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Bucky has always wondered why so many books and movies make New York out to be the most fascinating, quirky and unique city in the world. The creators obviously haven't been in Clint Barton's corner of the city. Much of Bed-Stuy is becoming gentrified with coffee shops, bakeries and bistros on every block-- except for Clint's. The street seems to be a leftover from the 80's; squat brick buildings, decorated with graffiti of gang symbols and profane Cyrillic phrases. Clint's five story building blends right in. Everything is gray, including the graffiti, which is largely black and white, or in colors so faded that the don't pierce the general murk of the day. The cold wind blowing off the Hudson river is both icy and damp. Bucky's sorry Steve had relapsed with a low-grade fever, but grateful that he's not exposed to this misery.
Bucky surveys the surrounding buildings, chalking up advantages and disadvantages. There is a bodega across the street, a diner with dirty windows, a deli that looks promising, and a tiny coffee shop called Les Trois Demoiselles which is the sole indicator that the neighborhood is working its way to respectability. The small front patio is decked with tiny twinkle lights and the windows are welcoming and warm. He's too early to meet Clint, taking the opportunity to recon the area. The coffee shop is the most inviting place to stop … and coffee.
Bucky opens the door to the shop. The aroma of cinnamon, chocolate and coffee is as much a lure as the wave of heat coming from the electric fireplace in the comfy lounge area. He approaches the counter. A tiny bell says, "Ring me." Bucky gives it a tentative touch and a curvaceous brunette emerges from the back room. She's wearing jeans, a sparkly t-shirt, and a nametag that reads "Darcy". Her lips are red, her cheeks flushed, and there is a dusting of flour on her nose. Bucky can't help smiling. "Hi, Darcy." he says.
She looks at him, raises a brow, and smiles. "Hey, what can I get for you today? Besides me, that is."
Bucky, who hasn't been flirted with in a very long time, blinks at her. "Sorry?"
Darcy sighs. "Okay, that's a joke, a forward one, but really, I can't help it. The words pop out. My mother says I was flirting with the doctor in the delivery room."
Bucky laughs. "You're fine, and if I were … well … " He can't help tilting his head towards his empty sleeve.
"Married, right?"
"What?"
"Your left … Oh." Her eyes widen as she takes in his empty sleeve. "You're a veteran?"
"Yeah."
She smiles brightly again. "You get your coffee for free. Clint -- the guy who owns the building on the corner, set up a coffee fund for veterans. What can I pour for you?"
"Coffee, black, extra hot. And two of those cinnamon rolls." Sam had "loaned" him some money for food and subway fares from the center's petty cash, so he figures Sam wouldn't begrudge him a treat, not after walking in the cold. "Give me a coffee and a roll for Clint, too?" He'd take one back for Steve.
"Sure. You're looking at one of his units?"
"I am."
"Cool. Welcome to the neighborhood. What's your name?"
"James."
"Nice to meet you, James." She passes him two coffees and two cinnamon rolls bagged and on a carry tray. "Don't worry about the roll for Clint, I've got that covered." She winks at him as the door opens and a group of college students crowd the tiny shop. Bucky sits in the corner by the fire and takes a bite of the roll. It's buttery, sweet, and savory with cinnamon. Between Thanksgiving dinner and this, he can almost feel his body taking in the calories with a sigh of relief. He's nearly forgotten the sensation of being fed and warm with the freedom to eat what he wants, not just finding enough calories to keep him alive.
When he's finished, he carries the coffee and extra rolls across the street. The vestibule is tiny and dingy, but clean. He finds the button marked SUPER and pushes it. A minute later, Clint appears and grins at him through the door as he opens it. "Hey, man. Good to see you." He takes the tray from Bucky. "You found Les Trois Demoiselles, I see."
"Yeah. The coffee and roll are for you, courtesy of Darcy."
Clint's smile gets even wider. "She try to flirt with you?"
"Sort of," Bucky takes a sip of his coffee. "But she was cool about the arm and all. Nice girl."
"She can be overwhelming, but she's a fantastic baker, and her soups are amazing." Clint digs in his pocket for keys. "So, you ready to see the place? I thought Steve would come with you."
"He's not feeling well this morning."
I'm sorry to hear that. I hope it's not serious."
"Doc Banner said he shouldn't be running around Brooklyn in this weather."
"It won't take long to see the apartment. It ain't that big." Clint laughs. "Can you handle three flights of stairs? There's an elevator, but wouldn't you know today of all days it's not working."
"Not a problem." He follows Clint up the narrow stairs. The halls are narrow and the paint is an institutional green that makes Bucky a little queasy with memories of the hospitals he's been in, but it's spotless and well-lit. "How many units on each floor?"
"Four. I only have six units rehabbed. Got to work with what I've got, ya know. Sam said he'll try to help me get hooked up with some funding.
Bucky nods. "Have you thought about hiring some Vets to help? Might not even need pay as long as they're learning a trade."
Clint turns and gives him an appraising look. "Yeah … I'll have Phil look into that. He's the legal mind. Me, I'm just the muscle. Say, Barnes, if this works out, how would you like --"
"One arm? Remember?"
"I was thinking more of being the site supervisor."
Bucky blinks. "Me?"
"Sure. Why not? You were a Sergeant, right? I'll bet you can motivate people to work."
Bucky laughs. "That's a polite way to say it."
"You'll think about it?"
"Sure. Maybe. If it flies, ask me again."
They've reached the fourth floor. Clint points to the doors. "Me. Dr. Banner, Darcy and Jane from the coffee shop. We're a pretty chill bunch except for Jane's enormous fiancee, Thor Odinson. He's got a voice like thunder and a tread like a Norse giant, but he travels a lot for business, so it's mostly quiet."
Bucky can't meet Clint's eyes. "Umm, I have screaming nightmares," he admits. "You might not want me on this floor."
To his shock, Clint grips his shoulder. "Hey, Barnes, you think you're the only one? You're not. Trust me, the building may look like crap outside, but inside, it's solid."
"Thanks, just so you know."
