The bathroom floor did not make for a pleasant place to sleep. Waking up, Bucky's back had many disagreements with the hard surface, each one making it an absolute pain to sit up. He forcefully stretched every sore muscle, urging them to soften. The blanket, which he sure didn't remember retrieving, and the towels he had wrapped himself in as a makeshift blanket had slipped throughout the night and left him somewhat… exposed, but he was far too tired to care, never mind if Steve had seen or not. Bucky shook them free and stood up, taking one towel to wrap around his waist and leaving the rest, along with the blanket and pillow, behind him as he wandered, disgruntled and woozy, to the bedroom and peered inside.
Steve was comfortably curled up in his bed with a naked leg slipping out from the covers, his head half nestled against his arm. His dirty clothes from the night before were abandoned on the floor, still dusted with sand. It seemed he hadn't wanted to put on new clothes without bathing first and chose to sleep naked in place of trying to move a drunken Bucky from their bathroom floor. He'd given up their good pillow to Bucky, instead settling for one with less down, now murmuring into it some quiet, nonsensical things Bucky couldn't understand. At least he wasn't arguing, Bucky thought and chuckled softly to himself before turning away and leaving the door slightly ajar.
Bucky, for once, felt safe in leaving him be. It was an entirely new sense of ease, the promise of coming home to Steve every night. He would never dare admit it to him, knowing he'd feel patronised, but Bucky took comfort in this new life they'd started to build. Maybe it was the hangover, but Bucky felt particularly gratified; his head raging with a headache and completely sick in the stomach, but gratified all the same. He looked at their tiny apartment and all the stacked boxes inside it and felt undeniably warm. He saw the prominent cracks in the plaster, the patches of paint coming off in scales and the irreparably scuffed floor and thought; 'I can't believe I live here with Steve.' Its decrepit appearance did not darken his outlook beyond the shade of grey it had always existed in.
If anything, it suited them, the messes that they were.
Bucky was trying not to be too thrilled by the change but found that his restraint was failing miserably. He wanted to relish these moments, even if it meant seeming foolish or all-out ridiculous. He wanted to admit his relief and cast his elation where everyone could see it. The world's disinterest or suspicious repulsion bore little concern for him since he knew his frequent acts of skirt chasing did enough to keep everything at a fairly harmless whisper. It wouldn't be the most dangerous thing to do… but, still, something held him back.
Bucky felt it, the all-consuming happiness, but he kept it inside, knowing his urges were far too impulsive.
Perhaps he was too invested in some kind of wild daydream; as if this truly changed anything. Living with Steve and being with Steve were two vastly different concepts that wouldn't just naturally come hand in hand. As much as he liked to imagine it, he couldn't simply magic it into reality. And even if he could, he wouldn't think to try. Bucky shook his head, denying his heart the right to long for someone off limits to him. He had survived without acting out of desire but endured the gruelling taunt of wanting what he couldn't have. It hadn't gotten any easier over the years, and it was safe to assume it wouldn't get easier over the years still to come, either.
From what he faintly remembered from the night before, as the drunken sludge of incoherence shallowed, he'd fallen in love all over again in the sand. It was hard not to, what with Steve's hands clasped in the material of his shirt, his thighs straddling Bucky's lap, the enticing heat of his lips just about close enough to kiss. Of course, the details of this memory were adrift in a curtain of haze. Too much booze and countless hours of sleep deprivation. Maybe he had remembered it the way he wanted to. Steve probably hadn't so much as straddled as he had perched daintily upon, and his hands were likely the only thing keeping Bucky sitting upright rather than laying back and drowning in the tide. His lips were probably at a reasonable distance, pulled taut in a thin line at the impossible prospect of carrying Bucky home.
Bucky made Steve nervous for all the wrong reasons.
Outside the bedroom, the apartment was solemn. Its compact four walls and singular fogged window somehow felt horrendously expansive, even with their packed belongings cluttering the floor. They had barely enough to mimic a normal lifestyle and yet the tiny apartment made it seem ample, maybe even hoarded. He still felt inexplicably trapped in the open and vulnerable to the dangers it invited, with too far to run and no place to hide. His head dared brush the tops of doorways and yet the roof felt cavernous to him like his voice would echo into it for miles and miles. It helped to have another voice solidify the walls. Steve was most reasonable when he was sleeping, but Bucky resented the quiet. He longed for more trouble if it meant Steve would be in it with him. Anything to fill that void. He wanted to see those walls and truly trust that they could encase him.
Bucky tried to distract himself; tried to think beyond these anxieties he'd had since he was a child. Somehow he always came back to these immature trepidations, suppressing them as best he could with the right diversions. A hangover hardly helped, is mood fouled by the gross sensations of mild alcohol poisoning. He couldn't focus on any one distraction long enough for it to be of any use to him.
Still, he had to make the effort to at least try.
Bucky turned on the faucet and ducked his head down, drinking from the tepid flow of water with a near unquenchable thirst. It hardly settled his dry mouth but did seem to ease the churning in his stomach a little. Sighing in mild relief, he wiped his chin dry on the back of his hand and blinked a few times to collect himself.
With some time to spare before going to his first job of the day, he set about unpacking the boxes Steve had promptly labelled 'Kitchen', making no effort to handle their second-hand plates and cutlery quietly. There wasn't much to sift through, so he took his time, dragging out the process as much as possible. He strained his ears for that lonesome echo but the clatter of ceramic and steel filled the small apartment without resonance.
Slowly, but ever so surely, that claustrophobic sound quieted the fine terror inside.
It wasn't long before Steve came stumbling out of the bedroom wrapped in his dirty sheets, hair quaffed into total disarray by the salty wind and the sudden disturbance. Spotting Bucky, he clutched at the sheets more tightly and shuffled inelegantly toward the bathroom, his feet tripping over the dragging material. Steve blinked a few times too many and then shot Bucky with a practiced evil eye.
"You look a complete sight, Buck," Steve declared, very matter-of-fact. He was suddenly grinning ear to ear and his cheeks were all too flushed with wicked satisfaction. He couldn't hold his fury long enough to evoke Bucky's guilt for waking him.
"Says you, splayed out with everything on show," Bucky retorted with a sly grin and resumed emptying the boxes. He knew he was making a right mess of it, putting things where they really ought not to go, but he trusted that Steve would reorganise everything later in a practical manner. That or they'd both live their tumultuous lives in synchrony, forever at a loss as to where to find a spatula or whisk—as if they'd find a use for either one.
