It was time.

Bucky had been itching to move out ever since his younger siblings had become old enough to develop lives of their own. It no longer sufficed to house six people in a tiny three bedroom home with one bathroom between them, forever pushing and shoving for more room. Bucky had a proclivity for cozy spaces, finding them a greater comfort than somewhere expansive with four walls that didn't feel tight enough to contain him. But this had gone beyond even his limits. The close quarters had always been inconvenient but had since become stifling. Bucky felt he knew far more about his family than he ever wished to, and he was sure they felt the same way. Privacy had lost all meaning, and they couldn't help but slowly start resenting one another because of it.

The once healthy relationship he had with his sister, the eldest of the Barnes children after Bucky, whom he roomed with, had been tarnished by all kinds of trivial matters. Being a light sleeper, she hated his late work hours, often waking and tossing a pillow at him in frustration. Despite this being a far too regular occurrence, Bucky had yet to get used to tiptoeing in the dark only to be suddenly hit in the face and had found that down felt remarkably solid when thrown. He hated coming home only to trip over her mass of clutter, sidestepping her hoard of worn books and sewing equipment, amongst a number of fragile knickknacks, many of which he had broken. The tight space was difficult to navigate, and his efforts to do so quietly were only ever met with her startled rage and that damn pillow to the face or groin. The next morning, she would thrust whatever thing his ass had broken by falling onto it against his chest.

He couldn't even pretend to be sorry anymore. He had no room to himself; nowhere to relax.

In fact, he had little room for anything personal.

Bucky felt robbed of his own life, unable to see whoever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Particularly as his idea of company was less than appropriate. He had gotten to an age where there was a lot less to question and a lot more to worry about. A lot more to keep to himself, which was near impossible to do in a house this size. He worried that his family was beginning to have suspicions, considering the few times he had come home with the scent of another man's cologne on his clothes, his lips red and swollen from feverish kissing.

Very little escaped their notice these days.

They called him out for a lot less, so it was only a matter of time until they accused him of something far more severe. He didn't want that. It would be bad for them, and a lot worse for him. Their relationships were strained enough as it was without this truth laying bare between them. Bucky had long since decided it was best he move out before they could start asking questions.

But, Bucky didn't have much. He had very little money to his name, and even less in terms of property. He would be without bedsheets to put on the bed he didn't actually have, and eating off the same paper plate far too many times before giving in and throwing it away. So much of what he had was from his childhood and was intended to be passed down from child to child once they'd officially grown out of it. Anything that belonged solely to him was artificial; various books and records he and Steve had collected over the years. But what good was that if he had no place to sleep or pots and pans to cook with? He had no evidence to support his transition into adulthood.

There were long periods of time in which he was the sole earner for the family, stepping in for his father who was sometimes unfit to work. Bucky paid for the roof over their heads and the food on their table and usually offered whatever was left to his siblings, hoping to satisfy their needs and keep them readied for school. It often felt as though his sacrifices weren't greatly appreciated. A verbal thank you was a rarity that he had long since learned not to expect. Deep down, he knew they valued him and respected that the lucky, though not entirely stable, lives they lived came at the cost of his future. Bucky remembered that they loved him, and he was happy to give them what he had when they needed him most. But even when his father was back at work and the stresses of income were freed from Bucky's shoulders, all his earnings didn't reflect how hard, and how often, he worked.

Steve had often urged him to quit one of his three jobs, claiming that his bosses were ripping him off, making him work for far less than he deserved. Sometimes Steve got so worked up about it, grabbing Bucky by the arms and shaking him—or as close to shaking as his skinny arms would allow. Even just thinking about it made Steve a fierce bundle of hostility, ranting aloud to Bucky's worn ears about the unfairness of it all. It wasn't that Bucky disagreed. He knew better than anyone how much he ought to be paid, but he also knew it would do no good to argue or to quit. He couldn't afford to stand up for himself. It was so little money, but it was still money nonetheless.

And it would be just enough for him and Steve to rent a place of their own.

Though of course, Steve was unwilling to move, as usual fighting the suggestion that he could use some help. Bucky knew Steve could handle himself. That's what worried him. Steve could handle himself, but at what cost? He made even less income than Bucky, always struggling to find any place willing to hire a guy his size with all his evident health problems. He was living alone in his childhood home, trying to somehow keep the power on while his mother was in the hospital. Steve sacrificed the resemblance of a tolerable lifestyle wherever he could, convinced that the money was better spent on her rather than on himself. His skinny stature threatened to collapse at any given moment, just dying for a decent meal, and it took all of Bucky's will to convince him to join his family for dinner most nights.