Clint turns the key in the lock. "Deadbolt. The building's as secure as I can make it." He opens the door. "C'mon in."
Bucky steps inside and it's like coming into a different world than the hall outside. The walls are a pale butter yellow, the trim is the color of whipped cream, the floors are a rich oak and are obviously original. Even in the dull light, the apartment looks like the sun is shining through the windows. The living room is furnished with decent second-hand items; a large deep sofa, a leather recliner showing signs of wear, but not tattered, a second armchair in a fabric that doesn't quite go with the sofa, but looks clean and comfortable. End tables and a coffee table are a little worse for the wear, but they look sturdy, and the wall-mounted bookshelves are newly built. Bucky runs a finger along the wood. "Nice. Your work?"
"Do you like it?"
"Yeah, it's sweet."
"Then, yes. It is my work. With help from power tools and Phil's design. C'mon, I'll show you the kitchen."
It's small, but the shelves are new, obviously Clint's work, with a white subway tile backsplash, and space for a table and two chairs. The appliances are a mix of dated and newer models. The big stove in positively vintage. Bucky looks at Clint. "It works?"
"Yeah, of course it works! I rehabbed it myself. It was too heavy to drag out of here. The refrigerator is newer. I wanted something more energy-efficient."
They move on to two bedrooms of about the same size; both are furnished with a chest of drawers and a double bed. The closets would barely fit even his small wardrobe, but that's not surprising. He doubts Steve is more of a clothes horse than he is.
The bathroom is virtually untouched, but it's spotless and it has an enormous claw-foot cast iron bathtub that is a selling point all of its own. There is a tub-mounted showerhead and flexible hose that is new. "You do plumbing, too?"
Clint shrugs. "Jack of all trades and master of none." He gives Bucky a lopsided grin. "Don't worry, I checked it out. No leaks. So, what do you think?"
Bucky isn't stupid. He knows what an apartment like this costs in New York, and he knows there's no way in hell he can afford it. "It's amazing, really, but Clint, I have nothing. I don't have a job, I'm on shitty disability and a pittance from the VA, and then there's the arm thing."
"Either my hearing aids aren't working right, or my short-term memory is shot. Did I mention anything about rent?"
"What part of jobless and crippled did you not get?" Bucky says with some asperity. "I can't afford this, even with Steve pitching in."
"Okay, here's the deal. I'm a vet. You're a vet. We've paid our way in flesh and blood. I charge enough to cover utilities and allow me to work on rehabbing the other units at my own pace. I set the rents according to what the tenants can pay, not what I think I can get for the apartments. That way, I choose who lives here. Am I rich? No, but I'm comfortably off thanks to some help investing in tech stocks that have paid off really well lately, so if you think you're taking advantage of me, you're not. And you may end up with a job out of this, which would be a huge favor for me, so take the damn apartment. You and Steve … man, you've earned it. Please, I haven't put this many words together in forever and I'm beat."
Bucky holds out his hand, with a wry laugh. "Alright, we'll take the apartment."
"Thank you! You can move in whenever you're ready."
"As soon as Steve is up to it. Might be tomorrow, might be Sunday."
"Sounds good." Clint hands the key to Bucky. "Oh, I stocked some cleaning supplies -- dish soap, cleanser, dust rags and furniture polish. There's a vacuum and mop in the coat closet. Take good care of the hardwood floors. They're a bitch to refinish."
"Yes, sir." Bucky snaps a salute and Clint laughs. "Barnes, I was a sergeant."
"You're the boss here, Barton."
"My own little fiefdom. Thanks for the coffee and cinnamon roll. Now, I've got to get out of here. Phil's waiting for me uptown."
Bucky stays a few minutes longer, trying out the furniture and thinking of all the things he and Steve will need to move in. Most things they can get second hand, but maybe they can pool resources once their banking is straightened out. He figures they can make do until then. Steve can have the couch, and Bucky, who doesn't sleep all that much can take the recliner. They'll manage. He locks up and reluctantly leaves the warmth of the apartment for the cold streets and the subway.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Steve is sitting in the common room at the Veterans Center, watching American Pickers and drinking hot tea. He looks away from the TV when he feels the draft of cold air that Bucky has brought with him. Bucky crouches down in front of the space heater and holds his hand to the stream of warmth that barely penetrates a few feet into the room.
"It's freezing out there. Good thing you stayed in." He holds out the bag to Steve. "Here. From our potential neighborhood coffee shop. It might have gotten a little squashed on the subway."
Steve eyes the misshapen pastry. "Thanks. I think."
"It tastes a lot better than it looks, and it looked better when it was fresh."
"How was the apartment?" Steve takes an experimental nibble of the bun and gives a sigh of contentment. "This is really good."
"It's right across the street. But that's not the only draw. The apartment is nice. Two bedrooms, nice bath with one of those big claw-footed tubs, a shower, plenty of storage for guys like us. Clint did a great job of rehabbing the space. Plus, the price is right."
"So did you take it?"
"We took it." Bucky holds out a key to Steve. "It's move-in ready whenever we are." He studies Steve. The color on his cheeks isn't coming from the space heater. His cough is still loose and wracking, but he's not wheezing any longer. "So, if you've got things to take over, I'll be glad to do it."
Steve shrugs. "What do I have? The clothes on my back."
"Think bigger. We need utensils, pots and pans, towels. Sheets."
"A coffeemaker." Steve offers and Bucky grins.
"That's the spirit. I'll get some paper from Sam's office and we can start a list."
"We don't have money," Steve reminds him, looking bleak and cold.
"Sam's working on it. Meanwhile, we have the basics. The rest we can work on. Sam gave me a small loan to get started, so get better and we'll hit up some secondhand shops."
Steve makes an irritated sound. "You don't have to do everything yourself. Or is that a control mechanism?"
