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we miss being ruffians

Summary:

Assorted mostly self-contained snippets post-they're gonna send us to prison for jerks, aka an excuse to write whatever self-indulgent nonsense I feel like about undercover as a (formerly mustached) math teacher Bucky Barnes.

Notes:

Title from The National's "Guest Room."

I haven't even seen Spiderman: Homecoming yet, but after reading this quote from director Jon Watts, I was CONSUMED with the thought of how math teacher Bucky would react to seeing Steve's PSAs for the Youths, so this happened while I should definitely have been writing something else. More to follow while I continue to avoid writing the things I should be writing instead.

(See the end of the work for other works inspired by this one.)

Chapter 1: Rappin' with the Captain!

Chapter Text

Detention, Bucky was sure, was more of a punishment for teachers than it was for students. Bucky just wanted to grade final exams in peace during his free period, but Janet from three classrooms down had to frog-march some unfortunate detention-goer down to the principal’s office, and Bucky was the only teacher in the hallway free to keep an eye on the remaining miscreants until she returned. Whatever nonsense had led to the kid getting a personal escort to the principal had the other students in detention riled up, and it took judicious application of his Sergeant Barnes voice to get them all back in line. This quieted the upset to a restive murmur and resentful fidgeting, though the twitchy kid in the back still looked like he wanted to cause some trouble.

Bucky was tempted to just sit in the front and let some of his Winter Soldier menace out, see how long it would take for the room to fall totally silent and well-behaved thanks to the ripple of ensuing fear, but that would probably not be the best course of action for maintaining his cover.

It’d be funny though. Bucky knew for a fact he could ramp it up slowly enough that everyone in the room would suddenly feel very uncomfortable without being able to articulate just why. But as much as he wanted these kids to quiet down so he could finish his damned grading, using any Winter Soldier-related skills just now would be wrong, and overkill besides.

“You’re supposed to turn on the video,” grumbled one of the students.

There was an AV cart with a TV and DVD player on it at the front of the classroom, TV on and paused on a credits frame: A PRODUCTION GRACIOUSLY FUNDED BY THE MARIA STARK ENDOWMENT FOR THE ARTS. Ugh, kids these days. They got to watch movies during detention? Bucky didn’t remember if he’d ever gotten detention, but he was pretty sure it had involved a more dire punishment than movie-watching. Maybe the students were trying to get a fast one past him. He frowned out at the students, all of them sitting slumped and slouched at their desks, nothing but blank boredom or general teenage angst on their faces. They weren’t fucking with him. So he hit play on the DVD player and went back to Janet’s desk.    

The TV was angled so Bucky could see it even from Janet’s desk at the front of the room, but Bucky ignored it in favor of the pre-calc finals he was grading. Or he ignored it until he heard Steve’s voice, and then he nearly tore a hole in the test he was grading.

To be more accurate, it wasn’t Steve’s voice, it was Captain America’s. To Bucky, there was a fine but significant distinction there. When he looked back up at the TV, there Cap was, wearing a particularly stupid iteration of the stars and spangles suit, and that stiffly earnest expression on his face that meant he was doing his whole buy war bonds thing. Bucky hoped to god this wasn’t a fucking educational program about Cap and the Commandos. Even post-shaving the mustache, no one has said anything about Mr. Murphy’s eerie resemblance to Bucky Barnes, but no matter how dorky his glasses were, someone was definitely gonna notice if they were faced with a photo of World War II era Bucky Barnes right fucking next to him.

Shit shit shit, he thought and tried to slouch behind the desk, but for fucking once his luck wasn’t the worst thing ever, and it wasn’t some documentary. It was apparently, Bucky noted with a rising mix of glee and hilarity, something called “Rappin’ with the Captain!” As best Bucky could tell, it was some kind of educational video and/or public service announcement.

Thirty seconds into the wonder that was “Rappin’ with the Captain!” Bucky had to cover his mouth so the kids wouldn’t look at him funny for smiling like a crazy person. A minute in, Bucky was mentally willing Janet to get back right the fuck now because he needed to get out of here and immediately search youtube for every single awkward and hilarious PSA Steve has done since he was unfrozen, and then text Steve his extensive commentary on every single one. Fuck grading, this was more important. Two minutes in, and Bucky heard Steve motherfucking Rogers utter the words, “Follow the rules, kids,” and he experienced some sort of heretofore unknown to physics time dilation as he was treated to a full-color flashback reel of the immense amount of rule-breaking one Steven G. Rogers engaged in circa 1925-1944.

Was it possible to die of holding in laughter? Bucky was about to find out, probably.

Hypervigilance was good for something, because Bucky heard the clack of Janet’s heels in the hall long before she got close to the door, and he had enough time to dig deep—really, really deep—for enough self-control to plaster an acceptably bland look on his face.

“Thank you Mr. Murphy, I hope everyone behaved while I was gone,” said Janet when she finally, finally walked in.

“Perfectly,” said Bucky, swept up the tests he was supposed to be grading, and strode out of the room calmly. He continued striding down the hallway, past his own classroom, walked confidently into the janitor’s closet just beyond this floor’s bathrooms, closed the door, and then he held his hand against his mouth and laughed as quietly as he could manage, tears streaming from his eyes and steaming up his stupid glasses. Once the worst of it passed, he pulled out his phone and called Steve.

“Hey Buck, everything okay? School day’s not over yet, is it?”

Bucky should have thought twice about calling. He didn’t really have anything to say, he kind of just wanted to have hysterics at Steve about this.

“Steve. STEVE. Stevestevestevesteve.”

“Bucky?” Steve sounded alarmed now, so Bucky tried to gather himself enough to say something somewhat meaningful.

Instead, he giggled, probably for the first time since 1940, and gasped out, “Rappin’ with the Captain!” before sliding down to the floor and laughing.

“Ugh,” said Steve, and hung up on him.

Before Bucky could get it together enough to call him again, Steve called back.

“This is you and that stupid Star-Spangled Man with a Plan song all over again,” he said.

“Uh, no, this is so much better,” retorted Bucky. “With my own two ears, I heard you tell impressionable children to ‘follow the rules.’ You! Oh my god. I thought I was gonna die trying not to laugh.”

Steve sighed gustily, but Bucky knew he was smiling, the way he often knew things about Steve without quite knowing how or why, and eventually Steve chuckled.

“I did so many of those stupid things, Buck,” Steve groaned. “Where the hell did you see them?”

“They show them to kids in detention.”

“Of course they do,” said Steve faintly.

“Those propaganda movies were one thing, Steve, but this shit? What the hell?” Sure Cap was a role model, Bucky got that, and yeah it was hilarious. But he shouldn’t be a caricature.

“I know, I know. But it wasn’t long after I—after I got out of the ice, and I was just—it was something to do, you know? The war was over, and you were—it seemed kinda useful, I guess. And I needed something to do.”

Bucky sobered at that. He could imagine it all too well, Steve lost and grieving and lacking anyone to punch. Of course he threw himself into all manner of stupid shit. Bucky frowned, resting his chin on his knees.

“Someone ought to have been there for you,” he said.

“Yeah, well,” said Steve, and Bucky knew he was smiling that awful sad smile, the one that made Bucky’s heart twist in his chest. “I’m not sorry I did those stupid videos.”

“Really? Because I can guarantee you schoolchildren and teenagers across the country think they’re the dumbest shit ever. Those kids in detention looked like they were watching a car crash.”

“The videos made you laugh,” said Steve, low and sweet, a little shy. “So they were definitely worth it. I’ll do a million more if you want.”

Heat rushed into Bucky’s cheeks, and he smiled like it was automatic, even as it felt like someone had just squeezed the air out of his lungs. He knew Steve loved him, knew it like he knew what the warmth of the sun felt like, even after those times when it had been years since he’d last felt it on his skin. And just like with the sun, every time he was reminded of it, he wondered how he could have ever forgotten the feeling, the certainty.

He was silent for a while, like he sometimes was when no words came easily to mind or tongue, and Steve let the quiet ebb and flow between them, like he always did through Bucky’s silences. They could hear each other breathe anyway, so Steve knew he was still on the line.

“I really love you, you know that?” Bucky said eventually.

“I know,” said Steve.

The bell rang, signaling the end of the lunch period, and the end of Bucky’s free period that he should have spent grading.

“I gotta go, but real quick, tell me: did you do a safe sex video? Please tell me you did a—”

Steve laughed, and hung up.

Chapter 2: You Played Yourself, Steve

Summary:

“Keep calling me Bucky in public and the mustache comes back.” Steve wrinkled his nose. Bucky scrunched up his face right back. “Listen, it’s one thing for people to look at me and think, ‘hey, that guy kind of looks like definitely dead war hero Bucky Barnes, how weird, maybe they’re related.’ It’s another thing to look at me, think I look like Bucky Barnes, hear my friend named Steve call me Bucky, look at my friend named Steve—”

Steve winced. “I get it, I get it. Right. No calling you Bucky.”

It was easier said than done.

Chapter Text

“Steve—”

“Hmm?”

Steve didn’t particularly want to move his mouth from its current position. Every inch of Bucky’s skin was pretty damn interesting to him, but right now he was especially interested in the spot where Bucky’s neck met his shoulder. Bucky made some very gratifying noises when Steve applied the right stimulus there, and Steve wanted to know more. He gave an exploratory lick. Bucky let out a muffled moan.

“C’mon, Steve, seriously, I want to talk to you—” Bucky wriggled away from Steve’s mouth and scooted away on the couch, which, mean. Steve scooted closer.

“Okay, okay, I’m listening.” Bucky narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “I am!”

“Earlier, when we were getting food, you called me Bucky.”

“Yeah,” said Steve, maybe still a little distracted by the flush on Bucky’s skin. “Wait, do you not want me to call you Bucky?” It was Bucky’s choice, obviously, and Steve would do whatever Bucky wanted, but it was hard to break the habit of a lifetime and switch to James now—

“You can’t call me Bucky in public. Here, at home, it’s fine, but—”

“Oh, the cover.”

“Yeah, the cover.”

“You still call me Steve, in public or not.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Well I can’t fuckin’ call you Stephen-with-a-ph now can I, Mr. I’m Such a Good Undercover Operative?”

“Right, you’re right, I’ll try to remember,” said Steve nodding.

Bucky took Steve’s face in his big hands, and looked him in the eyes, solemn and pleading. “Steve. Seriously. No calling me Bucky in public.”

“Is it really that big a deal? I don't think people pay that much attention, really,” Steve tried.

“Keep calling me Bucky in public and the mustache comes back.” Steve wrinkled his nose. Bucky scrunched up his face right back. “Listen, it’s one thing for people to look at me and think, ‘hey, that guy kind of looks like definitely dead war hero Bucky Barnes, how weird, maybe they’re related.’ It’s another thing to look at me, think I look like Bucky Barnes, hear my friend named Steve call me Bucky, look at my friend named Steve—”

Steve winced. “I get it, I get it. Right. No calling you Bucky.”

It was easier said than done.

 


 

 

Despite technically being CO and XO to each other during the war, Steve and Bucky had spent more or less the entire war just calling each other Steve and Bucky still. Sure, they’d used Barnes and Rogers with each other sometimes, and on radios, they’d always stuck to callsigns or last names. But everywhere else? Bucky was Bucky, and Steve was Steve, and if they’d been in any other squad other than the Commandos, it might’ve been a problem, but the Commandos weren’t exactly a normal squad.

They’d managed adherence to protocol around superior officers, but that had just about exhausted their collective capability to call each other anything other than their names, or assorted affectionate insults. Steve half-suspected it had been deliberate on Bucky’s part, calling him Steve more often than not. With so much changed, in such different circumstances, and with Captain America hanging over and shadowing both of them, using the name Steve had been a reminder: I know who you are, some things haven’t changed, we’ve still got some piece of home with us if nothing else. His name in Bucky’s mouth still meant home the way little else ever would, and he wanted to offer the same to Bucky, who’d had his name stolen from him for so long.

But Bucky’s cover was important, so Steve had to try. He was just—really bad at it. So bad.

Exhibit 1, the grocery store: “Hey, Buck—buddy! Uh, hey buddy, can you get us some bananas?”

Bucky stared at him, then shook his head very slowly. “Sure thing, friend,” he said in a tone icier than the freezer aisle. Steve winced.

Exhibit 2, running in the park, where they were always inevitably accosted by assorted dogs who all seemed to unreservedly adore Bucky, which Steve could relate to, but come on: “Aww, your friend is so good with dogs. Do you guys have one of your own?” asked a charmed dog-walking citizen.

“Oh no, not yet, but Bu—Jack’s always been good with animals, I guess.”

“...his name is Bojack?”

Bucky’s head swiveled over from where he had been assuring an ecstatic pit bull that she was the best dog, yes she was, who was the prettiest girl, she was. His flat stare was the why are you like this kind of look that Steve was intensely familiar with, with a side of vaguely Winter Soldier murderousness.

“Just Jack, actually,” said Bucky to the woman, blandly pleasant.

Exhibit 3, the library: “I found that book you wanted, Buuu—uuuddy? Buddy. Pal. Best...friend.”

Bucky turned from where he’d been perusing the shelf of books on...the history of music, it looked like, looked at Steve while he inhaled a very deliberate sort of slow breath. Then he gently took the book from Steve’s hands, and left for the circulation desk. Yeah, maybe Steve deserved that.

Steve really had to get better at this.

 


 

Steve was in line at Starbucks when he got the idea. The line was obnoxiously long, but he’d promised Sam a dirty chai latte, and Bucky had expressed a desire for a scone, so Steve had offered to make a caffeine and snacks run while Sam and Bucky had “fun” doing forensic accounting. Well, Bucky had fun, Sam and Steve tried not to fall asleep while tracking down HYDRA bigwigs via their byzantine cash and property transfers.

The line inched along slowly, with seemingly everyone having some complex ice blended coffee beverage order. The couple in front of Steve was passing the time engaging in PDA. Steve would have liked to be engaging in PDA with Bucky right about now, even if the only PDA Bucky was comfortable with was holding hands, and that only sometimes. The woman in front of him was doing decidedly more to her boyfriend, and Steve wanted to be annoyed, but there was something sweet in the way she was up on tippy toes to reach her boyfriend’s mouth, the way her fingers played with the fine hair at the nape of her boyfriend’s neck. Her boyfriend murmured come on, not in line, baby— but he kept his hand at her waist, steadying her, and she whispered back aww, babe, you know you love it, and then it was their turn to order and Steve was blushing.

He was blushing, but he had an idea. He stared at the menu on the wall, remembering that first ridiculous coffee order Bucky had requested, back when Steve still hadn’t been sure if he was Bucky or Jack: some hideously expensive quad shot frappucino or something. Bucky, Steve now knew, had been fucking with him. Because Bucky’s usual coffee order was a perfectly reasonable regular coffee, hot or iced depending on his mood, with about six packets of added sugar. Steve ought to get back at Bucky for that, and for all the other little ways he’d messed with Steve during this whole crazy undercover-as-a-math-teacher situation.

And okay, constantly attempting to turn accidental uses of Bucky into buddy was ridiculous, he knew that. But there were other non-name terms that started with a b. Like baby, and babe, as the couple ahead of him had ably demonstrated. And he and Buck were together now, weren’t they? Who could blame a lovesick man for showering his partner with endearments? What a perfect way to keep their cover solid, right?

 


 

Steve tried it out the next time he was out with Bucky. It was almost the end of the school year, and Bucky had consented to being dragged away from his grading and paperwork for a quick shopping trip to Target. Bucky seemed perfectly content to live in a bordering on barren house, but the whole minimalist aesthetic was less than ideal and downright dire for their bed sheet situation, given their nighttime activities.

“Hey babe, do you want the blue or white sheets?”

Bucky turned towards him from down the aisle where he was poking at towels. “Excuse me?”

Steve hefted both sets of sheets in his hands. “Blue or white?” Bucky narrowed his eyes.

“Blue,” said Bucky, and continued to eye Steve suspiciously. Steve just smiled back and put the sheets in the cart.

Steve almost slipped up in the checkout line, but caught himself just in time. “B—baby, can you grab some gum for me?”

To Steve’s unending delight, Bucky blushed bright red, even as he glared at Steve. It was adorable. He grinned back at Bucky unrepentantly. Bucky grabbed the gum and put it on the conveyor belt, scowling mightily, cheeks still pink. Steve was gonna be in for an earful when they got back to the car, but it was worth it.

In the car, after they’d packed away their purchases, Steve leaned across the seat to give Bucky an apologetic kiss to forestall any kvetching. He expected to get a grudging kiss back, an “ugh you’re awful, but fine,” kind of kiss, but instead Bucky yielded sweetly, then he gently, slowly, deepened the kiss until Steve got that floaty warm feeling that Bucky’s more dedicated kisses always inspired.

When Bucky pulled away, he said, warm and low and a little rough, “Sweetheart,” and oh.

One of Steve’s possibly vital internal organs turned to warm mush inside of him, and also, his throat got a little tight, and he had to duck his burning face against Bucky’s shoulder for a few seconds. Bucky let out a little amused huff, but his hand came up to stroke Steve’s hair, and he pressed a kiss to the side of Steve’s head.

Oh fuck. Steve had fucked up. Steve was fucked.

 


 

What Steve had failed to consider was this: Peggy used to, and on good days still did, call him darling and dear and dearest, and it undid Steve a little every single time.

During the war, she hadn’t said it all that often, and certainly nowhere anyone could overhear. When they’d caught a moment alone, she’d say, “Darling, come here,” with those bright and wicked brown eyes of hers, and Steve would flush, which would make Peggy smile, and then they’d go on to thoroughly mess up her perfect red lipstick.

Whether she’d said it with intent (stay a little longer, dearest) or with absent-minded fondness (can you hand me my stocking, dear), it had left him blushing and tongue-tied. He’d never gotten up the wherewithal to respond in kind, and could never settle on an endearment besides. Steve had thought it was just yet another example of how unrelentingly terrible he was with women in a romantic context. Now he thought maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just—what was it Sam said about him? You have no chill, Steve. None.

 


 

The situation could still be salvaged, Steve told himself. He just had to escalate to more ridiculous pet names, Bucky would do the same, and then it could just be yet another thing they were competitive assholes about with each other, and Steve could avoid this whole unfortunate and inconvenient feelings and no chill situation. He just had to think of other ridiculous pet names that started with a b. Easy.

Steve got as far as buttercup before he had to resort to googling, and then he winced his way through babydoll and baby cakes and beloved. He’d never manage any of those with a straight face. Still, he gamely made an attempt with buttercup, and mostly he just sounded like an asshole. Bucky raised an eyebrow and smirked, but didn’t comment. He didn’t have to. He was practically oozing is that the best you can do

But Bucky didn’t escalate either, which made Steve suspicious. He’d expected a torrent of over the top endearments: honey pie, stud muffin, sugartits, hot stuff, sexy, whatever else Bucky’s creative and filthy fucking mouth could come up with….but nope, nothing. Steve kept stuttering his awkward way through stilted uses of “baby” in place of Bucky, and while Bucky did keep blushing a little every time Steve did it, he didn’t hit back with any pet names of his own. He was, Steve was sure, biding his time, using that absurd sniper patience of his to wait for the perfect moment.

And of course, because Bucky was the fucking worst, he picked his moment when they were out with Sam and Nat. Nat had rolled into town bearing new intel from Stark and Fury, and they’d spent the day putting together disparate intelligence reports, planning out their next hits against HYDRA. They’d been productive enough that when dinner time rolled around, Steve called it a day and suggested eating at a nearby diner.

Once they were seated in a booth, Steve was assaulted with an almost deja vu-like sense memory of any of dozens of double dates Bucky had set them up on. Only now, this particular double date was in the configuration Steve had always secretly wanted: him on a date with Bucky, their friends with each other.

Bucky thought of it too, because he murmured, “This feels familiar,” as they slid into the booth, his eyes creasing up in a smile.

“Yeah, but I prefer it this way,” said Steve, and took hold of Bucky’s hand under the table.

They all chatted about innocuous, non-Avenging related things while perusing the diner menu: how pizza was a travesty in the midwest and what haircut Natasha should try next and how Bucky’s students were driving him crazy with how restless they were for summer break.

When the waitress came, Steve still hadn’t decided on his order. Bucky, naturally, was ordering a full breakfast for dinner, which Sam disapproved of.

“Brinner is not a thing, dude. There’s breakfast, brunch, lunch, snack, and dinner. That’s it.”

“I’m making it a thing,” declared Bucky. “Double stack of pancakes, home fries, and bacon, please,” he told the waitress.

Sam ordered a burger and fries, and Natasha went with steak, which left Steve, still looking at the menu and undecided.

“Do you need more time?” asked the waitress.

“No, uh, just a second…B—babe, you want to split an order of chili fries with me?”

Bucky made a face and nudged him with his knee. “Can I veto chili fries in general? Because I’m sharing a bed and a bathroom with you, and that’s just—”

“Oh my god, that is not, I don’t—”

Bucky leaned over to look at the menu. “I’ll share an order of garlic fries with you.”

“How is that better? You’re just trading one kind of stinky for another—” Steve said, giving Bucky’s knee a nudge right back.

“If both of us have garlic stink, then neither of us will notice it, and we’ll cancel each other out.”

“Very scientific, Mr. Murphy, I’m so glad you shape young minds.” Bucky just grinned and hooked his ankle around Steve’s. “Fine, can I get the roasted chicken, and an order of garlic fries, please?”

Once the waitress left, they were left to face Sam and Natasha’s raised eyebrows. Natasha looked simultaneously amused and exasperated. Sam was just shaking his head, and giving Steve his why are you like this face. Sam got a lot of use out of that expression.

“Babe? Nice save there,” said Natasha. Steve rolled his eyes.

“Steve, I’m sorry to tell you this,” said Sam, reaching across the table to put a hand on Steve’s arm, “But you are not the kind of person who can pull off calling someone babe. You’re just not. Look into your heart, and you’ll know I’m telling the truth.”

“What’s that supposed to mean!” Steve objected.

Bucky snorted. “It’s that or buddy with this guy, and I’m over buddy. It makes me feel like I’m his golden retriever.”

“Buttercup is still an option, baby,” said Steve sweetly.

“Never in my life have I seen a man who looks so little like a ‘buttercup,’” said Sam. “Don’t tell me you’re getting in on this lovey-dovey nonsense, Jack.”

He doesn’t have to remember to use a new name for me,” grumbled Steve.

Bucky pointedly didn’t look at Steve, instead directing a long-suffering kind of glare at Sam and Natasha. “Stephen. With a ‘ph.’ Grant,” he said with perfect tonelessness.

Natasha winced, then smoothed her expression and said, in her bland reporting-to-bureaucrats voice, “Everyone has their strengths and weaknesses. A healthy team learns to accommodate its members’ weaknesses while playing to their strengths.”

“Thank you,” said Steve.

“Put Steve in a tight enough shirt and no one notices that he’s terrible at undercover!” Natasha made a scale-weighing gesture with her hands. “Strengths, weaknesses.” Steve threw a balled up napkin at her in retaliation and she grinned, then turned back to Bucky. “Out of curiosity though, Jack, if you did have to call him something else—” started Natasha, and Steve knew, this was it. This was the moment Bucky had been waiting for, dammit Natasha—

And sure enough, Bucky leaned in even closer where he was sitting on Steve’s left side, took hold of Steve’s hand where it was resting on top of the table and laced their fingers together, all the while looking deep into Steve’s eyes. Steve leaned in close on instinct, because Bucky’s eyes were bright and happy and summer sea blue, but oh no. There was a wicked spark of mischief narrowing his eyes and lifting his mouth into a smirk, and that never boded well for Steve’s dignity.

“You know, I think I’d call him sweetheart,” said Bucky, and that wasn’t fair at all, the way his voice went as low and fond and sincere as when he said ‘I love you,’ a tone of voice Steve couldn’t help but associate with their shared bed.

Steve could feel himself turning undoubtedly bright red, and his heart was maybe bursting or melting, he couldn’t tell, and also, he couldn’t look away from Bucky, whose mischief had faded in favor of nothing but open affection. Bucky leaned in for a quick kiss, but Steve caught him before he could pull away, and kissed him for a long, helpless moment. Necking in a diner booth was probably not a thing two grown men should have been doing. Steve didn’t really care.

A spray of cold water to his face made him jerk back. “You are in public, lovebirds!” said Sam, then flicked more water at them. Bucky just laughed, and leaned back, smug little grin on his face and eyes sparkling.

Natasha sat back on her side of the booth with an incredulous look on her face. “Wow.”

“Anyway, if I shared Steve’s unfortunate inability to remember a cover name, I would call him sweetheart, if only that didn’t happen every time,” said Bucky. “It’s not real conducive to maintaining a cover or mission readiness.”

“Very romantic though,” noted Natasha dryly, and Bucky shrugged.

Steve narrowed his eyes at Bucky. Ha. So that was how Bucky was playing this. This was 1929 and the battle of whose excuses worked best on Sister Joan all over again. “I can too maintain a cover.”

“Uh huh. Sure.”

“Natasha, back me up on this one, I learned it from you: public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable!” Now Bucky’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “You know, because people get uncomfortable and look away. So, really, who’s doing a better job maintaining our cover? Me, that’s who.”

Bucky squinted in thought, opened his mouth as if to argue, then closed it again.

“This wasn’t exactly how I pictured you implementing that particular lesson, but, okay, sure,” said Natasha.

“It does make a certain amount of sense…I guess,” said Sam to Bucky.

“Ha! I win!”

“If you say so, sweetheart,” said Bucky, and goddammit, Steve felt his face heat up again and his lower spine turn into tingly jelly while his pulse kicked up a few happy notches. Bucky, Steve was sure, could feel it, though he didn’t say anything else, just squeezed Steve’s hand.

Yeah, maybe Bucky had won this round. And maybe Steve didn’t mind that so much.

Chapter 3: Get in the Car, Loser

Summary:

“You owe me a car,” declared Sam.

“Yeah, I do. Wanna go buy one? I have access to a lot of HYDRA blood money, I can get you a really nice car.”

AKA an excuse to write Sam and Bucky bonding.

Notes:

Content note: Bucky talks a little about the early stages of his recovery, so standard Winter Soldier trauma umbrella warning there.

Chapter Text

When Sam tried to pinpoint just when and where his life had veered off into crazy territory, past the point of normal life return, he usually placed the moment at the exact second when he decided to let a dirty and battered and on the run Captain America and Black Widow into his house. On sleepless nights, lacking anything better to occupy his mind with, he liked to argue with himself about it though. Like, maybe that wasn’t it, maybe he could have let them in, given them breakfast and a place to clean up, then sent them on their way. Maybe instead the moment was when he pulled his EXO-7 file out and offered to help them take down Insight. Except, no, that could still just have been Sam doing his patriotic duty. No, maybe it was when he decided robbing Fort Meade to get his wings back was a reasonable thing to do. Or getting back in the air to take out one of the helicarriers. Or helping Steve with the search for the Winter Soldier, formerly known as James Buchanan Barnes.

Nah, said the voice of Riley in his head. It was when your crazy ass got read in to an experimental program to stick winged jetpacks on a pararescue and decided, yeah, you wanted a piece of that dangerous as hell action. And maybe the memory of Riley wasn’t so wrong about that.

Now Sam thought, no, none of those moments were it. Those were just the appetizers, the last mile markers before the exit to Crazytown, and when he got off that exit, it headed straight into a HYDRA operation hidden in an old mine, where fucking undead Nazis were shambling around, and where the Winter Soldier’s mask got ripped off to reveal Sam and Steve’s ill-advisedly mustached math teacher neighbor. That was when Sam had realized that shit was weird, and it was only ever going to get weirder from there.

 


 

Hilariously and infuriatingly unexpected undercover math teacher situation aside,  Sam was still the least emotionally compromised person available, and someone had to make sure Barnes wasn’t more assassin than mild-mannered high school teacher. Plus, as the only thing approaching a medical and mental health professional available, he couldn’t help but feel a little responsible for making sure Barnes was okay, or as okay as he could be. So Sam gathered the tattered shreds of his Winter Soldier/Bucky Barnes related plans together. From what Barnes had said so far, he was dealing alright, but Sam worried that there was a deep hole of not-at-all-okay that Barnes could trip into at any time.

While Steve was off showing Natasha the zombie mine, Sam was going to take this opportunity to have some real talk with Barnes.

“So, you seem very sane,” said Sam while Barnes was doing some teacher shit at the kitchen table.

“Thank you,” said Barnes solemnly. “I worked very hard on that.”

Sam honestly couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. “Worked very hard on seeming sane, or on being sane?”

Barnes tilted his head, looked off into the middle distance in a considering sort of way. “One sort of followed from the other.” Yeah, that was maybe fair. Fake it ‘till you make it and all, Sam had done his fair share of that.

“Listen, real talk, you have been through some shit. I used to be a peer counselor at the VA, talked to vets about, y’know, their shit. And you are way beyond my pay grade, but I have to ask: how are you…handling all this?”

The expression on his face stayed bland, but Barnes’ shoulders went tense. “All this?”

“The unimaginable amounts of torture and memory wiping and being brainwashed into killing people. Also, navigating the future. And Steve.”

“I don’t wanna talk about the unimaginable amounts of torture and memory wiping and being brainwashed into killing people,” said Barnes in a flat voice. “Future’s fine, I read a lot. Steve’s great.” Barnes’ face softened into a bright-eyed little smile at the mention of Steve, which Sam was maybe a little touched by, but the relevant part of this answer was the first sentence.

“Yeah, I know you don’t wanna talk about it, who the fuck would, but you ought to talk about it with somebody.”

“Who?”

“Not me,” said Sam automatically. “But, uh, a therapist or a psychologist—”

Barnes shook his head. “Who would believe me? And I can’t talk about—no.”

“Listen, I just need to know you haven’t spackled over a yawning void of crazy with a thin veneer of functioning. You’re not with HYDRA, you’re not murdering people left and right, that’s great, those are genuine fucking accomplishments. But Steve thinks the sun shines out your ass, and he might want you to be okay more than you actually are okay. So tell me: right after the zombie mines, you said you’d spent the past couple years dealing with your ‘trauma, amnesia bullshit.’ How’ve you been dealing?”

Barnes set his pen down, and looked Sam in the eye, calm and even, but there was pain there too, deep and ragged.

“I waited some of it out. My head was a fucking mess right after Insight. I went to ground, holed up until the withdrawal from the drugs HYDRA had me on passed. Then some of my memories started coming back, but it was all—everything happening, all at once, no context. And it hurt. I don’t—” Now Barnes’ eyes went distant, and he frowned. “I can’t tell you what happened then. I don’t know. Everything hurt. I had a lot of seizures, probably. I think everything was rearranging in here, trying to heal from all the wipes. I could feel it, like when my bones healed, or—anyway, my head was clearer after that.”

“And you just—rode all that out. Alone. Jesus, man, you should have been in a hospital—”

“Right. Doctors, medical—that’s gone well for me,” said Barnes with a glare. “I managed. And I tried to work past the HYDRA bullshit to remember—” Barnes was wringing his hands now, breathing a little fast. “I don’t think I can—” he said, then cut himself off, swallowed hard.

“Hey, take a minute,” said Sam as gently as he could. “You don’t have to—this can wait, alright? I’m not forcing you here, we can talk more later.”

Though Sam wasn’t sure they needed to talk more, he was getting the picture pretty well. Sam and Steve had spent the better part of two years trying to find Barnes, and they’d considered a lot of possibilities for just what Barnes was up to while he was on the run. It wasn’t much of a surprise to find out that Barnes had spent a good portion of the time dragging himself out of hell, then clawing out of what amounted to his own grave after that. He got why Barnes had done it on his own, but it made Sam’s heart hurt to think of it. Too many vets tried to go through shit like this alone, and they ended up on the streets, or worse.

Sam had tried dealing alone, after Riley. It hadn’t gone well.

“I don’t know what you want me to talk about. I know what they did to me, and I know what I did, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do but try to bear all of that and live with it. Try to fix what I can, try to—try to be safe. That’s all I’ve been doing. Is that—does that count as okay? I don’t know.”

Barnes’ voice had gone low and shaky, but he got all the words out, and now he was blinking fast, staving off tears. He was shaking a little too, like he had when he’d tried to tell Steve and Sam why he didn’t want to fight anymore. It made Sam want to hug him, take hold of his hands, something, anything to steady Barnes. That probably wouldn’t be well-received from anyone but Steve though.

Instead, Sam just said, “Yeah, I think that counts, Barnes.”

Barnes nodded, clenched his eyes shut, and breathed in and out, still too fast, but clearly trying to calm down. Sam set the pace with deep breaths of his own, hoping Barnes would hear and follow, and they breathed together like that until Barnes had steadied.

“I’m sorry,” said Barnes eventually.

“What for?” asked Sam, genuinely confused. He was the one who’d pushed Barnes, knowing he might upset him.

“Those times I tried to kill you. Wrecking your wings. And for your car.”

“You weren’t exactly yourself, I think I can forgive—Wait, my car? What did you do to my car? I swear to god, Barnes, if your bullshit grandma-style parallel parking means you dinged my car—”

“Uh, no, I meant the, uh. Steering wheel on the freeway thing? I think? I don’t remember that so great, they wiped me right after, but I think I—wrecked your car.”

“Oh, right. That.” Yeah, Sam generally tried not to think about that, on account of it being a nightmare scenario out of the world’s worst Fast and the Furious movie. He narrowed his eyes at Barnes. “What is with you and wrecking my cars?”

“I haven’t wrecked your current car, jesus christ—”

“You park, like, a millimeter away from the bumper!”

“Uh huh. But I don’t hit the bumper, do I.”

“You owe me a car,” declared Sam.

“Yeah, I do. Wanna go buy one? I have access to a lot of HYDRA blood money, I can get you a really nice car.”

Sam held his fist out for a fist bump. “Yeah, get that money, Barnes.” Barnes fist bumped back. Steve might get all disapproving about it, but as far as Sam was concerned, HYDRA’s ill-gotten gains were fair game, and Barnes of all people deserved to do what he wanted with the money. “We’ve got a cover to maintain though. Can’t be getting a Lamborghini or something.”

“They have nice new all electric cars, don’t they? Those aren’t too flashy.”

Shit, Barnes was serious. “How were you planning on paying for this? Yeah, HYDRA money, got that, but like, are we gonna roll up with a suitcase full of cash? We gotta stay low profile.”

“Hmm. Give me a few days to move some money around,” said Barnes, and then Steve was at the door with Natasha, and Sam figured that was the last he’d hear about a new car.

 


 

That was not the last Sam heard about getting a new car.

Natasha and Steve were making a lot of calls trying to get an op set up to take out Strucker, and Sam was at loose ends, so he figured he’d make their lawn look a little more respectable. The old lady a few houses down had been giving them disapproving glares for the past week, and their cover did not need a nosy old lady telling them to mow their admittedly scraggly lawn.

Sam was halfway done when Barnes rolled up in his utterly forgettable Corolla, rolled down the window, and said, “Get in loser, we’re going car shopping.”

“What.”

“I owe you a car, don’t I? C’mon, we’re gonna go buy one.”

“Okay, first of all: when the hell did you watch Mean Girls? Second of all—” Sam didn’t have a second of all. He would really like a nice new car. It would probably get wrecked in some superhero shenanigans, but hey: free car.

Barnes raised his eyebrows over his douchey aviators, waiting for the second of all. “I don’t have a second of all,” admitted Sam, and got in the car.

“So, know what kind of car you want?”

“What’s my budget here?”

“Anything under $100,000, that’s all I moved into the account for this,” said Barnes.

“That’s insane.”

“You said nothing flashy, I know, but—” Barnes shrugged. “I did wreck your wings too.”

“You gonna buy me a plane?”

Barnes didn’t skip a beat. “Do you want a plane?”

“Not really. I mostly just like flying with the EXO pack.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright. Technically I stole the wings anyway,” Sam confessed.

“What?”

“It’s not like the Air Force let me keep them when they discharged me. Me, Steve, and Nat stole them from Fort Meade for the whole Insight thing.”

Barnes looked weirdly scandalized. “Steve is such a bad influence, I swear to god.”

 


 

All the car dealerships were clustered together, so Barnes drove to the general area and let Sam pick a dealership. Like any number of red-blooded American males too easily swayed by advertising, Sam had in fact put some thought into the car he’d want if money was no object, so he directed Barnes to the Porsche dealership.

Sam stopped Barnes before he got out of the car. “So, how am I paying for this?”

Barnes pulled a folded up check from his pocket: it was a cashier’s check for ten grand. “Here’s your down payment. You get whatever financing deal they offer you, great credit score by the way—”

“Wait, what, when did you—”

“And then in a month or two, you, or really I, pay off the whole loan. Cover maintained, no uncomfortable questions.”

“Uh, okay,” said Sam. Sam was going to trust that Barnes knew what he was doing.

They managed to wander around the lot for a few minutes before a salesman zeroed in on them like a shark.

“Gentlemen! How can I help you?” Of course, he directed the question to Barnes. Not a great start. Sam narrowed his eyes at the guy.

Barnes gave the salesman a polite smile and pointed at Sam. “He’s looking for a new car.” The salesman shifted gears with admirable speed, and just about steamrollered Sam with customer service.

As tempting as all the sports cars and convertibles were, Sam had to be a little more practical, so after a few longing looks at the sexy two-seaters and low-slung sports cars, he directed them over to the SUVs. He was probably going to be carting around a pair of super soldiers and a lot of weaponry for the foreseeable future, a fast SUV seemed like a smart pick. He ended up admiring a sleek, silver SUV, hybrid gas and electric, with all the fancy upgrades inside.

“Yeah, I want this one. I am gonna be pulled over so fucking often, but I want this one.”

Barnes tilted his head, brow furrowing in confusion. “Why would you be pulled over?”

Sam was about to get annoyed, but then he remembered, oh right. Barnes was from ye olden times, and had amnesia besides. He maybe hadn’t had a chance to catch up to modern race relations. “Driving while black.” The salesman laughed uncomfortably, then shut up quick after Sam glared at him.

“Oh,” said Barnes, then he peppered the salesman with questions about the car: safety ratings and mileage and once Barnes got to asking about where the damn car was manufactured, Sam cut in and asked for a test drive.

“It’s like a spaceship,” he said in hushed tones as he pulled out of the lot. Barnes made an offended and disgusted noise from the backseat.

“It doesn’t fly, why don’t any cars fly,” he grumbled. Sam glanced in the rear view mirror and saw Barnes fiddling with buttons back there. “It has heated seats,” he said in a reverent tone.

“Okay, well you’re clearly gonna live in here now,” muttered Sam. Once he stopped at a light, he turned to the salesman. “I’ll take it. But if signing the paperwork and getting the keys takes any longer than an hour, I’m out.”

It took 45 minutes, because Sam’s credit really was excellent, and Barnes made judicious use of his dead-eyed Winter Soldier stare to hurry things along. They got back to the house in time for dinner, and Sam decided to live dangerously and park in the forbidden driveway. Steve and Nat were still holed up in what passed for their command center in Bucky’s garage.

“Hey, where’ve you two been?” asked Steve.

Barnes went over to him peer over his shoulder at what he was working, pressing a kiss to his temple on the way. Sam quietly boggled. It had been a little over a week, and Steve and Barnes were already at the old marrieds stage, only with a bonus honeymoon glow that could rival a supernova. It was simultaneously heartwarming and unnerving.

“I bought Sam a new car,” said Barnes.

“What?” Steve twisted around to look at them both.

Barnes gave Steve a guileless look. “I owed him a car.”

“Yeah, Steve, he owed me a car. Remember? DC, freeway, the violent removal of my entire steering column by the Terminator over here.”

“Is the bank of justly re-appropriated HYDRA funds and buying forgiveness open, because if so, I have some requests,” said Natasha.

“If your requests cost about $10,000, then yes.”

Natasha made a disappointed noise. “You can’t buy much hookers and blow with that at all.”

Steve rolled his eyes while Sam and Barnes snickered, and they all trooped outside to admire Sam’s excellent new car. Steve and Natasha made the appropriate appreciative comments, while Natasha examined every nook and cranny.

“You’re gonna have to let me make some security modifications,” she said, then, “Ooohh, heated seats.”

Sam looked over at Barnes, who was relaxed and amused as he watched Steve and Natasha examine the car. Steve had a look on his face stuck between being impressed and disapproving of the indulgent purchase. Looked like those Depression-era instincts were rearing up in him. Barnes hadn’t blinked at any of the expense though, so either he really didn’t give a damn how the HYDRA money got spent, or amnesia and brainwashing had wiped out any adherence to Depression-era self-deprivation.

I should offer some positive reinforcement for this attempt at making amends for the past, thought Sam. Also, a tiny part of Sam thought this car was worth those moments of pants-shitting terror on the freeway.

“Thanks, Barnes,” Sam said quietly.

“You’re welcome,” Barnes answered, then he breathed out a barely there laugh, though his eyes were sad. “This was an easy thing to make right. None of the rest of it is.”

“You’re doing alright, Barnes. Really.”

Barnes gave him a tired smile. “Call me Bucky, when we don’t have to keep up the cover. My name is Bucky.”

It was a wholly different introduction than the one they’d had a couple months ago, when Sam had barely paid any attention to Neighbor Jack, and more different still from the violence that passed for their first meeting. Sam liked this one better.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky Barnes.”

 

  

Chapter 4: baby, we'll be fine

Summary:

“Hey, I’ve been wondering: how did you end up being a math teacher for your cover?”

Chapter Text

“Hey, I’ve been wondering: how did you end up being a math teacher for your cover?”

They were lying in bed, Bucky half on top of Steve while he read a book and Steve idly scrolled through news on his tablet. It was a routine they’d pretty swiftly fallen into: lying together in the warm, dim light of their bedroom, sometimes talking, sometimes just being quiet together while they read. Usually their books or tablets would get pushed off the bed at some point, and their hands would wander to decidedly more interesting occupations. They hadn’t reached that point yet this evening though. Right now, Steve was running his free hand through Bucky’s hair, which was pretty detrimental to Bucky’s efforts to stay awake and finish his book.

“Hmm? Oh, it’s not actually that interesting,” he said, because it mostly wasn’t. It had been luck and convenience, mainly, plus it turned out that teaching kids math was one of those things he was inexplicably good at for reasons he couldn’t quite remember, and there were precious few of those skills that weren’t tied to violence and tradecraft.

Steve tugged at his hair gently, making Bucky shiver with pleasure. “C’mon, tell me.”

“Alright,” said Bucky, and set his book down. It was easier to talk without looking at Steve, so he threw an arm around Steve, and settled himself against Steve’s chest. “So there was this HYDRA base under a high school out in Oregon. Literally under it, as in, couldn’t access it through anywhere other than the school’s basement. Now, I needed access to that HYDRA base, and I also needed to see if that high school was some kinda HYDRA front, or what. I dunno if you noticed or not, but folks are pretty big on security in schools nowadays, so I couldn’t just lurk around the place without being mistaken for some creepy lecher, or a crazy who’s about to shoot the place up.”

“A whole high school as a HYDRA front?” Steve’s voice rumbled pleasantly against Bucky’s cheek where he was resting on Steve’s chest.

“Hey, you never know. I did manage enough surveillance to figure that the kids were, you know, normal, real high school kids. So I needed to get into the school to see if anything else was going on with the staff, and I definitely can’t pass for a student—”

“I dunno, look at that baby face,” Steve teased and pinched his cheek. Bucky slapped his hand away.

“Fuck off, I swear I lost all that baby fat during the war. Anyway, I thought I could go in undercover as a janitor. It’d be perfect: no one notices the janitor, and it’s not weird when you see them all over the place. But that meant getting rid of the current janitor—”

“Bucky!”

“Not killing him, geeze! I thought I could have him slip and fall, get hurt just enough to take a few days off, or get him to go out of town, but then I saw the guy had a family, and a sick wife, and he was the only one bringing in money. So I couldn’t, because what if he didn’t get his job back?”

“Aww, Buck.”

“Shuddup. So then I figured I could get in as a substitute teacher. They always need those, and I’d just have to fake the papers for it, then sit in on some classes, no real teaching necessary, and I could do recon when I wasn’t in class.”

“And you ended up being good at it. Teaching, I mean.”

“Yeah. I guess. I subbed for an algebra class, and the kids were supposed to just sit there and do their worksheets. Some of ‘em needed help, and I just—helped them. I knew the math, so why not, right? And it felt familiar, even if I couldn’t remember why.”

“Do you remember why now?”

Bucky laughed without much humor, more sad than bitter. “No, actually.” He swallowed, turned his face into Steve’s chest. He was used to it by now, more than used to it, this knowing without knowing, fact without evidence. It was even a comfort sometimes, mostly when it came to Steve: that the specifics could elude him, but the certainty would stay. That his body knew Steve and eased some of its perpetual tension in Steve’s presence. That he loved Steve. “Do you know why?” he asked Steve softly.

Steve pressed a kiss to his head. “Yeah, I know,” said Steve just as softly, and so damn gentle. “You used to help your sisters with all their homework. And you got me through high school math. No way I would’ve passed otherwise, not with all the days I missed, and god, I was a fucking awful student. No wonder you’re good at it now, you got to practice on me, and I was the actual worst. You were always so damn patient.”

“You couldn’t’ve been that bad,” protested Bucky.

“I threw my workbook at you a couple times.”

Bucky smiled a little, but no memory stirred, other than the faint recollection of sitting at a kitchen table. That was alright though. Steve knew, and Bucky could at least be sure now that this particular skill was all his: not the war’s, not HYDRA’s. Just his. He held on to Steve a little tighter and let Steve’s heartbeat steady him, while Steve stroked a hand in long, easy sweeps up and down his spine.

After a long but comfortable silence, Steve asked, “So what was up with the school?”

“Oh, there was this ancient woodshop teacher who was a literal war criminal, used to be HYDRA. He was running some HYDRA intel and data ops through the school. I got what I could from the base, then cleared it out, and the teacher got picked up by the feds thanks to an ‘anonymous tip.’ Like I said, not that interesting.”

“You liked it enough to choose teaching as your cover again, though.”

“Yeah. I read up some on, y’know, proper teaching, and I figured it’d be a good cover when I had to stick around Cleveland for a while. No one’s gonna expect the Winter Soldier to be teaching high school math, right? And HYDRA wouldn’t think to look for me in a high school.”

Bucky was aware that he was leaving a lot out here, smoothing over what had actually been a pretty fraught decision. A selfish decision, in a lot of ways. There were any number of anonymous jobs he could have picked up, jobs where the only requirement was showing up on a reasonably reliable basis, jobs that didn’t require much in the way of effort from him. He could have avoided working at all. He’d socked away more than enough of HYDRA’s ill-gotten gains to live on, and taking out HYDRA and getting his head right took up enough of his time. But all those other jobs that made up the cash-only, under-the-table underbelly of the economy used some piece of the Winter Soldier’s skills: his strength to work a construction job or manual labor, his fighting skill to be a bouncer or security guard, even his uncanny speed with knives to be a cook.

Being a substitute teacher for a couple weeks though? That had been something else, something new. Something seemingly entirely different from who the Winter Soldier had been, or even from Sergeant Barnes. There were no mental mines to trip over, no ghosts from his past, save for those he carried. So when it had come time to run some more long-term missions from a stable base, when he was sure he was steady enough, Bucky had chosen teacher as his cover. He’d built Jack Murphy’s identity meticulously, and maybe he didn’t have time to get the degree Jack Murphy’s fake papers said he had, but he could damn well read up enough to make a good show of it. He did well enough to get hired, anyway.

“You really are good at it, you know,” said Steve. “Teaching. I’m glad you found something…normal like that, I guess. Something that has nothing to do with the war, or HYDRA. You deserve that.”

Bucky didn’t know about that. He was pretty sure he didn’t deserve it, actually. But it didn’t involve hurting anyone, and he could do some small amount of good. He could walk into that classroom and be pretty sure the worst thing that could happen to him, to anyone else, would be some surly adolescent misbehavior.

“You deserve that too,” Bucky said, then sat up to look at Steve’s face. Steve had that tender expression he so often had when Bucky caught Steve looking at him: tender as in loving, but tender like a bruise too. Bucky never really knew what to do about it. For now, Bucky kissed him, and Steve sighed sweetly into it. “When’s the war gonna be over for you, Steve?”

“Not yet,” murmured Steve. “You know why.” Bucky frowned, because yeah, he knew, but HYDRA wasn’t just Steve’s fight. Steve kissed him before he could work up a proper argument about it. “I promise it will be over though. And then I’ll…I don’t know, join you at the high school as an art teacher? Don’t laugh! I could totally be a high school art teacher!”

“Uh huh, sure. Whatever you want, sweetheart,” said Bucky, playing dirty now. As expected, Steve went red and got a pretty hilarious soppy look on his face. “Hey, you could do more educational videos—”

Steve stopped that line of career counseling with another kiss, before making thoroughly sure that all thoughts of career counseling and wars that didn’t end and educational videos left Bucky’s head under the gentle and maddening onslaught of his lips, and his hands.

Chapter 5: we'll smash the walls

Summary:

“Hey,” he said faintly. “Uh, you grew a beard?”

“Oh! Yeah, jeez, forgot about that. Yeah, the history classes are about to start a World War II unit in a week or so, and the Commandos are gonna feature pretty prominently in the lesson plan, apparently. Thought I’d play it safe.” He rubbed at the beard self-consciously. “Does it look awful? I mean, I know it’s not worse than the mustache, but—”

“It looks great,” Steve blurted out. “It looks—really, really good, Buck,” he said with hushed fervency.

Notes:

RIP Sebastian Stan's beard ;_______; Gone too soon.

This snippet is set after the start of the new school year, a few months later than the other ones, which were set at the tail end of Bucky's first year teaching/the beginning of summer. I'm probably going to end up jumping back to the summer with later snippets. Also, the rating is now E thanks to this chapter.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Bucky was in the teacher’s lounge attempting to coax some slightly less vile coffee from the ancient coffee machine when he felt the first stirring of intense regret, and even alarm, at having shaved his stupid mustache off all those months ago.

He had the latest memo from admin and he wanted to sit at the lounge’s one table and read it while he drank his awful coffee and avoided the passing period rush in the hallways, but one of the history department teachers (Mr. Ireland, maybe?) was sitting at the sole table in the teacher’s lounge, printouts and books spread out all around him. He looked up and grimaced at Bucky.

“Sorry, sorry, my desk in the classroom is kind of a mess and I needed the room.” He shuffled some of the printouts around and left Bucky a clear space. Bucky peeked at one of the printouts: A TIMELINE OF THE HOWLING COMMANDOS’ OPERATIONS IN THE EUROPEAN THEATER. Bucky’s stomach dropped. Shit.

“What’re you working on?” he asked as casually as he could manage.

“Oh, I’ve got World War II coming up on the syllabus in a week or so, I was thinking I’d rework the old lesson plans, work more in about Cap and the Commandos. Kids are more interested, now that Cap’s back from the dead and all, and the Commandos give a nice entry to talking about some interesting social stuff. First integrated unit and all…”

Bucky hummed in agreement and tried not to panic. Ireland flipped a page in the book he was looking through, and there was a picture of the Commandos, Bucky included. Glasses cannot possibly be a sufficient disguise, thought Bucky with a little hysteria. He hid his face behind his coffee cup. Why had he shaved the mustache off, why. Oh right, he’d been thinking with his dick and/or making some romantic fucking gesture or whatever, christ.

Ireland flipped another page in the history textbook. There was a whole inset about Bucky. What the fuck. Why.

“Hmm, maybe I can assign an essay, have the students write about a Commando of their choosing and what their post-war experience says about American or European society…” muttered Ireland, then he looked at the inset with the frankly too-large picture of Bucky’s face. It was a good picture, at least. Not that that helped him right now. “Or not, poor Sergeant Barnes didn’t get a post-war experience.” Ireland looked up with a wry smile.

Bucky could say a lot of things about his post-war experience, none of them fit for the tender ears of teenagers or this middle-aged history teacher. It would probably be pretty illuminating as to the causes of the Cold War though. HYDRA had worked both sides of that. He kept his coffee cup glued to his lips instead. Ireland looked at the inset again, then looked up, squinted at him a little. Bucky tried to look less like…himself. He only succeeded in steaming his glasses up. Fuck.

“Anyone ever tell you that you look a little like Barnes?”

“Oh, a couple times,” said Bucky vaguely. “Uh, maybe you can have them write about the Commandos who made it and Peggy Carter’s post-war career instead.”

Ireland brightened. “Good idea!”

Maybe it was time to grow the mustache back. Or get a fake one.

 


 

If there was a bright side to this whole situation, it was that Steve was away on a mission and would be for the next week or so, so Bucky didn't have to deal with the “I told you so”s and the panicking about their cover. The downside was everything else. Bucky knew, logically, that no one would jump to the conclusion that math teacher Jack Murphy was Bucky Barnes back from the dead. But his cover absolutely did not need an entire high school’s worth of people thinking, “huh, Mr. Murphy really looks like Bucky Barnes,” because someday, that might prove to be a dangerous connection for them to have made. And if one kid posted to whatever social media website was the latest thing…there were people who might pay attention to that kind of thing, people who might know that Bucky Barnes being back from the dead wasn’t as far-fetched as it seemed.

A year or so ago, Bucky would have just left. But he was trying to build a life here, dammit. He was trying not to be afraid.  

That night, when he was brushing his teeth in the bathroom, he stared at his reflection and contemplated growing the mustache again. That would just invite endless comments from his students and the other teachers though. They’d all thought his “it was a dare that I committed to with worrying intensity” explanation was hilarious, and if he tried it again, he’d just get a lot of questions he didn’t have any good answers for. There were plenty of other ways to disguise his face, but they’d be suspicious as hell to people who already knew him.

He spat out toothpaste foam, made a face at himself in the mirror. He considered his options. A haircut wouldn’t help make his face look any less like…his face. Maybe if he let it grow long again, but he didn’t exactly have the time for that. He poked at the stupid cleft in his chin. What an inconveniently distinguishing facial feature. He tilted his head, eyed his well-past-five-o’clock shadow. Hmm. Growing a beard was probably his least suspicious, easiest option. It wasn’t quite as distracting as an ostentatious mustache, but it would have to do.

Lucky for him, his beard grew in fast, so he only spent about three days looking stubbly and disreputable, most of them over the weekend, and ha, suck it Steve, his beard did not come in patchy. It didn’t look half-bad either, not when it was a proper beard rather than “I haven’t bothered to shave in a couple days” stubble. Most importantly, it made him look a lot older, and a lot less like Sergeant Bucky Barnes of the Howling Commandos. So mission accomplished, disaster averted.

 


 

Correction: disaster mostly averted. His students would not shut the hell up about his facial hair choices.

While he was passing graded homework back: “Is this a dare again, Mr. Murphy?”

“No.”

While the kids were supposed to be taking notes: “Why are you growing a beard?”

“Not really your business, kids.”

Walking in the hallway: “Lookin’ pretty hipstery, Mr. M!” said one of his pre-calc students, complete with finger guns.

“…Thanks?” He didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing.

While his AP Calc class were pulling out their notebooks and papers from their backpacks: “It’s not no-shave November though, Mr. Murphy.”

“What the heck is…never mind, I don’t care.”

And while he was demonstrating a solution on the whiteboard: “Is this a sadness beard?”

He stopped writing on the whiteboard. “A what?” He turned around to look at Lia. She was tapping her pencil against her lips and frowning.

“A sadness beard. My mom says men grow beards when they, like, give up on life, or are having too many feelings or whatever.” Ha. He’d have to call Steve’s beard a sadness beard sometime.

One of the other students gasped. “Mr. Murphy! You didn’t break up with your boyfriend, did you?”

“What? No! He’s just out of town! Not that my personal life is any of your business.” Fucking social media. A couple students spot him out and about with Steve over the summer and suddenly every damn kid in the school knew about Mr. Murphy’s “hot boyfriend.”

This earned him a classroom’s worth of wide, wounded eyes. “Mr. Murphy, we just want you to be happy.”

Oh christ. Now he felt guilty. Bucky had thought he’d kept his shit together well enough in the classroom, but apparently, his more attentive students had noticed that he seemed “sad” last year, and it had been a topic of some gossip. The kids had noticed too, when he was happier after Steve found him, and a few of them had said so at the end of last school year, in their own awkwardly earnest way. Of course, some of them also went with, you seem happier than usual. Does that mean we did great on our final? It was sweet of them, really, but also not at all their business.

He sighed, smiled at them. “I am happy, I promise. It’s not a sadness beard. I’ll be even happier if we get through this equation and you all show me you understand it.”

 


 

His fellow teachers were only a little less nosy than his students, but with them at least he could grin and say, “You know, I got carded at the grocery store the other day when I was picking up some beer? Never happens when I’ve got a beard.” And then the conversation would inevitably shift towards how he ought to appreciate his youth while he had it.

Ms. Johnson (freshman and sophomore English, possibly as old as Bucky really was) squinted at him from behind her glasses. “Hmm, you remind me of someone with that beard.”

Bucky was about to despair: surely he didn’t look anything like Sergeant Bucky Barnes of the 107th right now. He had a beard dammit. He was wearing aggressively uncool glasses. If he still looked like the Bucky Barnes of the 40s, maybe it was time for some sort of disfiguring accident. The Winter Soldier part of him grumbled dire things about eliminating witnesses. But then Ms. Johnson snapped her fingers.

“Paul Newman, God rest his soul! When he had a beard!” Bucky relaxed. He had no idea who Paul Newman was, but he didn’t care. So long as no one thought he looked like the definitely dead Bucky Barnes.

He googled paul newman beard later, and wow, that was an unwarrantedly flattering comparison. Bucky didn’t think they looked much alike, but—oh. Paul Newman was an actor, and he had apparently played the role of Bucky Barnes in a Captain America movie in the 50s. Bucky sighed. Whatever. At least it was still one degree of separation from his real identity.

 


 

Steve was mostly on radio silence during his mission, which Bucky tried not to be too anxious about. If it was a shorter mission, he’d be on ops for it. But it was recon for and then a raid on a HYDRA facility that had merged with AIM, and that was definitely going to stretch through and well past school hours, and was interagency besides. Bucky couldn’t help without blowing his cover.

Steve had assured him the mission wouldn’t be too dangerous, which was generally bullshit coming from Steve. But he had a ton of backup, including Sam and Natasha, so Bucky was pretty sure Steve wasn’t going to get up to anything too crazy. And he did get the occasional text from Steve, quick status updates and awkward declarations of how much he missed Bucky. That sparked a memory of the letters Steve had sent him during the war: terse and wry, full of admonishments not to worry about him, with admissions about how much he missed Bucky buried in mundane anecdotes.

The texts only made him miss Steve more. Bucky thought the time they’d spent apart would act as some sort of inoculation against the pain of new separations, like they could both build up some sort of immunity. But Bucky’s memories of missing Steve when he was at Basic, when he was at the front, were still sharp and keen, and they didn’t ease the ache of being apart now. He had missed Steve desperately back then, and done his best not to show it. Other guys hadn’t seemed to miss their best friends the way Bucky did, they just seemed to forge new friendships and chattered cheerfully about what unit their friends had ended up with, recounted the stories they got from them with excitement. Maybe it had helped them, to know they were all going through the same thing together.

Bucky hadn’t had that comfort. As happy as he’d been that Steve was spared the war, he’d still felt a faint panic at the way the war and their diverging experiences were pulling them inexorably away from each other, like Bucky was caught in a rip current and Steve was waving at him from the shore, unaware that Bucky was about to be pulled under, or borne far away on currents Steve couldn’t see or follow. That it had turned out that Steve could follow, at least part of the way, had only helped a little, in the end. They’d still ended up dying separately, each of them alone.

Even after enduring what both of them had thought was a far more permanent separation, spending days apart made Bucky restless with an ache he used to be able to bear, if never entirely ignore. He had lived with it when he hadn’t known what the ache was anchored to, and then he had lived with it when he had, because there had been no other option. He could still bear it. Especially when Steve was going to be back in a few days, for fuck’s sake. Stop being so pathetic, he told himself sternly. Maybe the kids were onto something when it came to the sadness beard though. He did have a distinctly hangdog look when he met his own eyes in the bathroom mirror every lonely night.

Finally, after nine long days, he got the text he’d been waiting for from Steve: mission over! Everyone okay. Headed home, ETA 20 hrs. FaceTime you when you get out of class tomorrow? Followed by a string of enthusiastic emojis that made Bucky laugh. He sent back some excited emojis of his own, and can’t wait. I miss you.

 


 

Bucky had barely walked through the front door when Steve called the next day, and he nearly dropped the phone in his rush to answer it.

“Hey Buck! You home yet? I’ve just gotta debrief with Hill in a few minutes, then I’m headed back.”

Just hearing Steve’s voice released tension he hadn’t even noticed had taken up residence in his shoulders. “Hey, I just walked through the door. Call me back in a minute, I’ll take it on the laptop,” he said, and a minute later, he was staring at Steve’s stupid, handsome face on his laptop screen. The lack of lunar colonies or flying cars were still deep disappointments to him, but even so, sometimes, the future was pretty great.

“Hi,” he said, and gave Steve what was probably a pretty sappy smile. Steve looked way more gobsmacked by that than he should have.

“Hey,” he said faintly. “Uh, you grew a beard?”

“Oh! Yeah, jeez, forgot about that. Yeah, the history classes are about to start a World War II unit in a week or so, and the Commandos are gonna feature pretty prominently in the lesson plan, apparently. Thought I’d play it safe.” He rubbed at the beard self-consciously. “Does it look awful? I mean, I know it’s not worse than the mustache, but—”

“It looks great,” Steve blurted out. “It looks—really, really good, Buck,” he said with hushed fervency. Steve’s eyes were wide and Bucky could just glimpse a blush building high on his cheeks.

Bucky grinned in relief. Steve’s Adam's apple bobbed with the force of his swallow, and his pupils dilated. Huh. That was interesting. Bucky tilted his head and studied Steve’s face, which was still flushed.

“God, I missed you,” said Steve in a low and fervent voice. The sound of it dragged a tingling line down Bucky’s spine, made him lean towards the laptop as if Steve were really there in front of him and they could kiss. It seemed unfair that they could manage to spark this much damn sexual tension when they were still hundreds of miles apart. Pros and cons of the future, Bucky supposed. 

They only had time to exchange quick updates on their respective weeks before Steve had to go debrief, but that was enough to tide Bucky over until Steve got back in time for them to have a late dinner. Or maybe they could skip dinner, thought Bucky, thinking of how avid and intent Steve’s eyes had been on him. There were other things he’d rather be doing with Steve after over a week of not seeing him.

 


 

As much as he maybe wanted to, Bucky didn’t wait at the door for Steve, but he did head for the front hallway pretty quickly once he heard the door open and Steve’s pack hit the floor.

“Buck?” called out Steve, and Bucky got a quick look at Steve’s tired but bright face before they smashed into each other in a hug.

It was ridiculous, probably, but it always went like this now when they spent longer than a few days apart. Sam made fun of them for it: jesus christ, it’s like The Notebook every damn time. Should I play some romantic swelling music for y’all? Sam had actually done it once too, but then he’d immediately regretted it when Steve and Bucky had taken it as a cue to engage in the most showy, over-dramatic reunion kiss imaginable.

They joked about it with Sam, with each other, but Bucky knew the truth by now: grief wasn’t easily forgotten. Even when the subject of it was erased, the grief stayed. Even when the reason for it was restored, the grief lingered. It wasn’t a thing that could be undone, or unwound from the ties that bound him and Steve together. And so every separation wasn’t only a presentiment of the final one, but a memory of it, and every reunion was an attempt to ease that memory’s pain.   

Of course, it was just sexual frustration too. It still shocked Bucky a little, how viscerally Steve wanted him, how much Bucky wanted him back. How quickly that wanting kindled into action, how easy it was to let himself touch and be touched, after so long without. It wasn’t muscle memory: they hadn’t done this, before. But maybe it was years of wanting, too long denied. Or maybe it was just them. Right now, as with every reunion, Steve kissed him with devouring intensity, and the last of the week’s worth of tension slipped from Bucky’s back and shoulders all at once.

When they pulled apart, Bucky gave Steve a quick once-over for visible injuries and didn’t see anything other than the very faint remnants of a mostly healed bruise on Steve’s cheekbone. Some flickering shadow of memory prompted him to press a feather light kiss to it, and Steve’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment as he let out a long breath.

Bucky was tempted to try and chase the memory down, but then Steve took Bucky’s face in his hands, smoothing his thumbs along the soft hair on Bucky’s cheeks. Bucky expected him to say something teasing about Bucky’s new look, or make some awkward double entendre about dinner, or even some devastatingly sincere romantic thing.

Instead, Steve said, “I swear to god I’ve been hard since we FaceTimed,” in a voice low enough to be a growl.

Bucky immediately turned red like a goddamn virgin. Not because of the sentiment so much, but holy shit, for Steve Rogers, that was downright filthy dirty talk. Some part of Bucky was actually scandalized, like when did Steve learn that shit, as if Bucky himself hadn’t said considerably filthier things. Of course, he was also deeply into it. Bucky gave an experimental roll of his hips, pressed their bodies closer together. Steve groaned and practically attacked him with another kiss, open-mouthed and dirty. Hello. Yeah, Steve was hard. Bucky couldn’t even manage a lame joke about it, he was too turned on.

“Just the sight of my pretty face does that to you?” he managed to tease before his mouth was too busy doing other things.

“Yeah, and some other things,” said Steve.

Bucky kind of lost track of things as they kissed and grinded against each other like horny sixteen year olds, at least until his back bumped up against the hallway wall and Steve wrestled Bucky’s shirt and pants off.

“Um—” Bucky started, because he wasn’t sure what Steve intended to do in the front hallway, but whatever it was, surely they could do it better in their bedroom. He was pretty immediately derailed from this train of thought by the way Steve mouthed at his cock through his briefs, his breath hot and wet against the sensitive skin, even through the fabric. Bucky threw his head back against the wall and moaned, and tried to still the involuntary jerking of his hips. Steve just pinned Bucky’s hips against the wall with his hands for a moment, a silent command to stay, before he, god, finally pulled Bucky’s briefs off too.

“We fucking right here?” asked Bucky. “Because the bedroom’s not that far.”

“I want you right here,” said Steve, a little wild with it. “God, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, about you—”

When Steve stood up again, he pulled off his own pants and briefs on the way, and Bucky scrabbled at Steve’s shirt. “Off, off, c’mon,” he panted, and Steve threw it to the side.

“Shit, lube,” cursed Steve. “Stay there!”

“Yeah, see, that’s why I said the bedroom—” started Bucky, but he stayed leaning against the wall, which felt weird against his naked back, but sure helped his shaky legs. He thought he saw where this was going now, and he was already feeling pretty desperate for it.

“No, hang on,” said Steve and dived for his pack, still on the ground by the door, where he rummaged around, tossing, jesus, a bunch of ammo and knives out before emerging triumphantly with a little bottle of lube. “Ha!”

With somewhat disconcerting speed, Steve was back to crowding him up against the wall, and then lifting him up so he had to wrap his legs around Steve’s waist, his cock trapped against Steve’s stomach, which was, fuck, not enough pressure, not enough anything.

“Steve, c’mon, please,” he said. They were both breathing hard now, but Steve shushed him.

Steve kept Bucky braced with one arm, and Bucky grabbed onto Steve’s shoulders, just in time for Steve to stick two fingers in his ass.

Once his everything stopped lighting up from the touch, Bucky said, “Oh, we’re doing this right here, in the hallway, okay, hurry up with it then, fuck me already—” he said, pushing demandingly against Steve’s fingers.

“Shut up, oh my god,” said Steve, and shifted Bucky around a little. Bucky tightened his legs around Steve’s waist in both warning and encouragement and Steve groaned. “Just, gimme a sec, let me—” And then he was sliding in with a strangled groan, the angle a little strange, but fuck, so good.

Bucky’s last coherent thought was a wordless sort of thanks for the serum and the effortless way Steve was holding him up, and then he was gone, coming apart with every borderline brutal thrust of Steve’s hips. He was distantly aware of the wall giving way a little with a splintering crunch, but he didn’t care, he just didn’t want Steve to stop. Steve came inside him with violent shudder, his grip on Bucky turning bruising, and that sent Bucky over the edge too.

They collapsed gracelessly down to the floor in a sweaty and sticky heap. Bucky felt a little like he’d just been hit by a truck. A sexy truck.

“Holy shit,” he said.

Steve looked a little embarrassed now. “I, um, really missed you?”

Bucky let out a surprised laugh. “Missed you too, sweetheart,” he said, still a little breathless. Steve kissed the closest part of Bucky he could reach, which happened to be Bucky’s shoulder.

“You up for trying that the other way around?” asked Steve.

Bucky shoved weakly at Steve. “What, right now? Jesus, Steve, what is this, the sex olympics?” Steve burst into laughter. “Shut up! By the way, you’re fixing the drywall, asshole,” he said, before Steve’s laughter overtook him too.

 


 

Steve was staring at him again. All Bucky was currently doing was typing up new problem sets for his students, so he didn’t get what had Steve so enraptured. It wasn’t like man hunched over a laptop fighting with word processor to format these damned equations right was such an artistically fascinating tableau or anything.

“You need something, Steve?” he asked, and looked over at Steve, who continued to stare sort of dreamily at Bucky. Bucky narrowed his eyes. Steve didn’t even have his sketchbook out.

“Hmm? No, no, sorry, you do your work.” Bucky grunted and did just that. But Steve’s attention didn’t waver.

“Seriously, what is it? You know you can draw me whenever, right?”

“Yeah, I know. Sorry, it’s just—you look really handsome.” Steve was blushing. Bucky raised an eyebrow. “I mean, you always look handsome, obviously, but right now you just, with the hair, and uh, you’re concentrating so hard, it’s just—I’m going to shut up now.”

Bucky fought hard not to smile, but this was charming as hell. Steve didn’t usually get so tongue-tied around him. He closed the laptop and turned his chair around to face Steve, spreading his legs wide in an invitation that Steve scrambled to take up. The chair creaked a little under their collective weight when Steve straddled his lap, but it held up. Bucky settled his hands on Steve’s slim waist, and for just a second, he regretted that they’d never done this when Steve was smaller.

“Hmm, I don’t think it’s the hair or my look of concentration here, Steve.” Steve nuzzled at Bucky’s neck, his cheek. His breath was hot on Bucky’s skin as he pressed light kisses up along the column of Bucky’s neck, to just behind his ear. Bucky wasn’t distracted, though it was a good effort. “C’mon, what is it.” Bucky slid his hands up under Steve’s shirt, and Steve sighed happily.

“The beard looks real good, Buck,” Steve admitted against Bucky’s hair. “I mean, I just look like a lumberjack, but you look—distinguished and smart—like, I dunno, an old-timey poet or something—”

“Oh my god, is this a sexy teacher fetish? Steven Grant Rogers, do you have a hot for teacher thing?”

“What? No! I can’t just think my best guy looks real good with a beard?” The chair creaked ominously. They both went still as if that would make them weigh any less.

“Time to relocate,” muttered Bucky, then shifted his grip on Steve to scoop him up, and got up from the chair. Steve yelped but wrapped his legs around Bucky’s waist pretty quickly. Hell yeah, super soldier strength and a robot arm were so fucking useful sometimes. Bucky grinned at the still surprised look on Steve’s face.

Steve responded with wide eyes. “Wall. We need to try the wall thing, c’mon—”

“Stop squirming, fuck, I’m gonna drop you—” Steve swallowed Bucky’s complaints with a viciously dirty kiss. Bucky broke away gasping. “Yeah, okay, got any wall in particular in mind?”

Steve grinned his about-to-start-shit grin. “Bedroom wall, the lube’s in there.” Bucky started walking them over to the bedroom.

“So, help me out here, I’m not seeing the connection between the beard and fucking against a wall…”

Steve groaned. “There’s no connection, Buck—”

“I’m just saying, I grow a beard, you fuck me against a wall right after, and now this, it just makes a man wonder is all—”

“They’re unrelated!” protested Steve all the way to their bedroom.

 

Notes:

I'm pretty sure I got the idea of Paul Newman playing Bucky Barnes in a movie from another fic, but hell if I can remember which one.

Chapter 6: they say in this place you can reinvent yourself

Summary:

Natasha got the text from Steve when she was mid-interrogation of a HYDRA agent: mission complete, two confirmed HYDRA casualties. Will need some containment/clean up eventually, but it’ll keep. She took a break from slowly but surely breaking this guy’s will to shoot Steve a quick text back: debrief tomorrow? and got Steve’s confirmation.

In no way did Steve’s bland texts prepare her for the debrief that was to come.

Natasha's POV, not long after the end of they're gonna send us to prison for jerks.

Chapter Text

Natasha got the text from Steve when she was mid-interrogation of a HYDRA agent: mission complete, two confirmed HYDRA casualties. Will need some containment/clean up eventually, but it’ll keep. She took a break from slowly but surely breaking this guy’s will to shoot Steve a quick text back: debrief tomorrow? and got Steve’s confirmation.

In no way did Steve’s bland texts prepare her for the debrief that was to come.


Her first hint that something was up was when she saw Steve’s face on her laptop screen. For a split second, she thought that Steve looked years younger, but then she realized no, he just looked happy. So happy he was practically glowing with it. The sight made the usually prickly and armored parts of her heart soften, and she found herself smiling at Steve almost automatically before her brain kicked in. She was pretty sure only one thing would ever make Steve look so unreservedly happy.

“You found Barnes,” she said, and Steve proceeded to practically blind her with what had to be the biggest, most genuine smile she’d ever seen on his face.

“Yeah. Yeah, I did. Buck, c’mere.”

Natasha braced herself for the Winter Soldier’s grim glower, or the dead-eyed glare that probably figured in a lot of people’s nightmares. Instead, she got Bucky Barnes’ wide and anxious blue-gray eyes, and an awkward little wave.

“Um, hi.”

“...Soldat?”

Barnes flinched. “I prefer Bucky, please. Or, uh, Jack, that’s my cover right now.”

Now Sam popped his head into the frame, eyebrows raised. “We’ve got kind of a wild story for you, Nat.”

Natasha stared at them all for a few seconds: Steve’s incandescent joy, its quiet counterpart alight in Barnes, though Barnes was also biting his lip in apprehension, and Sam’s deadpan “yeah, this is happening,” face. This debrief would probably go better in person. She calculated travel times and how long it would take to wrap her op up.

“I’ll be there in a couple days.”


