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Bucky doesn't leave the house much.
Nat calls it paranoia- although he doesn't think that's fair, considering half the nations in the world really are still out to get him. Steve tries to pass it off as having half a century's movies to catch up on. Bucky likes that idea- it makes him sound like a normal human being. He isn't actually sure that he's either, though.
It's almost the truth, but in reality Bucky spends most of his time pacing the apartment, checking and double checking the locks. Other times he curls up against the window and watches blankly as pedestrians walk by with their dogs. He likes to think he could go out and explore, some days, but the truth is he doesn't really understand this Brooklyn, doesn't know where to start.
His phone buzzes on the countertop. He knows without checking the ID who it is. Only a few people have the number, and only Steve uses it.
it's a gay bar. why did natasha want to meet at gay bar? After the message are several tiny disgruntled faces that he doesn't really understand yet. Bucky blinks. For America's hero, Steve could be oblivious as shit sometimes. But Bucky's not going to say anything, because ex-assassin or no, Ma Barnes raised a gentleman and a lady's business is her own.
Less creeps, I guess. He doesn't send any faces, disgruntled or otherwise.
yeah, then omg hey buck they have drinks that change colour this century is wild.
The next text is a picture of a Moscow Mule with the caption it's you. Not that he drinks much, but Bucky actually likes those cocktails; something Nat teased him over endlessly, until he found out she drank White Russians. He doesn't reply to the text.
bucky they have bananatinis will it taste like actual bananas this time ? Bucky grimaces. He'd suffered unimaginable torture at the hands of HYDRA, but nothing compared to what the modern world had done to bananas. The next message reads IT DOES! followed by no less than twelve lines of tiny pictures. He still doesn't reply, but it makes him smile. Ok nat got held up with shield stuff im gonna finish my drink then head to your place. enchiladas?
Sure. Bucky swears he hasn't cooked once for Steve yet, but non-rationed, non-liquified food is so good. He's debating if he should stare at dogs some more when his phone buzzes again. You were wrong about the creeps.
Bucky's heart starts drumming against his sternum. Are you ok
Yeah just this one guy won't leave me be.
Is he coming on to you??? Delete. Even Steve can't miss the territorial edge to those question marks. Tell him to get lost. You're Captain America.
thats the thing tho its some kind of trophy thing ? hes a fan i cant be rude. Bucky slams his hand down onto the granite in frustration. I'm sure he'll stop in a minute. besides its fine i dont want to make a scene.
Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose. Fine. But the first sign of trouble I'm feeding him his own spleen.
Ahaha thank u. It's cute that Steve thinks he's joking. He actually did that to a guy in Murmansk once. He almost leaves it at that, but all his nerves are fried and he jerks when the phone buzzes again, twice in quick succession.
Ugh no buck he keeps touching my arm!
could you come here? i keep saying i'm not interested but maybe if he thinks im taken he'll stop? sorry
Bucky shoves his arms into his jacket and is slamming the door behind him as soon as his phone hits the table.
//
The subway lights are too bright. They remind him of examination tables miles from here. He doesn't look away.
//
The bar smells like hops spilled on wood grain. Bucky misses the smoke- good, earthy smoke, not the white stuff they pump in for show now. He shoves his metal hand into his pocket, pushes through the crowd, and-
Shit.
He'd thought he was prepared for this.
The guy isn't tall, or particularly tough-looking. He's wearing a pastel blue polo shirt and holds a cosmopolitan with his little finger sticking out. But Bucky watches him lay a hand on Steve's bicep and Steve visibly recoils under his touch, his mouth moves and shit, he wants to grab Steve right out from under the creep's hands and hightail it out the door. To a place where when Steve said jump, people nodded politely and asked how fucking high.
Bucky makes a low noise in the back of his throat. Theoretically, there were plenty of responses to this, that ranged from strategic eyebrow movement to the use of the knife he had hidden against his thigh. But one look at the creep, all up in Steve's personal space with his aftershave and shitty dental hygiene (and worse than that, the rabbit-meet-headlights look on Steve's fucking face), and, well. Bucky clenches his jaw and is halfway across the room before he realises it.
