Brooklyn Beginnings

by nxsq (M0onb0w)

Summary:

Steve and Bucky meet on the school playground in 1930 and their relationship only continues to develop from there.

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Summary:

In front of him, 'Barnes' simply stared down Marlon and his minions, not saying a word, not moving an inch. The silence was bordering on deafening until Jimmy finally broke it.

“What’re you getting involved for, Barnes?” Jimmy barked, “This ain’t your fight.”

The boy did not respond - it didn’t even seem like he’d heard, simply allowing the silence to stretch.

“Kid’s a runt,” sneered the second boy, seemingly spurred by his friend's false bravado, “He gets knocked around, so what?”

The boy didn’t even blink.

Affected by being ignored, the boy continued, “Y’itching to go next or something?”

Still nothing.

Then the Barnes boy tilted his head, slow and deliberate, just looking.

And then took a single step forward, halving the distance between him and the boys, silently daring them to put their hands on him.

or

Bucky and Steve meet.

Notes:

Mid-September, 1930.

The schoolyard buzzed with life, a chorus of chatter, laughter, and the clatter of lunchboxes opening and closing. Lunchtime at the school was spent swapping stories between bites of sandwiches or darting across the playground in games of tag, all children clustered in lively groups.

 

Well.

Almost all.

 

In a quiet part of the playground, little Steven Rogers sat alone, shadowed by the tall buildings of the school. He watched the other kids with a mix of longing and resignation, his school bag lying open beside him. The noise of laughter and chatter felt distant, belonging to a world he knew he’d never be a part of. He sighed before he bent back down to focus on the notebook in his lap, sketching away. The air smelled like cut grass and peanut butter sandwiches, but all Steve could hear now was the scratching of his pencil as he bent over the notebook in his lap. The page was half-filled with sketches; mostly ships and aeroplanes, things with wings that could carry him somewhere else, maybe somewhere where kids didn’t look right past him like he wasn’t there. 

Most days went like this. Just Steve, his drawings, and the corner of the playground nobody else wanted. He told himself it didn’t bother him. And most of the time, it didn’t. But sometimes, when the laughter carried a little louder on the wind, the quiet next to him felt heavier than usual.

 

“Look who it is!” Jimmy Marlon’s voice cut through the noise of the playground like nails on a chalkboard. “Little Stevie Rogers!” 

He sauntered up to the shadowy corner where Steve sat, his two best friends trailing behind him like loyal guard dogs. Jimmy’s grin was wide and smug, his freckled face lit with the kind of mean joy that only came from finding easy prey.

 

Steve internally screamed at himself as he realised he’d forgotten it was time for Marlon’s weekly money-pluck.

He clenched his pencil a little tighter, wishing for the hundredth time he could just disappear into the ground. Jimmy Marlon was a year older, taller by at least a head, and built like he actually ate the lunches he bought with money stolen from other kids. His mop of bright blonde hair bobbed as he swaggered closer, his shadow swallowing Steve’s bench. 

 

A couple of weeks ago, Jimmy had decided that the skinny, sickly kid a grade below him was the perfect target and ever since, Steve’s lunch money had not lasted beyond Tuesday.

 

Steve has sort of been able to explain away the bruises, broken noses, and concussions to his mother, but he’s certain she won’t let it pass today. Not with how he’s visibly more frail from having to give up the remainder of his lunch money for the week on a Tuesday. Jimmy stopped right in front of him, towering like he owned the world. 

 

“So, Rogers,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “How much you got for us this week?” His friends snickered behind him, like the line was the funniest thing they’d heard today.

Steve swallowed, feeling the familiar knot tighten in his chest. Two options.

He could hand over the money willingly, possibly avoiding a beatdown. Yes, it would mean he might not have to lie to his mother again today, and he could very well do without a broken nose again; however, small as he was, Steve Rogers was no pushover. So his other option? Refuse to hand over the money, endure the beatdown and hope that the boys got enough satisfaction from seeing him hurt, they wouldn’t take the money from him.

He didn’t get the chance to decide.

Jimmy’s hand shot out like lightning, snatching the notebook right out of Steve’s grasp. “What’s this?” Jimmy flipped it open, glancing at the drawings inside. A second later, he barked out a laugh, loud and cruel. “Look at this, fellas!” he called, holding the notebook up high so his friends could see. “Little Stevie’s playing artist!”

Steve lunged forward, reaching for his notebook. “Give it back, Marlon!”

Jimmy just grinned wider, yanking it out of reach and shoving Steve hard with his free hand. Steve stumbled back and hit the edge of the bench, his shin smacking against the wood. Pain shot up his leg, sharp enough to make his breath hitch, but he bit it back. The last thing he’d give Jimmy was the satisfaction of hearing him yelp.

“Aw, careful there, Rogers. Wouldn’t want you snapping in half,” Jimmy taunted, letting the notebook fall to the ground with a careless flick. It landed face down in the dirt. Jimmy didn’t even look at it again. He was already moving on to what he really wanted.

“Alright,” he said, stepping closer, his shadow stretching over Steve like a threat. “You know the drill. Hand it over. All ya money, nice and easy, and maybe we don’t have to rearrange that girly face of yours again.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. His heart thudded in his chest, every instinct telling him to just hand it over and get it over with. But his fingers stayed curled tight around the edge of the bench. There are a lot of things you could bully him into doing (not really), but giving away his mother’s hard-earned money? 

Willingly at that?

Hell would freeze over first. 

And besides, he hated the way Jimmy said it. Like Steve owed him. Like he could just take and take, and Steve was supposed to smile about it. 

So Steve did what he always did.

“No.” His voice came out steady, even though his pulse was hammering.

Jimmy’s grin only widened, like he’d been waiting for it. His friends smirked behind him, exchanging looks.

“Every week,” Jimmy said, shaking his head with exaggerated disbelief. “Every single week. You ever learn, Rogers? Or you just like getting your face rearranged?”

Steve met his eyes, even as his leg throbbed from the bench. “Guess I’m just a slow learner.”

That got a laugh out of Jimmy’s friends. Jimmy just smirked, stepped in close, and shoved Steve hard in the chest. The bench dug into the back of his legs, and he nearly toppled over it, catching himself just in time.

Jimmy didn’t wait. He swung, a sharp fist that connected with Steve’s cheek, sending him sprawling to the pavement. The world tilted, his palms scraping the rough ground as he tried to push himself up.

“Come on, Rogers,” Jimmy taunted, pacing a slow circle around him. “Show me that big mouth again.”

Steve wiped at his lip, tasting blood, and pushed himself to his feet. He knew he didn’t stand a chance; Jimmy had half a foot on him and more muscle than he could ever dream of, but there was no way he’d stay down.

Not while he could still stand.

Jimmy’s grin sharpened. “That’s what I like about you. You never know when to quit.”

He grabbed Steve by the collar and slammed him backwards into the brick wall of the school. 

Pain lanced through the back of Steve’s skull as it cracked against the rough surface. The edges of his vision blurred. Sound dulled, the world going dim like someone had turned the volume down. Steve’s hand instinctively went to the back of his head, coming away warm and sticky.

Jimmy loomed closer, his voice finally cutting back through the haze: “Hand it over, Rogers. Last chance.”

Steve’s vision swam, but his jaw set. “Go to hell.”

Jimmy’s smirk returned, colder this time. “Suit yourself.”

Steve sat there, blood dripping through his hair, and braced himself for the next hit.

It didn’t come. 

“Shit,” one of the boys behind Jimmy muttered, “it’s Barnes.”

Steve kept his eyes closed until he felt the sunlight disappear off of him as if obscured. And obscured it was, a boy taller than he had any right to be while still on this playground. 

Jimmy and his friends weren’t backing down - yet - but Steve could see it. They didn’t want to fight. 

In front of him, 'Barnes' simply stared down Marlon and his minions, not saying a word, not moving an inch. The silence was bordering on deafening until Jimmy finally broke it. 

“What’re you getting involved for, Barnes?” Jimmy barked, “This ain’t your fight.” 

The boy did not respond - it didn’t even seem like he’d heard, simply allowing the silence to stretch.

“Kid’s a runt,” sneered the second boy, seemingly spurred by his friend's false bravado, “He gets knocked around, so what?” 

The boy didn’t even blink.

Affected by being ignored, the boy continued, “Y’itching to go next or something?”

Still nothing. 

Then the Barnes boy tilted his head, slow and deliberate, just looking.

And then took a single step forward, halving the distance between him and the boys, silently daring them to put their hands on him. 

Steve stared at the back of his head in shock, torn between telling the boy he was fine and he didn’t need to stand here and help and just letting him do his silent intimidation thing. His dizziness forced him to go with the second option, his tongue seemingly stapled to the bottom of his mouth. 

The third boy hesitated, shifting from foot to foot before seemingly deciding on his course of action. He leaned forward slightly, mumbling “not worth it” in Jimmy’s ear. 

Jimmy hesitated.

But he nodded.

The three of them turned heel and scattered, fast and wordless.

Steve stared in barely concealed awe at the still-silent boy, who’d managed to scare off Jimmy Marlon in less than five minutes without lifting a finger.

Barnes didn’t turn to him until Marlon and co had scampered to the other side of the yard. 

Then, slowly, he turned to look at Steve, visibly softening.

The hard line of his jaw relaxed completely. His eyebrows drew together - no longer in anger and not even in pity.

Just concern. 

“You alright?” 

Steve blinked. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been asked that question by anyone but his mother and definitely not like this. Like it mattered if he wasn’t. 

He cleared his throat, gingerly checking the back of his head with a finger and wincing when it came back dripping. “‘M fine,” he muttered anyway.

The boy clearly didn’t believe him. His eyes scanned Steve from head to foot with quiet scepticism. Then he smiled. 

“Bucky Barnes,” he said, holding out a hand.

“Steve Rogers,” Steve replied, allowing Bucky to help him up off the floor.

Once he was standing, as upright as he could be with his brewing concussion, Bucky reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a handkerchief - clean, folded - and held it out, pointedly nodding between Steve and the fabric.

“You aware you're bleeding?”  Bucky teased, gently grabbing Steve’s hand and turning it over to press the cloth into it when he hesitated.

“Don’t worry, I got more,” Bucky added, watching Steve, amused, “My ma stashes ‘em everywhere. I’m sure if I fell from that building, they’d cushion my fall.”

Steve huffed a laugh, “Don’t go testing that.” He pressed the handkerchief to his head, hoping the blood hadn’t dripped too far down his neck.

As Steve tried to soak up the blood, Bucky retrieved his sketchbook from the ground, dusted it off, closed it carefully, and slid it into Steve’s bag before slinging it over his shoulder.

“Thanks,” Steve mumbled, reaching for the bag. He stared in confusion when Bucky sidestepped him.

“C’mon, ” Bucky said, stepping to Steve’s side. “Let’s get you to the nurse.” 

Steve scowled. “You don’t need to do that. I’ll be fine in ten minutes.”

“Oh, definitely,” Bucky replied, eyes full of disbelief. “But humour me. Payback for scaring off Marlon.”

Steve sighed, “Fine. But I can very well make it there myself,”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, completely unconvinced. 

For some reason, it didn’t feel as patronising as Steve thought it should. 

“Oh, of course, not like you’re stumbling like a newborn deer or nothing,”

“I’ve had worse,” Steve muttered, silently surrendering,

“Bet you have,” Bucky said, gently nudging him toward the main building, “I still ain’t letting ya bleed out in front of me. C’mon, tough guy.”

Steve grumbled, but he didn't pull away. He didn't have the energy to, and it's not like Bucky was grabbing or dragging him. He was just there, gently guiding with a hand resting on his shoulder. Walking beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

They reached the building, steps echoing in the quiet hallway as the buzz of the yard faded behind them.

“So,” Bucky started casually, “You always draw stuff like that? Planes and whatnot?” 

Steve blinked, trying to hide his shock at the lack of mockery, “Oh. Uh…yeah.”

“They’re good.” Bucky continued, and it didn't sound like flattery. Just a fact. “That one with the wings folded up - that was a hellcat, right?” 

“Sort of. I didn’t have a picture to copy, so it's kind of a mix,” Steve looked up at him, “You like planes?” 

“Love ‘em,” Bucky said, smiling, “Wanted to be a pilot since I was six. Still do I guess. But my ma says I’ve got a better shot living past a hundred than paying for flying school,” 

Steve let out a laugh at the familiar sentence, “My ma says the exact same thing about art school.”

Bucky and Steve giggled down the corridor at the similarity of their mothers. 

“What about comics?” Bucky asked once their laughter faded into gentle smiles, “You into those?”

“Yeah, when I can get my hands on them. I usually just draw my own,”

“I’ve got a few. I’ll bring one tomorrow, so you bring one of yours.”

Steve blinked again, taken aback. “You don’t have to do that.” 

“I know,” Bucky said, “I want to,” 

Steve didn’t answer right away. His head still throbbed, but it felt lighter somehow. 

“Thanks,” he said again, louder this time but no less soft.

“Anytime,” Bucky replied, then gave him a little sideways smirk, “Long as you promise to try and stay out of trouble at least until next week.” 

“I do try,” Steve laughed, “Why’d you think I sit on my own?”

“That’s changing as of tomorrow,” Bucky grumbled as if Steve sitting on his own deeply offended him, “You keep trying, and I'll help you stay out of trouble.”

“Alright, Bucky,” Steve answered, unable to stop smiling.

Not that he was trying anyway. 

Notes:

Constructive criticism is always appreciated but please be gentle!!

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Summary:

Steve squinted at him, “Why’d you help me today?”

Bucky looked ahead as they walked, lips quirking into a small smile before he shrugged, “Seemed like the right thing to do.”

The nurse’s office smelled of antiseptic and the assortment of flowers sitting on her desk. It was quiet too, the only sounds in the room the soft ticking from the wall clock and the hum of the radiator under the window.

Nurse Heller stood at the sink, rolling up her sleeves. She was youngish, with sharp eyes, soft hands, and enough familiarity with Steven Rogers to know the difference between bruises left by clumsiness and bruises left by fists.

When she caught sight of him, she gasped and crossed the room in three brisk steps. Gently, she turned his face this way and that, making white spots bloom in his vision like ink in water.

“Oh, honey…” She murmured, cradling his face. After a final once-over, she stepped back and moved to her supply cabinet, pulling out an assortment of bandages, plasters and cold compresses.

“Sit,” she said gently, pointing to the little cot near the window over her shoulder. “And don’t even think about telling me you’re fine.”

Steve obeyed, wincing as he sat down. Bucky hovered in the doorway, shifting on his feet.

“You too, Barnes,” Nurse Heller said, tossing a glance his way. “You’re not sneaking off. You brought him in - you can stand watch.”

Bucky gave a small, sheepish nod and stepped fully into the room.

Seemingly satisfied with what she’d grabbed, Nurse Heller walked back over to Steve, placing the bundle of items next to him on the cot.

“Let’s see the damage,” she murmured, gently turning Steve’s chin and inspecting the swelling, the scrape, the gash near his scalp. “Mmhm. Bet the other guy looks worse?”

Steve said nothing.

“Thought so,” she continued knowingly. “You been tellin’ your ma about that Marlon boy?”

Steve flinched before he could stop himself. “She’s got work.”

“That doesn’t mean she don’t need to know when her son’s gettin’ bounced off brick walls like a tennis ball.”

“She worries enough.”

“She’d worry less if you stopped showing up with half your head leaking, Steven.”

Bucky glanced at him, eyebrows twitching up.

Nurse Heller sighed, her voice softening. “You’re one tough cookie, I'll give you that. But you don’t gotta do everything on your own, sweetheart.”

Steve didn’t respond, but something in his posture loosened.

After patching the worst of it, she pressed a cool cloth to his temple and turned to the cabinet, rummaging through paperwork.

“Alright,” she said, pulling out a form. “You’re not going back to class today, that’s for sure. Too much as a stiff breeze and you’ll tip over.”

Steve started to protest, but she gave him The Look™.

“Can your ma come get you?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “She’s on shift ‘til six.”

Nurse Heller made a thoughtful hum and turned to Bucky.

“You.”

Bucky straightened instinctively. “Yes, ma’am?”

She handed him a little yellow slip. “Buddy pass. That means you’re allowed to walk him home. You take this to the front desk, and they’ll let you both go. And if you even think about ditching him halfway, I’ll find out.”

“Wasn’t plannin’ to, ma’am,” Bucky said, lips twitching.

She patted Steve’s shoulder gently. “Let him lean on you if he needs it. I’ll give your parents a call and let them know you’ll be walking Steve home - you intend to stay there until his ma gets home?”

Bucky turned to look at Steve with huge puppy-dog eyes. Steve sighed softly, smile fighting its way back onto his face before he slowly nodded.

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky said cheerily, earning the tiniest eye-roll from Steve.

Nurse Heller chuckled and handed Bucky Steve’s bag. She turned back to Steve, expression gentle, “Home. Rest. Tell your ma.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And Steven?”

He looked up.

“Let that Barnes boy help you.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask, honey,” she smiled at him warmly, “pass your mother my regards.”

---

Steve and Bucky walked in comfortable silence, the sun warming their backs as the school building faded into the distance behind them. The quiet rhythm of their footsteps mingled with the occasional whoosh of passing cars and the distant bark of a dog. Bucky still carried Steve’s bag despite repeated protests, letting it hang from one shoulder like it weighed nothing. Steve walked beside him, one hand toying with the bandage at the back of his head, the other stuffed in his pocket.

Eventually, Bucky nudged Steve lightly with his elbow, “Alright, Rogers. Question for question.”

Steve blinked up at him, “Huh?”

“We take turns asking stuff. That way we both get to pry equally.”

Steve narrowed his eyes, already suspicious. “What kind of stuff?”

“Just stuff,” Bucky answered, grinning, “Favourite colour?”

Steve thought for a moment. “Blue.”

Bucky nodded like he expected that, “Good choice. Your turn.”

Steve squinted at him, “Why’d you help me today?”

Bucky looked ahead as they walked, lips quirking into a small smile before he shrugged, “Seemed like the right thing to do.”
Steve could understand that. He’d lost count of how many fights he’d gotten in defending random people because he knew it was the right thing to do.

“My turn. You always sit in that corner of the yard?”

Steve rolled his eyes, “Not always. Just…most days. Less risk of getting decked over there.”

“Didn’t work out that way today.”

“No,” Steve muttered, knowing it didn’t work out that way last week, or the week before or the week before that either, “it didn’t.”

They walked a few more steps in silence before Steve asked, “You really wanna be a pilot?”

Bucky’s eyes lit up. “More than anything. Used to build models with my dad when I was little. Still do.”

“You build models?”

“Whole shelf of them in my room,” Bucky smirked, “What about you? You wanna be an artist?”

Steve shrugged, a little shy now. “Maybe. An illustrator or something. I like drawing people  too, so maybe something to do with that,”

Bucky gave a low whistle, "That’s pretty cool,”

“Why, what’d you think I was gonna say?”

“I dunno,” Bucky tilted his head playfully, “Something weird. Like…milkman,”

Steve snorted in response, “Do I look like a milkman to you?”

Bucky shrugged again, laughing, Steve shaking his head beside him.

Another beat passed before Bucky asked: “What’s your ma like?”

Steve’s smile brightened, “She’s the best. Works long shifts at the hospital, but she always makes sure she has time for me.”

“Sounds like my ma,” Bucky glanced sideways, “My ma’s a stay-at-home for the most part, but she does a lot of favors for everyone so she’s out a lot,”

Steve smiled again. “Guess we both got lucky in the mother department,”

Bucky grinned and they continued walking, the breeze weaving between them.

“Siblings?” Steve asked eventually,

“Two,” Bucky replied, “Both girls - twins. 'm the oldest. What about you?”

“Only child.”

“Must be quiet,”

“Sometimes.” Steve glanced down at his shoes, “Sometimes it's too quiet,”

“That’s alright,” Bucky smiled, wrapping his arm around Steve’s shoulders and dragging him closer, “My house is plenty loud, so whenever it's too quiet over at yours, you’re free to come over.”

“Alright, Barnes,” Steve laughed, “I’ll show up so much you get sick of me.”

“Not likely, Rogers.”

They walked in silence for a few more steps until Steve pointed ahead.

“That’s my house, blue door.”

Bucky slowed, looking around. Recognition flashed across his face.

“Wait,” he said, “you live here?”

Steve looked confused, “Yeah…?”

Bucky pointed ahead of them, huge grin plastered on his face, “I live three doors down!”

Steve blinked, fighting a grin of his own, “Seriously?”

“Swear!”

Steve gave a small disbelieving laugh, “Guess I really can’t shake you now.”

“Nope, you’re stuck with me now, Stevie,” Bucky said as they walked up the stairs to Steve’s front door,

“Don’t make me leave you outside,” Steve teased over his shoulder, unlocking the front door and pushing it open,

“You wouldn’t,” Bucky replied breezily, turning to shut the door behind him.

“Don’t mind the mess,” Steve said automatically, though the home was far from messy. Lived in, maybe; however, everything was neat and purposefully placed, with a level of organisation that could only be achieved by a nurse. It was cosy, with light colourings on the walls and flooring, a beige wood. There was a coat rack by the door with two jackets, a shelf of worn paperbacks above a radiator and a couch with a pale blue knitted throw.
Bucky glanced around, taking it all in with genuine interest, noting the small details that made the space feel like home.

“Nice place,” he commented, his tone warm.

“Thanks,” Steve nodded, walking over to the sofa and throwing himself down into it.

Bucky placed his shoes neatly by the door, immediately turning toward the kitchen. “Aspirin?”

“Cabinet above the sink,”

Bucky disappeared for a moment, the sounds of cabinets opening and closing echoing faintly from the other room. He returned with a glass of water in one hand and two little tablets in the other.

“Here,” he said, handing them over, “head injuries and dehydration don’t mix.”

Steve raised an eyebrow as he took them, “You read that somewhere?”

“Had a concussion last year from falling off my bike,” Bucky replied, settling onto the couch with the ease of someone who’d sat in it multiple times before, “My ma freaked out and dragged me to the clinic, made me stay up all night. Nurse gave us this pamphlet - ‘watch for vomiting, blurry vision, sudden sleepiness, personality changes,’”

Steve placed the half-empty glass on the coffee table. “What happened to the bike?”

“Wheel got bent. Dad fixed it by the next. Day,” Bucky nodded at Steve’s head, “How’d you feel?”

“Fine,” Steve answered reflexively, sighing when he saw the look on Bucky’s face, “I have a slight headache.”

The headache was not slight. And judging by the look still plastered on Bucky’s face, he also knew it.

After what seemed like an eternity, Bucky sighed, “Rest your eyes a bit or somethin'. Not too long, though - you know, in case of the whole ‘eternal slumber’ thing,”

“Comforting.”

“I try.”

They sat in companionable silence for a moment until Bucky’s gaze drifted to the little side table next to the sofa. A small stack of hand-drawn comic pages sat neatly beside two worn books.

“These yours?” Bucky asked, already reaching for the top drawing.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. Steve didn’t stop him despite his embarrassment.

Bucky turned it over carefully, taking in the clean pencil lines - a tall, caped figure leaping between rooftops, expression grim, eyes determined, “This is awesome, Stevie!”

Steve flushed and looked away, “It’s just a sketch.”

Bucky grinned, leaning back with the paper still in hand, “He got a name?”

“Nope,” Steve answered, popping the P, “You got any ideas?”

“You giving me naming rights, Rogers?” Bucky teased, “Take a fella to dinner first.”

Steve let out a shocked laugh, doubling over in the sofa. He carried on laughing even when the throbbing in the skull told him to stop.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Steve wheezed out.

Bucky just shrugged, a proud grin on his face, “Nothing! And you’re the one laughing - maybe it’s something wrong with you,”

They passed the next hour flipping through comics, trading pages back and forth, pointing out their favourite panels and poking fun at the most dramatic lines. Every now and then, Bucky would throw out a terrible villain voice or make Steve laugh with an over-the-top narration. The throbbing in Steve’s head dulled to a faint pulse. The tension in his shoulders eased, and he yawned, shifting in his seat.

“You tired, Stevie?” Bucky said, looking at him,

Steve simply mumbled incoherently, settling back into the sofa.

Bucky glanced at the clock on the wall, “You haven’t been throwing up or anything, so you can probably sleep now - I hope. I’ll stay up and watch you until your ma gets back,”

Steve once again mumbled incoherently in what seemed to be thanks this time.

Bucky dutifully monitored Steve for the next half-hour or so, pinching himself when Steve’s soft snores tried to drag him to the realm of sleep. Eventually, he lost the battle, head lolling back as he snored alongside his new friend.

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Summary:

“You alright?” Bucky asked, keeping his tone casual as he nudged Steve lightly under the table with his knee.

“Yeah,” Steve said, then added, “Really alright.”

Bucky smiled, swirling the last of his potatoes through a streak of gravy. “Good.”

There was a pause, not awkward—just easy. The kind of quiet you didn’t feel the need to fill.

“I’ve never had dinner like this before,” Steve admitted quietly, eyes flicking over to where Becca and Beth were arguing over who got the last roll. “Not with… this many people. Not like this.”

Bucky followed his gaze. “Loud, chaotic, dramatic?”

Steve smiled. “Yep.”

The front door creaked open with its usual protest, followed by the soft click of Sarah Rogers setting down her keys on the little side table in the hall.

She stepped inside quietly, the weight of the hospital shift still clinging to her shoulders. Her feet ached. Her back ached. She ran her fingers through her now-freed blonde hair, feeling the tension slowly ebb away. The house was quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos of the hospital. She sighed, letting the silence wash over her, a balm to her already fading headache.

‘Home at last,’ she thought, ‘home at last.’ 

She hung her bag by the door and glanced into the living room, expecting emptiness.

What she saw instead made her stop in her tracks, a slow, surprised smile creeping onto her face.

Steve was curled on one end of the couch, his head tipped sideways, resting against the shoulder of Winifred’s son, who was also fast asleep. His dark curly hair was pressed flat against Steve’s head, and his chest rose and fell with each steady breath. 

Sarah's smile widened. 

