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.

4. Perfectly Imperfect Daisy (Steve's POV)

Steve hated Daisy.

No, hate was far too strong a word and Daisy had done absolutely nothing to warrant it. Steve just resented her was all. He couldn't help it despite her perfectly loveable personality and bubbly nature. She was so absurdly friendly without even trying, always giving out compliments that didn't even sound forced, the absolute ease of them passing her full, pink lips and making the whole world smile.

She was funny too; sickeningly so.

It was enough to make Steve purely envious. Especially since her jokes had a way of making him laugh, too, despite himself. Her witty stories flowed so smoothly as if she'd had time to sit, ponder, and write them down, effortlessly reciting them time and time again without ever becoming a bore to listen to. She'd lived an exciting life and got up to all sorts of harmless fun, somehow evading consequence and regret without effort.

To make matters worse, she was also incredibly smart. Tremendously well-read and thoughtful, able to think fast on her feet and thoroughly discuss profound subjects. She could quote literature and write poetry and wished to travel and broaden her horizons. Steve knew she would keep her word and one day see the world. Daisy was the sort to get what she wanted, the sort that achieved without having to try very hard. She was a well-rounded person and gloriously humble about it, presenting herself void of any arrogance or narcissism, content in her own skin without feeling the need or desire to contend with others.

There was nothing to hate about her, though Steve had tried—and felt absolutely ashamed for it.

He could see what Bucky saw in her and had no trouble understanding how they'd met and fallen into a relationship so quickly. So quickly, in fact, that Steve still didn't actually know where and how they met. He had heard conflicting stories. Bucky claimed they had met outside the movie theatre waiting in line to purchase their tickets, which made no sense since he never went without inviting Steve and couldn't recall the film he'd seen. Daisy, meanwhile, said she met him at the restaurant where he worked, spilling her drink down his front when they bumped into each other—another dubious story since Bucky had never come home with a such a distinct stain on his shirt.

Steve assumed they were embarrassed by the truth. Bucky had never been the sort to gush and share explicit details about a girl, particularly since it wasn't the most chivalrous thing to have relations so quickly. He was probably protecting Daisy's pride and reputation, at the very least suggesting they hadn't had sex immediately upon meeting. She had so many friends and a prosperous lifestyle, so no good could possibly come from being tarnished by a sudden hot and heavy relationship—with someone without wealth or status like Bucky no less. Steve could only theorise. He could only infer from their conflicting stories and awkward demeanours whenever the subject came up. It wasn't fair for him to judge so he had let the conversation slide, burdening himself with more questions.

Ultimately, it didn't matter, anyhow.

However they met, they had become inseparable since.

Daisy was always around. No matter where they went or what they were doing, she was bound to tag along and take up all of Bucky's attention. They would walk and sit and stand together, arms linked or hands held, bodies near close enough to conjoin. And they would talk and laugh and embrace where everyone could see them, totally carefree and unapologetic. It had become unbearable to the point that Steve had started inventing excuses to stay behind, usually claiming illnesses when they didn't exist—which was one of his more believable reasons, given his ailments. Otherwise, he ran frequent errands, going to the store when they weren't actually in need of anything, purposely taking his time to return. He just needed to get out of the house, away from what he assumed would be the worst of their canoodling. Since they took no issue with public displays of affection, Steve could only imagine what they would get up to with four walls obscuring them from prying eyes.

To avoid any incidents, Steve had hung a sheet between his and Bucky's beds, creating a curtain of sorts to give each of them something that, at the very least, resembled some privacy. So far he hadn't heard any evidence to support their need for it, but it was called a precaution for a reason. He didn't dare take it down, not wanting to risk it. He didn't want to see anything he wasn't supposed to and didn't think he could bear it if he did.

Somehow, not for the first time, seeing Bucky this happy made Steve the deepest kind of sad.

But he couldn't always make himself look away.

Steve got up and shook off his towel, setting it down again more under the cover of the umbrella as the sun moved. He slumped back down, his pitiful posture hunched over his drawn up knees. Draping his arms over either knee, he dusted the sand off of his shins, scrunching up his nose at the grainy texture beneath his fingers.

He had never liked the beach. Between the ocean that threatened to swallow him whole, the heat boring into his too-pale skin, and the sand that liked to settle itself in every unfortunate crevice, there wasn't a whole lot to like about it. He didn't take well to it, nor it to him, but it suited Bucky just fine. Daisy too. They were able to frolic carelessly across the shore and absorb the benefits of sunlight, tanning their already glowing skin. Daisy's hair—shorter than most women's—looked beautiful both when wet and windswept, never seeming out of place or unmanageable. Bucky could smoothly run his fingers through those blonde locks and sensually tuck any loose strands behind her ear, clearly gracing the skin of her neck as he did so. And she could lean up on her tiptoes and brush away the sand dusting Bucky's lips, tracing the shape of them as she did.

Steve watched them and rolled his eyes, muttering sourly under his breath. He didn't want to be here, but his various excuses had been dismissed this time. The declaration of his oncoming cold was met with nothing more than a dismissive groan and the curt pursing of Bucky's lips, his eyes dull with disapproval. There hadn't been room to argue; Bucky was taking Steve to the beach and Daisy was going to be there.

He and Daisy never actually fought, but in the effort to keep himself from becoming unfairly argumentative Steve tended to make himself overly quiet. Daisy always tried so hard to appeal to him and make conversation without much luck, Steve usually humming or shrugging in response unless she had time to wear him down and draw him in. She did well to hide her hurt feelings, but Steve could see through it. Just as he could see Bucky's quiet desperation to make things work.

Steve knew he made them all feel uncomfortable.

He never wished to be alone with her and often looked for ways to avoid it, which was usually difficult since she seemed to try just as hard to get close to him. Today was an exception since Bucky's sisters had met them there so they were able to act as a buffer of sorts.

When Steve wasn't staring—gawking, really—at Bucky and Daisy, he was watching the three of them, making sure the younger two didn't drown though they were beyond old enough to swim in the shallows without supervision. The eldest of them, Shirley, was laid down beside Steve with her back to the sun, her chin rested daintily on the back of her hand as she read the book perched open in front of her. She was there, not to keep Steve company, but out of grudging necessity. She had been told—just as the others had been as well—that she was to stay with the group. It was no secret that she was desperate to be elsewhere as she periodically sighed and pointedly turned the page of her book, pausing now and then to check her progress by judging the thickness of her collected pages.

At first, Steve was mostly relieved to have her there despite her remoteness. Perhaps she made for poor company, but it gave Steve a well-needed distraction. Someone to talk to. Someone to focus on. Or at least that's what he had hoped when she first settled down beside him. He might have even asked what the book was about or her current review of it, but she met every interruption with a terse nod or a disgruntled snort. She was not at all open to conversation, no matter how mundane the subject such as the weather that they both could tell for themselves was humid. After a few attempts, Steve had stopped trying. Shirley had never liked Steve, but, then, she never seemed to like anyone, so he didn't take it personally the way he might have done with anyone else.

The other two sisters, Charlotte and Anna, were kneeling together where the water reached the shore, gathering wet sand into a mass and building a sandcastle—or at least the most lenient description of one. Steve didn't have the heart to tell them that the incoming tide was bound to wash away their work before they could finish. Instead, he just watched as they contended with the ocean already lapping at one side, collapsing a wall. They seemed to like the challenge anyhow, Steve thought, checking again on their status and ensuring the group was still in one piece. He was making more of an effort than Bucky at least who had only noticeably looked once, peering briefly into the distance at Steve and raising his hand in an almost wave before lowering it and turning back to Daisy.

Steve had no reason to be here and should have left long ago, but something kept him in place. Bucky had asked him to come and so he stayed. It was that ridiculously simple and he felt like a complete fool for it. He hadn't put his foot down and had no one to blame other than himself. He couldn't even make the most of it and enjoy the day out with his friends, and Daisy. He could only sit alone—or with Shirley, which was no different to being alone—and pout like a kicked puppy.

It was Bucky who had been kicked, that much was clear—the state of his torso was enough to prove it. The bruises had mostly faded over the past couple weeks but had been severe enough to still linger this long—pale and yellow across his ribs. Steve couldn't make them out from here, but he'd seen them earlier when Bucky first took off his shirt and could still remember them exactly. Something truly awful had happened to him and yet he refused to talk about it. Steve had resisted every urge to ask questions since Bucky first came home beaten and bloody, but he had half expected him to open up to him about it on his own accord anyway. He thought it might take a little time but that Bucky would come around eventually.

