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Bucky’s head was killing him. Since his accident, his head tended to be a constant source of low-grade pain, but on occasion that pain would amplify into a terrible migraine and Bucky would be useless for the rest of the day. On the good days, he woke up with a migraine, so he knew he’d be out of commission and could take his meds—which made him sleepy and unfocused—or he never developed a migraine at all. The bad days, however...
Well, a bad day meant that a migraine started when he was already out of the house, usually at school or a friend’s house, and he had to choose whether to suffer through the rest of the day at school or at home. It wasn’t that he couldn’t take his meds at school, it was just “strongly discouraged.” Oftentimes his daily morning cocktail of medication was enough to ward off a migraine, but when it wasn’t, he had to resort to pretty heavy opioids, and neither he nor the school wanted him staggering around the grounds like a haggard, old alcoholic.
It looked like today was shaping up to be a bad day.
He could usually tell when a headache was going to get worse: he’d get dizzy, his vision would blur, and the constant ringing in his ears would get louder. On the really fun days, burning and tingling in his bad arm would accompany the other symptoms to presage a bad headache.
Thankfully, today wasn’t that bad of a day. He was a little dizzy, but he was able to make it to the nurse’s office on his own and without trouble.
He shuffled inside, squinting against the bright light that made pain shoot through his skull. There was another guy in the office—in fact, he was there every time Bucky went to the nurse. And Bucky went to the nurse a lot. Normally, he was sat at the little desk with headphones in his ears, reading a book. Today, however, he was fiddling with the wooden tongue depressors.
“Where’s Mrs. Rogers?” Bucky asked, trying not to slur his words.
The other boy jumped and looked up from the workstation.
“Is that sanitary?” Bucky asked, pointing. “You’re not wearing gloves.”
“I—” The boy glared. “My hands are clean.”
Bucky would have rolled his eyes, but he really didn’t care. “Whatever. Where’s Mrs. Rogers?”
“She’s in the office. She’s picking up the new batch of EpiPens.”
“Oh, okay.” Bucky eased himself onto one of the flimsy waiting chairs and tried not to jar his arm. “I’ll just wait.”
The other boy looked at him but didn’t reply. Instead, he went over to a backpack sitting at a little desk on the other side of the nurse’s station and pulled out two things: a textbook and a notebook. He propped the textbook open so that it stood between him and Bucky—which, rude—and opened the notebook to a blank page.
The textbook, Bucky noticed, wasn’t one they used at the school. At least, not as far as Bucky knew.
In fact, Bucky was pretty sure he’d never seen this kid anywhere outside of the nurse’s office. He didn’t know everyone at the high school, but he was at least familiar with most of his classmates’ faces, and this kid looked to be about his age.
“Hey, do you go here?” Bucky asked. Blurted, really. His headaches were not conducive to social tact.
The kid’s head popped up over the edge of the book. He wasn’t glaring, but Bucky could tell he was just on the cusp of it. “What?”
Bucky had the strange urge to shuffle his feet, like a child being chastised. “I asked if you go here.”
The other boy’s eyes narrowed as he lowered his textbook. “Why?” he asked, in a considering voice.
Bucky shrugged his good arm. “I just don’t think I’ve ever seen you outside of this office.”
“Oh.” The other boy looked down at the textbook. “No, I don’t go here.”
Bucky cocked his head to the side. “So why are you always in here?”
“Mrs. Rogers is my mom,” he said.
“Ohhh,” Bucky said, nodding. After a pause, he continued: “Wait, but shouldn’t you be at school somewhere? Isn’t it like, illegal for you to not go to school?”
The other boy looked annoyed. “I’m homeschooled. My mom gives me coursework and homework, and I do it here or in the evenings.”
“Okay,” Bucky said. “That makes sense.”
The other boy didn’t say anything and went back to his textbook. He didn’t prop it up again, though, which Bucky took as a positive sign.
So, of course, Bucky had to ruin it by continuing: “So are you in a cult or something?”
“What?”
“Like, why are you homeschooled? I thought only weird religious people did that.”
The other boy looked a little like a cat, hair standing on end and face scrunched up like he was about to spit. “Plenty of people are homeschooled!” he snapped. “It’s not weird, and it definitely doesn’t mean I’m in a cult.”
Bucky raised his good hand in deference. “All right,” he said. “Sorry. I don’t know much about it.”
While the kid didn’t looked appeased exactly, he didn’t look like he was about to start hissing anymore, so Bucky took that as a win.
“Why are you, though?” Bucky asked. “Homeschooled, I mean.”
The boy snapped his textbook shut in exasperation. “Don’t you have anything better to do?” he asked, exasperation evident in his tone. “Why are you in here, anyway? Class too boring for you?”
It was Bucky’s turn to be annoyed. “I have chronic headaches because of a traumatic brain injury,” he said in an icy tone. He wasn’t normally so blunt, but he was in a lot of pain and this kid was kind of an asshole. “I come here when they get really bad because the school won’t let me take my pain meds on the grounds.”
There was a long pause, in which Bucky noticed that the other boy looked a little shamefaced. The silence stretched out until it was almost painful. Bucky would have crossed his arms, but his bad one was starting to burn, so he settled for pulling his phone out to check the time. He wasn’t really supposed to use his phone, even in the nurse’s office—plus the backlighting didn’t help his headache—but seriously, fuck this kid.
He heard the other boy stand and shuffle around a bit, but he stayed out of Bucky’s peripheral vision so he didn’t bother looking up. After a moment though, the lights shut off and Bucky’s head jerked up.
The boy was standing next to the light switch, looking at Bucky with an apologetic expression. “That might help with your headache,” he said, fiddling with the cuffs of his long sweater. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed you were just skipping class.”
Bucky slipped his phone back into his pocket. The darkness did help. Nothing could ever make the headache go away completely, but the darkness helped to temper the worst of it.
“Thanks,” Bucky said.
“I used to get headaches,” the kid said, sounding uncertain. “Just sometimes. I have anemia, and it got really bad before we realized it, so I would get these killer headaches and I’d feel really weak and dizzy, and I’d wanna eat weird stuff like dirt and paint.” There was a pause. “Not that I ever did, I didn’t eat the dirt or the paint, but like, cravings are a symptom. So... yeah.”
