’s face, eyes softly scanning his features. 

Bucky had spent years, upon years , memorising the details of Steve’s face. He found that a lot of the time it was all he could think about. 

There seems to be an unspoken language between two people in love. The ability to recognise the slightest infliction of Steve’s tone,  or the tiniest fraction of change in his expression; it was an art form in its own right. To be loved, to be known. 

Bucky slowly cards a hand through Steve’s hair. It was slightly longer now, as Steve had very, very  begrudgingly agreed not to cut it, and not to shave his beard after Bucky expressed how much he loved it. Steve himself thought it made him look scruffy. That was the word he’d said as he stared at himself in the mirror, his brows drawn together in a tight frown. Makes me look scruffy. 

The brunette had snorted at the seriousness of his husband, eyes rolling, and he had wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist from behind. Voice low, he’d told Steve how much he disagreed with that sentiment, spoken with his mouth pressed against Steve’s neck, words ghosting against his collarbone. 

Unsurprisingly, he didn’t take much convincing after that. 

Bucky’s fingers curl, twirling gently through Steve’s hair. It was something that usually settled him, and if he was honest, it relaxed Bucky himself too.

Steve is always the first asleep. There is rarely any exception to that rule. In fact, Bucky is pretty sure if Steve had it his way, he’d go to sleep at 9pm every night. Bucky found himself more of a night owl, he enjoyed the darkness. It helped to clear his head. Steve was the opposite, he got up ridiculously early to go on runs around a few blocks, the house would be clean by 8am — Bucky couldn’t imagine anything worse. 

Their apartment is small and a little dated when you step inside. Their living room has a small couch, which often finds itself covered in bulky blankets and soft pillows for when their friends visit, specifically when Sam and Nat want to play Mario Kart , which, Bucky is still absolutely baffled by, but even he has to admit, it’s a really fucking good game. 

The walls are covered in photographs, records, newspaper clippings and Steve’s artwork.

 It’s their home . Very ‘Steve and Bucky’ as Sam had commented when he first visited. Not in a bad way! Was promptly added to that sentiment.

It sits quietly, just on the outskirts of Queens, a stone's throw away from Brooklyn. The suburbs mean it’s situated far out enough from the city for them to have a peaceful life, but close enough that if any of their friends needed to drop in, they could. 

After Tony had passed, and Bucky had recovered in Wakanda, Steve insisted they should move to Queens. They just wanted to be close enough so Peter had some familiar faces around, just in case he needed it. 

It was an offer that Peter took them up on more than just a few times. He’d often show up at their door at ridiculous hours, in floods of tears. Everytime, without exception, no matter the time, Steve would invite him in, he’d sit with him until he had calmed down, make him food if he hadn't eaten, set up the bed in their guest room if Peter wanted to stay the night. 

It was another thing Bucky loved about his husband, something he fell in love with all those years ago, back when they were kids; his heart . 

As a child, Steve grew up with next to nothing. His father had passed when he was twelve, something that was difficult at the time, but ultimately, it had been for the best. Bucky found himself losing count of how frequently Steve had come over with a black eye or split lip. He patched him up, having learnt his first aid from his mother. It was better not to ask. He didn’t need to, they both knew. 

So he was an only child, and he took care of Sarah when she got ill. It was tough on Steve, watching his mother decline at such a young age. Despite all the pain inflicted on him, Steve’s heart never faltered. He didn't let the pain make him ugly, which was something others couldn’t say. 

He was the type of person to stop in the street when he saw a kid crying, comfort them, try to make them laugh, even if he didn’t know them.

He’d give them one of his toys, of which he had very few. Wasn’t that your favourite? Bucky asked once, after they were out of earshot of the boy Steve had just given his small, shiny red toy car. 

Yeah, Steve told him. And now it can be his favourite.

And Bucky had found himself bursting with pride. Wow, he thought. That's my best friend. 

Still, even now, when he looked at Steve, he was still the same. A kid with a heart ten times too big for his body. He opened his home up to the people he loved, at all hours, no matter what he was going through himself. 

Because that’s the thing about Steve Rogers. He’s the beating heart of everyone’s lives, the binding glue that holds it all together. 

Steve was the first to know when Wanda had lost her kids. The one who held her and promised it would be okay. He was also the one who took care of her for the weeks that followed. 

He was the first to lend a shoulder to Thor when Jane had passed. The one who told Thor he understands. He knows how it feels to watch someone you love get frail, and weak, and there’s nothing you can do but watch. He knows that pain. 

He was the first person Nat came to when she needed some downtime. The one who watched shitty day time TV with her, and let her lie low for a bit, when she needed to go under the radar. 

He’s the first person Sam came to with good news, with bad, and with everything in between. He’s everyone’s starred emergency contact. Everyone’s ‘ person to call when everything is going wrong’.

Their house is a safe haven for everyone. It was exactly what Steve had always wanted. To keep his family safe. Make people feel loved. In fact, even if he wouldn’t admit it, he always cooked a little extra, at every meal. Just in case. Because that’s just who he is. Who he’s always been. 

The man Bucky fell in love with. 

                                                 ——

“Oh. Hi Mr. Barnes,” Were the first words that had tumbled out of Peter’s mouth, at nearly midnight, as he looked up at Bucky with wide eyes, tear-filled, the breath he took in trembled. 

Christ, it was painful just how much he reminded Bucky of a younger Steve. A kid so young, the weight of the world on his shoulders. Wore all of his pain like a heavy suit of armour, seemingly unable to put it down for fear of spilling it everywhere. 

Bucky rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of Steve’s hoodie. “Hey kid. Hard night?” 

“I- um, I just- I was in the neighbourhood, obviously . ‘Cuz, I live here. You know that. Sorry, I was…Just needed to— ”

Bucky steps aside, opening the door to the apartment some more. It was cold, and late, and when Peter found himself feeling lost, he found home with them. Bucky gave him a small, knowing smile.

 If there ever was anyone in the world who can fix your problems, it goes without saying, it’s Steve Rogers.

 “C’mon, Steve’s in the kitchen.” He paused. “He made soup, just humour him, will ya?” 

Peter smiled feebly at that and made his way up the stairs, through into the kitchen. Steve immediately softened, expression creasing. 

“Hey, buddy,” Steve’s award winning, gentle smile, his soft eyes, caring expression. Even from his position leaning on the doorframe across the room, Bucky saw it, and it made his heart flip. “Thought I heard your voice.”

“I’m sorry to be bothering you so late,” Peter had said, through a shaky breath. 

“It’s not a problem,” Steve had assured softly. “Have you eaten?” 

“Oh, no, no, I’m fine,” 

“Ah, c’mon, I just made soup. Got the Bucky stamp of approval.” 

Peter looked over his shoulder at Bucky, whose face contorted into a downward, sarcastic smile, eyebrows creasing as he nodded, a somewhat fictitious thumbs up. He was joking, Steve had always been an incredible cook. For a moment, Peter had laughed, a small smile. 

“You gotta eat,” Steve prompted. “Just a little?” 

Bucky thought then, how great Steve was with Peter. Kids weren’t totally off the cards for them, it’s just not a conversation they’d had in much depth. Maybe he’ll bring it up. 

 Steve had made up the spare room, and he and Peter talked in there for a while, whilst Bucky waited in the kitchen. When Steve had emerged from his room, it was immediately obvious to Bucky it had been a hard conversation. 

“How is he?” Bucky asked, brow furrowing as he leaned against the kitchen counter. He knew how deeply Steve cared for Peter, how he saw a lot of himself in him. 

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, a sigh escaping his lips as he shook his head a little. “Not great. But he’s asleep now, so that’s something.” 

“You did good,” Bucky told him as he pushed himself off the counter to wrap his arms around Steve’s waist. At the contact. Steve had instantly softened, his head falling to Bucky’s shoulder, who had pulled him even closer.  

The next time Steve spoke, it was quiet. “Are you sure?” 

“M’sure, baby. That kid loves you. Tony would be proud it’s you he comes to.” 

