Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“—couldn’t even fucking bother to send me a fucking text—”

“I was driving!” James yells back. “I couldn’t—”

“—let me know if you were okay—"

“—exactly text!”

James’ shoulder hits the wall, hard, and Brock shoves him again just to make a point, smacking his head into the drywall. He pushes his face down, holding him there, so James can’t look at him head on – all he can see of him is his neck, his greying beard, the arm he’s not currently using to hold James’ fucking face down. The doorframe is digging into his shoulder and trapping his right arm. With his stump, James tries to shove him off. It’s awkward – he just manages to push his chest and Brock slaps him away.

“Shouldn’t even be driving without a spinner,” Brock growls.

“Oh, fuck off—" James is not in the mood to get into a fight about the goddamn steering wheel spinner again.

“I shouldn’t fucking let you drive at all,” Brock continues, working himself up. “Your neurologist only just cleared you—"

“I’ve been driving for a year and half!” James shouts over him. He springs forward and gets his arm free, then finally shoves Brock off, hard enough he stumbles backward and nearly falls on his ass. “Shit, are you—”

Brock shouts over him, pretending that didn’t happen. “—only just cleared you, and she told us to check in with her if it didn’t feel safe,” he finishes. “Well, I don’t feel safe when you pull shit like this!”

James breathes through his teeth, fighting for calm. He can’t keep riling Brock up like this. 

“It was just to Brooklyn, to give my folks a hand. Okay? It’s thirty minutes away. I was in a hurry, ‘cause the delivery guy fucked up and it’s eighty five degrees outside, and they needed to get the stock for next week to the deli before it spoils. I texted you before I started driving home.”

“Oh, you want a gold star?” Brock sneers, and now he’s getting that bitchy tone James can’t stand. “You take my car without asking, without telling me. I come back from the game and my car’s gone, you’re gone, you don’t answer the phone—” 

James slams his hand against the wall, loud. “I texted you before I headed back!” he yells, which is the wrong thing to do. They’re already in each other’s faces, and Brock narrows his eyes and yep, here it goes, lands a solid punch into James’ gut. James doubles over and Brock pulls his fist away, turning quickly around and walking away as James crouches there, winded.

“You’re,” James pants, “such a – dramatic – little bitch.”

Brock stops. He doesn’t turn around yet but James already wishes he hadn’t said anything. Just caught his breath and let him walk away and let all of this blow over. 

“I’m gonna go take a shower,” Brock says, and his voice is too calm. James feels his heart beat faster. “I… I’m gonna go take a shower before I do something we’ll both regret.”

“Okay—”

Brock slams the bathroom door shut behind him, and James nearly jumps out of his skin. 

There’s a second of reverb, then silence. James breathes.

He hates that they’re fighting. And about something so dumb, too. It always makes him worry, when they fight, that it’ll get bad again. That he’ll be jumping at nothing, walking around on eggshells waiting for things to get crazy, for Brock to get crazy. James looks down at his forearm, at the pale line barely visible under the hair, where he knows the metal plate is. 

James doesn’t want to be scared again. Doesn’t want to spend weeks not able to put on his own clothes, or pour himself some water, or wipe his ass without Brock’s help. Doesn’t want to have to depend on Brock for everything, more than he already does. Neither one of them needs to deal with that again. 

He hears the shower start and takes stock of the damage. There’s a hole in the drywall where his head hit it – yeah, that’s what he needs, more brain damage – and some chunks of wall and paint on the floor. What else? He looks over and his stomach sinks a little. James’ favourite mug is in pieces on the floor – it must’ve been too close to the edge of the counter when they started fighting. James sighs and goes to get a dustpan. All in all? Not so bad.

It was still a stupid fight that didn’t need to happen. He should be better by now at dealing with Brock when he throws these little hissy fits. He shouldn’t make it worse. But, fuck, it’s not like Brock wouldn’t have agreed anyway if James had asked permission to take the car beforehand. It hadn’t been great of him not to ask, but it had been an honest-to-god emergency. Usually, Brock’s great with emergencies.

James picks up the bigger pieces of wall and mug and chucks them into the garbage. He braces the dustpan between his feet and starts sweeping up the rest. It’s only when he’s bent over that he realizes the side of his face still fucking hurts. He probably could have sent the text – he’d been waiting for the elevator for what felt like forever. He should have seen this coming. Brock had been in a mood the last few days, something at work was eating at him. Some case and some administrative bullshit at the precinct. This wasn’t the time to start a fight over nothing. 

James goes into the bedroom and looks in the mirror. The skin around his right eye, cheek to temple, is red and already starting to swell. That’s gonna bruise. He takes his hair out of its bun and a few more pieces of drywall fall out. He starts finger-combing out the smaller chunks. The shower’s still running – Brock’s been in there for like fifteen minutes, doing whatever he does to calm down. 

He needs to calm down. James has just gotta get him to calm down. Then it’ll be fine. 

They’re in such a good place now – a really, objectively good place. Until this, they hadn’t had a fight, even a little one, in weeks. James had even been picking up a pretty regular number of shifts at 135 West 50th, and for once James’ fucked up brain and fucked up body and stupid trauma and Brock’s work stresses and Brock’s shitty sister, for once all the bullshit had taken a step back and let them just be happy together. 

Still, he gets jumpy whenever Brock slams doors now. 

James turns his attention back to himself in the mirror and smooths out his hair. Regardless. He’s not gonna let one fight knock them down. Fuck that.

The shower goes quiet. James doesn’t know where he’s supposed to be when the door opens. He lurks awkwardly just inside the bedroom, watching the hallway. Steam follows Brock when he steps out. He’s got a towel wrapped low around his hips, and his hair’s curling a little in the wet heat. 

James waits until he hears Brock grab a drink from the fridge and settle in on the couch. Then he makes his move.

Brock doesn’t say anything when James comes into the living room. That’s probably a good sign. He just looks at him, annoyed, and drinks his fancy microbrew. James hovers halfway to the couch.

“Just get over here already,” Brock sighs. “What do you think I’m gonna do?”

James takes the hint and slides onto the rug beside the couch and leans against Brock’s leg, laying his head in his lap.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Brock grunts. James tilts his head way back and looks upside-down at him.

“I’m sorry, babe.”

“Mhm.” He takes another sip.

“I should’ve texted you, and asked to borrow your car.”

“Damn fucking right,” Brock says. He presses his knee gently against James, though. 

“I shouldn’t have made you worry. I’m sorry,” he says again. He hugs Brock’s thigh, wrapping his arm around it.

Brock still looks pissed. “Prove it,” he says.

James blinks up at him. “Hmm?”

“Prove you’re fucking sorry,” Brock says crisply. “Get on your knees.” 

James shivers, suddenly excited. It’s gonna be that kind of apology. This is better than the best case scenario. He bites his cheek to keep from smiling – he doesn’t want to ruin the mood Brock’s going for.

James rolls up onto his knees and looks up at Brock’s chin. Neither of them like making eye contact during scenes like this. Brock says it feels disrespectful, and James doesn’t like to see Brock looking at him, at his stump, at his scars – even though Brock’s told him they don’t bother him at all.

Brock’s voice cuts through the thoughts before James can spiral. “Take off your shirt.”

James yanks his shirt off quickly enough he almost loses balance. He’s getting hard fast, and he spreads his legs a little wider before it gets uncomfortable.

“Oh, look who’s joined the party.” He can hear Brock smiling. “I thought this was supposed to be my apology.”

“It is,” James says, and pouts a little in the way Brock likes to see. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“You keep saying that,” Brock snaps. “Go get your cuff.”

James hustles. His abs clench as he pulls himself up, and he winces a little. But right now he’s too worked up to care. He hops to his feet and heads to the bedroom.

It takes him a minute to find it – they should really put this thing in the drawer with the other sex stuff – and when he finally does, he holds it up and undoes the buckles. It’s hard to do with one hand.

“Hurry up,” Brock calls. James can hear from his voice he’s excited, too. “Are you too dumb to follow one simple instruction, or do you just like wasting my time?”

“No, sir.” James starts walking back towards the living room. He gets a jolt – Brock’s taken the towel off, and is sitting there on the dark leather couch, stroking his dick lazily. God, he’s beautiful. James takes in the tan, strong lines of his arms and chest, under the fuzz that grows almost from his neck down to his groin. He wants to curl into him.

“Did that sound like a yes or no question, stupid?” Brock says as James approaches the couch.

James drops back down to his knees in front of Brock, presenting the cuff. It’s made of a belt and a slightly mismatched loop of leather, a jagged line of stitches holding them together. They’d had a fun evening of watching leatherworking tutorials on YouTube making this thing. James had been so goddamn lucky to finally find a normal guy who’s into this stuff.

“No, sir.”

“You figure out how to say one thing and you just keep repeating it, is that right?” Brock pitches his voice high and whiny, even though James’ voice is deeper than his. “No, sir.”

James grins. “No, sir.”

Brock shifts forward, and his hand cracks across James’ face. It’s not enough to knock him over but it’s so good all the same. The bottom half of the bruise shaping up on his cheek stings for a bright second and then warmth starts spreading out from it, across his face, down his neck. James finally feels himself start to really relax.

“Why the fuck are you still dressed?”

James hands him the cuff, and slips out of his jeans, underwear, and socks. He throws them off to the side and kneels back down, at Brock’s feet.

“Haven’t figured out how to fold them yet, have you? Doesn’t matter. It’s not like I keep you around to fold my shit for me.”

Brock grabs a fistful of James’ hair and yanks him forward, forcing him to shuffle even closer to him. When he’s between his legs, James nuzzles the inside of Brock’s thigh. He lets out a low chuckle, and James is so hard he’s leaking. He wants Brock to grab him, slap him again, fuck his face. Do whatever he wants. Brock smells like soap and musk, warm from the shower. His pubes are still damp.

“You at least know how to do this?” Brock asks, and James lets out a little sigh. “Well, that’s what this is for,” Brock says, leaning forward and looping the belt around James’ hips. He pulls it tight and buckles it, then moves James’ wrist into the cuff attachment on the side. “Helps you remember not to do something stupid, like use your hand.”

“Thank you,” James says. “It’s hard for me to remember.”

“Yeah, don’t I fucking know it,” Brock scoffs. He pulls the cuff until it’s biting into James’ wrist, does up the buckle, and sits back. James loves this thing. He flexes his fingers and tries to rotate his wrist just to feel it not give.

Brock tightens his hand in James’ hair and yanks him down. James opens his mouth and lets Brock slide the head of his dick inside – he stops there. James sucks at the tip. Brock holds him there for a while – James hollows out his cheeks, swirls his tongue around. Then Brock pushes him lower and leaves just enough give for James to bob up and down, licking up the shaft and tonguing at the head. 

He hears Brock groan above him and the hand in his hair tightens, sending little sparks of pain and warmth and pain across his scalp. It’s hard to move like this, hand cuffed to his side, without any leverage, and pretty soon his core is aching. 

He flicks his tongue the way he knows Brock likes and gets rewarded with a breathy, choked out, “Fuck.”

The hand in his hair pulls him up, off Brock’s dick with a wet pop. He hears the leather creak as Brock shifts closer to the edge of the couch. He’s got time to suck in a couple of breaths. Then Brock really starts going for it. James can’t move his head anymore, can’t do much of anything except kneel there with his mouth hanging open as Brock fucks into it. There’s nothing he can do. Nothing he needs to do. Just kneel there, empty-headed, and not having to worry about it.  

Suddenly he can breathe again. He takes in big gasps of air as Brock pulls him back and holds him there. He can feel strings of drool snap off Brock’s dick and trail down his own chest. 

“Just a big drooling idiot,” Brock says fondly. He draws his thumb along James’ lip, wiping off some of the spit, and cradles his cheek in his palm. It feels so good. James’ tongue is still hanging out, and he’s panting. All he wants is for Brock to touch him. Then Brock pulls his hand back and—

His head snaps to the side as Brock hits him. That one would have knocked him over if Brock’s knees hadn’t been bracing him on either side. Brock shifts his grip on his hair and James’ head has nowhere to go when the next blow comes. And the next one, and the next one, and he’s stopped counting because it’s just fireworks bursting under his skin. 

“Deep breath,” Brock reminds him. He needed that. He still barely manages to take one before Brock’s hand wraps around his throat. His fingers dig into James’ neck and his rough palm presses against James’ windpipe, up under his chin. His breath comes out thin and reedy and then stops. Brock holds him there until James sees spots around the edges. He’s floating, blood pulsing in his ears. He’s floating and it’s so damn easy. So damn good.

The air rushes back in and he feels his throat and lungs burn with it as Brock’s hand comes up to his jaw, pulling his mouth open.

“Deep breath, baby,” Brock tells him again, and he’s pulled back down and tastes salt and precum. Brock’s dick hits the roof of his mouth. Brock’s other hand is on the back of his neck, tilting him to just the right angle. Moving him however Brock likes.

His throat’s aching, his core’s aching, there’s sharp stabs of pain where Brock keeps yanking at his hair. He’s warm all over. He’s still hard, but he barely feels it – it’s just another throb in the background. His eyes are shut – he doesn’t need to see, he just needs to keep his mouth open and let Brock use it how he wants.

Brock’s still talking, telling him how stupid he is and how good his mouth feels. It’s another layer of soft and warm wrapping around him until—

“—how you feel so fucking good and look so stupid at the same time.”

James hums in agreement around Brock’s dick, and he lets out a groan.

“Guess I shouldn’t complain you’re too dumb to get rid of this,” Brock yanks, and the sparks help James focus. “You look like a fucking girl.”

The warm cloud around James recedes a little.

“You’re not a girl, though.” Brock’s foot presses against James’ cock and it’s not in the background anymore. It’s front and center, pulsing and on fucking fire. He cries around Brock’s dick, needy, even though he knows he’s not going to get to come. That’s not what Brock wants from him for today. “It’s pretty obvious if you know where to look. It’s not much, but it’s got at least an inch on your stump.”

It’s like an unpleasant jolt of cold water. James’ buzz is fading, and his surroundings are annoyingly more clear all of a sudden. He can feel the stump of his left arm again, and it’s just there on his shoulder, swinging a little when he bobs up and down. James opens his eyes. When he glances up, Brock’s are shut tight. His shoulders are tense like he’s close, mouth hanging open. It’s a hot image, and James shuts his eyes and tries to get back into it.

He doesn’t listen to the words anymore, just the sound of Brock’s voice. The rhythm of it and the pace Brock’s making him keep and the smell of his sweat when he pulls James in deep. And it’s enough. He’s floating again, easy again. He feels Brock go tense, hold him in place and his mouth floods, thick and salty. He swallows it down eagerly as Brock trembles over him. The hand in his hair goes slack. James stays there, feeling Brock go soft in his mouth. 

Eventually, Brock pulls back and slides out. He pulls James’ shoulder until his head comes down to rest on Brock’s thigh, and they stay like that for… James isn’t sure how long. It’s nice. 

He comes to to Brock petting his hair. James’ cock is hanging soft between his legs. The cuff is off – he hadn’t noticed Brock undoing it. Brock leans down and kisses him. James sighs into it and lets him lick into his mouth. It had been real good. Almost perfect. Brock likes to run his mouth and sometimes forgets there’s a difference between talking about how stupid James acts and how stupid he looks. It’s fine. It was supposed to be an apology anyway.

***

Monday morning, James knows five minutes after waking up it’s gonna be a bad brain day. Everything’s kinda – the best word he has for it is slow. Everything’s kinda slow today. Brock rolls over in bed and spoons him from behind, wrapping his arm over James’ stump and around to stroke his chest. James pushes back into him, warm and comfortable. 

When Brock kisses him good morning, it takes him a minute to get the words out to respond.

Brock notices right away. He pushes himself up to get a better look at James’ face and a little furrow pops up between his eyebrows.

“Bad brain day?” he asks. James nods. “You gonna be able to talk?”

“Yeah,” James says, and adds haltingly. “Always – worse. In the morning.”

“Hmm,” Brock says, unconvinced. He kisses his forehead and climbs out of bed. James lies there a while longer listening to Brock get ready for work. Slowly, he sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the mattress. He doesn’t have a migraine or dizziness or anything, but he’s never sure where his balance will be on days like this. He stands up carefully. Not terrible. He’ll just need to move a little slower through the world today.

Brock’s in the kitchen already, making coffee. He’s set James’ pillbox out beside a plate of toast and a protein shake. They found out the hard way that bad brain days sometimes come with a side of nausea. 

“You have work today?” Brock’s worried. It gets to him, the way James can be basically fine one day and not able to function the next. He always assumes it’s gonna be the worst kind of day, stuck in bed and out of it. He knows that James’ issues have range, sure. But that doesn’t stop him worrying.

James shrugs. “Night shift.” He takes his pills and a few bites of toast. “Tons of – time.” He looks down at the pillbox. “How many,” he has to pause. To remember the name of the little red and white capsule. To figure out how to say it out loud. “Lyricas. How – many left?”

“Uhh,” Brock thinks about it. “Not a lot. Probably about time for a refill.”

“Hmm,” James says. He takes a sip of coffee. Brock watches him through it, brow still furrowed. “I’m fine,” he says.

Brock still doesn’t look convinced. “You need me to call in sick?”

James rolls his eyes. “Babe, no. It’s – fine. I – was,” He chews for a minute, while Brock waits patiently for him to finish. “Gonna go out.”

“You still feel up to that?”

James hesitates a moment. If he’s gonna make it in time to the VA to make it to today’s group, he’s gotta head out… now. 

“I dunno,” he admits. “Haven’t gone – to group. In forever.”

Brock sits down with his own plate. “Skip it,” he suggests. “I’ll text Sam, let him know you weren’t up for it today.”

“I dunno…”

“Those groups are bullshit anyway. I’ve sat in on enough of them to know they don’t do anything. You’re just gonna come home bummed out.”

James chews his toast. Brock had to cut back on his volunteering when work got busier, but he still tries to make it once a week if he can.

“Haven’t gone to group. In forever,” he says. 

“You said that already,” Brock points out. Had he? “I’ll text Sam.”

The idea of having a few hours to just sit at home is honestly a huge relief.

“Kay,” James says. “Next week.” He’ll go next week. He’s been saying that for… probably a few months now.

“Yeah,” Brock says. He takes James’ hand and gives it a squeeze.

“I’m still – seeing Steve for – lunch, though,” James says, and he can see Brock’s eyes pinch at the corners. He hadn’t remembered that was James’ other plan for the day. Or maybe just repressed it. He smiles tightly.

“If you’re sure,” Brock says.

James gets up to get more coffee, and kisses Brock on the cheek as he passes.

Brock? Is not Steve’s biggest fan. And James loves Steve, really loves him, he’s basically a brother… but he can’t say he doesn’t get it. Steve’s a lot on his best days.

Plus it doesn’t help that their first meeting went basically as bad as it could go. James likes to say they met at work. Brock was at work. Steve was in cuffs, briefly facing domestic terrorism charges. And then Brock had to call him an ambulance.

It could have gone better, is James’ point.

Brock pulls out his phone, shoots off the text, then opens his banking app. He chews his lip. “I’m gonna put another $50 in the joint account,” he says. “In case you need to take a cab or, just in case.”

“Thanks, babe.”

The microwave clock blinks past 7:30 and Brock’s going to be late for work if he doesn’t head out. Still, he lingers. 

“Steve,” he starts, and hesitates. He doesn’t wanna piss James off. “He’d understand, you know. If you had to rain check. Of all people, he’d get it.”

James sighs. “I haven’t seen him in…” It’s been a while. “I miss him.”

He can see Brock give up. “Okay, fine. Tell me how the wedding stuff’s going. Maybe today he’ll finally ask you.”

“If he asks – with more than a week’s notice,” James says, grinning, “I’ll be – impressed.” 

Brock downs his breakfast, dumps the plate and mug in the sink. He disappears into the bedroom for a moment, and James hears the beep of the gun safe. He comes back out into the kitchen, the SIG P226 now in his holster, and gives James a kiss goodbye.

“Have fun,” Brock says, and heads out the door.

James finishes breakfast, loads the dishwasher, then since there’s a few hours to kill in his day now, goes back to bed. He’s still kinda groggy, and it might make staying up through work easier. 

His alarm wakes him up at 11:30 and he’s already feeling clearer. Sleeping more was 100% the right call. It doesn’t always help, but today it did. He even manages to get a shave in. The bruise from yesterday doesn’t actually look that bad – barely any on his cheek, the worst of it on his temple. He leaves his hair down.

The cafe Steve picked is two and a half miles away, but it’s nice out and he’d rather walk that than put his brain through public transit. He texts Brock the address and lets him know he’s feeling better. Brock texts back right away.

Thx

Take it easy

Love you

It’s nice, having someone who cares enough to text back right away. Even when he’s busy with work, Brock always makes time for him.

Love you too, James texts back. He’s still kind of off-kilter, and if it was anyone else he might cancel, but he’s been really looking forward to seeing Steve all week.

They’d been fiercely close ever since they met, at eight and nine. Best friends all through middle school, but started drifting a little near the end of high school, when Steve’s mom’s lungs started getting worse and worse and Bucky’s family’s deli was really struggling. Then they’d had a big fight when Bucky joined the army, because Steve had always had opinions and at seventeen, their ability to have a mature conversation hadn’t caught up with the amount of bullshit they were both responsible for.

James hadn’t thought there’d actually be a war when he enlisted. He’d thought he’d be in the army and never see combat. It hadn’t even been that crazy a thing to think, he maintains. Brock never had. But with James’ luck, shit got bad in Sokovia during his first year in, and he was deployed overseas. Staying in touch with Steve or anyone hadn’t been so easy after that. Still, they’d kept emailing back and forth. James had managed to get leave for Sarah’s funeral, and Steve doubled down on emailing after that. He wrote him about everything: when he got into university, the excitement when they released a brand new CF treatment that hadn’t been around for his mom, the disappointment when it turned out it wouldn’t work on him. He wrote him when he met Peggy, when he started getting involved with all the activist stuff, the first time he got arrested. And when Bucky got blown up and discharged back stateside, Steve was one of his only friends that actually made an effort to answer when he reached out.

He can see Steve now, waiting for him at a patio table.

He’s sitting there, cannula in his nose, talking to two guys at a nearby table who look annoyed, as they slowly put out their cigarettes into the empty coffee cup between them. His oxygen tank has a couple new dents in it.

“Hey,” James comes up beside him. “Making friends?”

“Buck!” Steve almost knocks his oxygen tank over jumping up and pulling James into a hug. He’s the only one besides his family that still uses the childhood nickname. James wraps his arm around his skinny shoulders and gives him a squeeze. “You made it.”

“I’m not that much of a flake,” James snorts, sitting. He nods at the smokers, one of whom is still glaring at the back of Steve’s head. “What’s with them?”

Steve’s face goes all serious and self-righteous. “Outdoor seating doesn’t mean they should be smoking. There’s a baby right there.” James hadn’t noticed the carrier perched on a nearby table. The mom kept glancing over at Steve like she’d been about to tell the smokers off for lighting up next to a guy with an oxygen tank. 

“Second hand smoke’s no joke,” James says solemnly. “There oughtta be laws about it.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Someone had to say something.”

“‘Course they did. How’s Peggy?”

Steve melts. It’s super cute. 

And funny – all through school, James had to save Steve from getting his ass kicked because he was small and artsy and every kid in a five-mile radius wanted to beat him up and call him a fag. Now James has lived with his boyfriend for two years and Steve’s the straightest guy he knows. Go figure.

“She’s great,” Steve says. “Busy, though. She’s been working like crazy all month, trying to get all her cases through trial before we go on our honeymoon. Sometimes I don’t see her for two or three days at a time”

“What are the chances she has to do virtual court from London?” James asks, and Steve grins.

“Not zero, Buck.”

“Yeesh.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, starry-eyed. “And wedding stuff on top of that. I told you she’s getting her mom’s dress altered? I’ve never known as much about lace as I do now.”

“I’m glad one of you is making plans.”

“I made plans!” Steve says defensively. "I wrote my vows. I’m almost done the seating chart. I figured out the church and everything.” 

They’d had a whole back and forth, Steve had told him: Catholic or Anglican. They’d started arguing about it about a day after Steve proposed. The Anglicans had won in the end, since Steve wasn’t religious and had no living relatives. And Peggy’s family was paying.

“And how are we doing here?” The waiter comes over and James realizes he hasn’t actually looked at the menu yet. Or the prices. He needs to ask Brock how much is actually in the joint account. He hadn’t thought of it this morning. Whatever, he’s feeling fine, he’s not gonna need to get a cab, and $50 is more than enough for lunch. He thinks? He tries to think it through, and his head starts hurting, so he stops. It’s not a numbers kind of day.

“Ready to order?”

“Sorry,” Steve pulls out his notebook. “I need another couple minutes.” He opens the menu and starts figuring out the carb content of what he’s planning to eat. James’ stomach drops a little, watching him quickly scribble down calculations. He’d used to be good at math. He’d had to be, to be a sniper. Now sometimes he gets a headache trying to figure out the cost of lunch.

“Doesn’t the pump do that for you?” James asks. Steve’s hand goes instinctively to the little doohickey on his stomach, then comes back up.

“Just double checking,” he murmurs. “Not used to just letting it do all that for me yet.” Steve had been fighting with his insurance company to cover the pump for years, and now that he had a half-decent plan and was ‘diabetic enough’ whatever that meant, they finally had. But he wasn’t used to it yet. Plus, the coverage was gonna run out in six months. Which was partly why the wedding was being planned so soon.

“It’s Starktech,” James chuckles. “I’m pretty sure their engineers tested it.”

Steve scoffs. “Sure, to make sure it’s profitable to keep selling it to sick people with limited options.”

“Yeah, I’m not saying they don’t wring out sick people’s wallets, I’m just saying their tech works.”

Steve taps his notebook. “I just feel better double checking.”

“Fair enough,” James says.

He ends up going for a cheeseburger with a whole wheat bun that this joint thinks is worth $20. James stares at the menu and quickly realizes he’s stuck in that way that he knows means making decisions is gonna be hard today. He gets the daily lunch special. Plus a non-alcoholic beer.

When their food arrives, turns out the daily lunch special is pasta and a salad, which is fine.

“Wanna get a dessert after?” Steve asks. “My treat.”

“Peggy’s treat, you mean,” James ribs him, and Steve rolls his eyes.

“Okay, yeah, on Peg. Want to?”

“If you want.” He flips the menu over, looks at the back. “Hey,” he says, “what’s wrong with this menu?”

Steve flips his own over and smiles. “You want me to?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, well, starting with the font…”

Steve’s been doing that for James since they were kids. Brochures, menus, posters. Amateur art, when Steve was more into that kind of stuff. There’s something fun about hearing him pick apart something using standards James didn’t even know existed. James wishes there was something he knew enough about to do that. He’d wanted to go to college after the army – that had been the whole plan. But now with his whole host of issues, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to, even without the question of money. 

Steve is a semester away from finishing his graphic design undergrad. He’d started a few years late because of some badly timed infections and hospitalizations, and because he’d wanted to save up enough to pay for it. Of course, then he’d met Peggy, and now that wasn’t so much of a problem anymore. That had been a fight, he’d confessed to James once – he’d pushed to pay for it himself anyway, even though she had the money, but Peggy was maybe the only person who could make Steve see reason from time to time. And who ever won an argument with the guy.

James likes her a lot.

“What happened to your face?” Steve asks. Fuck. James tucks a bunch of hair over it absently, which just makes Steve frown and squint at the bruise. Oops. That probably drew more attention.

“Hit the doorframe,” James says, which isn’t exactly a lie. “Bad brain day, you know.”

Steve looks at him like he’s the irresponsible one. “If you’re still having dizzy spells, you gotta fall-proof your place. I read a—”

“I didn’t fall,” James groans. Normally, it’s a pain in the ass when Steve decides to share pro tips for the chronically ill, but today he’ll take the out. “Just lost my balance a little.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t ‘uh-huh’ me. That’s my patented ‘you’re being a dumbass’ uh-huh.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Hey,” James tries to change the topic. “What’s the story with Monty? Is he getting out on bail for the wedding?”

Steve grimaces. “No luck. Pipeline protests are always risky. The guys said he made a video during the action, though, in case he couldn’t be there in person.” 

“Steve, how many people on your side of this wedding don’t have a criminal record?” James asks, half to rib Steve a little, but half because he’s starting to get kinda nervous about how this will play out – his cop boyfriend in a room with ten to twenty felons.

Steve shrugs. “Peggy doesn’t.”

“The bride doesn’t count as someone on your si—"

“You don’t,” Steve says. Yeah, James thinks. That seems fair. War crimes apparently don’t count. 

Then Steve suddenly sits up straighter, his eyes go wide, and he obviously remembers something he had to say. “Speaking of the wedding. Bucky,” he takes a steadying breath and fiddles with his fork like he’s actually worried about what James will say. “Would you be my best man?”

Holy shit, he finally asked.

“Wow. I just…” James pretends to be shocked. “I didn’t realize you had so few friends.”

“Shut your—”

“Steve, of course I’ll be your best man. I’d be honoured.”

Steve’s whole face lights up with his smile. “Really?”

“I’ve only been waiting three fucking months for you to ask.” He’s grinning ear to ear. 

“What do you mean!” Steve exclaims. “Of course I was gonna ask.”

“Brock and I had a bet going on when you’d get around to it.”

“Tell me you won.”

“Fuck no!” James laughs. “I figured you’d ask me the week of.”

“Jesus, Buck.” Steve tries to look disappointed but his grin keeps fighting him. They clink glasses to it, and Steve smiles into his drink for a little bit. Then he looks back up. “How are things with Rum— Brock?” 

James pretends he doesn’t notice the slip. For a while, at first, Steve kept calling him ‘Detective Rumlow’, probably in an effort to make James call it off. He mostly stopped once they actually moved in together. James knows he still thinks it, though. 

“Good,” he says. “Really good, actually.”

“That’s great,” Steve says. 

“We’re trying to set up a thing with his sister again, so I can finally meet his nieces and nephew.”

Steve cringes. James has given him an earful about Anita and her views on her brother’s lifestyle. “Any luck?”

“No,” James admits. “He’s hopeful. I’m worried she’s gonna break his heart again.”

“That’s…” Steve shakes his head. He lets out a whoof of air.

“Yeah,” James agrees. “We’re seeing my family next weekend for Dad’s birthday. They all say hi, by the way. Mom told me to tell you she’s praying for your transplant to come through soon.”

Steve looks embarrassed. “Well, tell her thanks.”

“Mhm.”

Steve gets a wry twist to his mouth. “I think that’s technically praying for someone to die, but… I’ll allow it.”

James snorts. “I’ll tell her she’s absolved.”

“How are the kids?” James’ sisters have been ‘the kids’ since he and Steve were in middle school.

“I told you Becca’s starting at SUNY in September?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Accounting, right?”

“Big scholarship,” James adds, second-hand smug about it. “She’s doing a bunch of prep courses over the summer to get ready. I think she’s finished two and just started the last one.” James’ so proud he could burst. “She’s such a little nerd.”

First in the family to go to college. He’s running out of big brother advice to give her faster than he expected. She’s gonna go places he’s never been, places that weren’t ever on the table for him. Or, they were on the table, but then that table and everything on it got blown up on a dirt track in Sokovia and ended up with a TBI. 

Becca’s got her whole future ahead of her, though. He’s so happy about it it almost doesn’t make him sad.

***

“James,” Wanda says, waving him over. In her thick Sokovian accent there’s a d sound in the beginning. “Switch?” She wrinkles her nose at the next-to-last lab bench in the room, where thick greenish gunk cakes the walls of the sink.

He’s halfway through emptying out a shredder, which is annoying to do with one arm. It’s the last thing each of them has to do before they’re done for the night.  He shrugs. “Yeah, alright.”

It’s not as awkward with Wanda as it used to be, when she first started on night shift. Or, well. Not as awkward for James, anyway. Wanda never acts like it bothers her, his military service, the fact that she’d had to leave her home country as a refugee because of shit James and people like James did to turn it into an unlivable warzone. She’s much more focused on mining him for American dating advice.

“Anyway, I meet up with him for dinner Sunday,” she picks up again as they switch places, walking past each other across the lab floor. James finally understands why people watch reality TV, since he’s started getting treated to reruns of Wanda’s love life. “IT manager, in bank. I like him much more than the teacher last month.” 

“That’s great,” James says absently. “He sounds like a good guy.”

“Important part is we have third date and you must tell me which dress. Green dress or this blue dress.” She puts the shredder bin down long enough to flash him the photos on her phone. From this distance, he can barely make the pictures out.

“They’re both nice,” he says. Wanda’s looking at him expectantly. “The green one’s kinda see through.”

Wanda blinks at him, eyes wide. “And this is good?”

James shrugs. “I dunno. More revealing. Do you want that?”

Wanda’s expression goes flat. She puts her phone away. “I never meet gay man before I come to USA,” she says.

“That you know of,” James cuts in. She rolls her eyes.

“Television,” she continues, “tells me you are supposed to be helpful with this. But I finally make gay friend and you are useless.”

“Again,” James says. “Being gay doesn’t mean you know anything about women’s fashion. Also, for the hundredth time, I’m bi.”

Wanda waves him away. “You sleeping with man, yes?”

“Yes, but—"

“So why you make things so complicated?”

James can’t help being amused, even if he really should be annoyed. He’d maybe be more annoyed if she wasn’t barely older than Becca. 

“Wear the green one,” he says. 

Wanda’s eyes narrow. “I will wear blue.”

James bursts into laughter, and she grins at him. They work in silence for a while, until she pipes up again. “Your Brock is just regular gay, yes?”

“Yeah,” James says. He lifts up a finger. “I’m not asking him which dress.”

Wanda clucks her tongue. “He is good man. And well dressed. He would be helpful.” 

James snorts. “You know he only wears that suit to work, right? He only has one suit. He just bought four of the same suit.”

“At least he put in effort.” Wanda squints at him. “You not even bother with cover up. Yes,” she adds, when James looks up sharply, “Bruise is that obvious.”

James isn’t sure what to say for a moment. “You haven’t said anything all night.”

“If you want talk about it, you would talk about it,” she says, bringing it up anyways. “Not my business if you are having fight again.”

“We’re not fighting again,” James says, too quickly. Wanda looks at him sidelong. “We had one fight,” he corrects himself. “And we made up. We’re fine.”

“You still look like hooligan,” she says. “Next time, put ice on it quickly. Will bruise less. Tell Brock the same.”

“Sure.” James finishes up the sink. He wants this conversation over and done with. He holds the door open for Wanda to wheel out the cart as they go to clock out.

“And you are now pissed with me for good advice,” she bitches.

James sighs. “I’m not pissed at you. It’s just things were good for a while and I thought,” he feels like an idiot even saying it. “I thought we weren’t gonna fight anymore.”

“Couples fight,” Wanda shrugs. “Fight is normal. And two men…” she makes a face. “Ice,” she says.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Brock is waiting for him outside, parked in front of the building. James slides into the passenger seat and leans over to give him a kiss. He tastes like stale coffee and had a full day of work and still came to pick him up at 2am. 

“Wanda says hi,” James says, laying his head down on Brock’s shoulder. “She wants your gay fashion expertise.”

“Mmm,” Brock kisses James’ hair. “Feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” James says. “Thanks for picking me up.”

“Honestly,” Brock says, “I’ve been looking forward to it all day.”

James nuzzles into him. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just kind of a sad day at work. You know.”

“Yeah,” James says quietly.

“I made chicken, there’s a bunch left for you at home if you’re hungry.”

“Thanks,” James says. They stay like that for a moment. “I’m gonna be Steve’s best man.”

James feels Brock rumble a little under his head as he chuckles. “Told you he’d ask you.”

Brock kisses him again, and James comes off his shoulder and leans against the passenger window. He starts to doze off as Brock turns on the ignition.

Chapter Text

His knees are sore on the parquet, and his tongue is salty with the taste of his own come. He’s almost got it all – there’s one streak left he has to work his jaw to get. He’s focused, totally absorbed and still woozy post-orgasm. Brock ordered him to clean up his own mess. James licks it up. It’s what Brock wants, so it’s what James wants. 

His right arm is bent back and tied to the rope harness weaving around his chest, and his shoulder’s starting to ache. It had felt tight even before they started, just after Brock had finished tying it. But it was a tricky knot. Lotta work to re-tie, apparently. James hadn’t wanted to piss Brock off before the scene, and he’d wanted to get started himself anyway. He hadn’t pushed. It hadn’t seemed that important while Brock was playing with him. Now though, he’s noticing it again. 

“Good enough,” Brock says. “Up.”

Brock grabs his harness and hoists – James tries to follow him up but it’s hard to get purchase with how far apart the spreader bar’s keeping his ankles. He manages, and then he’s bent right back over the couch. With his arm behind him and his stump strapped down to the harness at his side, he can’t catch himself. The ache fades a bit with the change in angle. The blood rushes to his head – he’s dizzy with it.

It’s so good. When Brock first put the spreader bar on, he was sure he’d be suspended from the hook in their bedroom ceiling. But this is a fun change.

He stays there for who knows how long, until he feels a firm tap on his right ass cheek. Then a few more, one after the other, just a little ache. A warm-up.

“This is gonna hurt, baby,” Brock says. “You want it to hurt?”

“Please,” James slurs. He wants it. Brock wants it.

“Yeah?” Brock sounds delighted. He’s not spanking anymore.

“Plea—”

The cane swishes in the air and cracks across James’ ass. He cries out and doesn’t hear the second strike coming down. It hurts, like Brock said it would. The next few blows are lighter, stinging taps that blur into one big, burning wave. Then he whacks him, and James screams.

“Oh, what was that?” Brock chuckles. “Something to say?”

James shakes his head. He mumbles a reply, and isn’t even sure himself what he’s saying.

“Yeah, didn’t think so. ”

James feels a firm, abrupt tap on his sack, and he sucks in a sharp breath. He shifts a little against the couch, and feels it – he’s getting hard again, and his cock is trapped in the groove between two cushions.

“Don’t move,” Brock warns. “Next few are gonna be harder.”

James locks his knees. He can go harder. He can take it.

The wave starts up again, but each hit comes down heavier this time. He’s not ready when Brock lands a blow across the top of his thighs. He yelps when another one cracks over his ass.

Brock keeps going. James jumps at one of the hits, lifts his upper body a little off the couch, and the twinge of pain in his right shoulder flares back up, and some of the haze around him drops away fast.

“Brock,” he manages. It’s so hard to talk, and he knows it’s gonna piss him off, but… “Brock, it’s too tight…”

Brock makes an exasperated noise. “Oh, my fucking god,” he says, and hits him with the cane again, hard enough to make him groan. “Your bitching’s killing the scene. Fine.”

James hears the cane hit the floor. Then Brock loosens something in the harness, and the twinge in James’ shoulder disappears completely. He lets out a sigh of relief. But then he realizes, the rope around his left shoulder’s slipped off now. His stump is just out, hanging down into the air. When Brock fucks him, it’s gonna swing. James hates that.

“Brock—" he starts, but Brock doesn’t hear him. He brings the cane down again and maybe it’s not worth it. James just wants to enjoy this.

He takes a deep breath, tries to get back out of his head. He goes back under when Brock focuses on his thighs for a while, and the pain’s so warm and thick that he manages it. He barely notices when Brock stops.

There’s a cold shock when the lube hits his asshole. Brock rubs it around with his finger, and presses inside. James sucks in a breath. 

“After I fuck you,” Brock says, breathy, “you’re gonna come again.”

“Yes, sir,” he says.

Brock pulls his finger out and a second later, presses the blunt head of his dick against James’ asshole. His hands close around James’ hips – his fingers are digging in hard. James relaxes into the pressure, the burn around the rim giving way as Brock bottoms out inside him. He holds still. Long enough for James to catch his breath. Brock’s happy sigh is warm against his neck.  

“You want me to fuck you?” Brock breathes. James nods desperately. “Use your words, idiot. If I wanted you to be quiet, I’d have gagged you.”

James swallows. “Fuck me,” he manages.

“You givin’ me orders now?”

“Please,” James corrects. He needs Brock to move – he’s just there, a heavy weight inside him. “Please fuck me, sir, please—” Brock jerks his hips back, pulling out halfway. Then he slides back in. It’s so slow it almost hurts. “No!” He says desperately.

“What, you want me to slow down?” James can hear the smile in his voice. He draws back and the next thrust burns all the way through. James could scream. 

“No, no, faster, please. Please fuck me faster.”

“Look at that,” Brock praises, and thank fuck he’s already speeding up. “Quick on the uptake today.” James tries to press back against him, to take him deeper, but he’s bent in half over a couch and on his tiptoes. He can’t move any way Brock doesn’t make him. The thought makes him dizzy. Makes his cock jerk.

Brock’s hand closes around a fistful of James’ hair and pulls his head up at an angle that leaves him choking.

“I didn’t…” Brock pants, still driving into him, “hear a ‘thank you’.”

“Thank you,” James coughs out. He sounds wrecked. Brock throws his head back down on the couch. “Thank you, sir.” Brock picks up the pace.

His stump starts swinging back and forth a little, and James focuses as hard as he can on ignoring it. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is what Brock wants, what Brock wants him to do.

Even though Brock untied the fucking thing—

A well-aimed thrust makes James see stars for a second, and it’s easier to not think about it after that. With the way Brock is fucking him, his cock is getting friction rubbing up against the crack in the cushions where it’s trapped. He’s getting close.

He lets out a noise, and Brock must see what’s happening, because he grabs his harness and hoists him up to standing. He wraps an arm around his chest, keeping him up.

“Nuh uh,” he says. “You’ll wait until I’m done.” 

That makes James’ cock jump, and he pants out a, “Yes, sir.”

“And why’s that, huh?”

“Because… ’cause you said to.”

“Yeah,” Brock groans. “Yeah, you just do what I say. Whatever I say. A perfect fuck toy, that’s what you are.”

James’ eyes snap open. They’d talked about this. They didn’t get all touchy feely about their sex lives, but back when they’d started, Brock had asked if James had any hard ‘no’s. And this wasn’t like the stump. Or even a chronic pain thing. James just didn’t get the fucking appeal of stripping a person down to a thing.

“Yeah,” James says, just to get him to stop talking. He shuts up for a minute, and it’s so goddamn good – he pounds into him and it feels so goddamn good.

“Say it,” Brock pushes. He’s squeezing James tight around the chest, twisting the harness so the rope bites in under James’ nipple. He moans, and Brock’s breathing’s gone choppy. He’s close. “Say you’re my perfect fuck toy.”

James doesn’t want to say that.

“Sir—"

“Say it,” Brock says again, then James feels Brock’s hands squeeze tighter, his thighs go tense, and he feels hot come flood inside him.

They both stand there for a moment, breathing heavily. Brock relaxes his grip a little, strokes James’ chest. Then he shoves him forward so he falls back against the couch.

“Finish yourself off,” Brock’s voice is all breathy and blissed out. “Give me a good show.”

James’ toes scrabble on the floor as he shuffles to get his cock back between the couch cushions. He’s so hard it feels like the thing is vibrating. He tries not to think about Brock watching his stump bounce around as he fucks the couch. He’s worked up enough that it’s over soon.

Suddenly he’s coming, hard, and he’s standing upright – Brock’s hands, pulling on the harness, the ropes digging into his skin.

“Knees,” Brock says, and James’ legs are limp anyway. Brock lowers him down and watches as James’ cock pulses, and he comes on the floor between them. “There you go.” James closes his eyes. 

It’s so warm. He’s floating, and Brock’s happy with him, and he did good. He did good and so he’s—

He’s shaking. He thinks he’s gonna cry.

Brock’s gone. He looks around, and can’t find him. James whips his head from side to side, trying to see where he went, and nearly loses his balance. Did he leave him? Leave him alone? Brock’s hands catch him, and he’s straightened up.

“Whoa,” Brock says, rubbing his flank. “Easy.”

“You left,” James chokes out.

“Just went to get some ice for you, calm down,” Brock says. “Lay down.”

He arranges James face down – there’s some cushions on the floor, he hadn’t noticed Brock put them there – when he’s flat on his stomach, Brock holds the cloth-wrapped ice pack to his ass. James hisses.

He cries a little into the pillow. It’s not that it hurts – though his ass hurts, it’s just… he’s not sure. Too many fireworks went off in his brain, and now he’s fizzling and sputtering and careening to the ground.

“Jesus, if you don’t want my help I can leave,” Brock snaps.

“No!” James’ arm is still tied behind his back but he tries to reach for Brock anyway. “Please, don’t go.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Brock huffs. His hands are on James, though, and that’s better. That’s better. He’s starting to loosen the harness. “I hate when you get like this.”

James presses his head against Brock’s thigh and doesn’t say anything.

Slowly, he pulls himself together. It takes a little bit, but he feels more level headed and less like shattered glass. Brock’s got most of the ropes off by then. James’ hand is still a little numb. He slides his arm in front to look it over and winces at the pinch in his shoulder.

“Hm?” Brock’s turned his attention to the spreader bar. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” James says, and wipes his eyes. “Sorry. I don’t know why I was being weird.”

Brock squeezes his calf. “Don’t worry about it.” He lifts James’ ankles out of the spreader bar cuffs, and chuckles. “I’m gonna get the Lysol.”

James hears him stand and start digging around the cupboard under the sink. The rope left deep, red imprints twisting around his forearm. He grins a little, seeing that. He’ll have to wear long sleeves to dinner with the family tonight, but it’s absolutely worth it. He looks down and sees matching red lines wrapping around his chest from the harness. It’s not often that he likes looking at himself, these days. The rope marks are a nice exception.

Brock comes back with the Lysol and starts cleaning off the couch, for real. He’s put his boxers back on and it leaves James feeling uncomfortably naked. Also, he’s starting to shiver.

“Hey,” James says, grabbing a blanket and wrapping it around himself. “Can you – not say the thing, about the fuck toy?”

“Which thing?”

“Where you called me a fuck toy,” he says. He licks his lips. He’s thirsty. “I don’t really like that.” Brock turns to him, surprised.

“Since when?” Brock demands.

“I dunno. Remember, I told you before not to call me a hole?” Brock used to say that kind of thing a lot. And every time he called James ‘just a warm hole’ he’d get sucked right out of his nice headspace. It took him a few months to get the courage to bring it up. “It’s kinda like that.”

“It’s just dirty talk, baby,” Brock says.

“Yeah, but… I dunno. Makes it seem like…” How can he possibly explain this? “Like you don’t respect me.”

Brock laughs, and James feels his face go hot. “Okay,” he says, “I’ll be more respectful next time I make you lick up your own come and beg me to fuck you.”

“Just don’t fucking say it,” James snaps. “Please?” he adds, to soften it a little.

Brock sucks his teeth and nods slowly. “Anything else?” he says, and his tone puts James on alert.

“Well…” he says, and Brock’s eyes widen, incredulous. But James keeps going. If he doesn’t say it now, he’s not gonna say it. “My stump, right? I’ve said before how I don’t like… don’t like it waving around everywhere when we have sex. Then I’m,” he pauses. It’s not easy to find the right words. “I’m aware of it, and I feel like you’re watching me and—"

“You told me to untie it!”

“I just said the rope was too tight. I wanted you to re-do it a little, not—”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Just re-do it.” Brock shakes his head. “It’s not that easy to untie and tie a billion different complicated knots and keep the thing perfectly intact on one side but not the other, especially when I’m thinking with my dick.”

“Okay, but—"

“If you’d just let me keep it on, then your stump would’ve stayed at your side the way you like.”

“My shoulder was hurting!” James insists, because it felt like something could’ve gone really wrong if it pulled any more the wrong way. “It didn’t feel right. It hurt.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be a masochist?” Brock scoffs. “I thought that was the whole point.”

That’s – true, but – James breathes in deep, huffs out through his nose. He doesn’t know how to explain this.

“It didn’t feel right,” he says. “Will you just trust me on this?”

“Well trust me that I had to either fix it and have your stump be loose or leave it as is.”

James chews the inside of his cheek. “It kinda felt like you did it on purpose.”

“Did what on purpose?” Brock explodes. “What you fucking asked me to do?”

James feels hollowed out. He doesn’t have the energy for this right now. “Never mind,” he says. It’s not that important.

“Fine.” Brock stands, kneading at his temples. “Why do you have to make this so difficult?”

“I’m sorry,” James says. “I’m not trying to.”

“You came twice. You’re telling me it wasn’t good?”

“It was, but…”

“You wanna do vanilla stuff? Is that it?”

“No!” That’s not what he wants at all. “No, I love the stuff we do,” he says earnestly. He swallows. He does, it’s just that sometimes he wishes they could… tweak some of it. 

“Well, me too,” Brock says back. They go quiet for a moment, awkward in the silence. Brock sighs. “Is your shoulder okay now?”

Now James just feels embarrassed about the whole thing. He shouldn’t have brought it up. 

“Yeah.”

Brock walks back over to James and crouches down beside him. “C’mere,” he says, holding out his arm. James cuddles in close, and Brock wraps his arm around him. He leans in for a kiss, and James kisses him back.

Brock checks the microwave clock. “Look, we’re having a nice day. Right? A nice day off. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” James says. It is nice. Brock kisses him one more time, then stands.

“We’ve got to be at your parents’ place in an hour and a half. Get yourself cleaned up and we’ll go. It’ll be fun. Yeah? ”

“Yeah.” He’s been looking forward to seeing his sisters.

“Okay.”

Whatever it was that made James feel weird is already basically gone. Brock’s right – they’ll pick this up another time. Probably.

***

“—some grappling last week, finally, and we’ve got this mini-tournament thing with a sister gym this week, so I told Mr. Zhou I couldn’t work the weekend and,” Irene shrugs. She’d eaten half her dinner standing up while Ma set the table. James fights the urge to tell her she’ll choke on her potatoes. “And he said, sure, fine, whatever. So,” she’s beaming. “I get to compete! Like actually a real BJJ tournament. It’s like, almost more fun than wrestling?”

“Whoa, kiddo,” Brock says solemnly. “You’re gonna break your coach’s heart.”

“I’m obviously joking. I already promised him I’d try out for nationals next year.”

“Oh, we’ll get you to nationals,” Brock says, and winks at her. She grins. “Did you call Jasper yet?”

Brock had won over Irene quick when James first introduced him. He’d been a little nervous about it – it was pretty cute, actually – worried that he wouldn’t have much in common with a teenage girl. Turned out, Brock had been a high school wrestling champion, and he’s been having a blast giving her advice the past two years.

“I sent him an email,” Irene says. Everyone at the table starts shaking their heads. James pinches the bridge of his nose dramatically.

“Why, because you want him to reply in a month?” Becca, who had been too shy to call SUNY about her campus living stipend unless James was sitting beside her coaching her through it, now figures she’s an adult. James snorts, and she kicks him under the table.

“Just pick up the phone, it doesn’t just play videos,” he says.

“Bucky’s right,” Ma adds. “It was very nice of Brock to get you that number. Call the man, you said you would.”

“Yeah, you said you would,” Ruthie chimes in, because the little squirt doesn’t ever want to feel left out. James flashes her a thumbs up and she grins. 

Beside James, Dad smiles across the table at Irene. “Lay off her, everybody. She’s gonna figure it out.”

“Sure she will,” James backs him up. “Olympic wrestling champion Irene Eleanor Barnes, I can see it now.” She’s rolling her eyes, but James honestly could believe it. “With a stack of medals standing on the… the…” Fuck. What’s that thing called?

“Bucky?” Ma’s eyebrows are pinched. Her voice goes all soft, the way James remembers whenever any of them were sick as kids. “Are you alright, hon? Do you need to—”

“Fine,” he says sharply. 

“Podium,” Brock says. James snaps his fingers.

“Thank you! The podium.” 

The mood’s changed. Ma’s still looking at him like she expects him to collapse face down onto his plate. Dad’s not looking at him at all.

“She can buy us each a fancy car,” Becca adds. “And Dad a new telescope.”

Dad snaps out of it a little. “I’ll take the car,” he says gamely. “My telescope’s fine.”

“Oh yeah,” James remembers. “Ma said you were driving out with Richard tonight.”

Dad nods, smiling. “There’s supposed to be a real clear view of the Milky Way rising tonight. Gonna drive up to Twin Groves.”

“Oh yeah?” James asks. “Do you guys have a specific spot in mind?”

Dad chatters away about dark sky zones and elevation and the other stuff that’ll be visible with the cloud cover or without the cloud cover, and James half-listens. He likes listening to him talk about his astronomy stuff. He sounds excited, and like he knows his way about things. 

He used to be always butting into James’ business to give him advice about something or other – girls and school and up to joining the army. 

But since James came home from Sokovia, he’s been quiet. Like there’s no point giving James advice anymore, since his life is so far off what he’d expected from his son. He’s less full of opinions when it comes to what the girls should do, too. Like he’s lost his confidence since James fucked up so bad.

It’s nice hearing him get excited about something.

“We did a planetarium trip with the kids at camp,” Ruthie pipes up. “Jonah said I knew more constellations than anyone.”

Ruthie’s already informed James about how Jonah, the sixteen-year-old senior counselor at Bright Minds Day Camp, is amazing. He plays guitar. He has long hair. He likes that one book series with the dragons.

Brock locks eyes with James, amused, before he turns to Ruthie. 

“What other kinda stuff are you doing at camp?” he asks her.

“Crushing on Jonah,” Irene throws in without a second’s hesitation.

“Shut up!” Ruthie squeals, and Ma raises a finger at her. “Sorry! Camp’s fun! Tomorrow we’re doing like a ‘science fair day’ for the kids, and we’re each gonna have a group of five to watch over.”

“They paying you for this?” Brock asks.

“Yeah, twenty bucks a week! It’s part of the Counselor-In-Training program.” 

“Good,” Brock says seriously. “Put it on the resume.”

“We already told her that,” Becca’s tone is suddenly a lot less friendly. James gives her a look but she’s just staring Brock down, like she always does. “She’s already done it.”

There’s an awkward beat.

“That’s great,” Brock says, then stuffs his mouth with chicken.

James shifts around, and a welt on his ass flares, making him wince. This time Brock notices. He raises a brow at James, and James can’t help but smile, fighting to keep himself from flat-out grinning like an idiot. Brock smiles sneakily back at him.

James looks over at the dish of chicken, hunting for seconds – a wing or a leg, something he can eat without a fork and knife. Damn it, there’s only breasts left. Ma catches him looking.

“Do you want me to cut one up for you?” she offers. It grates at him a little, even though he’s not sure why – she used to do that for him all the time after he first lost his arm. She’s trying to be helpful, he reminds himself.

“I’m okay.” He’ll just have more potatoes or something.

“Or… maybe Brock could—”

“Ma, I’ve been eating with one arm for three years—"

“Here, babe,” Brock says, bringing his own plate over. “I have a drumstick left.” He plops it onto James’ plate, then stands up to reach over and take a breast for himself.