"I was not splayed out," Steve argued calmly.
"I saw enough," Bucky teased, lying easily. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen more than his fair share of Steve before; they'd known each other long enough and accidents happened from time to time. Sometimes you saw what you weren't supposed to, and it was an unspoken rule never to speak of it again.
Not that Bucky didn't think of it often enough.
"Well. It's all your fault, really. I wasn't the one who was passed out naked on the bathroom floor."
"I didn't pass out. I was just going to shut my eyes for a minute or two and made a conscious effort to cover myself up first."
Bucky thought it best not to tempt endless mocking by admitting the state he had found himself in upon waking, on the off chance Steve hadn't seen it.
"My sheets are filled with sand," Steve complained and shook some of the grit from his bedding to prove it.
Bucky snickered, still not really feeling all that guilty. Steve was still smiling, so he knew it was safe to take it in jest. "Sorry," he offered lamely with a cocky pursing of his lips.
"I'm really convinced," Steve pretended to sniff and disappeared into the bathroom, trailing his sad sand-ridden sheets behind him and catching it in the door as he closed it.
In his absence, Bucky got dressed hastily, meeting the bare minimum standard of presentable. He smoothed back his hair as best he could, knowing it was in absolute disarray. There wasn't any time to tame it, having dried and settled itself this way. He knew he looked tired, too, dark bags under his dead looking eyes. There wasn't anything he could do about it. It had to be passable at least, and he told himself, only half convincingly, that he would make a greater effort tomorrow.
When Steve returned his hair was still damp from bathing and he smelled of the soap Bucky liked. He was dressed to the nines in some of his better fitting clothes, albeit with a crooked tie that was longer in the back than the front. It was the sort of thing he would typically wear on one of their double dates, not on an average day around the house.
"You're looking a bit ostentatious today. Going somewhere?" Bucky asked with a raised brow, purposely trying not to eye him too clearly. He didn't want to be caught staring.
He stepped around a couple boxes—something they were both fast getting sick of—and fixed Steve's tie, loosening the knot and correcting the length. Even still, it didn't fit him quite right, hanging low enough to tuck into the waistband of his trousers. Bucky wasn't much good with ties either. It was a harsh reminder that they were nothing but boys playing at a man's game. Still, Bucky thought he looked rather dashing, all things considered. His shirt was ruffled and his pants were badly hemmed at the ankles, but Steve carried himself differently when he wore them. He was more confident. His usual sarcasm had a sudden biting edge and a real coolness about it that sometimes struck Bucky dumb. It was Steve's humility tangled intimately with his true charisma; something only Bucky seemed receptive to—nobody else knew Steve well enough to recognise the difference.
Sometimes Bucky wanted people to see Steve the way he saw him.
Maybe then they wouldn't curse Bucky so for loving him.
"Cemetery," Steve said quietly.
Bucky's heart immediately sank. He recognised the bitter tang of carelessness and accidental insensitivity. There was no way he could have known, but he felt incredibly foolish for not guessing. His gaze flickered with heavy condolences and regret, but Steve waved off the concern with a sympathetic smile. He knew Bucky only ever meant well. If anything, he probably appreciated the distraction from the whole ordeal. But that didn't make Bucky's tongue feel any less swollen with idiocy.
"I could go with you," Bucky offered gently, already knowing Steve would turn him down.
"No, it's okay. I haven't gone since the funeral and I just… I need to do it alone," Steve said, "besides, you've got to work."
"I could blow it off. Hell, I would—will—blow it off if you want me to."
Bucky kept fiddling with Steve's tie, straightening it, pulling it tight and loose and tight again, then finally tucking it carefully under the collar of his shirt. He smoothed out the creases and corrected one of Steve's improperly aligned buttons.
"I know. But I don't want you to," Steve smiled gently. He was allowing Bucky to groom him, not because he truly needed it, but because he understood how it settled Bucky's nerves.
"I won't be home till late—," Bucky fretted.
"I know. It's okay."
Bucky wasn't so sure.
This was unprecedented. Neither of them knew how one was supposed to act when visiting the graves of their deceased parents. Steve had grown up without his father and bore witness to his mother's prolonged grief, but hadn't any personal connection to death until her passing. Bucky was luckier than most with all his immediate family members in fair health, having lost his grandparents many years prior to his birth. They existed only in the pale recollections of long-ago stories told in fleeting moments, merely giving a name to strangers he'd never meet. It was easy to dismiss them almost as figments of imagination. Bucky didn't—couldn't—miss them. He was still ignorant to loss. An outsider to that kind of irrevocable pain.
Steve, meanwhile, had met loss in slow, cold touches and then a swift and unforgiving burn. It seemed wrong to leave him to face that alone, no matter how terrifying and uncertain the prospect of facing it with him was. Bucky felt far younger than his years and imbalanced in oversized shoes he'd never had the curse to walk in before. And as much as he liked this new life of theirs, he had to take on all the burden it carried. He had to grow up faster than he would have liked because it wasn't fair for Steve to grow up alone.
Bucky couldn't let that happen.
Steve cleared his throat. "Aren't you running late?"
"Yes," Bucky sighed. He knew he had just been dismissed.
Steve left first. Bucky trailed out behind him and they tread the six flights down together in absolute silence, the stillness eventually interrupted by Steve's heavy breaths after the second set of stairs. The air outside was oddly frigid and the street was obscured in an unusual layer of fog, casting the world into ominous shadow. Bucky shivered and turned up his collar against the still iciness. The brilliant summer heat had disappeared sometime between those dark early hours of the morning and now, taking all that careless energy with it.
Steve—trembling already—turned with a solemn gaze and touched Bucky's arm all gentle-like, holding his wrist for barely a moment before letting go. He was warm for a second and then gone the next, leaving Bucky to instinctively withdraw his arm and cradle it across his chest. Steve forced his hands deep into his pockets, fingers picking at the lining the way they so often did, steadily making holes that made it impossible to keep even lint. It was his sole nervous habit, one that sometimes left him penniless or without his house key whenever he was distracted enough to forget the wounds in his jackets.
It hardly compared to Bucky, though. He was at ease for the better part of his days, able to put his head down and go through the motions with moments of laughter and immaturity dotted throughout. But when his fears struck, they knocked him flat. It helped to act against them, to pretend they weren't there, but, the older he got, the more he found to be afraid of. It had long since surpassed the realms of reason and had breached something existential. Bucky was afraid of who he was and the things he felt and the future he, until very recently, hadn't been prepared to have.
