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Steve has been sick for as long as he can remember.
It’s not the dramatic kind, nothing that makes people gasp or pray, but the quiet, persistent sort that settles into his bones and stays. The kind that leaves him breathless halfway up the stairs, fingers trembling when he grips his pencil too tightly. The kind that makes doctors sigh and neighbors shake their heads and Bucky fuss like it’s his job.
Bucky is fussing now.
“Sit down, punk,” he says, already pulling a chair back with his foot. “You’re gonna tip over if you keep swaying like that.”
Steve opens his mouth to argue, because that’s what he does, but the room spins just enough that he doesn’t bother. He lets Bucky guide him down, warm hands firm at his shoulders, like Steve weighs something worth holding onto.
Bucky smells like engine oil and winter air. Brooklyn. Home.
Steve watches him move around the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair falling into his eyes as he searches for the tin of tea. There’s something domestic about it that makes Steve’s chest ache—Bucky existing in this space so easily, like he belongs here, like he always will.
It’s a ridiculous thought, really. Wanting things like this. Wanting more.
Steve’s body has never been built for longevity. He’s known that forever. His future, if he’s lucky, has always been measured in short distances: the next week, the next appointment, the next time he can catch his breath.
So he doesn’t know where the thought comes from when it slips in, uninvited and soft as a prayer.
If things were different, he thinks.
If I were stronger.
If this body could hold something other than sickness.
He imagines Bucky’s hands not steadying him, but reverent. Protective. He imagines warmth instead of weakness, weight instead of emptiness. He imagines a future that grows instead of dwindling.
The idea scares him enough that he doesn’t let it linger.
Not yet.
The change is not gentle.
Steve expects fireworks, maybe—pain, or light, or something loud enough to justify the way the world seems to tilt when it’s over. Instead, it’s the quiet afterward that unsettles him most. The stillness of a body that is no longer fighting itself.
He sits on the edge of the cot, hands braced on his knees, waiting for the familiar burn in his lungs to flare. It doesn’t. He draws in breath after breath, deep and effortless, like he’s been doing it wrong his entire life and only just learned how it’s meant to feel.
Strong.
He laughs once, sharp and breathless, and it startles him how easy even that is.
Bucky doesn’t say anything at first. He just stares.
Steve has seen that look before, on strangers, on doctors, on men who don’t quite know where to put their hands, but never on Bucky. Bucky’s always known him. Every fragile inch. Every limitation memorized like muscle memory.
Now Bucky steps closer, slow, like Steve might spook.
“Holy—” Bucky stops himself, reaches out, then hesitates. “Can I?”
Steve nods.
Bucky’s hands land on his arms, thumbs pressing experimentally into muscle that he never knew to be there. His grip tightens, not rough, just… certain. Like he’s testing the reality of it. Like he’s afraid it might disappear if he doesn’t keep hold.
Steve watches Bucky’s face soften into something awed and unguarded, and the thought comes back; not tentative this time, not scared away by logic.
It settles in Steve’s chest and refuses to move.
This body could last.
The idea blooms, dangerous and warm.
That night, he lies awake on his cot, staring at the underside of the bunk above him while the camp settles into uneasy sleep.
He presses a hand to his stomach, flat and firm beneath his palm.
For the first time, it doesn’t feel like borrowed space.
He imagines Bucky’s weight behind him, solid and familiar, the press of him anchoring Steve to the bed. He imagines Bucky’s voice gone quiet and careful, the way it gets when something matters more than he wants to admit.
He imagines warmth gathering low in his belly, not weakness, not pain, but potential.
The thought startles him enough that he nearly sits up.
Steve squeezes his eyes shut, breath stuttering once before evening out again. This is ridiculous. Dangerous. There’s a war on. There’s always a war on. Men like him don’t get futures, no matter how strong their bodies become.
And yet, Brooklyn slips in anyway.
A narrow apartment with too much light in the mornings. Bucky’s boots by the door. A table that wobbles unless you wedge something under one leg. Steve standing at the window, strong enough now to carry groceries, strong enough to stand for hours without shaking.
Strong enough to carry something else.
He doesn’t let himself imagine faces yet. Or names. Just the feeling, the certainty of being needed in a way that isn’t about fighting.
