Archive of Our Own

The dancehall is alive tonight and Bucky is wearing his best suit—hair slicked back like the dapper roughs from the LES who run for Murder Inc, and always have spending money. He isn't one of them, and being Irish-Catholic couldn't be if he wanted to. Their ranks are the Italians of Manhattan and the Jews of Brooklyn. Sometimes he encounters their kind down at the docks, which is Anastasia’s turf, and he can't help the surge of jealousy at their fine suits, silk shirts and neckties, all carefully tailored and bespoke. Those boys, and they are boys, they look like they got class. Bucky Barnes wants class. 

He isn't like Steve, who despite his stature, and his accent that mirrors Bucky’s own, seems content with their unglamourous existence, with carrying the groceries for Mrs. Schwartz downstairs, even if it leaves him breathless, nearly heaving. Steve is, in Bucky’s own opinion, pure as freshly fallen snow, as wholesome as apple pie. Hell, his birthday falls on the fourth of July for crying out loud. As much as Bucky longs for the dangerous, monied life of La Cosa Nostra, he longs  for the unwavering moral compass that Steve Rogers possesses. Steve doesn't live a black and white life, but he is unerringly pointed in the direction of righteousness. 

It drives Bucky nuts. 

He feels torn, always. What a pleasure it would be to buy Steve new pencils, soft soap that won’t irritate his delicate skin, that won’t make it raw and red. He steals instead, pretends at being the provider -- he takes a woolen hat from a department store to keep Steve’s towhead warm in the winter. He steals from the pharmacy to soothe Steve’s painful cough. He takes apples from street carts, the newspaper from the corner, and all manner of pastries whenever he can. Anything to keep Steve’s strength up, anything to keep a smile on his wan face.

It's always been about Steve, so weeks later when he’s finishing up his shift at the docks, rough hands splashing tepid water over his grimy face, and one of the Anastasia boys (maybe a little older than his 23 years, worldly looking, broad-shouldered suit in place) asks him what his deal is, one eyebrow raised, Bucky puts his damp hands deep into his pockets, rolls back on his heels, and cocks his head to the side.

Says,"Whaddya want it to be?” real casual. 

The guy is leaning against a shiny, black Chevy  Master, and he regards Bucky with shrewd, dark eyes. His hair is pushed away from his face in a tidy wave. He could be a Jew, Bucky has no idea, and nothing against Jews, he’s just curious. He’s heard that Jews are different. Down there. 

He takes a step forward, calling on all the practiced nonchalance he can muster. 

“Nice car.” 

“What’s your name,” the guy asks, and there’s a hint of an accent there, a little like Mrs. Schwartz, but distinctly Brooklyn, less pale of settlement. 

“James,” Bucky says, and holds out his hand. 

“I’m Irving,” says Irving, and takes Bucky’s hand in his, shakes firmly. “You got anywhere to be, James?” 

Bucky thinks about Steve at home, probably drawing at their rickety table, or fixing them both supper with what little they have in their cupboards and the ice box. 

“Nope,” says Bucky, “sure don’t.” He smiles slowly. “Ain’t got nowhere to be but here.” 

Irving nods appraisingly. 

“Want to go for a ride?”

Bucky says yes. 

-- 

Men come down to the docks off of Van Brunt for all sorts of reasons. They come to work, they come to drink in the taverns on the waterfront, they come to ship out at the Navy Yards, and they come. They come to pick up. Bucky has seen it countless times. Some of the guys go with other men once or twice a week. It’s good money, is what they say. Good money. 

--

This is how he ends up in the back of the most luxurious car he’s ever been in, parked down a dark alley off Columbia, with a hand in his hair and his mouth around another man’s cock. 

Irving is rough with him. He’s not surprised. His hair gets pulled, and Irving does nothing to still his hips as he pushes into Bucky’s mouth. He struggles to overcome his gag reflex, to make it good, to make it worth it. He’s done this before and Steve doesn’t know (can’t know). But Bucky has done this before with other boys from around the neighborhood. Never for money. Always for fun, or out of boredom. 

This may not be fun, but some perverse thrill goes through him when slides a hand up Irving's side and his fingers come into contact with the butt of a gun, holstered under Irving's suit jacket. The grip on his hair slackens for a moment and Bucky moves his hand away, settles it against the top of Irving's revealed thigh. He looks up, eyes big and round, and Irving nods. Bucky pulls his mouth away with a wet sound and his other hand takes its place, pumping away at Irving's shaft and the head of his cock, thumb rubbing at his weeping slit. Jews are different, he'd registered when he'd first pulled down Irving's briefs. 

Bucky favors him with his best, heavy-lidded look—the one that works so well on girls—and licks his lips. Irving's eyes track the movement of his tongue, and Bucky tilts his head toward the concealed weapon. 

I like it," he says. 

And he does. He wasn't hard before he felt it there, an object of destruction suspended, so close. 

Before he can see Irving's reaction he dips his head back down and resumes his work, his tongue curling again and again. Judging by the jerky movements and muffled sounds that Irving makes around his fist, he likes it too.  

When he comes, Bucky's neck snaps back at the force of the final thrust. His mouth fills with viscous, salty semen and he swallows down hard. 

--

Bucky walks back to their apartment with a fresh five-spot in his pocket.

(Take a fin, for your trouble.   

Huh? 

Five dollars.)

It’s more spending money than he’s had in months. His jaw feels a little worse for wear, but he’s fine, he’s in good spirits, even. He can’t help but be a little glad that his new friend only asked for one thing and chose to go no further. The shock of semen in his mouth had quelled his own erection, and more than anything else he’s pleased that he can spend this money on Steve, on their rent, on whatever he chooses. It’s not money for nothing, but it may as well be, because he’ll never tell. 

-- 

When he gets home, Steve is curled up on their old sofa, feet tucked under himself, reading in the dim light. The radio plays softly in the background: news from home, news about the War. It’s not that late, but Steve blinks blearily at him when he comes through the door and hangs up his jacket. 

Steve frowns. “Your hair’s all mussed up.”  

Bucky runs a self-conscious hand across his scalp, of course it is.

“Got into a bit of a scrape,” he explains.  

Steve’s frown deepens. It’s the same face he wears when he sees a girl getting taken advantage of.

“C’mere.” He pats the couch. “I’ll fix you.” 

“Hang on, lemme get a glass of water.” 

In the kitchen, he finds a plate of food covered with a clean dish towel, and feels a twinge of guilt at just how much Steve cares. 

Bucky fills a glass, and gulps it down, swipes the back of his hand across his mouth a few times. A glimpse in their grubby kitchen window tells him that Steve’s right—he looks a wreck. His lips are swollen and red, and his hair is sticking up all funny, completely hopeless.  

When he walks back into the living room, a smirk has replaced Steve’s frown. 

“Yanno,” he says, eyeing Bucky, “Looks more like you ran into a fast dame on the way home, than someone’s fist.” 

Bucky drops down on the sofa next to Steve, leans his shoulder against him. He smirks right back, cocksure only on the outside.

“Maybe.” He knocks against Steve lightly. “You jealous, Stevie?” 

“I’d be more jealous of a good fight.” 

Bucky sighs. “Of course you would, you mook.” 

Steve knocks back against him. 