Ma looks delighted. Thank god her crippled son has such a nice, caring man to look after him. 

“Thanks,” James says, and picks the drumstick up.

Ma reaches for the chicken, too, and scoops a piece onto Becca’s plate, then her own.

“Ma,” Becca groans, “I told you—"

“And I said you could be vegetarian when you move into your dorm.”

Becca pauses, sighs, then starts eating her chicken. 

“Jonah’s a vegetarian,” Ruthie pipes up. James shouldn’t be surprised. “He says it’s good for, like, the environment?” 

Irene grins. “Maybe you should become one, too.”

Ma glares at her. “Irene, don’t. I don’t need another one.”

“I’m eating the chicken!” Becca interjects, mouth full.

When it’s time to clear away the table and get dessert, James is going in and out of the living room and the kitchen trying to help against Ma’s wishes. She keeps trying to send him away. Brock’s already been kicked out, and is sitting on the couch with Dad chatting about Brock’s work. James gets the last few plates from the table.

Becca corners him in the little hallway in front of the kitchen.

“Hey,” she says. “You’re still good to move me in on the 1st?”

“Yeah, of course,” he says. “Brock took the day off and everything. We’ll come get you at like seven?”

Becca blinks at him. “Brock’s coming?”

James sighs. “Becca. Yes. How did you think we were gonna move you in with three arms between the two of us?”

She makes a face. “We could figure it out.”

“Becs…”

“Bucky, come on, I haven’t spent a day with just you in like, a year.”

James freezes. “That’s not true,” he says immediately. She raises an eyebrow. He thinks back. Holy shit, is that true? The last time he hung out with Becca, one-on-one… he honestly can’t remember.

“After Jenny’s party, when I was super—" she lowers her voice every further, “—drunk and I couldn’t go home, so I came over to yours. And Brock was at work. That was last May.”

“We’ll find some time—”

“I’m moving halfway across the state and you can barely drive on like, one in five da—” she cuts herself off and glances over her shoulder, to the kitchen where Ma and Ruthie are busy with the birthday candles. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“I can drive fine.”

“I know you can drive. I didn’t mean that.”

“I,” James sighs. “Look, we’ll hang out. It’s been a busy year for you, and it… it happens. I still have a lot of days that I’m not great company. I’ve gone months without seeing Steve sometimes. It happens.”

“Who cares about Steve, I’m your sister!”

“We’ll find some time,” James promises. “When you’re back for reading week, we’ll plan something.”

“Cool. I’ll put ‘see my brother’ in my calendar for like four months from now.”

“That’s just what being an adult’s like sometimes,” James shrugs. “And you can always text and call me and stuff.”

“Can I?” she says. “What if your phone gets ‘broken’ again?”

James just stares at her, caught off guard.

“Look,” he catches himself. “Let’s go do cake, okay? And I’ll talk to Brock, I’ll get us some one-on-one time when we drive you up. Just – it’ll be nice, okay? I promise.”

Becca looks unconvinced, but she’s never been able to stand her ground very long against James.

“Okay,” she says. He sets the plates down, then wraps his arm around her. He kisses her on the temple.

“Alright.” He picks the plates back up again. “Come on. Cake.”

***

James drives them back, feeling nice but vaguely relieved to be going home, and guilty about being vaguely relieved, the way he always does after seeing his parents. 

Brock’s in the passenger seat, looking thoughtful. He hasn’t spoken for a while.

“Becca’s still not my biggest fan, huh?” he says suddenly. 

James sighs. It’s true. “She’s going into college,” he says. “All her friends are vegetarians, and into social justice stuff… they don’t like cops.”

“You think that’s what it is?”

It has to be that. The rest of James’ family loves Brock.

“She just takes a while to warm up to people.” Brock hums like he doesn’t really buy the excuse. “Hey,” James remembers. “Did you pay for my phone plan this month?”

“Yeah.” Brock frowns. “Why, something not working?”

“No, no. It’s fine. Just checking. Forgot if I asked you about it already.”

The car jerks to a stop at a red light and James winces as the welts on his ass press against the seat. 

“Comfy?” Brock’s grinning.

“Shut up,” James takes his hand off the wheel to shove Brock’s shoulder. “Wanna see what fun colours I’ve turned when we get home?”

“Hell yeah,” Brock says. 

James presses on the gas the second the light turns green.

***

James is almost half an hour early for group. It’s long enough that he takes a walk in the little park across from the VA. He can still see the building from there, so it’s a good spot to wait without getting turned around and lost. The path’s almost empty. There’s a cute jogger with her headphones in, in a little blue sports bra, and two old guys talking over each other on a park bench. James starts to walk. The path is a loop – he can’t get lost on a loop.

It starts to drizzle a little on his second lap, and by the third it’s really coming down. James pulls his hood up and picks up his pace. He’ll finish, and then head over. He doesn’t realize how close he’s walking to the jogger until she glances over her shoulder.

The look on her face.

James stops in his tracks. The girl’s eyes are wide, scared, and she runs the last few feet out of the park and across the street as the crosswalk light changes. He needs to cross the street, too, but fuck if he’s gonna follow her after that. 

Women do that now. And kids. When he’s walking down the street. Worse on a bad brain day, when he’s probably acting a little crazy. When his hair’s probably a little messy. He shoves his hand in his pocket and walks another lap in the rain. He still shows up ten minutes early for group.

Sarah’s at the reception desk today. Her hair looks different – it’s in these tight twists, pulled back behind her head. For a split second, she looks tense, but when he pulls his hood down and she recognizes him, her whole body relaxes. She rolls her eyes, good-naturedly. James flashes her his trademarked smile.

“Sam’s setting up down the hall,” she says. “If you wanna help him out.”

“Hello to you, too,” he chuckles. “It has been a while and it sure is nice to see you after so long. How’ve you been?”

“Hi,” and now he’s got a smile out of her. She’s got a great smile. “Welcome back. We missed you around here.”

“Not as much as I missed you,” he says. 

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, waving him off, “seeing my pretty face is the real therapy, I’ve heard it before.”

“Stealing all my best lines.” He sighs, put-upon, and leans on her counter. “Guess I’ll have to get creative.”

“Go help my brother,” she says.

“If I go, will you let me buy you a coffee?”

“I’ll let you bring doughnuts next week,” she offers.

He drums his fingers on the counter, thinking. “Deal,” he grins. “Boston Cream still your favorite?”

Sarah just points down the hall. She’s still got a little smile tugging at her lips, though, so he’ll count it as a win. He used to be good at this. It’s not so easy now.

Brock says he should wear a hat or a pin or something to show he’s a vet, that way people would give him the benefit of the doubt. But he doesn’t really want to advertise that shit. He shouldn’t get a free pass for looking and acting like a psycho just because the DoD was footing the bill on the mission that fucked him up. 

Sam’s got the chairs set up in a circle. He’s pouring himself a paper cup of coffee from the table at the back.

“Hey!” he says when he sees James. “Good to see you, man!”

Suddenly, James is kind of embarrassed how long it’s been since he actually came here.

“You too,” he says.

“How you been?”

James pours himself some tea. “Kinda ruining the suspense asking, aren’t you?” he jokes, gesturing at the circle of chairs. Sam smiles politely. It’s not nearly as nice as his sister’s.

“Just checking in,” he says. “Still working?”

“Yeah, I’m still with the temp agency. Mostly janitor work, still.”

“That’s great, man,” Sam says earnestly. He’s so goddamn genuine about it, like keeping a part-time job that pays less than minimum wage is such an accomplishment. Like the bar for James is that low. “And things with Brock?”

“Yeah. Really good.” James eyes the packets of sugar. “He should be able to swing by this weekend to volunteer,” he mentions. He grabs two and opens them with his teeth. Sam doesn’t say anything about it.

“Oh, good! Everyone loves him around here. He’s got a real gift for getting the quieter ones to open up.”

James had been one of the quiet ones. Still processing that this was his life now as Brock had helped him make sense of his disability benefits. Everyone else had been plastered-on-smile positive about it. Brock was the only one who’d agreed that the whole thing was bullshit. They’d been able to start having actual conversations after that.

James had asked him out to coffee after a couple weeks, and Brock had grinned and said, “Then let’s get these fucking forms in today so you can treat me on Friday.”

“He gets more than a smile out of me,” James says, because for some reason he’s an asshole who wants to get a reaction out of Sam. But Sam just smiles.“But yeah,” James says, abandoning ship. “Things are really good.”

“Good. That’s great to hear.”

James is done talking about himself. Not like there’s that much to say. “He said you were only here two days a week now. Finally got your own practice going?”

It’s annoying, how Sam looks pleasantly surprised that James still knows how to small talk. 

“It’s getting there. I’m telling everyone to recommend me to their cop, paramedic, firefighter friends, you know? The therapist for all the people who think they don’t need one.”

James huffs out a laugh. Brock mentioned that part, too. How he’d like to help Sam out, but come on. Which of his work friends would take that conversation well? 

Sam looks over James’ shoulder at the door, and grins. “Hey, Frank! Good to see you.” He turns back to James. “Gonna make the rounds before we start, okay?”

“Sure.” 

James hangs back as the room fills up, drinking his tea. There’s more people here than he remembers last time. Lots of new faces. Or maybe he just forgot their faces. Fuck, he hopes Sam won’t make them do the whole song and dance of explaining when and where and how their lives got so fucked that they ended up here. 

Maybe it’ll just be tell me about what’s new this week. He’d actually rather talk about that – Dad’s birthday and Becca’s college plans and Steve asking him to be best man.

“James?” Sam’s gently ushering everyone to sit down. There’s only one or two others still standing around the edges. “We’re about to get started. Wanna take a seat?”

He doesn’t, not really. But he’s here, isn’t he? What the fuck else is he supposed to do?

James sits, and spends the first half hour listening to a bunch of newbies share their sob stories. The next hour’s a bit better. One of the other amputees complains that it’s allowed for his work to pay him less than minimum. Another guy with a TBI agrees, and James gets into a bit of a discussion with him about how yeah, it sucks, but it’s not like they’re as reliable as normal people. They talk about that for a bit. He does get to share the best man thing, which is nice. People clap, which feels excessive, though.

“Congrats,” Ryan – who James actually does remember – tells him, and then it’s his turn to share. He starts on about how he’s always fighting with his wife now. 

James kind of wants to chime in, because he and Brock have had some fights in the past and they’ve figured it out – maybe he has some tips. But he doesn’t. With other vets… he still doesn’t always know, despite the rainbow stickers Sam aggressively puts on the walls, how that’d play out. He keeps his mouth shut.

“—and as usual,” Sam says, closing them out, “I’m here same time next week, and Thursdays. And reach out to me whenever. I never sleep.” Everyone chuckles. Sam gives out his personal phone number and email address to all his clients, which James thinks is a little nuts. “Remember,” Sam says, “I’m here for you, and you’re all here for each other.”

***

“Babe!” James calls. He’s on the couch, hunched over his laptop. Attempt number two at Thai curry is simmering on the stove. It’ll be fine for another twenty minutes. “What’s my banking password?” He’s tried the one he has written down twice, and he’ll get locked out if he gets it wrong again. He presses the post-it note down more firmly on the side of the screen.

“C1J605 question mark question mark,” Brock calls back from the bathroom. James types it in.

“How the fuck do you remember that?” he grumbles. “Weren’t there exclamation marks before?”

“That was last month.” James can hear Brock clipping his toenails.

“Why do you have to change it every month?”

“You want us to get hacked?”

“Honestly?” James pictures it. “If someone hacks me, they can have my medical bills.”

He hears Brock snort. “Yeah,” he says, “but then I’ll never hear the end of it from Ramirez in cyber crime.”

James logs in, moves the temp agency portal to another window, and slowly, slowly, starts making sure they actually paid him for all his hours.

“All good?” Brock asks, coming into the living room. 

“Mhm.”

He leans over James, kisses him on the cheek, and stays there looking at his screen. 

“You’re not available to work on Wednesday,” he points out.

“Hm?”

Brock taps the calendar on the temp agency portal. “You’ve got physio all afternoon, you’re not gonna be in any shape to work.”

“Oh yeah,” he says, and toggles the thing to the red ‘unavailable’ setting. He stares at the screen. There’s barely any green at all. “Shit,” he says.

“What?”

“I’ve only got two shifts free for the next week. And one’s a half-shift.”

Brock leans back on the couch. “Okay?”

“Well, if I wake up on either of those days and can’t work, then I don’t really have any income for like… a week.” Not to mention he’d worked less than ten hours this week. “And they’ve already given me shit for being flaky. They’re gonna quit staffing me if I keep this up.”

“That’s fine,” Brock shrugs. James looks at him in disbelief. How is that fine? “I’ve got rent covered, alright? And we’ve topped up your meds. There’s no big expenses coming up. And, anyway, look,” he sighs, and sits on the couch beside him. “Go to your checking account.”

“I’m in my checking account.”

“No, go up to the total balance.” Brock starts scrolling up, and explaining how there’s a hundred something here, but if he looks at their joint account here – no, it’s with the other bank, babe, click here – there’s actually another couple hundred he can use and when his disability check comes in, too, there’s more numbers and James just stops hearing them. He watches the screen flick from account to account and the numbers all blur together. He’s still stuck adding the first things Brock said to add, and Brock’s miles ahead of that now. He’s got no idea how long he can go without working if they stop giving him hours.

“If you just move a hundred bucks or so, you can—" Brock stops talking, cause he must see James is starting to get overwhelmed. “Here,” he says, taking the laptop. “I’ll do it.”

There’s a little voice in the back of his head saying he should know what’s going on with his own money, but it’s just so much easier when Brock takes over like this. Math’s not as easy as it used to be for him. It’s not like most of the money he uses is his own anyway. 

The timer on his phone goes off. Rice is done. “Gonna go check on dinner,” James says, getting up. Brock mhms. He’s got his banking app open now and he’s doing something James can’t keep up with.

The curry hasn’t boiled over this time, so that’s a win. James turns down the heat and tries a spoonful. It’s hilarious how much less spicy it is than the last attempt. This one’s actually edible. He takes the rice off the stove and pulls some salad things out of the fridge. Sam keeps trying to push adaptive kitchen equipment on him, but he’s not gonna spend ninety bucks just because he can’t figure out how to keep a tomato still. He’s got the lettuce cleaned, chopped and in a bowl by the time Brock comes over. 

“Need a hand?” Brock jokes, sitting down at the kitchen island.

James snorts, and carefully cuts an onion down the middle. “Sure, you wanna fly out to Sokovia and find it for me? Food’s done, just gonna take an hour to cut up this salad, as usual.”

“You want help?” Brock offers, knowing James is gonna say no. He does, and Brock shrugs and starts laying out some newspaper over the half of the island that isn’t covered in salad-to-be. 

“What are you doing?”

“Gonna clean my gun.”

“Right beside the food?”

Brock rolls his eyes, and moves half a foot to the right. He disappears into the bedroom and comes back with the Sig and his cleaning kit. James wrinkles his nose when he opens the canister of solvent.

“Again, right beside the food?”

“Like it smells worse than some of the stuff you’ve cooked.”

James rolls his entire head. “The one time I make you a perfect curry, you’d rather stink up the place with—”

“Is this the coconut chicken thing again?”

“Yeah, but this time I got it right!” James says, grinning.

Brock looks skeptical. “Am I gonna be shitting fire at work again?”

“No.”

“Mhm.” Brock suddenly puts the gun down. “Oh! Forgot to – here.” He takes out his phone, scrolls through, and whips it around to show James the screen. James leans in and stares at what looks like a beautifully restored 1964 Shelby Cobra parked outside the sandwich place near Brock’s work. The light’s gleaming off its silver-blue exterior. He whistles lowly.

“Holy shit,” he says. “That was there today?”

“Yeah,” Brock grins. “Look at it.”

“1964?”

“‘62, I think.” Brock stares admiringly down at the photo with James. “Didn’t get a chance to see who was driving it.”

“That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” James says. “Send that to my dad.”

“Sure. His buddy Carlos ever restore one of those?”

“No,” James says, “but have I told you about the ‘73 Tri-Five Chevy?” He’s pretty sure he has, same as he’s told Brock about all the classic cars he used to help Carlos fix up when he was a kid. Brock shakes his head though, and smiles, and listens to him tell the story one more time.

When the salad’s done, they sit down to eat in front of the TV. James scrolls through Netflix for something to watch while Brock digs in. After a few bites, he admits James got the curry right this time. 

“But I’m holding off final judgment until tomorrow night, if I get through the whole day without shitting fire.”

“Fair enough,” James snorts.

He lands briefly on a documentary, the image for which shows a leather daddy with his arms crossed over his chest. The title, in all capital letters, reads “THE SCENE”. James leers over at Brock.

“Fuck off,” Brock says, mouth full. “No.”

“Don’t you wanna learn about our community?”

Brock rolls his eyes. “Been there, done that,” he says. “Found the one good sub and got out.” He presses into James.

“Amen to that.” James keeps scrolling. He had actually tried out ‘the kink scene’, back when he’d first come home. Gone to a couple munches where there were a lot people that got cold when James used the wrong word for kink shit he’d never actually tried in real life yet. Or accidentally called someone the wrong pronoun or the wrong term. Like he was supposed to know this shit – like he was supposed to have fucking studied what the right words for people and kink stuff was when he’d been in the fucking army in the closet.

They’d been more interested in showing off how much more experienced they were than actually showing him the ropes.

Not to mention the one or two who’d drooled over his stump. Or the ones who’d gotten weird the other way about it and asked way too many questions to “check in” that he “felt safe” every other sentence.

James had given up after three or four of those meetings. He’d stayed away from any of the online stuff, too. He could figure it out just fine with Brock, and Brock didn’t make him feel like he was constantly doing something wrong. 

James stops scrolling when he finds the show he’s been looking for. Brock looks up from his bowl and groans.

“No,” he says immediately. “Nuh uh.”

“Just give it a chance,” James pleads. “I’ve wanted to watch this for weeks.”

“I’d almost rather go back to the kink documentary,” Brock grumbles. “Keep scrolling. I’m not watching more of your sci-fi shit.”

“Come on, we never watch what I pick.”

“James,” Brock warns. 

“Baby, it’s not even that sci-fi. There’s no spaceships, I promise. And it has good fight choreo – like really good, they cast that MMA fighter you like as the main bad guy, the one with the face tattoo—”

“Fine. Fine.” Brock rubs a hand over his eyes. “But there better not be any… fucking, aliens painted green.”

“I guarantee all the aliens just look like regular people.”

***

They                were supposed to

Go to the                                             gym

Today.

“Babe? You awake?”

James is so. He’s – like clouds. Foggy. He wants to push. Push the fog out. Rubs his eyes.

Can’t move his hand.

Hands? Hand.

“James? Shit.”

Brock’s talking to him. He’s home. Are the girls home? He should know this. He should fucking know this. He should fucking—

“Baby, do you feel sick?”

Sick… yeah, he’s fucking sick, his brain is fucked up, everything’s fucked up, Brock should know this by now—

“Okay, okay.”

Brock’s hands are on his shoulders, turning him onto his side, pillows stacked up along his back to keep him there. He’s gonna.

“There you go,” Brock says, and James smells himself puke into a plastic bag. Brock leaves and their bedroom is

Very long. Stretched out.

Time skips. James has to piss. Time skips. Doesn’t. James is hungry. Time skips. Not hungry anymore.

“—called your mom,” Brock’s saying. “I can stay a couple hours until she gets here.”

No, she can’t – no, please. Don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave

“Baby,” Brock sighs. He sounds. Bad. “Haven’t had one this bad in a while, huh.”

Bad.

This is bad.

Ma’s taking a long time to come downstairs.

The bed shifts. Brock’s getting up.

“No,” James hears himself say. His eyes. His eyes are still closed. He tries to say, 

Don’t go.

Mumbles. Can’t even fucking talk, can’t even fucking move, what’s the point—

Brock sighs. “I’m right here, baby,” he says. “I’ll take care of everything.” His fingers. Running through James’ hair. “I’m right here.”

Chapter Text

12:03: Hi – is this Bucky?

14:15: Who is this? 

14:16: This is Natasha. Steve’s friend.

14:16: I’m the other groomsman. 

14:16: *Groomswoman. Grooms-human.

14:32: Oh hi :)

14:33: Did Steve give you any instructions at all? About what to wear or bring or anything? 

14:34: To his wedding that’s in two weeks.

14:34: No lol you?

14:35: 🙄 Of course not.

14:36: He siad wear whatever cause hes the worst

14:38: I did some sleuthing. Peggy’s bridesmaids have matching dresses, and she’s coordinating their lipstick and nails too.

14:40: Oh shit

14:40: Their dresses are quote, the color of Steve’s eyes, end quote

14:40: Fuck

14:40: We’re gonna lose

14:41: I know!!! Unacceptable.

14:42: We gotta strategize

14:42: What color ties do you have?

14:42: I have a pink dress, a green one, and an orange one.

14:43: I *don’t* have time to get a new one.

14:44: [Sent image]

14:45: Ok hold on

14:55: [Sent image]

14:56: Suits gonna be black

14:57: I could ask the rentla place to change to a diff color I guess

14:57: If they have any

14:57: No, no, black’s good. It’ll match everything.

14:59: The orange tie might work.

14:59: Orange it is 

14:59: Bring the brownish-red one, too. Not sure which will work better.

15:00: On it

15:00: I got him dress socks too

15:00: Hey is there a bouquet or something

15:01: Peggy’s bouquet is red. I got him a matching boutonniere.

15:02: Nice

15:02: Steve is so fucking lucky to have us.

***

There’s no mirror in the church basement, so James has to use the tiny one in the bathroom to comb his hair. It takes him forever, but he finally gets the part straight in the middle.

He’s mostly counting on Brock to tell him it looks fine. He comes out of the bathroom and gestures at himself. “Whaddaya think?”

Brock looks up at him and his face splits into a grin.

“Holy hell,” he says. He’s sitting on one of the long benches against the wall beside a stack of Natasha’s dresses and a pair of strappy orange heels that are like five inches high. She texted him while he was driving over to watch her stuff while she finessed her way into the bridesmaids’ makeup room.

Brock comes closer so he can run his hands along James’ shoulders, leering. He beams at him. “How much time we got before this wedding?”

“Shut up,” James says, shrugging him off, but he’s smiling. Brock smoothes out his lapels and kisses him, then keeps kissing him. “We’re in a church,” James manages.

“We’re in the basement,” Brock says, but he does peel off. James looks at him. He’s got the grey work suit on, but he’s classed it up with a dark purple shirt, open collar. There’s a matching purple pocket square peeking out. He’s beautiful.

“You look like a million bucks,” James tells him. “You should keep the suit on when we get home.”

“Givin’ me orders now?” Brock smirks. James rolls his eyes.

“Come help me pin up my sleeve.”

As Brock’s messing around with safety pins, the door opens and in comes an insanely hot redhead. She’s in a button up that’s only got about two buttons done up, and they aren’t the two buttons James would have prioritized. And tight jeans. James has to try harder than usual to keep his eyes on her face. She’s got this little smirk going on, like she knows. 

“Bucky?” she says, and James snaps himself out of it.

“Natasha? Hey!”

She comes toward him and for a second, James thinks she’s gonna hug him and those buttons won’t stand a chance. But instead she just sets down her bags on the floor. She looks at Brock.

“Hi,” she says. “I’m Natasha.”

“This is,” James starts, but Brock’s already sticking out his hand and cutting in.

“Brock. James’ boyfriend,” he adds.

“Nice to meet you.” She points at her lips. “What do you think? Too orange?”

“No,” James says, at the same time Brock says, “Looks red to me.”

Natasha nods. “Show me the tie.”

James pulls it out of his pocket and unfolds it as Natasha lifts the dress out of the bottom of the pile. It’s… pretty orange. Though to be fair, so is his tie. He looks at Natasha and they hold serious eye contact for a few seconds before he cracks up. She follows soon after.

“Well, at least we match,” Natasha cackles. She waves a hand in front of her eyes. “Holy shit, I’m gonna cry.”

“We’re gonna look like carrots,” James says, laughing so hard his face hurts.

“You’re not supposed to look exactly like the bride’s side,” Brock offers. “Orange looks good with… what are they doing again? Green?”

“Yeah,” Natasha’s still trying to get her giggles under control. “This blueish green… okay. Okay. We’ve got this.”

“E for effort,” James offers, and she busts out a snort. It takes them another minute to get their shit together, and James hands Brock the tie so he can do it up for him.

“You boys mind if I change here?” she asks.

James does not mind that at all, and he’s probably doing a shit job of hiding it with the way Brock looks at him when he says, “No, go for it.”

He’s a gentleman, so he turns around when she starts undoing her buttons. Brock comes around and ties his tie, and he shoots him a glare.

What? James mouths. 

“How’d you coordinate the orange?” Brock whispers.

“Over text.”

Brock nods and doesn’t say anything. He pulls the knot a little too tight when he finishes. After a second of James choking, he loosens it up.

“My bad,” he says.

“Brock?” Natasha calls. “Can you help me with the zipper?”

“Yep,” he says, and walks over. James doesn’t turn around until she asks him how it looks. Natasha smooths down her dress. It’s tight but drapey, and it does a great job of showing off her body. The necklace she’s wearing just barely manages to keep from disappearing into her cleavage.

“Okay,” she says. “Next up.” She bends down and opens one of the bags she’s brought. She pulls out a black heel. “These, or those?” She gestures to the orange strappy shoes beside the stack of her stuff.

“The stripper heels,” Brock says. “If you’re going orange…”

James is about to agree, when Natasha cocks her head and says, “You think they look like stripper heels?”

There’s a beat. “No.”

James isn’t sure whether to laugh. Natasha considers seriously, and says, “Okay, yeah. I’ll go full orange.” She sits down on the bench and starts tying them on.

James looks over at Brock, who shrugs helplessly. 

There’s the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs, and then Steve’s down there with them, looking surprised. Of course he’s surprised. It’s not like he actually told them to come early. Or – again – gave them any instructions at all.

“Oh, hey guys,” he says, looking pleased. “Did you match on purpose?”

“What?” Natasha drawls. “Now why would we have done that? Matching outfits, for a wedding party.”

“We did this wild thing called ‘making a plan’,” James adds. “You should try it, sometime.”

Steve doesn’t care even a little bit that they’re making fun of him. “You guys are the best.” He’s got this dopey, distracted smile. His eyes dart to the side a little. “Hi, Brock,” he says politely. His smile stays in place, but gets a little strained. “Thanks for coming.”

“Hey,” Brock reaches for a handshake. “Congrats again. I’m gonna go grab a seat upstairs.”

“See you after,” James says, and gives him a kiss on the cheek as he heads out. He looks down at Steve. He’s got a navy blue suit on, with a white shirt and white bowtie. His hair’s neatly parted on the side, and his eyes are sparkling. “How you feeling?”

Steve says, “Ready.” Which is the most Steve thing he could possibly say. “I look okay?”

“You look great.” James looks down at Steve’s brand new dress shoes, so shiny they’re gleaming. “How’re the shoes?”

“A little tight,” Steve confesses. “I’ll make it, though.”

James rolls his eyes. “They’re tight ’cause you’re supposed to wear dress shoes with dress socks.” He pulls the pair out of his pocket and hands them to Steve. “Here.”

Steve takes them, then immediately pulls his oxygen tank over to the nearest chair, sits, and starts to change.

“Angie texted.” In her heels, Natasha’s only half a head shorter than him. How she’s walking in those things is beyond James, but it’s a hell of a view. There’s a slit in the orange dress that brushes past her right leg when she walks. “Peggy’s nearly ready.”

For a second, Steve looks like he’s about to panic. He’s fiddling with his cannula. “Showtime.”

“Hey,” Natasha sits beside him and James feels almost like he’s intruding. “It’s a tragedy that none of the dates I set you up on worked out, but you can’t cry about it at your own wedding.”

Steve laughs, and it makes sense that they’d have their own little in-jokes. They’ve been friends for years, even if James’ only meeting Natasha now. She’s got her own place in Steve’s life, and not just one left over from childhood. 

“Put this on.” Natasha hands Steve the boutonniere. It’s a deep red rose, with tiny white flowers haloed around it. “I stalked Peggy to the florist, so I know for a fact it matches her bouquet.”

Steve takes it and fastens it to his lapel. It looks great with the navy, and the white. Steve swallows a little harder than James would like. Uh-oh.

“We put a photo of my parents’ wedding in it,” he says, and his eyes are shiny. “In the bouquet. So,” he sniffs. “It was Peg’s idea, so they’d—”

“Steve,” James cuts him off before he actually starts crying. “C’mon. She’s waiting for you.”

Steve’s eyes get shinier. Oh no. He made it worse. 

Natasha glances between the two of them and stands. “I’m gonna head up. Start getting butts in seats.”

“Right behind you,” James says. She disappears into the stairwell, heels clicking. There’s a commotion of voices above them that gets loud for a second then quiet again as she closes the door. He sits down beside Steve and exhales. Steve swallows. He takes a minute before he speaks.

“I didn’t think I’d make it this far,” he says plainly.

James nods. “None of us did,” he admits, and that startles a laugh out of Steve. He looks over at him, incredulous. “Why do you think your mom let you skip half of eighth grade?”

“Your mom let you skip half of eighth grade right along with me,” Steve points out. 

James chuckles. “Not sure that’s how she’d tell it.”

James can’t really draw a line between before Steve and after. He doesn’t even remember them meeting. But the thing is, Steve’s there, throughout. In all the parts of James’ life that matter. James tries to be there like that for him. As much as he can, at least.

Steve sits there in silence, and for a minute James sits beside him and doesn’t say anything either. “You actually sad?”

“No,” Steve admits.

“Good. Cause you got no reason to be.”

“Yeah,” Steve smiles a little. “I know. Just…” he waves vaguely.

“About to marry the love of your life. You’re the second luckiest person in this church.” James nudges him with his shoulder. “Next to Peggy.”

“Shut up,” Steve nudges him back. James wraps his arm around him and pulls him in close.

Steve sniffs one more time, then shrugs James off and climbs to his feet. He adjusts his cannula, smooths his hair, and grabs the handle of his oxygen tank. Squares his shoulders. “Alright,” he says. He’s gonna be okay.

James nods. “Alright. Let’s get your girl that green card.”

“Bucky, that’s really offensive,” Steve says seriously. “Everyone knows it’s for the health insurance.”

***

The church feels packed, even though James can see a couple empty seats. He hasn’t been in front of this many people in years. Maybe ever. Definitely not since Sokovia. They’re not looking at him, of course. He’s scenery. Backdrop for Peggy and her long lace train. For Steve waiting for her at the altar. The deep red rose bouquet is handed to one of the bridesmaids – it matches Steve’s boutonniere exactly. Nice.

The ring box in his pocket feels like it weighs 1,000 pounds. He’s gonna drop it. He’s sure he’s gonna drop it and the rings are gonna roll out and get lost somewhere under people’s feet and the wedding will be fucked. They’re probably made from melted down gold from like five generations of British aristocracy. Why the fuck did Steve give the rings to him? Surely someone with two hands to hold the box would make more sense. Or, if not that, at least someone a little less likely to fuck this up.

Steve tears up properly during Peggy’s vows, James is pretty sure. Everyone tears up during Steve’s. The guy can write a speech, that’s for damn sure.

The priest gives James a little nod and he manages to hand over the rings without disaster. Brock flashes him a discreet thumbs up from the audience. Then Steve and Peggy are kissing, and someone in the audience gives a whoop! and they did it. Steve’s married. James didn’t fuck this up. 

The reception is in a restaurant-bar thing down the street, with Steve and Peggy leading them all in an overdressed parade. While they’re stopped at the crosswalk, Natasha pulls out her phone and flashes a couple of photos of the happy couple – she’s not the only one doing that – before pulling James in for a selfie with them. James takes the phone from her since he’s got about a foot in arm length on her, and presses in close. He snaps a few photos. With her blocking his left side, he looks good. He can’t remember the last time he looked this good, actually.

“Nice,” Natasha says, looking them over. “Want one of you two?” She gestures behind him, and James turns to see Brock frowning.

“Uh, sure.”

He goes to hide his left side against him, but Brock steps out and wraps his arm around James’ waist. His stump is in full view when Natasha’s phone flashes. The lights change, and the crowd is moving again. Whatever. They have nice smiles. It’s fine, there’ll be time for more photos after dinner. Brock has an arm around him the rest of the walk.

“There’s no grooms table or whatever the fuck, is there?” Brock asks.

“Nah,” James said. “I’m pretty sure we’re sitting together.”

“Good,” Brock says, and kisses him.

The seating chart Steve made is the first thing they see when they walk in. It’s on an easel, a huge canvas with six circles, each name accordingly placed around it based on where they’re sitting. In each circle, there’s a little art piece – scenes from Steve and Peggy’s life together. They’re not any exotic locations or anything. It’s Steve and Peggy watching TV at home. Peggy doing her nails while Steve draws. In one, they’re in their pajamas. In another, they’re both on their laptops in a cafe. Painting a protest sign. Each picture looks like it’s lit up from the inside, comfortable and full of love. Like a peek into their lives when no one is watching.

Brock and James are at the one where Steve’s fucking around with his oxygen tank while Peggy makes a smoothie in the kitchen.

“Steve painted those, you know,” James says. “We’re table three.”

“Yeah, I see that,” Brock sounds irritated.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He perks up. “I’m hungry.”

Natasha’s already at the table when they get there, massaging her ankle. A little girl is sitting beside her, playing with Natasha’s phone. She glances up as they walk over and does her best to hide behind Natasha. 

There’s – wow, there are a lot of kids at this wedding, James is realizing. There’s even a high chair at their table.

A guy in a purple suit’s coming their way, wrangling a folding stroller thing with a plate of cheese and crackers in the seat and a couple of glasses of wine balanced on top. There’s a little boy walking after him, carrying two big glasses of juice. They stop at the place setting that reads Clint Barton and Clint, supposedly, starts trying to unload glasses. 

Natasha looks up and sees him. 

“One of those for me?”

“Sorry, Nat, I got a wife and a couple gremlins who took priority.” He somehow doesn’t spill anything as he unloads plates and glasses onto the table. The little boy delivers one of the juices to the girl, spilling some. Clint doesn’t comment. He’s run out of room on his side of the table, so he sets the last wine glass down on the high chair and then notices there’s other people around. “Hey,” he says, and looks at Brock. “I’m Clint.”

“Brock,” Brock says, and shakes the guy’s hand.

“Ahh,” Clint’s face lights up. “That makes you Bucky, right?”

James grins. “I usually go by James, but yeah.” They shake hands. James notices he’s got hearing aids in. 

“Not what it says on your place card,” Natasha points out. She holds it up so James can admire the ridiculous fancy cursive version of his childhood nickname. “You have a secret identity or something?” It’s corny, but sue him, James likes corny. He laughs.

“These two yours?” Brock’s voice cuts in, and James looks over. He’s nodding toward the kids.

Clint beams. “Yep. These two, and another one who fits in that,” he gestures to the high chair. “Lila, Coop! Say hi.”

The girl looks up from the phone. “Hi,” she says so quietly he has to read her lips. 

The boy says “Hi I’m Cooper!”

“Hi, Lila, hi, Cooper,” Brock says. “I’m Brock, this is James.” Cooper sticks out his hand, and Brock and James shake it in turns. “You ever been to a wedding before?” Brock asks him.

“Yeah, my uncle’s,” Cooper says. “They had a really tall cake. I got to hold the rings.”

“Did you? That’s awesome.” He jerks his thumb back. “James almost dropped them.”

“Hey! I did not!”

Cooper giggles. “He did?”

“There’s cocktails and stuff over there,” Natasha informs James, waving at the bar as Brock chats with Cooper and tells him a pretty exaggerated version of James’ trip down the aisle. “But I’m not standing up right now.” 

“Want me to grab you something?” James offers.

“Maybe in a bit.”

“I’ll take a drink,” Brock says. “Thanks, babe.”

James leaves Brock to it and heads to the bar to grab them drinks. It’s sweet, the way Brock is with kids. James hadn’t realized it until he’d brought him to meet his parents and seen him hit it off with Ruthie. God, Dina – Brock’s oldest niece – had to be at least Cooper’s age by now. Maybe older? The most recent photo James’ seen of Brock with her is at her baby brother’s baptism. It’s the only photo he’s ever seen of Brock with his nephew at all. He’d come out to his family shortly after that, and his sister’s kept the kids away since.

Brock still tries, though.

He grabs a regular beer for Brock and a non-alcoholic one for himself – luckily both come in bottles for once, so he only has to make one trip. Back at the table, a slim, brown-haired woman in a flowy dress is trying to set a toddler down in the high chair without knocking over the glass of wine Clint had put there. She sets down a bottle of milk on the table, and says to Clint:

“If the plan is to get Nate drunk, I could have skipped pumping.”

Clint blinks at her, is still for two seconds, then takes the glass of wine down and says seriously, “I think he’s more of a rum baby.” He looks at the toddler as Laura slides him into the chair and buckles him in. “What do you think, kiddo? More of a hard liquor kinda guy?”

The baby laughs, and drools.

“You’re not giving my godson rum,” Natasha snorts. “Vodka or bust.”

Clint points to the woman. “Brock, Bu-James, this is my wife Laura, and baby Nate.”

Brock’s switched seats, so now James is between him and Clint. They barely get through half their drinks before the photographer comes and grabs him and Natasha for photos. They get moved around like dolls – there’s some with the whole bridal party, some with just Steve’s side, then just Peggy’s, a few of just James and Steve. There’s some lady in a pink dress holding a piece of paper and just shouting out names. The photographers are desperately trying to figure out how to make things symmetrical when Steve’s side has a six-inch height difference, and a guy with one arm.

He and Natasha manage to escape when they start with the family photos. By the time they get back to the table, he’s starving, but they seem to be bringing dinner around. Peggy and Steve run late on their grand entrance, coming in just after the soup.

“— and that’s Dr. Erskine, and his wife Rachel,” Clint’s pointing out guests to Brock. “Steve’s pulmonologist. But he’s basically family by this point, I think. Oh, those guys,” he points out the one other table that isn’t obviously from Peggy’s side. “They’re Steve’s activist friends. I’ve met them a couple times but they’re… intense.”

“Steve’s brand of intense,” Natasha adds. “Jones is the sanest one – he and Steve do union stuff together. Dernier – the guy next to him – taught Steve how to DIY a gas mask. They’re dating.”

Brock looks pissy again as James sits down. 

“Sorry,” he shrugs. “Photos.”

“I thought they’d never let us eat,” Natasha says. “How’s it taste, Lila?”

“Good!”

“You gotta take your meds,” Brock says, and James kinda wishes he’d lowered his voice a little. “Did you remember to bring them?”  

“Yeah,” he says, and ducks his head.

“All three? Pain meds too?”

“Yes,” James hisses. “I’m good.”

Embarrassed, he pops his meds, and chases them with the non-alcoholic beer.

“Sorry,” he says to the table.

Clint gives him a weird look. “It’s fine.” He drinks some of his wine. 

“Who’s the Asian guy again?” Brock asks Clint in a tone that makes James quirk his eyebrow. There’s an Asian man in a brown suit at that table, sitting next to a woman and two teenagers.

“Uh… Morita, I think?” Clint looks over.

Brock nods slowly. He sees James’ expression, and says in a low voice, “Looks familiar.”

“Anyone else here ‘look familiar’?”

Brock takes a bite and chews real slow.

“He and Monty are the environmentalist ones,” Clint continues.

“Oh, yeah!” James remembers suddenly. “Monty’s the one who,” what’s the tactful way to say this? “He’s sending a video, right?”

Clint chuckles. “Yeah, Steve was telling us. Apparently he just got sentenced – should be out in three months, though.”

Brock drinks his drink.

“Is this weird for you?” Clint continues. “I mean, as a cop?”

Brock chokes a little on his beer. “You, uh. You all know I’m a cop?”

“Oh, yeah,” Clint shrugs. “Steve’s mentioned you.”

Oh boy.

“There was some strategic seating arrangement here,” Natasha adds. “I think fully for your benefit.”

“We’re the 9-to-5 municipal employees table,” Laura says.

“This is the no criminal record table,” Clint says at the same time.

“Not in this country, anyway,” Natasha jokes.

Brock does a little half-smile and goes back to drinking his beer.

“So, I’ve known Steve since forever,” James says, trying to deflect away from Brock a little. “How’d you all meet him?”

“Yeah, so, turns out? I’m the only person in Urban Planning who ever picks up the phone. Steve was cold calling us every couple hours for months a few years back, about the freeway that was gonna cut through Cherrywood Village? And after… a week, maybe? A week of me telling him I couldn’t do anything about it, he convinced me to try and do something about it.” Clint shrugs. “So we’ve kind of been friends ever since.”

“And then Clint introduced us,” Natasha offers.

“Bad move,” Clint laughs. “Those two are a menace. But not, you know,” he adds quickly, looking at Brock. “Not in a criminal kinda way.”

Brock doesn’t say anything, but he’s smiling as politely as he can manage. James feels a little bad for him, so out of his comfort zone.

“What about you, Brock?” Laura asks. “Do you know Steve yourself, or were you also dragged here?”

James can see Brock decide to lie, and he’s about to back him up even though he actually thinks this story might play really well, when Natasha says:

“Wait! I’ve heard Steve tell this story, and I’ve got to hear your side. It’s ridiculous.”

Brock’s eyes go really wide, and he looks to James for help.

James squeezes his hand under the table, and grins. “Babe, everyone at this table knows that Steve is—” he looks over at Lila and Cooper. “Fudging nuts.”

“Oh absolutely,” Clint backs him up. “Coop, what do we always say about Uncle Steve?”

“He’s a little crazy,” Cooper answers.

“I think it’ll be a hit,” James reassures him.

Brock clears his throat. “Okay,” he says nervously. “Uh, I was at work – I’m in the domestic terrorism prevention unit, and there was a protest going on that day that we were supposed to be aware of. So, a bunch of people got arrested.” His eyes dart to James, who nods encouragingly. “And, uh, things got outta hand at the protest, and there was an explosion. Nobody got killed or anything, but a car blew up, and a few people were brought in. The main suspect they brought in was… Steve.”

Everyone nods. Not even a little shock. It’s kinda disconcerting, but seems to calm Brock down a little.

“So, this little guy comes in, in handcuffs, and the officers who brought him down tell me he was mouthing off to everyone and their mother, but now he’ll barely say a word. No identifying documentation, nothing on him. Won’t even tell me his name.”

“I’d told him about my friend Steve,” James adds. “But they hadn’t met yet, and obviously, there was no way to know it was the same guy.”

Brock nods. “Right. So – I’m in the interrogation room with him, trying to figure out what was going on, because he won’t say he didn’t blow up the car.”

There’s a few snorts of laughter, and James can see Brock build up some confidence.

“Anyways, I’m trying to make some sense of this situation, right? He doesn’t have any explosives on him, he won’t admit to any kind of incendiary or anything, won’t tell me dick. And then I notice he doesn’t look so good.” Brock pauses. “So, I ask him, are you okay? And he won’t tell me!”

“Of course he won’t,” Natasha says.

“After some time passes, he starts looking worse, getting really out of breath. So I’m like, buddy, do you need medical attention? Cause you look like you’re about to pass out. And after another twenty minutes of nothing, eventually, he finally tells me he’s got fucking cystic fibrosis and he usually carries around a goddamn oxygen tank 24/7. So I’m like oh shit, and I call an ambulance because he’s getting—” Brock mimes fluttering his eyelashes, and kinda droops down onto the table, “—and while that’s happening, I check his neck and wrists for a medical alert or something, in case he passes out before the ambulance gets here. He doesn’t have one, so I ask, does he wear it somewhere else? And you know what he says?”

Brock pauses. Natasha buries her face in her hands, laughing and shaking.

“He took it off, because it’s identifying information!” The table explodes into laughter. 

Natasha groans. “I told him I’d kill him myself if he pulled anything like that again.”

Brock’s grinning. “The ambulance gets there, and I basically carry him to it, and later he gets to the hospital and back on oxygen. And then it occurs to me to ask him where the hell his oxygen tank was this whole time that was, you know, keeping him alive?” He sighs. “Turns out, he threw it at a car to cause a distraction, didn’t realize it would hit the gas tank and fucking explode – sorry, explode – and now it’s gone. So that’s the “domestic terrorism incident” and that answers that.”

Natasha and Clint are laughing so hard they’re tearing up. Laura looks a little appalled, but she’s laughing too.

“And then I get a text from Brock,” James jumps in, “about this crazy guy he had to take to the hospital in the middle of an interrogation. And at the same time, Peggy’s texting me not to worry but Steve’s in the hospital after a protest. And I just text them both back asking, which hospital and which room. Then later I have to explain to Peggy and Steve that actually, Detective Rumlow is the Brock guy I was telling them about.”

“Honestly, James is the hero in all this,” Brock says. “I come home, he’s already not having the best brain day, and then he’s gotta deal with that.”

James cringes a little, inwardly, but no one seems to bat an eye. It’s fine.

“Honestly?” Natasha leans over to Brock. “And Bucky, I mean this in the best way possible. But kudos for staying in this relationship after that.” She raises her glass. “Cheers to crazy Steve.”

They clink glasses, and drink, and a minute or so later the room goes quiet as Peggy’s dad stands at a little podium beside the bride and groom’s table and the speeches start. Right. Speeches. James remembers all at once that oh yeah, that’s part of this.

He’s starting to sweat. He’s got his speech on his phone and the more he scrolls through it the worse it seems. None of his jokes seem funny, and it’s way too short. Why the fuck did he agree to do a speech? And why didn’t Steve give him any instructions?

They play Monty’s video, which is recorded as he’s literally chained to a bulldozer, and Peggy’s entire family squirms in their seats a little. He wishes them good luck and lots of love, and generally says a bunch of nice things. If James’ speech is worse than the off-the-cuff remarks of a guy chained to a bulldozer and covered in his own grime, he’s never gonna forgive himself.

“You’re up after the maid of honour,” Natasha tells him.

“Fuck,” James says, to the shocked giggles of Cooper and Lila. “Fudge,” he corrects.

In this moment, he actually has no idea how he agreed to do a speech? Maybe when they’d had that conversation he’d been having a worse brain day than he realized. Everyone’s gonna be staring at his pinned up sleeve. What if talking gets hard in the middle of it and he makes awkward pauses? What if—

“We’ve practiced a hundred times,” Brock says, snapping him out of it. “Relax.”

It’s his turn before he knows it. Everyone watches him stand, gripping his phone, and walk up toward the podium. It feels like it takes hours. His heart’s racing. He never used to get nervous at this kind of thing.

“Hi, uh,” the mic makes a horrible feedback noise, and James jerks it farther away from his mouth. “Hi everyone. I think I’m speaking for everyone here when I say between me and Steve, I’m not usually the speech guy.” Somehow, that gets a laugh. James takes a breath. Brock’s smiling at him from their table. 

“But it’s a special occasion, right? Peggy’s left him speechless for five whole minutes, so I gotta take the opportunity.” he looks over at their table, and Steve’s grinning up at him like an idiot and maybe it’s gonna be okay. 

“Steve,” he says. “I’ve known you since I was nine. And even way back then, you had big dreams. And that never really went away. Dreams about changing the world, the kind of dreams that get regular people to step out of their regular lives and follow you in whatever crazy plan you’ve come up with. But your dreams were always about how to help out other people, and I remember wishing that you’d spend a little more time dreaming about yourself and what would make you happy. And I guess you finally figured that out, ‘cause Peggy’s exactly the kinda person I would have dreamed up for you. I got no doubt you two are gonna spend the rest of your lives changing the world together, and helping everyone around you together, and making sure you’re both happy. I told you – I think when we were finishing up high school – Steve, I told you I’d be with you to the end of the line, no matter what. And I still mean that. I’m just glad Peggy’s gonna be there with you, too.”

He turns to Steve and Peggy. “Peggy,” he says, “don’t let him be an idiot. Steve, please, I’m begging you, don’t be an idiot. I love you both.”

Steve gets up and hugs him. His eyes are shiny, and he holds him tight for a couple seconds before he lets go. Peggy hugs him, too.

“Well done,” she says in his ear. 

James’ nerves are shot all the way back to his seat, and he doesn’t really zone back in until Brock’s putting a cup of coffee in front of him and a waiter is clearing away his untouched dessert. Everyone around is looking at him approvingly, though. He couldn’t have fucked it up that bad.

“Good speech,” Brock says. 

“Yeah?”

He nods. “You did good. Did everything we talked about.” He looks at James like he’s about to kiss him. James leans in, but Brock’s eyes dart to the little kids, and James grudgingly sits back.

“Baby, it’s fine,” he says quietly. Brock shrugs. James feels a flash of anger, then reminds himself it should be toward Brock’s sister, and all the assholes he had to deal with growing up. He holds his hand under the table instead.

In front of the bar, Peggy and Steve are opening up the dance floor to a slow oldie James doesn’t recognize. 

The song ends, and the music picks up to something with a dancier beat. Steve grins, bends down, and increases his oxygen flow. People start flooding onto the dance floor, and James turns to Brock with a grin. He extends his hand.

Brock looks over, and sees the kids hopping along on the edges of the floor, Peggy’s grandparents slowly swaying in the middle of it.

“Maybe in a bit,” he says unsurely.

“Baby, nobody’s gonna care,” James says. He gestures to Jones and Dernier jumping around in a circle on the dance floor with the other activist friends. “See? They’re up there.”

Brock goes thoughtful. “I dunno,” he says.

“Come on, it’ll—"

“I said no,” Brock snaps. “You know I can’t—" he’s frustrated. “You know I have a hard time with this kinda stuff.”

James sure fucking does.

“Well, I wanna dance.” 

“No one’s stopping you,” Brock snaps. Fine. James gets up, shucks off his jacket, and Brock’s eyes go wide like he didn’t expect him to actually do it. He heads to the dance floor. He’s feeling good, he’s feeling the music in his chest, and everyone’s laughing and clapping as Steve kisses Peggy. James lets himself get swept up in the moment.

Natasha’s at the bar and sees him walking over. “Gonna go dance?” she asks.

“Can’t not dance at a wedding.” He’s already swaying a bit to the music. “You wanna?”

“Dance?” She looks over at the dance floor. It’s mostly a bunch of circles of people bobbing and jumping, sure, but there’s a few couples. One or two of them can really move.

“Bet we can do better than Peggy’s bridesmaids. I mean unless,” James looks down at her shoes. “Unless those are just for sitting down and looking pretty.”

“No, I can dance in these.” His skepticism must be showing, because she grins and says, “I did ballroom dance until I was fifteen. These are nothing.” She offers her hand. “Grooms-humans for the win.”

James’ mom had been big into dancing when he was a kid – she still is – and had started teaching James as soon as he could walk. He mostly just did it at family parties, but he was pretty good. He spins Natasha onto the floor, and when she comes twirling around he catches her around the waist. A laugh bursts out of her, excited, and he can see her sizing him up.

“Oh, you can dance-dance,” she says.

“Think your ballroom can keep up?”

The music changes into something jivey, and Natasha steps in close and puts her left hand on his shoulder. Her right hand hovers for a second, before she settles it on his bicep and holds on that way.

“Definitely,” she says, and they go into full swing. He’s done this maybe once since his arm, but he adjusts and figures it out decently quick. Natasha’s a good sport when he overshoots and fumbles something, or sends her spinning off into a corner, and before long he’s sweating and breathing hard and having fun. The song’s about to end, and he twirls Natasha and mouths, “Dip?”

She raises a brow. “Don’t drop me,” she says, and James grabs her tight around the upper back, and tilts her back. She lets her legs slide forward and dips, and people whoop and clap. James looks up and Steve is grinning at him.

They dance for a while, James isn’t really sure how long, until the music turns slow again, and then he realizes how thirsty he is. “Water?” he offers.

“I’ll get them,” she says.

“I’ll go with you.”

He leans against the bar, more out of breath than he’d realized. Natasha’s face is flushed.

“I didn’t think you’d be able to keep up with me,” she says.

“I got two legs,” he points out, and she laughs. “That was fun!”

They down their waters at the bar, and chat a little with Dugan and briefly with Erskine’s wife. To Bucky’s other side, he notices Peggy’s great-aunt sipping sherry and watching Jones and Dernier get handsy on the dance floor like she’s watching a car crash. As they head back to the table with refills, Natasha looks over her shoulder and rolls her eyes.

“She looks like she’s watching a horror movie,” James says once they’re out of earshot.

“I bet she’s never been in the same room as a gay guy. Let alone four.”

“Well, three and a half,” James chuckles. “I’m bi.”

“Oh,” Natasha says, and smiles, “oh, okay.” She adds, “I’m not actually sure she’d know the difference.”

Brock’s still sitting, nursing a drink as James drops into the chair beside him.

“You sure you don’t wanna dance?”

“You two look like you’re having plenty of fun.” Brock’s tone is sharp, and the loose, easy feeling that’s kept James going the last hour cools a little. He sits up straighter.

“Everything okay?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” There he goes, getting bitchy again. If he’s tired and done with Steve’s friends, James wishes Brock would just tell him so. 

“Babe, I can’t—”

“You want to keep dancing with her, go for it. Keep dancing.”

James has no idea where this is coming from. “I wanna dance with you.”

Clint comes back to the table with Lila, after having danced the night away. She’s rubbing her eyes, and Laura and Clint nod at each other before standing up as a unit.

“I think it’s time for us to get going,” he says. Baby Nate’s in his stroller, fully unconscious, a bottle lolling out of his hand like a drunk guy with a beer. “James, I got your number from Nat. I just texted you.” He gestures to James and Brock. “We’ll double date or something.”

“Oh,” James says. He looks at his phone, sees the text, and adds it to his contacts. “Yeah! Sounds fun.” He’s exchanged numbers with a few other people he chatted with at the bar and on the dance floor, and he’s feeling great. He hasn’t really done so well in a public setting since… well, since getting blown up.

By the end of the night, Steve and Peggy are both tipsy and grinning like idiots, and someone’s put a bowtie on Steve’s oxygen tank. They make it until midnight before calling it, and hug everyone before they get out of there. Peggy’s lace dress is clinging to her with sweat. Steve’s ring is gleaming on his finger. He hugs James tight on his way out.

***

Brock’s quiet on the drive home. It wasn’t even a question, which one of them would drive – he’d spent the last hour of the party at the bar.

James is kinda hoping they can stay quiet until they get home and get in bed. They can sleep off whatever weird mood Brock’s gotten into and just spend tomorrow watching something on the couch together. 

“You ever think about getting married?” Brock asks, out of left field. 

James nearly skates through the red light. He manages to hit the brakes, and doesn’t answer right away.

“Is this,” he starts. “Are you asking me to marry you?” James should have some reaction to that, he thinks. Should feel some kinda way. But all he’s really focused on is keeping distance with the car ahead of him. They can’t really be having this conversation.