Bucky stared at him, a little taken aback. This was like a complete one-eighty from the kid’s previous attitude.
“That sucks,” Bucky said.
“Yeah,” the boy agreed. “That’s why I’m homeschooled, actually. Not the anemia, I mean—I just have health problems.”
“Okay.”
The kid shuffled a little, then went back to his little desk. Silence fell, and Bucky took the opportunity to look the other boy over. He was tiny—Bucky could tell they were about the same age, but the other boy was so small he might have been wrong. He had short blonde in a conservative haircut that flopped into his eyes a little when he looked down. He was wearing a sweater, maybe a size too big for him, over dark skinny jeans. He did look pale, Bucky realized, though it was harder to see in the dark.
“What’s your name?” Bucky asked.
“Steve,” the boy replied.
“I’m Bucky.”
A pause. “...Really?”
Bucky rolled his eyes, and regretted it when his head throbbed. “Yes. I don’t like my first name, and my middle name’s too long, so I shortened it to Bucky.”
“What’s your middle name?” Steve asked, in a tone that said, What name could possibly shorten down to Bucky?
“Buchanan,” Bucky muttered. “For James Buchanan.”
Steve laughed. “I like it,” he said, and it seemed genuine. “I’m actually reading about him right now.” He pointed to the textbook. “It must be fate.”
Before Bucky could reply, a voice made them both jump.
“Steve? Why are all the lights off?”
They came back on with a flicker, making Bucky hiss and bring a hand up to shield his eyes.
“Oh, Mr. Barnes! I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.” The lights went off. “Another headache, dear?”
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s about a seven.”
Mrs. Rogers made a clucking sound with her tongue. Her voice was warm and deep, and held faint traces of an Irish accent she must have had in her youth. Her disposition was just as warm as her voice, and it made her a school favorite. After class, students would sometimes flock to her office just to say goodbye or make conversation.
“Why don’t we get you onto one of the cots in the other room, hm? I’ll get you a nice warm compress and we can see how that goes.” She helped him up and shuffled him toward the back room, which housed two cots and a rack of pamphlets on things like STIs and alcohol abuse. “Now, did you take your medicine this morning?”
“Yeah.” Bucky’s morning cocktail consisted of a pair of anticonvulsants, an antidepressant, and sometimes a general painkiller on days when his pain flared up early. He’d foregone the painkiller this morning, since his pain had been surprisingly mild, and now he was suffering for it. “No painkiller though.”
Mrs. Rogers made a humming sound as she helped him ease onto the cot. “You stay right there, I’ll be right back with a warm cloth and something for you to take, all right, dear?”
Bucky made a vague noise of assent. After her footsteps had gone, though, Steve’s voice reappeared.
“Hey,” he said. Whispered, really. “Do you need quiet during your headaches?”
Bucky didn’t open his eyes. The pain was much worse, now that he was paying attention. Talking with Steve had been a distraction, but now his attention was fully on the throbbing pain shooting through his skull.
“Not really,” he muttered.
“I could sit in here and read to you, if you want. I have to read Grapes of Wrath.”
“Sure,” Bucky said, still not opening his eyes. “S’a good book.”
He could hear Steve’s footsteps as he slipped inside, and the creak of the cot’s legs as he sat down. He turned his head and squinted at the other boy, just enough to see his outline against the far wall. He was sitting cross-legged with a book in his lap, which he opened as Bucky watched.
Before he could begin, however, Mrs. Rogers returned.
“Oh, Steve,” she said, “you shouldn’t bother Mr. Barnes. He needs rest.”
Bucky could read the hesitation on Steve’s face, so he spoke up. “S’okay, Mrs. Rogers. It helps if I have something else to focus on.”
She looked unsure, but after a brief pause she handed Bucky two tiny oblong pills and a glass of water. “Take these, then we’ll get you set up with the hot compress.”
Bucky swallowed the pills with practiced ease and lay back down, letting out a tiny sigh at the feeling of warmth against his throbbing head.
“Thanks, Mrs. Rogers.”
“Of course, dear,” she said. He watched her pat Steve on the shoulder before she left, closing the door behind her.
Steve looked at him. “You ready?”
Bucky hummed in assent, letting his eyes slip shut.
“To the red country and part of the gray country of Oklahoma, the last rains came gently, and they did not cut the scarred earth....”
-
It took less than a week for Bucky to make his way back to the nurse’s office. Under normal circumstances, his headaches were pretty manageable, but thanks to a combination of midterms and medical bills, Bucky’s stress was at an all-time high and so were his headaches.
He’d been struggling in school since the accident. In the grand scheme of things, he’d fared pretty well as far as debilitating injuries went, but any amount of brain damage was still brain damage. He had more trouble remembering things than he used to, and it took him longer to comprehend even the most simple of concepts. If his progress didn’t improve soon, they were going to put him in special education classes. It wouldn’t be the end of the world, but he didn’t want to wrap up his senior year in a whole new set of classes without any of his friends.
His stress also wasn’t helped by the medical bills that had piled up as a result of his injuries. His parents were struggling to pay for them, and their stress was leeching out to affect Bucky. He wished he could get a job to help them out, but he’d have to drop out entirely for that to work. He could barely manage his schoolwork now, he’d never be able to do it with a job on the side.
Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, he thought as he made his way toward the office. Maybe leaving school was the right decision. It wasn’t as if college was really feasible for him like this. His comprehension skills had tanked, and his parents obviously wouldn’t be able to pay his tuition.
He sighed and cut off his train of thought before it could go somewhere darker, peering inside the office. The pain wasn’t too bad yet, but he could feel it coming on and he wanted to get ahead of it if he could.
Mrs. Rogers was with a girl. She was sitting in a chair that had been pulled up to the main desk, mouth open as Mrs. Rogers shined a light down her throat.
She glanced up as Bucky moved into the doorway and gave him a smile, nodding toward the row of seats near the door. He sat down.