“Got me there.” 

-- 

Bucky leaves before Steve wakes, dresses and slips out of their shared bedroom and onto the street, careful of their noisy tenement stairs. 

Brooklyn isn’t still on a Saturday morning. Too many folks are out and about, shopping for Sunday supper and getting an early start on their way to the beach. It’s one of the first beautiful days of summer, and Bucky can already tell it’s going to be a stunner. The city doesn’t even smell bad yet. He keeps patting his shirt pocket, making sure the five bucks is still there. He’s itching to spend some of it. 

The walk to Carroll Gardens is short work, and he takes Court Street almost the whole way. Buys fresh eggs, plump pork sausage from Mr. Esposito, a good loaf of crusty bread, and coffee. Bucky even buys himself a pack of Luckies instead of tobacco and rolling papers, and god it feels so good to spend real money. Not to count out the change in his pockets, nor keep a keen eye on the sidewalk for coins dropped and unfound. 

On the way home, he buys flowers. Doesn’t think they’ve ever had flowers before, but it feels like everything is in bloom and for sale. He can’t help it, he wants Steve to wake up and feel like he’s in dreamland. 

--

Bucky hears Steve’s gasp before he sees him. 

“Jeez, Buck. What is all this?” 

He shrugs, maybe a little sheepish. “Breakfast?” 

“What’d ya do? Rob someone?” 

“‘Course not.” He shakes his head. “I picked up a couple extra shifts last week, is all.” 

Bucky has the kitchen window open and the one in the living room too, the ones that face the air shaft. There’s not much of a view, but there sure is a cross breeze, refreshing after a long, cold winter of closed windows and lumpy bags of beans to keep the chill out. Even the fresh air can’t suppress the rich scent of cooking meat. 

“Whatever you did, it smells so damn good in here.” Steve scrubs a hand through his hair and sits down at the table. He eyes the flowers bemusedly. “Flowers, too?” 

Bucky finds himself shrugging again. “Doesn’t everyone like flowers? Those are dahlias. All the rage right now.” 

“Heaven forbid you treat the girls you take out this good.” Steve smiles and it turns into a wide yawn. “You’ll end up getting hitched.” 

“What? And leave you to fend for yourself?” 

He puts two sausage links, and a scoop of scrambled eggs on a plate for Steve, takes thick slices of toast out of the broiler, slathers them with jam. “Who’s gonna make sure you eat right?” 

Steve laughs dryly as Bucky hands him the plate. “You're just gonna miss having someone to boss around.” 

Bucky cuffs him lightly as he sits down, ready to tuck into his own breakfast. “Nah,” he says, “but what’s the point in thinking that far ahead?” He waggles his eyebrows, lifting a forkful of eggs to his mouth. “Never said I was the marrying kind, anyway.” 

Steve gets up to switch on the radio, and they eat in silence for a little while, listening to 830. Steve likes Gershwin, and they both like big band tunes. When Benny Goodman comes on they’re both tapping their feet under the table. Bucky takes a big sip of his cooling coffee and stretches his arms above his head. He hardly thinks about last night, just the pleased look on Steve’s face as he thoughtfully chews his piece of toast and sways a little to the music. 

“Let’s go out tonight,” Bucky says. 

“You really are flush, huh?” 

“Sure am.” 

“Ok,” Steve says, carefree. “Let’s go out.” 

It's exactly what Bucky wants. 

-- 

It rains hard on Sunday and they spend the day cooped up indoors, Steve drawing while Bucky paces back and forth and absently tosses a baseball in the air. Eventually they go to the pictures, and Bucky buys popcorn, soda pop, candy, anything — anything Steve wants, even things he won't say he wants. 

In the theatre, Bucky nonchalantly rests his arm across the back of Steve's seat, can feel his damp hair brushing against his skin. He spends half the movie with goosebumps. 

It's drizzling lightly when they walk home. Steve smiles at him; he looks so well. There's color in his cheeks and a box of malted milk balls in his hands. He's got chocolate on one front tooth. 

Steve pops one chocolate ball into his mouth, crushes it. "Catch," he says. 

Bucky does, candy landing on his tongue. 

"James B. Barnes, ladies and gents!"

"C'mere you," Bucky says and wraps his arm around Steve's slim shoulders. Their damp shirts catch, and the air is still warm. His heart threatens to beat its way up his throat. Instead he pulls Steve closer, and they amble home through the neighborhood like a pair of drunks. 

--

The days pass. June 1st rolls around and they pay their rent that day for the first time in months. Their landlord gives them both the once over like he’s worried they’ve been starving themselves. 

Steve goes to class, works his short evening shifts at the library. Bucky hauls cargo and coffee, wades into the East River. He’d loved school—been real good at it, too—but there was no immediate money in college, and he’s stronger than Steve, can do the rough labor that garners more pay, and besides, Steve simply wanted it more than him. 

It’s Thursday, another warm one, when Bucky turns around, slinging his lunch pail over his shoulder, mid-sentence, and he sees Irving, leaning against the same fancy car, gun no doubt strapped to his side. It feels inevitable, like he’d known from the moment they parted ways that he’d see Irving again, like Irving had always been there, standing behind him and waiting. Like they were bound to repeat their encounter.

Bucky goes about his end of day business, avoids eye contact. He slaps Brent Müller on the back and asks after his little ones, after his young, plump wife. He lingers. Irving lingers. 

The other workers clear out, they laugh and joke their way up to the street, onto the trolley, and into the dusky evening. It's unmistakable: Irving is there for him, not one of the countless other men gone home. Bucky’s not going to walk away, but Irving catches him by the arm anyway, thumb pressing into the crook of his elbow.

"In a hurry?"

"Could be."

"I could get you there faster," Irving says, not letting go of his arm. 

Steve would hate this. Would hate to see someone even try to exert control over him. Would hate the way Irving is looking at him now, quietly predatory. Bucky has seen that look on his own face before, usually reflected at him before he takes a whack at someone who's had the misfortune of choosing to wail on Steve. 

God, Steve. Steve has no idea he's the only one with any real control over Bucky, that he always holds the reins. Can send him careening this way or that with little more than a smile or a gentle look. Steve has no idea how much he...

Irving's thumb presses down hard. 

"I bet you could," Bucky says. "I bet you could."

Irving opens the passenger door. Leads him a little. 

"Get in." 

It's not a question. 

--

This time, he takes Steve to Coney Island, buys him three Nathan’s hot dogs. They wade into the freezing Atlantic with his hand at Steve’s back. Steve can’t really swim, and he certainly can’t swim in water like this. But Bucky can. 

They both yelp as the ocean nips their ankles. They both dart backward from the dark, foamy waves, their feet leaving deep indents in the damp sand. For a little guy, Steve has pretty big feet. Big as Bucky’s. Steve’s got lots of things a bigger person might have, even courage in spades, which lots of bigger guys lack. 

The wind whips their hair around their faces, and Steve keeps doing that thing he does where he rearranges his bangs just so, pushing them aside with one deft hand. It’s futile in this wind, but Bucky loves to see him try; finds himself staring slack-jawed, mouth open like a damned guppy, as Steve looks out into the horizon, smooths his hair and shields his eyes, his skinny legs planted firmly in the sand, an anchor. 

