Chapter Text

THURSDAY, AUGUST 8, 2016. 7:35 P.M.

“Steve, these aren’t barracks.” Bucky keeps his voice low, like he’s suspicious they might have entered the wrong quarters by mistake. “This is a goddamn penthouse.”

“Well, better get used to it,” Steve laughs. “Got a washer and dryer and everything. Color television, too,” he adds, looking back over his shoulder at Bucky with laughter in his eyes.

Still, Bucky isn’t altogether convinced they’re in the right place, but after watching Steve drop his wallet and keys in the bowl by the door and seeing the old shield propped up nearby, he finally sets down his bag just inside the foyer. There’s no need to unpack it right now. It contains a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and a few important papers. He doesn’t take more than a few steps away from it just yet.

The kitchen is just around the corner to the left of the door, with a narrow island running down the middle, and a counter with tall bar stools on the far side. Every surface is empty and starkly clean. Doesn’t look like Steve uses it much, but he knows exactly where he’s stowed the coffee. With a few automatic movements and less than a minute, the twelve-cup pot is filling. Bucky walks a few paces closer to the spacious living room, glancing past the kitchen and down the hallway. There’s a bathroom on the right, a wide set of doors on the left — probably a linen closet — and a closed door just past that. At the end of the hall, the door to Steve’s bedroom is standing open. What Bucky can see of it looks the same as the rest of the apartment: eerily clean, unadorned and utilitarian, lit only by the blue evening beyond the blinds.

“You know, if this is…” Steve begins, then trails off, thinking better of whatever he was going to say. He puts the container of coffee back in the cabinet, and tries again. “Tony said you can have your own quarters, if you want them. They’d be smaller than this, but you’d have more privacy.”

“You guys don’t have to put me up here,” Bucky insists. “I could find my own place.”

“This is all bought and paid for, Buck,” Steve replies gently. “I’ve got more room in here than I can use. Had this place all to myself for a couple years, and...well. Can’t say I’ve done much with it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Be nice to have some company.” He waits for a few seconds, either searching for words or anticipating further argument from Bucky. But Bucky sets a hand down on the back of one of the bar stools, as if merely touching the furniture could show Steve that he’s willing to make himself at home. Steve seems to understand the gesture, however vague. “There’s an extra room, actually, so you can—” Steve decides mid-sentence to demonstrate rather than describe, and hurries around the kitchen island, motioning for Bucky to follow him down the hall. He opens the door to reveal a small guest bedroom.

The rest of Steve’s quarters were practically sterile — this room is warm. Welcoming. Steve’s put some thought into it. It still reflects Steve’s stoic sense for decor — the mattress sports the same patternless sheet-set that Bucky had just seen on the corner of Steve’s own bed, but there’s also an old quilt folded neatly by the footboard. There are plain, dark curtains hanging over the blinds. A little rug on the wooden floor. A piece of Steve’s art hangs on the wall above the desk — watercolor, grey, brown and blue, kids playing in a Brooklyn street with only a single car, leaping over white and gold streaked puddles that have caught the sunshine spilling over the uneven tops of the brownstones. Bucky recognizes the rails of the old fire escape in the foreground, in sharp, detailed focus against the playful cityscape beyond.

“Still haven’t finished cleaning out the desk and the bookshelf,” Steve explains hurriedly, as if to downplay the hours of work he must have already put into this. “Used to have an office in here, but now I’ve got one upstairs in Ops, and, well, you know. If I’ve got paperwork, I just do it at the kitchen table, so…” he trails off, eyes flickering over to watch Bucky’s expression, trying to gauge his opinion. “Well. All yours, if you want it.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Bucky replies, surprise still evident in his voice.

“You don’t have to use it, you know.”

“Steve, it’s perfect, really, I mean it—”

“Well, I just meant that—”

“I could use the company, too, unless you think I should—”

“No, no, Buck—” Steve’s ragged, frustrated laugh brings a halt to the conversation as he squeezes his eyes shut, trying desperately to phrase a complicated request. “I just wanted to say that...my bedroom’s right down the hall.”

Bucky turns to stare at Steve, the bedroom beyond the doorway all but forgotten. “You want to — you wanna share a room?”

