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Steve Rogers had a knack for getting into fights. But this one? This one wasn’t one of the usual fights he was used to getting into.
The bar’s parking lot already smelled like adrenaline and bad decisions by the time James arrived. He’d gotten the call from his Ma — frantic, half-shouting — and dropped everything, sprinting the whole way.
Steve didn’t remember the punch landing as clearly as he remembered the sound it made — a sick, wet crack that echoed in his skull. His ears rang for minutes afterward, the world a blur of color and static. He remembered stumbling, tasting metal, someone yelling, but everything else was fog.
But he remembered James’ voice. Sharp. Panicked. Cutting through all the noise.
“Move. Move— Let me see him.”
And then James was there. Right there in front of him — because James always showed up.
There was blood dripping from Steve’s nose. The side of his face was bruised, and his shirt was ripped. His knuckles were raw, but he was still smiling like an idiot.
“What the fuck happened this time?” James snapped, breathless as he reached him. “Do you like getting beat up?”
Steve wiped his nose with the back of his hand, smearing more red across his entire face. “Hey, Buck,” he croaked. “Uh… honestly, I— don’t even remember.”
“Great,” James shot back. “Where do you feel the most pain?”
“I don’t really feel anyth—” Steve wheezed, then winced when the pain hit.
James rolled his eyes but dropped down beside him, eyes scanning over his face frantically despite his annoyance. “Come on, kid. Let me get you home.”
The bathroom was too bright. Steve’s hands shook where they rested on his knees, the dried blood making his knuckles sting when he moved them.
He kept his eyes down, partly because the light hurt, partly because he didn’t want to see the look on James’ face.
James was rummaging through the little first aid kit like he hated every object in it. His movements were tense, trembling. He didn’t say anything at first — and that scared Steve more than the blood dripping from his nose onto his shirt. He never usually looked this panicked.
Finally, James muttered, “Can you sit still for once?”
His voice cracked on the last word.
Steve swallowed hard, but didn’t say anything in response.
James crouched in front of Steve, who was sitting on the edge of the tub, carefully. He soaked a washcloth in warm water, squeezing it out with fingers that shook a little. Then — with a breath, he tried, and failed, to steady — he lifted the cloth to Steve's face.
The first touch made Steve flinch.
James paused instantly. “Does it hurt?”
Steve let out a tiny, humorless laugh. “Yeah, I guess.”
James exhaled through his nose, and something in his face softened — not much, but enough to make Steve's chest ache.
“Look at me,” James said quietly, hooking his finger under his chin and pressing it up softly. Gently. Yeah, James usually tried to be soft with him, but… this? This was different. This was new. This was fragile.
Steve forced himself to lift his eyes.
James' brows were drawn tight, his jaw clenched hard enough to cut. His eyes scanned Steve's face like he was cataloging every injury, every bruise, every streak of blood that came from his nose.
James' thumb brushed his cheek, wiping away a drop of dried blood. He muttered something under his breath — definitely cursing — but his touch was soft.
He lightly pressed his hand to Steve's cheekbone, testing for swelling. Then his thumb brushed a streak of dried blood near Steve's mouth, and Steve's breath hitched — not from pain.
James froze at the sound.
Neither spoke.
The washcloth passed over his skin again, slow and careful. Steve winced at the sting, but he leaned into the touch anyway — barely, just enough for James to notice.
There was silence for a couple of seconds, then: "You're an idiot. You’re stupid,” James mumbled, voice barely above a whisper. “You know that, right?”
Steve tried to smile, but it faltered halfway. “Do you have to state the obvious?”
James didn’t answer him and instead dabbed at a cut near his lip, gentler than anyone had ever touched him. Steve's head tipped slightly forward before he could stop it, like his body was answering to James' touch.
James' hand hesitated — lingering near Steve's mouth a second too long.
“Sit on the ground,” James murmured. “So I can clean your nose easier.”
Steve obeyed without any arguing and dropped down to the floor, his back leaning against the side of the tub.
James brought a hand to the back of Steve's head, angling it up just so he could clean under his nose. His fingers threaded into Steve's hair for balance — and Steve almost forgot how to breathe.
“Y’know, you’re gentle when you want to be. It’s weird.”
“Could you shut up?” James said, refusing to meet his eyes, instead focusing on Steve's nose. Steve couldn’t help but enjoy the way James tried to act tough.
