Hi, happy Sunday! Sorry if this is a weirdly specific prompt lol, but I was wondering if you’d write something for your 60s au where Bucky comes home drunk and sick, and Steve is frustrated until he realizes bucky’s doing it to try to cope. Love your writing btw!
Thank you! This works.
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Steelbridge Sixties
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Steve's at the table reading the paper, turning the pages as quietly as he can. He's listening, and he has been all morning.
Bucky had jumped out of bed when the sun was barely up with a muttered, "I gotta go..."
At first Steve thought he'd meant the bathroom. But when the front door of the house slammed instead, his heart sank and he pulled the covers over his head.
Now he sits, not daring to get up and pour himself a glass of orange juice, for he knows that will be the moment Bucky comes back.
Bucky does this. Vanishes, for a few hours usually, then pops back up. Usually at the shelter. Sometimes behind the counter with Steve, and sometimes in the food line, bleary eyed and stomach growling from meals missed at home.
Steve thinks he knows where he is, but he doesn't know for sure, and he isn't going to spend his time looking when it might be the wrong place. Especially when it seems Bucky doesn't want to be found. Best to wait, let him do whatever he does, then come home when he's ready.
Steve realizes he's lost his place in the newspaper. He skims one finger down the page, collecting black ink under his nail. He never gets to the spot where he left off reading because there's a sudden knock at the door that nearly makes him fall out of his chair.
Bucky doesn't knock. And they don't lock the front door.
Steve scrambles into the entryway and throws the door open. It's Nat standing on the doormat, a floral scarf wrapped around her red hair. "He wanted you," she says with a shrug. "So, well..."
Nat steps aside to show... Steve tries to remember the man's name. Clint, he thinks. The one with the glasses they all call Hawk. But that hardly matters now. He has one arm around Bucky's shoulders and the other bracing his chest as Bucky spits up what smells like cheap whiskey all over the ground.
"Oh, Buck..." Steve rushes forward and takes Bucky from the other side, sliding his arm carefully under his stump shoulder. "Shit," he mutters. Then, to Hawk and Nat, "Thank you."
"Hey, it's no problem, man." Hawk wipes his hands on the front of his shirt. Nat shrugs and swings her arms like she might be dancing. Steve wonders how much of the whiskey she's had herself.
Bucky's friends depart as Steve guides him into the house. They make it about as far as the coatrack before Bucky needs to vomit again.
Steve holds him up and pats his back. "Yeah, get that out of your system. What did you guys cut it with, anyway? Gasoline?"
"Nah, you don't drink that, Stevie," Bucky chokes out. "Cut the good stuff, makes it last longer." He stifles a belch. "But whiskey oughta be pure, even if it ain't good."
"Ok," Steve sighs. So Bucky's higher than a kite and trying to give him advice. Fantastic. There's sick all over the floor, Bucky shows no sign of stopping, and he's headed for the kitchen table instead of the bathroom.
"You don't want the toilet?" Steve asks, trying unsuccessfully to yank Bucky down the hall instead.
"Nah. Breakfast..."
Steve shakes his head. "Here." He pulls out a chair with his foot. "Sit."
He rushes to the nearest cabinet and pulls out what he can find, which is, in this case, a saucepan. He sets it in Bucky's lap and helps him lean forward.
"You gonna tell me why you drank all that shit?" Steve asks, brushing lank, sweaty hair out of Bucky's face.
Bucky shrugs.
Steve's eyes travel to the inner elbow of Bucky's shirt, the good yellow seersucker one. Dabs of blood are visible on the pale fabric.
"You gonna tell me why you shot up?"
Bucky gags, then whispers, "Might see some more stuff when the unit moves out again..." Strings of mucous hang from his lips, but Steve's more concerned with the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.
"You know where you are, Buck?" Steve asks. "You know where I am?"
Bucky spits, then shakes his head. "I--I--" he stutters. "I just-- feel sick."
"Yeah, you're pretty sick."
Bucky only seems to glean onto one word. "I wanna see pretty things." his voice breaks. "Nothing bad no more."
Steve bites his lip. He supposes he knows this. He hates it more than anything, but deep down, there is a reason.
Steve lets out his breath as Bucky lets out another mouthful of foul whiskey. Steve drops his forehead to Bucky's shoulder, feeling teardrops running down his cheeks as well.
