Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Finding Bucky ends up being much easier than anyone was expecting.

He’s forgotten about the moon, is the thing.

Steve can feel him, with the moon--better than he can without. It’s not hard to follow that bond, now that he knows it’s still there to follow. Before, failing to get drunk in a bar in the forties and grieving in the twenty-first century, he’d thought he just couldn’t let go of his pack.

He really can’t let go of his pack, as it turns out.

“Bucky,” he says from the other side of the museum exhibit he’s just broken into, holding out a still-bruised hand and feeling the stitches in his gut pull unpleasantly, and someone who might be Bucky or might be the Winter Soldier stares warily at him out of the dark. Maybe he’s both. Maybe he doesn’t know himself.

He knew enough to come here, one way or the other.

Bucky, or whoever Bucky is right now, lets Steve lead him out of the dark museum and bundle him away in the van waiting outside. Natasha’s behind the wheel. Sam’s in the passenger seat. Steve and Bucky take up the back, hand-in-hand, and Steve’s skin itches with the urge to let his wolf out. He doesn’t know how Bucky’d react to that, though, so he doesn’t. It’s dark, the moon hanging low and fat in the sky, and all he wants is to be with his packmate. He’s not picky about the how, so long as it’s some part of Bucky. Even if it’s the Winter Soldier, he won’t complain.

He missed him like a limb. If he has to hold in his wolf to keep him, he’ll hold in his wolf.

“All good?” Sam asks as Natasha heads off into the night, the moonlight passing over the hood of the van.

“All good,” Steve says, squeezing Bucky’s hand in his own. Bucky is silent, but gripping him tight as a lifeline; tight as he didn’t manage to on that damn train.

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They drive for a long time. All their old safehouses are compromised now, one way or another. Steve’s skin itches, and Bucky doesn’t speak. Sam plays music that’s old to him and new to them, and Natasha drives. Steve watches Bucky and listens to the music, low and slow, and tries to figure out what he’s going to do. Half the planet’s going to have Bucky on a Most Wanted list after the SHIELD data dump, the other half’s going to have Natasha, and who knows what anyone’s thinking about him right now.

Sam’s probably fine, but Sam hasn’t shown any sign of going home either way.

There are a lot of places they could go, but in the end they pick the obvious one. Everything they’ve done in their careers is transparent and public now, so they might as well be transparent and public too.

“Look what the secret spy organization dragged in,” Tony says when they turn up on his doorstep. He smells stressed and anxious and relieved all at once. “I guess I’m supposed to thank you for saving my life and the lives of a few million of my favorite people, but I’m more concerned you didn’t bother calling when the world was burning down around your ears.”

“There was a lot going on,” Steve says. Honestly, it just hadn’t occurred to him to call in reinforcements. Too much had been happening too quickly, and their options had been too limited.

“My life has a lot going on. Yours just destabilized half a dozen governments,” Tony says, then catches sight of Sam and Bucky. “Who’re the backup dancers?”

“Two long stories,” Natasha says.

“Sam and Bucky,” Steve says. “Sam, Bucky, this is Tony Stark.”

“Iron Man,” Bucky says. It’s the first thing he’s said in front of them since the helicarrier. Maybe the first thing he’s said since the helicarrier at all, for all Steve knows.

“Speaking,” Tony says.

“Stark men are made of iron,” Bucky says, and Tony quirks an eyebrow--then narrows his eyes.

“Wait,” he says. “Your name is what?”

“We did say it was a long story,” Natasha says neutrally, raising an eyebrow of her own. “Going to let us in or not, Stark?”

“You know I can’t resist Captain America’s sad puppy eyes,” Tony says, and Steve sighs.

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Tony gives them a tour, and also a floor. Tony in fact tries to give them each a seperate floor, but that’s a bit much and Steve--well, he needs the others in his space right now. They all seem perfectly happy to all take a room on the same floor, which considering there’s still several rooms left over and plenty of space to go around is not particularly surprising. Bucky still isn’t talking, really, but he listens to what they say and he hasn’t tried to murder anyone, so that’s probably fine.

Or he thinks they’re his new owners, or something equally horrible. So maybe not really fine.