“What?” Now it’s Brock who startles. “No, Jesus. No.” He wipes his hand over his face. “Just. Generally. Have you ever thought about it?”

“I… I don’t know. Not really, I guess.” There’s a twisting feeling in James’ gut that came out of nowhere. He swallows. “Yeah. Not really.”

“Yeah,” Brock sighs. “Guess you never had to, huh? I had a whole… most of my life, probably, after I stopped kidding myself about liking men. Getting married just wasn’t on the table anymore, for a long time.”

It’s legal now. Has been, for as long as James has been old enough to really care about it. He could remind Brock that it’s on the table for them. He probably should, make him feel better and everything. James’ mouth is dry. He doesn’t say anything and he’s got no clue why this conversation’s got him so on edge.

“How come you told her you’re bi?” Brock asks. James glances at him.

“Who?”

“Natasha,” Brock says testily. “She said something about gay men, and you corrected her. Why’d you tell her you’re bi?”

James has no idea what Brock’s on about. “Cause… I’m bi,” he lets out a little laugh. “What do you mean?”

“It’s like you can’t go five minutes without reminding people you’ve got options.”

James snaps, “What are you talking about?”

Brock huffs. “Nothing.” He’s thinking. “Let’s get home.”

They sit there in silence for a while. They’re stopped at another light, and neither of them says anything until green light glares through the windshield. James presses on the gas.

“I had fun tonight,” James tries to dispel the weird tension that’s filling up the car. He’s starting to get nervous.

“Yeah,” Brock says. “I could tell.”

Chapter Text

“—all computer scientists or something like this, with two car garage, and you should have seen their face when Viz say I am temp janitor.”

James cringes in sympathy. “Sometimes I say custodian,” he offers. 

“Facilities specialist,” Wanda snorts, and James laughs. “No,” she says, quieting down. “But they nice people. And Viz say I make good impression. I ask ‘would you tell me if I make bad impression?’ and he said probably not. So who knows.”

“You two have another date planned?”

Wanda beams. “Friday night.”

“Nice!”

She looks a little shy. “Sometimes I get embarrassed talking to him, with my English,” she admits. “But he tell me his Sokovian is worse. He is sweet.”

“He sounds sweet,” James grins. It’s nice hearing Wanda talk about a guy like this. It’s nice seeing her in general. Being out of the house. He hadn’t realized how relaxed he’s been until just now – and feeling it, realizes retroactively how tense he’s been at home.

He hears Brock drive around the corner before he sees him. The car pulls up to the curb in front of them, the tires squealing a little when he stops.

“You okay?” It’s only when Wanda touches his shoulder that James realizes he’s tensed up. He forces himself to relax. 

“Yeah.” She doesn’t buy it. He pulls his lips into a smile. “Yeah, I’m good. Thanks for waiting up with me.” 

She shrugs. “There is no bus for another forty minutes.”

“You’re gonna wait in the seven eleven, right? It gets—”

“Yes, yes,” she waves him away. “I know how it gets. You go. You have same shifts next week?”

Assuming his brain cooperates. And assuming Brock— “Yeah, more or less.” 

Wanda wraps her arms around him. She gives him a kiss on the temple as she pulls away.

“Get some sleep,” she tells him. “Everything better after some sleep.”

Brock doesn’t even give him two seconds once he’s in the car to buckle up. 

“She’s kissing you now?”

James has to keep himself from rolling his eyes. “It’s a European thing, baby,” he says calmly. “Relax.”

“European thing,” Brock mutters. He peels off the curb and speeds through the intersection as the light’s changing. James fumbles with the buckle, trying to get his seatbelt on. “Natasha was European, too?”

Christ, this again. “Can we not do this again?” James snaps. He softens when he notices Brock speeding up. “Brock, please, come on.”

“Like I want to have this conversation again,” Brock throws back. 

“Well, you keep bringing it up.”

“Look, most people only have to worry about half the goddamn population, okay? You only have to worry about me and men. Think about what it feels like for me. Give me a break if I don’t like seeing you all over random women.”

“All over—" James starts, indignant. “Wanda and I work together. Natasha and I danced together once. I haven’t even seen her since the wedding.”

“Not like you didn’t try.”

“What are you – you mean the dinner?” Steve and Peggy had hosted a going-away thing the night before they flew off on their honeymoon. “I asked you if I could go, you said no, and I didn’t go. What’s the problem?”

“But you just had to ask, huh?”

“To see Steve,” James starts, and cuts himself off. The veins in Brock’s neck are popping out. His knuckles are turning white on the wheel. His eyes are glued to the road but it doesn’t really seem like he’s paying attention. James swallows and watches the speedometer creep higher. 

This isn’t a good time to pick a fight.

“Babe,” he says, softer. He’s not gonna shout. He’s gonna keep this calm. “You’re speeding.” 

Brock scowls at him, but there’s a red light ahead of them, and he slows. They stop in front of it. “Thompson’s on traffic duty here – it’s not like he’s gonna give me a ticket,” Brock mutters.

“Still,” James says. His heart’s beating like he’s been sprinting. “Thanks.”

Brock doesn’t say anything back. He’s been in a mood since the wedding. Moody the night of, and first thing in the morning the day after he started giving James shit for how much he talked to Natasha, for how he was flirting with her.

But he never did anything more than ask who James was texting. He was pissy about it, sure, even if it wasn’t Natasha, even if it was Clint, who’s straight and married, or another of Steve’s weirdo friends. If it was anyone. But Brock never did anything about it. Once or twice, James had heard that tone and braced himself for a fight. He’s almost started hoping for it. He knows they’ve got a fight coming, and the longer it builds and builds the less sure he can be how it’s gonna blow up. 

At the worst possible moment, James’ phone chimes. Neither of them say anything, but James’ stomach starts churning.

“It’s probably just Wanda saying she’s gotten on the bus,” he offers.

Brock says, “Hmm.”

He quits bitching at James the rest of the ride home, and he’s quiet in the elevator, too. By the time they’re walking up to the apartment door James is wishing he’d say something. Doesn’t matter what. He’s tired and he just wants to get in bed and sleep, but he can’t sleep until he knows where this fight might be going. Is this even a fight? Is Brock done? James wishes something would come to a boiling point already, so Brock could calm down and they could move past it.

James hangs back as Brock fishes out his keys and swears a little when the lock sticks. The door opens. James slips in a few steps behind him, making sure not to get in his space as he takes off his hoodie. Brock stomps off to the kitchen without looking at him.

James looks at the door and thinks for a long minute about whether he should lock it. If they’re not done, tonight, and if it gets bad… He can always lock himself in the bathroom, sure. But that one’s easy to pry open. 

He shakes his head. He’s being ridiculous. It’s not gonna get that bad tonight. It hasn’t in months. He locks the door. Where the hell would he go at one in the morning anyway, if he had to?

He’s not gonna have to.

James unsnaps his work uniform shirt, then hangs it by the door.

Brock’s in the kitchen, getting the coffee maker ready for tomorrow. James hovers by the couch, one foot on the tile and one on the parquet. Not in Brock’s space. Just there.

“Want a hand?” he offers. He’s hoping for a joke – only if you’ve got two, ha ha – but Brock doesn’t even look his way. “Babe?”

“Sure.” Brock throws the box of filters onto the kitchen island. James has to jump to catch it before it flies off the edge. “Make yourself useful.”

He stomps off to the couch and sits, feet up on the coffee table. Watching James like he’s daring him to make one wrong move. James puts a filter in the thing and then goes to open the container of grounds. It’s tricky to do with one arm – he presses the heel of his hand down onto the top while he pries open the plastic lid with his fingernails. Once it pops open, Brock says, “Use two.”

James stops, turns. “Hmm?”

“Two filters,” he says. “Sometimes grounds get through.”

James blinks, then reaches back over and places another paper filter inside the basket. He fans it out with his fingers. When he looks up at Brock, he doesn’t nod or anything, but he’s watching James intently. James starts pouring in the grounds.

“Baby,” he says, risking it. “You know I don’t need anyone else. Man or woman, whatever. You know I don’t need anyone besides you.”

Brock scoffs. It’s times like this James wishes he could just grab the asshole and shake him. He waits a beat, but it doesn’t get him anything. Brock pulls out his phone. Well, fuck it. If he’s still in a bitchy mood, it’ll at least take him a couple extra seconds to get up off the couch. James can make it to bed by then. Or to the bathroom, if it goes that way. James fills the reservoir with water and closes the top, then turns to leave.

“You’re just gonna leave that mess there?”

James freezes. He looks over at the kitchen counter – there’s a jar of peanut butter out with a spoon inside. A glass with an inch of water left in it by the sink. There aren’t any crumbs or anything.

“Um,” James says. “What mess?”

“You stupid or something?” Brock says, not looking up. But he doesn’t really sound pissed. “Clean it up.”

James dumps the water and puts the glass and spoon in the sink. He braces the peanut butter jar between his knees and screws on the lid, then puts it away. He closes the cupboard and looks back at Brock.

Brock clicks his tongue. “Dishwasher.”

“It’s clean,” James says.

Now Brock looks up at him. “So empty it out,” he says, slowly, like James is a fucking moron. He’s got his full attention on James now, though, and James knows that look. And… sure, he’s exhausted and if it were up to him he’d pass out here and now. But it’s worth losing out on a bit of sleep if he can get Brock in a better mood.

He moves slower than he has to, opening the dishwasher and bending all the way over to grab a couple plates. The effect’s kinda ruined since his work pants don’t do his ass any favours. Brock raises his eyebrows a bit but doesn’t tell him to hurry up.

“Do the mugs next,” Brock says, once James has the last of the plates put away. He does, and pauses, waiting for instructions. Brock’s lip twitches. “Now forks and knives.” James doesn’t need to be told not to so much as touch the spoons. Without the last week, this would be a fun way to spend a night. They’ve done this kind of thing a million times – it’s normal for them. It feels, right now, between him and Brock, almost like how it is when they’re good. Except they’re not, so James has to manage the situation. He can’t fully let loose.

It could still be fun, though.

Once the dishwasher’s empty, Brock doesn’t tell him what to do next. He just sits there, watching James search the room for other ways to be useful. There’s a pair of socks on the floor – James can’t remember if they’re his or Brock’s. He picks them up – Brock nods approvingly, and goes to the bedroom to dump them in the hamper. When he comes back, Brock nods his head towards James.

“What about those?” he says. James looks down at the white T-shirt and pants he’s wearing.

“Guess they should go in the laundry, too?”

“So take ’em off.”

James strips out of his clothes down to his socks and underwear, because Brock hasn’t actually specified. He’s half-hard already, though still kind of nervous Brock might just do a sudden 180 and get pissed off again. Sex is usually a pretty good way to defuse things, though.

“Socks and underwear,” Brock says.

James takes them off. Brock just waits there, patiently, so he goes off to toss them in the hamper, too. When he comes back, Brock just says “And the shit in the sink?”

Naked, James opens the dishwasher. He bends over again to get the door down all the way. Then he puts the glass and spoon inside, and closes it. When he turns back, Brock looks him up and down and smiles a little, for the first time. James feels like he’s had 1,000 pounds taken off his shoulders. The relief from that one little smile is insane. It’s like he can finally breathe again.

“Look at you,” Brock says. “You like it when I order you around.”

“Yes, sir,” James nods. Brock snorts.

“That wasn’t a question,” he says, so gently James wants to melt into it. “You need me to order you around.” He pauses, and his smile widens when James keeps quiet. “Need me to walk you through every little thing, or you’ll get so fucking confused you can’t see straight. Now who else is gonna do all that for you?”

“No one, sir.”

Brock nods. “Damn right,” he says. “I’m gonna show you how good you have it at home.”

James is all the way hard now. This is gonna be good. And then, after, they’ll be fine again. This is what he’s been waiting for. They haven’t really had sex the last week, either, which hasn’t helped with Brock’s mood. But now they can move on from this whole him-meeting-people-at-the-wedding bullshit.

He stands there, waiting, until Brock barks out, “Bedroom.”

James hustles. Brock’s close behind, and he doesn’t waste a minute once they get to the door. “Go clean yourself out.”

James turns left and heads to the bathroom, rummages under the sink. He can hear Brock closing the blinds. “You want me to…” He pops out of the bathroom holding up the douche nozzle. Brock looks over and shakes his head.

“I’m not waiting for all that,” he says. “Hurry up.”

That’s all he’s gotta say. James tosses the nozzle back under the sink and grabs a washcloth. He can hear Brock rummaging around in the sex drawer as he runs the tap, props one leg up on the toilet and cleans himself out. It’s flattering, Brock getting too horny to wait. James isn’t far behind, and he gets an excited jolt when he comes into the bedroom.

Brock’s cleared space around the hook in their ceiling, and he’s brought out the cuffs. James doesn’t even remember why they bought those, since he doesn’t exactly have two wrists to work with, but they’ve found some fun uses for them so they keep them around. Brock doesn’t need to say anything, he just jerks his head and James hurries to stand in front of him. This close, naked, with Brock looking him up and down, he wants to drop to his knees. But Brock hasn’t told him to.

Brock keeps him standing there and takes a step back, considering. He starts to walk around James, cuffs in his hand, and James can see him thinking through the scene he’s got planned. How he’s gonna string James up, probably just by his arm since they’re in a hurry, but maybe he’ll tie a leg up there, too. Just high enough so it’s only James’ toes on the ground. Or maybe he’ll use the spreader bar? And with all of him exposed like that, front and back, maybe he’ll—

The touch catches him off guard as Brock grabs his arm and pins it behind him. James goes limp a second after, relaxing into it. The fake leather cuff wraps around his wrist and Brock jerks the buckle. He keeps James’ arm pinned to his back and reaches for the stool. 

If James got on his tiptoes, he’s tall enough that he could probably just reach the hook and wouldn’t need to stand on anything. But Brock likes to do it himself. He gets on the stool, unfolds James’ arm, and pulls it forward, and up, taking a few seconds to get James secured in place. The last thing Brock has taken out is a belt. He loops it around James’ chest, cinches it so his stump is down at his side, and buckles it off. Then he steps back and takes a look at his work. James is standing there, about half a foot of slack between him and the ceiling, arm stretched out almost all the way, held up by his wrist. The empty left cuff is dangling just above his head.

If Brock’s still pissed at all, James can’t see it in his face.

“Well, you’re not going anywhere,” he says, smirking a little. “Are you?”

“No, sir,” James grins back. “Staying right here.”

“Damn right.” He reaches down and picks something up James can’t make out at first. “You get everything you need right here at home.” 

He takes a step closer and James recognizes what he’s holding a second before he puts them on – it’s the nipple clamps. Brock cinches them into place so they’re tight enough to make James hiss, but loose enough that he adjusts quickly to them being there. Brock gives the chain connecting them a little yank, and it’s like lightning. James beams at him.

Brock pulls on them again, then keeps pulling until James takes the hint and takes a shuffling step forward, and then they’re kissing. Brock lets go and crowds in closer, and his hands are all over James, scratching his sides, cupping his ass, and wrapping in his hair. James keeps his eyes shut and feels himself sinking into it. Brock’s lips feel good. His hands feel good. James can feel Brock’s erection pressing into his leg.

Brock keeps a hand on James this time when he circles around him, digging his nails in above James’ hip bone and dragging them almost to James’ rim in burning lines. He slides a hand up James’ thigh, then pinches hard, twisting at the thin skin in the crease of his groin. James whines, and all it gets him is a hard slap to the ass and another pinch on the other side. 

“Quiet, or the next one’s on your balls,” Brock says. James grins. He doesn’t hold back his next moan.

He loses track pretty quick of what exactly’s going on back there. Brock keeps pinching, tugging, scratching, flicking at him until James is such a wound up mess that the cold drip of lube onto his asshole makes him cry out.

“Relax,” Brock chuckles. Then there’s the blunt press of one latex-gloved finger against him, and Brock says, “Seriously. Relax.”

James is too far gone to roll his eyes, especially when Brock’s finger slides inside him. He works up to two quickly, then crooks them back and forth until James jerks and lets out a moan. Brock fucks him like that for a while, until James starts feeling his balls tighten up and heat in his lower belly.

“I’m gonna cum,” James breathes, and Brock’s fingers keep pumping in and out, crooking over his prostate every time. Then, on the next slide out, he takes his fingers out completely.

“Nope,” Brock says. “Not yet.”

James groans. He’s so close, it’s like his entire lower body is in a vise, and he humps the air for a second like that’ll do anything. It’s almost painful, how frustrated he is.

“Hey,” Brock snaps. “I’m taking such good care of you and that’s what I get? Say ‘thank you’.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Thank you for what?”

James blinks. He didn’t actually think that far ahead. “Thank you, sir,” he repeats. Brock reaches around and flicks the tip of his cock, and for a second everything whites out.

“Thank me,” Brock says slowly, “for not letting you cum yet.”

“Thank you for not letting me cum yet,” James gasps. 

“Oh, you’re welcome.” Out of the corner of his eye, James can see Brock head back to the sex drawer. He pulls out the cane.

Something hot and needy curls low in James’ belly and his breath catches when Brock swishes the cane through the air. His thighs twitch when he thinks how it’s gonna feel, Brock laying into him. Taking out his shitty mood on James’ ass.

“You’re getting twelve,” Brock says, and then the first one lands immediately. James sucks in a breath. They’re all exactly the same, hit after hit over his ass and thighs with the same amount of force, building on each other, and by the ninth it hurts bad enough that he’s crying out with each one. Brock pauses.

“Didn’t I tell you to be quiet?” Brock pants.

“No?” says James. He doesn’t remember.

“Jesus,” Brock sighs, and thwacks the tenth blow down. “Can’t even follow simple fucking instructions.”

“Sorry, sir,” James grits out. 

“At least when I keep you strung up in here,” Brock keeps going, “nobody can see what a dumb fuck you are. And I’m the only one who likes putting up with you.” He pauses. “Well?” He finally brings down the eleventh blow. God, it hurts. It’s so fucking good. “You gonna thank me for putting up with you?”

“Thank you, sir!” James cries out. “Thank you for putting up with me. You’re so patient with me, you’re so good with me, you love me, you’re so good to me, sir—”

“Alright, alright,” he can hear Brock’s smile when he answers. “Didn’t tell you to give a whole speech about it, did I?”

“No, sir.”

“Useless piece of shit,” Brock says fondly, and brings down the twelfth blow. 

It’s almost too much, and there are tears stinging at James’ eyes. He hears the cane clatter to the floor. His ass and thighs are hot with pain. He closes his eyes and flinches a bit when he feels Brock’s hands around his hips. Brock chuckles, and from the direction of it it sounds like he’s on the ground again, this time in front of James.

He still isn’t expecting it when he feels Brock’s lips close around his dick. 

James didn’t think he could even make the noise that comes out of him. His eyes pop open when Brock licks up his shaft, slow and firm. He sucks at his head, and James’ knees buckle a little. The strain on his wrist gets painful, and then Brock’s arms are around his hips, propping him up, and Brock’s hand is reaching around behind him and pressing into James, fingers curling just right.

“Fuck,” James breathes, and looks down to see Brock smile around the head of his cock. They make eye contact, and Brock reaches up to grab the chain linking the nipple clamps together. James holds his breath. Brock wraps it around two fingers as James watches, and jerks down. The clamps tear off and James sobs and Brock doesn’t give him a damn second to catch his breath. He’s sliding his mouth down James’ dick at the same time as his fingers thrust back in. James shuts his eyes.

“I’m…” he tries to warn, but Brock flicks his sore nipple and then it’s too late. He thinks he’s loud when he cums – it’s hard to tell. It’s so good, and when the blood’s done rushing in his ears he can hear the chain link rattling against the hook from how he’s shaking. He keeps his eyes closed. 

Brock’s tongue is at his mouth, pushing in, and James lets him and kisses back as best as he can. It’s what Brock wants from him. It’s so good. Brock’s hands are warm against his wrist as he undoes the buckle there. James half-drops, and Brock grunts under his weight and guides him to his knees.

“There you go, big guy,” Brock’s saying, and his hand is on James’ hand, bringing it up to where Brock’s dick is tenting his boxers. When’d he take off his pants? It doesn’t matter. “Finish me off.”

He helps James pull down the waistband and wraps James’ hand around his cock. It doesn’t take long at all before his hips are stuttering, and James has himself together enough to run his thumb over Brock’s slit. Brock groans. James leans his head against Brock’s thigh and keeps pumping, until there’s a hand in his hair pulling him back and Brock’s cumming on his face in hot spurts. A glob of it gets on his eyelid, but before he can wipe it off Brock’s doing it for him. James blinks up at him, still woozy, and Brock runs his fingers through his hair.

“You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?” he says.

“Yes, sir.” He wants to hold Brock so bad he’s gonna cry. He leans in close, wraps his arm around Brock’s legs. “I love you.”

Brock huffs. “I love you, too.”

It’s a while of kneeling there before James’ brain comes back online enough to ask, “Did you swallow?” Brock barely ever does, and the handful of times James can remember he’s thrown a huge hissy fit about it.

Brock just grins and kisses him again.

***

James wakes up warm and relaxed, wrapped up in blankets. He vaguely remembers Brock getting the two of them to bed, and passing out shortly afterward. He also kinda remembers waking up earlier this morning to Brock getting ready for work. He feels great. Sore in the best kind of way. His nipples are sensitive under the blanket and his ass is tender to the touch, still warm in stripes. He spends a few seconds feeling the marks, remembering the haze of pleasure. There’s still flakes of cum on his cheek and some on his chest, but he’ll get up in a few minutes and shower. The important thing is he feels good, and things are gonna be okay with him and Brock now. 

He grabs his phone off the nightstand. Becca’s freaking out on StarkChat about course selection, and Intro Calculus is already full and she needs it to graduate and something something. James hasn’t actually been to college, but he knows her well enough to know she’s probably overreacting. He texts back that it’s gonna be fine and immediately three dots bubble up as Becca starts typing an essay back. He checks his calendar. Right. Physio today, and then if he’s up for it, swing by the pharmacy for his meds since he’s running low. He’s up for it. Right now, he feels like he could run a marathon and then make small talk with at least five different people. Best he’s felt all week.

Becca keeps texting while he showers and makes coffee. She gets so wound up sometimes. It’s the only part of this whole university thing he worries about, how she’s gonna cope with so much stress far from home. For now, he just tells her that it’s fine if she has to get on the waitlist, it’s still early, and worst case she’ll take Intro Calculus next semester. 

11:32: Its a prereq so I can’t take it next semester

11:33: prereq for what?

11:33: For quant accounting in 2nd year

11:35: If its in 2nd year sounds like you CAN take it next semester

James finishes up his coffee, pulls on a hoodie and heads out. His phone pings again before he’s even made it out the front door.

11:35: What if its full again??

11:37: It won’t be cause everyone will have already taken it 1st semester lol

11:37: Just get on the waitlist.

He locks up and heads to the elevator bay.

11:37: I *am* on the waitlist but there’s only 2 weeks left!

11:39: People drop courses all the time. Youre fine

11:39: [FAILED TO DELIVER] “People drop courses all the time. Youre fine”

James blinks down at the phone. He retypes the message.

11:40: People drop courses all the time you’re fine

11:40: [FAILED TO DELIVER] “People drop courses all the time you’re fine”

What the fuck? James makes sure his data is on – it is. He tries to open his internet browser and gets a no internet connection error message with a little sad robot in the corner of the screen. He refreshes. The little sad robot is still there. He restarts his phone. Still nothing.

Fucking fuck.

He walks back to his apartment, and when he’s a foot away from the door his phone comes to life, messages from Becca pinging in the second the little connected to wifi icon hits three bars. Maybe his data ran out. But it shouldn’t have. The billing period starts on the 20th. The 28th? 

It’s the 28th today, right?

Okay. Brock was pre-paying everything last week. He’s got it set up so it’s automatic. James knows that. It’s automatic unless he manually shuts it off. So James’ data can’t have run out. So there’s something wrong with the phone. Or the SIM card. Or something.

11:42: Hey Becs sorry I gotta go to physio. Talk later?

She sends back a heart emoji and James heads back into the apartment, freaking out. If his phone’s broken it’s over, he doesn’t have money for a new one and Brock’s not getting him one. But it’s working fine in the apartment. The sad fucking robot is gone when he refreshes the search page. He looks up service outages, maybe it’s something wrong with the provider?

Brock didn’t say anything about shutting off his phone. He’s given him shit about texting, but the phone itself never came up. And they’d figured everything out anyway once they got home. They’re supposed to be okay now. Things are supposed to be okay now.

But it’s not like Brock gave him any warning before he canceled the phone plan last time, either.

There’s no service outage going on. James should see if regular texting works. He types out a message to his mom and hesitates. If he tells her he’s checking if his phone works, she might tell Becca, and then Becca’s gonna get the wrong idea.

He texts Brock instead.

11:50: Hey

11:50: [FAILED TO DELIVER] “Hey”

Fuck.

James slams the kitchen counter. Which was a dumb fucking idea because now his hand hurts and he doesn’t have a fucking phone. This wasn’t supposed to happen again. Everything had been so great last night. He’d fixed this.

It’s almost noon, and he should really head out if he’s gonna make it to physio. He can’t reschedule – they fill up fast and he won’t be able to get an appointment for another month. And his arm and back can’t really take another month.

He pulls up the route on StarkMaps. He’s gonna have to subway to get there now. Goddammit he doesn’t need to deal with assholes on the subway today. He takes screenshots, and then another set of screenshots of the route from physio to the pharmacy. And then one from the pharmacy home. 

Only the first bit of the address shows up in the search bar on the screenshots. He’s not gonna be able to remember which one of these routes is which. His stomach sinks.

Last time, he’d printed out a bunch of maps and directions like he’d used to do when he was a kid. He keeps them in a box in the closet with all his army stuff. James hesitates, and suddenly feels guilty about thinking about getting the box. He doesn’t need to go there. It’s not like this is the same situation as when things were bad. This is some kinda mix-up. Maybe the automatic payment got fucked with how often Brock changes all their passwords.

James goes to the closet. He finds the box easily – Brock doesn’t keep any of his own stuff on the topmost shelf. James has to get on tip toes to bring it down. He takes off the lid and pulls his old army shit out – his uniform, rucksack, medals, kevlar underwear – chucking them onto the floor. Underneath, there’s a shoebox.

James takes off the lid and abruptly remembers. Right. He’d recycled the maps after they’d made up.

Fuck.

It’s fine. He can print more. He can screenshot one map, to physio, and then go to the library and print more. He’ll take a cab to the library—

How much money is in the joint account?

James’ blood runs cold with the sudden thought. Was it $100? $200? 

Is it still there?

He’s got enough for cab fare, probably, but after that? Can he pay for his meds? Can he get their groceries? How long is this going to go on for, this time? He should probably stop by the bank, withdraw a bunch quickly before… just in case.

James looks back down at the box. Next to the three-day supply of meds, there’s an envelope in there that he knows has $627 cash. He picks it up and stops. What the fuck is he doing? That’s emergency money. He doesn’t actually know the joint account’s empty, he doesn’t even actually know for sure it was Brock that turned off his phone. He’s overreacting. This isn’t an emergency. 

He puts the envelope back without opening it, throws his army stuff on top, and shoves the whole box back on the shelf. Right now, he’s just gotta get to physio. He pulls up the map, takes a screenshot, deletes all the other ones so he doesn’t get confused, and heads to the door. Hand on the knob, he hesitates. It’s just the phone. The phone’s just being weird. He’ll figure the whole thing out with Brock when they get home. His heart’s still in his throat as he locks up, and makes a beeline for the elevators. 

He’s not sure how he makes it to his appointment. He must have taken the subway, because he gets to the waiting room on time, gripping his MetroCard so tight it’s digging a line into his palm. He sucks all through the exercises, because he has a hard time not being tense and because his ass is sore. But he can’t exactly tell his PT that. Ayo never lets him off the hook, and excuses – even good excuses – don’t change that. She tells him exactly how much he’s sucking. Well – not through every exercise – she commends him on how much he’s obviously been working out. Good for his back, she says. He wonders if Brock will stop letting him use his gym membership. Ayo’s staring, and he has no idea what she just said. He nods.

“I think you would benefit from coming more than once a month,” Ayo says, after a beat. James shrugs.

“Tell that to the VA. That’s what they’ll cover.”

“I do,” she says, totally seriously. “Once a week. When I do my rounds of calling insurance providers and explaining to them why they are terrible.”

She should really meet Steve. He’s about to tell her so, when his brain catches up with his mouth, because god help him if she actually starts hanging out with Steve. 

“Good luck with that,” he says instead. “I’ll see you next time.”

She waves him out. Okay, physio done, he’s pleasantly achy and a little sweaty. And, bonus, the physio waiting room has free wifi. Brock’s gonna give him shit about hackers, but he can deal with that later. He deletes his existing screenshots, and takes new ones of the directions to the pharmacy. It’s a forty minute walk. Bank’s on the way.

James’ stomach is in knots by the time he gets to the ATM. He misses the slot with his card a few times because he’s so keyed up.

There’s $212.33 in the joint account. He has to lean against the machine to keep upright, that’s how relieved he is. It only lasts a couple seconds. Sure, the money’s there now, but this is day one, if things are really getting bad again. But if they’re not, if it’s nothing, and he takes out more than $20 or $40 in one go, Brock’s gonna notice. And if they have a fight about that, then things might actually get bad again. But, if Brock did shut off his phone he’s in deep shit anyway.

“Excuse me. Sir?” James turns to see a girl in a security guard uniform standing there, looking uncomfortable. She’s kinda chubby and barely reaches his shoulder. Jesus, this is a bank. They can’t afford a real security guard? Her eyebrows jump up when she catches sight of James’ stump.

“Yeah?” James says.

“You alright?”

“Do I not look alright?” he snaps. He doesn’t need this shit today. Her eyes go kinda wide, and her hand twitches. “Sorry,” he says. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“You’ve been standing there for a long time.”

James looks behind him, and sees he’s holding up a line of two people. He hadn’t noticed them, because he’s a brain-damaged retard who takes too long to do shit like withdraw money from a fucking ATM. He’s suddenly deeply embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he says to the people. Then, to the security lady, “Sorry. I’ll just – I’ll just withdraw and go.” He swallows. “Sorry.”

James withdraws $160.

He takes a cab to the pharmacy, but basically can’t talk in full sentences by the time he gets there. He just shoves bills at the cab driver and hopes he hasn’t overtipped. The pharmacist is explaining something about one of his prescriptions, but it’s not “We’re out,” or “You’re not covered for that,” so he just nods along. It’s— for later. He’ll make – it make sense—

Later.

“Is someone with you?” the pharmacist asks, concerned. This day has really gone downhill if he looks so fucked up people are asking him that.

James shakes his head. “I’ve – taken. These,” he says, gesturing at the meds. “Before. I know.”

The pharmacist calls him a cab home. 

He’s trying to find his key in his pocket when his phone comes back to life. It’s buzzing like crazy against his leg. Notification after notification. A few more messages from Becca. Some emails. His news alerts.

There’s just one message from Brock, sent a couple hours ago.

14:23: Should be home late, probably 21:30 latest

James doesn’t know if he’s supposed to reply. He like reacts to it to be safe. 

What he should do is go out again and get groceries, get something ready for dinner. But everything’s getting a bit foggy. He was barely able to talk to the guy at the pharmacy. He can’t go outside anymore today.

This happens sometimes when he gets stressed. When he works himself up over what’s probably nothing. He gives up, goes and lays down on the bed, and closes his eyes. 

The apartment door opening wakes him up. He startles. It’s gotten dark outside. He feels a little clearer already, after sleeping. Brock’s going through his usual coming-home routine, leaving his stuff by the door, popping off his shoes. He comes into the bedroom and doesn’t say anything, just wrinkles his nose a little when he sees James lying frozen under the covers. James holds his breath.

“Bad brain day?” he asks softly.

James blinks. “Um,” he says. “Yeah. A little. Better now.”

“Good.” He comes up to the bed and kisses James’ forehead, then turns around to head back into the kitchen. Carefully, James follows him. “Want me to get some takeout?”

“Sure,” James says, on automatic. “Thanks.”

“Korean place again?”

Did James fucking dream his phone not working? He fumbles over to the couch and sits. The kitchen lights are way too bright. “Yeah,” he says, then stammers, “Did you—” he stops. “Babe, my phone wasn’t working,” he says. 

“Mmm.”

James just stares at him.

“Did you,” James swallows. “Did you cancel the plan?”

“No,” Brock’s not even looking at him, tapping their usual takeout order into his fully working phone. His voice is light, calm. “I didn’t pay for the next month. Figured you’d have enough minutes to get through today.”

“I didn’t,” James says.

Brock shrugs and pours himself a glass of water. “Thought you would,” he says, and takes a sip. He pours a second glass. “I told you I don’t like you texting all those girls from the wedding,” he says, and walks over, offering the glass to James. He takes it because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“Babe,” he says slowly, “I need a phone.”

“Why?” Brock asks. “You have wifi at home and the buildings you work in, and I drive you most places anyway. What’s the big deal?”

He sits on the couch next to him, checking some emails, and James is so shocked he can’t speak.

“My – my parents don’t really use StarkChat,” he tries.

“They have my number if there’s something urgent,” Brock says. “Plus, they have accounts, right?”

James stares.

“It’ll save us a little this month,” Brock adds. “Since you haven’t picked up so many hours at work.”

“I thought,” James starts, cuts himself off. “Yesterday, we—" 

Brock wraps an arm around James’ shoulders. “Yesterday was great,” he says, and kisses him on the cheek.

“I thought we were okay,” James says. God, he sounds like a needy kid.

“We are okay.” Brock frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You took away my fucking phone!” James shouts, shoving Brock off and getting to his feet. “Just because you fucking felt like it!”

“No,” Brock says crisply, “first of all, I didn’t take away anything. I give you a phone every month and this month I’m not. And we’ll see about the month after that,” he says, in warning. “And it’s not just because I felt like it, it’s because I told you a bunch of times I didn’t want you flirting with all those girls from the wedding. And you kept texting.”

“I wasn’t flirting!”

“Then what’s the problem?” 

Is James in fucking Wonderland or something? “I need a phone!”

“So pay for it yourself.” Brock leans back. “Log into the phone account, change the payment info to the joint account since that’s your only bank account ’cause you have a hard time managing one yourself. Or even better: finally get yourself a credit card, set up auto-pay from your debit, and buy a long-term phone plan, so you don’t forget to pre-pay and end up like this at the end of every month. Then just make sure you’ve picked up enough shifts and that your paychecks come in on time so you have enough in the account by the time the autopay goes through.”

James’ face goes hot. This is fucking humiliating.

“I thought,” he starts. It’s so clear in his head that he can’t understand how Brock doesn’t see it. “Yesterday, you were pissed about this, and then we had sex, and I thought we were okay after that. I thought that meant you weren’t gonna… do shit like this.”

Brock reels, looking very confused. “What does either of those things have to do with the other?” he asks. “We had sex, cause I wanted to have sex, and you wanted to have sex. I don’t remember signing a contract. Every time we fuck, is it because you’re trying to get me to do something?”

“No,” James says. Because – no, it’s not that every time he’s— “But I thought—”

“That’s a pretty fucked up way to think about our relationship.”

“I’m fucked up?” James explodes. “It’s fucked up that you can just turn off my phone whenever you goddamn feel like it!” He’s shouting, but he doesn’t care. He grabs Brock’s phone out of his hand and holds it up. “How would you like it if I—"

Brock kicks him in the stomach, hard. James doubles over and stumbles backward – he wasn’t ready for it, somehow. All the air goes out of him and he’s gasping like a fish. Brock’s phone clatters to the ground.

Before James can straighten up, Brock’s got a hand twisted in his hair and he’s landed another solid punch to James’ ribs. It hurts enough that James cries out. He’s at James’ left, and it’s awkward to reach over to shove him away. Also, the coffee table’s right behind Brock’s legs and if he trips backwards on it he could bash his head in.

James gets in a glorified slap. Brock yanks him forward, and he trips over his own feet, just catching himself from hitting the edge of the couch face first. Brock kicks his other leg out from under him, knocking him down to his knees, and when James tries to pull himself up, he punches him in the ear. 

James is scrambling now, not even fighting, just trying to get away and he can’t because Brock’s shoving his head down in between two couch cushions. The mat underneath is scratching his cheek. He tries to push him off, to get back on his feet, but Brock’s pinned his arm under a knee and brings his free elbow down on James’ bad shoulder.

That freaks him out – he’s already got fucked up nerves there. James goes limp. Brock shifts on top of him, switching the hand holding his head down. James hears him pick his own phone up off the ground. “If there’s a crack in this,” he growls, “you’re fucked.”

After a second, he tosses it on the couch. James can see the glass is intact and unbroken behind the protective case. 

“You don’t take my shit,” Brock says. “I pay for goddamn everything in this place, since when is it your phone? It’s my phone, that I let you use, my food that I let you eat, my car I let you drive, and my fucking apartment that I let you sleep in!” He winds up his arm for another punch.

James braces himself with his right arm, then launches himself up and headbutts Brock in the jaw. Brock’s head snaps backwards, and he lets go of James enough that he manages to stand. When Brock opens his eyes again, he’s even more pissed. He licks his hand and looks down at the bloody trail of spit.

“Jesus,” James says. “Are you—”

“Get,” Brock pants, “on your fucking knees.”

“Baby—”

“I’m not repeating myself.” 

“Are you gonna—”

“The longer you make me wait,” he says, ice cold, “the worse it’s fucking gonna be.”

James glances around the room. They’ve knocked the coffee table halfway into the kitchen, and one of the glasses of water is broken on the parquet. Brock looks like he wants to beat the living shit out of James right now, like he’s totally lost control of himself. The only way they’re getting out of this without trashing the living room and someone getting seriously hurt is if James does what he says.

He doesn’t keep Brock waiting.

It feels awful. There’s no fun bubble of anticipation as he sinks to his knees, no excitement like there would be if Brock gave him the same order outside of a fight. All he feels is dread. It’s the same position, the same wording Brock even sometimes uses. Somehow that doesn’t help at all. James’ heart is pounding, and he raises his hand palm out. He looks up at Brock and hates the expression he sees on his face.

“I’m sorry,” James says. “I’m sorry I grabbed your phone. I don’t wanna fight anymore.”

“Oh, you’re gonna be fucking sorry.”

Brock stomps away and is back after a few seconds of rustling. He’s holding the cane. James opens his mouth, and Brock doesn’t even give him the chance to speak before the first hit comes down – way higher than it’s supposed to. James screams.

“What the fuck?” he shouts, eyes tearing up. There’s a deep stripe of pain along his left flank, and it feels – wrong. But Brock doesn’t stop. He lands another in the same place, and a third to the side. James starts to stand up, because what the fuck. “Brock—" Brock brings the cane down over his right shoulder, once and then again, knocking him back down. It rattles his bones and he’s terrified something’s gonna break. He doesn’t try to get up again.

“What do you expect to get out of this?” Brock taunts him. “If last night was for a phone, what’s this for, huh? In your fucked up head, is this me promising you a new car or something?”

“I’m sorry,” James cries.

Brock comes around to stand in front of him. He raises the cane, and James has a moment of panic – he doesn’t know where he’s gonna hit him, and if it’s his face or his head that could really fuck him up. He doesn’t know if Brock’s thinking straight.

When the cane whistles down, James catches it in his hand. His palm burns.

Brock glowers at him. His eyes are huge. “You—" he starts.

There’s a knock at the door. 

They both freeze, the cane in between them. Brock’s panting heavily. James’s breaths are shaky. There’s another knock.

“Takeout,” James whispers. Brock jerks his head, nodding. He lets go of the cane, and James kneels there, holding it, breathing hard.

“Under the couch,” Brock hisses. James rolls it out of sight. Brock snaps his fingers and points to the cushions, and James stands. His back spasms halfway to his feet, and he catches himself on the armrest. He drags himself the rest of the way into place, sitting upright. His flank is killing him.

Brock smooths his hair back and opens the door with a grin. “Hey.”

The uber driver is bored enough he doesn’t even look up from the pin-pad. “Han’s Kitchen,” he says. “Brock?”

“Yessir, that’s me.” The guy hands him the paper bags. “You guys usually leave it down at the lobby.”

The guy shrugs. “Didn’t see any instructions. The guy downstairs let me up.”

“Thanks, man.” Brock reaches into his wallet, hands over a couple bills. For a second, James hopes the guy’s suspicious, that he noticed something, heard something, that he’s gonna call the cops. But then what? Brock’s friend Greg shows up as the closest unit nearby, they shoot the shit, and he leaves with a ‘see you at work’ and James is even more fucked? It would only make things worse.

The delivery guy thanks him and walks away. “Have a good night,” Brock calls after him, then shuts the door. The lock clicking is the loudest sound James has ever heard. Brock turns, holding the bags of takeout, and James honestly has no idea what’s going to happen next.

Brock walks over, sets the bags on the coffee table, which he pulls roughly back into position. He walks around it, avoiding the spill of broken glass, and sits down beside James on the couch. Then he starts undoing the plastic knot.

“So where does buying you dinner fit on your fucked up scale?” Brock asks, like they’re just having a conversation. “It’s worth what, a spanking?”

“I’m sorry,” James says. “It came out wrong.” He swallows. His gut and back and shoulder and the side of his head are all aching. “Can I… clean up the glass?”

“Later,” Brock says. “First, eat.”

He slides the box of bulgogi beef over, and James catches it. Brock’s ordered his favourite. “Thank—”

“Shut up, sit there, and eat.”

James, somehow, realizes halfway through the meal that he’s actually fucking starving and so finishes the whole thing in a few minutes. Every time Brock’s hand moves to reach for sauce or one of the sides, he can’t help flinching. James should be taking his meds with this meal. But Brock said to sit here. He goes back and forth in his head for a while, before he risks it.

“I gotta take my meds.”

Brock side-eyes him like he’s being crazy. “So go get them.”

James can’t relax until they’ve both finished, and Brock clears the styrofoam containers and plastic bags off the table and tells him to clean up the glass. He almost jumps to his feet, he wants to be off that couch so fucking badly. He sweeps the shards up and dumps them in the garbage, awkward and stiff and achy.

Then, when he’s putting the dustpan away, Brock heads to the bedroom and says, “You’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

James gapes at him. 

“Can I sleep on the floor?” he asks, after a beat. He’s not actually sure which one will be worse for his back, at this point. He’s been taking all his meds on time and working out and going to physio and everything, but still. There’s a reason they have that foam thing on the mattress.

Brock turns and leaves without answering. The light in the bathroom comes on and he can hear Brock brushing his teeth.

He didn’t say he couldn’t get bedding from the hall closet, so James goes and gets himself a pillow and blanket. Fuck. Now who knows when he’ll get his phone back. Brock hadn’t mentioned anything about the money James took out of the joint account. Maybe he hadn’t noticed? 

The sink in the bathroom turns off, and a second later Brock’s crossing the hall into the bedroom. He slams the door shut behind him. How the fuck is this happening to them again? How did James not notice things getting this bad? He washes up and grits his teeth through pulling off his shirt to check on his shoulder. It’s already hard to lift his arm over his head, and he can tell it’s gonna bruise badly. He was supposed to work tomorrow. Is Brock gonna let him take the day off, if he needs to?

How did he fuck this up again?

James already knows he’s not gonna get comfortable on the couch. It’s just long enough, if he props his feet up on the armrest, but too narrow by half and something digs into his side no matter how he lies there. Brock didn’t tell him he couldn’t move to the floor, but James doesn’t want to risk it. Not if things really are going bad again.

He’s just gotta follow Brock’s rules for a bit, avoid anything that will piss him off worse. Stay under the radar. They’ve gotten through this shit before. They’ve gotten through worse.

He fucks around on his phone for a bit since he’s not falling asleep anytime soon, and realizes he never messaged Becca back after physio.

God, he’s such a fuck up.

***

James can barely get himself upright when he wakes up the next day. 

He rolls off the couch more than anything, and drags himself to his feet by leaning on the armrest. Everything hurts – partially from the fight he and Brock had, partially because his back’s fucked from a night on the couch. He takes twice the usual dose of morning pain meds. When he goes to piss, it’s bright red. He stares at it, kind of vaguely horrified, wondering if he should panic. He looks down at his dick, feeling like an idiot. Looks okay. He flushes the toilet. If it gets worse again he’ll go to the VA emergency or a walk in clinic or something. There’s one a few blocks away that’s in network. 

He sets an alarm for an hour before Brock’s supposed to come home, and goes to lie in the bed. A couple hours later, he’s gotta piss again and it’s yellower, so it’s probably fine. He doesn’t do much more than sleep until the alarm wakes him up, and he moves to lay on the couch until Brock comes home. He isn’t actually sure if he wants to call in sick or not – he doesn’t get a chance to bring it up either way. Brock drops his work uniform on the armrest and tells him to take a couple Advil.

He can’t really twist side to side or turn his neck without pain, and it makes the shift he does that evening a bitch. Wanda keeps calling his name to tell him something stupid, and every time she does he has to turn full-body to look at her. After a while, he snaps and raises his voice and then she looks so freaked out at him that he feels like a total asshole.

The next few days aren’t good. They don’t exactly fight again, but Brock’s… it’s like he doesn’t care if James gets hurt or not. Careless. Slamming drawers while James’ fingers are too close, flinging open cupboards that clip his head, that kind of thing. 

Slamming doors – that was what put him in the hospital last time, when things got bad. Brock slammed a door without checking if James’ arm was still in the way or not. Or – and James tries not to think this but can’t help it sometimes – maybe he had checked, and done it anyway. Brock swears that’s not the case, but James still isn’t sure. Either way, it’s the same kind of thing: carelessness. Freaks James out. Normally, he’d try for sex, try to defuse the tension that way. But he’s afraid to, given how their conversation went a few days ago. And Brock barely seems to want to touch him.

“James,” he calls one evening. It’s only every ‘James’, since their fight. He hasn’t heard a pet name in days. James hurries over.

“Yeah?”

Brock rattles the pillbox. “Your meds.”

He still keeps track of James’ meds for him, which he’s pathetically grateful for. Otherwise, he’d be a total mess. He’s somehow dodged the bullet on bad brain days this week, even though he’s stressed as fuck. Still, it’s been hard to take care of himself without help. The bruises are fading and not really hurting anymore, and he’s stopped pissing blood. It’s just his back and left shoulder that are still fucked up, from sleeping on the couch night after night. James comes over and holds open his hand for Brock to tip the pills into. 

“Thanks,” he says, and goes to get a glass of water. He stands by the sink, tips the pills into his mouth, then fills up the glass to take them with. Brock’s got a couple eggs boiling on the stove. As James is still standing by the sink, without saying anything, Brock empties the pot into it. Little droplets of boiling water splash up onto James’ forearm. He jerks back a little, sets the glass down, and looks over at Brock.

“Brock,” he says. Brock just reaches over and runs cold water into the pot.

“What?” he snaps. James shuts his mouth, doesn’t say anything. He bends his arm, looks over the underside. There aren’t any marks or anything.

“Nothing,” he mumbles.

It all does catch up with him, eventually.

He thinks it’s Thursday. Things are slow. Hazy. 

He can’t get up off the couch 

at all. 

Just lays there. Sack of shit until Brock comes

home.

“—work tonight?”

Brock’s voice is really far away. And then 

suddenly it’s not.

“I called your work. They’ve got someone to cover you tonight, and the next three shifts.”

That’s the whole week. They won’t. Money.

“Yeah, well you’re not in any shape to work. C’mon,” Brock reaches for him. James flinches. “Enough couch time. Let’s get you to bed.”

It’s not over.

He doesn’t really do anything bad. Brock’s good to him for a day or two, and doesn’t kick him back to the couch after, but as soon as James can string two sentences together and walk on his own to the kitchen, the carelessness starts up again. James feels like his heart’s going to bust out of his chest at least a few times a day. He’s not sure why. Sometimes randomly, his hand will just get really sweaty and he’ll feel like he can barely breathe. Nothing used to faze him. He used to be able to stay calm in a fucking warzone, and not just calm barely-holding-it-together calm but actually leading men and getting the job done. Now he’s freaking out because his boyfriend’s annoyed? When did he become such a pussy?

Money’s getting tight. Brock hasn’t topped up the joint account since they started fighting, and it’s down to $30-something. He still has the $160 he took out, and he doesn’t really want to dip into it but it’s not like he has options. It’s either that or ask Brock for more money, which means Brock finds out about the missing $160. James wouldn’t start that conversation even if things were going well. 

He doesn’t know how long this is gonna last. He hopes they’ll still be fine to move Becca into her dorm next week. 

They both have the day off Saturday. It’s the first time all week they won’t have any break from each other. If his phone was working, James would go for a run or something. Or to the gym. Instead he lies in bed for another forty minutes after he wakes up, listening to Brock fix himself lunch, settle in on the couch. Turn on a baseball game. He’s not going out, then. And James kinda has to pee.

He’s quiet, getting out of bed and across the hall to the bathroom. The bruising on his shoulder’s barely visible anymore. He debates going back to bed when he’s done, but he should eat and take his meds. Brock doesn’t even look up when he heads into the kitchen, and maybe that’s for the best. They can at least pretend they’re giving each other space.

James makes himself a couple of sandwiches and carries them over to the kitchen island along with his pillbox. He hesitates. He’d be sitting with his back to Brock. He picks up the chair and carries it over to the other side of the island. There. He can see the baseball game, and half-watches.

“It’s the Dodgers,” Brock says. James pauses. Does Brock want him to answer? He looks like he’s waiting for him to say something. James glances at the score.

“Not doing great,” he says lightly. 

Brock shrugs, like James didn’t take a full minute to respond. “There’s still time.” He shifts over a bit, making room on the couch.

It’s not an order, exactly, but he shouldn’t make Brock have to ask him. James hovers in the kitchen for a second, then comes over and joins Brock on the couch. He tries to focus on the game, but every time Brock shifts or reaches for his plate, he’s distracted. It’s almost easier when Brock ignores him. At least he knows he’s supposed to stay out of the way. Now he’s not sure what Brock expects, only that he’s going to fuck it up somehow.

It doesn’t take long.

Brock jerks the coffee table closer and the edge cracks against James’ shins. He jumps, more from surprise than anything else. It’s just a little bump. James nudges his corner of the table out an inch so he can rub at his shin. He gets a second or two, and then scrambles to get his hand out of the way before Brock pulls the table back the way he wants it. It slams into James’ legs again, rattling Brock’s plate hard enough to knock the fork off. 

“Quit moving it,” Brock snaps.

By the end of the game, there’s matching indents under James’ knees where the coffee table was pressed up against him. He doesn’t move it out of the way until Brock gets up to put his dishes in the sink.

“Maybe we can watch a movie or something later,” Brock says. James feels like he’s getting whiplash.

“Okay,” he says dumbly. “Sure.”

***

Brock’s hand comes down with a sharp crack, and James lets out a muffled groan.

“Thank you, sir,” he tries to say – it’s a garbled mess around the ballgag. It’d been such a huge relief when Brock actually wanted to have sex with him again that James basically didn’t care what he had planned and hadn’t asked. Now he’s on his stomach, ankles bent behind him and tied to the rope harness keeping his stump at his side and arm pinned behind his back, and it should be great. It should be fun. But he can’t turn off the part of his brain that says, careful. 

What if Brock shoves his head into the pillows and he can’t pull himself up to breathe? What if he was careless with the knots and one of them starts to tighten? What if he’s careless where he hits?

It’s also difficult to think about all this when he’s so hard he could hammer nails.

There’s a plug in his ass and every time he squirms around when Brock spanks him, he can feel it. Brock’s barely even touched him, but he feels like a few more minutes and he could cum. Brock keeps telling him he isn’t allowed yet. Which is just turning him on more. 

“Close already?” Brock asks, pressing on the plug. James moans, and tries to agree. Brock chuckles. God, it’s so good to hear him laugh. “Can’t even follow simple fucking instructions.”

There’s a bit of an edge in his voice, but James can’t tell if he’s imagining it.

“Good thing I don’t need you for anything other than this, huh?” He runs a hand up James’ back, around his neck. Brock traces his fingers along James’ jaw and hooks two into the corner of his mouth. He can feel his dry lip splitting, and winces from the sudden sharp pain.

“Easy,” he tries to say, but the word comes out as a bunch of vowels. 

“Big dumb idiot,” Brock says. “You’re lucky I like you like this, drooling and trying to hump my bed. Just a dumb fucktoy, ready and waiting for me.” He presses down on the plug, his nail digging into James’ rim above it, and James wants to scream.

But what, he’s gonna complain about Brock using the wrong words, when maybe they’re finally on the upswing? Brock disappears for a moment, leaving James hogtied and gagged on the bed. He’s facing away from the door, so he can only look at the wall and try to guess what Brock is doing. Getting ice, maybe? Then Brock turns the vibration on, and the plug inside him starts moving, and James can’t think of anything for a while. Brock keeps scratching and pinching at him, hitting him occasionally until James is almost out of his head.

“Brock,” he tries to say, “I’m close.” 

Then there’s a hot sear of pain on the inside of his thigh, and James snaps back a little into reality. What is that? It’s not a cane or an elastic band or anything – there was no sound – and he’s pretty sure he’s never felt that before. He tries to whip his head around to see, but he obviously can’t. The spot of pain on his leg starts throbbing.

“Did you cut me?” James tries to ask. It doesn’t sound like words at all. Brock chuckles again, and turns up the vibration, and James moans loudly.

“Don’t move,” he orders. “I don’t wanna slip.”

Whoa. James goes still, very still, and there’s a few more sharp bursts of pain on his legs, and then Brock turns off the plug and takes it out. James is panting. He wants to know what’s going on back there.

What’s he using? Scissors? A knife? Is it on the bed, still? James tries not to move in case it is.

“Brock,” he tries again. “Can you take the gag out for a sec?” Again, he’s basically incomprehensible. He tries to push it out with his tongue, but it’s buckled too tight.

“That’s it, that’s right,” Brock straddles him, and slides his fingers into James. “You don’t do anything, just lie there and be my good little hole.”

Then he feels Brock’s dick push inside, and he lights up with how good it feels. He’s not totally out of his head, but he tries to focus in on the sensation as Brock fucks him. And stay still, in case there’s something sharp on the bed.

“You can cum,” Brock pants after a while, and James lasts a whole five seconds after that, groaning loudly into the sheets. It’s like his whole body melts. Brock fucks him through it, gripping his thighs for leverage, then cums inside him. He holds there for a few seconds, then pulls out and drops on the bed beside James. He kisses him around the gag.

Then Brock gets up and starts to head out of the room. James blinks. It all kind of rushes in, and he feels a swell of panic. Brock’s not gonna leave him like this, is he? He’s starting to feel it in his knees. His jaw’s sore. The sight of Brock walking away makes him panic harder.