He knew that there was truly something to nurturing his life. He knew that those joyous moments, and even the monotonous daze surrounding them, shouldn't be ignored, but his doubts and confusion had a way of haunting him. And he wasn't adept at taking it in stride, instead acting thoughtlessly and waiting for it to pass.
Bucky knew he still had so far yet to go. And he was terrified.
Steve, despite all the adversity he had faced and the shorter than fair life he was bound to live, had only gotten braver. Sure, he was often impossible—recklessly foolish and a little too headstrong—but he had courage Bucky knew not. He was breakable only in bones and not in spirit. Even when his lungs were wracked with a fit of asthma or his body folded beneath an attack of the flu, Steve was resilient. And Bucky sometimes couldn't help but envy him for it.
Sometimes he swore he felt his spirit breaking. He felt it tearing at his edges and the fears he tried so hard to ignore bled into his wounds. His nervous habits found ways to hide, even in places he couldn't find them unless he looked hard and long. And sometimes they revealed themselves in the most unexpected of ways. The kind that shook Bucky to his core.
Bucky had found something horrid within himself. Something nervous and itching, and tortured into something furious. He didn't find any particular joy in fighting and never even thought about the honour of winning or the shame of losing a street brawl, only ever stepping in to defend Steve and rescue him from a fight he couldn't win. But even still he sometimes found himself swept away into some kind of frenzy, hurting his opponent far worse than was warranted. He never liked it, not during, and especially not after. The guilt following these cracks in his resolve stuck with him for days at a time, leaving him restless and quiet, totally unreceptive to Steve's attempts at consolation.
Bucky tried to tell himself he hadn't any choice, that his intentions were pure and that it was enough to defend his actions. The rage that took him was nothing more than instinct that should easily be dismissed as natural. Deep down though, it scared him. He couldn't understand it and couldn't always keep it reigned in. Bucky knew he was horrendously pessimistic and had a tendency to repress the worst of his negativities to the point that they overwhelmed him. And he was ashamed to admit his faults. Especially to Steve. Bucky couldn't bear to see Steve's trust and faith in him shatter. It was horrid enough even imagining it waver.
Bucky turned his gaze to the steady stream of cars passing them, watching them go by and losing himself to the steady hum of their motors.
This was where they had to part ways.
"I'll see you when I get home," Steve assured kindly, hoping to quell Bucky's concerns—not that he ever could.
Bucky watched Steve go with heavy-set eyes as he vanished into the fog, his oversized coat catching in the subtle breeze and flapping at his back. Steve dipped his head and walked with a steady step that Bucky could hardly dream to replicate. It was a strength that knew no bounds. Bucky was transfixed by it for the longest time, left standing on the sidewalk well after he had lost sight of Steve's blonde locks. He felt torn. Instinct told him to follow. His fears warned him to stay close, to be the brace he sometimes felt Steve needed. But really it was Bucky who was too easily crippled by torments he was still too naïve to understand.
Steve was his brace.
He tried to take that as a comfort.
Instinct and reason sometimes had a way of defying one another and so he allowed his feet to carry him in what felt like the wrong direction, arriving late to his first job of the day. His stomach was still churning, perhaps even worse than before now that his mind had been swept into a commotion. The sickly sensation coursed through him, curdling his insides and causing his skin to exude an ever-present sheen of sweat. Bucky felt pale and was sure he looked it too. Which was probably the only thing keeping his less than impressed boss from telling him off. On better days, Bucky was more than a fair worker so this one-time occurrence could be forgiven with time—or at least that's what he hoped. He cast an apologetic eye as he lazily stacked shelves, heaving boxes as though the task could very well be the death of him.
Any more alcohol and it may have been.
Once or twice, when he felt sure he wasn't being observed, Bucky leaned his arm against the shelves and rested his feverish forehead in the crook of his elbow, urging himself not to be sick. The mundanity of a repetitive job allowed his mind to wander from his hangover to Steve. He pictured him frail—not unlike his usual self—and red-eyed, cheeks glistening and skin flushed red. His dread was catching. When Steve felt trapped amidst the chaos, Bucky was always swept out alongside him in that same horrific tide. And he would wade out deeper and deeper, swimming into that threatening current with every intention to keep up. Little else seemed worth the sacrifice.
Bucky wiped the sweat from his brow and aired out his shirt.
"You aren't looking so good."
Bucky startled and turned. Jackson was standing timidly at the end of the aisle, his feet half dancing back and forth as if tempted to flee. Bucky's brow furrowed and he nudged aside his half-filled stock with his foot, gesturing for Jackson to meet him halfway. He did, but ever so cautiously. His hands were stuffed deep in his pockets—Bucky suspected balled into tight fists. His ever-broad shoulders were slackened, deflating the usual proud puffiness of his chest. He looked smaller. And yet Bucky felt menaced.
His reputation aside, Jackson was usually gallant and easy going. He had a bad tendency to run his mouth, but wasn't one to start trouble and had warmed to Bucky over the last year, eventually either forgetting or forgiving the rumours that had for the longest time followed him like a bad smell. He had been kind. A friend. Bucky wanted to trust that this abrupt change in his demeanour and the stony inflection in his eye was nothing more than a symptom of his drinking the night before.
Bucky wanted to believe it. But he wasn't that naïve. He had seen his fair share of belligerence and bigotry and had little faith that much, if anything, would ever actually change. Bucky knew by now what repressed homophobia looked like. He recognised the disgusted curling of the lip and the tension pulsing at the temples. He had no other defence than to become cold, and had long since started practicing the art of being dismissive.
"Speak for yourself," Bucky said, his voice stale.
"I'm surprised you came to work today," Jackson ventured cautiously.
"Can't be too surprised, since you came all the way out here to see me."
After a lingering hesitation, Bucky backed up further into the aisle, luring Jackson in with him so they could speak more privately without any prying eyes or strained ears. He was risking his job as it was, working like an impertinent teenager, and saw no reason to make matters worse by getting caught socialising when he was supposed to be stocking shelves.
Jackson gnawed on the inside of his cheek. His skin ran a faint shade of nervous pink and deepened to an almost furious red. He refused to meet Bucky's eye. Instead, he cast his gaze to the floor, hardly blinking as he swallowed whatever pride he had left and willed himself to speak.