--

Bucky is settling himself onto his knees in the back of the Chevrolet when he feels the cool press of blunt metal along his jaw. His pulse quickens, beating hard in his temples. He looks up. 

Irving is staring at him—no, not him, exactly, but at the muzzle of his gun slowly tracking up and down Bucky’s cheek. 

This is it, he thinks. This is when his brains end up splattered across cobblestones only a mile from his bed. No hero’s death for him, no dog tags shipped home to his Ma. Just this death, this dirty demise. He swallows audibly. 

The gun nudges along his jaw, slips beneath his chin, and tilts his head back. Bucky closes his eyes, feels himself go hard. 

“You said,” Irving starts. “You said you liked it.”

Bucky jolts, peers at Irving from beneath his lashes. 

Irving is still staring, now at his face. He looks open, more raw. Wanting. 

Bucky nods, metal sliding on skin as he does. 

“I want you to like it,” Irving says. The gun trembles slightly. Bucky puts a hand on Irving’s knee, holds himself steady.  He unzips Irving’s slacks, takes him in hand. 

Irving stills his wrist and pushes him away. Pushes his hand down to his own dirty work pants. 

“No,” he breathes. “I want to see you like it.” 

Bucky leans back on his haunches, presses his palm to his groin, to his own hard cock, takes down his zipper. 

"I do like it,” he whispers, hoarse and honest. 

Irving grips himself, and his pistol continues to trek up and down Bucky’s cheek, trailing from just below his jaw to his temple, slow and steadier now. Irving’s lips are pressed together, almost a pout. He nudges the edge of Bucky’s mouth. And Bucky lets it fall open, lets Irving push the revolver barrel into it. 

The metal is still cool, and it feels heavy against this tongue, unyielding. There’s oil, and a hint of sulfur. His cock twitches, and he wraps one hand around Irving’s fist and encourages him. Encourages him to move the gun in and out of his mouth. Bucky licks along the shaft as it passes between his lips, can hear Irving tugging hard at his dick, skin moving on skin as he continues to suck, cheeks hollowing, eyes watering, and fixed on a point beyond Irving’s face, at the dim side of a building, where a vandal has scrawled “Kilroy was here,” with the ubiquitous cartoon. 

He takes the gun into his mouth all the way to the trigger guard, licks Irving’s hand, strokes his tongue along the seam between his pointer and middle fingers. 

Irving makes a choking sound and comes over his fist. 

“Come up here,” he says, voice breaking. He pulls the gun out of Bucky’s mouth and tugs at his shoulder. “C’mon.” 

Bucky crawls up and into his lap, straddles his thighs in the wide backseat. For a moment he feels like one of his own girls in the back of his uncle's borrowed Ford.

He works his jaw, and Irving curls his hand around the back of Bucky's neck and crushes their mouths together. They've never. He's never. It’s just... Irving licks into his mouth and Bucky is passive, unsure, then he loops his arms around Irving's neck and presses against him. Irving's mouth tastes clean and cool. He knows he tastes a little like cigarettes, a little like gun oil. He tugs Irving’s short hair recklessly, and moans into his mouth when Irving grips his cock and smartly brings him off between their stomachs. 

The air around them shifts. 

--

"Gee, Buck," Steve says, all wide-eyed sarcasm as he takes in the packages Bucky’s holding. "Sure seems to be a lot of extra work down at the shipping yards these days." 

"Yeah, well," Bucky starts, but Steve scowls. 

"Save it." His tone is clipped and suspicious. Classic Rogers judgment dispatched. 

"I got steak," Bucky says instead. "And butter." 

-- 

Things are different now. There are gifts. 

All the things he wishes he could buy for Steve start falling into his lap. Shyly hoisted on him by Irving each time they meet. A new hat, smooth, fine felt with a real feather. A golden cigarette case with beautiful, fresh tobacco, and the expensive rolling papers that don’t rip so easy when you try to roll yourself a smoke. 

Irving crashes into him whenever they’re together, lays punishing kisses against his mouth, along his neck, and the tops of his shoulders. Anywhere he can reach, Irving wants to bite into him. Irving stills pays, but Bucky feels less bought. 

And god, but he likes it. Loves having money in his pocket. Loves having nice things, always wanted nice things. Doesn’t mind the kissing. Doesn’t even mind Irving. They don’t talk all that much, but something broke after the first time Irving kissed him, broke like a dam inside of that man, and what came rushing out was need, directed straight at Bucky. 

Bucky knows Irving has a wife (Ruthie), and some kids. Knows he’s small time, but big enough. Knows what they do is Irving’s biggest secret, that none of the other guys in Anastasia’s gang know about him, and what they do in the dark.

Bucky tells Steve he’s staying out late after work, declines company (which hurts) and Irving takes him to the Astor. It’s not the first time he’s lied to Steve, but he feels clouded by deceit when Irving presses him into the mattress and fits a thigh between his legs.

This time, Irving asks for a lot. More than Bucky's given him before. He's sore when it's over, and a little wobbly, but Irving had been sweet to him. Had given him time to relax, had encouraged his breathing, one hand on Bucky's damp lower back. 

Later he realizes it was his first time in a hotel, and he didn’t even stop to enjoy it. Steve should’ve been there. 

It should have been. 

It should have been him and...

-- 

“Where's all this stuff keep coming from?” Steve wants to know, sitting crosslegged on his bed with Bucky’s new fedora half over his face. 

Bucky shrugs, and tilts his head against the window frame, his legs are split across the sill, one on the fire escape, and one in their dingy bedroom. He regards Steve with a sly smile, and a raised eyebrow. 

“Around,” he says, and takes a drag of his cigarette. He exhales into the night air. 

“Around,” Steve repeats. 

“Yeah, Rogers. Like I said, around.” Bucky drags out the vowels. 

Steve snorts. “Lemme tell you something, tough guy, I’ve got a nose for trouble—” 

“You mean you’ve got a nose for punching.” 

“Buck, let me finish.” 

Bucky sits up stick straight and looks solemnly at him. Steve rolls his eyes. 

“All this stuff is coming from somewhere, and I’m willing to bet it’s nowhere good.” 

“I’ll take that bet.” 

Steve makes a frustrated sound deep in his throat, pretty rumbly for someone so small. He throws the hat at Bucky’s face. 

“Hey now, don’t dent the merchandise.” 

“What’s the merchandise?” Steve practically spits, and stomps out of their bedroom. 

Fuck, Bucky thinks, and clambers into the apartment. 

 --

Steve is sitting at their kitchen table, scratching away in one of his notebooks. 

“Hey,” Bucky says. 

“Hey yourself.” 

“What’s wrong?” 

Steve grunts.

“C’mon, talk to me.” He sits down, puts a hand on Steve’s shoulder. Drops it uselessly away when Steve shrugs. He can feel Steve thinking.

“Something ain’t right,” he says, eyes on his drawing. “You’ve got too much money, and all this stuff, an’ I just know something rotten’s going on.” 

“Aw, Stevie.” Bucky leans down to peer at him. Steve’s long bangs are falling in his face and Bucky brushes them aside. Steve sighs. 

“You know me,” Bucky says. “‘Course I’d tell you if I were up to no good. You know that, right? Always want you on my team.” 

