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Bucky drops his bag by the door, kicks off his snow-damp shoes, and pads into the kitchen still in his heavy coat and scarf. The soup he picked up from the deli after work stopped being hot two subway stops before home and needs at least a few minutes in the microwave before Bucky can claim he had a warm dinner tonight. The sandwich--he can eat that before the soup's ready, he figures, and unwraps it before he even gets himself out of his coat. He takes a bite of the turkey club, dumps half the soup into a bowl, and puts the rest in the fridge for his roommate. Twelve hours on campus and he's beat. He wants his soup and sandwich, a hot shower, and some mindless movie he can fall asleep to. He wants Steve, too, he knows, and trying not to think about Steve only results in the opposite.For a moment, he imagines falling asleep on the sofa, head against Steve's shoulder, Steve talking to him about his day at the museum or doing the pencil-rough sketches he usually ends his days with. Warmth fills Bucky's chest, the wistful sort that fades into emptiness and makes him shake his head at himself. He can have half of that--he can have Steve's low, tired voice at the end of the day, and he can have the sound of pencil skimming paper and the thoughtful frown creased between Steve's eyebrows. "Steve? You home? You hungry?" Bucky calls out, not expecting an answer, but feeling disappointed anyway. He knows Steve's out tonight; the museum's winter gala is at the end of the week and Steve's been working his ass off for it since winter break. Every day this week, he's come home after Bucky. God, most of those nights, he's come home after Bucky's decided to go to bed despite trying to force himself to wait up for Steve. There hasn't been a single night this week where Steve's nudged Bucky's awake on sofa, where Bucky's felt Steve's elbow poke into his ribcage while Steve muttered 'c'mon, Buck' and then, more quietly, come to bed, okay?' while Bucky raised sleep-bleary eyes to him. There hasn't been one night this week where Bucky could forget he couldn't have Steve's shoulder slim and strong and warm beneath beneath his cheek, where he couldn't fall asleep only to wake up and tug Steve back to his bedroom. He's known Steve as far back a he can remember--scraped knees and shared kindergarten lunch boxes, Steve's big blue eyes and brave smile--and he's pretty sure he knows Steve better than he knows himself these days. Glancing down at his sandwich, starting to sweat in his heavy coat inside the kitchen, Bucky pokes and pokes at that lonely ache in his chest. All he has to do is think about Steve, the flash of his eyes and the light in his sudden laughter, and there's that empty ache again. It's a novelty, though, this ache and the accompanying emptiness, the reminder that if he ever wanted more from Steve, he'd never know how to ask for it. After all these years of comfortable closeness, after they've lived in each other's pockets and learned each other inside out, how could there be space for this new longing in Bucky's heart? Maybe it's the long, grey New York City winter stretching out in from of him this year, two more months of grey slush and refrozen snow, the wind whipping between tall buildings. Maybe it's because Steve's been gone so much lately, and all Bucky has for company most evening is his own lonely heart. He misses Steve, he thinks again, prodding at the the sharp/dull/sharp ache in his chest and somehow revelling in the sensation. He misses seeing first thing in the morning or right before bed at night, and misses him more when he remembers the soft, almost fuzzy-blurry look Steve has at both those times. He misses riding the subway home with Steve, missing wanting to put his arm around Steve as he huddles down into his winter coat, almost a size too big on him, and his shoulder presses against Bucky's when they finally escape the icy winter wind onto a subway train. He even misses the way Steve glares at him and shakes his head when Bucky asks if he's still cold, but then tucks himself closer to Bucky on the subway, muttering that it's Bucky who's still cold. He misses falling asleep on the sofa with his best friend and the brush of Steve's hair against his jaw, his voice low and warm when he says 'c'mon, Buck' and his hand rests on Bucky's chest, urging him to bed before the movie ends.
Fuck.
Bucky takes the soup of the microwave, carries it with the rest of his sandwich to the sofa, finally gets rid of his coat and scarf, and makes him a cocoon on the sofa with an old afghan.
Once the gala is over, his days will settle into their normal rhythm with Steve and he can return to his lowkey pining for his best friend instead of whatever state he's settled into now.
*
"Hey... hey, c'mon, it's too cold out here to sleep...."