For Steve, handling himself usually meant suffering in silence, and Bucky wasn't ignorant to that fact.

And he refused to allow it.

Steve could be as stubborn as he liked, but Bucky wasn't going to give in so easily. He had pestered him for months about moving but all arguments had been dismissed with little more than a prideful shake of his head and an almost childish scuff of his foot on the ground. Sometimes, Steve had argued back, saying he needed to be there when his mum was in better health. He had to keep the place organised and clean in her absence.

Bucky hadn't wanted to bring up the probability of her survival, so he didn't. After all, they hadn't known anyone to survive TB, and at this stage, she was already receiving the same care as hospice patients. Bucky was fond of Sarah, she had always been nothing but kind to him over the years and her decline in health concerned him as if she were his own mother. Her hospitalisation had hit Steve hard, leaving Bucky to try and console him. It was no easy feat; he already suspected the eventual outcome, and optimism didn't come naturally to him. Whenever he couldn't bring himself to share words of hope, he forced himself to keep his mouth shut. But this never escaped Steve's notice. He always knew what these silences meant, and he would cling to Bucky as if he would otherwise fall into the void.

Bucky could only hold him. There wasn't much else he could do in times like these. He just put his arms around him and rested his chin in the soft nest of Steve's blonde hair. He'd gently breathe in the familiar scent of Steve's shampoo and brace his arm with his hand, caressing the smooth skin beneath it with his thumb. Bucky somehow felt equally as comforted in these moments. There was something so safe in being held by Steve and holding him in return. Time would briefly lose all meaning, and everything would momentarily fall into place. Bucky could never resist giving into this graceful limbo, this pure nothingness that never expected anything of them. He found there was nothing to fear, but then Steve always withdrew and the illusion was shattered—there was plenty to fear. Steve's hands always pulled away with no sense of urgency, trailing slowly from Bucky's shoulders to his fingertips as he gathered himself and turned his embarrassed face away in hiding.

Always trying to stay strong in the face of anguish.

Bucky saw through it. He always had, even when they were just kids. He knew Steve better than anyone.

When Sarah eventually passed, Bucky again had to insist that they live together. It didn't matter how little money they had between them, they would find a way to make it work. It would be far easier to do it together than alone. Bucky needed to get out of his house, and he felt that Steve should get out of his, too.

They went back there after the funeral and it felt sombre and cold. Bucky had visited not even three days prior to Sarah's death and since then nothing had changed; nothing had been moved. Everything remained in its rightful place but it all felt wrong. It was a ghost house. Bucky found himself wanting to leave just as soon as they arrived.

He stood shivering in the living room, near convinced that something conniving lingered there waiting for them. Bucky wasn't a believer of the paranormal and was never bothered by the paranormal fiction he had read, but he couldn't deny feeling the similar sensation to that described in the pages. The cold, stagnant air tickling his neck, the hairs on his arms standing on end, a weight like stone dropping quickly to the pit of his stomach, a feverish race to his heartbeat and a stunned dizziness that sent his world reeling.

He knew Steve felt the change, too.

Bucky watched as he moved mindlessly from one room to the next, seemingly at a loss as to what he went into them for. His whole body drifted as though he were made of nothing—he was already pretty close to it; all skin and bones and not much else. Steve looked far too small in this suddenly too big house. Bucky was almost sure that Steve would evaporate into thin air, or fall between the fine cracks in the floorboards; maybe even disintegrate like blowing a dandelion into the wind.

It wasn't impossible for him to walk to nowhere, never to return. What did he have to come back to now?

"Steve. Please. You don't have to stay here," Bucky insisted again, though they'd just had this conversation outside. He knew it did no good to beat a dead horse, but he felt he had no choice but to try. His desperation compelled him to push until Steve surrendered.

Steve continued to fade between rooms like a cold gust of air. "I swear you don't listen to me when I talk, Buck," he sighed heavily.

"You know I do," Bucky said, "I just don't often agree with you, is all."

Steve said nothing and brought a tense fist to his lips, cradling his elbow with his other arm. He stared forlornly out the window, completely lost to the world outside. Already, he was suffering beneath the burden of this godforsaken house and all that was now missing from it.

