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It was far from the first time Steve had come home with a black eye or a split lip. Hell, it wasn’t even the first time that week.
That didn’t make it any easier to see him hurt. He couldn’t pinpoint when exactly Steve Rogers had become his responsibility, just that he couldn’t remember a time when things were ever any other way. It seemed like one day he was just the skinny kid with the bad cough who lived in the apartment down the hall, and the next day he was his best friend. For as long as he could remember, they were always just steveandbucky.
It was a shitty apartment building, even as shitty apartment buildings went, and the mold made Steve’s lungs even worse than they should have been, and he couldn’t stop himself from getting into fights he couldn’t win. Even back then— before — Steve was all heart. It seemed like he never remembered how little and weak he was until he’d already taken it upon himself to stick up for someone even littler and weaker. Bucky only learned to fight so he could finish all the battles Steve started.
He kicked himself for not being there this time.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Steve gazed up at him, flashing a bloody smile that did very little to make Bucky less worried. Even seated on the bathroom counter, Steve was still shorter than him.
“I don’t know,” Bucky sucked air through his teeth. “You look pretty bad from here.” He wiped away the dried blood on Steve’s lip with a damp cloth. “You’re lucky you didn’t lose a tooth. or three.”
“You should see the other guy,” Steve joked, wincing as he chuckled to himself. Bucky didn’t laugh.
“You've got to be careful, Steve,” Bucky chided him, thinking of the letter he snatched out of their mailbox and crammed in his pocket earlier that morning. He didn't want to tell Steve until he had to. “I'm not always going to be here to fix you up.”
“Oh yeah?” Steve raised an eyebrow. “Where have you got to be other than here, huh?”
Germany, probably, he thought. Since they were eight years old, there'd never been more than a few doors separating them. Before long, there'd be a whole ocean between them, and he'd be freezing in an army training camp while Steve limped home to an empty apartment. Something twinged in Bucky’s gut when he thought about Steve having to sleep alone all winter long. Their apartment only had one bedroom, and they couldn’t have afforded two beds for it even if the thought had crossed their minds. They’d started off sleeping head to feet when they moved in two Januaries ago, but those drafty windows didn’t do much to keep the cold out. Steve would wake him up with his shivering, despite his best efforts to hide it.
It only took a few days before Bucky had enough, and he silently turned his body around and tucked Steve’s against his own. They didn’t speak about it in the morning, but the following night, Bucky’s arms were open and waiting again. No one could blame them for that, he decided. Steve was cold and he was sick, and if it was really the being near him that made Bucky burn hot enough to warm him up, then no one needed to know that particular detail.
He worried Steve would freeze without him, because that was easier than worrying about what would happen to himself over there.
Yes, it was easier to fret over who was going to keep the fire going when Steve was sick. Or warm his socks on the radiator while he showered. Or go out in the ice and snow to get his medicine, or…
It didn’t matter. There was nothing he could do about it now anyway. He ruffled Steve’s blond hair, just so he could stop thinking about how much he wanted to run his fingers through it, and…
“You gonna tell me what the hell you were fighting about this time?” He asked, avoiding Steve’s question.
Steve shrugged. “You.” He didn’t meet Bucky’s eyes when he said it.
“Me?” Bucky crossed his arms. “I don’t need you to get all busted up on my behalf. I can fight my own battles.”
“I know,” Steve said. It got quiet after that. There was something unspoken in the silence.
“What’d they say about me that got you so riled up?” He dabbed at the cuts on Steve’s knuckles. At least maybe he’d gotten in a few good punches before he got his ass kicked.
“They said you were…funny.” Steve confessed. “Because you spend all your time with me.”
Bucky swallowed hard. He’d been so careful. He thought being seen out and about with all those girls would take care of any rumors. He’d even been good at it— all the flirting and dancing and money spent on dinner and drinks. If they were short enough and blonde enough, he could even convince himself he was infatuated. “And what’d you tell them?”
Steve laughed nervously. “That you weren’t?” He punched Bucky’s arm, playfully. “You just look out for me. That’s all.”
“But if I was…funny?” He swallowed and his throat felt like sand.
Steve pretended to think it over, and God, Bucky wished he could read the room sometimes. Then Steve said, “wouldn’t make a lick of difference. You know, ‘til the end of the line’ and all that.”
When Bucky had said it that first time, he meant it as a love confession. He just wasn’t brave enough to clarify. Now, with the draft letter burning a hole in his coat pocket, it didn’t seem worth it anymore. There was never a right time for him to say anything, and if there was even a good time for it, it had long since passed. God, he hated to think of leaving.