Bucky rubs his face into the side of his arm and tries to protest. He's half asleep and the hand on his shoulder is warm and firm and in his heart, beyond the fog of sleep, he wants to nod and get pulled into bed and wrapped up in Steve's arms.
He forces himself awake, though, and scrubs the sleep from his eyes. "I got you soup, Stevie."
"Yeah?" Steve gives Bucky's shoulder another push at that old nickname, then rubs Bucky's shoulder when he yawns. "I'll eat it before I get in bed, all right?"
"Yeah. And, yeah, have something hot to eat. The chicken soup you like, with the rice and the veggies." Bucky smiles at the way Steve smiles at him, all soft and tired and like he can't actually believe Bucky got him soup.
Which, well, maybe that's just Bucky's sleep-addled brain, because he's always bringing Steve soup. It's all he'll eat when he's sick or exhausted or his asthma's being a bitch to him between the cold air outside and the dry heat inside. Bucky stretches on the sofa and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.
"What time is it?"
"Not that late. Like, only a little past ten." Steve sits down on the sofa next to Bucky with a tired groan and pulls some of the blanket into his own lap. "I thought you'd wake up with me wandering around the apartment, but I guess not. You must be exhausted."
"Long day. So many meetings. I think I've learned all the secrets of the engineering department." Bucky stretches, waking himself up better, and shifts on the sofa so Steve can sit by him.
"Seriously?" Steve laughs, and then tips his head to rest against Bucky's shoulder. "Anything worth sharing?"
"Jesus, no. Most boring people alive." Bucky holds his breath for a moment and waits for Steve to move, but he just leans in a little closer and his cheek is so warm against Bucky's shoulder.
"Well, you're one of them, Buck. Falling asleep watching the ten o'clock news like an old man." Steve curls up on the sofa, pulling more of the afghan in his lap, and he makes a soft, tired sound. "I'm sorry I woke you up, but I'm glad you're awake."
Bucky's still sleepy enough to make his own tired sound of agreement in reply. He stretches again, yawning deeply, then reaches up to pull his hair out of it loose ponytail.
"There," he murmurs, and smiles to feel Steve settle against him in return. Now that Steve's here, the empty ache in his chest isn't so bad, he has Steve close and warm and even if it's only half of what he wishes for, it's better than nothing. "How's the museum business? You're not home as late tonight."
"The museum business." Steve draws out the phrase in his low, deep voice, then gives a laugh that's even lower, more quiet, and chest deep. "Booming," he replies.
Delight curls in Bucky's chest at the sound and feel of Steve's laugh and threatens to send a shiver through him. He's too warm and sleepy and relaxed, though, and all he does is turn his head, just enough, so that Steve's hair brushes against his jaw.
"You know what I mean, Steven. The art gala?"
"Yeah, all right. Everything's pretty much set up. I might go in tomorrow morning--"
Bucky groans, and enjoys the nudge of Steve's elbow at his side, sharp and familiar, and the warmth of Steve easing against him once more.
"--just to make sure everything is fine before catering arrives. Then I won't need to go in until the afternoon."
They sit quietly for a few minutes, watching the news, commenting on the weather (grey, miserable, cold; it's January, Buck, what did you expect?), and then flicking through the channels after the cheer-up-it's-not-so-bad segment ends the late news. Steve yawns and stretches, then makes a move to get up off the sofa.
"I should eat that soup you brought me."
"I can heat it up for you..." Bucky makes a move to stand, too, and stills when Steve touches him on the shoulder.
"You should go to sleep. Haven't you been up since six this morning?"
"Yeah, but I fell asleep on the sofa around seven, so... "
Steve sighs and shakes his head, but offers his hand to help Bucky up off the sofa. He pulls Bucky in real close after he stands, and for a moment, they're almost hugging, Steve's shoulder and hip right up against Bucky. They're almost hugging and in that moment all Bucky wants to do is wrap himself up around Steve and breathe in the scent of his skin and rumpled hair, to tell Steve how good he feels pressed in that close, how all of a sudden, this is all his heart wants out of life: Steve, their quiet life in this big city together, the brush of Steve's messy hair against his cheek.
"Come make me soup," Steve murmurs. His hand stays tight around Bucky's as he tugs Bucky from the sofa to the kitchen; he only lets go when Bucky has to reach into the fridge for the soup.