He cries out loudly, and Brock turns around at the sound. James kinda flails until Brock walks back and unbuckles the gag so he can spit it out.

“What?” he asks.

“Are you—” it’s hard to talk so soon after such an intense scene. “Are you gonna untie me?” James blurts. Brock looks at him like he’s nuts.

“Yes, obviously,” he says. “Just gotta piss.”

Brock reaches across James and grabs something off the bed. James stares after him, trying to figure out what he’s seeing. Brock’s holding his pocket knife. The blade’s out. James hears him in the bathroom, water rushing. The pocket knife clatters against the plastic counter.

The cuts on James’ thighs are burning. He tries again to look around and something twinges in his shoulder. No luck. The pain’s not unpleasant, but – they’ve never done anything like that before. They never even brought it up.

He wants to talk about it.

He hears Brock walk back into the room, like he’s not in any hurry. James is about to ask about the knife then and there, but he holds himself back. Better to wait until he’s untied. Brock undoes the ropes with practiced motions, and they’re all off in about two minutes. James stretches his legs out. Brock rolls him over onto his back and pulls the towel out from under him, then uses it to clean the spunk off James’ belly. James reaches for the covers, but Brock says, “Wait.”

He reaches over to the nightstand and picks up an alcohol swab. He tears open the plastic and nudges James’ legs apart. James looks down for the first time.

There’s smears of dried blood on the insides of his thighs, but nothing’s actively bleeding anymore. The actual cuts, once he can make them out, are very small. Maybe an inch or an inch and a half in length, thin lines scabbing over. Two on his left thigh, three on his right.

He watches, mute with shock, as Brock wipes them down with the alcohol swab, then rips open another packet and goes over it all again to get the dried blood for good measure. When he’s done, there isn’t even much to put a bandaid over or anything, so he just leaves it.

James curls up under the covers. He’s coming down and starting to feel cold. He doesn’t know exactly how to word this. It takes him a long time to get his thoughts together.

“You didn’t tell me you were gonna bring a knife in,” he finally says.

Brock is pulling on a pair of boxers. 

“Christ, can I get ten fucking seconds before you start bitching?” he snaps. “I never tell you what I’m gonna do in advance. It’s called being a dom.”

“No, I know—”

“But you’ve got a problem anyway.” Brock looks down at James, and sighs. James doesn’t say anything. “Alright, let’s hear it.”

“It was— it was good,” James hedges. “But – have you ever done anything like that before?”

Brock frowns. “They’re basically paper cuts,” he says. “Not exactly brain surgery.”

So no. “I think that kind of stuff is dangerous.”

“I read up about it,” Brock says. “It’s fine if you go very shallow, and in the right places, away from major arteries. Which I did.”

That does make James feel a bit better.

“It’s not like I’ve never drawn blood before,” Brock points out. Which is true. He has, with the cane and paddle and even his fingernails a few times, and James never minded it then. He should probably let it go. But something about it… he hadn’t even known what Brock was doing. It’s not sitting right with him. Usually Brock can talk him out of stuff like this when he freaks out, but he’s not feeling any less freaked out.

“I’m sorry, baby,” James says. “but… for me to stay in the moment, you have to tell me before you bring a weapon in.”

For a beat, Brock doesn’t say anything. James doesn’t think he can argue that much harder without pissing him off. Fuck, he doesn’t want to sleep on the couch again.

But then Brock says, “Okay.”

And it’s okay, just like that. Brock brings his laptop over and climbs into the bed beside James. He’s warm, and still a bit sweaty, and runs a hand through James’ hair as he pulls up Netflix.  

“You gonna stay awake for most of a movie?”

“Most of one,” James agrees.

Brock puts on a spy thriller or something and sets the laptop at the foot of the bed between them. James cuddles in close, and Brock lets him.

For tonight, they’re okay.

Chapter Text

“Thanks for sharing, Frank,” Sam says, and the guy sits back in his chair. “We can talk after, look at some housing resources.”

Holy shit. Group usually kinda bums him out – it’s part of why Brock isn’t the hugest fan of him going that often – but this is… worse than he’d expected. Yeesh. He’d thought at least group couldn’t be a worse option than spending another day stuck at home, nervous that the next thing he does wrong will make Brock lose it. He rolls his wrist and winces – his hand still hurts, but it’s getting better. Another day or so and it should be healed enough to pick up some more shifts – between this and his shitty brain crapping out on him, he’s already missed two.

He just needs to keep things together for three more days, so they can get Becca moved in. Brock hasn’t said they’re canceling on her, and James is pretty sure he’s not going to, this close to the date. He wouldn’t do that. But still. James can’t be the reason his parents have to scramble last minute to move her halfway across the state.

And somehow, sitting at home stewing on that and worrying what mood Brock’s gonna come home in would probably have been better than listening to Frank tell them how he’s been sleeping behind a grocery store the last few days. That guy’s not doing well. 

“Who else wants to share?” Sam asks. Fuck if James is gonna talk after that. What’s he even gonna say? He has somewhere to sleep, has a job, has enough food. He’s not gonna bore anyone with his boyfriend troubles. They’ll work it out on their own. Carol pipes up for a bit, about how her daughter’s not letting her back in her life. And this one other guy seems kind of embarrassed to tell them things are actually not bad. He’s getting married. 

Great.

When they’re done, James goes to grab a coffee from the table at the back. Brock’s coming to pick him up, so it’s not like he has anything better to do in the meantime. He could go outside, so Brock doesn’t have to wait for him when he gets here. But he’s kind of hoping Sam will come over and talk to him. Maybe he’s noticed James’ hand. Even though James has been making an effort to hide it. James doesn’t know what he wants. He’s probably just tired.

Sam does come over, eventually, once the room’s emptied out a bit. “Hey, man,” he says. “There’s fresh coffee in the office, if you want some.”

“Nah, this is fine,” James says, holding up his styrofoam cup. “Thanks.” He hesitates a little. “Is Frank gonna be okay?”

Sam sighs heavily. “I’m gonna do everything I can to help him,” he says, which is what the doctor said when James’ parents asked if he was gonna be able to keep his arm.

“Shit.”

“It’s a rough situation, for sure,” Sam says, and then closes off the whole Frank topic. Sam’s good at redirecting. “How about you? Glad you made it out today.”

“Yeah, sorry I’ve been missing a few.”

Sam shakes his head. “No need to be sorry. How’re things, though? Anything you wanna talk about?” Sam nods his head. “Your hand ok?”

“Fine,” James says automatically. 

And it is fine. It wasn’t a big deal. Brock had twisted it a bit when they were arguing, and neither of them had realized it was anything serious until a couple hours later when it was still swollen. Soft tissue injury, had been the WebMD opinion. James had freaked out after, still, but it had just been panic. Because if Brock had broken something—

But he hadn’t. Jesus. He hadn’t even come close. It was just a little sore. James looks up, realizes that Sam’s still standing there and he’s barely answered his questions.

“I’m moving my little sister into college this weekend,” James offers. He doesn’t know why he’s telling him this. Sam lights up and grins, gap-toothed.

“Nice! SUNY, right? Just the two of you?”

Obviously not. “And Brock.”

“Oh, that’ll be fun. When my parents were helping me move into college, the first night, this huge thunderstorm knocked out the power for like, five days. We dumped all my things in this tiny, hot-as-hell dorm room and then went to a McDonalds a few blocks away that had the lights on. My dad didn’t want to leave me alone, but my mom was worried about Sarah back home and she was telling him, honey, he’s already been through bootcamp and he’s in the reserves, he can handle a power outage. And my dad goes, I’m worried he’ll handle the opportunity to act a fool a little too well.”

James snorts out a laugh. “Did the power come back before you started class?”

“Yeah. But not before all my groceries went bad.” Sam’s looking at him, and James knows there’s still a hint of bruising on the side of his face. He moves his hair to cover it up, which is probably the best way to draw more attention to it. Genius idea of him, as always. “How are things at work?” Sam asks.

“Had to call in sick a couple times. You know. But not bad. Picked up some shifts for next week.” Which hopefully he’ll actually manage to make.

Sam nods carefully. “Alright. That’s good.” He waits a beat. “What about when you’re not working? Anything in particular? I’ve gotten really into ultimate frisbee, ’cause I’m boring like that. How ‘bout you?”

James shrugs. “Not really. The usual. Going to the gym.” He finishes his coffee and throws out the cup. This is fucking pointless. He doesn’t know why he’s disappointed – he doesn’t know what he expected to come out of this conversation. Sam chews the inside of his cheek.

“You’re looking a little beat up,” he says frankly. “To be honest.” 

James panics. He grasps for the first thing that comes to mind. “Yeah, like I said. Lots of time at the gym.” He makes himself smile a little. His heart’s racing. “Maybe too much. Don’t worry, Sam, I’m not getting blackout drunk or bare-knuckle boxing at nights or anything.”

Sam doesn’t laugh. “Look, Brock’s mentioned you’ve been having kind of a hard time lately. You’ve both told me a bit about what you’re like on your bad days. I’m here to help, with whatever you need help with. Anytime, okay? You have my number. Just… ask, man. Okay?”

“I’ve had a few bad brain days,” James says. “That’s it. Don’t worry. But thanks for… worrying, I guess.”

Sam starts saying something else, but James isn’t paying attention, because he can see Brock in the hallway. He stops at the room and knocks on the open door. “Hey, am I interrupting?”

He doesn’t look angry, but it’s hard to tell sometimes when there’s other people around. 

“Nah,” Sam says. “Hey, good to see you. You volunteering today?”

Brock shakes his head. “Nope, just here to pick up James.” He smiles. “How was group?”

“Fine,” James says. “It—"

“Rumlooooow!” a voice calls from across the room. It’s – fuck, what’s his name? Mr. Getting Married. “How you doing! Haven’t seen you here in a while.”

“Colin, hey, man,” Brock smiles. “How’s it going?”

They start chatting, and then James is just standing there like an idiot. Brock knows the names of more people in James’ therapy group than James does. He pours himself another cup of shitty, cold coffee, so at least he looks like he’s doing something. 

Sam’s gone off to talk to Carol a bit, and then when Colin leaves he and Brock catch up for a couple minutes. Plenty of time to agree how much of a useless piece of shit James is. Barely shows up to group and when he does, doesn’t say anything. Just a waste of everyone’s time.

When they get back in the car, Brock turns the radio on. He keeps it quiet.

“How’s your wrist?” Brock asks.

“Fine,” James says quickly. “Should be okay to work tomorrow night, I think.”

“Good.” They stop at a light. “What’d you talk about at group?”

“Nothing much,” he says. Frank’s a mess, and it was kind of depressing, and Brock doesn’t want to hear about that shit anyway. If James brings it up, he’ll just get on his case about always coming back from group in a bad mood. The least James can do is be good company. “How was work?”

“Long,” Brock says. “Could use a distraction when we get home.”

“Yeah?” James isn’t really feeling it, but if he says no Brock’s gonna blame it on group. Also, honestly, maybe it’ll distract him from how bummed he’s feeling. “You got some ideas?”

Brock smirks. “Oh, yeah.”

***

“—on the waitlist opened up, like, right at the last minute,” Becca’s saying. “God, that was a lucky break.”

“Told you it would be fine,” James says. He glances up at the rearview mirror, checking in on her.

The closer they get to SUNY, the more Becca’s been stress-talking. She’s always been a chatterbox when she’s nervous, and the last hour and a half has been all courses and orientation and roommates. The same stories James – and probably even Brock by now – has heard a dozen times. 

He checks in on Brock, too, but doesn’t seem like he’s getting irritated or anything. He grins, like Becca’s freak out is kinda cute. James thinks he grins back.

It’s better than the first half of the drive, when she barely even spoke to Brock in more than a grunt. James’ heart was jackhammering that whole hour, thinking any second Brock was gonna get pissed off and everything was gonna go to shit.

An asshole in the next lane cuts them off. Florida license plate, so figures. James swerves left. It’s a lot easier with the steering wheel spinner. Brock had said a couple weeks back that they weren’t driving Becca if he didn’t get one, so that had settled it. James’ not actually sure why he put up such a fight about getting the thing installed in the first place. Brock’s looking out the window, shaking his head.

“What a dick,” he mutters. Then, “you sure you don’t want to switch?”

“Nah.” Brock already did more than his share, getting them through New York traffic. “Thanks, babe.”

“I hope the bathroom situation’s not gross,” Becca comments. She’s half talking to herself now – thinking out loud.

“Oh, that’s easy,” Brock says. “We’ll just get you shower shoes. Everyone uses ’em.”

Becca pauses. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, sure,” Brock says easily. “You wear them down the hall, in the shower, and on the walk back to your room so you don’t touch the bathroom floor. That wasn’t on the list they sent you?”

“No,” she says. There’s a pause. “That’s like, a really good idea,” she says, somewhat reluctantly. “Thanks.”

“Learned that one the hard way,” Brock tells her, mouth curved into half a smile. “We had a guy on our floor with athlete’s foot.”

“Ew.”

“Yeah.” Brock thinks about it. “You’ll probably want a little desk fan, too. You get anything like that?”

“We have AC in the room.”

“Oh,” Brock says. “Shit. Uh – nice. We didn’t have that in the dorms, where I went to college.”

“Yeah, well, that was like a hundred years ago.”

“Hey,” James snaps, raising his voice. Becca looks at him, a little startled. “Brock took the day off to drive three hours each way and help move you in. Don’t be rude.”

“Uh,” Becca sits there blinking for a second, and James is this fucking close to telling her to apologize. He does not need her pissing Brock off, and him deciding they’re too much trouble and dumping them on the side of the road somewhere in bum-fuck Albany with James having no phone and Becca being—

“Sorry,” she says, fucking finally. It almost sounds like a question.

“No worries.” Brock sounds like he’s as surprised as Becca. James catches him looking over, frowning. “It’s all good. You focus on the road, okay?”

James nods.

Fuck.

He’s being crazy. He’s just being crazy. Brock would never do anything like that to Becca. 

“So,” Brock turns over his shoulder to Becca. “Did they send you a schedule or anything for the week?”

Becca’s trying to watch both him and James at the same time as she answers. “Yeah, like. There’s this orientation thing today. And a Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion workshop on Friday? Then, like, a bunch of events throughout but it doesn’t really say what they are. They say like ‘presentation’ or ‘seminar’. I signed up for this connection day thing over the summer, but they just told me there’d be more information in the welcome packet, which doesn’t give me a lot of time to plan.”

“Plan for what?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “The week.”

“You don’t need to plan. Frosh week is basically a bunch of sophomores organizing a party,” Brock says, sounding relaxed. “It’s supposed to be fun. As long as you don’t do anything illegal there’s not actually that much you can fuck up this week.”

Becca blinks. “No?” Yeesh. James knew that Ma and Dad had given her the ‘you’re an adult now, everything matters all the time’ speech before leaving home. He could have guessed that with how high-strung Becca was normally, she’d be walking into college convinced every moment was high stakes. And, honestly, he didn’t know enough to tell her it wasn’t. 

“Freshmen usually goof off until a week before midterms, then they realize they actually had to do some of the course readings, and pull all nighters studying. And most of ’em still pass.” Brock shrugs. “I figure if you’ve done more than half your readings by October, you’re in good shape.”

Becca, as much as she has her issues with Brock, is hanging on every word. She’s looking at him like she’s drowning and he’s throwing her a rope. Poor kid. First in the family to go to college is great and impressive at all, except it means there’s no one around who’s done it before and can answer her questions. James knows she’s texted Steve a couple of times to ask something, which just makes him feel shittier.

If James hadn’t fucked up his life, he would have been able to help her.

At least Becca’s finally talking to Brock of her own free will.

Brock’s phone GPS tells him to take the next exit. James takes them off the freeway, and right there at the end of the ramp there’s a white University at Albany sign and a road with purple and orange banners. A couple of kids in orange are standing there, and James pulls up towards them. He rolls down the window.

“Hi!” one of the kids says brightly. “Are you here for move-in?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Freshman?” James nods. “Okay cool, just follow the signs for State Quad, there’s parking just across the street.” She hands him a map, and he passes it to Brock. “Have an awesome day!”

There’s a traffic jam up ahead because two kids are trying to carry a couch across the road, but they get there. Becca’s out of the car the second it stops moving, sprinting to the registration tables set up in front of the building. James kills the engine and throws his head back against the seat. 

“You good?” Brock asks.

“Long fucking drive.” He’s told himself all summer that three hours isn’t that bad, but actually doing it? It’s gonna have to be a really, really good brain day for him to try this by himself. And he didn’t even have to deal with the worst of the traffic this time.

Brock squeezes his hand. “I’ll get us home.”

“No, c’mon, you already took the day off. At least I can—”

“Quit arguing. This is in the best interest of the car. It misses me. Give me the keys.”

James snorts. “Fine, okay,” James hands over the keys. “Thanks for this,” he says. He really wanted to be able to help Becca move. Brock hadn’t even been that much of a hardass about it. “Letting me be here for this, helping with everything.”

“Of course.” Brock glances around, and quickly gives James a peck on the lips. “I’m gonna get out. My legs are fucking cramped.”

“Same.”

They get out of the car, and James stretches. He bends over forwards, stretches his back as far as it’ll go, then does the same backwards. He’s still got a couple weeks to physio, so he’s gonna make damn sure he does all the exercises he can. Even if people around are staring at him. It’s hot as fuck, so James is in a t-shirt, and he adjusts the little black sock thing over his stump, keeping it covered. He shouldn’t have worn it in the car – he’s already starting to get sweaty. 

Becca’s in line at the registration desk, wringing her hands. It looks like they’re handing out tote bags to the kids, full of booklets and probably all sorts of other crap. The sun’s beating down – James adjusts his hair, pulls it through the hole in his baseball cap. Did Becca bring a hat?

“She’s gonna be fine,” Brock says. “Frosh week’ll be good for her. De-stress a little.”

“Yeah,” James agrees, watching Becca move up the line. Should someone be in line with her?

“God, everyone here looks so fucking young.”

“Teenagers,” James agrees. “I can’t believe they’re allowed to live alone.”

“I know.”

“No, but the email I got said Tappan Hall?” Becca’s finally gotten to the front. She keeps glancing over at James and Brock. “Is that… Sorry, I just need someone to tell me where I’m supposed to go?”

“You should go help her out,” James tells Brock. He frowns, and for a second James thinks he’s fucked up. He hurries to explain, tripping over himself. “You know how all this college stuff works and it was really helping her, hearing it from you in the car. I don’t… I can’t do that, and I’m not saying you have to or anything obviously but—”

“Hey,” Brock’s smiling. James relaxes a little. “I can, yeah. I’ll go see if she needs a hand.”

“Thank you,” James says, in an exhale. “She looks like she’s gonna shit herself talking to the guy at the desk.”

Brock looks over. The guy’s skinny, around Steve’s build but taller, with purple highlights in his hair and big hipster glasses. “Well, who wouldn’t be terrified of him?” he deadpans. James snorts. “I’ll go. She might bite my head off but,” he shrugs. “Kids.”

“Yeah,” James breathes. Brock heads over, and right away James can see Becca relax when an adult on her side shows up to help figure things out. And Brock’s good at this kind of thing. He’s joking around with the guy at registration, asking Becca stuff so she feels like she’s in charge. James opens the trunk and starts pulling out Becca’s suitcases, yanking them forward harder than he needs to. Brock’s sister doesn’t have a fucking clue what her kids are missing out on, cutting him out of their lives the way she does. 

“All set?” he calls, when he sees Becca and Brock coming back across the parking lot, each with an armful of paper.

“I guess.” Becca still looks a little lost. She sets her down, reaches into the tote bag slung over her shoulder they gave her, and pulls out a bright purple SUNY Albany t-shirt. She pulls it on. It’s about two sizes too big. “We’re in the big gray building over there, fourth floor.”

It’s a bit of a walk, but this does look like the closest parking. “I can drive up to the door,” James offers. “Guard the car while you guys bring things up.”

“What? No!” And now Becca’s in a mood. Great. “Can you just, like, grab a bag and come with me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Brock salutes, and picks up a duffel. Becca looks like she wants to punch something, but just takes a deep breath and takes one of her rolling suitcases. James takes another one, and a backpack. There’s a little bag of electronics or something that he can hold to his chest with his stump. They’ll have to take two trips to the car, at least.

They amble up, find the room – which is on the fifth floor, actually – and finally manage to figure out the weird angle the keycard has to swipe at to get the door open.

The room’s… small. Basically a closet with a twin bed and half a desk shoved into it. James is pretty sure that he can touch both walls standing in the middle of the room, if he really stretches his stump. Still better than a barracks shared with eight other guys. By the end of boot camp, he could tell who was jacking off at night by sound alone.

He can’t believe he was the same age Becca is now when he enlisted. 

“Cozy,” Brock says. “But hey, no roommates.” James and him share a glance – he’s obviously thinking the exact same thing.

Becca wrinkles her nose. “I mean, I’m sharing a bathroom and kitchen with like twelve people on this floor.”

“But no roommates,” James says. “You never have to smell anyone else’s socks, and I don’t think you’re fully appreciating how nice that is.”

“Or see anyone walking around bare-ass naked,” Brock adds. She makes a face.

“Please tell me that’s an army thing, not a college thing.”

“No can do,” Brock says cheerfully. “No roommates might not actually save you. Expect a few streakers over frosh week, for sure.”

Becca looks unimpressed. They unpack to the extent that she actually lets them, control freak that she is – so they mostly just put boxes in the right-ish place and make up the bed. James isn’t exactly a pro at fitted sheets anymore, so he tests the locks on the doors and window. They seem pretty secure. He glances at the map they got and frowns at the distances between her building and the math building. Didn’t she say she was taking calculus?

“If you have a late class,” he says, “find someone to walk home with. Or take the bus, there’s a stop that comes right around the corner.”

“Oh,” she says, and nods, wide-eyed. “Yeah, okay.”

“Promise?”

“Bucky. Yes.”

James nods. “Where’s your kitchen stuff?” he asks. “I think that’s the last thing we’ve got, and then we can grab some lunch.”

“I mean we can just leave it here, right? I don’t want anyone else using it.”

“Mom is gonna ask me if we unpacked it, and she’s gonna know I’m lying.” Becca huffs at him. “Look, she just wants to know you’ll be eating more than instant noodles and coffee.”

“Oh my god, fine. It’s the green box and the plastic bag… thing.” She grabs the plastic bag thing herself before James has to figure out what she means.

“Don’t listen to him, kid,” Brock says, “I got through on instant noodles and coffee just fine.” He winks, and she rolls her eyes, annoyed that she’s amused.

Seems like everybody in the fucking dorm decided to unpack their kitchen stuff at the same time. There’s four other girls in there, plus parents and someone’s kid brother. James, Brock, and Becca wait for one of the families to finish before barging in.

There’s a cupboard with Becca’s room number on it, with another girl’s cooler blocking the door. Becca freezes. “Um. How about we get lunch now, and come back later? It’s kinda crowded…”

James is already moving the cooler out of the way. A sporty blonde girl looks over at him. “Okay if we move this?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah, for sure. Sorry!” She hurries over and helps by moving it a bonus two inches, then turns to Becca. “Sorry! Hi! I’m Michaela, in 5010. That’s my mom and Jerry,” she points. Mom and Jerry look like the kind of people who own boats. They’re unpacking a keurig.

“Becca,” Becca says. “I’m, uh. Down the hall. 5013. This is my brother Bucky and his boyfriend Brock.”

“Hey there,” James says. He holds out his hand to Michaela, who looks at his stump, then looks away, says “sorry”, and then actually finally shakes his hand. Jesus. These kids. To be fair to her, Brock’s not doing much better. He’s staring at mom and Jerry like he’s waiting for them to tackle him. James would have thought the ‘safe space’ rainbow signs on every door would have calmed Brock down a little, but if anything, it’s done the opposite. Becca could probably have skipped the ‘boyfriend’. But, fuck, it’s not like ‘this is my brother Bucky and his totally straight not even a little gay buddy Brock’ sounds better in an all-girls dorm. James hopes he can see that and doesn’t flip out later.

Mom and Jerry do not give a shit who they are anyway. And yeah, it takes a beat, but Brock realizes nobody except James is paying him any attention. He shakes his head, pulls out a sharpie and starts writing ‘Rebecca Barnes’ in all caps on Becca’s stuff. James raises a brow at him. 

“Gotta mark your territory in a dorm kitchen,” he explains, putting the labeled food away in Becca’s cupboard. He taps Becca on the shoulder, hands the marker to her, and doesn’t say anything about how his guard just went way up.

After, they end up grabbing lunch at a Chinese place Brock saw just outside campus. Becca’s more excited than nervous at this point, but not by a wide margin. She’s already gotten Michaela’s phone number, and some other girl’s, though, so she’s gonna be fine.

The Chinese place has one of those cash-only discounts going, and at the end Brock slides the bill over to James. He doesn’t say anything about it, and he doesn’t need to. He knows about the $160 James took out of the joint account. James can tell just from how Brock’s watching him. He’s not surprised. Kind of relieved, actually. It was bound to come up eventually.

He pays cash. They’re not gonna say anything about this while Becca’s around. Then it’s a short drive back to her dorm, and all of a sudden it’s time for goodbye. 

“You’re gonna call, right?” Becca says as she hugs him. “Like at least once a week.”

“We’ll StarkChat,” he promises. “And you need anything, or anything happens, you tell me and I’ll be here.”

“Okay.” She sounds shaky, and not for the first time he wishes he didn’t actually have to leave her here alone. She’ll be fine, obviously, but still. He’s never left her all alone before. “Okay, but you have to do the same thing. If anything happens, you tell me, too.”

“Sure, Becs.”

“Bucky.” She pulls back and looks him dead in the eye. “I mean it.”

“I know,” he smiles. She doesn’t smile back. “I know you do. And I will. But for now have fun, relax a little and… I dunno, do college stuff. I wanna hear all about it.” 

“Okay.” 

“Except, you know, all the drugs and sex. I don’t wanna hear about the drugs and sex.” She snorts, and James puts on his best ‘I’m serious’ voice. “Look, if you tell me about that stuff, I gotta tell Mom, and she’s already got your number with this whole vegetarian thing—”

“Oh my god, fine, I won’t tell you about all the coked up sex parties I go to, okay?”

“That’s disgusting,” he deadpans. “Why would you even think of something like that? Oh, and now you’re laughing about it. Be serious. How are you gonna make sure the coke is vegetarian?”

“Shut up,” she manages, but she is actually laughing now. She gives him one more hug. “Text me when you two get home, okay? And thanks for helping me move.”

She looks over at Brock when they untangle from the hug. “You too, Brock, thanks for helping me move.”

“No problem, kid,” Brock says. 

***

James is dozing in the passenger seat when he feels the car turn and slow. He opens his eyes. He’s got no idea where they are, but Brock’s pulled off into an exit. He doesn’t look over at James, doesn’t say anything, so James doesn’t say anything either. But he’s definitely awake now.

The street doesn’t get more familiar as they keep going. Are they stopping for gas? They just filled up before they left SUNY, so they shouldn’t need to. James thinks they’re somewhere upstate still, maybe Poughkeepsie? Did they already drive through Poughkeepsie? He could probably check the map on his phone, even without data, just look for the street name. But what’s he gonna say if Brock asks why he’s on his phone? They’ve got to be at least a couple hours away from home, still. 

Brock takes a left, and James recognizes their bank’s logo. Brock pulls into the parking lot.

“Just wanted to make a quick stop,” Brock says. “Saw the sign for it on the exit. Wanted to deposit some cash.”

James nods. “Okay.”

Brock’s looking at him. “You wanna join me?” he says, and his voice is gentle. James feels a flush of embarrassment. Brock doesn’t even call him out on it, he knows he took out the money but is giving him an out. James feels a wave of gratitude. It’s kind of him.

“Yeah,” he says brightly. “Okay.”

They get out of the car and go inside, to one of the ATMs. There’s a branch walking distance from their place, so James thinks for a moment there wasn’t really a need to go to this random one in the middle of nowhere. But he supposes it doesn’t really matter either way.

Brock watches him as he slides what’s left of the $160 into the machine. He has an extra ten bucks, too, from before, and he shrugs and slides that in, too. Why not. There’s some change left after, and James puts it in his pocket. Brock looks around for a second, then leans in and kisses him deep and slow – James is surprised, Brock isn’t usually this affectionate in public places.

“You know I hate it when we fight,” Brock says, quiet against James’ cheek. Then he steps back.

James is surprised. He hadn’t expected him to say that. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, of course. I do too.”

“I love you,” Brock says. “You know that? I’m fucking lucky to have you.”

James just wants Brock to pull him close again. He doesn’t move, though, just in case. “I love you, too.”

Brock leans in and hugs him tight. “Let’s go home,” he says, and James follows him to the car.

Brock turns the radio on once they’re on the freeway again, and it’s good again. They’re good. It’s gonna be fine. James leans back against the headrest and closes his eyes, still tired from the day. 

***

James is just getting out of the shower when he hears Brock’s keys in the door. He’d had a good day – gone to the gym for almost two hours and worked out every muscle group, head-to-toe. It feels good, sore and satisfying. He hasn’t done that in a few weeks. Now that Brock’s topped up the joint account and there’s enough there for an emergency cab home, it doesn’t scare him as much to go out without his phone.  “Hey, baby!” he hears Brock call, cheerful, from the hall.

“Hi!” James calls. He towels himself off, listening to Brock settle in. He’s home early. James pulls on his boxers and steps out of the bathroom. “I was gonna make that beef stirfry thing for dinner again.”

James gets to the living room and stops. Brock’s in his work suit, but he’s undone the top three buttons of his shirt and his hair’s a bit windswept from driving home with the windows down. Christ, he’s gorgeous. 

He’s holding a bag of takeout from Red Star Eatery, and James can smell the dumplings from here. They’re James’ favourite. On the coffee table in between them, there’s a gift-wrapped box a couple feet long, with a green ribbon taped to it.

“What’s this?” It’s not their anniversary, or James’ birthday or anything like that. It’s a regular Tuesday. For a second, Brock looks almost embarrassed, and James tries to joke. “The stirfry was that bad last time?”

“Just remembered you really like the place,” Brock shrugs, and sets the takeout bag down on the kitchen counter. “It was on the way. Figured I’d surprise you.”

James’ stomach is already gurgling from the smell. He starts undoing the plastic bag, and Brock grins.

“Sit down, I’ll make you a plate.”

“Okay.” James sits, and Brock turns loading him up a plate of dumplings and soup into a whole production. He puts on this pretentious puckered-lips face and arranges the dumplings with a tiny novelty spoon, like he’s a fucking Michelin chef. He puts a single sprig of parsley on each one. James knows for a fact that the folks at Red Star just throw the food onto a plate. He’s nearly pissed himself laughing by the time Brock serves him.

“Voila, baby.”

“You gonna do yours up all fancy?”

“Nah,” Brock takes out the second box and pops a dumpling into his mouth with his fingers. 

James chokes on his laugh. 

“Got you something,” Brock says, between bites.

“I know, I’m eating it.”

“Not that,” Brock says. “I got you something and I have a whole thing I wanna say about it.”

“Okay?”

“Just keep eating. Let me talk.”

James shoves a heaping spoonful into his mouth and makes a show of chewing. Brock snorts.

Then he starts. “The last couple weeks have been hard for us.” Oh. He’s gonna talk about that? James had figured they were already past it. Things have been pretty good, since they moved Becca in. But okay. Brock had asked him to listen. He can listen.

“We both said and did some stuff we shouldn’t have,” he says, then looks embarrassed. James knows this kind of touchy-feely stuff is hard for him. “I know I’m not always the easiest guy to live with,” he takes a breath. “I know that.” 

Yeah, that’s one way to put it, James thinks, then immediately feels bad about it. Brock’s clearly trying here.

“So, anyway, I got this.” Brock stands up and brings the gift-wrapped box over from the coffee table. He sets it down on the counter beside James. James puts his spoon down and goes to open it. Brock’s watching him a little nervously as he tears the paper. It’s an unmarked, dark brown box, no logo or anything. James doesn’t even have a guess what it could be. He undoes the wrapping, takes the top off and stares. Inside, there’s a light coloured wooden cane, with a dark brown, glossy handle. It looks about ten times fancier than the one they have in the drawer. He looks up at Brock, unsure.

“I got rid of the old one this morning,” Brock says. “I couldn’t keep it after I did what I did with it. It felt like I ruined it.” Brock looks like he’s in pain. “I shouldn’t have used it… like that. This,” he gestures to the new cane, “this one is only for us to make each other feel good. I’m not gonna forget that again. I’ll never use it when I’m angry. I’m sorry I ever did.”

James doesn’t know what to say. It had felt so shitty when Brock did that with one of their toys – it had made everything muddled up and gross. This is like a clean slate. Brock’s watching him with big eyes, a little nervous. Like he’s not sure if James is gonna forgive him. James’ eyes sting. How could he not forgive him?

After a minute, James reaches over and takes his hand, so at least he knows that it’s okay. James swallows. He’s not gonna cry about it and make them both embarrassed. 

He leans across and kisses Brock, pulling him close. Brock’s stiff at first, like didn’t expect it, and that breaks James’ fucking heart. Then he wraps his arms around James and just holds him.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I love you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” James says. His throat’s a little thick. “I love you too.” When they come apart, both of them are clearing their throats. James looks down at the cane. “What, did you blow our whole savings on this thing?” he says lightly.

“Pretty much,” Brock laughs wetly. “Wanted to get the best they had.”

James grins, a little embarrassed. “Later, maybe we can try it out.”

Brock beams at him. “Eat your dumplings.”

***

Brock pulls up outside the Starbucks, and James waves him over. He stops, then slows and James climbs inside. Brock kisses him and pulls away from the curb.

“Thanks,” James says.

“No problem. How was it?”

“Kinda fucked up,” James says. He’d taken his laptop to the coffee shop for a change of scenery and to figure out his work hours for the next month, and quickly realized he was even more fucked than he’d thought. “They’ve capped me at signing up for two shifts a week.”

Brock frowns. “What the fuck? Like, they won’t let you do more even if you’re able to work them?”

“Yeah!” James is still fuming. “I emailed my manager and he said since I’d been calling off so many shifts they capped me at two a week. Two! What the fuck is that?”

Brock grimaces. “So, time to abandon ship?”

“Yeah, definitely. I spent the past few hours sending out resumes.”

Well, most of the day was spent actually making a fucking resume. His first draft was: War crimes 2016-2021. Fuck-all / Brain Damage 2021-2023. Janitor 2023-present. Then he’d had to get a danish cause reading the fucking thing depressed him so bad. He’d had to google around for thirty minutes about if he should put his high school degree on there since he didn’t have any college. Maybe Steve could help him make the thing look pretty, at least, when he got back from England.

“Good,” Brock says. “Fuck those guys. Where are you applying?”

“Other temp stuff, I guess. More janitor work. Delivery, maybe, if they’ll let me.” He thought about cashier, but he doesn’t know if eight hours of math while standing up on a not-so-great day would be sustainable. He can answer phones, though. “Maybe a call center or something? Data entry?” 

At this point he’s just listing off words he saw on Indeed.

“Sounds good,” Brock says. “You’ll find something.”

“I hope so.”

“You gonna quit?”

“Well, yeah, once I find something.”

“Fuck ’em,” Brock says. “Quit now. Show them for dicking you around like that.”

“Baby,” James says, a little surprised. “I can’t not have any job. We’re not exactly rolling in it.”

“Yeah, but with two shifts a week at below minimum wage, how much difference is that gonna make?”

Ouch. James sits there, quiet. At least when he can work a normal amount, he’s able to kid himself that he’s contributing something to their household. He knows it’s not much, but it doesn’t feel great to have Brock just say it like that.

“It’s just gonna tire you out,” Brock continues. “You’ll still get the disability checks, and you’re better off using the time to look for better work.”

“Maybe,” James says evasively. “I’ll think about it.”

Brock drops it. “’Kay. If I know anyone who has something, I can ask.” It occurs to him that that guy Clint, from Steve’s wedding, had mentioned that the City always had some job postings for veterans. Maybe he could reach out to him, if he takes a while to find something. He did get his phone number. 

James nods. “Thanks.” He sighs, rubs his eyes. “What do we have at home?” he asks, thinking about what they can make for dinner.

“Nah, you’ve had a shitty day. And I’ve had an annoying one. Let’s go out.”

James perks up a little. “Really?”

“Yeah, why not?” Brock looks like he’s getting more excited about the idea the more he talks about it. “There’s this seafood place Hauer was telling me about that does good mocktails. You’ll like it.”

The restaurant is downtown, so about a twenty minute drive and another twenty to find parking. The first thing James notices about the place is how dark it is inside. Well, dim. The lights are this warm, orangey glow and every table has candles on it. As far as he can tell, they’re all two person tables, too. 

It’s not that Brock never takes him places. It’s just that he gets so weird about PDA and being visibly gay, that this kind of place is usually a hard no.

“We can go somewhere else,” James suggests. Brock looks a little uncertain, but shakes his head.

“Nah. Been wanting to try the swordfish. Never eaten a swordfish before.”

He’s quiet on the way to their table, but once they get there and the waitress leaves them alone, he reaches out for James’ hand. It’s such a small thing, objectively. But James can see how nervous it still makes him, holding hands over the table on a romantic date. It makes the whole thing more exciting than it's got any business being. He’s clearly trying.

“Look,” Brock says, and pulls out his phone. He pulls up a photo and turns it around to show James. “My cousin sent it to me this morning.”

James looks down at the photo. He recognizes Brock’s sister, Anita, and her husband. There’s three kids in the photo, wearing Mickey Mouse ears, and he realizes those must be Dina, Cindy, and Nick. He’s seen maybe five pictures of them in his life. Dina looks almost Ruth’s age.

“Oh wow,” James takes the phone. “First trip to Disneyland?” Disney World? There’s two, right?

“Disney World,” Brock corrects. “Yeah. Apparently Nicky’s been begging to go for a couple years, basically since he started school. Ray said Cindy puked her guts out on Space Mountain.”

James laughs and hands the phone back. “The one time I convinced Steve to ride the Cyclone, it was disgusting. Puke all over him, me, and the two ladies in front of us.”

“Please tell me you didn’t ride that thing with his oxygen tank.”

“Hmm?”

“Jesus Christ, it’s made of wood and like a hundred years old!”

“No, no,” James laughs. “This was when we were like… ten, twelve. He wasn’t on oxygen yet.”

“Thank fuck.”

“Oh come on, you don’t need to act that surprised. Not everything I did as a kid was a death wish.”

“Uh-huh. Let’s see. Just from what you’ve told me,” Brock starts listing off on his fingers. “You got into so many fights your dad sent you to a boxing gym after you got suspended for a week—”

“These assholes kept picking on Becca and Steve—”

“—your hair caught on fire at that shawarma place you were working under the table, you tried to learn to swim in the fucking Hudson–”

“Hey, hey,” James drops Brock’s hand to reach over and smack down his fingers. “Swimming in the Hudson is basically a vaccine, it’s a public health—”

Brock laughs at that, loudly. “And!” he says, picking up where he’d left off, “and! When you got back from bootcamp and got wasted on who-knows-what, and woke up the next afternoon in your boxers in Times Square?”

“Okay,” James says, “what about you? You put your buddy in the hospital playing ‘beer baseball’.”

“I wasn’t the one who swung the bat, that was Sitwell.” James is laughing his ass off. He wipes his eyes. “I was the one who had to explain to the fucking doctors and our goddamn CO.”

“So it’s a miracle either of us survived till now.”

“Basically,” Brock says, lifting his glass. They clink them together.

The swordfish ends up being underwhelming, according to Brock. The mocktails are good, though, and it’s nice to be treated like an actual couple by strangers instead of two bros. Brock doesn’t show him the bill and James doesn’t ask. By the time he’s paid and they’re heading back to the car, Brock’s got a look in his eye.

“You got plans?” James asks. Brock shrugs theatrically.

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” he says.

“Seems like you’ve got some plans.” James leans in to kiss the corner of Brock’s mouth. Brock gives his hand a squeeze. “Come on,” James says. “Let’s get home and have some fun.”

Brock strokes him through his jeans at red lights, which they’ve never done before, and by the time they get home James is uncomfortably hard and can’t get through the door fast enough.

“Strip,” Brock orders, “and get the belt.”

James nearly trips over himself getting naked, leaving his clothes in a pile by the door. He comes into the bedroom, and Brock’s got three ropes laid on the floor in a row, which makes James’ stomach flutter. Brock picks up the first one and unfolds it. James gets the belt from under the bed – they should really just put this thing in the sex drawer – and holds it out to Brock. Brock glances over at it.

“On the bed,” Brock says. James sits and Brock straps his stump to his chest. He pulls the belt tight, the leather digging into James’ skin. “Lie down, on your back. Arm over your head.” 

James lies down, and Brock throws the pillows off onto the floor. He starts winding rope around James’ forearm, looping it up from the wrist until more than halfway to the elbow, then ties the whole thing off to the headboard. James pulls at it – there’s not a lot of give, side to side. He grins up at Brock.

“What do you got planned?” he asks.

“None of your fucking business,” Brock says, and slaps him across the face. He’s fighting a smile, and James can see his pants are tented. His cheek’s burning.

Brock makes him spread his legs and secures a wide cuff around each ankle. He doesn’t tie them to the legs of the frame, yet. Instead, he just looks at him.

“Look at you,” he says, stroking a hand up James’ cock. “Got you all excited, huh?”

“Yes, si—”

Brock slaps him again, hard, and James yelps. God, it’s already so good and Brock’s barely done anything yet. “Ass up.”

James lifts his hips. Brock gets up, rifles around in the sex drawer for a moment longer. It’s not easy to hold, but James can last for a while before his muscles start shaking. He has before. He can stay how Brock wants him, for as long as Brock wants him to. That’s like, half of why he goes to the gym. Finally, Brock brings something over. James hears the pop of a cap of lube, and then Brock’s pressing something against his asshole and sliding it inside. It’s longer than just a plug, which James hadn’t been expecting, and he sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly to adjust.

“This what you want?” Brock asks, and James nods desperately.

“Please, sir,” he starts, then stops himself. Was that a question?

Brock chuckles. “Go ahead. Put your ass down, stupid, and tell me what you want.”

James relaxes, dropping back onto the mattress. “Whatever you want, sir, please. What you want.” 

Brock ties his ankles off, and James can’t move. He’s all spread out, he can feel the dildo or whatever it is inside him with every breath. Brock wraps his hand around James’ cock and strokes it once, firmly, up and down. James moans.

“Yeah?” He does it again, slow and steady. There’s some lube on his hand, and the slide is so good. After five or six strokes, Brock stops moving. He keeps his hand there, around James’ cock. “Come on,” he says. “Fuck my fist.”

James tries, but he can’t do much with the way Brock’s tied him down. He can’t plant his feet, can’t get any leverage. He jerks his hips up into nothing and he’s pretty sure Brock’s loosening his fist with each thrust.

“Maybe this’ll help,” Brock says, and then the thing inside James starts to vibrate. He yelps a little, surprised. He hadn’t realized it was the vibrating one. But the vibrations are right there, in the right place, and it’s making him jolt. Little lightning flashes of pleasure. “Did I fucking tell you to stop?”

He reaches down to squeeze James’ balls and James jumps back to trying to thrust. It’s harder to focus with the vibrator thing going, and with Brock running his hand up and down James’ chest, pinching and twisting. 

“And here I thought I was being nice, giving you some easy-to-follow instructions,” Brock’s saying. He takes his hand off his cock and pinches the thin skin around James’ nipple. “Tell me, are you too dumb to get yourself off?”

“Yes, sir,” James grins. 

Brock digs his nails into James’ chest and scratches down, hard. It’s searing, hot pain going agonizingly slow down his chest, his stomach, then when he thinks Brock’s done – keeps going over his hips and down his thighs. He cries out, and Brock finishes somewhere around James’ knees. It burns all the way down his front.

“Oh, relax,” Brock says, and then puts his hand back on James’ cock and strokes him some more, faster now. He can feel his balls drawing up. “Tell me when you’re close,” Brock says, which – oh no.

“I’m close,” James admits, and just like that, the hand comes off his cock. James humps upwards, blindly, but there’s nothing there. Brock reaches for something on the bedstand and a second later the vibrations die down, too. Not all the way, but it’s definitely not enough for James to finish from. “Fuck!”

“I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?” Brock laughs. “Looked like you were getting a little excited there.”

“Please, sir,” James whines, and right away Brock’s hand is closing around his throat. Not choking him, not yet, but tight enough that James feels the pressure when he swallows.

“Jesus, you’re stupid. This thing?” He sticks two fingers into James’ mouth and pulls the corner down. “You can’t figure out whether you’re supposed to use it to beg me or to suck me off, can you?”

“No,” James tries to say, around the fingers. He can feel himself drooling. 

“No,” Brock agrees. “So you keep it shut unless I tell you to, and you thank me for it, you idiot.”

“Thank you, sir.” James can barely understand what he’s saying, but it’s good enough for Brock. He takes his fingers out and wipes them on James’ cheek.

“Good boy,” he says, and the hand around James’ throat squeezes. He holds it there, until James can feel his pulse in his head. He gawps like a fish, starts feeling dizzy. 

Brock lets go and he gasps in air. It’s even more dizzying, for a second. Right when the black spots on the edge of his vision start to fade, Brock turns the vibrations way back up, so suddenly James cries out. He loses his breath all over again. He can feel himself leaking onto his belly. It’s so strong it almost hurts, and he can’t keep from moving his hips, just a little.

Brock just watches him for a while, not touching, just enjoying. James loves looking up at him like this. He’s losing his mind with how good and desperate he feels, and Brock’s just sitting there, cool as anything. In control. 

“I’m close,” James says again, and Brock doesn’t do anything for a minute – James wonders if he’s finally gonna let him cum – but then the vibrations go down so low they’re almost gone. He lets out a frustrated groan. “Come on!”

Brock smacks him on the thigh, hard. It hurts, but not enough to distract him from how fucking close he is. His cock feels like it’s gonna explode.

“You want me to give you something to complain about? Is that it?”

James doesn’t even try to answer that one. Brock gets up off the bed and goes to the closet. He comes back holding his pocket knife. He flicks out the blade and holds it up for James to see.

“I’m gonna cut you,” he says, climbing back onto the bed. He throws a ziploc bag full of alcohol wipes onto James’ chest. “I’ll even let you pick where.”

James’ mouth is dry. Everything feels too much right now, with how on edge Brock’s keeping him, and he wants something to ground him. From what he remembers of how it felt last time, this could do the trick. Plus the way Brock told him he’s just gonna do it is fucking hot right now.

 “I dunno where,” he manages. Brock grins.

“Of course you don’t. Come on, I’ll make it easy. Leg or arm?”

As he says it, he turns the vibration up one notch. James groans. “Leg,” he manages, picking at random.

The alcohol wipe feels cold on the inside of his thigh, and James shivers as Brock gets him ready. 

The vibrations stop. “Don’t move,” Brock says, running the flat of the blade up James’ thigh. It’s completely different seeing it happen. James’ heart is pounding as Brock turns the knife and presses the edge against his skin. There’s pressure, then the burn starts, and spreads, and it hurts in a fantastic fucking way. James moans. He watches as Brock gets ready for a second cut. “Told you you’d like it.”

He does eight this time, four on each leg, and by the end James is a mess. The vibrator comes screaming back on and Brock presses his thumb into one of the cuts and James doesn’t even know what sound he’s making right now. He feels Brock shifting above him and suddenly Brock’s mouth is around his cock, hot and wet and sucking.

“Holy fuck, holy shit, please, fuck, please.” James only realizes he’s babbling when Brock leaves his cuts alone and brings his hand back up to James’ throat to cut him off. He lifts off of James’ cock with a pop.

“Shut up,” he says. “Tell me when you’re close.”

“Brock, please—"

Brock slaps him across the face again. “Tell me when,” he says again. “If you cum before I say you can, I’m turning the vibrator up to full blast and leaving you tied up until the fucking battery dies.”

There’s a second of panic that cuts through the haze, because Brock might actually do it. “Really?” James asks. His cock jerks. The idea’s as scary as it is thrilling.

“Wanna find out?” 

James swallows, shakes his head. Brock grins at him, then bends back over to blow him. When James tells him he’s close, he comes off, and James is so frustrated he’s about to cry – but a second later he turns to vibrator to max and starts jerking him off. It’s too much – James squirms on the bed – he can feel himself straining against the ropes. And then when he cums, he can feel it in his fucking teeth. He nearly screams, and Brock keeps stroking him through it. Cum spurts over his chest, his belly, Brock’s fist, and when the vibrator finally shuts off and Brock takes his hand off his cock, James’ aftershocks last fucking forever.

When he zones back in, his left leg is untied and Brock’s working on his right. He’s undone his own pants and pulled them down enough to let his dick out, and his shirt’s off. How did James get this lucky? 

Brock hoists James’ legs up from behind his knees, and it’s only then that James notices he’s already taken the vibrator out. When did that happen? Doesn’t matter, because Brock’s smearing lube on his own dick and lining up and pressing in and it’s too fucking much. 

“There we go,” Brock says, bottoming out. James is pretty sure he’s crying now. He can feel himself spasming around Brock, and he can’t tell if his cock hurts or if this feels good. His brain is on fucking fire. Every thrust, he feels like it’s melting. Above him, Brock is shaking, tensing up. He snaps his hips against James, throws his head back, and James can feel him cum. His breath is hot against James’ neck. He lets all his weight rest on James, panting. After a minute, he raises his head and kisses James, deep and slow.

“How you doing, baby?” he asks. James makes some kind of noise, probably. Brock chuckles. “Sounds about right.”

He stays there for a bit, on top of James, softening inside him. James drifts in and out. Sometimes Brock’s hand is in his hair, brushing it back. Sometimes they’re kissing again. All the while it’s warm and it smells like Brock. It’s nice, to be this close.

Eventually, Brock pulls out and gets off, and starts untying James’ arm. He leans over him to get at the knot, and James looks down and—

“Uh,” James starts. He’s getting a full view of Brock’s pants now, and also of his own thighs. Fuck. “Babe? Your pants are kinda...”

“What?” Brock sits back and looks. “Oh goddammit.” 

“Yeah.” There’s blood all down the outsides of Brock’s pants, where they were rubbing up against James’ thighs. “Is it on the sheets too?”

Brock checks. “Shit. Yeah.”

James bursts out laughing. “Baby, we did not think this through.”

Brock snorts, and then he’s laughing, too. “It was hot, okay? I didn’t, you know...”

“Yeah, me either. It’s fine. We’ll put a towel down or something next time. Or get black sheets.”

“What?”

“That’s what my sisters do when, you know, they’re on their—”

“Jesus,” Brock bursts out, and covers his face. He collapses onto the bed beside James, laughing harder, a little appalled. James rolls over and throws his arm over Brock’s ribs. “That’s the most boner-killer thing you could have said.”

“We just finished!” James objects. “The boner’s already dead!”

They giggle about it like dumbasses for a bit, then Brock has the sense to wipe down James’ thighs and take the belt off James’ chest. James rolls his shoulder. Then he sits up and touches the stains.

“Well, they’re dry,” he says. “Too late now. Change them in the morning?”

“Yeah,” Brock agrees, yawning.

James kisses him, then gets up to take a shower. The cuts on his thighs rub together a little when he walks – it stings a bit. He smiles to himself. He’ll have something to remember this tomorrow.

***

13:34: before tequila… and after lol

13:34: [Sent image]

Becca’s been sending him college updates for the last two weeks. The latest set is a photo of her with her freshman class in matching SUNY Accounting Class of ‘28 t-shirts, and a blurry photo of Becca in the same t-shirt but with lipstick, shit-faced at a bar. In more than a few of them, the same skinny Asian guy’s got his arm around her.

James smiles. It’s good to see Becca letting loose a little, having fun. Except…

13:37: how are you at a bar? Did you get a fake ID

13:37: Yeah lol it was super easy, Michaela and I went to a souvenir shop

13:37: Don’t tell Mom and Dad. 

13:38: Or Brock.

James rolls his eyes. He heart reacts the bar photo, though.

13:38: Im not gonna tell anyone

13:38: What are u up to?

13:39: [Sent image]

13:39: any of your friends have rich parents that wanna offer me remote work lol

13:40: Ew, do all job websites look like that?

13:41: Pretty much. Welcome to adulting

13:41: 🤮 

13:41: Not yuor problem for another 4 yrs 🙂

13:42: True

13:42: Hey did you see Steve’s pic from the London Eye? Soooo gorg

13:42: no

13:43: [Sent link]

James doesn’t go on Instagram, barely ever. Becca made him download the damn thing. He doesn’t actually need to watch a constant stream of photos of people he kind of knew in high school living their best lives. Or at least, better lives than his. Steve’s pictures are nice, though. This one is a sunset view of the city through some steel beams or something, with a bunch of colour edits. James hits the little heart button and scrolls. The next one’s a coloured pencil sketch of the same view, stylized in some artsy kinda way. He hearts that one, too. Steve can talk for hours about colour theory stuff, since he had to learn it the hard way without actually being able to see all the colours people were talking about it. Would be nice to see him, listen to him talk about why he drew this one the way he did.

It occurs to James that Steve’s gotta be back from his honeymoon by now. He hasn’t heard anything. He’s not exactly surprised. Steve’s married now, it’s not like James is the most important person in his life. He hopes he’ll stay somewhere in the top five, at least. Top ten.

Literally thirty seconds later, he gets a Starkchat from Steve.

13:50: Hey!

13:50: You liked the drawing?

13:50: Yeah haha just now

13:51: I texted you a couple times after we got back, but it didn’t go through. All good?

James has a jolt of panic. He types quickly.

13:51: yeah broke my phone lol. Havent hada chance to get it fixed. Starkchat only for now

13:51: Oh ok. Np

13:51: Wanna catch up? Missed you

James catches himself smiling. Steve missed him. It feels nice to read that.

13:51: Plus gotta tell you about Peggy’s cousins. We went to a ‘football’ game and I think I’m deaf in both ears now.

13:52: Lol

13:52: How was flying with the tank?

13:52: Hell

13:53: Yeah I wanna catch up. When are you free? You free today?

13:53: Oh lol literally whenever. 

13:53: [Sent image]

It’s a selfie of Steve in a hospital bed. James can see medical equipment behind him, a monitor. He’s got the cannula in his nose, like usual, but it’s connected to the wall, not his tank. Peggy’s asleep beside him in the narrow bed, half in frame. She’s wearing a mask.

13:54: ugh. You good?

13:55: Yeah yeah. Same as usual. Infection, resistant to most of the antibiotics, so I’m staying for a course of new ones so it can get resistant to those. Blablabla

13:55: not gonna be anissues for the transplant?