On the way to Cleveland, Natasha texted Sam: should I be worried? Sam would know what she meant. Steve was unavoidably compromised when it came to the Winter Soldier, but she and Sam had to be clear-eyed and realistic. They’d quietly planned for the worst case scenarios (the Winter Soldier dead, or recaptured by HYDRA to be used again, or still coming after Steve to complete his final mission), and the just plain grim ones (the Winter Soldier too far gone to ever be anything like Bucky Barnes again, or caught and imprisoned by the authorities). They hadn’t planned for whatever this was.

Don’t think so, replied Sam. We’ll give you the full story when you get here, but Barnes has been lying low as a damned high school math teacher for the past year.

Natasha spent way too long trying to figure out if “high school math teacher” was the result of some autocorrect texting mistake. Before she could ask for more clarification, Sam texted again: he’s the one who’s been taking HYDRA’s money and shit.

Natasha wouldn’t have thought that was the Winter Soldier’s style, but maybe it was Barnes’. And Karpov?

That was Barnes too, though he says he’s been doing some whole ‘almost murder-free revenge plan.’ He’s got intel we could really use.

Huh. Her natural suspicion warred with the relief that wanted to take hold of her. For Steve’s sake, she hoped she had reason to be relieved. The best Natasha had been able to bring herself to hope for when it came to the Winter Soldier had been that he’d take a route similar to hers, after she’d wrecked and razed what she could of the Red Room’s remnants: lie low and gather intel as he got his shit together, and eventually either come in from the cold himself, or be brought in safely. This could be just that, she supposed. But if Natasha had learned anything from Nick Fury, it was that someone had to be ready for the worst case scenarios. Though, admittedly, Nick hadn’t seemed to be entirely prepared for the secret Nazis everywhere scenario. Real hard to shake the possibility of that one once it had already happened to you once. Brainwashed or not, Natasha was going to make sure they weren’t in for round two of that worst case scenario with Barnes, or some other disaster that would end in explosions and Steve looking sad again. 


She got to Cleveland in the early afternoon, and was greeted with a hug by a beaming Steve.

“Oof. Hi, Steve.”

He pulled back with an abashed smile. “Sorry.”

“Well, where’s the reason for all this blinding happiness?” she asked, and peered around the living room Steve led her into. She half-expected to see the Winter Soldier looming in the corner.

“School’s not out yet, he’s still teaching class. He’ll be back in a few hours.”

So, maybe Sam’s text hadn’t been a bizarre autocorrect error. “Because he’s a high school math teacher.”

“Yup.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” confirmed Steve.

No, Natasha couldn’t picture it. And who the hell would choose high school teacher as their cover if the mission didn’t call for it? Way better to pick something anonymous with irregular hours and high turnover so no one cared if you disappeared to avoid getting arrested. Maybe Steve and Sam had misunderstood.

“You mean it’s his cover,” she tried. “He’s not an actual teacher, he’s—”

“Neighbor Jack!” said Sam as he came in. “Hey Nat, welcome to Cleveland.”

“What.”

“Bucky, aka Jack Murphy, is our neighbor. He lives next door. Our own personal Ned Flanders,” said Sam as he flopped down onto the couch.

“Again, what.”

Now both Sam and Steve looked faintly embarrassed. “It’s kind of a long story…” started Steve.

Natasha settled herself on the living room’s armchair to listen. About one minute in, she longed for a drink.

“A mustache. A mustache was enough to fool both of you.”

Sam shifted in his seat and scowled. “And glasses!”

“And, you know, a digital mesh over his metal arm!” protested Steve. Natasha just stared at him. ”Listen, we’re soldiers, not spies.” Sam crossed his arms and nodded. Natasha kept staring in silence. “And I did recognize him, okay, but Sam didn’t, and Buck didn’t say anything, so I didn’t want to seem like a crazy person, you know, after the other times—” and now Steve was making the big, wounded eyes at her, the ones that made him look like an unloved puppy at the shelter.

What a fucking farce. She honestly didn’t know whether to be impressed by Barnes’ disguise skills and commitment to maintaining a cover, or deeply disappointed in Steve and Sam. Right now, she was leaning towards the latter. Because seriously: a mustache.

She sighed. “Fine, continue.” And okay, wow, Sam hadn’t been kidding when he called it a wild story.

“…And then the zombies started swarming us, but Bucky had rigged the place to blow, and it’s all blocked up now. Someone should probably make sure it stays that way though, or maybe destroy the whole mine…”

“Zombies.” She looked at Sam, who nodded in confirmation. Not that it mattered, really, but Natasha had to ask, “Fast zombies or slow zombies?”

“Kinda in between,” said Sam. “It was hard to tell, they were basically falling apart. There were just a lot of them.”

Natasha rubbed at her forehead and eyes. “Right. Zombies in a HYDRA base that’s in an abandoned mine. This is our lives now.”

“Is it really any weirder than aliens?” asked Steve.

“Fair point,” conceded Natasha with a grimace.

She was already trying to come up with a way to get the zombie mine problem handled without uttering the words undead Nazis and Confederate soldiers to any official government agencies. Which agency would even handle that? Was the EPA going to have to get involved? Maybe the CDC. And there was still Barnes to deal with too. Natasha wasn’t ruling out the possibility that this whole situation was darker than the farce with a happy ending it seemed to be.

“So. Sam said Barnes has intel,” she prompted as she tapped out a quick text to Maria: what government agency would hypothetically deal with the cleanup of an abandoned mine full of zombies? Asking for a friend.

Steve sobered some, taking on his more serious, Captain America air. For a scant half second, Natasha missed Steve, whose open happiness was already being tucked behind the professional wall of Captain Rogers.

“Yeah, he’s got a whole set up in his garage,” he said, and took her next door.

They spent the next couple hours going over some of Barnes’ very thorough intel analysis, which eased Natasha’s suspicions some. It all slotted in neatly with what they’d gleaned of Barnes’ movements since Insight, and it accounted for all the mysteriously missing HYDRA resources, and the higher ups and money men who were showing up dead or getting caught.

And, more important still, Barnes’ one-man HYDRA investigative task force was meticulous, ordered, careful. This wasn’t a man on a rampage, or a malfunctioning weapon with the safety turned off. This, maybe, was whatever was left of Bucky Barnes and the Winter Soldier both, taking revenge against HYDRA on his own terms. Natasha could relate. Though her own Red Room revenge had ended up being somewhat more explosive. Barnes just had a lot of spreadsheets and hacked records and intercepted HYDRA communications. What a nerd.

However he was taking his revenge, if Barnes was moving against HYDRA on his own, that took some of the worst case scenarios off the table, but not all of them. Natasha still needed to talk to Barnes, get his measure, preferably without Steve around. They were still going through the frankly impressive amount of intel Barnes had collected on Strucker when Barnes got home.

“Steve, you here?”

“In the garage with Sam and Natasha!”

Barnes came in warily, keeping a careful eye on Natasha. She kept her expression pleasantly neutral, and didn’t train a weapon on him, or make any other threatening moves, a courtesy Barnes thankfully returned. So two seconds in, and already this was going a ton better than their last meeting. Not that Natasha hadn’t had fun riding the Winter Soldier like he was a particularly cranky bull as she’d tried to garrote him, but she’d prefer not fighting for her life and/or attempting to kill him for once.

Whatever Barnes saw in her careful non-reaction to him seemed to make him relax a little, because he turned his attention to Steve with a bright and sweet smile. Between the thick and dorky glasses he was wearing, and the bland clothes, Barnes looked utterly harmless, and she suddenly got why Sam hadn’t recognized him. Add a distracting mustache, and the apparently flesh arm, and even Natasha would have had a long moment of doubt.

“Still getting shit about shaving that mustache off?” asked Steve with a grin as Barnes came over to where they were sitting.

Barnes groaned as he pulled off the glasses. “I swear to god, it’s all the school’s talking about.” He bent down to give Steve a quick kiss on the mouth, then turned to Natasha, with, god, weapons-grade sincere wide blue eyes. She scarcely had time to react to the kissing thing before Barnes said, “Hi. Um, we’ve met before, I guess, but, uh. Not under the best circumstances. I’m sorry.”

Natasha looked at Steve and Barnes, and the utter lack of personal space between them. A number of things abruptly made sense about Steve, though holy shit, he’d kept this tightly under wraps. Maybe he wasn’t so bad at keeping up a cover as she’d thought. Steve blushed when she raised an eyebrow, but his jaw took on that stubborn tilt, and he shifted closer to Barnes. As sweet a sight as it was, Natasha added a couple worst case scenarios to her running list of them.

“Don’t worry, I’m not holding it against you,” she said after they’d squirmed sufficiently, and tilted her head to study Barnes. She could see him swallow hard under the scrutiny, but he held her stare. “Thanks for all the help taking out HYDRA,” she continued, indicating the intel surrounding them. “Steve. You didn’t think to ever mention this?”

“Mention what?” She glared. “Oh, uh, me and Buck?”

“It has been like three days, and they’re already at the old marrieds stage,” said Sam, long suffering.

“Excuse you, I’m still feeling pretty honeymoon-like,” retorted Barnes, and Steve beamed up at him, tugged him down to sit on his lap. Barnes rolled his eyes, but a pretty flush took up residence on his cheeks, and he threaded his fingers together with Steve’s where Steve’s arm was wrapped around him. That was just too damned sweet. She narrowed her eyes. If this was a joke, or some sort of con on Barnes’ part...

Steve,” she prompted.

“What was there to say, Nat. We weren’t together before. And my personal feelings weren’t really relevant to the mission.” Now Steve smiled his wry, sad smile. “You knew I was compromised anyway.”

“This conversation isn’t over,” warned Natasha. “You ready for a debrief, Barnes?”

Barnes nodded and rose from Steve’s lap, and quick as that, the nearly palpable warmth and affectionate glow surrounding Steve and Barnes receded, leaving what Natasha recognized from old newsreels as Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes’ focused professionalism.

“So, tell me what you’ve been up to.”


“Are you taking me into custody, Agent Romanoff?” asked Barnes after they got through the most urgent items on Natasha’s to-do list. Steve started on an automatic denial, hackles rising, and Natasha interrupted him before he could really get going.

“I’m not really an agent of anything right now, Barnes.”

“You know what I mean. One call from you, and every alphabet agency in the world comes down on my head.”

Barnes’ voice was even and calm, but his body was tense, poised for flight or violence. It was the first hint of the Winter Soldier’s danger she’d seen so far. Natasha was, paradoxically, relieved. She’d have been far more worried if Barnes had spent the whole time playing at harmless.

“That won’t happen,” said Steve. “Natasha—” Barnes gave Steve a sharp shake of the head, and Steve shut up, to Natasha’s surprise.

“I’ll have to let Fury know, and Hill,” she said. “But no, I don’t see any reason to turn you in, and a hell of a lot of reasons not to. This is staying Avengers’ business, as far as I’m concerned.”

If SHIELD hadn’t turned out to be HYDRA, she’d have taken Barnes to them, to Fury. That had turned out alright for her, after all. She’d thought so, anyway. Ha. Just another Red Room, Natalia. You never got out and you’ll never—she shut that voice up. No. However rotten SHIELD had ended up being, the Avengers Initiative was still clean, and running wholly in the black when it came to the moral ledger. Any other agency, and the Winter Soldier would be disappeared, killed if he was lucky, and used if he wasn’t, and all it would take was one HYDRA double agent to have him fall back into HYDRA’s hands. He wouldn’t have a chance.

Natasha wanted him to at least have a chance. She’d had one, after all. And Natasha didn’t trust much, nowadays, but she trusted the small circle of the Avengers as much as she could trust anybody. The best option she’d been able to come up with for Barnes was to fold him into that small circle, one way or the other. Steve agreed, she knew.

“I told you, Buck, you’re safe with us. Fury and Hill need to know in case something goes wrong, but you can trust them with this.”

Barnes didn’t relax just yet, eyes still fixed on her with all the intent of a trapped predator considering whether to try for the kill, or bolt. Natasha tried not to tense up in turn, no matter how much she wanted to. Barnes frowned, tilted his head.

“Wait, you said you’re telling Fury? Didn’t, I, uh—”

“Kill him?” Both Steve and Barnes winced. “You almost did,” said Natasha. “But he got better, decided being officially dead would be more useful while going after HYDRA.”

“Oh,” said Barnes. “I should...apologize or something, probably.”

Sam snorted. “What’re you gonna do, send him a Hallmark card? They don’t make ‘sorry about the attempted assassination’ apology cards.”

“Yeah, no, they don’t, I’d’ve had to send a lot of those out too,” said Natasha.

Steve rolled his eyes. “You can’t send Fury a card, Buck,” said Steve, and the part-mulish, part-devilish look that flitted across Barnes’ face suggested otherwise, before Barnes’ expression settled back into tense and wary watchfulness.

“Alright, so you won’t turn me in. Will Fury, or Hill?”

“You’ve stayed under the radar this long, I guarantee you we’re not messing with that. And we can always use more help taking down HYDRA.” She remembered Sam’s text. “Murder-free, even.” Barnes only relaxed a little at that.

“We’ll work something out, like I said. You can stay here,” said Steve, gentle now.

“And you?” asked Barnes, turning to Steve. “Are you staying? I know I got no right to ask, after running from you for so damn long—”

“Hey, no, you have every right to ask. And I’ll keep running missions, yeah, but I’ll come home after. I’m always gonna come home after.” Steve pulled Barnes into a loose hug, and they did some meaningful staring into each other’s eyes.

Sam gave her a look that was equal parts annoyed and amused. “So, we’re based in Cleveland now, basically.”

“‘We’? I was not consulted on that,” said Natasha.

“We mean that Bucky’ll be doing what he can from here, no missions. He’s staying here. So I’m staying here too,” said Steve.

“Unless you have a short mission that’s not on a school night. And maybe anything during summer break, I can go with you and run ops, be overwatch if you really need it.”

“Yeah? You sure? You don’t have to.” asked Steve with an excited smile.

Barnes smiled back. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

God, she left these idiots alone for a few months and suddenly everyone was moving to Cleveland and doing...whatever the fuck Barnes was doing. Which surely couldn’t be teaching high school kids. Surely. “What. What do school nights have to do with anything?”

Barnes managed to tear himself away from Steve to frown at her. “I have work. I’m a teacher, at the high school.”

“Right. Steve said that, but you mean just as a cover, right?” Just because his cover was high school teacher, didn’t mean he was actually teaching high school kids, right? Like, part of Natasha’s Natalie Rushman cover had been modeling in Japan, but she hadn’t actually done it. She’d just photoshopped up some fake photoshoots.

Sam shook his head. “He’s a literal, actual high school math teacher who coaches the damn mathletes. The mathletes, Natasha.”

Barnes gave Sam an icy, distinctly Winter Soldier-esque glare before turning his attention to Natasha again. “I don’t know what you mean. I actually teach actual high school students actual math. I like my job. I’m not giving it up to run around the world murdering HYDRA assholes. I can fuck up their shit just fine from here.”

“Right. Of course,” said Natasha a little faintly. Briefly, she entertained the mental image of the Winter Soldier in full tac gear standing at a chalkboard in front of a class full of teenagers, and then swallowed her hysterical little giggle at the image.

“Are we done for the night? I’ve got some lesson plans to go over.”

“Sure.”

No scenario Natasha had considered, worst case or best case or even ??? case, had included the Winter Soldier deciding to live a quiet life teaching at a high school. But alright, whatever. Natasha could adapt, she was adaptable. And her mission here wasn’t done yet.


Natasha was a spy, and a damned good one, so of course she wasn’t just going to take anyone’s word for Barnes being a math teacher. Trust, but verify, she told herself, as she casually strolled out of Steve and Sam’s safe house with the intent of following Barnes to work. Outside, Steve was on the patch of grass that passed for Barnes’ lawn, stretching for his morning run.

“There’s a tree right outside Buck—Jack’s classroom window. Gives a decent view into his classroom, not too hard to climb.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Natasha. “I’m just going to get coffee.”

“Uh huh. Wave hi to Jack for me.”

There was, in fact, a conveniently located tree outside of Barnes’ alleged classroom window, and Natasha didn’t even have to worry about the branches holding her weight if they’d held up for Steve. She climbed up quickly, and perched on a branch that bore her weight and got her close enough to hear Barnes’ voice drifting through the open classroom window. The window was too grimy and dirty to offer a very clear view inside the classroom, but she could make out Barnes’ dark hair, and those awful glasses of his, and she could hear his voice clearly enough. He’d changed his accent for his cover, to something vaguely southern.

She settled in to surveil, idly considering whether or not to plant any bugs. But she’d spent last night going over Barnes’ cover with a fine-toothed comb, and it had held up. The school’s security feeds showed Barnes walking in and out regularly on almost every school day. Jack Murphy’s school email account and class rosters had been easy enough to hack into too, and they confirmed Barnes’ cover: Jack Murphy started teaching at the high school this school year, and he was, in fact, coaching the mathletes. Natasha had even gone so far as to check his students’ social media accounts, which made her feel like a creepy old woman, but the students confirmed it too: Mr. Murphy was the new teacher in the math department, and his students mostly loved him. They were also pretty worked up about the disappearance of the infamous mustache, posting things like, so my calc teacher is a secret hottie, it’s honestly ruining my life and Mr. M had that awful pornstache as a DARE?! I’m shook and, her favorite, GROW THE STACHE BACK, MR. M. YOUR FACE IS TOO DISTRACTING CALCULUS IS HARD ENOUGH ;____;

Barnes’ voice started sounding closer. Shit, he was walking to the window.

“Now I know how much some of you hate graphing, but please, if you can’t use graph paper or a ruler, at least try to draw straight lines. I’m going to start taking points off for graphs that look like they were drawn by an arthritic drunk.” A small chorus of whines started up. “No whining! Use the edge of a book to draw some straight lines if you have to!”

Barnes reached the window and gave her a deadpan glare from behind the grimy window as he closed it. She smiled and wiggled her fingers in a little wave. So. The Winter Soldier really was a high school math teacher now. Alright, she could work with that. She could adapt to that new reality.


After spending a couple class periods observing Barnes, she headed back to Steve and Sam’s safe house, coffee in hand.

“Is watching Barnes teach calculus just that thrilling? Should I go view this amazing sight too?” asked Sam.

“Sure, if you’re up for living up to your codename and nesting in a tree.” Sam booed her, and she grinned.

“Satisfied?” asked Steve, eyebrows raised.

“He’s definitely a teacher,” allowed Natasha.

A couple worst case scenarios had been definitively struck off her list after watching Barnes with his students. There were still plenty left, though. What if Barnes was playing them, what if Barnes was knowingly or unknowingly the bait in a trap, a ticking time bomb, what if

And there was the small but keen sting of Steve having never told her about how he felt about Barnes. She’d wondered, of course she had. Steve’s devotion, and the vague but intense ways he tended to describe what Barnes meant to him, had suggested that maybe there was something more there than friendship. But in years of Natasha trying to gently and sometimes not-so-gently goad Steve into dating, he’d never said a word about being bi, or about carrying a torch for Barnes. And Natasha hadn’t figured it out either. So, that was 0 for 2 on being a good friend and a good spy. Great job, Romanoff.

“So, what’s next?” asked Sam. “We know Barnes is staying here, and we’ve got all this intel on Strucker. We moving on that?”

Natasha shook off her self-pity. “That’ll be a big op, and we won’t be able to do it under the radar. We’ll need to make nice with a bunch of agencies to get it cleared and set up.”

Steve nodded. “Let’s get the possibly cursed gold and all this intel to Stark, then get to work on this Strucker op. Anything else that’s more urgent?”

“I still don’t think the zombie mine gold is cursed,” said Sam. Steve and Natasha just stared at him.

“Hey Sam, replay that sentence in your head, and reconsider your position,” said Steve. Sam flipped him off as Steve laughed and Natasha grinned.

“You planning on, what, FedExing that stuff to Tony?” asked Natasha.

There was a suspiciously long pause from Sam and Steve. “…No?” said Steve eventually. After a few seconds of staring, Steve said more firmly, “No. We’ll head to New York, drop it and Bucky’s intel off in person. Or, uh, you know, you could take it?” suggested Steve with his stupid, big hopeful eyes. Natasha hardened her heart against this admittedly adorable sight.

“Oh no, no way, Rogers. You get to explain all this to Tony and Maria in person.” Steve’s face fell. “Since when do you try to get out of doing work anyway?” Natasha asked, narrowing her eyes and leaning in towards Steve.

Steve never, ever tried to ditch a meeting or pawn off a mission on another team, not even when any other reasonable person would. Natasha had even tried to push for Steve’s limit on it once, scheduling a briefing for Christmas Eve, and a week-long mission on Steve’s birthday, and Steve had showed up for both, without a single comment on the inconvenient timing, and no evident signs of resentment, just his usual vaguely unhappy professional demeanor. She’d felt bad enough anyway that she hadn’t done it again. 

“Since he wants to spend his every waking moment sucking face with Barnes, probably,” said Sam.

“That’s not why! I just—”

Sam crossed his arms and cut Steve off. “He will almost definitely be here when we get back, and he’ll be at work most of the time we’re gone anyway. Find some chill, Steve. I know you’ve had an emotional reunion or whatever, but he’s not ditching his job for you, you shouldn’t ditch yours for him.”

“Right, but—”

“I’ll stay here. We’ll get to know each other, it’ll be great,” said Natasha, and smiled. She thought she’d managed to look reassuring, but Steve looked a little uneasy even if he didn’t immediately object. “Anyway, I want to go over all the data Barnes has collected, see about getting him some more computing bandwidth to crunch numbers. He’s doing good work cutting off HYDRA’s money spigots. Now that we know it’s him, we can coordinate better with Interpol and the FBI…”


By lunchtime, they had a pretty firm plan of action for the next few weeks. Natasha would have felt better about it if Barnes himself wasn’t still such an unknown. She’d have to try to get his measure while Steve was gone tomorrow, and do it without spooking Barnes into running. If he wasn’t here when Steve got back, Natasha was pretty sure Steve would have a nervous breakdown, and kill her besides. He seemed antsy enough about being apart from Barnes for even a day or two, which was probably going to be real fun for Sam to deal with. 

“Did you know about Steve’s decades’ long tragic love for Barnes?” Natasha asked Sam over the last few bites of lunch.

“Does it count if I asked him if he and Barnes were more like Meredith and McDreamy or Meredith and Cristina, and Steve said Meredith should leave McDreamy and run away with Cristina?”

“What?” None of that made sense to Natasha.

“I thought you said we weren’t going to tell Natasha about that,” hissed Steve to Sam. Then he turned to Natasha with a crooked sort of smile. “And anyway, it wasn’t tragic, it just—was. I never told anybody. I’m sorry if it was relevant to the mission, or interfered with—”

Natasha cut him off, annoyed. “No, you were right earlier, we all knew you were compromised, the specifics or how or why didn’t particularly matter.”

Sam glared meaningfully at Steve, and widened his eyes. Steve’s brow furrowed in confusion, and he raised his eyebrows in an obvious what? For fuck’s sake. They were both so bad at being covert. Natasha left them to it though, because honestly, this was kind of funny.

After a fair amount of (very entertaining) eyebrow waggling and glaring, Sam gave up and said, “Natasha is hurt that you never mentioned this personal and important thing because she thought you two were friends now and shared that kind of thing. Do none of you communicate?”

“I’m not hurt,” protested Natasha, and then, because she couldn’t help herself and goddammit, this was really bugging her, “But you might have at least mentioned you were into guys too when I was trying to set you up with someone.”

“I didn’t really want to be set up with anyone, so….” Sam got a dangerous look on his face, so Steve hastily course-corrected to, “But I am sorry! I know I don’t, uh, share much.”

Natasha let him squirm for a bit before she shrugged and said, “I don’t share much either,” because she didn’t. Most of her personal stories about her past were real downers. She could pick and choose safe lies from any number of covers, but Steve and the team knew who and what she was. Everybody did, now.

So Natasha didn’t hide behind pretty lies anymore, she just maintained what she hoped was an aura of dangerous mystery, but which, in actuality, felt more like one of those facades on a soundstage: the appearance of a real home, but nothing inside it except for some stray lighting rigs and old props. Steve, Natasha now realized, had been in a not dissimilar position after being defrosted. Of course he hadn’t shared much about himself; all his personal stories were downers too. Too much of Steve Rogers had been bound up in grief.

“We can...keep not sharing much and still be friends?” said Steve with that stupidly charming wry grin of his.

Natasha’s half smile bloomed into a full one, and she laughed, nodded. “Sure. Sounds perfect to me.” She really did love Steve sometimes.

“Oh my god. You know what, whatever. Whatever works for y’all.”


Steve and Sam left for New York early the next morning, but not before Steve and Barnes had spent a good five minutes wrapped up in each other, and Natasha would have joked about young love or toning down the sexual tension, but there was something too desperate in the way they held on, in the way Barnes’ fist was clenched in the fabric of Steve’s shirt, the way Steve’s face was tucked against Barnes’ neck. Sam looked away to give them their privacy, but Natasha watched. This was intel too, in its own way. Eventually Barnes murmured I gotta go teach, and Steve let him go with one last, long kiss, his hand terribly gentle on Barnes’ face as Barnes leaned in and held on. When Steve pulled back, he and Barnes both visibly tucked away all that clingy desperation. They were, Natasha realized, used to hiding how much they wanted each other. Steve even managed not to look back as he and Sam drove away.

Barnes left her in his makeshift ops center, telling her to help herself and that he’d be back in the late afternoon. The sharp and knowing look he gave her on his way out the door suggested he knew what she’d do with free rein of his place, so she didn’t feel that bad about tossing his small house as neatly and carefully as she could.

There wasn’t much to find. The place was, charitably put, minimalist, most everything there for an obviously utilitarian purpose. But the bed was big, with soft and comfortable pillows and sheets, and though the freezer and cabinets were full of precooked meals and protein bars, there was plenty of evidence that Barnes actually cooked too, along with a ton of fresh fruit in the fridge. He was trying hard to be a person then, someone who looked after himself with care. If this place wasn’t quite a home, it was way more than just a squat or a wholly anonymous safe house. Safe houses didn’t have dorky photos of high school mathletes on the fridge, and okay, wow, Barnes’ mustache had really been something, huh. The longer she looked at it, the more hilarious it got.

Mustache aside, the most evidence of personality was in all the books that neatly colonized every room, and that covered a charmingly wide and eclectic range of topics: there was the expected 21st century catch up stuff, along with pop non fiction, post-modern poetry, pulpy sci fi paperbacks, an assortment of Westerns, and a handful of scientific journals that wouldn't have been out of place in Tony’s lab. Plus, enough books on teaching and math education to support a masters degree in education, probably.

There were, of course, weapons stashes too, knives and guns in the same kinds of places Natasha would have put them, and a go-bag hidden behind a false wall in the hall closet. Standard, as safe houses went, with no creepy surprises. The garage was as close as it got to creepy, but even what Sam called Barnes’ “wall of crazy” was just evidence of an ordered investigation. Natasha was sure Barnes was tucking away his real crazy somewhere, but wherever it was, he’d hidden it well, or kept it elsewhere. She’d find it eventually.


Barnes got back in the late afternoon, as promised.

“So, do I pass?” he asked, leaning against the doorway into the garage.

“You’re a real, live boy, Bucky Barnes. Or at least, very good at faking it.”

He grinned at her a little, and tipped his head towards the house in invitation. “Little of both, probably. Guessing you still wanna talk to me though. There’s some stuff you oughta know.”

She followed him back into the house. “Stuff Steve doesn’t know?”

“Yeah. You were in the Red Room, right? One of the little girls.” Natasha’s steps faltered. She didn’t remember ever seeing him when she was a child.

“Yes. Were you—”

“They kept me in Siberia most of the time, but I remember seeing the Widows once, when I was getting shown off to Department X. You know—you know what it’s like, being—” he stopped with a grimace, and gestured vaguely. Yeah. She knew.

“Yes,” said Natasha, and returned Barnes’ grimace. “We have some shared life experiences.”

“You got out too. Got free of the Red Room.”

“I defected, yeah. Got brought in by SHIELD. Which ended up being more of a lateral move, I guess, except for the Avengers.”

They got to the kitchen, and Barnes stopped, crossing his arms. “You didn’t know though. About HYDRA.” He watched her closely now, and it felt a lot like being in the crosshairs of his scope. Natasha let him look, let him see her anger and shame.

“No. Some spy I am, right?”

She didn’t bother to keep a lid on her bitterness. She’d gone over it again and again since Insight, as she helped Maria, Sharon, and Fury clean up the mess of SHIELD: should I have known? How could I have not known? Rumlow, Rollins, Sitwell, Jane in HR, Hank the night shift quartermaster, Amy the nurse...all HYDRA. And Natasha had never suspected a damn thing.

Barnes shrugged. “You did the right thing when it counted,” he said, more softly than she’d expected. The generosity of it surprised her too; Barnes of all people had a right to hold onto anger about just how many people had failed to see the HYDRA rot. “Thank you, by the way. For killing Pierce.”

“I don’t often get thanked for killing someone,” said Natasha with a smile. “But you’re welcome.”

Barnes gave her a small smile back and relaxed the tense set of his shoulders a little, uncrossing his arms. She’d passed some test of his, apparently. He went to the kitchen table, and pulled a book out of the messenger bag he’d taken to work that morning.

“This is why I tracked Karpov down and killed him.”

Natasha joined him at the kitchen table, and examined the book. It was red, with a black star on the cover, not too big or thick. She’d have assumed it was someone’s journal or planner if she’d seen it any other context. She was guessing this wasn’t Karpov’s datebook though. Barnes slid it across to her. His face was carefully blank, save for how tightly he was clenching his jaw. She flipped through the book, seeing familiar Cyrillic script, and some scattered German, most of it written by hand.

“What is this?” She could guess, but she wanted to hear Barnes say it.

“The Winter Soldier’s manual of use. Russian branch of HYDRA never passed it on to the Americans after they sold me to them.”

“Karpov kept it. Of course he did. Insurance?”

“Maybe, yeah. Didn’t seem like he planned to use it, it wasn’t like he’d been looking for me. When I remembered about the book, I tracked him down, stole this from his place when he wasn’t there, and then I killed him.” 

Natasha took the confession with the same calm that Barnes delivered it in. “You did it neat and clean, I’ll give you that. Why not turn him in? Thought you were going for a murder-free revenge plan and all.”

“There are trigger words. For the Soldier, to order, to control—me. Karpov knew them. They’re in the book. Ten words and I’m—nothing. A weapon.” Barnes swallowed hard, and his voice went a little shaky. “I can’t—that can’t happen. I can’t live knowing that can happen.”

Ah. There was a worst case scenario. The trigger to the gun that was the Winter Soldier, available for anyone who could pick up the damn book. “Who else knows?”

“No one, as far as I know, which maybe doesn’t count for much. But the Russian branch of HYDRA went down with Department X, and you know how that turned out. Karpov was the only one left, and this was the only book. Plus, I dodged my fair share of HYDRA agents trying to bring me back in after Insight, and none of them tried to use the words.”

Alright, maybe not so bad a worst case scenario as all that. But if the trigger words were still active, Barnes was a dangerous loaded gun, left out for the taking. Natasha and Sam had made contingency plans for getting Barnes help, but this would take more than a discreet psychotherapist or psychiatric facility. There was the team Fury had gotten together for Natasha’s own deprogramming, she supposed. They weren’t HYDRA, at least. That had been one of the first things Natasha had checked in a panic before dumping all the SHIELD/HYDRA files.

“So you need to be deprogrammed. That’s fine, I did too, when I defected from the Red Room. We can do that, we can get you help for that.”

Barnes reached for the book, opened to a page he didn’t have to leaf through the book to find, and slid it back across to her.

“I’m sort of hoping you don’t have to. I, uh, tried. On my own. So, can you, just—say the words? See if they work?”

“What do you mean you tried on your own?”

Barnes bit his lip, and blinked his big, sad blue eyes at her. “What I said. I tried to break the triggers. Can’t entirely know if it worked, so I’d like you to say them. Figure it’d be best to do when Steve isn’t here to get all weird about it.”

That didn’t really explain anything, but whatever, she could go back to just how he broke the triggers on his own later. “And what happens if it does work and I’ve got the Winter Soldier on my hands?”

“I, um, shouldn’t hurt you. The words, they—that’s the whole point of them. Say them, and I’m ready to comply.” He gave her a thin, grim smile.

There was something sickeningly familiar about the words as they echoed in Russian in her head. Who had said it first, Natasha wondered: the Widows or the Soldier? Never mind. It didn’t matter.

“Right. But how do I snap you out of it?”

Barnes shrugged. “Knock me out. Those electrical thingies of yours pack a punch.”

“This is...such a terrible idea,” said Natasha as a whole book’s worth of new and exciting worst case scenarios started running through her head. “I’m not doing this until you tell me the whole story.”

“What, since like, 1945? Because that’s...” Barnes’ shoulders hunched with defensive tension and he shook his head, short and sharp. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

“No, not the whole, whole story. Just since you got to Cleveland to take out Karpov.”

“Right,” said Barnes, and his shoulders came back down to something that could pass for relaxed, if you didn’t look so closely at the way he was wringing his hands. “So. I tracked Karpov here, did some surveillance. Figured out he was out of the game, just trying to stay out of the whole HYDRA shitshow, far as I could tell. I waited until I knew he’d be gone, then went in to look for the book. I figured he’d keep it close to him. It’s the most valuable thing he’s got, intel-wise. Took a while to find it in there, I had to go back a few times, actually. But I got the book, rigged his heater up to kill him, and left.”

“Nice,” said Natasha, and meant it. It wasn’t exactly how she’d have done it, but a quiet case of CO poisoning was smart, given that Barnes couldn’t risk coming face to face with Karpov. “You managed all this while teaching all those high school kids?”

Barnes shook his head. “I could do the surveillance remotely, so I set that up to record while I was teaching. I tossed Karpov’s place whenever he went out, and it didn’t conflict with work. He was a big soccer fan, you know? European leagues. He’d go out to bars to watch the matches, so I had some guaranteed two-hour windows.”

Alright, not a bad plan, but— “This all would have been so much easier if you weren’t working around your ridiculous cover.”

“My ridiculous cover is one of the only fucking things keeping me sane.”

Natasha tilted her head, studying him: the way he’d folded his hands together carefully, the deliberate neutrality of his face. It was his eyes that gave him away, too expressive; his pain and his weariness showed there, in the faint tension at their corners. Barnes smiled at her, quick and pained.

“How’d you try breaking the trigger words then?”

“Waited until school was out for winter break, locked myself up in an abandoned warehouse, and went at it.” Barnes was wringing his hands what had to be painfully hard now, looking down at the book. “I’d done some research, figured extinction therapy, or the closest I could manage to it on my own, was my best bet. So I just read the words, over and over and over again, until it stopped hurting so bad when I did. And, you know, you can have a computer do text to speech? So I did that with the words in English for a few days, then went one by one with the words in Russian. It, uh, wasn’t—” Barnes’ throat worked, and his mouth twisted, but he didn’t say what it wasn’t, and just swallowed hard, shaking a little. “Anyway, that’s—I had the computer read all the words, in order, until—until I didn’t feel like I was about to—” Barnes stopped, took a few deliberately deep breaths. “Eventually, nothing happened to me. So. I think it worked. But. Can’t be sure.”

Natasha thought about her own deprogramming with SHIELD, how hard she’d fought against it. She’d thought she was free of the Red Room, had been brought in proud and wild, thinking she’d defected, thinking she’d chosen to let Clint take her, thinking the Red Room had no hold on her anymore. She had been so fucking naive. They’d made her, they didn’t have to have a hold on her to live in her. It had taken three months in SHIELD’s secure psych facility until she was fully debriefed, deprogrammed, and given the all clear. When it had all been over, she’d felt like a hollow thing, like people would be able to hear her cavernous, empty spaces whistling and howling with every blowing wind.

Clint had made all of it bearable. He’d come to talk to her, every day, like she was a person, like she was his friend. Undeterred by her silence or screaming or cursing, he’d talk about small, inconsequential things: his dog Lucky, some ridiculous show called Dog Cops, how much better SHIELD cafeteria food had gotten since Agent Almeida got back from that undercover op at the CIA (not that one, the other one, the culinary one), what it was like growing up on the road as a carnie. And Nick had talked to her too, like she was just one of his agents going through a rough patch, and not the deadliest Black Widow of them all.

But Barnes...he’d done it on his own. Natasha admired him for it, a little. Mostly she thought he was insane to have tried it. Desperate times, desperate measures, sure, but this was more or less on par with self-surgery. A+ for effort, she supposed, and she couldn’t fault his commitment to breaking free of HYDRA. Still, she had to swallow down her first inclination to tell Barnes you should’ve come to us.

“So you just DIY’d your own deprogramming,” she said carefully, hoping he couldn’t hear the you total crazy person lingering unsaid at the end of her non-question, or if he could, that he wouldn’t get all weird about it.

“Yeah.”

“And just...went back to teaching teenagers math right after?”

Barnes frowned at her. “Yeah. What else was I gonna do?”

“Uh, try to process your trauma? Take a break? I don’t know. Something.”

“What did you do?” he asked, more curious than combative.

“Fury packed me off with Hawkeye to go try out being a normal person for a while.”

She’d laughed with absolute incredulity when she’d gotten to Barton’s farm, but the joke had turned to sour panic when she’d seen Laura and baby Lila. Natasha hadn’t known what to do, had cycled through about ten different covers and angles in the first couple weeks on the farm before Laura had sat her down with some carrots to chop and said I don’t expect you to be anything but exactly what you are, so you can stop with all the rest of that, Natasha.

I’m a liar and a murderer, Natasha had told her, knife in hand, terrified that she’d have to use it.

You murdered anyone lately?

No.

Wanted to?

No.

There you go then. And as for lying...you haven’t been allowed to keep any truths of your own, Natasha. You deserve the chance to look for them.

She knew she’d been silent too long, remembering, but Barnes waited patiently until she returned her attention to him.

“Yeah. Teaching, this life,” he gestured around the little house. “That’s my trying to be a normal person, to have a life. And it’s mine, now. Not Sergeant Barnes’ from before, or the Winter Soldier’s. Just mine. So I went back even though I looked like shit, and felt like it too, but I told everyone I’d gotten the flu over break and was still getting over it, and they bought it. And I got to, y’know, spend my time doing something more useful than losing my shit.”

The pained, self-deprecating little grin he gave her was horribly charming, and she smiled back.

“Fair enough. There are worse distractions, I suppose. And it seems like you’re doing alright at this being a person thing.”

“Thanks,” he said, with frankly too much sincerity. “So can you say the words? Will you, I mean? I have to know. If they still work, I have to, I can’t—”

“Hey, it’s alright. We’ll try it out, I’ll say them. Just give me a minute to get ready, alright?” Barnes shut his eyes tight and nodded, and she went to go get her Widow’s bites, making a lot of carefully audible sound on the way.

When she got back, Barnes was sitting exactly where she’d left him, staring at the book and shaking a little. She wondered if she should get him a blanket or something. If this went wrong, like it probably would, Steve was going to be so mad at her. Fuck, she hoped they’d get out of this with nothing worse than a post-knockout headache for Barnes and an uncomfortable adrenaline rush for her.

“You ready?” she asked. Barnes nodded without looking at her. “Barnes. Bucky. I really need to hear you say it before I do this. Is this okay?”

“Yes.”

She took the book, and read the words to herself first. By themselves, they were innocuous, just disconnected and out of place enough to never be likely to come up together on their own. A little cruel though, to use words like longing and homecoming. She powered up her Widow’s bites, took a breath, and started to read aloud.

Longing. Rusted. Seventeen…” Barnes bowed his head and started shaking so hard the wooden kitchen chair rattled against the floor, and he was breathing heavily, gasping for air almost. When she finished, she watched him warily. The book said he was supposed to say ‘ready to comply.’ “Barnes? Bucky?”

“Yeah.” He looked up with wet, red-rimmed eyes. “It’s me.”

“Do ten jumping jacks,” she ordered.

He twitched a little, but said, faintly, “...no.” He blinked a few times, then said it more firmly. “No.”

Alright, so far, so good. Now to make sure it was Barnes in there. Steve would be so pissed if she’d just reset him to HYDRA factory default or something. “What class do you teach first period?”

“Calculus.”

“What’s your favorite student’s name?”

“I don’t have favorites,” said Barnes, hilariously appalled.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “You love all your students equally?”

Barnes frowned at her, the reference going over his head. Guess he hadn’t gotten to Arrested Development yet.

“They’re all good kids.” There was something of Steve in the way he said it, maybe in his disapproving eyebrows or his conviction, and it gave Natasha a brief, dizzying perspective shift. She wondered how many of Steve’s mannerisms and sayings were borrowed from Barnes, and vice versa.

“Yeah, okay, congrats. It worked.” Barnes let out a gasping sort of laugh and slumped over the table, bringing his hand up to press at his temple.

“Thank you. But you don’t have to sound so surprised,” he muttered.

“You okay?”

“My head really hurts.”

Shit, she hoped he wasn’t about to stroke out or something. “Any trouble seeing? Hey, look at me for a sec, Barnes.” He made a cranky groaning noise. “Barnes, I swear, Steve will literally murder me if something happens to you while he’s gone, I’d like to make sure you’re not about to stroke out here.”

“You’re just like Wilson,” he grumbled, but lifted his head up, squinting. “Haven’t had a seizure in a year, I’m fine, I just gotta sleep it off.”

“A seizure—how are you still alive,” she muttered as she checked his pupil response and reactions. Everything seemed normal to her.

“I’m going to bed, stay as long as you want,” said Barnes, and stood up, swaying a little on his feet.

Natasha held out her hands, ready to catch him if he fell. “Whoa there, let me help you.” She walked him over to the bedroom, where he promptly curled up under the covers so that only a little bit of his dark hair peeked out from under the blanket. “Need anything?” she whispered.

A mumbling that mostly resolved into water, trash can, drifted out from the blanket burrito, and by the time she left those for him, it seemed like he was asleep, or making a valiant effort at it. She left him to it, and went back to the kitchen, where the seemingly innocuous red book still sat on the kitchen table.

She read the book, of course. Intel was intel, no matter how horrifying, and this book was plenty horrifying, more so even than the Winter Soldier file she’d tracked down for Steve. A few pages in, she made the command decision that Steve could never see this book. A third of the way in, and she had to take a break. She went to check on Barnes, who seemed fine in his blanket nest. He was breathing, anyway, and he hadn’t made use of his barf bucket.

When she got back to the kitchen, she had a text from Steve: is bucky okay? He’s not answering my texts. Sleeping off a headache, but he’s alright, she answered, and hoped it wasn’t a lie. Steve texted back with a curt thanks.

After the fifth dispassionate description of just how far Barnes’ serum-enhanced body could be pushed before it shut down, Natasha began to skim, flipping pages fast enough to almost rip them. Some of this she’d already seen in the Winter Soldier file she’d given to Steve, enough that she trusted this book’s authenticity. She kept flipping through: going into cryostasis procedure, how often the Soldier could and should be wiped, when to use the trigger words and when not to, coming out of cryostasis procedure, and, okay, the one possibly useful thing in all of this, some schematics and information on Barnes’ metal arm. The rest though—Natasha hoped, for Barnes’ sake, that he didn’t remember all of this.

A manual of use, Barnes had called the red book. Natasha had read operating system manuals with more humanity than this. She kept going though, just in case there was some other nasty surprise like the trigger words. She didn’t find anything but some diagrams of trackers, which she made a note to ask Barnes about. She was inclined to trust him now, at least. Unless he had a mind twistier than some sort of five-dimensional corkscrew, there was no way he’d hand this book over to her if he was playing her and Steve, so she was back down to the normal number and kinds of worst case scenarios.

By the time she was done with the book, it was almost dark out, and she heard Barnes stirring in the bedroom, and a couple minutes later he came out with a ridiculous case of bedhead. Between that and the sleepy eyes, he looked about five years old.

“Feeling better?”

“Yeah.” He went to the kitchen, poured himself some juice, and came back to the table.

“Steve texted, he’s probably worrying about you.”

“He fusses too much,” said Barnes, but he pulled his phone out and texted Steve back, and smiled softly down at the immediate response he got back.

“Book says you have trackers, get rid of those?”

“Yeah, one of the first things I did. Didn’t need the book for that.”

They sat in silence as Barnes sipped at his juice and tapped out a few more texts to Steve.

“So. What do you want to do with it?” she asked.

“Burn it.”

“There’s some stuff about your arm that might be helpful later.”

Barnes shook his head. “Don’t care. I want to burn it. Before Steve gets back. He shouldn’t see that.”

“No, he shouldn’t.” Barnes nodded decisively now, drained the rest of his juice, and grabbed the book. He went to the kitchen to get a lighter, then headed for the garage, and Natasha followed.

“You want company for this?” she asked as he opened the garage door a crack and emptied out a small trash can.

Barnes just shrugged, so Natasha stayed, watched him tear out page after page of the book and set the lighter’s flame to them before he dropped them, burning, into the trashcan. The little fire started snapping and popping, growing enough to cast eerie shadows on Barnes’ too-blank face as pale smoke began to drift through the garage. There was enough evil and pain bound up in that book that Natasha almost expected something else to happen, some even more visible sign of breaking one of HYDRA’s last grips on Barnes. But the book just burned like normal paper. The old manor that had housed the young Widows had burned just like a normal house too, but Natasha had stood and watched until it was rubble and ash anyway. Eventually Barnes just tore big chunks of the notebook out and tossed them into the flames, until he was left with only the leather cover.

Watching the book burn felt a little like watching a funeral pyre, with Barnes as the mourner, though she couldn’t be sure what it was he was mourning, or if he was at all. The small, trembling shake of his shoulders was silent, and his face was in shadow. When the fire burned out, he tossed the leather cover of the book on the embers, and walked out.

She hoped, for Barnes’ sake, that he was free now. If such a thing were possible, anyway. Maybe it wasn’t. Every time Natasha thought that was it, she was free of the Red Room, it was definitely over and done and a part of her past that she could choose to keep there, the universe proved her wrong. Whatever she burned, whoever she killed, the Red Room lived on, in her, if nowhere else. In her worst moments, she thought the Red Room was a pit she could not climb out of, that it was the only truth about her that mattered. Maybe it was. She wasn't like Barnes, there was no Natalia from before what the Red Room had made of her. What she was, she was all the way through, no untouched core of her to remember or draw from.

She had her choices though. Right or wrong, those were hers now. She hoped they were falling more on the right side lately.

Natasha poured some water on the ashes before following Barnes back inside.


She didn’t see Barnes again for the rest of the night, but she stayed anyway, mostly to make sure there wouldn’t be any unpleasant, delayed side effects of trying those trigger words. She catnapped on the couch, keeping her Widow’s bites on and a gun and knives within reach of her hands. The night passed uneventfully though, apart from the Red Room’s ever-present undercurrent ready to tug her under to terrible memories. For the first time in a long time, she felt the phantom bite of a cuff around her wrist, felt the urge to say ready to comply.

But she was free, and the Winter Soldier was free. She had helped free him, a little like Clint and Laura and Nick had helped her. Freedom, she reminded herself, was possible.

In the morning, Barnes didn’t comment on her having stayed, just poured her a cup of coffee.

“You look like shit,” she observed. He’d had a sleepless night, judging by how drawn and haggard he looked. She probably didn’t look much better.

Barnes nodded, and didn’t meet her eyes, instead communing with his coffee like he was sorely tempted to drown in it. “Bad night.”

“Me too,” she said, and shrugged, smiled a little when Barnes’ eyes flew up to meet hers in surprise. “It’s not the same, but. You know. I’ve been where you are, sort of.”

“Is this the part where you say it gets better?” He closed his eyes, rubbed at his forehead. For a moment, the pain on his face or some trick of the early morning light reminded her of the Winter Soldier in cryo, a harsh gauntness to his otherwise handsome features.

“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know if it gets better. Gets easier, maybe. I think you’re doing alright, though. You’re definitely being a productive member of society, so congrats on that.”

Barnes sighed and gave her a sad smile that was an awful lot like Steve’s sad smiles. “And I hear you saved the world from aliens one time. Congrats on that.”

“Just trying to balance my personal ledger.”

“Not sure accounting works like that,” joked Barnes weakly.

“Hoping redemption does though.”

Barnes just closed his eyes and nodded, and they both sipped at their coffee in comfortable, tired silence for a while. She could tell Barnes was girding himself for the day.

“You good to go to work?” she asked.

“Yeah. Steve texted, said he’d be back tonight. You staying here ‘till then?”

“If that’s alright, I’d like to get some work done, and your whole bat cave set up is pretty convenient.”

Barnes eyes brightened into a small smile. “Sure. Help yourself to any food or whatever. Thank you, by the way. For yesterday.”

“You’re welcome.”

Chapter 7: stand and deliver

Summary:

Sam snorted. “Rappin’ with Cap? What kind of white nonsense—”

“Wait for it,” said Bucky.

Oh no. Steve should have known Bucky wouldn’t let this go after seeing just one of the PSAs. He’d just hoped that Bucky wouldn’t spread Steve’s public service shame around, or maybe that he’d find the rest of them too cringeworthy to even laugh at. That had, clearly, been a fool's hope.

“So your body’s changing. Believe me, I know how that feels.”

Notes:

Now that I've actually seen the Rappin' with Cap PSAs they filmed for Spiderman: Homecoming, obviously I had to incorporate them into a fic again.

Chapter Text

Steve was glad that Sam and Bucky got along, he really was. Two of his best friends, getting along and having each other’s backs: it was the happy future Steve had hoped desperately for during the long search for Bucky. Sure, they bickered a lot, and Sam still took every opportunity to complain about Bucky’s parking and to make Flanders references, while Bucky would not let Sam forget that he had totally fallen for Bucky’s cover. But whatever heart to heart they’d had after the zombie mine situation (and probably the new car Bucky had gotten Sam) seemed to have gone a long way towards encouraging a friendship.  

So yeah, a warm and expanding glow of happiness filled Steve’s chest when he got home to find Bucky and Sam lounging on the couch together, laughing. At least, it did until he got a look at what they were laughing at. 

The Rappin’ with Cap: Your Changing Body title logo loomed large on the screen. Shit. They’d found the PSAs he’d done about puberty and sex ed. Steve’s glow of happiness was replaced with cringing dread.  

Sam snorted. “Rappin’ with Cap? What kind of white nonsense—”

“Wait for it,” said Bucky.

Oh no. Steve should have known Bucky wouldn’t let this go after seeing just one of the PSAs. He’d just hoped that Bucky wouldn’t spread Steve’s public service shame around, or maybe that he’d find the rest of them too cringeworthy to even laugh at. That had, clearly, been a fool's hope.

“So your body’s changing. Believe me, I know how that feels.” This had been Steve’s least favorite of all the PSAs. Not out of any sense of prudery, but god, it had been badly written, and not even informative. It had also been the point at which he began to quite sincerely consider the prospect that he was dead, and all his post-thawing out experiences were just hell. “Hi, I’m Captain America. If you’re watching this video, your parents have elected for you not to be present in the health class for the discussion of…human reproduction.”   

There was a long beat of silence from Sam and Bucky before they burst into hysterics.

“How did I not know about these?” gasped Sam through his laughter. Bucky was too overcome to even make a sound; he was just shaking silently with the force of his laughter.

Steve was this close to turning around and leaving again, but then Bucky spotted him in the entryway. Bucky’s face was flushed from laughing so hard, his eyes bright and sparkling with hilarity, and that wasn’t a sight Steve would easily forego, even if it was at his expense. 

Steve sighed. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I did it for the youths.”

“The youths!” Bucky crowed. “Steve, I swear to god, I’m going to sneak into one of the health classes and film students’ reactions to this shit. Or maybe I’ll just play the math one on a loop during my classes.” 

“Where did you even find them?” Steve had really hoped that all these PSAs were just moldering in the AV departments of schools across the nation. Surely they weren’t actually effective in any way. Well, maybe the ones for the little kids were. Steve was pretty sure it was mostly the teenagers who thought he was deeply uncool.

“They’re all on Youtube. Along with hundreds of hilarious remixes,” said Sam, and brought the Youtube search page up on screen.

“Oh no. No.”

“Oh yes,” said Sam with a wide grin as he hit play on the result with the most hits.

“STOP. DROP. AND ROLL,” blared the TV in a distorted version of Steve’s voice. A heavy bass line pounded behind some remixed version of the Rappin’ with Cap music as glitchy video of the PSA played.

“I think the youths call this dubstep,” said Bucky with wide eyes. 

The video made an eye-searing transition to what looked like...jesus, security camera footage of Steve in uniform? Steve didn’t recognize the mission, but he was wearing his stealth suit, and, yeah, he was rolling into a somersault.

“SAY IT WITH ME NOW: ROLL. ROLL. ROLL. ROLL,” the video commanded, as the footage of Steve rolling rewound and replayed, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards.

“Where did they get that footage?” asked Steve.

“Natasha’s SHIELD data dump, probably. There were a lot of mission files in that,” said Sam absently, watching the video with rapt attention. Was it just Steve’s imagination, or was the video zooming in on his ass?

They all went silent under the video’s audiovisual assault. The video manipulation was skillful, Steve supposed, with everything on beat and all those effects. The sound, though, was nightmarish, like some sort of robot hell. A horribly catchy robot hell.

“I’m actually into this song,” said Bucky, head tilted. “I could work out to this.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Sam.

A grim future of hearing this abomination of a song with distressing regularity stretched out before Steve. Why was Steve friends with these assholes. 

On the video, a voice shrieked “FIRE IN THE DISCO!” and then flames were superimposed on Steve’s rolling body as the music plumbed even deeper depths of robot hell, and Steve’s own voice, more distorted still, boomed out, “STOP DROP AND ROLL.”

“This is art,” said Bucky in a hushed whisper. Sam nodded mutely.

“Okay, that’s enough, haha, Steve had to make terrible PSAs that people have repurposed into terrible music, we can stop watching now.”

“No,” chorused Sam and Bucky.

Steve sighed. 


To Steve’s relief, not everything Sam and Bucky watched together was meant to torment him. With school out for the summer, Bucky had a lot more free time, especially since his HYDRA revenge efforts were in a lull. He was waiting for some of his digital and financial traps to catch their prey, and Steve, Sam, and Natasha were waiting for the Strucker op to wind its way through the halls of international diplomacy and bureaucracy to get approval, so they all had down time to spare. 

Natasha ditched them to go visit Clint, who was apparently also somewhere in the Midwest. The rest of them stayed in Cleveland. Sam, determined that someone other than Bucky’s teenaged students should direct the course of Bucky’s pop culture education, took it upon himself to help get Bucky up to speed on the 20th and 21st centuries via movies. That was the initial idea, anyway. In practice, the movies just provided more avenues for Sam and Bucky’s bickering.

Steve was just grateful for the distraction, for both himself and Bucky. Their current down time made Bucky nervy and quiet, too stuck in his own head, led to too many nights of bad sleep. It reminded Steve uncomfortably of the war, when leave hadn’t seemed to do Bucky any good. He’d been more hollow-eyed and haunted after a week’s leave than before it. At least if he was arguing with Sam about the artistic merits of slow-mo, he wasn’t dwelling on his latest Winter Soldier nightmare.

“Should I be worried?” Steve asked Sam, after Bucky begged off watching Die Hard 2 and went to bed early.

“I am not his or your mental health professional,” retorted Sam.

“I know, I know, I just need a second opinion, as a friend. I feel like I fucked this up, back during the war. I thought he was okay then, and he wasn’t, not really. I don’t want to make the same mistake again.”

Sam narrowed his eyes and sighed, but allowed, “Yeah, alright. For what it’s worth then, I don’t think you need to be worried. It’s probably just the change to his routine. Give him some time to level out.”

Sam was right, as usual. Bucky threw himself into reading dense books on adolescent psychology and something called critical mathematics pedagogy, which apparently provided enough mental occupation to put him back on a mostly-even keel. Steve didn’t much understand any of it beyond the basics, but he didn’t care. He was too happy about the return of a much-missed habit: Bucky’s low, rough voice, murmuring into the warm dark of their bedroom about what he’d read that day, what he’d gotten up to, every weird and silly thought he’d saved to share with Steve. He’d done it during sleepovers when they were kids, and he’d done it when they’d shared rooms and beds in shitty apartments as adults, and he’d even done it in tents and barracks during the war, though then his nighttime discourse had been about 70% griping about the cold, the food, or the brass. 

The nightly ramble was all the sweeter now that Bucky was tucked in so close to Steve as he murmured sleepily: now there was the cool weight of his arm on Steve’s side, the way his ankle hooked around Steve’s. Now Steve could press small kisses to his shoulder, his neck, and be met with a pleased little hum or sigh. 

One night, Bucky apologized, whispering, “Sorry, I’m keeping you up,” but Steve just pulled him in close and tight, and whispered back, “Don’t be. I missed this so damn much.”


“Barnes, I will take that damn phone away from you, I swear to god. What are you constantly checking that’s more important than the cinematic masterpiece that is The Fifth Element?”

Steve frowned over at Bucky. He’d have thought the movie would be right up Bucky’s alley, given that it was like something out of the pulp science fiction magazines he used to read. 

Bucky put his phone down with an apologetic grimace. “Sorry. I’m just waiting on my students’ AP exam scores. They’re supposed to be emailed out to the teachers soon.”

“I’m sure they all did fine, Buck,” said Steve, giving him a hopefully comforting squeeze.

“And you can’t do anything about it now if they didn’t,” said Sam. Bucky looked stricken enough that Sam backtracked. “But most of them definitely got at least threes! Uh, a three is passing, right?”

“Yeah,” said Bucky, and checked his email on his phone again.

“Barnes!”

“Sorry, sorry!” Bucky put his phone back in his pocket, and returned his attention to the movie, burrowing into Steve’s side. A few seconds passed, then Bucky blurted out, “But what if I’m a terrible fake teacher and they all failed?”

Steve and Sam sighed in unison. Sam gave Steve a you’re his bestie/boyfriend, this is your problem look.

“Bucky, you singlehandedly got me through algebra with your tutoring, and you were 16 then. You definitely taught those kids well enough for them to pass their exam. And if some of them didn’t pass, it’s not your fault.”

Bucky hummed dubiously, but he only checked his email again twice for the rest of the movie.


Bucky only got more nervous and antsy about his students’ scores as the week stretched on. At this point, Steve was pretty sure he was more nervous than any of the actual students.

“Most of your students passed your classes, didn’t they?” tried Steve. “I’m sure they did fine on the test.”

“That’s different,” protested Bucky. “Oh god, maybe I need to redo my syllabus,” he moaned, and got up as if he was about to do just that.

“Nope, nuh-uh,” said Sam, chivvying Bucky to the couch instead. “This is an intervention, Bucky. Sit your ass down, we’re watching Stand and Deliver. Jaime Escalante will help you renew your faith in your own teaching abilities. Hopefully.” 

“What’s Stand and Deliver?” asked Steve.

“It’s like an inspirational sports movie, only with math. This nerd over here will love it.”

Bucky grumbled, but he was interested enough to sit down and watch the movie. And then, miracle of miracles, he didn’t check his email once. Sam was both pleased and amused by how much Bucky seemed to like it.

“Man, I’d have thought you’d heard of this movie by now. It’s the go-to for math teachers to show when they’re feeling too lazy to actually teach.” 

When the movie got to the triumphant climax of showing how the students passed, Steve nudged Bucky. “See? It’s gonna be the same with your students.”

“Uh, movie’s not over yet, Steve,” said Sam.

“They accused them of cheating? That’s bullshit!” exclaimed Steve a few minutes later.

“That seems racist,” said Bucky, frowning.

“It is. Now shut up and watch the movie,” said Sam, so Steve and Bucky shut up.

Steve fumed at the injustice of the students having to retake the test, and he could practically feel Bucky taking that on as a new nightmare scenario for his own students, but like any good sports movie, the movie wound down to an inspiring and uplifting end.

“Feel better now, Mr. Murphy?” asked Sam as the credits rolled.

“Yeah, maybe.”


Two mornings later, Steve was woken up by two hundred pounds of very excited best friend leaping onto the bed.

“They passed! All but two of them passed!”

Steve flailed awake, only to be smothered by a full body hug as Bucky draped himself over him. Steve mumbled a congratulations into the mass of blankets and pillows and Bucky, and then Bucky excavated Steve’s face from under the covers to plant a sloppy and enthusiastic kiss on his lips. When Bucky pulled back and Steve got a look at his face, his smile was so bright that Steve had to bask in it for a long moment.

Then Steve said, “Time to celebrate,” and flipped them so Bucky was under him. Or, that was the plan anyway. Instead they got tangled up in the sheets, and pillows went flying. Bucky flopped off to the side and clutched at his stomach as he cracked up. “A little help here, Buck? Buck! Buck, c’mon!”

Chapter 8: Winter Soldier Winter Formal

Summary:

“Oh my god,” said Sam, straightening in his chair, eyes wide with some epiphany.

“What? What is it?” asked Bucky. He squinted at the map. Had he missed something?

“Winter Soldier Winter Formal!” Sam burst into gales of laughter at his own joke, and Steve covered his mouth to hide a smile.

Bucky gave Sam his best Winter Soldier glare, but Sam was unabashed. “What does that even mean?” Bucky grumbled, and then Steve lost the fight against hilarity and dissolved into giggles.

“You—in tac gear, glaring at kids for getting too fresh with each other—” managed Steve, and then Steve and Sam howled with fresh laughter.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“The kids are going all out for the Winter Formal this year, huh?” 

One of Bucky’s fellow math department teachers was at the faculty lounge’s table, perusing the latest edition of the student newspaper. There was an entire two-page spread devoted to the upcoming Winter Formal, to say nothing of the posters the entire school was plastered with, or the daily PA announcements. The theme, apparently, was Midnight in Paris! A night of luxury and elegance! 

Bucky grunted in acknowledgment, his eyes still fixed on the microwave clock ticking down. He had ten minutes to eat lunch before his scheduled meeting with Mrs. Whitley, who was probably just going to yell at him about how her precious daughter couldn’t possibly have deserved those Ds on her last two tests, and couldn’t he just give her some extra credit? Her GPA would be ruined if she got a C in Calculus! Well, maybe Katie Whitley should have thought of that before failing to study. Ugh. Parents.

Fuck it, the food was probably warm enough. He stopped the microwave and grabbed his tupperware container of last night’s chili, joining Mike at the table. After one look at Steve’s pitiful spice usage, Sam had taken over the cooking last night, so the chili had actual flavor. (Is this a stew? Sam had asked after stealing a taste. No, it’s chili, Steve had replied, and Bucky had never seen Sam’s face go that forbidding. Neither had Steve, judging by the way he’d gone wide-eyed. Get out of the kitchen, Sam had said with deadly evenness, and that had been that.)

“You’re chaperoning this year, aren’t you, Murphy?” asked Mike, undeterred by Bucky’s silence.

Was he? Bucky swallowed a mouthful of too-hot chili. He recalled something about a rota for chaperone duty for various school events a couple months ago. He’d put himself down for the one least likely to interfere with any HYDRA-hunting missions, a Friday night in December before the long winter break. He hadn’t paid much attention to what the event was. He checked his phone’s calendar, and there it was: CHAPERONE WINTER DANCE

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

Mike snorted. “Good luck with that. I swear the kids make these things more dramatic every year.” 

“It’s just a dance. I’m only there to make sure no one gets drunk or high, right?”

“I chaperoned the Winter Formal a couple years ago. I had to break up four fights, three couples trying to pop their cherries in the damn bathrooms, and dozens of couples dry-humping on the damn dance floor. I swear to god, you can practically smell the teenage hormones at these things.”

Damn it. Bucky had really hoped he’d be able to get away with lurking along the edges of the dance to glower or smile benevolently, as the situation warranted.

“I’m pretty sure that’s just the Axe body spray,” said Bucky with a wince. 

“Ugh,” said Mike with a shudder. “Do you think we can convince them to start using Old Spice because it’s retro and cool?”


Having now been reminded that he was going to be involved in the damn thing, Bucky started paying more attention to the Winter Formal fever that was sweeping the campus. The Winter Formal planning had already consumed a good portion of the entire student body for the better part of the fall semester. The student body president, an ambitious and intense junior, had run her campaign on a promise to provide the best formal dance this school has ever had, for everyone! All classes allowed! And then there’d been a whole lot of contentious debate between the underclassmen and the upperclassmen about how unfair it was that all the upperclassmen got the best events blah blah blah. Ongoing debate aside, the student body president seemed like she was delivering on her promise, which was more than you could say for most actual politicians, even if tickets to the damn dance were an exorbitant $100.

The whole thing seemed like a way bigger deal than Bucky would have expected of a high school dance, but then, what did he know. His memories of high school were dim at best. He didn’t even know if he’d ever been to a high school dance, though he had plenty of memories of going out dancing. He’d have to ask Steve.

Three weeks before the dance, the faculty advisor for the student government knocked on his open classroom door with a smile. Mrs. Larsen’s round face and steel-gray curls gave her a matronly sort of air, but Bucky had seen her around the school, and the woman moved through the world with the grim purpose and implacability of a guided missile.

“T-minus three weeks and counting until the Winter Formal! I saw you’re on the list of chaperones, thought I’d come by and make sure you’re still a yes.”

“Still a yes,” said Bucky, returning her smile. “I haven’t really chaperoned a dance before though. Uh, is there anything specific I’m supposed to be doing? Or, uh, should I be helping with the set up or anything?”

“Oh no, no, the Winter Formal committee is in charge of set up and all that. You just need to show up to the dance, and stick around for the whole thing. Your responsibilities are really only to keep an eye on the kids, check the bathrooms and back doors every so often, make sure no one’s getting up to any funny business, that kind of thing.”

“Alright. Seems simple enough.”

“It is! I don’t know why it’s always like pulling teeth to get teachers to sign up for chaperone duty.” That made a shiver of foreboding run down Bucky’s spine, but too late to back out of doing this now. “Oh, and feel free to bring a date! A nice meal out is a nice meal out, you know? Just shoot me an RSVP if you’re bringing someone so I can make sure we’re covered on food and place settings.”

“I’ll be bringing someone,” blurted out Bucky. “Um. My boyfriend. If that’s not a problem.”

Mrs. Larsen blinked, then smiled again, warmer now. “That’s not a problem at all. So long as you both wear a suit and tie!”


A couple days later, Bucky, Steve, and Sam were in the garage tossing around options for their next raid on HYDRA.

“Natasha sent a few possibilities over this morning. Think you could come along as backup for any of these?” asked Steve as he marked the locations on a map.

Bucky looked them over. “Not until winter break for these,” he said, tapping all the ones that would take more than a day’s drive. “Detroit though...that’s close.”

Sam scrolled through the intel Natasha had sent over. “Might be more than a weekend job. Some HYDRA stragglers who’ve teamed up with AIM, looks like.”

“We wouldn’t need Buck for all of it. Leave on Friday night, take out the labs by Sunday, and we can handle the clean up afterwards while Buck heads back. Let’s say...two, three weeks from now?”

“Can’t do it three weeks from now,” said Bucky, shaking his head. “I’m, uh, chaperoning the Winter Formal that Friday night.”

“Oh my god,” said Sam. “Your career provides endless delights. You’re chaperoning?”

“Winter Formal?” asked Steve.

“High school dance. They’ve rented out an entire banquet hall, and they’re having a nice dinner catered and a dance, the whole nine yards. The theme is Midnight in Paris. It’s cute.” 

A lot of the kids were pretending not to be excited about it, but Bucky had overheard enough discussions about the merits of this dress or that dress, or whether or not to wear a tux, that he knew they were more invested than they liked to pretend. Hell, one of his mathletes had asked him for advice on how to ask his crush out. You have a boyfriend, right? How’d you ask him out? Ha. Bucky was pretty sure we fought some zombies then had an emotional conversation after years of torture, brainwashing, and freezing and then we started necking was not an appropriate answer for a nerdy kid whose crush was one of the coolest kids in the band, oh my god, he’s so out of my league

“Jeez. All that for a high school dance?”

“Oh my god,” said Sam, straightening in his chair, eyes wide with some epiphany.

“What? What is it?” asked Bucky. He squinted at the map. Had he missed something?

“Winter Soldier Winter Formal!” Sam burst into gales of laughter at his own joke, and Steve covered his mouth to hide a smile.

Bucky gave Sam his best Winter Soldier glare, but Sam was unabashed. “What does that even mean?” Bucky grumbled, and then Steve lost the fight against hilarity and dissolved into giggles.

“You—in tac gear, glaring at kids for getting too fresh with each other—” managed Steve, and then Steve and Sam howled with fresh laughter. 

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” he said, but he couldn’t help but smile at the way Steve was clutching at his chest as he laughed. And yeah, alright, the mental image of showing up to the dance in his tac gear was pretty amusing. And maybe a little too tempting. Far more tempting than going shopping for a respectable suit to wear at any rate.


That night in bed, Bucky curled in close to Steve while their bed warmed up. After a mild fall, winter was sending its first real warning of the cold to come, the temperature flirting with going below freezing.

“Jesus christ, Buck, wear socks. Your feet are goddamned ice blocks,” hissed Steve.

“That’s rich coming from a former ice block,” said Bucky, and that kicked off a brief round of pleasant, breathless tussling under the sheets before Bucky gently pinned Steve.

“How is your metal arm warmer than your feet? Seriously Bucky, socks.”

“No socks. Then I get too hot,” said Bucky, and wrapped himself more firmly around Steve, sticking said ice blocks between Steve’s calves. Steve grumbled, but obligingly made room, then tucked his face against Bucky’s shoulder. “Hey, so about the Winter Formal…” Steve hummed inquisitively, a pleasant buzz against Bucky’s skin that eased the sudden flutter of nerves in his stomach. “Wanna be my date?”

He could feel Steve’s smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that,” said Steve. He pressed a kiss to Bucky’s shoulder, and now Bucky smiled too, and pulled Steve in closer.


“You done getting ready?” called out Steve from the bedroom.

“Yeah, just a sec,” said Bucky, making sure his tie was straight. 

He gave himself one last critical look in the bathroom mirror: dark gray suit that was nice, but not too nice, check; his terrible dorky glasses, check; nano mesh over his left arm, check; and neatly trimmed beard to maintain his cover identity, just in case he ended up in any photos, check. And hey, he even looked pretty good.

Steve agreed, apparently, because he gave Bucky an appreciative, heated once over when Bucky came out of the bathroom. Steve himself was in an unobjectionable black suit that did excellent things for the breadth of his shoulders and his small waist. He flushed when he noticed Bucky’s equally appreciative stare.

“You look really great, Buck.”

“You too,” he said, and they smiled idiotically at each other for a long moment. Their usual date nights didn’t involve this level of dressing up, but Bucky had to admit, it made for a nice change. Steve filled out a suit nicely, and he looked sharp and sophisticated in black. Even when he was wearing Hulk-patterned socks.

“Shoes?” prompted Bucky, raising an eyebrow at Steve’s socked feet. 

“Right, yes, shoes,” said Steve, and slipped them on.

When they got out to the living room, they were greeted with a wolf whistle from Natasha. Bucky squinted at her. When the hell did she get here? Whatever. He ignored her and headed for the hall closet to get his and Steve’s coats.

“Wait wait wait, we need to take pictures!” said Sam, emerging from the kitchen with a bottle of beer. When the hell did he get here? Where the hell did the beer come from? Did everyone just live in Bucky’s house now?

“What do you need pictures for?” asked Steve.

“It’s your first Winter Formal! We’re taking pictures. Here, go out on the porch.” Sam set his beer down and pulled out his phone, apparently having every intention of conducting a miniature photoshoot. 

“You know we’re there as chaperones, not to attend the dance, right? Because we’re grown-ass adult men?” asked Bucky, then he frowned and turned to Steve. “Wait, is it our first Winter Formal?”

Steve smiled and said, “Yeah.”

“See! We need pictures.”

Natasha took a swig of Sam’s beer and nodded.

One picture,” said Bucky, and they dutifully posed on the porch, red-cheeked from the cold, but smiling. 

“They grow up so fast,” sniffed Sam.

“Have him back by midnight!” called out Natasha as they left.

“Which him do you mean?” asked Steve.

“Both of you!”


Per Mrs. Larsen’s instructions, and Bucky’s own preference, they got to the dance early. Bucky did a circuit of the banquet hall perimeter with Steve first, surprising a couple of the catering staff who were on their smoke breaks by the service entrance. He didn’t expect to find anything, of course, but it was habit by now, and if he didn’t, he’d be edgy all night. Steve humored him without a word, despite the evening’s cold bite. When they actually went inside the hall’s dining room, they both stopped in their tracks. 

“Wow,” said Steve.

It was like stepping into an idealized dream of a Parisian boulevard at night: warm and sparkling lights, with plants and trees that Bucky knew had to be fake, but that in the dim and golden lighting looked real. The paths between the tables somehow looked like cobblestone, and the walls of the banquet hall were covered with lovely matte paintings of Paris landmarks. The drama department’s work, no doubt. The dinner tables were elegantly set, with real candles that one of the students was lighting. It was probably a fire hazard, and Bucky had the feeling he’d be patting out some flaming sleeves before the night was over, but it certainly looked gorgeous.

The Winter Formal committee was still running around finishing the last-minute preparations, a couple small knots of students clustered around the punch table and the DJ booth, another small group surveying the dinner tables with Mrs. Larsen. When Mrs. Larsen spotted Steve and Bucky, she waved cheerily and bustled over to them in a swish of emerald green silk.

“Jack, welcome! Or should I say, bienvenue! What do you think, have we hit the theme well?”

“Thought I stepped through a portal to Paris. This is amazing, Mrs. Larsen. Everything looks beautiful. And so do you,” said Bucky.

She flushed prettily and laughed. “I do love an opportunity to dress up! And oh, it’s all come out beautifully, thanks to the students’ hard work! But thank you. And look at you two gentlemen! So handsome. This is the boyfriend, I take it?”

“Yes, ma’am. Steve Grant. A pleasure to meet you. Or, uh, enchantè?”

Mrs. Larsen beamed at him. “Enchantè, monsieur!” 

“Do you need us to help with anything?” asked Bucky. “I know we’re pretty early.”

“I think we’re set for now! Just get all the students in their seats for the start of dinner, and handle the parents dropping off the freshmen and sophomores if they fuss.”

“Got it.”

While they waited for students to begin arriving, Bucky wandered around with Steve to get a closer look at the decorations and the paintings covering the walls. The prom committee had obviously done a lot with a little, turning Christmas lights and paint and paper mâché into something that pretty well approximated the promised luxury and elegance. 