"Are you actually asking for soup? How tired are you?" Bucky doesn't turn back to Steve as he asks, expecting a huffy reply. When he doesn't hear any sort of reply, he glances over his shoulder to find Steve rubbing his face and looking a lot more run down than Bucky realized earlier. "You feel okay?"
"I'm okay... yeah, tired, and don't look at me like that."
"Like what."
"Like that. With the..." Steve waves his hand at Bucky's face and finally gives a huffy sigh. He's too tired around the eyes to work up a proper glare, but he looks annoyed enough that Bucky doesn't say anything.
He microwaves the soup for Steve, though, ignoring the little flip-flop of his heart when Steve leans in against him after letting out a couple coughs. He even makes a tiny grateful sound when Bucky rubs his back, which is about all the encouragement Bucky needs to keep doing so, smoothing his palm up and down the soft, worn knit of Steve's navy blue sweater.
Steve looks ready to rebel again when they settle on the sofa and Bucky frowns at his tired eyes and scratchy coughing, but the expression softens after Bucky hands him the bowl of chicken and rice soup.
"I am okay," he mutters. When Bucky doesn't say anything, Steve stirs his soup and has a few spoonfuls of the broth. "I think something at the museum was bothering my allergies. Or, or my asthma... so annoying," he adds under his breath.
Steve doesn't look annoyed, though, he just looks like he needs to sleep about a hundred hours. Bucky's heart flips in his chest once more when Steve nestles in closer to him on the sofa; warmth wells inside him, too, when he realizes for what has to be the thousandth time in the last couple months how perfectly their bodies fit together.
Bucky holds onto the moment, body tense, and then relaxes into the knowledge that they've always been this to each other: late dinners on the sofa, buried beneath old blankets while the wind seeped through drafty widows, sleepily watching reruns on television and soft murmured conversations before bed.
"I know you have that talk tomorrow, but you should come to the museum afterwards." Steve leans away from Bucky to put his empty bowl on the coffee table, then settles back in close. His hair's already rumpled and some of the strain around his eyes has diminished; he looks soft now, tired and content, and he smiles when Bucky tugs the afghan back over their laps. "Even if you only stop by for a drink or whatever, I can get you a guest ticket."
"All right. I can even skip that talk, it's not that important." The words tumble out before Bucky can check them, though they're nothing but the truth, and his face warms as soon as they're out and he can't take them back.
Steve flushes with a look of pleased surprise, a look that suits him so well that Bucky would give anything to make it light up Steve's face at least twice daily. A smile touches the corner of his mouth and Steve nods when Bucky returns the smile.
"Okay. Good. I'll tell you where to meet me. Wear something nice. Something actually nice, not engineer-nice."
"Don't you know how to charm a guy," Bucky says. He ignores the sharp point of Steve's elbow in his ribs, instead tightening his arm around Steve's shoulders to pull him closer.
"I'll work on it," Steve replies, then, more softly: "Please come. I really want you there." A few minutes later, he tucks his head against Bucky's shoulder and dozes off before Bucky can remind him to go to bed.
*
"Please don't do that." Bucky reaches for the coffee mug he just handed to Steve and gives Steve what he's hoping is an admonishing look, but that he suspects is an entirely indulgent one.
"Do what?" Steve tugs the mug in closer to his chest and holds it protectively with both hands. His voice is rough with sleep and he takes a sip from the coffee after clearing his throat.
"Take that into the shower."
Steve tries to look innocent, but he's still cradling his coffee mug to his chest and edging towards the bathroom. He lets out a sigh when Bucky crosses his arms over his chest and edges back toward the kitchen table.
"Better." Bucky watches as Steve sits down, then puts a plate of eggs and toast in front of him. "If I'm cooking breakfast for myself, I might as well cook for you, too," he says and heads off Steve's protest before Steve's sleep-blurred mind can form one.
Steve rolls his eyes but nibbles on the toast anyway, then goes back to his coffee with the kind of dedication that only an overworked, exhausted grad student can appreciate.
Not that Bucky's much better--he's already had two cups while making breakfast and therefore has passed the groggy, can't believe he's awake already again stage this morning. He's already dressed, too, but in nothing more than jeans and a tee shirt since he's only heading to the engineering labs this morning.
Steve downs about half his cup of coffee and finishes one slice of toast before he starts coughing. It's the same scratchy, tired sounding coughing as last night, and he makes a frustrated sound at himself when it takes him longer to stop.