Hi! Was wondering if you'd be interested in doing a sort of snapshot of Bucky being sick/delirious in withdrawal at Steve's maybe following the final events of the 60s AU, as the story seemed to end with some recovery still to take place
Steve’s heart sinks the first day Bucky doesn’t come home for dinner. They’d recently been enjoying a few quiet moments together before heading off to the evening shift at the shelter, so Steve’s first thought is that he just forgot. Went back to the old routine, skipped past the house, and started whipping up mashed potatoes or whatever Sam was having him do tonight. Steve shrugs, picks up his coat, and starts down the street with long, lanky strides.
He’s half a block from his destination when Nat comes rushing up the sidewalk and yanks on one of his arms. “Hey,” she mumbles. “I need you.”
“Doors open at six,” Steve reminds her.
“No.” The woman vehemently shakes her auburn head. “Hawk’s got him down the block and he’s really bad. Something came over him, man, and he’s, like, not himself.”
“What?” Steve takes Nat by the shoulders and looks into her slightly unfocused eyes. “Where?”
“I promise, it wasn’t the dope, man,” she prattles on.
“No, I don’t care about that. Where is he? Where’s Bucky?”
“Just down there.” Nat points. “Come on.” She takes a handful of Steve’s sleeve and pulls him after her, using wild gesticulations to direct traffic as she darts across the street. Steve waves apologetically and stays close behind her.
After a five-minute walk around the backsides of buildings and under one broken chainlink fence, Steve sees them. The compact, short-haired man they call Hawk is up on his knees, and Bucky’s flat on his back on a grungy blanket, his long hair spread out beneath his head.
Hawk turns at the sound of their approach, and his nose is swollen and bloody. “What happened?” Steve asks, running the last few steps. “What’s wrong with him?”
“What’s wrong with me, you mean?” Hawk asks thickly. “He punched me in the face.”
“Sorry,” Steve says flippantly. “He probably didn’t mean to.” He looks up at Nat. “What did you give him?”
She shrugs. “Usual.”
“Which is...?”
“Moonshine.”
“What?”
“Heroin, dumbass.”
Steve feels his face go red. “Oh.” But all of it goes out of his mind when Bucky begins to stir.
“I don’t-- I just-- I wanna go home...” Bucky mumbles, whitish froth and spit running out the side of his mouth. Steve hurries to turn him onto his side. Bucky hacks convulsively, bringing up more viscous fluid.
“You’re home,” Steve says, thumping him gently between the shoulder blades. “Well, close to. Stateside.” He glances around quickly. “You’re with your friends.”
“Huh?” Bucky weakly pushes up onto his elbows so he can vomit properly. Steve pats him on the back. “I-- I--”
“Shhh, it’s ok,” Steve soothes him. “I mean, it’s not, but, you’re safe. You’re home. You’re with me, Buck.”
Bucky wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. He fixes his eyes on Steve’s, then lunges at him, wrapping his arms around Steve’s neck. He goes limp on Steve’s shoulder, sobbing and dripping dregs of bile and mucous. “I--I’m s-sorry...”
“I know,” Steve murmurs. “It’s ok.”
“I shouldn’t’ve...”
“I know.”
“I don’t know if I can stop...”
Steve sighs quietly. “I know... The war hurt you bad, Buck. Real bad.”
“Yeah...”
“I’m here to help you. When you feel like doing this, you can talk to me, you know,” Steve whispers to him.
“I can,” Bucky says doubtfully. “But what if you don’t get it.”
“Then tell me. And keep telling me,” Steve pleads. “Can you do that?”
Bucky takes a deep breath. “I don’t know.”
“You can try, right?”
Bucky pauses. He lifts his eyes and glances Nat and Hawk over Steve’s shoulder. “I guess I can. Try.”
Hi, happy late birthday! Wanted to say that I enjoyed the recent posts from your 60s verse. I was wondering if you’d be interested in writing something about Bucky either withdrawing or having a hard time staying clean - totally cool if that’s not your type of prompt though!
Thanks! Sure, I can work with that.
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Steve’s in the kitchen, dancing through his dinner-making, while Bucky’s on the sofa fighting the sweats.
“Just lemme go get a little bit,” he whines, playing with the unraveled corner of a blanket. He brings up a shaky hand to brush a lock of hair behind his ear. It’s tangled and matted, and Steve isn’t sure the last time Bucky’s brushed it. Let alone washed up.
“A little bit of what?” Steve steps into the living room to turn off the radio. If it’s weed, he’s prepared to let him go. Provided Steve can come with to be sure that’s all he gets. If it’s something stronger, though...
