Chapter Text
James Buchanan Barnes had the annoying habit of picking up dames. He had the even more annoying habit of fishing for dames for Stevie, too. Girls liked Bucky, and Bucky liked girls. And Steve?
…well. Steve wished he were tall and strong like Bucky, had Bucky’s easy-going laugh and carefree charm. Truth was, Steven Grant Rogers was jealous of his best friend, and in more ways than he’d care to admit.
“You’ll love her, Stevie,” Bucky said.
That Steve Rogers doubted. He frowned, stared at his shoes, then finally up at his best friend. “What’d you tell her about me?”
“Only the good stuff,” Bucky promised for the hundredth time if it were the first.
“So not much, then.”
“Aw, c’mon Stevie! What’s the point in a double date if you’re not going have a good time?”
“You’ll have a good time, sure,” Steve pointed out. “I’ll just be stuck playing lookout while you and Margie are busy necking in an alleyway somewhere.”
“Presumably necking. But you can neither confirm nor deny—“
“—because I didn’t see anything,” Steve sighed. He always got chosen when Bucky and some girl were getting fresh, because no girl wanted to be known as fast, didn’t want anyone walking in, seeing…and, Steve supposed, his meek presence was as non-threatening as it got. Buck and he lived in a queer neighborhood, and most of the girls Buck made time with assumed he was queer just because he was small and sickly and lived with Bucky, thought Bucky was such a swell guy for helping him out, sticking by him even if he was runty and dirty and one of those. Besides, Steve Rogers could be trusted to tell the truth, honest to a fault, and everybody knew it. If ‘little Stevie Rogers’ swore up and down to your ma he was right there with you all night and “I didn’t see no thing like that, ma’am. Never left her side. Not even for a minute”, well, that was one more doll who got to see James Buchanan Barnes for a second date with her parents none the wiser.
He hadn’t seen, no. But he’d heard plenty. Heard the way Bucky’s breath got hitched and low, the way he could make girls moan. Just once—just once—Steve thought, it would be nice to know how it felt to kiss. To be kissed.
…not by Bucky. Of course not by Bucky. He wasn’t some stupid fairy, and Bucky was a ladies’ man through and though and then some. But to be kissed like that. Whatever it was that Buck could do to a girl’s mouth to make her sound like that…Steve wanted it, whatever it was. Wanted to make someone—maybe even Bucky?—sound like that. Give them that much pleasure. Just because he was small, so goddamned skinny, so goddamned sick didn’t make him any less human. Any less a man.
Sure, Stevie. You can’t even tug it without needing an asthma cigarette, he mused glumly. He remembered the first and only time Buck had caught him at it, slumped and wheezing against the bed frame naked. Concern first, then curiosity, then laughter. Buck had laughed until there were tears in his eyes helping Steve get dressed.
“Serves you right. As if you weren’t sick enough already,” Buck had sniggered. “And you need those eyes to paint!”
“It does NOT make you go blind,” Steve was pissed at himself, his friend, his stubborn, seemingly broken cock, and his piece of shit lungs. He hated his body for all its betrayals. Even now his heart was still hammering in his chest, breath a reedy whine.
“And how would you know?” Buck teased. “Like you’ve ever even managed to get it all the way done before.”
Steve had flushed, furious—because how the hell did Bucky know? “I know because if it did, you’d be blinder than a fucking bat.”
“Thank goodness, I don’t have to look at your ugly mug anymore. Or your skinny ass. Put some pants on, Stevie.”
Steve slipped one leg into his trousers at a time, tried to stand, pull them up over his hips to belt them, but didn’t have the strength. Just sat there, half-undone and fucking miserable.
“You know, next time, try not to get so worked up,” Bucky had winked, leaning over and buttoning them, pulling his belt tight and cinching it (“stop mothering me” Steve whispered, “you better hope your poor sweet mother never caught you doing this,” Buck grinned. Steve pushed him.). Tucked the ends in. Straightened Steve’s shirt collar. “and don’t do it on the bed. I sleep there too, you know. And it’s not laundry day until Tuesday. Like I need to be smelling your spunk all over everything.”
“As if yours isn’t all over everything in this apartment,” and every girl in Brooklyn, Steve didn’t have to add.
“Stevie, sweetheart, unlike you, I don’t shit where I eat.” That part was true enough, he supposed. For all his escapades, Bucky’d never brought a girl home.
