Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The back of Steve’s head is pounding as he makes his way down his street. It’s Sunday morning and, judging by the way the sun hangs in the sky, the mass at St Barbara’s Parish must have ended, and some people are already trickling down the street back to their homes. Steve keeps to the emptier side of the road where fewer people are passing. Unfortunately, Rasping Chester never goes to mass, and, in his own words, prefers to honor the Lord by observing the world He made from the stairs in front of his tenement. Chester barely ever leaves the stairs if the weather is good. A cloud of smoke always hangs around him, barely ever a moment without a cigarette dangling from his mouth. 

Rasping Chester is a permanent fixture of Bushwick avenue. Steve is convinced he knows every single person in Bushwick well enough that he’d be able to draw a family tree for them. Another permanent fixture is a pack of Chesterfields in his hands — Rasping Chester smokes at least four packs a day. Unsurprisingly, that’s why he’s called Chester. That’s also why he rasps too. His real name is Wyatt, but no one’s ever called him that except for his wife and even she gave up after a while.  

Not only does Chester have the advantage of knowing every single person on the street; he knows all the gossip too and gossip in Bushwick gets shared faster and more effectively than even Jesus shared his bread. Steve is fairly sure the gossip reaches more ears than the bread did mouths, too, and a lot of it is due to Chester’s inability to keep his mouth shut. 

“Rogers boy,” Chester, predictably, rasps.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Chester,” Steve nods his head, trying to hide his bruised cheek as best as he can. 

“Got a whooping again, I see.” Chester laughs then coughs wetly. 

Steve has to admit that it’s kind of hard not to notice that he got beaten up when there is caked blood in his hair and the side of his mouth has swollen so much that his greeting came out muffled. 

“Gotta show ‘em, right?” Steve says with a shrug of his shoulders, his usual response to Rasping Chester’s usual question. Chester laughs harder, his entire wrinkled face wobbling. Steve smiles too and tilts his head in goodbye. Chester’s coughs echo behind him. 

Hoping he won’t meet anyone else, Steve hurries to his building, where his hopes promptly evaporate upon seeing another familiar figure lounging on the stairs. As soon as he sees him coming, Bucky gives a lazy wave. Sitting on the second to lowest step, legs spread wide and a cigarette in hand, he is a perfect mirror of Rasping Chester if Chester was fifty years younger, and his face didn’t look like a lumpy potato, and his whole personality was nothing like it is. Steve concludes there is actually nothing similar to Bucky and Chester bar their love of stairs and lounging.

Bucky’s easy demeanor vanishes as soon as Steve comes close enough for him to get a good look at him. Steve stops a way off, shifting on his feet while his eyes skitter over Bucky’s darkening face. 

“Steve.” 

“Don’t.”

“Steve.”

“Don’t.”

Bucky glares at him for a few hard seconds. when Steve doesn’t say anything, he glares harder. “You come home murdered one day, I’m gonna kill you all over again.” 

“Good luck with that.” Steve shrugs awkwardly.

“I’ll kill your ghost, I swear by God I will.” Bucky gets up in one swift motion. It’s a testament to how angry he really is that his cigarette burns away between his thumb and forefinger, forgotten. He walks closer because Steve refuses to, in order to hide how badly his cheek is bruised. Bucky exhales. 

“Jesus fuck, Steve.” He drops the cigarette to the floor and lifts his hand as if to touch Steve’s face, maybe turn it to the side in order to inspect the damage, but changes his mind mid-way. He lets it hover in the air before huffing and dropping it. “What’s your excuse this time?”

Steve shrugs and, before Bucky can get another word in, turns and jogs up the stairs, fishing the key out of his pocket. He’s fairly sure Bucky is throwing his hands up behind him.

“It was nothing, right? It was nothing again?” Bucky presses when he pushes himself past the door after Steve. Steve grumbles something unintelligible and takes the stairs. 

“You literally just like getting punched at this poin —” He cuts himself off. His steps quicken. He catches up with Steve right when Steve is pushing a key into the lock of his apartment. “Is that blood in your hair? Tell me that’s not blood in your hair.” Bucky grabs Steve by the shoulder probably to get a good look at his scalp, but Steve shrugs him off, opening the door and rushing inside. Bucky is right on his heels.

“Oh my god, it is isn’t it? It’s blood.” Bucky closes the door behind him a bit too forcefully. The vase (without flowers) on the shelf next to it shakes. “For fuck’s sake. You got your head cracked open again.”

“Leave off it, Barnes.” Steve doesn’t often call Bucky Barnes, but he sure makes a point to do it when he’s annoyed. 

“Don’t you Barnes me.” Bucky takes in a deep breath, obviously trying to force his voice to come out calm. “What if you have a concussion? What if it gets infected?” 

