Archive of Our Own ^beta

1937 | Flatbush, Brooklyn, NYC

Mrs. Barnes opens the door and her face sours. Steve holds her gaze – her eyes are the same pale blue as her son’s – and refuses to squirm under her disapproval. He thinks for a moment though, privately and to himself, that she’ll refuse him this time. That this will finally be the time she’ll shut the door in his face and never let him in again.

Instead, because Mrs. Barnes is the kindest lady on the planet besides Steve’s own Ma, she moves out of the way with a slow sigh and says, in her thick accent, “He’s been asking for you all morning.”

Steve’s failure of a heart flutters a little at that. He won’t let his face brighten though, won’t let it show because Ma Barnes has enough to disapprove of without being treated to Steve’s near delirium that his best friend is asking after him. Besides, poor Buck’s beat to shit and hurting, and it’s all Steve’s fault. It’s sick and twisted to feel so joyous about Buck asking after him when the guy’s hurting.

Quickly, any happiness he might have had seeps out of Steve. He ducks his head and steps over the threshold to shuck his shoes, before hanging his raggedy jacket on a hook and shuffling down the hall to Bucky’s room. He’s got his own room, on account of being the only boy; all three of his sisters have to share, but Bucky’s got his own twin bed and he’s currently in it. His Pa perches on the edge of the mattress, dabbing a cool cloth on Buck's brow and over his swollen eye. When Steve steps on a loose board, George twists to look at him, staring Steve down long and hard.

“That hit would have killed you had it landed,” Mr. Barnes finally says, voice crisp, “I hope you know that.”

“I do, Pa,” Steve murmurs, and bows his head again. He scuffs the patched toe of his sock against the rug laid out on the hardwood of Bucky’s bedroom floor, and the shame comes creeping up into his cheeks.

He knows he must look a right mess with his cheek and lip split, left eye swollen shut, face battered. Maybe that’s why Ma and Pa Barnes take pity on him; or maybe it’s because he’s been coming ‘round their place since he could walk, and no matter how many scrapes he drags their son into, he’s still Bucky’s best friend. They’re practically his parents, Pa Barnes more like a father than Steve’s own one ever got to be, and Ma Barnes is his second mother when his own is on shift. Seems like more often than not that she is, these days; Steve supposes that’s his fault too, with him getting sick all the time and all. Hell, just last winter, Pa Barnes shelled out for Doctor Heath when the bronchitis got real bad and Ma didn't think he'd make it through the night but had not a nickel in her purse. Steve isn't supposed to know about that, but Bucky can't lie for shit.

Steve sniffs and scrubs his scabby knuckles across his face before the tears can become more than just stinging eyes. Pa Barnes sighs and pushes up off the bed. The movement jostles Bucky, who wakes with a flutter of his smoky lashes.

“Stevie?” He mumbles. Steve’s traitorous heart flutters again, and he scurries forward to take Pa Barnes’ place. But Steve doesn’t jostle Bucky when he sits; Steve’s too thin for that, and the mattress good and firm. This bed doesn’t sag like his and it doesn’t squeak like his; Steve’s as light as a feather on this thing.

Bucky shifts, making some more room. He bites back a grunt when the movement jars his ribs, and Steve winces at the sound. But still, he reaches out with tender fingers and takes Bucky’s hand in his, thumbing along battered and split knuckles.

“Hi,” Steve breathes, “How you feeling?”

Bucky waves his free hand carelessly, an effusive little gesture that has Steve huffing, even as Bucky says, “Oh, you know, beat to shit.”

“Language,” Pa Barnes scolds. He’s cleaning up, taking everything to the bathroom – Bucky’s family actually has their own bathroom – to dump the rose-tinged water and hang the cloth to dry.

Bucky’s lip splits back open when he raises his head off the pillow to grin at his father’s retreating figure. But it doesn’t bleed this time, at least not a lot. Bucky’s pink tongue darts out to wipe away the smear of crimson before Steve can get to it, then he lays his head back down on the pillow. There, Bucky gazes up at Steve from beneath half-shuttered lids, his eyes slightly glassy with pain relief but his irises still gleaming silver in the bright morning sunshine.

“What?” Steve asks. He’s used to Bucky’s observations, to having those lively, intelligent, eerily pale eyes fixed on him. He’s grown to love the weight they carry, and to being the centre of Bucky’s undivided attention. It makes his faulty heart race, and unmentionable parts of his body stir with excitement.

“’M just glad you’re okay,” Bucky murmurs.

