Archive of Our Own ^beta

“It is an absolute human certainty that no one can know his own beauty or perceive a sense of his own worth until it has been reflected back to him in the mirror of another loving, caring human being.” - John Joseph Powell, The Secret of Staying in Love

The taste of blood doesn't bother him anymore. Why should it? He tastes it all the time, sometimes twice a day. It's becoming more of an annoyance than anything. It's inconvenient to have blood trickling down your forehead into your eyes and blurring your vision while you're trying to find the guy’s face and punch back. The bitterness is nothing but a reminder he needs to be stronger, but isn't, because the other guy isn't bleeding at all. Blood, he can handle. A little bit of blood here and there won't kill ya.

It's the lack of oxygen that will.

He's had more asthma attacks in the past two weeks than he had in two months, and it's mostly from the stress of fighting. He doesn't know why he puts himself in these situations. He tries to be careful and he brings his inhaler everywhere but even when he's not fighting, it creeps up on him. The crippling desire to breathe, so severe he can't even talk, could kill him in a minute if he doesn't get the oxygen he needs. It happens a lot when it's cold, sometimes even when he's sleeping. Doc says his body is stressing itself out trying to keep him warm and heal his injuries it just over works and then… poof. Oxygen vanishes, just like that.

Stolen from his lungs.

Luckily he's hardly ever alone when he gets attacked, or beat up, or just sick in general. Bucky hasn't left his side for the last, what, six years? Steve would think after they turned eighteen a couple months back they'd go their separate ways, but all Bucky ever talks about is growing old with “his best friend Steve”. A little hard to grow old when you know you could die any day now.

September 8^th, 1935

Got to Bucky’s half an hour ago. He cleaned my wounds again. Had a cut over my eye, – I think that's where my head was smashed on the fence – a cut on my lip, a black eye, and a few (or, hell, maybe a lot, I lost track) of bruises. A couple of guys were picking on Debby, a girl who lives in my neighborhood. Tried to take both of ‘em on, only got beat up by one of them. Cause I guess one of them was Deb’s boyfriend, they were just messing with her. Bucky might be right when he says I pick fights for no reason. I got good intentions at least. Ma is really starting to worry about why I keep coming home with cuts and bruises, says I'm turning into my father. Wouldn't know. I can't really remember him before he left for the war. Bucky's bugging me about what I'm doing.

“That a diary, Rogers?” Bucky asks teasingly. He doesn't reach for it, though.

“No. Well, kinda. Just for drawings, and uh, other crap.” Steve answers. “It's not a big deal.” He closes the notebook and shoves it in his backpack to be forgotten until later.

Bucky shrugs and watches Steve watching him. Bucky is a few feet away in the small kitchen attempting at frying eggs over the teal stove. Bucky’s always complaining about the pastel color scheme of his rented apartment, only able to hang dark sheets on the walls and bring in his own furniture to tough it up a bit. Most nights he has to take the sheets down anyways ‘cause Brooklyn gets so damn cold. Steve still lives with his mother to help her out with chores and things. He can't find an employer willing to hire such a small, sick kid in the midst of this economy crisis but sometimes he picks up odd jobs to help his mom with the rent.

Steve notices Bucky is about finished with the eggs so he gets up to help set the tiny round table. There aren't any plates in the sink and Steve is wholly impressed Bucky did his own dishes. He opens a cupboard and reaches up to grab two plates, except lets out a groan when he feels a splitting pain in his arm. He widens his eyes and turns his head to see blood trickling down his arm. He sighs in annoyance and grabs the plates anyways, setting them down on the table quickly, trying to avoid getting blood on them. Bucky turns the stove off and stops everything he's doing.

“Dammit, Steve, you broke open your stitches! I just sewed you up, like, twenty minutes ago! You gotta be more careful.” Bucky says sternly.

“I'm fine, Bucky, it's just a cut.” Steve replies, agitated by the warm liquid sticking to his skin.

“’Just a cut’ my ass. Come on, dumbass, lemme fix it.”

