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Startled by the familiar voice, Steve Rogers lurched forward and promptly tripped, sprawling almost lazily on the sidewalk.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Gettin’ drunk off my ass,” Steve slurred.
“Didn’t I tell you not to do anything stupid?”
“You’re baaaack!”
“Shut. Up,” Bucky hissed, and hauled his best friend up off the sidewalk, practically carrying him away. Steve whined after the bottle he’d been carrying, but Bucky ignored him, heading single-mindedly towards Steve’s apartment. “It’s two in the morning, you idiot, you should be asleep. And do you have any idea what the alcohol might do to you?”
“Prob’ly kill me.”
“That’s not funny,” Bucky muttered, kicking the cinder block away from its spot and revealing the key to Steve’s apartment. Steve threw himself forward in Bucky’s arms, nearly bringing him down, and reached toward the ground, clearly trying to get to his key.
“Fucker.” Bucky plopped him unceremoniously in front of his doorway, picked up the key himself, and unlocked the door. When it opened, Steve went backwards, laying spread-eagled half in and half out of his apartment. He attempted to remedy this by laboriously turning himself over and crawling sideways inside; Bucky, though he had half a mind to let the little dumbass fight his way inside his own damn house, took pity on him halfway through the ungraceful turn, and picked him up again, getting him in and sitting him firmly in his chair. From there, he shut the door, a little harder than he meant to—Steve jerked violently—and grabbed a large glass. He filled it with water, set it on Steve’s night table with a firm adjuration not to touch it yet, and brought Steve’s trash bin in from his kitchen; it went in between Steve’s legs, almost accusing him all on its own.
“Okay, shitheel, talk.”
“Thought I was a punk.” Steve looked around. “There’s beer in the iceboss—icebox.”
“What?” Bucky squawked. “You went out and bought beer? Dammit, Stevie, what the hell is wrong with you?”
“You buy beer,” he responded, and Bucky would be damned if he said Steve wasn’t pouting.
“I buy beer because I can actually drink without immediately killing myself!” Bucky snapped.
“Maybe I want to die!” Steve retorted, and it was unfortunately, utterly clear.
Bucky felt as though his best friend had landed a real punch in his stomach. “What—no—what-”
“Get a beer!” Steve demanded. “Drink wi’ me.”
Anything to shut him up; Bucky obligingly went to the icebox and snagged a beer, noticing that it was his favorite kind.
“Open it.”
Bucky did. “How many have you had?”
“Four,” Steve said carefully, drawing the word out. “But that was before you saw me. I might have four more-”
“Absolutely fuckin’ not,” Bucky interrupted, torn between fright and hilarity. Four beers and Stevie’s off his head. “Why the fuck did you think it would be a good idea to start throwin’ back beers?”
“I can’t go with you,” Steve responded, with no hesitation, and his face crumpled. “You’re leavin’ me and goin’ off to do the one thing I always wanted to do and I don’t know what I’m gonna do without you here.”
Bucky’s heart stuttered.
“I’m a useless son of a bitch who can’t do anything right and I can’t go with my best friend to defend my country, so I have to watch you be a hero and know that I’m never gonna do anything worthwhile with my life. I wanna die, Buck. I’m sick of bein’ sick. I wish they would just let me go over there so I can die.”
Bucky’s beer was completely gone, and he looked at it irritably before going back to Steve. “I know you’re drunk, Stevie, but none of that shit is true. None of it. I mean, besides the fact that you can’t come along. You’re not useless, I’m not a goddamn hero, and you’ve already done something worthwhile with your life. You’re my friend.”
Steve raised his head.
“You don’t get to say you wanna die,” Bucky continued, gray eyes narrowing. “You don’t get to say that, because you’re the only friend I got, and I don’t know what I’m gonna do without you, and it’s bullshit.”
“You’ve got plenty of people around-”
Bucky barked a laugh. “My mother and my sisters who can’t survive without me and can barely give me anything in return? They love me, yeah, but none of them can pull themselves together enough to show it! I take care of you, too, Stevie, but you’re my friend. I can tell you things I’ve never told anyone. Things are easy around you.” He sighed. “You can’t go, Stevie. I need you to be here when I get back.”
“…And if you don’t?”
“My family will take care of you.”
“…That’s not the same.” Steve fell forward, barely managing to stay in the chair, and retched horribly into the trash can.
Bucky rolled his eyes and put his third empty bottle. “How much was this beer, Steve? I’ll pay you back for it.”
Steve threw up again. Bucky dug through the pockets of his uniform and found just enough money to cover the beer, putting it on Steve’s coffee table. “Come on, asshole, let’s get you to bed.”
Steve groaned.
Bucky picked him up, yet again, and half-walked, half-carried him to his bathroom. Quietly, he cleaned Steve off, forced some medicine for pain down his throat, put his asthma medicine by his bed, and took him into the bedroom, where Bucky popped off Steve’s shoes and jacket and tucked him carefully into bed.
“…I don’t wanna go tomorrow,” Bucky whispered, glad that Steve was asleep and wouldn’t remember jack shit in the morning. “I never wanted to go, Stevie; I was only putting on a brave face for you. I wanna stay home. I’m not a hero and I never was. If I go over there, I’m gonna die. I’m so afraid I’m not gonna get home to you and be able to take care of you, and I don’t know what you’re gonna do. What kind of stupid shit you’re gonna get into without me there.”
He sighed, pulling Steve’s blankets up, and dragged Steve’s chair in from the living room. “Who’s gonna make sure you don’t choke on your own damn puke if you drink too much again, punk?”
Steve rolled over, made an indistinguishable noise that sounded something like what Bucky thought a hippo might make, and stuck his head into the pillow. Bucky rose to his feet and gently turned him over again, listening to his best friend’s whistling breath. “I’m sorry, Stevie,” he told him. “I’m sorry I can’t be the hero you want me to be.”
He sat back down, and was half-asleep himself, curled up in the chair like a pretzel, and nearly didn’t catch Steve’s delayed response.
“You still are.”