don’t be afraid to let go of people. don’t worry about other people before you worry about yourself. you do not have to be everyone’s mother, no matter how guilty you may feel. you’re going to go through some shit, and you need to be there for yourself before you’re promising to be there for everyone else. learn not to be so hard on yourself. high school’s going to come and beat the shit out of you, and the sooner you learn to let things go, the easier it will be to bounce back up.
even when it gets hard, just remember that you made it through.
don’t hold onto those prescriptions, stop tearing apart pencil sharpeners, and just relax. the world isn’t ending, and you don’t have to save everyone. enjoy the things you’re doing.
never mind self insert will not be as satisfying as some good ol' stucky prewar christmas fic
There’s not much money in working at the docks.
No matter how many extra shifts Bucky takes, no matter how many boxes he lifts and how much he gets paid, it isn’t enough to cover everything. They’ve got rent to pay for their tiny apartment, they’ve got Stevie’s medical bills, and they’ve got food and electricity and all sorts of other things on top of that.
What they’ve got left after all of that isn’t much, isn’t near enough to give Stevie the Christmas he deserves. And he really deserves a good one; it’s the first year he’ll have to spend the holidays without his mom, and that’s going to be hard enough without considering the fact that he’s had a high fever for going on four days now.
Plus, well. He’s Steve. He always deserves the best everything. Bucky just wishes they could actually make it happen.
It would be easier, even, if Steve would just take care of himself. Bucky tells him not to get up and move around a lot, and absolutely not to go outside into the cold; he lectures on pneumonia and bronchitis until his own throat is sore, and still he comes home to find Steve shivering and sweating under the blankets on the bed, clothes still damp from a trip he made.
“Jus’ had a quick job to do,” he says, every time, “wanted to make some money for your present.” As if his own health is worth less than a goddamn gift. It’s ridiculous.
But Bucky knows that feeling. There’s a shop down the road, an artsy place that the likes of him should never even look at, and there’s a set of charcoal pencils he’s been eyeing for months now. He thinks they’d be perfect if he could just save up enough pennies.
And then, of course, the stove will break or the roof will leak and all the pennies will go to something a little more urgent. Birthday turns to Christmas turns to whenever it happens to work out. It’s just hard to plan ahead when they barely have enough for the day.
He gets home from work on a Thursday to find Steve curled up and coughing into his hands. His hair is drenched in sweat and his shirt is sticking to his skin. It would be scary on anyone; on Steve, it’s the worst thing Bucky’s ever seen.
They’re going to need to see a doctor. All the pennies, they’re gonna go towards some medicine. That’s gonna have to be their Christmas this year, and Bucky says as much.
“We’ll make a pact, Stevie,” he says, rubbing his hand along Steve’s spine. “No gifts, no big fancy dinners, no nothing.”
Steve shakes his head. “I’m fine, Buck. We don’t need to see a doctor.“ He underlines his sentiments with a sneeze that almost sends him off the bed, and Bucky laughs quietly.
“Come on, now,” he tuts, “don’t go being stupid on my account.”
“M’not being stupid,” Steve insists. He sounds exhausted.
Bucky smooths Steve’s hair back. “Listen. No presents, no nothing. I don’t want you going out there to do any more work until we get an all-clear from a medical professional. You hear me?”
He doesn’t really get an answer; Steve frowns at him instead. Bucky wasn’t really expecting anything else.
“Look, Stevie,” he presses, “I’m not too pleased about it either. I wish you were feeling better, too. That’s why we’re getting somebody to come see you.”
“I don’t need someone to come see me. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re lying to me, Steven Rogers, and I won’t stand for it.”
But Bucky can tell that, despite all his best attempts at jokes and sarcasm, Steve isn’t really convinced. He’s probably all guilty and torn up inside, maybe even worse than he was before.
Bucky pats him on the shoulder. “Listen, Steve,” he says. “The best gift you can give me is staying alive.”
He presses a kiss to Steve’s forehead; if anyone asks, he was just checking for temperature. Steve huffs and burrows down into the blankets, but he doesn’t seem to want to fight anymore.
“Go on and get some sleep, punk,” Bucky says, moving to lay down with him.
–
IT IS LATE/EARLY AND THIS IS PROBABLY REALLY BAD SORRY :(
PLEASE DO ANY CONFIGURATION OF BUCKY STEVE AND SAM FOR THE SECOND TO LAST ONE FROM THIS POST mysblink*tumblr*com/post/126188649131
(every time i try to write this my computer crashes this is attempt #5 but i am Determined)
((marry me this is the best damn prompt))
It’s just a review in the paper, that’s all. The guy was probably paid by the word; if that wasn’t motivation to be overdramatic, Bucky didn’t know what was. It wasn’t anything personal, anyway, just someone who ate something and didn’t like it. People were allowed to have their opinions.
Those opinions didn’t always have to be broadcast over the food and dining section of the New York Times, but hey. Bucky was just lucky like that.
And, okay. Maybe it had been a little unnecessary to call his spaghetti bolognese “microwaved lunchables,” but this was New York; there was a lot of competition, and his little diner was hardly going to earn five stars sitting in the same city as Odeon, or Zeze. He’d take the one he was given and try a little harder next time.
That didn’t mean Stevie was going to like it, though. It was for the best that he never found out. Which is why, when Bucky washed the dishes he’d used for breakfast, he accidentally dropped the newspaper in the sink along with them.
Nat would be so proud.
–
It’s just a review in the paper, that’s all.
