Chapter Text
October
“Cute apron.”
Bucky looks up from where he’s scrawling the man’s order on a plastic cup, eyes wide. “Hmm?”
The blond man clears his throat, chuckling a bit awkwardly. “No, just… the apron’s nice. Nice color on you.”
“Oh. Thank you,” he grins a bit. He happens to think he looks kind of dumb in the pale blue apron, but the flattery is nice regardless. “What’s the name for the order?”
“Steve.”
“Alright, Steve, go ahead and follow the instructions on the pinpad and I’ll have this ready in a minute,” Bucky says mindlessly, already starting to fill the cup with ice.
He watches the man wait out of the corner of his eye as he pours the coffee, then pumps in a few shots of hazelnut syrup. The blond has a leather bag tucked under his arm and a plaid scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. He looks real insightful, like he’s the kinda guy who listens to podcasts about the economy or goes to museums in his free time.
“Alright, Steve, here you go, perfect day for iced coffee,” Bucky jokes, placing the cup on the counter and pushing it towards Steve.
“C’mon, there’s no such thing as too cold for iced coffee,” Steve chuckles with a gleaming smile, picking the coffee up and stabbing a paper straw into the lid. “Have a good day…” He hesitates, squinting a bit to look at Bucky’s nametag. “James.” And after dropping a twenty in the tip jar, he walks into the blustery November afternoon with his iced coffee in hand.
The rest of the evening lapses uneventfully. It gets dark early, too early, but the café has string lights hung from nearly every available surface, so it’s rather cozy if you’re in the right mood. After wiping down the tables and packing the leftover pastries into boxes for the shelter to pick up at closing, Bucky takes a seat at one of the tables and waits for his ride. Twenty minutes, then a half hour. No response to his texts, no sign of Brock. He starts organizing the calorie-free sugar packets to pass the time.
“Bucky?”
“Oh, hey, Nat,” Bucky grins, momentarily startled as the redhead materializes in the doorway. “Everything’s packed up on the counter.”
“Didn’t realize you were open so late…” she remarks, grabbing the bags and slinging them over her shoulder.
“Oh, we’re closed, Brock just hasn’t gotten here yet.”
“When’s he going to be here?”
“I don’t know,” he laughs nervously. “He hasn’t answered my texts, but it says they’re delivered so I know they’re going through. He might have fallen asleep, or maybe he got caught up at work.”
“C’mon, I’ve gotta drop these back at the shelter and then I can drive you by your place.”
“Oh, he’ll be here soon, I probably shouldn’t–”
“Nope. It’s already dark out. Let’s go.”
He relents after a few more feeble protests and climbs into the passenger seat of her car with the precariously stacked boxes in his lap as she fiddles with the GPS. “I’m sorry, I know it takes time outta your night when you’ve gotta drive me,” Bucky apologizes quietly.
“It’s, like, twenty minutes total, and I get to see you,” she grins. “Always worth it.”
Bucky giggles bashfully and sits back a bit, letting his sore legs stretch out. “How’re you doing? I haven’t been around past closing the past few weeks.”
“Eh,” she shrugs as she pulls out of the parking lot. “It’s tough. A woman who just got a new apartment last week is already back because her ex won’t respect the restraining order, and the cops are refusing to do shit about it.”
“Her ex was the one in the military?”
“Yup. And his dad, uncle, and brother, all cops.”
“Fuck. That’s rough.”
“Mhm. She’s got a brother, though, on the west coast, so she’s probably gonna move there. Fresh start, all that.”
It pains Bucky sometimes, when he sees how invested Natasha gets in the lives of the people who live at the shelter. He doesn’t know everything about Nat’s childhood, he barely knows anything, in fact, but the details she’s let slip clearly still burn painful brands into her memory. It must be hard to heal like that, constantly picking at the scabs of your own wounds while you try to help others. He’s only volunteered there a few times, usually when they do some event for the kids and need desserts, but he knows how fully Natasha immerses herself in her work.
Bucky follows Nat into the shelter like a nervous shadow, arms laden with boxes of pastries. After a couple of security checks, they make it to the cafeteria, where there’s a small group of kids watching some animated movie on a big projector.
The bright pink boxes catch their attention, and soon the little herd has migrated to the fold-up tables where Bucky and Natasha are setting out the cookies and muffins. “Hello, Mr. Bucky,” one of the kids, a young boy named Harley, beams up at him through a mop of dirty-blond hair.