Her living room looked like a comic shop had exploded in it - sketches scattered across the coffee table, pencils and erasers lying in a little pile, two open comic books flipped upside-down on the sofa cushion beside them. But Sarah couldn’t bring herself to care about the mess, not when the usual furrow that remained in her son’s brow, asleep or awake, was gone. She hadn't seen Steve this relaxed in weeks, and it warmed her heart to know he had finally found some peace. Especially when that peace was directly related to one of the sources of her own. 

Steve had never brought a friend home before.

Judging by the state of her living room, he'd shown his new friend his drawings, which he also had never done before.

He’d certainly never let himself fall asleep beside someone who wasn't her.

She stepped closer, her eyes softening as she took in the tender moment. There was a glass of water on the table, and beside it, a neatly folded, bloodied handkerchief. Her gaze flickered to the fresh plasters on her son’s cheek and knee, before focusing on the bandage at the back of his head.

She exhaled sadly, but made no move to wake them. 

Instead, she grabbed the knitted throw from the back of the armchair and gently draped it over both of them, careful not to disturb where Steve had tucked himself against James’ side.

She planted a gentle kiss on her son’s forehead, then began quietly tidying up - stacking papers, collecting pencils. Once everything was neat and calm again, she went to refill Steve’s glass of water, also filling one for James. After she’d set them on the coffee table, she turned for the front door again. She picked up her keys as gently as possible before unlocking the door and exiting with the same care.

The street was quiet, bathed in soft golden light from the setting sun. Sarah made her way down the front steps and crossed to the familiar stoop just three doors down. 

She didn’t need to knock - not at Winifred’s house. 

Still, Sarah knocked politely against the door.

Winifred Barnes appeared in the doorway within seconds, sleeves rolled and apron dusted with flour. A warm, buttery smell drifted through the open door. 

“Sarah!” She greeted brightly, “I was just about to put the roast on! Do come in, honey.” 

“That’s alright, I don’t want to bother,” Sarah began, mirroring Winifred’s bright smile, “I just wanted to let you know that your boy’s at mine with Steve. They’re passed out cold on the sofa - you should’ve seen the state of my living room!” 

Winifred chuckled, “Come in, Sarah.” 

When Sarah hesitated, Winifred added more firmly, “Dinner’s not going anywhere, dear.” 

Sarah smiled again and followed her through the home. 

The kitchen was warm and familiar, a teapot steaming gently on the stove, flour covering one of the countertops. Winifred moved easily around the space, setting out two cups without needing to ask. 

“It’s good that they’re already so close,” Sarah said, perching herself on one of the clean counters, “they look like sleeping puppies in that sofa.”

“Before you leave, take my camera with you,” Winifred giggled, passing her a cup. “We need to preserve these memories,” 

“That we do,” Sarah agreed as Winifred slid herself up on the counter next to her.

“Nurse Heller called earlier - said there’d been some trouble with that Marlon boy and James was going to walk Steve home with one of those little buddy passes,”

Sarah stilled, “Marlon? As in Barbara Marlon? Her boy?” 

“That’s the one. The nurse didn’t give me all the details, but said James brought Steve to her with blood dripping down his neck.” 

Steve’s jaw tightened a fraction as she mumbled, “He didn’t tell me.” 

“Steve?” Winifred asked gently.

Sarah nodded, “I knew something’d been happening. Every Tuesday, he comes home with a new injury. Says he fell. Or ran into a door. I didn’t want to push but…” She let out a breath, heavy with restrained frustration.

Winifred’s expression shifted from warmth to something sharper, “You want me to speak to Barbara for you?” She asked, tone deceptively light, “I promise I’ll be as gentle as she deserves.”

Sarah let out a startled laugh, covering her mouth. “Freddie.”

“What?” Winifred raised a brow, deadpan. “That woman lets her brat walk around just like she did - like he owns the place. I oughta give her a reminder about where that behaviour gets you,” 

“Apple doesn’t fall far, I suppose,” Sarah murmured, still smiling despite herself. 

Winifred reached over and gave her hand a quick squeeze. “I’m sorry you had to hear about it from me.” 

Sarah nodded, “He just doesn’t want to worry me. Thinks I’ve got enough to carry already.” 

“Remind you of anyone?”

That earned her a look. 

Winifred smirked behind her teacup. “Do you remember that Friday you came over to mine after school, and you had a split lip? Told me Barbara’d done it to you, but I should leave it alone.” 

Sarah eyed her warily, nodding, “Let me guess - you did not leave it alone.” 

Winifred giggled, “I did not. Clocked her right in that nose of hers come Monday afternoon. Told her about herself and all.” 

Sarah shook her head, smiling into her tea, “You always were better at standing up for people.” 

“You did your fair share of protecting people,” Winifred comforted, resting her head on Sarah’s shoulder, “You know how many of us you saved from a beatdown by taking it for us instead? I was one of them - that’s why I’ll never have any problem defending you or Steve.” 

There was a pause, soft and quiet between them, like the pause between one breath and the next. Then Winifred added: 

“...That and you’re good to gossip with,” 

Sarah and Winifred broke into giggles, feeling fifteen all over again.

“Come over for dinner. You and Steve both. I’ve made more than enough - and something tells me James’ll want to hover nearby for a while.” 

“Are you sure?” Sarah started, “I wouldn’t want to-”

“Sarah, dearest, if you continue that sentence, we’re going to have an issue,” Winifred interrupted, sliding off the counter. 

Sarah laughed again, following Winifred down to the tiled floor. “You’re impossible.” 

“Not impossible. Just European.” She answered, letting her accent slip into her words, “Go get the camera, take some pictures and bring the boys back.” 

“Will do,” Sarah said, already making her way to the hall closet.

 

Once Sarah had retrieved Winifred’s camera from the cupboard, she rushed to her own front door, slowing down to step inside with the same gentle care she’d left with. The boys hadn’t stirred. She tiptoed into the living room, pausing just to smile down at them again.

She raised the camera gently and clicked the shutter. 

Then once more, closer this time, just in case.

She smiled at the photos in the viewfinder, then set the camera aside, crouching down beside the sofa. She brushed her fingers through Steve’s hair and murmured, “Steve, sweetheart. Time to wake up,”

Steve scrunched his nose, groaning into James’ shoulder, “Five more minutes, ma…”

Sarah huffed a quiet laugh, “Come on, honey. You and James’ve got dinner plans across the street.”

At the mention of his name, James shot awake, looking around groggily before glancing down and realising he was being used as a pillow.

“ Hey,” James mumbled, nudging him, “you're drooling on my shirt.”

Steve groaned louder, lifting his head slightly and blinking the sleep from his eyes. “You’re one to talk,” he said blearily, “I think you got drool in my hair,” 

“Not my fault, you're comfy,” James rubbed his face and stared at him.

“Uh-huh, you’re the human radiator,” Steve laughed, shifting slowly to sit up,

“Boys,” Sarah laughed at the pair, shaking her head, “You’ve got about four minutes before Winifred takes the dinner out of the oven and comes over here herself to drag you over.” 

That got Steve moving, albeit slowly, “I’m so confused,” he muttered under his breath.

Despite his confusion, he walked over to James, who was already halfway into his shoes. The mention of dinner seemed to spark something in both boys - or at least stir them enough to stretch and sit upright, blinking like housecats pulled from a nap. There was a shared look between them, something wordless but familiar already, before they moved to gather themselves.

Steve stumbled as he tried to get his shoes on, both Sarah and James reflexively reaching out to steady him, 

“I’m okay,” Steve muttered, putting his feet in the shoes, “Still tired,” 

“Still tired?” James snorted, “After how you just slept?”

Steve scowled at him, elbowing him in his arm as he reached for the door.

Sarah smiled behind them, watching them banter all the way to the Barnes home. The walk to the Barnes’ didn’t take more than thirty seconds, but the boys managed to fill it with more bickering, a few near-stumbles, and some light teasing that Sarah could hear even from a few paces behind. She couldn’t stop the quiet fondness that bloomed in her chest as she watched them - Steve falling into step beside someone so easily, so naturally. It was new. But it was good.

As soon as the Barnes’ front door swung open, warm air and the scent of roasted vegetables and freshly baked bread greeted them.

“Come in, come in!” Winifred called from the kitchen before they’d even stepped inside. “Shoes off, hands washed!”

Sarah stepped through the doorway first, with Steve and Bucky close behind. She toed off her shoes and made her way straight to the kitchen. Bucky closed the door behind them, then bent to pull off his shoes again.

Within seconds, Winifred appeared in the hallway, flour dusting her cheeks, smile radiant, eyes misty.

“Ой, зайчик,” she cooed, reaching for Steve without hesitation. She cupped his face gently, kissed his cheek, and ran warm hands over his hair. “Look at you. So grown and polite - wasn’t it just yesterday I held you when you were no bigger than my soup pot?”

Steve flushed, startled but smiling anyway. “Hi, Mrs Barnes.”

“Winifred,” she corrected, smoothing his hair fondly. “Or Aunt Winny, if you like. You’re family.”

Behind him, Bucky cleared his throat loudly. “Hi. Hello. Your actual son is standing right here.”

Without missing a beat, Winifred turned and gently flicked him in the forehead.

“Don’t be cheeky,” she said playfully, then leaned up and kissed the same spot she’d flicked. “Thank you for looking after him.”

“It wasn’t a big deal,” Bucky mumbled, his cheeks just a little pinker than usual.

“It was a big deal,” Winifred replied gently, voice warm but firm. “You helped someone who needed you. That makes me proud, мой дорогой.”

With a dramatic wave of her hand, she ushered them toward the dining room. “Go, go! Sit! Food’s nearly ready.”

She disappeared back into the kitchen, muttering something about having to “chase down George before he forgets to carve the chicken.” 

Steve and Bucky stepped aside to wash their hands at the sink in the bathroom just off the hall, then padded toward the dining room. As they walked, Steve leaned over.

“How is it that our moms are basically best friends… and we’ve never met before?”

Bucky snorted. “I was literally just wondering that. My ma even knows you! She kissed you before she even said hi to me.”

Steve chuckled. “And she knew me when I was smaller than her soup pot.”

Bucky shot him a look. “So she knew you when you were a baby. I’ve lived in this house my whole life. Where’ve you been hiding?”

“I dunno,” Steve shrugged helplessly. “Guess we’ve just… been off-schedule or something?”

“Or,” Bucky said seriously, bumping his elbow against Steve’s, “this is all a very elaborate ploy and none of them actually know each other.”

Steve huffed a laugh as they stepped into the dining room.

The dining room was a picture of lived-in warmth; matching placemats, clinking plates, and the sound of two girls trying to out-speak one another. It took a moment for Steve to take it all in, the buzz of it so different from the quiet hum of his own home. But it wasn’t overwhelming. It was… nice. Familiar, somehow. Like a radio station he didn’t remember ever tuning into before, but already knew the words by heart.

From the kitchen, Winifred’s voice rang out:
“James! Stevie! Sit before the roast gets cold!”

Hands freshly washed, Steve sat in the chair next to Bucky, moving to tuck it in when a sudden thought hit him like a slap to the back of his already-wounded head.

He turned sharply, squinting. 

“Hold on a minute.” 

Bucky, mid-reach across the table, blinked at him. “What?”

Steve stared at him, allowing the pieces to click into place. “Is your name James ?”

Bucky froze. Then slowly, one corner of his mouth curled. “Technically, yeah.”

Steve gaped, “You told me your name was Bucky !”

“It is,” James/Bucky answered with a shrug, before grinning fully, “Kind of. It’s a nickname.”

“ James to Bucky? How- how does that even-?”

“Middle name’s Buchanan,” Bucky explained, casually shoving a potato into his mouth, “So, Bucky. I like it better than James. Sounds cooler.” 

From across the table, Winifred waved a fork in their direction. “ James is the name I gave him after I spent twelve agonising hours in labour,” She said dryly, “so you’ll forgive me if I still use it.”

“Ma-” Bucky groaned,

“Agonising,” She continued, “and then you had the nerve to come out frowning.” 

Steve snorted into his water, and Bucky turned to glare at him with no real heat. 

Steve wiped his face with his wrist before shaking his head in dramatic disbelief, “I can’t believe you gave me a fake name. And here I was thinking I was someone important,” 

“You are,” Bucky said simply, “Only my friends get to call me Bucky.”

Steve blinked. 

“Oh,” he said. And then softer, “cool.”

Steve ducked his head, letting himself smile down at his plate, a bit stunned by how warm it made him feel - that kind of offhand, easy acceptance. 

Becca, who’d been sneakily dipping her finger into the gravy boat, piped up brightly:

“So you have one friend? That’s real sad, man.” 

The pair broke off into an argument while Steve simply grinned, eating his food. 

Every voice around the table seemed to buzz with life. Winifred passed a dish of roast vegetables with practised ease, giving George a playful glare when he tried to sneak a piece of stuffing before she’d started to hand it out. Sarah was laughing at something Beth had said - something about how her teacher had confused her with Becca again, “and how dare she, because Becca wears her socks like a weirdo.”

“Do not,” Becca shot back across the table, then turned to Steve. “Tell her I don’t!”

Steve blinked, momentarily caught off guard by being pulled into the conversation. “They seem normal to me.”

“Ha!” Becca crowed triumphantly. Beth groaned and muttered something about betrayal.

“Don’t drag Steve into this,” Beth said, reaching past her sister for the salt. “He’s new. He doesn’t know any better.”

“New?” Becca asked with dramatic offence, “Ma kissed him on his way in! Before James!”

“I walked in first,” Steve muttered with a smile, cutting into his potatoes.

“Ma loves you,” Becca teased. “More than her firstborn!”

George chuckled into his drink. “Don’t let her butter you up, Steve, or she’ll start asking you to walk her to school next.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Steve said honestly, “I’m walking there anyway.”

That earned him a chorus of “awws” from the girls.

Eventually, as the food dwindled and conversation grew more scattered, Steve and Bucky found themselves leaning in toward each other a little, voices softening.

“You alright?” Bucky asked, keeping his tone casual as he nudged Steve lightly under the table with his knee.

“Yeah,” Steve said, then added, “Really alright.”

Bucky smiled, swirling the last of his potatoes through a streak of gravy. “Good.”

There was a pause, not awkward - just easy. The kind of quiet you didn’t feel the need to fill.

“I’ve never had dinner like this before,” Steve admitted quietly, eyes flicking over to where Becca and Beth were arguing over who got the last roll. “Not with… this many people. Not like this.”

Bucky followed his gaze. “Loud, chaotic, dramatic?”

Steve smiled. “Yep.”

Bucky glanced back at him, his grin softening. “It’s yours now too, y’know.”

Steve blinked, caught off guard.

“My house,” Bucky reminded. “If you ever need somewhere loud to go.”

Steve grinned down at his now-empty plate, “Yeah, thanks, Buck,”

Bucky nudged him again. “Only the special ones get to come back to my house.”

Steve huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You see, I would say take a fella to dinner first, but…”

Bucky burst into laughter, Steve following him. 

The next morning, Bucky and Steve walk to school together. The morning after that, they do it again. And every morning after that, it becomes a habit - Steve stepping into the Barnes front door, hair neat and backpack slung over his shoulder, calling out a half-grumbled, "You better be ready, Barnes”, as Bucky grins, slinging his own bag over one shoulder. 

Notes:

As you read this, you probably thought, 'Why is there so much going on?' multiple times.
Its because I wrote this chapter from 12am to 3am, running off of 4 hours of sleep the day before and 3 energy drinks so this is pretty much brain vomit

I'll probably rewrite this, maybe change it completely, idk but if I do it'll be once I've completed this part of the series!!

Also, yes Winifred and Sarah do actually know eachother, I just don't know how to introduce how they met and why Steve and Bucky didn't meet for so long in this fic but I will work it out soon. Probably. Hopefully. Maybe.

SN - Winifred Barnes does have a russian accent, however she forces herself to have an American one in public, a habit she picked up when she moved there. When she's around Sarah, she doesn't use it simply because she already knows she's not American-born. Also, this is the only chapter where the Russian will be in Russian - usually I prefer to use italics over english words for better understanding, idk why I didn't this time.

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Summary:

"Barnes, if you make me late again, I’m telling your ma you swiped cookies last night.” He’d never, but the threat made Bucky pause anyway, so Steve counted it as a win.

Bucky spat in the sink, rinsing his mouth and toothbrush before depositing it back into the cup and turning to face Steve with his arms crossed.

“Good morning to you too, punk.”

“Morning, jerk,” Steve responded easily.

Notes:

October, 1930.

This is, hopefully, one of the only time-skip chapters I will write since it's not very slow burn if I'm skipping forward a month every chapter.

Also, I don't know much about schools in America, so please let me know if there's anything I should change.

Hope you enjoy, reminder that constructive criticism is appreciated but please be kind!

The front door of the Barnes house creaked open, the morning light trailing in after Steve as he stepped over the threshold.

“Morning!” he called, bending to take his shoes off by the door.

From the kitchen came the clatter of a pan and Winifred’s voice, bright and cheery in a way only a Friday could bring: “Good morning, sweetheart!”

“Morning, Aunt Winny,” Steve called back, now shrugging off his jacket and hooking it on the peg by the door.

He made his way up the carpeted stairs, slowing as he passed Becca and Beth’s open bedroom door. The twins were seated cross-legged on the rug in matching pyjamas, bickering over a magazine even though they had less than twenty minutes to get dressed.

“Alright, menaces,” Steve said, poking his head into the room, “time to get ready or you’re gonna be late.”

The pair groaned loudly at the reminder they had school, but still dragged themselves to their feet, muttering all the way to their wardrobe.

Steve grinned, shaking his head fondly as the girls reluctantly headed for their wardrobe. He continued down the hall toward the bathroom, where he could hear the faint hum of running water and a toothbrush being aggressively wielded. 

He pushed the door open, unsurprised to see Bucky standing at the sink, still in his pyjamas, toothpaste running down the side of his mouth.

“Barnes, if you make me late again, I’m telling your ma you swiped cookies last night.” He’d never, but the threat made Bucky pause anyway, so Steve counted it as a win. 

Bucky spat in the sink, rinsing his mouth and toothbrush before depositing it back into the cup and turning to face Steve with his arms crossed.

“Good morning to you too, punk.”

“Morning, jerk,” Steve responded easily, reaching up to flatten Bucky’s hair, “You get electrocuted in your sleep or something? Your hair’s sticking up like an antenna,” 

Bucky scoffed at him but bent his head down, reducing the strain on Steve’s arm as he curled the upright strands around his fingers, forcing them to blend in with the rest of Bucky’s head.

When Steve was satisfied with his handiwork, he turned on his heel and headed for Bucky’s bedroom, muttering, “still in pyjamas at this hour…should leave you behind.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and splashed his face with warm water before shutting off the tap. 

When he returned to his bedroom, Steve was already sprawled out in his bed, flicking through a comic he’d picked off of Bucky’s shelf.

Bucky dragged his feet to his chest of drawers, flicking through it without paying any real attention. 

“What should I wear?” He mumbled absently, not actually directing the question at anyone. 

 

Still, he got an answer.

A stupid ass answer.

 

“Clothes, I hope.” 

Bucky froze mid-rummage and slowly turned to glare at Steve, who was peering over the comic with the smuggest grin imaginable.

“You think you’re so funny, don’t you?”

“I know I’m funny.”

Bucky gave him another long-suffering look, then turned back to the drawer, muttering under his breath as he pulled out an outfit.

Once Bucky had finished changing, he and Steve made their way back downstairs, reaching the living room at the same time Winifred bustled in from the kitchen with two plates of pancakes slathered in raspberry compote in hand and a dish tower slung over her shoulder. Without missing a beat, she pressed a kiss to the top of each boy’s head, handed them their plates, and nudged them toward the sofa.

“There’s more in the kitchen if either of you wants seconds before you leave,” she said, then turned to Steve with a familiar kind of softness in her tone. “Any trouble at school, you come right back here and tell me, alright?”

“Yes, Aunt Winny,” Steve said, around a forkful of pancakes, lips twitching into a smile.

Then she turned to Bucky, leaning in close to whisper something low in Russian - quiet enough that Steve couldn’t hear, but the look on Bucky’s face made it clear it wasn’t just a reminder to bring his lunch.

Bucky grinned. “Got it, Ma.”

Winifred kissed his forehead. “Good boy.”

She lingered a moment longer, hands on her hips as she watched them eat, then headed back into the kitchen, humming softly under her breath.

Just as the boys were finishing their pancakes, Becca and Beth came stomping downstairs, mid-argument about whether Beth’s skirt was actually hers or the one that had mysteriously disappeared from Becca’s side of the wardrobe last week.

“You two want us to walk you to school?” Steve offered, collecting both his and Bucky’s now-empty plates and padding off toward the kitchen with a soft nod to Bucky’s murmured “thanks.”

“We’ll be fine!” Beth called after him. “We’re very capable, you know.”

“Capable of stealing my clothes,” Becca muttered, prompting her sister to continue their argument from earlier.

“Alright, alright, you two,” Bucky laughed as Steve returned, “ just share the skirt. ”

That earned him twin cries of “No!” before the argument resumed. Steve and Bucky just exchanged a grin and made their way to the front door.

Bucky had just shoved one shoe on when he paused. “Wait - forgot something.”

He darted off toward the kitchen with his school bag in hand.

Steve hummed absently, pulling on his second shoe and reaching for his jacket. By the time Bucky returned, Steve was already shrugging it on.

“All done?” Steve asked.

“All done.”

Bucky grabbed his own jacket off the peg and slung it over his shoulders.

“Have a good day, boys!” Winifred called down from the second floor as the door opened.

“We will!” they chorused, stepping out into cool morning air.

 

The sun had already returned to dry the streets but the sidewalks still glistened in places from last night’s shower. 

Steve and Bucky walked side by side down the familiar street, satchels slung across their backs. The quiet between them was easy and familiar, only broken by the occasional crunch of gravel underfoot or the rustle of wind through the still-bare trees.

They turned the corner at the end of the street, the sun filtering through the branches overhead, casting shifting shadows on the sidewalk.

“So,” Bucky said casually, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket, “you finish that comic I lent you?”

“Yeah,” Steve nodded, adjusting the strap of his satchel. “Last night. Stayed up too late reading it.”

Bucky smirked. “Did you cry?”

Steve scoffed. “Course not.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You absolutely cried when the sidekick came back brainwashed.”

Steve squinted at him. “You’re projecting. You cried.”

“Maybe,” Bucky admitted, grinning shamelessly. “But I don’t deny it like a coward.”

Steve bumped their shoulders together. “I’m not a coward.”

“Fine, you’re a big, strong fella who cries over nothing.”

“Yeah, unlike you, who cried over Understood Betsy when your ma read it to you.”

“I was seven!” Bucky cried, scandalised. “It was very sweet! I was happy for her!”

Steve barked a laugh, nearly tripping over a crack in the pavement. Bucky instinctively reached out to steady him by the elbow, then let go just as easily, like it was second nature.

They kept walking.

After a few more steps, Bucky smirked and added, “Still cried, though.”

Steve groaned. “You’re the worst.”

Bucky grinned, shrugging. “Probably. But you already knew that when you agreed to be my best friend.”

Steve huffed a laugh and gave him a playful shove, which nearly sent both of them stumbling off the curb.

They fell into step once more, still laughing, just as the schoolyard came into view up ahead - kids gathering in small clusters, dragging their feet toward the entrance as the bell loomed overhead. The early sun lit the brick walls in soft gold, and there was a faint buzz in the air.

Bucky tilted his head toward Steve. “You think you can make it without tripping over your own feet?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Just for that, I’m walking behind you so I can watch you trip first.”

“Bold of you to assume I trip.”

Steve raised an eyebrow.

“…Alright, I’ve tripped once or twice,” Bucky conceded with a grin. “But only when you’re distracting me.”

They slowed as they reached the front steps, pausing beneath the shadow of the school’s archway. Bucky nudged Steve lightly with his shoulder, more habit than thought.

“Same spot for lunch?”

Steve nodded. “Same spot.”

Bucky gave him a mock salute before turning down the hall toward his own classroom.

Steve watched him go for a second longer than necessary, then turned the other way, slipping into the stream of students filing into their rooms.

Bucky peeled off toward his classroom, shoulders still relaxed from the walk. He could hear the bell ringing overhead, but didn’t bother speeding up  -  Miss Walker wasn’t the type to scold anyone for being a few seconds late. She barely looked up when he slid into his seat by the window.

Outside, the sun was climbing higher, pushing pale gold light through the panes. Bucky dug through his satchel and pulled out his textbook, spinning a pencil absently between his fingers as the lesson started. Something about verbs. Or maybe fractions. He wasn’t really paying attention.

He thought about how Steve would easily lean into his space like it was nothing - like they’d known each other forever instead of just a few weeks. How he’d threatened to tattle about cookies, of all things, this morning. How easy it all was - the routine of it, comics in the evening, school in the morning, alternating houses on the weekend.

And maybe it was a little pathetic, how much Bucky looked forward to those walks. To those small stretches of time where it was just them.

But it didn’t feel pathetic.

It felt… normal. Safe.

Something steady to lean on.

The brightness outside made everything in the classroom feel a little less dull, a little less grey. Bucky kept an eye on the clock as Miss Walker launched into the next problem on the board.

Forty-eight minutes.

He straightened up, forcing himself to focus, realising the longer he thought about seeing his friend again, the longer the lesson would drag.

Eventually, the bell rang sharp, echoing off the tile floors. Kids spilled into the hallway, books clutched to chests, lockers slamming open and shut. Before he even realised, his bag was packed and he was out the door.

He moved automatically through the crowd, past classmates calling after him.

And then he felt it.

Something was off.

There was a certain hum in this corridor on any other day, but right now, the air felt flat. Tense. Off-kilter.

He didn’t slow as he rounded the corner near the younger year hall.

Then he saw it.

Steve - backed up against the lockers. Jimmy Marlon standing far too close, one hand braced by Steve’s head. His voice was low, smirking. The same look he wore whenever he thought he had the upper hand. His goons lounged nearby, watching like it was some sorta movie.

Bucky’s jaw locked.

He didn’t stop to think.

“Back off,” he snapped, voice slicing through the air like a blade.

Jimmy turned lazily, barely stepping aside. “Hello, Jamie,” he sneered. “Didn’t realize your guard dog followed you around school, Rogers.”

