Chapter Text
August
Bucky shocks awake, eyes wide with panic as they search for any hint of familiarity. It’s still too dark to make out much of anything, but his senses hit him in a single, overpowering wave. The smell of cinnamon and soap, the pale greens and creams of the room illuminated by strips of cool streetlight, the quiet huffs of breath from the warmth at his side. Cold sweat drips along his knobbed spine, soaks into the blankets Steve wrapped him in, in an attempt to keep him warm.
“Bucky?” Steve slurs, reaching behind himself with a numb, blind hand for Bucky’s silhouetted form. “Y’okay?”
“Sorry, sorry,” Bucky breathes, sniffling and wiping his knuckles at the hot tears streaking down his cheeks. “Fuck, sorry.”
“Hey, hey, ‘s’okay,” Steve mumbles, finding Bucky’s hand and locking them together. “I gotcha, ‘s’all good.”
Bucky tucks close to Steve, trying to slow his breathing so Steve doesn’t feel the heaving press of his ribs. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes again.
Steve turns onto his other side, so he and Bucky are facing each other. He presses a clumsy kiss to Bucky’s nose and grins, eyes still shut. “‘S’all good, dude. Y’good?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay,” Bucky mumbles, allowing himself to be tugged closer, right up against Steve’s front. He inhales deeply, until the ghost sensation of Brock’s cologne melts away, the stinging handprints on his skin, echoes or hallucinations, probably both. “Sorry,” he adds, one last time, for good measure.
“Of course, sweetheart,” Steve yawns, already half-asleep again.
Bucky stumbles in and out of rest, but at least he doesn’t dream any more.
By the time he truly wakes again, it’s bright. He has a relatively early shift, but he isn’t worried, Steve would never let him sleep in. The whole apartment smells sweet. Bucky knows what they’re having for breakfast, Steve had him pick it out last night. Strawberry oatmeal, with bananas and nutella. His stomach roils a bit, either desperate for food or desperate to remain empty, Bucky isn’t sure, but not eating isn’t really a choice anymore.
He pushes himself reluctantly from the bed– thankfully, the August heat staves off the worst of his usual morning chill– and stumbles into the kitchen. Steve, bathed in sunlight, sits at the table with a cup of something steaming in his hand and a bowl at his elbow. His sketchbook is sprawled in front of him.
“Good morning,” Bucky greets, voice scratchy and dry.
Steve immediately goes to pour him a glass of apple juice. “Good morning,” he smiles, handing Bucky the glass as he pecks his cheek. “You feeling alright?”
“A bit achy,” he shrugs. “My stomach’s… well, it’s still to be decided whether or not my body’s gonna cooperate today, but I feel okay right now.”
Steve serves him a bowl of oatmeal– it still feels a bit wrong to be served– and Bucky tucks in so he can be done quickly and get to work. It’s incredibly sweet, but he manages nonetheless, swallowing bite after bite until the bowl is clean enough to declare victory. He marks down the calories in his log before hurrying back to the bedroom to dress. He ties back his hair at the nape of his neck and slips on his usual t-shirt and baggy jeans. He doesn’t bother looking at himself in the mirror that hangs in the corner of the room. He’ll end up scrutinizing every bit of himself, the width of his thighs and his jawline and his hair, and it’ll just make him sick.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Steve asks once more as Bucky re-emerges.
“Yup, totally chill,” Bucky nods.
Steve stands from the table, intercepts Bucky as he rushes to grab his shoes. He still has an hour until his shift starts, there’s no reason for the frantic hurry. “Hey,” Steve says gently, soothing, placing a hand on both of Bucky’s shoulders. “Look at me,” he says, and of course Bucky does. “Deep breath,” he instructs.
Silly as he may feel, Bucky takes a deep breath, then two more, as Steve directs him. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, for nothing in particular.
“Hey, hey, no sorries,” Steve corrects softly. “I want to make sure you’re actually alright before you head out. Do you want to talk about anything?”
“No, I just–” Bucky sighs frustratedly. “I feel weird. Like… there’s too much tension in my body. But I’m okay, really, working and walking and listening to music will, like… help. Make me feel normal.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Steve’s eyes rake over Bucky’s features carefully, searching for any twitch, any furrow that might betray something more.
Bucky leans forward and connects their lips, pulls back with a soft smacking sound. “I’m fine, Stevie. I can handle myself, right?”
“Course you can,” Steve grins, kissing him again, and then one more time because there’s no reason not to. “You think you can come up with something for dinner tonight?”
Bucky swallows the burgeoning bubble of anxiety and nods. “I’ll text you whenever I decide.”
Work isn’t unpleasant, Bucky’s bar for unpleasant is rather high nowadays, it takes more than a few pretentious customers and a mistake or two with the pressurized whipped cream canister to really register on Bucky’s scale of “bad things that can happen to me.” But it isn’t pleasant either. He feels simultaneously lethargic and over-energized all day, he can’t get his mind to focus on a single thing no matter how hard he tries, and his stomach refuses to settle, even with a cup of ginger tea and a plain croissant.
“How are you doing, Buck?” Wanda asks, emerging from the kitchen with her hands fisted on her hips and either flour or fine sugar powdering her tanned skin.
Bucky stiffens, casting a quick glance around his workspace. It’s clean, well-organized, he can’t find a thing she may want to reprimand him about. He hasn’t missed a day, hasn’t come late or left early a single time since he returned after leaving Brock. Has she noticed how slow he is? How weak? How sometimes he can’t even lift the full coffee cups to hand them over the counter? “Good,” he nods once.
“Have you taken a break?”
“Nah, but I ate a bit when it was empty.”
“Go sit down,” she instructs. “I’ve got some ideas to bounce off of you, and you might as well get some rest before the afternoon rush.”
Bucky gratefully accepts, though he tries his best to mask the relief that floods through his muscles when he finally has a chance to sit after hours of standing on sore legs. He likes a lot of her ideas– an apple-pie filled donut, glazed with sugary maple icing, pumpkin-filled cinnamon rolls, browned butter chai cupcakes. He only vetoes a bacon-maple-ginger coffee monstrosity that makes his stomach cramp.
By the time he returns to his work, he’s absolutely starving. Talking at such length about sugary, buttery pastries, thick, flavored coffee syrups… it makes Bucky salivate an uncomfortable amount. Try as he might, he can’t will the phantom taste of maple and browned butter from his mouth. No amount of lukewarm water bottles makes it go away.
By the time he gets home, he’s practically vibrating with anxiety. His thoughts were focused upon food all day but he hasn’t given so much as a passing thought to what he wants for dinner. Steve will be home within the hour, which simultaneously relieves and terrifies him. Steve means comfort but he likewise means accountability. No more hiding, no more procrastinating. He changes quickly, before burrowing deep into the couch. Maybe if he covers himself with enough blankets, Steve won’t be able to see him.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Steve calls out into the apartment. Bucky hears the twin thumps of his shoes getting kicked off, then the soft slump of his bag on the table.