Either way, Steve isn’t looking the gift horse in the mouth. If Bucky has the wrong idea about things, well, they’ll have time to fix that later. For right now it’s more important that he’s free and safe. God forbid HYDRA had gotten ahold of him again in the fallout.

Natasha sits down in the living room and starts cleaning her arsenal on the coffee table. Bucky sits down across from her and starts doing the same. Steve’s not sure where either of them got any of the weapons, much less where they were keeping them all. Sam sets up in the kitchen, eyeing the plethora of groceries in the overstuffed fridge with a frown.

“Did Stark have these sent up while he was giving us the grand tour or were they already here?” he asks. Steve and Natasha look at each other, then just shrug. Knowing Tony, it could be either. “Alright, then. Who’s up for a very early breakfast? Or a very late dinner.”

“Sounds perfect, Sam,” Steve says, although what would really be perfect would be letting his wolf out to prowl this new territory and scent his--not his pack, even if part of him wishes it. Most of him. They’re still his people, though. “Need any help?”

“You could burn water,” Bucky mutters. Everyone looks at him; it’s reflex, at least on Steve’s part. Bucky stares back at them and doesn’t say anything else.

“Okay, if your cooking is bad enough that Barnes can remember it through seventy years of brainwashing, then no, no I do not need any help,” Sam says, pulling a carton of eggs out of the fridge. “You can set the table.”

“I can do that,” Steve says after a moment longer spent looking at Bucky, forcing himself to turn away and stand up to go in search of plates. There’s enough cabinets in this kitchen to hide half a battalion, so who knows where they are.

“Thanks for the warning, Barnes,” Natasha says as she reassembles her handgun. Bucky stares at her briefly, then goes back to cleaning his weapons. She seems unbothered to be ignored.

Steve . . . he wonders if Bucky knows how he found him. He wonders if Bucky remembers that they’re--that they were pack. The idea he might not is painful, but he’s more worried about him than anything else. If Bucky doesn’t remember, well, then he’ll remind him.

If he should. If it’s right to. If Bucky would even believe him.

He sets the table. Sam cooks a hell of a lot of breakfast food. Everyone eats, except for Bucky who hesitates for a long moment before picking up a piece of bacon and biting into it, watching the rest of them warily the whole time. Steve decidedly does not think about why Bucky would be wary about eating, though he can’t help noticing he doesn’t touch anything on his plate until he’s seen one of them start eating their own share of it. If he’s worried about drugs or poison or just can’t do a thing until he sees someone else do it, Steve doesn’t know. It does remind him of Bucky sitting across from Natasha and cleaning his weapons the exact same way she was, though.

He wants to reach out and comfort his packmate, but the more he sees of him the less he thinks Bucky remembers, and touching him like that might not be the best idea.

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They all clean their plates; Steve clears the table and Natasha does the dishes. They go to bed in separate rooms, and Steve silences the wolf inside, yearning for closeness and pack. In his own room, he strips out of his clothes and lets the shape of it come over him, because it aches to keep it in. His body twists and bends and changes into the wolf, big and pale-furred and bright-eyed. He hits the floor on all fours, restless and anxious and wanting, right from the first moment.

But he can’t have what he wants, so instead he paces the room, sniffing around it, and then lets himself out into the hall with a heavy paw on the doorknob and starts making his way through the rest of the floor. He smells Sam and Natasha and Bucky, all of them quiet and tucked away in separate places, not where he wants them but safe, at least, no stress or fear or blood on any of them, and he smells the remnants of breakfast--or dinner--and Tony’s scent, faint and faded but undeniably present. He smells--

Bucky moves in his room, and Steve goes still. The door opens, and Bucky steps out into the hall. Steve--hesitates. He’s not sure if Bucky will recognize him like this. He wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t, after everything.

Bucky stares at him, and Steve stares back, trying to look small and nonthreatening. Bucky keeps staring, then thumps a fist against Sam’s door--once, twice. Steve hears Sam get up with a groan, and a moment later his door’s opening too, revealing him all handsome and sleep-rumpled and very distracting to look too closely at.