“Wouldn’t be right, I mean, Jesus, Stevie (for a guy who was a half-Jewish not-even-relapsed Catholic Bucky sure liked to invoke the Lord’s name a whole hell of a lot), you live here. It’s one thing to have you stand watch while I’m necking in some alley but that—?” his cheeks turned even rosier, tongue sliding across his lips, eyes downcast. “Besides, I can’t kick my best fella outta bed.”
“Aw, gee, Buck, you’re awful sweet for a skirt-chaser,” Steve dug.
Those eyes were thoughtful, a small swallow in his throat. Hesitant. Afraid. “Sweet on you, Stevie,” he teased shyly as Steve frowned. Then Bucky was Bucky again, all laughs and hearty grins, slinging an arm around his shoulders, mussing his hair.
Later that night Buck fell asleep beside him, his deep, even breathing a constant reminder of his presence. Would that be so bad, part of Steve wondered. To be sweet. On Bucky. But he wasn’t some stupid fairy, wasn’t going to snuggle up to Buck like some dame, putting on airs, acting all needy. God (and his ma) only knew what a mess his health had already made for Bucky. James Barnes was a hero for putting up with him at all, let alone taking him in.
No, the last thing—the very last thing—Bucky Barnes needed was to know the real reason he’d caught Steve Rogers jerking off in their shared bed. Steve wanted to know what if would feel like if he were brave.
“Her name’s Betty.”
“Where are we taking them,” Steve asked glumly.
“Out dancing!” Buck laughed, swaying and swinging to the Chatanooga Choo Choo.
“C’mon, Buck,” Steve couldn’t contain a frown. “You know I hate that.”
He stopped, the phonograph spinning, heedless. “Stevie, you love to dance.”
“Yeah, at home. Not out. Not with—“ Steve was a good head shorter than all the girls Bucky brought for him, had shit lungs and—when he was well and nervous—two left feet. Tiny as they were, he couldn’t keep from tripping over them.
“C’mere. I’ll show you,” Bucky Barnes was a dancer, and a hell of a good one. Guy had the hips, the graceful, effortless moves of Fred Astair, the smile of Cary Grant, the earnest, easy-going charisma of James Stewart. Dancing—like life, like girls—came easy to Bucky Barnes. Most nights he ended up having at least a dance with every girl in the hall, if not two. No guy was gonna fault his gal a go with the best, and Buck always gave them back, always left with the same girl he’d walked in, so no hard feelings.
(…and if there were, well. Buck had a mean right hook. Boys learned better than to mess with James Barnes—and girls just couldn’t keep themselves away.)
“Yeah. Cause I need to know the girl part,” Steve shot bitterly.
But Bucky didn’t blink, didn’t do anything. “It’s okay, Stevie,” he said. “I can be the girl. C’mon.”
Betty McPherson was everything Steve hoped for, everything Steve feared. She was a chubby blonde with bright eyes and a wide smile, thin waist and large hips with legs that went on forever. And she only looked slightly disappointed when Buck introduced him, one wistful glance at James Buchanan Barnes and the girl lucky enough to be on his arm before she smiled gracefully down at Steve and resigned herself to a night with Steve Rogers.
…Steve was tired of girls resigning themselves to a night with Steve Rogers. Even pretty ones like Betty (especially pretty ones like Betty.).
Dancing with Buck hadn’t helped one bit, and Steve stepped on the poor dame’s toes more times than he could count, felt himself flushing with the effort of looking away as they danced, her soft, round tits right in his face all night. Betty found it—amusing? He thought, the way she simpered when she laughed, like she was laughing both at him and with him. But she was good to her word, came to the dance with Steve and left with Steve, even if Bucky Barnes stole a dance. “I promised, Stevie,” he shrugged. “You understand. Don’t worry, I’ll bring her back without a scratch on her!” and he winked while Betty tittered and flirted.
The only good thing to come of the night was the kiss. It was a rare occasion when Steve’s date stayed the duration and didn’t leave because “I promised ma I’d be home” or “I forgot I had to watch my niece” or even just left his side for a dance with another boy and forgot who she came with. But Margie had eyes for Bucky, and Bucky was making eyes at Margie, so Steve got roped into following them, like usual. To his surprise, Betty tagged along.