Bucky feels a jolt of anger and then embarrassment. "Listen, I grew up with three younger sisters, a working mom, and a dad who died too young. Then, I joined the army, and it was my only fucking job to keep my guys alive, and I didn't do so well with that." He gestures angrily to his stump. "So, if I'm controlling and grabbing at all the reins, I can't help it. I'm sorry, Captain America." He finishes bitterly, and stands poised, as if he's about to flee in shame from admitting his weaknesses and flaws.
Steve looks away from him for a moment, his throat working. "Listen, Barnes, I only meant that I'm willing to help -- I want to help."
Bucky fights back a biting reply. "There's a lot we can do once you're better. Meanwhile, I'll try to stand down and just take care of myself. Deal?" He extends his hand to Steve.
Bucky's fingers are cold in Steve's warm ones. "Deal." He blushes fiercely when he realizes he's holding the clasp longer than he intends, but Steve doesn't release his fingers like they're burning his. It's comforting in a way that Bucky has forgotten.
He pulls away reluctantly. He wishes he could just crawl into Steve's lap and let the heat of his body seep into his blood. Bucky backs off, his fingers sliding away from Steve's hold. "Okay. Let's talk to Sam about getting a loan until our banking problems are resolved. He offered to help."
Steve stands up and stretches, which makes him cough. He holds up a hand. "I'm much better, really."
"Yeah, Typhoid Mary. Keep your germs to yourself," Bucky jokes.
Sam arranges a loan of enough cash to buy what they need, plus pay Clint for the month's utilities. "We should have your banking issues solved in a few days. As soon as we have your birth certificates and social security cards we can get drivers licences for you both."
"I can't drive," Bucky says quietly.
"You might at some point in the next five years," Sam says. "It's simpler to just get the DL rather than a State ID."
Bucky, who can't think that fare into the future, much less imagine driving in New York, just nods, not wanting to argue with Sam when he's been nothing but kind. "Okay," he agrees.
"Good. Meanwhile, I've expedited your documents. You should have them in a few days."
Steve frowns. "How did you do that?"
"Friends in high places," Sam says mysteriously. "Don't worry, it's all legal and proper."
Steve thanks Sam and Bucky nods, still highly skeptical that his issues could be so simply resolved. Sam must see his doubt because he laughs, "O ye of little faith."
Bucky thinks that's a fair assessment.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Meanwhile, he makes a list of household needs and heads out to the local thrift shops. He finds pots, pans and cooking utensils, a mismatched set of flatware, four mugs that manage not to be offensive, and a set of NFL drinking glasses. He buys four place settings of a worn set of dishes. It takes three trips to bring everything back to the apartment, but it's worth the effort. He'll save everything else for shopping with Steve.
It's nearly dark by the time he returns to the center. All the groups are finished and he can smell food heating in the kitchen. He hopes Sam is there, and he is, drinking tea at the table with Steve.
"There's more in the pot," he prompts and Bucky, who hasn't had tea in a long time, pours a mug and adds sugar. He drinks coffee black and unsweetened, but he recalls his mom giving him tea with sugar and milk when he was a kid. He's pretty sure it was more milk than tea, and maybe that's why he outgrew the taste. This tea has an aroma of fruit and vanilla and spice. He inhales it deeply, since in all his memories, tea had never smelled that enticing.
"How was shopping?" Steve asks.
Bucky tells him what he brought and digs the change out of his pocket. When he holds it out, Sam shakes his head. "No, man. Keep it. You and Steve are gonna want more clothes than the ones on your back, and besides, I need those for our stash."
Bucky looks at Steve. He's definitely better than he was earlier. His eyes are clear and the flush on his cheeks has faded to the warmth of the kitchen and the hot tea. "So, you ready to move in tomorrow?"
"I'm ready to move in tonight. No offense, Sam, but that cot is killing my back, and it can't be comfortable for Bucky, either."
Bucky hates the unspoken implication that his discomfort is due to his amputation. "It's a bed. I've slept rougher."
"The point is you shouldn't have to," Steve replies patiently. "Sam, thank you for everything, for saving both of us, but I'm ready to move on."
"You think I don't know that?" Sam laughs. "Brother, trust me, I don't begrudge you anything. All I ask is that you don't be strangers around here. We always need help, and we're here when you need help."
"We'll be back," Bucky swears solemnly, and he and Steve finish their tea. Gathering up their belongings takes less than an hour, then fortified by Sam's soup and bread, they take the subway to the apartment.
Bucky, ever grateful that the ride is short, pulls Steve up the stairs and out to the street. It's getting late, and the lights from Les Trois Demoiselles are glowing like hope. "That's the awesome coffee shop," he tells Steve. You want something?"
"Maybe after we settle in. Is that the apartment?" Steve is eyeing Clint's building with some trepidation.
"Don't let the outside put you off. C'mon. You'll be surprised." They cross the street and Bucky opens the door. "There's no elevator, but it's only three flights. Think you can make it?"
"If I can't, you'll have to drag me up the stairs." Steve sounds like that could be a real possibility, but they take it slow, resting on each landing. "Damn, I thought I was stronger than this," Steve wheezes when they reach their floor. "I'm a disgrace to the Berets."
"Cut yourself some slack, Rogers. You've been on the streets for awhile and you're recovering from near pneumonia. That would leave anybody feeling like a dishrag."
"Thanks, you're so kind," Steve says, a bit of sarcasm coloring his voice, which makes Bucky feel a little warm inside, because he knows Steve is teasing. He opens the door and Steve steps inside.
He drops his bag and stands there, his eyes wide. "You're kidding, right?"
"What?"
"We can't afford this. People pay a thousand dollars a month for a place like this."
"You think I don't know that? Clint says he wants veterans as tenants and he'd rather rent at a reasonable rate to us. Believe me, I called him on it, and that's what he said. So, until he decides otherwise, we might as well settle in. Plus, he … um … offered me a job as a site supervisor while the other units are being renovated."
"That's great, Bucky! Now if I could find something to help pay my way," his voice fades. I have no idea what I'll do … " He picks up his bag. "Which room is mine?"
"Either one. Sadly, they both have the same uninspiring view, and the same pitiful closet space."