“Barnes?” he says, squinting at him in sleepy confusion. Bucky points mutely down the hall towards Steve, who looks back at him guiltily. Sam follows his line of sight, then blinks, slowly. “Huh,” he says. “Didn’t know werewolves came in blond.”

Steve huffs and sits down, giving Sam a baleful look. Of course werewolves come in blond. What color was he expecting?

“It’s a dog,” Bucky says, and Steve feels the words stab him through the heart, even though he was prepared for them. Sam squints at Bucky instead.

“It’s Steve,” he says. “You remember that, right? At least, it’d better be Steve, or else we’re probably about to get killed.”

“. . . it’s a dog,” Bucky says again, this time sounding hesitant.

“Werewolves are a thing,” Sam says. “You remember that, right?”

Bucky is silent, frowning at nothing. Sam sighs.

“Okay,” he says. “Well, that’s a lot to unpack right there, Barnes, and I am too damn tired to figure out how to right now. Just--don’t worry about it, alright? He’s with us.”

“Alright,” Bucky says slowly, his eyes flicking to Steve again. Steve barely manages to repress a whine at the sight of his face, so guarded and confused and not recognizing him. He can feel Bucky as clearly as he can see him standing there. Can’t Bucky feel him too? Is that gone too?

Sam goes back to bed. Bucky stays in the hall, staring silently at Steve. He thinks about changing back, but isn’t sure Bucky would handle it well. It’s a messy sight, sometimes--especially when he’s upset. It wouldn’t be pretty.

Bucky might not even remember werewolves. What the hell did they do to him? What’s even left of him?

In all honesty, though, Steve doesn’t care how much or how little is left of Bucky, because he will go straight through anyone who tries to keep him from him, no matter what. He will do anything it takes to see him safe. Anything. He’s Bucky’s alpha, even if the other doesn’t remember it; even if he never remembers it. He’ll take care of him until they’re both dead.

Bucky comes over and--hesitantly--reaches out and pats his head.

The sound Steve makes is embarrassing.

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They all get up around noon, and Sam makes lunch while Natasha dyes her hair a brighter red in the kitchen sink. Bucky sits at the table, seeming lost for what to do. He still seems to be having trouble making the connection between Steve’s human form and his wolf one, but because he patted him--well, Steve’s not ashamed to admit he hasn’t changed back to human yet. It feels good to be the wolf after holding the change in all night, and better that Bucky will let the wolf in close without wearing that look like he’s waiting for his next set of orders.

He puts his hand on Steve’s ruff and digs his fingers in, just the same way he used to.

“Haven’t seen that shape in a while,” Natasha observes after lunch, eyeing her reflection in the mirror she’s propped up on the other side of the table and brandishing a pair of very sharp scissors with a couple of kitchen towels draped around her neck. She measures her damp hair out with a faint frown of consideration, then starts snipping away.

“Does he not do the transforming thing, usually?” Sam asks, glancing up from the dishes. Steve should really be washing those, but that would’ve meant changing back.

“Not as much as you’d think,” Natasha says, scissors snip-snip-snipping away. She’s going for jaw-length, it looks like. Steve wonders if it’s a sign of trust, that she’s letting them see this change.

“I’ve never seen your hair this short,” Bucky says, and Natasha--pauses.

“It’s been a long time since you’ve seen my hair,” she says, and Steve thinks--bye-bye, bikinis.

“You used to wear it--” Bucky makes a sharp little gesture across his forehead, and then lower, past his shoulders. “Blunt, here.”

“Did I?” Natasha is giving him a perfectly neutral look. Bucky’s frowning.

“Da,” he says, his accent changing strangely. “Natalia. You were such a perfect killer, lyubov moya.”

Natasha’s scissors still, just for a moment, and she gives Bucky a very long, inscrutable look. Steve’s Russian is terrible--“my” something, he thinks that was?

“So I’ve heard,” she says finally, and then starts cutting again. Snip, snip, snip. “You shot me once. Do you remember?”

“More than once,” Bucky says, and again Natasha’s expression is inscrutable.

“Well, I’m glad we’re all bonding,” Sam says.

