Work Text:
“Jesus, Stevie.” Bucky sounded equal parts exasperated and entertained.
While Steve ordinarily would’ve been at least peeved at being mocked for not knowing how to fly (as if it was some innate skill that he was just supposed to magically know. ...Wait, was that a possibility? Did fae get born just knowing? Shit.), he only felt warmth spread through his chest at the reprimand. Even teetering on the edge of the Brooklyn Bridge, soaked to the bones and being yelled at by both Bucky Barnes and irritated passersby alike was not enough to spark any kind of fight in his gut. Steve couldn’t even bring himself to mind. It was just so nice to see him alive, healthy, and well on his way to recovery.
Plus, he was never going to get over the sight of Bucky. Actual Bucky. Not the human-ish mirage he’d known and loved in 1942. But full on fae Bucky, with his enormous wingspan and eyes that glowed. Steve had recently discovered that strong emotions would spark that glow with or without Bucky’s knowledge. Once, he’d lit up the entire kitchen in a flash when a hiccup caught him off guard.
Sunlight glittered off the slim metal bars that braced against the bone of Bucky’s left wing and extended down his shoulder, supporting his metal arm like scaffolding and counter-weights. The arm itself was cradled discreetly against the fae’s chest as Bucky pretended that he was just crossing his arms to make a point about examining Steve’s form critically. The arm and wing both weighed heavily--Steve knew that. It had taken the better part of a year to get Bucky comfortable with wearing short sleeves again. And the visibility of any fae traits like wings or glowing eyes were still a bit of a work in progress. Steve hadn’t yet broached the topic of having Tony look at the designs. Stark himself had been a touchy subject in general. So, despite catching how Bucky leaned a little heavily on his left leg, he didn’t point it out.
“--you listenin’ to me?” Bucky’s voice pierced through Steve’s distraction again. Blue eyes were narrowed suspiciously from where the fae was keeping himself in the air a few meters away from the edge of the bridge. “Swear to god if you belly flop again, I’m declaring you a lost cause.”
“Aw c’mon.” Steve grinned. “I nearly got a bit of altitude that last time. I’m tellin’ you that the water is making my feathers feel all weird and--”
Bucky snorted. “You sank like a stone, Steve.”
“A slightly more informed stone than last time,” Steve retorted.
Bucky shook his head and tucked long strands of brown hair that had escaped from his messy bun behind his ear. “You’re still putting too much focus on your core. You wanna control the air beneath you with the tips of your wings. Guide it. Like a kite.”
“You make it sound so easy,” Steve drawled.
“It is easy. You’re just stupid.”
Steve laughed. He shook his hair again, trying to clear as much of the water from his face as he could. Even with magic pumping through his blood, river water still stung something fierce if it managed to get into his eye. He rolled his shoulders and stared out at the way the sun danced across the surface, reflecting light sharply back up to the sky from below. Sometimes it was easy to forget that this jump was a deadly thing for most people.
“Square your shoulders. Stop hunchin’ in on yourself like you’re still four feet tall.”
“I wasn’t four feet,” Steve snapped. “Five foot four, at the shortest.”
“Same difference. You gunna spread your wings or not?”
Steve huffed again and ignored the jitters in his stomach that had been lessening gradually over the course of the day. The part of him that was still human did not like the whole jumping-off-the-very-tall-bridge aspect of learning to fly, but Bucky had insisted that starting altitude was his friend. ‘More time before you hit the ground means more time to correct your shit,’ Bucky had said. ‘Or, more time for me to save your ass before you hit the water like a fledgling.’
And maybe, just maybe, Steve had very intentionally fudged his first few attempts just so he could watch as Bucky soared through the air to catch him like it was nothing. Being held close to Bucky’s chest like he was something precious had been well worth the following lectures.
But Bucky had wised up and that part of the exercise had ceased being a thing after the twentieth attempt or so. Bucky had complained that his bad wing was sore, but Steve suspected that Bucky just thought watching Steve scramble in the air before smacking into the water was kind of hilarious, based on the snicker he’d caught a few times upon resurfacing.
Steve squared his shoulders and shifted his weight until he found his balance. His wings spread behind him and he could feel his muscles straining against the wind as it battered against him like it would the sails on a ship. He tilted them slightly forward and let the air rush beneath. It tugged him bodily upwards, but Steve’s feet stayed firmly planted. He bent his knees a little and launched himself off the edge.