“Just a little,” Bucky pleads. “The good stuff.” He jabs a finger at the inside of his elbow, making it clear that it’s not just weed he’s talking about.
“Sorry, Buck.” Steve sits down on the couch beside him. He glances into the kitchen at the pot of potatoes boiling on the stove and decides they’ll be good on their own for a while. “No can do on that one.”
“Morphine, then?”
It’s what they gave him in the hospital, after the arm came off, but before they sent him home.
Steve shakes his head sadly. “I don’t got any of that, either.”
Bucky digs his hands into the blanket, grasping the wool in tight fists that won’t stay still. “Well, what do you want me to do?” He turns his head slowly in Steve’s direction. He’s pale, and looks about a second from being ill.
“You want some dinner?”
Bucky just stares blankly at him. He gulps. Presses his lips together. Then nods.
“Really?” It’s what he wants to hear, but Steve doubts he’s telling the truth.
“Nuh,” Bucky sighs. “Feel sick.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet.” Steve throws an arm around his shoulders. “Come’ere anyway. I’ll make you some tea.”
“O-ok...” Bucky nods carefully, as if not wanting to move too much.
“Ok,” Steve echoes. “We can do this, right? We can do this.”
The wait is over; the new novella is here! All 12 chapters are available on AO3.
I want to give a quick thanks to my wonderful friends ( my beta @mohini-musing and my artistic collaborators @sickandvomiting and @plotmatsu) and a brief warning for troubling content. There’s an in-depth trigger warning in the beginning notes on AO3, but the first chapter (below) deals with homelessness, drug addiction, illness, and the political climate of 1960s America.
With that, here’s chapter 1.
--STEVE--
“Morning!” Steve waves at the huddled group across the street. He pulls his keys from his pocket and unlocks the door. There’s a new crack in the glass pane set into it. As much as he hates dipping into the donation money for building repairs, he knows it’s not going to hold much longer.
“Hey, hey.” A redheaded woman pushes back the brim of her floppy straw hat and peers at Steve from behind her Peace Now sign. Steve knows her. She’s a regular in their corner of the neighborhood, and regularly sky-high. She looks sober enough today, though.
“You mind moving it down the block?” Steve calls
“Aw, man. You ask every day.” The redhead pouts, and another young woman laughs loudly.
Steve doesn’t, but it probably seems that way to her. He makes a point to ask only on the days he thinks she’ll remember. “It’s the same deal every day. I like your mission, Natasha, but you scare away the clientele.”
She flips him the bird.
Steve laughs. “Want some coffee? We’ll have a pot going soon.”
“Nah. But if you got pot…” She breaks off cackling.
“Very funny.” Steve joins in with a quiet chuckle. “Just…scoot down the block a little, ok? Then everybody’s happy.”
“Alright, alright.” Nat uses her sign’s pole like a walking stick and leads the motley crew of protesters toward the corner.
“Thanks. See you around.” Steve watches to make sure they stay put at their new station, then opens the door to venture inside.
The scent of the bleach from last night’s mopping dominates the dining room, but Steve can still smell notes of greasy food and unwashed bodies that betray what this is, despite his best attempts to prove otherwise. A collection place for the things nobody else wants.
Steve’s barely flipped on the light when someone’s already ignoring the closed sign and knocking on the glass of the door. “Hey, man!” a gruff voice calls.
“No, no, wait!” Steve whips around.
But the man disregards both the warning and the cracks in the pane. He knocks again, and the glass shatters, raining down like diamonds in the pale morning light.
“Shit, man, I’m sorry,” the man waffles, twisting nervously at his beard. “I just wanted to know if you still did breakfast…” His jaw trembles, even though it isn’t cold out. “I need some coffee real bad.”
“It’s alright.” It’s clear he needs something else real bad, but Steve commends him for coming to the shelter. Even if he didn’t read the sign. “Did you get cut? On the glass?” Steve opens the door and sweeps the shards to the side with his foot.
“Naw, man, I’m just hungry. I…” He lets out a huffing breath. “Do you got a cigarette or something?”
Steve knows he shouldn’t do favors for customers, otherwise they’ll come to expect it and he’ll be in over his head. And probably thousands in debt to boot. But he feels bad about the glass, so he reaches into his back pocket for the pack of Marlboros he’s not supposed to be smoking anyway. “Here.” Steve holds out a cigarette and his lighter. “We start serving breakfast at eight, ok?”