Steve was sitting at his little desk again, nose buried in Grapes of Wrath and a pair of headphones in his ears. Bucky waved to get his attention, then waved again when it didn’t work. Finally, he tossed a balled up tissue at the other boy, who looked up with an irritated expression that melted away once he saw Bucky.
He waved and slipped his headphones off, then with a glance at his mom, scurried over to sit by Bucky.
“Hey,” Steve whispered. “’Nother headache?”
“Yeah,” Bucky said with a grimace. “Not so bad today. Not yet at least. It’s a five.”
Steve nodded. He glanced at his mother, then turned back to Bucky. “Here, I can take you back. D’you want something for your head?”
Bucky shook his head. “I took a painkiller this morning. I think I just need to lie down for a while.”
“Okay.” Steve stood and held out his hand, then blushed and faltered. “Uh, sorry. I don’t usually help. Um, c’mon.”
Bucky stood and followed him with a little smile, amused. He’d noticed Steve was cute, of course, but the last time he’d been there he’d been in too much pain to really dwell on it. Or do anything about it. Not that he was going to do anything about it... but there was nothing wrong with noticing.
Steve paused on their way to the room to grab his book. He was moving a little weirdly, Bucky noticed, like he was in pain. He also sank onto the second cot in the back room like they’d just run a mile rather than walked about five feet.
Bucky bit his lip and debated saying anything, but when Steve hissed as he pulled his leg up onto the cot Bucky decided to bite the bullet.
“Are you okay?” he blurted. He sat down and fiddled with the cuff of his hoodie as Steve stared at him. “Sorry, you just seem a little... off today.”
Steve sighed and glanced at the closed door. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He seemed to be debating something with himself, so Bucky kept quiet and picked at a piece of peeling rubber on the bottom of his shoe. “I... You remember how I said I have health problems?”
“Yeah,” Bucky said. He was a little nervous. What if Steve was seriously ill?
“Well, I have, like... I have CFS.”
Bucky didn’t know what that was, but it sounded bad. His uncertainty must have shown on his face.
“Chronic Fatigue Syndrome,” Steve clarified, looking a little annoyed. Somehow Bucky didn’t think Steve was annoyed with him, but he wasn’t sure. “It’s basically what it sounds like, you’re tired all the time and your muscles get really weak. And sometimes you get really bad muscle and joint pain, which is what’s going on today.”
“That sucks,” Bucky said, an echo of their conversation from the last time he’d been there.
“Yeah,” Steve said, his scripted reply.
There was a pause where neither of them seemed sure what to say. Bucky felt for Steve, he did, but he didn’t seem like the type of person to want sympathy or someone fussing over his problems.
“Well,” Bucky said, after giving it some consideration. “You wanna study together?” He slipped off his backpack and pulled out his physics textbook. “I got midterms comin’ up, so I can’t afford to slack.”
Steve grinned at him and opened his book.
-
The next time Bucky went to the clinic, it was because he’d had a seizure during class.
He hadn’t had a seizure in almost two months, not since the weeks following the accident back in August. It was worse than he remembered.
He was almost glad he’d passed out during it—that he hadn’t been aware as his body was taken over and racked by muscle spasms—but he’d fallen off his chair and hit his head against the floor. He’d bitten his cheek in the process, so now his mouth tasted like blood and his head was throbbing more than usual.
His seizures—the really bad ones—usually left him a little drowsy and confused afterwards, so the teacher had asked someone to walk him to the clinic. Natasha had volunteered.
She kept one hand braced on his elbow as they walked, ready to grab him if he fell or another seizure started.
“It’s been a while since you’ve had one that bad,” she murmured. Natasha was known for being inscrutable, but Bucky had been her friend for so long that he knew all her tells. Or most of them, anyway. “I thought your medications were supposed to prevent them.”
“They are,” Bucky slurred. “Haven’t been gettin’ enough sleep. Fucks with the meds sometimes.”
He didn’t mention that he couldn’t remember whether he’d taken them that morning. He’d been up most of the night studying for his history midterm, only falling asleep through sheer exhaustion at four that morning. Two hours later, he’d been up again and rushing through his morning routine so he wouldn’t miss the bus.
He was pretty sure he’d forgotten to take his meds. Stupid, stupid.
Natasha rubbed a hand over his back in a rare gesture of affection, though her face remained expressionless. “You need to take better care of yourself,” she said.
Bucky felt tears pressing against the backs of his eyes. He was always more emotional after a seizure. “I’m trying, Nat. If I don’t pass my midterms, they’re gonna stick me in special ed. But I can’t remember stuff like I used to, I had to stay up all night just to get through one chapter of material.”
Natasha was silent. They were nearing the nurse’s office, but Bucky had trouble making his stiff muscles move so their progress was incremental.
“Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if you went to special ed,” she said, without looking at him.
He turned to stare at her.
“I mean it,” she said, with a glance in his direction. “A slower pace isn’t always a bad thing. You have to listen to your body. I can practice my pirouettes on a twisted ankle all I want, but it’s gonna do more harm than good.”
Bucky didn’t reply until they were almost at the office. “I’m not stupid,” he muttered.
“I know that,” Natasha said in a harsh tone. She turned Bucky to face her. “Special ed doesn’t mean you’re stupid, James. It means you need a little extra help to grasp a concept, or you learn better a different way. That doesn’t make you stupid.”
Bucky shrugged, his bad arm burning like pins and needles. “Whatever. I don’t wanna talk about this.”
Natasha glared at him. “Fine. But if I had to choose between you switching to special ed and you going through this every time a test rolls around, I’d choose special ed.”
She took a hold of his arm again—still gentle, despite her irritation—and led him to the door. She knocked, even though the door was open and Mrs. Rogers was sat at her desk, writing something in a ledger.
She glanced up at the sound, and her face twisted when she saw Bucky. “Oh, James,” she said, shooting out of her chair and hurrying to take his arm. She led him to one of the chairs and helped him sit, then went to fetch some water and painkillers.
Steve had looked up at the commotion and was looking at Bucky with concern. Bucky avoided his gaze.
“Thanks, Nat,” he said, crossing his good arm over his chest. It felt awkward, and he dropped it again immediately. “You don’t need to stick around.”