“Well, you don’t…” Steve replies quietly, a blush spreading slowly across his cheeks. “When you’re ready. You know you’re welcome. Anytime. I hope you know that.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, voice barely more than a whisper. “If you’re...I would like that. I’d love that.”

Steve is briefly lost for words, but the smile that slips onto his face is more telling than anything words could express. He reaches across the width of the open doorway to lay a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. For the first time in months, he doesn’t feel the need to pull it away and break the contact, no matter how many seconds slip by before he can speak again.“Okay.”

“Do you still want—” Bucky swallows nervously, eyes searching back through the bedroom, like he’s trying to see if the right words are lying on the floor somewhere. Steve thinks he can see the knot in his throat. “Are we sleeping together?”

“Only if you want to.”

“Do you want to?”

“Bucky, if—”

“Yes or no?”

“Of course I do.”

“So do I.”

“Bucky...if you just want to take some time to yourself for now — get settled in — I don’t want you to feel like we have to rush back into this.”

“I don’t want to wait anymore. I — Sorry. Steve, thank you. For what you did in here. It’s nice. But if you’re alright with it...you know, let’s just call this what it is. Pick up where we left off.”

Steve is paralyzed for a moment, every mental and physical resource he possesses focused on processing this recurring fantasy into present reality. Finally, he blinks the last cloudy disbelief out of his eyes and his face splits into a grin. His hand drops from Bucky’s shoulder down to the small of his back, where it rests just as naturally as ever. “Well. I’m sure we can come up with something else to do with this room.”

“Tonight?” Bucky asks, voice lower and more hesitant than before, but with a shining, hopeful note.

“Let’s wait to decide until after dinner,” Steve suggests, fingers sliding back up Bucky’s side to squeeze his shoulder again, only to feel it go a little rigid.

Bucky’s teeth worry at the inside of his cheek. “You don’t...it’s not a good time?”

Steve thinks he understands what Bucky has decided not to say — You don’t think I’m ready yet. He slides his hand up further to the back of Bucky’s neck and pulls him close, chest to chest, leaning on the doorframe, and bends down to lay his chin on Bucky’s shoulder. “It’s your call, Buck. But listen — I got all the stuff to make lasagna and—”

Bucky sighs, realizing where Steve’s going with this, and his sigh builds to a laughs that seems to release all the tension form his muscles. He retaliates with a weak, playful punch, right in the ribs.

“Bought enough food to put us both in coma,” Steve continues, laughing along with Bucky. “I’m just saying, let’s see how you’re doing once you got five pounds of Italian food in you.”

Bucky leans forward to rest on Steve’s shoulder just as Steve is resting on his, rubbing his flesh hand up and down the length of Steve’s spine. “I want to make the lasagna. I remember how.”

Of all the little miracles that have occurred in the course of their brief conversation, that’s the request that strikes a chord in Steve’s heart, that drives it all home.

This is the culmination of infinite singular events that had brought them both from 1944 to the hallway of this apartment, against every impossibility. This is what he’d prayed for at the end of every long night spent pouring over the Kiev files one more time , just to read Bucky’s name. Just to see his face. He wanted Bucky to remember him, to want to be close to him. To be safe. To feel safe. For everything to come easily, for his mind to have time to rest, to recover good memories — schoolyard games, Brooklyn rooftops on Independence Day, that snowy night in a London pub, his mother’s recipes. “God, Bucky — I—”

“I love you,” Bucky nods resolutely, tipping his head up to rub their cheeks together.

In the kitchen, the coffee maker is beeping, and there’s an oven that needs to preheat, and an old cast iron skillet to brown the sausage. There’s unplayed music on the antique record player, and all over the apartment, there are lights just waiting to be turned on. Steve had never had a reason to make the place feel anything but temporary. Now, Bucky’s here to share it all with again, to make hours into memories, songs into dances, and empty rooms into a home.

“I feel like...I don’t know,” Bucky mumbles against his shoulder. “Like everything’s gonna go better for us, this time.”

“Well, look at it this way,” Steve grins, standing up straight and giving Bucky’s arm a hard pat as they both head for the kitchen. “Sure as hell can’t go any worse.”

Bucky thinks the lasagna tastes off, somehow. Not bad, but not quite like his ma made it, either. Steve, on the other hand, raves about it until Bucky can no longer get a word in edgewise. Bucky finishes a third of the pan on his own, but Steve eats most of the remainder, complimenting every layer, and tells Bucky he has to force himself to quit eating before he hurts himself.