His hand curls more protectively over his stomach before he realizes he’s done it.
Steve exhales, slow and shaky, and lets the fantasy linger just a moment longer before the world intrudes again.
He doesn’t know it yet, but this is the first night the dream refuses to let him go.
It starts happening when Steve isn’t trying.
He’ll be polishing his shield, the repetitive motion soothing in a way he’s still getting used to, when his thoughts slip sideways. Or he’ll be lying on his back, staring up at canvas and beams, counting his breaths out of habit even though he no longer needs to.
His hand keeps finding its way to his stomach. At first, it’s unconscious. A resting place.
Sometimes, he closes his eyes and lets himself imagine it rounded. Heavy. Warm.
He imagines the way the weight would pull at his spine, how it might change the way he stands. The way he’d have to adjust, slow down, not because he’s weak, but because there’s something worth being careful for.
The idea makes his throat ache.
He starts to notice how Bucky looks at him lately.
Not just the obvious double-takes or the way his eyes linger like he’s memorizing Steve all over again, but the quieter things. How Bucky positions himself just a little closer in crowded rooms. How his hand drifts to Steve’s lower back without thinking, grounding him there.
Protective.
One evening, Steve catches himself watching Bucky read.
He’s stretched out on his bunk with a book balanced in one hand, the other resting on his chest, lips moving faintly as he mouths the words. Bucky’s always loved reading, loved the way words can open doors, loved the promise that there’s more out there than what’s right in front of you.
Steve’s chest tightens.
He imagines Bucky’s voice lower, softer, directed downward instead of across the room. Imagines him perched on the edge of a bed in Brooklyn, glasses slipping down his nose as he reads aloud to a stomach that rises and falls beneath his palm.
“Think it’ll like this one?” Bucky would ask, glancing up like he genuinely expects an answer.
Steve imagines smiling, fond and tired and impossibly full, one hand tangled in Bucky’s hair while the other rests over the curve of himself. Imagines feeling a kick, real or imagined, and laughing when Bucky freezes mid-sentence.
“Did you feel that?” Bucky would whisper in complete awe.
Steve swallows hard and looks away before anyone can catch the expression on his face.
Later, he lets himself think about Brooklyn again.
Not the place they’ve always known—the cramped rooms and thin walls and the constant smell of the city, but something slightly better. Still familiar, still theirs, just… easier. A place where the windows let in light. Where there’s room for a crib without having to move a table.
He knows the numbers. Knows what soldiers make, what bonuses are promised, what might be waiting at the end of all this if they’re lucky.
Of course, he didn’t agree to all this for a check. He’d happily punch bullies for free, and his fight history is proof of that.
If we make it back, his mind supplies automatically.
But for once, he doesn’t stop there.
He imagines Bucky counting bills at the kitchen table, brow furrowed in concentration, muttering under his breath about interest and deposits. Imagines Steve leaning against the doorframe, hands braced around the gentle slope of himself, watching Bucky build a future like it’s just another mechanical problem to solve.
“We could manage,” Bucky would say, looking up with that crooked grin. “Might even have enough left over for a fresh coat of paint.”
Steve imagines believing him.
The fantasy doesn’t feel dangerous anymore.
It feels… earned.
He starts to cherish it, the imagined weight, the imagined tenderness, the imagined life growing quietly alongside the war. He thinks about how strange it is that after all these years of sickness, it’s the idea of fullness that makes him feel the most himself.
At night, when sleep comes easier than it ever used to, Steve lets his hands rest where the curve would be.
And for the first time, he doesn’t pull them away.
It becomes easier to imagine with time.
Steve notices it in the quiet moments first, when he’s alone with his thoughts, and there’s nothing demanding his attention. His hand rests more often at his middle now, fingers splayed there without purpose, like his body knows something his mind hasn’t said out loud yet.
He pictures himself pregnant.
The thought no longer startles him.
He imagines the weight of it, the way his stomach would round and pull, the way it would change how he moves through a room. He imagines standing a little wider for balance, sitting more carefully, one hand braced at his lower back when the ache settles in at the end of the day.
A baby.
He thinks the word fondly, like it’s already familiar.
