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Chapter Text

Bucky kisses the tips of his boyfriend's fingers, looking up at Steve's profile through his eyelashes. He's had a rough week, grumping his way through a Human Injuries paper and eking out a passing grade on a pop quiz in Biomechanics. Pulling Steve away from researching PhD programs seems like it should be the easiest task, but Steve has no trouble scrolling webpages with just one hand.

"Sweetheart," Bucky cajoles, kissing Steve's knuckles one by one. "It's Friday night. I had a long, hard week." His lips barely brush Steve's index finger, trying to draw his attention. The weekend will be as grueling as the week, what with the Biomechanics test on Wednesday and chores and shit, but one evening off is all he asks. Two hours. Hands on naked bodies. Lips on skin. Assuming Steve will cooperate.

"Melindo," Bucky whispers, hoping the Elvish will draw him in.

"Mmhmm?" Steve's lips part, but he just mouths along as he reads Brown University's language requirements. Steve speaks three languages, not counting Elvish (which Bucky doesn't because in two months his pronunciation still hasn't improved), so he can't imagine any program will have a requirement Steve can't meet.

"Steve," he tries one last time, before extending Steve's index finger and sucking it into his mouth.

"Hel-lo." Steve's laptop is still open, but his glasses go up, pinning back his shaggy dark blond hair. "Need something, Buck?"

Bucky hums, shrugging as he lets Steve's finger slip out to the first knuckle, and then sucks it all the way into his mouth. This time the laptop shifts to the coffee table, still open, but at least it's out of the way.

Steve's other hand tangles in Bucky's loose hair, holding him in place the same as he would during a blowjob. The anticipation sends tingles down Bucky's spine, which is just more encouragement for him to suck a second finger into his mouth on his next pass. His tongue slides between the digits, and Steve pulls his fingers part way out before sliding them in again.

"I guess you don't really need to tell me what you want."

Bucky laughs around the fingers, and then has to spit them out so he doesn't choke. "I swear to God, I don't usually have to work so hard to get fucked."

Steve scrunches his face, squinting one eye closed. "Sorry."

Bucky steadies himself on Steve's shoulders, straddling his lap and then dragging his hands down the soft, sky blue sweater vest. Neither of them are totally invested in this yet, but Bucky can feel Steve's growing interest from this position. Steve's strong hands bracing his waist are a solid indicator, too.

"I don't mind. Not really. Not when it's you," he whispers. And damn if he doesn't sound utterly smitten. But he is. Still. Even after two months of officially dating, Bucky continues to be head-over-heels in love with Steve Rogers. "I have your attention now?"

"Completely," Steve promises before sliding his hands up the back of Bucky's t-shirt.

Bucky's hair curtains them as they kiss, hiding them from the rest of their apartment and the rest of their lives. They've had more time for making out this semester; slow, languorous sessions that usually end with at least one of them naked. Bucky cut his class load, at Steve's behest. (Technically Steve promised weekly blowjobs so long as Bucky actually has time for them—he's been keeping the promise, even if he's been distracted this evening.) And Steve doesn't have a thesis or a defense or a job distracting him from spending time with Bucky. Which is good—mostly—except Bucky wasn't really expecting to carry an apartment by himself.

Steve shifts them, laying Bucky on his back, on the bed that's still their couch. "You have some plans for me?"

Bucky always has plans. Sometimes they're simple, like tonight the plan is just sex. But tomorrow the plans include:

(1) Grocery shopping before Steve gets up.

(2) Grabbing the Light of Elendil (the can of spider-spray next to the detergent) and running a gigantic and overdue load of laundry in the basement.

(3) Studying Biomechanics in the afternoon (preferably while Steve strips for correct answers).

(4) Allowing Steve to make breakfast for dinner so Bucky can start researching the presentation due at the end of the week.

Sunday is reading for class, and hopefully also reading with Steve. They're only halfway through The Fifth Season, and Steve's been hinting he might start reading it while Bucky's at class. Which wouldn't be the worst thing to happen, but Bucky loves hearing the excitement in Steve's voice when he reads. And Bucky just… really likes that part of their relationship. He loves that they can be nerds together.

Steve tucks Bucky's hair behind his ear, the light touch focusing Bucky's thoughts. "You said something about getting fucked?" Steve kisses him gently, tongue slipping into Bucky's mouth in a preview of what he'll do to Bucky's ass.

Bucky's stomach twists pleasantly, glad that even when he doesn't have firm plans, Steve's always on board.

Before he can start working his hands into Steve's pants, the Fellowship theme chimes from his phone.

"Motherfucker," Bucky growls, reaching over to answer it. He grimaces with guilt when he sees it's his ma and shows the screen to Steve before answering, "Ma, to what do I owe this delight?"

Steve laughs silently into Bucky's neck and then rolls to his side, giving Bucky space to talk.

"You remember we've been cleaning out the basement?" Ma asks instead of saying hello.

The project's been ongoing since Bucky lived there. Every few months, Ma attacks their junk with renewed vigor until she hits a pile she has no idea how to handle. The compulsion fades after a few stubborn weeks, and life returns to normal with no one harassing Bucky about his childhood detritus lurking in cardboard boxes.

He's got a bad feeling about this.

"Becca's coming by tomorrow to collect some things," Ma continues without any input from Bucky. "And she offered to drive you over to do the same. Nice of her, isn't it?"

Bucky groans, eyes sliding to Steve whose tan Dockers are tenting distractingly. "Ma, I really don't know that I can—"

"James."

It's not the tone so much as the name that lets Bucky know there's no negotiation here. He would remind her that he still has a bedroom—and a closet—where she could store the boxes until it's more convenient for him to come up, but he doesn't want her to then suggest his whole room should be cleared out because he is not getting rid of his library, and they definitely do not have room in this apartment for more books. (Though he may grab Harry Potter since Steve—somehow—has never read it.)

He plasters a smile on his face, hoping the pleasantness will seep into his voice. "What time is Becca picking me up?"

Steve gives him a quizzical look and Bucky shrugs and mouths, "Sorry," while Ma runs through the details she already worked out with Becca.

Rearranging his weekend is going to be a pain in the ass. Maybe Steve won't mind doing Bucky's laundry, though he usually waits until mid-week to do his, when there's less of a fight over the machines. (Less of a fight with people; Shelob is always protective of her domain.) While Bucky doesn't mind going commando—especially when he whispers it to Steve before running off to class—late January is a little chilly for casually letting his balls hang free. How much of an inconvenience would it be for Steve to swap that chore to Saturday?

"What is it?" Steve asks after he hangs up.

"Nothing you didn't hear." But then he realizes Steve's asking about his mood and Bucky doesn't have to hide how he's feeling. "Just… frustrated." His stomach clenches the same way it does when he thinks too deeply about his bank account or GPA. "I had plans."

Steve kisses Bucky's forehead, warm body slotting alongside Bucky's again. His hand rests lightly on Bucky's stomach, fingers stroking reassuringly. "Can I help with anything?"

The question dissolves Bucky's anxiety, reminding him of one of the many reasons Bucky fell for this guy. And one of the reasons Bucky wants to get naked with him as often as he can.

Bucky rolls on top of Steve, deciding—firmly—that they can talk weekend plans later. "Help me with my jeans?" He presses his hips into Steve's, delighted to feel the hard length he'd been eyeing. "They're so… tight."

Steve's laugh puffs between them, breathless and aroused, despite the weak line. "Oh? Yeah, I can help with that."

Steve wiggles his hand down the back of Bucky's jeans and, for the next hour, Bucky and Steve share a singular focus.

"A report card from third grade," Becca announces in a listless tone, flinging the flimsy sheet into the paper recycling. "A math test—oh, one-hundred-ten percent." The test follows the report card. "I'm an ace at fractions so I can confirm one-hundred-ten percent is one-hundred percent bullshit."

From the moment Bucky got in the car, it was obvious which of them was more annoyed about spending their Saturday sorting through boxes of old crap. Becca guzzled the coffee Bucky brought her, which woke a steady litany of complaints that filled the distance to the suburbs. By the time they pulled up to the house, she'd hurled every invective Bucky had ever thought about their parents and was wearing a scowl worthy of the most put-upon wizard. She never mentioned what plans Ma had interrupted, but he clearly wasn't the only Inconvenienced Barnes.

Bucky pulls his hair into a high bun, bunching the sleeves of his borrowed Longbottom Leaf sweatshirt again. "Just dump everything from that box." Bucky's survived three of these purges, which means he's already made the call on his grammar school paperwork. Becca going through it page by page—with commentary—is a shortcut to fratricide.

Becca's eyes glint with the temptation, but then she sighs. "What if there's something I want?"

Bucky rolls his eyes and grabs another box from his (much smaller) pile. "You really think there's anything we want down here?" He swats a hand toward the box labeled Buck's high school. "I don't even want my letterman jacket."

"That's not surprising."

Bucky shrugs; pre-bone break, he never would have parted with it. "I'm just saying, we haven't seen this stuff in a decade, I think we've grown—" His protests die on his lips when he opens the box to find a Legolas lap throw he thought had passed to the custody of an ex-boyfriend. It's in perfect condition, neatly folded in a vacuum-sealed bag. Steve will love it.

Underneath is more memorabilia, all stuff he'd thought had dispersed over various moves and depressive episodes: the Argonath bookends that came with The Fellowship of the Ring Special Extended Edition DVD box set, a 2004 Lord of the Rings wall calendar with art from Middle Earth, an unopened box of The Two Towers Valentine's Day cards. He lifts out the valentines, the foil glaring across Legolas's face when the light shifts. He reads the message on the card, "Hope your Valentine's Day is on target." Well, that's as painful as their bedroom banter.

