Chapter Text
It's Tony who alerts Steve that Bucky's entered the room in his usual stealthy way, because both Steve and Sam have their backs to the door, and Natasha prefers to exercise her poker face.
„Linkin Park. Really, Sargesicle? You're doing hipster wrong if you're wearing something unironically.“
Given that Bucky holed up in his room for a week after Chester Bennington's death, he would never wear anything with a Linkin Park logo ironically. Anyway, Steve turns in his seat to confirm.
With the man bun, eyeliner behind non-prescription glasses, black skinny jeans, and a matching leather jacket over the aforementioned too large t-shirt, Steve will gladly sign a statement that Bucky is gorgeous. The eyeliner brings out the sparkle in his eyes. How many people who meet him like that will be able to read the shadows there as those caused by too many ghosts?
This here is visible proof that Bucky's arrived in the 21st century, and so Steve longs to paint him. (Only without the silicone skin covering the arm.)
“What you got against Linkin Park, Tony?”, asks Sam, loyal friend that he is, even though he doesn't like Linkin Park much, either.
“Aren't they a real downer? I mean”, an expressive hand gesture, “you're still here.”
“Not for lack of trying.” Bucky approaches to place his hands on Steve's shoulders, squeezing a little. Obviously, they both remember that conversation, so Steve pats Bucky's right hand to remind him that they both made it anyway.
“At least their lyrics aren't the rhyming equivalent of a dick swinging contest”, Buck adds.
There are very few people on God's green earth who can turn Tony momentarily speechless. Luckily, Steve's best friend is one of them.
“Going out dancing?” Nat asks, deadpan. Maybe she's just that good and knows when a change of topic is sorely needed. Maybe she is miffed Bucky didn't ask her to tag along, or whatever. She never speaks about their shared history, Bucky doesn't either, and keeps pretending he doesn't remember.
“You got it. Anyhow, punk.” Buck drapes himself over Steve's back, chin on his left shoulder, so he catches a whiff of the aftershave they share. “You sure you don't want to come with?”
“Dead sure.” Steve points at the wine left in his glass. They've actually had a decent conversation over Merlot and bread sticks until Bucky interrupted. “Besides, you know my talent for dancing. I'd only cramp your style.”
“We could maybe do something more sedate next week,” Nat says. “Finally find a date for you.”
Would she'd return to her less meddling self from a year ago, when Bucky wasn't well and Peggy even worse. But now that Buck's ready to venture out into the world by himself and Peg has been buried for six months, now it's once again open season.
Also, Tony is watching him with a look that means he's going to add inappropriate commentary soon. Honestly, the only woman Steve would be willing to date is sitting right there facing him, but there's a number of issues besides the fact that she's never ogled him. Which is part of what makes her interesting as girlfriend material.
“I don't need a matchmaker.”
Predictably, Bucky digs his chin a little deeper into Steve's shoulder, just enough to make it uncomfortable. “If you say so. Anyhow. Wish me luck?”
“Always. Just -- leave the stupid here, will ya?”
“Done and done. I even have condoms, Ma.”
Must he be this crass, really?
“See ya, guys.” Bucky nuzzles Steve's hair for a heartbeat, then waltzes off to the elevator.
There's a moment of silence even after he's out of hearing range, so Steve raises his eyebrows. Despite the fact that his face is so hot you can probably see the blush from Mars.
Tony waves a bread stick in an accusing manner. “This is more tragic than the ending of Casablanca. You can't let this man go like that, Cap! You and him are the Romance of the Ages.”
“It would explain so much, wouldn't it,” Natasha adds.
Huh. Steve blinks and turns to Sam for help, because this is new and old both. Once upon a time, when people assumed he and Bucky were a couple, it ended in black eyes and broken noses. Times have changed, gay people now get their own flags, parades and even marriage. But the assumption still doesn't, for the life of him, make sense.
Sam just shrugs. “Don't look at me like that, man. I was kinda certain you two would announce your engagement as soon as you'd gotten over your hang-ups.”
But - “We like women.”
Sorta.
“You can like both,” Sam says.
“Or be pansexual, I know. I actually did read the sensitivity training material.” It didn't help much with Steve's particular issue, but even Nat's bugging hasn't made him seek out more information. After all, there might be a cure for it, and Steve's pretty certain he doesn't want to be cured. If the serum didn't fix it, then he's supposed to be this way, so he doesn't want to have to fend off questions why he keeps clinging to his abnormality so much. Even if it would be nice to be able to explain it.
“I don't think I'll ever get over hearing you utter the word 'sex'.” Tony mimes a fainting spell.