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Natasha’s gone to talk to Tony, hair freshly dyed and curled and makeup done differently than yesterday. Steve wonders if it’s enough to make her look like a different person to strangers. Probably, since it’s Natasha. Sam’s on the couch, leafing through the newspaper and clucking his tongue every now and then. Bucky’s on the other end of the couch, staring into space with an expression exactly as perfectly neutral as the one Natasha left wearing. Steve’s still the wolf, and lying on the floor at their feet. He has to be. Bucky needs his alpha. Sam needs--well, he’s not sure. Taken care of. Protected.

It gets a little hard to think of it in human terms, after he’s been the wolf for a while.

Bucky says something in Russian, still staring into space.

“Sorry, man, I don’t speak it,” Sam says. Bucky hesitates, frowning faintly, then rephrases.

“Where’s the captain?” he asks. Sam raises his eyebrows, then looks down pointedly. Steve’s tail wags, because he’s always been so easy for Bucky. Bucky looks down at him, his frown deepening. “No,” he says. “He was--smaller.”

“Maybe in the forties,” Sam says. “Pretty sure this is the standard size now.”

“Mm,” Bucky says, and puts his hand in Steve’s ruff just like he used to again, back during the war and back when Steve was smaller, a scruffy little mutt-looking excuse for a wolf that could barely change without having an asthma attack. Steve would burn down the world for him, he thinks. For any of them, but especially Bucky.

“Do you remember your name?” Sam asks. “Like, actually remember it, aside from Steve telling you.”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says guardedly. “Maybe. But I only remember how it sounds when he says it.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Steve,” Sam says, leaning over and putting a hand on Steve’s ruff too. His tail reflexively thumps against the bottom of the couch and he licks Sam’s arm; Sam huffs at him. “Oh, so werewolves like getting petted?”

Steve wags his tail again, because obviously, and then remembers his human side and forces it to still. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the contact, obviously, it’s just not--

Sam scruffs his ears, and Steve’s tail starts wagging again. Sam laughs.

“You’re a little more laid-back like this, huh,” he says. “Or is this something else?”

This is having his beta back, this is Natasha and Sam safe and perfect and unhurt, this is pacing out the confines of a new territory after losing the old one and dodging a terrible bullet and getting shot so badly that his wolf form still has the stitches. This is Bucky sitting on the couch with his hand in his ruff and Sam’s hand on his head and Natasha’s scent all over the kitchen.

That’s a bit much to say without a human mouth, though, so Steve just lets his tail wag for a little while longer.

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Natasha comes back, and Steve goes to his room to change back and put clothes on again. His hair is a rumpled mess, and the half-healed bullet wounds still hurt. He pulls himself together and gets dressed, tentatively touching the pack bond in his mind. Bucky doesn’t respond, but something in it--ripples, for lack of a better word. There’s an awareness there, where before there was only cold blankness.

Steve exhales, and hopes.

He fixes his hair, makes sure he hasn’t torn any stitches in the change, and heads back out into the common room. The others are sitting on the couch, all in a row, and turn in unison to look at him. It flusters something in his human half, and satisfies something in his wolf.

“What’s the plan, Cap?” Sam asks. “Aside from you avoiding aggravating your injuries.”

“Lay low and see how much of this is going to blow over,” Steve says. He can’t really think of it as aggravating his injuries. The moon was full. Still is full, even hidden by sunlight. He’d needed to let the wolf out, one way or another.

“Probably not much,” Natasha says. The wolf wants to touch her; Steve resists the urge. The wolf wants to touch all of them, get his scent all over them, but Natasha’s the only one who hasn’t touched him.

He doesn’t know how to explain to her how badly he wants to get between her and the rest of the world.

“Probably not,” he agrees. “But I think we can at least wait until Monday to start cleaning up the mess.”

“Why Steve Rogers, are you taking the weekend off?” Natasha asks with a slow smile.

“Sounds good to me, personally,” Sam says, rubbing his jaw.

Bucky says nothing, but watches Steve wherever he moves in the room. Steve doesn’t know what to do about that.

He does the only thing he can think to, which is sit down on the coffee table in front of him and ask.

“You know me?” he says.

