Written for MCU AU Fest.

It was about time he ended up in Brooklyn. He'd been just about everywhere else—up and down the coast, out west, working any job that would come his way. It was a bunch of alphabet soup jobs—CCC, TVA, WPA. Bucky had always felt better when his hands were doing the work, and he had the calluses to show it. Dams, schools, levees—he'd worked on them all, and he felt good that someone, somewhere was benefitting from what he'd done.

Bucky liked Brooklyn, though. He liked the security of the buildings looming up on either side, the fact that people didn't need to know your life story if you were new. It made him feel like he could blend in, not attract attention.

Tending bar was a nice break from physical labor. Sure O'Leary's was a local hole in the wall, and Bucky was new, but he memorized the regulars and their drink preferences quickly, which apparently indicated he was on the level. Old Man O'Leary said he trusted Bucky, which was enough for the patrons, mostly old Irish guys.

It was money and a place to sleep and it was something he could do. That was a win in his book.

His unusual working hours had skewed his sense of time somewhat, but he didn't mind. He slept through much of the city's daytime hustle and bustle, and it was almost comforting to hear the world go by outside.

He'd just closed up and was about to dump the trash in the alley when he heard the shouting and sounds of a scuffle. He peered through the window. There was a fight going on—it looked like two bigger guys pounding on a little guy.

Though the little guy looked to be just about holding his own.

Or so Bucky thought until he was sent flying into the trash cans.

"Come on," Bucky could hear one of the two gorillas say to the other. "Let's get out of here."

That was when Bucky decided to open the door.

"Sorry," he said cheerily. "Didn't see you."

He let the door swing shut, only giving a satisfied glance at the smashed-in faces of the two jerks. They gave Bucky matching gorilla-ish scowls and slouched off. Bucky tipped the inside garbage can into the big one in the alley. "You okay down there?" he asked.

The little guy sat up, rubbing blood off his lip. "I almost had 'em."

"Of course you did." Bucky grinned. He nodded at the bar. "Come on back inside. Let's get you cleaned up." He offered his hand, but the little guy stood under his own power.

"I'm good."

"You have a cut up here, too." Bucky tapped his own temple.

"Damn." He rubbed at it. "That opened up again."

"Come on," Bucky repeated, opening the door. "There's some bandages behind the bar. Not a place that sees a lot of brawls, but you can never be too prepared."

"Were you a Boy Scout or something?"

Bucky laughed. "Something like that, I guess. Working with the CCC was a little like Scout camp."

"You're not from around here." It wasn't a malicious observation, Bucky could tell.

"Nope. Not from around here. I'm Bucky."

"Steve. Steve Rogers." He reached out with his right hand, then offered his left after noticing the blood on it.

"Nice to meet you," said Bucky. "Now let's see about those bandages."

Bucky didn't plan to say anything much else, but Steve had other ideas.

"It's funny I haven't seen you around before," he said, as Bucky cleaned up the cut on his forehead. "I pretty much know everybody in this neighborhood."

"I'm new." Bucky held Steve's head still. "You ever stop moving?"

Steve chose not to answer this. "How'd you find this place, then, if you're not from around here? You know Mr. O'Leary?"

"I did him a favor." Bucky hadn't even gotten the third degree from the old man himself.

"Good," Steve said. "It's good to see people still do that, even when they're strangers." He smiled.

"Want to tell me what you did to tick those guys off?"

"I stick up for people who can't defend themselves." He sounded firm about this. Bucky wondered how it was that Steve didn't count as one of those people who couldn't defend themselves.

"Maybe next time consider the size of the other guy?" he suggested.

Steve shook his head. "You can't do that, Buck. If nobody takes on anybody bigger than them, the biggest guy wins by default."

Now completely patched up, Steve left. As he shut the bar and went to bed, Bucky let that roll around in his head.

It was pretty good reasoning.

A few weeks went by and Bucky had almost forgotten about the little guy. But not entirely. He took more notice of the neighborhood and the people in it. If he was going to stay here at least a few months, he might as well.

