A/N: Whew, it's been a while since this updated. Real life has been eating a lot of my time, and then there was a very sudden death in the family last week. That ended up disrupting my classes, which means I will have a little more time to update between now and Thanksgiving.

3 chapter update for today.

There's a new cot with a fresh bedroll laid on it, waiting when they get back. Someone in supply has clearly gotten wind of their new sleeping arrangement. Bucky glances at the new bedding appraisingly for a few seconds, stopping in the doorway and effectively blocking Steve's entrance at the tent's flap. He turns and looks back over his shoulder.
"Hey Steve, you got anything personal goin' on with that bedroll of yours?"

Steve blinks at him. "No, it's just- ...wait why?"

"Good."
Bucky trots over and flops down right in the middle of Steve's cot. The bedding is months old and reeks, but Bucky doesn't seem to mind.
They weren't always good about being on top of the washing back home, and everything in the Army seems to smell somewhere between 'dear god, kill me now' and 'ugh, that's disgusting'. You sort of get used to your own stench after a while.
"I'll take this'n then." Bucky announces lightly, bouncing slightly as the cot creaks beneath him. He might be purposely avoiding looking directly at Steve.
"You got the fresh one, kiddo. S'all yours. Nice an' clean and everything." He waves vaguely at the newer cot as if utterly disinterested in it, before crossing his hands behind his head and making himself comfortable. "Gotta enjoy the little things in life, and all that shit."

Steve stands staring at him, appalled.
"James Buchanan Barnes, you get out of my filthy, gross-ass bed and take your fucking cot!" Steve's aware he looks like his mother always did when she scolded one of them; hands on his hips, forehead crinkled. He's even using Bucky's full name. Jeesus…

Bucky picks his head up, studies Steve's posture and cracks up. He lays his head back down, still chuckling.
"Nope, I'm good right here."

"Buck-"

"Steve, you wanna know somethin?"

Steve shakes his head. He knows a diversion when he hears one, but he decides to play along. He crosses his arms with a resigned sigh, deciding he's channeled his mother enough for one night.
"What, Buck?"

"Last time I saw you, before the shit hit the fan, you came up to my armpit. Barely broke 100 pounds on a good day, with rocks in yer pockets. I could'a carried your ass around New York with one arm if I had to."

Steve blinks at him. Yeah, he's aware of this. … So what?

Bucky sighs, still not looking at him.
"I used'ta take care of you, kid. I'm glad you can breathe now and all, but I had a job keepin' your ass outta the fire and I can't really do it anymore. You don' need me like you used to…" He pauses heavily. "An' that's great… but..."

Steve just stands there, a bit gobsmacked. He feels like he should say something… but what exactly that should be eludes him. They've never really talked openly about the way Bucky takes care of him. Steve because he's always been too proud to admit he needed the help, and Bucky because he's respected that pride, stupid as it is.
Bucky's off again before Steve can find the words to assure him that that is far from true. They could've made him twice as big; three hundred times as strong. It wouldn't make any difference. Steve will always need Bucky beside him. Always.

There's a soft creak from the cot as Bucky shifts restlessly on it.
"Look, I can't do much for ya these days, pal, not with you bein' the size of a fuckin' house... so just… lemme have this." Bucky rolls onto his side and looks Steve right in the face. "I don't have that much left to remind me I ain't dead. Nothin's the same as it was when I shipped out... Everythin' changed, seems like, while I was in there. S'all flipped upside down, and I'm still all turned around and-" Bucky pauses; flicks his eyes away, then back. He falls silent, apparently hunting for his words.
This is more weakness, more struggle, than he's ever admitted to having in his life. Steve would know; he's been there for almost all of it.
If Bucky casually mentions that his arm hurts, he probably broke it in three places. If he says he feels a little ragged, it's usually code for 'I haven't slept in four days'. When Bucky says he's a little mixed up, he means he's busted - utterly lost and adrift. Steve knows his friend's secret language by heart.

Bucky is watching him. He's got to know that Steve understands exactly what he's telling him, because he swallows hard, but he doesn't drop his eyes again.
"Just let me have this, ok?"

And how the hell is Steve supposed to argue with that? He sits down hard on the edge of the cot that was supposed to be Bucky's, and the frame squeaks in angry protest.

"Yeah, ok. If you're gonna put it like that." He huffs out a small breath and deflates a little. "You got it..."