13:56: 🤞

13:56: I guess it might move you higher up the list right

13:56: Yeah lol maybe

13:56: Anyway I’m at Lehigh Children’s. Room 13 8th floor. Come whenever

13:56: Wear a mask though pls. You know the drill

13:57: Yeah I don’t need Dr Erskine yelling at me again

13:57: Same

James is already typing out he’ll come this afternoon but stops. He pulls open his chat with Brock first.

13:57: hey 

13:57: ok if i go visit Steve today?

13:57: hes in the hospital and not sure how long theyre gonna keep him 

Brock’s at work. James’ not expecting an answer right away, so he finishes up chatting with Becca before her afternoon class, and starts making himself some lunch. He’s just sitting down to eat when his phone pings again.

14:21: Oh shit is he ok?

14:21: Hard to say

James forwards Brock the image Steve sent. Steve’s looking pretty healthy in it, all considered, but he’s covered in tubes and medical shit that usually kind of freaks people out, and his face is paler than usual. Peggy’s wearing a mask, which helps the whole thing look serious.

14:22: shit

14:22: yeah of course. Want me to drive you after work?

14:23: No its ok 

14:23: I’ll head out soon but can you pick me up when you get off work?

14:23: 👍

14:24: Thanks!

14:24: See you at 18:00

14:24: Tell me if plans change

14:25: ok. Love you

14:26: Love you too

Lehigh Children’s is about forty minutes away. He could make it in thirty, if he takes the subway, but today is not a subway kind of day. James scrambles to finish eating, get a reasonable shirt on, slip a sock over his stump, and get going. He texts Steve once he’s on his way and then sits back and tries to ignore the headache that the bus noise and smells are trying to give him. Still better than the subway.

In a weird way, he’s glad that Steve still goes to the kids hospital. The staff are sweet, and every single wall is painted with cartoons or superheroes or nature scenes. Steve’s probably done a good third of those murals himself, over the years. Beats the decor in the military hospital by a mile, that’s for sure.

He gets his visitor pass from the front desk, gives them the room number Steve told him, spends a while wandering lost on the eighth floor, then eventually finds it. It’s the hallway painted in underwater scenes. James recognizes the dolphin Steve painted back in high school. And the sea otter thing he did last year.

There’s a little panel that says Rogers, S. by the door. James goes to head inside, then sees the PRECAUTIONS banner on the door. Right. He gets a mask from the little cabinet in the hall, and one of those little yellow gowns and a glove. That’s what it says on the door to put on – but Peggy in the picture was just wearing a mask? He thinks about it for a minute, tries to remember what shit he wore the last time, then realizes he can’t put the fucking glove on anyway so he just goes in with only the mask. 

Peggy’s still in bed with Steve when he comes in, and they both look up at him. Steve beams, Peggy’s eyes crinkle. God, Steve always looks so happy to see him.

“Hello, Bucky!” Peggy says. “Long time no see.”

“Last I saw you, you were looking a little fancier,” he says.

“Just a smidge.” James comes over and gives her a hug, the sides of their paper masks crinkling a little where they press together. He leans over and gives Steve one too. He feels a little bonier. Maybe James is just imagining it.

“How’s he been, actually,” James asks, settling onto the little visitation couch. “I can’t ever get a straight answer out of him.”

“He will tell you he got sick after we came back,” Peggy says. “But he was already ill the last couple of days in London. He absolutely conked out on the flight back, which he never does when he’s well.”

“I was tired,” Steve objects.

“You were ill,” she corrects. “And you knew it. I saw you turning up the oxygen flow when you thought no one was looking! You didn’t want to deal with the NHS.” 

“Okay, so sue me. I thought maybe it was just a cold or something and I didn’t want to figure out a foreign hospital system on my honeymoon. With my wife.” He grins at her, and she softens a little.

“Well, I’d have happily helped my husband sort through the paperwork,” she says. “I hope the privatized healthcare experience was worth the wait.”

“The devil you know,” Steve says grimly. 

“You Americans and your for-profit hospitals—”

“Hey, hey,” James cuts in. “Our for-profit hospitals now, Peg.”

“Paperwork’s not finalized yet,” she says primly. “And I’ve half a mind to send the green card back when I do get it. I’ll simply overstay my visa in protest.”

“Cut it out,” Steve says. “I already married you. You don’t have to keep trying to win me over.”

She grins, and he yanks down her mask to quickly plant a kiss. 

“I feel like that kinda defeats the point,” James points out. Steve shrugs.

“Til death do us part,” he says.

“I don’t think that’s like, a first year of marriage goal—"

“Oh, calm down, Bucky. I mostly wear this for the staff’s benefit,” Peggy admits, but she does pull it back up over her nose. 

“Think of it as protecting your investment,” Steve offers.

“My investment!” she says. “And when do you expect I’ll be making anything back on you?”

“When a celebrity wears my print on a t-shirt,” Steve says simply. “And the royalties flood in.”

“Mhm,” Peggy raises an eyebrow. “Well, here’s hoping you can make it big without that new drawing tablet you’ve been angling for.”

“What! The kamvas? I’m not getting the kamvas?”

“I’m not going to pay for it. It simply won’t be in the budget anymore,” she says sternly. “Not after this. We’re about to meet our deductible.”

Ugh. They do this sometimes. James is never actually sure if it’s gonna stay as weird mean teasing or turn into a fight – it hasn’t yet, as far as he’s seen, but it’s so uncomfortable to be in the same room sometimes.

“Darn. How about,” Steve puts on a thinking face. “How about, instead, we sell a kidney?”

“You’re on an IV drip of antibiotics, dear.”

“I meant one of yours,” Steve says good naturedly. “You think they’ll pay for mine?”

She thinks about it. “I suppose we could spare it.”

“We can more than spare it. Maybe then you won’t wake me up a hundred times a night when you get up to use the bathroom. And Aunt Libby did suggest you lose a few pounds,” he adds.

“Well, to satisfy Aunt Libby we might need to make it both kidneys.” 

“Maybe throw in the liver, too.” Steve suggests.

“I have been meaning to cut down on drinking.”

“This might actually make drinking more cost-effective.” Steve snaps his fingers, like he’s just gotten a brilliant idea. “And there’s the room in the budget! Now can I have the tablet?”

They stare at each other.  Peggy breaks first, letting out a sputter of laughter. 

“You two want to get a room?” James says, shaking his head.

“Whose name is on the door?” Steve throws back.

“Sorry,” Peggy says at the same time, still giggling. 

“No we’re not,” Steve’s got a huge smile on his face. “We can do this all day.”

“Well, not quite,” Peggy’s pulling herself together. She checks the time. “I ought to be heading back to work.”

“She’s going to trial in a few days,” Steve brags. Peggy rolls her eyes and pulls a bundle of work clothes out of the duffle bag she’s got beside the bed. “It’s this pharmaceutical company that—”

“Darling,” she says, heading to the bathroom. “Confidential!”

“That I know nothing about,” he finishes. “But it’s gonna be great.”

Peggy shuts the door, and Steve beams at James. “Glad you came to visit, Buck,” he says.

“’Course.” The sock on his stump is getting kinda itchy, but he can wait a few minutes for Peggy to head out for good before he takes it off. “Glad you’re home.”

“Me too,” Steve throws his head back. “It was fun and everything, but by the end of it I was dead on my feet, Peg’s right. The first couple days we were in London, we went to this Doctor Who exhibit that you’d have loved.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! It had all this art from the show, and a couple of sets, so I borrowed some of your nerd knowledge to impress Peggy’s cousins.”

“Hey, if you could remember it, I think it counts as your nerd knowledge now.”

The bathroom door opens, and Peggy comes out, wearing a black suit with a skirt that’s only a tiny bit wrinkled, when the light hits it right. Her hair’s less of a mess and she’s put on some lipstick, too. She looks like a million bucks. “I do have to go, though,” she tells them. 

“Okay,” Steve says.

“I’ll be back late tonight.” She smooths down her skirt, then walks back over to Steve’s bed.

“Peg, just sleep at home. I’ll be fine, you’ll sleep better.”

“Nonsense,” she says. “I’ll bring midnight high-fat Chinese food, as per Doctor’s orders.”

“He didn’t actually say ‘Chinese’—”

“I read between the lines.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “If you’re sure.”

She leans down, pulls her mask off, and kisses him on the cheek. Then she pulls it back up. “I’ll be back tonight,” she repeats. Then she looks to James. “Bucky, I’m sorry we didn’t have more time to chat. We should get together, the four of us, once Steve’s been released from here.”

“Yeah,” James says. “That’d be nice.”

She heads out the door and leaves the duffel. She’s got a plastic bag in her hand, presumably full of the clothes she’d been wearing. James feels a wave of gratitude, for the thousandth time, that Steve has her around.

James scoots his chair closer. “Don’t you usually get one of those IVs you can take with you and finish the antibiotics at home?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “But Erskine wants me to stay for now since I’m still needing more oxygen. He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. Not that interesting.”

James frowns a little. Steve doesn’t usually mind talking about his health stuff. If he’s deflecting, something might actually be worrying him. But James can play along. He takes his sock off his stump and scratches that itch, finally.

“Tell me about London.”

Steve’s face splits into a grin. He goes on for a while – about Peggy’s crazy family and their cottage in the Cotswolds, which Steve suspects is like the Hamptons for British rich people, about the London Eye, the National Portrait Gallery and the Tate Modern. He tells him about some play they saw on the West End, and how it rained every single day, Buck, you wouldn’t believe it.

“—early for the pub, no? And they were like ‘it’s almost 3pm! Past time for a tipple.’”

“Oh my god.”

“I quietly asked Peggy if her uncle had a drinking problem, and she was like no, dear, that’s only a drinking problem in America.” He shakes his head. “Then she told them that my mom was Irish, and they kept trying to make me taste test different pubs’ Guinness.”

James snickers. His phone buzzes with a new Starkchat, making him jump a little. Guess he’s been in this hospital enough to autoconnect to the wifi. He pulls it out to check, just in case it’s from Brock, but it’s only more college stuff from Becca. He’ll look at it later.

Steve’s looking at him a bit funny. “I thought your phone was broken?” 

Right. Shit. James shrugs. “It’s a sim card issue or something. Wifi still connects.”

“There’s a gift shop with those pay-per-use plan ones right downstairs,” Steve says. “I’m not going anywhere if you want to get one.”

“No, it’s… it’s like an issue with the plan that Brock and I are on. He’s figuring it out and I don’t want to fuck with it until—” James cuts himself off. “It’s fine. I’m dealing with it.”

“So you’re just phoneless?”

“It’s just for a bit.”

Steve looks unimpressed. Fuck. James should have just said he’d go to the stupid gift shop when he left. 

“It’s been at least a week,” Steve points out. “Does your data work at least?”

“It’s… not really,” James admits. “It’s a whole plan thing. Hey,” he tries, “is it true phone plans over in Europe are like, a hundred times cheaper?”

“Yes,” Steve says. His eyes narrow. Fuck, James isn’t gonna be able to distract him away from this. “What do you mean it’s a ‘plan’ issue? What kind of plan are you on? You want me to yell at the provider people on the phone for you?”

“I can call them myself,” James says. Though, Steve is definitely better at that kind of stuff than he is. “It’s fine, it’s a couple days.”

“How do you know?”

“What?”

“How do you know it’s only a couple days?”

Shit. “Can we just—”

“You’ve got no reliable way to call people, and you don’t like to go down the street without Starkmaps.” Steve cuts himself off. “How did you even get here today?”

“First off, thanks,” James snaps. Does Steve think he just wanders around lost most days, like he has Alzheimer’s or something? “I can download a fucking map before leaving my place. And I’m telling you it’s fine, it’s a couple days, and I don’t want to waste money on a prepaid phone plan in the meantime.”

“It’s twenty bucks!”

“Yeah, not everyone’s married to a lawyer,” Bucky says, raising his voice. Steve looks a little thrown at that, which makes James feel like an asshole but also maybe he can get him to finally back off. “And I told you, I’m capped at two shifts a week until I find a decent job.”

Steve shakes it off. “Rumlow can’t spot you twenty bucks to make sure you can get home safe?”

“Not on top of a phone plan he already pays for.” This is exhausting. Steve’s like a dog with a fucking bone. James hasn’t won an argument against him since he was fifteen years old. “Can you just lay off?”

“So what’s he doing while your shared phone plan is down?”

James blinks. “What do you mean?”

“You’re on the same plan, right?” Steve says, and it’s obvious he doesn’t believe a fucking word of it. “That’s what you said.”

“Yeah,” James says, digging himself in deeper.

“So then what’s Brock doing if your plan has an issue?”

James clears his throat. “Waiting it out? Same as me.”

Steve crosses his arms. It shouldn’t be as intimidating as it is, from the hospital bed. “Bullshit, Bucky. We both know he’s not going a week without a working phone.”

“Steve, seriously, let it go. It’s not your problem!”

“He’s not going phoneless for a week,” Steve repeats.

“Yes, he is!”

“So if I call him right now, it won’t go through?”

James stares. Steve’s eyes are scanning all over him, and James has the stupid instinct to hide under the chair or something. What’s he seeing? In what new and exciting ways is James visibly a fuckup today?

“You told me your phone was having issues back in February, too,” Steve says. “Right around when you broke your arm, remember?”

What?!? “What?”

“Yeah,” Steve says surely. “Your phone was having issues, and then you went no contact for almost a month except for like two Starkchats. And then you broke your arm. And then your phone got fixed.”

James is frozen. His mouth is hanging open, he has no idea where that came from. “What am I,” he stutters out, “on the fucking witness stand?”

“He turned off your phone?”

“No!”

Steve, the asshole, honest to god rolls his eyes. “Bucky. Come on. I know how phone plans work. What you’re saying doesn’t make any sense.” James feels his face go hot. “He turned off your phone, right?”

“Oh, my god,” James throws up his arms. “It’s none of your business, Steve! Do you get that? That some things aren’t your business?”

“You’re my friend,” Steve insists.

“You’ve made it really clear you don’t like Brock, okay, so sorry if I don’t tell you every fucking detail. We’re trying to save a little, maybe you can remember what that’s like? I’ll be fine without a phone for a little bit.”

“What’s Rumlow giving up so you can ‘save a little’?” Steve says.

“Can you stop calling him that?”

“He shouldn’t be taking away your phone, Buck. Did he break your arm, too? Does he hit you?” Steve asks next, and it’s so jarring and he looks so grim that James just bursts into laughter. “Bucky, I’m serious. This is serious.” But, holy shit, James cannot stop laughing. His ass is basically one giant bruise right now, and last night Brock cut a tiny X into his buttcheek. Fuck, he’s tearing up. “There’s help, okay,” Steve says, not skipping a beat. “I can help you. I know some people who volunteer at a shelter, and there’s a couple abuse helplines—”

“Jesus Christ, Steve, you’re so fucking straight,” James gasps. He’s laughing so hard it hurts, now, because what the fuck. What the actual fuck. Helplines, Jesus Christ.

“What?!” Steve literally, physically sits back. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“It’s,” okay, he’s got to pull himself together. James takes a deep breath. He tries to keep a straight – ha – face. “Okay. I guess it’s not just a gay thing, like I guess there’s straight people who do kinky shit, too, but you’re just so fucking straight sometimes.”

Steve is staring at him like he’s speaking a different language. “Bucky,” he says. “What are you talking about?”

“Brock doesn’t hit me. I’m not like a – a – battered housewife or some— look, we’re a couple of pretty big, pretty physical guys who do kinky stuff in the bedroom, and we argue sometimes.”

Steve explodes, “Why are we talking about the bedroom?”

“Because that’s where he hits me, Steven,” James says, and bursts out laughing again.

“So he does?!”

James is maybe being a little mean to Steve right now, but the asshole deserves it. “Pal, you don’t want to have this conversation.”

“Yes I do,” Steve insists. “I care about you, and I want to help. I have no clue why we’re talking about your sex life, but whatever. I’m gonna help.” Coming from Steve, that last part sounds like a threat.

“Look,” James says, wiping his eyes. Fuck, this is funny. He clears his throat and gets a grip. “Look. We have different relationships, okay? I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I get your dynamic with Peggy, and that’s fine. Brock and I do some kinky shit, and we fight sometimes, and we find our own ways to deal with arguments, which is what’s going on right now and which is private. Okay?”

“You ‘fight’?”

“Yeah.” James raises a brow. “You and Peggy never fight?”

“We argue, but I’d never hit her,” Steve says firmly.

“Well, yeah, obviously. You’re the guy.” And she’s got at least 20 pounds on him, but it feels kinda rude to both of them to say it. “And,” James considers. “It’s different, with two guys, you know? Sometimes we just, I dunno. Get more aggressive.”

“I don’t—”

“Tell me to my face that you’ve never punched someone you were arguing with.”

Steve can’t. He clenches his jaw but stays quiet.

“I’d never take away Peggy’s phone,” he says instead.

“Well, yeah!” James blurts, “You couldn’t! She pays for everything!”

“She’d never take away my phone, then!”

“Sure, but she’ll decide when you get your fancy drawing tablet. Or if your tuition gets paid. What church you get married in.”

Steve’s actually quiet for a full ten seconds, which James takes as a massive win. “That’s… not how it works,” Steve starts. “We discuss it, she doesn’t decide.” 

“Yeah, but she has the money. Right? She gets final say.”

“That’s different from whatever is happening between you and Rumlow.”

“How?”

“Peggy and I never hit each other!”

“Well, we do, ok!” James knows he’s talking too loudly, but he’s done. “That’s just how we are. And I don’t owe you a fucking explanation for that.”

“You owe me proof you’re safe.”

“Of course I’m safe. What does that even mean? We’ve already apologized and shit, and we worked it out. We moved Becca in together, he let me come see you, things have been really really good. I’m fine.”

“He let you come see me?”

James groans, exasperated. “You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t know what that means!” One of the monitors beside Steve’s bed starts beeping, and he reaches over to turn up his oxygen flow. He doesn’t even pause. “Do you have to ask his permission to leave the house and see your friends?”

“No, it’s like,” James says, and then stops, because he’s not actually sure how to finish that sentence. Instead, he says: “You and Peggy don’t tell each other when you’re going out?”

“Oh, so Brock asks you for permission to see his friends, too?”

“Why are you making this such a big deal?” James snaps. “You’re reading a whole bunch of shit into everything I’m saying, and I don’t know where it’s coming from—”

“You went radio silent on me six months ago and came back with a broken arm, and now Rumlow’s taken away your phone again for at least a week. Maybe more, since I know you haven’t talked to Clint or Natasha since my wedding and they both reached out.” He shrugs, like that’s a normal fucking thing to say. “I started thinking something wasn’t right with Brock a while ago, but Peggy convinced me I was overstepping. But—”

“She’s right!”

“—now I’m pretty sure there’s something going on! And he shouldn’t be hitting you! You need help! I don’t know why you don’t get this!”

James sits there for a second, speechless. If it wasn’t Steve, and he wasn’t in a literal hospital bed, he’d probably punch him in the face.

“Cool,” James says viciously, “how about before I call a shelter for battered women to tell them about how sometimes I ask my boyfriend to spank me harder—”

There’s a quiet hiss of the door sliding over, and James and Steve turn to see Dr. Erskine, gowned and masked, gingerly stepping in. It’s like the medical equivalent of a throat clear.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says politely, in his German lilt. Oh, god, how long has he been in the hall listening? “I didn’t have a chance this morning to do my exam.”

Now James is embarrassed. Steve’s had the same lung doctor since he was diagnosed, which is why he still goes to the kids’ hospital even though 25 is definitely pushing it for pediatrics. They thought it made sense not to transfer over care right before the transplant. Which means Dr. Abraham Erskine and James have actually met, like, many times. 

“Good to see you, James,” he says.

“Hey, doc,” James says, strangled. How much of that did he hear?

“I did not get a chance to tell you at the wedding, but it was a very good speech.”

“Thanks.” James shifts uncomfortably on the couch. “Is this my, uh, cue to leave?”

Erskine’s putting his stethoscope into his ears and walking over.

“No,” Steve says firmly. “This will just be like, ten minutes. Stay.”

“Who turned up your oxygen?” Erskine asks.

“Oh, I did—"

“I don’t want to be in the way,” James is already standing up. It’s a bit early for Brock to get him, but whatever. He’s fucking done with this conversation. He can sit in the cafeteria or something. Get the same smoothie he always does after visiting Steve. He takes off his mask, goes to put it in the trash.

“Bucky, come on!”

“It was good to see you, Steve,” he says flatly. “Feel better.”

“We’ll talk later,” Steve calls after him.

“Bye!” he spits, and hurries out into the hall.

***

The job search is a fucking nightmare. Half the postings are outdated and from places not hiring anymore, none of them even post a fucking salary, and of the few that actually email him back, most of them like to bring up all their secret requirements that weren’t on the posting to begin with. The one interview he gets, something like seventy applications in, is a fifteen minute phone call with a robot. He doesn’t get called back for another one.

So James is still a temp janitor on two shifts a week.

He’s starting to get pretty discouraged. Maybe this job he found was a fluke and it’s the only one he’ll ever be able to find. James used to be good at stuff. He doesn’t even wanna be good at whatever job anymore, he just wants to be useful. Somewhere, to someone. He thinks about volunteering somewhere, maybe, while he’s looking, but wasting his limited brain energy on something that doesn’t even pay seems like not the best use of his time.

“Plus between your shifts and volunteering and applying and everything,” Brock points out, “we’d have even less time together than when you were working a normal amount.”

James curls up against him on the couch. “Yeah.” His phone buzzes – it’s another StarkChat from Steve. Just seeing his name makes James pissed all over again. He swipes away the notification and sets down his phone. When will Steve take the hint and leave him alone? Probably never, knowing him. Brock sees him do it, and doesn’t comment, but he does rub his shoulder a bit.

“It’s just a slow, shitty process, right?” Brock says. “And if it’s getting to you, take a couple weeks off applying for stuff and relax. There’s no rush, right?”

“I guess,” James agrees. “I’ve been thinking of asking my parents if I could help them around the deli or anything. At least until I find something.” It’d take swallowing a bit of pride, but it’s the only thing he can think of. He tries to tell himself that he used to help out at the deli all the time when he was younger and it’d just be like that. Dad mentioned they were considering getting another stockroom guy.

“Huh,” Brock says, which isn’t exactly reassuring. The oven beeps and he gets up to grab their dinner. James follows him.

“You’re probably right about spending less time applying for stuff,” he offers. “But I still need to do something more than sit around on my ass all day. What do you think?”

“It’s a nice ass,” Brock says, and reaches around to squeeze. James bats him off, playful.

“Seriously,” he says.

Brock opens the oven, then pauses, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Your parents kinda get on your nerves sometimes,” he says. “You think it’d be fine? You’ve been kinda moody since they capped your shifts.”

“Yeah, but getting some work would help,” James assures him. He thinks about it. “Plus, it’d give us a good excuse to spend some more time with my family. You could come pick me up after work and stay for dinner.”

The leftover casserole on the counter in front of them is really helping James’ argument. Brock pokes at it, thinking. 

“Is there anyone else you could ask?”

“Well,” James says, already knowing this is gonna be his ace in the hole. “There’s Clint, from Steve’s wedding. Remember, with the kids and the hearing aids? At our table?”

Brock nods slowly.

“He works for the city, and he mentioned a while back the city had some good veterans hiring programs. I could message him,” he adds. “Meet up for coffee or something.”

Brock puts a forkful of casserole in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Then he shrugs. “Yeah, maybe you’re right – talk to your parents first. Let me know what they say.”

James smiles. “Cool, thanks, babe.” He gives Brock a kiss and goes to get a fork. He’ll swing by and ask his parents tomorrow.

Of course, tomorrow is a shit brain day that leaves him flat on his back in the bedroom for like twenty hours. It’s not even the kind where he can lose track of time. He’s awake, and his head hurts, and his back is stiff but if he tries to turn even a little bit it’s like lightning in his brain. Plus his stump is tingling. Brock makes him a smoothie when he comes back from work and calls to reschedule a doctor’s appointment that apparently he had on Thursday. The next day, Brock tells him he also logged onto the agency portal and canceled his shifts for the week. Which is probably a reasonable thought, but still fucking shitty that he can’t even pull himself together to mop a goddamn floor for a couple hours or empty a garbage bin.

It’s

Not really getting better.

Not for a while

Couple more days?

“—taking a sick day,” he hears Brock. On the phone. It’s

Warm. Nice and warm.

Brock gives him his meds. Holds him.

Should be somewhere else. Doing better things. With someone else, not

Not this shit. Over and over.

“Don’t be an idiot.” He is, though.

Dumb piece of shit.

But Brock doesn’t leave.

***

He heads over at 14:30 on Wednesday, when the deli’s usually pretty slow. He considered texting beforehand, but he didn’t want to make it a thing, so he’s showing up unannounced. The employee lot still has room, and James just sits inside for a minute after he turns the engine off. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Lots of people work in the family business.Might even make life easier for his parents, for once. They can pay him a bit less than if they hired a guy, and they won’t have to stress about him stealing or anything. Plus he already knows where everything is. No training period or anything like that. Maybe they can get a tax writeoff for hiring someone disabled.

He goes in. Ma’s behind the counter, and flashes a big customer service smile as the bell above the door rings. It turns into an actual smile when she sees it’s him.

“Hey, Ma,” he says, and comes behind the counter to give her a hug. “You busy?”

She scoffs. “Busy lunch rush, but it’s been nice and quiet since then. I always say I need to find an hour here or there after lunch to tidy up, so we can’t complain too much between customers.” James is pretty sure she’s getting her story ready for when Dad does the books, how yes, business was slow but check out that shiny silver lining. “You want a sandwich, hon?”

“Nah, I had lunch already.”

“You’ve got some meals to make up,” she points out, and then softens. “I know you’ve had a rough week.”

Did she? Maybe she’d texted with Brock while he was out of commission.

“Yeah,” he allows. “Okay, sure.” She starts fixing him a roast beef club, with turkey bacon, just the way he likes it. “How are things? How are the kids?”

“Oh, good,” she says, then pauses. “Have you talked to Ruthie lately?”

“No.” He thinks about it. He should really text her more. It’s been a couple weeks, maybe. “Not for a few days. Why?”

“You should call her,” she says. “Help keep her spirits up and everything.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! Nothing’s wrong, she’s just having one of her funks about some girls at school, and we’ve all gotta help her stay upbeat.”

“Did something happen, though?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ma says, waving her hand. “She’s just not getting along with some of them.”

That didn’t sound great. “Is it a bullying thing?”

“No! She has lots of friends,” Ma assures him. “I don’t think so. She just gets so sensitive sometimes, you know how she is. I’ll go to a parent-teacher conference, if it’s still going on by then. For now just text her – she was sitting in her room all day Sunday and I told her to go for a walk outside, get some fresh air, but she might take it better from her big brother.”

Yeah, that was not gonna be the text he sent her. He should text her, though. Maybe come visit, too. He’d barely said two words to her when they’d come to pack up Becca’s things. God, he’s a shit brother.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, and Ma nods. “Hey, is Dad around?”

“In the back.”

“Okay if I get him?” James asks. “Wanted to ask you guys something.”

Ma’s eyes immediately get wide. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Everything’s totally fine, just had a question for you. Like, both of you.”

“Are you sure?” she presses. No, everything’s actually fucked but he forgot all about it until she double checked, because his brain’s useless. Thanks for asking again, Ma, or it would all be over.

“Yeah, everything’s fine.”

“Alright,” she says, looking mostly convinced. “Well, sit down and eat. I’ll go get him.” She puts James’ sandwich on a paper plate and takes it to one of the tables squished between the counter and the shelves of canned sauce and soup. He doesn’t bother arguing with her.

When she and Dad come back, he knows just from the looks on their faces that she’s already said something. Dad’s braced for bad news, and Ma’s got that soft smile that says he can tell her anything and it’ll be okay, they’ll figure something out, she’ll still love him.

“Hey, Dad,” he says. “Listen, guys, everything’s fine, god, you look like I’m about to tell you I’m dying or something.”

Dad relaxes a little and cracks a smile. “You know we worry.” He pulls up another chair and Ma goes to grab herself a cup of coffee. “You’re feeling better?”

Yeah, one of them definitely texted Brock.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just an off couple days. Fine now, though.”

“Good.”

James takes a bite of his sandwich. It’s really good. “Listen, um,” he starts, mouth full. “I’m thinking about switching jobs.” He lets it hang there for a second. “And, I know you were saying a while ago, you were thinking of hiring another person…”

“Work’s not good?” Dad asks. Ma sits down beside him.

“No, it’s fine,” James assures them. “It’s just. The hours, you know? Lots of nights.”

“That’s a hard one,” Ma cuts in, and James braces himself to hear about the bright side. “But with you and Brock both working nights a lot, at least you both get days off together.”

“It’s other stuff, too.” Fuck, he doesn’t want to tell them about the capped hours. “I can’t always sign up for as many shifts as I want, you know, with scheduling and stuff. It’s hard to make as much as I’d like.”

Ma nods along. “Are you and Brock having money troubles, honey?” She looks over at Dad. “I thought he did pretty well for himself.”

“No, he does,” James says. 

“We can always help out,” Dad jumps in. “If you need some extra money, or anything.” He looks over at Ma, who nods enthusiastically.

“You were saying you wanted to hire another person,” James says again, more firmly. “I was thinking maybe I could pick up a few shifts here. I already know where everything is, and it’ll be—"

“Oh, Bucky, don’t be ridiculous,” Ma says. “If you need money, we’ll just give you some money.”

“No,” James says. “It’s okay, I can do the work—"

“Honey, we’re fine, we’re okay. It’s very sweet, but if you need anything, you can just ask. We’re not gonna make you work shifts here when you’re struggling. We’re okay with money, it’s not a problem.” Ma taps Dad on the shoulder. “George, can you get the checkb—"

“No,” James says. His Dad turns, and he says, louder, “No!”

Dad stops momentarily. “Buck—"

“I’m not here to just – I didn’t just come to, to take your money or something. I just thought…”

Ma reaches across the table to take his hand. “You never have to ask, you know that? We’re always here to—”

“I don’t need your help!” James jerks back his arm. He’s acting like a fucking child. “Ma, just stop! I’m not taking the fucking money!”

He cuts himself off, because now he’s shouting and swearing at his Ma and Dad’s gonna tear him a new one.

Except, he doesn’t. 

Dad’s just sitting there, staring at the table and the soggy paper plate, looking a little queasy. And kind of sad. Ma looks taken aback, and Dad should yell at him for that, he always had when James was younger, but he’s just – not. 

“I’m sorry,” James says to Ma. Then to both of them, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to yell.” He stands up abruptly. “I’m gonna go.”

“Honey, we didn’t mean anything by—"

“I know,” he says. “I know you didn’t. I’m sorry,” he says again.

“It’s fine.” Ma looks at Dad. “If you wanted to work a few shifts here, I’m sure we could find something—”

“No, it’s fine.” If charity shifts from his parents is the only thing he can get, he might as well just give up. “This was a bad idea anyway. Let’s just drop the whole thing?”

“Alright,” Ma says, and smiles unsurely, and he feels like shit all over again. 

***

The shitty thing is James knows Brock and his parents are texting. He hasn’t said anything, but probably after his huge freakout, Ma reached out to Brock all concerned about if James was being crazier than usual.

Whatever, James is over it. He maybe cried in the car on the drive back from his parents’ deli. It wasn’t worth it, Brock was right. He shouldn’t have brought it up.

He’s feeling antsy today, though, and the texts from Steve aren’t helping. And they’re starting to make James feel like he’s the one being the asshole, even though he’s definitely not.

“Baby?” he says. “I was thinking of going to the gym. You wanna come?”

Brock looks up from where he’s laying on the couch. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”

It’s close enough to walk there, and even that little bit of moving is helping. Plus the fact that James left his phone at home. Not much point taking it places, especially when Brock’s with him anyway. And it’s nice to get a break from Steve’s multiple-times-a-day StarkChats. They’re not even apologies.

Brock gets a jump rope for his warm up and James starts off with some stretches. There’s a decent crowd, which he figures he should have expected mid-morning on a Saturday. It’s mostly regulars, though, who’ve stopped finding him weird enough to stare at. Except for one newbie, anyway, who looks like a strong wind would blow him over. He’s staring a bit at everyone, and at all the machines, and really gawks when one of the personal trainers walks over to meet him.

“Hi, uh, Chuck?” Newbie says. “Yeah, hi, I’m Greg. Nice to meet you!” Chuck shakes his hand, and basically the rest of him while he’s at it.

“Hi, bro, what’s up?” the trainer says. He’s wearing a yellow tank top so small he might as well have just gone without a shirt. “You ready to push yourself?”

“Uh,” Greg says. “Yeah, I guess so!”

“Ready to feel that muscle pain? Ready to love that muscle pain?”

“...Yeah, man, sure.”

James looks over at Brock, who’s setting down the jump rope and clearly had also noticed the weird interaction. Their eyes meet, and Brock makes a bit of a face. James bites back a smile.

When he’s done with his stretches, he goes to get his gym arm from their bag. He’d never gotten used to the first prosthetic the doctors gave him – it was too frustrating, and his TBI made it hard to learn to use it properly, so he just gave up. He manages fine without it. The gym one’s really useful, though, so he can lift weights with both sides and keep his back strong and even.

He sits on the bench in front of the pull-down to put it on, and still does a scan of the gym before he starts. He used to duck out to the bathroom to wrestle the thing on, but by now he figures anyone who’s gonna stare at him attaching his arm is also probably gonna stare when he starts lifting. The pull sock is a lifesaver, too. The prosthetic had been impossible to put on one-handed. After a couple failures, he’d thrown the thing at the wall, gone digging online for videos, and bought a couple knee-high socks and shoelaces.

He squirts some hand sanitizer on his stump, because fuck if he’s bringing lube to the gym, and pulls on the sock. With a bit of fiddling, he runs the shoelace tied to the toe of the sock through the hole in the plastic frame. Then it’s just pulling and shoving, pulling and shoving until the arm fits snug and the whole sock pops out. He stretches the arm out to check the fit and looks around the gym again. One guy on the treadmills meets his eye and then looks away. It’s fine. It’s okay. Nobody gives a fuck.

He gets into it on the pull-down bar, while Brock’s on the leg press a couple machines down. His back’s working, and he’ll be sore today but by tomorrow evening he’ll already feel a lot lighter. It’s nice that he and Brock are both so big into going to the gym. It’s more fun to go together, trade tips. Plus, it’s good motivation to have a little eye candy.

“Alright, Greg,” Chuck’s saying to the poor guy struggling under the bench press. “You ready to go beast mode?”

“I… uh, I dunno. What is that? Is that like a… type of lift?”

“Just means you’re gonna push yourself, bro. You got this, come on. Let’s go! Five more!”

Greg makes a horrible noise. He gets to four, face bright red, and the whole time Chuck is in his face yelling encouragement. Technically.

“Let’s go, bro! Hooah!” Okay, buddy, save some crayons for the rest of the platoon. 

James hears Brock laugh, and turn it into a cough. Greg’s frozen in place, the bar almost on top of his chest, fighting to make that last lift.

“Unleash the beast!”

Greg fucking roars and jerks the barbell about halfway up before his arms give out. To his credit, Chuck’s a good spotter and helps catch the thing before it breaks Greg’s ribs. 

“Nice, bro. Epic, real great. Let’s take five and talk about your form.”

Brock finishes up his own set and walks over to James, looking all flushed and a bit sweaty. James is kinda hoping he’ll decide leg day doesn’t just mean legs and do some pull ups or something, too. Preferably with his shirt off. James does a few more pulls, finishes his set, and disconnects his gym arm from the bar to take a break. He looks at Brock, dead serious, and says: “Did you unleash the beast, bro?”

Brock looks confused for half a second before he cracks up and completely loses his shit. “Fuck,” he laughs. “That poor little guy – he looked like he—" he cuts himself off and starts laughing again.

“We gotta figure out Chuck’s schedule,” James says, and he’s laughing now, too. “Workout and a show.”

“Thought I was your show,” Brock jokes.

“Double feature?” James offers.

“God,” Brock actually wipes his eyes. “Beast mode. What the fuck. I thought the little guy was gonna die.”

James says, “When I first started PT, before I had Ayo, they gave me a guy kinda like that. Not as bad! Just kinda up his own ass. I guess it’s supposed to be motivational.”

Brock’s shaking his head. “Unreal. I feel like the last thing a skinny beginner like that needs is… that.”

“Yeah, honestly.”

Brock runs a hand through his sweaty hair, and lets out one more little laugh. James loves that he can make him laugh like that.

“Hey,” James says, once they’ve both calmed down a little. “I might do some bench presses next. Spot me?”

“Hooah,” Brock agrees, and James loses his shit too.

Chapter Text

It’s probably at least a little pity-motivated, with how things went with his parents, that Brock agrees to text Clint for him. After a couple messages back and forth between them, James’ phone dings with a StarkChat invite. He accepts.

“Thanks, babe,” he says, and gives Brock a kiss. Whatever case was getting under his skin seems like it’s ended, since he’s back to working his regular 07:00 to 16:00. Brock puts down the barrel of the Sig he’s been cleaning and kisses him back. Things are going so good, with the two of them.

“You’re thinking you’ll meet up with him this week?”

James hesitates. “Yeah, I mean. If that’s okay?”

“You’ve already got two shifts scheduled,” Brock points out, running a cleaning patch through the barrel. The rest of the gun is laid out in pieces on the newspaper between them. “And last week was a lot. You’re gonna wear yourself out if you keep this up.”

“I won’t,” James promises. He scoops the pile of oily patches out of Brock’s way and into the trash. If he’s got to do it in the kitchen, at least they can try to keep it clean.

“Thanks,” he says. “Don’t want you to come home and sleep for 20 hours or get lost on the bus because you overdid it.”

That’s fair. Shit like that has happened before. “If I start feeling weird, I’ll cancel,” James assures him.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Brock shrugs, and unscrews the cap of the gun oil. James checks his phone. Clint’s already messaged him.

16:27: Hey!!!

16:28: Hey Clint

16:28: Thanks for messaging

16:30: Dude no problem. Bummer you’re having phone issues. This one time back in college when Laura and I were dating and on different plans my phone got fucked and she was basically routing all my calls and texts for me like some kind of secretary for like 4 days it was super annoying

16:31: It was finals season too so there were a lot of moving parts with exam scheduling and calls from group members and stuff

16:31: Anyway hope it gets fixed soon!

How the fuck does he type so fast?

16:33: Yeah haha me too

16:33: Hows it going? Haven’t seen you since the wedding

16:33: Good! Nassau Bowmen Club Champ 5 years in a row!

16:34: [Sent image]

16:34: Whoa awesome

He starts typing, about to ask Clint if he’s gonna get his kids into the whole archery thing too, when he realizes he’s forgotten all their names. Fuck.

16:36: You gonna get the kids to join up soon too?

16:36: Coop’s their youngest member!

16:36: [Sent image]

Right, yes. Coop. Cooper. And the girl’s… Lisa or something like that. Plus there’s a baby. They were nice kids, he should fucking remember their names.

James catches up with Clint for a few more minutes before Clint asks him what’s new with him, and he brings up the whole job thing and asks for his help.

17:00: Dude yeah of course

17:00: Do you wanna meet up for coffee that’s actually a coffee + job hunting advice + omelets  

17:01: Yeah

17:01: Sure

17:01: If you’re not busy and stuff. We can meet somewhere closer to u if thats more convenient it won’t be very long

Clint stops responding. He doesn’t even see the message. Fuck, did James fuck this up already somehow?

17:16: [Sent link]

17:16: You’re gonna love it, check it out ^ it’s this breakfast place that makes fancy omelets. My treat

18:19: No my treat youre helping me out

18:20: You’ll get the next one. My treat cause Laura’s sick of getting omelets with me 

18:20: How’s tomorrow lunch?

What time do normal people eat lunch?

18:25: Sounds great

18:25: Noon?

18:26: Oh yeah noon works

Did he not mean noon? Is noon too late for people with real jobs? Or too early?

18:26: I can do whenever

18:27: Noons great

James gets there early, and gets a booth that lets him see the door. He’s connected his phone and laptop to the WiFi – WiFi: WITHOUTBREAKING Password: afeweggs – and is looking through the menu so he has his order ready to go. Why does this place have $35 omelets? Who even buys that?

At least there’s a few normal-priced things on there. 

“Hey! Bucky?” He doesn’t recognize Clint right away, because the last time he saw the guy he was in a nice suit and had gel in his hair. Still, the rumpled, bright purple hoodie he’s wearing stands out enough that James doesn’t feel weird staring until he figures out it’s the right guy. “Thought I recognized you.”

“Yeah, picked me out from all the other one-armed guys in the room?” Is that weird to say? Should he not point out his obviously missing arm?

Fuck, how long has it been since he hung out with a new person?

Clint grins, and slides into the booth across from him. “If there’s another amputee in this place you didn’t notice, you’re gonna be the asshole.”

James laughs, surprised. “That’s fair.”

“Know what you’re getting?” Clint nods his head to the menu.

“Oh,” says James. “I think so, yeah.” There’s one thing on this menu under $15, so at least the choice is easy. “Why do you like this place so much?”

“Man, I just love omelets,” Clint says. “When Laura was pregnant with Lila, there was this period where the only thing she could eat without puking was eggs. So it was hard to find somewhere to go out, you know? And then I found this place! When she could eat not-eggs again, she was done with coming here, but I’d totally fallen in love.”

James doesn’t know what to say. “Cool,” he says. “I’m – glad she can eat other stuff now.”

“Oh, dude, you have no idea,” Clint starts, and just doesn’t stop. He keeps up a one-man conversation with a couple ‘huh’ and ‘no way’s from James, all through the waitress coming by, taking their order, and bringing two plates of omelet back. 

Clint takes a bite, closes his eyes, and kinda moans. “Good, huh?” he nods at James’ plate. 

“Yeah,” James says. It actually is. “I see why you like it.”

Clint makes a noise of agreement around a mouth full of omelet. He’s been talking the past twenty minutes, and James has barely said anything. James fucking sucks at this. Clint’s carrying the whole conversation.

“So,” Clint does a little drum roll on the edge of the table. It almost knocks his fork to the floor and he cuts himself off to grab it. “Shit. Okay, so,” another bite of omelet. “Job stuff.”

“Yeah,” James says awkwardly. “So, um. I’m in this situation.”

He explains the whole thing with the hours cap and the shifts and even admits how garbage his resume is – he leaves out the part about the war crimes. He’s bracing himself the whole time for Clint to wince or something. But Clint just drinks his fancy cinnamon coffee and eats his eggs, nodding.

“Yeah,” he says when James is done. “I got some ideas for you.”

James blinks. “Really?”

“Sure! You’ve got work experience, you finished high school. It’s a solid something.”

He can mop floors, shoot kids, and once upon a time he knew differential calculus. “Really?” he says again. “I feel like it’s totally hopeless.” He ends that in a laugh, so he doesn’t sound too pathetic. 

“Here, show me your resume,” Clint pulls out his phone. “We did this whole hiring spree in July, so HR sent us all links – let me – it’s like, Q&A things, right.” He starts scrolling aggressively. “There we go. Here.” James’ StarkChat buzzes. “Plus my cousin works at a job bank, so she’s definitely sent me some stuff…”

James opens up his laptop and brings up his shit resume. Clint looks at it, sends two more links, and then pulls the thing over to start reading. James had kinda thought Clint would bring his own computer as well, but no luck, so he’s gotta look at everything on the annoyingly small phone screen. It’s probably less annoying to people without brain damage.

He starts at the last link Clint sent and works his way up. Most of them are online certificates or transition programs or something. A couple are just job sites. One is an article about a grocery store hiring a lot of disabled people. There’s one that’s a list of interview tips, which frankly seems too optimistic. 

Meanwhile, Clint’s making edits to his resume that James should really have been smart enough to think of – he expands on the Army section and puts in a whole section for skills, he adds a whole description part to the temp janitor gig about what exactly James was responsible for, and he includes James’ parents’ deli as a longstanding occasional gig.

“I don’t really still work there,” James points out.

“Your parents will say you do, if someone calls,” Clint shrugs. 

“That’s – true.”

“You fudge the dates a bit. Everyone does it.”

“Okay,” James is trying not to get too encouraged, looking at how much less white space there is now. He’s opening up tabs from the links Clint sent him, one by one, and checking if he meets the various criteria for the programs or courses or whatever. 

“—all kinds of certifications,” Clint’s saying. “You can do them in a couple hours and add it to your resume.”

James exits out of a City of New York Disability Hiring program site – it’s for people with disability criteria he doesn’t meet – and clicks the very first link Clint had sent.

It’s – um. Whoa.

James is frozen. He should close the window but he’s just staring, because he opened a job link from Clint and now there’s a woman in shiny red nipple tassels and a spider gag taking up his entire screen. Thank fuck he didn’t open this on his laptop.

He’s got no idea what his face is doing, but it’s weird enough for Clint to notice. He tries to close the tab.

“What’s up?”

Before James can figure out how to answer, Clint’s leaning over to look at his phone screen. And now there’s two of them panicking. Clint reaches to close the window, fumbles it, and a video under the woman starts playing.

“Submit to our low, low prices—"

“Fuck,” Clint yelps, and finally manages to close the site. He checks over his shoulder if anyone heard. James does the same. Seems like the omelets are keeping everyone distracted.

James looks up at Clint, kinda perplexed. He’s not sure what to say. His first instinct is to apologize, but Clint beats him to it.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, it must have been the last thing I copied, fuck—"

“It’s… fine,” James tries.

“No, I just – ugh, God,” he’s panicking, eyes wide and distinctly not chill anymore, “I am so sorry. I just sent it to Laura and forgot to – I really thought I’d copied something else but I hadn’t, I didn’t want to send you that, I swear, I wouldn’t just send that kind of thing to people without asking—"

He’s just going to keep going unless James says something. “It’s fine, it’s really okay.”

Clint doesn’t seem to hear him. “—and you really, really, didn’t need to see that. Oh my God. I told you I sent it to Laura.” He covers his face with his hands. “Holy shit. Bad enough you think I’m a creep, but now you know Laura and I are both—”

“We’re both adults, Clint, it’s not a big deal.” James tries to laugh it off, but Clint’s spiraling. He’s gotta get him to calm the fuck down.

“God, now you’re uncomfortable, and—”

“It’s fine!” James blurts out. “Brock and I do this kind of shit too, okay, don’t worry about it. It’s fine.”

That seems to pull Clint out of it. He pauses, then peeks out from behind his fingers. “You and Brock?”

James sighs. At least he’s stopped freaking out. “Yeah, man. It’s all good. No harm, no foul.”

Clint blinks a few times, and now he’s not only not freaking out, but he looks interested.

“Really?” he says, then lets out a little laugh. “Hey, that’s awesome, man.”

“Thanks,” James says awkwardly, and they both smile nervously. Clint sits back, takes a sip of coffee. He’s got his shit together again. Maybe they can get back to the job—

“Wow. I feel like I never meet people who are in the scene,” Clint comments.

James makes a face. “We’re not in ‘the scene’,” he says. “We just… you know, at home.” Why is he talking about this?

“Oh, yeah, no. Same. Mostly. I mean, we were just at home until like a year after we got married.” 

“Cool,” James says forcefully. “Yeah, so you don’t need to be embarrassed. It’s all fine.”

Clint’s not embarrassed at all anymore. Actually, James kind of wishes he was a bit more embarrassed now.

“Have you ever been to that club on Seventh?”

“No.”

“It’s cool, you should check it out. Everyone’s really nice and they have,” Clint leans across the table, lowering his voice. “Some like, really serious furniture.” 

What is happening? How did he get here?

“This is awesome,” Clint says, grinning, and doesn’t end the topic at all. “Laura and I barely have any kinky friends. I mean, Nat, obviously, but it’s different when it’s someone you play with and like, just. A buddy.” He lifts his coffee cup and clinks it against James’ water. “This is neat.”

James can’t help himself. “Nat? As in, Natasha?” No way she lets Clint order her around. He honestly can’t imagine how that would go. Granted, his imagination kinda shorts out when he pictures Natasha in a catsuit and those stripper heels from the wedding.

“Yeah!” Clint leans forward. “That’s how we met, actually! So, when Laura was pregnant – with Coop, the first time – it was hard on our sex life.”

Christ, how is James stuck in this conversation? It’s like the instant Clint felt like James wasn’t going to run screaming, all the filters from his brain to his mouth just vaporized.

“And,” Clint continues, “it was really hard on Laura, you know? She couldn’t really crouch, and her fingers got all swollen so she had a hard time with the ropes, and her back hurt so the twist when she used any kind of paddle or flogger was hard. Plus, she couldn’t really make it through a scene without having to pee, it was—"

“Sorry,” James interrupts, thinking he’s misheard. This isn’t super conducive to leaving the topic of conversation, but if Clint’s going to insist on telling him every detail of his personal life, he’s at least going to get the details straight for when he tells Brock all this shit later. “Laura’s the dom? Laura’s your dom?”

Clint grins. “Yeah!”

Granted, James only met her once, but Laura? Really? She’s a head shorter than her husband, and a good 50 pounds smaller. Even with a paddle or whatever, was she even able to leave a bruise? This is more of a surprise than Clint being into kinky shit in the first place. Which is still pretty surprising. They both seem so… they have kids, and good jobs, and live in the suburbs and stuff. They’re so normal.

“Anyways, it was a hard time for us,” Clint continues, “Laura especially, she was super frustrated. So we searched around and brought Nat in as a third, you know, to help Laura out. And it was fun! And then we became really good friends.”

“To help Laura out,” James echoes, because he’s still stuck on Clint getting dommed by two five foot nothing ladies, one of whom’s heavily pregnant. It’s a weird mental image.

“It was a whole project,” Clint says, like this is a normal conversation. “Nat’s pretty intense about formalizing everything, she had BDSM contracts and stuff she made us go through. It took us like a week to pick a safeword we all agreed on.”

The sexy image of Natasha in the stripper heels and catsuit kinda fizzles out when his brain edits in a bunch of paperwork.

James gets an unpleasant flash of memory to some of those meetups he went to before he found Brock, where they used all the fucking terminology. He’s – not disappointed, exactly, but he definitely feels his guard go up in case Clint decides to tell him he’s doing his own sex life wrong, or being ‘queer’ wrong, or any of that bullshit.

“I don’t know, I never felt like we needed to be so formal about it. Like the contracts and safewords, and stuff,” he shrugs. “I dunno.”

Clint pauses. “Well, yeah, a contract’s kind of intense,” he says. “That was mostly for Nat. But you gotta use a safeword, right?”

James shrugs. “I dunno, maybe we’re old fashioned.”

Now Clint takes a moment before he speaks. James braces himself to get told off because ‘old fashioned’ is a microaggression or something.

“It’s not about it being old fashioned or modern or – formality or whatever,” Clint says carefully. “It’s just safety, right?”

James bristles. “I trust Brock.”

“Oh, dude, I trust Laura with my life. But – okay, so, for example,” Clint leans in close. “Laura and I were trying out this new gag, right?” Oh god. How is this happening. “And I don’t know if it was just a shitty gag, or if it moved around when she hit me, or if I bit down on it wrong, but point is: my mouth was filling up with blood and I was still gagged,” he pauses, like he wants to make sure James can follow. “And Laura couldn’t see what was happening.”

“Yeah, I get that,” James says, maybe a bit harsher than he needs to, but he’s not a fucking moron. “But I mean, if she’s the dom and everything it’s… it’s her call, still.”

“She can’t make a decision until she’s got all the information, though, right? So we have safewords, and if I snap my fingers, she’s gotta take the gag out and check in. And then after we dealt with the cut and everything, it’s an easy one-word thing if we want to keep going or if we want to call it.”

James says, “Hmm.”

“Or like,” Clint adds, “this one time we were trying out a full-body restraint kit and I pulled my hamstring. I can just safeword and everything stops and we check in.”

James takes a moment and thinks about that. She can’t make a decision until she’s got all the information is kinda resonating with him.

“You weren’t worried it would, hurt her feelings? Coming up with a safeword and everything, I mean?” 

“Dude, no. It’s like wearing a seatbelt. 99% of the time, yeah, you technically didn’t need to. But. You know.” 

“Yeah,” James says, feeling a little uneasy. Maybe girl-doms are wired different?

There’s a beat of quiet, then, and Clint seems to realize how insanely he’s overstepped with this whole conversation.

“Anyways,” Clint says, “Let’s get back to your resume, maybe? Before I reveal any more secrets about myself or my wife?”

“Please,” James says, relieved.

***

Clint offers him a ride, but Brock is already on his way, so James declines. It’s also way out of the way for him, and Clint’s done more than enough – James has a new resume that looks way less like shit, a bunch of customized job alerts that’ll come to his email, and he’s sent out applications for half a dozen City of New York disability hiring programs. 

“See you around, man,” Clint says. “We should have you guys over sometime.”

“Sure, yeah. Hey, thanks again for everything – this was great.” James waves, and Clint heads off to wherever he ended up finding parking.

Brock swings by a few minutes later, and James hops in while a dozen cars behind them honk at being inconvenienced for all of four seconds. Brock speeds away. Brock’s in a grey t-shirt that’s definitely shrunk in the wash, and James ogles the way it stretches over his chest. His hair’s weirdly squished down in the middle from the ear muffs he was wearing.

“How was the range?” James asks.

“Good,” Brock says. “There were some kids there for the first time, didn’t have a clue what they were doing. I gave them a few pointers so they didn’t blow any fingers– Asshole!” he snaps, at an asshole cutting ahead of them. “The fuck taught him how to drive?”

“Maybe it’s those same kids,” James jokes, “trying out shooting and driving for the first time on the same day.”

“Should get his license plate or something,” Brock’s muttering. “I can deal with him tomorrow.”  He shakes it off. “What’d Clint say? Was he helpful?”

“Yeah,” James says. “Fixed my resume a bunch. Gave some good tips. I sent out some applications.”

“Feeling okay?” Brock asks. “You’ve been working pretty hard lately, with the job hunt.”

Brock’s been needling him about overexerting himself since he started the job hunt.

“I’m fine,” James assures him. “Also, turns out? He and Laura are into kink.”

Brock’s eyebrows shoot up. “Clint and Laura? That’s – how did that even come up?”

“The guy has no filter.”

“Huh,” Brock says. “Wouldn’t have expected that. They’re so…”

“I know. And you know what else? She’s the dom.”

Brock’s face splits into a grin. He bursts out laughing. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Seriously!”

“You’re screwing with me.”

“I’m not,” James insists. “He told me all about how it was hard for her to dom when she was pregnant.”

“What the fuck,” Brock’s laughing. “What the fuck…”

“So yeah, he invited us over for dinner to, I dunno. Trade tips.”

“Jesus.”