“Move,” Bucky said flatly.

Jimmy raised an eyebrow. “Funny. Didn’t know you were his babysitter now. What - he been crying to you about me?”

“You gone deaf, Marlon?” Bucky stepped forward, straight into the space between them. “I said move.”

Jimmy scoffed, stepping back just a little. “Real protective lately, huh? My ma says you two are Sarah and Winifred all over again.”

Bucky’s spine stiffened at the mention of his mother.

Jimmy smirked, noticing the reaction.

“So what now, James?” he goaded, “you gonna hit me like your ma hit mine?”

Bucky’s eyes darkened.

“Do you want me to?”

Jimmy’s face twisted, and his goons started to shift uneasily behind him.

“I’m not scared of you, Barnes.”

Bucky stepped in close, just enough that Jimmy had to step back again. He dropped his voice low, so no one else would hear, but Jimmy definitely would.

“The next time I see you breathing down his neck,” Bucky said, calm and cold, “ I’m beating your ass.”

Jimmy’s smile faltered. “You threatening me?”

He didn’t respond, just turned his attention to Steve, who still hadn’t moved.

“Come on,”

Steve immediately walked beside him, and neither of them looked back.

“You good?” Bucky asked, his voice softening now.

Steve nodded, staying quiet. 

“Okay,” Bucky said. “Let’s go before the twins kill each other,”

Bucky knew Marlon was still standing there. 

Watching. 

But he didn’t care - this was the last time Jimmy Marlon was getting a warning from him.

Steve broke the silence once they were halfway down the stairs. 

“I could’ve handled it.”

“I know. But you shouldn’t have to.”

Steve didn’t answer that immediately.

Eventually, he looked away before speaking again, “I don’t want you getting in trouble for me.”

“I don’t care if I get in trouble,” Bucky said, voice sharper than he intended. 

Steve looked at him again, and Bucky’s voice gentled.

“Would you do it for me?”

Steve snorted, “dumb ass question. You know I would.”

“Okay then,” Bucky continued, pushing open the doors at the bottom of the stairs, “let me do it for you.” 

They walked towards the quiet corner of the playground, the same spot where Bucky had met Steve for the first time - long overdue if you asked him (c’mon; their ma’s are literally best friends).

Becca and Beth were already there, sitting cross-legged on the bench with their lunches in their laps, arguing over something that involved a broken pencil and a rumour about their math teacher having a secret twin. Beth looked up first, breaking into a grin when she spotted the boys approaching.

“Took you long enough,” she called, tossing a half-eaten apple from one hand to the other. “What, get lost on your way here?”

“Ran into a detour,” Bucky muttered.

Steve didn’t say anything, but Becca caught the faint pinch in his brow. She nudged Beth and jerked her head subtly at Steve before scooting to the side, making room for the boys to sit.

The boys dropped their bags and sat - Steve first, then Bucky right beside him, their knees bumping as they settled in.

Bucky reached into his satchel and pulled out a neatly wrapped paper bag, pressing it into Steve’s hands.

“Here,” he said, “my ma made lunch for both of us.”

Steve blinked at it, startled. “She doesn’t have to do that. My ma still gives me money to get lunch, y’know.”

Bucky shrugged, already unwrapping his own sandwich. “Give it back to her.”

“I’ve tried,” Steve muttered, unfolding the paper. “But she said she would slam her own head through the drywall before she took any money from me, whether she gave it to me for lunch that I no longer need to buy or not.”

Bucky huffed a laugh. “Save it, then. Work it out later. Eat now.”

Steve cracked a grin and took a bite, chewing in thoughtful silence. The familiar flavours settled in his mouth - jam and peanut butter. Winifred always spread right to the edges. The bench creaked slightly as Bucky shifted, leaning back.

The girls fell back into some new debate about whether Steve needed to read The Secret Garden or Anne of Green Gables next. Steve, mouth still full, mumbled something noncommittal and was immediately overruled.

A little later, Steve pulled a folded comic from his bag and started reading it on his lap. Bucky leaned sideways, glancing down at the page, then nudged Steve lightly with his elbow.

“Eat.” 

Steve rolled his eyes but took another bite anyway.

The rest of lunch passed in fits of laughter and half-baked debates - all started by the twins, Bucky and Steve dragged into them. 

One about whether or not birds could be trained to deliver mail (Beth swore they could), another about whether marmalade was a jam (Becca said yes, Bucky said absolutely not: ‘jams are for berries,’ ), and one particularly heated back-and-forth about who was taller - Becca or Beth.

Steve foolishly reminded them they were identical. The same height. That did not go well for him.

Eventually, the bell rang again, sending everyone scrambling across the yard. Becca and Beth darted off toward the west building for their next class, still mid-argument, leaving Steve and Bucky to head toward the main corridor.

Bucky didn’t say anything, just walked beside Steve all the way to his next class like it was routine. Which, at this point, it kind of was.

Steve slowed at the doorway, clutching his books. “You don’t have to walk me every time, y’know.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “And let you trip over your own feet in front of your whole class again? That’s bad for my brand.”

Steve narrowed his eyes. “You don’t have a brand, and that happened once.”

“Twice.”

Steve huffed a laugh and nudged him lightly. “Go to class.”

Bucky rolled his eyes but smiled anyway, then turned and started back the way he came. “See you after.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, already stepping inside. “See you.”

 

The final bell rang sharp and clear, and Steve let out a quiet sigh of relief as he packed his books into his satchel. His last class had dragged worse than usual, the kind of slow where the clock ticked louder than the teacher’s voice.

But the moment he stepped into the hallway, the lesson immediately faded into the background of his mind.

Bucky was already leaning against the wall across from his classroom door, arms folded loosely, eyes scanning the crowd. His hair was a little messier than it had been this morning, and his shirt was wrinkled at the collar, but his face brightened the second he spotted Steve.

“There he is,” Bucky said, pushing off the wall. “Thought you got buried under all that science.”

“Nearly did,” Steve muttered, shifting his satchel on his shoulder. “You could’ve come in and rescued me.”

“You say that like I wouldn’t have,” Bucky said with a grin, starting to walk.

They synchronised easily, feet hitting the floor at the exact same time, Steve nudging Bucky as they made their way through the bustling hall. By the time they reached the school gate, the sun was slanting lower in the sky, streaks of orange and gold stretching across the pavement.

Becca and Beth were already waiting by the gate, bickering, again, this time about whose turn it was to feed the neighbour’s cat after school. Becca was holding a scrunched-up permission slip in one hand and waving it around like it was proof in a courtroom.

The second they saw the boys, Beth pointed dramatically at Steve.

“Tell her she’s being ridiculous.”

“Nope,” Steve said, not even slowing down.

“Coward,” Becca muttered, falling into step beside them anyway.

“Hey!” Steve said, but there was no heat behind it.

Bucky just rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, “How many arguments can they have?”

“They’re your sisters, surely you know that already.” 

They started down the familiar sidewalk, their group noisy, a little uncoordinated, but easy in the way only people who saw each other every day could be. Their footsteps scuffed along the cracked pavement as the sun dipped lower behind the row of buildings.

Steve glanced sideways at Bucky, who was listening to the twins argue again - this time about whether hot chocolate counted as a soup.

It was ridiculous.

It was loud.

And it was perfect.

 

Notes:

This is the last of Jimmy Marlon for a while (Thank the heavens, I'm tired of him - yes, I know, I wrote him don't @ me). I am dreading having to write his mother.

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

Summary:

“I used to come down here sometimes. Before we were friends. When I needed to sit and think or somethin’.”

“Figured- figured it’d be nice for both of us to have somewhere to go. Y’know, if we don’t feel like going home right away.” 

Steve didn’t answer right away; he just kept looking at Bucky, feeling that warm, explosive kind of happiness that made him want to jump in joy and run around and scream, asthma be damned. 

Bucky might not think much of it - just a nice spot by the water that he likes. But to Steve, it was something else entirely. Sure, loads of people came to the docks every day, but Bucky brought him here. To his spot.

And now Steve was sitting in his spot too, because Bucky wanted him there. 

“It’s nice,” he said eventually, voice certain.

Notes:

Probably takes the cake as Most-Self-Indulgent-Chapter so far. Idk, I love the idea of Bucky being a dork that finds himself hilarious. Also, as you can probably tell, I have no idea what 12/13 year old boys talk about, let alone when they're from the forties, so I'm grateful for any insight!

Also, I've updated my posting schedule to about twice a week (Mon, Wed/Thur) so I can get to the parts I'm excited to write faster, but this does also mean the word count is EXTREMELY sporadic.

The very moment the final bell rang, signalling the end of the hell-on-earth that was his maths lesson, Steve let out a long sigh of relief. As he packed his equipment back into his satchel, he glanced up at the door to see Bucky, already there and leaning against the far wall, hands in his pockets. 

He grinned and quickened his motions, slipping his jacket on and slinging his bag over his shoulder as he walked out the door.

“How’re you always right there as soon as my lesson ends?” Steve asked, not pausing in his stride.

Bucky just shrugged at him in response, falling into step right beside him. “Teacher lets me out early.”

“You mean you sneak out once her back is turned?” 

Bucky elbowed him, smirking, before straightening as he remembered something. “We’re taking a different route home today, I wanna show you something.”

Steve narrowed his eyes, “Show me what ?”

“You’ll see.”

“Great. That’s not worrying at all.” 

He didn’t actually mind taking a detour; he knew Bucky wouldn’t intentionally land them in trouble, so he had nothing to worry about. Besides, he’d realised he was very unlikely to say no to his idiot best friend anyway, and would question things just for the sake of it, if only to see what nonsense Bucky would say in return. 

They walked through the main doors into the crisp autumn air, the playground already busy with kids streaming towards the gates. Becca and Beth were standing right by it, mid-bicker. As per usual. 

Bucky and Steve made their way over to them, the two girls barely glancing up, too engrossed in their argument.

“You two gonna make it home without pushing each other into the road?” Bucky asked once they were in front of them.

Both twins turned to glare at him in perfect unison. 

“Yes, we can make it home on our own,” Becca replied, with exaggerated patience.

“No, James, we won’t kill each other,” Beth added, crossing her arms. 

Steve bit back a laugh at the tones.

Before Bucky could fire back, Becca narrowed her eyes. “Where’re you going anyway?”

“Somewhere,” Bucky replied without missing a beat.

“Thanks, that tells us a lot,” Beth said dryly.

“No worries,” Bucky shot back with a grin.

They both scowled at Bucky before turning to Steve with matching smiles. 

“We hope you have fun wherever this idiot is dragging you off to,” Beth said, pointedly staring at him.

“Anything happens? Blame Bucky .” Becca said, ignoring her brother's indignant cry of ‘What?’

Steve laughed, “Will do. You two get home safe.” 

“We will!” They answered in unison before turning to walk towards their house. 

“See you guys later!” Bucky called before turning to Steve with a smirk. “Alright. Let’s go.”

They exited the gates before heading in the opposite direction of the twins, Bucky leading them down a side street lined with narrow stoops and laundry lines strung high between buildings. The air smelt faintly of coal smoke and bread from the bakery on the corner. 

Steve glanced sideways at Bucky. “So… any chance you’re gonna tell me where we’re going before we get there?” 

Bucky stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned to smirk at him. “Nope.” 

Steve huffed, “Wonderful.”

“You’ll be fine,” Bucky said, nudging him lightly. “It’s not like I’m taking you to join a murderous gang because I accidentally became their accomplice.”

“That’s oddly speci-” Steve cut himself off, frowning. “Wait. Is that where you’re taking me!?”

“No!” Bucky laughed. “We’re not doing anything illegal or dangerous.” 

Steve narrowed his eyes at him before shaking his head and continuing to follow Bucky.

“I don’t know why I put up with you, I really don’t,” he sighed, though he was fighting a smile. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Bucky said, grinning, “C’mon, this way.” 

Without another word, he cut across the pavement, Steve keeping pace right beside him. They wove deeper into the side streets, the city’s usual noise softening to the occasional shout from an open window or the clatter of a distant trolley. 

Steve eyed the turns they were taking. “You’re not lost, are you?” 

Bucky scoffed. “Do I look lost?” 

“Yes, actually.”

Bucky turned to squint at him. “You’re lucky I like you, Rogers.” 

“I’m sure I am,” Steve responded, voice perfectly flat. 

Finally, Bucky slowed and nodded toward the next corner. “Alright, just up here.” 

Steve peered ahead but saw nothing out of the ordinary, just more brick buildings and narrow sidewalks. “Up here, what? A sweetshop? An underground fighting club? Because they’re not letting us in.”

“Better.”

“You’re just saying that so I’ll keep walking.” 

“You’d keep walking even if I said nothin’” 

“ Wow - How is your head not heavy?” Steve asked, feigning amazement. 

“You’re a punk.” 

“Jerk.” Steve shot back immediately, smirking.

They passed a few shopfronts with faded awnings, some already closed for the day. One of the windows held a tidy arrangement of art equipment: sketchbooks, watercolour tins, blending stumps - the works. Steve slowed for a second to look in, but Bucky caught his sleeve and pulled him forward. 

“You can browse later, Picasso.”

Steve rolled his eyes but let himself be pulled along, curiosity gnawing at him now. 

“Better be worth all this mystery,” he muttered.

“Oh, it is,” Bucky promised, the corner of his mouth twitching in a way that told Steve he was enjoying this far too much. 

Another turn brought them to a quiet block where the streetlights leaned a little and the pavement had been worn smooth. Halfway down, between a tailor’s shop and a shuttered grocer, was a narrow alley barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side. 

Bucky slowed and tipped his head towards it. “This way.” 

Steve eyed the shadowy entrance. “That’s not ominous at all.” 

They ducked into it, the brick walls pressing close on either side. The quiet was broken only by the faint, steady rush of water somewhere ahead. The alley turned sharply, then again, until it suddenly widened into a quiet backstreet that sloped down toward the docks. 

The air was different here - cooler, carrying the briny scent of the river.

Steve slowed as the street opened onto the pier, where a stretch of low stone wall marked the edge. “The docks?” he asked, though there was already another smile pulling at his mouth.

“Not just the docks,” Bucky said, stepping forward like a ringmaster revealing his main act. “The best spot on the docks. Nobody comes down here this time of day, and you can see the whole skyline when the sun sets.” 

Steve followed him to the far end of the brick wall, looking up as a few gulls wheeled overhead, their cries sharp.

Bucky hopped up onto the edge of the wall, letting his legs swing freely over the side, and patted the space next to him. Steve climbed up right beside him, the cool stone beneath him making him shiver despite his trousers, and let his gaze drift outward.

The breeze coming off the river was sharper here, whipping through Steve’s hair until it stuck out in every direction. 

Steve leaned forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees as he took in the view. Besides him, Bucky sat relaxed, a small smile on his face. 

A sudden gust tore through, sharper than the rest, sending another shiver through Steve before he could think to hide it.

“Get your scarf on,” Bucky said, not even looking at him.

“I’m not even cold-”

“Get your scarf on,” Bucky repeated firmer, turning this time. “If you get sick, it’s not gonna be fun for you.”

“Okay, ma,” Steve grumbled, reaching into his bag. 

Bucky smirked at him as he tugged the scarf from his satchel and looped it around his neck. 

“Happy?” Steve asked, dramatically holding his arms out. ‘

“Ecstatic,” Bucky said, leaning back on his hands. “Now we can enjoy the view without your teeth chattering.” 

Steve rolled his eyes, grinning, before turning back to the water.

They sat in silence for a while, just staring out into the seemingly endless water. The sun hung low enough now to spill gold across it, turning the ripples into shifting streaks of light. 

Ferries moved to and from the docks, cutting pale lines through the river, and small fishing boats bobbed where they sat. Farther out, a barge slid past, engine rumbling faintly beneath the wind.

After a moment, Bucky shifted, visibly mulling over the words in his head. Steve just turned to face him, waiting patiently for him to start speaking. 

“I used to come down here sometimes. Before we were friends. When I needed to sit and think or somethin’.”

“Figured- figured it’d be nice for both of us to have somewhere to go. Y’know, if we don’t feel like going home right away.” 

Steve didn’t answer right away; he just kept looking at Bucky, feeling that warm, explosive kind of happiness that made him want to jump in joy and run around and scream, asthma be damned. 

Bucky might not think much of it - just a nice spot by the water that he likes. But to Steve, it was something else entirely. Sure, loads of people came to the docks every day, but Bucky brought him here. To his spot.

And now Steve was sitting in his spot too, because Bucky wanted him there. 

“It’s nice,” he said eventually, voice certain.

Bucky glanced sideways at him. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Steve confirmed, eyes back on the water. “Might not come here alone, though. Not if I have to go through that alley to get here.” 

Bucky snorted. “What, scared a trash can’s gonna jump out at ya?”

Steve shot him a look. “Don’t laugh. One noise behind me in there and I’m turning to dust.

Bucky grinned. “Guess we’ll just come here together.”

Steve huffed, pretending to be disappointed. “Guess so.” 

Bucky shook his head, snickering now. 

From there, the conversation dissolved into easy laughter and little jabs, each one bouncing off the other and coming back twice as fast. They traded ridiculous ideas about what was hiding in the alley - sentient garbage cans? Trolls? A gang of ghosts?

After a while, their laughter faded back into that comfortable quiet, both of them watching the river, completely at peace. The golden light deepened to amber, shadows stretching across the docs as the sun sank lower. The wind picked up again, but neither of them moved. The world felt smaller and wider all at once, just the two of them on that wall with the river stretching out like forever in front of them. 

By the time the sun finally slipped behind the skyline, the ripples had turned a deep, burnished copper. Steve’s cheeks hurt from smiling, and he was almost reluctant to stand when Bucky finally hopped down from the wall.

They started back the way they came, the river breeze fading behind them as they retraced their steps through the streets. The air was cooler than it’d been earlier, so much so that Steve burrowed into his scarf. 

He shoved his hands into his pockets, keeping pace beside Bucky as they cut through the alleys.

He could feel Bucky looking at him - smug, expectant, like a cat waiting for someone to notice the mouse it’d dropped at their feet.

He ignored it. Or at least, he tried to. 

Halfway through the third or fourth turn, Bucky’s gaze was practically burning a hole into the side of his head. Steve bit the side of his cheek to keep from smiling.

Finally, with a long-suffering sigh, he glanced sideways. “Yes, Bucky,” he said, voice dry but warm, “the walk was worth it.”

Immediately, Bucky’s face lit up like he’d just won an award. “Yes!” he shouted, punching the air so hard he nearly lost his balance.

Steve burst out laughing, the sheer drama of the reaction catching him off guard. “You’re an idiot.” 

Bucky grinned wider, unbothered, “Best kind of idiot you’ll ever meet, Rogers.” 

Steve shook his head, still laughing, and they kept walking.

By the time they rounded the school’s street, the lamps were all flickering to life, casting long golden pools over the pavement. 

“What’d your ma say to you the other day?” Steve asked suddenly, the thought popping back into his head.

Bucky didn’t even hesitate. “I authorise all fighting on Steve’s behalf,” he answered. 

In Russian. 

Steve glared at him. Because while that was probably exactly what she said technically, he knew that Bucky knew he needed him to say it in English. “I don’t speak Russian, Bucky.” 

“That’s what she said,” Bucky replied with a shrug, his grin making it clear he wasn’t about to translate. 

Steve narrowed his eyes. “You’re an asshole.” 

Bucky gasped, clutching his chest in mock horror. “Goodness, Steven Grant! Such vulgar language! What would your ma say?” 

“What would your ma say if I told her about all your swearing, James Buchanan?” 

Bucky stared at him. “You wouldn’t.” 

Steve shrugged, feigning nonchalance, “Maybe I will.”

Five minutes later, Steve glanced sideways at Bucky, the question from earlier still poking at him.

“Okay,” he said, nudging Bucky, “what did she actually say?” 

Bucky pretended to think about it for a moment before repeating exactly what he said earlier.

Steve squinted, “Do you mind saying it in English, Barnes?” 

“It.”

He burst out laughing at his own joke, veering a little off course as he walked, while Steve paused, giving him a flat look. “Do you think you’re funny?”

“So funny,” Bucky replied, again in Russian, before doubling over with more laughter, nearly colliding with a lamppost. 

Steve groaned, rubbing a hand down his face, but he found himself biting his bottom lip anyway. He refused to laugh and encourage Bucky further. 

Steve shook his head, still fighting a smile as they reached their street. When they finally reached Steve’s house, Bucky followed him right up to his front door, hands still tucked in his pockets.

Once Steve unlocked the door, Bucky straightened and gave him a mock salute, “See you tomorrow.” 

Steve smiled, putting his key back into his pocket. “Be awake when I get to your house tomorrow.” 

“Yes, Captain Rogers.” Bucky groaned as he turned to cross the road and walk to his own house, tossing a lazy wave over his shoulder. 

Steve shook his head, still smiling as he closed his front door behind him. 

Notes:

As always, constructive criticism is appreciated, but please be nice! Thank you for reading, kisses and hugs!!

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

Summary:

“Steve, please,” Bucky groaned, scrambling closer, “I’m no good at history!”

Steve made a show of turning back to the comic book, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

“Stevie! My bestest friend in the entire world,  please help me! I will do anything!” Bucky went on, throwing himself dramatically forward and wrapping both hands around Steve’s ankle. “I can’t take much more of that- I’ll die .”

“Alright, alright!” Steve laughed, shaking his leg to free himself. “I’ll help!”

Bucky let go immediately, falling back onto his rear with a long, relieved sigh. “Anything you want.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that, Barnes,” Steve said with a smirk as he moved to sit beside him.

Notes:

This was both the easiest and hardest chapter to write because I am not a stranger to helping or being helped with homework. I am, however, a stranger to it being done as nicely as these two do it - my friends have called me some insane things, and I have done the same.

Bucky was leaning over the coffee table, glaring at his history homework like he could just turn it to ash if he concentrated hard enough. His face was scrunched up so tightly it was a wonder his eyebrows hadn’t fused together. 

In the last five minutes, he’d changed position at least a dozen times. Every so often, he’d stop moving around long enough to scribble a few words, stare at them, and then mutter something under his breath before erasing them and shifting again. 

Steve was perched sideways on the sofa behind him, with a comic open across his knees, and glanced up from the page he was reading. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched in quiet amusement, biting back a laugh every time Bucky’s hand twitched toward crumpling up the paper before visibly remembering what it was and deciding against it.

When it became clear Bucky was getting increasingly close to ripping the curls right out of his head in his vexation, he decided to attempt to help. 

He leaned forward slightly to glance at the page and had to pull back almost immediately to keep himself from laughing right in his friend’s ear; the page was a mess - it had crumpled where Bucky had aggressively erased his answers, there were dents from where he wrote harsher than necessary and faint ghosts of scribbled-out answers, despite Bucky’s best efforts to scrub them from existance. 

Steve stared up at the ceiling and counted back from seven in his head before he dared to try again. This time, he got a good look at the question that was driving Bucky up the wall:

‘Which battle is considered the turning point of the American Revolutionary War?’

“Battle of Saratoga,” he said casually, smiling. “Burgoyne surrendered.” 

Bucky’s head snapped up, and he turned to look at him, “You- What? How ?” 

Steve shrugged at him. “I like history,”

Bucky tugged his bottom lip between his teeth, clearly weighing his pride against the chance of getting the homework done and over with. After a beat of evident deliberation, he sighed and turned fully to face Steve.

“Help me,” He begged, clasping his hands together, even going as far as to shift fully onto his knees, “please.”

Well, pride clearly lost that battle. 

Steve tilted his head back up to the ceiling, tapping his chin before looking at Bucky with the kindest smile he could muster up, “Absolutely not.” 

“Steve, please,” Bucky groaned, scrambling closer, “I’m no good at history!” 

Steve made a show of turning back to the comic book, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. 

“Stevie! My bestest friend in the entire world,  please help me! I will do anything!” Bucky went on, throwing himself dramatically forward and wrapping both hands around Steve’s ankle. “I can’t take much more of that- I’ll die .” 

“Alright, alright!” Steve laughed, shaking his leg to free himself. “I’ll help!”

Bucky let go immediately, falling back onto his rear with a long, relieved sigh. “Anything you want.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that, Barnes,” Steve said with a smirk as he moved to sit beside him.

They both settled back at the table, Bucky sliding the homework between them. Steve glanced over the questions as the other wrote down the answer Steve had just given him. 

When Bucky put his pencil down, Steve picked it up and used it as a pointer. “Okay, this one’s about Valley Forge. What happened there?” 

Bucky blinked at him. “...Was there a forge?” 

Steve just gave him a flat look, “How many of your history lessons have you been awake in?”

“All of them!” Bucky defended before faltering, “ Some of them…”

Steve is already considering leaving him to do the rest on his own. 

“Cold winter, soldiers freezing, supplies running low…” Steve used his hands to motion for Bucky to continue. 

Bucky stared at him like the answer might suddenly appear on his forehead, “They… got more supplies?” 

“Eventually,” Steve prompted. “But who kept them together?” 

Bucky groaned, dramatically pressing his hand to his face, “Steve, if you know the answer, why don’t you just tell me it?” 

“Because,” Steve said, pointing the pencil at him now, “if your teacher asks you a question in one of the few lessons you’re awake in and you just stare at her, she’s gonna know you didn’t do your homework.”

“I can just guess the answer.”

Steve raised an unimpressed eyebrow, “Uh-huh. I’m sure that’ll work out so well for you.” 

Bucky opened his mouth to argue just on principle before he huffed, admitting surrender. “Fine. Keep going.” 

They kept at it for another few questions, Steve nudging him in the right direction with hints and the occasional “Bucky, that is an entirely different event,” while Bucky half-heartedly grumbled about resigning from school. 

They were midway through a question on Madison’s war - Bucky grinning brightly as he got another answer correct with minimal pushing - when Winifred appeared in the doorway, a warm smile on her face and a plate balanced in one hand. 

“Look at my sweet boys,” she said fondly, walking up to them, “working so hard!” 

She set the plate down on the table, the scent of fresh cookies immediately filling the air. “Don’t eat too fast.” 

“We won’t, thanks, ma,” Bucky said quickly, already reaching for one.