"Look, you can stay with me and my folks until we find somewhere else to live," Bucky urged him to give in. "You'd be doing me a huge favour just by considering it."

Steve slowly turned and sifted through what had once been a neat pile of papers. Had there been any order to them, it was gone now. Bucky saw some of Steve's distracted doodlings etched on some of the pages, the lead smudging underneath Steve's worried fingers. His beautiful work—which he often kept to himself—was being ruined and he didn't mind. He'd found there were more important things to worry about. Bucky took the pages from him and carefully neatened them, setting them back down where they belonged, hoping the drawings weren't beyond repair. Steve hardly seemed to notice. He turned his attention to the spaces between the couch cushions, feeling around without much success.

"Where are my keys?" he murmured to himself.

"Steve," Bucky took him by the arm, making him pause.

Steve hesitated a moment before meeting Bucky's eye. "Fine. I'm considering it," he allowed, "but I'm for sure not going anywhere tonight." He recognised the worry lingering in Bucky's gaze. "If that's alright?" he tacked on for extra measure.

Bucky wanted to push it some more, but he'd only be pushing Steve further away by doing so. So he let it drop for now, instead lowering himself to his knees and peering under the couch where he somehow knew the keys would be. He stood upright and tossed them to Steve before settling down on the sofa and propping the cushion up behind his back. If Steve wasn't going anywhere tonight, then neither was he. He loosened his tie and undid the first couple buttons of his shirt, kicking off his shoes all the while. He figured if he at least pretended to be comfortable then perhaps Steve could find the will to pretend as well.

And maybe he'd start to believe it.

It seemed to work as Steve shrugged off his second-hand suit jacket, folded it neatly over the armrest, and sat in the chair across from him. Neither of them spoke. There weren't any more words to say. They spent the night there in silence, both eventually succumbing to sleep in their respective chairs.

When Bucky woke next, it was far too dark to even be close to daybreak. It took him a moment to recognise the faint shadow of his surroundings, like the gramophone in the corner and the picture frames just barely illuminated on the mantle by the streetlights outside. He stayed where he was, unmoving, tiredly blinking into the dark and wondering what had disturbed his sleep in the first place.

And then he heard it.

The quiet sniffling coming from the small lump on the chair opposite him. It was Steve's tiny body curled up into a tight ball, crying into the material of his father's old suit jacket.

Bucky silently rose, navigated his way around the table between them, and then knelt at Steve's side. He didn't have to say anything. Steve knew he was there. A small hand felt around until it found Bucky's larger one and squeezed his fingers for all it was worth. He hadn't cried at the funeral. Bucky knew he also hadn't cried at his mother's resting place, her coffin lowered into the earth beside the father he never had the chance to know. Steve was too headstrong and eager to prove he could carry himself without help. It wasn't about his pride. He wasn't trying to impress anyone. He just wanted to believe he was capable, even with the bad hand the world had dealt him.

Despite this, he was crying now. He needed Bucky, and Bucky was there. That's just how it was with them. It was how it had always been.

"I'm s—sorry," Steve breathed out, squeezing his hand again even harder.

"Don't be stupid," Bucky shushed him, "you have nothing to be sorry for. If there's a good time to cry, then this is probably it. I won't tell anyone."

"Better not."

"It's just between us… and my parents. My sister probably ought to know. And if she knows then my other siblings will know too. They'll tell all their friends, who'll, in turn, tell theirs—,"

"You're a punk," Steve sniffed and sat up, making room beside him for Bucky to sit.

"Takes one to know one."

Bucky rested his arm across the back of the couch behind Steve's head. He could feel the cold mass beside him and pulled him in closer with his other hand. If Steve hadn't immediately clung onto him, then he may have gotten up to retrieve a blanket or two. Now, there was just no moving him. Steve held on so tight that Bucky's ribs were quick to start aching and his breath felt a little thin, but he refused to argue or adjust; he wouldn't dare interrupt and plant the seed of doubt in Steve who wouldn't think to let these walls crumble again.

Steve cried for a long time. Always quiet, barely shuddering breaths. But that was more than he had allowed himself for the longest time. It was enough just to hold him and be there so he wasn't alone. Eventually, though, Steve started to slip away from him, curling up on his half of the sofa. The sounds of his gentle tears faded into sniffling and then finally that of restless slumber.

