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As birthdays went, Steve’s 97th had been one of his more unusual ones. Fighting zombie robots definitely counted as unusual, even in the context of his life; and of course one of the zombie bots had set itself to self-destruct while Steve was standing right next to it, causing the whole warehouse to collapse down on top of him.
Waiting for four hours while the other Avengers dug him out – that wasn’t quite so unusual. He was fine, though; he was always fine. And being buried under rubble was par for the course, with Tony quipping across the comms about how Steve would do anything to try to get out of his birthday party.
Having a birthday party – that really was unusual, and not just because it was one hosted by Tony Stark. Steve hadn’t had one of those in over ninety years.
Tony had insisted, Steve had protested, and Nat had told him to suck it up. In all fairness, it was rather nice to be in Avengers Tower surrounded by smiling faces. These were not just his comrades in arms, they were his friends, and they were happy to share his day with him (and enjoy Tony’s liquor cabinet). So Steve bit his tongue and let the whole thing wash over him.
For Tony, it was actually quite a calm affair. Lots of laughter and easy conversation; it was nice for everyone to be in the same space and it not involve some sort of global crisis. As Steve gazed around the room, he caught Sam’s eye. Sam raised his glass in a toast from where he was sitting with Rhodey, Pepper and Thor. Nearby, Clint and Nat were laughing with Maria Darcy and Jane, while Bruce and Wanda sat talking quietly together. Finally there was Tony, presiding over the grill - insisting on wearing a chef’s hat and thoroughly enjoying himself. Steve wondered how he’d ended up with so many people in his life.
And his smile was genuine when DUM-E appeared holding a tray containing a birthday cake covered in candles – though it perhaps became a little pained when everyone in the room launched into a rather off-key rendition of Happy Birthday. Thor’s booming voice seemed to cut across everyone else, and while no one could fault his enthusiasm, he wasn’t as familiar with the melody as the others.
As the evening drew on and dusk began to fall over the city, they were all hustled up to the roof for the obligatory fireworks.
“Come on, old man, I know fireworks were a thing in your day,” Tony admonished as Steve groaned because he was tired and comfortable where he was, and surely they could see the fireworks just fine from the window.
“Surely you’re coming up to the roof, Steve?” Pepper smiled at him gently while Steve blinked, suddenly feeling the pull of the years and a very different Fourth of July.
1936
“You sure you won’t come up to the roof with us, Steven?”
Winifred Barnes looked back from the front door. Becca had already skipped ahead, dragging her father with her, and Steve could hear her insistent voice as they climbed the stairs.
“Momma…” Bucky started, before being silenced by one sharp look from his mother, and Steve had to duck his head because it was a look he had seen Bucky wear more than once. Besides, Bucky might be pushing nineteen years of age, but that didn’t mean much when his Momma was glaring like that. She looked back at Steve, face rearranged into an indulgent smile.
“No thank you, Mrs Barnes. I can see the fireworks just fine from Bucky’s window. And I don’t wanna risk getting wheezy and miss the whole show.”
It was true; they could see the fireworks from Bucky’s window, although the view from the rooftop was better. It was also true that the week before his birthday had been spent in bed, having been unlucky enough to catch a cold in June, suffering through the stifling Brooklyn heat.
But that wasn’t entirely why he and Bucky were making their apologies and excuses, staying indoors while the rest of Bucky’s family went up to the roof to watch the Fourth of July Fireworks. As soon as the front door was closed, Bucky was all but dragging him towards the bedroom.
“What if they come back?” Steve whispered just as Bucky closed the door, pushing Steve up against the wood and silencing him with a welcome kiss. Steve groaned, leaning into the touch.
“They won't” Bucky murmured, pausing briefly before leaning in again as though he intended to kiss all Steve's concerns away.
God, it felt like years since Steve had been kissed by that mouth. It had been agony sitting through dinner, watching Bucky eat, laughing along to his father’s anecdotes and occasionally catching Steve’s eye before looking away, tongue sweeping across his lower lip; and dear lord Steve had visions of climbing over the table right then and there, apologising to Mr and Mrs Barnes, but he just couldn’t go another minute without biting down hard on that lip.
“Come on, been wanting to get my hands on you all day.”
This was their reality; a series of stolen moments. They made do with hurried kisses against closed doors, disguised by the more publicly acceptable rough housing and casual touches that broadcast “buddies” and “best pals” to the outward observer, but were actually frantic and desperately silent I love you’s.
Bucky ran his hands up Steve’s sides as though touch-starved, mouthing kisses all the way down his throat while Steve gasped, just as desperate for more.
The first crack of a rocket took them by surprise, stopping stock still until the second and third explosions sounded outside and the moment was broken. They laughed nervously but didn’t slow down; instead Bucky steered Steve towards his bed, dropping them both down onto the mattress, Bucky lying on top of Steve but making sure to keep his weight on his arms so as not to squash him.