Steve rolls his eyes, because really. He is not some delicate flower, and he's not a virgin. Only he finds sex dreadfully tedious, which is not what you should expect from a guy in his twenties. Or, if popular opinion is considered, from any guy over the age of thirteen.
“Look,” Sam interrupts his thoughts. “You two are constantly in each others' space. Both of you light up like a Christmas tree when the other enters the room. He damn near kissed you just now.” Before, that's not mentioned, he went off to find a girl to fuck. “It's easy to conclude you're in a romantic relationship.”
“It isn't. There's absolutely no sexual tension,” Nat objects.
“Romance doesn't require sex,” Sam shoots back.
It doesn't? Anyhow, it's still off the mark. “Yes, thank you. Anyhow. Bucky doesn't do romance.”
“He's the dreamiest Howling Commando to ever dream,” Tony points out. “Every girl in every history class I ever took was half in love with his photograph.”
Steve can't help himself, he snorts. Same old song and dance routine with fancier words, and, hopefully, less judgment. “He -- his parents were hounding him to settle down and produce grandchildren. Instead, he was living with me and had a new girl to date every other weekend. He doesn't do romance.”
“Huh,” Sam offers. “Unusual.”
“I know, thanks.” Steve and Buck are odd but matching bookends, some asymmetric sculpture of a functioning heterosexual male split in the middle. Once, a lifetime ago, after yet another rant from Ma Barnes, they talked about it. They'd been able to afford some whiskey, and once they were thoroughly drunk, they tried to kiss on the mouth, just to see whether they were secretly queer for each other but somehow didn't realize. It didn't feel right.
Only, given the chance, Steve might kiss Bucky -- on the forehead, on his shoulders, everywhere that signified affection that wasn't romantic.
“He might need a Pepper to reform him”, Tony interrupts his ruminations.
Is it too much to reveal, but -- how often has Steve been told, and told himself, and told others, that it was all just a question of finding the right partner. And so did Bucky. “He's given up looking for the time being, I think.” As has Steve himself. It is exhausting to always be on the lookout for this one mythical person, hoping that this is the one who will suddenly change everything. Not to mention the blow to your self esteem when nothing happens. Again and again and again.
There were times when Steve thought that being homosexual would have been easier than living in this limbo, where he likes girls but not enough to happily get it on with them.
Anyway. They've both banned questions about their relationship status from press conferences and interviews. There's already enough people letting them know they're defective, they don't have to add to that pile more than necessary.
“There's gotta be a word for not doing romance,” Sam says.
Hmm.
Beside him, Nat shifts but betrays no emotion again, which is a sure-fire way to tell that she is highly interested in this information. She, too, has banned questions about her relationship status, although Steve is almost certain she and Clint have some kind of arrangement.
“One of the science drones has ze-pronouns,” Tony adds in a sudden bout of seriousness.
Yeah, yeah. But Steve needs to think about this in peace. “I'm going to use Google like a good little digital native. Later. Now. Where were we?”
And so they return to discussing schools and the next benefit Tony is planning on behalf of STEM education.
When the bottle is empty, Steve calls it an early night. After puttering around his and Bucky's shared floor for a bit, he mans up, plops down on the couch, and uses his tablet to search for relationships without romance or sex.
It turns out that there is such a thing as asexuality. Or being aromantic.
In hindsight, the terms seem like no-brainers, but. There's people talking about it. A lot of people. There's a forum with more than eighty thousand users out there, all discussing how they don't want sex or can't seem to relate to it in a way that so called normal people understand.
The sheer number of terms they've invented to describe what they feel makes Steve's head spin. Also, it's allowed to be like this. It's allowed to want to grow old with your buddy, it's allowed to want to cuddle and kiss people without it ever ending in an orgasm, it's perfectly possible to share a bed without ever having sex. There is such a thing as being queerplatonic partners, and it's allowed to want this and make it up as you go.
There are thousands of others out there who want these things, too.
It's not a sickness, there is no cure, and people revel in the fact. They even have a pride flag, though black, gray, white and purple aren't exactly Steve's favorite colors.
Asexual people appear in documentaries and take part in pride parades. Many seem highly interested in research, maybe because there is so very little of it. The world is suddenly so much bigger than it was an hour ago. Something inside of him is bubbling like too much soda, and he can't for his life go to bed just now.
So Steve reads some more on the forum. For a few minutes he stares at some leaflet's PDF and realizes that this is where therapy went wrong for him -- even the non-Hydra-counselors meant to get him back into the dating game, and Steve never corrected their assumptions, too afraid of being back under the microscope, of having someone prod him to see why the serum didn't fix his lack of sexual attraction. From there, he meanders to the Asexual Agenda blog, and binges on its backlog until the elevator doors hiss open and Bucky enters the living room, with his hair a mess and a smudge of pink lipstick on his shirt collar. He does look quite debauched, though his shoulders are slumping like back in the day when a date stood him up.