He closed his eyes like Buck had suggested and felt the way the air pushed up at him. He let his wings tilt forward, gliding through the grain of the wind like water, and then used his strength to push the air back behind him. His wings cooperated for once, and he felt it in his stomach when he lifted a few feet. He bit down on the excitement and stayed focused. Only a couple more seconds of altitude left. His wings tilted forward, gliding again with as little friction as he could manage before he beat them once again.
And again, he lifted just that little bit higher. Steve repeated the motion faster. Then again, and again, and--
He hadn’t hit the water yet.
Steve opened his eyes and saw that he was a good ways down the river and was still hundreds of feet from the surface of it. He fumbled and dropped ten or so feet in surprise then repeated the motion. Sure enough, he rose up again.
Behind him, he heard Bucky whooping loudly. “Fuckin’ finally!”
Steve laughed, feeling giddy. Each beat of his wings felt more and more natural. He struggled to keep the power behind the strokes even, and to put equal force behind each wing so he surged left and right erratically, occasionally spiking a good twenty feet or so higher before stuttering back down. Bucky’s own wings beat easily and gracefully. The motion was circular and so practiced it looked second nature.
More of the fae’s brown hair whipped around his face as he pushed against the wind to follow Steve, but Bucky didn’t seem to mind. The irritated expression from earlier had been completely replaced by a wicked grin that radiated triumphantly from every movement.
“Would’ya lookit that! Stevie’s first flight,” Bucky cooed, but the smile was still plastered in place. “They just grow up so fast.”
“Shut up, jerk.” Steve grinned back without real emphasis. “Least I can finally fly myself places instead of havin’ to be carried like some damsel--”
“Aw, I thought you liked it when I carried you.”
“Not when you’re gunna whine about it the whole goddamn way across the Atlantic,” Steve said, raising an eyebrow.
That was a mistake. Too much of his focus got divided up between staying afloat and sassing Bucky that he lost his momentum and plunged with a surprised squawk. Bucky was by his side in an instant, arms scooping up around him before his fall could really gather any speed.
“Not sure you’re ready for the big leagues yet, eh?” Bucky said, looking at Steve fondly.
Steve puffed and pushed a tuft of blond hair out of his eyes so that he could glare more effectively. It just got another laugh from the fae and Steve felt that damn warmth in his chest biting away through all the annoyance he was only pretending to have anyway.
“Yeah, yeah. Still,” Steve leaned into Bucky, contented to feel the way the fae’s energy crackled around him like a livewire, “not bad for only two days of tryin’.”
Bucky acquiesced, nodding. “True. Took me a good week or so before I really got the hang of it. But I was also a child, so.”
Steve snorted and thwacked his hand on Bucky’s chest. “Yeah, and surrounded by other fae that were probably infinitely more helpful than the jackass I got stuck with.”
“Hey now.” Bucky looked down at him, eyes wide in mock offense. “Ain’t my fault I got stuck with the weird adult student.”
Steve laughed again, but felt the tiredness of the day’s practice seeping into his muscles quicker than the water had soaked him through. He thought about mentioning it, but Bucky was already steering them through the city heading back to their apartment. Thoughts of barley stew and hot tea flickered through Bucky’s mind so vividly that Steve couldn’t tell if the thoughts were a projection meant to comfort him, or if Bucky genuinely had one of his weird cravings. It was only when Bucky landed softly on the mess of wooden planks they’d nailed to the outside of their giant living room window as a makeshift landing pad that Steve actually started to get curious.
“How old were you when you learned to fly?” Steve followed Bucky inside, ducking under the window frame and wriggling to fit the feathery white monstrosities attached to his back through as well. “Or were you just born knowin’?”
“Mmm.” Bucky stilled, eyes thoughtful.
Steve watched him carefully, and made a point to reach out and keep a tendril of energy touched to the lid of Bucky’s thoughts and feelings. Nothing invasive--just enough to be able to sense a spike of fear or panic if the questions got too much. But like the water under the Brooklyn Bridge, Bucky reflected the light off of him like it was nothing and glittered with energy and life.
“I dunno, I started pretty early. Maybe about thirty-two?” Bucky’s lower lip stuck out as he thought, and his brows furrowed. “Yeah, thirty-two or thirty-three. Somewhere around then.”
Steve blinked. “Hold on. You said you learned when you were a child.”
Bucky nodded slowly, looking at Steve like he was waiting for something to sink in and--
“Oh.”
“There it is,” Bucky snickered.
He turned his back to where Steve stood frozen in the living room and made a big show of tucking his wings into his skin. Not to look more human, Bucky had reassured him. Just to make moving about easier.