“Hi,” Bucky mumbles from the couch.
“Are you feeling alright?” Steve asks, a tinge of concern in his tone. Bucky can hear his voice coming closer.
“Yeah, yeah, I… all good, I’m all good.”
“I’m not buying that,” Steve teases lightly, rounding the couch and tapping Bucky’s nose before sitting at his side. He easily maneuvers Bucky’s legs over his own. “What’s going on? I’m not a mind reader, but I can tell when you’re hiding something from me.”
Bucky blinks a couple times. He wants to talk about his nightmares– he may as well talk about them with Steve because god knows he won’t ever be honest with Raynor– but it seems like too much right now. Too much honesty, too much vulnerability, when he’s feeling so high-strung already. Steve probably has some idea, but it would break his heart if he knew the whole of it. “I’m okay, really, just tired.”
“Darling…”
“I’m being honest with you.”
“Do you want to talk about last night?” he pushes. Bucky hates when Steve does that sometimes– urges him from his dark, cozy comforts. Makes him take another bite, won’t let him skip a meal, coaxes him to honesty. He hates it, but he trusts Steve. Trusts him not to push too far.
“No,” Bucky admits. It’s still odd to say no.
“Okay. You don’t have to, I’m proud of you for telling me no. But can I ask… is your nightmare what’s bugging you? Or is it something else?”
“I mean, it’s partially that… but also…” He trails off self-consciously. Steve nods, to encourage him to continue. “Food stuff, too. I… I hate feeling hungry, and recently I’ve just been… god, I just want to eat until I pass out. Like, all I want to do is just… eat and eat and eat and then take a nap. Today, Wanda and I were talking about the seasonal items for the fall and I could’ve just died. I swear, all I wanted was to eat, like, a dozen sticks of butter. I’m going insane, dude.”
“Your body has been deprived of proper nourishment for… for a really long time. Honestly, I’d be more surprised if you didn’t feel like you do.”
“I feel… it all feels so out of control,” he admits. “This used to be the one thing I could control, it used to be… comforting. And now I just feel…”
Steve nods sympathetically.
“I don’t… this is so painful, Stevie. No matter what I do, it’s gonna hurt so bad. If I gain, if I… I can’t even keep losing, so I have to gain, I… I don’t know what to do, I don’t… fuck, I’m such a mess, I’m so sorry, I feel like…”
“Hey, hey, I’ve got you,” Steve murmurs, shifting awkwardly to half-embrace Bucky, holding him slightly off of his lap so he can still lean against the armrest. “Oh, you’re shaking,” he sighs gently, more to himself than to Bucky. “You never have to apologize.”
“No, I do,” he sobs openly now, trying to bury his head in his hands, only he can’t quite get his left hand to do what he wants. “I’m so much, all the time, I just… I bring all this crazy shit with me, and I make everything so difficult, and you– god, if I wasn’t here, you’d probably be living this great life, without having to always worry about me and tiptoe around me and– and, fuck, you’re gonna end up resenting me, I know you will.”
“Never,” Steve says solemnly.
“You will, though. I’m gonna make you hate me, and I’ll be alone again,” he cries, hand fisted painfully tight in his own shirt. “I can’t– please, Stevie–”
“I’ve got you,” Steve repeats. “I’ve got you, I’m not going anywhere. Let it out, it’s alright, sweetheart. It’s alright, Buck, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
Bucky cries until he exhausts himself, eyes so swollen he can barely see Steve by the time they dry up. Every few breaths, his shoulders tremble with residual little sobs. “I don’t know what that was about,” he finally laughs, hiccuping a bit. “It just hit me, I’m sorry, Stevie, it was like… god, I’ve been on the verge of that all day and I… thought I could fight it off or whatever, but I guess not.”
“You can only force it down for so long,” Steve hums. “I’m glad you got it out.”
“Yeah,” he sniffles.
“You know… you know I’m not… I know what you’ve been through, love. I’m not under any delusion that recovery is easy, I don’t… I just mean to say, I know what I’m doing, I know what being with you means. Just like you know what you’re signing on for with dating me.”
“What I’m signing on for?” Bucky snorts sarcastically. “You mean a smoking hot boyfriend with a trillion dollars or whatever? Yeah, that’s not really the same.”
Steve chuckles a bit. “C’mon, you know what I mean. Really, Buck. I was there when you were with him. I saw… I understand, as much as any outsider can. Nobody’s forcing me to be with you. I’m here of my own free will, sweetheart,” he laughs, and Bucky laughs too, and the heaviness in the air dissipates. “I understand the kind of support you need. I understand how difficult recovery is. And I promise you right now, I’m not going anywhere. Until the day you tell me to get lost, you’re stuck with me, alright?”
Bucky nods, sniffles quietly. Steve interlocks their pinky fingers, before leaning across the small space between them to kiss his cheek. “Thanks,” Bucky whispers hoarsely.
“It’s nothing, Bucky, you don’t have to thank–”
“No, but I do,” he insists, smiling tiredly. “It’s not nothing, it’s everything to me. Do you know… how many times I silently cried myself to sleep, or cried in the shower, or… god, I would’ve given anything to feel loved. I would’ve killed to feel this kind of reassurance. It’s… I’ve handled everything by myself for so long. And I’m not… not used to this sort of kindness, still…” He goes quiet, blinking slowly. Confused. “But it’s not nothing, really,” he finishes, when he can’t figure out where he was going.
Steve smiles softly and kisses his cheek again. “You’re right, I won’t say that anymore.” They sit quietly for ten minutes, maybe fifteen, before Steve speaks again. “Any ideas for dinner?”
“I dunno.”
“I could order in some pizza,” he offers.
“No,” Bucky shakes his head vehemently. It startles Steve a bit, but he just nods.
“Indian?” he suggests, and Bucky thinks for a moment before nodding.
Steve orders a few dishes to share– aloo gobhi, chicken samosas, chicken biryani. Anything to fill up Bucky’s stomach. Bucky eats until he practically makes himself sick. He feels horribly embarrassed, with Steve right there, privy to his uncontrollable gluttony, but he’s more focused on his unabating hunger. He’s nauseous by the time he manages to stop eating.
Bucky buys a new laptop. Sleek and silver and so much better than the one Brock destroyed last December. He pays for it with his own brand-new debit card, despite Steve practically begging to buy it for him. It isn’t a cheap computer, not at all, but Bucky has the money. More importantly, he wants to buy it himself. He wants it to be undeniably and completely his.
He sets it up, not without some struggle, but he manages even without Steve’s help. It’s exciting, to have unimpeded access to the internet again. His cell doesn’t have a browser, and even though Steve lets him borrow his computer, he hasn’t been able to go online by himself since Brock shattered his phone in March.
The first thing he does is Google Brock’s name. He probably shouldn’t, not without Steve here to catch him if he begins to spiral, but he can’t stop himself. He finds the article Natasha showed him, plus a couple more, some updated with his mugshot. He looks just like he did the last time Bucky saw him. Sharp, dark-eyed, square-jawed. Angry. There aren’t any more details about the trial.
