Chapter Text
You’re three years old when the fever hits and your mother cradles you in her arms, alone in a small apartment as you whimper and cry.
She sings under her breath and prays harder than she has in years and when the fever breaks the next day she nearly collapses to the ground in relief. Your eyes are wide and wet and so blue like the ocean that she vows then and there to take you to the beach when you are older. Your toothy smile makes her chest ache and when she sees the other children in the ward a week later – struggling to fight off the fever that nearly took you away– she’ll recall that smile and breathe a little easier.
Days turn to weeks and she thinks the worst is over, but as you slowly grow older she realizes with a stricken heart that your body longs for the cool Earth and so she continues to pray.
- - - -
A couple days after your sixth birthday you have your first asthma attack and you think that you are dying.
Panicked, you clutch your throat and curl inward as your lungs battle behind your fragile ribcage. Your mother’s behind you in an instant, her hands soothing on your heaving back and she can feel your boney spine underneath her fingertips.
“Don’t fight it Steve, just relax,” she says and you cry.
Time passes by like molasses; it’s hard to tell how long you lay curled on the ground gasping for air. When your chest stops aching and you can taste the cool oxygen on your tongue you realize you can hear your mother whispering pleas to someone not there.
The relief is so overwhelming you pass out and wake up in bed long after the sun has gone down. You think it was a one-time thing – a fluke – and you decide to stay inside on windy days when the dust is whirled up. Weeks later when you have your second attack you consider asking for another set of lungs for Christmas.
- - - - -
Twelve years old and you already know you’re not like the other kids.
Sometimes you can’t hear everything your mother says and it hurts to stand up straight. You can’t run as fast as the neighborhood boys and your mother says your heart beats to a different tune – something you figured out was bad when your last doctor’s visit ended in a tense silence when the stethoscope was removed from your chest.
You also know that kids are cruel and when Mickey Boyle plants a fist into your stomach and you fold neatly around it, you want to ask him what you did to deserve this. He shoves you down and your body nearly shatters against the cold dirt. Your left eye is swollen shut and blood coats your mouth from where your tongue and teeth met in a violent clash.
You know he’s about you kick you, so your hands wrap around your stomach and you wait for it – you always wait for it. The seconds pass and you cautiously open your right eye to a scene so unexpected you let out a gasp.
He’s bigger than you, but not by much and his hair is dark brown – almost black in the light. His fists are clenched and he spits his words at the bully’s feet.
“Hey beat it before I give you a beatin’ so fierce it makes you look like the mincemeat in the butcher's window.”
Mickey’s friends look at him for advice and when he flees so do they.
For a second you almost expect the other kid to kick you, but when he turns around to look at you that fear is gone quicker than it came.
“Jesus kid, didn’t your ma ever teach you not to go picking fights with guys twice your size?”
He reaches down and helps you up and you’re a little awestruck when you reply, “Yeah, but I didn’t think breathing was a reason to get beat up.”
The boy looks at him and then laughs and you feel like you’ve accomplished something amazing.
“I like you – and the people I like don’t get messed with so stick with me and they won’t bother you anymore.”
It feels like a bucket of ice and you scowl. You're not some pansy who needs others to do your fighting. You're strong, like the stories of your father that you coaxed out of your mother. You don't need protecting and this kid needs to know that now. You puff up your chest even though it hurts and look him square in the eye.
“I can take care of myself. I don’t need you to look after me.”
You try to put all the strength you have left into your words and he looks impressed.
“Ok tough guy. Maybe you don’t need me to look after you, but maybe I want to.”
You don’t know what to say to that and your anger vanishes as quickly as it came. No one besides your mother has ever wanted to take care of you so you eye the boy who just smirks and you nod your head because what else can you do?
You don’t say anything when he offers you a shoulder to lean on and you direct him to your home where you mother is most likely worrying herself sick: You were supposed to be home an hour ago.
“The name’s Bucky by the way. Seeing as how we’re friends now it’s only fair that we know what to call each other.”