After all, Bucky always did.

Instead, a little over two weeks had passed and Bucky was behaving as if nothing had ever happened. He never addressed it, never took notice of the state of his abused body, and never told Steve why he could never come to the docks again.

It was safe to assume that someone Bucky worked with had done this and it wasn't hard to put two and two together and figure that the rumours from last year may have had something to do with it. But then it raised the question: why now? Why start a fight with Bucky now when the gossip had only just started to die down? Steve had no theories, nor did he have any solid answers. All he had was the image of Bucky standing in their living room, his face coated in blood, half bent over and cradling his sides with an intense shame burning in his eyes. Steve had seen the extent of it for himself, washing Bucky off in the shower, caressing his black and blue skin with trembling fingers. It was no ordinary tussle that had done that. It was vicious… hateful… without restraint.

And a part of Steve hated Bucky for keeping the truth from him. But really he was angry at the situation and at the fact that there was nothing he could do to help or to make it go away. Steve couldn't undo the damage or prevent Bucky's trauma. He was good at hiding it, but Steve knew it was there, lurking deep within. He knew Bucky better than anyone and wasn't so easily fooled by his act of bravado.

Whatever had happened to Bucky, and whatever had spurned it on, had left him traumatised.

Steve wondered if Daisy knew. After all, she would have seen Bucky's wounded face upon meeting him, the cut on the bridge of his nose scabbed, his left eye ugly and swollen, cheekbone blackened, and lips crusted. She must have asked questions. Nobody in her position could see these things and dismiss them without concern or curiosity. No girl worth anything could touch and love Bucky and not wonder where these marks had come from or who had put them there. Given her compassion, Steve assumed she would have asked, maybe even shoved where Steve wouldn't so much as push… but he didn't know if Bucky would have answered.

Despite his sickening anxiety over the whole thing, Steve refused to go to her with his questions. He was unwilling to go behind Bucky's back and didn't want to owe her anything. He was afraid, almost, that maybe she knew and would keep it from him—the two of them with their own secrets. They weren't supposed to have secrets or promises. Bucky hardly knew her… which didn't seem like a problem for him as he wrapped his arms around her from behind, sweeping her off her feet with ease and swinging her around as she squealed in delight.

They practically danced together, their movements the sort of perfect that Steve imagined when trying to define romance. Bucky was undeniably handsome with a dazzling smile and a mysterious glint to his eye. The bad-boy vibe surrounded him like an enticing aroma you couldn't help but give into. He charmed without effort. Captivated anyone who so much as looked at him—even Steve wasn't immune to this. Bucky could have anyone he wanted, nobody was off limits to him, but he had chosen Daisy.

Daisy was a certain kind of beautiful—not the typical kind like Dolores. She had a rounder face and a cute crooked tooth, her smile the sort that lifted the apples of her cheeks under her eyes and made them squinted. She was rather short—almost exact to Steve's height which evoked some embarrassment on his part—and had to lean up as Bucky leaned down in order to kiss him. She wasn't at all leggy in her swimsuit. Her blonde hair was a similar shade to Steve's, but perhaps a touch darker, and cut short in a way that remarkably suited her where it would probably look masculine on anyone else. She was the sort that was pretty because she didn't try to be. Steve knew, watching her face light up as Bucky set her down, that she felt especially pretty today because Bucky had said she was. He would have called her beautiful in a hushed tone, his voice so soft and sincere that it was impossible not to feel special.

Steve was trying to be happy for them, he truly was. He had tried hating her and couldn't pull it off. He had tried avoiding her and then given in the moment Bucky asked. All that was left was to try swallowing his frustration and accept it.

Somehow, he didn't think he would pull that off, either.

He was especially incapable of accepting this.

This was their beach; Steve and Bucky's. It had unofficially become theirs the moment they stumbled across its shore, Steve warm with liquor and Bucky completely drowned in it, their legs unsteady, hearts racing, and heads spinning. This sand was theirs when they had shed their coats and dropped them with reckless abandon, leaving them to gather grains of sand like lint. It became theirs when they kicked off their shoes and felt it thick between their toes, footprints left in their wake. The sea was theirs when they rolled into its gentle waves, soaking Bucky's clothes and dripping from his hair, Steve's hands tangled into the wet contours of his shirt, fingers nervous and thrilled undoing the buttons. They had been the sole occupants of this entire stretch of beach, their drunken voices carrying into the open air for what felt like miles and miles as they laid together and talked.

All of that seemed forgotten now. An all too distant memory with hazy edges not worth remembering. Bucky had taken his new girl here and made a moment with her, creating a memory with all his undivided care and attention. He was piecing it together, drawing its lines in solid black ink never to be erased. And, god be damned, Steve was bound to remember it too in exact, unforgiving detail.

Bucky and Daisy ran up the beach together and arrived in front of them out of breath and giddy. They brought a piece of the ocean with them, their swimsuits wet and hair dripping, much to Shirley's displeasure as she recoiled. Bucky quickly sat down in front of Steve and blocked out more of the sun, entirely unconcerned about his bronzed shoulders which were surely hot to the touch by now. Steve leaned back on his elbows, trying to feign a sense of ease, but was sure he looked even more uncomfortable—all knobbly knees and pointy elbows and not much else. Bucky nudged Steve's foot playfully, knowing full well he was ticklish and smiled when he startled and withdrew.

"You know I hate that," Steve accused lightly and flicked sand at him with a hidden smile.

Secretly, he was pleased. He liked the attention, no matter how annoying it may be. By now he had become absolutely starved of it. Even still, he instinctively put his feet down flat so Bucky couldn't touch the soles of them. It wasn't a question of whether he would try and tickle him again, it was a question of when. The last thing Steve needed was to reward Bucky's attention by accidentally flailing and kicking him squarely in the face—enough damage had been done to it already.

"I can't help it. It's amusing to see that wild look in your eye," Bucky said in self-defence and shook out his hair like a dog.

"Ugh, will you stop? My book is all wet now," Shirley complained and sat up angrily.

Bucky grinned—a real shit-eating grin—and shook his hair again just to annoy her. Shirley swatted his arm with her book, losing her page, and muttered something bitter under her breath. Bucky pretended to quiver in fear and then laughed boisterously and received another two hits for his troubles, this time around the head. Rubbing sorely at the inflicted area, Bucky finally gave in and apologised, though insincerely, and made a show of begging for her forgiveness. Shirley, perhaps the one person on Earth who didn't yearn for Bucky's attention, took his apology with a grain of salt and turned her nose up at him.

"You just love creating chaos, don't you?" Daisy asked fondly and kissed Bucky's cheek. She then sidled in closer to Steve, gesturing for him to make room so they could share the shade of the umbrella together. Grudgingly, Steve scooted over and allowed her to sit close beside him, her wet skin dampening his previously dry arm and leg.

"No. I'm just in the habit of being in it is all," Bucky said and winked expressly at Steve.

Steve poked his tongue out at him in mock retaliation but couldn't rightfully argue. After all, he was more often than not the one to sniff out trouble first. And then that trouble was quick to turn into absolute chaos. It wasn't always so bad. They'd found some of their best adventures this way and have had an exciting life thus far because of it. That being said, there was a considerable number of decisions that Steve, with the wonderful and torturous gift of retrospection, wouldn't have made. Bucky didn't often complain though, unless of course, the chaos involved Steve getting hurt—which was, admittedly, an outrageously common occurrence.

Daisy didn't know any of this yet. Steve was still a mystery to her. A scrawny, timid absurdity that, somehow, was so intrinsically a part of Bucky's life.

"You should come into the water, Steve. It's absolutely beautiful today," Daisy gushed, unprovoked.

"Maybe later," Steve mumbled. It was a false consideration. He was not at all interested in actually following through. He never wanted to go into the water but felt even less inclined to do so now that she had invited him.

"Steve isn't a fan of the beach," Bucky explained, picking up on Steve's disgruntled tone.

What he didn't seem to understand was that Steve had made an exception for this beach. He'd decided that while he had plenty of reservations about the seemingly endless expanse of water whose depths knew no bounds, he had found an undeniable fondness for it when shared with him. But now? Now it meant next to nothing. It was just another place, another somewhere… another anywhere or nowhere at all. As far as Bucky was concerned, nothing had been robbed from them by bringing Daisy here. It didn't make a difference.

"People urinate in the water," Steve remarked pointedly with a knowing glint in his eye. He raised his eyebrow daringly at Bucky, challenging him, practically begging for him to bite. Instead, Bucky only laughed and shrugged his shoulders in calm admission.

