Two Boys from Brooklyn

May 25th, 1941.

“I still can’t believe she blew me off,” Bucky shot the words back over his shoulder, “I’ll tell ya, she was all about me last week. Dunno what happened.”

They hadn’t seen each other in a month. The brief time had blown past Steve, with no answers on what to do but seemingly eons of hours to idly watch his money trickle away. It had been a hard month. A lonely month. But again, Bucky always seemed to have some subconscious awareness of when Steve needed him most, and earlier that morning, he’d shown up to Steve’s rickety old porch, two Brooklyn Dodgers baseball tickets in hand. Something about how a girl had ditched him and how he knew Steve would fill the spot. It didn’t take any convincing to get Steve to go.

Going into the Dodgers stadium, Ebbets Field, was less like walking and more like getting swept away by a rapid. Hundreds of people were flowing into the stadium, getting stopped by ticket attendants, then proceeding, thus giving the crowd a pulse. Push forward, stop, push forward, stop. Steve was trying to keep from being trampled as Bucky casually lamented about the girl who’d blown him off. 

“Is this the last girl you were keeping company with?” Steve called, standing on the tips of his toes to get the message to Bucky as the crowd separated them, “Or someone new?”

“Oh, uh,” Bucky looked over his shoulder, “Someone new. Wait.” As if he could shape-shift, Bucky effortlessly squeezed between two people, smiled as he muttered a sorry, and was suddenly right next to Steve again. He clasped a hand over Steve’s shoulder to avoid losing him to the crowd. “There we go.”

“So it’s someone new,” Steve prompted. 

“Yes, someone new,” Bucky continued as they shuffled towards the gates, “I don’t know now, though. Seems the interest may not be mutual after all.”

“Mm,” Steve hummed. It wasn’t like a girl to be uninterested in Bucky. He watched as the crowd ahead started to disperse to speak to ticket attendants. “Have you considered she may just not like the Dodgers?”

“Oh god,” Bucky laughed as if Steve had asked one of the most absurd questions he had ever heard. He took his hand off Steve’s shoulder, and they again separated to present their tickets. As he held his ticket to the attendant, Bucky looked at Steve and said, “Man, if that’s the case, I dodged a bullet.”

Up some stairs, and they were in. The ballpark was like a living, breathing organism, with people acting as its heartbeat. Beer carts, hot dog stands, and storefronts for Dodgers merchandise were hubs for chatter and movement, organelles in a cell. 

You did not need to be an architect to recognize the place as a marvel. Unapologetically American, boldly and yet decidedly constructed to host a game, the stadium was a measly five years older than Steve himself, but it projected energy that was older, wiser, and yet still felt so lively. Like it had been erected at the dawn of time and chose to merrily weather those age-old storms of war. It had the gift of foreknowledge that it would be invincible and withstanding; therefore, it felt the confidence to be beautiful. It was like Bucky in that way, unabashedly marvelous, planted firmly with no doubts as to where it belonged. Steve watched Bucky as they walked in tandem with one another. In a simple yet strong movement, Bucky reached his arms upward, interlocked his fingers, and rested his palms on the back of his head. His polo shirt pulled tight, and Steve’s eye was drawn to the little dip where the muscles of Bucky’s shoulders met bone. The curve was not unlike that of the archways that held the windows of the ballpark. Steve had to look away.

Steve had gone to the stadium with some co-workers from his now ‘old’ job one other time, but he usually just heard tales of the season via radio. On the other hand, Bucky always went to a handful of games, and usually with girls. Bucky’d grown accustomed to the sights of the ballpark, and while Steve was secretly hoping they’d hustle to find decent seats, Bucky didn’t care to and instead insisted they go to the taproom. Steve obliged. 

Of course, the taproom was grand as well. Steve kept his head on a swivel. A million minuscule moments and interactions were held there, and he wished he could draw a scene of every one. Bucky focused on watching Steve’s awe-induced smile until the barman came by to get their drink orders.

“You didn’t have to buy me a drink,” Steve said, only slightly annoyed by his friend's insistence on buying him things. “I could have got my own.”

“Well,” Bucky shrugged and paused to drink. The move was so practiced, though not unnatural, to speak, create a pause, and speak again. It ensured Steve’s attention was held to Bucky, even when he wasn’t actively talking. It was a good move. In the short moment, Steve wondered if there was anything Bucky didn’t naturally excel at. Bucky sighed and put his glass back on the bartop, “I was planning to order for my date. I think a lager is less expensive than what she woulda got.”

“Ha,” Steve smiled, but when Bucky smiled back at him, he felt shy and dropped his gaze down to the beer he held. “Guess so.”

Bucky had the opportunity to rib Steve there and joke about adding onto the ever-growing bill Steve owed him in food and drink, but he didn’t use it. Steve thought about how the bastard was too damn genuine, and, to avoid feeling the debt inherent to gratitude, he began to drink. 