You startle a little at the proclamation and try not to let hope bubble in your chest. You’ve never had a friend before and so you stammer out your name as he helps you up the steps.
“My name’s S-steve.”
Bucky grins and shakes your good hand when you stop in front of your door. You don’t have time to process the look of accomplishment on Bucky’s face before the door flies open and there’s your mother with her curly hair and faded blue dress.
“Hi there ma’am, my name’s Bucky and I just wanted to make sure my friend Steve got here safely: All kinds of ruffians out there during this time of day.”
You’re amazed at Bucky’s charm and when you see the way your mother’s eyes soften you know you’re not the only one.
“Thank you Bucky, that was very nice of you,” she replies and Bucky nods before handing you over to her steady hands.
“See ya later Steve!” he exclaims and races down the stairs and out of sight.
You stand in the doorway a little longer, hoping he’ll come back, but your mother ushers you inside to tend to your wounds. You hiss when she dabs your lip and wince when she checks for broken ribs. She sighs and you feel the rush of disappointment –if only you were like the other kids, maybe they wouldn’t beat you up so much – but she brushes your blonde hair out of your face and kisses your forehead before you head to bed.
When Bucky’s waiting for you at the bottom of your stairs the next morning you can’t contain your smile. His answering grin makes your aches and pains vanish before you’ve reached sidewalk.
- - - - - -
You’re fifteen when you realize why you stare at Bucky’s lips more than normal when he laughs and when he says your name. You lean into his shoulder when you walk next to him and when you’re sick you don’t fight off his soft hands. You tease him, he teases back and being around him is so easy you forget what it was like to live without him. You can’t remember life pre-Bucky and it scares you.
You’re sixteen when you almost lean in and close the distance between your lips after a disastrous double-date. You kick at a pebble on the way home and get lost in your thoughts. He calls your name, but you keep walking and when he catches up, Bucky puts his arm around you, pulling you close. “Those dames don’t know what their missing Stevie. Who needs them?” You hide your smile as Bucky rattles on and when you look up your eyes meet, but you chicken out and try to hide how fast your heart is pounding.
You don’t forget the look in Bucky’s eyes that night.
You’re seventeen when you catch him staring at your bare back after a late night swim and you let him look longer than you probably should. Drops of water race down your pale skin and you shiver when a cool breeze rushes past. Bucky tosses you a shirt and tells you not to get pneumonia. You tell him to shut his trap and he laughs – loud and happily and it echoes in the darkness. You fall into bed that night remembering the way Bucky ran his fingers down your damp arm and you shiver for a whole other reason.
You fall asleep with his name on your lips and his face behind your eyelids.
You’re eighteen and you’re in love and when he looks at you, you think he is too. You think you can hear it in the way he says your name: Exasperated when you pick fights, worried when you’re sick in bed and desperately fond when you throw him an apple to munch on as you walk to school together. You think you can see it in the way Bucky hits the guys who corner you in an alley and in the way he looks at you when you insist on walking home even though it hurts to breathe. You think you can feel it when he puts ice on your swollen eye and when you’re so delirious with a fever you can’t tell up from down, you feel it in his lips that brush across your forehead before sleep claims you.
Decades later and you can still feel his lips on your sweaty brow.
You’re eighteen and you bury your mother. A couple days later, Bucky moves in and her ghost moves out, knowing that you were in good hands.
- - - - - -
At twenty you read about the war and it feels like you’ve finally found your calling.
Bucky watches wearily as you pace your apartment floor and talk about going overseas to help – to be a soldier. You don’t listen to his protests, “You’ll get yourself killed Stevie.”
“It’s not about that Buck, it’s about doing the right thing.”
Bucky rolls his eyes and stands, adjusting his jacket and when he reaches out to touch your shoulder, you shiver. He notices and tries to hide his smirk.
“Just don’t do anything stupid until I get back from the docks okay?”
You shove at him, but smile anyway because for years he’s been lifting you up when you were down.