It was good, getting to know people, like the old man he went to the store for, the young widow with the baby whose packages he helped manage. In his travels, Bucky had seldom let himself get attached. He'd never figured it was worth it if he was only going to leave. But, he supposed, even if he was going to leave, these people still needed his help.

It was early evening in summer, just when the days were starting to stretch into the nighttime hours, a long city twilight. He was getting ready to open up the place when he saw the fight out front.

"C'mon, break it up." Bucky shoved the front door open. "Take it somewhere else."

They ignored him.

"I said break it up. Or can you not hear me through that thick skull of yours?" Bucky grabbed the back of one of the guys' shirt, getting a punch to the jaw for his troubles.

Damn. It had been a long time since he'd been in a fight. Old memories came flooding back, dingy western saloons and backwoods southern bars. He was barely aware of lighting into the guy, was only a little aware of how much bigger than Bucky he was. It was like being in a fog and he didn't quite come out of it until the guy was running off down the street.

Someone put a hand on Bucky's arm. "Hey."

Bucky spun, ready to swing out again when someone caught his fist. "It's okay," said Steve slowly. "He's gone. Thanks, Buck."

Bucky blinked. "He bothering you?"

"Was," Steve said. "'Til you came along."

Bucky pushed his hair back from his forehead. "Glad you're okay."

"Come on, let's get you inside." It should have been Bucky saying this, but Steve had his hand fastened to Bucky's shoulder and was pushing him through the door. "Have a seat. I'll get you a glass of water."

Bucky dropped into one of the chairs by the window. Steve returned a few moments later, water glass in hand. He let Bucky sip before he said anything else.

"Where'd you learn to fight like that?"

"All over. Think I mentioned not staying in one place too long. I don't really like people."

Steve laughed. "New York's a funny place to come if you don't like people."

Bucky had to laugh, too. "You're right. Guess I just ran out of road." He stood. "Hey, I have to open up."

Steve stood, too. "I'll help you."

Bucky frowned. "That okay?"

Steve shrugged. "Sure. Why not? Where else do I have to be?"

"You tell me! What kind of job do you do?"

"Not much of one. I was painting posters for a while, but I ran out of them. There's not much else I can do. I get sick easy. Can't do anything physical, anything outside."

"Well, we'll see what you can do tonight. Talk to O'Leary in the morning."

Steve was a very capable helper, not that Bucky needed a helper. Bucky didn't think Steve much wanted to work there either, but there was nothing else, and Bucky knew what it was like to have nothing else.

Steve slunk home before closing time, looking exhausted, and Bucky set to thinking about what he could do.

Would Steve be up to painting the place? The interior was mostly done in dark woods, so nothing that needed painting, but…

Bucky turned to look over his shoulder. There had probably once been a mirror behind the bar but it had been removed long ago, exposing bare wall.

That could be something.

Steve came in the next day, looking like he was forcing his enthusiasm for bartending.

"What's this?" he asked, coming up short when he saw the pad of paper and the pencil on the table.

Bucky smiled, seeing the hope in his eyes. "I talked to Mr. O'Leary. He said he'd like a mural."

"A mural?"

"Yeah, he thinks it might be nice. Better than that." He jabbed his thumb at the empty space. "Something to show the neighborhood, like. He'll pay you."

"This maybe have anything to do with yesterday?"

"Maybe," Bucky said coolly. He liked when Steve smiled, wanted to see more of that. It certainly wouldn't bother him to have him around more often.

Steve was a pleasure to have around. He was just pure light when so much of what Bucky felt was dark. He didn't seem to suspect that, either, as chatty as he was. Bucky would be cleaning the bar and Steve would be painting, having a very one-way conversation. It was a very nice way to work.

Bucky found that he was growing attached to Steve. This wasn't good. He'd gone across the country not making friends, much less anything more than friends.