Steve's mouth curled up into a smile despite himself. “You like taking care of me. Admit it.”
“How about I like saving you from death?” James snapped, but his hand was still tangled in Steve's hair.
“Tomato, tomatoe,” Steve rolled his eyes and didn’t say anymore. Because James was right there. He could smell the faint scent of antiseptic soap mixed with the metallic taste of his own blood in his mouth and a smell that he couldn’t find the word for. James, he settled on. It smelled like James.
Steve's voice came out strained. “How are you so good at this?”
James huffed, shaking his head once, a bitter sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Maybe because I've had a lot of practice cleaning up after you.”
The words landed heavier than he meant.
He blinked, looking down again, ashamed in a way he didn’t know how to fight. “You know what I meant. Sorry.” James had stilled suddenly, and he set the cloth aside, then reached out — slower this time — and cupped Steve's jaw with both hands, tilting it so Steve had to look at him.
"Listen,” James said, and his voice was quiet but fierce. James’ words were so stable that Steve told himself — okay, he would listen. “I… don’t make me watch you get hurt like that again. You scared the hell out of me, Steve."
Steve’s chest tightened painfully. He swallowed, but it didn’t help. “I didn’t think— he would knock me out.”
“That’s the thing, you never think.”
Steve blinked, breath shaky. He couldn't look away.
James was so close he could see the way his lashes trembled. The way his eyes were full of worry. The way his eyebrows were furrowed just slightly.
“You keep doing this,” James whispered, “And one day I'm— I'm not gonna be there.”
Steve's jaw clenched. “Buck—”
“Don’t,” James breathed, and Steve could feel it — actually feel the warmth of it — against his mouth. “I’m being serious. You don’t understand.”
Steve's heart pounded so hard it hurt. He wasn’t sure if it was from James’ words or their proximity.
James didn’t move. Steve didn’t either.
Their knees brushed. The tiny spark of contact shot straight through Steve's nerves. James' thumb lifted, brushing one last streak of blood from the corner of Steve's mouth — slow. Lingering. Too intimate to ignore.
Steve's breath hitched.
James' eyes flicked down. Once — to his lips. Then straight back up, like it burned. Steve felt it like a blow to the ribs, clearer than he felt all those punches from earlier.
But neither leaned in.
They just stayed there, breathing each other in, trembling in a silence that felt like a scream. Steve swallowed hard. “Buck,” he whispered out, like a secret. “Um.”
James shut his eyes, just for half a second — like the sound of his name hurt. Like it cracked him open down the middle. “Don’t.”
Steve watched him, breath caught in his throat, not daring to move. He could feel every tiny shift in the air between them. He could feel the heat radiating from James' hands still cupping his jaw.
“James…” Steve said again, softer this time. Almost fragile.
James’ eyes opened slowly. “Don’t.”
And whatever Steve expected to see — anger, fear, annoyance — wasn’t there at all.
James looked wrecked, to say the least.
Probably from the fact that Steve was quite literally injured right now. That's definitely what it was. That's what Steve told himself over and over in his head.
“Don’t—” James whispered, voice thin. His fingers loosened just slightly on Steve's cheeks. “Don’t call me that,” he finished.
Steve's brows pulled together. “Why not? It’s your name.”
James swallowed hard. His eyes flicked down to Steve's mouth again, quick and uncontrollable, then snapped back up like it physically hurt him to look anywhere else. “Because. You… you only say my real name when you want something from me.”
Steve blinked. “What if I do?”
James inhaled sharply.
His fingers tightened on Steve's jaw without meaning to. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make Steve's stomach flip, to push a shaky breath out of his chest.
“Stop joking around, Steve,” James whispered.
“I'm not,” Steve said, and God, for once, he wasn’t.
James' breath shook. “You are. You are, and you still don’t understand,” he said again, voice cracking. “You really— you really scared me.”
Steve's chest tightened. “I know. I do understand, and I’m sorr—”
“No, you don’t,” James cut him off — too loud, too emotional — then immediately pulled back, lowering his voice. James' clammy hands were gone from his face, and it sort of felt like James was gone too, even though it was still right there. “You’re just saying sorry and— and that’s not gonna change anything,” his voice caught, and that’s the moment Steve realized James was tearing up. “Something like this is gonna happen again and… and you know it too. So don’t sit here and tell me sorry like you’re gonna stop.”
Steve just stared at him.