They didn’t talk for a while; another thing Bucky was good at was comfortable silence. While Bucky was the kind of guy to talk your ear off if you let him, he could always tell when Steve didn’t want it. In this time of comfortable silence, Steve fully turned on his barstool and did some people-watching. 

Ebbets Field was what Bucky had once described as a ‘Brooklyn catch-all.’ Steve hadn’t understood what Bucky meant when he’d first said it, but he knew now. There were tall men in nice suits and dames in pretty dresses, a scattered handful of young men who looked more like Steve, small,  beanpole-thin factory types, too, and then those like Bucky, handsome men with nice clothes and calloused hands, who fell into the in-between camp—a catch-all. 

“Mm,” Bucky mumbled as if something he’d been thinking suddenly prompted him to regain attentiveness. He tucked his feet under the bottom base ring of the barstool to gain leverage and leaned back to meet Steve. “Been meaning to ask, you found any work?”

“What?” Steve processed it all and turned around again to face the bar. Bucky sat back up straight. “No. Nothin’ yet.”

“Damn,” Bucky furrowed his brow. Steve noticed that in the time they hadn’t spoken, Bucky had moved on to his second drink of the day. “You’ll find somethin’ soon.” 

“I don’t know,” Steve shrugged, “You’d be surprised how hard it is to get someone to hire you when you look like you’d be sick half the days you're scheduled.”

“Well, sure, I don’t know about that. But I know you, and I know any job would be lucky to have you.” 

If anyone else out of the limited pool of people that Steve Rogers knew said that to him, he would’ve rolled his eyes. He knew the truth: he was frequently sick and couldn’t always keep up with labor-intensive work. There were a whole host of reasons why jobs would be unlucky to hire him. But it was Bucky who said it, and he knew Bucky believed the words, so he didn’t roll his eyes. If Bucky wanted to think he could see something in Steve that others could not, who was Steve to tell him not to? “You’re too nice, Buck. But what about you? Engineer hotshot these days, huh? We didn’t even talk about that last I saw you. How is it?” 

Bucky’s face shifted from being open and genuine and settled into an almost embarrassed smile instead, “I work at a factory, Steve; that’s hardly engineering. It’s fine, just fine.” 

“Come on, Bucky Barnes: auto-engineer, it’s got a nice ring,” Steve joked. Bucky held his smile and shook his head a little. Steve pushed on, no longer joking, “It’s important work, Buck.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” Bucky’s smile was heading out the door. “It’s all just ‘preparedness’ now. That’s what we’re calling it. You know, I doubt I’ll ever see someone drive one of the cars I work on; they’re all getting shipped away. ‘Overseas’ That’s all they can tell me. Somethin’ military.” 

“You think we’re gonna join the war?” It would’ve been a loaded question if not for every American asking themselves the same thing that summer.

“Probably, right?” Bucky sighed heavily, strong shoulders dipping, both slender hands wrapped around his glass. He created another pause to drink, “In a way, we’re already in it. There are American cars on European soil as we speak.”

Steve didn’t know what he would say, but if he did, he wouldn’t have had a chance to say it. In the closing seconds of Bucky’s thoughts, a man saddled up to the bar next to Steve, leaned over to call the barman, and knocked Steve’s shoulder. Beer sloshed from the lip of the glass and fell to Steve’s lap. It wasn’t a lot of beer, but any degree of beer in his lap would not be comfortable. Steve groaned, and Bucky leaned over the bar to try to see the man. 

“S’alright. Better than last time,” Steve mumbled under his breath as he futilely attempted to wipe away the beer. 

“Hey,” Bucky had put his weight into his palms and leaned forward on the bar top. The man turned and raised his brow, “Watch it.” Bucky warned. 

“It’s fine. It’ll dry fast,” Steve said. The man had already turned away, brushing off Bucky’s warning. Steve looked to Bucky, “American cars in Europe?”

“Yeah,” Bucky was still looking past Steve, staring at the back of the guy’s head. “It’s this whole lend-lease progra-” Bucky stopped mid-sentence and scowled. He pushed himself forward on the bar again, “Hey, man, can you do that somewhere else? He’s got asthma.”

The same man who had knocked Steve seconds prior had now lit a cigarette, thus instantly surrounding them in smoke on his first exhale. It shouldn’t have mattered. The world smoked cigarettes. They were inescapable. Hell, when Steve was younger, he’d even tried smoking to improve his asthma. Only thing was that it hadn’t worked, and ever since, Bucky swore up and down the ‘damn things’ were snake oil and wrote them off entirely. Now, if you asked him why he didn’t like cigarettes, Bucky would tell you he thought they were a fake cure, sold to line the pockets of industry men and nothing more. Steve knew that wasn’t the whole picture. Bucky’s dad smoked a lot. The old man could easily get through a pack or two a day. All of Bucky’s clothes from when he lived with his family still smelled like smoke, even after years of trying to wash them out. That made Bucky resent the habit, not anything related to Steve’s asthma. 

