With You Till the End of the Line

by Gemminycricket

Spanning from the 1930s to the modern day, this story changes POV from chapter to chapter and follows Steve and Bucky through their life as it becomes complicated by loss, pain, war, torture, mind control, and the aftermath of it all.

2. Chapter 2: It Was Home (Steve's POV)

It wasn't much, but it was home. It was the smallest of all the apartments they had inspected in the past week, but it was also the most affordable and the closest to the most potential jobs. They were reduced to one bedroom, a living space with one measly window whose view was barricaded by the neighbours' brick wall, a small kitchen, and an even smaller bathroom, but they still didn't own enough between them to fill the space. Steve had sold most of his old belongings to spare some funds, taking only what was most needed and leaving the rest to find new homes.

He couldn't help but be glad for it; leaving the weight of his old life behind. He wanted to start anew. Even if it meant starting here. The neighbourhood was bad and the place itself fit into it quite nicely. There were scuffs on the doorframe from where the door had been kicked in time and time again, and they had been given a key to what they were told was the fourth set of locks. It wasn't the most reassuring factoid, but Bucky hadn't seemed bothered by it, so Steve told himself not to be bothered by it either. There was no reason for their apartment to be targeted. They had nothing worth stealing and one glance at either of them would be enough evidence to suggest it.

Neither of them dressed all that well. All of Steve's clothes could be described as oversized, and his mother wasn't alive to help take them in anymore. It was a useful skill he hadn't any hope of mastering, despite his few efforts. The tatters of his poor attempts were stored sadly away, their hems uneven and buttons hanging loosely by a thread, likely never to be worn. Paying a tailor to repair the damage was totally out of the question and he didn't dare dish out the cost of new clothes that fit him—not that they were easy to find to begin with unless he wanted to face the humiliation of shopping in the boy's department

Bucky, meanwhile, fit his clothes just fine. If anything, he fit them a little too well. His father was constantly in and out of work with a bad back, meaning that income came and went suddenly without much warning. And with three siblings to share with, Bucky was insistent that not so much as a penny go toward his wardrobe. As far as Steve knew, Bucky hadn't obtained any new clothes for at least the past three years; and it showed. Puberty had really worked wonders on Bucky, and he seemed to only be getting taller and more muscular with each passing day. Already his clothes strained a bit on his body, pulling too tight in all the wrong—or all the right—places.

Steve wasn't the only one to notice.

Bucky was called many names behind cupped hands, all of them too severe for anyone to actually dare say too loudly. It wasn't something one joked about. But, still, Steve knew what they said. But it wasn't just because of the clothes. There were other things that fed their mean mutterings, things that Steve didn't actually know a whole lot about. They were all rumours. Rumours that Bucky went to places only 'deviant' men went, on nights he happened to finish work at the docks early. Steve could only assume these were nothing more than rumours because he himself had never been to one of these places. And if Bucky really was going there, then he surely would have invited Steve too—after all, he invited Steve everywhere.

Steve wasn't sure, and he wasn't in any position to ask. He figured Bucky would confirm or deny it whenever the time suited him. It wasn't Steve's place to pry, though he desperately wanted to. No matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, it still felt wrong not to be in the know about this particular aspect of Bucky's life. Not that he'd know how to feel if the rumours had any truth to them. The way he wanted to feel and the way he was supposed to feel were two very different things. And it wasn't a matter of opinion, it was a matter of safety. For both of them. Particularly for Bucky if he was, in fact, too conspicuous in his leanings.

It worried Steve. This was a bad neighbourhood, and there was no telling what the people here would do to someone like Bucky—assuming Bucky was actually like anything. He heard enough about what happened to men who were far too honest about their illicit affections, and that was in safer neighbourhoods. He knew Bucky could handle himself—and Steve too when it came to that—but even he had limitations, and there would be very few willing to defend him. For Bucky's sake, Steve hoped he was careful. He may not know whether he had reason to worry, but just to have all bases covered, he worried nonetheless.

For the longest time, Steve had tried not to fret over it. He couldn't even have sure suspicions, after all. Plenty of girls took a liking to Bucky, too—there was admittedly plenty to like—and Bucky had taken them up on their interest more than enough times to make Steve jealous. But, Bucky had never had a steady girlfriend. In fact, he'd never had much more than a single date with any given girl, and he always dragged Steve along for company. Double dating, he said. Not that Steve's blind dates ever paid him any attention. They always sat with their eyes trained longingly on Bucky, secretly hoping to distract his attention from his own date. They'd lean in and giggle, lips glorious and cheeks glowing, their lashes somehow mesmerising. And yet Bucky never appeared stunned by the attention. He was at ease, keeping his arm around his gal for the evening and treating her like a queen. Steve was only ever there to watch, miserable, just dying for his chance to go home.

Sometimes he couldn't discern where his jealousy was coming from—being ignored by his date… or by Bucky.

They'd had plenty of evenings like this. Plenty to dismiss the rumours.

And yet… Steve doubted. And he hoped.

He supposed if there was any truth to the rumours at all, he was bound to find out sooner rather than later. You learned things about people once you lived with them. Things you never would have imagined. Steve would get accustomed to Bucky's busy routine and he would eventually notice any odd discrepancies that couldn't be accounted for. He'd notice whenever he arrived home at odd hours, with or without the company of another person—man or woman. People made mistakes in their own home. Boundaries inevitably fell. Steve would know for sure, given time, and only then would he know if all his previous jealousies had been entirely misdirected.

Dazed by the heat, Steve stood aside in quiet contemplation, only half paying attention to the men at work until their voices suddenly turned sharp.

"You aren't carrying your weight," Bucky barked at his colleague, struggling to lift his end of the couch whilst the other end remained perched on the lawn.

"Give me a fucking second to find a grip, alright?"

It was either Jackson or Paul who replied. Steve couldn't actually remember who was who. All of Bucky's colleagues looked pretty alike—oversized with shaved heads and bad teeth. It wasn't fair of Steve to judge them on their intimidating appearances, or to continuously forget their names since they'd agreed to help them move without any pay. But they weren't unlike the men who usually beat him in alleyways. Steve was just instinctively on edge and took their civility with a grain of salt.

"Just fucking lift it, grip or no grip," Bucky ordered, heaving the couch up again.

Jackson or Paul swore under their breath and spat at their feet, but did as they were told and lifted their end of the couch. The two of them navigated it up the steep staircase and into the tiny apartment building. Steve watched, somewhat amused, but mostly guilt-ridden for not being able to help more. He was waiting until all the furniture had been moved in to start carrying in the boxes. Until then, it was his job to stay out front, making sure nobody tried to steal from them. He wasn't sure what good he would be if anyone were to try. Steve clearly wasn't opposed to fights, and he'd raise his fists the second anyone dared touch any of their belongings, but they'd likely get away with everything they had and he'd be left face down in the browning grass with saliva and blood dripping from his chin. That's how his fights usually went. Though grass, dead or no, seemed a far nicer surface than the usual brick or stone. Given the choice, this wasn't a bad way to go.

Bucky re-emerged first from the apartment, dabbing a sheen of sweat from his brow with the bottom of his shirt. It was an unfortunate time of year to be moving heavy furniture. The sun was aggressively beating down on them, effectively burning the little skin that Steve was showing. Bucky, meanwhile, was just quickly tanning. Steve's envy was only diminished by a somewhat shameful pang of lust. Bucky was always nice to look at, but today seemed a better day than any. Maybe it was just the promise of living with him that really opened Steve's eyes. He was lucky. Lucky that someone like Bucky Barnes would have any interest in living with him. Especially after Steve had warned him time and time again of what exactly he was signing up for. Every day Steve had another flaw to add to the growing list; all the reasons why he would make a terrible roommate ranging from the minor to the extreme. He had expressed his concerns frequently and with an undeniable sincerity and yet, insanely, Bucky never hesitated to dismiss them. He never once reconsidered.

Steve would never understand.

Bucky playfully bumped into Steve's side as he passed, grinning mischievously as he did. He seemed happier than ever. In fact, ever since Steve agreed to move, Bucky had been especially excited and eager for the future. He was looking ahead now, whereas in the past he had shunned the entire prospect. Whenever questions and thoughts came up about the future, Bucky had a tendency to clam up. He would claim to have no place in it. When pressed for specifics, he'd said that he was stunted and stuck in the present with nothing to offer. Despite doing well in school and working three jobs, Bucky couldn't shake the fear that he would never know what he was supposed to do, or that he, like his parents before him and their parents before that, would one day find themselves miserable in the kind of life they never wanted. Of course, he had no reason to worry. Steve knew what Bucky was worth, and he knew he would go onto great things.

Steve just never thought that there'd be room for him once he did.

So it was hard to believe his ears whenever Bucky described his plans and Steve was always a part of them. It was their plans—Steve and Bucky, Bucky and Steve. They were always a unit in every picture Bucky painted in fast words, his hands animated with untethered anticipation. It hardly mattered how ridiculous or unattainable his ideas were. Steve wasn't about to deny him when his usual worn pessimism had blossomed into a sense of infinite possibilities.

Steve, too, was looking forward to this new beginning. Of course, he was plenty worried about money, but when was he not? And they were bound to suffer some setback or another—likely one right after the other—but this wasn't a new concept for Steve who had lived much of his life expecting such things. And, despite Bucky's reassurance, he knew he'd be a poor excuse of a roommate and it was only a matter of time until Bucky knew it too. When the realisation hit, his pure optimism was sure to rot.

"You're making that face again," Bucky said in Steve's ear, startling him.

Steve turned and light-heartedly slapped Bucky's shoulder. "I hate when you sneak up on me like that," he accused.

"You're supposed to be paying attention, watching for thieves," Bucky reminded him. "You aren't much of a guard dog if I can take you by surprise."

"You're the only one that can, which is a fact you're far too happy to take advantage of."

Bucky considered it a moment and then grinned boyishly. "It keeps me entertained."

"At my expense."

Steve crossed his arms and scuffed the dirt beneath his shoe, but he couldn't help but smile and try to ignore the faint flush of pink in his cheeks. He was a fool to look forward to more moments like these—knowing they would be plentiful. He had suffered enough at the hands of Bucky's boredom and childlike whimsy, and yet Steve was more than willing to endure more. In fact, he welcomed it—invited it, even.