“Can I, Steve? Can I touch you? Please, Stevie, I wanna make you feel good,” Bucky was breathing harshly into Steve’s ear, but kept his hands firm at Steve’s waist, waiting patiently for permission. Steve groaned his consent into Bucky's mouth, rolling his hips invitingly, and he could feel how hard Bucky was against his thigh.
They hadn’t got this far before, too terrified of being discovered. They’d talked about it, knew it was something they wanted to do together if they ever got the chance, but Bucky's house was always too full of people coming and going. Steve staying over was nothing new, but they had long since passed the age where being caught in the same bed would have been seen as innocent. Besides, they couldn't risk Becca bouncing into the room, especially since she had reached the age where hiding herself somewhere in order to leap out and yell “boo!” was one of her favourite games.
Steve's place was little better. With Sarah ill and pretty much bed-bound these days, there were always people calling to see her. Apart from a steady stream of neighbours and nurses, the priest called at least once a week, and it was him Bucky feared meeting with the most. Logically he knew priests couldn't actually read his mind, but it still felt like he had his love for Steve Rogers in big black letters across his forehead.
But now they had a small window of privacy; where any sounds they made would be swallowed up by the fireworks, and they could be fairly certain that Becca would keep Bucky’s parents up on the roof until the last rocket had faded from the sky; they intended to make the most of it.
Bucky spat into his hand before curling his fist round Steve’s cock, and Steve couldn’t help the moan that escaped him. It was simultaneously too much and not enough and so so different to touching himself. Bucky stared down at him, eyes wide with a vague look of terror on his face, as though he was responsible for something precious and was terrified of screwing up.
“Cheer up, Barnes, might never happen,” Steve quipped, though it came out breathy, his voice wrecked. It worked though because Bucky gave him a tentative smile before leaning down to kiss him again.
They fumbled in the dark together, kissing harshly, desperate to make the most of their privacy. Steve somehow got his hand down Bucky’s pants, worried for a moment because he hadn’t thought to slick his hand, but all concerns flew right out of his mind at the rewarding noise Bucky made. Bucky’s cock felt slightly thicker in Steve’s grip, but when Steve brushed his thumb over the head he figured he must be on the right track as Bucky practically burrowed into his shoulder.
It was going to be over far too quickly; Steve’s breathing sped up, and he desperately hoped he wasn’t about to start wheezing, not now, please god not now. He squirmed underneath Bucky, rocking his hips up into Bucky’s hand and loving how safe he felt pinned beneath him. He could hear Bucky muttering in the dark oh Stevie, god, Stevie, you look, oh god, I want, I’m gonna… half-finished sentences punctuated by kisses.
Steve buried his left hand in Bucky’s hair, pulling Bucky tight on top of him just as he arched up, coming between them and over Bucky’s hand. As he surfed through the aftershocks, he forced his own hand to keep moving, helped somewhat by the stickiness between them. Suddenly Bucky keened, arching in Steve’s arms, mouth open wide and eyes scrunched tight, crying out into the dark, and Steve swore it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
The fireworks display was still going on, the sound a comforting background as Bucky sank down onto the bed beside Steve, still trembling and breathing hard. Steve wanted to stay there always, wanted to watch Bucky breathe. His brown hair was dishevelled from Steve’s hands and his eyes, when he finally opened them, seemed to sparkle in the darkness.
“You ok, Stevie?” he whispered, sounding just as wrecked as Steve felt. Steve smiled, leaning over to answer with a kiss. He felt like he was glowing.
They couldn’t stay like that very long. They had to clean up quickly, making good use of the jug on the wash stand, while Bucky tried to flatten his hair as best he could. They checked each other for marks or any other kind of sign that they’d been doing anything other than watching the display this whole time.
"I wish we had our own place, Steve,” Bucky sighed, pulling him in for one last kiss.
“I know, Buck. One day.”
+
The night air was surprisingly cold for July with a sharp wind; but then they were over one hundred floors up above New York City. Steve smiled to himself as he watched the bright colours light up the sky, hoping the folks down below appreciated the show. It was nice that something like a firework display was still considered a spectacle, when there were so many other things in this new life he’d woken up to. People still ate hot dogs when they went to a game, and they still ooh’d and aaah’d at fireworks.
He looked around the platform, caught the moment that Pepper reached for Tony’s arm as a particularly big rocket exploded, saw how Jane was pressed tight into Thor’s arms and pointing up to the patterns in the sky.
“Having a good birthday, Rogers?” Nat snuck up on him, smiling that knowing smile of hers, but Steve returned it easily. Yeah, ok, so six hours ago he’d been under a pile of rubble. But watching a firework display on Fourth of July – that was dangerously like Normal Person stuff. She bumped his shoulder companionably.