Without meaning to, Steve lets out a hysterical little giggle. He claps his hand to his mouth, but the sound’s already out, sounding like he’s about three-quarters of his way into the looney bin. Which maybe isn’t far from the truth, considering the scrap he’d gotten himself – and Bucky – into yesterday evening.

“What?” It’s Bucky’s turn to ask now, the gentle smile falling from his features and his brow pinching. Steve aches to smooth it away. Then, after a cursory glance to make sure no one is watching, he does. He leans in and, with the hand not clutching Bucky’s, rubs at the crease in Bucky’s forehead.

“Shouldn’ta done that, jerk,” Steve whispers, having swallowed a few times to push down the lump in his throat, “Shoulda just let me take it.”

“You heard Pa,” Bucky hisses back, “Woulda killed you, punk. Then where would we be?”

Sometimes, in his darkest moments, Steve thinks that would be kinder. A swift kick to the head, or a punch to the jaw, smash his skull off a wall and then that’s it. He wouldn’t be a burden on his Ma anymore; he wouldn’t be a burden on the Barneses, on Bucky. But Steve’s a selfish son of a bitch and he can’t let Bucky go. It’s like Bucky is the sun – bright, and warm, and dependable – and Steve is a withered flower trying to reach for the rays of his life-giving light.

Instead of telling Bucky any of this, Steve shrugs his frail shoulders. That’s the wrong thing though, because Bucky makes an unhappy noise and pushes himself up onto his elbows. Except that strains his ribs, and he does cry out this time, before falling back to the mattress with a pale face and a fresh sheen of sweat on his brow. His breath whistles through his teeth, huffing in Steve’s face as he leans forward to try and soothe Bucky’s hurts.

“I’m fine,” Bucky finally grits out, “I’m okay.”

“You ain’t,” Steve insists, and then, “I’m sorry, Buck. This is my fault.”

“Yeah, well, couldn’ta let him hit you, Stevie. Mean too much to me.”

Steve’s fickle heart flutters again, and he has to swallow a couple more times. Shaking his head, he leans in and presses a quick kiss to Bucky’s brow before anyone might see, then straightens again. He can’t find the words to tell Bucky how he feels, so he tries to use his actions instead, curling up beside Bucky and using the (meagre) heat of his body to ease bruised and battered (probably broken) ribs. Slowly, Bucky relaxes beside him, his breathing easing.

“You mean too much to me, too, jerk,” Steve mutters. He rolls over slowly, until he can rest his head against Bucky’s shoulder. Their hands are still intertwined, fingers interlaced in the way the dames always try with Bucky, like their hands should be swaying between them as they walk. Bucky doesn’t seem to mind though, rubbing his thumb over Steve’s knuckles the same way Steve does over his.

It gives him a secret thrill, this intimacy with Bucky. They don’t mean nothing by it, of course; Steve’s many things but he ain’t stupid, and he definitely ain’t going to get Bucky in trouble over his own perversions. Bucky already gets into enough trouble because of Steve, he doesn’t need that hanging over his head too.

God, Steve thinks, what would it do to him? Buck’s moving on up in the world; he just graduated high school, and he’s going to take over the accounts from his Pa; hell, Buck’s been doing them for years, but now it’s official. He gets his own wages and everything instead of a little pocket money he inevitably blows on Steve. To be accused of something like that – of being a fairy – it’d ruin him, and the Barneses too. No, Steve’s gotta keep his trap shut.

Biting his lip at the thought and ignoring the sting of the split in the flesh, Steve buries his face in Bucky’s neck for a moment.

“Steve? Why you cryin’?”

Is he? Steve lifts his hand and scrubs roughly at his eyes, wiping away the tears.

“Sorry,” he croaks, “Just upset you’re hurt.”

“Aw, it ain’t that bad, pal. Coupla days and I’ll be fine. Pa don’t think they’re broken.”

“Still.”

Bucky sighs then, and for a moment that’s the only sound between them except for Steve’s sniffing. But then, Bucky softly asks, “Just be more careful, okay? I can’t lose you, Stevie.”

He doesn’t want to examine that admission, never mind what it does to his heart. Steve pretends to take it at face value, because it’s always been SteveandBucky – BuckyandSteve. Attached at the hip, Ma said; couldn’t peel ‘em apart with a spatula, Winnie Barnes laughed. Bucky just doesn’t want to lose his best friend.

“Okay,” Steve finally agrees.

“Good,” Bucky replies. He turns his head and presses a kiss to Steve’s hair, letting it linger for a moment before he settles back into his pillows.

“Say,” he murmurs, “You bring your sketchbook?”

