Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Steve!” Bucky admonishes as the familiar flash of red, white, and blue ricochets around the room and back to the door. “I’m in the middle of an operation here!” He gestures exasperatedly at the body now lodged in the metal wall of the HYDRA facility. 

“Thought you could use some help!” Steve cries cheerfully as he decks a guy so hard he goes sliding across the floor. 

“I didn’t need your help. I had them-”

“On the ropes, yeah. I know.” 

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Bucky complains as he dodges a punch and rips a gun out of a HYDRA operative’s hands. “In my obituary it’s going to say Cause of Death: Steven Grant Rogers.” 

“That’s funny, I thought for sure it’d say Cause of Death: Sheer Stupidity.” 

“Why’d you follow me?” 

“You were late! What was I supposed to think?”

“That I had something to attend to!” Bucky catches the shield when Steve tosses it and slams it into the next operative before throwing it back to Steve with a smooth, practiced motion. 

“I’m never not going to look for you. Not making that mistake again.” 

“I could’ve done this on my own,” Bucky replies sullenly. 

“Thing is,” Steve slams the shield into the last operative. “You don’t have to.” Room now clear, he puts a finger up to his ear. “Sam, how’s it going?” 

“Upper level is all clear. You got the birthday boy?” 

“Yep, almost done down here. Meet you outside.” 

“You brought Sam?” Bucky whines as he pulls a flash drive out of his pocket. “This is supposed to be a covert operation!” 

“Seems like they know you’re here, Buck.” 

“I got made, okay? I had it under control.”

“You were about to miss your party- Woah. What the hell did you do to your hair?” Steve’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise as Bucky rips off the black visored helmet he wears and tosses it carelessly to the floor. Bucky is dressed in all black tactical gear, the image of a white skull with tentacles emblazoned on the shoulder of his jacket. A gash across one cheek compliments Bucky's menacing glare, brows drawn tight together. But that isn’t the most striking thing.

Bucky runs a gloved hand through his newly bleach blond locks. “Like I said, this is a covert operation. You never had a disguise before?” 

“They do say blonds have more fun,” Steve muses. 

“Blonds are more reckless, is what they mean. Blonds show up uninvited to places they have no business being.” Bucky stalks toward a bank of computers and started typing commands. He inserts the flash drive and studies the screen with a look of intense concentration. 

“Why don’t we get out of here and you can cuss me out on the way home?” Steve sidles up to Bucky's side and winds an arm around his waist. Bucky’s sour look softens at the contact. 

“Fine.” Bucky’s hands flash across the keyboard. A series of numbers scroll across the screen. It must be what he's looking for because Bucky grins. He yanks the flash drive out of the computer tower and tucks it away before spinning to face Steve. He wraps his arms around Steve’s waist and pulls him in close. Nose to nose, Bucky’s lips ghost over Steve’s as he speaks. “Never do this again.” 

“Heard.” 

“Uh huh,” Bucky says doubtfully as he pulls away without completing the kiss, leaving Steve wanting. “Tell Falcon to get out of here. Guards know we’re here; the whole place is probably rigged to blow.” 

The two of them jog up the stairs to the upper levels, exiting into a garage. The blaring of klaxons begins as they run. Steve hops onto a sleek black motorcycle behind Bucky and holds on tight. A spray of machine gun fire follows in their wake as Bucky speeds away. Steve sees a flash of wings exit the facility just as the bike runs through the chain link fence surrounding the base. A moment after they're clear an explosion rocks the ground beneath them. 

Bucky skids to a stop on the dirt road and looks back over his shoulder. He lets out a low whistle at the plume of dust and smoke rising from the facility. “Well, shit.” 

“Guess you were right about the explosives,” Steve says mildly. “Sam, status?” 

“All clear. Meet you at the quinjet?” Sam’s voice is muffled by the wind. 

“On our way.” 

Bucky glances back at Steve with a raised eyebrow. “Now what’s this about a party?” 

Here’s the thing. Steve Rogers is rotten at birthdays. As a kid his birthday was never much of an event, just him and his mom sitting out and watching the fireworks over the city. She used to tell him the light show was just for him. He believed her up until he started kindergarten, and pretended for her sake thereafter. Once she passed, Steve couldn’t bring himself to celebrate at all. He’d been so angry back then. It was easier to be angry than it was to face that unending well of sadness. 

Bucky, however, refused to allow the day to go by unacknowledged. Bucky’d loved him back then, same as he did now, for reasons Steve couldn’t wrap his head around. Bucky never called it a celebration. He was much too clever for that. They used to sit on Steve's fire escape and pass a bottle of cheap liquor back and forth without a word as the fireworks boomed overhead. Steve could accept that much, at least. Then came the war, when birthdays weren't exactly at the top of anyone's priority list. After Steve woke up from the ice his birthday was overshadowed by Captain America’s. The most celebrating Steve does these days is waving at crowds from a float. 

So, yeah. Steve is no good at birthdays. 

Bucky, on the other hand. Back before the war Bucky’s birthdays were always capital E Events. Social butterfly that he was, a gaggle of Bucky’s friends all gathered at a bar and didn’t stop drinking and dancing until the sun came up. He always had a girl on his arm back then, two more often than not. Bucky dancing was a sight to see, all grace and joy. One of Steve’s many regrets in life was the sour attitude he had back then. Steve had two left feet, a chip on his shoulder, and a mountain of jealousy he wouldn't really understand for several years. Usually that meant he left the party early after causing a scene outside the bar or begged off to go mope at home alone. 

Steve is really bad at birthdays. 

This year is going to be different. He is determined to make today special for Bucky. It's going to be the first real celebration they’ve had since he came back home. That first year Bucky turned up after his birthday, the next no one felt much like celebrating, and last year they’d just had a quiet night in with take out, a movie, and Alpine. So it's kind of important that Steve not spoil the whole surprise an hour before it gets started. It might be salvageable. 

“Party?” he asks innocently. “What party?” 

Bucky steers the bike toward the rendezvous point out in the woods. Pine trees flash by as they follow the meandering trail. “You said something about a party back there. You got something planned, Rogers?” 

“Yeah, Buck. You and me. Night in like last year.” The noise from the bike surely covers up any waver in his voice. 

“Uh huh.” His tone absolutely drips with doubt. Goddamn spies. Goddamn Steve’s big mouth. 

Bucky slows as they approach a clearing in the trees. The quinjet sits in the middle of the clearing, its cloaking making the air look like it's shimmering. Bucky drives the bike up the ramp into the cargo bay. Sam, having beaten them there on his wings, greets Bucky with an overly enthusiastic hug. “How’s it feel to officially be older than dirt?” he asks as he slaps Bucky on the back.  

“Screw you, Samuel.” Bucky shoots him a glare as he wriggles out of the embrace. 

“I don’t think Steve would like that.” 

Preparations for takeoff provide a welcome distraction. Sam takes the pilot’s seat with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows. “So you two can catch up.” 

Steve rolls his eyes. 

In many ways, the birthday party is a celebration of how far they’d both come. Steve doesn't know if you could be prouder of a person than he is of Bucky. The Bucky he has now is almost unrecognizable as the shell of a man that knocked on his front door three years ago. Steve had desperately wanted revenge against HYDRA at first (and he still does) but Nat had been right back then when she said that wasn’t what Bucky needed. Turns out what Bucky needed was to feel in control of himself and his choices. 

Once they’d dealt with the trigger words and gotten him a new arm in Wakanda it was like Bucky really settled in and believed he was out for good. Steve could see it still, in the way Bucky would pause and close his eyes from time to time, breathe deep and just feel the wind through his hair or the warmth of the sun on his skin. He’d spent so many years in darkness that he was always grateful for the light. 

Steve doesn't know what he’d done to deserve someone like Bucky. 

So isn’t it just like Steve to keep a secret for over a month then screw it all up and reveal the surprise at the last minute? Steve lets himself hope Bucky will forget all about his slip up as he settles on a bench seat in the back of the jet. Once they're in the air, though, his hopes are dashed. Bucky won't stop smiling at him. 

“What,” Steve demands. 

Bucky’s smile grows as he leans forward in his seat to rest his chin on his hands. “Nothing.” 

“Buck.” 

“It’s nothing, Steve. A guy can’t be happy to see you?” 

“You were pissed at me twenty minutes ago.” 

“That was twenty minutes ago. I’ve moved on. Do I need to shower before we get back to the apartment?” 

“Wouldn’t hurt.” 

Bucky hums happily. “Bring me any extra clothes?” 

“Yeah.” He scowls at Bucky. 

“Wonder what those could be for.” 

“I don’t know,” Steve says stubbornly. Steve is pouting. He knows he's pouting and that it's dumb and immature and childish and he knows that so that means it’s fine that he's doing it, right? 

“You stick that lip out much further and a bird’ll come land on it.” 

Steve just glares. 

“Come here, why don’t you?” Bucky’s expression turns all soft and mushy. Steve can hardly stand it. Still, he approaches reluctantly and lets Bucky pull him down for a kiss. “What’s the matter?” 

“You gotta act like it’s a surprise,” Steve grumbles. 

“Like what’s a surprise? I haven’t heard a thing.” Bucky rests his hands on Steve’s hips and smiles knowingly up at him. “Did you really plan something for me? I thought we weren’t going to do anything because of the trip.” 

“Maybe.” Steve lets Bucky tug him down to sit on the flight bench beside him. 

“Aww. You big softie.” 

“Jerk.” 

“You’re too nice to me.” Bucky leans over to kiss Steve on the cheek. 

“I love you,” Steve replies automatically. 

“I love you too.” Bucky goes in for a real kiss. And, okay, it's really hard to keep sulking in the face of Bucky’s affection. Steve leans into the kiss. Even after almost three years together Steve has never gotten used to this. A little thrill of excitement still races up his spine at Bucky’s touch, especially on days like this when they’d been separated for a little while. Bucky’s been gone for a whole week on this mission. Just to Jersey, but still. They hadn’t gotten to so much as speak to one another while he was away. 

“Missed you,” Steve says as they pull apart. He reaches up to trace his fingers over the gash on Bucky’s face. “You hurt?” 

“Just that. How’s it look?” 

“Well your modeling career is ruined.” 

“Guess we’re even on that front.” 

“Hey.” It's half hearted. The tension has shifted somehow. Bucky has this way of making Steve feel better without even trying to. Steve takes Bucky’s hand and idly strokes his thumb across the palm. Bucky leans his head against Steve’s shoulder and closes his eyes with a sigh. They relax into the rumble and white noise of the quinjet’s engines, content just to be near one another. 

One flight, two showers, and a motorcycle ride later and Steve and Bucky are hopping up the front steps to their apartment. Bucky makes a show of schooling his facial expression into something neutral before Steve throws the door open. 

“Surprise!” The group of about a dozen friends shout from the living room and kitchen. 

Bucky’s jaw drops. “Steve! You said we weren’t doing anything!” 

“Yeah, well.” Steve smiles despite himself. 

“You didn’t have to do all this,” Bucky says as he takes in the scene before him. Steve has filled the living room and kitchen of their apartment with gold and silver streamers and balloons and a banner reading Happy 100th Birthday in flowing cursive script. The kitchen table is home to all the appetizers he’d made and ordered, a selection of Bucky’s favorites. Drinks set on ice occupy the counters. Three silver balloons shaped like the number 100 float above the table. A pile of presents from the guests rest on a folding table by the door. The pièce de résistance is a birthday cake iced to resemble a flower pot full of succulents. 

“Hm? Couldn’t hear you, sounded like you were saying something stupid.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes and gives Steve a shove in the shoulder. “You big sap.” 

“Hey, it’s not every day your best guy turns a hundred years old.” 

Bucky gives him a quick peck on the lips before he's pulled away into the crowd under a torrent of well wishes and happy birthdays. 

The guest list for Bucky’s party is small by necessity. Very few people know who Bucky really is. To his friends at group and the birding club he's just James, a veteran who lost his arm in the war. The Avengers, some of their family members, and close associates know, of course. But as far as the world at large is concerned, Bucky Barnes died in 1943. Only a couple of Steve’s friends know he's dating anyone, and he’s never introduced Bucky to any of them. His public persona as Captain America complicates things. Plus Bucky is still technically a fugitive. So. Limited. Tonight’s guests are mainly Avengers and their neighbor Vanessa. 

Steve meanders through the crowd to rejoin Bucky. The apartment itself has improved substantially from what it was when Steve first moved in. The white living room couch is about the only thing left unchanged. The walls are covered with art now, some of Steve’s work, some Bucky’d picked out, and some they’d chosen together. Bookshelves line the walls of the living room and both bedrooms. Bucky is a bit of a hoarder when it comes to books. A collection of old pieces of technology, some half-disassembled, littered the apartment. Cellphones, a boombox, an old CRT TV set, a Nintendo 64. Bucky is interested in catching up on the past seventy years worth of technological innovation. He picks up used stuff for cheap and fixes the broken ones. They’ve turned the guest room into an art studio/workshop space for the two of them.

Steve had picked out all of the new furniture. Despite what Bucky and Nat might say, Steve does have an eye for design. The space is comfortable and warm now, no more dreary dark blues and greys. He’d gotten most of it at the flea market and thrift shops. Nat had teasingly called it vintage when really she meant old fashioned. But what does Steve care if his house looks a little grandpa-ish? He's older than most peoples’ grandpas anyway. 

The upbeat sound of swing music drifts from the record player as Steve joins Bucky by the cat tree. Alpine, Bucky's fluffy white cat, sits perched on Bucky’s shoulders, purring contentedly. Natasha coos at the cat as she scratches her between the ears. Alpine’s eyes close. She looks positively blissful from all the attention. Steve watches her warily.

“моя крошка,” Nat says while Bucky beams at her. Fastest way to Bucky’s heart is through his cat these days. 

Bucky found Alpine about a year ago, when she was just a scrawny little kitten. He begged and pleaded to keep her until Steve was finally convinced, not that Steve had ever been very good at denying Bucky anything he wanted. It really wasn’t surprising that Bucky would drag in a stray the minute he was able. Bucky kind of had a thing for angry little guys in need of help. 

Steve and Alpine have a… tense relationship. Steve’s jumpiness around the cat is a source of neverending amusement for Bucky. Steve never had a pet as a kid so he isn’t used to interacting with a cat. Especially one so willing to bite people when displeased. But, Bucky adores her and that's what matters. 

Nat turns her attention to Steve. “You told him, didn’t you?” 

“No,” Steve lies smoothly. 

“He didn’t breathe a word about it,” Bucky confirms. 

Nat cocks her head skeptically. “You’ll need to work on your acting more before I believe that.” 

“He definitely told him,” Sam says as he and Tony approach. 

“It's nice they let you two out of the senior citizen's home for the day.” Tony eyes Bucky’s hair with a raised brow. “What’s with the Sound of Music look?” 

“Time for a change. You like it?” Bucky runs a hand through his hair. 

“Very Billy Idol.”

“I was thinking Jean Harlow.” 

Things have settled into a peace between Steve, Bucky, and Tony since Bucky told him about his parents. If anything, Stark seems to have a better relationship with Bucky than he does Steve these days. Steve supposes the weeks he spent getting to know Bucky before he remembered Howard’s death helped. 

Tony and Steve are on decent terms. Steve gave up the shield for a while after Tony found out about his parents. It was a year before anyone felt comfortable broaching the topic of rejoining the Avengers. Steve spent that time ‘doing the work’ as Sam called it. Bucky called it ‘remembering how to be a person again you fucking martyr.’ It was a break, a good long break, from being Captain America. He hadn’t realized how necessary it was until three months in when he noticed he felt better than he had in years. 

Turned out Steve had been drowning all that time but couldn’t see it until he finally got a breath of air. He had several breakdowns over the course of that year. About the war, about Bucky, about all the grief and loss he’d experienced. He did all kinds of reading and talking and soul searching. It wasn’t something that would end, just the way Bucky’s healing hasn’t ended. Sam always says healing is a journey, not a destination. Bucky says they’ll always be a little bit fucked up but it's okay because it isn’t about success, it's about trying to be a little better each day. 

Steve is pulled from his thoughts by Sam’s voice. “So what are we doing tonight? Rousing game of hoop and stick?” 

Bucky raises his eyebrows consideringly. “Actually, hoop and stick is pretty fun.” He hands Alpine over to Nat, who continued to fuss over the cat in a mixture of English and Russian. 

“Oh my god, are you being serious right now?” Tony frowns. 

“Steve was good at it. Remember that time we bet Waddles I could dive through the hoop?” 

“Oh yeah, and then he got so mad when you did it he started crying?” 

“You did not have a friend named Waddles,” Sam says incredulously.  

“Well his real name was Leonard.” Bucky shrugs. 

“Was it? Don’t know if I knew that.” 

“Yeah, Leonard Kelly.” 

“It’s actually too easy. You two are like a walking stereotype.” Tony waves his hand at the two of them with a frown. 

“You know what was fun? Stick ball,” Steve says. 

“Oh my god, yeah. You remember when I had to convince those kids to let you pitch? The looks on their faces when you struck Tommy out.” 

“Oh, fuck Tommy.” Steve makes a face like he’s just smelled rotten eggs. Tony and Sam’s jaws drop at that. They exchange gleeful looks. 

Bucky, though, gets a sappy smile on his face, eyes softening at the memory. “You remember when you socked him in the jaw for making fun of me?” 

“Yeah, and he was still an asshole after that.” 

“Yeah, well. Can’t change everyone.” Bucky plants a kiss at Steve’s temple. “It was sweet of you, though.” 

“Well I wasn’t going to let some moron like Tommy Flannigan run his mouth about my best friend.” Steve winds an arm around Bucky’s waist and leans in for a real kiss. 

Sam makes a gagging noise as Tony shields his eyes with a hand. “Okay!” Tony cries. “We get it, we get it, you’re in love!” 

Bucky pulls away with a smirk and lets go of Steve to go greet the rest of the guests. Steve makes the rounds, ensuring everyone has food and drinks. He keeps an eye on Bucky to make sure it isn’t too much. Bucky is a much different person than he’d been a couple years ago, but crowds can still be hard and he doesn't love being the center of attention. Thankfully, Bucky's smiling in a conversation with Bruce off in a corner. Steve frets around the kitchen, refilling drinks and consolidating plates on the table. He should probably give everyone a little longer to eat, then they could do cake. He has the candles and lighter ready to go. Then they could do presents after and-

Sam catches Steve with a hand on his shoulder. “Relax, man. It’s going great.” 

Steve takes a deep breath to settle himself. He's letting his anxiety and perfectionism get the better of him. “Right,” he says. “You think so?” 

“Yes. Now come on, Clint’s setting up a card game.” 

Steve settles on the couch as the others make their way toward the coffee table. Clint shuffles a deck of cards in magnificent carnival fashion. He throws in a couple of magic tricks that have Hill rolling her eyes and the new guy looking impressed. Bucky plops down beside Steve and intertwines their fingers. Steve squeezes Bucky’s flesh hand twice and Bucky squeezes twice in return. 

The card game is complicated and hard to follow. It doesn't help that Clint is the only one who’s ever played before and only sort of half remembers the rules. Soon Sam is calling for a round of Smash Bros instead. 

Bucky disappears down the hall while Tony and Bruce set the game up on the TV. Steve waits ten minutes then goes to knock on the bedroom door and check on him. Steve enters after a quiet “Come in.” Bucky sits cross legged on the bed with Alpine in his lap, petting her as she purrs so loudly Steve can hear it from across the room. 

“You good?” 

“Mhm. Just got loud.” 

“Okay. They’re talking about doing cake after this game. Take your time, though.” 

Bucky nods. “Thanks. Love you.” 

“Love you too.” Steve closes the door gently and rejoins the party. He trusts Bucky to manage his own needs these days. If he wants or needs Steve to stay for a while he’ll ask. 

The Smash Bros game turns incredibly competitive incredibly quickly. Happy and Rhodes shout at Tony while Bruce shakes his head in disbelief. After a couple of rounds like that the new guy, Steve is pretty sure his name is Scott, suggests they play something called Beerio Kart, which involves finishing a drink in the time it takes to run their little race cars around a track. Someone shoves a glass of Asgardian mead and a controller into his hands before Steve can protest. 

“Turn! No, now drift, no, no that’s not how you- okay. Okay, avoid the giant cows. As a general rule.” Sam tries to help him out but it's a lost cause. Steve comes in last place every time. Eventually Nat takes pity on him and plucks the controller out of his hands. 

On the bright side, Steve is pleasantly buzzed off Thor’s leftover liquor by the time Bucky rejoins the party. It turns everything syrupy sweet and golden while time seems to slow and stretch. It makes his lips a little looser and his hands a little more daring than usual, rubbing up and down Bucky’s bicep and leaning in to snag kisses here and there. Bucky draws the line when Steve’s hand wanders from the small of his back down to the curve of his ass. He swats Steve’s hand away and gives him a reproachful look. Steve sighs sadly and returns his hands safely above the belt. 

Soon someone calls for cake and Bucky is whisked away to sit at the kitchen table as the others surrounded him. The group sings happy birthday with enthusiasm, if a little off tune, and cheer when Bucky blows out his candles. Bucky groans when they all relight. “Stark! I swear to God.”

Sam forces gold and silver party hats on Steve, Bucky, and Nat while the cake is sliced and served. He holds his phone out for a selfie in which Steve smiles his best media ready smile while Bucky and Nat scowl and throw up their middle fingers. The group mingles around the living room with their cake and drinks.  

“What’d you wish for, Bucky?” Sam asks. 

“Aw, Steve here already made all my wishes come true.” He gives Steve an obnoxiously loud, smacking kiss on the cheek. 

Sam makes an exaggerated gagging noise as they separate. “Y’all are disgusting.” 

Bucky sticks his tongue out at him. “Jealous?” 

“What’d you really wish for?” Steve asks with a roll of his eyes. 

Bucky’s expression turns pinched and nervous as he rolls the hem of his sweater between his fingers. “I didn’t wish for anything. This all feels kind of… surreal? Weird. I mean, it’s good. This is all really good. It’s just… People like me don’t normally get things like this.” 

Before Steve can jump in to reassure Bucky that he deserves all of this and more, Nat cocks her head curiously. “Maybe things change,” she says simply as she takes a sip of her drink. 

Bucky holds her eye and some silent conversation passes between the two of them. He hums thoughtfully as his face clears. “That mean you’ll be telling us when your birthday is?” 

She smiles mysteriously. “Let’s not go that far.” 

Bucky gets ahold of the Asgardian liquor and is feeling tipsy himself by the time he's finished with his cake. Steve can tell because Bucky starts leaning in closer and giving all of his attention to Steve. They sit pressed together from hip to toe. Bucky traces patterns over Steve’s knee with a metal fingertip. Steve just watches Bucky’s face for a while. He has the nicest face Steve has ever seen. They're practically sitting nose to nose when Hill interrupts by plopping a wrapped gift into Bucky’s lap. 

“Presents,” she says with a disapproving look. 

Steve feels a pang of loss as Bucky's hand disappears from his knee. He throws his arm across the back of the couch to rest on Bucky’s shoulders instead. Bucky rips the metallic red and gold wrapping paper off a flat box and pulls out a large black circle, about a foot across and a few inches tall. Bucky gives it a curious once over. “It’s a robotic vacuum cleaner,” Tony explains. “Basically a Roomba but with my own improvements. She’s called Rosey.” 

Bucky’s whole face lights up. “Steve! We have a robot butler now!” He slaps at Steve’s leg excitedly. Seeing Bucky’s delight fills Steve with a warm, sunny feeling reminiscent of days spent laying out on the sand at Coney Island Beach. He leans over to kiss the top of Bucky’s dumb bleach blond head. 

“Is this what being thirty is going to be like?” Vanessa asks in dismay. “Getting excited about vacuums?” 

Bucky receives an assortment of other gifts, including a Kurt Vonnegut book from Sam, a coffee mug with a white cat on it that reads  I do what I want from Nat, a book on meditation from Bruce, a Polaroid camera from Pepper along with her regrets for not being able to make it back in the country in time to attend the party, a set of Twilight Zone DVD’s from Clint, and a copy of The Silmarillion from Hill. 

Vanessa presents Bucky with a new potted plant to add to his collection. It's medium sized, with broad green leaves. She says it's a monstera something or other. It's fine. Steve doesn't need to know the precise details. It will join the small jungle Plant Steve the barrel cactus has to keep him company these days. Bucky is in charge of keeping everything alive. Whatever the opposite of a green thumb is, Steve has it. Bucky and the others set about choosing a spot for the new plant amidst all the other greenery. Steve catches Sam’s eye and jerks his head toward the hall. They slip away to retrieve Steve's gift while the others are distracted. 

The pungent smell of turpentine and oil paints fill the air of the guest room-cum-art studio. Steve’s brushes and palette are right where he left them this morning. It's a good thing Bucky’d been out all week because he wasn’t around to question Steve’s late nights leading up to the party. Steve’s perfectionism had kept him up late putting finishing touches on the piece. The canvas is by far the largest he’s ever done, at four feet tall by six feet across. Different from his usual realism, the oil painting is abstract. Deep blues and blacks fill the bottom corner, interspersed with shocking veins of bright white. He layered the paint thickly in that corner, so it swirled up and off the canvas like spikes. Things even out into smooth gradients of blue and yellow and green, reminiscent of sunlight through water, toward the upper edge.  

The inspiration for this work, like so many of his others, is Bucky. He’s drawn and painted Bucky plenty of times before, and those pieces were damn good ones too. They make Bucky go all shy when he sees them. He’d mumble under his breath and try to push Steve away to hide the blush on his cheeks. Those ones are Steve’s favorites. But this painting is different. It's supposed to represent his feelings for Bucky. It's the most difficult painting Steve has ever attempted. He just hopes Bucky will understand. 

Sam lets out a low whistle at the sight. “Steve, this is really good.”

Steve frowns and makes a noncommittal gesture with his hand. He'll never be fully satisfied with something like this. Sam leads the way down the hall with the easel and shouts for Bucky to close his eyes. They carefully set up the easel in the kitchen and Steve places the painting on it. He feels his cheeks go warm from the impressed looks the other party guests threw his way. Bucky stands with his back turned and hands over his eyes as instructed. 

Steve takes a last critical look at the painting then blows out a breath and nods to himself. When he gives Bucky the go ahead to turn around, Bucky goes stock still and stares. Slowly, he drifts into the kitchen as if drawn by force of gravity. He studies the painting for a long, silent moment, hands edging up to run his thumb across his metal palm. Bucky’s lips press together into a hard line. Steve fears for a moment he’d misjudged the gift, until Bucky turns to him, eyes soft with affection and wet with suppressed tears. He makes a grabbing motion with his hands and Steve quickly acquiesces, lets himself be pulled into a bone crushing hug. 

“Love you,” Steve whispers into his ear. 

“Love you too, punk.” 

Bucky lingers for a while longer in front of the painting before he rejoins everyone else. There are times Steve looks at Bucky and thinks he couldn’t possibly love him any more than he already does, but then nights like tonight happen. And Steve sees Bucky in a new light, laughing with friends, joking around, eating cake, pulling down a streamer to let Alpine chase it around the room. It's all so normal and so very Bucky, and Steve’s feelings find new depths. He takes Bucky’s hand and doesn’t drop it for the rest of the night. 

As the party slows to a simmer and everyone sits back chatting in the living room, Steve makes the mistake of accepting more drinks. Soon enough, he leans heavily into Bucky’s side and his eyes drift closed. Bucky’s shoulder is solid and inviting, his hand warm around Steve’s waist. Between the long day, longer week, and all the space alcohol, Steve is feeling sleepy and affectionate, the way wine used to get him back before the serum. So who cares if he wants to snuggle up to his boyfriend on the couch? Who cares if he kisses him a couple times and maybe says some stupidly loving things into his ear? So what? Sue him. 

He must drift off at some point because suddenly he wakes up to Bucky shaking his shoulder. 

“Huh?’ Steve blinks at him dumbly. He feels disoriented. 

“I think some of us are done for the night,” Bruce says, staring pointedly at Steve. 

Bucky tightens his grip around Steve’s waist. “He’s right. You oughta get to bed, Steve.” Steve grumbles and burrows further into Bucky’s side. He hides his face against Bucky’s neck. “Come on, up.” Bucky hefts Steve to his feet despite whines of protest. 

Steve lets himself be led to the bedroom and tucked under the covers. Bucky kisses him gently on the forehead. “Night, sleepyhead.” 

“Happy birthday,” he mumbles into the pillow. The pillows are so soft and the blanket is so nice. Bed is such a good idea. Bucky is so smart. 

“Thanks, Stevie. Get some rest, okay?” 

Steve goes out like a light. 

When Steve wakes up a few hours later he's met with an empty bed and a mouth that feels full of sand. Bucky left him a glass of water on the nightstand and Steve chugs it all in one go. He wanders out to the living room in just his boxers and finds Bucky sitting on the couch with Alpine nestled in his lap. The guests are long gone. The apartment is cleaned up, leftovers already stowed away in the fridge. Steve feels a pang of guilt at missing the end of the party. Rotten. God, he's just rotten at birthdays. 

The only light in the room comes from a single candle on the coffee table. The focus of Bucky’s attention is the painting, which he’s moved into the living room. The flickering light of the candle grants the impression of motion in the swirling colors. He studies it with an intensity usually reserved for lining up a particularly difficult shot. 

“Hey,” Steve says softly so as not to startle him. 

“Hey. How’s your head?” 

“Fine.” 

“Ah. Thought that Asgardian stuff might’ve made a dent in that thick skull of yours.” 

“Sorry I fell asleep.” Steve plops down next to Bucky and draws his feet up on the couch. 

The yellow light of the candle outlines Bucky’s fond smile, framing his features and lending a warm glow to the white of Alpine’s fur beneath his hands. “You’ve got to stop drinking in front of our friends.” 

Steve cringes a little internally as memories of the evening return to him. He might’ve spent a lot of time staring at Bucky and putting his hands in compromising positions. Externally, he's all bravado. “Oh, yeah? Why’s that?” 

“You get way too into me.” His teasing smile shows Bucky is in on the game. 

“Well have you seen yourself? How am I supposed to resist?” 

“I think we traumatized everyone.” 

“They’ll survive.” 

“They’ll tell their grandkids about the time they saw Captain America playing grab ass at a party.” 

“Again, have you seen your ass?” 

Bucky smirks. “You’re a dirty old man.” 

“You’re the old man between the two of us.” Steve yawns and leans into Bucky’s side. “Good birthday, though?” 

“Great birthday.” Bucky wraps an arm around his shoulders, making Alpine give an unhappy trill as he stops petting her. “I love this.” His eyes flick to the painting. 

Steve leans in for a kiss, further upsetting Alpine who jumps off Bucky’s lap with a judgmental look back at the two of them. Bucky doesn't seem to mind though, as he pulls Steve in by the back of his neck to deepen the kiss. Steve loves this man more than words can express. He tries to communicate everything he's feeling through the movement of his mouth against Bucky’s instead, slow and sweet, chasing Bucky’s tongue with his own. When they finally pull apart Bucky looks a little dazed and Steve is panting for breath. 

“Thought you were tired,” Bucky teases. 

“Not when you’re around.” 

“Yeah? You awake now?” 

“Mhm.” Steve’s hands slide down and come to rest on Bucky’s belt. “You?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Was thinking I might go to bed.” Mischief dances across his eyes. Bucky has beautiful eyes, a pale blue like the sky on a sunny winter day.  

“I love you so much,” Steve blurts. 

“I love you too.” Bucky smiles softly at him, sappy and sweet in all the ways he's usually teasing and sarcastic. He has the nicest smile and the dumbest blond hair and Steve is so overwhelmed with affection he might just melt on the spot. He cups Bucky’s jaw and pets his cheek with a thumb. 

“You’re so pretty.” 

“Me? Look at you.” Bucky’s touch is electrifying. Gently but firmly, Steve is pushed back into the couch cushions as Bucky kisses across his bare chest and down to the edge of his boxers. “Fucking gorgeous,” he mutters against Steve’s hipbones. Bucky slips a finger underneath his waistband. 

“Hold on,” Steve says. “It’s your birthday, let me take care of you.” 

Bucky pauses, then sits back to let Steve up. “What do you have in mind?” 

“Well first, I was thinking we get you out of those clothes.” Steve crowds Bucky now, positions reversed as he all but sits in Bucky’s lap. Steve’s hands set to wandering under Bucky’s sweater as he mouths at the junction between his shoulder and neck. Bucky arches into the touch. “And then,” Steve says lowly, mouth hot at Bucky’s ear. “I was thinking I’d fuck you. If you want.” 

Bucky groans and the sound goes straight to Steve’s groin. “Yes.” 

They blow out the candle on their way to the bedroom. Clothing comes off without Steve even really noticing the hows and whens. All that matters is that Bucky stands bare in front of him, miles of warm, smooth skin and cool metal pressing against him. Bucky falls back on the bed and takes Steve with him, wriggling happily at the sensation of Steve’s weight resting against him. 

Steve kisses his way up the nasty line of scars on Bucky’s shoulder. He wants Bucky to understand; to feel about himself the way Steve feels about him. Bucky hates those scars. Usually he pushes Steve away when he pays too much attention to them, but tonight he lets Steve stay as long as he wants. Maybe Steve is still a little buzzed because everything feels heightened somehow, every sensation more intense than usual. He mouths and licks his way down Bucky’s body until Bucky stops him with a hand in his hair. 

“Up here. Stay up here. Wanna see you.”  

Well Steve certainly isn’t going to say no to that. He moves back up and presses Bucky into the mattress with a bruising kiss while his hand drifts lower. Time stretches languidly out before them. Every kiss feels golden, every touch exhilarating. Steve takes his time getting Bucky ready, gentle to the point of driving Bucky nuts, if his frustrated noises are anything to judge by. 

“Stevie, please,” Bucky groans as he pushes his hips up insistently. 

“Oh.” Steve’s mind short circuits at that. 

Bucky notices. He gets a devilish look in his eye. “Please, Stevie? Please fuck me? You said you would.” 

“I’m going to,” Steve growls as he snaps back into motion.  

“Then do it already,” Bucky whines. 

Steve pushes into Bucky’s body and the honey sweet feeling only intensifies. “This what you wanted?” he asks, punctuating the question with a slow roll of his hips. 

“Yes,” Bucky groans. “I love you. I love you, Steve. You know, right?” 

“Course I know. I love you too.” 

They move together with practiced ease until they're both moaning into the dark room. Bucky pulls Steve down into another, sloppier kiss, this one all clumsy moves of tongue and teeth. It turns frantic as Bucky reaches between them to take care of himself. He shudders underneath Steve and breaks the kiss with a gasp as pleasure overtakes him. 

Bucky stares up at Steve like he hung the moon and stars in the sky. Steve wishes he could live here forever, in the adoring light of Bucky’s gaze. Steve moves his hips slowly, experimentally, until Bucky whimpers but nods to keep going. It doesn't take much longer for Steve to finish and collapse in a sweaty, breathless heap on top of Bucky. 

“Best birthday ever,” Bucky declares as Steve rolls off him. Bucky nuzzles into the space between Steve’s arm and chest and throws a leg over his hip to keep him close. 

“So,” Steve says as he wraps his arm around Bucky’s ribs. “The begging is new.” 

“Felt right. You liked it?” Bucky asks sleepily.

“Yeah,” Steve says roughly. Bucky’s pleased hum rumbles through both of their chests. A thump on the mattress disrupts their peace. 

“Alpine Marie!” Bucky shouts in surprise as the cat strolls across the rumpled sheets. Bucky moves with astonishing speed to scramble off the bed and throw the blanket over Steve’s bare body. Steve laughs hysterically as Bucky snatches the cat up, carries her at arm’s length across the room to the hallway, and slams the door shut behind her. Bucky rests with his back against the door as Alpine claws at it with a disapproving meow. “Oh god, do you think she saw us during…?” 

Bucky looks so genuinely distressed at the thought that Steve doubles over with the force of his laughter. He clutches at his stomach as his breaths come out in a wheeze. 

“Steve, I’m being serious. She shouldn’t see things like that!” 

“Oh my god.” Steve gasps for breath. Bucky glares at him, arms crossed across his chest. The effect is lessened by his naked state. “Bucky, she’s a cat.” 

“She’s a baby!” 

“I’m sure we didn’t ruin her innocence or whatever.” 

“God.” All traces of his earlier sleepiness are gone. Bucky runs a hand over his face and through his hair. 

Steve smiles fondly at him. “Hey, I love you.” 

Bucky gives him a withering look. 

Steve’s smile only grows. “I do. I love you. And I love that you don’t want the cat to see my dick.” 

Bucky groans. “Do you really think she saw?” 

“No,” Steve says confidently. “She didn’t see a thing.” 

Bucky’s expression softens. “Thanks.” He crosses the room to plant a soft kiss on Steve's lips. 

Steve catches his wrist. “Get back over here.” 

“We should clean up,” he protests as he crawls under the covers and snuggles back into Steve’s side. 

“Yeah. We will.” They lay with legs intertwined, close as two bodies could be. Steve’s hands move lazily up and down Bucky’s side. A thought occurs to him as they settle. “Marie?”  

“That’s her name. Alpine Marie Barnes-Rogers.” 

“Barnes-Rogers?” 

“She’s our daughter, Steve. Obviously she has our last names.” 

“We hyphenated, huh?” 

“Maybe someday.” 

Steve hums at the thought. He wouldn’t mind sharing Bucky’s last name one day. He listens as Bucky’s breathing evens out and feels his body relax. The steady rise and fall of his chest is comforting. Soon enough Steve’s eyes droop closed. They fall asleep curled around each other as Alpine’s paw bats under the door.

Chapter Text

“Her favorite toy is the fish,” Bucky says. “And don’t forget to open the blinds for her in the morning so she can see the birds outside. If you don’t she’ll tear up the blinds. And remember, she only likes the soups, not the gravies.” 

“Didn’t you find this cat in a dumpster?” Natasha asks with a skeptical raise of an eyebrow. 

“Those days are behind her.”  

They’re up early, well before dawn in preparation for their trip. Natasha has agreed to cat sit for the duration. Bucky’s taken her through the ins and outs of the daily routine. He showed her where Alpine’s food was kept, how to refill the water fountain, and how to maintain the litter box in the bathroom.

The cat in question perches happily on Bucky’s shoulders. Alpine gets the royal treatment from Bucky. Where Bucky still struggles to buy things for himself sometimes he has no such qualms about spending money on his cat. She has two cat trees, several beds, a collapsible tunnel, a window hammock, and a scratching post scattered around the apartment. An abundance of fake mice, jingle bell balls, and feathered toys fill a basket on the coffee table. 

“She’s a princess,” Steve says with a roll of his eyes as he drops their bags by the door. 

Bucky shifts Alpine into his arms and addresses Steve. “Did you get everything?” 

“Yes. We’re good to go.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Certain.” 

“Did you check the list?” 

“Yes I checked the list.” 

“But did you check everything off?” 

“Is that not what checking the list means?” 

“Well what if you looked at the list but you didn’t check it off as you packed?” 

“I swear to you we have everything. And if we forget something it’s because it wasn’t on the list.” 

Bucky’s mouth settles into a dissatisfied line. 

Steve shoots him a look. “Buck.” 

“It’s fine.” 

They hold eye contact for a few seconds before Steve groans and marches back down the hall. “I’ll get the fucking list!” 

“Thank you!” Bucky calls after him. 

Natasha watches them with an amused smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “It’s like watching an old married couple.” 

Bucky grumbles at the comparison and shuffles Alpine in his arms. “I wrote everything down. But text me if you have questions.” 

“I’ll send you pictures every day,” Natasha promises. 

Steve re-emerges from the bedroom with the list held high. “Here. Everything present and accounted for.” 

Bucky snatches the paper out of his hand and looks it over. “Did you get your sketchbook?” 

“I don’t need my sketchbook.” 

“Of course you need your sketchbook.” 

“We’re going to be so busy-“ 

“It’s like thirty hours of driving. Get your goddamn sketchbook.” 

Steve groans again and makes his displeasure clear in his posture as he traipses back down the hall. 

Bucky hands Alpine over to Natasha and starts carrying bags out to the car. The street lamps highlight his breath where it mists in the cold air of early spring. He sets the shield in the backseat and ensures its case is securely closed. He slides a pistol into the glove compartment as well. He isn’t anticipating trouble but it does have a way of finding them. Never hurts to be prepared. 

The car is a nondescript but luxurious black sedan courtesy of Tony Stark. He’d tried to sell them on a flashier sports car but they weren’t trying to stand out on this trip. The car is bulletproof, with tinted glass, and according to Tony is basically impossible to break into. The doors are programmed to open to Steve and Bucky’s fingerprints. The interior is comfortable black leather with a screen built into the center console. There's enough leg room for both of them to stretch out. In short, this should be a very comfortable ride. 

Bucky turns at the sound of approaching footsteps. Steve sets their suitcases on the sidewalk and pops the trunk. “What's left?” 

“The cooler,” Steve says. “And then that’s everything.” 

Bucky fetches the cooler and stows it in the backseat. He’s packed it with drinks and some leftovers from the birthday party. Natasha can pick at the rest. 

Steve slams the trunk closed and waggles the keys at Bucky. “Alright. We’re good to go.” 

They head back in to say goodbye to Natasha. Bucky cradles Alpine against his chest for a moment and wishes that she was big enough to squeeze. “We could take her with us,” Bucky offers, not for the first time. 

“She wouldn’t like that.” 

And okay, that's true. Bucky kisses her on her sweet head and lets her back onto her cat tree. “Be good for your Auntie Nat.” He turns to Natasha. “And I’m serious. Any questions. Call me.” 

Wordlessly, Natasha takes out her phone and snaps a photo of Alpine. Bucky feels the buzz in his pocket that signals she's sent the picture to him. “I swear.” 

He pulls Natasha into a hug. “Thanks for doing this.” 

“A chance to spend time with my baby? I couldn’t pass it up.” Natasha gives them a curious look. “Why the Grand Canyon?” 

“Bucky’s always wanted to go,” Steve says. 

“It’s one of the seven natural wonders of the world.” Bucky’s excitement shows in his voice. 

“Is it? I’ve never been.” 

Steve rolls his eyes. “Don’t get him started.” 

Natasha eyes the two of them with a smirk. “You know what? It’s good to see you like this. Can’t believe you’re actually taking a vacation.” 

“I think we can afford it once every century or so,” Steve says. 

“Certainly no more often than that.” 

“When’s the last time you took a vacation?” Bucky asks. 

Natasha laughs. “Oh, we don’t need to talk about that." 

Steve hugs her next and asks as he pulls back, “Any word on that base?” 

“Just another splinter cell.” 

Bucky frowns. After HYDRA fell, it left a power vacuum in its wake. Splinter cells have popped up all around the country. Home grown terrorists. No central leadership but their messaging is all pretty much the same. Extremist, far right, white supremacist groups. Bucky and the others have been taking them down for over a year now. Recently, their weapons tech has improved substantially. So far they haven’t had any luck tracking down the supplier. 

“If you really need us…” Steve ventures. 

“Stop it.” If looks could kill, Steve would be dead on the spot from the force of Natasha’s glare. 

“I’m just saying-” 

“James, get your boyfriend to the goddamn Grand Canyon and don’t let him think about work until you get back.” 

Bucky throws her a mock salute, two fingers at his temple. “Yes, ma’am.” Bucky goes back for one last scratch under Alpine’s chin. He gives her another kiss on the head. “Bye, baby. I’ll miss you. We’ll be back soon, okay?” 

Alpine rubs her cheek against his hand in farewell. 

“We should get going if we want to make DC before noon,” Steve prompts. 

“Did you say goodbye?” 

“Bye, Alpine.” 

“Well go pet her! She’s going to think you don’t like her!” 

Steve heaves a sigh and offers a cautious hand to the cat. Alpine rubs her cheek against his fingers. “Bye, Alpine,” he repeats begrudgingly. 

Bucky gives her one last longing look as Natasha shoos them out the door. 

Bucky is deeply pleased with himself. He's optimized the passenger seat experience for maximum comfort. He’s got a blanket, pillow, a stack of paperbacks he’s been meaning to read, phone charger, a coffee, water bottle, two sodas, a bag of gummy worms and a bag of chips, and plenty of legroom. He kicks his shoes off, wraps the blanket over his shoulders, crams the pillow in between his shoulder and the window, and settles in for the drive. Bucky Barnes has never taken a vacation in his life but by god, he will be making the most of this one. 