"I figured I should warn you," Jackson said finally
"About what?"
"About Paul."
"What about Paul?" Bucky huffed. His stomach was already sinking, the hangover induced churns ceasing abruptly.
"He saw you last night. On the beach… with Steve," Jackson murmured tensely, peering back over his shoulder.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Bucky spoke plainly.
But he knew. He understood all too well what it must have looked like from afar; two young men laying together in the sand, hands tangled into each other's clothes, thighs clasped around laps, faces close and smiles dazzled. Even from a distance anyone could see and recognise Bucky's longing—his ridiculous love-struck dizziness.
"I saw it as well. Took everything to restrain Paul and talk him down. For now at least," Jackson said. "You know how he's far more reasonable drunk than he is sober."
"So you think he's being unreasonable," Bucky tested.
Jackson looked at him with a piercing glare, warning him not to suggest anything untoward. It was dangerous to say such things, particularly in a public place where anyone with any kind of dreadful mindset might overhear. Nobody wanted to be implicated. Bucky had been extremely lucky to have suffered so little since the talk of his sexuality began to circulate last year.
"I think there are better ways to deal with a problem than to break its teeth on the curb is all," Jackson said finally.
A customer rounded the corner and traced the aisle, browsing the shelves with an eavesdropping hesitance. Bucky caught Jackson's arm and dragged him back into the stockroom, knowing full well that only staff was permitted to enter. They had to be quick.
"I don't know what problem you're talking about," Bucky hissed.
"People have been whispering for a long time, Barnes. I tried to ignore it, but when there's shit there to support what they're saying…"
"What? Two drunk idiots wrestling on the beach? Play fighting?"
"There didn't seem to be a whole lot of fighting going on," Jackson pushed.
"Steve's got shit lungs. How long do you think he can fight before they start giving out?"
Bucky was urging him to dig no deeper than he already had. After all, Bucky and Steve hadn't done anything, let alone something wrong. Perhaps Bucky's desires were there, but he had never acted on them. Not with Steve. He knew it was far too risky to ever do such a thing. Instead, he bedded men seeking the same intimate touch, the same glorious heat of another man's hands, tongue, and cock. Men who knew to keep their mouth shut and would never think to address him by name on the street.
Bucky had learned to live in secret, only ever pushing the boundaries his suppressed soul screamed to be free from. He felt he deserved that much.
"Look, I'm not the one you have to convince," Jackson assured him, "I'm not here to fight you. But Paul's furious."
"How furious?"
"Enough to break your fucking ribs the next time he sees you," Jackson said severely.
"So? What? I shouldn't go to the docks tonight?"
"Or ever."
"That's ridiculous and you know it. I'm not quitting my job just because Paul decided he saw something." Bucky was enraged and beyond shattered. It was one thing to have persistent, hateful murmurings and disgusted eyes crowding him, but Bucky couldn't withstand this kind of judgement. He refused to lose his job to someone else's bigotry.
Jackson sighed heavily and rubbed tirelessly at his stubbled jaw. "It's your funeral. I just thought I should let you know. Figured you'd be smarter than to show up when you know what's waiting for you."
"Well. Now I know," Bucky said flatly. "We're done here."
"You're welcome," Jackson muttered and turned away after one last, lingering look. His eyes had softened for only a few seconds, conveying some kind of well-meaning concern. But it quickly dissipated and hardened once more, coming off callous.
Bucky waited for him to leave first, far too furious to get back to work as if nothing was wrong. He couldn't resume stocking shelves without thinking to tear them down, pushing one into the other and then another, collapsing this façade of stability. He stood with his chest heaving and fists clenched, pacing himself as best he could, knowing he had no other choice. And by the time he finally left the stockroom, Jackson was bound to be long gone, rounding the block away from here.
Bucky was stoic. He finished his shift without taking another pause and left without a word to his boss or fellow co-workers. There was never much time between his first job of the day and his second, and he had a relatively short but tiring distance to travel between them. It was impossible not to be on edge, knowing what was to come that evening. He could only go off of routine, moving methodically and refusing to count down the hours or watch as the sky darkened. It was near impossible to focus on what he was doing and he had responded to remarks of disapproval with nothing more than a quiet apology and made no attempt to better himself afterward. He couldn't, no matter how much he may have wanted to.
And by the time he made it to the docks, following those familiar bright, probing lights amidst the dark, his nerves had numbed to the dangers awaiting him. They'd become an ingrained part of the plan; an expectation without surprises. Bucky knew without a doubt that Paul had not reconsidered and would have run his loud mouth plenty. These rumours that had been with Bucky for the longest time, that had taken so much false flirtation and forced interest in various women to dispel, had come back in full ferocity.
Bucky turned the corner and found the others huddled in an unkempt circle, cigarettes in hand, talking boisterously amongst themselves, actually smiling and seeming totally at ease. It defied Bucky's expectations and he slowed, cautious, but not yet hopeful. He approached timidly and didn't attempt to assert himself into the conversation, merely listening and observing carefully. At first, nobody seemed to notice him. Nobody turned or looked or greeted him either casually or cruelly. And, finally, Bucky dared relax just slightly.
It was possible he may make it through the night without incident. There was a chance they had no interest in repeating old abuses of the past; like it was a game they had since grown tired of playing. After all, they had hounded on Bucky for months, never letting up or giving in due to compassion or pity. There was only so much one could say until the words lost all meaning and couldn't cut healing scars. Bucky had heard it all and taken it in stride, telling himself it would do no good to fight back. Eventually, he didn't even hear it anymore. And then, slowly, it went away and died entirely.
A buzzer rang as a ship approached the docks to make port and everyone dumped their cigarettes and began bustling to do their jobs, losing themselves in the usual tasks. Bucky was easily able to fall into line, guiding and shifting the load, listening to the common banter he was all too used to hearing. The stale threat from Jackson sat idle in the back of his mind, not allowing him to join in or even find the playful taunts amusing the way he once had. It was best to keep his mouth shut for now, silently appreciative for their indifference. He flitted invisible amongst them, their eyes turning from one to the other and then the next and missing him in between.
The only one to look and truly see him was Jackson.
Jackson worked close by, edging his way closer and closer to Bucky all the time without saying anything, his eyes casting back and forth with uncertainty. As he neared, Bucky found reasons to move further away, forcing some distance between them. It was a massive undertaking to somehow evade him for a number of hours since there were only so many places he could go. It would have been far easier to let him speak but Bucky decided not to risk it. He didn't dare tempt fate, knowing full well that anything, even just something slight, could trigger a reaction. Still, Jackson seemed insistent, following Bucky wherever he went and eventually whispering for his attention.