He knows that if he thinks about it too much, he'll back out; just like he has too many times before. So he marches straight up to Steve, wraps an arm around his waist, and kisses him.
Fuck. Steve doesn't even hesitate. His lips are soft and yielding and taste like Coke in glass bottles on a Brooklyn shoreline. For a moment, Bucky forgets everything, but in a good way, the best way, the kind he wants relive over and over.
He almost forgets it's a show. By the time Bucky pulls away, it almost isn't, anymore.
But Steve called his best pal out to have his back, not reach for… other parts of him. So instead of kissing him again, he throws an arm around Steve's shoulders. "Sorry I'm late, babe." It's not the name he would choose for Steve. Steve is a doll, a fella at a push. Bucky hates the fact he's thought about this.
Fuck, he'd forgotten how gold Steve's eyelashes were. That was some Rumplestiltskin shit right there.
The creep seems too stubborn or too stupid to get the message, though. "Hey," he drawls out in a stupid Cali accent that Bucky wants to rip out of his throat for ever making Steve uncomfortable. "Um, this was kind of a private conversation, so…"
Steve squints, forcing a smile. "Was it?" He draws his hand back as the creep reaches for a glass beside it.
"Well, yeah, I was talking about how great it would be to have a profile like you on my podcast, and then in other places," he winks suggestively. Bucky feels Steve tense beside him. "Not really something anyone can be part of, you know?" The prick leans forward and says, in a stage whisper, "Honey, you could be doing so much better than him."
The guy is neither as tall or as broad as either Bucky or Steve, and logically, he knows Steve could fight this battle easily if he wanted. Logically.
But he can tell from the set of Steve's jaw and the way his eyes dart around the room that he clearly doesn't want, and all of Bucky's nerve endings are screaming at full volume. So he dredges together every memory he has of James Buchanan Barnes, every scrap of the charm he can muster, but injects a little bit of The Asset in there, too. He throws the creep a winning smile that shows a few too many teeth.
"Hey, buddy, have we got a problem here?" He reaches out with his left hand, and grasps the guy's forearm, just hard enough to leave a bruise.
A muscle twitches in the other guy's jaw. "Not if I can help it."
And it would be easy, too fucking easy to clamp his metal hand down on this guy's throat, and quiet too. It's not Bucky's first rodeo. But. That's not what Steve called him for. And if he found out later that it was, Bucky was gonna be really disappointed. Instead, he shows a few more teeth, and tightens his grip on the guy's arm.
"Listen," he leans forward. "My guy here is far too polite to kick your ass in front of all these people. Me though?" Bucky laughs softly, and the creep looks like he's just wet himself. "I lost my manners a long time ago. So you might just wanna think about stepping off, before I crush a whole lot more than just your arm, pal." He lets go, and the man backs away, Adam's Apple bobbing in his throat.
Steve raises his glass in a toast. "Have a good night!" he calls. Then out of the corner of his mouth, he murmurs "My guy?"
"I was on the spot." Bucky leans against the bar, and he's almost smiling. "You're getting soft in your old age, you know."
"Hey, the serum didn't cure everything," Steve laughs, bumping his shoulder against Bucky's and draining the last of his drink. Bucky watches as he swallows and wonders if the nearest church accepts ex-assassins with metal arms. "But thanks, buddy. Seriously. That could have been a nightmare, PR-wise. And, uh personally." That was Steve all over. Still shrinking away at the first sign of a dame. His balls must be as blue as his eyes. It's disgustingly endearing.
Bucky wants to say something. He wants to tell Steve all the great ways in which he has and hasn't changed. Instead, he shrugs and bites the inside of his lip. "You asked for me."
Shit, Bucky needs his expression chart again. He has no fucking clue what the look on Steve's face means and he hates it. Relief, maybe? Steve sets his empty glass down on the bar. "It's early."