“See, it’s not so bad,” she grinned. “Look at it this way; it could be your hundredth.”
Steve groaned because oh god, that was going to be awful. He wouldn’t just be faced with Tony and his desire to put on a show, but probably the entire country. It was bad enough his birthday was already a national holiday, without it being his centenary as well.
“I thought the whole point of birthdays was no one made a fuss after twenty-one,” he grumbled, ignoring the way Nat rolled her eyes at him.
1939
Steve had been building up to his birthday for weeks. It had been a busy couple of months for them, with Bucky working seemingly every hour god sent, leaving early and coming home late, usually to find Steve still sitting at the kitchen table working on various art pieces either for school, or sometimes for some additional money to put towards the rent. They had precious little time for much fooling around. Even if they did have the energy to do more than just hold one another, it usually involved jerking each other off in the darkness. Or maybe Bucky would use his mouth, head bobbing enthusiastically until Steve had to bite down on his hand to stifle his moans.
Then there were the extra rare nights, when Bucky’s hands wandered over Steve’s thin chest, while he kissed up Steve’s neck and whispered in his ear, voice filthy and enticing:
Aww please Stevie, got me all worked up doll, you’re not gonna leave me like this; what I’m not enough for you Stevie; come on I’ll make it good for you; need you in me Stevie please.
Bucky sure knew how to beg for it, whining with gratitude as Steve pressed first one finger then two inside him, stretching him out. Not that he didn’t love fucking Bucky, because the way Bucky curled his fists in the sheets, biting down on the pillow while his muffled voice moaned an approximation of Steve’s name, just made Steve fuck him all the harder.
But it had been ages since it had been the other way, and Steve really wanted Bucky to fuck him.
Bucky always took an absolute age – or, at least, it felt that way – when prepping Steve for his cock. The first time they’d tried it, Steve had come, moaning horrendously loudly in their echoing bedroom, before Bucky had even got as far as two fingers. They’d held their breath, terrified that the neighbours would start banging on the walls, or perhaps they might break down the door and drag them out of the apartment. But luck had been with them and, after a few moments of comforting silence, they’d started to breathe again, Bucky chuckling softly before kissing Steve’s thigh.
Bucky hadn’t ribbed Steve for coming so soon; had only murmured that he’d told Steve it would feel good, and promising that they’d try again. And they had, with much better success. There was something blissful about being held down and fucked, being filled by Bucky. Steve loved the feeling of soft hands running up his thighs as bruises were sucked into his collar bones, marks that would last for days, marks that Steve cherished.
He wanted that now; he wanted Bucky to lay claim to him.
Bucky was going to be home late, working extra hours to make up for the fact that he was taking the Fourth off. Steve forced himself to sit at the table where the light was best, working on a commission and trying not to squirm in his seat. At about ten o’clock, knowing Bucky would be home within the hour, Steve finally packed his stuff away and slipped into their bedroom. He stripped off, deliberately taking the time to hang up his clothes before climbing onto the bed and fumbling with the drawer of the nightstand where they kept the Vaseline.
Steve could feel his heart thumping in his chest as he coated his fingers, enjoying the thrill that raced down his spine. Resting on his side, he reached back to press at his hole. He knew what he was doing – hell, he'd opened up Bucky enough times to be something of an expert by now – knew to force himself to go slow even though he wanted more. Groaning, he pushed back, trying to reach deeper, hindered by the angle.
He ended up rolling onto his front, ass raised in the air as he continued to fuck himself with his fingers, adding more Vaseline and stretching his hole. He thought of Bucky coming home, of finding him like this all open and waiting, ready for Bucky to just fuck him raw, and Steve keened.
Fuck, and this was going to be over before Bucky even got home if he carried on like that, so he forced himself to slow down, breathing harshly against the sheets and withdrawing his fingers. He was achingly hard as he wiped his hands on the old shirt they kept under the bed before pulling the sheet over him as he waited for Bucky to come home. He felt loose and empty and frustrated, his whole body thrumming with a certain desperation. God, he needed Bucky home now.
The clock hadn't yet chimed but Steve heard the familiar scuffle at the door of Bucky turning the lock.
He heard the front door open and then close after a pause, and the familiar muffled racket of a man dropping his keys and kicking off his shoes, footsteps across the floor and then…
“Stevie?”
“Hey Buck.”
Steve watched in the dim half-light of the bedroom as Bucky shrugged out of his shirt, casting it onto the rickety wooden chair in the corner, milky skin glowing softly in the inky darkness. Then he flopped down on the bed, groaning dramatically along with the bed springs. One arm was thrown almost casually over Steve’s chest, a dead weight pinning him to the sheets; Steve wriggled onto his side, curling into Bucky and breathing in the warm skin of Bucky’s neck.