“Don’t I always?” Steve grouses. Did he bring his sketchbook? What kind of question is that? Of course he brought his sketchbook. It goes with him damn near everywhere, much to the chagrin of his teachers and probably his Ma.

Steve rolls over again and grabs his beat up old satchel – the one Pa Barnes had repaired for him – and then pulls out his equally beat up and battered sketchbook. He’s saving up for a new one, and praying like mad that he won’t get sick, so he can use his pennies on quality paper instead of meds.

“Show me?” Bucky asks, like he hasn’t seen them all before. Steve cuddles up to his side again and opens the sketchbook, flipping it to the first page.

Bucky hums in delight like he always does, sleepy eyes sweeping over the sketch. It’s not Steve’s best, he’s been putting in a lot of practice on scraps and in the margins of his school ledgers since he first got this book. But he likes it well enough. And Bucky does too, though Bucky thinks the world of anything Steve draws. Steve can’t help but wonder what he’d think if he saw Steve’s other sketchbook, the one devoted solely to the human form (to Bucky’s human form); would he be flattered (the flirt), or repulsed? Steve just flips the page to clear away the thought. He doesn’t need to think about any of that right now, because right now, laying here with Bucky is enough.

---

2018 | Naval Yards, Brooklyn, NYC

“Hey, Stevie?”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“You got your sketchbook?”

“What kinda question is that?” Steve drawls. He’s glad his back is turned, because he can’t hide the smile on his face. Unbidden, his fingers flit over the pile of sketchbooks he’s amassed in the last six years. The number surprises even Steve sometimes, three of them at least are from his time on the run. That might come as a surprise, but as it turns out, there’s a lot of hurry-up-and-waiting involved in off-grid vigilante work. Who knew?

Steve skips his fingers along the spine of each book, over three, four, five of them; spiral bound, hard bound, even a ream of raggedy paper held together with a couple of elastics. They’re a lifeline, Steve thinks. In the hours, days, weeks, months, fuck the years after he first opened his eyes in that hospital room, these are what kept him sane. If he didn't have this space to pour out his grief and longing and rage, Steve thinks he would have put a bullet in his brain a long time ago.

They’re like Bucky’s notebooks, in a way; Steve's sketchbooks are his tethers to himself.

He brushes each spine of his sketchbooks again in contemplation, before Steve selects one and brings it back to the couch. Bucky shifts just enough, and then curls into Steve’s side and tucks his head into the crook of his shoulder. His hair tickles Steve’s chin as he leans in, loose and lax in a way he hasn’t been in a long time. After hooking an arm around Bucky’s shoulder, Steve opens his sketchbook at the beginning.

Together, they flip through the drawings, page after page. Bucky lingers on each one. It’s all there, of course, Steve’s pain, and his grief, his rage, his frustration. It’s all there, his loss and what he’d found and built in the aftermath. His friends, his new family, his love. Steve has an eidetic memory you see; he never forgets anything once he’s seen it.

The sight of Bucky’s prosthetic thumb brushing over a sketch of his own face is something Steve desperately wants to hold onto, so he puts it to memory and resolves to render it later. But he’s distracted from any more observation by the lingering peck Bucky presses to his jaw.

“Hey,” Steve murmurs, and ducks his chin so Bucky’s next kiss meets his mouth. They rest their foreheads together, nuzzling a little like they’re rabbits. Then, Steve peppers kisses to Bucky’s cheeks, his nose, his mouth, brushing away the tears that fall.

“Hey,” Steve repeats, “’m here, ‘m alright.”

“I know,” Bucky breathes, “I’m just so glad you’re okay.”

Metal fingers close over the cover of the sketchbook, flipping it closed before plucking it from Steve's hand and setting it on the coffee table. At the same time, Bucky's right hand splays over Steve's jaw, turning his head just so for another kiss. It's more heated this time, like Bucky's trying to tell him something without speaking; Steve hears it, feels it, tastes it on his tongue along with the salt of Bucky's tears. 

"Hey," he mumbles, "Hey, I'm here, Buck. Right here, with you. We're okay." He taps on Bucky's left bicep twice, then catches the hand when it comes up to clasp his own. It's a little difficult at this angle, but Steve intertwines their fingers together and lets Bucky trace the fractal pattern of scars left by the lightning that seared through his veins. We're okay, Steve thinks again, or at least getting there. As okay as they can be, when they've seen what they've seen and done what they've done, lived the lives they have. They have more healing to do, of course; but Steve doesn't need to think about any of that right now. Right now, as Bucky pushes him to lie flat on the couch and then crawls atop him like a big cat, Steve thinks that lying here with Bucky is enough.

"We're okay," Bucky agrees, "We're okay."