"If it's not at your expense, then it's simply no good," Bucky said.

"Oh. Wonderful. I guess I have much to look forward to," Steve rolled his eyes.

"It's worth it if it keeps that look off your face." Bucky reached up and brushed Steve's jaw with his knuckles teasingly.

Steve knocked Bucky's hand away and sheepishly rubbed his jaw with the back of his hand. His skin still tingled from Bucky's touch. "What look?" He asked, and immediately knew it was probably a mistake to concede that his face even had a look.

"You know, the worried look. The it's bound to go wrong look. The world is going to implode look. The I have no idea what I'm doing and I'm going to regret it look—,"

"I get it. Just my usual face then," Steve muttered and picked up one of the boxes with some strain on his arms. He began carrying it up the stairs with some difficulty. He took each step cautiously, but his knees began shaking at the effort.

Bucky sighed and stepped ahead of him to block his path. Ignoring Steve's protests, he wrestled the box from him and hoisted it under one arm like it weighed almost nothing. Steve, again, thought how he made for a poor excuse of a roommate who couldn't so much as participate in the actual act of moving.

What on earth was Bucky optimistic about?

"That's not what I meant, Steve. You have plenty other faces. All nice faces. Easy on the eyes, even," Bucky said gently, "but you've been sporting this particular face on and off for days now, and I'm starting to think it's because of me."

"Because of you?"

"You're worried about the logistics of this whole thing, and that's a lot of weight to carry around on your own. I haven't exactly been helping by shrugging you off every time you express your concerns." When Steve said nothing and looked down at his feet, Bucky set down the box and placed his hand on Steve's shoulder, squeezing gently. "I promise I'm in this. I'm worried too… I'm actually shit scared. But I'm here, with you, and somehow that makes it okay, you know? We're going to be fine."

"That's still an awful lot of confidence," Steve said, not entirely convinced, "and I don't mean to put a damper on that… I really don't—,"

"I know that," Bucky smiled, squeezing his shoulder one more time before retrieving the box. "But aren't you even a little bit excited? Happy, maybe?"

Steve tried biting back a smile but failed; his stupid lips couldn't help but turn up at the edges. "Your stupid excitement is horribly contagious. Here I am just trying to act like an adult by worrying myself stupid, then you come along all disgustingly happy, making an absolute mockery of me. Infecting me with your positivity."

"Well, achoo," Bucky mimicked a sneeze. "I'm excited and now you're excited with me."

It was decided as if it were that easy, and Bucky passed the box back to him, knowing perfectly well that the weight of the books inside could just about pull his arms from their sockets. He laughed as Steve walked wide-eyed up the rest of the stairs, concentrating with all his might to reach the top.

"Yeah, totally exciting," Steve remarked sarcastically as either Jackson or Paul saved him before he could collapse. With the weight lifted, he held his chest and wheezed. "I'll be more excited once the first lung forces its way out."

"Always so dramatic," Bucky scoffed. Steve could practically hear him rolling his eyes—there was a distinct sound to it. "You kept insisting that you help, so, I'm letting you help."

"Letting me? Like I need your permission?" Steve challenged, looking back at him. He felt a little taller standing on the high ground. He knew stairs couldn't suffice for actual growth, but, somehow, they made all the difference.

"Well, of course," Bucky cocked an eyebrow, challenging him right back. He took a step down, one foot sidling effortlessly backward behind the other, trusting them to feel their way. Steve towered over him just that little bit more, but he quickly felt so much smaller.

Bucky didn't need the advantage of height.

Instantly, the illusion shattered. The stairs made no real difference at all.

Steve straightened his back and broadened his shoulders, taking each stair down pointedly. He masked the tremble in his still overwhelmed knees all the while. Brushing past Bucky, purposely pushing harder than necessary, Steve picked up another box. He could have gone for one lighter than most, having labelled their contents on the outside with a fountain pen. But he didn't. Instead, he went for another full box of books, lifting the best he could with his legs rather than his back. Halfway up the stairs, he could feel the heat flushing his face and turning it red, but he was determined to at least make it to the top of the first staircase before giving in.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, each capable muscle flexing inside his tight sleeves. He was in better shape than Steve would ever be—meaning any shape at all. It was almost like he did it on purpose, flaunting everything that Steve either envied, admired, or both. Steve's stick arms were absolutely aching by the time he set the box down at Bucky's feet and he easily crushed his almost skeletal fingers beneath it. Bringing his fingers to his lips, he sucked on the sore tips and frowned, but still nodded his head at the achievement. For all the good Bucky's arms were worth, he wasn't carrying jack shit.

"Give it a century and we might finally get everything inside to unpack," Bucky laughed and nudged the box inside with his foot for either Jackson or Paul to collect.

"You're an ass," Steve grinned and then stuck out his tongue, not unlike an insolent child.

"You love me for it, Rogers," Bucky gestured for him to bring up the next box. "Keep bringing them up here and we'll take them the rest of the way."

"Letting me help, huh?"

"Would you rather one flight of stairs or six?"

The building had the beginnings of an elevator built in, the empty chute smack bang in the middle of the lobby with gates on every floor, but the actual lift itself had seemingly never been put in. It was almost as if the owner had given up or run out of funds halfway through the renovation. So they had no choice but to trudge up and down the six flights of stairs. It was a wonder how Bucky wasn't a little more worse for wear, all things considered. He was sweating from the summer heat, but the physical exertion itself had affected him very little.

Even when he was carrying nothing, the trip made Steve breathless. It would undoubtedly be impossible to carry every box up one at a time.

"Fair point," Steve granted finally. It was unlike him to back down, but he didn't want to still be doing this when the sun set.

He began the task of shifting the boxes to the top of the first staircase, often finding the three men waiting for something to do because they could carry everything three times faster. Steve gritted his teeth and kept going without complaint. He wouldn't dare admit total defeat by asking for help. Eventually, though, Bucky nudged Jackson or Paul's shoulder and told them; "Alright, I've made Steve suffer enough. You can give him a hand now."

Bucky knew how Steve hated to be coddled. He hated a certain kind of patronising behaviour where he was literally treated like a lesser being due to his size. Steve was not useless, and he had no intention to give in to the notion just because it might be easier to do so. He recognised the difference between an act of kindness and an act of belittling, and Bucky only ever showed him the former. Sure, Bucky teased him plenty. He had a way of poking fun at his small stature, but only because it was matched with his boundless, fiery energy. And he was only ever as protective as anyone fighting for a supposed "idiot" could be.

That's just how it had always been.

Back when they were just kids, Bucky had pulled Steve's ass out of a fight, literally gripping the collar of his shirt and pulling him to his feet. He had lifted his own fists but never got the chance to throw more than a couple punches before the teacher on duty spotted them. Steve remembered the other boys immediately crippling into a state of fear, but not Bucky. Bucky had lifted his chin and said without any hesitation; "I started it." Not that Steve let him take the blame, immediately refuting the claim until the two of them were talking over one another, raising their voices until the words were an illegible babble. In the end, they were both punished and walked home together afterward sporting their bruised knuckles, each one blackened by the battle and the subsequent thwack of the ruler.

"What were you thinking, fighting three of them at once?" Bucky had asked, somewhat reproachfully.

Steve remembered hesitating to respond. It was hard to say if he had just been shy, ashamed, or both, but he hadn't wanted to tell Bucky the truth. He wasn't trusting of most other children, despite his best efforts to befriend them, and chose not to talk about his difficulties at home. It wasn't uncommon to be poor, but Steve was both poor and ill, and remarkably easy to bully. It was an unfair combination that he could resent as much as he liked, but had little-to-no power to change. Since it was unlike Steve to lie—not that he was much good at it when he tried—he mostly kept quiet and only spoke when pushed to do so. But Bucky was different. Steve hadn't been able to hold his tongue this time.

It had been impossible to keep secrets from Bucky back then, just as it was still impossible now. Almost all his secrets, no matter how severe or embarrassing, had a way of being pulled out of him, sooner or later.

"They were trying to steal my money," Steve had eventually admitted and rubbed his steadily swelling fingers with his other hand. "My ma and I don't have much. She would have been mad."

Steve expected many things: a snort or a scoff or perhaps even a mocking laugh. It certainly wouldn't have been the first time his drab clothes and sickly frame earned such responses from the other kids. But, Bucky hadn't done any of those things. Instead, he had grabbed Steve's arm, smiled sheepishly, and said with absolute conviction;

"Then at least learn how to fight properly."

They'd taken the long route home, tracing the streets together and sweating in their school uniforms under the lazy heat of a dying summer's day. Sometimes they ran, but never too far and never too long, both biding their time and urging the sun to set slower. Together they had raised their fists and thrown punches into the air, ignoring the honking of car horns protesting the whims of reckless youth. Steve was euphoric to have someone who was happy to run at his speed.

By the time Steve jogged up the stairs to his apartment, he was able to make a proper fist—despite the state of his knuckles—and throw a decent right hook that would later strike the same bullies dumb for the briefest of moments. Looking back, Bucky was watching him, all smiles and wayward hair, waving to him as he opened his door. It was the kind of wave that said 'see you soon' rather than 'goodbye'.

Not much had changed since then. Steve still got into fights and Bucky still fought alongside him. And he always patched up Steve's wounds afterward. Over the years, he'd gotten just as practiced in this as he was at fighting. Sometimes Steve wondered what Bucky thought of him. The flicker of frustration in his eyes after a brawl never went by unnoticed, but neither did the overwhelming suggestion of concern. Bucky never scolded Steve out loud unless the bruises were especially bad, at which point he wouldn't hesitate to call him a complete idiot. And it was obvious that he meant it. But his hands were also so sincere in the way they touched Steve's tender skin, taking so much care to address his injuries; fingertips caressing his cheek, palm holding his jaw, thumb brushing across his split lip. His words spoke anger, but his touch was nothing but kind and attentive. Bucky still cared despite it all. He seemed to understand Steve's intentions, or at the very least he tried to. He knew now just as he did back then that Steve only ever meant well, and it did no good to ask him to back down… instead, you just had to teach him how to fight better.

