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It starts with a drink.
Bucky’s a little high, which means unapologetically thinking he’s hot shit and his friends enabling the delusion with absolutely zero remorse. Later, he’ll realize he never would’ve been so bold if Carol hadn’t given him that last hit.
But she did, so off they go, sauntering over to a table that at the time, seems to Bucky like an unusual but interesting enough group with a high dose of eye candy. Carol reels in the two people obviously there for a good time, because of course she does, but Bucky has his sights set on the hulking blond that’s been eyeing him since the second he made his way over.
The guy’s big, and he’s not putting that lightly. Even before Carol dragged away the even larger dude, Bucky clocked those biceps from a mile away—or rather, from two tables down. He can see lines of muscle through the tight white shirt, and he wants to run his tongue over them, trace them out and follow them down to thick thighs wrapped in charcoal gray pants.
Fuck, maybe he needs to sober up.
Bucky realizes who it is he’s practically groping when an older guy—holy fuck, is that Tony Stark?—chimes in, eyes glittering with arrogance and lips pulled into a smug smirk. Huh. He did hear about Captain America; who didn’t? Bucky just wasn’t expecting this.
Steve—Steve Rogers, he remembers from APUSH as taught by Mrs. Hugh—has dark, ocean eyes that whisper over Bucky’s skin, blazing a path down his neck, curling over his thighs, and taking stock of the way the seat of his pants is stretched tight. He doesn’t know who Stark thinks he’s dealing with, but Bucky knows a hungry gaze when he sees it.
Maybe it’s the way his blood is pumping a little too fast, or maybe he’s lost his mind after all, but Bucky finds himself feeling up Steve’s arm, trailing over the hard bulge of his pec and into the start of that beard, a shade darker than the dirty blond tucked behind his ears.
Bucky can’t decide if Steve’s a tough nut to crack or incredibly easy. The timbre of his voice, a low and almost amused, “Sure, kid,” when Bucky asks for a drink feels like something gripping him on the back of his neck.
He thinks this might be one of those moments in life he’ll pinpoint in the future and either curse at for dooming himself, or remember fondly with pride.
He’s right.
◆
Bucky doesn’t know what got into him, somehow already listening to a dial tone when he comes to his senses.
Steve’s saved in his contacts as Captain Fucking America and he hasn’t changed it, hasn’t touched it—until tonight, that is. His thumb barely hesitates over the name, and the next thing he knows, there’s scuffling and two seconds of silence, before a gruff, “Hello?”
“Hey.” Bucky’s voice is nothing but a whisper, more a puff of air than anything, and he clears his throat to get it back. “Uh, hi.” It sounds busy where Steve is, the low murmur of a crowd and the occasional exclamation. Steve starts to talk—maybe to ask what the hell Bucky thinks he’s doing, calling him up out of the blue—so Bucky cuts him off before he can say much of anything. “You should take me to dinner. Tomorrow night.”
He thinks he’s blown it, but there’s a flicker of hope, stupid and based solely on the fact that Steve enjoyed his company and picked up his call, so he straightens up on the couch as if anyone can see his show of confidence. Bucky lives alone. There’s no one here.
Steve—because apparently he’s an asshole—laughs, and Bucky feels like flinging his phone out the window. He’s about to tear Steve a new one, hang up, and do exactly that, when Steve says, “Alright.” Bucky can’t fucking figure this guy out.
“Great. Good.” Bucky nods, and he’d like to think Steve can tell, can sense his assertive dominance through the crackly connection. Who the hell is Steve’s service provider? He needs to sort that out. “There’s this place near—”
“I can’t take you out tomorrow.” Bucky’s heart plummets, a disappointed oh making it out. Right, well, that’s just fine. Plenty of fish in the sea. He’s not sure how many fish there are exactly with the same kind of sinful lips and large commanding hands that Bucky’s been dreaming about for the past week, but there’s got to be at least someone out there that’ll make his blood boil just as easily. He’s too busy daydreaming about other potential candidates that he almost misses Steve’s words. “I’m not in town, but I’ll be around next week. How ‘bout then?”
Bucky perks up, tearing his mind away from listing out all the regulars at the bar with whom he would’ve tried to drown his sorrows in between shifts. “Next week it is. Where are you, anyway?”
Steve huffs, something close enough to another laugh but not quite, and Bucky honestly can’t tell if him asking as if he has any right to know bothers Steve at all. It’s a neutral huff. He needs to get better at reading Steve. “Paris.”
Bucky hums, and stretches his legs out on the ratty couch taking up half of his apartment. His place is tiny; one bedroom and a living room with an attached kitchen. “I want chocolates. The fancy French shit they got over there.” What else is Paris known for? Croissants? Escargot? Keychains with the Eiffel Tower on them? He’ll have to look it up.
“Hmm.” He can hear the smile, can picture soft pink lips ticking up behind a neatly trimmed beard, a couple fingers coming up to stroke at its edges. “I’ll see what I can do.”
At least Steve doesn’t laugh at him again.
◆
Turns out, Steve doesn’t live in New York. He doesn’t even live in the country.
“I’m scoping out a few places, figured I’ll buy.” Steve pops a heart-shaped piece of chocolate whole into his mouth, chewing slowly to presumably savor the burst of flavor from the mystery filling. Bucky wonders if he’ll get to lick the taste from Steve’s mouth himself before the night is over.
It’s like a glitch in the universe, watching Steve Rogers eat fancy chocolates at his favorite Chinese place, tucked up with him in one corner over heaping plastic bowls and plates with leftover wonton soup and sweet and sour chicken.
The box of chocolates came in its own bag and everything, thick and glossy, stuffed with tissue paper, out of place amongst the creaking metal tables and chairs, a half-functional fan circulating stale air through the room, and the loud buzz of people around them barking out orders and laughing into cheap beer.
Bucky had ripped apart the paper covering, taped over with a sticker featuring a curling script in French, as soon as he popped the box open for dessert. There were three rows—dark, caramel, and an assortment of other flavors. Every bite he’s taken so far tastes like Steve’s care melting on his tongue.
“Manhattan? That’ll be rough.” Bucky takes his time sucking on the tips of his fingers, to get the sweet, sticky residue off. Steve follows the flickering of his tongue with an attentive eye and smiles, like he knows exactly what Bucky’s doing.
That’s impossible. Bucky barely knows what he’s doing.
Steve flits his eyes over the box, picks up a caramel filled piece, and holds it up like a challenge. No one ever said Bucky was a quitter. He leans forward, bites half, and makes sure to press his lips against Steve’s thumb in the process. He could swear he hears Steve snort before eating the other half himself.
“Nah,” Steve sighs. “Brooklyn.”
Bucky hums, making sure to swallow all the bits of caramel sticking to his teeth. “Still a fortune.”
Steve shrugs. “Can afford it these days. I’ve been renting out a one bedroom from a friend for the last eight years, probably ‘bout time to get somewhere more permanent.” Bucky makes a questioning noise, having already stuffed himself with another piece of chocolate. This shit is good. Steve did very well. “Stayed with him for a few years, then he got me in touch with some people, artists and galleries. Got me my start in that world.” Something soft and grateful comes over Steve’s face, and Bucky has the sudden gut-wrenching realization of how shitty it must’ve been to wake up in a future he never asked to see.
“I’m glad you had him,” he finds himself saying, and wishing he could take it back. He doesn’t think they know each other well enough for Bucky to touch on that can of worms just yet.
Steve doesn’t seem to mind, though, ripping open one of the free wet paper towel packets that came with their meal, and reaching over to wipe away a smear of chocolate from Bucky’s jaw. The hard press of Steve’s skin against his own feels like forgiveness and permission all at once, and Bucky relaxes back into his seat.
The used wet wipe is tucked neatly under an empty blue plate, the rim chipped with everyday use. “Me too, kid,” he says to the table, eyes averted.
“Time to get back to your roots, right? Come back home.” Bucky tries to pick the mood back up and fails, Steve’s face constricting with an emotion he can’t quite put his finger on. The last piece of chocolate gets crammed between his lips to prevent further instances of foot-in-mouth disease.
Steve shakes off whatever stupor he’d been in, and starts putting away the remains of their box of chocolates. He makes sure to get all the pieces of ripped packaging, and gathers them back in the bag where one box is still left intact. Bucky feels a touch guilty that he made the mess in the first place. “I’ve been asked to lead the team,” Steve suddenly shares.
“Uh, the Yankees?” Bucky laughs at Steve’s instinctual groan, horror clear in the set of his brows. You can take the man outta Brooklyn, but—
“The Avengers.” Steve rolls his eyes, though something about it is forced, the light tone a bit put on. “Should be focused on unusual emergencies, so nothing that’ll interfere too much with my actual job, but HQ’s in Midtown.”
Bucky narrows his eyes. “Should you be telling me this?”
“Not a secret,” Steve assures him. “Talk’s been brewing; about a special forces team, recruiting a couple aliens, some guy the world thought died in ’45.” Steve says it so easily. How long did it take for him to be able to say those words out loud? To treat it like a mishap that happened in his life, and not what was probably—definitely, if you asked Bucky—a traumatic near death experience?
Bucky sips his off brand cola, chewing on the end of the straw. “They don’t know you’re on the fence, though,” he points out. “DC or New York or whoever, they don’t care that you’re an art dealer.” Steve looks through him, piercing and gentle and like he’s trying to figure him out right back.
Bucky doesn’t know why, because really, they’re just two guys who fooled around at a club, but he feels like they fit. He looks at Steve and sees a friend, someone he can talk to and share his life with in so many ways. So what if Bucky’s nothing but a 22-year-old fuck up? Deep down, so is everybody else. At least he’s upfront about it.