"Not now," Bucky hissed, cautioning him.
Jackson opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the final buzzer ending their day. Immediately, the group grew rowdy again, stretching and retrieving their smokes from their back pockets, shouting to one another in search of matches. Bucky easily disappeared in the noise and lingered in the back of the group, punching out last and retrieving his coat.
"Hey, Barnes!"
Bucky paused and turned, only half assured that it was safe to do so. Harry, Paul, Wes, and Jackson were grouped together, their thumbs hooked into their own belt loops, watching him with some kind of intrigue. He smiled slyly, as he normally would, and shrugged on his coat but didn't bother with the buttons, opting not to use the time better spent getting away from here.
"What?" he asked.
"You look like hammered shit," Paul said around the cigarette between his teeth. He'd already smoked it down to the butt, the hot embers threatening to burn his lips with a few short puffs.
"Passed out on my bathroom floor," Bucky explained, "can't look any good after that."
The group chuckled and Paul finally dropped the cigarette, stamping it out with his foot. He ran his thumb over his lips and met Bucky's eye, his stare unshakeable. When he didn't laugh, the other three fell quiet and waited, almost with bated breath, to see what would follow. Watching them, Bucky knew they were waiting for cues. Jackson took a weighted step back and hung his head, both hands now tucked tightly into his pockets.
"It was a really long night, and a stupid effort on my part to try and keep up with you guys. I'll never understand how you can drink so much without feeling like you've been taken out with a sledgehammer." Bucky said casually. He had to make conversation. He had to settle any burgeoning doubts about his leanings.
"Well, you know how it is. Real men can take it," Paul said. His smile was too comfortable, too placid.
"Guess I'm still just a boy then, huh," Bucky tried to laugh.
"Little boy playing in the sand," Paul taunted.
"I barely remember it, but I have enough sand still in my hair to prove it, I suppose," Bucky said, voice rushed and dismissive. "I'm gonna get back, wash up, and hopefully sleep it off. You guys enjoy the rest of your night." He turned his back to them, perhaps a moment too soon, far too eager to get back to Steve and those tight four walls he now called home.
"Say hi to Steve for me," Paul called at his back, practically spitting Steve's name.
Bucky didn't stop. Instead, he waved back at them in farewell and walked out of the warehouse, back onto the dock. It was impossible not to hear them following, four sets of heavy feet landing together over wooden planks. Ahead of them, the rest of the small group were already in the distance, starting to disperse at the intersection. Bucky felt it would be safe there and quickened his pace under the streetlights.
By the time he got there, the group ahead of him were gone, broken up into gatherings of two on either side of the street and heading home. The four at his back had gone silent, probably falling behind and losing themselves in the trading of new cigarettes and mindless chatter. It was a safe bet, but the quiet made Bucky nervous. Instinctively, he strayed out from under the streetlights and faded into the bordering shadow, walking in the dark where he felt no one could see him.
But they could. They had never stopped watching.
As Bucky rounded the next corner, he found his path blocked by those he had thought were long gone, some having seemingly circled and gathered back here. Some in attendance hadn't even worked the shift that night, coming all the way to the docks on their night off to wait for them—to wait for Bucky. Paul and the others brought up the rear, closing off the exit route behind him.
Bucky sighed and lifted his head.
"You know I never carry matches, guys," he joked tiredly.
"Right. Because little Stevie doesn't like the smell of cigarette smoke," Paul said.
Bucky hesitated. "What's your point, Paul? I don't smoke anymore and that rubs you the wrong way?"
"Everything about you rubs me the wrong way, Barnes—,"
"I don't particularly like you either, but then, I have always been a pretty good judge of character," Bucky quipped bluntly.
He was trying to remain as calm and collected as possible, dowsing his anger just as quickly as it hit in heated waves. They had all turned on him. Every single one of them had listened to Paul and taken his word as gospel, allowing themselves to be manipulated by nothing more than unfair rumours. It didn't matter that Bucky had never been anything but kind to them, a friend despite their past accusations. It didn't matter that he had loaned money to Arthur when he needed it and never asked to be repaid, or that he had helped Bill finish the renovation on his house, or even when he had been a shoulder to cry on for John when his father passed. Nothing mattered in the face of his sexuality; of which they had no actual proof.
Bucky shook his head in disgust and tried to push past them but was quickly barricaded in, grabbed by the arms and forced back to the centre of the circle.
"Where are you off to in such a rush?" Paul asked, "Back to good ol Stevie? I have to ask, which of you faggots takes it and which of you gives?"
"Gee, Paul, you seem awful curious," Bucky grinned sourly, his glare cold. "Sure you aren't jealous?"
Paul stormed forward with his fists raised and Jackson grabbed at his elbow, urging him back a step just as the rest of the group tightened the circle, all incensed and swearing and spitting. Bucky was making it worse, egging them on and just daring them to fight. He couldn't help himself. These furious flames were far too big to put out. And he couldn't help but think, 'what would Steve Rogers do?' Steve was immune to cowardice. He was unafraid of bullies and never gave in to their cruelty, no matter how severe. And Bucky sometimes figured him stupid for it but nevertheless admired him for his unconquerable strength. There was no resolving this with gentle words and careful reasoning. Bucky couldn't simply talk his way out of this one. Standing down was no different to giving in and letting them win a fight that was much bigger than any one of them.
Shaking Jackson off, Paul finally threw a punch. Once it landed hard across Bucky's jaw, the rest of them wrestled forward and grabbed at him, hitting him wherever they could reach amidst the chaos. Bucky tried throwing them off, elbowing someone in what he thought was the nose and kicking someone else in the shins, even head-butting Paul squarely in his stupid face. But then he was buckled at the knees, knocked down so they all towered over him and had free reign to beat him senseless. Bucky, unwilling to cower, took it with clenched teeth and silently hoped not to break a rib. He could feel the heat of his own blood pouring from his nose and the sting of his busted lip, even the quick but unforgiving swelling of dark bruises all over.
Jackson shouted out for them to stop, threatening the arrival of cops just around the corner, which triggered a sudden withdrawal. The mass quickly disbanded, seemingly satisfied with their work just short of killing him. Bucky watched the stream of boots taking off in a run and disappearing into the distant dark, taking all the loud, hateful voices with them. Bucky turned on his side and spat blood, smearing it across his cheek with the back of his sleeve. This attack, though remarkably brief, had left him entirely winded and aching.