"I don't know anyone who hasn't," Daisy giggled.

"That's disgusting." Shirley wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"You're swimming in masses of pee and inhaling it through your nose. Swallowing it. Tasting it," Steve went on, now targeting Daisy instead.

"That's just being needlessly paranoid," Daisy said without hesitance, "swimming in the ocean is no more adverse to you than bathing."

"I beg to differ," Steve muttered and brought his knees even tighter into his chest.

He was desperate to go home now. They had been there for hours and he was afraid they'd still be there for countless more if they stayed even a minute longer.

The umbrella suddenly rattled in the breeze and threatened to fly away as a heavy gust caught underneath it and tugged the peg partially free from the sand. Both Steve and Daisy reached for it at the same time and solidified it together, their hands landing one over the other in their quick efforts to stop it. Steve withdrew his hand quickly, tugging it from underneath hers as if he had been burned. Seeing the cut look on his face, Daisy became quiet and looked down, pinching her lip between her teeth.

"You know mother is going to be absolutely beside herself with worry when I tell her about your ugly face, Bucky," Shirley said, thankfully interrupting the tense moment without even realising.

"Well, in that case, you aren't going to tell her. Are you?" Bucky said emphatically. "You can make fun of my "ugly face" all you like, but you aren't going to say a word about it to her. Or to father for that matter."

"Why should I keep my mouth shut?" Shirley asked sharply.

"Because you don't want to scare them? Because you are a good, doting daughter and a considerate sister who loves her brother very much and doesn't want to get him in trouble?"

Shirley grinned smugly and crossed her arms, her book well and truly forgotten by now. She patiently tilted her head to one side and blinked with a sense of faux innocence, testing Bucky to see how far he was willing to go to keep his secrets.

Bucky sighed. "Because I will give you a dollar a month to keep quiet."

"Two dollars," she bargained.

Bucky guffawed at the notion. "Nice try, but not a chance. A dollar a month is beyond reasonable and, in fact, means I'd already be letting you rob me blind."

Shirley again rolled her eyes—something she was well practiced at—and agreed with an affirmative nod of her head. "Fine. I won't tell them. But the second you fail to make your payments, I will shout it from the rooftops and they'll be all the more mad because you kept it from them."

Daisy was watching and listening, amused to the common squabbling between siblings that neither she nor Steve had any personal experience with. They were both the only child in their families, but, as Steve understood it, he had always had a close relationship with his mother whilst Daisy had gone by mostly ignored by her feuding parents. She wasn't afraid to share, telling stories of her childhood with a trusting sincerity. Steve wanted to admire her, but his resentment prevented it.

"What happened to you anyway?" Shirley asked.

"None of your business, Shirl," Bucky dismissed her with a flippant wave of his hand. He looked into the distance and saw that Charlotte and Anna had given up on their sandcastle and were now instead building a dam or a pond… or some other giant hole in the sand to fill with the rising tide.

"But you're a considerate brother who loves his sister very much," Shirley countered.

"Hmm, not that much," Bucky deflected.

"But I want to know. Who did this to you?"

"Yeah, Bucky, who did this to you?" Steve repeated, somewhat sourly.

Bucky's head quickly turned, suddenly brought to attention by Steve's tone. Their eyes met, Steve's menaced and Bucky's startled—perhaps even a little hurt. Neither of them said anything. Steve didn't ask again and Bucky didn't answer. He was watching Steve, gaze longing and desolate, before he swallowed hard and stood up, tensely dusting himself off.

"I'll get Charlotte and Anna and then we can go," Bucky said quietly, "I can see that their skin's red from here."

Steve opened his mouth to apologise, but Bucky had already turned away and begun walking solemnly toward his sisters. Ashamed, Steve hung his head and closed his eyes, sure that, despite staying in the shade, he had gotten heatstroke. He felt sick—not at all an unfamiliar feeling—and yet so unlike himself, so lost amidst his frustration and… he supposed it was jealousy. He couldn't deny that any longer. He was jealous of seeing Bucky so happy with a girl so perfectly imperfect like Daisy.

"I don't know either, Steve," Daisy whispered, quiet enough that Shirley wouldn't overhear.

"What?" Steve blinked.

"I don't know what happened to Bucky," she explained, "or rather who happened to him. We're very open and honest with one another about most things. About everything, really, but not that. I've asked and asked until I was blue in the face, but he won't tell me."

Steve frowned and watched Bucky as he, probably giving in to the pleas of his sisters, got into the hole they had dug and splashed them with the water pooled around him. He was laughing again, smiling that easy smile and freeing himself from all things difficult. If it weren't for the bruises Steve still pictured on his skin, it would almost be as if nothing had ever been wrong.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because… I know you don't… like me very much."

Daisy was gentle. Unfairly so. All it did was highlight just how cold Steve had been toward her.

"That's not—,"

"It's very true," Daisy interjected and then smiled sweetly. "And it's okay. Really."

Steve gnawed on his lip and began fiddling with the sand, drawing patterns and shapes in it with his finger. It was all he had in place of paper and lead which was his usual reprieve from his stresses. He could feel her watching him, unperturbed by his distracted and uncomfortable behaviour. She was being kind. Considerate. Far too forgiving. It was everything he hated liking about her.

"I'm not the threat you think I am," Daisy concluded finally.

Before Steve could ask for any kind of elaboration, Daisy stood up and stepped forward into Bucky's arms. Steve hadn't seen him returning since he was so focused on the sand. He brushed his hand over the drawings and erased his nervous work. His chest still felt tight from the confrontation. As if Daisy had dug her claws into his lungs and squeezed. But, peering at her hands, Steve only saw harmless, bitten-down nails.

She wasn't confronting him at all. Steve just had reason to feel confronted.

Bucky called back over his shoulder at Charlotte and Anna, who weren't too far behind, to hurry up. They were clearly disappointed to be going home, never having accomplished the sandcastle of their dreams. Catching up with them, Anna, the youngest of the Barnes' children, complained urgently to Steve, knowing he would listen. He nodded his head sympathetically and hugged her into his side. Charlotte, meanwhile, had taken Bucky's hand and was pulling on it, begging to stay another hour.

"Look at you two. Your noses are red like a tomato," Bucky sighed, "mother's going to kill me for letting you sit in the sun for so long."

"No, she won't!" Charlotte insisted.

"Just a little longer?" Anna cried, still clinging onto Steve.

They were both, as Bucky said, red in the face. The burning hue in their skin glistened shiny and bordering on sore. They were sure to feel the extent of it soon, along with the regret of bathing in the sun for too long. Charlotte, her long chestnut hair wet and tangled in stringy tendrils, had somehow fared worse than her younger sister; the sand dusting her shoulders a distinct contrast to the colour of her skin—flecks of white clear against bright red. Seeing her, Steve felt inclined to collect his towel and wrap it around her, struggling to bend with Anna's arms clung onto him so tightly. Taking it as a cue to their leaving, Anna whined, pointing earnestly at their unfinished work and loudly protested once more.

Disgruntled, Bucky sighed and let his head drop back, turning his face to the sky and closing his eyes in a tired effort to collect himself. They were sure to be hearing more of this the entire way home. Particularly since Bucky had moved and only visited his family on occasion. His mother, as Shirley had described, was irate with him for leaving when he did, despite being of a fair age. Steve still, even after all this time, was honestly intimidated by Bucky's mother. She was a severe woman. Not unkind, but stern and greatly matter-of-fact. A strict kind of maternal—so unlike Steve's own mother Sarah—with nothing other than the best of intentions but tougher means of parenting. There was an indisputable right and wrong way to do things and Bucky's ingrained unruliness had worn her ragged over the years. She was often beside herself, expecting certain things of him that he tried so hard to fulfil, and his efforts had formed a dependency on him. Bucky was the first child, the only son, the big brother, and sometimes the sole provider of the household. His absence left a void in the Barnes house, one his mother greatly despised, and his sisters—bar Shirley—upset themselves over.

Knowing this and reading the exhaustion in Bucky's demeanour, Steve opened his mouth to try and reason with the two girls when he was interrupted.

"How about ice cream instead? My treat," Daisy suggested.

Her idea was immediately popular as the girls quickly accepted and flocked to her, abandoning both Steve and Bucky in their immense joy. Daisy smiled and took one hand in each of hers, walking with them back toward a stall selling ice cream, listening blissfully all the while as they chattered. They had taken to her so quickly, liking her the moment they met. Buying them ice cream only solidified their bond.