“Yeah,” Steve eventually breathes out. “Giving that up over my cold, dead body. Frozen, preferably.” The grin plastered on Steve’s face is undeniably goofy, shit-eating and uncaring of the truly awful joke. Bucky picks up a single salted nut and pelts it at Steve’s forehead. “Would be nice to see Brooklyn again, though, you’re right.” Steve flicks the cracked nut into one of their empty bowls when it lands on his forearm.
Bucky gestures at the street outside, and the river they can’t see from the window but is out there no matter what time of night, or what decade it is. “I live in this part of town, too. Maybe we’ll be neighbors.”
Steve’s eyes pin him in place, gaze heavy and heated in an instant. “Do you?”
Bucky gets to suck overpriced chocolate from Steve’s tongue not half an hour later, and gets railed within an inch of his life. He doesn’t think his headboard will ever recover.
◆
The next time Steve’s in town, he’s actually there for work but more than happy to spare some time for Bucky when he all but demands another date. That’s what he’d called it—a date. Made sure Steve knew it and everything. Let’s go out, on a date, he’d said, and Steve had apparently taken it literally.
Steve’s got a gallery showing for one of his artists at an up and coming place in Queens, and puts him down as his plus one. Bucky feels a little thrill at seeing his name under Rogers, especially because it doesn’t look like he’s invited anyone else. Is Bucky butting in on a work event he shouldn’t be at? He doesn’t much care.
They don’t actually stick around the showing for long. He gets to meet the woman of the hour, a painter named Wanda Maximoff who must be Steve’s friend. She says some quip in a language Bucky’s not familiar with when they’re introduced, before bustling off to talk to other visitors.
“There’s a bar upstairs for buyers, you want a drink that hasn’t been sitting out for the past hour?” Steve frowns at his own flute and sets it on a nearby standing table, soon whisked away by staff.
Bucky tilts his head back and sees the second floor, a balcony type lounge that lets visitors still browse from afar. “Depends.” Bucky fiddles with the starched collar of his shirt. “Are you planning on buying me anything?”
Steve’s lips purse in something resembling a smile, and starts guiding him towards the stairs. “None ‘a these are gonna fit in your apartment, kid.” Steve had liked his apartment enough, if what counts as liking it was turning his headboard into splinters, but is apparently well aware that it’s a tad too small to appropriately feature this kind of artwork.
“So find one that will,” Bucky tells him.
They get drinks at the bar and settle at a booth away from the balcony, a corner seat that lets Bucky press up against Steve’s side. He has no qualms about being subtle. Steve’s an endless expanse of unyielding muscle that Bucky will never get tired of exploring.
They’ll fuck in his bed later, an oversized painting hung up to cover one of his windows, blocking out the light and reminding him of Steve watching over the wrapping of the painting, and carefully hoisting it into a car and up into his shoebox apartment and bedroom. He’ll watch the play of shadows across textured canvas over Steve’s shoulder, the peaks and valleys of heaped up paint not too dissimilar from his rocking in Steve’s lap.
The shade of blue taking up a quarter of the piece will be the last thing Bucky sees, as he bites into Steve’s shoulder to muffle a shout as he comes apart.
Image: The shade of blue will be the last thing Bucky sees. || Art by: kocuria
But for now, Steve lets him cuddle up and gets his fingers tangled in Bucky’s hair, done up in a braid that brushes across his shoulders. “How’s the bar?” he asks, and the way he looks at Bucky makes it sound like he actually cares, like whether or not his regulars are tipping well will make a difference to Steve.
“Same old.” He shrugs, and sips at Steve’s whisky with a grimace before adding, “I cut down on some time actually.” A peek at Steve’s face tells him he’s still interested, brows pulled together in an attentive look. “Um, there were a couple classes that caught my eye and I just—” He gestures vaguely and already wants to stop talking about this. Steve doesn’t care he’s got it in his head that he can make something of his dead-end job.
Steve searches his eyes and applies light pressure onto the back of his neck, so that Bucky would actually face him properly. “That sounds great, Buck.” Bucky tries not to read too much into the earnest lines around Steve’s mouth. “What kinda classes?”
Bucky waits it out but eventually shares, “Classes that’ll let me do managerial stuff. One day, maybe. I don’t know.”
“That’s smart,” Steve allows. Bucky can almost believe he means it. He doesn’t know if there’s anything smart about trying to stick it out in the city with not much to show for, while his family’s back in Indiana. There was no way he was going with them when they decided to move a few years back, and he’s pretty sure it wasn’t the smartest move, but maybe Steve will let him live in the delusion.
Steve takes his drink back from Bucky and sets down the one he’d actually ordered for himself in its place, a chastising glance making his point. Bucky rolls his eyes just because he can. “Did you bring me anything from France again?”
Steve laughs, and leans closer to kiss the corner of his lips. It’s been weeks since he’s felt that rough glide against his skin, and he can’t stop himself from chasing after it. “What do you want, huh? A painting for your crappy apartment or more ‘a those chocolates?”
“Want both,” Bucky grumbles, and presses his mouth against Steve’s jaw. “Just wanna know you’re thinkin’ of me.”
Steve’s hands, heavy against his back, drifts low and grips tighter at his words. He swears he can hear a low growl, the rumble of Steve’s chest against his side. “Next time then,” he says against Bucky’s cheek, and trails kisses until he finds Bucky’s lips to part with his tongue.
Bucky can almost taste the promise between burning notes of orange peel and light oak from the scotch.
◆
The Thursday night rush starts looking up when Steve arrives, and Bucky wastes no time in hopping up to lean over the counter and drop a kiss on Steve’s cheek. He goes to pull away, but Steve grabs at his jaw to keep him in place and plant a proper kiss on him, lips parted just enough, beard rasping over his chin.
Bucky’s head spins as Steve’s tongue curls behind his teeth, harsh and demanding. “Hey,” Bucky manages to breathe out, once he gets an inch of space. Steve’s eyes are dark and gleaming with something just this side of unpleasant, and Bucky’s suddenly glad for the slab of wood between them.
He knows it would be better for him to leave it alone, maybe get out while he can. Still, he’s never been great at playing it safe.
Steve presses his thumb against Bucky’s lower lip, and pushes him back behind the counter with the lone point of contact. “You got customers.” He cocks his head to the side, where a group of three is waiting. Bucky hums, stares Steve down for a long minute, and gets back to work.
His shift’s wrapping up so Bucky gets the last of the drinks ready, Steve watching as he slices limes, the blunt side of the blade making an indentation on his forefinger and turning it white. He makes an incision on each wedge to perch on the rim of the glasses, and plasters on a charming smile to deliver the order.
“You’re good at that,” Steve comments as Bucky deals with the cash register, and stabs in his punchcard to clock out.
“It’s making drinks, Stevie. Not exactly rocket science.” Bucky throws him a scathing look over his shoulder. “Give me a sec.” He goes into the break room where Sam’s taking a load off, three-fourths of the way into a magazine. “Hey, I’m taking off.” The filthy t-shirt he’s been wearing all day gets stripped off to be replaced with a fresh one from his bag.
Sam sets his magazine down, and checks the time. He’s still got a couple minutes of his break left, and there’s someone else manning the bar, so there’s no need to rush. When Bucky turns back around, Sam’s giving him a look bordering on disappointment. “You’re leaving with that guy?”
“That guy is Steve Rogers.” Bucky shoves his bag under the table, deciding to leave it behind for now. He’ll be back tomorrow anyway.
Sam doesn’t seem moved, arms crossed and face tired. “He looks like trouble. Stop running around with these crappy guys. You deserve better.” Bucky tries to look Sam in the eye but fails, because he doesn’t want to admit that he has actually stopped bothering with some of the guys he usually calls up when a random Tuesday night gets lonely. He knows he’s already putting too much faith in Steve, but maybe not for the reasons Sam would think.
“Easy for you to say,” Bucky huffs. “You’re married, met the love of your life on Uncle Sam’s paycheck. Not all of us can live the dream, Sam.” He clears his throat, biting down on his bottom lip. “Sorry, I know it was—sorry.” Sometimes he can’t stop from being a total jackass, Bucky’s learned.
He’s only known Sam for a year or so, when the guy started working at the bar following his military discharge. His husband had been severely injured in combat, and Sam didn’t come out unscathed either. Taking a few shifts apparently calms him, he’d said, in between sessions at the VA. The pay’s not bad either, of course.
“Whatever.” Sam starts packing up and getting ready to get back out front. “Hell, maybe when you’re my age, you’ll be Mr. James Buchanan Rogers, what do I know?”
Bucky scowls, regaining his footing. “Well, you don’t have to be mean about it.” He flips Sam off on the way out, ignoring how the words rattle around in his head.
It’s ludicrous. Steve’s some guy he sucked off at a club, fucked over some artisanal chocolates until they melted into his sheets, and bought him a painting he’s not sure he even understands but sometimes can’t stand to look at without seeing too much of himself in every single brushstroke. They’d gone out another time before Steve had to leave, to a pizzeria near Bucky’s apartment, the proximity making it impossible to ignore the siren call that was a night of letting Steve thoroughly devour him from the inside out.
Steve’s also considerate, though, and listens well. He’s someone who sent him a new, luxurious set of sheets in the mail as a replacement, with a note reading for your comfort and maybe mine. Really, he’s a bit of an asshole, but so is Bucky. He pushes away the thought that they’re perfect for each other, because he doesn’t need that mushy nonsense tainting this whole thing.
He must be quieter than he thought, because Steve taps at the side of his face as they’re walking down the street, eyebrows raised. “Everything okay in there?”
