Chapter Text
“Childhood dotted with bodies. Let them go, let them be ghosts. ‘No,’ I said, ‘make them stay, make them stone.’” —Gregory Orr
1934
When Steve Rogers came home with yet another split lip and black eye, Sarah could only sigh. Her sweet a leanbh had the heart of a warrior—brave, unyielding, always stepping in when he saw someone to defend. Sometimes, she wished he’d understand just how small he was, how fragile and vulnerable he was in this world that didn’t give a damn about them. Then again, she was the one who taught him to always get back up—no matter how many times they were knocked down.
But that day was different.
The door swung open loudly, and Steve skidded to a halt in front of her. His pale skin was painted with dark blue and purple bruises, but joy as bright as sunshine shone through. He was grinning so wide that his split lip was bleeding.
Beside him, clutching his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, was another boy. Taller. Sturdier. A mop of dark brown curls and wide eyes the color of warm coffee, looking at Steve like he hung the sun.
“Mam! This is Bucky! He’s my best friend!”
She got a breathless retelling—how Steve had noticed a group of boys picking on a little girl, how he’d gotten right into the middle of it. Before she had a chance to scold him, Steve barreled on, proudly announcing Bucky had saved the day. Apparently, the little girl in question was his sister.
And then, to her quiet amusement, the older boy—this Bucky—turned right around and scolded Steve himself, arms crossed, voice firm, telling him not to pick fights he couldn’t win.
Sarah didn’t miss the way Steve cowed under the reprimand. Nor the way Bucky looked at her son like he was something holy.
From that day on, they were shadows of one another.
Sarah had always known the boys shared a peculiar closeness, but she couldn’t bring herself to worry. For so long, Steve had been so alone—small and sickly, always on the fringes. So, when Bucky came along, all stubborn loyalty and fierce devotion, Sarah could only be grateful.
Bucky was such a good friend. He followed Steve into whatever trouble he stumbled into, scolding and mother-henning him the whole way. He protected him without hesitation and loved him without question.
Yes, their bond was unusual.
But to Sarah, it felt like grace. She only wished it could last.
The Barneses were good enough people—respectable, hardworking, well-liked in the neighborhood. George and Winnifred had built a solid life, a beautiful mating, and a home full of expectations for their children, especially for their only son. They didn’t quite know what to make of little Steve Rogers. To their credit, they were never unkind.
But Sarah could see the way Winnifred’s eyes softened with pity when they landed on Steve—too small, too sickly, too much like the stray cats that followed Bucky down the streets.
Winnifred didn’t disapprove, necessarily. But she never understood why Bucky was always chasing after that boy with hollow cheeks and fire in his eyes. She would gently suggest other playmates, boys who were stronger, healthier.
Bucky was a good son. He did what was expected of him—played baseball with the other boys, smiled for the neighbors, and said, “Yes, sir” and “No, ma’am” when it suited him. But no matter how many home runs he hit or how loud the crowd cheered, he always ran straight to Steve, as if the runt of a boy was his true home run.
Bucky saved the best parts of his day for the boy waiting on the sidelines—skinny and pale, grinning like Bucky had just conquered the world.
And maybe, in his own way, he had.
But a child’s world is meant to be broken.
One winter evening, Steve fell ill with a fever. At first, Sarah thought Steve had just come down with another illness. Winters were always so hard on him—his chest too tight, his cough too deep, his body too fragile to fight back. He was sick more often than not, and she was used to nursing him through it with all her might.
But this time was different. She might have noticed sooner if she hadn’t been working herself to the bone—taking every shift she could just to keep the lights on, to pay for Steve’s medicine, to make sure there was something, anything on the table. Exhaustion made it all too easy to miss things.
And Steve had always been good at hiding how bad it really was.
She might never have known had she not come home and found them that fateful night.
Despite the biting New York winter outside, the apartment was stiflingly hot. Sarah paused in the doorway, frowning at the heavy warmth that clung to the air. Someone had started a fire, probably Bucky, ever thoughtful, always looking after Steve. Oh, that sweet boy.