Bucky dusted off his hands and sighed in relief, glad not to be the mediator for once like he had been his whole life as the eldest. He had someone to take control, someone to help carry the burden of responsibility. Someone who made it possible to take a breath of fresh air once in a while.

Someone who could do that far better than Steve.

Bucky ran his fingers through his hair and peered at Steve. "Want some ice cream?"

Steve shrugged. "I suppose. If you're having some."

Shirley gathered up their bags and her book and walked ahead, leaving them behind without caring to wait. Steve closed the umbrella and hefted it under his arm whilst Bucky waited with his hands on his hips, patient as he watched Shirley distance herself. They were finally alone. Ever since Daisy first came into the picture, moments like these had become a bit of a rarity and it seemed they both knew it. Bucky's lips turned up at the corners guiltily and he touched Steve's arm kindly, taking him briefly by the bicep and then allowing his hand to drift down to Steve's palm. His fingers lingered there.

"Hey," Bucky said gently.

Steve took two tentative steps forward and his toes found Bucky's in the sand. There he stayed. His chest suddenly felt a lot lighter.

"Hey," he said back.

"I'm sorry. I know you didn't really want to come today. I just… I—" Bucky stopped and frowned, searching for the right words before continuing. "I missed you, I think."

"I've been right here," Steve pointed out. But he understood. He knew all too well.

Steve had missed Bucky, too.

"I know," Bucky said, seemingly angry at himself.

"It's fine," Steve lied. "Daisy is… she's a nice girl. She really likes you."

Bucky chuckled somewhat darkly to himself, laughing at some inside joke Steve didn't understand. He squinted against the sun to try and spot Daisy and his sisters waiting in line at the stall. They were easy to lose in the crowd, given their small statures, but Shirley's height and length of dark hair pointed to their general whereabouts. By the way Bucky stepped back, it was clear he wasn't in any rush to join them.

"Yeah, she is," Bucky agreed eventually, "and she seems to. Like me, I mean. For some insane reason."

"It's not so insane," Steve disagreed.

"What? Because there's so much to like?" Bucky scoffed.

Steve was immediately worried. "Aren't you happy?"

"Of course I am," Bucky said. He ran his hand down over his face and took a breath before smiling. "Just surprised by my own luck. I hardly deserve her."

Steve might have argued that it was the other way round, but Daisy was so remarkably put together. She knew what true stability looked like and how it felt. Her family was well-off and she wanted for nothing, never needing to concern herself with the qualms of money or the lack thereof. She was educated, in good health, set to travel within the next year, and adored by many. Her parents were perhaps her only contention. Otherwise, her feet hadn't yet felt fragile footing. Meanwhile, Steve and Bucky both made the most of their own tumultuous existence. Bucky was probably her first taste of the unpredictable. And he must have tasted sweet.

Bucky was clearly just waiting for her to notice the bitter aftertaste.

"You do, Bucky. You deserve to be happy," Steve assured him.

Bucky nodded his head. His lips were firm and his jaw was especially sharp, not at all in full acceptance of the declaration. But he didn't dispute it, instead allowing the words to hang idle for too long a time until Steve was itching to repeat it, almost as if a second or third recital would make him listen and actually hear it. Steve stopped himself, realising it was pointless, but thought to assert himself again some other time. He would make Bucky believe it, even if it was the last thing he would ever do.

Grinning suddenly, Bucky took the umbrella from under Steve's arm and stabbed the handle back into the sand. Steve, too confused to question it, stood stark still and parted his lips in quiet wonderment. Before he could fathom any theories as to Bucky's intentions, Bucky grabbed him around the middle and hoisted him up over his shoulder, draping him there as if he weighed next to nothing. With one hand perched dangerously low on Steve's lower back, Bucky took up the umbrella with his other hand and began his path up the beach towards the girls. Given Steve's protests and the mass they made when combined, any persons in the way immediately moved as to avoid them. Bucky chuckled and Steve could feel his shoulders shaking with the sound.

Steve hit at Bucky's back with open palms, not that he could hurt him even if he were to beat him with clenched fists. His legs were hanging there limp, the effort it would take to kick worthless given Bucky's size and strength. No amount of physical resistance would benefit Steve any… Though never mind the humiliation of having his ass up for everyone to see, he didn't truly wish to be put down. Once the initial shock had worn off, Steve couldn't help but giggle like a ridiculous fool. He nestled his face against Bucky's skin to mask his delighted smile. Bucky truly was warm—his tan radiated heat. The once cool beads of the sea on his skin had since dried down in the breeze, though his hair, now half dry and textured, still dripped some from the ends. There was a smooth line of water down Bucky's spine and Steve traced it with his finger where he could reach, starting at the waistband of his swimwear. Steve felt Bucky shiver.

"Everyone is staring," Steve told him, finally looking up to see some curious eyes watching after them before their attention was stolen away by whatever it was they were doing before the disturbance.

"No, they're not. On a day like this? Everyone is just here for a spot of fun."

"That doesn't mean they aren't taking a moment of their time to stare."

"Oh, shush. They're glancing for a mere second."

Bucky was probably right. People were indeed looking but were also looking away again just as quickly. Barring sex or murder, they could likely get up to just about anything without being a bother. Nobody was interested in them. Everybody was lazy and lulled into contentment by the heat and the salty tang of the ocean in their noses. Nothing could truly distract from their sandcastles and ball games, hot dogs and ice cream. Steve could relish in the most welcome kind of invisibility.

"Bucky!" Daisy called as they neared. "Are you tormenting poor Steve?"

"Well, of course, I am," Bucky affirmed.

"It is truly awful." Steve exaggerated a desolate sigh at the absolute hopeless situation he was in, smiling all the while.

"Set him down, you great brute," Daisy jested, "my fingers are horrendously sticky with your rapidly melting ice cream. Take it before it all runs down my wrist."

Bucky did as he was told and gently set Steve down, briefly embracing his shoulders in a tight squeeze before withdrawing. He took Daisy's wrist and guided her hand up so he could lick at the ice cream cone she was holding. She wrinkled her nose in mock disgust and pushed the ice cream into his face, staining his lips and chin entirely. Bucky whined and dabbed at his face as Daisy turned her attention to Steve and handed him his own ice cream.

"Bucky told me you liked strawberry," Daisy said, somewhat inquisitive, as if unsure whether she had remembered correctly.

Steve blinked in surprise that, not only had Bucky mentioned his ice cream preferences, but Daisy had made an effort to remember and included him so kindly. He thanked her shyly and took the cone from her, quickly licking around the edges to save it from dripping and making a sticky mess. Daisy smiled gratefully and squeezed his arm.

"I like strawberry too. Bucky may tease me as much as he likes, but I'll forever defend my proclivity for it."

"I'd never tease you," Bucky interjected.

"Never?! Do you believe this Steve? Bucky says he would never tease me." Daisy looked at Steve imploringly.

"Oh, I'm sure he does," Steve said knowingly, having heard the same spiel of resentment for the "inadequate" flavour.

He was trying to make an effort. Trying to make conversation and side with Daisy once in a while where it couldn't possibly do him any harm. It was clear Bucky wanted Steve to like her and had reservations about his relationship greatly because Steve hadn't yet warmed to her. No matter his jealousy, Steve couldn't stand to be a hindrance and thought himself cruel if he continued on this way, knowing the damage it was causing.

It was probably impossible to love her, but Steve could bond over a taste for the least popular ice cream flavour. He could thank her for buying him a cone and mean it. And he could stand to have her touch him like this, her hand present on his arm like a vice.

Anna and Charlotte were consuming their two scoops greedily, now satisfied and amnesic, forgetting entirely about their earlier complaints and persistent begging. Shirley was stood alone under the shade of the stall roof swirling the contents of a small cup with a tiny spoon, seemingly put off either by the taste, appearance, or smell—perhaps even all three, knowing Shirley. When she noticed Steve watching her, she curled her lip and turned her back so she could finish eating safe from prying eyes. Somehow, Steve suspected she was secretly pleased to be included and was, though not exactly friends with her, at least inclined now toward Daisy.

With time, Daisy would win her over the way Steve never could.

Steve finished his ice cream and, not knowing what else to do, wiped his hands clean on his pant legs. Bucky, meanwhile, licked clean each finger in turn and Daisy followed suit, unafraid to match his dirty habits with her own. She nudged his side playfully and cocked her head in the general direction of the nearest bathrooms.

"I'll take the girls to wash up and dress."