Steve grinned, taking one for himself and biting into it before leaning back against the sofa. “These are really good, Aunt Winny,” he said around a mouthful.

“I’m glad you like them, sweetheart,” she replied, bright smile on her face as usual, before she walked back to the kitchen. 

Steve was halfway through his cookie when he placed it on the edge of the plate and stood up, already heading off towards the hallway with a “Be right back!” thrown over his shoulder. 

 

He’d returned to find that in the short time he was in Bucky’s bedroom, the twins had come downstairs and were now in a standoff with their older brother.

Over cookies.

They are all arguing over cookies . 

“They’re for everyone!” Becca declared. 

“They are not,” Bucky shot back instantly, pulling the plate closer. 

“Don’t be greedy, James!” Beth hissed, reaching for one, only for Bucky to knock her hand away. 

Steve considered just letting them battle over them, but decided against it when he remembered all three of them were just as stubborn as each other. There would not be a shred of compromise if he left them to their own devices, and that meant he would not be getting what he wanted.

So without a word, he walked over, plucked two cookies from the plate and popped one into each of the twins’ mouths. “Problem solved.”

The girls exchanged a glance before grinning at him. “Steve, you’re our favourite now.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” Steve replied, rolling his eyes as he plopped back into his space on the floor.

Apparently satisfied, the twins turned and padded back upstairs, argument already forgotten.

Bucky slouched back next to him, glaring down at the plate. “Two perfectly good cookies, Rogers. Gone. Just given away. Tragic.” 

“Do you think you would’ve gotten that homework finished by the end of today if they didn’t get what they came for?” When Bucky simply crossed his arms, Steve smirked, “Exactly.”

“Anyway,” Steve continued, placing his science homework on the table next to Bucky’s history homework, “As soon as we finish that, you’re helping me with this.” 

“Done,” Bucky said without hesitation, holding his hand out for Steve to shake on it. 

Steve grabbed the outstretched hand and shook it, both boys giving each other exaggerated nods.

Without another word, Bucky shuffled closer to the table and pushed the plate of cookies to the side. Steve mirrored him, leaning forward so they were shoulder to shoulder, eyes dropping back to the questions on the page. 

“Alright,” Steve began, tapping the pencil against the next question, “what do you already know about this?”

“The Siege of Yorktown…” Bucky mumbled to himself, squinting at the page. “Uh… they fought. And…” he trailed off with a helpless shrug.

“Right. Who fought?”

“The Americans and the British,” Bucky replied instantly, confident about that at least.

“Mhm. And who helped the Americans win?” Steve pressed, leaning on his elbow.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed in thought for a moment, “The French?”

Steve smiled. “And what happened after?”

“They… uh… surrendered?” Bucky suggested hesitantly, beaming when Steve handed him the pencil to write it down. 

They carried on moving down the sheet, Steve deciding to ask Bucky to say everything he knows and ask questions from there for the rest of it. When Bucky finally wrote down the answer for the final question, he slumped, letting his forehead land on the page.

“I did it…”

“Don’t get too excited, we still have to do my science homework,” Steve said, reaching forward to swap the sheets of paper.

“That’s okay, science is good.” Bucky lifted his head from the table and leaned back on his palms. “And now, I get to do unto you as you have done unto me.” 

Steve glared at him with no real heat before scribbling his name at the top of the page and skimming through the questions. He moved up and down the page at random, writing down the answer to question 1 before doing the same for question 17 and then 6 and 23.

“Okay, that’s all I’ve got.” 

Bucky leaned over, eyebrows raised. “You just skipped through the whole page.”

“I did the ones I knew first,” Steve said simply, spinning his pencil between his fingers. 

Bucky snorted. “That’s not how this works. We’re doing it in order.”

“Says who?” 

“Says your genius tutor.” Bucky pointed at question two. “What’s this one about?”

Steve read it over properly this time. “It’s about the water cycle. Evaporation.”

“If you knew that, why’d you skip it?” Bucky asked, incredulous. “Actually- just write it down, don’t even tell me. I already know that your answer has something to do with you being weird.” 

Steve glared at him and muttered something definitely rude under his breath, but obeyed, scribbling the word onto the page.

Several groans, eye-rolls, and sarcastic comments later, they reached halfway down the front page.

“Alright, question sixteen. What type of rock is it?”

Steve read the sentence, then just blinked at it before turning to Bucky and blinking at him too.

“You answered question seventeen perfectly fine!”  Bucky said, pointing at Steve’s handwriting. “They’re connected!”

Steve just shrugged at him. “I only know igneous. Ignite, fire, lava.”

Bucky gave him a flat look. “We’ll come back to it, but you'd better try and remember the other two.” 

“Why do I even need to know three types of rocks?” Steve muttered. 

“Because, Steven, maybe one day someone will stop you in the street and hold you at knifepoint until you name all three.”

“So I’m gonna die. Because of rocks.”

“If you don’t remember the names.” Bucky sing-songed, sliding his finger down the page. “Okay, this one’s easy,”

Steve scanned the line Bucky was pointing at and let out a quiet groan. “Great. Plants .” 

“I know that you know that because you don’t sleep in your lessons.” 

Steve tapped his pencil against the page, frowning in concentration as he repeated “photosynthesis…”

“Something about plants eating sunlight?” 

“Eating it? They don’t eat it!” 

“Well, they do something with it!” Steve argued. 

“Okay,” Bucky said, leaning in and pointing to the question, “what do plants need? Sunlight is one, what else?”

Steve sighed. “Water.”

“Yes, what else?”

Steve looked up like he could view into his brain for the answer. “...Carbon dioxide?”

“ There it is.” Bucky gave him a satisfied smile. “And what do they make from that?” 

“Oxygen,” Steve answered, certain, “and… Sugar.” 

“Perfect. Now put all of that into a sentence without the question marks.” 

They kept working, Bucky pointing out what question was really asking and throwing out just enough clues to give Steve some semblance of an answer to build off of. Half an hour later, Steve dropped his pencil and slumped into the sofa, in a very uncomfortable-looking position.

“I think I’ve aged five years.” 

Bucky scooted back until he was flat against the chair, then crossed his arms behind his head. “From now on, you’re helping with my history homework. I don’t think I’ve ever finished it so quickly in my life.”

“Only if you help with my science homework.”

“Sounds fair to me,” Bucky responded with a shrug, reaching for two cookies and handing one to Steve. 

 

 

Some time later, the coffee table had been cleared of homework, the leftover cookies returned to the kitchen and placed under a cover. 

The comic Steve had been reading earlier was now balanced between the two of them, one half resting in Bucky’s lap and the other on his own. 

Bucky’s arms were loosely crossed over his chest, and his breathing was soft and even, slumped sideways onto Steve’s shoulder as he slept. His hair tickled Steve’s cheek whenever he shifted.

Steve stayed as still as possible, turning the page lightly whenever he needed so he wouldn’t jostle his friend. Not that it mattered, Bucky could sleep through almost everything. 

Notes:

Makes sense that Bucky isn't good at history, right? Because he doesn't remember his own later on HAHA *crickets* no? okay.

Also, I did a disgusting amount of research and quizzes (that I knew like four answers to) on American events for this.

And yes, you're probably already tired of these two being asleep. I can't help it - I don't believe there are many shows of trust above comfortably falling asleep in someone's presence idk.

Chapter 7 might come out slightly late because, honestly, it is being a pain in my ass. As an apology, I will post 3 chapters instead of 2 this week.

Chapter 7: Chapter 7

Summary:

A few moments later, without warning, Steve tugged the blanket up to his neck and let himself fall sideways until he was lying down on the sofa, head landing square in Bucky’s lap.

Bucky nearly cracked up - if he didn’t think Steve was getting sick before, there was no doubt about it now. He opened his mouth to make a joke, ask if Steve was still feeling “So good”, when Steve’s voice cut in first.

“If you ask or say something dumb, I’ll kill you,” he mumbled. 

Bucky immediately shut his mouth and attempted to force back the grin fighting its way onto his face. “Understood. Nothing dumb coming out of this mouth. No way.” 

Notes:

Hello to everyone that is reading this! I want to preface this by saying I’m so sorry this is late and probably sloppily written alongside that - I’ve honestly had a horrific week and ended up with alcohol poisoning after some bad news. I’m sort of okay now so here’s this chapter!

This chapter is unedited for now but I will go back through in my free time and make the changes needed!

“Don’t forget your umbrella, bunny,” Sarah said to him, bending down to kiss his forehead. “The sky’s been looking awful grey this week; it’s bound to start raining at some point.”

Her words echoed in Steve’s mind as he stared out at the relentless storm, rain pelting against the concrete like bullets. Large, heavy droplets hit the windows with the same intensity, sliding down in jagged lines once they made contact. Thunder cracked in the distance, low and lazy. 

This has to be a punishment from above. A lesson and a mockery. This is what happens when you forget things. You end up with hypothermia. 

Steve closed his eyes in resignation, jaw tight. He was not going to get sick. He refused it. 

Beside him, Bucky flicked open his umbrella with a practised snap. The moment it bloomed open in front of him, he turned to Steve. “Where’s your umbrella?” 

Steve exhaled through his nose and opened his eyes slowly before answering flatly, “In the corner. Of my bedroom.”

“Of your- Why?” he asked, squinting. 

“I forgot it.”

Bucky tilted his head, “I can bet good money your ma told you to bring it today.”

Steve didn’t reply. Just slowly turned his head and gave Bucky a long, silent, withering glare.

“Yeah, I thought as much,” Bucky snorted. “C’mon.”

With a sigh, Steve adjusted his satchel strap and followed Bucky down the school steps. The rain didn’t let up for a second - if anything, it seemed to fall harder the very moment Steve stepped out, like it’d been waiting for him. 

Bucky angled the umbrella towards Steve without being obvious about it, walking closer than usual to shield him from the worst of it. But Steve wasn’t exactly making it easy.

He was stepping straight into puddles with all the enthusiasm of someone who’d accepted their fate.

“You’re not even gonna try and avoid them?” Bucky asked after the third puddle.

Steve shrugged. “I'm already wet.”

“And that means you have to drown your feet?”

“I’ll be fine.” Steve said lightly, “I’ve decided I don’t want to get sick, so I won’t.”

“And that’s worked for you in the past?”

Steve shrugged once more, seemingly satisfied with his logic. “If I decide I don’t want to be sick before it happens, it won’t happen.”

Bucky stared at him incredulously for a few moments before muttering, “I’m sure.” 

A few steps later, Steve walked straight through another puddle, this one deeper than the last. His shoe made a terrible squelching sound. 

Bucky made a frustrated little noise under his breath and subtly angled the umbrella more towards Steve. Then, as they walked, he started gently guiding him - nudging him, shifting his own path, reaching out to steer him a step to the side before he could wade through another mini flood.

Steve didn’t acknowledge it, but he also didn’t move away. 

They were halfway home when Steve stepped right into yet another puddle with absolutely no hesitation. Bucky stopped dead in his tracks.

“Are you walking in them on purpose?”

Steve glanced down at his feet and then at Bucky, deadpan. “Oh yeah. I love the feeling of water in my socks. It’s great.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow at him and started walking again, “Yeah, I can see that. You look thrilled.” 

“I am thrilled.”

“See if you’re still thrilled when you have a fever of 200,” Bucky mumbled, earning himself another glare.

“I decide that’s not happening.”

“Right…”

They continued in silence, the only sounds being the steady drum of rain on the umbrella and the wet squelch of Steve’s shoes with every other step.

Steve kept his eyes fixed forward, refusing to react to the cold creeping into his clothes. If he ignored it, it’s not there.

But eventually, his shoulders gave the slightest twitch. Then another. A barely there tremble that ran down his arms. 

Bucky noticed immediately, gaze flickering to Steve’s hands, clenched in tight fists at his side. Then to his shoulders, tense and rising higher with each shiver. He shifted the umbrella impossibly further over Steve’s head, considering just giving it to him completely. 

As they rounded onto their street, Steve sniffled once. Quiet. Almost drowned in the fall of the rain.

Bucky’s jaw tensed slightly, and he quickened his steps, Steve unconsciously doing the same.

When they reached the Barnes’ front door, Bucky simply pushed it, unsurprised to see the twins hadn’t locked it when they got back. 

They’d barely gotten their shoes off when Winifred was poking her head around the doorway of the living room. 

“Oh my goodness!” she gasped, rushing over to them. 

In no time, she was bouncing between them, checking the wetness of their clothes and pushing their hair out of their faces. “You’re soaked! ” 

Bucky gently wrapped his hands around her wrists when her hands landed on his shoulders again, forcing her to pause.

“Ma, I’m fine, I’ll dry off,” Bucky began before nodding at Steve and switching to Russian. “He’s the one who’s going to get sick.” 

Winifred’s attention snapped back to Steve, eyes narrowing like she could see straight through his to his immune system. Steve looked at her with a confused look on his face before he stared at Bucky with betrayal. The other boy simply raised his arms innocently, but his refusal to make eye contact gave him away. 

Winifred moved over to him quickly and pressed her hand to his forehead, then the back of his neck, then over his heart in quick succession, before sighing and herding them both up the stairs, uncaring of the water dripping from their clothes. 

As they climbed the stairs, Winifred and Bucky exchanged a flurry of rapid conversation, too fast for Steve to follow even if he could understand Russian. Steve looked between them as they spoke, words bouncing between mother and son like a tennis match. He liked hearing them speak - it gets boring hearing English every day (naturally), so hearing the two speak was like a breath of the freshest air.

As they got closer to the end of the corridor, Bucky peeled off without another word, going straight into his bedroom while Winifred pressed a hand to Steve’s back, ushering him forward. 

“You, bathroom,” she said, pointing. “Don’t touch anything cold. I’ll be right back.”

“Aunt Winny, I promise I’m fine,” Steve tried, “My clothes-”

Before he could finish, the woman fixed him with a stern look. He sighed before stepping inside obediently, already getting water on the tiles. He stared at them for a moment before stretching as far as he could and picking up the roll of tissue. He tore some off, crouched down and wiped up the larger droplets he’d made before moving onto the smaller ones. 

He’d just finished blotting the last of the puddles when the door creaked, signalling the arrival of another person. He looked up and froze when he saw Winifred standing there. Her eyes drifted to the tissue in Steve’s hand, and he winced as if caught doing something wrong before he shot up.

“You don’t need to wipe that up, dear,” she said gently, stepping inside. “It’ll dry.” 

“But I’m making a mess-” Steve started, clutching the damp tissue tighter. 

Winifred shook her head, smiling fondly as she unfolded the towel. “It’s water, Steve, in the bathroom. It’s okay.” 

Steve hesitated but dropped the wad of tissue into the bin. “I didn’t want to bother.” 

“Definitely Sarah’s son,” she laughed. “You couldn’t be a bother if you tried.”

Despite his earlier self-consciousness, he found himself smiling at the mention of his mother.  

Winifred slung the towel over her shoulder before stepping up to him. “Arms up.”

“Huh?” Steve asked, sure he’d heard incorrectly. 

“Arms,” she repeated, looking at him expectantly. 

Steve sighed and lifted his arms up, allowing her to tug the shirt over his head without letting it touch his face. She placed the shirt on the sinkside before retrieving the towel from her shoulder and rubbing it over his hair. Steve’s cheeks flushed as Winifred worked, even though she seemed content- happy even - at being allowed to care for him. 

Winifred murmured to herself in a mixture of Russian and English, words tumbling over each other. Steve had no clue what she was talking about, but the sound was comforting all the same - like the crackle of a fire against the storm outside. 

The door creaked again, and Bucky slipped inside with a bundle of clothes under his arm. His hair was sticking up where he’d scrubbed it dry. 

“Ma,” he said as he leaned against the doorframe, “are we back to speaking English now?” 

Winifred rolled up her eyes fondly and swatted his arm with the towel. “Yes, don’t be cheeky.”

“Me? Cheeky? Never.” Bucky said innocently, though the grin tugging at his mouth betrayed him. He held out the clothes to Steve. “Here. Put these on or you’re gonna freeze to death where you stand.”

Steve hesitated once more before he just reached out for the clothes. There was no way he was winning that argument with both Bucky and his ma at the same time. 

Winifred nodded to herself, satisfied. “Change, and then come downstairs, okay, sweetie?” 

Steve nodded, and Winifred smiled at him before running a hand over his hair and turning out of the bathroom and heading down the stairs. 

The room quietened again, and Steve stood awkwardly with the bundle of clothes in his arms. Bucky stepped further inside, moving to lean against the bathroom wall. 

“How’re you feeling?” He asked, voice low.

Steve squinted at him, knowing exactly what he meant. “...Very healthy.” 

“Right,” Bucky responded, lips twitching. “You sound it.” 

“Good. Because I am.” 

“Exactly.” Bucky drawled, pushing off the wall with a crooked grin. “No keeling over today.” 

Steve snorted despite himself.

Bucky took that as a win, backing towards the door. “Be quick, Rogers.” 

“Will do,” Steve answered, setting the pile of clothes on the closed toilet seat before picking the sweater out. 

Bucky shut the door behind him and made his way back down the stairs, taking them two at a time. The house smelt faintly of nutmeg - ma’s doing, no doubt. 

He found her in the living room, fluffing the cushions on the sofa. Bucky opened his mouth to speak to her before remembering that Steve might attempt murder if he heard Bucky even hint that he was sick. 

“He sounds congested already,” he said, speaking quietly even though he knew Steve wouldn’t be able to understand even if he could hear. 

His ma turned to him and raised an eyebrow. “Oh, are we back to speaking Russian now?” She asked, smug.

Bucky shrugged. “If Steve could understand me, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you that.” 

Winifred hummed approvingly, taking the blanket from the back of the armchair and placing it on the sofa. Bucky walked over to the linen cupboard, taking two blankets before walking back over to his ma. Together, they spread out two blankets on the chair and set the third on the back of it.

“How fast can someone even get sick?” Bucky asked after a while.

Winifred paused where she was tucking one of the blankets into the sofa. She looked thoughtful for a moment before giving a little shrug. “I don’t get sick, so I don’t know.” 

Bucky narrowed his eyes at her. “That’s not true. ” 

“It is,” she countered breezily, standing up. “Where do you think you get your immune system from? It’s certainly not your father.”

Bucky snorted. “Poor pa.”

“Poor pa,” she agreed, eyes glinting, before giving his cheek a brisk pat and heading off back to the kitchen. 

The house fell quiet again, aside from his ma shuffling around in the kitchen and the muffled sound of the twins speaking to each other upstairs.

Soon, Steve appeared in the doorway, navy sweater hanging a little loose. He sniffed quietly as he walked into the living room, trying not to draw attention to it. 

Bucky caught the sound anyway, and his first instinct was to ask if Steve was okay - Does your chest hurt? You got a headache? You need water? - but he bit it back. He didn’t want Steve to feel like he was coddling him. Instead, Bucky threw himself onto the sofa with a dramatic sigh, letting his head hit the back of it with a muted thump.

Steve gave him a faint, tired smile before settling onto the other end. He didn’t even glance at the extra blankets, which he definitely knew were for him, let alone complain about them. 

‘Very healthy,’ my ass, Bucky thought grimly. 

Without a word, he tugged the blanket from the back of the chair and spread it over both of them. 

“‘M not even cold,” Steve mumbled, nose clearly blocked.

“Sure,” Bucky said easily, tucking the edge around Steve’s side before leaning back to his own. “But the blanket’s too big for just me. If I don’t share it, it’ll end up dragging on the floor and ma’ll start about dust.” 

Steve huffed, but he didn’t make any move to shrug it off.

Bucky let the quiet stretch, pretending to be absorbed in a loose thread on the hem of his jumper while keeping half an eye on Steve; he was squinting, his face was flushed, and every so often, he’d sniffle weakly.

“Still not cold?” Bucky teased, grinning again.

“Shut up,” Steve replied, rubbing at his nose.

Bucky laughed quietly and settled back into the cushions.

Bucky watched absently as the water streamed down the glass in rivulets, creating patterns that shifted and changed with the gusts of wind. Occasionally, he’d look over at Steve, the other boy leaning back with his eyes shut but clearly not asleep.

“Delivery,” Winifred announced quietly as she reappeared with two mugs in hand. She handed Bucky one before handing the other to Steve, careful not to let go until she was sure his grip was secure. “Careful, they might still be too hot.”

Both boys responded with ‘thank you,’ which Winifred responded to with a fond smile. Then, she was bustling off again, first to the kitchen and then upstairs with two more cups, calling for Becca and Beth. 

Bucky cradled his mug between his palms and blew across the surface before taking a cautious sip and turning to look at Steve.

“Guess who was awake in history today?” he said, nudging Steve with his foot. 

“Who?” Steve asked, grinning, even though he already knew the answer.

“Me,” Bucky declared proudly. “Took notes and everything.” 

“That’s a first,” Steve muttered as he turned back to his drink.

“Rude!” Bucky narrowed his eyes at him, though he was still smiling. Steve chucked weakly, shaking his head. After that, his answers came slower, shorter, but he still listened. He still laughed when Bucky told him about the spider that caused chaos in his maths lesson, and when Bucky acted out the teacher’s reaction to almost the entire class running to different parts of the classroom to get away from it.

When Steve finished his hot chocolate, Bucky was up immediately, taking Steve’s mug with an ‘I got it’ before he could even shift. He padded to the kitchen and set them in the sink, contemplating just washing them up before he went off. Remembering his ma’s offended reaction the last time she caught him washing dishes, he decided against it with a shiver.

By the time he returned to the living room, Steve had slouched further into the cushions, his thin frame half-swallowed by the quilt, which he’d pulled up higher over himself. His eyes were glossy, unfocused, and he was sniffling what felt like every other second now, the sound cutting through the silence like the ticking of a clock. 

Bucky sat back down in his spot, angled slightly toward him, “You good?” he asked gently.

“Mhm,” Steve hummed, “So good.” 

They sat like that for a while, the hush broken only by the wind rattling faintly at the windowpanes. Bucky glanced sidelong every so often, fighting the urge to fuss - to refill Steve’s water, to fluff a cushion and place it beneath his head, to make him tea with all the ginger and lemons he could find. But he stayed firmly in his seat, lips tight.

A few moments later, without warning, Steve tugged the blanket up to his neck and let himself fall sideways until he was lying down on the sofa, head landing square in Bucky’s lap.

Bucky nearly cracked up - if he didn’t think Steve was getting sick before, there was no doubt about it now. He opened his mouth to make a joke, ask if Steve was still feeling “So good”, when Steve’s voice cut in first.

“If you ask or say something dumb, I’ll kill you,” he mumbled. 

Bucky immediately shut his mouth and attempted to force back the grin fighting its way onto his face. “Understood. Nothing dumb coming out of this mouth. No way.” 

That earned him a quiet laugh, Steve’s shoulders shaking as he stared off at the paintings on the wall. Bucky leaned back against the cushions, listening as Steve’s breaths progressively grew slower and steadier.

 Bucky grinned when soft snores began to fill the room. “Still feeling ‘so good’ , Rogers?’ he teased, ensuring his voice was quiet even though he was sure that Steve wouldn’t be able to hear him anyway and follow through with his threat.

Notes:

Is it possible for someone to get sick that quickly? Probably not but it’s also not possible for an alien mothership to spawn in the sky and drop out more aliens (I hope.)

I worried that this chapter was slightly too intimate, but I think it might be okay since Steve and Bucky both do come from quite touchy families but I still dk so. I lie down on my friends laps all the time but then again im not a teeanger from 1930s Brooklyn

Chapter 8: Chapter 8

Summary:

Bucky returned with the container of water, placing it on Steve’s bedside table before taking the warming cloth off of his head once more.

“You’re a pain to take care of, you know that?” he said, though his tone was soft. Steve’s eyes cracked open, just barely, a small flicker of amusement breaking through.

“I know you don’t actually believe that,” Steve croaked out,

“Good, because I don’t. You’re not a pain ever,” Bucky placed the damp fabric back, “Actually, you’re a pain when you refuse to admit that you’re not feeling well.”

Notes:

I know I said I'd post three chapters but I felt like writing a full recovery chapter would be me milking Steve being sick so instead, i wrote a mini one, which you can find at the end of this! There is a small bonus - insignificant and very much skippable if you'd like but I think it's very nice for anyone who'd like to see Winifred and Sarah as teenagers, even if its just a glimpse! Once again, sorry for the late and sloppy updates, but I hope you enjoy them nonetheless!!

Also, clapping for myself because if you told me in 2020 that I'd be writing a fic series for my most favourite relationship ever , I'd laugh at you. So congrats to myself for moving from 800 words per fic, to upwards of 2500 words per chapter! whooo!

Bucky didn’t hear from Steve all morning.

No knock on the door, no footsteps on the stairs, no voice calling out over the breakfast clatter. Nothing. The silence stretched too long - heavy and clinging. 

By the time he got outside his front door and didn’t see Steve rushing towards it, sweating from his hurry to get ready, he knew Steve’s willpower did not, in fact, beat his immune system.

He tried waiting, giving Steve the benefit of the doubt, but five minutes stretched out like an hour. The entire time he stood there, all he could think about was the way Steve’s eyes had been unfocused as he sniffled and hastily rubbed at his nose.  

He sighed, trying to force the worry out of his body as he turned to jog straight to Steve’s front door. He knocked once, twice, three times, heart already starting to beat faster than it should.

The door opened quietly to reveal Sarah Rogers, looking exhausted and hurried, her nurse’s coat half-buttoned.

“Oh, James,” she said gently, eyes softening when she saw him. “Steve’s not feeling too well, sweetheart. He had a bad night.”

“How bad?” Bucky asked immediately, concern creasing his brow. 

Sarah hesitated for a second, then sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. “It’s one of his bad spells, honey. Fever’s up, coughing… it came on quick. I’m supposed to cover a shift at the hospital, but- ”

“I can stay,” Bucky cut her off gently, stepping into the doorway. “I’ll watch him, Aunt Sarah. You go ahead.”

She studied him for a moment, relief flooding her expression. “Are you sure, James? He’s pretty sick, and I wouldn’t want you-”

“I’m sure,” he reassured her firmly. “You know I don’t get sick. And I can catch up at school tomorrow. Steve’s gonna be fine, promise.”