“Thanks, man.”
“Sure thing.” Steve watches him limp down the sidewalk, glad to have brought at least a little brightness to his day.
A car skids up to the curb and parks crookedly in front of the shelter. Steve doesn’t have to look to know who it is. He’d recognize his friend’s squeaky tires a mile away.
“An hour till showtime, and you’re already having a morning,” Sam says as he climbs out and pops the trunk. He points to the shelter’s busted door. “That glass finally gave out, huh?”
“Yeah,” Steve sighs. “I had an... enthusiastic solicitor. I’ll clean it up and find something to cover it with till the repair man can get here.” He starts inside to get a broom.
“Wait, help me with this stuff first,” Sam says, struggling to heave a crate.
“Sure.” Steve hops down the steps and takes the box. “What’s the haul today?”
“Tuna,” Sam grunts, hefting a second crate and slamming the trunk shut. “And corn. Just a couple days out of date. Not too bad.”
“Not bad at all.” Steve leads the way, tiptoeing around the remnants of the glass. “Guess I know what we’re making for lunch.”
“As long as it’s not tuna salad for breakfast,” Sam laughs.
They take the boxes back to the pantry, then set to work preparing for the breakfast rush. Sam boils water for coffee and oatmeal while Steve sees to the sweeping.
“There they are,” he says as he tapes a torn manila folder over the empty pane. “Already lining up.”
Sam dumps canned peaches into a serving bowl. “How many today?”
“Twenty? Maybe?” Steve estimates. “More coming.”
“There’s always more coming.” Sam shakes his head. Then, “You see Nat up on the corner? Still waving her banner?”
“Yeah, she and the whole gang were right out front this morning.”
“You should ask her to come in someday,” Sam says, raising his eyebrows. “Instead of telling her to move on through.”
“I do!” Steve tears off a piece of tape with his teeth. “At least once a week.”
“Start asking her every day. She’ll say yes eventually.”
“Eh.” Steve shrugs. “She’s not really my type.”
“She’s a fox, man. She’s everyone’s type.”
Steve laughs it off and tosses the tape into his tiny, cluttered office, then joins Sam in the kitchen.
“Mm.” Steve inhales the scent of the cooking oats. “Where’d you get cinnamon?”
Sam hesitates. “My mama’s kitchen.”
“You two-faced son-of-a-gun.” Steve smacks him on the shoulder with a wooden spoon. “You can’t expect me be stingy when you’re bringing in your own stuff.”
“Hey, you stop it.” Sam swats the spoon away. “Plain oats are nasty and you know it.”
“I guess that’s fair,” Steve says. “Well, no, it’s not, but you know what I mean.”
“Sure do, brother.” Sam looks up at the clock. “Quarter till. Need help putting out the dishes?”
“You’re not calling me weak, now, are you?” Steve lifts a bin of cutlery with one hand and a stack of trays with the other. “Mr. come-help-me-unload-my-car.”
“You know, if it wasn’t impossible to not to like you,” Sam starts, moving a decanter of coffee to a rolling cart, “You might be getting on my nerves with all that name-calling.”
“Well, I’ll count my blessings, then.” Steve shoots him a grin. He arranges the trays and silverware at the end of the food counter as Sam sets up the serving platters on the kitchen-side.
The sound of people jostling each other drifts in from outside. The paper-covered door makes it easy to hear what’s going on. A certain amount of anxious shuffling and sleepy grumbles are normal, but today it seems a notch down from violent. It’s another fact of life in these parts; punches get thrown from time to time. But it’s still something Steve likes to avoid.
“Alright, alright,” he mutters under his breath. “I’m coming.” It’s not quite eight o’clock, but if opening the doors a few minutes early keeps a fight from breaking out, Steve’s more than happy to do it.
The noise of the scuffle grows louder as Steve approaches the door. “Hey, stop it, man,” somebody says, clearly irritated. “Wait your fucking turn.”
There’s an incoherent grunt, then the sound of knuckles connecting with flesh. A body slams into the door, and the folder Steve affixed over the empty panel flutters to the floor. A silhouette with stringy hair crumples down onto the doorstep.
“Break it up, or I’m asking you to leave,” Steve say sternly. He’s afraid to open the door and dislodge the body slumped against it, but no one seems to be helping the guy. Steve bites the bullet and drops to a squat as soon as he unlatches it. The man falls backward against Steve’s knees, still mumbling obscenities.
“Fuck. Get off me.” His fist flies toward Steve’s face.
