Archive of Our Own

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Bucky doesn’t like living on the street, but sometimes life isn’t about getting what you want. It seems that way for him, anyway. After serving two tours, he’s been decommissioned (which isn’t the right word, but that’s how it feels), and he’s slowly readjusting to civilian life. Even before he joined the military, he struggled with his mental health, but it’s worse now that it’s mixed with a healthy dose of PTSD.

For the first few months after he was discharged, he rented a tiny studio in Red Hook, near where he’d lived during his childhood. After countless nightmares and one too many panic attacks, he realized his place felt like a prison. He broke his lease, lost his ass in the process, and has spent the past couple of months living on the street. Mostly, people see his long, scraggly hair and scarred left hand and leave him alone. Today, though, there’s a noise at the end of the alley that is too loud and obvious to ignore.

When Bucky looks up, he’s sure he’s seeing a vision. Tall, broad, beefy, and gorgeous. Those are the only words he has to describe the man who smiles at him tentatively as he holds out a bottle of water and a greasy paper bag. It smells like heaven.

“I thought maybe you’d like some lunch.”

That sentence falls from full, pink lips in a baritone that sends shivers down Bucky’s spine. If he wasn’t…himself, he might smile back, but this vision in a navy blue jacket and form fitting jeans deserves better than a homeless, shifty, filthy vet whose idea of a proper lunch comes from digging through trash cans.

“My name’s Steve. Steve Rogers. This is for you, uh…?”

Hunching his shoulders, Bucky glances around him to make sure there aren’t others creating a perimeter. The alley’s empty, though. It’s just Steve here with him.

Mumbling softly, he answers. “I’m James.” It’s not a lie. That is his real name.

“It’s nice to meet you, James. It’s burgers and fries from the diner at the end of the block,” Steve says as he shakes the bag in his hand. “Still warm. I can get you a milkshake if you’d like. I had one earlier. They’re good.”

Straightening quickly, Bucky lets the lid fall closed on the trash can and shies away, attempting to disappear into the shadows. He doesn’t want Steve’s help. He doesn’t want anybody’s help, but he knows he needs it. His stomach does, too, because it rumbles loudly at the same moment he shakes his head.

“I’m not asking for anything. Not trying to sell you anything,” Steve explains softly, as if he’s speaking to a wounded animal. “I’ve seen you around a few times, and I wanted to…I don’t know what I wanted. Something just told me to get these for you today. No strings attached.”

When Bucky doesn’t move, Steve takes a small step forward, his hands up in surrender. “I’ll just leave it here for you.”

As Steve slinks away, his shoulders up around his ears, Bucky shuffles forward quickly and snatches the bag and bottle. Before Steve can turn and catch him, Bucky disappears into the shadows, more silent than a ghost.

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The burgers are greasy, and the fries are lukewarm. They taste so good that Bucky almost weeps as he eats them. He can’t remember the last time he ate food that was prepared for him, food that didn’t come from the garbage or—when he couldn’t take it anymore—a soup kitchen. Steve’s kindness has saved him for another week or so, but then…Steve’s always saved him.

They first met in elementary when Steve was a small, feisty, scrawny kid who didn’t know how to keep his nose clean or stay out of the way of bullies. Despite his mental challenges, Bucky still remembers everything about that day so long ago. The first time he saw Steve, Bucky was being chased by bullies, but Steve stepped in to defend him. At least, he did until he got his nose broken with a well-placed punch from a small fist.

After the fight, he’d ended up in the principal’s office with Steve, and they’d become fast friends. It was only Bucky’s family moving to Indiana during his freshman year of high school that ended their friendship. Before the age of email and cell phones, two teenage boys didn’t have much of a chance of keeping in contact.

The fact that Bucky stumbled upon his childhood best friend in New York City after so many years defies logic. He hadn’t planned to move back to Red Hook or reunite with anyone from his early life. When he decided to settle down in the city, his only intention was to find a place populous and impersonal enough that he could become invisible.

What Bucky wouldn’t give to go back to those halcyon days before his life went to hell. If he could have Steve back as a friend, recover his dignity, shower, sleep in a real bed instead of huddling in cardboard box against the elements, maybe he’d remember what it was like to feel more human than animal. Growling like a wolf, he tears off another bite of a burger and releases a low chuckle into the empty alley.