Bucky swears he heard a sniffle at that, but neither of them mentioned it. 

“God, he’s just a kid,” He whispered, voice muffled by the fabric of his hoodie. “He’s lost so much.”

“I know,” Bucky soothed. “But he’s got us, yeah?”

                                               —-

Home was a concept that both of them found hard. Having been ripped from their own, it took a while to build one up that felt comfortable. 

It took them time to learn home isn’t a place, but the people you surround yourself with. 

Steve and Bucky found their home in each other. In their friends. Their own family, that they had built, together. 

Back in Brooklyn, Bucky came from such a large family, you’d be hard-pressed to find a moment of quiet, or a room that wasn’t occupied. Bucky was the oldest, with one sister, and four brothers. 

Steve, an only child, had found the Barnes household just a little too much at times. He felt at home there, of course. Bucky knew that. Steve got on with his family as though he was one of them, and he was treated as such. Steve’s presence in the Barnes family was so normal, so commonplace, it felt stranger when he wasn’t there. 

 Steve and Bucky had always been just that. Steve and Bucky. A package deal, partners in crime, a double act. They had always been something beyond inseparable, since their childhood. Intertwined. Every memory, every fight, every kiss, it was theirs. A messy, sparkling, beautiful tangled string of life that held them together. 

Steve would come round for dinner at least twice a week, without fail, for most of his early life. He would help Winnifred set the table, without her even asking. He’d help Bucky wash up after dinner. He would thank his parents for allowing him to eat with them. 

He would sit on the floor by Rebecca’s bed, and sing lullabies to lull her to sleep. He would do homework with Bucky’s younger brothers at the Barnes’ kitchen table, helping them understand their maths. 

But it would be a lie to say Steve didn’t find it overwhelming, the big space, the amount of people, it made his head spin.

So their apartment now was enough for them. Small. Quiet. They were glad to have a rest, after all they’d been through, it was deserved. 

 In his sleep, Steve starts to stir again, his expression darkening. It gets Bucky’s attention a little more this time, who continues to run a hand through Steve’s hair, his brow knitting with concern. . 

It’s barely audible, but Steve starts to mumble in his sleep, his chest rising and falling a little too quicker than it’s usual, steady pace. Bucky props himself up with his elbow, shoving the pillow under his metal arm, sitting up a little.

“Hey,” he whispers, his fingers still running through Steve’s hair as his eyes scan over his face. “Steve?”

Steve takes in a sharp breath, face scrunching a little before his eyes open. He moves abruptly, Bucky has to stop himself from outwardly jumping at the sudden movement as he pulls back, letting Steve sit up. 

“Fuck, what’s- what—”

 Bucky sits up with him, hushing him gently as he puts a hand on his back. “Easy, doll. You’re okay, just a bad dream.” 

For a moment, Steve doesn’t respond, he looks around, as though he’s trying to get his bearings, his eyes are wide, panicked. His breath comes out in pants. 

“Shit, I can’t — fuck, I can’t feel my legs,” 

Bucky tries to keep his voice level, reassuring, even though he’s sure it should be coming out shaky. When Sam had been given the whole ‘ PTSD is normal after being at war” spiel, he’d thought it was a crock of shit, he’d told Sam he was fine. Unfortunately for them both, it wasn’t a crock of shit, and both he and Steve experienced more panic attacks and flashbacks than either would like to admit. 

“It’s cuz’ you’re panicking. You’re okay. We’re in bed, you see?” 

Steve doesn’t seem to hear this, or maybe he does , but there’s no response, and his hyperventilating fills the room. Bucky pulls up the blanket around his shoulders, an attempt to dull the shivering setting through his veins, his hands moving up and down his arms over the blanket. 

This seems to kickstart something in Steve’s brain, as all of a sudden, he helplessly babbles incomprehensible words, voice tangled and unsteady as he tells Bucky that he can’t move, he can’t feel anything, he thinks he might be dying. 

“Can you feel my hands?” 

“No,” Steve breathes heavily, his panic growing by the second. “I can’t— I can’t feel you, I can’t-”

I can’t feel you. It makes Bucky’s stomach lurch a little. The absence of touch, the tactile feeling of the person you love — something they were both starved of, for seventy years. He knows how scary this moment is, the raw authenticity of Steve’s isolation, it’s something he would take away in an instant. 

“That’s okay. I’m still here,” Bucky whispers. “I’ve got you, I promise,”

I’ve got you. That was their go to, that was the phrase that had always brought them down in these moments. It was something they had said for as long as they can remember, the comfort in those words was ineffable. Sometimes, you don’t need to be told that you’ll be okay, especially when you don’t feel like you will be. I’ve got you , was comforting, but validating all the same. I see you, I hear your pain, and I’m here. I’ll keep you safe. 

It went without saying, Steve and Bucky had both been through a lot together. It wasn’t uncommon for either of them to have moments like this, Bucky had more than his fair share during the war, Steve did too. The time they had known each other meant they’d become accustomed to talking each other down, through the panic attacks, the nightmares, the flashbacks.

 The 21st century, for all its flaws and faults, has taught them a significant deal about mental health, it had become far less of a taboo than the period they were from.

It took time to adjust. A lot of time. At some points, it felt entirely hopeless. The progress was so slow, it felt like none was being made. At the start, every single day hurt , at full intensity, all the time. But as the time passed, the hurt, and the pain was still there, but it started to slow, and settle, and it had become manageable. 

Healing isn’t linear, there is no immediate need to get better, they have time. 

They both needed different things, different strategies to cope, it was a learning curve for both of them. Bucky had been married to Steve for seven years now, and during that time, these episodes seemed to come in waves for each of them. Sometimes, they’d go months without a night like this, and other times, it could be as frequent as every other night. 

It varied, and neither of them minded. They were settled into their domestic life, they had been there, through it all . Together. Bad days, good days, and everything in between. 

“I can’t feel anything,” Steve sounded more panicked this time. 

“It’s cuz you’re freakin’ out, ‘n your heart is going too fast, so you’re goin’ a bit numb. It’s okay, it’s normal. I’m right here,” 

 Bucky pauses for a moment, he leans over to flick on the lamp. This wasn’t uncommon, being in the ice took its toll on Steve. His detachment to his body, the way he felt so numb he couldn’t feel anything at all, it’s a gut punch, really. Especially when it’s the one thing you want. The one thing you need. Touch. 

Steve Rogers was far too used to feeling isolated. When you love someone the way Bucky loves Steve, seeing them in pain never gets easier. It’s an unshakable sinking feeling, when you watch the person you love in pain, and you can’t stop it. Bucky’s hand still moves up and down Steve’s back, waiting til he can feel. 

“Do you know where you are right now?” 

Steve is quiet for a moment as he thinks. He sucks in a breath, then lets out a harsh, shaky exhale that sounds more like a whimper than it does a breath. 

 “Our apartment.”

“Yeah, that’s right. You know the year?”

A longer pause, his answer splutters its way out of his throat. 

“It’s— it’s 1930 something- I think— it’s…No- no, it’s-”

“It’s 2025,” Bucky tells him gently, his fingertips trace little shapes into Steve’s back. Best to rip the band-aid off. That truth bomb, unfortunately, never gets easier to drop.

“Jesus, fuck, ” He practically heaves at that, a harsh breath forcing its way out of his lungs, brows tightly together as he holds a hand against his heart.  

Bucky probably would have found the sudden exclamation funny, had it been under different circumstances. “Need you to breathe with me, Steve.”

Steve takes an incredibly shaky, somewhat broken breath, he looks pleadingly at Bucky, eyes wide. “I thought—”

“I know,” He whispers, because he does. Because he’s been there too. “I’m here.”

Steve shakes his head, almost disputing the fact he’s there, and he reaches for Bucky’s hand for confirmation, their fingers intertwining. His voice is strained. “ Bucky —”

“I got you,” he soothes. “Breathe.”