Steve shrugs noncommittally. He wishes Bucky didn’t worry about him so much. He’s more panicky than his Ma ever was. 

Once Bucky realizes anger won’t budge Steve, he exhales and turns to — and in Steve’s opinion this is so much worse — pleading. “Listen Steve, you can’t keep doing this, come on, pal. And don’t try telling me it was for some noble reason either. You’ve been so... stupid ever since — ever since. Listen, I know it’s fucking hard, but this isn’t gonna make anything better.” 

He lets the rest of the sentence — ever since your ma died — hang in the air between them.

Steve moves his gaze away from Bucky’s damned eyes. Bucky looks...he looks lost. And Steve instantly feels guilty. Guilty for causing worry to the only person in this world who still cares about him. Guilty because he doesn’t know if he can ever do better, be better.  He takes the few steps to the kitchen, turning the tap on to wash his hands. Bucky takes in another breath to start talking again.

“Buck, please,” Steve stops him. “My head is pounding. Don’t. Not right now.”

Bucky is quiet while Steve scrubs his hands. “Fine,” he says when Steve is rinsing the soap from his forearms. “Let me at least help you with that crack at the back of your head. You won’t be able to reach it well.”

Steve wants to argue at first, familiar stubbornness stomping its heavy feet. He quells the desire to snap at Bucky and instead nods sharply, angling himself so that he’s standing to the side of the sink, making space for Bucky next to him. Bucky steps up and brushes his hair aside gently. 

Bucky always touches so, so gently. It used to annoy Steve to no end, having thought it’s because Bucky thinks he’s frail or weak or something. Then one day he realized Bucky doesn’t touch him gently because he thinks less of him, but because he thinks more of him. Bucky touches him gently because he wants to and that is somehow a hundred times worse.

“Maybe we should go to the bathroom?” Bucky asks completely oblivious to the fact that Steve has to close his eyes to collect himself after Bucky’s knuckles graze the back of his neck. 

“The light’s better here,” Steve says. He hopes Bucky ascribes the thickness of his voice to the pain. 

The truth is — and Steve’s never really denied it to himself — that Bucky’s touch wakes something in him. Something he’s known forever, but tried not to dwell on too much. It’s simple. It’s terrifyingly easy. It’s not even surprising; Steve’s been in love with Bucky Barnes since he found out there was love and then there was in love.

Well, to be completely honest, the first time he found out about in love, when he was five years old and asking his Ma why people put their lips on other people’s lips, he was disgusted. Until one day, years later, when Bucky and him went for a hard-earned (with home chores) cone of ice cream and Steve pushed Bucky’s cone in his nose and Bucky looked at him with fake fury in his eyes, nose smudged and the side of his mouth tugging up involuntarily, that a wild thought flashed through Steve’s mind. He didn’t have time to dwell on it because Bucky pushed him over onto the grass telling him what a stupid little punk he was, and Steve was too preoccupied with giggling to care. Still, the fact remained that Steve, as it turned out, wasn’t too opposed to the thought of his lips touching other lips, as long as the second pair belonged to Bucky. 

So Steve was in love with Bucky but there wasn’t really anything he could do about it either. He knew it wasn’t normal, not really, but he also didn’t think it was weird. It wasn’t weird to be in love with Bucky Barnes because how could he not be? Everyone who knew Bucky was in love with him at least a little bit and Steve knew Bucky best, so how could anyone expect him not to be the most stupidly, deeply, recklessly in love. 

“Okay.” Bucky parts Steve’s hair, shaking him out of his musings. “The gash is long, but not deep, so that’s good. Gotta go get a gauze,” he ads. Bucky’s hands are gone, suddenly, the warmth of his body retreating and Steve takes that moment of respite to breathe in deeply. He doesn’t usually let himself let his guard down like this, doesn’t let the coil of want and, worst of all, hope grow in his belly, but he’s been all out of sorts lately. 

“Here.” Bucky’s back, turning the tap on, wetting the gauze and pushing his fingers into Steve’s hair. He cleans it as best as he can, grumbling about the pieces of dirt in the wound. It stings and Steve has to grit his teeth. It’s been long enough for the adrenaline to drop and the pain to set in.

Bucky’s worried fingers linger on Steve’s neck after he’s done, and, for a moment, Steve lets himself indulge. He leans into the touch on a small sigh. When Bucky inevitably pulls back, because Bucky is normal in a way Steve will never be, Steve closes his eyes, collects himself and plasters a small smile onto his face. He turns. 

“Thanks, Buck.” 

Bucky searches his face for a second, as if trying to pry around the edges of Steve’s smile, sensing the cracks. He doesn’t acknowledge the thanks in any way, only frowns again when he sees Steve’s equally beat-up face. 

