Chapter Text
“Peter!” Steve yells, hands cupped around his mouth. “Be aware of your surroundings!”
Bucky, looking on at Steve from the raised platform of the Avengers Complex’s gymnasium, lets out a soft chuckle at the sight. Steve looks like a cartoon replica of a grizzly old gym teacher, sans the beer gut. He stands in the middle of the training mats, watching the baby Avengers spar enthusiastically with each other, periodically correcting their stances and offering constructive critique.
After the battles with Thanos and the resulting aftermath of the snap, both Steve and Bucky took a well-deserved break from avenging – potentially for good. They promised to return if the world truly needed them, but new heroes are popping up all the time; there are other people there to pick up the slack they left. Steve was the first Avenger, but thank fuck he isn’t the last one.
In the meantime, Steve and Bucky finally got some of that life Natasha always told them to find. They got hitched after Steve asked, drunk off his ass on Asgardian booze. Bucky has to grin thinking about it. He and Steve weren’t even dating – hell, they hadn’t even kissed yet – but there Steve was, all swagger and audacity, looping his dog tags around Bucky’s neck because the entire affair was so impulsive that he hadn’t even bought an engagement ring.
Sam even recorded the proposal for posterity. In crisp detail, the camera captured Steve’s words.
“Buck,” Steve grins like only a drunk man could, and he leans sideways precariously before lacing his hands behind Bucky’s neck. “Marry me?”
Bucky rolls his eyes, but he still grips Steve’s waist to pull him closer. “What d’you think ‘‘til the end of the line’ meant, punk?”
“Stop making fun’a me, jerk.” With the help of Thor’s alcohol, Steve’s New York accent slips through the USO’s stage training. He sticks out his bottom lip in a pout.
Bucky distinctly remembers fighting off the urge to bite it, to sink his teeth into that tempting pink.
Steve doesn’t wait for a response, instead surging forward to claim Bucky’s lips in a messy kiss. Steve’s breath stings with the flat tang of alcohol as his mouth moves against Bucky’s own in uncoordinated passes. Bucky, of course, kisses back, wrapping his arms tightly around Steve’s back and dipping him like a well rehearsed dance move.
The video goes shaky as Sam jokingly boos in the background while Natasha scolds him for it. It pulled away after capturing a few seconds of their affection, instead turning to document the rest of the Avengers’ shenanigans.
What the video didn’t capture was the aftermath. A sugar-sweet eternity later, once Bucky and Steve find the wherewithal to pull away from each other, Bucky leaned in to whisper into Steve’s ear. On instinct, it’s his “good ear,” the one he was always able to hear out of, even if he’s had perfect hearing for years.
“‘Til the end of the line’ means ‘I do,’ Stevie.”
While the moment wasn’t captured on video, it’s clear as a movie in Bucky’s mind. The memory is slotted in the liminal space between his ribs, tucked as close to his heart as possible, that no chair, no words, could ever steal it.
After they got married, Steve grew out his hair and his beard, partially because he enjoys being as distant as possible from his dancing monkey days, and partially because he can’t help but indulge Bucky. He loves to scratch at Steve’s beard under the dew of the early morning’s light, savoring the rough and aching ghost of it on the crook of his neck, the inside of his thighs.
Steve does art again too. Half of the things he draws ends up in locked drawers, remnants of the turbulent process through which Steve wrestles with his past; Bucky knows to leave them be. The other half is a collection of artwork, in any medium Steve can get his hands on, from paintings, to sculpture, to multimedia collages.
Every morning, Bucky gets to wake up to a large mural in their dining room, his to gaze at while bleary-eyed and gripping a mug of coffee. What’s common between all of them is color. No matter what medium Steve works with, the art is always soaked with it, even if the hues are clashing and discordant. Bucky, despite Steve never confirming it, knows that it’s because bloody reds and screaming yellows are as far as you can get from the dull, brown, ambivalence of dust.
A few years of rest later, they both get pulled into training new Avengers, knowing that the trainees would’ve ended up fighting crime on the streets anyway, so they might as well help them be as safe as possible. It brings them to today, where Bucky swings his legs in the air from his seat at the raised platform, watching his husband’s broad back flex in a tiny white shirt as he directs his students.
He crosses the platform to face a large window leading to a fire escape. Content, Bucky gives Steve one last glance over his shoulder, only to find Steve staring back at him with a soft smile – not the one he learned from a publicist, but the one that pulls unevenly to the right where a protruding incisor one sat. It’s a smile reserved for them. Bucky stands up straight. He winks and gives his husband a cheeky salute, three fingers and a tip of a fake cap. It isn’t until Bucky’s out of the building that he ceases to hear Steve’s warm, belly laugh.