Steve is clearly amused by the sight. He glances at Bucky with a twinkle in his eye as he pulls across the bridge. “Comfortable?” 

“Very.” 

The entire concept of a road trip strikes Bucky as romantic. It’s a relatively modern invention, the interstate highway system having been built during the war. Bucky’s family took trips out to visit his aunt and uncle in Indiana every summer when he was a kid, but they’d taken a train. 

The train, in Bucky’s humble opinion, was the best part of those trips. He hadn’t exactly been a good sport when his parents dragged him and his sister across the country for a month or two every summer. Pops had grown up out there and made the fantastic decision to move away as an adult. For some godforsaken reason Bucky couldn’t understand as a child, he insisted on going back to visit his brother on the family farm every year. So Bucky and his sister got dressed up in their best clothes and given a suitcase to share and loaded onto a train at Grand Central Station every July. 

Bucky was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a farm boy. It was a special kind of torture to plop him in the middle of a cornfield with nothing to do. He has some crystal clear memories of complaining to his ma about being bored, and her giving him a patient smile and ruffling his hair before telling him to go play. Go play. Ugh. The audacity. 

Steve tunes the radio to NPR and Bucky shoots a hand out to change the station. “Hey!” 

“No! No news. No work. This trip is for relaxation.” 

“What if the news is relaxing me?” Steve grouses. 

“It isn’t.” Bucky turns the radio to a pop station. 

The thought of travelling just for the sake of it makes Bucky more excited than he’d like to admit. They’ve got the route all planned out, with stops at attractions along the way. They’ll be staying at real hotels and bed and breakfasts, not seedy motels or abandoned buildings or safe houses or random fields. They’re going to take it slow and drive at a reasonable pace and stop whenever they feel like it. It all feels very indulgent. 

Eventually, Bucky falls victim to the comfortable nest he’s created and drifts off. He wakes up when they’re ten minutes outside of DC. Steve’s playing one of his weird podcasts about a cult out in California. Bucky yawns and stretches his arms out in front of him, sending the blanket falling down to his lap. 

“Morning, sleepyhead. Have a nice nap?” 

Bucky rubs at his eyes and nods his agreement. “I’ll drive after lunch.” 

“Deal.” 

Bucky hasn’t been back to DC since the Insight attacks. If he's honest, the sight of it is making him feel squirrely. Itchy under the skin. The feeling intensifies as they drive further into the city. He tries to breathe through it. “Weird being here.”

Steve only nods his agreement. Bucky can't imagine what's going through his head right now. They cross over the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge in silence. Bucky catches himself holding his breath. 

Steve jerks his chin at a sign for Arlington National Cemetery. “I visited you a couple times.” 

“Really?” The thought of Steve standing at his empty gravesite feels unbearably sad. 

“I missed you.” 

Bucky rests his hand on Steve’s knee. This part of the trip isn’t one he’s been looking forward to. 

They traverse side streets to a quiet residential street lined with trees. Steve takes the car up a winding driveway to a sprawling one story building behind wrought iron gates. He parks in front of the cottage style brick building. A fountain in the small pond bubbles behind them as they step out of the car. The grounds are green and well maintained with trees and landscaping. Wide stone paths meander through the gardens. 

Steve’s face is impassive but he holds himself stiffly, betraying his nerves. Bucky ghosts a hand along his spine. “You ready?” 

“Yeah. It’ll be good to see her.” 

Peggy Carter, even in her old age, is a vision of grace. Her face is wrinkled now, skin thin and delicate as crepe paper. Her hair has long ago faded to silver. It lays in loose waves across her pillow. She’s done her makeup, or else an aide has done it for her. Age has done nothing to dull the spark of intelligence in her eyes. The sight of her has Bucky frozen in the doorway. 

Steve had explained about her illness. How she remembered him on good days, but good days have become less and less frequent as the disease progresses. There’s a good chance she’ll remember neither of them today. If she does, she’ll likely forget the visit tomorrow. Steve hasn’t been to see her in over a year, and he's afraid her time is almost up. The Avengers keep them both busy, but Bucky knows a part of Steve is just avoiding the inevitable. Bucky’d been the one to suggest they visit. 

“Who’s that?” Peggy squints at them from across the room. Her voice sounds just the same as Bucky remembers. 

“It’s me, Peg,” Steve answers with false cheer in his voice. 

“Steve?” 

That propels the two of them into motion. Steve takes Peggy’s hand and sits in the chair beside her bed. Bucky stands back awkwardly. “Hey, Peggy.” 

“Darling, it’s been a terribly long time.” Bucky’s glad he can’t see the look on Steve’s face. He suspects his heart would break if he could. 

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry I haven’t been here more often.” 

“Who’s this you’ve got with you?” 

Steve looks over his shoulder and gestures for Bucky to approach. He does so reluctantly. “Hey, Peggy.” 

“Barnes?” Her brow crumples in confusion. 

“Yeah, it’s me.” 

A laugh, harsh and unbelieving, escapes from her lips. “You’re alive.”

“Yeah.” Bucky doesn’t know what to do. What to say. Where to put his hands. He shoves them into his pockets. 

Peggy turns to Steve, looking awed. “You found him.” 

“He found me,” Steve says. 

“Steve, you’ll give us a moment, won’t you?” 

Steve glances at Bucky for permission before saying, “Sure thing.” 

Peggy waits for Steve to step out before she reaches for Bucky’s hand. He takes Steve’s spot in the chair beside the bed. Her small hand feels frail and delicate in his. She does a double take at the sensation of cool metal against her skin. “What did they do to you?” she asks quietly. 

Bucky presses his lips together into a grim line. “Nothing good.” 

“All those years… I’m so sorry.” Peggy watches him with soft, earnest eyes. 

Bucky swallows hard against the lump beginning to form in his throat. “It’s okay. Really, it’s okay.” 

Peggy reaches for his face and Bucky leans forward to let her trace a finger over his cheek and across his brow. “What on earth have you done to your hair?” she asks reprovingly. 

Bucky chuckles past the threat of tears. “What, Carter? Thought you liked blonds.” 

“Well it rather seems those days are behind me.” She nods to indicate herself and the bed she lays in. She continues to marvel at Bucky’s face, her own caught in an expression of quiet disbelief. “You haven’t aged a day.” 

“Yeah. You know. Clean living.” Bucky shrugs. 

“Was it like Steve?” 

Bucky’s face falls. “No. No it wasn’t like Steve.” 

Peggy nods grimly. “We should have looked for you. Howard and I. We should’ve looked.” 

Bucky winces at the mention of Howard. “Don’t worry about it. Things are good now. Really.” 

Peggy gives him a searching look before nodding. “You’ll tell him, won’t you? Now that it’s just the two of you?”

A soft smile replaces the pained expression on Bucky’s face. “I told him.” 

Peggy pats Bucky on the cheek. “And he said yes.” 

“Well, he took some convincing.” 

“He’s always been a stubborn one. Could never see what was right in front of his face.” 

“Now ain’t that the truth?” 

“And you’re happy?” 

“Yeah, Peg. Really happy.” 

“Good.” She drops her hand from his face and leans back into her pillows with a serene smile. “It’s a gift, what you’ve been given. Both of you here. Young. You’ll have a life together.” 

Bucky feels warring sensations of happiness expanding through his chest and the roiling of guilt in his stomach. Bucky spent almost the entirety of 1943 giving Peggy Carter the cold shoulder because Steve was sweet on her. They’d worked it out eventually. Or at least, Bucky resigned himself to the fact he could not and would not ever have Steve the way he wanted to, so it was good he’d found a dame like Peggy. Peggy was everything a guy like Steve deserved. Whip-smart, took no shit, and beautiful to boot. Had things worked out differently, they would’ve been a force to be reckoned with. 

“I’m sorry if– The two of you…” 

Peggy snorts and shakes her head. She looks to the bedside table, where framed photos show a younger Peggy with two children. “I had my life. I spent it with a good man. I have wonderful children. I wouldn’t trade them for anything.” 

“And you were happy?” 

Peggy smiles contentedly. “Oh, my, yes. My cup runneth over.” 

Bucky snorts out a laugh. “I’m glad to hear it.” 

“You’ll do me a favor, won’t you, Barnes?”

“Anything.” 

“Name one of your nine children after me?” 

“Woah, hold your horses. Nine?”

“Ten, then?” Her smile shifts into a smirk. 

“Don’t know if you’ve had a biology lesson recently but I don’t think we work that way.” 

She laughs. “I’m happy for you. I loved him dearly. But I never needed him the way you do. And he didn’t need me the way he needs you.” 

“You would’ve done alright.” 

“Yes. But somehow I imagine we would’ve had a bachelor roommate for the rest of our days if things had turned out the way I wanted.” 

“You wouldn’t want me moving in with you?” 

“Perhaps not if you’d kept making eyes at my husband. But then, who knows? We might’ve worked it out in time. Wouldn’t have minded having two strapping young men around.” 

Oh. Bucky lets out a startled laugh. “Carter, you dog!” 

She grins. “I must say, our Steve has good taste. Fetch him, won’t you? I want to congratulate him.” 

By the time Bucky returns with Steve, Peggy has fallen asleep. The events of the morning must have worn her out. Steve’s gaze lingers on her still form. “Think I’ll stay for a while.” 

“Of course. Take your time. I’ll meet you in the car.” 

Steve nods and reaches out for Bucky’s hand without taking his eyes off Peggy. He gives it a squeeze before settling back into the armchair beside her bed. 

Bucky blows out all the breath in his lungs as he exits the cottage. He shakes out his arms and closes his eyes for a moment. Bucky rarely stops to consider what he’s lost. What they’ve both lost. What would have been different if he’d never fallen. If he’d been found. If Steve hadn’t gone down. If everything had been different. If, if, if. It could drive a guy nuts, thinking about all the might-have-beens and the never-weres. Best not to dwell. 

Bucky takes out his phone and opens the notes app. He’s been doing this gratitude exercise lately. Just notes things throughout the day that he liked or felt thankful for. He reads them back to himself when things get rough. He adds old friends to the list. Bucky perks up at the sound of Steve’s footsteps approaching across the gravel driveway. 

Steve lowers himself onto the bench beside Bucky and rests his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together as he studies the ground between his feet. Bucky watches him carefully. He has the look of a guy fighting hard to hold himself together. “You want to talk about it?” Bucky asks. 

Steve sighs deeply. “She’ll be gone soon.” 

Bucky isn’t in the business of denying reality. “She will.” 

It takes a while before Steve speaks again. “When I came out of the ice… I thought everyone I had known was gone. When I found out she was alive… I was just lucky to have her, you know?” 

“She got to have you back too.” 

“Yeah… It’s different. She had a career. Husband. Kids. People that loved her.”

“A whole life.” 

“Yeah. When I woke up I thought I’d never have a chance at all that.” Steve shakes his head and sighs. “Sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you all this.” 

“I want to hear it, Steve. Really, I do. You loved her. I know that.” 

“I did. I guess I still do, in a way.” 

Bucky hums as he thinks it over. The way Steve loves Peggy now is different than the way he did before. That doesn’t make it unimportant. That doesn’t make it less real. It doesn’t make his love for Bucky less certain. “I’m glad you have her.” 

Steve nods silently. 

Bucky leans back and throws his hand behind Steve’s shoulders on the bench. “Our lives are weird.” 

Steve snorts at that and turns to give Bucky a watery smile. “Understatement of the century, pal.” 

Bucky looks back toward the front door of the cottage. He gives Steve’s shoulders a squeeze and stands. “Come on. We should get going.”

Trees flash past the windows in a blur as they speed down the highway heading west across Virginia. The Blue Ridge Mountains rise up in the distance. They’ve settled into an easy rhythm. They speak when they feel like it, are quiet when they don't. They take turns picking the music and share snacks now and then. 

Bucky flicks his blinker on and pulls off at the next exit. He follows a semi-truck into a gas station and pulls up to a pump. The muscles in his calves and shoulders complain as he gets out to refuel. The smell of gasoline sends a shiver up his spine that he resolutely ignores. Bucky stretches and cracks his neck as he waits for the pump. He ducks back into the car to grab his phone. 

"Where are we?" Steve's voice is thick with sleep. He's made good use of the comfortable cocoon in the passenger seat while Bucky drove. He blinks up at Bucky, hair all stuck up on one side. 

"Couple hours from Roanoke." 

"Mm." Steve nuzzles back into the pillow and pulls the blanket more firmly around his shoulders. 

Bucky checks the group chat. Sam has wished them safe travels and Nat already sent a couple pictures of Alpine as promised. He responds to those with a heart emoji and thanks Sam. 

A clunk signals the gas pump has finished. Bucky replaces the nozzle and screws the gas cap back into place. He pulls the car forward into a parking spot and leaves Steve in the car while he goes inside to pee and replenish their coffees. 

The gas station is much like every other gas station on the inside. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, lighting aisles of snacks, sodas, and souvenirs. The bathroom leaves much to be desired in terms of cleanliness. Bucky hurries through it then heads for the coffee machines. He fills two large styrofoam cups with coffee that smells old and burnt and adds a generous splash of creamer and some sugar packets to one. He doesn't bother trying to make Steve's any more palatable. His boyfriend is some kind of gremlin that actually seems to revel in drinking the awful gas station stuff black. Bucky shakes his head fondly as he heads for the register. 

Along the way, a rack of novelty T-shirts catches his eye. 

Oh. Steve would hate this. Bucky buys two. 

When they stop for the night at a hotel outside of Roanoke, Bucky shoves one of the T-shirts at Steve. He groans at the sight, which makes Bucky glow with satisfaction. He takes a picture of the two of them in the bathroom mirror and sends it to the group chat. Their matching shirts read Virginia is for Lovers with a red heart in place of the letter V. 

Sam responds immediately. Think they misspelled Losers. 

They roll into Nashville the next evening right as the sun begins to set, lending a golden glow to the city. Music City, by all accounts, is a must see destination. Bucky buzzes with excitement as they park the car downtown after checking into the hotel. Steve has even gone to the trouble of dressing up a little. He wears dark jeans and a button up shirt. He hasn’t shaved in a couple days and a light dusting of stubble is visible on his cheeks. Bucky likes it. Bucky likes it a lot. 

Drunken shouts and the distant sounds of music drift their way as they walk down the darkened streets. The blaze of light coming from Broadway Street up ahead leaves no doubt they're moving in the right direction. 

Bucky saw The Virginian in a theater with his mother and sister when he was eleven years old. Thereafter he developed an interest in cowboys that had less to do with a romantic notion of the American West and more to do with Gary Cooper’s eyes. So when he sees the throngs of tourists downtown in their brand new boots and hats and pearl snap shirts, Bucky elbows Steve in the ribs and jerks his chin in their direction. “We could be cowboys.” 

“Oh, yeah? What are we going to do, buy a ranch?” 

“Maybe.” 

“What do you know about cows?” 

“What do we need to know about cows?” Bucky scoffs. “We’ll just wear the hats.” 

“That a fantasy of yours?” 

“It could become a fantasy of mine. You’d look real good in boots and spurs.” 

Steve rolls his eyes. “Assless chaps, that’s what you’re interested in.” 

“Oh now there’s an idea.” 

Flirting has always come easily to Bucky but flirting with Steve is something else. It's one of his favorite things to do. Steve is quick and clever and sometimes he accidentally says something truly filthy and makes himself blush. Steve blushes easily, a fact that Bucky enjoys to no end. Steve can get shy and nervous about sex now and then. Bucky’s gathered over the years that Steve’s sex drive is a little weird. Not weird, Bucky shouldn’t call it weird. Different than most people’s is what it is.  

Steve doesn't get turned on just by looking so much. Sure, he thinks Bucky's handsome and tells him so plenty often. But if Bucky does something nice for him, or they share an inside joke, or Bucky says something especially sappy, that's the kind of stuff that drives Steve wild. Far as Bucky can tell, the closer Steve feels to him emotionally, the more likely he is to want sex. Any time there's tension between the two of them, or Steve's feeling worried, or they argue, Steve’s libido leaves the building. 

Between that and the PTSD their sex life was like navigating a minefield at first. For a long time Steve had this weird guilt complex about it where he would turn Bucky down, then feel awful for turning Bucky down, then feel even less like having sex because he was so worked up about not having it in the first place. Bucky finally felt compelled to sit him down and spell it out for him that he planned on sticking around even if they never slept together again. Sex is nice, but not if it comes at the price of Steve agonizing over it every time. Ironically, that seemed to put Steve’s mind at ease and made him want sex more. 

After that, Bucky could flirt to his heart’s content and Steve understood there was no pressure for it to lead anywhere else. But if Steve wanted it to go further Bucky could get on board too. Nowadays, with a few years' worth of learning how to navigate one another's quirks, things run pretty smoothly. 

They round a corner and turn onto Broadway. The street is a riot of color and light and noise. Neon signs buzz in front of every building while the competing sounds of live bands pour out of the open windows of every bar. The street is packed with people and Bucky has to fight the urge to turn back to their hotel immediately. The buzz of excitement rapidly sours into anxiety. He realizes now that his time here is going to be limited, but he wants to explore a little. At least enough to say he tried it. 

He takes a steadying breath and feels Steve rub his shoulder reassuringly. “You good?” 

“Yep. Yep. All good.” 

They join the crowd making their slow way up the street toward the river. The Broadway bar scene is made up primarily of drunken tourists and what seems to be every bachelorette party in the country. Girls in matching white dresses and boots, some with sashes indicating that she's the bride-to-be, move about in uncoordinated lines. Peddle taverns carry kegs and loads of partiers around the streets, loudly singing along to country songs. Tractors haul trailers labeled as party wagons, and renovated school buses advertise themselves as mobile honky tonks. The internet had referred to this street as “Nashvegas” and Bucky can see why. 

Thankfully, the place is so crowded that Bucky and Steve don't really draw any attention. Everyone is too focused on moving down the sidewalk and corralling their drunk friends. Bucky feels Steve’s hand brush his shoulder or back every now and then, and Bucky's grateful for the contact. 

As they walk, a green storefront catches Bucky’s eye. A giant statue of a red and white cowboy boot stands in the middle of the sidewalk out front. The sign over the door reads “Boot Country” and advertises a buy one pair, get two free deal. Bucky stops Steve with a hand on his elbow and nods at the store. “Look! It’s destiny.” 

“How come destiny only seems to do the things you want?” Steve grouches.  

“Well destiny owes me a debt. Please, Stevie? Just try some on.” 

Steve gives a long suffering sigh and relents.  

Boot Country’s shelves are packed wall to wall with cowboy boots. Bucky drags Steve through the aisles and finds some pairs in their sizes. Steve good naturedly agrees to try on every pair Bucky hands him, even the silly ones with camouflage patterns and American flags. They settle on three very normal looking pairs in black and brown, one for Steve and two for Bucky. Then Bucky insists on buying a couple of cowboy hats, which Steve is more resistant to. In the end, he agrees and dons the white felt hat out on the street. Bucky grins at the light flush coloring Steve’s cheeks. 

“This feels dumb,” Steve says.  

“But it looks fantastic.” 

Steve pulls a face but keeps the hat on. 

They duck into a couple of bars as they walk up the street. All of them are noisy and packed with people. In one, a couple swing dances by the bar while others watch. Bucky scoffs as he pulls Steve back out the door. “They aren’t even good at it. All those people were acting like that was something special.”

“You could show them a thing or two.” 

“Not tonight.” 

Tonight, Bucky wants to make it up and down both sides of the street without inducing a panic attack and then hightail it back to the hotel. If he could’ve gotten drunk he supposes this would’ve been a better experience. But, serum being what it is, his senses are being assaulted by noise and light with nothing to dull them. Bucky breathes a sigh of relief when they make it all the way up one side and cross the street to the river. 

While still populated, the strip of grass is dark and relatively quiet. They pause to catch their breath and look back toward the chaos they just emerged from. Bucky’s nerves are going haywire. He reaches for Steve’s hand and squeezes it. Closes his eyes. Breathes in. Breathes out. Shakes himself. Okay. He blinks his eyes open and sees Steve’s concerned expression. “I’m good. I say we make it back up the street and then we’re done.” 

Steve nods his agreement and they set off again. The rooftop bars and clubs just aren’t Bucky’s scene, and that's okay, he rationalizes. They duck their heads into a couple more bars but the noise of the bands inside is so ear shatteringly loud that they duck right back out. 

Bucky and Steve follow close on the heels of a bachelorette party when one of the women stumbles off into the street and straight into the path of one of the party wagons. Steve jumps out and pulls her out of the way of the tractor just in time. He sets her on the sidewalk to check her over. 

“Oh my god!” The sounds of Shania Twain’s I Feel Like a Woman fades into the distance along with the party wagon as the bride-to-be clings to Steve’s arms to steady herself. Her group of friends circle around like a flock of panicked birds. “Kelcie! Oh my god, are you okay? Is she okay?” 

Steve puts up a calming hand. “She’s fine. Any of you ladies have water in those bags?”

They don't, it turns out. Suddenly, Steve and Bucky find themselves the unofficial chaperones of a group of twenty-somethings as they navigate the streets of Nashville. The leader of the group, who appears to be the maid of honor, leads them a few blocks away from the main drag. This area is populated but not overwhelmingly so like Broadway had been. Steve holds the door for them as they all file into a bar. Bucky clocks the rainbow flag hanging in the window immediately. 

Bucky asks the bartender for water while Steve settles the group at a table. Kelcie, the bride-to-be, looks shaken and tearful, her bridal tiara askew. She accepts the water gratefully. Her friends crowd around, loudly recounting their experience of the event. 

This bar, like most of the others, has a live band playing covers of country songs, though at a more reasonable volume. The dance floor is lively, with some couples swing dancing, some just swaying together, and occasional line dances. Some of the couples, Bucky notes, are two women, or two men, and some consist of people whose gender he isn’t certain of. 

Soon, the group of young women calm down enough that most of them go to join in on the action. A tiny brunette in sky high heels and a short skirt drags Steve onto the dance floor despite his flustered protests. Steve gives Bucky a pleading look that says save me, but Bucky just laughs and waves his hand at Steve. Go on. 

No one seems to notice who Steve is. Between the dim lighting, 5 o’clock shadow, and the cowboy getup he's fairly unrecognizable. Bucky sits with the bride-to-be and a couple of the other ladies to watch the others dance. Steve is a popular partner amongst the bachelorettes and is passed from girl to girl as they try to teach him a few moves. 

The ladies insist on buying Bucky a drink, which he can't refuse. He sips at a beer and listens in bemusement as the women ask him when his birthday is and start explaining something called star signs. Bucky is a Pisces, which means that he is a fish, or maybe two fish? Apparently that means he's compassionate and empathetic, but could also be overly sensitive. Bucky tells them that his ma used to call him dramatic, which they all find hilarious. 

They ask him about Steve and inform him that Steve is a Cancer, which means he is a crab. Bucky tucks that bit of knowledge away for later. They say Steve is a natural leader who wants to protect others, but he might be introverted and a little pessimistic. “More than a little,” Bucky laughs. 

Conversation shifts to the women. They're visiting from Connecticut, there for a bachelorette weekend. Bucky hears the story of how Kelcie’s fiancé proposed, the destination wedding they're planning, and how in love they are. He probably won't remember the details tomorrow, and Kelcie is drunk enough that she almost certainly won't remember telling him. But as he watches one of the girls lead Steve through a slow and awkward two step, Bucky starts to think about forever. 

His life and Steve’s life are intertwined and have been since the day they met. Bucky can't imagine a worse thing than being separated from Steve. But. Marriage? 

Bucky never pictured himself marrying Steve. Mostly because it was an impossibility. A foregone conclusion. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. But then the funniest thing happened about a year after Bucky escaped from HYDRA. The Supreme Court said folks like him and Steve could get married after all. 

So that leaves him with a conundrum. 

Would he like to put a ring on Steve’s finger? Well, maybe. Would it change anything, really? They live together, they have a cat together, they do everything together. Rings and a piece of paper wouldn’t change all that. 

The piece of paper is another thing. Legally, Bucky is dead. Presumed KIA. If he reveals that he’s alive it would raise a lot of questions. The Winter Soldier pretty publicly attacked Nick Fury and Steve during the Insight debacle. It wouldn’t take long for people to start putting two and two together. At the same time, Stark’s people and money are probably capable of getting them a marriage license without raising suspicions. So it’s complicated. 

Out on the dance floor, Steve beams at one of the girls when he gets the steps right, surprising even himself. Sunlight spreads from Bucky’s chest all the way down to the tips of his toes. 

Husband. 

God. Just the word sends his heart stuttering. 

Giddy now with affection, Bucky downs the rest of his drink and makes a beeline across the dance floor to Steve. He taps the girl Steve's dancing with on the shoulder. “Mind if I cut in?” 

She steps aside with a smile. “Be my guest.” 

Steve grins at him as he takes one of Bucky’s hands and rests the other on his waist. “You’re looking good out here,” Bucky says. 

“I think I’m getting the hang of it,” Steve says. His face is all boyish excitement and Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if the sunny warmth inside him is visible outside, radiating from his skin. 

Steve, bless his heart, has never had a sense of rhythm. He can fight like it’s second nature, run up walls, do backflips, but the second there’s music involved he’s got two left feet. Something about the contrast is endearing. “Going to have to beat all these girls off with a stick if you get any better at it.” 

A flash of guilt darkens Steve’s expression. “Are you having fun? I didn’t mean to leave you sitting over there.” 

“Plenty.” And it’s true. Dancing with Steve, and in public no less, feels thrilling. They don’t do this at home. Can’t really do this at home. There is always a little alarm bell in the back of Bucky’s mind that goes off when they’re affectionate in public. Holding hands feels like a step too far most days. But the sight of the other couples in the bar, and the easy way the girl had stepped aside to let Bucky cut in, puts him at ease. 

Bucky lets Steve move him through the same clumsy two step, even though it doesn't really match the beat of the music. Bucky doesn’t know any of the songs the band plays, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the heat of Steve’s hand against the small of his back, which Bucky tells himself he can feel even through two layers of clothing. The feeling of Steve holding him close, taking him out dancing like normal people do. Steve’s thoughts must be going in a similar direction because he watches Bucky with a tenderness that makes Bucky’s chest ache. 

“This is nice,” Steve says. 

Bucky wholeheartedly agrees. 

Eventually the music shifts again and people crowd onto the floor for a line dance. Bucky watches them line up in their cowboy boots and hats they probably bought today just like Steve and Bucky did. Bucky leans in close to ensure only Steve can hear. “You know, if some cowboy wanted to buy me a drink I don’t think I could turn him down.” 

“Oh!” Steve laughs. “So I’ve got competition now?” 

“I was talking about you, idiot.” 

“Oh.” 

“It’s a good thing you’re handsome.” 

Steve takes him up on the drink and they sit for a while watching everyone else dance. Bucky’s eyes keep wandering to Steve’s left hand. A ring would look nice there. They used to joke about putting a sign around Steve’s neck back when he was seeing Peggy. Closed for business. A ring would be a symbol to everyone else that Steve’s taken. 

It would also be a reminder for the two of them. When they were kids, they sliced their palms open and pressed the wounds together to make themselves blood brothers. It was a silly thing, a little kid thing, but it mattered to Bucky. He could look at the scar on his palm and remember that part of Steve was with him, and part of him was with Steve. The serum and HYDRA had taken that away from both of them. He taps his gloved fingers against the table. 

Steve must notice him staring because he slides his own hand over to take Bucky’s. “You good?” 

“Yeah.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah. Just thinking.” 

“What about?” 

“You,” Bucky answers honestly. 

Steve’s blue eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles. “Thinking about those chaps?”

“Maybe.” Bucky pushes his glass aside to lean across the table and flutter his eyelashes at Steve. “What do you say we get out of here, cowboy?” 

Steve bites his lower lip and glances over his shoulder at the women. “Think they’re okay?”

“Think so. Maid of honor’s sober.”

“Alright. Let me just make sure and then we’ll go.” 

Bucky watches Steve say goodbye to the group and slide some cash toward them. He probably offers to call them an Uber too, but it looks like they turn him down. Bucky’s heart is so full that it might just explode at this rate. 

Steve winds his way back across the bar to Bucky’s side. “So what do you say we go back to my hotel room?”  

“Awfully forward of you,” Bucky teases. 

“Well,” Steve says as he throws an arm across Bucky’s shoulders. “I know a good thing when I see it.” 

“You give that line to all the guys?” 

“Only the pretty ones.” 

“Oh, so I’m pretty now.” 

“Yeah, pretty stupid.” 

Bucky punches him in the shoulder for the slight. “I swear to god, Rogers. One of these days.” Bucky leaves the rest of the threat unvoiced. 

“Yeah, yeah. Keep talking, Barnes.” 

They walk side by side back to the car. Steve’s hand is warm when it brushes against Bucky’s. His laugh is clear as a bell. And the war was seventy years ago and it was five years ago. And Bucky is thirty but he’s also a hundred and sometimes he feels like he’s lived every one of those years. Most days his past settles like a weight on his chest. A burden to breathe past and try his best not to be crushed. 

Kierkegaard wrote that life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards. Normally, Bucky looks back at his life and can make no sense of it. But tonight Bucky danced with Steve Rogers at a gay bar in Nashville and something enormous has shifted. Tonight, the fractured pieces of Bucky’s life align into an order that, when he peers back through them, leaves him feeling awfully lucky. 

Chapter Text

Steve drives north on I-65 through Louisville. The sun shines bright off the Ohio River as they cross the bridge and the state line. A blue sign overhead welcomes them to Indiana. 

“Crossroads of America,” Bucky scoffs at the sight. “Yeah, because everyone’s trying to get the hell out of here.” 

“Come on, Buck. It can’t be that bad.” 

“It’s the most boring place on earth, Rogers. Why are we taking this route anyway?” 

“Because I’m trying to see this country we fought for.” 

“What’s the real reason?”

“It’s the best route to Chicago?” 

“Ugh. Fine.” 

Indiana passes by in a blur of green and yellow. Fields of corn and soybeans stretch as far as the eye can see. Every now and then a stop light over the highway or a tiny town breaks up the monotony of the route. Bucky passes the time reading out billboards, a wild array of messages calling you to find Jesus, remember that abortion is murder and hell is real, and to stop by the adult store at the next exit. 

As they approach Indianapolis, Bucky perks up. “Hey, Shelbyville. That’s where Pops was from, you know. Wonder if I’ve still got family out here.” Steve flicks on his blinker and pulls off at the exit. Bucky stares at him like he’s absolutely lost his mind as he turns onto a two lane highway. “I didn’t mean we needed to go check.” 

Steve shrugs. “What? It’s not like we’re on a tight schedule. I want to see the place you complained about all those years.” 

“Well there’s not much to see.” Bucky sits back with a huff but doesn’t protest further. 

Steve turns onto a narrower paved road that takes them directly through cornfields. They follow it for ages. Bucky gets a suspicious look on his face. “How do you know where we’re going?” 

“It’s a surprise. You’ll see.” Steve turns onto a dirt road and then follows a long driveway to a two story farmhouse with a red barn in the distance. Steve parks in front of the house and cuts the engine. The silence roars like thunder between them. Bucky stares in bewilderment. 

“This is my uncle’s place,” Bucky says. “How do you know where my uncle’s place is?” 

“Well,” Steve says sheepishly. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I’ve kind of got a surprise for you…”

“What?” 

“You do have family out here. Becca moved after the war. She’s still alive.” 

“What.” Bucky blinks at him stupidly. The information isn’t processing yet. 

“I talked to the family. They want to meet you. If you’re up for it.” 

“But… but Becca would have to be in her nineties, Steve. She’s still…” Bucky trails off in disbelief. 

Steve nods. “You Barneses, built to last I guess.” 

Bucky gapes at him like a fish. Warring emotions flicker across his face in rapid succession. “I don’t- I’m not…” Bucky runs a hand through his hair and swallows hard. “Do they even…?” He gestures helplessly at his metallic left arm. 

“They know some. I explained you’d been captured and held on ice like I was. Figured you could decide if you wanted them to know more than that.” 

Bucky nods, lips pressed together in a way Steve knows means he’s trying hard not to cry. “Okay,” he says roughly. “Okay, let’s…” He runs a hand over his face and opens the car door. 

Steve lets Bucky lead the way up the green front porch steps to the screen door. Bucky takes a steadying breath and Steve gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Bucky reaches out and knocks. 

A cacophony of barking rises up from inside, followed by a woman’s voice shouting at the dogs to quiet down. The door squeaks open to reveal a silver haired woman who looks to be in her mid- sixties. She holds a hand to her mouth in shock. “Oh, you look just the same as your picture.” 

She opens the screen door and releases the hoard of dogs onto the porch. Steve and Bucky are subjected to a thorough investigation by all five of them. Once they’re satisfied they run off into the yard. The woman steps out onto the porch and pulls Bucky into a tight hug. Bucky looks stunned. Steve hopes he hasn't drastically miscalculated. The woman rests her hands on Bucky's upper arms and studies his face. “I’m Winnie, Becca’s daughter. Oh she’s going to be so excited to see you.” 

Bucky's expression dissolves into something almost painfully soft. He looks younger, somehow. Vulnerable. “She named you after Ma?” he asks thickly. 

Winnie smiles gently and nods. “Come in, come in. She’s in the parlor. And you must be Steve.” 

He puts out a hand to shake. “It’s good to meet you in person, Winnie.” 

She bypasses the hand shake and draws him into a hug too. She laughs a little as Steve stiffens in her embrace. “Sorry. We’re big huggers out here. You’ll get used to it.” 

Winnie ushers them inside the old farm house, which is cluttered but comfortable. Knick-knacks, photos, odds and ends litter every surface. In the parlor, a tiny little woman sits enthroned in an old brown armchair with an orange crocheted blanket tossed over her lap. The little woman has cut her silver hair short, up above her ears. She wears the biggest pair of glasses Steve has ever seen, secured around her neck by a long silver chain. The thick lenses magnify her bright blue eyes. Age hasn’t dulled her spark one bit. There’s no mistaking that this is Becca Barnes. 

“Hey, Becks.” 

“Hi Jimmy.”

Both their faces crumple like paper as tears begin to fall. Then Bucky's crossing the room in three quick strides and they're grasping at one another. Bucky kneels down beside her chair so she can reach him. She wraps a hand around the back of his neck and clings to him with all the strength she can muster. She pats him three times on the shoulder. When he pulls back she reaches out to cradle his face in her hands.

Bucky's looking up at her wide eyed, like she's the eighth wonder of the world. Steve feels like he's seeing something private. Like he should've dropped Bucky off and left. He fights the urge to turn around and leave.

The spell breaks when Becca tsks at him, a disapproving sound. “It figures. A hundred years old and still better looking than me.” 

Bucky barks out a laugh. “Aw, come on, Becks. You don’t look a day over sixty.” The crooked grin Steve fell in love with makes an appearance. 

She hits him in the chest with the back of her hand. “And what took you so long to visit?”

“War took a lot longer than I thought it would.”

She nods, suddenly somber. Her face brightens when she notices Steve standing awkwardly at the threshold of the room. “Steven Grant Rogers! Get over here!” Steve startles at being addressed. "Come on, now. Don't keep an old woman waiting." He drifts over, careful not to knock over any of the knick-knacks decorating the space as he goes. 

Bucky rises to his feet and steps aside, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. Steve bends down so Becca can reach him for a hug. She feels small against him, frail in her armchair. She pats him on the cheek as they separate. 

“It’s good to see you, Becca.” He winces as she reaches for her cane and whacks him the ankle. 

“Didn’t call, didn’t write. I found out you were back on the news! Captain America.” She tuts at him.  

Steve's shoulders hunch as he grimaces. “I’m sorry, really I am. It’s been… an adjustment figuring out the future.” 

“Well you found Jimmy, so I suppose we’ll let it slide. You boys must be exhausted. Sit, sit. Winnie, won’t you get them a glass of tea?” 

Steve and Bucky sit on the green sofa and spend the next several hours being regaled with tales of all they’ve missed. Seventy years away leaves a lot to catch up on. After Bucky died, Becca moved to Shelbyville to stay with their aunt and uncle. She worked as a switchboard operator for many years. Becca married a man named Jack Proctor in 1946. She’d met him here in Shelbyville when they were still kids. Steve's shocked to see Bucky's expression turn furious at the news. 

"You married Jack!?" Usually Bucky saves this kind of outrage for times when Steve’s done something especially reckless. It’s rare to see him turn it on someone else.  

Becca’s volume rises to match his. "Don't you start!" 

"I can't believe after all those years-" 

"We were married for sixty years-" 

“He was a good for nothing-“ 

“You’ve got no right-“ 

Steve and Winnie's heads turn side to side like they're watching a tennis match as the siblings bicker back and forth.

“He didn’t have the brains god gave a flea!” 

"Oh, you're one to talk, James Barnes!" 

"What's that supposed to mean!?" 

"Exactly what it sounds like!"

It's like Steve's been transported back in time. He can see the little girl Becca used to be, with her long dark pigtails and a pink dress, fists shaking at her sides as she shouts at Bucky. 

"You didn't like dad?" Winnie interjects. 

Bucky's jaw snaps closed, as if he's only just remembered they have an audience. Still, he's much too stubborn to let it drop. "Not when he was always coming over here sniffing around my little sister, I didn't!" 

"Jack was a good man. He fought too, you know. Came back from the Pacific with some manners, if you'd care to listen,” Becca says sternly. 

Bucky eventually, if begrudgingly, admits it’s possible Jack got his head straightened out and matured past being the cocksure 17 year old Bucky remembered. Still, the childish piece of Bucky can’t let his sister win. He crosses his arms over his chest and grumbles, "He was still too forward.” 

Becca and Jack had three children, Winnie plus her two brothers, twins named James (Jim) and John Jr. (Jackie). Bucky haughtily informs Becca he's decided to forgive her for her terrible taste in husbands since she was thoughtful enough to name one of her sons after him. That's as close to an apology as Steve’s ever seen them get. 

Farm life suited Becca it seems. Her children were all involved in 4H and FFA and showed animals at the county fairs. Becca herself has won some ribbons for her crochet and quilt work. 

Jack died ten years ago. Prostate cancer. Winnie lives up the road and spends as much time with Becca as she can these days. Becca has thirteen grandchildren and four great grandchildren. Most still live in the area, though Jim moved up to West Lafayette after college. They’ll get to meet most of the crew tomorrow for Sunday dinner. 

Bucky and Steve explain a bare bones version of what happened to the two of them and how they've spent the last three years. Becca eyes his metal hand curiously. Bucky lets her examine it and explains that he has friends in another country that made it for him. She seems more concerned about the injury he’d sustained than the strangeness of his prosthetic. 

“I was so proud of you, Jimmy. I told everyone about my big brother out there fighting with Captain America. When I heard you fell-” her voice breaks. 

Bucky leans in to put a hand on her knee. “I’m sorry, Becks.” 

She waves a hand in the air as she sniffles. “It made sense to me, when I heard about Steve. It felt right. Like the two of you were together again.” 

“Well he couldn’t get rid of me that easy.” 

Becca gets tired around eight and declares it’s time for bed. She complains to them about getting old and lectures them on how grateful they should be for their young joints as she shuffles down the hallway, leaning heavily on her cane. 

Winnie shows them around the rest of the house and two upstairs bedrooms they can sleep in. She gives them a questioning look as she says it. “One’s enough,” Bucky says. Winnie nods like it’s nothing and leads them back down to the kitchen. They are instructed not to touch the majority of what’s in the fridge because it’s for tomorrow. Becca has promised them a feast to make up for all the missed birthdays and holidays. Winnie offers to make them something for dinner but Steve waves her off. Winnie hugs them both again and wishes them a good night before heading back to her own house for the night. 

The dogs follow Steve and Bucky curiously as they move through the house. Steve’s enchanted by a little terrier looking thing that spent all afternoon barking at them and nipping at the heels of the bigger dogs. 

Bucky laughs as he sets a plate piled high with sandwiches down on the kitchen table. “Figures you’d like the runt.” 

“We could get a dog,” Steve says as he scratches the terrier behind the ears. 

“We’ve got Alpine.”

“Maybe she likes dogs.” Bucky hums noncommittally and bites into a turkey sandwich. Steve studies him for a moment. “How you feeling about all this?” 

Bucky chews thoughtfully. “It’s good,” he says at length. “It’s strange.” 

“Sorry I sprung it on you. I thought if you had time to think about it you’d talk yourself out of it.”

“It’s okay. You’re right about that.” 

Steve starts feeding bits of turkey from his sandwich to the dogs. Eventually the mutts realize he’s run out of snacks and make their way back to Becca’s bedroom. 

Bucky fetches their bags from the car while Steve heads up to the guest bathroom. He pauses in the hallway. The walls are lined with framed photographs. In the center is a shadowbox containing a folded flag, a photo of Bucky in his uniform, all his medals, and a Howling Commando patch. Steve studies the cocky smile and glint in Bucky’s eyes. He looks so young. Carefree. That boy never could’ve imagined what his life would become. Steve’s startled out of his silent contemplation by Bucky’s soft voice. 

“On your left.” He taps Steve on the shoulder as he comes up to stand beside him. 

“I can hear just fine now.”

“Old habits.” Bucky stares at the shadowbox, face unreadable. His gaze shifts to consider the other photos. Some old and faded ones of his parents. Becca and Jack on their wedding day. Baby photos of Winnie and the twins. There’s even a photo of him and Steve as kids, sitting on the steps of the row house. He points at that one. “I remember that camera. Little black box. Pops was always interested in photography.” 

Steve remembers the camera too, though he doesn’t remember the day this picture was taken. It doesn’t surprise him that Becca has photos of him. He spent as much time at the Barnes’s place as he did his own apartment growing up. Steve’s home was quiet and well ordered. Entertainment consisted mainly of books, the funny papers, and radio shows. He spent hours drawing comics in his notebooks and dreaming up stories of his own. Otherwise, there wasn’t much to do. 

But Bucky’s house. Oh, Steve had loved Bucky’s house as a kid. Bucky had toys that Steve had only ever dreamed of owning. Lincoln Logs, army men, an erector set. Marbles, jacks, tiddlywinks, a pop gun, and a stick horse. One year for Christmas he even got a toy train set. You’d think having all that would’ve turned him into a spoiled brat, but Bucky was anything but. He was generous and kind and never made a fuss about the lack of toys at Steve’s house. He never minded going to Steve’s apartment either, even though it was a stuffy one bedroom in a rundown tenement building. 

Of course, their imaginations were really the only thing they’d needed to have a good time back in those days. In their minds they were cowboys, space men, and arctic explorers. They ran away with the circus, visited Atlantis, and flew around the world all before the streetlamps came on. They walked all over the city. They climbed trees in the park, threw rocks off the pier, and built sand castles at the beach. Bucky’d never made Steve feel like anything less than his best friend. 

Other kids used to make fun of Bucky and call him a mama’s boy on account of the way his mother doted on him. Mrs. Barnes had Bucky and his sister later in life, relatively speaking. She had Bucky in her mid-thirties, after years and years of trying for a baby and losing several. Becca followed a few years later. Steve supposed it was true that Mrs. Barnes babied Bucky a bit. She often called Bucky her miracle baby, and Steve was inclined to agree. There was certainly something miraculous about the kind but tough little kid that befriended Steve way back when. 

“She had a whole life,” Bucky says suddenly. “She lost everyone. Ma, Pops, me, you. And she still…” He trails off, pensive. 

“Becca was always strong.” 

“Stronger than she should’ve needed to be.”

“Well you could write the book on that.” 

Bucky concedes the point with a raise of his eyebrows. He gestures broadly to the wall of photos. “You ever think about that? Family?” 

“You’re my family.” 

“Yeah, just. You know what I mean?” Bucky watches him curiously. 

Steve takes a moment to really think about it. For the longest time, family meant his mother. Sarah Rogers was a young widow in a time when being a single mother was frowned upon, nevermind the reasons for it. Women had limited options for work, so the Rogers were essentially forced into poverty. It was expected that Sarah would move on and remarry, especially since she had a young child to look after. But she didn’t do that. Steve couldn’t even remember her going out with anyone. She kept a photo of Steve’s father in her bedroom for as long as Steve could remember. 

Looking back now, he supposes he was a lonely kid. He spent a great deal of time home alone. When he was very little Sarah would find a neighbor to watch him, but by the time he was seven he was expected to stay home on his own when she was at work. She often worked overnights at the hospital because the pay was so much better. Every night he got the same speech. Don’t touch the stove, don’t open the door for anyone, go straight to bed, and get Mrs.O'Leary down the hall if anything goes wrong. 