"Sorry," he mutters.
"It's okay, but maybe you shouldn't be drinking--"
The annoyance on Steve's face gets aimed full-force at Bucky and he reaches for his coffee again. He only takes a few sips this time, then puts the mug down to rub both hands over his face and let out a tired sound that's as much sigh as it is groan. When he raises his head, he looks almost as bleary as he did last night before they went to sleep and his voice sounds weak and thin when he talks.
"It turns out I need to be at the museum all day today, one of the exhibits needs to be redone, but if you wanted to grab lunch, that would be good, maybe?" Steve coughs and shakes his head at himself, another apology on his lips that Bucky dismisses with a wave of his fork in Steve's direction.
"What time? I'm at the lab and tutoring center until one, but if you can wait that long, I can meet you..." Bucky pauses as sympathy pangs in his chest.
Steve's getting sick. He'll never admit it, not until he's reaching for his inhaler and downing NyQuil like it's the top one buck Thursday night shot at that shitty undergrad bar. Even then, he'll deny he's feeling bad to pretty much everyone who shows any sign of feeling sorry for him.
Except to Bucky, who can usually get Steve to admit he's feeling pretty awful and to take some medicine or drink some tea before he's so bad he needs nebulizer treatments every twelve hours and about three days on the sofa staring at their Netflix.
"...I can meet you at the museum," Bucky says. His fingers ache to reach across the table and push Steve's hair off his forehead and stroke the side of his face, rub his thumb over the sharp rise of Steve's cheekbone and draw Steve in closer to him for a quick kiss.
"The museum cafe is kind of awful, though." Steve pushes his scrambled eggs around his plate before eating a few forkfuls. He's probably not even hungry, but he also hates wasting food. "Also, it's in the museum. Where I'll be all day, Buck."
"But the student center is all the way across campus."
"So are the engineering labs," Steve points out.
"We can meet in the middle?" Bucky wraps his hands around his coffee mug to savor the last few sips. After this third cup, he really needs to cut himself off unless he wants to vibrate through the rest of his day.
Steve makes a face, ducks aside to sneeze twice in a row, and then makes a face at himself. "The library cafe is even more awful."
"You're just cranky this morning; they're all the same, dumbass. Soup and sandwiches and cookies," Bucky says. "Though I think I'm banning both of us from coffee."
"Fine. Library, around one. At least I'll get away from the museum for a while." Steve has another forkful of eggs, then makes a last effort to finish as much of his breakfast as he can before realizing he'll be late if he doesn't shower soon.
Bucky finishes his coffee and breakfast, musing aimlessly on Steve's messy blond bedhair and his roughed up morning voice, and finds himself unable to stop smiling as he gets ready to head toward campus.
*
"Tea?" Bucky looks at the cup Steve puts in front of him, then up at Steve before he sits down.
"Tea. After your proclamation this morning and two texts about it at work, I was pretty sure you'd kill me if I brought you coffee." Steve has tea for himself, too, and he stirs about four packets of honey into it before adding lemon, too. "Yeah, I know," he says as Bucky watches him.
"I wasn't actually going to say anything." Because he doesn't have to. Bucky can read Steve better than anyone else, but that closeness goes both ways, and Steve knows that Bucky can tell he's sick.
It makes Steve sigh a little and rub his eyes, but that's probably as much him not feeling good as him being annoyed that Bucky knows him so well. He still looks rumpled and tired, too, and that pang of sympathy hits Bucky right in the chest again. Though he shrugged out of his coat, Steve still has his scarf and fingerless gloves on, and Bucky's pretty sure he has about three layers of clothing on, too, between his tee shirt, button-up, and cardigan.
Bucky can't put his arm around Steve as they sit at the tiny library cafe table, but he can press his shoe against the instep of Steve's and give him a long, warm look across the table. He could reach across the table, too, and rest his hand atop Steve's, gather up their warmth between them and create a small private space in the middle of the cafe.
Bucky snaps himself from the daydream when Steve's foot nudges back against his and Steve gives a quick little laugh at the way Bucky startles.
"I think you need a day off," Steve says. He leans in to breathe in some of the steam from his tea and his blond hair swoops into his eyes, then again after he shrugs it back. The gesture is so familiar, so fetching, that Bucky barely resists reaching over to touch Steve's hand.
