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1
Stevie clung to his mother’s hand as they climbed the steep stairs. She slowed every few steps to point out a whorl of color in the wood or a funny bug skittering away. Often, when she paused, he pushed on a few more stairs; she let him. When he tightened his hand on hers to keep himself upright, she always squeezed back.
Today they went extra-slow, because they were going two floors past their own. Ma had met the new family moving in last weekend and liked Mrs. Barnes. Mrs. Barnes had liked her right back, and had a son Stevie’s age, so today Ma had rolled up the latest shirt she was patching for Stevie and stuffed it under her coat before they went to Mass. Now they were going to visit.
Stevie waited until they were sitting on a landing to bring up something that had bothered him since the sermon. “Today is rest day. Father Connolly said.” He poked idly at the hidden shirt through his mother’s coat, leaning against her shoulder.
“Easy for him –” his mother started under her breath. She stopped herself and mussed his hair affectionately. “Mrs. Barnes and I will sit and sew, and rock the baby, and talk about boring grown-up things, and enjoy each other’s company while you and James play. Very restful!” She straightened his hair. “At least, as long as there’s not too much noise from the two of you.”
Stevie’s mother needed more rest. “We’ll! Be! QUIET!” Stevie promised, meaning it with all his heart.
Her lips twitched. “I see that you will,” she said. “Ready?”
Stevie squirmed. He’d caught his breath. But … sometimes other kids didn’t want to play with him. He couldn’t keep up.
His mother always knew what he was thinking. (He loved her so much.) She cupped his cheek in her hand and smiled at him. “I met James,” she said, “and he seems kind. Give him a chance.” She grinned wickedly. “If he’s not smart enough to see you’re fun to play with, then I get to take you home and play with you and he will miss out.”
Stevie giggled. That was as good as a promise to make a fort out of his father’s old shirts and their kitchen chair, if James wasn’t nice. Was it wrong to almost hope James wouldn’t be? Or – “Can James come play with us?”
His mother stood and offered him her hand. “I’m sure Mrs. Barnes wouldn’t mind.”
James turned out to go by Bucky, and to have an old wooden train he was willing to share. The couch cushions – “it’s fine, Sarah, let them play” – made an excellent obstacle course. An argument about where the tracks were allowed to go turned quickly into planning an elaborate path, and they each kept a hand on the engine as they pushed it all the way to the end of the line.
2
Bucky’s shoulder ached where Willy’d punched him, but he figured it was up to him to set an example, so he didn’t say anything. What Stevie really needed an example of was not picking fights with someone twice his size, but Bucky’d been setting that example for a long time and it hadn’t taken yet. Bucky sighed and made sure he wasn’t too obvious about climbing the stairs slowly. Stevie was dragging even more than usual as they neared the third floor.
“Come up,” Bucky offered. “We can wash it off, at least.”
Stevie just nodded, saving his breath for the climb, though if Bucky pushed him on it he’d claim it was so his mother wouldn’t hear him and come out. Bucky shook his head. Stevie never admitted there was anything he couldn’t do, even take on a ten-year-old, which was why Bucky kept an eye on him. Somebody had to, because Stevie sure didn’t.
They made it to the fifth floor, and Bucky let them in. In the bathroom, he pulled off his shirt – he’d have to wash the dirt out before his mother saw it anyway – and ran cool water over it, then started dabbing blood off Stevie’s face.
Stevie grimaced and pulled away. “I can –” he started, grabbing for the shirt.
Bucky held the shirt over his head.
Stevie glared.
Bucky squeezed the shirt to drip water on Stevie’s forehead. It ran down over his black eye.
Stevie yelped and punched him, though not nearly as hard as Willy had.
“Shut up,” Bucky explained. “You can’t even see, c’mon, lemme do it.”
Stevie didn’t stop glaring – some days Bucky’d swear Stevie just glared at the whole world on general principle – but he did stop fighting Bucky’s ministrations. Bucky tried to be gentle without getting caught, because he didn’t feel like being punched again. What Stevie lacked in muscle and mass he made up in conviction.
He rinsed out the bloody shirt and made a cool compress of it, then handed it to Stevie. “Closest we got to ice.”
Stevie held it to his eye. He might object to being taken care of, but he wasn’t fool enough not to minimize what his mother would see.