"It's nearly midnight."
"Early by New York standards!" He throws an arm around Bucky's shoulders. Bucky tries not to pull away. "City that never sleeps, Buck! You can get frozen yoghurt at like, 4 in the morning." He frowns. "Actually, that sounds really good right about now. Wanna find some with me?"
Bucky doesn't want yoghurt. He looks at Steve, and his dumb blue eyes haven't changed at all in seventy years, and they're in the better half of downtown on a Thursday night, and if Steve had called Bucky asking him to walk through fire, he would have been there just as fast.
He says, "Yeah, alright."
//
The twenty-first century needs to calm the fuck down.
What the hell was ever wrong with the colour brown? Bucky thinks, staring at the row multicoloured yoghurt. He'd grown up eating food that was mostly brown or white, with the occasional green. At some point in the last few decades, someone had decided that food wasn't good enough if it didn't look like it had been shat out by a chemical plant. Bucky thinks he has enough superpowers as it is.
He frowns. "How do people focus on anything anymore?" Even without his head being… what it is, this seems like way too much input for the average human.
Steve shrugs. He's smiling and already pulling down a lever labelled Apple Pie. Bucky has a sudden and almost irresistible urge to take his hand- almost being the active word, and the most helpful. "I don't know, man. Some places even have secret menus now. Like, it's a dessert, who are you trying to hide this from?"
Bucky grins. "HYDRA have always wondered how to make mango fruit blasts."
Steve throws his head back and laughs at that, shoulders shaking, even though it just wasn't that funny. It almost feels natural to make jokes, even about the time Bucky had been… away. James would have done it. Maybe Bucky can, too.
Shit, Bucky would give anything to hear that laugh every day for the rest of his life.
He picks the most normal but most decadent flavour he can find. He's trying to enjoy the little things he'd missed out on whilst he was the asset. Wearing odd socks. Stopping for stray cats. Second helpings- he hadn't even remembered they were a thing until Thanksgiving at Sam's. Things that made Bucky feel human, and selfish, because he hasn't been either in a very long time.
This place is bright and overwhelming, but Bucky doesn't have the heart to ask to leave. At least it's empty- it's way past closing time, but the vendor has a Cap shield tattoo and keeps looking over at them, starry-eyed. Steve smiled really wide when they walked in, though, because the title is some reference to a movie Bucky's yet to catch up with, and everything smells like sugar and pine floor cleaner. It's not so bad.
Chocolate and fresh fruit had been pretty scarce in his house, even before the war. He thinks of Becca as he stirs plump raspberries into the chocolate mixture, then stops thinking at all, very quickly. The yoghurt is the wrong texture and the wrong temperature but it's good. The chocolate tastes sweet and rich against his tongue, the raspberries exploding in bursts of tart juice. Bucky closes his eyes. He thinks he had something this sweet, a long time ago, but the memory bubbles just beneath the surface.
"Here, try this," Steve shoves a plastic neon spoon into Bucky's hand.
Bucky tentatively lifts it to his mouth, and his eyes go wide; there's a rush of flavour, cinnamon and vanilla and crisp green apples picked in August heat. He shuts his eyes, and sunlight filters into his mother's kitchen through the shutters, too many people and hands packed in around a small wooden table. He can almost feel the rough gingham of the tablecloth, hear the clink of spoons against empty dishes.
It's a memory he hadn't realised he still had. He loves it. "It tastes just like-"
"Like the pie your ma used to make," Steve finishes for him. He's smiling. "I know. Guess they didn't completely wreck the world while we were gone, huh?"
"No, they- oh my god," Bucky leans forward and steals another spoonful of Steve's dessert. "I love the future. What?" he asks, mouth half full."Why are you looking at me funny?"
"Nothing, It's just," Steve looks at him with something unreadable in his eyes. "I missed you, Buck."
The thrum of the halogen lights seems too loud, and Bucky hates the unsurity in his voice as he says, quietly, "I think I missed you too."