Next, he makes an email account. It’s thrilling, in a pathetic way. He has one assigned by his college, but this is his own, with a password only he gets to know. Next, he makes an Instagram. He never had any interest in it when he was in high school, but somehow he finds a rebellious kind of pleasure in it. Brock never allowed him any kind of social media. Posting pictures of yourself online is something whores do. Are you a whore, James? Do you want other people to see you? Have access to what’s mine?
j.b.barnes, that’s the username he chooses. Does Steve have an Instagram? It feels invasive, somehow, when he types Steve’s name into the search bar, though he knows logically that it isn’t invasive to look at someone’s public account.
He finds it after just a minute of tapping through the profiles that appear. rogers070420. He only has a handful of photos, a couple of him and his mother, a bag full of produce at a farmers’ market, a coffee, a rainy window, a stack of books. He hasn’t posted in months, though. He follows the account.
He doesn’t know many people, he realizes, as he thinks of who to follow next. He finds his sister’s account, b3cca_barn3s. She has a couple photos of her with friends, a selection of her at prom… she looks so happy. Bucky follows her, too, before shutting the tab. He doesn’t have anything to post, no real friends… not yet, but maybe someday.
When Steve walks through the door that evening with a paper bag of groceries, Bucky is watching a jungle documentary on his computer, perched on a kitchen chair with his knees to his chest.
“We have Youtube on the TV, you know,” Steve chuckles, placing the bag down and stooping over to smooch the top of Bucky’s head. He starts pulling glass jars of pineapple salsa and plastic packages of flour tortillas from the bag when his eyes go big. “Wait, shit, Buck, you got a computer.”
“I did,” Bucky grins anxiously. This is good, it’s good, he isn’t going to get in trouble.
“Oh, hun, I’m so proud of you.”
“It’s no big deal,” Bucky shrugs.
“No, it is, I know it is for you. You saved up your money, you worked for it, you earned it. This is a big deal.”
Bucky’s smile gets a bit bigger, a bit truer. “I guess so.”
“You wanna help with dinner or would you rather watch your…” Steve studies the show for a bit. “Frog documentary?”
“It’s actually about rainforests,” Bucky begins to explain as he unfolds his legs and stands from the chair. He helps Steve with dinner– barely, he portions out some cheddar cheese on the tortillas and flips them once, but Steve’s really the mastermind behind the quesadillas– while he rambles about tree canopies and poison and sloths.
Steve just watches him as he talks. Watches him so much, in fact, that he spills the salsa, pours soda onto the counter twice, and almost burns the quesadillas. Through it all, it’s like he can’t bear to focus his glittering blue eyes anywhere but Bucky.
“I was thinking maybe I want to find a documentary about the tundra,” Bucky muses as he sets the table. “There are so many more on Youtube, and I just find it so interesting. I don’t even know what lives in the tundra, like caribou, I guess? I don’t really–”
Steve cuts him off with a kiss, a deep kiss, the kind where they both inhale into it and Steve’s hands cup his face and neither moves until they absolutely have to. “Sorry, keep going,” Steve breathes, face pink.
“What was that for?”
“I really love you, dude,” Steve laughs softly. “I mean, I feel it all the time, but like… sometimes it just kinda… hits me in a wave and knocks me over. Like, fuck, you know?”
“I was just…” Being annoying. Loud. Obtrusive. “Talking,” he giggles, unsure.
“Yeah, and you’re, like… precious. I just… like, I love hearing your voice, and seeing you excited, and seeing you smiling… shit, it does something to me, Buck.”
Does something to me. The words sit uncomfortably with Bucky, but he knows Steve doesn’t mean it like Brock would have. Brock would have said that about Bucky in his underwear, or bent over the back of the couch, or serving up dinner on his knees. He would’ve said it with a smirk, while palming his dick lewdly. And here Steve is, glowing and flushed and so deeply earnest it almost hurts.
“You’re sweet,” he whispers, and Steve lets him leave it at that. They eat their quesadillas with freshly mashed avocado and spilt salsa, the droning voice of a British narrator humming in the background.
When Bucky gets home from work on Tuesday night, he’s a bit skittish. Not for any real reason– some uncomfortable mix of food anxiety and college jitters and Brock and nightmares and things he can’t even discern clouding his thoughts. But Steve– Steve– kisses him so gently and helps him into comfortable clothes and gently directs him to start cooking, in that loving, authoritative tone of his. They’re having pho tonight, that’s what Bucky decided on. While the broth boils, he chops up vegetables with methodical precision. It can be a bit difficult sometimes, to do stuff without his left arm, but he has become rather skilled at making do, and the non-slip cutting board really helps.
“You think you’re up to seeing a couple people this Friday night?” Steve asks from where he’s sitting with his computer at the kitchen table. Bucky knows he’d rather be curled up on the couch right now, but he likes to be close by to Bucky while he cooks.
Bucky stiffens instinctively. With Brock, that would mean one of his friends coming over to drink, or watch a football game, or fuck Bucky, or some combination of the three. But then, Brock never would have asked for permission, and that isn’t what Steve means anyhow, he’s sure of it. “Yeah, I think so,” he says softly.
“That’s great,” Steve cheers, and Bucky can plainly hear the smile in his voice. “I thought it might be nice to invite Sam and Nat over, y’know, just to hang out, watch a movie, maybe? Does that sound good?”
“Yeah,” Bucky nods. “I’ll… I’ll get snacks or something.”
“Sounds perfect,” Steve grins.
Bucky serves up the pho a few minutes later, with a couple slices of lime and a sprig of parsley grown from Steve’s little windowsill garden and a small bottle of chili flakes littered about the already-crowded table. Crowded with their laptops and notebooks and forms Bucky has to fill out before he starts classes that are starting to choke him with anxiety–
“Buck,” Steve hums, taking him by his wrists and pulling him close.
“Yeah?” Bucky whispers, brows knit nervously.
Steve kisses the very tip of his nose, then each cheek. Bucky has a soft flush to his face now, after a few months of regularly leaving the house, a few weeks of eating a bit more. Steve adores it. “You’re thinking too much,” Steve teases. “C’mere, look at me, sweetheart. You’re gonna let me take care of you, hmm?”
The soft little noise at the end makes it sound like a question, but it isn’t really. Bucky nods readily, sinking further into his arms.
“You’re being so good for me, love,” Steve murmurs as he eases Bucky into his chair. “Made such a lovely dinner for us to share. It’s my favorite time of day, y’know that? When I get to come home to you and have dinner with you. Well, second to when we fall asleep together.”
Bucky largely feeds himself, except for a few times when he lets Steve spoonfeed him. It’s nice, really, it makes him feel warm and soft and delicate and precious. So what if it’s a bit dumb? After years of being yanked around by his hair and forced to kneel on the floor and starved while his abuser eats the food he made, is it so wrong to crave gentleness?