“I’m taking you down to Ivan’s gym on Saturday,” Bucky says. He lifts his hand to shut Steve up as soon as he notices Steve is about to interrupt. “I’m not taking no for an answer here, Steve. You might be the stubborn one out of the pair of us, but I ain’t backing down on this. If you’re gonna fight, you’re at least gonna learn how to punch properly.”

“I can punch,” Steve counters. 

Bucky levels him with a flat stare. He doesn’t need words to say; if you knew how to punch you wouldn’t be looking like that. 

“There were four of them!”

Steve thinks that absolutely helps his case right up until the words leave his lips. 

“ Four. ” Bucky’s flat stare hardens, his mouth so tight the corners of his lips lose their ever-present curl. “We’re definitely going down to Ivan’s. Maybe getting punched there will stop you wanting to get punched on the streets.”

“I don’t just do it to get punched,” Steve argued because he didn’t. That was only a nice side effect. 

“Steve…” Bucky’s tone is pleading. “Ever since your ma died —”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” Steve turns away and shuffles past the kitchen table to the window looking onto the dirty street below. 

“Well, you’re gonna have to talk about it sometime, won’t ya.” Bucky’s always been good at talking about feelings. He kept explaining how this and that made him feel, how that girl hurt his ego, how that other one bruised his heart. Whenever Steve tried to do the same, his throat choked up and he was overwhelmed by the urge to cry.

“It’s just...half a year later and it still hurts like a bitch.” There it is, the choked up breath, the hot wetness in his eyes. “And I’m scared. I — I don’t have anyone else. No one. It’s just me and the world now.”

“Hey!” Bucky takes two large strides knocking into a chair in the process. “Hey, don’t talk like that.” He grabs Steve by the shoulder, grounding him. “You’ve got me.”

No, Steve thinks when he looks at him. No matter how much of himself Bucky gives, it’s never enough, never enough for how much more of him Steve so selfishly wants to take. No, I haven’t got you. You’ll get a girl one day, a family, and they’ll become your everything, your all. And I’ll be the childhood friend, the pal, the buddy who gets invited to dinner twice a month. I haven’t got you. Not in the way I want you. Not in the way I need you. Not in a way that matters. 

*******

Bucky lifts the lapels of his coat higher and quickens his step. A quick annoying drizzle has started up, the sky darkening like a necessary prerequisite to a moody spring day. Bucky steps closer to the buildings, hoping the overhanging roofs will protect him from the rain even though they are far up high above his head. He sticks the paper bag he’s carrying into his coat. The paper’s already getting wet. There’s a corned beef sandwich in there for Steve. Bucky’s gone home for lunch, like he usually does and his ma gave him some for Steve too.

Steve works a lot. During the week he works at the art supply shop five blocks from his apartment, and he also has evening drawing classes every Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Ever since the first American troops were sent to fight the war in Europe, Steve also volunteers for civilian defense, training in First Aid, aircraft spotting and fire fighting. He’s tried to enlist too, of course, he did. As soon as he heard they were sending American soldiers over the ocean, Steve was the first in line, asking to be shipped there too. Luckily, the army wasn’t quite desperate enough yet. That was why Steve started volunteering in civilian defense. Reluctantly, Bucky started showing up from time to time too. Not because his heart was really in it, but because he couldn’t take Steve’s scowls whenever he refused to go.

Bucky doesn’t want anything to do with the war. He isn’t delusional enough that fighting would bring him any glory like some other guys are. He also isn’t desperate enough for an escape like some others. Or stupid enough, like Steve. He’s perfectly fine here in Brooklyn. All he wants is a nice warm bed to tuck himself into at night, some food on the table, some girls to flirt with and a best pal to take care of. Bucky is a man of small aspirations. And while small aspirations don’t get you into history books, they sure get you into the grave much slower. 

So Bucky keeps his head low, works at Carl’s repair shop, helps out his ex-boss at the docks whenever he can, and prays he wouldn’t get the draft. In the meantime, he takes care of Steve because Steve needs someone to take care of him. Not that Steve can’t physically take care of himself. Steve just gets awful lonely and broody when he’s left to himself. Even more so now after Sarah’s death. His signature frown barely ever leaves his face now. It was a relief when Steve applied for evening art classes because he met some new friends there. He kept referring to them as colleagues but from the way he spoke about Annie and Mark and Rita, Bucky knew they were more than mere acquaintances. Still, Bucky thinks it’s primarily his job to make sure Steve doesn’t brood too much so he tries to see him as much as possible.

He pushes the door of Brooklyn’s Best Art Supplies shop open. The bells attached to the door jingle softly and a voice from inside calls out, “Be right there!” Bucky’s still standing just inside the door so that he will only make one puddle instead of wetting the whole floor when Steve appears behind the counter.