"Yeah, maybe. D'you just want half of each?" Bucky motions towards the two sandwiches Steve picked out for them; predictably, Steve nods, and then reaches for his half of the chicken and spinach.
After about fifteen minutes, the lunch crowd thins and the quiet clatter of cups and saucers, of conversation and muted music, fills the cafe. Bucky picks up most of their conversation, telling Steve about his tutoring sessions and the broken 3-D printer and how one of the labs has reached near tropical conditions now that the heat's been on full blast while it's been below freezing outside all week. Steve spends more time on his tea than his food, but the tea must do him some good because his throat sounds a little less sore, though he leans away to cough or sneeze a couple times.
Only when they get ready to leave and he suddenly feels the loss of closeness and warmth, does Bucky realizes Steve kept his foot pressed close to Bucky's the whole time. As they stand, Bucky rests his hand at the small of Steve's back and leaves it there as Steve zips up his coat and as they walk out into the sharp cold of the winter afternoon.
*
The whole museum is spangled in silver and ice-blue banners and the undergraduate and graduate exhibits are perfect.
Or, at least, they look perfect to Bucky, whose knowledge of the art world has its sole source in Steven G. Rogers, MFA in Fine & Graphic Arts (CUNY) and current doctoral fellow at the university museum.
Bucky grins as he reads Steve's credit in the program. Steve is amazing. Steve is more than amazing, so much more than a few lines in museum program could ever demonstrate. How talented he is, how dedicated, how many hours he put into this exhibit since the start of January.
"Here you go, Buck. Thanks so much for coming." Steve hands Bucky a glass of champagne and gives him what could only be described as a warm, weary smile.
"Of course. Everything looks fantastic and I'm... I'm really glad I came." Bucky takes a step closer to Steve to listen to the last of the dedicatory speeches.
Although the event isn't formal, Bucky's glad he chose a neatly pressed black button-up to go with his dark grey trousers and jacket. He left his hair down, even though it's well past his shoulders now, and he tucks it behind his ear when Steve beams up at him.
Because he gave the opening speech, Steve's all dressed up tonight, in this grey-blue suit that brings out the color in his eyes and the gold in his hair. He's wearing his tortoiseshell glasses, too, instead of his contacts and the effect is startlingly different from when he wears them with his worn flannels and sweaters and with his messy blond hair. The suit is cut to skim his slim shoulders and hips and the smile Steve gives Bucky makes Bucky yearn to slide his arm right around Steve and tuck Steve right into the curve of his own side.
"We can leave whenever you like." Steve clears his throat quietly, glances up at Bucky again, and nods towards the room around them. "I know this isn't your thing."
But you're my thing, Bucky thinks and thanks every god ever that he managed not to say that aloud.
"But it's your thing. It's one-hundred percent your thing," Bucky replies.
Steve nods, but for a couple seconds, he looks so run down and like he's right on the very brink of giving into whatever he's coming down with. He shakes himself out of it, though, before Bucky can comment, but not before he leans in against Bucky for those few seconds.
"Anyway," Bucky says. "I'm your Plus One for this. You need to show me the exhibits you did, and the one of your work, then we can head out."
They've already listened to all the speeches and Steve's talked to just about everyone here. That's enough, Bucky decides, that's enough when Steve's worked so many hours this week and has managed not to give himself pneumonia through sheer force of will and spite.
Relief washes over Steve's face and he sags in against Bucky for another two seconds. He stays good and close to Bucky for a while, waiting for Bucky to finish his champagne, and when he nudges Bucky towards the far end of the room, he looks a little less weary.
"I have a series of life studies on display that I want to show you." Steve tucks his own arm around Bucky's waist and if he leans in against Bucky again, well, that's just between Steve and Bucky.
*
"What if," Steve says, his voice raspy and congested by the time they get back to their apartment, "what if i just spend the rest of the week on the sofa like this?"
Bucky gives a low chuckle. "It's Thursday night, Steven. You're not even giving yourself much down time."
Steve flails one hand at Bucky and burrows himself further beneath the afghan. By nine o'clock the adrenaline that carried Steve through the day had flagged and he ended up looking tired and pale. He'd still put up an argument about leaving early, but not as much as Bucky had expected, not even enough for Bucky to have to pull the 'I'm tired of looking at art and tired of talking to humanities deans and just plain tired' card on Steve.