"The one on the left?" Steve seems uncertain.
"Works for me." He hefts his duffel on his shoulder. "I'll just toss this and then we can get coffee, okay?"
"Do you live on caffeine?"
"Sort of," Bucky grins. "C'mon, you'll love this place."
Once inside the coffee shop, Steve looks around with wide eyes. "Wow."
"C'mon, I'll introduce you to Darcy. She's the pastry chef who made those cinnamon rolls."
Darcy grins and gives Bucky a high five. "Dude, you're back!"
"Yeah, and since we're neighbors now, you'll never get away from my ugly mug. So, I brought you somebody prettier to look at."
Darcy holds out her hand. "Nice to meet you."
"Steve." He takes her hand gently. "This is your place?"
Darcy shakes her head. "It's mostly Natasha's. Jane and I keep the place going as best we can. I bake and Jane is our barista extraordinaire." She calls back, "Jane! Meet our newest neighbors."
Jane is a petite brunette wearing geeky glasses that do nothing to disguise how pretty she is. "Hi," she says, blushing.
"Jane, James and Steve. They just moved into our building." Darcy elbows Jane in the ribs. "Aren't we lucky?"
Jane rolls her eyes. "Darcy. They're our neighbors. Don't scare them off." She smiles fondly at Darcy. "Maybe they'd like coffee and something to eat?"
"Right. Coffee, black for James and what can we pour for you, Steve? Coffee's on the house for veterans."
"Same as James, but with room for milk."
"Got it. We're out of cinnamon rolls but if you like something savory, we have cheddar, chive and bacon scones."
Bucky moans. "That's food porn, Darcy."
She laughs in delight. "Just what I had in mind." She heats up two scones and serves them with a small cup of soft butter.
Bucky takes a bite and makes an obscene sound. "I can't keep eating here. I'll be the size of a house."
Darcy pats his shoulder. "We have no-fat items, too, but I think you're about ten pounds short of worrying about that." She gives Steve a stern look. "And that goes for you, too." She winks and walks away, hips swaying seductively. Steve chokes on a crumb of scone.
"Your type?" Bucky asks, half in jest. He isn't sure why it matters to him one way or another.
Steve turns an interesting shade of red. "Not exactly. Yours?"
Bucky shakes his head. "No." He sifts the few crumbs left on his plate. "Listen, I'm gonna be up front with you because if you're living with me I don't want this to be an issue." He takes a breath, "I'm gay. If that's a problem maybe Clint has a one bedroom or studio for me."
"No!" Steve exclaims, then lowers his voice. "It's not a problem. It's fine, really."
"It's not like I'll be bringing guys home with me," Bucky says bitterly. "They're not exactly lining up to date a guy with one arm and PTSD, you know?"
"I'd line up."
"What?"
"I'd date you."
Bucky laughs, because Steve can't possibly mean what it sounds like. "Wow, thank you. That's so … so reassuring." He stands up. "I'm tired. Let's go home." He doesn't turn around to see Steve's look of utter confusion.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
To Bucky's surprise, he and Steve drift into their living arrangements with little or no difficulty, and Bucky admits that most of the difficulties are his fault. Steve is incredibly neat, Bucky is more lackadaisical in his approach to housekeeping. Steve is quiet, Bucky is loquacious, particularly when something gets him going. Steve's temper runs hot and cold; one minute he's up on his high horse about some sort of injustice, but he cools off quickly and returns to his calm center. Bucky is moody, with a tendency to brood for hours in a foul temperament. Somehow, Steve puts up with him.
They don't talk about the conversation in the coffeeshop, and Bucky is beyond grateful that Steve accepts his sexuality and doesn't make it a deal breaker like a lot of guys, particularly in the hyper-masculine Special Forces, would. Instead, Steve occasionally treats him like he was made of glass, carefully and with gentle concern. Bucky finds it a novel experience. He thought he'd be the one taking care of Steve, not the other way around.
Sam, with his magic way with government agencies, has their finances and ID issues cleared up within two weeks. Right about the time Clint's funding comes through to start work on more renovations. Bucky finds himself employed and receiving paychecks. Steve is still fretting over his own jobless state.
Bucky knows, not because Steve actually talks to him about it, but because he finds Steve awake at 6am a week before Christmas, with his checkbook and calculator on the kitchen counter and his hair in total disarray. "Couldn't sleep?" he asks.
Steve tried to hide what he's been doing by setting his arm across the checkbook. "No."
"The coffee shop opens in an hour. My treat."
Steve sighs. "Yeah, you're the one getting a paycheck."
Bucky suppresses the urge to slap him upside the head. "You were a Captain. You must have gotten hazardous duty bonuses along the way, and you've qualified for disability pay, so don't tell me you can't afford to coast a little. Pick something you enjoy and make it work for you."
"I can't sit around here all day," Steve argues. He's got that Captain America mulish expression on his face, his jaw set and his lips thinned, which Bucky thinks is a shame since his lips are utterly kissable when they're not tight with anger. That's really not here or there, right now.
"I'm gonna shower and then we'll go get coffee. You must need some sugar to sweeten your disposition this morning."
"God, you are such a jerk," Steve says, but without meanness.
"And you're still a punk at heart -- all six feet or whatever you are."
Steve laughs. "Okay, I get the point. Maybe you can help me figure out what I want to do."
"You have to decide that, but I've heard I make a good sounding board when I'm not sunk in a morass of depression and self-pity." He tries to be flippant, but the look in Steve's blue eyes is tinged with sadness. Bucky doesn't want sadness or pity dragging him down. "I'll be done in ten minutes."
True to his word, he emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam and dressed quickly -- as quickly as he can with one arm. He stamps his feet into his boots and grabs his jacket. "Hey, Rogers, you ready?"
Steve is looking at him with an expression Bucky knows too well. Sheer, utter panic. "I … I can't do this! What the fuck is wrong with me?" He starts hyperventilating, which spurs Bucky into action.