Steve bites his lip. “Would you, though?” 

“You know I would, pal. No secrets here. Bucky Barnes is an open book.” 

“Written in code,” Steve grumbles. 

Bucky tsks, squeezes Steve’s shoulder, so thin under his palm, Steve’s collarbones pronounced and hard against his fingers. 

“What can I do to convince you?” 

Steve looks at him then. Smiles a little dopily with half his mouth. It’s such a Steve face that it makes Bucky’s chest ache. 

“It’s ok, Buck,” he says, eyes sad. “I believe you.” 

-- 

The rap on the window is loud. Loud enough that it seems the glass might break. 

Irving jerks away from him, hits his head on the roof of the car as he scrambles off of Bucky. There’s a second rap, and Bucky clutches his trousers closed at the waist and fumbles with the buttons. 

“Irving,” comes a voice from outside the car. “Vos machstu¹ ?” 

Bucky can see Irving swallow. See him try and compose himself. 

“S'art eich² ?” Irving calls back, harsh. 

“Get out the car,” says another voice. 

Irving looks at him. His pupils are blown, and his eyes are wide as hell. He’s afraid. 

“Dumkop³,” says the first voice, gently. “He said get outta the car.” 

Irving smooths his hair and gets out. 

Bucky pushes himself as far back against the opposite side of the car as he can. Pulls his knees up to his chest, and wraps his arms around them. 

“Who’s the boy?” Comes the second voice, older, more foreign, and more demanding.  

“Er toig nit⁴ ,” Irving says, quietly. 

“Ech, speak English.” The second voice again. “This is Amerikah.” 

“He’s just. He's nobody…” Bucky can see Irving’s shoulders slump through the window. “He’s worthless.” 

“Go get him.” 

Irving turns, opens the car door. Bucky’s stomach flips over, he feels sick. Irving reaches in and grabs his arm, starts to pull. 

“Let’s go,” he says, his mouth turned down. “I’ve got to. You’ve got to get.” He inhales shakily. “Come on.” 

He pulls hard on Bucky’s arm and Bucky thinks about fighting back. Thinks about kicking him the face. Kicking away his hand. Running. Instead, he lets himself be pulled out onto the street, and stumbles. His knees hit the cobblestones with a sickening clump. There is no one around. The only light is from the other car. He was grateful, before, for how remote their parking spot had seemed. 

“So this is where the money goes, eh Irving? Here I thought maybe Ruthie and the girls, but...." It's the second voice, and it belongs to a balding man half Bucky’s size. “Very nice.” 

“Hirsch,” says Irving, his hand still fisted in Bucky’s shirt. “It’s not what it looks like.” 

“It is always what it looks like,” Hirsch says back, voice heavy with accent. 

The first man, just around Bucky’s height, and maybe younger, regards them both impassively. He has a heavy looking pistol in his right hand, which must have made the sound against the car window. 

Hirsch sighs, long suffering, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “What do we do with you? With you and this goyishe kurveh⁵ ?” 

Irving lets go of him, and clenches his fists. He kicks him lightly in the side. “Who gives a shit about him?” he says, and spits. Spits on Bucky.

“Oh I see,” says Hirsch. “What a shandeh.⁶ ” 

The last thing Bucky knows is the deafening thud of metal connecting with flesh and bone, and then pain. And then darkness. 

-- 

It’s dawn when he wakes. The East River is lapping at his ankles. He feels broken in two. Bucky’s been pummeled before, but not like this, not with anything harder than fists. Everything about him screams, “go home.” 

He passes out again.

--

“Hey.”

Something is shaking hard at his shoulder. 

“Hey kid.”

Harder still. 

“Get up, kid.” 

Everything is blurry. 

“I dunno, Jim, I think we better get a cop,” says a second voice.  

“Naw, he’s gonna wake up. C’mon kid. Up an at ‘em.” 

Strong arms grasp him and pull him up. He can feel the world shifting even with his eyes plastered shut. 

“You’ve got quite the shiners there. Someone at home’s gonna have to fix you up.” 

“Hmmm?” murmurs Bucky, warily. 

“Said your face is all fucked.” The words are close to him, but everything is lopsided. Fuzzy.  

“Oh.” 

“Can you walk?” 

“Yeah.” Bucky tries to blink. “I’m pretty close to home.” 

“You need money for the trolley?”

“No, no, I’m really close.” 

He lurches off in the direction of the street. 

“Thanks, though, fellas.” He gives a little salute. 

One of the big guys who dragged him out of the river tips his cap, and Bucky steers himself home. Each step hurts worse than fists.

--

Bucky’s whole body sings with pain. His eyes feel swollen and misused. He no doubt has a broken rib or two, courtesy of sharp contact with heavy, immigrant shoes. 

Distantly, he hopes Irving made off better than he did. Bucky knows, though it sickens him, that he probably got off the easier of the two. 

The evening light filters into the living room through their dusty curtains, and the heat of the day settles into the sidewalk. It’s only August, but Bucky feels like all of this began years ago; everything that came to pass with Irving. And his desperate infatuation with Steve, always wanting so badly just to do better by him. Bucky’s had that ache since they were children, practically since they were babes. 

And Steve, boy is Steve going to have a thing or two to say to him. 

-- 

Bucky’s more than right. 

The second he gets home from his evening art class, Steve drops to his knees beside him. Practically flings his bag away in haste before he gets to Bucky’s side. 

To say that he's mad is an understatement, and Bucky can barely stand, so it’s not like he's got a leg to stand on. 

It doesn’t help that Steve finds him half-way on the couch, bruised and bloody, legs akimbo on the threadbare rug, like he collapsed on the ground (he did) before he could get himself across the cushions. He hadn’t bothered trying to clean up, hell—he couldn’t. He’d considered going to his Ma’s, but his body had needed to be home, safe in their apartment. To hell with Steve’s inevitable wrath. 

Bucky groans and it makes his face smart. 

“What the—” Steve says. “What the ever loving...Jesus fucking Christ, Bucky. You look half-dead. What the—”

“Shhhhh,” Bucky manages, not very reassuring. “Looking half-dead is your department.” He squints at Steve.

“Bucky, what the hell?” 

“m’sorry.” 

Steve squeezes his eyes shut and rubs his forehead. 

“You...you didn’t come home. And I was worried. But.” His lip curls up, a grimace. “Can you stand?” 

Bucky grunts and starts to get to his feet. Steve moves in to try and help, insinuating himself under Bucky’s arm and pressing against his side, his hand on Bucky’s. He takes away a little of the strain. 

“God Buck, what happened to you? Fall asleep in a gutter?” 

“Something like that.” 

Steve teeters them into the bedroom, and moves Bucky toward his unmade bed. 

“Yours is better,” Bucky mumbles. And Steve obligingly shifts direction, shuffling them both to his immaculately made-up twin. 

When Bucky finally drops down onto the mattress, it feels like a blessing. He nearly moans from relief. 

“We’ve gotta get you out of these clothes,” Steve says, focused. “You want pajama bottoms?” 

Bucky nods. 

Steve goes to their shared dresser across the room, and Bucky watches him through slitted eyelids as he digs around in the top drawer, shoving aside briefs and undershirts, standing on tip-toe to get a good look. He holds up Bucky’s favorite blue PJs. 