Bucky himself couldn't sleep after that. It came naturally to him to be overprotective. A fact that often drove Steve somewhat crazy. Steve wasn't quite as breakable as he appeared—as he often reminded Bucky—but he was still breakable enough to warrant a level of concern. Bucky always pulled Steve's ass from the fire and beat back anyone that dared try throwing him straight back in. No matter his good intentions, Steve ignored his limits and had a way of getting himself into trouble. It was almost a full-time job in itself to keep him in check, and it was sure to get worse from here on out.

Still, Bucky wasn't going anywhere. He cared too much to ever back out.

Now that Steve was asleep, Bucky finally got up and took a blanket from the bed upstairs, carefully draping it over him as he breathed evenly into the couch cushion. He was still restless, twitching and squirming this way and that. His quiet breaths were sometimes broken up by wretched moans and illegible murmurings Bucky was glad not to make sense of. But at least he was sleeping. Bucky was sure there were countless sleepless nights to come, ever darkening the existing bags under Steve's eyes and turning his criminally pale skin sallow. He'd lie and insist he'd slept some, if not well, but Bucky would know. He always knew.

Bucky resumed his place at his side and waited patiently for sunrise. A part of him wished it would never come.

But it did. The sun inevitably rose and filtered through the window into Steve's closed eyes, waking him from what would likely be the last decent sleep he'd have for a while. Bucky silently cursed it as Steve sat up and ran a disgruntled hand through his hair. Almost all the redness had faded from his face, aside from the palest tint of pink around his nose. The tears had completely dried but the faint swelling around his eyes betrayed the fact that he had ever been crying to begin with. Steve said nothing about it, and neither did Bucky.

"Breakfast?" Bucky suggested, already getting up and making his way to the kitchen.

The pantry was horrendously bare. Bucky didn't dare ask what exactly Steve had been living off of since he suspected that he wouldn't approve of the answer. Still, they couldn't suffice with nothing, not on a day like this. It did no good to mourn on an empty stomach. Steve followed after him to try a hand at helping but Bucky simply shrugged him off.

"Sit," he instructed.

Steve was clearly too tired to argue for once in his life, so he did as he was told and slumped down into the nearest chair. He gazed ahead without seeing much of anything. Bucky could tell by the flatness of his usually deep blue eyes. Still, he let him stare and got to work finding something to eat. Eventually, he had to settle on somewhat stale bread and made his signature burnt toast straight from the stovetop. They didn't have the luxury of coffee to wash it down with so he settled for pouring glasses of milk.

He set the food and drinks down and sat across from Steve, wordlessly nudging his leg with his foot under the table. Steve startled and caught his eye, momentarily at a loss as to what he should say or do or think.

Bucky felt a stab in his gut. It killed him to see Steve this way.

He clenched his jaw and tore off the crusts of his toast, eating it slowly without any enjoyment. He wished he was somehow capable of conjuring up something—anything—better than this. Steve deserved more. Hell, he needed more. Bucky could only give all that he had and hope that it at least meant something. Steve nodded his head in a quiet appreciation and dutifully ate the food provided for him, downing the blackened bread with his milk before standing to clear the table.

It was a far too silent affair without a single word being uttered throughout. So it came as a shock to hear Steve's broken voice echoing from the direction of the sink.

"You can go home. Get some sleep," Steve said, his back still facing him.

Bucky stood up and opened his mouth to argue, but before he could get a word out, Steve cut him off.

"I'll be fine, Buck, really," he promised.

Standing behind him, Bucky carefully neatened Steve's unkempt hair and tucked in the back of his shirt where it had come loose from his waistband.

"You really have me convinced," Bucky sighed sarcastically.

"We both knew this was going to happen. And before you say anything, I appreciate you pretending otherwise for as long as you did." Steve turned to face him. "It's just… it's hard right now, and it's going to be for a while. But I knew and I had time to come to terms with it. So I'm not going to fall apart in the few hours you're gone before you inevitably ignore me and come back."

Bucky quirked a brief, saddened grin. "I already told you, I don't ignore you—,"

"You just don't agree with me very often," Steve interjected, reflecting that same grin, "I know. You're horribly stubborn. It's impossible making you agree with anything."

"Pot calling the kettle black, Steve Rogers."

"Don't make me fight you," Steve warned.

"Fine, fine. I'll go," Bucky quickly surrendered, "just because I know you have a habit of fighting anything that moves."

