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i. Longing
The longing was always there. So corporeal and present he dare not give a name to the desire that curled in his chest and lay there like a sleeping dragon.
Steve’s golden hair like a halo reflected the late afternoon sun, when Bucky got off work and was bone tired, sunburnt and covered in sweat and grime to boot. But he’d stay outside with Steve so his pale skin could soak up the last bit of sun, hanging their feet off their creaking fire escape. Bucky longed to reach out, to touch him, but couldn’t bring himself to act on the feelings bubbling under his skin, hot and heavy like smoke.
Instead he just sat there, comforted by the few places they touched: the hair of their arms, Steve’s knobby knee, their bare feet brushing occasionally as they swung them.
Steve often drew, he had a thousand sketches of the Brooklynn skyline at sunset and the alley cats and Bucky. As it grew darker, the lines became thicker, a dark profile, a strong hard nose, eyes set deep into his face with thick full brows. It got colder, and they sat closer. Bucky would just stare at him, watch him work the whole while until Steve would say something to break the silence of their breathing and the mindless talk of their days and the longing that Bucky could almost taste in the air between them.
“You smell Barnes.”
Bucky would curl his arm around Steve’s small frame and say something stupid back, just cause he was jonesing to rile him up, to see the flush under Steve’s porcelain skin.
“Try working for a living punk.”
It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t funny which was exactly the humour they liked.
Steve would throw his head back laughing and punch him the arm.
“Jerk.”
The longing followed him to bed, to images at night he could barley stomach with Steve breathing softly right the next to him.
Pale hands and long fingers over his body, those full pink lips, parted slightly in sleep.
He’d tug himself off in the bathroom, couldn’t bear to do it anywhere near Steve, still the picture of innocence even with his cutting mouth and foul words, maybe even more to Bucky for exactly that reason. Holy like those saints they learned about in school when they were kicking each other under the table and trying to make each other crack up in mass.
And he’d always be that way, the light to Bucky’s dark, the feeling of just being alive when Bucky felt like he was falling apart.
ii. Rusted
Red rust crumbling under his fingers on the fire escape, making the handle to the door to their little shoebox apartment stick, on the dirty, rusted side of Brooklyn.
Rusted like that goddamn nail sticking up under the doormat, the one that stuck in Bucky’s shoe that he meant to fix.
That fucking thing that Steve scraped himself on when they could hardly afford to eat in that winter of ’36 let alone get a tetanus shot. Bucky swore he spent half that winter beside Steve’s bed wondering if the asthma or the cold or the fever or the tetanus would kill him right under his hands.
He prayed to God for the first time in years that winter.
They slept curled up together every night, Bucky sweating under all the blankets in the house wincing every single time he felt Steve shiver, awake all night long listening to the raspy breathing, pressing close to his bony spine.
Rusted like the implements they used on him in Zola’s lab, tied down on that metal slab, cold and hard under his naked body.
After they’d shoot him up with something that made him feel loopy and Steve would be there, that tiny punk, all ribs and blue eyes and he’d say that name that he liked so much. Buck, look at me Buck. And he’d be right there with him, floating above the table, above himself.
Steve would reach down into his hair, “Steve, Stevie,” and he’d pull, and pull and pull until Bucky realized he was trying to tear it out from the roots, tear his scalp right off.
Then they were back to the same shit, “Tell me where it hurts,” cutting him open everywhere they could think ’til his blood ran thick and clotted and dark over his body.
“Nowhere.” He’d say, and that was the God’s honest truth, nowhere and everywhere.
iii. Seventeen
It was the fourth of July and Steve just turned sixteen, a fact Bucky, at his far more mature, far superior seventeen year old state, would rib him constantly for.
They were watching some fireworks from the fire escape and sharing some of his ma’s Marlboros, as was tradition. Well, they weren’t really her Marlboros, Bucky had bought them last year as he’d grown out of the habit of lifting things from his parents, and they were stale as hell and tasted like garbage, but that was kind of the point. They were two street rats barley getting by, what did they deserve?
“Sixteen,” Bucky whistled. “how do you feel old man?”
Steve chuckled humourlessly, the same joke every year wasn’t funny, Bucky knew, but Steve still laughed, still rested his elbows up on the railing brushing Bucky’s own, and shifted closer.
“Here.” He offered the cigarette, his soft smoky breath tickling the tiny hairs on Bucky’s arm.