Bucky musters up a smile, though he finds that it comes easily when he meets Steve’s eyes, the way the corners are crinkled in concern, the kind line of his jaw behind a soft looking tangle of beard. “Where’d you fly in from this time?” he asks, far from willing to share his rambling thoughts. Steve looks at him for a long moment before letting it go.
“Prague. I’ve got a few artists there in the middle of a sale.” Steve smiles, clearly thinking of what he’d left behind a few thousand miles away, and Bucky burrows into his side to leech off that warmth and sense of contentment. Maybe he can wrap the feeling around himself if he tries hard enough. He doesn’t know if it works, but Steve’s large arm winding around his waist is as close as he can get.
“Exciting,” Bucky murmurs, though it comes out dry.
Steve plays with the hairs at the nape of his neck, the rest of it up in a bun and free from meddling. “Nice to be here, too,” he adds. “Still at a hotel but at least I’m narrowing down on a place in Brooklyn. Apparently I’ve been given the same real estate agent as Thor and Val. Don’t know how I feel about being lumped in with extraterrestrial beings.”
Bucky does laugh at that, hiding a snort against Steve’s chest. “What do they have you under? Time-traveller?” Steve makes a noise of displeasure, but he looks happy enough to poke fun at his circumstance. “Well, it’s good to know you’ll be sticking around. Think I wanna get used to seeing your ugly mug.” He doesn’t know why he says it, feels like it’s a little too honest, but he did, so there’s nothing to do but let the words sink in.
He feels Steve nose at the top of his head, and place a much too gentle kiss at his hairline. Bucky can’t make himself look up, focusing on the concrete beneath their feet. “You sure you’re okay?” Steve asks, and Bucky can picture the crinkle between his brows, the furrow of those lips as they purse.
Bucky kisses Steve’s hand when it comes up to stroke at his jaw, and looks around to search for the restaurant Steve had promised to take him to. He doesn’t see it, the street mostly lined with boutiques and the occasional bar. “You think that’d look good on me?” he asks, gesturing to a mannequin a few windows down, with a baggy silk shirt coming down to its knees.
It’s one of those unreasonably priced brands, with a plain and somewhat bizarre design yet somehow costing an arm and a leg. Steve just looks him over, though, as if imagining the shirt on him. “Dunno, kid. Let’s see.”
Steve buys him the shirt and has him wear it out, the silk surprisingly warm over his skin and the softest thing he’s ever worn. Every whisper of fabric feels like a caress, like Steve running expectant fingers over his hip and his collarbone and the jut of his shoulder blades.
They walk up to the restaurant—a steakhouse in a nice part of town—and pass right by, Steve leading them down the street and to his hotel instead. In lieu of dinner, Steve fucks him with the shirt on, hem wrapped around a tight fist and one end of the collar ripped to shreds by the time they’re done. It’s going to take a higher dry cleaning bill than Bucky can afford to get it clean, but he has a feeling Steve wouldn’t mind doing him a solid and shelling out some cash.
It gets one more use before the night is over, a couple buttons rolling away halfway through. “I still want that steak,” Bucky brings up, when Steve’s licking come from between his cheeks, humming like that’s dinner sorted. He reaches for the room phone, knocking it off its cradle when Steve grazes sharp, warning teeth against his rim.
They get a couple porterhouse steaks and three desserts. The sex is great, but the room service is even better.
◆
A couple weeks without seeing Steve should be fine, except that his skin crawls with anticipation, flinching every time he gets a call. Hope sits at the back of his throat, and it plummets every time the screen doesn’t say Captain Fucking America.
Steve never calls.
Bucky gets high with Carol and listens to her exploits with her ex. He thinks it’s a no-brainer that they’re getting back together, but he knows things are complicated, Maria needing someone she can rely on now that she has a kid.
Bucky can relate. Well, he doesn’t have a kid, but he still wants the stability.
He ends up calling Steve a few days later, and gets told, “Come meet me, I’ll send you the address.”
Bucky harrumphs, and makes some noise about not being available 24/7, how he’s not some piece of ass Steve can summon and he’ll come running. Steve hums along, and gives him some options for the rest of the week, asks if there’s an assistant he should make an appointment with. Bucky slams his fridge closed, sick of seeing two lemons and half a rotting papaya every single time he opens it.
“Fuck you, Stevie.” Bucky pouts, and picks at the thin but flattering t-shirt clinging onto his chest. He can probably change into some tighter jeans and be set. “Get some food ready and I’ll be there in twenty,” he orders, and clicks off. He knows Steve knows he was going to show up no matter what. Bucky was the one to call, after all.
The address, much to his own bewilderment, is a brownstone a few subway stops away. He almost doesn’t go in, pulling out his phone to double check, but the front door is open and he can hear Steve’s voice, that slight tilt to his accent that’s been twisted enough to sound a touch confusing, floating through the air.
He knocks on the open door and saunters in, entering an empty wood-paneled room with stairs leading upstairs to his left. It’s one of those narrow buildings, with five stories and a cramped space inside, ridiculously expensive but apparently a great investment, according to the lifestyle magazines Sam likes to leave lying around at work.
“Are we squatting now?” Bucky asks, when he finds Steve and a familiar woman by the fireplace.
He wishes he isn’t taken aback by Steve’s beaming grin when he turns to see Bucky, eyes bright and eager at the sight of him, but he is. When he’s with Steve, he can tell that the guy cares, enough to treat him well, at least, but doubt creeps in easily when all Bucky’s got left is a painting taking up too much space behind his couch, a ruined shirt and much too extravagant sheets in his closet, and the fading bruises across his skin.
Steve’s a beacon of light, a lighthouse searching for lost ships in the night. Bucky can’t help but feel like this man is a long awaited shore he didn’t even realize he’d been waiting for, and has the silly pipe dream that he can become the same for Steve. How foolish.
He tries to convince himself that that isn’t what he’s hoping this will become—whatever it is they’ve got.
They’d shared a handful of nights and talked easy as anything, but that deep rooted comfort that flares with Steve’s touches and attention isn’t really about him. Bucky might as well get it from any other guy. Or rather, Steve can get it from any other stranger off the street.
Except Bucky can’t, is the thing. Some other asshole can treat him to a lobster dinner and it’s never going to taste as sweet as the bite of chocolate from between Steve’s fingers.
The knowledge that that’s true is like an anchor in his gut, dragging him down into deep waters. He knows he’ll let it drown him, despite seeing how this will inevitably end. He can’t bring himself to stop.
“Hey, Buck.” Steve crosses the room to kiss his cheek, soft lips and scratchy beard tickling his ear. Bucky tilts his head a fraction to find the corner of Steve’s mouth, craving for a little bit more. “What do you think?” Steve gestures around him, and it’s only then that it clicks.
Bucky blinks, and looks around the room once more. “Cozy,” he notes. The woman in the room stalks closer, hands stuffed into ripped jeans and an ostentatious velvet coat falling off her shoulders. “You come with the property?”
Steve flicks at his ear in reprimand, but the woman—Valkyrie, he now remembers, the one who’d been with Steve’s group when they first met; the fucking alien, he can’t believe he forgot about the 99 news articles he’d skimmed when the world found out—just smirks at him in delight. “Nope.” She rocks back on her heels, studying him without reservation. “You were with that girl. Carol.”
“Steel trap,” Bucky hums, and flashes a smile. He actually thinks Valkyrie is pretty cool. Maybe they can be friends one day, if he sticks around for long enough—if Steve does.
Valkyrie gets a scrap of paper from her pocket, and scribbles something down. “Here, tell your friend to call me. We never got her number.” Bucky takes the paper, and sure enough, it’s a phone number written out in sparkly purple ink. He thinks Carol’s trying to stick it out with Maria these days, but he’ll pass it along anyway. “I’m gonna head out, have fun.” She looks at Steve with something indecipherable, then starts to leave, calling out, “We’ll come over with champagne sometime, break the place in,” and closes the door behind her.
Bucky’s still looking down at the phone number, and has half a mind to ask Steve if all superhero types really do give out personal information without even a background check, as long as there’s the possibility of getting some action. “Do you really like it?” Steve asks, taking the paper away and slipping it into Bucky’s back pocket for him. If he gives a brief but firm squeeze before letting go, neither of them are going to mention it.
Bucky goes to the middle of the room and plops down onto the hardwood floor, stretching out his legs. “I think you need a couple things to brighten the place up. Say, furniture, off the top of my head.”
Steve rolls his eyes and picks up a computer from on top of the mantle. It’s an old model, been through the ringer but cared for all the same. A half ripped sticker near the mousepad reads why don’t you try sucking dick and calm down with Pride 2004 on the bottom. “Help me pick some things out, then.” Steve joins him on the floor, and pulls up a website he’d apparently already been in the middle of browsing.
The couch on the screen is L-shaped, tufted and in a dark green. “Don’t you have someone to do this for you?”
Steve frowns, and looks down at where Bucky’s snuggled into his side. “Who the hell’s gonna do this for me?” Steve has to tuck in his chin just to get a good look at him. Sometimes, Steve’s sheer size compared to his own makes Bucky’s skin prickle with heat, the knowledge that Steve can wholly envelop his entire being, can—and does, whenever he’s in the mood—fling him around to his heart’s content, making his head spin.
“Um, I don’t know.” Bucky clicks through the options. It comes in maroon, purple, and green. The style is an interesting choice, but he can see that Steve marked it down as a favorite. He wouldn’t mind getting fucked on that couch. “Get the extra nice cushions, would be nice for my back.”