"What?" Becca's distracted voice sharpens, and she comes to sort through Bucky's box. "You found the motherlode. Guess you don't need to worry about what to get Steve for Valentine's Day."

"Yeah, I guess—wait, what?"

"Valentine's Day." She keeps digging in the box, uncovering a Sting toy that lights up and a smaller box containing all of Bucky's action figures. (Aragorn swings his sword when you push a button on his back.) "Your first one together. Figured with how smitten you are, you'll go all out."

Bucky actually had kind of forgotten Valentine's was creeping closer. The holiday had always felt like a desperate grab for romance, and since settling in with Steve, Bucky's had no shortage of romance. Assuming one defines romance in Elvish stanzas.

But it might be fun to go all out. Especially if it's themed with elves and hobbits. He plucks the plastic short sword from Becca's hands and takes a swing with it before poking her in the stomach. "Okay, there's one box I haven't moved on from."

Becca snorts and then suddenly looks inspired. "You think Ma kept my Obi-Wan pillow?"

"Probably?" Bucky continues cataloguing the box, ignoring Becca's quest for her equally massive assortment of Star Wars collectibles.

The valentines might be a fun lead in to the holiday, one per day so Steve can receive all six designs. Or maybe Bucky can position action-figure Aragorn and Arwen in some scene reminiscent of when Bucky first told Steve he loves him. Or he could lay out his trading cards around the apartment, give Steve a whole tour of Middle Earth. The lap throw has to be the gift, though. Maybe the bookends, too, although now that he's got his hands on them, Bucky's not sure he wants to part with them. He should probably hold something back for Steve's birthday; Bucky doubts their finances will be any more secure by summer.

"Ah!" Becca cries, hugging the plastic-wrapped face of young Obi-Wan.

Bucky suppresses his laugh. "Feeling more charitable about cleaning out the basement now?"

Becca flips him a middle finger, digging deeper in her box, but Bucky can tell she's feeling as giddy as he is about the find. Sometimes digging into the past doesn't entirely suck.

Chapter Text

Deep breathing and visualizing kissing Steve in Rivendell gets Bucky through the text notice that his checking account dropped below $100. Like Fall semester, Bucky carefully parceled out his savings to ensure he has enough for rent, his meager student insurance, groceries, and the occasional (no, actually rare, infrequent) coffee or dinner out with Steve. He even set up multiple notices on his accounts to ensure there would be no overdraft fees, no surprises, and no need to get the part-time job he is still vehemently avoiding. (Fuck, with how much his classes are kicking his ass, he needs to spend more time studying, not less.)

And yet, despite all those precautions, his account is under $100 and their electricity is paid.

"Heeey," Bucky says when he comes in to find Steve sprawled in the living room like his thesis defense never happened. Steve mentioned working on a grant proposal, so the stacks of books might be related. God, he hopes they're related to a grant Steve can actually get.

He sets his backpack next to the armchair and takes a deep breath before asking, "Did you maybe submit the payment for the electricity?"

"What?" Steve blinks as his focus shifts from the computer, and Bucky can see his brain switching tracks. "Oh. Yeah." He brightens and purses his lips for a kiss Bucky absolutely cannot withhold, even if his shoulder seizes when he leans over.

Kissing Steve makes him forget his worries, lets him drift in his warm feelings for Steve and ignore everything around them—but then the cold air washes between their faces and Bucky opens his eyes. The world, unfortunately, is still there.

Steve pulls back, but settles on his side, making room for Bucky on the bed. It's sweet, but Bucky presses his lips together and takes a seat on the coffee table, unzipping his motorcycle jacket. "You know, the bill wasn't due for another two weeks."

Steve stutters a laugh and pushes his glasses into his hair. The color in his cheeks darkens, but he doesn't avert his eyes. "Yeah, I know. Didn't forget this month."

Which Steve did twice while losing time around his thesis and is why Bucky's checking account is now listed as their primary for paying the bill.

Steve's smile is as soft as his beard, pride sparking the blue of his eyes like ice crowning Caradhras. He didn’t forget; he should be rewarded.

Bucky leans toward him, automatically, still worried, vaguely annoyed but, okay, the bill needed to be paid—eventually. And Bucky has enough money in the account to cover it. He should just let it go, no big deal. Everything's okay, and it's nice that Steve remembered.

He cups Steve's cheek and kisses him again, ignoring the unease in his gut.

Steve's fingers lace in Bucky's hair, and Bucky brings one knee into the open space on the bed before he remembers, gasping against Steve's lips, "I need to study. Test tomorrow."

If Steve groans in disappointment, it's lost in his question: "Want me to handle dinner?"

The kindness is still unexpected, even though Steve makes offers like this regularly. Bucky still isn't used to someone offering to take care of him, and he really isn't used to them following through after making the offer. "Um, yeah? I'd just been planning to pop some cans of soup."

Steve makes a yummy sound because food is more important to Steve than good food. "How about I make grilled cheese too?"

Scratch that, Steve Rogers is a connoisseur of simple foods and knows exactly what Bucky wants.

Steve kisses Bucky's cheek. "I'll take that stunned look as a yes." His smirk is the one that usually results in Bucky crawling into Steve's lap, but he so has to study.

He drags himself away from Steve with the willpower of Galadriel refusing the One Ring, and shuts the bedroom door between them. But before he pulls out his Biomechanics notes, he pulls up the list of ideas he's had regarding Valentine's Day.

The "traditional" ideas are out, either because they require a disposable income or because they have nothing to do with Middle Earth. The box of memorabilia is great, and Steve will drool when Bucky finally shows it to him (currently it's stashed at Becca's apartment), but it's not really the Elvish Valentine Spectacular Steve deserves. And it's not the Valentine's Bucky actually wants (which is a new and sort of disturbing thing, given Bucky's previous relationship with the holiday). No, what Bucky really wants to do is make Steve a meal fitting a hobbit, maybe even make some actual lembas, since the word itself has become a joke between them. But ingredients cost money, and money is a thing neither of them have.

Unless Natasha has another sleep study?

Bucky bites his thumb, thinking it through. What can it hurt to ask Natasha Romanoff for a favor?

Natasha refuses to tell Bucky her office hours and declines an invitation to lunch, so he shouldn't be that surprised when she pops up behind him as he's leaving his Biomechanics test on Wednesday.

"Heard you were looking for me."

When his heart restarts, he glares at her. "Heard? You mean when I texted you?"

She shrugs noncommittally. Over the break, Natasha traded in her severe blunt cut for a softer, asymmetrical sweep hiding half her face. It complements the gauzy peony-print scarf threaded through her lapel. She looks like she's on her way to a job interview, not bumming around campus to stalk undergrads.

"I've got some free time, you want coffee?"

After that test, Bucky could use a stiff drink, but he agrees before mentally walking through his budget to figure out what he can actually afford.

Turns out there's no need to downgrade his favorite beverage because Natasha picks up the tab, waving him off when he offers to pay the tip. "You can take the punches, though, I'm not on campus enough."

Bucky's not too proud to deny the generosity (especially not when it puts him one punch away from a free coffee), but he launches himself out of his seat when her drink order is called, and schleps around the sugar and cinnamon so she can continue holding the corner table. (How did she even get this table? Bucky can never get this table.)

After they're settled and Natasha has taken a sip of her latte, somehow avoiding getting any whipped cream on her lip, she says, rather bluntly, "Thought you lost my number."

The horror. The sheer horror that settles in Bucky's soul when he realizes he hasn't talked to Natasha since before Christmas when he texted, ho, ho, ho, and she replied, James, I'm not that kind of girl.

"Oh, fuck, I'm so sorry. This semester has been a bitch." He rubs at his temple, feeling the tendons in his shoulder tense in that all too familiar way. "Biomechanics is killing me. And Preventive Medicine is no cake walk. I don't even know why it's not sticking, but it's just not, and—"

The corner of Natasha's mouth twitches from its straight line, mouth suddenly pursing as she fights to retain her composure.

"Goddammit, Nat." But Bucky's laughing, fully willing to appreciate when he's been had.

Her shoulders shake with a suppressed chuckle and she lifts the cup to her lips again. "Couldn't resist."

"Try," Bucky begs.

She sets her phone on the tabletop, the lock screen an intricate spider web. "How are things with Steve?"

"Good." Warmth that has nothing to do with coffee spreads through his chest. "Very good." Everything tight inside him relaxes, thinking about Steve. It must show on his face because Nat's smile softens, too. Bucky takes a deep breath, deciding he might as well get to it. "That's uh, sort of why I wanted to meet up with you." She doesn't say anything, which means he has to keep explaining. "Valentine's—"

She cuts him off with the single arch of an eyebrow. "You just want me for my funding."

He's not going to insult her by denying it. "Any chance you've got another study going?"

She fakes a heavy, put-upon sigh, but, having worn through all of Bucky's naiveté, it has no effect on him. "No open study, actually. My faculty advisor says, 'at some point the research has to end.'" She clips her words, clearly quoting her advisor. "What are you looking for? Maybe I know somebody."

Bucky wipes the whipped cream from the edge of his mug, feeling like he's wishing on a magic ring. "Something that doesn't require a lot of time but could net me at least a hundred before the end of February?" Nat grimaces, which yeah, most studies don't happen while you're sleeping, or pay out that quickly.

"I'll ask around, but…." She shakes her head, one shoulder coming up. Rounded, glossy pink nails tap the ceramic handle of her mug. "Steve know you've got big V-Day plans for him?"

"Won't be much of a surprise if he knows." Bucky sets his sugared-up mocha latte firmly on the table, aligning it just so with the cardboard coaster. "Won't be much of a surprise if I can't get the money to pay for it."

Natasha clucks her tongue. "Always so many worries, James."