Bucky wakes up slowly, the cold air nipping at his side to drag him back to consciousness. He rolls over to investigate, only to find a pillow and the rucked-up sheets where Steve is supposed to lay. His absence explains why Bucky woke up: Steve’s a furnace, so when he left, he took all the heat with him. No matter how thick their comforter, it isn’t comparable to Steve’s warmth.
Bucky used to wake up at the slightest provocation, hypervigilance forcibly trained into him, first in war, then by HYDRA. Only years of therapy have let him sleep easy, in his bed, cuddled by his person, safe in his own home. The same can be said of Steve, except on nights like these.
Bucky casts his gaze around the room, taking in the worn sweater laid out on the office chair, the battered copy of Parable of the Sower sitting on his bedside , and the brochure of their local cat rescue that both of them pretend not to notice. The small mementos to the life they fought to have ground him in the present, and Bucky knows what to do. He knows what kind of night this is.
Stepping lightly so as not to make noise, he slinks out of their bed to the living room, finding Steve facing away from him. He’s slouched on a backless stool, sitting in front of his easel and holding a rounded piece of charcoal in his hand. The bristol board is blank. Bucky notes how Steve’s back tenses up, his shoulders beginning to roll backwards until he realizes it’s just Bucky. Throughout this, Steve still doesn’t turn around to look at him.
Bucky doesn’t speak yet. Instead, he leans against the doorframe and just observes, carefully assessing the scene. Steve’s still in his pajamas, vulnerable in loose boxers and an oversized gray shirt, its stretched-out collar revealing the creamy skin of his shoulder blades. The moonlight illuminates him in thin strips that escape their curtains, casting him in an ethereal glow. Outside the city, there are no honking cars or drunken alleyway fights to fill the nightly noise, so the atmosphere is quiet except for the monotone chirp of cicadas and katydids.
Looking at Steve now, he prays to a God he has never believed in, as he always does on nights like these, on the off-chance that somebody out there is listening. He wishes that he could protect Steve from the hurt, shield him from pain, even though he knows it’s impossible. Steve’s hand grasps the charcoal tighter, and Bucky prays harder. He asks that the world be kinder to his love, to the man that holds his soul. He knows that Steve chose this, that his sunshine chose kindness and bravery and courage, but Bucky can’t help but pray anyway.
In his mind, he chants, In nomine Patris.
He thumbs the words engraved on Steve’s dog tags, hanging around his neck. Et Filii.
He raises the metal to his lips, and whispers, “ et Spiritus Sancti.”
Steve completes the prayer. His voice is a breathy, barely audible, “ Amen.”
With soft, nimble steps, Bucky crosses the room to stand a few scant inches behind Steve, still not touching him. For a moment, he times his breathing with Steve’s, just letting them exist together, in the same present.
Bucky reaches his hand out to hover over Steve’s shoulder. “Can I?” he asks gently, asking if Steve is okay with touch because on some nights he can’t stand to be held.
Steve nods, still silent, and lets the charcoal drop to the hardwood floor. It rolls under the easel.
“Okay,” Bucky acknowledges. He closes the gap between them and wraps his arms around Steve from behind, laying his chin on top of Steve’s head and squeezing tight. At this distance, Bucky can see the constellation of freckles scattered across Steve’s nape, barely visible through his grown-out hair. It reminds him of afternoons spent at Coney Island, of how much willpower he mustered to resist spending his train money on a snow cone for Stevie, just to see his eyes glitter. He sees Steve’s scars too. The serum wiped away all of them except for one; now, only the echo of Asgardian lighting brands itself on his husband's body. Though it felt impossible just a minute ago, he squeezes Steve even tighter.
They stay like that, Bucky embracing Steve, for a few heavy minutes until the pressure lets him relax into Bucky’s arms. His head tilts to the side, leaning on Bucky’s forearm and his back presses into Bucky’s chest.
He kisses the crown of Steve’s skull. “Can’t sleep?”
Steve shakes his head, pushing more of his weight into Bucky.
“I know,” Bucky replies, “I know.” He mutters sweet nothings as he loosens his grip and steps away from Steve. “I’ll be back in a second, okay?”
Steve grumbles softly, but tips forward to support his own weight.
With quick, sure steps, Bucky pads over to their bathroom. He prepares the bathtub first, filling it halfway with warm water and pouring in lavender-scented oil. On a tray, he lays out a water dipper and a set of fancy soaps, each small block individually wrapped in bright yellow paper. He checks that a fluffy, fresh towel is hanging on the heated rack beside him.
They deliberately designed their bathroom for nights like these; Steve’s needs were large in their minds when they installed a large tub and heated floors. After trying what seemed like a thousand ways to comfort him when his mind insists that the bed is tantamount to ice, they found that baths work best. That Steve can submerge himself in heat, feel the water surrounding him in a way parallel to the sinking of the Valkyrie, only this time, it’s warm and safe.
