Bucky’s a little out of it when he picks up the phone that’s buzzing it’s way across the end table. Technically, he can’t get drunk but his inglorious combination of medication to keep him safe, sane and consensual interacts with alcohol and, well, his lack of inhibitions isn’t always lethal. He has, on occasion, been called adorable. Stark has, on occasion, been dick-punched for less.
He blinks at the text displayed on the screen.
If I send you a picture of a dick will you give me your honest reaction?
“Have you seen my phone?” asks Sam.
Wordlessly, Bucky holds it out to him. The phone buzzes in his hand again and Sam takes it, looks at the screen and bursts out laughing. In Bucky’s opinion, that is not the correct reaction to a picture of Steve’s dick, even if it is, apparently, Sam’s honest opinion.
“Shouldn’t laugh at Steve’s dick,” Bucky says, reproachfully. Naturally, Sharon has walked into the room and she and Sam are staring at Bucky.
“Shouldn’t,” says Bucky. The words feel furry in his mouth, strange and living and eager to escape. “It’s a very nice dick.” He gestures with his right hand, hoping for eloquence in the curve of his palm and the line of his thumb.
When Bucky wakes up again, his head is buzzing and it’s not quite deja-vu.
Sharon and Sam are staring at him.
“What’s wrong w’you guys?” asks Bucky. He sits up, stretching comfortably and his left arm whirrs awake. “Where’s Steve?”
Soundlessly, eerily, they both point towards the kitchen.
“Oh, good. He’s home.” Bucky eases to his feet and goes to find Steve, fully intending to inform him that his friends are weird, for all that they are loyal to a fault.
“Did you text me earlier?” Bucky asks, patting down his pockets, looking for his phone. “I feel like you texted me earlier.”
“Nope,” says Steve, not looking away from the kitchen counter. The back of his neck is red and the tag from his t-shirt is sticking up so Bucky tucks it away. Steve flinches more than is absolutely necessary for a man of his reflexes.
“So I think maybe I need never to drink again. ‘least not till the doc changes my meds.”
Steve turns around. “Are you okay, Buck?” He makes an abortive gesture with his hands, a fluttery flurry of concern.
“Yeah. Fine. Just hate that I’m sleeping all the time.”
Steve hooks his arm around Bucky’s shoulders and pulls him against his side for a bruising Steve Rogers special. “It’ll get better,” he says, muffled against Bucky’s hair. Bucky is not ashamed that he clings back. His therapist says he needs to work on regular human interaction and he doesn’t want to restrict himself to punching Tony Stark in the dick.
Sam and Sharon come to the kitchen door and stare.
“Everything okay, then?” asks Sam, brightly.
“What-” Bucky tries.
“Fine,” says Steve. “Completely perfectly fine.”
Bucky’s not sure about the way Sam’s gaze flickers down.
“So you got that picture,” Steve says and something itches in the back of Bucky’s mind, like a memory awaiting excavation and excoriation.
Oh, wait. He remembers.
“You sent Sam dick pictures,” says Bucky. He steps away from Steve.
“I did not,” says Steve. He’s bright red again. “It was --”
“No,” says Bucky. “Hey, it’s okay. I mean. It’s the twenty-first century. I - is that the time?”
“Bucky,” says Steve but Bucky’s already out of the room.
“Red Hook, huh?” Clint sits down next to Bucky. “Helluva long way to run.”
“Has it changed much since you and Steve ran about in shorts?”
“Well. There wasn’t an IKEA back then.” Bucky wrinkles his nose. “I didn’t come by the docks much. It was kinda rough.”
Clint snorts. “C’mon, you can buy me meatballs and then we can talk about how Steve isn’t sending dick pictures to Sam Wilson.”
“He -- wait. How the fuck do you know about that?” Bucky’s pretty impressed with how information disseminates amongst Steve’s circle of friend and acquaintances. It kind of explains how SHIELD lasted for so long, despite the apparent incompetence.
“Natasha. Sharon told her that you were upset because Steve was sending Sam dick pictures, which he wasn’t.”
“I saw the text,” says Bucky, misery draping itself over his shoulders again.
“You saw a picture of Steve’s dick?”
“No, the, like. Foreplay text. The incoming dick text.”
“Bro,” says Clint. “Bro. Have you ever heard of autocorrect? Steve was out looking for decking, for Sam’s house. He needs a new porch after that thing with the HYDRA ambush and that completely inexplicable exploding arrow head-”
“Deck,” breathes Bucky. “Deck.” He stands up. “I gotta get home.”
“Aw, meatballs,” says Clint but he gamely gets up to follow.
Bucky knocks on Steve’s bedroom door when he gets home.
“Please don’t send dick photos to anyone,” he says, in a rush.
Steve blinks at him. “Hi,” he says. “Okay.”
“It’s just. I - we did, didn’t we? Before?”
“I didn’t send you dick pictures during the war, Buck.” Steve’s such a little shit. His lips are curving up slightly. “You preferred the hands-on approach.”
“Yes,” says Bucky, still hoping for eloquence in the curve of his palm and the line of his thumb.
It turns out he’s quite articulate enough for Steve, who’s rendered inarticulate and boneless. Bucky curls up around Steve that night, his hand cupping Steve’s balls possessively, just in case Steve gets any notions.
“I love it,” Bucky says, fierce and low into Steve’s ear. “And you.”
“You old romantic, Buck,” says Steve. “Go to sleep.”
It’s worth it. It’s worth the teasing from Sam and Sharon and Natasha and Clint and the regularly texted photographs of garden fittings and poorly-constructed puns about wood because now, when Bucky’s brain gets heavy and sleepy, Steve curls up with him and eases him to sleep, and to wakefulness.
(And it turns out, autocorrect aside, that Steve is pretty great at sexting.)