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The house isn’t really Steve’s when it comes down to it. A few days before the Loki disaster, SHIELD agents had shepherded Steve from his isolated cabin in the mountains back to New York. They’d tried to set him up in a place in Manhattan, within spitting distance of Stark’s ridiculous tower, but Steve had insisted on an apartment in Brooklyn. He’s chasing familiarity and he knows it, like he knew it made his babysitter agents uncomfortable, that reminder that Steve wasn’t really 27, that he didn’t really belong here in this twenty-first century Wonderland. He doesn’t care, can’t bring himself to examine the reasons he refuses to let go of whatever scrap of sameness that he can get his hands on. SHIELD’s thrown a therapist or two at him in their time together and he’s turned them away, not because he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong, but because he doesn’t care if there is .
Steve doesn’t care about a lot of things these days.
But, his house or not, Sarah Rogers didn’t raise Steve to be a bad host, and he proves he’s worthy of her tutelage in the first weeks of his cohabitation with Bucky.
(First and foremost, though Steve won’t admit to this out loud, is keeping SHIELD from storming the place and extracting Bucky right out from under Steve’s nose; he’s seen agents posted near the apartment, some of them not even bothering to blend into the foot-traffic, and he knows it’s only a matter of time until this all comes to a head)
Bucky, for all intents and purposes, is as easy a houseguest as Steve as ever had. He’s quiet and polite (at least he is after Steve reminds him, gently , that hoarding the silverware in one’s room is not something that is typically done), doesn’t ask for much (or anything at all, really); he eats what Steve makes without complaint, does his part with any chores Steve steers him towards. He’d feel decidedly more guilty about putting Bucky to work but the man appears eager to be near Steve at all times, and so when Steve cleans, Steve asks Bucky to join him instead of letting him hover semi-awkwardly over his shoulder.
And yet.
And yet Steve is angrier than he’s ever been in his life. Because Bucky is sickeningly compliant so long as it’s Steve doing the asking; because Bucky sometimes looks at Steve without seeing him, his eyes glassy and far away, expression all but shuttered; because the one time Steve dropped a glass and he cursed, loudly and with great fervor, it took Bucky all of two seconds to get on his knees and start collecting the shattered pieces, head bowed, oblivious to the blood that trickled from nicks in his fingers (it hadn’t even been his fault and Steve hadn’t been cursing at him , but Bucky had flinched all the same, startled from the heat in Steve’s voice, and went to work on fixing the problem like it was his job --).
Because Steve finally got around to reading Bucky’s file.
He doesn’t understand everything -- and even he couldn’t say if at least some of it he doesn’t understand because he doesn’t want to -- but what’s been done to Bucky (and Steve won’t call him the Soldier , or the Asset , he won’t, he’s not ever going to liken himself to Bucky’s captors in any way if he can help it) is something beyond an atrocity, something that, had Steve not witnessed the horrors of the War and the cruelty of the Nazis, he wouldn’t have thought humans capable of inflicting on another person. Cryogenic freezing, decades of torture, systematic dehumanization and brainwashing… Steve doesn’t know how Bucky survived. But then, Hydra owned him; they wouldn’t have let him die unless it was beneficial to him. And -- God, Steve is horrified but unsurprised to read a report detailing an unsuccessful suicide attempt by Bucky early in his captivity. The report mentions that it wasn’t the first attempt, and Steve doubts it was the last.
He’d just gotten to Bucky’s first encounter with the Chair (which he feels deserves a capital of its own) when his stomach turned over violently and he’d had to abandon his research in favor of losing his lunch in the bathroom. Bucky had been asleep at the time but he’d rushed to Steve’s side regardless, seemingly at a loss on how to help aside from rubbing comforting circles into Steve’s back; Steve promised him that that was just perfect, and even if it hadn’t been like hell he would have made Bucky feel bad on his account.