So Steve learned early on how to be independent. He helped his mother as much as he could. Cleaned up the apartment, helped with the cooking, ran errands so she could sleep during the day. Sometimes it was hard to get out and move around. Sometimes his body hurt badly. But he did what he had to do. Steve walked himself to school every morning, made his own breakfasts, and spent many nights laying awake startling at every creek of the building and noise on the street. 

That wasn’t to say Sarah wasn’t loving. She was; deeply so. Steve had never doubted Sarah loved him. It was just practicality. She was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and if she had to choose between putting food on the table and being there to tuck Steve in at night, well. She chose the food. 

Other kids weren’t interested in hanging around a guy like Steve back then. He was obviously small, sickly, and poor. He wore clothes that were too big for him and well out of fashion, couldn’t afford the Brylcreem that Bucky used to slick his hair back, and stuffed his shoes with newspapers to soak up the water that seeped in from the holes in the soles. 

He remembers the way his face turned red when another boy pointed out the coat Steve was wearing was one he’d donated to the charity shop at the church. Bucky’d gone after the kid, but the damage was already done. He remembers the shame and humiliation. The way the other kids had laughed. 

The Barneses were never like that. They never treated him as though he was less than. They never made him feel excluded. So when he thinks about family, he thinks of his mother, yes. But he pictures Bucky’s family too. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't ever wanted the kind of life Bucky had as a kid. 

“I haven’t in a long time,” Steve answers. “Used to think, you know. House in the suburbs, white picket fence, three kids.”

“A wife.” 

Steve chuckles. “Lot has changed since then.” 

Bucky shakes his head in disbelief. “I’ve got a niece. And nephews. Great nieces and nephews.” 

“And you’ll be too exhausted to meet them tomorrow if you don’t get some sleep.” 

“It’s nine PM, Steve. I’m not really a hundred years old, you know.” 

“Whatever you say, old man.” 

Bucky swats Steve on the ass and heads to the guest room. 

The rest of the family arrives early the next morning. Bucky’s nephews, Jim and Jackie, are identical twins. They bear a striking resemblance to George Barnes, Bucky’s father. They’ve inherited the same icy blue eyes as Bucky has. Jim, named James after Bucky, is a professor at Purdue. “Wish Ma would’ve kept her maiden name sometimes,” he confides in Bucky and Steve. “Dr. Barnes rolls off the tongue a little easier than Dr. Proctor.” 

Jackie joined the Navy at eighteen, did his twenty years, and retired. He works on the railroads now, as a diesel mechanic. Neither of them seem to find it at all remarkable that their uncle is about half their age. In fact, the entire family accepts the strangeness of the situation with the good humor and level headedness Steve has come to expect from Midwesterners. Shit happens. Life goes on.  

The younger grandchildren are immediately taken with Bucky and Steve. Once the initial excitement of meeting Captain America wears off they're ready to pepper them with questions and see just what their super strength can do. Steve throws his shield out into one of the fields, beheading stalks of corn in a long line. They run sprints around the yard, sometimes carrying a kid or two who scream with laughter at the speed. Bucky lets two kids hang off his metal arm while Steve does pushups with a further three sitting on his back. When he switches to doing one handed they all cheer. Bucky rolls his eyes. “Show off.” 

Eventually the whole thing devolves into Steve doing backflips off the porch and lifting Bucky up into the air like they’re a two man cheerleading squad. “You oughta take that show on the road,” a grandson remarks. 

“Steve was already a sideshow act. Tell ‘em, Steve.” 

“Nah, nah. That’s okay.” 

“Oh come on, spoilsport.” 

“You know what? I think I hear Becca calling us.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes but follows Steve inside to snack on relish trays, pigs in a blanket, ham and cream cheese rolls, and a seemingly endless supply of crackers and cheese. Becca’s seated in the kitchen, directing the whole affair as various family members contribute to the cooking. Bucky is volun-told to come help too, which he does happily. Steve awkwardly stands by the food and listens to Bucky and Becca catch up. 

Steve has never experienced family like this before. His parents immigrated before he was born and left all their extended family behind in Ireland, so it was always just Steve and Sarah. He’d only ever heard about the Shelbyville Barneses. Growing up, Bucky spent a month or so here every summer visiting his father’s side of the family. He always wrote Steve during that time. Usually complaints about how boring it was and how much he missed the city. Seeing it now, Steve can't fathom why Bucky hated it so much. 

When dinner- which is really more like a late lunch- is ready they all gather around the dining room table and a variety of extra side tables and TV trays. The family is too big to all sit in one place together but Steve and Bucky are sat in the dining room with Becca, her children, and their spouses. They regale the younger generations with stories from their childhoods. 

“He wasn’t always like this, you have to remember. He used to be a scrawny little thing,” Becca says. “No offense, Steve.” 

“None taken.” 

“You remember when we met?” Bucky asks, eyes sparkling at him over his forkful of prime rib. 

“How could I forget? It’s not often a guy gets two black eyes.” 

Bucky launches into a story about Steve as a little kid, spitting mad and defending a little dog from kids throwing rocks at it. Mrs. Barnes had heard the commotion and came out to meet them, waving Bucky’s baseball bat. Bucky came out with her in just his slippers, wielding her rolling pin like it was a bat. The cherry on top was Bucky holding his nose to imitate Steve’s swollen face as he introduced himself, “Hi, by dame id Theben.” The family laughs as Bucky finishes with a grin, “Took me until the next day to work out his name was Steve. He was always Ma’s favorite after that.” 

“I was not.”

“Oh yes you were!” Becca protests. “She acted like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth when really you were the worst of us all!” 

Steve’s cheeks tinge pink as Becca and Bucky recount every scrape and half cocked plan he’d ever been involved in. To hear Bucky tell it, he and Steve had gotten their asses kicked in every alleyway in Brooklyn. They talk about the city for a while. How it’s changed, how it’s the same. 

“You still dance, Jimmy?”

“Um…” Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Not really. Dancing’s changed since we were kids.”

“You mean you’re not going out clubbing with the Avengers?” Jim teases. 

“I’m sure Tony would go with you,” Steve says innocently. 

“Tony Stark? Oh you could introduce me to him any time,” Winnie says with a sly smirk. 

“Hey!” Her husband protests. 

“Jimmy was the biggest flirt back in the day,” Becca says. “You remember, Steve?” 

“Fell in love with someone every other week, it seemed like.” 

“That’s an exaggeration.” 

“It’s not,” Becca says. “Half my friends were in love with you too. They’d come over and it was all 'oh, is your brother home?'” She bats her eyelashes exaggeratedly. “Those comic books didn’t help, by the way. They made posters of you, did you know that?” 

Bucky’s eyes go wide. “They did what?”

“Dolls, posters, even stuffed bears. You were a teen heartthrob.” 

Steve inhales his bite of roll and starts choking. Bucky slaps him on the back, harder than is strictly necessary. “You going to make it, pal?”

“Yeah,” Steve wheezes. He laughs through his coughs. “Think we could get one of your posters?”

“Can it, Rogers. Least I wasn’t a chorus girl.” 

At some point someone gets up and starts clearing plates. There’s a flurry of activity as everyone clears up and separates leftovers for everyone to take home. When it’s all finished someone calls for a photo. 

They stand in the yard in front of the house while a couple of grandchildren create a tripod out of carefully balanced boxes and a chair. They arrange the family just so until they’re satisfied. Becca sits in a chair in the center, Bucky on her right. She looks around and spots Steve hiding off to one side. “Steve! Get over here.” 

“Oh that’s- that’s okay. If you want just family-“ He is immediately shouted down by the whole crowd, who insist he’s family too. Steve slinks over to sit on Becca’s left. The grandchildren set a timer on the phone and run back to join the picture. Once they’re satisfied everyone drifts back inside. Some of the smaller children are put down for naps in spare bedrooms. 

“Jackie, there’s a couple of boxes in my room, would you fetch them?” Becca requests from her armchair. 

Steve and Bucky are sat on a couch as the family gathers around. Bucky raises an eyebrow at him in question. Steve shrugs. He doesn’t know what Becca’s up to. Jackie sets the boxes on the coffee table in front of them. 

Bucky reaches forward and slowly opens the lid. When he sees the contents he freezes, lips pressed together into a thin line. Steve reaches out and opens his own box. It’s their things. Things from their old apartment. He reaches in slowly. There are photos, letters, an old sketchbook. His mother’s wedding ring, a photo of his father. His eyes and throat burn. 

Bucky appears similarly misty eyed as he pulls out a silver chain and lets it unspool. His dog tags. He slips them over his head and scrubs at his eyes. “Thank you,” he tells Becca wetly. The whole family “awwws” as Steve and Bucky both wrap Becca up in a hug. Bucky lifts her feet up off the ground and spins her around. When he sets her down she slaps him in the arm for the trouble. 

After that, some of the younger family members organize a game of euchre. A brief but impassioned argument ensues as they determine teams and who gets Steve and Bucky. Steve begs off after a few games in favor of just sitting beside Bucky and watching. At some point someone pushes a baby into his arms and the whole room erupts into laughter at the panicked look on his face. Bucky snaps a picture and does absolutely nothing to rescue him from the infant until her mother intervenes and takes her back. “They don’t bite,” Bucky says. 

“They could,” Steve shoots back. 

Bucky rolls his eyes fondly. 

Steve sneaks out for some air as the evening wears on. The porch light throws a square of yellow across the yard. Two of the dogs wander this way and that, snuffling in the grass and clover. He sits on the swing on the big wraparound porch and watches the flashes of fireflies as the sun goes down. It’s quiet save for the hum of insects and rumble of conversation inside. He could get used to something like this. 

Steve’s peace is interrupted by the banging of the screen door. He watches as Bucky stands still for a moment, taking in the sight of green fields and darkening purple sky. Then he spots Steve and comes to sit beside him on the porch swing. Bucky leans against his shoulder as Steve wraps an arm around him. They stare out across the fields. “I’m supposed to be telling you dessert is ready.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. They’re calling me Uncle Jimmy,” Bucky says. “Calling you Uncle Steve.” 

Steve raises an eyebrow at that. “You tell ‘em?” 

“Becca says we oughta go ahead and get married before she dies and can’t make it to the wedding.” 

Steve chuckles at that one. “Do you want to? Get married?” The thought sends Steve's stomach fluttering. 

Bucky makes a noncommittal noise. “Why, you asking?” 

“No. Just wondering if… someday?” 

“Yeah. Someday, maybe.” Bucky snuggles closer and breathes deep. “Thank you. For this.” 

Steve squeezes his shoulders and plants a kiss on the top of his head. “Should we get back in there?” 

“Yeah.” Fireflies light up the night in streaks of yellow. Bucky makes no move to stand.

Chapter Text

It’s four in the morning and Bucky’s already up for the day. He sits crosslegged on the king size bed in their hotel room, one of the photo albums Becca gave him open on his lap. The hotel room is nice; decked out in shades of cream, orange, and red. The bedside lamp throws a warm glow over the room. The sound of the fan and Steve’s off key crooning floats in from the bathroom. They're both up early after Steve had a nightmare. Not a huge deal. It happens to both of them still, now and then. They’ve had an emotionally taxing few days, so really it’s surprising it took this long for one of them to wake up shouting. 

After he couldn’t go back to sleep, Steve went down to the hotel’s gym and tried out their treadmill for an hour. At that point sleep was a lost cause for Bucky anyway, so he got up too. Chicago hasn’t gotten off to the best start.

It’s amazing they actually made it to the city at all, considering the sheer number of hugs and well wishes they had to endure from various relatives as they packed up the car yesterday. Becca’d hugged Steve, kissed him on the cheek, and then threatened to kill him if he did wrong by her brother, Captain America be damned. She then gave Bucky the same shovel talk on Steve's behalf, since he didn't have anyone else to look out for him. They promised a return visit soon. 

It was a short drive from Shelbyville to Chicago, only three and a half hours. But between the late start and the slow crawl of traffic on the South Side, they didn't arrive at the hotel until well after dark. A snow storm blew in behind them. Chicago isn't exactly paradise in mid-March. Even now, Bucky can hear the wind beating against the window. He's grateful for the noisy radiator keeping the room at a comfortable temperature. 

The chain around Bucky's neck is warm where he absentmindedly rolls it between his forefinger and thumb. He flips through the photo album. It's filled with faces he never thought he’d see again. Bucky’s memory isn’t always the best. He figures he’s recovered most things, although a lot of his time at HYDRA is and will most likely remain fuzzy. Cameras weren’t as common in the 20s and 30s as they are now, so there aren’t that many pictures of him and his family. But there are some. Bucky can pick out the faces of aunts, uncles, and cousins he hasn’t thought about in years. Most likely they’re all dead now, even the kids.

Bucky heaves a sigh. Becca is some kind of miracle. 

Steve is, perhaps, an even bigger one. 

One day, Bucky's probably going to wake up and realize Steve was all a dream. How could someone like that be real? How do you even begin to thank someone for all Steve's done? The birthday party, the road trip, finding his family. Before that, even. Bringing Bucky in, helping him heal, lending his patience as Bucky regained his memories, supporting him through the bumpy, pothole riddled road to recovery. Steve's the kindest, most generous person Bucky's ever known. He loves him more than words can express. 

Bucky smiles at the way Steve’s voice cracks trying to hit a high note. The idea of marriage tumbles over and over like a stone in Bucky's mind, wearing itself smooth with each pass. Is he ready for a step like that? How would he know? Who could he even ask? It's not like he's got a lot of married friends. 

There aren't any real barriers to getting engaged, is the thing. Steve will almost certainly say yes. He's all but asked Bucky already. It's just... Bucky doesn't know what's stopping him. His own anxiety? The sense that he might not be worthy of Steve? But that's stupid. He has ample evidence that Steve loves him. Fear of rejection? Maybe... It would be devastating if Steve said no. But Steve wouldn't say no. He said himself he wants to get married someday. Or maybe that's just him saying things, and if Bucky asked he would laugh in his face-

No. That's catastrophizing.

Look at that, Bucky's aware. His therapist oughta be proud. 

How would he even go about proposing? There's no rule book for things like this. It obviously needs to be romantic. Something big and meaningful yet quiet and personal. Or maybe something unexpected. He could burst into the bathroom right now and fall down on one knee while Steve's in the shower. It'd be memorable, if nothing else. 

Bucky perks up at the sound of the water shutting off. A few moments later Steve emerges from the bathroom in a burst of steam, towel slung low around his hips and water dripping from his hair. It trails in long rivulets over his chest and back. And Christ, Bucky’s only a man. 

He closes the photo album and sets it on the bedside table. All thoughts of romance and proposals fly out of his head at the sight of Steve's bare skin. He's downright irresistible. Steve rummages through their suitcases for clothes. The muscles in his back and shoulders are on full display, the towel giving a tantalizing peek at the base of his spine and the curve of his ass. Bucky sidles up behind him and rests his hands on either side of Steve’s hips. “Hey, good looking.” 

“Hey.” 

“Feeling better?” 

Steve pauses in his search for clothes. An excellent decision, if you ask Bucky. “Much.” 

Bucky leans in and buries his nose into the juncture between Steve’s shoulder and neck. He inhales deeply. Smells like clean skin and the lavender body wash Bucky uses that Steve claims not to steal but does. “You smell good.” 

“I hope so. I just showered.” Bucky doesn’t need to see his face to know the mischievous little grin he’s sure to be wearing. 

“You always smell good.” He kisses the base of Steve’s neck and smiles when Steve’s breath hitches. Bucky reaches for the towel around his waist and dips his thumbs underneath it, teasing. “Mind taking this off?” 

“You trying to seduce me?” 

“Depends. Is it working?” 

“Maybe. Let’s find out.” Bucky pulls the towel loose and lets it drop carelessly to the floor. He runs his hands up and down Steve’s hips and thighs. His hands move like they’ve got a mind of their own. Not for the first time, Bucky wishes his metal hand was as sensitive as his flesh one. He can feel the steamy warmth radiating off of Steve’s skin in his right hand, but the sensation is dulled in his left. Frustrating. Bucky presses himself against Steve’s back and mouths at his neck. He feels Steve shiver against his chest. 

“Looks like it’s working,” Bucky murmurs into Steve’s ear. 

“Yeah,” Steve sighs. His hips stutter as Bucky curls a hand around him. Finally, Steve can’t take it anymore and spins in Bucky’s arms. 

Their mouths meet in a charged but lazy kiss. It’s good. It’s exactly what Bucky wants. He dips his tongue into Steve’s mouth and marches him backward until his knees hit the bed and he sits with a huff. Bucky leans over Steve and takes his face in his hands as the kiss deepens. Bucky scratches his fingers against the stubble on Steve’s cheeks. He could get used to this beard thing. Steve reaches for Bucky’s waist, tries to pull him in closer. 

It’s fun like this. Steve all fresh and clean and exposed while Bucky’s still fully clothed. His pajamas are damp in all the places he’s pressed up against Steve’s body, but Bucky couldn’t care less at the moment. Steve gives Bucky’s lower lip a bite, just the way he likes, and it sends a shiver shooting up Bucky’s spine. He breaks the kiss with a gasp. “Lay down,” he commands. 

Steve lays back to rest on his elbows so he can still see what Bucky’s up to. Bucky drops to his knees between Steve’s legs and wastes no time putting his mouth to work there. God it’s good like this. He can hear Steve’s breath quicken into helpless little pants, feel the way his thighs quiver and jerk under his hands. Bucky settles into a rhythm that has Steve’s hips pushing up for more soon enough. Steve comes with a strangled cry. 

“Jesus,” Steve pants, staring up at the ceiling. Bucky pulls off with a self-satisfied smirk. 

“Flip over.” Bucky’s own erection is vying for his attention, but that can wait. 

Steve moves slowly, like he’s dragging himself through molasses. But eventually he lays on his front with his head resting on one of the pillows. Bucky hops up on the bed with him and sets to work massaging his way up from his feet to his calves and hips. He digs the heel of his hand into Steve’s back along the edges of his spine. “Oh my god,” Steve groans. Bucky keeps up the attention, paying special mind to the knots he can feel around Steve’s shoulders.

Bucky presses kisses along the line of his spine, every place he can reach. No one else gets to see this. No one else gets to see the way Steve relaxes under Bucky’s touch. No one else gets to hear the little gasps and groans Steve lets out as Bucky kneads his muscles like dough. This is how Steve should always be. Relaxed. Content. All the usual tension he carries in his posture melts away under Bucky’s sure hands. Bucky feels a little burst of pride that he can give this to Steve; that his touch can make Steve feel good. 

The other members of the Avengers make fun of him sometimes, for how openly affectionate he is with Steve. But he spent years and years and years without any kind of affection- physical or otherwise. His hands were only ever put to one purpose, made awfully clear to him from the moment they fused the metal to his shoulder. 

But Steve sighs into the sensation of cool metal against his skin. Doesn’t ever flinch away. Doesn’t ever treat it like anything other than Bucky’s arm, even when Bucky has a hard time thinking of it that way himself. And Bucky craves it. Craves the way Steve responds to him so positively. Preens under the praise Steve gives him, that he has magical hands that fix all the stress Steve carries in his back. Bucky could let his fingertips trace over every inch of Steve, all day long, if only Steve would let him. 

Once Steve’s dissolved into a content puddle on the mattress, Bucky strips down and digs through the bags for the bottle of lube. He opens Steve up on his fingers, slow and careful just like everything else. Steve sighs when Bucky finally pushes inside. Bucky rolls his hips and takes his time. He keeps pressing kisses to Steve’s back and shoulders and whispers into his ear about how much he loves him. When Bucky finishes he rolls them onto their sides and throws a leg over Steve’s hip, entangling them further. 

Steve snuggles in against Bucky’s chest. “I should’ve just skipped the gym.” 

“You like running,” Bucky counters. 

“Yeah. But this is nice.” He smooths a hand down Bucky’s thigh. 

“Mhm.” Bucky runs his fingers through Steve’s damp hair, detangling the unruly blond locks.  

Steve is a terrible cuddler, which is unfortunate because he has so much potential. Bucky can manage to be the big spoon for five minutes or so before Steve gets antsy. If Steve is feeling especially loving or sleepy they might get twenty minutes together. What Bucky really likes is for Steve to lay on top of him until he’s half crushed, but that is rare indeed. Steve always frets about stupid, unimportant things like whether or not Bucky can breathe. 

So Steve is the one who starts to wriggle and fidget and finally gets up to clean up and get dressed. Bucky follows reluctantly. 

“What are we doing today?” Bucky asks as he pulls on a sweater. 

“Breakfast first. And then I’ve got plans.” 

“Alright, Mr. Star Spangled Man,” Bucky teases. 

“You know what, Barnes?” Steve leaves the rest of the threat unspoken. 

“It’s a bean,” Bucky says flatly. He stares up at the giant metal sculpture shining in the thin Chicago sunlight. His breath steams in the cold winter air. It’s stopped snowing, but Chicago in March isn’t exactly attractive, weather-wise. 

“It’s called Cloud Gate,” Steve says as he stares up at the sculpture. 

“Except it’s a bean. A giant, shiny bean.” Bucky's unimpressed. 

“Well, yeah.”

“What’s the point?” 

“You don’t like it? I thought it was very sci-fi.” 

“I like it fine. It’s a nice giant metal bean. Best one I’ve ever seen.” 

“See?” 

“You don’t know shit about this thing, do you?”

Steve hums and pretends to be distracted by his phone. “We should take a picture. Come on.” 

Bucky gives him a knowing look but leans in and smiles as Steve holds his phone out for a selfie. Well, it should be one selfie. But it’s Steve, so Bucky endures taking about a million more pictures than is necessary, all from different angles. “That’s enough. I’m going to be a hundred and one before we ever get to the museum.” 

“I like to have options,” Steve defends himself as he scrolls through the photos. 

St. Patrick’s Day has the entire city in a chokehold. Downtown is a sea of green, right down to the noxious looking dye in the river. Half the city is already downtown and drunk, despite Steve and Bucky getting an early start on things. Steve wears a green t-shirt under his jacket that says Kiss me, I’m Irish in white font. Whenever Steve catches his eye, Bucky does an exaggerated double take before leaning in for a kiss. No one seems to notice or care, which is absolutely thrilling.  

Steve's plan for today, it turns out, is to visit the Art Institute of Chicago. The Institute is housed in a wide stone building on Michigan Avenue. Two giant bronze lion statues stand at either side of the entrance. With all the tourist activity being drawn toward the St. Patrick’s Day celebrations, the museum is pretty quiet. 

“They’ve got all kinds of classic works by American artists,” Steve says as they climb the steps. 

“You know, I could get a much closer look at a classic piece of American art in our bedroom.” 

Steve shoots him an unimpressed look. Bucky waggles his eyebrows suggestively until Steve finally rolls his eyes and turns away before Bucky can see him smile. Bucky follows happily in Steve’s wake as they enter the museum. 

As long as they’ve known each other, Steve has been an artist. When they were kids Steve would draw caricatures of their teachers or copy the comic strip characters from the funny papers. As they got older, they made their own comic books together. Steve would draw the pictures while Bucky made up most of the plots and villains. As a teen, Steve started to take his art more seriously. His sketchbook became filled with life drawings, studies of hands and faces, and scenes from the street. 

Bucky was often the subject of Steve’s drawings back then. He got very good at sitting still in the face of Steve’s scrutiny. He supposes that was one skill that transferred over into being a sniper during the war. Bucky liked being the sole focus of Steve’s attention, though he would’ve rather died than admit it as a teenager. There was something thrilling about Steve looking at him so intently, breaking his body down into shapes and shadows and transferring it to the page. Bucky can still picture Steve’s face with his brows drawn together in concentration and tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth as he worked. 

The careful lines of charcoal or graphite in Steve's sketchbook would take shape into something like Bucky, but better. His every feature was enhanced by Steve’s interpretation of him. Bucky dared to hope that was how Steve really saw him. As something better. Someone who shined from the inside. Someone to be treasured. Someone worthy of the attention Steve gave him. Bucky was desperate back then for any crumb of affection he could get from his best friend. Seeing himself translated onto the page by Steve's hands felt a little bit like being loved. 

All those old feelings rise up in him again as he tags along at Steve’s side. Steve’s face shines as he tells Bucky about American Modernism. It was a whole movement back in their time. Art made for the people, not just for academics. Bucky can see the scrappy little Brooklyn artist bursting out of Steve as they wander through the museum. Steve becomes their impromptu tour guide, filling Bucky in on all there is to know about his favorite pieces. 

As they walk, Bucky pulls his phone out and texts Natasha. Requesting status update. 

A few minutes later Nat responds with, Subject has eaten breakfast and defeated enemy birds outside window. Requesting permission for additional snacks. She sends a selfie with Alpine standing on her shoulders and looking into the camera. 

Request granted. Excellent work, Bucky replies. 

“You two are ridiculous,” Steve says fondly when Bucky holds the phone up for him to see. 

They stop for a while in front of a painting of a diner at night. Three people sit inside, a single man and a bored looking couple. A soda jerk in a white cap works behind the counter. 

Steve’s enraptured by it. “It’s about loneliness,” he says. 

Bucky studies the nighttime New York scene. The harsh fluorescent lighting of the diner stands in stark contrast to the darkness outside. The way the painting is done through the window, as though the viewer is standing out on the street, instead of inside the diner itself. The patrons look bored and disconnected. Even the couple look uninterested in one another. He supposes he agrees with Steve’s assessment. 

Steve knows a thing or two about loneliness, though Bucky really wishes he didn’t. Steve was never exactly destined for popularity with his fragile health and artist’s temperament. He was a surly teen. He had a chip on his shoulder and something to prove, though he would've socked Bucky in the jaw if he'd ever dared say so. Steve loved to argue, especially when he knew he was right, and while he won plenty of debates he didn’t win many friends. He has a tendency toward isolation that worries Bucky to this day. 

A few years ago, when Bucky started gaining his memories back, he was alarmed to discover that Steve had stopped drawing completely. That was like a blinking neon sign hanging over his head that something was desperately wrong. The Avengers hadn’t known to look for the massive red flag because Steve had never mentioned his artwork at all. Seeing Steve without his fingers stained black from charcoal or ink frightened the hell out of Bucky. 

He’d been right, of course, that Steve was depressed back then. Turns out growing up poor, chronically ill, and fully expecting to die before the age of thirty impacts a guy mentally. Turns out that impact doesn’t go away when you get turned into a perfectly healthy supersoldier. Also, there was the war. And watching his best friend die. And being frozen in ice for seventy years. And finding out everyone he knew was dead. And finding out the agency his friends started had been infiltrated by the very organization they were trying to fight. And helping said best friend come back from the dead. There was that too. It took a few months but Steve finally, reluctantly, admitted that he wasn’t doing so hot. 

It was much harder for Steve to find a therapist than it had been for Bucky. He’d gone through a few different ones. Some didn’t feel equipped to treat him, some he just didn't like, and one memorably gushed to him about what a big fan he was of Captain America. (Bucky’d cussed that guy out. Oops.) But then Sam told them about art therapy, and that had been a breakthrough. Steve had always been better at expressing himself through art than words anyway, so it was the perfect fit. He’d spent the first several weeks of sessions filling up a sketchbook with tiny overlapping crosshatched lines that filled each page until it was black. At first, a lot of his drawings were alarming like that. Monochrome black and white pictures of lone figures, icy landscapes, stormy waters, and cold steel. Later, color began to appear. Bucky recognized the electric blue of the Tesseract weapons, the shady green of pine forests, the darker blue of Bucky's old coat, and well, it wasn't hard to know what all the red was. 

Ever so slowly, Bucky watched Steve return to himself. Steve drew, and painted, and even started taking glass blowing classes. He started entertaining new ideas. Maybe his only purpose on this earth didn’t have to be risking life and limb. Maybe he could make beautiful things too. Maybe being useful wasn’t his only value. Maybe he could rely on other people. Maybe being vulnerable wasn’t always a bad thing. 

Bucky slips his hand into Steve’s and squeezes. Steve squeezes back and gives him a quizzical look. "Just thinking," Bucky reassures him. 

"Don't hurt yourself." 

Bucky rolls his eyes. 

The next painting to catch Steve’s attention is of a man and woman standing in front of a farmhouse. The man wears round glasses and a suit jacket over a pair of overalls. He holds a pitchfork in his hand. He stares out of the painting toward the viewer. The woman’s gaze falls to the side. Her hair is pinned back neatly and she wears a cameo brooch at her neck and a dark colored dress.  

“So that’s his daughter?” Bucky asks incredulously as he snaps a picture of the painting. He sends it to the group chat. Clint, these your folks?  He receives a middle finger emoji in response. 

“Yes.”

“What’s it mean?” 

“Well it’s interesting, actually. Some people say…” 

Bucky lets himself zone out a little as Steve rambles about the debated meanings of American Gothic. He’s more interested in watching the way Steve’s eyes light up as he speaks. Bucky could do this all day. The art is wonderful, yes, but watching Steve experience the art is much better. The way his lips part just slightly when he studies the artwork, how his eyes dart to and fro, taking it all in. The way he says ‘beautiful’ like he really means it. 

Bucky gets lost in the low rumble of Steve's voice and the motion of his hands as he gestures at the artwork. He grows more passionate by the second, spurred on by having someone there to listen. And Bucky's never been terribly interested in art, not the way Steve is. Writing has always been more of his thing. But he loves seeing Steve like this. Fundamentally, if he had to break it down, Bucky loves doing life with Steve. Everything is better when Steve is there. His whole life, every little experience, is enhanced because it is shared. The highs are made higher, the lows less devastating. The nightmares aren't so bad, the darkness not so dark, the shame not so overwhelming.

When they’re apart, Bucky counts down the minutes until they’ll be together again. Steve's is the only hand Bucky wants to hold. He’s the face Bucky searches for in every crowd. He’s the one he wants to talk to, he’s the one who shares in Bucky’s joys and tears and fears. He's the one Bucky wants to wake up with and spend the day with and fall asleep with again at night. He's the one. He's always been the one. 

And Bucky could make it on his own. He could. He's more than capable. But god, why would he ever want to? It'd be like choosing to swim in a kiddie pool when you know the ocean exists. 

Steve pauses mid-sentence. "Buck?" 

Bucky's got an absolutely stupid grin stuck on his face, but he can't get rid of it for the life of him. He has to put real effort into keeping the words marry me off his lips. "Sorry. Sorry, I'm listening. I just like seeing you like this, that's all." 

Steve scowls at him, embarrassed all of a sudden. That won't do. Bucky pecks him on the lips. "Really, Steve. I want to hear all about it." 

That gets Steve smiling again. He hops back into his lecture, right where he left off. Bucky makes a special effort to keep his face in line and not give away his sappy train of thought.  

The next stop is a giant pile of wrapped candies sitting on the floor. Steve’s excitement dims as they approach. “You can take the candy,” Steve says. “It represents his lover. He died of AIDS in the 80s. It’s about grief and the passage of time.” Bucky takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. Steve reaches for his hand. They don’t linger. 

They round a corner and find a painting of a man with a bright red beard. Thick brushstrokes lend the impression of movement to the piece. 

“That’s Van Gogh,” Bucky exclaims as they approach. “I know that one.” 

“Yeah, it’s one of his self-portraits.”

The Van Gogh exhibit contains a number of his paintings. A large map on one wall shows where in France each piece was done. They enter a large space dedicated to three oil paintings of Van Gogh’s bedroom, all nearly identical to one another. The small room is sparsely furnished, with a bed, small table, and two chairs. 

“Home was a big motif for him,” Steve says. 

“What’s a motif?” 

“Like a theme. Home, family, human connection. Did you know he was probably depressed? He spent some time in an asylum.” 

Bucky sees why Steve's drawn to these paintings. He feels suddenly grateful for Sam and Nat's presence in Steve's life, and that Bucky was able to return when he did. Bucky ponders the three paintings of the small bedroom. “You oughta paint our home.” 

“But I’ve already painted you,” Steve says sweetly. He bats his eyelashes for effect. 

“Oh my god,” Bucky groans and shoves him in the shoulder. He turns away quickly to hide the warmth spreading over his cheeks. 

The next room is filled with pieces of armor and swords. Two fully armored knights ride on horseback in the central display. 

“Now this one I get,” Bucky announces. 

“Figured you’d like this one.” 

Bucky peers through the glass at one of the longswords hanging on the wall. “You think anyone would notice if we grabbed one and ran?” 

“Yes, Buck," Steve says patiently. "I think everyone would notice.” 

Bucky smiles at the fond eye roll Steve gives him. Bucky studies the plate armor. The way the metal is shaped to slide easily so the knight beneath can move. Some of it is etched with intricate, floral designs. It's beautiful. Almost like a tattoo worked into the metal. Maybe Shuri and Stark could do something like that in their next iteration of his arm. 

He wanders around the central display, looking up at the knights on their horses. It must have been heavy and warm under all that metal. He wonders how the knights felt when they took it all off. Did it leave them feeling vulnerable and exposed? Or was it a relief to leave all that weight behind? He flexes his left hand and listens to the almost imperceptible whir of the plates rearranging themselves under his sleeve and glove.

“Just one sword,” he says. “Who would miss just one?” 

“We’ll knight you. Sir James of Brooklyn.” Steve holds out his arm and mimes tapping Bucky on each shoulder with an imaginary blade.  

“That could be fun. I’ll be a knight, you be my Maid Marion.” 

“Why do I have to be Maid Marion?” 

“What, you don’t think you’d look good in a dress?” 

“Hm. Maybe we should try it out some time.” 

Bucky blinks in surprise as Steve starts to walk away to the next exhibit. “Wait, really?” He half jogs to catch back up. “Wait, Steve, really?” 

The last stop of Steve’s tour is Whistler’s Mother, a dark painting of an old woman dressed all in black. Her face is pale, skin wrinkled, and hair a shiny gray under her white cap. “People say it symbolizes motherhood,” Steve says. His shoulders slump almost imperceptibly.

Bucky knocks his hip into Steve’s and considers the portrait. Neither of their own mothers ever made it to old age. “She’s beautiful,” Bucky declares. 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees hoarsely. Steve shoves his hands into his coat pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Did you know Mom never dated anyone? She never- there was nobody. I think she just- Dad was it. For her.” 

Bucky stares straight ahead, but cocks his head slightly so Steve can see he’s listening. 

“There’s a memorial in Prospect Park. His name is on it.” 

“The angel one?” 

“Yeah. I used to go sometimes. Just to find it.” Steve grimaces. “I don’t know. Just wanted something, I guess. I know it’s strange.” 

“It’s not. I wish you would’ve gotten to know him.” 

“Mom always said I reminded her of him.” 

“Well, if he was anything like you then he was a good man.” 

Steve grimaces. “Mom used to take me to his grave twice a year. His birthday and the day he died.” Bucky listens quietly. Holds space for whatever Steve wants to say. “I always thought it was dumb, back then. Embarrassing. She would stand there and talk to his headstone like he was standing in front of us. Tell him all about how I was doing in school, what I was interested in. Her job, her life. And I remember one year I asked her why she was doing all that when he couldn’t hear her anyway. And she just smiled at me that way she had and said ‘grief makes people do funny things, Steven.’” 

Bucky knows a thing or two about grief. How it changes the shape of you. Like someone reaching in behind your ribs and squashing and stretching all of your deepest, most hidden parts like clay. 

Steve stares straight ahead as he continues. “I never forgot that. And when she passed I- I understood, then. And I started going. Twice a year, every year. Her birthday and the day she...”

Sarah Rogers died on a cold, clear spring morning in 1937, a few months before Steve turned nineteen. She was only a little older than they are now. Bucky imagines himself in her place, dying slowly and knowing she was leaving her son behind. He can't imagine the fear she must have felt in those last few months. He’d promised her back then that he would look after Steve. He wonders how she would feel about the job he’s done. 

“When’s the last time you went to see her?” he asks softly. 

Steve's hand slips out of his pocket to rub at the back of his neck. “1943,” he says ruefully. “Before I shipped out. I haven’t- not since I’ve been back.” 

Bucky hums thoughtfully. He leans over to rest his head on Steve’s shoulder. “We’ll go. When we get back. Lots to catch her up on.” 

“That’d be good. Yeah. We’ll- let’s do that.” Steve nods firmly. Bucky wraps an arm around Steve's ribs and squeezes him tight. Steve takes a deep breath and leans his head to rest against Bucky's. “Love you.” 

“Love you too.” 

“Do you- nevermind.” 

Bucky pulls back and studies his face. Steve chews on his lower lip. Pensive. “What?” Bucky asks. 

“Do you think she’d be happy? About us?” 

“She’d be happy.” 

“You think so?” 

“I know so. She figured me out when we were… oh, about eighteen or nineteen. It was after she got sick. I stayed over one night and she asked me if I was in love with you.” Bucky smiles wistfully. “I lied to her. She saw right through me, of course. Told me to take care of you. Make you happy.” 

Steve swallows hard. When he speaks, his voice wavers. “Mom said that?” 

“Yep. She was a smart woman. Figured me out before I ever did.” 

Steve nods and scrubs a hand over his eyes. He blows out a shaky breath. “Let’s um… Let’s get going. We should get some lunch, or, uh... something.” 

“Lead the way, Captain.” Bucky keeps his hand in Steve’s. He won't be the first to let go.

Steve pauses as they approach the exit. He looks up at Bucky with a serious expression. Eyebrows drawn together, gaze intense. “You do. Make me happy.” 

The corners of Bucky’s mouth quirk up. “Good. I try.”

Chapter Text

“I’m going to kill you,” Bucky declares. He keeps his eyes focused on the road. The terrible, straight line, never ending highway that looks exactly the same ahead as it did behind. The unending flat green of the prairie stretches to the horizon in every direction, interrupted only by the occasional herd of cows. “They’re not going to find your body.” 

Steve flops back against the passenger seat with a huff. “And now you’re being mean to me. I can’t believe the love of my life is being mean to me.” Steve’s despair is only half joking. 

“Anyone ever accuse you of being dramatic?” 

“I’m dying,” Steve whines. 

“Oh, Bucky, I want to drive,” Bucky mocks him in a high pitched voice. “I want to see the country we fought for.” 

“Don’t do this to me.” 

“Ain’t doing a thing.” 

“My mind’s going numb. I’m losing brain cells as we speak.” 

Bucky tuts. “And you have so few to spare.” 

A truly pathetic sounding groan escapes Steve’s lips. 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Read a book or something.” 

“I can’t. My brain’s too far gone.” 

“Guess you’ll just suffer then.” Bucky slows down for a cop car off the side of the road. They aren’t even doing anything. Because there’s nothing to do because there’s no one out here because it’s the middle of fucking nowhere. 

“Tell me a story.” 

“I am actively driving. Play a game or something.” 

“Sure,” Steve says. “Let’s play I Spy. I spy with my little eye, the same fucking fence I saw twenty miles ago.” 

“Jesus Christ. You keep complaining and I’m going to make you get out and walk to the Grand Canyon.”

If Bucky thinks Indiana is boring, it has nothing on Nebraska. They left the last bit of excitement behind in Omaha. Since then it’s just been open road and grassland as far as the eye can see. Steve can trace the long, straight line of the interstate on the map. Almost 400 miles across the length of the state with no turns and nothing to see. 

“It’s so boring,” Steve moans. 

“Well, once we get to Sidney there’s a Cabela’s.” Bucky says it like that’s supposed to sound enticing. 

“A what?”

“They sell hunting stuff?” 

“Oh, yeah. Because I’m super into hunting.” Steve’s voice drips with sarcasm. 

“But once we get to Sidney it’s only two and a half hours to Denver.” 

“And how far are we from Sidney?” Bucky goes quiet. A sinking feeling enters Steve’s stomach. “Buck?”

“Three hours?” 

“Oh my god,” Steve groans. “Another five hours of this?” 

Bucky gasps in mock surprise, hand to his chest. “It’s almost like someone knew this would happen! It’s almost like you should use your sketchbook or something!” 

“And now you’re being mean to me again,” Steve despairs. 

Bucky shakes his head. “You would’ve made a terrible sniper.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Means you’re impatient.” 

“I’m not impatient!” 

“You are. Look at you, you act like you’ve never been bored before.” 

“I’m in hell! The only reason you’re not complaining is because you’re driving!” 

“You said you didn’t want to drive!” Bucky throws a hand up from the steering wheel, exasperated.  

“I didn’t!” 

“I can’t with you right now.” Bucky shakes his head. “I can’t. Find something to do or don’t, but stop complaining about it.” 

Steve shrinks back with the admonishment. He rests his head against the seatbelt and stares forlornly out the window. He’s being childish, he knows. He’s just so goddamn bored. The same long line of fence posts flashes by. Nothing but mile after mile after mile of grassland and clear blue sky. 

Bucky glances at him sidelong. “Dont,” he says. 

“What?” 

“Don’t do that.” 

“What?” Steve puffs up a little, feeling defensive. He’s not doing anything. That’s the problem!

“You’re pouting.” 

“Am not.” 

“Are too.” 

“I was being quiet like you asked me to be!” 

“Well I don’t want you to be quiet if you’re going to act all sad about it!” 

“You told me to stop complaining!”  

“Yeah but I didn’t mean to make you sad about it!” 

Steve’s mouth hangs open in disbelief. Is this how it ends? Is Nebraska their breaking point? “I don’t know what you want from me.” 

“I feel bad, okay? I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.” 

“So you tell me to stop complaining and now you feel bad?” 

“Yes!” 

“Then I guess we can both be miserable,” Steve declares. 

Bucky doesn’t have a response for that. He just breathes out a little huff through his nose. Steve feels a spark of victory but it’s short lived. A wave of guilt follows quickly at its heels. He sinks back against his seat and crosses his arms over his chest. The dark line of asphalt stretches out ahead of them. They ride in unhappy silence for a while, until Bucky reaches over to turn up the radio. Unfortunately, he finds only static. He tries changing the channel but comes up with nothing. 

“There’s not even a radio station!” Steve complains. 

“Keep your pants on. I’ll try AM.” There are exactly two AM radio stations. One plays Christian music interspersed with a sermon. The other has some kind of agricultural talk show with three dairy farmers, two men and a woman. They discuss the increasing prices of feed and decreasing milk sales. 

One of the men is outraged by the lowered milk intake in American households. “I drink milk every day,” he says. “It’s healthy for you.” 

“Sure,” the other host agrees. “People don’t realize it.” 

“I’ll tell you what, I drink at least six glasses a day. If I don’t have it I just don’t feel right.” 

A shocked laugh bursts out of Steve. “What the hell?” 

“Oh my god,” Bucky cackles. 

“I just don’t feel right if I don’t have my six glasses of milk,” Steve mocks. 

“Stop it!” Bucky cries. He swats at Steve’s leg. “You’re gonna make me drive off the road!” 

It’s one of those things that isn’t really that funny, or at least it shouldn’t be, but it breaks the tension between the two of them. “Jesus, maybe we’re better off listening to static,” Steve says. 

“No, no, I want to hear about the guy drinking a gallon of milk every day.” Bucky wipes a tear from his eye. 

They pull off the interstate in North Platte and stop at a fast food joint called Runza. It’s a German-American establishment; selling spiced ground beef and cabbage rolls. Steve’s not sure why this is popular in Nebraska of all places, but it feels a little nostalgic. The sheer number of sandwiches they order has the girl working behind the counter looking alarmed. They settle at one of the booths with their trays piled high, the only customers at this time of day. The only sounds for a while are those of dedicated eating. 

“Hey.” Steve takes a long swig of his soda to wash down his third sandwich. “It turns out I might’ve just been hungry earlier.” 

Bucky shoots him a dangerous looking glare. “Are you serious?” 

Steve gives him a hesitant smile. “Sorry?” 

It does the trick. Bucky chuckles. He reaches his boot across the floor and bumps it against Steve’s under the table. “You’re such an asshole.” 

The snow finds them in Denver the same way it did in Chicago and Steve is really starting to regret his choice of route. But he wanted to see the Rockies and so what if that means they need to spend an extra day holed up together while the weather clears? Bucky stares out the hotel room window with a frown, hands on hips. “It looks awful out there.” 

Steve agrees. The scene outside the window is icy and blustery. Snow blows sideways in the wind. They narrowly escaped whiteout conditions. It feels like they should be sitting in front of a fireplace somewhere, all cozy and warm. That’s a nice image. Steve pulls out his sketchbook and rests it against his knees where he sits on the bed. He begins blocking out a fireplace. 