Steve’s grip on Bucky’s hand is far too tight for it to be comfortable for either of them. It doesn’t matter. Bucky squeezes his hand gently, hoping he can somehow magic the anxiety out of him just by holding his hand. Steve’s shoulders shake slightly as his chest rattles with quick breaths. 

“I can’t. Fuck, I can’t breathe- I can’t--” 

Bucky leans forward a bit so he’s able to have a better view of his husband’s face. He puts a hand on Steve’s forehead, checking his temperature with the back of his hand momentarily, before gently pushing Steve’s hair from his face as he takes in gasping breaths. 

“Steve,” Bucky whispers, his fingers gently turning Steve’s chin. He prompts him to look into his eyes, his thumb running across his cheek and fingers tracing his jaw. “Hey, relax, doll. Breathe in with me.” 

Steve’s eyes close, and his head leans forward, pressing against Bucky’s shoulder, who can feel the trembling breaths ghosting against his collarbone. He really is trying to breathe, but none of the air seems to hit his lungs. He forces out shaky exhales, attempting to level out his breathing. 

“We got nothin’ to run from,” Bucky tells him gently, his arm around Steve’s shoulder, fingers tracing into his arm. “It’s just you and me. We’re okay. Slow yourself down.”

“Fuck, I—” Is all Steve manages, through his heavy breaths, shaking his head. His features creased. “Can’t. It won’t stop.”

 “Okay, sit up a lil’ for me,” 

Steve pulls away from the nook of Bucky’s neck, and the bed shifts as he straightens his back. He flexes his shoulders uncomfortably, his chest heaving. Bucky’s eyes follow Steve, his brow furrowing in concern. When he sees him this way, panicked, out of breath, he feels like he’s sixteen all over again, back in Brooklyn. Steve’s asthma had always been an issue,they had to figure out their own way of easing Steve through it. They spent nearly every day of their childhood together, and Bucky had seen more than his fair share of Steve’s asthma attacks.

 The first thing they learnt was the position he was sat in made a big difference. Sitting up straight seemed to make it easier on his lungs, Bucky knows that. Helps him get the breath in.

He puts a hand on Steve’s back, which is still slightly hunched, his shoulders up to his ears and his body still tight. Bucky exhales gently, his hands grazing over his shoulder blades to help flatten them out, to ebb away some tension. 

“Straighten your back some more, it’ll help you breathe.”

Steve does, but his face contorts a little with each breath. “It fuckin’— Jesus, it hurts,”

“I know,” He whispers. 

Steve cranes his head to look at the bedside table, his eyes scanning. “Do we have— where’s my—”

He’s looking for his inhaler. Bucky knows that, because it’s always his go to. It’s an asthma attack. Even though his asthma, by this point, has been nonexistent for over seventy years. Bucky’s face twitches, attempting not to let his own emotions show, but it makes his heart ache. 

“It ain’t asthma, baby.” 

Through his wheezy breaths, Steve’s voice is exasperated. “It feels like it,” 

Reassurance, that was another big part of it. For both of them, really. Hell, Bucky remembers how much he had needed it, how much he still does. In Wakanda, when he was recovering, Steve was there. Every single night, Bucky would wake up, sobbing, couldn’t catch his breath, didn’t know who he was or where he was. It was Steve by his bedside. It was Steve that talked him through it, reminding him he’s safe now. 

That went on for longer than Bucky cares to remember. They had some really ugly nights, some neither of them have ever spoken about since. They didn’t need to. 

“It’s not asthma,” Bucky whispers again. “You’re having a panic attack. Whatever shit your brain is cookin’ up, I need you to ignore it, okay? Focus on me.” 

Steve says nothing.

Bucky is desperately wracking his brain, because nothing he’s saying is easing Steve’s panic, and if anything, he’s only getting more worked up as the time progresses. 

Talking isn’t helping, probably because Steve is struggling to hear. They’d learnt about deep pressure therapy, in one of the many support group sessions Nat had forced them to, and from meeting Sam’s service dog. He takes a gamble, and shifts slightly, pushing himself up with his arm, then swinging his leg over Steve’s hip, manoeuvring so that he’s in Steve’s lap.

“I’m here. You feel me?”

 Steve huffs out a few breaths at the contact, eyes still wide, but he gives a small nod. He looks up at Bucky, his eyes scanning over his face.

“Yes,” He manages, and his hands fumble a little, resting it against Bucky’s chest, who mirrors the action himself, just over his heart. 

It’s almost subconscious, practically muscle memory. It’s something they had done since they were kids. Hands over each other's hearts, because it gives them something to focus on, something to feel. They did it during Steve’s asthma attacks, or during the panic attacks they both had. 

“Deep breath,” Bucky guides, and the hand not on Steve’s chest moves up and down beside them, in sync with his exaggerated breaths. “Focus on me. Breathe in through your nose.” 

Steve watches Bucky’s hand, and slowly, very slowly, his breathing syncs up. His head falls forward, leaning into Bucky’s chest, who kisses the top of his head. 

It takes a little while. He’s not too sure how long passes. But eventually, Steve’s shaky breathing levels out. 

“Hey,” Bucky speaks softly into Steve’s hair. “You with me?”

“Yeah,” He whispers. “Fuck, sorry. I don’t know where that one came from,” 

“Bad dream?” 

Steve shifts uncomfortably at that, leaning himself further into Bucky’s chest. “Mhm,” 

 Bucky tilts Steve’s head up to look at him. His fingers trace the creases embedded in Steve’s forehead, whose expression is still scrunched. He runs his fingertips lightly across the worry lines in Steve’s forehead, brushing over his eyebrows, almost as though he’s attempting to iron out the anxiety written into his skin, trying to magic away the frown settled into his features. 

Because truthfully, what is anybody, if not a shattered mosaic; a collage of everyone they’ve known, glued together with gold paint, memories sparking and intertwining through decades of love, and pain, and loss, and laughter.

It seems, momentarily, to work. Steve’s face softens, his worry seems to seep out,  but his eyebrows curl a little, and his eyes close before Bucky notices them going a little glassy. 

“Oh, hey,” he whispers, and that was all he needed. Steve blinks quickly, chewing the inside of his cheek as he sniffles, tears slowly filling his eyes. 

 Steve cringes, forcing out a watery laugh. “Fuck, sorry.”

Bucky has seen his husband cry only a handful of times. Steve was someone who had always kept his emotions somewhat guarded. It’s not to say he didn’t open up, he did, but he managed to keep himself held together, for the most part. He hated crying. 

                                            —

He remembers the first time.

It had been storming that night. If he’d believed in that kind of thing, Bucky would have said it was some fucked up joke the universe had decided to play. 

Heavy rain, lightning, thunder; the sky was angry, and he didn’t know why. That was, until, a soaking wet, seventeen-year-old Steve Rogers, had knocked on the door of the Barnes family home at just past midnight. 

Bucky opened the door, his eyes widening at the sight of his best friend, who stood, rain soaked body, unblinking as he stared up at Bucky, a bag slung over his shoulder. “Steve?”

There was a brief pause, a momentary, unsettling silence in which the realisation seemed to dawn on them both. For a moment, it looked like Steve was about to turn around, unable to find the right words. 

Still, he doesn’t cry, he doesn’t need to. Instead, he blinked a few times and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Did I wake you?” 

“Never mind that,” Bucky responded easily, noticing the way his heart falters at the sight. He didn’t mention it. “Did ya’ wanna come in? It’s a bit wet out there,” 

He had made a somewhat desperate attempt at delaying the inevitable, a last-ditch effort to lighten the already darkening atmosphere that hung in the air between them. He thinks at that moment, he probably knew. There was no other reason for Steve to be there so late, unannounced, looking as pale as a sheet. Steve looked up at him with wet eyes.

“ She’s gone ,” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he’d even registered them. “In her sleep.” 

At that moment, everything seemed to halt in its tracks. Bucky felt like he’d been winded, his throat closed, tears stinging his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, but promptly shut it again upon realising he had no clue what to say. When the stare lingered, Steve finally spoke again, and his voice shook.