Bucky knows about the file -- Steve wouldn’t have looked into it without his permission -- and while he has flicked through it once or twice, he’s done so without much ceremony, lips pursed and eyes narrowed in apparent disinterest. For all Steve knows Bucky doesn’t connect what’s written in the reports with his own experiences; he might be distancing himself for his own peace of mind. Or maybe he really is unbothered by it all. Steve finds that hard to believe, but -- he doesn’t press the issue, and Bucky seems content to dedicate his time and energy to other endeavors that don’t involve his tragic past, like cuddling Steve.
Steve’s also steadily adding to his Russian vocabulary because while Bucky is certainly capable of speaking English, he seems to lapse into long periods where Russian is his default setting, and no amount of gentle prodding on Steve’s part will snap him out of it. He’s coherent, at least, which Steve is grateful for; it makes deciphering the growled-out Russian slightly easier if nothing else. Not that Bucky growls at Steve , no, what he does with Steve is definitely… not a growl. Closer to a, a purr , really, though Steve’s been attributing that to the fact that Bucky feels comfortable with him. Which is… good. Great, even.
Anyway, Steve’s learning Russian, slowly but surely. That’s a life skill he knows will have uses far beyond simply knowing that Bucky (for some reason ) likes to ramble to himself, under his breath, about how soft Steve’s hair looks. And… other things. Things Steve very much does not hear . Ever. Things he’d probably be translating wrong if he did hear them, which he doesn’t. But yeah, Steve knows it’ll get a reaction out of Natasha the first time he drops into a conversation she’s holding with Barton exclusively in her mother tongue; that reaction might be to choke him out with her thighs, but Steve’s fairly confident he’ll survive. Being a super soldier has to be good for something.
Leaving out Steve’s unfortunate reaction to Bucky’s files, things have been… good. Bucky clings to Steve like a toddler to their mother half the time but it’s not like Steve’s complaining.
Right now, though, Steve’s in the middle of familiarizing himself with Netflix. Stark mentioned it when they were still holed up in the Tower, not to Steve but in Steve’s general vicinity, and, intrigued, Steve had bugged Natasha about it. She’d been a little too happy to set him up with an account and send him on his merry way, seeing as how the first time Steve accessed it in his own home he’d freaked out (silently, he didn’t want to trouble Bucky) over the sheer number of choices he had at hand through Netflix’s library. Or catalog, or whatever. It’s become something of a point of pride for him now to get used to this future of excess, so he settled in around twenty minutes ago and he’s been browsing the various selections of movies and TV shows since. Nothing’s caught his eye, though he thinks the documentary section looks promising; he just has to avoid the ones with Captain America in their titles.
He doesn’t realize Natasha is in his house until she’s flopping down dramatically onto the couch beside him. She snatches the remote from his hands while he’s too busy gaping at her, humming a little to herself as she begins systematically adding things to his queue.
“...how did you know he was taking a bath?” is what Steve manages to ask once he’s mentally counted to fifty and no longer feels the intense desire to childishly kick Natasha off the couch. It’s not like it would end well for him anyway.
“Surveillance,” she says, matter-of-factly.
“Bucky disabled the bugs his first day here.” Bugs that Steve hadn’t even thought to look for -- not with his limited knowledge of twenty-first century technology and an apparently misguided trust in the United States government. Bucky hadn’t even let Steve into the apartment until he’d swept the place twice, and then he’d come bouncing back to Steve, the listening devices presented like an offering, some twisted housewarming gift that Steve hadn’t known what to do with besides accept.
Natasha smiles wryly. “Spy,” she says in the same tone, pointing to herself. He supposes that is answer enough and lets the matter go, more interested in studying what Natasha has deemed as necessary entertainment.
He shoots her a look when she adds one of the Captain America documentaries to his list, but all she does in response is laugh and promise him that he’ll enjoy it. He doubts that but he doesn’t feel like fighting her for the remote, so he shrugs and lets her continue.
A few minutes pass in companionable silence. Then, satisfied with her choices, Natasha tosses the remote into his lap and plucks her phone from her pocket. She fiddles with it for a moment, then turns it around to face him.
Steve’s breath catches in his throat, nearly choking him.