Their fingertips brushed each other, Bucky’s thick calloused digits slipped over Steve’s perfect artists’ hands, still smudged with charcoal from this afternoon and Bucky’s heart jumped in his chest despite himself.
He cleared his throat before taking a long drag.
“Keep it.” Steve said coughing when he offered it back again.
Bucky put it out and there and thew it over the edge instead, he’d been trying to quit, to save money and the smoke and Steve were making him feel a little lightheaded.
“I think the fireworks are ending.” Bucky pointed out at the skyline.
Steve was still and quieter than normal. Bucky could tell something was eating at him.
“What?” He murmured, turning to face him.
He was struck again by how beautiful he was, those big blue eyes, even that big, crooked beak. It was peeling a little, sunburnt from the other day. His eyebrows were all drawn together, concerned.
“I just keep thinking about how things are gonna change.”
“What do you mean?” Bucky said, grabbing Steve’s in his hands, turning his face to look at him. “You’re sixteen, nothing is gonna change, pal.”
Bucky dropped his hands, regretting the gesture, and Steve let out a little puff of air.
“Not now, but, it will.” He said, “You’ll go off and find a girl and get married and leave me all alone. Dames don’t even take a second look at me, and- you’re the only person I’ve got.” His voice broke a little at the end, and Steve turned away, his face illuminated, a smattering of blue, green and red from the distant show.
“Stevie,” He said, the nickname drawing Steve’s attention. “Nothing is gonna change.” Bucky said it with a certainty he didn’t know he had. “You know I don’t…” He chose the next words carefully, “I don’t want all that anyway.”
Steve was so surreal in that moment, the fireworks casting a gold glow over him.
“You know you can’t say that Buck.” Steve whispered, looking down at his feet now.
Their faces were inches apart, closer then when they were in bed together, and Steve rolled over in his sleep. He could feel Steve’s breath on his chest.
“Look at me.” Bucky said.
And he did, almost fell a little, staring right up at him, caught himself with two fists in the front of Bucky’s shirt.
Bucky swallowed, his heart beating out of his chest and opened his mouth to speak, to say the words that caught in his throat every time, that weighed down his consciousness, to give meaning to his hollow heart.
In the end, he didn’t have to. Steve saved him from that too, slotted their mouths together like it had happened a million times before, a little to rough, a little inexperienced, but perfect nonetheless.
Bucky tugged him in at the waist and Steve let out a surprised huff of air.
The sounds of the city: the traffic, the fireworks, the yowling alley cats, it all stopped for a moment that night.
It was as if all of Brooklyn was holding it’s breath.
iv. Daybreak
Bucky couldn’t sleep after his stay on Zola’s table, after he went to war and every single sound was the enemy creeping into camp and killing your friends.
He prowled around all night like a cat, and it was fitting, Steve always used to call him a tomcat, chasing after dames back home. Now here he was, outside their camp, at the dawn of a new world, a blood red Italian sunrise. He supposed it was picturesque, if he were talented at all like Steve, he’d draw it. No, paint it- this was a day that deserved colour, everything was grey here before, now, the sky itself was mourning his brothers, his soldiers.
The problem was, Bucky’s only talent was killing.
It was cold as hell, and he puled his jacket in tighter to himself and lit a cigarette. Behind him, where the wind whipped around his head, he heard the quiet sound of a tent flap.
He turned. Steve. Of course it was Steve, hair mussed from sleep, missing Bucky’s warm spot in bed.
“Beautiful.” Steve stood beside him and shoved a hand deep into his pocket, with the other he stole the smoke from Bucky’s mouth and took a drag.
They had so many mornings together, and there Bucky was, just about to cry ‘cause they could have one more.
He remembered the night after their first time, where it was too messy and too gentle with Bucky terrified he was gonna break him. Then the sun poured through that tiny window and Steve lay there in the soft morning light and Bucky knew; knew he wanted this for the rest of his life. If he could wake up next to Steve a million times it would be too few.
He remembered the morning he left for the 107th, pressing a final kiss to Steve’s lips sure as hell he was gonna die out there, wanting to make this one last because he’d never get another morning like that.
He remembered each morning he woke up killing himself thinking Steve would never feel the same way, pressed up together in that single bed, the way Steve’s breath felt hot on his face or the back of his neck.