“Wait,” Steve said slowly. He heard Bucky hum in response from where he was filling up their tin kettle with water. “Wait.”
“Mmhm.”
“How old are you?”
Bucky laughed out loud at that and paused in his ministrations to tug the hair tie completely out of his hair. Most of it had fallen loose anyway. He snapped the band on his wrist and set about trying to tie it back again. His eyes glowed faintly and the curl at the edge of his lips was playful.
“How old do you think I am?” he asked.
And that was a trap if Steve ever saw one.
“Uh,” Steve stammered. “Well. Dunno. Old enough to have been born of the fae, but young enough to have not lived through the Magic Wars--”
“What makes you think I didn’t live through the Magic Wars?” Bucky said. A strand of brown already escaped the new bun, and Bucky tucked it behind his ear patiently. He leaned forward on the kitchen counter and rested his chin on the palm of his hand.
“I thought the Magic Wars killed all the fae alive at the time?” Steve frowned. “You couldn’t have been there, or--”
Bucky snickered again. “What, do you think fae hatch from eggs?”
“Well--”
“Steve, c’mon.”
Steve balked at him. “You’re tellin’ me that you’re over a thousand years old?”
“Four thousand, two-hundred and…” Bucky trailed off, squinting at the wall. “Thirty-seven? I think.”
And if Steve’s jaw hadn’t been on the floor already, it would’ve been now. “You’re fuckin’ with me.”
“Was plannin’ on saving that for later, actually,” Bucky grinned and winked, getting back to making tea like he hadn’t just shattered Steve’s whole world in ten words or less. Steve tried speaking a couple times, spluttering, opening and closing his mouth dumbly and choking on any of the words that made it halfway out of his throat and to the tip of his tongue. Bucky didn’t seem at all bothered by this. Tea packets floated down from the shelving with a wave of Bucky’s hand and different brightly-coloured packets presented themselves to Bucky in a row. He frowned, plucking the lemon zinger out of the air. “Tell me you didn’t think I was actually your age, Stevie. I mean I know the whole magic thing is new, but--”
“No, no, I knew that,” Steve interrupted, finding his voice. “But I figured you were maybe… I dunno. Three hundred or something.”
“You thought I was a freakin’ teenager?” Bucky glanced back at him, actually sounding offended.
“In my defense, I have no clue what fae life-spans are.” Steve held up his hands in mock surrender. “But, shit Bucky. Four thousand, three hundred--”
“Two hundred.”
“--two hundred and thirty-seven.” Steve shook his head disbelieving. “Shit.”
The electric stove had taken weeks to actually implement into their old apartment, but it had been worth it to get rid of the wrought iron stove top. Steve had just been putting up with it and the other little bits of iron in the walls while he waited for Bucky to return, but Bucky’s frown when he’d settled into his familiar spot on the ancient couch was enough to kick his ass into gear to renovate the apartment properly. The whole place had been insulated from the sting of buildings and city life with help from Wanda’s wards and Clint begging a few favours from other deity-descended pals.
It had taken a whole month to find every last iron nut and bolt hidden away in the piping, but now even the drywall had been carefully replaced with earthy, un-dyed brick. The wooden floors had been oiled and treated until they shone warmly, and the whole place was covered in plant life. Little ivy vines curled down from the ceiling where flower pots had been carefully suspended with Bucky’s magic and huge potted trees pushed up the sides of the walls from the corners where they lurked. It made the whole place smell faintly earthy, and like fresh soil when the heat of Brooklyn summers coaxed the smell out of the brick.
To anyone else, the apartment might not have been recognizable save for the old couch and the huge living room window--but to Steve it was still just as much home as it had been in 1942.
Bucky placed a mug down on the counter then gestured to another, eyebrow quirked at Steve in an unspoken question. Steve nodded, pleased when Bucky selected Steve’s favourite red mug without even a second thought. The fae dropped the tea packets into the mugs and tied the tabbed strings around the mug handles to keep them in place while he poured the boiling water. Immediately the smell of lemon zest and herbs flooded the kitchen and living room by extension, gently guiding Steve out of his stunned stupor and over to the bar stools. He sat down and pulled his mug to him, staring at the steam as it spiraled up into the air.