“Uh.” Bucky blushes and tries to pat his hair into some semblance of order. “Morning?”
It's 2:14. Wow. In four hours and forty six minutes Steve will have to meet Sam for their usual run.
“Hi.” To make Buck less uncomfortable, Steve smiles and beckons him over. “I found something interesting on the internet.” And, “There's a word. For what you are.” He can't help the genuine grin.
Bucky just blinks, as if that's too much to process -- but that's unfair, isn't it? Steve's already had nearly five hours to get used to the idea that he's asexual. Ace. And he's still giddy when he allows himself to think it.
“Shower first,” Bucky finally says.
Contrary to his habit of using the hot water supply to its fullest, he's out in five minutes, smelling of body wash and conditioner, water dripping from his hair. He takes a seat next to Steve, carefully not touching him, as if whatever he did with whomever he met is some sort of contaminant even after washing up.
Or as if he's afraid Steve will label him a freak, after all.
So Steve closes the distance, drapes his left arm over Bucky's shoulder, and hands him the tablet, where the browser's opened on an aromanticism introduction. “Read.”
Bucky does.
By the flickering of his gaze, Steve can tell he reads it three times before he looks back up.
“This ain't a hoax.” From the shadows around his eyes, it seems like Buck is begging him to make it real.
Steve opens the tab with the A is for ... list by some gay and lesbian organization. “It's not.”
For a few heartbeats, Bucky stares at him, then he sags against Steve and hides his face in his shoulder.
Right. Not all of Bucky's nights out go according to plan.
“What happened?”
A shrug. “Wanted me to stay for breakfast, was maybe angling for a date. I'd told her I wouldn't, before we even left the club, but she didn't stop pushing.” Another shrug. “Called me any number of names. Woke up some neighbors. I walked home after that.”
At least, no one's ever accused Steve of being heartless, immature or irresponsible. Which is what Buck's parents called him, as did the girls who were absolutely certain that they were the ones who would finally tie Bucky Barnes down, only to be disappointed.
“So... is this,” Steve gestures towards the tablet, “helpful? I mean-” Saying it out loud is not as easy as it seems. “I do fit the description for asexuality, you know. It's a bit of a relief.”
“Can we not talk about this right now?”
“Sure, jerk. Wanna share my bed?”
Bucky grunts in a way that suggests this is a stupid question. The answer has been yes for a year now. They both sleep better with the other one in the room.
After too little sleep, Steve awakens to the alarm and Bucky keeping carefully to himself as he's wont to do these days. The nights back in Brooklyn, wrapped around each other to stay warm, seem more than lifetime ago. Only the grumbling about early birds hasn't changed.
“I take it that you're not going to run with us this fine morning.”
Obviously Bucky's not awake enough to come up with a response more creative than the one-fingered salute. Which is about what Steve expected for a Saturday.
He successfully fights the urge to reply with “I love you, too.” Instead he leans into Bucky's space and kisses him on the temple before he rises to get dressed.
He can feel Buck's stare trying to drill a hole into his head until he leaves the room.
Too much too soon?
Whatever. There's a spring in his step he can't help, and of course Sam notices.
“So,” he prompts, when he enters the elevator two levels lower.
“There are words.”
“Words, as in plural?”
“Yeah.” Steve stares straight ahead at his and Sam's reflection. So help him God, he doesn't really want to talk about this, not even with Sam. Not when it's so new. Not when he doesn't dare to predict whether Buck will actually refer to himself as aromantic.
Eventually, Sam sighs. “Sorry.”
Steve raises his brows.
“It's -- I forgot this is a coming out for you. I've been told it can be a daunting task.”
If it were anyone but Sam, Steve would accuse them of reverse psychology. Captain America afraid of sharing one measly epiphany about himself? Maybe. “I just -- I need to think about this for a while longer.”
Sam hums and leaves him alone.
During the run, things that once were part of the scenery demand his attention. Rainbow pride flags in some store windows. A person of indeterminate gender with a flannel shirt of black, gray, white and purple tartan. Someone with a big fat Ace-of-Spades on their tote. How sex and couple relationships are everywhere, from the newsstands to the advertising.
Also, people in this century -- he's had to get used to the blatant staring. Many women are all but slavering over him like he's dessert. They look at him with their sexual assumptions, that he will be flattered by their stares and will stare back in kind, just like any other day, but today it doesn't make his skin crawl so much anymore. People will believe what they want about him, but he doesn't have to act accordingly. If they're disappointed, it's their problem. There's a good reason to his refusal to play the attraction game.