"Only when it's warranted," Steve sniffed stubbornly and walked Bucky to the door.

Bucky didn't want to leave. He hated the way this house made him feel, and he hated seeing what being there did to Steve. Bucky would endure it if only to lighten the load for him—to make it just that little more bearable. But he could see that he needed some time to be alone. Not for too long, but just long enough. As he had said, Bucky would inevitably be back in a matter of hours, and he would crash on his couch again if need be. He would come and go as often as Steve needed him to.

Still, he couldn't help but hesitate on the stairs, turning back to look at Steve standing in his doorway. His eyes expressed without words how sorry he was, and urged him to remember the promise he had made—to be there for him till the end of the line.

"I know, Buck, I know," Steve said with a soft smile.

Bucky smiled back at him, just briefly; the upturn to his lips there one second and gone the next. And then he left, satisfied, but still longing to come back.

Bucky could hear the shouting and the soft thuds of fists against flesh. It was a sound he heard far too often and knew far too well. It only ever meant trouble. And wherever there was trouble, Steve was sure to be in the thick of it. It was the one and only curse of being Steve's friend. Bucky could pull him out of trouble time and time again but there was just no keeping him from getting into it in the first place.

God knew Bucky had tried.

He continued down the alleyway, following the sounds of a body surely being pummelled half to death, and quickened his pace when he was close enough to hear who he assumed was Steve spitting blood. This, too, was a sound Bucky was horribly familiar with. He rounded the corner to see two men standing with their backs to him, their shoulders broad and their bruised fists clenched at either side. Steve was little more than a sack of blood and bones on the ground, but he was already pushing himself up to his knees to go another round.

What had Bucky done to fall for such an idiot?

"Two against one hardly seems fair," Bucky said.

The two men turned, their faces contorted into expressions of hatred. Not that they had any reason yet to hate him. They clearly liked any opportunity to punch in another face. Bucky felt that it was too early in the day for such things. His face, as punch-able as it may be, wasn't having any of it. And Steve's had had plenty.

"I count two of you," one of the men spat a large, wet gob to his side.

Bucky eyed the spit with a wrinkled nose and took note not to step in that general direction if he could so help it. "You're making your mother proud, counting all by yourself."

"You calling me stupid?" The man straightened and stalked a few steps forward before the other caught his arm. Bucky was bigger than Steve, his appearance had a way of making lesser men second guess themselves. Little did they know that it wasn't in Bucky's nature to fight—that was all Steve.

"Stupid is a harsh word. I'm just saying that you're especially dim," Bucky said plainly.

Steve was still struggling to get up, propped up on one arm and holding his ribs with the other. It would be a miracle if nothing was broken. Despite the blood caking his face, Steve's brilliant blue eyes were dark with a quiet fury. These men had turned their sights onto his best friend, and there was no way Steve was going to let this stand. Bucky cast him a meaningful look that told him to stay down.

But when did Steve ever listen?

Steve grabbed the bigger of the two men by the ankle and received a prompt kick to the face for his troubles. Exasperated, Bucky stepped forward, took the man by the shoulder, waited for him to turn, and then punched him directly in the nose. He stumbled back with his hands clasped over his face, blood trickling through his fingers. The second man took a swing in retaliation. Bucky sidestepped, felt the breeze of their fist across his cheek, and then threw a punch of his own. It landed across his jaw, forcing him back a step before Bucky grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him in for a quick knee to the groin. It had always been effective, and this time was no exception. He fell immediately to his knees, groaning in pain. Bucky readjusted the hem of his shirt before flexing the slight ache out of his knuckles. He stepped aside as the two men finally scurried out of the alleyway, leaving him and Steve alone. Steve crawled back up to his knees, watching them disappear with boundless resentment.

"You're nothing but trouble, you know that?" Bucky carefully took Steve's hand and hoisted him to his feet. Convinced he couldn't stand on his own, Bucky lifted Steve's arm around him, crouching a little to try matching his height.

Steve pushed him off with a tenacious shake of his head and gestured down the alleyway. "They were being disrespectful! Nobody was stopping them, Buck. I couldn't just stand by—,"

"Yes, you could have. And you should have," Bucky interrupted, "it's not your job to take on every piece of scum you pass."

"Then whose job is it? Because nobody said or did anything, they just let it happen."

"Because they're smart enough to avoid confrontation until it's absolutely called for," Bucky told him, "somebody would have stepped in, when and if it came to that. But you? You just can't wait that long."