He takes Steve by the arm and leads him to the sofa. "It's okay, Stevie. Breathe with me. Here, put your hand on my chest. Feel me breathe? You do the same." Steve's hand is incredibly warm; he can feel the heat of his palm clear through the layers of t-shirt and sweater. Panic attacks should not be sexy, Bucky tells himself sternly, and concentrates on getting Steve to breathe in sync with him. After a few minutes, Steve's breath settles. "You need your inhaler?" Bucky asks.
"It's not asthma," Steve admits reluctantly. "I wish it was."
"You think having a panic attack is something to be ashamed of? Man, if you've never had one in public, you're lucky."
"How do you think I ended up on the street?" Steve's temper flares and Bucky flinches away. Steve is instantly contrite. "Geez, I'm sorry, Buck. So sorry." He reluctantly lets Bucky pull away from him. "It's my temper. My besetting sin, as my ma used to say. It's why I spent a lot of time black and blue when I was a kid. I never learned to back off. It might be a good quality in a soldier, but it sucks in a friend. Forgive me?"
Bucky sighs and sinks down on the couch next to Steve. "Not your fault. Have you talked to someone about it?"
Steve blushes. "You. Sam knows or guessed more than he lets on. I figured it's something I can lick myself. Guess I was wrong."
"Yeah," Bucky snorts. "I thought I could deal with losing an arm. Physically, it's a pain, but I didn't think about what it was doing to screw with my head. The therapists at the VA hospital helped. I should have given them more time."
"We're a pair," Steve laughs softly.
"Yeah." Bucky agrees, and wishes it were true. "Let's get coffee. We won't talk about the job thing if you don't want to do it, but damn, I need caffeine!"
That seems to decide Steve, and this time he makes it out the door and across the street with his lungs seizing up.
The cafe is packed with shoppers taking on the kick-off to the Christmas shopping season, and the unhappy business regulars who find their normally calm oasis overwhelmed. Darcy spins out of the kitchen with two trays of pastries to fill in the shelves. Her hair is curling around her flushed face and Jane is flitting around like a hummingbird on amphetamines. There is no sign of Natasha.
"What's going on?" Steve asks, looking around. "Didn't you hire extra help?"
Darcy blows her curls off her forehead. "The student we hired had to go home to Wyoming to be with his family and might not be coming back. Natasha is off to God knows where, and it's just me and Jane."
"You're looking for help?" Bucky chimes in. "Steve here is looking for a job."
Darcy's eyes light up. "Really?"
Steve gives Bucky a murderous look. "Yes."
"Great! Grab and apron and we'll take care of the paperwork later."
"I don't know anything about baking anything," Steve protests.
"You won't be baking, you'll be carting trays of pastries out from the kitchen, bringing sacks of flour and sugar from the storage room, mopping up spills, that sort of thing. If you can do that, it would be awesome! You can do that, right?" It's not really a question, more of a statement of encouragement.
Darcy grabs Jane on her way back to the coffee maker. "Jane, Steve says he can help us!"
Jane looks exhausted. "Please, don't kid me, Darcy."
"Seriously." She shoves an apron into Steve's hands. "Please, just until Natasha comes back?"
"Steve, it's not forever, but you were thinking about finding something soon, and here it is, right in front of you." Bucky bumps his elbow. "What can it hurt?"
"Plenty if I end up like a bull in a china shop."
"Fuck's sake! You were a Captain. You can handle pastry trays. I'm going home. See you later." And like that, he's out the door, leaving a gaping Steve Rogers in his wake.
He stops at the bodega and picks up pasta and red sauce, ground meat, an onion, and a small jar of dried basil. He prefers fresh, but he'd have to go out of his way to find a store around here that sells it off-season. In the spring, there will be farmers markets, or he might even ask Clint about a rooftop garden for herbs -- but that's getting way ahead of himself, which has never been a good idea for him. He buys a bottle of red wine and heads home.
There is a guy setting up a Christmas tree lot on the corner diagonal from Clint's building. Bucky can smell the scent of pine and resin as he walks past. He can't remember the last time he had a tree. There was the scraggly pine Denier had set up at the Ranger base camp in Afghanistan. They had cut up pieces of foil and used spent shell casings for ornaments and garlands. Two days later, the camp had come under fire, and some Taliban asshole had lobbed a grenade deliberately at the little tree. No more tree. They hadn't put up a replacement in their new camp. There had been a tree at Landstuhl but it wasn't his.
He wonders if Steve celebrates Christmas. He wonders if he would like a tree -- one of the small ones. They could probably find some cheap ornaments at the dollar store or Goodwill. Of course that's providing Steve will even speak to him after what he pulled in the coffee shop.
It's a day when there are no contractors on site, so he doesn't have to supervise anybody. He checks in on the progress in the vacant unit on their floor. It smells like plaster and paint, and looks good. He takes a few pictures to send to Clint.
Cooking with one arm is a bitch, he discovers, finally managing to cut the onion into small enough pieces to saute with the basil. He was going to make meatballs, then realizes that it will take him an hour to form them. Instead, he browns and ground meat, deglazes the pan with red wine and adds the spaghetti sauce. It's not perfect, but it's better than subsisting on fast food and bakery.
When Steve comes in the door, Bucky nearly laughs. Nearly. Steve's t-shirt, his hair, and his nose are dusted with flour and he looks like he's contemplating murder, but at the same time, he's got a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth.
"This is all your fault," he accuses. Then, unaccountably, he smiles. "Wow, something smells wonderful."
"So if I feed you, you won't kill me?"
"Me? Probably not. But Jane and Darcy might by the time Natasha comes back." He sits at the breakfast bar and watches as Bucky dishes up the spaghetti. He inhales happily. "You cook?"
"Only somebody who doesn't would call it that. I learned in self-defense. Had to feed my sisters while mom worked."
"You have sisters?"
"Yeah … we haven't been close for a while. We kind of scattered after mom and dad died." Steve looks so sad that Bucky feels guilty. "Don't look like that. They know about my arm. Didn't tell them I was homeless, but I've kept in touch with Becca, who tells the other sisters what she thinks they need to know." He doesn't want to talk about himself or his family. He plates his own dinner and sits across from Steve. "What about you, do you have family?"
