A/N: Uploading the new chapters now, since I won't be home most of tomorrow. (One more chapter to go after this one. I really enjoyed this story, short and sweet as it may be.)

Steve is up and drawing on the couch, wrapped up in the quilt and a beat-up wool sweater, when Bucky gets home. He's still pale, still looks the worse side of worn out, but he smiles and holds up charcoal smudged fingers in a mock salute when the door opens.

Bucky drags off his jacket and chucks it noncommittally at a chair. He misses by an inch.
"Take it you're feelin' better then?" He asks, retrieving it as smoothly as he can. Steve kindly doesn't chuckle at him, but it's a near thing.

"Somewhere between 'I've felt better' and 'kill me now'... so yeah." Steve grins, and Bucky rolls his eyes. Yep, Steve is being a sarcastic little shit. He's on the mend for sure.

"Good, cause I'm a shitty cook and I'm gettin' tired of eating burned 'food'. Sooner you're up and around, sooner I get to eat real food again."

"What tinned ham and boiled peas? It's not hard to dump a can in a pot and not let it burn, Buck…"

"You say that…" Bucky grins, shrugging at his supposed ineptitude. In all honesty, neither of them can cook to save their lives, but he'll talk up Steve's supposed skills all day if it makes the little punk smile. He needs to see that after the week he's just had. He really really needs it.
"Vic says hi, by the way."

"What, your boss? …. Was he mad?"

Bucky shrugs. "He wasn't happy… but he was pretty swell about it." He thinks about their conversation earlier and a little half-smile creeps onto his face. "He's an alright guy, Vic. Glad I'm workin' for him and not that Dave asshole in the other lot. Dave's a real prick to his guys."

"You keep calling in to work and you might just end up over there." Steve points out, turning the paper in his hands to examine his sketch, then setting it aside. At a glance, Bucky can see it's a doodled view of their kitchen doorway, complete with hard-backed chairs and tiny, half-useless sink.

" 'Just don't make a habit of it.' " Bucky makes air-quotes, shrugging. "That's what he said. Didn't seem to mind, long as it's not all the time. Like I said, Vic's alright."

"Next time, don't call in." Steve tells him earnestly. Like he honestly thinks Bucky will just go off to his job without a backward glance when his best friend is teetering on the brink of death. "Just go to work. I haven't died yet. It'll be fine."

"Steve." Bucky shakes his head. Kid's tenacious as a bulldog, he'll give him that. "We just fuckin' talked about this. You get that bad, I'm stayin' here. Come hell or high-water, I'm stayin' where I'm needed. An' if that means they find some other lunkhead to do my job, fine. I'll find another one. You ain't dyin' on my watch, Rogers. And we ain't discussing this again."

"How are you going to find another one, Buck?" Steve refuses to let the topic die now that he's got some strength back. It's annoying and reassuring at the same time. "There's guys around the block looking for jobs. You lose this one, you might not find another one for ages." There's something just a little bit bitter, a little acrid, in his tone when he continues. "God knows I can't…"
His eyes flicker up to Bucky's face and lock on there. "You gotta eat, same as the rest of us."

"And you gotta breathe, same as the rest of us. If I ain't here to make you, y'might just buy it for good. An' I can't live with that." He holds up his hand to cut off Steve's protests. "Comes to that, I'll figure somethin' out. Now shut up and scoot over before I sock you one."

Steve rolls his eyes, but obliges. He knows Bucky'd probably sooner jump off their roof than actually hurt him, but he also knows when Bucky's really and truly done arguing, and after everything he's just put the guy through, Steve just can't find it in himself to push this again.

"You stink, Barnes." He mutters petulantly, dragging his knees out of Bucky's way.

"Tough shit, squirt." Bucky settles down beside him and splays himself out, loose and weary, with a satisfied sigh. "God it feels good to sit."

"You should do more of that."

"Right. Get right on that." Bucky mumbles, looking drowsy already. He'll get up and throw something into a pot for dinner in a bit, but for now, he's busy dissolving into a mush of weary muscle and bone, melting into the thin, hard couch cushions. "Soon's I remember how t'move."

He's dimly aware that Steve has turned the page of his sketchbook again; the little bound book is a luxury that Bucky scrapes and saves to buy with whatever he's got left at the end of the month. A charcoal stick scratches softly over the paper. He doesn't turn his head. He knows what Steve's drawing without looking up, and if they both know that this bit of 'modeling' is just to give him an excuse to laze around a little longer and relax… well he'll still take it.


"Looks just like me." Bucky comments, eyes skimming the paper when he finally climbs to his feet with a creak and a groan. "Right down to the dumb-shit look on my face."