Steve doesn’t even know who he is, but that doesn’t seem to matter. For as long as Bucky’s known him, Steve’s always been a good guy. Someone who cares, an optimist who envisions how the world could be instead of the way it is. Bucky misses basking in the warmth of Steve’s smile, or maybe he’s just touch starved. A friendly pat on the back or a tight hug would do wonders for him. He misses human contact, although his PTSD makes him shy away from physical touch.

As the food hits his belly and the dull ache of hunger fades, Bucky clings to the image of Steve’s smile as he huddles against the wind and tugs his filthy blanket up under his chin. When he shivers, he hopes he’ll get another chance to see his old friend—even if Steve has no idea who he is.

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It becomes a normal occurrence to see him. Every Wednesday, Steve appears in the alley with a bag of burgers and fries, and Bucky accepts the proffered gift. Sometimes, there’s a chocolate milkshake to go with the food, and he gulps it down greedily until nothing but air comes through the straw. The slurping sound as he sucks up the last drops echoes against the brick buildings and ring in his ears as satisfaction.

After their initial meeting, Steve stays with him after handing over the food. While Bucky eats, Steve talks—about the weather, sports, art, politics, and a million other things that Bucky hears but doesn’t necessarily register. He knows exactly what Steve’s doing, how he’s trying to win Bucky over, to gain his trust. What Steve doesn’t know is that he already has it. As soon as Bucky realized who Steve is, he knew he could trust Steve.

After several weeks, Bucky knows he should admit who he is, but something inside him keeps holding back. He wages an internal battle, lambasting himself for not giving Steve his nickname and continuing to go by James when they interact. Every once in a while, he’s sure he’s been found out. Steve doesn’t say anything if he’s discovered Bucky’s secret, though. His mother raised him better than that. Steve was always unfailingly polite as long as his sense of moral justice wasn’t triggered by a jackass.

“Someday, I’d like to know your story,” Steve says wistfully as he watches Bucky take the last bite of his burger.

Ducking his head, Bucky shrugs and tries not to blush. Someone as perfect as Steve shouldn’t even bother with a mess like him. He hasn’t showered in weeks, although he has groomed himself as best he can. Still, his hair is lank and greasy, and his clothes are musty. He hasn’t shaved since he gave up his apartment. It’s no wonder Steve doesn’t seem to know who he is.

Rising to his feet, Steve gives him a sad smile and cocks his head. “Please, let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, James. I’d like to.”

When Bucky doesn’t answer, Steve presses his lips together in a fine line and lifts his hand in a silent, half-hearted wave. Turning on his heel, Steve strides to the end of the alley and disappears around the corner. It feels like the sun’s gone behind a cloud, but it’s really just Steve’s warmth and light that’s disappeared.

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The week passes so slowly as Bucky waits for Wednesday and Steve’s return. Cooler than normal, Brooklyn is blanketed in snow twice in three days, sending Bucky scurrying to a shelter where he’s able to shower and rinse out his clothes as well as drink multiple cups of hot coffee. The caffeine hits his bloodstream like a freight train, and he spends a solid hour hiding in the bathroom with his hands over his ears as he tries to slow his heartbeat. He leaves the shelter as soon as possible and vows to avoid coffee for the foreseeable future.

Exhausted and weary, Bucky only grunts when Steve appears in his alley with a hopeful grin and bag of food. Settling onto a wooden palette, Steve brushes his hair back off his forehead and turns his attention to Bucky.

“Glad you survived the snow. I worried about you, James.”

Before he can stop himself, he blurts, “My name is Bucky,” and watches with wide eyes as Steve’s mouth drops open. “My name is Bucky,” he repeats when Steve can’t seem to find his voice. “Bucky Barnes. We grew up together.”

“Bucky?”

His name falls from Steve’s lips like honey. It’s sweet and comes with a sting.

“I don’t look the same,” Bucky explains unnecessarily. “I’m not the same. Haven’t been since I—”

Choking into silence, he can’t bear the kindness on Steve’s face as he leans close and places his hand tentatively on Bucky’s shoulder. “You don’t have to explain a thing, Buck. Not a single thing. I’m so glad you told me who you are. I knew there was something familiar about you. Didn’t dare to dream that you were my dearest childhood friend.”