He holds the tiny plastic spoon out, but Steve doesn't take it from him, instead wrapping his mouth around the spoon and letting Bucky feed him. His eyelids half close and he makes a noise of approval.
Oh man.
Bucky is so fucked.
//
Steve stands too close to Bucky for the entire journey home. Every time the subway car stutters or jolts, they brush together, fabric against skin. Bucky notices. He stares at the lights and the adverts with their corners ripped, and doesn't say anything.
//
"I'm just gonna hop in the shower, okay? Help yourself to coffee or whatever." Steve doesn't flip the overhead light on- he must have noticed Bucky's squint- and instead illuminates a lamp by the doorway that gives off a yellowish light. He throws his keys onto a nearby chair (Bucky has to forcibly stop himself from checking the locks), and heads towards the tiny bathroom. Bucky ignores the sound of the faucet, ignores the heat rising on the back of his neck, or at least tries to.
The room is full of Geoffrey Bradfield couture shit, all block colours, no edges. Courtesy of Stark, Bucky guesses. Like Steve had time to pick out fancy bookshelves and wall hangings. At the sight of the bed, though (double, down-soft) Bucky almost regrets not moving into the flat he'd been offered. He wonders if he could fit in here, surrounded by gloss and chairs you're not supposed to sit on. What if Ma could see us now.
He smiles as he sees the little parts of Steve that have fallen through the plastic-wrapped crevices. The smell of pencil shavings. Loose receipts for everything bagels. Odd socks with holes in the toes.
There's a wireless radio out of place beside the bed, old, Bucky knows, because Steve loves the sound of static snow behind the music. He flicks the on switch. There's an old, slow song playing, one that he recognises but can't place. Something about the stars. He likes it.
Suddenly, it feels almost unbearably intimate, being here. The fabric of Bucky's t-shirt seems too thin, and he's grateful for the dim light. He's not going to help himself to coffee.
"Thank you," the voice is soft in the bathroom doorway, but Bucky still jumps a little. "For saving my ass, earlier. You didn't have to do that just because I'm uncomfortable."
Bucky had actually turned out nice. "You asked."
"I know. But still." Steve pads slowly onto the carpet in bare feet. Bucky can't read his expression."You're still so much like him, you know."
The mood shatters just like that. Bucky almost gives himself whiplash in his speed to look away. He doesn't need to ask Steve what he's talking about. "No I'm not." Suddenly, there are calloused and gentle hands against the stubble of his jaw.
"But you are, Bucky," Steve says softly, blue eyes wide. "I know you think you're, I don't know, some kind of imposter. But tonight- that kind of loyalty is all you, buddy."
It's suddenly too much. Bucky jerks away from the touch, chest tight. "Don't." Steve's face crumples like a bagel wrapper, and man, Bucky really fucking hates himself. He doesn't need his chart to know he's fucking things up right now. "Don't, Steve."
He wants to cover his face. He wants to all the time, and yeah, that is the paranoia talking sometimes, but not now. Right now he knows exactly what he has to be afraid of.
"I'm sorry, Buck- I didn't want to-"
"Upset me?" It comes out sharp. Mean, rough-edged. Bucky knows the feeling. "Steve, this is upsetting, and I'm not the same."
"I know you're not the same. I never said- never expected you to be the same." Steve's walking forward, and he's still only wearing that towel around his waist, and none of this is fair. "You just- you didn't lose everything. You didn't lose me. You don't need to run away from me."
"Don't I? Steve, neither of us know who the hell I am."
"I know you. You're not as much of a cryptic mess as you want to be." Maybe that's true. Better to leave some things a mystery, because after everything, Bucky likes having someone who doesn't look at him with fear. Steve steps forward again, a hand tugging at his hair. "Prove it, Bucky. Prove you're not him. Do one thing that he would never have done. If you're so different, prove it." He almost raises his voice, but doesn't. Bucky almost flinches, but manages not to.