Now it's time for Bucky to arch an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

Her feathery hair floats out of the way with her breath. "Last semester, you're hot for your roommate and won't tell him, and dig yourself into a hole so deep you have to come to me for a decent night's sleep." He opens his mouth to protest, but Natasha trucks over him. "Now you need money to impress your honey, but you're forgetting that Steve is already impressed by you, sweetheart. He wrote poetry. About you. Pretty sure all Steve needs is for you to dirty talk him in Elvish."

His ears—to the very tips—are burning, and he refuses to tell Natasha that he's already done that. A lot. There's a thin line in Elvish between words that mean "difficult" and ones that mean "stiff" and only one of those is appropriate for the bedroom.

"Stop making so much trouble for yourself. You'll get wrinkles."

"It's not—" Bucky breaks off and sips his coffee, giving himself a second to think before he confesses anything else to Natasha. It's not just Valentine's that has him looking for another sleep study. It's Steve paying the electricity early, and not getting a job, and Bucky's bank account draining so much faster than he planned, and the fact that at this rate he won't have money for his final semester and, as much as he loves Steve, will Steve be around to support him when he needs it?

Bucky's stomach clenches, acid churning around too much sugar and milk. He probably should have gotten a sandwich instead of a latte. He sets his drink down, nudges it away, and tries to meet Natasha's nonplussed expression, hand fisted over his mouth. He squeezes his hip, breathing through the worsening cramp.

The sharpest pain abates after an awkward amount of time in which Natasha has met his gaze second for second. He lowers his hand, pretending no time has passed.

"I could use the money. In general."

"No help from your family?"

Bucky swallows. He hasn't mentioned a peep about money to his parents or sister. They might try to help him, and he can't—he can't—he has taken enough from all three of them, and he's got to be more independent about his finances.

"They can't help. Just… if you know a study that would be a good fit."

"Yeah," Nat says, all the earlier bite and joking gone. "I'll ask around."

"Thanks." Bucky reaches for his coffee reflexively, but stops himself from dragging it closer, fingers sliding over the smooth ceramic. "I should probably get going." His stomach tightens again, as if in agreement, and he has to weigh the risk of a public bathroom versus a long walk home at a brisk pace. God, he might die if Natasha waited for him. "Sorry I can't stay longer."

"No, I understand." Her expression is mostly neutral, but there's a softness around her eyes, like she's about to gain some wrinkles on his behalf. "I'll text any contact info I can." She picks up her coffee but stops before taking a sip. "It was good to see you."

A smile flits across his face, the relief and comfort of spending time with a friend briefly obliterating the anxiety churning his guts. He marks a cross over his heart. "Promise it won't be so long before the next time."

"Good. I could meet you at the library to study, if you want. Apparently, I have a lot of writing to do." She scowls at her mug, and then drinks like doing so will drown her thesis advisor.

He grabs his backpack, slinging it over his shoulders, and contemplates slopping the rest of his drink in a to-go cup. Maybe it would be weird to leave it. Maybe he'll feel better later. Just thinking about drinking it makes him feel vaguely sick, though.

"James?" She slides the pendant on the long chain of her necklace. The gold ring, shot through with an arrow, glints in the afternoon light. "Talk to Steve."

Bucky bites back his frustration—like he doesn't talk to his boyfriend every day about everything—and pretends she said something else. "I'll tell him you said hi." Bucky takes his cup to transfer it into something disposable, trying to act as normal as possible so Natasha doesn't have anything else to critique.

He waves when he passes her table on his way out, her smug smile one last reminder that she's annoyingly right. He hasn't talked to Steve about this, and he really, really needs to. As much as he wants to get through this all on his own, Steve is part of the problem.

His mood's as sour as his stomach by the time he gets to their building. He just doesn't know how to talk to Steve about this stuff. The money stuff. The future stuff. And who is Bucky to tell anyone what to do with their life? Maybe Steve needs to spend this time chasing grants. Maybe it's an important step in getting him ready for a PhD program. Steve hadn't planned on staying in the apartment after graduating, so it's no wonder he hasn't figured out how to pay his half of the rent. He changed his plans when they started dating. Because he didn't want to leave Bucky. And Bucky didn't want him to leave either. Maybe Bucky needs to be grateful he gets to live with his boyfriend and has access to sex-on-demand and hears how beautiful he is in Elvish every night before bed.

Maybe Bucky needs to suck it up and find another way to support them, or at least think of another way, in case Steve is doing what an academic needs to do.

But maybe he'll talk to Steve first. Somehow.

Outside of stealing trinkets from dragon hoards, Tolkien didn't have much to say about earning a living wage. It might have been a useful primer. Or at least a starting point for talking things over with Steve. Lord of the Rings is the one language they consistently speak.

His stomach is still hurting when he gets to the door, an ache low in his gut he hopes can be resolved by a prolonged visit to the bathroom and whatever's in their medicine cabinet.

The door slips away from Bucky's key as Steve opens it for him. "Thought I heard you outside. How was your test?" Steve takes the weight of Bucky's backpack, letting him ease his shoulders from the straps. If only their troubles were as simple to remove.

"Um. All right?" He hangs up his scarf and jacket, rearranging any discomfort from his face as he realizes how wrong that answer was. "I mean, it was hard. I know I got stuff wrong." God, when Natasha showed up, he sort of forgot about the test and how miserable it had been. Replace one source of drama with another, the Bucky Barnes Story.

"Really? I thought you pretty much had it down." Strong arms encircle Bucky's waist and Steve's chin rests on Bucky's shoulder. He whispers, breath teasing Bucky's neck, "I mean, you got me naked."

Yeah, but Bucky always gets Steve naked when they study together. And usually the naked time lasts longer than the study time. Maybe there's a correlation….

Bucky turns, sliding out of Steve's embrace. "I've got that presentation tomorrow."

A frown passes over Steve's features, but he quickly replaces it with a smile, fingers catching Bucky's escaping hand. "Even with the lightened class load, you seem a lot busier this semester."

It's an observation, not a complaint, but it rankles Bucky, and he tugs his hand away, bending to untie his boots. "Last semester you were too distracted to know what the fuck I was doing."

Steve laughs sheepishly, but when Bucky looks up, his head is ducked and one hand cups the back of his neck. "Uh, yeah, I was pretty distracted. You're right. I probably just didn't notice." The light reflects in his glasses when Steve's chin tilts up. "I guess I'm just realizing how much time you're busy with school."

Bucky snorts, but holds back any comments about Steve's own work habits. He stands up and kicks off his boots and turns around to see their breakfast bar is covered in take-out containers.

"Oh. Surprise?" Steve laughs weakly. "I took care of dinner."

The containers are from Steve's favorite Italian place, which means at least one of those dishes is the amazing lasagna they both joke is their first date meal even though they haven't been back to the restaurant since celebrating Steve submitting his thesis. They've said they should go back and have a proper date, but they haven't had the money to splurge on a nice night out, and Bucky is constantly overwhelmed by the thought of taking more than a few hours away from his studies. Like the thought of needing to get a part-time job to pay for a nice night out.

"What the fuck, Steve?" The words escape before Bucky can shut his mouth, and even though he immediately knows it's the wrong thing to say, he can't unwind them.

"I—" Steve's hand is still out, gesturing to the containers cooling on the bar.

"We can't afford this," Bucky growls. "I can't afford this. I'm already paying all the bills around here."

Steve's mouth gapes open and then snaps shut, his jaw clenching and eliminating everything soft about him. "I asked if you could take care of things while I filled out grant applications and submitted to journals. You said it was okay."

"Yeah, well: not okay. Especially not when you submit the electric bill two weeks early." Oh fuck, oh fuck, again, not what he meant to say.

"You got on my case last time when I forgot!"

"Because I had to pay a twenty-five-dollar late fee!" Bucky covers his face as his stomach clenches, the pain getting so much fucking worse. He leans forward over the back of the armchair, the pressure against his abdomen doing little to relieve the pain.

"Are you really mad about twenty-five dollars?" The heat's dropped in Steve's voice, the volume somewhere closer to normal, but the pain boiling in Bucky's gut like dragon fire snarls his voice.

"It's not about twenty-five goddamn dollars, Steve!" He takes a breath and pushes himself upright, steeling himself to say this even though this is the worst way to say it, but they've started down this path, so he might as well fuck it up all the way. "It's about the fact that I don't know how long I can support us if you're not pulling in money. I'm trying to get a degree. I'm trying to have a life. And I need you to get a fucking job."

The words settle in the furrow between Steve's brows and in the downward twist of his mouth. The heater kicks on in the echo of Bucky's anger, so much fucking louder than it normally is. It's a long minute before Steve finally speaks.

"I'm gonna need you to rephrase that."

Surprise raises his eyebrows, but then Bucky stalks forward, not letting Steve's height intimidate him. "I have tried to do this on my own. But I need you to be an adult. You graduated, Steve. Get a job."

Wrong thing, wrong thing, wrong thing is the chorus of alarms screaming through Bucky's head as he storms to their bedroom. He almost stops himself but slamming the door feels too good.

Until the adrenaline ebbs away. Then he's left horrified and embarrassed by his actions. Some fucking adult he is. He yelled at Steve. He cursed at Steve. He dumped all his shit on Steve without giving Steve a second to process. All while Steve had just been trying to do something kind.

His stomach cramps and he groans, lying on the bed and curling into a ball. Thanks, anxiety. Nice to know his body will inform him whenever he has too much on his plate, but that he'll still reject all offered help and end up damaging himself and others. Goddammit, all that therapy and Bucky hasn't changed at all.

Noise out in the living room has Bucky raising his head and hoping Steve's coming in to set things right, whether that's by kissing Bucky through his apology or giving back as good as he got, Bucky will accept anything.