Steve knew he couldn’t ever admit to Bucky that he liked the smell of the cigarettes, that sometimes, when he passed someone smoking on the street, he’d linger, and let himself think of the scent of Bucky’s clothes. The current moment may be the worst possible time to think about that. Bucky was fuming. The man had simply laughed at Bucky, told him off about the bar not being his house, and resumed smoking his cigarette. Bucky was a level-headed guy but with some noble exceptions. It was starting to look like this instance would become one of those noble exceptions.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve sat taller on the barstool to get in Bucky’s line of sight. Bucky attempted to look over Steve’s shoulder, but Steve moved again to disrupt his view, “It’s not worth it. Let’s say you finish my beer, and we get outta here.”

Bucky finished his beer first, then Steve’s, slapped some cash on the bar, and made his way to the exit. Steve trailed him. 

“Some people,” Bucky started up again as soon as Steve caught up, “Have we forgotten common courtesy?”

“It’s not illegal to smoke at the bar, pal.” Steve shrugged, weaving through the crowd of attendees, “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“He pushed you.”

“It’s a bar, Bucky. People drink. Sometimes, people get pushed around a little, and beer spills. So what? I’m fine.”

“Well, I don’t like the smoking. You know that.” Steve nodded, knowing he wouldn’t get Bucky off the topic once it was brought up. “It’s just inconsiderate. He coulda killed you in there.”

“Killed me?” Steve couldn’t help but laugh, “A little smoke won’t kill me.”

“Well, what if it did? Huh?” 

“Then I’d be dead,” Steve replied, smiling, “But it won’t kill me, Bucky.”

Bucky ignored Steve’s point but let himself smile, too, “But if you were dead, who would I go to Dodgers games with?”

“Probably the dame you originally invited.”

Bucky grinned, shook his head, and threw an arm around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him close. The chummy move earned Bucky a playful punch in the side from Steve. Bucky kept the conversation going, “Okay, fair. But then, who would I drink with?”

Bucky liked this kind of routine, and Steve knew it. Friendly back and forths, teeing up one another for little jokes that were already understood by the time they were spoken aloud. One of those bits that strengthened the feeling that, when together, they could almost act as one. Steve sometimes wondered who liked those exchanges more, himself or Bucky.

 Steve finished the joke Bucky had handed him: “I don’t know. Maybe the dame you originally invited?”

“Right,” Bucky nodded, smiling, eyes ahead.

The general admission, standing room only stands, were packed. Ebbets wasn’t quite big enough to warrant any section being deemed ‘nosebleeds,’ but by the time they could find a little space to cram into, they were far above the field. Steve’s vision wasn’t the best, but if he squinted, he could see players and the plates, so it wasn’t too bad.

“Sorry about the bad seats,” Bucky said. Bucky stood at six feet tall, easily a whole head and shoulders above Steve, and had the eyesight of a hawk. They weren’t bad seats to him; nothing blocked his view, and he could see just fine. But he knew they couldn’t have been good for Steve. He was genuinely apologetic. “I wasn’t expecting to come with someone who’d care to watch the game.”

“No, it’s alright.” Steve waved off the apology. He’d had a lifetime of dealing with his crappy vision and small stature under his belt. Hearing someone as perfect as Bucky apologize for it was almost embarrassing, so he played it off, “I’m happy to be your rebound.”

“Rebound?” Bucky looked down at Steve. Laughter was laced in his voice as he spoke, almost giving the words an uneven melody, “Steve, you know I’d rather be here with you.”

“Uh-huh,” Steve met Bucky’s eyes; they were so blue and piercing, it was like looking into the sun. Beautiful and powerful. Steve broke eye contact, smiled, and looked back to the field, “Right, ‘cause you’d rather spend your day watching me watch baseball than be with a girl.”

“Exactly,” Bucky laughed. “See, you’re getting it, sweetheart.”

Bucky flirted with everyone and always had. Steve was never sure if it was an inherent charm or a skill Bucky had developed in response to how the world treated him, but either way, it worked for Bucky. He bordered onchauvinistic, but he wasn’t quite cocky, and he was good with people. Flirty. There’d been one weekend they’d shared at the beach years prior, where Steve kept a tally of every time Bucky flirted with someone. Bucky contested the validity of some of Steve’s tallies, believing ‘making eyes at a girl’ could not be quantifiable, but still, the number had been ridiculously high. A good handful of the tallies had come from calling Steve sweetheart. Steve sometimes played into Bucky’s flirtiness or tried to call him out on it. Most times, like this time, he’d just roll his eyes. That always made Bucky smile.

So Steve rolled his eyes, Bucky’s smile grew, and the game kicked off. It didn’t take long for Bucky to find an excuse to leave the stands. Bucky didn’t care much about watching sports; he always said he’d rather play them than watch them. Bucky was a jack of all trades when it came to athletics, offhandedly setting school records in sports he didn't even usually play and winning titles in the sports he did focus on, like boxing. His physique, which was trim and made up of strong, corded muscle, was one he kept up with ease even after his formal sporting career had ended at the close of his schooldays. His general disinterest in sports but natural inclination towards them always irked Steve, even though he didn’t want it to. So now, as Bucky abandoned the game in search of more beer, Steve tried his best to remain unaffected. 