James never talked like this. Never let his guard slip this much. Never even really cried in front of him. Never cried for him. Never let the fear seep through the edges.
Steve didn’t know what to do with it. Except… reach.
His hand lifted hesitantly, fingers brushing James' forearm. “I'm here right now,” Steve murmured. “I'm right here, okay?”
James' eyes shut again, and his breath stuttered. Steve could feel the room just getting smaller. Getting hotter.
His breath came uneven now, shaky in a way Steve hadn’t heard from him. Not even when he’s cleaned him up before. Not even when Steve was fighting for his life.
James opened his eyes slowly. They were glassy, rimmed red, like he was fighting the burn and losing. He didn’t move away from Steve's hand on his arm. In fact, he leaned the smallest bit closer, like he couldn’t help it.
Steve swallowed thickly. The familiar metallic taste of blood lingered on his tongue. Still, it was overshadowed by the warm, dizzying closeness of James in front of him — furious and scared and trembling for him, something Steve doesn’t think he could get enough of even if he tried.
James’ voice finally broke. just cracked right down the middle.
“You could’ve gotten hurt worse,” he whispered, and that whisper hurt more than the punch had. “You could’ve been— Jesus, kid— You could’ve been on the ground not moving, or— or bleeding more than this, or—” he stopped, pressing his mouth shut like he’d said too much. “I don’t want that to even be a possibility again.”
Steve had never seen James like this. Not once in his horribly fucked-up, chaotic life.
Slowly — terrified he’d be pushed away — Steve lifted his hand a little higher, fingers brushing James’ cheekbone. A tiny touch. Barely there.
James didn’t flinch. Steve's hand cupped his cheek fully, and James breathed out like he’d been hit.
“I’m sorry. I really am,” Steve said softly and as sincerely as he could.
James blinked, and a tear slipped before he could stop it. He swore under his breath and wiped it quickly, embarrassed, angry at himself. Angry at Steve. Angry at the whole damn world. He kept his head down and didn’t dare to look up.
Steve's heart cracked clean in half.
“Hey, wait,” Steve said, thumb brushing the spot where the tear had been, pushing James' face up. “Don’t do that. Don’t hide from me right now.”
James made a tiny, broken sound in his throat, like a breath he’d been holding for years finally escaped.
Steve leaned the slightest bit closer, close enough to see the flecks of brown in his eyes that he had never even noticed before.
James didn’t move away. He didn’t move closer, either. He was trembling — his whole body was. The silence was thick enough to drown in. Maybe that’s what Steve was doing right now. drowning. Drowning in whatever this was.
Steve's forehead brushed his so lightly Steve barely registered the contact until James' nose brushed his because of their closeness. When did they even get that close?
“Steve…” James whispered. Steve hummed, not pulling back.
There were inches between their mouths. Maybe even less than inches. Maybe barely even a breath.
James' fingers curled a little on Steve's jaw (When did his hands even get back there?) — like he didn’t realize he was doing it.
Steve’s voice barely existed when he spoke. “Bad idea. This is a… bad idea.”
James’ lips ghosted against his, not quite touching. He gave Steve a slight shrug. “There’s worse out there.”
Steve’s breath hitched — a tiny, fractured sound — like saying it out loud made the gravity of the moment collapse around them.
“There’s worse out there,” James repeated, even softer, even closer. “Don’t you think?”
Steve’s eyes flicked down to James’ mouth, and that was it. That was the moment everything fell apart.
“Fuck,” Steve whispered — so quiet it was almost a thought instead of a word — and closed the space between them in one sharp, breathless movement before James could even meet him halfway.
The kiss wasn’t soft like Steve thought their first kiss would be. Even though he was usually a desperate, aggressive kisser — he wanted his first kiss with James to be special. Soft. Gentle.
But this kiss? Far from that. It was harsh, all teeth and desperation. The kind of kiss that came from too many emotions being shoved down for too long.
Steve inhaled sharply through his nose, hand sliding from James' jaw to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the soft curls there. James' hand curled tighter against Steve's jaw, pulling him in because he physically couldn’t stay away.
James kissed him like he was furious about it. Like he hated how much he wanted it. Like he’d been holding back for years.
Steve kissed him back like he’d been waiting just as long.
The taste of his own blood flowed through the kiss, and Steve vaguely wondered if James could taste it too. Probably.
James didn’t flinch at the taste — didn’t even pause.