Steve doesn’t comment on the expectation that he’d be around to use the furniture, or his demands. Instead, he clicks on the drop down menu and does as asked. “You want a footstool?” Steve doesn’t wait for him to answer, just clicks on the add-on.
“An interior designer,” Bucky finally thinks up. “Or an assistant. Someone.” Steve’s thrown off for a second before he catches up.
“Kid,” he laughs, lips spread wide. “I wouldn’t even know where to find someone like that.” Bucky starts needling at him to take advantage of his position, that stylists and companies would kill to work with him. Hell, fucking magazines would do it for free, in exchange for a few pictures, but Steve doesn’t budge. “Help me pick a color and you can be either one.”
Bucky gets a mischievous grin, and gets ready to poke at Steve until he cracks. “Do you have a sexy assistant costume somewhere, is that it?” He climbs over Steve’s thighs, shoving the laptop aside. “You want me to—” he gets distracted by his own thoughts, brows furrowed—“What would that even look like? Slacks and a PDA?”
Steve scoffs, running large hands up his thighs to settle on either side of his hips. “Glasses, obviously.”
Bucky cackles, unable to hold it in. “You do have a thing for this!” He has to hide full-on snorts behind his hand, and almost misses the way Steve looks at him, much too soft and like him losing it over the idea of Steve whipping out a sweater vest so they can fuck is the best thing he’s ever heard. “You got a competence kink, is that it, Stevie? Got a thing for guys with skill?”
He can’t possibly miss Steve’s words, though, an unrepentant, “Got a thing for you,” before coming in for a quick peck, brief and nothing more than a press of dry lips. Bucky rolls his eyes and drags Steve back in, gripping at that dark blond hair to get him exactly where Bucky wants him. Steve lets out an involuntary groan when Bucky licks into his mouth, sliding their lips together in a sudden rush of need.
“I was promised food—” Bucky pulls back, before they can get carried away, raising an expectant eyebrow—“not an episode of House Hunters.”
Steve’s lips are red and slick against his own, moving in a light brush with every syllable. A shiver runs down Bucky’s spine when Steve’s voice reverberates a rough, “Maybe you gotta work for it.” Bucky’s tongue delving into Steve’s mouth muffles his interrupted, “There’s greek takeout upstairs, let’s—” and elicits a noise of surprise, but Steve gets with the program in record time.
Bucky wonders—he knows he shouldn’t, but he does—how Steve got the food so fast. He couldn’t have known Bucky was going to call. Was Steve about to invite Bucky over himself? Or was the food for someone else? He pushes the thought away, and focuses on taking Steve apart.
He pulls away with a gasp, and Steve doesn’t look like he’s faring much better himself, eyes dark and ravenous, chest heaving as he watches Bucky slide backwards on his knees. “Get these pants open and I will.” The order’s mostly for show. He’s already got Steve’s dick out, mostly hard and an impressive length that Bucky can’t wait to get down his throat.
“Buck,” Steve gasps, when Bucky mouths down the shaft, running his tongue across the underside.
Right before he swallows Steve down, Bucky throws out a teasing, “You got a pair of glasses handy to fulfill that fantasy of yours?” Steve’s face twists up between humor and the first burst of pleasure, laughter cutting off his groan, loud and unattractive.
It’s music to Bucky’s ears.
◆
The news breaks that the Avengers are official when he’s at work, and he only has a slight second of hesitation before calling Steve.
“You heard?” Steve sighs, like he’s not sure how to feel about it all himself.
“Hmm.” Bucky nibbles on the plate of fries he’d swiped for his lunch break. They get to eat for free from the bar’s menu once a day. Twice if they push it. “Don’t think there’s anyone with a TV who didn’t hear.” Steve sounds like he’s wrestling with something on the other end of the line, and he realizes it’s a suitcase when he hears the scratch of the zipper.
“Guess not.” Steve really doesn’t sound happy, and Bucky hates it. He wishes there was something he can do. “Come out with me tonight.” Well, maybe there is something he can do. He has to admit that he didn’t expect for Steve to ask, for him to be the one to initiate a meeting. Bucky’s been pretty much the one leading so far, though it never feels like it when he’s under Steve’s leaden gaze and confident hands. “Or, uh, if you’re busy that’s fine. I’ve got—I mean, I’ll send it to your place, they’re macaroons, you should eat them before they’re stale, though—”
“Stevie.” Bucky smiles at himself, and he’s more ecstatic than he should reasonably be about being the one who gets to laugh at Steve. “Okay, I’ll go.”
“Right.” Steve clears his throat, takes a deep breath, and lets it out. “Let’s go to that club, from last time.” Bucky’s brows tick up, not exactly expecting that. It’s actually a nicer place than most, less seedy than it is flashy. “I’ll get a car and everything.”
“Sure.” Bucky peeks at the time. It’s already the end of the day, and he won’t have too long to get ready. “Don’t know if I’ll have something nice enough to wear. Gotta look good if I’m gonna be on Captain America’s arm, don’t I?” He’d been able to slip in last time with his friends, all of whom find it much easier to seem more put together than they actually are. Even Clint.
Steve actually laughs out loud, the most carefree he’s sounded since he got on the phone. “Don’t get all sneaky about trying to get a free for all shopping spree,” he chastises. “You’ve never been shy.”
“Well, are you or are you not getting me an outfit?” Bucky’s laughing himself, though silently and under his breath. Steve’s got his number, but Bucky’s pretty sure he gave it away from the first moment they met.
“Wear whatever you want, it won’t matter.” Bucky pouts, and he hopes Steve can hear it from the other end of the line. “And it’s Commander, now. Commander Rogers.”
Bucky swallows, the name pressed tightly against his ear making his gut swoop low in a quarter of a second. The rush of arousal must make it through, as he murmurs, “Don’t be late, Commander.” Steve’s huff of laughter sounds pretty fucking strangled to him, too.
Steve doesn’t bring with him an outfit for Bucky to slip into, but he does have the promised macaroons and a tie. The satin is slippery between his knuckles, a grey that’s somewhere between azure and a bottle green. It hangs heavy over his neck, the sensation not too far off from Steve’s fingers wrapping around his throat. He doesn’t know if the tie’s more like a noose or a locket.
The car means the trip lasts close to an hour, and they spend it demolishing the macaroons and testing out the tie. If halfway there Bucky starts riding Steve’s dick with the strip of satin pulled taut between them, that’s between him, Steve, and their well-tipped driver. Steve comes begging Bucky to call him Commander.
◆
With a place in New York, Steve’s around more often. Bucky calls him up a couple times a week, asks Steve to take him to one restaurant or another.
It’s actually been quite the culinary adventure. There’s one bistro with a mouthwatering chocolate lava cake that Bucky swears gave me an orgasm, Stevie, that shit can give you a run for your money. Steve gets bothered enough—though Bucky honestly can’t tell if he’s pleased or peeved—that he orders a couple more to go and brings it to bed later that night.
He strips the both of them naked and tells Bucky to choose which orgasm he’d rather have—the dessert or Steve’s fingers. It’s a harder choice than he’d like to admit.
Steve doesn’t seem to mind Bucky ordering him around and making himself at home in his house. He lights up every time he finds Bucky sprawled across his couch, even when he tries to push things on purpose and shows up out of the blue.
Bucky had found Steve’s hidden key—stuck under a goddamn pot, what was he thinking?—and gives him a piece of his mind about how he’s two seconds away from getting robbed. “There isn’t anything in this fucking house, Buck,” Steve protests, rolling his eyes.
It’s true. The couch came a while back and sits alone on the first floor, and Steve’s room is the only other one filled, mostly with furniture and everyday necessities. Bucky drapes himself over Steve’s lap, and molds his body onto that broad torso. It’s peaceful here, breathing along with the rise and fall of Steve’s chest.
“Are you ever gonna get settled here?” he asks, voice quiet. Steve’s been dragging his feet, even with the increasing length of time he spends in town. “Maybe I’m gonna come by one day and you won’t even be here anymore.”
Steve grabs the nape of his neck and pulls him a few inches backwards, so he can look Bucky in the eye. He takes the spare key from his hand, and demonstratively tucks it in Bucky’s back pocket. Bucky gulps, thrown for a loop. He really wasn’t angling for that particular step in their—relationship or whatever. He just wants Steve to feel better about being back in Brooklyn.
Bucky somehow has a key to Steve’s place and it’s just there for him to use. He doesn’t know what to do with that.
“Sometimes,” Steve starts, and his voice is different—soft and uncertain. Large hands come up to cradle his jaw, fingers stroking the underside in a gentle caress. Bucky doesn’t know what makes him so sure, but he’s positive this is more about Steve seeking comfort than anything else.
Bucky leans forward to kiss at Steve’s bottom lip, to see if it does anything. Steve smiles like it helps, though Bucky can’t possibly see how.
Steve takes a deep breath and starts again. “Sometimes, I hate coming back here,” he confesses. Bucky successfully tamps down on the pained sound at the back of his throat. “You make it easier.” Steve looks up through his lashes at Bucky, much more vulnerable than he’d expect. “If you weren’t here, I don’t think I’d have a real reason to stick around.”
Bucky knows Steve’s not blowing smoke up his ass, can feel the beating thump of Steve’s heart underneath his palms. The fluttering behind his ribs is anything but pleasant, though—he doesn’t want Steve to feel that way. “That’s not as nice as you think it is.”
Steve closes his eyes, and tips his head forward to rest against Bucky’s. “Sorry.”
“Make it up to me.” Steve does.
They mess up the couch and thank their own foresight in getting removable cushion covers. Bucky would rather they didn’t sit in their own dried come when spending time in the living room. Even now, on their sides with Bucky trapped against the backrest, he’s already thinking about which nearby dry cleaners is open.