It was the bottom of the fourth inning when Bucky finally returned to the stands, juggling two hotdogs in one hand and holding a beer in the other. He mumbled words Steve couldn’t hear over the sounds of the crowd—something about running into a buddy and getting carried away. Back during the second inning, Steve had dully expected as much as happened; as big as Brooklyn was, Bucky seemed to know everyone. Bartenders were often friends or friends of friends, grocery store clerks were cousins or second cousins, and kids on the street always seemed to be his family’s neighbors or friends of his sister. It only made sense that he’d run into someone he knew in the catch-all that was Ebbets. 

“How’s it going?” That was the first decipherable thing Bucky managed to slur after returning to his spot next to Steve. “Whoa,” Was the second thing he said, now in reaction to swaying forward, nearly slamming a hotdog into Steve’s chest. Steve could tell Bucky had drunk considerably in the four innings he’d been away.

“How much did’ya drink?” Steve asked, taking one of the hotdogs Bucky was offering him. “This for me?”

“Yeah,” Bucky replied, a crooked smile on his face. He composed himself more as he found his footing in the stands, then jerkily stuffed his hand into his pants pocket and pulled out a small metal flask. “Forgot I brought this.”

“Ah.” Steve nodded. “Well, you’re missing a good game.”

They both looked at the wooden scoreboard on the far side of the field, and Bucky laughed, “Oh, we’re up!”

Bucky finished his hotdog in record time and finished off the last few bites of Steve’s, too. Steve joked about how Bucky was a human garbage chute as he watched Bucky down the beer he’d bought in an additional thirty seconds. Bucky laughed it off, and another inning passed uneventfully. After a slap on the shoulder and a rushed goodbye, Bucky disappeared into the stadium again at the top of the sixth. 

When Bucky was gone, Steve watched the Phillies score twice to take the lead. Then, the  Dodgers practically finished the game with five solid runs in the bottom of the sixth. Bucky returned in time for the seventh-inning stretch. 

“Christ,” Steve laughed, watching Bucky take the stairs up the stands two-by-two, a beer in each hand. When Bucky got close enough to be in earshot, Steve called over and said, “You’re gonna get sloppy, Barnes.”

“Barnes,” Bucky parroted, “So formal, well thank you for the concern, Rogers.”

The beer carts at Ebbets only let each patron buy one beer at a time, so Steve asked, “Did you have to go to two different beer carts for those?”

“No,” Of course he didn’t, he was Bucky, “Jus’ told ‘em one was for my buddy. I’ll give you half’a one if you want.”

The varying heights of the liquid inside the glasses and the thin foam residue at the top made it evident that Bucky had already drunk from both. “Half back-wash, half beer? I’ll pass.”

Bucky shrugged as if to say ‘your loss’ and resumed drinking. The game, obviously not stopping for Bucky’s escapades, continued, and Steve watched. 

“Hey,” Bucky muttered, pushing his side to Steve’s. Steve turned his head and looked at Bucky. “We’re gonna win this game. Wanna beat the crowd and leave after I finish these?” Bucky was right that the Dodgers would win; they were up by four in the seventh. 

“You’ve been gone half the game. Now you wanna leave early?” Steve asked, only slightly annoyed. He knew Bucky didn’t care to watch the game; his actions had made that clear, but Steve thought Bucky should’ve known he wanted to watch.

“Eh, we’re stomping ‘em,” Bucky’s Brooklyn accent grew stronger when he drank and now served as a clear indication that he was drunk. Letters slipped, and vowels twisted. “And anyway, ain’t the stadium half the reason to come? I’ve got my fill.”

“Well, sure,” Steve replied, amused at Bucky’s state. “But we can’t leave during the seventh; that’s bad luck. A sin, even.”

“You know what else is a sin? Hell, a mortal one?” Bucky asked rhetorically, “Skipping church. Remind me, Steve, what day is it?”

“Sunday.”

“Mm-hm.”

“But,” Steve drew out the word for dramatic effect, “I’ve heard the Lord turns a blind eye on that one when the Dodgers are playing. And, at the worst, we could always repent.”

“A blind eye,” Bucky laughed, “And who told you that?”

Steve shrugged and smiled. He liked the feeling he got when Bucky laughed at his jokes. “Just heard it somewhere.” 

“Right. So, we’re staying?”

The following innings weren’t much to stay for after all. As Bucky had predicted, the Dodgers were stomping the Phillies, and there wasn’t much action. So when star Dodgers player Dolph Camilli struck out, being five beers deep, one and a half hotdogs in, and after consuming however much liquor was in his flask, Bucky took the time to shout, “Come on! Anyone with eyes knew that was a ball.”

“It’s alright,” Steve said, keeping his eyes on the field. But he spoke to Bucky: “It’s only the first out.”