 “Can’t be at home. It still smells like her. Could I—”

“Jeez, yeah, yes- of course. Of course,”

Bucky fumbled, never having seen this level of emotion from his best friend before. He’s about to speak again, before suddenly, behind the door, Bucky’s mother poked her head round the corner, seemingly having appeared from nowhere. She made them both jump as they momentarily forgot the bombshell Steve had just dropped. 

“Steve?” Her eyes were wide. “Are you okay?”

“Absolutely,” His response came quickly, an instantaneous, knee jerk reaction that he had always, and will always have. Pretending everything is fine. “I’m so sorry to bother you this late, Mrs Barnes,”

“Oh, baby,” Winnifred frowned at that, her hands squishing his cheeks as she held his face, and then looked down at him. “You’re soaked,”

“Got caught in the storm,” Steve managed, words lodged at the back of his throat. He glanced over to Bucky, a silent plea with his eyes.

“Ma,” Bucky prompted softly. “I got him. Could we have a minute?” 

His mother had exhaled, and her thumb rubbed over Steve’s cheek, his face still in her hands. The look she gave him told them both, she had known something wasn’t right. She planted a kiss on his forehead. “You always have a home here, baby. You understand me?” 

Tears immediately flooded his best friend’s eyes, who had begun to blink rapidly and force a weak smile. Something in Bucky’s stomach dropped, a tight knot sitting firmly in between his ribs. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” He whispered. 

Winnifred had not been convinced, she knew Steve as though he was her own. She let go, and as she turned, gave Bucky a knowing look, and returned to her room. 

When they were alone again, Bucky looked at Steve. A long, stretched silence, before finally, 

“This isn’t real,” He choked, with a sudden, new found intensity as he shook his head. He did his best, in that moment, to convince them both it wasn’t happening.  

“It can’t be real. It’s not because— she can’t be— She can't. I haven’t done anything yet, Bucky, I haven’t— I haven’t even got started. Fuck, it’s- she-she… she needs to be here. She needs to see it.” 

Bucky had wished with every fibre of his body that he could tell Steve it was all going to be okay. That he was right, it wasn't real. His mom was going to wake up, and she was going to live. She was going to see the incredible, smart, brave man her little boy would grow up to be. 

But he couldn’t. 

And she didn’t. 

“Tell me it’s okay,” Steve begged. “Tell me it isn’t fuckin’ real, Buck, cuz’ it sure as hell doesn’t feel it. Jesus, please tell me it’s not real,” 

Bucky blinked back his tears, and hadn’t had the heart to say anything other than “C’mere.”

Steve blinked. “Fuck,” he heaved, holding his chest. “Oh, fuck, oh my God,” 

“Steve,” Bucky said quickly, eyes uncharacteristically wide and panicked, “Hey, come here,” 

Steve clamped a hand over his mouth, and a pained, desperate sob found its way through his lips, and then another, and another, until his entire body was taken over by gasping sobs. 

It dawned on Bucky very quickly, that Steve was crying so hard, he was about to either fall over, or pass out, or both , and none of those were ideal. He lurched forwards from his position in the doorframe, stepping out onto the patio, and his hands found home around Steve’s waist, only just managing to catch him before he hit the floor.

“I got you,” He whispered into Steve’s hair. “I’m here.”

His frame wracked with gasps for air, slotted sporadically between his pain cries. It was a mix of pure, blind panic, cursed with the crushing knowledge that he had lost the most important person in his life. Mourning the future he could have had. The life she would never see. 

“What the fuck am I gonna do?” He keened, words spaced out and tangled through whimpers, and sobs, and pained rasps for air. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Is all Bucky could manage, and Steve had crumpled into Bucky’s arms, his body doubled over as he sobbed. 

It was an incomprehensible pain, one you had to live through to truly understand. It was an unnerving, sting of cold that pulses through the veins and tenses the muscles. The startling realisation that life won’t ever be the same. 

Life is full of sudden goodbyes. Sarah Rogers was no exception to that rule, and had died on the evening of June 26th, 1938. It was a week and one day before Steve’s 18th birthday. Because the sad truth was, grief waits for nobody. 

People say when someone dies the world doesn’t end. That much is true, but what they don't tell you, is the only reason that sentiment needs to be clarified is because it feels like it’s ending. 

It was an awful, long, painful night. If you’d asked, he’d have told you it was unequivocally the worst day of Steve’s life, and it was up there for Bucky too.

They didn’t sleep that night. Steve spent most of the night sobbing, til his chest rattled and ached, every muscle in his body was tight, shivering. When he was done crying, he spent the remainder of his time on the floor of Bucky’s bathroom, his head down the toilet, spewing up the entire contents of his stomach. 

The shaking and hyperventilating had finally taken its toll on his body, eventually hitting him all in one go. 

 It definitely wasn’t pretty. Steve had been absolutely mortified, near begging Bucky to leave him to deal with it alone. 

I don’t want you to see this. It’s gross. I can manage. Just go to bed.

  It doesn’t matter. He remembers saying, because it didn’t. Not when it was Steve. Let me take care of you. 

And so, Bucky sat on the floor behind him, his hand rubbing small circles into Steve’s back.

That continued, for most of the night, until he was so physically and mentally drained, he couldn’t move. Bucky had scooped him off the bathroom floor, and carried him to his bed. 

“I don’t know what to do,” He rasped into the darkness of Bucky’s room, voice raw. “Tomorrow, I’m gonna wake up, and the world will keep turning, life will go on, but she won’t be here. How is that fair?”

For a lot of his life, Bucky believed grief was an ugly emotion. What beauty can be found in loss? Suffering is a tangled and raw knot that sits wedged in between your ribs, coats your heart. It’s pain, it hurts . It’s a terrifying, looming figure waiting for us all. 

But truthfully, grief is beautiful. Maybe not initially.  In the moment, it feels all-consuming, it feels that life has ended, and that’s it. But when you pull back the layers, and you sit with grief, you find, it’s not a big, scary monster. Grief is leftover love. Grief is the emotion that spills out of your heart when you have so much love left to give, and nowhere to put it. Grief is your mother, holding her hand out, and saying, I know you had fun, but it’s over now, it’s time to go home. And that’s okay. 

“It’s not,” Bucky had whispered back. “But the birds are gonna sing a little softer than usual, and you’ll know she sent them. And the sky's gonna be your favourite colour, and you’ll know she picked it. And that’s how you keep going.” 

Bucky wasn’t sure that had made sense, but he felt the fabric of his shirt get wet with tears, where Steve’s head lay on his chest. He said nothing, but he held Steve a little tighter. 

Unbeknownst to Steve, a few weeks before that night, Bucky had visited Sarah on his way back from the market. He saw her sitting on the front porch, and she had waved him over. 

“James,” She nodded courteously, her smile was warm, and gentle, and it pained Bucky because he didn’t understand why a woman so wonderful could be so sick. It wasn’t fair. 

“Afternoon, ma’am,” 

He had hoped his thick voice went unnoticed, but Steve had inherited his observation skills from Sarah, so Bucky found that unlikely. He did his best to smile, and so did she. 

But Sarah was unwell, and she looked it. Incredibly unwell. It made Bucky’s stomach turn. He loved Sarah, she had treated him as though he was her own, the same way his ma had for Steve. Sarah waved him over, patting the chair beside her on the porch.

“Come sit with me, love.” 

Upon being close to her, he had noticed just how much she was shaking, and he didn't know if it was her sickness, or the cold air, but his jacket instinctively slid off his shoulders, and he placed it around her carefully. 

They spoke for a while, longer than either of them had anticipated. They laughed. Cried. Laughed some more. They spoke mostly, in fact, nearly solely about Steve. She had told him something then, she said, when the time was right, he should tell Steve too. Bucky’s brows knitted together in a mix of worry and confusion. How will I know when the time is right? He remembered asking. 

She smiled softly. You’ll know, is all she said. 

           ————

“S’alright,” Bucky whispers, softening as he notices the change in Steve’s expression. “What’s got you all worked up, huh?” 

