Work Text:
January, 1937
Bucky knew something was up the moment he walked through the door. He could see Steve, hunched over his desk like he often was whenever Bucky got home, too lost in whatever he was drawing to realize that the world had moved on around him. The only light in the room was the lamp on Steve’s desk, but even in the dim glow Bucky could see that Steve was holding himself rather gently, his left arm tucked closely to his side. It never took long for him to be able to tell when Steve had gotten into a fight.
“What happened this time?” He attempted to sound conversational and curious rather than annoyed or frustrated, but it was always hard to bite back on the truth when it came to Steve. Something about him always made the truth spill from Bucky’s lips like water from a tap, and there was never anything he could do to stop it, even when that truth was better left unsaid.
He understood better than most why Steve was always picking fights, both the reasons he was open about and the ones he kept to himself, but that didn’t change the fact that he was way too used to seeing his best pal get hurt. He understood that Steve genuinely believed whatever he was fighting over, that he was always trying to protect someone else or himself, and he understood that Steve went through life with the knowledge that he needed to prove his right to existence to everyone around them, but that understanding didn’t change the ache Bucky felt in his chest when he saw his lover’s bruised and busted up face. It didn’t stop his eyes from burning like he was chopping onions when he had to carefully examine Steve’s thin chest as it turned purple before his eyes just to make sure that they could deal with whatever damage had been done by themselves, knowing full well that they couldn’t afford a doctor unless it was life or death.
Steve startled at Bucky’s voice, and almost moved to turn around before apparently second guessing that choice, lowering his head even closer to the paper. If Bucky didn’t know it was just to keep from showing how badly his face must be bruised, he’d start one of their other age-old arguments about Steve needing a pair of specs. “Nothin’ happened, Buck.”
That was a load of shit, and he knew that Steve knew he wasn’t convinced. It must’ve been something big this time. “Then turn around, pal.”
“Maybe I don’t wanna look at your ugly mug,” Steve grumbled, still not looking back at Bucky.
He didn’t get why Steve was so hesitant. It’s not like he’d be able to hide his face from Bucky until he healed, not while they lived together, not when the routine already involved them spending so much of their free time focused on one another. Avoiding the situation wouldn’t do anything but hold off the inevitable argument, one of the many that they always seemed to be having. “At least let me make sure you cleaned up alright.”
“You’re not my ma.” The phrase should’ve been a rejection, but the moment Steve said it, Bucky knew he won, and he waited patiently for Steve to push himself out of his chair, his short frame hunched over even more than it usually was, leaning towards the left, his arm still tucked in close.
“Good fuckin’ thing. Don’t think my heart could take it.” He flipped the switch for the main light and caught a glimpse of Steve’s face, and his breath caught in his chest.
It was bad, even for Steve. His left cheek had already started turning a deep shade of purple, so dark it was almost black, that spread up to his eye which was bloodshot and swollen. His face was bleeding, still slowly oozing scarlet from a cut that probably meant he’d picked a fight with some jerk with a ring, and his lip split. Steve’s hands weren’t much better from what Bucky saw, knuckles bruised and bloodied, meaning he at least managed to get a few hits in on the guy, and his palms still embedded with gravel. If it weren’t for the fact that Steve had been so lost in his drawings just a minute ago, Bucky would’ve thought he’d just pulled him out of the fight.
“Shit, Steve.” Those were the only words he had for the situation as he shrugged his jacket off and crossed the room. He started unbuttoning Steve’s shirt for him, ignoring his friend’s protests. “You really went for it this time, didn’t you?” He wanted to know what the hell happened, but that didn’t really matter. Whatever it was, Steve would’ve felt justified. If Bucky said anything about how close he probably came to dying, he’d just be
waved off, told that it didn’t matter because he was still here, still mostly upright and wheezing. If Bucky did anything other than clean him up, it would start another fight, and Steve had clearly had plenty of those today.
“You don’t need to baby me,” Steve protested, halfheartedly trying to swat Bucky’s hands away.
“Clearly you fuckin’ need it. I was gone for a day, Stevie, and this is what you do?” He sighed, letting Steve remove his undershirt himself and pretending not to notice him wincing at the movement. “Right. I’m gonna clean you up, make dinner, and you’re telling me what happened.”
If Steve had almost given in to letting Bucky take care of him a moment ago, there was no sign of it. The fight had returned to his face, his fists balled at his sides. “There’s nothin’ to tell you, Buck. It’s none of your goddamn business how I spend my day, and I don’t want you to baby me.”