“I’m a mess,” Bucky whispers, shame coloring his tone.

“You’re a hero,” Steve insists softly. “What this country does to its vets… You are a veteran, right? I recognize the…” Tapping at the inside of his wrist, he indicates Bucky’s tattoo.

Tugging down his sleeve, Bucky nods but doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t like to talk about it, doesn’t feel like a hero. How can he when his job was to kill other people? Just because he was good at picking off targets through a scope doesn’t make him a role model. It just means he’s a screwed up, mentally tortured assassin brainwashed by the U.S. military to murder for hire.

“Thank you for your service,” Steve says softly.

Shaking his head, Bucky shrinks into himself. “Don’t thank me. I didn’t do anything worthwhile. Just played in a sandbox and dodged bullets.”

“Afghanistan?”

“Two tours.”

“We should swap war stories someday.”

“You, too, huh?” Bucky asks as his heart cracks. Steve shouldn’t ever be made to do the dirty work Bucky did during his enlistment.

Nodding seriously, Steve looks like he wants to say a million things, but he settles for one that Bucky knows he can answer. “What brings you back to Brooklyn? You moved away in what…eighth grade? Thought for sure you’d be a pure Midwesterner now.”

Feeling more like himself than he has in years, Bucky allows his lips to quirk up into a timid smile. “Ninth, and nah. Couldn’t get Brooklyn off my mind. Or you.”

Sucking in a breath, he drops his eyes to his hands. He fidgets for several long minutes as Steve breathes quietly beside him. Bucky didn’t mean to take such a big chance, but now that it’s out, he’s not sorry for admitting what he’s known for a long time. Steve’s always meant a lot to him, but now, he means just a little bit more. He’s become a lifeline when Bucky needs it the most.

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Bucky doesn’t go home with Steve that day or the next week or for another few months after that. Eventually, though, he gives in to Steve’s sweet smile and kindness. After so many burgers and fries and gestures of friendship, Steve reaches over and cups Bucky’s face in his hand. With his heart in his eyes, he hesitates for only a moment before dipping his head and brushing his mouth across Bucky’s trembling lips.

To say he’s shocked is an understatement, but Bucky’s always known deep in his soul that Steve’s special. Bucky’s loved Steve his entire life, and that feeling has only grown and deepened since they’ve been reunited.

“I’m sorry,” Steve murmurs against his lips. “I didn’t mean to…I didn’t ask. I’m sorry if this isn’t something you wanted.”

Hardly able to speak, Bucky closes his eyes and breathes in Steve’s masculine scent. Suddenly, Bucky wants nothing more than to end his time on the street, to have a permanent address, a place to feel safe, a warm, comfortable bed where he can sleep at night. For the first time in ages, Bucky wants a home.

“I want it,” he gasps as he chokes on his desire. “I want it. I want it. I want it. I want you.”

Pulling back, Steve loosens his hold so that his hand slips to cradle Bucky’s neck. “Come home with me,” he pleads. “Come home with me. I have a place for you. A couch. A guest room. My bed. Plenty of hot water. Food. Laundry. Whatever you want, Buck. Whatever I have. It’s yours. Come home with me.”

“I can’t do that,” he says, although he wants nothing more.

Pressing his forehead against Bucky’s temple, Steve breathes, “Yes, you can. You don’t have to get by on your own anymore. Let me help you.”

Chuckling softly, Bucky asks, “Just like old times, huh? We can put the couch cushions on the floor and sleep there like we did when we were kids.”

“Too old for that now,” Steve mumbles. “I’d throw my back out in a second. My bed’s too comfortable. Like a marshmallow. Hate thinking of you sleeping out here on the hard ground. Come home with me, Buck. I’m not asking for anything. Only to know that you’re safe and warm and loved.”

Heart swelling, Bucky swallows hard and fights to keep tears from his eyes. It’s what he wants, but he doesn’t deserve the kindness Steve offers. Still, he’s too weak to turn down something he desires so desperately.

Lifting his head, he closes his eyes and gives one curt nod. Steve’s first act of kindness changed everything. It’s time for Bucky to accept the lifeline Steve offers.