“Yes,” Bucky says, eyes glittering strangely. It’s a look Steve doesn’t know, something some stranger put on his face.

“You know you’re safe here?” he asks.

“No,” Bucky says.

“You are,” Steve tells him. “As long as there’s breath in my body.”

“That might not be very long, the way you fight,” Bucky says, his eyes flicking down--unerringly--to the places he shot him. Steve smiles humorlessly and holds back from reaching out to scent him.

“I’ll do my best,” he says.

“Captain,” Bucky says, lifting a hand and--hesitating. It takes all of Steve’s self-control not to snap it up; instead he lays his own out in offering. Bucky hesitates a moment longer, then lays his hand on top of his very carefully, like some feral thing that’s never been touched in any way that didn’t hurt. There’s more animal in him than there is in Steve’s own wolf, at least for this moment.

Bucky licks his lips, and Steve holds himself back before he can do anything stupid and scare him off.

“You’re the dog,” Bucky says, like he’s trying to figure out something so much more complicated than that simple fact.

“I am,” Steve agrees, and that’s the last thing anyone says for a long while.

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There are things they could be doing; maybe even things they should be doing. Sam calls some family members, tells them he’s fine, he’s not in DC right now. Natasha orders new clothes, ones that look nothing like the ones she’s been wearing lately. Bucky stays on the couch, silent and still. Steve drifts between the three of them, never sure of what they need from him. The wolf has some ideas, but the wolf’s ideas don’t translate well into human ones.

He wants to push into their space, wants to press in close and comforting and hide them away from consequence, from the world they’ve changed, from the things they did out of necessity and the mistakes people will blame them for. It’s not very different from the war, even if it was--mostly--different people that he wanted to protect then.

They all do what they have to do. They do the best they can with the choices they have, and with the choices they can make happen.

Sam hangs up the phone. Natasha puts away her tablet. Bucky sits, silent and still.

Steve’s skin itches.

“Dinner,” Sam says after a moment, glancing towards the kitchen.

“You’ve already cooked twice,” Natasha says.

“What, are we gonna eat out?” he snorts.

“Point,” she sighs, rolling her head on her neck before tucking her feet up on the couch. “We could always order something.”

“And find out HYDRA runs the local pizza joint?” Sam asks. “No thanks, I’m feeling a little paranoid for that this week.”

“I’d say that was a little too paranoid, but I’ve heard worse,” Natasha says, frowning faintly.

“Heard worse as in ‘heard more paranoid’, or heard worse as in ‘done worse’?” Sam asks.

“Let’s just say you should cook,” she says.

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Sam cooks. They eat. Tony swings by and steals Steve’s plate for three bites’ worth of food, then forgets about it entirely to talk all their ears off about what he and J.A.R.V.I.S. have been pulling out of the data dump. The wolf doesn’t mind--Tony doesn’t eat enough. The wolf is content, if anything, because Tony is bright-eyed and talking a mile a minute, a savage satisfaction in him.

“Anyway I’m pretty sure we’re going to see some coups this week, and I definitely lost more board members than I would’ve expected. Although really, I probably should have expected,” Tony says, and Steve nudges his plate a little bit closer to him. Tony doesn’t notice, but everyone else does. Steve refuses to be embarrassed.

Tony chatters on a little longer, makes a few more dire proclamations and takes a few more bites of Steve’s dinner, and then swoops off in a rush because of something involving Pepper, though he doesn’t explain what. Knowing them, it could be anything from a date to a corporate takeover.

“Should we be worried about any of that?” Sam says.

“It’s not Monday yet,” Natasha hums, taking a bite of her own dinner.

“You know, I’m willing to accept that as an answer,” Sam says, returning his attention to his own. Bucky hasn’t looked up from his the whole time, and is clearing the last of it off his plate as they speak.

Steve just looks at the three of them, the pack bond in him aching to reach out.

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They go to their separate rooms to sleep, and Steve lets his wolf out again. The moon’s still full, after all, or close enough to it that his wolf can’t tell the difference. He paces his room, then leaves to pace the floor instead. It smells like his people who aren’t his pack, and like a pack member he lost. It makes him yearn for Peggy, for the Commandos, for the past--for anything of his past.

