Chapter Eight
"I'm fine, dammit," Steve hissed as Bucky helped ease him into a sitting position. Drawing deep inaudible breaths, he leaned against the door, and at long last, Steve let out a self deprecating laugh. "I'm supposed to be helping you. Dammit." He repeated emphatically.
"Who was that fucking trio?" Bucky demanded, confused and pissed.
"Not your problem, big fella." Steve patted his shoulder, and it surprisingly felt sincere. Then his face contorted, and he bent over as the branded glyph seared into him with renewed force. He suffered in agonized silence, his mouth hanging open as he gasped like he couldn't get air.
"Breathe," Bucky said helplessly. Steve literally tore at his shirt, the fabric shredding under his fingers as he sought to free the brand from the slightest touch. His scrawny chest heaved, sweat rolling off him as he struggled not to writhe. "What do you need?"
Steve pointed into the kitchen. "Fri-dge. Jar. Drink. Bet-ter." He snarled out, fighting with each word. Bucky rushed to the fridge and yanked it open. He grabbed the jar full of thick dark liquid, but Steve was convulsing when he returned, the brand burning impossibly brighter.
In an attempt to get the liquid into Steve, Bucky got the jar too close to one of Steve's spasmodically jerking arms, and the jar went flying, smashing spectacularly.
The smell of blood filled the air. Bucky dipped his fingers in the liquid and sniffed closely to be sure. The stuff oozing across the floor in a dark shining puddle was blood.
He stared between Steve and the blood for a long moment, then he made a very important decision. The blood across the floor wasn't going to do Steve much good now.
Pulling a knife from his boot, he flicked it open and gripped it tightly. Blood welled up in his palm, dark and warm. Bucky dropped the knife and clamped his hand over Steve's mouth. He could feel teeth and lips,soft and chapped, and then he felt tongue as Steve stopped fighting weakly to free himself and realized what was happening, the punk. His convulsions slowed and twitched to a stop.
A little sick, Bucky watched Steve's eyes glow bright as he drank Bucky's own blood, fresh, hot. The glyph was fading fast. Was vampirism part of demonology?
Eventually, Steve pushed Bucky's hand away. The brand was dark on Steve's chest, though the skin around it looked seriously burnt. Bucky pressed his palm to his stomach, waiting.
"Dammit, Buck," Steve sighed. "What the hell?"
"What the hell." Buck repeated. "What. The. Hell."
"Yeah." Steve's eyes fell on the puddle. "You shouldn't have done that. That was absymally stupid."
"I -" Bucky snapped. "You looked like you were dying, Steve!"
"I wasn't!" Steve spat, his teeth tinted with blood. Bucky's blood.
"I didn't know that!" Bucky yelled.
Steve stared at him. "Why did you bother? You would have been free if I'd died. Free to escape."
"I made a promise." Bucky gritted. "And I will keep it to the end of the line. And because you saved me, what, six times, I thought I'd return the favor!"
"But. You don't get it. Feeding a demon your blood ..." Steve trailed off. "That was animal blood in the jar. Human blood ..." His head thumped back against the door. "Bucky ..."
"Talk." Bucky growled. "Explain. Human blood?"
"It's rich with life and energy." Steve began slowly. "And it comes at a high cost, usually a deal, because freely given, it's ... It's old magic, blood magic, and I don't know how to explain to you, you idiot." Steve's eyes shut and opened, and he suddenly looked older than the planet. "Bucky, we're linked now. Linked in ways that are messy and binding and ... usually, demons drink so much blood from their, er, customers, drink so much that the mortal dies. It's serious stuff, this link. I don't ... I don't know how it will play out."
"You aren't going to kill me to sever it?" Bucky half teased.
Steve glared. "After all I've done!" He exclaimed. "After fucking all I've done, dammit, you think I'd kill you off? What the fuck. NO. No, I am not. It'd be like an artist burning his own masterpiece." He shook his head repeatedly. "What the fuck, man." He snapped his shirt back into its original pattern.
Bucky laughed. He genuinely laughed, honestly amused. Even happy. He didn't know what the hell was going on, but in that moment, everything - Steve, him - seemed okay, and it was enough to bring laughter bursting out of his core and up through his throat. He laughs until it hurt and Steve was reluctantly smiling.
"You done, pal?" He queried as Bucky quieted. Bucky nodded.