Bucky washed his own face, debating whether saying anything was worth it. He met Stevie’s eyes in the mirror. “Someday Willy’s gonna –”
“That’s exactly why I gotta –”
“No, dummy, someday Willy’s gonna really hurt you.”
“Then I’ll get back up,” Stevie muttered, but he looked away, which meant he knew Bucky was right but wouldn’t admit it.
Bucky’s mother always said, “Lead a horse to water – then walk away.” So Bucky flopped on the living room couch, idly digging between the cushions, and said, “Spread that shirt out to dry once you’re done with it, I gotta have it back on before Ma and Becca get b- hey! I found a nickel. Wanna get ice cream?”
Stevie looked skeptical. “You’ll try to put it on my eye.”
Bucky scoffed. “Waste ice cream on your shiner? If I put it on there I’d just have to lick it off.” He made a face to show how gross that would be. “Like Buster.” The dog they met on the way to school each day considered it his God-given right to lick anything and everything he could reach of the people he approved of.
“Yuck,” said Stevie, but he was grinning.
3
It was too hot and his drawing of his own feet looked impossibly stupid and wouldn’t get better. Why was Bucky leaning against him anyway when it was this hot? Why was he leaning against Bucky? He nudged Bucky. “Off.”
Bucky elbowed him back, but stayed where he was, engrossed in his math homework.
“That’s not how you do it anyway,” said Steve, perverse.
“What do you know, you haven’t had trig yet,” Bucky muttered, not looking up. His eyelashes shone, backlit by the afternoon sun –
– and Steve wasn’t dazed by Bucky’s eyelashes, why would he be? It was just the artist’s eye his mother always said he had for form, line, motion, light; maybe that was why he sometimes stared too long at Bucky’s –
“Shut up,” said Steve to his thoughts. Steve wasn’t dazed by Bucky’s anything.
“You shut up,” said his thoughts, with Bucky’s voice.
“All right, you two, enough,” said Mrs. Barnes. “Opposite ends of the couch. Becca, leave them alone, they’re doing schoolwork.” You’d better be, her tone said clearly.
They managed to shove a little – Steve tried to start it, but Bucky pushed at the same time – as they separated. Steve turned sideways and put his sock feet on the couch, frowning at the view. He’d have to start a new drawing anyway, he’d erased a hole clean through the first.
Bucky toed his shoes off and turned sideways too, settling his feet against Steve’s and propping his homework on his legs.
Becca came to watch over Steve’s shoulder as he drew. He always let her as long as she didn’t block his light or his elbow.
He roughed in the couch first, then started on their feet while Bucky’s pencil scratched its way through calculations. Bucky wasn’t stopping to erase nearly as often as Steve was.
The feet looked even more ridiculous. Feet were ridiculous, why would anyone make feet such a ridiculous shape? Feet were stupid.
Steve poked Bucky’s feet with his own. Bucky kicked back.
Steve tried to tickle Bucky’s soles with his toes. Bucky yelped and yanked his feet up.
“Floor. Now,” said Mrs. Barnes. “Becca, please finish your own work at the kitchen table.”
“Floor” meant they were each allowed a couch cushion but had to be separated. Steve set his up so he could lean against the wall, and contemplated his toes. Knees were going to be even worse. Who on God’s green earth designed knees? Father Connolly would say God had; that Mr. Scopes his ma told him about a few years ago might say different. He tried to stop thinking about it and just draw.
Becca turned pages in her book. In the kitchen, Mrs. Barnes chopped vegetables for dinner. In the neighboring apartment, Mr. Ford sang loudly, off-key. Bucky wrote something and underlined it with a triumphant air, then looked up at Steve, raised an eyebrow and mouthed, “What?”
Bucky was looking at him –
Bucky was looking back at him –
He was looking at Bucky. Whoops.
He flushed – why? – and looked down at his paper in confusion.
He’d drawn Bucky studying. One dark lock of hair falling over his forehead, grace in his hand holding the pencil, grace in one leg stretched out, grace in the other leg drawn up, grace in his arm, his shoulder, his neck. Even his foot was – not bad, at least.