Daisy rounded up the girls and took charge, leading them away and leaving the two boys to trail behind. Bucky made no effort to catch up with her and instead kept pace with Steve, shifting the umbrella from under his right arm to his left and back again, sometimes swinging it in a full arch that threatened to take out the eye of anyone behind them. He seemed distracted and too quiet for his usual self.

When he thought Steve wasn't looking, his fingers would brush idly at the bruising across his ribs, his touch pensive. Steve resisted the urge to touch them too with the same tentativeness the way he had done that first night—bracing Bucky the best he could as he bathed, both of them silently watching the blood wash down the drain. Steve had ignored his own soaking clothes and the faint pink stain flooding his sleeves from Bucky's skin, instead focusing on those horrid bruises. He hated them more than he hated anything else.

Steve opened his mouth to say something. Anything. To implore or to beg or to sympathise or maybe even to get angry. But then Bucky smiled and pinched Steve's arm.

"I can get dressed by myself, you know," he laughed.

Steve realised he'd followed Bucky all the way into the bathroom and he blushed awkwardly. Nodding, he stepped back and leaned against the wall, keeping his head low and arms crossed tight. His lips pursed. Maybe it was just his usual palpitations, but Steve's heart was beating especially fast and out of time. Those unspoken words lingered bitterly on the tip of his tongue and he forced himself to swallow hard against them, almost as if choking on poison. He wasn't sure how much longer he could go without answers; with the lies and the bullshit and the secrecy.

Steve walked ahead when Bucky re-emerged, and he quickened his pace to keep it that way, making no expression to the sounds of laughter behind him. He knew without looking that Daisy and Bucky were in step with each other, arms entwined and skin flush. He knew and hated it. He knew and felt so insanely lonely.

Steve was crushed by the knowledge.

It was only after they'd taken Bucky's sisters home and the three of them were back at the apartment together that Steve willed himself to look. He watched from the couch as Bucky said goodbye. From this angle, he could only see Bucky's back and Daisy's friendly smile from the doorway. He kept one hand on the doorknob, ready and waiting to close the door, and she turned her head twice towards the hallway. Bucky said goodbye without a kiss and she said goodbye without a parting hug, and then he shut the door and she was gone.

---

Steve was dancing… poorly, of course, to the point he could hardly call this dancing and ultimately decided not to. He was simply moving awkwardly without destination, stepping as if walking a tightrope with his shoelaces tied together. His arms, each insane with a mind of their own, didn't know what do with themselves and went from being stiff at his sides one moment, practically solidified as if frozen, to then swinging wildly the next, near hitting the nearest unfortunate souls in the face… or rather chest or stomach, given the height difference. The worst part, though, was that he was there 'not-dancing' alone. He was technically there with a date of course; a lovely girl named Bonnie whom Bucky had set him up with. But it was clear she came only as a favour to Daisy. She was only dancing in Steve's general vicinity and facing Daisy the entire time, the two girls giggling together all the while.

It was—admittedly—a humiliating affair, but Steve thought it would be more obvious and sad to be the one person standing against the wall—the loser who probably came alone to watch. Thus Steve had faced his fears and stepped out onto the floor, conducting a couple's dance entirely on his own. For just a moment, he forgot how or why he ever considered this the least embarrassing option. His awkward, jumbled moves aside, he was completely out of time. His foot would land a few too many seconds after the beat and the rest of his body would follow soon after—as if he were dancing to an entirely different tune of his own making. Just to make it worse, he was wheezing now from trying so hard to keep up with everyone else, his lungs heavy and face more than likely red in the cheeks—if not all over. He was sure people would be able to hear him breathing soon, even over the sound of live jazz. It was quite the achievement, he thought, to be louder than a chorus of instruments a mere few feet away.

Steve finally slowed and looked around, taking note of anyone that may be watching him, and was relieved when nobody seemed to be so much as looking. Even Bucky was distracted by now, his own eyes finally cast away and captured by Daisy. Steve was free, free at last to step away and cool off. Though, being both small and timid, he struggled to slip through the dancing crowd, subjecting himself to being bumped into more than a fair amount. By the time he was at the refreshments table, his toes had been stepped on a record number of times and the aching throb inside his shoes cursed him for being here.

But, once again, Bucky had asked and Steve had agreed. It was still that ridiculously simple. And Steve still felt like a complete fool for it. A nervous, lovesick fool.

Glancing behind him, Steve spotted Bucky dancing with Daisy and Bonnie. He took Daisy's hand and twirled her effortlessly before taking Bonnie by the waist and dipping her as she laughed. There Steve was, incapable of even dancing with one girl, and then there was Bucky dancing so easily with two. Most men couldn't dance with two women without accidentally colliding or stumbling over each other's feet. But Bucky wasn't one of them. He out-charmed his peers without having to try—a natural to gallant flirtations coupled with his God-given good looks. At least he was keeping his and Steve's dates occupied, protecting Bonnie from what could have been the night she was accidentally crippled by a clumsy, unpractised dancer.

Feeling sheepish, Steve got himself a drink and sipped steadily from it, taking his time, knowing he would have to reattempt a dance when he finished. If he paced himself right, he may even be able to waste the whole night finishing this one cup. Tiny sips, so miniscule he took in one drop at a time. Nobody would notice. He wouldn't be the guy all alone with his back against the wall. He would be someone taking what was probably periodic breaks to have a drink—someone perfectly normal.

He locked eyes with Bucky over the brim of his cup and he lowered it, smiling shyly. Bucky smiled back at him and gestured for him to join them, clearly with more than a little concern that maybe he wasn't having any fun. With a quick, reassuring wave to let him know he was okay, Steve turned his back to the dancefloor and pretended to focus on the refreshments table, though there were only so many interesting things to notice about a stack of napkins. He tapped his foot to the music and took another sip—another drop—from his drink.

Steve did love jazz. He thought it was well-crafted and easy to listen to, even majestic sometimes when played right, and he especially loved to hear it live. It wasn't every day that he had the opportunity. Usually, he listened to his old records, each one given to him as presents by Bucky over the years. It had become a tradition of theirs since Steve's thirteenth birthday. Living together now, their collection had become entangled—combined into one they shared. Most of it was outdated by now but he liked to listen to them.

They used to listen together a lot actually. Recently, though, Steve had often found himself sitting alone watching that needle trip over the worn grooves. He might have chosen not to, given Bucky's absence, but it somehow kept the loneliness at bay. His thoughts, usually spiralling, were soothed by it. He liked how they sounded and thinking about where they came from—thinking about who gave them to him. And, sometimes, Steve danced when no one could see him.

He would be lying if he said he didn't want to dance now; a rhythm like this was impossible to ignore. But he couldn't trust his own feet not to irreparably hurt someone, so he kept to himself and settled for the foot tapping, a sway or two, and a tight grip of his cup.

"You like this song," Bucky said just beyond his shoulder, speaking up over the music.

Steve startled and he spilled some of his drink, losing some of those precious drops he was intending to savour and dedicate his time to until the night was done. He sighed and flicked his wet shoe, smiling tightly with closed lips. This was fine… it was all fine. Nobody was ever hurt by sticky shoes.

"They play it well," Steve said and nodded towards the band.

"Don't you want to dance to it?"

Bucky put a hand on Steve's shoulder—perhaps the first time they had actually touched since that day on the beach with Daisy—and he looked knowingly at the dancing throng of people. He knew Steve wanted to join in. Knew that, given assurance, he wouldn't be looked at, he would be enjoying himself too.

"I'm a hazard to anyone who gets too close," Steve explained and laughed lightly. "Hell, I trip myself over, let alone anyone else."

"Everyone is tripping over everyone," Bucky disagreed, "it's a small space, there are lots of people, and a bit too much alcohol in the punch… nobody minds."

Steve considered it and paid more attention, looking for any sign of these supposed tipsy missteps and distracted mistakes. It all looked so… purposeful, like every move was a premeditated decision like it was supposed to happen this way. They were all laughing and smiling, their hands clasped with their partner's as they stepped from one foot to the other. Steve was sure he didn't look like that. Nothing he did looked intentional.

"Soon," Steve promised, lying both to Bucky and himself.

"Dance with us," Bucky insisted, grinning at the idea.

"I don't know, Buck…"

"Look at them," Bucky gestured to Daisy and Bonnie who were holding hands and dancing together, moving fast to the upbeat rhythm, twirling each other in turn and giggling when they made each other too dizzy. They were having fun. Steve did know what fun looked like; he hadn't forgotten.