“Back in 1943, you saw my wings and watched me glow like an idiot in my old tent and blurted out ‘You’re so beautiful’ like I hadn’t been kinda sorta lying to you for the better part of five years.,” Bucky paused to gulp down some of the scalding tea (apparently unbothered) and spoke in that way that meant it was a rhetorical statement, so Steve waited patiently. Bucky licked his lips and continued. “Didn’t bat an eyelash the first time I demonstrated how the fae used to speak to each other telepathically while we were on the side of that damn mountain--”
“Said you were loud, actually,” Steve interrupted smugly.
“That you did,” Bucky smiled at the memory. “And insisted I remain loud. Said you didn’t like the silence.”
“Yeah, well.”
They stayed quiet for a bit then, Bucky smiling down at the floor and replaying the memory over in his mind so Steve could see it too. Showed Steve how loud he’d been when he’d tried to speak back through their minds those first few times. Steve could feel the laughter echoing through Bucky’s head as he related it to Steve’s grand master plan to fall dramatically off the Brooklyn Bridge after projecting the memory of them dancing in 1942 to the whole goddamn city.
“Shut up,” Steve grumbled out loud. “Worked, didn’t it?”
“The deli guy down the street still asks me if we wanna sign up for the dance classes his daughter teaches.” Bucky smirked, but Steve caught the tiny, proud glow of blue in his eyes before he turned around to refill his mug. “Besides, that ain’t the point.”
“What’s the point, then?”
“You’ve seen me do all sorts of crazy shit.,” Bucky shrugged. “I know you’ve seen me freeze time a few times. And you were surprised a little, sure, but--”
Steve shook his head helplessly. “I dunno. I read all the stories. I knew the fae were supposed to be forces of nature before I knew they were real. Kinda bled the shock value from the big reveal.”
“Exactly.,” Bucky turned around, mug held close to his face this time as his gaze pinned Steve down in suspicious scrutiny. “So why’s the age thing got you so rattled?”
“Maybe I’m just not into older men.,” Steve batted his eyelashes innocently and took a sip of his own tea after blowing on it a little. (Still too hot. He choked a little and tried to cover it up with a cough.)
“Aw Stevie.” Bucky’s eyebrows lifted upwards immediately, and he put on that exaggerated sad look that he knew damn well could get Steve’s innards tied up in guilty knots. “Don’tcha want me anymore?”
Steve rolled his eyes and sent him his own version of the same memories. He focused on the way his heart had skipped at seeing Bucky how he actually was the first time. Emphasized the way his breath caught in his throat when he could hear Bucky’s voice without the other man speaking. The way the warmth of his words filled his mind like a blanket shielding him from the cold he’d never known he was stuck in. The way the steady hum of feelings and spikes of curiosity spun around Steve’s own thoughts, intermingled and woven until they were one and the same. It felt like holding hands for so long, he didn’t know which hand was his own anymore and he didn’t care to find out.
Bucky’s features softened again and Steve saw the glow sheltered by long dark lashes as Bucky focused on his tea.
“Still dodging the question, Stevie,” Bucky said, still as sharp and unflappable as ever. Steve shot a wave of sulky irritation his way and Bucky sent back a montage of sniper training with an unimpressed level gaze and a slightly lifted eyebrow. “What is it about the age thing that’s got you all tangled up?”
Steve’s mouth pressed into a thin line and he frowned down at the red mug in his hands. It was one of those hand-made, locally crafted pieces that was meant to be flawed so that you could tell just how craft it was. Instead of being spun on a pottery wheel, it had obviously been pinched and tugged into shape by an amateur. The handle was just a circle that had been pressed into the side as an afterthought. The paint job looked like it was meant to mimic rustic old pieces, but just came out on the shoddy side of speckled.
And if all that wasn’t enough, it had been broken and put back together at least seven times. Cracks lined the sides of it, splintering through the ceramic like lightning and the ridges of the glue that held the whole thing together lifted up in bumps under Steve’s fingers. As lopsided and broken as it was, the mug fit his hands like it had been built to do just that. The sides dented just enough to cradle the palms of his now huge hands, and the divots where the potter had pressed the clay held the tips of his fingers easily. Even the horribly designed circle handle was wide enough and low enough that he could press his thumb through it where the weight of the thing rested on the soft, fleshy joint instead of pressing hard against his knuckles.
He knew Buck was still watching him, waiting for the answer, but if he’d waited thousands of years then surely he could wait a little bit more. Steve hesitantly took a deep breath, relaxing his mind the way Peggy had taught him and imagining the top of his head opening up like a book. Immediately he could feel the coils of Bucky’s own energy prodding around and testing to see if he was welcome in Steve’s head. Steve relaxed further and welcomed the intrusion.