Steve blinked. “I’m … gonna stop drawing,” he mumbled. “Not getting my feet right anyway. ’M gonna read.” He folded the drawing in on itself, opened the nearest book and buried himself in it. It turned out to be one of Mrs. Barnes’s cookbooks, but he’d faced worse foes. He soldiered on. Why was he flushing. Never mind. Concentrate: ingredients for green tomato pie.
“I’ll read too,” said Bucky. “Finished my math.” There was something in his voice Steve couldn’t identify, and he wasn’t going to look at Bucky right now for love nor mon- for anything, in case Bucky asked to see the drawing.
He risked a glance when he heard pages rustle. Bucky was looking at the comics in yesterday’s paper. Probably Gasoline Alley. Steve thought he’d draw better than that, maybe, if he kept practicing. And never showed feet.
Bucky slid down to lie on the floor, stretched out towards Steve, keeping his head on his cushion. Still arguably “on” it, if Mrs. Barnes was feeling generous.
Three cups thinly sliced green tomatoes. One tablespoon cider vinegar. Pastry for double-crust pie (nine inches).
Bucky sniffed reflectively and turned a page. Steve wondered what he was reading now.
One tablespoon butter. One and a half cups sugar.
His back was sore. Too long sitting in one position. His skin felt sticky in the humid air.
Five tablespoons flour. One teaspoon ground cinnamon. Pinch salt.
Steve straightened, wincing, then scooted down to mirror Bucky. The hard floor wouldn’t feel good for long, but he grinned as Bucky very gently kicked his shoulder, then left his leg lying along Steve’s side. Steve let his arm rest on Bucky’s shin, taking some of the book’s weight off, and kicked lightly back. Bucky’s arm settled onto Steve’s shin.
Bucky rustled the paper and turned another page.
Bake at 350° for one hour or until tomatoes are tender.
In his pocket, the drawing burned. Along his side, Bucky’s body was too warm, but Steve leaned closer, and Bucky pressed back.
4
“I really can’t go,” Bucky said apologetically. He tousled Becca’s hair. “Job doesn’t pay that much.” He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “I’m saving up for a birthday present for somebody.”
“Yeah,” she said, unimpressed. “For Steve.”
Bucky laughed. “Him too,” he agreed easily. “Go on, have a good time, I’ll see you this evening.”
Becca made a face at him, then thundered out the door and down the stairs after their parents. Coney Island was Coney Island, big brother or no.
Bucky was unsurprised by the knock on the door before he’d finished his toast. “Open,” he called, and watched as Steve lugged in not only his usual notebook and pencils, but a huge library book. “How’s your ma?” he asked as Steve set his pile on the couch with laborious care, then flopped down next to it.
Steve blew his hair off his forehead. “Sleeping,” he said shortly, but Bucky didn’t take it amiss. There was only one reason for Mrs. Rogers to be sleeping at this time of day, and it wasn’t laziness.
“She gonna be able to keep working much longer?” Bucky asked quietly.
Steve’s shoulders hunched and his mouth tightened. “Probably not,” he said eventually.
Bucky used the excuse of bringing him a piece of toast to squeeze his shoulder. “My ma’s made a casserole for you to take home. She said if you don’t take it, I’m in trouble,” he added as Steve’s back stiffened.
Steve deflated enough to nod and even lean against Bucky’s hip. Emboldened, Bucky let his hand rest on Steve’s neck, then pretended he was only straightening Steve’s collar. “You gonna draw?” he asked, stepping away, before he stayed too long, on the pretext of grabbing more toast.
“You taking Molly Underwood out tonight?” Steve asked instead of answering.
Bucky shrugged. “Said I would. So, I guess. Want me to ask if Mildred –”
Steve shook his head. “Nah, thanks. Millie gets nearsighted whenever I’m around. Or farsighted. Can’t seem to make up her mind.” He sounded on the humorous edge of bitter, but only just.
“I oughta introduce her to the wonders of averaging,” Bucky mused, to tip the scales.
Steve grinned. “That would be mean,” he quipped, and ducked the toast Bucky threw at him. “I’ll draw later. I brought a book.” He glanced quickly back to Bucky and away, reddening.
Bucky stuffed the last piece of toast in his mouth, then settled himself on the floor with a couch-cushion pillow. “C’mon,” he said indistinctly. “Wha’re we rea’in’?” He patted the floor by his side.