“These are really good,” said Steve, his nose practically touching the painting. Bucky beamed with entirely misplaced proprietary pride, given he had nothing to do with the Winter Formal preparation. 

A fretful student in formalwear rushed over to nudge the painting of the Arc de Triomphe level. “It’s crooked,” she said. “And is the glitter too much? It’s too much, isn’t it. But I wanted it to sparkle a little, like from the lights?”

“It’s perfect,” said Bucky, and she smiled gratefully at him.

When the students started arriving, Bucky’s chaperoning duties started in earnest, if only to get the kids to where they needed to be for dinner to start on time. It was easy to keep a smile on his face: the teenagers all looked impossibly bright and young, decked out to the nines, boisterous in their excitement. As sophisticated as some of them probably hoped they were, to Bucky, this night seemed like a simple, keen joy, alight with a newness and innocence that Bucky hoped they could hold onto for a few more years.

He wished Steve were here at the door with him, so he could ask were we ever this young? Were we ever this innocent? They must have been, but Bucky couldn’t remember it.  

Bucky kept the steady flow of teens moving, despite the occasional traffic jam when friends greeted each other with hugs and exclamations over how pretty their dresses were, or when they loitered by the door to the banquet hall to take selfies or group photos. He greeted those he knew by name, and was met with shining and nervous smiles, plus the kind of fond teasing he’d grown used to.

“Dressed for success, Mr. Murphy!” said one student, holding out a fist for a fist bump. 

“Looking sharp, Mr. M! But I miss the mustache!”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Uh huh, well, Steve doesn’t, so you’re out of luck, Matt.”

“Oh my god, Mr. Murphy, are we going to meet your hot boyfriend?!” asked Myra.

Once he answered a few parents’ questions about when and where to pick their kids up at the end of the night, and assured some more of them there would be no alcohol or drugs, not on his watch, no sir, he headed inside to rejoin Steve, who was at the chaperones’ table making what looked like a game attempt at small talk with the other chaperones and their dates. Judging by the relieved smile he sent Bucky’s way when he returned, he’d been running out of safe, cover story maintaining small talk options.

The dinner itself only required a little intervention from Bucky and the other chaperones to defuse a few nascent squabbles over who sat where, and to extinguish a tiny fire when someone knocked over one of the candles. Steve beamed at him like he’d just rescued a litter of puppies from a burning building.

“My hero, Mr. Murphy,” murmured Steve from over his filet mignon. 

“Yeah, yeah. So how’s this on the date night ranking so far, above or below Netflix and chill?” asked Bucky, and grinned when Steve blushed.

When the dinner was cleared away, the music started up, and groups of students clumped together to orbit around the dance floor, while others headed towards the photo booth set up in a corner of the hall. The more experienced chaperones watched on with badly hidden amusement.

“Every year,” said Mrs. Alessi. “Every year, those kids take at least half an hour to actually get on that dance floor.”

Ted Ford, one of Bucky’s fellow math teachers, gave Bucky a friendly nudge with his elbow. “Bets on who’ll be first on the floor? I say the band kids.”

“No way,” said Coach Leeds. “The prom committee, come on, this dance is their baby.”

“Jack, your mathletes, maybe?” asked Sandy, one of his hallway neighbors, with a grin.

Bucky laughed and shook his head. He loved his kids, but they were not the life of the dance floor type. He spotted most of them drifting around in a sort of aimless Brownian motion closer to the wall than the dance floor. 

“Let me see if I can convince them. C’mon Steve, come meet my team.”

He introduced Steve around, and made an effort to get them on the dance floor, laughing when they all collectively blanched.

“I don’t see you out on the dance floor, Mr. Murphy!”

“Hey, it’s not my dance, kids!” he said, then left Steve to fend for himself against their prying questions. 

“Wait, uh, where are you going—”

Bucky dodged Steve’s grasping hand before he could grab hold of Bucky’s sleeves. “I think I see some kids up to no good, gotta go chaperone. Team, you all be nice to Steve now!” he said with a smile before abandoning Steve to the tender mercies of a half-dozen overcurious teenagers.

Steve was goddamn Captain America, he could handle a little interrogation from teenaged nerds. Probably. Anyway, Steve’s natural dancehall habitat was with the wallflowers, he’d be in good enough hands with Bucky’s mathletes.

It was early in the night for any kids to be getting up to trouble, but Bucky made a round of the banquet hall anyway, and spotted nothing worse than teenage relationship drama. By the time he was done, the DJ had finally broken the dance floor impasse by playing some song that the kids couldn’t resist dancing to, and the dance floor slowly filled up with flailing and gyrating teenagers. Not long after that, Steve texted him: sos need exfil is mathlete club code for interrogation training. Bucky snickered and went to rescue Steve.

While a couple of his fellow chaperones were clearly longing for the sweet peace of death, or at least sorely missing the alcohol that would make this dance more bearable, the night passed quickly for Bucky. Between keeping horny teens from getting to third base on the damn dance floor, keeping horny teens from getting past third base in the bathroom, and keeping stupid teens from getting high or drunk, plus taking endless photos for students and attempting to get Steve to socialize, Bucky was occupied enough that he didn’t notice the time passing. On the couple occasions when the noise and lights got to be too much, he dragged Steve outside into the cold with him, where Steve hissed dire things at him about how he kept abandoning him to be interrogated by terrible teenagers and nosy teachers, and how it was almost as bad as doing the stupid PSAs, but he proved easy to distract with a few long, slow kisses.

Soon enough, it was 11 PM, and Bucky and the other chaperones began to shepherd the kids out of the banquet hall. The freshmen and sophomores left without much prompting, their parents or older siblings having come to pick them back up. The juniors and seniors, having driven themselves, proved harder to kick out. They lingered in raucous groups, still taking photos and dancing, exclaiming that the night was still young. The DJ took to playing more and more downbeat songs as he set about packing up, and only then did the banquet hall start really emptying.

“After party at Denny’s! Wooo!” yelled one of the football players on his way out, eliciting a wave of cheers. That poor Denny’s, thought Bucky with a wince. 

As the students streamed out of the dance, Bucky checked in with Mrs. Larsen to see if she needed anything from him, but she waved him off, saying the prom committee would be back the next day for clean up. 

“Go get your young man, Jack, before Coach Leeds convinces him to become assistant coach.”

“Steve’s awful at football,” said Bucky automatically. Actually, he probably wasn’t, not anymore anyway, but Bucky knew Steve preferred baseball.

Mrs. Larsen raised an eyebrow. “Really? Seems like a great tight end to me.” Oh my god. She cackled at how Bucky’s face probably just went tomato red, and he beat a hasty retreat to go rescue Steve from Coach Leeds. 

“Hey, we’re free to go, I got the okay from Mrs. Larsen. Coach Leeds, I think she needs you for something though?” he lied shamelessly, and hustled Steve away.

“Oh thank god. I really don’t know enough about football to keep talking about it with him, but he kept insinuating I probably didn’t know much about it on account of how I’m queer and all, so I had to keep faking it and—”

“Mrs. Larsen said you seem like a great tight end,” blurted out Bucky.

“But I don’t play foot—Oh,” said Steve with wide eyes, and they both simmered in mutual mortified silence for a second before bursting into laughter.

Once their laughter died down, Bucky gave Steve an apologetic smile. “Sorry, maybe this wasn’t the best date night.”

A slow and sweet piano melody drifted out from the banquet hall’s speakers, and Steve took hold of Bucky’s hand.

“I don’t know about that, I did like meeting your students. Even if they’re all miniature interrogators. I liked seeing you with them. They adore you, you know.” Bucky shook his head, feeling suddenly shy. “And hey, date night’s not over yet. Dance with me?” asked Steve.

“Since when do you dance?”

Steve smiled at him, a painful, bruised kind of tenderness on his face, and brushed a stray piece of hair off Bucky’s forehead before pulling Bucky’s glasses off and tucking them into Bucky’s jacket pocket. 

“I think this song is about my speed. We’re just gonna be kinda swaying together, and I’ll probably still step on your feet, but—”

“I don’t mind,” said Bucky, so Steve pulled Bucky closer, and tugged him to the now almost empty dance floor. The disco ball suspended above the dance floor continued its lazy, sparkling turns, the lights around the dance floor still low and tinted blue, still midnight in Paris.

The song’s sleepy, honeyed pace was indeed too slow for much of anything but swaying in each other’s arms. Bucky didn’t care. Steve in his arms on a dance floor felt like an old, old wish, a dream some other version of him had once given up for lost.

Fade into you, crooned a male voice over the speakers. Strange you never knew.

They pressed close together, close enough that there was scarcely enough room to shuffle back and forth in a slow dance. Steve still managed to step on his toes. That little imperfection felt more precious than even the most perfect date night, because that was Bucky’s Steve: the guy who had superpowers but still got flustered enough to step on his best guy’s feet during the slowest of slow dances.

“Sorry, sorry,” whispered Steve, and Bucky smiled wide, pressed a kiss to Steve’s bearded cheek.

“It’s alright,” he murmured back, and pressed his forehead against Steve’s. 

Steve’s breath shuddered out in a sigh, and Bucky could see him shut his eyes tight, those ridiculous long lashes of his fanning out against his cheeks. They stayed like that, still swaying to the song’s slow, tripping melody. Maybe some other, younger version of Bucky had wanted a different kind of dance with Steve, a breathless and energetic lindy maybe, or something like the unashamed wildness the kids had reveled in earlier tonight. But right now, this was all Bucky wanted.

I think it’s strange you never knew. 


Two weeks later, just before school let out for winter break, Bucky got a visit from one of the yearbook kids.

“Hey Mr. Murphy, do you have a minute?”

“Sure, what’s up? Come on in. Brianna, right?”

“That’s me. So, I was taking photos for the yearbook and paper at the Winter Formal…” she said as she pulled a thin folder out of her messenger bag. 

Bucky felt a small thrill of alarm. Photos were evidence and photos could blow his cover, and what if she’d somehow looked at a photo of him, or of Steve, right next to their stupidly big pictures in the damn history book…

“And I took a bunch of shots that aren’t really going to fit into the yearbook. Just, you know, getting all artsy and fancy and stuff, I got a new camera for my birthday, and I was messing around with it at the dance, and…sorry, you don’t care. Anyway, I got a great shot of you and your boyfriend, and I wanted to get your permission to include it in my portfolio? I’m going to be applying to art schools next year, so…”

She shuffled through the photos in the folder, then slid one across the desk to him. It was him and Steve in profile, from when they were dancing at the end of the night. The light in the photo was all blue and gold, him and Steve half in shadow. It looked like the silent moment of shared breath before a kiss, and there wasn’t a single thing hidden on either of their faces. Maybe Brianna couldn’t tell, but Bucky could: it was all their grief and love, caught in that millisecond moment in the way they leaned towards each other, the curve of their lips, the way Steve’s hand clutched at his. 

“It’s a gorgeous photo, Brianna,” said Bucky, hoping his voice was even. “And of course you can use it.”

“Thank you! It’s, uh, basically the most romantic picture I’ve ever taken, so, like, I hope you two stay together? Sorry, sorry, that’s probably rude—”

“It’s alright,” he said, smiling at her. Her skin flushed dark and she fussed with her folder of photos. “Could you give me a few copies of this, actually?”

“Oh! Sure, of course! You can have that one, actually, I’ve got the digital files. I’ll email it to you too.”

“Thank you, Brianna. Really. It’s a great photo, I know Steve will love it too.”

Steve did end up loving it. Well, he kind of burst into tears first, though he pretended not to, but that meant he loved it.

“It’s just a really beautiful photo, okay?”

Bucky laughed and reeled him in for a hug. “Yeah, that was kind of my reaction too.”

Notes:

The song they're dancing to at the end is Ben Harper's cover of Mazzy Star's "Fade Into You."

Chapter 9: greener than god's dream

Summary:

"Steve had thought he didn’t mind their house’s bare walls and general lack of personality, and when set against how they had heating and plumbing that (mostly) worked, and how safe Bucky felt here, he mostly didn’t. But their house’s sparseness was starting to get to him. If Bucky had no plans or desire to move anytime soon, Steve wanted to make it feel more like a home."

Steve nests via artwork.

Notes:

Chapter title from Sohrab Sepehri's poem "Address."

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“Hey Buck, you’re planning on staying here, right?”

Bucky didn’t look up from where he was inputting grades into his grade book. “Here in the kitchen? Yeah, I’ll keep an eye on the oven, you can go next door if you want. I’ll text when the pizza’s ready.”

“No, I didn’t mean—” Shit, Steve was fucking this up already. “I meant, here, in this house. In general, not just tonight.”

Now Bucky looked up, bemused. “I own it, so yes, I’d hope I’m staying here for the foreseeable future.”

“Wait, you own it? But I see you mailing out rent checks.”

“Well, I own it through like three different shell corporations, one of which uses a property management company to rent it out to me.”

“Huh.”

“Helps establish a paper trail for me as Jack Murphy.”

“That’s smart.” Bucky shot him a small smile then returned to typing in grades. “I guess I just meant—we’ve been here almost a year now, and it still feels—temporary.”

Now Bucky stopped typing. “What do you mean?” He tensed up so abruptly he was practically vibrating, and his eyes went wide and stricken. “You’re not temporary. Us, that’s not temporary.”

“No! No, of course not, god, Bucky. We’re the opposite of temporary, I know that. I mean the house. It still feels like we’re living in a safe house.”

Bucky relaxed with a relieved sigh. “Oh.” He tapped anxiously at his laptop’s keys. “I don’t know what that means. Is this…not a normal house?”

“It is,” allowed Steve, because it was a normal house. There was a kitchen and a living room and two bathrooms and two bedrooms, though they only used the one. All the rooms were furnished, and all the furniture matched, and everything was up to Bucky’s just-shy-of-obsessive tidiness standards.

But there was scarcely a single damn decorative thing in the house, and if it weren’t for the books colonizing just about every room and the weapons discreetly stashed everywhere, it could be any anonymous, furnished rental. Steve, admittedly, couldn’t really cast stones, here. His own apartment in DC hadn’t been dissimilar. It was probably pretty telling that after SHIELD fell, Steve hadn’t had any qualms about leaving the apartment and everything in it behind. The most personalized space Steve had lived in since coming out of the ice had been his apartment at Stark Tower, which had been decorated with shocking tastefulness and less stupid Captain America memorabilia than expected.

Steve had thought he didn’t mind their house’s bare walls and general lack of personality, and when set against how they had heating and plumbing that (mostly) worked, and how safe Bucky felt here, he mostly didn’t. But their house’s sparseness was starting to get to him. If Bucky had no plans or desire to move anytime soon, Steve wanted to make it feel more like a home.  

“It’s not like our old place was,” tried Bucky uncertainly.

“Good thing it’s not, our old place was only a couple steps up from being a shit hole. We had some of my ma’s stuff though, and your mom gave us curtains.”

It hadn’t been much; Bucky hadn’t paid much mind to aesthetics then either, he’d been too fixated on keeping the place warm enough for Steve. But they’d had the curtains, and some knickknacks, and a collection of quilts and blankets, and taken all together, it had all been almost cozy.

Bucky tilted his head and squinted. “They were an awful shade of puce, weren’t they?”

“I couldn’t tell,” said Steve with a shrug. He’d been red-green colorblind before the serum. He was pretty sure Mrs. Barnes had given them the curtains because she knew Steve couldn’t see their true awful color.

“Oh, right. Silver lining on that colorblind cloud, you not being able to see that particular color.” Steve grinned at the familiarity of the response, then the timer for the pizza dinged, and they both busied themselves getting it out of the oven and setting the table for dinner. Bucky was quiet while they ate, clearly thinking over what Steve had said about the house.

“I like our house,” Steve reassured him, wanting to smooth out that furrow in Bucky’s forehead. “I guess I just want it to feel more like a home.” He hesitated, hoping Bucky wouldn’t take this as a slight. “Don’t you?”

Bucky shrugged and didn’t raise his eyes from his salad. “You’re here. That makes it home.”

The words hit Steve full in the chest, like a bullet made of heat and light that bloomed into fireworks. Before he knew it, he was on Bucky’s side of the kitchen table, kissing him as deep as he could manage in some vain effort to express how Bucky could light up his entire damn world with a few words. Bucky surged up to meet him with equal intensity, and not long after that, they abandoned dinner for the bedroom.


Later in bed, when they were both drowsy and sated, Bucky asked, “Did you want to, I dunno, decorate the house?”

“Wouldn’t know where to start,” mumbled Steve into Bucky’s bare chest.

“Sam’s a normal 21st century person. We should ask him.”

Steve blew a raspberry on Bucky’s chest, and Bucky laughed. “Is he, though?” asked Steve. “He willingly hangs out with us, and he flies around with a jetpack.”

Steve considered it though. The house next door was now basically Sam’s, since Steve had moved in with Bucky pretty much immediately after Bucky blew his cover. Sam never seemed too concerned with his living space either, not beyond comfort and cleanliness anyway. He didn’t decorate with anything other than photos and throw pillows. Photos though—there was an idea.

“Alright, maybe not Sam,” said Bucky. “There’s furniture stores, I guess. We could go scope them out, see if we get any ideas.”

“We could start with getting some photos printed and framed?”

“Yeah, okay.”


So Steve had some photos of them, Sam, and Natasha printed and framed, and scattered them around the house. The photo one of the high school kids had taken of him and Bucky at the Winter Formal got pride of place on their bedroom dresser. The photos did a lot to make the house more welcoming, their presence a reassuring reminder that actual people with actual lives lived here. 

He and Bucky made a plan to take a trip to Ikea that weekend too, in the hopes that they’d absorb some idea of how interior design worked. Bucky remained dubious, but maybe he’d succumb to a bit of materialism when faced with all that cheerful Scandinavian minimalism. Steve was just encouraged that their minimal efforts were already getting results in the form of approval from Sam. Sam noticed the photos when he came over that Saturday for one of Bucky’s usual ludicrously abundant weekend breakfasts.

“Hey, you guys got some photos framed!” Sam wandered over to the mantle in the living room to examine them: a couple of Steve and Bucky from date nights they’d had in the past year, the rest of Sam and Nat from one of their ridiculous selfie sprees. Sam laughed when he saw them. “You couldn’t have picked better pictures?”

“Hey, I like those. They really capture your essence,” said Steve.

“There’s a limited supply of bacon and I’m going to eat all of it if you two don’t get to the table!” called out Bucky from the kitchen. Sam promptly abandoned Steve to head to the kitchen.

“Could you guys leave one piece for me for once? Just one?” asked Steve as he followed.

Once the weekly scuffle over breakfast meats concluded, Sam said, “I like what you’ve done with the place,” with a nod to the photos in the living room. “Looks nice. Now all you need are some throw pillows, and you’ll have a real, grownup house.”

Bucky raised a dubious eyebrow. “That’s it? That’s all it takes? Pictures and throw pillows?”

“Yup. Pictures are nice, remind you of your friends and family, and throw pillows mean you have your shit together. Only people who have their shit together bother with pointless decorative pillows.”

Steve opened his mouth to object, because he’d never had throw pillows, and also that seemed like a weird standard, but honestly, it made a weird sort of sense. Bucky, however, was unimpressed.

“We have got to stop using you as a model of normal 21st century behavior.”


Sam was leaving for his weekend group session at the VA when Steve told him how he and Bucky were going to spend their Saturday.  The immediate wince and grimace on Sam’s face weren’t encouraging signs.

“You’re going to Ikea? I hope your relationship survives that.”

Steve scoffed. “It’s survived the Depression, me being sick all the time, war, death, freezing, thawing, brainwashing, amnesia, Bucky’s terrible mustache, and being undercover. I think it can handle a furniture store.”

“Like I said. I hope your relationship survives that.”

Bucky began to look wide-eyed and alarmed, but Steve just glared at Sam and hustled Bucky to the car before he could interrogate Sam about the dangers of Ikea.

Steve had misgivings the moment they pulled into the crowded Ikea parking lot. The Ikea building was imposingly large and disconcertingly cube-like from the vantage of the parking lot. It was probably supposed to look pleasantly minimalist, but it just looked like a bright blue block of brutalism to Steve, and he wasn’t a fan. The bad first impression wasn’t helped by spotting three couples coming out of the doors with grim expressions, and two more who were still actively arguing. Bucky spotted them too, judging by the eloquent eyebrow he raised in Steve’s direction.

“Look, there are people walking out who are perfectly happy!” said Steve, nodding towards the handful of people hauling giant blue bags or pushing large carts full of boxes towards the parking lots. Happy was pushing it. They looked neutral, at best. Still, Steve didn’t want this mission ruined before it even started, so he walked purposefully into the Ikea, and Bucky strode along amiably enough beside him.

Bucky was mostly fine, most days. But sometimes, he was very abruptly and very quietly not fine, and after spending about ten minutes making headway into the crowded and baffling maze of furniture and interior design that was Ikea, this proved to be one of those times. Steve didn’t draw attention to it, or make a fuss. He knew better by now, he was getting the hang of this taking care of Bucky thing. Instead he just turned them around and walked them right back to the car, keeping an anchoring hand on Bucky the whole time. In the car, he held Bucky’s hand, sweeping his thumb back and forth across his knuckles, until Bucky’s too-fast breathing returned to normal, and he came back from whatever mental space he’d retreated to.

“Too many people?”

Bucky shook his head. “No windows, no exits. And the lights, there’s this—this buzzing they make, and it—”

Bucky didn’t, or couldn’t, say more, but Steve got the picture: an enclosed space, no clear exits, and something that triggered a bad association with HYDRA.

“It’s alright,” said Steve. Bucky just squeezed Steve’s hand, then brought it up to his lips to press a kiss to Steve’s knuckles. “Wanna head back home?”

“No, let’s just try some place smaller.”

The next place they tried didn’t get either of their hackles up, and they wandered around the expansive showroom, putting off the salespeople with smiles and the insistence that they were “just looking, thanks.” The furniture was all displayed attractively enough, in little tableaus that replicated actual rooms, and it all looked nice. But Steve didn’t see anything he especially wanted in their home.

“Maybe a mirror, to go on the living room wall? That…seems to be a popular decorating choice,” tried Steve, looking at what appeared to be a deconstructed sunburst in mirror form. It seemed like it would be a nightmare to actually get up on a wall. 

Bucky frowned. “That’s just gonna make me jumpy, thinking someone else is there every time I see my reflection. What’s the point of a mirror in the living room anyway?”

“Makes it seem bigger, I guess.”

Other popular decorating choices seemed to be large vases and pots filled with curly bare branches or stones, candles in various shapes and sizes, fake plants, art prints, and mass-produced inoffensively abstract paintings. The art prints were the only somewhat tempting option. Steve used to have a few prints up in his old apartment, the one decorating choice he’d made himself. He flipped through the rack of cheaply framed prints: Marilyn Monroe, dogs playing poker, assorted city skyline photos, one of Degas’ dancers...yeah, no. None of the ones here particularly appealed to him.

After a good hour of wandering around, Bucky flopped onto one of the display couches with the vaguely confused, put out frown that Steve would never stop finding adorable.

“It’s all just—stuff.”

“Junk?”

“Nah, it’s too nice to be junk. But it’s stuff, and I don’t see that we need any of it.”

“It’s not about need,” Steve retorted, hands on his hips.

He suspected this was the sticking point for Bucky though. There was more or less nothing in the house that wasn’t needed, one way or the other. Bucky clearly had no objection to nice things in and of themselves, and he wasn’t a spendthrift. Their bed was very nice, the kitchen was well-equipped, and the furniture they had was well-made. And god knew Bucky spent a lot of money on books. But those were all necessary things, or things that served a purpose.

Bucky rubbed a leaf on the fake plant beside the couch he was sprawled on. “Maybe a plant or two? Real ones.”

Yes. This was progress. “Sure! That’d be nice. I was thinking about something for the walls? Art prints, or paintings—”

Now Bucky perked up. “None of the ones here though, right? Because all these paintings are awful.”

“What, that giant LIVE LOVE LAUGH painting over there isn’t speaking to you?” Bucky rolled his eyes and Steve grinned. “Yeah, no, none of these. You wouldn’t mind something up on the walls though?” The walls in the house were mostly bare of anything but a clock or two right now. Maybe Bucky genuinely preferred them that way.

“No, I wouldn’t mind.” Bucky chewed at his lower lip and looked up at Steve. “You could paint something? You did that, right? Paintings?”

Steve blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah, but I haven’t painted in years.” Bucky just tilted his head, brow furrowing.

“Why not? You sketch all the time. We can afford the paint and the supplies now.” Bucky got a set expression on his face and moved to lever himself off the couch. Steve offered him a hand up, and then just kept hold of Bucky’s hand. “That’s what I want. Your paintings on the walls.”

A crowd of excuses and denials spilled into Steve’s mouth: I don’t know if I can even still paint, I don’t think I really know enough about painting, I haven’t painted since I got the serum, I only ever really painted signs and ads, I don’t think my painting is any good...but Bucky wanted his paintings. And there was so little he admitted to wanting, even now. Steve would move heaven and earth to make sure Bucky had those few things he genuinely wanted.

Steve pushed all his doubts and denials down, smiled at Bucky, and said, “I can’t promise they’ll be any good. But alright, I’ll give it a shot.” The heartbreakingly bright smile Bucky gave him sealed the deal. Steve would happily paint until his hands cramped to earn that smile.

On their way out of the store, Bucky didn’t let go of Steve’s hand, and Steve tried not to embarrass himself when Bucky leaned in close to murmur, rough and sweet, “Thank you, sweetheart,” into his ear.

Steve was definitely getting a little bit played here, not that it made any difference to the dizzy warmth of the endearment and Bucky’s hand in his. And Steve didn’t mind anyway, just took it as more proof that Bucky really wanted to fill their house with Steve’s paintings. He wouldn’t be bothering to butter Steve up otherwise.

Bucky pulled away at the precise moment Steve’s blush was fading, dropping a rare public kiss to the corner of his mouth on the way. Steve very nearly chased his mouth for a deeper kiss, but managed to summon up enough self control not to. He didn’t want to get them kicked out of a furniture store for indecent behavior.

“So, art supply store next?” asked Bucky.

Steve nodded, vaguely dazed, and followed Bucky to the car. He knew what Sam would say: he really has you wrapped around his little finger, doesn’t he? And yeah, that wasn’t far wrong. Steve was pretty indulgent of Bucky nowadays. He couldn’t help it; he knew all the things Bucky had given up or gone without, quietly and without complaint, for Steve’s sake. He used to whine and gripe volubly and at length about the little things: the date he’d missed because Steve got into some scrap, the meals Steve had ruined with his inattentive cooking, the charcoal and pencil smudges Steve had left on Bucky’s books. But the meals he’d skipped to pay for Steve’s medicines, the dates and new clothes he’d foregone in favor of saving up money to keep Steve in art supplies, the opportunities he’d given up or never pursued to stay with Steve in Brooklyn, the war he’d kept fighting to stay at Steve’s side…those things, Bucky had simply done, without comment or complaint, because in his estimation, there had been no alternative worth considering.

So yeah, Steve indulged Bucky now, gave him every little happiness he could. The world owed Bucky that. Steve owed Bucky that, and more besides.


Steve didn’t get a chance to start on any painting right away, which was kind of a relief given how intimidating the stack of blank canvases was. The Avengers got called in to help with a standoff situation with a HYDRA base in Argentina, and that took a week to deal with, plus another few days of debriefings with Argentine law enforcement, the anti-HYDRA task forces, and then the FBI and State Department. 

The debriefings were Steve’s least favorite part of being Captain America, but they were a necessary evil, especially now. Without SHIELD to answer to, the Avengers were currently operating on an on-call, as-needed basis with the assorted anti-HYDRA task forces, and every alphabet agency involved maintained careful ignorance of just what Steve, Natasha, and the others were doing when not on an official, sanctioned op. Everyone pretended that whatever Steve was doing on his own was under the aegis of one agency or another, and in return, Steve attended debriefings and did not kick up a news cycle-eating, politician-career-destroying ruckus while he took HYDRA out. 

Bucky had no such limitations. When Steve got back home, Bucky was watching the news, a smug and wicked smirk on his face as an excited news anchor narrated some senator’s perp walk. 

“This your work?” asked Steve, after their customary welcome-home make out had subsided into lazy groping.

“Yup. Asshole took HYDRA money for his campaigns and did every damn thing HYDRA-affiliated lobbyists asked him to do, then tried to cover it all up.”

“I thought you were looking into a lot of politicians for that.” 

“I am. Three of ‘em are cooperating with the FBI about it, so it’s their problem now. I’ve gotten enough intel to a journalist who’s about to go public on a couple of others. And I’ve got some bait out for a couple other big fish too, see if they bite.” Bucky cocked his head and frowned thoughtfully at the TV. “I think I’m getting close to accidentally destroying an entire political party, actually.”

Steve snorted. “Their fault for collaborating with Nazis.” He nuzzled Bucky’s neck, mouthed a wet kiss to his pulse point. “Tell me more.”

“This getting you hot, Rogers? You wanna hear about me digging through FEC filings for HYDRA campaign contributions?”

“Uh huh, it’s very sexy. Tell me more about it while I give you a blowjob.”

Bucky laughed but obligingly lifted his hips so Steve could pull his pants down. “So all the FEC filings are online…” he began in a low and seductive tone. Steve resisted the urge to shiver and gave Bucky a flat look from where he was kneeling, and Bucky laughed again. “What? You said to tell you more.”

“I’m not doin’ my job right if you can think about FEC filings with my mouth this close to your dick.” 


 

With no missions to go on, and Bucky teaching for half the day, Steve had to face the blank canvases, if only for lack of anything else to do. Bucky wanted Steve’s paintings, so by god, Steve would paint him some paintings. First though, he killed a lot of time setting up his easel and canvas, getting all his supplies and brushes in order. Once he had everything set up in the living room, the blank canvas sitting on the easel loomed, taunting him with its as-yet-unpainted state, and Steve took a break for an early lunch. He could think of something to paint while he ate.

Lunch did not provide much inspiration.

So Steve grabbed his sketchbooks and flipped through them for inspiration: Bucky, Bucky, Sam, Natasha, more Sam, more Natasha, more Bucky, some cityscapes, a few unsuccessful attempts to sketch a plane’s eye view of a mountain range, some silly doodles…none of it seemed like painting material. Steve cast his mind back to his art class assignments. He’d had to do what felt like a lot of still life paintings. That was as good a subject as any to warm up with.

He arranged some fruit on the coffee table in the living room, stuck a glass of water on there too for some verisimilitude, and set about painting. By the time Bucky got home in the afternoon, Steve had a mostly finished and decidedly sloppy still life painting to show for his labors. Bucky beamed when he saw it.

“Hey, you started painting!” He joined Steve in front of the easel, where he threw an arm around Steve’s shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. “It looks great, Steve.”

“No it does not. It looks like I finger painted it. Small children could do better than this.”

“It’s kind of messy,” allowed Bucky. “You just gotta get back in practice. And you could always sign up for an art class, get back in the swing that way.”

“Don’t wanna sign up for a class when I can be called away for a mission any time.”

“Youtube then. You can learn how to do anything from Youtube,” said Bucky, and he had a point.

Just last month, Bucky had fixed their garbage disposal with the help of a Youtube tutorial. Steve had watched anxiously from the kitchen table. What if it turns on while you have your hand shoved down there? It’s a hole full of spinning knives. Why does every kitchen have a hole full of spinning knives? Bucky had just rolled his eyes and wiggled his metal fingers at Steve. I think my metal hand can handle some spinning knives.

“Hmm. Maybe,” Steve said.

After a couple more days of lackluster and horribly boring still life paintings, Steve gave up and turned to Youtube. He found many, many videos of a soft-voiced man with a large halo of frizzy hair painting landscapes, and while the landscapes weren’t actually to Steve’s taste—they were pretty but bland, meant to evoke an anodyne sort of serenity—the man’s voice was soothing, and Steve could focus on following his directions without overthinking every brushstroke.

As a bonus, the soporific effects of Bob Ross’s voice meant that on the evenings when Steve painted along with him while Bucky read on the couch, Bucky invariably ended up falling into an untroubled sleep. Bucky could always use more restful sleep in Steve’s opinion, so even though Bucky grumbled about how he’d wanted to read his book, dammit, Steve never woke him, just let him sleep until Steve himself was ready to turn in.

“Hey Buck, c’mon, get up. Let’s get you to bed.”

Bucky blinked blearily up at Steve. “What time izzit?”

“Almost eleven. C’mon buddy, bed time.” He helped Bucky up, and Bucky shuffled along after him to their bedroom.

“Did you paint happy little trees?”

“Uh huh. Lotta happy little trees.”

“Together, right? Inna forest? Can’t be happy little trees if they’re not inna forest,” mumbled Bucky dreamily.

Steve stifled a laugh. Bucky was definitely still half asleep. “Yup, in a forest. You want me to paint you more happy little trees? For the house?”

Bucky hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe.”

They went through their bedtime routine in comfortable, drowsy silence, and when they got in bed, Steve tucked himself against Bucky’s side, hissing when Bucky’s stupid ice cold toes made contact with his shins.

“Elephant,” said Bucky.

Steve blinked. “What’s that, Buck?”

“Want an elephant painting. Trunks’re funny, they’re cute. And they’re smart.”

Steve wanted to giggle, but Bucky sounded so serious. “Alright. Elephant, coming right up. What room of the house should we put it in?”

Bucky made a deeply, hilariously indignant noise, his arms tensing around Steve. “Not for the house. For my classroom.”

Steve honestly wasn’t sure what the train of logic here was, but at this point, Bucky was probably sleep-talking more than anything else, so he just went along with it. He ran a soothing hand down Bucky’s side. “Okay, a nice painting of an elephant for your classroom.”

Bucky sighed happily then, his breathing beginning to slow and deepen. “Love you,” he mumbled, and Steve was desperately, all encompassingly grateful all over again for Bucky’s return.

“Love you too,” Steve whispered back.


When Steve finally decided he was sufficiently in practice to attempt a painting that would actually be worthy of going up in their house, he started with a painting of the Brooklyn Bridge. He labored over it for a full two weeks, quizzing Bucky all the while about whether he liked it and if it was good enough for them to put up.

“Hmm, I dunno, Steve, I liked the Bob Ross one with the almighty mountain,” teased Bucky.

“Which one with the mountain, all that man paints are mountains and lakes and—”

“Happy little trees!” they chorused together, and laughed. After a couple seconds, Bucky frowned. “I really do want a painting of happy little trees though.”

“I’ll paint you trees next. Seriously though, Buck, is this any good?” Bucky came up behind him, wrapping his arms around Steve’s waist to peer over his shoulder.

“I like it. I like the light, and the shadows. I like the perspective.” Steve had chosen the view of the bridge from the pedestrian walkway down its center. He thought Bucky would like that angle on the precise webbing of the bridge’s cables, and Steve had always found drawing them soothing. “Are you going to add people?” asked Bucky.

Steve had been avoiding it, actually. He didn’t want to think too hard about why. “Do you want me to?”

“I’m not commissioning you here, Steve. Paint what you want.”

“What if I want to fill the house with naked paintings of you?”

“Why would you want naked paintings when you have the real thing, ready and willing to lie around the house naked?”

“Compelling argument. And yet you’re still wearing clothes.” Steve could feel the shape of Bucky’s smile against his neck.

“Point taken. I can change that though,” said Bucky, voice gone dark and promising, and then they forgot about the painting for a while.

Despite the comforting heaviness of Bucky draped half over him, and the warm and even puffs of his breath against Steve’s shoulder, Steve couldn’t settle down that night. Sometime in the small hours, he ended up easing out from under a snuffling Bucky to go back out to the dark living room to contemplate the painting. The ambient light from the streetlights outside was enough for Steve to see the painting perfectly. 

It looked forlorn like this in the dark of the living room, and eerie too: with the bridge empty of pedestrians, the warm late afternoon light he’d bathed the painting in turned it elegiac. He should add people to it. Before he could change his mind, Steve swiftly added a few pedestrians, some of them with the distinctive silhouettes of the fashions of the 40s, some modern, and then went back to bed.

In the morning, Bucky stood in front of the painting while he sipped at his coffee. Bucky’s eyes were sharp, so Steve knew he’d notice the additions, from the slight sheen of the wet paint if nothing else. He wanted to make some excuse or explanation, but he wasn’t entirely sure what he meant to say by mixing up the past and the present in the painting. He thought artists were supposed to know that kind of thing, but Steve didn’t, not really. Not with this, anyway.

“It finished now?” asked Bucky.

“Yeah. Just about.”

Bucky didn’t say anything about the late night additions to the painting. He did come over to where Steve was pointlessly fussing with the coffee machine though, and set his own cup down on the counter. 

“Uh, do you want more coffee, there’s still enough for both of us in the pot—” Steve started, avoiding Bucky’s too-knowing gaze. Bucky brought his hand up to Steve’s cheek, still warm from the mug of coffee, and Steve went silent, met Bucky’s eyes. They were more gray than blue this morning, with the softness of clouds at twilight, the creases at the corners betraying both his joy and his sorrow, even now. He leaned in to kiss Steve, soft and slow, a kiss that made Steve feel like honey was flowing through his veins, like maybe Bucky understood what Steve didn’t about that painting. 

“Put it up in the living room when the paint’s dry,” said Bucky, pulling away with one last coffee-flavored, close-mouthed kiss.


As promised, Steve’s next painting was of Bucky’s requested happy little trees. He’d been tempted to paint a forest of cartoonish trees with exaggerated happy faces, and had even sketched it out. It was cute, would probably make for a cute animation, like something out of Fantasia, but Steve was maybe more of an art snob than he liked to admit, because he couldn’t bring himself to paint it on an actual canvas that would go up in their home. Instead, he tucked the sketch into Bucky’s bag the next day, where he’d find it when he pulled out his lunch at work. Sure enough, later that day, Steve got a text from Bucky with a picture of the sketch taped up on his classroom’s whiteboard, and a series of heart emojis.

He had time to sketch out a few ideas for a tree-related painting before he had to do actual HYDRA-hunting work—going through reports and tactical scenarios sent over by Natasha and Maria—but even so, by the time Bucky got home in the afternoon, he thought he knew what he wanted to paint for Bucky. It wasn’t quite the happy little trees that Bob Ross fellow liked to paint so much, but Steve thought Bucky would like it. He hoped so, anyway.

“Hey, take a look at this,” said Steve, and showed Bucky the sketch. 

In a rough pencil sketch, it wasn’t much to look at: it was the view looking up into a tree’s branches, as if from the perspective of someone lying below them. The colors would be the thing that would make the painting worthwhile, all green and gold, sunlight through the leaves, maybe a few glimpses of a clear blue sky.

“Like lying under a tree,” said Bucky.

“Yeah, exactly. Maybe not the kind of happy little tree you wanted, but—”

“No, it’s perfect. You should paint it.”

So Steve did.


“This is familiar,” said Bucky, book on his chest while he watched Steve paint.

“Well, yeah, you’ve been watching me paint for weeks.”

“No—that’s not—” Bucky put his book down and joined Steve at the easel, where he skimmed his fingers along the edges of Steve’s palette, then over the tubes of paint, frowning down at them. “This.”

Steve’s breath caught, and he set his brush down, then handed the palette over to Bucky. The palette was a mess of shades of green and yellow and brown. Seventy years ago, or six, the whole palette would have looked like a mix of muddled browns and brownish yellows to Steve. Now the blobs and smears of paint were vivid, living green hues, like Steve had thrown spring on the palette. The serum had fixed any number of Steve’s ailments, and Steve was grateful for all of it, but the correction of his colorblindness was up there with a heart that worked right.

Bucky hadn’t yet asked why is this familiar? so Steve waited while Bucky looked down at the palette and paints, his brow furrowed and his eyes hazy.

 Bucky murmured, “I used to do this for you sometimes. Mix the colors.”

“Yeah, Buck. With greens especially, since I couldn’t see them right.” 

Colorblind or not, Steve could usually manage on his own: paints were labeled after all, and Steve had known what color things were supposed to be even if he couldn’t see them all correctly. But sometimes he couldn’t get it right, and he’d needed an extra set of eyes, and eventually that morphed into Bucky mixing the paints himself. He’d liked to do it, and he had a good eye for color, so Steve had eventually given in and let him. Gracelessly and grudgingly, it had to be said. Steve didn’t know how Bucky had put up with him.

“You were painting the park once—Prospect Park. As a gift for my ma.”

“That’s right. I wanted to thank her for how much she helped after my ma died.”

“But you had to do the hardest thing. A painting full of green.” Bucky handed the palette back, smiling at Steve with every indication of finding that endearing rather than frustrating. “Don’t need me to mix your paints for you anymore, huh?”

“You could, if you wanted to,” blurted out Steve. There were a lot of other things he wanted to say, and they all started with do you remember. But Steve tried to never ask Bucky that. Better to live in the present. If Bucky asked, Steve would tell him. There were so many memories Steve would share with Bucky again, if Bucky asked.

“Nah, I think I’ll leave it to you,” he said with a quick kiss, and then he returned to his book.


Watching Bucky remember, or try to remember, something from their shared past was one of the most bittersweet gifts of their life together. It was now, anyway. At first, it had only ignited fury in Steve. Not at Bucky, of course, never at Bucky. Only at HYDRA. 

Steve worked hard not to let his anger show: it would have been one thing, if time or illness had led to the loss of Bucky’s memories, as it had with Peggy. But knowing that they hadn’t been lost, that they’d been taken, stolen—that Bucky had suffered so much for their taking, that he’d fought so hard to hold onto them only to have them burned away again and again and again—that made Steve more furious than he could bear. 

But Steve could bear even less the way Bucky drew away from Steve when he saw Steve’s anger. It wasn’t something so obvious as a flinch, or even Bucky drawing away physically. No, it was the palpable way Bucky withdrew into himself, his face going still and distant, and Steve hated to see it, hated even more when he was the cause of it. Instead Steve reserved his anger for blowing up HYDRA bases and destroying every single last one of those nightmare torture device chairs that had taken Bucky’s memories, and when Bucky got that thoughtful furrow on his forehead, Steve just waited to see if Bucky would ask: do you know? What am I not remembering right now? I don’t remember, can you—?

That was the unspoken rule: Steve wouldn’t offer, if Bucky didn’t ask.

Often, he didn’t ask. Sometimes it was just about being there as he remembered, a process that often seemed as if Bucky were entering a pitch dark room and feeling his way through it, blind. Bucky knew the shape of what he was remembering, but had to grope around for the details, careful, painfully careful, not to knock into any other memory, or hurt himself falling into painful Winter Soldier memories. Sometimes Steve could be the guiding hand at his elbow, or the hand to hold, directing him through the dim memory with confirmation, or a few more details. Sometimes the light in the room would blink on in one flash of illumination, and Bucky remembered all on his own. And sometimes, Bucky just needed someone to sit in the dark of absence with him.

Those times when Bucky did ask though—those were precious. It didn’t matter if Bucky was asking about something trivial like whether or not he’d gone to see this or that movie with Steve, or something important like when Bucky’s youngest sister was born and whether Bucky had been there. It only mattered that Bucky trusted Steve to have held onto these pieces of him, and that Bucky trusted Steve to give them back to him. Steve sometimes wished the memories were physical things, so that Bucky could see and feel how much they’d been cared for in Steve’s hands, each one like a beloved heirloom that Steve had packed away carefully, kept clean and polished and shining. Steve wanted to be able to press them into Bucky’s hands and say see? I kept it safe for us. I can keep it safe for us, for however long you need. Steve wanted to give Bucky all of them.

But then, Bucky didn’t much care about things, did he. Steve could see it now, a metaphorical house full of metaphorical tchotchkes, and Bucky making his scrunched up face of confused disapproval at all of them: it’s just stuff, Steve. So Steve held back, both literally and metaphorically, and only gave Bucky what he asked for when it came to both memories and interior design. 

Some days, that was harder than others. With a palette full of green on his arm, there was one memory in particular that Steve wanted to give Bucky again: a tube of oil paint, sap green. 

Even without accounting for amnesia, there was every chance Bucky wouldn’t remember it; it wasn’t anything momentous or extraordinarily notable, not for Bucky anyway. It was just another kindness he’d done for Steve, one of hundreds, if not thousands. There was no reason for Bucky to know what it had meant to Steve. Steve, after all, had never told him.


“Hey Steve!”

“Hey Buck. You’re home late today. There’s stew in the pot still.”

“You are the best roommate. And hey, there’s even some meat in here! Feast of kings, huh? Here, got this for you,” said Bucky, and lobbed something small at Steve. Steve fumbled to catch it, and only just managed it.

“What’s this?” asked Steve, though he could already see. It was a tube of oil paint.

“Sap green. Saw you were just about out.”

“Buck, you didn’t have to. I still have a ton of yellow and blue, I coulda mixed up more green. Or you could’ve, whichever.”

“Yeah, but you’ve been grumbling that it doesn’t come out right. So take it from a man who sees all shades of green: this is the green you need if you’re gonna paint Prospect Park. And the guy at the shop said this kind’s made with walnut oil and no turpentine, so it won’t stink so bad. Oughta be easier on your lungs. And! Leonardo da Vinci himself used paint mixed with walnut oil!”

“New paint for me isn’t worth being short on rent.”

“Who says we’re gonna be short on rent? Told you, that new clerk job pays pretty well. But now you gotta tell my ma the painting’s a present from both of us.”

Bucky had gone to wash his hands and face, and then he’d chattered on about his day as he ate his dinner, and all the while, Steve had been burning with the lightning flash realization: I’m in love with Bucky

It was almost silly, how a tube of green paint had rearranged the landscape of Steve’s heart. Or maybe not rearranged, only put it in a new perspective, turning the steady and enduring love of their friendship and the attraction Steve tried not to dwell on and the thousandth example of Bucky’s easy devotion and care into a greater whole, as if Steve had been unable to see all of it until then. Steve didn’t know how to explain it to Bucky: you gave me a tube of paint and I realized I was in love with you, but it wasn’t about the paint. It was about—it was about you noticing what color I was almost out of, it was about you picking a new brand that wouldn’t leave me wheezing from the solvents, it was about you sparing my stupid pride by making it about the gift for your ma, it was about you trying so hard to see the world through an artist’s eyes, so you could bring me the greens I couldn’t see. It was about all of that and more besides, and Steve didn’t know how to tell Bucky any of it. 

He settled for putting it all into the painting instead.


“Steve.”

“So...do you like it?” Bucky just kept staring at the painting with wide, over-bright eyes. Steve swallowed. “I, uh, was thinking of calling it ‘Happy Little Trees’—”  

Bucky let out a choked laugh. “Steve.

“Oh no, you hate it. I’m sorry, we can put it in the guest bathroom with the Bob Ross paintings—”

“No. Steve. I— “ Bucky stopped, turned to him. His face was doing something complicated, too much feeling on it for Steve to be able to decode. “Wait,” he said, then took Steve in his arms, pressing his face against Steve’s neck. Steve cradled Bucky’s head with his hand, and tried not to worry. Sometimes it took a while for Bucky to find the right words. Sometimes he just couldn’t find them, and let the silence speak.

“Buck, hey, you okay?”

Bucky nodded against his neck, and breathed against him for a moment. “They kept me in Siberia most of the time. Or—in underground places. Sometimes it felt like—a really long time, since I’d been outside. But once, after—I was waiting for extraction in a forest, and it was spring, I guess. And I looked up at the trees.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Stop apologizing,” said Bucky, squeezing him warningly. “I’m not saying this right. Your painting. It’s like that.”

Steve was about to apologize again, but stopped himself just in time. “Is that good or bad?”

Bucky laughed and lifted his head. He took Steve’s face in his hands. “That’s good, sweetheart. It’s like seeing spring again, after forgetting it. I love it. I love you.”

Steve sagged with relief, and sank into kissing Bucky.


 

One week later:

“Uh, an elephant? Is this a Bob Ross thing?”

“No, you said you wanted a painting of an elephant.”

“What? No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.”

“…when?”

“Oh, a couple months ago now. You were maybe kinda mostly asleep. But you were really insistent. You wanted an elephant painting for your classroom.”

“…why?”

“I dunno, Buck. You said their trunks are funny and they’re cute and smart. So I said I’d paint you one.”

“Huh. Well, thanks, I guess….dammit, that is a really cute elephant.”

Notes:

There's not an Ikea in Cleveland in our universe. There is in this one, roll with it. Also, I started researching 1930s oil paint brands and whether any of them used walnut oil but then I thought "lol get a hold of yourself, it's fic and you're PROCRASTINATING." this whole thing is me procrastinating from working on yuletide fic.

Chapter 10: the way to turn each other on again

Summary:

So Wilson hadn’t recognized him, good job, what a great disguise, Barnes. But Steve would. No amount of terrible facial hair and unfortunate faux-corrective eyewear would disguise him from Steve. Steve, who had taken one look at a cyborg assassin with long hair swiping a knife at his face and said, “Bucky?” like of course this guy was his dead best friend, what a logical first conclusion.

Bucky was pretty sure he wasn’t ready for this.

Bucky's POV of they're gonna send us to prison for jerks.

Notes:

Content note: heads up for standard Winter Soldier trauma business. Nothing's described in detail, but Bucky has a couple flashbacks and vague thoughts/memories of self-harm.

Chapter title from The National's "Guest Room."

Chapter Text

Bucky spotted the guy walking in and out of the house next door to his from all the way down the block. The house next door had been empty for a couple weeks, so it was probably just the new tenant. Even so, Bucky shifted his grip on the briefcase and problem sets he was holding, and checked on the knife sheathed at his back. The calculation of his escape route was automatic: at a flat out sprint, he could be back in his car in thirty seconds or less, and if he threw the briefcase and papers at the man, he’d have enough time to get away without any violence…. 

A quick visual assessment of the man didn’t help Bucky decide whether to make a run for it or not: black, an inch or so shorter than Bucky but fit, no obvious weapons, late 20s to mid 30s, nothing in his hands but his keys, which could certainly be a weapon, but the car in the driveway with an open trunk meant he was either just loading or unloading something, or there could be a weapon in there…the steady background hum of risk calculation and threat assessment rose and fell in Bucky’s head.

When Bucky got close enough to get a good look at the man’s face, he really did want to make a run for it, but too late, he was in front of his house already and he’d been spotted. A whole new set of ways out of this situation began running through his head, none of them particularly appealing.

“Hey, Jack, right? I’m Sam Wilson, your new neighbor.” He gave Bucky a friendly, gap-toothed smile.

What the fuck. 

“Yeah, hi. Jack Murphy,” replied Bucky, his mouth racing ahead of his brain. 

Sam Wilson. The same Sam Wilson who was the Falcon, the Sam Wilson whose cool metal wings he’d torn off and who he had kicked off a damn helicarrier. The Sam Wilson who had spent the better part of the last two years helping Captain Goddamn America look for Bucky Barnes. That Sam Wilson. Who was either fucking with him, or maybe keeping up a cover, or actually didn’t recognize him as Bucky Barnes or the Winter Soldier right now. Which, yeah, was the whole point of this stupid disguise, but really? 

Bucky scrutinized Wilson for any tells, but there were none. Wilson’s hands and shoulders were relaxed, his expression was nothing but open and friendly. There wasn’t a single hint of recognition on his face or in his body language. Was he keeping up a cover? Unlikely, he was still using his real name. Were they being surveilled? 

“Jess said you were our other neighbor when we met her earlier today. She was not kidding about the parking on this street, huh? How far away did you have to park?”

“Down the block. My garage is full, so…” Shit, he’d said we. Was Steve here too? “You just move in?” 

“Yeah, just today! Me and my friend Steve, hang on, let me get him out here—Steve, come out here and meet Neighbor Jack!”

Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Adrenaline flooded through him, one cold wash from the crown of his head on down, turning everything sharp and precise. He could hear Steve’s footfalls inside the house, and he could hear Wilson’s breathing, even and untroubled.

Bucky contemplated making a run for it. So Wilson hadn’t recognized him, good job, what a great disguise, Barnes. But Steve would. No amount of terrible facial hair and unfortunate faux-corrective eyewear would disguise him from Steve. Steve, who had taken one look at a cyborg assassin with long hair swiping a knife at his face and said, “Bucky?” like of course this guy was his dead best friend, what a logical first conclusion.

Bucky was pretty sure he wasn’t ready for this.

One look at Steve, and Bucky knew he wasn’t ready for this. Too many competing memories rushed in: a Steve he expected to be smaller, a clean-shaven Steve in Army fatigues, Steve battered and bloody and falling away from him, Steve pale and horrified and Bucky falling away from him. He blinked hard and fast a few times before seeing Steve as he was now: bearded, and with unhappy lines of tension around his eyes and on his forehead.

“Hey Steve, this is Jack Murphy, our other neighbor. Jack, this is Steve.”

And goddammit, Bucky could tell when Steve recognized him. The way his eyes widened in shock and confusion, the way his mouth dropped open—that was just the same as it had been during that fucking fight on the bridge. Only this time, Steve didn’t say his name. Instead, Steve gave an unruffled Wilson a baffled, somewhat wild look, then looked at Bucky’s left arm. Which would, to Steve and Wilson, look like unremarkable flesh and blood. The nano mesh did its job well, though one squeeze of his arm would very quickly reveal it wasn’t muscle and bone under there. 

Just when the silence was about to stretch a beat too long, some of Bucky’s problem sets slipped from his hand, and Bucky took the opportunity to occupy his left arm with the briefcase and papers. He offered Steve his right to shake.

“Hi, nice to meet you,” said Bucky.

Nothing happened when they touched. Steve’s hand was warm, his handshake unremarkably firm. Bucky’s skin, for once, didn’t rebel against the touch. Before he could think too hard about that, the handshake was over, and Wilson was talking again.

They all exchanged rote pleasantries and small talk, and Bucky watched Steve closely for any tell, any sign. Steve had recognized him, Bucky was sure of it, so why the fuck wasn’t he saying anything? Keeping up a cover or not, surely he could give Bucky some hint. If this was payback for Bucky’s own lack of recognition back in DC, Bucky wanted to goddamn punch Steve. I have amnesia, asshole, what’s your excuse? 

Steve had fallen silent while he and Wilson talked about pointless, banal shit, and unless there was some hidden code in Wilson’s chatter about lawns and sidewalks, this whole conversation was exactly what it seemed like: new neighbors making small talk. Maybe Steve had amnesia too, thought Bucky, hysteria bubbling up in his chest, and carefully didn’t look too much at Steve. He looked good with a beard. Less like Captain America.

So okay, maybe Wilson was the best damn actor outside of a movie theater, but Steve wasn’t. Maybe he could get a hint, a tell, something out of Steve.

“It was Steve, right? I didn’t catch your last name,” asked Bucky after Steve had been quiet too long.

Steve visibly refocused on the conversation. “Uh, Grant. Stephen Grant.”

Oh great, his actual first name and his middle name. Super helpful. Real great cover there, Rogers. This wasn’t helping Bucky figure out what the fuck was going on. He narrowed his eyes at Steve and tried not to grip his briefcase hard enough to break it.

“You seem familiar,” he tried. The subtext there was pretty clear, right? I know you, he thought, and  then tried very hard not to think about the last time he’d told someone he knew Steve, and just how very badly that had gone. 

Too late. The phantom taste of rubber filled his mouth. He felt like fucking throwing up.

Wilson laughed, blissfully unaware of how Bucky was about to have a small breakdown. “Yeah, he gets that a lot.” 

Bucky waited, in case someone was finally going to put him out of his misery and say Captain America, right? with a broad wink or significant eyebrow waggle.

But no, instead Steve tried a weak, “That guy, on the—hockey team. You know.”

No I fucking do not, Steven, and I bet you don’t either! Bucky wanted to yell. Instead he pressed his lips together tight and then tried, again, to fish for some hint of what the fuck was going on. Or at least to goad Steve into breaking his terrible cover. “Yeah, yeah, that’s it. What was his name again?”

Steve got that called-on-in-class-and-don’t-know-the-answer look on his face, which Bucky was intimately familiar with. Wilson rescued Steve from his own idiocy, and offered up a name, before finally bringing this whole excruciating charade to a close.

“Well, we’ll let you get to your grading,” said Wilson.

Okay, fine, whatever. Bucky gave them one last opening. Maybe they could leave him a damn message on his car.

“Always wonder why I give ‘em all that homework when I’m stuck grading it. It was nice talking to y’all, let me know if you ever need me to move my car or anything, I’ve got the blue Corolla. We gotta squeeze in pretty tight on this street. And heads up: the cops really will give you a ticket for blocking the sidewalk if you park in the driveway.”


When he got inside his own house, Bucky did, in fact, throw up, which was not ideal. I needed those calories, he thought morosely as he flushed the disgusting remains of his lunch down the toilet, and resigned himself to a couple extra pre-dinner protein bars. 

Supposing, of course, that he’d be having dinner at all and wouldn’t be on the goddamn run again.

He wanted to take a few minutes to let the shivers from the cold sweat on the back of his neck die down, but he couldn’t afford the time or the tremor in his limbs. So he opted to ignore it, and grabbed his go-bag from its hiding spot, strapped on some guns, and went to the garage to check all his alerts and security feeds. 

None of his security feeds or traps had been tripped. There was no indication that anything out of the norm was happening in Cleveland, and there hadn’t been any chatter from HYDRA about the Winter Soldier for nearly a year now. The law enforcement radio feeds Bucky hacked into were all business as usual, and the anti-HYDRA task forces in the area were working on the same things they’d been working on all month. As far as Bucky knew, as of last week, Steve and Wilson had been busy following HYDRA leads thrown their way by Romanoff and/or the non-HYDRA remnants of SHIELD.

So why were they here? Why were they right next door?

There was that base in the old mine not too far from Cleveland, maybe that was it. Bucky had tentative plans to blow the whole thing, once he was sure there wasn’t anything worth grabbing in there, and that he wouldn’t be poisoning the area if he did blow it all up. If Steve and Wilson were here for that base, Bucky wouldn’t say no to letting them deal with it after he’d done his own recon; they probably had better resources for handling the mess. But if they were here for that, why set up shop in Cleveland? Bucky knew how Steve hit HYDRA bases, relied on it, in fact, when he drew Steve’s attention to where it ought to be, instead of on Bucky. Steve, Wilson, and Romanoff went in fast and hit hard, and didn’t linger. They’d have set up camp and recon by the base, blown it, and left. So it probably wasn’t that.

There were a handful of HYDRA stragglers in Ohio too, and some cells that the FBI field offices here were investigating. It was nothing that warranted the Avengers’ attention though, and Bucky was leaving the FBI to it, since they seemed to have it well in hand.  

That left Karpov, but he was dead, so if they were here for him, they’d find out soon enough that they were too late. And if they were here for Bucky...well, why the fuck didn’t they say anything when they found him?

Alright, Wilson didn’t recognize him, that was fine. That was this terrible caterpillar of a mustache and the uncanny nano mesh over his arm doing their jobs, and it wasn’t like Wilson knew Bucky. But Steve. Steve knew him. Steve was always sure of him. Steve had been idiotically, suicidally sure of him, when there had been nothing but a mess of screaming and violent confusion in Bucky’s head, when there had barely been any Bucky to be sure of, when Bucky had shot him and beaten him, and fuck, he was going to be sick again.

Why wasn’t Steve sure now? 

The question wouldn’t leave Bucky alone. He spent the better part of the night waiting for something terrible to happen, and he couldn’t even convince himself it was irrational anxiety. Expecting a SWAT team to come bursting in, or a HYDRA cell to attack, or Steve to come knocking on his door demanding answers all felt like equally likely possibilities, so Bucky stayed up all night, guns and go-bag in reach.

He should run. If he had any sense, he’d run. But his fourth period pre-calc class had a test tomorrow. He was supposed to go over Jenny H.’s and Scott’s last calculus tests with them at lunch on Thursday, walking them through the problems they’d gotten wrong. He had his support meet-up on Saturday, and the Math Olympiad meeting next week. Abandoning all of that—Bucky could do it. Bucky knew just how many things he could do, if he had to. He knew exactly how much misery he could bear, probably hadn’t even found the limit of it yet, given that he was still breathing.

But he didn’t want to do it. He didn’t want to abandon this life. Let them drag me from it kicking and screaming, let them make me fight. He wouldn’t run.

As for Steve—Bucky didn’t know what the fuck he was going to do about Steve.


Steve didn’t know what the fuck to do about him either, apparently.

“Good morning…Jack!” said Steve while he stretched on his scrap of a lawn a couple mornings after the beginning of this whole farce. His running clothes were obscenely tight. Bucky could see his nipples. Didn’t that chafe? Did Steve still think he was five foot nothing?

“Morning, neighbor,” said Bucky, because he might as well fully commit to this whole Flanders thing he had going. (Simpsons, so great for rapid pop culture catch up.)

He waited a few seconds in case Steve had anything else to say, but no. Steve just got a pinched look on his face, then busied himself with a lunge. His pants, it turned out, were just as tight as his shirt, at least in the ass area. 

Alright then, thought Bucky. If that’s how we’re going to play this.

The exchange repeated the next morning, with slight variation when Bucky decided to comment on the weather hoping for…he didn’t even know what. 

“Gorgeous weather, huh? It’s so nice that winter is over.” Fuck, that was too obvious, what was he doing.

Apparently it wasn’t too obvious for Steve, because he just nodded and said, “Good day for a run! Have a nice day!”

So their emotional best friend reunion was going great.

After a few days of such illuminating conversations, plus not being surrounded by a SWAT team or attacked by HYDRA or captured by some alphabet agency, Bucky figured he was clear of any immediate threats. Apart from Steve himself anyway, and Steve wasn’t a threat. Bucky knew Steve wasn’t a threat, no matter what the constant threat evaluation subroutine in his head said. That was the Winter Soldier talking and Bucky did not need to be the Winter Soldier with Steve. He didn’t. He didn’t need to know that Steve was unarmed on his morning runs. He didn’t need to always know the exact number of seconds it would take Steve to be within striking distance. He didn’t need to know what it would take to evade pursuit from Steve—how fast he would have to run, how much force it would take to incapacitate him. He didn’t. Because Steve wasn’t a threat.

Not when all Steve did was stare at him while he stretched for his morning run and Bucky left for work. Maybe he was trying to communicate something with that stare. Maybe the old Bucky would have gotten it.

Well, current Bucky didn’t get it, and current Bucky just wanted Steve to use his words or leave, because current Bucky wasn’t ready for this. A few notebooks full of memories about Steve hadn’t prepared Bucky for the reality of him. And maybe the cover identity that was Jack Murphy looked like he had his life together, deeply unfortunate fashion choices aside, but Bucky had been more or less immediately sick at just the thought of what had happened the last time he’d admitted to knowing Steve.

That was part of how the goddamned conditioning worked, he knew. Knowing didn’t help much. He’d wanted to go to Steve when he was free of all this bullshit.

But he wasn’t free of it, he was still a goddamn mess. So goddamn what if shaking Steve’s hand hadn’t made his skin crawl. Not safe not safe not safe blared that part of him that always ran the risk calculations, at cacophonous odds with the rest of him. He could scream logic at it all he wanted: he’s your friend, he even told you so back when you were literally trying to murder him. It didn’t make a difference. As long as Steve didn’t just fucking tell him why he wasn’t acknowledging Bucky, as long as Bucky had no idea what the hell was going on, he couldn’t make the equations balance, couldn’t find a value for x that would outweigh that not safe. So when Steve said good morning and have a nice day and stared at Bucky’s left arm, Bucky answered with matching bland courtesy, and made sure he wore the wrist brace that concealed any obvious discrepancies between his two arms.

He wondered, though. What would happen if he told Steve, it’s me. A fight, maybe. He’d deserve it. But what he wanted—he didn’t even know what he wanted.


At night, after he caught up on his grading and reviewed his lesson plans, after he checked, again, that Steve and Wilson weren’t being surveilled by anyone but him, after he dug through the SHIELD files for intel on the base in the old mine—after all that, he pulled out his notebooks.

There were a dozen of them. He didn’t know if that counted as too much or too little to cover his thirty-something years of (unfrozen) existence. He set aside the notebooks that were full of Winter Soldier memories, and he shuffled the ones full of the war to the bottom of the stack. He was looking for answers about Steve right now, not Captain America.

At first, all he’d been able to remember of Steve had been that last moment: the train, Steve’s horrified face, his hand outstretched. There had been some comfort in that, even when the memory was severed from any other context. Someone had reached for him, once. The feeling had seeped in slowly from there: the fear of the fall and of death, and the desperate, wild denial—I don’t want to leave him

If he’d had any hopes of the rest of his past unwinding from that moment, one easy to follow thread from end to start, they were dashed before he could even fully form the hope. Memories came in no particular order, stripped of context, sometimes more feeling than fact, and then other times more fact than feeling. He’d had to write it all down just to make any sense of it. And when he’d put it all together—

“You got better things to do with your time than nursemaid me.” Steve’s voice is raspy and weak still from this latest bout of pneumonia. He coughs again, terrible and deep. Bucky’s own chest goes tight and breathless. “You got better things to do with your life than stay with me,” says Steve, once he’s caught his breath again, the words heavy with bitterness. “Go, go out, I’ll be fine.”

Bucky hasn’t moved from this chair at Steve’s bedside for the better part of the day. He leans forward onto the bed, shakes his head: no. 

“Yes I will! I’m on the mend, Buck, I swear, I’ll stay in bed—”

“No, I mean—” Bucky should joke, should give Steve shit, should say something that will make Steve roll his eyes and shove at him, but it had been too close, this time. He’s too tired and too scared still to even try finding any pretense. “I don’t have better things to do with my life than stay with you.”

Even though he’s just clawed himself back from the brink of death, Steve stirs as if he’s going to put up a fight about it, and Bucky’s chest goes tighter still. It feels like something in him wants to break or burst, and if it does, he won’t be able to gather it back in again. He bows his head, covers his mouth with his clasped hands. 

“Buck,” says Steve, and puts a gentle, cold hand on the back of Bucky’s neck.

“I’m staying,” Bucky manages to croak out.   

Bucky had read enough about memory by now, the neuroscience of it and the way it worked, to know that a memory could change in the remembering of it. Memories weren’t fixed things, weren’t dispassionate recordings of events. They were weighted with emotion and bias, and the brain filled in details that might or might not be accurate. When he was feeling particularly self-pitying, he couldn’t help but think of remembering as the opposite of dismembering. Putting together something that had been taken apart. He couldn’t know what pieces he’d lost along the way, or if the whole looked anything like it originally had.

He couldn’t know: had past-Bucky meant he wanted to stay forever? Had past-Bucky understood what that tightness in his chest had meant? Had he looked at Steve’s crooked smile and wanted to kiss it then, or was that the too-late, missed chance desire of the present? Was it only now, after so long alone, that he wanted to wrap himself around Steve for more reasons than sharing warmth? 

Bucky didn’t know. He knew he’d shared a life with Steve, from childhood through the war. He knew he’d loved Steve. He didn’t know if either of them had known that, then. There was still so fucking much he didn’t know. There was so much that wasn’t in these paltry notebooks. 

But Steve knew. Steve was right here, in the present. A real live person who had pieces of Bucky that Bucky himself no longer had. Bucky didn’t know, couldn’t know, what was and wasn’t new in what he felt for Steve. But Steve would. Steve would know if the too-huge, too big to look at once, too goddamn much that was Bucky’s feelings for Steve was right or not. Steve would know what should be written between the lines and in the blank spaces of his notebooks.

Bucky didn’t think he was ready for that.


Whatever answers Steve was hoping to get by staring at Bucky in the mornings, he apparently wasn’t getting them, because he escalated to staring at Bucky through his windows, or trying to at any rate. 

What the fuck, Steve, thought Bucky when he heard Steve’s tread along the path by their houses’ shared fence. He ruthlessly ignored the part of him that was telling him to go eliminate this threat with extreme prejudice. No, he told himself. It’s just Steve. It’s just Steve being an idiot, it’s not an intruder, it’s not anyone coming to take you. He breathed in and out, slowly, stayed focused on the data on his screen. 

What was Steve even hoping to find out this way? There weren’t any sight lines to the house’s interior on that side, Bucky had made sure of that. Steve wouldn’t be able to see anything, and the most interesting thing he’d be able to hear, even with serum-enhanced hearing, was Bucky typing on his laptop. Lurking like a peeping Tom was not the best way to gather intelligence. Steve was a terrible spy.

Bucky was not. Bucky had broken into Steve and Wilson’s house yesterday to get an idea of what the hell they were doing here, and had found a) no evidence that they knew just who their neighbor was, and b) plenty of evidence that they were here to figure out what had happened to Karpov. Bucky had happened to Karpov, but there sure as hell wasn’t any evidence proving that. That still didn’t explain why Steve was acting the way he was though. Maybe there was a deeper mission at play. Should Bucky really risk potentially blowing it and burning all their covers? Even if Steve and Wilson’s covers were shitty to nonexistent? 

Steve had to make the first move here, Bucky decided. That was safest, for all of them. 

But what if Steve never made the first move? What if Steve prodded and poked around Jack Murphy’s life and concluded, nope, not Bucky? Then you let him go, Bucky told himself. He could live with missing Steve, after all. Bucky knew the exact limits and dimensions of the pain he could and couldn’t live with, he knew what he could and couldn’t survive. He could live with missing Steve, he told himself, and ignored the way the thought made his chest feel panic-attack tight. 


Steve’s next terrible spying effort was tailing Bucky. Following on foot while Bucky was driving in a car was an admittedly clever choice of tailing method, one only a super soldier could probably pull off, but Bucky still spotted Steve easily enough. He could lose Steve easily enough too: there were six alternate routes to the school that would take the same amount of time, another 32 that would take longer. He could double back home, grab his notebooks and wipe the computers, and bug out by the time the first period bell rang. He could ditch the car and go on foot, he could ditch the car and hot wire a new one, he could drive to the storage unit where he kept his motorcycle—he could lose Steve before Steve even fully knew what had happened. He’d done it before.

It’s just Steve. You’re not running. You’re not.

He kept driving on his usual route to the high school. Like usual, he got there the same time Janet from the classroom down the hall did, and they walked into the building together. He could feel Steve’s eyes on him the entire time. It should have been a familiar sensation, but it felt different, from a distance. It pricked the animal instinct in him to run, to hide. He resisted it. It’s just Steve. You’ve lived practically your whole life with his eyes on you. He hoped Steve wouldn’t be stupid enough to try actually following him onto the campus. Administration took a real dim view of strangers lurking around. 

When Bucky got to his classroom, he took a quick glance out of the dirty window, and listened carefully for a moment. Nothing greeted him but the cheerful shake of leaves in the tree outside, and all he could hear was the normal clamor of kids headed to their classes. He couldn’t quite decide if he was disappointed or relieved.


Over a week passed with no overtures beyond the neighborly from Steve or Wilson, and Steve seemed to reach an impasse in his stalking efforts. It made Bucky antsy, made him want to turn the tables and stalk Steve right back. Counter-surveillance, threat assessment—no. Bucky had a damn job to do, and when he wasn’t doing that, he had a HYDRA base to research. Steve would make a move, or he wouldn’t. In the meantime, Bucky could at least keep a little bit of an eye on what Steve and Wilson were up to, if only by making sure they’d have to ask Bucky to move his car before they went anywhere.

If Bucky found Wilson’s annoyed twitch and grimacing smile every time he saw how close Bucky parked to his car hilarious, well, no one had to know. 

When another weekend rolled around without any disaster striking, Bucky grabbed a book and his sunglasses, and parked himself on his tiny lawn. It was a balmy sunny day, and the sunshine was worth the way the stubbly grass itched, even through a towel. If Steve or Wilson came out, so much the better. Bucky could play nosy neighbor and ask them what they were up to this fine Saturday, and watch them squirm and lie their way through a probably half-assed cover story.

Bucky kept half his attention on the unremarkable white noise of the weekend-morning street, and the rest on his book, and carefully didn’t react when he heard the door to the house next door open, followed by Steve’s tread. Judging by the silence, Steve was staring at him again. He knew he didn’t look all that much like the Bucky Barnes that lived in Steve’s memories right now, but seriously? Did his new look require this much staring. Bucky turned a page of his book with a forceful snap of paper. He had been half-dead and hallucinating and he’d still recognized Steve even after he’d about doubled in size. What was a mustache compared to all that? 

The silent staring finally stretched on way past the point of politeness, so Bucky lowered his book to look at Steve. Steve’s eyes jerked away from the general region of Bucky’s thighs. What the fuck?

“Morning, neighbor,” he said.

Steve grinned nervously. “Hi. Uh, trying for a tan?”

“Not really. Just getting some sun. Vitamin D and all, it’s good for you. You running even on the weekend?”

“No, no, just going to get some coffee.” An idea visibly dawned in Steve’s eyes. “Uh, I can get you some, if you want?”

Aww, Steve. That was sweet. Bucky was still annoyed about all the damn staring though.

“That’s mighty neighborly of you, thanks. Can you get me a venti soy five shot caramel frappucino with extra caramel and no whip?”

Dump a bunch of protein powder in that and it wasn’t far off from what Bucky had lived off of for a couple months before his thawed-out guts had settled. Also, totally coincidentally of course, it was one of the most expensive damn drinks you could concoct at a Starbucks.

“What,” said Steve.

Bucky fought off a smile. “Did you need me to write it down for you?”

“No, I’ve got it! Be back soon!” said Steve with a strained grin.

One chapter later, Steve returned, and set Bucky’s extremely over-priced but delicious drink down beside him. Bucky grinned up at him, and Steve flushed, just a little bit. Steve lifted his own drink from the drink carrier and took a drink.

“So what’re you reading?” asked Steve.

Bucky resisted the urge to be a dick and tap at the clearly visible title. Instead he said, “A book about Euler’s identity. You know, e to the pi i plus one equals zero?”

Steve nodded, which was total bullshit. Steve didn’t know shit about Euler. Bucky didn’t know how he knew this, but he knew it. He took a drink of his frappucino before he could say anything ill-advised.

“Sounds interesting!” lied Steve. Bucky’s earlier annoyance faded as quickly as it had appeared. Steve, bless him, was trying so hard to not make some smart ass comment. Too bad. Bucky loved Steve’s smart ass comments.

“It’s my favorite equation.” 

He wasn’t even lying, it was. It was elegant and simple, one of the most beautiful equations in all of mathematics, encompassing so many different mathematical concepts and constants, and…yeah, okay, Bucky was aware no one cared. No one outside his mathletes anyway.