“Hey, kiddo, how’re you doing?” Bucky chuckles.
“It’s movie night. I got to have a soda.”
“Nice,” Bucky grins, giving him a fistbump.
Most of the drive to Brock’s apartment is quiet. Natasha plays slow jazz music and Bucky rests his eyes for a few blessed minutes, lulled by the steady hum of the engine and Nat’s soft humming. “Y’know,” she begins, lowering the music slightly. “You could volunteer at the shelter on the weekends if you wanted to. The kids love you.”
“Brock likes me to be home when I’m not working,” Bucky says softly, picking anxiously at his bitten-down cuticle.
She lets out a curious little huh. “So he gets to go out and get trashed with his friends and you get to stay home and, what? Cook him dinner?”
“I’ll ask him. See what he says. And, y’know. I need that time to study and stuff.” It’s a lie meant to shut her up, and it does, but it doesn’t trick her.
Natasha makes Bucky promise to call if he needs anything before letting him out of the car. Brock still hasn’t responded to any of his texts. Annoyance has long since given way to worry, worry that he’s gotten tangled up in something, that he got hurt on the job, but Bucky can hear the television blaring through the door while he fumbles with his keys, which does serve to settle his nerves.
Brock’s half-asleep on the couch when Bucky walks into the living room, still in his uniform, feet kicked up onto the coffee table. “Hey,” Bucky says quietly, placing a hand on Brock’s shoulder.
Brock grunts, reorienting himself for a moment as his eyes open and he blinks quickly. “Oh. What time is it?”
Bucky glances at his phone. “A bit past nine.”
“Didn’t your shift end at eight?”
Bucky takes a slow breath. “Mhm.”
“Why’d it take you an hour to get home?”
“I thought you were picking me up, so Nat gave me a ride instead.”
Bucky hears him mutter something about Natasha, he’s never liked her very much, Bucky doesn’t understand why. He can probably tell that she doesn’t like him very much. Bucky kicks his dusty converse back down the hallway so they sit by the door and takes a tentative step around the couch, into Brock’s line of sight.
“Are you alright?” he asks softly.
“God, I’m fine,” Brock scoffs. He stretches out his shoulders and takes a sip of the soda sitting on the coffee table. He grimaces slightly as he swallows. It must be flat.
“Did you have dinner yet? I can cook. Whatever you want.”
“Yeah, I ate.”
Bucky disappears into the bedroom before the next question he asks triggers a worse reaction. After a short shower and a quick shave, he changes into a pair of sweatpants and one of Brock’s shirts, dripping hair tied back with a scrunchie. He settles down on the bed, surrounded by notebooks and his old, shitty laptop and half a dozen ballpoint pens. He still doesn’t understand functions. Math has always been his worst subject.
He’s only two practice problems in when the door creaks open. “Aren’t you tired?” Brock chuckles, brushing one of the notebooks to the side and sitting at the edge of the bed.
“The tests are eighty bucks each, I’m not fucking them up,” he laughs, piling the books up and scooting over so Brock can sit properly next to him. He shifts closer to Brock, splays one leg over Brock’s lap.
“Mmm, well, you’ll have the weekend to study, why don’t you put the books away for now?” Brock murmurs, cradling the soft curve of Bucky’s jaw in one hand and leaning in to press a kiss to his neck.
“Babe, I just–”
Brock’s eyebrows draw closer together and Bucky understands that he only framed the demand as a suggestion. Bucky moves the little pile of books to the floor and shuts his laptop reluctantly. Brock has him pinned to the bed as soon as he lays back down. He’s still wearing his uniform. He knows how much Bucky hates that fucking uniform. The cornflower-blue shirt is unbuttoned, though, revealing the ribbed tank beneath. It’s obscenely tight, Bucky can see the contours of every finely-carved muscle of Brock’s abdomen beneath it.
“I don’t even understand why you care so much about that test,” he mumbles before continuing to kiss at Bucky’s neck. Brock shaves daily, but by so late in the evening he always has the noticeably-scratchy fuzz of a five-o-clock shadow, just the perfect length to tickle.
“I want to get my GED,” Bucky sighs, tilting his head back in acquiescence. They’ve had this conversation about twenty times. “Let’s just not talk about it, okay?”