For an instant Steve’s face looked the way it had when Sister Mary Agatha caught him drawing comics right before Communion. He hesitated, then set his jaw the way he did every time he took on something impossible and did it anyway. Bullies. Stairs. He took a breath and stretched out next to Bucky to share the cushion, their shoulders touching. “Poet and Artist in Greece,” he said, holding the heavy book awkwardly open over them until Bucky took over holding his half. “I wanted to see the illustrations of vase paintings. They knew a lot about drawing people.”
“Did they know about drawing feet?” Bucky teased, and returned the kick he got with interest. For the book’s sake, they gentled their usual game of unacknowledged knee-fighting and hip-bumps, but nothing short of a full-on glare from Mr. or Mrs. Barnes could stop it.
“The chapter on Hellenistic art,” Steve said with ostentatious dignity, marred by an especially vigorous hip-bump, another faint flush and the slightest catch in his voice.
They turned to it. They read, occasionally wincing or muttering “sorry” as a knee connected too hard. Steve fidgeted even more than usual.
At the end of the chapter were the promised illustrations. They looked. Greek warriors in chariots. Greek warriors fighting. Greek athletes competing – Bucky smiled to see his own favorite track activities on two-thousand-year-old pottery. He’d always liked discus. Greek athletes running. Greek athletes …
They were … they were very clearly … they were … wrestling …
They were not wrestling.
Bucky was suddenly desperately glad the book was large enough to hide Steve’s view down towards their feet. He could feel his own flush creeping over his face. He swallowed.
“Wonder who got the laurel wreath in that sport,” Steve muttered. His face was scarlet.
Bucky choked. “Prob’ly famous afterwards,” he managed. “They have ticker-tape parades in ancient Greece?”
Steve elbowed him.
Bucky elbowed back.
Steve moved his arm back with Bucky’s, not elbowing him again, just continuing the touch. They’d done this sort of thing for a few years now, ever since that afternoon Steve had stared at him and then read Bucky’s ma’s entire cookbook without looking up. But until now they’d always each had their own cushion and half the game had been trying to stick their feet up the other’s nose. This was the first time they’d just lain next to each other like this.
It was … nice.
Bucky straightened his leg to lie next to Steve’s, not kicking, just touching.
Steve didn’t move away. Steve maybe pressed back.
Bucky’s whole side tingled. They were still staring at the page with the illustration of the … not-wrestling. He drew breath, with no idea what he was going to say, but Steve spoke first.
“They probably had all the girls after them,” he said, low. “Like you do after track meets.”
“They don’t look too interested in girls,” Bucky said before he could think better of it, then backpedaled. “Or, I mean, they prob’ly had to get married and have kids, I guess.”
Steve sighed faintly. “I guess.” His arm moved against Bucky’s as though his shoulder had sagged.
Bucky could have kicked himself. “Imagine their practices,” he said, trying to make up for it. “Old Man Johnson made us run sprints til we couldn’t breathe, I bet they had to –”
Steve stifled a snort. His shoulders were shaking.
Pleased with himself, Bucky opened his mouth, and more words came out: “Do you want to practice?” Then his brain caught up with his ears, and he stopped suddenly. He glanced sideways.
Steve’s jaw had dropped and his eyes were huge. He looked from Bucky to the illustrations and back.
“Not like that,” Bucky squeaked, and oh God, his voice hadn’t broken in years. “Kissing. Practicing. For girls. ’Cause one day one of ’em’s gonna look at you –”
“They look at me now,” Steve said. “Then they look away.”
Bucky wasn’t sure how to make this better. “One day,” he insisted. “One day one of ’em’s gonna see you. You an’ Helen get along. She’s swell.”
“She is,” Steve agreed. “But she’s not gonna wanna marry someone who –”
“Why shouldn’t she,” Bucky snapped, knowing all the reasons but angry at the world for making Steve argue them. “You might have a – a few things wrong with your health, but you won’t come home drunk every night. You won’t raise a hand to her. You’ll treat her right. So – so let’s practice.” He made as if to set the book aside, but Steve’s sudden twitch reminded him that the book also blocked his view.
Steve was shaking his head, gently implacable. “No.”