A door opens and shuts, but not the one he expects, and when Bucky peeks out, hand clutching his stomach, the apartment is empty, the counter is clear, and Steve's coat is gone.

Chapter Text

Bucky's in bed, sheet wrapped around one leg, the other kicked out from the covers, when he hears the front door open. He shifts in the dark until he can see Steve moving in the light filtering through the blinds. Steve kicks off his shoes, hangs his coat, and crashes on the bed in the living room. Guess it's a good thing they haven't had the money to replace the bed with a couch.

Bucky flips to his back, counting breaths and listening for any sign of Steve. "I'm sorry," he breathes into the gloomy apartment, but he's afraid of what it means that Steve doesn't join him.

Bucky gives up on sleep long before the sun's up, scrolling through the Elvish dictionary and taking online quizzes about which Middle Earth race he would be. (The quiz with the best in-universe questions says he's an elf, so he accepts that as fact.) He plans to let Steve sleep while he's at class, but when he comes out of the shower, Steve's awake, hand reaching for Bucky from under the sheets. Bucky climbs in, wrapping his arms around Steve and not caring that he's dripping all over the pillow.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, immediately on the verge of tears. "I am so, so sorry."

Steve hums mournfully and snuggles into Bucky's embrace, nose pressing into Bucky's neck. They stay like that until Bucky's almost late to class. He pulls his hair into a messy bun and pulls on the clothes closest to the door, but he doesn't leave without pressing another kiss to Steve's lips and saying, "Melinyel."

His lungs finally accept a full breath when Steve replies, "I love you, too."

He's so distracted by remorse and relief, he leaves everything for his Human Injuries presentation at home. But the instructor, just a few years younger than Bucky and similarly floundering with his new girlfriend, gives him an extension and takes the extra time entertaining the class with a story about how he broke his leg after falling in a dumpster.

Bucky comes straight home after classes. They don't talk about the fight or money or the quantity of shit on Bucky's plate. Bucky reheats the dinner Steve thoughtfully got the night before and they eat it sitting cross-legged on the bed. After dinner, Bucky suggests they read and Steve suggests they work out, and they wind up laughing and kissing and skipping both suggestions to fall into bed together. Bucky's always been better at apologizing through blowjobs anyway.

"I cannot believe you yelled at Steve."

Yeah, Bucky already regrets telling his sister anything that happened last week. But when she put a coffee in his hands and asked how things were with Steve, the whole awful fight came spilling out.

"Steve." She punctuates her one-word sentence with the solid clink of her coffee cup settling on the glass-topped side table. "Sweet, adorable, good-natured Steve who spends his free time writing Elvish poetry about you."

Bucky's hands meet in a T. "Steve is a person. That sweet, adorable, good-natured guy can also be a sarcastic asshole who gets so obsessed with his projects he forgets to pay the electric bill. Yeah, I shouldn't have yelled, but don't infantilize my boyfriend."

She holds her hands up, conceding the point, and whatever thing she was going to say dies in a pop on her lips. Thank God. He's not actually sure if she was infantilizing his boyfriend.

Bucky goes back to unpacking the Lord of the Rings memorabilia sitting at his feet. Steve's got meetings or something this afternoon, so it's the perfect time to sneak some of this stuff into the apartment and hide it before Steve gets home. He just has to decide what to take and where to put it.

Becca pulls her legs up into the chair, knees bumping the over-stuffed armrests. She grabs the lurid green Obi-Wan pillow from the floor and hugs it across her stomach. "You made up, right? Apologized?"

The box of action figures rattles with loose accessories when he drops it on the couch next to him. "Of course I apologized. I apologized a lot." He grins and then presses his tongue into his cheek, fist pumping at his mouth.

She holds her hand up, blocking the lower half of his face. "You're gross. And that's not an apology."

He shrugs and leans over to lever out the card box holding his trading-card game decks. "Steve seemed to accept it."

"He accepted it a lot," they say together, only Bucky's snickering and Becca sounds like she's two seconds from hurling Obi-Wan at her brother.

"Maturity? Please?"

"From a Barnes?"

She rocks her head side to side, and then seems to give up, sweeping her hair into a gigantic puffy ponytail as she stands. She turns, hands on hips, elbows framing the picture of Artoo on her sweatshirt. The robot is placed in a heart with the text, the droid you're looking for. Must be new, Bucky's never seen it before.

"Did you want lunch? I can get us subs from downstairs again."

Normally that request is for Bucky to get subs, even if Becca winds up paying, which makes him think she listened too intently to the bit about his financial trouble.

He weighs the bubble-wrapped Argonath in his hands, surveying the coffee table for the most stable spot. Islidur's outstretched hand broke off during a previous move, demonstrating the weakness of men, so Bucky's determined to keep the bookends as whole as possible from here on out.

"Uh, I'm not really hungry," he says, leaning into his distraction. He probably could eat, but not if it's Charity Lunch.

"You're not?"

He does not look at her while he lies, "I'm as surprised as you are."

Becca shakes off her suspicion and goes into the kitchen, digging food out of her cabinets and fridge, and leaving Bucky to assess his plunder. The tension drains, but is still present, the anxiety of the last two days cloaking Bucky's life like the shadow of Mordor. He doesn't need Becca telling him how he wronged Steve; he knows. And he also knows he's failed to find any solutions to their money troubles. One of them needs to get a job. And he's going to have to tell Steve. Eventually.

Maybe Bucky can forgo summer classes and work full-time instead, build a nest-egg for the Fall when Bucky can go back to a full class load and Steve can concentrate on filling out applications for PhD programs. But don't applications cost money? Oh God, are his GRE scores still good? Does he need to take a subject test? And what the fuck is Bucky going to do if Steve gets accepted at a school in another state?

He clutches the binder of Lord of the Rings trading cards to his chest, trying to banish the full-body ache at the thought of losing Steve in that way.

Becca pushes aside the Middle Earth ephemera to clear space on the couch. A huge salad balances on her knees, a mandarin orange wedge tickling Bucky's interest. He steals it and she doesn't even fake annoyance.

Oh yeah, she was definitely listening too intently.

"I know you're not going to let me help you." She pokes around her salad, getting a healthy forkful of spinach leaves, strawberries, and almond slivers. "But I could. I'm willing to and it won't put me out."

He snorts and leans over, half trying to figure out if there's a way for him to crawl into the empty box to escape this conversation, but it's only cardboard, not a portal to Narnia.

She crunches through her salad, but if Bucky knows his sister, she's giving him space to respond. If he needs to. Which he doesn't. Because he is not—is never—taking anything more from Becca than he's already taken.

Well, maybe her laundry detergent when she lets him use her machine.

"Just promise that if you won't talk to me about this, you'll talk to Steve."

Bucky sputters a wholly unbecoming noise and starts aggressively finger combing his hair, pulling it back high and tight. "Of course I'll talk to Steve. I already talked to Steve. We're talking. About problems. And stuff."

Her skeptical look is entirely called for but that doesn't make it any less offensive.

He grabs his backpack, carefully sliding in the Legolas blanket to create a cushion for the Argonath bookends. "We haven't come to any decisions."

"Mmhmm."

"Look." He returns the binder to the bottom of the empty box, stacking in the action figures and cards. "I know I need to talk to Steve. I know I can't keep shouldering this on my own. I know I fucked up the last time, and there's no reason to believe I won't fuck up again." Becca makes a soft sound of protest, but Bucky keeps packing and keeps talking. "But I'm going to keep trying." He stops, valentines in hand, foil reflecting across the word happy. "Because I love Steve." He shoves the valentines in his backpack. He may not be able to afford a meal befitting a hobbit, but he can give Steve thirty valentines meant for grammar school kids.

Becca's fork waves in his peripheral vision, a mandarin orange slice hanging off it.

Bucky quirks an eyebrow at his sister and she waggles the fork, her wide-eyed smile growing.

"Why do I feel like a performing monkey?"

"Because for some reason you imprinted on primates instead of otters, which is totally what I was going for."

He accepts the bite, letting the juice pool in his mouth before swallowing. "You're weird."

"Otterly."

He tries to level her with a flat look, but winds up helplessly giggling against the back of her couch. He taps her shoulder with his fist. "If I haven't said it—"

"Don't. Feelings are gross, and I'm eating."

That's fair, and she knows, even if she doesn't want to hear it.

He hangs around for another hour, confessing that while he hasn't finished Six Wakes, Steve did and wants her to call him. Becca loans them The Calculating Stars, so Steve can catch up on something they've already traded, since Bucky doesn't have time to keep up with school reading, let alone their sibling book club.

When he finally leaves, Lord of the Rings goodies strapped to his back, Becca gives him a kiss on his cheek. "You'll work it out," she promises.

As much as he hates to admit it, his little sister is usually right, but the reassurance doesn't stop his shoulder from tensing as he heads back to his apartment.

He takes advantage of the quiet afternoon to pull a Steve Rogers and ignore the world in favor of his studies. He even sprawls out on the bed in the living room, above where he's hidden the stash of Lord of the Rings gifts. It's a little risky, leaving it in the common space, but if it was under their bed, he'd feel too much like Smaug, and that's just asking for a hobbit burglar to swipe his Argonath.

Bucky's fully in Study Mode, feet swaying behind him and earbuds cranked with the noise-cancelling mathcore playlist Becca recommended, when Steve touches his foot. He totally doesn't scream. (He might. A little.)

"Sorry." Steve does not look the least bit sorry, but he looks amused, and after the tense days broken mostly by apologies and orgasms, Bucky's relieved to see the smile lines around Steve's beautiful eyes. "I thought you'd hear me come in."

Bucky lifts the earbud dangling from his collar, still grinding out a tinny rhythm. "Curated to drown out all distractions."

