"Fuck," Steve murmured, wincing in pain.
"Don't scrunch up your forehead like that, you're gonna mess the stitches up," Bucky said, pulling the bloodsoaked thread through Steve's forehead a little more gently that time. "You sure you don't want me to take you to the hospital?" he added. "I'm... not very good at this." He gestured vaguely at the jagged row of stitches he'd sewed the gash in Steve's forehead with. His only prior experience with anything of the sort had been sewing a shirt he'd torn in a fight before his mother could find out- needless to say, this was nothing like that.
"No, this is fine, it's fine. And honestly," Steve added in a low tone, "I don't think we could foot the bill, so."
They sat in relative silence for a while, the awkwardness of that last statement hanging almost tangibly between them, the quiet punctuated only by Steve's seemingly endless stream of profanities any time Bucky put in a new stitch.
Steve finally broke the quiet. "Look, I'm really sorry about this."
"What, you getting the shit beaten out of yourself, or me having to clean you up?"
"Both, I guess. Won't happen again."
At this, Bucky laughed so hard he had to put the needle down. "Let me get this straight," he wheezed. "You, Steven Grant Rogers, just told me you wouldn't get in another fight?"
"Okay, okay, I take it back!" Steve, too, was grinning uncontrollably, despite the fact that there was still a gaping, half-sewn cut in his forehead.
And it was at exactly that moment, looking fondly at a laughing but thoroughly beaten Steve, that Bucky realized he was in love. Maybe he had been for a while.
He realized on some other level that he probably should feel ashamed, that he should hate himself, maybe even hate Steve for making him like this, but he didn't. He likely would later, but for now, he just felt sort of warm inside, and his face was kind of hot- he was probably blushing. In that moment, loving Steve Rogers just felt right, like this was destined to happen, and he didn't want anyone, himself included, to take that away from him.
And he knew that Steve would definitely never feel the same way about him, that Steve might even hate Bucky for being like this, but he figured that was a problem for another time- just a dull pain in the back of his chest he'd ignore for as long as possible. And hopefully, he could ignore this forever- get over this feeling, marry a dame, maybe move into a Brooklyn apartment near Steve. (That, he knew, was not a very good getting-over-it thought, but he'd work on that.) So no one would know, least of all Steve. And he hated having to keep something that huge from Steve, but it was for their own good, really.
Suddenly, the hating himself thing began to kick in.
"You alright?" Steve had evidently noticed Bucky's laughter tapering off into silence. "You look funny."
"Says the guy with a row of hand-sewn stitches in his forehead," Bucky retorted, forcing a smile.
"Says the guy who sewed them." Steve, the little shit, smirked. "Not your best comeback. But really, are you okay?" He looked genuinely concerned, but Bucky wasn't about to let anything slip.
"I'm fine, I'm fine. Just not a fan of being covered in your blood."
"Yeah, well, me neither."