Nervous, Steve barely nodded his head and set down his drink, allowing Bucky to take him by the hand and drag him back out onto the floor. Somehow, where Steve had struggled to navigate his way through the crowd, Bucky was able to lead them right through without incident. Nobody knocked into them, nobody stood on their toes or tread on the heel of their shoes.

Like with most things, Bucky made it seem so easy.

Upon their return, Daisy and Bonnie greeted them in an excited chorus, singing some nonsense lyrics to amuse one another. They created a circle of sorts, disjointed with elbowed edges, but the floor made space for them. And they danced. After numerous pushes and some peer pressure, Steve danced. Bucky danced. They almost, given their proximity and their locked gazes, danced with each other.

Suddenly, dancing didn't seem so frightening anymore.

Steve didn't even mind dancing with Daisy, who took his hand and made him spin, laughing graciously and applauding him when he steadied himself. He smiled, cheeks pink and eyes bright, the music a comfortable beat in his shallow lungs. When Bucky elatedly took his waist in his strong and assured hands and dipped him, just as he had done with Bonnie but… more, Steve was dumbstruck.

This was what it felt like to dance with a partner.

The moment lingered for a moment and then ended as the song finished, the band resetting themselves for the tune to follow. Bucky lifted Steve back up into him, back to what he probably thought were two steady feet, but Steve's legs were actually shaking. Jittery with the nerves usually reserved for stomach butterflies… but, then, they were there too; fluttering inside and making him feel both light and queasy.

"Thanks for the dance," Bucky said in a hushed tone.

Steve couldn't be entirely certain who he was speaking to—him or both of the girls. Either way, Steve was too stunned to ask and too dizzy to thank him. He just smiled, the edges of his lips fluttering up bashfully as he averted his nervous gaze. A part of him wanted to ask for another dance… the bigger part of him wanted to ask for a dance with him alone, just the two of them, maybe something slower this time. But of course, Steve didn't ask. And he hadn't the chance even if he was stupid enough to try.

Bucky disappeared back into the crowd again, shouting distantly that he was getting them all drinks. Bonnie and Daisy were breathily speaking into each other's ears, their feet still moving in constant refusal to pause for even a second. Not wanting to be a burden, Steve automatically took a few timid steps back to flee but both girls quickly pulled at his sleeves and protested wildly.

"Steven Rogers, I simply forbid you from leaving us," Daisy decreed.

"Are you—" Steve hesitated.

"I'm sure. And if you dare doubt me I will have Bucky punish you on our behalf. I'm too sensitive to humiliate you myself, but he isn't."

Steve knew that wasn't entirely true, but decided to appease her and allowed them to drag him back in closer until he could feel the material of their dresses brushing against his legs. He swayed with them with his hands deep in his coat pockets and picked habitually at the inner lining, pushing each finger through the ever-growing holes and pinching any single thread he could find. It was easy to become lost in it, his mind focusing on his pockets rather than the place he was in and the things he was supposed to be doing. He was so lost, in fact, that he startled when a hand holding a cup appeared over his shoulder, Bucky's wrist nestled against the crook of his neck until he turned.

"I think the Huscan brothers have been at the punch again. It's probably more liquor now than it is punch," Bucky said.

"Because spiking the bowl once wasn't enough," Bonnie chortled.

"Can't trust those boys to have even an ounce of responsibility, but we can trust them to bring something truly daring to the party," Daisy said earnestly.

Steve thanked him in awe and took the cup. Bucky passed another to Daisy and warned her to take slow sips. She rolled her eyes and brought the cup to her lips, her eyes widening and nose screwing up at the foul taste. Coughing, she gave up the cup to Bonnie who was making grabby hands for it and she snickered at her same disgusted reaction to the toxicity. Curious, Steve tasted it for himself and immediately felt as though he had been struck hard in the face. He blinked hard and fast a few times and let out a breath before drinking again. Somehow, with a cup in his hand and no other place to put it, Steve always felt inclined to drink the contents, no matter at what pace.

Bucky drank, for lack of a better word, easily—his eyes watered but he tossed it back to avoid tasting it for too long a time. By doing so, he was surely making himself remarkably sick. Steve already felt queasy himself and he'd barely had anything. They continued to pass the two full cups between them, all inching in closer and closer until they had formed some ungainly mass of tipsy youths in the middle of a dancefloor. It wasn't long until Bonnie rested her head on Daisy's shoulder and leaned into her side, allowing some of her weight to fall on Daisy's arm braced around her waist. Steve kindly took the cup from her before she could think to drink more. Of course, this caused a whole new dilemma; Steve now had two cups and hadn't an idea what to do with them. Daisy had some time ago taken to gripping the cuff of his sleeve, her fingers pinched tight and tucked inside to touch the skin beneath. She didn't seem to be aware of it at all and he didn't quite know how to broach the subject to her and therefore didn't try. He was planted there—trapped by Daisy—with those two cups and sore feet and a distinct burning sensation at the back of his throat from the practically acidic alcohol.

"I'm having such a glorious time, Steve. Aren't you?" Daisy asked.

Steve hummed in agreement. His tongue felt far too thick and numb for words, but Daisy seemed to understand him just fine without them. She clumsily patted Steve's arm with her gaze lost towards Bonnie, her hand missing him a few times before hitting its mark. 'There, there,' she seemed to say, as if entirely aware of his susceptibility to liquor. Though she didn't seem to be fairing all that well herself. Her movements had become noticeably graceless, still insistent not to stop entirely. She was swaying heavily now without any regard for the music. Bucky was leaning on Steve and took one of the cups from him. He emptied the remainder of it before pinching it in one hand, his thumbnail picking at the brim idly as he spoke softly to Daisy. Steve, perhaps stupidly, sipped again at the remaining contents of his cup. There was so little left over it seemed impertinent not to finish it.

"Steve is such a… unique dancer. Don't you agree?" Daisy asked.

"You mean unique as in undignified, yes?" Steve scoffed.

Bucky smirked and tried to mask his laughter with a cough, but of course, Steve knew better and playfully jabbed him in the ribs. He knew he had looked awkward and uncoordinated and entirely out of place, but they had all danced carelessly. In their kindness, they had moved in time with him rather than expecting him to keep up with them. They had spared him some dignity and almost seemed relieved for it. Bucky especially. He had loosened his tie and let go of something truly weighty—whatever burden it was he had been carrying since that night on the docks. His face, finally free of abrasions and bruising, had come alight and his gaze was pure.

"I didn't say anything!" Bucky squeezed Steve's shoulder.

"You didn't have to, I could tell what you were thinking," Steve cocked his eyebrow.

"That's not true. If you must know, I was thinking that you're a truly glorious dancer, stumbles and all."

"Somehow I don't feel your sincerity," Steve smiled and took another drink.

"No. Steve. It was genuinely a pleasure... dancing with you," Bucky said softly and averted his eyes.

Bucky suddenly spotted something over Daisy's shoulder and he quickly dismissed himself, his hand lingering on Steve's shoulder for a few moments before leaving him. Steve watched—liquor staining his upper lip as he stood too dumbfounded to wipe it dry on his sleeve—for as long as he could before he lost Bucky in the crowd, and then the girls took hold of either arm, not paying attention to Bucky's absence as they urged Steve to join them for another dance.

He tried, but his heart wasn't truly in it. He kept trying to see Bucky, but he was nowhere to be found. It was only a couple songs later that Steve finally excused himself, genuinely needing a break since he found himself entirely out of breath again and had in fact stepped on Daisy and Bonnie's toes multiple times, surely hurting them—even if they were too drunk to feel it. He made his way back to the refreshments table and finally found Bucky standing in a dark corner deep in discussion with someone he couldn't recognise, at first, hidden in the shadows.

Upon closer inspection, he realised it was Jackson.

Steve hadn't notice Jackson come in and couldn't even be sure if he had actually been there all along. There were so many people in attendance, so many faces blurring into the next with the heat and excitement and, admittedly, the excessively imbibed laced punch. But Steve knew this face. Surely he would have recognised him had he been there long enough. Steve had to assume Jackson had only just arrived. He didn't look at all sweaty or winded, though he did appear drunk as he chugged from his drink and laughed at something Bucky said. As Steve neared, the more he recognised the signs of mild intoxication; the unsteady feet and the distracted turning of his head as he tried, and failed, to fully take in his surroundings. But there was something else too. Something unrestrained. Something unhindered. Steve noticed it in his smile. And then he saw Bucky reflect it.

"Steve!" Daisy exclaimed and skipped toward him, her hand still holding Bonnie's.