“What would you like to do tonight?” Steve asks, once they have finished dinner and washed the dishes.
“Cuddle,” Bucky replies simply.
Steve chuckles a bit. “Of course, lovely.”
They swaddle together in a thick pile of blankets, Bucky’s head against Steve’s shoulder. Every so often, his breath with send tiny locks of hair tumbling into his face, obscuring his view of the screen.
“Can you…” Bucky whispers, near silently. Steve nods, encouraging him to continue. “Can you put up my hair?”
“Yeah, of course.” Steve reaches for one of the hair ties perpetually about his wrist to pull Bucky’s hair into a small bun at the nape of his neck. The stroke of his fingers is heavenly.
“It’s just hard by myself,” Bucky explains, as he settles back in next to Steve.
It takes Steve a few minutes to understand what he means. He sits back up, staring at Bucky for a moment before breathing out a soft, “Ohh… oh, shit, I didn’t even think about that.”
“It’s fine, it’s fine, really,” Bucky shrugs, tugging him back down. “Most things, I can still do fine, it’s just… it’s hard with one hand,” he chuckles softly.
Steve hums curiously, and both are silent for a little bit longer. “Is there… is there anything else you struggle with?”
“Uh… not really. I mean, dressing is kinda… difficult, but not impossible. Showering, too. Sometimes it’s kinda annoying at work. I… more than anything, it sucks to realize I can’t… like, I try to use my arm, but I can’t. That hurts a bit. Um… jars. Jars suck. Sometimes cutting stuff is hard, but I can kinda… like I manually place my hand on top of whatever I’m cutting, and that keeps it secure. I’m fine, though, I like… I like doing stuff. Even if it’s a challenge.”
“Shit, I didn’t–”
“Nope, nope,” Bucky shakes his head, shutting Steve up with an easy peck. “It’s a learning curve for both of us, you don’t have to read my mind. Isn’t that what you always say?”
“Can you promise at least to ask for help when you need it? I won’t butt in like a jackass if you don’t need me, but there’s no point in struggling when you don’t need to, alright?”
“Deal,” Bucky nods, and they kiss once more, and it’s quiet.
Bucky starts to doze off in Steve’s arms as the TV rumbles and the warm light fades and a gentle chill settles through the still air, startled when his phone buzzes on the coffee table. “It’s just Nat,” Steve murmurs. Bucky hums softly and tries to burrow even further into Steve’s embrace. Sometimes it physically hurts Bucky that they can’t be any closer than side-by-side. He wants to live in Steve’s ribcage.
“She free Friday?” he yawns, flipping onto his back so he can lay his spine across Steve’s thighs and wrap an arm sideways around his torso.
“Yeah, she and Sam are both free… hey, are you okay if she brings someone else? She wanted to know if her friend Clint can come.”
“Clint?”
“I’ve met him before at the shelter, he’s nice,” Steve says gently. “But she said that it wasn’t a problem if you weren’t comfortable with it.”
Bucky wants to retreat, wants to beg Steve to cancel the movie night altogether. But if he’s a friend of Natasha’s, surely he’s a good man. She wouldn’t let anyone around Bucky who might so much as scare him, let alone actually harm him. He knows Steve, and Sam, and Natasha, he trusts them. They wouldn’t put him in danger. “Uh, yeah, sure, that’s… just ask if he has any dietary restrictions or allergies or whatever, I was thinking I’d bake hazelnut brownies, maybe.”
Steve taps out a message, and a minute later his phone buzzes again. “She says no allergies, just put away any expensive breakables.”
Bucky giggles a bit. He sounds more like a puppydog than a person.
Friday afternoon, Bucky comes home from his shift and starts preparing straight away. He mixes up a batch of brownies, swirls lines of Nutella through the batter. Steve said they would order in for dinner, so Bucky doesn’t have to worry about that. He runs out to the corner store– how weird it still feels, to be allowed to just pop out of the house without asking for permission– to grab a few sodas, orange and cola and cherry cola, and some chips that seem crowd-pleasing. He doesn’t have much experience just hanging out with people, but he’s pretty sure Doritos and kettle corn and puffy Cheetos are normal.
Steve walks in while he’s cutting up the brownies with a bench scraper. It’s easier than a knife. “God, it smells delicious in here,” he groans.
“You want a taste?” Bucky raises an eyebrow. He holds an offcut of a corner piece to Steve’s lips.
He chews for a moment before grinning wide, lips smeared with hazelnut and chocolate. “Damn, tastes even better than it smells.”
“It’s good?” Bucky asks hopefully. He wanted to try at least a little piece for quality control, but his anxiety got the best of him. Steve pulls him into a sweet kiss, lingers until Bucky can actually taste the chocolate on his lips. It tastes like their first kiss. He’s still dazed when Steve pulls away. “Yeah, pretty good, I guess,” he whispers to himself as Steve saunters away, giggling, to change out of his work khakis and polo and into something comfier.
Sam, Tasha, and Clint all arrive together just a few minutes after six, arms laden with pizza boxes and Entenmanns donuts. The apartment fills with bright chatter as they flood in. Bucky’s so used to solitary nights with Steve that even just five people makes the apartment feel crowded. Not in a claustrophobic way, in a cozy way that also makes him appreciate how new Steve’s air conditioner is.
Clint looks Californian. That’s Bucky’s first impression of the man. Tanned in a way that seems accidental, like he always means to wear sunscreen but perpetually forgets, his hair a striking blond like powdery sand. His smile is huge and unconcerned. He rivals Steve in terms of height, maybe he’s even a bit taller? His left arm is wrapped in gauze from the mid-forearm to his knuckles, and he has the remnants of twin bruising under his eyes, maybe he recently broke his nose? It puts Bucky immediately on edge. Reminds him too much of Brock.
“Hey,” Clint greets Bucky, overfamiliarly.
“Hi,” Bucky responds, trying to shove down his anxiety. It isn’t this man’s fault that he has issues, at the very least he should make an effort to be friendly. “I’m Bucky.”
“I know,” Clint nods. “Cool name.”
Somehow, his approval makes Bucky a bit giddy. It feels like being a middle schooler and getting a compliment from someone in high school. “So’s Clint.”
“Thanks.”
When Bucky is sure that their conversation is over, he hurries to Steve, who’s grabbing cutlery and plates and cups from the cabinets alongside Sam. “Hey, I’ve got it,” Bucky says quickly. It feels wrong to let them do the work.
“It’s alright, hun,” Steve shrugs. Bucky wouldn’t be much help anyway, not with his single, weak arm. “You could help Nat open everything up if you want.”
Bucky nods and breathes a stilted greeting to Sam before shuffling around them to the other side of the counter, where Natasha is more than capable of opening a couple boxes without his help. God, he’s a mess tonight. Helpless and listless and awkward.
The smell of pizza makes him nauseous, but he can’t really think of a reason why. Maybe it’s the grease, the cheese, all the scary, densely-packed calories. “Hey,” he says quietly, leaning against the countertop.