“These?” 

“Yeah, pal. Thanks,” Bucky whispers. 

He goes to get a glass of water while Bucky strips off his pants and gets into the sleep ones. 

“Where’s your jacket?” Steve asks as he comes back into their room. 

“Not sure.” But he knows: Irving’s car, taken off in lusty haste. 

Steve undoes the buttons on Bucky’s ruined shirt, and helps him shrug out of it, gingerly moving his limbs for him. 

When he finally gets a good look at the bruising all along Bucky’s sides, he gasps. 

He’d barely flinched at the black eyes, the bloodied lip (“Seen worse in the mirror.”), but Bucky’s summer-tanned torso was worked over good. Steve runs a hand down his chest, and Bucky’s throat goes dry. It’s so tender, and it’s Steve. Steve is touching him with one big, fine fingered hand, and Bucky doesn’t know if Steve’s ever touched him like this. A little wonderingly, a little bit horrified, like he can’t believe Bucky can look so ruined. 

Bucky bites down on the place where his lip is torn. Tries to weather out the sudden rush of want. Being with Irving conditioned him somehow, he thinks. Conditioned him to finally feel the kind of need he’s tramped down for years, the need to tug Steve close and then push him away when it gets to be too much. Bucky’s always wanted, but now he’s afraid it shows on his face despite the swelling. He wants to know Steve, wants Steve to know him, to cleanse him. To slough off the past few months with mouth and hands. 

Steve cares for him tenderly. He blots at Bucky’s puffy face with a soft washcloth, wraps fabric from an old topsheet around Bucky’s chest to alleviate some of the ache. He spreads arnica salve across Bucky’s bruises, and each touch makes Bucky shudder and twitch and eventually pull a pillow from Steve’s neat stack into his lap to hide his stubborn erection. 

Steve cards his fingers through his hair and works out any remaining pomade. He takes such good care, and Bucky sits in shamed silence, breathing through the pain and wishing away arousal. He’s always been an insatiable fool: for girls, dancing, whiskey (when he can afford it), even for what Irving gave him. And for Steve’s happiness. He drinks it all down and still wants more. He thinks maybe he deserved the fists, and the feet, and the butt of a gun. Serves him right for running around, for living too fast, for stepping out. 

After a time, Bucky realizes Steve is no longer touching him, just looking at him, arms crossed over his skinny chest. Eyes roving over Bucky’s skin, as though he’s cataloguing his injuries, memorizing him. Bucky flushes, and Steve’s lips twist into something that’s half-smile half-frown. 

“Scoot,” he says, and Bucky does. 

Steve adds the pillow back to the pile and pulls down the covers. Bucky slips between the sheets at Steve’s urging. The fabric is cool against his skin despite the summer heat. Steve tucks him in gently, the covers nearly up to his chin. 

“Comfy?” 

“Mmmhmmm,” is all Bucky can manage. He feels like he could sleep forever. 

“We’ll talk in the morning,” Steve says, and curls up next to him, lightly resting a hand on Bucky’s bared stomach, their bodies a careful distance apart. 

Bucky falls asleep listening to Steve’s breath, the slight whistle and wheeze, steady against all odds. 

-- 

Nearly a full day later, he gets himself out of Steve’s bed for something other than the toilet. It’s Saturday, he’s missed three days of work, and he probably doesn’t have a job anymore. 

He’s still tender. 

The bedroom door is open and he can see Steve sitting shirtless at the table, turning something over in his hands, a cup of coffee to his right, the newspaper spread out. 

He looks up when Bucky steps out of the bedroom and his eyes are dark, squinty. 

“Morning,” Bucky says. 

“We should talk.” 

So this is it then. He suspects Steve already knows, or can guess what he’s been up to. Steve Rogers is observant, and also not an idiot. When Bucky steps a little closer he can see what Steve’s holding, gold and glinting in the sunlight. 

“To James,” Steve says, derisive. 

“Steve….” 

“Yours, I. Zeigler.” 

Bucky lets out a big sigh. 

“It’s a nice cigarette case,” Steve says, overly casual. “The kinda thing any dame would love.” 

“C’mon Steve, that’s not fair.” 

“You know what's not fair?" Steve's mouth turns down. "How stupid you are."

“I know. I didn’t...” 

“Didn’t what?” 

“Didn’t think,” Bucky snaps. “Give that here.” 

Steve shakes his head no.

“Who’s Ziegler?” 

“No one. He’s no one.” 

“The mysterious benefactor? The extra work down at the docks?” 

Bucky drop his eyes, stands helpless between their bedroom and the kitchen. No man’s land. 

“Well hell, Buck. You’ve been lying to me for weeks.” 

“Not lying,” Bucky amends. “Withholding.” 

“If that’s what you wanna call it then I don’t even wanna know you.” 

“Steve,” Bucky says plaintively. “That’s not. That’s not what it was. I didn’t think you’d—” He can’t even finish a goddamn sentence, not with Steve looking at him like he ain’t worth much more than a golden cigarette case. 

“You could’ve been killed,” Steve says steely. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed. Looks like you damn near did, and for what?” 

“Pot meet kettle,” Bucky sneers, before he can stop himself, and immediately regrets it. It’s much too early for this fight. 

Steve barks out a short laugh. “Not exactly noble, what you’ve been getting up to. Far cry from getting your face bruised by that fat twerp on Delancey when you get in his way.” 

“Noble?” Bucky repeats. “You're so chock full of nobility, Rogers, that you can’t even imagine what someone like me might get outta what I did. What someone with a little less self-righteous honor could want outta what I did. Maybe I liked it."

Steve gets to his feet and balls his fist at his sides. Bucky is closer now, the table a barrier between them. Keeping them at arm’s length. 

"Maybe I loved it. And you. Perfect little you. You didn’t like the gifts? Didn’t like going to the beach? Didn’t like cake on your birthday, Didn’t like having new pencils, or better food, or trolley money?” His lip is threatening to split back open as he spits. 

“So help me, Buck,” Steve says slowly. “I’d punch you if someone hadn’t already told you twice.” 

Bucky grins meanly, and the scab comes undone. 

“Big talk,” he growls, and tastes blood. 

Steve launches himself across the table, scrappy as hell, and the force of his little body knocks them both to ground. Bucky’s tailbone protests when he hits the wood floor and lands with with Steve on top, straddling his torso, and hitting him senselessly. His breath is coming in short gasps, and his face is all screwed up like he’s trying his hardest not to bawl outright. 

Bucky tries to grasp his wrists, to stay the assault, but Steve is moving too fast and too erratically for Bucky to catch his arms. Instead, he plants his hands firmly on Steve’s hips and rolls them both over so that Steve is beneath him and Bucky can pin his arms at his sides. 

“You could have died,” Steve is repeating, over and over through choked back sobs. 

“I know,” Bucky hears himself saying past the sound of blood rushing in his ears. “I know. And I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry. I’m an idiot. Not worth it. Not worth this.” 

He lets go of one scrawny forearm and brings his hand to Steve's face, where tears are coming down his cheeks in earnest. Bucky tastes salt mixed with copper and realizes he's crying, too. He cups Steve's cheek. 