Bucky let Steve do his part, knowing he was better off for it and ignored anyone and everyone that dared tell them otherwise.

Bucky was still happy running at Steve's speed.

"This is the last one," Steve wheezed as he set down the final box at the top of the stairs.

"Good," Bucky sighed with relief. He was finally starting to get out of breath. "You might as well run up and get ready."

"Get ready? For what?"

"We're taking the boys out for a drink," Bucky explained and gestured upstairs to where Jackson and Paul were both likely waiting. "They agreed to help us free of charge, but I feel it's only fair that we treat them somehow. Just to say thanks."

"Well, that's nice of you," Steve smiled.

"It's nice of us," Bucky corrected, "you're coming with us, too, Rogers. No backing out."

"But—."

"But nothing. We're going to celebrate this occasion and thank them for giving us the time of day. It would be rude of you not to come."

Bucky picked up the last box and started carrying it up the stairs, purposely slowing down until Steve followed after him. After taking the same set of stairs so many times, Steve could barely feel his legs anymore, but he knew just how uncomfortably aware he would be of every aching muscle tomorrow morning. He was dying to sit down and let them relax for a few hours, hopefully lessening the pain we was sure to endure later. But he knew Bucky was right. And, deep down, he was just as eager to mark the occasion and treat it for what it was: an exciting, new period in his life that he had the pleasure to share with his best friend. Steve couldn't just stay home and let the moment pass them by.

"Okay, okay," He agreed.

"It'll be good," Bucky promised. He turned his back to their apartment door and pushed it open, angling himself inside and propping it ajar with his shoulder just wide enough so Steve could slip past him. Steve was immediately greeted with a big puff of cigarette smoke in his face and he spluttered into his sleeve. "Nuh, uh. Put that shit out," Bucky ordered sternly, to either Jackson or Paul.

Lifting his mouth from his sleeve and opening his somewhat watering eyes, Steve realised they both had a cigarette nestled between their lips. They blinked in surprise but took no action to quit, even as Bucky swiftly set the box down and forced the rigid living room window to open.

"What are you on about, Barnes?" Jackson asked.

Now that they were standing side by side, Steve could finally see some discerning differences between them.

"Put out the cigarettes," Bucky said, "I don't want any of that in here."

"You used to smoke with us all the time," Paul argued, but they both did as they were told and put their cigarettes out in the kitchen basin.

"Yeah, and then I stopped. You smoke, he coughs, and he usually doesn't stop for days." Bucky hooked his thumb over his shoulder at Steve.

"You used to smoke?" Steve was surprised. He never knew that. He'd smelt the smoke on his clothes but always assumed that he simply carried it home with him from work. Almost everyone Bucky worked with smoked, but Steve had never seen him with a cigarette of his own.

"For a bit," Bucky shrugged dismissively, "but you said you hated the smell so…"

Steve fiddled with the hem of his shirt which had long since been untucked to combat the heat. He didn't know what he was to say to that, especially with Jackson and Paul casting curious glances back and forth between them. He finally settled on, "oh," and gestured towards the bathroom, "I'm going to go clean up…"

Bucky cleared his throat and averted his wary gaze. "Yeah, okay. Don't take too long, I need to wash up, too."

"Paul and I are going to take off. We'll meet you there," Jackson said, clearing the air of so much more than just cigarette smoke. Steve wasn't sure if he was thankful or resentful for it.

"See you there," Bucky affirmed.

Steve closed the door and caught the slightest hint of a smile in the mirror. He had to wonder what other secrets he would learn now that he and Bucky were living together in such close quarters. But then, as his smile faltered, he also had to ponder which secrets of his own would be uncovered—of which he only repressed the most dangerous. After all, you learned about people once you lived with them. Things you never would have imagined. And Bucky always pulled secrets out of Steve, sooner or later.

---

Steve had wrongly believed that 'taking the boys out for a drink' had meant one singular beer over a cheap dinner. It was probably naïve of him to think such a thing. Looking back now, he knew the idea was a ridiculous one, and he now questioned his own common sense. Retrospection had a way of making anyone second guess their choices, and Steve was certainly second-guessing his now.

He tried numerous times to count the number of empty glasses at their table, but the finished drinks were taken away as new ones were put down far too quickly to allow him a definite figure. Though it really shouldn't have been a surprise. Both Jackson and Paul were rather large men, and alcohol took to them like water to a stream—it just flowed and flowed and flowed without there being any real change to the scenery. They could truly hold their liquor. Steve just kept waiting and waiting, anticipating the moment when signs of intoxication started to show.

Bucky, though fit, was still rather lean when compared to his work friends and the difference in weight really became apparent as he downed seemingly the same number of drinks in quick succession and succumbed to them. His posture slumped forward from his stool, both elbows eventually making their way onto the table to support himself. His usual charming grin was coloured by every shade of light-headedness and ease. He laughed so freely, leaning into Steve and gracing the back of his neck with his hand each time he found one of his bad jokes particularly funny.

The two of them drank so rarely that Steve somehow forgot how uninhibited Bucky could become. He was usually so open and carefree as it was—maybe even careless. It didn't often occur to Steve just how much he was keeping restrained. It seemed impossible to think there was any more room to loosen up.

But, Bucky had proven him wrong yet again. He was remarkably elated as he ordered yet another round of cheap drinks for the table, including one for Steve who still had half a glass full in front of him.

Steve was already beginning to feel the effects as the liquor took course through his bloodstream. Depending on whether it was the good booze or the cheap shit they usually drank, Steve could easily get drunk on one glass; especially if he tried to keep pace with everyone else. Assuming he had to be sober enough to get everyone home later, he steadied himself and took comfort in the fuzzy, warm feeling of very slight tipsiness.

"You're gonna drink yourself stupid," he warned Bucky, but he was smiling. He was just drunk enough to relax, and wouldn't dare put a damper on Bucky's good mood. Especially since it was gloriously amusing to watch unfold.

"How can I when all the stupid is with you?" Bucky challenged and raised a brow at him, pursing his lips into a satisfied smile.

"There's enough stupid to go around, believe me," Steve said.

The bar was filled with patrons, all either drinking steadily or rapidly; there was no in between. He knew, given time, trouble was bound to arise, and he half-heartedly intended to get them out of there before it did. It was a plan for a later time; one he couldn't quite bring himself to focus on. His usual senses were blurred.

"We're just having fun. A lot of fun. Aren't we Steve?" Bucky leaned into him as an especially rowdy group passed their table. "You're having fun?" Bucky pushed, convinced Steve hadn't heard him the first time.

"Oh, plenty of fun," Steve assured him.

"I'm really glad you came. I know you didn't really want to, but I'm glad you did."

Steve steadied him with a heartfelt laugh. He could feel a new kind of flushed heat reddening his face as both the beer and the close proximity to Bucky took hold and shocked his system. He made the practical decision to push away his unfinished glass, knowing he was suitably drunk enough to enjoy his evening without pushing it too far.

Bucky, meanwhile, could get started and lose all intentions to stop. The meaning of limitations had a way of escaping him.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," Steve said.

"I'm really glad," Bucky affirmed again.

"Me too, Buck, me too."

"I wouldn't be too glad just yet," Paul said, "we're running late for our train."

"Train? Train to where?" Steve was suddenly brought to attention by the prospect.

Bucky laughed and clutched onto Steve's arm. "Right! The surprise!"

Bucky's surprises were often too bold in their execution, and that was when he was sober. The risk was even greater with a few drinks in him. Steve had a way of getting himself into trouble, though he never set out looking for it, but Bucky's trouble was always premeditated, just with various unexpected twists and turns sweeping them off course. His plans weren't usually well devised was the point Steve often made but Bucky always refuted. Steve, perhaps naively, always gave into him. Together their recklessness had sometimes gotten the better of them… and, were Steve in his better mind, he probably would have shut down the notion of a train ride in that very instant.

"I'm afraid to ask," Steve chuckled, somewhat darkly. Briefly forgetting his initial instinct to sober up, he picked up his glass and went to take a sip but couldn't stop laughing long enough to bring it to his lips.

"To celebrate moving into our new home, we're going to Rockaway Beach!" Bucky shook his arm, the material of Steve's sleeves caught in tight fists. As Bucky slowly slid off his stool, he started pulling Steve down along with him. Again, Steve steadied him with a hand to his chest—Bucky's heart was beating like a hummingbird's wings.

"That's assuming we don't miss the train," Jackson corrected and put down the money for their last round of drinks.

Deep down, Steve knew it wasn't at all wise to go all the way to Rockaway Beach when Bucky was already in such a state, but he was entirely too exhilarated in the moment. Somehow, despite his better judgement, Steve found himself guiding Bucky up off his stool and leading him out the door of the bar behind Jackson and Paul who were both unfairly stable on their feet. He let them walk ahead to the station, which made it easier for him to follow and keep an eye on Bucky at the same time. Not that Bucky was going anywhere without him. There was little of him disappearing alone into the night, so closely tucked into Steve's side, walking with a definite sway to his step, but otherwise competently without any obvious dip in his consciousness. He remained keen as they neared the station, soon quickening his pace and dragging Steve along with him by the hand.

They had to run the rest of the way as the train threatened to leave without them, and they shouted raucously in the hopes they would be heard. Bucky's calls collapsed into laughter and Steve had to pull at his hand, ensuring he kept up. It was hard not to laugh, too, at the ridiculousness of it all. He knew they looked like idiots, himself especially as they made it onto the train and he was the only one sweating and out of breath. With adrenaline still shaking his legs, Steve sat down and pulled Bucky down next to him.

They sat close together on the surprisingly empty carriage whilst the other two men stood in front of them, chattering amongst themselves. The journey would have been long enough to sober them up some, but Jackson slipped a small flask out of his jacket and passed it around. Steve shook his head when it was offered to him and passed it forward to Bucky who took it for a few quick swigs.

Sitting down, Bucky seemingly lulled into a somewhat more sensible presence that seemed far easier to reel in. But Steve had been wrong before. Many times. He was going to keep a close eye just to be sure. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that the flask was a dangerous thing that he likely should have snatched straight out of Bucky's hand. Steve had been right to say that there was plenty of stupid to go round, and he had taken his fair share of it.