Bucky gently rests one hand on Steve’s back and one on his arm and leads him five feet away back to the bed. He grabs his first aid kit and swiftly cleans up the wound, stitching it back up with precision. The needle breaking skin hurts, just a little, but Steve’s used to pain by now, for the most part. Bucky wets a rag and cleans the excess blood from Steve’s arm before it sticks too bad. Steve silently thanks him and Bucky smiles, putting his first aid kit away under the bed.

“Always wanted to be a doctor.” Bucky mutters as he drops the eggs onto each of their plates. He gives himself and Steve a slice of bread and sits down. Steve sits as well.

“You never told me that.”

“I don't know why I found it so cool, you know?”

“Bucky Barnes with permission to use sharp objects and futuristic medicine, surrounded by nurses? Hmm, wonder what it could've been.” Steve smirks and Bucky frowns playfully.

“You got a point there, kiddo.”

“Shut up, we’re the same age.”

“I oughta beat the crap outta you. Alright, but seriously, I just ran around when I was a kid, putting gauze on all the other kids, ‘playing doctor’, or whatever.” Bucky dips his bread in the egg yolk, taking a messy bite. “Probably sounds stupid.”

“I don't know. I’m the one who keeps a diary.” Steve responds.

“Ha! Knew it.” Bucky grins cheerfully with a mouthful of food.

They hardly ever get to really enjoy food like this and take their time stuffing their face. For the past couple of years it's been near impossible to find food that'll last longer for two days at most. Steve’s vegetable garden outside the house is doing pretty well, and Bucky's making money doing “odd jobs” but he won't tell him what they are. It probably isn't a big deal, but Steve would still like to know. Either way, he is paying for his apartment and putting food on the table.

It’s more than Steve could do.

They eat in silence, only letting little groans of enjoyment escape. Bucky finishes first and takes a bottle of whiskey out from the fridge. He holds it up cheerily and Steve sighs, picking up his last bit of bread and eating it.

“I swear, all you do is drink.” Steve says, even as he takes a glass from Bucky.

“Incorrect. All I do is look after you. The alcohol is a reward for doing so.” Bucky smiles and Steve frowns, trying not to take offense. He knows Bucky is kidding but sometimes Bucky doesn't.

“Yeah, right. Thought you liked playin’ doctor.” Steve smirks annoyingly. Bucky points accusingly and pours the whiskey into the glasses.

“Watch it, kid. Shoulda never told you that.”

“Why not? You’d be a great doctor. Plus, you'd make a ton of cash. There's a doctor who used to live on our block – he got super rich and moved to California.” Steve says and takes a small sip.

“Guess you have a point there, but doctors are smart and stuff. You know I was a little shit in school, and it's not like I can afford to go to college in this economy.” Bucky sighs and downs his drink in one go.

“Who cares about the economy? You're good with your hands, you know. You always take care of me.”

“That's ‘cause I got to.”

“That's the thing, though, Buck!” Steve takes another sip of his whiskey and stands up. “You don't gotta take care of me. You like it. That's why people become doctors, you know, ‘cause they love fixing people up.”

“You're right about one thing,” Bucky says softly and stands up, taking a drink of whiskey straight from the bottle. “I love taking care of you.”

Steve can't help but turn pink at the way Bucky slurs out the words. He should know that his friend enjoys taking care of him. He never bats an eye when Steve stumbles through the door covered in blood, he simply grabs his first aid kit and sews him up. He never hesitates jumping into a fight to protect Steve. He never complains, never says no. But something about how they're standing, how it's dark outside and how Bucky has a bottle of whiskey in his hand… it makes Steve’s stomach twirl.

Steve scoffs and tries to think of some kind of witty remark to respond with, but nothing is coming to mind. His sarcastic impulses are dull because of that glint in Bucky’s eyes. Bucky takes another long drink of the whiskey and grimaces; Steve winces. He doesn't understand why Bucky is trying to get drunk – it doesn't take much, he's kind of sensitive to alcohol. Bucky takes yet another sip of the whiskey and chokes. Steve gasps, grabbing the bottle and setting it down on the small sink. He guides Bucky through coughing and rubs his back almost instinctively. Bucky turns to him after a minute and grins, eyes red and watering.