He guessed maybe he could get himself kicked out of the army for it— mess around with some other poor schmuck who was wired wrong and win himself a dishonorable discharge. He’d get to come home then, maybe, but then he’d also have to explain it to Steve. And everyone else. And he’d have a hard time sitting at home while leagues of other good men went to fight that horrible war for him. It didn’t seem right to him. In that way, he and Steve were the same, but Bucky only ever played the hero for anyone other than Steve because he felt obligated. Steve did it because he didn’t know any other way to be. There was the difference.
Steve got a faraway look in his eyes. Usually, Bucky liked watching him when he was like this. Tonight, it just turned his stomach.
“You remember that time you kissed me?” Steve said after a while.
Bucky pretended the words meant nothing to him. “Yeah. We were ten. It doesn't count. Why are you thinking about it now?”
“I think about it a lot.” It could have meant a million different things.
“Why?” He struggled to keep his voice even, because he’d thought about it a lot, too. Even though he shouldn’t have. Even now, when the split on the left side of Steve’s bottom lip had barely stopped bleeding, Bucky couldn’t stop himself from imagining it. They’d been kids then. It would be different now— Steve’s jaw was sharper, his hair was longer, and there was that barely-there blond stubble that would scrape against his chin. He’d played the whole thing out in his mind more times than he could count.
Steve shrugged. “Because you’re still the only person who’s ever wanted to kiss me. For any reason.”
Bucky patted him on the back— a brotherly, platonic gesture, he hoped. “I won’t be the last. Give it time.”
“C’mon, Buck. Would it really be so terrible, if you were?” Steve smiled again, but there was something else behind the expression.
He probably should have just laughed it off. That would’ve been the safest option— to change the subject without admitting anything he couldn’t take back, to not have to put words to why he’d up and left his date that night just because he had a distant feeling that something was wrong.
Honestly, anything would have been better than what he actually said.
“Yes,” he whispered, “Don’t you know what happens to men like that?”
“Yeah, I do,” Steve admitted. “What do you think those guys are saying to me right before they try to kick my teeth in? What do you think they call me?”
“You can’t let ‘em give you shit like that,” Bucky said, “You’ve gotta toughen up, or run faster, I don’t know. Find some girl to go out with, show ‘em you’re not a—“ He couldn’t even say the word out loud, because he was that word, and nothing good would ever come of it.
“Is that what you did?”
Bucky didn’t miss the accusation in his words. “I’m not like that,” he said, taking a step back. “Not anymore.”
“That’s fine, Buck,” He helped himself off the counter, and their height difference was even more obvious. He was face-to-face with Bucky’s chest, but it didn’t stop him from standing his ground. “Keep lying to yourself and spending all your money on girls you don’t like. See if I care. But for the record, I never thought there was anything wrong with you. I was just happy somebody liked me.” Then he turned and left.
“We’re not ten years old anymore, Steve.” Bucky shouted after him. We can’t play it off as a joke. They’ll hurt us. They’ll hurt you. Don’t you understand? They will take me away from you and put me somewhere I will never see you again!” His voice broke on the last bit, so he yelled even louder to cover it up. What he did not say was that he might never see him again anyway.
And Steve, noble little asshole that he was, who had known one James Buchanan Barnes for as much of his life as he remembered, couldn’t stand for his friend to be upset. His resolve crumbled, and he walked unceremoniously back into the bathroom.
“What’s gotten into you tonight?” He asked softly, eyes full of concern. “What’s with all the doom and gloom? Nothing bad is happening. No one’s going anywhere. I'm just saying you can tell me the truth.”
Bucky forced a smile. “You’re right. It’s just been a long day, I guess. I don’t know. Don’t worry about it.”
Steve’s expression turned pleasant again. He didn’t like to argue, and he didn't hold much of a grudge. “Jeez, Buck. How bad was your date?”
“It wasn’t bad at all,” he sighed, “She just wasn’t really my type.”
And then he indulged that hidden part of himself. Maybe it was because of the war, maybe he was tired of pretending, or maybe Steve just looked perfect in the warm glow of the bathroom light. “If I kissed you again, would you still kiss me back?”
“Yeah,” Steve's eyes got all big and blue, the way they did when he was being earnest. Steve was always earnest. “I think I would.”
Bucky backed him up against the wall, caging him in with his arms. He’d done this too many times with too many girls to count, but none of them had ever made him this nervous. He wonder if Steve could see him trembling. He hoped he could, because Steve deserved to know he was enough to make someone feel like this without having to change a damn thing. Bucky had always, always loved everything about him— his skinny frame, bird chest, eyes like the sky on the most beautiful goddamn summer’s day you’d ever seen— he loved it all.