“How can I help —” he starts. “Oh. Hey, Buck.” He smiles softly, the frown Bucky was thinking of earlier which Steve wears all the time softens, proving Bucky that his desire to hang out with Steve as much as he can is justified.

“Hey,” Bucky greets back and pulls out the paper bag. “Ma made corned beef sandwiches. I brought you one. I have about…” he looks at his wristwatch, “thirty minutes left before I have to get back to Clark’s. So, I can keep you company for about fifteen.” Clark’s repair shop was only about a fifteen-minute walk from the art shop, so Bucky and Steve could pay visits to each other when they got a break. To Bucky’s chagrin, it wasn’t an everyday occurrence. In the words of Clark Robinson, if there was work to do, there was work to do first.

“Nice,” Steve takes two big strides to him and takes the sandwich out of Bucky’s hand. “You’re the best. And your ma’s the best. I’d marry her if she didn’t already have your pop.”

Bucky punches Steve in his shoulder.

“I said marry,” Steve says around a bite. “I’d treat her well!”

Bucky rolls his eyes but doesn’t deem him with an answer. Steve goes on, “Why are we standing by the door anyway? Come into the back.”

“Didn’t want to drip all over the floor.” Bucky shrugs his coat off and hangs it on the hook by the door, following Steve into the back room.

There’s a rickety chair there that Steve takes and Bucky pushes himself onto the table beside it. Steve hates it when he sits on the table or on the counter in his apartment, but apparently he doesn’t mind it here. While Steve eats, Bucky recounts the anecdotes from work of his past few days. Steve chokes on a piece of beef when Bucky tells him about a man who brought in a new radio claiming it didn’t work, but it turned out he had the volume on zero the whole time. Steve laughs so hard Bucky has to thump him on the back. Then Steve recounts his own ‘stupid damn customers’ stories. For someone who would defend humanity to his last breath, Steve sure does hate most of it.

When Steve finishes his sandwich Bucky prods him with his foot. “We still on to go to Ivan’s gym tomorrow?”

Steve’s eyes go all shifty. He grumbles something and stands up moving towards the shelves on his left. Bucky slides off the table and follows him. He takes him by the shoulder, turning him around. “Come on, Steve.” He takes a good look at his face, frowns at the lip that’s still split and the eye that’s still all yellow from the fading bruise. “Look at your face.”

“I don’t have a mirror,” Steve bites back a smart reply.

Bucky pretends he didn’t even hear it. One day someone will break Steve’s eye socket and what will they do then. He reaches up and brushes the arc of Steve’s eyebrow with his thumb. Steve goes stiff under his hand and Bucky knows he should pull back, knows that he’s basically fondling Steve’s face, but before he can stop himself, he brushes Steve’s brow again. Steve’s throat bobs. He opens his mouth and nods, dislodging Bucky’s hand from his face. “Yeah, uhh, fine, Buck. I’ll go. Okay. It’s fine. Good plan.”

“Thanks, Stevie,” Bucky says. It comes out low and quiet, way too much like a secret. He brushes the thought away and smiles. “Thanks,” he says again.

Before he can think about what he’s doing, he leans forward and kisses Steve’s temple.

When he finally puts some distance between them his heart is hammering in his chest. It’s not that he’s never kissed Steve like that. Sometimes, when they’re walking down the street, possibly slightly sloshed, laughing at a stupid joke they’d made, he pulls Steve in by the neck and kisses him on the forehead. “Love ya, pal,” he says and grins, the air light and breezy like a warm sunny day.

The air feels different this time. Heavy and charged like the sky before a thunderstorm. He swallows the lump in his throat. “Gotta go now. I’ll be at yours tomorrow morning. Don’t sleep in,” Bucky adds as if Steve ever slept in.

He’s by the door a bit too quickly, pulling his coat on. Before he walks out onto the street he looks back at Steve and throws him a small crooked smile. Steve returns it after a beat, looking like he’s solving a difficult puzzle.

*******

“Do we have to go?” Steve asks when they’re already standing in front of the heavy door with a sign that says Ivan’s Gym. It’s red and yellow and somewhere it’s neither because parts of it have been scratched out.

“Stop whining.” Bucky throws him a reprobatory look that never works on Steve.

“Buck, you know I don't like going new places.” Steve shrugs the bag higher onto his shoulder.

“I know,” Bucky sighs. “But this place is nice. The people are nice okay. Suck it up, Rogers.”

“Last time you talked about ‘em you said they were a bunch of idiots.”

Bucky hates that Steve’s memory is so good. “They are,” he admits. “They’re idiots, but they’ve got good hearts. ‘S just that they’ve been punched so much it made them stupid.”