There was no way he could deal with anything more than friends. Which was even assuming Steve was interested, or willing, or would even look at him after he suggested it.

No, better to keep all that to himself.

One day, Steve showed up much earlier than Bucky had been expecting him. He'd been about to take what passed for his nap when he came in.

"What'cha doing down there, Buck?" Steve asked, leaning over the bar.

"Going to bed."

"That's not going to bed, that's going to floor."

"You see a bed in here?"

"No," said Steve thoughtfully, "but that's no excuse. If you don't have anyplace to sleep, come to mine. Sleep in my bed."

Bucky's insides curdled. Steve couldn't know how that sounded. "No, I can't impose like that."

"Wouldn't be. Besides, you can sleep in the day, and I'll sleep at night. Makes sense, right?"

Bucky couldn't argue with that logic. "Okay," he said.

Steve's apartment was on the third floor of a skinny little building that looked almost as if it had been dropped in between its two taller neighbors as an afterthought. Its furnishings were simple, but Bucky was grateful for the real bed. He was asleep before the quilt had settled over him.

This arrangement carried them through the summer, through the buildup and through the hottest parts. Every day, Bucky came in to work and saw the mural's progress. It was a way of connecting with Steve that they couldn't really do at home—because Bucky had started thinking of it as home now. For the first time since taking the bartending job, he was wishing he could have a regular daytime schedule.

Then, one day, he was ready to shut the bar and Steve didn't show up.

Bucky knew he shouldn't be worried, he shouldn't overreact.

He was thinking this as he tore down the street to their building, took the stairs two at a time and fumbled with the key in the lock.

Steve was still in bed, burning up with fever.

"Hey," he said weakly, when he noticed Bucky standing there. "I don't think I'll be in today. Tell Mr. O'Leary I'm sorry. And I'm sorry I took your turn in the bed."

"Doesn't matter," Bucky said. "What can I do for you now?"

"Nothing," Steve said. "I get sick a lot. It'll pass."

"Yeah, no way am I doing nothing," Bucky muttered.

He dug around in his pockets until he was certain he had enough money to get Steve something. Then, he dashed to the drugstore on the corner, hoping he could leave Steve long enough.

Leave Steve long enough? That was ridiculous. He'd lasted this long without Bucky and he clearly wasn't dying.

Bucky slowed down as he approached the apartment, feeling silly, but as soon as he heard Steve coughing, he yanked the door open and pelted inside.

He forgot completely about the fact that he'd just worked all night and hadn't yet slept. He got Steve his medicine, refilled his water glass, and sat with him, by the bed, until he fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. Only then did Bucky let his own head fall back onto the mattress, too tired to care about the awkward angle.

Yeah, he had it bad.

"Bucky," a voice whispered. "Hey, Bucky."

Bucky blinked awake. "Hey. How d'you feel?"

"A lot better. Probably better than you feel with you head bent back like that."

Bucky sat up, wincing. Steve was right. "Don't worry about me."

"That's hard to do when you don't take care of yourself." Steve smirked. "You were sleeping on the floor until I told you not to."

Bucky leaned over and ruffled his hair. "I guess we need each other, then."

Steve laughed. "Guess we do."

Somehow, that heralded a change in their living arrangements. They went from simply occupying the same space to really living together. Bucky was simultaneously delighted to have Steve close and terrified that Steve would somehow find out what he was thinking about when Steve walked around without a shirt.

As winter descended, Bucky was getting close to not being able to take it anymore. This was the longest he'd stayed in any one place—it wouldn't be out of character for him to move on. Getting this attached was what was out of character.

On a Sunday afternoon in early December, he found the decision made for him, when the football game was interrupted by a special report.

"I'm going to enlist," Bucky said, when they switched it off. "This is war. I have to go."

"Me, too," Steve said.

"They won't take you," Bucky said, hoping it was true. He hadn't thought this far ahead—he couldn't stand the possibility of Steve in danger.

"Watch me," Steve muttered.