He let Bucky see the way he focused on the imperfections of the mug, let him feel the way it puzzled him and delighted him that something so broken and hostile to use had found its home in Steve’s hands. Let the fae see how Steve knew that the way the other treated Bucky--like he was liable to snap and revert back to the Winter Soldier at any moment--felt a lot like the looks houseguests would give Steve’s mug. Like they worried he’d taken the broken one for their benefit and wanted to somehow insist that Steve didn’t have to do so; that he didn’t have to take the mug to be polite.
Steve felt Bucky’s frown before he saw it and took a shaky breath, forcing himself not to interrupt the ramblings in his own mind. Forced himself to remain still and open so that Bucky could feel the way the mug fit in his hands better than any glass, any weapon, or even his shield. He ran his fingertips over the cracks and dips again and felt them resonate within his memories.
The finger-shaped dents mirrored the coughs he’d fought through when he was weak and sickly, shoving the space out of his lungs until Steve had thought he would be the first person to drown on dry land. The uneven sides felt like the uncomfortably sterile leather backing on the table Erskine had strapped him down to before injecting him with the blood that made him suddenly feel too big for his own bones. The handle pressed in just a little too tight around the base of his thumb, gripping onto him like the fear that had clamped onto his heart when Bucky had fallen. The cracks, like fractures in the slabs of arctic ice he still dreamed about.
And still the mug fit--fit Steve--like it had been waiting for him to return home from the war since 1942.
“I know people look at me like I’m some big deal.” Steve’s voice broke through the energy in the room so suddenly that it surprised him a little to hear it. “Like I ain’t just some kid from Brooklyn that got into a lot of fights and made a career of it, y’know?”
Bucky opened his mouth to say something, but Steve held up a hand to stop him.
“It’s surreal. Being this icon of peace between humanity and… well. Everything else. Like walking proof that it’s suddenly possible. As if it hadn’t been before. We just ignored it then.” A little bit of bitterness crept into Steve’s voice unbidden and he swallowed thickly. “Point is that that’s not me. Whoever it is they see, I mean. This Captain America fella is just a costume. And sometimes I feel like no one sees past it.”
He cleared his throat and took a long swig of the tea. Lemon tingled against his tongue and the warmth in his gut pushed him onwards.
“Not sure if I prefer being seen as I am though,” Steve said, casually keeping his tone light and ignoring the way Bucky’s energy flicked back and forth like a cat’s tail ready to pounce. “Don’t wanna shatter any dreams, y’know?”
“Stevie--”
“But once upon a time in 1942, you n’ I were crashing the old Stark Expo. I was babbling some nonsense and tryin’ to ignore my giant fuckin’ crush--”
He heard Bucky chuckle at that.
“--and I asked you if you thought I was a good person. You remember that?”
Bucky’s eyes widened. He said nothing.
Steve nodded and continued. “And you told me that you thought I was best person you knew. That you’d ever known.”
Bucky’s face was unreadable then.
“Might not still be rolling around in that memory of yours after all the shit you’ve lived through, but...” Steve shrugged again and stared down into his half empty mug like it might hold the key to feeling less awkward. “I kept that memory close after you left. Both times.”
Steve didn’t clarify further and they both felt it in the way his mind closed up involuntarily, thoughts and memories sealed up inside with the hiss of a speeding train. The lights and sounds fading like wings shuttering out of sight. The room around them felt like snow.
“And I know now,” Steve’s voice felt quieter without the shared link, “that you can’t lie. Caught that gift myself. Thanks for that.”
He tried for a wry grin, but it felt strained.
Bucky was staring at him openly now, his own blue mug set beside him on the kitchen counter and forgotten. The fae stepped around the kitchen bar, sliding onto the bar stool next to Steve. He stared for a second at the way Steve gripped the red mug, then interrupted the grasp with his own fingers, tugging away until he could lace their hands together properly. He pulled insistently until Steve was facing him fully and felt silly still trying to avoid eye contact, so he gave in and stared back at the concerned blue that was trying valiantly to map out every piece of him. To memorize him the same way he memorized new dance steps.
Steve gritted his teeth and forced himself not to swallow nervously. “All I’m sayin’ Buck is that four thousand years is a long time, and I’m a hell of a low bar when it comes to moral standing.”
Bucky’s eyebrows raised again and Steve could feel the genuine surprise from the spots where their skin touched. He nodded, and more brown hair fell loose from the bun. His lips were pursed and scrunched up to the side like he was trying to find the right words, and he stared at where their hands linked like he might find them there. Finally, Bucky cleared his throat.