“It’s my money you’re spending for something that you aren’t gonna do anything with,” he mutters between harsh kisses and nips.
“Brock,” Bucky sighs.
“What? You aren’t going to college, what are you gonna do with a GED?”
“I don’t even have a high school diploma, you realize how few jobs will hire a nineteen-year-old high school dropout without any kind of accreditation?”
“The job you have is just fine. Keeps you busy, out of trouble, but you have plenty of time at home to cook and clean. No reason to want anything more. I make enough for both of us.”
“Brock,” Bucky pleads. “Not now, please?”
Brock lets out an exaggerated groan and acquiesces, beginning to suck at Bucky’s neck in silence. Bruises stand out so prettily against Bucky’s lightly tanned skin, Brock loves when Bucky wears short sleeved shirts out, he adores the thought that every person Bucky sees throughout the day knows somebody controls him. Bucky doesn’t mind them either, despite the pain and occasional shame, it’s just so intoxicating to feel the low ache in his skin and know how deeply Brock cares about him. Whether they’re making love or Brock’s punching holes in drywall, he just cares so damn much about Bucky. Bucky doesn’t understand why. He’s terrified someday that Brock will grow indifferent, that’s why he feels a rush of relief every time Brock calls him a stupid fucking bitch or slaps him around for screwing something up. He still cares, that’s all Bucky can ever think.
The sex isn’t horrible this time. There are three different ways Brock fucks him. Sometimes they make love, when it’s all romantic and occasionally Brock buys Bucky something pretty to wear, and there’s sweet words and condescending praise and it’s all so lovely. Sometimes it just feels like Brock’s using him as a way to masturbate, little more than a prettier alternative to a sock or a hand. Bucky’s there to get him off and not much more, sometimes he’s rewarded with a couple quick tugs to his dick and an orgasm if he can get off quickly enough.
There are other times. Blood and curses and belts and those horrible toys that Brock keeps in a big plastic bin at the bottom of the closet. Bucky doesn’t want to think about those times, not when his night has been going rather well.
Today, it felt like Brock was just using him to get off, which Bucky won’t complain about. He can lay in the soft bed and sometimes he gets to look at Brock, tonight he didn’t, but sometimes he can. The pressure against his prostate feels nice, and he gets to cum if he’s good. He didn’t tonight. Not because he wasn’t good. He just wasn’t feeling it.
Brock tosses a towel at him while he goes to shower. By the time he’s back, Bucky’s redressed and snuggled sweetly under the thick blankets. “God, you’re cute,” Brock chuckles, dropping his towel and pulling on a pair of boxers. “Your hair’s real pretty like that. I like it with the little… the bun. It’s nice. Easy to pull at.”
Bucky flushes. “Thank you.”
Brock climbs in next to him and clicks the lamp off. “What time’s your shift tomorrow?”
“Early shift,” Bucky yawns. “Seven to three.”
“I’ll be back by seven, about. Dinner on the table, understood?”
“Mhm,” Bucky hums contentedly, inching closer to Brock in the hopes that he’ll wrap his arms around the younger man.
Brock does, he finds the desperation cute.
Bucky wakes the next morning before Brock does. Brock will probably sleep as long as possible, until eight if he can. Bucky likes getting up early. Well, he doesn’t like the waking up part. But he likes the calm of the morning. He can watch the sun rise through the kitchen window as he brews a cup of tea and makes Brock’s lunch. It’s domestic, in a way it never is when Brock’s awake.
He leaves by six so he can catch the bus. The humming lull of the drive almost puts him to sleep, but the coffee shop is only twenty minutes away. He clocks in and ties his apron over his head and begins another day of asking people how to spell their names and fucking up spirals of whipped cream.
He gets to give a pup cup to a sweet dog, and a particularly articulate toddler decides she wants to order her own donut from the display of prettily frosted pastries. Just when Bucky’s about to take his lunch break, the same man from yesterday, the blond with the nice scarf, walks into the coffeeshop, rubbing his cold hands together as he scans the menu.
“You’re earlier today,” Bucky observes.
“I’ve got an afternoon class today,” Steve explains with a gleaming smile. “I’m gonna get a medium iced hazelnut, oat milk and two sugars, and… what’s something warm…”
“You could just get a warm hazelnut,” Bucky jokes.