“Wrong pipe.”

Steve laughs and gently shoves Bucky, turning and walking towards the bed. Bucky leaps forward and grabs Steve’s arm, pulling him back around, catching him off guard. Steve’s eyes widen, thinking he might be choking again. He seems fine though, just a little drunk. He looks at him with dark eyes and furrowed eyebrows and Steve can't help but be worried.

“You good, Buck?”

“I gotta tell you somethin’. But you gotta promise not to tell no one.” Bucky slurs.

“Of course, you have my word.” Steve responds.

Bucky takes a step back and clumsily removes his shirt. Steve swallows, not sure where this is going. There are a couple of small bruises on his chest and Steve frowns… but then Bucky turns around. Long, deep scars cover his back, bruises and cuts among them. There are scratches and handprint shaped bruises that scare Steve half to death.

“Jesus Christ, Bucky! Did you get into a fight, or – or twelve fights?!” Steve tries to keep his voice down because he knows Bucky is a bit drunk but he just can't help himself. “What the fuck happened? Who did this to you?”

“I didn't get into a fight, Steve! I… y-you know, you know those, uh, those ‘odd jobs’ I been takin’? Well, they weren't exactly mowin’ lawns.” Bucky looks down at Steve sadly and Steve frowns, not following. “I… God, alright, a few times a week I go into East Manhattan and w-wait for fellas to come by in their cars. I dress real nice, you know, old tight clothing and a little grease on my face. Young, poor, and dirty, just how they like it. They, uh… A couple of ‘em get rough, and one of ‘em brought a knife. Couldn't refuse, Steve. They pay me real good. Got two hundred bucks in one night one time, fifty bucks each. It's worth it, Steve. Puts f-food on the table. But you can't tell nobody, alright, they'll send me to jail or shove me in a madhouse for being queer or somethin’, please don't tell no one.”

At this point Steve is crying. He doesn't know when it started… maybe somewhere around just how they like it. His sight is blurry from the tears and he wipes his eyes quickly, not knowing what to do or say. He grabs the whiskey from the sink and takes a sip, groaning at the taste. He paces around Bucky’s apartment while Bucky still stands by the sink, barely holding himself up. He frowns when Bucky starts downing the whiskey and takes it from him forcibly, practically slamming it on the table.

“We have to talk about this, not get so drunk we can't even walk.”

Bucky laughs bitterly and throws his shirt onto the bed. He backs Steve into the wall and Steve sighs. He isn't scared of Bucky, but he could be. He isn't, but Bucky’s bruised knuckles, alcohol ridden breath, red eyes… he damn well could be.

“You know what scares me the most?” Bucky says quietly after a few minutes of silence. He softly touches Steve’s face but withdraws his hand back to his side almost immediately. “I started to like it. Not the beating or the c-cutting. After a while I liked getting fucked, sucking dick. God, Stevie, I took it so good, tried not to cry but they liked it when I did. They called me a slut, and I liked it. Sometimes there were two at once. One f-fucking my mouth and one fucking my ass.” Steve shudders and feels his face heating up again. He shouldn't be enjoying this, but somehow his body is. Bucky seems to get the message and cups Steve’s hands in his face. “I have to ask you something.”

Steve swallows and takes a deep breath, holding Bucky’s wrists gently.

“Anything.”

“Will you, uh… will you take care of me?”

Steve smiles; he reaches his hands up and wraps them around Bucky’s neck slowly. He softly runs his hands through Bucky’s hair and exhales deeply. He gets on his tip-toes, barely grazing his mouth on Bucky’s. Their first kiss is slow, tender, and soft. Steve leans back against the wall and Bucky leans down, kissing him again. The first few are the same – chaste, timid, slow.

Bucky’s hands trail down Steve’s small body and find his waist, wrapping around it and pulling him closer. Steve is flush against Bucky now, and they can both feel each other through their pants. Steve swears Bucky blushes.

