Sometime before there were guns and factories and huge brick boxes where people lived one on top of the other, Heraclitus said that the only constant thing is change. Back in 500 BC he said it, and people had been saying it with solemn nods and knowing looks ever since. Even teachers got in on it, standing in front of a patchy old blackboard still smeared with the chalk dust of the last decade and preaching to kids about how right this guy had been. It had always made Steve laugh.
He knew better—of course he did—because he had learned firsthand that some things really don’t change. When you leave your brick box in New York City, for instance, there’ll always be a street full of people no matter what time of day it is. No matter what block you walk down in Brooklyn, there’ll be a little hole-in-the-wall bar that’s frequented by the worst kinds of fellas. At least two people in those bars are always spoiling for a fight, and that’s before Steve even walks into the room. Hallelujah for that. Because one of the other things that’s constant, always has been and always will be like a boulder in a stream or the Grand Canyon or the will of God himself, is that Steve’s blood burns. There are a lot of reasons he burns, not the least of which is that people like to pick on whoever they think is a little or a lot weaker than themselves, but in the end they don’t really matter. He knows what’s right and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t stand up for it, but he also knows that even if there weren’t the guy grabbing some girl who wants to get away or calling Steve a chicken-hearted little pansy he’d still be right where he was at that moment: In a back alley, taking a swing at some dunderheaded house of a man whose friends were just standing, leaning, and laughing.
The burning got a little more bearable with every subsequent flail of his fist or feet, every mouthful of gravel, every painful impact of his own body with bruising knuckles. By the time the guy got tired of beating on someone whose bark was bigger than his bite, Steve felt completely burned out, lying there in the alley with his arms crossed around his midsection. When the guys picked up and let him be with a last half-hearted kick, Steve finally felt like he could breathe again. The new aches and pains that made themselves known when he dragged himself up, sharper and harder to ignore than the ones he was used to, calmed him. It felt like the world narrowed down to a few key points, points from which his awareness throbbed outward but never moved beyond the boundaries of his body. Constants, both the burning and the ending of it.
On that particular day he knew he had taken a beating that was worse than usual; the pain in his nose told him he might have even broken something, and the hitch in his breathing every time his ribs expanded didn’t bode well either. Regardless of how badly he got it, the end of that day was just like all the others—he stumbled his lonesome way back home, even made it up the stairs without further incident, and resolved to get himself patched up before Bucky got back from the docks and gave him what for. He realized that he probably couldn’t hide the nose, the wet warmth that had been trickling down his jaw for the whole walk told him it’d look pretty bad, but the ribs and some of the bigger clumps of already blackening bruises could be covered if Steve just stole one of Bucky’s sweaters—always huge on him, and always somehow warmer than his own to the point that Buck would never actually make him give it back right away. As far as James Buchanan Barnes was concerned, Steve got punched out on the way home for telling someone to lay off a dame, one and done.
He was already planning which sweater he was going to steal, the grey one was warmer but the brown one had sleeves that were so long they’d cover his bruised knuckles if he needed, and was so engrossed in those thoughts that when he swung the door open and limped inside he didn’t notice the pair of worn shoes already resting beside the door. He also didn’t notice the key hanging on the hook, or the mug of coffee that was still steaming on the counter. Steve was blind to all that, as focused on the sharp sting of his nose and his ribs and a dozen other spots around his body as he was, and he went straight to the couch to flop down and tilt his head forward like he’d always been told to do—or was it back? Either way he wasn’t going to do it right, because when he went to pinch his nose all he could do was hiss and bite back a swear that would’ve gotten his knuckles bruised in a different way back when he was a kid. Apparently his eyes had closed at some point between the sitting and the head-splitting pain of prodding a probably broken bone, because when he felt the couch dip down to his left he about jumped out of his skin and his eyes flew open to take in the intruder.
Except it wasn’t an intruder, it was worse, and Steve wished he had bothered to remember the one other constant he’d been counting on since the age of eleven. Bucky Barnes would always, no matter what, end up right beside Steve, even at the worst times. He wasn’t even looking at him when Steve opened his eyes, just staring forward at the burning fireplace Steve had also missed on the way in and taking a long sip out of his usual mug. A million different comments ran through Steve’s head, from jibes about the color of the coffee— it’s so pale it’s like milk, sure you got any joe in there Buck?— to elaborate tales about why he got into whatever it was he did this time, but he didn’t get to try using any of them because Bucky just swallowed and set his mug down on the coffee table real slow and quiet before he turned to Steve.
“You take a nose-dive from a balcony or something, Stevie?”
Steve huffed and looked away, trying not to wince at the pull on his ribs. “Or something.”
“Figures.” Steve’s awareness expanded to include the way Buck’s eyes were boring into him from the other side of the couch, burning two little pinpricks into the side of his face. “That all you got to say for yourself?”