Bucky pulls the curtains closed to hide the snow. He flicks the TV on and settles on the bed beside Steve. He knows well enough not to disturb Steve’s focus while he’s drawing, but he hooks a socked foot over Steve’s legs nonetheless. When Steve makes no move to dissuade him, Bucky slides over closer and rests his head against Steve’s shoulder. They’re pressed together from shoulder to hip now. Bucky runs his fingers up and down Steve’s arm. Featherlight, absentminded touches in a swirling pattern. 

Bucky gets like this sometimes. Clingy is the right word, Steve supposes. Like Bucky wants to live in his back pocket. If he had to hazard a guess, he’d say Bucky’s probably freaked out by the blizzard outside. Not enough to trigger a flashback or anything, but enough that he wants comfort. Steve kisses the top of his head and goes back to drawing. 

Bucky watches as Steve’s pencil scratches across the page. He’s drawing a cabin. Two comfortable armchairs sit facing the brick fireplace in the center of the room. As the scene takes shape, a soft, involuntary noise of distress escapes Bucky’s throat. 

“Buck?” 

“Sorry. There was a fireplace in- sorry. Thinking too hard.” 

Bucky squeezes his eyes closed for a moment and Steve feels an answering ache in his chest. He flips the page. 

A new sketch. He blocks out the shapes and curves of a feline body, curled up on someone’s lap. The little white cat comes to life as he adds details to the face and fur. He adds a metal hand reaching down to scratch her head. 

“I miss her.” Bucky sighs. 

“She’s getting spoiled rotten right now, I guarantee it.” 

“I know.” 

Steve adds a smaller sketch in the upper corner of the page. A cartoon Alpine wears a cape and knight’s helmet. She rides atop the robot vacuum cleaner as though it’s a horse. Bucky chuckles. Steve sketches out a pigeon facing the duo, sword held high in its wing. He gets lost in the silly little story he’s creating. Bucky watches it unfold with rapt attention. Once Alpine’s victory is secured over the pigeon, Steve tosses his sketchbook aside with a laugh. 

Bucky sits up and stretches his arms over his head. He lets out a pained groan. 

“How’s your shoulder?” Steve watches him intently. 

Bucky grimaces and makes a so so gesture with his flesh hand. “Hurts. Think it’s the storm.” 

Shuri worked miracles on Bucky’s prosthetic arm, but it still wasn’t without its downsides. It’s lighter now than it used to be. Feels more, moves easier. Puts less strain on Bucky’s muscles and spine. Unfortunately, it still doesn’t function the same as his flesh and blood arm. The joint gets sore sometimes, especially with big changes in the weather. Bucky never really complains about it; apparently it’s a lot better than it used to be. Still, Steve reaches over and digs his thumbs into the base of Bucky’s neck. 

Bucky’s eyes roll back as he groans in relief. “Keep doing that.” 

Steve obliges. He pokes and prods at the base of Bucky’s neck and around his shoulder blade. Gentle touches around the seam where metal meets flesh. Steve presses a kiss there, over Bucky’s shirt. “I saw there’s a hot tub downstairs,” he offers. 

“Can’t take my shirt off.” 

“Keep it on. No one’s going to mind.” 

Bucky’s mouth presses into a thin line. Reluctant. “Okay,” he says at length. “But not for long.” 

Steve kisses the back of his head. “Alright. Get your trunks on.” 

The blizzard rages on outside the windows of the pool deck. Inside, the room is warm and steamy. The strong acrid smell of chlorine fills the air. White plastic lounge chairs surround the pool, with stacks of white hotel towels available for guests. A few families have had the same idea as they did. A group of kids splash each other and shout in the pool. 

Their sandals flop against the tile as they make their way to the hot tub. Steve can feel Bucky’s hesitation growing with each step. A small group of four adults already sit and chat in the bubbling water. Steve hurries to set their towels down on a chair and kick his shoes off. Once he’s in the water Bucky will follow. 

“Mind if we join you?” Steve puts on his friendliest smile.  

“No problem,” a white man with close cropped hair answers. They scoot over to make room on one edge of the bench. Steve steps in and immediately feels his muscles start to relax in the heat. He’s kept his own tight athletic t-shirt on so Bucky won’t feel out of place. Bucky follows cautiously. He left his arm behind in their room upstairs so his left sleeve flaps empty at his side. 

Once he’s looked the group over for a few minutes and determined no one poses a threat, Bucky leans his head back against the edge of the tub and sinks all the way up to his chin. He lets out a small, contented sigh. Steve imagines he can actually see the tension bleed out of Bucky’s skin and into the warm water. Steve knocks his knee into Bucky’s, under the bubbles where no one can see. Bucky lets his eyes drift closed. 

“Awful weather out there, isn’t it?” A small blonde woman with her hair tied up in a messy bun on top of her head looks over her shoulder at the windows. 

“We were supposed to leave today,” a bearded white man who looks to be in his forties adds. He sits on the edge of the hot tub with just his calves submerged. 

“We got in just before this started,” Steve says. Steel blue eyes blink open beside him. Bucky gives him a glare that says, We aren’t here to make friends. Steve pretends not to notice. 

Steve and the others chat for a while. About the weather, their trips, Denver itself. Bucky settles back without further complaint. They’re pleasant enough. It’s two married couples on a spring break trip with all of their kids. 

“Did you see the demon horse?” the clean shaven man asks. 

Bucky’s eyes pop open again. Steve suppresses a smile. A statement like that is like catnip for Bucky. He sits up higher in the water to look at the man. “There’s a demon horse?”  

“Out by the airport,” the blonde woman says. 

“It’s called Blucifer,” the bearded man adds. He reaches for his phone and holds out a picture for them to see. It shows a statue of a giant blue horse with glowing red eyes, rearing up over the surrounding prairie.

“What the hell?” Steve asks. 

“Maybe we should visit,” Bucky says. 

“Somehow ‘giant demon horse’ didn’t make my itinerary.” 

“There’s always next time.” 

“Oh, are we coming back?” Steve asks.  

“Maybe, who knows. Maybe we should move. Buy a Subaru and start hiking for fun.” 

The others laugh. 

Conversation is interrupted by the approach of a little girl in a neon yellow swimsuit. Her long blonde hair is pulled up in a tangled ponytail, swim goggles strapped to her head. Steve doesn’t know much about kids, but she must be less than ten years old. She goes shy when she sees Steve and Bucky. 

“What’s up, Charlie?” The blonde woman asks. This must be her daughter. 

“Jackson won’t share the pool noodles.” 

“Okay. Did you ask him?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did you ask him nicely?” 

“Yes!” She pouts, looking offended. 

“Tell him mom said he has to share, okay? You both get one.” 

Her face lights up. “Jackson!” she shouts, all traces of shyness gone now that she’s gotten her way. “Mom says you have to share!” 

The woman gives her an exasperated look. “Don’t yell across the room! Go over there and tell him.” 

“Oh.” The girl turns on her heel but then notices the blank space on Bucky’s left side. “Where’s your arm?” she asks bluntly. 

The blonde woman looks positively mortified. “Charlie! We don’t ask questions like that.” She turns to Bucky. “I am so sorry.” 

Bucky waves off the concern. “It’s okay. My arm got hurt,” he explains to the girl. “The… doctors couldn’t fix it so they had to cut it off.” 

“How?” The girl’s eyes go wide. 

“Charlie!” Her mother looks ready to pass out. 

“Surgery,” Bucky answers calmly. 

“But how did it get hurt?” 

“I was in the Army.” 

The girl’s mother hops out of the tub and grabs her by the shoulders. “I am so sorry. She just-“ 

“She’s a kid. She’s just curious, it’s fine.” 

“Right. Um. Yes, she just- thank you for being so patient with her.” The woman is well and truly flustered. The woman herds her daughter away and gathers their things from the pool deck. She hauls her son out of the water despite his protests. 

The other couple look at one another before silently deciding they should leave too. They hop out and start corralling their own kids out of the pool. The bearded man pulls his legs out of the water and stands. “Well, it was nice talking to you guys.” 

Steve waits until the families exit before raising an eyebrow at Bucky. “Scaring people away now.” 

“Yeah, so I can do this.” Bucky leans over and kisses Steve on the mouth. 

“Good plan,” Steve says as they pull apart. 

“She looked like she was about ready to have an aneurysm.” Bucky smiles and shakes his head. 

They’re both sort of used to this. When Bucky doesn’t wear his arm they usually get one of two reactions. Most people do a quick double take and then ignore it. Some, mostly kids, will ask questions. But occasionally people get really freaked out about it and can’t seem to act normal. It pisses Steve off to no end, but Bucky knows that already so he’s not going to rehash it now. He turns to humor instead. “You oughta start telling people a bear bit it off or something.” 

“Oh, good idea. Maybe I stuck it in a garbage disposal.” 

“Shark attack.” 

“Pissed off a wizard.” Bucky raises himself up to sit on the edge of the hot tub with a laugh. Steve can’t help but appreciate the way the wet material of his t-shirt clings to Bucky’s chest and abs. Bucky smirks at him. Oops. Caught in the act. Steve waggles his eyebrows playfully. “You ready to go, Romeo?” 

Steve hops out and they gather their things. They make their soggy way back up to the fourth floor with their towels wrapped around their shoulders. Bucky pauses in the hallway before he sticks the keycard in the door. 

“Should we get high while we’re here?”

“What?” Steve blinks dumbly at him. 

“Marijuana," Bucky clarifies. 

“No, no. I heard what you said. I’m just wondering why you said it.” 

“It’s legal here.” Bucky shrugs. 

“Can we even get high?” 

“I don’t know. Never tried it.” Bucky opens the door. He heads straight for the bathroom and turns on the light. 

“Here I am worried about the weather and you’re over there thinking about buying weed?” 

“That’s why you love me?” Bucky asks cautiously. He strips off his shirt and tosses it on the bathroom floor with a wet plop. 

Steve sighs. “I guess.” He pulls his shirt over his head and drops it next to Bucky’s. 

Bucky turns the water on in the shower and tests it with his hand. “Hey, this looks big enough for two. Just saying.” 

Steve smiles. “Now that’s a good idea.” He darts forward and wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist. Before he can protest, Steve lifts him up and carries him into the shower stall. Bucky shouts at him through laughter to put him down. Steve sets him down and shuts him up with a kiss. 

Back in control now, Bucky pushes Steve up against the wall. He kisses Steve breathless in the warm stream of water. Once Steve’s dizzy with it, he pulls back just slightly so their lips brush together as he says, “I love you.” There’s a soft, tender look in Bucky’s eyes that sends Steve’s heart fluttering. A soft smile spreads across Bucky’s face. Then he ducks and yanks Steve’s trunks down to his ankles. 

“Hey!” Steve yelps. 

He lunges forward to grab a fistful of Bucky’s trunks and returns the favor. Bucky snatches up a bottle of shampoo and holds it out in front of him like a weapon, threatening to squirt it at Steve. 

Steve holds his hands up in front of his chest. “Okay! I surrender.” 

Bucky slowly lowers the bottle. Steve dives forward to try and steal it, but Bucky’s too quick. He squeezes the bottle and sends a spray of sweet smelling shampoo all over Steve. Steve swipes his hands through it and rubs it blindly over Bucky’s hair and chest in retaliation as he tries to escape. They’re a squirmy, laughing, soapy mess by the end of it. 

Bucky’s beautiful like this. Happy and joking, grinning from ear to ear as he scratches shampoo into Steve’s growing beard. It’s not often that Steve feels lucky, but it’s hard to feel anything but when Bucky’s around. He leans in to swipe his soapy beard across Bucky’s face.

Bucky squirms and wrinkles his nose as he pushes Steve's cheek away. “Punk.” 

“Jerk.” 

Arches National Park is stunning. There’s no other word for it. The red stone of the desert stretches out in cliffs and rock formations for miles around, a stark contrast to the bright blue sky. Massive natural stone arches dot the landscape. Snow peaked mountains rise in the distance, back toward the Colorado border. It’s like nothing either of them have ever experienced before. 

Awe and wonder shave ten years off of Bucky’s face. He’s boyish in his excitement. “It looks like something off of Mars.” Bucky gestures with his arms spread wide and spins in a slow circle. He points at a space over one of the arches. “Like a spaceship could show up right there.” 

Steve smiles and nods his agreement. He’s preoccupied. His fingers itch for a pencil. He could draw Bucky here, in this place, unguarded and lovely. A moment trapped in amber for him to turn over and over in his hands, revisiting it whenever he wants. Steve’s been working, recently, on living in the moment without assuming the worst. His therapist says he tends to catastrophize. The uneasiness creeps in the moment something good happens. His life has trained him to expect disaster is always just around the corner. It doesn’t help that it’s frequently true. But, he’s supposed to not let that detract from the ease of the present. And the present is pretty fucking nice right now. 

Steve walks behind Bucky as they follow the trail through the desert. It’s chilly but not cold. Low 60s in the middle of the day. Perfect weather for someone to wear a light jacket and not be questioned about it. Their boots kick up red dust as they walk. Steve’s eyes keep catching on the graceful way Bucky moves. He looks right at home scrambling over rocks and pausing to take pictures of cacti. 

Hiking for the sake of seeing nature is new for Steve. He hiked across miles and miles of Europe during the war. He’s hiked across more since then with the Avengers. But never has he done it for the simple pleasure of being outdoors. Just observing the world as it is. It makes him feel small, somehow. Insignificant on a cosmic scale, his life a mere blink on a geologic timeframe. This was here long before humanity was, and it will remain long after they’re gone. Somehow, that thought is comforting. He half wishes he could box up the landscape and take it home with him so he could hold it out to everyone he meets and say look. Just look. 

“National parks,” Bucky says. 

“Huh?” 

“For my gratitude list. The National Park system.” 

“That’s a good one.” If Steve started keeping a gratitude list he fears it would just be bullet points of Bucky’s name, repeated over and over until the end of his days. “I’m so glad you’re here.” The words pop out of Steve’s mouth without thinking. 

Bucky turns back and gives him a wide, toothy grin. “Me too. You ever think we’d do something like this?” 

“No,” Steve answers honestly. “Did you?” 

“No way. Second I got those draft papers I figured I was finished.” 

A dark pain shoots through the bright bubble Steve’s been engulfed in all morning. The draft is still a bit of a sore spot for him. He hates to think about what almost was. What almost wasn’t. He grabs Bucky’s hand, intertwines their fingers. “I was so scared when I heard you got assigned to the 107th. Thought they’d handed you a death sentence.” 

“Oh, they did.” Bucky says with a wry smile. “Just they didn’t know Steve Rogers was going to mark it ‘return to sender.’” 

Steve laughs and Bucky laughs and all is right in the world again. 

“These are barrel cacti, by the way.” Bucky gestures at a group of round cacti with long yellow spines. 

“Oh, well take a picture. That’s Plant Steve’s family.” 

“Good idea.” 

“Only kind I have.” 

“Now that’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one.” 

“Is not,” Steve protests. 

Bucky squats down to take a close up picture of the cactus on his phone. Without looking up he says simply, “Johnny Murphy.” 

“Okay, but he deserved-“

“He was three times your size at least.” 

“It wasn’t a bad idea.” 

“You got the snot kicked out of both of us.” 

“Well you’re the one that decided to join in.” 

“You needed help out there.” 

“That’s a matter of perspective.”

“Uh huh.” Bucky stands and tucks his phone away. “Stupidity often is.” 

“Wow, okay, jerk.” Steve spreads his hands to the side, exasperated. 

“Keeping you honest, that’s all.” 

“Well I can honestly say that you’re a jerk.” 

“That’s some way to talk about your best guy.” Bucky’s eyes are bright with mischief. 

Steve glares at him. “You just got done calling me stupid.” 

“No, no. Just, you’ve got bad judgement sometimes.” Bucky throws an arm across his shoulders and ruffles his hair like he used to do when Steve was small. He’d like to be annoyed, but somehow it’s endearing. 

Steve ducks out of the hold nonetheless. “If I’ve got bad judgement then what’s that say about you?” 

“Says I like excitement.” 

“Oh is that what you like?” 

“Amongst other things,” Bucky says mildly. 

“Well jokes on you, I guess. You’re the one that’s stuck with me.” 

Bucky smiles a fond little smile that has Steve’s stomach doing somersaults. “Like glue, Stevie.” 

Becca’s words have been weighing heavily on his mind the past few days. Forever. He wants it. It scares him a little, how badly he wants it. Steve could spend every second with Bucky for the rest of his life and still wish for just one more day at the end of it. Forever doesn’t feel quite long enough. Steve’s greedy for it. Hoards Bucky’s time and attention like he’s afraid it’ll run out one day. What sort of love is this, that a lifetime immersed in it feels inadequate? 

Steve adores Bucky. Loves his laugh, his sense of humor, his smarts. Bucky’s courageous and compassionate. Honest but kind. Bucky’s everything a person could want, and more. He’s something precious. Steve feels protective of Bucky to a degree that should be frightening. He’s proven over and over again that he’d risk death if it meant Bucky might live. A world without Bucky is, quite frankly, not one Steve is interested in seeing ever again. 

Steve likes the way Bucky makes him feel about himself too. Bucky talks about Steve like he’s proud to be at his side. Like Steve is something special. He thought Steve was worthy long before anyone else did. It’s not just that he thinks Steve is good, it’s that he makes Steve want to be good. Bucky’s belief in him pushes him to be a little better every day. Steve does the same for Bucky. They challenge each other and support one another in equal measure. They’re partners; equals in every sense. 

Jesus Christ, he keeps on that sappy train of thought much longer and he’ll be falling down on one knee right then and there. Steve links his arm in Bucky’s. “Like a thorn in my side, more like.”

Chapter Text

Cool, dry air and the smell of pine trees greet Bucky as he climbs out of the passenger seat into the dark parking lot. Goosebumps rise along his arm and he suppresses a shiver. He shrugs his jacket on and zips it all the way up to the top. The south rim of the Grand Canyon sits at an elevation of around 7000 feet. The high mountain desert does little to conserve heat at night, and Bucky and Steve have arrived at the visitor center well before dawn. 

They spent the night at a hotel in Tusayan, a tiny town a couple miles from the park entrance. They left early so they could see the canyon for the first time at dawn. Insects buzz all around as Bucky and Steve walk side by side past the visitor center toward Mather Point. Anticipation thrums under Bucky’s skin like electricity as they approach the overlook. The very first hazy hints of sunlight are just beginning to show on the horizon. Steve, amused by his excitement, huffs and acts put upon when Bucky urges him to move faster. They aren’t the only visitors here hoping to catch the sunrise, but there’s few enough people that they find a relatively private spot along the overlook. Steve leans into Bucky’s side and interlaces their fingers together as they look out north over the canyon. 

Extraordinary does not even begin to describe the view that unfolds before them. The golden light of dawn bleeds out over the edges of the canyon. The deep reds and yellows of the stone light up like fire on the ridges and peaks. The limestone walls rise a vertical mile from the base of the canyon. The depths have been carved out over millions of years by the Colorado River far below. It goes on as far as the eye can see, stretching out into infinity. 

Bucky’s too stunned to speak. Distantly, he registers Steve’s gasp beside him. It’s a humbling sight. Overwhelming in its beauty. It doesn’t feel real. It’s like stepping into a painting or onto another planet. He squeezes Steve’s hand in his. It’s dizzying, almost. He belatedly reminds himself to breathe. 

“Wow.” Steve mutters. He sounds as awed as Bucky feels. “It’s beautiful.” Steve says it reverently. Holds the word in his mouth, swirls it around on his tongue like candy, like he’s savoring it. 

Bucky’s eyes drift away from the view to look at Steve. He wants to see Steve, seeing this. Steve stares straight ahead, mouth slightly agape, eyes wide with wonder. His hair blazes golden in the first touch of morning sunlight, whipped back by the wind. He looks like an angel. He looks like himself. 

And Steve is right. The canyon is beautiful. It’s the most beautiful thing Bucky’s ever seen. But in this moment, he can’t tear his eyes away from Steve. 

Need crashes over him like a tidal wave. He’s got to do it now, here, with Steve shining like a beacon in the sunrise. It feels ridiculous that it's taken him this long. That he could have this and not make every possible effort to keep it. 

It’s impulsive, not planned in the slightest, but he isn’t thinking about that right now. His heart pounds like a drum against his ribs, but the cool wash of certainty tempers his nerves. He swallows hard. Breathing. He has to breathe, goddamnit, or he’s going to pass out and he’ll never be able to live that down. He blows all the air out of his lungs, slow and steady. His resolve solidifies. 

“You know,” he starts, voice wavering only a little. “Pops always said the Grand Canyon was a timeless wonder. Puts everything in perspective. I used to dream about the Grand Canyon.” 

Steve nods absently. His eyes dart here and there, still taking in the view. “It’s amazing.” 

“Mhm. And so, I…” Bucky’s throat feels thick all of a sudden. Pressure builds behind his eyes. He realizes with a start that he wants to cry. He blinks hard, forces the tears away. “I was, uh. I was wondering if…” 

“You okay, Buck?” 

Bucky clenches his unoccupied metal hand into a fist to try and steady himself. He breathes through the anxiety threatening to close up his throat. “Yeah. Yes. I was wondering if- if you might…” His stomach’s in knots. He blows out a harsh breath. This is it. He can do this. “If you wanna, maybe, if you’d want to get… married? To me?” 

Steve’s head whips over to Bucky. He stares. Frozen. Eyes wide. Not even blinking. Not even breathing. There’s a beat of silence. The longest moment of Bucky’s life. Bucky winces and shifts uncomfortably on the balls of his feet. “If you don’t wanna-” 

“Yes!” Steve snaps back into motion. “Yes! Of course, yes.” He grabs a fistful of Bucky’s jacket and yanks him forward into a bone crushing embrace. 

Bucky’s hands move on instinct to wrap around Steve’s ribs. When his voice comes out it’s a wet whisper. “Really?” 

“Yes.” Steve’s voice sounds just as rough. 

Bucky’s whole being crumbles. He feels torn open. Raw. Exposed. He clutches at the back of Steve’s jacket like his life depends on it. Bucky buries his face into the space between Steve’s neck and shoulder and sniffles. “You mean it?” 

“Of course I mean it.” Steve’s voice is still rough with emotion, but he sounds steady. Certain.

Bucky nods hard against his shoulder and squeezes his eyes shut. Hot tears spill out onto the material of Steve’s jacket. “Okay.” Bucky swallows hard past the lump in his throat. “Okay.” He takes a deep, shaky breath and blows it out slow like he’s breathing through a straw. He does it three more times. 

Then a new feeling starts to rise up. Bucky laughs, then laughs again when he realizes how hysterical it sounds. “Great.” God, people in movies always say they feel fireworks. Bucky always thought that was so cheesy. But right now? He feels lit up inside. Illuminated by the crackle and fizz and bursts of light and color. And maybe it’s not so cheesy after all. “That’s great.” 

He leans back to see Steve's face, never letting up on his grip. He's wearing a big dumb grin, but Steve is too, so that's okay. The next thing he knows, Steve’s hand is at the back of his neck, reeling him in for a kiss. 

Bucky forgets how to close his eyes for a second. Forgets how to do anything other than feel the warm slide of Steve’s lips against his. Then he remembers himself and he’s tangling one hand through Steve’s hair while the other slides against the small of his back and pulls him in closer. It’s easy after that. It’s all so easy. 

The kiss is thorough and urgent. Fierce but gentle. Bucky pours every ounce of his happiness and love and devotion into it. Steve returns it in kind, clings to Bucky like he never intends to let go. Bucky hopes he doesn’t. They should always be like this. So close they might as well be one. 

Someone whistles. A few someones, actually. Bucky pulls back reluctantly. Steve blinks his eyes open slowly, his brows drawn together in confusion. They look together to see a group of teenagers on the path, wolf whistling and applauding them. Judging by the group's matching yellow T-shirts, it must be a school trip or something. Bucky flushes bright red and leaps away from Steve like he’s been burned. 

“We just got engaged!” Steve calls to the teens with a wave and an easy grin.  

The teens let out a roaring cheer. Bucky considers throwing himself over the guardrail into the canyon. 

“Do you want a picture?” One of them, a skinny white kid with a nice camera around his neck, pushes his way to the front of the group. 

“Sure!” 

Suddenly they’re having an impromptu engagement photoshoot with some fourteen year old kid and his very reluctant camp counselor. The kid directs them to a few different poses. He borrows Steve’s phone and takes a few on there for good measure. Bucky does his best to play along but halfway through it occurs to him that Steve's going to look stunning in these pictures with his dark beard and handsome features while Bucky's got a day's worth of stubble and bleach blonde hair with dark brown roots just starting to show. Christ. Maybe he should've planned this out. 

“Here you go,” the kid says as he hands back the phone. “Do you have an email or something for the rest?” 

Steve enters an email address into the kid’s phone. “You from New York?” 

“Yeah, Queens.” 

“We’re from Brooklyn.” 

“That’s crazy! I’ll send you all of these as soon as we get back, promise.” 

“Thanks, kid.” 

The kid squints at them. “Hey, did anyone ever tell you you look like Captain America?” 

Steve barks out a laugh and scrubs a hand through his beard. “Yeah, I get that all the time.” 

“Peter!” The camp counselor urges, “Let’s get going.” 

“I’m coming!” he shouts. “Well it was nice to meet you. Congratulations!” He runs off to rejoin the rest of his group. 

“That was embarrassing,” Bucky complains the moment the kids are out of earshot. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets. 

Steve grins as he scrolls through the pictures on his camera roll. “Why? You embarrassed about wanting to marry me?” He looks up to bat his eyelashes teasingly.

Bucky stamps down the giddy flutter in his stomach at the words marry me. “No. It’s just… public displays of affection aren’t really my thing.” 

Steve hums thoughtfully. “Well we can have a private display of affection later.” 

“Oh, yeah?” 

“Yeah. Never been engaged before. Maybe it’s different.” 

“You think so?” 

“Sure. Now that you’ve publicly declared your undying love for me.” 

“Oh my god. You’re such a goddamn punk.” He shoves Steve in the shoulder. It does nothing to dim the blinding light of Steve’s smile. 

“Can’t believe you proposed to me at the Grand Canyon. Were you planning that this whole time?” 

“No. It just… I don’t know. I was thinking about it and it’s legal and all now and… I mean I know I want to be with you forever so I thought maybe we should make it official.” 

Steve reaches up to rest a hand on Bucky’s jaw. “Hey,” he says softly. His blue eyes hold Bucky's gaze with a painfully earnest intensity. It's got Bucky's stomach doing somersaults. “I love you.” 

“I love you too.” 

Steve leans in for a quick, chaste kiss. “It’s too bad we don’t have rings.”

“Oh!” Bucky digs into his shirt collar and pulls the silver chain holding his dog tags over his head. He passes them to Steve. “Here. I know it’s not the same but I figure, I don’t always have a left hand anyway, so maybe…?” 

Steve slips the tags over his head and pulls off his own set. “It’s perfect.” Bucky accepts Steve's tags and tucks them away under his shirt. A little thrill shoots through him at the thought of Steve’s name resting over his heart. He must get a sappy look on his face because when he looks up Steve is grinning at him again. “You got a crush on me or something, Buck? You’re going all red.” 

Bucky scowls and tries to ignore the heat spreading across his cheeks. He shoves Steve in the shoulder. “No. That’s sunburn, idiot. We’re in the desert.” 

“That’s some way to talk to your future husband.”

Bucky’s face contorts with the effort of suppressing a smile. “I hate you.” 

“Love you too, Buck.” 

He throws an arm across Bucky’s shoulders. They lean against one another and watch as the sun finishes its ascent over the horizon. 

The hike to the base of the canyon is long and steep. The trail descends 4400 feet from the southern rim down to the base of the canyon. It’s a cool day in northern Arizona, but it gets hotter the further down they go, until it’s in the mid-seventies at the base. The path is steep, sandy, and largely unshaded. Mules use the trail too. The first time they have to flatten themselves against the rock wall to let a line of mule riders pass, Bucky elbows Steve in the ribs. “Look! It’s your relatives!” Steve is unamused. 

Despite their heavy packs, the bright sun, and seemingly endless switchbacks, it’s a joyous hike. The views are stunning, there are a couple rest points where they refill on water, and they even see a few bighorn sheep up on the canyon walls. Bucky can’t help but smile every time he looks at Steve and he catches Steve doing the same. Bucky reaches for the new set of dog tags hanging around his neck every now and then, rubs his thumb over the indentation of Steve’s name and serial number. This small symbol of their commitment to one another means more than Bucky expected it to. God, he’s such a sap these days. 

By the time they reach Bright Angel Campground that afternoon, they’re both a mess of sweat and dirt. Bucky’s feet feel ready to fall right off his ankles. He collapses at the picnic table and dumps his pack to the ground. Steve lets out a groan as he drops onto the bench beside Bucky. He crosses his arms over the table and lays his head down. 

“Going soft on me, soldier?” Bucky glances at him sidelong. 

Steve grunts. “I think my toenails are going to fall off.” 

“Hmm.” Bucky looks around the campsite. A glint of sunlight catches his eye. Bucky pats Steve on the back where he lays slumped against the picnic table. “Come on.” 

“What?” Steve whines. “I just sat down.”

Bucky nods his head toward the small river that flows through the campground, sparkling in the midday sun. Steve gets on board quick once he sees the water. They roll their pant legs up to their knees and sit down on the bank under the welcome shade of the cottonwood trees. 

The river is a miracle. Cool water washes over their feet and calves, eliciting a relieved groan from both men. The quiet sounds of the camp wash over them. Leaves rustle in the wind overhead. The river gurgles gently. In the distance, the sounds of mingled voices and laughter come from some of the other campsites. Bucky leans back on his hands and closes his eyes. He feels simultaneously energized and exhausted. Tomorrow, they’ll hike further into the canyon. For now, their only plans are to set up camp and enjoy the afternoon. 

Steve must be feeling better already, because he bumps his shoulder against Bucky’s and says, “We’ve got to actually plan a wedding now.” 

“We could go to Vegas,” Bucky suggests without opening his eyes. “Elope.” 

“I think Becca would actually kill me if we don’t have a real wedding.” He feels a shudder pass through Steve at the thought. 

“You ever thought about a wedding? Where do we even go? It’s not like we go to church.” 

“Well,” Steve draws the word out thoughtfully. “I don’t know. How’s a gay wedding work?” 

“Same way as a straight one I guess?” Bucky shrugs. What’s he know about weddings?

“Who stands on the left? And who gets to kiss the bride?” 

“Neither one of us is the bride, that’s the whole point of it being a gay wedding.” 

“Technically neither one of us is gay.” 

Bucky huffs out a laugh. “A bisexual wedding?” 

“Well if we’re getting real technical about it, Bernie says I’m demisexual.” 

“She would know.” Bernie would know. Steve met her about a year ago when he took a glass blowing class at a local shop. He liked it so much he kept going back, until he eventually struck up a friendship with Bernie, who runs the studio with her partner, Ann. She’s one of the only non-Avengers that knows Steve has a boyfriend. She’d taught him, and Bucky by proxy, all sorts of twenty-first century terms to describe their experiences. Bucky’s never actually met Bernie, but he figures she must be a pretty swell gal if Steve likes her so much. 

Steve’s gone quiet but he’s stewing on something still. Bucky can tell. He waits patiently. 

At length, Steve says, “Maybe we should ask Pepper to help.” 

Bucky frowns. He shifts to sit up and wipes his hands off on his pants. “We don’t need Stark’s influence on this. We’ll just keep it simple. We could have it at Becca’s place or something.” 

“You want to get married in Indiana?” He says it with the same level of skepticism he would if Bucky suggested he stab himself in the leg or swallow poison. 

“Oh Jesus Christ, no. You’re right. Brooklyn, then. Go to the courthouse and have food after.” 

“But Becca-“

“Will kill you, right. Something in between then. People plan these things all the time, surely we can figure it out.”

“Maybe Pepper-“

“We don’t need Pepper. We’re a couple of intelligent people. We can handle this.” 

“Alright.” Steve doesn’t sound convinced. He kicks his feet gently through the water, sending little eddies and swirls after them.

Bucky frowns. Their wedding oughta be theirs. Unique to them. Not some fancy affair set up for them by somebody else. He shakes himself. He doesn't want to spend their vacation stewing on this. “We don’t need to plan it right this second. Let’s get camp set up and go check out the canteen.” 

Tent technology has improved dramatically since the 40s. Bucky gets the little fabric dome up in no time and spreads the foam sleeping pads out inside. He lays their sleeping bags on top. It’s paradise compared to the Army issue tents and scratchy wool blankets they had during the war. 

Once camp’s set up, they follow the creek half a mile upstream to Phantom Ranch. Cold lemonade from the canteen there tastes like a revelation after the dusty hike. They buy a whole stack of postcards and spend an hour writing them out and addressing them. Bucky writes one to Becca and tells her he proposed to Steve. They’ll be back to cell service before this reaches her, but he thinks she’ll get a kick out of it nevertheless. They stick on the stamps- which you don’t even have to lick anymore- and give them to the gal working the counter at the canteen. She assures them the postcards will all get a stamp saying that they’ve been mailed by mule from the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Bucky finds the whole thing delightfully silly. 

The rest of the afternoon is spent relaxing back at their campsite. Steve lays out on top of the picnic table for a quick nap while Bucky reads his book by the river. It's truly a little oasis of peace down here. If today is a dream, it’s one he doesn’t want to wake up from. 

Dinner is a simple affair. They both rinse off as best they can in the sinks at the campground bathrooms, then head back to the canteen where Steve reserved them spots for dinner. Their plates are piled high with steak, a baked potato, cornbread, and a mix of fresh veggies. They eat like they’re starving. Feeling friendly, they both strike up conversations with the other hikers seated at their table. Bucky knocks his boot against Steve’s under the table and keeps it there for the rest of the meal. 

Eventually, night falls and the group of campers start to disperse. Bucky and Steve head back down to their campsite. Steve gets a fire going in the fire ring and sets a pot of water to boil. The temperature drops pretty quick once it’s dark. Bucky zips his jacket back on and pulls the collar up around his neck to fight off the chill. When the coffee’s ready, Steve delivers a tin mug to Bucky. There's no cream or sugar down here, which is unfortunate because Steve likes his coffee more bitter than Bucky does. Still, the smell and the warmth are nice. They sit together in easy silence and listen to the crackle of the fire. 

Bucky breathes deep and tries to cement this moment in his memory. The feeling of cool, dry air on his face. The warmth of the cup against his flesh hand. The rich smell of coffee mixed with juniper and pine, and the richer, earthy undertone running through it all. The sounds- chittering insects, the gurgle of the river, and Steve’s even breaths beside him. 

The fire slowly dies down to embers. The stars wheel overhead, more than are ever visible in New York. Eventually, Steve drains his cup and stands with a grunt. He goes to fetch water from the creek to bank the fire. Bucky wanders a little further away and stares up at the night sky. He hears the hiss of water meeting hot coals behind him. Steve hums to himself as he cleans up camp. Puts food away into the animal safe containers on the picnic table, rinses out his mug.  

Bucky hears the soft thump of Steve's boots striking the dirt as he sidles up behind Bucky. His big hands wind around his waist and come to rest at the base of his ribs. Bucky leans back into the sturdy warmth of Steve's chest. He can feel the gentle expansion of Steve's ribcage with every breath. Steve rests his chin on Bucky's shoulder. 

“What are you doing over here?” 

“Just taking in the view. You?” 

“Same.” Steve kisses the space just behind Bucky’s ear. 

“You’re a real smooth talker, you know that?” 

“I try.” 

“Thanks for doing all of this.” Bucky gestures vaguely with his mug to indicate both the coffee and the entire experience Steve planned for them. If this is the standard set for 100th birthdays then Bucky's going to need to spend the whole next year planning Steve's to try and match it. 

Steve hums an acknowledgement. “You deserve it.” He nuzzles his nose against the back of Bucky’s neck, presses another kiss at the edge of his hairline. 

Bucky tips his head back and closes his eyes. Relaxes into Steve’s hold. 

“We oughta get into the tent,” Steve says lowly into his ear. “Could be dangerous out here at night.” 

Bucky smiles. “Oh, yeah? What’s gonna get us?” 

“Could be… bears, probably." 

Bucky chuckles. “Uh huh.” 

“Yeah, that’s what I heard.”

He knows what Steve’s really getting at, but he can’t pass up an opportunity to mess with him. “That’s what you heard, huh? Canyon’s just crawling with bears.” 

“Mhm.” Steve hums his solemn agreement. He mouths at the spot behind Bucky’s ear again. 

“Well, there aren’t going to be any bears down here. But even if there were, I could take one.” 

Steve pauses his efforts with his mouth. “It’s a bear, Bucky.” 

“Yeah, it’s not like I haven’t fought one before.”

Steve releases him and pushes at his shoulders, spins Bucky around so they're facing one another. He blinks at Bucky in silent disbelief. 

Bucky wrinkles his nose. “Oh no. Okay, don’t ask. We’ll just- I won. It was fine.” 

“You fought a bear?” 

“Once. One bear.” 

Steve opens and closes his mouth several times but no words come out. Bucky’s left him speechless. 

“Let’s just- you know what? I think the tent sounds really inviting, actually-“

“A bear?” 

“Listen, this is going to be one of those stories that makes you all sad so let’s just not, okay? Please?” Bucky strides to the picnic table, rinses his mug, and stows it away. Steve follows a pace behind. 

“Did you have a gun?” 

“No. They wouldn’t have taken bets if I-“ 

“They took bets!? On whether or not you could beat a bear while unarmed?” 

Bucky raises his left hand. “I mean, I had the arm. But otherwise, yeah.” 

“And you won?” 

“Yes? Clearly.” 

“Jesus Christ, Buck.” 

“Okay, well. It’s not like I had a choice in the matter. The point is, we’re perfectly safe out here.” 

Steve shakes his head slowly. “I guess so.” 

Bucky grabs the edges of Steve’s soft brown coat and pulls him in until they’re chest to chest. “Come on. What were you saying earlier about me and you and a tent?” 

It takes a few minutes and Bucky’s very best efforts with his mouth and tongue, but Steve gets back on board. Heated kisses have them stumbling and crawling into the tent, zipping the door shut behind them. The sleeping bags provide a soft landing place. They lay on their sides, facing one another. Bucky cradles Steve’s cheek in his metal hand while the other wanders up and down Steve’s side and pushes up under his coat to his back. He hisses when Steve’s hand finds its way between his legs. 

Steve cups him and rubs slowly, teasingly, at the growing hardness there. “God,” Bucky groans into Steve’s mouth. “Fair warning, I’m kind of gross right now.” 

“Me too,” Steve says. He pops the button on Bucky’s pants and pulls the zipper down. Bucky shifts and wriggles to pull his pants partway down, just enough so Steve can reach. And reach he does, right into Bucky’s boxers to take him out. He strokes Bucky slowly at first, until Bucky’s hips start moving of their own accord, seeking more. Steve obliges. 

Steve has talented hands. He rubs in long, sure movements. He twists his wrist at the end of each stroke, rubs his thumb over the tip. Bucky grabs for every piece of Steve he can reach. Tangles his fingers in his hair and holds him still for a frantic, sloppy kiss. Soon enough, Steve squeezes just right, turns his wrist just so, and Bucky’s coming all over his fist. 

Bucky rolls away and collapses onto his back, chest heaving as he catches his breath. Steve cups Bucky's face in his clean hand and rubs his thumb across his cheek. Bucky shudders. “God. Okay. Your turn.” 

“You don’t have to-” 

“You’re my fiancé. Obviously I’m going to.” Steve giggles. Bucky loves that unguarded little laugh. He’s the only one that ever gets to hear it. Bucky rolls over and forces Steve onto his back. He hovers above him. “What, punk?” He kisses Steve’s forehead, his cheek, the tip of his nose, before finally pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. “You like being my fiancé?” 

Steve holds Bucky’s hips and lets out another giggle. “Maybe. Do you like being mine?” 

“I love being yours.” 

Steve’s smile lights up the night. Bucky feels nineteen again. Young and carefree, and desperately, helplessly in love with his best friend. He reaches down, down, until he can feel where Steve’s already hard in his pants. Bucky takes Steve out and strokes him lazily. He leans in for another kiss. Slower, this time. He savors it. It doesn’t take long for Steve to come, with Bucky’s name on his lips. 

Bucky rolls to lay on his back beside Steve again. They stare up at the roof of the tent together, sticky and sated. Once Steve catches his breath he sits up and rummages through his pack for wet wipes and cleans them both up as best he can. They kick off their boots, crawl into their sleeping bags, and settle in for the night. 

Bucky lays awake for a while. He watches as Steve’s eyes droop closed. The steady rise and fall of Steve’s chest. Listens until his breaths slow and he falls into a deep, untroubled sleep. Bucky pulls the silver chain out of his shirt and holds the tags tightly in his fist. He falls asleep that way, curled on his side, facing Steve. 

Chapter Text

“Good morning, beautiful,” Bucky says sweetly. 

“Good mor- oh.” Steve scowls as he opens his eyes to see Bucky stroking the white cat sitting on his chest. 

Bucky turns to him with a grin. “Good morning to you too, handsome.” 

“Why does it feel like I’m competing with your cat?” 

“Aww, you’re not competing. She already won.” He looks down to address Alpine. “Isn’t that right, baby? 

“I hate you.”

“It’s okay, honey. He’s just grumpy because he had to drive all night.” Bucky scratches her head and she closes her eyes and leans into his hand. 

Steve throws himself out of bed with a groan. “I’ll get the coffee started.” 

Steve pads down the hallway and suppresses a shiver as his feet hit the cold kitchen tile. He crosses his arms over his bare chest and rubs his hands up and down his arms in a feeble attempt at warming himself. He should’ve pulled on some sweats.  

Steve scoops coffee grounds into the paper filter and adds a dash of cinnamon for good measure. The familiar gurgle and hiss of the coffee pot fills the air. Steve yawns and rubs at his eyes. They got in late last night after deciding to drive straight through for the last sixteen hour stretch. They'd taken a leisurely pace up until then, but by the time they hit St. Louis Steve was eager to get home. He’d enjoyed the vacation. It was everything he hoped it would be and more. But god, was it good to be back in Brooklyn. 

While he waits for the coffee to brew, Steve grabs a blanket off the couch and wraps it tight around his shoulders. He clicks the TV on and stifles another yawn. Two local news anchors discuss fluff pieces as Steve half listens and sways on his feet. There’s an interview with a local children’s choir that won an award, a bit about some new baby animals at the zoo, and the upcoming Magnificent Magnolias tour at the botanic gardens. 

“Uh huh. Thank you.” Bucky’s voice drifts down the hall. Bucky appears a moment later, holding Alpine tucked against his side with one arm while pressing his phone to his ear with the other. “We aren’t sure yet. No, you’re the first to know, Becks. Yeah, yeah.” 

Bucky raises an eyebrow at Steve’s getup as he sets Alpine on her cat tree. He reaches a hand out to smooth down Steve’s bed head. Steve leans into the touch, prompting Bucky to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “Yeah, Steve’s here. One second.” Bucky taps at his phone. “Okay, you’re on speaker.” 

“Morning, Becca.” 

“Congratulations!” Becca shouts so loudly it distorts her voice over the phone. 

“Thank you.” Steve smiles softly at Bucky. 

“Glad someone’s finally going to make an honest man out of my brother.” 

“Hey,” Bucky protests. “I’m a catch.” 

“Of course you are.” 

“He really is,” Steve interjects. 

“I’m happy for you boys. I never thought-” Becca cuts off abruptly. Steve hears the muffled sound of sniffling. “It’s wonderful that you found each other. It’s just wonderful.” 

“Thank you.” Bucky’s starting to look close to tears himself. Steve jostles him with a shoulder. 

“Becca, you’ll tell everyone else won’t you? I’ll send you pictures.” 

“Of course! Send them to Winnie. She has one of those smart phones.” 

“Will do. Hey, listen. We’re just about to sit down to breakfast, why don’t we call you back later?” 

“Alright. Congratulations again. And don’t be strangers.” 

“We won’t.” 

“Well, we love you.” 

“Love you too,” Bucky says. He stares at the phone like he's willing her to hang up faster. 

“Alright. You two have a good day, now.” 

“You too.” 

“And let me know if you need any help getting the wedding sorted.” 

“We will,” Steve says. 

“Okay. Well, I’ll let you go.” 

“Alright. Bye.” Bucky taps the red button on the screen and tosses his phone onto the couch. 