And there went Bucky’s hopes for getting through this without an argument. “You look like you got into a fight with a brick wall and lost, Stevie.” He resisted the urge to touch Steve’s face, to try to do anything to actually calm him down. “So you’re gonna sit there and explain to me why my best guy looks like he got on the wrong side of the damn mob.” It always felt like a low blow to talk like the Steve he was facing and the Steve he was closer to than was acceptable were two different people, referring to Steve in the third person, but something about forcibly reminding him of their relationship always did the job and got him answers.
As suddenly as the fight reappeared in Steve’s face, it vanished, and he slumped down into one of the kitchen chairs, looking defeated in a way that meant they’d have to bring out the bottle of cheap whiskey his pa got them as a house warming present. He waited for Bucky to return with a damp cloth and let him clean his face, his eyes closing the moment Bucky got close.
“They weren’t takin’ no for an answer, Buck.” Steve’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper in their silent apartment, but they brought another wave of fear to Bucky’s chest.
He knew he didn’t mishear Steve, and knew Steve wasn’t one to exaggerate any of his fights, that had always been Bucky’s job. “They?”
“Yeah,” Steve confirmed, leaning into Bucky’s touch. “There were two guys, and they were botherin’ Mrs. Whitaker while she was tryin’ to get her groceries.”
Mrs. Whitaker was a kind young woman, barely any older than them, who had married her late husband before she was even eighteen. It had been a workplace accident, the kinda thing that a union might have prevented if there had been one where he worked, but the poor dear was never the same after that. Anyone who knew Mr. Jim and Mrs. Virginia Whitaker knew that they genuinely loved each other, that they treated each other right and were eager to start a family of their own, even if that never ended up happening for them despite being married for a few years when the accident happened.
Virginia Whitaker had shut herself up in her apartment almost immediately after the funeral, and it had been a local project to look after her during that time. Hell, Bucky and Steve had only known the Whitakers for a few months when Jim Whitaker died, and even they’d contributed what little they could in the aftermath, leaving carefully prepared baskets of soup, bread, and the occasional casserole outside of her door, just like several of their neighbors had done. Virginia Whitaker was just that sweet, just that kind and truly good. The person that any neighborhood would be happy to rally around and protect if necessary.
But she also happened to be incredibly beautiful, with the kind of face someone only ever expected to see on a movie screen. When she’d finally started leaving her apartment again, going about her day somberly at first but then with little traces of her old cheer and humor as time went on, it had been the talk of the neighborhood. People who knew her were happy to see her out and about again, happy to see that she was starting to get on with her life after facing a real tragedy at such a young age. But there were always some bad people around. The entitled bastards who’d watch her walk down the street, groceries in hand and faux smile on her face, that would turn to their buddies after she passed and start talking, either claiming to have helped to keep her bed warm during her grieving or spewing filthy words about what they’d do to her now that she was ‘on the market’ again. Bucky and Steve weren’t the only ones to step in when those lecherous bastards started giving her trouble, so it was no surprise that Steve would’ve gotten himself in such a bad way by trying to help her. He’d stand up for anyone who deserved it, but Mrs. Whitaker was especially important in his books.
Bucky wanted to be mad at Steve, even if he knew Steve had done the right thing, even if he knew that he would’ve been right there beside him if he hadn’t been at work. He wanted to be pissed at Steve for taking on a fight that was none of his business, especially one that ended up having three people there to beat the crap outta him instead of the usual single bastard taking it out to the nearest alley. It was dangerous, it was stupid, and it was exactly the kinda fight he would’ve picked, even if he didn’t usually get into fights outside of the Y, unless you counted the dozens he’d finished for Steve.
But this was also Steve, who had seen a couple guys harassing Mrs. Whitaker and decided to put himself in the line of fire rather than get help for the situation. Steve, who was already a strong gust of wind away from falling over on a good day, whose bones were a fragile cage around innards that preferred to work against him rather than with most of the time.
“I don’t see why you couldn’t call for help, Steve,” he tried to sound more sympathetic than frustrated, but knew that Steve never really liked hearing either. “You said this happened while she was getting her groceries? Mr. Sawyer woulda been happy to get involved. He’s always working the counter.”
Steve just gave Bucky’s suggestion a glare, as if the thought of getting help to defend someone’s honor was the highest insult. “He was inside, and I wasn’t about to take my eyes off of those assholes for a second.”