Steve gives him a withering look and pushes the door open. They move down the badly lit hallway, the smell of leather and sweat getting stronger as they near the gym. The muted sound of fists meeting boxing bags hits their ears when they step in. Bucky directs Steve to a bench where they place their bags and Bucky turns in search of Ivan. He always used to be in the gym on Saturdays, and a man of habit like him wasn’t about to change that in the span of a few months.

Indeed, Ivan is there, sitting in his chair by the boxing ring, looking as angry as ever with his permanently broken nose and deep wrinkles dragging his mouth down. Bucky starts walking towards him, dragging Steve along, but is stopped by a familiar voice.

“Barnes!” The sound of punching resonating from the nearest punching bag stops. Bucky turns to look. It’s no other than Loose Toothed Rico who’s smiling his gaped smile at Bucky. He walks closer, clapping Bucky’s shoulder with his gloved hand. “Where you, man? You just disappear!”

Rico doesn’t speak English very well, he’s only been in New York for two years, but his enthusiasm and propensity for gesticulation make up for the words that are missing.

“Ehh, you know how it is.” Bucky shrugs. “Life got in the way, I got lazy, the usual.”

Rico laughs, nodding. Most guys at the gym disappeared from time to time. They were hardworking fellas, most of them, and it was hard to keep up the motivation to keep showing up at the gym every day. The good thing was that they all kept returning back.

“I’m not here for me though,” Bucky explains. He sees Ivan nod in his direction and Bucky gives him a wave. Bob, another of the guys that Bucky’s boxed with, notices them across the room. He gives an excited whoop and jogs closer. He arrives right when Bucky’s clapping his hand on Steve’s shoulder shoving him forward. “Brought my pal along this time. He’s been getting into scrapes as you can see by his face. Thought I’d teach him how to throw a proper punch.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Steve grumbles and pushes him. The two guys laugh as if it’s the most hilarious thing they’ve seen all day. Bucky can imagine Steve trying really hard not to roll his eyes. He did say they were a bit dumb.

“You’re Steve, ain’t ya?” Bob asks.

“I —” Steve’s eyebrows draw together. He throws Bucky a questioning look. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Bucky’s told us about you.” Bob gives Steve a polite smile and extends his hand. Steve shakes it. Bob’s the careful type. Incredibly cheerful and open if he likes you, but guarded in front of anyone new. Loose Toothed Rico, on the other hand, borders on manic ninety percent of the time.

“Steve!” Rico exclaims. He punches Steve in the shoulder, like he did Bucky. Steve almost loses his balance. “Nice to meet you!”

Steve laughs, nervous and uncertain. People didn’t usually react that enthusiastically upon meeting him. “Nice to meet you too.” He’s smiling but his expression is guarded. “Uhh, so, you know my name, but what are yours?”

“Rico!”

“Bob.”

They say at the same time then proceed to shove and elbow each other trying to determine who was first. Bucky really did say they were dumb. Steve doesn’t seem to mind, though. He seems quite out of place, his nice, well-ironed plait shirt, and his spotless slacks, with his hair all nicely done, parted at the side with surgical precision — a guy would think he’s going on a date, not to a boxing gym. Bucky supposes it’s a sort of protection. Steve’s...unsure of his body to say the least. He hates it, hates that it’s inherently weak, that it’s trying to incapacitate him at every step, and he hates how it looks.

It’s that part, Steve giving himself a hard time because of how he looks, that pisses Bucky off the most. He thinks Steve looks swell. Yeah, he’s skinny and small and his jaw is narrow, but his shoulders are still broad and combined with his narrow waist, the shirt sits pretty well on him, and if he didn’t insist on wearing trousers two sizes too big, the ladies might even notice Steve’s got a pretty pert ass.

Bucky’s not a lady after all and even he noticed.

Not that he was really looking.

Though, maybe recently he’s been looking a bit more.

If he was fair to himself, he might have been looking more and more as years went by. Millions of puzzle pieces, each of them something that Steve was, or somehow that Steve was, slotting together excruciatingly slowly, with every piece that got added, bringing forth a clearer and clearer picture. He isn’t quite sure what he’s looking at yet, whole patches of the image still missing, but he feels it, feels it at the fingertips, the edges of the pieces trying to find the right empty slots. No, he’s not sure what he’s been looking at, but one thing is certain: the puzzle is Steve and Bucky has been looking.

“Barnes,” Rico drags him out of his thoughts by punching him in the arm again. “Gotta train. Ivan no is happy.” Rico makes a scowling face, that with a glance to the edge of the ring, Bucky confirms matches Ivan’s exactly.

Bob grimaces. “We’ll hit the ring one of these days, Barnes. In honor of the old times.” He winks at Bucky and jogs off.