“She seems happy.” Steve leans in to rest his forehead against Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky’s hands snake under the blanket to wrap around Steve's waist. Steve shivers and grumbles unhappily. “Your hand is cold.” Bucky splays the offending metal fingers across his lower back. “You jerk!” 

“Warm it up for me. And yeah, she’s happy about it. Kind of a relief.” 

“Were you worried?” 

Bucky makes a noncommittal noise. “A little, maybe.” 

“Whole family took it well.” 

“Yeah. Time's have changed, I guess.” 

They’re interrupted by the beeping of the coffee pot. 

Steve peels himself away from Bucky to go pull two mugs down from the overfull cabinet. A mug was the first non-essential item Bucky ever bought for himself after he came home. Steve started the whole thing. He found a mug that said I like my sugar with a little bit of coffee when he was out grocery shopping and brought it home for Bucky. It made Bucky smile, so when Steve found another mug that said Good morning, sunshine he bought that one too. 

Then Bucky found an oversized one that said Mama Needs her Coffee with a red heart and got it for Steve. Steve wasn’t one to back down, so he used it every morning for a month, until Bucky got him another one with a shirt and tie that says Professional Grandpa. Somewhere down the line Bucky bought one for himself from a vendor at the flea market. It’s hand thrown, glazed a bright blue with green flecks in it. That’s the one Steve digs out now and pours a generous splash of vanilla flavored creamer into. 

“My hero,” Bucky says as Steve presses the warm drink into his hands.

“I think we should discuss the mug situation.” 

“You mean the perfect number of mugs we own?” 

“We’re running out of cabinet space.” 

“They’re meaningful.” 

Steve hums his dissent but lets the matter drop. The morning news shifts to national and international stories as they settle on the couch together. Bucky freezes at the mention of Aleksander Lukin’s name. 

“Disgraced former CEO of Roxxon Oil, Lukin was arrested last year following accusations of corruption and illegal activities including human trafficking and embezzlement. Officials are reporting that Lukin was found dead in his cell in Moscow this morning. No official cause of death has been released.” 

Steve feels a spiteful curl of satisfaction in his chest. At its heels, concern. Bucky studies the TV unblinkingly. Steve leans over to kiss his temple. “It’s over now.” Bucky nods. Steve feels him slowly, consciously relaxing. Breathing in, holding it, breathing out. 

Once Tony found out about Lukin’s involvement in Howard and Maria’s deaths he’d set about publicizing his other crimes, which were numerous. Lukin had ties to more than just HYDRA and the KGB. The paper trail was undeniable. Steve’ll have to call Stark later to check in, see how he’s doing. 

The news moves on to a story about an LGBT center that was burned to the ground last night in Baltimore. Alarmingly, the arsonists live streamed the whole thing on the internet. Steve watches in horrified curiosity as they play part of the stream. In it, two masked men stand in front of the center. Rainbow flags hang in the windows. One brandishes a bottle of liquor which he uses to make a Molotov cocktail. They harp on about the downfall of America and American values. 

“We are the Watchdogs! We are sentinels of liberty! And we are taking our country back!” They light the explosive and throw it into the window, setting the building ablaze. 

The news anchors reappear. “Disturbing stuff, Hank. The attack in Baltimore was just one of many similar incidents that took place across the country last night. Attacks on women’s clinics and LGBT Centers appear to be part of a targeted move by this group- calling themselves The Watchdogs.” 

They interview the director of the center and a few of the young people who frequent it. They're two teenagers, just kids. They look shaken up and nervous, but Steve's struck by their bravery in speaking out against the arsonists. They talk about the devastating impact the loss will have on the community. The director is hopeful though, that they’ll find a new building soon. 

“Do you know anything about that?” Steve asks. 

Bucky gives him a wary look. “I’m on vacation.” 

“Buck.” 

There’s a beat of silence as Bucky sips at his coffee. Finally, he says, “I’m aware of it. We'll talk about it tomorrow.” 

Steve purses his lips in a distinctly unimpressed fashion. “Really?” 

“Yes, really. This is why I don’t like you watching the news.” 

“I saw you texting Hill all week.” 

“Yeah. Telling her I’m on vacation.” The stubborn look on Bucky’s face brooks no argument. 

“Fine. Tomorrow. First thing.” 

“First thing.” 

Still, Steve feels unsettled. The footage has left him with an awful feeling in the pit of his stomach. Curls of anxiety mixed with the heat of rage. They’re working on it. Hill and Bucky have been on the case for over a year; raiding meetings, making arrests, stomping out bases. Unfortunately, it seems the groups that splintered off of HYDRA following the downfall of Project Insight are becoming more cohesive. They’ve got a name now. Whatever lies The Watchdogs are feeding people, they seem to be gaining traction. It’s like HYDRA that way- the ideology is the issue. The team is doing all they can, but right now it doesn't feel like nearly enough. 

Steve takes a steadying breath. Pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders. Tries to get his mind off of it. Hill and Bucky are working the case. Steve will be back to work tomorrow. No need to perseverate on it right now. Bucky grabs for the remote and clicks off the TV. 

The rest of the morning moves slowly. After breakfast, Bucky sets to work unpacking and sorting through the boxes of their old things from Becca. Steve claims the shower. He luxuriates a bit under the hot spray, happy to be back in familiar territory. Steam fogs the mirror when he steps out and dries off. He swipes a hand across the glass and studies his beard, turning his chin this way and that, considering. After a few minutes of deliberation he reaches for the trimmer. The beard begins to fall away in long stripes. As he reaches his upper lip he’s struck by a wicked idea. He turns off the trimmers. 

Steve works hard not to smile as he saunters into the bedroom with a towel wrapped around his hips to find Bucky finishing making the bed. 

They both freeze when they see the other. 

“What is that?” Steve points at the bed in dismay. 

“Better question, what the hell is that?” 

Becca must’ve saved everything she possibly could out of their old apartment, because there, in the center of their bed, sits Bucky’s ratty old teddy bear. It’s lumpy and misshapen, with clumsy black stitches running down the center of its head. Its brownish fur has been worn down smooth over the years. The thing was old in the 40s; it’s positively ancient now. 

“Is that… staying?” Steve gestures toward the teddy bear. 

“Is that staying?” Bucky’s lip curls in an expression of abject disgust at the sight of the bushy mustache gracing Steve’s upper lip. 

“You don’t like it?” Steve preens a little, tilts his head this way and that. He rubs at the edges of the mustache, twirls the corners a bit between his thumb and forefinger. The look of horror it elicits from Bucky is delightful. 

“You need to go shave.” 

“I was thinking about keeping it. For the wedding.” 

“I’m going to divorce you.” 

“We aren’t even married yet!” 

“I’m going to marry you so I can divorce you.” 

“As long as this makes the wedding pictures.” 

Bucky points at the door. “Go shave. Now.” 

Steve takes a step toward the door but frowns at the teddy bear. “Is that staying? For real?” 

“It’s Bear,” Bucky says simply, like that should be reason and explanation enough for the toy’s placement. 

“It is. It is Bear.” 

“You don’t like him?” Bucky ducks his chin and watches Steve from under his eyelashes. His lower lip pushes out. God damn it. This is exactly the kicked puppy look that’s always gotten Bucky everything he wants from Steve. 

“I didn’t say that. I was just wondering if the bed was a permanent position, or…?” 

Bucky snatches the teddy bear up with a glare that’s still bordering on a pout and places it on the bedside table. “Happy?” 

Steve grimaces. 

“What,” Bucky demands, growing increasingly exasperated. 

“It’s just… it’s like he’s staring at us.” 

“Oh. My. God. Get out before I start throwing shit at you.” 

“Just, if you turn him away a little- Hey!” Steve jumps back as a pillow arcs through the air toward him. Another follows quickly in its wake. 

“Out!” 

Steve beats a hasty retreat to the bathroom. He returns a few minutes later with a smooth upper lip and an abundance of caution. He peers around the doorframe, keeping most of his body out in the hall. “Is it safe?” 

“That’s up to you.” Bucky’s occupied himself with sorting out the framed pictures from the boxes, spreading them out across the bed. Bear, he notes, is staring toward the door now instead of the bed. Steve hesitates a moment then decides it’s worth taking the risk to get dressed. 

Truce successfully established, Steve helps out with selecting pictures to hang up in the hallway. He arranges them in a display, with a couple pictures of him and Bucky as kids, some of Bucky’s family, one of Steve’s dad, and the only surviving photograph of his mom. He traces the curve of her cheek with a finger over the glass. The photo is small and a little faded, but still recognizably Sarah. He intersperses the old pictures with more recent ones, relocating them from their existing spots on the wall. A mixture of images of him and Bucky, Sam, Nat, and the others. Eventually, he supposes he’ll be hanging up pictures of their wedding here. 

By the time Steve’s done hanging up pictures and has put the hammer and nails away, Bucky’s dressed and ready to head out. They’re meeting up with Sam and Nat this afternoon. It’s become something of a Sunday tradition. Whoever’s in the city meets up in the afternoon for brunch or shopping or to go see a movie. It’s nice. Slow paced. A chance to connect as friends instead of teammates. 

They take Steve’s bike up north and manage to find parking a short walk away from the flea market. Brooklyn Flea is all the way up in DUMBO, underneath the bridge into Manhattan. The market is bustling with activity. Shoppers, tourists, stalls selling handmade goods, others selling antiques and vintage clothes, and food vendors fill the space. 

“There they are!” Sam waves at them as they approach. He pulls them both into a firm hug. “Was afraid you might decide to stay in Arizona.” 

Bucky scoffs. “And leave you to do all the world saving on your own? Fat chance.” 

Steve gives Nat a quick hug. “Thanks again.” 

“It was no trouble.” Her hair’s dyed a darker shade of red than its usual auburn, worn long and braided back. 

“How was Alpine?” 

“A perfect angel.” Nat leads the way deeper into the market. 

They wander through the stalls while Steve and Bucky fill them in on the events of the road trip. Bucky passes his phone back and forth to show them the pictures he took. Landscapes, animals, plants, billboards, random stores, the hotels they stayed at, and annoyingly, some pictures of Steve sleeping in the passenger seat with his face smashed against the window. They keep getting interrupted by the near constant vibration of Bucky’s phone from incoming texts. News of their engagement must be spreading like wildfire amongst the Proctor family. The fourth time Bucky takes his phone back to send a ‘thank you’ text, Nat squints at them, openly suspicious. 

Steve and Bucky exchange a glance. Steve waggles his eyebrows. He’s eager to tell. Would shout it from the rooftops if he could, take out an ad in the paper. Go back in time and announce to the whole neighborhood that he was going to marry Bucky Barnes, not any of the dames always trailing at his heels. No. He, Steven Rogers, discounted from the start, had by some miracle managed to bag Bucky Barnes. And it was all perfectly legal now, thank you very much. Bucky catches the gleam in his eye and nods his permission. “We got engaged.” 

Sam’s face breaks into a broad grin. “What? Congratulations!” He throws his arms around both of their necks, pulling them in for an awkward three way hug. Sam slaps them both on the back several times, practically buzzing with excitement. 

Nat responds warmly, though more subdued, with a smile and a “Congratulations.” 

“When’s the wedding?” Sam asks. 

“Undecided,” Bucky answers. 

Sam carries a smug smile around and reminds them every now and then that he played wingman for them at the very beginning of their relationship. They fall into discussion of the wedding; whens, hows, wheres, and the possible benefits of a ceremony held in Delacroix. Steve basks in the warm glow of anticipation as he looks through the merchant’s stalls. A little golden statue of a dog catches his eye. It’s handmade by the artist manning the stall. A bit gaudy for Steve’s taste but the color might look nice against the green of Bucky’s plants on their bookshelves. 

“So who asked who?” Nat interrupts his pondering. 

“Bucky asked,” Steve says. Just thinking about the memory sends a flutter through his stomach. He shoots Bucky a shy smile. Bucky returns it. 

Sam raises an eyebrow. “How nervous was he?” 

“I was fine,” Bucky answers. 

“He was shaking like a leaf.” 

“I was not, you asshole.” Bucky shoves him in the shoulder. Steve refuses to budge. 

“Did he cry?” Nat asks. “I bet he cried.” 

“He cried.” 

“Jesus Christ. I can take this back, you know.” 

“You won’t though.” 

Nat gives Bucky a reassuring pat on the back. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you proposed in a really tough, manly kind of way.” 

“I was impressed,” Steve says mildly. 

“Can it.” 

“Shouldn’t talk to your fiancé like that,” Sam teases. “No rings?”

Steve shakes his head. Nat raises her eyebrows in mock offense. “Steve, you need better standards. I’ve never accepted a proposal without a ring.” 

“I wasn’t exactly planning it.” Bucky sounds a bit sore about the teasing. 

Steve runs a hand across his shoulders and Bucky’s expression softens just a touch. “He gave me his dog tags.” Steve says it sweetly, because it was romantic and Steve likes the feeling of wearing Bucky’s name around his neck. “He waited until sunrise at the Grand Canyon.” 

“Okay, Prince Charming,” Sam says with a huge grin, like he’s trying to hype Bucky up. “Save some romance for the rest of us.” 

Nat gets a thoughtful look on her face. “I think the best proposal I ever got was in Malta. Swimming in the ocean. Sunset. He got down on one knee in the waves. Huge diamond. Arrested him the next day. Think I might still have the ring.”  

“How many men have proposed to you?” Steve asks. 

“Oh, nineteen, twenty or so?” 

Sam guffaws. “Seems low.” 

Bucky picks up the little dog statue Steve’s been considering and asks the artist about the price. Bucky likes nothing better than a deal, so it’ll be a wait while he attempts to haggle, Steve knows. The crowd splits and flows around them like water. As Steve watches, a shout rises up further under the bridge. Four heads snap up in unison toward the sound, instantly alert. 

Steve pushes his way forward without consulting the others, trusting they’ll follow. The crowd has parted around a young white man, early twenties maybe, wearing all black and holding a stack of flyers. He shouts the same kind of rhetoric Steve saw professed by The Watchdogs on the news this morning. Failing family values, the death of America, how it's all the fault of people like Steve and Bucky. Another man, tall and bearded, shouts back. The crowd is tense around them. 

Steve approaches, plants himself in between the two. “What’s going on here?” 

“Move along,” the guy in all black says. He hardly spares Steve a glance. 

“Won't be doing that.” 

The man finally looks at him, then does a double take as recognition takes hold. “You’re-“

“Sure am. Seems like you’re causing a fuss.” 

The guy puffs up. “I’m spreading the word. I’ve got the right to be here.” 

“You don’t have the right to spout off whatever bullshit you were going on about!” The bearded man shouts. He gestures heatedly, one of the flyers the guy’s handing out gripped tight in his hand. 

Steve’s jaw clenches at the sight of the flyer. He looks to the stack still clutched in the other man’s hands. His own face peers back at him. Steve’s face in profile, obscured by the Captain America helmet. His shield clearly visible. What he can read of the flyer echoes what the man was shouting. Righteous anger tears through his body like a flame through dry grass. Steve snatches the pile of papers out of the guy’s hands and rips the whole stack neatly in two. 

Gasps from the crowd. The man gapes at him in alarm. 

“I think you should leave now.” Steve’s stare is hard. His voice low and commanding. All eyes are on him. 

The guy starts to put up a fuss but quickly thinks better of it. He slinks away like the coward he is and disappears into the crowd. Steve looks around. “Anyone else got a problem with that?” 

Dead silence. Then, the bearded man speaks up. “Thanks, Cap.” Murmured agreement rolls through the group. 

Steve nods an acknowledgement and waits for folks to disperse. It happens slowly, people whispering to one another and throwing glances over their shoulders as they move away from the scene. 

Steve’s hands are shaking when Bucky and the others approach. Steve stalks over to a trash can and throws the flyers inside where they belong. The others follow quietly in his wake. “Seeing more and more of this lately,” Sam observes quietly. 

“It’s bullshit.” Steve’s fists clench at his sides. 

“People believe what they want to believe, Steve.” Bucky’s voice is irritatingly calm. 

“Well they shouldn’t use my face to spread their hate.” 

“Captain America’s a symbol. They don’t know you. And if they did, I don’t think they’d like you very much.” Nat’s words are like cold comfort. 

“It doesn’t piss you off?” 

“It does.” Nat studies his face for a moment. “I just don’t think there’s much I can do about it other than keep working on taking out these groups.” 

Steve draws in a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. Yeah. We keep doing what we’re doing. I just wish there was something more.” 

“There’s always going to be assholes and bullies out there,” Bucky says. “Focus on what we can change.” 

“Your therapist tell you that?” The corner of Steve’s mouth twitches. He can feel the anger lowering from a boil to a simmer. 

“She did, actually. She also said to buy you that dog statue.” 

Steve looks back toward the market stall and the crowd of people meandering around and frowns. “I don’t want to go back. Let’s head out. I- sorry, guys. I just…” 

Nat puts her hands up in an appeasing gesture. “We understand. If we see any more posters we’ll tear them down.” 

“Thanks.”

Steve and Bucky walk in tense silence back to the bike. 

Steve will be back to work tomorrow. He’s never been so eager. 

The raid is well organized and meticulously planned. The records Bucky recovered in Jersey have been a boon to the operation. They found sites, names, layouts, and entrance codes. Steve, Sam, and Tony tear through the trees surrounding the base in rural Pennsylvania. Operatives in Jeeps, armed with machine guns and the occasional flame thrower, attempt to hold them back, to no avail. 

A blast of purple tinted energy tears through the trees ahead, sending a Jeep careening off course. Steve stops in his tracks. “What the hell was that?” 

“Don’t know.” Tony’s voice filters through coms. “Looks alien.” 

Steve looks to the trail of destruction left in the path of the energy beam. Trees and ground are torn up in a zig zag pattern, a trench dug into the earth where the soil’s been thrown. Steve shakes it off and keeps running forward. The operatives melt away as the base comes into view. It’s surrounded by a chain link fence with razor wire lining the top. Tony’s gauntlets cut lines through the metal, laying down a section so Steve can enter easily. 

“Thanks!” 

Another blast of the purple energy rips through the air to Steve’s left. He catches a glimpse of the man holding the weapon. He runs for a Jeep, cradling a gun-like device in his hands. The weapon glows with an unnatural light indicating an otherworldly power source. They’ve more or less confirmed that weapons dealers have been shipping out Chitauri tech, but this is no alien lance. This guy’s holding a gun. Which means they’ve found a way to use the tech, shape it into new weapons. 

“Steve, hold your position.” Bucky’s sure voice filters through the coms. But Bucky can’t see the weapon this guy is holding. Steve sprints after the Jeep as it takes off away from the base. “Rogers! I said hold your position!” 

Steve pursues down the rough, rutted forest road. The terrain is difficult but Steve is fast and agile and he can definitely catch up-

“Steve!” 

This isn’t the plan. Infiltrate, arrest who they can, recover what they can, and detonate. That’s the plan. Following a rogue operative on his own, without backup, is not part of the plan. Steve does it anyway. A high pitched whine precedes the blast of purple energy that fires back in Steve's direction. Steve’s ears ring from the force of the blast. Still, he pursues, leaping over a boulder in the path and twisting midair to avoid another blast from the weapon. He’s gaining on them. 

The shield deflects the next blast, but the force of it shoves Steve backward. His boots dig into the soil and plow trenches into the earth underfoot. Steve gathers himself and continues on, doggedly refusing to give up the chase. He dodges another blast. The sharp smell of ozone fills the air as a tree beside him erupts into splinters.

Steve flings the shield, aiming for the Jeep’s tires. Time seems to slow. He watches as the shield approaches in a perfect straight line, and as the operative fires the weapon. He watches the purplish-blue blast of energy arc toward the shield, and behind it, Steve himself. Steve ducks, hands over his head, but the beam is deflected off the shield and whizzes straight to him. The ground erupts in a spray of dirt and foliage and sends Steve flying. He lands on his back, all the breath forced out of his lungs, twenty yards away from the impact point. 

His ears ring with a high pitched whine. All other sound is muffled, distant. He reaches to his ears and pulls his hand away when he finds a tacky trail of blood there. Steve staggers to his feet and immediately falls down again. The world swoops and dives in front of his eyes. 

He tries to stand again, once again is forced back down to his knees by dizziness. His stomach decides to get in on the action. He heaves into the dirt, the movement of his throat eliciting more searing pain in his left ear. Steve lays back and stares up at the trees and the clouds. They spin all around. Steve squeezes his eyes shut. The world is still spinning. 

Someone touches his arm. Steve shoves them away on instinct. He opens his eyes to see Sam. Well, three of Sam. Which is not normal. But at least one of them is probably real. The Sams’ mouths are moving, probably shouting at him. Steve watches in a daze and tries not to heave up any more of his lunch. He gestures to his ears and shakes his head no, which is a terrible, terrible idea because it sends him reeling back down to the ground again. 

Sam picks him up bridal style and they fly up through the tree tops and into the open sky. Steve closes his eyes tight and wraps his arms around Sam’s neck. He can’t do much more than that. 

They land back by the base and Sam sets Steve back on his feet. The world lurches again and Steve staggers but Sam catches him this time. Still, Steve doubles over with the force of the vertigo. Something is deeply, terribly wrong with his ear. 

Bucky’s there. Diving in and out of his vision. He feels Bucky’s arms wrap around his waist. He leans into the familiar embrace and tries to keep on his feet. Bucky takes him from Sam and straps him into a seat on the quinjet. He might be speaking, but Steve wouldn’t know. He slumps back into the seat and closes his eyes again. The nauseating spinning is at least more tolerable with his eyes closed. 

Bucky takes his hand and rubs his finger across the palm. Eventually, Steve picks up on the pattern. A swipe of his thumb followed by two taps. The same move in reverse. Two more swipes. Another swipe and three taps. Dumb. Over and over again, traced into his palm. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. 

“I know,” Steve hopes he says out loud. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 

The pattern shifts. Tap, two swipes, tap. Tap, tap, swipe. Swipe, tap. Swipe, tap, swipe. Punk. Steve lets out an exhausted laugh. 

The ride back to HQ feels like it takes an eternity. Maybe the blast messed up his sense of time as well as his balance and hearing. He throws up again before they make it back. He’s rushed into the medbay once they land, where doctors cut off his singed suit. Pieces of it are stuck to the marred flesh of his shoulder. It’s funny, he hasn’t really noticed any pain yet. He doesn’t know if that’s good or bad. The hit from the energy beam must’ve been a glancing blow. His left shoulder is wet and raw, blackened, burnt skin sloughing off and slowly starting to knit itself back together thanks to the serum. 

Doctors keep looking down at him and trying to talk. They point lights in his face and try to get him to follow their fingers with his eyes. It’s really hard to focus when his head is still swooping. They try holding up a whiteboard with words written on it, but he can’t focus well enough to read it. 

Bucky reappears, probably summoned by the doctors. Steve sees his face in double, drifting in and out of his vision. He looks worried. He taps words into Steve’s palm. 

Ear drum hurt. Dizzy? 

“Yes.” 

Hear anything?

“No. There’s a whining noise. Can you hear me?” 

Yes. Yelling. 

“Sorry.” Steve hopes his volume is a little lower this time. 

Fine. See? 

“Everything’s spinning.” 

Eyes closed too? 

“Yeah.” He closes his eyes and still feels the spinning. “I’m sorry, Buck.” 

Talk later. 

“Are you mad?” 

Yes. 

“Sorry.” 

Later. 

They must give him some kind of sedative because he feels a sting in his arm and the next thing he knows he’s waking up in med bay. His head is finally, blessedly still. He can hear the slow, muffled beep of a monitor at his bedside. Thank god. He reaches up to touch his ear and finds his left arm is bandaged. The skin feels tight, but it’s not in any significant pain. His head, on the other hand. The vertigo’s gone but his head feels like someone’s run a railroad spike through it. The light is agonizing. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and scrabbles blindly against the scratchy hospital blanket with one hand. He knows Bucky will be there. Bucky grabs his hand immediately. Steve cracks one eye open carefully and sees him seated beside the bed. Bucky must’ve gone home at some point because he’s dressed in a clean sweatshirt and jeans. Which means he’s been out for at least a day. Bucky watches Steve with concern. 

“You’re awake.” Bucky’s voice sounds distant and muffled, like he’s underwater. 

“Yeah.” 

“Can you hear me?” 

“Yes.” 

Something hardens in Bucky’s demeanor. His eyes tighten into a glare while his mouth sets in an unforgiving line. “Good.” His voice cracks through the air like a whip, anger obvious even with the muffled echoing Steve’s ears are doing. 

Steve winces. “I’m sorry I went a little off book-” 

“Seventeen minutes,” Bucky snaps. 

“Huh?” 

“That’s how long you were off coms. Seventeen minutes.” Anger rolls off Bucky’s shoulders in waves, a force so thick it’s almost tangible. 

“I was trying to catch up with the Jeep.” Steve tries to sink down further into the hospital bed. Make himself a smaller target. 

“Well you did and you got yourself hurt in the process.” 

“I’m sorry.” Steve watches him sheepishly. “Did they get the weapon?” 

“Really? That’s what you’re worried about? You were told to hold your position. And I believe your ears were working at the time.” 

“They were going to get away!” Steve protests. 

Bucky looks away, jaw clenched. “You’re off active duty.” 

“What?” Steve shoots up and immediately regrets it as it sends another stab of pain through his skull. “Are you- are you-” Steve splutters. “Grounding me?” 

“No. Hill is. I just happen to agree with her.” 

“But-”

“There’s no but. You’re on medical leave until the docs clear you.” 

“We just got back!” 

“Then I guess that’s what they call a natural consequence.” Bucky looks away, features sharp. Steve doesn’t dare protest further, not with that look on Bucky’s face and his head beating like a drum. He sinks back down into the pillows. 

Bucky glances back at him. Chews on his cheek in thought. “If it was Hill, would you have listened?” 

Oh. Steve didn’t know he’d take it that way. “No,” he answers honestly. 

Bucky nods hard, lips pursed. “Right. Right.” Bucky shakes his head. He lets out a frustrated sound and stares up at the ceiling. Bucky hasn’t been this angry at him in a while. “Fuck, you’re an asshole.” 

“I know.” Steve averts his gaze. He speaks into his lap. “I only take the risks because I know you’ve got my back.” 

Bucky slumps forward with a groan and cradles his head in his hands. “Is that supposed to be sweet?” 

“It’s just supposed to be true.” 

“Stevie, I need you to listen to me.” Some of the fight’s left him. There’s an exhausted edge to his voice. 

“I promised you I’d always plan on coming back. I do.” 

“Well could you try a little harder maybe?” 

“Alright.” Steve watches as Bucky slowly softens. Eventually he reaches for Steve’s hand again.  

“Sam did get the gun. Banner’s taking it apart. Pretty advanced stuff.” 

“Can we counter it?” 

“We’ll see. Gives us a lead, at least.” 

“Hm.” 

Bucky glares at him. “Don’t start. Just because you got it doesn’t mean you were right.” 

Steve shakes his head innocently. “Of course not. Just glad Banner’s got something to work with.” 

“Uh huh,” Bucky says drily. “You know what? I’m looking forward to your leave. You know what you get tomorrow? Bed rest. All day.” 

“Buck-” 

“Don’t try it. I’ll strap you down if I have to.” 

Steve lays back with a huff. He knows a losing fight when he sees one. 

Forced medical leave is the worst. Steve’s straight off of an extended vacation and was itching to get back to work. Now, not only does he not get to go out on missions, he isn’t even allowed to do any administrative work. He’d plead his case to Hill and Bucky, but they both reproved him. The doctors said he needed to rest his eyes or brain or something. Something about a ruptured ear drum and a significant blow to the back of the head. Whatever. 

Even worse than the doctors ordering him around is Bucky’s incessant mother henning. Just because Steve stumbled a couple times with a sudden rush of vertigo and complained once that his ear hurt, Bucky insisted he stay in bed all day. The first day wasn’t so bad because if Steve was honest, he didn’t love the random flashes of dizziness that sent the room lurching under his feet. So he stayed in bed and mostly slept until Bucky got home. 

If there was an upside to this punishment, it was the pleased- if a little surprised- look Bucky gave him when he got home to find Steve still in bed. 

Now though, on day three, it’s a different story. The vertigo’s gone and the hearing in his left ear is slowly returning. The bedroom got boring so he's spread out on the couch instead. Bucky’s left him with a small pile of drinks and snacks on the coffee table, a bunch of pillows and blankets, and strict instructions to rest. 

There is precious little to do. He’s not supposed to do anything to strain his eyes or balance. That means no reading, no running, no screens of any kind. “But there’s no harm in listening,” he reasons to Alpine as he grabs the remote and flicks on the TV. Then he shuts up because he realizes he’s speaking to the cat like she’s a person which could be confirmation of brain damage. Alpine gives an encouraging trill. He decides it’s a coincidence. 

The footage of the group now calling themselves The Watchdogs plays over and over on every news channel. Pundits come on to give their opinions on the whole thing. Steve grows increasingly incensed as he hears the same talking points repeated over and over. The disturbing part is some of them seem to agree with the Watchdogs- that they're a natural response to the tumultuous social changes in the country. More people getting access to rights they’ve been denied, is what they really mean. 

Steve turns it off in disgust. 

“I need to get out of the house,” Steve announces to Alpine. It’s fine. If he’s got a concussion then he’ll lean into it. Alpine watches him serenely from her perch on the cat tree as he pulls on his boots and a jacket. “Don’t tell Bucky,” he instructs. The cat licks her paw and runs it across her ear. “You’re going to tell Bucky, aren’t you?” Steve takes her silence as agreement. 

It’s a short walk to the glass blowing shop. The movement does him some good, and the change of scenery is a welcome reprieve to being stuck at home all day. Steve first visited Rosenthal’s Glass Menagerie about two years ago. He’d gotten back into art after starting therapy, and had decided to branch out with something new. Glass blowing had never been on his radar before, so when he saw the ad for a beginner’s class he jumped at the opportunity. 

The shop is owned and operated by Bernie Rosenthal and her partner. Steve had stuck around after that first class to talk with Bernie, and the two of them quickly struck up a friendship. Bernie’s “big girl job”, as she calls it, is as a defense lawyer. She’s a damn good one, from what Steve can tell. Bernie’s whipsmart and passionate about her work. When Steve first met her she went on a rant about modern immigration policy and the prison industrial complex. They’ve been friends ever since. 

Bernie couldn’t give less of a shit about Steve’s superhero alter ego. Occasionally she gives him a hard time about a decision he’s made or grills him on a political situation, but otherwise just treats him like a regular person. Bernie was the first non-Avenger Steve had felt comfortable talking to about having a boyfriend. He’d been so nervous that his voice had come out as barely a whisper, and at first he wasn’t sure that Bernie’d heard him. Luckily, she had and reacted about as well as Steve could hope for. She gave him a hug then sat him down with a cup of tea and asked him to tell her all about his boyfriend James. She’d told him about her partner, Ann, in return. 

If anyone’s going to understand the white hot rage currently occupying all of Steve’s brain space, it’s Bernie. 

Steve feels his entire body relax as he rounds the corner and spots the familiar sign above the shop. He tenses up again as he reaches for the door handle and is interrupted by a voice behind him. “Excuse me? Captain Rogers?” 

Fucking hell. Steve straightens up and turns with a smile. “Yes?” 

“Oh wow.” A middle aged white man stands there, looking a bit shell shocked. It’s a common expression when folks talk to Steve. “It really is you.” The man is tall, about Steve’s height, with short blond hair. The man digs in his coat pocket for a paperback book and a pen. “I’m sure you’re busy, but I was wondering if you’d sign this?” 

Steve takes the book and the pen the man offers. He suppresses a sigh when he sees his own face is on the cover. It’s a biography, titled Shield of a Nation: The Life and Legacy of Captain America. “Sure thing. What’s your name?” 

“Oh, if you could make it out to William, sir. It- it’s an honor to meet you.” 

Steve signs his name with a flourish and passes the book back to the nervous looking man. Something about him seems familiar, but then, lots of people ask Steve for autographs. 

“Thank you.” The man looks almost giddy with excitement. Like Steve’s just told him Santa Clause is real after all. “Thank you so much. You know, I’m a big fan of yours.” 

“Thank you. That’s great to hear.” 

“Really, Captain Rogers. You don’t know how much it means to me to speak with you. I used to watch your shows when I was a kid. You were one of the only things that got me through.” 

“Oh. Thank you. I’m glad I could be helpful. Uh, listen, I have to get going but it was nice to meet you, William.” 

“Nice to meet you too. Maybe I’ll see you around?” 

“Um, maybe. Have a good day.” 

Steve ducks into the shop, setting the little bell above the door ringing. Shelves full of glasswork send multicolored rays of light glimmering across the room. Behind the counter sits a small woman with dark, curly hair pulled back in a ponytail. 

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” Bernie greets him with a raised eyebrow. 

Steve rolls his eyes. “A hello would be nice. And some guy just asked me for an autograph.” 

Bernie leans across the counter on her elbows. “Tough out there for a celebrity?” Steve’s scowl must be sufficiently upsetting because Bernie’s face turns serious. “Something up, Steve?” 

It all spills out of him in a rush, right there in the lobby. The right wing groups popping up around the country, the struggle to stop them, the arsonists that targeted the LGBT center in Baltimore, the guy handing out flyers with his face on them at Brooklyn Flea. She lets Steve vent, nodding along solemnly the whole time. 

“And it all just pisses me off,” Steve concludes. 

Bernie nods slowly. “Come on.” She ushers Steve into the back of the shop and sits him down at one of the work benches. “You’re hurt, you said?” 

“Not badly. It’s healing up.” 

“Alright. And your boyfriend? Where’s he in all this?” 

Steve rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “Fiancé, now.” 

“What?" She swats him on the knee. "And that’s not the first thing you tell me? Mazel tov.” 

“Thanks. And he’s at work.” 

“What’s he say about all this?” 

Steve crosses his arms over the table and sinks down to rest his head there. “He says I’m doing all I can and it just takes time.” 

“Punching bad guys not enough for you?” 

Steve pops back up. “It’s the image. You know? I didn’t sign up to be Captain America.” The sick feeling thrumming through his veins is back again. “I never imagined this. They’ve spent seventy years using me as some kind of symbol of… patriotism or nationalism and…” He trails off feebly. 

Bernie watches him with a frown. God, he must be a pathetic sight at the moment. “That’s not you.” 

“No. But I don’t have any control over it.” 

Bernie crosses her arms over her chest and regards Steve thoughtfully, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “What if you did?” 

“How?” Steve feels wretched. All the fight’s flooded out of him for the moment. 

“You might be able to sue. Defamation of character, slander, copyright infringement maybe.” 

“Copyright infringement?” 

“I assume Captain America is copyrighted. You probably don’t hold the rights though.” 

Steve heaves a sigh. “It probably doesn’t matter. Not like I can erase seventy years worth of propaganda.” 

“No… But what if you didn’t try to do that? You can’t change what people know about Captain America. But what if you introduced them to Steve Rogers?” 

Steve’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. “But they already know who I am.” 

“They don’t, though. Not really. But you could show them.” 

Steve nods along as Bernie lays out a plan. As she speaks, he begins to feel more and more certain that this is what he needs to do. It’s what he’s always done. Stood up to the bullies. It sends a flutter of anxiety through his chest, same way he always feels going into a fight. But that anxiety is dampened by the increasing certainty that this is the right thing to do. He leaves the studio that afternoon with the beginnings of a plan turning over in his mind. 

Later that evening, Steve initiates phase one of the plan. When Bucky gets home Steve yanks the door open before he can even dig his keys out of his pocket. He drags him in by the coat and kicks the door shut as he captures Bucky's mouth in a kiss. He presses Bucky up against the wall and feels him go slack with surprise, bag dropping from his fingers to land with a thunk on the floor. 

When Steve pulls back, Bucky blinks at him in astonishment. “Christ, did you miss me or something?” 

Steve smirks and backs away into the kitchen. “I’ve been on house arrest for three days, what do you think?” 

“I think maybe you should retire.” Bucky tosses his keys into the bowl by the door and hangs his jacket up on a hook. He kicks his shoes off in a hurry. 

“And be your housewife?”

“You keep kissing me like that, then maybe.” Bucky sidles up and wraps his hands around Steve’s waist. He studies Steve’s face. “How are you feeling?” 

“A lot better.” Steve dives in for another kiss. 

“Good,” Bucky says slowly as they break apart. Steve might be laying it on a little too thick. 

“So I’ve been thinking.” 

“Don’t hurt yourself” 

Steve rolls his eyes. “I was talking to Bernie today.” 

“Dangerous.” 

“And I think I want to come out.” 

“What?” 

“Of the closet.” 

Bucky looks down at his hands around Steve’s waist. “Are you not already?” 

“Publicly, I mean.” 

Bucky’s eyebrows knit together. “Like what? You go on the news or something?” 

“Yeah. Something like that.” 

Shrewd blue eyes search Steve's face. “Is this about those posters?” 

“No. Yes. It’s that, but it’s more than that too.” 

Bucky backs away from Steve, shaking his head. “You’d be putting a target on your back doing something like that.” 

“I know.” Bucky’s silent. Steve's caught him off guard, he knows. Still, Steve presses. “Doesn’t all of this piss you off?” 

“Sure it does. Why do you think I’ve spent the past year tracking down these groups?” 

“But it’s-” Steve’s nostrils flare as he breathes out harshly. “The people they’re targeting. You're not mad about that?” 

“It’s the same folks they always target.” 

“And that doesn’t bother you?” 

“Yes, it fucking bothers me! I think we've established that." Bucky runs a hand through his hair and blows out a breath. "We’re doing all we can.” 

Steve grumbles unhappily. “Are we, though?” 

Bucky freezes with his fingers still carded through his hair. “Do you think I’m dropping the ball on this?” 

“No. That’s not- Buck, that’s not what I meant.” Steve draws closer again, reaches for Bucky’s metal hand. He examines the palm and places a kiss in its center. “That’s not what I meant.” His jaw works as he considers his next words. They come out quietly. “They’re using my face to do all of this.” 

“That was one guy-” 

“It’s not just one guy. It’s a lot of them. They’re taking my face and my words and twisting them around to say they’re in the right.” 

Bucky sighs heavily. “There’s no way you can control what people say. They’ll find any reason to back up what they’re doing. It’s justification. If it wasn’t you it’d be someone else.” 

“But it is me.” Desperation tinges Steve's voice. 

Bucky's mouth twists into a sour looking frown. He looks down at their joined hands. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” 

“I want to know if you think I should.” 

“You don’t need my permission.” 

“Maybe I want your… blessing.” 

“My blessing?”  

“Your go ahead! This affects you too.” 

“I don’t- Could we just eat dinner, please? Can we table this?” 

“I want to have this conversation.” 

“I’m not saying drop it, I’m saying can you let me think about this? I don’t have an answer for you right now, Steve.” 

Steve studies him. Really takes him in. The almost imperceptible nervous tremor in his right hand, the way his eyes dart restlessly back and forth. His teeth worry at his lower lip for just a moment. The signs are subtle, but Steve has extensive practice studying Bucky's mannerisms. He's scared.

It's the same look he wore the first time he kissed Steve. The same look those kids on the news had, talking about the fire. The same look Steve had on his face when he told Bernie about Bucky. Bucky's always been the bravest guy Steve knows. But this fear runs deep. 

Steve presses a kiss to his temple. "Okay. Think about it. Take as much time as you need." 

Chapter Text

The travel cup is warm against Bucky’s flesh hand as he strides down the ramp of the quinjet and into the Georgia sunrise. Purchased fresh this morning from an establishment called Ground Central at the base of Stark Tower, it’s plain black coffee and quite frankly it doesn’t matter where it’s from, only that he thinks Hill might enjoy the pun on the label. 

The acrid smell of smoke assaults his nostrils as he approaches the scene. Agents scramble around the ashy remains of a women’s clinic in a strip mall. Several police cars from the local precinct are parked nearby, the officers arguing with the agents about just who the investigation should belong to. Bucky starts to head over but is interrupted by a vibration in his pocket. He fishes out his phone and taps the answer button with his nose. Metal hands, not great for touch screens. 

“Becks, I can’t talk for long.” Bucky scans the scene for Hill. 

“Good morning to you too.” 

Bucky suppresses a sigh. “Good morning. Sorry, I’m working.” He watches the police officers give up and go back to their cars, though they stick around in the parking lot. 

“I understand. Is Steve with you?” 

“No, he’s at home.” 

“Well he’s not answering my calls.” 

Bucky spots Hill picking her way carefully through the wreckage, tablet in hand. He raises his eyebrows at her by way of greeting. “Yeah, you know what? He’s not supposed to look at screens right now. Probably didn’t realize you called.” 

Becca makes a dissatisfied little noise. “Alright. Well call me back when you get home, I want to talk with him.” 

“Will do.” Hill approaches, head cocked to the side in a silent question. “Hey, listen, I’ve got to go. Love you Becks.”

“Love you too, Jimmy.” He ends the call and sticks his phone back in his pocket. “My sister,” he explains as he pushes the cup of coffee into her hands. 

Hill accepts gratefully and takes a long, blissful drink. “God, I needed this.” Hill’s been here all night; left the moment they got the call. Even she must be tired if she didn’t question him having a sister any more than that. 

Bucky surveys the smoking remains of the building with hands on hips. The forensics crew is crawling all over the place, gathering samples and conducting scans. “What have we got?” 

Hill allows herself one more indulgent drink of her coffee before she answers. “Watchdogs for sure. They left their calling card.” She jerks her chin toward the clinic’s sign, which has been left undamaged by the fire. It’s covered in a stylized spray painted image of a dog. These guys weren’t exactly subtle to begin with, but they’re becoming even less so. 

Bucky grimaces at the sight. “Anyone hurt?” 

“No. Happened after business hours. Everyone’d gone home.” 

“So they aren’t targeting the people.” 

Hill shakes her head grimly. “Which means they’re sending a message.” 

“And if they’re sending a message then someone’s in charge.” 

Hill hums her agreement. “We’ve identified a leader. Guy calling himself the Grand Director.” 

“Bit dramatic,” Bucky snorts. 

“We’ll get a message to him. Tell them to workshop it a bit more.” 

Bucky allows the corner of his mouth to quirk up in an approximation of a smile, despite the circumstances. He kicks idly at a pile of ashes. The slightly metallic tang of ozone is still detectable past the smell of smoke. “This the Chitauri weapons?” 

“Bruce is confirming, but yeah. Energy signatures look identical.” 

“Do we have a location yet?” 

Hill hands her cup back to Bucky to pull up a map on her tablet. “Banner’s been able to trace the energy signatures to several locations. Not all of them are tied to attacks. We’re assuming they’re test shots. There’s a definite concentration within a hundred miles of New York but it’s moving southwest. Seems like their main base of operations is somewhere near the city. But no solid leads on that yet.” 

“They’d need a warehouse to store all the weapons. A lab. It’s got to be big. Somewhere near an airstrip, maybe?” 

Hill nods. “They’re distributing the weapons somehow. Mostly to rural areas. Small airplanes make sense.” 

“Can we look into private flight logs? Might be a pattern there.” 

Hill taps something into her tablet. Without looking up she says, “How’s Steve?” 

Bucky smiles. “Losing his mind. He made beef wellington yesterday.” 

“Wow. Real Gordon Ramsey, huh?” 

“I don’t know who that is. But yeah, he’s… taking all this to heart.” Bucky gestures at the smoking remains of the building in front of them. 

Hill takes her coffee back with a grimace. “Hard not to.” 

"Yeah." Bucky shuffles on the balls of his feet. He shoves his hands in his pockets to hide the slight nervous tremor in his right hand. “Yeah. He, uh. We were talking the other day actually and he was saying he’s thinking about coming out. Publicly, I mean.” 

Hill’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. “Really?”

“Yeah. He was asking for my, um. Permission, I guess.” 

There’s a long beat of silence. Hill watches him carefully, considering. “What’d you say?” 

“I told him I’d think about it.” 

“What do you think?” 

“I don’t know yet. I was wondering if you have any thoughts on it. If it would hurt the investigation, or…” 

Hill purses her lips in thought. Bucky appreciates that she doesn’t rush to give reassurance. It’s safe to assume that the Avengers would be supportive of a move like this, but they might not calculate the risks as bluntly as Hill will. He trusts her instincts. “No real way to know. Could draw them out. Make them angry, they might misstep. We might be able to use that to our advantage.”

“Use Steve as bait, you mean,” Bucky says with a scowl. 

Hill shrugs. “Well, if the worm is willing.”  