Steve brushes away Bucky’s hair from where it’s fallen over his eyes and traces the contours of his face. “You know I was trying to tell you that I care about you.” The tip of Steve’s finger finds its home in the dimple of his chin, a comfortable perch as he grasps Bucky’s jaw.
“Do you?” Bucky’s gotten used to every other show of it, Steve saying it with gifts and kisses and growls of pleasure when they’re taking each other apart. He’s never heard Steve put it so plainly, though, and it’s more terrifying to hear than he imagined. It’s not as easy to believe than he thought it’d be.
Steve’s brows furrow, and there’s something heartbreaking creeping across his face. Bucky hates that he might’ve been the one to cause that. “More than you realize, apparently.” He lets go of Bucky’s jaw, curls his fingers and pulls away. “I should’ve been clearer.”
Bucky reaches out and tugs Steve closer when it looks like he’s about to sit up and leave. “Stevie.” He maneuvers himself to pin Steve down, sitting on his thighs and pressing down on that impressive chest, his considerable weight hardly enough to prevent any attempt at escape. “I care about you too.”
Bucky’s starting to think he doesn’t know who’s calling the shots here, and maybe Steve doesn’t either.
They lead two very different lives, and maybe one day it’ll prove too much and bite them in the ass. But then again, there’s every possibility they can make life a little better for each other too. Who’s to say which one it’ll be?
◆
Bucky doesn’t know what to think, for a while.
He lets himself into Steve’s place whenever he wants, and Steve’s always delighted to see him, that warm, gruff voice greeting him with a sunshine smile without fail.
Bucky asks for whatever comes to mind, from sweets to a bracelet he’d mostly been kidding about having his eye on, and Steve is more than happy to cough up the cash so he can see it in Bucky’s hands.
Bucky doesn’t ask for gifts when Steve takes trips away to visit his artists, and gets little treats too. Sometimes it’s food, sometimes books for him to read during downtime at work, and often some trivial piece of clothing, like a scarf or a belt. Welcome home sex becomes regular enough, after Bucky thoroughly enjoys his gifts. The belt gets its use, too, especially after Steve loses his goddamn mind seeing him bite at the leather.
He’s starting to think Steve does care. Well, he knows Steve cares, just not quite how much.
After one trip when Bucky tells him to get something he would never usually buy, Steve comes home with a ridiculous baby pink feather-lined robe. Bucky laughs himself silly when he unearths it from an iridescent cardboard box. The thing is, it’s clearly made of quality material, the price tag torn off so Bucky knows it’s a bigger purchase than his everyday presents—which is saying a lot—and it’s tacky in all the best ways.
“This is the worst thing I’ve ever seen,” Bucky shrieks, wrapping it around him, feeling the lightweight material fall across his shoulders. Bucky leaps onto the end of the bed where Steve’s still sprawled, letting the fabric flutter in the air before coming down gently to pool around their thighs. “Thanks, Stevie,” he whispers onto Steve’s lips.
Steve rucks the robe up around them, fitting large, callused palms onto Bucky’s hips. “Of course.” The thing is so fucking huge it swallows him up, and he fleetingly wonders if it’s actually Steve’s size—if maybe Steve had picked it out and tried it on himself, before deciding to get it for a much smaller Bucky. The thought makes him giddy, a giggle bubbling up his chest.
Bucky can’t ever get enough of feeling Steve’s care wrapped around him, whether it’s a gaudy robe covering every inch of skin, a piece of jewelry sitting heavy around his wrist, or the tea Steve keeps in his kitchen just for Bucky because he’d offhandedly mentioned liking it once. It all feels like having some evidence of Steve’s attention on him, lighting him up from the inside out.
“You wanna fuck me now?” Bucky cocks an eyebrow, because he knows what it does to Steve to see him wrapped in one of his gifts.
Steve snorts, and sticks to leisurely feeling out Bucky’s jutting hip bone beneath the paper-thin material. “Maybe I just wanna look at you for a while.”
Bucky’s never been shy—as Steve often likes to point out—but he feels his cheeks color under the scrutiny, that level gaze drinking him in without the need to take much more. Steve’s just enjoying being in this moment with him, Bucky perched on his lap and within touching distance.
He feels like drowning in something delicate and syrupy sweet. When Bucky thought he’d never be able to get his head above water with Steve, he didn’t think this would be why.
“Hmm, well, maybe I should give you something to look at then.” Steve tries to keep him in place when Bucky wriggles out of his lap, but lets him go eventually. “How about some Led Zeppelin?” He thinks he hears Steve mutter a confused, uh, what? but it’s quickly drowned out by the song streaming out of Bucky’s phone. Steve doesn’t have a speaker he can plug it into, so it’ll have to do.
“Uh, Buck, what are you—oh.” Steve shuts up when Bucky starts moving to the beat, hips swaying from side to side. He faces away from Steve and pulls the swath of fabric tight around himself, making sure that the view is worth it.
Image: Bucky can’t ever get enough of feeling Steve’s care wrapped around him. || Art by: kocuria
It’s actually pretty funny to see how dark Steve’s eyes have gotten when he peeks over one shoulder, because the robe is mostly sheer, but there’s just so much of it that his body is nothing more than a dark silhouette. Bucky turns around, tugs at the collar to hide half his face beneath tufts of feathers, and gives Steve his best sultry look. “You gonna stay put, Stevie?”
Steve arches an eyebrow. “Depends on what you’re gonna do.”
Bucky slips out a bare leg and lifts it to rest right above Steve’s knee, his ankle quickly caught in a warm grip. “Well.” He exerts the lightest pressure to spread Steve’s tree-trunk thighs, then slips in between. “Thought I’d give you a show.”
“Yeah?” Steve gropes at his waist for half a second, the fabric between his fingers bunching under the assault, but soon lets go. His lips twitch up a fraction, and Bucky has to admit that the heated gaze staring back at him is frustratingly hard to read. Steve hums and leans back on his palms, staring Bucky down as if in a challenge. “Go on, kid.”
Bucky remembers Steve bragging about how he’s been dancing before Bucky was even born, the confident way he’d moved in the club the first night they’d met. Steve blindsided him, he has to admit, that overwhelming presence and sheer competence bowling him over in no time. Steve knew how to go toe to toe with a partner, somehow direct their body to move one way or another with nothing more than the silent command of his hands.
But Bucky knows how to do this. He has complete mastery of his own body, and more importantly, has learned exactly what it is that eats at Steve’s control over the past however many months they’ve warmed each other’s beds.
When Bucky undulates his torso against Steve’s, impossibly soft chiffon and wayward feathers following every swing of his hips, he knows the sliver of collarbone is what Steve zeroes in on and is one second away from leaning in to lick and bite. He turns to drop onto the ground and rise back up ass first, and he can see the thighs bracketing him on either side clench with Steve’s effort to stay still. He leans back and grinds onto Steve’s length, but letting him bury his face in Bucky’s hair is what earns that low growl, mouth pressed against the shell of his ear.
By the time Bucky clambers onto Steve’s lap, the song’s switched onto the next on his playlist, the beat just as steady and still guiding Bucky’s every move. “Buck.” Steve’s voice is harsh, and Bucky feels like Steve’s got a tight grasp on him, despite the fact that his fists are clenched onto the sheets on his bed. “You done?” If Bucky didn’t know any better—if he couldn’t feel Steve’s dick poking him in the ass—he’d think the guy wasn’t having a good time.
“It’s called a lap dance, Stevie.” Bucky wraps both arms around Steve’s neck, and swivels his hips as the robe falls open. “And I just got here.” Steve makes a grunt of complaint, but keeps his hands to himself. Bucky’s only got boxer briefs on underneath, nothing particularly special, but Steve’s brows furrow at the sight of it anyway, red, slick lips falling open in a groan.
In the end, Steve lasts one and a half more songs. At least Bucky’s little show ends with a climax—twice.
◆
Carol and Maria call it quits, again, so they take her on a night out to drown out her sorrows—and everything goes just fine, really.
Nat and Clint have their own fun on the dance floor and swindle men and women to buy them free booze, meanwhile Bucky tries his best to keep Carol moving so she doesn’t have to stop for long enough to think about fucking up for the umpteenth time with the love of her life.
Bucky’s fucked up in a lot of ways, but he’s never gone through what Carol has. He doesn’t know if he has a love of his life. The idea that Steve might be one, or close to becoming it, barges in with absolutely zero warning. It’s ridiculous, except that, well, wouldn’t that be nice?
Steve is attentive and caring and real shitty about putting it all in words, but he sure makes up for it in the sack. What’s Bucky got, though? A smart mouth and a tendency to get needy, probably a piece of ass Steve can get rid of as soon as he gets bored. Bucky wants to believe that’s true, but a tiny, annoying part of him still holds out hope that this thing with Steve is real.
Do you give your booty calls a key to your house? Probably not.
He doesn’t have delusions about it being a romantic gesture, though, so he sets aside that small detail. “You know, when I was in the Air Force, I thought Maria and I would work it out soon as we got out.” Bucky snaps back to the present, remembering that he’s here to help Carol forget about her problems, not mull over his own.
“You know what they say about pipe dreams,” Bucky murmurs, leaning into his friend.
Carol nudges him with enough force to almost slide him along the vinyl booth. “What do they say?” Bucky opens his mouth and closes it again, wrinkling his nose. “We’re not high enough for this,” Carol groans, and goes to rectify their sobriety at once.