“It changes the taste,” Steve shakes his head. “Just a steamed apple cider, mostly to warm up my hands. Can’t go to class with frostbite.”
“What are you studying?” Bucky asks as he pulls down a paper cup from the rack.
Steve drops a couple dollars in the tip cup after sliding his card through the machine. “Art history and creative writing” he replies, a bit sheepishly. “Listen, I know it’s not business or accounting, but–”
“But it’s what you like,” Bucky nods, understanding. “I think those sound interesting.” He starts filling the cup with the steaming cider, cinnamon and nutmeg filling the air.
“Are you in college?”
Bucky looks down at the cup, studying it intensely as he clicks the lid into place. “No. I dropped out of high school junior year. I’m getting my GED, though.”
“Good on you,” Steve grins. “How’s studying going? I remember my Ma getting her GED when I was a kid. I used to help her make flashcards.”
“It’s going alright,” Bucky shrugs, filling the second cup with ice. “I’m no good at math, but I think I’ve got a pretty solid handle on everything else. It’s just too expensive to try until I’m sure I’m gonna pass, that’s why I’ve been putting it off for two years.”
“Math isn’t my strong suit either, surprisingly enough,” Steve jokes. “I bet you’ll do great, go at your own pace.”
“Thanks,” Bucky smiles. He slips a cardboard sleeve onto each drink, handing them both to Steve. “Have fun learning about… whatever exactly you learn about for an art history major. I’m sure it’s interesting.”
“It’s a lot of old Italian men, really,” Steve chuckles.
Bucky suppresses his knee-jerk reaction to make a joke about how he doesn’t mind older Italian men but he isn’t sure how well it’ll go over so he just laughs and waves as Steve walks out of the shop.
He studies through his lunch break. He still doesn’t understand functions.
He stops by the grocery store on the way home, grabbing a box of rice and a few peppers and onions. When Brock has later shifts, he likes to come home to something warm and filling, so he’ll make chicken and rice, he’s never complained about that before.
The past few days have been unsettlingly nice. Brock has seemed in a relatively good mood, Bucky has managed to keep from saying something stupid, and they’ve avoided all of those little mishaps that end up fucking with the peace– a shattered wine glass or a text too late at night. And Bucky really doesn’t want to be the one to break the tension.
He starts on the chicken almost as soon as he gets home, while he takes laps around the apartment to make sure nothing’s out of place. He throws a load of laundry into the washer and vacuums around the couch, but there isn’t really anything out of place. He and Brock don’t spend much time home during the week, and Bucky certainly never leaves traces of his existence. There’s hints of Brock’s presence, empty bottles of beer or cans of soda, the occasional sock or pair of boxers, but much of the precision and cleanliness instilled in him during his time in the army stuck with him.
Bucky wears something he knows Brock will like– one of his own shirts, tight against his chest and revealing enough that Brock will be able to see his marks, and a pair of shorts that Brock once described as sinful. He does his hair like he did the night before, half up with little strands untucked around his face, and waits for the onions and peppers to soften in the pan.
Bucky isn’t allowed to track Brock like Brock can track him, so he isn’t quite sure when Brock will be home, but blessedly, both plates are still steaming when Brock steps through the door. “Smells good,” he nods approvingly.
“Chicken and rice,” Bucky grins at the praise.
“You look cute, damn, I must’ve done something right today to come home to you looking like this and a good dinner on the table.”
“Thank you, babe.”
Bucky doesn’t say anything when Brock spends the majority of dinner on his phone. Brock’s here and happy with him and that’s all that matters right now. So he eats his chicken and rice and tries not to think about the gun still strapped to Brock’s holster. He doesn’t like that Brock’s a cop, he doesn’t like cops in general. He doesn’t like Brock’s cop friends, and he really doesn’t like the guns sitting around their apartment.
“Why did you say Natasha drove you home last night?” Brock asks suddenly, eyes still on his phone.
“I thought you were gonna pick me up, but by about half past, I figured you’d fallen asleep or… or I had misunderstood. She came by, y’know, because she’s usually the one picking up the leftover pastries we donate, and she saw I was still there. So she drove me home.”
“Why didn’t you take the bus?”
“The next one was at nine-thirty.”
“You know I don’t like you spending time with her. She’s a bad influence, y’know, I don’t like how you get when you spend time with her. Mouthing off and acting all cocky.”