“I’m not on you,” Steve says, ducking the blow. “You ok?”
“Yeah, I’m…” The man trails off into something garbled, then uses Steve’s shoulder to claw his way to his feet. “Stop fucking looking at me, you goddamn fuckers--” He makes it two steps before his voice dies in his throat and he falls again.
“Oh, geez.” Steve reaches to help him up, but the man’s on all fours now, retching onto the sidewalk. It’s not the first time someone in line’s been too high or too drunk or too hungry, but it doesn’t make the situation any more pleasant.
Steve awkwardly pats his shoulder. The man moans in pain, and Steve realizes the left sleeve of his jacket is empty and flapping against the ground. “I’m sorry,” he says, quickly withdrawing his touch.
“Get away from me,” the man chokes. His lank hair hangs in curtains on either side of his face. The front he’s putting up is decidedly unfriendly, but something about him is familiar.
“Then fucking scram, man,” one of the others in line says, nudging the sick one with the toe of his boot.
“Hey, there’s no need for that.” Steve steps between them.
The long-haired man vomits again, then spits and growls, “I’ll fucking pound you.” He gets unsteadily to his feet again and raises his singular fist.
“Alright, break it up.” Steve gives him a light push away from the rest of the assembled homeless.
“Want me to call the cops?” Sam yells from inside.
“No, don’t do that,” Steve says. Then man’s on the verge of losing his balance, and Steve feels bad for him. “He’s just sick. Probably confused.”
The man coughs roughly, then gags. He drags the back of his hand across his lips.
“Alright.” Steve hovers his hand over the man’s quivering arm. “You ok?”
“Ugh. Yeah.” He spits again, then turns his head a fraction of an inch toward Steve.
“Oh my god.” Steve’s breath catches in his throat. The man’s hair is overgrown and he’s grimy and his eyes have sunken behind what’s probably been a lifetime’s worth of tragedy. But it’s not a face Steve could forget. “Bucky?” he whispers.
“What the hell…?” The man’s eyes go unfocused. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. He dry heaves hard, then sways on his feet.
“Buck?” Steve says hurriedly, catching him around the chest. “James? Can you hear me?” Come on , he thinks desperately. You know me .
Steve’s heart sinks to his stomach when he realizes that might not be true. Not anymore. They haven’t seen each other since the summer after senior year, when they both got letters in the mail. But Steve’s had sent him to NYU. Bucky’s had sent him to Saigon.
“What about an ambulance?” Sam’s at the door now, looking to see what all the fuss is about.
“Just get the fucker out of here,” one of the men in line sneers.
“Hey. You be quiet,” Sam tells him, jabbing one finger threateningly into the empty air between them..
“No, he’s confused,” Steve repeats, refusing to acknowledge the distraction. “He’s scared.” He hopes that’s what it is. But the droop to Bucky’s eyelids tells a different story.
“He needs medical attention,” Sam says.
“Yeah.” Steve weighs his options. Medical attention is a good idea. Emergency transport doesn’t rate as highly, given Bucky’s disoriented belligerence. “Yeah. I’ll, uh…”
“I’ll hold the fort.” Sam rolls his eyes. He digs his keys out of his pocket and throws them to Steve. “Go drive him to the hospital, you big-hearted fool.”
“Who’s name-calling now?” Steve shoots him a grin. “Thanks, man. I owe you one.”
“Yeah, you do.” Sam flips the sign in the window to open , then addresses the crowd. “Come on in. Chow time.”
“Ok. I got you.” Bucky’s barely holding onto consciousness as Steve steers him toward the car. He tumbles into the passenger seat, and Steve tucks his legs in before slamming the door and hurrying around to the driver’s side.
“I’m gonna get you some help, ok?” Steve steals a glance at Bucky’s pallid face, then turns his attention to the road. He speeds to the end of the block and looks both ways. He fully intends to turn toward the hospital. But at the last second, Steve turns toward home instead.
This painting is not one of the many pieces of art that will appear in Tenement falls, but it does capture the time period and the huge role the Vietnam war plays in the story.
As I’ve been working on the fic, I’ve become engrossed in research. I really enjoy drawing scenes from 1960s history. I’m starting a new sideblog on which to post these drawings and painting, since they stray quite a bit from this blog’s fanfic/sickfic theme. So if you’re interested in more like this, follow @laur-draws-war and look out for Tenement falls (coming to @builder051 and my AO3 on Thursday).