"Look at me."

Steve squeezes his lids shut tighter. 

"C'mon, Stevie." Bucky strokes his face, and Steve opens his eyes, wet and blue, rimmed with red. 

Their chests are almost touching and Bucky still has one of Steve's arms pinned down. His knees are on either side of Steve's slight hips, and for a moment it's almost like the scuffles they got into as kids, rolling around in Mrs. Rogers livingroom like ill-behaved puppies before Bucky shot up real tall and couldn't bring himself to roughhouse with Steve anymore. Not when he was so much frailer than Bucky. Now, though, the sliver of space between seems to crackle with energy barely held at bay. 

Steve hiccups through another sob and stares at him, brings his hand to rest on one of Bucky's pajama clad knees. 

"Your mouth," Steve's voice breaks. "I didn't do that, did I?"

Bucky licks at his lips and shakes his head no. "Leftovers from the other night."

Steve shudders, and looks like he's about to cry again. 

"Buck, why?"

"For you, kiddo." He smiles fondly. "And for me. But for you, too. I gotta take care of you." He chucks Steve lightly under his chin. 

"No," Steve whines. "Not like that. You don't haveta bring yourself low on my account. 'm not that special." 

"I've always been low, Stevie. Always been like this." 

Steve looks at him confused. 

"This time," Bucky says, rueful, "I just got paid for it."

"But the girls..."

He snorts. "Girls are nice too. Soft, warm, smell real good..."

Before he can finish, Steve surges up and kisses him on the mouth. Blood and all. 

And god, but Bucky could die right then and there. He frames Steve's face with both of his hands, and kisses him back like he'll drown if he doesn't. Steve isn't the best kisser, but this is the best kiss Bucky's ever had. Steve makes a quiet sound, and Bucky nips gently at his lower lip, licks into Steve's mouth when he makes a startled gasp. 

He kneels over Steve, curves over him, and drops a hand to his lower back to keep him upright, to keep him flush to his chest. Steve tangles a hand in the sweaty hair at the base of Bucky's neck and wraps his other one around Bucky's bicep, clinging to him, cleaving to him. Steve's mouth is completely open to him now and they're kissing wetly, sloppier than Bucky's used to, no control at all. Panting into each other's mouths. 

Steve pulls away suddenly, and takes a painful sounding deep breath. He clutches both of Bucky's arms and stares hard at him, eyes searching. Bucky wants to lower him gently to the floor and see to him right there in the middle of their living room. He wants to scoop him up and carry him into their bedroom bruised ribs be damned. He wants to swallow Steve Rogers whole. 

"I didn't think..."

"Hmm?" Bucky hums, their mouths still so close. 

"I didn't think you wanted—gasp—me. I thought. I dunno what I thought." Steve laughs a little desperately. A lot breathless.

"Guess we're both pretty stupid," Bucky murmurs against his lips, and kisses him again before he can protest. And kisses him and kisses him, until he's maneuvered Steve into his lap and he's leaning against one of the table legs and gently encouraging Steve to move ever so slightly against him, to grind down some. Bucky smoothes his hands over Steve's back again and again, over the notches of his spine. Slides his hands from Steve's waist down his thighs, lifts up his knees and hooks Steve's legs around his waist, picks him up, hands under his little ass. 

"Hey!" Steve cries, when Bucky stands, taking Steve with him. "Putmedown." He hits Bucky's shoulder but tightens his thighs around his waist. 

Bucky presses his face into the crook of Steve's neck as he walks them into the bedroom. Kneads the rounded bottom of his ass with his fingertips. Steve shivers against him and for the first time Bucky really feels his erection against his bare stomach. 

"Stevie," he mumbles, nuzzling below Steve's ear. "Steve Rogers. You are somethin' else, you know that? You're real special." He dips his tongue into the little concave spot behind Steve's earlobe and is rewarded with a gasp and an indecent sounding "Bucky!" And Steve squirms, the heels of his feet digging into Bucky's lower back.

He sets Steve down on his own bed, and takes a long look at him. Steve's tidy blond hair is mussed up, and his cheeks are ruddy. In the late morning sunlight he looks alabaster rather than plain old pale. Bucky makes an appreciative sound somewhere between a growl and moan and Steve, swear to God, blushes all the way down his chest and ducks his head. 

"Oh no, don't you go getting bashful on me," Bucky chides.

Steve lifts his chin. "Just remember who kissed who first." 

"I'll never forget anything about you," he promises. 

Bucky pushes Steve onto back and he goes willingly, hands a little awkward at his sides, so Bucky takes both in his and kisses Steve's mouth, enjoys the frustrated grunt Steve makes when he pulls away to kiss down his neck, and down his chest. He trails his nose over Steve's ribs, each valley and ridge. He drags his lips across Steve's stomach, stopping to mouth his skin wetly. One hand slips away to skirt along the top of Steve's light trousers, asking for entrance. Steve's other hand squeezes his tightly. 

"I've never—I don't really—" Steve begins, and Bucky looks up at him from under his floppy, undone hair. 

"I have," he says, and Steve smirks, catching his plump lower lip between his teeth in an expression that's undone, nervous and completely shit-eating all at once. It makes Bucky's cock twitch. 

And that's Steve. That's all Steve. Suddenly what they're doing is so real. Real enough that Bucky thinks for a moment those men must have killed him and left him for dead, another sacrifice to the East River. Otherwise, how could Steve, his Steve—little Stevie Rogers who takes on guys twice his size—possibly be looking at him like that, blue eyes blown wide, lips parted, attention rapt, as Bucky undoes his trousers and slides them down his legs. Steve helpfully lifts his bottom like this is all old hat which makes Bucky grin a little wolfishly at him. At the rate he's going, his split lip is never gonna heal. 

And really, Bucky thinks, where else, but in the sweet hereafter, could he be on his belly, about to close his mouth over his best friend's hard cock. It's not even worth the trouble to be ashamed when he groans audibly at the thought and puts his mouth to work. It's the best possible version of heaven he's ever conjured. 

When he glances up, Steve has his eyes closed, one hand spread out across his flushed chest, the other still gripping Bucky’s fingers. It’s like. It’s like nothing Bucky has ever seen before, not really. He laves Steve  with his tongue over and over, grips the base of his cock with his free hand and follows his mouth with his fist. His saliva drips down his chin, and over his knuckles and he takes Steve in as deeply into his throat as he can. Wills himself not to gag, wants to swallow as much of Steve as there is.

Steve comes, hips stuttering, and his hand squeezes Bucky’s so tightly, and Bucky’s name is on his tongue, and Bucky licks whatever he might’ve missed off his knuckles and Steve’s hot skin. Bitter absolution, just for him. 

--

“Lookit you,” Bucky says later, when they’re still lazing around the apartment, now in the living room with the radio playing, sprawled out on the couch. 

Steve hasn’t bothered to put his pants back on, and his plain white shorts are bunched up around his thighs where his legs rest on either side of Bucky’s waist. 

“God, you should see you.” Bucky shakes his head.

Steve flushes. He flushes so damn pretty that Bucky wants to carry him right back into the bedroom. 

“What about me?” Steve asks, leaning forward and putting his hands on Bucky’s chest. 