If anything, the metallic tang only made him kiss harder. Maybe he was trying to erase every trace of hurt on Steve's mouth with his own. That thought turned Steve on.
Their teeth clacked once, sloppy and uncoordinated, and James let out a soft, frustrated sound that pooled straight in Steve's stomach. His fingers tightened in Steve's hair, pulling him closer, closer, like he couldn’t get enough. Like he was trying to make up for every moment they almost crossed this line and didn’t.
Steve felt the world tilt — actually tilt — when James shifted forward, pressing their chests together. Steve's back was now really pressed up against the cold tub, and he swallowed a gasp against James' mouth.
James froze and pulled back immediately, the realization of what he just did hitting him. “Shit, sorr—”
Steve didn’t give him time to overthink it. He tugged James right back in, lips brushing desperately against his. “I don’t care,” Steve breathed out. "I don’t care. Don't pull away.”
James’ exhale trembled through him, Steve even felt it on his lips — shaky and betraying and so painfully honest. “You’re stubborn,” he whispered.
Their lips connected once more, slower this time, but heavier. It felt like the weight of the world was between them. Steve's fingers pressed into the back of James' neck, guiding him closer, grounding him. James' other hand slid to Steve's chest, curling into the fabric of his shirt like he needed something to hold onto before he fell apart.
Steve's breath hitched when James' thumb brushed the corner of his mouth — right where the cut from the punch still stung. The touch was gentle. So gentle it made Steve shiver.
“Buck…” Steve whispered, barely a sound.
James cut him off with a shaky kiss to the corner of his mouth — softer than before, like the anger had drained out, leaving something rawer behind. "Shut, up.”
So Steve shut up. He closed his mouth like his life depended on it. Maybe it did.
The only thing he did was let James kiss him — harsh and tender and terrified all at once — until his legs felt weak and the buzzing in his ears finally quieted.
James' hand slid higher on his chest, fingers curling into the fabric, anchoring both of them. Steve couldn’t help but lean closer into the kiss. He never thought he’d have this. James. Bucky. All in one. Now that he did, he might as well savor it.
Steve's hands slipped from James' neck to his jaw, thumbs brushing the warm, flushed skin there. James leaned into the touch instinctively — a tiny movement, small enough to pretend it didn’t mean anything, but big enough that Steve felt it everywhere.
Their noses brushed. Their breaths tangled. James' lips parted against Steve's, and the softest sound escaped him — almost a sigh, almost a whimper.
Steve's stomach flipped.
Steve pulled back only half an inch, eyes flicking up to James'. They were glassy, blown wide, terrified and wanting all at the same time. His fingers were still curled tight in the fabric of Steve's shirt, like letting go wasn’t an option. His lips were parted, flushed, trembling, waiting.
Even though Steve never thought before he did anything, the rational side of his brain was screaming at him. Stop. This is wrong. This is so wrong.
“Bucky,” Steve said against his lips, firmer now, like he was trying to pull himself together. “We’re… I’m bleeding. I’m— I’m concussed, probably. I’m not thinking straight.”
James let out a breathy, humorless laugh as he pulled away slightly. “Well, I’m fine. And I’m thinking really fucking straight right now,” he murmured. “Probably the straightest I've ever been.”
Steve made a wounded sound — like a strangled exhale mixed with a curse — and looked away for only half a second before dragging his gaze right back to James like he couldn’t help it.
Before Steve could even open his mouth to protest again, James shook his head once — small, but frantic — and brought their mouths back together. “Stop— overthinking,” he murmured between the kiss, his voice breaking in the middle of the word, “Don’t stop.”
Steve tried to listen to it. He did. That razor-thin shred of logic in the back of his skull was begging him to pull away, to breathe, to think for once in his goddamn life.
But James was right there. James was telling him not to stop. Which one was he supposed to listen to?
“I— Uhm…” Steve stuttered, barely able to get the words out. “I know you said not to overthink this but… this is a really bad idea.”
James let out the smallest, weakest laugh. The kind that wasn’t actually a laugh at all. “I think we established that already.”
“I know.”
“So does it really even matter anymore?”
A silence came over them — charged, thick, electric. It curled around them until Steve decided he wasn’t going to answer. Because it didn’t really matter anymore, since he knew both he and James already knew the answer.