As she stepped further inside, the heat felt wrong. Too fragrant like a cloying bloom. It wasn’t coming from the hearth at all, the scent in the room hit her first—sweet and earthy, like wild heather after rain. There was something familiar in it, something that pulled at old memories of Donegal hills and damp stone walls. It clung to her boy like a second skin. Steve’s new scent. An Omega’s scent. She blinked back tears.
“Oh, God, no.” She had prayed, begged, for Steve to be a Beta. Anything but this. She’d known he could never be an Alpha—his body too fragile, his spirit too soft. But an Omega?
Not her a leanbh.
Not her sweet boy.
Had life not been cruel enough already?
Taking a deep breath, Sarah steeled herself. She had seen Steve through it all—his premature birth, the endless nights when doctors shook their heads and told her he wouldn’t make it, the hollow years before Bucky, when loneliness clung to him like a second skin, and every sickness that had tried to take him. So, she would see him through this, too.
No matter what it meant. No matter what it cost.
Because she was his mother, and she always would be.
But when she padded down the narrow hallway toward Steve’s small room, she saw the door hanging open and stopped dead in her tracks.
There, in the dim light, was Steve. He was naked, his porcelain skin gleaming with sweat. He was straddling Bucky, who held him tight.
Bucky’s eyes were wide, and he trembled not from fear or want but from restraint.
Steve was nearly delirious, his body trembling and his voice barely more than a whimper as he rocked against Bucky’s body: “Alpha… please, Alpha…”A gasp escaped her lips before she could stop it—the sound sharp and unintentional.
Bucky’s head snapped up, eyes going wide with panic when he saw her.
Sarah stumbled back, her heart pounding in her chest as she turned and fled down the hallway, the image burned into her mind like fire.
It was Bucky who chased after her.
Steve was too far gone—feverish, whimpering, crying out for his Alpha like it was the only word he knew. “Alpha… Alpha… Alpha…”
“Mrs. Rogers, wait!” Bucky’s voice cracked as he caught up to her on the stairs, breathless and desperate. “It’s not what you think. I swear—I swear I’d never take advantage of him.”
Sarah spun around, her heart pounding in her chest, too full of fear and fury and guilt to speak.
Bucky looked wrecked. He was only seventeen, just a year older than Steve. Barely more than a boy himself, he stood there with tears in his eyes and his hands shaking. “I didn’t touch him like that. I didn’t! He’s burning up, Mrs. Rogers. He’s in his first heat, and he didn’t even know what was happening.”
She didn’t know what to say. What to feel.
What she had walked in on—Steve flushed and gleaming with sweat, practically humping against Bucky—had shattered something deep within her.
“I just wanted to help,” Bucky said softly. “H-He needed me.”
And for the first time, she saw it. The love burning in their eyes, the kind of fire that lapped at witches’ skirts. Fierce and frightened and far too big for boys their age.
Steve was crying now, the sounds spilling down the hallway—terrible, broken sobs that seemed to shake the very walls. “Please! Please, Alpha, I’ll be good!”
Sarah closed her eyes, her heart breaking. She had always done her best to care for him, to protect him, to keep him safe. But this—this was beyond her. There was nothing she could do now.
Steve needed Bucky.
Her voice trembled as she spoke, low and fierce: “Y-You’ll help him, James Buchanan Barnes... but if you mark him, I swear to God, I’ll cut your balls off.”
It went against every teaching the Church had given her. Alphas and Omegas were meant to be part of the natural order—a man and a woman, bonded for the sake of family and stability, not two boys tangled up in something so... unnatural.
It was an abomination. That’s what they called it at Mass. An offense to God. And yet—
And yet she had seen no sin in Bucky’s eyes.
Only fear, love, and restraint.
And Steve, her baby boy, had been burning alive in that bed, helpless in the throes of something he’d never been prepared for. Many of Steve’s doctors had theorized that he would never present, so Sarah had never told him what to expect. And it was Bucky—not a priest, not a doctor, not God Himself—who had held him through it.
But surely, it was still wrong. Steve was too young, too vulnerable, too unprepared…
It was her fault.
She had missed the signs. She hadn’t been there for her pup when he needed her most.
The guilt was suffocating.