Bucky’s something of his past, of course. The wolf wants to go to him; wants him close and safe. It wants the same thing for Natasha and Sam, and almost as powerfully. It’s--a lot, wanting all that.

A lot for his human half, anyway. The wolf just wants.

It’s a lot, though, so instead Steve paces the floor and then curls up in the common room, in the same spot on the floor where he was when Sam and Bucky both touched him and Natasha wasn’t there to. There’s better places to sleep, but he’s slept in worse ones.

He wants his pack.

He doesn’t have a pack, really. The Avengers are the closest thing to it, but they’re not quite there. The closest thing he actually has to pack is Natasha bothering him about his social life and Sam reading him cold in the first thirty seconds of knowing him and Bucky not knowing him at all.

And Peggy, who’s already lived a long, good life without him, and half the time doesn’t know him either.

He tucks his nose under his paws and represses the urge to whine in distress. They’re all safe, even if they’re not all his, and that’s the important part. So what if Bucky doesn’t remember him and Peggy gets confused sometimes and Natasha and Sam don’t belong to him at all. They’re still all safe. They’re alive, and they’re . . . maybe not all okay, honestly, but still alive. That’s what’s important. That’s what matters.

Even if he misses them like a limb.

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Steve wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of footsteps human ears wouldn’t be able to hear. Instinct keeps him still--it might be an intruder--but it’s far likelier to be Natasha or Bucky. They both walk like that. He doesn’t know how Bucky sleeps, not anymore, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’s heard Natasha walking around in the dark.

It’s neither of them, it turns out. It’s not even an intruder. Steve blinks in surprise and lifts his head.

“Sorry, man,” Sam says lowly, giving him a tired smile. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Steve wags his tail. Sam smiles at him again, then heads into the kitchen and starts quietly puttering around. Steve smells something sweet, and gets to his feet to investigate. He’s making hot chocolate.

“I’d offer you some, but I don’t know how well that’d go over with a wolf’s stomach,” Sam says wryly. Steve wags his tail again and sits down beside him. Chocolate does not go particularly well with a wolf’s stomach, in fact--Steve’s eaten a lot of things as a wolf, and chocolate was definitely one of the bigger regrets--but being close to Sam is better than being alone in the living room.

Sam goes about making his hot chocolate, and Steve follows him around the kitchen like a dog, basking in his presence. He’s probably being annoying, he thinks, but it’s very hard to stop himself and Sam doesn’t seem to mind. He thinks the only way he could stop himself was if Sam seemed to mind.

“Living room?” Sam suggests. Steve bounds ahead of him and jumps onto the couch. It’s a bit too much, maybe, but--

His ears prick, and his head swivels.

“What’s got you so excited?” Natasha asks from the hallway, raising an eyebrow at him. He sits down sheepishly, lowering his head. Her new bright hair and new makeup and new clothes are all perfect, like she hasn’t slept at all.

“Dunno, nobody’s shooting at us so I can’t imagine what’d do it,” Sam says, sitting down next to him on the couch. Steve huffs, setting his head on Sam’s shoulder. Sam makes a mildly surprised noise, and Steve’s ears flatten as he realizes--that’s strange, yes, that’s too much.

He pulls back and jumps down off the couch, shifting restlessly and debating crawling under the coffee table to escape. It wouldn’t be very dignified, but he’s not that attached to his dignity.

“Hey, no, it’s fine,” Sam says. “Just surprised me. You haven’t been that touchy-feely with the human face on.”

Steve tries not to look worried. Tony’s got enough “sad puppy eyes” ammunition without him going around getting in the habit of actually making them. Sam gives him a thoughtful look, taking a sip of his drink.

“You need petted more, man,” he says.

Steve does not wag his tail at that idea. He steps away from the couch and heads towards the hallway, planning to go back to his room and turn human again before his wolf can get him in any more trouble. Natasha raises her eyebrow again as she steps out of his way.

“I keep telling him to go out and meet a nice pack,” she says. Steve’s ears droop automatically and he lets out a quiet whine--he can’t help it, in the wolf. He doesn’t need to go meet anyone new. He just needs . . .