Steve shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, and a muscle in his jaw twitched, the only sign of the smart ass comment Steve undoubtedly wanted to make fighting for its bid for freedom. Bucky took pity on him and kept the conversation going. “What do you like to read?”

“Biographies, history. Military history, mostly.”

The shadow of a memory fell across Bucky’s mind, then was gone. Steve’s hands on the spine of a book… “Sounds boring.”

“You’re reading a book about a math equation. It’s somehow hundreds of pages long.” 

Steve had that raincloud look of annoyance on his face now, and the stubborn, fight-me set to his jaw. Unbidden, affection swelled in Bucky like a gale of laughter he badly wanted to let out. His body remembered what his mind struggled to; had they been standing together, Bucky would have thrown an arm around Steve’s shoulders and ruffled his hair. The desire to do just that—and more, maybe—zinged through his muscles with an almost physical force. Instead of letting any of that out, he just gave Steve his best teacher look from over his sunglasses.

Wilson saved both of them from any more awkwardness when he yelled for his caffeine.

“Don’t withhold the man’s caffeine from him, Steve, that’s cruel and unusual punishment,” Bucky said, and hid his face behind his book. His heart was pounding hard and fast, and not in the way that heralded an oncoming panic attack.

Steve Steve Steve, said his heart, and missed him, though he was only yards away.


Bucky stayed outside for another half an hour, sipping on his too-sweet drink and failing to absorb anything his book had to say about Euler. His head was too full of Steve.

Eventually he gave up on his book and went inside. He had a couple hours to kill before his support meet up, and he spent it going through what intel he’d already collected on the HYDRA base in the old mine, and poking at his Strucker files. That and contemplating how many explosives he’d need to blow the whole mine kept him occupied enough to avoid obsessing over Steve, or over the damned meet up. 

Most of the time, Bucky thought going to the stupid more-or-less-weekly PTSD support group meet up was pointless. He almost never said anything. He’d been going for nearly a year, and he could count the times he’d said something personal about himself on one hand. He only went out of the vague certainty that he needed some normal-people standard against which to measure all his trauma bullshit. 

Seeking out an actual professional was out of the question. Even if he could talk about any of his shit, what would he say to some normal, civilian doctor? They’d toss him in prison, or the asylum. The VA was out too; too much likelihood of being asked what war, what unit, what base—and Bucky couldn’t answer any of that.

So instead he went to an ad-hoc, mostly civilian, internet-organized support group of the variously traumatized. It was better than nothing, probably. And they’d helped, the couple times Bucky had managed to choke some words out. I don’t think I can stand people touching me any more, he’d said once, after a week’s worth of friendly shoulder pats and handshakes and a couple enthusiastic teenage hugs and general day-to-day jostling at work had, come Friday, left him shaking and feeling like he’d happily crawl out of his own skin if he could. 

Do you want people to touch you? It’s okay if you don’t, Emma had said. And Bucky had answered, I want to be okay with people touching me, and they’d all talked about it for a few minutes, a couple other people saying they were in the same boat as him. You know what I did? Rahim had said. I just got on standing room only buses, places with packed crowds, places you can’t help but touch people and have ‘em touch you, where it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just people, just bodies. No one wants to hurt you, you’re all just mushed up against each other. I dunno, it helped. Bucky had ended up trying it, and Rahim had been right. It’d helped. Commingling with the indifferent masses provided an overlay of meaningless, inconsequential touches that soothed over some of his body’s memories of violence. 

And it helped, too, to know his level of fucked up wasn’t so unique as all that. So he kept going.

He didn’t know what he’d do if Steve chose a support meet up day to tail him though. This wasn’t a thing he wanted Steve to know. He wouldn’t have to worry about it yet, anyway. Bucky remained un-stalked today, and the familiar faces and the slightly musty smell of the church rec room loosened up tension Bucky hadn’t noticed he was carrying. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the snack table, and settled into his habitual corner seat with the best sight lines. 

“Alright, Jack?” asked Paul, the way he did every week, face wrinkled with a kind smile. Bucky smiled back and nodded. Paul never seemed to mind Bucky’s silence.

This week, as in most weeks, Bucky couldn’t quite bring himself to say anything, not about himself anyway. Nothing about his current situation was sane or explicable. But he could listen to everyone else, and make the occasional encouraging or commiserating comment, and it was almost enough to settle him. 

After the meet up, he went for a long, long run, chasing that moment where he was a thing the world moved through, rather than a thing moving through the world: that moment of perfect silence in his head where there was nothing but his body and the air going through it and the ground meeting the slap of his feet and the thousand details of the world streaming through his senses.

During a support meet up once, Annie had said, I know most of us would undo what happened to us if we could. And I’m not—this isn’t some ‘everything happens for a reason’ bullshit, because fuck that. But—is there anything any of you would keep, from all the bad stuff? Anything you wouldn’t have without it, that you’d want to hold onto? 

Bucky thought about that a lot. 

At first, reflexively, he’d thought there was nothing of the Winter Soldier he wanted. In the bad first months after Insight, he’d thought wildly, longingly, of getting back in the chair, of turning it on and letting the burning storm take it, take all of it. But too much of it was too useful, and anyway, that would have probably turned him into a drooling vegetable. 

Now Bucky knew: nothing could ever be fully erased. Nothing could be undone. Want didn’t even come into what he would or wouldn’t keep of the Winter Soldier. If Bucky couldn’t undo the violence his hands had done, then he couldn’t give up the violence that lived in his body, and he couldn’t give up the arm, or the knowledge of weapons and tradecraft and threat assessment. That was all his, and it was all useful, Bucky could make it useful, could turn it towards something like justice, even without fighting. But the perfect, no-mind silence, the patient blankness that came sometimes in the moment before he fully froze, or in the tenth hour waiting for the perfect shot, or on a days-long hump through the taiga to an extraction point—the best and only peace he’d found—that, Bucky wanted to hold onto, just for himself.

Today, that fragile peace came around mile twenty and carried him through another ten miles after that. When he got home, the baby calf trembling of his legs told him he’d pushed himself too far. 

It didn’t matter. He slept without dreaming.


To Bucky’s mingled delight and dismay, Steve began making an obvious effort to be friendly. Bucky wasn’t exactly in practice when it came to making friends, but even so, Steve’s efforts came across as awkward. Steve wavered between stilted efforts to be blandly nice, and his natural, true essence of being a little shit. The contrast was faintly hilarious. And maybe made Bucky want to goad Steve into breaking cover some more, or at least goad him into being the jerk with twenty pounds of attitude in a five-pound bag that Bucky pretty clearly remembered him being.

Results were mixed.

Parking like an asshole really only served to infuriate Wilson, which was definitely worth it, but Steve didn’t seem to care one way or another. Wearing terrible clothes was honestly hurting Bucky more than it was testing Steve’s self-control, even if Steve’s grimaces at the worst 90s fashion had to offer were funny. Bucky was still the one who had to walk around all day in the damned clothes, and he was painfully aware that that purple windbreaker was not a good color for him. What was left of the old Bucky Barnes’ pre-war vanity howled miserably every time Bucky got a look at himself in the mirror. HYDRA hasn’t caught you yet, and even Steve’s fooled, so clearly it’s working, he told himself sternly. Though jesus, every damn morning, he grew ever more tempted to take a straight razor to the carpet brush horror on his upper lip.

Parking like a flashy asshole at least got Steve’s attention, and was fun besides, but given that Steve’s reaction was to blush and get even more awkward than usual, that was probably a wash. Bucky didn’t even know what warranted that reaction.

When his mathletes pushed bake sale leftovers on him to take home with him, Bucky figured he’d take the opportunity to make his own friendly gesture. Steve had got him that stupid, overpriced coffee drink after all. And if Bucky just so happened to swap out his boring navy blue sweater for a bright green one that would make him look like Ned Flanders, well. It was the small pleasures that made life worth living, or so he’d heard.

Bucky went next door, tupperware in hand, and rang the doorbell. Belatedly, he realized that Wilson might answer instead of Steve, and shit, he hadn’t thought this through. Before he could panic, he heard footsteps approach the door and pause. He waved at the peephole. Why the fuck did I just do that, he wondered, and then the door opened to reveal Steve, smiling and...was he crying? His face was blotchy and red, eyes shiny.

“Hey, I thought I’d bring over—are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. What’s up?”

He didn’t look fine. If Wilson was making Steve cry, Bucky was going to do a lot worse than park too close to his car. He passed the tupperware to Steve, watching him closely. Damn. No reaction to his Flanders look. Had Steve seriously not watched The Simpsons yet? In Bucky’s admittedly limited experience, you could make up for any amount of popular culture cluelessness with a few Simpsons references.

“The kids I coach had a bake sale today, and we had some leftovers. Thought I’d bring some by, as thanks for the Starbucks the other day.”

“Who’s at the door?” called out Wilson from somewhere inside the house.

“It’s Jack, he brought us cookies.”

“And brownies.”

Wilson came to the door then, and judging by the way his face spasmed and how he choked back a laugh, he caught the Flanders reference. “Hey, neighbor!” said Wilson. Bucky was sorely, sorely tempted to say “Hi-diddly-ho neighborino!” back. Maybe another time. After he found out who had made Steve cry. 

“Thanks for this,” said Steve, and Bucky stared hard at him. He’d definitely been crying. Super soldiers didn’t get colds. His hand still itched with the urge to check Steve’s temperature. 

“Seriously, you sure you’re okay? You look kinda…”

“It’s fine, I’m fine, we were just watching Grey’s Anatomy,” said Steve, while Wilson glared at him. “What? You said don’t tell Natasha, you didn’t say anything about Jack. Um, wanna join us?” 

Bucky blinked at him, surprised. He had no idea what Grey’s Anatomy was or why it was making Steve cry, but the invitation was equal parts tempting and terrifying. If Steve and Wilson weren’t working on their mission though, Bucky should take the opportunity to work on his. There were things he had to do if he was going to blow up that base.

“Sorry, but I’ve got a lot of tests to grade. Thanks, though,” he said. 

He smiled at Steve, hoping Steve wouldn’t take the refusal as a rejection. Bucky had the vague sense that Steve used to be sensitive about that kind of thing. Steve let him go with a smile, so Bucky didn’t think he was taking it that way now.

When Bucky got back to his house, he looked up Grey’s Anatomy before getting back to work. A medical drama about surgeons’ love lives? Really, Steve? 


Bucky could tell Steve and Wilson’s investigations were ramping up, which meant Bucky had to step up his own efforts if he was going to beat them to the HYDRA base in the old mine. The dead ends of the Karpov investigation would only keep them busy for so long. At least the base in the old mine was shaping up to be a straightforward blow-it-up-and-leave job. Sure there was some war loot and gold he’d tracked to the base, but given the creepy, occult cast to the intel about some of that loot, Bucky figured it was best to just blow it all up, even the gold. Playing Robin Hood with HYDRA money was all well and good when it was just a matter of wiring money in and out, but Bucky wasn’t about to saddle anyone with possibly cursed or radioactive gold.

Keeping up with both his teaching work and his HYDRA hunting work made for some late nights. Lucky for him, he didn’t need all that much sleep. And it was a good distraction from stewing over what Steve did or didn’t know.

One late night, he heard movement from outside, closer than the background hum of a suburban neighborhood at rest. He pulled out a gun, just in case, but the sound came from next door: a door opening and closing gently, then the only barely audible creaking of a porch. Steve, probably. Bucky wondered if Steve was finally about to make a break-in attempt. But no, a couple minutes passed in silence, and Bucky had the wild thought: maybe Steve’s waiting for me. He’d be able to see the light on in Bucky’s house after all. But no, that was stupid. Steve was probably just getting some air because he couldn’t sleep. He used to do that, sometimes, tiptoeing out of bed to go sit on the fire escape, and Bucky would fall asleep watching him, watching how his bent spine and slim shoulders were relaxed for once. Sometimes they used to talk at night, Bucky didn’t remember about what. Just that it had always seemed easier in the dark.  

It would be easy, now, to step outside and join Steve. Bucky could ask Steve what was keeping him up, and Steve would deflect, and Bucky would let it pass, and regale Steve with funny stories about his students. Steve would laugh, maybe, or at least smile. And maybe he’d share some stories of his own. He had to have plenty of good ones, from the time since he’d been thawed out.

Bucky looked at his screen. He’d been typing nonsense for the past few minutes. Fuck it, he thought, and went outside. Steve was standing on his house’s tiny porch, porch light still off, in sleep pants and a thin t-shirt. 

“Insomniac or just a night owl?” Bucky asked.

“Can’t seem to settle,” answered Steve. “What are you doing up? Don’t you have to be up again in a few hours?”

Shit shit shit. What was he doing up? What reason did normal people have to be up at 1 AM on a weeknight? He couldn’t say he was watching TV, Steve would have been able to hear that he hadn’t been.

“Don’t remind me. I do okay on four hours of sleep, but ugh. And, uh, I was just working on a personal project. Got caught up in it, I guess.” Personal project? Yeah, that doesn’t sound suspicious at all, Barnes. Fuck.

“What kind of project? If you don’t mind me asking,” said Steve. 

Bucky did mind him asking, but saying so would not help this situation at all. C’mon, improvise, he told himself, and winced as his porch creaked and revealed his fidgeting. This was a bad idea.

“No, it’s fine, it’s um, a novel. Just, you know, for fun.”

“Cool!” said Steve, too loud for the late-night quiet. “Uh, that’s cool,” he said, quieter now. “What’s it about?”

“Oh, it’s uh, a spy thriller?” You know what, Bucky was going to go for it. Subtlety was clearly lost on Steve. “Yeah, it’s a spy thriller thing where this guy is trying to bring down a whole...big conspiracy thing.”

“Sounds interesting. When is it set? I like reading about the history of espionage.” And yet you’re still a terrible spy, thought Bucky.

“Oh, it’s modern. With some flashbacks. A lot of flashbacks,” he said grimly.

“A lot of action too, I’m guessing. Like, um, James Bond?” Bucky suppressed a twitch. That was a little too close to his actual name.

“Not as much action as you’d think,” he said, suppressing a probably manic smile. “More investigating and paper trails.”

“Ha. Sounds more realistic that way, I guess,” said Steve. Sounds safer that way, Steve, you should try it sometime.

Instead of saying what he wanted to, he just said, “Yeah.” Then, to keep the conversation from petering out into awkward silence, or more questions about his nonexistent novel, he asked, “Um, do you have any hobbies? Apart from watching TV shows that make you cry, that is.”

“Not lately. Work, you know.”

Bucky frowned. “Oughta make time. More to life than work.” This was probably the pot calling the kettle black, but hey, Bucky did things that weren’t teaching or HYDRA related. He read books. That...was pretty much it, admittedly.

“Yeah,” Steve sighed. “I used to sketch and draw a lot. Paint, when I could afford the supplies.”

“What’d you draw?” he asked, though he knew the answer. Steve had drawn Brooklyn and Bucky, mostly.

“People, buildings. Nothing special.”

Steve’s art had always seemed pretty fucking special to Bucky. And surely it’d make Steve happier than being Captain America did. Bucky had looked up a lot of photos and footage of Steve in the 21st century. The unhappy furrow on his brow was carved in deep in most of them. 

“Doesn’t matter how special it is or isn’t, as long as it makes you happy, or you have fun doing it,” he said, and suppressed a wince when it came out sounding a bit too teacherly. 

“That the kind of thing you tell your students, Mr. Murphy?” asked Steve, and Bucky could hear the smile in his voice.

He laughed wryly. “What can I say, it’s hard to turn it off.” Steve mentioning his students reminded Bucky that he was supposed to be teaching them in about six hours, and he still had work to finish up. He couldn’t stay out here with Steve all night. Though he wished—it didn’t matter what he wished. It wasn’t happening. “Speaking of, I should probably try to get some sleep before teaching a bunch of teenagers about Riemann sums. Goodnight, Steve.”

“Goodnight.”


Bucky had expected that Steve and Wilson focusing more on their actual mission would mean Steve would give up on stalking him, but no dice. Steve followed him to work again, only this time, the crazy idiot set up surveillance from the tree outside Bucky’s classroom window. Bucky carefully didn’t react when he heard Steve climbing the tree, just took roll and passed back graded homework to his students.

What the fuck are you doing, Steve.

Jesus christ, if any of his students decided to look out the window...Bucky risked a quick glance as he got started on the day’s lesson. The foliage was enough to mostly hide Steve from view, and the unwashed state of the window obscured him further. Someone without enhanced vision might not spot him, so long as he kept still. 

Bucky was sorely tempted to call campus security on Steve, but that would probably burn both of their covers, and petty annoyance wasn’t a good enough reason to do that. Probably. But Bucky was annoyed: annoyed that Steve was involving his students in this, however tangentially, annoyed that he was taking such a stupid risk for intel he already had, or could get any number of other ways. What the hell did lurking in a tree to watch him teach even accomplish? If Steve needed confirmation that Jack Murphy was an actual teacher, then he had it within the first few minutes of first period.

Steve stuck around for a lot longer than just first period. He stayed in that tree for three damned class periods. 

What the fuck.


When Bucky woke up one morning to everything sounding too loud and looking too bright, all he could think was no no no no I thought I was done with this. What the fuck was being a science experiment freak of nature even good for if not unnaturally fast and complete healing from all of that horrifying experimentation? He was coming up on two years of being unwiped, wasn’t that enough goddamn time to heal the damage?

Apparently not. Apparently, every so often, he was just going to get his own personal return trip to the chair in the form of his own goddamn brain doing its best to recreate it via seizures and migraines. At least this wasn’t hitting while he was at work. It was only just past dawn, but he called the school office and left a message that he was calling out sick. The sound of the dial tone might as well have been a jackhammer to his head. The jackhammer didn’t really stop once he put the phone down.

He should do….something, he thought vaguely. There was something else he was supposed to do when this happened. The mission the mission the mission pounded his head, but that wasn’t it, there wasn’t a mission, if there was a mission, there would be techs, and they would—they would—

He lost time, maybe, because the light was different, and it was too bright. He was supposed to do something. Meds. He had meds, for this. And he had to—it was too bright. There was an objective: the medicine, and pulling the curtains closed. He could fulfill the objective, no matter how much it hurt. That was what the body did.

He made it dark, but there was still enough light that it hurt, so he kept his eyes closed as he went to the bathroom. He got the bottle of anticonvulsant pills out and broke it open with his metal hand, then swallowed a couple. It was too late to help with the migraine, but maybe he could avoid a seizure. Or not. The pills came back up along with everything else in his stomach. His head was a grenade going off in excruciating slow motion.

He waited. The bathroom tile was cool. If he closed the bathroom door, it would be as dark as he could get in the house, and it was cool, and it would be kind of like—like—no. He didn’t want that. Time would go away, or maybe he would go away from time, and he liked it better when time was an orderly, observable march. Pills. He needed to take the fucking pills. That was the objective.

He got up and swallowed more of them. It didn’t matter how many. They wouldn’t kill him. Nothing killed him. He waited again, but they stayed down. The pills would make him sleepy so he had to get to bed. That was the next objective. It hurt, everything fucking hurt, but he did it.

Eventually, the grenade stopped exploding. Then, after a while, the doorbell rang. It might as well have been a grenade. It stopped, but then—

“Yo, Jack! It’s your neighbors, not the Jehovah’s Witnesses! Come out and move your car!”

Wilson. Fuck, the car. The sounds wouldn’t stop unless Bucky moved the car. Was Steve out there too? He fumbled for his glasses, just in case. He bumped into the bedroom door once, but he made it to the front door with his eyes closed. Opening the door was going to make a noise. And there was—light. Out there. Fuck.

He opened the door a very little bit and said, “Please shut up.” 

“Jack, you okay?” asked Steve, too close and too loud, and nudged the door open more, and then Bucky was on the floor, away from the light. He could stay here a while, until it hurt less. 

“Keys are—um, in the—bowl by the—phone. Can you just—” he said, because maybe they’d just leave, but no. 

Wilson’s voice, from too close, “Hey man, don’t worry about the keys. You okay? You don’t look so hot.” 

No shit.

“Migraine,” he whispered. “Light and sound aren’t—” He clamped his mouth shut when he felt the spasm start up again in his throat.

“Steve, go get a trash can or bucket or something.”

He was sick inside the trash can Steve brought, but not much came up. The pills didn’t anyway, so that was fine.

He could sense Wilson reaching out to touch him, and no no no he was hurting enough right now, and he moved as far back as he could but he just hit the wall. “Don’t—”

“Okay, okay, sorry. No touching, got it. That’s fine. Now I used to be a medic, in the Air Force, and I just wanna make sure you’re okay, alright? Can you just answer a few questions for me?” He didn’t want to, but Wilson wouldn’t go away, otherwise. He made a noise that hopefully conveyed fine. “Okay. Have you hit your head any time in the past week? Any numbness or weakness on one side of your body?”

Wilson asked questions and Bucky answered and it was almost like a mission report, only Wilson asked things nicely, kept his voice low. And he didn’t touch Bucky. So Bucky answered, until he stopped wanting to.

“It’s a migraine. Had ‘em before. Just gotta sleep it off. Can you please leave.”

He looked at Wilson, or at least squinted at him, hoping this would convince him Bucky wasn’t about to die or anything. 

“Sure, sure, just wanna make sure you’re not having a stroke or an aneurysm, man.”

“Not,” Bucky said.

Wilson nodded agreeably enough, but he still didn’t leave. Neither did Steve. 

“Also, kinda gotta know if you’ve had any seizures in the last six months.” Not in the last six months, probably. Had he had one earlier? He couldn’t tell. Probably not, he usually felt like a smashed up radio tuned to static after one. His silence seemed to worry Wilson. “Jack. Jack, you with me? You had any seizures in the last six months? This is important, I’m not leaving ‘till I get an answer.”

“…Year. It’s been a year,” he said. He shouldn’t have told Wilson that. Steve was here, and Steve was gonna worry. But maybe Wilson would leave now. 

“Steve, go bring Jack some water,” Wilson ordered. Water sounded pretty good, actually. Wilson asking more questions was not good. 

“Do you have epilepsy? I didn’t notice a medical ID tag.”

His whole shitty getting over a lot of brain frying situation didn’t really count as epilepsy. “I—TBI. I’ve been fine. For a while. Just get migraines sometimes.” It was as close to the truth as it got.

Wilson sucked in a worried breath. “You got any meds I can get for you?”

“Took ‘em already.”

“Yeah? They don’t seem to be working so great right now. How long ago?”

“Um—I don’t know. Time is it?”

“A little after nine,” said Wilson.

“After dawn. It was bright. Should sleep soon,” he said, because he could feel the drugging pull of drowsiness.

“Okay, just drink some water first, alright?”

Steve came back with the water, and he took a few slow sips.

“Hey, I brought a cool towel, do you—can I—”

He gestured with the towel towards Bucky’s forehead. Steve wanted to touch him. If Steve did it, maybe it would be okay. And he looked so worried. So Bucky nodded, and took off his glasses, closed his eyes. Steve set the towel over his eyes, and it felt good, way better than the bathroom floor. Steve being close felt good too. He sighed in relief and leaned into Steve a little.

“C’mon, let’s get you up and to bed. That’s the room you can make darkest, right?” Wilson kept talking as Steve helped Bucky up, but Bucky wasn’t paying attention because Steve was touching him and the touch was—okay. Steve’s hands were warm and careful. It was good. He kind of wanted more of it, but then they were at his bed, and he probably didn’t have so much consciousness left. The fucking pills were finally kicking in properly.

Bed was warm and dark, especially if he put the pillow over his head, but Wilson and Steve still didn’t leave. He heard them whispering indistinct things, then Wilson said, “Hey, Jack, I’m gonna leave my number, okay? Can you text or call in a couple hours, let us know how you’re doing?”

Bucky lifted the pillow from over his head. “…Why?”

“We’re gonna worry, otherwise. Don’t want to come back tonight and find you cracked your skull open when you fell on the floor during a seizure, man. I don’t need that kinda guilt,” said Wilson.

That was unlikely to happen, for a variety of reasons. He just wanted to sleep. Someone kneeled down by his bed, and then ran a hand through his hair, gentle and slow. Bucky tensed at first, but—a memory or memories rose up and tugged him down deeper towards sleep. It was Steve, so it was alright. 

“Please?” asked Steve, quiet and pleading. Ugh. Steve knew Bucky always gave in when he used that voice. Using the small, sad voice was cheating.

“Unfair, Stevie,” he complained, and then said, “Fine.” 


When he woke up a few hours later, his head was clear enough to panic about how unclear his head had just been. He lurched to the garage to check his security setup and all his data feeds: blessedly normal and clear, and no signs anyone else had been in the garage. He relaxed then, and the unhappy remains of his migraine registered their disapproval of him leaving the dark and warm confines of his bedroom.

He went back to bed. Except—wait. Someone had been here. There was a glass of water on the nightstand, and the wastebasket from the bathroom was by the bed. And there was a scrap of paper on top of his phone, in unfamiliar handwriting, with two phone numbers by the names Sam and Steve. His heart started pounding hard enough that he felt his pulse in his head, each pump of blood like a battering ram. Had he blown his cover? He thought he remembered Steve—maybe he’d been dreaming. 

Fuck the HYDRA-formulated anticonvulsants, they made everything so goddamn fuzzy. But fuzzy was better than seizing, so he just had to think past the fog. Had he said anything? Had Steve, or Wilson? Had he hurt them? He looked at his hands, his wrists, the right one clean and unbruised, the nano mesh still in place over the left. He listened to his body. His head didn’t feel like it was exploding anymore, but it did still feel like it was being lovingly crushed in a vice. He was thirsty, and hungry. Right. He’d been sick, earlier, and hadn’t eaten anything since last night besides.

He’d been sick, and then—the doorbell rang, Wilson and Steve had been at the door. They’d come to the door, because Bucky’s car was still blocking theirs. And they’d helped him, kind of. Call or text us, let us know how you’re doing, Wilson had asked. Okay. That was—fine. Neighborly. But Steve, had Steve—he couldn’t hold onto it. His head still hurt too much.

He texted Wilson and Steve: not dead. The response from Wilson came quickly: wanna be a little more forthcoming? Bucky did not want to be more forthcoming. Was there an emoji thing for that? He squinted at his phone. Ah, a middle finger. That would do. He tapped the little image, hit send, and went back to sleep.


By late afternoon, the migraine subsided into a more bearable headache. Just when Bucky was starting to panic about Steve and Wilson’s whereabouts—surely they weren’t already hitting the HYDRA base, they couldn’t have collected enough intel yet—he heard a gentle knocking at the front door. When he saw it was Steve and Wilson, his shoulders locked up somewhere between relief and trepidation, sending a pang of warning pain up along his neck. Maybe he could text them to go away. Or pretend to be asleep. That would probably end in Steve breaking in though. He opened the door.

“How are you feeling?” asked Steve.

His eyes were wide and worried, his gaze roaming over Bucky to take in every detail. Still, he didn’t ask, so hey, by the way, are you my formerly dead best friend, and he didn’t pull Bucky close with a hand on the back of his neck, or on his shoulder, the way he used to during the war, after some close call or near-miss. Which was disappointing, maybe. 

“It’s down to a dull roar instead of a pickaxe to the brain, so I’m alright,” Bucky said, then leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. “Um, thank you. For helping.”

“No problem, glad you’re feeling better,” said Wilson, with evident sincerity. He really had been nice, earlier. Bucky wasn’t going to stop parking like an asshole, that was necessary for the mission, but he’d feel a tiny bit bad about it now.

Maybe he’d just imagined it as he fell asleep, but had Steve—

Bucky looked at Steve, trying to find an answer on his face. Steve blushed, and Bucky thought, oh

“You okay?” he asked.

Steve cleared his throat, scratched at the back of his neck. A nervous tell. When his hair had been longer, he’d push it back, and—had he done that for Bucky, earlier? Because Bucky knew that feeling, Steve’s fingers in his hair, gentle and slow. 

Looking at Steve’s blush, he knew: Steve had touched him like that, and Bucky had let him. Then, and today. He’d been half out of his head and he hadn’t let Wilson put a hand on him, but he’d let Steve touch him. It had been easy, to let Steve touch him. It didn’t feel like it would be easy now, but still—he wanted.

“Yeah, yeah, I just—I was worried. About you,” said Steve. If he was admitting it instead of busting Bucky’s balls, he really had been worried. Bucky didn’t want him to worry. 

So Bucky smiled and said, “I’m okay.” He looked Steve in the eye, and for that moment, their idiotic covers slipped away, and it was just them, Steve and Bucky. “It’s okay,” he said, with all the gentleness he could muster, and hoped Steve understood.

To his horror, Steve’s eyes went wet and shiny. And still, he didn’t say anything. You know it’s me, you have to know it’s me, he thought, but before he could think of anything else to say, Wilson spoke. Bucky had forgotten he was here.

“Um, I’ll just go then. Make dinner. Yeah. See you, Jack,” said Wilson, walking to the house next door as he talked.

Steve clenched his fists, and a muscle in his jaw ticked. Something deep inside Bucky flinched and the threat assessments kicked in again: he could block a blow, a kick would throw Steve back, there was a knife inside above the doorjamb—he was so fucking tired of this. It’s just Steve, he pleaded with himself. He’s not the mission, or a handler. He didn’t let any of it show on his face.

Instead he just said, “See you tomorrow, Steve,” and closed the door with a strained smile.

He stayed behind the closed door and listened to Steve walk away. Now he was the one whose eyes were stinging with tears. His head throbbed warningly, and he winced. He wanted his best friend back. He wanted to stop fighting with himself about how Steve was safe, Steve had to be safe.

Would it stop, if they gave up on these stupid covers?

After he handled this base and neither of them had a mission to distract them, he’d talk to Steve, he’d come clean. 


Steve and Wilson were fucking up Bucky’s plans.

They’d poked the pathetic hornet nest that was what remained of HYDRA’s presence in Ohio, and now Bucky had to worry about someone getting to that HYDRA base in the old mine before Bucky could blow it. The last thing he goddamn needed was a bunch of HYDRA bottom feeders ransacking that base of all its probably dangerous artifacts, then making a run for it. Bucky did not want to chase these assholes across North America.

As he looked at all the satellite imagery of the base in chronological order, he frowned. He knew the base wasn’t staffed; it was more or less just a warehouse for war loot and some raw resources, only stuck deep in an old mine. He wasn’t surprised that it had fallen off the radar of most HYDRA operatives, who had rushed to secure active, staffed bases first. He still expected more traffic to and from the base than this, especially after he’d ensured HYDRA had some serious liquidity problems. Except there was traffic to it—a trickle of “hikers” and off-road vehicles—just no traffic from it.

Huh.

At times like this, Bucky’s day job was incredibly inconvenient. Usually he found it easy to leave all his shit behind once he was in the classroom. Now he was rushing through lessons, and checking his phone way too often, worried that Steve and Wilson were about to make a move on the base, worried that he’d see something on the news: MYSTERIOUS EXPLOSION IN APPALACHIA, HUNDREDS OF ACRES OF FOREST BURNING.

“Mr. Murphy, if you get to check your phone, does that mean we can too?” asked one of his students with saccharine innocence.

You can if you’re using them to fight HYDRA instead of gossiping with each other, he didn’t say. Instead he said, “No, that’s just the privilege and burden of adulthood. But I’m sorry, you’re all giving me your attention, you deserve mine back,” and didn’t check his phone again until the bell rang.

At the end of the school day, he rushed home to find Steve and Wilson still there, to his relief. He still had time to move on the base ahead of them. And Steve, it seemed, was too busy to tail or otherwise stalk him. It was as good a chance as any. He made the drive to HYDRA base and planted cameras around the old mine, stashed his explosives, then went looking for any sign of the HYDRA agents he’d seen go in on the satellite imagery. All he found was their vehicles hidden in some overgrown foliage, abandoned.

Okay, there’s definitely something up with that base.


Over the next couple days, the cameras showed a whole lot of nothing, mostly. No Steve and Wilson, thankfully, but three HYDRA operatives did go into the base. They didn’t come back out.

Maybe there was just bad air in there, but he doubted it. His luck wasn’t that good. As soon as it wasn’t a school night, he was going in.


Bucky left early in the morning for the old mine, taking his motorcycle this time, with a pack full of weapons and his Winter Soldier gear. He’d kept the gear. He could have cobbled together a different tactical uniform. Hell, he could have pulled a Steve and stolen his old uniform back from the Smithsonian. But there was a strange kind of comfort in the Winter Soldier gear, in its familiarity, and it was his, after all, like the arm was. Like the damned name was, and the blood on his hands, and the nightmares. They were his.   

He changed there in the forest, taking the nano mesh off, putting the mask on. He took his time doing a thorough sweep of the forest surrounding the mine, disabling his cameras and picking up his explosives on the way, and looked for any hint of what waited for him inside the base. There was nothing. The deer were unbothered, and the birds sang blithely. If something was wrong inside that mine, the forest outside it didn’t know.

According to old survey maps of the area, there was an alternate entrance to the mine, bricked up decades ago. The old brick didn’t stand up against his metal fist and a small shaped charge. He waited, and listened, as the dust cleared. No alarms, which was good. He didn’t have a canary to check the air, but he did have an air quality monitor that beeped cheerfully green. The geiger counter was equally unbothered. Dammit. Couldn’t have been any of the easy possibilities, could it.

He descended into the mine, setting and wiring the explosives as he went. Bucky had spent a lot of time in various creepy underground HYDRA bases, and this one was largely indistinguishable from any of the rest of them, except there was no hum of activity or machinery, just the mosquito buzzing of the lights, only half of which were still working.

So what the hell had happened to the dozen or so HYDRA assholes who’d walked in, but hadn’t walked back out?

Well. It turned out shambling undead corpses had happened to them.


How do you kill what’s already dead? Bucky wondered, like it was the world’s least fun riddle, as he dodged corpse after corpse, who were, oh great, wearing assorted Nazi and HYDRA uniforms. Had living Nazis not caused him enough grief? Now he still had to deal with them after they were dead? Fuck this shit. Bucky wasn’t a fan of violence nowadays, but these fuckers were already dead. They should stay that way. He pulled out his guns and started firing.  

At least headshots seemed to kind of work, but even then, what was left of the body still crawled and skittered along, and the sickening greenish purple glow around the corpses remained no matter how damaged they were. And fuck, the smell. Not even his mask could filter enough of it out.

Whatever was animating the corpses, it wasn’t anything close to natural. Whatever was animating them, it should stay in this mine and never come out.

The corpses couldn’t move too fast at least, so as long as Bucky stayed ahead of them, he could finish wiring the place to blow. He ran the numbers in his head: how much explosive he had left, how long it would take him to get back out, how long to set the timer for, how much ammo he had…a dozen different ways to fulfill the mission objective, hundreds of different variables. Who knew what else was in here. He wasn’t about to take the risking of finding out. The only acceptable outcome was to get out of here.

When his mental map of the mine told him he was approaching the entrance, he set the timer running down on the charges, and began outrunning the dead in earnest. They were no match for his speed, but there were a lot of them, and they were swarming from every corridor and shaft in the mine. A machete to clear his way would have been helpful right about now. Instead, he had to make do with battering away at the corpses with his metal arm. They were stronger than anything that was literally decomposing had any right to be.

He was running towards the main entrance of the mine with seven minutes and 38 seconds to spare when he heard it: voices, living voices, not the moans and groans of the dead, and gunfire. The missing HYDRA operatives? He stopped, strained his hearing. Seven minutes and 28 seconds. Was that Steve’s voice? Fuck fuck fuck. He turned back.

God fucking dammit, Steve, you couldn’t have left this one to me? Back at one of the main shafts of the mine, Steve and Wilson were close to being overrun by the shambling, rotting corpses. They must have come in by the main entrance, then used the mine cart, because they were terrible spies who didn’t know anything about stealth. Six minutes. Time to use his rifle. He shot at the swarm of decaying bodies surrounding Steve and Wilson, giving them enough room to run for the top of the shaft and towards the entrance. Bucky met them halfway, clearing corpses from their path.

“Because that’s what this day needed! The Winter Fucking Soldier! Great!” shouted a wild-eyed Wilson. Well my day’s not fuckin’ improved seeing you assholes in here either, Bucky would have said, had he not been too goddamn busy punching reanimated Nazi corpses.

He braced himself for Steve’s reaction, the shock and the anger, maybe even betrayal, but when he looked, Steve was beaming at him like Bucky was a surprise birthday party and the best gift he could ever get all in one. No one had ever looked so goddamn thrilled to see the Winter Soldier, Bucky was sure of that. He flushed hot, and dearly hoped the mask covered it.

“Bucky?”

Yeah, now was not the time or place for their emotional reunion. “Go!” he shouted at Steve.

“What? Bucky—”

“I said, go! I set this place to blow, the whole mine’s gonna collapse in four minutes and forty-five seconds, get outside!”

Once Steve and Wilson fought their way to him, Bucky threw Wilson clear of the worst of the crush of undead, grinning under his mask at Wilson’s protests. He tossed Wilson a gun to shut him up, then turned towards Steve. Maybe he could just chuck Steve clear too. Steve must have been able to see him thinking it because he got that mulish, fight-me look on his face, and said, “Hell no.”

They didn’t have time to argue about it. They fought off the now mostly skeletal corpses together, Wilson giving them cover fire from behind, and it was—easy. Fighting at Steve’s side was easy. It didn’t seem to matter that the last time they’d fought, they’d been fighting each other. Now Bucky’s body followed Steve’s lead, stayed in sync with him. Steve was a terrible dancer, but this was a dance, and one they were both good at. Was it some supersoldier thing, or was it just them? Their childhood of alley brawls and playground scuffles certainly hadn’t been like this.  

“Two minutes,” Bucky said, and sped up their push for the mine’s entrance.

The bodies were now mostly skeletons in disintegrating gray uniforms, more and more of them surging forward with a terrible clacking clatter. Steve tripped on the bones that were rolling under their feet, and before Bucky could help him back up, skeletal arms and hands grasped at him. He bludgeoned at them with his metal arm, shattering bone and throwing some dismembered limbs clear, but there were too many of them, skittering like insects, and one got hold of his mask and pulled it off.

Well, shit.

“I knew it! I fucking knew it! You giant fucking jerk!” Steve shouted.

“Now is not the time! One minute thirty!” And it wasn’t, it really wasn’t the time, they had to outrun the undead and an explosion, but goddamn was the look on Wilson’s face hilarious.

“Neighbor Jack? What the fuck?”

Steve shoved at Wilson to get him moving, throwing a grenade behind them as they ran. They all ran full-tilt for the door, kicking off and stepping on skeletal and rotting limbs the whole way. The second Wilson and Steve were clear, Bucky slammed the mine’s blast door shut and then stood back as the explosions boomed through the mine and shook the door. God, he hoped all those corpses got turned to dust in there.

They all took a long moment to catch their breaths. Bucky leaned against a tree, lest his legs give out in sheer relief.

“Everyone okay?” asked Steve.

Wilson just kept staring at Bucky in enraged confusion. It was great.

“Yeah, I’m fine. But I repeat: what the fuck?”

Bucky fought the manic grin that wanted to take up residence on his face, and settled for a smirk instead. “Hi-diddly-ho neighborino,” he said to Wilson, and the reaction was, honestly, almost worth this entire ridiculous farce, undead Nazis included.


The explanations went about as well as could be expected. Wilson, it turned out, genuinely hadn’t recognized him, hadn’t ever even suspected. Steve had. Bucky wondered what Steve meant when he said it maybe wouldn’t have been the first time I thought some random guy was you.

With Wilson there as a buffer, demanding explanations, it was easy to keep things focused on the mission. Even if Steve was staring at him with big, starry eyes, and even if Steve was clearly exercising every bit of his self control to keep from throwing himself at Bucky, whether to wrestle or hug, Bucky couldn’t quite tell. It would be okay, maybe, if Steve hugged him. It had to be okay.

Keep it the fuck together, Barnes, he thought, and steered everyone clear of the hard questions for now. The hard questions like do you remember and why didn’t you come to me earlier, Buck and do you want to come with us on our violent HYDRA revenge mission. And okay, Bucky maybe snapped a little when Wilson dared to suggest that Bucky was the one with the crazy plan here, but he figured he was justified. Bucky’s life plan was a fucking model of sanity, Wilson.

Then Steve had to go and be so—Steve.

“It’s Stephen, with a ph,” said Steve, as if that would suddenly make his cover rock solid.

He was blushing and scowling that stormy scowl that hadn’t changed since they were in short pants. The expression used to seem almost too big for his face; now it looked almost grave, but the pout on his lips gave him away. That was the same as it had always been. What a stupid fucking cover. Steve had always been shit at coming up with explanations for the nights he snuck out with Bucky, or the times he’d tried to hide the evidence of Bucky ditching school to visit him when he was sick.

Where did these comics come from, Steven? Mrs. Rogers would ask, while Bucky hid under the bed, or out on the fire escape. And Steve, dear, idiot Steve, would stammer out some total bullshit like they fell onto the fire escape, Ma! Needless to say, they’d always gotten caught. It had always been worth it.

Bucky loved this asshole so goddamn much. It bubbled and fizzed out of him in a laugh.

“I really missed you,” he told Steve, smiling helplessly. Steve’s scowl melted into softness, and there were those starry eyes again. A pretty sight, especially with his embarrassed flush. Bucky hid a flush of his own, and kept walking.


They traded intel on the way back to their vehicles, and Bucky was so close to getting through this without any uncomfortable, hard questions. But Steve just had to ask.

“Buck. Please. How are you, really? You had that migraine the other week, are you okay? How much do you—”

Bucky stopped walking. “My head—don’t worry about that. Hurts sometimes, less than it used to. It’s just leftover shit from all that brain scrambling, far as I can tell. And how much do I remember? Can’t be sure,” he said, and laughed without humor. “That’s the answer to everything, really. I can’t be sure. But it was—bad, at first, really—”

He felt it then, the tight feeling in his throat and lungs, the way the words, any words, to talk about it, any of it, all turned to static in his head. No. Bucky couldn’t talk about it. He couldn’t talk about it in group, and he couldn’t talk about it with Steve. He had reached his limit bearing any of it at all the first time and then experiencing it all over again in the remembering of it, again and again, and—no. Maybe someday, a long, long time from now, he could give Steve the notebooks, and say, this is what it was like. But right now—

“—and now it’s not, and—I don't wanna talk about it. I remember enough. More than I’d like, maybe.”

Steve, for a wonder, let it lie, and Bucky spent the rest of the walk focusing on his breathing. Christ, he was a fucking mess.

He’d have time to pull himself together on the ride back, at least. Steve and Wilson had left their car in the same clearing near where Bucky had stashed his motorcycle. They, of course, had not bothered to hide their car.

“You got a ride out of here, Barnes?” asked Wilson. Instead of answering, Bucky just went to retrieve his motorcycle from under its camouflage.

“I’ll see you back in Cleveland,” he told them, and began walking the bike back to the road.

Steve made big sad eyes at him, shifting from foot to foot. “Can I—?” he asked, gesturing towards the bike.

Bucky wasn’t opposed to riding with Steve, but— “I only have one helmet,” he said, frowning over at him.

“That’s—who cares about helmets!” Steve was practically vibrating with indignation now, even if his eyes were still distinctly puppy dog like. 

The cops cared, for one, and Bucky wasn’t eager to be pulled over with Captain America’s shield and a lot of guns stashed on his bike. And even apart from that— “Well I don’t know about you, Steve, but I’ve had enough brain damage for a lifetime. So I care about helmets.” Steve did look somewhat abashed now, though all the fight had not yet gone out of the set of his jaw. “Go with Wilson, I’ll see you two back at the house. Might get there a little later than you two, I’ve gotta swap the bike for my car.” 

He pulled his helmet out from the saddlebag and was about to put it on when Steve’s voice stopped him.

“Promise. Promise you’ll come back,” said Steve, his voice low and shaking, as close to desperate as Bucky ever remembered hearing from him. 

Oh. He was really upset. He always tried to hide it under anger, not that he ever fooled Bucky. Steve’s trembling chin and mouth gave him away. He put on a good effort to hide it with that stubborn jaw clench and glare, but Bucky saw, and he knew.

“Steve. Of course I’m coming back,” he said, and held Steve’s eyes, willing him to believe it. Bucky probably didn’t deserve that trust after two years of staying away from Steve. But, god, Steve had to know: Bucky had always wanted to come back. He had always wanted to stay with Steve.

“Don’t. Don’t make out like I’m the one being crazy, James Buchanan Barnes. It’s been two years since I found out you were alive and almost five since I ended up in this century and you were gone, you were dead—” 

Steve’s voice broke then, and that was it, Bucky couldn’t leave him like this. He dropped the helmet and went to Steve. This had to be more than worth the possible panic attack later.

He was doing this hugging thing wrong maybe, his arms having more memories of holds and takedowns than of embraces. For just a second it felt like Steve was going to fight his way out of Bucky’s arms, but it was just a second, and then Steve was holding onto him tight, like he wanted to fuse them together. Bucky waited for his own body to panic, or for the threat assessment to overtake what was supposed to be about comfort. But it didn’t. Steve tucked his face in against Bucky’s neck, where Bucky could feel the dampness of tears against his skin, and Steve remained just Steve in his arms. Not the mission and not a threat and not Captain America. Just Steve. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said into Steve’s ear. “I wasn’t ready before. I’m not going anywhere, okay? I promise.” Some of his own tears fell into Steve’s hair. Neither of them loosened their hold on each other.

Eventually Steve did let go, and Bucky tried to get a hold of himself, which mostly involved a lot of discreet sniffling and rapid blinking away of more tears. It was the same with Steve. Jesus, if Bucky didn’t leave now, they were going to spend the night hugging in the forest. The thought was way too appealing.

“Okay that was touching and everything, but we really gotta get going,” said Wilson.


On the long ride back to Cleveland, Bucky couldn’t help but wonder what’s next? and worry. He began to regret not letting Steve ride with him, helmet or no helmet. Already, their reunion felt surreal and ephemeral, the giddy and abrupt ending of a long, bizarre nightmare. He could do with the warm, real weight of Steve at his back, a reminder that it had all actually happened. Even the undead Nazis part.

Yeah, no, Bucky wasn’t going to focus on the undead Nazis. He’d held Steve, and Steve had held him, and it had been okay. It was still okay, the touch lingering as warmth and ease instead of the skin-crawling afterimage of fear, or pain. That was enough to hang some hope on.


When Bucky got back to the house, Steve was waiting for him on the porch, hands in his pockets, a hesitant set to his broad shoulders. Even in the dark, he could see Steve’s sigh of relief, though it took Bucky smiling at him to make his shoulders lower and relax. Bucky tipped his head towards the door in silent invitation, and Steve followed him into the house. If Bucky was going to have to answer all those hard questions he’d been avoiding, he wanted to do it inside where they wouldn’t wake the whole neighborhood.

But when Steve walked in, he didn’t launch into any questions or shouting, instead he immediately started looking around the house with far more interest than the fairly bare interior deserved. Bucky wondered what the house told him.

There was a lot Bucky could say about tonight’s undead nightmare, but here, at home, with dawn too close, he went with, “Thanks for not raiding that base on a school night.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Murphy,” said Steve with a sideways grin, and Bucky laughed.

Steve didn’t seem inclined to talk just yet, continuing his examination of Bucky’s admittedly spare house. There was no judgment in Steve’s gaze, only an avid curiosity that made Bucky feel almost shy. Steve smiled a little at Bucky’s books, then smiled wider still at the photos he had up on the fridge. It was more of a relief than it should have been.

There was nothing he was ashamed of Steve seeing here, this was a house, not a squat or bolthole. Bucky was living like a normal damn person, copious weaponry stashes aside, and he didn’t want for anything: the house was clean and comfortable, and meant for a small family, so Bucky had more space than he really knew what to do with. Watching Steve now, he couldn’t help but think it would be nice to fill some of that space with Steve. His students would probably tell him to have some chill.

“You done snooping?” he asked.

“No,” said Steve, shameless. Bucky rolled his eyes, and headed for the bedroom. Steve could snoop to his heart’s content, but the long, hard day was catching up with Bucky. He wanted to sleep, for a few hours at least.

“I’m surprised you didn’t try to break in,” he told Steve.

Steve was not abashed. “That was gonna be my next step,” he said, and followed Bucky to the bedroom.

Steve did more than just follow Bucky to the bedroom. He stripped down to t-shirt and boxers, and began turning down the covers on the bed. A small thrill of alarm sounded in Bucky, but only weakly, drowned out by helpless affection for Steve’s bullheadedness. Leave it to Steve to just power through any awkwardness with sheer, blithe force of will. As far as Steve was probably concerned, they’d shared a bed before, they could do it again, seventy years of ice be damned.

“I take it we’re bunking together tonight,” said Bucky, not even bothering to make it a question.

“Yeah. You got a problem with that?” asked Steve, with affected nonchalance.

Bucky was tired, and he’d successfully hugged Steve, hadn’t he? He and Steve had shared a bed before, so many times that Bucky probably wouldn’t remember all of them even without amnesia. So fuck it, if Steve wanted to go for it, Bucky would too. He could always sneak out to the couch if it didn’t work.

“No,” he told Steve, with what he hoped was equal nonchalance, and went to turn off the light before getting in the bed.

They faced each other like this was a sleepover and they were kids again, only both the bed and Steve were a lot bigger now. Bucky waited for the discomfort of being so close to someone, but it didn’t come. Even in the dark, even decades later, Steve’s face was familiar. More than familiar, Bucky could admit: beloved. Maybe that was what made this okay.

Steve started grinning into his face, like a maniac, and Bucky laughed a little, knowing exactly what he was thinking. His mustache probably did not improve upon closer examination.

“I know, but it worked, didn’t it?” he said to Steve’s ridiculous grinning face, and Steve shrugged, his smile subsiding from manic to soft.

“I still knew you,” said Steve, and put his thumb on the dimple in Bucky’s chin. It fit perfectly. Maybe that stupid cleft in his chin was actually good for something.

“Oh, that’s what gave me away, huh?” asked Bucky, smiling back at Steve.

“Yeah,” said Steve. “And this.” Steve touched Bucky’s jaw next, his fingertips catching along the stubble there, his touch gentle against Bucky’s skin. Bucky’s breath hitched, but not with fear. No memory rose up to echo this touch. It was a wholly new thing, almost overwhelming, even as the touch was so light as to be weightless. When his eyes closed almost without his volition, Steve reached up to cup his face in his broad, warm palms. The pads of Steve’s thumbs brushed against Bucky’s eyelashes, another feather light touch. “And these too,” Steve said, his voice as soft as his hands.

Bucky couldn’t remember anyone ever touching him like this. How had he ever thought Steve wouldn’t recognize him? Steve knew him down to his damned eyelashes. 

“I missed you so damn much, Buck. Why didn’t you let me find you?” asked Steve, in a voice wounded enough to inflict an answering ache in Bucky.

Steve deserved an answer. Bucky didn’t know if he had a good one.

“Wasn’t safe. And I wasn’t—” Bucky couldn’t find the right words, didn’t know how or what he could tell Steve about those first months, about the year after.

There weren’t words, for it—not for the pain, or for the remembering. But it hadn’t been about Steve, he had to tell Steve that, Steve had to know. He just—couldn’t. Bucky shook his head, and looked at Steve, willing him to understand. 

If there wasn’t understanding in his eyes, there was at least sympathy. Steve touched his shoulder and his arm then, stroking up and down, in slow, easy sweeps. It made Bucky’s spine go loose and liquid, like Steve was drawing tension out of him with each pass of his hand.

Bucky had to find some goddamned words for Steve. He settled on, “I don’t think I’m the Bucky you knew,” because no matter what Bucky looked like, it was the truth, and Steve would realize it soon enough. He was, at best, an approximation of the old Bucky Barnes, mixed up with whoever he was now, plus a whole lot of ugly mess. 

“You don’t have to be,” said Steve, moving closer. It made the space between them even warmer, and Bucky wanted him closer. Bucky wanted him closer, and he didn’t care if his stupid body put up a belated objection to that. So far, Steve touching him felt good. Maybe it’d feel good the other way around too. He put a hand on Steve’s hip and tugged Steve closer still. Steve didn’t seem to mind. Neither, it turned out, did Bucky, his heartbeat still placid and even.  

“I don’t think I’m the Steve you knew either,” added Steve, and his mouth quirked with that smile that wasn’t a smile, just a sad, sideways curve of his lips. Had Bucky always wanted to kiss that away when he saw it? Or was that just now?

He settled for touching Steve’s soft beard, his cheek. “Yeah, this is new. It suits you, actually.” Steve’s sad smile eased into a small, real one. Bucky wanted to kiss that smile even more than the sad one. But Steve had to know— “I knew you. Before I knew my name, I knew you.”

He didn’t know if that was enough to convey the hugeness of what Steve was to him, or if Steve understood what he meant. He didn’t know if he even wanted Steve to understand the roaring, profound confusion of knowing so little about himself, and what it had meant to still know Steve, somehow, through all of that. It would hurt Steve, probably, to know that Bucky had always known him as that hand, reaching out, before he fell. He would take it as a failure, as a burden to carry. Bucky didn’t want what had been a comfort to him to be a burden to Steve. But Steve had to know that Bucky knew him, that not even HYDRA had taken him away entirely.

Steve must have understood enough, because something dawned in his eyes, as bright and overwhelming as the sun. The only thing Bucky could think to do was to rise to meet it with a kiss. Abort abort abort screeched the ever-dwindling part of Bucky that had any sense at all. You are fucking up your perfectly nice reunion! He pulled away before Steve could.

“Sorry, sorry—we didn’t—we didn’t do that, before? Did we? I didn’t—”

Steve clenched a fist in Bucky’s shirt before he could move away any further.

“No, we didn’t.”

Bucky flinched. Of course. He knew that. “Right, yeah, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“But I wanted to. So bad, Buck,” said Steve, and kissed him.

It started clumsy and awkward, neither of them fitting together quite right, until Bucky had the bright idea to move Steve where he wanted him, and then he could kiss Steve properly, take things further than pressing their lips together—but it still didn’t feel quite right, not matching up to Bucky’s memories of other kisses. There was something persistently annoying and itchy happening on his face—Steve giggled against his mouth and pulled away.

“Fuck, that tickles,” said Steve, and yeah, that was it, this fucking mustache. Bucky laughed, but he also began immediately plotting the mustache’s demise. Sure, yeah, his cover, whatever: kissing Steve properly felt decidedly more important than that right now.

As tempted as he was to go immediately shave, he just said, “And you’re giving me beard burn, Rogers.”

Steve moved in for another kiss, apparently undeterred, and Bucky smiled into it. They didn’t last much longer this time before Bucky’s upper lip began itching and Steve’s nose twitched, and then they were both laughing again.

“Sorry, sorry, I’ll shave it off in the morning, I promise,” said Bucky.

Steve smiled dopily at him. “Awww, you don't have to, Buck. Not on my account, anyway. I don’t mind it so much, honest.”

Bucky examined Steve’s face for evidence of a lie, and, to his shock, didn’t find it.

“Fuck’s sake, Rogers, what kind of true love is this that you’re okay with this thing on my face?”

He expected Steve to make a joke, but Steve’s eyes went wide, almost scared. “It is. True love, that is. I mean, I love you. I have for, I don’t know, a long time.”

Here was the truth hidden between the lines and in the blank spaces of his notebooks, and maybe it was both an old and new truth: Steve loved him, and Steve wanted him. Bucky wasn’t alone; Steve, as ever, was reaching out for him, and this time, neither of them was going to miss. 

He kissed Steve again, deep and desperate, heedless now of all the little annoyances of bumping noses and scratchy facial hair, until they were both gasping and breathless, until Steve pulled away.

He wanted the kiss to be answer enough, but—words. Bucky had to use his damn words. Bucky had to make sure Steve knew he was reaching back. 

“Yeah, I—I don’t remember how long I’ve loved you, but I know I did. I do,” he told Steve, and Steve put his arms around him, tight.

They didn’t do much other than hold each other for a long time. Bucky, feeling bold and maybe kind of high on all this contact after so long without, eased his right hand up under Steve’s shirt to touch the bare skin of his back. He moved his hand up and down Steve’s smooth skin, and Steve sighed happily, his breathing slowing.

“Feels nice, Buck,” mumbled Steve, and then he was asleep.

It did feel nice. The way Steve’s back rose and fell with his breaths, the heat of his skin. The way Bucky could touch him, and have it not hurt either of them. Skin against skin: did it feel like a miracle to everyone else? It did to Bucky.

He waited for the unwelcome return of reality, for the blaring mental alarms and the not safe not safe not safe and the calculations of escape routes and how to disable the target, there was always a target, but—not tonight. Tonight he and Steve were holding onto each other, and it felt safe. Steve was asleep already and most of the neighborhood was asleep, and Bucky was aware, still, of the paperboy driving past in his car, four thumps up and down along the street as he threw the heavy Sunday newspapers onto porches before driving away, but that was safe. He was aware of the dog barking one street over, the sound demanding but not aggressive, and that was safe too.

Steve breathed deep and easy in Bucky’s arms, his body heavy and relaxed with sleep. He was rosy-cheeked, flushed from the almost uncomfortable heat of their bodies so close together in the warm bed. Even so, Steve didn’t seem inclined to let Bucky go. That was fine; Bucky wasn’t inclined to let him go either.

It wouldn’t always feel like this, he knew. There were still hard questions to ask and to answer. Would Steve stay, would Bucky, what happened next…for now though, Bucky would take the reprieve, for however long he he had it. He matched his breathing to Steve’s, and slept.

 

Chapter 11: a glowing young ruffian

Summary:

“What, are you trying to get back at Barnes for his mustache? It’s not like he’s Sam, a mustache isn’t going to fool him into not recognizing you,” said Natasha.

“Hey! Uncalled for! I can totally recognize Steve even with a copstache!”

“And yet, Bucky’s Flanders ‘stache proved too much for you,” said Steve. “And no, I’m not trying to get back at him, really…”

He knew Bucky would recognize him no matter what. If Bucky could recognize him after he’d practically doubled in height and size, and while Bucky was half-delirious on a creepy Nazi lab table no less, some facial hair wasn’t going to prove much of an obstacle. But okay, maybe, just maybe, the real goal was to throw a mustache-shaped wrench in Bucky’s probably exquisitely romantic and date night-winning plans. At this point, Steve was behind enough in date night wins that he wasn’t above a bit of harmless sabotage to even the score.

Notes:

HAPPY 100TH BIRTHDAY, STEVE. have a fic in which i address chris evans' terrible lobby hero look, because i guess this series is just where i work out my feelings about sebastian stan and chris evans' facial hair choices.

Chapter title from The National's "Racing Like A Pro."

Chapter Text

“Okay, you know what, I think the mustache has really been maligned as an effective disguise. The classics are a classic for a reason.”

Natasha was leaning against the hotel bathroom doorway with her hand at her mouth, seemingly to tap her fingers thoughtfully against her lips, but actually to hide the smile she was failing to keep from breaking out. Steve didn’t blame her. And he thought Bucky’s mustache had been bad. The carpet brush left on his upper lip after he shaved off the rest of his beard was an order of magnitude worse. 

If the overgrown mountain man beard he’d been growing for the past few days hadn’t clashed with his cover for the rest of this mission, he’d have kept that, but unfortunately for Steve—for all of them, really—the wild beard that had let Steve blend in at a biker bar to chase down leads wouldn’t work for the next phase of this particular mission. That left Steve with few options for another effective disguise on such short notice. So mustache it was.

He sighed, and dumped the sad remnants of his beard into the hotel bathroom trash. Even with a towel to catch most of it, there was still hair all over the sink. Steve resolved to leave a big tip for housekeeping.

“So, this’ll do, right?” he prompted, stepping past Natasha back into the hotel room to fetch the rest of his disguise: a baggy, cheap suit that Natasha assured him made him look schlubby. Sam, sitting on one of the beds, recoiled the second he saw Steve.

“That’s not a mustache, that’s a copstache,” he said, revulsion clear on his face.

“What? What makes a mustache a copstache? Was Bucky’s mustache a copstache?” asked Steve.

“No, Bucky had a Flanders ‘stache going. Whole different vibe.” Sam waved a hand around Steve’s face with a grimace. “This? This is a copstache. Jesus, I can barely look at you.”

“You’re being dramatic,” said Steve, and stroked his mustache, to Natasha and Sam’s visible disgust. Steve pulled on the ill-fitting suit jacket. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

The sooner they were done, the sooner Steve could shave this thing off and go back home to Bucky. It had been nearly two weeks as it was, and almost-nightly phone calls were an inadequate substitute for actually being with Bucky.

The mission was simple intel gathering, at Maria Hill and Fury’s request. They suspected there was a HYDRA sleeper cell in Kansas City, possibly even embedded in the FBI’s field office there, and they needed someone to plant bugs and snoop around. So, supplied with what he was assured was an airtight and bulletproof FBI cover, Steve was going in as Agent Michael Wright from the Helena, Montana field office, ostensibly in Kansas City to interview for a transfer. Natasha had insisted on Steve having some sort of disguise that wasn’t just a beard and slightly longer hair than people were used to seeing on Captain America. So now Steve had the haircut of man twenty years older, and a copstache to match. Bucky was going to be horrified. Or he wouldn’t be able to stop laughing. One or the other.

Sam and Natasha were on standby just in case Steve got made, but his fake FBI ID held up through security, and the Kansas City field office welcomed him with open arms, more or less. Also they were definitely a HYDRA sleeper cell. He sent an encrypted group text to Sam and Natasha saying just that when he managed to duck into a bathroom.

Are you sure, they could just be fascist feds Sam texted back. Have any of them heil hydra’d u.

No, it’s just a feeling I’m getting, Steve said. Also every single person in this office is white.

Get that virus I gave you into their systems, then get out, said Natasha, and Steve left the bathroom to do just that. 

He asked the definitely-a-HYDRA-agent who was showing him around if he could use one of the office computers to check his email, because “it’s just such a pain to type out an actual email on these tiny phones, you know?” and he kept up the dumb patter until the agent’s attention wandered and Steve could plug in the little flash drive Natasha had given him. Steve typed up a fake email in Special Agent Michael Wright’s fake FBI email account, and kept an eye on the progress bar of Natasha’s program. 

“Field office in Montana falling apart without you?” asked the definitely-a-HYDRA-agent snidely.

Shit. Steve didn’t really know what the hell FBI agents even did in Montana. “Yeah, uh—moose.”

“What?”

“Moose. Smuggling. Uh, across state lines. And into Canada. Working on busting a major moose smuggling ring.”

He typed moose moose moose sure hope there are actual moose in Montana into the email.

“No shit? What the hell do people smuggle moose for?”

“The antlers. And the meat.” Steve glanced at the progress bar on Natasha’s virus program ticking on past 70%, and kept typing. “You ever had moose meat?”

“No, what’s it taste like?”

“Horse. Only—” Steve faltered, then recovered. “Smoother.”

“You’ve had horse meat?”

Finally, the program finished, and Steve covered for pulling out the flash drive by clicking the mouse with far more force than necessary.

“Getting real close to blowing that smuggling case wide open!” he said instead of any answer about horse meat. Though he had had horse meat. During the war, and probably from dodgy hot dogs in the 30s too. “So is SSA Martins available to speak with me yet?

“Oh yeah. Let me take you to her office.”

From there, Steve just had to fake his way through a pseudo job interview, until a call from “Montana” about a break in his case gave him an out to leave. He took a Lyft to the airport—the driver unable to conceal her wince of horror at his mustache, jesus, was it that bad—then roamed around the terminal for a while to shake any possible tails, before walking right back out to be picked up by Sam.

“Did Natasha get what we need?” asked Steve.

Sam nodded as he pulled out of the terminal. “Yeah, sent it over to Rhodes already, as a leak from an ‘anonymous whistleblower.’ Colonel Rhodes will get his HYDRA task force on it.”

“Alright. We’ll stick around here for another day, just in case HYDRA gets tipped off. Wheels up tomorrow,” said Steve, and pulled out his phone to text Bucky. 

Should be back tomorrow afternoon in time for date night! Call you tonight. Bucky was still teaching, so Steve was unlikely to get a text back for a while.

“You just wanna go fuck up those Nazi bikers,” said Sam.

Steve didn’t bother to deny it. “I think I got the non-Nazi bikers on my side. If I could just go back there—”

“Jesus christ, are you using your Captain America voice? Do not use your Cap voice with that mustache, oh my god. Also you’re not going back to that biker bar.”

“All it’ll take is one bar fight, then the cops will come in and hopefully separate the Nazi chaff from the normal biker wheat—”

“No. I will tell your boy that you’re this close to joining a biker gang, and he will come drag your ass back to Cleveland,” threatened Sam, then shook his head. “The things you never learn about Captain America in school.” 


Steve did not go back to the biker bar that night. He took second watch for monitoring all communications out of the HYDRA-FBI field office, because he was a responsible team leader, Sam, and HE called Bucky because he was a good best friend/boyfriend/life partner. 

“Hey, mission go okay?”

“Yeah, it went fine. No problems, should be back tomorrow afternoon if the flight’s on time. Hey, are there moose in Montana?”

“What?”

“Are there moose in Montana. It felt like the right thing to say at the time, but now I’m second-guessing myself. I mean, it didn’t blow my cover today, so I’m sure it’s fine.”

“What do moose—you know what, never mind. Yeah, there are moose in Montana.”

“How do you know that?”

“Google.”

There was a moment of silence. “You’re not gonna ask?”

“No, Stephen-with-a-ph, I will not ask. Jesus christ,” said Bucky, sounding thoroughly disgusted. Steve grinned, and waited. Bucky didn’t disappoint. “What could moose in Montana possibly have to do with your cover—”

“My cover was Special Agent Michael Wright, from the Helena, Montana field office. I said I was working on a moose smuggling case back in Montana.”

“Of course. A moose smuggling case. Isn’t that something Fish and Game would handle? Or the local—you know what, never mind. I’m not encouraging this nonsense. It’s a miracle you ever maintain a cover.”

“Oh yeah? Must be a saint then, because I’ve kept up plenty of covers—”

“Uh huh, sure thing, Saint Steven of the Dumbfucks. Let me know if your flight ends up running late, ‘cause date night starts at 1800 sharp.”

A thrill of simultaneous anticipation and foreboding shivered down his spine. Two weeks felt like a long time to be apart from Bucky nowadays, and Steve felt the separation most keenly when there was no urgent mission to distract him. Phone calls and texts were nice, but they were no substitute for Bucky himself.

He only hoped Bucky didn’t have anything elaborate planned for date night. If it were Steve’s turn, he’d go home with takeout for a living room picnic that would quickly turn into welcome-home sex. As far as Steve was concerned, that was totally a winning date night. Bucky almost certainly had other, better plans though. Which, Steve had to admit, was probably why Bucky was winning the unofficial-but-totally-official date night competition so far.

“We don’t have to do anything special,” tried Steve.

“Oh really?” said Bucky, his voice dropping to a warm rumble. “A forfeit’s the same as a win for me, sweetheart.”

Steve blushed, and failed to steel his spine against an automatic shiver of pleasure. Goddammit. He cleared his throat and powered past it. 

“Come on! This isn’t a forfeit, I’m just saying, I’ve been gone for a couple weeks, we can stay in…”

“Uh uh. My turn for date night, and I’m keeping up my record, Steve, I’m winning date night again.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll see. Am I not even gonna get a hint about what we’re doing tomorrow night?”

“Nope.”


The night passed without incident, no one in the HYDRA-FBI office apparently the wiser to Steve’s infiltration, so take that, Bucky, Steve’s cover was great. An idea took shape in his mind. Ha, he would show Bucky how great his cover was.

“You’re not shaving that thing off?” asked Sam in the morning. They were all in Steve and Sam’s hotel room, pooling together their continental breakfast hauls and finishing up their packing.

“He should keep it for now if he doesn’t want to get hassled for autographs and selfies at the airport,” said Natasha, pragmatic as always.

That was a good idea, actually, but it wasn’t why Steve hadn’t shaved off the mustache yet.

Sam grinned and made finger guns at Natasha. “Yeah, alright, that’s why you’re the spy, huh,” he said. She threw a jam packet at him, and Sam batted it away with a laugh. “Bet you’re gonna try to rush home and shave that thing off before Bucky sees it then.” 

“I don’t know, maybe I’ll keep it,” said Steve.

Sam and Natasha chorused an eerily synced and flat, “No.”

“Creepy,” muttered Steve, and took the last danish as he eyed Sam and Natasha suspiciously. 

“What, are you trying to get back at Barnes for his mustache? It’s not like he’s Sam, a mustache isn’t going to fool him into not recognizing you,” said Natasha.

“Hey! Uncalled for! I can totally recognize Steve even with a copstache!”

“And yet, Bucky’s Flanders ‘stache proved too much for you,” said Steve. “And no, I’m not trying to get back at him, really…”

He knew Bucky would recognize him no matter what. If Bucky could recognize him after he’d practically doubled in height and size, and while Bucky was half-delirious on a creepy Nazi lab table no less, some facial hair wasn’t going to prove much of an obstacle. But okay, maybe, just maybe, the real goal was to throw a mustache-shaped wrench in Bucky’s probably exquisitely romantic and date night-winning plans. At this point, Steve was behind enough in date night wins that he wasn’t above a bit of harmless sabotage to even the score.

“It’s just—he made some crack about me being awful at keeping up a cover, so…” Steve finished. Natasha squinted at him and hummed dubiously. “What? I did great this time!”

“Of course you did, Steve. Maybe Barnes will believe you since he didn’t see the ‘fake’ email I did.  You know, the one you sent to the ‘Montana field office’ that said, and I quote, ‘moose moose moose.’”

Natasha’s use of finger quotes there felt frankly unnecessary. Sam stared at him, shaking his head. 

“Are there even any moose in Montana?” he asked.

“Yes there are!”


Date night hadn’t started as a competition.

Date night had started for the simple reason that Steve and Bucky had skipped straight past dating to being more or less married. Which, honestly, was fine with Steve. He had everything he wanted with Bucky: they were best friends, they lived together, and they were together-together too. Steve didn’t need to be courted, and he didn’t need romance. What they had now was more than Steve had ever even dreamed of having, and it was more than enough.

Bucky’d had his own ideas on the matter though. 


A little over a month after blowing both their covers and finally getting together, they’ve settled into an easy morning routine: a quick breakfast together before Bucky heads out for work, and Steve goes out for his morning run. School will be out soon, or Steve will have more missions, and the routine will change, but for now, they have this welcome slice of domestic stability.

“You’re free on Friday night, right?” Bucky asks while he waits at the kitchen counter for the toaster to spit out his bagel. Steve squeezes past him to refill his coffee mug. 

“Yeah, free for what?”

“I’m taking you out. Wear something nice.” 

The toaster pops Bucky’s bagel out, and Bucky pulls the slices free with no care for how hot they are; he’s using his metal hand. He immediately starts slathering both halves of the bagel in peanut butter. Sticking peanut butter on just about everything is a new culinary habit of Bucky’s, and Steve’s not sure he approves. He takes a sip of coffee to keep from making any dire comments about peanut butter being an affront to bagels, then mentally backtracks to what Bucky’s just said. 

“Wait, what? Why?”

“‘Cause we’re going to a halfway decent restaurant. You don’t need to wear a tie, but, you know, put on a shirt other than one of your tiny t-shirts,” says Bucky, then takes a bite out of his disgusting peanut butter bagel.

“They’re not tiny—” Steve objects, then shuts up at Bucky’s pointed look towards his chest. “You love it. And why are we going out?”

Bucky swallows his mouthful of peanut butter and bagel. “We’re going out on a date, Steve.”

“You don’t need to take me out on a date, Buck, I’m pretty much a sure thing.”

“Oh yeah? Good to know,” Bucky says, crowding him against the kitchen counter to give him a smiling, peanut butter flavored kiss. It’s not, Steve supposes, a strictly bad taste, and he almost chases Bucky’s lips when he pulls away. “But I still wanna take you out.”

“Don’t tell me you miss those horribly awkward double dates you used to drag me on.” 

Maybe Bucky doesn’t remember them, but Steve does. Vividly. Some of them had ended up being fun, sure, but mostly, not even Bucky’s charm could rescue Steve’s end of a double date from beaching in the shallows of awkward small talk.

“This’ll be the first time we can go out on a date, a real date, just us. As, you know. Uh. Boyfriends.” Bucky rolls his eyes at himself and wrinkles his nose. “Jesus. I sound like one of my students. As...partners? Anyway, I wanna take you on a real date, we kinda...skipped past all that.”

Bucky stuffs another bite of bagel into his mouth, and Steve grins.

“Awww, you wanna court me?” The idea has some charm, Steve has to admit.

Bucky shakes his head with mock disapproval. “You said you were a sure thing, we’re too late for courting. But it’d be nice to have date nights. I…kinda miss going out, you know?” 

Now Bucky’s looking away, picking at the peanut butter-laden bagel on his plate. It’s a display of nerves that makes Steve’s heart go about as warm and gooey as the damned peanut butter that’s about to ooze off the bagel. Steve pulls Bucky into a loose embrace, and Bucky abandons his bagel to step close to Steve, his hands light on Steve’s waist.

“Yeah, okay, I’ll go on a date with you,” Steve says, and earns a pleased, slightly shy smile from Bucky.

“Great,” says Bucky, and kisses him on the cheek. “Get ready next door. I’ll pick you up at seven.”


That first date night had ended up being just...really nice. Sweet and uncomplicated, nothing fancy, just the promised dinner out, then a walk afterward, and for all that he and Bucky had known each other for decades, it had still felt like a real first date. They were still, after all, getting to know who they were in this new time, with these new lives. At the end of the night, after they’d tumbled into bed together, Bucky had asked, same time next week? And Steve had said, yeah, but let me take you out.

So the next week, Steve had taken Bucky out to a movie at one of the local parks, where, when the weather was nice enough, they set up a big inflatable screen outdoors and let people picnic while they watched a movie. The movie was fun, just the right kind of pulpy nonsense to delight Bucky, and Steve got to cross Jurassic Park off his too-long list of 20th century catch up. But even if the movie had been terrible, Steve would have counted the date a success for the way Bucky had kept his arm around Steve’s shoulders or waist, for the way he’d pressed in close and warm against him, and the way he’d thrown his head back and laughed when Steve had presented him with their dessert for the night: grocery store cupcakes very obviously meant for a child’s birthday party, given the garish dinosaur decorations on them.

Date nights really should have continued on like that, both of them taking turns taking each other out on the kind of nice, normal date every other couple went on. And to be fair, their dates were still normal. Mostly. 