"No. My dad died in Desert Storm when I was a baby. Mom died earlier this year. Cancer."
"Geez, I'm sorry, Stevie."
"It's not going to be much of a Christmas," he says glumly. "Sorry."
"Maybe not." Bucky eyes him. "But maybe we can … Never mind." He rinses his plate and puts his jacket on. "I'm going to run to the bodega. You want anything?"
"No, I'm going to the Veterans center to talk to Sam."
Bucky nods. "That's a good idea. See you later, Stevie. I'll take care of the dishes."
"C'mere. It's cold out there." When Bucky obediently steps closer, Steve buttons his coat snugly around his neck. "There." His hands rest lightly on Bucky's shoulders. Bucky, who hasn't been touched gently in a very long time, doesn't want to move. He can't stand there like an idiot. He steps back reluctantly.
"Thanks, but I'm not five, ya know."
Steve grins. "Good thing."
Bucky kind of gapes for a moment. Steve surely didn't mean it the way it sounded. Bucky ducks his head and tugs on his cap. "See ya, Stevie."
"Not if I see you first."
"Gallipoli, right?"
"Movie buff?"
"Hell, yeah. Maybe I'll stop by the library and see what they have, okay?"
"Not Gallipoli, though. Maybe Star Wars?"
"The original. If you say that Revenge of the Sith shit, I might have to kill you."
"The original all the way."
Bucky salutes, "Aye, aye, Cap."
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
By the end of two weeks, Bucky and Steve have discovered they share more than a love of movies. There is a symmetry to their lives that just works. Their schedules coincide, other than the times Steve takes an evening shift so Darcy and Jane can have time off. They enjoy movies and TV, but they also share a love of reading. Steve is an artist, Bucky toys off and on with writing.
They acquire things to make their apartment more of a home than merely a place they rent. It's good, and Bucky likes the feeling of coming home, but everywhere he goes, Bucky is reminded that it's almost Christmas. Steve seems to be avoiding talking about it. Bucky understands. He does, but he still thinks wallowing in the way Christmas had been is counter-productive. He can't decide what to do, and finally, the day before Christmas Eve, he finds himself stamping the snow off his boots in the foyer of the veterans center, because if anybody can help him solve this conundrum, it's Sam.
Sam greets him with a wide smile and a hug. "Hey, Barnes, it's been awhile. How are you doing?" He doesn't hide the quick, assessing look he gives Bucky. "Looking good, man."
"I'm doing good, Sam. Settling in the apartment. Getting used to working for Clint."
"He might have mentioned you a time or three. He says you're doing a great job."
Bucky can feel the heat on his cheeks. "I'm trying."
"You want some coffee?"
"Sure." He follows Sam back to the kitchen and seats himself at the table. "I'm not here about me," he says when Sam puts a mug in front of him and joins him at the table. "It's Steve."
"I just saw him yesterday. Has something happened?"
"No, not really. Listen, I know what you do is confidential, but has he talked to you about Christmas?"
"Christmas? As in plans?"
"No. As in 'I don't want to even think about it. So don't ask me.'"
"Umm, no. He hasn't."
"He says it's because of his mother dying last year."
"A lot of people feel like that after losing a loved one. It must be hard on you if you want to celebrate."
Bucky shakes his head. "I don't want to celebrate -- like going to church and exchanging gifts -- not if Steve isn't up to it, but --" He breaks off, shaking his head. "Never mind. It's kind of stupid." He starts to stand.
"Wait. Tell me."
"I just -- there's this corner lot by the apartment. It's usually vacant but some guy set up a Christmas tree lot. I … It's stupid of me. Never mind."
"You want a tree." Sam says softly.
Who can he admit it to, if not to Sam? "Yeah. Last year, I was in the hospital, laid so low that I couldn't even get out of bed, and there was this nurse. She was older, kind of everybody's mom on the ward. On Christmas Eve, she wheeled me out to the lobby where they set up a tree. Up until then, I wasn't so keen on living, much less celebrating." Bucky blinks, not wanting to give away too much, but encouraged by Sam's comprehending brown eyes. "Something about the tree reminded me that maybe I wasn't going to be stuck in that bed forever, even with missing an arm. It helped, until well -- until I was out on the streets. When people started putting out decorations, I just -- I guess I just want to have that feeling again. That life will get better; that I'll get better."
"You think it might bother Steve?"
Bucky shrugs and looks away. "Maybe. What do you think?"
"I think you deserve it for yourself. You ever hear of something called self-care?"
"You mean instructions on taking care of my body? I do that."
"It also means taking care of your emotional health which is as important as keeping your body in good shape. It means admitting it's okay to want things, to recognize you want to be warm, well-fed, maybe even a little self-indulgent once in awhile. It mean that if you need a Christmas tree, then get one."
"Steve --"
"Steve's a grown man. If he needs help dealing with it, he can come to me. It's not the Christmas tree that's the issue here, Bucky. It's having to accept his loss, mourn and try to move on. Nothing you do will make that any more difficult or easier for Steve. Go, get yourself a tree."
"Thanks, Sam." It's a weight off his shoulders. "Really."
"A seven-foot tall tree might be a little overboard," Sam suggests with a smile.
"Right." Bucky grins back. "Merry Christmas, Sam."
"You, too. You're welcome on Christmas if you and Steve want to hang out here. Phil cooks a mean Christmas dinner."
"I'll tell him." Bucky pulls on the bill of his cap and goes outside. It's starting to snow.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
He still stands for almost ten minutes looking at the Christmas tree lot before the snow beading on his eyelashes starts running down his cheeks. He takes a breath and crosses the street. The trees are pretty much picked over; only the small ones and the really tall ones are left, and the small ones are kind of scraggly and bent, while the big ones are too tall and too expensive. Bucky roams the lot, finally finding a tree that is barely 3 feet tall. It looks like it was lopped off a taller tree that was damaged, but its needles are pliant and it smells fresh. "How much for this one?" he asks the vendor.