She bit her lip, though her face was still stoic. “You sure?”
Bucky nodded, which made him wince at the pain that shot through his head. That did nothing to convince her, so Bucky gave her a smile. “Really, Nat, I’m fine,” he said. “They’re just gonna send me home.”
She nodded and walked to the door, though she delayed leaving right away. She glanced at Steve, who was still watching Bucky with concern.
“Oh,” Bucky said, still not looking at Steve. “Right. Nat, this is Steve. Steve, Nat.”
“Nice to meet you,” Steve said, glancing at Natasha for only a moment before he looked back at Bucky.
“Mm,” Nat hummed. She glanced between them once before nodding. “All right. Bye, James.”
He made an attempt at a wave as she left, then sank back against the seat when she was gone.
“What happened?” Steve asked, moving to sit by Bucky.
“Seizure,” Bucky murmured, closing his eyes.
“Shit,” Steve said. “That sucks.”
“Language, Steve,” Mrs. Rogers said as she returned.
Bucky opened his eyes just in time to see Steve turn red, which made Bucky grin. He took the pills with quick mechanical movements, and handed the glass back to Mrs. Rogers.
“Thanks,” he said. “Can I go lie down until my mom gets here?”
Mrs. Rogers brushed his hair back from his forehead with a sad smile. “Of course, dear,” she said. “Just yell if you need anything.”
Bucky gave her a smile and shuffled toward the back room, Steve hot on his heels. Once the door was closed, the other boy started talking:
“Do you want me to read to you? Or do you want quiet? Or we could listen to music? Or I could just leave you alone—”
Bucky cut him off with a hand over the other boy’s mouth. “Reading sounds fine, Steve. But you don’t have to hang out with me just because I’m here all the time.”
Steve used both his hands to peel Bucky’s hand back and didn’t let go as he said, “I like hanging out with you.”
Bucky looked down at their hands, then back up at Steve, who was blushing bright red again. Bucky smiled. “I like hanging out with you too.”
Steve let go of his hand, blush darkening, and went to grab his book. Bucky eased himself onto the cot and laid back, putting his good arm behind his head.
When Steve got back, he grabbed the other cot and dragged it over so it was next to Bucky’s. Bucky watched him with bemusement. Steve didn’t take his hand again, or try to cuddle him or something—which wouldn’t have worked on the cots anyway—he just laid down and opened his book, a new one this time.
“The old woman remembered a swan she had bought many years ago in Shanghai for a foolish sum. This bird, boasted the market vendor, was once a duck that stretched its neck in hopes of becoming a goose, and now look!—it is too beautiful to eat....”
-
Bucky wound up switching to the special education classes. He didn’t even wait to see how he did on his midterms. He was loathe to admit it, but Natasha was right. Trying to keep his grades up wasn’t worth running himself into the ground. Part of him was still embarrassed at the idea of having to take special ed classes, but his parents had expressed their support for the idea so he had gone ahead with it.
The switch did help. A lot.
The pace at which they covered the material was slower, with more emphasis on comprehension and retention than Bucky’s previous classes. The work was also more individualized. They had a core teacher, who took them through the general lesson, and two co-teachers, who helped students work through the material individually.
Bucky’s stress levels went down and his grades went up, and he didn’t visit the clinic for almost a month.
Three weeks after his seizure, however, he had a bad day. He’d been okay that morning, but as the day went on, the pain in his head had steadily increased until he could hardly see. One of the co-teachers had helped him get his stuff together and had walked him down to the clinic. There was no way he was going to make the rest of the day.
She gave him their daily homework packet just outside the door. “Don’t worry if you can’t handle it tonight,” she said. “You can always work on it during the free period tomorrow.”
He did his best to smile at her, though it was probably more of a grimace, and staggered into the office.
“Bucky!”
The sound of Steve’s voice made him wince as he fumbled to sit down.
“Sorry,” Steve said in a softer voice. “Bad headache, huh?”
Bucky made a vague noise in reply.
“I’m having a bad day myself,” Steve said with a wry smile.
Bucky really looked at him for the first time since he’d come in. Steve was pale, his skin nearly transparent, and he had dark circles under his eyes. He was wearing a massive sweater and had a thick blanket tucked over his lap. The iPad he was holding looked like it had been paused halfway through a movie.
“S’wrong?” Bucky managed.
“More of the same,” Steve said, locking the iPad. “The fatigue’s just really bad today, and I’m having some balance problems.”
“M’sorry,” Bucky said, frowning.
Steve gave him a tired smile. “If I got worked up about it every time this happened, I’d be ten times more exhausted than I already am.”
Bucky chuffed out a tiny laugh. “How you been?” he asked, trying to keep his eyes open. “Also where’s your mom?”
“She’ll be right back,” Steve said. “Some kid hurt himself in gym and she’s making sure it’s not too serious.” Steve fiddled with the iPad in his lap. “I’ve been okay, though. You?”
Bucky managed a small nod. “M’in special ed now,” he said. “Less stressed.”
Steve’s eyebrows went up and he smiled. “That’s great, Buck,” he said. “I’m glad.”
“Thanks,” Bucky said with a little smile. He closed his eyes and let his head sink back against the wall.
After a couple moments of silence, Steve spoke up: “Hey.”
Bucky cracked an eye open to look at him.
“You should gimme your number,” Steve said, face flushing. “Maybe we could hang out somewhere that’s not a nurse’s office.”
Bucky couldn’t help but grin this time. “Yeah, all right,” he said. He rattled off his number and watched as Steve put him in his contacts.
He felt his phone buzz in his pocket just as Mrs. Rogers walked through the door, carrying a bag with a red cross on it. She went over to Steve right away and bussed a kiss onto his forehead. “How’re you feeling, sweetheart?” she asked, setting the bag on the desk. Before Steve could reply, she noticed Bucky. “Oh! Mr. Barnes, I didn’t see you there. What’s wrong, dear?”
“Headache,” Bucky said. “Nine.”
Mrs. Rogers’ eyes widened and she nodded, picking up the phone to call his dad. Both his parents worked during the day, but his dad worked from home, so he was usually the one to pick Bucky up when he was having a bad day.