"Yeah, you don't need so many distractions, huh?" Steve's smile is still in place, but something in his tone shifts, encouraging Bucky to take his hand.

He doesn't know what to say, or how to begin asking Steve what's wrong (especially if what's wrong is how Bucky yelled at him), but he can lace his fingers with Steve's and scoot to make room on the bed.

Steve shoves the Biomechanics textbook and notes aside. "This is payback, isn't it?"

"Unintentional." He tips Steve's chin up and kisses him softly, hand curling to caress Steve's cheek. His lips part, taking the kiss deeper because even though he's shit at talking, he's great at kissing, and it is so easy to kiss Steve.

Before things get too heated, Steve pulls away with a gasp, pressing his forehead against Bucky's. "So distracting," he complains.

"You also need fewer distractions?" Bucky teases.

He pulls back, letting Bucky focus on the full, serious features of Steve's face. He presses his lips together, pulling his hand from Bucky's waist to blend against the cream of his sweater. "For a minute. While I tell you something."

Bucky's stomach turns to stone like Bilbo's trolls. This does not sound good.

Steve's mouth flicks down, eyes too, and Bucky's shoulder twinges painfully enough that he pushes up to relieve the pressure. Oh God. He was too callous about everything, too eager to ignore the warning signs, too—

"I got a job."

It takes a second for the words to pierce Bucky's spiraling. "You what?"

"I got a job. Like you—asked." The word is a strangled interpretation of the demand Bucky yelled on Wednesday. "I'm working in a bookshop." Steve's cheeks flame and his eyes are still focused somewhere over Bucky's right shoulder. "I mean, they sell books," he mumbles.

"Steve?"

"I start tomorrow," he says with more volume in his voice, and he finally meets Bucky's eyes. "So, I can't do our usual study stripping. Sorry."

Bucky shakes his head, trying to focus any of his fumbling thoughts. "That's okay. I just—Steve, I." Why can't he tell Steve how much he appreciates what he did? That he recognizes that Steve clearly does not want this job but took it anyway. For Bucky. Because Bucky (sort of) asked.

He licks his lips, digging deep inside because he needs to say this. Steve deserves to hear Bucky express his gratitude and acknowledge Steve's sacrifice.

"I really appreciate that you're helping out." That is so underwhelming, but it's a start.

Steve nods, his cheeks a much more natural pink, though he's obviously still flushed. "I know you wouldn't have gotten so upset over something little. I know you meant it. That you need help."

Bucky pulls himself closer, dropping his voice to match Steve's tone. "I'm sorry I'm no good at asking for help. I, I'm trying to be better."

"Me too." He kisses Bucky softly, and, for the first time, Bucky knows they're going to be fine.

Chapter Text

Bucky Barnes is an asshole. Steve's job sucks. He's only had three shifts, but it ate up their time together on Sunday, he came home in a foul mood complaining about his boss objectifying every woman who walked in, and he's scheduled to work this weekend. Over Valentine's. Which is the funniest, most ironic bit of this whole fucked up situation.

He thought with Valentine's falling on a Sunday, everything would be perfect. Yeah, Steve's paycheck isn't in hand, but Bucky felt confident enough to pick through some Lord of the Rings recipes and make a modest shopping list. Even with studying, he'd have all weekend to cook, and had figured out how to spread their celebrations through four meals, which is a few shy of true hobbits, but impressive for two college students on a tight budget. Except, the problem: Steve's new work schedule aligns almost exactly with Bucky's availability and cuts through three of those four meals. And Bucky doesn't love the idea of cooking up a storm when Steve can't really even enjoy it.

Bucky thunks his head against the block wall, exhaling heavily. The hallway's nearly empty between classes, a chill creeping in through the failing weather stripping around the backdoor. He's supposed to be reviewing his notes for Biomechanics, but his thoughts keep catching on Steve. Steve and how much he deserves an Elvish Valentine's Extravaganza. Only now money and time are conspiring against Bucky's plans.

Before he can beat himself up too much about his failures, a ratty sneaker taps his knee. "Thought old men didn't like sitting on the floor."

Bucky snorts, regretting confessing his age to any of his classmates, but when he looks up, it's Professor Barton. He's in a baggy sweatshirt and purple joggers—and doesn't look anything like a professor.

Bucky flips his book shut, notebook marking his place. "Don't think you're supposed to kick your students."

"I didn't kick. Tap. I tapped my student." He does it again, though a little harder this time, and Barton winces. "Don't mention it on the class evaluation."

Bucky chuckles and brings his knees up when Barton slips down the wall next to him. He pulls a bag of corn chips from somewhere and offers them to Bucky before digging into his snack.

"Hey, nice job on your presentation yesterday. I assume everything's okay at home now?" The casual side-eye is hard to miss, though Barton does a decent job of playing cool.

Bucky shrugs, ignoring the tightness in his arm. "It's all right." He lets the textbook slide down his thighs to land in his lap, arms loosely circling his knees. "Thanks for letting me postpone."

Barton flicks away the gratitude, and then extracts a chip, holding it up and turning it back and forth. "Hard to believe how much your life changes after cupid takes you out."

"Excuse me?"

"You know." Barton shoves the chip in his mouth and then pantomimes drawing back on a bow and firing an arrow down the hall. "Being in a relationship realigns all your priorities."

Falling for Steve hasn't realigned Bucky's priorities. He's still focused on graduating in two years, getting a decent job, and getting on with his adult life. The only thing that's really changed is that he wants to do all that with Steve, which means making time to have a relationship (and sex) and go on dates. Which also means having money for dates, and keeping a roof over their heads, and worrying more about money, and—okay. Maybe his priorities have been more realigned than he thinks.

"Like Valentine's. When did I start caring about that?"

Bucky leans his head back, loose hair slipping from his shoulders. "You too, huh?"

"Yeah, but worse because my girl says she doesn't need anything—and I know that's true—but also, I want to do something nice for her, you know?"

Bucky knows. Bucky knows all too well.

"I can't spend a lot either, so taking her somewhere fancy isn't in the cards." Barton gestures to his outfit. "I mean, look at my formal wear."

Bucky arches an eyebrow because Barton wears plain slacks and button-downs to class every day. He sometimes wears a tie, even if it is a clip-on. It may not be formal wear, but it's proof he's not a hopeless disaster. Anecdotes featuring dumpsters notwithstanding.

"I got so desperate, I tried to write a poem." Barton's laugh echoes in the hallway. A blond at the opposite end looks up from her notes and glares at him, but Barton just throws up a hand and a tight smile. "Poetry is much harder than it sounds, by the way. Though if I recite it, she'll be laughing too hard to notice I didn't spend any money on her."

Bucky starts to laugh in agreement, but it catches in his throat as he realizes writing a poem for Steve is the answer. No money needed. And Nat was right, all Steve really needs from Bucky is Elvish dirty talk.

Barton tilts his head, balling up his now empty bag. "Oh no, I gave you An Idea, didn't I?"

"Sort of?" Bucky shifts his books to his bag, zipping up. "Honestly, it's kind of embarrassing I didn't think of it before."

"Wait, are you a poet?"

This time Bucky laughs unrestrained, and the blond slams her books shut and stalks out the backdoor, a gust of wind giving them the appropriate cold shoulder. "Not a poet, but my boyfriend wrote some poems when we got together and returning the favor would be exactly the right note for a Valentine's on a budget."

"Oh. Good." Barton looks lost for a moment, staring into the middle distance, before his attention snaps back to Bucky. "Any chance you've got an idea for me?"

If he can't use the idea, maybe Barton can: "Home-cooked dinner?"

Barton nods slowly, repeating the words, before he asks, "And how do I do that?"

Bucky has a feeling Barton has set a few ovens on fire, assuming he even uses the oven. How hard is it to set a microwave on fire? "I'll email you one of my recipes. Easy stuff, promise."

Barton lights with a grin. "Awesome, thanks." He puts one hand on the floor and springs into a crouch with way more agility than Bucky expected. The surprise must read on his face because Barton looks down and then back up at Bucky. "Oh, am I showing off my youthful vigor? Your knees must need replacing about now."

"You know, just because you're my teacher doesn't mean I can't flick you off."

Barton's laugh once again fills the hallway as he straightens. "You're right, I should show more respect for my elders."

Bucky doesn't flick him off, but when he accepts the hand Barton offers, he yanks Barton forward a half-step so that he has to catch himself against the wall. He gives Barton a wry look once they're eye to eye, and Barton shakes his head, swinging his arms as he steps away.

"See you in class, Barnes."

Barton wanders down the hallway, looking side to side at the door, and then does a quick spin and nails the trashcan a few feet from Bucky. Wadded up garbage shouldn't fly so perfectly.

Bucky grabs his jacket from the floor and pushes up the sleeves of his hoodie before wandering toward Biomechanics, Elvish words about warmth, light, and love already filling his thoughts.

The warm, settled feeling of having a plan dissipates when Bucky gets his test back at the end of Biomechanics. The nice thing about his Biomechanics professor is that he grades in a fine point red pen, not a thick marker point, so even when Bucky's quizzes are covered with corrections, they don't feel overwhelming. It also means the F on the inside cover of Bucky's test booklet is discrete enough that no one else sees it.

He is so fucked.

He flips his hood up on his way home, hair itching the back of his neck, but he cannot stand the thought of someone looking at him right now.

Add/Drop is long past, and even if Bucky drops the class he is now failing, he won't be a full-time student anymore, which affects his meager financial aid. Maybe he can take an incomplete? Not that he knows anything about that process except in theory, and he'll still have to make up the work later with all the humiliation of his previous failure.

Of course, if he continues on and fails, or gets anything below a C, they might kick him out of the program. And even if they don't kick him out, he'll have to retake the class. And pay more tuition.

