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Sticking his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the chilly drizzle, Steve yawns and kicks at a rock so it skitters on down the sidewalk. He really likes Sam’s mom, a fifty-something hard-nosed woman, and it’s always fun to chase Sam’s two nieces around the little backyard on Long Island—but it’s nearly midnight and he’s only just now getting home.
He avoids eye contact with the slouched-over form sitting on the curb near his building. It’s not that he doesn’t want to help the homeless, but rather that he has no idea how to. He doesn’t have much money to help and only so much time, between working out and seeing Bucky and—
And that is Bucky, unfurling himself as Steve walks closer. He’s…hazy around the edges, drunk and serious-looking, soaked from the rain, and. God. He’s barefoot. Barefoot, here in the city, and who even knows what kind of shots he’s going to need if he’s cut himself on anything.
“Bucky?” Steve asks, because he doesn’t quite know what to say about Bucky’s forlorn expression. He pulls his hands from his pockets in case he has to catch him or something.
“Hi,” Bucky says, and then in one motion he stumbles forward into Steve’s arms, snuggling his face into the warm spot under his collarbone. “Hi.”
It’s a reflex by now to get his arms around Bucky. He’s shivering, his wet hair freezing against Steve’s neck. “Um.” Bucky doesn’t say anything, just clenches both fists into Steve’s t-shirt, which is starting to get wet. “Maybe we should get you inside. You got any clue where your shoes are?”
Bucky shrugs, still holding onto Steve. “Somewhere, I guess,” he mumbles. “’S—cold, y’know?”
“Yeah, Bucky,” Steve says. “Soaking wet without shoes on? Of course you’re cold. Let’s get you inside.” He nudges him into walking, up the steps to his building and in. They make it all the way up to the third floor apartment Steve’s mom lives in, Steve keeping an eye out for any little bits of glass or metal that might cut Bucky. Looking back as they reach the door, Steve notices the trail of dirty smudgy footsteps Bucky’s left behind.
“Um,” he says again as he unlocks the door, and lifts his shoulder so Bucky picks his head up from it. “Um, I’m going to carry you to the shower. Is that—is that okay?”
Obligingly, Bucky wraps his arms around Steve’s neck, and Steve bends at the knees and lifts. Bucky wraps his legs around him, too, putting his head back down, and even considering Steve’s several hundred pounds of muscle, he’s not sure he’s going to make it all the way to the bathroom. Bucky’s no lightweight either, after all.
Water drips under Steve’s collar, cold. He starts walking.
Somehow, he makes it to the bathroom without dropping Bucky; though his shins won’t thank him in the morning for the thorough bruising they get bouncing off the coffee table. He swears a bunch, glad his mom’s working tonight so he doesn’t get his head smacked, and finally sets Bucky down in the shower stall.
In the harsh bathroom light, Bucky looks even worse for wear: he’s very clearly skunked, swaying a little on the spot and trying in vain to focus on Steve’s face; he’s also wet as a drowned rat and shivering; and most importantly he looks as if he’s been crying. “I’ll just—” Steve says, gesturing toward the door— “go get you something to wear. You should—y’know—shower. Warm up.”
He turns to go, but as he reaches the doorway Bucky makes a small, pitiful noise, and he turns again to look at him. “Could you just,” Bucky says, hugging himself, “stay.”
So Steve swallows and sits on the lid of the toilet and tries not to watch as Bucky fumbles with the tap and begins to strip down under the warm water. They may be—whatever they are—but still it doesn’t seem right to ogle him when he’s in this state, even though the shower curtain’s still open. Instead Steve fiddles with the string on his damp hoodie and considers taking it off as the bathroom steams up.
“How are your feet?” he calls once he stops hearing the slap of wet clothes on the tub floor.
There’s a long pause; Steve considers peeking, for a second, but then Bucky speaks: “fine, I s’pose.”
“You didn’t cut them on anything?”
Another beat, then: “oh. No.”
Slouching a little, Steve lets silence return. “Bucky, is everything—um, are you—okay?” he finally asks.
Bucky doesn’t answer. After a moment, the water turns off, and Steve looks up in time to catch Bucky stepping out onto the bath mat. He’s quick to avert his eyes, and yet he still sees the way Bucky’s chewing on his lip, looking back at him.
Then, suddenly, he’s got a lapful of Bucky, and he’s going to have to run all of his clothes through the laundry with how wet they’re getting. Bucky gets an arm around his neck and kisses him, hard. Stunned, Steve lets him do it for a second, then comes to his senses and presses him back by his shoulders.
The look on Bucky’s face, one second open and wanting, shutters. His eyes go hard and he sits back. “You don’t want me,” he says. It’s an accusation, bitter on his lips.
Now that just isn’t fair. “Don’t be like that, Bucky,” Steve says, which turns out to be totally the wrong thing to say. Bucky gets to his feet again and grabs for Steve’s American flag towel, not looking at him. “Bucky, don’t be an idiot. You know that’s not true.”
“Fuck you,” Bucky says, his back to Steve.
“You did the same thing to me when I was drunk.” Steve doesn’t get up from his seat as he reminds Bucky of this, of their first night together, Steve so drunk that Bucky’d told him they couldn’t have sex. Bucky’s hands pause as he dries his hair, then after a second start rubbing again. “C’mon, Buck. What the fuck is up with you tonight?”
Bucky emerges from under the towel, and if Steve’d thought he looked pitiful before, it’s nothing to how he looks now, shivering still, naked and small and—and tearful, damn it. Steve gets up and puts a hand out for Bucky to take.