Bucky’s got his arms pillowed behind his head against the couch arm. He tilts his face back to get a better look. 

“Just never thought I’d get you here is all,” he says. “Never thought I’d get you right on top of me like this.” He rolls his hips for emphasis, and Steve bites that lower lip again. 

“Well,” Steve says, maybe a little coy, “coulda asked.” 

Bucky grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him down for a plundering kiss. 

“Guess I shoulda,” he says when they part. 

-- 

One week later, Bucky trudges down to Red Hook expecting to be told to take a hike. 

Doesn’t matter, though. 

Last night he and Steve pushed their beds together, just like they’d done as kids, or when the winter air was particularly frigid. Although now—he gets the chills—now he can wrap himself around Steve and they both know exactly what it is that moves them against one another in the dark. 

As far as Bucky's concerned, if anyone can take a hike it's the shipping yard. 

-- 

Bucky can scarcely believe it when the superintendent tells him he can grab his cap and go join the other longshoreman on the docks. 

“Gee, thanks,” he says, gratefully pumping Mr. Jaeger’s hand. “Thanks a lot, really. I can’t tell you how much it means to me.” 

Jaeger just shrugs. “Don’t thank me,” he says. “Thank Mr. Ziegler.” 

Bucky stares. 

“You’d know him if you saw him,” Jaeger clarifies.  “Dapper lookin’ fella, drives a Chevy. Hangs around a lot. Whatever you did to get on his good side, make sure you keep it up.” 

Bucky nods dumbly. If he opened his mouth he’d only be able to swear anyway. 

He goes back to work. 

--  

Steve is standing on tip-toes trying to reach a can of tuna when Bucky comes home. It’s the goddamn cutest thing he’s ever seen. He swoops in and plucks the can off the shelf. Wraps his arms around Steve from behind.

“Hey!” Steve protests weakly, and snatches the can away from him. “I can manage on my own, thankyouverymuch.” 

“Sure you can.” Bucky smiles and rests his chin atop Steve’s head. “Tell me again about how great you do without me?” 

Steve swats at him. 

“You’re awful, Bucky.” 

“Awfully mad about you.” He tickles Steve’s sides, and Steve squirms around to face him, leans back in his arms. 

“Ugh. Thank the lord we didn’t come to that conclusion sooner, otherwise I’d have heard all your crap jokes by now.” 

Bucky kisses him on the nose. 

“Shoo,” Steve says. “I’m not your girl. You don’t get to dote.” 

“I’ve been doting on you since we were kids!” 

“That’s different.” Steve sounds waspish. 

“Whatever you say, doll.” 

He has to dance away to keep from getting smacked. 

-- 

It seems like as soon as his body is completely healed and not even a scab remains, Irving shows back up. The seasons are shifting, and instead of working in their shirtsleeves and suspenders the men have returned to long sleeved work shirts, shields against the morning chill that comes off the bay. 

Bucky puts his head down, and concentrates on the system of ropes and levies that allows him to control a shipping crate full of bananas. Out the corner of his eye, he can see Irving scanning the docks for him, pausing on men with similar builds. Bucky pulls his cap a little lower. 

Obviously he knows that Bucky is alive, and still working here. He should’ve gotten another job, should’ve taken up baking, should’ve starting going to art class with Steve with the little money he’s saved up. 

In a strange way it hurts his heart to see Irving standing back from the shore, his collar turned up, and his hat pulled low, his fine aquiline nose obscured. Makes Bucky sad about how things came to pass between them, even if he wouldn't pick it up again now. 

But Irving, he can tell, is like a bad penny. There's no way Bucky's rid of him yet. 

--

"He's back," he tells Steve as they lie together in what passes for dark in Brooklyn. 

"Who?" Steve asks sleepily, his face smushed against Bucky's shoulder. 

"I. Zeigler."

They still haven't really talked about him, not in any detail. And Bucky'll be damned before he scares Steve off of their tentative coming together. Not when he's waited for so long, and certainly not on Irving's account. 

"Oh." Steve looks up at him from under his bangs. 

"Yeah."

"D'you, I mean, didja want to...."

"No, NO, not at all," Bucky stutters before he even knows what Steve's asking. He's just certain the answer is no. 

"Ok," Steve says against him and rolls over, putting his backside to Bucky. 

"Hey, hey now." Bucky tugs at his shoulder, shifts so that his front comes into contact with Steve's back.

"Mmph, tryna sleep."

"No you ain't."

He kisses the back of Steve's pale neck, nuzzles the golden fuzz and freckles there. Kisses up and along the delicate shell of his ear. Steve smells so good, always smells so good. 

"Don't be like that," he whispers, teasing breath across Steve's neck. 

"Like what?"

"You know what." Bucky curls his hand over Steve's hip, and pulls him back against him. Grinds against Steve's ass in gentle, insistent circles.  

"Buck," Steve says warningly, but he goes easy, settling against Bucky with a little sigh that goes straight to Bucky's dick. His fingers span nearly the width of Steve's bare stomach. 

Bucky presses onward, slips his hand into Steve's shorts and trills happily against his hair to find him already half-hard. 

"I just wanna..." He trails off to mouth at the place where Steve's neck meets his milky shoulder.

"Wanna what?" whispers Steve. 

"Wanna do you. Would you let me? Would you let me do that?"

Steve doesn't say anything, lets his head fall back against Bucky's shoulder. Bucky soldiers on:

"I've never done it—I mean, I've done it with a girl and all, the normal way—but I've never done this. Not," he pauses, kisses Steve's temple, "as the doer, I mean." 

Steve goes still. 

"You...?"

"Yeah,” Bucky says meaningfully. “But you'll like it. I can make it real good for you. You'll see."

"You want me?" Steve's voice is fluttery. "You wanna put it inside me?"

"God yes, Stevie."

Steve turns around in his arms, wiggling against him and Bucky groans. 

"An' it's not just cuz I'm littler than you that you want..." 

"Aw, Stevie, hell no, that's not it. Just wanna get as close to you as I can. Nothing's been," he licks his lips, "close enough yet."

Steve seems to consider this, the apparent logic behind Bucky's need. He nods once, certain in that way that only Steve Rogers can be, and Bucky's whole body tingles. The familiar warmth in his belly that he always feels around Steve amps up to feverish.  Steve’s expression is so serious that Bucky wants to kiss it right off of him, and so he does, until Steve is panting into his mouth, and they’re rubbing against one another, tangling the sheets around ankles. 

“Jeez, Buck,” Steve breathes when they ease apart. 

“I know. I know.” 

“Jesus.” 

“You really want to?” Bucky asks, suddenly bashful. 

Steve nods, wide-eyed, lips red and wet. 

Bucky could eat him alive. 

“D’you, um…” 

“Hang on,” Steve says, and rolls off of him. He reaches under the bed and comes back with a little jar of vaseline. “I got this. Um. A while back.” 

“Wow.” 

Steve shrugs. “Ain’t so pure.”

“Yeah, but you’re not low down and dirty like me,” Bucky says, taking the jar from him, and pushing him back onto the pillow. 

“Well who is?” Steve smirks. 

“You, when I’m done with you.” 

Steve’s mouth falls open, and his adam’s apple bobs.  