“It was a fuckin’ bad call,” Bucky huffed and crossed his arms. 

Steve liked watching Bucky when he was drunk. It was a bit of a guilty pleasure because when Bucky drank, he almost seemed to be on the same playing field as any other person. He lost that intangible, ethereal edge when he was drunk and replaced it with things like inane comments on the ballgame and awkward, miscalculated movements. It fed the small part of Steve that did feel some raw jealousy toward Bucky, but Steve didn’t feel too bad because he knew when Bucky was sober again, he’d return to his natural state. So, for a short time, Steve did relish watching Bucky sway and shout from the stands. 

The next play was a simple groundout. Two fair outs for the Dodgers, and with even less to complain about, Bucky exclaimed, “You’re kidding!” This turned a few heads around them, with more people in their general area beginning to understand how Bucky was drunk and getting agitated. 

“Buck,” Steve whispered, digging an elbow into Bucky’s side. He nodded and gave a tight-apologetic smile to a woman ahead of them, who was glaring at an oblivious Bucky. “Loosen up.”

“Steve,” Bucky extended a hand toward the field as if gesturing could explain away his poor behavior. Steve felt the karma of his guilty pleasure in watching Bucky drink settle in. This could get out of hand. “You know that was a terrible play.”

“What do you care? You’ve hardly watched the game.” He’d meant to say it in a light-hearted way, but it came out as stern. It was the wrong thing to say.

Bucky’s brow furrowed as he whipped his head to look at Steve. There was anger in his eyes, but he still wore a smile. The flirty bastard even smiled when he was mad. “Sorry.” Bucky was not sorry, “I just think there’s more to a ballgame than standing around bored watching shit umpires.”

“I mean, yeah,” Steve backtracked. Drunken frustration radiated from Bucky; Steve needed to scale back and mediate. “It was a bad call, but tone it down, alright? I don’t want more trouble today.”

“Trouble?” Bucky’s smile had shrunk, and when he did not speak, he bit at the corner of his mouth. It was a dead giveaway that he was agitated. “You, Steve Rogers, don’t want trouble?”

“I just wanna watch the game, Bucky.”

“What’d you mean more?” Bucky barreled on, “You mean the guy at the bar? He was an asshole.”

Beside himself, Steve poked the bear, “Hardly. He just lit a cigarette.”

“Yeah, and it’s a dangerous fucking habit,” Bucky’s eyes looked different than they had earlier, glossier. It unnerved Steve. “Who decided we could put smoke in the air all the damn time?”

“I don’t want to fight with you about it. Loosen up.”

Steve looked back to the field. He could momentarily feel Bucky’s eyes on him, but he didn’t give Bucky the satisfaction of looking at him. Eventually, Bucky looked out toward the field again. 

“Hey,” Bucky’s voice was sharper than it had been since his first drink of the day. “Speak of the damn devil.”

Steve didn’t take long to recognize what had grabbed Bucky’s attention. It was the man from the bar earlier. He’d turned in the stands, likely to face some buddies. He was smoking from a tobacco pipe and laughing, waving his hands animatedly as he spoke to the people around him. It looked like he was telling a story or making a joke, something harmless.

“Yeah, alright. The guy we saw earlier is still here. Shocking, Buck.”

Without another word, perhaps a warning, Bucky pushed forward, parting the people who stood ahead of them. Folks exchanged confused looks with one another and muttered explicatives at him, but Bucky paid it no mind. He simply charged through the crowd. 

“Bucky?” Steve called, horrified as he watched his friend split the crowd. He was moving like an animal on a hunt, strong and swift. But he was drunk, Jesus, Steve thought, noting Bucky’s unusual gait; he was so drunk. 

Steve had already taken off behind Bucky, mumbling apologies and slipping by the people Bucky had left in his wake when he saw Bucky confront the man. He couldn’t hear the words spoken, but it didn’t matter. The man with the pipe pushed Bucky, and Bucky lunged at him. 

The moment became a tornado, a cloud of debris silently sweeping and spinning until, suddenly, control was lost. Steve could hardly see what was happening; everyone in the vicinity had backed up, and getting through the crowd nearly became a Sisyphean task. By the time Steve reached the spot in the stands that had been cleared in response to the fight, it was over. 

Bucky’s target, the smoking man, was being held back by his friends. But that wasn’t Steve’s concern; his concern was Bucky. Bucky, who now had blood hastily running down one side of his face, was attempting to push away some poor stadium attendant who had ended up in the middle of things. 

“Get off me,” Bucky shouted, face scrunched up as he tried to blink away the blood that blinded him. The sight was unreal to Steve; the contrast of the natural world had just been altered, cranked up, the green field behind it all, and America’s game still going on without a hitch—and Bucky’s red blood, white teeth, and blue eyes, half closed. “Get the hell off me.”

“Bucky,” Steve spoke, the familiar name in his mouth grounding him. He moved in closer, behind Bucky, who continued belligerently swinging. “Buck, stop. It’s not-” Bucky’s elbow pulled back as he wound himself up to swing again. It connected with Steve’s nose. 