Preparations finished, he returns to Steve, finding him in the same position, body unmoved. He grasps him under the shoulders to pull him up. Steve follows the movements pliantly, allowing Bucky to push him into the bathroom.
“I’m going to give you a bath. Is that okay?” Even if this is a well-worn dance, Bucky makes sure Steve consents to being vulnerable in this way.
“Yes,” Steve says. His voice is the strongest it's been all night.
Bucky smiles reassuringly and helps Steve strip off his clothes and enter into the bathtub. He stands sentry at his side.
Steve relaxes perceptibly once he’s finally in the bath, even more than he did after Bucky held him. He closes his eyes and inhales the humid, lavender-soaked air. When they open again, his eyes are just a little bit brighter, a little bit more blue.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Bucky says, looking Steve in the eye. He grabs the tray of soaps and pushes a stool beside the bathtub to sit in. “I’m going to wash your hair now.”
With the dipper, he streams warm water into Steve’s hair, laying a hand above his eyebrows to prevent Steve’s face from getting wet. He squeezes an indulgent amount of shampoo into his hands, lathering it between his fingers before massaging it into the silk-soft strands of Steve’s hair. With strong but gentle fingers, he rubs circles into Steve’s scalp, his temples. In much the same manner, he cards dollops of conditioner through Steve’s locks and washes it out. With every minute that passes, Steve loosens up more and more, the well of tension steadily draining out of his body until it runs dry.
Before the water can get cold, Bucky wraps Steve in a towel and takes them to their bedroom. He sits Steve on the bed as he gathers safe clothes for him: their oldest, threadbare shirts with the tags cut off and a pair of soft, cotton, bottoms. Bucky kneels in front of Steve as he dries him off and dresses him. He lays feather-light kisses on previously knobby knees, whispering, “I love you,” into the still air like an incantation.
A kiss on the valley of Steve’s chest. “ I love you.”
A kiss on the space behind his ear. “ You’re safe.”
Finally, to the plush of his lips. Again, “ I love you.”
Steve, still sitting on the bed, gazes up at where Bucky stands above him, his eyes wide and wet. “Don’ wanna be in bed right now, Buck.” He tugs at Bucky’s hand. “‘S too soft.”
Bucky smiles at him comfortingly and pats his shoulder. “Yeah, I know what you mean, pal. Why don’t you head back to the couch? I’ll just gather some things here, then I’ll join you.”
Steve swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly. Still, he stands anyway and walks to the living room.
Bucky watches him go – his courageous boy. As Steve disappears behind the door, Bucky collects a weighted blanket and the white noise machine from their bedroom, which drops off next to Steve. Then, he proceeds swiftly to the kitchen and fixes a warm mug of peppermint tea.
Once the tea is prepared, he returns to the living room to find Steve back at his easel. Though similar to the first scene of the evening, Bucky knows that the air of despair that surrounded him has thinned, wisps instead of thick smoke. He hands the mug over to Steve, lays the weighted blanket across his shoulders to apply pressure, and turns on the white noise machine.
Bucky sits back on the couch. As he watches Steve, he lets out a quiet sigh. He knows that he can’t cure Steve’s pain – Christ, he doesn’t know if any of his efforts will let Steve sleep – but he can offer comfort. Companionship. He can gather up the tools to make the pain a little quieter, a little more like the drip of a stream than the crash of waves against a rough shoreline. He can sit beside Steve as he gazes at the easel. Maybe he’ll end up drawing, or maybe the sun will crest over a still-blank page. To Bucky, it doesn’t matter. He just wants to be there for all of it.
As the hours flow by, sand through an hourglass, Bucky finds himself leaning into the couch cushions, his eyelids heavy and his breaths deep. He drifts back into sleep.
Like earlier that night, Bucky awakens slowly, though this time it’s from warmth instead of biting cold. Steve is with him now, hugging him from behind, both of them squeezed tight like sardines on the couch. St Outside, the sky is still dark.
Despite his best efforts, Bucky knows that Steve is still awake, the rise and fall of his chest too steady and too even, more characteristic of an emulation of sleep than sleep itself. Steve’s breath ghosts hotly over his nape.
Bucky turns to face him, laying a chaste kiss on the soft underside of his chin. “Just hold on to me, yeah?” He whispers into the crease of his neck. “You don’t have’ta sleep if you can’t. I just wanna be here with you.”
Steve’s arms screw tighter around him. ““You’re here,” he says. It’s a mantra, spoken like truth until he believes it. “Because even when I had nothing, I had you.”
Nothing truer has ever been said.