Here was how it had happened: after Steve’s fourth disastrous turn at date night in a row—a couples’ cooking class that had ended in an oil fire, two ruined pans, an evacuated building, a visit from the fire department, and absolutely no edible food—Bucky had laughed and pulled Steve in for a conciliatory kiss and a hug. 

“Aww, you’re really not winning date night, huh?” Bucky asks, eyes sparkling.

Steve stiffens. “Winning? I wasn’t aware it was a competition.”

“It’s not!” 

“Then what did you mean?” Steve asks, pulling back to squint suspiciously at Bucky.

“Nothing! It’s just a thing my kids say. Like, ‘I’m winning calculus today,’ when they answer a few questions right or whatever.”

Steve lets that pass. It sounds about right for Bucky’s students. God knows it at least makes more sense than the baffling use of ‘big mood’ about anything and everything. Last week, Bucky had sent Steve a photo of a crow with five french fries stuffed in its beak, followed by the words ‘big mood.’ Steve still has no idea what the hell that was supposed to convey about Bucky’s mood. 

He sighs and his shoulders slump as Bucky rubs at his back with somehow simultaneous comfort and condescension. Maybe that counts as a big mood. A losing-at-date-night big mood.

“Okay, but I could win at date night,” he tells Bucky, trying not to pout. 

Bucky gets a distinctly pitying expression on his face. “Aww. Of course you can, buddy.”

“You don’t win at date night all the time!” Steve objects, and is treated to Bucky’s raised eyebrow of disbelief. He swears Bucky’s gotten better at that since becoming a teacher. 

“Don’t I though?” asks Bucky with that cocky tilt to his head that Steve loves and hates in equal measure. 

Steve, of course, has to bite gently at the inviting expanse of Bucky’s sharp jaw that said head tilt reveals, and Bucky sucks in a gratifyingly shaky breath. He mentally reviews Bucky’s last four date nights as he lays a trail of kisses to Bucky’s pulse point: an art walk through the galleries in the art district, culminating in dessert at a fancy ice cream parlor; a visit to the arboretum, where the canopy walk took them up into the trees’ heights amid the impossibly green leaves, and then they’d watched the sun set from the tower rising up over the treetops; a trip through Cleveland’s Asiatown, where they’d eaten their way through the neighborhood, trying every delicious new food whose name they didn’t recognize. Even the swing dance date had ended up being a winner, because no one had really looked askance at two men dancing together, even with how badly Steve was dancing, and because for the first time in their lives, Steve had had Bucky’s full attention in a dancehall. 

Tallied up against Steve’s rained out hike, the comedy show where Steve had ended up starting a fight with one of the racist and homophobic comedians, the pinball parlor outing where they both accidentally broke three pinball machines with their super strength before fleeing the place in shame, and now this…

Okay, yeah, Bucky’s winning at date night. Bucky’s absolutely winning at date night. Steve has got to step up his game.


Steve had racked up a few date night wins after that: a trip to the planetarium, a picnic at Mill Creek Falls, and one night when Bucky hadn’t felt up to going out, Steve had given him a massage, reducing him to a happy, loose-limbed puddle. But then Steve had kind of run out of ideas, and apparently, Netflix and chill never counted as winning date night, no matter how amazingly the ‘chill’ part of the night went.

“Oh come on, how come it doesn’t count? Since when are there even rules for date night?”

“A winning date night is like pornography, Steve. I’ll know it when I see it. And Netflix and chill is not a winning date night. It’s more or less what we do every other night.”

And yeah, okay, Bucky had had a point there. He’d had a point about just knowing what constituted a winning date too. Winning date nights were usually pretty obvious: they were the dates that left them both feeling like this thing between them was simultaneously too huge for the world to hold, and small enough to be perfectly cradled in the slim space between their bodies; too new to take for granted, and too old to to handle carelessly. It wasn’t about some contrived idea of romance. Bucky’s winning date nights always revealed some devoted core of care and attention: trips to art galleries because he knew Steve found inspiration in them, going to the arboretum because the trees reminded Bucky of the painting Steve had given him, new foods and experiences when he knew Steve was feeling down about the future and nostalgic throwbacks to reassure him of what Bucky remembered about their past. 

Most of Steve’s date nights felt like total failures in comparison, even if Bucky always laughed and kissed him afterwards, seemingly just as charmed and delighted by Steve’s failed attempts as he was by Steve’s successes. So it didn’t sting too badly, to so thoroughly lose the unofficial-but-sort-of-official date night competition.

Steve was still going to try to even the score a little though. 


Getting Bucky flowers was supposed to be part of the joke. I’m doing this ironically, Steve told himself, because date nights were one thing, but Steve and Bucky weren’t in a we-buy-each-other-flowers kind of relationship. They bought each other practical gifts, like knives and new paintbrushes and soft sweaters. No, these flowers were just a way to cover up Steve’s mustache for a few key seconds. These were prank flowers. 

But now, standing in front of the grocery store’s surprisingly nice flower selection, Steve found himself seriously considering which flowers Bucky would like best. Daisies? Sunflowers? Roses? Steve rejected the white roses and lilies as being too funereal. The sunflowers were cheerful, but too garish. And the orchids were lovely, but they were all potted, and their smaller blooms wouldn’t serve Steve’s purpose of covering up his face. There were mixed bouquets too, pretty and bright, but those seemed somehow generic.

A grocery store employee came up to him with a smile. “Can I help you, sir? Are you waiting to have a balloon filled?” she asked, already moving toward the small display of flat, shiny mylar balloons with HAPPY BIRTHDAY and CONGRATULATIONS emblazoned on them.

“Oh, no. I’m just trying to decide on some flowers.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“A prank that’s turning into an actual romantic gesture,” muttered Steve, looking grimly at a giant bouquet of what had to be two dozen blood red roses.

“What?”

“Just a present! For my partner. I’ve been away for a couple weeks, wanted to surprise him.”

“Well, you can’t go wrong with roses,” she said, gesturing at the red roses. There was something about their uniform color that was somehow overwhelming in such a large bouquet.

“Do you have any bouquets with more than one color?”

“Oh, no, sorry, but you can get the half-dozen bouquets and make your own bigger bouquet?”

Which was how Steve found himself in the grocery store parking lot, painstakingly putting together three separate bouquets of yellow, red, and peach-colored roses into one giant bouquet, carefully alternating colors for maximum aesthetic effect. The end result was worthy of an actual florist, in Steve’s not at all biased opinion.

He hoped Bucky would like the flowers.


Can you come get the door, it’s me, he texted Bucky, then he positioned the flowers just under his nose and rang the doorbell. It only took a few seconds before he heard Bucky heading towards the door.

“Steve?” he said through the still-closed door. “Did you lose your key—”

“Hi honey,” Steve said when Bucky opened the door. 

Bucky rolled his eyes at the flowers, but his smile was soft and pleased as he stepped aside to let Steve in, already reaching out a hand to him, probably to pull him in for a welcome-home kiss. It was the perfect moment. Steve lowered the flowers.

Bucky literally yelped and leapt back into the hallway. “What the fuck is that thing on your face—”

Steve closed the door, smiling wildly. Which probably looked creepy with this mustache, judging from Bucky’s expression of hilarious, wide-eyed horror. 

“Aww, Buck, I didn’t know you hated roses so much—”

“The roses are fine,” said Bucky, still backing into the hallway towards the living room. “That caterpillar on your lip though…”

“Oh come on, it’s not worse than your old mustache,” said Steve as he followed Bucky. He contemplated throwing the roses aside and tackling Bucky for an I-haven’t-seen-you-in-two-weeks grapple/hug.

“I didn’t think it was possible, but oh, it is. It really, really is. Holy shit. And what did you do to your hair?”

“It was all for my cover! Which, I think you can admit now, was great.”

“Oh jesus—fine, yes, you are a master, moose-smuggler-catching spy, your disguises are unparalleled, now go shave that thing off, because I cannot kiss you with that thing, I just can’t.”

“But Bucky, what happened to true love?” Steve asked, then threw the roses onto the coffee table and pounced, gently, before Bucky could reach the couch. They hit the carpet with Steve wrapped around a laughing Bucky.

“I love you no matter what, but I think you just found the literal one grooming choice that makes you less attractive to me,” said Bucky, and then he clamped his legs around Steve’s waist and rolled them over so he was on top. Steve groaned, his dick taking real interest in this turn of events. Bucky smiled down at him. “Thank you for the flowers, now please get rid of that thing so we can go out.”

Steve blinked up at Bucky with exaggerated innocence. “Oh, we’re going out for date night?” 

Bucky narrowed his eyes down at Steve and pressed his weight down on him with a very appealing combination of menace and intent. Despite his best efforts to stay focused on the task at hand, he went shivery and boneless under Bucky’s steady, heavy weight.

“Yeah…” said Bucky, suspicious now.

“But if I shave, then my cover will be blown. I’ll look too much like Cap.” Steve arranged his face into an appropriately sad expression.

Bucky, gently, put his entire hand over Steve’s face and said, in a soft, tender murmur, “Stop. You look like a muppet when you make that face,” then he burst into a fit of giggles. 

Steve ignored this admittedly delightful sight and sound, and held fast to his plan, though he couldn’t resist reaching up to fondly brush Bucky’s hair out of his eyes. 

“Guess that means I have to keep the mustache if we’re going out!”

“Oh, is that how it is, Rogers?” Bucky shook his head in disappointment. “You dirty cheater. But okay. Date night cancelled, I’m not gonna be seen in public in the vicinity of this thing,” he said, poking at Steve’s upper lip. 


Of course, cancelled or not, Bucky still managed to win date night.

He led Steve to the bathroom, where he settled Steve on the edge of the sink counter, took out his straight razor and shaving cream, and shaved Steve’s upper lip with exquisite carefulness.

“Don’t move,” Bucky murmured, his metal hand holding Steve’s chin steady. “I don’t want to cut you.”

So Steve didn’t move, just gripped the counter with his hands, but something inside him was trembling at Bucky’s nearness and total focus, trembling like a newly bloomed flower under soft rainfall. Bucky’s eyes were a pure, twilit blue. Steve could happily spend his whole life cataloging how they shifted and changed with the light. It only took a few careful, neat swipes of the razor for the terrible mustache to fall away onto the waiting towel. Bucky set the razor down and tossed the towel aside, then cupped Steve’s face in his broad hands, ran his thumb over Steve’s lower lip. Steve let his mouth fall open, and Bucky leaned in to finally, finally kiss him.

The first light touch of his lips drew a desperate sound from Steve, and he clutched at Bucky’s waist, opened his mouth to Bucky, but Bucky moved his hand to Steve’s throat, and kept the kiss cruelly gentle. He deepened it by agonizing degrees that left Steve focusing on every minute detail: the softness of Bucky’s lips, the hammering of his pulse against Bucky’s thumb, the sounds of their breathing and the still lingering soapy smell of the shaving cream.

“I missed you,” said Bucky, when he finally pulled away, and Steve grabbed at him, kept him close.

“Please,” he said, already undone, and Bucky obliged him, leaning in again for a deep and gasping kiss.

Bucky pulled him off the counter, pulled Steve’s pants and underwear down. He gave Steve’s already hard cock a hello-there kind of stroke, then kneeled, and took Steve in his mouth.

He took it as slow as he had with the kiss, every sweep of his tongue patient and controlled, even with the tight grip Steve had on his hair, until Steve was lost and begging and shaking. When Bucky took him deeper, Steve came in one inevitable, melting rush, a warmth like sunshine easing up and down along his spine to pool in the general vicinity of his heart, where it throbbed happily.

Before Steve could properly recover, Bucky lifted him up and carried him over to their bed, and okay, yeah, Steve knew where this was going. He spread his legs, and Bucky smiled. Steve didn’t know what the hell Bucky had originally planned for date night, but whatever it had been, this was undoubtedly better.


Some hours later, Steve patted at a post-coitally drowsy Bucky’s messy hair.

“Sorry if I ruined your plans, Buck.” Bucky huffed out a laugh against Steve’s shoulder. “No, really! I’m sure you had something nice planned, and I really do love when you take me out—”

Bucky shut him up with a kiss. “It’s alright. Think we can call this one a draw.” They kissed some more, lazy and soft, until Bucky said, “I’m definitely still winning date night though.”

Steve hit him with a pillow.

Chapter 12: we're so disarming darling

Summary:

Maybe there was some modern context Bucky was missing. Not that it mattered. What mattered here was Bucky’s innovative new plan to combine winning date night with pranking Steve. Because what was better than getting Steve all hot and bothered? Getting Steve hot and bothered while mildly terrorizing him with terrible Captain America merchandise, that was what.

Notes:

Please view the following very important visual aids for this fic, both of which are mildly NSFW as they involve dudes wearing very little clothing: this item of Captain America themed clothing and Sebastian Stan being a goddamn thirst trap.

Chapter title from The National's "Apartment Story."

Chapter Text

Bucky had a very good reason to google the words “captain america underwear.” Looking at the myriad hilarious and horrifying results now though, he considered that maybe it hadn’t been a good enough reason.

There were so many options, across so many websites. Bucky had thought he’d mostly get results that were the underwear equivalent of the shirts and sweatshirts emblazoned with Cap’s shield that he saw people wearing all the damn time, and yeah, sure, there were plenty of those. That was far, far from all that was available though.

Was all of this official? Bucky kept scrolling through page after page of results. It couldn’t possibly be. There was so much of it: Cap underwear for kids, Cap underwear and onesies for babies, Cap underwear for women and men… Clearly, Bucky had underestimated the market for superhero-branded underpants. There were the expected boxers and briefs and boxer briefs decorated with the shield, yeah, but Bucky hadn’t accounted for the damned comics. The comic version of Cap bore very little resemblance to Steve himself—Bucky determinedly didn’t think of his own comic counterpart—and yet, it was still equal parts hilarious and horrifying to see Cap’s cowled, cartoon head plastered across assorted undergarments.

Bucky modified his search to “captain america underwear for men.” There were still a lot of results. What even made Captain America branded stuff official anyway? Official approval from the Avengers? Surely Steve hadn’t personally approved these boxers with cutesy, smiling cartoons of a cherub-like Cap frolicking across them. Bucky paused, considered, then added them to his cart. They wouldn’t suit Bucky’s current purpose, but there was something cute about them. They’d make a good gag gift for Steve.

Focus, Barnes, you’re not braving this internet search just for some cute gag gifts. No, Bucky had a higher purpose here. Or, okay, not a higher purpose, but certainly a sexier one.

Because here was the thing: while Bucky went to a not insignificant amount of effort to make his date nights with Steve seem effortless, they were anything but. Sure, any date night with Steve was great by virtue of it being with Steve. That thrill had yet to wear off, no matter how much Sam and Natasha rolled their eyes at Bucky and Steve’s “permanent honeymoon glow, seriously, tone it down.” Alleged honeymoon glow aside, there was a way to win date nights, above and beyond just spending time with Steve, and that way involved effort and planning and maybe most importantly, having an actual sense of romance, which Steve, for all that he was a great best friend and devoted partner in nearly every other way, was sorely lacking.

Which was fine. Relationships were about compromise and spending time together and winning accidental competitions about romantic gestures. At least, Bucky hoped Steve thought this was a romantic gesture. Now that he thought about it, the chain of association that had led him to google “captain america underwear” was maybe less than obvious. Bucky might have gotten a bit carried away thanks to the excitement of recovering the specifics of a previously hazy memory.

But he’d remembered: a dimly lit, smoky bar and a disorienting new version of Steve. The promise— that little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight, I’m following him—that, Bucky had already remembered. The joke that wasn’t quite a joke that had come after it though—

But you’re keeping the outfit, right?

You know what? It’s kind of growing on me.

That part was new.

Bucky didn’t know if past him had meant to make it sound quite so suggestive. Judging by the sharp and heated look the Steve in his memory had given him in response, the tease in his words, Steve had noticed the innuendo. Heat and light had flashed and flared between them, like a match being struck, the brief flame illuminating the barest shape of that thing between them that neither of them had been willing or able to acknowledge back then. One or both of them had blown that flame out before it could singe their fingers.

Still, there’d been that spark of heat. And the old, impractical USO Cap uniform definitely had its charms. Those charms had proven pretty inspiring to present-Bucky.

Now, it wasn’t much of a date night win for Bucky if Bucky made Steve dress up, and Bucky didn’t find the idea of putting on the tights and hot pants himself all that appealing, but he figured if he could find some sufficiently appealing underwear, they could maybe try something new and fun…oh look, there was version 146 of men’s boxers with the Captain America shield on them. Bucky sighed and kept scrolling.

Maybe this was a dumb idea. Maybe Bucky and Steve just weren’t special date night underwear kind of people. God knew Steve barely seemed to notice Bucky’s standard boxer briefs; they were just an obstacle to reaching Bucky’s dick and ass. If he were honest, Bucky didn’t spare much thought for Steve’s underwear preferences either, beyond idly wishing they had an easier way to differentiate between their assortment of generic boxer briefs in neutral colors. Not being able to tell which underwear was whose made laundry sorting obnoxious.

And okay, clearly, this wasn’t a sexy idea at all if Bucky ended up thinking about sorting laundry. He’d just go back to the date night drawing board and—

Wait, here was an option. Bucky stopped scrolling and squinted at the small thumbnail of a pair of small, short, swimming trunk style briefs, in a pleasant powder blue color, with an image of the Captain America shield splayed precariously across the dick region. Bucky tilted his head and appraised the model’s slim waist and muscled torso. Yeah, Bucky could make that work. If nothing else, they were tight and short enough to make things more interesting than boring boxers, even if they were technically swimming trunks. Bucky clicked through to see the full image and listing.

“…what the fuck.”

He stared at the laptop screen, mouth open, eyes unblinking.

Once he’d gone through the full five plus stages of...well, not grief, but certainly some strong emotion that travelled through denial, horror, arousal, horror at said arousal, hilarity, bargaining, a little bit of anger, some disbelief tinged with awe at the vast and varied tapestry of human experience, and then, finally delight and only slightly hysterical resolve, Bucky bought three pairs of the swimming trunks.


They arrived a week later.

“Hey, what’s in the package?” asked Steve, tossing the slim, small box Bucky’s way.

The package. Bucky clamped viciously down on the giggles that threatened to escape him. Focus, Soldier, you have a mission here.

“Oh, just some cleaning supplies. You know, all the monitors and equipment in the garage need special wipes to make sure dust doesn’t mess up the…”

Steve immediately and visibly started tuning out the way he always did when Bucky talked about the details of his HYDRA hunting home office. Just to be safe, Bucky expounded for another minute or two about the very specific cleaning requirements of his highly specialized, high-powered computer setup, until he was sure Steve had mentally checked out and entirely forgotten about the package in favor of peering into the fridge.

“Lamb chops okay for dinner?” asked Steve.

“Sure,” said Bucky. Phase 1 complete.


Phase 2 was trying the damn trunks on. He’d gotten three different sizes, just in case, which was a good call because the first pair he tried wedged themselves firmly up his asscrack, which, no. The second pair fit perfectly. Bucky looked at himself in the bathroom mirror and promptly dissolved into hysterical laughter.

This was the other purpose of Phase 2: look at the ridiculous swim trunks enough so that he could keep a straight face, instead of laughing so hard he cried. Which, maybe he’d have to abort the mission right here, because holy shit. He’d thought this shit was hilarious enough on his laptop screen, but in person, on his own body, it was somehow so much worse. Or better. Really, it depended on your perspective.

Okay, okay, focus, Barnes. He clamped his lips together tightly and tried to settle his face into its best Winter Soldier blankness, and gave his reflection in the mirror an objective appraisal.

Leaving aside the…pattern, on the trunks, Bucky looked damn good in them. They were tight and tiny, and if there was one upside to being experimented on by a bunch of Nazis, it was his knockoff supersoldier serum-enhanced physique, which he knew for a fact was excellent, metal arm aside. He wasn’t exactly “swole” or whatever, but he wasn’t quite so brutally lean as he had been after escaping HYDRA either. Steve would, Bucky thought, be pretty into this whole situation. Not that Steve was all that picky when a scantily clad Bucky was on offer.

He turned to the side to get a rear view. Yeah, leg day was paying off. He didn’t care how much Sam made fun of him for doing hot yoga, the sweltering heat and all the stretching felt great when his shoulder and back ached from the weight of the metal arm, and clearly, all the lunging and pose-holding had other benefits. His ass looked amazing. The pattern on his ass on the other hand…Bucky stared, awed all over again that anyone had thought this was a good design choice. He peered more closely at the reflection of his ass. Was...was the shield positioned so that it looked like it was going into his ass? Holy shit, it was.

This revelation led to something of a setback for Phase 2, as Bucky ended up doubled over the bathroom sink, laughing hard enough to squeeze tears from his eyes. It took a few false starts before he could get himself under control again, but eventually he managed it and forced himself to soberly and seriously consider the pattern on the trunks. Exposure therapy had worked for the trigger words, it would work for this.

Like most Captain America-themed undergarments, the trunks had the shield on them. These trunks weren’t even unique in the placement of said shield directly over the dick and/or ass region. What was unique was that someone, for some reason, had thought it was a good idea to make said shield placement look like the shield had been thrown, with supersoldier force, to lodge itself edge first in what Bucky assumed was supposed to be some sort of concrete? There were lovingly rendered cracks drawn around where the shield was wedged sideways directly over the fabric that covered Bucky’s dick, and on his ass too, as if said dick and ass were just walls the shield had been slammed into.

Which. Well. Listen, Bucky had seen Steve throw the shield in the general vicinity of assorted Nazis’ family jewels. Bucky’s fervent admiration for Steve’s shield-throwing form aside, it was the opposite of a sexy sight. He’d seen the shield get wedged into concrete too, and during the war, that had always been occasion for a lot of shitty Excalibur jokes from Monty as Steve tried to free the shield.

Maybe there was some modern context Bucky was missing. Not that it mattered. What mattered here was Bucky’s innovative new plan to combine winning date night with pranking Steve. Because what was better than getting Steve all hot and bothered? Getting Steve hot and bothered while mildly terrorizing him with terrible Captain America merchandise, that was what.


Phase 3 of the plan was date night itself. Bucky kept it pleasant and unobjectionable with dinner and a show. Cleveland didn’t usually get the best of Broadway, but touring productions did come through, and Steve appreciated a good live musical so long as he wasn’t the one on stage. Bucky just liked watching the dancing.

Given the pie-centric theme of the musical they’d just watched, they ended up at a diner afterwards, where they ate slices of peach-apple crumble pie with gingersnap ice cream, one bite of which caused Steve to declare, “Okay, you won this date night,” as if Bucky had baked the pie himself. It was really good pie though.

“Night’s not over yet,” Bucky told him.

“You’ve got plans for when we get home?” asked Steve, and the way his voice went all low and sly made Bucky want to squirm with anticipation.

Also from how he was pretty sure the dumb swim trunks he was wearing under his jeans were giving him a wedgie. He was going to have to do some discreet adjusting before the big reveal.

“Yeah, I’ve got plans,” said Bucky, matching Steve’s tone. Steve finished his pie and ice cream pretty quickly after that.


Steve started getting pretty handsy the moment they walked into the house, his clever fingers already working open the buttons of Bucky’s shirt.

“That’s not part of the plan,” he said, because while Phase 4 had plenty of room for improvisation, there was no way Bucky wanted his grand reveal happening in the hallway, or on the way to the bedroom while Steve divested him of his clothing piece by piece.

Steve dutifully stopped unbuttoning Bucky’s shirt, and put his hands on Bucky’s hips instead, too close to the danger zone by far. Not that Bucky didn’t have very fond memories of that time—the multiple times—Steve had practically ripped Bucky’s pants off right in the damn hallway, but tonight wasn’t going to be a leave-a-trail-of-clothes-to-the-bedroom kind of night if Bucky could help it. 

“Hands to yourself, Rogers,” he said, then he took Steve’s hands and kissed them, looking up at Steve through his lashes. “Can you wait in the bedroom for me, sweetheart?”

Predictably, Steve went all soft and pink, and pulled him close for a proper, long kiss, which made Bucky go soft and pink too, probably.

“Anything I should be doing in the bedroom?” asked Steve when he pulled away.

“That part’s up to you. Just keep your eyes closed until I come in, okay?”

Steve’s eyebrows shot up, then his eyes flicked down the length of Bucky’s body, as if he could figure out what kind of surprise was waiting for him under Bucky’s date night outfit. Ha, as if he could ever guess. Although…Bucky made a note to himself to ask Steve just what he’d imagined Bucky was wearing.

“What kinda surprise am I in for here?”

“You’ll see,” said Bucky with a grin that he hoped didn’t look too obviously evil. “Go, and don’t peek!”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going!” Bucky headed for the bathroom, while Steve went to the bedroom, hands already over his eyes, the punk. “Don’t leave me hanging too long, Buck, or I’ll start without you!”

“You better not!” said Bucky, though the idea had some appeal, imagining Steve already turned on enough to— eyes on the prize , he told himself. That’s not part of Phase 4.

Bucky had considered doing a whole striptease thing, but a) that involved far too many opportunities to break and start laughing or otherwise give the game away, and b) there was absolutely nothing sexy about taking the cloaking nanomesh off his left arm, even if he knew Steve didn’t mind whether it was on or off. In the privacy of their own home, Bucky preferred it off. The cover—the nanomesh, Jack Murphy, and the whole carefully constructed edifice of his life—was for everywhere else. Inside their bedroom, he wanted them to be just Steve and Bucky.

Even if Bucky was wearing hilariously terrible Captain America-themed underwear/swim trunks.

He stripped down in the bathroom and adjusted the fit of the swim trunks, making sure the shield pattern was displayed to best effect. He checked the view from the rear too, and god, it was just as horrible and/or amazing as he remembered. He had to clap his hand over his mouth so Steve wouldn’t hear him laughing.

Once he was sure he could keep his shit together, he called out, “Your eyes better be closed right now, Rogers.”

“They’re closed, now get out here!”

When he went into the bedroom, he was greeted with the sight of a fully naked Steve on the bed, arms behind his head, legs crossed at the ankle, dick already half at attention, and, as promised, eyes closed. Bucky did his best impression of Steve’s dumbest Captain America pose, the one from the USO shows and propaganda posters: hands on hips, spine straight and shoulders back, noble and heroic tilt to his jaw. He nearly broke then and there. Keep it together, Barnes.

“Okay, you can open your eyes now.”

Just as Bucky had predicted, Steve didn’t even entirely notice what Bucky was wearing at first, too distracted by Bucky being mostly naked in front of him, which was sweet, kind of. It only took a few seconds for Steve’s eyes to zero in on Bucky’s dick though, and Bucky savored every single microsecond of every microexpression of hilarious confusion, horror, denial, arousal, and disbelief that flickered rapidly across Steve’s face as he took in the situation.

“What the hell are you wearing?” asked Steve.

Bucky beamed at him. “Do you like it? Thought I’d try something new.”

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “Um,” was all he managed, squinting now as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Time to go in for the kill.

“The shield’s on the back too!” said Bucky cheerfully, and turned around to demonstrate.

“What,” said Steve. Bucky did a little shimmy and wiggle. Steve made a sort of strangled gurgling noise. “ Why.”

He turned around again. “There’s a lot of Captain America themed underwear, Steve.” He bit his lower lip and looked at Steve with wide eyes, let his voice dip into a low and husky register. “I spent a lot of time looking for the perfect pair to show you and this was my favorite.”

“But— why. Why does the shield look like it’s—doing that. To your dick. And your ass.”

Bucky smiled beatifically. God, he loved Steve. He’d just given Bucky the perfect fucking opening. Bucky got on the bed and moved to straddle him, putting his arms around Steve’s shoulders but leaning back enough to make sure Steve still had a prime view of the shield decal. Steve’s hands moved to hold Bucky’s hips, automatically hot and covetous, even now.

“It’s a metaphor. Get it? Because I want you to—” And okay, Bucky apparently had a limit and this was it. Long-denied laughter bubbled out of him like a champagne bottle with a popped cork. He collapsed into a laughing fit strong enough to make him double over as Steve just sighed.

“A metaphor. Of course. You want me to ...?” prompted Steve, and even though Bucky had slumped forward to put his head on Steve’s shoulder, still laughing, he could hear the smile in Steve’s voice.

“You know—” managed Bucky between gales of laughter. Steve was stroking his back now, and each pass of his hands dipped a little lower towards Bucky’s ass. “Not literally destroy my, uh—”

“Uh huh, but metaphorically, sexually—”

Bucky nodded and managed to squeak out something like a yes between laughs, and only then did Steve start laughing too, the big and chest-shaking laugh that Bucky loved so much. Steve used to have to be careful with his laughter, holding it back lest he trigger an asthma attack. Now his body placed no limits on his joy, and if that had been all the serum had given them, Bucky would have been perfectly content.

“Okay, is that—is everyone who’s purchasing this underwear implying that they want me to…”

“I don’t know! They’re swim trunks, by the way. So they’re meant to be seen in public .”

Steve’s laughter took a turn for the horrified now, and he clutched Bucky towards him more tightly, which put their dicks in tantalizingly close contact. The trunks were definitely starting to feel pretty restrictive.

Oh my god. Why. The shield isn’t even phallic.”

This set Bucky off into a whole new round of hilarity, Steve following right after him. When Bucky was down to just hiccuping giggles, he asked, “So, I’m guessing you didn’t sign off on this use of the shield’s image?”

“No!” said Steve.

“And I’m guessing this isn’t turning you on?” asked Bucky, despite the evidence of Steve’s still very interested dick, as Steve’s hands migrated down to grope at Bucky’s ass, and okay, yeah, the tight swimming trunks situation was definitely growing untenable.

“I dunno, Buck, you’re in a tiny pair of really tight shorts. Think I can overlook what’s on those shorts given what’s in them,” said Steve, giving Bucky’s ass a firm squeeze that made him moan.

Then he got a good grip on Bucky’s thighs, and executed a neat little roll so he was on top, which was about when Bucky started getting breathless for reasons other than a laughing fit. It turned out that Steve was absolutely down with metaphorically-as-in-sexually wrecking Bucky, and it was a lot more pleasant than having the shield flung at his private parts.


Later, after the trunks had been thrown aside who knew where and when they were both curled up together under the sheets, Steve asked, “So am I gonna open the underwear drawer tomorrow morning to find only Captain America themed underwear?”

“Now why would I do a thing like that,” mumbled Bucky into smooth skin of Steve’s chest.

“I wouldn’t be entirely opposed if they were your underwear, I guess. Just a lot of pairs of boxers with the shield on the ass--”

“Subtext: this ass property of Steve Rogers?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm, guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”


Bucky had naively assumed that a night of very good sex—another solid date night win, thank you very much, Bucky’s lead was still very comfortable—would cancel out the prank with the underwear. For weeks, Bucky assumed it had. Clearly, Steve had just been lulling him into a false sense of security. Because now, at the conclusion of one of Steve’s date night wins, Bucky was staring at their bed, which was entirely covered with teddy bears of various sizes.

“Steve...what the hell is on our bed?”

Steve, already in just his boxer briefs, bounced happily onto the bed, displacing about half a dozen teddy bears that tumbled onto the floor. He sat up and threw one of the smaller teddy bears at Bucky, and Bucky caught it automatically.

“Oh no,” he said once he got a closer look at it and its blue jacket and black domino mask. 

“Oh yes ,” said Steve, grinning wide and manic. He threw his arms wide. “Bucky Bears! They’re all Bucky Bears.”

No ,” said Bucky, but too late, the memories were flooding back, his past self’s outrage at the indignity of being reduced to not only a comic book sidekick but also a stuffed toy bear coming back just as strong as when he’d first felt it, despite the intervening decades of freezing and amnesia.

“Aren’t they adorable?”

Bucky’s hands spasmed on the dumb, cute bear. “I am a sniper. I am an assassin. Why did they make cute little cuddly teddy bears modeled off of me?!”

“I mean, sure you’re a sniper and an assassin but you’re also very cute and cuddly,” said Steve, all earnest, wide eyes. 

Bucky gave him his best I’m-dead-inside Winter Soldier glare, but Steve was unmoved, and he just beamed at Bucky as if this too was an example of Bucky being ‘cute’ and ‘cuddly.’ Bucky threw the Bucky Bear directly at said beaming grin, and Steve laughed as he caught it. He grabbed another bear, this one larger, and lobbed it at Bucky. 

“I made some adjustments to this one myself,” said Steve, and Bucky grudgingly examined the bear.

It was about a foot and a half tall, with dark brown fur, soft and squishy like all good teddy bears should be. But rather than the comic book sidekick outfit, or even an accurate approximation of Bucky’s actual Howling Commandos’ uniform, this one had a left arm coated in shiny silver fabric, and its uniform was all black. He looked more closely at the silver left arm; instead of a red star at the shoulder, there was a carefully stitched patch of Steve’s shield instead. The bear didn’t have a mask or goggles on either, and this, somehow, was what made Bucky’s throat go tight. 

“That one’s my favorite,” said Steve, his voice gone achingly soft and tender, and Bucky looked up to see that Steve’s face had no trace of mischief left on it, only open affection. Practically without conscious thought, Bucky found himself in Steve’s lap, displacing even more teddy bears from the bed to scatter across their bedroom floor. Steve wrapped him up in his arms, and kissed his temple, then his nose, then his lips. “Well, my favorite apart from you, obviously.”

When Bucky was sure he could trust his voice, he said, “This isn’t much of a prank if you immediately turn it sappy, Rogers.”

“Who said it was a prank? Maybe I just love Bucky Bears a lot.”

“Well they can’t live in the bedroom, I refuse to have sex in a room full of teddy bear versions of me, and if that’s your new fetish—”

Steve laughed and fell back on the bed, taking Bucky with him. “Nah, I think that would be a definite date night loser. We can donate most of the bears to shelters and schools.”

“Most of them?” asked Bucky. He disentangled himself a little from Steve’s arms to squint suspiciously up at him. “I was thinking all but one of them.” 

“Four of them,” bargained Steve. He started groping behind him with one arm.

“Two,” Bucky countered. Steve made a triumphant little a-ha grunt.

“Three, and one of them is this one,” he said, and presented Bucky with yet another damned Bucky Bear. This one was naked, as teddy bears went, except for a tiny pair of light blue shorts. A pair of light blue shorts with a familiarly horrible and amazing shield decal on them. Bucky buried his groan and then his laughter in Steve’s bare chest. “This little guy doesn’t look quite as good in them as you did, but—”

“Oh my god, truce, truce, we’ll leave pranks out of date night, I promise,” said Bucky, and then, countless watching teddy bear eyes be damned, he kissed Steve’s smiling mouth until Steve went gasping and boneless under him.

 

Chapter 13: A Very Specific, Sweater-Inspired Aesthetic

Summary:

“This is nice, right?” murmured Steve into Bucky’s ear as he threw his arm around Bucky’s shoulders and tucked him in close and warm against him.

“It’s nice, yeah,” Bucky told Steve.

He surveyed the cozy, tastefully decorated Christmas scene taking place in their living room, with Sam and Natasha nursing mugs of eggnog on the couch opposite them, and Bing Crosby crooning Christmas carols softly in the background. Hell, snow was even falling outside, just enough of a gentle dusting to make the night glimmer and glow. Nice was a small word for it, thought Bucky, feeling something too pleased to be surprise. He could admit now that Steve had been right to suggest they actually do something for Christmas this year.

Notes:

Inspired by, of course, that sweater Chris Evans wears in Knives Out.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“This is nice, right?” murmured Steve into Bucky’s ear as he threw his arm around Bucky’s shoulders and tucked him in close and warm against him.

“It’s nice, yeah,” Bucky told Steve. 

He surveyed the cozy, tastefully decorated Christmas scene taking place in their living room, with Sam and Natasha nursing mugs of eggnog on the couch opposite them, and Bing Crosby crooning Christmas carols softly in the background. Hell, snow was even falling outside, just enough of a gentle dusting to make the night glimmer and glow. Nice was a small word for it, thought Bucky, feeling something too pleased to be surprise. He could admit now that Steve had been right to suggest they actually do something for Christmas this year.

“It’s blessedly quiet is what it is,” said Sam with a happy sigh. “I love my family and all, but Christmas with all of them is kind of an ordeal.”

“I’m just here for the eggnog and the cookies,” said Natasha.

“And do they meet with your approval?” asked Steve, and Bucky could hear the smile in his voice.

Natasha shrugged, though her studied nonchalance wasn’t particularly convincing given her eggnog mustache and the twinkle in her eyes.

“They’re alright,” she said.

“I already packed up a box of cookies for you,” Bucky told her, and she smiled into her mug.

The cookies had been Bucky’s main contribution to their holiday celebrations, because while Bucky could take or leave Christmas, cookies were always welcome.

It wasn’t like Bucky was some sort of Scrooge. He’d just been kind of skeptical and wary of actually doing Christmas this year. Or, really, any year. Christmas in the 21st century seemed liked a lot to Bucky: a lot of enforced cheer, a lot of stuff, a lot of expectations. It was stressful, overwhelming with all the relentless advertising and decorations. There was something about the disjuncture between his scattered memories of Christmas and the modern version of Christmas that unsettled him, that made modern Christmas seem like a fever dream constantly on the verge of tipping into a nightmare, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Better to just power through and ignore it, and focus on appreciating peppermint mochas and a few weeks off from teaching. That was what he’d done since breaking free of HYDRA, anyway.

Last year, Steve had made a doubtless heroic effort to suppress his holiday spirit and respect Bucky’s Christmas ambivalence, and they’d kept things low-key: they’d had a nice meal and exchanged a couple of practical presents, but otherwise Christmas Eve and Christmas Day had been normal, quiet days spent puttering around the house and keeping each other warm, in ways both practical and fun. This year though, Sam’s parents were on a cruise in the Caribbean and Natasha hadn’t disappeared to wherever she went when she wasn’t on a mission, so Steve had carefully floated the idea of the four of them celebrating Christmas together.

Nothing big! Just dinner together and exchanging some presents? And maybe we could get a tree, decorate a little? 

Bucky hadn’t been able to say no to Steve’s big, pleading eyes, and now, sitting in their living room in the glow of their Christmas tree’s soft white lights, listening to Steve and Sam and Nat’s easy conversation, Christmas in the 21st century didn’t seem overwhelming at all. Something was still missing, maybe, the scene not yet settling in Bucky’s mind as familiar, but it was comfortable and warm, their friends were here, and Steve was happy. All in all, Bucky was actually feeling the Christmas spirit for once.

He was almost dozing off against Steve’s shoulder when the word presents caught his attention.

“When are we gonna open those presents under the tree?” asked Sam.

God, how could Bucky have forgotten about presents. 

“Let me guess,” said Natasha. “You were the kind of kid who was up at 5 AM on Christmas morning, dragging your parents out of bed so you could see what Santa got you.”

“I plead the fifth,” Sam said with a grin, before making a grabbing gesture with his hands. “Now come on, I want my presents. Even if they’re all dumbass gag gifts.”

Sam was directing a narrow-eyed, suspicious look at Bucky, and Bucky just gave Sam his most innocent smile in return. He’d gotten a sincere if practical gift for Steve, and he knew Steve had committed fully to the holiday spirit, but Sam maybe wasn’t wrong to assume it might be gag gifts all around apart from that. Although, Bucky thought he’d done a pretty damned good job of finding gifts that were simultaneously sincere while also being dumb gag gifts. It helped when your friends were superheroes who had their own merchandise.

“Alright, alright,” said Steve with an exaggeratedly put-upon sigh. “I thought Christmas was about spending time together, but I guess the presents are important too.”

Steve got up from the couch, leaving Bucky’s side far colder than he wanted it to be, so Bucky got up too and joined Steve at the base of the tree, ostensibly to help him play Santa and sort out the presents. He got pretty immediately derailed by the sight of his own presents though, the three small, brightly wrapped and beribboned packages gleaming. Bucky abruptly realized that maybe he’d been that kid who was up at 5 AM on Christmas morning too.

“These are for Sam…and here are Natasha’s…and here’s one for you, Buck…” 

Neither Sam nor Bucky waited for Steve to finish before they started opening their presents. Steve rolled his eyes, but kept distributing the presents.

Predictably, Sam’s gift to Bucky was a gag gift: a mug with equations scribbled on it and the words I’M A MATH TEACHER OF COURSE I HAVE PROBLEMS, which did actually make Bucky laugh and was definitely going to make his students groan when they saw it, so honestly, it was a pretty great gift. It helped that Sam had included a bag of nice coffee beans, hot cocoa mix, and a set of fancy pens along with the mug.

“Thanks, Sam,” Bucky told him, as Sam opened up his gift from Bucky with an expression halfway between excited and suspicious.

“Holy shit,” said Sam as he opened up the box. “Since when do I have merch? I’m not even officially part of the Avengers!”

Sam pulled out a t-shirt emblazoned with an image of himself in full Falcon gear, standing in a ridiculous heroic pose, hands on hips and wings outstretched. Bucky’s trawl through the internet for Falcon-related clothing had yielded a lot of genuinely cool and artful t-shirt designs. This wasn’t one of those. No, this was the t-shirt equivalent of the cover of a pulp novel, and not, it had to be said, one of the more well-done ones.

“It’s not official or anything,” said Bucky. “But after that thing with the aliens in Chicago, you’ve got some big fans, and some of those fans have Etsy shops.”

Sam pulled out the handmade Falcon stuffed toy next. Bucky had gotten the most stupidly adorable one he could find, so it was a round, cartoonish-looking stuffed falcon wearing goggles and an approximation of Sam’s uniform. It wasn’t quite as embarrassing as a Bucky Bear, but Bucky would take what he could get. Sam squeezed the plump toy carefully, his mouth twitching into a smile as if despite himself.

“Aww, that’s adorable,” said Steve with a grin. “Bucky, you shoulda gotten another one, we could’ve put it with the Bucky Bears.”

The thought had occurred to Bucky, not that he was ever going to admit it to Steve. “Keep talking like that and I’m filling the house with Captain Ameribears,” he warned, and Steve laughed.

“I gotta get more of these for my nephews,” declared Sam. “And the joke's on you, because I’m gonna wear this shirt all the damn time. Thanks, Bucky!”

“Do I even want to know what you two got me?” asked Natasha as she reached for her gifts.

“Don’t look at me, I played it safe,” said Sam with raised hands. “I’ve got a sense of self-preservation.” 

“Smart man,” Natasha told him, then she opened her present from him to reveal a hat, gloves, and scarf, all in a matching soft dove gray color. “They’re lovely Sam, thanks!” she said, and leaned over to kiss Sam on the cheek. She opened Bucky’s present next, raising a sardonic eyebrow at him. “Did you plumb the depths of Etsy for a stuffed spider with a red wig glued on it or what?”   

“Hey now, your merch is official, I think. And practical,” said Bucky. He watched Natasha’s face nervously. 

He was pretty sure she’d find her gift as funny as he did, but maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she’d think it was in horribly poor taste. Fuck, he should have vetted her gift with Steve, or played it safe like Sam had. He must have fidgeted or something, because Natasha’s eyes went warm and she smiled at him, a silent, we’re good, don’t worry, before she actually saw her gift and grinned. She laughed incredulously as she pulled out the set of workout gear decked out with Black Widow’s colors, complete with a red hourglass at the waist and stamped all over the shirt, in defiance of any kind of arachnid anatomical accuracy. Bucky had, thoughtfully, bought the matching leg warmers, wristbands, and headband too, of course.

“If my old Red Room handlers had graves, they’d be spinning in them,” said Natasha with delight. “What amazing capitalist garbage this is. Thank you, I’m absolutely going to wear all of this. Like, now.”

She put on the headband—black with yet another red hourglass stitched on it—and slid the terry cloth wristbands on too.

“Huh, you know, you could use those to cover up your Widow’s bites,” remarked Sam.

“Right, but I feel like all the branding isn’t gonna be great for any cover you might have going,” said Steve. “Talk about the opposite of stealth.”

“Are you kidding me? Who’d ever expect the actual Black Widow to be wearing her own dumb merch? It’s the perfect cover. Anyone would assume I was a really intense fan instead of the actual Black Widow.”

“Exactly,” said Bucky, pleased that she’d hit on the same reasoning he had in buying the gift. They shared a smile as Sam rolled his eyes at them, muttering something about spies and assassins.

“Alright, well I don’t know how I’m going to beat those thoughtful gifts, but here,” Steve said, and passed along his own gifts for Sam and Natasha.

“Uh, excuse you,” said Bucky as Sam and Natasha ripped open the wrapping on their packages. “Why do you think I went with gag gifts? There’s no way I can ever compete with you giving your own art as a gift, Steve.”

Bucky had watched Steve paint the small canvases, after all, and that had been its own kind of gift, to see Steve lavish such painstaking attention on the paintings, and to know they were for people who’d love them the way Bucky loved Steve’s paintings. Steve had been nervous as hell about the paintings, but he didn’t have any reason to be, and Sam’s reaction proved why.

“Holy shit, this is amazing,” said Sam, wide-eyed. “Steve—god, it looks just like how flying feels.”

It was more spare than Steve’s usual work, almost abstract in how the few careful, sweeping brush strokes created the form of a bird in flight, stark and yearning against the backdrop of a clear sky. Steve had fussed endlessly over the composition, worrying that it needed something more, but Bucky thought it was perfect just the way it was: one bird, sunlight, and a deep and endlessly blue sky.

“It’s really beautiful, Steve,” said Natasha softly.

“C’mon, open yours,” Bucky told her, as Steve went tense with nerves beside him, practically holding his breath when Natasha pulled the wrapping away from the small canvas. Bucky took Steve’s hand and squeezed it in silent encouragement.

Steve had been agonizing over what to paint for Natasha since October, to the point that Bucky had very nearly just texted Natasha himself to ask her what she’d like a painting of. Just before Bucky actually took that particular drastic measure though, Steve had finally settled on painting a portrait of her. I want her to know that I see her, I guess. That I don’t need her to have a cover with me.

I think she’d like that, Bucky had told Steve, and he really hoped he was right. He was pretty sure he was. Maybe Bucky was biased, but he’d always found Steve’s portraits to be loving things, their every line evidence of an attention so delicate and careful that it couldn’t be anything other than love. The portrait of Natasha was no exception: he’d painted her in half-profile, looking out from the canvas with a small but genuine smile that was almost shy. Steve had managed to capture her sly kindness, how it contrasted against the hardness only just visible in her eyes, and the tilt of her head suggested something of the defiant strength it had taken her to claw her way free of the Red Room.

“It, uh, might not be the best since you didn’t sit for me and I was working off memory and photos, but—I hope you like it.”

Natasha put a hand over her mouth, and stared at the painting with wide and teary eyes. Bucky knew the feeling, a little; after so many years of being sketched and painted by Steve, he was used to seeing himself rendered lovingly on the pages of Steve’s sketchbooks, but he knew that it could feel uncomfortably like being stripped bare, that it could show things you’d thought were safely hidden away. He’d never much liked most of the sketches Steve had done of him during the war for just that reason: they’d shown too clearly how hollow Bucky had felt, how exhausted. In some ways, Steve’s art was more truthful than a photo could ever be, at least about the things that mattered, and this portrait of Natasha practically glowed with truth. A good truth, in this case, about how much Steve cared for her and how she was working hard to be a good person.  

“Steve,” she whispered, and wiped away any tears before they could fall. “I don’t even know what to say. Thank you.”

Steve was clinging to Bucky’s hand pretty hard at this point, possibly because he wasn’t sure if Natasha’s tears were happy tears or not, which was dumb of him. Of course they were happy tears. Bucky squeezed his hand right back in an attempt to convey this, but Steve was caught up in an anxiety spiral by now probably, so he said, “I can paint you literally anything else if you don’t like—”

“I love it, are you kidding me. It’s—it means a lot to me that you painted this. That you painted me like—well, you know,” she said, and Steve nodded. She sniffed. “Now open up my presents to all of you so I can have an emotional moment in peace here.”

Sam gave her a quick sideways hug and said, “Yes, ma’am,” and they all occupied themselves with more unwrapping.

Sam’s gift from Natasha was an enormous box set of DVDs for—Bucky squinted and tilted his head to read the titles on the spines—Grey’s Anatomy.

“Who told you?” hissed Sam. “Also, thank you, but seriously, who narced on me.”

“I included a box of tissues too,” Natasha said sweetly, and Sam groaned.

Bucky was feeling a little apprehensive about his gift from Natasha by now, but when he opened it, he sighed in relief.

“Hey, thanks,” he told her.

“Sorry it’s such a boring and practical gift, but I figured you could use a new nano mesh to cover your prosthetic. This one’s got a few bells and whistles that should work better with your arm. And anyway, Steve’s gift is also kind of a gift for you too, so…”

“Natasha, I swear to god if it’s a sex toy…” muttered Steve, already flushing red, but when he pulled the gift free of its festive gold tissue paper, it was just a sweater.

A really nice sweater, to be fair, with a thick cable knit in a soft cream color. Steve unfolded it with no small amount of suspicion, possibly anticipating some horrible logo on the chest, but it was a normal sweater. Which, judging by the slightly devious twinkle in Natasha’s eye, might have been the gag.

“Nice sweater,” remarked Sam. “Is it in a size smedium like all of Steve’s other shirts and sweaters?”

“Try it on,” said Natasha, and when Steve still looked suspicious, she rolled her eyes. “Seriously, it’s just a sweater. I saw it, I thought you’d look good in it, and it seemed warm.”

“Alright, well thank you. It is really nice,” said Steve, and took off the sweater he was currently wearing to try on the new one.

The first thing Bucky noticed was that it was not, in fact, a delightfully too-tight smedium. It was actually a little loose on Steve’s ridiculous muscled frame, in a way that made him look warm and cozy. The second thing Bucky noticed was that Steve looked really good in it. Like, really good. Steve’s whole look right now, with the way he’d let his hair grow out, and his neat beard, and now the sweater—it was a lot. It was a very specific aesthetic that Bucky had not previously known was sexually appealing—it was a sweater for god’s sake, it demurely covered up all of Steve’s most interesting parts from the neck down and the waist up—and yet, here was Bucky, feeling like he wanted to crawl into Steve’s lap immediately.

Instead, he said, “This is definitely also a gift for me, thank you, Natasha.” 

Dear, sweet Steve didn’t get it. “We can share the sweater, it’s really warm,” he said, in absolute earnestness.

“Absolutely not,” said Bucky. “You’re the only one who looks like a, I don’t know, fishing boat captain or sexy lighthouse keeper in it.” 

Sexy lighthouse keeper? Was that the aesthetic that was doing it for Bucky right now? He mentally superimposed the image of Steve in this sweater over an idyllic, isolated rocky coastline and felt some kind of way about it, so yes, apparently that was the aesthetic that was appealing to some heretofore unknown part of Bucky.

“What? Since when is a sexy lighthouse keeper a thing?” asked Steve, adorably befuddled.

“If it wasn’t before, it is now,” said Natasha.

Steve did not look any more enlightened as to the nature of his current appeal, and when he exchanged a questioning glance with Sam, Sam shrugged. 

“Don’t look at me, man, I don’t get it either.”

“Just accept that this is like your thing for my sexy teacher look or whatever,” Bucky told Steve, and Steve blushed.

“Okay, for the record, I do not have a sexy teacher thing, it’s just, when you have a beard, and the glasses—”

“We do not need to know,” interrupted Sam. “Just open the last of your presents, please.”

Steve reached for Sam's present first, and it wasn't a surprise when he unwrapped the flat, square present to reveal a stack of records: Bucky recognized a couple of them from Steve's never-ending list of 20th century catch up, and another couple looked vaguely familiar, maybe from Sam's attempts at improving their music taste.

"If you don't like Earth Wind and Fire, you are not allowed to tell me," said Sam. "But I hope you like all of them."

"I'm sure I will," said Steve. "Thanks, Sam."

Only Steve and Bucky’s presents for each other were left under the tree now: one medium-sized box wrapped neatly in ridiculous but cute Captain America with a Santa hat wrapping paper for Steve, and one small, thin and flat box wrapped in tasteful silver snowflake-patterned wrapping paper for Bucky. Bucky didn’t open his gift quite yet though. He wanted to see what Steve thought of his gift first.

Bucky had no reason to be nervous as Steve opened up his gift: art supplies were a pretty safe bet when it came to good gifts for Steve, and had been a safe bet for literal decades at this point. Still, Bucky watched with anxious excitement as Steve carefully unwrapped the gift to reveal a finely made wooden box. Because he was Steve, he took a moment to appreciate the box, running a hand over the wood’s fine grain.

“The box isn’t the gift, Steve,” Bucky told him.

“I know,” said Steve. “But it’s lovely craftsmanship.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it from that woodworker lady who’s got a booth at the farmer’s market. Now open it up already.”

After one last appreciative stroke over the box’s lid, Steve undid the latch to reveal a set of oil paints. Bucky had splurged on the really nice, fancy kind, the kind that he knew Steve couldn’t bring himself to buy on his own. There was still, Bucky suspected, a part of Steve that calculated the cost of art supplies against a month’s rent in 1940, never mind inflation and how they had the money to spare nowadays. 

“It’s nothing special,” said Bucky, as Steve ran his fingers over the tubes of paint nestled in the box. “I just figured you were starting to run low on your oil paints. This is supposed to be a pretty good brand.”

At least, Bucky sure hoped it was a good brand. Four hours of exhaustive internet research and three art supply store clerks had assured him it was, and if they were all wrong, he was going to leave some sternly-worded reviews.

Steve smiled down at the paints, his touch lingering on the tube of green, thumb rubbing tenderly along the label for a moment. When Steve looked up, the open adoration on his face made Bucky go hot with sudden shyness. Surely a totally standard gift of art supplies didn’t warrant that much dewy-eyed affection. Not that Bucky was complaining, really.

“They’re perfect, Buck. Exactly what I needed,” Steve said, raw and rough, and reached for him.

“It’s just paint,” Bucky mumbled into Steve’s new sweater, his face still hot as Steve held him tight and close. “You go through a lot of it.”

“I know,” said Steve. “And you always get me more. Thank you.”

Steve kissed him then, deep and devoted enough to leave Bucky almost dizzy, a promise of always in it that made Bucky wish they were alone right now. As was evident when Sam showily cleared his throat, they weren’t alone, so he started to pull away with a sigh.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” he murmured, gratified when Steve held him even tighter, before he let Bucky go with one more kiss.

“You’ve still gotta open your present,” Steve told him.

It seemed almost superfluous at this point, which was probably the true Christmas spirit or something, but Bucky opened his last present anyway, confused when the small box yielded a sheet of neatly folded paper nestled amid some tissue paper and tinsel. When he unfolded the paper, he saw what looked like a schedule, an orderly list of dates and times alongside things like Bread Baking, Rolls Rolls Rolls and Introductory Couples Pottery.

“It’s kind of an intangible gift,” said Steve sheepishly. “I, uh, signed us up to take some classes together, for fun. Baking classes, and, um, pottery? I thought it could be fun.”

Bucky looked over the schedule of classes carefully: one every other week or so, starting in January, and going through June. This was a promise too, he realized. A promise that he’d be here, with Bucky: fewer long missions, more time at home. And there was something else too, a memory—

“Like that art class we took together, back in ‘41,” realized Bucky, and Steve beamed, eyes sparkling.

Bucky had honestly only taken that class with Steve as a goad to get Steve himself to take it at all. He’d been digging his heels in about the cost, about how it wasn’t practical, how he wasn’t good enough for it. So Bucky had said, well now I’m taking the class too so you can at least be sure you won’t be the worst artist there. And once Steve had shed some of his prickly pride about it, it had been a fun thing to do together, more than worthwhile to Bucky just for the chance to see Steve at work.

“Yeah, just like that,” Steve said, then he added, “Might have to miss a few classes here and there, if something comes up. But they’ve got make up days you can sign up for. Is that—is that okay?”

“Yeah, Steve, it’s okay,” Bucky told him with a smile. “Not sure if I’ll be any good at pottery, but I’m game to try.”

“You’ll be great at it,” said Steve, with a lot of loyalty and absolutely zero evidence, which was very sweet of him.

“I call dibs on your first undoubtedly lopsided creation,” said Natasha, and Bucky laughed.

“Who gives a damn about your probably terrible pots? These cookies are great, I want the results of your baking class, Barnes.”

“Not my baking?” asked Steve, affecting a wounded tone.

“Are you kidding me? Your cooking’s improved, Steve, dinner tonight was great, but I remember that birthday cake you tried to make Bucky.”

“Wait, what cake, you got me a nice one from the bakery—”

“Yeah, after he made a real tragedy of a cake—”

Steve groaned. “Sam, no—”

Bucky grinned and tugged Steve back up so they could get back on the couch, then settled himself comfortably against Steve’s now thoroughly cozy chest to listen to Sam’s story of Steve’s baking failures. He was already looking forward to the baking class and watching Steve get hilariously frazzled and competitive about it. If this was how all his Christmases in the 21st century were going to go, Bucky was maybe ready to let go of his holiday celebration ambivalence.


A Post-Holiday Postscript:

Steve wore the sweater Natasha gave him a lot that winter. He still didn’t understand why Bucky liked it so much, clearly, because he kept getting Bucky similarly thick, cozy sweaters, as if the issue here was that Bucky was into said sweater in a general kind of way, as a fashion choice. Bucky wasn’t about to turn down the sweaters, especially not when Steve got all sweet and soft, saying I just like to make sure you’re staying warm, Buck. Ugh. Ridiculous. But Bucky was very warm, and the more he saw Steve in that ridiculously perfect cream-colored sweater, the more his thoughts turned to majestic sweeping vistas of a restless ocean, rocky coastlines, lighthouses, etc., until Bucky had to concede to himself that this was not some weird amnesia side effect or passing whim. It was a Thing. Not a sex thing, but it was definitely something. 

It took until February for him to realize he could do something about it. He could make this daydream aesthetic a reality. 

“Hey, Steve? What do you think about going on a vacation when I’m off for spring break?” Bucky asked him during one of their baking classes. 

Steve looked up from where he was painstakingly piping frosting in an intricate flower shape onto a cupcake. While Steve wasn’t super great at the, like, baking part of baking, he was doing his damndest to make up for it with his skill at decorating.

“Sounds good to me, Buck. Where to?”

“Somewhere outdoorsy. Rent a nice cabin, spend a week hiking or relaxing, whatever. Nothing fancy.”

“That’d be nice. Somewhere with good views? I could paint.”

Yes, thought Bucky. It’s all coming together.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, totally casual. “I’ll find a place to book. I was thinking somewhere in the Northeast? Weather shouldn’t be too cold or too hot.”

Steve smiled at him before returning his attention to his frosting. “I’d like that, Buck.”


When they arrived at Bucky’s carefully chosen vacation rental, Bucky thought yes, this is it. This is the ideal setting for the Sweater. 

Their rental was a decommissioned lighthouse and its attached house, located on a barely populated island off the coast of Maine that was only accessible by a 40-minute boat ride. It was part of Acadia National Park and off the grid, running off of solar energy and a generator, and there was no road to get to it, just a hiking trail. The house and lighthouse were right on the shore, so that the waves lapping and crashing against the rocks that made up the shoreline were just a few yards away from the house. Cell reception was spotty, there was no internet, and their closest neighbors were miles away.

It was, in short, extremely safe, ideally remote, and incredibly defensible. The part of Bucky’s brain that was always calculating risks and weak points and opportunities for attack or defense made a perfunctory grumble about the possibility of bear attacks and storm surges, then went blessedly quiet. 

“Wow Buck, this is gorgeous,” said Steve. 

They took a moment to look around, now that they were off the trail. Tall pines bordered the property all along one side, and on the other side was the stony shoreline and its uninterrupted view of the Atlantic Ocean. The effect was somewhat rugged, but lovely with it, and the sight of the wide and calm expanse of the Atlantic Ocean loosened something in Bucky, like a gentle unwinding.

He turned to Steve. “Worth the trek?”

“Yeah, more than. We’ve got the whole house?” asked Steve, turning his attention back towards the three-story house, its white paint standing out against the green and grey and blue of the surroundings.

“Yup. I know, it’s big for just us, but I booked the whole thing, didn’t wanna share with strangers if we didn’t have to.”

A cold breeze blew in off the Atlantic and Steve turned back towards the sea, sighing happily even as he shivered a little in the chill. The hike up with all their stuff had kept them both warm enough in the spring temperatures, but now with no trees to screen them from the briny ocean breeze, Bucky had to suppress a shiver, and he saw goosebumps rising on Steve’s forearms where the sleeves of his shirt were pushed up.

“You should put on your sweater,” Bucky suggested, and Steve hummed in assent, setting his pack down to rummage inside it.

Bucky had packed the Sweater on the top, of course, because he had planned for this exact scenario. When Steve finally put it on, a sense of total rightness suffused Bucky. Aesthetic achieved. Maybe he’d made some kind of noise, or sighed or something, because Steve looked at him suspiciously. Bucky smiled at him, hopefully with the glow of the totally innocent and totally vindicated. This had been an excellent idea and everything about this vacation was already perfect. 

Steve looked down at his sweater, then towards the lighthouse, then back at Bucky.

“This is a really elaborate set up for some sexy lighthouse keeper roleplay, Buck.”

Bucky bit his lip and tried out his best innocent look. “Excuse me? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just wanted a nice vacation with my best guy at a beautiful remote location by the sea.”

“Uh huh. And it has nothing to do with your weird thing about this sweater?”

“The sweater was just the inspiration, Steve. And anyway, I don’t even know what sexy lighthouse keeper roleplay would be.”

Bucky was tentatively interested though, if only for the hilarious possibilities inherent in Steve attempting to roleplay. Bucky had seen Steve’s old Captain America propaganda movies. Steve had many talents, but acting was not one of them. 

“I’m a sexy lighthouse keeper and you’re a...dashing, roguish pirate?” tried Steve.

Bucky squinted, opened his mouth, then closed it again, considering. “No, I don’t get it, what’s the storyline there? What do pirates have to do with remote lighthouses?”

“Jesus, you’re asking me? I don’t know, maybe you’re a pirate who’s wrecked his ship on the shore.”

“That would make you a pretty shitty lighthouse keeper, Steve. Like, it’s your literal one job: stop shipwrecks.”

“This is your—you know what, whatever, sure, it’s not a sex thing.”

“It’s not! It’s an aesthetic, it’s a vibe.”

“A vibe,” said Steve faintly. “You spend too much time around teenagers.”

Bucky shoved him towards the house, but gently. “Whatever, let’s go inside. Give it a day and you’ll understand why this whole aesthetic with a lighthouse vacation is a great idea.”

“I don’t object to this beautiful remote vacation by the sea scenario you’ve set up here,” said Steve, obediently walking towards the house. “But if you’re gonna be like this about the sweater, then I’m gonna have to insist that you let your beard grow back. That’s gonna be your aesthetic contribution to the vibe.”

“Yeah, okay,” said Bucky absently, already plotting ways to come up with a dumb pirate costume on short notice. 

This beautiful remote vacation by the sea wasn’t a sex thing now, sure, but if Steve was going to float the ridiculous and hilarious possibility of sexy lighthouse keeper and dashing pirate roleplay, then by god, Bucky was going to find a way to make it happen. 

Steve glanced over his shoulder at Bucky, a familiar look of wry affection in his eyes.

“I can feel you plotting back there, Buck. I thought we agreed, no more date night pranks!”

“Sure, sure. No pranks, no plotting,” said Bucky, jogging ahead of Steve to unlock the house’s door. 

Was this really a date night though? Bucky didn’t think so. Also, it wasn’t exactly a prank. Maybe Bucky wanted to explore the erotic possibilities of sexy lighthouse keeper and dashing pirate roleplay! Who was Steve to say Bucky wasn’t being entirely earnest? Steve knew him too damn well apparently, because judging by the sigh and soft laugh from behind him, Steve had guessed at the direction of Bucky’s thoughts. 

As Bucky opened the door, Steve crowded behind him, tugging Bucky’s pack off of his shoulders and letting it thump onto the ground, then doing the same for his own. He spun Bucky around and pulled him close for a kiss then, and their lips fit together awkwardly with the way Steve couldn’t stop smiling, but it was still perfect.

“Before you spend this entire vacation coming up with an elaborate pirate backstory...” started Steve, in between kisses. 

“That doesn’t sound like something I would do,” lied Bucky, and Steve snorted.

“How about we just agree that we’re both the sexy lighthouse keeper?”

“Hmm, alright. You’re really missing out on my excellent pirate name though.”

Steve’s face twitched as he attempted not to laugh, and he rested his forehead against Bucky’s. “Yeah? Do I even want to know? Let me guess, Silverarm?”

“Steven Grant Rogers, you disappoint me. I was thinking the Swashbuckler,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows. “Get it?”

Steve made a sound like Bucky had just stabbed him. “You’re the actual worst, oh my god,” he said, but Bucky just grinned and kissed him again.

Notes:

Did I recycle that dumb swashbuckler joke from my SGA/MCU crossover? why yes, yes I did. no regrets

Also, this is where Bucky is achieving his ideal, Sweater-inspired sexy lighthouse keeper goals, it is a real place that you too can rent for the price of $2,500 a week and the fortitude it takes to get there. It's for sale, apparently, so feel free to imagine that Bucky ends up buying the place as a "safe house."

 

eta: did i forget Sam's gift to Steve when I first posted this chapter? MAYBE. shhh, it's fine, don't worry about it, i added it.

Chapter 14: teakettle love, I'd do anything

Summary:

Nick Fury comes for a visit. It goes about as well as can be expected.

Notes:

I hope lockdown and/or quarantine and/or this new socially distancing due to pandemic life are treating you all as well as can be expected! I am working from home under a shelter in place order for the foreseeable future, and tragically, this is not the boon to my fic writing productivity that I'd hoped it could be. My current WIPs are just too damn plotty for my distracted self in these stressful times, and I've found myself playing way more Animal Crossing than writing fic.

So dear readers, if you are so moved, please feel free to give me some prompts for the we miss being ruffians 'verse! No promises or guarantees that I'll be able to write any/all of them, but I'd love to have the distraction of writing some more lolzy fluff in the kinder, gentler universe where Bucky's a math teacher and Steve and Bucky are happy and wildly in love.

Thank you all, and hopefully this latest installment can offer you some brief respite during these trying times.

Chapter Text

When Fury called him, Steve expected the worst. Aliens again maybe, or a terrorist attack, or some urgent mission that was unsanctioned by any government or agency but that still needed to be handled fast and quiet. It wasn’t like Fury ever called him for social reasons, after all, and his voice sounded as serious and grave as ever when he answered Steve’s Hello? with a terse Cap.

“Do the Avengers need to assemble? I can be at an airport in thirty—”

Steve’s plan for the day had been to go through some reports of possible HYDRA activity that Maria Hill had sent over, but he was already setting his tablet aside and heading for the bedroom where he kept his Captain America go bag. He’d have to text Bucky, who was at work, and they’d almost certainly have to postpone date night…

He stopped when Fury cleared his throat and said, “Ah, no, no need to assemble. I’m not calling with a mission. I’m actually calling for a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“I heard you’ve got a safe house in Cleveland. I’m in need of a place to lie low, preferably a place with a makeshift ops center like the one Romanoff tells me you’ve got.”

“I don’t have a safe house in Cleveland, I have a home, with my—my—” Steve could not say the word boyfriend to Nick Fury, he just couldn’t. “Partner!”

“Uh huh. Your partner, the former Winter Soldier.”

“He has a name,” Steve hissed. 

“I know,” said Fury, sounding almost amused. “Jack, isn’t it? Anyway, all the better. I could use his help.”

“He’s not interested in fighting, Fury. And if you think you can force him to, or threaten him—”

Fury sighed, deep and heavy. “His help with intel analysis. I’ve got something sensitive I’m working on, and I can’t risk any leaks or HYDRA moles. Romanoff’s got her own mission right now, and Hill’s running ops for her, so you and your partner are my next best bet for mission support who I can be 100% sure aren’t HYDRA. And mission support in this case, I want to stress, is just gonna be a lot of sitting at a computer and going through data.”

Steve let his shoulders drop and relax. “Oh. Well, alright. I’ll check with Bu—Jack.”

Fury gave Steve some more details about what he was working on and Steve promised to pass it on to Bucky. Bucky would probably be happy to help, especially if, as Steve suspected, some of what Bucky was currently working on overlapped with Fury’s intel.

“What’s your ETA?” Steve asked Fury, thinking of the spare room and if he’d changed the sheets in there recently. 

Steve slept in there sometimes, when he or Bucky had a too restless night, or when Bucky was sleeping off a migraine, so the bed was made up, but the room served no other purpose other than as storage space for Steve’s paintings and canvases. Should he move them out of here if Fury was going to stay? Maybe he could put them in the closet…

There was a knock on the door. “Oh, I’m already here,” said Fury. “Would you mind letting me in?”


Steve was sure he had to have seen Fury in regular civilian clothes before, but when he tried to imagine it, his brain wouldn’t comply: his mental image of Fury was permanently set to a man in all black, with a long leather coat that flapped in the wind, regardless of whether there was a breeze present or not. So it was a shock to see Fury on his doorstep wearing jeans and a sweater, a small wheeled suitcase at his feet and a laptop bag slung over his shoulder, the picture of a normal, weary traveler fresh from the airport or train station. Even his eyepatch looked downright avuncular when it wasn’t paired with a leather trench coat. 

“I haven’t even texted Bucky yet,” protested Steve as he let Fury in. “If he says he’s not okay with this, you’re sleeping next door at Sam’s place.”

Fury shrugged. “Fine by me. Where is your partner anyway?”

“He’s at work.” Fury interrupted his perusal of Steve’s house to give Steve an incredulous look. “He has a job. I know Natasha told you, he’s a teacher. High school math.”

Fury just blinked and stared. “I thought she was fucking with me, to be honest. You’re telling me it’s his actual job and not just a cover?”

“I don’t know why this is so hard for people to believe,” snapped Steve, as if he hadn’t needed to eavesdrop on Bucky teaching three periods of calculus to fully believe it himself. “Yes, he’s a real, actual teacher! And he loves his job and his students, so whatever help you need from him, you’re going to have to fit it in around his work.”

“Alright, I hear you, Rogers. You got anywhere an old man can freshen up?”

Steve directed Fury to the spare room and guest bathroom, then retreated to the kitchen to text Bucky. Bucky wouldn’t be home for another few hours, but he’d have a few minutes free between class periods, hopefully long enough to give Steve a call.

So there’s no emergency or anything, but just wanted to let you know Nick Fury is here, in our house. Call me when you get a chance!

Bucky had no strong feelings about Nick Fury one way or the other, Steve was pretty sure. What Bucky did have pretty strong feelings about was any interruption or change in his routine or to the careful structure of his life and cover. Bucky’s adherence to routine wasn’t strict or obsessive, but Steve had come to learn that a sense of routine and structure was important to Bucky. Routine and a life with a careful, deliberate structure—a predictable work schedule, a defined set of tasks and goals, a few regular commitments of both the social and personal kind—helped Bucky to feel safe, and Steve would do just about anything to ensure that Bucky always felt safe. Steve figured that Fury being here had a high likelihood of making Bucky feel unsafe. And if that was the case, then Steve would have no problem with kicking Fury out.

His phone buzzed, and Steve picked it up as fast as he could.

“So what’s this about your uncle Nick coming over?” asked Bucky. Steve could hear the clatter and chatter of a busy high school in the background—passing period, so Bucky wouldn’t have long to talk.

“Uncle Nick—?” Steve started, but then he realized: Bucky wasn’t about to use Fury’s whole name within earshot of a minimum of a dozen too-curious teenagers. “Right, yeah, Uncle Nick. He’s, uh, here for a visit, wants to stay at our place. He needs our help with something.”

“Don’t tell me he wants to go hunting,” said Bucky, his voice gone tense and sharp.

“No, and if he did, I’d tell him to fuck off. I know you hate it. No, he’s got a project like the one you’re already working on, he could use your set up in the garage to work on it. And, uh, he needs somewhere to stay.”

“Oh,” said Bucky, audibly relaxing. “That’s alright then. Yeah, he can use it. But are you sure he should stay at our place? I, uh, don’t think he likes me very much, after, y’know, how we first met.” 

Before Steve could answer, a delighted young voice asked, “Mr. Murphy, is that your hot boyfriend on the phone?” 

Bucky sighed and Steve grinned. Bucky’s students had an avid interest in Bucky’s personal life, and correspondingly, in Steve, especially after the Winter Formal. The students were, Bucky reported with mingled amusement and exasperation, invested in their relationship now. Bucky liked to grumble about it being nothing more than nosy teenage gossip, but Steve thought it was cute. Mostly because Steve was pretty sure the students weren’t invested in their relationship so much as they were in Bucky’s happiness, and in that, Steve and Bucky’s students had the same priorities.

“Say hi to Steve, kids,” said Bucky, and Steve was treated to a staggered, tinny chorus of “Hi Steve!”

One student added, “We really like the elephant painting, Steve!”

“We named him Fred!” called out another voice.

“Tell your students hi,” Steve said. “And that I’m glad they like the painting.” Bucky sighed again but obligingly relayed Steve’s comments as Steve added, “And I’m sure Uncle Nick doesn’t hold how you first, uh, met against you.”

“Hmm, kinda doubt that.” The school bell rang, and the background noise of students settling into their seats began to die down. “Okay, I gotta go. You need me to pick anything up on my way home?”

“Nah, we’re good for now. Go teach the youths of America how to do math.”

“Yeah, yeah, bye.”

Steve smiled down at his phone as he set it down on the kitchen table, and when he looked up, Fury was joining him at the table, something that could maybe turn into a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Uncle Nick?” he said, somehow managing to sound simultaneously disapproving and amused. 

“Gotta maintain our cover,” said Steve, and Fury nodded agreeably. Steve belatedly remembered his manners. “Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee, water—”

“I wouldn’t say no to a cup of coffee.”

While Steve busied himself with the coffee machine, out of the corner of his eye, he could see Fury looking around the house with interest. Steve had no reason to feel nervous: the living room and kitchen were tidy, apart from some clutter in the form of books and sketchbooks and a few other odds and ends, the detritus of everyday life. There was nothing embarrassing on display, nothing outside of the norm. And yet, Steve was nervous, nervous about what his and Bucky’s home revealed about them, nervous about what conclusions Fury was coming to about Bucky, and about Steve.

When Steve returned to the kitchen table with a mug of coffee, Fury said, “For the record, I don’t hold the whole assassination thing against Barnes.”

“Good,” said Steve. “It wasn’t exactly his choice.”

