Archive of Our Own ^beta

Steve is always cold.

Weight drops off of him with a strong wind, and with Bucky’s income, the radiator is more of a decorative piece in their apartment than anything. So in the wintertime, his fingers go stiff, and his lips tinge purple, and Bucky can’t do a damn thing to fix it.

He tries of course. He’ll bury Steve under every woolen item in the house – not that it’s an extensive collection – and stuff hot water bottles in the mattress. Steve pads around the apartment wearing four pairs of Bucky’s thick socks and all of the scratchy, moth-eaten sweaters they can find.

Every time, they go through the whole ordeal:

“Bucky, I can’t take this. What about you? You’ll get sick,” Steve will say, kicking away the blankets Bucky tucks around him, struggling to peel his way out of the thick and numerous layers.

“Don’t worry about me, Rogers,” Bucky will say, pulling the sweater back over Steve’s torso. “Worry about yourself. I’ve got heat to spare,” and he’ll pinch the rosy tip of Steve’s nose with his warm, calloused hands, and Steve will stop arguing.

And still, Bucky will be wearing yet another hole in their carpet pacing the floor because it’s pouring and Steve said he would be home forty-five minutes ago and it would be so easy for someone to jump him – hell they wouldn’t have to because Steve would just give them his wallet if he thought they might need it. And he’s just about to reach for his coat and put his work boots back on to go look for him when there’s a knock at the door.

“It’s raining,” Steve jokes, with a weak smile. He’s soaked to the skin, the November wind pressing ripples into his white shirt.

Bucky looks at him in disbelief, gripping his arm with one hand and dragging him inside. His thumb and fingers nearly touch around his forearm, which only serves to make him angrier. He sits Steve down in a chair at the table, brushing his fingers over Steve’s cheekbone. “You’re freezing,” he growls, moving to the kitchen. He hopes Steve feels every ounce of disappointment he’s projecting.

Steve seems to absorb it, or perhaps deflect it, because he just unhooks his suspenders and tosses them over the back of the other chair.

“You left the house wearing a coat, Steve,” Bucky mutters, starting a kettle of hot water. When Steve says nothing, Bucky turns and glares at him. Steve very pointedly concentrates on the unlacing of his shoes. “Where’s your coat?” he asks, and maybe it’s the not-so-subtle note of anger in his voice that makes Steve look up sheepishly.

He glances around the room, gnawing on his bottom lip. Evidently deciding on the truth, he begins to speak in a continuous stream, hoping it will leave minimal space for Bucky to interject. “There was a man on the street begging for change, and he would have frozen if I hadn’t – “

“Dammit, Steve,” Bucky cries in frustration, throwing his arms in the air. “Again?”

“He didn’t have anywhere to go. He was homeless. And cold.” Steve says quietly, and Bucky nearly chokes on a laugh.

“People will be saying the same thing about us if you keep giving away your warm, expensive, clothes,” he says, only half-joking. Steve continues with the same expression, the belligerent scowl he puts up in every fight.

“He needed it more than I did, Bucky.”

“You always talk about everyone else like we’re not struggling too! We haven’t eaten a full meal in three days, and you go giving away everything like you’ve cash coming out your ears!”

“Bucky,” Steve begins, looking back down at his feet. There’s water dripping from the fringe of his hair, and it’s puddling on the floor between his socks. “He was cold.”

“And so are you!” Bucky groans, rubbing his forehead with his knuckles. He gives up, leaning his elbows on the counter. Air huffs out of his nose in a long stream. “We really can’t afford this, Stevie.” The only sound in the kitchen is the hissing of the hot water and the drip of Steve’s fringe onto the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says softly, still staring at the small ocean forming under his socked feet. Bucky sighs, staring at the pathetically small little blonde boy dripping on his floor. “I wasn’t thinking.”

He finds his anger dissipating at the sight. Damn Steve’s big heart, and damn the world for being too cruel for him.

“I’ll ask some of the guys at work if they have anything to spare,” Bucky says, and Steve’s head whips up, about to protest. Bucky waves his arguments aside. “And I don’t want you stepping foot outside this house until you’ve got a coat.” Steve snaps his mouth shut, smiling at Bucky. “You drive me nuts, Rogers,” he murmurs affectionately, taking the pot from the stove and pouring it into mugs.

“I brought you something.” Steve stands, digging into his pocket. “The man said he’d only take the coat if I traded him for something.” He pulls out a smushed caramel, the wax paper crinkled and creased.

Bucky sets a chipped mug in front of Steve. They hadn’t any real tea or coffee for months now, but anything warm did just as well. “Split it with you?” Bucky offers, pulling a knife from the drawer at his hip.

“Deal,” Steve says, and he smiles so wide that Bucky can see the missing tooth in the back of his mouth.

Bucky lay flat on his back next to Steve, who sits against the wall behind the mattress, reading aloud. The latter siphons heat from the former like a cat in a sunbeam, his leg aligning with the side of Bucky’s body.

His eyes are closed, listening to Steve’s quiet voice easing the words from the page to the air. The mug in Bucky’s hand is still hot, and he holds it over his heart, against his bare skin. It feels as though it’s searing a circle into his chest, the head pulsing with the warmth of it all.

Steve turns the page, and Bucky lifts the mug, feeling the heat slip from his skin into the cool air of the room. He presses his fingers to the slight indentation, his heart thudding steadily against his fingertips, the skin raw and hot from the ceramic brand.

He drifts from Steve’s voice, wondering if this is at all what it would feel like to experience life with Steve Rogers’ heart.

He wonders if every feeling that courses through his slight frame rocks him to the core the same way that the cold air does. He wonders if his knocking kneecaps crumble at the sight of someone in pain.

He thinks of the fear he feels when Steve doesn’t get home on time – when it’s dark and Bucky is torn between sprinting through Brooklyn screaming his name and waiting at home to yell at him for getting him worried sick. He wonders if that same energy is the thing that makes Steve give his coat to strangers.

“Steve?” Bucky mutters, his voice slurred with sleep.

“Yeah, Buck? Did you want me to stop?”

“No, no, it’s alright.”

“What is it then?” Steve asks, concerned. Bucky hears the pages ruffling and the small thump as he sets it on the floor. The light clicks off, and Steve slides downwards so he’s parallel to Bucky. They’re quiet, Steve settling into the mattress.

“I like that you give your coat to strangers,” Bucky whispers, a smile playing at his lips.

“Really? You’re always so mad,” Steve responds, fiddling with the sleeve of his sweater. He’s grinning though – Bucky can feel it through all the layers of sleep and darkness.

“You’re a good one, Steve. Don’t let me tell you otherwise.”

Steve is quiet for a moment, and then his voice goes quiet. His words are soft, like they’re blurred at the edges, but Bucky feels every word ring with solid truth.

“So are you, Bucky. There’s not a bad bone in your body,” he says sleepily, and a hand finds its way to his chest, fingers spreading over his heart, still warm.

And if he gets a little teary eyed at that, who’s there to see?