Afterwards, they sit at the kitchen table, making quiet conversation as they finish their drinks. They talk about nothing in particular — Steve’s teammates, his life at the Facility, the little life Bucky had made for himself in Europe, old memories, lost friends, the war. Talking about the war devolves quickly into reminiscing about the times the Commandos had almost caught them in the act. Nice to be able to laugh about it now — at the time, it had been scary as hell.

Ten minutes of that kind of talk, and Steve’s face feels hot and Bucky’s cheeks are flushed. Steve excuses himself for a moment to get another beer for them to split, but all he really wants to do is stick his head in the freezer for a minute or two. He’s pleasantly surprised to find a slice of cheesecake behind the beers — a gift from Pepper. She always told him that baking saved her money on therapy. He plates it, grabs one fork from the drawer, and brings it out to the table.

The moment he sits back down, he can feel an electric anticipation gathering between them, and although they don’t talk about their after-dinner plans just yet, something about Bucky’s eyes tells Steve that the goal hasn’t changed. This feels like a date — a date that’s going really, really well. The atmosphere is warm and charged as they sit beside each other at the table, passing the fork back and forth until the cheesecake is gone. This is perfect. This is heaven.

Steve isn’t sure which of them moves first. Bucky shifts forward in his seat. Steve drops the fork on the empty plate and lays his hand on top of Bucky’s. Their eyes meet. Bucky’s head tilts a little, sweet, inviting, and Steve leans forward.

And then their press together, as easy and natural as breathing, and they draw each other in slowly and carefully, tasting like sweet cream and soda pop, heartbeats loud, feeling like twenty-somethings in the park after an evening stroll. Steve is amazed that after all they’ve been through together, they still have something they can share, something untouched, unblemished, that still feels this new and innocent. He supposes that’s just how love is — no matter how many times you test it, it remains uncompromised.

Steve lets Bucky set the pace. He doesn’t want to go too fast — he still has no idea what might spook him, what level of contact Bucky can handle, what he’ll need to work up to, what he’s comfortable doing and what he’s comfortable having done to him.

But once the bedroom door is shut and all the lights are out besides the warm, dim bedside lamp, Bucky seems to pick up right where they left off in ‘45. The rich, creamy light on Steve’s dark, solid sheets makes the room feel small and intimate, like they’re back in that little tent in Switzerland with their bedrolls stacked together, trying to ease each other to sleep.

Bucky takes a seat on the edge of the bed and sheds his jacket and the long-sleeved shirt underneath. Steve’s lovesick eyes tell him he’s made of solid gold. Bucky’s also bigger than he used to be — stronger and healthier than he’d been during the war — and Steve will no longer have to worry about hurting him, because Bucky can hold his own. Bucky’d probably had the same thought about him back in ‘43. Now, they’re perfectly matched.

Steve pulls off his own shirt and drops it on the floor. He can clean up in the morning. Right now, neatness is his last priority, because Bucky leans back on the heels of his hands and tips his chin up invitingly, signalling that Steve should come closer.

Steve plants a knee on the bed between Bucky’s legs and a hand on his bare shoulder, pushing him back onto the cool blankets, and Bucky grips Steve’s thigh between his almost reassuringly, telling him , I’m alright. Keep going.

He presses one more hard kiss to Bucky’s lips before moving on, nuzzling gently along that stubbled jawline, detouring momentarily to worry the soft shell of Bucky’s ear between his teeth, and finally dipping down to swipe the flat of his tongue over the pulsepoint on his throat. Bucky’s soft, needy sigh becomes a low moan that Steve feels vibrate under his mouth. He brings his thigh forward to close the distance between them, quad pressing firmly at the apex of Bucky’s legs, and he can feel how hot Bucky’s running even through two layers of denim.

Bucky reaches out and takes hold of Steve’s belt-loops, pulling him in insistently, and then pops open the button and lowers his fly, knuckles brushing lightly over Steve’s cock. A shiver of arousal skitters through Steve’s body and he gasps against the red bruise he’s sucked into Bucky’s shoulder, because even that careless little touch feels like a hot brand right in the pit of his stomach and fresh waves of blood fill him up and make him throb and ache and... God, he needs this.