“Honestly?” Steve lets out a shaky sigh, as a few tears begin pooling in his eyes. He makes no attempt at hiding it. “I got no clue. Just— a little emotional. I don’t know.”

“One of those nights?” Bucky offers. 

Steve hums softly, because One of those nights was perhaps the easy way of saying I feel like total shit and don’t know how to express it. 

Bucky pauses for a moment, he shuffles back into the bed, opening his arms and waving his hand slightly to gesture for Steve to lie with him. Steve glances over, eyes heavy. He doesn’t need to be told twice. Despite his incredibly tall stature, and broad shoulders, it never fails to amaze Bucky just how small Steve is able to make himself. He scoots over, his head burrowing into Bucky’s chest, his arms coming over his waist. Every cliche he had ever heard about soulmates fitting together like a puzzle piece, was unequivocally, absolutely true, though he would probably never admit that out loud, because it’s cheesy as shit. 

“You wanna talk about it?” 

“I dunno what to say,” He mumbles, voice a little muffled by the fabric of Bucky’s shirt. “Don’t think anything I’d say would make any sense.”

“C’mon, have I ever cared about that before?” Bucky teases. 

Steve snorts at that, blinking back a few tears as looks up, he throws Bucky a look, brow twitching. It makes Bucky’s heart soar, to see his smile. Still, after all these years, his little lopsided grin, and he’s back in the forties again. 

To Bucky, he wasn’t Captain America . He wasn’t a super soldier who fights alien armies, who can jump out of planes with no parachute, who saves entire cities. 

He’s Stevie . A kid from Brooklyn, who used to get all teary eyed when he got nose bleeds and would start wheezing after a light jog. Who wrote letters to his ma every week when he joined the army, but had nobody to send them to. Who kept a journal, noting down all the bird species he saw, drawing them in more detail on each page. Who got into fights every week, sticking up for the people who couldn’t stick up for themselves, not for praise, not to look good, but because it’s what was right. 

That is Steve Rogers. 

“Sometimes when I have one of those nightmares, it-..it feels like I’m…God, I don’t know. I don’t know. It just throws me off, it’s— it’s fine. It’s nothing.”

Another brush off, in true Steve fashion. Old habits die screaming. 

“Can I tell you something?” 

Steve hums, face buried in Bucky’s shirt. 

“A couple weeks before your ma died, she told me to tell you something,”

He looks up at him now, his eyes scanned his face intently, head tilted. His voice comes out a bit choked. “Yeah?” 

Bucky recounts it to him, as she had said all those years ago.

He’s my greatest achievement. Nothing in this world makes me prouder than he does, James. He’s the strongest, kindest, most resilient kid that Brooklyn is ever going to see. But he’s a stubborn asshole, and he’s gonna pretend to be okay, even when he’s not. Please, don’t let him. He’s so focused on holding everyone together that he can’t focus on himself and realise he’s falling apart.

For a moment, Steve is quiet. He huffs out a choked laugh, tears streaming down his face. “Did she actually use the word asshole? ”  

“I damn near fell outta my chair,” Bucky responds through his own tears, a bittersweet smile. “She said tell you when the time is right. There have been so many moments I wanted to, but I didn’t feel it. Not like I do right now. Your ma was right, Stevie. You don’t have to be strong all the time. It’s alright to cry, and get upset. It don’t make you weak.” 

Steve’s sigh is one he’s been holding for such a long time, he shakes his head, making no attempt at stopping the tears flowing rapidly down his cheeks. He takes a shuddery in breath, nose scrunching. 

“But if I let myself get all worked up,” He whispers. “I’m scared I’ll never stop. Never be strong again, and then what am I?” 

“Being strong isn’t the same thing as being brave,” Bucky says this into Steve’s hair, chin resting on his head. “And you have always been brave.” 

He doesn’t respond to that and changes the conversation. “Did I wake you up?” 

“I was already awake,” Bucky says softly, but he wouldn’t have cared if the opposite was true. It didn’t matter, not to him. Not when it was Steve. “Baby, please talk to me.”

A long stretch of silence. 

“Sometimes I wonder—” His words come out quietly, voice thick and eyes wet as he looks up at Bucky. “Why was it me ? ” 

Bucky’s brows draw together a little. “How’d you mean?” 

“What- I mean- what right did I have? Captain America. I mean, really, who the fuck am I? Everything that—that I coulda stopped, but I didn’t. The people I should’ve saved. I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t want them to pull me outta the ice. I didn’t want to—It’s…I guess I’m just— It’s.. god, I don’t know. It’s…”

“Just-“ Bucky’s hand runs through Steve’s hair. “Slow down. Take a breath. We got time.” 

Steve takes a breath. “I used to get asked all the time, you know, what makes me special, what gave me the right, over everyone else, to…to live. To be the one who survived. And hell, Buck, I can’t fuckin’ answer it. I don’t know. I didn’t want it to be me.”

“Don’t do that,” Bucky whispers. “You had every right to live.”

“Did I?”

Bucky is sure that the sound of his heart shattering can be heard from three streets over. Two words, and yet he had said everything. The weight of eighty years worth of trauma, of hurt, and guilt and grief clung to them. 

“Jesus, Steve. Yes.” He says, with no hesitation, voice shaky. “Yes, you did. You have to know that.”

It wasn’t exactly a secret. Everyone knew Steve carried the entire weight of the world on his shoulders. If something went wrong, it was his fault, he could’ve done more, should’ve been better. Someone got hurt, someone died, he was to blame. He had always been the same.

“I don’t think I do, that’s the thing,” His tears fall more rapidly at this point. “Anytime I feel like this, I..I just- I think, Jesus, what right do I have? I think of all the people I lost and I wonder why it wasn’t me, because compared to them, I’m—” 

His voice cracks yet Bucky lets him continue, even though he wants to shake him and tell him his life is worth all those he lost. That he deserves to be here. “It’s too much. I fight and kick and scream and I still lose . And fuck, I just— I can’t get over it. I still feel so guilty, and then I have these fuckin’… nightmares and I just think Jesus… If I could go back, if I could redo it—”

“You can’t torture yourself like that,” Bucky whispers. “Trust me. It doesn’t help. Going over the past, wishing you could change it. The only person you hurt is yourself.” 

“But that’s exactly it, isn’t it?”

Bucky exhales. “Steve, look at me.”

He doesn’t move. Bucky gives his shoulder a little nudge, hand moving down his back. “Steve.” 

“Look at me. Please?” 

Through his tear filled eyes, Steve looks at Bucky, with so much love, so much pain, that it makes everything in Bucky’s soul ache. Truthfully, he’d never known someone carry so many emotions in one look. He had always been the same, Bucky swears he can see the entire universe in his eyes. Maybe it’s because Steve is imprinted so deeply on his heart, that he feels everything Steve is feeling. He knows him, like the pages of his favourite book, or the notes to his favourite song. It’s a beautiful, tangled, messy melody of their souls, together.  

Bucky’s eyes search his, and there’s so much said in that moment, even with no words at all. A mix of desperation, pleading, stop doing this to yourself, and a look back of nostalgia and guilt, I can’t.

The thing is, their love transcends time. 

Their love was strong enough to rewire Bucky’s entire brain. It was enough, in the darkness, when he could think of nothing else, there was only one saving factor, only one light, at the end of the tunnel.

It was, and has always been Steve Rogers. 

The sunshine in his life. A ray of golden, sparkling, shining warmth, who recognised Bucky, even when he didn’t recognise himself. Who reminded him who he was. Who he is.

  Steve Grant Rogers, who still can’t see just how important he is. Even though he holds everything, and everyone together. 

“You gotta listen to me,” He starts, holding Steve’s face in his hands, his voice is shaky, but firm, his eyes watering. “Whatever you’re feeling, it’s alright, we can work through it. I know it’s heavy, alright? But you deserve to be here, nothing is ever gonna change that. Your life is important, and meaningful, and you have always mattered. Long before they put that serum in you.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. It makes everything inside of Bucky hurt. He continues anyway.