“I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t do stuff like that without asking,” Bucky says softly. If he can get through this all docile and sweet, maybe Brock will drop it. “Next time, I’ll try to make sure I know how I’m getting home before so I can plan better.”
The apology seems to be to his liking, and he nods.
“Can I– after I clean the dishes, can I go study?”
“James,” Brock says, in that unnerving tone.
“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispers, before he even understands what he’s apologizing for.
“Swear to god,” Brock mutters, rolling his eyes and standing up from the table. “Clean up in here and join me in the living room when you’re done. And bring something to drink.”
Brock lets Bucky drink sometimes, which Bucky thinks is funny. He’s not legally old enough, and Brock’s a cop, yet at least once a week he’s trying to get Bucky drunk, says he’s better in bed when he’s loosened up a bit. Bucky takes a few beers from the fridge, beer never makes him as sick as the vile vodkas and whiskeys Brock drinks sometimes, but he really does prefer wine. Brock says wine is for ladies and faggots, and Bucky would never contradict his own boyfriend, but they are faggots, but nevermind. Brock might consider himself gay, but he’s not a faggot like Bucky is.
Brock’s changed out of his uniform by the time Bucky joins him in the living room. He’s just wearing a black t-shirt, stretched taught against the bulge of his biceps, and sweatpants. Bucky curls up next to him, handing over the condensation-slicked bottles and resting his head against the arm of the couch.
Brock gives Bucky little sips every few minutes, until he’s drowsy and pliant. Bucky mostly just remembers Brock showering him off after, and a vague pain in his neck and his ass. He remembers gasping for air. But then Brock lays him down and spoons him until he’s calm again.
Brock has a night shift the next day, and Bucky’s not scheduled until one, which means they have a rare morning together. Bucky doesn’t like these kinds of mornings. He sneaks out of bed to go start breakfast for both of them. He chucks a couple frozen waffles in the toaster for Brock and sits down on the couch while he waits for them to heat up.
He really doesn’t mean to fall back asleep. But the couch is so cozy and the blanket is so warm and he’s just so tired. He jolts awake to a sharp pain in his face and a bitter smell in the air. “Goddamnit, James, can you do a single thing right?” Brock shouts, looming over him with an ugly grimace on his face, like he’s disgusted just by looking at him.
Bucky looks around groggily as slow-dawning realization clears the exhausted haze. “I’m so sorry,” he apologizes tiredly, scrambling up from the couch and stumbling over to the counter.
“Can you be good for one fucking thing?” Brock scoffs.
Bucky’s jaw tenses and he tries to blink away the frustrated tears collecting in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, tossing the burnt waffles in the trash and pulling two more out of the box. He cracks open the kitchen window to help the smoke dissipate.
“Absolutely fucking worthless.”
“Brock,” Bucky implores, “I’m sorry, it was a mistake, why are you being so mean about this?”
“My god, are you crying?”
“Yeah, you hit me, and now you’re shouting at me, because I made a mistake. I was tired, okay? I’m sorry, I’m so deeply sorry that I burnt your breakfast. Not everything has to be a fucking fight.”
“No, you do this constantly, that’s why I’ve gotta make a big deal of this shit, because you never fucking learn.”
“Please,” Bucky sighs, his voice cracking with desperation. “I’m sorry, really. Please just stop being so mean.”
Brock storms back to the bedroom, leaving Bucky to finish breakfast alone. He cuts up some fruit, a banana and some strawberries and a couple grapes, and piles that next to the syrup-drenched waffles. He carries the plate to the bedroom and knocks quietly.
Brock opens the door, jaw set and eyes dark. “You’re fucking lucky I take pity on you,” he snaps. “You realize, without me, you’d be on the streets right now?”
“I know,” Bucky answers, shame burning in his chest.
“You realize, every day, I fucking take pity on you and let you stay here? Any day, I could tell you to get out and you’d have no place to go? You realize that? All this shit, this is only because I feel bad for you.”
“I know.”
“So how about you start acting like you know that? How about you stop making so many fucking mistakes and focus on doing the shit I expect from you. You’re so fucking focused on tests and your friends that you can’t even accomplish the very limited things that I ask of you.”
“Brock–”
“Do you fucking understand? Screw up one more time and see where it gets you. You don’t have the money for those tests, you can’t get your fucking GED without me. Act fucking appreciative.”