Steve takes his hands down and pulls his own shirt off, revealing his same old, pale, bruised body. Bucky inhales sharply and Steve squints. He talks softer this time, not wanting to give Bucky a headache.

“What? You've seen my body before.”

“N-not like this. I n-never told you this, but you are just a piece of cake, Rogers. So pretty.” Bucky dips down and presses his lips to Steve’s neck and Steve squirms under him. “Skin so soft, all those cuts giving you so much character. Pretty little ass, pretty little waist. Good enough to eat.” Steve sighs happily.

“So like a girl?”

“Better.”

Steve curses under his breath and lifts Bucky’s head gently, kissing him deeply this time. They kiss with tongue, Steve reaching up to get more and Bucky leaning down to give it. Bucky kisses down Steve’s neck and chest, and when he flicks his tongue over his nipple he nearly loses it. Bucky sucks one into his mouth and massages the other, making Steve groan with pleasure. He's been kissed by a couple girls, sure, but he's never done anything like this. Bucky comes back up and kisses Steve’s ear, breathing deeply.

“I want you s-so bad, Stevie. You're so beautiful.” Steve almost cries.

“Let me take care of you. Bucky, hm? Remember? Let me patch up those wounds; I want to take care of you.” Steve whispers.

Bucky nods and painstakingly leaves Steve in favor of the bed. He sits on the edge and Steve sits cross-legged behind him, nearly crying again just from looking at the scars. Some of them are healed and look like they're going to last a long time, but others are fresher and not as deep. These Steve can tend to. He gets the wet rag from earlier and softly pats down on the cuts, cleaning them and hopefully preventing them from infection. He tapes gauze onto the ones that look like they could open any second and cleans up dry blood, grease, and dirt. Once he's finished, he puts the first aid kit away and gets out of the bed, kneeling in front of Bucky.

“Do you feel a little better, Bucky?” Steve asks quietly.

“Yeah, I do. I do, actually. Thank you, Steve.” Bucky smiles and takes Steve’s face in his hand, thumbing over his cheek. Steve winces, remembering there’s a bruise on his cheekbone and they both laugh dryly. “Look at us. A couple’a broken, beat up saps.”

“Not so bad being broken with you.” Steve says earnestly. He doesn't know how Bucky’s going to feel about this in the morning, but right now, the two of them like this with some candles and an oil lamp as their only light, it's perfect.

“Yeah, you ain't so bad either, Rogers.” Bucky smiles and stands, taking two sweaters from his tiny closet and tossing one at Steve. “Come on. Get under the covers. It's gonna be a cold one tonight.” Steve’s eyes widen and he absentmindedly tugs on the sweater. He and Bucky have shared a bed before but after tonight… he thought Bucky would make him go home or sleep on the floor or something. “Don't look at me like that, dumbass. Come on.” Bucky says as he blows out the candles and puts the lamp out. Steve smiles breathlessly and gets into the bed, scooting over for Bucky.

When Bucky climbs into the small mattress, Steve feels his warm hands hug his waist and pull him against him. Steve blushes and smiles, giving in to sleep and… something new.

September 9^th, 1935

I woke up in Bucky’s arms at half past noon. It's the latest either of us has slept in in months. We kissed last night. We kissed a lot when we woke up, too. Bucky is making breakfast. Eggs again. He's bugging me about my “diary” again.

Bucky, if you ever read this… there's quite a bit about you. I draw you all the time. I write about you even more. Go ahead, take a look. I think you're beautiful. The sharpness of your jaw. The dark circles under your eyes. The color of your eyes -- that's fucking art all on its own. Your mouth is like heaven, and now I know what it feels like to kiss you, and I know for sure I've experienced it. Heaven, I mean.

I’d never say any of this shit out loud, mostly because I’d probably pass out, but if you ever read this, I think you're a piece of cake.

And also, fuck you for reading my diary. There's gonna be hell to pay, Barnes.

Also, I love you.

(Hell. To. Pay.)