Steve dabbed hopelessly at the blood drying over his split lip. His sleeve came away red, creating a new stain where the previous ones still hadn't completely washed out. Bucky's furious expression softened. He didn't pity Steve—Steve didn't need or want it. But it was impossible to stay mad at him, knowing he did what he did with nothing but the best of intentions. He took the kinds of beatings stronger men cried from. There was something admirable about that, however twisted it may be.

"I get it, Steve, I do. But one of these days someone's going kill you," Bucky said sternly, taking him by the shoulders and making sure he was listening. "I'm not going get there fast enough and they're going kill you. Do you understand me?"

"I don't need your rescue, Buck," Steve mumbled, but he knew that wasn't exactly true.

"Yeah, but I need yours," Bucky sighed. "What the hell am I supposed to do without you?"

Steve's broken face hinted at the weakest of smiles. Bucky knew that if it weren't for the painful cut in his lip, Steve would be grinning from ear to ear. He knew Bucky was only half humouring him, and that was the half that he could allow. If he ever felt coddled, Steve either backed off or fought against it. Nine times out of ten he would choose the latter. It helped for Bucky's care and attention to be subtle; as long as he wanted to avoid Steve's tiny wrath. He may be small, but he somehow carried a temperament that still managed to amaze Bucky. There were probably few other people that could withstand it.

"Thank you," Steve said finally, admitting defeat for once.

"You're welcome," Bucky said, "I'd tell you not to do it again, but I know I'd be wasting my breath."

"I don't mean to drag you into these things."

"I have a way of dragging myself into them anyway. You never ask me to fight for you, Steve. I choose to."

"You're better at it than me," Steve granted. It was as close to a compliment as he was going to give as long as he was blood-soaked and sore.

"I've had enough practice," Bucky pointed out.

Steve leaned on him as they entered the street. It was decided without question that they would go back to Steve's place. Bucky's mum was bound to coddle him and fuss over his wounds, applying ointments and bandages against every word begging her not to. It might have amused Bucky if it weren't for all the bruises and cuts littering Steve's pale skin. It was hard to laugh when the truth of the matter wasn't at all funny. When his mum worried, Bucky couldn't help but worry too. This was easier. And it was a shorter walk, which was evidently necessary as Steve slowed and folded almost completely in two. Bucky's offers to carry him had been met by a patronised scoff. Still, Steve leaned into Bucky and allowed him to help lift some of the weight.

The stairs were a little tricky, but at least there was a handrail for Steve to hold onto. Bucky took the spare key from under the cinderblock and opened the door for him, guiding him inside and locking up after them. Steve collapsed into the nearest chair and tested the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He winced and lowered his hand, not quite daring to touch anywhere else.

Bucky flicked the light switch but nothing happened. He tried a few times to no avail before giving up and opening the curtains instead. This house never caught much light. It seemed to catch even less these days; everything looked especially dim ever since Sarah's funeral a few weeks prior. Every time Bucky visited, he hoped something would be different, but it was always the same. Steve barely lived here, or at least that's how it seemed. He was living a shell of a life in a barren house he so clearly despised. But now didn't seem the right time to say as much to Steve.

Bucky hadn't given up pestering him to move out, but he decided to put it on pause for now until he was in better shape. Lately, though, that seemed an impossibility. Steve was never in better shape. To be fair, he had never been in too great a shape even at the best of times. But since Sarah's passing, Steve ate less, rarely slept, and got into more fights than Bucky could even count. The last few weeks had felt like a lifetime. He didn't know what more he could do to make it right.

Perhaps there was no right anymore. Steve just wasn't the same.

Bucky took a clean cloth, dampened it, and got to work cleaning the blood from Steve's face. He had gotten plenty of practice at this too; more practice than he had ever wanted. He knew how to be gentle, and how to wipe around the nose just so to avoid aggravating the bruise there. The lips were a delicate area, it didn't take much pressure to reopen the cut and flood the cloth with fresh blood. But Bucky knew the exact way to dab at the pale pink of Steve's lips to keep the wound sealed. Whatever it took not to inflict more pain.