She, of all people, should have known—should have seen it coming. Sarah remembered too well how agonizing her first heat was without the grounding presence of Joseph or even the familial bonds of the pack she’d left behind in Ireland. But that had been a completely different situation from a presenting heat. She knew some Omegas didn’t survive it. Pressing a hand to her mouth, she tried to blot out the certainty that Steve might have died had it not been for Bucky…
Not one of them spoke of that night ever again.
Steve’s fever had finally broken by morning, and Sarah immediately set about teaching her son what it meant to be a male Omega and how to protect himself. She watched him closely now, especially when Bucky came over, keeping a careful eye on those two boys. But God help her—Sarah never told a soul about that night. She didn’t have to, though.
It was impossible not to catch the faint, sweet scent of heather and stone that clung softly to Steve—his unmistakable Omega scent. It was impossible not to see the love in Bucky’s eyes—young and raw and aching, the kind that didn’t know how to hide itself. Somehow, Steve and Bucky had grown even closer, and Sarah wasn’t the only one who noticed.
Neighbors glanced a little longer. The butcher’s wife crossed herself when she passed them on the street. Father Callahan’s sermons grew sharper, more pointed—full of fire and brimstone about the sanctity of bonds and the sins of the flesh, about what happened to those who strayed from God’s design.
And yet Bucky stayed. Never crossing a line, never asking for anything, just being there.
It scared her.
Not because she thought he would hurt Steve—but because she knew he wouldn’t. And that kind of devotion, that kind of bond, it only ever led to one thing. And that one thing was something Sarah Rogers had learned to fear. She had almost died for love, and she hated the thought that her son would gladly follow in her footsteps.
She told herself it was fine. That they were still just boys, that maybe—just maybe—it would pass. That it had to pass.
But the looks from the neighbors didn’t stop. The murmurs behind her back at church grew louder. And Father Callahan’s words carved deeper each Sunday.
It was only a matter of time before Winifred Barnes asked her over for tea.
They sat in the cozy kitchen, the kettle hissing low on the stove, two mothers bound together by circumstance, tradition, and the unspoken weight of what they both already knew.
“I wanted to speak with you, Sarah,” Winifred began, pouring tea into two cups that were delicate and fine. The design was oriental with little cranes and flowers on them.
Sarah nodded once, bracing herself.
“Our boys… They’re getting... Attached,” Winifred said, choosing her words carefully. “Too attached.”
Sarah stared into her tea. The dark liquid reminded her of Bucky’s eyes. “They’ve been friends since they were small.”
Winifred’s lips thinned. “They’re not small anymore. And people are starting to notice.”
“I know what people are saying.”
“Well,” Winifred sighed, eyes hardening, “then you understand why this can’t go on.”
Sarah’s throat tightened. “They’re not doing anything wrong.”
“Maybe not yet. But we both know Alphas and Omegas are at the mercy of their instincts’ whims.” Her voice dipped, scandalized.
Sarah flinched like she’d been struck. “They’re just—”
“They’re heading for ruin,” Winifred snapped. “And you know it. You’re Catholic, Sarah. You know what the Bible says. What the Church says. That kind of bond between two boys—it’s not natural. It’s dangerous. ”
Silence settled between them like a third presence in the room—accusing, watchful.
Sarah’s voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t want to break his heart.”
Winifred’s tone softened, but her resolve didn’t. “Better a broken heart now than a damned soul later.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “George and I have made arrangements. We’re sending Bucky to stay with his uncle in Indiana. He’s got a farm there, work to keep him busy. Space to think. It’ll be good for him.”
Sarah’s heart dropped. “You’re sending him away.”
“Yes. I won’t have Bucky’s reputation ruined further. Your boy’s dragged him down far enough. Unlike Steve, James still has a future. And think of Steve, Sarah. He gets enough looks, what with being a male Omega.” Her lip curled. “It’s the only way to protect them from themselves. Before something irreversible happens, I know he cares for your Steve. I-I know.” Her voice cracked, a rare mirror in the emotion she was intent on not existing. “But that’s why we have to do this. For both of them.”
But it was a lie.
Winnifred didn’t care about Steve—not really. She didn’t care that taking away his only friend, someone he loved more than anyone else, might be the final straw.