They were able to leave the train with far less difficulty than they had getting on, though Bucky remained the clear weak link of the group who had to depend on everyone else for direction. Steve began to wonder if he had counted the drinks less accurately than he had originally thought, attributing too few of the empty glasses to Bucky. He had no way of knowing now, though he guessed there was something to his suspicions as Bucky took off ahead of them into the crowd, his previous clinginess quickly forgotten.

"Oh, for god's sake," Steve sighed and struggled to keep up.

His 5'4" height had various limitations, one being his absolute incapability to follow Bucky in a crowd. He couldn't see over people's heads despite standing on his toes, and so he depended on Paul and Jackson to lead the way. But, turning around, the two of them were already gone, probably taking off to enjoy the festivities. Trying not to panic so soon, Steve decided the only thing he could do was circle the place and hope he found Bucky before he could get into any kind of mischief.

He excused himself as he slipped between people, navigating his way through the throng. Unable to hear anything legible through the mass of noise, he strained to recognise anything familiar. It was a busy night, probably the first this week that hadn't been washed out by late summer storms. Everybody was out enjoying the clear evening, young couples holding hands and groups of friends huddling in front of booths or lining up for the rides. He was surrounded by laughter and the joyous chatter of children, their bodies illuminated by lights.

But Bucky wasn't anywhere among them.

Distantly, he could smell the salty tang of the beach, but it was greatly diminished by the overwhelming scents of onions, cooked sausages, and the sickly sweet churn of the cotton candy machines. Above the din of chatter and delighted screams, the clang of rides rang overhead, each riddled by funfair music from speakers tucked away out of sight.

There were far too many distractions, and Steve could only guess which one would draw Bucky's attention. His boundless energy and affinity for careless fun could lead him just about anywhere and everywhere all at once. Steve knew most of his vices well enough… he just couldn't keep up with them was all. Though not for lack of trying.

As it turns out, there was one distraction Steve had forgotten to consider. When he finally found Bucky, he was leaning against the side of a carnival game, arms easily crossed and head cocked slightly to one side, smiling at a redheaded dame. Steve could only see her from behind, but he could tell she was absolutely smitten with him. It wasn't hard to guess. All the girls favoured Bucky and were usually happy to flirt with him whenever the opportunity presented itself… and Steve couldn't honestly blame them if he tried.

He slowed as he neared them, almost hesitating with an awkward sense of jealousy. He felt like he was intruding; walking in on something intimate that he wasn't supposed to see. Of course, he reasoned that they were in a very public place and there were more than enough eyes around to spot any funny business, but it was still a feeling he couldn't shake.

And he was trying remarkably hard to shake it.

"Steve!" Bucky's eyes sidled away from the girl and caught Steve over her shoulder.

"You took off without me," Steve said, somewhat accusingly, as he joined them.

The girl perceptibly shifted her weight from one foot to the other, the smile to her scarlet lips falling some-ways without quite disappearing. Steve watched her, hoping to somehow insert himself into whatever conversation they had been having, but it was clear she wanted to keep him out of it. She was remarkably beautiful, Steve thought, with dazzling green eyes and a smile that could light up somebody's world. Steve easily felt small in her presence.

"I thought you were behind me," Bucky said, "I turned around and you were gone! Disappeared right into thin air. Figured it would be better to wait till you found me."

"Well, I found you… with company," Steve nodded his head in her direction.

Bucky frowned, mildly confused, but then blinked with sudden understanding. "Right! Sorry! This is… D…"

"Dolores," she finished for Bucky, somehow unswayed by Bucky's falter.

"It's nice to meet you." Steve offered his hand.

Politely, she took it, and he brought her hand to his lips without actually kissing it. Neither of them were eager to follow common courtesy. She withdrew her hand quite quickly and reached out to touch Bucky's shoulder, smiling at him all the while.

"Bucky here was just telling me how good he was at this game," Dolores said, already impressed by Bucky's drunken confidence—the overzealous boasting he had a way of making sound so smooth.

Steve couldn't help but snort with mild derision. He knew Bucky was in no condition to knock down any bottles unless he physically threw himself into them. He wouldn't be able to aim worth a damn with that much liquor hindering his senses. His hand-eye coordination was completely shot. Steve could tell Bucky was leaning rather than standing upright out of need rather than by choice, but somehow this had completely escaped Dolores' notice.

She turned away, insulted, and pulled at Bucky's bicep. "Will you win me a prize?" she asked hopefully, gazing at him through her long lashes.

Were Steve at the receiving end of that look, he probably would have buckled at the knees. But Bucky was well seasoned in this area. He barely even reacted to her at all. Steve could only wonder what it was like to be bored by a girl's attention.

Bucky eyed Steve and grinned, laughing seemingly to himself. "Why certainly," he agreed, clumsily pushing himself up. He found his balance and tried digging money from his pocket with some difficulty.

It was Steve's turn to laugh and he masked it with a cough against his fist.

Bucky brushed past him and chortled into his ear, "You little punk."

"You're making the lady wait, Barnes," Steve teased and folded his arms expectantly. It felt good to tease him for a change. Maybe it was petty, but Steve needed to poke fun right now. Standing by and saying nothing at all didn't sit well with the twisted knot in his gut.

"Just working myself up to it, Rogers," Bucky said as he paid for a turn. He turned his attention to Dolores with the most captivating smile, the kind that frequently whipped the air right of people's lungs and charmed them senseless. It seemed to work as Dolores giggled and blushed, hiding the dimples of her cheeks with her hand.

Steve felt the sharp pang of jealousy and he fell quiet, no longer quipping Bucky. Anything witty he could have said was suddenly robbed from him by his own insecurities. He shrunk in on himself, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and sheepishly scuffing the ground with his foot. He'd be lucky to disappear. But if he took off now, there was no guarantee he would be able to find Bucky again later, and he couldn't risk that when he was in this condition. Steve had no choice but to loiter and watch this flirtation unfold before him.

Bucky lined up his aim and pitched the ball towards the bottles stacked at the back of the booth… and he missed… by a long shot. He threw his hands up in mock failure and roared with dissatisfaction, as though he had been this close. He picked up the next ball and aimed again, and missed again, granted with a little less room to spare.

"Third time's the charm," he promised and winked at the two of them.

Dolores laughed with glee. Glancing at the adoring look on her face, Steve realised she thought Bucky was just playing around and making a fool of himself for her entertainment. But Steve knew better. On a better day, Bucky would be pegging every ball right at the centre and knocking every bottle down in one go just to show off that he could. This was no act; Bucky was simply too drunk.

He threw the last ball without even taking the time to aim and it hit the back of the booth with a muffled 'whumf' against the red curtain. The stack of bottles stood tall, completely untouched, silently mocking him with their undying stability.

"Another round," Bucky ordered happily and set down more money.

Steve, again, looked over at Dolores who clearly took this as a sign that Bucky had money he was willing to spend on her. She had no idea that he and Steve were living together in the dodgy part of Brooklyn, sharing the one bedroom in a rundown apartment. If she did, she likely wouldn't still be standing here with lust gleaming in her eyes. Steve was oh so tempted to tell her—to just somehow bring it up in casual conversation—exaggerating every detail to really dissolve her affections. Steve wanted to send her running in the other direction.

But he couldn't bring himself to do it.

If Bucky fancied her, then that was entirely his business. It wouldn't be fair of Steve to intrude and mess up his chances, especially since Bucky only ever tried finding the perfect girl for him whenever they went on double dates. Bucky never sabotaged Steve's already incredibly slim chances.

Steve forced a smile and offered the only kind of support he could; the only kind he knew might actually work. He taunted. "Is that how you always try to impress the ladies? You earn their pity?"

"I'm warming up," Bucky slurred defensively. He swayed a little bit.

"You've been warming up for a while. Should be roaring hot by now," Steve said, "actually, you should be melting. So what gives?"

"I'd love to see you try, Rogers," Bucky laughed. "Watch it drop and hit the ground without covering any distance."

Steve leaned in closer as a nearby group of people broke into cheer. "I'm not the one who talked themselves up."

Bucky crudely stuck out his tongue and turned his attention back to the game. He pegged the ball, once, twice, three times in quick succession and only managed to knock down the top milk bottle. It was an improvement from the last attempt, but not nearly enough to earn Dolores a prize. Bucky held up a hand, holding his place in line as he sought more money from any of his pockets. Steve couldn't help but splutter into his sleeve when he caught the disillusioned expression on Dolores' face. She had finally caught on that something was amiss.

"I think your admirer is losing interest, Buck," Steve murmured to him.

Bucky glanced beyond Steve to see his redheaded girl casting her focus to the happenings around her, her feet near dancing to walk away and find someone better worth her time. Bucky's face flushed red with absolute embarrassment and he ran a disgruntled hand through his hair, somehow hoping that alone would help sober him up enough to save his reputation. If he didn't perform a miracle this time around, Dolores was surely lost to him forever.

"You need to steady your arm," Steve said quietly. He couldn't help but take pity on his friend, despite all his other instincts that were dying for this to happen. "Aim for the base of the bottles. Knock the bottom ones out and they'll all tumble, got it?"

"I can barely see straight, Steve," Bucky said in a hushed tone, "and my muscles feel like jelly."

"You're gonna have to try, or else she's going to take off without you."

Bucky sighed and ran his hand through his hair one more time, blinking hard against the harsh lights flashing into his eyes. He lifted his arm to aim and then frowned, immediately recognising how little hope he had of doing this. Bucky nudged Steve's arm and whispered into his ear; "Distract her."

Steve opened his mouth to argue but caught the desperation in Bucky's expression and quickly closed it again without uttering a word. Heaving a sigh, Steve turned to Dolores and tried to gain her attention, but it was clear she wasn't willing to give him the time of day. She looked over Steve's shoulder, still hoping Bucky would pull through. Knowing he would have to take drastic measures, Steve pretended to stumble and stepped on the toe of her suede leather Oxfords.

"Ouch!" she cried and bent down to cup her injured toes.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Steve apologised. He felt like an absolute fool—but what else was new. He knelt down in an attempt to offer assistance of some kind but she waved him off with a swift look of disgust.

