Work Text:
The history books say Steve Rogers never backed down from a fight. Brooklyn used to be full of bullies who could attest to that sentiment. Hydra could, as well. And in the 21st century, Steve is still tackling great fights and refusing to back down. Groups of children picking on a peer as Steve walks by find themselves being lectured by Captain America. A man who catcalls a woman on the street is faced with Option A: Apologize, or Option B: Deal with Captain America’s wrath. (They always end up choosing Option A; it’s just a matter of how much pain they go through first.)
What no one knows is that there is one fight Steve Rogers has been running from for as long as he can remember. It’s a fight that sounds like Bucky saying, “It’s a double date.” It’s a fight that looks like Bucky’s crooked grin close to Steve’s face as they whisper in the back of a movie theater. (Bucky cannot stop himself from talking during movies and Steve used to grumble about wasted quarters but it was always half-hearted at best.) It’s a fight that smells like Bucky’s aftershave on Steve’s face after Bucky taught him to shave. It’s a fight that feels like Bucky wrapping an arm around Steve’s chest and pulling him in to huddle for warmth under their one threadbare quilt in the middle of January. It’s a fight that tastes like shared cotton candy at Coney Island because they could only afford one.
“Remember that last double date we went on?” Bucky asks idly one day while flipping through some book. Steve feels himself gear up to run, even if just figuratively.
“Sure, to Stark’s expo.” Steve forces a laugh. “We should ask Tony why cars aren’t flying yet.” Bucky had been enchanted with the flying cars, had mentioned it all throughout Europe; Steve hopes it’s enough to divert his attention.
“You didn’t like that girl I brought for you.” Bucky comments around a yawn. Steve bounces his leg nervously.
“Well, uh, actually she didn’t like me. None of them ever did.” He says ruefully, running a hand through his hair.
“How do you know she didn’t like you?” Bucky chuckles. “You left. If you’d given her half a chance she would’ve loved you.”
Steve has to think for a minute—that was the night he’d met Dr. Erskine, so it was hard to remember a failed date he’d been on for half an hour. “I offered her some peanuts.” He says slowly, remembering. “And she didn’t take then. She looked at me like something she stepped in.”
Bucky finally looks up from the book, brows furrowed. “She what?” He demands. Steve just shrugs. He’d weighed ninety pounds and had been a good three inches shorter than her. He doesn’t hold it against her. He’s never held it against any of them.
“Are you hungry?” Steve asks instead of elaborating. Sometimes food can get Bucky to change the subject.
“Why are you changing the subject?” Bucky sits up on his knees on the couch, resting his chin on the back of the couch and fixing Steve with a narrow-eyed look. Of course he’s got Steve’s number. He always has and probably always will.
“I’m not.” Steve lies. The truth is the girl could have accepted the peanuts, could have smiled softly at him, could have asked him questions and laughed at his jokes, and he still would have left.
“Steve, you can’t lie to anyone—do you really think you can lie to me?” Bucky says it with a roll of his eyes and a smarmy grin and it is so fundamentally, infuriatingly Bucky that Steve’s breath catches in his throat. He jumps off the stool like it’s burned him, grabs a pot and fills it with water.
“Do you want some spaghetti?” He asks.
“Steve.” Bucky tilts his head. “You know she probably regretted that for the rest of her life?” He’s fixed on the subject now, and Steve thinks he might have to leave to get Bucky to drop it.
“Yeah, you know, I’m sure she remembered my name.” Steve says distractedly. His shoulders twitch. He thinks his skin feels too small. “Spaghetti or not?”
“Steve, what’s going on?” Bucky gets off the couch and leans against the kitchen counter, too close in Steve’s space now. I’m in love with you doesn’t seem like an acceptable answer. They won’t get killed for it now—probably, though Steve has unfortunately learned it’s not illegal doesn’t necessarily mean it’s okay to most people—but Bucky spent a decade setting Steve up on dates and Steve doesn’t think that bodes well for the romantic possibilities there, regardless of the times Steve thought Bucky was leaning closer than strictly necessary or his eyes were following...Steve cuts off the thought, the way he always has, because it makes his stomach hurt.
“We haven’t seen Sam in a while.” Steve babbles, not looking at Bucky. “Maybe we should head to DC this weekend.”
“Steve.” Bucky says firmly, tugging the pot of water out of Steve’s hands. Steve filled it too full, and water sloshes over the side and onto the ground.
“I better grab a rag.” Steve darts around Bucky and flees the apartment, feeling like a coward but unable to stand there for another second.
Steve walks for a long time, aimless, trying to think of an explanation he’ll give Bucky when he gets back. There will be no option of not telling Bucky something, not after that display. It starts raining and Steve wants to laugh because of course it’s raining. He’s in a T-shirt and he’s soaked in minutes.
He forces himself to go home long after it gets dark. He’s shivering and dripping and his shoes make a squelching sound with every step up the stairs. He doesn’t see any lights on in the apartment and he starts praying that Bucky’s already asleep.