Sarah had watched her boy defy expectations, fighting harder and longer than anyone should. And she knew his attachment to Bucky was so much more than that. She recognized the love in their eyes, and she knew without a doubt that losing Bucky would be what did it. It’d break him. Her a leanbh wouldn’t get back up; he’d give up…
And still… she nodded. Because what else could she do?
They were mothers.
And mothers are supposed to protect their children.
Even when it means protecting them from themselves.
Neither woman knew Bucky was crouched at the top of the stairs, just out of sight, clinging to the banister like an anchor against the tide of their words.
They’re getting... attached…
That kind of bond between two boys isn’t natural…
Better a broken heart now than a damned soul later…
Separating them… Before something irreversible happens…
Each phrase hit harder than the last, crashing over him like icy waters. No, they couldn’t! Steve needed him. And God, he needed Steve. Before something irreversible happens... The words echoed in his mind. Something permanent. Something that couldn’t be undone or taken back. Something that would force their parents to let them stay together. A terrible plan was taking shape. As quietly as a mouse, Bucky crept back down the hall, hands trembling and breath caught tight in his throat. He slipped into his room, eased open the window, and climbed down the fire escape before breaking into a run.
He ran through the cold streets until he reached the Rogers’ tenement building.
***
Upstairs, Steve was hunched over a ball of yarn, stabbing his crochet hook into soft loops like they’d wronged him personally. He hated omegan work—never had the patience for it. He muttered curses under his breath, tangled yarn bunching at his feet.
When the door suddenly opened, he looked up, surprised to see Bucky. “Buck? What’re you doin’—”
“They’re gonna send me away!” Bucky choked out, breathless, wild-eyed. “But don’t you worry, Stevie. I ain’t gonna let ‘em do it.” He crossed the room in three quick strides and pulled Steve into his arms.
Steve gasped, surprised, blinking up at him. “Buck—what—?”
And then Bucky bit down—right over the soft skin of Steve’s neck, right over his undeveloped mating gland.
A bond snapped into place, tying the two boys together like a red thread pulled taut.
Steve’s mind flooded with Bucky’s thoughts—raw, frantic, unfiltered. ‘Stupid, Bucky. Stupid Bucky.’ ‘Can’t let them take me away.’ ‘Steve needs me.’ ‘I need Steve.’ Emotions surged with them—fear, love, shame—all tangled up in a desperate kind of devotion. ‘Not how this was supposed to be.’ ‘He deserves better.’ ‘Mine.’ It was so overwhelming, Steve thought he could drown in it.
Seeing his mark on Steve’s neck, Bucky wanted more. “Bite me,” Bucky ordered, tilting his head and baring his neck.
Steve didn’t even realize Bucky had used his Alpha voice—didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. One second, he was gasping for breath; the next, his small fangs were already buried in Bucky’s skin.
The bond sang between them, bright and burning.
“We gotta make sure it sticks,” Bucky whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Gotta make sure they can’t break it.”
Steve nodded seriously. He didn’t really understand what was happening, but there was no one he trusted more than Bucky. With that, Steve let Bucky pull his shirt off and toss it aside.
“You’re so pretty, Stevie. Perfect, so perfect.” Bucky pressed a soft kiss against Steve’s naked shoulder.
Shivering, Steve felt so beautiful under Bucky’s dark, possessive gaze. His hands slipped under Bucky’s shirt, the skin there chiseled better than anything Michelangelo could’ve ever sculpted and so warm to the touch. His palms trembled a little as they explored, fingertips grazing muscle like he was afraid the moment might vanish if he pressed too hard.
“W-We need a nest,” Bucky breathed, voice rough with need and tenderness. The words caught halfway in his throat; he swallowed, like he wasn’t sure if he’d said it right.
“You want me to make us a nest?” Steve asked, cheeks flushing as shyness crept in. His voice came out thin and wobbly, barely above a whisper. He’d built nests before—little ones to comfort himself during lonely heats, but this was different. This one was for Bucky. For his mate. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of the blanket, heart hammering in his chest.