"These are new," she sniffed, glaring back and forth between Steve and the dirty stain on her shoe.

Before Steve could apologise again, they were interrupted by the sudden clang of glass tumbling over. They both turned to see Bucky with his fists up to the air in triumph, grinning from ear to ear. The stack of bottles littered the floor of the booth and the attendant smiled to himself, slipping what was evidently more than three rounds worth of money into his belt. Bucky had paid him off.

"So what will it be, D… Dot," Bucky asked and gestured to the row of prizes hanging overhead.

Dolores' face lit up and she stepped forward to choose her prize, immediately forgetting all about her stained shoe and sore toes. Bucky put her arm around her and she leaned into him, completely smitten with him all over again as if nothing untoward had happened. In the end, he had won her a stuffed bear and earned her affections, never mind the number of embarrassing attempts. He smiled and played lightly with a lock of her red hair, twirling it around his forefinger as she giggled and placed a hand against his chest. The attendant retrieved the bear for them and Bucky presented it to her, watching Steve all the while.

Steve forced another smile and nodded his approval.

"He's all yours, Dot," Bucky purred.

"Naww, he's so cute, I love him!" Dolores hugged the bear close. "Thank you, Bucky."

Steve hated that Bucky called her Dot. He hated seeing them so warm to one another, their bodies close, her hand easily slipping into his, their fingers entwining. They made a cute couple, gazing adoringly into one another's eyes like two people who had known and loved each other for years. But the way she curved into him and reached for his chest spoke of an undying passion, the exhilarating rush that came from a new relationship—not that Steve knew what that felt like.

"We should find Jackson and Paul," Steve said finally. He was desperate to leave, to get out of there and go home to the quiet and cold confines of his bed.

"I thought they were with you," Bucky said, confused.

"Do you see them?" Steve rolled his eyes.

The night had not gone as he had hoped. Their friends were missing and Bucky was tangled with a beautiful redhead that clearly wanted nothing more than for Steve to disappear. And what's worse is that Steve could hardly blame her. Sometimes he wanted to disappear too.

"Hey," Bucky said gently and untangled himself from Dolores, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong with me. We just need to find your friends before they get themselves into trouble."

Bucky nodded in understanding and was quick to abandon Dolores' side in favour of Steve's. "I'm really sorry, but we've got to go," he said to her, "you take good care of that bear."

"I will," she promised.

Her smile fell and her expression turned dark. She was absolutely crushed to see Bucky go so soon and without any sign of hesitation or remorse. He didn't even stop to ask for her number. Steve was in no position to remind him, either, as he turned away and started searching the crowd for Jackson and Paul. Bucky followed him, keeping close to his shoulder so they didn't become separated amidst the swarm of people.

There were fewer people to contend with as it was getting late and families were heading home to put their children to bed. It was mostly young adults that loitered around the rides, groups standing or walking together, enjoying the last of the fun before the night was through. It was sure to make finding the two tall, burly men easier. Steve gestured for Bucky to follow him around the corner towards the main food court, assuming that they may have stopped there to eat.

Time had done little for Bucky who was still unsteady on his feet and a little taken aback by his ever-changing surroundings. Had he not become distracted by Dolores when he did, there was no knowing where Bucky would have ended up. In a way, Steve had a lot to thank her for, though he was far too petty and jealous to admit it aloud. He didn't even really want to talk about her, but he wasn't going to dismiss the subject if Bucky brought it up.

But he never did.

Bucky said nothing about her as they searched, only stopping when he reached out and took Steve's arm. His face had run pale and he stumbled toward a garbage can against the wall. "I feel like I'm going to be sick," he warned.

"You drank too much," Steve stated plainly.

"It didn't feel like too much at the time," Bucky coughed.

He planted one hand against the wall and leaned over the trash can, preparing to heave if need be. The liquor had finally hit home, settling in his bloodstream and flooding his senses. He could become floored at any given moment, which would make the journey home all the more perilous. Steve could not carry him on his own. He had to find Jackson and Paul to help them, assuming they weren't any worse for wear themselves. It was entirely possible that they were already passed out drunk somewhere—only God knew where.

"That's usually how it goes," Steve sighed.

Bucky finally heaved and collapsed on his knees in front of the can. Steve looked around, making sure nobody had spotted them there in the shadows. Nobody was watching as Steve knelt down beside him and rubbed his back soothingly. He didn't know what else to do. He couldn't take away some of Bucky's suffering—he couldn't lighten the load, though he would if he could. He'd do it in a heartbeat.

"At least Dot can't see you now," Steve said, almost spitting the word Dot.

"Huh?" Bucky coughed.

"Nothing," Steve dismissed. He knew it wasn't Bucky's fault. It wasn't fair to rub it in his face.

"I'm sorry," Bucky said and clumsily wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. His eyes glistened with sincere apology and the all-consuming depth of intoxication. Steve knew Bucky would regret this in the morning—at least whatever parts of it that he remembered.

Steve smiled gently, quickly sympathetic, and brushed Bucky's tussled hair back out of his face. "It's okay," he assured him, "we'll sober you up and go home, alright?"

Bucky nodded and whimpered quietly to himself, ducking his head down against the arm he rested on the edge of the trash can. Steve nudged him and carefully pulled him away from the bin, allowing him to lean into Steve's side instead. There was no knowing what kinds of nasty rubbish had been in that trash can, and he didn't want Bucky falling into it.

"You should eat something," Steve suggested, "any preferences?"

Bucky thought about it a moment before smiling weakly. "Hotdogs. Lots of hotdogs."

"Hot dogs it is. Think you'll be okay here without me for a couple minutes?"

"Uh huh."

"You sure? I could, um, I dunno, you could lean on me while we stand in line or—,"

"I'm not going to disappear into thin air, Steve," Bucky promised, "I won't go anywhere."

Steve assessed the situation and decided it was probably safe to leave him there. He didn't seem inclined to take off back into the park and would likely sit there with his head hanging between his knees. Sure, it wasn't such a pretty sight, but it was far better than the alternative. Steve just had to hope nobody came by and kicked him out in his absence.

"Try and act sober," Steve instructed sternly before getting up. Bucky gave him a lazy thumbs up and watched as he turned to leave for one of the food stalls.

When he came back, Bucky was sat leaning against the wall with one arm rested atop his knees, the other propped up on his elbow with his hand in his hair. His head dipped forward and his lips sat slightly parted, gently breathing in the humid air. It felt claustrophobic and hot inside the bubble of distant laughter and surging rides.

Steve propped the cardboard tray of hotdogs precariously on one hand and guided Bucky up to his feet with the other. Bucky instinctively laced his arm around him, trying hard not to apply too much of his weight onto him but failing quite miserably. But Steve didn't mind. He staggered a bit under Bucky's drunken weight but helped carry him out of the park towards the beach. Leaving the bright lights behind them, they were able to find it by following the scent of fresh air and ocean salt. Soon, they were able to hear the gentle crashing of waves against the shore and could feel the soft grit of sand caught in the wind against their skin. Once they hit the sand, their feet sunk easily into it and filled their shoes, but neither complained as they tread closer to the water's edge and sat down.

Steve settled Bucky down first before handing him a hotdog. Bucky slurred a quiet thank you and bit into it lazily, humming appreciatively at the taste. His stomach was sure to be thankful for some food in place of more alcohol. It was easy to assume that, had Paul and Jackson stuck around, the drinking would have carried on later into the night until Bucky was nothing more than an unconscious mass on the floor. That was assuming he didn't get arrested first. Steve could only imagine how much worse the night could have gone.

All things considered, he and Bucky were sitting alone together on the beach in the middle of the night eating hotdogs.

Steve was happy.

"This is so damn good," Bucky said with his mouth full.

"You don't have to inhale the whole thing, Buck. I got you another one," Steve said and nudged his shoulder. They were very barely illuminated by the lights at their back, but Steve could just make out the swelling of Bucky's cheeks where he had bitten off more than he could chew, and the dark smear of sauce and grease on his lips. Steve snorted and wrinkled his nose in mock disgust. He swore he couldn't take Bucky anywhere.

"Bii-te eh, Ogers," Bucky's voice was completely muffled.

"What's that now?"

Bucky forced himself to swallow with some effort. "I said "bite me, Rogers.""

"Big talk coming from the guy with ketchup and mustard all over his face," Steve smirked.

Bucky licked at his lips and smiled. He seemed to be happy, too.

They leaned against each other's sides, Steve's shoulder pressed to Bucky's bicep. He was at the perfect height to rest his head down on Bucky's shoulder if he wanted to, but Bucky was shifting far too much, kicking off his shoes and burying his feet into the sand.

"I think they're gone, Steve," Bucky said thoughtfully.

Bucky dusted his hands off after finishing the first hot dog and then made grabby hands for another. Steve obliged him and continued nibbling on his own, taking his time to eat it even as it started to go cold and filled with small grains of sand that felt gritty between his teeth. It wasn't much good now, but he wasn't going to let it go to waste. Bucky, meanwhile, hardly seemed to care or even notice. Steve decided to leave his second one propped on his knee for Bucky to consume sooner rather than later. His needs far surpassed Steve's, and at least he got a kick out of it.

"Who?"

"Jackson and Paul of course."

"Gone where?" Steve asked. He had somehow forgotten all about the search, instead becoming completely preoccupied with sobering up Bucky.

"I don't know. Home, maybe. Or they met up with some girls and took off with them to do all kinds of nasty things," Bucky shrugged, leaning back into the sand.

"Would they do that?"

"It wouldn't be the first time. You know, assuming they aren't all talk."

Steve wrinkled his nose. "Do they really talk like that?"

"Boasting to anyone that'll listen? Yeah, of course, they do. All the guys at the docks do," Bucky told him. "Most of them are probably lying but you don't ask questions. Not ones you actually want answered."

"Do you?" Steve asked, "Talk like that I mean?"

Bucky thought about it a moment before snorting and shaking his head. His hair ruffled gently in the breeze.

"Nah. I don't talk about that stuff. It's private. None of their business."