He imagines mornings in Brooklyn where he wakes before Bucky, sunlight slipping through the curtains, his body already awake with the gentle discomfort of it. He imagines shifting onto his side, careful and slow, smiling to himself when the baby moves. He presses his palm there, solid and protective, like there’s something worth guarding now.
He imagines Bucky noticing.
“You okay?” Bucky would ask, already halfway across the room.
Steve imagines looking up at him, soft and tired and warm all the way through. “Yeah,” he’d say. “Just the baby.”
The image lingers—how easily it would come, how natural it would feel to say.
Sometimes, he imagines how far along he’d be. Far enough that there’s no hiding it. Far enough that the change is unmistakable. He imagines the stretch of skin beneath his hand, the steady growth, the quiet certainty of knowing there’s a life unfolding inside him.
At night, when the camp settles and the world goes briefly still, Steve lets himself think about what it would be like to be heavy with it. To be slowed by something good. To feel full in a way that has nothing to do with strength or muscle or war.
He imagines Bucky hovering, trying not to. Offering chairs. Adjusting pillows. Muttering under his breath every time Steve stands too quickly.
“I’m pregnant,” Steve would tell him, amused. “Not helpless.”
Bucky would scowl. “That’s exactly why I’m worried.”
The thought makes Steve smile to himself, warmth blooming low in his belly.
Bucky doesn’t shut it down.
That’s the thing Steve notices first.
He tenses when Steve jokes about it, sure. His mouth pulls tight, eyes flicking away like he’s bracing for something heavy. But he never tells Steve to stop. Never laughs it off or turns cruel. He listens, even when it makes his chest hurt.
At first, he treats it like something fragile.
When Steve mentions the baby, casual, half-smiling, Bucky exhales through his nose and says, “You got a real talent for pickin’ your timing, you know that?” But his hand still finds Steve’s elbow when the ground is uneven. Still lingers there, steady and warm.
It starts small.
Bucky walking half a step closer than usual. Bucky positioning himself between Steve and the worst of the crowd. Bucky reaching for Steve’s pack without comment and carrying it himself, even when Steve gives him that look.
“What?” Bucky mutters. “Humor me.”
One afternoon, Steve catches him frowning at a map, finger tracing routes like he’s planning something bigger than the mission.
“Tryin’ to keep us outta trouble,” Bucky says gruffly when Steve asks.
Steve smiles. “We usually run toward it.”
“Yeah,” Bucky replies. “Well. Not always.”
The words settle between them, weighted.
Bucky starts making comments that aren’t jokes anymore.
“You gotta be careful,” he says once, when Steve jumps down from a ledge without thinking.
Steve raises a brow. “Since when?”
Bucky shrugs, eyes fixed somewhere past him. “Since you keep talkin’ about carryin’ important cargo someday.”
Steve goes still.
The way Bucky says it, low, careful, like he’s testing the words, makes something bloom in Steve’s chest.
“Yeah?” Steve asks softly.
Bucky clears his throat. “Yeah.”
It’s the closest he’s come to admitting it out loud.
The first time Bucky touches Steve like it’s real, it catches them both off guard.
They’re standing together in the quiet, camp wrapped in dusk, when Bucky steps in behind him. No warning. No comment. Just the solid press of his chest against Steve’s back, arms coming around him slow and uncertain.
Steve doesn’t move.
Bucky’s hands settle at his middle, palms flat against his stomach, still flat, still unchanged, but he holds Steve there like it won’t always be. Like he’s imagining the space filled with something more.
Bucky exhales, forehead resting briefly between Steve’s shoulder blades.
“Guess I’d better get used to this,” he murmurs.
Steve’s voice comes out rough. “Used to what?”
Bucky’s thumbs shift, barely moving, reverent. “Protectin’ you like this.”
Steve leans back into him, just a fraction.
Bucky doesn’t pull away.
They stay like that longer than they need to, quiet and steady, the world held at bay. When Bucky finally steps back, his hands linger a second too long, like he’s memorizing the shape of what’s there now and what might be there someday.
He doesn’t say baby yet.
But when Steve jokes later about needing to sit down, Bucky’s already dragging over a crate.