“I’m well aware.” Fury took a sip of his coffee, then nodded towards the painting of Brooklyn Bridge that hung in the living room. “That your work?”

“Yeah. Uh, all the paintings in the house are.”

“They’re good,” he said. “Good enough to be hanging in a museum or gallery somewhere. You looking to hang up the shield and be an artist full time?”

Steve shrugged. “Maybe some day,” he said, thinking of the promise he’d made to Bucky: that the war would be over, finally, and Steve would come home and stay here. They weren’t there yet, but for the first time, it wasn’t just a distant goal beyond an always receding horizon. It was in sight now, like a fuzzy, hazy blur in the distance, a landmark worth running towards, its outline growing sharper every day. Steve had even started planning for it a little, looking into college programs for art and art education. “There’s still work to do though, HYDRA’s still out there. I’m not out of the fight yet.”

 Fury regarded Steve with a sort of wry and weary kindness. “But you will be,” he said. “This isn’t a cover you two have going here, it’s a life. A good one, by the look of it.”

“Yeah, it is,” said Steve. “Like I told you, this is our home. And this is the life Bucky wants. I need you to understand that I will do anything to make sure he gets to keep it, Fury.”

“Understood. I’m happy for you, Rogers, I really am. I’ve got no intention of pulling either of you out of this life, short of another alien invasion or some fresh apocalypse where we need all hands on deck.”

“Really?”

Steve had genuinely expected more pushback than this. Some glowering and glaring at the very least, or an actual argument, a demand that Steve put on the stars and stripes again and officially work with some new version of SHIELD. And yet here Fury was, in Steve and Bucky’s kitchen, his posture relaxed and his one-eyed gaze steady and almost soft, as he told Steve practically the exact opposite.

“Why the surprise? Yeah really. If you want out, you can get out. Barton’s mostly retired, Stark’s focusing more on saving the world with green energy than with Iron Man…Avenging doesn’t have to be a lifelong gig, you know. And hell, you’ve given up a lifetime to the fight already, Cap. I’m not interested in chaining you to the shield. If you want taking HYDRA out to be your last mission, your last war, I’m not gonna be the one to stop you.”

“HYDRA or no HYDRA, someone’s gotta carry the shield,” said Steve, frowning across at Fury. 

“And who says it has to be you?” asked Fury mildly. Before Steve could answer him, Fury set down his mug of coffee and said, “Just think about it. Now show me to your mini ops center. The sooner we get through this data, the sooner I can be out of you and your man’s hair.”


The moment Fury stepped into the garage and saw Bucky’s set up, he sighed with satisfaction.

“Now this is what I’m talking about,” he said as he surveyed the many monitors and computers humming away. 

Bucky’s DIY ops center set up, long since supplemented by Natasha with some equipment Steve knew better than to ask how she’d acquired, was now about as good a command center as any CIA station or SHIELD satelite office. 

“Yeah, Bucky’s pretty organized,” said Steve, smiling with fond pride at the tidy cork board that displayed Bucky’s latest HYDRA targets and the neat filing systems that filled the shelves and filing cabinets. He logged into the one of the computers for Fury, who was already pulling out a laptop and assorted other electronics. “Bucky’ll be home in a few hours, he’ll be able to show you around his set up better than I can.”

While they waited for Bucky, Fury gave Steve the details of what he was working on: a cache of data on experiments and research that might have been HYDRA, or that might have been legit. Fury needed help tracing it all to see if any of it linked up to known HYDRA fronts or SHIELD projects that HYDRA had suborned. This did in fact seem like just the kind of work Bucky was suited for, since he’d become something of an expert at ferreting out HYDRA operations like this, and he especially had a knack for figuring out the tangled web of financial connections between them.

“You’ll want Bucky for figuring out the money angle here,” Steve told Fury. “He says the money’s always the giveaway, that HYDRA can never entirely hide how it flows and who and what it flows to. I can help with the links to SHIELD projects though.”

Fury nodded. “Barnes isn’t wrong. The finance and white collar crime shit isn’t exactly my specialty, so I’ll be glad for the help.”

Steve and Fury worked together amiably enough, occasionally trading updates on their work or the team, and the time passed easily until Steve was almost surprised to hear the front door open.

“That’ll be Bucky,” he said. “I’m just gonna go—”

Steve left Fury in the garage and went to intercept Bucky. Mostly he just wanted to check in with him, make sure he really was alright with Fury being here, but once he’d laid eyes on him, Steve found that maybe this check in was more for him than it was for Bucky. Bucky had only just started stepping out of his shoes when Steve swooped in to take his bag and his coat, to Bucky’s amusement.

“What’s with this level of service, Steve? Everything alright with Uncle Nick?”

Steve leaned in for a kiss, intending on it being a quick hello, welcome home press of lips. Instead he found himself snared by the yielding softness of Bucky’s lips, and though he meant to pull away, the little sigh and hum Bucky breathed out against Steve’s mouth held him there as firm and fast as if he’d been bound to Bucky, making Steve deepen the kiss with a passion and need that still surprised Steve a little, every time, and that surprised him even more every time Bucky matched his own passion, as if he’d needed this just as much as Steve did and always would. Maybe some day Steve would accept it as a truth of the universe, that practically every welcome kiss between them was going to be like this. For now, Steve treasured the frisson of thrilled and grateful surprise. He wouldn’t mind if he had to relearn this each time, a daily gift whose sheer abundance only made it more precious. It was only when Bucky settled his hand against Steve’s neck, the touch firm and steadying, that Steve came up for air.

“It’s fine,” Steve said when he managed to step back. “Just—wanted to check in with you before you talk to Fury. You sure you’re okay with this?”

Bucky raised a wry eyebrow and stepped past Steve towards their bedroom. “I’m not the one who got nearly assassinated. Whether I’m okay with it or not is besides the point.”

“Fury likes you already,” Steve told him as he followed, which was admittedly stretching the truth. Fury liked Bucky’s HYDRA hunting work and his DIY ops center. Close enough, Steve figured. Fury would end up liking Bucky, he was sure. Most everyone did, after all; at least, everyone whose opinion Steve cared about anyway.

He lingered in the bedroom and sat on the bed as Bucky headed for the en suite bathroom, and let the lived-in familiarity of their bedroom settle him: here was their bed, neatly made, here were their photos on the dresser and the nightstand, here was Steve’s painting of a tree in full leaf, viewed from below, the framed canvas dominating nearly the entire wall opposite their bed. This was their life, built and cared for by their own hands. Their good, half-peaceful life that could be wholly peaceful sometime soon, in a year or two maybe. 

Something stronger than want swept through Steve with enough force to leave him trembling, as if he was a new, young leaf on a tree, shaking in the wind. This could be ours, for good. Maybe not this specific house, maybe they’d end up somewhere else eventually, but this life, together: it could be theirs, free of the shadow of the shield and the war. Right now, in this moment, Steve finally understood that it was in reach, and every part of him was straining to grab hold of it.

Bucky came out of the bathroom then, and as always, Steve was laid bare under his keen and open gaze. He may as well have been glass to Bucky, skin and muscle and bone just a clear cover straight to the soul of him, for all the trouble Bucky ever had reading him.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” he asked, and took Steve in his arms. Steve wrapped his own arms around Bucky’s waist, tight, and buried his heated face against Bucky’s warm chest, where he could feel the steady and strong beat of his heart. “Is Fury asking you to suit up, did something happen—”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Steve said. “And Fury said the opposite, actually. Said I can give up the shield, if I want to. Just—when he said it, for the first time, I could really believe it’ll happen. That once we take out what’s left of HYDRA, I can stop.”

Bucky kissed the top of his head. “That’s a good thing, right?” he said, soft, a tiny thread of uncertainty in his voice that had Steve back on his feet, cupping Bucky’s beloved face in his hands and looking him in the eye so he’d see the truth. 

“Yeah, Buck. The best thing. I can’t goddamn wait.”

Bucky smiled at him, so happy and hopeful that his eyes were brighter than the most perfect summer’s day, sunny sky. Hope was one of the first gifts Bucky had ever given Steve, all those years ago when they’d been children, and it was a gift he’d given Steve again and again for years after: hope that skinny, sickly, angry Steve could have a best friend too, that he could be loved, fiercely and wholly, by someone other than his mother; hope that Steve would survive his lungs’ and his heart’s best efforts to kill him; hope that they’d make it through poverty and war to something better, and now, hope that they wouldn’t always have to be the weapons their bodies had been made into. More than anything, Steve wanted to be worthy of all that hope, wanted to pay it back with a century’s worth of interest, wanted to cash it in for a good and safe and peaceful life together.

“Me neither,” Bucky said, his voice low and soft, but steady, just as Fury’s voice called out, “Rogers! Are you and Barnes canoodling or what? Get back in here, we’ve got work to do!”


Before entering the garage, Bucky took a deep breath, the line of his back going straight, shoulders settling in a stiff but resolute posture. Steve put a bracing and comforting hand on his back as they joined Fury, who stood from the workstation to meet Bucky.

“Barnes,” he said with a nod. “Thanks for letting me use your set up here.”

“Of course, no problem. Um.” Bucky fidgeted, then took another deep breath and met Fury’s eye. “I’m sorry about nearly assassinating you.”

Fury shrugged and waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it. It was a hell of a shot.”

Bucky blinked, taken aback, and Steve’s mouth dropped open.

“Excuse me,” said Bucky faintly. “Are you complimenting me on my attempted assassination of you?”

“The thing with the car, in broad daylight, that was unnecessarily flashy. But that shot into Rogers’ apartment, when I know you didn’t have a clear line of sight? Nicely done. Have to say, if my old friend Alexander Pierce was going to be a goddamn Nazi who betrayed me and tried to have me assassinated, I’m at least a little comforted and flattered that he needed to have the Winter Soldier do it.”

Bucky stared at Fury. Steve stared at Bucky staring at Fury. “Right,” said Bucky.

“So, Rogers tells me you might be able to help me with my current project. How about you walk me through your data, and you take a look at mine, and we’ll see if there’s any correlations or leads to follow up on.”

As ever, work put Bucky on steady ground, and he shook off his disbelief to join Fury at the computers. The hours before dinner flew by as they helped Fury go through the data, and to Steve’s relief, Bucky and Fury worked well enough together, with Fury keeping things professional and Bucky’s usual diligent focus overcoming whatever lingering discomfort or uneasiness he may have felt.

Steve should’ve known it wouldn’t last.


“So, that went well!” said Steve encouragingly, during a brief moment of privacy as he and Bucky got dinner ready in the kitchen. “I told you he didn’t hold the whole, uh, shooting thing against you!”

Bucky gave Steve a somewhat wild look. “He’s fucking with me,” he whispered furiously as he chopped the vegetables for the salad. “Who compliments an assassin on a failed assassination!”

“He’s not fucking with you!”

“Well if he’s not fucking with me, then he’s patronizing me,” said Bucky, glowering, and chopped the remaining vegetables with vicious vigor and frankly alarming speed. “I don’t need to be patronized about my tragic assassin past!”

Steve took the roast out of the oven and said, “Buck, I’m not sure there’s a, you know, standard or normal response to an assassination apology. Fury just wants you to know he doesn’t blame you for it. You keep helping him with this intel analysis project, and he’ll probably consider it even, water under the bridge.”

“Hmm,” said Bucky, and it was the dangerously neutral hum that boded ill. He finished chopping bell peppers with a flashy flourish—Bucky’s knife skills really were impressive, and Steve was going to resolutely ignore the shivery thrill running down his spine at the sight, because now really wasn’t the time—and swept the vegetables into the bowl of waiting salad greens. “We’ll see.”

Steve knew that unholy glint in Bucky’s eye.

“Bucky, no,” he hissed.

“I just feel like he’s doubting my sincerity.” 

“He’s really not! Bucky, do not—” Steve didn’t even know how to end that sentence, and Bucky shot him a chiding glance.

“He’s our guest, I’m not gonna do anything to make him feel unwelcome.”

“But you are gonna do something.”

Bucky smiled, that beaming, downright cherubic smile that had fooled so many nuns and teachers and older relatives, but that had literally never fooled Steve. “Don’t worry about it!” he said. “It’ll be fine!”

Yeah, no, Steve was gonna worry about it.


Steve genuinely wasn’t sure what Bucky was angling for here with Fury. As far as Steve knew, Bucky’s sincere apologies to Natasha and Sam had gone uneventfully, and hadn’t been all that fraught. Bucky and Natasha had some sort of shared life experiences unspoken understanding, and Bucky buying Sam an apology car on top of whatever heart to heart they’d had seemed to have won Sam over. Given those points of comparison, Steve didn’t see what was so different about Fury’s lightly given absolution, or just why Bucky found it unsatisfying.

If Bucky had gone quiet and distant about it, if he’d retreated into himself the way he did when he was having an especially bad day, then Steve would’ve sent Fury on his way. But no, that wasn’t what was happening here: this was Bucky plotting some mischief, something about the situation having apparently tweaked his offbeat sense of humor along with whatever disquiet or uncertainty he had about Fury’s response to his apology, or maybe just to his presence in general.

When Steve brought up his concerns with Sam, Sam just snorted. 

“Of all the possible responses for Bucky to have to an authority figure like Fury, this is one you 100% do not have to worry about. This could’ve set his recovery back, or sent him into fight or flight mode, but it clearly hasn’t, so honestly, I’m not seeing the problem here.”

“The problem is that Bucky’s up to something and I don’t know what.”

 Sam sighed. “Just let the man have his fun, Steve. More likely than not, he just needs to keep himself distracted enough to not freak out about Fury being in your house.”

Which was a good point. Whatever mild havoc Bucky was going to end up wreaking, Steve figured it was better than Bucky being genuinely upset by Fury’s presence in their home. And whatever the reason for Fury’s practically indulgent by Nick Fury standards response to Bucky, it didn’t strike Steve as unkind or disingenuous. Maybe Fury just wasn’t as much of a hardass when he didn’t feel like he had to maintain the whole Director of SHIELD Nick Fury mystique. Hell, maybe Bucky was just that charming. He had, Steve recalled, even managed to get a suppressed smile out of Colonel Phillips on a couple of occasions. 

Still, when Steve very nearly did ask Fury, why aren’t you being a hardass CO anymore, he managed to reframe the question to the slightly more tactful, “You aren’t having any issues working with Bucky, right?”

“Why would I? He’s damned good at what he does.” Fury gestured at the neat and complex array of spreadsheets and charts taking up two out of the six monitors in the garage. “This would’ve taken me weeks without his help.”

“Guess I just wasn’t expecting you to be so, uh, nice to him.”

“I can be nice,” said Fury mildly, as his lips twitched into a smile. “And what can I say, I’ve got a soft spot for dangerous as hell amnesiac soldiers who’ve tried to kill me.”


After a week of Fury staying with them, when all the intel analysis was nearly finished, Steve began to hope that maybe Bucky had abandoned whatever weird mischief or bizarre prank he’d been considering. Maybe, Steve hoped, the work itself had been a sufficient distraction. This seemed admittedly unlikely; now that date night was off limits for pranks, something had to be the release valve for Bucky’s more chaotic impulses, and playing merry hell with what remained of HYDRA’s finances and power structure presumably wasn’t it. 

“Relax, Steve,” Bucky murmured as they got in bed one night. Fury had told them over dinner that he’d be moving on tomorrow or the day after, which had filled Steve with equal parts relief and dread. Relief, because after a week and a half, Fury’s presence had really cut into Steve and Bucky’s private time, and dread, because he was still sure Bucky was up to something. “I’m not gonna mess with him. You really overestimate my commitment to dumb pranks.”

“I really don’t. You filled Sam’s yard with birdhouses last month, Buck.”

Bucky snickered then arranged his face into a solemn expression. “I thought Sam liked birds! It was a present, Steve. How was I supposed to know it’d kick off a squirrel-crow war for food right in his backyard?”

“Uh huh. Just—don’t do anything too crazy,” said Steve, scooting in close to Bucky under the covers. “Fury’s not really a joking kind of guy. At best, he’d just glare at you and leave. At worst…I don’t even wanna know what kind of revenge he’d take.”

“He’s not so bad though. Funny, too, in a dry kind of way. Was he really a nightmare as a CO?”

“No,” said Steve slowly. “I just didn’t always agree with his methods, all his secret-keeping. He’s always compartmentalizing, never tells anyone everything he knows, only what he thinks they need to know, which is never enough.”

“Spies,” said Bucky, a shrug audible in his voice if not evident in his shoulders. “He seems alright though, as spies go. No bullshit, no playing mindgames.” Bucky paused. “I’d be okay with working with him more on HYDRA stuff, instead of always going through Natasha.”

Steve buried a bittersweet smile in Bucky’s soft and fluffy hair, and pulled Bucky close. Here was Bucky’s real, earnest effort at making amends with Fury. Bucky would never be satisfied by simple apologies, he was always going to need to do something to make up for the ways HYDRA had used him, and Steve had long since given up on trying to convince him otherwise.  

“I’ll let them know,” said Steve. “But if he ever asks you to do anything you don’t wanna do, tell him to fuck off. He’s not your CO, and he’s not in charge of you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” muttered Bucky. “You don’t have to go all mama bear, I know my limits.”

“I’m just real proud of you, Buck, and of our life. I want to make sure we can keep it.”

“We will,” said Bucky, his voice firm and certain. “I promise.”


 “Alright, gentlemen,” said Fury the next day, leaning back in his chair in front of the bank of monitors. “I think we’re done here. Romanoff and Hill will get this intel to Rhodes’ taskforce and they’ll handle it from there. Thank you for your hospitality, I’ll be out of your hair shortly.”

“Stay for dinner, at least,” said Bucky, giving Steve a full flashback to Bucky’s mother saying that very same thing nearly every time Steve had gone over to the Barneses. 

Steve squinted suspiciously at Bucky, but Bucky just raised his eyebrows, the very picture of easy innocence.

“Yeah, alright,” said Fury. “Won’t say no to another home-cooked meal. Don’t get so many of those nowadays.”

“I can—” started Steve, rising from his own chair, but Bucky stood before he could and put a hand on his shoulder. 

“I’ll handle dinner,” he said, and Steve felt a deep sort of foreboding. This was it, this was going to be when Bucky released whatever ridiculous joke or prank he’d been holding in all week.

Whatever. Steve wasn’t going to worry about it. Bucky was a good cook, so whatever he did, dinner would be edible. What else it would be, Steve couldn’t even begin to guess. Still, he should probably try to head this off at the pass. Steve was the one who’d signed up for Bucky’s bizarre sense of humor; Fury was just an innocent bystander. And he was an innocent bystander who probably wouldn’t be quite so helplessly charmed and delighted by Bucky cracking himself up with some joke or another.

“I should help,” Steve insisted, and Bucky smiled, still innocent.

“Alright, I could use a sous chef. And can you go pick up a few things from the store for me?”

Steve narrowed his eyes at Bucky. What was his angle here? “Yeah, alright.”


Bucky’s shopping list was unremarkable: some vegetables and herbs, fresh bread, ice cream. Steve finished the shopping as fast as he could, certain that he’d return home to a prank in progress, but no, Bucky was just putting a cake into the oven, and whenever Steve peered through the oven door at it as it baked, it looked like a perfectly normal cake, same as any of the others they’d made in that baking class they’d taken together.

Dinner itself was nothing special or notable either: chicken parmesan with pasta and vegetables and a salad, delicious as always, and entirely, totally normal. Sam came over with a couple of nice bottles of wine, and they all sat down to eat together, without talking about HYDRA or superheroes at all. It was, in short, perfectly nice, so nice that Steve felt like a neurotic asshole to be so certain that something was going to turn the evening weird.

“You didn’t have to go all out,” Fury said after a few appreciative bites of the food. “I’d have been fine with some pizza.”

“It’s no trouble, I like to cook. Leave room for dessert too, I baked a cake.”

“That baking class Steve signed you two up for for Christmas has really turned out to be more of a gift for me,” said Sam, which was maybe true. Sam was the one who’d gotten to eat most of the baked goods they’d made, because it turned out that there were only so many cakes and cupcakes even two super soldiers could eat. “What kind of cake?”

“Chocolate, with mocha buttercream frosting.”

“I swear, I’ve gained five pounds this week alone,” said Fury, and he didn’t sound mad about it.

When it was time to bring out the dessert, Steve pushed his chair back, ready to go help, but Bucky shook his head. 

“I’ve got it, I just need to finish piping the frosting,” he said and disappeared into the kitchen.

“You’ve been jumpy all through dinner,” Fury observed after taking a sip of wine. “What’s up?”

“Nothing! Just—uh, you know, eager for dessert.”

“And here it is!” said Bucky, returning from the kitchen. Bucky set the cake down on the table with a calm smile. 

“Looks good, Barnes,” said Fury, and when he peered over to look more closely at the cake, his lips twitched. 

Steve steeled himself, and looked too. There, written on top of the cake in Bucky’s careful and lovely cursive, only slightly shakier than usual since it was in white frosting rather than in ink, were the words: Sorry about the attempted assassination.

“My sorry for trying to kill you gift was better,” said Sam, unfazed. “Bucky got me a car. A Porsche, even.” 

“I don’t need a car,” said Fury mildly, and accepted his slice of cake—the one with the word sorry on it, naturally—with nothing more than a suppressed smile. “I’m good with some cake.”

“It is good cake,” said Sam, scowling up at Bucky when Bucky sliced him a weirdly shaped piece that only had the letters ass on it. Honestly, Steve was pretty impressed that Bucky had managed to pipe the whole word assassination onto a not that big cake.

Fury took a bite of the cake, and hummed with satisfaction. “Apology accepted, Barnes.”

“I don’t understand any of you,” said Steve as he took his own slice. 

“Just eat your cake, Steve,” advised Bucky. “And thanks, Uncle Nick. That means a lot to me.”

Now Fury glowered, an expression somewhat lacking in danger given the small smear of frosting at the corner of his lip. “Don’t push your luck, Barnes.”

Bucky knocked knees with Steve under the table, a triumphant and happy little gesture. “Understood, sir.”

Chapter 15: The Mystery of Mr. Murphy's Missing Mustache

Summary:

“I can’t take it,” said Nicole, eyes wild as she thunked her messenger bag down on the cafeteria table next to Sophie. “Mr. Murphy needs to grow that mustache back or I’m going to get a one on the AP exam and then I’ll never get into college!"

Notes:

While I did use the name of a real Cleveland high school here, the high school depicted herein is not an attempt at a faithful depiction of said high school. Also it's been over ten years since I was in high school, so please excuse any inaccuracies and/or total failures to understand the Youth of Today.

I got a little carried away with the student OCs here! Hope you all enjoy this outside POV take on Math Teacher Bucky.

Chapter Text

“I can’t take it,” said Nicole, eyes wild as she thunked her messenger bag down on the cafeteria table next to Sophie. “Mr. Murphy needs to grow that mustache back or I’m going to get a one on the AP exam and then I’ll never get into college!”

“Should’ve taken AP Stats instead,” said Erin, and Sophie grinned and nodded in agreement.

“Or you should’ve been less of an overachiever and stuck with pre-calc like us slackers,” she told Nicole.

Sophie was exaggerating, of course. While basically everyone was a slacker compared to Nicole, who was pretty much at the top of the junior year class and good at basically everything, their whole friend group was positioned right there with her on the goody two-shoes, honors classes and extracurriculars galore end of the high school social spectrum.

“Uh, excuse you, pre-calc really doesn’t feel like slacking to me,” said Chris as he joined them at the round table they’d claimed as their own today. He sat next to Erin and slung a loose arm around her shoulders.

Devon arrived and took the last chair at their table. “It’s slacking,” he declared. “Calculus is the safe, middle of the road option where you aren’t slacking or overachieving, and that’s why I signed up for it. And now I have been rewarded for my choice by Mr. Murphy turning out to be a secret hottie.”

“Oh, so you’re gracing us with your presence today?” asked Sophie as she made some room for his lunch tray.

Devon smiled magnanimously at her. “You know you four are my most restful group of friends. Such a refreshing lack of drama.”

Sophie and Erin rolled their eyes in unison, just as the packed table of Devon’s other drama-prone friends erupted into a cacophony of noise and laughter that echoed in the huge, high-ceilinged space of the school cafeteria. As a fresh-faced freshman, Sophie had thought the cafeteria was so big and pretty and impressive with its columns and skylights. Now, as a comparatively jaded junior, she was over it. The huge space seemed to amplify sound, and no amount of good lighting and stately Greek columns made up for the chaos of an entire student body descending on it daily in a low-key vicious battle for tables and chairs.

“You can just say we’re your nerdiest friends, Devon,” said Erin. “We won’t be offended.”

“Uh, excuse you, I am a jock!” protested Chris.

“Yeah, no, the water polo team doesn’t really count,” said Devon. “Basically no one knows we exist.” 

Nicole glared at them, even her straight brown hair managing to look as frazzled and stressed as the rest of her. 

“Excuse me! Are any of you listening to me? I am going to fail math because Mr. Murphy is distractingly hot. Couldn’t he have waited to have his big ‘surprise, I’m hot!’ reveal? Like, I don’t know, as a reward for us having finished the AP exam? Then I could’ve stared at his stupidly attractive face without worrying about flunking because I’m not paying attention!”

Judging by the discussions Sophie had overheard and participated in, Nicole wasn’t the only one with that particular problem. One week after showing up to school without his terrible mustache, Mr. Murphy was still the topic of frequent conversation all over the school. Sophie wasn’t surprised: Mr. Murphy’s makeover was the most interesting thing to happen to John Hay High School since Tyler Johnson got arrested for going on a three-hour long joyride last year. 

Also, he really did look, like, stupidly hot without the mustache. Sophie couldn’t deny that she was doing her own share of staring at Mr. Murphy’s newly handsome face when she should’ve been taking notes or, you know, actually learning pre-calculus. It was a problem. Especially because she kept blushing. At least Nicole’s skin was dark enough that a blush didn’t show that easily. Sophie wasn’t so lucky and could only hope Mr. Murphy assumed she had a sunburn instead of the truth that she was just blushing a lot.

“C’mon, does he really look that different?” asked Chris, and they all stared at him. Sometimes Sophie really wondered what Erin saw in him. Beyond all the nice muscles from being on the water polo team, anyway. “I mean, yeah, he looks better, obviously, that mustache wasn’t, y’know, cool facial hair, but I don’t think he’s suddenly the hottest dude ever.”

“That’s because you’re a straight dude,” said Devon, in the same gentle tone as someone might say that’s because of your tragic accident. “Meanwhile I’m having a new gay awakening every time I walk into second period, and I know I can’t be the only one.” Devon took a thoughtful bite of his sandwich, then once he’d swallowed, he added, “What’s distracting me besides his too hot for a Cleveland high school face is the mystery of it all. I don’t care what Mr. Murphy said, no man who looks that good keeps a mustache that bad for that long for the sake of a bet or dare or whatever.”

Sophie wasn’t so sure about that. When she was in middle school, her dad had shaved his head just because Uncle Dan had said he’d never have the balls to just shave it all off when you start balding. Her dad, despite still having a reasonably full head of wavy black hair just like Sophie’s, had shaved it all off a few days later. It hadn’t been a good look; who knew her dad’s head was so weirdly lumpy? She and Mom had enjoyed rubbing at the peach fuzz as it grew back in though.

“Listen, yes, Mr. Murphy is hot now and that’s a lot to deal with,” said Erin. “But Devon’s right, the real mystery is why he had that mustache at all, and why he finally shaved it after nearly an entire school year of us making fun of him for it.”

“Sounds like the subject of a hard-hitting investigative report for the school paper!” said Nicole, her brown eyes bright with the prospect of being a plucky girl reporter as she brandished her yogurt spoon wildly.

“Hmm,” said Sophie dubiously, and dodged a stray glob of yogurt. “Good luck getting a letter of rec from him for college next year if you devote the school paper’s front page to his mustache, Nicole.”

Nicole’s face fell. “Good point. But it is a mystery, right? It’s worth a little investigating.”

Sophie thought it over as she ate her own lunch and the others talked. Mr. Murphy was her second favorite teacher after Mrs. Thorn (who always recommended the exact perfect book whenever Sophie asked), and while she wasn’t one of the mathletes who spent more time with him doing nerdy mathlete things, he had helped her out a few times with some one-on-one lunchtime tutoring, so she’d spent a little more time with him than any of the others, probably. And in all that time, in class and out of it, what Sophie had most noticed about Mr. Murphy was how sad he seemed. He was always kind and patient and funny in class, never raised his voice, but he had sad eyes, and he looked tired a lot of the time. It reminded Sophie of her mom, after Grandma had died.

But now, ever since he’d shaved his mustache, Mr. Murphy didn’t look sad at all. He looked happy. Still tired sometimes, but really, really happy, like, practically glowing with it happy, twinkling eyes happy. Way happier than a guy who had to teach dozens of teenagers math had any right to be. So if he hadn’t been sad because he was grieving the way her mom had been, then just why had he been so sad, and why was he so happy now? That was the real mystery. And, Sophie suspected, the mustache had to be involved somehow. Sophie told the others as much.

To her surprise, it was Chris who immediately nodded in agreement, his hazel eyes uncharacteristically shrewd behind his mop of messy, sun-bleached hair. 

“You’re right. The mustache is only a, what do you call it, side effect? Like, obviously there’s a reason he’s so happy all of a sudden.”

“See! This is why we need a hard-hitting investigative report!” said Nicole.

Chris rolled his eyes and took a swig of his Gatorade, back to being the shaggy-haired jock they all knew and more or less loved. 

“Nah. Since when are teachers’ personal lives interesting? He probably just got laid, it’s not some big mystery.”

Nicole, Erin, and Devon immediately protested this.

“Uh, excuse me, that is very interesting,” said Devon. “Like, did he shave off the mustache and immediately dick down because, you know, look at his face?”

They all laughed, and eventually the conversation moved on to weekend plans and why the second floor hallway smelled so damn bad, and Sophie pushed all thoughts of the mystery of Mr. Murphy to the back of her mind. If any of them was going to figure it out, it would be Nicole.


Eventually, the furor and gossip over Mr. Murphy’s mustache died down, and they all got used to having a too-hot math teacher. At least, Sophie got used to it. Or, she was mostly used to it, most of the time. Devon and Nicole were still pretty hilariously flustered by Mr. Murphy’s new look, and Sophie would’ve made fun of them for it, except the other day, Mr. Murphy had given her pre-calc class a full on, beaming smile, and it had been—a lot. Just, like, a lot to deal with. Sophie and at least a third of the class had maybe let out ridiculous little sighs, and Sophie had definitely felt her face go hot with a blush, which was, ugh, embarrassing. Sophie really hoped Mr. Murphy hadn’t noticed. 

Anyway, she thought she mostly had it under control by the time she stayed after class for a few minutes to get Mr. Murphy to sign off on her class schedule for the next year; she needed teacher approval for next year’s calculus class, and the deadline to turn her schedule in was coming up in a couple of days.

“Hey Mr. Murphy, do you have a second?” she asked, stopping at his desk until he looked up at her with a nod and a kind smile. “Can you sign off on my math class for next year?”

“Sure,” he said, and she handed the sheet of paper over. He glanced down at it and frowned, a somewhat rare expression on his face these days. Great job, Soph, your class schedule is making Mr. Murphy depressed again. “Calculus, not AP Calc?” he asked, and looked back up at her.

Sophie winced. This was why she was running up against the deadline to turn her schedule in. She’d spent all week going back and forth on whether to sign up for AP Calc next year; it’d be great for college applications, but she was signing up for a few other AP classes and she wasn’t sure she was good enough at math to hack it in AP Calc on top of an already heavy workload. She fidgeted with her backpack strap and avoided Mr. Murphy’s big blue eyes of disappointment.

“Yeah, I’m just not sure, with the rest of my classes, and I’m not that great at math…don’t wanna bring my GPA down, you know?”

“Sophie, you’re good at math,” he said, still frowning a little. “You have a B+ right now, and if you get at least that on the rest of the homework assignments, and at least an A- on the last couple of tests and quizzes before the final, you’ll have an A-, maybe even an A. That definitely doesn’t count as being ‘not that great at math’.”

Objectively, she knew Mr. Murphy wasn’t wrong. Her math grades were good, always had been, barring a few disastrous tests here and there. She’d just never felt like she was good at math. It never came easy to her, she could almost never breeze through a worksheet or test the way some of her friends and classmates could. She wasn’t like Nicole, who could speed through problems once she had the basics down; no, Sophie still took well over an hour to finish any given math assignment, even when she thought she understood the material. 

She’d gotten better this year in pre-calc, thanks to Mr. Murphy, who’d helped her realize that it was the whole timed test angle that freaked her out the most. He’d shown her how to better manage her time when tackling problems, how not to freeze up and get stuck on one problem, so she was doing a lot better now. But it still wasn’t easy, and she couldn’t help but feel like it should have been, if she was actually good at math.

“I know,” she told him. “It’s just hard, and I’m not sure I’m good enough for AP Calc.”

“I hear you,” he said, meeting her eyes. He had stupidly big, pretty eyes, like some kind of Disney prince, she realized, and she looked down at where her schedule was sitting between them on Mr. Murphy’s desk, cheeks flushing. He continued, “But I know you are good enough, and I know you can handle it. Don’t compare your math skills to your classmates’, or to how easy Literature and History are for you. All that’s insecurity talking. Just look at your grades, those don’t lie, and they’re telling you that you’re doing just fine. Better than fine, even.”

“Yeah, alright,” she said, grudgingly. He wasn’t wrong, she supposed. It was dumb to be so insecure about such good grades, and she really was doing better than she had been before pre-calc.

“At least give AP Calc a try, Sophie. You’ll have a month to drop it if it doesn’t work out, and you won’t be behind if you switch to regular Calculus after that. And remember, a B in AP Calc is the same as an A in regular calculus. You’re already almost at an A in pre-calc. I think you can do well in the AP class, I really do.”

Sophie took a deep breath and nodded. She grabbed her schedule back, and added an AP to the Calculus entry. 

“Okay,” said Sophie. “I’ll give it a shot.”

That earned her a dazzling smile from Mr. Murphy, like she had genuinely just made his day by signing up for AP Calc. She went warm all over, like his smile was a blast of actual sunshine. Ugh, it should be illegal to be this handsome in real life, she thought. This was a level of shiny good looks that belonged safely on TV and movie screens, at a distance. Surely it wasn’t good for, like, public health or her chill or something to see it close up so regularly. And yet, she’d just signed up for another whole year of math with Mr. Murphy. 

Maybe he’d grow the mustache back if they all promised to get fives on the AP exam. Surely he could at least grow a beard. 

Mr. Murphy scrawled a signature onto her schedule, and passed it back to her, eyes still twinkling.  “You’ll do great, Sophie.”

“Thanks, Mr. Murphy,” she said, and tucked the paper into her backpack. 

The last warning bell rang, signaling that passing period was almost over. The classroom was still empty—this must have been Mr. Murphy’s free period—which was the only reason Sophie added, “Um, it’s been nice to see you happier lately. I don’t know why you were sad, before? Like, not my business, I know. But, um. You seem happier. It’s just, you know, nice.”

Sophie got some satisfaction out of seeing Mr. Murphy’s cheeks go pink. Ha, now I’m not the only one blushing embarrassingly! 

“Thanks,” he said, voice gone soft and quiet. “It’s been, um, a rough couple of years for me, I guess. Been getting better every day though, partly thanks to you kids.” Before she could say anything in response to that, he tipped his head towards the door. “Passing period’s almost over, you don’t wanna be late.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks again,” she said, and left, her cheeks still hot. But that was okay, Mr. Murphy’s cheeks were still pink too, and they shared one last mutually mortified smile as she went through the door.


A rough couple of years. Like, emotionally rough? Rough on his health? How rough? This wasn’t much of a clue when it came to the mystery of Mr. Murphy, but it was definitely the only real clue they had, so Sophie relayed it to the others at lunch that day.

“That could mean anything,” said Erin, frowning, and Nicole nodded.

“Did he say anything else?” asked Nicole.

Sophie shrugged and swallowed a bite of her bland cafeteria burger. “Just that it’s been getting better every day, partly thanks to us. Us in general, I mean, like, all of his students.”

Sophie honestly wasn’t sure how that could possibly be true, but Mr. Murphy had seemed pretty sincere about it, and Sophie couldn’t deny that he really did seem to love his job. After almost twelve years of public education, Sophie, like pretty much every other student, had a pretty good sense for those teachers who seemed to hate everything about teaching, or who were just plain miserable in the job. After all, it was usually the students who had that misery taken out on them. Her freshman year English teacher had been one of those miserable teachers, and it had sucked. English was usually Sophie’s favorite class, but Mrs. Brown had turned it into a frustrating and stressful slog where every assigned reading and homework assignment had been a new opportunity for Mrs. Brown to tell her students why they sucked. However rough things had been for Mr. Murphy, he definitely hadn’t ever taken it out on them like that.

Erin, Nicole, and Devon went immediately misty-eyed. “Awww!” said Nicole. “That’s so sweet of him to say!”

Chris looked skeptical. “How the hell would a bunch of teenage assholes he has to try to teach math to make his life better?” he wondered, and Erin smacked him on the shoulder.

“Because he loves his students and his job, duh!” she said. “I take back every time I compared him to Mr. Flanders: Mr. Murphy is definitely more of a Mr. Rogers.”

“And hey, we’re not all assholes!” protested Sophie. “We’re the light of Mr. Murphy’s sad life, maybe!”

Which kind of made Sophie feel even more soft-hearted towards the guy than she already did. But hey, if she and her classmates were part of what made Mr. Murphy’s possibly tragic life slightly less tragic, then by god, Sophie was gonna stick up for him and try to be the best student she could be. Within reason, anyway, she wasn’t about to suddenly start getting A+s all over the place. More like, she’d pay better attention and be nice to Mr. Murphy and stuff.

“Clearly, it’s a less sad life now,” said Devon. “And it has to have been pretty damned sad if teaching us was what was making it better.”

“Well, yeah,” said Nicole. “Remember after winter break, when he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week and was about to pass out?”

“He said he was getting over the flu,” said Sophie.  

Nicole nodded and waved a hand. “Sure, okay, but remember that time when he had to leave in the middle of the day? He left right after I had him in fourth period, and he looked rough. Like, super pale, and he kept squinting. He said it was a migraine.” 

“So?” asked Chris, and Erin nodded.

“People have migraines, Nic,” Erin said. “The nurse sent me home for one a couple months ago.”

So, maybe his rough couple of years are on account of, you know, health issues.”

That seemed distressingly plausible, actually.

“Yeah, okay, but there’s no, like, casual way to ask Mr. Murphy if he has cancer or something,” said Erin. 

“Also, probably not something you want to put in your hard-hitting investigative report, Nic. Seems private, if it’s true. If there was something he wanted us to know, like, about his health, he’d have told us,” said Devon, serious for once.

Nicole sighed. “Yeah, that’s fair,” she said, before sitting up straight and looking stricken. “But oh my god, I hope Mr. Murphy doesn’t have cancer! Sophie, do you think he has cancer?!”

“I don’t know! How should I know?” she said. 

God, Sophie hoped he didn’t have cancer. That would be awful. Although, since he’d been so happy lately, maybe he was cured! Nicole steepled her fingers like she was some kind of teen super villain. 

“Hmm. This is gonna require a long investigation, friends. Like, longer than the couple of months we have left this school year. I’m gonna have to get closer to Mr. Murphy to find out the truth.”

“Ew, Nicole, he’s a teacher,” said Erin, wrinkling her nose.

“A super hot teacher,” said Devon, waggling his eyebrows, so okay, serious Devon had left the cafeteria.

“Inappropriate,” said Chris, in a pitch perfect imitation of Ms. Johnson’s most prim tone. They all snickered. 

“Ugh, don’t be gross, you guys. I don’t mean anything illegal. I was thinking I’d join the Academic Decathlon next year, Mr. Murphy does the math coaching for that.”

“You and every other person with a crush on Mr. Murphy,” said Sophie. Five people in her pre-calc class alone had already asked Mr. Murphy about it. She was pretty sure none of them had any kind of deep passion for math. “He’s gonna have to hold, like, mathlete auditions or something.” Sophie frowned. That couldn’t be the right word. “Mathlete tests? No, mathlete tryouts. Mathlete qualifiers…”

“I don’t have a crush! I have an investigative interest.”

“I definitely have a crush,” said Devon cheerfully. “But not, like, a join the mathletes level crush. You’re on your own there, Nicole. Good luck with juggling both the school newspaper and Academic Decathlon.”

Erin and Sophie winced at each other just imagining it. Nicole just tossed her hair back, like adding yet another extracurricular was no big deal. 

“It’ll be great for college apps! And it’s not a crush. I am attempting to solve a mystery,” insisted Nicole, fervor in her eyes. “I’m ready to go lone wolf on this if I have to!”

Privately, Sophie thought it said tragic things about how bored they were that their math teacher’s personal life was the most interesting mystery available to them. She’d read a lot of her mom’s old Nancy Drew books as a kid, and she’d really thought there’d be a better class of mystery for her and her friends to solve when she got older. Like, at least exciting robberies, or weird, possibly occult, vandalism. But no, here they were, becoming plucky teen detectives to investigate the mystery of their math teacher’s missing mustache. Wait, that was great alliteration, maybe Sophie had something here, like, the new and improved Nancy Drew…

“You don’t have to go lone wolf, Nicole, oh my god. We’ll, I don’t know, keep an eye out,” said Erin, interrupting Sophie’s train of thought.

Dammit, there went the next big mystery series about plucky teen detectives. Oh well.

“Yeah,” Sophie agreed. “And we can pump Mr. Murphy for information, like, subtly.”

“Oh, I’d pump him for information if you know what I mean and I think you do—” said Devon, grinning, and they all groaned in unison.

“Devon, gross!”


Their attempts at snooping over the next couple of months were, Sophie could admit, half-hearted. With finals and AP exams and end of term projects coming up, none of them had a ton of time or energy to spare for solving any Mr. Murphy-related mysteries. Nancy Drew would’ve been disappointed, but Nancy Drew hadn’t had to study for three AP exams while writing a final paper about The Great Gatsby. 

They did try to get some personal details out of Mr. Murphy though, and they succeeded, kind of. They learned that he didn’t have a pet, but he liked both cats and dogs, that his favorite sport was baseball, that his main hobbies were reading and running. They learned that he’d moved to Cleveland from Baltimore, that he’d moved around a lot growing up, and that he’d spent some time overseas too.

“Great, we know enough to set up a Tinder—or, please Jesus, Grindr—profile for him. None of this is helping to solve the mustache mystery!” said Devon when they pooled together this meager knowledge one day.

“The mustache mystery is on hold,” Nicole hissed, crazy-eyed, barely even looking up from her notebook. She was in full-on study meltdown mode and was attempting to multitask by simultaneously studying, eating lunch, and updating her meticulously pretty bullet journal. “Do you even know how much studying I have to do?!”

Not so much studying that Nicole couldn’t slip an article into the school year’s last edition of the school paper about Mr. Murphy’s mustache, apparently. The next day, Sophie learned that she’d filled up a few inches of the third page of the paper with an obituary for Mr. Murphy’s mustache, complete with a grainy cropped photo of said mustache. Not Mr. Murphy’s entire face, mind you: just his face from mustache on down. Sophie read the obituary during the morning break, her glee rising with every sentence.

John Hay High School suffered the abrupt and tragic loss of a beloved member of our community this year. We bid a fond farewell to Mr. Murphy’s mustache. Mr. Murphy’s mustache lived its life in the true spirit of Ned Flanders: it was kind and funny, and extremely unfashionable. It may have begun its life as the subject of a mysterious dare, but it made the most of its time with us. We mourn its loss. Mr. Murphy’s mustache is survived by Mr. Jack Murphy, who continues to “live his best life” the way his mustache would have wanted him to. Perhaps someday, we’ll see Mr. Murphy’s mustache again.

“This is your finest work,” Sophie told Nicole sincerely. 

“Really?” she said, beaming. Then she frowned. “Ugh, Sophie, I wrote that whole exposé on grade inflation for the members of the football team last year! I wrote this in a sleep-deprived, panicked haze because Mrs. Chang told me we still had a few inches of the third page to fill!”

“Uh huh, and the exposé was really good, but this is 1000% funnier. Can I have this, by the way?”

Still scowling, Nicole waved a hand. “Yeah, sure, it’s hot off the presses. Consider it an advance copy, Parker and Liam haven’t finished making their delivery rounds yet.”

“Extra, extra, read all about it! Last newspaper of the school year, four entire pages full of sappy messages from graduating seniors!” cried out Justin Kowalski in his finest Newsies accent, as he brandished a handful of newspapers.

“He knows he doesn’t have to do that, right?” asked Sophie, and Nicole sighed.

“It makes him happy,” she said with a shrug. 

“Hey, Justin, toss me a paper!” called out Sophie, and he beamed and lobbed a rolled up newspaper towards her as the bell rang, signaling the end of the morning break.

“I just gave you a copy,” said Nicole.

“Uh huh, and now I’m off to pre-calc!” Sophie told Nicole cheerfully. She waved the extra copy cheerfully. “I figure Mr. Murphy will want a copy of his very own!”

Nicole’s eyes widened. “Sophie, no—!” 

But it was too late, Sophie was already sprinting down the hall towards Mr. Murphy’s classroom. 


Mr. Murphy very much wanted a copy of his own, and to Sophie’s relief and satisfaction, he found the joke obituary even funnier than she did. 

“This is the best,” he gasped, in between gales of laughter. “Can I keep this? I need to get it framed, oh my god.”

“Yeah, I got that copy for you,” said Sophie, grinning wildly as she snapped a discreet photo of Mr. Murphy’s red and laughing face. The rest of the class was passing around Sophie’s copy of the paper now, and Mr. Murphy’s laughter was spreading. 

“Sophie,” Mr. Murphy chided, still laughing. “No phones in class!”

Whoops. Not discreet enough, apparently. No regrets though. “Nicole needs to see your reaction to her masterpiece, Mr. Murphy!” she told him.

Mr. Murphy wiped at his watering eyes. “Yeah, okay. I’m definitely gonna have to thank her, this is hilarious.”

“So, are we ever gonna see the ‘stache again, Mr. M?” asked Braden.

“Uh, no,” he said. “The mustache times are definitely over. And what happened to all of you saying I look better without it anyway?”

“That’s the problem,” Sophie heard someone mutter from the back of the class, kicking off a new wave of giggles.

“Oh, I don’t know, it wasn’t that bad,” said Caitlyn with a smile that was definitely closer to desperate than genuine. “It was, um, retro! Retro’s cool! You could grow it back!”

Bless Caitlyn, she was really trying, and a handful of their classmates backed her up, chiming in with encouragement and agreement, while others booed. Mr. Murphy smiled, wide and bright, like, toothpaste commercial bright, and shook his head. Sophie womanfully resisted sighing dreamily, but some of her classmates didn’t have her strength of will, and she heard a faint sigh of sexual frustration ripple through approximately 40% of the class. They had to get used to this whole ridiculous handsomeness situation eventually, Sophie figured. Maybe by next school year—a few weeks clearly wasn’t long enough to build up an immunity.

“The Flanders ‘stache has served its purpose, and it’s not coming back. Sorry, kids,” said Mr. Murphy, then he turned to the white board and began writing. “Now c’mon, settle down, we’re reviewing matrices today. They’re gonna be on the final, and I noticed a lot of you had some trouble with them on the review worksheet…”


What was left of the school year passed without a break in the mustache mystery case, and Sophie figured they’d either forget about it by the time senior year rolled around, or Nicole would figure it out after, like, three weeks of low-key interrogating Mr. Murphy during mathlete sprints or whatever. Instead, they got the biggest break in the case during the summer thanks to Erin.

So I think devon was right and mr. m shaved the stache so he could get some d because look at what I am currently witnessing at the park

A slightly blurry picture followed, of two men lounging on a picnic blanket, a beefy guy who the photo had caught clutching at his chest with one hand and laughing, while the other man beamed down at him. Sophie didn’t recognize the bearded guy who was laughing, but the smiling man was definitely Mr. Murphy. It was all the group chat needed to blow up with texts.

GET IT, MR. M, THAT BEARDED LUMBERJACK LOOKING DUDE IS HOT AF, texted Devon.

Maybe they’re just friends? texted Chris, and Sophie snorted. Yeah right. Sophie was pretty sure two platonic dude friends didn’t go on picnics together. 

Just as she was typing that sentiment out, another picture followed: Mr. Murphy and the mystery man kissing. You couldn’t even really see anything, just their lips pressed together, the angle too bad to be able to tell if it was a quick peck on the lips or the beginning of a full on make out. But it was definitely a kiss. 

JUST BRO THINGS, came Erin’s text after the photo. Okay, no more pics, I feel like a paparazzi creeper.

MR M HAS A BF!!?!? Nicole texted, followed by what honestly seemed like a random keysmash of emojis. Like, how were the ghost and mermaid emojis relevant to this situation at all?

Can you do more surveillance?? Sophie asked.

What am I, a cop? I’m only here to walk Tater Tot! Shit i think ive been spotted

Erin went AWOL in the group chat while the rest of them speculated wildly about Mr. Murphy and his hot boyfriend: did they get together pre or post mustache? Was the boyfriend an actual lumberjack? Because he kind of looked it, what with the beard and the plaid button down and the enormous biceps. How in love were they? VERY, was Devon’s verdict, because it’s about the tenderness, look at their hands. And Sophie had to concede that Devon had a point: Hot Lumberjack Boyfriend’s big hand on Mr. Murphy’s cheek as they kissed looked gentle, and his free hand was tangled with Mr. Murphy’s, holding on tight.

I never wanted to know this much about one of my teacher’s love lives, came Chris’s text. I’m leaving this group chat!!! You’re all a bunch of pervs!!!

They all ignored Chris in favor of more baseless speculation—maybe Mr. Murphy’s boyfriend was about to propose!—until Erin returned to the group chat.

Okay, so Tater Tot LOVES Mr. M, and she is the BEST sleuthing partner because now I know that a) Mr. M’s BF is named Steve, b) Mr. M’s BF calls him BABY and it makes Mr. M BLUSH, adorbs and c) Steve was, at some point, SKETCHING MR M??? Like, drawing him like one of his french girls only with more clothes??? Everything about this is peak romance 

So….mystery solved??? Sophie texted. Or at least as solved as it was going to get without them getting all stalkery anyway. 

But no, Nicole wasn’t satisfied yet. Not until we know how the mustache is involved with this! Is Hot BF Steve the one Mr. M had the dare with? Did the dare lead to ROMANCE???

I am writing the screenplay in my head as we speak, said Devon, and Sophie was maybe considering writing the romance novel version too. Maybe they’d had some kind of mustached-inspired meet cute, or maybe Hot Boyfriend Steve was a barber…

We’re gonna be back on the case senior year, friends! Erin texted.


When the new school year started, Sophie learned that Erin hadn’t been the only one to spot Mr. Murphy out and about with Hot Boyfriend Steve. Cleveland wasn’t that big a city when it came down to it, and Mr. Murphy apparently lived as close to the high school as most of his students did. So half the school knew about Mr. Murphy and his hot boyfriend now, much to Mr. Murphy’s exasperation. 

After a barrage of light teasing and/or questioning during Sophie’s AP Calc class, Mr. Murphy put his hands on his hips and glared at them all. Or he tried to, anyway. He seemed too amused to manage a full-on glare, though Sophie knew his actual, I’m genuinely annoyed glare was enough to make anyone swallow hard while straightening their spine. 

“Kids, I don’t know why you’re all so interested in my personal life, I promise it’s not that exciting.”

“Uh huh, how about you let us be the judge of that. How’d you meet your boyfriend?” asked Sophie. “Was it pre or post mustache?”

Erin glared at her and widened her eyes. Pushing too fast, was the general gist of her eyebrow action.

Mr. Murphy sighed. “Time to talk about functions!”

“These are important questions, Mr. M!” said Erin. “We need to know this lumberjack dude is right for you!”

Most of the rest of the class chimed in, agreeing. Sophie suspected Hot Boyfriend Steve was, in fact, right for Mr. Murphy, because he was still happy in that twinkling eyes kind of way. In fact, she thought, tilting her head and studying him, he looked really good. Handsome, obviously, like, obnoxiously so, but also more tan, like he’d spent a lot of time outdoors over the summer, and less like he needed a few good meals to put some meat on his bones, as Sophie’s Grandma would’ve said. If his rough couple of years had been for health reasons, clearly he’d turned a corner.

“Lumberjack?” said Mr. Murphy with a delighted grin. “Oh, I’m gonna tell him my students think he’s a lumberjack, that’s great. He’s not a lumberjack, no. And that’s sweet of you all, though it’s also inappropriately nosey, but I promise, he’s right for me, and we’re happy, and now we are going to learn about functions.”

Erin and Sophie shared a look. It wasn’t exactly cracking the case, but they were getting closer.


When they did finally crack the case, sort of, it only raised more questions than it answered. 

Sophie had choir practice after school on the same day that Nicole stayed late for Academic Decathlon, so while Sophie nearly always finished before Nicole, she hung around campus for an extra half hour until Nicole was done so Sophie could give her a ride home. Nicole always told her she didn’t have to, and Sophie always ignored her. It wasn’t like it was some huge imposition to stick around for an extra half hour, and Sophie liked those car rides with Nicole, liked having the time alone with her. Especially because Nicole would turn the music up loud and they’d sing along together, or she’d say she was starving and could they swing by the drive thru to get burgers, and they’d eat them in the car, because that way, they’d still technically be “on their way home”. 

Anyway, usually Sophie helped Mrs. Matheson organize and put away the sheet music, or she talked to some of her choir friends until Nicole was finished. Academic Decathlon must have been running long today though, because even after Sophie had done all of that, Nicole still hadn’t yet come down to meet her at the school’s entrance. Sophie texted her, not especially expecting a response, and figured it’d be easier to just head over to the library where the Academic Decathlon team had their meetings.

On the way there, she ran into a handsome black guy who was peering around in a way that suggested he was lost. Sophie didn’t think she recognized him, though it wasn’t like she knew every single teacher in the school. Maybe he was a parent or relative looking for their kid. Stranger danger, she reminded herself as she approached with caution, her phone in her hand, but the cute, slightly gap-toothed smile he sent her way seemed friendly enough.

“Hey, excuse me, I’m looking for Jack—uh, Mr. Murphy’s classroom, can you tell me where it is?” he asked.

“You’re on the right floor,” she told him. “But he’s not in there, Academic Decathlon meets in the library. Why are you looking for him?”

“I’m Sam, I’m a friend. I’m giving him a ride home. Got bored waiting, thought I’d come see what’s keeping him.”

“Ha, me too,” said Sophie. “I mean, I’m not Mr. Murphy’s ride, obviously, but my friend Nicole, she’s in Academic Decathlon, I’m her ride. I was just heading over there too, I can take you there. Um, I’m Sophie, by the way.”

“Thanks, Sophie,” said Sam, and ugh, were all of Mr. Murphy’s friends super handsome?

When they got to the library, it looked like the meeting was just wrapping up. Nicole grinned and waved at her cheerfully as she stuffed books back into her bulging messenger bag. Sophie sighed fondly and walked over to her.

“That thing is gonna burst, Nic. Here, gimme some of your books, I can carry them.”

“Thanks Soph. I know I need to get a bigger bag, this one’s just so cute—hey, who’s that you came in with?”

Before Sophie could answer, she heard Mr. Murphy say, “Hi-dilly ho, neighborino,” and when she looked over, he was grinning at Sam, who rolled his eyes.

“You are never gonna let me live that down, are you,” said Sam, and Mr. Murphy only grinned wider.

“Absolutely not, are you kidding me?”

Nicole gasped and grabbed Sophie’s arm. “A break in the case!” she whispered. 

This was the best opportunity they were gonna get for some real answers. It was time to risk asking some more questions.

“Mr. Murphy! Is Sam the reason you had that mustache last year?” asked Sophie, and Sam crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow.

“I take no responsibility for that Flanders ‘stache,” said Sam. “What have you been telling your impressionable students, Jack?”

“Nothing!” said Mr. Murphy, making his eyes go all big and innocent. “Just that I won a dare.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now,” said Sam, arms still crossed. He was clearly trying for a serious expression, but his lips kept twitching into a smile. “Uh huh. Not sure what you think you won—”

“The look on your face when you realized, which I will treasure for the rest of my life—” Sam groaned and protested, while Sophie and Nicole shared a delighted look. This new side of Mr. Murphy was amazing. He was kind of a hilarious asshole to his friends, it was great. Mr. Murphy ignored Sam’s protests, his smile shifting from mischievous to sweet, and continued, “And Steve. I won Steve.”

Sam snorted. “Take it from the guy who had to deal with your BFF pining for you from afar, you already had him.”

Mr. Murphy ducked his head with a private kind of grin as he finished packing his things away, then he cleared his throat, and called out, “Alright kids, everyone clear out, I’ve gotta lock up in here. I’ll see you all in class tomorrow!”


“So…did we crack the case?” Nicole wondered as they got in Sophie’s car. “I feel like we definitely just learned a lot, but also that what we just learned has only led to more questions.”

“The true nature of a mystery is that it can never really be entirely solved,” said Sophie in an overly solemn voice, which made Nicole giggle, just as Sophie’d intended. “But seriously, I think we’ve learned all we can for now without being total creepers or getting in trouble. The mustache was some kind of dare or prank that Mr. Murphy went all in on, because apparently he’s that kind of person, and it somehow led to him getting with Hot Boyfriend and/or Best Friend Steve, who’d been pining for him.”

Now that she put it like that, they hadn’t really learned much at all, thought Sophie.

Nicole groaned. “There’s an epic story here, I know it! An epic romance even! Pining best friends brought together by a dumb mustache dare!” She brought her hands up to her face and wiggled her fingers near her temples. “My reporter’s intuition is all a-tingle, Soph! But you’re right, we can’t go full stalker, or make Mr. Murphy mad by being weirdly nosy about his personal life.”

Sophie hummed in agreement, most of her focus on pulling out of the school lot and getting to the intersection. When the light turned red, Sophie glanced over at Nicole: she was pouting, some genuine frustration in the wrinkle on her forehead, and she had a distinct harried and tired reporter vibe, what with her fine, dark hair escaping its lopsided bun in haphazard wisps, and her glasses perched at a somewhat askew angle on her button nose. She usually wore contacts, but either she was out of refills, or she hadn’t wanted to bother putting them in today. Sophie thought she looked better with the glasses, honestly. Not that that was relevant just now. She just wanted Nicole to look less frustrated, to smile again.

“I’ll stay on the case,” Sophie told Nicole. “But like, subtly. I’ll slip in some questions here and there during class, see if we can’t learn more.”

Nicole perked up, her face blooming into sunny happiness like a spring flower. “Yeah?”

The light turned green, and Sophie was glad she could turn her attention back to the road. “Yeah. And you can see if you can learn more during mathlete practice too.” She affected a gruff detective voice, and added, “This case hasn’t gone ice cold yet, rookie.”

“We don’t call it practice, Soph,” said Nicole through her giggles. “But thanks. Forget Erin and Tater Tot, you’re the best sleuthing partner.”

Sophie blushed. Oh my god, why was she blushing, being a better partner in mystery solving than a chubby terrier was not a blush-worthy life achievement. She turned the AC up and hoped Nicole didn’t notice.

“Thanks,” she said. “So, drive thru time? I could really use a shake and some fries.”

“Yes! I think our break in the case should definitely be rewarded with milkshakes and fries.”


As the weeks passed, Sophie and her friends were all way too busy dealing with college applications and all the other stresses of senior year to do all that much sleuthing. Mostly, all they learned was that Mr. M looked just as good with a beard as he did without it, which seemed mathematically impossible somehow, because a beard was just a mustache with extra hair, and yet, the equations still worked out to Mr. M + mustache = Mr. Flanders (not sexy), and Mr. M + mustache + beard = broodingly handsome professor type (very sexy). 

They also didn’t learn anything juicy about Mr. M’s love life, or at least, nothing other than that Mr. M and Hot Boyfriend Steve were a disgustingly adorable, wildly in love couple. Like, Hot Boyfriend Steve stuck cute and funny drawings in Mr. M’s lunches, drawings that he then put up on the white board in class, and if Mr. Murphy’s cheerful answers to Sophie and Nicole’s totally not nosey what did you do this weekend questions were true, he took Hot Boyfriend Steve out on ridiculously romantic dates.

“Our math teacher has a better love life than any of us do. This is tragic,” said Erin.

“Babe!” protested Chris. “I’m sitting right here!”

Erin leaned against him in a vaguely apologetic way, while rolling her eyes. “Yeah yeah, but I don’t see you taking me out for romantic sunset dates on the lake, Christopher.”

“I’m desperate enough that I’m not even looking for romance, I just want a damn date to the Winter Formal,” said Devon. Before Sophie could suggest it, Devon cut her off with a wave of the hand. “And not a platonic friend date, no offense.”

“Well we can’t all grow a mustache and have our BFF fall in love with us,” said Nicole glumly, and Sophie’s stomach swooped and fluttered in a way that made her lunch burrito seem like a real bad idea.

“Hey, we can still go to Winter Formal together,” Sophie told her, and while Nicole smiled back at her, there was as much sadness as gratitude in it. Sophie didn’t know why.

“Thanks, Soph.”


Date or no date, Winter Formal ended up being a lot of fun. With her college apps sent off and finals almost over, it was a much needed chance to finally let loose and relax a little before winter break, and she and Nicole went all out: spa day, hair, make up, dresses, everything. Sophie’s mantras for Winter Formal were treat yoself! and because we’re worth it goddammit, and she was going to act accordingly. And if she also wanted to make sure there was no reason for that odd, half-sad smile of Nicole’s to come back, well, Nicole didn’t have to know that.

Once they were ready, and after they’d taken approximately 5000 pictures, they put on their coats and got in Sophie’s car to head over to the venue. Chris and Erin had offered to share a limo with them, but Nicole wanted to go with Sophie in her car. 

“You’re sure you wanna go in my hand-me-down Honda?” Sophie asked. “There’s room in Erin and Chris’s limo, they only just left, they can still pick us up.”

“I’m sure,” said Nicole. “And I already have our driving playlist set up and everything, c’mon, let’s go!”

“It’s gonna take like fifteen, twenty minutes to get there tops, I don’t think we need a whole playlist—”

“It’s about building the right vibe, Soph!”

The playlist did end up having a pretty good vibe, Sophie had to admit. And just like they always ended up doing when Sophie drove them anywhere, they sang along to Nicole’s perfect playlist the entire way to the Winter Formal venue. For a few minutes, Sophie was tempted to just drive past the venue, to loop around and keep driving and driving, just so they could hold onto this perfect moment where they were together and singing in harmony and everything about the winter night was bright and sparkling. But their other friends were waiting for them at the Winter Formal, and if they were late they’d miss the fancy four-course meal that Nicole was so excited about, so Sophie drove into the venue’s parking lot.

“We’re here,” she said, superfluously, and smiled when Nicole made a happy little noise of anticipation. “Here, hang on, don’t get out yet, you’ll mess up your dress. I’ll get the door for you,” she added, and got out to help Nicole out of the car.

Nicole was wearing a beautifully poofy princess dress in sea-foam green that looked absolutely stunning on her, but it was a lot of dress, and she was in heels. Sophie didn’t want her to trip getting out of her low-slung Honda. She gave Nicole a hand, and steadied her when she tottered on her heels for a second.

“Oh, I feel like a proper lady! Thanks Sophie!” She threaded her arm through Sophie’s and they walked into the banquet hall, arm in arm.


For the first few minutes of their fancy Winter Formal dinner, with all her friends happy and laughing at the same table, Sophie felt like a kid playing dress up, and surely everyone could tell, surely they’d know she was faking it in this sparkly, sophisticated dress. But then they all had a toast with their sparkling apple ciders, and Nicole smiled and winked at her, and Sophie realized it didn’t matter if she was faking it, she still belonged right here in this moment.


After dinner, there was a seemingly endless period of awkward milling around, no one quiet willing to be the first to actually dance. Before she could try to convince any of her friends to get out there, Nicole grabbed her arm with a gasp.

“Sophie! Mr. Murphy’s here with Hot Boyfriend Steve, it’s the perfect opportunity for some sleuthing!” said Nicole, and pointed over at where Mr. Murphy was standing by the wall with some of the mathletes, his hand at the small of Hot Boyfriend Steve’s back.

They were both ludicrously handsome in their suits, of course, and Hot Boyfriend Steve clearly couldn’t keep his eyes off of Mr. M. So, peak romance, as usual. 

“It’s also the perfect opportunity for dancing,” said Sophie, looking over her shoulder at the still-empty dance floor.

“I’m gonna go talk to Hot Boyfriend Steve,” she said. “Maybe he’ll be more forthcoming than Mr. M.”

Sophie sighed and went to find Devon. Surely he’d be willing to dance with her.


She and Nicole lost track of each other for a while after that; Sophie bounced between various friend groups, sometimes on the dance floor, sometimes not, and Nicole was clearly committed to some light interrogation of Mr. Murphy’s boyfriend, but other than that, Sophie didn’t know what Nicole was up to. Finally, Sophie spotted her again by the chocolate fountain, where she was talking to Mr. Murphy. Sophie started making her way across the banquet hall and through the crowd towards them—that chocolate fountain dessert situation looked delicious—but her steps faltered when she saw the nervous and serious expression on Nicole’s face, and Mr. Murphy’s own patient, listening expression.

Oh no, had he finally caught on that they were being inappropriately nosey about his personal life? Was Nicole in trouble? Sophie could see Mr. Murphy say something to Nicole, who nodded and lifted her chin in determination, earning her a soft and warm smile from Mr. Murphy, and by then Sophie was in earshot of them.

“Nicole, there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you! C’mon, Erin and Devon wanted to dance. Hi, Mr. M! You gonna join us on the dance floor?”

“Hi, Sophie,” he said, still smiling as he shook his head. “I’m gonna leave the dancing to you kids. But you girls have fun!”

Nicole took her by the arm and Sophie guided them towards the general direction of Erin and Devon. “So, what’d you find out?” Sophie asked.

“Mostly stuff we already knew, and some good clues about why Mr. M was all with the sad eyes last year—Hot Boyfriend Steve was out of the country, apparently—never mind that, the really important thing I learned was that Hot Boyfriend Steve thinks, and I quote, ‘the mustache wasn’t that bad, really.’” Sophie stopped in her tracks, and stared at Nicole, who widened her eyes and nodded. “I know. So, like, it’s definitely true love, right? There’s literally no other reason for Hot Boyfriend Steve to think that.”

“Yeah, no, there definitely isn’t. Oh my god, Nicole, you did it, you cracked the case!” 

Sophie grabbed Nicole’s hands and they jumped up and down together in sheer excitement for a bit, the movement making one of Nicole’s careful curls slip out of place, but before Sophie could do anything about it, Nicole’s smile faded in favor of determination.

“Dance with me,” said Nicole, as the lights dimmed to a twilight blue and a slow jam started up.

“Sure, but we’ll have to wait for the next song—”

“No, to this song. Dance with me to this song, Soph.”

Nicole held Sophie’s hand tight and began tugging her gently towards the dance floor.

“Like—for real dance together to this? Not just because we—we don’t have real dates—”

You’re my real date, Sophie. So dance with me.”

Sophie’s thoughts were moving at about the speed of molasses, caught up as they were in the play of light over Nicole’s face and the surprise of being asked to dance, but her right hand didn’t need any input to tuck that curl back into place, and her left hand knew to squeeze Nicole’s tight as they went to the dance floor, and even her arms and legs knew what to do, how to sway with Nicole in the close hold of a slow dance.

“So, do I need to grow a mustache like Mr. Murphy did, to convince you, or make you have an epiphany or whatever? Or is this—are we okay?”

“No mustache needed,” whispered Sophie, then she kissed Nicole, fast and sweet. “We’re better than okay.”

Nicole smiled at her, that big almost goofy smile that she’d had since they were in sixth grade, and kissed her back, a kiss with emphasis, a kiss that was going places—

“Leave six inches of room, girls!” barked Coach Leeds, then punctuated it with the blow of a whistle, an actual whistle, like this was a foul on the field. “There will be no indecency on the dance floor!”

Sophie cracked up, and so did Nicole, and they stumbled off the dance floor still laughing, until Nicole whispered in her ear, “No indecency on the dance floor, but what about in your car?” and Sophie turned to look at her with wide and delighted eyes, her blood pounding through her with nerves and want.

“Nicole, you’re a genius,” she said, already grabbing Nicole’s hand and heading for the parking lot. 

On their way out, Nicole waved at Mr. Murphy with her free hand. “Thanks for the advice, Mr. M! It worked out!” 

Chapter 16: lit up, all right

Summary:

"It started with perfectly innocent photos of decidedly phallic food, with captions like been really craving bananas lately! and your branding has extended to popsicles, and for some reason, they are not shaped like shields."

Steve and Bucky attempt phone sex.

Notes:

This one's rated E, folks!

Chapter Text

By week three of a projected six-week long interagency investigation into a HYDRA faction embedded in the DEA, of all places, Steve could conclusively declare: long distance relationships sucked.

Because not only did he miss Bucky with an intensity that made his heart physically ache—a sensation which Sam assured him was entirely psychosomatic before calling him a drama queen—but he was also...frustrated. Sexually frustrated. In the grand scheme of things, this wasn’t a big deal. Steve could live without sex, had in fact lived without sex for a depressingly long time, after being defrosted, and the investigation he was working on was important.

Hell, when Steve had talked it over with Bucky, suggesting that he could give the investigation a pass or participate in it remotely, Bucky himself had looked affronted, and he’d subjected Steve to a half-hour long lecture on why Steve needed to be a part of the investigation, something about how Bucky couldn’t get at the seized drug money HYDRA was using for funding now, but this investigation could, which had culminated in Bucky giving him a very earnest and solemn look and saying I aim and you shoot, remember? This is me aiming, Steve.

Obviously, Steve couldn’t say no after that. 

But that didn’t mean Steve had to like being stuck in Virginia for weeks, so close and yet so far from Bucky. They couldn’t even risk weekend trips to see each other, not when there was every possibility that some government agent or another, or a HYDRA mole even, could follow Steve back to Bucky, or ask inconvenient questions about just where Captain America was going. So they were stuck with phone calls and texts and FaceTime. Which was better than nothing, sure, but in his more dramatic and lovelorn moments, Steve thought he was like a man dying of thirst in the desert, always stumbling into one beautiful oasis after another that turned out to be an untouchable mirage.

“Buck, I miss you,” Steve blurted out during the night’s video call.

Bucky, who’d been in the middle of a cute anecdote about his mathletes, stopped and looked at Steve with such tender softness that Steve went hot, and he practically caught fire when Bucky said, low and sincere, “I miss you too, sweetheart. So much.”

‘I mean—I miss you,” said Steve, and swallowed hard, feeling both gratified and desperate when Bucky’s eyes followed the motion of his adam’s apple. If Bucky were here, he’d kiss Steve there, one casually possessive hand on Steve’s neck to hold him still, his thumb smoothing over Steve’s pulse, or he’d straddle Steve and press him down onto the bed—

Oh,” said Bucky, and bit his lower lip. God, Steve wished he could kiss him right now. Bucky was so good at kissing.

“We could—you know.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at his lips. “Could we, Steven? Because the last time we tried, you got so embarrassed you slammed your laptop closed. It was kind of a buzzkill.”

And yeah, okay, Bucky wasn’t wrong. It was just that it turned out that attempting long distance sex via FaceTime made Steve wildly self-conscious. Steve wasn’t a fan of being filmed in general, though he’d resigned himself to it as part of being Captain America. It helped, having the uniform and the shield to hide behind. Being on camera as himself, in a decidedly intimate moment? That apparently made Steve so embarrassed and self-conscious that he couldn’t even handle it. A full week later though, and Steve was getting desperate enough to give it another try.

“I wasn’t this horny last time,” said Steve, scowling and blushing now as Bucky laughed, his eyes sparkling with affection.

“You’re turning red as a tomato and you haven’t even managed to say the word sex, Steve, I don’t think it’s happening this time either.”

“Maybe if we...work up to it,” Steve tried, because they had at least three more weeks of this and Steve didn’t think jerking off in the shower was going to cut it.

“Oh yeah? How so?”

“We could—with pictures. Uh, dickpics, I think they’re called.”

Bucky’s eyes went wide with wicked glee, his smile turning into a slightly predatory grin. “Dickpics, huh? Now where’d you learn about those?”

“Uh, just, you know, around—” stammered Steve, already regretting saying anything, because he could practically see the gears of mischief already in motion in Bucky’s mind. “Never mind, forget I said anything.”

“Hmm, okay,” said Bucky, suspiciously mild. “So is that one agent still giving you HYDRA mole vibes—”


There’d been a time when Bucky’s off-kilter sense of mischief had been a perpetual source of mild annoyance and fond exasperation for Steve. When they were kids in Brooklyn, Bucky had always gone on about Steve being too damn serious and dour for his own good, and he’d sought to rectify that with assorted dumb jokes and harmless pranks: doodling tiny stick-figure flip book cartoons in the corner of Steve’s fresh sketchbooks, slowly replacing Steve’s perfectly acceptable black and gray socks with ever more garishly colored ones, narrating Steve’s drawing practice as if it was a baseball game...nothing that was ever genuinely disruptive or upsetting, just little acts of odd whimsy that served their purpose of diverting Bucky and coaxing a smile out of Steve.

During the war, Bucky’s mischief had all but disappeared, only peeking through with the odd joke about the Captain America propaganda machine, and his persistent attempts at ever more raunchy parody versions of the Star-Spangled Man with a Plan song, which the Howlies had enthusiastically contributed to. 

In retrospect, Steve really ought to have worried more about Bucky’s newfound seriousness then; his smiles had been so rare, his jokes few and far between, and what humor he had indulged in had been of the gallows sort. Steve had put it down to the war, to Bucky growing out of the last of his boyishness. Now Steve knew: Bucky had been suffering and terrified, while Steve had been an oblivious asshole when it came to Bucky’s pain. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

So here in the 21st century, when they were both pushing a hundred years old, Steve didn’t think Bucky should grow out of his sense of mischief, and he wasn’t annoyed by Bucky’s penchant for pranks. Each dumb date night prank, every time Bucky cracked himself up with some bit of harmless mischief, was proof that Bucky was happy, and Steve would give absolutely anything to ensure Bucky’s continued happiness. Some embarrassment on Steve’s part was more than worth Bucky’s joy, and anyway, whatever Bucky was up to usually was genuinely funny.