To Bucky's utter relief, Steve's laundry list of problems did indeed keep him out of the Army.

"I'll keep trying," Steve said, as he sat at the bar one evening before Bucky was to go for training, sketching. "You can't stop me."

"Nope," Bucky said, swabbing the bar. Business was winding down, after a slow night. People apparently didn't feel much like celebrating this week. "Don't reckon I can." He felt reasonably confident that there was no way Steve would slip through the cracks somehow. The guy might as well have 4-F branded on his forehead.

"And you're just going to go off by yourself?" Steve asked skeptically.

"Won't be by myself. I'll have a whole army behind me."

Steve didn't look hugely impressed by this.

"Remember what you said about bullies?" Bucky said. "And the biggest guy winning? That's what this is. You can see what the Germans are doing, all across Europe, and the Japanese, too. Someone's got to stand up to 'em and help the ones who already are."

"I know. I just wish I could help."

"They'll need people like you at home." Bucky jabbed a thumb at the mural over his shoulder. "I bet you start getting government jobs again, posters and stuff."

"That's not really helping."

"Of course it is! And besides—" He stopped.

"Besides what?" Steve said. "You think I couldn't handle the fighting?"

No, Bucky thought. I think you'd handle it too well. "That's not it at all." He wasn't sure what to say next. Should he really come out and just say it?

To his surprise, Steve did.

"I'll worry about you."

"What?" Bucky asked, bewildered. No one worried about him. That was what he'd taken for granted over the years—he could look after folks, take on their burdens for them, without letting off anything of his own. "Why would you do that?"

Steve rolled his eyes as if this was obvious. "Because I care about you, Buck. Don't know what I'll do if you're over there all by yourself, getting shot at." He looked down at the glass of beer Bucky'd given him on the house. He hadn't drunk enough of it to be getting this mushy if he didn't mean it. "Know it hasn't been a long time, but I… well, I don't know what I'd do without you. Kind of got used to you, I guess." Steve looked up and Bucky couldn't tear his eyes away.

Did he kiss him and ruin everything or not kiss him and lose the only chance he might have?

Steve answered that for him, too. He had to practically kneel on the barstool to do it, but he was leaning over the bar, just at the right height to kiss Bucky.

Bucky nearly dropped the glass he'd been wiping off. He set it down with a thunk and, as soon as his hands were free, tangled his fingers in Steve's hair and kissed him back.

This wasn't good for a number of reasons, but Bucky didn't care. This was a memory he'd take to basic and beyond, and he didn't regret that one bit.

"Your replacement's nowhere near as good," Steve said, when Bucky turned up in O'Leary's on his leave after basic.

"Good. Maybe after the war I'll still have a job."

Steve eyed him uncertainly. "You mean you're coming back here after the war?"

Bucky smirked, trying on some swagger. "Why wouldn't I?"

Steve flipped his sketchbook shut. "No reason."

Bucky pulled out a chair and sat at Steve's table. "I mean it, Steve." They hadn't talked about the kiss, but he hoped his meaning got across. "I'll come back. I'll write. I… I want to stay here."

"If you do come back," said Steve.

"I will," Bucky promised.

This was a conversation he'd have preferred to have alone, when they at least had the privacy of their thin-walled apartment. Of course, when they did get home, they didn't do a whole lot of talking, at least not with words. Everything they needed to say to each other was said with hands, lips, tongues, exploring territory long-desired. Bucky wanted to make the most of the time that remained to them, before he shipped out, without the pall of what might happen hanging over their heads. He appreciated Steve trying to make the best of it, though he could see the heaviness behind his eyes that was still there the next morning at the dock, however much Steve tried to look proud of his handsome soldier.

"I'll miss you," Bucky muttered in his ear as he pulled Steve into a manful parting hug.

"Just come back, dingus. And write me sometime."

Bucky wrote. Every downtime he had from the endless training, he wrote. Tramping through the English marshes, patrolling—he spent the time thinking about what he'd say to Steve.