“I’ll go easy on you!” Bucky shouts after him. He’s pretty sure Bob would give him the finger if his hands weren’t wrapped up. He laughs. He’s missed these idiots.

Rico follows after Bob and after another punch to Bucky’s and Steve’s shoulder. Steve throws a curious look Bucky’s way. “You told ‘em about me.”

“‘Course I told ‘em about you.” Bucky doesn’t really understand how this comes as a surprise. “Why? Shouldn’t I have?”

“No, no, that’s fine.” Steve shakes his head. “It’s...nice.”

Bucky frowns but Steve waves his question away indicating they should get to Ivan sometime this day. When they finally get to him, Ivan takes one look at Bucky, and, without warning, punches him in the stomach. It’s not a hard punch, but it does get a surprised oof! out of Bucky.

“You got soft,” Ivan grunts in his thick Russian accent.

“Yeah, yeah, guess I did, huh?” Bucky rubs his stomach. Nevermind that a guy didn’t expect to be punched in his goddamn stomach by a sitting seventy-year-old man.

“Brought a pal, if that’s okay? He needs to learn how to throw a punch.” Bucky doesn’t mention Steve got into a scrape though it is pretty obvious once you take a look at his face. Ivan doesn’t like trouble-makers, so Bucky keeps that information back.

“Good morning,” Steve greets. His voice is deep as always, seemingly unaffected, but Bucky notices his shoulders are squarer. Apparently he feels the need to show Ivan he’s cut out of stubborn cloth.

“Mornin’.” Ivan nods in his direction. His eyes flick up and down Steve’s body. “Hmph. Skinny.”

Steve bristles at that. He’s about to open his mouth, but Ivan gives him a hard look.

“You scared getting a little rough?” Ivan tilts his head and Bucky almost laughs out loud at the irony.

“No, sir,” Steve says, shoulders even squarer than before. “Not at all, in fact.”

Bucky shoots him a secret smile. The corner of Steve’s mouth perks up.

“Good.” Ivan nods, seemingly decided Steve is worthy of his time. “Bucky show you basics. Gloves, there.” He points to a large closet where Bucky already knows boxing gloves are. Most guys have their own, but some can’t afford it and Ivan did always take care of his guys. “Bag there,” he points to another corner where a bag is hanging unused.

“Bucky show you basics. Then my Irina show you more.” It’s all he says before he shoos them away to their own corner.

“Who’s Irina?” Steve asks as soon as they are out of earshot.

“His daughter. You’ll like her.” Bucky smirks. Irina, like Steve, is small and fierce. She’s only more deadly. “She’s in her forties. In better shape than all the guys in this gym. Good thing you’re not one of those loudmouths who underestimate women. For those, Ivan gives her the job to break them in. And breaks them, she does. Literally.”

Steve looks like he’s trying to determine whether Bucky’s pulling his nose.

“It’s true,” Bucky says. “She also has a pal. Another woman, been friends with her for forever, apparently. That one also knows some other martial art. She’s Japanese. Even more deadly, if you ask me, ‘cause she also knows how to kick. You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Sure seems like a violent bunch.”

Bucky guffaws. “You’re the last guy on earth who should be saying that.”

“I’m not violent. I don’t enjoy hurting people.”

That rubs Bucky the wrong way, anger flaring in his chest.

“So what? You enjoy hurting yourself?” he can’t help but snap. Maybe this isn’t the place to get into it, but, on the other hand, maybe it’s exactly the place. Instead of looking into Steve’s angry eyes, he picks up the boxing bag off the floor and heaves it onto the hook. He really is out of shape. This used to be easy and now he’s already breaking out a sweat.

“I don’t —” Steve starts. “I don’t fucking enjoy it, okay?”

“You do a swell job of proving that.”

“What do you want me to say? Fine. Maybe I do, okay?” The anger that has been swallowing up Steve’s eyes for months is at the surface again. “Maybe I fucking do.” Steve huffs and, in a split moment of inspiration, pulls his arm back, fist clenched.

“Don’t —”

Steve’s fist makes contact with the bag.

“Fuck!”

“— do that.” Bucky finishes.

“Ouch. What the fuck?” He shakes out his hand, as if burned.

“Yeah,” Bucky gives him a cocky grin. “They’re harder than they look. Maybe that’s gonna satisfy your sadistic needs.”

“Oh, fuck off. If you’re gonna keep yapping about this, we could just as well pack and leave.”

Bucky sighs, tries to put his own anger aside. “Sorry. I — it’s just. This is gonna help, Steve. I know it will. Not just learning how to punch, it’s gonna help get your anger out. Remember how mad I was when Dad got with that other woman and Ma found out? It helped. Takes your mind off things, you know. Cleans up in your head while you’re not even there.”