Steve staggered back, tripped over the stands behind him, and landed at the feet of onlookers. Through the gaps between his fingers, which he’d instinctively raised to hold his face, and the water gathering in his eyes, he could see drops of Bucky’s blood on the wooden benches around him. He blinked away the tears and focused on breathing.

“Steve?” Bucky asked. His fist lowered, and he squinted to see Steve through the blood in his eye. “Shit. Steve, did I hit you?” Steve didn’t respond, but Bucky came closer, anger washing away to be replaced with concern. “Fuck. Are you okay? I’m sorry.”

“M’fine,” Steve’s voice was muffled by his hands. Bucky’s left hand, which was not coated in blood, cupped Steve’s face. 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky’s voice was breathless and earnest, “Let me see it. God, I’m so sorry.”

Bucky and Steve were preoccupied, but the man who Bucky had been fighting only minutes before took the time to sneer, “Couple of fucking queers.”

“What did you just say?” Bucky dropped his hand from Steve’s face. Bucky had been angry before; he’d started the fight, after all, but the way Bucky’s eyes darkened in reaction to the words put fear into Steve. Bucky turned to face the man. 

“You heard me.”

As if all the alcohol had been siphoned from his blood, Bucky stood straight. He didn’t sway or move awkwardly, and he lunged forward again and struck the man. Others intervened, pulling at Bucky, but Bucky didn’t notice. He was laser-focused on the fight. He moved like a machine. 

Punches were thrown until the area was swarming with staff. In the commotion, Steve only got a glimpse of the man Bucky had beaten, and boy, had he beaten him. They had to get out of there. Bucky was going to be lucky if he got away without charges. 

Steve got eyes on Bucky as he was pulled to the stairs next to the stands. Some burly man, who must’ve been security, had Bucky by the collar, ripping the polo shirt he was wearing and choking Bucky in the process. The moment of concentration on beating the man had passed, and Bucky looked sloshed again. He spit and tried to shout more expletives, but his voice kept cutting out as his shirt collar pressed into his throat. Steve got up with a hand to his nose, weaved through the crowd unnoticed, and followed the security officer. 

Bucky was thrown out of the same front gates they had used to enter the stadium earlier that day. Steve didn’t take the time to admire the architecture like earlier; he kept his eyes glued to the ground in red-hot shame. Still, he couldn’t help but hear Bucky drunkenly arguing with security about how he didn’t start the fight and feel the prying eyes of the people they passed by on their way out. It was pitiful. Steve generally felt proud to be seen as someone close to Bucky, but at this moment, he wished they were strangers. 

“That fucking asshole,” Bucky staggered away from the exit he’d been forced out of. He held one hand to his face and, when he removed it, seemed surprised to find it came back bloody. “My face is fucking bleeding.”

“Your choice of language is abysmal,” Steve replied, his teeth returning to dig into the inside of his lip once his mouth closed around the words.

“Are you mad at me?” Bucky whined, alcohol aiding in the abrupt emotional shift from rage to a much more toned-down pissy-ness. 

“What do you think, pal?” 

“I dunno,” Bucky pulled at his eyelashes, collecting slightly coagulated blood between his fingertips. “Seems like you are.”

Steve exhaled and looked around. There was a smattering of people milling about the plaza outside the stadium, but it was generally quiet and, therefore, less embarrassing than being in the stadium with Bucky. They’d planned to walk back to Steve’s place after the game, but as Bucky gently swayed on his feet and tried to pick blood from his eye, Steve figured that plan wouldn’t work. 

They could take a trolley car. There was a stop at the end of the block they were on, and Steve had enough coins to cover their fares. They’d have to take a trolley. 

“Come on,” Steve pat Bucky on the back, “Let’s go home.”

“You are mad at me, ain’t ya?” Bucky mumbled; he dropped his hands onto his knees, staining his pants with blood. “Ion want you to be mad at me, Steve.”

“Well, I ain’t happy with you, Buck,” Steve answered honestly. He looked across the wide cement plaza, squinting as the sun reflecting from it burned his eyes. A trolley was pulling up. “We can talk about it later. Let’s go.” Steve pat Bucky’s back again, earning a lazy look up from Bucky, and set off toward the trolley. Bucky stumbled behind him, unable to keep pace. 

“Is it ‘cause I hit you? I am sorry about that. I am.” Bucky called up, but Steve just kept walking. “My face hurts, Steve.” When Steve continued to stay silent, Bucky added, “Is it ‘cause I hit that guy? He was a jerk.”

Steve stopped and turned to Bucky. He was quite the sight; his previously combed-back dark hair fell in clumps around his forehead, pointing like a lurid arrow to the gash, still bright red and pouring blood, in his eyebrow. It was the first Steve saw of the injury, and at once, he knew they would have to consider stitching it shut. “He was a jerk, but that wasn’t worth it. You were just drunk and trying to pick a fight.” 