And he realised, with horror, that this must be how Steve always felt after being beaten.
"I told you. I fucking told you, Bucky," Jackson fumed and knelt down beside him, reaching out to help him up.
Bucky shrugged him off and gritted his teeth, hissing against the pain as he moved to his hands and knees. His body was shaking, thrown into shock by the battering, and his lower legs had gone partially numb—the kind of pins and needles brought on by fear. He knew he was safe now, which was both a sad and hilarious thought. He was safe and broken, and finally free to go home just like he wanted.
"I warned you about Paul. Now I don't know why I even bothered," Jackson ranted, trying, again, to help him.
Again, Bucky pushed him away. He crawled gracelessly to the nearest wall and felt along the brick for some kind of leverage, bracing himself against it and sliding shoulder first up its length until he was standing—still mostly hunched, but standing nonetheless. The effort was exhausting and he took a moment to breathe, touching timidly at his face and testing his open wounds. There was no telling how bad they were, but they stung something awful. Bucky withdrew his hand, somewhat made nauseous by the pain, and started to walk, still using the wall as a guide and as a crutch. Of course, this wall wouldn't continue on forever. It had to end sometime, and would sooner rather than later. And then Bucky would be at the mercy of his own shaking legs.
"You're a damn idiot," Jackson huffed, "if you won't ever listen to me, then at least let me help you get home."
"I'm fine on my own, thanks," Bucky tried to snarl, but the words came out sounding so weak and pitiable.
"Yeah, you really look it. I've never known a bag of bones not to be fine, after all."
Bucky urged his feet to move but they remained still. He knew, given time, they'd find feeling again, but that was time he didn't have to spare. He would much sooner collapse than walk and didn't think it wise to make himself a semi-permanent fixture of the sidewalk. Given the choice, he decided that accepting Jackson's help was the less shameful option.
Grudgingly, he reached out for Jackson and clutched desperately at the material of his sleeve, allowing himself to fall into his side. Jackson propped him up and put an arm around his waist, carrying most of his weight as they walked—Bucky stumbling—together.
"My car isn't much farther," Jackson assured him gently.
"Didn't know they gave out licenses to idiots," Bucky tried to joke.
Jackson laughed. "They don't. That's why you don't have one."
Bucky scoffed but didn't have a rebuttal; he was, after all, the one who walked into an unmatched fight despite being previously warned. It was the sort of idiocy he would have talked Steve out of—or rather tried to, probably without success.
Jackson took him around the next block and then a short, quiet street. There was one car left on the side of the road, badly parked with one wheel breaching the curb which suggested something truly concerning about Jackson's driving abilities. It was a battered thing, more busted metal than an actual car. Bucky supposed that it had a colour somewhere under all that filth, but he couldn't tell from afar which one it was. As they neared, he could see that masses of paint had actually come off, leaving impressive sections entirely bare. When they reached it, Jackson leaned Bucky against the side of his car, practically sitting him up on the hood. Bucky ran a finger along the hood and discovered the car was red underneath the dust.
Jackson cursed under his breath and patted hastily at his pockets for his keys.
"If you left them back at the docks, I'll actually murder you," Bucky threatened, his lips turning up at the corners in the briefest of smiles.
"I'm not worried. I can't exactly get killed by a dead man."
"Is it that bad?" Bucky winced and gestured to his bloody face.
"Well, it ain't good," Jackson attested and finally unlocked his car.
"You're a real charmer, you know that?" Bucky eased himself into the passenger seat. "I don't know what I did to get a ride home from such a gentleman." He smoothed down his wayward hair and chuckled lightly. On a better day, he may have even winked.
Jackson circled the car and got into the driver's seat. "It's no wonder you got yourself beaten half to death," he sighed, "you invite it with shit like that."
"Like what?"
"Nothing. Forget about it."
"No. Shit like what? What do I do that warrants something like this?"
Bucky looked over at him and saw Jackson's stony expression, his eyes fixated on the road. There was the suggestion of nervousness as Jackson's cheeks flushed a soft petal pink.
"You flirt. A lot. And not the joking kind, the real kind," Jackson stated finally.
"You think I'm flirting with you?" Bucky snorted. "Look, you really aren't my type. For one thing, you'd look just dreadful in a skirt, and—,"
"But you don't like skirts, do you? Or the women who wear them?" Jackson interrupted.
Bucky was quiet, too tired and defeated to attest otherwise. He wouldn't be believed even if he tried, that much was for certain. Nevermind the months of verbal abuse, Bucky had never been bashed up before. The rumours, no matter how persistent or violent in nature, had ever accumulated into something so vicious. These weren't crude words being spat at Bucky's back. This wasn't empty threats being snarled into his ear or cruel pranks set up to maim him. He was brutally attacked. And it wasn't something that would be forgotten with time unless he did something drastic. As things stood, this was irreversible and maybe even the start of something worse.
Perhaps next time they'd kill him.
"You don't have to lie to me, Bucky," Jackson assured him, "I don't… I don't see any point in hurting someone for it."
"You're the only one who seems to think so," Bucky mumbled. This was dangerous. His lack of denial confirmed the rumours, and if Jackson was at all partial to Paul and the others it was likely that he would share Bucky's confession.
"You know I'm not. There have been men in your life, haven't there? Men like you?"
Bucky shrugged faintly and fiddled nervously with the hem of his sleeve, picking at the blood now crusted in the fibres. "I guess," he admitted finally.
"Thought so," Jackson sighed and pressed down a little harder on the accelerator, driving a little faster towards Bucky and Steve's apartment. "I don't care what you are. I want you to know that."
"Thanks," Bucky said and turned his gaze out the window. They weren't far now. Pretty soon, Bucky could wash himself off, climb into bed, and try to forget the whole thing; at least for a time. He was sure to fret over this for a long while and wanted to get a few hours peaceful sleep in before he started.
The rest of the drive was silent. Jackson didn't try to pry any further into Bucky's affairs, didn't ask how long he'd known or for any names that might expose anyone else. And he didn't ask about Steve. But he was probably thinking it. How could he not? It was no secret that Bucky and Steve had been close for a very long time, and now, living together in such close quarters, it was bound to spark some curiosity.