Still, Steve was not a patient man, and the anticipation of wondering just what the hell Bucky was up to now always made him antsy. It didn’t help that Bucky could play a long game, like he had with the damn sweater Natasha had gotten Steve for Christmas, when he’d bided his time for months before proving that he’d been very devoted indeed to the whole sexy lighthouse keeper aesthetic he’d envisioned for Steve.

This time though, Bucky didn’t keep him waiting long. 

It started with perfectly innocent photos of decidedly phallic food, with captions like been really craving bananas lately! and your branding has extended to popsicles, and for some reason, they are not shaped like shields. 

That’s not captain america branded, buck, that’s just 4th of july branding

Is the 4th of july not captain america day???? Sounds fake, but okay. Anyway the popsicle is pretty good

Because Bucky was the worst, he did not provide a selfie of him eating the popsicle. No, Steve was left to imagine how potentially lewd that could be, Bucky’s lips all red and stretched around it, sucking it slowly to make it last, taking it nice and deep to catch any dripping sweetness and—goddammit. Steve did not need a hard-on during this between meetings coffee break.

Steve assumed things would continue in this manner for at least a few days, and he resigned himself to the sweet torture of receiving photos of ever-more phallic and obscene foods while imagining Bucky’s dick. Instead, Bucky surprised him one evening with a selfie of him standing in front of their guest room’s full length mirror, wearing nothing but those hilarious tight and short swim trunks with the shield on them, a small smile on his face like he was inviting Steve in on the joke. The sexy, terrible, terribly sexy joke.

Steve sat down on the hotel bed, the better to truly appreciate the photo.

With nearly all of Bucky on display, there was a lot to like about the photo—his smooth, muscled torso, the way the trunks sat low on his hips, low enough to show off his adonis belt and the litte trail of hair leading lower down, and tight enough to leave very little to the imagination. The trunks were shockingly short too, putting his strong thighs on very appealing display. And yet, despite all that, Steve’s attention caught and focused on Bucky’s pose, on the way his right foot was hooked around his slim left ankle, on the slightly wry tilt of his head, the only indications that Bucky might actually be feeling a little shy about doing this. 

Which was why Steve was feeling simultaneously incredibly tender and also very turned on when Bucky called a few minutes later.

“You’re a regular pin-up, Bucky Barnes,” Steve told him.

He could hear the shape of Bucky’s smile when Bucky said, “Oh yeah?”

“Uh huh. Even if those trunks are still ridiculous. Would’ve appreciated the rear view too, y’know,” he added, because terrible shield decal aside, Bucky’s ass looked amazing in those trunks.

“Thought it was dickpics you were after,” Bucky said, low and sly, the warm pull of his voice almost as good as his touch.

“Uh, I, I mean, if you—”

Bucky continued on, his tone now back to normal, downright breezy even. “I gotta say, I’m not sure about this whole dickpic thing anyway. Not to be all kids these days about it, but is there really a lot of appeal in a picture of a hard cock all on its own?”

“Well, uh, if it’s yours—”

“Right, yeah, that’s sweet, Steve, but if it’s just a picture of my dick, well, who’s to say it isn’t anyone else’s dick?”

“Um, I am definitely intimately acquainted with your dick, Bucky, I’ll be able to tell. Especially if you—” Steve stopped, and closed his eyes, mortified by what he’d almost said.

“Especially if I what?”

“Nothing!”

Bucky’s voice dipped into its lowest register, unbearably intimate, like they were in their bedroom and Bucky’s lips were right up against Steve’s ear. “Especially if I what?” he repeated, and Steve swallowed down a frankly embarrassing whimper, shivering with the memory of Bucky’s hot breath against the sensitive shell of his ear, or on his neck.

“If you use your left hand,” said Steve quickly.

Steve could hear Bucky’s sharp inhale, the sound crisp and clear over the line. “Now there’s an idea. Would just a picture of that get you off, sweetheart?”

Steve’s face, already plenty hot, went hotter; hell, he flushed hot all over, and he squirmed as his cock hardened. He was really glad he was alone in his hotel room right now, and not anywhere more compromising, because he was perilously close to getting off just from this.

“Just talking about it is, uh, you know—”

“Making you hard?” asked Bucky, with inexorable sweetness.

“Yeah,” breathed Steve.

“You wanna do something about that?”

“While we’re on the phone?” hissed Steve, but he was already pressing his free hand against his erection, rubbing through the fabric of his pants for some much needed friction.

“That’s how phone sex works, yeah,” said Bucky, amused, and damn him, not at all flustered, his breath still coming slow and even over the phoneline. “So go on. You need some incentive? I’ll send you the picture, after you come.” 

“Will you?” asked Steve, a little peevish now. “Because you don’t really sound like you’re getting hot and bothered, so I’m kind of wondering whether you can deliver.”

“Oh I am and I will,” Bucky said easily. “But I can wait for you. Unless you wanna hang up, like the last time…?”

Steve groaned. Well if Bucky was gonna make it a dare, Steve had to see this through. “Fuck you. Just, um, hang on, I need to get—” 

He fumbled around one-handed in the front pocket of his suitcase until he found some lotion, which would have to do. He held the phone up to his ear with one shoulder as he got himself out of his pants and squeezed some lotion onto his hand.

“You can put me on speaker, you know,” said Bucky, listening to all this rustling around with what Steve knew was probably a fond smirk on his lips. Bucky himself was probably all loose-limbed languor right now, stretched out on their bed, head tipped back as he talked to Steve, the perfectly tempting line of his throat on display.

“No,” said Steve, automatically. “I don’t want—you feel closer, like this.”

Now that made Bucky’s breath hitch, and Steve took himself in hand with a little gasp of his own.

“Wish I was closer,” admitted Bucky, his voice growing rough now. “But I want you to feel good even if I’m not there. So make yourself feel good, Steve.”

“You still wearing those awful trunks?” asked Steve, working his cock slow and steady for now, reveling in the slickness of the lotion and the drag of his palm.

“Now you’re getting the hang of it,” said Bucky approvingly. “But no, I’m not, sorry. The wedgies in those things are the worst.”

“Not sexy,” complained Steve, and Bucky laughed.

“I’m not wearing any underwear, actually, just sweats. No shirt. Still cooling down from that hot yoga class.”

“Yeah?”

And oh, Buck always looked so good after that class: his hair a tousled, curling mess and his skin dewy with the sheen of sweat, all the tension in him smoothed out with the heat and exercise, turning his every movement loose and languid. Every time Steve fucked him after that class, he did it slowly, and Bucky melted into it, utterly relaxed, all of him so, so warm. Just the memory of it made Steve work his cock faster. 

“You know, I take that class ‘cause it’s good for my back and core, but sometimes I think you get even more out of it than I do.”

“What can I say, I’ve got a, what do you call it, Pavlovian response to you looking all hot and sweaty and satisfied.”

Steve’s photographic memory helpfully provided a very detailed image of just that. 

“Well it goes both ways, pal. All I could think of was you during class, of what you’d do to me afterward, if you were here. How you’d fuck me, all sweet and slow. I really like that, you know? I don’t think I tell you that often enough. Anyway, it took some real effort to keep from getting hard right then and there. Had to focus on the poses instead, on staying still.”

Fuck. How could Bucky overwhelm him so much with just words? God, Steve was as worked up as he would be if Bucky were right here with him. 

“And you did it. Stayed still, I mean,” Steve said, as if there was any question. Bucky’s self-control was near-absolute, and he was very good at holding poses, as Steve had artistic cause to know.

Bucky hummed an affirmative. “Got through the whole damn class without scandalizing any of the nice ladies, yeah. I was probably supposed to be thinking of something calming and enlightening instead of daydreaming about you railing me though.”

Steve swallowed down an embarrassing moan, his grip around his cock tightening and speeding up automatically. 

“And after?” he asked.

“Hmm?”

“After the class, when you got home, did you, you know—“

“Did I jerk off?” asked Bucky, sly now, his voice getting breathy. “Sweetheart, why do you think I called you?”

“Fuck,” groaned Steve, coming undone as he imagined it: Bucky coming home, flushed and sweaty and aching, turned on, thinking of Steve as he stripped down and tried to cool off, thinking of Steve fucking him, as his cock swelled and hardened now that he was alone, and then he’d sent that photo and called Steve, sounding downright unbothered as he wound Steve up so easily, because he could wait for Steve, and Steve was always so easy for him—

“There you go,” said Bucky, a kind of intent hunger in the low and gentle timbre of his voice, and Steve came, shuddering and crying out as his orgasm seemingly seared through him down from his ear right down to his cock, like it really was all down to Bucky’s voice.

Steve panted into the phone for a bit, dazed and overcome, and distantly pleased to hear Bucky’s breath was speeding up too. 

“So, working up to video is going pretty well so far!” said Bucky cheerfully, before he promptly hung up.

“Buck—! Goddammit,” said Steve, ready to call him back and, and—well, he didn’t know what, but something

His phone buzzed once: a text notification. Or no, a photo. 

Steve’s indignation burned away in a flash, because here was the promised dickpic: Bucky’s cock gripped in his smooth left hand, flushed and hard, precome already leaking out, which meant he was probably jerking off right now, thinking of Steve, of what they’d just done, of how much Bucky wanted him, and oh fuck, Steve was hard again. 

When he was done, all wrung out in more ways than one, he could only muster the energy to send Bucky a couple of emoji in response: an eggplant, and a big red heart. He figured Bucky would understand.

Though holy shit, if that was how phone sex could go, Steve didn’t think he was ever gonna be ready for video. 

Chapter 17: I have arms for them

Summary:

“Need some more hug practice?” Sam asked, and Bucky looked at him in surprise. “What? This goes both ways, you know. You listen to me vent about my shitty day, I listen to you vent about your dumbass boyfriend…that’s, y’know, friendship.”

Notes:

Content note: some discussion of mental health issues and trauma in this one, nothing too heavy. Chapter title from The National's "Green Gloves".

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

At the end of a long, shitty day of small, mundane disasters and frustrations, Sam only wanted two things: a meal he didn’t have to make any effort to prepare or acquire himself, and some undemanding company. Preferably some undemanding company that would listen sympathetically—hell, Sam wasn’t picky right now, given the company on offer, they could even pretend to listen sympathetically and Sam would take it—to a recitation of his woes, which consisted of: the bagel he’d dropped on the sidewalk, cream cheese side down; the new dent on the passenger side of his once-pristine Porsche; the way his lunch order had been wrong when he’d really been looking forward to his grilled club sandwich and not a tuna melt; three group sessions in a row that had consisted of about 75% awkward silence, despite Sam’s best attempts to get people talking…ugh, just thinking of it all again had Sam groaning. Which was why he went straight to Steve and Bucky’s house rather than his own.

Sam hadn’t exactly been expecting to stay in Cleveland for so long. After over a year of using it as a home base for continuing to burn HYDRA’s many heads to ash though, Sam could admit Cleveland had its benefits. Low cost of living, for one, and an easy to maintain cover for another. A good work-life-superheroing balance too, with a social life that didn’t mostly consist of skyping with his sisters, and most convenient of all: living next door to his best friend and his best friend’s best friend.

He let himself into Steve and Bucky’s place with his key, and when Bucky called out, “Sam?” he answered, “Yeah, it’s me, hey.”

Sam didn’t know how Bucky could always tell it was him by sound alone, but he always could. Sam followed the sound of his voice and the smell of something delicious to the kitchen, where Bucky was sitting at the table grading homework or tests or something. Bucky glanced up at him with a quick grin.

“Hey Sam. You sticking around for dinner?”

“If you’ll have me,” he said, and took a deep sniff of the mouth-watering aroma filing the kitchen, something almost like pizza but not quite. “Lasagna?”

By the smell of it, it was Bucky’s handiwork, which meant it would be pretty damn tasty. He wasn’t exactly an adventurous or exciting cook, but those things he did make came out good, whereas Steve’s culinary skills topped out at grilled sandwiches and breakfast foods.

“Yeah, there’s enough for three,” said Bucky.

Sam swung by the fridge to grab a beer, then sat at the kitchen table with a sigh. “Where’s Steve anyway?”

“Out for a run,” said Bucky, not looking up from his grading. 

“Another? I did five miles with him this morning.”

Bucky hummed, a tiny furrow taking up residence on his forehead. He still didn’t look up from his grading, his red pen moving steadily down the page as he checked answers. “Yeah, he’s…restless lately, I guess. Should be back soon.” He glanced up at Sam. “You just here to mooch off us for beer and dinner, or…?”

“Just had a shitty day, could use some company.”

That got Bucky’s full attention. “Yeah? Everything okay?”

This was all the encouragement Sam needed to expound on his litany of grievances against this bad day, and at around and then I realized I’d gotten a no sugar added hazelnut latte instead of a regular one and it gave me stomach cramps Bucky stopped looking concerned and started looking kind of exasperated, interrupting Sam’s complaints with the occasional wry aside.

“Wow, a tuna melt instead of a club sandwich? Terrible,” he said, and went back to grading his papers.

By the time Sam got to how awkward and shitty all his group sessions for the day had gone, he had Bucky’s attention again, and his genuine sympathy.

“That sucks, I’m sorry,” he said.

Sam got up from the table with a sigh. “Want a beer? I’m having another beer.”

“No, and I don’t know why you bother to ask. Those are your damn beers colonizing my fridge, Wilson.”

This was true, and some day Bucky was probably going to enact revenge with his terrible sense of humor by replacing the contents of the beer bottles with something disgusting, but for now they were just beers, so Sam grabbed another one for himself. 

“Suit yourself,” he said, and popped the cap off, feeling newly sorry for himself about the failure of today’s group sessions.

Sam could handle it when one of his group sessions for the day went badly or just petered out into sullen silence. For all of them to go that way though? It was weighing heavy on him, burning and roiling in his gut with the bitter sting of disappointment and failure. He poked aimlessly around the kitchen in a way that could, maybe, be classified as moping, and Bucky looked at him, frowning with concern as he tapped his pen on the table so rapidly that it was just a blur.  

“Do you—you look like you need a hug,” said Bucky. Sam blinked at him, surprised.

“Uh, I wouldn’t say no to one, I guess,” he said, because a hug did sound nice, now that Bucky mentioned it. It had been a while, Sam realized. 

Steve was more of a manly shoulder pat and brief bro hug kind of guy, and Bucky had a personal space bubble that admitted no one other than Steve, pretty much, so Sam’s life was kind of lacking in physical affection lately. It was usually Natasha who indulged Sam’s platonic physical affection needs, with quick tight hugs and her habit of plopping herself next to him on the couch, and she’d been away on a mission for the last couple of weeks. 

“I could…give you a hug,” Bucky said, a determined expression on his face that was at odds with the hesitance in his voice.

“Don’t sound too excited about it now,” Sam said dryly. “You listening to my whining’s enough, don’t worry about it.”

Now Bucky’s determined expression shifted to downright stubborn. “Touch is an important component of mental health, Sam.”

“Uh huh, I know,” said Sam, because he did. 

Touch was something a lot of vets struggled with, when they were back home. In the close quarters of deployment, touch came easy, even if it was about 70% roughhousing. Back stateside, dealing with trauma and maybe isolated from any kind of social support system, it could be a hell of a lot harder to come by, and that took a toll. Modern American society in general was low on affectionate contact for anyone who was single and not a kid, and it probably wasn’t good for people. Sam always encouraged his vets to just drop any macho bullshit and give each other some damn hugs every once in a while. He would have encouraged Bucky too, but he figured the guy had very good reasons to not be okay with touching, and the amount of regular PDA he witnessed between Steve and Bucky suggested Bucky was far from lacking in positive human touch.

“Kinda surprised you do,” Sam added, because seriously, Bucky’s do not touch bubble was very obvious to anyone who breached it.

Bucky gave him a baleful, somewhat offended look. “I go to group too, you know. I know things.”

Wait, what? Sam nearly did a spit take with his swallow of beer, but managed to get it down. “You go to group?”

“Never mind, offer to hug rescinded. You made it weird,” Bucky said, and returned to his grading with a scowl, brow furrowed in something too close to genuine upset for Sam’s comfort.

“No, sorry, you just caught me by surprise. Do you go to one of the VA groups?” 

Maybe Bucky went to one out of town? That could explain why Sam had never seen him around…

“Not the VA. Just—a group. For, you know, generally traumatized people, not just military.” Bucky still wasn’t looking up from his grading. “Found it online, been going since I came to Cleveland.”

“Yeah? That’s great, Bucky, seriously.”

To Sam’s surprise, it was a hell of a relief too. He hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying around a low-level worry that Bucky wasn’t getting the help or support he needed. Sure, the guy seemed to be doing fine most of the time, but appearances could be deceiving. Even a support group for the “generally traumatized” was likely better than Bucky bootstrapping his way through his recovery. 

“Don’t tell Steve,” Bucky said, voice barely over a whisper, eyes still on his work. Before Sam could ask why the secrecy, Bucky continued, “Anyway, I’ve been—trying. To be better about, you know. Touching people who aren’t Steve. So, I thought—whatever, it’s fine.”

“Hey now, I was offered a hug, and I wanna collect,” Sam said, setting his beer down on the counter and opening his arms.

Bucky rolled his eyes, but then he just looked at Sam for a moment, biting his lip nervously. Sam waited, and it didn’t take long for Bucky’s resolve to win out over his nerves. He got up, took a few short steps towards Sam, and put his arms around him. At first it was like hugging a cord stretched so tight and taut that it was shivering with the force of the strain—Bucky’s usual response to any prolonged non-Steve contact—and Sam kept his own arms loose and light around Bucky’s shoulders. But after only a few seconds, most of Bucky’s tension eased, and he held Sam in a real, if still very careful, hug. It was nice, actually, and more warming than the hug itself was the display of trust, the offer of kindness. Sam was maybe feeling some kind of way about that trust and kindness, actually, probably on account of the two beers he’d had. 

When Bucky stepped back from Sam, he looked anxious, and with his eyes all big and worried like that, very young.

“Was that—okay? Did it help, or—?”

“It was just fine,” said Sam, and Bucky smiled, clearly relieved. “You okay? It wasn’t too much?”

Bucky shrugged. “I’m fine, it was fine. Thanks. You can—if you need—you can ask, you know.”

“Thanks, Bucky,” said Sam, touched. “And hey, you can ask too. Whenever you wanna practice, I’m your guy.”

Bucky laughed and said, “What, does this have to be a thing now? Hug practice?”

“If you want, sure,” Sam told him, and Bucky ducked his head and grinned. 

Sam and Bucky gave each other plenty of shit, and Sam thought Bucky’s sense of humor was baffling, but he always took Bucky’s work on his recovery seriously. He knew it was work, for one thing, and he’d known that even before Bucky’s admission that he went to a support group. Sam was happy to help with that work when he could and when Bucky asked. That was just what friends did for each other.

Before Sam could ask Bucky any more questions—and he had plenty, about the support group Bucky went to and why he didn’t want Steve to know about it, why he wanted to be better about touching—the oven timer dinged, and Bucky moved past him to take the lasagna out.

“Help me with the salad?” Bucky asked, so Sam did, setting aside his questions for now, letting Bucky lift the mood with funny anecdotes about his students.

By the time Steve came home from his run, the lasagna had cooled down enough to eat, so they all ate together, the remnants of Sam’s bad day evaporating away under the bright warmth of the shared meal and easy conversation.


Given his two runs yesterday, Sam didn’t expect Steve to join him for a morning run the next day, and yet, there Steve was, already stretching on the small patch of lawn when Sam came out of the house.

“Has it even been twelve hours since your last run?” Sam asked. “I think you can slack off on the cardio a bit, Steve.”

Steve shrugged. “Just need to burn some energy off,” he said, but it wasn’t like he looked particularly alert and full of vigor. There were faint dark circles under his eyes, and his jaw was tense in a way that Sam knew heralded the worst of Steve’s moods.

Whatever, Steve would tell Sam what was up or he wouldn’t. Sam wasn’t about to act the counselor trying to coax it out of him, he wasn’t on the clock. He tried a few easy conversational gambits, even tried to start up a round of the kind of teasing that usually got Steve grinning, but no joy this morning. They ran together in near silence, and at the end of their five-mile loop, Steve looked about as tightly wound as he had when they’d first started. 

That was worrying enough that Sam had to ask, “You okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” said Steve with a tight smile. “See you later, Sam.” 

Well, shit. Maybe Sam needed to recalibrate his counselor to friend spectrum.


Here was the thing: Sam loved being a peer counselor. It was rewarding, if difficult, work, and he was good at it, and he knew he was damned lucky to have a job that gave him so much personal fulfillment. Sam knew himself, and he knew that he did best when he could do work that felt meaningful and important, rather than just pushing paper or making money for people who were already rich. But much as he loved it, he knew there were tradeoffs. The relative informality of group sessions, being a peer to the people he counseled rather than an authority figure—those were pros of the job, sure, but they were also potential pitfalls, because it could be hard to maintain his own professional distance and boundaries with people he related to so closely. 

Sam thought he maintained a pretty good work-life balance, all in all, but he couldn’t deny that there was a part of him that was never wholly off the clock, that was always on the lookout for people he or the VA could help: he passed out cards to the vets he saw at the gym, bought coffee and food for any homeless vets he saw and encouraged them to visit the VA for help, he gave people in his groups his cell number in case they ever needed to just talk outside of group. Hell, he’d done it with Steve, the first time they’d met.

Sam knew it was hard for him to take off his counselor hat, and early on in his own one-on-one counseling sessions, his counselor had encouraged him to maintain strict boundaries.

You don’t want to become everyone’s counselor 24/7. That’s a one-way ticket to burnout.

Sam had taken his words to heart and made it a personal rule: no counseling for friends. It had been easy enough to stick to, especially with casual friends, but now...now Sam was wondering if he’d built up that boundary too much. If he pushed Steve to talk about what was clearly bothering him, was he setting himself up for a counseling session, or was he just being a good friend? Was he obligated to get to the bottom of what was up with Steve? He was a grown ass man who knew how to use his words, he could just tell Sam or Bucky what was up, but what if something was really wrong? Wasn’t it Sam’s duty as both a friend and a counselor to help? The line between the two roles seemed awfully blurry sometimes.

Lucky for Sam, he was scheduled for his weekly one-on-one with his supervisor today, so once they went over the usual administrative stuff, he brought his dilemma up with her. 

Vanessa was only a year or two older than Sam, and had been discharged after he had, not that you could tell she was out of the Army: she still maintained strictly regulation hair, her black hair always in a neat bun or no-nonsense braid, and something about her bearing made even civvies look like a spotless uniform. She had a Master’s degree and some serious clinical experience under her belt, which made her more qualified than Sam for the real intense stuff. Even apart from all that, Sam would have trusted her with his shit, because she was the perfect combination of tough, no-nonsense, and kind. Most vets balked at anything they saw as coddling, and Vanessa was damn good at making sure no one felt coddled or patronized, while still helping them. Basically, she was one of the best parts of working at the Cleveland VA, and Sam never hesitated to be open with her about his problems. 

Well, as open as he could be without blowing his and his friends’ superhero covers.

“So, I’ve got a friend who I think is having a rough time right now, and I’m having some trouble working out how or if I should help him. He’s a vet too, and he’s been through some rough stuff, though he’s in a pretty good situation now. But I try to keep a firm boundary between friendship and counseling, you know?” Vanessa nodded, and he continued, “And now I’m wondering if that’s making me a shitty friend.”

“Boundaries are important, for sure, but it’s not always helpful to think of them as these impenetrable walls that you keep up all the time, no exceptions. Lay the situation out for me?” she asked, so Sam did, telling her about how restless Steve seemed, how he didn’t seem to be sleeping well, and how he wasn’t talking to Sam or Bucky about it.

“So, your friend’s acting like he’s going through some stuff, and you’re wondering how to be a good friend to him without turning it into a counseling session,” summarized Vanessa.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“What’s the outcome you want here? Do you just want to know what’s bothering him? Do you want to fix what’s wrong, or make him feel better?”

“All of the above, I guess. I mean, maybe not fix what’s wrong, I know that might be outta my league. But I want him to be okay with talking to me about whatever’s messing him up, or hell, I want him to at least be okay with talking to his boyfriend about it. Just someone,” said Sam, and sighed. “But I’m worried about how much of that is me trying to be a counselor to him, instead of a friend. ‘Cause I’d want the same for a client, you know?”

“Hmm, I hear you,” said Vanessa, tilting her head. She tapped her fingers on the desk, then nodded, as if to herself. “Tell me about another time you recently helped a friend. Emotionally, I mean. Did you have the same doubts then?”

Sam thought about Bucky, and offering himself up for hug practice. That hadn’t pinged Sam’s counselor radar much at all.

“I have another friend, Steve’s boyfriend actually, who’s dealing with some pretty serious trauma,” said Sam slowly. Talk about an understatement. “I was having a bad day—nothing serious, just petty shit—and he offered me a hug, which was a first.”

“Yeah? You two not the hugging kind of friends, or…?”

Sam shook his heads. “No—I mean, yeah, we’re friends, but he’s got a personal space bubble that no one but Steve’s allowed in. He told me he’s working on getting comfortable with physical touch again though, and I said he was always welcome to practice hugging with me. I didn’t even think twice about helping him with that,” realized Sam, and was struck with guilt.

Why was it so much easier to help Bucky, who after all had a hell of a lot more to deal with and who Sam was profoundly unqualified to help in any kind of professional capacity, than it was to help Steve? Was Sam being a lazy asshole here, by being willing to help Bucky out with some hug practice while not putting in the work to help Steve? 

“Uh uh,” said Vanessa with a sharp knock on her desk that made him jump. “No guilt spiral! Listen, there’s a big difference in effort and expectations between the two scenarios we’re looking at here. You’ve put the ball in your friend’s court, and all that’s being asked of you is a few hugs, right?”

“Yeah,” said Sam, drawing the word out. 

“And you like the physical affection too, it’s not a problem for you.”

“Yeah, no, I’m cool with it. It, uh, means a lot to me that he trusts me with it, if I’m being honest.”

“So that’s just being a good friend, Sam,” said Vanessa with a kind smile. “This friend, unprompted, and after offering you some emotional support, told you he was working on this, and you offered to help. It’s not a drain on your time or your emotional energy, it’s just the occasional hug or pat on the shoulder.”

“Yeah, I guess…”

“This thing with your friend Steve, it’s a little different. You don’t think he’s in imminent crisis or anything, right?”

“Nah, I don’t think so,” said Sam.

“Alright, well, you’ve put in the effort on your end: you go on runs with him, you’ve asked him what’s wrong, you’ve let him know he can talk to you. You’ve shown him you care. You’re doing all the good friend stuff. Now, the ball’s in his court.”

“He’s not a great basketball player,” Sam said. “Like, literally or metaphorically.”

It turned out that being a super soldier did not automatically confer athletic skill, as Sam had found out after a few tragic attempts at pick up basketball with Steve. Also if emotions were a basketball, Steve did not pass; he was the guy who constantly traveled, occasionally dunked, and mostly just threw the ball out of bounds, and okay, this metaphor was getting away from Sam.

Vanessa laughed. “Yeah, yeah, but you get the point! You’re good, Sam. You’ve done your part, so just keep doing what you’re doing. You’re not being a terrible friend, I promise.” 


After his one-on-one with Vanessa, Sam’s group sessions went a lot better—better than Steve’s deflecting non-answer, for sure—and the universe in general didn’t conspire against Sam, so he was feeling pretty good at the end of the day, good enough that he was willing to put some more effort than usual into dinner. One great thing about having two super soldier neighbors was that Sam had an appreciative and always hungry audience for those times he felt like going all out in the kitchen. Steak for one was kind of excessive; steak for three was downright charitable. And maybe some good food and company would shake Steve out of whatever funk he was in, or at least get him to unclench enough to talk about it.

When the food was almost ready—steak with herb butter, roasted vegetables, and an endive salad, Sam was fucking fancy—Sam went next door.

“Dinner time! Come over to Chez Wilson, which has been transformed into a steakhouse for the night!” he announced, to disappointing silence.

Bucky was nowhere to be found in the house, and neither was Steve, so Sam headed for the garage ops center. God, he hoped there wasn’t some urgent mission coming up, steak was not a to-go food. He braced himself for bad news as he knocked and entered the garage, where he found Bucky alone, tapping away at a keyboard, all his focus on the screens surrounding him. Sam recognized the data on a couple of the screens as the usual array that monitored for any suspicious HYDRA activity, but the rest was all just code streaming past too fast for Sam to have any hope of understanding it.

“Hey Sam, I’ll be out in a minute.”

“We got something we have to move on? Where’s Steve?”

“No, no emergency. Just let me finish this…and done.” Bucky turned and greeted Sam with a somewhat strained smile. “Steve’s out on a run.”

Another run? He went for one this morning, and two yesterday. What the hell’s up with him?” Sam gave Bucky some side-eye. “You two aren’t fighting, are you?”

Steve and Bucky were usually honeymoon happy with each other, but they did have the occasional fight, and Sam generally stayed the hell out of it. The fights never lasted long; Steve’s stubbornness never held out against Bucky’s genuine hurt, and Bucky’s quiet anger always passed quickly, so Sam was never actually worried about trouble in true love paradise. Still, being a bystander for their occasional argument was always awkward, though Sam would honestly be relieved if what was up with Steve lately was some tiff with Bucky. At least then he’d know it would pass soon.

“No, we’re not fighting,” said Bucky. “You mentioned something about steak for dinner? I’ll text Steve.”

Sam let the change of subject pass and rambled on about dinner as they walked back over to Sam’s. Despite Sam’s best efforts, Bucky didn’t take him up on any of the obvious lines Sam kept throwing him to bait him into some goodnatured shit-talking. Not even the mouthwatering smell of the food seemed to perk him up, and he only relaxed a little when his phone buzzed.

“Steve’ll be back soon,” said Bucky after checking the message. 

“Soon enough that I can start plating my culinary genius?”

Bucky rolled his eyes, and that was more like it. “Five minutes, so yeah.” 

He poked and sniffed at the salad, then immediately set about rummaging around for stuff to make a dressing with. Sam sighed and left him to it, busying himself with the rest of the food. The perpetual bottled versus homemade dressing debate was a lost cause; Bucky thought bottled dressing was a wildly expensive racket, and no arguments about convenience would sway him.

“You never answered me earlier,” Sam said.

“Hmm?” 

Bucky turned the pepper mill carefully over the bowl of olive oil and vinegar, like he was worried he’d break it. Which, to be fair, he easily could, given his prosthetic’s strength.

“About what’s up with Steve.”

“He’s not sleeping so great, is all. It’ll pass. It usually does.” Bucky set the pepper mill down, picked an assortment of seemingly random spices from Sam’s spice rack to shake into the mixture, then began whisking with far more vigor and focus than necessary. “I just don’t know why he won’t—”

“Won’t what?” asked Sam, but Bucky shook his head and kept whisking. Sam sighed, and figured he’d let it lie for now.

After one final, emphatic whisk—the dressing was now way more foamy than dressing had any right to be—Bucky said, “It’s just—he won’t talk to me about it, and he’s sleeping in the guest room because he doesn’t want to keep me up, but it’s not like I sleep so great when he’s not—and he just keeps going on these long runs. I get it, obviously I get it, it just—”

“Sucks?”

Bucky heaved out a long, shaky sigh. “Yeah.”

“Need some more hug practice?” Sam asked, and Bucky looked at him in surprise. “What? This goes both ways, you know. You listen to me vent about my shitty day, I listen to you vent about your dumbass boyfriend…that’s, y’know, friendship.”

Which Sam could stand to show a little more of to Steve too right about now, he remembered with a pang of worry. Bucky bit his lip, seeming to consider Sam’s offer of a hug with no small amount of seriousness. That hurt, a little; not because Sam was offended, but because he wished Bucky didn’t have to so carefully weigh his every physical interaction.

“Yeah, okay,” said Bucky eventually, and accepted Sam’s hug.

He was just as careful about it as he had been during their last hug, keeping his arms loose and light around Sam’s shoulders. 

“I’m not made of glass, you know,” Sam told Bucky, and Bucky grumbled but obligingly let his arms tighten just a little in a squeeze around Sam’s shoulders before he stepped back. “You still need more practice, man. I know you don’t hug Steve like that.”

“I don’t have to worry so much about hurting him. Also, I’m guessing you’d prefer it if my hands didn’t roam—”

“Okay, I don’t need the details, thanks,” he said, and Bucky grinned.

They worked on setting the table together and putting the food out in easy silence, until Bucky said, “You go to group too, right? You don’t just lead sessions?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “And all of us peer counselors have a monthly one-on-one counseling session too.”

Bucky nodded, frowning. “So you get some help for, you know, dealing with your shit, and even I go to a support group, so what the hell is Steve doing? Is he doing anything?”

“Not that I know of,” said Sam slowly. “But then, I didn’t know you went to a support group, so…”

“You think I should tell Steve.”

“Hey, I didn’t say anything. I’m not gonna backseat drive your relationship. But I don’t know why you won’t tell him, and it might do him some good to know. Both so he’ll worry less about you, and so he might try a group out himself.” 

“Yeah, maybe,” muttered Bucky, his frown turning thoughtful. Some of the tension in his shoulders melted away, and Sam knew why before Bucky even said, “Steve’s here.”

And sure enough half a minute later, the front door opened. Steve came in, sweaty and faintly apologetic.

“Hey Sam,” he said with a smile that actually reached his eyes, mostly. “Thanks for making dinner, it smells great.”

“Damn right it does, now c’mon, sit down before it gets cold.”

“What Sam said, I’m starving,” Bucky said, and Steve greeted him with a kiss on the cheek that was met with a wrinkled nose. “Ugh, never mind, go wash up first.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” said Steve, and when he returned, they all had an almost normal dinner together.

Sam still kept a close eye on Steve though, so he noticed when Steve didn’t pick up on obvious conversational openings, a restive and distracted distance in his eyes. Sam smothered a sigh. Well, at least Steve was eating all his food with apparent relish. Otherwise Sam would really have to stage a full-on intervention.

Although, thought Sam as he noticed the worried tension lingering around Bucky’s mouth, maybe he was going to have to do it anyway, if Steve didn’t handle his shit sooner rather than later.


The next morning, Sam had hopes that Steve had expended even his prodigious restless energy and/or avoidance skills by now, but no joy. Steve was still out there, stretching for yet another morning run, barely twelve hours after his last one. 

“Seriously?” demanded Sam, and Steve grimaced.

“I know,” he said miserably.

“Oh yeah? What is it you know, Steve?”

“That I’m—you know, not doing so hot. I’m workin’ on it, alright?”

“By working on it, do you mean going on multiple, punishingly long runs instead of seeking the support of your worried friends and loving life partner?”

Steve scowled. “Physical exertion is a valid strategy! I read about it online!”

“Yeah, no, regular physical exercise improves mental health, it doesn’t magically help you deal with your shit.” Sam started his jog, deliberately setting a slow pace. Steve made a pissy little huffing noise, but he matched Sam’s stride. “You know you’re upsetting Bucky, right? He’s worried about you, man.”

Invoking Bucky was a cheap shot and Sam knew it. Sam liked to give Steve shit about how whipped he was when it came to Bucky, because Steve’s level of smitten indulgence was generally ridiculous when it came to the likes of Steve and Bucky’s date nights and romantic gestures, but he knew Steve would rather walk into the ocean than willingly upset Bucky. What Steve wouldn’t do for his own sake, he’d do for Bucky’s, which was some codependent bullshit, but Sam wasn’t above exploiting it for the greater good of restoring both of his friends to their usual level of lovey-dovey happiness.

“I know,” mumbled Steve, ducking his head down.

“I’m worried too,” Sam admitted. “I’m not your counselor, and I don’t intend to be, but I see you hurting and struggling like this, and it makes me wonder if I shouldn’t be doing more as your friend. But I can’t do more if you won’t even say anything. And it’s fine if you won’t talk to me, we don’t have to talk about everything, but at least talk to your man, Steve.” 

“I can’t put this on Bucky, he’s got enough to deal with,” said Steve, and when Sam glanced over at him, his jaw was clenching up into its most stubborn set. “And I can’t put this on you, either. It’s not fair to either of you.”

Before Sam could even formulate a response, Steve shook his head, and took off at a sprint that Sam had no hope of catching up with.

“You can’t literally run from your feelings, Steve!” Sam shouted after him, then sighed. 

He remembered what Vanessa had told him: that Sam had done what he could, that the ball was in Steve’s court. He knew she was right, he did. But it still felt shitty. And maybe worse still, it felt familiar. 

Because it was what Sam had done, after getting his discharge. He’d decided he could shoulder it all, that he had to shoulder it all, because he couldn’t put it on his family, who’d spent his whole deployment so worried for him and who were so relieved he was home safe now, and he couldn’t put it on Riley, because he was dead, and he couldn’t put it on his squad, who’d had their own shit to deal with...he’d carried it and carried it, sinking and staggering under the weight, until one day he couldn’t, and it turned out rock bottom was a hell of a lot worse and more mortifying than just leaning on someone else every once in a while.

Shit, Sam had spent the whole search for Bucky worrying and worrying about who they’d find at the end of it, if he could be saved, if Steve would have a breakdown in the meantime. It was only by the grace of god, the power of love, and Bucky Barnes’ apparently enormous amount of willpower that everything had turned out more or less alright, with Bucky living his best life and Steve happy to live it with him while they all took out Nazis and burned down heads of HYDRA on the side. But what if Sam had let go of his worry prematurely? What if it wasn’t Bucky who he should’ve been most worried about, but Steve?

Sam was no stranger to doubt in his work as a peer counselor. He never knew if his work was enough, could never be entirely sure he was making a difference. He could only do his best, and usually, he could live with that. When it was his friends on the line though, it was a lot harder to quiet the doubt.


The next few days were tense whenever Sam was with Steve and Bucky, and worse than tense, they were quiet. Sam found himself talking more and louder to compensate, and it didn’t help.

I’ll text Natasha, if this goes on for another week, Sam told himself. Natasha could knock some sense into Steve, if it came down to it. Or she’d be back from her mission by then and she’d know what to do maybe, she’d get Steve to ‘fess up about whatever he was struggling with. In the meantime, Sam would just have to keep doing what he was doing, he supposed: offer the occasional hug, try to make this whole situation less awkward and uncomfortable. 


“Do not tell me Steve’s on yet another goddamn run,” said Sam, his stomach sinking when he walked into the garage ops center to find only Bucky, who was standing in front of his wall of totally sane investigation and almost murder-free revenge, his arms crossed.

Bucky turned to face him with a wry and tired smile. “Nah, he’s just picking up some groceries, he should be back soon,” he said, and Sam heaved a sigh of relief. 

Steve had lapped him three times this morning, and that was after he’d started his run earlier than Sam too. If he’d gone on yet another too-long run today, Sam would’ve been seriously worried that Steve was making every effort to push even his enhanced endurance to the limit, to self-destructive effect.

“Good,” said Sam, and joined Bucky by the wall, examining it for any new additions. “So, we got a new HYDRA base to hit? Maybe blowing something up will give Steve some chill.” 

“Yeah, maybe,” said Bucky absently, and Sam could feel Bucky’s eyes on him as Bucky observed him. “You’re still tense. You been worrying about Steve a lot too?”

Sam resisted making a reflexive denial, because who was he kidding, and instead turned to meet Bucky’s sympathetic gaze. “Yeah,” Sam admitted. 

“You want a hug?”

“Wouldn’t say no to one,” said Sam, and when Bucky opened his arms, almost but not quite as effortlessly as if it was actually a habitual gesture for him, Sam stepped into the hug gratefully. He was weirdly proud when Bucky actually gave him a proper squeeze instead of just draping his arms lightly around Sam’s shoulders. “Hey, you’re getting better at this. See, practice works!”

Bucky made a huffy kind of sound, but still held on tight until they heard Steve come in a few seconds later.

“Uh, is everything okay?” asked Steve.

Sam and Bucky let go of each other, and turned to greet Steve. For half a second, Sam wondered if Steve had just gotten a very incorrect idea about what Sam and Bucky had just been doing, but it passed as soon as he saw the expression of surprised concern on Steve’s face.

“Of course,” said Bucky, business-like. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Steve’s concern shifted from Bucky to Sam, then back to Bucky. “Uh, because you were hugging?”

“Sure, a normal, friend hug,” said Sam. 

Now Steve looked politely skeptical, though he was clearly hesitant to call either Bucky or Sam out for the seemingly uncharacteristic gesture. 

“Okay,” said Steve slowly. “So, have we found a new HYDRA base to raid?”

Bucky sucked in a deliberate breath through his nose, and squared his shoulders, and oh shit, if Sam was about to be witness to an argument—

“I’ve been working on it. Being okay with, you know, touching other people. That’s why I was hugging Sam.”

“Yeah? That’s—that’s great, Buck.”

“I’ve been working on it since I came to Cleveland, actually. I asked Sam for help too.”

“Hug practice,” added Sam, not entirely sure where this was going, especially given the whole-ass eyebrow conversation Steve and Bucky started having.

Seriously, sometimes Sam wondered if he was missing fully half of what Steve and Bucky said to each other, because it was all in facial expressions and body language, or hell, maybe telepathy for all Sam knew. Right now, all he could decipher was the stubborn set of Bucky’s jaw and the almost pleading angle of his eyebrows, with what might have been a hefty helping of worried exasperation. Steve was downright closed off in comparison, in an unsettling role reversal for the two, until his shoulders slumped and he sighed.

“Alright, I get the point,” said Steve, to Sam’s confusion.

“Do you?” asked Bucky. “I go to a support group, Steve. Once a week. Sometimes twice. I—I’m trying, all the time, to—to be okay, to get better, and I’m not doing it alone. Sam has his own group too, with the VA.”

Okay, yeah, now Sam got it. This was a mini-intervention, one that was costing Bucky significant effort, if the halting pace of his words was any indication. Sam would’ve appreciated a heads up in advance, sure, but he’ll give Bucky an assist now.

“Doesn’t have to be group, man. Could be one-on-one sessions, with someone who’s got no ties to SHIELD or any alphabet agency,” said Sam, because he had the sneaking suspicion that this was the sticking point for Steve. 

“You don’t have to tell me what’s keeping you up at night, I just—I want you to talk to someone about what you’ve been dealing with lately. Please, Steve,” said Bucky, and damn, okay, he was breaking out the big guns now what with the pleading eyes and the sad face.

It was the please that did it though: the moment Bucky said it, Sam watched Steve fold like a cheap deck of cards, any trace of lingering stubbornness in his expression and body language falling away to leave exhaustion behind. Steve brought a hand to his face and rubbed his eyes. 

“It’s just—all the what-ifs, you know? Every time I think I’m over them, that things are okay now, the what-ifs come back. What if I’d saved you, what if I’d never realized you were the Winter Soldier, what if I did more harm than good working with SHIELD when it was infiltrated by HYDRA. And I’m trying to get over it, to stop thinking about it, I am, but—“ Steve stopped, and smiled, the sad smile Sam hadn’t seen in a long time. “I guess you two are right. I should stop trying to handle it alone.”

“I can help you find someone,” Sam said, already going through a mental rolodex of potential contacts.

“Natasha sent me some names weeks ago,” admitted Steve.

Goddamn. Trust Natasha to always be about ten steps ahead of any of them. 

“Good,” said Bucky, and threw one arm around Sam’s shoulders in a side hug, beckoning Steve towards them with his other arm. “Now come here for a group hug, I promise it’ll make you feel better.”

Steve laughed, and Sam bumped Bucky’s hip with his. “We’re going straight from hug practice to group hugs? Such an overachiever, Barnes,” Sam joked. Still, he reached out to Steve with his free arm too, and gave Bucky a squeeze that hopefully conveyed you’re doing great and maybe even I'm proud of you.

Steve rolled his eyes, like he was too cool and repressed for group hugs, but he did step into the hug, and after a few awkward shuffling steps and arm adjustments, Steve clung to them tightly, a very faint tremor running through him.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Bucky murmured and Sam rubbed Steve’s back with one hand and Steve sniffled, and they all just stayed like that for a minute, hanging onto each other. Sam’s throat got tight with some mixture of vicarious emotion and his own feelings. Yeah, okay, maybe he’d needed this too, needed to let the simple gravity of friendship and affection pull them all close to shore up all of their strength.

“Thanks guys,” whispered Steve, before he stepped back, his eyes red-rimmed but his smile genuine now.

“In case that’s not enough to make you feel better, I’ve got a HYDRA base for you to blow up too,” said Bucky, all big, solemn eyes. “It’s full of weapons, even, so it should be a really impressive explosion.”

“Okay, that’s not really a valid therapeutic strategy—“ started Sam, but Steve just laughed, and so did Bucky, which got Sam going, and okay, yeah, sure, whatever. Group hugs and blowing up Nazis: there were worse ways to cope.

Notes:

A housekeeping note: the next installment will be a new fic in the series, not a new chapter of this fic! Please adjust your subscriptions accordingly if necessary. I'll be fulfilling maia_saura's Marvel Trumps Hate auction bid with a new fic in this series, so keep an eye out for that in Spring 2021!

Chapter 18: still got my fear

Summary:

Zoe pulled a handwritten flyer out of her bag and thrusted it at him. It read Foster Kittens for Adoption!!! in glittery font over a series of ridiculously adorable photos of kittens in various shades of sooty gray and white. The cooing noise he made was entirely involuntary and intensely embarrassing. Zoe beamed at him.

“Me and my mom are fostering six kittens, and we’re trying to find them homes. I could just put the flyer up on the white board? But I wanted to make a quick announcement too, if that’s okay.”

Steve and Bucky work on getting ready for a kitten. It involves somewhat more therapy than expected.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“Hey Mr. Murphy, can I make an announcement before class?” asked Zoe as Bucky’s third period AP Calculus class slowly filled up the classroom.

Bucky’s immediate impulse was to say yes, because with her head of cheerful curls, round cheeks, and big, doe-brown eyes, Zoe never looked anything less than cherubic and Bucky found it very hard to deny her anything. Not that he often had to, she was a model student. Still, having been a cherubic-seeming child himself once, he ought to have known better than to rely on looks. And anyway, you never knew with teenagers. 

So he said, “That depends, is it a math-related announcement?”

“No,” said Zoe, drawing out the word as she widened her eyes.

“Is it a school event-related announcement?” he asked.

“No,” she said again, and just as Bucky was about to say no and suggest she wait until after class, she rushed to add, “But it is a good cause! It’s for kittens!”

“Kittens?” said Bucky, raising an eyebrow.

Zoe pulled a handwritten flyer out of her bag and thrusted it at him. It read Foster Kittens for Adoption!!! in glittery font over a series of ridiculously adorable photos of kittens in various shades of sooty gray and white. The cooing noise he made was entirely involuntary and intensely embarrassing. Zoe beamed at him.

“Me and my mom are fostering six kittens, and we’re trying to find them homes. I could just put the flyer up on the white board? But I wanted to make a quick announcement too, if that’s okay.”

“Sure,” said Bucky. “But just a quick announcement!”

“You got it, Mr. M!”

As promised, Zoe was quick about it, even though her classmates all demanded more kitten photos and kitten names, and she wrapped up her announcement just as the final bell for third period rang.

“They’ll be ready for adoption in a few weeks hopefully! If you’re interested, please text, call, or email the number on the flyer, that’s my mom’s contact info, her name is Rachel. And remember to spay and neuter your pets! Thanks!”

“Okay, thank you Zoe,” Bucky said. “Now, if you could all turn your attention to calculus and its admittedly far less adorable numbers…”

For the whole rest of the class period, Bucky’s attention kept being drawn to the flyer taped to a corner of his white board. The kittens really were adorable, each one an impossibly tiny fluff ball with blue eyes and pink noses. He worked the kittens into his word problems and examples, earning the occasional giggle and aww from the students, and by the end of the day, he was ready to admit to himself that he definitely wanted one of these kittens. Or any cat, really, he wasn’t particularly picky at this point.

He and Steve had talked about pets a few times, in a mostly casual and vaguely wistful kind of way: the occasional we should get a dog after running into a particularly friendly and adorable dog on their runs, or we could adopt a cat after watching a funny cat video. Neither of them had yet to go further than some idle research into the local animal shelter. Steve was still busy with missions a lot of the time, and Bucky kept putting off further steps towards pet ownership on the assumption that they’d know when they were suitably prepared and settled enough for a pet or two, so neither of them had felt any real urgency about the issue so far.

Bucky wasn’t sure how prepared he and Steve were now, but this seemed like too good an opportunity to pass up. He grabbed the flyer on his way out of the classroom, and took it home with him.


Bucky presented the kitten flyer to Steve after dinner, wordlessly sliding it across the kitchen table. Steve’s face did the thing most people’s faces did when presented with a photo of very cute kittens, going soft and sweet.

“Oh wow, that’s adorable,” he said.

Bucky was about to say we should get one of these kittens when an unwelcome, faintly horrifying thought occurred to him: what if Steve said no?

It had to happen eventually. Oh, sure, Steve said no all the time to the little things, things like do you want to go to the movies or do you want Mexican food for dinner tonight. But when Bucky asked Steve for important things, serious things, Steve had yet to deny him for any reason that wasn’t directly related to their safety or the success of a mission. Bucky was starting to accept that, maybe even rely on it a little bit, though he didn’t think he’d ever be able to bring himself to take advantage of it. If Steve said no now though, Bucky had no idea what the correct course of action was. Accept Steve’s answer? Try to bring him around to Bucky’s side? Argue? 

So Bucky didn’t say anything, his mouth and throat suddenly tight with anxiety.

Well. This was an exciting mental health pothole on the already rocky road of recovery. 

“We should get one of these little guys,” Steve said, smiling down at the flyer, either unaware of Bucky’s current crisis or graciously choosing to ignore it. “That’s why you brought the flyer home, right?” Bucky nodded, still not quite able to find his voice. “Have you called or texted this Rachel yet?”

“No, not yet, I wanted to ask you first. I know we’ve mentioned getting a cat before, but, uh. I dunno. You sure we should get a kitten? We could get an older cat from the shelter.”

“Well, it’ll be a few weeks before we could bring a kitten home, right?” said Steve with a shrug. “It’s not like we’ll be the ones doing the hourly feedings or anything. I’m fine with a kitten if you are. And these kittens are really cute. Where’d you find the flyer anyway?”

“One of my students, she and her mom are fostering the kittens,” he said, then glanced at the time. It wasn’t too late to text now, he decided, and picked up his phone. “I’ll text Rachel now.”

After a few minutes of texting back and forth, they settled on a time to go see the kittens, and Rachel even sent over a couple new photos for him and Steve to coo over, the puffy little gray and white kittens already larger than their photos on the flyer. 

“What if we adopted all of them,” Bucky said, because how could he be expected to choose one of the kittens, and also, he suddenly needed to know that Steve had a limit here. Surely he wouldn’t just accept Bucky’s most ridiculous demands.

To his relief, Steve grinned over at him and said, “Six cats seems a little much, Buck, even if they are all really cute.” He looked down at the photo and bit his lower lip. “Two tops, and only if it’s ‘cause they can’t be separated from their sibling.”

“Three,” Bucky countered, just for the hell of it, unable to hide his smile when Steve let out an exaggerated scoff.

“That is an impossible number of cats,” he said. “Think about it, Buck, we’d be outnumbered in our own house!”

“A good point,” said Bucky solemnly. “One cat then, and maybe a dog once the cat’s older.”

Steve nodded and held out his hand as if they’d just concluded a business deal they needed to shake on. “It’s settled then, one kitten and one dog.”

They shook on it, doing their best to maintain straight faces before Bucky couldn’t hold it in any more, too relieved not to laugh. His earlier spike of anxiety already felt distant, and he glanced back down at the photo of the kittens.

“Which one do you think we should pick? Or is this more of a, the kitten will pick us kinda deal?”

“We’ll find out when we meet them, I guess.”


In bed that night, Bucky asked Steve to be rough. 

It wasn’t a new request, both of them liked it rough sometimes, liked letting loose with their unnatural strength, liked the relief of not needing to be quite so careful. Bucky still balked at sparring with Steve, too leery of the bad memories it would dredge up, but some rough sex that left bruises? That, he could handle. Hell, sometimes he needed it, or Steve did, needed the savage physicality of it and the proof it left behind in bite marks and bruises and sore muscles.

So Bucky asked Steve to be rough, and Steve was, and it felt good, it wrung both of them out in the best of ways and left them panting and giddy in the wake of their orgasms, like they’d just gone ten rounds in the ring to win a championship for both of them, and only after Steve had fallen asleep beside Bucky and Bucky was still awake did he let himself think about that rush of anxiety, of fear, at even the possibility of an argument.

He’d thought he was past this. He’d assumed he was over the reflexive fear and vigilance that treated Steve like any other potential threat. Apparently not.

It was ridiculous that the fear was rearing up its ugly head now though, and over a kitten of all things. Steve wanted a cat just as much as Bucky did—maybe more, if the alacrity with which he’d started online shopping for pet supplies and cat toys was any indication. And it wasn’t like they hadn’t argued in the 21st century, because they had: silly arguments and serious ones, though the serious ones were either about missions, or they’d fizzled and sputtered out into quiet apologies before they could even really get going. At no point had Steve ever hurt Bucky, in any way.

So why was part of Bucky still so damn afraid sometimes? He fucking hated it. Bucky was tempted to start an argument just to prove to himself that he could still do it, that it’d be fine, that they’d be fine. He needed to know this fear was baseless. But an argument, no matter how pretextual, would just upset Steve, and Bucky doesn’t want to hurt Steve with this. Bad enough this bullshit hurt Bucky, he never wanted the blast radius of his own personal mental minefield to extend beyond him any more than it already did. He could just tell Steve that this particular landmine lurked in Bucky’s fucked up head, but it would almost certainly lead to Steve treating Bucky like he was made of glass, and that always paradoxically made Bucky feel even closer to shattering apart.

He worried and stressed over the problem until he tired himself out enough to fall asleep, no closer to any answers.


Bucky ended up doing the adult, emotionally healthy thing and asked his support group about it a couple days later.

“You’re catastrophizing,” was Annie’s blunt though not unkind assessment. “It’s just a feeling. You know why you’re feeling it, so just, you know, acknowledge it and let it pass.”

“That’s some more mindfulness shit, isn’t it,” grumbled Rahim, and everyone laughed or groaned.

It was a frequent, fond complaint of the whole support group. They all knew it helped, but that didn’t mean they always had to be happy about it.

Accordingly, Bucky’s petulant response was, “That’s basically what I tried to do when it happened, but I still feel shitty about it. I thought I was getting better, I thought I was past this.”

“I mean, you are getting better though,” said Annie, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees, meeting his eyes as she brushed her hair out of her face. Her hair was green this week, and her many piercings glittered in the light. “This is just, like, one time where your brain was like, ‘hey, I need you to be ready in case shit goes bad again!’ It’s like how I still almost dive for cover when I hear a loud noise: my brain’s trying to help, it wants to help me avoid getting shot, it’s just a little too sensitive about it and is reacting to, like, doors slamming too. That’s all this was, man.”

“Oh,” said Bucky, frowning. 

He hadn’t thought of it like that. Annie always had a way of cutting through any bullshit right to the heart of things.

“That’s a great way to look at it, Annie,” said Paul with a kind smile. “Annie’s right, Jack. Don’t think of this as a setback, or as either you or your partner doing anything wrong. Our responses to trauma can seem counterproductive, but at their root, they’re often attempts to protect us from more trauma. What’s important is to recognize that, and to not let those responses become harmful in and of themselves.”

Paul was the de facto facilitator of the group, whether by virtue of his age and experience, or simply his willingness to take on the role, Bucky had yet to figure out. He was good at it, at any rate: always patient and kind, and willing to share his own failures and successes. He’d never asked Bucky what it was that brought him here. None of the group had, though Bucky was sure they all had their own (almost certainly incorrect) guesses. Even without knowing the details of Bucky’s depressingly long history of trauma, Paul always helped, and today was no exception.

“Okay, so what do I do after I, you know, mindfully accept it or whatever?” Bucky asked.

“You could try bringing this up with your partner,” suggested Paul gently. “Be open about what you’re dealing with.”

Bucky shook his head. “I don’t want him to feel guilty, or treat me like I’m fragile, and I know he would if I told him. I can’t put that on him, not when he’s dealing with his own shit too.”

Steve did a good job hiding it most of the time, but Bucky saw it sometimes, how anxious he was to take care of Bucky, how careful he was to avoid triggers, how important it was to him that Bucky always feel safe. Steve even managed to make it seem effortless, most of the time. But sometimes the grief and guilt that any of it was necessary was what hurt both of them the most, and Bucky was loath to add any more weight to the burden of guilt and self-recrimination Steve was already unnecessarily lugging around.

Paul nodded and said, “Your partner can manage his own emotions though, Jack, if you give him a chance, and you two can work on this together. Because you will need to learn how to constructively argue, eventually. You’re right, this time it was about a kitten you knew both of you wanted, so there was no need for an argument, but maybe some time in the future, it’ll be an argument you really do need to have, when you need to stand up for yourself and your needs. Practice now with the little things, so the big things are easier later.”

“What does practice look like in this context though?” asked Bucky, because right now it was sounding an awful lot like Paul was telling him to start a fight with Steve and surely that couldn’t be right. “I don’t want to have a fight just for the sake of having a fight. That’s not fair to Steve. And we can definitely argue constructively, we’ve done it plenty of times for, uh, work stuff.”

“Yeah, but that’s not about you, is it,” said Annie. “Shit’s harder when it’s personal.”

“Well, you could try a safe word?” suggested Lynnette quietly.

“Like you use during sex?” asked Bucky, dubious. “Because I did try sex to deal with this issue, and it was great, sure, but I don’t think it really addressed the problem.”

Annie cackled. “You are so much more fun now that you actually talk!”

Bucky scowled at her without much heat as the rest of the group just sort of chuckled, and Lynnette rolled her eyes, more confident now.

“What I meant was that you could come up with a word that’s a kind of timeout for any discussion or argument. Like, if you feel yourself freaking out or shutting down, you say, I don’t know, wizard, and then you both stop and take a minute for mindfulness or whatever.”

“That’s a good suggestion,” Paul said. “Jack, do you think that could work?”

Bucky grimaced. “I’d still have to talk to Steve about it, and I feel like he’s gonna make a big deal about it, but…yeah.”

The group moved on then, Rahim sharing the happy milestone of a whole two weeks without nightmares and Emma venting about her sister’s lack of consideration of her triggers, until group was done for the day and they all moved on to chatting and nibbling at whatever snacks were left on the snack table. Bucky left with promises to share many kitten photos and a reminder that next week was his turn to bring food, already feeling a hell of a lot better.

At least, until he remembered that he’d need to talk to Steve about this whole thing. Ugh. Get it together, Barnes, and don’t put that shit off, he told himself, in something close to Annie’s gruff tone, the one that always made his spine straighten. And if the imaginary Annie in his head wasn’t enough, he’d just have to motivate himself with the prospect of an adorable pet cat. He could do this.


When Bucky got home, he found Steve measuring the living room walls with a tape measure. 

“Hey, how was group?” asked Steve without turning around.

“Good,” Bucky said. “What’s with the tape measure? You planning some home renovations or what?”

The tape measure retracted with a clatter, and Steve turned to Bucky. “I was thinking we could set up some shelves for the cat.”

Bucky’s eyebrows went up. “For the cat we don’t have yet, who probably won’t be big enough to use them for at least another couple months?”

“It’s good to be prepared!”

“Also, what the hell even are cat shelves? Why does the cat need shelves? We’re only getting one cat, it’s not like we need to stack the cats on shelves like they’re books.”

“No, that’s not—here, come look,” said Steve, setting the tape measure aside to pull out his phone. “They’re for the cat to, you know, climb around and sit on.”

He tapped at the screen then showed Bucky a photo of what looked for all the world like a cat obstacle course affixed to the walls: little shelves and stairs, a pole or scratching post, culminating in an actual tiny couch somehow stuck to the wall like it was some kind of throne. 

“Steve, what the hell, are we getting a cat or training some kind of cat athlete?”

“It’s enriching for the cat!” protested Steve.

“It’s a cat,” said Bucky. “They spend, like, sixteen hours a day napping in sunbeams and warm spots. We get some toys for it to play with and it’ll be plenty enriched, it doesn’t need a whole cat obstacle course.”

“Some cats like high places!”

“That’s what the cat tree is for! I know you know about cat trees, because I definitely saw one in the online cart full of cat supplies you’ve been adding to all week.”

“I just want to provide the best life possible for our cat,” said Steve, and Bucky peered at him, alert to the thread of nerves in Steve’s voice.

“Wait, are you actually nervous about this?” he asked.

“This is the first pet we’ve ever had! We don’t have any experience taking care of a pet!”

“We’ve done alright with the plants!” said Bucky, because he was actually pretty proud of their houseplants’ continued good health. Neither he nor Steve were in possession of a green thumb, and yet the plants were doing fine. Surely the cat would also be fine. 

Oh no, what if their houseplants were toxic to cats though? Shit, Bucky needed to look that up, he was really slacking on the planning front here—

“Plants are nothing like cats, Buck!”

“You’re right, we should make sure our plants aren’t toxic to cats,” said Bucky, and pulled out his phone to do just that.

“Maybe we’re not ready for this. Maybe we should, I don’t know, work our way up to a cat—“

“With what, pet fish?” asked Bucky absently, still busy with googling houseplants + cats + toxic?? “Honestly, fish seem more complicated than cats, ‘cause then you gotta deal with the fish tank, and the water temperature, and salinity? Does that matter to pet fish?“

“I’m not sure I’m even any good at taking care of you, how can I think I’m ready to take care of a cat too—“

Bucky looked up from his phone. “Wait, what?”

“—we should definitely work our way up to a cat, maybe with a hamster?”

Bucky put his phone away, then grabbed Steve’s phone too before he could start looking up hamster pet supplies, and set the phones aside on the coffee table. He led Steve to sit on the couch and took Steve’s hands.

“Hey, sweetheart, slow down for a sec,” he said. “What’s this about you not being any good at taking care of me?”

Steve grimaced and said, “Nothing, just—I know you’ve got everything handled, but sometimes I worry I’m not doing enough, I guess. And we’re both adult humans who can talk to each other, a cat can’t talk, and we’d be responsible for it, and—I don’t know. I’m spiraling, aren’t I. I’m spiraling over a cat.”

Well, it was definitely progress that Steve recognized that he was spiraling instead of just ignoring it or trying to literally run from his emotions. It had only been a couple months since Steve had started giving therapy a shot, and Bucky had already noticed that Steve seemed to be doing better, some of his occasional moodiness smoothing out.

“Yeah, you kinda are,” said Bucky, stroking his thumbs over Steve’s knuckles.

“Probably something to bring up in therapy, huh,” said Steve, his grimace turning into a crooked, slightly sad smile.

“Probably, yeah,” Bucky agreed. “We can put the brakes on the pet thing, sweetheart, there’s no rush. There’s always gonna be another chance to adopt a cat.”

“No, I wanna get this kitten, I do,” Steve assured him, bringing Bucky’s hands up to his lips for a quick kiss.

“And you take real good care of me,” added Bucky, and then, though he wasn’t sure this was the best time, he said, “I don’t always have everything handled, you know. Remember when you asked me why I didn’t just tell you who I really was, when you first moved in?”

A tiny furrow formed in Steve’s forehead and he said, “Yeah…” 

“I told you it seemed safest not to.”

It had been an answer with the virtue of being entirely true while also being nowhere close to complete. At the time, Bucky couldn’t have begun to put words to the mess of anxiety and fear and constant fight-or-flight response. He needed to try to now.

“Right, because me and Sam hadn’t said anything, and because you figured none of us should break our covers,” said Steve.

“Yeah, well, that wasn’t the only reason it didn’t feel safe,” admitted Bucky. “Sometimes—sometimes things just don’t. Feel safe, I mean. I get this rush of anxiety or adrenaline, and it makes it hard to—to think, or do anything, I guess, though it’s gotten a lot better than it used to be. And I—it’s nothing to do with you or anyone, you’re not doing anything wrong, it’s just this trauma shit.”

“You feel safe now though, right, Buck?” asked Steve, his eyes searching Bucky’s face anxiously.

“Most of the time, yeah. Just—sometimes, I don’t. I, uh, talked about it at group today,” he said, then grimaced and looked down at his and Steve’s still linked hands. “You’re not the only one who spiraled over the kitten thing a little bit.”

When Bucky looked back up at Steve, his face had tightened as if he was in pain, and Bucky almost flinched and pulled away. But then that pained tenderness shifted to the stubborn, clenched jaw and spark of resolve that Bucky loved so well.

“Tell me how I can help,” said Steve, and with a relieved sigh, Bucky did.


The kitten did end up choosing them.

The half-dozen kittens were even more adorable in person than they were in photos, so fluffy they were almost round, most of them clearly in a curious and playful mood in their little playpen area. Bucky plopped down on the floor to get a closer look at them, while Steve talked to Rachel about the practicalities.

“They’ll be ready to adopt out in about four or five weeks, whenever they weigh enough to be spayed or neutered and are fully weaned,” Rachel told them. “You just need to do some paperwork for the shelter and if you’re approved, you’re good to go! They’re long-haired cats, obviously, but their mama was nowhere to be found, so no idea what breed they are. They’re probably mixed-breed. Judging by their paws, they’re not gonna be huge or anything.”

“Are any of them spoken for already?” Bucky asked. 

He offered a careful hand for the kittens to sniff and examine, and grinned when a couple adventurous kittens seemed to demand pets. He stroked their tiny heads and chins gently.

“Just the grey one with the white socks so far,” said Rachel. 

One of the white kittens prowled closer, doing a kitten’s best attempt at a predatory crawl. Its little face looked very serious as it wiggled its butt, clearly readying itself for a pounce.

“Hey buddy,” Bucky murmured. “What’re you up to, huh?”

An escape attempt, apparently, because the kitten leapt and clambered onto and over the short playpen wall before scampering over to him and starting to climb him too, like he was another obstacle to be defeated. He laughed, delighted, and cupped the kitten with the palm of his hand so it wouldn’t fall off his knee.

“Oh, that one’s a little escape artist,” said Rachel, sounding both fond and exasperated.

“A real climber too,” said Steve, kneeling down to get a closer look. 

The kitten seemed to reach the limit of its energy once it got to Bucky’s thigh, and it plopped down there with an almost indignant meow, apparently offended at the substandard biscuit-making opportunities provided by Bucky’s jeans.

“This one,” said Bucky, and pet it carefully. He looked over at Steve. “Right?”

Steve’s soft smile and sparkling eyes seemed about equally directed at both Bucky and the kitten. Steve reached over to stroke the kitten, who meowed in a demanding sort of fashion and nuzzled at his hand.

“Yeah, I think so,” Steve said.

“She’s a clever little thing!” said Rachel. “No health problems, though she’s been a little slower to gain weight, so it might be five weeks before she can come home with you.”

“That’s fine,” Bucky told her. “Does she have a name?”

Rachel laughed. “Zoe’s named them all after ice cream flavors, so we’ve been calling this one Mint Chip, Minty for short, but you’re free to rename her. Most people usually do when they adopt kittens.”

“You got a name in mind?” Steve asked him. 

The kitten seemed to have recovered some energy by now, and got back to work attempting to climb Bucky, like he was a summit she intended on conquering. The combination of her snowy white coat and dogged climbing brought a perfect name to mind.

“Alpine,” Bucky said. “She looks like an Alpine.”

Notes:

ICYMI, I posted another installment to this series as a separate fic for a MTH fill last year: when I figure out where I'm going. We're back to updating here now! Though wow, now that this fic in the series is over 100k, I'm feeling a bit 'mistakes were made' about that. Let's just say I did not anticipate these time stamps/extras/self-indulgent continuations to end up being quite so long, otherwise I might've separated these out into their own fics rather than chapters. Ah well.

Next up in this series, Steve and Bucky get a dog! :D How soon that's coming up depends on how frustrated I am with my current long and plotty WIP, lol.

Chapter 19: trust me to take you home

Summary:

“Cap, we found the kids,” Sam said, low-voiced over comms. “But, uh, we also found a…wolf? Dog? I don’t know, just get back here, man.”

Over in the far corner of the barn, Sam was standing to the side, a couple yards away from a couple of dirty and disheveled teenage girls, while Bucky was crouched down, holding his right hand out to a big, snarling dog. Or hell, maybe that wasn’t a dog, because Sam was right, it looked awfully wolf-like. A small wolf, maybe, or a large wolf-like breed of dog, with dirty tan fur and big ears reminiscent of a German Shepherd’s. Whatever it was, its bared teeth were perilously close to Bucky’s outstretched hand, though it was making no move to bite or pounce just yet.

“Buck, what are you doing?” Steve hissed, and Bucky ignored him, all his focus on the maybe-wolf.

“Hey buddy,” crooned Bucky, for all the world sounding like he was trying to cajole Alpine down from one of her more precarious perches rather than facing a slavering wolfdog.

Notes:

Content note: implied/referenced harm to animals, of the mad science variety. None of it is especially explicit, but we do start out with some poor dead animals, sorry :( the dog is fine though, I promise!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

When it came to HYDRA hunting, Steve’s least favorite missions—other than the ones that ended in someone getting hurt—were the ones that involved the labs.

It wasn’t that most of the HYDRA labs and research facilities were all that difficult to clear; by now, HYDRA was down to a few weak heads, and thanks to Bucky’s dogged, diligent work, those heads were lacking in resources, both human and financial. HYDRA’s remaining labs weren’t exactly staffed with an abundance of guards, and this one at an old rundown farm in Nebraska seemed to be small, not especially high-tech, and entirely, albeit likely recently, abandoned. They’d found occasional vague references to a Project Chimera in HYDRA connected to this Nebraska site, but nothing detailed enough to suggest that whatever the project was had actually gone forward. 

The whole thing would have stayed low on their priority list, if not for Bucky’s complex HYDRA-hunting computer system pinging with the news report that a couple of teenaged kids who lived in the town near the suspected base had gone missing that week.

It’s probably unrelated to whatever HYDRA’s up to out there, kidnapping kids who’ll be missed isn’t HYDRA’s M.O., and this has all the signs of being a couple runaways or lost kids who’ll turn up by the end of the weekend, but we should check it out sooner rather than later, just in case, Natasha had said.

Steve had texted Bucky a heads up, caught between the equal and opposing desires to have Bucky come along on the mission, or to have him stay safely at home with Alpine. But Bucky had texted back to wait for him, he wanted to come along too. It’s a three-day weekend, and I’d rather spend it blowing up a HYDRA base with you than staying home, he’d texted, along with a lot of heart emojis. 

So once Bucky was done teaching for the day, they dropped Alpine off with the neighbor who did cat-sitting for them sometimes, geared up, and headed out with Sam and Natasha, driving through the night in shifts to arrive in eastern Nebraska the next morning. When they arrived, there wasn’t much to see other than corn, cows, and the bright expanse of blue sky stretching over them, and Sam’s fancy SUV stood out like a sore thumb on the bumpy back roads of what was less a town and more a single main street surrounded by sprawling farms and ranches in varying states of upkeep.

“We should’ve rented a van or something, these shitty roads are gonna wreck my suspension,” griped Sam from the driver’s seat.

“I don’t want that kinda paper trail in case we get in a firefight or blown up or something,” said Bucky. “I think the rental agency would have some questions if we brought a van back with bullet holes in it.”

“I don’t want bullet holes in my nice Porsche SUV either!” 

“If you get bullet holes in it, I promise I will install bullet-proof plating for you,” soothed Natasha.

“Please stop jinxing this mission, this is supposed to be a nice abandoned base that we can just blow up and leave,” said Steve.

“If we’re done by tonight, we could keep driving to somewhere fun,” said Bucky brightly.

“We’re in the Midwest, there is nothing fun in this entire state or any of the surrounding ones,” countered Sam.

“We literally live in the Midwest—” started Bucky, clearly gearing up for a cheerfully belligerent round of bickering with Sam, before Natasha cut both of them off.

“We could visit Clint on our way back,” she said.

“There’s gotta be at least one weird roadside attraction or national park within a hundred miles of here—” said Bucky, pulling out his phone.

“Let’s take care of the suspected HYDRA base first, and then we can start planning possible trips, okay?” Steve said. “Remember, there are a couple missing kids here.”

Bucky looked up from his phone, shaking his head. “Yeah, two young teenagers in a tiny town, that’s more runaways who hitched a ride to have an adventure territory than being kidnapped by HYDRA.”

“That’s definitely what the kids’ social media suggests,” said Natasha. “But yeah, the sooner we check this place out, the sooner we can get out of here.”

From the outside, the suspected HYDRA base wasn’t much: an old ranch or farm, fields lying fallow and barren beyond a barbed wire fence and locked gate. Bolt-cutters took care of the fence, and there were no other evident security measures on the driveway leading to the rundown farmhouse and the big barn. No one shot at them either, which was a good start. Even so, they stopped halfway up the drive, and exited the SUV with weapons drawn.

“No cars or vehicles other than that old tractor,” noted Sam. “And that broken down truck, but it hasn’t even got tires.”

Sam was right: there was a fairly modern-looking tractor near the barn, but the only other vehicle was the rusted out shell of an old truck, so old and faded it was impossible to tell what color it had originally been.

Bucky knelt down to inspect the packed dirt driveway. “Recent-ish tire tracks though. It rained out here last week according to recent weather data, so someone’s been in or out since then.” He peered at the road that led over to the barn. “These tracks look about the same.”

So movement at both the farmhouse and the barn. 

“Farmhouse first, barn, or split up?” asked Natasha.

“No splitting up between buildings,” ordered Steve. “But someone ought to stay with the car, I want a lookout in case any HYDRA agents come back or there’s someone in that barn, or if we just need a quick getaway.” He glanced over at Bucky. “Buck, you wanna stay out here, keep an eye out? I don’t want us getting caught with our pants down if any nasty surprises come out of that barn.”

“Sure,” said Bucky, standing up again. “I brought my grenade launcher, and I’ll keep an ear on police chatter too, just in case.”

Steve sighed and gave Bucky a long-suffering look, to which Bucky responded with his best and most innocent choirboy expression. It was the wide and guileless eyes that sold it every time, almost the same shade of heavenly blue as the sky above them, but the wicked mischief in the curve of Bucky’s lips gave away his true inner hellion. Well, if Bucky was gonna use the grenade launcher, he might as well use it out here in the middle of nowhere to blow up a HYDRA lab.