Stung, disappointed and confused, Bucky fumbled, “But – I thought you wanted – you’ve been – for a long time –” He gestured at how close they were.
Steve swallowed and got his stair-climbing expression back on. “Helen’s aces.” He swallowed again. “But I don’t want to practice for her. I’ve already seen someone who sees me back.”
Bucky glanced away, tempted to reply lightly – “Of course I see you, your ugly mug’s always in front of my face.” But that wasn’t what Steve meant, and if Steve was brave enough to confess, Bucky would too. They could seek absolution together.
Or – or maybe it wasn’t something that needed forgiving. Those Greek athletes didn’t look like they were seeking forgiveness.
Bucky made himself – let himself – look back at Steve, and for the first time didn’t try to hide that he was looking. This time, they set the book aside together, and saw, and traded grins.
“How many shelves you hunt through to find those pictures?” Bucky murmured.
If it was a revelation how good it felt to let Steve catch him staring at the curve of his smile, the taste of Steve’s mouth was an entire new testament. He leaned in, bearing witness.
5
“I was gonna ask …” Bucky sounded so hopeful.
Steve couldn’t bear hope just then. The stairs felt as steep as they had in his childhood, but there was no longer anyone to hold his hand as he fought his way up. In the last few months he’d been the one trying to soften life for his mother, but he’d been powerless to soften her death.
He’d just buried his cushion, his shield, in the dark earth. In sure and certain hope of the resurrection … but that was a hard surety and a far-off hope.
“I know what you’re gonna say, Buck. I just …” The boards were hard beneath the thin soles of Steve’s cheap dress shoes, and the spring air was chilly through his shirt and light jacket.
“We can put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were kids. It’ll be fun. All you gotta do is shine my shoes, maybe take out the trash …” Bucky dug up Steve’s apartment key and held it out.
Bucky, clean-shaven and wearing a suit, handing him something round and golden, reminding him about cushions on the floor and asking him to make a home together … Steve’s heart twisted with want, for him, for what they couldn’t have.
“Come on,” Bucky wheedled, and God but Steve knew how Bucky could coax. He stirred just remembering –
“Thank you, Buck, but I can get by on my own.” The words stuck in his throat, but he forced them out. Bucky went with girls often enough that he hadn’t had the things said or done to him that Steve had, but that would change if they were known to be playing house together. Bucky deserved better.
“The thing is, you don’t have to. I’m with you to the end of the line, pal.” Glancing down to Steve’s mouth, then back up with want as open as Steve wished he could let himself be. Letting his thumb dig into Steve’s collarbone, just a little, like he always did when –
Steve looked down at the key in his hands.
A week before the end, while she could still speak, his mother put her hand on his. “You know Bucky’s a second son to me,” she whispered, then lay still again to catch her breath. “Take care of each other, after …” She couldn’t cough hard any more, but her chest moved spasmodically.
“Like brothers,” Steve reassured her.
Her chest jerked some more, but this time it was weak laughter. She shook her head slightly, eyes fond and knowing, and he froze. Did she –
“I begged God,” she said when she had enough breath. “To make it ‘like brothers.’ Your life is so hard already, Stevie.”
He swallowed. “I’m sorry –”
She lacked the strength to swat him, but her face said it clearly enough. “Do you remember. When you were little. Climbing stairs. We’d stop to look at. Anything I could find. So you could breathe.”
“Yeah, Ma.” He squeezed her hand. Her fingers twitched weakly back.
“When you wouldn’t stop. I always let you go. You had to judge. What your body needed. Because God –” She stopped, exhausted.
“Because God made my body and put my brain inside it, not yours, and what was the point of my body lugging around my big heavy brain if we were just going to use your brain to judge what my body needed,” Steve recited.
His ma smiled faintly. “After I’d been praying. Years. For Bucky to just be a brother to you. God or common sense said. Sarah Rogers, long as you’re asking the impossible. Why not ask for the world to be kind. To Stevie, whoever he loves. Why aren’t you. Thanking God there’s someone. In Stevie’s life who’ll be there. After you’re gone.”
“Father Connolly –”
“Just because he means well. Doesn’t mean. He isn’t bullying you. You’re just like. Your father, you never let a bully –”
Steve shook his head. “Learned from you, ma.”