The thing is, they overdo it just a tad. Dancing with Carol’s great, and they find Nat and Clint for a few songs, but Bucky’s not sure how long it is before he’s crying in the bathroom and he’s got no clue why. At least no one else is in there with him—a small miracle—but maybe no one in their right mind would make use of the men’s room in a club as dingy as this one.
Bucky doesn’t realize he’s called Steve until that low, assertive voice is reverberating against his ear. “Buck? You still there? Kid, you gotta tell me where you are.”
“I don’t know why I’m here,” Bucky hiccups, and rubs at the still flowing tears. “What am I doing?”
There’s some shuffling at the other end of the line before Steve’s back on. “You said you were going out with Carol, is she there? Bucky?”
Bucky slumps onto the rusted mirror behind him, legs swinging underneath where he’s perched on the counter. “That’s not what I meant. Stevie, I don’t know what to do.” There’s a noise of frustration from the phone, and Bucky shrinks into himself. “Sorry, ‘m sorry. Bye, Steve.”
“Wait—”
Bucky closes his eyes and tries to piece the world back together. He can’t feel his fucking limbs—or maybe he feels them too acutely, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything. He sure as fuck doesn’t know how Steve finds him but he does, and Bucky lets himself get taken care of and brought home, Steve’s cool sheets feeling like shards of glass biting into his skin and the softest thing he’s ever felt all at once.
Steve tucks him in and Bucky whines, grabbing at what turns out be a shirt sleeve and tugging incessantly until he’s dragged Steve in to nuzzle close. He couldn’t have been that forceful—nothing could possibly go up against Steve’s strength anyway—but somehow the guy tumbles onto the bed with him, fully dressed and trapping the sheets underneath his bulk.
“Sorry. Shouldn’t’ve called you. S’rry.” Bucky buries his face in a pillow, and wonders if it’ll suffocate him so he can escape the humiliation that will surely set in come morning. Not to mention the comedown. Fuck.
“Who would you have called?” Steve tilts his head aside so he can breathe. There’s a gentle hand stroking over his curls, soothing him with tender caresses against his ear and the back of his neck. Bucky melts into the kind and caring touch, reveling in the feeling of being treated like something delicate and prone to breaking. He can almost sense his razor-sharp edges growing dull and smoothing out. “You know I love—taking care of you, right?”
Does Bucky know that? Of course he does. Being here, within Steve’s orbit, it’s as clear as day. It’s when he’s on his own that the doubt creeps in once more. He finds himself asking, “You gonna let me take care of you too?”
There’s a puff of breath against the shell of his ear, like Steve’s hovering just out of reach. “Sure, kid.”
Bucky tries to pry his eyes open, to no avail. “Are you gonna fuck me now?” he slurs.
Steve shifts next to him, presumably to get himself comfortable against the pillows and rucked up comforter. Bucky can feel his body heat, smell the rich, floral notes of his cologne. He turns the small detail over in his mind and imagines where Steve could’ve been when Bucky called. “Not tonight, baby.”
“Hmm.” Bucky only has a second to mull over Steve using a pet name he usually reserves for when they’re fucking, before drifting off to the feel of Steve’s lips pressing gently onto his forehead. It’s dark and peaceful, and the fact that some part of him knows Steve’s waiting on the other side, cocooning Bucky in his arms, makes the sleep all the sweeter.
◆
Bucky’s helping Steve paint his walls a dark moss green, the unusually shaped room having been covered with a child’s scribbles and half finished doodles in red and blue crayon. Apparently the previous owner of the house had a kid, or an incredibly crappy novice artist.
“Seriously, Steve, you can hire people for this. Aren’t they paying you enough to boss around a team of superheroes?” Bucky coats his paint roller again and smacks it onto the wall.
“No one asked you to help, Buck.” Steve rolls his eyes, and covers his end of the space in even strokes, much more coordinated than Bucky’s own strategy of making enough overlapping indistinct shapes to cover the area. The house is coming in nicely, if a little slow. The top floors are still pretty empty, but Steve’s bedroom and its surrounding spaces are furnished, and the ground floor has filled up with various knickknacks and personal items shipped in from his place in France.
Bucky doesn’t let himself think about the way it makes him feel, watching Steve put down roots here in Brooklyn and embracing a life that has the potential to flourish. He definitely doesn’t get stuck on the fact that this corner of home Steve’s built is only three subway stops away from his own apartment.
“Well, I wasn’t going to let you paint on your own, was I?” Bucky huffs, hands on his hips.
Steve purses his lips, and Bucky would think he’s upset if not for the fond glint in his eye. Because Steve hadn’t been alone. Bucky sauntered in unannounced to two burly blonds getting paint-splattered and sweaty, one of them being Thor with his giant biceps and a blinding grin.
Thor had remembered Bucky, though he’s not sure if it was because he recalls the night they met or if Val told him about their encounter at the house. Maybe Steve had told Thor about him, but that’s probably just wishful thinking. Still, the possibility sits at the back of his mind.
Bucky had been eager to jump in and help, but refused to ruin his clothes, so he dug through Steve’s closet to find a pair of shorts he’d left behind and one of Steve’s work shirts. Apparently, returning in booty shorts and something of Steve’s so large it’s falling off his shoulders is enough to short out Steve’s brain, because Thor had taken one look at his friend and made his excuses to leave.
“Hope to see you again soon, Bucky.” Thor had flashed him a genuine smile, warm and full of affection. Bucky kissed Thor on the cheek goodbye, and found Steve staring him down with an amused look of reprimand, and shoved a paint roller in his hands.
They’ve finished up all but one side now, though most of it had been done before Bucky made his timely entrance.
Steve stalks closer and exchanges their tools, so Bucky can have the one with a longer handle. Heavier, but this way he can reach to the top of the wall. “You’re getting paint on my shirt.” Steve tugs on his collar, the garment in real danger of slipping right off his chest. The shirt’s baggy even on Steve; Bucky has no chance of keeping it in place with so much moving around.
“That’s the idea.” He shrugs, and goes back to work. Steve, much to Bucky’s bemused delight, fires up a playlist of 80s dance music on his phone. Bucky turns around to shoot him the most unimpressed look he can muster. “I am not giving you another lap dance, Steve.”
Steve scoffs, and waves a hand in dismissal. “Like I asked.” Then he returns to his stretch of the wall and starts swinging his tiny hips around. Bucky giggles for long enough that he worries about breathing in too much paint fumes.
The room’s almost finished—would have already been finished if Steve didn’t get his paws on Bucky every ten minutes, to dance around to synth and reverb until the both of them were laughing too much to go on—when the music cuts out and Steve’s phone starts ringing.
“Just ignore it,” Steve calls down from the ladder he’s perched on, meticulously getting a corner of the molding with a small paintbrush. Soon enough, though, Steve’s phone rings incessantly without pause as the caller keeps trying to reach him. Bucky only knows it’s not Avengers business because Steve had shown him what the alarm for that one sounds like.
Bucky swipes Steve’s phone and picks up for him, putting on an over-the-top sultry voice as he drawls, “Commander Rogers’ phone, how may I help you?” Steve scowls at him from above for his troubles.
“The hell? Steve?” Bucky doesn’t recognize the voice, though there’s no reason he would. He peeks at the screen and sees an incomprehensible dickface.
Bucky can’t think of who it could be. Stark? Steve’s complained about his co-worker plenty of times in the past couple months of his new job, but it doesn’t really sound like him—not that Bucky knows Tony Stark enough to say one way or the other. “My apologies, Mr. Dickface. Commander Rogers is busy at the moment. Can I take a message?” Steve’s head whips around, and he wiggles his fingers at the phone as he starts to climb down. Oh, now he wants to talk to whoever it is. “Please hold.”
Steve rolls his eyes at Bucky’s put upon character, though his voice turns warm at once when he speaks into the phone. “Hey, what’s up?” He gives Bucky an apologetic smile, kisses his cheek, and slips out of the room. “Uh, yeah, I was just—” Bucky can hear him walk down the stairs, probably to settle in the living room, their favorite nook of the house. The tufted couch, the roaring fireplace, and the kitchen within walking distance—it feels like part of a real home. He has a feeling Steve hasn’t had that in a long time.
Bucky stares at the walls and lasts ten minutes. He contemplates climbing the ladder himself and checking for more spots they’d missed but knowing his luck, he’ll fall and break an ankle as soon as he reaches the top. So Bucky heads out and makes his way downstairs, but stops before Steve can see him coming. The TV is on mute in the corner, and Steve’s on a video call now, presumably dickface still on the other line.
Bucky realizes who it is when Steve groans an embarrassed, “Dernier, I swear to—”
“I’m just saying,” Steve’s friend—Jacques fucking Dernier because of course—says between laughs, his wrinkled face scrunched up further on the screen; the guy’s gotta be in his 90s by now. “You look happy, is what I’m seeing. Look at that hair, you used to let it grow into a bird’s nest when you were here.”
“My boyfriend likes it, okay? Get off my back,” Steve grumbles, and Bucky feels his heart beat right out of his chest. They’re—exclusive, in the way that they’d stop bothering with condoms a while back and trusted the other wouldn’t sleep around. But Bucky honestly wasn’t expecting to hear boyfriend come out of Steve’s mouth.
He feels light, something squeezing tight across his chest simultaneously weighing him down and buoying him along. He thinks the feeling might just be joy.
Dernier’s laugh rings through the room, brittle and strong all at once. It’s kind, the sound of someone who cares deeply for a loved one. Bucky puts the pieces together then and realizes this must be who Steve lived with in France, the friend who got him his start with his job and that one bedroom after his first few years post-rescue. It’s immediately confirmed when Dernier goes on to say, “Now, what did I say? Coming home’s good for you, isn’t it? You were doing well over here, Steve, but you sure look even better back home.” The conversation delves into jabs in French when Dernier tires of talking in English.