James' fingers loosened in Steve's shirt, not letting go, just… softening. His eyes scanned over Steve's face, and Steve could see the moment realization sunk in for him — like he suddenly realized he was holding something that might disappear.
James' eyes skimmed over Steve's face again — quick, nervous, lingering in the places he didn’t want to linger. The bruise on his cheek. The cut on his lip. The faint flush spread across Steve's neck.
And then his gaze darted down to Steve's mouth again, just for a second.
Steve felt it like a jolt.
James' fingers tightened in his shirt, then loosened again, like he didn’t know what they were supposed to do. Like every instinct in him was pulling in opposite directions.
He swallowed hard. “Um, you’re… still bleeding,” he murmured, voice tight. “Let me clean it.”
Their eyes met at the same time. And everything they weren’t saying crashed loudly between them, but neither looked away. The moment stretched thin between them — trembling, fragile, ready to snap.
Steve nodded absentmindedly, but didn’t move. Couldn’t move.
But instead of reaching for the cloth, his thumb lifted — almost on instinct — brushing the corner of Steve's mouth where the cut still stung. James' thumb stayed there, warm, gentle, shaking just a little.
Steve inhaled sharply, and James froze at the sound. His thumb just stood there, and as Steve scanned over his face, he realized he looked somewhere else. Somewhere stuck in his mind.
“You taste like blood, y’know,” James blurted out, like he was thinking it, but didn’t mean to say it. It fell out of him, raw and honest.
Steve felt the world tilt on its axis. He cleared his throat and tried to ground himself. “What? Did you like it?”
James huffed a laugh, and his thumb pressed the tiniest bit harder against Steve's lip, smearing a faint streak of red.
“No,” James whispered. “I didn’t, actually.”
Steve just rolled his eyes “So, we’re not gonna talk about that, are we?”
James went still. So, so still. He scrambled to grab the washcloth, to have something in his trembling hands now that Steve wasn’t under his fingertips. “No. We aren't, we can’t—”
“Can’t? Or you just don’t want to?” Steve supplied quietly.
“Can you stop acting smart?” James said a little too quickly. a little too snippy. “We shouldn’t talk about it. Or do it again.”
Steve swallowed, throat tight. Fuck. Great. “Right.” He honestly know that it feels so wrong now, when he was the one trying to get them to stop in the first place.
They both nodded — barely.
James' fingers twitched against the washcloth in his hands. Steve didn’t want to think about what that suggested. Even so, Steve leaned forward half an inch without meaning to.
James noticed. His voice cracked. “Stop.”
“Stop?” Steve murmured, voice almost unsteady. “Just earlier, you were telling me not to.”
James’ breath hitched at the reminder of his words. “Really?” he murmured again.
“Really.” Steve echoed, voice low and breaking.
Their foreheads bumped, soft and shaky, neither of them willing to pull away. They weren’t kissing. But they weren't not kissing.
Steve could feel James' breath against his mouth again — warm, uneven, almost scared. James' fingers curled tight around the washcloth, knuckles white.
Steve swallowed hard. “Buck.”
James shut his eyes, jaw clenching. “Don’t say my name like that.” he whispered.
“Why not?” Steve breathed, and even he heard the tremor in it.
“Because then I’ll—” James' voice cracked before he could finish. He shook his head sharply, moving back an inch, just enough to break the brush of their noses. “Just— don’t.”
Steve's throat tightened. The inch between them felt like a mile and a knife all at once.
James took one breath. then another. then another — each one shakier than the last. Finally, he forced the cloth back into Steve's hand like he needed to put something physical between them before he did something stupid.
For one suspended moment, they just stared — bruised, trembling, wanting, ruined. Steve thought James might step close again. James thought Steve might pull him back in.
But neither of them moved.
James exhaled shakily, grabbing at the edge of his sweater just because his hands needed something to hold. “You should be fine now,” he said softly. That was a lie. Steve would be anything but fine. “If your nose starts bleeding again, just... press the cloth to it. That should do the trick.”
Steve nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak.
James stood, washed his hands, stared into the sink for a long moment like the porcelain might tell him what to do. It didn’t.
Steve watched him with bruised eyes and a bloodied mouth and a heart that suddenly hurt more than his face.
James turned back, voice a little rough around the edges but there was no doubt. Steve could hear it. The small bit of hesitancy and softness and intent behind it all. “Are you alright?”
Steve nodded again. Lie. Again. He was anything but.