And when Steve laughs and asks what that’s about, Bucky just shrugs and says, “Gotta start somewhere.”
Bucky starts reading out loud without announcing it.
It’s late, the kind of night where the camp has gone quiet except for the distant shuffle of boots and the occasional cough. Steve is stretched out on his bunk in Bucky’s arms, hands folded over his torso, watching shadows move along the canvas.
Bucky’s book is open and supported with a single hand; his left hand holds Steve close.
He clears his throat once, then begins.
His voice is low and even, shaped by habit, by years of loving the sound of words spoken into the air.
Steve smiles to himself.
It doesn’t take long to realize Bucky isn’t reading to him.
Bucky pauses mid-paragraph, glances up like he’s been caught doing something private.
“Figure it’s good practice,” he mutters. “You know. For someday.”
Steve’s breath stutters, but he keeps his tone light. “Practice for what?”
Bucky scoffs softly. “Don’t get cute.”
He keeps reading, his hand resting on Steve’s stomach, thumb tracing slow, absent-minded circles.
A few days later, Steve’s cleaning his shield when Bucky steps in close, adjusting the strap at his arm. He lingers, fingers pressing firmly like he’s grounding himself.
“Careful,” Bucky says, voice low. “That thing’s practically indestructible.”
Steve smirks. “Unlike me?”
Bucky looks at him sharply. “That’s not funny.”
Steve blinks, surprised.
Bucky exhales, jaw working. “I mean—” He stops, then tries again. “You don’t get to be reckless anymore. Not if—” He trails off, frustration flickering across his face.
Steve’s voice is gentle. “Not if I’m carryin’ somethin’ important someday?”
Bucky nods once, stiff. “Yeah. That.”
The words hang there, unchallenged.
That night, Steve mentions Brooklyn again.
Just offhand. Just wondering aloud about neighborhoods, about space, about whether it’d be worth fixing up their old place or finding something new.
Bucky listens, thoughtful, eyes fixed on nothing.
“Could paint the walls,” Bucky says eventually. “Light color. Make it feel bigger.”
Steve smiles. “You’ve really thought about this.”
Bucky shrugs. “Hard not to, when you won’t shut up about it.”
There’s no bite in it.
Steve hesitates, then says, very quietly, “I keep thinkin’ about names.”
Bucky’s head snaps up. “You do, huh?”
Steve nods, suddenly shy again. “Just one.”
Bucky studies him for a long moment. “Alright. Let’s hear it.”
Steve swallows. “Sienna.”
The word sits between them.
Bucky repeats it under his breath, testing the shape. “Sienna,” he says again, softer. Then, before he can stop himself, “That’s… that’s real nice.”
Steve looks at him, heart pounding.
Bucky notices, flushes. “I mean. Hypothetically.”
Steve smiles anyway.
Later, when Bucky comes up behind him, it’s easier this time. His arms wrap around Steve’s waist, chin resting lightly on his shoulder. His hands settle at Steve’s stomach, thumbs brushing the fabric like they’re memorizing the place.
Still flat.
Still unchanged.
But Bucky’s grip is certain.
“Someday,” Bucky murmurs, barely audible. “Right here.”
Steve leans back into him, eyes closing.
“Someday,” he agrees.
For a moment, just a moment, the war feels very far away.
The cold bites deeper the higher they climb.
Steve keeps his focus forward, boots finding purchase on steel and snow, breath steady in his chest despite the incline. The mission is simple in theory: intercept, disable, stop the vessel. He’s done harder things. He’s survived worse.
Still, something tightens low in his body as they move.
It’s not fear. Not exactly.
It’s pressure.
He shifts, hand brushing his side as they pause behind cover. The sensation blooms and for a heartbeat the world tilts, reality slipping just enough for something else to take its place.
Pain.
Not sharp. Not sudden. Heavy. Rolling.
Steve imagines bending forward with it, bracing himself as it moves through him, his body working with grim determination toward something inevitable. He imagines breath leaving him in short, controlled bursts, sweat slicking his skin despite the cold.
“Hey,” Bucky’s voice cuts in immediately, imagined but unmistakable. “Easy. I got you.”
