Chapter Text
Bucky didn’t worry too much about Steve when he first got sick – at least, he didn’t worry more than he usually did. Steve’d been finding ways to make him worry since the moment they’d met. The thing was, Steve didn’t seem to realize that his body wasn’t able to match his gumption. The stupid little punk never backed down from anything, and consequently, he never stayed out of trouble for very long. Bucky knew plenty of small guys who talked tough and started fights to compensate for their stature, who self-consciously made up for being shorter than their dates by punching any guy who eyed their girl. But with Steve, it was different.
With Steve, it was always different.
Up until recently, he’d been displaying his particular brand of stupid by refusing to accept Bucky’s offer of a place to live. “I can get by on my own,” he’d insisted, a furrow knitting itself above the inner corners of his eyebrows, the way it always did when he was being stubborn. Part of Bucky had wanted to argue with him, to lay out all the reasons why Steve should move in. But he’d thought better of it – Steve’s grief was still raw, and anyway, he didn’t want to make his case too passionately.
To his credit, Steve made it a couple of months on his own. He’d sacrificed a lot to make it as long as he did. All though high school, Steve had talked Bucky’s ear off about his plans to enroll in art school after graduation. “I think I could get good at it if I work hard enough, Buck,” he’d said, over and over again. “I could do illustrations for the papers or magazines or something. Imagine! Maybe someday I’ll be a famous artist, and you can brag to all your dates that you knew Steve Rogers before he was famous.” Bucky always responded to that last joking comment with a tight-lipped smile that he hoped Steve couldn’t read. Still, he’d always believed in Steve’s talent, as he’d watched childish doodles evolve into sketchbooks full of carefully rendered scenes from their life in Brooklyn. His pencil captured flocks of pigeons whirling between the criss-crossed laundry lines stretched between buildings, shirts and sheets flapping like flags in the breeze; the eager throngs of Coney Island, faces lit up with carnival lights and the promise of fun; and dozens of sketches of Bucky, who Steve insisted was “his best model.”
But when his mother began to cough up blood in the middle of Steve’s senior year, everything had changed. Steve took on a part-time job at a grocer’s to cover the rent, and when he graduated, he begged Mr. Willis, the owner of the store, for more hours. His asthmatic lungs and overworked heart, however, made him slow at stocking the shelves, and nearly useless at unloading deliveries, and Mr. Willis couldn’t justify keeping him on for more than a few hours a day. He managed to pay rent through December between his mother’s remaining savings and his meager paychecks, his dreams of art school pushed aside in favor of survival, but when January rent was due, Steve found himself coming up short.
“I dunno what to do, Bucky,” he’d confessed, a few days shy of Christmas.
“You still have my key, right?” Bucky asked.
“Yeah,” Steve replied reluctantly. “I don’t wanna impose, though. Your place isn’t that big, and besides, you’re never gonna get a girl to come up after a date if you’ve got some other guy sleeping on the floor.”
Bucky swallowed, and shook his head. “I don’t care. You’re my best pal, Stevie. I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t serious about it.”
Steve hesitated. Bucky knew he was out of options, but as always, he wasn’t willing to go down without a fight. “Okay. But only until I can find a cheaper place.”
“Fine. Just… please let me help you out, at least for a while. Okay?”
“Okay,” Steve agreed, avoiding Bucky’s eyes, clearly embarrassed to accept his offer. “Thanks, pal.”
* * *
It was February now, and Steve had been living with Bucky for over a month. As always, Steve spent most of the winter battling one cold after another. His congested snores kept Bucky awake some nights, but he didn’t mind. Mercifully, it was a warmer winter than the last – the beginning of 1936 had been one of the coldest spells in recent memory. It was during that bitterly cold time that Sarah Rogers had begun to cough. Initially, she’d blamed it on the frigid air, but when blood began to fleck her handkerchiefs after each coughing fit, and her symptoms became more and more like those of the tuberculosis patients she treated, the true nature of her illness became undeniable.
When Steve woke up for work one brisk morning with an unstoppably runny nose, complaining that his head and throat hurt, Bucky was mostly just relieved that whatever he had didn’t seem to be tuberculosis.
“I dunno if I can make it to work, Buck,” he’d confessed.
“You shouldn’t go to work,” Bucky insisted. “Mr. Willis won’t be too pleased if you get snot all over the store.”
“I guess,” Steve agreed reluctantly.