"You left us to our last dance alone," Bonnie accused light-heartedly. Now off the dance floor, she winced and took off her shoes, sighing in relief as her flat feet touched the floor. "Be a dear and hold my shoes?"

Steve, dazed, took her shoes from her and held them limply at his side. The music started up again and he had to listen hard over the ring of instruments to hear the girls asking eagerly to go home, their feet sore and tongues thick with booze. Steve nodded and looked at Bucky one last time, watching as Daisy danced up to him and leaned up on her toes for a kiss. Bucky gently held her arms and kissed her in return, eyes closed and touch receptive to her advance. She melted easily into his side and stayed there, her arm around him. For once, Steve was so relieved she was there. He was unsure and untrusting of Jackson, given the state Bucky returned home in the last time they worked together and didn't want the two of them left alone.

Bonnie tugged on Steve's sleeve, looking for his attention.

"I don't feel so well," she complained quietly.

"I'll take you home," he assured after a brief moment of hesitation.

Steve frowned and took her arm in his as he guided her outside and hailed for a taxi. They clambered into the backseat together as she babbled endlessly, her breath smelling strongly of alcohol. Somehow he had missed how often one of them drifted away only to return with refilled cups before the punch had been strongly spiked. Those last two cups had been the final nail in the coffin. Steve, entirely distracted by the excitement of it all, had taken turns sipping whatever they passed him, and he only just realised he was drunk, not tipsy. A slow kind of drunk. His responses were delayed and his thoughts failed to process properly, each taking too long to come to him and then failing to leave again. He was hung up about Bucky—unhappy about leaving him behind with that brute. He was sure now that Jackson knew what had happened to Bucky… hell, he may have even taken part in it himself.

Steve didn't like him and wanted to go back to say it directly to his stupid face, but he was numb in the car, sitting there quietly as the world outside passed in a blur. The longer he sat, no longer dancing and quick on his feet, the faster it started to sink in. Everything was hitting him so hard and so fast until he was a prisoner of the tide. He could do nothing as drunkenness consumed him worse than it had in a long, long time.

Steve was blindsided.

When the taxi stopped at Bonnie's apartment building first, he slurred a polite goodnight to Bonnie, trying again to remember why he was there with her in the first place. Thinking of her, Steve was again reminded of Daisy and he had to think long and hard about why he was supposed to hate her. She was there, after all. Daisy was there and she would keep Bucky out of trouble. For the first time, Steve really, really wanted to thank her. Bonnie bid him goodnight with a glorious smile and then struggled to push the car door closed behind her.

Steve waited for her to go inside before instructing the driver to go. Arriving home, he tread slowly and unsteadily up those unbearable six flights of stairs and stepped slowly into the apartment, feeling the walls rather than turning on any lights. There wasn't much to their place and so he was actually able to navigate his way entirely through touch, flakes of paint coming off under his fingers as he ran them along the walls and doorframe. He was startled momentarily by the brush of fabric across his face but then realised it was only the sheet he had hung up through the centre of their bedroom. The sheet to protect his jealous eyes from seeing Bucky with someone other than him. To block out the image of Bucky and Daisy together in bed. Of course, it wouldn't block out the noise, but Steve hadn't heard anything incriminating so far. He had found reason enough to be out of the house more often than he was home and had been lucky to avoid it thus far. Though just the thought of it now—too drunk to think of anything else—made Steve miserable.

He groaned dejectedly and flopped inelegantly onto his bed fully clothed, clumsily kicking off his shoes and listening as they thunked on the floor. He was going to leave his socks on for now though his feet felt too warm. Reaching them and pulling them off successfully seemed a real distant idea, and his chances didn't seem sure enough to be worth attempting. The same went for his other clothes; his more formal attire including suspenders with hooks that were really digging into him. Steve decided to make do with it and sort himself out in the morning, which he supposed wasn't actually far away at all.

He thought this as he started to doze.

Morning wasn't far away, not far at all.

---

Steve woke next to heavy feet stumbling over the floorboards. There were shoes being kicked off in the doorway, the thump of weight against either the floor or wall and Bucky's muffled laughter. Steve, exhausted and confused, sighed and closed his eyes again, breathing heavily into his own pillow. He hadn't any idea what time it was and in fact barely even remembered getting home or going to bed. His body urged him to sleep, muscles aching and head swimming and tongue thick still. And he felt inclined to give into it. He hadn't gotten under the covers when first falling into bed, so he reached for them now and tugged clumsily to get them up over himself. They were so cool and so relaxingly heavy and encasing that Steve brought them up over his head and experienced a complete and wonderful darkness.

There were more sounds of stumbling in the living room and then the clatter of… something. Steve couldn't be sure what, but he couldn't really bring himself to care either. There wasn't much breakable in their home so there wasn't anything to worry himself over, no fragile thing that could upset him were he to lose it.

The sound of shuffling feet neared, two sets of them, Steve discerned… and then he was made a little more alert.

From under the covers, unmoving, Steve listened to Bucky's hushed tone as he said something like "miss me"… or maybe it was "kiss me". Steve figured it was the latter as he made out the heated breaths between passionate kisses. He could tell it was passionate from the moans. Soft at first, then a little louder as Bucky and Daisy finally made it into the room. Now listening intensely, Steve paired actions with subtle sounds, like hands pulling at clothing and the clink of Bucky's suspenders being unsnapped. It was already too much; the kissing and the moaning and the grabbing at one another… but then came the unzipping. Two short zips.

Steve opened his eyes now, but remained under his blankets, frozen in place and unwilling to look. He had heard two zips being undone, and now more unsnapped suspenders. Listening closer now, Steve realised, horrified, that not once had he heard a particularly feminine gasp or moan.

Bucky wasn't with Daisy.

Finally, Steve peered out from under his blanket. But, of course, his earlier efforts to create privacy hid Bucky's partner from him. Though, it wasn't hard to guess. Steve just desperately didn't want to believe it.

All he could see was the faintest of shadows through the thin, white sheet. A bare outline of two bodies together. Bucky was murmuring again, asking him—begging him—to touch him, feel him, kiss him, take him. And whoever was with him—Steve inwardly sighed, chest made tight and eyes burning—Jackson, obliged.

There was a sudden silence and then a distinct gasp, followed by a pleasured groan. Steve listened to Bucky's breath hitch as the bedsprings squeaked, quietly at first, but sometimes louder, with flesh against flesh. As Steve heard it, he couldn't help but picture what was happening and he was dizzied by it. He gripped his pillow, urging himself to remain still and quiet despite his every instinct to make them stop. It wasn't him, Steve thought despairingly; 'it's not me.'

Bucky liked to curse during sex, Steve realised. He could tell Bucky was restraining himself, keeping his voice at a whisper with a drunken understanding that someone else was close enough to hear. Sometimes he became muffled as if speaking into his pillow, trying so hard to silence himself. But those words were being drawn from him nevertheless. Bucky just couldn't help himself. He was lost to the throes of passion, to something intense and real and inconceivable. Jackson could make him feel that way—the way Steve wanted to but had been too cowardly to even try. And Steve hated him for it. His previous fears about Jackson turned into untethered envy and rage. And he felt like a complete fool for not seeing this sooner—though realistically he knew there was no way he could have known.

Despairing already, Steve's heart suddenly felt enormously heavy. He still had his own selfish vendetta against Daisy—a lingering bitterness and unease—but he thought that she deserved far better than this. Steve's jealousy didn't change the fact that she was nothing other than sweet and considerate. It didn't change that she was a person with profound thoughts and feelings, and a whole complicated and wonderful life that should be treated with utmost respect and loyalty. Bucky had hurt Steve… but he had betrayed Daisy. Steve never would have thought he was capable of doing such a thing. He never believed Bucky had it in him; even whilst intoxicated he always maintained a level of respectability and logic and knew better than to behave in such an abhorrent manner. His inexperience with relationships didn't even begin to excuse his unfaithfulness.

Steve was shaking. Every instinct urged him to stop it, but his immense anger and drunken confusion prevented it. It slowed him and kept him in place; a trembling heap beneath his mass pile of blankets. He was swallowed by the dark. He was so small and hopeless and void of any presence at all. He was helpless and stupid and desperate to beat his fists bloody on something. Anything. Everything. One hand clutched tight at his pillow and the other clenched into a fist.

Finally, with a few final groans and muffled curses, the two men stopped. Finished.

Steve didn't even want to think about it.

But of course, he couldn't be rid of what he'd witnessed. He couldn't free himself from what he had overheard. Nor could he ignore the implications or pretend that the oncoming consequences weren't about to shatter their worlds. Steve bit his fist hard to keep quiet though he doubted his lost mind could fathom how to form words. He was listening. Closely. But there was nothing to hear, at least at first.