And- Bucky sees red. Not bullet-fire red, though, or wound-red, because he never does with Steve. He sees summer berry red, chilli-pepper, patchwork quilt, American flag red. Steve's looking at him with deep lines on his forehead and still-wet hair and nothing has ever made more sense than this. So Bucky closes the space between them.
And they're kissing. And kissing. And kissing.
In private, this time. Not a show. Maybe still a rescue mission.
Bucky probably smells of motor oil and sweat but Steve leans in anyway, leaving the ghost of cinnamon against Bucky's mouth. Shit. He smells like sandalwood and sea salt and the tips of his hair are still curling from the shower. They're stood right beside the bed. Bucky can feel his pulse in the tips of his fingers.
They break apart almost without warning, and Bucky wants to fucking die. There's an apology halfway to his mouth because it's ruined, he's ruined it, it's ruined-
But then Steve presses his forehead against Bucky's shoulder, and after a second Bucky wraps his arms around him like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like they could be anybody, anywhere else. "Shit," Steve says quietly, and that's when Bucky knows something big is happening. "Shit."
"Yeah," he agrees, quietly. The bathroom light hums, the light throwing strange shadows up against the walls.
"Think of all the time we could have had." Bucky wonders when Steve got a direct subscription to the shitstream in Bucky's head. "I mean- I know we couldn't always, but- Seventy years, Buck."
Technically it had been longer- for Bucky at least. He doesn't think it's a good time to bring that up. Instead he rubs soothing circles onto Steve's back with his right hand. "I thought, maybe- Peggy, still-"
(He doesn't think about what his metal hand feels like to Steve- on his hair, his lips, the small of his back. Sometimes, on a good day, he imagines the hand wrapped around Steve's cock, then shakes off that image before it can do any more damage.)
"Then, maybe. Peggy was the love of my life," he says, and Bucky hates his heart for sinking. "But the night you-" Steve swallows. "The night of the train, you know what me and Peggy talked about? You. For nights and nights and nights. The way you moved, talked- I think she knew before we did, honestly. What we could have been."
Bucky blinks. Steve's words sound like they're coming through treacle. "You mean- us?" Steve is trying to apologise, he thinks, but he doesn't need to. He doesn't feel second-best. Under Steve's hands he feels best, best, forever best.
Steve is barely listening, though. "I should have been faster. Shoulda got there sooner," Steve whispers, half to himself, and shit, yeah, Bucky's nipping that in the bud right now.
"You were always gonna go into that ice. Both of us know nothing can get that goddamn hero streak outta you." His accent is coming back. He doesn't know how to feel about that. "I would have been long gone by the time you defrosted. No, listen," He pulls away from Steve, who avoids his gaze. "I would have mourned you, Steve. There's no way I would have come back from that."
Steve's hands ball into fists against his back, trembling. "But I still should have caught you. I should have saved you."
"For God's sake, Steve," Bucky takes Steve's face between his palms. Despite everything, he's smiling. "You did. You are."
The next kiss is equal parts lust and desperation, Steve's face flushed, the ends of his eyelashes wet. Kissing Steve was like- like he'd been rereading a thesaurus his entire life, and had not only been handed a dictionary, but an entire fucking library of the richest novels in the world. He tangles his fingers in Steve's hair and holds him in place, breath hitching as Steve curls his hands around Bucky's hips. They don't break apart this time, barely come up for air. Steve tugs at the edge of Bucky's shirt. Oh. Oh.
Bucky's back slams against the wall. Bookshelves rattle around them, but he can't bring himself to care about the noise because Steve is against his throat, now, hot and commanding but not rough. Giving Bucky an out if he needs it. He trails a hand up Steve's side, digging in his fingernails just hard enough to get a reaction. He grins when Steve exhales sharply.
They shouldn't be doing this. But god, Bucky wants to forget that. He wants to forget.