When they get back home, James’ phone buzzes. It’s Steve, texting for the fifth time today. At least he’s stopped talking about the fight they had. His latest message is just a selfie that looks like he’s back home – James recognizes the green couch behind him – and the caption freedom.

James is relieved to hear it. Steve’s a fucking asshole that deserved James ignoring his texts after the bullshit he said at the hospital, but he has been worried about him in the back of his mind. He replies, for the first time in weeks. He sends over a Braveheart meme, and then follows it up with an actual message.

14:11: Glad to hear it

14:12: Take home IV?

14:12: Yep

14:12: What are you up to?

And prize for avoiding talking about how he’s doing the second he’s out of the hospital goes, as usual, to Steven Grant Rogers. James lets it slide. Steve seems scared off enough by James’ weeks of ghosting that he’s tiptoeing a little with the conversation, which James is spitefully glad for but also feels a little bad about.

14:13: Not much

14:14: Job hunting, actually

14:14: You quit???

James picks at his finger, suddenly frustrated. Why does everyone expect him to have fucking quit already?

14:15: No working on it

14:15: trying to get something lined up frist 

14:16: Good

14:16: Nice. That’s a good plan

14:16: Talked to Clint actually. He gave me some tips :)

14:16: Did he take you to the eggs place lol

14:17: lol yes

14:17: 35 bucks for an omelet…  

It’s so easy to talk to Steve, when he’s not impossible to talk to. James should probably have texted him back earlier. But he was being such a dick.

14:17: Any tips for how to make my resume prettier? There’s like actual cnotent onit now

14:18: If u have time

14:18: Send it over. I’m still kinda trapped in bed so I’m incredibly bored

14:18: K :)

***

“—so, yeah,” James clears his throat. Sam’s still reading over his resume. The formatting got all fucked on the phone screen, so they’d asked Sarah to print a couple copies. “It’s not good or anything, so any… advice? Or just. Yeah.” Now Sam looks up. “How to make it suck less, you know?”

“Dude,” Sam says, “Don’t be so hard on yourself. This looks good to me.”

Of course that’s all Sam says. “Okay, yeah, but seriously.”

Sam sits back in his chair, full-on counsellor mode. “I seriously think it looks pretty good. You can group a couple of these together,” he points at the work experience bullets. “All the Sokovia ones under one heading, maybe. And a couple things you can translate, like put ‘manager’ instead of ‘NCO’.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“Didn’t know I had management experience.”

Sam takes a beat, then lets out a snort and grins. “Standup, too.”

“Ha.”

“Where are you thinking of applying?”

James shrugs. He’s been going through some of the links Clint sent him, and applying to basically all the jobs he’s gotten alerts for. Those have made this whole thing way easier, since he’ll just get an email every couple days with relevant postings instead of having to search through a bunch of different sites every night. Still, he stopped counting how many places he’s applied to after he’d cleared fifty.

“Anywhere,” James says honestly. “Another temp place, probably. Maybe… something with the city, too?” Sam’s checking the time on his phone, because James’ job-hunting attempt is somehow not the most fascinating part of his day. “Anyway. Look. This was great, thanks. I’m sure you have other stuff to do.”

“Hang on,” Sam says. “Let me send you this guide I have on tailoring a resume with military experience for civilian jobs.” He scrolls through his phone some more, then starts tapping away. “[email protected] still good?”

“Yeah.”

Sam looks up at him. “Actually, one thing you might wanna do is get a new email address.”

James’ face flushes. “Oh.” That’s such a good point. “Yeah, you’re right. I made it in high school and haven’t really needed to update.”

“Yeah, fair. Mine was Flyboysammy94 until I was like… honestly, too old. It was too late. I got a job rejection that really politely told me to maybe make it literally anything else.”

Fuck. How many places had screened James out just because of his stupid email?

“Okay. Yeah.” This is fucking embarrassing. “Thanks.”

“Hey,” Sam says. “You’re good, alright? It honestly looks great. I promise I’d tell you if that wasn’t the case. This whole job hunting thing gets real stressful and if you want help with anything, or interview practice or anything,” he stresses. “You’ve got my number.”

“Yeah, no, thanks. It’s… yeah.” For some reason, Sam hasn’t kicked him out yet, even though group’s starting soon and he’s probably got to go set up the coffee maker or something.

“And now that I’ve emailed you, you have my email. And it’s not even flyboysammy94 anymore.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a beat. Then Sam actually checks the time. “You coming to group today?” he asks, standing. 

“Uh.” Brock’s done work in like a half hour and he’s already been on James’ case about pushing himself too hard with the job hunting and work and everything. He’d rather skip group therapy than have to cancel another shift. It’s been what, two weeks, since he’s seen Wanda? Maybe three. He missed all last week, and the week before that he was paired up with this quiet Hispanic guy because she was off. He should just go home. But then he’s already following Sam down the hall.  “I can’t stay super long?”

Sam doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s fine.”

“Okay.” Fuck, and there’s already a few people in the room, and they’ve seen him come in so it would just be weird to leave now. James grabs a seat and connects to the WiFi to check if Brock can pick him up a bit later. By the time he’s typed out something half-decent, the room is basically full and Sam’s doing the intros. 

16:32: What’s a bit?

16:32: Like another 30min? Sam asked me to stay fro group a bit

16:34: You feeling ok?

16:34: You were still kinda out of it last night

16:34: Im ok. Just owe him some therapy since hes helping with the resume and stuff

Brock’s typing for a while. Then he stops. James waits a bit, but nothing’s coming up. He starts getting nervous.

16:36: Gonna cancel my shift tmrrw i think. You’re done at like 1900?

And suddenly there’s an answer right away.

16:36: Yeah. I’ll get some takeout or somthing

16:36: Pick you up in an hour

16:37: thanks! Love you

16:37: Love you too 

James puts away his phone, feeling like a bit of a dick since he missed most of what the guy sharing right now has been saying. Something about his dog? There’s a few familiar faces but less than last time. Seems like everyone else is figuring their shit out and moving on with life, except him and maybe Frank. Frank’s also scanning the room and for a second he looks at James and gives him his version of a smile. It’s kinda off, but it’s the thought that counts. James smiles back. He doesn’t look homeless, but James isn’t exactly sure what he’d be looking for.

“Anyone else want to share?” Sam asks, and because he feels like a jerk for already taking up so much of Sam’s time, James says: “Yeah, I’ll go.”

Oh god. Now everyone’s looking at him. He clears his throat.

“So, hi,” he says. He’s not sure what he should say. “Um. My work cut my maximum number of shifts to like 2 a week because I had to take too many sick days.” He licks his lips. One guy makes a hmm noise and nods like he gets it. “But between my arm and my – brain – there’s not too many jobs I can even apply for. Plus the application process itself isn’t too friendly to guys with brain damage.”

He gets a couple of sympathetic chuckles on that one, which makes him relax a little.

“Plus, uh,” he continues, “I had to actually make a resume that wasn’t just ‘blowing people up’ and ‘part time janitor’.” He gets a lot more understanding nods at that. Go figure. He swallows. “I asked my parents if I could work in their store,” he says before he can stop himself. He probably shouldn’t tell this story. It’s just gonna make everyone in the group think he’s ungrateful and difficult. But he’s already talking, so he can’t really stop. “And they said instead – I mean, they were trying to help. But they were like oh, why don’t we just write you a check instead?”

A couple people are shaking their heads or grimacing, and one guy lets out an oof noise. James is relieved.

“Yeah,” James finishes lamely. “So that’s been kinda hard.”

“Man,” a guy pipes up, “It sucks when you can tell people want to help, but everything they do just leaves you feeling like a piece of shit for asking.”

A lady’s also nodding. James remembers her talking about a TBI, too. “It’s like. Believe in me a little, huh? Like, if you can’t… then, I mean how am I supposed to believe I can do anything if no one thinks I can?”

James nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Exactly.”

“I’d have been pissed off at that offer too, if I was you,” she says, then shrugs. “Then probably felt like shit about fighting over it.”

“My brother and his wife are like that,” says Colin. “Everything I try, they’ve already got an opinion on and it’s that I’m doing it all wrong. Last week, right? We’re shopping around wedding venues…”

Just like that, the spotlight’s off of James. He relaxes back into his chair, only now realizing how much he tensed up while everyone was looking at him. But it was… fine. Not great. But fine. 

And maybe his new resume isn’t dogshit.

***

There’s something shaking him. James frowns, waking up.

“Babe. James! Babe!”

He opens his eyes and blinks, confused. Brock’s over him, looking pale and terrified. He’s – in bed. Did they go to bed last night? He doesn’t remember that.

“Christ, can you say something?” Brock’s panicking. What’s happening? James sits up and— he can’t sit up, because his arm is tied to the headboard and his legs are tied to something else. It all rushes back to him, and he lays back down on the bed. Right. Yeah. They were getting warmed up, Brock had tied him up and they were making out. It was really hot, actually, Brock scratching at him, smacking him around. Choking him a little. Was that—

“Did I… pass out?” James asks, incredulous. That’s gotta be it – why he has a blank stretch of time and suddenly is waking up with Brock freaked out over him.

“Fuck,” Brock collapses on the bed, limp, running his hands over his scalp. “You’re okay?”

“Brock,” James says, kinda sharp, because now he’s starting to get stressed. “What—”

“Yeah, yeah, you passed out.” Brock’s breathing fast. “For maybe twenty, thirty seconds, I guess? Thirty? I don’t… one minute you were all, you know. Into it. And then you just, like, went limp.” Brock looks up at him and just as quickly looks away, like he can’t keep eye contact. “Fuck.”

That’s not ideal. James breathes in, holds it, and takes stock. Nothing hurts more than usual. His head’s not spinning, vision’s not blurry. Words are coming out in the right order and everything. He’s still hard.

He notices Brock’s phone is in his hand, and on the screen is the dialer.

“Were you gonna call 911?” he blurts out, and it comes out half-laughing. Jesus, he was out for thirty seconds and Brock was gonna call the entire New York City first response to their door?

“This isn’t fucking funny,” Brock snaps. He stands up sharply, which is when James realizes he’s still buck-ass naked.

“It’s a little funny,” he says. Brock climbs back on the bed, leans over him and starts untying his arm. “Baby,” James says, “come on! I’m fine!” Brock doesn’t say anything, just focuses on getting him free. “It’s fine, we can keep going—”

“Nope.” Brock pulls his arm free and drops it, still wrapped in ropes, on James’ chest. He walks over to the foot of the bed to start untying his legs. “We’re done.”

Well this is bullshit. “Oh come on, you’ve drawn literal blood before and we didn’t stop then! I told you I’m fi—”

“We’re done!” Brock says firmly. James shuts up. “I’m not into it anymore! Okay?” James is kinda miffed. He can see from over here that Brock’s still mostly hard, he’s not exactly not into it. “Why didn’t you tell me you couldn’t breathe?”

Incredible mind over here. Real, honest-to-goodness genius. “I thought the point of you choking me was me not breathing,” James says, even though it’s even odds that Brock’s going to lay into him now. A part of him kind of wants him to, even if that’s mostly the sex-brain talking. He takes a beat, and tries again. “I could still breathe a little,” he says. “I don’t think you choked-choked me out.”

Brock considers this. Then his lip twists. “Probably pressed right on your carotids…” he murmurs. “Anyway.” He cuts himself off and heads to the dresser. “Want a shirt?”

Are they really not gonna have sex? This is not even close to the most intense thing Brock’s done to him in the bedroom (or living room, or kitchen, or whatever). “What I want,” James says, throwing his arm back over his head, “is to get fucked.”

Brock stares at him. A beat passes, then he goes to the sex drawer, pulls out the blue dildo, and chucks it at James. It bounces off his stomach and lands on the mattress beside him. 

“I’m gonna take a shower,” he mutters, and disappears into the bathroom.

James waits until he hears the water going to sit up. He does actually think about going at it with the dildo, for all of about ten seconds. Mood’s gone, though. He cleans up, puts on a t-shirt and sweats, and resigns himself to a night of blue balls.

“Want a beer?” he calls, when he hears the shower turn off. 

Brock says, “Yeah. Thanks.”

He gets a beer and a soda for himself and brings them both to the coffee table. Then he goes over to the closet. Right above the gun safe, there’s a shelf with James’ puzzle books, the ones his neurologist recommended for him. He takes one and brings it back over to the couch to curl up. There’s a bookmark in it, and he flips it open to that page and starts going at it with a pen. He doesn’t hear Brock come up behind him.

“Which one are you on?” Brock asks, kissing him on the top of his head. He comes around and joins him on the couch, taking a sip of his beer.

James shows him the page. “This one,” he says. “I’m supposed to get all the clowns to the other side of the road.”

“Why clowns?”

James shrugs. “I guess they try to switch them up so they’re not repetitive.”

“Hmm.”

Brock wraps an arm around him and James cuddles up close.

“You sure you’re fine?” he says abruptly. It takes James a second to realize what he’s talking about, and then he rolls his eyes.

“Baby, yes.”

Brock says nothing for long enough that James goes back to his puzzle. “You gonna be distracted if I put on a show?” Brock asks after a bit.

“Don’t think so. I’ll tell you if I am?”

“Kay.”

Brock keeps his arm wrapped around him as they sit there for the rest of the night. 

***

“James!” He’s barely in the lobby before Wanda’s on him. “Thank God and the devil both.” It’s closer to a tackle than a hug, but after a beat she hasn’t let go yet so he wraps his arm around her awkwardly. The security guard is giving them a weird look.

“Hi,” he says. Wanda squeezes him one more time and then pulls back, still not quite letting go. They’re both still wearing their coats, and she has a lumpy red beanie on, too. She takes it off and smacks his shoulder with it.

“‘Hi’? Almost a month, I not see you at work and you are not texting neither, Mister ‘Hi’.” She hits him with her hat again. She’s scrunching her eyebrows together and frowning. “They tell me you are cancelling all your shifts, and then they say it not company policy to tell me your schedule so they not tell me anything more. I text Viz right now, because I tell him, if you are not here tonight, we are calling police.”

Finally she lets him go and pulls out a very new-looking phone. 

“Police?” James repeats, flabbergasted. “Don’t you think that’s a bit of an overreaction?”

“Well, I not have your address and Viz thinks police maybe do something,” she says, tapping at her phone. She sends the message off and looks back up at him, very seriously. “Last time I see you, you say things are bad and you are covered in bruises. Then I do not hear from you for a month.”

“Jesus, I’m sorry.” James feels like an asshole now, even though he didn’t actually do anything. He’s still pretty thrown. The police? What was she worried had happened? A jolt goes up his spine – if a cop had actually shown up at their place to check on James or whatever, Brock would not have been happy. Good thing he actually came to work today. “My phone hasn’t been working,” he says.

“You have WiFi connection?” she says. “WhatsApp? HammerType? StarkChat?”

“I’ve got StarkChat.”

She opens it up on her phone and hands it to him. “Add yourself.”

“Fine,” he murmurs, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

“I do not need sorry, I need regular messages so I know you are not dead. Like, minimum every couple day. Okay?”

“It’s not—”

“Yes?”

“Yeah, okay. I’m… I’ll do that.” He takes a beat, adds his contact, and hands her back the phone. “I think you’re freaking out,” he says. “Why would I be dead?”

She sends him an invite, then gestures at him when his phone lets out a ping. She watches him take it out and accept her invite. “You are not idiot,” she says. She’s quiet for a second, starts unzipping her coat. Then she says, “You and Brock, things okay now?”

“Yeah, we’re… it’s been good, for a while. We’re good.” Wanda’s still looking at him, like she expects more. “How’s, uh. Things with—” Fuck. Victor? No, it’s something weirder. Vinnie? “Your guy?”

“Viz,” she smiles. “Things are good.” She takes her phone back out and shows him some pictures. They’re in an apple orchard or something. He’s a nerdy looking guy with big 80s glasses, and he’s got a big smile on his face and his arm around Wanda, who’s beaming at the camera. They look cute. She swipes through and in the next one Viz is balancing an apple on his head. James snorts. “Come on, we need to get supply cart and start, but I tell you everything. You are very behind on my gossip.”

It’s actually really nice to catch up. James isn’t sure when exactly Wanda went from a coworker who made their shifts together a bit less boring to a friend whose personal life he was kind of invested in, but clearly it had happened. A while ago.

“—and he tell me this: sweetheart, now you are done with application process, to celebrate, I will take you camping.” Wanda drops her impression of Viz and pulls a disgusted face that gets a laugh out of James. “This is normal for you? New Yorkers? Sleep on dirt, in tent, in rain?”

“I mean, I guess you hope it doesn’t rain?” James clears a couple dirty coffee mugs off the desk before starting on the garbage can. Wanda groans. “Look, I’m not gonna try and pitch you on camping, okay? I don’t get it either. I’d rather sleep in a bed.” He’s had enough uncomfortable sleeping set-ups and heavy back-packs to carry, thanks, and it wasn’t all that fun even when the Army was paying him for it.

Wanda’s shaking her head. “Like, if I am starting permanent residency process, maybe I want to celebrate with nice dinner. Or trip to Statue of Liberty. Walking for days and days in forest and sleeping outside, this is not why I come to USA. I have already had camping experience when I walk three days to Red Cross camp, thanks.”

He laughs, then freezes because maybe he shouldn’t laugh about Wanda’s refugee shit, maybe he’s not actually allowed to laugh at that. 

Wanda doesn’t miss a beat. “So okay, you are now going to help me. When you meet Viz, you tell him sad story about army and then I tell him sad story about refugee, and he will not take me camping anymore.”

James can’t not laugh this time, it’s fucking funny. “Okay, I’m in.”

They do eventually get back to doing their actual jobs, but this time James finds himself talking more than he usually does. He tells Wanda about Becca, college, and the nerdy kid he’s pretty sure she’s sleeping with. He tells her some of the drama from the VA.

It feels normal, a couple hours in, but he’s still stuck on Wanda being ready to call the cops if she hadn’t seen him today. “I’ll message more often,” he starts, out of the blue. “But you don’t actually need to worry about me like that,” he tries, and Wanda waves him away. “I’m like, fine. We fight sometimes, that’s all. Brock wouldn’t…” it’s almost too insane to say out loud. Wanda looks at him.

“He seems like good man,” she allows. “But you disappear for a month. You don’t disappear for a month again, I will not worry.”

James has to admit that’s probably fair. “Okay.” A moment goes by, and he says: “I am looking for a new job.”

For a second, she looks absolutely appalled. Then she composes herself, nods, and says. “Good. This pay is shit. Once you find it, tell them you have friend with perfect English who would make great addition to the team.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Of course.” He’s feeling a bit of a lump in his throat, to his horror. He looks away when Wanda speaks again.

“And maybe we start meeting to have coffee or something, to exchange gossip.”

He looks up at her, and she rolls her eyes fondly at whatever expression’s on his face. He grins.

“Yeah, coffee sounds good. Like normal people.”

“Exactly.” She ties off a trash bag. “Tell me, how is your friend? The one with the bad lungs?”

***

Hello James,

Thank you for your application to the Data Entry Systems Analyst Intermediate position here at LumiCo Informatics. We have reviewed your application and would like to invite you for an in-person (face to face) interview. Below are the available timeslots. Please indicate your top 5 preferred timeslots in order of preference so we can do our best to accommodate. Please also reach out to [email protected] if you require any specific accommodations for the interview. We look forward to meeting you.

James stares at the screen. Wow. He reads it over a few times. It’s only been a few days since he sent in the application, he hadn’t expected a response so soon. He hadn’t actually expected any response, if he’s being honest.

“Babe?” The microwave is beeping with Brock’s dinner, and James hears him coming up behind him from their bedroom. James was supposed to find them something to watch. “You okay?”

“I think I’ve got an interview.” It’s an insane thing to say out loud. He’s got an interview. Holy shit.

“What?” Brock calls. The microwave gets in two more beeps before he opens it.

“I’ve got an interview,” James repeats, looking up from his screen this time. 

 “That’s great, babe!” Brock says, walking over. “Congratulations. What’s the job?”

James shows him the screen. “Data entry something.”

“Okay, I think step one is figuring out the actual job you applied for,” Brock chuckles.

“Probably,” James agrees. Wow. He didn’t think it would feel this good.

“You can’t do any of the times on Wednesday,” Brock says, reading down the email to where the timeslots are listed out. “You’ve got physio then.”

“Physio’s done by two, there’s a whole bunch—”

Brock looks at him like he’s a moron. “You’re gonna be exhausted after physio. And what’s the plan, show up to the interview with a gym bag?”

“I can stop by home and drop things off.”

“Okay, and if the bus is late you’ll miss the interview,” Brock sighs. “I can’t take Wednesday off to drive you.”

“I didn’t ask you to!” James rubs his head. There’s like four available days, why is Brock so fucking fixated on the Wednesday. “It’s fine, there’s other days.”

Brock looks at the screen. “Kay,” he says, kisses James on the head, then sits on the couch beside him to eat. “We can do some interview prep this week,” he says, “if you want?”

James smiles at him. “Yeah, thanks, babe. That would be awesome.” He can’t even remember the last time he went for a job interview. “How was work?”

“Same bullshit,” Brock shrugs. “Some of the guys are going out on Friday. Hauer’s finally retiring.”

“About time. You gonna go?”

“Dunno. Probably not.” Brock glances up at him, uncomfortable, “Jack’s gonna be there,” he adds. 

Brock doesn’t talk a lot about his shitty ex, but they didn’t exactly end things on good terms. 

“Well that sucks,” James offers. “I thought he’d quit a while ago?”

“Yeah he teaches cadets now or something, but apparently Hauer kept in touch so he’s invited. Anyway,” he says. “Why the fuck are we talking about this? You got an interview!” He grins, and it looks a bit forced. “Let’s hope this one works and you can lay off the job hunting for a while.”

Turns out? Finding a timeslot that works is harder than James thought. Figures. Why should any step of this be straightforward. He’s got a shift scheduled Sunday and Thursday, so Brock says no to Monday and Thursday. Because Brock says if he works a night on Sunday, he’ll be too tired by Monday afternoon to sound like a reasonable potential employee for thirty fucking minutes. James isn’t really convinced that’s the case, but he doesn’t want to argue.

So James replies ranking all the Tuesday slots as his top fives, and then right on schedule 

Out craps the brain.

Great.

“It’s the stress,” Brock says and that

Sucks. Everything sucks. James is

Sick. Puking up soup

When did he eat soup?

It’s dark and it stinks and then it’s too bright. Brock’s sitting on the bed with a mug of coffee. He’s not going out tonight. That’s nice. 

It’s Saturday afternoon before James feels like a person again. He’s still a bit off-balance and Brock has to help him get out of the shower, but he’s getting there. The only thing in the fridge is some leftover Chinese that James can’t even handle the smell of right now, so Brock heads out to get groceries and James sets up on the couch to try and start on some interview prep. 

Half a week late, because his brain decided it was a good time to fuck with him. This is such bullshit.

He opens his inbox to get the actual job title right this time and there’s a new email from LumiCo. And James is just tired.

Hello James,

Thank you for indicating your preferred timeslots of:

1. Tuesday at 5:00pm
2. Tuesday at 4:30pm
3. Tuesday at 4:00pm
4. Tuesday at 3:00pm
5. Tuesday at 2:30pm

Your interview has been scheduled for Monday at 2:00pm. Please arrive 15 minutes before your scheduled interview time.

James just stares at it. Why did they even bother fucking asking for his preferred times if they were just gonna go ahead and schedule him whenever they wanted?

If he tells Brock about it, he’s gonna tell him not to go. He’ll say James is ‘pushing himself too hard’ or whatever. As if he doesn’t get bad brain days after a week of sitting around on his ass, too. Worst case, he’ll make a whole thing about driving him to his night shift Sunday evening. James doesn’t wanna have that argument.

He can just mention it to Brock afterward.

It doesn’t even have to come up. He’ll just tell Brock how it went on Tuesday, and he probably won’t even get the job so they’ll never talk about it again after that. 

***

“—actually managed to maintain my typing speed without an adaptive keyboard,” James finishes. “But I’ll definitely try it out! If, uh, you have it available,” he adds.

“That’s great,” Sheila says brightly, smiling at him and making a note on her notepad. “I think that’s about everything from my end. And do you have any questions for us?” Sheila’s the only person in the room with him, but she’s been saying ‘we’ and ‘us’ and ‘ours’ for the whole interview. It’s weird. 

“Yeah, um. I saw on the website you guys offer some cross-training with, uh. Software partners? Is that something that would be available in this role?”

He does, kind of, care about the answer. But he’s mostly asking because Clint and Sam both said he had to ask something. Really he just hopes Sheila’s answer to this one question is long enough to take up the rest of the time, because he’s pretty drained and his next question isn’t going to be half as smart.

Shit. Sheila’s stopped talking. Now she’s just smiling at him from across the desk. “That’s great,” he says. “Really, uh. Great. Thank you.”

“We’re very excited about the program.” She pauses. “Anything else I can answer for you?”

“Not really. This was, um. Super thorough. Thanks.”

“Awesome,” she says, very cheerfully. “Well,” she looks down at her notepad, “James, it was great meeting you and we should be reaching out to successful candidates next week.”

“That’s fast,” he says, and Sheila’s smile flickers. Should he not have said that was fast? “Great. Well, nice meeting you, Sheila.” Should he shake her hand? Is that a thing?

He stands up, and so does she, and do they shake hands. “Well, uh, have a good one,” James says on his way out.

“Thank you for your service!” she calls brightly when he’s half out the door. He wasn’t expecting it.

“Thanks – you too— I mean – thank you!”

He doesn’t look back and gets out of there. Fuck. Incredible. Why does anyone let him exist in public? It takes him about two blocks of walking to get over the cringey finale, but after that he lets himself acknowledge that the interview actually went okay. Surprisingly okay. Nothing so exciting that he’s bummed he won’t get to tell Brock until tomorrow, but also nothing that terrible. It just went.

And now he’s the kind of guy who can get through an interview.

He’s feeling pretty drained, though. After the shift last night, not enough sleep, and now the interview, it’s kind of a lot. But he wrote down all the directions to get there, so he just has to follow them backwards and he’ll be home, and in bed. Not a problem. His head’s feeling kinda tight, like it’s being squeezed, but he finds the bus stop he got off at and crosses the street to get on the same bus, the 42, but going the other way.

The street is basically a wind tunnel, and with construction taking up a whole lane it’s loud. James can’t hear himself think. He sees the bus pull up, climbs on and figures out his fare, and thank fuck there’s a seat free. The window feels nice and cool when he leans against it. His head is pounding. A couple stops, then change buses, and then he’ll need to get a nap in or something before Brock gets home.

When he opens his eyes, he’s missed the stop. 

Fuck. Fuck. He pulls the thing, and the bus stops at the next stop, which is like a three minute drive up. How far away is he already?

James gets off and crosses the street again. He’s just gotta get the same bus, go back, get off at the right one this time. Only – it’s a diagonal crossing. Does the bus come on this side or on the adjoining street?

He waits there for a while. There’s no bus. He looks at the little map on the pole indicating the stop, and it’s hard to orient himself. Maybe if his brain wasn’t so tired already, he could do it. His eyes are hurting.

It’s gonna be faster to just walk. He takes out his phone and opens up StarkMaps except – right. No data. Okay, well, there has to be a coffee shop or something with free WiFi around. He starts walking, looking for a busier street. It’s still a bit early for rush hour, but traffic’s picking up. Some asshole is honking. Maybe it’s a car alarm, because it’s not fucking letting up, but if it’s just some dipshit in traffic, honking, that’s someone James can feel mad at, and if he’s mad that’s something to focus on instead worrying that his brain’s gonna fucking vibrate out of his skull—

Hooooonk.

James looks over at the white car. The guy behind the wheel is yelling something and waving at him. Why’s he waving? What—

He realizes he’s come to a full stop in the middle of a crosswalk, and the light’s turned green. Dude in the white car gets sick of waiting and just hits the gas. James takes a step back as he speeds by, throwing in one more honk. The guy behind him at least gives James ten seconds to sprint to the sidewalk and jump onto the curb. 

His heart’s pounding. Jesus. He’s got to get home. Nothing here looks familiar, and he just needs to find the stop for the 42 bus. It was a couple blocks from the LumiCo office, it can’t be that—

No, shit, he’d already found the bus and missed his stop. He fell asleep on the bus? He’s walking home, right? James pulls out his phone and tries to open up StarkMaps and… right.

Data.

Still a problem. He knows it’s a problem. He knows he already tried to check his—

WiFi. Right. That was the plan. Find a coffee shop or something with WiFi. He leans against the walk signal’s post, just catching his breath for a second. The street’s kind of blurry, now, and he’s sweating. He’s pretty sure he’s sweating. He unzips his coat. Okay. He’s okay.

It takes a few more blocks, but finally there’s a Dunkin Donuts. James gets inside. There’s maybe five other people there and a high school kid behind the counter with a pimple on his nose. James starts ordering a coffee, then has to pause and check if he has enough cash for the coffee, because he can’t use his card, if he uses the card Brock’s gonna see it and if Brock sees he’s gonna wonder why he was at some random fucking Dunkin—

“Uh, sir?” James looks up. The kid holding an empty cup. “Did you want a medium or a small, sir?”

“Small,” James says. He’s got a twenty in his wallet. He’s not sure why he was freaking out. The whole day’s just been long and stressful and all he wants is to get home but he’s still got no idea how to get there. The thought of looking at his tiny phone screen right now is almost enough to make him puke. “Do you have a bathroom?”

“Yeah, just back there on the left. I’ll unlock it for you?”

The lights are too bright, reflecting off the really white floor and the slanted mirror. There’s a few pieces of toilet paper on the tiles, and a changing table that doesn’t fold up properly. James closes his eyes and covers them with his hand, and that helps a bit. He still feels like he’s going to puke, but at least this way he might get it in the toilet. Deep breaths. 

Deep breaths.

The tiles are cold and probably disgusting. He tries not to think about that. Brock was right, he shouldn’t have gone to a job interview after a night shift on only a couple hours sleep. What was he thinking?

It’s getting harder to think.

He should’ve just taken a taxi or something. 

Fuck, this was a mistake.

There’s knocking coming from the outside of the bathroom door.

“—the door, please. Hey, buddy?” More knocking. “This is the NYPD.”

“He was dressed nice and he didn’t look homeless or anything—" James hears a voice through the door, “but he was like, acting really weird? And not really talking. But making kinda loud noises? It kinda freaked me out. And he’s been in there for like an hour now, I don’t know.”

“Sir?” Another knock.

“I just wanted to make sure he wasn’t like, using in there.”

James manages to get his hand on the door and open it. A cop in full uniform blinks at him.

“What’s going on, sir?” he asks, and his voice is kinda loud. Oh, god, there’s more people now and they’re all staring. “You doing okay?”

James shakes his head. The cop nods slowly, glances around behind him at the bathroom.

“What’s your name?”

James is having a hard time talking, but he manages. “James.”

“You on anything, James?”

James shakes his head.

“You sure?” The cop doesn’t believe him. “A couple people here thought you might not be feeling well. You were in there for a long time.”

James shakes his head again. He’s gotta. Explain. He points to his head, taps it. “I got,” he says. “Injury. Bad brain day.”

Slowly, the cop nods again. “You got some mental problems?”

Nod.

“Okay. I’m gonna take you to the hospital.”

James shakes his head again. That would be the worst thing, he’d get billed. Stupid unnecessary ER visit—

“Alright, buddy, calm down.”

James is calm.

“Sir,” the cop says, a lot firmer. “Step back.”

He needs to look calmer. Do a better job. Looking calm. Step back. That’s what the cop said. Okay. James steps back.

The cop is holding a taser. Okay. James steps back again. 

“Okay, James,” the cop says. “We’re gonna leave this Dunkin, and you’re gonna get in the car with me now.”

James blinks at him. “Where we. Gonna go?”

“First we’re gonna get in the car.”

James wants to ask again. Because. Where. But the cop is still. Holding his taser. It’s not pointed at James that much but. It’s still there. And all the people are staring.

“Okay,” James says. He tries to look small when they walk to the car. Think small. The cop opens the door and James goes inside like he’s been told. There’s a cage. Between him and the front seats. There’s another cop in the driver’s seat. 

The first cop is still standing there. He closes the door but the window is still open. It’s cold. The cop sticks his hand inside.

“Gimme your phone.” James hands over his phone, and the cop starts poking at it. “Alright, is there anyone I can call?”

James shakes his head. 

“Unlock this for me, okay?”

James shakes his head again. “No.” The cop sighs. “Also. No plan,” James adds. That. Seems to make him less annoyed.

“Okay, well, I got a working phone, I can call whoever for you if you let me look at your contacts to see the number.”

“No,” James repeats. Can’t call Brock, he’ll be so mad. Can’t call Ma or Dad. They’ll worry. Steve can’t see him like this. Nobody else, really.

“Forget it,” the cop in the driver’s seat says. “Let’s just take him to the station, he’ll sleep it off.”

Sleep sounds. Pretty good right now. 

***

The drunk tank is disgusting. It is, luckily, pretty empty – just James and two college kids in here, one of whom’s pissed himself, sleeping in the opposite corner. The floor’s grimy and stained, but James feels a lot better having slept. This all honestly could have gone much worse for him. Though now that his brain’s in better shape, he’s starting to feel humiliated about the whole thing. He made an ass of himself in front of an entire coffee shop, got the cops called on him. Now he’s locked in a drunk tank. Jesus. 

He’s also starting to panic. What time is it? Is he under arrest? Where’s his phone? How long are they gonna keep him in here?

What the fuck is he gonna tell Brock?

“Barnes, James?”

He looks up and gets to his feet. There’s a cop – is that the same one from before? He doesn’t remember – reading off a sheet of paper.

“That’s me,” James says.

“You know a Brock Rumlow?”

James’ heart sinks. “Yes, sir,” he says.

“He’s here to pick you up.”

James nods, resigned, as the guy unlocks the cell. A lady cop behind a plexiglass sheet gives him back his wallet and his phone – he doesn’t really remember them taking them. He checks the time – fuck, it’s almost one in the morning. 

Brock’s standing between the front desk and the row of plastic chairs screwed together, watching the door when James comes out. He doesn’t look angry, exactly. He doesn’t really look like anything. Out of nowhere, James gets the urge to just run.

“Sorry for the trouble, Detective Rumlow,” the cop walking James out says. 

“It’s no problem,” Brock sounds tired. “Thanks for getting this whole thing sorted out.”

James feels like a kid who’s been called to the principal’s office. He doesn’t really look at Brock as he’s signed out, and just numbly follows him out onto the street. The car’s parked around the corner. Neither of them says anything as they walk.

“What the fuck happened?” Brock demands the second they get in the car. James’ face is burning hot. He’s in deep shit. Brock’s pissed and he’s got to handle this now, before—

James has to do whatever it takes to fix this. Doesn’t matter what. “I am so fucking sorry,” he says. 

Brock starts the car. “I didn’t ask if you were sorry, I asked what happened?” Shit. He needs to fix this and listen to what Brock’s saying. “Are you okay? What – what?!”

“I’m okay, I promise—"

This almost pisses Brock off more. “I got home and you weren’t there, no note, nothing! I waited half an hour in case you went for a walk or something. I had no idea what the fuck was going on! Your parents didn’t know where you were, you weren’t answering your messages, I even tried calling Steve but I think I’ve got an old number ‘cause it didn’t go through. Who knows with him, he’s a fucking criminal. I called hospitals!”

James eyes fill with tears. “Baby, I’m so sorry…”

“Fuck,” Brock hits the steering wheel. James flinches. “I checked your bank account, in case I don’t know. Your card showed up somewhere. Then I called a couple guys who were working tonight to have them start asking around, in case… I don’t know. I don’t know!”

“I… remember the job interview?” James starts. It feels like the only thing he can hear is his own heartbeat. He focuses on keeping his voice steady. “They rescheduled for today. I went there.”

Brock stops his rant and just stares at him. “For the data entry thing?”

“Yeah,” James says weakly. “And – and then on the way back, I missed my stop and it just got – too much. I got lost, my brain was overstrained I guess, you know. You were right, it was too much after the night shift. So I went to some coffee shop and someone called the cops I guess. And they took me here.”

Brock swallows. “What did they call the cops on you for?”

“I don’t know, I was probably acting weird. I was in the bathroom a long time, I guess.”

“Did you get aggressive?”

“No,” James says, and feels even shittier. Jesus, this could have gone really bad. “I didn’t do anything. I – I don’t think I did anything.” He digs his fingernails into his palm. “Did they say… were there any charges, or anything?”

Brock just looks at him for a second, and it’s awful. He shakes his head, which is a huge relief. Then he takes a few breaths. “Why didn’t you fucking tell me they rescheduled and that’s where you were?”

“Because, I – I thought you’d say it was too much and I’d be overexerting myself—"

“And obviously I’d be fucking right!”

Brock hits the gas and they speed up along the city road, narrowly missing the light turn red.

“Baby,” James says softly, “You’re speeding.”

“I told you you wouldn’t be able to handle it! And look! You weren’t! Christ, what if you’d gotten so fucked up you fell asleep on the street or something? It’s twenty degrees out here!”

James has never felt so shit as he does now, which is saying something. “I know. You’re right. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you about the interview—"

“You have to take better fucking care of yourself!”

“I know.”

“Well, shit, next time fucking show it. Shit,” Brock slams the brakes, just in time. James’ seatbelt locks when he lurches forward. For a beat it feels like the only sound in the car is Brock’s breathing. “I was worried you’d fucked off and died in a ditch somewhere, I don’t know.” James looks over but Brock’s staring at the road. 

“Why didn’t you let the officers call me?” he says suddenly.

“I…” James swallows, hard. “I didn’t want you to get mad.”

“You didn’t want me to get mad,” Brock echoes, voice flat.

“Yeah…”

“You spent the night in the goddamn drunk tank! Who knows what kind of psycho you could have shared that cell with? Christ,” he blows out a huff of air. “Thank god you’re okay, Jesus fucking Christ.”

For a while, James is quiet. He watches the streetlights and checks a few times if Brock’s started looking at him yet. When they pull into their parking garage, he says, “Thanks for getting me home.” His voice sounds small.

Brock parks, turns off the car, and gets out without a word. James closes his eyes and breathes. He has to fix this. He doesn’t fucking know how, just yet. But he has to fix it. Things have been good, he can’t lose that over some bullshit data entry job he’s not even gonna get. Brock’s waiting for him at the elevator. James feels shaky. He’s fucking terrified to follow him upstairs. Brock locks the car until it beeps, then turns around and pulls James into a tight hug. 

They probably miss a couple elevators like that, just holding each other in the parking garage, even though James has to smell disgusting.

“You gotta tell me these things,” Brock says, finally. “You gotta tell me where you are.”

“I know,” James says. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.” He squeezes Brock back. Maybe they’re gonna be okay, somehow. “You’re not mad?”

Brock breathes deeply against him. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Chapter Text

It’s been two days, and nothing has really happened. And it’s driving James insane. Brock worked late the day after, and this morning they hadn’t talked much either, just a quick check in over coffee. But he’d said he’d be home for dinner. James isn’t sure if that means Brock wants him to make something or order something, or if he’s gonna bring something back, or—

Maybe it’s fine? Maybe James is freaking out for no reason. He should be happy nothing’s happened. The whole drive back from the jail, James had been sure it was gonna be bad. But maybe Brock’s decided the night in the drunk tank was punishment enough.

James rubs his eyes. He’s tried to take it easy since they got home, but it’s taken days to get back to his normal. It’s only this morning that the last bit of fogginess really started to fade. Now, he’s a little tired, but he’s fine. They’re fine. Brock got a bit freaked out but he didn’t blow up at James on the drive, or the next day.  Or even the day after that.  He’s scared to bring it up, but he wants this to be over so bad. Maybe it is?

Fuck, he just needs Brock to say they’re okay.

James’ StarkChat dings. He dives for the phone, but it’s just Steve. He’s trying to make plans. James sets the phone down – he’ll respond… later. Not right now. He goes to make coffee, but then stops and goes for the decaf. He’s on edge.

Which is dumb. There’s no reason to be on edge. He goes to the closet, takes out the dumbbell they keep there, and does some curls. Maybe working out a bit will calm him down. His form is shit and he’s basically throwing the weight up towards his chin by the end, but now he’s got a reason to feel shaky and sweaty. He should shower. 

He finally thinks, fuck it, and texts Brock.

17:42: Hey babe what were you thinking for dinner?

There’s nothing for a bit, then James phone dings again. Still not Brock.

17:52: wooooow balance sheets suuuuuuck

17:53: do you think mom and dad do this for the deli? This is hell

James manages some combination of appropriately horrified emojis in response, and sends it off. It’s past six by the time Brock does finally reply, which is kinda late for him. He’s usually home by now when he works this shift.

18:09: Just finished work sorry

18:09: On my way home. You feeling up to cooking? I think we have some pasta sauce and I put some sausage to thaw in the fridge last night, should be good.

18:10: If you’re not I can do it when I get home

James feels his whole body relax. He texts back that he’s on the case and heads to the kitchen. He feels better. Probably if something was gonna happen, it would have already happened. Brock wouldn’t be acting so normal. 

There’s a pan bubbling with sausage-and-fridge-veggies sauce and he’s draining the pasta when Brock comes through the door. He seems like he’s in a good mood. James drops the noodles in the sauce and turns to kiss him. Brock kisses him back.

“Good day at work?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Brock says brightly. “Punted this one file, so no depositions for me. Just had to interview a couple people. Got a lot done. What’d you get up to?”

“Oh you know,” James says. “Lots.” Brock kind of snorts. “Worked out a little. Here – not at the gym or anything. Mostly messaging with Becca.”

“Yeah? How’s she doing?” Brock asks, taking off his coat. The tips of his ears are pink with cold.

“She’s being tortured with balance sheets, whatever those are.”

Brock huffs out a laugh. “How’s things with the little boyfriend?”

“I dunno if he’s a boyfriend,” James says, and he’s so glad he was freaking out over nothing. Obviously, everything’s fine.

Brock raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t you say they were sleeping together?”

“The kids aren’t so into labels,” James tells him, just to see him roll his eyes. “Anyways, they seem fine. He’s a local so he’s showing her around. They’re going to some dance this weekend?” Brock grabs a couple plates and James piles them high. “Couch or counter?”

Brock’s already on the couch, and he looks at James like he’s an idiot for asking but it’s joking. Friendly. Everything’s fine. James grins and brings over their dinner.

“You seem good,” Brock points out, mid-bite. When James looks up at him, he nods at James’ head. “Back to normal. Not foggy anymore.”

“Oh, yeah,” James assures him. “I’m 100%.”

“Good.”

The pasta isn’t half bad. Brock gets seconds, but there’s even odds that’s because he didn’t have time for lunch.

“Wanna watch something?” James asks, as he’s clearing the plates away. Brock nods and gets his laptop. He puts on some history documentary series he’s been watching. James doesn’t really care what it is. Mostly, he wanted the background noise and the important part is that Brock wraps an arm around him and holds him close. He’s warm, and solid, and James can just lean against him and breathe him in.

They watch an episode and a half before Brock leans forward to pause the show. He pulls James into a deep, slow kiss, hands running down James’ back and up his thighs. By the time he breaks for air, James can feel himself getting hard. “Go get naked,” Brock orders. “And get on the bed.”

James grins like an idiot. He ditches his shirt while he’s still in the hallway, and throws it in the laundry pile with his sweats and boxers. He sits down on the bed, watching the door. Brock comes in after a beat or so, huffs at the laundry pile, and gives James a look that makes him feel dumb in the best way.

“Guess that’s on me,” Brock says, not meaning it at all. “Gotta tell you if I don’t want you to just chuck your things on the floor, don’t I?”

James’ stomach flutters. “Sorry.”

Brock just points, and James knows all has to do is wait and he’ll be sorry alright. “On your back, arm over your head,” he says, and James starts to arrange himself. “Pull the covers off,” he adds. 

Brock’s clearly got a plan – it’s hot, the idea of him not paying attention when they were watching TV, thinking instead of how he’s gonna tie James up, what he’s gonna do to him. He’s got three of their heavy-duty, thick ropes out, and the nipple clamps. James settles in as Brock starts tying him down. He spreads his legs apart on instinct, and Brock hits him hard, open-handed, on the outside of his thigh. James hisses.

“Did I say to open your legs, idiot?” he asks.

“No.”

“Then what the fuck are you doing?”

James puts his legs back together, and basks in the stinging ache where Brock hit him. Brock grips James’ sack, adjusts it to make sure it isn’t stuck between his thighs, then presses James’ ankles together firmly. He starts winding rope in a column up James’ calves and James gets lost in the sensation. There’s a soothing rhythm to it, each loop sliding around and pulling tight, the pressure settling in. A snap and a momentary pinch as Brock ties off, and then James can’t move any way other than how Brock wants him to.

Which, tonight, isn’t much.

“Try and get free,” Brock says, once he’s got James’ legs trussed up and tied to the foot of the bed, and his whole forearm pinned to the headboard. James tries to spread his legs, kick out, wriggle around a bit. It’s obvious Brock’s enjoying the show. “No, come on, put some effort into it.”

James can’t help but grin. He loves when Brock does this. He pulls on the headboard hard. No go.

“Don’t think I’m going anywhere,” James says.  

Brock gives James’ cock a firm stroke from base to tip. James groans and relaxes into the bed. Brock takes off his shirt and climbs on top of him, kissing him while scratching up his sides and pinching and twisting at the raw skin. It feels great, the sparks of pain and the deep ache that settles in as he works over the same places again and again. Brock’s chest is warm against his, and he mouths at James’ throat, nipping and sucking while James’ pulse hammers.

There’s a sharp pinch, and James yelps a little and jerks. Brock’s put on one of the nipple clamps, and he’s holding the other one at the end of the chain. It dangles in front of James’ nose, menacingly. 

“Ask me for it,” he says.

James swallows. His mouth feels dry. “Please?”

Brock’s hand cracks across his cheek. “Please what, idiot?”

James feels woozy and incredible. There’s drool on his cheek. “Please put the clamps on my other nipple.”

“And then what?”

“And then… please pull on them,” James says. Brock strokes him again, and he tries to lift his hips off the bed, but he’s got no leverage.

“Easy,” Brock says, smacking James’ thigh. “We’ll get to that.” When he snaps the other nipple clamp on, it’s electric. “Don’t close your eyes,” Brock orders. James watches him twist the chain around until it’s taut. Then he crooks his finger and James hisses as pain bursts across his chest. Brock holds him like that for forever, then lets the chain fall loose again. “Well?” he says. James just looks at him. He doesn’t have words right now, unless Brock orders him to. Whatever Brock wants him to do, he’ll do it. “Say ‘thank you’,” Brock grins.

“Thank… thank you,” James manages, and gets rewarded with another jerk on the nipple clamps. “Thank you!”

“Alright, alright,” Brock says. Absently, he digs his nail in beside the clamp on James’ left. “Laying it on a bit thick, huh?”

James doesn’t know if he’s supposed to answer and doesn’t think he can, but that’s okay. If Brock wants an answer, he’ll ask. If James is too slow, he’ll make sure he knows it. Brock plays with the clamps for a while, and with his other hand starts slowly but steadily jerking James off. James gets lost in it, shuts his eyes, then opens them again when he remembers Brock wanted him to look at him. Brock’s hard, his slacks tented and a spot of wetness across the front. He leans down and laves his tongue over one of James’ nipples, clamps and all, and the sudden heat makes him moan.

Brock stands up suddenly, takes off all his clothes and towers over James, naked. He’s gorgeous. He reaches over, takes a squeeze of lube, and coats his own dick. Then he climbs back on top of him and fits his dick in the space between James’ thighs.

He starts thrusting, and James can see his face close up, slack with pleasure. James tries to help him somehow, but he can’t move, can only lay there and be used. He’s getting close, too, from the friction of Brock on top of him, his own cock being pushed up against his stomach. When Brock finally comes, he does it with a groan. James feels warm wetness down between his legs, behind his sac, creeping up his crack. Brock pants against his neck, then gets up and gives the nipple clamps another painful yank. Then he starts jerking James off again, at the pace he likes, slowing down whenever James gets close. He keeps him on the edge like that for a while, then just doesn’t slow down. James is wound up enough that it’s almost too much stimulation, and he tries to squirm and roll his hips, but he’s not going anywhere. When he comes, it’s incredible.

James floats there for a while, hazy and soft. He can be what Brock wants, he can do what Brock wants him for, and it’s perfect. Bit by bit, he fades back in. There’s water running somewhere, and his nipples are throbbing. He wonders if they’ll have bruises. That would probably be bad, but he’s not gonna pretend it wouldn’t be kinda hot, too.

The running water sounds are gone, but now Brock’s on the bed beside him, wiping him down with a wet towel. He made it warm. James thinks he’s gonna cry, because Brock made him feel so good and now he’s cleaning him off and saying something low and comforting that James can’t really follow, and he made sure the towel would be warm. He starts shaking, and Brock runs his hands down James’ sides until he goes still.

“There you go,” he’s saying. There’s a flare of pain as he pulls off the nipple clamps one after the other. He rubs at the sore spots as James’ blood rushes back in. “There’s my guy.”

“Hey,” James says, smiling up at him.

Brock leans down and kisses him. James wiggles his toes. Then Brock gets up, and James waits for him to start undoing the ropes, but i he gets off the bed and heads across the hall to the bathroom first.

James hears him pissing, then the toilet flush, and he waits for him to come back and untie him.

“Babe?” James calls.

Brock’s head pops out of the doorway. “Yeah?”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Brock clucks his tongue. “Nope,” he says, popping the P, and James frowns.

“I… come on,” James says. He shifts around, in case Brock somehow hasn’t noticed the ropes. He’s starting to get a bit nervous.

“Just hang on a sec,” Brock says, and disappears again. The bathroom door closes. James stares out at the hall outside their room. Maybe Brock’s not done with the scene? But he doesn’t usually take long breaks like this… it doesn’t feel like that’s what’s happening. But James’ brain can’t piece together an alternative.

When Brock comes back, James can smell toothpaste and that anti-wrinkle cream he only remembers to use once or twice a week. He pulls on boxers and a pajama t-shirt. The lights go off, and Brock flicks on the bedside lamp. When he climbs into bed and starts pulling the covers back over them both, enough’s enough.

James blurts out, “Brock, are you gonna untie me?”

He’s waiting for Brock to laugh it off, say it was a dumb bad joke, and go for the ropes. But he just sits there, sighs, and says, “Listen, James,” and James’ stomach sinks.

“You really fucked up the other day,” Brock continues, completely serious. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I…” James is stunned. “I said I was sorry.”

“I know. But you gotta remember you can’t just wander off places and not tell me where you’re going. It’s not safe.”

James stares. “So,” Brock continues, “you’re not gonna go anywhere. And you’re gonna stay here, like this, not going anywhere, till it sticks.”

James feels numb with shock, and then, abruptly, like he’s gonna throw up. Brock pulls the covers over him to the armpit, and James can’t move. The ropes aren’t squeezing, but he can feel them there, holding him in place. He’s stretched out on his back. He can’t even turn on his side without dislocating his fucking shoulder and—

He can’t panic. 

It’s hot under the covers and he can’t move and he wants to scream but instead he breathes in and out. He has to breathe. This is crazy. Brock’s going to see that it’s crazy if he can just stay calm and they can talk this out. 

“Baby,” he says, and licks his lips. Calm. His heart’s hammering. “You can’t just keep me tied up.”

“Yeah, I can,” Brock says. 

“For – how long?”

“Hey, calm down.” James feels a flash of anger. He’d like to see Brock try and stay fucking calm in this situation. But he tamps it down. He’s gotta. Easy. Calm. “I’m just making my point,” Brock sounds so normal and steady. Like he’s talking about an oil change or groceries or some shit. “I’ll untie you tomorrow.”

James snaps. “Are you fucking crazy?!” he yells. “You can’t— Fuck! Let me go!” So much for calm. He knows he’s not getting out of this by himself, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. He kicks out, tries to roll, pulls down on his arm until it feels like he’s gonna snap something. And Brock just watches him get nowhere.

“I’m not cutting off any circulation,” he says, and fuck him for sounding so level about this, as if he’s not acting like a psychopath. “You’re in a comfortable position, aren’t you? There’s nothing over your face or anything. You’re not in any danger. You’ll be fine. I’m not hurting you. You’re only hurting yourself, pulling and freaking out like this.”

“Let me go!” James shouts again. How is this happening? “Help!” he tries. He’s got no idea who he’s shouting to. “Help!”

Brock rolls his eyes and James just wants to fucking kill him. “What’s the plan here?” he says, like the whole thing is just kinda annoying.

He really pulls this time, tries to wriggle out, but he can’t. All he gets is a groan from the metal bedframe. He’d always assumed he wouldn’t be able to get out of the knots Brock puts him in, but he’s never actually tried this hard. His stomach’s clenching. He’s starting to sweat.

He screams at Brock, telling him he’s a crazy motherfucker, a piece of shit, should be locked up. Saying he’s gonna beat the shit out of him, break his jaw. And right now, he really means it, too.

Brock grips his hair.

“Stop screaming,” he says. “Someone’ll hear you and call the cops. And if you embarrass me in front of the people I work with again, you’re really not gonna like what happens.”

James stops screaming. His eyes start prickling, getting hot. This is fucking humiliating. How could Brock do this?

His breaths sound ragged and they’re coming in too fast. “Please. I’m sorry. Please let me go.”

Brock sneers. “Jesus Christ, I haven’t kidnapped you or anything. You’re in our bedroom. Calm down. ‘Let me go’. The fucking dramatics.”

“Brock…”

“Hey,” Brock pets James’ hair, then switches his grip to James’ chin. He jerks James’ head to the side so he can’t look away. “This is happening. This,” he repeats, “is happening. If you keep screaming about it, I’m gonna gag you, too. And maybe it won’t just be for tonight.” All James can do is stare at him. This can’t be happening. “Tell me you understand.”

“Brock,” James’ voice cracks. “You’re scaring me.”

Brock snorts. “What are you scared of? You’ve been tied up before.”

James’ vision has gone blurry with tears. What’s Brock gonna do to him while he’s like this, he thinks with an unpleasant jolt. “I—"

“This is happening,” Brock says again. “Understand?”

James doesn’t know what to do. He wants this shit off as soon as possible. Knowing Brock, the best way to get that is just to go along with it. Stay quiet, wait for it to be over.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. Brock nods. 

“Good,” he says. “Good night.” He puts out the bedside light. James doesn’t answer.

He hears Brock stirring for a while, settling into bed. Feels him shifting beside him. The whole time he’s still half-expecting Brock to say he’s kidding or he’s changed his mind or something and untie him. But then he hears the little sigh and the change in his breath that means he’s fallen asleep. And then nothing.

James’ stomach sinks. He feels sick all over again.