How the hell is he going to afford to pay for more school? Even with Steve's new part-time job, that's not going to last. Eventually Steve needs to focus on grad school applications, and who the fuck knows what will happen once Steve is accepted to a PhD program. Where the hell is Bucky going to live? Who is he going to find to room with? Cheaply? And what is he going to do without Steve?

Oh, God. He's going to have to tell his ridiculously smart, doctorate-track, super academic boyfriend that he failed a test. That he's failing a required class.

His stomach lurches, the interior wall cramping and demanding attention. Bucky steadies himself against the rough brick of a building, half recognizing that he's made it to his street. How?

His stomach tightens again, impossibly so, and it doesn't feel like the increasingly more common gas pains he gets after eating too much pizza. (Aging is awesome.) Nor does it feel like the unsettled queasy churn when he gets uptight about his finances or Steve. (Anxiety is also awesome.) It's worse. Worse because it's new. Unknown. Worse because saliva is starting to pool in the back of his mouth.

He tilts his head back, knocking the hood off to cool his suddenly warm face. Cold backs of hands press against overheated cheeks, forehead, but it's not enough to stave off the impending fear. Less than a block and three flights of stairs between him and a toilet. He can fucking do this. He might fuck up every other aspect of his pathetic attempt at life, but he can hold his guts together and avoid the public humiliation of vomiting in the street.

He swallows the saliva and keeps walking, one foot in front of the other, calloused fingertips catching on the rough brick. His stomach is a rock, an impenetrable stronghold—Helm's Deep, nestled solidly in the White Mountains. The defenses have to hold.

He clears his mind, facing into the wind, letting Saruman's fell storm chill his sweat-slick hair. In a fit of preparedness, he pulls his hair into a sloppy bun and shifts his bag off his left shoulder, so it'll be easier to drop. He palms his keys in his pocket, but his stomach tightens, and he releases them, deciding not to tempt fate.

His face feels drained, whiter than an anemic elf, and that's the last thought he has before oh fuck, and he pitches forward, clutching the iron rail of the front stoop as his stomach turns inside out.

He half hears a faint, "Oh God," as he retches a second time, every muscle in his back roiling under his skin. He spits twice, his backpack a surprisingly comforting weight at the back of his neck, but then his stomach clenches again for another repulsive bile-filled upheaval.

The weight of his bag lifts, and he panics—someone cannot be mugging him while he's already losing his lunch—but then a warm hand pushes his hair from his damp forehead, and he hears Steve's soft, "Oh, Bucky."

He sniffs, trying to clear his nostrils, and then deeply regrets that decision. "You got a tissue?" he asks in an acid-thinned, barely there voice.

Steve acts quickly, unzipping Bucky's bag and going straight for the travel pack of tissues Bucky keeps on him, along with painkillers, individual hand wipes, and a swiss army knife. An unfolded hand wipe follows the tissue a moment later, and if Bucky didn't already love Steve, this would cinch it.

The cool astringent is a relief and, even though he desperately wants to gargle toothpaste first, he risks pushing himself upright to look at Steve.

"Better?" Steve asks, his brow and mouth pinched with concern.

Bucky nods and folds himself under Steve's arm when Steve offers it, letting his boyfriend take him upstairs and tuck him in bed (after brushing his teeth, oh God). Steve putters around the bedroom, coaxing Bucky out of his shirt when he thinks Bucky's too warm, and positioning a trash can next to his side of the bed. It's unbearably sweet, and Bucky catches Steve's hand before he runs off to fetch a glass of water and some crackers.

"Steve." The words all gum up in his mouth, and maybe he tossed his ability to speak along with his cookies.

Steve seems to understand, though, and cups Bucky's cheek, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Let me grab these last things, and then I should get to work."

Work, right. Shit. Steve must have been on his way when he found Bucky ralphing in the street. Steve has to be so late.

He squeezes Bucky's hand. "Already texted my boss. It'll be fine, melindo."

Bucky's heart melts at the Elvish endearment, and he lets Steve go, once again settling on the thought that Steve deserves so much more than what Bucky can offer.

His stomach stays in place the next twenty-four hours, though it cramps on and off:

(1) Before Bucky sends an email to his Biomechanics professor about his grade.

(2) After Steve comes in looking exhausted and worried following his shift.

(3) While Bucky adjusts their budget for the month.

Typical. Just when Bucky has one manifestation of anxiety under control, his body provides a new one.

By Thursday night, he feels normal enough to look through his recipes for Professor Barton while scrolling through the Elvish dictionary to translate the scant lines he's written about Steve. Problem is Elvish doesn't have a lot of options for describing the living rock of Steve's flesh or that he's the most sexually devastating nerd Bucky knows.

He finally has to seek a consultation via text: Is "beautiful student" a good substitute for "nerd I want to lick head to toe"?

Becca's quick to respond with a vomiting emoji which takes Bucky back to yesterday's embarrassing unpleasantness.

Can you lay off the barf emojis? I had a thing yesterday.

Ew. Yes. Sorry.
But also, please stop telling me how much you want to lick Steve. I don't tell you where I want to put my tongue.

Bucky's a little surprised because in the last three years, Becca hasn't mentioned wanting to put her tongue anywhere other than a coffee mug.

Is there somewhere specific you WANT to put your tongue???

She doesn't respond for a while, long enough that Bucky's attention starts drifting back to the Elvish dictionary to look up "tongue," but then his phone chimes and Becca's sent, Again, not talking about tongue placement. She quickly follows it by asking if Bucky needs to pick up anything else from his Lord of the Rings box, and she gets him off-track for a bit, catching her up on Steve's part-time job and the impact to Bucky's Valentine's Day plans.

Bummer is not the sympathetic condolences he was hoping for, but she pairs it with three frowning faces and a broken heart.

Steve has the day shift on Sunday, so we'll have the evening, but I'm going to have to spend most of the day studying. 😩🤓

He hesitates and then tells Becca about the failed test. He hasn't had an opportunity to tell Steve—he hasn't—and he's thinking after Valentine's Day might be better anyway. They've got enough pressure on their relationship, and Bucky doesn't want Steve getting any crazy ideas like that Bucky should be studying instead of sticking his tongue up Steve's ass. (Lamba, by the way, is "tongue" and when he looks up "skin," the dictionary gives him the word for "book" or "parchment," which is too perfect for describing Steve.)

Becca wishes him luck—on everything, she specifies—and Bucky takes the hint to stop texting. He makes a vague promise to visit in a couple weeks and goes back to the poem, chasing the idea of poetically likening Steve to a book. He may not be able to provide Steve a perfect Valentine's, but he'll at least give Steve something special.

Bucky stays late on campus Friday to catch his Biomechanics professor during office hours, stomach cramping like he ate a whole piece of lembas bread. Bucky hasn't fucked up his final grade, not yet. It'll be a challenge to pull himself out, but as the prof says, "You've taken the first step by confronting the problem."

Bucky can't help thinking his therapist would be so proud.

It's a better meeting than Bucky expected, though his stomach doesn't seem to know that, tightening and pulling and clenching the entire walk home. He's woozy and a little nauseated by the time he arrives, clinging to the sticky handrail he'd much rather not touch.

His name startles him as he hits the third-floor landing and it takes him a second to recognize his sister standing in front of his apartment, a well-dressed Black man accompanying her.

"I was just about to text." Becca's hands frame her hips, black skirt decorated with a rainbow of lightsabers. Her friend leans into a charming gap-toothed smile that is probably meant to put Bucky at ease, but his Big Brother Genes spark to life. Tailored jeans, burgundy Henley, gray blazer fitting this guy about the same way Steve's tweed fits him. Bucky thinks he knows where Becca wants to put her tongue.

He squares his shoulders, trying to ignore his complaining guts. "This is a surprise."

Becca's smile loses a few watts. "Steve didn't text?"

Bucky chuckles, stepping up to unlock the door. "I love him, but I'd receive more messages if Steve lit the beacons of Minas Tirith." A stab of pain punches his right side, keys slipping from his fingers as he doubles over.

"Buck?"

"Hey, you okay, man?"

The hand on his shoulder is kind and comforting, solid and steady like Steve, and gives Bucky somewhere to focus that isn't the growing fist of embers in his side. Bucky almost tells the truth about how much pain he's in, but then he meets the warm brown eyes and remembers he doesn't know Becca's date.

Some of that uncertainty must reach his face because the guy pulls his hand away, holding it up. "I'm Sam." Sam's got Bucky's keys in his other hand, the One Ring keychain nestled in his palm. "I know you don't know me, but I'm a paramedic. And you literally just said ow."

"I did not."

"Physically."

Bucky's stomach clenches and he pinches his side, groaning around the pain. "Okay, okay, I said ow. Now what?"

He can feel the silent consideration happening over his head, so he winds his hand, begging Sam to get on with it.

"Stomach stuff?"

Bucky starts to growl a yes, but Becca's the one rattling off a list of his symptoms with surprising accuracy. How much did Steve tell her?

"Huh." Sam crosses his arms, and then jerks his chin where Bucky's still doubled over and pathetic. "You still have your appendix?"

The simple question is enough to make the past couple days of increasing stomach weirdness fall into place, fear immediately chasing the revelation. Surgery is not a friend to Bucky Barnes.

"Hey, man, I know it's not fun to consider, but I promise it's easy to fix. Let us take you to the hospital, get you checked. One night of your life."

Bucky cuts a look to Becca—she must have been looking forward to this date—but the concern on her face is enough to let him know her ruined evening is the last thing on her mind. "Yeah," Bucky says. "I guess."

"Great. The Falcon's parked across the street."