“What else can I say?” Steve shrugged. “You shoul—”
A little bit of Bucky’s calm fell away and he bit out, “I swear if you say I should see the other guy I’ll blacken your other eye.”
Steve bristled at the threat and turned to look his friend in the eye, except this time he couldn’t quite hide the way he wheezed when his upper body moved. The sudden concern in those brown eyes only stirred him up more. “You’re all talk, Barnes. This ain’t none of your business besides.”
“How is it none of my business when you walk in here all black and blue? I thought we talked about this after last time, thought we agreed you wouldn’t swing at anything that looks at you wrong!”
“We didn’t agree on that, no sir,” Steve made to stand despite the way his body swayed as soon as his feet hit the ground. “You told me I wasn’t gonna get myself in trouble anymore because you weren’t gonna help me again, I never said I wouldn’t do it without you anyhow.” Buck opened his mouth, probably to spew out whatever thought it was that had screwed up his face into a scowl, but Steve beat him to it. “Well don’t worry Buck—I’m not going to bother you with this one.”
He turned his back and did his best to look purposeful as he stumbled his way to his room, but judging by the frustrated sigh coming from the couch he looked as rough as he was feeling. It didn’t matter. He didn’t need sympathy, didn’t even need Buck to scold him and hover like a mother hen, he could just close his door and lay down and let sleep numb the ringing in his head. Steve decided he was going to do just that, and behind the privacy of a closed door, allowed himself to lower his body gently down to the mattress with a small groan. He even permitted his hand to come up and press just below the pain on his ribs, trying to ease some modicum of his distress.
He could hear Bucky shuffling around in the outer room, could hear the clinking of the mug in the sink and the sound of cabinets being thrust open and closed with enough force that the ancient hinges creaked in protest. It was with a small streak of cruelty and resentment that Steve decided to close his eyes without even trying to assess the damage, let alone patch himself up, knowing as he did that whatever pain had grown by the morning would make Bucky feel worse by half. He had almost sunken into a fitful sleep like that, just hanging on to whatever rage had started to simmer again at getting found out, when the soft click of the door being opened caught his attention. He was sure his shoulders stiffened up enough to tell, but kept his eyes resolutely closed regardless. “Come to tell me you ain’t gonna help again?”
“Nah.” The door clicked closed, and as silent as Bucky was he wore enough aftershave that Steve could tell he was getting closer by the way the scent of bay rum was filling his lungs. “Came to make a liar out of myself.”
Steve cracked an eye open and was met by the sight of Bucky hovering by the bed, not that that was unfamiliar, but in his hands he had the roll of gauze and bottle of rubbing alcohol that they kept in one of the kitchen cabinets. He had to close his eyes against the sudden surge of guilt adding to the weight on his already cracked chest. “God forbid you let me lick my wounds in peace, Barnes.”
All he got for his trouble was a snort and a light swat on the shoulder. “Doesn’t look like there’s much licking going on here. Budge over, Stevie.”
“Why should I?” The question came out unbidden, more habit than anything else, even as Steve rolled himself over onto his stomach with a small groan.
“Because you’re fifty different shades of black and blue already,” the mattress dipped under Bucky’s weight just beside Steve’s stomach, “and I’m pretty sure you’ve got a broken nose and a cracked rib, and I’ll be damned if I let you sit in here all night like that.”
And there it was, the reason Steve had gone out looking for a fight that night in the first place. He wished he could press his face into the bed sheets just so he didn’t have to open his eyes and find out whether Buck still had that sharp edge to the set of his face or whether he’d gone all soft around the edges already, so he didn’t have to keep breathing in that damned aftershave, but he hadn’t yet forgotten the sideways pain spinning through his head with an epicenter right in the middle of his nose. He was going to let Bucky help—of course he was. As much as he protested it might as well be another one of those universal constants. Steve got into trouble, and Bucky came running to the rescue. No matter how badly he fucked up, Bucky always came running, and Steve would be lying if he said he hadn’t tried to find something Bucky couldn’t forgive.
“Look like you’ve been sucking on a lemon, Stevie. Or is the ringing in your head just getting to you?”
Steve groaned and sat himself up, simultaneously disappointed and thanking God that a third hand didn’t appear to help him prop himself against the headboard. There was one consolation, he realized. Buck hadn’t cooled off completely; there was still a hard edge to his gaze and a tension in his jaw that told Steve he wasn’t in the clear yet. If Steve could just get Bucky mad enough, maybe he’d leave him alone. “You were supposed to be at the docks till late.”
Other than a slight twitch of his eye, if Buck was irritated he wasn’t showing it. Instead he just reached for the damp cloth he’d been holding with the gauze and reached for Steve’s hand. “Got off early.” Steve tugged his hand into his own chest, cradling it away from Buck and the outstretched cloth. “That why you wanted to know how long I’d be this morning—so you could go out and get yourself all banged up and try to hide it?”