"Twenty bucks."
"I have fifteen." When the vendor rolls his eyes, Bucky raises a brow. "You think you can get more for it? Man, it's two days before Christmas, it's snowing, and I don't see folks lined up to buy."
The vendor sighs. "Okay. You win, but only because it's late and freakin' cold. It's yours." He takes Bucky's money.
"Hold it for an hour?" Bucky asks. "If somebody makes a better offer, you can sell it and give me my money back."
"Thirty minutes." He might as well have said, 'Bah, humbug.'
Bucky goes to the Goodwill on the next block and buys a box of old, faded ornaments, a string of lights, and a rusty tree stand. The total is five dollars. He hurries back and the tree is still waiting for him. He asks the attendant to tie the branches so he can carry it more easily. He isn't above playing the wounded vet card to get the guy to do it, either. With the bag of ornaments on his shoulder and the tree, which is surprisingly heavy, in the crook of his arm, he starts back to the apartment.
It's a struggle, but he makes it to the front door without disaster. Then realizes he can't even buzz for Clint without setting the tree and the bag down. He curses softly, the reality of having only one arm a fresh aggravation.
"Bucky!"
He turns to see Jane hurrying across the street, followed by a giant of a man with long, golden hair and a wide smile. "Bucky," she starts breathlessly. "Hi!" She looks back at her companion, motioning him forward. "This is Thor." She's glowing, and Thor's magnificence seems to have blinded her to Bucky's plight.
"Hi," Bucky says and realizes he can't offer a hand. Thor steps up. "Jane has spoken of you." His English is slightly stilted, but his manners are exquisite. He holds out a hand the size of a dinner plate. "Allow me to assist you?"
Bucky's first instinct is to refuse, but he's not that proud or that rude. "Thanks, man." Gratefully, he lets Thor take the tree from his arm. Meanwhile, Jane has opened the door and they go upstairs. Thor is funny, gracious and helpful without being intrusive. They get the tree into the apartment and after Bucky sets up the stand, Thor places the tree in it while Jane slides underneath and secures the trunk. The tree comes up to Thor's elbow, but it's nicely shaped and the fragrance fills the apartment.
"Thanks," Bucky says. "I'd still be on the front steps if you hadn't come along."
"It is not a trouble," Thor shakes his hand heartily. He lays a massive arm around Jane's shoulders.
"Will you come up later? Darcy and I are having an open house."
"I don't know. It's been a long day."
"Think about it. You and Steve, okay?"
"Sure." Though Bucky wonders if Steve will even be speaking to him after he's seen the tree. "Thanks for the invite."
After they leave, he plugs in the lights, hoping they aren't the kind that won't work if one bulb is burned out. Miraculously, they all light, and for a moment, Bucky is bemused by the way they look strewn across his hand and knees -- like a swarm of brightly colored fireflies. He weaves them carefully through the boughs of the tree, then gently places the fragile ornaments on the branches. To some people, they might look like they've outlived their usefulness, but to Bucky, every little ding and scratch is a sign of having been used and cherished. The soft lights on the tree disguise the wear and tear on the delicate glass, and Bucky stands back, admiring his handiwork. Not bad for a one-armed, nearly destitute former sniper with PTSD. He thinks of what Sam said about self-care and understands what he meant now. The little tree calms and nurtures his damaged soul. He needs this.
He brews a mug of tea and sits in the dim apartment, wondering what Steve will do when he comes home. He doesn't have long to wait. The key turns in the lock and the door swings open, then closed.
"I thought we weren't going to do this," Steve says. He steps forward and Bucky gets up and stands between the tree and Steve. He doesn't think Steve will do anything, but Bucky can't help feeling protective.
"I didn't think it was a promise," Bucky sounds defensive, and maybe he is.
"I didn't want to be reminded of last year."
"It's just a tree with some worn out ornaments and second hand lights." Bucky huddles inside his hoodie. "I can move it into my room if it really bothers you that much."
"Why did you do it?"
Bucky sighs. He already stripped his emotional shell away for Sam. Twice in one day probably isn't the best for him, but he owes Steve more than an apology for being inconsiderate. "Do you want a beer? I want a beer." He heads to the kitchen to buy time and returns with two bottles of Dutch courage. He hands one to Steve, then takes a good swig and sits on the couch. Steve slumps down on the other end.
"Why does it matter to you?" Steve sounds more curious than angry, but then he's not that easy for Bucky to read.
"Last Christmas I was in Landstuhl hospital, too weak and sick to get out of bed. I thought I was gonna die. I'm not sure the docs didn't think the same thing. But on Christmas Eve, after the docs had gone home, one of the nurses wheeled my bed out to the lounge where the staff set up a Christmas tree. I thought maybe she did it because it might be my last Christmas. I didn't want it to be the last time I'd see those lights or smell the scent of pine. I don't know why, but for the first time in a long time, I wanted to live. So, I did, and here I am."
"Oh." Steve's eyes are suspiciously rimmed with tears. He blinks them away, takes a swallow beer. "You think I'm feeling sorry for myself?"
Bucky groans. "For fuck's sake, if it bothers you that much, I'll move it into my room."
"No! I don't want you to go through all that trouble for my sake."
After a moment of silence, Bucky ventures, "How about a compromise? When you're home, I won't turn on the lights. It will just kind of recede into the background. When I'm home alone I'll turn it on and enjoy it. Deal?"
Steve takes a drink of beer and considers, finally nodding. "Sure. Why not?"
Bucky reaches down and unplugs the lights. When he turns on the TV, you can't even tell the tree is there. Truth be told, he kind of misses the cheerful glow, but Steve lives here, too, and Bucky isn't so selfish that he can't respect his feelings. "How about a movie?"
"Sure, as long as it's not a Hallmark channel special."
Bucky snorts. "You know, Die Hard is considered by many to be a classic Christmas movie."