“Hey, Buck, how have you been?”
“Alright…” He openly stares at the buffalo chicken pizza, the orange grease and thick sauce and browned cheese. “It’s been tough, but… I feel… I’m approaching some kind of normalcy, at least. Like, I’ve got a routine back and… y’know. Everything doesn’t feel quite so upside-down.”
She smiles warmly. “I’m glad to hear that.”
Bucky’s eyes flick to Clint, currently engrossed in a conversation with the other two men. He waves his arms freely as he talks. Now Bucky understands what Tasha said about breakables. “So… is Clint your friend? ” he asks with a plainly suggestive tone, voice lowered. He knows little of Natasha’s personal life, she has a sister, he knows that much, but she’s never mentioned anyone else. No friends, no boyfriends…
“You could say that,” she nods. “We go back a long time. We met in college… he’s a good guy. The first person who kinda got what I went through. Didn’t make me feel insane. Broken. He was the first real proof I saw that… that you could still be a good person after shit like that. That violence, hardening yourself wasn’t the only way to cope.”
“Sounds like me with Steve,” he whispers.
“It’s nice to buddy up, huh?” she laughs, nudging him a bit with her elbow. “I’m glad you and Steve have each other, you both deserve it.”
It’s hard for Bucky to agree. Steve doesn’t deserve him, with all his issues and baggage. Steve deserves far better, someone hotter, someone with washboard abs and mental stability and enough money that he doesn’t have to be a freeloading leech. He deserves someone who understands his witty, intellectual quips, someone with passion like his.
And Bucky surely doesn’t deserve Steve, he never could, not in ten thousand lifetimes of trying.
They all sit to dinner, plates loaded with food. It’s kind of reassuring, to be surrounded by so many people eating so freely. Natasha steals the last bite of a garlic knot from Clint’s plate and Steve and Sam go halfsies on a bag of garlic parm wings and nobody gives half a shit if Bucky has two slices of pizza. Two whole slices, Brock would’ve–
He wonders how much Clint knows about him. If Natasha prepped him to be exceptionally gentle around the broken boy who flinches when men speak and can barely eat. Or maybe he can just see through Bucky, see through his skin and bones and into the bruises ground deeper, into his lungs and his soul and his very being. Everybody he encounters knows how ruined he is.
“Hey, how are you feeling?” Steve asks quietly as the other three make themselves comfortable on the couch and Bucky busies himself pouring out bowls of gummy worms and popcorn and arranging the brownies nicely on a plate. Maybe if he can linger in the kitchen long enough, they’ll forget about him.
Bucky takes a slow breath. “It’s a lot. I feel tired and… a bit agitated. But I’m okay. They’re familiar, and Clint seems… nice. I… I know they aren’t here to hurt me. I know you aren’t gonna force me or anything.”
“That’s good, that’s good,” Steve nods reassuringly. “I’m not gonna touch you, nobody is, okay? But if at any point you feel like you need a minute…”
“Yeah, I know,” Bucky whispers. “I’ll just take a breather in the bedroom or the bathroom or whatever.”
Steve kisses his forehead and helps him carry the snacks and sodas to the coffee table. The other three are cuddled together on the couch beneath several blankets, so he and Steve squish into one of the armchairs. They could each have their own, but Steve pulls Bucky into his lap and truthfully, Bucky didn’t even consider sitting alone.
Steve presses play on the remote, and a minute later, Natasha whispers for him to turn on the subtitles. It’s some cheesy movie set in the eighties with big hair and bright colors and Bucky struggles to be truly interested in it. He has trouble following storylines, that’s why he likes those silly nature documentaries so much.
He focuses more on the sounds as his eyes unfocus. The thump of Steve’s heartbeat beneath his ear. Scattered laughs, Sam’s clever comments. Steve’s laugh is so goddamn beautiful. He loves when he starts chuckling, really and truly from his chest, and his whole body hiccups with it and he looks down to see if Bucky’s amused to and the whole apartment just feels warmer.
Every so often, Steve holds something to his lips. A gummy worm, the pineapple kind, the best flavor. A kernel of popcorn. A Dorito. If he was Brock, it would be the lip of a beer bottle or his dick. A chunk of brownie. Bucky tries to block out the intrusive numbers. He needs to gain. He needs to get better, or else his parents are– he needs to get better, for himself.
“You’ve gained four pounds.”
Bucky stares at Dr. Raynor, stomach-curdling nausea coursing through his veins. Four pounds. Brock would’ve beat your ass until you passed out if you gained four goddamn pounds. “Four pounds,” he repeats.
“And one ounce.”
He nods, lips pursed. His mother’s gaze burns the side of his face. He’s been able to tell, his jeans fit tighter around his waist and his cheeks haven’t looked quite so hollow. He was hoping maybe it was just his mind playing a trick on him, body dysmorphia convincing him he was gaining. But no, of course not. Scientifically, he’s eating too much not to gain. “That’s good,” he eventually manages. “I’ve been… working my ass off to gain. I… this is what I’ve been working for.”
“You’re right, this is very good,” Dr. Raynor nods. She scribbles something quickly. “How are you feeling?”
“Um… I don’t know. Lots of stuff. Kinda… upset. Scared… scared I’ll keep gaining… even though that’s my goal.”
“Why is it your goal?” she asks, and he freezes.
Why? Because you threatened to lock me in a psych ward or intubate me if I didn’t. “Because I don’t want to die. And I don’t want to stress my family and friends out anymore. And also I don’t want to be sick for my whole life.”
“Anything else?”
“I… I’m really hungry, all the time, and I want to be able to eat foods I like,” he admits shamefully. It’s nice eating bread again, and real ice cream, and whole bananas. “And… I want to like my body. And getting skinnier has never helped, so… maybe if… if I stop treating myself so badly, I might have a chance to actually… be happy?”
“Those are some good reasons,” Dr. Raynor nods. “It’s normal, expected, really, for you to have some… ambivalence about gaining weight. But it’s good that you can put words to those productive thoughts.”
“Is there…” Bucky snorts out a soft laugh. “Does it ruin the good moment if I ask when I’m allowed to start maintaining instead of gaining? It’s just… this is kind of a lot of calories, and my stomach’s… struggling to keep up.”
“That’s not something we can decide right now. You’ll visit Dr. Potts in a few weeks and she may adjust your caloric goals then. You aren’t out of the woods, health-wise, not until you reach a clinically healthy weight. And even then, recovery doesn’t end the moment you hit a number on the scale. Recovery is mental.”
His mother drops him back off at the apartment, where he putters around lethargically until Steve comes home. “Hey, angelface,” Steve grins, kissing his cheek before shouldering his bag onto the table. “How was therapy?”
“I gained four pounds,” he shrugs.
“Oh, that’s so great!” Steve beams. “How are you feeling?”
