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They’re quiet as they walk back to Peggy’s place. Holding on to Steve’s arm, Peggy glances up at him now and again. There are moments when she’s close to breaking the silence, but she stays quiet, leaving him to his thoughts.
He’s thinking about Bucky, she knows that. Steve’s been worried about him ever since they returned to New York after the war ended. It doesn’t help that Bucky’s been withdrawn, spending more time drunk than sober, and flat-out refusing Steve’s offer of a job at the SSR and working in construction instead.
Seve’s been worried about Bucky, and despite his animosity towards her, Peggy worries for him too: it’s hard seeing a good man slip.
Which is why the moment her door’s unlocked, Peggy turns to Steve, takes his face in her hands and kisses him softly square on the lips. “Go,” she tells him softly. “He needs you.”
Steve gives her a tired smile. He takes one of her hands and presses his lips to her palm. “Goodnight, Peg.”
“Goodnight, Steve.”
Steve squeezes her hand gently, then lets go, turns and leaves, glancing back at her one last time with a wave. Peggy watches till he’s gone before she closes the door and settles in for the night.
It’s nearing three in the morning when Bucky gets back home, and he’s not expecting to see Steve sitting on his couch. He closes his door, sets his keys and wallet to the side and takes off his jacket before finally turning to Steve (and trying to ignore the heat coursing through his body and the way his stomach’s doing somersaults - it’s the alcohol, he tells himself, he’s had too much of it).
Steve’s standing now, arms crossed, giving Bucky a look so full of disapproval that he can’t help but snort.
“Where the hell have you been?” Steve demands. “It’s nearly 3am.”
“I’m a grown man, Rogers,” Bucky shoots back.
His words are slightly slurred and his breath reeks of alcohol and Steve’s face sours even more.
“Seriously, Bucky? How much have you had to drink?”
Bucky just rolls his eyes and makes for his room, starting to undress because it’s too damn hot .
Steve - of course - follows him.
“Bucky, what’s going on with you?” Steve asks. His tone is gentler now, heavy with exasperation. “Would you just--” He reaches out and grabs Bucky’s shoulder, turns him around so they’re facing one another. “Would you just talk to me, please?”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Bucky answers brusquely, shrugging Steve’s hand off.
“So you’re not gonna talk about how you’ve been acting ever since - ever since we got home?” ( Ever since the war ended hangs unsaid in the air between them.)
Bucky goes on the defensive. Bristling, rolling his shoulders back, he turns to face Steve. There is venom in his eyes that Steve can’t quite understand - he almost takes a step back.
“And how have I been acting?” Bucky asks.
“Like you’re not yourself.”
Bucky laughs. It’s loud and short and humourless and sends a chill down Steve’s spine but he’s in this too far to stop now.
“Like I’m not myself?” he echoes incredulously. “Have you taken a look in the mirror lately, Captain America? ”
Is that what this is about? Steve wonders, a frown creasing his features.
“If I’m not myself, what does that make you ?” Bucky continues, each word laced with animosity that Steve’s never been on the receiving end of before. “What happened to the kid from Brooklyn, huh? The kid I grew up with? My best friend? ”
“Bucky…” Confused and faltering, Steve takes a step forward. “Buck, I’m - I’m still that kid.”
Bucky interrupts him with a snort, turns away like the conversation’s over, like he’s had enough, but Steve’s not done with him just yet.
“Come on, Bucky,” he goes on. There’s an air of exhaustion about him now, there’s weariness in his voice. “What’s this really about?”
Bucky’s restless, pacing alongside his bed, picking at his unbuttoned shirt. Adrenalin is pumping through him. His heart’s jackhammering in his ears. He doesn’t want to say it. Once he starts, there’s no going back.
Once he starts, it’s all going to spill out: the jealousy that Steve’s been super-soldier-serumed, the uselessness and worthlessness now that the war is over and he doesn’t need to look out for Steve anymore, the fact that he’s floundering, struggling to find a foothold for himself in this new world...
Once he lets the darkness out, Steve’s never going to look at him the same way again.
And Bucky’s not sure if he can handle that.
“Don’t make me say it,” he pleads, his voice barely above a whisper. He resolutely refuses to look at Steve - at his best friend, his brother . He knows that if he does, just one look at Steve’s kind blue eyes will make him crumble. He’s already on the brink of it, tears stinging the back of his eyes.
There’s a pause.
Bucky hates that he’s like this . This drunk. This vulnerable. This much of a mess.
Meanwhile, Steve?
Steve’s perfect .
And Steve’s got his arms around Bucky - holding him, and they’ve never done this before - and Bucky’s sobbing into his chest like a broken man, shoulders heaving, crying like there’s years of pain and hurt and jealousy and darkness spilling out of him, and Steve’s never seen him like this before and it hurts that Bucky’s been bottling all of this.
He rubs Bucky’s back, stroking through his dishevelled dark hair with his other hand.
“Let’s get you to bed,” Steve tells him. “Sleep this off.”
Bucky nods, pulls back and heads to his bed. He can’t bring himself to look at Steve, not after this. At least Steve keeps his distance, watching from the door as he strips off his shirt and his pants and gets into bed.
“We’ll talk in the morning, alright?” Steve’s voice is soft, gentle, tender, and Bucky doesn’t think he deserves any of it. “Night, Buck.”
Bucky mumbles a response, and, mercifully, Steve leaves.