“I’m really sorry,” Bucky forces through his strained throat. “I do appreciate you, I promise.”
Brock grabs the plate from him and sets it down on the desk with a sound thud. “C’mon, on your knees, side of the bed,” Brock orders, jerking his chin over to the other side of the room.
Bucky wishes Brock would let him take a proper shower. Brock insists on showering with him, which means getting felt up while trying to shampoo his hair and being unable to turn the heat down, even when the steam makes Bucky feel dizzy. Brock eats his breakfast, now cold, while Bucky dresses.
Bucky doesn’t even try to study that morning. On days where he’s scheduled like this, Tuesdays and Thursdays, he would usually try to study all through the morning, but Brock’s hours are all fucked up since two cops had to be put on desk duty, and he’s been working nights more often than usual.
Lunch is uncomfortably silent. They eat their grilled cheeses in front of the television and Bucky counts down the minutes until noon. He sneaks off to the bedroom to pack up his books and laptop before hurrying out the door.
Bucky knows Brock won’t be home until five in the morning, so he isn’t incredibly worried about hurrying home. Brock rarely has the time to track him during shifts anyway. So, he sticks around after his shift, partially to study uninterrupted and partially because he hopes Natasha will be the one stopping by again.
Instead, he’s greeted by a similarly pleasant face, Sam Wilson, Natasha’s good friend and one of the social workers who volunteers at the shelter. “Buck, how are you?” Sam smiles.
“Pretty good,” Bucky grins. “Still studying.”
“How’s that going?” he asks, grabbing the bags from the counter and taking a seat across from Bucky. He glances at the problem Bucky’s trying to work through, scratched out and erased and frustratedly scrawled over.
“Not great,” Bucky laughs softly. “Math’s still fucking me over.”
“Why don’t you take the other tests first? Get some momentum going, you know? Give yourself the confidence you need.”
“I dunno,” he sighs. “Brock’s getting more frustrated with the whole idea, I don’t know what he’ll think of me stretching them out like that.”
“Well, this is your GED, you’re the one paying for the tests,” Sam reminds him.
“Our bank accounts are… like, linked. It’s our money, and he makes most of it. And anyways, it’s not even just…” he sighs. “Not just a money thing. I dunno. I don’t really feel like going into it.”
“How are you doing otherwise?”
“Fine. Keeping busy.”
“That’s good,” he smiles. “Nat told me she got to see you the other day.”
“Yeah, she drove me home, and I got to stop by the shelter.”
“Those kids really love you, huh?”
“Yeah, because I bring the desserts,” Bucky rolls his eyes, laughing softly.
“C’mon, why don’t I give you a ride back home and we can stop by the shelter on the way?”
“Sure. Brock’s got a night shift, I don’t need to rush home.”
Sam tenses a bit at the mention of the man’s name, but he doesn’t say anything until Bucky’s buckled into the passenger seat. “So… how are things with Brock?”
Bucky hesitates. “Good.”
“What we talked about last time… none of that’s been happening, right?”
“Mhm. It’s great. It’s been real nice at home.”
Sam doesn’t seem convinced, and Bucky notices him eyeing the myriad bruises mottling his skin, but they start to talk about other things. Their plans for the holidays and Sam’s nephews, and nothing to do with Brock or finances or GEDs.
“It’s craft night for the big kids,” Sam explains as they walk through the first security checkpoint. “So watch for the sticky glitter glue hands and all.”
“These jeans are boring anyway, I wouldn’t mind some glitter,” Bucky shrugs.
Some of the littler ones are making hand turkeys, crowded around little tables full of craft paper and chunky crayons. The older ones look to be making autumn leaf garlands, cutting out the shapes with adorable concentration. Bucky sneaks the boxes around back so none of the kids stampede toward him, but once the donuts are all set out on the tables, there’s no stopping the rush of tiny children as they line up for their treats.
“James?”
Bucky looks up in surprise, trying to discern where the voice came from. Natasha and Sam never call him James, and the kids who know him just call him Mr. Bucky.
His eyes narrow slightly as he recognizes the man. “Steve?”
“What a coincidence,” Steve chuckles, wading through the lines of children.
“I didn’t know you volunteered here,” Bucky remarks.