“You coulda yelled,” Bucky argued, but he knew Steve wouldn’t have done that. He always seemed to think that it would embarrass whoever he was defending more to bring that kind of attention to it, as if enough attention wouldn’t be brought to the situation just by Steve stepping in. He wasn’t a neighborhood pariah, if anything he was loved and adored by every woman over the age of fifty in the neighborhood, with all of them having seemingly decided that he was the perfect son to replace their newly empty nests, but it didn’t take long after moving to Vinegar Hill for him to gain a reputation for being ten pounds of trouble in a five pound bag, overflowing with righteous anger and spite, standing taller than his 5’4” stature and curved spine should’ve allowed and with a chip on his shoulder the size of the goddamn sun. It took even less time for people to learn to keep an eye on him when he went about his business. Not out of care or concern, but for the sense of entertainment he could provide them. Even Bucky had to agree that there was nothing quite like watching Steve when he got all riled up, though he was pretty sure the feeling such a sight invoked for him was wildly different to what it did to everyone else.
“I wasn’t going to bring more attention to-” He started to argue, but Bucky didn’t let Steve finish.
“To the situation, I know. You were savin’ her the embarrassment, but Steve, there’s nothin’ wrong with getting some other chivalrous bastard’s attention. It ain’t a fair fight if there’s two of them wailin’ on you at once.”
Steve hissed when Bucky pressed the cloth to his bloody lip, his glare returning. “I can handle myself, you know. I don’t need any help.”
“Your face says otherwise, punk.”
The glare Steve gave him was withering, and it would’ve been enough to thoroughly cow even Bucky, who had grown up under the stern eye of one Winniefred Barnes, if he hadn’t been so used to receiving it. Even Steve’s anger and disappointment, as potent as they were, grew stale if you’d received it often enough, and Bucky’s frustration with Steve’s lack of self preservation was the main recipient of that look these days. “That ain’t gonna work on me and you know it.”
He didn’t stop glaring, Bucky knew that much, but Steve looked at the ground. “I don’t need help, Buck.” It was the same place that every argument they had ended up. Steve didn’t need help, didn’t want it. It was why he always had plans to move out someday, despite living together being a very good thing for their mutual attraction, why he refused to let Bucky look after him even when he looked inches from Death’s door, and why he always felt just as pissed at Bucky for finishing a fight he started as Bucky felt about him getting into a fight he couldn’t win in the first place.
It was a never ending cycle with Steve, but Bucky knew how to be patient, even if none of his teachers or his parents would agree. But even his patience with Steve wore thin sometimes. “Then let me help you out for my sake, huh? Give me some peace of mind?” It was another dirty trick he had up his sleeve, something else he’d feel bad about if it weren’t only used to try to keep Steve from keeling over in front of him
Steve didn’t look up, but he also didn’t pull away when Bucky’s focus shifted from his bloody and bruised face to his hands, carefully picking out the small pieces of gravel and dirt that Steve hadn’t managed to remove by wiping his hands off on his pants. It shouldn’t have felt like such a victory to get this far without a real fuss, but Bucky wasn’t about to pretend that it wasn’t. “What do you want for dinner tonight?”
“I thought it was my turn to cook,” Steve argued, apparently unable to leave anything alone. It was true, at least. Bucky usually cooked on the weekends, when he had time to figure out what he could possibly make out of the leftovers they had from the week and didn’t feel dead on his feet after a long day at the docks, but he had never hesitated to take over whenever Steve was in a bad way, and today, Steve was definitely in a bad way.
“It was,” Bucky agreed, “but I want to tonight. I’m thinkin’ matzo ball soup. Good for the body and soul and all that.” It was something his ma always made for him on the rare occasions that he was sick, something she’d even made for Steve and Mrs. Rogers when news of Steve’s latest illness made its way back to her ears. Bucky himself had only made the soup a handful of times, and only once without his mother there to supervise, but he figured now was as good a time as any for it, provided they had what he needed.
The suggestion of soup was all it took for Steve to look up, readily giving in to Bucky’s suggestion, even looking eager for it. “But I’m not sick,” was his argument, weak and only made because it was his nature.
Bucky snorted. “Oh you’re definitely sick, Steve. Only someone who’s sick in the head would pull half the shit you do.” If it was anyone else, he knew those words would’ve been enough to start another fight, no matter how much Steve was still hurting from the last one, but Bucky could never keep the affection out of his voice, no matter how harsh his words could get. Not when it was Steve, who always took what he was given and ran with it, serving just as good as he got.
“If I’m sick in the head for getting into fights, what’s that make you, Buck?”