“Do you think it… do you think people would react, um… well? To something like that?” 

Again, Hill takes a moment to think it over before she responds. “You’ll have two camps most likely. One pro, one against. I’m guessing the pro will win out eventually. I’d estimate two months of fanfare and then the news will move on to something else.”

The methodical, practical analysis is slightly comforting. Hill isn’t in the habit of sugarcoating things to spare Bucky's feelings. It gives him enough courage to ask his next question. “But you wouldn’t, um… it wouldn’t mean Steve would have to… step down? From being Cap?” 

Hill’s faced aliens, evil robots, and actual gods from outer space. She’s quite literally seen it all. She approaches everything with a cool, quiet confidence that she can handle absolutely anything the universe throws at her. So it’s a tremendous relief when she looks at Bucky slack jawed, like he’s just said the most outrageous thing she’s ever heard. “Absolutely not.” Her voice is firm and commanding, like she’s demanding Bucky never say anything like that ever again. 

Bucky blows out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. “Okay. That’s good.” 

“Barnes, you know we’ve got your back, right?” 

“Yes.” Bucky toes at the ground. “Yes. It just feels different when it’s personal stuff.” 

“If you want to do this then we’ll do this.” 

Bucky sighs. “It’s complicated. People keep saying nobody cares, but there’s people that do. It’s not like he wants to tell his family or something. If he comes out then the president would probably have something to say about it.” 

Hill scoffs. “Ellis can be persuaded.” 

“Well, what happens when they figure out he’s engaged to the Winter Soldier?”

Hill’s face breaks out into a wide grin, the most genuine happiness he’s ever seen her express. Bucky slaps his hand over his mouth and curses himself internally. 

“Congrats.” 

“That wasn’t how I meant to tell you.”  

“I’ll get right on the marriage certificate. Could probably find an understanding priest if you want one,” she muses. 

“Do not- This is not wedding planning hour.” 

“Do you know your colors yet?” she asks teasingly. Bucky levels his best glare at her. She’s unfazed, but drops the subject in favor of answering his original question. “And I imagine the response would be the same when they figure out you’re his fiancé as it would be if they figure out you’re an Avenger. Public scandal. Accusations. Conspiracy theories.” 

“They shoot me in the street,” Bucky says darkly. 

“No,” Hill says forcefully. “Arrest you, maybe. Worst case we run you to a safehouse, Stark and Rogers make a big stink about it to the press, and they’re forced to give you a fair trial. We’ve got enough dirt on everyone in Washington to make sure that happens.”

“A fair trial ends in the death penalty or extradition.”

Hill shrugs. “Maybe not. You’ve got powerful friends.” 

“Meaning it’s unfair.” 

“Meaning they hire good lawyers.” 

Bucky chews on that thought for a while. Hill’s confidence in the whole affair has him rethinking his initial trepidation. “So you think it’d be fine, if he did it?” 

“I think you’d have to be more careful. Probably spend a few months laying low. Maybe move into HQ for a while until the excitement dies down. Worst case, like I said. Ellis can be persuaded.” 

“Hm.” 

“We would take care of it.” Hill meets his gaze and holds it for a long unblinking moment, like she can make Bucky believe her by force of will alone. If only it was that easy. 

“I know.” It’s not exactly a lie. He believes that the Avengers would have their backs. He just doesn’t know if that would be enough. But then, he’s not sure any level of assistance and reassurance would satisfy him. There are too many unknown variables, too many risks to feasibly calculate. 

Every scenario elevates the possibility of harm to Steve, whether physical or otherwise. Steve would probably say the risk is worth it. Bucky finds that unacceptable. But then, he’s always been the more cautious of the two of them. He shakes his head. Now’s not the time. They’ve got a terrorist organization to take out. Chitauri enhanced weaponry to track down. A Grand Director to draw out from hiding. Bigger fish to fry. 

“So tell me more about these energy signatures.” 

Bucky wakes up before he opens his eyes. He’s stretched across the bed, legs tangled with Steve’s. A warm, lazy feeling lays over him like the blanket covering them both. He blinks his eyes open with a smile. Steve’s face is slack with sleep on the pillow beside him, soft huffs of breath escaping parted lips. Bucky reaches out to rest his hand on Steve’s jaw, rubs his thumb across his cheekbone. Steve stirs slightly but relaxes back into sleep with a dreamy exhale, comfortable enough with the familiar feeling of Bucky beside him not to wake. 

Bucky soaks in the view. Steve’s handsome face, open and trusting in sleep. The silver chain around his neck glints in the early morning sunlight streaming through the blinds. Bucky’s name hangs around Steve’s neck these days; a promise. The usual warmth Bucky feels at the sight is underscored by a jagged stab of uncertainty. 

About eighty years ago, or ten depending on your perspective, Bucky made a promise to Sarah Rogers to take care of her son and ensure his ongoing happiness. It was an easy promise to make. Steve is so easy to love. But there are days-many days- when Bucky wishes Sarah was still around so he could lodge a formal complaint about the irritatingly hardheaded man she raised. 

Did Sarah know back then that Steve’s primary source of happiness and meaning in life would be drawn from picking fights with forces well beyond their comprehension? Worse, did she ever suspect he might begin to win them? 

Steve’s altruistic need to look out for the little guy is a constant source of both pride and frustration for Bucky. The sweet, fiery kid that Bucky knew grew up into a man intent on defending others, no matter the cost to himself. It’s only gotten worse since Steve slung a literal target onto his back and walked into a war.

Steve carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, though you wouldn’t know it now with the way he’s lightly snoring and snuffling into his pillow. Steve’s taken on the Nazis, fullblown government conspiracies, and literal gods. Earth’s mightiest hero, indeed. Fearless, capable, infallible Cap. That’s who the world sees. 

Bucky sees the man who weeps afterward.

God. If only this fight was as simple as all the others. The public’s opinion is not so easily swayed as that of a schoolyard bully. Nor is it defeated so simply as an alien threat. How is Bucky ever supposed to protect Steve from something like this? 

The simple answer- the real answer- is that he can’t. Whatever blowback Steve receives, he’ll have to face alone. Bucky can’t come to his rescue on this one, not without risking arrest. It goes against his very basest instincts to let Steve walk into a fight alone. Bucky’s always been there to back him up. Bucky thought he’d always be there. 

Bucky feels a twisting curl of need in his chest. He scoots in closer and fits himself against Steve to press a careful kiss to the top of his head. Steve throws an arm across Bucky’s middle with an unintelligible sleepy grumble and burrows in against Bucky’s chest. Bucky settles into the loose embrace and appreciates the warmth thrown off Steve’s bare skin. Steve always insists he gets too hot at night and sleeps in just his boxers. Then he complains that he’s too cold in the morning when he gets up. Bucky doesn’t mind; it gives him an excuse to press his own, more reasonably clothed, self up against Steve’s back under the guise of warming him up. 

Bucky will never tire of this, the way Steve gets when he lets himself be soft. The way he is with Bucky and Bucky alone. Really, Steve and Alpine aren’t so different; they only show their bellies to those they trust not to take advantage. 

Coming out would open Steve up to public scrutiny. Some people will think less of Steve simply because he loves Bucky. Because Bucky loves him. They already hide their relationship to all but close friends. No matter how the world has changed, the little alarm bell that rings in Bucky’s head at the slightest hint of danger always goes off when they’re in public. Steve brushes too close against him, their gazes linger for too long, and Bucky’s stepping back. Might someone recognize Steve? Might someone take a picture? Might they get found out? The anxiety is his constant companion. 

If Steve comes out then they’ll truly be under the microscope. Bucky’s become accustomed to the simple intimacy of sharing a bed with Steve. Having breakfast together. Going jogging and grocery shopping. Holding his hand underneath the armrest at the movie theater. Would things change so drastically that he might lose all that? 

Worse still, is there a chance, however small, that once Steve’s faced with the reality of the backlash, he’ll decide Bucky simply isn’t worth the trouble? 

Is that just his anxiety talking? It’s hard for him to tell anymore. 

Bucky traces a hand up and down Steve’s arm and across his shoulder. His long eyelashes start to flutter in response to the sensation. This is the way Steve should wake up, to gentle kisses and warm touches until he starts to squirm and opens his eyes with a smile and a sleepy, “Morning, Buck.” 

The kiss is gentle and slow, just a soft slide of warm lips. Steve hums contentedly when Bucky pulls away. “Morning,” Bucky says quietly. 

Steve tugs him in closer, further intertwining their bodies as he ducks his head to rest underneath Bucky’s chin. He kisses Bucky’s collarbone over his shirt once, gently, and runs a hand up and down his side. “How’d you sleep?” 

“Great. You?” 

“Good.” Steve’s hair rubs across Bucky’s chest as he nods, further mussing his already messy blond hair. 

“Big day today.” Bucky combs his hands through Steve's hair in a futile attempt at taming the bedhead. 

“Mhm.”

Steve’s officially cleared and off medical leave as of last night. Despite complaining about being grounded for days, he seems in no hurry to get back to Avenging this morning. It’s Bucky that stirs. There’s a lot to get done before they head to HQ. They both need to shower, grab breakfast, feed Alpine. Steve will probably go on a run and Bucky needs to meditate. He should check his phone for any updates- 

Steve tightens his grip around Bucky. “Stay.” 

“We need to get up.” 

“Just for a minute.” Steve blinks up at him with those wide blue eyes of his. 

God. Bucky’s never been very good at denying Steve anything. That should probably bother him more than it does. He settles back down under the covers and draws Steve in closer. “Just for a minute.” 

“Looking good, Falcon!” Bucky calls out across the aerial training grounds in Avengers HQ. 

Sam stops short in the air and throws Bucky the middle finger. Bucky rolls his eyes, though the gesture is lost at this distance. Bucky watches as Sam swoops through the remaining obstacles three stories overhead. He dives and rolls through the air as easy as breathing. It’s an impressive sight. He finishes the course then plunges straight down to land beside Bucky. “What’s up?” he asks as his wings retract into the pack on his back. 

“Do you want to go on a stupid little mental health walk?” Bucky fights against the urge to cringe. He’d sought Sam out on purpose. After Steve, Sam is the person he’s closest to in the future. 

Sam shrugs and snatches up his water bottle for a drink. “Let me hit the showers, then sure thing.” 

The grounds immediately surrounding Avengers HQ is a wide, flat lawn. Bucky and Sam walk toward the wooded edge of the compound instead, to a small walking path through the trees. Sparrows and warblers chirp and whistle overhead. They walk in silence until the trees block any view of HQ in the distance. The nice thing about Sam is he knows when to push and when to wait. 

Finally, Bucky starts with, “I don’t want to bother you with my bullshit.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Your bullshit doesn’t bother me.” 

“Hey, you know what Sam? That’s a great comeback. You should be, like, a counselor or something.” 

“Retired from all that. This is a volunteer position.” 

“You’re saying you volunteer to listen to my bullshit?” 

"Well, you couldn’t afford my rates.” The banter is easy and familiar. A soothing pattern of nonsense before Bucky tries to get to the real deal. Sam continues, “But yeah, I consent, I’ll take it to my grave, pinky promise, all of that.” 

Bucky doesn’t know how to start this conversation. So naturally, his mouth produces the dumbest string of words possible. “Steve wasn’t always big.” 

Sam gives him a sideways glance but keeps walking down the dirt path. “So my seventh grade history teacher said.” 

“Right.” Ugh. Bucky doesn’t need yet another reminder of Steve’s notoriety. He presses on. “Well he was small. He got sick a couple times as a kid. Some really bad fevers that messed up his heart. He had bad lungs too. Asthma. Couldn’t really run. He had a lot of… disabilities I guess is the word for it now.” 

Sam nods patiently. 

“So, he… he got bullied a lot when we were kids. And a lot of times he was jumping in to defend someone else, but sometimes he got targeted. And so I would jump in and- Have you ever heard of eugenics?” 

“I have.” 

“Well, Steve wasn’t exactly the picture of health, is what I’m saying. One time I heard a guy say he was a ‘drain on resources.’” Bucky feels the resurgent heat of anger in his chest even now. “I punched his lights out. Someone like Steve was worth ten of him.” Bucky takes a deep breath to shake off the anger. “There is a point to this, I swear.” 

Sam nods placidly. “Take your time, man. I’ve got nowhere to be.” 

True to his word, Sam walks beside Bucky in silence for a while so Bucky can gather his thoughts. He doesn’t even look annoyed by the fact Bucky’s interrupted his workday to talk through his own crisis of the week. “You know the flyers the Watchdogs are handing out? The ones with Steve’s face?” 

“Yes.” 

Bucky nods hard. “Well these guys are exactly the same kind of assholes that would’ve wanted Steve dead back in the day. So Steve is thinking he should do more about it. He wants to tell everyone about us. Or, not us. About him being with me. With a man.” 

Sam is silent for a long moment, eyebrows drawn together in thought. “But you’re not so sure.” 

“No. Because people… people can be…” His stomach is doing somersaults. This isn’t something he usually talks about. 

“Cruel.” 

“Yes.” Bucky’s whole body sags in relief at being understood. “Yes. They can be. And they are. And it’s not everyone but it’s some people.” 

Sam pushes an overgrown branch out of the way of the path. He holds it back for Bucky as he passes. It flings back into place with a rustling of leaves when he lets go. “What was it like for you guys growing up? I know it was illegal, but like. Help me understand where you’re coming from on all this.” 

Bucky’s mouth goes dry, like he’s just stuffed his cheeks with cotton balls. “It, um. If you got found out, best case you lost your job. Probably your apartment too. Family stops talking to you. Might go to jail. That’s best case. Worst case, I mean. People died.” Bucky pauses for a moment, then amends, “Were murdered.” 

“Jesus.” 

“Yep.” Bucky keeps his eyes down on the path. Focuses on where his feet are going next. “There’s a reason I never told Steve about me.” 

“Wait. Did you not?” Sam cocks his head to the side, studying Bucky with renewed interest. Bucky shakes his head. “Never?” 

“Not until we got together.” Bucky resists the urge to squirm under the scrutiny.

“But you’ve known Steve since you were little kids.” 

Bucky nods with eyebrows raised, like Sam’s not getting the point. 

“Did you ever tell anyone?” 

Bucky shoves his hands deep into his pockets, shoulders drawn up to his ears. “No.” He hates how small his voice sounds. “I… there were a couple guys I made time with but that never- they didn’t even know my real name, so.” Sam watches him with the carefully neutral expression Bucky’s come to know means he has a lot of thoughts about a subject but doesn’t want to discourage Bucky from saying more. “It- it’s fine. Really.” 

“So were we the first people you ever came out to?” 

“Well, not exactly. I- Steve’s mom figured it out.” 

“But that you came out to. Your choice.” 

Bucky just blinks at him for a moment. Why would he ever tell anyone about that? Why take a risk like that when it would’ve ruined his life and Steve’s? No. He’d stuffed it all so far down he thought it would disappear completely. “Well, I guess I never really… I guess it would be my therapist? And Steve. Everyone else just sort of figured it out.” 

“Okay,” Sam says slowly. “Okay.” There’s a long beat of silence in which Bucky fears he’s made a mistake telling Sam all this. He didn’t think it was wrong not to tell anyone. Even the folks who did figure it out back before- he denied it when asked. “How did you deal with it?” 

“Hid it,” Bucky answers simply. 

“Damn. Bucky, I’m so sorry.” 

Why is Sam trying to make this about Bucky? This isn’t about Bucky, this is about Steve. Except it’s a little bit about Bucky. About how he feels and about how much the thought of Steve being exposed to the kind of hate he’s seen others receive makes his stomach churn. He swallows down the feeling. “It’s fine.” 

Sam’s warm brown eyes are looking at him. All kindness and understanding. Bucky can hardly stand it. “I’m sorry you had to hide that part of yourself.” 

Bucky pauses on the trail to close his eyes and focus on breathing. He’d learned how to hide, alright. 

Bucky always liked girls. When he was in elementary school he would chase them around the playground and kiss them on the cheek just so he could hear them shriek with laughter and sometimes kiss him back. That was perfectly fine. All the teachers and their parents and the other kids thought it was just fine if Bucky did things like that. 

Only sometimes he wished it was Steve he was chasing around the playground. He wanted to kiss Steve on the cheek and hear Steve laugh the same way the girls did and maybe let Steve kiss him back. He wished he could hold Steve’s hand at recess. Except that wasn’t something boys did together. Boys rough housed and wrestled and gave each other noogies. So that’s what Bucky did. 

And then he got a little older and his feelings about girls changed and his feelings for Steve changed with them. That was when Bucky realized he was in big trouble. 

He got pretty good at pretending after that. 

Bucky was careful. So careful. You couldn’t just go around looking at a fella and expect to get anything better than a black eye for it. So he took precautions. Didn’t stare for too long. Made sure his touches were friendly, or could be construed that way. Pretended to be grossed out when his sister talked about how handsome Douglas Fairbanks was. Set up double dates so he and Steve could go out together unquestioned. If he couldn't have a life with Steve he could at least have one lived in parallel. 

He slipped up sometimes. There were moments of weakness. Moments where it slipped through. When Sarah was dying. During the war, after Zola, he’d struggled to hide it. Peggy noticed. Howard too. Maybe others, but they’d never said anything.

And the girls were fine. The girls were good. Bucky fell in love easy, and a lot of the girls were easy to love. Or at least, easy enough to convince himself it might be true. 

Maybe that was the beginning of the skills they noticed in the Army, what HYDRA’d honed to a deadly edge. He’s tried to teach Steve how to do it, to pick something real and build a narrative around it. Take folks’ assumptions and twist them, use them to manipulate. That’s how you can disappear on the streets. How you can maintain a persona and have people believe it. You’ve got to root it in something real. Bucky got so good at playing a character it was hard to tell where the false self ended and the real self began.

Hiding used to be necessary. It was a simple calculation of self-preservation. Bucky saw what happened to guys like him growing up and it wasn't pretty. He couldn't bring himself to put Steve in danger like that, no matter how much he loved him. It just wasn't worth the risk. Things are different now. He knows that intellectually, but that doesn't mean he can just shake off all those old habits. 

“I don’t want people to think less of him just because he’s with me,” Bucky admits softly. 

Slowly, Sam reaches out to wrap an arm around Bucky’s shoulders. Tears burn in his eyes and threaten to spill over but he blinks them back. “I get it,” Sam says. “You can’t save him from these bullies.” 

“No.” 

When Sam speaks next it’s slow and thoughtful. “Nobody should feel like they have to hide who they are.” 

“That’s not how the real world works.” Bucky feels a pang of bitterness. 

“No.” Sam doesn’t try to argue. He’s smart like that. Knows it would be a wasted effort on Bucky right now anyway. “It’s not how things work. But maybe Steve wants to nudge the world in that direction.” 

Sarah Rogers used to say that if you start running, you’ll never stop. And well, maybe Bucky never had. Maybe it’s unfair to ask Steve to start. 

Bucky wipes a hand across his eyes, brushes away unshed tears. “Do you really think it would help?” 

Sam gives Bucky’s shoulders a shake then lets him go. “Honestly? I think people doing things like this are the only thing that helps. Brave people, standing up for what’s right.” 

Deep down, Bucky agrees. It’s the same thing Steve has always said. Stand up to the bullies. Always get back up. Never let them keep you down. “Then why do I feel so scared?” 

“Because you love him,” Sam says simply. “And who wants to see people they love get hurt?” 

Bucky takes in a shaky breath and blows it all back out. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess that’s true. Thanks, Sam.” 

“Hey, I’ll send my bill to your office.” 

That draws a faint smile to Bucky’s lips. “I’ll get the expense report to you quick.” 

“You better. Now are we walking some more or are we heading back?” 

“Could we keep walking?” 

“Sure thing, man. I could use the fresh air anyway.” 

They follow the path for a while longer. Bucky fiddles with the dog tags hanging around his neck the whole time. 

“Bucky, cut it out.” 

Bucky looks up as Steve enters the common room, blue eyes big and guileless. He bats his eyelashes. “What do you mean, Stevie?”  

Steve stands with his hip cocked to one side and arms crossed over his chest, thoroughly unimpressed. He’s dressed up a little for their movie date this evening. Dark jeans and a blue button up, tucked in like usual, and a soft brown leather jacket. Bucky’s put in a little more effort too. He dyed his hair back to its regular dark brown color this morning and has ditched his usual hoodie for a nicer jacket. Steve was in a terrible mood all week with his medical leave, so he figures it doesn’t hurt to make an effort. 

Steve addresses the other Avengers seated around the card table. “You know he knows how to play poker, right?” 

Bucky’s innocent look is replaced by an impish grin. “Poker? I hardly know her.” Bucky throws his cards down and leans across the table to pull all of the chips to himself. 

Tony, Bruce, Sam, and Clint watch in open mouthed disbelief. “What the fuck, Barnes? Did you just hustle us? Did we just get hustled?” Tony looks affronted.

Bruce nods slowly and puts a comforting hand on Tony’s shoulder. Sam throws his cards on the table and leans back in his chair, shaking his head. 

“Oldest trick in the book,” Steve says. He puts a hand to his chest and imitates Bucky, “Oh, me? I’ve never played before. Could you teach me?” 

“Works every time,” Bucky says with a satisfied smirk. 

“I can’t believe this,” Clint says. “He’s worse than Nat.” 

“What’d you win?” Steve asks. 

“Two hundred dollars.” 

“You were playing for money? Bucky.” Steve shoots him his best Captain America is disappointed in you face. 

“Aw, don’t be like that. I knew I’d win. No offense,” he adds to the others. Tony looks like he’s about to burst a blood vessel. “Figure I'll use the money to get us a nice dinner. Wouldn’t that be fun?” 

Sam pulls some cash out of his wallet and slaps it on the table with a frown. “Did we just bankroll you getting laid tonight?” 

“I think we did,” Bruce says as he adds a few bills to the pile. 

“Gross,” Clint says as he adds his money. “Grandpa sex.” 

“I’ll have you know I could get laid for much less,” Bucky says. 

“Not if you keep talking like that, pal.” 

Tony throws his own money down begrudgingly but quickly abandons outrage at Bucky in favor of poking fun at Steve. “Pretty sure Cap’s barbershop quartet says he can’t have sex before marriage.” 

Steve levels a withering look at Tony. “Well it’s a good thing I’m marrying him, then.” 

“What?” Clint cries as Sam points at him and laughs. 

“Ha! I told you! Fifty bucks.” Sam makes a grabbing motion at Clint. “Cough it up.” 

“Aw, money.” Clint slides a bill to Sam with a sigh. 

“I knew it!” Tony exclaims. He turns to Bruce. “I have a sense for these things.” 

“Yeah, Tony,” Bruce says condescendingly. “A real sixth sense. The big romantic road trip after a milestone birthday was in no way a clue.” 

“If you could all stop taking bets on my personal life that would be great,” Steve says flatly. 

“Watch out boys,” Clint says. “Fun police is here.” 

“You’re not saving yourself for the wedding night, Cap?” Tony’s got a devilish glint in his eye.

“I don’t think sex was invented yet in the forties,” Sam says.

“Yeah, think they figured it out in the sixties,” Clint adds.  

“I’ll have you know they don’t call us the Greatest Generation for nothing,” Bucky says smugly. 

“Bucky.” Steve looks at him like he’s just cursed in front of a nun or something. 

“What? They act like they’ve never heard the word sex before.” 

“Much as I love hearing about two of my friends going at it, could we not?” Bruce asks. 

“See?” 

Bucky makes an appeasing motion with his hands. “Alright, alright. No more sex talk at the table.” 

“I’m afraid to know what else might have happened at this table,” Tony says with a grimace.

Despite Steve’s disapproval, Bucky rakes in the cash and tucks it away in his wallet. “Well, if you gentlemen will excuse us, my fiancé and I have a date tonight.” 

Steve rolls his eyes at Bucky's suggestive waggle of his eyebrows. He rests a hand on the small of Bucky’s back as they turn to leave. “Have a good night, you guys.” 

“I’d tell you the same but we all know you’ll be having a good night.” Bruce kicks Tony in the shin under the table. “Hey!” 

Steve ushers Bucky to the elevator in a hurry. Once the doors close, he leans in for a kiss, lingering just a moment longer than could be considered chaste. “Thank you for the gift, by the way.” 

Bucky blinks stupidly at him and resists the urge to dive right in for another kiss. “What gift?” 

“The little dog statue from the flea market? You left it in the mailbox.” 

Bucky’s brows draw together in confusion. “No I didn’t.” 

“Oh. Must’ve been Nat, then.” 

“Well don’t go thanking her like that.” 

The elevator dings as the doors slide open to reveal the tower lobby. “One time,” Steve complains as they exit. “She kissed me one time.” 

“Uh huh.” 

The theater near the tower is showing a series of classic movies this year. It’s become a standing weekly date night for Steve and Bucky, when they aren’t otherwise occupied by Avengers business. It’s a nice little way to spend some time together and catch up on modern media. And sure, they could watch pretty much anything at home but there’s something special and familiar about the big screen. Tonight they’re due to see Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. 

A light drizzle of rain falls on the street. Bucky pops the collar on his coat and hunches his shoulders up around his ears to block out the worst of it.

“You want to take a cab?” 

“No, it’s fine.” The theater isn’t far. 

Steve bumps his shoulder into Bucky’s as they walk. “So, have you thought any more about what we were talking about the other day?” 

Bucky had really really hoped Steve would forget and just drop it. But that was never going to happen, not with someone like Steve. He’s like a dog with a bone once he gets an idea in his head. “Can we just have a regular date night, please?” 

“Yes. But did you?” 

“I don’t want to talk about this right now.” 

A frown tugs at the corners of Steve’s mouth. “Okay. Do you have an idea of when you will?” 

“I don’t know.”  

“Well can we set a time? Because the last two times I brought it up you said you didn’t want to talk about it.” 

“I don’t know!” It just bursts out of Bucky, all heat and exasperation, with an intensity that surprises even him. 

Steve looks taken aback by the outburst. “Jesus. Okay. I just wanted to know what you think.” 

“Do I agree with you yet, you mean.” And that’s not fair. Bucky knows it as soon as he says it. But he can’t take it back now. 

“That’s not- Buck, you said you wanted time to think about it. Why are you acting like this is a fight?” 

Christ. Somewhere in the rational part of his brain, Bucky realizes he’s probably overreacting. The topic’s been weighing on his mind so much over the past few days that he probably is a little sensitive about it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” Even his apology comes out sounding irritable despite his best efforts. 

“Well clearly this is bothering you. If the answer’s no, just tell me.” 

“It isn’t that simple.” Bucky shrugs his coat up higher as the rain starts coming down harder. 

“What’s complicated about it?” 

“You want to do this. And if I say no, then, I- I- I don’t want you to hate me.” 

“Hate- Bucky, I love you.” Steve watches him with his head cocked to the side, eyebrows drawn together like he’s examining an especially challenging puzzle. Like he’s trying to figure out if Bucky’s been replaced by an alien or something. 

They shouldn’t be having this conversation out on the street. They’re rapidly approaching the movie theater and Bucky can’t imagine trying to go in and eat popcorn while they pretend everything is fine. “I know that.” 

“Do you? Because you’re acting like you don’t.” 

Bucky sighs. There’s water dripping into the collar of his jacket and down the back of his neck and that’s not helping. They should go inside and get their tickets but that feels impossible. “Can we just go home? I don’t want to watch the movie anymore.” 

“I-” Steve’s flabbergasted. “I- sure. We can go home. Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.” Bucky is not fine. 

“Are we okay?” 

Bucky’s the asshole of the century. Steve asks a simple question and Bucky loses it so bad that it’s got Steve feeling insecure now. “Of course we’re okay. I just… I don’t want to be the reason you decide not to do this. If I’m the only thing holding you back then-” 

“Stop.” Steve dodges under the awning of a shop and pulls Bucky with him. At least that prevents them getting any wetter than they already are. It’s truly raining now, no more light drizzle. “You’re not holding me back from anything. We’re in this together. I’m not going to do something that you don’t want.” 

“It- you don’t understand.” 

“So explain it to me.” 

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “You know what happened to guys like me growing up.” 

Steve’s expression darkens. He chews on his cheek and nods.

“When I realized… when I figured out I liked you, do you know how scared I was?” 

“No.” Steve gets this unbearably sad look on his face, like Bucky’s breaking his heart. 

“Well I was. And I tried to push it away. I tried not to think about it. It just never really worked. And God knows I could never keep myself away from you.” Bucky takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh. He stares up at the underside of the awning as though he might find the right words to say there. “I used to count out the seconds when I looked at you. Wanted to make sure no one would catch me staring.” 

Steve’s jaw works like he wants to say something but doesn’t know what. He takes Bucky’s hand and rubs his thumb across the knuckles. People pass on the street, rushing in the downpour with their umbrellas held high. No one spares them a second glance. Bucky pulls his his hand out of Steve’s anyway. 

“I get the world’s better now. Accepting or whatever. I don’t think that’s even true. More tolerant, I guess.” Even that word feels a little off. Doesn’t describe the sideways looks and nasty glares and tittering laughter he’s seen people receive. It’s not from everyone. It’s not even most people. But it’s enough. “I want to hold your hand when we walk down the street.” Bucky watches Steve closely as he says it. “I want it so bad. And every time I think about it, this little alarm starts ringing in the back of my head. And I can’t do it. I chicken out every time.” Bucky feels exposed with the admission. Like he’s dug out his intestines and held them out to Steve for inspection. “Every time, Steve.” Bucky sniffles. God. He didn’t mean to cry about it. 

Steve’s silent. Pensive. 

Bucky takes a moment to collect himself. Digs his thumb into the palm of his left hand. Tries to focus on how it feels but the sensation is dulled by the gloves he wears. It’s yet another reminder of all he has to hide. He looks back up at Steve. “It’s already hard. And if everybody knows about you then it’s going to get a million times harder. You think they’re not going to want to know who you’re with? You think people aren’t going to follow us around?” 

“They will,” Steve says quietly. He studies Bucky with a soft, sad expression. “I didn’t know how bad it is for you.” 

Bucky huffs. “It’s not bad. It’s a hell of a lot better than it used to be.” 

“But you want normal. You want…” Steve scrubs a hand over his face and groans. He gives Bucky an apologetic smile. “A regular night out at the movies.” 

Bucky laughs a little. “I mean. Yeah.” Bucky pushes his damp hair back from his forehead. The whole situation strikes him as absurd all of a sudden. He’s halfway to crying while they’re huddled under an awning, rain coming down in sheets now. Steve’s standing there looking like a drowned rat, his hair all plastered to his forehead. “Did you know there’s a gossip segment dedicated to your ass?” 

Steve barks out a laugh. “What?” 

“Yeah. Saw it on TMZ.”

Steve pushes his hair back off his face and shakes his head like a dog, sending drops flying everywhere. “I didn’t want this, you know.” 

“I know. But do you really think making yourself a talking point’s going to make it any better?” 

“No. It’ll make it worse. You’re right.” 

“Except you don’t care about that.” 

“I do care.” Steve frowns. “I do.” He says it quietly, almost to himself. “It’s just, there’s people out there that this could help, Buck.” Bucky sighs and squeezes his eyes closed for a moment. Steve continues. “There’s kids like you out there. There’s a kid out there somewhere in love with his best friend and too afraid to say anything. And maybe you’re right. People think what they want to think. Maybe it doesn’t change anyone’s mind. But don’t you think it’d matter to that kid?” 

Bucky swallows hard. He looks at Steve. Really takes him in. The fiery conviction in his eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw. He feels the creeping chill of fear in his own spine. The rapid flutter of his heart. Would it have been different back then? If he had someone like Steve to look up to? He takes a deep breath and blows it all out, slow. He wishes he had half of Steve’s certainty. 

“I can’t help you with this,” he says slowly. “People are going to say awful things about you and I won’t be able to do anything to stop them.” 

Steve looks at him curiously. “I don’t need you to jump into the ring for me, Buck. I just need to know you’re in my corner.” 

Not even once in his life has Steve hesitated to join in a fight he believed to be just. So isn’t it remarkable that he’s waiting for Bucky’s go ahead on this one? Bucky thought he was holding Steve back, but it isn’t that, he realizes now. It’s that Steve doesn’t want to do something that’s going to hurt Bucky. He’s protecting him, even now, even when he’s certain coming out is the right thing to do. Putting Bucky first- above himself, above the world, above his own stubborn sense of right and wrong. 

I take the risks because I know you’ve got my back.

And hasn’t Steve always had his? That’s what they do for each other. What they’ve always been for one another. A soft place to land. God, Bucky’s dense sometimes. Steve can take care of the bullies. Bucky just needs to take care of Steve.

“You really think this country’s ready for a queer Captain America?” 

“Doesn’t matter if they’re ready. They’ve got one,” Steve says in that obnoxiously headstrong way of his. 

“Okay.” Bucky takes Steve’s hand. “Then I guess we need to call Pepper.”

Chapter Text

“Fix your face.” 

Steve starts guiltily as Bucky’s mismatched hands tug at the tie around his neck until it lies perfectly straight. There’s no uniform today. No armor. No helmet. No shield. Pepper’s chosen to forego the formalities in favor of a nice gray suit. This is the first public appearance Steve’s ever made where he’s expected to attend as himself, not Captain America. It’s got him feeling oddly exposed. 

Bucky’s commenting on it only serves to intensify Steve’s scowl, eyebrows knitting together like they intend to merge into one. The whole interview business has been more of a hassle than Steve expected. It took a week for Pepper to put it together, having personally vetted the interviewer and every single member of the camera crew. She ensured they all signed stacks of paperwork filled with so much legal jargon Steve’s pretty sure Stark will own their first born children should they so much as make a peep about all this before the segment airs. 

Bucky taps him in the shoulder with the flat of his hand. “Christ, Steve. You look like you’re about to walk the plank or something. Relax.” 

Steve huffs out a frustrated breath. Relax. Sure. He closes his eyes and tries to release some of the tightness in his jaw but it’s futile. As much as Steve is certain this is the right thing to do, he can’t shake the tension. The Watchdogs have been busy for the past two weeks. Attacks have increased in frequency and are spreading out further west. They’re still holding Steve up as some kind of paragon of traditional American values, leaving behind livestreams and videos on social media until they inevitably get taken down. Steve’s eager to get this over with and let The Watchdogs know what he really thinks of them. 

Steve’s eyes fly open at the feeling of Bucky’s fingertips pressing against his jaw. He jerks his head back. “Don’t-” 

Bucky drops his hands with a look of good natured exasperation on his face. “I know, I know. I’m not going to smudge your makeup.” 

Three women spent over an hour slathering Steve’s face with foundation and serums and powders and creams until they’d smoothed his skin into a perfectly blank canvas, only to then paint his features back on. It feels unnatural. He can’t help but notice the way it all sits on his skin. There’s shit on his eyelashes for Christ’s sake. 

They spent another hour fussing with his hair, trimming and combing and slicking it up with enough product to rival Bucky on a Friday night back before the war. Steve fears his hair might be permanently glued into this shape. The whole ordeal has left him with a new appreciation for the effort put in by the girls on the USO tour. 

Bucky, somehow, is taking all of this with an easy stoicism that’s got Steve reconsidering the value of those morning meditation sessions. Despite being much more uncertain about Steve coming out, he’s been nothing but supportive since they agreed on the plan. But then again, maybe Bucky’s just stubborn. That seems more likely than achieving enlightenment sometime in the last seven days. If anyone can match Steve for bullheadedness, it’s Bucky. Once he’s made his mind up about something he’ll see it through to the end.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Bucky watches him with that careful look he gets sometimes, like he’s deciding how hard to push. 

“I… You know, I’ve never had to just be myself in front of a camera before. Just Steve.” 

Bucky’s face screws up in about thirty different variations of offended and disgusted before he spits out, “There’s no just Steve. You’ve always been Steve out there.” 

“But it’s not me, it’s Cap and it’s a whole different-” 

“Captain America would be a footnote about war bonds in some historian’s dissertation if it wasn’t for you.” Bucky’s working himself up into a lather now, poking Steve in the chest for emphasis. “You are the guy people follow. You think I would’ve gone to war for any old idiot in the red, white, and blue?” He doesn’t give Steve a chance to answer. “Hell no I wouldn’t have! Cap didn’t mean a damn thing until you picked up the shield.” 

Bucky’s icy blue eyes search his face. Steve feels pinned in place by the intensity of Bucky’s gaze. “I don’t think you understand the effect you have on people, Steve. Folks hear you talk and they know you’re a guy worth listening to. This isn’t going to be any different.” Bucky breathes out harshly and reaches out to run his hands over Steve’s shoulders and down his lapels. He huffs and grumbles under his breath and picks an imaginary piece of lint off the suit. 

Steve’s quiet for a long moment as he works out what to say. “You think so?” 

“I know so.” Bucky’s eyes flicker away for a moment, serious expression replaced with a smirk. “Besides, it doesn’t hurt you’re so good looking.” 

“What a charmer.” Steve says it sarcastically, but really the little grin Bucky’s wearing is doing more for his nerves than he’d like to admit. A tiny fraction of the tension leaks out of his shoulders. 

“I’ll be beating guys off with a stick once they hear they might’ve had a shot with you.” 

“Well they wouldn’t have,” Steve mumbles. Hopefully the makeup hides the warm flush creeping over his cheeks. 

“Only cause I beat them to it. Don’t you think he’ll do great, Pepper?” 

Steve turns with a start to see Pepper standing in the doorway of the green room. Her strawberry blonde hair is pulled back in a slick ponytail, skirt perfectly pressed. God, he’s not built for this life. Appearances have never been high on his priority list. It’s good he has Pepper. This is the kind of thing she’s good at. Media appearances, giving speeches, having her words clipped into sound bites. Steve can take command on the battlefield without issue but this is Pepper’s domain. She’s perfectly in control of her own image, so Steve trusts her to take control of his.

“Absolutely you will,” she says, heels clicking across the tile floor with her approach. She looks Steve over with a critical eye before giving him a curt nod of approval. “It’s ten minutes, Steve. Nothing you can’t handle. You have final say over the edit, so if you don’t want something aired it won’t be.” 

“Right.” 

She lowers her voice and leans in conspiratorily. “Besides, nothing you say could be half as disastrous as what Tony says on a daily basis.” A deep fondness for the man is expressed in her tone, if not her words. 

That pulls a laugh out of Steve and more of his anxiety shakes loose. It’s ten minutes. It’s talking to a person. He can handle just talking to a person. “So are we doing this?” 

“Ready when you are, Cap.” 

Steve looks to Bucky. “They’re going to love you,” Bucky declares with some authority, as though he has any say in the public’s opinion. “Now, go on. Break a leg.” 

There is a certain thrill of familiarity as he settles into the armchair on the set. He watches the PAs fiddle with cameras and microphones and lights, doing last minute checks before they start rolling, and thinks of how this isn’t so different than standing up in a movie theater, or a classroom, or an alleyway. As Bucky likes to remind him, Steve’s always been good at running his mouth. This is a chance to do it again, speak up for the little guys, the folks like him and Bucky and Bernie. 

The interviewer greets him warmly as the camera crew makes their final checks. She’s an older woman from CNN or NBC, Steve didn’t bother learning the details. She appears to be in her late fifties or early sixties judging by her silver hair. She hasn’t bothered dying it like a lot of the other personalities Steve sees on TV. Pepper’s sharp. The interviewer looks serious but kind, almost motherly. The set looks more like a living room than a newsroom, with two comfortable armchairs sat near each other. It gives off an intimate feel, like Steve has just dropped by to have a chat with this woman and the cameras just happened to be there. It’s very different from the usual way The Avengers conduct their interviews. Those are typically done at a long table with rows of reporters shouting at them in a noisy free for all. 

Steve fidgets in place as final adjustments are made. Faced now with the hot overhead lights, giant cameras, and assembled film crew, he hopes he looks more relaxed than he feels. The director gives them the go ahead and the interviewer jumps into a prepared introduction. 

“It’s hard to believe that just five years ago, the world was introduced to the Avengers for the first time,” she starts. “The newly formed team defeated the Chitauri threat led by the alien Loki during the Battle of New York, saving the city and the planet. Superheroes have become commonplace since then. They’re on your children’s lunchboxes and the front page of the paper.

“But despite their ubiquity, the leader of the team, Steven Rogers, better known as Captain America, is famously tight lipped. It was only six years ago that Captain Rogers was discovered by a team of researchers working in the Arctic Circle. Miraculously, Captain Rogers was found alive, but frozen in a kind of stasis. The good captain has been hard at work since his rescue, and played an integral role in exposing the HYDRA conspiracy to infiltrate the U.S. government three years ago. Captain Rogers, thank you for being here with us tonight.” 

He starts as the interviewer turns to face him. Old manners come easily though, patterns learned by rote. “Thank you, ma’am. It’s nice to be here. And you can call me Steve.” 

“Steve.” She inclines her head in acknowledgement. “You’re quite famously camera shy despite serving as the face of the Avengers. Tell me, why sit down for this interview now?” 

“Well, ma’am. Like you said, I represent something bigger than myself. Recently there have been threats and attacks made across the country, by groups choosing to use my face as a symbol for their actions.” 

“You’re referring of course to the terrorist group calling themselves The Watchdogs.” 

“Yes.” 

“For the viewers at home, Captain Rogers is referring to the recent rash of attacks on LGBTQ centers, women’s clinics, and other establishments across the country. Captain, you’re saying these groups are using your image against your will?”  

“Correct.” Captain America is back in full force. Steve sits straight, shoulders squared. “They’ve used my image to spread their message and claim I’m one of them. I want to make it clear- I am not. Nor do I condone their actions. I fought against fascism during the war. I fought against hatred, not on the side of it. But that’s all I see from these groups.” 

“Captain America has been synonymous with liberty and freedom for the last seventy years. A symbol of a better, simpler time to many. The Watchdogs have advocated for a return to the ideals of the past. Some might find it surprising to hear you disagree with their message, given the times you grew up in.” 

Steve huffs and gives a small, ironic smile. “Maybe so. They talk about a return to a better time. But the past was no paradise. I should know.” 

“You grew up during the Great Depression, isn’t that right?” 

“Yes ma’am, I did. And I can tell you it wasn’t better or simpler than today. There’s never been a simple time in this country. It was only a time when those in power were held less accountable for their actions. And I can’t help but think that what The Watchdogs really want is to make people afraid again.” 

“Sounds like you have a more complicated view of this country than people might expect.” 

Steve takes a steadying breath. Now’s as good a time as any. “My loyalty isn’t to this country. It’s not to any government or flag. My faith is in people. And for the most part, they haven’t let me down. And so, I…” Steve pauses. He looks down to study his hands where they lay in his lap. His gaze traces over the places where his fingers intertwine. He continues without looking up. “I would be remiss if I didn’t speak out now. I won’t sit back and watch my face be used against people I care about. People like…” He looks up and meets the interviewer’s eye. “People like me.” 

The interviewer straightens in her seat, attentive. 

Steve presses on. Only way out is through now. “You know, when I woke up from the ice there was a lot that was confusing. Most folks I knew had passed away. Everything was different. And I mean everything. It was hard, at first. Adjusting. It was really hard. But one thing, one really wonderful thing that’s come of the 21st century, is people can…” Steve blows out a shaky breath and rubs at the back of his neck. All of a sudden he can’t get his words out. “I’m sorry. Growing up, it wasn’t really something you could talk about.” 

The interviewer leans forward, her eyes soft and kind. She reaches out a hand and rests it on Steve’s knee. It’s surprisingly steadying. “Take your time.” 

Steve nods and closes his eyes for a moment. He pictures Bucky, watching him through a video feed back in the green room. Get on with it, punk. The thought brings a smile to his lips. “Truth is, I’ve been in love with a fella for a long time.” 

The interviewer allows a moment of surprise to flicker across her features. Then, she seems to register the uncertain look on Steve’s face and takes his hand, envelops it in both of hers in a comforting gesture. “That’s wonderful, Steve.” There’s no more Captain America here. For a moment it’s like they’ve forgotten the cameras entirely. 

“It is. He is.” Relief floods through his body like a tidal wave. “He’s the best guy I’ve ever known.” 

“I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say we’re excited for you. Love is a beautiful thing. Can I ask who the lucky gentleman is?” 

Steve drops her hands to give a bashful smile and rub at the back of his neck. “Well, that’s a little complicated. I’ve got a strange life, ma’am. Folks are pretty interested in me ever since I came out of the ice. I don’t know if you’ve ever had someone take pictures of you while you’re trying to buy breakfast cereal, but I have.”