Steve's lips turned up into the smallest hint of a smile. He'd had his doubts. Bucky talked differently when he was around them. He certainly wasn't a saint by any means, but he usually didn't use as much foul language when it was just him and Steve. He had a way of cursing whenever the situation called for it; whenever his frustrations boiled and his day went wayward, but, with them, the amount of cursing amplified tenfold. It didn't bother Steve that much—he had heard far worse before… but it didn't sound like Bucky.

Steve had heard him at the docks the few times he went to see him, and he sounded like a completely different person. Sometimes he had acted like it, too, his expression suddenly turning serious as he escorted Steve away from his colleagues as they hollered horrendously crude things at his back. He was so severe, grabbing his arm too tightly and walking him away so swiftly, Steve couldn't think to stand his ground or ask questions.

For once, he didn't argue or put up a fight.

His heart had hammered wildly in his chest; impossible to rein in. It was the dread setting in. The dread that there was something to his fears, and that there always had been. But as soon as they had rounded the corner and were free from prying eyes, Bucky had broken out into a grin, seemingly thrilled to see him. The sudden change had been enough to give Steve whiplash, and he had only gone back a couple times since. He avoided it when he could. The docks felt out of bounds to him, somehow. Like Bucky didn't really want him there.

Steve had never asked about it before, but he felt like it might be safe to ask now, knowing Bucky probably wouldn't remember it in the morning.

"I was surprised you asked them to help out," Steve said, choosing his words with caution.

"Why?" Bucky finished off his second hot dog and wordlessly took the third Steve offered him. He laid back against the sand, holding it close his chest. He was probably too drunk to sit up.

"Well, I don't know… you never introduced me to them in the past. Or to any of the guys from the docks, now that I think about it."

Bucky was quiet at first before he finally sighed. "Is that so?"

"Yeah. You always just… turned me away," Steve said, "like you were ashamed of me or something."

Steve recoiled now that he had said it out loud. He couldn't take it back even if he wanted to.

To distract himself from the nervous shake in his fingers, he set about untying his shoelaces, struggling a little with the double knots. But anything was better than watching Bucky lying there so comfortably numb in the sand, his gaze turned to the sky as if a whole other world existed out there; a world without Steve in it—a better world. Sometimes Steve wondered where Bucky would be if he had the means to be elsewhere. He wondered if Bucky's plans included him so intrinsically only because he had been dealt a poor hand. Had he been given better cards, would it have been somebody else lying on the beach with him?

"It's not like that," Bucky said, "I'm not ashamed of you, you idiot. I just care about you, that's all."

"See, that doesn't exactly correlate…"

"Yeah, it does. Some of those guys are alright, and some of them aren't. Paul and Jackson are usually more bark than they are bite, but some of them see a little guy like you and think it's alright to take advantage," Bucky explained. "They'll beat on you just because they can."

"Because I'm small?" Steve scoffed in disbelief.

Bucky hesitated and picked up a fistful of sand, letting it drain through his fingers slowly. He did this again, and again, and again, and Steve watched. He watched the grains fall away like dust, catching in the light breeze and blanketing their clothes.

"They'll think they can get away with it because you're small. But they'll start it because of me," he answered finally.

"Because of you? Why?"

"You know why, Steve," Bucky's voice became muffled as he talked into his arm, laying his head down against it. "You know what people say about me. Most folk just whisper, but the guys at the docks are all trash talk and they aren't afraid to say what they think."

Steve bit his bottom lip and fiddled nervously with the fraying threads at the ends of his shoelaces. He didn't dare ask if there was any truth to their words. It wasn't his place. He was scared Bucky would answer, and he was scared that he wouldn't.

"I'm sorry, Buck."

"It doesn't matter. People can say whatever they want," Bucky assured him, "nothing anyone says or does dictates who I am. I just shut it down, do the work, and go home at the end of the day. They don't follow me anymore. They don't start trouble."

Steve laid back down next to him, reaching out to touch him. "You never told me that they did that?"

Bucky chortled. The hollow sound was absolutely void of humour. "It was early days. They figured three against one would set me straight. Little did they know I've been jumping into all your fights all these years. I really should be thanking you."

Steve smiled sadly. "You're welcome."

"I really had to learn how to fight in order to save your ass," Bucky teased, grinning boyishly into his sleeve.

"Don't tell fibs, Barnes. I taught you a thing or two myself."

"Now who's telling fibs?!"

Steve pursed his lips in light-hearted offence. He knew Bucky sometimes depended too much on his size and good health, taking risks and reckless swings a wiser man would likely warn against. Of course, it wasn't Steve's place to say so, considering his history, but that didn't mean Bucky wasn't also guilty of fighting above his pay grade. His form was good and he was faster than most, but all that was worth nothing if he didn't know how to use it. Had Steve the mass to back up his punches, he figured he could beat Bucky hand to hand, easy. There were things he could teach him if only Bucky had the ear to actually listen without immediately guffawing.

Steve pushed himself up onto his feet, stumbling just a little on the uneven terrain. His head was still somewhat spinning from the long, eventful evening, which made it all the more difficult to find his balance. Raising both fists, he kicked sand against Bucky's thigh and raised his chin at him. Bucky loudly protested at the sudden attack and clumsily wiped at his sand-coated trousers as if they weren't already filthy from laying on the beach. He giggled drunkenly and tried without success to prop himself up on his elbows to watch.

"You like playing chicken with them," Steve said, tutting at him.

"It's called strategy, Rogers—," Bucky refuted.

Steve held up a finger to silence him. Surprisingly, Bucky submitted to the gesture, quickly silencing himself by holding a finger to his own lips—though he was grinning behind it. He was humouring him. Mocking him. That just wouldn't do; Steve would have to teach him far better manners.

"You sure you don't enjoy it?" Steve asked, raising a challenging brow at him.

Bucky always liked to reaffirm his distaste for fist fights, but he never hesitated to jump right into them whenever he happened across Steve already in the thick of it. It couldn't all come down to comradery… could it? Bucky never said much coming out of brawls aside from lecturing Steve. He never boasted about winning or complained about losing. There was no glory deep in the depths of his eyes or an empowered pull at his lips. Bucky never raised his nose or prized his bloodied fists. He never showed off his battle scars to impress girls or intimidate boys.

But maybe there was something lingering deep within.

Not pride or adrenaline or vanity… but rage.

There had been times when Bucky stepped in, beating the assailant to the ground with untethered ferocity and hitting him, and hitting him, and hitting him until it was Steve who had to put an end to it. Steve, with a body so small and cherry red lips that tasted of the metallic tang of his own blood, had to stumble into Bucky's arms, grasping and pulling at his clothes to make him stop. It hadn't happened often, and Steve was glad for it. Because he had been scared; scared of him. There had been something so undeniably animalistic in Bucky that had been near impossible to restrain.

Steve had to wonder where inside him that person existed. It had to be burrowed in deep, lying dormant and waiting, because the boy in front of Steve now was laughing and giddy off the drink, smiling freely into the same unfair world he often cursed. Bucky was youthful and untouched by anger or anxiety, casting his doubts into the sand and leaving them there to later be swept away by the sea. He was happy being lost in the moment, watching Steve like the world around him was nothing but empty space—like he was all Bucky needed.

Steve's face reddened and he had to take pause to find his balance again, but this time it was no fault of the sand. His feet simply followed the sudden weakness in his knees and fell wayside. Clearing his throat, he re-clenched his fists and threw a practice punch into the air the way they had done back when they were just kids. His arms hadn't found much more strength to throw since then, but there was something legible to his efforts these days. With some muscle, it may have been impressive.

"You mess around too much. Play games. Make them chase you," Steve said tauntingly, wanting to get some kind of rise out of him.

"So?" Bucky sat up.

"So that's just a little bit stupid, don't you think?"

"Says the one who never gives them time to chase," Bucky said, "maybe if you did, they'd tire sooner."

"How do you think I got there in the first place if they didn't chase me?"

Bucky groaned and forced himself to stand, idly brushing himself off. Sand fell from him in a wave, but Steve suspected there was a lot more buried in every layer and settling in every crevice. The effort to clean himself off was absolutely wasted. Steve kept his fists up and moved his weight from one foot to the other, creating a familiar path in the sand as he shifted back and forth.

"Sometimes you chase them, Stevie," Bucky laughed knowingly.

"Wanna fight me over it?" Steve threw another punch to the air. "So I can show you how it's done?"

"I've seen you fight… it's not done well."

Steve bounded forward and socked Bucky hard in the shoulder, knowing perfectly well that he could take it. He could never hurt him even if he wanted to. On a better day, Bucky would have barely moved an inch, but, intoxicated, he swayed and almost lost his footing entirely. Trying to save face, he made a show of it, exaggerating his efforts to stand upright and raise his own fists. Bucky swung back, purposely being unbearably cautious with Steve as if one hit too hard might break him. Steve rolled his eyes and attacked again, punching Bucky twice with a little more tenacity in the shoulder and chest. His little fists hit firm muscle and warmth and came away riddled with tingles that quickly distracted him from his initial goal. It was easy for Bucky to take advantage and grab his arm, pulling him in and pinning it behind his back until he was almost subdued. Steve squirmed in Bucky's grasp and managed to free himself only due to his drunken unsteadiness. He pushed Bucky back with his shoulder and then barrelled into him, knocking him down into the sand.

Bucky fell with the surprised "oof" and landed with a soft thud, kicking sand up beneath his feet. They wrestled messily, rolling across the shore with no finesse, grunting and breathing heavily through gritted teeth. Bucky swore and tugged at Steve's tie, pulling him in even closer as their legs tangled. Steve was acutely aware of Bucky's thighs caging him in each time his back hit the sand.

Were Bucky willing to apply any force, he could quickly pin Steve down by grasping his thin wrists and locking his twig legs with his knees.

Instead, he insisted on being soft.

Steve took the material of Bucky's shirt in each fist and took advantage of the declining terrain by pushing his weight to the water's edge where the rising tide swept them up. They both froze at the sudden rush of cold water flooding their clothes and Bucky spluttered and cursed as the tide washed over his face.

Steve let up so Bucky wouldn't drown and sat straddling his thighs, patting his back gently as he coughed up the ocean he'd swallowed. Bucky spat and wrinkled his nose at the taste. Steve could only laugh at the appalled look on his face.