“Yeah, doll… we need to consummate the bond,” Bucky murmured, his voice low and rough, but it shook at the edges. His hands twitched like he didn’t know where to rest them. “And you deserve a nest. You deserve so much more than this. I-I’m sorry—”
“Hey,” Steve cut in gently, rising on his tippy toes to kiss the tip of Bucky’s nose. His lips brushed clumsily—too quick, too shy—but it worked; Bucky huffed out a shaky laugh. “This is perfect.”
With a determined little nod, Steve turned and got to work—gathering couch cushions, his pillow and blanket, even their discarded clothes. His movements were quick but uncertain, bumping into furniture, nearly tripping over a sheet as his hands shook. He built the nest with care, layering softness into a circle of warmth and safety, sneaking nervous glances at Bucky every few seconds as if to make sure he was doing it right.
When it felt just right, he settled into it, cheeks flushed, legs parting with trust and invitation. His pulse was wild; his breathing came in quick, uneven little gasps he couldn’t quite steady.
He looked up at Bucky, who stood frozen, eyes drinking in every inch of Steve’s body like he didn’t dare move too fast. “C’mon, Alpha,” Steve whispered, voice trembling with love—and nerves that quivered right along with it. “Join me in our nest.”
Bucky hesitated. He knew what they were about to do was wrong. Unnatural. Abomination. Irreversible. And he hadn’t talked it all out with Steve.
When Bucky first presented, his pa took him aside and told him how important consent was and how sacred it was to respect an Omega’s choice. Omegas were vulnerable by nature, and it was an Alpha’s job to protect them.
Claiming an Omega should only be done out of love, not desperation, not to trap them…
And yet, here he was about to cross a line he couldn’t come back from. Everything about this was fucked up. This wasn’t how Bucky had ever imagined it would happen. Not like this—not in a rush, not with guilt clawing at his insides. But they didn’t have time. He could feel it slipping through his fingers already. If he didn’t act now, they’d take him away.
They’d separate him from Steve.
And he couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t lose Stevie. He just couldn’t. So, he crawled into the nest and kissed Steve until they were both breathless. His hand slipped between Steve’s legs, teasing that little nub of nerves. God, he loved Stevie’s little noises.
“More!” Steve demanded, raking his nails down Bucky’s back.
Slipping a finger inside Steve’s depths, Bucky pumped in and out, the scent of slick growing stronger.
Steve arched against him with a demanding force.
“Good things come to those who wait.” Bucky gripped Steve’s hip, keeping him still, and slipped another finger inside of him. He gave Steve a moment to adjust and then scissored his fingers, stretching him further. He wanted to add another finger to make sure Steve was ready for him, but he was afraid he could hear footsteps coming up the stairs already. “Trust me?”
“‘Course.” Steve stared up at him like stained glass.
But Bucky felt broken as he lined himself up and slowly pushed in just to the tip. He groaned at how tight Steve felt, how warm he was, wanting nothing more than to stop holding back.
You’re not broken, Buck. Steve whispered into Bucky’s mind. You’re mine—half my soul, like the poets say. So, stop holding back; stop thinking you’re gonna hurt me. I want you, all of you.
“I love you,” Bucky’s voice cracked as he finally thrust himself into Steve’s depths.
Steve gasped. “Love you! So much!”
Bucky didn’t know what he was doing, but he let his instincts take over. They moved against each other, mumbling sweet nothings about love and hope and a future together.
When Bucky’s knot began to catch, he buried himself deep and bit Steve’s mating mark again. His knot swelled, tying them together till death did them part. Till the end of the line, he promised.
***
That’s when the screaming pierced through the haze. In the throes of passion, neither of them had heard Sarah and Winnifred enter the tiny apartment.
With Steve’s blood staining his lips, Bucky looked at them with a stubborn resolve. He wasn’t going to apologise for what he’d done.
“What in God’s name is going on here?” Winnifred’s voice cut through the room like a blade. She was usually quiet—measured, gentle, almost painfully polite. But now her voice trembled with fury, her calm unraveling in a storm of disbelief and betrayal. She was livid—and that made it all the more terrifying.
But Bucky didn’t flinch. He let out a low, warning growl and shifted Steve gently, guiding him until he was settled on his lap. They were still locked together, and Bucky’s instincts surged to the surface. Without breaking eye contact, he grabbed a nearby blanket and wrapped it tightly around Steve, shielding him from Winnifred and Sarah’s eyes with a quiet, defiant protectiveness.
