AN: Title from the song of the same name by Spoon. Some adult language because of course they cuss in the opportune moment.
The Two Sides of Monsieur Valentine
By: Wynn
Bucky sneaks back into the apartment the same way that he snuck out an hour before, with his shoes in one hand though God knew what diseases coated the floors of the antiquated building in which he lived. But he doesn't want to wake Steve. He had barely slept the past week, his body ravaged by what the old nurse in 2B swore was the flu and not another bout of pneumonia. They couldn't afford any of the tonics or medicines that claimed to relieve his symptoms, Steve being fired from his most recent job due to his persistent illnesses this winter. Hell, they could barely afford the crap tenement rooms they shared, but Steve needed a bed and the heat they leeched from the lower floors, so Bucky made sure they got by.
He jumps over the creaky stair and stops before the door, fishing through his pocket for the key. Even through the scarred wood he hears Steve coughing. Opening the door, Bucky finds a retread of the arctic blast that had assaulted him outside. He drops his shoes and darts to the open window, slamming it shut. The coughing resumes down the hall at the sound. Bucky follows the noise, his coat still on, irritation growing with each step.
Light spills from the bare bulb in the bathroom into the hall. Bucky squints into the light as he stops in the open door. Steve lies on the floor, shivering, his body curled into a ball. The sight infuriates and disquiets Bucky. He steps into the room, his jaw clenched and his throat tight, and says, his voice harsher than intended, "Why did you open the goddamned window? It's twenty degrees outside."
"Was hot," Steve mumbles as Bucky squats beside him.
"That's because you have a fever. Jesus, do you want to get pneumonia again?"
"Might be fun," Steve says, trying to smile.
Bucky shakes his head. "Fun. Right. I'm sure death by snot is a real riot." He shoves at Steve, pushing him onto his back. The movement makes Steve scowl, which only makes Bucky push him harder. He grabs Steve's shoulders and pulls until he's sitting, then he hooks an arm beneath Steve's legs and lifts. His jaw tightens at how light Steve is, how much weight he'd lost the past two months.
"I can walk," Steve protests against his chest.
Bucky rolls his eyes. "Sure you can. You just collapsed on the bathroom floor because you thought, hey, you know what room doesn't get slept in often enough? The bathroom."
Steve is quiet a moment, his body shaking with a cough he tries to suppress. Then he says, the word wavering yet clear, "Jerk."
Bucky kicks open the bedroom door. "You're the jerk, jerk." He crosses the room to Steve's bed. "Next time I'm just going to leave you there."
"Least then I wouldn't have to hear you snore."
"I was wrong. You're not a jerk. You're a smart-ass punk." He plops Steve down onto the bed, wincing as the short fall elicits another coughing fit. But he doesn't apologize. Steve would just roll over and kick him in the shin for the sentiment.
Leaning over, Bucky grabs Steve's blanket and pulls it up over him. It's the thicker of the two they own, but not enough. He returns to the bathroom and grabs their towels. If Steve hadn't opened the window and dropped the temperature in the place by thirty degrees Bucky would just give him his, but the last thing they need is him getting sick too.
Clicking off the light, he moves back to their bedroom and drapes the towels over Steve. For good measure, he shucks off his jacket and places it on top. Bucky straightens out the hem before turning and crossing to the closet. He feels Steve watch him as he unbuttons his shirt, as he hangs it up beside his work uniform. He preps for the questions, rehearsing his lies, Steve sure to want to know the when and the why and the how of his return.
The first question comes as he grabs his sweater and pulls it over his head.
"Why're you here?"
"I live here, remember. Or did the flu fry your brain?"
Steve does not respond. Bucky tugs off his belt. The silence persists and then Steve says, an edge to his words, "That's not what I meant."
The sigh wells within Bucky, and he tries his best to tamp it down. Always so damn persistent. "I know it's not. Date didn't work out, okay?" He removes his pants and hangs them beside the shirt then he finds his sweats in the pile at the bottom. Pulling them on, he turns and finds Steve staring at him through narrowed eyes.
"Why—"
"Keep harping on why and I won't share what's in my jacket pocket."
This silences Steve. He frowns and his eyes slide to the coat draped across his chest. Bucky watches the debate play out across his face, Steve's need to know the truth warring with his curiosity about the jacket. He looks again at Bucky, staring for so long that Bucky thinks his attempt at diversion won't work, that he'll have to tell Steve how he was too fucking worried about him dying alone in this shithole that he couldn't focus on Shelia, despite the fact that it is Valentine's Day and she celebrated by having her hands in some very interesting places, but then Steve inches a hand out from under the blanket and Bucky sighs in relief.
"Chocolate?" Steve asks, slipping the bar out from Bucky's pocket. The frown deepens on his face. Because of course it does.
"Yes. Chocolate." Bucky returns to the bed. "And no," he says, plucking the bar from Steve, "I will not tell you how I got it because the frown you'd make in response would break that ugly mug you call a face."
One corner of Steve's mouth twitches in a grin. He burrows down into the bedding, his breathing heavy with snot, and waves his hand in demand for the chocolate. Smirking, Bucky unwraps the bar. He breaks off half for Steve and drops it into his waiting hand before finally moving toward his bed. His blanket scratches, a relic from the orphanage, but Bucky doesn't care as he crawls beneath, not this time, the taste of chocolate overwhelming the irritation. The groan he makes at the first taste echoes in the tiny room; it's joined a moment later by Steve's labored chuckle.
"Should I leave you two alone?"
"Yes," Bucky moans, shoving the rest into his mouth. He never could go slowly, not like Steve. Turning now, he watches Steve eat at a saner pace, physical sickness and his own temperament inhibiting food insanity. Bucky can't remember the last time they had chocolate. Maybe back in the summer when Steve had been working at the drug store as a cashier and money hadn't been so tight. Bucky contemplates asking Mr. Larabee for an extra shift, but he knows that won't fly, the man still skittish from the whole world going to shit. If his mother were alive, she'd tell him to be grateful for what he has, for his job and his crap apartment, for Steve surviving despite all the odds against him, but she wasn't so he didn't. The world had to roll the dice in their favor sometime, and Bucky wanted it to be now.
"Thanks," Steve says, his voice muffled by snot and chocolate.
"No problem." Bucky grins and pulls the blanket over his shoulders. "'Bout time we had—"
"No." The word is soft in the dark, but firm enough to make Bucky still. "For coming back."
Bucky swallows at the thought, unable to respond. The silence is broken by the creak of pipes in the walls and the howl of the wind outside. Of course the chocolate hadn't worked. Of course Steve had seen through the gesture and the awkward lie. He always did, too smart for his own good. Bucky looks at him. His eyes are bright in the dark, lit by fever and the moon. Shifting in bed, he says, "I— well, you know…"
"Yeah, Buck. I know."
Bucky looks at Steve again. His eyes are closed now and his exposed hand curls around the blanket, the surest sign that sleep is imminent. Bucky stares, breathing in time to the soft rise and fall of Steve's chest. Ok, so maybe they didn't have much, but they had this, and this could suffice, this could be enough, if Bucky let it. If the cold eased and Steve finally got well, he could let it; then the clench in his chest would ease and he would feel like he could breathe again, like he could step from the apartment without the cloud of death dogging his steps, without the thought of one more loss cracking his life, snapping it in two, half to him and half to Steve, cold and dead and gone.
He swallows again, wishing for more chocolate, for Steve to be well so he could pester him and banish the fear. But he had neither, so he watches Steve, the moon cool and the air crisp inside, sending up a soft fog of life with each exhale.