"'The Falcon'," Bucky mouths at Becca, and her cheeks flush but she doesn't explain. She doesn't need to when they approach the white sedan with a bumper sticker reading, My other ride is a YT-1300 Corellian Freighter. While Bucky was snaring himself an elf, Becca apparently was landing a Jedi.

Sam's a huge help at the ER, knowing just who to sweet talk, and Becca takes the lead filling out paperwork, leaving Bucky to stare at his phone and wait for Steve to text back. He'd been unsure how much to say and settled on, Thanks for sending Becca. Her date drove me to the ER. I'll be fine. ❤️ Which should be cryptic enough to encourage Steve to respond.

He's done the ER thing before, when he shattered his arm. That was more dramatic, though surprisingly less painful. His parents had been there almost immediately, and even though Steve's working and hasn't replied to the text, Bucky keeps expecting Steve to fly through the automatic doors, wind-swept hair adding to his frantic scan of the waiting room until his eyes land on Bucky. Steve won't have asphodel in his hands, but his touch is as good as an analgesic, a steadying rod on which Bucky can lash his anxiety, if he'd only get here.

Bucky's taken to a bed before Steve arrives.

Becca clutches his hand while the nurses flutter around him, attaching an IV and measuring his vitals. Sam stands at the foot of the bed, in some kind of miraculous hospital blind spot, so no one has to ask him to step out of the way. Bucky takes deep breaths, trying to focus on whatever Becca's saying—she met Sam through a mutual friend, she's reading a book about space nuns, she's developing a new prosthetic at work—but the details slip through Bucky's attention, swallowed by beeping monitors and a quiet cellphone.

It doesn't take more than a scream-inducing physical exam to confirm he'll need surgery.

"Bucky, you're going to be fine." Becca's hand is a steel lifeline, fingers clinging to the edge of reality.

He nods quickly, but he can't shake the feeling that it's wrong, that everything is wrong, that his arm is breaking all over again and this time Steve's going to know what happens when Bucky really falls apart.

"Buck." Steve's resonate voice cuts through the clatter, drawing Bucky off his pillows. He is wind-swept, jacket collar sticking up on one side, out of breath and red-cheeked and a beautiful relief. Sam's behind him, pulling the curtain shut again.

Becca passes his hand to Steve's warm embrace, and Bucky loses sight of her, Sam, the hospital around him. Steve presses a cold kiss to his forehead, spewing a litany of explanations and apologies. But all Bucky hears is Steve. Steve is here. Bucky will be okay.

Chapter Text

"Speak 'friend' and enter," Steve teases.

Bucky gives him a long, exasperated stare that does nothing to quell Steve's enthusiasm before saying, "Friend," and opening his mouth to let Steve airplane in another spoonful of chicken noodle soup.

Except Steve doesn't move the spoon, and when his grin grows even wider, Bucky realizes he's waiting for the response in Elvish.

His boyfriend is the biggest nerd and Bucky loves him so much.

"Mellon."

Steve rewards him with the soup and a kiss to his temple. He's been like this since Bucky was discharged from the hospital late Saturday, slathering on the kisses and the kindness and going utterly overboard on post-op care. He even brought their good comforter and pillows out to the living room when Bucky didn't feel like moving last night.

Bucky unfolds his legs, propping his feet on the coffee table. "You'd better not pull that the next time we have sex."

Steve's whole body shakes with his laugh, the soup sloshing dangerously in the bowl. "Oh, God, no. That would be—that would be—" He keeps breaking into giggles, unable to finish his thought, but Bucky's got the gist of it. (But also, if Steve did use that terrible line on him in bed, he'd still fuck him and tell him how much he loves him.)

He steals the spoon from Steve while he's distracted, getting a self-directed bite before relinquishing control. "You really don't have to do this."

Steve dabs a napkin at Bucky's chin even though there's no spillage. "Doc said nothing strenuous."

Bucky rolls his eyes and winds up leaning on Steve's shoulder, glad that even if Steve won't let them have sex (lest they disrupt Bucky's minuscule stitches) he at least agreed to the partial nudity of sitting around in their underwear. Steve's wearing the red boxer briefs that have haunted Bucky's thoughts since he accidentally saw Steve in them before they started dating. "Pretty sure the doc meant like, moving furniture, or running a marathon."

"Better safe than sorry." Steve holds up another bite of soup, and Bucky opens his mouth to accept it when his brain catches up to the date, and they have a collision which ends with hot noodles on Bucky's chest.

"Oh shit." Steve's hands stutter, clearly lost on what to do, so Bucky grabs the napkin before Steve starts trying to use the spoon to clean up.

"It's fine," Bucky says, slurping one of the rescued noodles. Not that much of a mess, and the soup's only hot enough to startle, not hurt. "And, hey, just remembered, Happy Valentine's Day." The poem is half-finished, half-forgotten on his phone, but the blanket and Two Towers Valentines are stashed under the very bed they're sitting on. As far as back-up plans go, he's feeling pretty suave after emergency surgery.

Confusion clouds Steve's expression before he melts and leans in for a chaste kiss, returning the holiday greeting against Bucky's lips. He presses deeper, and Bucky can't keep his soupy fingers out of Steve's hair, sliding in and getting a grip, glad Steve left his glasses folded on the coffee table.

Bucky breaks away long enough to mutter, "Put down the soup," and leans with Steve to set it on the table, before lying back across the bed and pulling Steve with him for a make out session with his valentine.

Steve levers himself up almost immediately. "I'm not hurting you, am I?"

Bucky grabs his head and pulls him back down. "I promise: I will tell you." But then he's pushing Steve away with the vague thought that they suck at making out. "Wait, I thought you were working today."

Steve's cheeks go from aroused pink to embarrassed red almost immediately, but he's not scrambling out of bed and into clothes. "I, um, I may have quit."

"Quit?!" Surprise is the immediate response, but it's quickly chased by relief, which is actually more surprising.

"I wanted to be here to take care of you, and that asshole—" Steve practically growls the words. "—wouldn't give me the time off even after you were rushed to the emergency room." Steve's description is a little more dramatic than it had felt to Bucky riding in the back of Sam's car. (He will not call it 'The Falcon'.)

Steve's shoulders drop, all anger and frustration sloughing off him. "I know. I know I shouldn't have quit. We need the money, and it's going to be even tighter with the ER visit, and I know what the student health insurance is like, and I'll get another job once you're better, and—"

A chuckle slips out of Bucky unexpectedly, stopping Steve in the middle of his rant. Bucky just—he cannot believe how much Steve sounds like him.

"It'll be okay," Bucky promises. He strokes Steve's cheek, smoothing down his bed-rumpled beard. Calm about finances is not how he would describe himself, but Steve worrying about it, on the same page as Bucky with his concerns? Bucky knows how to deal with that. "We should talk about our budget, and I—" Bucky takes a breath, fighting down the kaleidoscope of butterflies wrestling in his stomach. "And I need your help figuring out what next year will look like, but we'll be okay."

A small smile flutters on Steve's lips. "You sure?"

Bucky slides his thumb across Steve's cheekbone, his beard tickling the palm of Bucky's hand. Their bodies are more pressed together than not, only thin underwear between them while they lie on their bed in the living room of an apartment neither of them can afford on their own. But they've got a treasure trove of Lord of the Rings memorabilia underneath them and Bucky can't imagine things being wrong while he's got Steve.

"We'll figure it out."

Steve wraps himself in the Legolas blanket as soon as Bucky hands it over, and then tackles Bucky to the bed again, bare feet and calves dangling from under the fringe. The no sex rule lasts about five minutes longer, much to Bucky's smug satisfaction. (His stitches are fine; he is fine—even better once he's got Steve's naked body pressed against him.)

After, his hair is a tangled mess and Steve's beard's got more than just soup in it, but it's a better Valentine's Day than Bucky imagined, even if it doesn't include a hobbit feast and action figure reenactments of their love story.

They get back in bed (their actual bed) after a shower, Steve carefully threading his fingers through Bucky's wet hair. Kisses pepper his forehead, stretching the warm, tingly feeling Bucky's been nursing since his orgasm. Steve's naked chest is steady under Bucky's hand, a deep breath the only signal before Steve says, "Sorry I'm bad at this adult relationship stuff."

Bucky chokes on his own disbelief, sputtering, "What? No. I'm the one bad at this. I should be apologizing."

Humor pinches Steve's face, his eyebrows going skeptical and amused. "We're both assholes," he reminds, and, yeah, okay, Bucky sees his point.

This relationship is a first for both of them. Living with a boyfriend, mingling their finances, being in love (at least for Bucky, he hasn't wanted to brave that conversation with Steve yet)—it's a lot to navigate even without Bucky's Other Problems (appendicitis included).

For some reason, he thought by the time he was thirty, he'd have his shit figured out, but he's less than a month from that birthday and he's still a mess. Funny how making a five-year plan didn't actually solve anything.

Steve kisses his cheek, trailing down to Bucky's mouth. "I'd rather be bad at this with you than be perfect with anyone else."

When he's got someone like Steve, does it really matter if everything is solved?

They get lost in kissing again, completely wrapped around each other, Bucky's feelings a demanding throb under his skin. Eventually, Steve's grip slackens and he gentles his kisses, several times giving one last kiss before finally pulling back, his lips bitten and red, his eyes sparkling oceans.

"I didn't give you your Valentine's present yet."

Bucky's heart surfs on an oliphant's trunk, landing gracelessly in his throat. "You got me something?"

"Of course I got you something. Are you kidding me?" Steve keeps muttering about the great indignity to his boyfriendhood as he twists away and roots around in the drawer of the bedside table. Whatever he's got is small enough to fit in his fist. "Like I wouldn't have a present for you. I'm bad at this, not negligent."

Bucky flattens his expression, not about to condone Steve's dramatics, but drums his fingers on Steve's fist. "So? Gimme."