“I’ll do my best,” you say, letting the sarcasm drip from your lips.
Bucky hesitates, but then reaches out and pulls you into his arms.
“I mean it Steve. Don’t go jumping into a war that might not even need us.”
You inhale and when he finally leaves you exhale. You want him to stay, but you need the money and you’re low on groceries.
Not even a year later and America is pulled violently into the war. You look over at Bucky whose fists are clenched and you know he’s thinking the same thing.
You are going to enlist.
- - - - - -
Twenty-four with four F4’s under your belt and you’re crawling out of your skin.
Not for the first time in your life, and not for the last, you stare down at your hands in anger: You curse the body you’re in, until you remember how tenderly your mother touched you and how your heart would race when Bucky clapped your shoulder. It was not your body’s fault, how could you hate something that came from your mother; something that Bucky defended.
You think about Bucky and that day he told he was going to enlist – you remember how you had to go to bed early that night because you couldn’t face him. You needed a couple hours because Bucky’s acceptance came faster than your rejections and it hurt.
Of course they’d take Bucky. He was good at defending people; good in a fight especially when the little guy was you and your inability to keep your mouth shut.
Bucky gets his orders and you’re torn between congratulations and begging: Of course you’re happy for Bucky, but you don’t want him to leave. You can’t keep an eye on him while he’s over there. You can’t make sure he's eating properly or sleeping enough or staying out of trouble. All those years Bucky thought he was looking after you and it was really the other way around.
Twenty-four and you watch your best friend – the only person you have left – walk away, all kinds of handsome and brave in that uniform.
You want to be walking with him.
Minutes later and you’re on your way to the war: Taking a path different from Bucky’s, but part of you hopes you’ll find him over there.
You do, but it’s not the reunion you were hoping for.
- - - - - -
You’re twenty-five and holding Bucky so tight he protests under his breath, but you ignore it.
Safe in your tent and far from the world you pull away and trace the lines on Bucky’s face that weren’t there before he left. He looks older and sadder, but he still looks like the jerk who has stuck by your side for thirteen years and it makes your eyes sting.
“Getting emotional on me Stevie?” Bucky teases, but you can see the relief in his eyes so you don’t reply.
You stare at each other until he caves and it surprises you how much strength Bucky has left when he grips your jacket and pulls you in until you can taste the smoke on his lips. You breathe it in and nearly sob in desperation. Your hands come to cup his face and hold him there, but he’s not pulling away – he’s trying to get closer and your bodies meld together like they did those freezing winter nights curled together in bed for warmth.
Instead of cold, all you feel is fire and it races up your spine and into your lungs until you pull away to breathe. Bucky’s back on you before you can blink and you pour years of love into his mouth until he’s whimpering and when you pull him down onto your cot it’s like coming home from a long journey.
You’re twenty-five and you’ve never felt happier and when it all turns to ice so does your heart and not even S.H.I.E.L.D. can thaw it out.
Your throat is raw from yelling his name and the second he falls part of you wants to jump after him, but your hands are frozen to the rail and your feet can’t move. By the time you can you’re miles away and Bucky’s too gone to rescue. You want to burn everything to the ground – want every HYDRA operative in a line in front of their graves and it burns like whiskey in your soul when you enter your tent and recall the way he felt above you.
The next hours are a blur of fire and bruises and as Peggy chokes up while you’re somewhere over the Atlantic you regret being that hitch in her voice. You regret a lot of things as you guide the plane into the ocean, but you don’t regret those nights spent whispering to Bucky who slept a few feet away about growing up. You don’t regret picking fights and letting Bucky patch you up afterwards. You don’t regret pulling him behind a snow-covered tree and kissing the breath out of him before getting on that train.
You take a deep breath and feel the impact: Glass shattering and water rushing to greet you like an old friend.
Twenty-five years old and ready to die and you do not expect to wake up. You flit from dream to dream and when you see his face it feels a little like Heaven and you are okay with this ending.