“You don’t smell like you just spent the last twelve hours hanging around motorcars,” he observed mildly, amused by Bucky’s theatrics. He got a muffled grumble in response before Bucky shifted, turning his head so Steve could feel the soft huff of breath on his cheek.
“Got stuck doing the books. Just coz Bramer can’t tell a one from a seven,” Bucky’s tone was scornful and he still didn’t open his eyes. Steve chuckled, pressing himself even closer.
“It’s certainly a sad state of affairs when they got you doing the numbers,” he muttered, which earned him a disparaging noise, and a couple of fingers poking him in the ribs. Steve wriggled, chuckling and playing up to the attention, brushing his lips over the tender skin of Bucky’s throat. Bucky got the idea, shifting slightly so he could kiss back.
“Mmmm, someone’s in a good mood,” Bucky murmured, twisting onto his side so he could get even closer. Steve squirmed in his arms, feeling desperately empty. He caught Bucky’s arm at the bicep, feeling the man still beneath his touch, eyes clouding with confusion at the mixed signals he was receiving. And really, Steve shouldn’t be mad that Bucky was checking in with him, making sure that he wasn’t reading anything wrong and that Steve was absolutely as on board with this as Bucky thought he was, but Steve was on edge.
With a bit of pushing and pulling on his part, Steve managed to get Bucky on his back, climbing on top of him and sitting astride his hips. Bucky looked up at him with a crooked smile and curious eyes, intrigued as to where this was all going and happy to let Steve lead. Fuck, he was so beautiful, with his big eyes and full mouth, and Steve loved him. He reached down, catching Bucky’s wrists and leading them up and back until they were cupping his ass, rolling his hips in encouragement until Bucky got the idea.
He shivered at the gentle fingers skirting between his cheeks, watching Bucky’s face for the precise moment when Bucky realised that Steve was already slick. It was worth waiting for; Bucky looked like he’d been smacked in the mouth on the dance floor.
“Christ, Stevie, what did you do?!” Bucky’s eyes were even wider, and Steve just grinned down at him.
“You like it Buck? Got myself all ready for you,” Steve whispered. Bucky growled, grabbing Steve by the hips and flipping them over so that he was fully on top of Steve, who automatically hitched his knees to make room for him between his legs. Pinning Steve’s wrists above his head, Bucky kissed all the way down Steve’s throat and chest, swiping his tongue over Steve’s nipples before sitting back on his heels. He lifted Steve’s legs, drawing them apart, and Steve couldn’t help but moan, turning his head into the pillow at such an exposed position. Then Bucky’s fingers were back, tracing round his hole.
“Need you, Buck,” Steve keened, pressing back because dear god he needed Bucky’s fingers in him right away. “Wanna feel you.”
Bucky made a choking noise as first one then two fingers slid straight into Steve, causing him to arch his back, biting at the inside of his arm to stifle a moan.
“God, Steve, let me watch next time,” he groaned, scissoring his fingers, and from the expression on his face it was clear he was imagining Steve in this very room, with his fingers inside himself.
“Feel so good, Buck,” Steve whined, trying to keep it quiet. “Couldn’t quite get as deep as you.”
At that, Bucky pressed in harder, deliberately crooking his fingers, and was instantly rewarded when Steve moaned, biting hard on his lip and scrunching his eyes closed.
The two short minutes between Bucky removing his fingers so that he could fully strip off, and him grabbing the Vaseline to slick himself up, were almost too much for Steve, who still had his hands raised above his head. He grabbed at the metal bars of the bedstead just as Bucky climbed back on top of him.
Steve absolutely loved those first few moments when Bucky pushed in, feeling his body give itself up, stretch around the glorious man above him. His world narrowed down to Bucky – his scent, his taste, the small sound he made as he bottomed out inside Steve, the reverent murmur of Steve’s name and the way he stared down like he couldn’t quite believe he had Steve in his bed.
Back when they’d first moved in to their apartment - when they hadn’t yet worked out that Old Mrs Randall next door was deaf as a post and not even a stampede of angry elephants would wake her up – they’d put a few blankets on the floor to avoid the creak of bed springs. Bucky had pushed all the way in and Steve had thought he might die right then and there because there was so much feeling inside him, so much love and awe, he thought he might burst. And Bucky had looked down at him with red lips and wide eyes before whispering in an almost broken tone, what I ever do to deserve you, Stevie?
Steve thought of that moment now, with Bucky breathing hard, hair matted with sweat, as he moved slow and deep inside him. It was sweet and tender, with Bucky mouthing at his neck, biting down on Steve’s shoulder, and Steve didn’t mind that he’d have to be careful what shirt he wore tomorrow. Bucky was whispering as he moved baby, baby, baby oh baby, starting to drive harder and faster, and Steve could only lie back and take it, rocking his hips trying to meet every thrust.