Steve no longer had any concept of time. When he eventually heard bed springs as their weight moved and settled again with some quiet whispering—Jackson's voice too soft for Steve to understand—it felt so fast and immediate, but so horrendously slow at the same time. He couldn't think whether it had been a matter of seconds or minutes or hours since he'd heard them last. His heart was pounding so fast that his chest was starting to hurt the way it sometimes did. He placed his hand over it and felt the violent thrum beneath his jittery fingers—he was still working to cease the trembling. This was unbearable. To just lay here like this, knowing what he knew.

Surely he was supposed to say or do something?

Surely he was supposed to clear his throat and announce his presence, or viciously pull Jackson from Bucky's bed to beat him senseless… or maybe Steve was supposed to beat Bucky instead? He felt pain at the thought… a stabbing unwillingness at the very idea. He could never hurt Bucky, no matter his wrongdoings. Though he feared that maybe Bucky deserved it and maybe it would be wrong of Steve not to.

Before he could dwell on that thought for too long, he jumped as someone sat up from the bed and put on their pants, their zip going up and belt buckle clanging, before feeling their way to the door. Steve listened to their hand brushing against the wall and the unstable thuds of their feet. Inexplicably, with no intention yet in mind, Steve got up and followed. He was also heavy footed and lumbering from drinking, but was rested enough now to navigate through the dark until he could see the early beginnings of daylight through their lonesome window. He stared at the figure caught in that small sliver of light and decided they were too tall and broad to be Bucky.

"Jackson," Steve murmured. His mouth felt dry.

The figure stalled and turned.

"Steve?"

"Yes."

Jackson hesitated. Steve pictured his mouth opening and closing like a fish suffocating out of water.

"I didn't—."

"Know I was here?" Steve asked. "Or didn't know I was awake?"

Jackson approached him slowly until they were both enveloped by the dark. Steve could only faintly see him at all now—a pitch of black darker than the space around it. He remembered once being intimidated by the size of him, the way he so easily towered over him and made him seem so small. But Steve wasn't afraid now.

"Are you going to tell anyone about this?" Jackson asked weakly, clearly terrified by the prospect.

"I don't know," Steve shrugged.

"Please. You… you know what happens to people like me… to people like Bucky."

"I know. The same thing you did to him at the docks, if not something worse," Steve said, unable to refrain from this accusation he'd been so desperate to make for so long.

"I didn't do that. I tried to stop them, I really did. But there was only so much I could say without giving them a reason to beat me up too. And I tried to warn Bucky to stay away but he didn't listen."

Steve clenched his jaw and hung his head down. His eyes were boring into the floorboards beneath his feet as if expecting them to collapse at the weight of this burden, but they remained solid and unmoving. His legs felt absent with a sluggish disconnect from the rest of his body as if they did not belong to him. But they were there just as they had always been. He had to trust that they'd carry him now, just as they had before.

"You should have tried harder," Steve muttered finally and looked up at him again.

"Steve—"

"I was there to help him stand in the shower as I washed the blood from his skin. I was there when his stomach was in so much pain that he regurgitated everything he ate. I'm the one who wrapped his ribs and bandaged the lesions on his face. I'm the one who watched as he slept for two days after it happened, and I saw the agony in his eyes whenever the pain woke him. He got worse before he got better…"

"There was nothing—,"

"You never came to visit him. Never asked if he was okay. As I understand it, you stood aside and let them do that to him but then felt you had the right to love him later when it was convenient for you. Because he's well enough by now that you don't have to pretend to care about him. You can bed him and leave him without feeling any obligation to stay."

"Steve—,"

"He has a girlfriend. Did you know that?"

"Yes. Daisy. I know—,"

"But you didn't care for her feelings either?" Steve asked, fuming.

He had expected Jackson to retreat by now. For him to slowly step backward and away until the door against his back presented an emergency exit through which he could escape. Steve expected him to surrender and leave without argument or a final attempt at self-defence. For him to just turn his back without any regard for the person he would be leaving behind in the bed he had just left. Instead, Jackson came closer until he and Steve could make out the bare features of each other's faces. Steve blinked. He was made uncomfortable by the proximity but refused to withdraw first.

"Daisy knows, Steve," Jackson murmured.

"What?" Steve's stomach twisted and his chest constricted tight.

"She knows about us. About Bucky and me."

"This wasn't—" Steve swallowed hard and tried again, "this wasn't the first time?"

Jackson shook his head timidly and went to reach for Steve's shoulder before thinking better of it and letting his arm fall slack at his side. He brought his other hand to his face and rubbed the stubble on his jaw. His knuckles brushed across the same lips that had been on Bucky's only moments before. The same lips that had pressed warm and hungry against Bucky's skin, the taste of him lingering sweetly there for Jackson to revisit later with his tongue. The same lips that had—apparently— done this before.

"How long?" Steve asked against the lump in his throat. His skin was burning as the anger rushed to the surface.

Jackson sighed. "I don't know, Steve… I mean, two weeks? Maybe a little longer?"

Steve nodded in grudging acceptance. He knew Jackson wasn't lying. No matter how desperately Steve wanted to disprove it or imagine it away, the truth was presented naked and undeniable before him. He couldn't dismiss it just because it was impossibly painful to hear. It did no good to barricade himself behind a wall of ignorance or to try and explain away the things he had learned. Bucky had kept secrets from him—so many secrets. Things he had battled with entirely on his own without trusting Steve to love him anyway.

And that's what hurt the most.

"You should go," Steve said.

"Are you going to tell anyone about this?" Jackson asked warily.

Steve felt a brief moment of temptation at the thought of acting out so maliciously, or rather just making an empty threat he already knew he would never act upon. But it was unnecessary and intensely unkind, even just to pretend. The fear of it would be too severe for anyone and it wasn't within Steve to inflict it on someone, not even Jackson.

"No. No, I wouldn't do that to you. Or to Bucky."

Jackson shifted from one foot to the other in distress before deciding that it was enough. It was the closest thing to a promise he was ever going to get from Steve and he knew better than to ask for more. He wasn't in any position to fight or bargain or even beg the way he might have done otherwise. Especially not now with his skin probably still warm from Bucky's embrace, the scent of him lingering in the clothes Bucky had held and taken off. Jackson's truest desire and ultimate fear had been exposed suddenly without warning and he wasn't sure whether he ought to fight for it or flee from it… maybe he wasn't sure if Bucky was worth the suffering. Jackson didn't know Bucky the way Steve did.

Steve knew Bucky was forever worth it, no matter the consequences.

Jackson gathered his shoes and left without pausing to put them on, closing the door with a quiet click behind him. Once he was gone, Steve let out a breath and peered over his shoulder at the doorway of their shared bedroom. It felt different now. Impersonal. Invaded. When he walked back inside and moved the sheet to go back to his side of the room, he paused at the sight of Bucky naked in his bed. The bed which was too small for him now. It was the same one he'd had as a kid and passed all the way down to his youngest sister before reclaiming it and bringing it here. Even half curled into a ball his feet hung off the edge and his body filled it so entirely. Despite this, he somehow looked remarkably smaller… Naïve. Innocent. Vulnerable.

Steve wondered if Bucky was ashamed of who he was.

Bucky had reason to be terrified. He would be stupid not to be overwhelmed by the reality of who he was and the things he wanted and the people he was destined to love. The world was many things, but it wasn't always kind. It wasn't always fair. People could be impossibly cruel and it sometimes took sacrifices to survive them. Bucky couldn't love freely or speak openly, he couldn't force change even if he pushed with everything he had—even with Steve pushing desperately alongside him. He hadn't any choice except to live in secret or repress it and bury it so deep that it crushed him from the inside out. Steve knew Bucky couldn't take it—nobody should have to endure such a choice.

Steve didn't blame Bucky. He couldn't resent him for keeping this from him. But he couldn't deny that it hurt him to be left so entirely in the dark and he started to worry that maybe he hadn't opened his arms wide enough or expressed his compassion loud enough. He thought he hadn't carved his promises deep enough to leave telling scars. Steve hadn't been clear. His words were merely a fogged window that Bucky hadn't been able to see clearly through.

Steve had to clear that window. He had to shatter the glass if that's what it took.

It was the two of them, after all. 'Till the end of the line.

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Thanks for reading, guys! I hope you are enjoying this so far. Let me know your thoughts in the comments as I always greatly appreciate reading them :) xoxo