On the tiny screen is Bucky , but a younger Bucky, minus the shadows beneath his eyes and the shaggy hair. The man in the picture smiles winningly for the camera, decked out in a military uniform, hat tilted atop his head in a way that brings to mind the word jaunty . Steve’s brain doesn’t want to make the connection between this carefree man and the bedraggled, touch-starved man currently halfway to drowning in his bathtub, but they share a face, and--
“Oh, shit,” Steve breathes.
Natasha misinterprets his reaction, her eyes flicking down to the image before refocusing on Steve. “I did a little digging,” she says, pinching the screen and scaling down the image so that another report can be read alongside it. “Searched a few databases and got a hit with facial recognition. Captain, meet James Buchanan--”
“Barnes,” Steve finishes hoarsely. Natasha’s brows rise in question and he swallows thickly before he can explain himself. “Sergeant Barnes of the 107th. Captured along with most of his unit in 1942 and held prisoner behind enemy lines.”
“...and rescued by one Captain America, I presume?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
Natasha hums and nods; Steve can’t tell if she’s just figuring all this out now or if she looks so unruffled because none of this comes as a shock to her.
“You didn’t recognize him before, though,” she prods.
“It’s… When I found him in that factory, he was a mess, barely coherent for a while. With the bruising on his face and the dim lighting, I didn’t get the best look at him, and I didn’t see much of him on the trek back to base, he mostly stayed with Gabe and Dugan. But… God, that smile .”
It had hit him like a freight train back in 1942 and the effect is exactly the same in 2012. He’d never seen a smile as stunning as Barnes’, and he hasn’t seen one in the years since. And it’s not like Bucky doesn’t smile , he does, but… when Bucky smiles it’s like he’s never done it before, like the muscles required for it aren’t used to the strain, the movements. It’s a thing of beauty nonetheless, Steve feels unaccountably privileged to be on the receiving end of it every time, but it’s not Barnes’ smile. Looking at the picture now, of a Bucky Steve doesn’t know and can barely imagine, he can make out the shape of Bucky’s makeshift grin in it, the curves and the pull of his mouth at the corners. He can see the potential Bucky has for such reckless joy and he aches for it, feels the sharp pang of grief for this man, because knowing what Bucky has been through is one thing, but seeing first-hand evidence of what exactly he’s lost… it’s damn near overwhelming.
Steve almost blocks out the phone’s screen with his hand, but he doesn’t, he can’t. He’s not going to hide from this.
“He was supposed to go home after that,” Steve murmurs, sagging against the couch. He drags a hand down his face, smoothing out the worst of his trepidation; Natasha can read him well enough that it doesn’t matter, he knows, but he feels better for the gesture, a little more in control of himself. “Dugan told me they were sending him home.”
“I don’t have the answers you’re looking for, Captain,” Natasha says, clicking her phone off and tucking it away again. She’s looking at him head on, thank God, without pity or remorse, and he couldn’t be more grateful for her non-reaction. He’s never handled pity well and he thinks he’d take it even worse now when he’s not the one who’s in need of a softer touch. “I have the bare bones version of his military history, so I can’t tell you why he wasn’t discharged. He did, at one point, spend a fair amount of time in England, but I haven’t found out what for.” The yet goes unspoken but Steve hears it clearly in the ensuing silence. He wouldn’t have pegged Natasha as someone to leave a stone unturned, and the confirmation of his instincts is nice somehow, even now.
“My advice?” Natasha doesn’t wait for him to answer, not that he had one to begin with. “Short-term? Don’t treat him any differently. You told me he doesn’t remember anything beyond his last mission, right? So don’t rock the boat, Rogers; you don’t know what it would do to him, what kind of reaction he might have. If he shows signs of recalling your shared past, nudge him in the right direction but don’t lead him there. And--”
She’s interrupted by the arrival of Bucky himself, striding into the living room naked as the day he was born.
Steve lets out something that could generously be classified as a wheeze; Natasha merely smirks and calls out, “Overstayed my welcome, have I?”