“Oh, yeah, there’s a program for the art students at my college to volunteer here once a week, I’ve been coming here for the past few months. Do you…”
“Oh, no, I don’t work here, we just donate our leftover pastries, sometimes I bring them at closing.”
“Wow, that’s nice, that you guys donate them instead of throwing them out.”
“Yeah, Nat and I sorted the whole thing out a couple months ago. Makes sense, there’s no logical reason to throw out perfectly good food, y’know?”
“Mr. Bucky!”
“Hey, Harley,” Bucky chuckles as the little boy bounds over to him. “How’re you doing?”
“You’re back so soon,” he grins.
“Oh, you only like to see me because you know I always bring treats,” Bucky teases, like he’s very offended.
“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head. “But I do like the donuts, ‘specially the fall ones with the leaf sprinkles. They taste yummier.” Then, turning to Steve, “You know Mr. Stevie?”
“We’ve met a couple times,” Bucky nods.
“You should be friends,” Harley says sagely, before skipping off to get a leaf-sprinkled donut.
Steve and Bucky glance at each other before breaking out in laughter. “Bucky?” Steve raises an eyebrow, once the laughing subsides.
“Oh, it’s a nickname. My middle name is Buchanan, so… Bucky. I know it’s kinda childish, and I do usually go by James, it’s… I don’t know,” he laughs nervously.
“No, no, it’s cute.”
“Hey, Buck, ready to head out?” Sam calls.
“Yeah, yeah, gimme a sec!” Bucky turns back to Steve with a smile. “I’ll see you around, okay?”
“Definitely,” Steve grins.
Sam raises an eyebrow at him as Bucky walks over, a goofy smile on his face. “You met Steve, huh?”
“He’s come to the coffee shop a couple times,” Bucky shrugs.
“He’s cute,” Sam muses.
“Yeah, I guess. You should go for it if you think he’s attractive.”
“I didn’t mean for me,” Sam rolls his eyes. “He looked pretty into you.”
Bucky scoffs softly. “Uh huh.”
“No, really, get his number or something.”
“I’ve got a boyfriend, even if I was delusional enough to believe that he’s into me.”
Bucky falls asleep sprawled out among his notebooks, halfway through a practice problem. He’s awoken before the sun’s up, with a sharp smack to the side of his face. The room is dark, bluish and cool from the dim streetlamps barely peeking through the bathroom window. “Where the fuck were you last night?”
Bucky scrambles up, blinking blearily and wiping drool from his chin. He hears one of the notebooks tumble to the ground. “Hmm?”
“I texted you a dozen fucking times, why the fuck weren’t you answering? Who drove you home? That sure as fuck wasn’t Natasha’s car on the security camera.”
“I fell– I must’ve fallen asleep, I’m sorry, it was just Sam, Sam drove me home, I’m sorry–”
“Who’s Sam? Why the fuck did he drive you home? We agreed you were going to take the bus, you can’t pull the same shit you did the other night, claiming I’m the one who fucked up. Why the fuck did you get home past nine-thirty when I know good and fucking well that your shift ends at eight fucking pm and the bus gets you home by eight-thirty? What the fuck were you doing?”
“Brock, please, stop shouting at me,” Bucky whispers, pressing his back to the headboard.
“Fucking answer me, you cunt,” he seethes, stepping forward and grabbing a handful of Bucky’s sleep-mussed hair.
“Please,” Bucky pleads, trying to push away from him. “I just– I missed the bus, Sam came by, he offered to bring me home, that’s it, please stop hurting me,” he rambles, trying to maneuver himself so Brock’s hand stops pulling his hair so painfully taut. “He’s just a volunteer at the shelter, that’s how I know him, he just drove me home, that’s all, please.”
“You fucking ask me first, holy shit, how many times are you gonna fuck up before you realize that you need to fucking ask me before you do shit?” Brock slaps his cheek again, yanking his head up so they’re eye to eye. “You didn’t text, you didn’t call. You know what that says to me?”
“Brock–”
“Either you’re a lying fucking bitch, or you don’t give a shit about what I do for you. So which is it, are you a whore or do you not give a fuck about me?”
“You were working, I didn’t wanna interrupt, please,” Bucky pleads.
“I don’t give a shit,” he mutters, pulling Bucky close enough that a spray of spittle hits his cheek. “You just love to test my fucking patience, huh?”