Sarah stood just behind Winnifred, pale and silent. Her gaze flicked to the dark, mating mark on Steve’s neck before lifting to meet Bucky’s eyes. There was hatred in her stare—but more than that, fear. Fear for Steve. Fear of what Bucky had done to him.
Winnifred caught sight of the mark on Steve’s neck—Bucky’s matching mark. Her voice cracked like a whip. “You mated him—a male Omega? What were you thinking? He’s a sickly, defective thing!”
Bucky’s eyes burned with fierce determination, but he didn’t back down. He tightened his arms around Steve, still curled against him beneath the blanket. “He’s not defective. He’s mine.”
“You’ve damned both your souls!” Winnifred shrieked. “Do you even understand what you’ve done? There’s no going back from this, no undoing it—”
“Good! I know exactly what I did,” Bucky cut her off, voice raw. “I love him. You were going to send me away—tear us apart like we were nothing. I wasn’t going to let that happen. He’s my mate. You can scream all you want, but it won’t change that.”
“Like hell! You’re going to Indiana, and you’re breaking the bond!” Winnifred demanded.
“No!” Sarah’s voice trembled. “You can’t. It’ll kill him. Steve won’t survive being rejected by his mate.”
“I don’t care!” Winnifred snapped. “I won’t watch my boy destroy himself for yours.”
“I’m already ruined, Ma!” Bucky’s voice broke. “I’ve been ruined for him as long as I can remember. Now, I’m his mate. It’s done. You can’t undo it. Separating us would only kill us both.”
Winnifred opened her mouth, but no words came.
“I love him,” Bucky said quietly but firmly. “You might hate me for it, but I would rather die than see him hurt. Whatever happens, we face it together.”
Mother and son stared at each other, and for the first time in their lives, they were strangers.
Winnifred shook her head. “Fine. Then, you’re no son of mine.” She left without even a backward glance.
Bucky finally broke. He buried his face in Steve’s neck and cried.
Sarah turned to the kitchen, her hands trembling as she reached for the kettle. It was an old thing, heavy and well-worn, and she filled it from the tap with shaking hands. The weight of it barely steadied her. She set it on the stove and struck a match, lighting the burner with a soft whoosh.
The silence behind her was thick, except for the low murmur of boys trying to soothe one another.
She gripped the edge of the counter, breathing deep. What came next? What was she supposed to do now? When she turned around, relief flickered in her chest—Steve and Bucky had separated.
Steve sat wrapped in the blanket, eyes glassy but calm.
Bucky hovered near him, eyes red and puffy.
“Please tell me you were careful,” she said softly, but the words cut like glass. Her voice trembled. “Steven Grant Rogers, you know what the doctors said. You can’t—” her voice cracked, “you wouldn’t survive a pregnancy.”
Bucky’s face drained of color. “Fuck,” he whispered. “I… I didn’t think of that.”
Steve’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide with terror. He was shaking now, the blanket clutched tight around his shoulders. His mouth opened like he wanted to speak, but no words came. That silence was enough of an answer.
Sarah’s hands clenched into fists at her sides, knuckles white. Then, without warning, she cursed in Gaelic. Storming back to the stove, she snatched the whistling kettle off the flame and poured the water into three chipped mugs, the china rattling slightly from her shaking grip.
She moved like a woman possessed, but not thoughtless. Every motion was purposeful. She prepared the tea and reached for the bread tin, pulling out a near-empty loaf of stale soda bread. She cut two thick slices anyway, buttered them with what little margarine was left in the tin, and set them on a cracked plate. “I don’t have much,” she muttered, more to herself than to them. “Didn’t expect company tonight. But there’s always enough to share.”
She set the mugs and plate on the table, her movements gentler now. Her eyes flicked to Steve, and she exhaled a long, tired breath. “I know some of the old ways,” she said finally, “Some tricks we can try. Nothing guaranteed, nothing safe—but better than nothing.”