Steve was sure the look on his face was bordering sullen instead of intimidating, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. He always ended up feeling like a petulant kid in front of Bucky like this, anyways. Another constant. “Wasn’t gonna hide all of it.”
“Yeah, ‘course not. Because you’re a shit liar, Stevie.” Buck held out his hand again. “Now, are you gonna let me clean you up or do I have to manhandle you into it?”
Just the suggestion made Steve want to hiss and storm out, but as it was the high from the fight had near worn out and moving his legs sounded like a herculean feat. “Neither.”
The way Buck clenched the cloth in his hand as he brought it down to his lap gave Steve a little slip of triumph, as quick and fleeting as the little trickle of water that ran down Buck’s hand and landed on the bed. “Neither ain’t an option, here.”
Steve lifted his head and locked eyes with Buck, forcing himself to see one of his faceless antagonists and not the man who had been his best-friend-protector since they were kids. “Kick rocks, Buck. You offered your help, I don’t want it. Can’t you just leave me be?”
He had planned the scowl on his face and the responding flash of hurt on Bucky’s, but what Steve hadn’t counted on was that his eyes’d start to water. If anyone were to ask later, he’d say all that anger had needed a lot of air and jostled his ribs, but of course, the only person there was Buck, and he knew all of Steve’s bullshit. He had also planned for Bucky turning and standing up to leave in response, and so why did it sting so damn much? He did it. He finally—finally—crossed a line that Bucky wouldn’t stand, pushed him so hard he would stop pushing back. It’s what Steve had been trying to do for weeks, ever since Bucky’s number came up in the damned draft notices. It’s what he wanted, so why was his face now screwing up like he wanted to cry? Steven Grant Rogers never cried, only in part because his eyes were usually too blackened for anything to come out. It must have been the ribs, through and through.
He stared resolutely at his hands and the way they were shaking—of course they were shaking, trust his body to always fail all at once—as his tears splattered and trickled off his knuckles in little pink rivulets, and he waited for the door to slam like a death knell. The knell never came, and instead there was suddenly a warm presence pressed up against his side where he was leaning against the headboard, and a handkerchief that smelled like motor oil and brown sugar being stuffed under his nose. “You don’t mean that.”
Steve grabbed the square of cloth and used it to hide the tears he was sure Buck knew were still coming down. “Sure I do.” The wobble in his voice was not convincing. Can’t do a damn thing right.
“Nah. I know you, Stevie.” Just judging by his voice, Steve knew Bucky had officially gone soft—if he looked up right now, he’d see a gentle smile twitching up just one side of his mouth and eyes just shining with concern. “You’ve been trying to get a rise outta me for weeks, picking a fight with everything and especially with me. Something’s eatin’ at you, and if don’t tell me I’ll have to send you on the Cyclone again.”
Steve despised the wet laugh that ripped itself from his throat. “Never again, you jerk.”
“Mm, I could get you there if I really wanted to, doesn’t take much effort to pack you into a car by hand.”
The joking in his tone brought Steve back to the wetness on his cheeks and the pain in his ribs, and he swore softly under his breath. “Can we just drop this?”
“I dunno, I’m seriously thinking about it. Could probably get you downstairs without even breaking a sweat—”
“Dammit, Buck! You can’t—you gotta—Jesus.”
“Woah, hey. There it is, I guess. I hit a nerve?”
“No. Nah. Like I said, let’s just drop this.”
Buck breathed a slow sigh and leaned back against the headboard with Steve, head tilted up, probably to give Steve the privacy to swipe angrily at his eyes with the handkerchief. “Why’ve you been trying to get me mad at you, Stevie? You really want me out of your way.”
“It ain’t that. I just, I don’t get it.” Steve felt more than saw Buck turn his head to look inquisitively at him, waiting for him to continue. “I don’t get why you do...this.”
“What, try to convince some little ginger-snap that I don’t wanna see him bleeding all over the carpet for the thousandth time?” The smile in Buck’s voice was still wide, and he still had that teasing tilt to his words.
“No, Buck,” Steve breathed a frustrated sigh and scrubbed his hands over his face, doing his best to avoid his throbbing nose. “I don’t get why you deal with me. Stepping in, finishing my fights, patching me up when I can tell you’re spitting mad—you shouldn’t be here, and you just keep on doing it every damn day and ain’t you exhausted of that? Even a little?”
Steve still hadn’t worked up the guts to look Buck in the eye, which was just as well because he didn’t want to see any kind of relief on his face when Steve revealed what he was sure was true. He saw Buck run a hand through his hair out of the corner of his eye, and he heard the gentle huffed laugh that accompanied it. “Exhausted of you? I think you got hit harder than you think.”