Steve pictures Bucky right there, solid and unshakeable, one arm locked around his waist, the other braced against his back. Bucky’s hands are warm, grounding, holding him upright when the wave crests and leaves him trembling.
“It hurts,” Steve thinks. And in the fantasy, he says it out loud, voice strained and honest.
“I know,” Bucky answers without hesitation. “You’re doin’ great.”
The pain comes again, stronger this time, and Steve imagines gripping Bucky’s sleeve, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. He imagines the burn, the stretch, the sheer work of it, his body demanding everything from him and then asking for more.
He imagines crying out, breath breaking, frustration and fear tangling together in his chest.
And Bucky never once letting go.
Bucky’s forehead pressed to his temple. Bucky murmuring encouragement like it’s instinct. Like he was made for this role.
“Breathe with me,” Bucky says. “That’s it. Just like that. I’m right here.”
Steve imagines the pain peaking, blinding and all-consuming, and through it all — love. So present it feels physical. A hand in his. A voice anchoring him when the world narrows to nothing but effort and fire and breath.
He imagines the moment when it finally breaks.
Relief crashes over him, overwhelming and shaky, his body spent and aching and victorious. He imagines collapsing back against Bucky, limp with exhaustion, tears spilling freely now that he doesn’t have to be strong anymore.
Bucky laughs, breathless and in disbelief.
“You did it,” Bucky whispers. “You hear me? You did it.”
Steve imagines the baby placed against his chest. She’s warm, solid, real. He imagines the weight of them, the proof of everything he dared to hope for.
Bucky’s hands come to rest over both of them, trembling now. He presses a kiss to Steve’s hair, then his temple, then his cheek like he can’t stop, like he’s afraid this will vanish if he doesn’t keep touching it.
“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, voice thick. “Hey, Sienna.”
The name settles into Steve’s bones.
The vessel whistle screams.
Reality snaps back into place with brutal force. Metal grinding, wind roaring, the mission.
The noise is constant, a low, furious roar that rattles through Steve’s bones.
They’re moving fast, faster than feels reasonable, the ground beneath them vibrating with it. Wind tears at Steve’s uniform, cold and biting, stealing breath from his lungs as he keeps pace just behind Bucky.
Bucky’s laughing.
Not loudly. Just that breathless, exhilarated sound he makes when adrenaline outweighs fear. He throws Steve a glance over his shoulder, eyes bright, hair whipping into his face.
“C’mon, punk!” he shouts. “Try and keep up!”
Steve grins despite himself and surges forward, muscles burning, heart pounding with something dangerously close to joy.
For a split second, the daydream clings.
Bucky’s voice, steady and sure.
Hands anchoring him through pain.
I’m right here.
Something explodes nearby.
The world jerks violently to the side.
Bucky stumbles.
Steve’s smile vanishes.
“Buck!” Steve reaches out, instinct screaming louder than thought.
His fingers catch Bucky’s sleeve. Grip tightens. Skin against fabric. A connection that feels solid, possible.
The angle is wrong.
Steve’s boots skid, his body dragged toward the edge of something he hasn’t named yet, and suddenly the wind is louder, colder, screaming up from below.
Bucky dangles there, suspended over nothing, face twisted in pain and terror. Snow and wind whip past him, rushing upward from below, and only now does the truth snap into place.
The speed.
The vibration.
The endless pull forward.
The train.
“Steve!” Bucky screams.
The sound rips straight through him, raw, panicked, alive. Not brave. Not joking. Just terrified.
“Steve, please—!”
Steve tightens his grip, fingers burning, arms shaking as the train lurches violently beneath them. The angle is wrong. Everything is wrong.
“I won’t let go!” Steve shouts back, voice breaking. “I swear, I—!”
Another jolt tears through the car.
Bucky’s grip slips.
His scream shatters into something wordless as his hand tears free, fingers clawing at empty air.
“STEVE—!”
And then he’s gone.
The sound doesn’t stop when he does.
Bucky’s scream trails after him, ripped away by wind and speed and distance, echoing down into the rushing dark below until it finally cuts off too abruptly, too completely.
The train keeps moving.
And Steve is left on it, knees shaking, Bucky’s screams still ringing in his ears, carrying the ghost of something that will never be.