"You should quit saying stuff like that." Steve says, not looking up from where he's gingerly adjusting the line of the couch back on the page.

Bucky is already shuffling idly towards the kitchen. Steve knows better than to try to get up and help him. He'd only get shooed right back to the couch anyway. He's still tired enough that he lets it ride.

"Why, you worried you'll get a big head?" Bucky shoots back over his shoulder as he drags their one dented pot towards him. "You're the most modest guy I ever met. Wouldn't worry too much."

"You know what I mean, Bucky." Steve says primly, finally looking up. His lips are pressed into a thin line. "You talk like you're some kind of moron."

"Truth hurts." Bucky shrugs, rummaging a couple of wilted carrots out of the cupboard and half a tin of ham. He considers for a second, then cuts off a small chunk of butter and plops that into the pot as well. Steve can use the calories, even if they don't have much of the stuff to go around.

"Don't give me that!" Steve looks honest-to-god offended. "You got better grades than I did in school and you still read on your dinner-break all the time, when you can get your hands on a book." He's leveling his very best stern face at Bucky, who's doing his very best to ignore it. "I've seen you do it! You're real smart, Bucky, I don't know why you put on this big dumb caveman act."

"The ladies love it." Bucky shrugs. Honestly, he just knows 'smart' won't get him hired in the only jobs there are out there. Strong will. Bosses love big, dumb lugs that they can order around. Guys that won't be gunning for the boss's job. Bucky's good at playing that part. 'Smart' won't put food on the table. 'Smart' won't scare off the creeps that just keep targeting Steve. 'Smart' doesn't impress a pretty girl that's just looking for a good time. So Bucky lets the world think he's slower than a brick, and if he has to pull a trick out of the air to get by… well, he'd rather catch people by surprise when he does.

"You're nuts." Steve sighs, setting his drawing tools aside and letting his head droop against the back of the couch. "Totally 100%, Grade A cuckoo." He says it utterly without malice, just the way Bucky keeps calling him 'jerk' or 'punk' or 'jackass'. It's how they tell each other that everything's ok between them.
When one of them stops being rough and starts acting polite, the other knows something's really wrong.

"Hey, one of us's gotta be. Keep life interesting." Bucky shrugs. He gives the pot a sharp stir, dribbling a little broth over the side when he taps the spoon. He swipes a finger over it and catches the precious tidbits of nutrition before they can be lost in the sputtering flame of the stove. Can't afford to waste anything just for laziness. He licks it off, swipes his hand over the leg of his pants to dry it, and goes back to straggling two mismatched, chipped bowls and a couple of bent spoons onto the table. He fills two mugs with tap-water and sets those out too.

Given how many people (assholes) think Steve's health problems are all in his head, how many of them would swear the asthma is just insanity making itself known, or even worse, that Steve ought to be put down like a stray dog before he can 'pollute' the gene pool… Bucky's more than happy to play dumb and dippy; to let Steve shine as the smart one. The sane one. Steve's not crazy. He's not broken, unless you count his bum lungs and his heart problems, which Bucky doesn't. And fuck anybody who thinks otherwise, as far as he's concerned.
Bucky's ok with people thinking he's slow. He's ok with being nothing but the muscle behind the smart-ass little punk with too much mouth, if that's what keeps his friend safe. There's not a whole lot he can do to make Steve's life easier, but he does what he can, and he plays his part. When Bucky plays, he plays for keeps.

"I heard things are getting bad in Germany again." He says, conversationally, as he works. There are rumors about a war brewing in Europe again, running around the stockyards. Bucky doesn't put much faith in rumors, but he's not worried either way. Let them fight their own damned wars this time. The last one cost them both their fathers. He's not planning to get involved, thanks.

"Think it'll be war again?" Steve asks, already following the line of Bucky's thoughts, as he stands up, still bundled in his blanket, and shuffles over to sit down at the table. He's got a dangerous interest in soldiering, and has had since he was just a little kid. Probably because of how his dad died. His mama never stopped telling little Steve stories about his father. The Rogers that had never made it home to meet his son. Bucky's just glad Steve's way too small and way too sick to ever get called up. Brooklyn ain't exactly safe, but it's sure as hell better than the trenches.

"Nah. They're just pitchin' a fit." Bucky shrugs, swiping the spoon through his concoction once or twice more then tipping it out evenly into the two bowls he's laid out. "It'll pass. No way they'd be dumb enough to go for two."

"If it comes to that.. I'm gonna enlist." Steve says distantly. Bucky doesn't roll his eyes, but it's a very near thing.

"Focus on defeating your soup for now, Rogers. Then you can work on soldierin'."

"You're a jerk." Steve grumbles without heat, picking up his spoon.

"Shut your face or feed it, punk."

Steve chooses the latter.