“You saved my life, in more ways than you know. Hell, Stevie, you saved the entire world, who else can say that?  You did so good, doll. So fucking good. You need to stop being so hard on yourself.” 

People think in relationships, leaving is the hard part, Bucky doesn’t think that’s true. To stay . That takes work, it takes time. Steve was used to people leaving, people dying. He wasn’t a stranger to grief, neither of them were. 

Bucky Barnes has done a lot of hard things in his life, but loving Steve Rogers was not one of them. 

Loving him is the easiest thing he has ever done. 

“I’m sorry. Jesus, I don’t know where all this is coming from, It’s just—” 

“You don’t gotta apologise,” Bucky says softly. “You want me to get you water?”

When Steve had his Asthma attacks back in the war, afterwards, his head was always pounding. Hell, Bucky remembers the times where it hurt so bad Steve would need to be under all the blankets they could find, his hands pushing the pillow into his face, anything to stop the light getting in, and he’d be near whimpering , telling Bucky that the entire room was spinning, that his head was aching, heart thumping. Bucky could do nothing but sit on the floor beside Steve’s bed, his elbows resting on the mattress, and talk Steve through it. 

“No, no, stay.” Steve says quickly. “Sorry-”

“Enough apologies. It’s okay,” 

Steve nods, swallowing his next inevitable apology that would find its way out of his mouth . 

Bucky tuts softly at him. “I can hear you thinkin’ it.”

Steve looks over at him, brow furrowed. “I gotta get over this, it’s been so long.” 

“It’s not always somethin’ you just get over . Takes time.”

“God,” Steve groans, he leans back against the headboard of the bed, looking up to the ceiling. “Am I gonna feel like this forever?”

“C’mon, Stevie, I didn’t mean it like that,” 

Steve inhales sharply, a shaky exhale. When he looks at Bucky, his eyes are glassy. “I can’t keep doin’ this, Buck. It hurts too much.”

“You gotta open up a little more,” Bucky says softly. “I can’t help if I don’t know what’s goin’ on in that big ol’ head of yours, can I?”

Steve’s eyebrows twitch at that, his expression faltering.

“Just talk,” Bucky whispers. “It doesn’t matter what you say. I don’t care if it seems unimportant, or if you think it won’t make sense. Just say it, we can make sense of it together. I want to listen.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Bucky brings his hand up to cup Steve’s jaw, his eyes searching his. 

“I’m just so—” His words tumble out in a shaky exhale. Steve forces out a laugh that comes across as more of a sob, his lip trembling whilst he makes a desperate attempt at pulling himself together. He pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Sorry. Give me a second,” 

For a moment, he stays like that, and Bucky feels his heart snap. He pulls Steve’s hands away from his eyes, taking both his hands and threading their fingers together. He brings Steve’s hand to his mouth, planting a small kiss on his knuckles. 

 “I’m so fucking scared. Everytime I have that nightmare, it feels like I lose you all over again, and I can’t —” 

“I just can’t-” He chokes on a sob, tears quickly dampening his cheeks again. Seeing Steve cry never got easier. His grief could be read through each syllable he uttered. His emotions tangled up in his eyes. 

Finally, he breaks. 

“I can’t get it out of my head. Watching you die. Again, and again. And I’m so fucking scared, Bucky. I’m so scared I’m gonna have to do this without you, I’m gonna have to watch you die again, I can’t—” 

“Hey, hey,” Bucky puts his forehead against his. “You don’t have to, baby. You don’t have to. I promise. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.” Steve manages through shaky breaths. “It doesn’t normally hit me this hard, fuck, I’m sorry. I’m so happy, and I love you so much, and I’m fucking terrified that it’s all gonna be ripped away from me like it was before. I don’t think I’d survive it again.”

Bucky holds his face in his hands, and he kisses his tear stained cheeks. “I promise you, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, neither are you. It’s not gonna happen again.” 

“Okay,” He whispers. “Could you— Will you talk to me for a bit? Til I fall back asleep?” 

“Course I will,” 

Bucky talks. He runs his hand through Steve’s hair. He talks about everything. About nothing. He recounts stories of their childhood. Steve’s soft hums in response to Bucky’s rambles slowly die down. 

————-

On all of the many, many occasions Steve had been involved in fights, it was Bucky who had patched him up. They tended to vary in severity. Sometimes it would have been a little scratch, something that didn’t need much tending to at all, but even then, Bucky insisted. Seeing Steve hurt was awful. It wasn't ever easier, no matter the intensity of the fight. 

There was one, however, that was far, far worse than any of the other’s had ever been. 

It’s a miracle Bucky was passing in the moment he was, because the state he’d found him in was enough to make anybody’s stomach turn.

 It had been the whole nine yards, a swollen eye and split lip, cuts and scratches littering his face and neck, nose gushing blood. Bucky hauled Steve back to his, arm slung across his waist to help him walk. He didn’t say a word to him til they got into the bathroom. 

“You’re a fuckin’ ass, you know that?” Was the first thing Bucky grumbled, as he started dabbing Steve’s nose with a small wad of cotton, before placing it in the bin and grabbing another from the open first aid kit that sits on the lid of the toilet seat. 

Steve’s legs dangled over the side of the sink cabinet, sitting on the corner of the counter, leaning forward as Bucky soaks up the blood with the cotton. His brow furrowed.

“How is this my fau- Ow! Bucky, would you be more careful?!”

Steve winced, his shoulders flexing uncomfortably as he grumbled. 

“No, I fuckin won’t!” 

Steve raised an eyebrow, tutting. “Language,” 

“Don’t be smart with me,” Bucky snapped. “I’m so fucking angry at you.”

Steve rolled his eyes, he forced out a heavy sigh. Bucky was furious , and he had every right to be . It had been constant recently, Steve seemed to be growing more reckless, more argumentative, more angry. 

At first, Bucky understood. He knew his best friend had strong morals, struggled to turn a blind eye, in a way, it was respectable. 

 But it was getting ridiculous. He was starting fights with guys ten times his size. With groups of people. Starting fights he knew he couldn’t win. 

It was almost like he enjoyed it. He wanted to get back at people. Wanted to prove he could fight, even when he couldn’t. A half deaf, asthmatic, dodgy heart, five foot four man, could not win any of those fights. What alarmed Bucky most, was that he didn’t seem to care anymore. 

Sarah had been Steve’s voice of reason. She was his rock, his guidance. With her gone, that reason went with her. His behaviour got more erratic, more dangerous, he was actively seeking it out. 

Bucky knows now, he understands it. It wasn’t anger. It was because Steve was so scared of feeling nothing at all, he had to find a way to feel something. In hindsight, his pain in that moment had been so glaringly obvious it was practically slapping Bucky in the face. He hates himself for not seeing it. 

But it wasn’t something either of them could verbalise. 

“How many times are you gonna do this?” Bucky scolded, eyes burning into Steve’s face. He wouldn’t meet his eyes, a soft, but firm glare settled into his face, vacant look in his eyes. 

He shrugged. “As many times as I need to.” 

Bucky found himself getting more wound up at Steve’s nonchalant attitude. He continued to silently clean the multiple cuts littering Steve’s face. The bruises that had already begun to form down his throat, up his jaw, it made Bucky queasy. He wiped away some blood running down his eyebrow and huffed. 

“What the fuck you tryna prove, huh?”

No response came. Bucky’s ramble continued. 

“You can’t keep doin’ this shit. I mean it. What happens next time you piss someone off and they near fuckin’ kill you, huh? You think my ma wants to see you comin’ home lookin’ like this? All black and blue? It worries her to shit. Becca’s gonna ask you what happened in the morning. What you gonna tell her? Huh? And what about me? You think I wanna be sat here mopping you up? I fuckin don’t.”

At that, Steve had immediately shrunk into himself, and the guilt pooled in Bucky’s stomach. 

“Then don’t.” He snapped, pushing away Bucky’s hand as his brow furrowed. “I can look after myself.” 