“Don’t laugh, Buck, I’m being serious—God, I mean, I can’t even get out of the apartment some days, and you spent three months sitting here watching and waiting for me to die, how are you not chomping at the bit to get outta here?” Steve would deny for the rest of his life that the waterworks started back up again as he realized just how true it all was.
“Stevie,” The nickname only made Steve’s shoulders shake harder, as did being pulled into the warm circle of Buck’s arms and getting to press the side of his face into his wrinkled shirt that still had the faint scent of saltwater clinging to it. “You listen good, because this is probably the only time you’re gonna hear this out loud. I do it because I want to. I do it because you’re my best friend, and the thought of a world without you in it, getting into fights and standing up for what’s right and being a pain in my ass, well. I just can’t stand that. You’re too good Steve, the world needs that. I need that.”
There wasn’t a word Steve could say. The two men sat there like that much longer than was probably necessary, but Steve couldn’t bring himself to care until a particularly painful breath made him gasp out loud. Buck jerked back suddenly, and immediately got to his feet, reaching over and ruffling Steve’s hair with the painted smile he usually reserved for walking into dance halls before he rounded the bed again. He almost looked guilty, and Steve could only suppose that he’d forgotten there was a broken rib somewhere in the equation.
This time, when Bucky grabbed the formerly damp cloth and reached for Steve’s hand, he reached forward to meet him. They didn’t exchange words while Buck dabbed at his knuckles, or his nose, nothing but the occasional hiss and hummed apology as Buck finally opened the bottle of alcohol and wrapped the gauze around Steve’s hands. By the time he had finished taping up Steve’s nose and taping down the wraps around his knuckles, the warmth of his hands had lulled Steve into something half like sleep. Nevertheless, he still caught glimpses of Bucky as he worked. Bucky, his well-combed hair starting to fall into his face as he leaned over Steve. Bucky, something soft and sweet dripping from the smile he gave when he looked up and caught Steve staring. If his hands weren’t so banged up he’d reach for his sketchbook.
When Buck had finished, he sat back and grinned. “You look a little dopey with your nose like that, you little punk.”
Steve groaned a little goodnaturedly. “You’re a real jerk, Barnes.” And then, softer, “Thanks Buck.”
“Don’t thank me yet Stevie,” Buck reached down and picked up another roll of wrappings before giving Steve a wry smile. “Pretty sure you got a cracked rib somewhere down there. Not much we can do about it, but I can poke and prod you a little and then put some gauze around you to remind you not to hurt yourself.”
“I’m not gonna hurt myself,” Steve sat up with a wince and started fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. “Not for a while, anyway.”
Buck smiled and started unrolling gauze, his focus pinned to the strips of white cloth. “And you gotta take deep breaths, remember, or you might end up aggravating that pneumonia—”
“You sound more like my Ma every day, Barnes.”
Steve grinned at the chuckle that pulled from Buck and shrugged himself out of his shirt with care. He caught a glimpse of black and blue emphasizing the bony outline of his right side, and just sighed internally, choosing to give more focus to the blood-spattered sleeve of his shirt. There might have been a time when he hesitated to really hit home how fragile he was to Buck by baring such visual proof, but after years of being sick and weaker than a baby there wasn’t much Buck hadn’t seen. Hell, the weight he’d put on since his last bout of pneumonia on account of Buck shoving food at him every chance he got had him carrying more meat on his bones than ever—this might be the best he’d ever looked.
“We might not be able to salvage that shirt. Hope you weren’t too attached to it.”
Steve snorted and tossed the shirt to the other side of the bed. “Nah. Who needs it when I can just steal one of your giant sweaters.”
“Why are you always stealing my clothes, huh?” Buck shoved Steve’s shoulder lightly and stood. “You that cold all the time, Rogers?”
“Please.” Steve rubbed a quick hand over his mouth. “I don’t get cold. It’s just worth the look on your face when you can’t find something. Happens every time—it’s nice to have some things you can count on.”
Buck moved toward the door, laughing all the way. “Well I guess I’d better get one for you then, keep you decent and keep myself knowing where all my clothes are.”
“If you’re offering, then I’ll take the grey one.”
Buck gave him a knowing look. “You mean the warmest one?”
“Nah,” Steve turned up his nose at the shiver that immediately worked its way down his spine to make him look like a liar. “Brown one is way warmer. Grey one’s softer.”
Bucky looked far too interested in the amount of knowledge Steve seemed to have about the contents of his closet, and stood leaning in the doorframe with the kind of smile he usually flashed at the dames when he asked them to dance. “Oh yeah? And what about the blue one?”
Steve felt his face flush slightly under Bucky’s scrutiny, but gave him the answer anyway. “You don’t own a blue one.”
The small tweak of Buck’s lips was worth a million of his knowing looks. “Huh, guess you’re right. Grey it is.”