“I am not drunk.” 

“You’re a fool, Bucky.” 

“I’m your fool, though,” Bucky mumbled, smiling like an idiot. Steve didn’t see the smile; he’d already begun walking toward the trolley stop again. “Steve, quit runnin’.”

“I’m not running. Keep up.”

“I can’t, Steve.” Bucky pleaded, “Seriously, slow down. My head fucking hurts.”

Steve didn’t care to slow down. He wouldn’t say it to Bucky; there was no reason to, but he was mad. If there was one thing Steve hated, it was looking weak. Unfortunately, he looked weak to most people. Five-foot-four-tall men weren’t often known for their strength. And while Bucky had spent years pulling Steve from fights, ‘saving his ass’ as Bucky always put it, it didn’t usually make Steve feel weak. But picking a fight for Steve was a step too far. Steve could pick his battles even if he were smaller than the average guy. He didn’t need some knight in shining armor, or, for that matter, blue polos, to defend his honor.

“Stevie?” Bucky huffed. In the time that Steve had charged toward the trolley, he’d been too lost in racing thoughts to remember that Bucky was still behind him, actively drunk and struggling. The return of his childhood nickname, ‘Stevie,’ was the nail in the coffin that confirmed to Steve that Bucky was too drunk.

“What?” 

Bucky had steered away from the sidewalk, instead finding a small plot of grass where a tree grew. He leaned heavily on the tree trunk, head pressed into the crook of his elbow as his forearm rested along the bark. Out of the bright sun and only illuminated by the low light of the shade, Steve could see behind the dark crimson of the blood staining his face; Bucky looked a little green. Bucky managed a smile when he caught Steve’s concerned eye. 

“How bad would it be if I threw up on this tree?” Bucky was still smiling but also breathing raggedly. It was an odd sight, and Steve knew Bucky was asking the question as seriously as a person this drunk could. “D’you think it would be like fertilizer, maybe?”

“Please do not throw up on the tree.” Steve deadpanned. 

“Would the sidewalk be better?”

“Bucky. Hold it together.”

Bucky did not hold it together. 

They missed the trolley, but Bucky insisted it was alright because he ‘felt better now’ and told Steve not to worry about the fare; he could cover it. The fare was a measly ten cents, but Steve didn’t bother reminding Bucky of that. 

So, they sat side-by-side on the bench at the trolley stop, waiting for the next car. After missing the trolley, Steve determined it was time they get pressure on Bucky's still-bleeding facial wound, so he gave up his tie so Bucky could press it to his face. Bucky had grinned, told Steve he was the ‘best ever’ and balled up the tie and held it to his eye. That was how they sat until the trolley car finally arrived, Bucky with Steve’s tie on his face, Steve rubbing circles on Bucky’s back with his palm. 

It was a godsend that the trolley operator either did not notice or chose not to speak of the blood and vomit adorning a drunk and sweating Bucky. They both collapsed onto the cushioned seats of the thankfully empty trolley car, and Steve let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Bucky rested his head on Steve’s shoulder, surprisingly careful to avoid getting blood on Steve’s shirt. The trolley set out on its track and, like a mother would carry her sleeping child to their bed, shuttled them into the streets of Brooklyn with a quiet warmth.

 “Could ya open a window?” As soon as the front door to Steve’s apartment closed behind them, Bucky stripped off his torn-up shirt and blood-coated pants, muttering something about not wanting to stain Steve’s carpet further. Steve thought about how Bucky’s planned date may have seen something similar that day if not for ditching him. Hopefully, there would’ve been less blood involved if that had been the case. But that hadn’t been the case, and now Bucky was sprawled out on Steve’s floor, half-heartedly scratching away the dried blood on his cheek. “Please? It’s so damn hot in here.”

“Gimmie a minute,” Steve called from the kitchen. He kept his radio in there, propped up in the window. Bucky didn’t believe it, but Steve always swore up and down that keeping the radio in the window gave him a better chance at picking up music from the dance halls. Bucky probably knew more about that, how radios worked and whatnot, but Steve’s ma had told him radios belong in windows, so he didn’t dare move it. 

Soon enough, the radio was blaring updates from the ninth inning. The Dodgers were still up, and Steve couldn’t help but let out a soft ‘thank God’ when the score was announced. He filled a glass with water from the tap, wet a kitchen towel, and slung it over his shoulder. He returned to where Bucky sat in the living room.

“Here,” Steve leaned down and gave the water to Bucky, “Drink that.”

The eye below the cut in his eyebrow was shut as Bucky looked up and thanked Steve for the water. Steve wasn’t sure if it was a choice, a wink, or if the surrounding tissue was already beginning to swell. “The window,” Bucky mumbled as Steve braced to sit on the carpet beside him. 

“Right,” Steve stood and took two short steps to reach the window. He opened it as far as he could; all of the windows in his place seemed to stick once they reached the halfway point of opening. Wind whistled through, sounding off like a departing train, and the nearby door to Steve’s bedroom bumped against its frame. 