In love with you was the true answer, one that Bucky had known for as long as he could remember, a fundamental part of reality that never changed, no matter what he did to try to fix himself. “Even crazier than you, pal.” That was the same thing, right?
He finished cleaning Steve’s palms, dropping those large, warm hands the moment holding them was no longer necessary. If he had his way, he’d never let go. He’d hold onto Steve’s hands for the rest of eternity, trading kisses and breathing in the warm scent of his lover’s skin until time, until the universe finished expanding and contracted into nothing around them, like Einstein predicted. But he had dinner to make, a job to do, and a best guy to take care of, even if said best guy would fight him every step of the way just to make a point.
Steve’s eyes didn’t leave him though, Bucky felt the weight of them as he picked through what Steve had brought home from the grocery run that had ended in yet another fight. It wasn’t as much as he’d like, with prices of anything remotely fresh going up this time of year and working hours being cut short by the lack of daylight, but it was enough for him to work with, especially since the soup would last them a while. The rest of the week if they made it stretch a little.
Cooking had always been a satisfying activity for Bucky, even if it was considered a woman’s job in the household. It was methodical, requiring him to focus and keeping his hands busy. There was always enough going on to center him, to keep his attention in ways that his school teachers would have envied.
It wasn’t until Bucky had finished chopping carrots and celery stalks for the broth that conversation started up again, Steve thankfully avoiding what had brought them to this point in their day. Instead, he filled Bucky in on the antics of one of his frequent commissioners and their lack of understanding that his drawings don’t just appear on the paper. In return, Bucky told him about the dumb and vulgar things the boys at the yard spilled that day, taking pleasure in the red blush taking over Steve’s face despite the knowledge that he could be just as if not filthier when he wanted to be, until eventually all there was to do was wait for the broth to cook.
The hour and a half it took for the chicken to cook and for the broth to develop was spent huddled up on the couch, breathing in the familiar scent of each other and good food, the only pause occurring an hour in so Bucky could make the matzo balls to go in the soup later. Jokes spilled from his and Steve’s lips freely in the warm light, their bodies close enough that it was hard to tell where Steve began and Bucky ended, and with the warmth of the stove flooding their apartment, they couldn’t honestly blame their proximity on keeping the cold at bay. If they traded the occasional gentle kiss, with Bucky being cautious of the split in Steve’s lip, then that was between them.
Conversation had shifted from their days and funny stories about familiar names to the book Bucky had been reading, then to a couple new songs Steve had heard on the radio while he worked earlier. They were on their plans for the weekend by the time Bucky really pulled away from the warm, comfortable bubble that always formed around them to check on the soup and to start breaking down the chicken, Steve trailing behind him to continue his protests that he really wasn’t interested in doing another double date, even using his bruised face as an excuse for why it was a bad idea.
The soup was fragrant, smelling strongly of salt, vegetables, and the dried herbs and spices Bucky’s ma had made sure they had in stock when they moved into their own place but hadn’t made much use of until today. The scent filled the kitchen, and Bucky could see that even Steve was breathing easier while surrounded by it, his eyes watching Bucky pull the chicken out of the pot to cool. He didn’t miss the look on Steve’s face as his lover watched him, knowing that Steve was just waiting for the most opportune moment to snag a piece off the counter.
“I’m just sayin’,” Steve continued, trying, and failing, to sound like he wasn’t regretting shoving a piece of still steaming chicken into his mouth. “Your date definitely won’t be happy if I’m what you’ve got for her friend when I look like this.” The fact that they wouldn’t be overly happy anyways was left unsaid, though both of them were well aware of that.
“An’ I’m sayin’,” Bucky countered, hefting up the still warm pot of soup and tipping it over the strainer and bowl he had set up. “That they’ll still love you if you actually let them get the chance to know ya. ‘Sides, it makes you look tough. Dames like tough guys.”
Steve snorted, not bothering to hide his next attempt at stealing Bucky’s chicken, blowing on it before responding. “Right, because the bruises will hide the fact that I’m shorter than her.”
Bucky shook his head, but didn’t dare to take his eyes off of the liquid he was working with. He’d burned his hand on hot soup far too many times to not pay attention, especially since they already had one injured person in the house. “Should I see if I can find a short gal for you then? Give me a week and I can find one and a friend and sweet talk ‘em both.”