Steve shrugs, looking everywhere but at Bucky. “Yeah, well. Guess we’ll see.” He doesn’t sound hopeful.

“I’m just trying to help,” Bucky says quietly, seriously.

Steve finally meets his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.” All fight seems to leave him and he deflates. “Thank you. Really, I mean it. Thanks.”

Bucky wants to pull him in, grab him by the shoulder and drag him into a hug. If he could, he would protect Steve from the ugliness of the world. If he could do that with a hug, he would wrap himself around Steve and never let go, keep him innocent, hopeful, happy. If anyone deserved that, it was Steve. Unfortunately, the world worked in the opposite way. Instead of Bucky wrapping Steve up, Steve was out in the world unwrapping it, tearing off the shiny paper and showing the injustice underneath, standing between the ugliness and the rest of the world like a shield, taking on the burden of a better future. Steve’s always been like that and Bucky’s always been unable to stop marveling at him.

Steve sighs, shaking his head, chasing away the seriousness from his face. “So, suppose you’re not meant to punch these with your bare hands?”

“Not really,” Bucky confirms. “You can, but you gotta at least wrap them up. But beginners can’t really do without gloves unless they want to break their knuckles. I couldn’t do it either. It’s been too long. But,” he gives Steve an apologetic smile, knowing that Steve will hate what comes next, “there’ll be no punching today.”

As expected, Steve’s face falls. Bucky laughs. “Sorry, Stevie. No punching today. You gotta learn how to stand properly, how to hold your body, how to keep your knuckles tight. So you will actually be hitting this bag with your bare hands. But it’ll be more like touching it. Feather-light, Steve, you listen to me, I’m not wrapping up your busted knuckles today, okay?”

“So what, I’m just gonna be fake punching it and you’ll stand here criticizing my form?”

“Exactly. And Mrs. Cornwall said you weren’t smart...”

“Mrs. Cornwall thinks the Earth is flat.”

“Revolutionary, don’t you think?”

“Actually,” Steve quips, a smart look on his face, “it would be the opposite of that. You know, since the whole point of it is that it doesn’t revolve.”

Bucky laughs, belated, but no less sincere. In his humble opinion, Steve’s too smart for his own good.

“Wiseacre.” Bucky rolls his eyes. “Okay, enough talkin’, let’s get to work.”

Bucky starts teaching Steve, showing him the basic stance, the basic strike, correcting him where he’s wrong and praising him when he gets it. Steve has a good intuition for movement, but he’s weak and that sometimes makes him uncoordinated. He gets frustrated easily, but Bucky knew that, so he smiles, and explains, patiently, but in a way that clearly shows he’s perfectly certain Steve will get it. He moves behind him, lifts Steve’s arms up with his own, shows him where to look past his fists, how to protect his face. He moves to the side, drags Steve’s left arm along the correct path to a Jab, his right hand to a Right Cross. He takes Steve’s fist in his hand, traces his fingers over Steve’s knuckles, tucks his thumb firmly over the fingers and shows him how to keep his wrist straight.

Bucky knows that there are moments where his fingers linger, where his touches drag, moments when his grip is softer than it needs to be, times when he’s staring a bit too much. Steve’s divested himself of his shirt, and stands in front of Bucky in his white undershirt and slacks, all sharp angles and pale skin and freckles that Bucky’s unable to take his eyes off. Bucky doesn’t quite know what to make of it. It’s Steve. It’s just Steve. But it’s also not. Not Steve in the sense that something inside of Bucky is shifting, something new is being born.

Another piece of the puzzle slots gently into place.

*******

 It’s Thursday afternoon which means Steve’s first art class of the week starts in half an hour. Probably sooner. They’re late leaving his apartment.

“You have a watch,” Steve states the obvious, tugging Bucky’s hand out of his pocket. Bucky’s decided to accompany Steve to the school today. Incidentally, Bucky is also the reason Steve is running late. He glances at the watch, groans. Yup, late.

“Oh, come on, Steve! Ain’t my fault you don’t have a decent comb at home!”

They are, indeed, late because of Bucky’s hair. Or because of Steve’s apartment’s lack of a decent comb. Depends on whose point of view you take. Steve sure isn’t even considering Bucky’s.

“Your hair was fine.” Steve lets go of Bucky’s wrist. He’d been holding onto it too long and it wasn’t conducive to his hasty walking.

“Fine isn’t good enough.” Bucky gently touches his pomade-filled hair, done in a nice — okay, Steve admits it’s nice now when it was only fine before — puff on the top of his head.

“Whatever. I’m late because of your hair.” Steve’s angry at how easily Bucky follows his hasty steps. Steve’s beginning to get winded up.

“No. You’re late because you don’t have a decent comb,” Bucky insists.