Bucky stared at him, then began wrapping a bandage around his bloodied knuckles as he scoffed. “Yeah? How’s that workin’ out for you so far?” 

“What do you want me to say, Bucky? I’m supposed to lie down and take it? Let them say the shit they say?” 

Exasperated, Bucky pulled away, arms failing in annoyance as he threw his hands up. “Maybe, just… walk away from it?”  

 “I can’t do that.” 

“Can’t? Or won’t?” He fired back in response, voice raising. “Cuz I’m startin’ to think you’re doin’ this on purpose now.” 

Steve scoffed at that. “Oh, fuck you.” 

“I’m not the enemy here.” A pause. “What did they say, anyway?” 

“ Nothing . ” Steve seethed, near spat that word out, anger had risen in his throat, and he automatically winced, before falling into a fit of wheezy coughs.

“Shit,” Bucky fumbled, dropping the cotton wad and holding Steve’s shoulder with one hand, the other cupping his jaw. “Shit. Okay, I got you. You’re okay.” 

His chest rattled for a moment, his hand instinctively coming up to hold his heart, sucking in wheezy breaths and stumbling over each cough. Steve squeezed his eyes closed, his fingers curling around the counter til his knuckles turned white. “Bucky-”

“Uh-huh. I’m here, bud. I’m here,” Bucky’s hand rubbed over his shoulder. “Sit up for me.”

Steve straightened his back. The hand previously gripping the counter found the back of Bucky’s shirt. He kept his eyes firmly closed, doing his best to level out his breathing. 

“Sorry,” Steve managed, still a little shaky. “I’m okay.”

Bucky nodded softly, and leant against the wall, his eyes trailing over his face as he let out a soft exhale, waiting for the coughing to settle down.  

“You sure?” 

Steve wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Mhm.” 

Bucky’s head tilted at him. “What’d they say that got you so riled up, huh?” 

Steve’s voice is a lot quieter than it had been. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“To hell it doesn’t. Tell me.”

“It was just— it was some shit about me being queer, alright? I asked why it would matter if I was, it escalated. That’s what you wanted to hear, right? It’s my fault, because I shoulda backed down and let it happen? Or it’s my fault for stickin’ up for queer people?” 

For a moment, Bucky just looked at him. A sigh passed his lips, pinching the bridge in his nose.

 “Jesus.” He frowned. “Course it isn't. They’re assholes, but they’re assholes ten times your size, and sometimes you’ve gotta know when to step back.”

Being queer isn’t something they had talked about. They were close with each other, everyone could see that. Too close. It was a quiet, unspoken conversation, one that they had amongst themselves through holding hands under the table and running their hands through each other’s hair. One that they had through the way they looked at each other, or through hugs that lingered too long. One that they had with no words, in complete silence. 

They both knew . They just hadn’t said it. Bucky felt things for Steve he didn’t quite understand. The same was true the other way around. It made moments like those even more strained. 

“Buck, if everyone just takes a step back cuz it’s what’s easy, we ain’t never gonna make progress. I wanna be on the right side of history, don’t you?” 

“I get that,” Bucky ducked his head. “I do. But all due respect, Stevie, you’re pickin’ fights you know you ain’t gonna win,” 

“Why won’t I?” 

Bucky stared at him for a long moment. A very deadpan “ Steve .” 

“Whatever.” Steve had muttered as he stared down at his lap, blinking. “Maybe I should just go.”

“Go where?” Bucky asked, his brow furrowing with genuine confusion at the ridiculous statement. “You don’t have anywhere else to go.”

He hadn’t meant for it to come out as harsh as it did. He’d immediately cringed at his choice of words, fumbling to correct himself. Steve pushed himself off the counter, and he made an attempt to move past Bucky, who put his hands on Steve’s shoulder to stop him from leaving. 

“Steve, stop. Stop. Can we talk?” 

Steve all but wrenched his shoulder out of Bucky’s grip, and a look of frustration flashed in his eyes. “I got nothing to say.” He snapped. 

“Well maybe I do! C’mon, the fuck are you gonna go?” 

Steve had groaned, his head tilting back. “Fuck me! You wanna bring up that I don’t have family another time, or you had enough yet?” 

“You got family,” Bucky hissed, eyes narrowing. “I’m right fuckin’ here, and I’m not goin’ anywhere. I’m not tryna argue with you.”

“You coulda fool me,” 

Steve was hurt, and Bucky knew all too well that Steve’s fight or flight response had always tilted one way, and it wasn’t to the latter. He paused, adjusting his tone. “I’m not mad at you.” 

“You just fuckin’ said—”

“I know what I said!” 

For a moment, Steve had just stared right at him, with an expression Bucky couldn’t quite read, before he sat back on the counter and leant his head back against the wall. 

“I just wanna talk,” Bucky offered gently. “Can we do that?”

“What’s there to say? You wanna ask me if I’m queer too?” 

 Bucky was scuffing his shoe against the floor of the bathroom, a newfound shyness in his voice, stomach in knots. “Are you? That why it upset you so much?”

Steve had tilted his head forward at that, and stared at him for a long while, almost as if he was weighing up his options. His eyes scanned Bucky’s face, eyebrows creasing as he let out a sigh, his voice was barely above a whisper.  

“Hell, I don’t know, Buck. Maybe?” His voice wavered. “Would it matter if I was?” 

Bucky still remembers the feeling he got, the sudden flush in his body, maybe this is the moment. The moment it all changes. He was half offended that Steve had even asked him that, half terrified of what was about to happen. 

“You don’t even have to ask me that.” 

“Obviously I do.” Steve dead panned, eyebrow raised as he gestured to his face, the black eye forming a little more with each passing moment. He had clearly taken Bucky’s momentary silence as a threat, his attitude became jaded and defensive. 

“Would it matter?” He repeated, a little more pointed, the defensiveness back in his voice. 

“Jesus, Steve, of course not! Stop it.” 

Steve’s lips pressed into a thin line, expression pained, crumpled. He shook his head a little, he scoffed. “Uh-huh.”

“Will you fuckin’ stop with your shitty attitude? It wouldn’t. You know it wouldn’t, quit being a jerk.” 

“I don’t know that it wouldn’t!” He snapped. “I don’t know shit . I don’t understand any of this, I don’t know what I’m feeling, and I sure as fuck don't know what you’re feeling so stop telling me that I do, or that I’m being shitty, because I-” 

Steve’s eyes welled up, and he sniffled. “I don’t understand anything anymore. Nothing makes sense without my ma, alright? I’m so fucking confused, and she’s not here, so I can’t ask her what to do, and I just—”

And there it is. 

“Okay,” Bucky understood then. His voice dropped, soft, gentle. He moved forward, his hand cupping Steve’s jaw, who had immediately sunk into his touch, his eyes closing. “I’m gonna finish cleanin’ you up, okay? We don’t gotta talk about it.” 

His hand stayed there, on Steve’s jaw, his other holding the small cotton wad, gently dabbing at the dried blood forming on his face, softly wiping over the cuts and swollen eye. Steve had winced a little, huffing out a shaky breath. 

“Sorry,” Bucky soothed. “Should only hurt for a second,”

He told himself he held Steve’s face to keep him from moving, and not because he liked how it felt, his hand against his cheek, fingers tracing his jaw. He had instinctively rubbed his thumb in a small sweeping motion over his cheekbone. 

“They fucked you up good, huh?” 

Steve snorted at that, a quiet hum. “Well, I had a lot to say.”

“Mhm. I don’t doubt that.” 

Bucky’s eyes trailed over his face. Took in all the details. His thumb traced over Steve’s cheek, and his eyes opened then, meeting Bucky’s. The blush that had coated his cheeks was unmistakable, even in the dim light of his bathroom. He had always found Steve attractive, it’s just not something he’d ever said out loud. He couldn’t help staring at him, it just made something in his chest twitch in a way he couldn’t understand. He looked at him so frequently, he’s sure he could draw his face entirely from memory, without looking.