“That ain’t what I want and you know it, Buck.” Steve was starting to sound grumpy, discouraged, and Bucky just wanted to wrap him in his arms. It wasn’t Bucky’s fault that there didn’t seem to be a single damn woman in Brooklyn able to overlook his short stature and small frame. He knew there’d be dozens lining up if he gave them a description of who Steve was as a person, it was how he’d scored all those double dates for them in the first place, but they always seemed to turn a blind eye to Steve’s great qualities once they laid eyes on him. “Anyways, that’d just mean they’ll be hangin’ off your arm before I even show up.”
Bucky sighed, setting the empty pot down and shaking the strainer of mushy vegetables, to get the last drops of broth he could, and trying to ignore the hint of bitterness in Steve’s voice. “Right, guess you’ve got a point there.” He looked back at Steve, hating that hopeless look on his beautiful face. “Maybe we could just head to a dance hall, then. See if you can find your own date there?”
If Steve had looked dejected and self deprecating a moment ago, that suggestion didn’t help. “What, so I can stand on the sides and watch you dance with every girl there that doesn’t already have a fella? Girls ain’t exactly eager to dance with a guy they might step on, Buck.”
“They won’t step on you,” Bucky scoffed, feeling indignant on Steve’s behalf, “you ain’t that short.” There was honestly so much he wanted to say, like how Steve couldn’t dance for shit but could carry a tune like it was nobody’s business despite being deaf in one ear, or how good his large hands would feel, all nice and warm over the fabric of some lucky girl’s dress, when one finally gave him a chance, or how his voice could carry for miles and held so much passion and fire that he was impossible to ignore, even if he was hard to spot in a crowd.
“Bucky, just leave it.” He could hear frustration in Steve’s voice, and knew that the conversation had definitely gone on for too long. He knew it wasn’t just the lack of interest from girls that had Steve down when it came to dating, but the fact that unless they found themselves a pair of girls more interested in each other than them, it would mean that the nature of their relationship would have to change again. They wouldn’t be able to fall asleep in each other’s arms every night if they got married or started families, but it was a price they needed to pay if they didn’t want anyone looking too closely at them. It was a price Bucky would gladly pay if it meant no one looked too closely at Steve, who already had a rough enough time without word getting out that he was a queer.
Neither of them ever mentioned it, both of them knowing that it would be a sure fire way to start a nasty argument, but it was obvious Steve was more than willing to take the risk of being found out. Steve was always willing to stand up for himself, to stand up for others, and there was no doubt in Bucky’s mind that this wouldn’t be any different to him if any real accusations were directed at him.
It already took all of what little self preservation Steve had for himself, along with his awareness of the situation it would put Bucky in, to keep up the charade they had outside of their apartment. If it were entirely up to Steve, he’d probably be bragging to anyone who’d listen about the relationship they had with each other. He already had a habit of trying to hold Bucky’s hand in public if he got drunk, his hands barely able to be satisfied whenever Bucky tried to redirect them to cling onto his jacket or shoulders instead.
He understood why dating was frustrating for Steve, but he thought it was worth it if it meant that Steve would be safe.
“Alright,” Bucky conceded, just like he always ended up doing for Steve. He had never been able to be stubborn when it came to his best guy. “The dating can wait until your face is a little less colorful, but you’re not getting out of the next one unless you’re dyin’, got it?”
“Don’t tempt me,” Steve muttered, but Bucky could hear the hint of a smile pulling at Steve’s lips as he poured the broth back into the pot and dumped in the remaining chopped vegetables.
“If that’s your attitude, then I’m draggin’ your corpse to the dance hall and you can’t stop me.” It was morbid, but it got a surprised laugh out of Steve which was all Bucky ever needed out of a conversation with him.
Steve’s laugh was so infectious that Bucky almost stabbed himself with a fork while he started breaking up the chicken, a near miss that only brought tears to Steve’s eyes as he doubled over, his laugh a little too wheezy for Bucky to feel unconcerned, but still so familiar and beautiful. Bucky forced himself together, listening as Steve’s laughter died next to him and dared to look back, catching his best friend’s eye for a single second before another bout of laughter burst from his mouth.
By the time the laughter actually died, Steve was hanging off of the ice box, his face red and his cheeks wet from the tears streaming down it, and Bucky’s stomach and face ached like hell.
“Christ, Buck,” Steve wheezed, his arms still clutching his stomach and a grin wide on his face. “Warn a guy before you start talkin’ like some kinda devil worshiper.”
“Alright,” Bucky said simply, turning back to the chicken the moment he could stop leaning on the counter for support. “I’m about to ask you to join my cult, that okay?”
Steve snorted, and Bucky caught a glimpse of the bright, beaming smile on his face as he white knuckled the handle of the ice box before turning his full attention back to cooking. “Don’t let Father O’Donoghue hear you askin’ that.”