“Gunna need you to listen close, punk,” he finally said. The corner of his lips curled just slightly, giving away his otherwise stern expression as playful. “Cuz I ain’t here to stroke your damn ego every time you get whiny after you spend the day sucking at flying. Got it?”
Steve snorted.
Bucky squeezed his hands gently once, then more firmly. “Steven Grant Rogers, you are still the best person I know. And the best person I’ve ever known.”
Steve stared at the fae, his words still sounding distant and blurry like Bucky’s speech had been dragged under water before reaching their kitchen. He knew that Bucky couldn’t lie. Knew from experience that he couldn’t even fib around the truth. He picked apart the words, trying to find the clever phrasing or way around. Bucky just smiled back, dopey and radiating contentment. Like he’d just been sitting here in their kitchen, waiting for Steve to come home since 1942.
A disbelieving laugh bubbled up through Steve’s chest before he could stop it and he shook his head. He leaned forward, resting his weight firmly on Bucky’s chest and loving the way one real arm and one metal one wrapped around him immediately out of pure habit. “You’ve got shit taste in men, Barnes.”
Bucky laughed. “Did I ever tell you where that came from? Barnes, I mean.”
Steve grinned into Bucky’s shoulder. “Tell me ‘James Buchanan Barnes’ isn’t just another lie.”
“Not quite. I just said ‘named after.’” He could hear Bucky’s self-satisfied grin as it shaped the sound of his words. “Never said it was me who was named after anything.”
“Tricky fae bullshit,” Steve muttered, and Bucky laughed again.
“You supplied ‘James Buchanan’ all on your own. I got ‘Barnes’ from a billboard. Or, well. Barn. Made it plural out of panic. You added the ‘e’.”
Steve sat back and looked at him then. “You’re tellin’ me that you were about to waltz about Brooklyn with barn owl wings attached to your back, telling people in complete seriousness that your name was James Buchanan Barn? Barn?”
“I even told you it sounded like a fake name.” Bucky was staring at Steve’s mug again, giggling as he spoke. “But you just looked at me with those big doe eyes like ‘whoo boy, that’s weird! Hello, Barn!’”
“I did not.”
“You did so.”
Bucky was laughing again and Steve couldn’t help but mirror him. He shoved lightly at the other man’s knee and reached again for his mug. He brought it up to his lips, staring at the relaxed line of Bucky’s shoulders, at the warmth that had re-entered his skin all too recently for Steve’s liking, and at the way his eyes glowed more than just literally. It was like someone had turned on the lights inside Bucky’s head and all the terrible puns and godawful teasing had flooded back in.
Steve’s heart beat painfully against his chest.
“S’true for you too, y’know,” Steve said casually, taking another sip of the cooled lemon tea.
Bucky’s face fell immediately and he affixed Steve with a wary look. “If you say I’m with you til the end of the line, I swear to god, Stevie--”
“That you’re the best person I know. Or being. Or… whatever,” Steve shrugged, putting the mug down beside him. “Best everything.”
Surprise spiked through Bucky so quickly that Steve was suddenly all too glad that he’d set his mug down or it might’ve had a whole new set of fractures to give it character. The light blue eyes that stayed wide in front of him were worth it though. Steve could actually hear the gears grinding to a complete stop in Bucky’s head.
The metal arm darted out and grabbed Steve’s shirt collar in a flash, but Steve was ready for it when their lips crashed together, fierce and wanting. Bucky’s other hand tugged at the back of his neck, urging him closer and nipping at his bottom lip until Steve cooperated and moved so that he was straddling the fae’s lap. Both hands pressed into the small of his back, removing any of the remaining air pockets between their torsos and keeping Steve’s weight firmly balanced against the drag of the white wings behind him. They stayed like that, kissing passionately at first, then slowly, then gently. Chaste presses of lips between slow breaths on Steve’s part and soft touches from Bucky until the light from the window faded from bright to orange to red to blue.
Bucky rested his head in the crook of Steve’s neck and listened to the sound of Steve’s heart, listened to the air in his lungs, and shared the feeling of it all through sounds and colours and nonsense jumbled words drifting from his mind to Steve’s then back again.
“I love you.” Bucky’s voice was deep and rumbled against Steve’s chest. “Even if you’ve got the worst judgment in all of Brooklyn.”
“Yeah, I know.” Steve grinned, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “I love you, too.”