He tries to stay still. Just focus on his breathing, matching it to Brock’s breaths next to him. It doesn’t work. His heart’s pounding, he can’t breathe, he feels like he can’t get enough air. It’s like when he woke up after Sokovia, in that hospital bed, casts and all kinds of metal crap all over his body keeping him from moving. Except then, when he started freaking the fuck out, from the claustrophobia or because he made the mistake of looking over at the stump where his arm used to be, the doctors would just give him drugs and knock him out.

No such luck tonight. He’s sweating a little, the sheets underneath him starting to get damp. All he wants to do is get out and run, and he can’t, and he has to keep still or else Brock’s gonna wake up and who the fuck knows what’ll happen. He just can’t. 

How did this happen?

It’s no use fighting the ropes, but that doesn’t stop James from twisting his wrist back and forth, looking for something to give. Even just the shifting pressure helps, the raw feeling his skin gets after a while of rope rubbing across it. Something to focus on that isn’t this horrible…this. It helps him get his shit together a little. 

Was Brock planning to do this the whole day? All the last few days, since he picked him up from jail? Or did he just look at James after they’d finished playing around and think, yeah, this works better? This way he’s not gonna be a problem anymore. It’s fucked either way, but James doesn’t know which one is worse. What gave Brock the idea that any of this was okay?

He doesn’t like the answer that floats up in the dark, but it’s there now. He’s thought it, now. It’s not like Brock had to force him onto the bed, or into getting tied up in the first place. Fuck, half the time he doesn’t even have to convince him. It’s James, offering. It’s James, asking for it. Begging for it. 

How did he let this happen?

He starts thinking, staring up at the ceiling, that maybe he is being dramatic, like Brock said. He feels pretty exposed, but that’s dumb. He’s just in his bedroom, at night. It’s only Brock next to him, and he’s seen him naked more times than James can count. There’s no reason to feel like that. He’s not in pain. His back’s on the mattress pad thing, and his arm and legs aren’t uncomfortably stretched out or anything. If he doesn’t move, he can’t even feel the ropes. His wrist hurts a little now, but that’s his own fucking fault. He’s not even cold, under the blanket. Maybe this isn’t that big a deal. It’s not that big a stretch from what they already do. James dozes off after they have sex sometimes, and he’s not always awake by the time Brock finishes untying him.

Except that’s all bullshit. And James knows it’s all bullshit, and he can’t get himself to believe it isn’t and that this is fine. It isn’t fine! How could Brock do this to him?

If Brock unties—

When Brock unties him tomorrow, what is he even supposed to say? It’s one thing to have a fight where they’re both yelling at each other, pushing each other around and shit, or even to spend days or weeks on edge in case Brock flips. But this isn’t a fight, and Brock’s not out of control. James feels like a little kid who’s been grounded, except he’s a grown fucking man tied naked to his bed by his boyfriend and in the morning Brock’s gonna sit there and look at him and James’ gonna have to say something.

Sorry?

Please?

If he sounds too desperate, is Brock going to laugh at him? James can picture it, and it’s awful. It makes him wanna hide, except he can’t. He doesn’t want to see how Brock’s gonna look at him, doesn’t want to know how he looks right now. Brock just set him up how he wanted him, got off, and left him there. And that’s not what this is about but James can’t get over how shit that makes him feel. 

He knows he’s gonna say whatever Brock wants him to say and do whatever Brock wants him to do to get out of this, and it sits heavy in his gut. His throat feels tight. This is insane. This whole thing is insane. He’s so angry about it, and at the same time he keeps thinking: If this isn’t off-limits to Brock, what else isn’t? Is anything? His eyes get blurry and hot, and he blinks it down. He’s going in circles. Brock shifts a little in his sleep, and James turns his head to look at him. He has to crane his neck a bit to see over his own arm, but Brock’s doing that thing where he half-buries his face in the pillow, smushing his nose. James just watches him for a bit. 

Somehow, he falls asleep.

He wakes up once in the middle of the night, having to piss. It’s pitch black, and he instinctively tries to get up before realizing he can’t. And then he’s so angry that he’s fully awake in an instant. His face burns. He clenches his hand into a fist and almost starts screaming again, before he gets it together. It’s not worth it. If he just goes back to sleep, the night will be over soon. He doesn’t know how long he stays awake that time, five minutes or thirty, but when he wakes up properly, it’s light out.

The bed’s empty. Across the hall, the tap’s running and the coffee maker is going in the kitchen. It beeps, and the bathroom door creaks open. James hears Brock hurry over and throws his head back on the pillow. He doesn’t want to see him. The blankets are still over his legs and most of his chest, but his shoulders feel cold. It’s another few minutes that feel like hours before the floor creaks and he knows Brock’s standing in the doorway. 

They make eye contact, and James has no fucking clue what to say or do. Not that he can do much. A second later, Brock walks towards him.

“Morning,” he says, going for the knots on the headboard. James doesn’t answer. He can’t look at him.

“I need to piss,” he says eventually.

Brock nods. “Yeah, one sec.” After a moment, the ropes holding James’ arm to the headboard go loose and Brock turns around to untie his legs. He’s in his slacks and an undershirt, and his hair’s wet – he must have showered. James doesn’t sit up yet. He rolls his shoulder. It’s a bit stiff but nothing hurts. Brock finishes untying him and pulls the ropes off. Loops of braided indents are there around his ankles. Brock folds the ropes methodically, running them over his palm and around his elbow, the way he always does. It’s weird.

James tries not to think as he gets up and out of bed. He’s naked, which shouldn’t be a big deal, but he doesn’t want to know whether or not Brock’s looking at him as he goes to the bathroom. The tiles are cold under his feet and he’s not sure if he’s supposed to close the door. He does, after a beat, but doesn’t lock it. 

After he’s done, he listens at the door for a while. He’s pretty sure Brock’s not waiting there but he doesn’t head back to the bedroom until he hears the cutlery drawer in the kitchen jangle. He stands in front of the bed, looking at it, holding a hoodie and debating whether to put it on. The ropes are gone, and the marks on his wrist and ankles are already starting to fade. Brock made the bed. It’s like nothing even happened. 

When he finally goes to the kitchen, in a t-shirt and hoodie over it, Brock’s still there, eating and packing up his lunch.

“You want some coffee?”

“Sure,” James says on automatic, and sits down. He doesn’t know how to act. “Brock,” he says after Brock’s handed him a cup. “What was that? Why’d you do that?”

Brock’s chewing on a bagel. “Do what?” he says.

James stares at him. “You tied me up,” he says, and it sounds so dumb when he says it out loud like that.

“I tie you up all the time, babe,” Brock says.

James feels like he’s going insane. “You know what I mean. You left me like that, overnight.”

“Yeah,” Brock says. He sounds like they’re just talking about the fucking weather or something. “We talked about it last night. You don’t remember?”

“Yeah, I remember,” James snaps, then stops himself. He takes a sip of coffee. It’s black, lots of sugar, just how he likes it. “And – now what?”

“What do you mean, now what?” Brock half-laughs. “Nothing. I gotta go to work.”

“You’re not mad anymore?”

“Nah,” Brock says, and smiles. “We’re okay.”

He should be relieved, hearing that. That was what he wanted. That should be enough. It’s not, though. James takes another sip.

“You… can’t just do that,” James says, and he doesn’t know how else to say it. Brock looks up at him, surprised. Like he just expected James to drop it and keep his head down. Maybe he should? Brock’s said they’re fine, and he wants to keep it that way, except… Except James is not fine. Last night was a new kind of horrible that he needs to never happen again. He looks down at the counter and keeps talking. “I know I fucked up but… it’s not… okay,” he finishes, lamely.

“What’s not okay?” Brock says. 

“I… last night—”

“What about last night? You slept all night in your own bed, with me beside you. Like every other night. Slept through my alarm and everything.”

“I… you….” Why is this so hard to say? “I thought we were having sex, and you decided to leave me tied up through the night to… to teach me a lesson? What is that? That—”

Brock reaches across the island and puts his hand over James’ and James freezes. “Does anything hurt?”

“What?”

“Does anything hurt?” Brock repeats, slow and clear. “Anything sore?”

His nipples, a little, from the clamps, but James is pretty sure that’s not what Brock means. “No,” he says, “but—”

“Good,” Brock smiles. “So, we had a fun night, nothing hurts, and I know when I finish work tonight you’ll be waiting at home.”

James clenches his teeth and grips the hot cup. “I’m not okay with what happened last night,” he says, finally. “I need that to not happen again. Please.”

Brock’s hand feels too hot on his. He rubs his thumb in little circles up James’ wrist. “Baby,” he says, and pauses. “You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re stressing yourself out about nothing.” He checks the time. “I gotta head out. Shouldn’t be a late night.” He kisses James and James sits there, feeling like he doesn’t know what the fuck is going on. Brock’s acting like it’s all fine. “We have some ground beef in the freezer. Maybe you could take it out so it’s defrosted for dinner?”

“Sure,” James says blankly as Brock’s getting his shoes on. “What do you want me to make?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Brock says. He reaches for his coat. “I’ll make something. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Brock’s out the door and James is just sitting there, feeling the warmth of the coffee cup in his hand. He doesn’t know what to do.  He just sits there until the coffee’s empty. 

He feels – James doesn’t know what he feels.

Shitty. 

For a second, he thinks about just fucking throwing the mug at the wall and smashing it to pieces. 

His phone dings, and it snaps him out of it a little. He flips it over. It’s Steve, sending along a photo. He and Peggy are dressed up in matching old-timey gangster outfits. Fuck, is it Halloween already? James checks the calendar – it’s the 30th. 

8:32: Bonnie and Clyde :)

Steve has a cardboard cutout tommy gun taped to his oxygen tank, and Peggy’s pretending to blow smoke off of a tiny paper pistol. 

8:35: Nice :) Goimg to a party or somehing?

8:35: Nah, just going to hand out candy for kids in the building tomorrow. This is dress rehearsal

8:36: You and Brock doing anything?

8:36: No

James doesn’t add anything more, and he realizes a few minutes later that that’s weird, and so does Steve.

8:43: Everything ok?

James’ thumb hovers over the keypad. No, it’s actually fucking not. Something in him just kinda cracks open.

8:44: Not really tbh

8:44: Things were shitty last night

8:45: I’m kinda confused about it

8:45: Did he hurt you?

James types out a no and hesitates, thumb hovering over the send icon. Maybe he should be pissed at Steve for jumping to conclusions and asking, as if the only reason he can imagine James having a shitty day is Brock hurting him. The thought doesn’t last that long. He erases the message, starts again.

8:46: He just

8:47: Idk it ws kinda fucked up

8:47: No not really. I’m not hurt

8:48: Is he still there? I’ll be there in a half hour

8:49: NO

8:49: Okay

8:50: Take your coat off and sit down

8:50: Okay fine. What are you gonna do?

8:51: Idk

8:51: What can I do?

8:51: I’m gonna go for a walk

As he types it, James realizes that’s exactly what he needs. Some fresh air. Get out of this fucking apartment. He starts putting things in his coat, his wallet, his phone. He looks outside. It’s been cold enough the past few days that he grabs a beanie.

Should he text Brock?

9:14: Gonna go for a walk.

Brock doesn’t reply – he’s probably still driving, or parking, or something. James turns up the volume on his phone, in case he texts while he’s walking. He still hesitates at the door. This is stupid. He can leave, he’s allowed to leave his fucking apartment. He steps out into the hallway and feels like he’s gonna throw up all over the carpet. His hand is shaking as he sticks the key into the lock, and he nearly drops it when his phone dings.

9:25: K - take a hat, its cold

9:25: Thanks for letting me know :) 

James stares at it. Oh, fuck him. 

That’s it. He turns around, unlocks the apartment, pulls the door open like he’s trying to wrench it off its hinges, and makes a beeline for the bedroom. He’s not sure if he’s more pissed with Brock for still acting like everything’s normal or with himself for waiting for fucking permission to step outside. The box in the closet is still where he left it and he digs through it until he finds the shoebox, throwing his army things behind him without giving a shit where they land. Brock can go fuck himself. 

He shoves the envelope of emergency cash into his pocket, along with his three-day supply of meds, and fills the pockets of his hoodie with socks and underwear. He just wants to have all his shit with him. His hand is shaking as he shoves his army stuff back into the box and hides it away again. His phone dings again and he jumps. He’s not gonna check it. He can’t check it. He closes the closet and walks out, slamming the door. He’s halfway across the lobby before he realizes he’s not sure he locked the apartment, and by then he doesn’t give a fuck. He hopes someone breaks in and robs the place, it’s not like anything in there is his stuff anyway.

James doesn’t know how long he walks for. He’s not going anywhere in particular, taking a bunch of random turns down random streets. He tries to zone out, think about nothing, but his stupid thoughts keep creeping in. He keeps picturing last night, lying there tied up, completely helpless, the total breach of trust. He was so angry. He’s still so fucking angry, he realizes. This is crossing a fucking line. What’s gonna happen next time James fucks something up? Is Brock gonna keep him tied down all week? Chain him up in a closet? Doesn’t he even fucking care what that feels like for James – why are they even together if he doesn’t?

James keeps winding himself up, getting more and more pissed off, and when he looks up he’s gone almost all the way to Borough Park. He startles a little, checks the time. Holy fuck. He’s been walking for longer than he realized. All at once, his legs feel heavy and he zips up his coat the rest of the way as the cold catches up to him. 

He doesn’t wanna go home. The truth of that hits him, and he sits with it for a second before deciding he’s not gonna go home. It’s not that much further to his parents’ place. They won’t be home for a while, but maybe he can hang out until dinner. He’s got a key.

He texts his Ma.

14:07: Hey, ok if I come over? I’m nearby.

14:07: Thinking I could stay for dinner tonight if thats ok

14:08: Let me know if anythng i can pick up

Ma replies a few minutes later.

14:17: Of course! 😍  

14:18: Dad’s asking if you need a ride from anywhere

14:18: Nah I’m ok. I’ll let myself in

14:18: See you soon

14:19: Amazing 😍😍😍

The house is quiet, and the second he steps inside he feels like he can let out a breath. It smells like musty furniture, and like his Ma’s beef stew. He sits down on the couch and throws his head back, closes his eyes. He must doze off for a little bit, because when he checks his phone it’s past 15:00.

15:12: Gonna go to my parents for dinner tonight

15:12: ma texted.

Brock doesn’t reply for a bit, so James heads upstairs to see if there’s a spare toothbrush or anything he can use. In case he wants to brush his teeth after dinner, that’s all. He digs one up in the girls’ bathroom, since Irene still never changes hers. 

He knows he made the right call, coming over, as soon as his parents get home. They’re so happy to see him even though he just saw them like, a couple weeks ago. It brings his mood up from the black cloud it’s been. The deli’s doing good, they got some new deal from their pickles supplier that Ma’s really proud of having negotiated, everyone’s doing great.

“Is Brock gonna come join us?” Dad asks.

“No,” James says quickly. “Just me.”

His parents share a look, but then Dad needs to finish something for work and Ma needs to get dinner on, and just like that nobody says anything else about Brock.

Ruthie bursts through the door and runs into him, squealing “Bucky!”

He lets out a whoof of air when she makes impact, then hugs her tight. “Hey,” he laughs. “Surprise.”

She pulls back, looks up at him with big eyes. “You gonna sleep over?”

“Yeah,” he says before he can think twice about it. Yeah. He doesn’t wanna go home. Fuck that place. He’ll sleep in his old room. 

Dad raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“I mean, if that’s okay?”

“Of course it’s okay, Buck,” Dad says, and narrows his eyes at him. “Just you don’t usually sleep over when you come visit. I was a little surprised, that’s all.”

“Not feeling up to the trip home,” he shrugs, “and wanted to spend some more time with you guys. I missed you,” he says, pulling Ruthie into an affectionate headlock. She squeals a laugh and starts trying to tickle her way free. Dad looks between them for a couple seconds, then seems to let it go.

“We can grab breakfast at the bodega in the morning,” he says.

“Yay!” Ruthie’s finally managed to wriggle out. 

“Yeah?” James hesitates. What if they had plans tonight or something, and now he’s shown up and basically told them he’s staying the night, and now he’s their problem tomorrow, too, and maybe the next couple—

“Sure,” Dad says. “I was gonna walk Ruthie to school, and we could use the company.” 

“Yeah,” James nods. “Great, okay.” Maybe he hasn’t ruined everything by coming over.

Ruthie, barely listening to the exchange, beams up at James. “Did you hear Becca’s got a boyfriend?” she says.

James is pretty sure this is the kid she’s been sleeping with has finally been given a promotion. What was his name? “Oh yeah?” he says. “Is this, uh – Allan?”

“Alvin,” Ruthie corrects. “He plays piano in a jazz band.”

Ruthie fills him in about Alvin, and James is so glad he made the decision to come here. This is what he needed. Irene comes home near the tail end of dinner, eats almost as much as James did but in the span of like forty-five seconds, and asks if he’s staying over.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Is Brock coming?” she asks.

“No,” James says with what he hopes is nonchalance. He shoves some food in his face so no one asks him any follow up questions. “No wrestling today?”

“Wrestling’s in the mornings,” Irene says, “and actually, they’re thinking of starting a half hour earlier now, which is like, oh my god.”

After dinner, James tries to help load the dishwasher but Ma chases him out. He’s out of excuses to avoid checking his phone. There’s a bunch of texts from Brock, which makes his stomach clench.

16:08: Sorry, busy day. Sounds good. Made it to your parents?

17:27: Tell Winnie and George hi for me

18:19: All good?

18:50: James, text me back. I just got home.

19:15: When are you coming home?

19:20: Are you kidding me? Already with this shit?

19:22: Is this about last night? 

James reads them over, feeling more and more nauseous as he does. He’s about to text back, not sure yet if he’s gonna try to defuse, apologize, grovel as per fucking usual, when he realizes he doesn’t wanna do that shit right now. Fuck Brock. How could Brock fucking do that to him. He doesn’t want to be back home, with a man whose texts make him feel like he’s gonna hurl.

It takes him a few long minutes to compose his reply.

19:41: Sorry I didnt text back

19:41: Yes I’m at my parents we had dinner

19:42: The kids say hi

Brock responds immediately.

19:42: Do you need a ride home?

19:44: No.

James isn’t sure what to say next. He should probably be treading a bit more carefully, but he can’t bring himself to. He’s fucking done with Brock’s shit tonight. He’s still so angry. Brock’s typing bubbles appear and disappear a couple of times while James waits. He really has no idea what message is going to pop up. He’s not sure if Brock’s going to scream at him, threaten him, apologize, or something in between. 

19:50: Baby I’ll come pick you up and we can talk more about it tonight.

19:56: I think I’m gonna sleep here tonight

19:56: At your parents place?

19:56: Yeah

Brock’s typing bubbles appear and disappear a few more times. Then the phone rings. Fuck. James almost drops it, and hits the decline. His heart’s pounding.

19:57: ??

19:57: I dont want my parents to hear us fighting

19:57: And if you pick up we’re gonna fight?

James swallows hard. His heart feels like it’s gonna jackhammer out of his fucking chest.

19:58: Yeah

There’s a long pause.

20:04: Okay. Text me in the morning

20:04: I love you

20:05: I love you too

***

“Bucky!” Ma hollers from the bottom of the stairs, while Dad’s arguing something with Uncle Mitch over the phone and Ruthie’s blasting music across the hall and Irene’s playing some kind of video game that makes horrible starburst noises every twenty fucking seconds. James lays back on the twin bed that barely fit him by the end of high school and presses his pillow over his head. It doesn’t help much. “Bucky, honey! I’m making up the grocery list, want anything?”

His head aches. He’s used up his supply of meds as of this morning, so he’s not sure if it’s the fucking TBI, or the stress, or the noise in this house. God, how did he live like this for eighteen years?

“Bucky?” He hears the landing creak, so he gets about a half second of warning before Ma’s opening his bedroom door. She steps around Irene’s rowing machine and weights, and squeezes past the old chest of drawers Dad moved up here last year for file storage. “You want anything from the grocery store?”

“You’re going now?” He peeks out from under the pillow and sees her reaching for the stack of laundry he’s left at the foot of the bed. “Ma, no, I got that—”

“No, no, you sit, hon,” she says, her face going all soft and pitying. “Bad brain day coming on?”

“No, just a headache,” he pulls himself up and reaches to help. 

“Want me to ask the girls to turn it down?”

“No,” James says, because he’s not gonna make his sisters walk on eggshells just because he’s a little princess who likes the noise kept down. “I’m fine.”

“Well, don’t strain yourself.” Ma scoops up the last of the laundry and studies his sheets. “Those look like they need a wash, too, huh?”

“It’s fine.”

“Do you need help changing them? Let me—”

“Ma, please,” James breathes. He’s not gonna yell at his Ma over some fucking bedsheets. “It’s fine.”

“Alright, sweetheart.” She stands there for a beat, tapping her foot. “Oh, gosh, I wanted to ask you something… Well, if it’s important, I’ll— Oh! Groceries?”

“I dunno, nothing—”

“Give it a thought, I’m going tomorrow morning, so just let me know by breakfast.”

“Yeah… okay.” 

Finally, she’s closing the door. “Dinner in a half hour, okay?”

James flops back onto the bed. He loves his parents. But holy fuck.

For the last three days, since he’s been here, he’s wanted nothing more than to bitch about them to Steve. Just to hear that he’s not being an asshole by wanting a bit of space. But Steve’s parents are both dead, so it feels like a dick move to complain to him, and Wanda’s are still technically in a war zone so she’s out, too. Even though she’s been sending him something daily since he told her he’d left his and Brock’s place for a bit.

Steve’s been texting him, too, sending a bunch of encouraging messages when James told him he’d gone to his parents. It’s kind of driving James insane. And it’s not making it easier for him to figure out what he’s actually going to do. From the way Steve sounds in his texts, it’s like James made some huge decision and went and left Brock once and for all, which James had never actually fucking said he was doing. He hadn’t even meant to be away this long. He’d just… 

He hadn’t exactly thought it through, when he’d left.

His phone rings, and the noise is like a lightning strike right into his eyes, so he swipes decline without even looking who it is. He looks at the battery icon. Almost charged all the way. He’d had to get a shitty charger from the bodega when his phone died and he learned that everyone else in his family uses a different type of phone with a cable that doesn’t fit his.

He rolls onto his side and stares at the wall. There’s a photo of him in high school he can see from here, in his football uniform with the rest of the team. He’s grinning at the camera, and the kid in that picture hasn’t had back spasms or phantom limb pain a day in his life. There’s another picture of him and Steve – his arm’s around Steve’s skinny shoulders. Big smile on his face, backpacks at their feet. End of the year. All A’s. Things are only looking up. He rolls to his other side.

Ma’s getting dinner started, by the sound of it, and he feels like a sack of shit just laying here doing nothing. So he pulls himself up and hunts around for a clean sock he can roll over his stump. He saw Dad staring at it the other day.

“Anything I can help with?” he calls, coming downstairs. Ma’s chopping up some peppers while Ruthie’s making faces at a pack of chicken breasts. “Here, I’ll get that,” he grabs the chicken, “and you take something less slimy.”

“Oh my god, thanks!” Ruthie cannot get away from the chicken fast enough. “We’re doing fajitas.”

“Aye aye, Captain.” 

It takes James a few tries to find a cutting board big enough to use one-handed, and get it settled on a damp dish towel. Ma’s probably reorganized the kitchen a half-dozen times since he last cooked anything here. He’s fighting with the packaging when Dad walks in, still red in the face from whatever he and Uncle Mitch were yelling about. 

“How can I help?” he says, rolling up his sleeves. 

“Bucky could use a ha— some help,” Ma freezes for a beat, checking to make sure no one heard her, and everyone pretends they didn’t. “With the chicken.”

“I’m all good,” James says. Now he’s got the package open it’s easy enough to slice it—

“Here, kiddo,” Dad reaches around the stump, so there’s not much James can do to stop him swiping the package. It’s not like he’s gonna body-check his Dad in the fucking kitchen. In the time it took him to slice one chicken breast, Dad’s pulled over the cutting board, grabbed a knife, and carved up two of his own. They’re neater, too. James’ look kind of mangled around the edges like they always do. Dad glances over, and it’s a stupid thing to be embarrassed over, but James can feel his cheeks getting hot. 

“How about you go help Irene set the table?”

Turns out, the only thing he’s good for anymore is pouring water and soda, since Irene’s already done with the table.

Except, he thinks with a weird flare of outrage, he can cut up chicken. He can make dinner. He does it all the fucking time at home. Brock’s a fucking asshole, but he doesn’t swipe the stupid cutting board from under James’ fingers cause it takes him an extra minute. What the fuck.

He can’t stay here, he realizes. Not that he was going to, obviously, he hasn’t moved out of his and Brock’s place or anything, just… yeah, no. Can’t do it. His parents would let him stay here, he’s sure of that. But it’s borderline unbearable already, and he’s had only good brain days since he got here. He can’t wait around for his brain to crap out on him. And it will crap out on him. Sure, it does it less often than when he used to live here, but it still will again. 

He can’t put his Ma in that position again, where she’s the only adult there to handle him until he’s lucid. When she’s gotta just leave him on the floor sometimes cause she’s all of five five and can’t hoist him up. He can’t see his sisters scared of him again. Can’t watch his Dad leave the house over and over.

He’s going to have to go.

Which he was always going to do. But he’s going to do it soon.

“Son,” Dad says, after dinner, as Ma and Ruthie start clearing up. Irene’s already ducked out to see some friends, and oh no. Here it comes. “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on at home?”

James swallows. “Nothing’s going on.”

“You’ve been here for three days. And,” Dad hurries to say, “you can stay as long as you want. Your Ma and I love having you here, you know that, but something’s obviously going on you won’t tell us. Are you and Brock fighting or something?”

James sighs. Dad has a point. It’s not exactly his normal behaviour. “Yeah,” he admits. “We’re kind of fighting.”

“Well, what happened?”

Answering that question is impossible. James doesn’t even know how to lie about what happened. “Nothing,” he says. “It’s dumb – I don’t wanna get into it.”

Dad purses his lips. “You know, I’ve been married for almost thirty years,” he says, “and these things usually get resolved faster if you talk about them instead of running away.” And in those thirty years, James is pretty damn sure Dad never had to deal with something like this. “What do ya say?”

“I’m not running away,” James snaps, even though Dad has a point. “I just need a bit more time. Just a bit.”

Dad takes a deep breath. “You can stay as long as you like,” he repeats. “Just…” he pauses, and suddenly looks so lost that James would almost rather he tell him to get out. Tell him to man up, face his problems head on, and everything else he used to say. “You can stay as long as you need,” is all he says. He takes James’ shoulder and gives it a squeeze, presses their foreheads together for a second.

Now he feels like a piece of shit for wanting to complain about his family. Brock’s parents didn’t even talk to him for like a year after he came out, and his sister won’t let him see her kids. What’s James’ issue? They don’t let him do enough chores? His twelve year old sister plays music too loud? What the fuck is wrong with him?

James goes upstairs after dinner, since no one lets him do the dishes or even load the dishwasher – a task that barely needs two hands, but whatever. He sits on his bed and lets out a breath so big he feels himself deflating. He should start thinking about what he’s doing, exactly. He’s out of meds, and he’s not actually sure he can figure out how to fill his prescriptions without Brock there to help him. He’s not panicking, but the panic is definitely there. 

What’s the plan here? For all that he technically had an emergency box, if he’s being honest about it, it was kind of a shitty box. The money, he’s not gonna blame himself over – he did his best, and over $600 cash was hard enough to save up without Brock noticing. It’s not enough, but it’s the most he can get. But the rest? Three extra days of meds is nothing – he needs more, and not just his daily ones either. The stuff that he takes as needed, or once a week, or… what he needs is a list, Jams realizes. What he takes and when and how much, and maybe a week or two of supply. Just so he’s not pressed for time. His mattress pad would be nice, too, since his back’s already not happy with him. Maybe some earplugs. His phone charger.

The big one’s gonna be his logins and passwords. Wanda’s helped him cancel his shifts the last couple days and check his schedule for tomorrow, but he can’t ask her to call their supervisor every time he needs help and Brock’s… he should be able to keep his own schedule himself. The banking password would be good, too, even if Brock’s just going to change it. At least the account number… something. 

He’s not planning on making this a regular thing or anything. Obviously. It’s just right now he feels like he’s got no real options. Dad didn’t go right out and say it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true: he can’t hide here forever. He’s got to get his meds sorted out, he’s got to figure out how to get to work tomorrow night, he’s… got to figure out where he’s staying. If he’s going home. Or – of course he’s going home. Just – he doesn’t know when. He’s gotta be smart about it.

He hears the door open – it’s probably Irene – and listens for the voices downstairs. He sighs and gets up. He should go say hi, ask her how it’s going, even though he just wants to sit in his room with the lights low for the rest of the evening. He opens the door and then hears:

“Thanks, George, I appreciate it.”

James feels ice run down his spine. 

“Sure, Brock,” he hears his Dad say. 

Very quietly, James closes the bedroom door.

Fuck. He should have been faster. He should have come home already, before Brock went to get him. He’s ignored a couple texts, too, and calls.

Fuck.

Suddenly his pulse is in his throat and hammering a mile a minute. He’s such a fucking idiot. What did he think was gonna happen? Did he think Brock would just wait forever, letting James ignore him? Brock’s gonna take him home. That ship’s fucking sailed. Okay. 

Okay.

He’s got maybe a couple minutes, if Brock didn’t hear him open the door. And since nobody’s charging up the stairs to come get him that seems like a safe bet. James grabs his hoodie and pulls out the envelope of emergency cash – $587 and change, now, after the charger and treating Dad and Ruthie to breakfast – and sticks it between the box spring and the bed frame, as deep as he can reach. If Brock finds that on him, it’ll be a hundred times worse. Next, he grabs the empty prescription bottles and shoves them under some five-year old tax files inside the chest of drawers. Socks and underwear are easy to hide, tossed into a bag of Ruthie’s old clothes in the closet. Still hearing nothing from the stairs, he takes off his shirt and pulls on one of Dad’s that Ma had brought over earlier.

Okay.

One step to the door. Two. Hand on the doorknob. He can hear Brock’s voice from downstairs and he freezes. If he doesn’t go with him—

The laugh that comes out of him is just fucking pitiful. If he doesn’t go with Brock, as if that’s even on the table. As if that’s a choice right now. Brock’s here. He’s come to get James. So where else is he gonna go?

He feels sick to his stomach coming down the stairs.

Brock’s sitting at the table, across from James’ Ma. He’s come straight from work, the collar of his shirt rumpled. His jacket’s off, slung over the back of the chair, the gun in his holster visible from where James looks down the stairs.

Ma’s speaking quietly. She’s nodding, sipping at a mug of tea, and James can’t hear any of it, but he knows with rock solid certainty that Brock’s won her over to his side. Game over.

They both turn when they see James coming down. Brock smiles at him, looking uncertain. James can tell it’s an act – Brock’s gotta be furious.

“I just… came to check up on you,” he says, sounding embarrassed. James swallows.

“I was just gonna come get you,” Ma says apologetically. “Wasn’t sure if you two…”

“Maybe I should go,” Brock says, and stands up. He looks at James. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even mean to come in, I… I know you said you were going to your folks and it’s been a couple days… I should go.”

He doesn’t make any move to go, though.

Dad comes back from the kitchen, takes one look, and looks like he wants to melt into the walls. He says, “We’ll let you two talk. Winnie? Let’s… let’s—” 

“Yep,” Ma says, getting to her feet. “We’ll get out of your hair.”

James watches them head towards the stairs, and takes the last couple steps down to get out of their way. Ma gives him a hopeful smile, and Dad says, “Give us a shout if you need anything, okay?” As if that’s gonna make a fucking difference. 

He tries to beg them to stay with just the way he looks at them, but they don’t catch it. Why would they? He hasn’t told them anything about what actually happened. When they’re gone, James comes down to the foot of the stairs and then just stays there.

“We gonna go?” Brock says in a low voice. 

James swallows. “Are you mad?”

“Am I mad you disappeared for four days?” Brock repeats incredulously. He keeps his voice quiet, though, hissing it.

“I said I was at my paren—”

“Oh, you’re gonna argue about it now?” Brock’s eyes dart to the top of the stairs. “Baby, you can’t just disappear. Let’s go home and talk this out.”

James doesn’t know what to do. His mouth is dry. “I was gonna come home,” he assures him. “I promise. I just… needed time to think.”

“I know,” Brock says, lying. “I believe you. So let’s go home now.”

What is James supposed to do? Scream for help? With one of his little sisters in her room, and another one about to come home any minute? And about what? Brock’s not even doing anything. He’s literally just standing in his parents’ living room, but James feels more trapped now than when he woke up in the drunk tank in an actual cell.

“You’re not mad?” he says vainly. Brock takes a deep breath.

“What do you want me to say, James?” That he’s not gonna hurt him. That Brock will still let him say something, anything, the second they leave this house. That maybe, somehow, they’re still okay. “Are you still mad? You’re the one who ran off.” 

“I…” James is too scared to be mad. He was so pissed even this morning, and he can’t even picture the feeling in his mind anymore. That’s what Sam says at group. Picture the feeling in your mind. It’s not as helpful here as it is there.

What is he even afraid of? Brock isn’t gonna shoot up the Barnes household or beat him up in front of his family or anything. He could just say no, just tell Brock to leave. Stay here.

And then what? How’s he gonna explain it to his parents, if Brock goes and he stays?

Brock shifts his weight, the holster resting against his side. “Let’s go, James,” he says.

James realizes he’s nodding. “Okay, yeah. Can I… my parents?”

“Yeah, of course,” Brock says. “Let’s head up. Got anything you need to grab. Clothes, meds?”

“No,” James says quickly. “I don’t… I didn’t plan on staying or anything.”

Brock says, “Sure,” and follows James upstairs. He stays just a step behind as James gets out some bullshit about how they’re fine, they’re gonna head home and talk this out, thanks for letting him stay so long and sorry for scaring them. He says bye to his parents, hugs Ruthie. Ma says something about how she’s glad they’re working it out. Dad says something similar. James nods blankly through all of it, barely hearing the words. He half-sees his Dad and Brock hug goodbye.

They’re out the front door before Irene’s back, and he’s horribly glad for it. He doesn’t want to see her all excited to catch up with Brock, doesn’t want him close to her, touching her. Brock’s parked across the street. He puts an arm over James’ shoulder as they start crossing. James wonders if his parents are watching them walk away. He could shrug him off. Brock wouldn’t be able to force him into the car or anything. He’s down an arm, sure, but he’s got a couple dozen pounds on Brock. And seventeen years’ advantage. He could keep himself out of this car if he really tried.

Except again. Then what?

“Get in the fucking car,” Brock says when James hesitates a couple feet from the Buick. He’s sweating, his hand slippery when he grabs the door handle, but he gets in. Brock’s own door shuts a second later, and James flinches a little as Brock hits the lock and both doors click shut. He pulls away abruptly while James is still struggling with the seatbelt, making him press back against the seat.

“Baby,” James starts after a minute, and Brock slams on the brakes. James gets thrown forward, face smacking against the dashboard. His vision whites for half a second. He groans, drops of blood starting to fall over his lips.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Brock says. “You left? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“You scared me,” James says hoarsely. He’s scaring him now. He’s eyeing the sidewalks, wondering how difficult it’d be to roll from the moving car. He hasn’t done anything like that since he’d lost his arm. The car’s starting to beep from the seatbelt not being done up.

“What—" Brock’s eyebrows scrunch up, eyes searching. “You’re talking about tying you up?” he says in disbelief. “Jesus Christ, are you serious?” he shouts. The beeping is getting louder. “I was just making a point!”

“Okay, fine, but—”

“You can’t just fuck off! You can’t just— Put your fucking seatbelt on!”

James clips the buckle into place and the beeping stops. In the sudden silence, he can hear his own breathing. They’re coming up to an intersection and the light’s turning yellow. Brock speeds up, nearly running a red. He doesn’t slow down for the next one, either. Somebody’s honking at them and the streets are rushing by. James closes his eyes. His blood’s running hot down his lip.

They get into the parking garage, and James goes to open the door, when Brock snaps, “Wait.”

James turns and looks at him. Brock reaches into the backseat and picks up their gym bag. He rifles around and pulls out a spare shirt that he shoves at James.

“Clean yourself up,” he says.

James wipes his face off as best he can in the sun visor mirror, then strips off his shirt and changes into the one Brock handed him. Brock takes the bloody shirt and folds it up really small. He shoves it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Let’s go.”

James falls into step behind Brock, matching his pace. Left, right, left, right, left, all the way to the elevator doors. He keeps his eyes forward. It’s better than looking around for escape routes they both know he’s not gonna take. Brock marches him into the elevator and the stillness inside feels impossible. If he’s not moving, the only thought in his brain is run. He clenches and unclenches his fist all the way up to their floor, and when the elevator doors slide open and Brock says, “Move,” he’s almost grateful.

He knows it’s stupid but he still hesitates in front of the apartment door. Brock unlocks it, pulls it open, and waits a beat. When James doesn’t step forward, he shoves him between the shoulder blades. James stays where he is. And maybe that’s comfort enough. He’s gonna step inside, he knows it, and as soon as Brock closes that door behind them all hell’s gonna break loose. But James has been here before, they’ve been through this before. He’s made it through. He knows what Brock’s worst looks like and he knows he’s gonna get it. And he knows, he’s got to believe it because he knows, it’s gonna pass. The worst that happens if he doesn’t go inside now? He’s got no fucking clue what that looks like. 

James unclenches his fist, drops his shoulders. He breathes. And he goes inside.

Behind him, he hears Brock lock the door.

Chapter Text

For a half-second – the time it takes Brock to pull his arm back, again, the time it takes James to brace – he thinks about running. Just tackling the fucker and pulling the door open and sprinting down the hall. He could do it. He could—

***

“You’re not taking one fucking step out this door,” Brock tells him. 

Or what, James wants to ask, but the possibilities scare him shitless. 

***

James knows better than to fight back. All it’ll do is drag this out, and it’s been days already. He listens as the contents of his wallet clack onto the kitchen tiles one by one.

“There it is,” Brock says, and a plastic card hits James’ cheek. Kitchen scissors skitter across the counter and stop in front of James. “Cut it up.”

It’s so stupid sometimes, what sets Brock off, what keeps the fight going. James moves slowly, mostly to show Brock that he’s complying as picks up his driver’s license. 

“Brock—”

“Did I say ‘argue with me about it’? Now.”

“But,” James says, and he tries not to sound like he’s arguing. “Isn’t it like, a crime, to fuck with it?” Brock goes for the scissors and James panics and slams his hand over them, gripping them tight. “Okay,” he says quickly. “Okay.”

He opens the scissors, lays them flat on the counter, and places his driver’s license between the blades. His hand is shaking when he tries to cut it. The card falls out, still in one piece.

“I don’t have all day,” Brock says. 

James gets off the chair and sits down on the floor. He tries holding the license between his feet. That time, he gets a cut clean through. 

“Smaller,” Brock orders, and when James manages to get it into quarters, he asks for eighths. 

***

Sleeping on the couch this long is always hell on his back, but the one time Brock caught him on the floor that set him off, and James wasn’t even sure if it was more comfortable or not. So the couch it is. Tylenol and motrin aren’t cutting it, especially given that his entire body is a dark purple mottled bruise. He gets up, wincing and limping to the bathroom. When he pisses in the toilet bowl, it comes out pink with blood.

He doesn’t know what time it is. He isn’t sure if he fell asleep last night or just passed out.

When he looks over at the front door, all his shoes are gone.

***

Brock’s up close. James pushes him away, grabs his face with a hand and jerks his head backwards. He needs him out of his space right now. 

As soon as he does it, he knows it’s a mistake. His heart’s hammering. Pushing Brock off is never a good idea, in the long run. Neither is hitting back or knocking him to the ground. Any of it. Brock staggers back a couple feet, and he stands there for a second, both of them breathing heavily.

James shouldn’t have pushed him off. This time, when Brock comes at him, James keeps his arm at his side. Brock gets in close and throws his knee up. Gets James square in the balls. The pain’s blinding, he feels it shoot up from his groin into his stomach, and goes dizzy with it. His knees hit the floor, hard. It’s a few seconds later that he feels his mouth flood with spit, and just barely manages to drag himself to his feet and run to the sink before he throws up.

***

“—like a goddamn child!” Brock won’t shut up. He’s been on a roll since he got home from work, just dropped on the couch and started running his mouth. James almost wishes he’d just quit and start hitting him again. It’s been more than a week and he still hasn’t let it go.

“Can you imagine if I pulled that shit? Ran away to my mommy and daddy because you got annoyed at me for acting like a fucking idiot? God, and then I had to come get you – it’s embarrassing, James, finding you freeloading off of them like a fucking kid. And what was the plan, huh? Next time your brain fucks off, they’re supposed to drop everything? You mom’s supposed to lift you up the stairs? Throw out her back again? Your dad’s supposed to wipe your ass while you just lie there and drool? Did you even think what could happen if you flipped out while Irene was there? Or Ruthie? And all the while I’m sitting here with my dick in my hand doing nothing because what? You were having a hissy fit? What are people supposed to think of that, huh? Of us? What kind of—”

***

His left eye is swollen shut. James can tell, even before he makes it to the bathroom mirror, that it’s bad. Not hospital-worthy, probably, but his head feels like it’ll explode. He has to lean on the hallway wall to stand up. Brock fucked off somewhere after this latest fight, and James has no clue how long he’s been gone, when he’ll be back, or frankly what day they’re on. He’s starting to think it’s just this, forever. He wants to beat the bathroom door to splinters. He finds the light switch. The skin around his eye looks rotten. Ready to burst.

***

At the third invalid password message, James wants to tear his hair out. After too many invalid attempts, your account will be locked, the screen reminds him. What’s too many? Is he already locked out? That’s the better of a handful of bad explanations for why his work portal isn’t letting him in. He’s tried the password on the sticky note on his laptop, tried it again but all lowercase, and tried the last one he remembers before this one. Maybe he changed it and forgot?

Maybe Brock changed it?

He rolls his wrist for a second, sore from typing. There’s a fading yellowish bruise on his forearm, but the twinging pain that still shoots down into his wrist is staying put for now. It’ll probably go away in a couple more days. If nothing else happens. 

It’s been bad.

He clicks on the little help chatbot icon, and a dialogue window opens up. 

Hi there! I’m Tempy from TempHelp, what can I assist you with today?

Fuck, he hates this thing. But Brock didn’t pay for his phone plan for November either, turns out, so he’s stuck with the chatbot unless Brock decides to let him borrow his phone or something.

My password login sin not working

I’m sorry to hear that! Do you need help with resetting your password?

Yes

Got it! What is your 8-digit employee ID number?

Oh, great. Amazing. More numbers to remember. James picks up his phone to open the email app – he swipes away a bunch of messages from Steve he’s been ignoring – and searches for anything from the temp agency that would have his employee ID on it. Of course, the first thing that comes up is the weird automated email from this morning.

Good evening, Mr. James Barnes, employee ID #32557038

You have missed two of your scheduled shifts (11/3 17:00-01:00 and 11/6 15:00-23:00) without any on-file approved reason for cancellation.

As such, you have been terminated from all existing contracts and your scheduled shifts have been canceled.

Please call TempHelp at the number below if you have any further questions.

Except he doesn’t have a fucking phone plan, so calling them isn’t actually possible. 

James gets up, because he needs a minute not staring at the screen, and heads to the kitchen. His back spasms halfway there, and he needs to lean against the counter to keep going. He walks kinda like a hunchback, has been for the past few days. The couch is not doing him any favours. At least after the first night, he’s got a blanket and a pillow instead of shivering himself awake every other hour on top of the aches.

He gets the coffee maker going and leans almost double over the counter as he waits, trying to catch his breath. His back relaxes, and he stands up mostly-straight. He’s fine. Coffee will help. He rubs his eyes and feels a yawn coming on. Fuck. He presses his hand tightly along that spot on the left side of his ribs that he’s pretty sure is bruised or cracked or something as it comes over him, and feels the lightning there until the yawn passes. It’s been happening every time he coughs, or sneezes, or anything.

If he knew where Brock kept his as-needed pain meds, he’d be downing them like candy right about now. He got them way back when he first got discharged from the hospital, and he was so terrified of being one of those narcotic-addicted vets that he’s only touched maybe ten or fifteen from the original 60-pill prescription in nearly four years, and never used any of the refills. So he’s got a bunch left if he needs them. But he uses them so infrequently that he doesn’t remember where they are. And he’s been too scared to ask Brock.

Behind him, he hears the front door open. Brock doesn’t say anything, so James doesn’t either. He can’t tell, yet, if Brock’s in a mood. Work went late – James doesn’t know why, since Brock hasn’t texted him shit all day. He’s barely texted all week, mostly just to remind James to take his meds. Brock takes off his coat and shoes, and James should have grabbed his laptop, because it’s on the couch and if Brock sits on the couch and wants his space—

James picks at his fingernails. The middle and ring finger ones are still bruised black, and the sharp bloom of pain when he presses them with his thumb helps ground him. He’s staying out of Brock’s way. That’s all he can do.

Brock walks through the living room without looking at him, and heads straight down the hall. James stays in the kitchen until he hears the shower running. Then he peeks into the front hall. Brock’s gym bag is there, by his shoes. Maybe work was normal and fine, and he’s home late because he got a workout in? Is that better?

He goes back to the computer.

Are you still there?

Yes

32557038

Great! One moment, please.

I’m sorry – I am unable to find that employee ID within our system. Are you sure there are no errors in the number you typed? Please check carefully!

32557038

Thank you! One moment, please.

I’m sorry – I am unable to find that employee ID within our system. Are you sure there are no errors in the number you typed? Please check carefully!

James blinks at the screen.

Representative

I’m sorry! There are no human agents available in the online chat help option. Only me! If you’d like to speak to a representative, please call TempHelp employee services. Would you like me to provide you with the phone number?

Yes

It’s the same fucking number the email gave him. James wants to put his fist through the laptop. He shuts his eyes tightly and takes a few deep breaths. The shower’s gone quiet. He hears Brock head into the bedroom. He watches the clock in the bottom corner of his screen. One minute. Two. 

“Baby,” he calls nervously. “Can I please use your phone? I need to call work.”

He waits, the silence dragging on.

“Why?” Brock says finally, and his voice is like an explosion in the tense quiet. James turns around, slowly, to look at him. 

“I can’t log in, and I got this weird email I can’t figure out.”

“Just reset the password if you forgot,” Brock says tersely.

James licks his lips. He keeps his voice even. “I tried that,” he says. “Now the chatbot thing says it doesn’t recognize my employee ID. So I think I have to call them.”

Brock walks over to the computer. He leans over James, and James holds his breath. He can smell Brock’s bodywash. He reads over the conversation with the chatbot, then wordlessly takes James’ phone and looks at the email, double checking the number is typed in right. He frowns.

“Weird,” he says. He scrolls up and reads the whole email. He raises a brow and puts James’ phone back down. “Sounds like you got fired.”

James swallows. There’s a long moment before Brock huffs, disappears into the bedroom, then comes back – phone in hand. He slams it a little bit hard down on the table. James jumps at the noise.

“Thank you,” James says, and types in the number. He presses 0 over and over until it lets him connect to an actual human person, then settles in as the cheery hold music plays into his ear. It didn’t even give him an expected wait time.

“Put it on speaker,” Brock says, so James does and sets the phone down. The music’s annoying for the first fifteen minutes, then it gets really annoying. Every few minutes, there’s a click and James jumps to the phone thinking someone’s picked up, but it just says Thank you! For holding! And starts the music from the beginning. Brock stops hovering after the first half hour or so and busies himself reheating something for dinner. He pulls open the fridge hard enough for all the jars and bottles in the door to rattle, and all but throws a tupperware onto the counter. The cutlery drawer, too, he nearly pulls out of the shelf. James just sits on the couch, hand over his knees, beside the phone that won’t stop fucking playing its little jingle.

Brock sits on the couch to eat. He puts a leg up on the table. In the kitchen, the percolator’s done, and James wants to get up to pour himself a cup. But Brock’s pressed up right against him, and he doesn’t exactly want to bring over a mug full of hot coffee for Brock to spill, or break, or… something.

Eventually, the line crackles and the hold music dies.

“Hello, this is Rajesh from employee services,” a voice says. There’s a gentle lilt to his accent. “How can I help you today?”

“Hi!” James says, sounding manic. Brock looks at him like he’s a fucking moron. He clears his throat. “I’m an employee, and I got this weird email today that I’m not really sure what it means. And I can’t log in to my employee portal.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Did you attempt to reset your password, sir?” Rajesh asks. Why does everyone assume he hasn’t tried that?

“Yes,” James says. “But the chatbot says it doesn’t recognize my employee ID.”

“One moment, please, sir.”

There’s some typing on the other line, and James is asked to confirm some details – his name, date of birth, employee number, address. Through it all, Brock’s sitting next to him, listening.

Eventually, the voice comes back on, sounding hesitant. “I’m very sorry to be telling you this, sir, but you are not anymore listed as an employee in our records.”

James feels it like a punch to the gut. “Like… I was fired?”

There’s a beat. “Yes, I’m very sorry, sir, yes. You were being fired on November the seventh.”

“Oh,” James says. His stomach’s churning. He’s going to be sick. He can feel Brock beside him, every line of his body as he brings his hand from the plate to his mouth and then back. Every breath. “Does it say why?”

“You were missing a shift, sir, two shifts. Non-attendance.”

James stays silent for a long time. He doesn’t know what to say. His ears are ringing, like a bomb went off. He was scheduled to work the morning after Brock got him from his parents. He remembered that much. He… never canceled it, fuck. Things had started to get bad and he hadn’t shown up. And then there must have been another one. He must be quiet for a while, because Rajesh says, softly: “Is there… anything else I can help you with, sir?”

James swallows. “No,” he says. “Thank you.” And he hangs up the phone.

Without the hold music, it seems too quiet now. Brock drops his plate on the coffee table with a clang and takes his phone back. He’s scrolling through some vintage car forum and all James can do is stare, because he’s just lost his job. 

He doesn’t have a job. 

He hasn’t not had a job since he was sixteen, except for like six months after he got out of the hospital, and now he just… doesn’t. 

Brock looks up eventually and meets James’ eyes. “What’d you expect?” he says. “You fucked off without any consideration for anything. Of course you forgot about work. And I’m not surprised they fired you – it’s a temp agency. You can’t just no-show without anything and expect them to give you a free pass.”

James nods, shell-shocked. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess.” He’d have more time to keep applying for other jobs now, he supposed, since he’s – fuck – unemployed. 

“You can’t just leave without consequences,” Brock says.

***

“It’s your own fucking fault,” Brock shouts, landing a kick into his gut. James had been tensed and braced for it, but it still hurts enough to wind him and make him curl more into himself. His bruised or whatever rib screams. He’s laying on the ground. “I’m sick of looking at you moping around! You didn’t even need that goddamn job! It didn’t even pay anything!”

James tries to crawl away, but he’s too slow. Brock’s hands are on his shoulders, twisting his shirt, and light bursts in above his eye as Brock slams them both against the wall. Brock’s on top of him now, straddling him, and it’s all James can do to cover his head. A punch clips his chin, another gets his ear. James swings for Brock’s torso and hears him grunt with the impact. He tries to buck his hips, knock Brock off balance, and his breath’s knocked out as Brock drops onto his chest. James kicks out, hard, and scrambles away from the wall. He swings out, barely looking where he’s hitting, and Brock yelps.

He rolls off of him, lands on his ass. James gets to his feet.

“Enough!” he shouts.

“You just piss me off!” Brock shouts back. He’s holding his jaw as he gets up and James can see he split his lip. Fucking good. 

“I’m sorry!”

They stand there, panting. Apparently, he’s been ‘mopey’ and had a ‘bad attitude’. Which seems like code for ‘Brock wanted to hit him, so he found a reason to hit him’. And mostly, James let him. But lately he’s really toeing the line between fighting back and just taking it. There’s a fucking limit to how much he’s going to take after the damage he’s already taken the last two weeks.

When is this going to be over already? It’s gotta be soon. Any day now, Brock should be apologizing and they should be getting back to normal. But it feels like every time they’re normal for a couple days, something sets Brock off again. It’s been so fucking long already, James can’t stand it anymore.

“Just… I get it, okay? I’m sorry! I fucked up! It’s been weeks already, what do I have to do? Huh? You want me to end up in the fucking hospital before you can calm down?!”

James punches the wall for emphasis and watches, to his horror, as it caves in. There’s a few matching holes there already.

Brock stares at him, hand still on his jaw. They both just breathe heavily for a while. James is so tired, he kinda wants to cry. His eyes are hot.

Brock swallows. “Just… come to bed,” he says abruptly, and turns on his heel. James watches as he walks off toward the bedroom, then goes inside. He doesn’t know how to feel. He takes a breath, and follows.

Brock’s sitting on the bed, stripping down to his boxers, and he barely looks at James as he tentatively steps inside. He just stands there, one step into the doorway.

“You need some ice?” he asks brusquely. James blinks.

“Uh,” he says. “Yeah.”  His gut is sore, and he’s sure it’s going to bruise there, too. A lot of stuff is sore. He takes his shirt off, and when Brock looks up he kind of stares for a moment. James looks down, suddenly self-conscious. “What?”

Brock looks away. He gets up suddenly, and walks past James. “Get on the bed,” he says. “I’ll get you some.”

James climbs up onto the bed and curls up on his side. Is it over? Just over for tonight? He can’t relax at all, listening for Brock’s footsteps, the sounds of him rummaging in the kitchen. When Brock comes back, he’s holding a couple dish rags with what’s probably ice inside. He hands one to James, who presses it to his gut where Brock had kicked him. Brock takes the other one and holds it to a spot on James’ back, where there must be a bruise forming. He hisses a little at the cold.

Brock settles in behind him, holding the dish rag there, almost spooning.

“Can we not fight anymore tonight?” James asks. His voice is so small. “Please?”

“Yeah,” Brock sighs, and presses his head to the back of James' neck. “Okay.”

***

There’s knocking at the door. James is laying on the floor, trying to breathe. That rib on his left is still killing him. He’d tried some of his stupid physio exercises for his back and shoulders, but he hadn’t taken into account how messed up he still was from the last couple weeks. So now there’s a stabbing pain in his gut and he’s not totally sure he can stand up. There’s a strip of skin along his stomach that looks almost black.

It’s been easing up, the past week or so, though. Nothing’s actually happened in a couple days. Which was why James tried for a workout. 

Turns out that was overly ambitious. It’s… it’s fine. It’s just not a workout kind of day. He did some of the stretches, his back and shoulders will just have to take what they can get. He fumbles around on the floor for his phone and starts scrolling. He’s barely even looking at what he’s doing – he’s tired, and feeling pretty worn down about everything. 

