Stucky One-Shots (Angst, Fluff, Smut)

This house don't feel like home

1940s stucky for y'all (also, i'm still working on the requests, but i have some one-shots already written that i'll be publishing in the meantime while i finish them)

words: 2.5k

I'm alone 'cause this house don't feel like home, if you love me don't let go

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The house was quiet. It was well past one o'clock in the morning and Bucky still wasn't back. Steve started to worry. Bucky told him not to wait up, he always did, afraid Steve would get jealous and hostile toward him. It was an irrational fear; they both knew Bucky did what he did to keep them safe.

See, it wasn't easy being a same sex couple in the 1940s. Not with the risks and consequences. It was worth it, though, being with each other. Steve knew Bucky would be pissed if he ever admitted that, Bucky wanted to protect him at all costs. It was both frustrating and endearing. But Steve wouldn't give it up for the world. For once in his goddamn life he felt like he belonged somewhere. He felt wanted and loved in a way that no one else made him feel.

Still, he never understood what Bucky saw in him. There were plenty of bigger, more attractive men he could choose from. Especially at the secret gay bars in downtown. There were men who weren't constantly falling ill, men who could hold their own in a fight. There were women who were infinitely better than himself, yet Bucky chose him. There were beautiful women who were elegant and soft; they were worthy of Bucky's affection, not Steve. Yeah, him? He was scrappy and had a bad attitude.

Bucky once said that Steve was hot when he got all pissy. It was in the middle of an argument and it only spurred him on, scowling and punching Bucky in the arm as hard as he could. He packed some heat behind it but it was never enough to cause any actual damage. It was the words behind the punch that caused Bucky's pained expression. Steve wanted to feel guilty but he couldn't. How could Bucky say something like that when there were things of higher importance they needed to worry about? Steve curled his hands into fists and stomped off, slamming the door behind him. He didn't see the way Bucky flinched at the sound, flinched at the rejection.

He knew that he didn't intend what he said to be taken in a demeaning way, Bucky had a habit of making jokes to lighten the mood. It was just too serious of a situation for them to be messing around.

A few days later, while Bucky read and Steve sketched the beautiful serenity of it, he asked, "So you think I'm hot when I'm angry?"

Bucky scoffed, "Shut up."

Steve saw the way his cheeks flushed, effectively ruining his aloof demeanor. He raised his eyebrows, slightly shocked. "You do."

"I said shut up, Rogers." His blush deepened. He glared over the top of his book. Steve didn't look up from his sketch.

"What? I'm just trying to make conversation."

"You're sucha liar," Bucky accused. His eyes settled back to the page he was on. "I'm just gettin' to a good part, now shut your trap."

"Make me," Steve challenged with a mischievous grin. His eyes left his sketchbook at the sound of Bucky growling. Folding the edge of a page, Bucky slammed the novel shut and tossed it onto the table in front of him. When he stood, he silently commanded with only the glint in his eyes. Steve suppressed a laugh and sauntered toward their bedroom.

Bucky followed, muttering, "Brat." It was a good day.

He sat in the same ratty arm chair, worry crawling into his chest. It made a home there, ate away in his throat and spread through his body. It made him sick to his stomach. Bucky didn't stay out this late, never. He tried to come home by midnight every time. He didn't want to be out any longer than he had to. He didn't like being away from Steve.