Bucky’s relieved, more than anything, to know that someone who knows Steve can tell that being back home is doing him some good. Call him selfish, but he’s been worried that Steve would leave. It’s sad, too, though, when he thinks about it.
He thought Steve had a fulfilling, exciting life when he was in France, but it sounds a little more complicated than that. He supposes getting yourself together after dying and coming back to life can span give or take a decade. Hell, it’s probably always going to be something he has to work on and contend with, not to mention the horrors Steve had to live through before he plunged into the Arctic.
It brings Bucky comfort, though, to know that things have been visibly looking up for Steve, so much so that his friend could tell just by looking at him. And sure, he’s more than pleased that he has a small part in that. Bucky thought he was playing second fiddle to Steve’s life in France with his friend, but realizes now that’s not quite true.
He tunes back in when Dernier rasps a teasing, “When do I get to meet him?”
Steve, much to Bucky’s delight, shushes his friend loudly. “Shit, don’t wanna scare the kid off.” Dernier cackles, and he can hear the sound of tinkling mugs like he’s having his coffee while catching up with Steve.
“Doesn’t sound to me like he’s the kind to run,” Dernier comments, and Bucky has to hand it to him. He’s never even met Bucky and he knows well enough to say so. Bucky suddenly wishes Steve does too, and swears to show him from then on out. It’s crystal clear now that Steve plans on sticking around, right? He wouldn’t tell Dernier about Bucky if he plans to ditch him anytime soon.
Bucky sees Steve pull on the thread of his jeans, fiddling with a torn off stitch. “Maybe he should.”
“Bullshit,” Dernier spits out, and Bucky can almost see the daggers he’s glaring at Steve. “Don’t do that to yourself. Cut it the fuck out.”
“Jacques—” Steve doesn’t have the chance to get his protest out because Dernier starts going off in rapid French, and the two of them go at it for a full minute before exchanging air kisses and saying goodbye. Bucky feels like he has whiplash from that entire conversation.
Once Steve sets his phone down and leans back against the couch, Bucky doesn’t waste any time making his presence known. “I’d love to meet your friend,” he calls out, breezing into the room without pause.
Steve’s head lolls to the side, and his mouth ticks up when he sees Bucky’s determined look. “You heard all that, huh?” Dark, tired eyes follow Bucky as he crosses the room and makes himself at home across Steve’s thighs, hands coming up to find their place around Bucky’s hips.
Bucky tips his head to the side. “You never said your friend in France was Jacques Dernier.”
“Does it matter?” Steve watches him closely, not exactly for fear of what Bucky might say, it seems, but more out of curiosity. Bucky shrugs, because it doesn’t make that much of a difference except that he wants to know whatever Steve’s willing to share.
Eventually, Bucky settles on, “It matters that you can talk to me.”
Steve puts on one of his subdued smiles, not insincere but tinged with too many conflicting emotions to be entirely untainted with something dark and sorrowful. His eyes catch onto the TV, where they’re broadcasting a not-so-recent coverage of Commander Rogers making a statement about the Avengers.
Steve’s in combat gear, a dark blue reinforced suit with the shield on his back. The team had helped with a minor natural disaster on the coast, and with the Avengers having only been an active operation for the past few months, the public is more than eager to get whatever information they can get their hands on.
Bucky watches as Steve’s brows furrow at his own face on the screen, stoic and authoritative beside his teammates, while the man holding Bucky in a peaceful corner of his home is soft and malleable to each and every of Bucky’s leading touches. “You know, when I first—came back,” Steve starts. “They offered me a job. Well, more like thrust me into one. Captain America, military service, the whole shebang.”
“You didn’t take it,” Bucky comes to his own conclusions.
Steve shakes his head. “No, I didn’t.” He swipes his thumb against Bucky’s bare skin, both hands having slipped under the loose shirt as soon as they could. “Stayed in France, with Dernier, made myself his problem for a bit.”
Bucky leans onto Steve’s shoulder, and reaches over to peck the hinge of his jaw. “I’m sure he saw it differently.”
“Maybe.” Steve’s arms wind around his waist, and Bucky feels like a teddy bear being held tight for comfort. “And then—well, they called a few times, asking if I could come back. That was the early 2000s.” Bucky keeps hold of Steve’s arm, stroking the hard slab of muscle absentmindedly, soft hairs tickling his palm. “I never thought I’d be here now. But maybe I was just running away all those years.”
Bucky looks into Steve’s eyes, and tries to discern if he really believes that. “Or maybe you were just waiting for the right people to work with.” He grabs Steve on either cheeks with a firm hold, coming in close. “Taking time for yourself isn’t running, Stevie. If one day you decide to hang this up again, you wouldn’t be running away either.”
“We’ll see. I do like the team I’ve got now.” Steve’s lips twist into a wry smile. “And I do want to help. I just want to do it the right way.” Bucky presses his lips against Steve’s in a dry, chaste kiss, bringing forth an expression so full of affection it’s almost unbearable for Bucky to look at for more than a few seconds. “You’ve never asked about any of this before.”
Bucky bites at his bottom lip to keep in laughter, shifting in Steve’s lap to straddle both thighs. “Well, apparently I’m your boyfriend now.”
Steve laughs, light and unburdened at once. “How much exactly did you hear, huh?” Bucky isn’t cowed by the slightly reproachful tone lining Steve’s words, muttering something about how he couldn’t understand a word in French anyway before Steve pinches him in the side, shaking his head in fond exasperation. “Yeah, you are.” Steve leans in to pepper the side of his face in kisses, and finds Bucky’s lips with his own. “Long as I’m yours too.”
“Okay,” Bucky murmurs. “So then take me to see your friend.”
Steve’s eyes soften, and he cradles Bucky’s jaw between large, engulfing palms, kissing the places in between his fingers that remain uncovered. “Sure, kid. I’d love that.” Steve captures his lips, licking into his mouth like he’s demanding something he knows he’ll never get, claiming Bucky with all his might before anyone can snatch it away.
Bucky doesn’t know how to tell him that there’s nothing chasing them here. He’ll always give Steve what he wants, is more than happy to give into every urging of his lips and swipe of his tongue. There’s nothing for Steve to grab ahold of when Bucky’s giving up his heart on a silver platter, for Steve to cherish and break in the blink of an eye.
Bucky’s well aware of Steve’s care for him now, that it runs deeper than the friction of their skin in the throes of passion, lasts long after the hours spent between tangled bedsheets. He hopes he can show Steve his own devotion right back.
◆
Steve turns 39 on July 8th, and Bucky gifts him three blowjobs before noon. After the third in his kitchen, Steve tells him to slow down or they won’t get to fuck tonight. That brings him up short so suddenly that Steve laughs in his face, before kissing the bridge of his nose.
Stark throws a rager, buys out some classy bar uptown and calls it the Fuck Howard Stark Birthday Bash. Bucky is tempted to ask how Howard has anything to do with Steve’s birthday, but the look on Steve’s face convinces him otherwise. He’d rather stay out of that mess.
Nat and Clint go with him, because Steve told him to bring whoever he wants, but Carol stays home with Maria and her kid. They’ve patched things up, and if Carol’s to be believed, this time it’s for good. Bucky’s got hope, but he’ll have to see what happens with those two, far from having blind faith even in his closest friends.
Bucky even invites Sam, promising free drinks and a plus one for Riley, but the man had refused. “I’m past my partying days, Bucky,” he’d waved away Bucky’s offer. “Still don’t like that guy, anyway, you can do better.”
“Better than Steve Rogers?” Bucky had scoffed, dismissing Sam’s concerns. The funny thing is, if Sam actually sat down and spent some real time with Steve, he knows they’d hit it off great. They’ve got the same dry humor, steadfast morals, and are equally assholes. On second thought, maybe they’d like each other too much, and this is for the best.
Steve finds him in the throng of people just in time, Nat and Clint abandoning him a half hour in and Bucky getting sick of the bartender ignoring him in favor of a group of women way out of his league at the other end of the bar. “Hey, Buck,” Steve rumbles against his ear, wrapping Bucky in his bulk and nuzzling in close.
He’s lucky Bucky realizes it’s Steve, or he would’ve gotten a kick in the nuts. “Hey yourself. How’s your birthday so far?”
“Um, meetings and gifts and you’re here now so.” Bucky’s brows pull into a tight line, and he turns around in Steve’s arms to look up into those depths of turbulent cobalt blue. Steve’s staring down at him with a goofy grin, crooked nose right in Bucky’s face and nudging at his cheekbone to presumably ask for kisses.
Bucky barks a laugh. “Are you drunk?”
“Kinda, yeah.” Steve laughs into Bucky’s neck, and sighs in what sounds like blissful comfort. “They gave me something. For my birthday. It’s space stuff—juice. It’s space juice.”
“Right.” Bucky pats Steve on the back, caressing the length of his spine and letting the guy tuck himself against Bucky’s body indefinitely. Guess he’ll keep an eye on Steve tonight. He deserves to get a little buzzed on his birthday. Steve’s beard against his neck and collarbone tickles, but he’ll tough it out. He can see a few people from the corner of his eye giving them not so surreptitious looks, but he glares at them hard enough to discourage any real leering.
Steve rubs his face against Bucky’s skin, humming and rumbling pleasantly. If he keeps doing that they’re gonna have to find a private alcove because Steve’s noises—in and out of the bedroom—have always been his favorite thing. “You’re soft,” he mumbles. “’s nice.”