Sarah exhaled softly, nodding. She reached out and gently touched his shoulder. “Thank you. There’s soup in the fridge, medicine on the bedside table, and keep him drinking water. You know where everything is, but if he gets worse-”

“I’ll come get you at the hospital,” he answered immediately.

Sarah smiled gratefully, pulling him into a thankful hug before grabbing her bag and rushing out the door.

Once she’d gone, Bucky quietly shut the front door behind her, immediately making his way up the stairs to Steve’s bedroom. 

He stepped into the quiet room, air warm and still, bracing himself for the sight of Steve.

“Hey, Stevie,” he said softly, stepping closer.

Steve shifted weakly beneath the covers, groaning. His skin was flushed, his breathing shallow, each inhale rattling faintly. 

“Buck?” Steve rasped weakly, eyes half-opening. He looked barely lucid, long eyelashes damp against his feverish cheeks.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Bucky said, forcing as much warmth and steadiness into his voice as he could manage. “Heard you’ve got something nasty.”

Steve’s face twisted miserably, and he mumbled, “Sorry.”

Bucky’s heart clenched. He crossed to the bed and sat gently at the edge, reaching out to brush the hair from Steve’s clammy forehead.

“Don’t be dumb,” he murmured. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Except maybe deciding you wanted to practice swimming in puddles yesterday.”

Steve made a faint sound that could’ve been a laugh or a groan.

Bucky grinned down at him, deciding to assume it was the nicer option. “Just rest, okay?”

Steve nodded weakly, eyes already fluttering closed again. Bucky leaned forward, gently brushing sweat-soaked strands of hair from Steve’s forehead. He could feel his own pulse quickening anxiously, but he swallowed it down. Letting himself get stressed out wouldn’t help Steve.

He sat there a moment longer, just watching Steve breathe, reassuring himself that each rise and fall of Steve’s chest was steady, even if slightly laboured. Eventually, he forced himself to stand, quietly heading to the kitchen. 

He filled a glass with cool water and grabbed a fresh flannel from the overflow-cupboard (as Steve liked to call it), dampening it under the tap. Returning to the room, he settled again by Steve’s side, placing the cool compress carefully across his friend’s burning forehead.

“You’re gonna be alright,” he murmured, more to himself than Steve. He coaxed Steve awake enough for a few sips of water, gently supporting his head.

The fact that Steve didn’t fight him on it or even utter anything along the lines of “ I can do it myself ” only served to increase his worry. 

Once Bucky laid him flat, Steve hadn’t stirred again - not really. Every so often, he’d shift slightly under the blankets or let out a few weak, scratchy coughs, but otherwise, he stayed quiet. Still.

Bucky wrung out the cloth again and replaced it gently across Steve’s forehead, careful not to wake him. His skin was still hot - too hot - but not climbing. Not worse. That counted for something.

The room was quiet except for the occasional creak of the house and the low, uneven rhythm of Steve’s breath. Bucky sat cross-legged on the floor beside the bed now, back leaning against the frame, his fingers drumming absently against his knee.

Every half hour or so, he’d rise to refresh the water, check the bedside table clock, and feel Steve’s forehead with the back of his hand. He’d press a palm lightly against Steve’s chest just to be sure it rose and fell evenly. It wasn’t like he needed to check every time. But he did it anyway.

At one point, Steve gave a low groan and shifted slightly, his face screwing up like something in his dream hurt. Bucky was on his feet in seconds, smoothing the blankets, brushing a damp curl off his friend’s temple. He sat beside him again, this time reaching for Steve’s hand beneath the covers. It was too warm and limp in his own.

“You’re alright,” he murmured. “I got you.”

Steve didn’t respond, but the grimace faded. His breathing settled again. Bucky didn’t let go.

Eventually, he stood again and opened the window just a crack, letting a faint breeze cut through the staleness of the warm room. He pulled Steve’s desk chair closer and sat in it backwards, arms crossed on the backrest, eyes never leaving the bed. Every hour or so, Bucky quietly coaxed Steve awake just enough for water or a dose of medicine. Steve never said much, eyes hazy and words too soft to hold onto, but he let Bucky help him. 

At one point, Steve blinked at him with bleary confusion and mumbled, “You’re still here?”

Bucky nodded, brushing the edge of the blanket back up around Steve’s shoulders. “Course I am.”

Steve nodded faintly, already drifting again. “Okay…”

And he was out.

By early afternoon, the still fever hadn’t spiked - a quiet mercy Bucky was clinging to. The room was still too warm despite the cracked window, and Steve was curled on his side, breathing easier than before but still far too quietly for Bucky’s liking.

He waited until the next full hour passed, checked Steve’s temperature one more time with the back of his hand, and then finally slipped downstairs.

The house was quiet without Steve’s chatter beside him, but Bucky didn’t allow the silence to bother him. He opened the fridge, pulled out the soup without needing to check the label, and found a clean pot under the counter.

Bucky stirred the soup slowly over the burner, never letting it bubble.

 Once it was heated through, he poured it into a bowl, not too full, and carried it upstairs with a folded cloth tucked over his arm like a tray liner. He nudged the bedroom door open with his foot and stepped back into the thick warmth of Steve’s room.

Steve was half-awake now, blinking slowly toward the sound.

“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky said softly. He placed the bowl on the bedside table and set the cloth down over his lap, preparing the space without saying anything about it.

Steve gave a hoarse, questioning sound.

“Soup,” Bucky explained. “Hot. Not too hot. You up for trying some?”

Steve looked doubtful but nodded faintly.

Bucky moved slowly, no rush. He reached out and supported Steve’s shoulder, gently easing him upright, fluffing the pillow behind his back without comment. Then he helped slide the blankets down just enough to keep Steve from overheating, still leaving them bunched around his waist. Steve let him do it without protest, too tired to be embarrassed.

Once he was upright, Bucky picked up the bowl and stirred it lightly, checking the temperature on the inside of his wrist. Then he handed it over carefully, positioning Steve’s hands around the base of the bowl.

“Small spoons,” Bucky said softly, watching him closely.

Steve obeyed, scooping small amounts of soup into his mouth, pausing between each one. Bucky didn’t hover, but he stayed close. Kept an eye on him, made sure his grip didn’t falter. When Steve’s hands began to tremble slightly, Bucky reached out without hesitation, steadying the bowl and cutlery with him until he’d had enough.

Bucky waited until the bowl was empty before setting it aside. He gently wiped Steve’s mouth with the cloth and helped him lie back down again, adjusting the pillow and smoothing the sheets.

For a while, everything stayed quiet.

Steve had drifted off again, his face turned into the pillow, his breathing soft but steady. Bucky stayed close, curled up in the wooden chair by the bed with a comic in his lap; he hadn’t turned a page in at least twenty minutes. His eyes kept flicking over to Steve instead - to the way his fingers twitched slightly against the blanket, to the flush still colouring his cheeks.

The warmth in the room no longer felt comforting.

He got up again. Checked to make sure Steve’s glass was not empty. Lowered the blanket. He even looked up to see if the window had shut itself. 

He experimentally stepped back and forth from Steve’s bed to the far wall, heart dropping when he realised the heat was radiating off of him. 

He moved swiftly, pressing his palm to Steve’s forehead. 

Too hot. 

He tried again - pressing the inside of his wrist gently to Steve’s temple, like his ma always did.

Definitely too hot.

Steve shifted, let out a low, miserable noise in the back of his throat. His face was pinched, skin too flushed, and Bucky could feel the panic begin to stir in his chest.

He took the cloth, rushed to the bathroom, and waited for the water to border on freezing. His fingers trembled slightly as he wrung it out and ran to press it against Steve’s forehead.

“C’mon, Stevie,” he whispered, crouched beside the bed. “You’re okay.”

Steve didn’t answer, just turned his head faintly, breathing heavy and uneven.

Bucky sat back on his heels, heart pounding. This wasn’t like before. This wasn’t the quiet ache of a mild fever anymore. It was climbing. Sharp and fast.

He stood suddenly. His brain was already racing.

I should go get Ma. She’d know what to do. She always knows what to do. She could watch Steve while I run to the hospital and get Aunt Sarah. She’d want to know. She needs to know.

Bucky stood rooted to the spot, the swirling thoughts in his mind rendering his body confused and useless. He didn’t know how long he stood like that - frozen. It could’ve been seconds or it could’ve been minutes.

But when Steve whimpered softly and curled in on himself like he was trying to escape his own skin, Bucky’s body finally started responding, dismissing his conflicted brain completely and following what his instincts screamed.

I have to get someone.

He rushed to grab his jacket off the back of the door with fumbling hands, heart pounding so loud it felt like it might burst out of his chest. His mind was already spinning through the route - across the road, two doors down, ask Ma to sit with him, run to the hospital-

“Where’re you going?”

The voice was hoarse - barely audible - but it hit Bucky like a brick wall.

He turned instantly, jacket forgotten in his hands. Steve was looking at him, bleary and pale, eyes cracked open just enough to see the worry painted across Bucky’s face.

Bucky stepped forward. “I was- I was gonna get Ma. And your ma. You’ve got a fever, Stevie, and it’s worse than before, and I-”

“Don’t go,” Steve rasped, reaching out clumsily with one hand. His fingers brushed the edge of the blanket. “I’ll be fine, promise. Just… stay.”

His voice broke a little at the end. He didn’t sound sure. He didn’t even sound like himself. But the plea in his eyes was clear.

Bucky stared at him for a long second, jacket still clutched in one hand, everything inside him torn in two. One part screamed for an adult, for backup, for someone better equipped.

The other part - the louder one - said stay. Stay with his friend, make sure he was okay, don't leave him alone and sick. 

So Bucky dropped the jacket where he stood. Moved back to the bed. Took Steve’s hand in his like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

“Okay,” he said quietly, falling back into the chair by Steve’s bedside. “I won’t go anywhere. But don’t go breaking your promise, Steven.”

Steve’s lips curled into a small smile, eyes fluttering shut again, his hand curling weakly around Bucky’s fingers.

And Bucky held on.

Twenty minutes later, Steve’s fever still had not broken, almost as stubborn as its host was.

Almost.

Because Steve, though still flushed and exhausted, started to shift more - his eyes fluttering open for longer, his lips parting like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite summon the strength.

Which could only mean one thing: the fever was break ing . Slowly - definitely - but breaking still.

“Hey,” Bucky said gently, scooting his chair closer. “You coming back to the land of the living?”

Steve gave a small hum in response - not quite a yes, not quite a no - and Bucky took it as permission to keep talking.

“Your colour’s lookin’ a little less ghostly,” he continued, keeping his voice low. “Still gross, though. Like a very pale tomato.”

Steve made a faint, raspy noise that might have been a laugh. Or maybe he was just breathing weird again.

Bucky hoped it was the former. 

Bucky leaned forward, pressing his hand to the top of the damp flannel atop Steve’s head; it was still cold, but warming, meaning Steve’s temperature had virtually dried the other side. Bucky turned it over, placing it back on Steve’s head before going to retrieve a bowl of water so he could refresh it without going far. Why he didn’t think of that earlier, he didn’t know.

“Y’know,” he called out from the bathroom, trying to show Steve that he wasn’t going far, “you missed a thrilling morning. Becca and Beth started the day arguing about which of them ma loved more when they were babies. When they asked me, I said she loved them both equally. They called me a ‘peace-keeping wussy’ .”

He grinned faintly as he found a small basin in the cabinet under the sink. “Then Beth said she was gonna invent something called a ‘love tester,’ and Becca said that sounded like a load of garbage, and Beth swore on her sticker album that one day the world would thank her.”

Bucky returned with the container of water, placing it on Steve’s bedside table before taking the warming cloth off of his head once more. 

“You’re a pain to take care of, you know that?” he said, though his tone was soft. Steve’s eyes cracked open, just barely, a small flicker of amusement breaking through.

“I know you don’t actually believe that,” Steve croaked out,

“Good, because I don’t. You’re not a pain ever,” Bucky placed the damp fabric back, “Actually, you’re a pain when you refuse to admit that you’re not feeling well.”

Steve grinned at him, Bucky mirroring him before continuing with his story.

“Anyway, that one lasted maybe fifteen minutes before they switched to arguing about the school ghost…”

Steve’s lips curled just slightly at that.

Bucky smiled wider, pressing the cool cloth gently against his forehead again.

“Last night, after we brought you back home, the twins had a full-out brawl in the living room,” he continued, eyes flicking to the corner of the room where the light was starting to soften with the turn of the day. When he looked back at Steve, the other was staring at him, somehow looking unsurprised and disbelieving at the same time. 

Bucky laughed, “Uh-huh. And guess what it was about?” Steve raised his eyebrow in question, “Apparently, Beth was blinking at Becca ‘funny’ ” 

Steve stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Exactly!” Bucky continues, “We were all sitting there, perfectly calm, when Beth just shouts: ‘Stop blinking at me like that.’ Becca blinks again - on purpose - and next thing I know they’re rolling on the carpet, pulling hair like it’s war.”

“…And then Ma came in, saw them both on the floor, and said-”

He stopped. Steve’s breathing had evened out again.

Bucky just smiled faintly, lowered his voice.

“- ‘I’m not even gonna ask.’ ”

Bucky stayed curled up in the desk chair, comic resting forgotten in his lap again. Every so often, he looked at the clock. Looked at the unchanging water glass. Looked at Steve.

His limbs were beginning to ache from sitting so long, but he didn’t mind. Not really. Because even though the fever hadn’t fully broken, Steve looked… better. Not well, not yet - but better.

Bucky leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He watched the slow rise and fall of Steve’s chest. Let himself breathe in sync.

Then, quietly - so quietly he thought he might have imagined it - Steve murmured, “Buck…”

Bucky blinked.

Steve’s eyes were still closed, voice rough with sleep.

“You’re tired,” Steve mumbled. “Go home and sleep. I’ll be okay.”

Bucky huffed a soft, quiet laugh, “Nice try, Rogers”

Steve’s brow creased faintly, “I’m serious. You can’t stay here forever.”

“I’m not staying forever,” Bucky said, voice still low. “I’m staying until you’re alright.”

“You’re being stubborn.”

“You’re still burning up.”

Steve exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh, but the message was clear.

“Buck,” he tried again, a little more insistently. “Go home. Sleep . Please. I will be fine .”

“If I go home, I can’t make sure you will be fine, Mr Very Healthy,” he said. “So it’s not happening.”

Steve gave a raspy laugh, eyes still closed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re talking .”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Steve’s mouth quirked, and he muttered:

“Get in the bed, Bucky.”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

Steve cracked one eye open, “You don’t want to go home and sleep? Fine. Sleep here.” 

Bucky stared at him for a second, like Steve had just suggested they set the bed on fire while he was still in it. 

Steve could feel the look even with his blurry vision, so he continued, squinting, “Bucky. You need to sleep.”

“No, I don’t.”

Steve closed his eyes in exasperation, “You’re exhausted,”

“I’m not.” 

“Just for a bit.” 

Bucky shook his head, “What if your fever spikes while I’m out? Or you start coughing bad? I promised your ma I’d take care of you.”

“You are. Nothing’s gonna happen,” Steve said gently, though the rasp in his voice made the reassurance a little less convincing, “You’ve done everything, and I’m okay. Just rest, alright?”

Bucky didn’t respond, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket as his jaw clenched.

“Get in the bed, Bucky,” Steve said, grinning faintly as he pressed himself further into the mattress, “Easier to keep an eye on me from there anyway.” 

“Manipulation,” Bucky huffed, grinning even as his shoulders slumped in defeat.

Steve hummed in acknowledgement, knowing he’d won.

Bucky kicked off his shoes and moved slowly around to the other side of the bed. He climbed on top of the covers first, leaving space between them, not wanting Steve to overheat. 

“You can get under, y’know,” Steve countered, “I’m not contagious.”

“Sure.” Bucky said dryly, shifting to tug the blanket up over himself, “Until I end up with whatever plague you’ve got come tomorrow.”

“Thought you didn’t get sick,” Steve replied in the same tone. 

“I don’t,” Bucky replied, settling down, arms folded across his chest, “But if I do, I don't doubt it would’ve been caused by less than you needing to prove me wrong out of pure spite.” 

“Uh-huh,” Steve said, audibly trying to stop himself from laughing. 

“Anyway, it’s not me I was worried about.” 

Bucky stayed on his side, eyes half-open as he stared at Steve, waiting for even the smallest sign that he shouldn’t have gotten in the bed.

“Close your eyes,” Steve mumbled, his own eyes still shut, “Nothing’s gonna happen.”

“How are you doing that?” Bucky grumbled, even as he obeyed, allowing himself to relax further into the mattress.

Steve didn’t reply, seemingly already asleep as the sound of his breathing filled the room. 

Steve’s voice, low and drowsy, eventually came one last time, just as Bucky felt himself drifting off: “I’m glad you stayed.” 

Bucky didn’t answer immediately, just reached out under the blanket and let his fingers wrap around Steve’s wrist. 

“You're my best pal,” Bucky breathed out. "'M always gonna stay." 

 

 

Sarah climbed the stairs with practised silence, pausing outside Steve’s bedroom and placing a hand lightly on the doorframe. The door was still cracked from earlier. She nudged it open and walked in. 

She grinned at the sight that met her.

The boys were fast asleep in the middle of the bed, Bucky’s hand loosely wrapped around Steve’s wrist on top of the blanket. Their breathing was slow and even - synced almost. 

The fevered flush that had been on Steve’s face from earlier had faded - no longer red and burning, but soft and pink.

She stepped inside on quiet feet, heading straight for Steve. Carefully, she pressed the inside of her wrist to his forehead.

Cooler.

Still warm, but no longer dangerous. The kind of warm she could live with.

She exhaled slowly, her shoulders finally relaxing as the last of the worry drained from her. With a small smile, she leaned down and pressed a kiss to her son’s temple. She then turned to Bucky, brushing a hand lightly over his hair before leaning to press a kiss to his forehead as well.

“Thank you, James,” she whispered.

Neither stirred. 

Sarah straightened slowly, glanced over them one more time, and quietly pulled the blanket higher around their shoulders. Then she turned and walked out of the room, shutting the door with a gentle click behind her. 

---

The very next morning, Steve walked through the Barnes’ front door, shoulders hunched in his coat, nose pink and eyes still heavy with sleep.

“Morning, Aunt Winny,” he called, voice cracking. He bent to pull his shoes off.

Something clattered in the kitchen - a spoon, maybe a pan - and within seconds the woman was right in front of him, eyes wide.

“Morning, sweetheart - what on earth are you doing out of bed?”

Steve shifted awkwardly on his socked feet, clutching his satchel. “I have school.”

She gave him a look sharp enough to cut through steel. “School? You had a fever yesterday .” 

Steve tried for a laugh, but it came out more like a cough, completely undermining what he was about to say. “I’m all better, Aunt Winny. If I miss too much, I’ll fall behind.” 

She muttered something under her breath that Steve didn’t catch and shook her head, clearly unconvinced. “James is upstairs,” she said at last, though her tone made it sound more like a warning than anything. 

Steve looked at her in confusion for a second before shrugging and heading upstairs anyway. Each step was much more tiring than he’d admit aloud, but he forced his way up them nonetheless. He walked down the corridor to Bucky’s bedroom, pushing the door open without pause. 

Bucky was standing at his drawers, but turned at the sound of his door creaking open. His brows furrowed immediately as Steve was in his line of sight. “What the hell…” he muttered.

Steve rolled his eyes and shuffled over to Bucky’s bed, sitting on the edge. 

Bucky continued to stare at him, then looked him up and down before settling back on his face. “Are you trying to go to school?”

Steve gave him a flat look. “No. I got dressed up just to come and say good morning to you.” 

Bucky snorted, shutting the drawer back and leaning against it. “You’re not going.” 

Steve narrowed his eyes at him. “Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re really not.” 

Steve tilted his head at him, eyebrows raised. “You intend on stopping me, Barnes?” 

Bucky shrugged at him and crossed his arms, gaze fixed and unbothered. 

Steve huffed at him. “Don’t baby me. I can go to school.”

“You can barely keep your eyes open.” Bucky’s tone was flat, matter-of-fact. Steve bristled slightly. “I’m not walking anywhere with you, lest you fall into the road.”

Steve laughed. “Guess I’ll go on my own then.” 

Before he could even get to his feet, Bucky pushed off the dresser and moved to the door, planting himself firmly in front of it. He braced both hands on either side of the frame. “Not happening.” 

Steve blinked at him, amused despite himself. “You serious?” 

“Dead serious.”

Steve huffed a laugh and scrubbed a hand down his face. “Bucky, you missed school yesterday because you were looking after me. You wanna fall behind because you’re playing babysitter?”

Bucky’s mouth opened - the automatic “you’re not slowing me down, don’t be stupid” right there on his tongue. But he caught himself, jaw tightening instead. ‘You’re not a chore’ wasn’t something he could knock into Steve’s stubborn skull in five minutes by way of mind control, let alone by way of words. 

So he just crossed his arms again, not moving from where he was blocking the exit. “I don’t like going school anyway. Definitely don’t wanna go if you’re not going.” 

Steve’s smirk faltered, shoulders slumping. “Buck..” 

“I’m worried , okay? So let me be worried about my best pal in peace.” Bucky said, half-teasing.

“You don’t need to be worried,” Steve muttered, eyes now fixed on the floor. “I’m fine.” 

Bucky didn’t budge. “Would you be worried about me?” 

That shut Steve right up. His head jerked back up, mouth half open, but no argument came. Because of course he’d be worried.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, waiting. 

With a long sigh, Steve let himself fall back on the bed, accepting defeat. 

Bucky dropped his arms and turned around to go downstairs before pausing and looking at Steve over his shoulder. “Don’t try and run to school while I’m gone. I’ll catch you.” 

Steve rolled his eyes, “I’m sure you will.”

Bucky smirked and continued downstairs. He found his mother in the living room, folding a blanket that had been left askew on the arm of the sofa. She glanced up at the sound of his footsteps.

“Ma,” Bucky started, lingering in the doorway, “can I stay off school again today?” 

She glanced at the stairs before looking at him. “Is this about school, or is this about Steve?” 

“Steve,” he answered immediately. 

“Then of course,” she said simply. She crossed to the side table, poured a glass of water from the jug she’d put out ‘just in case’ , and pressed it into his hands. “Take this up to him. If either of you needs something, just let me know, okay?”

“Got it,” Bucky said, gripping the glass carefully.

He turned to the stairs when her voice stopped him. “James.”

He turned back.

“Your books from last year are in the box under my bed,” she reminded gently. “Might be good to put them to use.” 

For a second, Bucky just blinked at her. Then a grin tugged at his mouth. 

“Have I ever told you how much I love you, ma?” 

“Very often,” she said, walking to him and bending to press a kiss to his nose. 

Bucky smiled at her. He was about to head upstairs when the sound of quick footsteps on the stairs caught both their attention. For a second, Bucky thought he was genuinely going to have to chase Steve down the street. 

But it was just Becca and Beth, coats buttoned and satchels slung across their shoulders.

“Morning,” Bucky said absently.

The twins looked at him, then at Winifred, then back again. “Is Steve staying here today?” Beth asked

Bucky nodded, “Yeah. He’s still sick.”

The twins looked at each other, seeming to have some sort of telepathic conversation. “Okay,” Becca said, “What classroom is he in?” 

Bucky blinked at her. “Room four. Why?” 

The twins only nodded. 

“Alright, we’re going now,” Becca said, turning for the door. 

“Bye, love you.” They called in sync as they stepped out the front door.

And with that, they were gone, the front door clicking shut behind them.

Bucky frowned faintly, glancing at his mother. “What was that about?” 

Winifred shrugged, back to adjusting the blanket on the arm of the sofa. “No idea.” 

But the corner of her mouth twitched like she did, in fact, have an idea. Bucky let it drop anyway, heading back up the stairs. 

Bucky carried the glass of water to his room first, nudging his bedroom door open with his shoulder. Steve was in the same position Bucky’d left him in, but now his satchel was discarded on the floor. He sat up when Bucky reentered and took the glass with both hands.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

Bucky gave a quick nod and ducked back out. A moment later, he returned with a battered cardboard box, setting it down on the quilt with a soft thud. 

Steve blinked at it, then at him. “What’s this?” ‘

“Books,” Bucky answered. “From last year. Ma kept them.” 

Steve’s eyes widened, and he set his glass on the side table. He pulled out one of the books and flipped it open. Steve let out a sigh of relief as he skimmed through the pages; Bucky’s handwriting filled every single page, no details spared.

“See?” Bucky said, watching him with his hands on his hips. “Now you can get so far ahead, you could skip school until next year if you wanted to.” He paused, frowning as the thought caught up to him. “Wait… If I just give you my books every year, doesn’t that mean you don’t have to go back?” He muttered to himself before pointing at Steve. “You can’t do that. I’m not going on my own.” 

Steve laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Don’t you worry, Barnes. I quite like school.”

“You’re a liar,” Bucky said immediately, grinning, “but okay.” 

Steve looked up from the book then, expression softening. “Thank you, Buck. Really.” 

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly uneasy under the weight of the earnestness. “Yeah, yeah. It was my ma’s idea anyway.” 

“Still,” Steve started, continuing to flick through the book. “They’re your books and you’re letting me use them, so thank you.”

Bucky snorted, “Inflating my ego, are we?”

Steve smirked faintly. “Don’t think that’s possible, Buck. You’re already floating with it.” 

Bucky laughed and plopped down onto the bed. 

 

Winifred passed quietly up the hall, meaning only to check if the boys needed anything. She paused at Bucky’s half-open door, tilting her head just enough to peek inside, not wanting to disturb them if they didn’t need anything. 

Steve was sitting cross-legged on the floor, one of Bucky’s notebooks open in his lap. Three more were stacked haphazardly to the side, pages already ruffled from use. He tapped his fingers against a line in the margin, frowning. 

“Why’d you write this?” Steve asked, his voice still hoarse.

Bucky leaned over from where he was sitting opposite Steve to look at the page. “That’s the main clause.” 

“Ohh,” Steve said, nodding slowly, “that makes sense.” 

Winifred’s mouth softened into a smile, and she eased back from the door quietly, before making her way back down the stairs. 

.

.

.