At some point, Bucky grabbed the bedstead bars just above Steve’s head, using them to pull himself even deeper. Steve cried out, lost in the moment, letting go so he could score angry red pathways down Bucky’s back.
Steve could feel the tension building in his gut, knew he was getting close. Bucky was beginning to unravel; his steady, almost punishing pace grew more erratic as he lost control. Steve arched up, stretching himself out in full invitation. He wanted Bucky to lose control, to just fuck him hard and fast through their mattress. He wanted to feel this for days, feel Bucky filling him up.
When Bucky reached between them, taking Steve in his hand, it didn’t take long for Steve to let go completely, enjoying how his orgasm washed right through him. He collapsed back against the pillows, hot and oversensitive, as Bucky continued to fuck him through it. The hands holding his hips in place were sure to leave bruises, which just added to Steve’s afterglow. Finally, Bucky tensed up, moaning brokenly as he came.
He slowly pulled out, climbing off the bed to grab a cloth from the wash stand so he could clean them both up. Steve allowed it, lying back against the pillows as his heart rate returned to normal. He watched as Bucky moved over to the window, pulling up the sash to try to let some fresh air into the room.
The light from the city outside gave Steve a good view of Bucky’s back and shoulders as they lifted the window frame. He was so beautiful it made Steve’s chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with his asthma. Bucky caught him staring as he turned, grinning back at him across the room.
“Need a glass of water, Steve?” he asked, jerking his head towards the door. Steve just shook his head, enjoying the view as Bucky made a massive show of walking nude across the room and back into the living room.
In a moment he was back, his lips cool as they pressed against Steve’s forehead. They heard the clock in the living room chime midnight.
“Happy birthday, punk.”
+
“Great display, Tony,” Steve shook the man’s hand, thanking him for so much more than just fireworks. Tony’s mouth twitched, as though he could read Steve’s mind. Steve knew he was an open book; knew that without his friends - without Nat and Sam and Tony and all the others - then he’d probably be hiding in his apartment feeling sorry for himself.
The past year had taken its toll, ever since the fall of Hydra. There had been a lot of cleaning up to do and it wasn’t as if it had been an easy time for any of them anyway.
Bucky was still out there somewhere, though Steve supposed it was slightly better now that he knew it was Bucky’s choice. He’d caught glimpses of him sometimes, just a shadow on his six, or perhaps the flash of sunlight off a gun sight on a distant building, and he knew it was on purpose – knew that Bucky wanted him to know that he was there – because Bucky would never break cover by accident.
Nat had cornered him one day, had said that Bucky just wasn’t ready. Whilst she hadn’t gone into the circumstances of her conversation with Bucky, she’d made it clear that she was talking with Bucky’s permission. She told him that Bucky was safe and was making an effort to take care of himself.
“Thing is, Rogers,” she said, voice full of sympathy, “I think you’re just too much for him right now.”
It hurt. It really hurt, but if that’s what Bucky needed – if that’s what Bucky wanted – then Steve would give him all the space in the world.
But right now he was tired, covering it by joking that now he’d hit 97 maybe his age was finally catching up with him. It had been a hell of a day, and while the party had been great, his head was full of Bucky and he really wanted to go home and wallow for a bit. A petulant part of him felt he’d earned it.
“Fine, bow out of my party before the real fun starts,” Stark pretended to pout. “But I expect to see you bright and early for post-birthday pancakes.”
Steve’s smile was genuine as he promised, he would definitely be there for pancakes. The others wished him well, shaking his hand and clapping him on the back. Sam even offered to come back with him but Steve waved him off, told him to stick around and enjoy himself.
The ride back to Brooklyn didn’t clear his head any. Sometimes he wondered whether insisting on living in Brooklyn, rather than taking up Tony’s offer to stay at the tower, was a mistake on his part. At the time it had seemed like a good idea; it was where he was born – both as Steve Rogers and as Captain America. The neighbourhood might have changed a fair amount since the 1940s but there was still an echo of home about it, more than he’d felt in Washington anyway. And there had been that hope, right at the beginning, that Bucky might come looking for him there.
Well, Bucky knew where to find Steve now, he just chose to stay away. It was that thought, settled in his chest like a stone, that meant Steve didn’t notice right away that he wasn’t alone in his apartment when he stepped through the door.
At first he froze, instinct kicking in when the shadow moved. But then the shadow spoke and Steve’s heart nearly burst out of his chest.
“Happy birthday, Steve.”
Bucky looked unsure, body language awkward as though he wasn’t sure he was supposed to be there. His voice sounded rough through lack of use, but he looked better than the last time Steve had seen him – properly seen him, not just a glimpse in the distance. His skin had a bit more colour to it, though he was still pale and his eyes still carried heavy shadows. He looked in good shape, his hair still long but clean, and he had shaved.