Steve throws him a dirty look. Bucky cracks a smile. “Aww, lay off it, Stevie, you know your teacher’s always late anyway.”

“Punctuality is a sign of respect and I need to respect my teacher.” Steve’s really bad at letting things go once he’s annoyed.

“Punctuality is the sign of a stick up your ass.” Steve punches him so that Bucky has no option but to step off the sidewalk with one foot. “It’s awfully boring, ain’t it? Being on time all the time. No expectation. No excitement. No suspense.”

“Now you’re just fucking with me.” Steve shoves him again but Bucky’s prepared this time and doesn’t so much as budge.

“A bit,” Bucky agrees with a playful smile. Steve rolls his eyes, but his heart skips a beat. This is the smile that’s most similar to the one Bucky offers a pretty dame when he’s trying to get homely with her. A bit teasing, a bit suggestive and a lot charming. Steve doesn’t know whether it’s worse or better that the suggestiveness of the smile is replaced by fondness when it’s directed at him.

Bucky’s gaze slips away and settles onto the street, on the passers-by. “I’ve been meaning to ask,” Bucky says, “how do you like boxing? You haven’t said anything so I suppose you like it fine, but I don’t know. Do you?”

“Yeah, I...” Steve thinks for a second trying to form his thoughts in a way they make sense. “I do like it. I never thought guys like that could be so...nice. And I know a lot of it has to do with me being your friend, but I thought I’d feel…”

Bucky glances at him, curious. Steve grimaces. “Thought I’d feel dumber. Not stupid-like. But you know, thought they’d make me feel like I’m not good enough.”

Bucky nods. That’s usually what people think when they come to the gym. They all think they’ll be met with judgment. He doesn’t think whether it’s because of Ivan who doesn’t allow for such behavior or because it so happens that the right people seek out the place, but it’s generally a positive space. Most guys love it if they can help someone new. Sure they fight about who’s more right about this punch and that, and which combinations are most effective, but they’re eager to share and that makes for a friendly atmosphere.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. They’re nice guys. A bit stupid, like I told you, but nice.” Bucky pauses then continues, quieter as if knowing Steve won’t be too keen on him asking. “Is it helping? You know…” he trails off.

Steve doesn’t answer at first. He fidgets with the sleeve of his jacket, gauging his emotions. There’s been an enormous pit right where his heart was ever since his ma died. It’s still there, but the edges are getting softer. The rage he’s felt burst out of him every now and then is quieter too. There, but instead of bursting out uncontrollably it’s spilling over the edge slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, actually,” he says once he’s certain his words are true. “It is helping.” He bumps his shoulder into Bucky’s. “Thanks.”

Bucky practically beams at him. His mouth stretches and curves, revealing his teeth. The crooked tooth at the front is especially noticeable in the otherwise perfect row of white. Steve loves that goddamn tooth more than it’s probably normal to love a tooth. If people even love teeth at all that is. When it comes to Bucky, he’s stopped asking himself what normal things to love are. When it comes to Bucky, he loves the stupidest things; from small and unnoticeable to big and obvious. He’s never dared make an inventory, though, afraid that he’d come to the staggering conclusion that he loves a hundred percent of him.

“Steve,” Bucky draws his attention back to the present. Bucky’s eyes are serious when they flick between the sidewalk and Steve. “Is —” When he looks at Steve again his eyes are piercing. “Is our friendship different?”

Steve almost trips over his own feet.

He’s quiet for a beat too long, working on making his legs cooperate. “Uhh, what do you mean?”

Bucky purses his lips. “I don’t know, just...different.”

Has Bucky figured it all out? Has Steve been more obvious recently? The thing is, if Bucky asks, if Bucky straight-up asks, Steve won’t deny it. He won’t deny it and then it’ll all go to hell. But if it meant losing Bucky’s friendship...Bucky’s friendship meant more to Steve than anything he ever wanted but couldn’t have. “Good different or bad different?” he tests the waters.

Bucky doesn’t answer, thinking. “Neither, I think. Just different.” A second passes, his eyebrows scrunching when he seems to rethink his words. “Good different, I guess.”

“I —” Steve’s throat is awfully tight. He avoids Bucky’s eyes even though he knows Bucky’s searching for them. “I don’t know if I know what you mean.” Steve knows exactly what he means. “You mean stronger than most friendships?”

“No.” Bucky shakes his head. “I mean yes. Also that.”

He stops trying to catch Steve’s gaze, focusing on the path in front of them. He shakes his head, sighs. “I don’t know. Nevermind. Was just a thought.”
Steve lets it slide, unable to not feel the pang of sadness that he’s been hiding inside his chest for ages. Steve was fine, most of the time he was perfectly fine, happy. But every now and then, Bucky has to go and poke his heart with a stick right where it’s most raw.