The streetlamp outside the living room window illuminates his sketchbook lying open on the coffee table. It’s an old sketchbook, one from before he found out Bucky was still alive, and the page it’s opened to is Bucky’s face, shaded in charcoal, caught eternally in that cocky grin Steve always sees when he pictures Bucky. That particular sketchbook is full of Bucky’s face at different angles. Steve realizes with a whispered curse that was what Bucky had been flipping through earlier. But when he notices what’s next to the book, he gasps a little.
It’s a little paper bag of boiled peanuts.
Steve creeps closer, like the peanuts are going to rise up and attack him. On the edge of the bag, in Bucky’s messy scrawl, is written Yours if you want them, pal.
He peels off his wet socks and heads down the hall, hesitating a minute outside Bucky’s room. There’s no light under the door and he considers letting it lie. But then Steve thinks of Bucky going out and getting those peanuts and thinks of that cocky grin of Bucky’s and remembers the feeling of Bucky’s breath on the back of his neck as they slept, and he steels himself and eases the door open.
Bucky’s asleep, long hair spread across the pillow and breath slow and deep, and Steve is torn between crawling in beside him and grabbing paper and a pencil to draw him right then and there. He gets a little closer and stands over Bucky for a minute, admiring the angles of his face.
“You’re dripping on me, punk.” Bucky’s voice is scratchy and slow with sleep, and Steve jumps comically.
“Sorry.” He starts to back away and Bucky’s arm shoots out to grab his wrist, metal fingers just on the cold side of comfortable. It’s a mark of how far Bucky’s come that Steve isn’t worried this is a defensive gesture.
“You come here for the reason I think you did?” Bucky hasn’t even cracked an eye.
“Uh…” Steve’s not sure what Bucky has in mind. Bucky’s far more experienced than Steve (there are, according to the news, elementary school students who are more experienced than Steve, as horrified of that thought as he is), and Steve’s stomach swoops at the idea.
“You want my peanuts?” Bucky finally opens his eyes, grinning sleepily.
“Is that a come on?” Steve asks nervously, and Bucky laughs out loud.
“I sure waited a long time for you to be so stupid.”
Steve turns his hand to entwine his fingers with Bucky’s and Bucky’s face goes from teasing to serious in a second flat, eyes open all the way now.
“This is why none of those dames you found for me ever stuck.” Steve whispers.
“This is why I always picked such awful ones.” Bucky confesses, and Steve laughs. His heart feels lighter than he can ever remember.
“Why’d you keep making me go with them, then?” Steve asks. Bucky looks at their entwined fingers for a minute.
“You’ve always been too good for me.” He says quietly. “Especially now.” It feels like he’s going to pull his hand away from Steve’s, change his mind, tell Steve no, and Steve tightens his fingers around Bucky’s.
“I disagree.” Steve keeps his voice light but his eyes are serious. Bucky looks unsure for a minute and Steve leans down and presses a kiss to the back of Bucky’s hand.
“Well, I’m just doing this because I’m so selfless.” Bucky teases. “You may be a fine fella now, but you’re still useless with women. So I figured I’d take you under my wing.”
“My hero.” Steve deadpans, and they smile softly at one another for a minute. “Will you think me fast if I let you take me to bed the first night?” Steve murmurs. Bucky hums appreciatively.
“I’ll think you’re just right.” He promises. They’re both grinning painfully wide and Bucky rolls over to make room. “Better get out of those wet clothes.” Bucky’s voice is so deliciously husky Steve thinks he might faint. “Gonna catch your death.”
Steve shivers and it has nothing to do with his wet clothes. He’s never been so nervous to shuck a T-shirt and almost turns around to avoid stripping in front of Bucky, but the wolfish look in Bucky’s eyes tells him that wouldn’t be appreciated. He crawls into the bed beside Bucky once he’s down to his shorts and Bucky wraps him up, just like so many nights from when they were young. Steve instinctively wants to put his back to Bucky’s chest, but Bucky makes a disapproving noise and makes Steve face him.
“You think you’re getting away without a kiss after all that?” Bucky grouses, and Steve can’t help the smile that covers his face.
“I would’ve run from way more fights if I’d known this was how it could end.”
“No, you wouldn’t have.” Bucky corrects knowingly. “But you could’ve had both. I coulda patched you up and then kissed you better.” He rubs his nose against Steve’s and Steve almost lunges in his haste. Bucky laughs and complies, and the kiss is short and chaste and they smile onto each other’s lips.
“Now go to sleep.” Bucky orders. “You woke me up.”
“Yes, sir.” Steve burrows closer into Bucky’s arms and slips his feet between Bucky’s calves, the way he did for years and years in a drafty tenement house in Brooklyn with rats skittering around the floorboards. Bucky yelps, just like he always did, and grumbles about Steve’s circulation, but he rubs his calves together to help generate some heat for Steve’s frosty toes. He has never felt so good in his entire life.
He falls asleep smiling. He wakes up the same way.