"I can deal with John McClain shooting up the Nakatomi tower," Steve laughs. "See, I do have the Christmas spirit."
"At least we can agree on that." He gives Steve a friendly punch in the biceps before he goes into the kitchen and brings out chips to go with their beers and it's all good between them once again.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Bucky is awakened on the morning of Christmas Eve by Steve knocking on his door. "Bucky! Clint's here. I've got to get to work."
Buck cracks open his eyes. It had been nearly 3am when he'd finally fallen asleep. He had tossed and turned until he went out into the living room, plugged in the tree, and brewed a cup of chamomile tea. The soft lights and the warm tea had finally eased his tension away so he could crawl into bed. Waking up at 6am hadn't been part of his plan. He sits up and scrubs a weary hand over his hair. "I'm up. Hold on, Clint."
He uses the bathroom, washes the sleep out of his eyes and runs a brush through his tangled bedhead. Yesterday's jeans are clean enough and he tugs a worn gray sweatshirt over his head. He'd cut the left sleeve to fit his stump so he doesn't have to pin it up.
He opens the door to Clint holding out a mug of steaming coffee. "What's up?"
"How are you at plumbing?"
Bucky looks askance at him. "Umm. If it requires two hands, not so good."
"Pipes in the unfinished units upstairs froze. I need somebody to hold a hair dryer or heat gun to thaw them before they burst."
"I can do that."
"Bring your coffee and follow me."
Six hours later, Bucky lets himself into the apartment. Every part of his body is screaming with pain from being contorted into impossible positions under sinks and in tiny access spaces. Even if he had two arms, he'd be feeling this one, that's for sure. But the pipes are clear, the water turned off in unoccupied units, and notices delivered to others in the building that they need to keep the water trickling from faucets on exterior walls. Bucky is grateful that their unit's pipes are all interior. He's also grateful that they have water, because he needs a shower, ibuprofen, and a nap.
He downs the ibuprofen first, then allows himself the luxury of a long, hot shower before he pulls on sleep pants and a t-shirt, and falls into bed. Exhaustion takes him to a sleep more sound than he has had in days. If he has dreams, he doesn't remember them. He wakes up slowly, opening his eyes to twilight. He can hear the murmur of the television, so he knows Steve is back. He moves cautiously, but aside from a few twinges in his shoulder, he doesn't feel as sore as he had expected.
Not bothering to put on real clothes, and careless about Steve seeing his amputation, he opens the bedroom door. To his surprise, the room is illuminated by the lights of the Christmas tree. The TV is tuned to a hockey game, and Steve is sound asleep on the couch. He smells like coffee and vanilla -- a combination of which Bucky heartily approves.
He gets a glass of water from the kitchen and sits in the recliner. He's slept in it more than once. He drinks his water and admires the Christmas lights. Once Steve wakes up he'll turn them off, but for now he feels at home and a bit nostalgic.
He hasn't been sitting there long when Steve moves, yawns and opens his eyes. "Hey," he mumbles, his voice sleep rough and his eyes a little dazed yet. He stretches his long body. "How long have you been sitting there?"
"Just a few minutes." Long enough to realize that he's interested, very interested, sexually. Sure, he'd never hidden his sexual orientation, but when you're off in a war zone, sex takes a back seat to staying alive. Steve, clearly, has no clue, and Bucky is determined to keep it that way.
He gets up and bends to unplug the tree, true to his promise. Steve stops him, "Wait. You don't have to do that."
"But --"
"Hey, I'm sorry I was such a shit about something that clearly means a lot to you. To tell the truth, I've been sitting here and thinking about my mom. She loved Christmas. I swear she was determined to hang on to see one more before she died. I think she's looking at me and telling me to stop being a big mope."
Bucky smiles. "I think I would have liked your mom."
"You saved my life. She'd love you. She was a nurse. That nurse you told me about? She could have been my mom. She'd have done something like that. I realized I wasn't being a particularly kind person, and that would have been a disappointment to her."
Bucky's throat is thick with emotion. "Steve … " He doesn't have words.
"You did a good thing, Buck. You made this place a home. You and that damn little tree." Steve touches one of the boughs and ornaments shimmer at the movement. "It's really nice."
"Thank you." All he can think of is how much he wants to hug Steve. Steve, of course, decides Bucky needs a hug. Bucky is not a small man, but Steve is so big and so comforting that he can't help but nestle a bit until he decides it's getting awkward. He steps back and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "Sorry," he rasps.
Steve just smiles. "Feel like celebrating? Darcy made eggnog -- emphasis on the nog."
"Sure."
Steve pauses. "No Christmas music, though."
"Not a problem. I'll be Home for Christmas depressed me beyond belief when I was overseas. I can live without that torture."
"Yeah, me, too." Steve returns with two mugs of eggnog. Darcy had spiked it with bourbon instead of rum, which was fine with Bucky. "God rest ye, merry." He toasts and they touch mugs together.
"And God bless us every one," Bucky says, and Steve laughs.
"No. Not A Christmas Carol. I've been a bit too much like Scrooge to be comfortable with that."
"A Christmas Story?" Bucky asks hopefully. "There's a marathon every year."
Steve grins. "'You'll shoot your eye out, Ralphie,' never gets old."
"I'll put a frozen pizza in for tonight, and Sam invited us over to the center for Christmas dinner."
"Sounds good."
They sit on the couch, munching on pizza, and watching the movie. Steve's arm rests along the back of the couch, and if Bucky lets himself inch closer, Steve doesn't notice, or doesn't object. Bucky doesn't even mind that his stump is against Steve's side, and Steve doesn't seem to mind that, either.
Eventually, Bucky's head is resting on Steve's chest, and Steve's arm is around his shoulders. He tilts his head up to say something to Steve, and finds Steve looking down at him. Bucky can't breathe. He wonders if Steve can feel his heart slamming against his ribs. Steve bends down another two inches and his lips brush Bucky's.
"Merry Christmas, Bucky." he whispers.
"Merry Christmas, Steve." As far as Bucky is concerned, it's the best Christmas ever.
The End