He’d spent his whole life dreaming about the way Steve looked up at him now, mouth slightly open, brows furrowed in a question as if to say “Are we really gonna do this?” Bucky wanted to enjoy it for just a little bit longer, just enough to make sure he’d remember it. Then he tilted Steve’s chin up and planted a kiss right on the split in his bottom lip. The cut was bitter and metallic under his tongue and it might as well have been honeyed wine the way he savored the taste. He held Steve’s face so carefully in his hands and kissed him and kissed him and kissed him until finally, he felt the other man’s thin arms wrap around his waist and pull him in for more.
And, you know, it was so easy, once they started, to just keep going. They stumbled and danced their way into the bed they already shared, grinning and laughing between kisses. All that troubled them just moments ago was forgotten in favor of the miraculous discovery of each other. The curtains were drawn, the lamps blown out, and there was no world except their tiny bedroom— no war, no morality laws, no neighborhood bullies— just them two of them and the kind of knowing smiles that came from sharing the good kind of secret.
Bucky decided too much of them was covered up, so he stripped out of his T-shirt and chucked it over his shoulder. Then he hooked his hands under the hem of Steve's too-big sweater and pulled it off over his head only to be met with a row of buttons beneath it. Steve flashed an apologetic smile as Bucky set about unfastening those too. He'd only undone one or two before he saw the collar of a white T-shirt peeking out from under the button-up.
“How many shirts are you wearing, man?”
“Sorry,” Steve flushed all the way down to the top of his T-shirt. Bucky wondered how far down his chest it went. “When I got dressed this morning, I didn't really have this in mind.”
Once the button-up was out of the way, Steve lifted his arms and Bucky peeled the sweat-soaked T-shirt off of him, baring his thin torso. Maybe Steve wasn't handsome in the way girls liked, but there was a quiet beauty about him. He was less like the American ideal in one of those Army posters that had started popping up everywhere and more like a boy from a Leyendecker painting. Of course, maybe that beauty only existed in Bucky’s head. Maybe finding someone beautiful was just a consequence of loving them.
…and the love had come first. It settled in the pit of his stomach when he was still too young to give it a name, and that was long before the world had taught him to care about appearances. Beauty hadn’t even factored into the equation until years later, when he’d noticed the smattering of barely-there freckles on the bridge of Steve’s nose. He always softened the truth when he told it. Look at you in your Sunday best, he’d say. You’re gonna have your pick of the girls soon. He was realizing now that he wasn’t quite as good at burying the lede as he thought. Still, Steve crossed his arms over his chest, like Bucky hadn't seen him naked or next to it a hundred times or more since they were kids.
Bucky reached down and gently unfolded his arms. “Don’t hide from me, now,” he sighed, gazing down at him. Bruises were starting to bloom on that tender skin between Steve’s ribs, where the toe of more than one boot hit home. He tried not to think about Steve curled up in the corner of some alleyway, unable to stop the blows from coming. He tried not to think about how it was his fault. Pressing his lips to the underside of Steve’s jaw, where the skin was hot and thin, proved to be a successful distraction.
“Every goddamn girl in Brooklyn oughta be after you,” Bucky whispered the words into the side of Steve's neck before kissing him there too. He still couldn’t bring himself to say what he really meant. Steve's hands were back on his waist then, digging in, and Bucky's skin jumped under his ice-cold fingers. It was no matter, though— he was sure they’d find plenty of ways to keep him warm. The rest, they’d deal with in the morning.
--
Bucky Barnes woke up eighty years later— this time in a much nicer apartment, though he still shared his bed. And the shape of the man who slept beside him was quite a bit different than it had been in that dreamlike memory. (That had taken some getting used to.) But then, so had everything.
like only having one arm to hold him with…
or having a bed to share at all…
But you could get used to anything. Even safety.
He was…healing. He guessed. It seemed like now, when he was lucky enough to sleep long enough to dream, his mind spent more time in the sweet before than all the horror of after.
That particular memory was one of his favorites for all the reasons you might think, but also because it was the first memory he knew was his.
Once upon a time there was a crashing aircraft, and he was the Winter Soldier, and he was kneeling over a battered man. It was an echo of something that used to be important, he thought. And then there was that twinge of something in the most hidden parts of his soul— something he’d been made to forget again and again; something he’d remembered just as many times, plus one.
Once upon a time, there was a shitty one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn, and he was James Buchanan Barnes, and he was kneeling over the same battered man. He remembered, he remembered, he remembered.
That man stirred beside him now, and the whole mattress shifted under his weight. “Bad dream?” He asked.
“Not this time,” Bucky answered, relieved that the days of waking up screaming seemed to be behind them. “A good one.”
“It’s only 6:00,” Steve mumbled. “not time to get up yet.”
So he laid back down.
Once upon a time, there was a very nice apartment somewhere far away from Brooklyn, and he was the Winter Soldier, and he was James Buchanan Barnes, and he was Bucky, and if he looked close enough, he could still see the scar on Steve’s bottom lip.