“I’ll stop by on my way down to the docks and let him know you’re not coming in, okay?” Bucky insisted.
“Thanks,” Steve replied weakly.
“Just take it easy, okay? Maybe do some sketches or somethin’.” Bucky smiled reassuringly at Steve, who sat hunched-over at their little table, hands cradling a cup of coffee for warmth.
“Okay. That sounds nice,” Steve said with a shaky smile.
“Just don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone,” Bucky said with a grin, giving Steve’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“How could I do anything stupid without you, jerk?” Steve teased, but before he could smile, he doubled over into a hoarse cough.
Bucky frowned. “Take it easy, Stevie. Please?”
“Okay,” he agreed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I gotta hit the road,” said Bucky, affectionately ruffling Steve’s hair. “See ya tonight, pal,”
Steve sniveled. “See you later,” he replied, but his increasingly stuffy nose made his words sound more like thee you leder.
Bucky stopped by the grocery to inform Mr. Willis of Steve’s illness, and then began his walk to work in earnest. Dawn seeped into the gray sky as Bucky strode down the sidewalks of Brooklyn, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets against the late-winter chill. The city pulsed with life at all hours, but during these early-morning walks to the dock, Bucky witnessed its slower rhythms – the sleepy stirrings of lights flicking on in apartment windows, the lazy stroll of the tamer alley cats venturing stiff-tailed and purring onto the sidewalks, the groggy hustle of men like himself heading down to the docks and factories, hoping there’d be work for them that day.
Bucky had always taken a quiet sort of comfort in these liminal moments, in the time between night and day, home and work, one thing and another. He especially liked those times when he was in transit, just another man walking briskly down the street, somehow alone in a city where people were constantly present. That feeling of anonymity, the sensation of being unnoticed in public, made him feel free. There were things hidden deep within him that he could never let surface, secrets bubbling in the depths of him that nobody could know. Not even Steve. Especially not Steve. But as he walked down the street, just another nameless man on the way to a nameless job, he could let the mask inside himself fall away, and acknowledge the unspoken tangles of his heart.
He wasn’t quite sure when he’d realized that he wasn’t like other guys. He supposed it hadn’t been an all-of-the-sudden sort of thing. It wasn’t the kind of thing a fella just owned up to. He could remember a few moments clearly, though, and as they’d added up in his adolescence, one by one, something inside him had clicked together.
He’d been thirteen, and Steve had been hunched over his sketchbook on the edge of the schoolyard, scribbling furiously away as he tried to complete his drawing before the bell rang. Bucky had sat beside him, bored and picking at the grass. As the tinny peal of the bell called them back to class, Steve showed his sketch to Bucky. He’d drawn three of the girls from his class – Bucky couldn’t remember who the other two had been, but he couldn’t forget how Ruth Jameson stood, as recognizable as a photo, in the center of the picture, each detail of her face carefully rendered by Steve’s pencil, right down to the smattering of freckles across her cheeks and pert little nose. “What do ya think?” Steve had asked. “I hope I did her justice. She’s the prettiest girl in the whole school.” Steve looked down at his sketch again, and stood up, dusting off his pants. Bucky felt a strange twinge in his stomach, and couldn’t respond with more than a noncommittal shrug. “I guess you’re right, Buck,” Steve had replied. “I butchered her chin.” He tore the paper from the sketchbook, crumpled it, and threw it into the trashcan on their way back into the building. That wasn’t what I meant, Bucky wanted to say, but he wasn’t sure what he had meant to say.
Then later that year, Steve found himself, as he so often did, getting his ass kicked by a couple bullies in an alley after school. Bucky had intervened, and although he was already getting to be big and strong for his age, one of the bullies got in a solid lick on Bucky and given him a helluva black eye. Steve had been in pretty rough shape, sporting a split lip, a shiner of his own, and a dozen or so bruises on his chest and ribs. Bucky had insisted on taking Steve back to the Barnes’ household, sitting him on the edge of the tub and carefully dabbing his split lip clean with a washcloth. But Steve, after a few minutes of Bucky tending to him, wriggled away, grabbed a clean washcloth and dampened it with cold water, and insisted on gently pressing it to Bucky’s eye. As Bucky looked down at Steve with his uncovered eye, he’d seen those azure eyes staring back up at him out of that bruised and bloodied face, pupils wide with concern and care, and he’d felt something catch and pull within his chest, an ache like a hook finding purchase within him.