Steve’s voice trembled. “Ma…”
“I don’t want to hear it.” Sarah’s voice was tight, her head shaking slowly like each word cost her. “I should’ve known better. I should’ve never let the two of you stay so close, not after what I saw.”
Bucky’s throat rumbled with a low growl, instinctive and defensive.
But Sarah turned on him with a single look, and the sound died in his chest. She stood there, spine straight, jaw clenched, the weight of a hard life pressing down on her shoulders. She was a woman who had walked through fire and buried love with her bare hands. And Steve—Steve was her greatest wound. Heartbreak made flesh. So much like his father, it hurt to look at him.
She turned, eyes glistening. “Sweetheart… you love too deeply. Like I did.”
Steve blinked, caught off guard.
“I know what love like that does.” Her voice shook. “It ruins you. I loved your father like that. And when he died, he took everything with him. All the light, all the softness.” Her lip trembled. “And you…You’re just like me. You give it all. Every last piece of yourself.” Her voice broke. She pressed a hand to her mouth, then wiped her cheeks quickly.
“J-Just because you lost Da,” Steve whispered, his voice cracking, “why does that mean I have to lose Bucky too?”
Because that’s what love does! Sarah wanted to scream. But staring at those two boys who were already so afraid and so desperately in love, she didn’t have it in her. So, instead, she looked to Bucky and said, “You can stay.”
Steve blinked again. “What?”
“With us,” she clarified, softer now, more sure. “What’s done is done. Winnifred won’t take you back, not unless you reject my son. And I will not allow that. So, James, you will stay, and I will teach you how to love and protect my son. You will not fail me.”
And just like that, Bucky moved in with Sarah and Steve.
The apartment was cramped—one of those old walk-ups where the walls sweated in the summer and the radiators clanged like ghosts in the winter. The wallpaper had yellowed long ago, peeling in soft curls near the ceiling. The kitchen was so narrow Steve could stretch out his arms and brush both walls with his fingertips.
What passed for a bathroom was really just a cracked porcelain sink in the corner of the kitchen and a washbasin for sponge baths. If they needed the privy, they had to go down the hall, where the single water closet served the whole floor.
Still, Bucky didn’t mind. He had to share Steve’s tiny bedroom, the iron bed pressed up so close to the wall that one of them had to climb over the other to get out. But he liked it that way—liked holding Steve close at night, listening to the soft wheeze of his breathing, grounding himself in the quiet rhythm of it.
Sarah was hard on him, but they had one thing in common: they both loved Steve more than anything.
Bucky got a job at the docks. It was grueling work, but it was good, honest work. He took on everything he could to make things easier for them. He liked coming home sore and tired, arms full of groceries, earning his place in their home.
Weeks passed.
Steve, thankfully, wasn’t pregnant.
Over the next few months, they became a proper family.
Then came the year that changed everything.
Sarah got sick.
It started slowly—fatigue, a cough that wouldn’t go away. Then a diagnosis came too late.
Compromised as his own health was, Steve wasn’t allowed into the Consumption Ward, so Sarah’s last words were to Bucky. There was no fear in her eyes as she faced death. She was resigned to it, relieved maybe.
A small part of Bucky thought she’d known.
She was a damned-good nurse, and maybe once she knew Steve wouldn’t be alone, she stopped fighting.
Sarah extended her hand to him.
Squeezing her frail, tiny hand so much like Steve’s, Bucky blinked back tears.
“You will not fail me,” Sarah said softly. “You’ll stay no matter what, you’ll stay for a leanbh.”
“I already promised him,” Bucky replied, voice raw. “But I’ll promise you, too.”
She smiled—tired but satisfied. “Good. He needs someone who loves him enough to be reckless. To be stupid. To stay.”
And in the end, that’s what people always miss about Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes.
They didn’t just fall in love. They clung to it, like it was breath, like it was war, like it was the only thing in the world that ever made sense.
They mated far too young, despite all the hate in their world.
When Bucky was drafted, Steve allowed the army to experiment on him, just to follow.
When Bucky became a prisoner of war, Steve went behind enemy lines on a reckless, hopeless rescue mission.
They fought side by side. They changed the course of World War II.
And when Bucky fell—
Steve jumped.
Because till the end of the line meant dying together, too.
***
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