The interviewer laughs politely. 

“I’m a pretty private person, usually. I don’t like people prying into my personal life. I don't mind it so much when it’s just me, I get why people are interested. But I don’t want him to deal with the same attention just because he’s with me. I’d appreciate it if folks respected our privacy.” 

“Of course. Now I’m sure you’re expecting a big reaction about this news. What do you hope people take away from this?” 

“That they aren’t alone. No matter what The Watchdogs say, no matter what anyone says. It’s always the same story. They use fear and prejudice to try and separate us. But we’re stronger together. I stand on the side of justice. I think most folks will stand with me.” 

The interviewer takes over for a while. She talks about police and government responses to the terrorist attacks. Brings up resources for those affected. Charities people can donate to. She talks about upcoming Pride events in Manhattan. Steve assures her he plans to attend the parade in June. And then, it’s over. 

It’s over. He’s done it.

Steve marches off stage like he’s coming off the front. In a way, he is. He deflates the moment he finds Bucky again in the green room. “How was it?” he asks nervously. 

Bucky shrugs and tilts his head in mock consideration. “Alright, I guess. Got a little sappy in the middle.” 

“Oh, yeah. Probably not great, huh?” 

Bucky can’t fake it anymore. A broad smile spreads across his face as he throws his arms open. “Come here, punk.” His arms envelop Steve in a hug so tight Steve fears for the safety of his ribs. Bucky leans back to lift Steve’s feet off the floor and spins him around in a circle. 

“Hey!” Steve protests and wriggles until Bucky plants him back on the floor. “What’s that about?” 

Bucky kisses him square on the lips, giddy now. “I’m proud of you, idiot.” 

“So it was okay?” 

“More than okay. It was sweet. You said what you needed to say, said some nice things about me, and told everyone to leave us the fuck alone. All good in my book.” 

“Wish it could’ve been both of us out there.” 

“I know,” Bucky says solemnly. “But hey, it’ll be both of us at the wedding.” 

Steve brightens. “I was thinking- hear me out. Coney Island. We shut the place down for a night. Say our vows at the top of the Wonder Wheel. Nathan’s for the reception.” 

“Oh yeah, and then the ring bearer is a seagull.” 

“Yeah. We’ll pay him in French fries.” 

Bucky throws an arm around his shoulders as they leave the studio. “You know what, Rogers? I like the way you think.” 

Steve forces himself to keep up a steady, even pace, gaze fixed stubbornly on the path ahead. The crawling sensation of paranoia creeps its way up the back of his neck with every strike of his heel against the asphalt. He would like, very much, to sprint until the muscles in his thighs and calves burn with it, until his lungs struggle to keep up with the exertion. But there’s a little part of him that insists that if he acknowledges the feeling and gives in to the urge to look over his shoulder then he might never stop. 

Prospect Park shows no signs of the seismic shift that’s occurred in Steve’s landscape since the interview aired last night. The sun rises in the east, slowly burning off the dew from the grass. The usual collection of dog walkers and other joggers meander around the paths. The air breathes the same as it always does. No one pays him any mind. 

He pauses at the bridge over the pond and looks out over the water. If he glances around it’s to take in the view. To take a picture of the ducks gliding across the water so he can show Bucky later and get a fifteen minute lecture on migration patterns and mating habits. He’s alone by the pond, unsettled by the sound of his own breathing. The stillness, normally grounding, only seems to strengthen his growing anxiety. 

It’s been a little over twelve hours since the interview aired. Clips of it will be circulating on morning news shows by now. By noon he’ll be a talking point at water coolers in offices across the country. This morning, he fears, is just the calm before the storm. He’d argued with Bucky earlier, insisting that he go on his run alone today, without Bucky tagging along. He’s not sure why it feels so important to stick to his usual routine but it does. Like maybe he can maintain some sense of normalcy in his life through sheer force of will. 

Bucky insists he’s just being stubborn.

Steve shakes the unease from his shoulders and continues on his usual route out of the park. He rips down a couple of Watchdog posters along the way. They’ve only grown more commonplace in the last couple of weeks, much to Steve’s growing discontent. He crams the posters into his pockets and continues on his way home. No one spares him a second glance on the sidewalks, folks too preoccupied with their own lives to pay others any mind. Still, Steve finds himself checking reflections in shop windows just to see if anyone’s looking. 

A bell tinkles overhead as Steve pushes open the door to his usual bodega, announcing his arrival. The owner of the shop, a short plump man named Vinny, perks up at the sight of him. “Hey, Steve! I heard you got a fella now.”

Steve cringes a little but tries to hide it. He fears it’s unsuccessful. “Um. Yeah. I do.” 

Vinny nods thoughtfully. Looks Steve up and down like he’s deciding something. Steve fights not to squirm under the scrutiny. “Well I want you to know I don’t give a shit.” 

Steve blinks dumbly at him in reply. 

Vinny shrugs. “Your money spends the same. What do I care where you like to put your dick?” 

Steve can’t hide his cringe at that. “Um. Thanks?” 

“Sure thing. You know, I got a cousin that’s gay? You ever break up, let me know; I’ll set you up.” 

“Oh. Thanks, Vinny. That’s… nice of you.” 

“Usual today?” 

“Please. And two bagels with lox.” 

Vinny shouts at the boy behind the deli counter to hurry up while Steve peruses the rest of the store. Headlines on the newspapers by the register are largely about him. He grabs a couple out of morbid curiosity. Vinny raises an eyebrow at his choices as he rings up the purchase. “Listen, anyone gives you a hard time for being gay you send ‘em my way. I'll take care of it.” 

“I’m not g- I like women too.” Does Steve like suffering? Is that what it is? Why else would he willingly continue this conversation? 

Vinny puts his hands up flat in the air in an appeasing gesture. “Look, I don’t know the ins and outs of it. But if anyone gives you shit about it, you let me know. You got people looking out for you, Cap.” 

“Thanks. That, uh… means a lot.” 

“And tell your guy you got options. He better treat you good.” 

“Oh, h- he does.” Steve scrambles to pick up his purchases and get out of there before he says anything else stupid. “Thanks, Vinny.” 

Bucky’s sat at the kitchen table when Steve gets home, one hand occupied with his cellphone while the other shoos Alpine off the table. “Hey, breakfast just got here. I’ll talk to you later, Becks. Yep. Love you too. Bye.” 

“Does she call you every morning?” Steve asks with a wry smile. He slides into the chair across from Bucky and tosses the bag of breakfast sandwiches into the middle of the table. Bucky’s already poured him a mug of coffee, waiting steaming at his seat. Either Steve’s timing is just that predictable, or Bucky was tracking his location the whole time he was out. Most likely it’s the latter. 

“Pretty much.” Bucky lights up when he opens the bag to see not one, but two bagels. He tears into the first one, eyes fluttering closed in exaggerated pleasure. 

Steve smiles at the sight. “You’re welcome, by the way.” 

“Thank you. You know, you should marry me or something.” 

“Is that all I needed to do? Buy you a bagel?” 

“I’m a simple man.” 

Steve clicks the TV on and starts in on his bacon, egg, and cheese while the morning news plays. Bucky tries to seem uninterested, but Steve can see the way he tilts his head just slightly, which indicates he’s paying attention. He’s got that carefully neutral expression on his face, posture artificially relaxed. No one but Steve and maybe Sam or Nat would be able to see the effort he’s putting into appearing calm. “We don’t have to watch this.” He offers a lifeline he knows Bucky will reject. 

“I want to see what they’re saying.” 

Soon enough, the news turns to Steve. A photo of him in his helmet, white A standing out in contrast against the dark blue, pops up behind the newscasters. “Steve Rogers, better known as Captain America, shocked the world last night when he came out as gay during an interview with NBC.” 

“I’m not gay,” Steve protests around a bite of his sandwich. “Maybe I should’ve been more specific.” 

“They would’ve called you gay anyway. The part they care about is you like men.” 

Steve grumbles about it but knows Bucky’s right. The news shifts to show people standing outside Stark Tower carrying signs. Some are decked out with rainbow flags and pride gear. They seem to have come out in response to the group holding up pictures of Steve with words like 'traitor' and 'not my Cap.' 

If Bucky’s still trying to hide his response to the whole thing then he’s failing miserably. His jaw ticks where he clenches his teeth, metal fist drawn up unconsciously to rest on the table. 

“I knew this could happen,” Steve says quietly. It does little to calm Bucky. 

“It’s not right.” 

“It’ll pass.” 

Bucky grunts but otherwise remains stubbornly silent, eyes glued to the TV. They interview one of the protestors. He’s a young white guy, clean cut. He spouts nonsense about Steve betraying American values and trying to win “woke points.” They’re calling for him to step down as Captain America. 

“Hill said that’ll never happen.” Bucky turns to Steve urgently, in a rush to reassure him. “I asked her before, so don’t worry about it.” 

Steve reaches out to take Bucky’s metal hand, pushes at it until Bucky flattens it out. He traces a thumb over the plates of the palm. “I wasn’t worried. I knew you wouldn’t let that happen.” Truthfully, Steve never thought the Avengers would be anything other than supportive, but obviously Bucky was less certain. 

Counter protestors get their chance to speak. They talk about the positive impact, how Cap’s a role model, and praise him for his honesty. There’s some speculation about how the rest of the Avengers took the news. The newscasters read an official statement from Stark Industries expressing their continued support of Steve and the LGBTQ+ community at large. 

Coverage moves on to events overseas.  

“Not so bad,” Steve ventures cautiously. 

“Sure, if you call protests in the street not so bad.” 

“You’re just focusing on the wrong people. Didn’t you hear that lady say I’m an inspiration?” 

Bucky gives him a withering look. “Don’t let that go to your head.” 

“Well I’m also betraying America, so I guess it evens out.” 

“I hate this.” 

“It’s temporary. We just wait it out until the next scandal and it’s done.” 

“I’ve got dirt on some senators,” Bucky muses. 

“We aren’t going to cause the next scandal.” 

“Oh, so it’s only fine when you do it, huh?” 

“That’s right. Now you’re getting it.” 

Steve’s face is soon plastered on every magazine and newspaper in New York City. The interview appears on every news station, morning talk show, late night show, and gossip segment on television. Sam sends him a clip of a skit from a show called Saturday Night Live, where comedians dress up as him and the other Avengers. Steve decides not to watch that one. 

Overall, the response to his coming out is positive. More news outlets are clamoring for interviews and photo shoots. Steve lets Pepper and her PR team handle that side of things. He personally takes on requests from local high schools asking him to attend their PFLAG meetings and GSA meetings and other clubs with acronyms he’s still learning. The organizers of NYC Pride even reach out to talk about including him in the parade in June. Vendors start selling Captain America themed shirts and stickers with sayings like 'Love is Love' with his shield in place of the O’s, or 'It’s Stars and Stripes.' Bernie sends him a dozen rainbow colored cupcakes by way of congratulations, a gesture that Bucky’s sweet tooth greatly appreciates. 

The only sticking point is the relative silence of The Watchogs, who appear to have retreated in light of the news. The reprieve has Bucky on edge, staying up nights trying to track down the so-called Grand Director. Steve’s almost thankful for the distraction. It means Bucky isn’t freaking out about every negative comment aimed Steve’s way. Social media’s still lit up with controversy about his sexuality, a fact he’d know nothing about if it weren’t for the rest of the team sending him screenshots. 

Two weeks after the interview airs, Nat strolls into their apartment unannounced, startling Steve where he stands doing dishes in the kitchen. If it weren’t for his enhanced reflexes he might’ve dropped the plate he’s scrubbing. 

“Conspiracy theorists are having a field day,” she announces as she hops up to sit on the back of the couch like she owns the place. Sam follows close at her heels, carrying a large sack that he sets on the coffee table in the living room.  

“Knocking,” Steve reprimands. He rinses the plate and wipes his soapy hands off on a dishtowel before he turns to face Nat and Sam, hands on his hips. “I know you’ve heard of it.” 

“You gave her a key,” Bucky says absently. He sits absorbed in his laptop at the kitchen table, fingers tapping rapidly across the keyboard. 

Nat waves the comment away. “Are you aware that the real Steve Rogers died in the ice seventy years ago? Current you is an imposter.” 

Steve raises an eyebrow. “That so?” 

“Coulda fooled me,” Bucky says. 

"You also had a string of secret lovers during the war," Nat continues. "Lots of people claiming you slept with their grandfathers." Steve blanches at that one, which only seems to spur Nat on. “You really need to get on social media. Half of Twitter thinks you’re dead and the other half thinks you’re dating Sam.” 

Bucky straightens up. Of course that’s the detail that would catch his attention. “Why do they think he’s with Sam?” 

“You think I couldn’t pull Captain America?” Sam asks, offended. 

“No I don’t,” Bucky says derisively. “For a multitude of reasons.” 

“There’s people posting body language breakdowns of footage of the two of them together,” Nat adds. “Lip readers too. Says their romantic chemistry is clear.” 

“What the hell?” Bucky closes his laptop with more force than Steve finds necessary. 

“Relax,” Sam says. “They’re saying the same thing about all the other Avengers. There’s even some pictures of the two of you during the war making the rounds.” 

“Did you guys just come over here to torture me?” Steve asks. 

Nat regards the two of them with an arched brow. “We came over because it’s Sunday and you seem to have forgotten everything but work.” 

“Oh.” 

Sam nods, arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah. Oh. You can’t just hide yourselves away over this.” 

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Steve says sheepishly. “We’ve just been preoccupied.” 

“And we are here to occupy you further,” Nat says with a sweeping gesture at the sack Sam brought in. 

Steve approaches curiously. “What’s that?” 

“Fan mail,” Sam answers. 

“Didn’t know the post office was still using messenger pigeons,” Bucky quips as he joins the others in the living room.

“Ha. Ha. You two are getting more mail than Stark knows what to do with. Figured we could spend a few hours answering some of these.” 

“What are people saying?” Bucky asks. 

Nat plucks an envelope from the bag at random and reads aloud. “Dear Captain Rogers, I am a lesbian. I thought I would write to you because I don’t have anyone else I can tell. One day I hope I can live openly. Until then, I guess this secret is between you and I.” 

Steve takes the letter from her and reads back over it.

“Dear Cap,” Sam reads from another. “I wanted to let you know that because of you my brother decided to come out to the rest of the family. I am so glad he finally felt like he could trust us with this.” 

The letters are all like that. Dozens of people coming out to Steve or thanking him for inspiring them to come out in their own lives. Some are from little kids with crayon drawings of rainbows telling him about their two dads or two moms. Some are from veterans telling him how much it means to hear their hero is queer like them. Others contain marriage proposals, which Bucky jokingly threatens to burn. 

Steve listens to them all in stunned silence. Somehow, he hadn’t anticipated this part. It all feels a little overwhelming. He’d wanted to have an impact, but the reality of it feels so much bigger than he thought it would. The soft way Bucky smiles as they read the responses, the way he reads over some of the nicer letters twice, is a gift in itself. Steve scribbles out replies to a few letters with what stationary he has. There’s no way he’ll be able to reply to all of them, especially if this is only a small portion of the mail Stark has received at the tower. 

Steve reaches into the bag to get another letter. This one is in a plain white envelope with no return address. The letter inside is brief. The crisp white paper is neatly folded into thirds. The typed message reads: 

Dear Captain Rogers, 

You have betrayed this nation. You have traded values for vice. Captain America means something to the people of this country. I will not allow you to sully his reputation. The shield deserves better. 

The Watcher

Steve reads it once, twice, three times. Time seems to slow around him. The crawling sensation returns, creeping up his spine and raising goosebumps on the back of his neck. He can hear the rushing of his own heartbeat in his ears. He looks up to catch Bucky’s eye, already watching him warily. Wordlessly, he passes the letter to Bucky. 

Bucky looks it over silently. A stillness falls over him, one that Steve knows signals danger. Sam and Nat perk up, exchanging worried glances. Finally, Bucky looks up. “Well,” he says simply. “That’s not good.”

Chapter Text

“Hello? Earth to Barnes.” 

Bucky jolts up at the sound of Hill’s hand slapping the table in front of him, mind snapping back to the present. “I’m sorry.” He rubs a hand over his eyes and shakes his head, like that’ll do anything to clear the fog in his brain. 

“You back with us?” 

Bucky sighs. “Yeah. Sorry, I- This whole thing with Steve has got me… what were you saying?” 

Bucky sits at a conference room table at the Avengers Compound, opposite Natasha and Hill. They were supposed to meet first thing this morning about new Watchdog activity down south. Seems the initial shock of Steve coming out has worn off and they’re back with a vengeance. Printed photos of the latest arson site lay on the table in front of him, with graffiti of Captain America’s face with red X’s spray painted over both eyes. The women watch him with identical expressions of concern.  

“Are you okay?” Natasha asks. 

“I’m fine. Just spaced out for a second. I’m good now.” 

Hill shoots him an incredulous look. “Most people don’t snore when they space out.” 

“Have you been sleeping?” Natasha studies him carefully. 

“I… I’m fine. You-” Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose and digs for the last thing he remembers hearing from Hill. “You said you have a lead?” 

Hill glares at him. Bucky leans back in his seat and gives her the brightest smile he can muster. “We’ve received word of a weapons shipment moving out of the city. Two weeks from today.” 

“Think it’s our Grand Director?” 

“Too early to say. Not sure if he’s personally vetting shipments. We’ll break it up either way.” 

Natasha passes him a file. “They’re shipping out of the docks in Red Hook.” 

Bucky’s stomach drops through the floor. “Brooklyn?” A deep crease appears between his eyebrows as he studies the file. This whole time, the Watchdogs were moving weapons out of Brooklyn? 

Bucky would like to punch… everything. Everything, in the whole world. Punch a hole through the planet and come out swinging on the other side. He just- he can’t- 

He feels so utterly useless lately. Can’t find this Watcher, can’t find the Grand Director, now it turns out the Watchdogs have been operating right under his nose? And he didn’t even notice? 

“Breathe, James.” 

He snaps back to attention at Natasha’s words. “I’m fine. Two weeks, you said?” 

“Yeah.” Hill regards him skeptically. “We’ll get things organized. I want you to go home for the rest of the day.”

“What? No, no, I swear, I’m fine. Just tired.” 

“So go take a nap and come back tomorrow.” 

“I’ve got so much to do-” 

“And you can do it tomorrow. If something urgent comes up I’ll let you know, but you’re no good to me if you’re falling asleep standing up.” 

Bucky rests his head in his hands with an irritated grumble. She’s right, he’s no use to anyone if he’s sleep deprived. Trouble is, the moment his head hits the pillow he’ll be wide awake again and he knows it. 

Slowly, reluctantly, he gathers up the files and packs his bag while Hill and Natasha discuss plans for a stakeout at the docks. They pause when he goes to exit and Natasha gets up to follow him. Bucky suppresses a groan. He thought he might get out of this without another feelings talk. 

He strides down the long hallway quickly, hoping to outpace her. 

It’s no use. 

“How’s Steve?” 

“He’s fine.” 

“Is he?” 

“He’s fine, Natasha. He’s fine, I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” 

“Hm.” So much doubt is contained in such a small sound. “And that’s why you’re falling asleep in meetings now. Because everything’s fine.” 

Bucky stops abruptly at his office door and whirls on Natasha. “He’s mad at me. That enough for the Spanish Inquisition?” 

As always, she remains infuriatingly unflappable. “Why’s he mad at you?” 

Bucky tips his head back against his door with a groan. “Because I followed him to one of his outreach things. He said I was babysitting him.” 

Natasha cocks an eyebrow. “Were you?” 

“No! A little. Maybe. Look, he’s not taking this Watcher thing seriously.” 

“Letters still coming?” 

Bucky puffs up his cheeks and blows out the air like he’s breathing through a straw. “Guess you could say that.” 

Sometimes Rosie the robot vacuum gets stuck on the edge of the rug in the living room. The sensors in her chassis misinterpret the edge of the rug for the edge of a stair, and she stops to beep anxiously until someone rescues her, believing herself to be caught on the edge of a cliff. Lately, Bucky finds himself in the same predicament, uncertain if he’s facing a drop of a centimeter or a mile. 

The Watcher did not stop at one letter. That would’ve been simple. But Bucky’s life has never been simple. Messages have arrived almost daily, all sent to Steve’s official PR address at the tower. Tony’s staff, with the assistance of Jarvis, have been tasked with sorting through the avalanche of fan mail Steve’s been receiving for anything suspicious. 

And there’s been plenty that’s suspicious. The letters arrive in plain white envelopes, no return address, all typed, usually but not always signed by the Watcher. They’ve taken on a slightly more familiar tone over time, initially addressed to Captain Rogers but now to Steve, or sometimes no name at all. Bucky’s got a stack of them stuffed in his laptop bag right now. He’s read them over so many times he could recite them from memory, like the lines from a bad school play. The latest arrived just this morning. 

Steve, 

Who am I? Does it make you angry, not knowing? I’ll tell you. Look at all the people on the sidewalk. Maybe I’m one of them. See the cars on the street? Maybe I’m in one. My eyes are everywhere. How long will it take before you do the right thing? 

The Watcher

He doesn’t tell Natasha all that. She's got a sympathetic look in her eye anyway. 

“We’re going to catch the guy.” 

Bucky’s mouth presses into a thin line in a poor imitation of a smile. “People keep saying that to me.” 

“Because it’s true,” she insists. “He won’t be able to keep this up forever.” 

“Yeah,” Bucky mumbles, mostly to himself. “That’s what I’m worried about.” He ducks into his office before she can say anything more. 

All hope for a nap is dashed the moment the door to the apartment swings open. Bucky’s met with a big blond wall of excitement in the entryway. Steve stands with his hands behind his back, big grin splitting his face in two. 

Bucky eyes him suspiciously as he sets his bag down. “What is this?” 

“I brought you a present,” Steve says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

“What is it?” 

“Hold out your hands.” Steve holds out a closed fist and drops a small object into Bucky’s waiting palms. Upon inspection, he sees it’s a circular black pin with white letters that read Queer as in Fuck You. Bucky barks out a startled laugh. 

“Don’t you love it?” Steve looks outrageously pleased with himself. 

“I do.” Bucky sticks it to his laptop bag as proof. He gives Steve a quick peck on the lips in thanks. “Vets give it to you?” Steve attended a meeting of the American Veterans for Equal Rights this morning, out in the West Village. He’d insisted on going alone despite Bucky’s protest.

“They did. And they invited me back for their meeting next month.” 

Steve’s got the same look about him he gets after a fight sometimes. A warm glow like sunlight seeping out from under his skin. Ordinarily it’s a look that drives Bucky crazy with desire; a fact he’d worked hard to hide before they got together. Now, though, all he can feel is a twist in his stomach as he pastes on a grin for Steve’s benefit. 

Despite the threatening letters, Steve’s been enjoying the response to his coming out. He’s been speaking at high schools and LGBT centers and non-profit organizations. He speaks to veterans and senators and answers fan mail. He’s letting the world know who he is. And for the most part, the world isn’t letting him down. 

His bravery has inspired other acts of bravery. Protests have been popping up around the country. Donation drives for The Trevor Project and Planned Parenthood and various other charities are organized. People push back against so called “bathroom bills” preventing transgender kids from accessing restrooms at school and other bills trying to restrict discussion of sexual orientation in classrooms. 

There is opposition too. Bucky’s watched videos of people calling Steve every name in the book in a desperate attempt to ruin his reputation and maintain their hatred. So called churches gather with signs plastered with slogans about the doom of the nation. Steve is called everything from a traitor to the antichrist and every slur in between. He’s accused of pandering, being attention seeking, using his sexuality as a distraction from criticism leveled at the Avengers, or lying about being with a man in the first place. 

Steve takes it all in stride. 

In fact, he’s practically floating on air. It reminds Bucky of when Steve first got the serum, back when he was still new to this body. Like people are paying attention to him for the first time. He’s praised not for what his body can do but for simply being who he is. Steve doesn’t say it, but Bucky can see it’s a relief to have the outside perception finally match the inside. 

It makes Bucky feel like shit. 

The one question everyone keeps asking is who Steve’s seeing. Who’s the guy that captured Captain America’s heart? Steve gives bashful smiles and non-answers and redirects conversations. Tabloids and Twitter accounts publish their guesses. Steve gives Bucky this wistful look sometimes, like he’s thinking about a world where he could shout his love from the rooftops. Bucky can’t help but remember how eager Steve was to tell their friends about their engagement. Steve wants a guy he can tell people about. 

Even if the public knew he was alive, what damage would his presence do to Steve’s reputation? Bucky isn’t a respectable kind of guy. Not anymore. You don’t bring your ex-assassin fiancé on Good Morning America. No one wants to see a murderer on the cover of People Magazine. Steve deserves better than him. Someone he can show off. Someone he can be proud of. Not another part of himself he has to hide away. 

Bucky knows better than to voice his fears. All it would do is send Steve into reassurance mode, and Bucky doesn’t want to add any stress to his already overfull days. So instead he smiles, plants his hands on Steve’s hips, and says, “I’m so proud of you.”  

“Hush.” A light dusting of pink across the apples of his cheeks betrays Steve’s embarrassment at the praise. He swiftly changes the subject. “Why are you back so early? Everything okay?” 

Bucky’s smile falters. “Yeah. Mostly. Found a lead on the Chitauri weapons. They’re shipping out of Red Hook.” Steve’s demeanor changes in an instant. He goes stiff, brows drawn together in concern. Bucky rushes to reassure him. “But, hey. It’s a solid lead. Hill’s on it.” 

“Good. So you’ve got the day off or what?” 

“Oh. Just came home early. I’ve got a headache.” Steve's eyes narrow like he doesn’t believe him. And that’s fair enough, seeing as it’s a lie. “I’m fine. Just need to lay down for a while.” 

“Okayyyy,” Steve draws the word out skeptically. “You sure?” 

“I am. Promise.” Bucky leans in for a chaste kiss. 

“Save all that. Bernie’ll be here soon.” 

Bucky blinks at him. “Bernie?” 

“We’re going to her shop. Maybe you could meet her when she stops by.” Steve drops it casually but his hands start to fidget. 

“I… Do you want me to meet her?” 

“Only if you feel up to it. She knows I’ve got a fiancé and everything. I feel like I can trust her. And it might be nice to have someone else know about us.”  

Someone outside of the Avengers, he means. They don’t really share this part of their lives with others. The only non-Avengers in Bucky’s life that know about Steve are their downstairs neighbor Vanessa and his therapist. 

It’s complicated. Every goddamn piece of their lives is complicated right now. But if this is something Steve wants… 

Bucky drags a hand down his face. “Yeah. Yeah, introduce us.” 

Bucky hurries to change out of his work attire and into jeans and a hoodie. He stands in the bedroom for a while, debating whether he should leave his prosthetic on or take it off. Sometimes people get weird about him only having one arm but sometimes gloves invite questions and- 

The doorbell interrupts his thoughts. 

He stuffs his left hand deep into the pocket of his hoodie and heads for the living room. 

A tiny woman with dark, curly hair pulled back into a severe looking ponytail stands in the entryway. She holds herself with a confidence that seems to add six inches to her height, despite the almost comical contrast between her height and Steve’s. 

“Hey.” Bucky waves awkwardly at the two of them as he enters the room.  

Steve’s smile at his appearance is bright enough to outshine the sun. “Bernie, this is my fiancé, James.” 

Bernie’s sharp eyes rake him up and down. Her gaze is careful and analytical, sizing him up. It makes Bucky want to drop into a ready stance, just in case, but he resists the impulse. Steve wouldn’t introduce them if he thought she was a threat. Maybe this is just the way lawyers look at everyone, he doesn’t know. 

His fears abate when she turns to Steve and whacks him in the chest with the back of her hand. “You didn’t tell me he was hot.” 

A laugh escapes his throat before Bucky can think. 

Steve’s jaw hangs open in mock offense. “What?” He rubs at his sternum over the place her smack landed. “You think I’d marry someone ugly?” 

“It’s not that. It’s just you’re-“ she gestures broadly at Steve, the general shape of him, and then turns to Bucky and holds up both her hands like she’s a director framing a shot in a movie, “-and he’s. I mean. I didn’t know they made ‘em better looking than you.” 

Tomatoes would envy the perfect bright shade of red that floods Steve’s cheeks. Bucky’s nerves evaporate in an instant. Does Steve have a type? Feisty brunettes? Bucky flashes a toothy grin at Bernie, his best movie star smile from back in the day. “Sorry, I’m taken.” 

Bernie shakes her head. “Oh, no, I’m very gay. Very happily gay. It’s just, you know, I can appreciate the appeal.” She turns to Steve. “But seriously, how’d you find him? Did you make him in a factory or something?” 

Steve’s indignant spluttering only intensifies, and Bucky’s grin along with it. He looks between the two of them and, well, fuck it. Bucky knows an ally when he sees one. Adding fuel to the fire, he throws his arm across Steve’s shoulder and plants a smacking kiss square on his cheek. “That’s right. I’m just made for you, aren’t I, Stevie?” 

Bernie’s eyes light up with delight. “Stevie?” 

He won’t be living that down any time soon, Bucky can tell already. After a few more minutes of light teasing and chitchat, Steve and Bernie say their goodbyes and head out to their glass blowing class. 

Bucky stretches out on the couch with Alpine and tries to sleep. The cat’s purr is a steady, reassuring rumble against his chest. Her fur is soft under his hand. Still, sleep is evasive. He closes his eyes and picks a random word. Baseball. Okay, words that start with B. 

Bucky. 

Bread. 

Bear. 

Bee. 

Brother. 

Berry. 

B… b…

Bucky breathes steadily in and out as he completes the mental exercise, naming as many words as he can that starts with each letter. Usually it works okay when his mind is too busy to fall asleep. 

Words that start with A. 

Alice. 

Again. 

Astronaut. 

Architect. 

Aluminum. 

Art…

Air… 

His thoughts get slower as he focuses on finding the words. The white noise of the apartment during the day fills his ears. Low hum of cars outside. The radio playing at a low volume. The rumble of Alpine’s purr on his chest. 

S. 

Steve. 

Sam. 

Sea. 

Sand. 

Snake. 

Star. 

Smile. 

Sand. No, wait. He already did sand. Sun. 

The haze of sleep starts to roll in. It takes longer and longer for him to find the next word. Half formed images start to intrude on his thoughts. He’s walking in the park. The trees are half scrambled in the way of dreams. Someone walks with him. Bucky begins to drift. 

And then, the door opens. 

Bucky rolls off the couch and crouches by the coffee table in an instant. 

“It’s me.” 

Steve’s voice. Takes a second to process. No threat. 

Bucky hoists himself to his feet. “What’s wrong?” He glances at the clock. It hasn’t even been thirty minutes.  

Steve’s face looks grim. He crosses the room in a hurry and hands Bucky another envelope. “This was taped to the window at Bernie’s shop.” 

Bucky opens it and pulls out the latest letter, folded neatly into thirds like all the others. Unlike all the others, however, this one also contains a photo. It’s a small white square, a polaroid picture like the ones produced by the camera Pepper gave Bucky for his birthday. The photo clearly shows Steve walking into The Center in the West Village this morning. 

With a growing sense of dread, Bucky reads the message. 

Steve, 

How was your little meeting? Does it comfort you, to be around others who share your madness? It’s a plague, Steve. Another symptom of the madness that’s spread across this country. You’ve fallen prey to it. I gave you time to make the right decision. Seems you didn’t take it. There’s still hope. You can give up the shield to someone more worthy. Until then, I’ll be watching. 

Everything goes to shit after that. 

Bucky feels like a guitar string wound too tightly. Wherever they go, the Watcher follows. Letters and photographs keep arriving. Sometimes at the tower but more often left in places Steve frequents. On his bike, outside his therapist’s office, on his seat at a cafe. Random people deliver them sometimes. A pizza delivery guy, a homeless man on the street, or a store employee. They all say the same thing. A man approached them and offered them money to hand the letters to Steve. No good description beyond the fact it’s a white man with blond hair. 

They might as well be describing Steve himself. 

Bucky stares out the window of their apartment, watching the darkened streets. A beat up Honda Civic circles the block, the third time it’s made the loop. It parks in front of the building across the street and a young man exits, holding a laptop bag. He rings the buzzer at the apartment building and someone lets him inside. Bucky memorizes the license plate and tugs the curtain back into place over the living room window.  

Let the record show that Bucky Barnes is not paranoid. That would imply only a perceived threat, and this threat is very real. Metal fingers trail across the smooth surface of the kitchen counter and pause at the stack of envelopes there. He opens one and takes the photos out. They’re of Steve on one of his morning jogs. Infuriatingly, Bucky couldn’t even tell you when the pictures was taken. That’s how long this creep has been stalking Steve. The letters have been getting more biting, more personal, crafted to unsettle. 

I see why you enjoy the park so much. It’s peaceful, isn’t it? Plenty of trees to hide behind. Did you see me, Steve? I saw you. I went to the memorial too. Your father’s name is on it, did you know? 

The soft sound of footsteps over the hardwood alert Bucky a moment before a warm body presses up against his back. Steve hooks his chin over Bucky’s shoulder, hands coming to rest at his hips. “At ease, soldier,” he murmurs. 

Bucky refolds the letter and stuffs it back into the envelope. “I’m just making sure-“ 

“I know.” Steve tightens his grip. His voice turns teasing. “Whatever happened to following orders?”

“I’m not in the Army anymore,” Bucky grouses. The urge to move tugs at his limbs, but Steve’s presence holds him in place. Annoying. 

“Hm.” Steve turns into Bucky’s neck and lets his mouth wander across the smooth skin there. He focuses on the spot behind Bucky’s ear that he knows will make Bucky gasp, the bastard. He wriggles out of Steve’s hold like a fish. 

“That’s fighting dirty, Rogers. They’ll court marshal you for that.” 

Steve takes the opportunity to slide in closer, pinning Bucky with his back against the counter top. “Come to bed.” Steve’s already dressed for sleep, having ditched his shirt and the blue flannel pajama pants he likes to lounge in. Normally it would be an enticing sight, but Bucky’s preoccupied tonight. 

“I will. Just-” 

“Please? You know I can’t sleep without you.” Steve tucks his chin and looks up at Bucky through his eyelashes, frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

Bucky groans. It drives him crazy, how Steve can turn those big blue eyes and hangdog expression on him and get whatever he wants. It’s an achingly earnest look, one that would come across as insincere on anyone else, but not on Steve. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it, Bucky’s pretty sure. “I will.” 

Steve reaches out for the dog tags hanging around Bucky’s neck and toys with the chain, rolling it between forefinger and thumb. “You said that twenty minutes ago.” 

“I know. Let me just water the plants and I’ll be there. Okay?”

“The plants,” Steve says flatly. 

It’s a dumb little dance they’ve been doing over the past few days. Bucky pretending not to be worried so as not to worry Steve. Steve, in turn, pretending not to notice when Bucky triple checks the doors and windows and just so happens to tag along every time Steve leaves the apartment. 

“The plants,” Bucky confirms with a kiss to Steve’s forehead. “Then I’ll come to bed.” 

Steve gives him a hard look, just enough to make sure Bucky knows he doesn’t believe him. “Okay.” Bucky’s tags thump against his chest as Steve steps back. “Ten minutes,” he says. “And then I’m sending out a search party.” 

“Sir, yes, sir.” 

Finally freed, Bucky makes a point of filling the small watering can he keeps by the sink because he’s stubborn like that. He doesn’t need to see Steve to know he rolls his eyes on his way back to the bedroom. Bucky dutifully waters the plants in the living room. They really have been neglected lately. He’s filled the space with greenery over the years, adding plant after plant until Steve started affectionately calling the room a jungle. Bucky cleans up the shelves as he goes, straightening knickknacks and tucking books back into place. Alpine likes to climb on the shelves now and then, sending things askew. 

Bucky frowns as he passes over Plant Steve, the barrel cactus that started his plant collection. As silly as it is, the little cactus means a lot to him. Their neighbor gave it to him. She was the first person Bucky felt like he could call a friend after his escape from Hydra and return to Brooklyn. The cactus had been damaged when Steve was kidnapped by Crossbones three years ago, but survived unscathed. It’s thriving now, same as them. 

Bucky and Steve have made a life together here. They have an apartment together, one they can actually afford to fill with books and plants and Steve’s records and cat trees and silly little Captain America bobble heads and dumb little golden dog statues. Steve’s oil painting hangs on the wall opposite the couch now, something he poured his heart and soul into just to show Bucky how much he cares. Photos of them, their friends, and family line the walls. The kitchen is stocked with more than just shelf stable essentials. Their clothes intermingle in closets and dresser drawers, more than the minimum needed to keep up appearances. That sense of safety and permanency was hard won. 

It’s not fair that some asshole can swoop in and threaten what they’ve built with a few simple pieces of paper. 

Bucky returns the watering can to its place by the sink with a sigh and sets about checking the perimeter of the apartment. The door remains triple locked, though Bucky knows as well as anyone that’s no real deterrent. Every window is shut tight and locked, every curtain and set of blinds pulled. It’s not enough to satisfy him. 

The bedroom is already dark by the time Bucky enters. He slips under the covers beside Steve and ignores the disapproving sound when Steve sees he’s still in jeans and has kept his left arm on. Bucky's not taking any chances. They murmur their goodnights. Steve curls onto his side, one leg stretched out to rest over Bucky’s shin. 

Sleep evades him. Enhanced senses strain for any sound, any movement, anything out of place. But Steve’s soft snores and the rumble of Alpine’s purr between them are all he can hear. 

Bucky lays on his back and stares at the ceiling until morning. 

“We got made,” Hill says. “Shipment’s called off. Whole operation has pulled out of Red Hook.” Hill always holds herself a little stiffly in these meetings, but the way her jaw is clenching reveals her anger at the whole situation. 

Bucky closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “How did it happen?” 

“We don’t know. They got intel on our movements. We don’t know who their source was.” 

Bucky feels his stomach fall at that. There’s only a small group of people involved in the Avengers initiative, each of them hand picked by Hill, and later vetted by Natasha and himself. If they missed something… if one of their own is a rat… what else did they miss? Is this just SHIELD 2.0? 

It’s like trudging through a swamp. He keeps thinking he’s at the edge, only to get sucked back in. He’s been trying to track down this Grand Director for a year, only to find out he’s been hiding right under Bucky’s nose this whole time. First actually decent lead and they lose it. He cant find the fucking stalker either. Bucky’s never felt so incompetent in his life. What good is he to Steve if he can’t catch up to even one threat? 

When Bucky returns to his office he throws his coffee mug against the wall so hard it shatters.

It doesn’t help. 

When Bucky sleeps, he dreams of an avalanche. He’s thrown end over end down a mountainside, nothing but white as far as the eye can see. When the slide settles and he fights his way to the surface, he’s covered in paper cuts. 

Most nights, he doesn’t sleep at all. 

Bucky slams his fork down during breakfast one morning, the latest letter spread out on the table between them. “You’re being unreasonable!” 

Steve isn’t cowed by the outburst. “I’m not going to let some bully intimidate us out of our own home!” 

“You’d be safer at HQ. At least the tower. There’s better security.” 

“I won’t act like I’m some prisoner just because this guy decided to follow me!” 

“You’re not taking this seriously!” Bucky’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He ignores it. 

Steve pretends the whole thing doesn't bother him. Tries to put on the unflappable façade he wears for the rest of the world, which only serves to tick Bucky off further. Seems the only way they communicate these days is by shouting. 

This argument, like all the others, ends with the two of them silently stewing on opposite ends of the apartment. 

Bernie’s in the living room when Bucky gets home. She lays on the rug beside Steve, Alpine settled in between them. They hardly acknowledge him when he walks in the door. 

Bucky feels a spark of jealousy at the scene. It’s stupid. He tamps it down. 

“I’m thinking,” Bernie says. “Hear me out. Cap in drag.” 

“What?” 

“Like, those cute little USO girl outfits? Red, white, and blue skirts?” 

Steve laughs nervously. “That- I’m not going to-” 

“What are you two talking about?” Bucky sets his bag in a chair. His eyes drift over the scattered pile of papers overtaking the kitchen table. 

“Pride parade!” Bernie says enthusiastically. “It’s coming up soon.” 

“Parade?” Bucky asks apprehensively. Bernie doesn’t seem to notice. 

“If you won’t do drag I’m thinking glitter. Could we-” Bernie bounces up to sitting and taps Steve rapidly on the chest. “Wait! I’ve got it! Could we bedazzle your shield?” 

“What does that mean?” Steve asks with a patient smile. 

“Rhinestones. Maybe we make them rainbow for the theme, you know?” 

Bucky’s brows draw tight together. “You really think going to the parade is a good idea right now?” 

All the air gets sucked out of the room. Steve’s expression shutters. Bernie looks between the two of them in alarm. 

Fuck. 

It’s like a punch to the gut. Bucky’s supposed to be giving Steve something normal. A peaceful life. A good life. The life he used to dream about. Instead, he’s given him this shitshow. 

“I-” Steve starts but Bucky cuts him off. 

“I’ll just go. Be back later.” 

He rushes back out the door before he can see the look on Steve’s face. 

Alpine takes up biting Bucky on the hand or the ankle like it’s her calling in life. Bucky deserves it because he’s an asshole who’s irritated and worried all the time now, and even his fucking cat can tell. Bucky wishes he was allowed to bite people too. 

“You’re working again.” 

Bucky drags his tired eyes up from his laptop screen. Steve stands outlined in the soft blue light, half hidden in the darkened apartment. God. Bucky doesn’t even know what time it is. “I’m working again,” he confirms.  

“I’m going to bed.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay?” Steve watches him expectantly. When Bucky doesn’t answer he turns on his heel with a huff. “Whatever.” 

When a letter arrives detailing Steve’s every move over the last seven days, with times noted down to the minute, Bucky discovers he isn’t above begging. 

“Just let Stark put the drones outside.” 

“No.” 

“Stevie.” 

“I’m not going to let them intimidate me.”

“It’s not giving in. It’s practical.” 

“They want to get a rise out of me.” 

“The guy is deranged! This doesn’t end well, Steve.” 

“I’m not going to hide!” 

Day after day, they go around and around in circles. Bucky calls in reinforcements in the form of Sam and Natasha, but Steve stands firm against Sam’s offer to let them move into his place and Natasha’s insistence that he’s being an idiot. 

“It’s our home,” Steve says by way of explanation. 

And Bucky gets it, really he does. It’s an invasion, what’s happening to them. It’s brought both of their lives to a screeching halt. Two months ago they were riding the high of their engagement. Now they can hardly stand the sight of one another. They’re both walking on eggshells, waiting for the next argument or the next letter or the next bomb to drop. They barely touch. Sex feels like nothing more than a pipe dream. 

Stark installs motion sensors and alarms on the door and windows at Bucky’s request. Three cameras point at the front door, the roof, and the sidewalk in front of their building. If anything moves within a hundred feet of their apartment, Bucky will know about it. Steve watches the install with his arms crossed over his chest and a frown on his face, but doesn’t protest. 

A woman approaches Steve on the street and hands him a package containing a series of photographs taken through a rifle scope. They all show a clear view of different streets around Manhattan. They’re taken from vantage points on higher floors of buildings, looking down at the cars below. 

“What is this?” Bucky stares at the pictures in confusion. 

Steve’s mouth sets in a grim line. “It’s the route for the Pride parade.” 

They stop going out. 

Bucky’s hair has grown out longer than he usually lets it, so it curls around his ears in a way that is irritating. Irritating. His hair is irritating, the way Steve insists everything is fine is irritating, the way Steve breathes is irritating. They’ve been cooped up for too long. That knowledge does almost nothing to negate the cabin fever. 

Bucky watches the cameras and the windows. When Steve isn’t prowling around the apartment like a caged animal, he spends his time painting. All of his work is dark these days. 

The Watcher notices. The Watcher notices everything. The letters take on a more venomous tone. Mocking. 

You’re a disgrace. Disgusting. Let others fix what you’ve broken. 

When that proves fruitless, the messages turn goading. 

Stevie, 

Why don’t you come out to play any more? Are you bored with me? Or is it your lover that won’t let you out? Is he worried? Maybe I should meet him. Maybe I have already. 

Steve all but growls at the mention of Bucky. He rips that one to shreds and tosses the pieces in the garbage before Bucky can do anything to stop him.

“A safe house,” Bucky suggests for the hundredth time. “We go until this dies down and then we come back. It doesn’t have to be forever.” Bucky’s phone buzzes incessantly in his pocket. He digs it out with a growl and silences it. “Fucking- Becca keeps-” 

“Just answer it.” Steve’s staring off at the toaster as though it’s personally responsible for all of their problems, arms crossed over his chest. 