“You’re all wet,” Bucky says, and Steve can’t help but laugh. “Sorry. ‘S my fault.”
Reeling Bucky in, Steve starts them out of the bathroom and toward his bedroom. “Let’s just find something dry for both of us, okay, and then you can tell me what’s going on.”
Bucky’s all dressed, sitting on the edge of Steve’s bed by the time Steve finishes dressing. Steve’s clothes are big on him, his toes peeking out of the too-long sweatpants, sleeves baggy around his wrists. He’s watching Steve, winding the hoodie strings around his fingers.
For a second, Steve considers kneeling in front of Bucky; but he doesn’t want to seem condescending, so he instead sits next to him on the mattress, wraps one arm around his waist. “Bucky,” he says. Is this about your arm, he wants to ask, did the Penguins boot you? But he doesn’t—can’t bring himself to. For Bucky’s sake. For his own. “What is it?”
“’M just…” Bucky turns his head toward Steve, blinks in slow-motion. “What if. What if it never gets better.”
Steve swallows. At the end of the day, it’s all his fault: Bucky’s injury, of course, but also the possible end of Bucky’s hockey career; Bucky’s malaise over his future; Bucky drunk and barefoot on a particularly cold drizzly night in May. “Isn’t that why you did a kinetics degree? So you’d—you know—have something? If hockey didn’t—um, didn’t work out?”
Making an annoyed noise, Bucky ducks out from under his arm and starts to pace. “You got no fuckin’ clue, Rogers,” he snaps. “No fuckin’ clue, Mister I’m-leaving-for-DC-next-week. Mister Third-Round-Draft-Pick-Gonna-Play-With-Ovi. I don’t want to be a physio. I want to play hockey.”
There’s nothing Steve can think to say that might make this better. Bucky runs a shaking hand through his hair. Finally, Steve draws a deep breath in. “Buck. I’m sorry.”
“Jesus, would you get over it already?” Bucky growls. “This ain’t about you.”
“Ain’t it?” Steve replies, getting to his feet too. “It’s my fault. I’m the one who fucked you up in the first place.”
A sneer curls across Bucky’s face. “How many times I gotta tell you: I’m over it. I forgive you or whatever.”
“But I—”
“I don’t give a fuck!” Bucky yells. His angry face is somewhat softened by the over-large sweatshirt. “I’m a little busy focusing on the end of my career to babysit your emotions, Rogers, so would you shut your fuckin’ piehole about ‘em for just one goddamn minute?”
Hunching his shoulders, Steve shoves his hands into his pockets. Just as he’s thinking about apologizing, Bucky throws up a hand and turns away. “Fuck, and now you’re going to do that bullshit puppy dog eyes thing,” Bucky mutters. “Jesus, I knew I shouldn’t’ve come over.”
“Of course you should,” Steve says, taking a step forward and reaching for him. “I’m. We’re—well. You know.”
“What, Steve?” Bucky asks, hiking his right shoulder up and forward like he’s shrugging on a jacket, out from under Steve’s hand. “What exactly are we, while I’m here?”
What’s he supposed to say? Oh, we’re screwing, and I don’t know about you but I’m not seeing anyone else and I really like you and last time I saw you I almost asked you to move to Washington with me and—maybe not that. “We’re…I mean—we’re together. Right? If that’s, um, if that’s what you want.”
Bucky turns and for a second just blinks at Steve. “Is that what you want?”
Steve’s throat is dry. “I—yeah, it is.” For a moment, he lets Bucky look into his eyes; but when Bucky doesn’t seem ready to speak, he shuffles back to the bed and sits again. Maybe this isn’t what Bucky wants. “You can—go. If you want. Y’know. I’m headed to DC soon anyway and you’re—” he clears his throat—“probably going to Pittsburgh.”
When Bucky turns to stare at him, Steve cuts his eyes away, not sure what he’s going to see in his face. “No, Rogers, I’m probably fuckin’ not,” he says, quiet, shaking with emotion.
Steve looks up at that. “They cut you?”
“Not yet. But training camp starts in two weeks and I’m still waiting on the all-clear,” Bucky says, and he slumps against the closed door and licks his lips. He looks drunk, again, suddenly. His legs seem to give out, and he slides down the door until he’s sitting on the floor, his legs crunched up against his chest. “Steve. What’m I gonna do?”
Steve’s heart makes a weird keening sound and kicks at the inside of his ribs, his lungs. Getting off the bed, he shuffles across the carpet on his knees until he can rest his hands on Bucky’s kneecaps. “What if—um. What if you came to Washington with me?” he asks, holding his breath as Bucky looks up at him in surprise.
“You want me to be your puck bunny?”
“What? No! Not if—I mean—Jesus, I just want. Um.” Bucky’s mouth has gone rather narrow, and for the first time tonight Steve feels a shift in his mood. “I mean, if you want to be. I wouldn’t say no. I’d—I could get you an outfit. If you want.”
Suddenly Bucky starts to giggle; tentatively, Steve smiles. This time when Bucky grabs the front of his shirt and hauls him into a kiss, Steve doesn’t protest.
Nothing might be certain, right now. Maybe tomorrow Bucky will be told he’s not going to the NHL this year—or maybe he’ll be told he will be. And maybe Steve won’t have Bucky to cheer him on—puck bunny or not—come the season opener in the fall.
But right now, for this moment, there’s this, the two of them on the floor of Steve’s childhood bedroom, holding onto one another for dear life. And that’s enough.