Bucky shifts uncomfortably. Maybe it’s the power of suggestion, but his pants feel so much tighter today. “Weird.”
“How’s your body feeling?”
Bucky takes stock of himself for the first time. His stomach feels a bit bloated, still, it has for weeks, but it’s starting to actually rumble again when he’s hungry. His muscles are less fatigued. His skin looks pink. “Pretty good. I, um… yeah, actually a lot better, I guess.”
“I’m really, really proud of you,” Steve says gently. “I know it’s all… a lot. I get it, and your effort doesn’t go unnoticed.”
“I think I need new pants,” Bucky whispers. “Especially with… like maybe eventually, my stomach will get used to eating so much, but especially after meals, I’m just so uncomfortable.”
“How about we stop by the mall?” Steve suggests. “Might be a good chance to challenge some of those fears, hmm? Eating in public, getting fast food?”
Even though he’s the one who brought it up, Bucky wants to beg to stay home. Wants to beg to wear some of Steve’s way-oversized pants and eat a safe, homemade dinner in the comfort and privacy of their apartment. “I, um… okay,” Bucky nods, before he changes his mind. “Yeah, sure.”
The mall is scary, with its tall ceilings and cold lights and the ever-present threat of someone he used to know popping up behind him. Steve holds his hand, though, lets Bucky walk practically pinned to his side, headphones blocking out the loud chatter of the crowds. They find the Levi’s storefront, Bucky’s familiar with that brand, at least. He wanders until he finds the cut he usually wears, a very boring straight leg in a medium wash. Steve gives him a few yards of space, perusing the hanging t-shirts so he doesn’t feel smothered.
He flips through the sizes. He snorts a bit when he finds the biggest size he ever wore, the size he wore when he was with Brock, the jeans that made him realize he had let himself go. He holds them up to himself. For a startling moment, he can’t believe that he ever wore pants that size. He remembers them being smaller. Could he really have been so big? They were so baggy one day, so tight the next… he can’t be misremembering it, can he?
He finds a pair that’s only one size up from his current jeans, then rethinks it and picks up a pair two sizes bigger. He should give himself room to grow, right? He carries them both to the fitting room. The bigger size is too large, even for a baggy look, so he’ll have to wait until he gains a bit more to get those. “These are good,” he whispers to Steve when he emerges, nodding a bit.
“Great,” Steve smiles, kissing his temple. Bucky pays and carries the jeans out and he didn’t cry, not once.
“What do you want for dinner?” Bucky asks quietly, squeezing tightly to his arm.
“I was thinking I’d get Chinese, but we can get separate things if you’re craving something else. Y’know, I’ve just been dreaming about a nice styrofoam container of lo mein and orange chicken recently,” he chuckles.
“I was thinking chicken or something,” Bucky hums. “There’s a chicken place, right?”
“Yeah, two of them, I think.”
Bucky sits across from Steve with his three–piece tender meal. Everybody’s staring, he’s sure of it, everybody’s looking at him eating three whole pieces of chicken and fries to boot, and they know he just bought jeans in a bigger size because he’s getting fatter, and he has no clue how many calories the honey mustard is hiding. But Steve eats his food so cheerfully, and Bucky knows he’d have to eat a big dinner tonight no matter where he ate it, or what it was, so he forces himself onward.
“Can I have a fry?” Steve asks, a tiny drip of sugary sauce clinging to the corner of his lips.
Bucky reaches across the table with a napkin to dab at it. “What’ll you give me for it?” he teases.
Steve spears a little piece of chicken on his fork and holds it forward. Bucky leans in and bites it off the fork and chews. That must be fifty– “Good trade,” Bucky nods, and Steve steals a paprika-dusted fry.
Steve: Give me a call when you can! No biggie, just wanna ask something :)
Four customers and one messed-up coffee later, Bucky has a chance to dial Steve. “Hey, hun,” he greets, pinning his phone between his cheek and his shoulder while he grabs himself a cold bottle of water from the fridge. “Everything alright?”
“Yeah, I was just wondering if you’d be up to going out tonight. Sharon and Maria, and probably some other friends, they’re gonna have a kickback tonight, nothing too big, just drinks and snacks to celebrate the last weekend before the semester starts. Would you be up to going?”
Steve’s friends are pretty pleasant, but Bucky has only ever met them once, and they were at his and Steve’s apartment. His safe place. He hasn’t been in anyone else’s apartment… ever, possibly? And the mention of drinks… “Um…”
“No stress, really. I can just go, or neither of us can go, or we can pop in real quick to say hi, whatever you’re comfortable with. I just thought it might be nice, you know. To get out of the house, meet some friendly people…”
“Um… tentatively, yes? I… I feel up to it, but if I…”
“Yeah, if you lose steam later, we don’t have to do. No pressure, alright?”
“Alrighty, Stevie,” Bucky whispers, grinning a bit. He has no clue why he was invited– maybe he wasn’t even invited explicitly, maybe Steve’s only dragging him along because he knows his friends won’t say no to Bucky. “Should we, like… bring something?”
“I’ll probably pick up a drink or something. I don’t know, they aren’t picky, and I’m legal now, so I don’t have to use a fake. Beyond that, I think we’re good.”
“Yeah, okay,” he nods. He isn’t used to hanging out with people his age, he has no clue what’s expected of him. He doesn’t even really know what kickback means. “I’ll be home in a couple hours, yeah?”
“Alright, love. See you then.”
“Alright. Love you.”
“Love you too, angel.”
Bucky has an almond croissant for lunch, and makes a lavender iced latte at the end of his shift to bring home to Steve. It’s dark out, blue-charcoal and cloudy, and his weather app warns him it’s going to rain, but he enjoys the walk home nonetheless.
Bucky greets Steve with a kiss and his coffee. He looks so pretty, in his loose cotton shirt and cuffed jeans, hair rumpled and a bit overgrown. “Heya, prettyboy,” Bucky teases. “How dare you look like that, now I never wanna leave.”
“We don’t have to go,” Steve promises earnestly. “I’m eager for you to meet all my friends, but there’s really no pressure, love. I don’t… I don’t want to force you and make you…”
“Regress?”
“I mean… listen, I want to replace some of your… negative associations with happier ones. And that’s not gonna happen if I push too far and force you into a panic attack or something.”
“I’ll be alright. I want to meet your friends too. I want… I want to be the kind of guy who can… casually hang out with people. Make small talk. I want… I want to feel normal. And I know Dr. Raynor would be like well, normal is subjective but you know what I mean. I don’t want to live the rest of my life being held back and being… being a victim, I just want to be a person, I want to be, like… me, and I’ve gotta figure out who I am, so…”
Steve lays a light kiss to his flushed cheek. “I know, Buck. I know you can do this.”
Bucky changes into a loose shirt, one of Steve’s, and they only have an hour or so before Steve says they should start heading over if they’re going to stop by the liquor store first. Bucky follows behind Steve blindly as he peruses the varieties of beer.