Bucky doesn’t say anything, just growls a little at Natasha and deposits himself neatly onto Steve’s lap. Distantly Steve notes that Bucky is dry, so clearly he toweled off after the bath; he just didn’t deign to get dressed. Which -- Steve’s hoping he’s not the one who taught him that, the last time Natasha dropped by unnannounced, when they fell asleep together with Steve in his altogether.
(A mean voice in the back of his head reminds him that Bucky probably wouldn’t have had much need for privacy or dignity in the last seventy years)
(Another voice, this one much less prominent and easily ignored, points out that this scene is entirely too similar to the last time the three of them were together and wonders why his life would see fit to accommodate such fucking weird patterns)
Bucky drapes himself over Steve, arms slung around his neck and head nestled against his shoulder, curled up like a housecat in his lap. If Steve were a little more composed (as in, not on the verge of hyperventilating) he’d wonder why Bucky is very much glaring at Nastasha, who hasn’t so much as batted at an eye at his display or scooted over an inch to avoid Bucky’s naked limbs. As it is, he can barely string together a sentence, or anything really beyond the words Bucky and naked and holy shit .
“I don’t think he actually dislikes me,” Natasha muses, clearly unconcerned with the current proceedings. She picks up the remote from where it’s been knocked to the floor and returns to her perusal of Netflix. “He wouldn’t have stayed in the bathroom for as long as he did if that were the case.” She smiles at Bucky, who bares his teeth in a silent snarl. “Don’t look so worried, soldat , you have nothing to fear from me. I’m here on friendly business only.”
Steve gathers enough of his wits to pat at Bucky’s back in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. “It’s alright, Buck, there’s no trouble here. Natasha was just paying a visit, is all.”
Bucky scoffs, but turns his attention to Steve. He lifts his head and leans in until they’re nose to nose. “ You are trouble, kotyonok ,” he growls, nuzzling into Steve’s cheek. That’s a new word, one Steve hasn’t heard from Bucky or Natasha before. He feels vaguely insulted by it based on the context.
At this point Steve feels abundantly grateful that he’s practically a full-body blusher, because that means his blood is close to the surface and not… other places . And with Bucky warm and heavy in his lap that is a fucking gift.
“Rogers?” Bucky goes back to rubbing his face into Steve’s neck so he feels it’s safe to look over at Natasha. “You aren’t questioning this?”
“I… I’m just happy he feels he’s safe with me?”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah,” Steve sighs, knocking his head back against the couch. “Yeah, I know.”
Natasha snorts a laugh and finally settles on something to watch (besides the shitshow happening right next to her), because apparently she’s staying. He squints at the screen, then groans; Bucky rumbles something back, patting Steve’s chest, and Steve feels at once consoled and patronized.
“Nastasha. Really?”
“It’s a classic, Rogers. It was one of the first things they had me watch in order to Americanize me. Plus it’s one of Clint’s favorites.”
“Did Stark put you up to this?”
“No, he doesn’t even know I’m here. Relax, Rogers, this isn’t going to kill you. And it’s not like you can move right now.”
She has a point there; Bucky doesn’t seem inclined to budge, lax as is against Steve. He isn’t asleep, likely won’t hit that point for hours despite his penchant for naps, but he’s comfortable, and Steve is loathe to jostle him in any way. Which also means he won’t be making a grab for the remote any time soon.
Resigned, he says, “Tell Barton I’ll give him an up-close demonstration of my shield’s beheading capabilities the next time I see him.”
Natasha smirks. “Ooh, careful. That kind of talk will have him all hot and bothered, Captain.”