They stood in silence for a moment, because all Steve could do was stare at him, drinking him in; Bucky was in his living room, alive and breathing and wishing him a happy birthday for the first time since the war. Steve was quite sure this was the best birthday present he’d ever been given.
“God, Bucky,” he breathed. There was so much he wanted to say. So much he wanted to ask. He wanted to be allowed to hug Bucky, to have his hug be welcome, to be hugged in return. He wanted to burrow into Bucky’s chest and never let go.
Then everything hit him all at once. It was 2015; he was 97 years old in the body of a 31 year old and it was both four years and seventy years since his last proper conversation with his best friend. When he was a kid, no one had expected him to make it to 30 and in a strange way they’d been right, though he doubted anyone had meant that he’d just fast-track into his 90s instead. Steve started to laugh.
Bucky frowned, uncertain at this turn of events.
“Steve?” It felt so good to hear his name in Bucky’s voice once more, even if it was clouded in confusion and apprehension. Steve made an effort to get a hold of himself.
“Sorry, Buck,” he breathed, shaking his head as he sobered, the desire to laugh swiftly being replaced by the urge to cry. “It’s just, the last time I heard you say that it was 1944.”
Bucky quirked his lips, and Steve noted how his shoulders relaxed, posture changing to something old and familiar, and Steve suddenly realised that Bucky must know what he was talking about.
July 1944 they’d been in the ass-end of nowhere, France. D-Day had happened, they’d liberated Cherbourg, and the Allies were pushing on through Normandy with Paris firmly in their sights, though it would take them almost another two months. Eisenhower had dropped in to visit the troops on the Normandy front, which someone had managed to get wind of before it actually happened, so Steve and the rest of the Howlies had made their exit, not wanting to get caught up in the politics and the press.
The weather had been awful, and Steve had almost forgotten the date except that Bucky had snuck into his tent, climbing on top of him in the dark and soaking up Steve’s soft moans with kisses. They’d rutted together in the dark, tugging at each other while they prayed the sound wouldn’t carry. Bucky had gone to his knees, sucking Steve down quickly and efficiently, and Steve had found himself biting down on his belt to stay quiet.
Bucky had fallen asleep in Steve’s tent, a terrible risk at the time, although Steve had tried to justify it to himself as he lay there in the dark, Bucky safe and warm and alive in his arms; he’d tried to come up with as many innocent explanations as possible for why his sergeant was half dressed and sleeping in his cot. In the end, he hadn’t needed any of them, and it was only once he woke up in the 21st century that he realised his team had known exactly what was going on in that tent that night, and that the short moment of privacy had been their birthday present to him.
Back in the present, Steve blinked as Bucky stepped forward, looking at Steve intently and telegraphing his movements as though still uncertain. Bucky bit his lip as he raised his flesh hand up to brush against Steve’s cheek, his touch light. Steve sighed happily, unable to prevent himself from leaning into the touch. He let his eyes close, enjoying the feeling of Bucky’s palm against his cheek. Then there were familiar lips pressing against his mouth, and Steve let out a soft moan, kissing back because yes. Yes, yes, yes.
“I remember everything,” Bucky whispered, voice tentative as though frightened of breaking the moment. “I didn’t want… I mean, I couldn’t face… I don’t understand you, Steve.” Bucky was clearly struggling getting his words out and Steve desperately wanted to set aside any fears or worries, but he forced himself to stay quiet because it was more important that Bucky find his own words, say what he needed to say, without any interruptions.
“You shouldn't want this. You shouldn't want me.” Bucky sighed, shaking his head, and Steve bit his tongue to keep his words behind his teeth because of course he wanted Bucky, in the same way he wanted oxygen.
“I can’t run from you anymore, Stevie.” Bucky continued, resting their foreheads together, and Steve could feel him breathing. “I don’t want to run from you anymore.”
There was so much that Steve needed to say; that he saw Bucky for everything he was – everything that had happened. He understood all the blood that had flowed over the years, knew that he wasn’t the same boy he had grown up with, the same man he had fought alongside, but that it didn’t matter. Not to him. After all, it wasn’t like Steve hadn’t changed along the way too.
He would love Bucky irrespective of anything else.
But instead of saying any of that, Steve leaned forward to kiss Bucky once more, hoping to convey everything he was feeling. From the way Bucky sighed into it, almost melting, he figured he must have done all right.
God, but he’d missed Bucky, so damn much. They breathed together and moved together, finding an old rhythm of two lovers who knew each other well. They somehow negotiated their way to Steve’s bedroom without actually breaking apart, and as they moved towards the bed they began to shed their shirts, Steve relishing every moment that Bucky had his hands on him.