“You don’t have to drink, by the way,” Steve says as he finally chooses one and hoists up a six-pack in each hand. “I’ve got a couple sober friends, so there will definitely be non-alcoholic drinks, and nobody’s gonna give a shit.”
“Alright,” Bucky nods. He hasn’t drunk since he left Brock even if some nights he just wants to black out and not wake up but he’s not necessarily averse to it. He probably won’t ever drink beer again, or vodka, or whiskey… maybe wine is still safe. “Are… are you gonna drink?”
“I’ll stay sober if you want,” Steve offers, lifting the cans onto the counter and pulling his wallet from his pocket.
“No, no, you don’t have to, I’m cool if you drink. I was just… honestly, just kinda wondering if you drank at all. I’ve never seen you drink.”
He stuffs his wallet back into his pocket once he pays, takes the crinkling plastic bag from the cashier with one hand and Bucky’s hand with the other. “I don’t want to become dependent or whatever. I can handle a couple drinks now and then, and I’m… kinda big, so it takes a while to get tipsy, but I just… my dad was an alcoholic, so I… I’m, like, predisposed or something. I’ll do it socially, but… but the second I’m having a hard day and I go, ugh, I wish I could drink right now, I know I’ve gotta stop.”
“I get that.”
“I really mean it, though. I won’t drink if it makes you upset, or even… even a bit uncomfortable. I don’t… I don’t want to drink nearly enough to do it if it would put you on edge.”
“No, really, I… I trust you, I do. I kinda doubt I’ll drink, but that’s just because I don’t really like to.”
“There’ll be pot, too, if you’d prefer.”
“Oh, dude, I haven’t smoked in, like… god, forever. Sometime in high school, I guess. Honestly, I would be down if it hadn’t been so long. Maybe sometime, though, do you smoke?”
“Um… I smoked once, coughed so bad I almost puked… I’ve taken edibles, though, it’s always a nice experience. Maybe sometime we could try that, hmm?”
“That sounds nice,” Bucky grins. The thought of getting high with Steve, cuddling together and eating an obscene amount of takeout and staring blankly at a documentary about fish, it’s surprisingly enticing to Bucky.
Sharon and Maria’s apartment is pretty, with tapestries on the wall and dim string lighting and every counter littered with cans and cups and glasses and food. There are an additional four people Bucky’s never met, but he tries not to hide behind Steve. “It’s so good to see you guys again,” Sharon greets, hugging them both. She seems a bit gone already, but not in a way that scares Bucky. He’s just a bit startled to be hugged. “You can put those in the fridge if you want, anything laced is labeled, non-alcoholic drinks are by the sink.”
Steve brings Bucky around the single room and introduces him to each of his friends. Peggy, who’s apparently Sharon’s cousin or something, James, Jacques, who has a very fun French accent that makes Bucky giggle a bit, and Jim. A lot of Steve’s friends have names that start with J. And, of course, Maria, and then new people continue to stream in and Bucky sort of loses track.
He gets separated from Steve when he goes to the kitchen to grab himself a can of diet cola. He would have to shove past, like, two different people to get through the narrow passageway between couches, so he decides to just linger in the kitchen.
“Hey,” Maria greets, like they’re old friends. She has her hair back in a low bun, bangs swept to the side, a bit of a flush to her defined cheekbones. Sometimes Bucky wishes he could look like that, so casually attractive, so naturally slim. Then he feels guilty for reducing an intelligent, learned woman to her size.
“Hi,” he says, loud enough to be heard but not so loud that it strains him.
“How are you feeling about starting classes soon? Steve said you start next week too.”
“I feel, like… way out of my depth. The last year of school I actually finished was junior year. I should be going into my junior year of college, not starting it all over, you know?”
She shrugs loosely and sips what looks at first like an alcoholic beverage until Bucky realizes it just a flavored seltzer water. “I have tons of friends who took a year or two off, friends who took five years for their undergrad, it isn’t uncommon anymore. You’ll get back into the rhythm of school quickly. It’s like… riding a bike or whatever, you know. Once you know, it doesn’t just go away.”
He toys with the tab of his can. “I really hope so. I want… I want a chance to start over. To actually make something of myself.”
“Can I be real with you?” she laughs, leaning in a bit. “I’ve taken classes with some real idiots, some real jackasses, rich douches with no passion, terribly lazy people who take it all for granted… just by going in with that attitude, I know you’re going to be fine.”
“You really think?”
“Absolutely. You got your GED, and you’ve worked to save up the money, hell, that’s way more of an advantage when it comes to college than most high school grads have. People go into college so young, seventeen and eighteen, they don’t know what they want from life, they don’t know what hard work is. You do. The only thing that’s gonna stop you is if you make yourself believe you can’t do it.”
“Thanks,” he sighs a bit, smiling gratefully. “I guess… I do kinda have it in my head that I just… can’t succeed.”
“Yeah, working on that is gonna be way harder than the work itself, I promise you.”
He’s momentarily tempted as she walks away to eat one of the pot brownies on the counter, maybe he wouldn’t be such a standoffish loser if he could chill out, but he’d rather not risk it after a years-long tolerance break. He only greened out once, back in high school, but he still remembers how awful it was, and he’d rather not have some weird reaction here, in the midst of all these strangers.
“Hey, Buck,” Steve smiles, walking a bit clumsily into the kitchen.
“Are you drunk?” Bucky teases.
“No,” Steve responds seriously, barely able to fight off his pretty grin for all of ten seconds before he cracks. “Really, no, though, I told you, it takes a lot to get me drunk. Definitely halfway there, though.”
“Mmm, drink some water, baby, you’re gonna get all dehydrated.” The name feels weird from Bucky’s lips. Somehow, he still associates it with Brock, but here, in this sepia-lit apartment with a dozen people he barely knows and his tipsy boyfriend and music twenty-year-olds listen to blasting through bluetooth speakers, it feels, for the first time, normal.
Steve obediently guzzles a water bottle, wincing a bit as it freezes the back of his throat, before leaning forward and kissing Bucky’s cheek. Brock was never like this when he was tip– not everything is fucking about that man. “You feeling good?” Steve hums. “Not overwhelmed?”
“No, I’m alright,” Bucky assures him. “I’m sorry I’m not being super social, I’m just kinda… lurking in the corner like a sleep paralysis demon.”
“My handsome sleep paralysis demon,” Steve grins widely, kissing Bucky’s cheek again, nuzzling his nose into the side of his face. “Don’t worry about it, really, you have a chill presence, people are just glad you’re here.”
People? Multiple people? They’re actually happy he’s around? “Really?”
“Yeah, dude, are you kidding? I talk about you, like, so much I think they’re excited to know you’re real. You know, there’s only so many times I can say oh, he doesn’t go here, before people start to think I’m hallucinating.”
Bucky giggles softly. “Well, I’m glad I’m not intruding.”
“Maria and Sharon specifically asked for you to come, how could you be intruding?” Steve scoffs.