Bucky’s cheeks still ached, but he couldn’t help but smile wider. “You gonna tattle on me, Stevie?” He tried to pout, but it was hard to look anything but happy when he was facing an amused Steve. “I’m hurt, you know.” He just shook his head, refusing to look Buck in the eyes but still grinning widely.
It was quiet after that, the only sounds coming from Bucky as he finished breaking down the chicken and poured the broth back into the soup pot, but it was still comfortable, still a happy moment, and that was more than enough. There was contentment in their silent companionship.
“How much longer?” Steve asked as Bucky dumped chopped dill into the pot before stirring it.
“Not long, just a few more minutes.” He extinguished the flame under the matzo balls before looking up at Steve, smiling back at the eager look on his face.
By the time Bucky had deemed the soup finished, the kitchen had started smelling even better. The scent of tender chicken, salty broth, cooked carrots, celery, and onions, blended herbs, and the distinct addition of cooked matzo mingled in the air, smelling strongly of home in a way Bucky hadn’t realized he’d missed until just now. But it felt right in their tiny apartment, like the warm smell of fresh soup and matzo belonged here. It did, if he thought about it, because this was home now. Home was where he lived with Steve, and it was where he’d live happily for as long as he could.
He dished out the soup, taking extra care with Steve’s bowl to make sure he got a little extra chicken and vegetables to go with the broth. He was half certain that Steve was well aware of this habit of his, but he had yet to mention it if he had. Maybe he just already understood that it wouldn’t change anything, even if he did argue. Steve did have the brains to pick his battles, sometimes, though he usually chose to pick all of them, but Bucky wasn’t about to complain if he decided to let this small one go.
Sitting down for their meal felt nice, relaxing in a way that curling up on the couch together wasn’t. It was still comfortable, even if Bucky was constantly knocking his knees into the side of the bathtub every time he moved and the surface of their ‘table’ was likely to spill their meal everywhere if Bucky leaned on it, it was the place where Bucky got to enjoy the epitome of good food and good company. Even if Steve’s cooking didn’t always fulfill that first requirement, there was nowhere else he’d rather be.
Even when dinner was quiet, a direct result of both of them spending a couple hours earlier sharing story after story and telling jokes that would only ever be funny to the pair of them, it was the definition of comfort. Steve complimented Bucky’s cooking between bites of warm soup, congratulating him sarcastically for not setting fire to everything, as if he wasn’t the one who decided that the stove was a good place to leave a tea towel before starting dinner, Bucky accepted the compliments gracefully, refusing the acknowledge the blush he felt on his cheeks every single time he made dinner, and that was the end of what needed to be said.
Bucky wasn’t sure he’d be a good conversationalist at this point anyways. His brain felt like mush after a long day, his thoughts scattering before him the moment he no longer had an active task to focus on. Instead, the most traceable line of thinking drifted to Steve, watching him devour his food with an eagerness that told Bucky that he hadn’t bothered with lunch that afternoon. It was hard to pull away from Steve watching, from the way his long, surprisingly thick fingers wrapped around a pencil, or spoon in this case, how his eyes always looked so soft and blue by the end of the day, still bright and glinting with the fire he held inside him, but relaxed in a way Bucky knew he was one of very few to ever see. His hair seemed to glow in the kitchen light, a warm yellow that brought out the bright blue of his eyes, even if the left was bloodshot and swollen.
It was a beautiful sight, even with his face turning purple and his left arm still tucked close to his side. Even if Bucky couldn’t have him in every way he wanted, he was glad that he had the chance to have this, bruises and all.
They’d need to be careful tonight. Steve would have to lay on his left and Bucky would need to get another look at the bruising on his ribs and stomach before they turned in for the night, just to make sure that it wasn’t darker than it should be and to be absolutely certain that nothing was really broken, but it wasn’t anything they couldn’t handle. Steve would feel warm and content and full, and Bucky would hold him as best as he could while minding the bruises. In the dark of their bedroom, he’d feel safe to press his lips to Steve’s cheek, kissing his bruises better the way they grew up, even if they both knew it didn’t work that way.
It would be a late and long night, and Bucky wouldn’t get much sleep because he’d be too busy listening to Steve’s breathing, holding his own breath as he waited to hear the moment things might go wrong, the moment that would hopefully never come, where the wheezing grew worse, rattling and unsteady, but they’d get through it. They always did.
They’d be okay, as long as they were together.