May 19, 1912

Winifred sits cross-legged on the rug in Sarah’s bedroom. A single lamp sits on the nightstand, switched off - the curtains are open and the sun is bright outside. Sarah leans over one of Winifred’s pages, pencil tapping against the margin as she corrects a word.

“Try it again,” Sarah urges gently, “It’s thorough this time, not throw.”

Winifred frowns, lips wrapping clumsily around the sound. She attempts multiple times, but her Rs are sounding too much like Ls, and she’s getting frustrated. She collapses back onto the rug with a groan. “Stupid, stupid language,” She mutters. “Why it’s spelt like that anyway?” 

“‘Why is it spelt like that’, Freddie,” Sarah says, smiling at her, “and it’s because English likes to be difficult. But you’re doing fine.”

“Why everyone can’t just speak one language?” Winifred sighs, “Nothing wrong with Russian.” 

Sarah bursts into laughter, bright and unbothered, nudging her arm with the end of her pencil. Winifred glares half-heartedly at the page, muttering in Russian under her breath, prompting Sarah to clutch her stomach and double over as she hears a familiar curse word.

“One more,” Winifred warns, lifting her chin with mock severity. “But if it mocks me again, I tear it. Many times. Speak Russian forever.” 

“That’s okay. I like hearing you speak Russian.”

Winifred smiles at her despite herself - wide and unguarded in the way only Sarah Rogers manages to draw out of her. “You like, but you can’t understand? Strange girl.” 

“You can always teach me some.” Sarah says smiling before pausing, “if you-.” 

“I want,” Winifred answers immediately, knowing exactly what the other girl was going to say.

“When we finish this, you teach me some Russian. Deal?”

Winifred sits up and nods quickly, excitement bubbling up.

She looks down at the page again. She tries again and again. 

Winifred grins to herself as her pronunciation progressively sounds more similar to Sarah’s until she gets it just right. Her friend beams like she’s just been handed the moon, clapping her hands in delight. Winifred rolls her eyes, but she’s just as happy as Sarah is. 

.

.

.

A few hours later, there was a light knock on the door before Becca and Beth pushed their way in, still in their coats. 

Steve looked up from the notebook on the floor in front of him as they paused right in front of him. 

Becca held out a bundle of papers, waving them slightly when Steve didn’t take them from her. 

“This is everything you missed today and yesterday,” she clarified as he looked through them.

Steve blinked down at the stack, speechless for a moment. “Thank you guys,” he managed, grinning up at them. 

The twins both shrugged like it was nothing and turned back toward the door. 

“Both of you come back soon,” Beth added, glancing between Steve and their brother who’d barely raised his head from where he was sprawled out on his bed. “Lunch is too peaceful without you.” 

And just like that they were gone again, padding down the hall to their own room. 

Notes:

Once again with the intimacy... I'm not changing it now though I've come too far. I almost have an urge to check what is too romantic to be considered platonic for boys but I don't follow norms nor do I believe in behavioural rules for different genders.

Also, Bucky is very much conditioning Steve into accepting help without argument and I am so here for that. Its probably my favourite thing to write actually. Actually, I think the twins are my favorite thing to write idk.

Chapter 9: Chapter 9

Summary:

Steve stared at him, deadpan, “Bucky, you stopped being a guest the third time you came to this house. Go make your own food.”

“I can’t.”

Steve frowned, turning to stare at him, “What do you mean you can’t?”

“I dunno how,” Bucky said with a shrug.

“I cannot tell if you’re joking right now.”

“I’m not.” 

Notes:

I don't remember what month they're supposed to be in but I wanna say early november? It's a saturday, I know that much.

Bucky slipped out of the door and crossed the street, grumbling the entire twenty or so steps to Steve’s house. A few moments after three quick knocks, Steve appeared, hair mussed and eyes heavy like Bucky'd woken him up.

“The twins are at a friend's house,” Bucky announced flatly, stepping inside as soon as the door was opened. “And I’m not staying home alone with my ma and pa both - they’re awful.”

Steve arched an eyebrow, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Morning to you, too, Bucky.”

“Morning,” Bucky replied, kicking his shoes off. “Where’s your ma?”

“Early shift,” Steve said as he made his way up the stairs, Bucky following behind him. As soon as Steve pushed his door open, he headed straight for his bed, collapsing into it face-first. 

“Move over,” Bucky said, climbing in when Steve simply slid over without argument. 

“Why’re you even awake?” Steve mumbled into the pillow, “It’s Saturday.”

“My sisters woke me up before they left - as they do - because apparently I’m not allowed to be asleep if everyone else is awake.”

 “How come you didn’t just get back in your bed after they left?” Steve snorted.

“Because I went downstairs to get a glass of water,” Bucky started, shivering as the sight forced its way back into his head. “And guess what I saw, Stevie? My pa. Necking my ma. In the kitchen. The kitchen, Steve.” 

Steve lifted his head from the pillow and promptly burst into laughter at the horror on Bucky’s face. 

“Yeah, laugh it up, Steven,” Bucky muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. “Anyway, I don’t wanna see nothin’ like that when I wake up later. So I’m here.” 

Steve was still laughing when he flopped back down, shoulders shaking. Bucky rolled his eyes and yanked the blanket up higher. 

Eventually, Steve stopped laughing and sank deeper into the mattress, face still buried in the pillow. 

A few moments of silence later, Bucky groaned and shoved a hand under the pillow. “I don’t know how you sleep on this thing. Actually, you probably don’t. That’s why you’re so grouchy all the time.” 

“Go to sleep,” Steve grumbled.

“Point proven.”

“Shut your mouth or I am going to use this thing and suffocate you.”

“No problem. Going to sleep right now.” 

Steve muttered something unintelligible under his breath and pulled the blanket up higher over his shoulder. Within moments, both boys were asleep and snoring softly. 

 

It was Steve who woke first, the room brighter now, the heaviness of morning finally lifted from him. He blinked blearily at the ceiling, then turned to jab Bucky in the shoulder. 

“Wake up.” 

“Why?” Bucky groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“Because it’s…” Steve turned to look at the clock on his nightstand, “two-twenty-seven in the afternoon, and you’re still hogging my bed.” 

Bucky groaned again and stayed silent for a moment before moving his arm and cracking one eye open. “...I’m hungry.” 

Steve sat up, running a hand through his hair, “Go make food then. You know where the kitchen is.” 

“I’m a guest! I can’t just go make food.” 

Steve stared at him, deadpan, “Bucky, you stopped being a guest the third time you came to this house. Go make your own food.” 

“I can’t.” 

Steve frowned, turning to stare at him, “What do you mean you can’t?”

“I dunno how,” Bucky said with a shrug. 

“I cannot tell if you’re joking right now.” 

“I’m not.” 

Steve dragged a hand down his face, groaning. “Okay. Come on.” 

He pushed himself out of the bed, tugging Bucky by the wrist until the other boy stumbled upright with a grumble. 

“Where’re we going?” Bucky asked, rubbing at his eyes as Steve pulled him toward the door.

“The kitchen,” Steve responded flatly.

“Dangerous choice,” Bucky muttered, but he followed anyway, padding after him down the stairs. “For the record, if we burn down your ma’s kitchen, I’m blaming you.”

Steve snorted. “Relax. There’ll be no fires. Hopefully.”

They hit the bottom of the stairs, and Bucky glanced around the quiet living room before trailing after Steve into the kitchen. He flopped into one of the chairs at the table while Steve went straight for the cupboards. Within a minute, he’d piled an assortment of ingredients onto the counter. 

Bucky squinted at the growing collection, brows furrowed. “What’re we even making?”

“You’ll see," Steve said, setting the egg carefully on the counter. He turned, crossing his arms. “What do you know how to make?” 

Bucky thought for a second. “Toast.”

Steve raised an eyebrow.

“...And I can fry eggs,” Bucky added, like that was going to save him. 

“That’s it?”

Bucky shrugged, unapologetic. 

Steve sighed, shaking his head as he moved to the dish cabinet. “I’m teaching you more than that today.”

Bucky groaned, slouching dramatically in the chair. “Oh, fantastic. I’ve always dreamed of spending my Saturdays learning to cook.” 

“You’ll live,” Steve took a frying pan, a grater and a mixing bowl from the cabinet. “Can you get two tomatoes, please?” 

Bucky dragged himself upright, muttering, “This is cruel and unusual punishment.”

He shuffled to the icebox, retrieved two tomatoes, and set them on the counter with a thud before leaning with his hip against it behind Steve. 

“Alright,” Steve said, sliding the potatoes towards Bucky. “First, you need to peel these.”

Bucky blinked down at them. “...With what?”

Steve handed him a small paring knife. “With this.” 

Bucky turned it over in his hand. “And if I cut my hand off?”

“We’ll make you a new one,” Steve answered absently, already working on the tomatoes. 

Bucky gave him a look, but set to work, grumbling under his breath as he started peeling clumsily. The skins came off in ragged strips, some too thick, others too thin. 

“Not bad,” Steve said after a glance, surprising him. “Easy, isn’t it?” 

“Sure, Easy. Just ignore the part where I might lose an important limb.” 

Steve snorted and pushed an onion half towards him. “Dice that.” 

Bucky stared at him, “In English?”

“Chop it small,”  Steve said, halfway through the second tomato already.

“Could’ve just said that,” Bucky grumbled, picking up the knife again. He started hacking at the onion, uneven chunks flying across the cutting board. 

“Bucky!” Steve protested, half-laughing, half-horrified. “You’re not supposed to butcher it!” 

“I’m not butchering it.” Bucky said proudly, gesturing to the pile, “I’m dicing.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Steve muttered, sweeping the mess into the bowl anyway. “We’ll work on that later.” 

Bucky leaned on the counter, smirking. “Bet you’re wishing you’d just let me stick to toast.”

Steve shook his head, trying not to smile. “Nope. You’re learning this if it kills me.”

“Want me to do your last rites?” Bucky teased, grinning widely.

Steve rolled his eyes, biting back laughter. “Next step,” he said, handing the grater to Bucky.

Bucky eyed it suspiciously. “That looks like a torture device.” 

“It’s a grater, Buck.”

“Yeah, grater way to lose a finger.” 

Steve burst into laughter at that, Bucky snickering at his own joke beside him. 

“Hold the potato at the top and just run it down. Watch your precious fingers.” Steve supplied, still smiling.

Bucky muttered under his breath, but did as told until there was a pile of shredded potatoes in the bowl, forming a mountain on top of the rest of the vegetables. 

Steve leaned against the counter on his elbows, watching Bucky as he complained.

“My arm’s gonna fall off,” Bucky groaned halfway through the second potato.

“Congratulations, Barnes,” Steve said with mock-seriousness, “You’ve invented a new career path: Professional complainer."

“Hey, I’d be great at that.” 

“Already are.”

Bucky shot him a glare but kept working, finally finishing the last of the potato, “There. All done. You happy?”

Steve smirked, “ So happy .” He reached for the egg and pressed it into Bucky’s hand. “Here you go.”

Bucky shrugged and tapped the egg once against the edge of the bowl. Nothing. He tried again, harder this time, and the shell practically collapsed in his hand. Half of the egg landed in the bowl, and the other half dripped down his fingers. Bits of shell floated on top of the potato. 

Steve gasped, and Bucky looked at him, wide-eyed. 

“I did not mean to hit it that hard,” he stuttered, “I’m sorry.”

“I know, it’s okay,” Steve comforted quickly, ushering him toward the sink. “That can be fixed - just wash your hands.” 

Steve fished the last shard of shell out of the bowl, glancing over his shoulder when he realised Bucky still hadn’t spoken. He was still at the sink, shoulders tense, scrubbing his hands far longer than necessary.

“Buck?” Steve prompted.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He dried his hands on the dish towel and turned to lean against the counter. “Sorry. I’m not making a mess on purpose.” 

Steve set the spoon down and turned fully toward him, frowning. “You’re not making a mess. It’s one egg.”

“Look,” he added, nodding towards the bowl, “I’ve already got the shells out. Easy fix. Don’t be upset.”

For a second, Bucky just stood there, dish towel still bunched in his hands. Then, without warning, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Steve, pulling him in tight.

Steve froze, startled by the sudden weight of him. For half a heartbeat, he thought Bucky might actually start crying, and the thought alone sent his chest clenching. But then instinct took over, and he slid his arms around him in return, rising on his toes.

“I promise it’s fine,” Steve comforted, squeezing Bucky tightly before leaning back slightly, “Let’s finish this so you don’t starve to death in my kitchen.”

Bucky huffed out a laugh against his shoulder, then pulled back and straightened up, smile already making its way back onto his face. They turned back to the counter, Steve nudging the bowl over to Bucky. 

Steve gave him a small smile before nudging the mixing bowl closer. “Alright. Two spoonfuls of flour.”

Bucky grabbed the spoon, tongue caught between his teeth as he scooped a level measure with much more care than necessary before dropping it in. The second one followed, just as cautious.

“There,” Bucky said, smug. “I’m a professional.”

Steve grinned, reaching for the salt and pepper and slid them over to Bucky. “Just a little, Buck,” 

Bucky tipped in a small amount of salt, looking to Steve for approval before switching to the pepper when he nodded. Once he’d done the same with the pepper, he glanced at Steve again. 

This time, Steve reached and wrapped his hand around Bucky’s wrist. Before Bucky could react, Steve was guiding his hand and shaking more into the bowl. 

Bucky gawked at him. “ You just said a little! ”

“This is a little!” Steve shot back, entirely serious, even as he let go to hand him the garlic powder next. “Two pinches.”

“Two pi-” Bucky started, “That can’t be an actual measurement.” 

“Is too,” Steve responded. “Go on.” 

Bucky rolled his eyes and did it anyway, getting the powder between his fingers before dropping it into the bowl. 

“Perfect,” Steve grinned, reaching for the wooden spoon before handing it to Bucky. “Now mix it all together.”

Steve left Bucky to do the mixing, returning things to the cupboard and placing the grater into the sink. Behind him, the sound of the wooden spoon scraping the side of the bowl was steady but… hesitant.

When he turned around, Bucky was staring into the bowl, stirring in the neatest, gentlest circles imaginable.

“...What are you doing?” Steve asked, eyebrows raised. 

“Being careful,” Bucky answered without looking up.

Steve walked back over to him, leaning on the counter. “Buck, mix it harder.”

“If I mix it harder, I’m gonna get flour everywhere,” Bucky argued, spoon dragging another slow loop through the batter.

“Flour is possibly the easiest thing to clean up ever,” Steve responded immediately. “Mix it, Bucky.” 

Bucky glanced at Steve hesitantly, but with a resigned huff, he dug the spoon in with more force. The mixture sloshed and splattered up the side of the bowl, a fleck landing on the counter. 

“See?” Steve encouraged, nudging Bucky lightly with his elbow, “Perfectly fine.”

Bucky looked at him for a moment before grinning widely and turning back to the bowl.

Steve set about lighting the stove while Bucky stirred, striking a match and shaking it out once it was lit. He poured the oil into the pan, leaving it to heat and turned back to Bucky again. 

Bucky was still bent over the bowl, stirring with far more enthusiasm than before, smiling down as the mixture gradually began to look less like an assortment of separate ingredients. Steve leaned on his elbows against the counter beside him, just watching for a moment - Bucky seemed perfectly content with the mundane task.

After a minute, Bucky tipped the bowl in Steve’s direction. 

Steve peered into it, then back up. “All done?”

Bucky tilted his head, uncertain. “Am I?”

“Do you want to mix it more?” 

Bucky tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling, considering it with great seriousness, before sighing. “Nah, I’m hungry.” 

Steve snorted, straightening to pick up the bowl and transfer it to the counter closest to the pan. He dropped the first spoonful of batter into the pan, and it sizzled immediately, the oil flying out in his direction. 

Bucky, who was previously close behind him and watching Steve work, took a wary step back. 

“What the hell…” he muttered, eyeing it.

“It’s supposed to do that,” Steve said calmly, flattening the pancake with the back of the spoon, “That’s how you know it’s cooking.” 

After a while, Steve slid the spoon under the pancake, gave it a quick flip, and revealed a perfectly golden underside, red scattered randomly around. He set the spoon down and rushed over to the dish cupboard to retrieve a large plate. Once he’d set the plate on the counter, he turned back to the pan, using the spoon to lift the pancake and place it in the centre of the plate.

Steve held out the spoon to Bucky, “Your go. It’s easy.”

“You make it look easy,” Bucky corrected. “Bet it burns the second I try.”

Steve smirked at him. “Only one way to find out,” he said, holding the spoon further out. “Go on.” 

Bucky hesitated, glancing between Steve and the spitting oil. After a beat, he shrugged and took the spoon, swapping places with Steve. He scooped out a similar amount to Steve, carefully placing it in the middle of the pan. The oil popped once, sharp and quick, and Bucky flinched back.

“Don’t laugh,” he warned, shooting Steve a glare. 

Steve bit down on his lip, shoulders shaking. “I’m not- I’m not laughing.” 

“You are.” 

“Am not.” Steve shot back, bringing his hand up to cover his mouth. “Go on, flip it.” 

Bucky rolled his eyes, then stepped forward again, sliding the spoon under the edge of the pancake. With a deep breath, he flipped it. 

It landed a little crooked, but the golden side was just as perfect as Steve’s had been.

Bucky blinked at it, then glanced at Steve. “...huh.” 

Steve’s grin widened. “Told you - easy .”

Bucky exhaled, nodding smugly to himself. “Easy.” 

“So easy that you’re going to do the rest.”

Bucky’s smugness immediately faltered. “...Wait. The rest?” 

Steve grinned at him, nodding slowly. 

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” Steve said cheerfully, moving around and collecting all the dishes they were finished with. “Enjoy pancake duty.”

“Unbelievable,” Bucky muttered, grumbling under his breath as he carefully scooped the pancake out of the pan and onto the plate. He replaced it with more of the mixture, flattening it with the back of the spoon like Steve had earlier. The oil hissed again and he gasped quietly, side-eyeing Steve, who was snickering where he stood at the sink.

By his third pancake though, Bucky was flipping them with ease, no longer flinching when the oil popped at him and grinning each time he flipped it over to that perfect shade of gold. Steve finished washing the dishes just as Bucky flipped his final pancake, coming to stand next to him. 

“Wow,” Steve said with dramatised awe, “Look at that. Not a single burnt pancake.”

Bucky rolled his eyes even as he smiled impossibly wider at the praise. Steve carried the plate out, Bucky trailing behind him, so concentrated on the plate he knocked his elbow on the living room doorway. The second he was actually in the room, he leaped into the couch, stretching out like he owned the place. Steve set the plate between them before sitting cross-legged on the other end. 

Bucky wasted no time, picking up the top pancake and shoving it into his mouth. His eyes widened almost instantly.

 “Steve,” he said around a mouthful, swallowing before he repeated himself with more emphasis, “Steve. These are really, really good,” 

Steve huffed a laugh, taking a bite out of his own, “You made them, not me.” 

Bucky paused with his next pancake halfway to his mouth. “First of all, I barely did anything. Second of all, it's your recipe.”

“You only peeled, chopped, grated, stirred, fried-” Steve said, putting a finger down for each task.

“Badly!” Bucky interrupted. “I peeled badly, I chopped badly- the egg, Steve!”

“Still counts,” Steve sing-songed.

“If I’d set your kitchen on fire would it still count?”

Steve raised an eyebrow, feigning thought. “I guess so, the food still would’ve cooked.” 

Bucky laughed, shaking his head. “Are you serious?” 

Steve shrugged, fighting his own smile as he took another bite out of his pancake. 

They stared at each other for a moment, silent, both waiting for the other to give in first.

Finally, Bucky sighed, slumping back against the cushions. “Fine. We both made them.” 

Steve nodded in agreement, satisfied. “And they’re really good.” 

“Really, really , good.” 

 

Notes:

I was SO proud of that grater joke nobody will ever understand. Also, my posting is 100% very inconsistent, but trust, I will not discontinue this fic ever (hopefully) and definitely not with no warning.

 

The recipe is from : https://www.tasteofhome.com/recipes/crispy-potato-pancakes/
I have actually attempted it and I did add tomatoes in because I love them. The recipe is so mwah!

Chapter 10: Chapter 10

Summary:

Bucky flopped onto his back, one arm thrown across his stomach.

“Man, I could live in here,” he said, sighing contentedly.

Steve smiled at him. “You’d get bored of it eventually, Barnes.”

Bucky turned to him and smiled back. “‘M never getting bored of this, Rogers.”

Steve’s smile brightened slightly, knowing that Bucky wasn’t talking about the fortress anymore. 

Notes:

Sometime in the middle of november - idk i just work here.

Long chapter as an apology and also because I think the first official sleepover is in fact a major event!

I do actually proofread my own works if it’s not clear but my brain corrects any mistakes in my head so I don’t actually realize they’re there until I read it back once it’s posted…

The MCU did not let Steve cry enough for my liking and I don't like that. So have some tears from little rogers. Not many but there are some tears.

“We should have a sleepover today,” Bucky said as he kicked a loose stone across the sidewalk and shoved his hands in his pockets. 

Steve looked over, amused. “We always have sleepovers.”

“I mean an actual sleepover,” Bucky clarified, giving him a look. “A planned one. Not one where we accidentally pass out at each other’s houses.” 

Steve laughed. “Fair. My house or yours?” 

“Yours,” Bucky answered without hesitation. “There’ll be no sleeping involved if we’re in the same house as the twins.”

Steve grinned as Bucky continued, “And your ma respects sleep. She’s not gonna start a one-man kazoo parade at eight in the morning like Becca did the other day.” 

They shared a quiet laugh as they rounded the corner onto their street. 

“I’m gonna go get my stuff and let my ma know,” Bucky said as they reached Steve’s house. “Don’t start anything without me.”

“I won't,” Steve said, turning his key in the lock and pushing the door open with ease. “Don’t take long.”

“I won’t,” Bucky replied, turning to go to his own house. 

About twenty minutes later, Bucky was back - having swapped out his school clothes for pyjamas, a stack of comics tucked under one arm, toothbrush sticking out of his shirt pocket, and hair damp at the roots from where he’d run a wet hand through it.

He knocked twice before pushing the door open. Steve met him at the door, barefoot, sleeves rolled up, a faint smudge of graphite near the base of one thumb, smiling that familiar half-smile.

“Hey,” Steve said, stepping aside to let Bucky pass him before following behind.

“Hey,” Bucky echoed, “I brought comics.” 

“Good,” Steve said. “My ma’s still at work, but she’ll be back soon.”

“Cool,” Bucky replied, already heading into the living room.

He dropped his stack of comics onto the coffee table and collapsed onto the couch with a sigh, stretching out. Steve trailed behind and took the other end.

“Today was stupid,” Bucky declared, breaking the quiet.

Steve snorted. “That bad?”

“I had double history with Edwards behind me, trying to balance a pencil on my collar,” Bucky grumbled. “Longest ninety minutes of my life.”

Steve laughed from his corner of the couch, knees tucked to his chest. “And you didn’t say anything?”

“I couldn’t! Mrs. Albridge was already watching me like I was plotting something.”

“You weren’t?” Steve asked, mock-gasping.

Bucky gave him a flat look, though there wasn’t a hint of bite in it. Then his face brightened. “I finished the base on my new model.”

Steve perked up. “The wood one?”

“Yep,” Bucky nodded. “Got the wings sanded down smooth - finally - and started painting the tail. I’m going for a deep navy colour. Like those old naval flyers.”

Steve turned a little, chin resting on his arms. “You gonna let me paint the shark teeth on the nose?”

Bucky laughed. “Absolutely not.”

“Coward,” Steve muttered, but he was smiling.

Bucky sat up a little, one knee pulled up to his chest as he rested his chin on it. “What about you? How did your lessons go?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “We had a maths test in the afternoon, and halfway through, Mason and Turner got into a full-on argument across the room.”

Bucky raised a brow. “ During the test ?”

“Yep,” Steve said, nodding. “Turner kept tapping his pencil on the desk and Mason asked him to stop. Turner didn’t.”

“Oh, no,” Bucky grinned. “What’d he say?”

Steve snorted. “Started with, ‘if you don’t stop, I’m gonna break that pencil and then your fingers,’ which I think was a little dramatic.”

“A little,” Bucky echoed, amused.

“Then they both got kicked out,” Steve finished, smirking. “Turner tried to argue that he was ‘just thinking out loud with his pencil.’”

“Because that’s a thing.” Bucky deadpanned, sarcasm dripping from the syllables.

Steve laughed. “Honestly, the worst part was that it completely broke my focus. I forgot how to divide fractions for a full minute.”

Bucky gasped. “Tragic. A national crisis.”

“I was on track for a perfect score,” Steve said, grinning as he leaned into the arm of the couch.

Bucky gave him a sideways look. “Nerd.”

“Rude.”

“Correct, though.”

Steve shoved him lightly with his foot, and Bucky responded by pretending to fall over dramatically, arm flung across the couch cushions.

“Help,” he said faintly, “I’m being attacked in my sleepover host’s home.”

“Oh, please,” Steve scoffed, rolling his eyes fondly.

Bucky cracked one eye open. “This is cruelty. I bring gifts -” he gestured to the stack of comics on the table, “-and I get feet.”

Steve huffed a laugh. “You brought them so we could read them. So let’s read them.”

He reached forward and picked the top comic off the pile, flipping it over to look at the cover. “Ooh. This one’s got the lizard guy again.”

“The Croc,” Bucky said seriously, sitting up and crossing his legs. “Have some respect.”

Steve raised a brow. “The guy with the mohawk and no shirt? Respect him?”

“He’s iconic,” Bucky insisted, snatching the comic from him and cracking it open to the first page. “You just don’t understand his depth.”

“Depth,” Steve repeated, deadpan, leaning over Bucky’s shoulder. “Pretty sure he’s been punching buildings for no reason.”

“He was angry,” Bucky said. “Those buildings were full of crime.”

Steve gave him a look, then adopted a deep, gravelly voice: “I am the Croc. I punch crime. And brick walls.”

Bucky burst out laughing. “You sound like you’ve been eating nails.”

Steve cleared his throat and tried again, this time squeakier: “Justice shall rain from the skies!”