When they sank down on Steve's large bed things slowed down a little as they pressed close together, skin to skin, and Bucky was cradling Steve's face again, smothering it in reverent kisses. The left hand was slightly cooler than the right, but the touch was just as gentle, and Steve was grateful that Bucky felt comfortable enough to touch him with that hand at all. He brought his own hands up to cover the ones framing his face, tracing circles with his thumbs. Then, Bucky shifted, dropping his head onto Steve’s shoulder with a soft exhale, and Steve held him tightly.
“I remember so much,” Bucky murmured into Steve's shoulder, holding on as though Steve was his only link to reality. Steve made a noise of agreement, nodding his head because he carried it too, the weight of their history.
There had been a whole series of firsts; first days of school, first kisses, first times. Bucky had been at his side when he'd lost his Momma, had been there to buy Steve his first legal drink and to celebrate Steve getting into art school. Then there were the other memories; the winters it had been so cold you could see your breath in the apartment, and the water had frozen in the wash stand jug. Bucky had folded himself over Steve’s back, cocooning him, pressing hot kisses up his neck to that soft spot behind his ear that always made him squirm.
There was the summer days when the hydrants in the street were set off so the kids could race through the spray. Bucky, stripped of his shirt, would lounge on the fire escape seeking out some respite from the baked heat, and Steve wanted to just climb in his lap and lick the sweat from his collarbone. Bucky coming home from the garage with smudges of oil on his nose and forehead, and when they fell into bed together there was always that scent of soap powder and car engines clinging to Bucky's skin.
Steve could remember being pushed into any number of alleyways on their way home from some bar so Bucky could sink to his knees, looking up at Steve reverently as he sucked him off, not even able to wait til they got home. Sometimes when they were in bed together, Bucky had fingered him while he sucked him, which always made Steve come faster, even after the serum. There'd been more than one occasion when they'd been stuck in some fox hole waiting for orders and Bucky had decided the best way to pass the time was to see how quick he could make Steve come.
“Loved watching you come,” Bucky opened his eyes as though reading Steve's mind, and his smile was soft. “But mostly I remember being so damn desperate for your cock. You were so good to me, Stevie, so perfect.”
Steve felt the chills spilling down his spine, relishing getting lost in Bucky's scent and taste. He was foggy with all the emotions running through him, still caught up on the fact that Bucky was lying here with him.
“Loved it before, when you'd just hold me down and give it to me good,” Bucky was grinning down at him. “Then you got all big and I remember wishing for any horizontal surface so you could just bend me right over and take me.” He looked wistful and Steve reached up, brushing his thumb over Bucky's lips, pleased when he obediently parted them and began to suck gently.
“And what do you want now?” Steve asked, voice low. He watched as Bucky's eyes darkened. The question hung heavy in the room.
“I wanna ride you,” he replied at last, sweeping his tongue over his lips. “Wanna ride you hard.”
Steve could feel his brain cells imploding. He pushed himself up, meeting Bucky's mouth and the world which had slowed right down, suddenly sped back up again. They were stripping each other, fabric ripping in the darkness through sheer impatience.
Bucky moaned into his mouth, breathing heavily as he asked where Steve kept his stuff these days. Laughing, Steve turned to reach into his nightstand drawer, to the seldom used lube and the completely ignored and unopened packet of condoms. He grabbed the former and then paused, looking over to where Bucky was waiting patiently. He raised an eyebrow, a question; the world had changed a lot since they’d last done this, not to mention he’d been forced to sit through S.H.I.E.L.D’s basic lectures on personal health and hygiene. Just because he was a super soldier there was no need to go testing the serum against everything. Bucky shrugged.
“S.H.I.E.L.D. puts me through a monthly medical,” he commented, tone completely nonchalant, and Steve filed away the fact that Bucky had apparently been in the position to require monthly medicals from S.H.I.E.L.D. as a conversation for another day. “So I’m clear. It’s up to you?” Steve left the box where it was.
He let Bucky take over, happy to just lie back and let Bucky put him where he wanted him. He watched in fascination as Bucky rose to his knees, bending forward slightly to open himself up, listening to the continuous flow of curses as Bucky got himself ready.
Bucky was still the most beautiful thing Steve had ever seen. He might not be the same guy from 1940, might carry more weight on his shoulders, not to mention a few more scars, but everything about him made Steve’s mouth water. He leaned up to kiss along the angry scarring at Bucky’s shoulder where metal met flesh, causing Bucky to whine even louder
And fuck, they could be as loud as they wanted to be. No one was going to come running, or call the vice squad. They weren’t going to get court martialled and drummed out of the army in disgrace. Steve mouthed along the seam, running his tongue along towards the collarbone where he knew Bucky was particularly sensitive.
“Fuck,” Bucky exclaimed, face contorted in concentration. “Fuck you, Rogers.”