Steve watched him all the while with his one good eye as the other continued to swell shut. It would be a while until he'd properly be able to see again. A horrible part of Bucky thought 'good riddance' but he quickly dismissed it. It wasn't fair and he knew it. Steve searched him for any sign of his anger, but he had gotten good at hiding it. He knew how to bury it beneath other, less complicated feelings. He knew Steve was unhappy and that he hadn't been able to pay the power bill which meant he spent his nights trying and failing to sleep in the dark of his own personal hell. Stuff like that did things to a man, even ones as headstrong as Steve. Were it Bucky in his place, he was sure he would make all kinds of bad decisions, too.

Still, he hoped time would make things easier. Hope was all he had left.

"Bucky?" Steve asked gently.

Bucky hummed in acknowledgment, turning his attention to a particularly nasty gash through Steve's eyebrow.

"I don't have any boxes."

Bucky blinked. "What?"

"To pack my stuff in," Steve clarified, "and I can't even lift one side of the furniture. I'll be useless to you."

"I can get boxes," Bucky reassured him, "and I'm sure I can talk some of the guys from the dock into helping me carry the furniture."

"I don't earn much. I don't earn enough to pay the bills or stock the pantry or anything. People don't want to hire me, Buck. And those that do never keep me long."

"All trivial matters," Bucky dismissed easily.

"I like playing records in the middle of the night when I can't sleep. I misplace the mail after opening it and you know how often I lose my house keys. I lose one sock of every pair I ever own, and I usually lose everyone else's second sock in the process."

"Things I knew already. All loveable things in their own ways."

"I'm terrible to live with, Bucky. Truly awful. My ma never said it but I could tell I drove her crazy, too. And I don't mean to offend when I say she had more in the way of patience than you," Steve said severely.

Bucky smiled. "Ouch."

"I'm sorry," Steve dipped his head with a hollow frown.

"Don't make that face," Bucky lectured, "you'll tear your lip again."

Steve was quiet. He was making the same face he always made whenever he second-guessed their friendship. More specifically, why on earth Bucky continued to put up with him after all this time.

Bucky hated that look.

"You think I didn't already consider all these things long before I asked you to live with me?" Bucky asked pointedly.

Steve shrugged weakly and squirmed in his seat. "You always come to ridiculous conclusions. I just want to make sure you considered this three times over before you commit to it."

"If you must know, I considered it four times over and reached the same conclusion each and every time. Maybe it is ridiculous, but it's still the conclusion I am happy with. It's up to you now whether you want to commit to it or not."

Bucky stood up to rinse out the bloodied cloth. He had nearly cleaned Steve up completely, after that it was a matter of bandaging where necessary and leaving the rest to heal in the open air. He knew by now what injuries needed the most attention. Steve's immune system wasn't good for much of anything, meaning that only the smallest of abrasions could be left to his body's vices alone.

"I'd like to," Steve admitted finally, "I can't… this house—,"

"I get it," Bucky said gently, "I feel it too. Though I know it must be so much worse for you."

"I feel so guilty wanting out, but I just can't stand it anymore. It's too big and too empty and I keep sitting around just waiting for her to come home."

Steve's voice faded. Bucky left the cloth in the sink. He sat back down and scooted his chair in closer so one of his knees settled between Steve's thighs. Bucky took his hands—his battered, bloodied hands—but didn't squeeze them this time. Instead, he very barely caressed his busted knuckles with his thumb.

"There's no reason to feel guilty. I knew your mum best second only to you, and I know she wouldn't want you to be miserable here. Besides, I think she expected you to move out with me long before she got sick. She always told me that I'd better take care of you. She told me to make you happy."

Steve considered it a moment and then nodded. It sounded like something his mum would say. "Thank you, Buck." He leaned his elbow on the table and brushed his hair from his eyes. His face, despite all its cuts and bruises, lit up with a smile.

"You don't have to thank me. My house was making me crazy. I was close to jumping ship with or without you… but I'm really glad it's with you." Bucky felt warm. Warmer than he had in weeks.

"You'll regret saying that," Steve warned teasingly.

"Yeah, I'm sure I will," Bucky agreed, "but I'd never take it back."

He wouldn't. Couldn't. He felt far too gloriously warm to ever do such a thing.

Thanks so much for reading, guys! I hope you enjoyed this first chapter from Bucky's POV. The next chapter switches to Steve's POV. I hope to update regularly, but I only have a very loose plot figured out and I am prone to long periods of writer's block. In any case, I hope you enjoy the chapters to come! Please let me know what you thought in the comments as your feedback means so much to me! :) xoxo