Bucky cups Steve's jaw, nipping his lower lip gently with his teeth. Then he takes his wrist, brings it up to his mouth, running his tongue over the faint blue lines there. Steve's other hand fumbles on Bucky's zipper, but then he's moving, lingering, moving again. A rhythm starts to build up. Bucky's moan echoes around the suddenly small room.
Steve's knee plants itself firmly between Bucky's thighs as he strokes Bucky's cock. There are red bruises forming on his neck already, and Bucky smirks, before he's cut off by another jerking moan.
His hips roll up, eyes squeezed shut and breath heavy. Steve huffs out a laugh at Bucky's response. "It's not the first time I've touched you like this." It's true- army barracks are lonely at best and soul-crushing at worst. Bucky can't recall the places, the dates, but he remembers that, the feeling of Steve against him. It's nothing as good as this.
Bucky's heart stutters in his chest. "Feels like it, though."
Steve is a little too fast, Bucky probably too messy, but it's hot and real and good, ridiculously so. Bucky's back arches and he cums so hard he almost sees stars, his shoulders spasming and breath ragged. Steve isn't far behind, still pressed up against Bucky's leg, against his bare chest, sticky against the towel fabric. Bucky kind of feels proud of that, when he thinks about it.
Steve looks up at him, and shit, he looks so nervous again, his eyes so bright. "Hi."
For once, Bucky's smile is as effortless as it is breathless. He traces a thumb over Steve's bruised lips, the colour on his cheekbones. "Hi." He hesitates, his throat dry. "Was that…"
"Yes- yeah. Yes." He's breathless. "Are you-"
Bucky's nodding furiously, and for some reason he almost wants to cry. Were happy tears a thing? He can't remember. Right now he doesn't know a thing outside of this moment. Steve kisses Bucky's hand.
Steve is flustered, hands twitchy. "Can I… make you coffee?"
Bucky laughs, creases forming at the corners of his eyes, because this is so domestic it hurts. "Sure."
Steve laughs with him, because oh my god and how did we get here and where do we go after this. He picks up soft pajama trousers made of linen, throws a similar pair to Bucky. The best part of falling for another super soldier- no need to worry about sizes. His skin feels soft and new under the fabric.
He sits down on the edge of the bed, eyes closed, listening to the radio snow and the gentle clattering from the kitchenette, until Steve sits down beside him. Twin mugs sit on the nightstand, steaming, and Steve's lips are the palest pink he has ever seen. Bucky pulls the spare elastic band from around his wrist, but Steve takes it from him. "Let me," he says, sweeping Bucky's hair back, pulling it almost tight enough to be uncomfortable, but not. Bucky's eyes close as Steve's fingers work against his scalp, relaxing into the touch. "Thanks."
Steve tugs gently on one of the loose strands, smiling. "Suits you," he says, taking Bucky's hand again and lacing their fingers together. He pulls them down onto their backs, and Bucky lets himself fall, surrounds himself in plush navy fabrics and throw pillows. Physically, he's ready for rounds two through five. Mentally, though, he wants to sleep for a week, preferably wrapped in Steve's arms. He knows he's probably going too fast, but goddamnit, he's waited long enough.
He doesn't really want to speak, but Bucky isn't Bucky if he doesn't ruin the moment. "I didn't think- I would get this. I didn't think I got this."
"If you haven't worked this out already," Steve says quietly, "We're very good at proving the universe wrong."
There's so much Bucky could say right now, but instead he just says, "Yeah." It seems like they only speak in affirmations, now, but Bucky doesn't mind, because the curve of Steve's mouth when he says yes is something Bucky wants to burn into his retinas. Maybe this should feel familiar, feel like a threadbare couch decades ago, with the taste of rusted metal and bitter Ovaltine against their lips, but it doesn't. It feels new.
If this is what the future is like, Bucky almost doesn't mind that he's lost the past.
The world smells of laundry soap and Bucky can feel the sleep gathering in the corner of his eyes. So he gives in, and it's warm and quiet and simple. The radio is still on, but neither of them move to switch it off.