“If you like,” Steve shot back, grinning wickedly as he traced one of Bucky’s nipples with his thumb. Bucky growled, pressing his fingers deeper inside himself.
“Fuck, god I want you inside me now,” he whined, throwing his head back. Steve quit tormenting him, lying back against the headboard so he could watch the show. Bucky was breathing hard, his whole chest rippling on each inhale. Apparently satisfied with his efforts, Bucky took some more of the lube and began to tease at Steve’s cock, stroking it from root to tip, thumbing the head and pressing at the sensitive spot behind his balls.
It was Steve’s turn to curse under the attention, collapsing back and closing his eyes because he had forgotten how much of a damn tease Bucky was. He gritted his teeth, breathing deeply as Bucky continued to play. It wasn’t as if they’d had much time to explore Steve’s post-serum body. There had always been other things going on. But now Bucky could take all the time he wanted, even though Steve desperately wanted him to hurry up.
Eventually, Bucky lifted himself up, holding Steve’s cock in position so he could slowly, ever so slowly, sink down onto it.
Steve exhaled, letting the sensation of Bucky stretching around him, his whole body taking him so perfectly, overwhelm him in the best possible way. He was aware of Bucky talking; moaning and whining because he’d always been so sweet at begging. They stayed like that for a while, Bucky fully seated on Steve’s cock, eyes closed and an expression of pure bliss on his face, while Steve felt he hardly dare breathe for fear of breaking the spell that seemed to hang over the room.
Then they were moving, Bucky lifting himself and Steve shifting up to meet him, happy to be guided by Bucky’s pace. Bucky leaned forward and kissed him messily as they fucked, hands tugging in hair while teeth left purple imprints over throats.
“Fuck, Christ,” Bucky shouted, whole body shaking as he fucked himself on Steve’s cock, moving his hands to hold Steve by the shoulders, pinning him down so he could control the pace. “You’re so fucking perfect. Always was… ah…” he gasped as Steve thrust up hard. “Always loved getting fucked by you.”
Steve reached to take Bucky in hand, wanting to make him come. Bucky keened loudly as Steve’s hand moved over his cock, rocking his hips to fuck upwards into Steve’s hand, before sinking back down. The bed was groaning beneath them as they increased their speed, Steve briefly wondering whether Bucky or the bed would break first.
Bucky came first, crying out Steve’s name as he spilt over Steve’s hand. Steve felt Bucky bear down on him as he came, which in turn pushed him over the edge, continuing to fuck up into Bucky through his orgasm. Bucky collapsed on top of him, burying his head into Steve’s shoulder, breathing hard and hot against Steve’s neck. Steve just held him, needing to feel he was real and there, relishing every second as their heart rates settled.
“Not moving,” Bucky mumbled, and Steve recognised the petulant tone of a well-fucked Bucky, boneless and sated and not at all bothered that he was a sticky mess of sweat and cum. Steve turned to kiss his forehead, sweeping his fingers through sweat-matted hair. In a moment he would be the one to get up, ignoring Bucky’s grumbles, so that he could grab a flannel from the bathroom and clean them both up. And then they could sleep, wrapped up in each other, safe and happy and with all the time in the world.
+
When Steve woke, it was to find Bucky snoring softly beside him, hair covering his face and a few lingering marks on his throat. He couldn't remember ever feeling so at peace, certainly not since he’d woken up. He was content to just lie there and watch the man in his bed, watch him slowly wake up, his forehead furrowing, followed by a long huff of breath as though his subconscious was thoroughly unimpressed with the whole concept of waking up, and finally the way Bucky seemed to curl in on himself, pushing even closer to Steve and letting out a soft contented noise.
“Morning sleepy head,” Steve murmured, and chuckled at the irate “fuck off” he got in return. He bent over to kiss Bucky's forehead, because that was a thing he could do, here and now. Bucky sniffed, jerking his head and chasing Steve's mouth, clearly seeking a proper good-morning kiss. They lay there in the comfort of Steve's bed, exchanging gentle kisses after the frantic and desperate sex from the night before. They'd never have to rush ever again if they didn't want to. They had all the time in the world. They could stay in bed all day if they so desired (barring the end of the world, obviously) but otherwise, everything else could wait.
“Ugh, I need coffee,” Bucky groaned, pulling himself back from Steve with a disgruntled noise. Steve, still glowing from the night before, only hummed softly, knowing full well that he was grinning stupidly. Pressing one final firm kiss to Steve's forehead, Bucky climbed off the bed, pausing to grab Steve's boxers off the bedroom floor before sauntering out of the bedroom towards the kitchen.
Steve watched him go with a smile on his face. It was 2015; he was 97 and Bucky was going to have to work awful hard next year to top this present, that was for damn sure.