After a short conversation—Mrs. Rogers and his parents could probably be considered friends, by this point—she hung up and told him, “He’ll be here in ten minutes. You want to take something in the meantime?”
He shook his head. He was going to have to take one of his heavy-duty painkillers when he got home, and he didn’t want to take anything that might interact with it.
Mrs. Rogers nodded and sat down at her desk. Steve gave him a small smile, and the room lapsed into silence.
-
On the drive home, Bucky pulled out his phone and checked the text from Steve, despite how the light from his phone made his head throb.
hey hope you feel better! this is steve btw
Bucky smiled and added Steve to his contacts. He sent back a Thanks :), and tried to relax for the rest of the drive.
-
By the time winter break rolled around, he and Steve had hung out six more times, two of which were outside the clinic. It was hard for them to follow through on plans every time because if one of them wasn’t out of commission for the day, the other usually was. On certain days, however, the stars aligned and they were able to meet up outside the all-too-familiar walls of the school clinic.
On both of those days, they’d gone to Bucky’s house rather than Steve’s. (“I spend pretty much all my time in the clinic or at my house,” Steve had said. “Please tell me we can go to yours.”) Bucky’s sister was thirteen and convinced that Steve was the best person in the entire world. Bucky was inclined to agree. His parents liked Steve as well, though his mother had none-too-subtly piled Steve’s plates with extra helpings when he’d stayed for dinner, which had prompted Bucky to give her an exasperated look. But Steve had eaten it all without complaint. He was small, but he could eat.
Another of their fateful, synchronistic days came during the first week of the break, when they arranged to hang out at Natasha’s house with her, Clint, and Steve’s friend Sam. Steve picked Bucky up in his mom’s beat-up old station wagon, which was so old that it actually had the wooden panels on the sides. Sam was in the passenger seat.
“Hey, man,” Bucky said as he buckled his seatbelt. This was his first time riding in the back of a car since his accident. He’d been riding with Brock Rumlow and Jack Rollins, sitting in the back without a seatbelt, and he’d gone straight through the windshield when Brock had crashed the car. All three of them had been drunk, but Bucky had been the only one with serious injuries. He hadn’t spoken to either of them since.
He pushed the thoughts of that night away, focusing on the here and now with Sam and Steve.
“Hey,” Sam replied, giving Bucky a half-wave over his shoulder. “How’s it going?”
“Good, thanks.” Bucky bumped Steve’s shoulder with his hand. “You good for directions?”
“Yep,” Steve said without taking his eyes off the road.
The car lapsed into silence, but after a few moments Bucky spoke up: “So, how d’you two know each other?”
“Our families go to church together,” Sam said. He tilted in his seat a little so he could address Bucky without craning his neck. “I’ve known this little smartass since we were in diapers.”
Bucky grinned at him. “Yeah? So you’ve got all the dirt, then.”
“’Bout as much as his mom, yeah. Maybe more.” Sam’s grin showcased the gap in his teeth. “I got all the stories: that time he peed his pants in first grade, the year he would only take bubble baths, first time he kissed a boy, that time he peed his pants in ninth grade—”
“Sam!” Steve’s face was beet-red. “I did not pee my pants in ninth grade. Stop embarrassing me.”
“Never,” Sam said. “It’s my job, man.”
Oh, Bucky liked Sam. “Are you homeschooled too?” he asked.
“Nah, I go to Stuyvesant,” Sam said. He laughed at Bucky’s look of surprise. “It’s not really as impressive as everyone makes it out to be.”
Steve glanced up at Bucky again. “Yes it is,” he said. “Sam’s just modest.”
Sam rolled his eyes, but his expression was affectionate. “Anyway, you’re at his mom’s school, right? I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Bucky’s eyebrows went up. “Uh, yeah.”
“Cool,” Sam said. “I’m sure we’ll have fun.”
They made light conversation for the rest of the drive—mainly Bucky asking Sam what Stuyvesant was like, because he’d heard a lot of things—and reached Nat’s house in no time at all.
Natasha lived in a small one-story house with her aunt, who was almost never home because she traveled for work. Nat’s aunt wasn’t the nicest person, but that mostly manifested itself in her letting Natasha do whatever she wanted, as long as she didn’t get arrested or burn down the house.
The house itself was small but cozy, and the walkway was cushioned by a vibrant garden. Most of the plants were dead due to the cold, but during spring it felt like wading through a rainforest.
When they reached the door, Bucky let himself in. He had the spare key. Nat had given it to him the same day she’d moved in with her aunt, saying, “I’d rather call you and wait for you to let me in than stick it under the doormat for easy pickings.”
“Nat?” Bucky called, holding the door open for Sam and Steve.
“Living room!”
Bucky shuffled in after the two of them, dragging the door closed and heaving it into the jamb with his good arm so it would close properly.
“Here, shoes off.” Bucky leaned down to unlace his boots and threw them into the little bin by the door. He waited for Steve and Sam to do the same. “Living room’s this way.”
Nat’s house was so small it wasn’t hard to tell where the living room was, but Bucky led the way regardless. What they found was pretty typical of his friends: a pizza box open in the middle of the floor and a cooler full of beers and screwdrivers. And Coke, which was almost entirely for Bucky’s benefit. He hadn’t had a drink since the accident.
Bucky flopped down onto the pillows spread on the floor, ignoring the small twinge of pain that shot up his arm. Sam and Steve followed suit, with Steve sitting close to Bucky and Sam bracketing Steve on the other side. All together they made a half-circle around the TV, with Bucky in the middle.
“Drinks?” Nat asked, holding a Coke out to Bucky.
He took it with a smile. Sam asked for a beer, but Steve hesitated.
“You can drink if you want,” Bucky said, pushing away his unease. One beer wasn’t going to get Steve drunk. They were going to be there for hours. As long as he didn’t down drink after drink, he’d be more than sober by the time they left.
But Steve shook his head. “I’m good.”
Nat held out a Coke, but he shook his head again. “I’m diabetic,” he said.