A few years later, when Bucky was seventeen, they’d gone to a dance, the biggest one of the year. Bucky had found dates for both of them – he’d gone with Grace Smith, who Steve had described, maybe a little enviously, as “a real catch.” Grace’s quiet, slightly shy friend, Gladys Edwards, had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to come along as Steve’s date. Bucky had prepared for the evening by dressing as sharply as he could manage, and filling a large flask with some of his pa’s whiskey. He felt pretty slick sneaking it into the dance in his coat pocket, periodically sneaking little swigs in the bathroom. Grace seemed pretty excited about the whole thing, and as the night went on, she wouldn’t stop dancing closer and closer to him, the slightly-too-sweet smell of her perfume making his head spin.
“You should walk me home after the dance,” Grace murmured into his ear, so close that her breasts brushed his chest. “My parents are both working the night shift tonight if you wanna come up,” she said with a suggestive smile.
Bucky forced himself to keep dancing, fighting the urge to freeze up. “I… I’ll try. But I’m not feeling too well.”
Grace paused her dancing and looked up at him, her red lips twisting into a pout. “Aw, c’mon. I know you’ve been sneaking drinks – I can smell it on your breath, you know. But it’ll be fun!”
“I… ah… I’d better go check on how Steve and Gladys are doing,” Bucky said quickly. Grace scowled after him as he hurried across the dance floor, his heart pounding in his chest. Grace was the one of the prettiest girls in the neighborhood, according to every guy he know. So why did the idea of going to bed with her make the pit of his stomach grow cold, despite the heat of the whiskey growing inside him?
He found Steve sitting on a chair at the edge of the dance hall, alone. “Hey, pal,” he said, clapping his hand slightly-too-firmly on Steve’s shoulder. “Where’s Gladys?”
“Over there,” Steve gestured onto the dance floor. She was dancing arm-in-arm with a guy Bucky didn’t know, appearing to be having a swell time of it.
“Oh,” said Bucky. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. I just wanna get out of here.”
“Me too,” said Bucky.
“But what about Grace? She seems real hot for you.”
Bucky shrugged. “I dunno about that. I need some fresh air, anyway. This place is makin’ me dizzy.”
“I don’t think it’s the place, Buck,” Steve said, rolling his eyes. “How much whiskey did you drink?”
Not enough, Bucky wanted to say, but instead he just grabbed Steve’s wrists and pulled him up. “Let’s get outta here, Stevie,” he said, leading them to the door.
They’d spent the next couple hours sitting on a stoop, talking about everything and nothing as Bucky downed the rest of his flask. His head swam and he couldn’t get out his words without slurring, but as he looked down at Steve, with that shock of blond hair and that thin, contemplative face set with those impossibly blue eyes, he knew that the warmth spreading through his chest wasn’t just from the whiskey.
Oh Christ, he realized, his hands suddenly trembling as the feelings he’d had for so long suddenly made sense. I’m in love with Steve.
“You okay?” Steve asked, looking up at Bucky, his brow furrowed with concern.
Bucky realized he’d been silently clenching his jaw. “Uh. Yeah. I just feel a little tired is all.”
“We should get home anyway,” said Steve. “Ma’s working overnight at the hospital. Is it okay if I stay the night with you?”
“Yeah, of course,” Bucky answered, only vaguely aware that he was speaking, feeling distant from his body, his words, everything. You love Steve Rogers, his mind seemed to echo at him.
He spent hours lying awake, staring up at the ceiling as the room spun, unable to turn his focus away from the soft sounds of Steve’s breath whispering up from his nest of couch cushions on the floor. He loved Steve, he had loved him for years, and now he knew it with a knife-sharp certainty. And I gotta make sure nobody ever knows, he realized, and a lump caught in his throat, silent tears of longing sliding down his temples. The headache he woke up with the next morning went away, but the longing ache in his chest never did.
Now he was nineteen, and now that Steve lived with him, the ache had only grown stronger, coupled with the overbearing weight of secret guilt. But as always, he did his best to shove it down, to ignore the way that Steve’s blue eyes, with their impossibly long lashes, made his knees tremble and his palms sweat. Despite his best efforts, though, he still felt the knot of longing in his chest tighten a little more with each day he silently, secretly loved his best friend.