“No, no - he’s not that theatrical,” Bucky argued, pointing at the panel. “Oh look! This is the part where he says, ‘You thought you could restrain the reptile of freedom?’ and then punches a helicopter.”

Steve snorted. “Okay, that one’s pretty cool.”

They fell into an easy rhythm, flipping through the pages together. Bucky read the dialogue dramatically, while Steve added sound effects and voice-acted minor characters in increasingly ridiculous accents. At one point, he gave the villain a Scottish brogue so terrible Bucky nearly choked on his laugh.

By the time they reached the final page, they were both slouched against the back of the couch, shoulders bumping, still grinning.

“Alright,” Steve said, voice hoarse from doing five different voices, “I’m giving that one a solid eight out of ten. Docked two points for that panel where he just-” he flipped back a page, “-throws a whole car into the ocean for no reason.”

“He was cleaning up the streets,” Bucky replied solemnly.

Steve nudged him again, smiling. “At the cost of someone else’s down payment?”

“Exactly,” Bucky said, flopping back with a grin.

Steve rolled his eyes once more, placing the comic back on the table. A few seconds passed in comfortable quiet before Bucky glanced toward the other sofa and then turned his head toward Steve.

“We should make a pillow fortress and sleep in it tonight,” he said suddenly.

Steve blinked. “What?”

“You heard me,” Bucky said, already propping himself up. “We take the cushions, toss 'em on the floor, grab a bunch of blankets, make a whole fortress.”

Steve raised a brow. “Aren’t we a little old for that?”

Bucky gave him a scandalised look. “You can never be too old for a fortress.” he argued and reached for the nearest cushion. “C’mon, it’s our first real sleepover. We’re doing this properly.”

“You’re serious?” Steve asked, lips twitching upwards.

“Deadly,” Bucky said, already on his knees and tossing cushions onto the rug. “You go get the blankets. I’ll construct the walls.”

Shaking his head but amused, Steve got to his feet and disappeared toward the hallway closet. He returned a few minutes later with two wool blankets and a patchwork blanket. 

He paused in the doorway, taking in the progress Bucky had already made. “Wow. You work fast.”

They got to work with no elegance whatsoever. They dragged over the dinner chairs, lined the couch cushions along the edges like barricades, and softened the inside with the decorative pillows and Steve’s pillow from upstairs.

Bucky was trying to place the blanket over both the top of the sofa and the top of the dining chairs when the front door creaked open.

“Steve?” came Sarah’s voice from the hallway.

“In here!” he called back.

Sarah entered, coat still buttoned and hair slightly windblown from the walk home. She stopped at the edge of the room, eyebrows lifted in amusement as she took in the cushion chaos and half-constructed pillow walls. 

“Alright… what’s going on in here?”

Bucky, now on his knees behind the sofa, peered over the top of it. “We’re having our first sleepover.”

Sarah tilted her head, still smiling. “Don’t you two always have sleepovers?”

“This one’s official,” Bucky replied, standing up and brushing off his hands. 

Sarah huffed a quiet laugh and started unbuttoning her coat. “Alright then, boys. I’ll leave you to your fortress-building.” She draped her coat neatly over the bannister and started up the stairs with one last amused glance at the chaos in her living room. “Think about what you want for dinner while I’m gone.”

“Okay!” They chorused, turning their attention back to the completion of their fortress. 

“What d’you wanna eat?” Steve asked, now organising the inner part of it,

“Uhh… stew, maybe,” Bucky said, securing the quilt-roof.

Steve laughed. “Is stew the only thing you know how to ask for when you come over?”

“I like your ma’s stew!”

“Clearly. You ask for it every time.”

“Shut your mouth,” Bucky grumbled. “Your ma makes a mean stew.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

They made the final adjustments in silence - Steve tucking in the edges of a blanket to keep the “roof” from slipping off the chairs, while Bucky lined the inside with the last couple of couch cushions, creating a proper floor. The roof-blanket hung low enough to make the interior shadowy and warm, and Steve’s pillow sat proudly at one end like a throne.

Bucky stepped back and gave the finished product a long, thoughtful look, hands on his hips.

“…Am I even gonna fit in there?” he asked eventually, tilting his head.

Steve, still crouched beside the opening, looked up at him. “You’re not that tall.”

Bucky opened his mouth like he might argue, then promptly shut it. He wasn’t about to face Steve’s wrath by pointing out that, actually, he was that tall. Again. 

Instead, he just raised his hands in surrender. “If I get a cramp, I’m blaming you.”

“You’ll fit,” Steve said, already crawling through the entrance with ease. “Come on, beanstalk.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and crouched low before shuffling in after him. He did fit - barely. If he were two inches taller, his feet would’ve poked out the blanket door. As it was, his toes brushed the far edge of the fortress, and he had to sit cross-legged to avoid knocking over one of the walls with his knees.

Still, once he’d settled in, the whole thing felt strangely perfect. Warm and dim, the blanket-filtered sunlight casting  soft shadows over Steve’s face as he sprawled out beside him.

Steve leaned his head back against a cushion wall. “Comfy?”

“Surprisingly,” Bucky said, adjusting a fold of the blanket roof. “I thought I’d be squashed like a sardine, but it’s not bad.”

Just then, the familiar sound of Sarah’s footsteps creaked on the staircase. A moment later, she stepped back into the living room, hair brushed out, sleeves rolled up, and her usual smile in place. She stopped just short of the sofa, one hand on her hip, eyes twinkling.

“Well, would you look at that,” she said fondly, crouching near the blanket doorway. “You two actually finished it.”

Steve turned toward her with a proud smile while Bucky peeked over Steve’s shoulder from further inside, both boys clearly pleased with their handiwork.

“Looks great, boys,” she said, eyes flicking over the carefully arranged cushions and the lopsided but well-loved quilt roof. “You work out what you want for dinner?”

“Stew, please!” Bucky called immediately from his spot.

Steve burst into laughter beside him, then let out a loud yelp. “Don’t- ow! Don’t pinch me, Barnes!”

Sarah laughed as she stood, brushing her skirt down. “Stew it is, then.” She gave the roof of the fortress a fond pat as she passed by on her way to the kitchen. “I’ll call when it’s ready.”

“Thanks, Aunt Sarah!” Bucky called after her.

“Thank you, Ma!” Steve echoed, already flopping onto his back beside Bucky inside their fortress.

The rustle of pots and clatter of utensils drifted in from the kitchen, comforting and familiar, a gentle hum of home life beyond the fabric walls of their fortress.

About ten minutes later, there was the sound of footsteps again, pausing just outside the blanket door.

"Delivery," Sarah called cheerfully.

Bucky immediately rolled onto his side. “Snacks?”

On it sat two small plates with thick slices of warm cornbread, a couple of oatmeal cookies each, and two glasses of milk with condensation beading the sides.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Steve said with exaggerated politeness, accepting the tray like it was treasure.

“You’re welcome. Dinner’s still simmering, but this should tide you over. Try not to cause a war in there, alright?”

“No promises!” Bucky called from somewhere inside.

Sarah laughed softly and stood, ruffling Steve’s hair before heading back to the kitchen.

Steve ducked back into the fortress, carefully balancing the tray.

“Oh, that smells amazing,” Bucky said, immediately reaching for a slice of cornbread.

Steve’s hand smacked his away. “Hands off, greedy . Let me put the tray down first.”

Steve placed the tray flat between them before picking up a piece of cornbread and bringing it to his lips.

“Hey!” Bucky protested, making him pause. “I was gonna eat that!”

Steve stared at him, incredulous. “There’s literally another one right there !”

“Yeah, but I was gonna eat that one.”

“They’re identical .”

Bucky glared dramatically. “You just wouldn’t understand.”

Steve watched him for a moment before smiling and handing him the slice. 

Bucky smiled back in response, immediately taking a bite out of it. 

“Tell your ma she’s amazing,” Bucky said through a mouthful.

“Tell her yourself. You shout across the house all the time anyway.” Steve said, reaching for a cookie when something - or rather somethings caught his eye.

He looked down. “You’re getting crumbs everywhere.”

“That was you! ” Bucky said indignantly.

“Look at where they are!”

“Blasphemy,” Bucky muttered, brushing the crumbs off his blanket... and directly onto Steve’s lap.

Steve let out a horrified gasp. “ James .”

Bucky just popped the rest of the cornbread in his mouth and raised both brows as if to say, What are you gonna do about it?

Steve narrowed his eyes. Then grabbed the pillow from behind him and thwacked Bucky lightly in the shoulder.

“Hey!” Bucky cried, shielding himself. “You can’t attack a man mid-chew!”

“Says who?”

They finished the rest of the snacks with minimal violence - though not without more ridiculous arguments about who got the bigger cookie and whether or not Steve was secretly putting his crumbs on Bucky’s blanket.

Eventually, Bucky flopped dramatically onto his back, one arm over his eyes. “Alright. I’m full. I can sleep happy.” 

Steve looked over at him, unimpressed. “Yeah, right. The minute that stew comes out, you’re gonna act like you haven’t eaten since last week.”

“Do you seriously want to have another conversation about me being sweet on your ma’s stew?”

“Ew!” Steve cried, laughing. “You’re so weird, I swear.” 

Bucky just grinned at him, peeking behind his arm.

Steve rolled his eyes and leaned back against the cushion wall again. An easy beat of quiet passed before Bucky pushed himself up onto his elbows, wearing that look he always got when an idea had just landed.

Whether the idea was something like ‘let’s go somewhere tomorrow’ or ‘lets do something that is definitely bordering on illegal', Steve could only wait and find out.

 He raised a brow at him. “What’re you cooking over there, Barnes?” 

“You know what we should do after dinner?” 

Steve waited, eyebrows raised.

“Make our own comic. Together.” Bucky continued, visibly beaming at the idea.

Steve straightened immediately. “Seriously?” 

“Yeah. You draw - obviously - because if I do it it’s gonna be awful. I’ll stick to dialogue and stuff.”

A grin slowly spread over Steve’s face. “That… actually sounds really fun.”

“Of course it does,” Bucky responded, smirking, “I’m the man with the ideas.”

Steve gave him a little shove with his foot, “The ideas that are not always sane or safe.”

Bucky scowled at him, “All my ideas are sane.”

“So you admit your ideas aren’t always safe?”

“Shut your mouth, Rogers.” 

Steve laughed, the sound bouncing off the fortress walls. “After dinner,” he said firmly once it faded.

“After dinner,” Bucky echoed, leaning back with his hands behind his head. “This is gonna be so fun.”

Steve reached for the comic pile near the blanket entrance, plucking one randomly before scooting closer to him. “C’mon. Let’s look for ideas.”

They spent the next twenty minutes poring over three different issues, pointing out dramatic panels and half-joking about stealing moves from 'The Avianator'. Just as Bucky was mid-rant about unrealistic villain lairs, Sarah’s voice carried from the kitchen doorway, along with the warm smell of beef stew.

“Boys, dinner!” 

Steve was out of the fortress first, Bucky following closely behind him, muttering about cramps. They both settled at the small kitchen table, Sarah setting down generous bowls in front of them before taking her own seat. 

“How was school, dears?” she asked, smiling at the pair.

Steve shrugged, spearing a potato with his spoon, “It was alright. I had a maths test this afternoon.” 

“Oh? How was it?” 

Bucky grinned, speaking before Steve could. “Two kids in his class almost got into a fistfight in the middle of it.”

Sarah raised her brows. “During the test?”

Steve shot Bucky a mildly betrayed look, but he was smiling. “Turner wouldn’t stop tapping his pencil, so Mason got irritated.”

Sarah shook her head, lips twitching upwards. “Boys.” She muttered to herself before turning to Bucky, “What about you, James?” 

“Quiet,” Bucky said around a mouthful, “Well, it was. Until someone decided their newest hobby was ‘Annoy Bucky Barnes.”

Sarah slowly looked over at Steve, amused.

“Ma!” Steve cried when he noticed, “I’m not even in his classes!” 

“And that’s been a hobby of his since we became friends - nothing new about it.” 

Steve let out a dramatic gasp, feigning outrage. “What!?” 

Bucky almost went face-first into his bowl with how hard he laughed, Sarah quickly raising a hand to her mouth to stifle her own giggles.

The rest of the meal carried on in easy conversation; bits of school gossip, Sarah asking about their weekend plans, Steve and Bucky debating over which comics they’d pull ideas from for their new creation. Sarah mostly listened with a small, fond smile, interjecting only to remind Bucky to slow down before he inhaled the rest of his stew.

When the bowls were finally scraped clean, Sarah stood to collect them.

“Alright, you two - I’ll handle the washing up. Go start your big project.”

Bucky’s grin widened. “Yes, ma’am.”

Steve glanced at the stack of empty bowls, then at Bucky. “Hey, why don’t you go grab my sketch stuff from my room? Top shelf of the desk.”

Bucky gave him a mock salute. “On it.” He headed for the stairs, already humming some tune under his breath.

As soon as the sound of his footsteps faded, Steve reached for the bowls. “Here, Ma - I’ll do it.”

Sarah sidestepped him without missing a beat. “No, you won’t. You’ve got a friend over.”

“And you’ve been working all day,” Steve countered, reaching for the stack again.

“And you’ve been at school all day,” she shot back, turning toward the sink.

Steve took a step closer. “School doesn’t involve running around wards and looking after patients.”

Sarah turned the tap on with a decisive flick. “Neither does washing three bowls. Go have fun.”

“I don’t mind-”

“I don’t mind either-”

“You’re just saying that-”

“So are you-”

They both stopped, narrowing their eyes in perfect mirror-image stubbornness.

“Ma, it’s three bowls,” Steve said, exasperated but grinning.

“Exactly,” Sarah replied, lips twitching.

Steve crossed his arms. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“That’s rich, coming from you, sweetheart,” she said dryly, flicking a bit of water at him.

Steve dodged it, barely. “At least let me dry them.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because if you’re standing here drying, you’re not participating in your sleepover.”

Steve groaned. “Stubborn...” he muttered to himself. 

“Pot, kettle,” Sarah said, already lowering the first bowl into the soapy water.

Steve let out a long, reluctant sigh and backed toward the doorway. “Fine. But I’m washing up tomorrow.”

“Not a chance, bunny,” Sarah called after him, smiling as she turned back to the sink.

Steve slipped back into the living room just as Bucky came jogging down the stairs, a charcoal-smudged shoebox tucked under one arm. 

“Don’t drop that,” he said when Bucky almost tripped on one of the last steps.

“‘Don’t drop that,'  he says,” Bucky grumbled as he made his way over to the fortress’ entrance, ‘Not 'be careful, don’t fall over, Bucky.' - ‘Don't drop that.’”

Steve grinned, waiting for Bucky to pass him before following. “Not like you’re going to break from falling from that height - heaven knows your head is too hard for that.” 

Bucky glared back at him before crawling into the fortress with their supplies, now pointedly handling the box like precious cargo. When Steve was also comfortably seated on the cushions, Bucky opened the lid of the box, revealing multiple sketchbooks, loose sheets, scattered pencils and a few worn erasers.

Steve plucked a sketchbook and a pencil out of the box before flipping it to a blank page. 

“Characters first?” Steve asked, crossing his legs and resting the sketchbook in the middle of them. 

“Characters first.” Bucky agreed, settling next to him. “Something cool but unique enough nobody else will ever think of it.”

“Uh-huh. Who’s our main character?”

“Detective. With a talking raven.” 

Steve paused whatever he’d been writing to stare up at Bucky like he’d grown an extra head; he shook his head before resuming his writing, a grin plastered on his face. “That’s so stupid,” he said, clearly fighting giggles.

Bucky just shrugged at him. “Detective Talon.” 

Steve lost the battle this time, doubling over the sketchbook with laughter, Bucky immediately following.

“You’d better still be writing it down,” Bucky managed between snickers.

“You know I am,” Steve said without looking up, pencil already moving.

“Good.” Bucky leaned back against the cushion wall with a smug grin. “Detective Talon’s a masterpiece in the making.”

They went back and forth like that for a while, tossing ideas like a tennis match - half of them absurd, all of them ending up on the page. A gadget that shoots nets instead of bullets. A chase scene through buildings and across rooftops, where the raven gets distracted by crumbs. 

The two were so wrapped up in their brainstorming that they didn’t hear Sarah’s footsteps until her voice came from just outside the blanket opening. 

“Boys, I have something for you.”

Both of them glanced up in unison as she knelt down beside the blanket doorway, two mugs balanced in her hands. The smell of cocoa drifted in, warm and sweet. 

“Hot chocolate?” Steve guessed, already perking up. 

“Hot chocolate,” Sarah confirmed. “Come get it before it goes cold.” 

They scrambled out of the fortress, kneeling at the coffee table as Sarah set the cups down, each crowned with a layer of marshmallows. 

“Don’t stay up too late, okay?” Sarah said warmly, leaning down to kiss Steve on the forehead before doing the same to Bucky, who grinned widely at the gesture.

“Yes, ma.” “Yes, Aunt Sarah.” They chorused, hands curling around their drinks. 

She gave them one last fond look before heading back upstairs, leaving them in the glow of the lamplight with their drinks and half-finished comic plans.

Bucky took a sip and sighed in satisfaction. “Best sleepover ever.” 

Steve nodded in agreement, sipping at his own cup.

They stayed at the coffee table, both boys instinctively hovering over their mugs as if any sudden movement might somehow cause disaster for the fortress, even with the distance between it and the table. 

“You wanna finish the comic tomorrow?” Bucky asked, wiping a cocoa moustache off with the back of his hand. 

“Mhm. It’s not like my sketchbooks are running anywhere.” Steve said, placing his empty mug on the coffee table and leaning back on his palms. “And that means we have time to come up with more stupid ideas.”

“They’re genius, not stupid.” Bucky responded, grinning.

Steve laughed quietly, letting his head fall back. 

They fell into a quieter rhythm after that, voices subconsciously dropping - bits of idle chatter about the things they might do tomorrow, the new kid in Bucky’s homeroom class, a joke about whether the raven would prefer pie or cake.

When Bucky placed his empty mug down on the table, Steve stood and carefully carried both Bucky’s and his own into the kitchen. He set them in the sink, making a mental note to clean them in the morning before his ma could get to them first.

Bucky was crouched by the fortress entrance when Steve came back, holding the ‘door’ open like some grand porter. “Your chamber awaits, Sir Rogers.” 

Steve rolled his eyes but ducked inside, settling back against the pillows. The blankets had trapped the heat from earlier, meaning he didn’t shiver as he pulled one of them over himself. He stared at the wall next to him, watching the shapes the patchwork roof made in the dim lamplight that filtered through. 

Bucky flopped onto his back, one arm thrown across his stomach. 

“Man, I could live in here,” he said, sighing contentedly.

Steve smiled at him. “You’d get bored of it eventually, Barnes.” 

Bucky turned to him and smiled back. “‘M never getting bored of this, Rogers.”

Steve’s smile brightened slightly, knowing that Bucky wasn’t talking about the fortress anymore. 

They let the quiet settle for a few moments, until Bucky started talking again. Steve added on where needed, but was just listening for the most part. 

“The twins’ve started this thing where they just copy pa - whatever he does, they’ll copy,” Bucky says, “I think it's hilarious, but I’m not ever gonna tell them that.” 

Steve grins, shaking his head. “I used to do that with my dad.”

He paused as soon as the words were out, frowning a little at himself. He didn’t even know why he’d said it. The memory of his ma telling him that had just popped into his head, and Bucky was easy to talk to. Too easy sometimes. If he kept up like this, he’d have told Bucky all of his secrets by the end of the year.

 Still, he continued. “Well, according to my ma at least.”

“You don’t remember?” Bucky asked, voice devoid of any pity, now moving to sit up. 

Steve glanced down at his hands and started toying with the cuff of his sleeve, “No. But ma tells me stuff. She says when I was a baby, my dad’d kiss her and I’d do it immediately after - same spot.” 

He shifted, crossing his arms over his stomach, “Ma says he was funny, and… and he loved us.” his voice wavered a little, “And anyone who loves her, I figure I’ve gotta love them too.”

Bucky’s eyes softened, but he didn’t speak. 

Steve swallowed, blinking quickly. “I hate not remembering him. I don’t know why it gets to me so much, but it does. It’s like… there’s this whole person I’m supposed to know, supposed to miss, and all I’ve got are stories.” 

The familiar warmth crept up his face, prickling and heavy, meaning he was about to embarrass himself and he forced out a sharp, awkward laugh. He hadn’t cried in ages and never in front of Bucky and he wasn’t about to start now. 

“Don’t look at me,” and turned away from Bucky. 

Bucky didn’t listen. He just shifted across the pile of cushions until his knee bumped Steve’s and then he just wrapped his arms around him - no warning, no questions. 

Steve stiffened for half a second, more out of habit than anything. Crying in front of people had never been safe for him - kids at school had been merciless and even well-meaning adults sometimes left him feeling like a fragile thing to be pitied. But Bucky’s hold wasn’t smothering- it was warm without being careful in that tiptoeing way he hated. 

Steve’s breath hitched once, then again, and he let himself lean in, resting his forehead against Bucky’s shoulder. He kept one hand frozen at his side like if he didn’t move, the tears wouldn’t fall. But they did anyway.

Bucky didn’t say a word about the tears that did run down his face, just running his hand up and down Steve’s back before letting it settle in the middle. 

Steve let out a quiet, shaky laugh and pulled back slightly to press the heel of his hand into his eye. “Jesus christ. Such a baby - sorry, Bucky.” 

“You’re not a baby,” Bucky said simply. 

Steve just blinked at him, throat thick. 

Bucky gave him a gentle squeeze before letting go slowly, not in any rush. 

They both leaned back against the pillows, Steve staring at nothing. 

Bucky glanced at Steve - still a little red-eyed, still trying to force his breathing into evenness. 

 Bucky stretched out his legs before letting out a dramatic groan, trying not to grin when Steve looked at him like he was mad. 

“Alright,” Bucky said once he’d finished, “if Detective Talon is gonna have a talking raven, then we need to work out its personality.”

“It has to be sarcastic.” Steve answered, letting out a small huff of laughter.

“What, like you?” Bucky smirked.

“I haven’t been sarcastic a day in my life.” 

They stared at each other before breaking into a fit of giggles.

“It needs a name,” Steve said, drawing his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on them.

“Something mysterious… like Shadowfang,” Bucky said, nodding to himself. 

Steve snorted, “Shadowang is the least mysterious name I’ve ever heard.” 

“Fine then. Mr Beaks.” 

That made Steve laugh properly, his shoulders shaking as the last of the heavy feeling visibly left him. “You’re an idiot.” 

“Takes one to know one, punk.”

“Jerk.” Steve shot back, rolling his eyes. He shifted to lie down on his side, resting his arm under his head.

Bucky mirrored him, flopping down so they were facing each other. “Night, Stevie.” 

“Night, Buck,” Steve responded sluggishly. 

His breathing slowed little by little, eyes growing heavier with each blink until they stayed closed altogether. 

Bucky lay still, watching him in the dim glow that filtered through the patchwork roof. Steve’s face had smoothed out in sleep, no trace of the stubbornness he carried during the day. The lines of tension that usually marked Steve’s brow were gone, replaced by the quiet vulnerability of slumber. He looked truly at ease, despite his tears moments earlier. 

“I’m really glad we’re friends.” Bucky murmured under his breath, even though he knew Steve wouldn’t hear him.

He let the warmth of the little fortress and the steady rhythm of Steve’s breathing pull him under, counting the occasional shaky breath.

Notes:

Yes I just stole killer croc from dc and rebranded him, I’m not creative enough to make my own comic ideas 💔 Also credit to my friend for Bucky and Steve’s comic idea and “Shadowfang”!
And yes, i know i need to stop using the same cliché line for when they fall asleep with eachother, IM WORKING ON IT OKAY

With every chapter that I write, I get more angry at myself for making this slow burn - I’m no good at pacing and what I don’t think is overly intimate for friends other people might 😞

And finally, as someone without my dad in my life, I do often feel bad that I don’t know him, have any memories or anything like that even though it isn’t my fault. For anyone missing a family member that you don’t remember, just know they very likely loved you a lot and if they hadn’t met you either, they would’ve loved you!

Chapter 11: Chapter 11

Summary:

“I’m sure, sweetheart. It’s a thank-you for sending such a handsome, polite young man to brighten up my miserable morning.”

Steve flushed from the collar up. “Thank you, ma’am,” he mumbled. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“You too, honey!”

As they walked away, Bucky stared at him deadpan.

“I’m never going shopping without you again.”

Notes:

Yes, somehow most of the adults in brooklyn know eachother and somehow went to school together. No it doesn't make sense, no I won't change it.

Bucky was facedown in bed, blanket wrapped around one leg, hair waging war with gravity.

It was Saturday. No school, no chores, no twin-induced drama. Just the warm cocoon of his mattress and a plan to not move for as long as humanly possible.

Then came the voice.

“James, honey, kitchen please!”

He groaned into his pillow. Loudly.

“Ma, it’s Saturday,” he yelled back. “I’m sleeping!”

There was a pause. Then, softer:

“Your mother, who loves you very much, needs a favour from you and Stevie.”

Bucky made a noise of pure agony and flopped over onto his back like the universe had personally wronged him. 

He lay there, willing himself to melt into the mattress and disappear.

No luck.

He eventually trudged into the kitchen still in his pyjama bottoms and a rumpled undershirt, left sock lost somewhere in the tangle of his blanket, the right rolled down on his foot.

His ma was leaning against the counter, already dressed for the day, tea in hand, lipstick on, hair pinned like she was expecting royalty to drop by for breakfast.

“My darling boy,” she said, her tone honey-sweet. “My precious, handsome first-born.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Nope. Absolutely not. I don’t care what it is.”

“I need you and Stevie to get a few things from the market!”

She stepped forward and held out a long sheet of paper.

He took the list with a dramatic sigh and glanced at it. There were way too many items for one person to carry (hence why Steve definitely had to come with him), and most of them were written in her mix of English and quick shorthand Russian. Some items were circled, some underlined, and a few were scrawled in the kind of handwriting that meant she’d written them while halfway through yelling at one of her children or his father.

He did not want to do this. 

He cycled through excuses in his head, praying that one of them would work. 

“…This is in Russian.” 

He internally facepalmed himself. 