 It’s just force of habit. His thumb rubbing in circles, gently grazing across Steve’s cheek. He hardly breathed, hardly moved, terrified that saying anything would break the moment. 

“I like it when you do that.” Steve whispered, Bucky’s face twitched into a smile.

“I know you do.” He put down the cotton pad, but he continued to hold Steve’s face. Probably couldn’t tell himself it was for convenience anymore. His other hand moved to the nape of his neck, trailed up through his hair. Fuck, he really was beautiful. 

He watched as Steve’s face faltered, his mouth turned down and eyebrows drawn together, eyes glossy. 

“Hey,” Bucked soothed. “What’s the matter?” 

“Bucky,” His voice was thick then, speaking so softly, so quietly, that had Bucky not had his forehead resting against Steve’s, he wouldn’t have heard him speak at all. 

Bucky hummed softly in response, his fingers gently traced Steve’s jaw. In the safety of Bucky’s bathroom, behind closed doors, neither of them had cared about being so close. Neither of them had minded feeling each other’s breath. 

“It hurt me so much because they were talking about you,” He managed. “About us.” 

“Us?” 

“They said that we–” Another pause, Steve blinked rapidly, breath catching as he rubbed the back of his hands against his eyes. He sniffled, mouth downturned into a pained frown.

“We don’t have to talk about it,”

“We can’t keep doing that.” Steve whispered. “We can’t keep not talking about it.”

Bucky went cold. “Okay,” He nodded. “Yeah, okay. Um-”

“I love you.” Steve had blurted it out, and looked just as surprised he’d said it as Bucky was to hear it.  “I can’t keep pretending that I don’t.”

Bucky had imagined this in his head a million times, he had planned it, thought of it nearly every single day. Still, it was better than anything he could’ve dreamt up. It lingered in the air between them, Bucky’s eyes didn’t leave Steve’s. His brain short circuited, and all the words he wanted to say seemed to be lodged at the back of his throat. His fingers curled around Steve’s hair, and his mind was full of nothing else, but Steve, and his face, and his hair, and his voice. He was quiet for a moment, taking in the moment. 

“Can you say somethin’ or I’ll have another fuckin’ asthma attack with how hard my heart is beating.”

A small smile pulled at his lips, he tucked a strand of Steve’s hair behind his ear. “Can’t say I blame you, I suppose”

“Don’t be a dick,” Steve groaned, shoving Bucky’s shoulder a little, but curling his fingers around his jacket, pulling him closer. 

Bucky feigned offence, tutting dramatically. “Language.” 

“I love you too.” He said, and Jesus, he won’t ever forget that feeling, because once he’d said it, he never wanted to stop. “I really fucking love you. You fuckin’ scared me half to death today. If I hadn’t been there when I was, Jesus , Stevie. I don’t wanna picture what state I woulda found you,”

“I know. But I gotta keep fighting for this, Buck. Maybe one day it’ll make a difference. And maybe I won't live to see a time where it does, but I’ll be damn proud anyway.” 

Steve had that way about him, one of those people that did things for others benefit. Never for his. Bucky’s breath hitched. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

And God, Steve’s face was a fucking picture, eyes widening, face flushing. “Yeah,” He spluttered, clearing his throat. “Yes.”

Bucky held Steve’s jaw, head ducking slightly as he connected their lips. It was a soft, gentle kiss, both because they were equally terrified, and Bucky was cautious of not inflicting any further injuries on Steve’s already broken face. It was an indescribable moment, it felt like nobody else in the world existed, and it was just them, and the invisible golden string that held them together, intertwining them in a tangled mess. 

“Say it again,” Steve whispered when the kiss ended, his hands in Bucky’s hair. “Tell me you love me again,” 

Bucky said it again, and again, and again. 

——-

Once Steve is asleep, Bucky finds his mind wandering. When they had joined the war, subtlety regarding their relationship was an art neither had mastered. He thinks back to those moments quite often now. They were young, and stupid, and everytime he looks at Steve, he sees him at every age he’s ever been. He sees their childhood. He sees their time in the war. He sees it all.

“Whatcha doin’?”

Bucky had his chin resting on Steve’s shoulder, arms snaked around his waist. His chest was pressed against Steve’s back. Their down time in the war was always, without exception, spent together. Bucky loved that.

“Drawing,” 

“Smartass,” Bucky grumbled as he cocked an eyebrow and craned his neck to get a better view of the sketchbook. His eyes fell to the drawing, a detailed sketch of Steve’s childhood home back in Brooklyn. He huffed out a breath of surprise, eyes widening as he scans the page, taking in all the details. 

“Steve, it’s incredible,” He whispered words hitting Steve’s collarbone, who immediately had flushed a deep crimson, his head ducking. He meant it, it was incredible. 

“Stop,” Was all Steve could manage, a coy smile taking over his face as he closed his sketchbook. 

Bucky feigned his innocence. “Stop what?” 

Steve said nothing, and glanced around. They were alone, so he  shifted slightly and leant back into Bucky’s touch. 

 “It really is amazing, you did so good,” he repeated, and Steve had tutted, face a deep crimson as he covered it with his hands. 

“Quit it.” He snapped.

“I’m serious!”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Uh-huh,” 

“Why’ve you got a stick up your ass?” 

“You’re tryna fluster me, fuckin’ asshole.”

Bucky snorted. “Woah! Language, Rogers!” 

He was trying to fluster him. And it worked every time. Bucky smiled, mouth still pressed against Steve’s neck. “What, you don’t like me tellin’ you that you did a good job?” 

Steve’s breathing had hitched at that, eyes closing. “I didn’t say that.” 

“Well,” Bucky mused, hands wandering. “You didn’t really need to say it.” 

Steve had flushed even more at that. “Fuck off,” 

—————-

When Bucky wakes up in the morning, his instinct is to roll over and pull Steve closer to him. Upon doing this, however, Steve’s side of the bed is cold. 

He blinks awake, eyes adjusting to the gold stream of sunlight that gently pours into their bedroom. The door is open with only a crack, and Bucky can hear Steve pottering around in the kitchen. 

His heart swells, because Steve is cooking them breakfast, and Bucky has never felt so safe and warm in his entire life. He doesn’t bother fixing his hair, instead just grabs his pyjama pants and throwing them on, opening their bedroom door and making his way into the kitchen. 

“Steve?”

Bucky leans against the doorframe, head cocked as he watches Steve pottering around the kitchen. 

“Steven,” he calls out in a sing-song voice, a little louder this time, still no response.

 He reaches for the light, flicking it on and off again, and he watches as Steve spins on his heels. His eyes immediately land on Bucky, widening a little as he smiles. 

And there it is. 

 The reason he gets up in the morning. Steve’s warm smile. Eyes sparkling, hair out of place and flopping into his face. His best guy. 

A slight coy smile as he tilts his head at Bucky.  “Morning,”

“Morning, gorgeous,” He nods softly, before he brings a finger to his ear, curling it a little, signing; hearing aid? 

“Too loud when I’m cooking,” Steve offers. Augmented senses and hearing loss. Wasn’t a great combination, one that took them a hell of a long time to get their heads around, but they found their way to get by. 

Steve’s hearing loss was only partial, he could still hear without his hearing aid, but when there were other noises going on, voices tended to get a little drowned out. They had learnt ASL back in the 40s, and used bits and pieces here and there when neither of them felt like talking. 

Bucky nods softly, his eyes scan over Steve’s face. He will never tire of this. Seeing Steve enjoying their quiet life together. Seeing him content, happy. Calm. It’s everything he’s ever wanted. 

He’s wearing one of Bucky’s pyjama shirts. He steps away from the stove, and Bucky can’t help the smile on his face, because he’s hit with an overwhelming sense of happiness that’s bursting through his chest. Holy shit. They’ve done it. This is what it had all been for. 

They’ve made it. 

“What?” 

“Just,” He shakes his head a little, smile widening. “I love you.”

“Sap,” Steve tuts, a grin on his face.  

“I love you too.”