Disclaimer: Don't own characters obviously.
Steve died the way he lived; kicking and clawing with blood and pain and fight. Bucky looked on, grasping pale wrists and screaming for the fleeing doctor to "do somethin' dammit he's dyin'!" Steve died in the arms of his first love, shaking and trembling with vomit on his chin and his skinny legs violently pulling on the soiled sheets. Steve died in a squalid apartment surrounded by pinned up drawings and stacks of library books. Steve died clawing and tanned skin and repeating "love you"'s into the soft skin of Bucky's neck.
Steve died and then he didn't.
He woke up in a cold room with no windows and no clothes. He could feel the chill of the steel table under him and the knives lining the walls made the skin of his neck prickle. He grabbed for the doctors coat thrown haphazardly over a chair and made for the door, bypassing a few doctors who spared him no looks other than a nod before continuing with their discussion. Steve could hear every slap of his bare feet on the concrete floor and it was only when a large glass paneled door came into view and the sprinkling of snow covering the ground did he realize the catch in his lungs was gone and his ear lacked its normal buzzing. The lack of distraction also granted him the yelling from down the hall. He ran for the door, pushing it open and dashing out into the streets, pushing into a woman and stumbling past a man, both who ignored him.
He could hear the pounding of shoes behind him and not for the first time in his life, Steve pushed his body to the brink, pressing forward until the buildings blurred and the grunts and panting faded into the background. It seemed, the farther away Steve got, that the men were not really following him. He was about to trail that line of thought before a familiar landmark caught his eye. Steve slowed when he realized her was at the pier. Bucky worked around here during the summer-
Bucky.
Steve could feel his heart lurch and he glanced around, as if expecting him to jump out of a corner and yell surprise. When no one passed by, Steve tucked his fingers into the deep pockets of the coat and came up with an ID badge. The name was something polish and difficult with his Brooklyn twang but the large Stark logo shed a little light on this confusion. He took off in the direction of his last apartment.
He made it by nightfall. The landlord was a scumbag but his wife always left a little milk out for the alley cats at night and like clockwork, she left the back door open and gave Steve enough time to slip inside and grab the skeleton key from the hook above the beat-up stove. He moved quickly through the apartment, slipping past the man crouched down over a radio and cheering for some boxing match.
Steve took the steps two at a time and marveled at the dexterity of his joints. His hip didn't even click like it normally did. He pulled the keys carefully from his pocket and slid them into the lock and listened as the tumblers slid into place and the door opened into a yawning maw.
The first thing that hit him was the smell. It was vomit and sweat and the reek of unwashed bodies and it saturated the whole apartment. Steve moved past the couch, a ragged piece that lost a leg when Bucky got a little too excited at grinding Steve into the cushions. His foot connected with bottles and with little grace, Steve grasped for the necks, catching them barely before they smashed to the floor.
It was then that he noticed the piles of liquor bottles that lined the walls. A few bottles were half empty on the counter and the expensive wine bottle from Steve's mother's wedding was smashed on the floor, the contents missing. Steve could feel a building dread in his stomach as he brushed the glass away to see the bloody bills and then the lack of money.
It was running away savings. They had planned to go to the Grand Canyon. Steve pushed the glass away and plucked the photo from the bottom. It was curled at the edge from time and being rolled up in a bottle for years, but the smiling faces of Steve and his mother was still visible. A brown streak was over his face and it was only when he brushed it away did he realize it was blood.
Steve knew he was crying, could feel the tears hit his chest, but he moved away from the pile of glass, delicately shifting away from the murky water left in the bathtub to his left. He took one look at the contents before holding down his bile and shifting away.
Steve could feel panic bubbling up in his throat and he moved carefully to the bedroom, picking his way through bottles and letters. He reached down and unrolled one.
Condolences, he realized, for himself. Well wishes and apologies for losing a friend. He could feel bile rise up his throat only when the sound of a moving body came from the room did he calm his fear and move.
He pressed the wood door in and the light from the open window illuminated a sleeping Bucky. He instinctively took a step forward and stopped when the floor under his foot crunched. He glanced down and recognized his art across the floor, the carefully detailed pictures torn and ripped, burned and scattered like scalding reminders of all he had lost. Steve watched Bucky's breathing, his chest move up and down in a calming rhythm. He could feel himself moving forward but he had lost all control of his body.
Bucky, even with the light sheets, looked pale. The skin over his cheekbones was pulled tight from malnutrition and made his face seem smaller. His hands, strong, capable workman's hands, were wrinkled and skinny in his grip. It was only when he went to grab a blanket did he realize Bucky was swaddled in Steve's clothes. Steve could feel the tears hitting his cheeks but he continued anyway, pulling the blanket up Bucky's shivering form and shutting the window with little fanfare.
He sat quietly on the bedside, brushing Bucky's lank hair our of his face. It was unwashed and Steve could feel the cumulative oil sticking to his fingers but it was worth it to see those bright blue eyes crack open before lighting up when they locked on him.
"Stevie, you came," Bucky mumbled, pulling Steve forward to be cradled in his arms. "I was so sure I drank too much to dream tonight but it seems maybe I got lucky."
"Buck, you're awake," Steve pressed delicate fingers against Bucky's cheek and smiled, pressing a tip into the dimple in Bucky's smile. He frowned when the smile slid from his face. He moved forward, pressing his body closer and wrapping arms around Bucky's neck. He peppered kisses along his neck when the muscles of Bucky's throat tensed.
"I didn't drink enough for this," He whimpered, grabbing Steve around the waist and crushing him to his chest. "God Stevie I miss you so much, I just wanted the chance to say goodby, damnit, didn't even get to tell you I love you."
"Tell me now, we got time," Steve layered kisses into his hair and ran gentle fingers through the tangled strands. Bucky sobbed into his chest, soaking the coat and making Steve press his fingers even deeper into the skin of Bucky's back, reminding him he was here for him.
Steve held him until the sun rose over the buildings and spilled light into the bedroom and across the tattered remains of Steve's drawings. Steve held him until Bucky slipped into sleep and he even held him when the landlord bangged on the door and demanded the three week late rent. He held him when the coppers broke down the door and even when they flooded into the apartment with wrinkled noses and disgusted grunts.
He held him when they discovered Bucky's body slumped in the bathtub with slit wrists and Steve's name on his lips.
He held him until he woke up and held him when they hitched a ride on a truck heading out of town. He held him when explaining their deaths and held him when Bucky cried tears of joy. He held him when they stood over the Grand Canyon and when they hid in the back of a car with a teething baby who gave Bucky the stink eye. He held him when the met Natalia, a woman who cried for them after hearing their story. He held him while overlooking the ocean while talking about where to see held him as the times changed and he held him when friends died. He held him when the world went to war and held him when it ended. He held him on good nights and held him on bad.
He held him until one day, he didn't have to.