Betty sputtered and sniggered, kept looking over her shoulder, calling Margie a tramp. Steve frowned.“Tell me you don’t think she’s a tramp,” Betty pouted. “She’s putting it out there well and good.”
“Nothing wrong with a little kissing,” Steve flushed, still facing away. He’d stand up for any girl, didn’t think it was right, it was fair, that boys like Bucky Barnes could kiss all the girls they wanted and it was good, but if a girl so much as kissed Bucky it was like she was tainted. Oh, sure, he’d take a swing any guy who tried to kiss a girl if she didn’t want him to…but wanting him to? Well. That was different.
“That ain’t just kissing. Those two are necking.”
“It’s Bucky Barnes,” Steve said, only slightly bitter “You have to kiss him. It’s in the rules.”
“The rules, huh? What rules are those?”’
“Life,” Steve sighed.
“Life ain’t fair, Stevie Rogers,” Betty shrugged. “I wanted to go with Buck, but Margie got to him first. By rights it ought to be me necking him. But that’s life—Margie’ll get the handsome guy and get married and have babies and a house and I’ll be a working girl and a spinster. It’s how it is.”
“I don’t think you’ll be a spinster,” Steve said. “You’re too nice for that.”
“Boys don’t care about nice.”
“Nice boys do.”
Betty laughed, clutched her sides, rubbed the soft fabric of her dress. “Didn’t anybody ever tell you, Stevie? Girls don’t care about nice boys.” Then she kissed him.
It was short, sweet, over so fast Steve didn’t even have time to register, let alone savor it. One moment she was talking, the next something had happened and his face was flushing furiously and there was the sound of Bucky laughing, an arm slung around his shoulders, his hair being mussed. “You punk,” Bucky held him out at arm’s length. “You were supposed to be watching out for me!” Then he winked at Betty. “Glad someone’s watching out for him.”
Steve wanted to stay in the alley. Wanted Betty to have a chance to kiss him again. But Bucky was all ‘Stevie this, Stevie that’, gave his arm to Betty and said it was time to walk the girls home.
It was humiliating. It was unfair. Bucky’d never treated him like this, never belittled him, never insulted him but all the way back to the girls’ place he told stories about 'Little Stevie Rogers' and all the girls Stevie’d never gotten the chance to kiss. And if Steve was unhappy—miserable, even—then Margie was absolutely furious.
“Why’d you go and do that for?” Steve shouted once they got home. Sure, he and Buck could scrap like cats and dogs, but they were friends. Steve had never yelled at Bucky in anger before.
“Do what?” Bucky set his jaw, ground his teeth, his eyes dark. “Do what, Stevie?”
“You went and ruined everything!”
“Stevie—“ Buck reached a hand out for his shoulder. But Steve was livid, didn’t want any part of it, and stormed out of their room, clamored onto the couch, laid down with his face to the cushions and cried. Steve hated crying, made his breath hitch, his throat ache, his chest sore. Made him look even more like a goddamned kid. But Steve crying hurt Bucky, too, and right now Bucky Barnes deserved it for being a backstabbing bastard.
“Stevie, it’s cold,” Bucky said, not an ounce of apology in his voice. “Come to bed.” Steve ignored him.
“Stevie, c’mon,” he wheedled. “You’ll catch a cold.” Let him. It’d serve Bucky right, Steve getting sick, it being his fault. He deserved it. A large hand brushed his shoulder. “Stevie, I mean it.”
“Leave me alone!”
“Fine! Fine, Rogers! Die of pneumonia. You and your goddamned pride.”
Steve heard the bedroom door slam shut behind him.You and your goddamned pride, Buck said. Steve sniffled miserably, wrapped his arms around himself and cried himself to sleep.
He woke in the morning with an ache in his throat, a fever on his face and Bucky’s coat draped over him. Steve was laid up in bed for three days. They never did get around to talking about it, not even when Steve got so weak Bucky had to lift him to carry him to the bathroom, hold his shoulders so he could stand.
You and your goddamned pride, Rogers, Steve cursed himself. You and your goddamned pride. How could a girl he’d known for less than a day come so far between them?
One week. That’s how long it took to talk about it. “Was that your first kiss, Stevie?” Bucky asked while they were changing for bed.
“You damn well know it was,” Steve scowled.
He was quiet for a while. “Well. It hardly counts.”
“It fucking counts, Buck.”
Silence.