Brock texted earlier this morning, which James had missed. He’d been sweet last night but then left for work without saying anything, so who the fuck knows. The text just says:

10:37: Should be home a bit early today.

James responds with a thumbs up. It’s good he texted something, but it’s fucking impossible to read. Whatever. He’s too tired to try to puzzle out what Brock means. He’ll find out once Brock opens the door and is either tender or starts throwing punches if James looks at him wrong.

He swipes away another six or seven texts from Steve. There’s one from Peggy, too, from a couple hours ago. It’s probably Steve using her phone, since James hasn’t messaged him back in a bit.

The knocking at the door picks up again, louder.  

He should really text Steve back, he thinks, getting up to answer the door. Before the little idiot does something stupid like show up at his—

It’s Steve.

“Bucky!” he’s shouting, in the middle of the hallway, while doing his best to pound down the door. James checks that StarkChat message from Peggy.

9:32: so sorry but I think Steve is headed your way. Tried to calm him down. Pls don’t be mad at him – he loves you and he means well. Hope you’re okay!

James slowly backs away from the door like he’s in a horror movie. Fuck this. He can wait Steve out. He’s not in the mood for whatever this is going to be. Not in the mood for people, even Steve. He can just stay quiet and Steve will assume he’s not home.

“Bucky,” Steve knocks again, rapid-fire. “If you don’t answer, I’m going to call my friend Jacques to come pick your lock so we can do a wellness check.” 

Shit. That’s not a bluff. James met that guy at the wedding. 

“I’m gonna wait twenty minutes,” Steve says. There’s zero hesitation in his voice. 

James opens the door, bewildered. Steve’s standing there, face flushed with cold, holding a beanie in his hand. There’s a scarf around his neck, damp with frost.

James isn’t fast enough to be outraged because as always, Steve beats him to it. He looks him up and down, takes in the fading black eye and the other bruises he’s probably got visible since he’s just wearing sweats and an undershirt, since he didn’t know anyone was coming over, and looks like he’s gonna raise absolute hell.

“Bucky,” he says, “let’s go.” 

“Hello to you too.” James isn’t in the fucking mood – he doesn’t have the energy. He should have put a shirt on. This is humiliating. “Didn’t expect you.”

“Rumlow’s gone,” Steve says, like it’s news. “I checked in the garage, his car’s gone so we’ve got some time—”

“Don’t call him that,” James says on automatic, before the rest of what Steve just said catches up with him. “What? You waited in the garage – what are you, stalking him now or something?”

“No,” Steve huffs. “I waited in the Starbucks across the street, and when I hadn’t seen his car by 10:30 I went to check in the garage.” He tries to side-step James and get into the apartment. He doesn’t succeed, because he’s tiny. “Let’s grab your things and—”

“What the hell, Steve?” James blocks his way.

“—bust you out, c’mon.”

“You’re gonna ‘bust me out’?” James says, incredulous. “Yeah? Bust me out?”

“This isn’t funny,” Steve snaps. He visibly composes himself. “Do you have a go bag or anything?” James doesn’t answer that, he just stares at him. Steve’s undeterred. “No? Ok, no problem. Let’s get your laptop, some clothes, your—”

This idiot thinks he’s Rambo. “Steve, I’m not going anywhere.”

Steve clenches his jaw. “Bucky, I can see he’s been hitting you,” he says, which makes James wanna crawl into a hole somewhere. “Enough’s enough. You can’t stay here with Brock. Look at you,” he says, and gestures at the entire length of James’ body. First of all, ouch. Second of all, now James is wondering if he’s got any neighbors left who didn’t hear I can see he’s been hitting you. Maybe they’re all at work? At least this time Steve’s fucking kids’ lung doctor isn’t here. “Are you going to let me in?”

James doesn’t know what to do, so he steps aside. Steve barrels past him. His eyes immediately go to the living area and – fuck. James’ pillows and blanket are still lying over the couch from a few days ago, looking obviously slept in. There’s a hole in the drywall, too, by the hallway entrance. More than one. He’s pretty sure Steve can see them the second he steps inside. His face burns.

He wasn’t ready for this. He hasn’t cleaned up, hasn’t cleaned himself up, hasn’t put together a story or anything. It’s like Steve just burst in on him naked but instead of apologizing and politely looking away, he just keeps staring straight at him.

“You’re not safe here, Bucky,” Steve declares, which helps James shake out of his embarrassment. He rolls his eyes. 

“Oh, fuck you,” James says, slamming the front door closed. “Do you get that you’re being a huge asshole right now?” 

Steve squares his shoulders. “If that’s what it takes.”

“Jesus…” James is going to kill him. Why does he always have to do everything at an eleven? 

“We need—”

“No, no. You need to shut up for a minute, okay?” To his credit, Steve shuts up. James tries to figure out what the ever-loving fuck this idiot has planned. “Okay. In real small words: what are you doing here?”

“You stopped replying to my texts,” Steve says. “And Becca said you weren’t at your parents’ place anymore—”

“Jesus, I told you I was going home—”

“No, you told me after three days of radio silence that you had gone home. And you still never exactly told me why you left, but I got a pretty good idea.”

And James isn’t touching that conversation with a ten-foot pole. He feels his face going hot again, and he hates that Steve brought that up, like he gets it. He doesn’t have a fucking clue. “So, what, next step is to stalk my boyfriend in the parking garage?”

“Yes,” Steve tells him. He almost makes it sound reasonable, too. Like James is the crazy one. “It’s been over a week with barely one word answers every couple days. I was really worried about you. What else was I supposed to do? Sit back and—"

“Nothing!”

“—do nothing?”

“Yes! Exactly that!”

Steve shakes his head somberly. “Not an option.”

James throws his head back and groans in frustration. “Why are you like this?!”

“I know you love him,” Steve says, instead of anything that makes sense. “And he probably says he does all these things you don’t want because he loves you—"

“Oh, kinda like you? Right now?” James snaps back. “He does things I don’t want – okay, why is it okay for you to show up uninvited at my door and try to make me go even though I don’t want to?”

Steve gets this indignant look that sends James back almost 20 years. He can see, very clearly, the same look on Steve’s face in fourth grade when Mrs. Anderson cancelled recess for the whole class and told Steve it was his fault for horsing around. 

“I’m just trying to get you to do what you already know you should do,” Steve insists. “Come on, Bucky. You told me he hit you—”

“I never said that!”

“—and then you left. What?” Steve takes a second to catch up to what James had said, then scoffs, loudly. He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling. James groans. 

“You have to be fucking kidding—"

“I asked ‘did he hurt you’,” Steve’s reading, “and you said ‘He just. Idk it was kinda fucked up. No not really.’” He looks up at James like he’s caught him in a lie. “What is that, then?”

“Maybe it’s none of your business!”

“So what’s the plan?” Steve snaps. “You’re just gonna wait around for him to hurt you again? You know he will!”

“And I’ll deal with it, okay?”

“Not okay! No,” Steve’s shouting now. “Bucky, you are covered head to toe in bruises. He cut your phone off months ago. This is a pattern, not some one-off outburst! He broke your arm!”

James feels like he’s been knocked to the ground, all the air going out of him. He rushes to deny it, but he can’t make himself say the words. He doesn’t want to think that what’s happening now has anything to do with that time his arm got broken. He doesn’t want to think about that at all.

“Not that a one-off outburst would be okay either,” Steve continues, “but this is…  Do you get that this is abuse and it’s not gonna—”

“So what, Steve?” James snaps. 

“—not gonna stop!”

This fucking guy. “It’s not like I can pack up my life and fuck off, just like that! And you’re not a fucking psychic. You don’t know how things are gonna go with me and Brock, okay?”

“Listen,” Steve says, and James can tell they’re not having a conversation anymore. Steve’s just decided how things are gonna go and is waiting for him to get with the fucking program. What else is new. “All you have to do is pack a bag, okay?”

“Oh, fuck off.” He turns and heads to the kitchen to get a glass of water, because the alternative is punching Steve in his stupid face.

Steve doesn’t take the hint. “Medications, documents, laptop and phone,” he says, following James behind the counter. “Debit and credit cards, any cash you have, clothes for a couple days. Call work, see if you can get a couple days off to get settled.”

James snorts. It’s all so fucking simple, to Steve. He shouldn’t have let him in. He should have just let him yell in the hallway until he tired himself out.

“You have options,” Steve keeps going. “Who does it help when you act like you don’t? Brock? You can come to mine, or go to your parents’. You can—”

“I lost my job,” James blurts. That stops Steve short, for the first time since he showed up at James’ door. “Yeah. First they barely let me work 20 hours a week, and now it’s gone. So yeah. Tons of options, living it up on disability with a brain that craps out every couple days.”

Steve blinks, taking a moment to come back from the throw. “I’m sorry—”

But James is on a fucking roll. “And what would I even tell my parents if I did go, hmm? My boyfriend who pays for everything, manages all my meds, keeps me off the goddamn streets isn’t nice to me 100% of the time, so I’m leaving? I’m their problem now, again? Yeah, I’ve got thirty pounds on him and I could stop him, but I don’t wanna actually try. That’s too hard. Just like everything’s too fucking hard for me. What do I tell my sisters?”

“They’re your family, Buck,” Steve says gently. “You don’t need to justify asking them for help.”

“Easy for you to say!” James shoots at him. He’s yelling. “I used to be normal! They never asked to get stuck with me and all my problems.” It’s like everything inside him’s been carved out and scooped out and he just can’t stop bleeding everywhere. “I was never supposed to be this fucking useless!”

Steve just stares at him for a beat, breathing, then bends down to adjust the flow on his oxygen tank.

James is such a piece of shit.

“I didn’t mean that,” he starts, but Steve cuts him off.

“Bad things happening to you,” he says, quiet but firm, “isn’t an excuse to make bad decisions.”

That one hurts. James picks up his glass of water and takes a long drink before he speaks again. His throat’s thick when he swallows.

“There’s no decision here,” James sighs. “I’m not going.”

“Why not?” Steve sounds pissed, which, fair enough. James doesn’t want to look him in the eye right now. “You already left, you were at your parents’ and—”

“I just visited them for a couple days,” James argues, but his heart’s not in it. 

Steve scoffs. “That’s not what happened. I don’t get why you keep trying to convince yourself that what’s going on with you and Brock is okay, when it’s not. You know it’s not. That’s why you tried to leave. You can keep pretending that’s not what happened, but I’m not buying it.”

“Whatever, man.” James drops onto the couch. He’s so tired. He leans over to the armrest until he’s lying on it, mostly horizontal. 

There’s a long enough silence that James starts to half-hope-half-worry that Steve left. But then the couch sags as Steve sits down beside him. He nudges him a little. “Buck, come on.”

“I can’t.”

“Well, I’m not leaving.”

He’s fucked everything up so much already. “Steve… I can’t do this right now, okay? Just please get out of here,” he says half-heartedly.

“Not without you.”

James doesn’t deserve that. He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry I said that shit. I didn’t mean it.”

“No, Buck, I think you did mean it.” Steve sounds really hurt, which makes James feel awful. He’s got the thickest skin of anyone he knows. It’s not like he thinks Steve is useless, or not normal, or any of that crap, it’s just…  

“I’m sorry,” he says again, because it’s the only thing that seems safe to say. 

Steve’s voice is tight. “Thanks,” he says instead of I forgive you or it’s okay which means James fucked up big time. 

Now James doesn’t want him to leave. He’s suddenly scared what it means for them if he does. “Want some coffee?”

Steve makes him wait a beat. “Tea, if you have some.”

James would make fun of him for that – he only started drinking tea after he started dating Peggy – but the air’s too brittle between them.

“Sure.” He finds one loose Lipton bag somewhere in a cupboard and starts boiling water in the percolator. The first batch comes out a bit brown from coffee stains, so he starts again. While it’s going, he heads to the bedroom to put a shirt on. He doesn’t actually need Steve staring at all his bruises and shit.

The couch is empty when James gets back, and for a horrible second he thinks Steve just left, just like that. Then the toilet flushes. James sags, relieved, and goes to pour that cup of tea. The bathroom tap runs for a while. James makes himself an instant coffee. It’s gonna be his fourth or fifth cup today. He's been getting shit sleep the last few weeks. Being back in bed’s helping, but not enough.

When Steve comes back, he joins James at the kitchen counter. He takes a sip of tea and tries to hide making a face, because he has tea standards now.

“It’s Lipton,” James says.

“Mhm,” Steve takes another sip. Then he sits there, reevaluating his strategy. James cuts him off before he can start in on Plan B.

“How’s school?”

Steve narrows his eyes, like he knows exactly what James is trying to do. “Fine,” he says. For a beat, he leaves James hanging there. Most times, James can get him going about one of his projects or bitching about a prof, but now he’s worried it’s going to be one or two-word answers until they can get back to what Steve really wants to talk about. “Done in December, but graduation-graduation is in June.”

“Ready to be done with it?” James tries to joke.

“Yup. Ready to get a job.” Steve sets down his tea. “Bucky—”

“Steve, come on, don’t,” James pleads. He just wants to go to sleep.

“You’re my best friend.” He sounds a little pissed off about it. James doesn’t know what to say.

“You’re my best friend, too,” he says. 

“So don’t ask me to sit here and drink tea and do nothing.” Steve glares at the mug. “‘Cause that’s bullshit, Buck. And don’t make me watch you do nothing, either.”

“Steve, I’m so tired,” he says, sighing. His phone pings, and James checks it and sighs. 

11:37 Hey baby. How are you feeling?

11:38 Quiet day here. I’ll come over with lunch to check in

11:38 You home?

Of course. He texts back another quick thumbs up, because what else is he supposed to say? “And Brock’s coming home for lunch. You gotta go.”

“What, now?” Steve says, indignant. They probably have half an hour, but James is gonna get nervous waiting that long. He doesn’t need Brock to come home and see Steve here.

“Finish your tea, and then yeah.” Steve opens his mouth to object. “Please?” James adds, and he must sound pretty pathetic because Steve actually hesitates.

“You hear how that sounds, right?” he says, and James… does, yeah.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m really worried about you.”

“I know.”

Steve just looks at him for a while. James is pretty sure his tea is starting to get cold. “If you want me to go,” he says finally, quietly, “then I’ll go.” 

That freaks James out, because since when has that been true? “It’s not like that—”

“But,” Steve cuts in. “I’m not leaving this alone, okay. Brock’s abusing you—”

“He’s not abusing me, Jesus,” James groans. 

Steve stares at him. He throws his arms up, frustrated. “We’re past this already!”

“What are you talking about?!”

“Like five minutes ago! I said: ‘do you get that this is abuse and it’s not gonna stop’, and you didn’t correct me.”

Now James stares. Did he even – who quotes back – he didn’t correct him ’cause they were arguing! “Sorry I don’t nitpick every fucking thing you say! Brock’s not abusing me, I’m not some little girl who can’t take a punch.”

Steve looks furious. “Right, yeah. I get it. You were supposed to be normal—”

“I said I was sorry!”

“—and normal people don’t get abused. That sound about right?”

“Fuck, you’re impossible.”

“What else, you’re gonna tell me again I don’t get it because I’m straight? Even though that didn’t make any sense the first time?”

He’s getting nowhere with Steve. How much time has passed since Brock texted? James checks the time on his phone again, and when he looks up Steve’s obviously noticed him do it. He looks grim. All his sarcasm deflates out of him in a breath.

“Okay, I’ll go,” he says, and downs his tea in a few swallows. “But I’m gonna give you some stuff before I go.”

James immediately goes on edge. “What stuff?”

Steve’s already got his phone out, and a second later James’ StarkChat is pinging. His and Steve’s chat window is suddenly full of links, and it doesn’t look like Steve’s done sending them yet.

“What are these?” James asks, though he has a pretty good idea. He clicks the first one and a pastel-coloured homepage for something called The Lighthouse opens up. There’s a little pink lineart logo of a lighthouse, with the lamp shaped like a heart.

“The first few are domestic violence shelters,” Steve says. He looks up. “Does he look through your phone?” James shakes his head blankly. “Okay. You can stay with me whenever. But there’s a few that aren’t too far if you prefer that. And then here’s a few guides on being safe, leaving safely, and about abusive relationships in general.”

James starts weakly: “I’m not in a—"

“Just look through them,” Steve snaps. “Okay? Just in case. Say you’ll look through them and I’ll go.”

“I… Really?”

Steve is dead serious. “Buck.”

“Okay, yeah. Fine. I’ll take a look.”

“Promise?”

James swallows. “I promise.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, and lets out a deep breath. “Do you still want me to leave?”

What he’s really asking is, do you really not want to come with me? Really? James checks the time.

“Yeah, man. I’m sorry.” Even as he says it, he can see Steve’s whole face closing off. “And I’m sorry again, I was… I was outta line.”

“Yeah,” Steve says sharply. James feels the blow, winces.

“When things calm down here, let’s meet up normally, okay? I’ll find, I dunno, a—” he’s scrambling, “a cheap art show you can drag me around or something. Okay?”

Steve nods. “Sure, Buck.” It’s not over, but it’s over for now. Steve’s got that look, like he’s going to go home and lick his wounds.

He gets his coat on, grabs his hat, puts on his boots, then just stands there in the doorway. James isn’t sure if Steve’s just gonna turn and leave, but he goes in for a goodbye hug, and James leans down with a huge sigh of relief and embraces his skinny shoulders.

“Please text me more,” Steve says, directly into his ear. “I need to know you’re fine. Or I’m showing up again.”

“Okay,” James says. “I will.” He’s starting to get nervous about how long Steve’s been lingering. Brock’s not gonna like a surprise visit from Steve. “See you around?” Hopefully with a bit more warning next time, but still.

“See ya,” Steve says. “Text me tonight, okay? And tell me if the links are helpful. This is just the first few I could vet—” 

“I’ll, yeah.” He needs to leave. He needs to go, now, or Brock’s gonna see him on his way into the garage, or in the lobby, or— 

“Don’t worry, I’m leaving. Just…”

“I’ll text tonight,” James promises. And it’s just barely good enough. Steve nods, turns, and James watches him get into the elevator. When the doors slide closed it’s like a vice around his chest finally snaps open and he can fucking breathe.

This sucks. Steve’s pissed at him – half for being pathetic, which he is, and half for being an asshole, which he also is, apparently – and he can’t even hang out with his friend like a normal person without watching the clock. And he’s sore, but he doesn’t remember when the last time he took a tylenol was and he’s supposed to wait four hours or whatever. James just lays on the ground until Brock comes home, feeling sorry for himself. He shoots up when he hears the door clicking, then watches, sitting, as it swings open. Brock’s stubble is wet, droplets catching the light, and his ears are bright red.

“It’s cold,” he bitches, shoving the door closed behind him, and from the tone of his voice James instantly feels tension go out of his own shoulders. He’s in a decent mood – despite the bitching. He sees James sitting on the floor and holds up some takeout bags. “I got lunch. Nothing’s happening, thought we could eat together at home. Got you extra garlic sauce.”

“Thanks,” James says hoarsely.

Brock narrows his eyes. “You okay?”

James swallows down a lump in his throat. “Bad brain day,” he lies.

“You’re talking pretty normal,” Brock points out, and James should know better than to try to lie to him. Case in point: he’s such an idiot he forgot to clean up the goddamn cup of tea. Literally the one thing he was supposed to do to cover up that Steve was here. Brock spots it immediately, the little string with the Lipton tag dangling out of it. “Steve was here?” he asks. At least he sounds more confused than angry.

“Yeah.” Not like lying will help, at this point. “He came by for a bit.”

“What’d he want?” Brock’s acting like he’s busy with the knot on the takeout bag.

“Just came to hang out.”

Brock frowns. He walks over to the couch, picks up the mug, and carries it over to the sink. James flinches a little when he hears it clink down on the metal.

“Did you invite him over?”

“No,” James says quickly. He takes a breath. “He just showed up.”

“He just showed up uninvited?”

James shrugs. “You know Steve.”

Brock finally undoes the knot, and James takes his cue to get up and get forks. He hands one to Brock, who takes it and starts eating. It’s kebab, from the Middle Eastern place near Brock’s work that gives them all huge discounts since they helped the owner out once. Brock chews thoughtfully.

“Everything okay? He’s not sick again or anything?”

“No, he’s fine. Nothing new.” James watches for some cue to what mood Brock’s actually in, now. He pops a forkful into his own mouth. “Quiet day?”

“Waiting on a bunch of lab results for one file,” Brock says, between bites. “And this other one the judge froze our investigation on, so until lawyers hash it out I’m legally mandated to sit on my ass about it. Everything else is pretty slow.”

He doesn’t sound annoyed or anything. This is basically small talk. James can do small talk. “Nice.” James can usually do small talk. “Sounds chill.”

For an awkward beat they just chew kebab beside each other.

“What’ve you been up to?” Brock asks. Then, just as casually, “How’s your back?”

“Fine,” James says quickly. “Not that bad. Did some physio. Otherwise, not much of anything, really.”

Brock chews for a few seconds. “Except Steve,” he says.

“Hmm?”

“Except for Steve coming over,” he points out. “Uninvited.”

“Right,” James says. “Yeah, also hung out with Steve.”

There’s a quiet moment. James can barely taste the garlic sauce on his tongue.

“He just wanted to hang out?” Brock says, again.

“He…” James swallows. That tension’s starting to creep back into his shoulders. “He was worried about me. I hadn’t been texting him back.”

“Okay?”

Brock’s fishing for something, some reason to get pissed off, and James doesn’t have the fucking energy to figure out what he wants or doesn’t want to hear. “You don’t believe me?”

“What did Steve want?”

James sighs. The idea of actually putting it all into words makes him want to melt into the floor. He knows it would be better if he did – he can make it sound less bad than it actually was, spin it so Steve’s just being his usual crazy self. But he doesn’t have the strength for it. And some part of him wants to be just a bit petty. He opens up his StarkChat with Steve, with the long, long, list of abuse hotlines and shelters and ten easy tips to get away, and hands it over to Brock. “Here.”

“What are these?” Brock looks lost. He clicks on The Lighthouse, same as James did, and watching him stare at that stupid pink stencil almost makes him burst out laughing. His eyes get really wide and confused the more he scrolls through. He looks back up at James. “These are DV shelters,” he says slowly.

“Yeah,” James says, and holds out his hand for his phone back. Brock passes it to him. He’s waiting for James to say more, but he doesn’t have it in him.

“What the fuck?”

“Yeah,” James repeats. “Steve was telling me to leave you.”

Brock looks like James hit him with a car. “To a fucking women’s shelter?!”

Now, James does laugh. It’s the wrong thing to do. Brock looks genuinely upset and it’s not like this is a funny fucking situation, but holy shit what else is he supposed to do? 

“He was worried about me,” James says again, because he can’t think of anything else.

Brock’s eyes are really wide. “Steve thinks… what, I’m – what exactly does Steve think?”

James shrugs. “I told him it was none of his business.”

“None of his business?” Brock’s voice goes up so high he sounds like a cartoon. “Did you tell him he’s a fucking nutcase?”

“You know Steve. He knows he’s a nutcase.”

“Can you take this seriously?” Brock snaps. “What did you tell Steve to give him the idea—”

James sputters. “What did I tell him? Dude, I opened the fucking door! Look at me!”

“I—” Brock stands up, actually gets up from the table. For some reason, that gives James the push to keep going. There’s something viciously enjoyable about seeing Brock so out of his depth.

“He came over to try to get me to leave you, okay?” James explodes. “He came over to rescue me! From you!” To ‘bust him out’, which remains fucking hilarious. 

“He thinks you’re some kind of battered woman, is that it? ’Cause you’re a fag?”

This guy and the chip on his fucking shoulder. “Holy shit,” James groans. “It’s not cause I’m a ‘fag’.” James fucking hates it when Brock calls either of them that, it makes him sound a thousand years old. “He thinks I need to go to the lighthouse or whatever cause you cut off my phone plan and beat the shit out of me!” Once again, he gestures up and down the length of his body. “Steve generally doesn’t like it when people kick me in the fucking gut!”

Brock opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. He looks like one of those deep-sea fish, between that and the way his eyes are popping out of his head. 

“So is that what you think? I’m abusive?”

“No, babe, you’re the world’s #1 boyfriend, you should get a fucking award.” James eats another huge mouthful of kebab. He hates every single person in his life, from Brock to Steve to his parents, they can all go fuck themselves and leave him alone for a couple of days. Brock can break another rib for all he cares, he can’t tiptoe today. Steve took all the strength out of him. Plus, he probably deserves it for the shit he said to Steve.

“What, and you’re supposed to be some kind of prize?” Brock snaps. 

“You know what, I just spent like half an hour defending you to Steve. I don’t have the energy for this right now.”

“Then why’d you bring it up?”

“I brought it up?” James throws his fork into the takeout box. “You kept bitching about ‘why was Steve here’ and shit, you decided to come home for lunch. I just wanted to sit on the fucking floor all day. I tried to not talk about it, but you wouldn’t let me!”

Brock sits back down. When James looks up, his eyes are shining, and that puts James on red alert. He can count like three times since he’s met him that he’s seen Brock almost-cry.

“Brock—”

“Do you think that’s what’s happening here?” Brock sounds choked.

“What?”

“That this is… that when we argue, it’s abuse?”

“I don’t know,” James hears himself admit. Brock reels back like James slapped him.

“I’ve been to calls like that,” Brock says passionately. “Some of the worst shit I’ve seen were the 10-52s – the fucked up shit those guys did? To their wives, girlfriends, whatever. Their kids, Jesus. It’s been a decade and I won’t ever forget it – there was this one lady, half her face was purple when I got there. That asshole nearly took out her eye, she was holding it in place while I took her statement. She must have been, what, 100 pounds? 110? One of that fat fuck’s arms probably weighed more.”

James just sits there, quiet, because what’s he supposed to say? What’s he supposed to think?

“Steve thinks I’m like those guys?” Brock continues. “You think I’m like those guys? I locked those pieces of shit up myself.”

“I know,” James says. Brock’s staring at him, looking desperate, and he still has no clue what’s the right thing to say.

“I broke down the door once, and this poor lady was in there half-dead and naked – the asshole wouldn’t even let her wear clothes in the house. She was five foot nothing, and he said he’d kill her if she stepped outside – and he almost did! Me? Like those guys?!”

“What do you want to hear?” James says weakly. Because the truth is, no, he doesn’t think Brock’s like those guys. 

“I want you to tell me if you really think I’m hurting you,” Brock pleads. That’s fucking rich.

“No you don’t!” James half-laughs, half-shouts.

“I…” Brock digs his knuckles into his eyes. “I love you. I don’t want… I love you, okay?” he snarls.

“Yeah,” James sighs. “I love you, too. Can I have, like, one day where I can relax?”

Abruptly, Brock stands up. He’s not actually crying, but there’s wetness all around his eyes from where he rubbed his face and smeared the tears around. “I’m gonna go back to work,” he says. “Do you want me to come home tonight?”

What kind of fucking question is that? Where else would he go? “No, go park under a bridge and sleep in the car,” James deadpans. The fact that Brock looks at him like he’s not sure if he’s serious hurts. “Babe. What are you talking about. This is your apartment. Obviously come home tonight.”

“Sure. Yeah.” Brock pulls out his phone, but it’s clear he’s just scrolling to have something to do. “Right. I’ll see you.”

He heads to the door, and James stands up to follow him. “Hey,” he says, as Brock’s pulling on his shoes. “Let’s not talk about this tonight, okay? I just… can I – can we just have a normal night?”

Brock jerks his shoelaces like he wants to throttle them. He takes a deep breath then, and looks up at James. “Text Steve more,” he says abruptly. “So he doesn’t worry about whatever the fuck and show up at our place.”

“I will,” James says defeatedly. What was he expecting? “See you tonight. I’ll figure something out for dinner.”

Brock nods, mumbles some kind of reasonable goodbye, and then he’s gone.

James goes back to laying on the floor like the piece of garbage he is, and reads through Steve’s links, since he promised he would.

The Lighthouse’s pink logo stares at him. For women experiencing domestic violence. And then, in smaller font: We are inclusive of LGBTQIA2S+ guests and other gender identities. Yeah, sure.

Safe Harbour shows a flower on a shore. He skims through the links about signs to watch out for and tips for getting out safely, and none of the lists of things to pack include your 10,000 brain meds and your prosthetic arm. All the photos are women and kids looking sad and bruised. James looks more like the background figure in the shadow than the people at the front of the posters.

He closes the links, embarrassed to have ever opened them. 

***

It’s past 02:00, and Brock’s not home. There’s a plate of freezer lasagna on the coffee table that’s cooled down and congealed over. James hasn’t put it in the fridge yet. He’d texted Brock around 18:00, then around 19:00. At 19:23, he’d got back a nothing of a text that just read ‘running late’. Brock hasn’t responded to anything since then. 

James gets into bed, gets out of bed, does that a few times over. He goes back and forth about it, but he calls him through StarkChat – as soon as it starts ringing, he hears the key turn in the lock and hangs up. He gets out of bed and peeks into the doorway.

Brock comes in looking tired and worn out. He shrugs his coat off, leaves it on the rack, shuffles out of his boots. He’s not too quiet about it. He walks to the bedroom, shedding his clothes in a trail on the floor as he goes, then slides into bed naked. 

Tentatively, James climbs in with him. “You okay, baby?” he asks, fitting himself along Brock’s back. His skin is chilled from the outdoors.

Brock shrugs and says something James can’t make out. He curls into James’ front.

“Where were you?” James asks. “I was worried.”

“Stayed at work late,” he mumbles. “Went to a diner. Needed some space.”

James is lying on his right side – he rubs his stump up and down Brock’s arm under the covers. Brock curls in tighter against him.

Just as James is drifting off, he hears Brock’s voice. “Do you regret falling in love with me?”

James’ heart sinks. It takes him a second to answer. “No,” he says, and he mostly means it. “Of course not.”

After a beat, Brock asks, “Do you still love me?” His voice is tight.

The answer to that one is much easier. “You know I do,” James says.

Brock tells him he loves him too. James stays awake for a long while after Brock falls asleep.

***

When James wakes up, it’s because his phone keeps buzzing and chiming. It’s making a noise he hasn’t heard in a while, and it takes his half-asleep fuzzy brain a couple minutes to register that it’s his text sound. Not his StarkChat notification, his actual text sound.

James reaches out and picks up his phone. The text icon, which he hasn’t touched since Brock canceled his plan, has a little red 3 in the corner.

09:07: GabR service message: Welcome back! Your payment of $36.39 was successfully applied on Nov 15.

09:07: GabR service message: Please enjoy our services, with your unlimited USA-wide talk and text plan, with 12GB of monthly high-speed data. You can always add on a temporary or permanent GabR Globe International package in our add-ons options, to enjoy connecting with friends and family across the world.

09:07: GabR service message: Your account is eligible for auto-pay. Your auto-pay payment of $36.39 will charge your card ending in 3414 at 5pm the day before your month-iversary date of Dec 15.  

Well, shit. James sees the 5 bars in the upper right corner that haven’t been there in months now. Brock’s already left for work. James wonders if he’s supposed to text him a thanks. He goes back and forth, and texts – with an actual text.

09:14: Hi

Brock responds immediately.

09:14: Good morning baby

09:14: Had an early meeting so had to leave, but will be back for dinner

09:15: If that’s ok?

09:16: Of course

09:16: Anything special you want me to make?

09:16: Nah, whatever you’re in the mood for. I think there’s some stuff in the freezer

09:17: Ok

09:17: Love you

09:17: I love you too

James sends out a barrage of texts to his parents, his sisters, Wanda, Steve, everyone he can think of, telling them he has a working phone again and can actually receive calls again and stuff. Wanda responds with many multicoloured heart emojis, some of which show up as alien blobs or empty squares on his screen. Apparently Viz got her a new phone, too. 

It had been hard, the past few weeks, to keep up a daily message to her. But somehow, James had done it. Even if it all he could manage was just a gif or something.

Steve’s less pleased about the whole thing. He likes the message, but doesn’t respond. 

It’s actually a miracle how long James has gone without a bad brain day. Feeling encouraged – by that and the phone and everything – James gets out of bed before 10:00. He hasn’t left the apartment in like two weeks. Since they got back from his parents’ house. He considers asking if it’s fine – he’s reasonably confident Brock would say yes. But it’s the first day where it really might be over over, and he doesn’t want to risk it.

There’s chicken in the freezer, and James has one good fridge stir-fry recipe that Brock likes so he shouldn’t need to leave the house to get anything for dinner. Once he gets it thawing in the sink, there’s not much to do. It’s like his brain was waiting for a second of peace to start getting bored. He’s still pretty sore, but he ends up eating some breakfast, doing a quick workout, and going back to sleep, setting his alarm for an hour before Brock should be done work.

It’s not actually the alarm noise that wakes him up, though, but a weird pinging sound coming from his phone. There’s a notification from something called PalAtlas. James clicks on it and a map opens up on his screen, with a glowing blue dot moving down a street. 

BROCK, it reads, has arrived at HOME.

James leaps out of bed and sprints into the kitchen. He doesn’t know what this weird new app is, but if Brock is actually home early he’s kind of fucked. He’s slept basically the whole day away. It’s 16:00 and there’s no food and the apartment’s still kind of a disaster zone from their last fight because neither of them thought to clean up after Steve and the whole… that. Fuck.

He’s at least got a pot of rice cooking and has started fighting an onion when Brock comes through the door. The chicken’s mostly thawed, so he’s put it in some warm water to speed things along.

“Hey,” James calls. “Sorry, lost track of time—”

He’s cut off when Brock gets in his space and kisses him. James is surprised at first, then leans into it. Brock wraps an arm around his waist and kisses him for a long time before pulling back.

“How you feeling?” Brock asks. He’s still holding James close and his voice rumbles nicely and he’s so obviously in a good mood that James just sags against him. It’s over. It’s finally over. “Oh,” Brock chuckles a bit. “Hi there.”

“Hi,” James mumbles into his shoulder.

“You okay?”

It’s stupid, because the first thing that comes to James’ mind is I missed you. Which is insane. Brock’s been here the whole time, it’s not like he’d gone away or anything while he was beating the shit out of James and saying all those horrible things.

But that’s what it feels like.

“Yeah.” James clears his throat. “How about you?”

“Good, good,” Brock says, kissing James’ hair. “A bit hungry,” he adds.

“Shit, sorry.” James pulls back. “Gimme like… thirty minutes?”

“Sure,” Brock shrugs. He ditches his work jacket and starts rolling up his sleeves. “Want some extra hands?”

“No, babe, come on. You go relax—”

“This is relaxing,” Brock says. His voice is light. He starts pulling wilted veggies out of the fridge. “Meditative and shit.”

James snorts. “Three’s better than one,” he allows. 

“Good things come in threes,” Brock says, closing the fridge. “Y’know, stooges. Tricycle wheels…” He looks over at James. “A third thing?”

“Yeah, stick to your day job,” James says, and Brock laughs, and it’s fine. They’re just chopping chicken and veggies and talking about stupid things. It’s how they’re supposed to be. Eventually, the pan’s going with a bunch of different things and it’s starting to smell good.

“Oh,” says James, remembering, “did you install a tracker app or something on my phone? I got this weird notification I’ve never seen before.”

“Mmm,” Brock nods. He’s stirring the pan. “Yeah. When I was doing the new phone plan this morning, I put in PalAtlas for both of us. That way in case I’m ever out late again, you can see where, and I can make sure you don’t get lost again. I think it’s set to notify us when the other one leaves the apartment, but you can turn that off.”

“Oh.” James hadn’t expected that. He runs it over in his head. It doesn’t really change anything, he supposes. It’s not like he doesn’t tell Brock where he’s going, usually. “Okay.” He’ll just turn the notifications silent. He doesn’t need the pinging.

***

They’ve been good for over a week now, and James has quietly been making a lot of improvements to the box of stuff he keeps in the closet under his old military crap. Step one was getting a bag, instead of a box. Steve’s links were all basically useless, but a few of the getaway lists did have some good tips. So: an old gym bag that’s easier to grab than unpacking a box. And then a bunch of stuff he hadn’t had at his parents house: a phone charger, a change of clothes, a spare mattress pad so his back doesn’t get fucked up.

He’s started thinking about it as the just-in-case bag.

James puts in the last thing for today – ear plugs – and hides it all back under his army stuff. He’s been keeping it more to the front of the shelf, not quite so far back as he had before, so he can get to it easier given how often he’s been putting stuff in. It’s not done: he still needs to write down a full list of all his meds, how often he takes them, who prescribes them – and the info for his doctors. He’s gotta write it all down from his pill bottles. And some banking info. Even if Brock’s just gonna change the password, he should still have the account number written down. Maybe the login for the VA portal he never checks, too.

So far the mattress pad had been the hardest thing to stash without Brock noticing. James had been pretty sure they’d kept the old one in the basement storage locker, but it’s not like he could just go down and check since Brock has the key. A cold snap over the weekend had been a good excuse to get their winter stuff up. James had just grabbed the pad too, and smuggled it up under a puffy jacket. 

The rest of it, he’s just pissed at himself that he didn’t think to get organized earlier. Would’ve been nice to have some real options when Brock had shown up at his parents’ place and told him to come home. If he’s honest about it, he’s still pretty pissed with Brock about the whole thing. Now that things have calmed down, most of him just wants to let it go and move on. Enjoy things while it’s good.

But… 

But.

He’s not actually an idiot. It’s good for now. He hopes it’ll stay that way forever, but realistically something’s gonna snap again at some point. All he can do is make sure it’s not gonna be on his end. In practice, that means a lot more trips to the gym this week so he doesn’t rip off Brock’s fucking head. Because none of this was James’ fault. He had messed up by not telling Brock where he was going and letting his brain crap out on him, but everything since then had been Brock. And now that Brock’s gotten his little feelings hurt because Steve called him a bad word, they’re supposed to be fine. Like none of it ever happened. James can see the other guys at the gym side-eyeing him as he tries to exhaust himself, first on the treadmill and then lifting – probably way heavier weights and for way longer than he should be. So what if he fucks up some joint? Unless he wears himself out here, he’ll end up starting another fight when he gets home.

Steve likes to throw labels onto shit, and while James thinks that’s way oversimplifying, he knows Brock has a bit of a pattern. And now that he’s not scared of getting his ass beat at breathing wrong, he’s pissed off he spent two weeks getting his ass beat for breathing wrong.

Also. James still hasn’t gotten an apology for that shit. It feels like Brock was maybe heading that way, but then Hurricane Steve threw them both off their normal trajectories.

When he gets home, James takes a shower and starts looking for his pillboxes. It’s slow going, because Brock’s organizing system makes no fucking sense to him. Every couple minutes he checks where Brock is at on PalAtlas. It’s been pretty helpful – Brock sometimes doesn’t text until he’s halfway home, and this way James can put the meds and the just-in-case bag away as soon as he sees the little blue dot leave the precinct.

Again – he’s not actually an idiot. He knows Brock didn’t install the thing so James could keep an eye on him. But since the option’s there, he might as well use it. 

“Something happen today?” Brock asks that night, after dinner. He’s loading up the dishwasher and James is supposed to be finding them something to watch but he’s just been staring at the laptop screen for the last ten minutes.

“What?” James looks up, and Brock stares at him. He shrugs. “Nah, just… tired.”

“You sure?”

“Am I sure I’m tired?” James snaps.

Brock puts up both his hands. “Hey, I’m just checking in. You’re kind of pissy today, that’s all.”

“I need a ride to the DMV tomorrow,” James says abruptly. 

There’s a beat where they just look at each other. They both know why he needs a ride to the DMV, but neither of them says it.

Finally, Brock nods. “Okay. How late is it open? After work would be fine, I should be done by like 17:00 tomorrow.”

Technically it closes at 19:00, but leaving at 17:00 seems tight. “Can you just drop me off in the morning and I’ll figure it out?”

“Evening would be better,” Brock says. “Or you can just take the subway—”

“I don’t feel up for the subway,” James pushes back, both because it’s true and because it’s Brock’s fucking fault he has to go to the DMV anyway. He was the one that made James chop up his license – he should have to deal with some of the bullshit, too. “Just drop me before work tomorrow.”

Brock’s lips go thin, but all he says is, “Fine.”

“Thanks.” Brock doesn’t look up from the dishes. Well, fine. If he wants to be a little bitch about it, that’s his problem. James is pretty sick of tiptoeing around the fallout of the last two weeks. “Also—”

“What?” Brock snaps.

“Where are my running shoes?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you moved all the shoes around.” All of James’ shoes, specifically. He moved most of them back a few days ago, but his running shoes are nowhere to be found. James still doesn’t know where Brock shoved them. Probably the trunk of his car. “Did you lose my running shoes?”

Brock slams the dishwasher closed and all the plates inside rattle. “Drop it, okay?”

“What, you—”

“I said drop it,” Brock repeats. He doesn’t yell, doesn’t come any closer, but it’s obvious James has pushed too far.

“Hey,” James says, pitching his voice soft. “I picked a movie.” He clicks on whichever action flick is closest to his cursor. “Guaranteed no aliens. Okay?”

Brock sighs, “Okay,” and sits beside him. James sets up the laptop and leans back on the couch, putting his arm around Brock’s shoulders. A couple minutes into the movie, Brock leans in.

It’s pretty boring, but there’s one scene where the actor does such a shit job just holding his rifle that they both burst out laughing. Brock puts a hand on James’ knee and it’s nice. Warm. He gives James’ thigh a little squeeze.

“Can’t believe I’m saying it,” he says, “but we should’ve watched something with aliens. This is shit.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” James promises.

Another twenty or thirty minutes go by, and Brock reaches over and pauses the movie mid-CGI explosion. “Feeling up for some fun?” he asks. Brock’s hand is still rubbing slow circles on the inside of James’ thigh and abruptly, yes, he’s very much feeling up for some fun.

Brock kisses him, his stubble scratching at James’ cheek. He smells a bit like his aftershave, but mostly it just smells like Brock as he pulls James in. He’s missed this. He’s still pissed, but Brock’s hands running down his back, down his chest, pulling off his shirt – that’s as good a distraction as any. He’s still got bruises – he saw them in the mirror this morning, fading and yellowish, but Brock is gentle enough they aren’t hurting at all.

James kisses him back, letting himself be pushed flat against the cool leather of the couch. He mouths down Brock’s jaw and nips at his throat. Brock straddles him, and James can feel him getting hard against his thigh.

“Go to the bedroom,” Brock says, between kisses. “And get our cuff, one of the long ropes, and,” he cuts himself off – there must be a look on James’ face. “What?”

James hesitates. “Baby,” he starts. He runs his hand up and down Brock’s side. “Can we do something without any bondage?”

Brock’s brows shoot up. “Oh,” he says. “But you… still wanna…” he trails off.

“Yeah!” James says. But he’s gotta admit his enthusiasm is flagging a bit at the memory of the night he spent tied to the headboard. “Totally.” Sex would be good, though. It would be a good sign that things between them are officially back to normal. “I just don’t really want to be tied up. Today,” he adds, because Brock’s face goes all pinched.

For a minute, James thinks he’s fucked everything up and that Brock’s gonna be angry again. But then he just leans in, kisses him, and says, “Okay.”

“Okay?” James checks.

Brock nods. “Yeah.” He cradles James’ cheek in his palm.

“Want me to get anything else?”

“You don’t want to be tied up,” Brock says, and shrugs. They go back to kissing, and it’s nice. Then, it’s fine. James keeps waiting for Brock to start something – to take off his clothes, to reach under James’ waistband and start messing around. To order James around. But it’s just kissing on the couch.

Which is fine.

But not exactly what James was getting excited about.

“Do you want to go to the bedroom?” he asks, finally, when it looks like Brock’s not going to do anything.

“Sure,” Brock says. He doesn’t make a move, though, until James starts sitting up. Even then, James finds himself leading the way to the bedroom and kind of hovering by the bed. He’s still waiting for Brock to tell him what to do.

They start making out again and both kind of end up laying sideways on the bed. Is Brock really not gonna move things along? He’s usually pretty impatient. James pulls back and looks at him.

“Do you want to fuck me?” he asks, rubbing Brock’s dick through his pants. He’s most of the way hard, too, which just leaves James more confused about why he’s not doing anything about it.

Brock grins. “Yeah,” he says, and starts pulling off his own clothes. Doesn’t say anything about James’ clothes, though.

James waits, but then Brock’s stripping off his underwear, and he feels pretty dumb about still being mostly dressed. He starts taking off his pants, annoyed about it, and then he’s annoyed that he’s annoyed about it. He’s a grown-ass man. He can take off his own fucking clothes. He can get sex moving. Why does he suddenly feel like this is a problem?

Brock lays there, naked and waiting, while James gets himself undressed. At least he bothers to reach over and get the lube which does make this whole thing feel less like a one-man show. James lies down on his back carefully, mindful of his bruised rib, and pulls Brock over him. At least once he’s on top Brock starts moving a bit. Still, he’s so gentle that it feels more like he’s tickling James than touching him. Even his fingers thrusting into James’ ass feel too soft. It’s not uncomfortable, just kind of boring. Which is not a word James would ever have thought could describe sex with Brock.

Brock’s other hand is sliding up and down James’ cock, and despite everything else, that’s managing to keep him hard. Every so often he leans down to kiss him, or suck on one of James’ nipples. One time he bites down and compared to how everything else feels, it’s amazing. James arches into it and moans, and Brock pulls back right away. He kisses the spot gently. James wants to scream.

James spreads his legs so Brock can get on his knees between them, and angles his hips for Brock to line up. He’d said he didn’t want to be tied up, and he still doesn’t, but he’s in that uncomfortable space between being really wound up and about to flag that he can’t help but fantasize about the pull of the cuff holding his arm in place. Even just Brock’s hand pinning his wrist. Brock’s palm cracking across his cheek.

Brock wipes his fingers on his discarded t-shirt and spreads even more lube on his dick. When he presses into James, it mostly feels wet. He finds a good angle, though, and soon enough he’s found his rhythm and James’ cock is caught between them. The only noises are heavy breathing and the squelch as Brock thrusts in and out. He’s dead quiet, and James tries to imagine some dirty talk but it’s not the same. He closes his eyes, but there’s no sensations to get lost in, nothing overwhelming him. It’s just Brock, pumping in and out and jerking James off.

He keeps going for a while, and the friction is enough to get James close but not quite there. He’s more frustrated than anything else and Brock hasn’t come yet either. Is he even enjoying this?

Brock, dick fully still up James’ ass, props himself up on his elbows to look James in the eyes.

“Babe,” James says. “Is this at all working for you?”

Brock gives a sheepish little laugh. “Not really,” he admits.

“Do you… want to try something else?” James says, which is the closest he really wants to get to taking charge.

Brock sighs and pulls out. “I dunno, you said you didn’t want to be tied up, and you were reading all those DV websites. I don’t know what you want from me, baby.”

James’ boner doesn’t actually deflate like a cartoon with the whistling noise, but it does feel like it. 

“Can we not talk about any of that just now?” James sighs. “Can we just have sex our normal way?” All he wants is for things to be the way they were before he went to his parents. Well, really, before his stupid fucking job interview.

“Really?” Brock lights up.

“All I said was no bondage type stuff,” James says. “I’m still into all the other stuff.”

Brock falters a little. “Well, how am I supposed to know which ‘stuff’ is okay and which isn’t?” he says, and chuckles a bit, like the idea’s insane.

James supposes that’s fair. “You know what,” he says. “Don’t worry about it. Just… come here.” He pulls Brock towards him. “Come here.”

“Oh, you’re giving me orders now?” Brock says, but he does curl in around James. He scratches hard over James’ ribs – on the good side – and James groans.

“Yes,” he moans.

“Yeah?” Brock does it again. “This what you want?”

It is. They start making out again, but now Brock is actually fucking doing something. James gets hard again quickly, and Brock jerks him off a couple times before he slaps the side of his thigh, hard, and says, “Go get your cuff.”

James is already on his feet and heading to the dresser when his brain catches up to him. He’s never tried to get out of the cuff, not really, but he’s reasonably sure he wouldn’t be able to if Brock… if he needed to. Still, he opens the drawer and looks down at the cuff, tucked in beside all the rest of their toys. He wants their sex to be fun, not whatever Brock was doing earlier. He likes being ordered around and he was literally fantasizing about the cuff about fifteen minutes ago. This is what he wanted. But…

He’s hesitating at the open drawer when he feels Brock press against his back. His hands wrap around, feeling over James’ chest, the planes of his stomach. A hand comes down over his cock, lazily stroking him.

“Brock,” James says. It’s hard to think.

“Mmm?” Brock mouths at his neck. It makes him shiver, it feels so good. Part of him wants to push back harder, but he’s still kind of scared to and he knows it would be so easy and good to just stop fighting.

“You have to let me out of it right after we’re done,” James says. He hopes it sounds firm. “Okay?”

“Of course,” Brock says. He sounds so earnest. He kisses James’ shoulder, just where the scarring starts, and James wants to believe him. 

He’s clearly taking too long, though. Brock reaches past him into the drawer and pulls out the cuff. In a practiced move, he wraps the belt portion around James’ hips. It’s muscle memory to slip his hand into the cuff. There’s a spike of alarm when the buckle cinches shut around his wrist.

“Love seeing you in this,” Brock rumbles. His fingers trail around James’ shoulders, play with his nipples. He scratches down James’ back, hard, and it makes him groan. It feels so good, and after a couple minutes James can’t hold a single thought in his head besides good, yes, more.

Brock leads him to the bed and shoves him backward. He doesn’t need to think about anything, he just falls where Brock puts him, moves where he’s told. It’s such a relief not to be able to fuck anything up anymore. He just has to be what Brock wants him to be. It’s so easy, and it feels so good. He’s back on his back, thighs spread roughly apart. Brock takes a moment to mouth at James’ thigh, then bites down so hard it makes him scream. He comes back up and gets between James’ bent knees.

Brock quickly lubes up again and presses into him, pinching a bruise on James’ chest as he does. He lets out a loud groan as he gets fully seated inside, and licks up James’ neck. He keeps his face there as he starts thrusting with his whole body.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he breathes into James’ ear. “I’m gonna fuck you till you cum, then till you,” he pants, “beg me to stop. And keep fucking you until you can’t even fucking talk anymore.”

James is so close. He reaches up to hold Brock, but the cuff keeps him down, and that’s so hot he can’t stand it. 

“I want you,” Brock pants. “Just like this. Falling apart. I want you – in – pieces,”

James doesn’t last long. When he cums, it’s like being electrocuted. He clenches down around Brock, and feels him stutter, breath catching, and finish a second later. He nearly collapses onto James’ chest as he cums. James can feel the aftershocks shuddering through him.

He’s still pleasantly floaty when he feels the cuff come loose around his wrist. Brock’s weight on him disappears for a moment, and James lets out a little whimper. A second later, the belt slips loose and slides out from under his back, and Brock’s hand is back on his chest, soothing. He’s alright. Brock’s right here.

“I’m gonna get us a towel,” Brock says softly. “Okay? Back in a sec.”

James mumbles out something that’s close to a yes. He lays there, comfortable and sated, and absently watches Brock come back with a damp towel and clean him up. He leans down as he does, and kisses him.

“I’ll get some snacks and water,” he says.

“C’mon,” James laughs. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Nah,” Brock says. “I worked you out.” He winks. “Gotta hydrate.”

James snorts, and gets up and follows him, both of them naked, to the kitchen. Or tries to – Brock shooes him away with a smack to the ass and James giggles and goes. “You don’t need to make a whole production of it,” he says, walking away. He goes back to bed, and a couple minutes later Brock comes in with two bottles of water, a bowl of clementines – already peeled and broken up into segments – and one of the protein bars James likes.

They snack in bed, getting crumbs over the covers, and James kisses him with clementine juice on both their lips. He wishes it could be like this all the time.

***

Brock stands back from the freshly plastered wall, hands on his hips, admiring his work. On the couch, James is admiring Brock. He didn’t have to take a day off work to fix and paint the holes they’d left in the walls, and he definitely didn’t have to do it shirtless. But James isn’t going to complain.

“Not sure it’s supposed to be lumpy,” he says, coming up behind Brock and resting his head on a plaster-dusted shoulder. “But, y’know. Good effort.”

“You sand it down after it dries,” Brock says. “Did you sleep through shop class?”

James snorts. “I’m at least a decade too young to have had shop class.”

“You didn’t have shop class?” Brock says, turning to him in outrage. “How did you learn how to—"

“How to what?” James eggs him on. “What critical life skill—"

“How to make a shitty birdhouse!” Brock blurts out. James bursts out laughing. “And get a C!”

“What are you talking about?” James can barely talk, he’s gasping. “We both grew up in New York. The only birds here are pigeons and they’re, like, homeless by definition.”

“Yeah, thanks to you,” Brock says. “You owe your neighborhood pests at least one shitty birdhouse. Them’s the breaks.”

“You’re so goddamn old,” James says. “Did you take home the fake baby, too, that cries and you have to change and stuff?”

“You think my school could afford a fake crying baby? We had to do our own crying.”

James is pretty sure Brock’s fucking with him, but it’s funny so he doesn’t press further. “I think you’re overdressed for home repair,” he suggests, leering at his bare chest.

Brock turns to him with a grin. “Yeah? That what you think?”

“Mhm.” James slides his fingers under Brock’s belt and pulls him close. “How long does plaster take to dry?”

“Uh,” Brock’s distracted, hands sliding under James’ shirt. “A couple hours, plus a few days after that to—”

James’ phone chimes, and he lets go of Brock to check it. “Hey!” he protests.

“Could be an interview, hold on.”

It’s Becca. She’s sent a selfie. She and Alvin are leaning against each other looking like a pair of racoons with huge bags under their eyes. There’s a super-sized coffee on the table beside her and every other surface visible is covered in open textbooks and notes. She’s making a little Gen Z heart with her fingers.

14:30: Finals hell… send help

“What’s she holding?” Brock looks over his shoulder.

“It’s how they do heart shapes now,” James says. “She looks like shit. She needs to take a break.”

Brock grabs James’ phone and opens the camera.

“What are you doing?”

“Sending one back,” he says, wrapping his other arm around James. He holds up his fingers and makes the stupid little heart thing. James joins him, snickering.

14:32: Wow I hate you both

14:32: Tell Brock to put a shirt on

14:33: What are you two even doing??

14:33: Shop class lol 

14:34: ???

Brock throws his head back and laughs. He takes the phone again and texts back:

14:35: This is Brock. Both of you take a nap! Finals will be okay.

14:35: No they won’t and they’ll kill us and we’ll both just roll over and die

14:35: Ahhhhhhh

There’s a string of explosion emojis and then a skull. Brock tsks, grabs the phone with both hands, and James watches him, shirtless and covered in plaster, furrowing his brow at the phone in a heated text exchange with Becca.

He loves this man so much.