“You sweet talker you.” Bucky snorts, because Steve can be one, but this is hardly one of those times.
“I’m sweet on you is what I am,” Steve mouths against the underside of his jaw, biting into the sensitive flesh and eliciting a gasp from Bucky. “You’re everything, Buck.” Bucky tries to hush Steve and derail the conversation, but Steve hushes him right back. “You are. You’re bold and upfront and smart as all hell, and the realest thing I’ve found in a long fucking time.”
Bucky swallows and closes his eyes, squeezing Steve in his grip. In the middle of a crowded party thrown by Stark is hardly the place, but Bucky places soft kisses against the crown of Steve’s head, and tries to demonstrate how much Steve means to him too. Who knew it simply takes Steve getting tipsy for him to spill his guts? Well, he supposes that’s not the easiest endeavor. It did take, uh, space juice to get him here after all.
“Let’s get some fresh air, okay, Stevie?” Steve grumbles about not wanting him to leave and grips tighter, but Bucky assures him they’re both heading the same way. “Come on, there’s a balcony right up here. Can’t carry you all the way there, big guy.”
Steve acquiesces to the change in location and stumbles alongside him, though refuses to fully let go of Bucky. It’s like marching with a giant octopus clamped onto his side. Clint sees him from across the room and raises one concerned eyebrow, which Bucky waves away.
His friends haven’t had a lot to say about his relationship with Steve. He knows why, too—they could tell he was falling for the guy, but had little to no reason to think Steve feels one way or another. He was Commander Rogers, sure, but all they saw were the extravagant gifts Bucky would end up with every now and then, in exchange for a few hours of his day and a good time.
Natasha had tried to talk about it with him early on, when Steve had first finally moved to town on a more permanent basis, but Bucky told her to leave it alone. It’s not like she or Clint have never had partners supplementing their lives, but Bucky knows he’d come off as a little too love sick with someone who at the time seemed like nothing more than a sugar daddy.
Tonight’s invite was his way of telling them that things with Steve are going well.
The fresh air seems to sober Steve up enough, though he stays attached to Bucky’s hip as they enjoy the summer night outside. “I meant it.” Steve crumples up a bottle of water and tosses it in the recycling, aim perfect as always. “It feels like the world isn’t real sometimes. Like I might wake up in a cold single bed with Ma banging around pots and pans in the kitchen, or in the middle of a forest in Europe, or—drowning somewhere in the Arctic.”
“Stevie.” Bucky grasps Steve arms tight like any of those possibilities might just come true, and Bucky can keep Steve right where he is with the power of his mortal hands.
Steve doesn’t mind the claws digging into his flesh, can probably barely feel it. “You make me believe it’s all real. No way my mind can make up someone like you, Buck.” He heaves a sigh, and leans his head on top of Bucky’s. “I know that’s not fair. But it’s the truth.”
“Screw fair.” Bucky buries dry, calloused fingers in Steve’s beard, tugging him down so they’re breathing the same air. “You make me feel like I belong here too. Everyone gets lost, Steve. We feel unmoored, it’s human. But it’s our loved ones who make it all worth it, right?”
Steve gulps and nods, leaning half an inch closer. “You’re mine, then.”
“You’re mine too,” Bucky murmurs, finally closing the distance between them with a sigh. If there’s anywhere that he truly belongs, it’s right here with Steve’s lips against his, breathing life into his very being. Nothing’s ever felt more right.
◆
Steve’s face when Bucky hands him the leather harness is priceless.
They’re at Bucky’s, for once, because Bucky always wears the same thing to Pride every year ever since he was fifteen—they’ve all still miraculously fit him, though tighter in a few places—and he didn’t want to bother bringing everything to Steve’s place.
He takes off and sets aside the flower crown his teenage self had pored hours over, made of scrap fabrics and cheap jewelry he’d stolen from his sister. He’s lucky it still sits snugly on his head all these years later, or Becca’s wrath wouldn’t have been nearly as worth it to endure.
Fixing his hair where the flowers had tugged on his braid, he takes in the stretched-out floral print shirt and jeans, practically painted onto him with how tight they are. He likes the tradition, though, the sight of the familiar getup bringing back the excitement of his much younger self at his first Pride. Besides, he looks fucking great.
Steve, on the other hand, wanted to wear jeans and a plain blue shirt. The audacity.
“What, you never seen one of those?” Bucky picks up a glittery gloss Steve had gotten him on his latest work trip, a sculptor in Denmark who had a debut showing last week. The cool, tingly sensation left behind feels like a claim Steve’s laid thick across his lips.
Steve gives him a flat glare and huffs. “Of course I have, I just—do I get to wear my shirt underneath?” He gets the thing buckled on, thankfully big enough to fit him. It’d been Sam’s, funnily enough. He and Riley usually keep it low-key in their neighborhood and so have no (public) use for the harness anymore, and had lent it out with minimal grumbling when Bucky asked. It took everything in him not to tease about Sam and Riley’s use of the gear.
Bucky turns from putting on his clear glittery gloss in front of the mirror, assessing Steve’s outfit. It doesn’t look great with the shirt, to be honest. He was hoping Steve would just have the harness and jeans on, and Bucky can cover the rest of him in loose glitter. “If you’re not comfortable being shirtless, you can keep it on.” Bucky shoots him a reassuring smile.
Steve looks grateful, shuffling closer. “I think I’ll be okay, as long as I don’t have to undo it for the whole day.” Bucky wants to ask if he’s sure, because as much as Steve is confident and comfortable in his own skin, Bucky’s learned that he’s not the biggest fan of putting it all on display when he’s in public. Steve’s already stripping off his shirt, though, and shrugging the leather gear back on.
“Good thing you’re not Cap anymore.” Bucky feels up the strap running across one pec and Steve’s defined muscles underneath, whistling low. “They’d be scandalized.”
Steve laughs, though there’s truth to what Bucky’s saying. One of the conditions of Steve joining the Avengers had been his position, the role of Commander Rogers focused on field combat and strategy as opposed to the propaganda machine he’d been as Captain America. If he was coming back, he wanted to do it on his own terms. “You enjoyin’ yourself over there?”
Bucky blushes, still groping at Steve’s waist and chest shamelessly. It’s a bit of a novelty, to be this high up, looking down on the muscular expanse that is his boyfriend’s torso. Steve had shown up that morning with a pair of heels Bucky had lovingly gazed at not a few nights earlier, when halfheartedly flipping through a magazine. Steve claimed that it was a present on account of the special occasion.
Bucky thinks that’s a load of horse shit—Steve had devolved into a needy, handsy mess when he put them on and teetered around his minuscule one-bedroom. If anything, it’s more of a present Steve’s giving himself.
Image: Steve wanted to wear jeans and a plain blue shirt. The audacity. || Art by: kocuria
So he’s not at all embarrassed at the way he’s stroking the leather harness, following each stitch with the tip of his finger, tracing out the way it digs into Steve’s skin. “You look like a leather daddy,” he teases.
Steve gets one of those mischievous twinkles in his eye, and Bucky already wants to take his words back. It’s too late, though, because Steve’s lips pull into a smug smirk, unrepentant. “Kid, if you wanted to call me daddy, all you had to do was ask.”
“Fuck you.” Bucky smacks Steve, face going up in a flush. That was not what he meant at all and Steve knows it.
Steve shrugs, even more puffed up, shit-eating grin plastered on behind that neatly trimmed beard. “We can try that too.” Bucky tries to wriggle out from between Steve’s bulk and the bathroom counter, grumbling about fucking inconsiderate giants getting in the way and filling up minuscule apartments, as Steve giggles himself silly. “Aw, come on, Buck, admit it gets you hot under the collar.”
“Shut your mouth, Rogers.” Bucky finally escapes Steve as he’s coming in for kisses, and flees the bathroom to the sound of Steve’s cackles, grabbing his flowers and stomping away as best he can in his heels.
Bucky does try out calling Steve daddy a few times, and Steve comes like a freight train—they both do, really. But unless he wants perpetual painful bruises on the back of his thighs, Bucky brings out the big guns sparingly. It’s always fun to surprise Steve in bed anyway. Bucky’s never tired of having so much control over someone otherwise so unmovable.
It’s one hell of a rush.
◆
Bucky keeps waiting for it to end, for Steve to get bored of him and send him off on his way. But it never happens, and all he sees in Steve’s eyes is a well of care and love, and an unending need that Bucky seems to satisfy.
He can feel the words at the tip of his tongue sometimes, a reckless I love you so close to tumbling out. After all, when someone’s under all that attention from Steve, the heady rush of knowing that this magnificent man is spending his time making you happy, it’s hard not to fall headfirst.
Bucky’s careful about biting them back, swallowing the words down when Steve treats him like precious fine china and gets him any and everything he asks for. When he’s wrapped up in all that affection—feeling Steve’s care on his skin or his tongue or through the tremors running down his spine when Steve’s sinking into him—he thinks Steve might just say it back.
He can wait, though. Steve’s taking him to visit Dernier this week, and he thinks the French countryside might just be the perfect place for him to give voice to his feelings. Bucky’s not worried. Steve’s shown him all the ways he cherishes what they have; it’s plain as day how he feels. If Steve can put himself out there time and again, then so can Bucky. They’ve got each other to lean on through the murky weeks and months, and hopefully on the brightest of days too.
As far as Bucky’s concerned, Steve lights up all of the small moments of his life. Maybe he’s not Bucky’s lighthouse, but the first ray of sunshine turning his gray waters a sparkling blue. The waves and storms will always come, but as long as Steve’s around, it’ll be the best goddamn sight you’ll ever see.