Bucky stared at him. “I didn’t know that,” he said, which was kind of stupid. He’d known Steve for a while now, but he didn’t know everything about the guy. Not even close.
Steve looked uncomfortable, a little annoyed. Bucky was starting to think that irritation was a defense mechanism for Steve. That, or it was just his natural state of being.
“Yeah,” Steve said, “can’t process insulin, let’s move along.”
Sam put a hand on his shoulder, whether to quell or comfort him Bucky wasn’t sure. At the same time, Clint produced a water bottle out of nowhere and tossed it to Steve.
Clint signed something—Bucky was still struggling to learn sign language, it was harder now than before the accident—and Steve looked surprised.
“Thanks,” Steve said, as he signed.
“No problem,” Clint replied, also signing.
Bucky was surprised. Clint generally didn’t like to talk around new people—he was self-conscious about how people would react to his accent—but he seemed fine talking to Steve. And Steve knew sign language? Bucky was learning all sorts of new things about Steve today—which, Bucky supposed, was the point of hanging out with someone.
At Bucky’s questioning look, Steve turned his head and tapped the device in his ear. “Partial deafness,” he said, still signing for Clint’s benefit. “I can still hear on this side, just not very well. We thought it might get worse when I was a kid, so I learned sign language.”
“Cool,” Bucky said. “I’m trying to learn, but... it’s harder.”
Steve nodded, looking at him carefully.
Before the silence could grow awkward, Nat clapped her hands. “All right! We’ve got movies, we’ve got Netflix, we’ve got board games. We’ve also got cards, but I’m not sure you two are ready for me to kick your asses at poker.”
Steve and Sam both laughed.
“Hey, now,” Sam said. “That sounds like a challenge.”
Nat cocked an eyebrow at him, a smirk curling her lips. “You’re not ready,” she said, voice velvety.
Sam smirked too, though his looked more besotted. Bucky muffled a laugh into his sleeve, but Nat saw right through it.
“Do I need to remind them of the time we played strip poker?” she asked.
Bucky’s sip of Coke turned into a choke. “No,” he rasped around a cough. “Absolutely not.”
Steve’s face was a little red, but both he and Sam were looking at them with interest.
“Absolutely not,” Bucky repeated, firmer now. “Let’s pick a board game!”
He ignored Nat’s whispered, “He swung his pants around like a lasso. There was a lot of alcohol.”
“Oh hey, you’ve got Clue!” Bucky said in a loud voice. “Why don’t we play that? Let’s play Clue and not talk!”
After two rounds of Clue, they were all a little bored with the game. Clint suggested Netflix, as long as they kept the subtitles on, which led to a debate of what to watch. That discussion, in turn, revealed that Bucky had never seen Breaking Bad, which was apparently not allowed. So Nat started the first episode, then started doling out pizza on paper plates.
“There’s more in the kitchen,” she said. “Like three more pies. So seriously, help yourselves.”
Without giving himself too much chance to freak out about it, Bucky slung an arm over the cushions behind Steve’s head. He liked Steve, and he was pretty sure Steve liked him—but also, friends could do that. Friends could share space. Friends could—oh.
Steve had scooted a little closer and laid his head against Bucky’s shoulder, making Bucky tense in surprise. He felt Steve start to pull away, so he let his arm rest along Steve’s shoulders in a loose grip.
“This okay?” he whispered, hardly loud enough for himself to hear.
Steve nodded, his hair brushing Bucky’s jaw. He smelled like apples and cinnamon. Bucky forced himself to push both the smell and the heat of Steve against his side out of his mind so he could focus on the show. It wasn’t hard—the show was engaging and he was able to lose himself in the plot, though a tiny part of him was always aware of Steve, tucked under his arm.
The first episode ended in a sex scene, which—Bucky had not been expecting. Suddenly his arm around Steve’s shoulders felt almost expectant, oppressive. He focused very hard on not tensing his arm or giving any indication of how awkward he felt. It wasn’t an especially steamy scene, but Bucky was still hyperaware of what was happening, who he was watching it with.
The scene wasn’t long, and then the episode was over and Bucky was able to relax. He had a tendency to balk at sex scenes—they were fine when he was alone, but watching them with other people always made him uncomfortable.
Fortunately, Steve seemed fine, still relaxed against Bucky’s side. He took another breath against Steve’s hair as the next episode started, which helped him stay calm even through the continuation of the sex scene. (It helped that it was just as short as the first part.)
He liked the second episode just as much as the first—maybe more—and before he knew it, they’d gone through the entire first season.
“Wow,” Bucky said. “That was really good. I didn’t even notice how many we watched.”
“It was only seven episodes,” Nat said, stretching her arms out in front of her. “The first season’s short.”
“Ah.” Bucky tilted his head to glance down at Steve, who appeared to be asleep against his shoulder. He’d barely moved at all throughout the show, just shifting occasionally or moving his legs. “Steve’s conked out.”
Nat leaned over to look and smirked. “You two are so cute,” she teased. Her voice was almost taunting, but Bucky recognized the genuine undertone and the soft look in her eyes.
Bucky rolled his eyes even as he blushed. “Yeah, well...” He trailed off and looked around.
Clint and Sam were both asleep as well, Clint splayed out flat on his back and Sam curled up on his side with an arm tucked under his head.
Bucky pulled out his phone to check the time. It was almost two in the morning. “Shit, Nat,” he said. “M’sorry, didn’t mean to stay so late.”
“Shut up,” she said, “you know I don’t care. You guys should just stay here.”
Bucky bit his lip. “Would you mind?”
She gave him a look. “Please. Plus, your cooking is incrementally better than mine and way better than Clint’s, so you can pay me back with breakfast.”
Bucky let out a small laugh. “All right,” he said. “I’ll need to call my mom though.”
She nodded and stood. “Whatever. I’m gonna go get blankets and more pillows. Plus I guess I should find you boys a change of clothes.” She padded out of the room.
Bucky took a moment to just look at Steve and savor the warmth pressed along his side. Then he used his hand on Steve’s shoulder to give him a gentle shake.
“Hey,” he murmured. “Hey, you gotta get up for a sec.”