“We are in the middle of-” 

“It’s your sister. You should answer.” 

“She’s fine.” 

“Would you just answer your goddamn phone?” Steve snaps. 

Bucky throws his hands out, exasperated. “Fine.” He swipes it open and calls her back. “Hey Becca.” Bucky tries to keep the irritation out of his voice as he watches Steve stand there, still as a statue. 

“Are you at work?” 

“No, we just got home.”  

“Oh good, is Steve there? I wanted to talk to him.” 

“Steve’s a little busy…” 

Steve glances back at him. “I’ll talk to her,” he says quietly. 

“Actually, you know what? He’s right here. Let me put you on speaker.” Bucky fumbles with his phone for a moment before balancing it on a pile of letters on the kitchen table. 

“Steve?” 

Steve drifts closer, still stubbornly refusing to meet Bucky’s eye. “Hey, Becca. Good to hear from you.” 

“I was calling to say congratulations! I saw your interview on the news.” 

Steve looks a little pained at the praise and Bucky feels a nasty ping of satisfaction. That’s what he gets for being a dick all day. 

“Thank you. You liked it?” 

“Yes. It was very sweet of you to say all that about Jimmy. People aren’t giving you a hard time about it, are they?” 

Bucky holds in a sarcastic laugh. They’re giving him a hard time, alright. 

“No,” Steve lies. “Everyone’s been really great. They want me to be in the parade in June.” 

“Good!” She goes on for a while asking Steve questions and showing such genuine interest that Bucky feels like an absolute monster for avoiding her calls for so long. He tunes back in at the mention of himself. “Now I wanted to ask you, but my brother seems to think he’s your keeper now.” 

“Hey!” Bucky bites. 

“Hush. Now, Steve, what have these boys on the news got to do with your fan club?” 

Steve glances at Bucky. Bucky shrugs. “My what?” 

“The Sentinels of Liberty? I saw these boys setting buildings on fire, calling themselves that.” 

Bucky blinks rapidly. “The what now? Becca, what did you see?” 

She replies slowly, as though she thinks Bucky’s stupid. “There was a video of some boys setting a building on fire. They said they were part of Steve’s fan club.” 

Steve and Bucky are standing face to face now, bent over the phone. “My what now?” 

“During the war? Oh, but maybe you wouldn’t know. It was in all of your comic books. Little boys could sign up for it. They called it the Sentinels of Liberty.” 

Bucky plants his hands on either side of the phone and looks up at Steve, face barely two inches away from his own. Steve looks as confused as Bucky feels. “Becks, can we call you back?” 

“Is everything alright?” 

“Yes,” Steve answers. “Just need to figure a couple things out. Thanks, uh. Thanks for the call. Thanks for everything.” 

“Alright,” she says, sounding a little confused. “Love you boys.” 

“We love you too,” Bucky replies. He taps to end the phone call and stares at Steve. “What the fuck does that mean?” 

“I don’t know,” Steve says slowly. “If the Watchdogs named themselves after a fan club…” 

“And they were using your face on the posters…” 

“Could be a coincidence.” 

“That’s a pretty fucking specific phrase.” 

“So if they… and the stalker…” 

“The Watcher,” Bucky says absently. He quickly googles the Sentinels of Liberty and pulls up a picture of an old membership card. It has a pledge to three principles:

1. In God We Trust
2. Allegiance to the flag and the constitution of the United States of America
3. To make myself a better citizen and defend my government forever.

There’s more than just that. Pages from Captain America comic books, enamel pins with pictures of Cap, ads with drawings of Cap pointing out like Uncle Sam telling kids to join up. Bucky clicks on the picture of the membership card and holds it up for Steve to see. Steve pulls the phone from his hands and scrolls through the pictures. 

“So, if a person was, say, obsessed with Captain America,” Bucky starts. 

“And was a ‘loyal believer in Americanism’,” Steve reads from one of the pictures. 

“Maybe they would round up some HYDRA rejects and start their own little club.” 

Steve nods. “And when Captain America comes out and rejects those values…” 

“It might make that person angry enough to start stalking you to try and get the shield.” 

“I think we’ve got your Grand Director.” 

“I think we do.” 

Bernie calls Steve sobbing in the middle of the night. Bucky can hear the tinny, panicked yells from across the room. 

“Slow down. Bernie, slow down. Are you okay?” Steve flicks the bedside lamp on. Bucky watches in concern. “What happened? Where are you now? We’re on our way. Stay there.” 

Steve hangs up and turns to Bucky, teeth clenched. “They just bombed Bernie’s shop.” 

The smell of ashes is still in his nose when they get back from Bernie’s late the next evening. Rosenthal’s Glass Menagerie is burned to the ground. A total loss. It happened in the middle of the night. No witnesses. No one hurt. But nothing to salvage either. 

Bernie put on a brave face. Talked about new opportunities. Maybe finding a bigger studio. She has insurance, it’ll all be covered. She’s stubborn, just like Steve. Won’t let herself be intimidated. 

Bucky is exhausted. Beyond exhausted. He just wants it to be over. He’s so tired of standing in the middle of crime scenes. Tired of being three steps behind the fucking Watcher or Grand Director or whatever he wants to call himself. Tired of feeling helpless. Useless. Tired of the hellish limbo they’ve been living in. 

“This isn’t on you.” Steve follows a half pace behind Bucky as he storms through the apartment toward their bedroom. Bucky rips off his jacket and throws it in the laundry bin. The smell of ash will linger. He knows that from experience. 

“Buck,” Steve insists. “This wasn’t your fault.” 

“What if it was!?” Bucky erupts. He turns, chest heaving, to face Steve. Silence rings loud after the outburst. All the stress and anger and guilt of the last few weeks hits him at once. Bucky squeezes his eyes closed and swallows hard. “If you weren’t with me-“ 

“Shut up.” 

Bucky stops short, taken aback. “What?” 

“If you’re about to say I shouldn’t marry you then we’re about to have a real fight.” Steve stands with his shoulders back and fists clenched at his sides. 

“You deserve-”

“Don’t-” Steve holds up a finger, “-tell me about what I deserve.” 

“Someone blew up Bernie’s shop because you’re with me. They’re threatening to kill you because you’re with me.” 

“Someone is threatening to kill me because they’re an idiot that thinks me loving a man is a threat to them somehow. Listen to me. I knew this could happen. Nothing you did or didn’t do could’ve stopped it.” 

The twisted feeling in Bucky’s gut intensifies. “You could’ve been with someone normal. Settled down, nice girl. Picket fence life, like you said.” 

“Bucky.” Steve sucks in a breath and blows it out, harsh. Bucky wants to shrink away in the face of that barely controlled rage. He brought this on. Pissed Steve off. Made things even worse than they already are. He should’ve kept his stupid mouth shut. “What is your anxiety telling you right now?” 

“Fuckface.” Bucky tries for a joking tone to lighten the mood he’s created. Unfortunately, his tone falls flat,  and it just comes out sounding small. 

“Yeah. What’s he telling you?” Steve reaches for him and Bucky fights the urge to draw back. Steve rests his palms on Bucky’s cheeks and rubs his thumbs across the space beneath his eyes. 

Bucky finds himself leaning into the sensation, desperate for the contact even now. “That I… That I don’t deserve you. That I’m not good enough for you.” Now he’s started, Bucky’s on a roll. His voice grows louder as the churning in his gut intensifies. “That I’m fucking up your life just by being around because you could really have something and be happy with somebody normal, not someone like-like me. That maybe you just agreed to keep me around because you feel like you’ve got to. That you want to be with somebody you can tell people about, not someone that you have to hide and be ashamed of because of what-what-what I am-” 

“Okay, enough.” 

Bucky watches with a tense frown while Steve closes his eyes and takes a moment to gather his thoughts. The silence stretches out into something that more closely resembles five years to Bucky as his heart sprints laps around his chest. Then, Steve’s eyes blink open. He smiles. He pulls his hands away from Bucky’s jaw to rap gently on his forehead like he’s knocking on a door. Bucky’s brows draw together in confusion. 

“Hello? Bucky’s anxiety?” 

“Fuckface,” Bucky corrects again.

“Hush, you. I’m talking to your anxiety.” Steve cups his jaw with one hand and puts his lips to his temple, like he’s talking to Bucky’s brain through his skull. “I’d like you to know that I chose to be with Bucky because I love him. He’s the bravest, most selfless guy I’ve ever known.  If anyone in this relationship got lucky, it was me.” 

“Steve.” 

“Shush. I’m not talking to you. Anyway, you keep putting this dumb idea in his head that he tricked me into sticking around. When really I read the writing on the wall. A guy that sticks with you when you’re half dead and delirious from sickness, jumps into every fight without ever needing to be asked, that would go to your mom’s funeral, doesn’t care when you can’t make rent-” 

“Steve, you don’t have to-” 

“A guy that somehow loved you even when you weighed ninety pounds soaking wet and spent his free time telling the world how great you were. A guy that follows you into hell and watches your back every step of the way. A guy that makes me laugh every day. Makes me coffee every morning, sits up with me when I have nightmares, watches my shows that I know he hates. Who wouldn’t want to be with a guy like that?” 

Bucky blinks and feels his eyes burn with unshed tears. “Stevie-” 

“Shh. Like I was saying, I’d have to be nuts to pass up on the chance to be with someone like that. So I’m going to need you to cool it. He’s my best guy and I won’t have you telling him otherwise. Got it?” Steve squints at the side of his head, really mean mugs it, then draws back to look at Bucky’s face. “Think he heard me?” 

Bucky’s insides have melted into a puddle and are sloshing around all loose and unorganized under his skin. His words are gone, he knows it without even trying to speak. This happens sometimes- still- even after three years back in the world. He swallows hard. 

Steve smiles gently and smooths a hand over his hair then rests his hand back on Bucky’s jaw. He runs his thumb across Bucky’s cheek bone, just below his eye. Bucky shudders at the contact, leans into the touch. “You couldn’t make me do something I didn’t want to do if you tried, Buck. No offense.” He leans in, telegraphing every move before he presses his lips against Bucky’s. It’s quiet and gentle. Not something that should feel as earth shattering as it does. 

When Steve pulls back he stays close enough for their breath to intermingle. He looks into Bucky’s eyes as he says, quietly, “I’m here because I love you, sweetheart.” 

And Steve doesn’t call him sweetheart, not usually. Their pet names tend more toward gentle insults. Jerk, punk, idiot, moron, asshole. They’re like that though, neither one too willing to get sentimental and sappy. But sweetheart. Steve reserves the use of that pet name for times when he’s truly worried or when Bucky is really hurting. Bucky feels another pang of despair at the thought he’s caused Steve to worry with his own stupid insecurities. 

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and tries to ignore the hot, damp roll of tears down his cheeks. Steve wraps him up in his arms and pulls him into his chest. Bucky hides his face in Steve’s t-shirt and sniffles. Steve’s big hand rubs smooth circles against Bucky’s back. Bucky’s done this a hundred thousand times. Taken the comfort Steve offers freely. So why does it still feel like he’s stealing something? 

"I’m sorry." It comes out in a hiccupping sob. Christ, Bucky’s never felt less worthy of Steve’s love. He’s been a raging asshole for weeks, temper on a hair trigger, and Steve can forgive him this easily? “I’m so sorry.” 

"It's okay." Steve holds him through it.

When the tears start to subside, Bucky pulls back a little. Steve keeps his hands firm at his back, not restraining, just reassuring. “You’re a big sap, you know that?” Bucky’s voice sounds like a door hinge in need of oil. 

“Don’t tell anyone. People might think I’m going soft.” 

“Oh, yes.” Bucky sniffles. “When they learn you’re engaged to the top of the FBI’s most wanted list they’ll think, oh. Steven Rogers has lost his edge.” 

“That’s right, they will. I can’t have that.” 

“I’m on a lot of wanted lists.” The worry creeps back into his tone despite his best efforts. 

“A fugitive from the law. Very sexy of you.” Steve gives him a squeeze. 

“Yeah? You living out some Bonnie and Clyde fantasy?” 

“Sure. Let’s rob a bank.” 

Bucky barks out a wet laugh and wipes his eyes on his sleeve. “You’d be a terrible criminal.” 

“I think it might suit me. On the run, sleeping rough. Maybe I’d grow a beard and dress all in black.” 

Bucky snorts. “Of course all you’re worried about is the aesthetic.” 

“It’s a sexy aesthetic, is what I’m saying.” 

“You have to stop calling things sexy. It doesn’t sound right coming from you.” 

“We have sex together! I can’t call you sexy?” 

Bucky grimaces. “No.” 

“Okay, fine. You’re beautiful.” 

Bucky laughs and gestures at his wet, splotchy, snot covered face. “This does it for you, huh?” 

Without missing a beat, Steve nods and says, “You look stunning.” 

Bucky’s smile feels more genuine now. “Uh huh.” 

“I’m serious. You know, people are saying, oh he’s been crying a lot but he looks great.” 

“Can it, Rogers.” Bucky shuts him up with a tear stained kiss. 

They get ready for bed quietly, the silence between them no longer a tense one. When Bucky slides under the covers Steve’s arms wrap around him, pull him in close like he’s a teddy bear. They don’t normally sleep like this, but Bucky appreciates the extra warmth, the extra closeness. The last few weeks he’s felt like drowning in despair. Maybe now he can finally come up for air. 

Bucky feels hollowed out, scraped raw on the inside. But he also feels refreshed. Like he can think clearly for the first time in weeks, without the haze of anger and anxiety and uncertainty. Steve’s breathing evens out and deepens, his heart rate slowing against Bucky’s back. Bucky drifts for a while in the dreamy haze between wake and sleep. He’s pleasantly warm with Steve’s arms wrapped around him and his bare chest at his back. This is the only thing that matters. The only thing that ever matters. Just the two of them. Together. 

Bucky sighs contentedly. “Love you Stevie,” he mumbles into his pillow. 

A beat. 

And then. 

Realization hits him like a bucket of ice water thrown over his head. 

Bucky bolts upright, sending Steve’s arms and the blanket flying off of him. “Stevie!” He shakes Steve’s shoulder but there’s no need, his sudden movement has already jolted Steve awake. 

“What’s wrong?” There’s no trace of sleep in Steve’s voice. He’s up, instantly at the ready. 

“Who else calls you Stevie?” 

“What? No one.” 

“So how’d he know to call you that? In the letter. How’d he know?” 

Steve’s eyes dart here and there as he processes the question. He quickly comes to the same conclusion Bucky just did. “Fuck.” 

Bucky holds a finger up to his lips and slips out of bed. 

They tear the house apart with remarkable efficiency. Every surface, every picture frame, every air vent is thoroughly searched. Alpine follows in their path of destruction, picking her way daintily through the piles of cleared objects. They work their way forward to the living room and that’s when Bucky sees it. 

The little golden dog statue, resting on their bookshelf. The one that caught Steve’s eye back at the flea market. The one Bucky didn’t give to him. The one Natasha must not have given to him either. 

He picks up the statue. It’s got some heft to it, but less than one might expect. He catches Steve’s eye, raises it over his head, and smashes it to the floor. 

Golden shards scatter across the rug. 

Bucky drops to his knees and searches through the broken pieces. He picks out a black wire. A microphone. He holds it up for Steve to see and then crushes it between his metal finger tips. 

“We’re moving into HQ.” 

This time, Steve doesn’t argue.

Chapter Text

“Buck,” Steve gasps. The moment things were settled, the moment the door closed on their borrowed suite at the Avengers Compound, Bucky was on him. It started slow. Bucky’s arm around his waist, pulling them close until they stood hip to hip and forehead to forehead. Kisses that started out as soft brushes of lips, more of a nuzzle than anything. Bucky’s hands ghosting along his sides. Then it turned harder, more insistent. Bucky laid him out flat on the bed, put his fingers to work, and pulled him into his lap. He started a slow and steady rhythm and has yet to let up. 

Bucky holds Steve now, one warm hand at the back of his neck, keeping him in place while Bucky kisses along the hollow of his throat and the lines of his collar bones. The other hand, cold still, even in the midst of this, wrapped tight around his cock, raising goosebumps on Steve’s overheated skin.

It’s a relief. Steve is warm, so warm, like all he can feel is heat. They’ve been at it for so long. Long enough that Steve’s brain feels all stretched out and sticky like taffy. All he can think, all he can see, all he can feel is Bucky. 

Steve doesn’t want to think about the past few weeks. Doesn’t want to think about the nasty letters and photos and the attack on Bernie’s shop. Doesn’t want to think about the distance put between him and Bucky. Doesn’t want to remember cold nights spent alone in their bed, doesn’t want to think about arguments over nothing or days tinged with a sickly fog of fear. He wants to think about this. Them, now, together. Safe. 

Bucky’s body buzzes with barely restrained tension. He moves relentlessly, a slow and desperate grind. He moves like he might never stop. Like he might just hold Steve here in his lap forever. Steve’s thinking maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe they could stay here like this. Bodies slick with sweat, heat seeping into his muscles, the slow and steady climb toward an orgasm. 

Steve rocks his hips down to meet Bucky’s movement and is rewarded with a gasp. Bucky pulls his mouth off Steve’s clavicle long enough to stare up at him through half hooded eyes. His hair is a mess from Steve’s fingers running through it, his lips kiss bitten and red. He looks at Steve with open adoration, like he personally hung the stars in the sky. Steve doesn’t feel worthy of that kind of devotion, not now when he’s made Bucky think he’s anything less than the most important thing in Steve’s life. That Bucky is anything other than everything Steve wants. 

He punctuates that thought with a kiss. It’s sloppy and uncoordinated, but no less satisfying for that fact. He just wants Bucky. He wants to be close to Bucky, wishes they really could stay this way forever so then Bucky would never have to doubt, would only be able to see himself the way Steve sees him. Bucky picks up on the new desperation, slides his flesh and blood hand down Steve’s neck and back to grip him tight at the hip. He redoubles his efforts with his metal hand, smooth and cool against Steve’s cock. It’s going to be over soon and Steve doesn’t want it. Doesn’t want to lose this closeness. But his body has other ideas, tension building in every muscle, the inexorable rise toward collapse. Bucky’s thrusts grow harsher, more erratic, more insistent, more, more, more- 

“Fuck! Bucky!” 

Steve comes with a muffled shout and Bucky follows right after. Steve shudders with his release, the flood of endorphins washing over him. He lets his forehead fall to rest against Bucky’s sweat soaked shoulder. Bucky’s arms wrap around him tight, hold him there like he can read Steve’s mind. 

“Good?” Bucky asks with a cocky lilt to his voice. The bastard. 

“Yeah,” Steve says weakly. His chest heaves with every gulp of air. 

They collapse onto the covers together and catch their breath. Legs tangled, hands curled against each other's chests, they lay close as the sweat cools on their skin. As his body settles, thoughts creep their way back into Steve’s mind. 

Steve messed up. He messed up and he scared Bucky in the process. He should’ve left the first time Bucky asked him to. Shouldn’t have been so stubborn. Should’ve listened. 

But quite frankly, he didn’t want to admit anything was wrong. Didn’t want to believe that someone could meddle in their lives and disrupt it so thoroughly. Didn’t want to be the reason Bucky had to leave the home they’ve so carefully built together. Didn’t want Bucky to worry about him.

Made him worry more by denying it. 

Bucky kisses his sweaty forehead and runs a hand through his hair. He smiles faintly when the blond locks stays sticking up in spikes when he pulls his hand away. “You okay?” 

“Yeah.” 

Bucky waits. It’s a damn effective strategy. 

“Just thinking,” Steve admits. 

“What about?” 

“Just- I should’ve realized. About the statue.” Steve’s kicking himself over that slipup too. If he’d recognized the dog statue for what it was then he would’ve saved everyone a lot of heartache. 

“It’s okay.” 

It’s not, but Steve won’t argue that point right now. 

For the moment, everyone is safe. He and Bucky packed up their things- and Alpine- in a hurry after discovering the bug in their apartment. They’re bunking in a small suite in The Avengers Compound a little ways upstate. Bernie and her partner were rushed to the tower for their own safety. Bucky insisted on Vanessa moving into the tower too, just in case the next attack involves their apartment. She teased the two of them about living underneath superheroes and the threat of being moved into a luxury highrise at a moment’s notice. She’s a good sport. Steve sees why Bucky likes her so much. Bernie was less happy about the move, insistent like Steve had been that she wouldn’t be intimidated by the stalker. Eventually and with much pleading, Steve was able to convince her. 

After that, Steve called all of his upcoming speaking engagements and cancelled. Folks were disappointed but understanding. He made a lot of promises about rescheduling once things get sorted out. Pepper’s helping out on the PR front. Making sure word doesn’t get out that Captain America’s got a stalker.

It feels… embarrassing. He’s embarrassed. Like he should’ve been able to avoid all this. He doesn’t want people to know. He just wants all of it to go away. 

Steve didn’t mean for any of this to happen. He knew he would get backlash after coming out. He expected threats. He was ready for that. What he hadn’t anticipated was his friends being targeted too. And maybe that guilt is part of what prevented him from taking the threat as seriously as Bucky did from the jump. Steve didn’t want to let the bullies win. Didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. He wanted to take the hits and get right back up, the way he always has. 

But that’s his old way of thinking. He’s got a lot more on the line now than just himself. He’s got to consider Bucky and his friends too. There’s letting the bullies win and then there’s considering the comfort and safety of his loved ones. It’s a line he’s not used to walking. 

Guilt eats at his stomach. He’s the one that decided to come out. He’s the one that wanted to do more. And he did do good, he’s gotten too much positive feedback to deny that. But did it have to come at the cost of Bernie’s shop and Bucky’s sanity? 

Bucky pats him on the hip. “Shower?” 

Steve drags himself up and into the master bathroom. At least HQ’s quarters lend them some privacy. Stark designed the whole facility apartment style, with several bedrooms centered around a shared kitchenette and living space. They’re the only ones in this little suite of rooms for now. The shower is nice. Nicer is the feeling of Bucky’s fingers scratching over his scalp as he works shampoo into his hair. Even better than that is seeing Bucky get dressed in a pair of Steve’s sweats and his Dodgers hoodie. 

Seeing Bucky wearing his clothes never fails to excite Steve. There’s just something about it. Feels good. Right. Like Bucky’s his and doesn’t care who else knows it. He might be a little possessive. Bucky might know it, judging by the little smirk on his face when he catches Steve staring. 

They settle on the couch together in the living area. It’s a brand new leather thing, kind of cold, kind of uncomfortable. Bucky snags a blanket from the bedroom and drapes it over both of them. He snuggles up close into Steve’s side, head resting against Steve’s shoulder. After a while Alpine creeps out from underneath the chair she’s been hiding under to join them. Poor thing rode the whole way here in Bucky’s jacket and hid the moment she was released. She carefully crawls under the edge of the blanket when Bucky holds it up for her and settles in Bucky’s lap. Steve hears the content purr start up a moment later. 

Steve clicks the TV on to a random movie and heaves a sigh. He can’t deny that he feels lighter now. His little family’s all here, together like they should be. The rest of Steve’s life might be a shit show, but at least he has this. He and Bucky are back on the right track. No more cold shoulders and anxiety. The location doesn’t really matter. Home is wherever Bucky is. 

Hill finds them there several hours later, still curled up together. She gives them a rare grin as she announces, “We have a suspect.” 

“Is that blood?” Steve eyes the dark stain on Hill’s shirt suspiciously. She looks down, face impassive, and shrugs. 

“Could be.” 

“Hope it is,” Bucky says darkly. Steve elbows him in the ribs, eliciting a grunt. 

“So,” Hill briefs them before they head into the interrogation room. “I looked through security footage in a ten block radius of your friend’s shop. Most of the feeds had been wiped but I managed to find a decent shot of this guy moving north at three in the morning. Name is Owen Welles.” 

Bucky glances at Steve. Name doesn’t ring a bell. He shakes his head. 

“What do you know so far?” Bucky asks. 

“Nothing. Thought I’d save him for you.” 

“Great.” Bucky’s got a dangerous gleam in his eye as they file into the interrogation room. 

Inside, a man sits handcuffed to a chair, slumped in his seat. His head lolls forward but jerks up when Bucky kicks the leg of the chair. 

Steve stops short at the sight of his face. “It’s you!” 

The guy’s a little older than him, mid to late 30’s probably. Clean shaven. White guy. Blue eyes and blond hair that Steve couldn’t see the last time they met. 

All the blood drains from the guy’s face at the sight of Steve. Naked panic overtakes his expression as he pulls fruitlessly at the handcuffs holding him in place. “Holy shit. Holy shit, listen, it wasn’t me! I swear it wasn’t me!” 

“You recognize him?” Bucky stands with his hands on his hips, staring the guy down like he’s just an annoyance. A look like that on Bucky should terrify the guy way more than Steve's presence. 

“You remember a few years back, I told you about a guy taking pictures of me in Vinny’s bodega?” 

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “This is that guy? You’re sure?” 

“Yeah. Hey, that was you, wasn’t it?” 

The man, Owen, freezes as he’s addressed. “Yeah, yeah, that was me.” His eyes dart around the room wildly. He gulps. “Are you guys going to kill me or something?” 

“No-“

Bucky’s hand slaps over his mouth. “He won’t. I might. Depends on what you have to tell me.” 

If possible, Owen goes even paler. “It was just a job, I swear! I never meant to hurt anybody!” 

“We’ve got you on video running away from a crime scene.” Bucky circles in, starts moving behind Owen where he has to crane his neck to look back, but in doing so must take his eyes off of Steve. It’s like a shark sizing up its prey. 

“Okay, okay, yeah, I threw the bomb but he said no one would be inside! He said nobody would get hurt!” He blanches. “Oh god, did someone- was somebody inside?” 

“No,” Steve says. If Bucky’s going for the bad cop, Steve will fulfill his role as the good cop. “Luckily for you. What do you mean he? Who’s he?”  

“The buyer!” 

Steve and Bucky exchange a glance. “What buyer?” 

“He’s one of my customers. He pays for pictures of- of- you. He said he’d pay extra for the bomb and-“ 

“Stop. Who’s paying you? Who’s he?” 

“I don’t know! I don’t know his name. I swear! I swear, I’m telling the truth.” 

Bucky steps closer, pressing into the photographer’s space. Owen flinches back. “So you expect me to believe that you were, what? Paid to stalk Captain America?” 

“I was! I swear! I swear he just wanted pictures and stuff!” 

“And the bomb?” Bucky asks incredulously. 

“I needed the money! I didn’t think it would hurt anyone!” 

Steve steps forward. “What else did he pay you for?” 

“Um. He-he- There was one time he wanted me t-to break into your place and take the shield but I turned him down! I swear! I never went inside! And he wanted me to deliver some letters. And sometimes he wanted me to give letters to other people to give to you. It all got out of hand. I’m so sorry!” 

“Quiet.” Bucky kicks the leg of the chair again. Owen snaps his mouth shut but his eyes continue to dart wildly around the room. He tugs uselessly at his restraints. 

Bucky stalks across the room to stand beside Steve. Shoulder to shoulder, his back is to Owen now. He speaks low so only Steve can hear. “Steal the shield?” 

Steve hums, mouth twisted into a dissatisfied frown. 

“You remember the pizza guy?” 

Steve does remember. He interrogated the guy three years ago after he broke into his and Bucky’s apartment. He’d said back then that someone had offered to pay him for stealing the shield. At the time, they’d all assumed he was on Rumlow’s payroll. Maybe that wasn’t the case after all. 

Steve looks back to Owen. “You have other customers? Other buyers?” 

“Um…” Owen bites his lower lip. Hesitates. 

Bucky turns back, mouth set in a hard line, an unwavering wall. “It’s best if you just say it now. It’s so hard to get blood stains out of white clothes, you know?” He gestures at the white Dodger’s hoodie he’s still wearing. 

“Blood?” 

“It’ll be yours, don’t worry.” 

“Um. Yeah, I sell to other people. There’s a market for it, you know?” 

“I wouldn’t know,” Steve interjects. “So you sell pictures of me to lots of people?” 

“Not just you. Other superhero types. Celebrities. You know, whoever people are interested in.” 

“You ever sell to a guy calling himself Crossbones?” 

“Uhhh…” 

“Tall guy, face half melted?” Bucky adds. 

“Oh, yeah. Him. Yeah. He wanted pictures of you two. That was years ago. I haven’t sold him anything since.” 

Steve suppresses a shiver at the memory of walking into his apartment only to be jumped by Rumlow and his super soldiers. Rumlow held him captive under the subway for a day before Bucky and the others managed to rescue him. Rumlow had mentioned something about a photo of Bucky back then. Knew that they were together somehow. Enjoyed taunting Steve about it. Steve didn't give it much thought at the time, half unconscious from his injuries as he was. Once they stopped Rumlow and shipped him off to prison it didn't seem to matter. 

“So you expect me to believe that you’ve been selling to this buyer for three years and never got a name from him? An address?” Agitation seeps into Bucky's voice. 

“He never gave me a name, I swear. He did, um, he asked about getting an autograph from you one time but I turned him down. Figured you might recognize me.” 

“An autograph?” Alarm bells start ringing in the back of Steve’s head. “What for?” 

“A book. He wanted a book signed.” 

“What kind of book?” Steve steps into Owen’s space now, so the photographer has to crane his neck back to see Steve’s face. 

“I don’t know. It was some biography or something. The guy’s weird.” 

“How did you contact him? You got a phone number?” Bucky asks. 

“Um. Yeah. It would change, you know? And I dropped off pictures different places. He picked them up.” 

“You keep a log of all that?”

“No-” 

“Don’t bullshit me,” Bucky snaps. “You’re in the blackmail business. You think I don’t know you keep dirt on your customers?” 

“I- listen. It’s how I make a living. I can’t just give you-” 

“You won’t need it in prison,” Steve says mildly. 

Owen’s eyes go wide. “What? Prison? But I didn’t hurt anyone!” 

“You just admitted to bombing a building. On tape. You think we’re just going to let you off?” Bucky’s voice drips with condescension. Owen starts to protest but Bucky stops him with an upraised palm. “Think we’re done here. Steve?” 

Hill meets them outside the door, one eyebrow cocked curiously. 

Steve meets her gaze. “I’ve got a name.” 

The apartment building is cramped, the halls narrow and musty. Steve and Bucky keep a lookout while Nat kneels by the door, picking the lock in a hurry. The name William, combined with the fact he wanted a Captain America biography signed, led them to a history professor called William Burnside. He wrote a book a few years ago, Captain America: Shield of a Nation. The author photo confirmed for Steve that this was the same man he met several weeks ago outside Bernie’s shop. With a name, a list of drop points from the photographer, and a hunch the guy would stick close to Brooklyn, Bucky was able to track down an address in Bay Ridge. 

Bucky wasted no time digging up all he could about Burnside. Steve knows the guy’s resume now. Graduated high school early, went on to pursue a doctorate degree at Cambridge and then taught at NYU for years. He wrote his thesis and dissertation on Steve. Even went to Germany to visit old HYDRA bases as part of his research. He’s had a controversial career- his biography of Steve wasn’t well received by the historian community because of the sympathetic take on HYDRA woven throughout. He left NYU abruptly in 2011, right after Steve was recovered from the arctic. Seems he spent that time getting more deeply involved with HYDRA, and later, forming the Watchdogs. 

The lock clicks open. 

“After you, boys.” Nat sweeps her hand toward the door, indicating for Steve and Bucky to go first. “Sam, we’re going in.” 

“Copy.” Sam’s voice comes through their ear pieces. He’s stationed outside, keeping an eye on the street with the assistance of Redwing while the others investigate. 

The apartment is pitch black inside. The windows have all been covered, so even the meager lighting afforded by the street lamps is blocked. Steve reaches for a light switch by the door but when he flips it nothing happens. “Guess no one’s been paying the bills.”

Bucky reaches for a flashlight at his belt and clicks it on. The beam cuts through the gloom like a knife. 

And then, they see it. 

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters. 

Steve’s mouth goes dry at the sight laid out before them. The walls are covered, floor to ceiling, in images of himself. Vintage posters- some cracked and yellowing, others preserved behind glass- line the walls. Bookshelves are stuffed full of action figures, some still in their original boxes. Stacks of old comic books, lunchboxes, bobble heads, teddy bears, VHS tapes, and replica shields litter the space. 

Nat picks her way through the piles of merchandise. “This guy is obsessed with you.” 

Steve’s stomach drops like a stone. He turns on his own flashlight and starts sifting through the mess. Seems Burnside doesn’t care much for cleanliness. The Cap memorabilia is strewn about haphazardly, like once he ran out of space he just started stacking things. A desk on one side of the room holds an old typewriter and piles of polaroid pictures. Steve doesn’t really need to see them to know the pictures are of him. This must be where Burnside wrote the Watcher letters. 

“This guy gives me the creeps.” Bucky’s light shines on a mannequin in a corner, dressed in a spandex suit like the one Steve wore during the USO tour. Hell, maybe it’s the original. 

“Think I’ve got something.” Nat approaches and hands Steve a leather-bound journal. Sticky notes and scraps of paper poke out from its covers. The pages are filled with handwritten notes. Tight, obsessive writing. He’s written so small that two lines of script fit on each line of the paper. 

Steve flips through the journal. They’re notes about him. Some are more historical- dates, locations, ops he ran during the war. Toward the middle of the journal, formulas and equations are scrawled across the pages. Notes about Project Rebirth and Dr. Erskine. Steve looks up sharply, eyes finding Bucky's. “He’s trying to recreate the serum.” 

Bucky looks back at him with an equally troubled expression. “We need to find him. And fast. There’s got to be a base of operations somewhere. Hill and I were thinking a warehouse… big enough to work on the Chitauri weapons and ship them out without being noticed.” 

“It has to be nearby if they were going to ship out of Red Hook,” Nat adds. 

“There’s got to be something here. Some record of it.” Bucky sweeps his light across the piles of journals and papers. It could take forever to sort through this mess. 

Nat realizes it too because she lets out a frustrated sigh. “We don’t have time. Once he realizes we’ve been here he’ll cut his losses and run.” 

“He’s probably already running,” Bucky says darkly. “Soon as we got the photographer he probably ran for it. Wouldn’t be surprised if he knows we’re here. Whole place might be bugged.” 

Steve’s mouth sets into a grim line. Bucky’s probably right. This is the best lead they’ve gotten in over a year. The closest they’ve been to finding this Grand Director or Watcher or whatever he wants to call himself. Steve kicks one of the piles of comic books and sends it collapsing to the floor. 

He hates this. He hates all of this. It feels like a carrot on a stick- he’s in constant pursuit of a goal that never gets any closer, no matter how hard he tries. It’s all so stupid- 

“Hey.” Bucky’s arm wraps around his shoulder a moment later. 

Steve allows himself to lean into it for just a moment. He takes a deep breath, focuses on the way his chest expands, and blows it all out like he's breathing through a straw. He shrugs Bucky off. “No use waiting around. We find what we can and keep going. If he’s running then we need to know where to.” 

Nat is straight to business. “Right. Gather up all of the journals, we can comb through them later. James, get those windows open, let’s get what light we can in here. Start a pile by the door- anything you think looks suspicious.” She puts a finger to her earpiece. “Sam? How’s it looking out there?” 

“Quiet so far.” 

“Head inside, we need your help sorting through this mess.”

Sam lets out a low whistle when he steps through the door a few minutes later. “Holy shit.” A beam of red light emerges from Redwing and begins to scan up and down the walls.

Steve grimaces and continues to comb through the books piled on shelves, creating a stack of potentially useful ones. He tries not to get distracted by the invasively personal nature of all the collectibles in the apartment. He knew Cap was a big deal for the war effort. Knew they made comic books and toys and things. He hadn’t realized the extent of it. There are VHS tapes of an old cartoon, copies of movies with actors playing him and Bucky, dozens of books. Spread among them are notes from Burnside. Seemed he marked things he had a particular affinity for, or ones he felt didn’t do Cap justice. 

And it is Cap he’s obsessed with, not Steve. That much is clear. It’s like he views them as two separate beings. There’s the perfect, infallible Captain America, and then there’s the real Steve Rogers underneath. Obviously Steve’s come up short in Burnside’s estimations. If he’s trying to recreate the serum, what’s next? Steve resigns, he takes up the shield and becomes the next Captain America? Where exactly does the obsession end? 

“Got something!” Sam kneels underneath the desk and pulls out a black box hidden underneath. 

“Hard drive?” Nat almost sounds delighted at the discovery. “Give me ten minutes.” 

While she works, Steve steps outside to get some air. He’s not surprised when Bucky follows, silent as a shadow. They lean against the wall in the hallway. 

“You know,” Bucky starts casually. “I’m almost offended.” Steve gives him a curious glance. “There’s practically nothing about me in there. You get a whole shrine and all I get are a couple of lame teddy bears.” 

Steve laughs softly. Something in his chest starts to loosen. “Well the next time we find a stalker we’ll make sure he’s equally obsessed with you.” 

Bucky hums thoughtfully. “I bet I could start a cult. You could hear about it on your podcasts.” 

“Sure. You let me know when you start that.” 

“Got it!” Nat’s voice calls from the apartment. She appears in the doorway a moment later. “Warehouse in Jersey. Server’s pinged that exact location several times daily. Probably where he was monitoring the feed on your apartment.” 

“Right.” Steve straightens. “Then that’s where we’re going.” 

The facility looks abandoned. High, rusted chain link fences rise around a warehouse and airfield. Overgrown grass and weeds push up through cracks in the concrete. 

Redwing’s sensors tell a different story, however. 

Heat signatures show frantic movement inside the warehouse as people pack crates into trucks and onto small airplanes. 

“North side’s the least populated." Sam studies the readouts from Redwing through his goggles. 

“What’s your call, Cap?” Nat asks. 

Steve tightens the strap of his shield around his forearm. “Straight in. No frills. Move as fast as you can. They’ll know we’re here anyway. Keep an eye out for the Chitauri weapons. We don’t want them moving out if we can help it.” 

Sam takes to the air while the other three slip through the gates. They run silently across the lawn. Years of practice has made coordination easy. They burst through a doorway into the north side of the facility and are greeted by gunfire from the guards stationed there. 

Things are a blur after that. 

The first few Watchdogs fall quickly under Bucky’s hands and Steve’s shield. They move as a unit through the maze of hallways. The overhead lights buzz and flicker, occasionally throwing them into darkness. The three of them move south until they arrive at an intersection. One hall continues forward, toward the hangar. Another runs east and west. 

Steve decides quickly. “Nat, you go east. Buck, take the west. I’ll head to the hangar. Sam, south entrance, have a feeling I’ll need backup.” 

Nat and Bucky accept the orders wordlessly, both sprinting away down their respective paths. Steve barrels down the hallway, shoving Watchdogs aside as he goes. There are alarms blaring now, alerting the remaining Watchdogs to their presence. Speakers crackle to life overhead. A deep voice, distorted by static, begins to speak. 

"Hello, Captain. I'm afraid you've come at an inconvenient time." 

Steve runs through a set of fire doors and ducks at a spray of machine gun fire. Bullets ping and deflect off the shield. The voice continues. 

"We're building something here. Something you could have been a part of." 

Steve throws the shield, sends it ricocheting down the hallway, slamming Watchdogs into the wall as it goes. He doesn't have time to pause. He needs to get to the hangar. If they're trying to get anything out, it'll be there. 

A staccato burst of gunfire sounds up ahead as Steve finishes off the last Watchdog in the hallway and throws open the double doors to the hangar. Inside, stacks of wooden crates have turned the space into a maze. A small plane sits near the center, engine started and propeller whirring even as Watchdogs still load crates into the cargo bay. Through the slats of the wooden crates, a purple glow is visible. The Chitauri weapons. A blond man stands at a desk against one wall, speaking into an intercom system. Burnside. 

"I heard you took out one of my eyes. It doesn't matter. I have many eyes. Perhaps after today you'll understand." Steve flings the shield with all his might toward the desk. It takes out the microphone and bounces off the wall, back to Steve's waiting arm. Burnside staggers backward at the impact. 

Steve readies the shield for another throw but catches sight of Sam up above, flying near the ceiling as he dodges gunfire from below. When he sees Steve he swoops down to land beside him, returning fire as he goes. 

"How many?" Steve scans the room. 

"Dozen or so, but they're scattered." 

“Door controls. Can we close it?” 

“I’ll find a way. Cover me?” 

“You got it.” 

Steve works his way through the room as the stragglers abandon their tasks to gang up on him. The shield and fists fly as Steve takes them out one by one. He moves toward the airplane and the panicked people trying to get it closed up and in the air. He rips a few aside and sends a crate flying. It bursts open, sending weapons skittering across the floor. 

A blast of purple energy arcs past him and rips up the floor and other crates. 

“Don’t fire that in here, you idiot!” Burnside, face twisted in anger, grabs the weapon out of the attacker's hands. He hangs on to it as they both rush toward the small airplane. 

Steve sprints across the hangar floor. Burnside and the other Watchdog member climb into the cabin and the plane begins to roll toward the runway. 

“Sam, how are those doors coming?” 

“I’m on it!” 

The plane moves steadily forward even as Watchdogs dive out of the way of its path. Not much regard for their own men. But what else is new? 

The hangar doors begin to close. 

It's a moment too late. The plane is going to make it outside. There's not enough time. 

Three men wielding machine guns approach Steve. He brings up the shield and dodges behind a pile of crates. “Sam, stop the plane!” 

Steve rolls out of cover and springs toward the attackers. He throws the shield ahead of him and takes one out at the knees. Another falls to a kick to the chest. The last one turns to face Steve. He raises his gun but it only clicks. No more ammo. Steve dives forward and grapples the guy to the ground. One hard slam of his head into the concrete and he's out. 

Breathing hard from the exertion, Steve looks up in time to see Sam rocketing after the plane where it speeds down the runway. He sprints after but just as he starts gaining ground, the plane starts tipping up into the air. Sam grabs onto the wing and hangs on as the plane takes off. Sam fires on the cockpit with his gauntlets and Redwing. Burnside leans out of the window and shoots at Sam, but misses. 

Sam strains, puts his wings on full power and tries to shift the direction of the small aircraft. Burnside leans out of the window again and fires. A line of purple energy arcs toward Sam. It explodes in a burst across the right wing of his suit. The force of it knocks Sam's grip on the plane loose. He scrabbles for purchase on the wing but can't find it. 

Sam tumbles through the air, one wing trying to compensate for the damage. It sends him into a spiral as he plummets toward the ground. 

“Sam!” 

Steve sprints down the runway, eyes up to track Sam’s falling form. A hundred feet out, he leaps and intercepts Sam mid-air.

They land hard. Steve rolls to minimize the impact. Sam rolls down the concrete too, remaining wing still outstretched. 

The rumble of the plane's engine fades into the distance. 

Everything goes still. 

“Sam?” Steve approaches the motionless form of his friend, heart in his throat. 

And then, achingly slowly, Sam sits up. He shoots Steve a pained thumbs up. “I’m good!” 

Steve breathes a sigh of relief. 

He rips off his helmet and tosses it aside. The airplane is just a dot in the sky now, growing ever smaller.  

He won't let Burnside’s escape get to him just yet. Not while there’s still work to do. 

“Nat, do you copy?” 

Her voice comes through with a grunt. “East wing is clear. Just tying up loose ends.” 

Steve imagines she means that literally. Whoever she’s knocked out is probably being tied up for questioning later. He and Sam jog back toward the hangar to begin their own cleanup job. 

“Bucky? You copy?” 

Steve’s earpiece crackles to life. Bucky's voice comes through, low and soothing. “I’ve got some friends here with me, they’re going to help us get somewhere safe.”  

“Nat, you almost finished? Sounds like we’ve got civilians. Buck, bring them to the hangar.” 

Bucky’s voice continues on. He sounds sure and steady in a careful way, like he's trying to keep someone from panicking. “Could you hang on to me? That’s great. Now let’s walk. Can you walk for me?” 

“Do you have injured?” 

“It’s a good thing nobody got hurt, isn’t it?” 

Whoever Bucky’s with, they must be really freaked out if he’s not answering Steve directly. Steve braces himself for whatever horror they’re about to uncover. Could be captives, prisoners, who knows what else Burnside’s been getting up to? 

“Yep, almost there. Just through this door and then we’ll go find my friends.” 

The double doors connecting the hangar to the rest of the facility open wide. 

Steve freezes.  

Bucky stands there, two children held in his arms and a third clinging to his leg.