Grunting something noncommittal, Steve carefully snags the blanket he’d tossed over the arm of the couch weeks ago (the result of his real foray into the modern world, which ended about as disastrously as he’d expected it to; at least he hadn’t punched anyone) and, with equal care, wraps it around Bucky, bundling him up in a way that feels reminiscent of his own childhood, when his mother tried to keep the worst of the winter chill from seeping into his bones. Bucky is appreciative by all accounts, practically purring again as he snuggles into the blanket and Steve. He doesn’t want Bucky getting cold ( cold being pretty much the one thing Bucky put up protest over), and if it had the added bonus of letting Steve forget, for even just a minute, that Bucky didn’t have any damn clothes on, well then that’s his business. And Natasha’s, because he is nothing less than an open book for her, and one that she for whatever reason delights in reading.
As the documentary (which Natasha amusedly informs him has Brad Pitt cast as him for the recreations; he can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing from her tone) begins to play, the unmistakable notes of Star-Spangled Man accompanying a slowly lightening screen, Steve takes the opportunity to observe the man laid out on top of him.
James Buchanan Barnes. Sergeant Barnes. Bucky.
Does he remember Steve, even if only in some small, inconsequential way? Was that why he asked for Steve’s name during the battle? Is that why he’s here , in Steve’s apartment, at ease in a way he never is when not in Steve’s presence? Perhaps there’s something to that; if Steve is familiar to him in some way, any way, that might explain why Bucky constantly seeks him out. Bucky doesn’t remember nearly anything of his past, but maybe he knows Steve somehow, instinctively or otherwise. If that’s the case then Steve is even more ashamed of himself for not having recognized Bucky on sight; what good is his eidetic memory if the only identifying feature it took from Bucky was his glowing smile?
And now that he’s read Bucky’s file, Steve’s begun to wonder how much stock he should put in his own caretaking. Bucky clearly needs more help than he can capably provide; doctors and psychiatrists, professionals . Steve had tried, however briefly, to coax Bucky into getting checked out while they were staying at Stark Tower, but the man hadn’t wanted any part of it, and he’d refused to leave their shared floor or allow the medics access to his room. Steve hadn’t forced the issue then, he was too twitchy about hospitals and the like to ignore the clear discomfort Bucky was projecting, but… he knows, now, what Bucky went through. And he can understand better why Bucky might be adverse to medical treatment, but that doesn’t make it any less of a necessity for him in the future.
Still. Bucky is mostly stable, from what Steve’s gathered. His language hiccups and inability to be more than twenty feet away from Steve at any given time aside, he’s more than functional, he’s content. He sleeps, he eats, mostly without prompting -- though Steve’s also begun to think that has something to do with Bucky imitating his actions. It’s a start, at least. Hopefully.
Steve doesn’t think this is something he should wait out, only confronting it when it’s become too volatile for him to handle alone, but he isn’t going to force Bucky into anything he doesn’t want to do, even if Steve feels it’s for his own good. Those files have made it disgustingly apparent that Bucky has been denied the freedom to choose anything for himself for decades; Steve isn’t going to continue that theme, no matter what. Bucky gets to decide where he goes from here, and Steve will have his six whatever that entails.
He just hopes this doesn’t come back to bite him in the ass later.
“Steve.”
Jolted from his thoughts, Steve blinks and looks down to see that Bucky’s staring at him, a wrinkle between his brows. A quick glance at Natasha assures Steve that she’s at least pretending to ignore their conversation. He clears his throat, a little embarrassed at being caught zoning out.
“Yeah, Bucky? Need something?”
“Your new uniform is terrible.”
Confused, Steve looks to the screen where, sure enough, he’s there with the rest of the Commandos. The uniform he’s wearing in the documentary is the one Howard designed, and he has to agree that, while at the time he thought it was too ostentatious and impractical, it’s leagues above the one Coulson outfitted him in.
Steve snorts. “I’ll let you design the next one, Bucky. How’s that?”
Bucky thinks for a moment, then nods decisively and returns his attention to the documentary. “Acceptable.”
That shouldn’t cause Steve’s heart to beat double-time, or his chest to swell with warmth, or a stupid, dopey smile to break across his face. But it does, and Steve is in so much trouble. So much. Christ .
He can tell Natasha’s laughing at him even if he can’t hear it. He deserves it, too.
And yet -- Steve’s honestly too ecstatic to care.