Steve shifted and pulled back to blink at him with bleary eyes. “Whas’on?” he slurred. “Times’it?”
Bucky smiled. “It’s like two in the morning. Nat said we can stay here, but I gotta call my mom.”
“Shit, me too,” Steve said, sitting up fully. “Where’s my phone? Oh, there it is. Okay, I should get Sam up too.”
“Okay.” Bucky used his arm on the couch to hoist himself onto his feet. “I’ll be right back.”
Steve flapped a hand at him, then turned to prod Sam awake.
Bucky slipped out of the living room and made his way outside, kneading his temples in an attempt to stave off a headache. The concrete was cold against his feet, even with socks on, and the air was chilly. He wished he’d brought a coat.
He pulled out his phone and dialed his house. It rang once before his mom picked up. “Bucky?” He could tell from her voice that she was a little worried, but trying to stay calm.
“Hey, ma,” Bucky said. “Sorry it’s so late. We were watching a show and I lost track of time.”
“It’s okay, sweetie,” she said. He could tell she was relieved. “Are you coming home now?”
“Actually, Nat said we could sleep here. Is that okay?”
There was a short pause. “Do you have your meds?” she asked.
“I have my back-up baggie,” Bucky replied. He kept a couple pills in a bag inside his backpack for situations exactly like this.
“That sounds fine, then,” his mom said. “I hope you have fun.”
“Thanks, we will. Love you. Tell Dad I said night.”
“I will. Love you too, sweetheart.”
Bucky ended the call and tucked his phone back into his pocket. He hurried back inside, shivering against the cold, and found Steve in the entryway. He was wearing a pair of Nat’s sweatpants under his T-shirt.
“Hey,” Bucky said. “What’d your mom say?”
“She’s fine with it,” Steve replied. “I gotta be back for dinner tomorrow though.”
“Cool. Nat found you a change of clothes, I see.”
“Luckily, we’re the same size,” Steve said in a dry tone.
Bucky grinned. “They suit you.” Steve shoved at his good shoulder. “I’m serious! They’re actually pretty flattering.”
Steve flushed and rolled his eyes. “C’mon, she’s got you some too. Her dad’s, apparently. I don’t think you’d fit in hers.”
There was indeed a pair of sweatpants waiting for him on the couch. Bucky didn’t bother going to the bathroom, just stripped off his jeans and pulled the sweatpants on right there. Steve looked away, which was—weirdly cute, actually.
Nat had spread a couple blankets out on the floor, as well as some extra pillows. The blankets were threadbare: Nat and her aunt didn’t have much money, and Nat ran hot so she never slept with more than a bedsheet anyway.
Steve was eyeing the blankets with a little trepidation, however. Bucky knew he tended to get cold. After a little deliberation, Bucky stripped off his hoodie, trying hard not to think about Steve seeing his bad arm for the first time.
“Here,” Bucky said, holding it out.
“I can’t take your sweatshirt,” Steve said, staring at the proffered object. “You’ll get cold.”
“Nah, I’m like a furnace,” Bucky said. “I’d get overheated in it anyway.”
Steve took the hoodie, still a little hesitant. “Thanks,” he said, giving Bucky a tiny smile.
Bucky smiled back, but looked away when he felt himself start to blush.
They all finished getting ready and laid down on their makeshift bed. Sam turned off the lights, since he wasn’t sleeping in the middle, and once the room was shrouded in darkness, Bucky felt Steve edge a little closer to him.
Bucky swallowed hard and lifted his arm. Immediately, Steve shifted into his space and laid his head against Bucky’s shoulder, a horizontal mirror of their earlier position. Bucky wrapped his arm around Steve’s shoulders and rubbed at his arm.
He hadn’t been lying earlier, he did tend to run hot, but having Steve pressed up against him again was perfect. Bucky liked to be warm, and Steve made him very, very warm.
Steve snuffled a little against Bucky’s shoulder and curled an arm around Bucky’s torso.
Bucky drifted off to sleep like that, with Steve’s body pressed against his side and the smell of vanilla spice in the air.
-
Bucky woke to find Nat taking a picture of him wrapped around Steve, clinging to the smaller boy like an octopus. He wasn’t hard—thank God—and Steve was still asleep, so Bucky flipped her off and disentangled his and Steve’s limbs as gently as possible.
Steve didn’t stir. Bucky and Nat were the only ones awake, so they headed into the kitchen and Bucky started poking around the fridge. Nat hopped up on one of the breakfast stools to watch him.
The selection was pretty sparse, but there were eggs, hash browns, and—
“Bacon, nice,” Bucky said, pulling the package out. He looked at Nat. “You mind?”
She shook her head. “You know I always burn it,” she said.
“You are terrible with bacon,” Bucky admitted. “You wanna make the hash browns?”
“Oh, no-no-no,” she said, ticking a finger back and forth. “You’re making me breakfast, I’m not helping.”
“Right, of course,” he said, rolling his eyes.
As he cooked, the others slowly wandered into the kitchen. While he was working on the eggs, he heard a slapping sound, and then: “Aw, Nat.” He didn’t have to look to know Nat had slapped Clint’s hand away from the plate of bacon.
Bucky made up the plates one-by-one as he finished the eggs, plating his own last. He joined the others at the island. Steve and Nat had taken the two stools, so the rest of them stood around the counter to eat.
“This is good, man,” Sam said, surprise evident in his tone. Steve made a noise of agreement around a mouthful of bacon.
“Thanks,” Bucky said. “Nat always makes me cook her breakfast, so I’ve gotten pretty good at it.”
Nat punched him in his good arm, but didn’t deny it.
After they finished breakfast, they migrated back to the living room to watch a movie. Steve had offered to take care of the dishes, but Nat’d waved a hand and said, “That’s what the dishwasher’s for.”
They settled into the same spots as the night before, and Nat pulled up the next episode of Breaking Bad. Bucky’s arm went up without conscious decision, and Steve tucked himself under it. Bucky wasn’t quite sure what they were doing, but he was comfortable letting it play out. It just felt right.