“Y’know, you just need practice.”
“Yeah. ‘Cause girls are lining up to kiss ‘little Stevie Rogers’. I wish you wouldn’t. Call me that.” People already think I’m a queer, think I’m a kid, he didn’t add.
“Okay, Stevi—Steve.”
“Not here, you punk,” Steve sighed. “Out. I don’t care what you call me here.”
“Okay, Stevie,” Buck’s voice was unusually quiet. “It doesn’t have to be a girl, you know. You can kiss me. For practice. If you want.”
“What?”
“Plenty of fellas do it,” Buck whispered. “For practice. C’mere, Stevie. Give me a kiss.”
“I—“ Steve started. “I don’t think I can do that, Buck.”
“C’mon, Stevie,” Buck sat on the bedside, suddenly short, scared, shy. They were nearly eye to eye. “Kiss me.”
For practice, Steve thought. It’s just practice. “I—“ So he leaned forward, eyes open, brought his lips near to Bucky’s pert mouth.
“Jesus, Stevie!” Buck laughed, near to giggled, pushed him away. “You can’t just go for it.”
“How the hell am I supposed to know?” Steve hated this. Hated himself for agreeing. Hated himself for not stopping. “Not like I’ve done it, not like I’ve watched it, thanks to you—“
“Hey, hey,” Buck laid a hand on his bare arm, not a trace of anger or fight in his tone. “Touch me.”
“What?”
“C’mon, Stevie. Touch me. Brush my hair back. Put your hands on my face. Tilt my chin. Let me know you care, that it’s not just making time, that you don’t think I’m fast or forward. Tell me you love me.”
“Bucky—“
“C’mon, Stevie,” Buck whispered, near to whined. “I’m a girl. I gotta know you care first. Then you can kiss me all you fucking want,” then he smiled. Sly little grin, sideways glance, lick of the lips. Pure James Buchanan Barnes. “Treat me right, might even let you do more.”
Vaguely Steve wondered how many girls had fallen for that exact same trick, lost their first kiss—and more—to Bucky’s charm. He felt heavy, stumbling, lifted a leaden hand up to Buck’s face.
The skin trembled beneath his touch. Buck leaned into it, brought his cheek, the weight of his head to rest in Steve’s palm. Just held it there. “More,” Bucky whispered after a minute. “More, Stevie. Touch me more.”
Steve stepped closer. Standing between Bucky’s knees, felt their legs brushing. Brought up his left hand slowly, laid in it Bucky’s slicked hair, felt the brylcreem crinkle under his touch.
This is wrong, Steve thought, heart beating fast. A girl’s hair would be long, would be soft—
Bucky’s breath came in short gasps against his right wrist. His eyes were wide in the dark, searching Steve’s face, inscrutable.
He has long lashes, Steve thought stupidly. Like a girl’s. That wasn’t too bad. Steve could pretend—
He smoothed the skin of Bucky’s face, brought his right thumb up to the fragile place around his eye, felt it close under his touch, ran the pad across the flitting lashes, winking shut over, under, around him. There was a knot growing in his throat, a sick, queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“Kiss me,” Bucky breathed. “Stevie—“
That wasn’t right either, Steve frowned. No self-respecting girl would say that. And he wouldn’t let some girl call him Stevie, either. But Buck’s pulse was wild under Steve’s touch, had brought his own hands up to hold over Steve’s, turned his face, turned his face and brushed those full lips against the inside of Steve’s wrist.
It was just pretend, Steve told that feeling in his stomach, settling warmer and warmer within him. “Thought you were ‘posed to be a girl, Buck.”
“Never said it was my first time,” Bucky whispered, staring up at him from under those lashes. “You don’t think I’m easy, baby, do you? You can forgive me for not waiting for you? Want you so bad, baby.”
“Jesus, Buck,” Steve flushed. Had to stop himself from a reflexive hail Mary, sorry ma. Standing here, aiming to kiss his best friend, didn’t feel right apologizing to God or his ma at the moment. Maybe after. Maybe later. Maybe then Steve would feel sorry.
Steve stepped closer. Brought his hands under Bucky’s chin, cradling his face, instinctive, suddenly sure. The skin was so soft, so smooth, and Buck whined at the touch, eyes flitting shut, lips parted, and Steve felt that strong jaw soften, loosen, ready, willing and waiting for the press of his lips against Bucky’s own.