He couldn’t help it, didn’t care that someone might see, Mortia who slept just as little as he did, or Dougal always waking with the light, he leant over right there and kissed Steve square on the mouth, morning breath and all.
He chuckled a little, giddy off Steve’s kiss, thinking about how odd it was that Steve was taller than him now, had to bend down to reach him.
“What?” Steve asked when he pulled away, a smile curling up his lips.
Bucky was still bleeding from Zola and itching everywhere else where his skin turned pink, sewing itself back together. It was funny ‘cause that’s how he felt back with Steve, like he was mending.
The hair on the back of his head grew back in two days on the table.
“Nothing.” Bucky said, nothing and everything.
v. Furnace
Steve had just pulled him out of that shit hole, and God help him, he wanted back in.
Because Steve was there, and he was different, but he still couldn’t look the other way when someone was doing wrong. Sure he was bigger, but he was pulling the same old stunts, too pure for his own good, wanting to prove the world wrong. Bucky would follow Steve anywhere he took him, through hell and back not because he believed in the cause, or wanted to fight for his country, but because Steve asked him.
How the hell was he supposed to leave when Steve was running around a war zone in spandex? And sure, Steve didn’t really need protecting anymore, but old habit’s die hard, and he’d sooner eat his own gun than see anything happen to him.
They’d been hiking through the mud and shit for days on the way back from another hydra base, nearly delirious from lack of food. By the time they got back to the army’s little corner of Italy, they were so famished and exhausted Bucky didn’t even know what to do first.
While they were out playing superhero, the 107th and the rest of the army had been on the front lines, fighting and dying for them. The furnace had been running all day, burning bodies.
Bucky had never hated himself more.
There was Steve stoic and remorseful at his side, and Bucky? The smell made him hungry.
vi. Nine
Bucky was nine when he met Steve Rogers for the first time.
He remembers because Johnny Langstrap pushed him off the swing. Bucky ran to help him, the tiny little kid on his block, but Steve was already up, blood and dirt stuck in both his knees, his little fists already flying.
Johnny was two years older, he didn’t even have to work to have Steve down on the ground again, two seconds flat.
Johnny may have been older but Bucky was bigger and stronger. At nine he was already helping his dad with his moving business on the weekends to get money for penny candies, lifting heavy boxes onto the truck.
“Hey!” Bucky yelled, and when Johnny turned, he socked him one right in the nose.
It turned out it was broken and Steve and Bucky spent the next week in detention, nearly inseparable ever since. Hell, Bucky was still bailing him out of fights.
“Thick as thieves.” Sarah Rogers used to say, “Since the moment you met.” And she was right, God rest her, they were thieves. Stealing, living on borrowed time. Steve died nearly every winter, and then, with the serum, he stole more time. Bucky was happy for it too, happy to steal as much as he could, there’d be no place for him in this world if Steve was gone anyhow.
When he got the draft, he hid the letter, behind Sarah’s old rosary, the one Steve framed. Bucky couldn’t bear to tell him, didn’t know how, not when Steve wanted it so bad, not when he was sure there was no coming back for him.
At nine, Bucky didn’t know jack shit, he was some scrappy kid from Brooklyn running after that stupid asshole wherever he took him. And really, had anything changed at all?
vii. Benign
The doctor said it was a benign tumour.
Bucky didn’t have a fucking clue what that meant, almost broke down sobbing right there, thinking about the horrible slow death, losing Steve piece by piece. His uncle went from cancer and it was the ugliest death he’d ever seen. Steve, God help him, looked almost happy.
“What do we do?” He said, and he heard his voice break, outside of himself, like someone else had said it.
“Buck.” Steve said, “Bucky,” and he was laughing, goddamn wheezing until he started coughing, all red in the face like he needed his inhaler.
Bucky was sitting there in his cold sweat, looking at the fucking nut job in front of him, he’s finally lost it, Bucky thought and looked to the doctor.
“Mr Barnes,” he said calmly like patients break into fits of laughter in his office all the time, “it’s good news. Benign means that it’s not cancerous.”
Bucky let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and Steve took a break in his laughter to actually take a hit of his inhaler.
“I’ll give you a moment to process while I draw up the bill.” The doctor said, and closed the door behind him.
“You fucking-“ Bucky honestly didn’t know what to say, “You asshole! I actually thought I was gonna loose you. Can you not look so fucking thrilled.”