“Take your shorts off,” Bucky says and Steve does, squirming out of them. Bucky chucks them aside and Steve doesn’t even try and cover up, just lays back unashamed, a little defiant even. It’s a sight Bucky’s not likely to forget. Something to keep him warm if he ends up shipping out one day. 

He takes his time. Unscrews the jar real slow, sits back on his haunches and looks Steve over: his breath is short, but not like he’s on the brink of an attack, and he’s got one hand splayed across his throat and the other on Bucky’s knee. Steve’s legs have fallen open and it’s nothing like the girls who play babydoll for him when he’s got them on their backs. It’s much better. 

Steve taps him with one toe and Bucky grins, he scooches closer and hooks one of Steve’s knobby knees over his shoulder. He’s well acquainted with Steve’s parts by now, but seeing him like this, all spread out, makes him whimper. Eyes on Steve, he dips his pointer finger into the vaseline and swirls it around, comes out with way too much but who’s counting. 

He strokes Steve’s inner thigh with the back of his knuckles, the other keeping him steady over Bucky’s shoulder, and each time he gets closer Steve lets out a little noise of anticipation.  Bucky gets to it. He circles his slicked finger around the tight pucker of Steve’s asshole, and Steve’s whole body shivers. His hips even lift a little off the bed to give Bucky better access. 

“Ok?” Bucky asks, breathless himself. 

Steve nods very seriously, but Bucky can see him clutching at his chest. 

Very gently, he starts to push in and out, just a little, working at the rim. He remembers this part, how at first it burns, then it feels different, and then the only feeling is the need for more. He’ll get Steve there. 

“Touch yourself,” he says. Irving had told him to stroke himself, too. Said it made it better, easier. And Steve obeys, wrapping his hand around his cock and fisting himself slowly. Bucky pushes inside to his second knuckle, and Steve makes the most beautiful mewling sound Bucky’s ever heard. 

“There you go, baby.”

Steve looks at him a little sharply, but Bucky just pushes his finger in to the hilt, flesh so tight around him.

“There you go.” 

Steve breathes out hard, and clenches down on his finger. 

“Buck…” he says. “Buck, you shouldn’t call me baby. It’s not…”” 

“Shhhh,” Bucky soothes, and twists his hand, starts to move in earnest until Steve is melting, meeting him each time he pulls his finger out. 

“Can you, can you give me..” 

“More?” Bucky prompts and Steve nods. “Yeah,” he says. “‘Course I can, baby.” 

He slicks his middle finger and slips inside with the first. Steve’s asshole flutters each time he draws away, seeking more, waiting for him, and soon Steve is pressing himself down on Bucky’s fingers, his heel digging into Bucky’s shoulder blade. 

Bucky shifts his wrist from side to side, and scissors his sheathed fingers, making room, and when he pulls them out altogether Steve moans. He runs a soothing hand down Steve’s stomach. 

“Got something better for you,” he murmurs and it sounds so smug.

Steve’s eyebrows knit together like he’s about to punch Bucky for his cheek, but he just swings his other leg over Bucky’s shoulder, which makes Bucky’s eyebrows raise. He’s… he’s a little bit proud. 

“C’mon,” Steve whines. “Do it already.” 

Bucky snorts. “Shoulda known.” 

He slicks himself liberally, his own hand a welcome relief from the ache of arousal, adds the remaining vaseline to Steve's body, and lines himself up, seeking entrance.  

He nods, Steve nods back. They are resolute. 

“Do it,” Steve says, so Bucky does, and oh god, oh god, Steve is so damn tight around him even with the work he put in to getting him ready and Steve’s heels are digging into his back, and Bucky, Bucky is going to fall apart, he's going to just break apart right now. Steve has his eyes screwed up tight and Bucky forces himself to move just a little inside him, just the head of his cock, pressing in and out. 

“Breathe. C’mon Stevie, baby, breathe. It’ll get better.” 

Steve lets out a big exhale, and Bucky pushes all the way in. Steve bites his lower lip and looks at him, forehead creased, eyes unsure.  

“You ok?” Bucky asks, holding himself still, even though he wants to move so bad. 

“Move,” Steve grits out. “Just move.” 

There are tears on his cheeks, but Bucky does as he’s told. He could never say no to Steve. 

This is it, he thinks, a little wildly, this is it.  He could die a very happy man right here and now and he wouldn’t even beg to be sent back. Steve is hot, and tight around him, all of him, and it’s nothing like making time with a girl, and it’s a thousand times better than anything he expected and no wonder Irving wanted him on his back like this and fuck, fuck fuck, because Steve keeps saying his name as Bucky's hips press back and forth, sheathing his cock in his ass over and over. 

Bucky finds himself some and leans forward, bracketing his arms on either side of Steve’s shoulders and presses his face into Steve’s neck. Steve’s hands weave into his hair, and his thighs flex around Bucky’s face and he’s so little and damn near bent in two. 

“Bucky, god, Bucky,” he’s saying. “More, please, more, just a little more, can't hurt me....” 

Bucky picks himself up, hands firmly planted and gives Steve what he wants. Pumps harder, and the more he moves the easier the path gets, the more Steve relaxes around him, and encourages him with little sounds, and he never thought that seeing Steve’s eyes tear up could do him in, but God if he’s not just about on the edge. 

He can feel Steve jerking himself off between them, and then Steve clenches down hard and looks at Bucky with big apologetic eyes before he comes all over their stomachs. Steve’s body spasms around him, and it’s only a few more thrusts until he’s coming too, spilling himself into Steve like he’s trying to get home. 

“m’sorry, m’sorry,” Steve is repeating quietly, and Bucky picks his head up from Steve’s sweaty neck. He smooths Steve’s damp hair back from his forehead, and cups his cheek, kisses his mouth. 

“What’re you, don’t be. Why are you apologizing?” 

Steve stops. Wrinkles his nose. 

“You know,” he says, sniffling. “I have no idea.” 

They both laugh, and Bucky slips free with a little squelch. He rolls off of Steve and onto his back, takes Steve’s hand in his and twines their fingers together. 

“Was that? Was that ok?” 

Steve props himself up, smiles his dumb half-smile. “Bucky, shut up.” 

So he does. 

-- 

It is a new era. The Stark Expo is coming to town in a few months, the future is now, and Bucky Barnes is in love. 

He quits his job when Irving doesn’t stop coming around,  but he supposes he didn’t expect Irving to stop. It’s cold now, anyway, nearly December, and lots of guys tend to crap out when the air starts to bite. He gets a job slinging burgers at Tom’s Diner over by the main branch of the library where Steve works, and it’s different, if not better, to cook instead of haul. 

The best part, though. The best part is that Steve loves him too.

And Bucky can’t even stand it. Wants to scoop all of Brooklyn up into his arms and never let go. 

-- 

It’s fitting that the war comes then, sweeping under their doors like snow, a different kind of bad penny altogether. And Bucky knows, with the certainty of winter’s arrival, that he’ll have to let go soon.

But he doesn’t, at least not until he has to.  

___________

¹ What are you doing? Informal.
² What’s it to you? Slang, informal.
³ Idiot, ass.
⁴ He’s garbage, nothing. Slang.
⁵ Whore, and a non-Jewish one to boot.
⁶ A shame.