Steve doesn’t understand how it is that someone can take a good, honest, hard-working person like Bucky and tear apart his hopes and dreams for a damn paycheck. It’s cruel and it’s unnecessary. Beyond that, it’s impolite.
He hadn’t known about it at first; their copy of the paper had ended up in the trash, soaking wet, before he’d even come back from his morning run. He’d had to pick up another copy of the paper just in case; he’d thought Bucky might want to keep it, if the review was any good.
Only it wasn’t, it was downright disrespectful, and Steve hadn’t even bothered waiting to talk to Bucky about it before going off to find the one responsible for it.
Mr. Sam Wilson lived in a cramped apartment building near the edge of the city, built of cement and cinder blocks. This is unexpected; Steve had been anticipating some kind of penthouse apartment with a secretary and a butler to tell him that “Mister Wilson is unavailable, but if you’d like to make an appointment…” as he stared at an aquarium full of endangered semi-aquatic mammals, or something.
Instead, there’s a plain iron gate that squeaks and rattles on its hinges as Steve moves through, an overgrown alley leading to some rickety steps, and a set of rusty mailboxes with peeling labels near the back.
Mr. Wilson, it turns out, lives in unit 11.
Steve climbs the stairs quickly, still feeling furious despite the incorrect assumptions he’d been acting on. This was Bucky’s diner, his livelihood, and this Sam guy couldn’t just come in and wreck that all devil-may-care like.
Before he could lose any more steam, Steve raised his fist and rapped his knuckles against the door. When it opened, he managed not to start yelling; this was mostly because Sam Wilson, whatever his faults may be, had a lovely smile.
Bucky would laugh his ass off at that.
–
It’s just a review in a paper, that’s all.
Honestly, Sam had mostly forgotten about it after he’d gotten the thing submitted; it was one of many different pieces he had to publish that week, and he didn’t have time to dwell on the specifics anymore once the word doc got sent off to the editor.
Which is why he didn’t really think anything of it when an unexpected knock broke through the apartment early on a Tuesday morning. People were always coming in and out of his place: neighbors, family members, people from the support group. He’d almost considered leaving it open, until he realized that even he couldn’t be quite that trusting.
So opening his door to some five-foot twig of a man was not exactly how he planned for his day to go, although it wasn’t exactly unfamiliar to him.
“Morning,” he greeted. “Can I help you with something?”
“Yeah,” the guy said, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked a little flustered; Sam automatically started to tone down his body language in an attempt to make him more comfortable: smile, hands in his pocket, leaning back against the wall.
Sam nodded encouragingly. “Yeah? What can I do for you, then?”
The stranger held out a newspaper. “I - um. You owe my friend an apology, Mr. Wilson.” He was avoiding eye contact; Sam thought maybe he was blushing.
“Do I, now? What for?”
This seemed to give him a little more steam. “For the - the review you published!” he said. “It was - you compared his food to lunchables, I-”
Sam laughed. “It’s awful nice of you to come all this way to defend your friend, man.” He pushed off the wall and made his way in the kitchen. “Hey, do you want some coffee?”
The stranger was left spluttering out confused protests in the doorway. Sam waited about a minute, and then the door clicked closed and the man was watching him over the counter, still red in the face. He looked angry, and confused, and admittedly pretty cute.
Sam poured him a cup of coffee. “So, let’s talk. Mister…?”
“Steve,” the man muttered, wrapping his spidery fingers around the mug. “M’name’s Steve.”
“Alright, Steve,” Sam started, “we can be civilized, right?”
Steve frowned. “That’s kinda up to you, isn’t it?”
“Well, alright, that’s fair. I was pretty harsh in that review.” Sam sat down on a bar stool, motioning for Steve to do the same; he didn’t. “I know it isn’t going to fix anything, apologizing for hurting your friend’s feelings, but I am sorry about that. I’m just trying to make a living, same as they are.”
“He,” Steve enunciated, knuckles white where they gripped the handle of his mug, “has worked real hard for what he’s got, Mr. Wilson, and I don’t think you had a place tearing him down the way you did.”
“Call me Sam, Steve,” Sam corrected him, keeping his voice light. “Listen, I’m sure your guy’s a great cook. He just hasn’t got his pasta down yet. If he works at it a little more, I’m sure people will be lining down the block for a place at his tables.”
Steve shook his head. “Not with that review, they won’t be.”
“Listen, Steve,” Sam tried, “if this honestly upset your friend that much, I think he would have come and talked to me himself. Is that fair?”
Steve was silent, still avoiding eye contact even as Sam sought it out.
“So I’m sure he’s alright with a little bad press. Probably has more than a handful of regulars helping him stay afloat, doesn’t he?”
Steve jerked his head, a rough affirmation. Sam kept smiling.
“So how about I go back to the restaurant and have a talk with him about how he could do better, and we’ll go from there?”
Steve shook his head. “No,” he insisted. “I want you to come and eat with us. At home. Watch him cook. He’s got talent, you’ll see it if you look.”
“I really don’t think I can-”
“You don’t have to retract your statements, or anything. I just want you to apologize to us. Because you’re wrong.”
Sam smiled. “Oh, really? That’s how it is?”
“That’s how it is.”
–
It was just a review in the paper, that’s all.
Then it was a dinner for three in a too-small kitchen, everyone bumping elbows and spilling sauce all over.
Then it was a date, three hands in the same bucket of buttered popcorn at the same time, each one fighting to get a handful even as their fingers got a little held up.