"Barnes must have some dame," Dugan said.

"Has him under her thumb, more likely," somebody else said, and they all laughed.

"More than I can say for you," Bucky said, making a big show of kissing the letter before sealing it. It was stupid, but sort of thrilling to make them think he was having some fantastic love affair.

And he was.

Steve wrote back great thick letters with neighborhood updates and drawings. Bucky kept them close at hand, tacking up the view out their bedroom window above his bunk.

"Your girl draw that?" Jim Morita asked. "She's got quite a hand."

Bucky ignored the crude comment from Dugan that followed this.

"Yes, I suppose so," he said, pillowing his hands behind his head.

Bucky sent back pictures, too. He'd wanted to spare Steve the war, so his London shots carefully avoided bomb damage. Maybe one day, after it was over, he and Steve would tour Europe, a free, rebuilt Europe, and Steve would get to see these sights for himself.

For now, though, he was feeding Steve's artistic side. For every photograph, he got sketches back—those landmarks, the two of them in a foreign city you would never have known Steve had never set foot in.

And he knew Steve was working on posters again, because he checked the artist's signature on every piece of American propaganda he saw.

Not to mention the disconcertingly familiar soldier, admonishing him not to get VD.

Bucky got the message, loud and clear.

The war dragged on and so did Bucky. The view out the Brooklyn window was somewhat sodden with bits of mud on it. It had been in tents, a commandeered school, a farmhouse, even in his pocket as he bobbed across the English Channel.

It was a reminder, a promise that when Bucky was done helping to make the world safe for Steve, he would be back to him, back in the little apartment (or wherever their fortunes might carry them). Bucky was done wandering, at least alone. He was now farther away than he'd ever been in his life and the bleakness had taken the wanderlust out of him.

If you should ever want to take the wanderlust out of a person, send him to war, he thought, but didn't write. With the future uncertain, he didn't want to get anything down on paper, but he still had that hope that they could finish this war and he'd come home.

Home.

The push through France and into Germany gave Bucky even more opportunities to take more pictures, more places he could imagine taking Steve.

Maybe the wanderlust wasn't gone after all, he thought, as they marched down a washed out road in Normandy that he was imagining driving down in an open car, Steve laughing beside him, the skies blue, and not heavy with rainclouds.

Maybe it could be shared.

And then, finally, it was over. Bucky was in the middle of the German countryside on the push to Berlin when word came down, that most glorious word.

Surrender.

There was the long waiting, the tallying of points, the fear of being held for the occupation. Bucky's lot was to head back to the States, but not to go home—he needed training for redeployment. He was enjoying a sticky Florida August, courtesy of the US Army, when the Japanese surrendered. Now, he just had to wait for his number to come up.

It was a foggy fall evening, what should have been a slow Wednesday, as Bucky's feet carried him down familiar Brooklyn streets. Every business on the block was shut for the evening, except the one on the end that was casting the patch of yellow onto the pavement, one open port, the one he was headed for.

Bucky paused in front of O'Leary's, watching Steve move inside. He looked a little different, better-fed, maybe. He wasn't sure why he was still there-the glasses were all washed and stacked up, the tables were all clean. But still, there he was, lingering over his sweeping. Bucky imagined him listening to Perry Como or something, moving slow, lost in the music.

He pushed the door open.

"Sorry, we're closed," Steve said.

"Guess I'll have to come back tomorrow."

Steve dropped his broom with a thwack, a stunned expression on his face. Bucky stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, trying to do a boy-next-door thing. For several heartbeats, the only sound was Perry crooning.

Then, he had an armful of Steve, pressing up against him, driving his medals into his chest, clinging to him with more force than you'd think he'd be capable of. He took a moment to risk Steve's wrath and picked him up, spinning him around before kissing him good.

"Got to do a lot more of that to make up for all that time," Steve said when they broke apart.

"I missed you, too." Bucky kissed him again.

He was glad the light had been left on for him.