Bucky had been so lost in thought that he barely noticed that he’d reached his destination. As he joined the line of longshoremen hoping for work, he shivered a little in the cold. The clouds had grown darker, and the air had the subtle smell of snow soon to come. His little flat was drafty. He hoped Steve was keeping warm.
* * *
There was no time for introspection on the walk home. The threatened snowfall had come in the early afternoon – only a couple inches thus far, but it continued to fall into the evening in flurries, and the accompanying wind that howled in off the water drove Bucky to half-walk, half-run back to his apartment, huddling over against the cold. His back ached and his legs were like rubber from a long day of unloading crates and barrels from the ships, but the frigid winds were enough to keep his pace brisk.
He breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped through the door to the apartment building, the burning sensation of warmth returning to his fingers and toes both painful and welcome. Bucky scaled the five flights of stairs that led to his flat, his thighs aching softly from the effort. He was strong, and his work as a longshoreman had filled out his lithe body with the bulk of well-used muscles. Even so, after a long day at the docks, he sometimes wished he’d found a flat on a lower floor.
Bucky fumbled the key into the lock with his still-aching fingers, and stepped into the apartment. His stomach clenched when he saw Steve – or rather, what little of him he could see.
Steve lay on the couch cushions that served as his bed in the middle of Bucky’s floor, wrapped tightly in blankets, but still visibly shivering.
“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky said, trying to sound casual and unconcerned, “How ya doin’, pal?”
Steve groaned. “I’m really cold,” he replied, his voice thick with congestion. “Think I might have a fever.”
Bucky knelt beside Steve and put the back of his hand gently against Steve’s damp forehead. Despite his shivers, his skin was clammy and alarmingly hot to the touch. “I’ll say,” agreed Bucky. “Lotta guys down at the docks are getting the flu lately. I’ll bet that’s what you’ve got, too.”
“Probably,” Steve sighed, his breath a rattle.
“Do do any drawing today?” Bucky asked.
“Jus’ a little bit,” Steve mumbled.
“Can I see?” Bucky asked. Talking about his art always made Steve feel a bit better, even if only temporarily.
“Sure. Sketchbook’s on the table,” Steve wheezed, his words trailing off into coughing.
Bucky walked over to the table and took a look. Steve had filled two pages – one with a still life of their percolator and a mug full of coffee, and the other with a few rough sketches of a man who looked a bit like Bucky, walking and running and jumping.
“Is this supposed to be me?” Bucky asked, holding up the sketchbook.
“I dunno,” said Steve. “They’re just little doodles, y’know?”
Bucky nodded and put the sketchbook back on the table. “Of course,” he said. “Well, I’m always happy to model for you,” striking a goofy strongman pose in an attempt to make Steve laugh. His efforts worked, but Steve’s laugh quickly turned into a cough that made Bucky wince. “That sounds painful,” he said.
“Yeah,” Steve replied weakly.
“I really don’t think you should be sleeping on the floor when you’re like this,” said Bucky, frowning. “You take the bed tonight.”
“But Buck, where are you gonna sleep?” Steve protested.
“On the floor. I’ll be fine.”
“No. I won’t kick you out of your bed just ‘cause I’m a little bit sick,” said Steve, furrowing his brow just like he always did when he was being too stubborn for his own good.
“I won’t take no for an answer on this, pal,” said Bucky. “I’m not offering. I’m insisting.” Steve grumbled, but when Bucky gently bent over to help him into the bed, he didn’t resist. Bucky kept a gentle grip on Steve’s arm, but as his friend began to lurch sideways, Bucky’s arms flew out to support him under his armpits, feeling the dampness of fever-sweat on Steve’s pajamas. “You okay?” Bucky asked, trying to conceal the alarm in his voice.
“Uh-huh,” replied Steve, as Bucky guided him onto the bed and laid him down. “Just got a tiny bit dizzy is all.”
Bucky shook his head as he pulled his blankets over Steve, then added a couple more from the pile on the couch cushions. “Warm enough?” he asked.
“I think so. Thank you, Bucky,” said Steve. As he spoke, he looked up into Bucky’s eyes, his pupils so wide they nearly obscured the blue of his irises, and the ache in Bucky’s chest gave a little throb.
“It’s nothin’,” said Bucky. “I know you’d do the same for me if I was sick.”
“You hardly ever get sick,” said Steve.
But I know you would,” said Bucky, giving Steve’s hair a gentle ruffle. “I’m gonna make dinner now, okay?”
“Okay,” said Steve.