The walk home and subway ride is what did him in, though. Between the cold air and the sharp wind, Steve was sniffling and coughing by the time they got home and had to take a hit from his inhaler before he got out of his coat and scarf. Bucky's tried giving him cold medicine, but he's turned that down twice, though he's accepted tea and the box of tissues from the bathroom.
"How did you actually get through this afternoon and evening?" Bucky nudges his bare foot against Steve's, then again when Steve returns the gesture, and realizes he's too tired himself to fight off the swell of warmth in his chest.
"Tea. A truly obscene amount of tea. And a couple doses of Tylenol," Steve says. He's curled up on the sofa with another mug of tea, one Bucky made for him, and he sniffles a little as he takes a sip. "This is nicer than the kind in the museum cafe, though..."
Bucky's chest swells again and in that moment, when Steve sniffles quietly and gives Bucky a tired, grateful look, he knows he'd do anything to make Steve's life a little easier. Sure, he's only caught a cold, but he already has so many health problems and he's had to work so hard to get to where he is in grad school.
Not that Bucky's program is any easier, god, nothing about his doctorate in chemical engineering has been easy. He's had semesters where none of his work seemed worth the effort, where he's been pretty sure he'd be happier in the corporate world instead of academia. But he's always had Steve to sit there and listen to him complain about his advisor or his program, to take him out for pizza and beer and sympathy, and even to rub his back on the few occasions Bucky's spent more than twenty-four hours in the engineering labs.
"Hey..." Steve brushes his toes against Bucky's foot and then smiles at him over his tea. He has to turn aside and cough against his shoulder, but when he turns back, he gives Bucky that same, curious smile. "What's up?"
Bucky shrugs. "You know... you could've brought anyone tonight."
Steve shakes his head. His hair is all messy again from changing his clothes and he's starting to get that all-over look from getting sick. "I don't think so."
"Sure, you could've. Anyone." Bucky feels the moment between them grow tenuous, tight with uncertainty, as Steve gives him a closer look. Bucky fights the urge to look away, especially when Steve gives a little frown.
"No," Steve says, takes a sip from his tea, and then puts the mug on the coffee table. He nestles himself in good and close to Bucky on the sofa, tugging the blanket over so Bucky's lap is covered, and then rests his cheek against Bucky's shoulder. "I only wanted to bring you."
The warmth that had welled in Bucky's chest earlier bubbles up. He holds onto the fizzy excited feeling for as long as he can, then lets out a soft sigh and turns to press his face into Steve's soft, mussed hair.
Steve stirs against Bucky after a minute, then looks up at Bucky with an apologetic smile. "I really, really wanted to kiss you tonight. I'd had this elaborate plan, but now I'm getting sick, and--"
--And Bucky kisses him anyway, soft and sweet on his lips, and he catches the sigh that Steve gives against his own mouth before kissing him again.
"That was really stupid," Steve murmurs. He doesn't move away from Bucky, though, not until he has to sniffle again.
"Yeah, maybe, worth it, though." Bucky pulls Steve back in close to him and hums with content when Steve tucks himself in right against his side, so they're notched together like perfect puzzle pieces.
They both doze off on the sofa at some point in the middle of a movie, and when Bucky wakes up to Steve coughing and sneezing, his sleep-addled mind decides they should both go curl up in Steve's bed.
Steve doesn't offer any sort of protest to that, not to being dragged to bed, not to Bucky curling up next to him in bed, and not to Bucky bringing him tea in bed the next morning.
"The only thing I don't like is you not staying in bed with me." Steve's voice is nearly gone and he's so congested that he keeps having to pull tissues from the box on his bed. He gives Bucky this pleading, tired sort of look, and then an apologetic one. "Well, not that you'd want to, I realize that..."
"Do you think I really care at this point? After waiting all this time?" It's early, and Bucky's still sleepy, and Steve looks so soft and vulnerable, that all Bucky can do is admit how much this means to him.
"... all this time?" Wonder appears on Steve's face next, and he leans away from his stacked pillows and towards Bucky. "Buck..."
Bucky nods, deferential, and sits down next to Steve on the bed. He kisses his shoulder, then his cheek, and then closes his eyes when Steve's warm hand rests on his chest, right over that place that used to hold only an empty ache.