Over the course of the episode, however, the ever-present pain in Bucky’s head grew stronger. By the end, it was almost unbearable. He got up while the credits were rolling, dislodging Steve who had apparently been asleep, and stumbled into the hall to get his bag. This called for heavy duty painkillers.
He had a bottle of water in his bag, which he used to wash down the pill. The meds worked fast, but not immediately, so Bucky sat back on his haunches and squeezed his eyes shut to ride it out until the pill kicked in.
He heard a noise behind him and cocked his head like a dog, not ready to open his eyes.
“Bucky?”
It was Steve, sounding unsure and a little worried.
“Yeah,” Bucky rasped. “I’m okay. Just a headache.”
“Do you need to go home?” Steve asked.
Bucky considered the question. It would probably be wise to go home. He could lie down in his own bed, turn the lights off and shut everything out. But he was tired of missing out on things because of his headaches. He wanted to spend time with his friends, watch movies and eat pizza, and just feel like things were back to normal.
“Nah, I’ll stay,” he said, levering himself up. “I might get a little loopy, but—” He shrugged.
Steve seemed more hesitant. “If you’re sure,” he said, fiddling with the sleeves of Bucky’s hoodie.
Bucky managed a smile. The medication was starting to take effect, the pain was beginning to dissipate and he could feel his limbs growing heavy.
“C’mon, let’s go watch the next episode,” he said.
He and Steve headed back into the living room, where the next episode was paused on the opening scene. Nat hit play as they took their seats.
“You okay?” she asked in an undertone.
Bucky nodded. “Sorry,” he whispered.
She punched his leg, but it was so light he hardly felt it.
-
Steve dropped Sam off first on the way home. The drive from Sam’s house to Bucky’s wasn’t long, but the silence that stretched between them made it feel like forever.
Steve put the car in park outside Bucky’s house. They looked at one another for a moment, but Steve quickly looked away. He was fiddling with the sleeves of Bucky’s sweatshirt again, twisting the fabric between his fingers.
“So,” Bucky said, trying to tamp down the nervous roiling in his gut. “This is me.” God, stupid. “I guess...” Bucky trailed off and reached for the door handle, but then let his hand drop. He turned a little to face Steve. “Thanks for driving me.”
Steve was watching him. “No problem,” he said in a quiet voice. For a moment, Bucky thought they were going to lapse into silence again, but then Steve unzipped the hoodie and said, “I guess I should give this back—”
“No!” Bucky’s hand shot out to keep Steve from pulling it off. He cleared his throat. “I mean, you should keep it. It suits you.”
Steve turned pink. “Okay,” he said, zipping it back up. “Thanks.”
Bucky didn’t reply, just stared at Steve. He should just—he still didn’t know what he was doing, but he knew what he wanted.
Steve was staring again, gaze flickering between Bucky’s eyes and his mouth.
Bucky inched forward, hardly daring to breath. Steve seemed just as frozen. When he was less than an inch from Steve’s lips, he breathed, “Is this okay?”
Steve made a frustrated sound and the next thing Bucky knew, Steve’s hand was pressed against the back of his neck and they were kissing. It was soft and chaste, and Bucky felt like he was on fire. He leaned in further and brought his good hand up to run it through Steve’s hair.
Slowly, the kiss deepened until Bucky felt Steve’s tongue against his lips, seeking entrance. He breathed out hard through his nose and let him in, stomach swooping. It was far from his first kiss, but it felt all too new—maybe it was how he felt about Steve, or maybe it was how they’d fallen together like it was the most natural, obvious thing in the world. Whatever it was, this kiss was different, and Bucky wanted more.
But, he admitted to himself as he pulled away, he didn’t want that more to come in a beat-up old car in the middle of Bucky’s neighborhood.
Steve’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. Bucky was sure his own looked similar.
“That was...” Bucky trailed off, voice hoarse.
“Nice,” Steve finished. He looked a little dazed.
Bucky cocked an eyebrow. “I was gonna say awesome.”
“I dunno about awesome,” Steve said with a sly smile. “It was pretty great though.”
Bucky smiled, and he could tell it was a stupid, soppy expression. “Yeah,” he said. He leaned forward again and gave Steve one last peck on the lips. “I’ll text you, okay?”
Steve nodded.
Bucky grabbed his bag and clambered out of the car, swinging the creaky door shut in his wake. He headed up to his doorstep and turned to wave at Steve, who was still watching him.
Steve waved back and, with a dramatic sputter from the engine, drove off.
-
He and Steve didn’t see one another again until break was over. They had texted a lot—almost every day, in fact—but between Steve’s CFS and Bucky’s headaches, they hadn’t been able to find a day that worked for both of them.
So they had contented themselves with texting and getting to know one another more. Toward the end of the break, they had agreed to Skype and wound up talking for almost two hours.
Now, it was the first Monday back. Steve had confirmed that he would be spending the day in the clinic, and Bucky was planning to invite him to have lunch with him, Nat, and Clint.
When the lunch bell rang, Bucky hightailed it to the clinic. Mrs. Rogers and Steve were both inside, the former unpacking a sandwich and the latter bent over a textbook. Mrs. Rogers looked up at the sound of his knock.
“Oh, Mr. Barnes. Do you have another headache?” she asked, starting to stand.
“No,” Bucky said, a little hesitant. “I, um—I wanted to ask Steve if he’d like to have lunch with me and my friends.”
Steve had looked up at the knock, but his face lit up at Bucky’s words. “Sure,” he said, shooting to his feet. Then he looked at his mom. “I mean, can I—?”
Mrs. Rogers made a snorting sound. “Of course,” she said, waving a hand. “Go, go! Have fun. I’ll see you back here after lunch.”
“Thanks,” Steve said, beaming. He grabbed his lunch and hurried to the door.
Bucky waved at Mrs. Rogers, and they headed out into the hall. He noticed that Steve was wearing his hoodie again, sleeves rolled up so his hands were free. With a soft little smile, Bucky reached out and grabbed Steve’s hand. The other boy looked at him, a similar smile on his own face.
Bucky didn’t know how this would play out. He still didn’t know quite how Steve felt about him, he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about Steve, and he had no idea what he was planning to do after graduation—but right now, with Steve, he felt at peace.