And then Bucky shoves him away, forcing him to stand, drags his jeans down over his thighs and yanks his boxers down just low enough to free his flushed, swollen cock. Steve groans deep in his chest as the cool air and Bucky’s warm exhale hit him in quick succession.

This is. Steve’s head spins. Amazing. Unbelievable. This is so good. Physically, the sensations are amazing, but his heart is soaring right alongside his body, because this is Bucky. Hell, this moment shouldn’t even be possible , and yet here they both are. The man he thought he’d lost is right here . Bucky who went off to war, who he had found against all odds, Bucky who fell into that ravine and survived everything that Hydra put him through and walked away and disappeared and took back his selfhood and then came home. He would have been perfectly content to lie down beside him, clothed from head to toe, and do nothing more than kiss him and hold him close until they’d both drifted off. He would have been content to do that for every night for the rest of his life, if that’s all Bucky had wanted. But instead, Bucky is giving him this, and more importantly, Bucky is taking this for himself. They’re sharing this. Both giving, both taking.

Bucky is the one driving this forward, and Steve trusts him to know what he wants, to go at his own pace, to slow down if he needs to. Slow just doesn’t seem to be what Bucky is interested in right now.

Steve steadies his breathing and reaches down to push his fingers through Bucky’s hair. He tightens his grip involuntarily when a warm, flesh palm cups his balls and presses them upward. Bucky groans when his hair is pulled, wrapping the other hand — smooth, unyielding vibranium — around the base of Steve’s cock.

The metal is cool and powerful and so, so foreign on Steve’s overheated, sensitive skin — it’s a completely new sensation, and Steve can’t get enough of it. He wants so badly to thrust forward into Bucky’s fist, but he flushes down to his chest at the thought because, damn it, if Bucky knew how much Steve loves the feeling of the Weapon gripping him...well, Steve doesn’t guess he’s ever hear the end of it.

Oh, hell, forget it. Because when Bucky presses his lips to the head of Steve’s cock, sucks it into his mouth, drags his tongue over a vein and hollows out his cheeks and swallows, once Steve feels that softness and heat on him again he doesn’t know why he’d ever want anything else.

To his credit, Steve lasts a staggering five minutes before he has to hold his breath and give Bucky a desperate tap on the shoulder. The look in Bucky’s eyes mirrors Steve’s own disappointment at the interruption. God knows, he doesn’t want him to stop, but Steve has other plans. This shouldn’t be how it ends, or really even how the night starts. He wants to be closer. He wants Bucky to feel what he’s feeling, wants them moving together. Bucky’s heavy lashes and bright cheeks and sharp, ragged breaths are enough indication that Steve isn’t the only one wanting a little more.

Steve takes care of his own clothes first, shucking his shoes, socks, jeans, and boxers in a hurry and tossing them in the general direction of his discarded shirt. Bucky’s jeans and briefs come next, and by that time, Steve’s so focused on the sight of his gorgeous guy that he’s not sure where the hell he throws those.

Steve realizes with a stuttered apology that he’s been living the single-and-overworked life for so long that he doesn’t even have a bottle of lube in his bedroom. He wishes he’d have thought to pick one up at the drugstore, but Bucky’s request had come so suddenly that he hadn’t even thought about it. After a few seconds of panic and a smiling roll of Bucky’s eyes, he jogs off to his bathroom to dig a jar of Vaseline out of his medicine cabinet, and boy, is he ever glad that it’s not empty.

When he returns to the bedroom, Bucky is stretched out on his belly across the covers, one arm dangling languidly off the edge of the bed, so clearly waiting for Steve to come back and work him open that Steve lets a low hum of arousal slip from his throat. He pops the jar open and settles between Bucky’s open legs.

As much as he wants to hurry, Steve is intensely aware that the responsibility of setting the pace now falls to him, and this is not something he can allow himself to rush. He starts out slow, setting the Vaseline aside and rubbing his palms from the small of Bucky’s back over the dimples above his hip-bones and down to the swell of his ass until Bucky’s just purring for him with every stroke. Finally, he takes hold of Bucky’s full cheeks and parts them, rubbing firm fingers everywhere he can reach, digging his thumbs in right where glute meets thigh, kneading the muscles and feeling the perfect roundness under his hands until Bucky’s soft, contented sighs become desperate, throaty pleas.

