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    Summary

    On the run with Sam and Natasha, Steve finds the words to describe his commitment to Bucky. As with most of Steve’s decisions, there are unintended consequences.

    “It’s no use,” Natasha tells Sam. “You won’t get him to go out and flirt. Steve here’s a married man.”

    They’re somewhere in Croatia, and Sam’s been hard at work, trying to pull Steve away from a busy night of sketching and staring at his phone. He wants to go out and drink plum brandy and dance with the locals.

    “You should go without me,” Steve says, hazy. Married. A married man. Isn’t that something?

    Language:
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  2. 11 Oct 2019

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  3. 10 Oct 2019

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  4. 10 Oct 2019

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  5. 09 Oct 2019

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  6. 09 Oct 2019

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  7. 07 Oct 2019

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  8. 03 Oct 2019

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  9. 30 Sep 2019

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  10. 30 Sep 2019

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  11. 29 Sep 2019

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  12. 28 Sep 2019

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  13. 26 Sep 2019

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  14. 26 Sep 2019

    Rec

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    Bookmark Notes:

    i think, technically, this is a heist fic. i love heist fic. nat steals a wedding, sort-of.

  15. 26 Sep 2019

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  16. 25 Sep 2019

    Rec

  17. 25 Sep 2019

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  18. 24 Sep 2019

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  19. 24 Sep 2019

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  20. 22 Sep 2019

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    Bookmark Notes:

    “I’m trouble, Steve,” Bucky says, suddenly very serious. “A lifetime of trouble.”

    “My trouble,” Steve says. Sure, this might not be the most mature way to handle Bucky’s crushing self-doubt, but blind stubbornness has worked for Steve more often than it’s failed.

    Bucky shakes his head. “You should have… a different kind of life.”

    “One, that’s my choice,” Steve says. “Two, I’m an outlaw now. No picket fences on the run.”

    “You wouldn’t be running if it weren’t for me.”

    Steve raises an eyebrow. “You think I’d have taken the SRA lying down without you?”

    Bucky rolls his eyes. “Obviously not. You’ve never let a damn fight go in your whole life. But you would have handled it different. You can’t think straight if I’m involved.”

    Steve reaches out to push an errant lock of hair out of Bucky’s face. “It’s true. Haven’t been able to do much of anything straight around you since that night on the roof.”

    Bucky screws his face up, struggling not to laugh. “You’re impossible.”

    “You love it.”

    “It’s true,” Bucky says, with a put-upon sigh. “I’ve loved you longer, you know.”

    “Oh yeah?” Steve says. His hand still hasn’t found its way out of Bucky’s hair.

    “Yeah. I knew for three years, before the roof,” Bucky says. “You almost died, that first winter. I thought it was my fault, on account of my sin.”

    “I almost died every winter!” Steve says, laughing.

    “Hey,” Bucky says. “It’s still not funny. I was so afraid I’d lose you. I promised — swore — I’d never do a thing about my feelings, wouldn’t ever act on my sin, if you just lived.”

    “Three years, huh?” Steve says, thinking, playing absently with Bucky’s hair. He winds a curl around his finger. Three years is a long time when you’re young, like they were, and in love. Three years is a long time to keep something from your best friend, when you orbit one another like twin stars. Steve was the one who told Bucky first. If Steve had ever known how to keep his big mouth shut, would Bucky have kept that promise forever?

    Bucky nods, remembering his youthful yearning. His eyes flutter. Steve brushes a finger against the thick fringe of his lashes, just to feel them move — a strange little intimacy. In return, Bucky kisses his palm. “Every day, I wanted to tell you. Every day.”

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