Bucky could think of nothing other than, 'if only'. All the speculation and no truth to it whatsoever; nothing but one-sided affection and years of heart-wrenching pining. Of all things to land him here, Steve was the most painful reason of all. It wasn't his nights spent in underground dens of iniquity, his body colliding naked and hot with another man's, it wasn't the blasphemous confessions of homoerotic passion in these illicit heated moments, or the times he had near suffered for being too reckless in a public setting. He hadn't escaped these reasons totally unscathed, but he hadn't left them with blood crusted in his nose and bruises marking his ribs either. Instead, he had been witnessed in a love-dazed sprawl in the sand with Steve, their lips unkissed and pants zipped, shirts mostly buttoned. And this was the punishment.
"We're not," Bucky said.
"What?" Jackson peered over at him.
"Steve and me. We're not."
"No?"
"No."
Jackson raised an eyebrow and considered it for a moment before going, "huh."
"Curiouser and curiouser, hm?" Bucky affirmed knowingly.
"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't surprised. I really thought there was something going on between you two," Jackson conceded, "I suspected for a while, even before seeing you on the beach."
Bucky groaned and let his head fall back against the headrest. "That stupid beach. I wish we'd never gone to that god damn beach, after all the trouble it's caused."
"Well, I mean, I don't think the beach had much to—,"
"No. No. Steve was right, the ocean has a grudge against me and it's all playing out just as it wants," Bucky ranted, knowing it was all nonsense but desperate to blame something other than himself.
"Okay…" Jackson allowed cautiously, wisely choosing not to question him or argue further.
They pulled over outside the apartment building and Jackson removed the key from the ignition, ignoring Bucky's protests urging him to stay put. Jackson had gone enough out of his way as it was to help him. It was unfair to have him give up any more of his time. And… Bucky didn't want him to go up to the apartment. It was late so there was a fair chance Steve was already in bed, oblivious that anything was amiss, but if not, then he was bound to see the blood and bruises and take it out on the nearest possible suspect. Jackson, as far as Steve was concerned, was another of Bucky's colleagues who had bullied him unashamedly in the past. It wasn't unreasonable to assume that Jackson, like the others, had taken it a step further.
Were their situations reversed and it was Steve coming home battered and broken like this, then Bucky would be furious at the nearest participant too.
"You won't make it up six flights alone," Jackson told him starkly.
Bucky huffed but shut up, knowing he was right. He'd since reclaimed a sensation other than pins and needles in his legs, but he didn't trust them to carry him very far; maybe to the front door, or even the second floor if he really pushed himself, but no further. Like the sidewalk, he didn't wish to become a tenant of anywhere other than his own home.
Jackson eased him out of the car and resumed their position from before: Bucky's arm around his shoulders, and Jackson's arm around his waist. They took the stairs slowly, each one more frustrating and painful than the last, and Bucky began to appreciate how much effort this likely took Steve every day. This was worse than Steve's ailments, but it was the one time Bucky had experienced anything even resembling his daily physical stresses. It didn't make Bucky pity him, instead, it made him admire Steve even more. The absolute resilience of him.
Reaching the top of the last flight of stairs, Bucky retrieved his key and quietly urged Jackson to leave, promising him he could make it from here fine on his own. Apprehensive, Jackson paused and listened to the music playing inside the apartment and decided it was probably best he goes. Somehow, he also seemed to suspect Steve's oncoming wrath.
"Don't come to work tomorrow," Jackson advised.
"Doubt I could make it even if I wanted to," Bucky sighed and offered a small, appreciative smile.
"I did try to warn you," Jackson reminded him again.
"Yeah, you did," Bucky allowed. "And I'm sure you won't ever let me forget it."
"At least not in this lifetime," Jackson promised and patted him gently once on the back before taking his leave.
Bucky, now alone, hesitated before slotting his key into the lock and entering the apartment.
All the lights were on, leaving him no place to hide or any shadows to mask the extent of his injuries. Still, he kept his eyes trained on the floor at first, for some reason ashamed of himself. He felt the discomfort of knowing it wasn't his fault but blaming himself nevertheless. If he didn't feel the things he felt, or if he liked the people he pretended to like, then this never would have happened. He knew it was internalising, taking on other people's hatred and making it his own but… he couldn't help but think: it would be so much easier if…
He listened to the record playing the soft jazz that Steve had a penchant for. It was hilariously out of place; the easy caress of instruments playing in place of the sombre blues Bucky felt inside. Steve seemed to be lost to it too, looking so small with his legs folded beneath him on the couch, his sketchbook open on his lap and the smears of charcoal coating his worked fingers. Given the number of pages littering the floor, some even aggressively scrunched up or ripped, it was clear Steve had been sat there for hours. It wasn't often he wasted paper, unless upset enough to do so. His hair was still windswept from that morning, perhaps even further tussled by his own nervous fingers as suggested by the faint remnants of black dust worked into the roots. He peered up at Bucky, his bottom lip between his teeth, and gasped. Bucky couldn't stand to see the gentle blue of Steve's eyes becoming clouded with worry, so he looked away and dabbed hopelessly at the blood staining his upper lip.
"It's nothing," Bucky said quickly.
He heard the thud of Steve's sketchbook hitting the floor and the squeak of the couch as he got up. Turning away, Bucky moved toward the bathroom to wash his face. He had to do something about this. Whatever he could. Bucky hadn't even seen the damage for himself yet, but his imagination had come up with some pretty gruesome ideas. It wasn't something he wished for Steve to see.
"This is a very small apartment, Buck. You can't evade me forever, so you may as well face me now and get it over with," Steve reasoned.
Steve caught Bucky's arm and stilled him, tangling his fingers into the material of his coat in a quiet desperation. He pulled at the hem, forcing his fingers further up inside his sleeve, feeling for the skin of Bucky's wrist. His touch was delicate, but something about it made Bucky want to cry—something he hadn't actually allowed himself to do despite the torment of it all.
"I, uh, I fell," Bucky mumbled lamely.
"You fell?" Steve repeated faintly in complete disbelief.
"Yes. Into some heavy cargo and then, uh, the impact of my body falling between the crates knocked the top layer down onto me which completely threw the balance off and it all collapsed overboard into the ocean. I think a bit of debris hit me on the way down, but that part is a bit of a blur, you know, because of the water, you see… and—,"
"Bucky. You aren't wet," Steve touched his chin gently.
"I dry really fast," Bucky said and gestured to the blood caking him, "and this is nothing. It didn't wash off but its fine."