"See, it isn't fair when you have the ocean fight on your behalf," Bucky whined.

"I use whatever means I have access to," Steve stated proudly, "the sea was there and willing to pitch one for the team."

"And what did I ever do to it?"

"Well, I don't know," Steve smirked, "maybe it's still holding a grudge from you wading in to urinate."

"That was one time and I was thirteen! I needed to go and there was nowhere else discrete," Bucky took advantage of the returning tide and splashed Steve's pants.

"You never apologised," Steve shrugged casually and swatted his shoulder in reproach.

"To the ocean?"

"Yes."

"For pissing in it?"

"Yes."

"I didn't apologise then, I refuse to apologise now," Bucky crossed his arms stubbornly.

"The sea is very sad to hear it," Steve tsk-ed.

Bucky sighed heavily as the tide came in again and washed over his soaked clothes. His wet hair fell into his face and dripped down his cheek as he looked down at the dishevelled state of himself. Steve smiled fondly and gently pushed the wet tendrils of hair back.

He was still relatively dry, which was pretty remarkable, all things considered. His crisp shirt fluttered faintly in the breeze, whereas Bucky's stuck tight to his torso, moulding itself almost perfectly to the body inside it. It hugged every curve and edge, making his need for new clothes more evident than it had ever been. Secretly, Steve hoped he wouldn't give in and change them any time soon.

Bucky tried pulling at the collar of his shirt that was straining at his neck. "Can you imagine? Being choked to death by your own clothes?"

Steve snickered and knocked his hands out of the way, undoing the top three buttons for him to help relieve the discomfort. "It's not the clothes trying to kill you—,"

"What? It's the sea?" Bucky scoffed.

"It will get its revenge by any means necessary."

"I appreciate the warning, but I'm still not apologising."

"Your funeral," Steve granted. He allowed his eyes to drift over Bucky and the tan skin of his chest peeking through the opening in his shirt, taking him in in his entirety. Steve swallowed hard and fidgeted nervously, quickly averting his far too curious—and possibly tempted—gaze.

He went to stand up when all the lights behind them suddenly shut off at once, plunging them into complete darkness. They both froze. Steve's thighs instinctively clenched around Bucky as he tensed. Bucky snickered into the dark and shifted beneath him. Their warm breaths suddenly seemed too loud in the silence, combatted only by the gentle waves rolling onto the shore. Steve could feel Bucky leaning in closer; the tickle of his breath on his cheek. He could feel him between his legs, so entirely present under him. He could feel Bucky's hand searching him, trailing from his knee, up the length of his thigh, over his hip, and eventually finding his waist. Steve's breath hitched.

"Your breath smells like hot dogs and vomit," Steve blurted.

Bucky's hand withdrew as he laughed and leaned back against the sand. "Delicious."

Steve clumsily stood up and pulled Bucky to his feet, stumbling slightly as the ocean and wet sand swallowed their ankles. They walked, dripping, back up the beach together, stooping to collect their shoes, socks, and coats where they had left them. Steve shook out his jacket and draped it neatly over his arm, purposely delaying so Bucky would walk ahead of him. There was a definite hesitance to his step, a minute sobering sway that Steve only noticed because he was looking for it. Otherwise, Bucky was at no risk of being pulled aside, and he certainly wasn't going to pass out before getting home.

"The hotdogs seem to have done the trick," Steve noted.

"I think they were drizzled with more sand than mustard though," Bucky said thoughtfully.

"I suppose you'll know for sure sooner rather than later. Think that shit scratches on the way out?" Steve proposed the idea.

Bucky stopped abruptly so Steve walked into him. "You're gross," he griped, but then seemed to consider it for a moment. "Nah, I think the grain is too fine."

"Promise not to tell me about your findings?"

"Cross my heart," Bucky grinned and resumed walking.

Once they were off the sand, Steve slipped on his shoes and waited as Bucky struggled to put his own on without falling over. He was quick to surrender and sit down, taking his time with the laces. Steve stared into the distance, searching for the nearest streetlights they could follow. He didn't actually know the way back to the train station and suspected that the last train was due very soon if it hadn't already come and gone. They didn't have much more time to waste. Bucky stood up, triumphant at not somehow stupidly tying his shoelaces together by mistake, and took off ahead of him in the direction of the park. Steve reached out and grabbed his arm in a moment of panic.

"Do you have any train money?" he asked and felt his own pockets.

Bucky backtracked and ran a disgruntled hand through his wet hair. "No, I thought you did."

"I spent the last of my cash on hot dogs," Steve said, quickly frustrated. He began feeling Bucky's pockets too, desperately hoping he'd find something buried in at least one of them.

Bucky stumbled at the brash hands digging into his pockets and threw up his arms in surrender, allowing it to happen before even attempting to talk Steve down. He was either uncharacteristically too calm about this, or still too drunk to give a damn. Steve could only envy him either way.

"How much did you spend trying to win that stupid bear?" Steve asked, dumbfounded.

Bucky paused and considered it a moment, trying to calculate the night's spending on his fingers. He seemed to be at a loss as he tried piecing together hazy memories of thoughtless spending in the heat of the moment. Then, finally, he winced and hung his head in shame.

"Two? Three bucks? Maybe."

Steve spluttered. He ought to be angry, but instead, he could only laugh until his sides hurt. It was a ridiculous situation they were in, both like and unlike some of the trouble they had gotten into in the past. There was the time they had snuck out as teenagers to see the Empire State Building just after it had finished being built. They couldn't afford the dollar each that it cost to ride up the elevator to the observation deck and were carted out after they tried slipping past security. Instead, they had to settle for gazing up at the building from the sidewalk, the scruffs of their necks still aching where the security guard had grabbed them too hard. Worse though was the reception Steve got from his mother when he crept back in through his window that night; he'd been housebound for two weeks afterward. Bucky was barred by his parents from seeing him for three weeks… not that that stopped him as he'd slipped through Steve's window the very next night.

A few years prior, they had taken the Southern ferry only for Steve to accidentally fall overboard during a foolish attempt to impress Bucky. He had floundered hopelessly in the water, watching the ferry sail on without him as he coughed up his lungs. And then Bucky dove in after him. They were two idiots doggy paddling in water that was a few degrees below comfortable, staring at each other in shock and awe before laughing. Luckily they weren't far from land, though Steve's limbs had felt sore for days afterward from the effort it took to swim after the ferry that was nothing but a speck in the distance by then.

Trouble was no stranger to them. They had gone and marked their first day of independence with the whims of bedlam they had long since grown accustomed to. It only seemed fitting to move into their first home only to find themselves unable to get back to it.

"Are you having a mental break?" Bucky asked, only half joking.

"No, no," Steve wiped gleeful tears from his eyes and held the laughter-induced pain in his side. "It's just, you pissed away three bucks to impress some dame, and you didn't even remember to get her number or ask her out."

Bucky frowned. "Oh… didn't I?"

"That's the most expensive non-date you've ever had." Steve tucked his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels, undeniably pleased.

"Could you quit taking pleasure in my hardships and start thinking of a way to get us home?" Bucky's voice had a hard edge to it, but on closer inspection, Steve could see the pull of a shy smile flirting at the corners of his lips.

"Fine. I'll stop rubbing your face in it… for now," Steve promised with a tired sigh.

"I make your life so difficult," Bucky sympathised mockingly. He tugged at Steve's arm and they continued on, turning at the next corner.

"Shh." Steve suddenly grabbed Bucky's shoulder and pulled him to a halt.

At the end of the street, there was a delivery man unloading stock from the back of a freezer truck and carting boxes into the open doorway of a local business. Steve could hear the echo of their voices in the still air as they conducted the transaction. He realised, with some trepidation, that they were probably the only other people awake for miles around.

"Act drunk," Steve insisted quickly.

"Steve… I am drunk," Bucky reminded him.

"Drunker."

Bucky glanced at the freezer truck and quirked an eyebrow. "How drunk are we talking?"

"So drunk you can barely walk, but not so drunk that you're about to blow chunks in the back of his truck."

Bucky eased his arm around Steve's shoulders and leaned into him, purposely buckling his knees to contend with the height difference and to play into the narrative. He dipped his head and allowed almost his full weight to fall onto Steve for support, slurring some incoherent nonsense that Steve suspected weren't even words at all.

Steve tensed at the sudden drop of Bucky's dead weight and strained to cart him down the sidewalk toward the truck.

"You couldn't have waited until we were closer?" Steve hissed through sharply gritted teeth.

"Shut up, you'll blow our cover," Bucky whispered.

Steve rolled his eyes and hefted Bucky more securely against his side, leading him haphazardly down the street. He slowed as they reached the driver just as he was closing up the back of his truck. By now, Steve was genuinely wheezing from the stale air and the fatigue, the rattling sound inside his lungs grabbing the driver's attention.

"I don't mean to be a nuisance, but I found him passed out on the beach," Steve started. "I haven't been able to get much out of him but I think he lives over in Brooklyn. You wouldn't be heading that way by any chance?"

The driver eyed them suspiciously, taking in Bucky's drenched clothes and hair and Steve's sand coated, but mostly dry, attire. They looked a right state; the kind that invited the wrong kind of attention and the most invasive of questions. Steve tensed at the lingering silence and his hand instinctively clutched onto the back of Bucky's shirt. He refused to make eye contact out of fear that his own gaze would be guilt-ridden, filled with some of the sordid thoughts he sometimes had. Steve tucked his fingers into his palm, convinced that any watchful eye would see them and know they'd unbuttoned Bucky's shirt and grazed the hot skin of his chest. His weakened legs shook, still electrified by the memory of straddling Bucky's thighs.

The driver took a cigarette and a match from his shirt pocket and lit up carefully, casting his eyes up and down the length of the empty street, searching for any kind of alternative.

Steve felt faint.

"I might be," he finally said around the cigarette between his teeth.

Steve's fears ran numb in a sudden wave, overwhelmed by relief. "Would we be able to hitch a ride? Please? I don't think I could manage to get him all the way to the train station."