“I never fight.”
“You always fight.”
She smiled. “If you get thunderstorms. After I go. Means I’m setting God. Straight. About how the world should. Treat you. Or maybe God’s. Having words. With Father Connolly.”
Steve smiled, kissed her forehead, let her drift off into what peaceful sleep she could manage.
Then he left the bedroom for the main room, straddled Bucky in his chair, threaded his hands into Bucky’s hair, and wordlessly kissed him until they were both breathless and aching-hard. Bucky, for once, asked no questions, but stood and carried Steve the few steps until he could kick the couch cushions onto the floor. “Couch’ll squeak,” he whispered, then settled them and let Steve thrust into his hand until Steve came, clenching his jaw to keep silent. After they cleaned up, Bucky curled around him until they slept.
The night she died, Bucky stayed with him through it all, then in the clear dawn left him with her body and went to the kitchen to make watery coffee. Steve heard things being moved around but paid no attention. Eventually Bucky came back in.
“C’mon,” he said gently, and it was easier not to resist. Bucky guided him out to the kitchen, and – he’d built a fort, like they had done for years as children. Couch cushions, the kitchen chair, old shirts and a sheet. Two cups of coffee on the floor in front of it.
Bucky held the sheet aside and gestured to Steve to scoot in. Numb, Steve did as he was told. Bucky handed him one cup, picked up the other and squeezed in next to him, putting an arm around his shoulders.
Steve closed his eyes, sipped the awful, weak coffee, leaned his head on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky ran his fingers slowly through Steve’s hair, over and over, while Steve breathed the scents of coffee and Bucky, and breathed, and breathed, and bit his lip, and shook.
Now he could feel the spring chill in his throat, and the faintest of wheezes in his lungs.
The key gleamed golden in his hands.
He’d taken it, hadn’t he. Bucky had offered, and he’d accepted. His body knew what he needed.
He looked back up. Bucky was still there, would always still be there, his hand on Steve’s shoulder the only spot of warmth Steve could feel.
Steve found a small smile somewhere, and sure enough, Bucky’s eyes dropped to his mouth again. “All right, Buck,” he said. “All right.”
+1
Steve tried to hold onto the file, but Sam pulled it firmly out of his hands. “No,” he said flatly. “This is going home with me, where it will stay in my safe until we. Have had. A break.”
“But I might find –”
Sam gave him a very straight look. “You will find the same terrible records of what was done to him that you already know from all the other nights you pored over it because no one can rub salt into their own wounds harder than you can.”
Steve opened his mouth.
Steve closed his mouth.
“What I thought,” said Sam, satisfied. “I don’t even wanna hear from you for a week unless Little Bunny Fufu shows up.”
Steve shook his head. He’d given up asking for explanations of Sam’s endless parade of nicknames for Bucky weeks ago. “I’ll use the time to look into some of these ‘memes’ you keep insisting I should know about.”
“Oh God,” said Sam, “maybe I’ll let you have the file after all, Captain McSmartypants.”
Steve waved cheerfully, but let his smile fall as he headed inside and up the stairs. Months of poring over Natasha’s file, chasing every lead, had gotten them nowhere useful. Nat hadn’t been wrong to warn him about pulling on this thread. He could feel his faith in humanity, in law, in anything unraveling as he read about each new thing that other human beings had done to Bucky, that no justice had stopped. He’d only agreed to come home because Sam had pointed out that “Falcon slings Captain America over his shoulder and drags him home like a toddler screaming in a grocery store” was not a good look, and clinched it with “We can not-find him from home just as well as we’re not-finding him everywhere else.”
He stepped into his apartment and turned off the alarm.
Two steps down the hallway sat a bright pink plastic umbrella-stand decorated with ladybugs.
He didn’t own an umbrella stand.
This umbrella stand bore an astonishing collection of guns and knives. From the coat-rack above dangled a black tac jacket with the left arm missing.
Steve’s shield leaned against the wall behind the umbrella stand, where he’d set it months ago before they left, unwilling to make this hunt as a national symbol.
Careful not to sneak, he made his way down the hall into the living room. The couch cushions had all been set on the floor.
Bucky was cross-legged on one, book in his lap. “Brooklyn Public Library still had it.”