Steve coats his middle finger and then rubs the pad of it in slow, lazy circles over the velvet ring of muscle, until Bucky finally relaxes enough to let him slide in. Bucky’s groan starts out quiet and focused, but quickly builds to a wrecked, wild crescendo as Steve presses in deep. By the time Steve has him worked open enough to accommodate a second and third finger, he’s pushing back into them, fucking himself on Steve’s hand, and Steve knows he’s miles beyond ready now. He’s halfway to begging . And thank God, because he’s too hard to wait another minute.

When Steve pulls his fingers free, Bucky rolls onto his side and draws his knee up to his chest, pulling one of Steve’s feather pillows down to cradle his head so that he can watch him. Steve gathers up most of the remaining Vaseline in his palm and slowly, feeling Bucky’s eyes on him, he strokes himself from tip to root, careful not to push himself too far. Bucky hugs his knee closer and wets his lips, pupils wide and dark and breaths measured. Steve twists his wrist right as he ends his stroke, just because he’s not above putting on a show when Bucky’s staring him down like that, and when he finally leans forward and presses against him, Bucky smiles and settles down on the pillow, whispering softly, hazily, “I missed you. I love you.”

Steve lets his head drop to rest against Bucky’s shoulder and plants a kiss on his arm. “Love you, Buck.”

And Bucky repeats it again and again as Steve pushes into him, chants it like a mantra as Steve sinks in inch by inch until they’re both breathless and sweating and Steve is so deep inside him that they can feel each other’s pounding heartbeats.

Steve starts out nice and easy — fucks into him with slow, measured rolls of his hips as they both fall silent, each intent on listening to the other breathe, wordlessly focused on nothing except the feeling of being joined together. And as fervently as Steve’s aching cock is telling him to thrust in hard and fast, he can’t seem to tear his gaze away from Bucky’s profile as it is right then — framed by the Weapon and his pillow, dark waves of hair spread out like a halo, eyes shut and lips parted to drag in deep lungfuls of the sex-tinged air, with breaths occasionally interrupted by a low, sighing utterance of Steve’s name.

“Baby,” he begs. “Baby, please. Please, Stevie, more, more— ”

“I’ve gotcha, Buck. I’ve got you,” Steve promises, leaning back onto his heels and taking Bucky’s knee in his own firm grip for purchase. And from the moment Steve sets that quick, powerful rhythm, they’re both gone. Bucky calls Steve’s name again and again and Steve answers with his body, driving in harder and rougher than he ever would have dared had it not been for the way it’s making Bucky toss his head back and practically sob with pleasure.

Bucky reaches up and lays a hand on Steve’s chest, not asking him to slow down, not pleading for more — just to touch him and feel the way his heart is clamoring beneath his skin. Steve lays his own hand over Bucky’s in response, and that closeness, that intimate, simple connection is what ultimately carries them both over the edge of the precipice.

Steve feels Bucky’s orgasm building first, unstoppable and earth-shattering. He feels the way Bucky’s fingers dig into his chest and the fluttering contractions rippling inside him, pushing back against his cock, squeezing him powerfully at the base, and Steve’s own climax hits him with unbelievable speed and intensity as he buries himself completely in Bucky’s feverish heat. Bucky’s orgasm takes longer to crest but, God almighty, it lasts and lasts until Steve can hardly believe that Bucky hasn’t lost consciousness, rolling in like a tide and crashing through his body like wave after wave onto soft sand, ebbing in slow motion and leaving him clean and bare, washing everything away.

“Steve,” Bucky sighs, the name hitching on tears that he can’t seem to stop from dripping onto the pillow. “Oh, my God.”

Steve laughs weakly. “Oh, sweetheart,” he smiles, collapsing onto the bed beside him. He wraps him in his arms and pulls him flush to his chest, settling his forehead into the crook of Bucky’s neck. “You’re all I need, Buck. You’re.... this — this is all I need.” He holds him tighter, and Bucky presses back against him.

“I never thought — I didn’t think I’d ever have this again. After so long — I…”

“I’m right here, Buck,” Steve swears, pouring his whole heart into every word and knowing that Bucky can hear it. “I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you.”