Just pretend, Steve thought. Like he was a girl. He cupped his hand under the slight cleft in Buck’s chin, brought his mouth to Bucky’s full lips, touched them to his. Didn’t close them, just stood there, face to face, just brushing. Bucky’s breath was so hot, so short, so stilted.
“Fuck, Stevie,” Bucky moaned. “Kiss me.”
A girl wouldn’t say that, Steve wondered absently. A girl wouldn’t call him Stevie—
The inside of Bucky’s lips were wet, hot, tasted like cigarettes and beer. Bucky whined, breathing his air, mouth softening and making way for Steve’s own, their kiss deepening. He didn’t chase it, just let it linger, then slowly closed his lips. Drew away.
“Bucky—“
Bucky leaned forward. Brought a hand behind Steve’s head, pulled him back, pulled their mouths together, flushed lips full and pliable, his tongue soft yet insistent. Steve’s hands came up, braced against Bucky’s shoulders, he thought about pushing himself away, about pulling that shirt into fists in his hands, drawing Bucky closer, about kneading his long fingers into the heat of the hard muscle beneath—
It’s only pretend. But it’s all wrong. A girl wouldn’t have such large shoulders, wouldn’t have the tiniest traces of stubble tickling against him, setting his skin on fire. He wanted to pretend, he wanted to. He really did. But kissing Bucky—Bucky Barnes—just felt too good.
Steve palmed those shoulders, sucked against Bucky’s bottom lip, pulled his body closer, meeting from hips to sternum. Felt Bucky’s chest rise and fall against his, breath just as high, as hitched as his own. Then Steve pushed—gently—pushed him back, and Bucky went willingly under him as Steve brought a knee up to climb onto the bed.
And fuck. Bucky’s gorgeous. Grey eyes under fluttering lashes, parted lips full and red, the sheen of sweat on his face, heaving chest, the body underneath him was hard and warm, shivering with pleasure. it’s not like kissing a girl, not like kissing a girl at all, Steve thought. Bucky’s tongue flitted against his, and Steve licked the inside of Bucky’s lips, felt the heat of his breath, the full, frank, dullness of his teeth, tasted the salt from his sweat and the lingering ash of Bucky’s last cigarette. Bucky brought his hands up, pawing at Steve softly, touching hair, face, stroking down his shoulders. Steve clasped Bucky’s hair tighter, held his head down, tilted that chin up to change the angle of that kiss so he can kiss him fully, climbed the rest of the way into the bed, dragging himself up and over Bucky.
Bucky let out a sinful sound. “Stevie—“
Steve couldn’t talk. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t fucking do anything but kiss. He’d waited so goddamned long for this he just wanted to get lost. His legs were tangled up with Bucky’s, and a hot ache hit the pit of his spine. And—
It wasn’t like kissing a girl, Steve decided. Not at all. A girl wouldn’t have—well. And Bucky was hard. As hard as he was.
“God, Stevie,” Bucky panted through parted lips, bringing his hips up to slide against Steve’s own. “I fucking love you.”
I love you. His best friend. Bucky. And he’s straddling him on their bed. Steve pulled away, suddenly ashamed. Feeling sick.
“Stevie?” Bucky asked shyly, eyes wild with worry. “Stevie—?”
“It’s—“ Steve bit his kiss-sore lips. Looked away. “It’s, it’s all just pretend, right, Buck?”
Bucky smiled. Smiled like his heart’s been broken. Smiled like he’s sobbing. Like he’s dying. “Sure. Sure it is, Stevie. Just pretend,” he whispered, smoothing back Steve’s fringe. “All just pretend.”
They never kissed again.
It’s 2014, and marriage equality is made legal in the United States. A stray reporter finds Captain America on his morning jog, makes a point to interrupt.
“Captain Rogers—Captain Rogers!” she shouts. “What are your thoughts on same-sex marriage?”
They’d been kids together, friends together, never lovers, just two closeted queers ashamed of themselves and the way they were, the way they felt, each wishing the other were braver, would show some sign. What are his thoughts on same-sex marriage? He thinks it’s wonderful. He thinks its about damn time. He thinks it might just kill him.
The question goes unanswered. Steve keeps jogging. Sam is silent beside him. And Steve just smiles. Smiles like his heart’s been broken. Smiles like he’s sobbing, like he’s dying.