"Who did this to you?" Steve asked sternly. He tugged on Bucky's sleeve and guided him, somewhat forcefully, to the couch.
Bucky was too tired to argue so he sunk down onto it, aware that he may never find it within himself to stand up again. It was too soft—protruding springs and stuffing be damned—and so very safe. It belonged to Steve and had for many years. Bucky had grown up with this couch. He'd slept it on it many a time and had spent countless afternoons sat cross-legged facing Steve with a board game or deck of cards between them—Steve often too ill to play outside with everyone else. They had traded Birthday and Christmas presents sitting on this couch, bodies nestled under the same warm blanket in the winter months. Of the few things Steve had moved here with them, Bucky was relieved this couch had made it. He traced the worn seams of the cushion cover with his fingers and smiled tenderly.
"Do you remember the first time I saw you sick? I mean, really sick?" Bucky asked.
"What? No? Bucky, what—," Steve was perplexed and still trying to see the extent of Bucky's injuries, moving his face this way and that with his hand. It probably didn't matter which way he turned, his face looked atrocious from every angle.
"You didn't come to school for two days and on the second day I skipped out during lunchtime, knowing the teacher would write to my mother and I'd be in, not the worst trouble of my life, but close to it. But I had to know," Bucky went on, "I was so worried, Steve. I noticed you falling ill a couple days before and you kept telling me you were fine. So god damn stubborn about it."
"Bucky. Please," Steve urged him but finally sat down.
"So I get to your place, completely out of breath because of course I ran the whole way, and I begged Sarah to let me in to see you. She really wasn't sure—just so protective of you. But eventually, she relented and opened the door. And I rounded the corner and there you were on this couch. You looked smaller than I had ever seen you. And so pale. But not white like paper or snow… you were this kind of… grey," Bucky told him, looking at him closely.
"And then what?" Steve sighed, grudgingly yielding, but listening earnestly.
"I wanted to cry. I think I felt ridiculous at the time and I blinked back the tears, but now… now I don't find it ridiculous at all. You were so frail and your skin was cold to the touch but you were drenched in sweat. I didn't know what was wrong with you, and I couldn't even imagine how it felt. But I was scared. I knew to be scared."
Steve nodded. "I remember. I looked at you and smiled."
Bucky laughed softly. "Yeah, you smiled. A really dumb little smile and then you said—,"
"I should always be this handsome," Steve finished for him and snorted, "Dumb was right."
"Well that part hasn't changed," Bucky joked fondly. He thought for a moment and then his voice softened. "Do you remember asking me to stay?"
"Of course."
"Sarah waited until school finished and then called my mum, asked if I could stay for dinner. And I got you to eat some soup; the first time you had eaten in two days—,"
"I had to. You threatened to force feed me otherwise," Steve reminded him pointedly.
"At least it worked," Bucky said. "I sat on one side of the couch with your legs over my lap and we just talked for ages. You didn't say much, but that was okay. It was enough just to see you smiling, and I swear some colour came back into your face. You even finished your soup."
"Bucky?" Steve turned to face him properly, his gaze desperate and probing. "Why are you saying all this?"
Bucky shrugged vaguely. "I love this couch," he explained.
Steve nodded in understanding and placed his hand gratefully on the armrest, feeling the texture of the fabric with his thumb. "Yeah. It has lived a life, hasn't it?"
Bucky was relieved Steve understood. Contented that Steve remembered and treasured these memories just as much as he did. This was just another; a sad memory full of terrors and uncertainty, solaced by a happy one. It was him and Steve, come whatever.
"We can't get rid of it. Even when it becomes more springs than cushion, we have to keep it, okay?"
"Okay," Steve promised.
Bucky leaned back and sunk down further in place, resting his head against the backrest and closing his eyes, satisfied with Steve's vow. Of all the world's tiny, encased places, this was the only one Bucky didn't have to endure but instead relished. This small spot on the couch next to Steve.
"You looked after me a lot back then," Steve said, "hell, you still look after me now. Can I please look after you for a change?"
"I guess I haven't got a choice but to let you. You'll force it on me otherwise," Bucky retorted playfully and grinned so wide his busted lip stung and he winced against the pain.
"You have to tell me what happened and who did this to you," Steve called, already up and disappearing into the bathroom.
Bucky hummed in a hollow response, listening to the sounds of Steve in the next room. He wasn't going to tell him. He couldn't. Bucky couldn't bring himself to admit the vile truth of the matter—about their savagery and why they committed such violence against him. He didn't want to confess his failure. To describe how he had ultimately laid down and died. It was too humiliating to tell him that Paul had seen Bucky's true affections and had used that as reason to beat him senseless. Bucky had always protected Steve, fought fights for him to keep him safe, and it was distressing to think he may one day fail to do that.
Bucky couldn't bear to see Steve's trust and faith in him shatter. It was horrid enough even imagining it waver.
As Steve resumed his seat and tended to Bucky's wounds—much the same way Bucky had tended to Steve's only a few weeks prior—Bucky ran his fingers back and forth along that same couch seam, over and over and over again until the pattern was fixed in his memory. He would remember it exactly, no matter where he was and what he was doing, and he would feel safe.
"Steve?"
"Yeah, Buck?" Steve soothed.
"Don't come back to the docks again," Bucky pleaded. "Please. No matter what."
Steve hesitated, his hand pausing with the wet cloth still pressed to Bucky's skin. His lips were barely parted, the despairing need to implore further on the very tip of his tongue. He was there, trying so hard not to argue, wanting more than anything to get answers that could maybe explain away some of his biggest fears. Searching for a reason which promised nothing was as terrible as it seemed.
But Bucky couldn't bring himself to lie. He could only withhold the truth and pray that it was enough.
Steve closed his mouth and nodded solemnly, chest tight in a withheld breath. He never gave in to anyone other than Bucky, never stood down from a fight he truly believed in unless Bucky asked. He could see now that Bucky needed him—needed him more than anything—and so he let the fight go. Steve surrendered his questions and accepted that he may never know what really happened.
Bucky looked away. He dipped his head down and his hair—now at the verge of overgrown—fell into his face, masking the guilt in his eyes.
"Okay," Steve promised finally.
They had made so many promises to each other on this couch, each one infinite within the moments it had captured. As Bucky ran his fingers along that memorised seam one more time, he felt them recited back to him.
Each one kept, never to be broken.