Bucky, though, must be feeling even more like an alien than he did back then, when he was probably still hoping some girl would find the magic switch to turn him into a dutiful husband to anyone other than Steve.
Somewhere on the internet, people discuss romance as an ersatz religion or a way for capitalism to exploit people. They speculate that some people might be happier if they didn't worship at the altar of the romantic couple relationship so much.
Why exactly have neither Steve nor Bucky never caved in to the expectations?
Only when they grab their usual coffee and donuts on their way back, Sam remarks, “You look like the world is a different place today.”
“It's not. But -- I keep seeing things I've never noticed before.”
“Hmm.” Sam nods as if he knows what that means.
Steve raises an eyebrow.
“One of my cousins is a fatshionista -- she's fighting the prejudice against fat people by posting photos of her stylish outfits on her blog. So of course I'd known that people made fat jokes and girls were always watching their weight, but she made me realize how ubiquitous it was. And what it does to people, women especially. Always feeling defective.”
Steve hums because it's interesting, and he will read up on this as soon as he's figured himself out.
Buck has holed up in bed with the tablet, but he is staring off into space when Steve enters. It's an eerie reminder of the time when Bucky had first come in, when he'd dissociate at least once a day.
“Hey.”
Bucky blinks.
“I'm just gonna shower before we talk.”
A nod. Progress! Steve smiles, grabs fresh clothes, and hurries off to the bathroom.
On the way back, he detours to the kitchen for coffee and some of the donuts from earlier. (Steve tends to buy a dozen per day, for snacks, because of super soldier metabolisms.)
Buck accepting the coffee and munching a fatty delicacy with chocolate glazing is another success, so Steve plops down next to him and waits until they've demolished half the stash to poke his best friend. “So. I wager you've read some more on -- the subject.”
He can't say it yet. Aromanticism. Asexuality, he repeats inside his head. You now belong to a group with a somewhat boring flag and are hereby allowed to make cake jokes.
According to that, Bucky narrows his eyes a little. “You kissed me.”
“Uh. I still harbor no intention or desire to kiss you on the mouth.”
“Good.”
Shit, this is hard. Steve rubs the back of his head, which makes Bucky glower at him. Obviously, he's not getting away with being cute.
“What do you want, then?”
And put right on the spot by the best impression of Ma Barnes' glare and a seemingly innocent question. Running circles around Sam this morning didn't make Steve sweat as much as this does. “Um. There's this thing called being platonic life partners?” (He can't call anything he does queer yet, not after all those back alley scuffles.)
But even without the word, Bucky's back to blinking and Steve wants to deck himself for overwhelming him.
“It's,” Steve continues. Might as well wade in neck-deep and hope there aren't piranhas. He grabs a fistful of sheets that won't help if this is where Bucky lets him drown. “What we already had -- have, isn't it? Sharing a bed, living together. Just, uh, in an official capacity. As a permanent arrangement. No more pretending that we're waiting for magical healing boobs to turn us normal.”
“Huh,” Buck offers.
It's not a refusal. Steve makes himself breathe.
Ever so carefully, metal fingers touch his where he's still twisting the sheets. Eventually, he lets go to hold Bucky's hand. The armor warms under Steve's touch.
Some time later, Buck lifts his gaze from their intertwined fingers, as if to ask, “like this?”
But he says, “It's...”
“Odd, yeah, I know.” Steve can't help the self-deprecating laugh that bubbles up his throat. “Here I am of all people, thinking that it isn't done.”
“Punk.”
“Jerk.” That's reflex. “We would be allowed to, now. People will assume we're... having sex, whatever we actually say about our relationship. Probably even if I come out as ace on Oprah.”
“Hmm.”
“We'd be making it up. What's allowed, I mean. I'd like to hug you a lot more, and where others can see, too.”
Buck squeezes his fingers.
“And hold hands, sure.”
Another agreeable hum.
“So. Are we -- can we be a thing?”
Bucky lifts Steve's hand, seems to make a last second decision not to kiss it but to hold onto it with both of his, cradling it in one part smooth warm metal, the other in slightly sweaty gun callouses. Thank God that Buck's as nervous as he is.
“Til the end of the line. I said that, didn't I?”
While Steve's insides turn into mushy goo, he smiles. “I doubt you considered public displays of affection when saying it.”
“I didn't.”
“I love you,” Steve blurts out, much too early. But while Bucky does not respond, he does scoot a little closer and leans into him when he lifts his arm.
There's a tiny smile crinkling the skin around his eyes and Steve can't stop watching, because his platonic life partner is beautiful, inside and out.