Bucky stays by Steve’s side for the rest of the evening. He really is a heavyweight, Bucky shouldn’t be so surprised, he’s a pretty big guy. He just gets looser and gigglier as the night progresses, but he still makes sure to keep an arm around Bucky, or keep their hands intertwined, stroking his shoulder or his thumb absently to reassure him. Bucky shares a White Claw with Steve, but he doesn’t drink past that.
“Wait, so how did you two meet, again?” Jacques asks them, once everyone is so drunk and stoned that the apartment has quieted down somewhat.
“Buck’s a barista, and I fell madly in love with him,” Steve chuckles. “I don’t even like coffee but I forced myself to, just so I could talk to him for a couple minutes a day.”
Bucky’s mouth gapes open. “You don’t like my coffees?”
“I don’t like any coffee,” Steve laughs.
“You could’ve gotten… I don’t know, tea or something.”
“I was going to, that first day, but you… you just… I got all… flustered and panicked and I ordered a coffee, and then I thought that if I got the same thing every time I came in, you might remember me, so I bought the same coffee for… several months. Every day… probably, like, a thousand dollars worth of coffee.”
“You’d just throw them out when you left?” Bucky giggles, tucking his face against Steve’s shoulder.
“No, I drank them,” Steve scoffs.
“Buck, you should have heard him,” Sharon rolls her eyes. “Every day, he came in with these big hearts in his eyes, talking about you and your coffees and how funny you were. I will admit, you make a pretty mean coffee, and you’re the only barista willing to make it the way I like.”
“I’m pretty sure I could be charged with attempted murder for that drink,” Bucky laughs, and the whole room laughs, and Bucky would cry if he wasn’t so effervescently happy right now. Is this what he was missing out on all those years? He always thought there was something fundamentally off about him, something that made people avoid him, something that made him unworthy of kindness and friendship. Could he have been wrong all that time?
Soon, the crowd starts thinning out. “Hey, I’ll drive you two home,” Maria offers, grabbing a hoodie from the hook by the wall. “It’s really coming down out there, and I didn’t drink.”
Both boys thank her and shuffle to get their jackets back on before piling into the back of her sedan while she and Sharon take up the front seats. Sharon is absolutely wasted, and Steve isn’t far behind.
“I’m really glad you came tonight,” Steve whispers into Bucky’s ear as they pull out of the parking garage. “You’re a really great guy, I feel real selfish keeping you all to myself.”
Bucky giggles softly and leans across the empty space between them to kiss Steve, deeply and a bit clumsily. He brings up his hand to cradle his face, traces the shallow, smooth divot of his cheekbone. “I’m glad I came too. I really… I… thank you, Stevie.”
Steve almost kisses him again, before pulling back with a gasp. “Ooh, I love this song!” he exclaims, and Sharon turns the volume up.
“Taylor Swift?” Bucky raises an eyebrow, casting a sideways glance at Steve.
“Oh my god, yes,” Steve grins, clearly not registering the confusion in Bucky’s voice. “This song is so good, you’ve gotta know it, everyone knows it.”
Bucky does remember it, in fact, from when he was a kid. “ She wears short skirts, I wear t-shirts, ” he mumbles under his breath, like a reflex, he doesn’t even consciously know the words.
“I listened to this song so much a couple months ago, my neighbors must have been sick of i–” He cuts himself off abruptly to belt the lyrics. “ Walk in the streets with you in your worn-out jeans, I can’t help thinking this is how it ought to be. Laughing on a park bench thinking to myself, hey, isn’t this easy? ”
Red and white lights flash as they drive down the street, glimmering in the beaded raindrops on the window. “ You say you’re fine, I know you better than that, ” Bucky hums, and it’s stupid that he tears up, it is, to some country song from fifteen years ago that he all but forgot about, but Steve’s voice and the loud rush of rain and the lingering high of such intoxicating normalcy is getting to him.
“ Ohh, I remember you driving to my house in the middle of the night. I’m the one who makes you laugh when you know you’re ‘bout to cry. I know your favorite songs, and you tell me ‘bout your dreams. Think I know where you belong, think I know it’s with me, ” Steve sings, holding out the last note until he goes pink.
Bucky thinks of months-ago Steve, alone in his apartment, making microwave mac and cheese and belting Taylor Swift lyrics while he mournfully thinks of Bucky, likewise alone in a cold, dark marble prison on the other side of the city. He has the sudden urge to wrap Steve in a hug, which he gleefully accepts, singing the outro the whole time. He peppers Bucky’s face with kisses as the song crescendos and dies out.
“Thank you,” Bucky whispers.
“For what?” Steve whispers back, hazy, twinkling eyes finding Bucky’s. Suddenly, his expression goes adorably concerned. “Are you crying?”
“No, well, yeah, a bit, but it’s good, I’m good, I’m happy. I’m sorry, I’m… I just really love you.”
“I love you too, dude,” Steve grins, kissing Bucky again.
They both lean on each other as they stumble up the stairs and into their apartment. “Are you hungry?” Bucky asks, opening the fridge and bathing in the backlit chill. Between the August sweat and the sticky, tepid rainwater, he feels disgusting. “We didn’t eat dinner, I just realized.”
“You want takeout? I’d, like, die for something greasy right now. I want, like, heart-health-threatening fries and a burger. Ooh, god, I really want a burger, and maybe chicken nuggets. And buffalo sauce.”
Bucky giggles a bit and grabs a water bottle from the fridge before kicking it shut. “How about I go start us a shower so we can get washed off while you order some takeout, and by the time we’re all clean and fresh, the food will be here and we can eat it in bed. Does that sound good?”
Steve pulls him into a kiss, almost lifts him straight off the ground. “I love you so much, Bucky,” he whispers against his panting lips, once he finally pulls away. “I’m gonna marry you one day, dude, I swear.”
Bucky giggles softly, wiping rainwater from Steve’s cheeks with the backs of his fingers. “Okay, big guy, priorities. Shower and dinner and a big long sleep and then the future, alright?”
“Alright,” Steve pouts. He pecks Bucky’s lips one last time before reaching for his phone to place an order at the burger place a couple blocks away. Bucky fills the bathroom with lavender-scented steam and they shower together for the first time but it feels so fucking natural and Bucky doesn’t think of what’s-his-name once.
Their dinner arrives as the boys are toweling off, so Steve hurries into a pair of sweatpants and retrieves it from the front door before returning to the bedroom with a boyish, mischievous smile. Bucky crawls into his lap as they devour the burgers and fries and chicken and he truly can’t bring himself to care how many calories is in any of it, not when he has Steve giggling in his ear and kisses that taste like hot sauce and salt and a whole lifetime of nights like this spread out in front of him.
“You good?” Steve yawns when they finally brush all the wrappers and bags and napkins onto the floor to be dealt with in the morning.
Bucky barely has the strength to burrow into the cool sheets and latch himself to Steve, legs messily intertwined and arms clasped together, before his eyes drift shut. “Yeah, Stevie. I’m real good.”