"First." Steve resettles, shoulder digging into his pillow. "I want you to know I didn't spend much money on this. I got it second hand from a friend who was unloading his collection."

"Romantic," Bucky deadpans, but honestly, he appreciates that Steve didn't spend money they don't have.

"Second," Steve continues as though Bucky didn't interrupt like a jerk, "I don't mean anything by this. I mean, beyond like, I love you and we talked about getting you the costume anyway."

Excitement ignites like sparklers, and Bucky pulls at Steve's fingers, already knowing exactly what he's going to find in Steve's palm.

"So it's a ring, but it's not a ring," Steve finishes as he opens his hand, revealing a ring with silver serpents entwined around a green jewel. The Ring of Barahir, the ring that identifies Aragorn as the heir of Isildur, and the first official piece of Bucky's ranger costume.

"Steve." Bucky tests it on the index finger of his right hand, where Aragorn wears it in the films. It's a little tight, so Bucky slides it to his middle finger and then shows it off to Steve by flicking him off, getting a breathy laugh in return.

"It's the official replica. I've got the box and paperwork and stuff, too."

It could be made out of tin and resin and Bucky would still love it. "Thanks. Thank you. It's perfect." His fingertips walk Steve's chin, drawing him closer so Bucky can lightly kiss his lips. "I love you," he whispers. "Feels like I don't tell you enough."

Steve's thick arm settles around Bucky's waist, pulling them against each other again. "You tell me plenty." He rubs his nose alongside Bucky's, just nuzzling him and being sweet. His fingers lightly brush the swell of Bucky's ass, nothing sexual about it, just familiar, the steady contact of skin on skin, like this is how Bucky and Steve should always be. Nothing between them.

Ah, fuck.

He closes his eyes, letting his forehead rest against Steve's. With everything the past thirty-six hours, he'd kind of forgotten about school and his failed test and his "plan" to absolutely tell Steve about it after Valentine's Day. If he's wearing the ring of the Dúnedain, he might as well fucking act like one.

"I failed a test," he groans because bravery and pathetic idiocy are closely linked.

Steve's hand stills on Bucky's back, then one finger traces a circle and he resumes his stroking. "Shit," he says, voice soft and kind. "That sucks. Was that the test from last week? Biomechanics?"

Bucky exhales his unease, silently thanking Steve for being himself and not Bucky's worst anxieties. "Yeah. Already talked to the professor. I feel like a tool, but he thinks I can still get a passing grade. He recommended a study group."

"Still early in the semester," Steve reasons.

"That's what he said. Not what I first thought, of course."

"Of course," Steve says fondly, and his hand flattens against Bucky's back, stroking up and down reassuringly. "You calmer about it now?"

Bucky nods. "Appendicitis kind of put things in perspective." His grades, their finances, their future. It's scary for things that are scary to feel okay when he's in Steve's arms. He's so used to things crashing, for being responsible for the destruction and the clean-up. Relying on a boyfriend is a bigger first than living with one.

Steve chuckles softly against Bucky's cheek. "Maybe we should do a little more studying while we're together and a little less stripping?"

Bucky sets his jaw, lower lip puffing out, and he pokes Steve's chest. "You are not getting out of blowing me once a week, Rogers."

Steve's laugh gains volume. "Pretty sure you get that more than once a week."

"Yeah. Still." Bucky kisses his shoulder, noticing he left a mark a little higher than he meant to, oops. "I don't want you thinking our relationship is getting in the way. It's not." He pulls back to meet Steve's eyes, making sure he understands. "But maybe I should study at the library a little more often."

Steve kisses the tips of Bucky's fingers. "Do you need to study today?"

Bucky sighs dramatically and flops to his back. "Pretty sure no one expects me in class tomorrow, but I shouldn't fall behind in my work." He turns his head, squinting against the shard of light refracting through the blinds. "Why? You got a different proposition?"

"Dinner," Steve suggests. "We can't afford steaks, but how about some hamburgers?"

"Oh God, I thought you were going to suggest more sex, and honestly that is so much better."

Steve laughs loudly, the sound echoing in their bedroom, a wash of color splashed on the map of Bucky's future. They'll have to talk more, about next year, and the one after, about Steve's plans and Bucky's, but as Bucky pulls his boyfriend in for another kiss, he feels like he's back again, returned home after an unexpected journey.

After vetoing all Trivial Pursuits (Star Wars Saga Edition, Bucky's veto, and Lord of the Rings Movie Trilogy Collector's Edition, Becca's veto), Becca hauls out Carcassonne, a tile-based building game in which they all have an equal lack of skill.

Steve places his last meeple, claiming the city tile Bucky placed entirely to block Becca's road extension. "Glad we could get you on a night off, Sam. Even if it is a Thursday. I've been wanting to thank you for taking care of Bucky."

Bucky rolls his eyes, but presses into Steve's arm. The appendicitis has come up multiple times in the last two weeks, mostly preceding athletic and life-affirming sex, which has almost changed Bucky's position on hospital stays. Almost.

"Come on, man, no need to thank me." Sam places a tile, connecting his field to Bucky's, thus stealing Bucky's whopping fifteen points.

"Shit," Bucky groans, "you save my life only to murder me in Carcassonne."

"I am a complex man."

Becca's laugh presses against her lips, and the look she cuts Sam is entirely too telling of what's going to happen once Bucky and Steve leave.

He's beginning to understand Becca's policy on siblings not discussing tongue placement.

They make it through the last round of play, Becca blocking Bucky's one city from completion (payback for blocking her road, for sure), while Steve connects two monster cities letting everyone share the points . . . except for Bucky.

Bucky looks at his boyfriend in point-deficit horror. "Tricksy hobbit!"

Steve grimaces and shrugs, actually looking a bit sheepish about the move. "You're still my precious?"

"Pfft." Bucky heads to the kitchen to clean up while the others tally the points. They pretty much demolished the pizzas Sam brought, though there's still quite an assortment of cookies he and Steve made from scratch. Plenty for Sam to take home as thanks for driving Bucky to the hospital. (Okay, Steve is not the only one interested in thanking Sam, though Bucky's admitting that to No One.)

He loads Becca's dishwasher (absolutely not jealous of the fact that she has a dishwasher) and rinses his hands as Sam crows at the dining table, arms thrust in the air.

"Don't get cocky, kid," Becca deadpans beside him. Sam kisses her nose, and Becca melts into a giggle befitting her poof of ponytail. Her joy settles in Bucky's chest somewhere next to his feelings for Steve.

Steve joins Bucky in the kitchen, dumping out his watered-down soda. "You about ready to head out?"

"Was thinking it." He slips in front of Steve, back to the dining table, fingers playing with the V of his sweater vest. "Could end this double date the way we end most single dates." He looks up at Steve through his eyelashes, which isn't nearly as effective as when Steve does it to him, but he bites his lip too, pretty sure Steve will easily read what he's thinking.

Steve's brows knit behind the rim of his glasses. "Reading 'The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen' to each other?"

Bucky's hands slide to Steve's waist, drooping with his frown. "We only did that twice."

"It was memorable!" But Steve's protest is ruined by a sly curve to his lips and the way he eases toward Bucky's body. His hand slips between them, knuckles bumping over Bucky's belt. "It is a good reason to get out of here early."

"Bec, we're headed out," Bucky calls over his shoulder, eyes still locked on the smoldering look Steve's angled his way. Steve's teasing will be completely forgiven and forgotten if he's planning to hold that thought during the train ride home.

Becca walks them to the door, giving them both a kiss on the cheek, and Sam waves from the dining table where he's still picking up playing tiles.

When Bucky leans in for his hug, he whispers, "Make sure Sam takes one of the containers of cookies with him. When he leaves." Bucky gives his sister a knowing look, and she rolls her eyes. "Do I need to remind you to use protection?"

"Do I?" she hisses back at her brother.

Bucky smirks at her, mouth opening to deliver another bout of TMI, but Steve grabs him and pulls him backward. "Good night, Becca."

"Spoilsport," Bucky mutters, but Steve acts like he has no idea what Bucky's talking about.

"Hope to see you again soon, Sam," Steve calls. "Trivia night. Check your calendar." Sam waves at him, smile looking even more annoyingly charming at the reminder of Steve's invite to join their geek trivia team.

"You sure we need him for trivia?"

"He knows space stuff and video games. We need him. Plus, I like Sam."

Bucky grumpily crosses his arms, but doesn't say anything else because honestly, he kind of likes Sam, too.

They tuck close together as they walk, Bucky stuffing his hand in Steve's pocket so they can lace their fingers together. The last two weeks have been filled with a lot of difficult conversations, and Bucky still has questions (Steve still has questions—like which schools might offer him a place and which ones might offer funding), but they're on the same page, working it out together.

Steve bumps his shoulder, but it's probably eighty percent to step out of the way of a suspicious slick of ice, twenty percent to catch Bucky's wandering attention. "You've got the Biomechanics study group after class tomorrow, right?"

"Yep. And you've got orientation."

Steve's grin matches Bucky's. Nat hadn't found any studies they could sign up for, but she had found an open admin position in the English department. Steve's hours mostly match Bucky's class schedule, he has the weekends off, and—best of all—health insurance. Steve's a few weeks from getting paid, but Bucky's accounts can hold together until then.

"I do indeed. If you think you'll still be on campus at five, we could walk home together."

Bucky had been thinking about surprising Steve by making lasagna—they can't afford take out from his favorite place, but Bucky's got a recipe bookmarked on his phone.

Steve's eyes sparkle with his question, his nose nipped red by the cold. Bucky's still not sure how he's lucky enough to have Steve in his life, but he knows they're both working on getting better at asking for what they want, and if what Steve wants is to walk home with Bucky, Bucky has no problem making that happen.