“Alright, comms on, everybody, and we’ll check the farmhouse first,” said Steve, stifling an indulgent smile. “That’ll hopefully give us a better idea of how recently someone was last here.”

“Sure hope this isn’t just some random innocent civilian’s property,” said Natasha as they made their way towards the farmhouse.

“Forget random innocent civilians, I sure hope we’re not about to walk into some Texas Chainsaw Massacre shit,” said Sam. “I’m not ruling anything out after that nonsense with the Nazi zombies.”

“I don’t understand that reference,” Steve said, and grinned when Sam glared at him. “C’mon, the sooner we do this recon, the sooner we can get to the fun explosions and fire part of this mission.”

Their initial recon at the farmhouse didn’t turn up any evidence of the missing kids, and no HYDRA agents either, which suggested that this was going to be one of those missions where they went in, cleared the base out, and then turned the place to ash, simple and clean, because it was definitely a HYDRA base. The farmhouse was pretty run down, and drafty in a way that suggested the structural integrity was less than ideal, but whatever HYDRA agents had been stationed here had put in some effort at making it livable, and they’d even decorated. 

“Jesus, what is this, HYDRA cottagecore?” said Natasha, staring at the lurid red and black HYDRA flag pinned up over the fireplace of an otherwise shabbily bucolic living room full of country decorating flourishes like a gingham patterned couch and a bunch of cutesy porcelain cow figurines.

“What, what is it?” asked Bucky over comms.

“HYDRA interior design,” Sam answered, eyeing the flag with distaste. 

“HYDRA always has loved its branding,” Steve said. “At least we’re burning this place down soon.”

They went room-by-room, and while they found evidence of recent occupation—a still-full trash can, not yet expired milk in the mostly empty fridge, cupboards full of canned goods and MREs—it was also equally obvious that someone had cleared out in a hurry. The two bedrooms were in disarray, most of their drawers empty, and the fireplace was sooty and full of crumbly, pale ash, long since gone cold, like someone had burned documents in it.

“If there was any mad science or lab work going on, it wasn’t happening in here,” concluded Natasha.

“Have you checked the basement?” asked Bucky. “It’s always basements with HYDRA.”

Bucky was proven right. In the basement, they found the remnants of a cramped and dingy laboratory space, but this too was mostly empty, no electronics or equipment left behind except for a couple long tables, a big, empty industrial freezer, and a couple of big wire cages. 

“Maybe this is gonna be a simple one,” said Sam. “There’s nothing really left here, and no real evidence of what they were even doing.”

“Not sure that’s a good thing,” Steve said. “But yeah, maybe.”

Steve hoped taking this base out would be as simple and straightforward as it looked. No matter how simple clearing one of these last few labs was though, Steve usually hated it anyway, hated the sickening evidence they tended to find in places like this, and hated even more that they were almost always too late to do anything about whatever horrors had been perpetrated there. The lack of evidence now was disquieting in its own way, the empty cages especially a silent and terrible suggestion of experimentation on living things. Steve just hoped that if there was some horror hidden here, it wasn’t one that involved those missing kids, and that if they did find them here, that they were alive and unharmed.

Steve nodded his head toward the cages, glancing at Natasha as he did. “You think there was some kinda animal experimentation happening here?”

“Maybe,” she said. “An old ranch or farm would be decent cover for that, and it’d explain why this isn’t the usual kind of HYDRA base. They’re usually much more into underground bunkers and warehouses and bland office buildings.”

Destroying those HYDRA bases required copious amounts of C4 and some pretty dramatic explosions. Burning this particular HYDRA base to the ground would at least be straightforward out here in rural Nebraska, no explosives necessary. Arson would probably do the trick. 

They left the farmhouse after one final check for any hidden rooms or hidey-holes, then moved onto the rest of the property. The few other small buildings near the farmhouse—a silo, a couple of sheds—held nothing but cobwebs, dust, and old rusted equipment, and they cleared them quickly enough until they only had the barn left to check.

“If the missing kids were here, you’d think they’d be in the farmhouse,” said Sam. “Seems like the kind of place they might dare each other into exploring, or maybe a couple runaways would think it was fun to squat there for a few days.”

“There’s still the barn,” said Bucky over comms. “No sign of movement from out here, and I haven’t heard anything either.”

“What, were you expecting to hear screams or something?” asked Sam.

“No, but that barn looks rickety and creaky as hell,” said Bucky. “No way could anyone open a door without me hearing it out here.”

Bucky was proven right again when Steve had to break open the multiple padlocks and chains holding the barn doors shut, the heavy chains clanking and rattling with every movement. The chains and locks were new and un-rusted, Steve noted with some disquiet, far newer than anything other than the TV in the farmhouse. When the chains and locks fell away, he heaved the big doors open with an almighty groan and clatter of old wood and rusty hinges.

“I’m not feeling great about the number of chains and locks on that door,” muttered Sam as they all peered warily into the dim interior of the barn, shield and guns raised.

“And I’m not feeling great about how those chains and locks mean no one could’ve opened the door from the inside,” said Natasha. “What they hell were they doing in here?”

When they took a couple steps inside, and once Steve’s eyes adjusted, it was horribly clear just what HYDRA was up to out here.

Today’s HYDRA horror was apparently animal experimentation, and after one look inside the big barn full of cages, Steve was already trying to come up with an excuse for Bucky not to come in here after them. 

“Might be best to just torch this place,” was Natasha’s grim assessment as they surveyed the barn’s interior.

None of them were quite willing to go further just yet. What they could see from near the door was bad enough.

“I wonder why they didn’t torch it themselves,” said Steve, once he’d swallowed his gorge. “This is—Jesus Christ, this is a hell of a lot of evidence to just leave lying around.”

“Maybe they’re planning on coming back,” said Natasha. “Stay sharp out there, Barnes.”

“What the hell is even the point of this kinda mad science?” asked Sam, equal parts baffled and furious. “Like how does horrifying animal experimentation even figure into HYDRA’s evil ethos?”

“What? What do you mean, animal experimentation? What is going on in there?” came Bucky’s voice over the comms.

“Some Island of Doctor Moreau shit, is what,” Sam said, because that much was apparent even without going much further inside the barn. The caged creatures they could see from near the door alone…they didn’t look right.

“Hey I understand that ref—“ started Bucky, before interrupting himself. “Wait, are there animal-human hybrids in there?”

“No!” Steve said. “But, uh, there are definitely some mad science animal hybrids in here. Or there were, at any rate.”

Because despite all of the full cages and stalls, the barn was eerily silent save for the buzzing of flies and the few lights that still worked. None of the animals were moving as far as Steve could tell, and the whole place smelled like blood and death, so Steve suspected he knew the reason for the terrible silence, and the absence of any HYDRA personnel.

“Yeah, those references to a Project Chimera are making more sense now,” said Natasha, and pulled a small flashlight from her utility belt.

Sam and Bucky were busy bickering about how Sam’s Island of Doctor Moreau reference was inaccurate—Sam groaning does it even matter, oh my god while Bucky objected that animal-human hybrid monsters were a far different prospect than hybrid animal monsters and Sam shouldn’t make classic science fiction references if he’d never even read H.G. Wells—so Steve and Natasha took a careful few steps further inside.

They pretty immediately regretted it, if only because the smell, bad already, somehow got worse, hitting them like a blow, a foul mix of too many animals in one place and manure and dead things.

“I don’t think anything’s still alive in here,” said Steve.

“If it is, I’m not sure it should stay that way,” said Natasha, casting her flashlight’s beam over one of the bigger stalls that contained the hulking and misshapen corpse of a moose with an elephant’s trunk and tusks. She focused the light on a bullet hole in the poor creature’s head. “Though it looks like someone else had that idea first.”

Steve swore, his gorge rising. “You think they—fuck, you think they were messing around with the animal’s genes, or was this all surgery or something?”

Sam and Bucky had apparently finished their bickering, because Bucky’s voice came over the comms now, serious and grim.

“Not sure, there wasn’t much on Project Chimera in any of the HYDRA files we’ve recovered, and I don’t think I ever heard of it when HYDRA had me. Either it was after Insight, or it was just some HYDRA mad scientist’s pet project.”

“I’d believe that,” murmured Natasha, sweeping her flashlight’s beam over the somewhat derelict interior of the barn. “This isn’t exactly a top-of-the-line, high-tech operation here.”

“Yeah, so, part of the problem with an organization like HYDRA is that it attracts some real nut jobs; most anyone wanting to do serious, useful work is already doing it for legitimate organizations and companies. They’re the ones working in well-funded labs, or at least in places where they’re hoping to get funding,” said Bucky. “And while some of the HYDRA scientists were true believers, sure, if you’re a disgraced mad scientist type without funds or connections of your own…”

“…then HYDRA starts to seem pretty attractive,” finished Sam, on Steve’s six now, his face taking on an ashen tinge. “Damn, that makes an awful kinda sense.”

“HYDRA’s got its own bureaucracy though, they won’t just hand any mad scientist a pile of cash and a lab, you know? They gotta prove themselves,” said Bucky. “This Project Chimera, it might’ve been someone working on getting that kind of approval. Only then we started blowing HYDRA heads off with extreme prejudice, and bye-bye funding or support for mad science.”

“I vote for torching this place, I don’t think we’re gonna find anything worth salvaging,” said Steve.

“Hey, even if they’re mad science experiments, they’re still innocent animals. If there are any left alive in there, we can’t just—kill them,” protested Bucky.

Yeah, no, Bucky could not come in here, thought Steve with some desperation.

“Seems like someone else terminated this project before we got here anyway,” said Natasha, moving down the row of stalls and cages slowly, her gun at the ready. “All these animal subjects have been shot.”

Bucky made a dismayed sort of noise that pulled a sharp, answering ache from Steve’s heart, and Sam said, “Might’ve been a mercy, Buck. Some of these poor creatures…they don’t look like they were…healthy.”

That was a kind word for it; mutated was a better one. Each glance into one of the dozens of cages and stalls lining each side of the barn revealed a fresh nightmare: a too-scrawny small bear with too many eyes, all of them open and glazed over in death, a fox with stunted and twisted bat wings, a horribly muscled kangaroo…

“Jesus, that kangaroo is more swole than you are,” muttered Sam.

“Actually, I’m not sure that kangaroo has been experimented on at all. Kangaroos really do just look like this,” said Natasha.

“That can’t be right,” Steve said, appalled, but Bucky chimed in to agree with Natasha.

“Yeah, no, they are not cuddly and bouncy little guys, they’re fuck-off huge,” he said. “Guess we oughta be grateful HYDRA didn’t decide to build themselves a mutant kangaroo army.”

“Well now you’ve gone and spoken it into existence,” said Sam, and everyone groaned.

“Let’s just finish clearing this place and then you can use that grenade launcher of yours, Buck,” said Steve.

“Not until I get in there and grab any data or intel. They could’ve hidden it in there,” said Bucky. “For all we know, these guys just decided to cut their mad science losses and are planning to start over somewhere else, we should see if they’ve left a trail.”

And Bucky was undeniably the best at following trails like that, thought Steve with a grimace. There went any hopes of keeping Bucky out of here.

“Yeah, alright. Just—brace yourself, Buck, it’s not pretty in here,” said Steve. “Maybe—maybe don’t look in any of the stalls or cages on your way in.”

“I can handle it, Steve,” Bucky said, a chill in his tone. “I’ve probably seen worse.”

“I know, but you don’t actually have to see this,” Steve said. “Hell, the smell’s bad enough.”

Bucky was silent for a long, icy moment. “Like I said, I’ve probably seen worse,” he said, and Steve winced as Sam gave him a reproving look that pretty clearly communicated don’t be a patronizing, overprotective asshole.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Sorry,” Steve said.

By the time Bucky joined them, he was pale and grim-faced, his jaw so tense Steve was surprised he couldn’t hear the bones creaking. All Bucky said though was, “You weren’t kidding about the smell. C’mon, the sooner we clear this place, the sooner we can turn it to ash.”


By mutual silent agreement, Steve and Natasha sent Sam and Bucky further into the barn to look for any intel or data, while they checked each of the cages and stalls carefully, just to make sure they weren’t missing anything. Steve and Natasha could handle this part, as horrible as it was; Sam and Bucky, soft-hearted animal lovers that they were, would probably end up seriously upset and with lingering nightmares if they had to keep looking at these poor, mutated and mutilated creatures. Steve and Natasha might end up with nightmares too, for that matter, but for now they can grit their teeth and plug their noses, and compartmentalize their horror away.

What Steve and Natasha failed to account for was the possibility that Bucky and Sam would find living animals in their search for intel. More specifically, one living animal and two terrified teens.

“Cap, we found the kids,” Sam said, low-voiced over comms. “But, uh, we also found a…wolf? Dog? I don’t know, just get back here, man.”

Over in the far corner of the barn, Sam was standing to the side, a couple yards away from a couple of dirty and disheveled teenage girls, while Bucky was crouched down, holding his right hand out to a big, snarling dog. Or hell, maybe that wasn’t a dog, because Sam was right, it looked awfully wolf-like. A small wolf, maybe, or a large wolf-like breed of dog, with dirty tan fur and big ears reminiscent of a German Shepherd’s. Whatever it was, its bared teeth were perilously close to Bucky’s outstretched hand, though it was making no move to bite or pounce just yet.

“Buck, what are you doing?” Steve hissed, and Bucky ignored him, all his focus on the maybe-wolf.

“Hey buddy,” crooned Bucky, for all the world sounding like he was trying to cajole Alpine down from one of her more precarious perches rather than facing a slavering wolfdog. “It’s okay, no one’s gonna hurt you,” he said, and then, after glancing between the dog and the teenagers, he added, “No one’s gonna hurt those kids either.”

Sam took a careful step towards the two teens, and the wolfdog snapped and lunged towards him, growling and barking in clear warning. Sam immediately stepped back. The teen girls were cowering behind the big dog, crouched among a bunch of old feed barrels and trash and a big tarp, like they’d tried to hide among them. They were a bit bloody and dirty, but none of the blood looked fresh, and they didn’t look too badly injured from what Steve could tell. 

“Hey, you two alright over there?” he called out.

“Is that Captain America?” whispered one of the girls, pale and wide-eyed.

“That’s me, but you can call me Steve. What are your names?” he asked, though he already knew from the missing persons reports.

The girl who’d first spoken said, “Jessie,” and her friend said, “Marisol.”

“Alright Jessie and Marisol, we’re gonna get you out of here, okay? Are either of you injured? Has the dog bit you or hurt you?”

Marisol had a concerning pallor to her light brown skin, but she shook her head. “No, just a bit banged up, sir. The dog, she’s been, uh, looking out for us?”

The wolfdog’s growling increased in volume, and it barked in a warning kind of way, but Bucky didn’t flinch, just stayed still and patient where he was crouching.

“Yeah, I know, you kept those two safe, didn’t you? You all hid here, and—and waited it out, and you made sure the bad guys didn’t spot these two,” said Bucky, still with that low and crooning voice.

“What? What are you talking about, B—Jack—“ asked Sam, who was trying to inch closer to the girls again, only for the wolfdog to whirl and snap at him.

“He’s right,” said Jessie. Both she and Marisol uncurled from their defensive positions, though they stayed huddled together. “The—the dog, she—she saved us. We—god, I know it was stupid, but we’ve always been curious about this old farm, and we decided to sneak in, look around—“

“Some real plucky girl detective shit, oh my god, it was so dumb,” said Marisol, and Jessie giggled, high-pitched and slightly hysterical.

“Yeah, we got our plucky girl detective on and snuck into this barn to check it out. We—god, I thought we were gonna find a meth lab or something, maybe a grow op, but—“

Marisol took over from there, and the girls kept talking over each other, a torrent of relieved and scared babble.

“We came in and saw all these—all these poor freaky animals, and we were taking photos, you know? For evidence? Then—“

“Someone came in and we tried to hide, and then they—there was shooting? So much shooting, and the animals were all screaming and—”

“We didn’t know what to do! But this dog, she wiggled out of one of the—the stalls when it broke from—from the animals thrashing around, and she—kinda herded us? And helped us hide? And it was so loud, and they kept shooting and shooting—”

“But then they locked the door and we tried to open it, and we screamed, and the dog howled, but no one came—”

“—our phones don’t have signal, like, what the fuck—”

“And then our phones died too—”

“—We’ve been stuck here for, I don’t know, at least a couple days? We had water, from the taps, and the dog brought us some of the, like, carrots and apples from the animal feed, but we thought—we thought we were gonna be stuck here—“

“Until you guys came,” concluded Marisol, both of the girls slightly breathless now.

“But this good girl is still doing her job, huh?” said Bucky. Through the girls’ whole story, his attention had stayed fixed on the dog, whose hackles were finally starting to lower a bit, her alert and aggressive posture shifting to something more wary and tremulous. “That was real brave, what you did. You can stand down now though, okay? We’re here to help.”

“Yeah,” said Jessie, taking a few steps towards the dog, and towards Sam. “They’re here to help, girl, you did so good, but—can you, uh, sit now? Or heel?”

The dog looked over her shoulder towards the girls, then back at Bucky and Steve, then back to the girls. She whined, a plaintive and questioning kind of noise, her defensive, raised hackles posture turning more inquisitive with a tilt of her head. Now that she wasn’t snarling and snapping, Steve could see her expressive, tawny eyes, full of a heartbreaking mix of caution and exhaustion. She did not, however, sit as Jessie had requested.

“You hear that, girl? We’re here to help. You kept them safe and now it’s our turn,” said Bucky. “So you wanna help us get those two out of here, get out yourself?”

‘I’m not really sure that, uh, wolf? Dog? Wolfdog? Can understand you,” said Natasha.

“I don’t know, she’s pretty smart,” said Marisol, as she took a few halting steps towards Jessie and Sam. “She’s been trying to dig us a way out, and when we heard you guys, she, like, herded us here and helped us hide.”

“What a good, clever girl,” Bucky praised, and the dog crept towards him a little. 

Bucky glanced up at the girls, and nodded his head towards Sam. The girls followed the silent order and quickly joined Sam, who put his arms around their shoulders and led them out of the barn. While the dog whined, she didn’t otherwise protest, nor did she follow them. She did finally nose at Bucky’s hand though, sniffing tentatively before taking a couple cautious licks that made Bucky beam.

“Buck—”

“We should take her home with us,” said Bucky, not looking away from the dog.

He had a real staring contest going with her, and Steve couldn’t tell if it was a dominance thing, like the dog challenging Bucky, or if they were somehow communing in some inscrutable way. Or maybe it was both, because the dog crept even closer to Bucky until Bucky sat down, and then she crowded carefully into his lap. She was definitely too much dog to manage that gracefully—standing, she was tall enough to reach mid-thigh height on Steve—but maybe she was still a bit more puppy than dog, unused to her size. Bucky seemed happy enough to accommodate her, petting her slowly.

“Oh no,” muttered Natasha.

“Buck, I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Steve said gently.

Both Bucky and the dog turned to look up at him, and oh no. Oh no. Somehow, they both had the exact same imploring, heartbreakingly vulnerable look shining out of their big eyes, and every single last one of Steve’s defenses crumbled pretty much immediately.

“Steve, we can’t just leave her here,” said Bucky, soft and plaintive, the barest hint of a tremor in his low voice.

The weak remnants of Steve’s common sense put up a couple half-hearted objections. “She might not be safe, Buck, I mean…she kind of looks like a wolf?”

Her coat wasn’t nearly so long as a wolf’s, nor was she quite as big or rangy as one, but she didn’t entirely look like any other breed of dog Steve had ever seen. 

Bucky snorted. “She’s not a wolf, c’mon. She’s way too small to be a wolf. And look at these big floppy ears,” he said, petting said ears until the dog’s tail switched from curious swishing to happy thumping.

“Might be a wolfdog though,” said Natasha. “Also, I feel like I need to remind you that this dog is almost definitely a mad science experiment.”

“So am I,” said Bucky quietly, his attention back on the dog, and Natasha winced. “Doesn’t mean she can’t be something else too, something more.”

So am I, Christ, what was Steve supposed to do with that other than let his heart break open all over again, spilling over with a rising flood tide of love for Bucky, and more than enough love to spare for this brave dog too. Steve kneeled down to join Bucky, and offered his hand to the dog to sniff. She did so delicately, with a quizzical kind of snuffling sound. Now that she was calm, she really did seem like a sweet, if cautious, dog, and there was a keen intelligence in her eyes.

“What about Alpine?” Steve asked. “What if they don’t get along?”

“Again, I am gonna reiterate that this is a science experiment dog, and for all you know, she’s trained to kill—” tried Natasha, to no avail.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. But I think they’ll be alright,” said Bucky, before turning to the dog. “Won’t you, girl? I think you can get along with a cat, she’s pretty little still, and I think you’ll get a kick out of looking after her. Or being bossed around by her, we’ll have to see how that shakes out.”

The dog woofed as if in agreement, and nuzzled close enough to lick at Bucky’s face, earning a sweet laugh. Bucky set to petting and scratching her in earnest, and the happy thump of her tail sped up as her eyes squeezed shut in delight, her tongue lolling in a doggy grin.

Natasha sighed. “Barnes, seriously, we don’t know anything about this dog. I know it looks normal, but given the other animals in this barn and HYDRA’s involvement…”

“Nat, we can’t hurt her,” Steve said. “She’s innocent in all of this.”

“I know, but there’s a reason they have to put down dogs who’ve been in fighting rings,” said Natasha, not unkindly. “It’s not their fault, but they’re not always safe around people or other animals.”

“Her training isn’t to go for the kill,” said Bucky. “Otherwise she would’ve done it by now. You heard those girls, the dog protected them, has kept protecting them, and she’s even smart enough to have tried to find them a way out.”

“She does seem pretty well-socialized around humans, now that she doesn’t think we’re a threat,” Steve pointed out. “Whatever they were doing here, they didn’t completely neglect this dog. Hell, for all we know, she’s a normal stray who snuck in here.”

“Okay, but if you take her home and she thinks a random jogger in Cleveland is a threat?” pressed Natasha.

“Then we’ll work on training her,” said Bucky. “Who better than to train a possible science experiment super-dog than a couple super soldiers?”

“We’ll get her checked out by a vet, okay?” Steve said. “See if there’s even anything weird going on with her. There might not be.”

“And you’ll send a DNA sample to Bruce and Tony,” Natasha said. “We should make sure there aren’t any nasty surprises lurking in this dog’s genome.”

“What kind of nasty surprises could there even be?” asked Bucky, squinting at the dog. “She really does look like a normal dog. A bit wolfy, sure, but no more than some of the wolfier breeds out there.”

Natasha hummed and narrowed her eyes. “You wouldn’t even be asking that if you’d ever met Fury’s cat.”

“Fury has a cat?” asked Steve.

The thought seemed simultaneously impossible and entirely apt. Steve was suddenly consumed with the need to know exactly what kind of cat it was. A fluffy white one like Alpine? No, couldn’t be, Fury loved wearing black too much for that—a sleek and haughty black cat then? Or maybe one of those funny-looking furless cats—

“Kind of,” said Natasha, her tone alarmingly evasive. Before Steve could ask any more questions, she continued, “So alright, we found the missing kids and we’re rescuing a dog, but we still have to finish checking this place out. Did you and Sam find anything else?”

Bucky shook his head. “No, we got pretty sidetracked here,” he said, then he looked down at the dog. “You know anything about the bad guys, honey? The bad men, did they leave anything in here?”

Bucky talked to the dog for all the world like he thought she could understand him. He didn’t even use the kind of baby talk or high-pitched voice that people so often did with animals; even with Alpine, at most his voice went especially soft and gentle. Steve found Bucky’s earnest attempts at reasoning with Alpine to be far too adorable and hilarious to bother pointing out that she almost certainly couldn’t understand him beyond the basics, so all his patient lectures about why she should not scrabble her way to the top of the refrigerator were for naught, no matter how sweetly she meowed in response. 

Natasha had no such compunctions. “Barnes, I really don’t think the dog is a valid source of intel,” she said flatly, but the dog was already up and out of Bucky’s lap, trotting away. 

“I think she is,” said Bucky, all serene confidence. “You want us to follow you, girl?” 

The dog stopped and looked back at them with a yip as if to confirm, and she waited until they started following her. She led them to a seemingly unremarkable stretch of the barn’s back wall, cluttered with equipment and supplies, and she stopped in front of a rolling tool cart. She nudged at the cart, and Steve pushed it aside, but there was nothing behind it, and the tool cart’s drawers and shelves held only the expected things like screwdrivers and hammers, and assorted other brushes and implements of the sort used on horses and other large animals.

“There’s nothing here,” Steve said.

“It’s not the tool cart, it’s the wall,” said Bucky, and indeed, the dog was waiting patiently in front of the blank stretch of wall. Drywall, which was an odd choice for a barn. Natasha knocked a few times at a few different places, until her knock returned a distinctive hollow thunk.

“Huh. The dog’s actually onto something,” she said. 

They all felt around for a seam or a release or opening mechanism somewhere, until Bucky lost patience and just punched through the wall with his left arm, revealing a small closet that held a tall locked file cabinet. Natasha made short work of picking the lock, and opened the top drawer.

“Jackpot,” she said, pulling out a paper file.

She opened each of the other drawers in turn, and they all seemed to be full of files and notebooks: all paper copies, no discs or drives or electronics in sight.

“You are a very clever dog,” murmured Bucky, kneeling to pet her again. “Sorry I don’t have a treat for you honey, I promise we’ll get you the best steak and an enormous puppacino for dessert.”

“Puppa-what now?” asked Steve.

“It’s like a cup full of whipped cream for your dog, they’ll give you one at coffee shops if you ask. It’s the cutest thing ever,” was Bucky’s response. 

“Looks like someone was old-fashioned,” Natasha said, looking up from one of the files. “No digital files, but these are records of their observations of the animals, all handwritten. They go back a few years, at least to 2010.”

“That could explain why there were so few references to Project Chimera in the HYDRA files,” said Bucky, standing again. “If they were mostly analog, maybe they never made it to any of HYDRA’s digital systems.”

“Or they just hadn’t had any successes yet,” said Natasha.

That was probably a good thing, but these poor animals had suffered either way. Maybe they could still catch the bastards who did it; for now, Steve was willing to settle for saving those girls and the dog, and destroying this whole base.

“Alright, Buck, you get the dog out of here, and I’ll grab this whole filing cabinet. Natasha, start getting this place ready to blow. I’m thinking a presumed meth lab accident will be a better cover than random fire.”

Bucky and Natasha both nodded, but instead of guiding the dog out of the barn, Bucky looked down at her and asked her, “Anything else you think we need to see in here, girl?”

“Seriously?” said Natasha, as the dog woofed quietly, and leaned against Bucky’s legs.

“Alright then, let’s go,” Bucky said, and she trotted along side them as they left the barn.

The dog kept stopping to whine mournfully at some of the stalls and cages though, and each time she did, Bucky stopped with her, crouching down to murmur comforting condolences.

“I know, I know, I bet you miss your friends, huh? I’m sorry, honey. Sorry we didn’t get here sooner,” he said, a sheen to his eyes that called up an answering lump in Steve’s throat.

Through all their slow progress out of the barn, Bucky never rushed the dog, let her take her time every time she stopped to sniff sadly as if for evidence of life, until they were close to the door. Just when Steve was about to suggest Bucky carry her, in case she tried to make a run for it at the door, she flinched back at the threshold instead.

Steve didn’t like to think of the training or painful lesson that would make her do that.

“It’s scary, I know, but we can go outside, okay? No one’s gonna hurt you,” Bucky told her. “No one’s gonna lock you up again either. We’re gonna have to go to the doctor, make sure you’re okay, and that might be scary, but then you can come home with us, alright? You can be friends with Alpine, she’s our cat. Or I dunno, maybe you’ll want more space, maybe we can take you to Barton’s.”

Bucky went on like that for a couple minutes, all soothing chatter as he took the smallest of steps over the threshold, facing the dog all the while, until he was standing fully outside. The dog didn’t follow, not yet. She was trembling now, and whimpering, and Steve wanted desperately to scoop her up and carry her to safety out of this godforsaken place, but something told him it was important she do this herself. Soon enough, she took the last few steps herself.

“Brave girl,” Steve praised her, as Bucky beamed bright enough to outshine the sun.

“Yeah, you’re gonna be alright,” Bucky told her, bending down to pet her again. “We’re all gonna be just fine.”


Outside, the girls—cleaned up a bit now, their few injuries attended to by Sam—lavished the dog with love and attention and slightly weepy thanks, while Bucky carefully fed the dog with bits of meat from one of the sandwiches from the cooler in the car.

“I cannot believe you’re spoiling that dog already,” said Sam, because apparently Sam had also taken it as a given that they’d be taking this dog home with them.

“She’s been a very good and brave girl, she deserves it,” said Bucky. “Don’t you, honey?”

When Sam looked at him, Steve just shrugged. “I mean, she has been,” he said, and Sam accepted this with a nod.

“That her name then? Honey?” Sam asked them. Steve looked to Bucky for the answer.

“It’s what I plan to call her, yeah,” said Bucky. “That okay with you, Honey?”

And yeah, that felt right, thought Steve, looking at the way the sun gleamed on the hints of gold visible even through the dirt on her pale tan and brown coat, and at how her tawny, soulful eyes shone. Honey seemed to think it was right too, because she woofed quietly and pressed close to Bucky, her slightly fluffy tail wagging. She was eager for affection, it seemed, and Bucky was happy to oblige her.

“God, I hope that’s not secretly some kinda killer dog,” said Sam, looking at the scene with misty eyes. “She’s too damn cute.”

“Doesn’t matter what she was,” Steve said firmly. “We know what she’s chosen to be, after she saved those girls.”

Natasha came out to join them, saying, “Are you seriously going full Captain America speech over that dog?” Jessie and Marisol giggled nervously, and Natasha spared a kind smile for them before fixing Steve and Bucky with her most exasperated expression. “Because you really should try to have some chill about her until we can confirm she’s not too dangerous to keep.”

“Do you see this precious face?” demanded Bucky, and as if on cue, Honey turned her limpid golden eyes on Natasha. “How could she be anything other than the very best dog in the whole wide world? Also, her name is Honey now.” 

Natasha sighed, defeated, even as a smile tugged at her lips. “Barton knows a guy in Iowa, a vet he trusts, he says he can take a look at her. We can stop there on our way back.”

“Thank you, Nat,” Steve told her, and followed it up with a hug that made Natasha grunt.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome. Now get off me, we have some exploding to do.”


It was too late to start their drive back home by the time they destroyed the HYDRA lab and got Marisol and Jessie back home safely, so they found the closest motel that was willing to look the other way about a dog sharing one of their rooms for the night. It probably helped that Honey looked like a respectable enough pet dog now: they’d managed to clean her up some back at the HYDRA lab, giving her a quick hosedown to get the worst of the dirt off of her, and then they’d stopped at a Wal-Mart to pick up some supplies for her, including a collar and leash.

Bucky had to engage in some protracted, patient negotiations to get Honey to consent to wearing the collar and a leash, to the point where Steve started to worry that maybe Natasha was right, maybe they were in over their heads with this dog and she couldn’t be kept, but Bucky succeeded eventually, and without any bloodshed to boot. Honey was even well-behaved enough at the motel, though Steve suspected that was at least partly because the poor thing was exhausted.

“Do you think she’s alright?” Steve asked, suddenly worried that it was something more serious than exhaustion.

“I think so, yeah,” said Bucky, rising from where he’d been stroking Honey’s back until she fell asleep in the little blanket and pillow nest they’d fashioned for her. “She’s just had a really long day. We should look at the files though, see if we can’t find hers.”

“Good idea. Hell, she might be a normal stray if we can’t find any files on her.”


The files from the barn turned out to be strictly observational: logs of animal behavior, records of feeding times and amounts, keeping track of measurements and weights. Steve’s tentative theory about Honey being a normal stray was a bust though: they found her file, though it was fairly thin, and sparse on details. There was no mention of her being anything other than a wolfdog, and as Bucky pointed out, that wasn’t exactly mad science on its own.

“Plenty of people have tried to breed those on purpose,” he said.

“There’s nothing here about her being trained to kill or anything like that, at least,” said Steve.

“She must have had some normal training though, sit and stay and all that, she listened to those commands once we were out of the barn,” said Bucky, still poring over the file. He snorted, and pointed out one page to Steve. “‘Despite training attempts, not a successful guard dog,’ this says.”

“‘Some success at calming and herding other subjects though,’” read Steve. “Think it’s safe to say she’s not some kinda killer fighting dog.”

Bucky sighed in relief, and cleared all the files off the bed, neatening them into a tidy stack he set on the motel room’s single cheap, flimsy desk, before crawling onto the bed to drape himself over Steve. Steve happily wrapped Bucky up in his arms, and indulged in a quick tight squeeze as he breathed Bucky in, savoring his solid strength and warmth.

“Thank you,” Bucky said quietly.

“For what?” Steve asked.

“For agreeing to bring her home with us.”

“Of course. Like I could say no with both of you looking at me with those big sad eyes.”

Bucky twisted around until he could meet Steve’s eyes with his most earnest and serious expression, the one that never failed to make Steve feel like he’d been entrusted with the greatest gift in the world: Bucky’s trust, and his steadfast faith. 

“Steve, I mean it,” he said. “I know she might not be safe, and I know she’s probably a freaky science experiment wolfdog or something, and I know we’ve got some work ahead of us, fitting her into our life. But I just—I looked at her and I just knew her, and I couldn’t leave her. I couldn’t.”

“That’s not a surprise,” said Steve, pressing a quick kiss to Bucky’s lips. “She’s a lot like you, after all.”

Bucky grimaced. “Yeah, another HYDRA science experiment, I know—”

Steve cupped Bucky’s face in his hands. “Buck, hey, that’s not what I meant. I meant she’s brave and smart and determined to protect people, just like you. No way were we ever gonna leave her.”

Bucky nodded, a little wide-eyed. “Okay,” he said, and settled back down in Steve’s arms. “But we—we gotta be patient with her, okay?”

“I know.”

“Because—because I know what it’s like, right after—right after you get free. It’s—it’s confusing, and fucking terrifying, and you’re never sure what the right thing to do is. And she’s—she’s just a dog, so she doesn’t know what it’s supposed to be like. We gotta show her.”

Steve mostly paid attention to the space documentaries Bucky liked to watch, so he knew that many models of the universe posited that it was constantly expanding. That felt right to Steve, especially now, if only because only a constantly expanding, ever-infinite universe could possibly hold Steve’s always and ever-expanding love for Bucky. Right now, he’d bet that love was outpacing even the racing, growing universe, pushing them to whole new and more wondrous infinities.

“Show her what?” Steve asked, stroking Bucky’s soft hair.

“Home,” said Bucky. “Love. She—she deserves that, no matter where she comes from, or what they did to her or how they made her.”

How Steve could feel so much abject adoration and not explode with it, he didn’t know. How Bucky could have this much love and pure goodness to give, after so much had been taken from him for so long, Steve didn’t know that either. All he could do was hold Bucky tighter and babble silent, incoherent prayers and promises to the rushing universe around them.

“Yeah, she does,” he managed to get out. “We’ll give it to her, Buck, I promise.”

Notes:

If you're wondering what Honey looks like, I was envisioning something like a Czechoslovakian wolfdog. And if you're wondering how Honey and Alpine end up getting along, probably something like this.

Chapter 20: try to keep my skeletons in

Summary:

It turned out that sex, no matter how loving and tender and amazing it was, was not an adequate substitute for dealing with your shit. It was, in fact, about equal parts distraction as it was comfort. This became extremely evident to Bucky when the mere mention of trying to send Honey to doggy daycare again made his skin go clammy and his stomach sink. Either Honey noticed his reaction or she recognized the word, because her ears went flat and she started trying to make herself small again even as she came and crowded close to him.

So that was great. He and his dog were stuck in a feedback loop of trauma. How was he ever gonna help Honey if he was always getting caught up in his own shit?

Notes:

You may have noticed that I have marked this particular fic as complete! Do not fret, I'm not actually done with this series, I just thought 20 chapters was a nice round number to stop at with this fic, and the length is getting kind of unwieldy. I never anticipated continuing on with so many lengthy additions to this series; I started this fic in the series with the intention of writing shorter time stamps for "they're gonna send us to prison for jerks" as a way to practice focusing on feelings and romance in my writing without getting caught up so much in plot. Dubious success there on the shorter front, lol.

Anyway, future fics in this fic universe will be added as individual fics in this series, so go ahead and switch your subscriptions over to the series if you haven't already! You can do that on the series page here, where I've also added a little breakdown of what each chapter in this fic covers. This fic 'verse is dear to my heart and a comfort for me to write, so I'm definitely not done yet. Next up in this series will be a fic dealing with the events of the Black Widow movie, because I love Yelena, pretty much. That'll happen...sometime in the first half of this year? Hopefully? I've got a lot of WIPs on my plate and my attention span is fickle.

Content notes for this chapter: standard Winter Soldier trauma umbrella, PTSD. Also this chapter is rated E.

Chapter Text

“I think we need to find you a job or something,” said Bucky. “What did the poor couch ever do to you, huh?”

Honey looked up at him guiltily from the ruins of the living room couch and whined. Alpine meowed in a distinctly accusatory fashion from her perch on the highest platform of her cat tree. 

The two of them usually got along, but there was definitely a mismatch in their energy levels, even with Alpine still having some of her kitten energy and mischief, and a napping Alpine would not have kept Honey occupied enough to prevent whatever this was. Unless she was napping on top of Honey, which did happen sometimes, and which was the cutest and most adorable thing to have ever happened in the entire universe, ever, every single time, no matter how many photos Bucky and Steve took, and they took a lot of photos of that particular delightful sight. Unfortunately, the warmer the weather got, the less inclined Alpine was to use Honey as her own personal heated bed, which was probably part of what was leaving Honey at such loose ends during the day.

Bucky poked around a bit in the innards of the shredded couch. He spotted something sticking out from behind the somewhat mangled remains of one of the couch cushions: one of Alpine’s cat toys. Honey nosed at it, looking up at Bucky like, see? Also, there were a couple of colored pencils and markers, a single sock, and, whoops, a half-empty bottle of lube. Well, at least now Bucky knew that Honey hadn’t attacked the couch for no reason. She had, in her own way, been trying to be helpful with this self-appointed game of fetch, and there were precious few opportunities for that when she was home with no one but Alpine for company on those days when Bucky was at work most of the day and Steve was away on a mission.

“Stuff lost under the couch cushions is not part of any kind of fetch or hide and seek games, Honey,” he told her, and when she kept looking up at him with big, disconsolate eyes, he crouched down to pet her. She leaned against him with another apologetic whine, and licked at his face in a tentative kind of way, a doggy I’m sorry. He pressed a kiss to her forehead to reassure her. “I know, I know. We’ll figure something out, okay? And we’ll get a new couch.”

It wasn’t Honey’s fault that she was a working dog now living a comparative life of leisure in the suburbs. And it definitely wasn’t her fault that she was kind of, sort of a super dog. Luckily for Steve and Bucky, and Honey herself, the traits that got supered, so to speak, were her instincts for protecting her pack and her smarts. 

Based on the records, HYDRA’s Project Chimera had wanted a hyper-intelligent attack dog that could pass as a normal, if fairly large, dog. And maybe they could’ve gotten one, if they’d raised her on her own and had her fight other dogs. But without support from the larger HYDRA organization and then after HYDRA’s collapse, they’d never had the resources for anything like that. Instead, when they could be bothered, they’d trained her much the same way a K-9 was trained, and they’d kept Honey with the other animals they were experimenting on, where despite their neglect, she’d proven to be helpful in herding and calming the poor things, and in the end, they’d found that more useful than really committing to training her as a proper attack dog. 

Honestly, to Bucky’s grim amusement and deep relief, Project Chimera had treated Honey better than HYDRA had ever treated him. Which was, admittedly, a depressingly low bar, but at least it meant that Honey wasn’t unsafe around other dogs or people.

Even so, Bucky couldn’t fault Honey for becoming a bit neurotic in a new life that was so different from her old one; hell, Bucky knew exactly what it was like, after all.

“If I can become a reasonably sane and productive member of society, so can you,” he told her. “We’ll figure it out together, alright?”

Alpine, probably getting jealous of all the affection Honey was getting, leapt lightly down from her cat tree and came over to demand pets of her own by climbing into Bucky’s lap and then onto his shoulder where she shoved her face against his, just like she used to when she was a quarter as big. He’d scarcely been able to feel her on his shoulder then, she’d been so tiny. Now, she was a slight but solid and warm weight, her long, soft fur tickling his skin.

Bucky laughed and obligingly scratched under her chin, her rumble of a purr loud in his ear.

“You, on the other hand, are doing just fine being a pampered princess who naps half the day away, huh?” he told her, and she mrrped as if in answer. He sighed and stood, careful not to dislodge Alpine from her perch on his shoulder. “Time to find a new couch you two won’t destroy.”


“Maybe if we have someone come and walk her during the day if you’re at work and I’m not here?” suggested Steve when he got back from his mission.

It was a delivery pizza kind of night, because Bucky’d been too busy dealing with the couch situation to bother making dinner. Alpine and Honey both kept sneaking around the dinner table in anticipation of bits of sausage or pepperoni falling where they could eat it, and both Bucky and Steve were doing their best to ignore them so as not to encourage this behavior. At least, Bucky was doing his best. Steve, the softie, was eating with uncharacteristic messiness, to Honey and Alpine’s delight.

Bucky tilted his head and considered Steve’s suggestion as he finished his own mouthful of pizza. Bucky already took Honey out on a morning and evening run with him on those days when Steve was away, which was one more run than he himself preferred, but he hated to disrupt Honey’s routine just because Steve wasn’t home. But maybe a midday outing would be enough to take the edge off her energy.

“Yeah, alright. We can give that a try.”

So, after a handful of interviews and closely supervised meetings with Honey, they hired a dog walker to take Honey out for a long midday walk on those days both Steve and Bucky weren’t home. 

The dog walker lasted for a grand total of two walks before she quit.

“I’m sorry, but she just—slipped out of her leash somehow? And then ran off on her own? I spent like an hour looking for her, I was just about to call you guys, when I went back to your place and saw she was waiting there,” said the dog walker, looking rather harrowed. “I don’t think this is a good fit.”

The same thing happened with the next couple of dog walkers. They all said Honey was perfectly polite, though it was tough for them to keep up with her pace; apparently, she simply wasn’t all that interested in walks with anyone who wasn’t Bucky, Steve, Sam, or Nat, no matter how much Bucky negotiated with her.

“I really don’t know what you think you’re gonna achieve,” remarked Sam after witnessing one of these attempts at negotiation. “Like, is she gonna nod all, ‘excellent point, Dad, I will stop literally slipping my leash and play nice with my dog walkers’?”

“She’s smart!” Bucky protested. “She understands me, don’t you girl?” Honey woofed gently in agreement, and Bucky beamed at her. “So will you give the dog walkers another shot? I know they can’t go as fast as me and Steve, but you can still have a nice trip around the neighborhood, or to the park, sniff lots of interesting things,” he wheedled.

Honey just tilted her head and whined, her big floppy ears drooping. Yeah, that was a no. Bucky sighed, and scratched at her ears anyway. 

“Maybe a doggy daycare?” suggested Steve, looking up from his phone and showing the screen to Bucky. Honey poked her head close to look too. “She plays nicely enough with other dogs at the dog park, she should be okay with that, right?”

So they tried that out next, complete with a trial run where Steve and Bucky spent the entire time watching the live camera feed the doggy daycare offered.

“Honestly, this is better than most TV shows,” said Bucky, enthralled, as a black and white Husky played with a tiny terrier.

“How are they all so cute?” said Steve. “Wait, where’s Honey?”

After some frantic scanning of the video feed, Bucky spotted her: Honey was not playing with any of the other dogs, or any of the toys. Honey was huddled in a corner, her ears low. She was doing her best to look very small, to Bucky’s dismay.

“Oh no, we have to go get her,” he said, his heart pounding like Honey was in actual danger. “She hates this, she’s so scared, Steve, we gotta—”

“Maybe she just needs some time to acclimate,” said Steve, looking stricken.

As they watched, one of the doggy daycare employees came by to check on Honey and try to tempt her with toys and treats. Honey gingerly took the treat, but she didn’t uncurl or start playing. Bucky wanted to run and go get her right now, almost pulled Steve up so they could, but—it wasn’t like Bucky didn’t know what it was like. The first time he’d tried getting on a crowded train, after breaking free of HYDRA, he’d only lasted one stop, and hadn’t stopped shaking for hours. For months, any crowded place had seemed as dangerous as—more dangerous than, even—any battlefield. Eventually, he’d gotten used to it; he’d worked hard at getting used to it.

So he took a deep breath and said, “Yeah, okay,” and they kept watching the camera feed.

They ignored all the other adorable dogs and watched Honey, who didn’t join any of the other dogs, who didn’t move at all from what Bucky now recognized was a defensible spot. It was hard to tell on the feed, but Bucky thought she was shaking or shivering.

Bucky hated getting the shakes like that. It only ever reminded him of coming out of cryo, unable to stop shivering, and it always exhausted him afterwards, and left him feeling brittle enough to crack and shatter, and god, he had cracked and shattered, so many times, those first few weeks and months after Insight, all of him jagged and jangling with the wrongness of the mess inside his head. 

He’d spent a lot of those first few months shaking and shivering like that. Withdrawal from all the drugs, partly. It had ended up being a useful cover, actually. No one really thought twice or cared about one more twitchy junkie on the streets, and they definitely didn’t think he might be the Winter Soldier.

Anyway, he’d gotten better, eventually. Acclimated. Honey would too. She was tough and smart, she was going to be fine. Bucky clenched his fists and breathed, in and out. With effort, he held himself still, and he didn’t tremble, though something deep inside him did. Honey was fine, she was safe, she was just overwhelmed. It was fine.

“Fuck this,” said Steve after a few more minutes. “Maybe she just needs more time to acclimate, but that doesn’t mean she has to do it alone. Let’s go get her, we can—I don’t know, set up some playdates with other dogs, work up to doggy daycare.”

Bucky found that he couldn’t say anything in answer. The trembling part of him, something deep inside, got bigger and shook harder, but Bucky didn’t shake or shiver. He just nodded and stood to leave, and they went to go get Honey, and Steve did all the talking when they did, the doggie daycare worker saying soothing and encouraging things about how Honey probably just needed more time to get used to being around so many new dogs, or to work on her separation anxiety, but she was such a polite, good girl, and then Steve asked the worker questions about what they could do, or if there were maybe less crowded times to try.

Bucky ignored all of that and just sat with Honey, who’d finally gotten up the second she’d caught scent of them, and came straight to them. Even here in the reception area, she was still shaking a little. Bucky didn’t have any words yet, so he just pressed a kiss to her forehead, and stroked her soft fur as she settled herself into his lap as best as she could, big as she was, just like when they’d first found her.

It wasn’t separation anxiety, he was pretty sure. He’d promised Honey they would be back for her in a few hours, and yeah, okay, he knew that dogs didn’t exactly have the same sense of time, but Honey was smart, and she’d at least understood Bucky’s intent. She’d known they would come back for her, he’d promised her right from the start that they always would, when they’d first taken her out of that awful barn.

Anyway, it took a lot longer than a few hours to lose that hope of someone coming for you.

He finally shivered then, that trembling part of him deep inside shuddering so much that his skin and muscles couldn’t help but react, except then Honey licked at his face. At the tears on his face, which he hadn’t noticed. He held Honey close, and breathed deep and slow and careful, and when her trembling stopped, so did his.

“B—baby? You okay?” asked Steve, and Bucky had to smile then, because even after all this time, Steve was still so shit at remembering not to call Bucky by his name in public. But if Bucky opened his mouth to talk, he didn’t know what would come out, if anything even would, so he just nodded, gave Honey one more kiss on the forehead, and got up, taking the hand Steve offered, and Honey’s leash with the other.

Bucky sat in the backseat with Honey on the way back home, and while Steve kept darting anxious glances at them in the rearview mirror, he kept up a light, one-sided conversation. Bucky didn’t know whose sake it was for: Steve’s own, or Bucky’s, or Honey’s. He was glad of it though, because his own words were still clogged up behind the tightness in his throat. After a few minutes, Steve had the genuinely brilliant idea to open the backseat window, and Honey stuck her head out of it, her mouth open in a wide doggy grin, all her good humor restored as her tail wagged happily and occasionally smacked Bucky in the face.

“Dogs always look so happy with their heads out a car window,” marveled Steve with a laugh. “I’ve always wondered why, been tempted to try it myself. Like, maybe they’re onto something?”

Bucky grinned, and said, “Yeah? Dare you to give it a try sometime, Rogers.”

Steve’s next glance in the rearview mirror was nakedly relieved, and Bucky offered him an apologetic smile before Honey’s tail got him in the face again and they both laughed.

“Actually, I think a motorcycle is the equivalent for us,” said Steve. “But maybe I will.”

“If you did it right alongside Honey, I bet she’d be thrilled,” said Bucky. “And I’d get a really hilarious photo out of it.”

The rest of the car ride was spent bickering over just who ought to be in said hypothetical photo—it was obviously Steve, he was basically a Golden Retriever in human form—and Bucky felt almost normal again.

We’re fine, thought Bucky, petting Honey again. We’re both fine and safe, everything is fine.


At home, Steve declared it a Bob Ross painting kind of night. This was almost certainly more for Bucky’s benefit than for Honey’s, or even Steve’s. This was Steve trying to take care of Bucky, in a way that made Bucky feel simultaneously annoyed and deeply fond, because when it came to dealing with Bucky’s trauma shit, Steve’s caretaking generally came in two forms: brute force big gestures, or sweetly sideways attempts at subtlety, and the Bob Ross thing was the latter, an attempt to ensure a relaxed night and to ease Bucky into a restful sleep without making him feel coddled or managed.

It usually worked, to be honest. And anyway, Honey and Alpine both liked it too. Honey would stretch out on the couch with Bucky, and Alpine would settle herself on Steve’s shoulders like a particularly fluffy scarf as he painted, and on top of Bob Ross’s soothing and gentle patter about happy little trees and almighty mountains, Steve would keep up a running commentary of his own to Alpine. Ha, and to think Steve always gave Bucky grief for talking to Alpine so much.

Only once the painting was half-finished and Bucky was almost nodding off did Steve say, “Buck, you wanna talk about the, uh, doggy daycare?”

“Maybe we can find a smaller one, someone who just looks after a few dogs at a time,” said Bucky. “I think Honey might do better with that, it’ll be less overwhelming.”

Bucky himself had needed to work up to crowded spaces. Maybe that was all Honey needed too.

“Yeah, maybe,” said Steve. He cast a glance back at Bucky. “But that’s not what I meant.”

Oh. Steve meant Bucky’s less-then-mentally-healthy reaction. “I’m fine,” Bucky told him. “It was just—I don’t know. I’m fine now though.”

Steve nodded, and Bucky winced at the obvious tension in the set of his shoulders. “Alright. Well, offer’s open, Buck. Always.”

“I know,” Bucky said quietly. 

He’d never taken Steve up on it. Almost three years now and Bucky still couldn’t really talk to Steve about any of the Winter Soldier, trauma shit. He could tell Steve what triggered him, could say a little about how he felt, or things he’d done in general, but anything else, anything specific, and he still—he just couldn’t. The most he’d managed was telling Steve about that one time he’d escaped in Brooklyn, and that was mostly because it had been a way to comfort Steve too, at least a little. 

Bucky’s eyes burned, and Honey whined softly, nuzzling close against him on the couch. Bucky breathed in and out, slow and careful. He was fine, Honey was fine. They were both fine, safe at home, here with Steve.

Bucky did end up falling asleep to Bob Ross’s soothing tones, and fell asleep easily again when Steve gently chivvied him to bed; he just didn’t stay that way. He woke up around one a.m. after a disquieting dream whose details dissipated within moments, and after half an hour of trying to drift back to sleep on the sound of Steve’s breath and heartbeats, Bucky gave it up as a loss and slipped out of bed.

In the living room, Honey was fast asleep in her possibly overly luxurious dog bed. Whatever, she deserved the finest of wools okay? And she always looked so happy and cozy in it. Alpine was still awake, her eyes shining in the dark and her white fur almost gleaming like moonlight, doing whatever it was that cats did in the small hours of the night, and when Bucky sat on the couch, she trotted over to him with a curious mrrp.

“Hey girl,” he whispered to her. “It’s not zoomies o’clock, is it?”

She butted her small, soft head against his hand and the second he scritched at her ears, she started purring. She made herself at home on his lap, and Bucky obliged her silent demand for more pets. As ways to spend a sleepless night went, this one was pretty good. He wasn’t even plagued with anything too awful inside his fucked-up blast zone of a brain, not with Alpine here being so much more real and present than any of the terrible memories that were lurking a bit too close to the surface.

He just wished that he could’ve said something to Steve, earlier. Here in the dark, with Honey snuffling sweetly in her sleep and Alpine rumbling away in his lap like a little engine of cuteness, the thoughts and words came more easily to mind. He could’ve told Steve that he knew what it was like, when everything was too much—too much stimulus, too many people, too much pain—and all you could do was shake and shake. He could have told Steve how much of those first few weeks and months after Insight he’d spent like that, curled up small and shaking, only no one had come to bring him home, he’d spent that time alone, and that had been for the best, it had been safest, he’d stayed away for a reason and he’d been used to it, to being alone, but—

He stopped that thought in its tracks. It didn’t lead anywhere good.

And yeah, that was pretty much why he couldn’t—shouldn’t—tell Steve. Because it would only hurt him, knowing how things had been for Bucky. And anyway, what was the point? It was in the past, over and done with. Maybe Bucky couldn’t entirely leave the Winter Soldier behind; he needed those skills, and he needed to right what wrongs he could, needed to destroy HYDRA for good. That didn’t mean he needed to unearth and relive every nightmare and horror and torture from those long, icy years, and that didn’t mean he needed to come over all woe is me about the awful first few months after Insight had crashed and burned. He didn’t see the goddamn point in telling anyone about any of that, not for him, and not for them.

But it was still with him, all of it. And sometimes it was just—so fucking heavy. And he wished, maybe, that it was a weight that could be lessened by sharing it. When he looked over at Honey though, he wondered if it could only ever grow heavier in the sharing.


In the morning, Bucky woke up on the couch to Honey’s warm weight half on top of him, Alpine curled up along the small of his back, and Steve’s hand on his cheek.

“Hey, everything alright?” asked Steve, his voice quiet like he didn’t want to wake Honey and Alpine.

“Fine, just couldn’t get back to sleep earlier,” rasped Bucky, in the best attempt at a whisper his voice could manage so soon after waking. Bucky blinked the sleep out of his eyes, staring blearily at where Steve was crouched beside the couch, until his eyes cleared enough to make out the look on Steve’s face, a mildly alarming mix of unbearable tenderness and eye-twinkling delight. “You took a photo of this, didn’t you.”

Steve broke out into a grin far sunnier than anything that could possibly be happening outside in the light of day, no matter how clear the skies might have been. His hand was still on Bucky’s cheek, and now he lifted it to comb through Bucky’s probably embarrassingly wild bedhead.

“Of course I took a photo, it’s only one of the best and cutest things I’ve ever seen in my entire life,” said Steve, in a hushed and adoring tone more suited to a sincere exchange of wedding vows than witnessing a groggy Bucky stuck in the middle of a pet sandwich. “Also, I wanted a reference so I could immortalize this in a painting.”

Bucky groaned, which was enough to wake Honey. She wriggled around then stuck her face close to his, cold little nose and all. His eyes crossed trying to match her intent yet limpid gaze, but whatever she saw apparently satisfied her that he was fine, because she gave him one quick nuzzle before trotting away. Bucky heaved himself upright, earning an aggrieved chirp from Alpine as he disturbed her prime napping spot. Alpine followed Honey to the kitchen, where she would likely soon be singing the woes of the hungriest cat in all of existence if her breakfast wasn’t provided with sufficient punctuality. Honey was more patient, but only because she would absolutely take matters into her own paws, so to speak. (Given sufficient motivation, she could, it turned out, open cupboards and drawers.)

“Please tell me I’m not late for work,” said Bucky.

“Nah, you’re good, it’s pretty early still,” Steve said, and gave him a hand up that Bucky turned into a clingy hug. Steve held him tight and close, the strength and warmth of him an inexpressible comfort, and it mostly settled and steadied whatever that small part of Bucky was that was still feeling somewhat fragile after yesterday. When Bucky made no move to let Steve go, Steve kissed his temple and rubbed his back. “You wanna take a day off, hang out with me for the day? I’m sure a sub could cover your lesson plans for the day.”

Bucky was sorely tempted to take a mental health day, but he knew it’d just end up with him in the garage doing some HYDRA hunting instead of relaxing, and then he’d end up all edgy and restless. Better to just go to work and let the routine of the school day do its soothing job.

“Tempting, Rogers,” he said. “But no, I wanna go to work.”

“Alright,” said Steve, and kept holding him, until Bucky pulled back to kiss him, and then they kissed their way to the bathroom, where they brushed their teeth, and showered together. It was a close fit, but that was okay; Steve held Bucky in the shower too, Bucky’s back to his front, as Steve worked Bucky’s cock while the hot water poured over both of them. It was impossible to do anything but lean against Steve and give himself over to Steve’s hands and the water and Steve’s voice, a litany of love, and when he came, it was almost a surprise, almost besides the point, compared to the feeling of being so closely held, safe and cherished. 

He turned in Steve’s arms, desperate, all of a sudden, to kiss him, so he did, he kissed him and kissed him, and stroked his cock too, unable to find enough words and hoping this was enough. Enough to say without saying I’m here, I’m okay, I love you, thank you, I’m sorry, I’m trying, I promise  you make it better just by being here. Steve came, at least, and Bucky watched him, struck all over again at what a precious and perfect sight it was: Steve’s pink and plush parted lips, his long lashes wet in the shower spray, his face slack with ecstasy, and when Bucky kissed him again, Steve kissed back, still as wanting and adoring as the day’s first kiss.

“You sure you don’t wanna stay home today?” breathed Steve, and Bucky laughed, kissed him again.

“I love you,” he said, finally, simple and true, the truest thing, even when Bucky couldn’t find the words for any of the rest of the mess inside of him. It never seemed like it was enough, those three short words, and yet it was. It was like the symbol for infinity, he supposed: something small, something simple, and yet within its bounds, it contained everything.


It turned out that sex, no matter how loving and tender and amazing it was, was not an adequate substitute for dealing with your shit. It was, in fact, about equal parts distraction as it was comfort. This became extremely evident to Bucky when the mere mention of trying to send Honey to doggy daycare again made his skin go clammy and his stomach sink. Either Honey noticed his reaction or she recognized the word, because her ears went flat and she started trying to make herself small again even as she came and crowded close to him.

So that was great. He and his dog were stuck in a feedback loop of trauma. How was he ever gonna help Honey if he was always getting caught up in his own shit?

He covered for it well enough, he thought: he got Steve off the subject by mentioning that actually, Annie from group said she might be able to walk Honey with her own dog some days, wouldn’t that be convenient, he was just gonna take Honey with him to group and see if she and Annie got along. It wasn’t a total lie, at least. Annie did have a dog of her own, a somewhat goofy but apparently good-natured mutt about half Honey’s size, and Annie had offered herself as a dog sitter if they ever needed one. Plus, everyone at group would be happy to meet Honey, they’d been pretty much demanding he bring her by ever since he first showed everyone photos.

“Maybe a support group will help you too,” Bucky told Honey on the way to the church rec room that housed the support group meetings. “I know you can’t talk, but I pretty much never said anything at group for months, so that’s not as much of a problem as you might think.”

Bucky made sure to get to group early, so Honey wouldn’t be overwhelmed by nearly a dozen people all at once and could instead meet them in ones and twos as they arrived, and they ended up arriving early enough that Paul was the only one there. He greeted them with a broad smile, his weathered and worn face settled in kind and patient lines as always.

“Hello, Jack. And hello there, Honey!”

“Hey Paul, thanks for letting me bring her today,” he said. “Honey, this is Paul, he’s pretty much our little group’s leader. Mind anything he tells you to do, please.”

If Paul thought it was weird that Bucky was introducing him to Honey rather than the other way around, he didn’t let it show. He just kneeled down to offer Honey his hand to sniff, which Honey did, her tail wagging immediately.

Paul’s smile deepened. “Oh, she’s lovely, Jack. Can I pet her?”

“Yeah, she’s friendly, just a bit overwhelmed by too many people at once. Thought it’d be best if she could meet folks one by one.”

Honey was in obvious doggy bliss as Paul petted her, and her joy only increased with every new person she got to meet, each of whom praised and petted her. Bucky couldn’t help but smile as he watched her with the group. Despite everything, she was such a cheerful dog, and she seemed to really like people, somewhat to Bucky’s surprise given her origins. She got along great with Annie too, who was clearly delighted by her, and he and Annie worked out a time for Honey to meet Annie’s dog Munch for a doggy playdate. By the time everyone arrived for group and had their turn meeting Honey, they were all smiling.

“She’s a real sweetie, Jack, thanks for bringing her,” said Emma, her round cheeks dimpling into a smile.

“Feel free to bring her every week,” added Rahim, and Bucky laughed.

“Maybe I will,” he said. “Between me, Steve, Alpine, and our friends, she’s kinda in high demand though.”

After that, things settled into their usual groove: everyone who felt like it shared a bit about how they were doing, folks asked after any open questions left over from last week—how was Adam’s new sleeping medication working out? had Marco tried yoga yet? how had Lynnette’s tough conversation with her mother gone?--and then the floor was open.

Emma got things started by sharing about a date she’d gone on last weekend. “I like him, I do, and it was fun, but he invited me back to his place, and I just—I froze. Made some excuse and basically ran away from him, and then when I got home I couldn’t stop crying.”

Even now, Emma was tearing up. Honey fidgeted where she was sitting beside Bucky, whining so softly it was barely audible.

“Maybe you’re just not ready yet,” said Annie, sympathetic.

“He’s not giving you bad vibes, is he?” asked Bucky, and Emma shook her head.

“No, he’s really nice, a total gentleman. And I want to be ready! Shouldn’t that count! It’s like my body isn’t getting the memo, and I hate it!”

Honey whined again and nudged him in the thigh with her snout. He looked down at her and whispered, “What is it? You need to go out?”

Honey was unfailingly polite about asking to go out to do her business after Bucky’d had a talk with her about how it didn’t matter when or where, if she just let them know, they’d let her out and they would never be mad at her about it. Now though, she tossed her head in Emma’s direction and whined again, before taking a tentative couple steps towards Emma. Oh. Honey wanted to go over to Emma.

“Go ahead, I guess,” said Bucky. “But come on back if I say so, or if she seems scared, alright?”

Honey trotted over to Emma, who was still somewhat distraught as she talked about how dating was hard enough even without her dumb PTSD brain. Honey plopped her head right in Emma’s lap, and looked up at her with what Bucky knew from experience were the sweetest and kindest big golden eyes imaginable.

“Oh, uh, hi Honey!” said Emma, already gingerly stroking Honey’s head.

“I, uh, think she wanted to come over to you because you seemed upset?” ventured Bucky.

Everyone cooed and aww’d. Emma practically melted, her distress easing. “She’s so sweet,” she marveled.

Bucky was marveling too. He knew Honey was sensitive to people’s moods, his most of all, but this was new. Then again, it wasn’t like Honey spent a ton of time around other people. Apparently her willingness to comfort people extended beyond him, Steve, Sam, and Nat. 

God, she really was the absolute best dog in the whole wide world.

Paul smiled, and gently got the conversation back on track. “Emma, I know how frustrating it is when we want to be ready but our body tells us we aren’t. But just like you wouldn’t decide to run a marathon on a still-healing leg, you can’t always push through with trauma. Stop and listen to your body, to yourself.”

“You were doing fine until he brought up going to his place, right?” pointed out Rahim. “So boom, there’s your boundary.”

Emma nodded, still stroking Honey’s head slowly. “The date was going great until then. And—and he texted me after, apologized for moving too fast,” she said, less upset now.

“Just tell him you gotta go slow, if he’s a keeper, he’ll understand,” said Lynnette.

“But what if it never gets better?” asked Emma, more thoughtful now than upset. “Like, we go slow and everything, we end up falling in love and I still can’t—”

“Take it one step at a time, don’t borrow trouble,” said Annie. “Be in the moment, and see how it goes.”

“It will get better,” Bucky offered. “I—listen, I was worried about something similar, with Steve, and—and it got better, it worked out, and not ‘cause I pushed myself or anything. We, uh, talked, cleared the air and all, and it helped.”

That this clearing the air had involved inadvertent secret identities, fighting zombies, and a long-deferred declaration of love wasn’t particularly relevant to Emma’s situation.

Emma nodded, and took a deep if somewhat shaky breath. She smiled down at Honey before turning her smile on the rest of them. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Thanks.” She gave Honey a vigorous scritch behind the ears and Honey panted happily. “Thank you too, Honey.”

Honey trotted back over to Bucky then, evidently satisfied that her work was done, and he fished a treat out of his pocket to give to her. “That was a real kind thing to do, Honey,” he whispered to her. “I’m so proud of you.”

Honey’s tail wagged joyfully, and he kissed her forehead. When he looked up, Paul was smiling at them.

“Has she been trained as a therapy dog?” asked Paul. “She handled that beautifully.”

“No,” said Bucky. “That’s a thing?”

Paul nodded. “Sure. There’s emotional support dogs and service dogs, those require a fair bit of training and they start the dogs out young for that, but there are also some dogs that go to retirement homes, rehab centers, hospitals, that kind of place, to help cheer folks up. Honey certainly seems suited for it.”

“I have been hoping to find something for her to do,” admitted Bucky. “She’s got a working dog’s temperament, and she gets awfully bored at home on those days when Steve’s away and I’m at work. She pretty much wrecked our couch last week.”

“No way, look at that precious face though!” said Adam. “She has never done anything wrong in her life, ever, and I love her.”

“I generally agree with you, but believe me, the couch wasn’t salvageable,” said Bucky dryly, and then, before he could think better of it, he blurted out, “Me and Steve tried taking Honey to doggy daycare and it didn’t go well.”

“For Honey or for you?” asked Annie, raising one pierced eyebrow, because she was too smart by half, and she could read him way too damn well.

“Both of us, me and Honey that is,” Bucky admitted. “I—we were watching her, on the daycare’s video feed? To make sure she was doing alright? She’s a rescue, you know, and she’s usually fine around other animals, but—this time she wasn’t. She just went in the corner and curled up and shook and shook, and I—” Honey whined, pushing her head under his hand. He smiled down at her—he tried to, at any rate—and stroked her soft fur. “We went to go get her, right away, and I just—fuck, I got more upset than she did.”

“Because it was hard to see her so scared?” asked Paul.

Bucky kept his eyes on Honey, and she looked up at him, eyes full of trust, her ears cocked at an attentive angle. He could say he didn’t want to talk about it, could say yes and leave it at that, change the subject to how to help Honey, but—he’d gotten this far. Might as well keep going.

“Yeah,” he said. “And because—because I know what it’s like. Being like that. It—it’s dumb, but it just—it reminded me of when I was in a really bad place. The way she was shaking and all.”

“It’s not dumb,” said Lynnette, fiddling with one of her braids. “And I mean, you fixed it? You went and got her?”

“Yeah,” said Bucky, though he had to clear his throat to get the word out.

“And you helped her afterwards, I’m guessing. Took care of her,” said Rahim. He was leaning forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, and there was something steadying about his low and resonant voice and how Rahim didn’t even phrase it as a question. Bucky nodded.

“But no one ever—no one ever did that for you, I’m guessing,” said Annie, slowly and gently, so fucking gently, like she was feeling the words out as she spoke them. “No one came for you?”

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. Honey was warm and soft under his hand, undeniably real, undeniably okay. They were both here, and they were both okay, despite everything. Bucky was no longer strapped to a lab table, the only living subject left, was no longer alone in a dark and dirty cell, was no longer bound to the chair and losing himself piece by painful piece, was no longer freezing alone and all too slowly in a cryotube, was no longer shaking through seizures and withdrawal and flashbacks, alone.

“Steve helps me now,” Bucky rasped out. He opened his eyes but couldn’t bring himself to look up yet, so he just looked at Honey instead. “And Sam, and Natasha. You guys. But I was—I was alone for a really long time, and—it’s over, but it’s not. All the—the bad stuff. I’m safe now, but it’s all still there. And I can’t—I can’t talk about it.”

“You can though,” said Paul, as steady as anything, like this wasn’t the first fucking time in almost three years that Bucky had ever actually said a single word about what brought him to a trauma support group in the first place. “You can talk about it with us. That’s what we’re here for.”

Bucky shook his head again. “I can’t. Not with you, not with Steve, not with anybody. There’s no point. It’ll just—it’ll just hurt. Me, you, everyone.”

And he was so fucking sick of hurting people.

“But—if Honey could tell you what she felt, why she was scared, wouldn’t you want her to?” asked Emma. “Even if it made you sad, or angry?”

“Yeah, but that’s—that’s different,” he said, frowning now, less sure of that answer than he wanted to be.

It was different because—it just was. There was nothing Honey could tell him that would make him love her less, or leave her, no hurt that could ever outweigh the necessity of ensuring she felt safe and loved. She couldn’t help where she came from, and if she could talk, if she could tell him what it had been like, he’d listen, if that was what she needed.

“You said you were alone for a really long time, Jack. Was that by choice?” asked Paul.

“Sometimes,” he said, and risked a look up at Paul. Paul’s expression was calm and open, compassionate. “Not at—not at first. And I didn’t—I didn’t want to be, it was just—it was safest.”

“You’re not alone now though. That’s the choice you’re making now, that’s what’s safest now,” said Paul.

“Yeah,” said Bucky, unsure where this was going.

“So, you don’t want to be alone, and you aren’t. You have us, you have Steve, you have your friends,” said Paul, inexorable and still so gentle. “But Jack, when you say you can’t talk about it, that’s you leaving yourself alone with your pain.”

Bucky went as cold as the first hit of the freezing gas in the cryotube. Honey pressed in closer against him.

“No, that’s not—“ he started, but couldn’t even finish the denial and just whispered, “Fuck."

“When you saw Honey in pain—not in danger, just scared and overwhelmed—you couldn’t stand to leave her alone with it. You went and got her right away, right?” said Paul.

“Yes,” Bucky whispered.

“So why treat yourself with any less kindness?” asked Paul. “Why leave yourself alone with the pain you can’t stand to leave anyone else in, not even your dog?”

“Oh,” he said, like an idiot, and it was like his entire perspective clicked into a slightly new angle, one that brought the world into even sharper clarity.

“If it takes you time to work up to it, that’s fine,” said Paul, and Bucky laughed, or at least, he tried to laugh. It came out as more of a sob. 

“It’s taken me three years to even tell all of you this much,” he said.

“Nothing wrong with that,” murmured Lynnette, with an encouraging if tremulous smile. She’d been quiet for the better part of a year before she’d told them anything about what had brought her here. 

“You can start by talking to Honey, maybe,” suggested Emma. “She seems like a pretty good listener.”

Honey woofed softly, as if in agreement, and Bucky laughed in earnest now. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Maybe,” he said, then wiped at his eyes. “Thank you. All of you. For—for putting up with my shit for this long.”

“Psh, c’mon, this is easy,” said Annie with a grin. “You oughta be thanking us for putting up with that old mustache of yours for so long without saying anything about it, because let me tell you, that’s what needed an intervention, not your trauma shit.”

Everyone laughed, a necessary catharsis, and Bucky realized then that he’d been wrong: the weight of all his fucked up past and his pain didn’t get heavier if he tried to share it. It didn’t really get lighter, either, but it sure as hell got a lot easier to bear.


When he and Honey got back home, they were greeted by a slightly indignant Alpine, who immediately demanded that Honey go play with her by meowing and batting one of her cat toys in Honey’s general direction. Honey let out a big doggy sigh and looked up at him like kittens, am I right? before obligingly trotting off to play with an energetic Alpine. Thus assured that the pets were occupied, Bucky went straight to Steve where he was painting in the living room. He didn’t even bother to wait for Steve to turn around, he just wrapped his arms around Steve from behind and latched on.

“Hey, Buck. Did group go okay?” he asked, leaning against him, and Bucky nodded against Steve’s back without lifting his head from Steve’s shoulder. He stayed like that for a moment, until their breathing synced up, and only then did he take one more deep breath in before hooking his chin over Steve’s shoulder to look at what he was painting.

“That was fast,” he said, blinking in surprise as he took in the almost finished painting of Bucky sleeping on the couch with Honey and Alpine. “Sweetheart, it’s gorgeous.”

The soft light of dawn in the painting suffused it with a held-breath kind of tenderness, and somehow, Steve had captured the moment in all its shades from sweet to bitter: the sweetness of Alpine and Honey curled up close to him, the hint of melancholy and exhaustion on Bucky’s own sleeping face, the comfort he was clearly taking in Honey with the way his hand was buried in the soft fur of her ruff. Bucky always felt both loved and known under Steve’s artistic gaze, and this was no exception.

“What can I say, my muse inspired me,” said Steve.

“Yeah? Gosh, and I didn’t even need to lounge around naked to do it,” teased Bucky, and Steve turned around to face him, grinning and a bit pink-cheeked.

“Oh, you’re not the muse here, Alpine is.”

Steve swooped in for a kiss even as Bucky laughed, and for a few minutes, all thoughts of Bucky’s recent support group-enabled epiphany and the painting and whatever mischief that Bucky could vaguely hear Alpine and Honey were up to faded into the background. The welcome-home kiss swiftly turned into something deeper and more eloquent, the kind of conversation that could never go wrong when every other touch of lips and tongue said I love you and I want you and I’m here.

When Steve finally pulled back, there was a question in his eyes and a small, worried furrow in his brow.

“Everything alright?” he asked, his hand gentle on Bucky’s face.

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “I just realized something at group today is all.”

“You wanna talk about it?” offered Steve.

He’d offered so many times, undeterred by any number of nos and not yets and I can’ts, and yet he still kept offering, with a patient yet tentative doggedness that Bucky knew didn’t come naturally to him. Bucky didn’t have to be alone with this, if he didn’t want to. He never had. And maybe it would hurt Steve to hear what Bucky had to say, but that wouldn’t be Bucky hurting him, it would be Steve hurting with him, the same way Bucky hurt with Honey when she got scared or upset. If the love was bigger than the hurt with Honey, how could he expect any less from Steve? 

“Yeah, actually. I do,” he said.

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