“Buck,” Steve was dropping down from his high, taking deep breaths to stop himself from laughing again. “Relax, it’s good news. I’m not going anywhere.”
He took Bucky’s hand in his own, running his thumb along his knuckles.
“Jesus.” Bucky ran the hand not in Steve’s over his face. “I need a drink. Or three.”
Steve chuckled again, although more quietly this time. Their eyes met and a few seconds, possibly a lifetime or two, passed between them.
“I’m ok Buck.” Steve smiled, soft at the edges.
Bucky brought that slim hand up to his lips, kissed the warm skin there and breathed in the scent of charcoal and soap and Steve.
He closed his eyes and sent another prayer to God, one for Steve, and one that they could actually pay the bill.
viii. Homecoming
Coming home always seemed like such an abstract concept to him. He knew the minute he got the enlistment form he wasn’t coming back home, to Brooklyn. To Steve.
He was sweaty and nervous spelling out his next of kin to the secretary, thinking about the letter Steve was bound to get. Dear Sir, I regret to inform you…
“Yes that’s Steven with a ‘V.’” Bucky said.
“What’s the relation?” She asked, without looking up from her typewriter.
“I’m sorry?” He asked.
“The relation, brother, father, uncle?” Bucky noticed now her red lipstick was smudged at the corner.
“None.” He said, voice wavering a little, there was a line now of about ten soldiers, all fresh faced newbies, some looked no older than seventeen.
She looked up now, fixed her glasses higher on her face.
“You’ve got no family at all Barnes?”
“He’s my family.” Bucky said after a second.
He thought she likely waved him through because she had more work to do, was jonesing for her smoke break or something, but by God’s good graces she didn’t care.
When he was on the front, the whole time guys were talking of their sweethearts back home, about how they can’t wait to see them or their kids again.
Bucky seemed like the only one who knew this was real, this was it. They weren’t getting a homecoming.
But when he first saw Steve above that operating table, when he realized it wasn’t a fucked up dream it was real and he was here he realized something else.
His homecoming wasn’t in Brooklyn, he didn’t give a damn about the city other than for nostalgic sake, his home was Steve, the only home he’d ever known. The only place big enough for that sad shmuck’s rootless heart. He could’ve broke down and cried like a baby because there was his home, his whole world right in front of him, didn’t matter that he’d got a little bit bigger, a little squarer jaw. It was Steve, and goddamnit, Bucky felt alive for the first time in a long while.
ix. One
It was a stupid game they made up, years ago.
Steve always won because he always had the best memory, could recite facts nearly word for word from books he read years ago. His ma tried to get him to go to a special school for it but Steve was young an naive and wouldn’t go unless Bucky could go with him.
The rules were easy, you get a point every time the other person surprised you. If they did surprise you, all you had to do was say “one” and Steve would pull out his notebook and make a tally.
The game got less intense over the years, when they began to know the other person like the back of their hand, but every once in a while it’d still happen. It became more or less just an inside joke, they stopped keeping tally probably by the time they turned twelve, but it was so engrained in them at that point, they still said it on occasion, if only be default.
It was just after Bucky’s nineteenth birthday and they were laying in bed, silent save the neighbours milling about their apartment and the distant sounds of Brooklyn. Steve’s head was resting lightly on Bucky’s chest, rising and falling with his breath.
“Hey Steve?” He whispered, soft, as if he thought he was asleep.
“Hm?”
“I love you.” It was a rush of air like an exhale and Bucky opened his mouth like he wished could swallow the words back up again.
Steve craned his neck around to look at him, his skin blue in the evening light.
“One.” He said.
“What?”
Steve grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him, and when they parted, the air between them was hot and electric.
“I love you.” Steve said. “Buck, I love you too.”
x. Freight Car
This one is simple: a familiar hand reaching out for him, a familiar voice calling to him, things Steve had done a hundred, thousand times before.
Steve reached out to dance in their living room, the crappy stereo down low so the neighbours wouldn’t complain. He took his hand, during that first firefight, when he couldn’t see a goddamn thing, coughing through the smoke screaming Bucky’s name, terrified he was bleeding out somewhere. Steve reached out for him that first winter when he thought he was gonna kick it for real, when Bucky didn’t show up to work for a week, sure if he left Steve would be gone.
Bucky. Steve came up with the name, that first year they met, high off of life and the fact Bucky could afford to buy them chocolate malt at the local diner.
This one is simple: Bucky fell.