“Yes,” she replied, with a smile that was mostly teeth.

“I can’t read Russian,” he continued feebly, already backing toward the hallway.

“James Barnes,” she said with sharp warmth, “do you take me for an idiot?”

He froze. “I’m not saying that.”

“You read the entire list last week.”

“I was guessing,” he argued weakly.

“And yet you came back with everything,” she countered, still smiling.

“That was luck,” Bucky muttered. 

“Uh-huh,” she said, sliding a small pouch of coins off the counter before dropping it into his hand, “get a good cut of meat from Mr. Levine’s stall. The rest of it’s written down.”

After another whole week of those Godawful lessons, this was his reward. 

Grocery duty.

Bucky scowled down at the list, accepting defeat, before pocketing it.

His mother grinned, eyes shining, before smooshing his face in between her hands and peppering kisses all over it.

“ My sweet boy ,” she cooed in Russian, “ you’re so good to your mother, thank you! ”

“Alright, alright!” he laughed, scrambling to get away, “Let me go get ready!” 

She laughed loudly, pressing one final kiss to his face before releasing him to get dressed.

 He trudged off to get ready for the day, fighting metaphorical tears at having to run errands on a Saturday. 

He was at the front door 15 minutes later, mouth minty-fresh, clothed, hair hastily flattened. 

“I’m leaving now!” he called as he finished putting his shoes on.

“There’s enough money for you and Stevie to get treats once you’ve finished!” His mother called back, “Bring Stevie back with you after and make sure he wears his scarf!”

“Yes, ma!” He grabbed his jacket and the sturdy shopping bag from its place on the coat rack before muttering quietly under his breath, “ Why don’t you go and tell him yourself. ”

“I heard that!” 

“No, you didn’t!” he shouted as he stepped out the front door.

As soon as the door clicked behind him, he started walking toward Steve’s house with a grim expression. When he reached the other’s front door, he knocked three times before using the time it’d take for Steve to get to the front door from his bedroom to put his jacket on. 

Steve opened the door, already fully dressed and looking better than Bucky felt, despite the fact his hair was still sleep-creased.

“Great, you’re already dressed,” he said as he walked past Steve to enter the house, “My ma says we gotta go shopping.”

“Did she actually say we… ” Steve asked, raising a brow from behind him, shutting the door back, “Or do you just not want to go alone?”

“She actually said we,” Bucky replied flatly, throwing himself into the sofa before continuing, “But I also don’t want to go alone.”

Steve grinned at him in response, “Alright, let me go fix my hair, and then we can go.”

Bucky just hummed in response, already missing his bed like a grieving wife. 

Steve came back downstairs a few minutes later, hair mostly tamed, though one defiant curl had already begun to frame his forehead.

“You ready?” he asked.

“No,” Bucky grumbled, standing up anyway. He slung the shopping bag over one shoulder, “I’m gonna start sleeping at your house every Friday - can’t send me market if I’m not home.”

As Steve bent down to put his shoes on, Bucky pulled his scarf and jacket off of the coat rack. When Steve was standing again, Bucky made quick work of wrapping it around his neck, ignoring the other’s tired complaints of, “It’s not that cold!” and “I don’t need it!”

“Shut your mouth and get your jacket on,” he replied, holding it out.

Steve glared at him for a second before snatching the jacket and shoving it on with much more force than necessary.

Once Steve was fully bundled, Bucky grinned triumphantly before opening the door once more. 

They stepped out into the morning chill, the streets already starting to get busy. 

Bucky shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets and sighed like he was heading off to battle rather than the market. 

“Y’know,” Steve started, glancing over at him with a grin, “you don’t exactly look thrilled to be out in the sunshine.” 

“First of all, what sunshine ?” Bucky retorted, “Second of all, I was thrilled to be in my bed, and then your ma’s best friend, who allegedly loves me, decided to ruin my Saturday.” 

Steve laughed at him, “You’ll survive, Buck.”

“You’re not the one who got ambushed with a Russian grocery list before you even got to brush your teeth,”

“You have no problem whatsoever reading Russian, and you know it.” 

“Not the point,” Bucky muttered, “she didn’t even pretend to believe me when I told her I couldn’t read it- asked if I took her for an idiot.”

Steve bumped their shoulders together lightly, “Of all the excuses… You should’ve known better.”

“I do know better. I panicked in my desperation to return to my bed. That I miss dearly.” 

“You’re not going off to war, y’know,” Steve said, “It’s just the market.”

“ Same thing ,” Bucky groaned, “I’m going off to battle vultures in human form for apples .”

Steve laughed again, shaking his head, before the pair returned to their companionable quiet for the next few blocks. 

They turned the corner onto the next street, steps in sync as they usually were, the noise getting louder with every step: barking dogs, shouting vendors. 

Bucky wanted his bed. 

They reached the edge of the market about ten minutes later, where the rows of stalls began to spill across the sidewalks. 

The market was bustling with activity, the air thick with the scent of fresh produce and spices. Vendors called out their wares, competing for attention, while shoppers weaved through the narrow aisles. Bucky’s shoulders slumped as he scanned the crowded market, dreading the walk back. He had to get through all of these people.

He sighed, “I should’ve just pretended to be asleep.” 

Steve chuckled, nudging him forward, “Come on, it’s not that bad.”

They dove into the crowd of shoppers, weaving their way between stalls as Bucky grumbled theatrically and Steve offered polite nods to at least half the vendors they passed. 

Bucky’s scowl deepened every time somebody knocked into him too hard, while Steve wrapped his hand around Bucky’s elbow and dragged him through the manner-lacking crowd. 

Their first stop was the produce stall. Bucky held up the list dramatically.

“Alright,” he said, “we need two cabbages, five apples, three onions and a bag of potatoes.”

Steve grabbed a little basket and had already finished collecting the apples by the time Bucky finished groaning. 

Bucky inspected the potatoes before closing his eyes tight and clenching his jaw, exhaling sharply through his nose.

“These are all the sizes of tiny planets.” 

“Get the small bag,” Steve suggested patiently.

“They’re all the small bag. There’s no smaller .” 

They eventually left the stall with the shopping bag already weighing too much. The next few stops were faster - spices from Mrs Hanley’s, a roll of twine from the supply store, and fresh bread from a bakery cart that made Bucky pause mid-complaint just to breathe it in. 

“...Okay,” he admitted, “this part of the trip is okay.” 

“Uh-huh,” Steve responded, clearly trying not to laugh as he dropped coins into the vendor’s hand before walking off with a “thank you.” 

They moved from stall to stall, two mismatched halves of a single mission: Steve polite and patient while Bucky ground his teeth together every time Steve got shoved and apologised . 

Eight stalls later, Bucky’s mood had evened out (barely), and the bag was significantly heavier - even with Steve holding the sack of potatoes amongst other things in his arms.

At the spice stall, Miss Hanley - short, curly-haired, and sharp-eyed - caught sight of the list in Bucky’s hand before they could say a word.

“Is that Winifred Barnes’ handwriting?” she asked, squinting. “She still writes the way she did back at school!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve said brightly. “She told us to come to you for the good spices.”

“The best spices,” Miss Hanley replied, smiling back as she ducked under the stall. She emerged with a small pouch tied neatly with string and an empty cloth bag.

She held the bag open and nodded toward the load in Steve’s arms. Steve blinked, confused, until she gave him an expectant look. “Oh!” he said, and shifted everything into the bag before slinging it across his shoulder.

As he reached into his pocket for the money, Miss Hanley held up a hand.

“Tell Winnie this one’s on the house,” she said, placing the pouch of spices on the counter between them.

“Are you sure? It’s no trouble, really-” Steve started.

“I’m sure, sweetheart. It’s a thank-you for sending such a handsome, polite young man to brighten up my miserable morning.”

Steve flushed from the collar up. “Thank you, ma’am,” he mumbled. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“You too, honey!”

As they walked away, Bucky stared at him deadpan.

“I’m never going shopping without you again.”

Steve didn’t respond, ears still visibly glowing.

Eventually, Bucky peered back down at the list. “One more stop.”

“One more stop,” Steve echoed, cheerful, “You survived, Buck.”

“Let’s not get our hopes up, now.”

The final stop was at the butcher’s, tucked between the market stalls in an actual building. The smell of meat and blood slammed into them before they reached it.

Bucky’s face twisted like someone had just shoved a lemon straight into his mouth.

Steve willed himself to ignore the smell, pushing open the door enough for both him and Bucky to get in before it closed behind them. 

Behind the counter stood Mr Levine - broad, bearded, and cheerful. His apron was already stained pink, and he was wiping his hands when he finally looked at them.

“Well, if it isn’t little Barnes,” he boomed, grinning under his large moustache, “Still allergic to mornings?” 

“Yes,” Bucky said flatly.

Mr Levine laughed like he found that answer deeply satisfying, “What can I get you, kid?”

“Good cut of beef.” Bucky muttered, holding out the coins needed, “Enough for a stew.” 

“Mm-hm,” the butcher replied, unbothered by Bucky’s lack of pleasantries. He took the coins and turned to the other counter, whistling to himself.

Then he turned to Steve, “How about you, son? Your ma doing alright?” 

Steve smiled, “Yes, sir, she’s doing well. I’ll let her know you asked after her.” 

“Good man. I’ll make sure you both get the best of the lot, ‘less Winifred come for me,” he glanced back at Bucky, now staring into the wall like he could see through it. “Drag this one out of bed early more often, and maybe we’ll make a morning person of him yet.” 

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Steve replied, clearly enjoying himself.

Mr Levine roared with laughter, already wrapping the cut in thick brown paper. He handed the neat parcel to him with a satisfied nod. 

“Here you go, boys. Should make a fine stew.” 

“Thank you, Mr Levine,” Steve said, shifting to deposit the meat into Bucky’s bag, “take care!” 

“You too,” The butcher called as they walked away.

Bucky gave a half-hearted wave, then shoved his hands back into his pockets. 

They stepped back out into the cool air, the noise of the market seeming louder than it had been when they went in. Bucky hitched the shopping bag higher on his shoulder with a groan, glaring down at the floor like the pavements had done him a misdeed. 

“I think I’ve aged,” he groaned, “10 years easy.”

Steve just laughed, bright and loud. 

They fell into step again, shoulders brushing as they dodged the crowds. The journey home was uneventful, much to Bucky’s relief. 

When they reached the Barnes’ front door, Bucky let out a long exhale, staring up at the sky. Steve rolled his eyes, smiling, before opening the front door. 

Notes:

Bucky is so me. When my mother used to send me to the shop in the morning I'd be on the verge of tears in every aisle. Mornings are really not for me.

Chapter 12: Chapter 12

Summary:

Steve chuckled and leaned back into the couch, stretching his legs out. Bucky shifted a little to get more comfortable, then let himself flop sideways, head landing squarely in Steve’s lap.

Steve didn’t protest, just rested his free hand on Bucky’s arm, fingers idly brushing the edge of his sleeve.

“Comfy?” Steve asked, teasing but fond.

“Mm-hmm,” Bucky replied, mouth full, not even looking up.

Notes:

I'm so excited for the december chapters!! I'm only not excited for the brainwork required to pick out 30s-style, accessible gifts for important people that aren't real

Does it make sense for Bucky to speak french? Probably not. (It does in fact make sense for Steve to speak basic french because I say so)

Bucky trudged in with all the energy of a dying man, dragging his feet all the way to the kitchen. 

He dropped his shopping back on the counter with a dramatic sigh and no grace, before leaning heavily against it, head lolling back. 

Steve, ever practical, had already shrugged off his jacket and scarf and was now moving to pack away the meat. 

Bucky joined him a moment later, placing the loaf of bread in its designated box. He reached for the spices next, but his movements were slow. He kept squinting, like he was trying not to blink in case he accidentally fell asleep standing up. 

Steve glanced sideways at him, frowning slightly as he closed a cupboard door, “You alright?” he asked, half-teasing. 

“Peachy,” Bucky said dryly, sliding the apples out of the bag with exaggerated care.

Steve gave a quiet laugh, but kept an eye on him as he tucked the eggs away. Bucky had stopped halfway through putting the apples in the bowl on the counter and was now just staring down at them like they might start talking to him. 

Steve watched him for a moment, waiting, then gently said, “Bucky…it’s okay. Go upstairs - I’ve got the rest.” 

Bucky didn’t even look up, “I’m fine,” he said, waving him off as he resumed putting the apples away, “I can handle packing up some shopping. Not exactly hard labour.” 

Steve didn’t move. “Bucky,” he said again, “go upstairs.”

Bucky blinked, surprised by the tone, before visibly hesitating. 

Eventually, he mumbled, “You sure?” 

Steve gave a smile and nodded, “So sure. Go before you faint and knock yourself out on the edge of the counter.”

Bucky gave a weak snort in response. 

With one last groan, Bucky pushed himself off the counter and shuffled toward the stairs, muttering something under his breath about Steve being too nice for his own good and boy scouts.

Once he was gone, Steve glanced toward the doorway for a moment longer, then returned to the task at hand, unpacking the rest of the groceries with a grin on his face. 

Bucky slipped into his room, leaving the door open. 

His bed was a mess from when he’d rolled out of it earlier, blanket hanging off one side. With a newfound energy from the sight of his bed, Bucky crossed the room swiftly, throwing himself face-first onto the mattress before letting out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. He let one arm dangle off the side of the bed as the tranquillity of his bedroom wrapped around him. 

Downstairs, he could hear faint clinks and rustles, Steve moving around the kitchen, putting things away, probably being far too precise about it. It was comforting to hear him, moving around easily downstairs. 

He didn’t fall asleep, not really. 

He let his eyes shut, melting into the mattress, but he remained somewhere between consciousness and dreamland. He thought about moving to get the blanket over himself, but decided against it eventually. Maybe later. Maybe never. This was good enough.

A faint creak came from the floorboards downstairs. Then another. Footsteps - calm, steady ones - moving through the house with familiarity and purpose. 

Steve.

Bucky smiled into the pillow, barely a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

The footsteps continued up the stairs, all the way to his bedroom door. A second later, there was a soft knock on the doorframe.

“You asleep?” Steve whispered, careful. 

“Almost,” Bucky responded, cracking an eye open. 

Steve walked all the way in, his footsteps somehow gentler than they’d been moving through the rest of the home. “All packed away. Even stacked the potatoes how your ma likes.”

“Hero,” Bucky muttered into his pillow.

Steve beamed at the praise. “Thought you might’ve passed out,” 

“Was close,” Bucky said, lifting his head just enough to squint over at him.

Steve eventually sat down, the mattress dipping slightly underneath him. Bucky let the movement lull him, dropping his head back down.

The pair stayed in silence a while longer, satisfied to just be in each other’s company. 

Eventually, Bucky broke the silence. 

“Sorry for being an asshole earlier,” he said, burying his head further into the pillow.

“What the hell- When?” Steve exclaimed, blinking at him.

“When I was being an asshole, duh.” 

“I hope you know that I am so confused right now.” 

“I was being miserable the entire time,” Bucky clarified, “that couldn’t have been good for you.”

“Jesus, Buck.” Steve laughed, “First of all, you don’t like mornings, and it’s only eleven now. Second of all, it was good for me. You’re funny when you’re morning-moody.”

Bucky let out a small huff, “I’m glad my being miserable amuses you, Steven,” before continuing, softer, “Thanks.” 

Steve blinked again, “For what?” 

Bucky shifted a little, his head now resting sideways so he could peek at Steve through one eye again.

“For coming with me. And not getting annoyed at me.” 

Steve shrugged, though his voice had gentled further, “You don’t annoy me, so there’s no way for me to get annoyed at you.” 

“I’m gonna have to start trying harder then,” Bucky responded, closing his eye again.

“You do that, Barnes.” Steve chuckled, gently pulling the blanket from beneath Bucky and tossing it over him in one motion. 

Bucky didn’t open his eyes again, but the corners of his mouth lifted just slightly as he relaxed impossibly further into the mattress.

Steve stayed sitting there a little longer, watching the rise and fall of Bucky’s breath even out. 

Eventually, he had shifted from sitting upright to curling up at the foot of Bucky’s bed, one arm tucked under his head, the other loosely draped across his chest. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep - just rest his eyes. But the warmth of the room, the softness of the mattress and Bucky’s steady breathing had lulled him under. 

Time passed; the light in the room changed - first bright and blue, then mellow and golden as the early morning transitioned to late afternoon. Downstairs, the house was quiet. No footsteps, no voices, nothing. 

Half an hour melted into two hours, neither of them stirring the entire time - not when the front door creaked open downstairs, nor when Winifred peeked into the room to check on them. 

Two hours melted into four; this time, though,  the boys’ rest was disturbed by a flurry of thuds downstairs as the front door slammed shut. 

“We’re home!” 

“We got sweetbread from the bakery!” 

Bucky groaned as he awoke, slamming his fist into the pillow as Steve blinked awake, slow and confused.

“Absolutely not.” Bucky said, folding his pillow to cover his ears, “I died. Tell them I’m dead.”

Steve had just turned to look at him when-

“Buckyyy!” “Stevieee!”

Twin feet tore up the stairs like a cavalry charge. The bedroom door burst open, revealing Becca and Beth.

Beth skidded in first, flushed and beaming, holding a dress bag above her head like it was a prize. Becca followed close behind, already halfway into a red dress, tags still dangling off the collar. 

“Come on, Bucky!” Becca yelled. “You said you’d watch our fashion show when we got home!”

“Don’t remember that.” He grumbled, voice muffled into his pillow, “Go show Ma and Pa.”

“You promised!” Beth cried, poking his cheek and dodging his attempts to swat her hand away, “Come on, you two gotta sit on the couch and rank our outfits out of ten!” 

“We won’t do it without you,” Becca added, hands on her hips.

“And we have snacks!” Beth bribed, pulling the blanket. 

Steve sat up properly at that, before glancing at Bucky, who was also moving into a seated position. 

“What snacks?” Steve questioned, turning to playfully squint at them. 

“The good ones.” Becca and Beth answered in sync before turning to scowl at each other.

“Don’t copy me.” They said, in sync once again. 

“Stop!” 

They glared at each other before starting to argue about who was actually copying whom. 

Bucky and Steve looked at each other, ignoring the chaos unfolding next to them.

“They have the good snacks, Buck.”

Bucky stared at him, betrayed, “Et tu, Stevie?” 

“Et moi, Buck,” Steve grinned. “C’mon, we’re already awake. Might as well be supportive.”

Before Bucky could argue, the twins finished their own argument. Beth tugged Bucky’s arm, Becca grabbed Steve’s, and together they began dragging the boys out of the room.

Bucky half-heartedly resisted, muttering complaints under his breath the whole time, while Steve followed along, smiling pleasantly. 

By the time they reached the living room, Winifred and George were already seated on the couch - Winifred perched elegantly with a mug of tea in hand, George beside her with his arm slung behind her shoulders and a smirk playing at his lips, chatting like they were the only two people in the world. 

Correction: Flirting like they were the only two people in the world. 

“Okay, ew.” Bucky said immediately, squinting at them, “Reminder that the living room is a communal area of the house.”

Winifred didn’t even look at him. “Good to see you too, darling.”

George just grinned and kissed her on the cheek in retaliation.

Bucky pulled a face like he’d been personally wounded. “Gross.”

George leaned in close to Winifred, mumbling something low in her ear that made her laugh behind her hand, eyes sparkling. 

“So gross.” Bucky huffed, dropping into the other sofa.

Steve laughed quietly and plopped down beside him, leaning back.

The living room rug had been moved to form a makeshift runway, and a blanket had been artfully pinned to the doorway as a curtain.

Becca dramatically cleared her throat.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced, standing in front of the blanket curtain with her arms spread, “prepare yourselves for the fashion event of the season-”

“The year!” Beth corrected, peeking from behind the blanket.

“-The year!” Becca confirmed with a nod. “Brought to you by the dazzling minds of Becca and Beth Barnes, and sponsored by Pa’s wallet.”

George gave a theatrical little bow from the couch. “Happy to support the arts.”

Steve leaned toward Bucky with a whisper, “They’re really committing to the bit.”

“They’ve been planning this since Wednesday,” Bucky whispered back. “We can’t even sneak off.”

Steve laughed just as the makeshift curtain was yanked open with flair, and Beth emerged first. Wearing a blue polka-dot dress with a white sash tied at the back, she struck a pose with one hand on her hip, then spun dramatically, the skirt twirling out like a pinwheel.

Applause erupted around the room. Steve gave a cheerful whoop; George and Winifred clapped supportively.

Bucky blinked slowly, then gave a solemn thumbs-up. “Nine out of ten.”

“Why only nine?” Beth asked, scowling at him.

“I have to leave room for the finale,” he replied with mock seriousness.

Satisfied, she gave a proud little nod and sashayed offstage.

Becca came next, dressed in a deep red dress with ruffled sleeves and a satin ribbon tied at her waist. She walked with exaggerated poise, chin high, steps measured.

“This,” she said, “is what I would wear to a royal dinner if I ever married a prince.”

Winifred clapped behind her teacup. “Absolutely stunning, darling!”

“Ten,” Steve said, grinning.

“Eleven,” George added with a wink.

Becca turned to Bucky expectantly, hands on her hips and brows raised.

He squinted. “Eight.”

“Eight?!” she gasped.

“It's not a competition,” Bucky said, smug.

“Yes, it is,” Becca and Beth shouted from opposite ends of the room.

“Also,” Bucky continued, “Deduction because you’re not marrying anyone, prince or otherwise.”

Becca rolled her eyes. “You’re not in charge of my marriage.”

Beth returned with her second outfit - a yellow sundress with embroidered daisies along the hem - and struck three different poses before collapsing into an exaggerated curtsey.

Steve clapped again - less theatrical this time, more distracted. His attention had shifted toward the side table where Becca and Beth had, true to their word, left behind the good snacks: chocolate biscuits, sweetbread, and a bowl of caramel corn.

“Hey,” Steve nudged Bucky, gesturing to the table. “They weren’t lying.”

Bucky perked up immediately. “Finally. Compensation.”

He leaned forward and grabbed a biscuit while Steve reached for the sweetbread. The fashion show carried on, Becca now emerging in a sparkly purple number with matching shoes. She twirled so fast that one shoe went flying into the armchair.

Bucky didn’t even blink. “Seven. You lost a shoe.”

“You try walking in these,” Becca shot back.

“No, thank you,” Bucky replied, taking another bite.

Steve chuckled and leaned back into the couch, stretching his legs out. Bucky shifted a little to get more comfortable, then let himself flop sideways, head landing squarely in Steve’s lap.

Steve didn’t protest, just rested his free hand on Bucky’s arm, fingers idly brushing the edge of his sleeve.

“Comfy?” Steve asked, teasing but fond.

“Mm-hmm,” Bucky replied, mouth full, not even looking up.

Becca’s next dress was green and lacy, with Beth clapping wildly in the background and announcing, “This one’s called Evening Enchanted!”

“Eight and a half,” Steve offered, grinning.

“Eleven,” George called.

Bucky pointed toward the snack table without lifting his head. “Can you get me another biscuit, please?”

Steve snorted. “Didn’t realise you’d lost your arms while I wasn’t looking, Barnes,” he responded even as he reached for the biscuit.

“I’m horizontal, Stevie.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve said, shoving the snack into Bucky’s mouth. 

Another dress, another twirl, and Winifred asked if she could have a turn next time they played dress-up. The twins gasped as though they’d just been handed the moon.

Beth returned to the runway in a navy dress with tiny silver stars stitched along the hem. She lifted her chin, walked slowly across the rug like she was floating, then performed a full spin with arms overhead.

George let out a dramatic gasp. “My stars,” he declared, clapping like he’d just seen a Broadway debut. “She’s transcended fashion itself.”

“Ten,” Steve called, popping another piece of caramel corn into his mouth.

“Solid ten,” Bucky agreed, chewing a chocolate biscuit like it was a fine cigar.

Beth beamed and dipped into a graceful bow before vanishing behind the curtain.

Becca followed moments later, her grand finale a glittering gold dress paired with a crown she’d clearly borrowed from a costume box. She strutted slowly, one arm raised like royalty, the other hand on her hip.

“Eleven,” Winifred announced without hesitation, teacup raised.

George leaned forward, nodding emphatically. “Absolutely beautiful.”

Bucky gave her a long once-over, eyes narrowed. “Nine.”

Becca stopped mid-strut, scandalised. “What?!”

“You’ve clearly peaked. Nowhere to go but down.”

“Take it back.”

“I’ll consider a ten if I get another biscuit,” Bucky replied, opening his mouth without moving a muscle.

Steve didn’t even blink - just dropped a biscuit into Bucky’s mouth like feeding a lazy cat.

Becca rolled her eyes. “Whatever. I’m done with your rankings anyway.”

Beth reappeared beside her sister, now in a matching crown and their mother’s lipstick smeared across her mouth like warpaint.

“That’s the show!” she declared. “Thank you, everyone. We’re taking autographs later.”

The room broke into enthusiastic applause, George letting out a proud whistle while Winifred clapped with both hands and a wide smile.

Steve and Bucky joined in - still lounging, still snacking - but clapping nonetheless.

Beth bowed. Becca curtsied. Then they raced each other out of the room with cries of “Dibs on the bathroom!”

As their footsteps thundered upstairs, Winifred turned to look at Bucky and Steve, her eyes soft and shining.

“Thanks for playing along, boys,” she said.

Bucky just gave a lazy wave from Steve’s lap, mouth full of biscuit. “Wasn’t nothing difficult,” he muttered. 

George chuckled, hugging Winifred closer to himself. 

The house fell back into a lull - golden light spilling through the windows, crumbs on the table, and warmth lingering in the air.

Bucky yawned.

Steve passed him the last piece of sweetbread.

“D’you have fun?” Steve asked quietly.

Bucky took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and shrugged.

“Maybe.”

Notes:

George is gradually becoming a contestant for place of third favourite character...

And yes I know, 'eventually' this 'eventually' that. I need to expand my vocabulary some more.

Notes:

Come give me ideas or just yap with me over on twitter and tumblr!! (@_nxsq & @nxsq respectively)

18/08/2025 : At some point I realised I have creative freedom if i'm the one writing the fic. So if you see something and go "surely thats not canon", its not.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Requiem