“Please,” Bucky whispers, exhausted. He gives in to Brock’s rough yanks, letting his forehead fall against Brock’s arm. “I’m sorry.”
“Prove it.”
Bucky doesn’t have the time to take a shower after Brock fucks him. He practically sprints out the door, jacket half-buttoned and backpack hastily slung over his shoulder. He keeps his head down as he rushes onto the bus. His hair is sweaty and lank, he can feel the burning redness in his face starting to bruise, and Brock made him wear that ugly, conspicuous collar. He tugs at it a couple times, trying to get it to stop pressing up against the painfully sore bruises embedded into his throat.
Steve comes in about an hour after Bucky starts his shift. His normally beaming smile falters just a bit as he takes in Bucky’s disheveled appearance. “A medium iced hazelnut, oat milk and two sugars, and…” he glances at his phone. “An americano? I’m not sure what that is, but I was sent on a mission.”
“I gotcha,” Bucky forces a pursed-lip smile and pulls out two cups.
“Are you alright?” Steve asks, trying to make it sound more conversational than concerned.
“Rough morning,” he says simply, giving a little shrug.
“Oh?”
Bucky shrugs again.
“Did you… I don’t mean to pry. Just… are you sure you’re okay? I mean–” He begins to gesture toward Bucky’s bruised arms, before stopping himself.
“Mhm. Just crazy clumsy,” Bucky nods. He hands Steve his iced coffee and starts on the americano.
“Clumsy?” Steve looks disbelieving, gaze settled upon Bucky’s collar.
“Yup,” Bucky whispers.
Bucky returns home a few hours before Brock. He tiredly shucks his clothes on the bathroom floor and steps underneath the frigid shower stream. He stands there, unmoving, until his muscles start to ache. Once he washes his hair and scrubs his skin gleaming pink, he dresses. He can’t manage anything but sweatpants and a loose shirt over the welts on his back and thighs.
Bucky orders sushi for dinner, he knows Brock will be happy about that. Bucky hates sushi, he doesn’t eat fish, but Brock will be happy with him and maybe, maybe, god please, maybe, he’ll get out of the punishment Brock promised him.
Brock barely glances at him as he walks into the apartment. “Dinner’s on the table,” Bucky calls from the living room, but Brock’s already halfway to their bedroom.
He emerges a moment later, dressed in a loose pair of jeans and a hoodie. He looks nice. “You’re not getting your GED,” Brock says offhandedly, before disappearing into the kitchen.
“Brock?” Bucky stumbles up from the couch, wincing as the long welts rub against the upholstery. “What?”
“You aren’t getting your fucking GED,” Brock repeats, grabbing a beer from the fridge and sitting down. “You don’t need it. It’s a waste of money.”
“Please, Brock, I can’t… please.” Bucky’s eyes well up with tears as he starts to plead. “Please don’t… I have to, please, I don’t–”
“Oh, shut up. What the hell else do you need? I pay the bills, I pay for food, I buy you whatever you want.”
“I just want some independence, I don’t even want to go to college or anything. I just… Brock, please, I promise, I won’t let my studying get in the way anymore. Please, I p–”
“Enough with the fucking begging,” Brock scoffs, popping the cap from the beer and taking a slow, contemplative sip as he gazes maddeningly at Bucky. “C’mon, babe, kneel.”
Bucky does as he’s told, flinching at the pressure on the welts striping his thighs.
Brock reaches a hand down and works his fingers through Bucky’s hair, tugging at a handful every few moments. Bucky kneels, still, eyes cast down at the tiled floor. “Give me a good reason,” Brock murmurs.
“Because I… I’m so incredibly thankful for everything you’ve done for me, and I appreciate what you give me, but it’s unfair that you should have to support me when I’m fully capable of earning money to help. I should do everything I can to serve you, and that should include contributing financially. There are so many remote jobs that I’d be able to do at home, attending to you, while still making money. I know I’ll never be able to repay you for what you’ve done for me, but I’d like to try.”
Brock is silent for a moment, as Bucky trembles under his touch and bites at his lip until he can practically feel his teeth meet. “You understand that your place is in the home? And that no diploma or job can change that?”
“I understand. Sir,” he tacks on, for good measure.
Brock tilts his head up, grinning down at him with a pleased smirk. “Good job using your words, baby.”
Relief burns through Bucky’s veins as he relaxes against Brock’s leg.