“Drafty,” Bucky pointlessly noted. 

Steve returned and sat cross-legged in front of Bucky. Bucky had taken on the posture of a convicted criminal awaiting execution. He’d drawn his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, hands ultimately resting crossed in front of him as if they had been cuffed. His head hung in the space between his knees and his chest. He looked up at Steve, and Steve could see more of the whites of Bucky’s eyes than he was accustomed to. Between that visual, and the ever-darkening blood that pooled in the small space between the bottom of Bucky’s eye and the top of his cheek, and the resulting waterfall of blood that traveled down to his jaw, Steve felt his chest tighten in an unfamiliar way.

“We need to clean you up,” Steve said.

“Yeah,” Bucky nodded, head slowly rising. He dropped his odd posture and mimicked Steve’s, so they sat cross-legged and faced one another. 

At once, Steve felt an odd, irrational insecurity in that he was wearing clothes while Bucky was not. Like they’d gone out for a swim, and Steve had refused to strip in formal swimming fashion. Bucky looked so at peace, unguarded, shirtless in front of Steve, and comfortable in only his blue and white striped boxer shorts and socks. As Bucky leaned back, pushing his weight into his hands, Steve looked at the small, long-healed scar on Bucky’s left shoulder. He’d needed surgery on it when he was a kid. Steve wasn’t around then, but he’d heard the story. Bucky always talked about it with a laugh, something about trying to balance on the handlebars of a friend's bicycle and the resulting crash. The scar was pale now, faded with age, and surrounded by little dots where the needle had entered and exited his skin. It served as the only blemish on Bucky’s otherwise unmarked form. Steve kept his eyes on the small scar and desperately wished he could get into Bucky’s head, know what and how Bucky thought. He wondered if Bucky ever felt insecure about the spot or if Bucky ever felt insecure at all.

Steve removed the wet kitchen towel from his shoulder, revealing the damp fabric below it. Bucky reached forward and touched the spot, his fingers a quiet apology. “I’m sorry about the game.” He said. There was a pause, but before Steve could respond, Bucky added, “And the tree.”

Steve laughed; the apology to the tree reminded Steve of how drunk Bucky was and broke the tension Steve had created in himself. “S’okay, Buck. I think the tree’ll survive.”

“Mm, I’m still sorry,” Bucky hummed. Steve leaned forward and put one of his hands on the ground to steady himself. He held the kitchen towel in his other hand and brought it up to touch Bucky’s face. Bucky closed the eye he had open and smiled as the wet towel made contact with his skin, “Thanks for making it cold.”

“That was a stupid fight.”

“I know.” 

Steve had cleaned blood from Bucky’s face before. Bucky was always bloody back in his boxing days, and Steve was always there for the aftermath. It was an intimate moment every time. There was no way it could not be. Steve’s hand rounded the corner of Bucky’s smile as he gingerly wiped away the blood. “And you got too drunk.”

Bucky’s smile grew. “I know. I feel gross.”

“You look it.”

“Ass.” Bucky laughed, and with his eyes still closed, he leaned forward and pushed Steve’s chest playfully. “You ain’t still mad, are you?”

Steve shrugged, but then he remembered Bucky’s eyes weren’t open to see the movement, so he said, “I ain’t that mad.”

“That mad.”

“Yeah, I ain’t that mad.”

“Mm,” Bucky hummed again. “I’m sorry, punk.”

“S’okay.” And it was okay because, anger aside, Steve cared about Bucky. 

They stayed quiet for a moment, listening only to their synchronized breathing, the whistling of the wind, and the distant radio reports of the Dodgers' success. They spoke again when Steve finished cleaning Bucky’s face and wordlessly began to clean the cut in Bucky’s eyebrow. 

“Sorry,” Steve said. Bucky’s eyes had shot open, well, as much as the one that had begun to swell could, and he’d jerked back from the touch to the wound. “I got to clean it.”

“Be gentle,” Bucky closed his eyes and leaned back toward Steve. He added, “Please.”

“I will be.”

The man Bucky had fought was wearing a ring, so the wound was jagged; Bucky’s skin had torn rather than been cut, but, fortunately, the gash was shallow. In the last few minutes, the bleeding had stopped, and Steve determined there would be no need for stitches. He thought about a time years prior when he’d told Bucky why wounds to the face bled so much, how there were so many blood vessels so close to the skin. Even after explaining that he only knew that fact because his mom was a nurse, Bucky was impressed by Steve’s knowledge. Steve liked it when Bucky was impressed by him. Presently, Steve told a relieved Bucky he didn’t need stitches.

The Dodgers won their game, and, in all, the day wasn’t too horrible. Still, Bucky was drunk and seemingly worn out, so Steve pulled the couch cushions to the floor, just as he had done when they were kids, and got Bucky a blanket. The sun traveled to the horizon, and although the apartment didn’t get much natural light, it still filled with an almost pink glow. Steve washed Bucky’s clothes in the sink as Bucky drifted off to dreams.