Steve didn't have to play up his inability to lift a sack of flour, let alone the weight of a grown man. His knees were threatening to fold beneath him and the vein in his forehead was already beginning to protrude and pulsate menacingly. Steve took note to slog Bucky one later for playing his part a little too well.

"Last train left over a half hour ago, anyway," the driver said and opened the back of his truck. "I don't have any room for both of ya up front."

"I'll stay in the back with him, just in case he comes round," Steve said.

"Uh huh. And if he does, tell him that if he breaks it, he buys it," he warned.

"Don't think he'd understand, but sure, I'll tell him," Steve promised. He leaned Bucky against the open back of the truck and tried to lift him up into it.

The driver stepped forward and grabbed Bucky roughly under the arms and heaved him easily inside before climbing in and dragging him in the remainder of the way, laying him down without much regard. Steve winced at the sound of Bucky hitting the cold metal and saw his expression contort for the briefest of seconds before once again falling slack.

"Whereabouts in Brooklyn, son?"

Steve told him the address and noticed as the driver rubbed between his eyes with a tense forefinger and thumb. The bad reputation of the neighbourhood preceded itself. Steve tensed and shrunk in on himself, making his already poor excuse of a frame look even smaller. They had no other options, and the desperation didn't go by unnoticed. The driver grumbled under his breath but gestured for Steve to climb in the back, and then slammed the doors shut behind him.

"It's gonna be cold in there," he shouted through the metal.

Steve called back with a faint thank you and sat down on one of the sturdier boxes. He kicked Bucky's limp form with his foot, startling him to attention. Bucky peered around with one open eye before daring to sit up and rub at the pain at the back of his head where it had hit the floor.

"I almost cursed then and there," Bucky muttered and sat up slowly.

"It's the least that you deserve," Steve grinned teasingly.

"For what? I played my part perfectly."

"Too bloody well. We almost ended up a heap on the sidewalk. I can only imagine how heavy you'd be had you actually passed out."

Bucky sat down next to him, smiling fondly to himself. "Do you remember that time we got drunk when we were sixteen?"

Steve pondered it for a second, remembering hazy moments amidst patches of missing time. He remembered the illicitness of it, the rush of doing something they weren't supposed to. He remembered the adrenaline of intoxication coursing through his veins and blurring every viable sensation. He remembered the way the bitter taste of cheap booze bullied his tongue into submission until the drink flowed like water. Steve could only faintly recall the hours passing like minutes, each one robbing him of inhibitions, but gifting him the freedom not to care. Above all, he remembered his head falling onto Bucky's shoulder, burying his face longingly in the soft crook of his neck, breathing him in, and the comfort of Bucky's arm at his back.

Steve remembered being cradled against Bucky's chest, the sway of his body in his steady arms, the familiarity of his own bed and the safety of being tucked inside his blankets. He heard the melody of Bucky's laugh and the lulling comfort of his soft voice, but even then Steve couldn't remember the words. He knew he dreamed in the easy slumber of drunken paradise, imagining the blissful kiss of Bucky's lips.

Steve remembered waking the next morning to the warmth of Bucky's body curled up beside him under the covers, his expression so soft and unguarded. Steve was captured by just how beautiful he was. Just absolutely blindsided and struck dumb by the sensations he couldn't dismiss. And it seemed an impossibility to wake up next to someone better. Steve remembered moving in closer and laying his head down on the second half of Bucky's pillow and their hands idly touching, Steve's fingers grazing the smooth skin of Bucky's palm. He'd drifted back to sleep, desperately hoping he'd wake this time to hollow feelings… and was relieved to find they had only intensified.

Of course, Steve remembered.

He would always remember falling in love at the tender age of sixteen.

"You carried me home, didn't you?" Steve asked.

Bucky nodded. "You were light as a feather."

"I was a complete mess," Steve corrected, blushing profusely.

"It was your first time drinking, Steve. How were you supposed to know?"

"Aside from you warning me?" Steve scoffed. He'd done so well thus far to suppress the memories of that drizzly afternoon. Or at least the embarrassing parts; stupid things he'd said and risky things he might have done had his limbs not felt numb.

"That was my mistake. I inadvertently invited you to test your limits. I should have known better." Bucky stifled a laugh in his sleeve and feigned a cough, turning his gaze up to the roof of the truck as if it was suddenly the most fascinating thing he had ever seen in his life.

Steve refused to take the bait. Knowing Bucky had made Steve incredibly patient and he had long since become immune to his games. He hated to bite his tongue but knew better than to bark his rebuttals. It mattered more to be taken seriously. He calmly crossed his arms and shivered in the face of the freezer vents, willing his body to hold out until they made it to Brooklyn. He may have asked for Bucky's coat or scooted closer, but his patience didn't yet allow his pride to give in and ask for help.

Glancing over though, he realised that Bucky wasn't fairing any better. His soaking wet clothes had taken too kindly to the refrigeration and captured the freezing temperatures. He was huddled inside his dry coat like his life depended on it, shuddering wildly. The coat was undersized already but was straining now around the ungainly mass that was Bucky, pulling at the seams and threatening to split apart if he shook any harder.

Steve's frustration quickly faded.

Shrugging off his own coat, he offered it to Bucky who refused with a stiff shake of his head. Steve rolled his eyes and tugged at Bucky's sleeve.

"Swap with me," he insisted.

Bucky slowly shed his coat and switched it with Steve's. It fit perfectly; another coat that once belonged to Steve's father. And Bucky's, which he had owned since he was a young teen, was just right for Steve—patches in the elbows, missing buttons, and all. He flicked up the collar and nestled his chin comfortably into it, tucking both hands into the pockets. It didn't do much to combat the cold, but Steve was comforted and lulled by the familiar scent of Bucky.

Steve leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, rocking gently with the sway of the truck. It was easy to lose track of time in there, slowly dozing off and disappearing for minutes or hours at a time; Steve could hardly tell which. Eventually, he heard the scrape of the box next to him and then felt an arm slip around his waist. A hand squeezed his side and then brushed up and down the length of his back at a quiet pace. Steve suddenly felt very awake. Bucky's fingers trembled for a while, and then warmed to Steve. His touch steadied; each brush of his hand purposeful. Steve leaned into him and rested his head against his arm.

"Steve?" Bucky asked in a hushed tone.

Steve hummed quietly in response.

The truck suddenly halted and they both jolted forward, almost falling cleanly from their respective boxes. Steve stood up first and shook off Bucky's coat in a fluster, tossing it back at him just as the driver opened up the doors. He glanced in with a sly grin, taking in their paled skin and bluish lips with an odd sense of glee, as if two ridiculous youths ought to know better than to roll in the sand in the middle of the night… and he probably had a point.

Steve clambered out of the truck and glanced back, smiling to himself when he saw Bucky stumbling out after him, purposely playing up his intoxication once again to hold up the narrative. He clumsily grabbed for Steve's shoulder and used him for support before he took off slowly down the street, walking right past their apartment building. Steve faked a tired sigh and thanked the driver for his aid. He had reason to cut the conversation short as Bucky seemingly fell into the gutter and broke out into song, shouting loud into the dark abyss.

Steve apologised profusely as he walked away and kicked Bucky lightly in the ribs, urging him to get up and cut out the nonsense. It took all his restraint to contain his laughter. They listened for the sound of the engine roaring to life and the quiet grit of the tires on the road. Once the engine quieted, Bucky sat up and peered around Steve's legs.

"We're in the clear," he affirmed and stood up, dusting off his legs.

"Except now the neighbours surely hate us," Steve pointed out and led the way back to the apartment.

"They were going to hate us anyway," Bucky shrugged.

"Why?" Steve let them in and they trailed the sad six flights of stairs to their door.

"What, you with your constant record playing. And my… well, just me in general."

Bucky kicked off his shoes in the doorway and carefully shed Steve's coat, laying both it and his own coat over the back of the couch. He unbuttoned his trousers and made way for the bathroom, clearly desperate to wash off the sand and seawater. He tugged aggressively at his shirt buttons and dropped the sodden thing on the floor, sighing in absolute relief to be free of it.

Steve's skin ran hot and his heart rate quickened, the heavy pulse thrumming in his ears. He told himself it was just a reaction to the overwhelming number of stairs and focused on the task at hand. Averting his gaze, Steve nudged a few boxes aside with his foot, clearing himself a path to the bedroom so he could make up the beds, knowing full well Bucky would want to pass out in his the second he was clean. Since he'd gone to the effort to label the contents of every box, it didn't take long to find what he needed, after which he had no other distractions.

He was really here. He was living with Bucky in this tiny apartment, building a life of sorts with him. Somehow, he was still in awe, though he never should have imagined anything less. All things considered, Steve was in a good place—with all that he'd already lost and all that he'd never had. Of course, it was a preference not to be itchy with sand everywhere—including some unsavoury parts—but that was probably too much to ask for.

Bucky had been in the bathroom for ages. So long, in fact, that Steve had no choice but to check on him. Groaning, he stepped around scattered boxes and knocked gently on the door a few times with no response. He hesitated for only a moment before daring himself to turn the knob and glance inside. Bucky was on the floor of the bathroom, wrapped in towels with his head on the tiles, snoring quietly. Steve shook his head and smiled to himself. He hadn't expected Bucky to succumb so early. Of course, he wasn't in any position to interrupt his boozy slumber and moving him was entirely out of the question.

Instead, he nestled Bucky under a blanket and tucked a pillow beneath his head, leaving him there for the rest of the night. And he grudgingly went to his own bed still smelling like the salty tang of the ocean, dusting his pillow with the sand buried amidst the strands of his windswept hair.

There, he was quick to doze, somehow unbothered by how different everything seemed, even in the dark. Even his bed, the same one he had slept in for much of his life, felt remarkably dissimilar as if moving it from one place to another rebuilt the frame and stuffed the mattress anew. It was foreign to him now. The whole world, in fact, was recreated in an image not quite clear to him yet.

And he didn't mind.

It wasn't much, but it was home.

---

Thank you so incredibly much for reading, guys! I was really taken with that far too brief moment between Steve and Bucky in Civil War where they reminisce about their past, and I wanted to write about it and really delve into how that moment may have played out. I hope you enjoyed it :)