“Who’s messing with the dog?” Bucky asks groggily from the door of his room, rubbing at his eyes. Steve perks up again immediately, just as unable to help that reaction.

“Me, I suppose,” Natasha says. Bucky grumbles back something sour in Russian, stepping forward and shoving a hand into Steve’s ruff. Steve leans into the contact, not even trying to figure out what he said. It made Natasha snort, though.

“I think he’s doing it to himself, actually,” Sam says. Bucky scowls at that, dropping down onto one knee and eyeing Steve, who is helpless to keep his tail from wagging. It’s Bucky.

“You feel weird,” Bucky says. “What the hell is that about?”

Steve blinks at him, confused, then startles--is he talking about the pack bond? Does he know what it is? Does he feel it?

“That’s not helpful,” Bucky says, scowl darkening.

Steve jumps him. He shouldn’t, it’s a terrible idea, but he can’t help it. Bucky goes down cursing and Steve licks his face.

“Get off!” Bucky protests. Steve licks him again, tail wagging furiously. “Steve!”

Steve is absolutely never getting off him. Bucky feels him, at least enough to know the pack bond’s there and respond to it, Bucky knows his name, Bucky is safe and unhurt and here--

“Stop that,” Bucky says tightly, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face in his ruff, his knees coming up to squeeze his sides. Steve burrows in as tight against him as he can, hooking his forelegs over his shoulders.

“Shared life experience, hm?” Natasha says casually. Bucky manages to push himself up against the wall, admittedly without any help from Steve, who really could care less about sitting up.

“You’re crushing me, Rogers,” he grunts, and Steve licks his face again, tail wagging even harder. Natasha makes an amused noise and comes over to crouch next to them, reaching over to give Steve’s head a light little pat. She probably doesn’t expect him to push into it so eagerly, but her brief flash of surprise is quickly hidden and she gives him another pat.

“Oh, what, now you’re all having a party without me?” Sam says.

“Clearly,” Natasha drawls. Steve perks up and looks over at Sam, tail wagging hopefully once or twice. Sam snorts, getting to his feet and coming over too.

“You know, werewolves aren’t my specialty, but somehow I get the impression that was an order,” he says lightly, sitting down against the wall on Bucky’s other side. As soon as he does, Steve drapes himself over Bucky’s lap and kicks his legs up into Sam’s.

In his defense, he was only half thinking about dragging Sam over if he didn’t come on his own. Really.

Sam laughs lowly and rubs his back, and Steve’s tail starts wagging again. He’s very sure he’ll be embarrassed by this later, when he’s remembering it as a human, but his wolf doesn’t care and honestly he thinks it’s got the right idea. Sam’s petting him and Bucky’s still half-embracing him and Natasha’s hand is on his head and they all smell like him, like his, and it’s very--and it’s just--it’s good.

It’s worth all the rest of it if he can have this feeling again, even if just for a little while.

And one day, maybe, it’ll be for longer.

Chapter Text

They spend the whole weekend together, Tony occasionally ducking in and out and Pepper coming by once to make sure they’re all comfortable and have everything they need, and Steve spends as much of it as a wolf as he can. It’s not the best idea, maybe, but it’s just—better. Easier.

It doesn’t ache so much inside, when he can be with them as the wolf.

“Well, there goes our vacation,” Natasha says bright and early Monday morning, looking down at her tablet, and Steve sits up on the couch next to Bucky and remembers that he needs to be human again. That they need him to be human again.

“Do I wanna know?” Sam says from the kitchen. Bucky doesn’t say anything at all.

“Probably not.” Natasha shows them her tablet screen. The headline is . . . not kind.

“Hm,” Sam says. “I think this calls for extra breakfast.”

“I’ve heard worse ideas,” Natasha says. Steve gets down off the couch to head back to his room, and Bucky, unexpectedly, follows him. That’s . . . a problem, a bit. He still isn’t sure if he should change in front of him.

Alternately, though, he’d have to discourage Bucky from following him, and that’s just not happening. Ever.

So he definitely has a problem.

“He’s trying to change back,” Sam says as he cracks a few eggs into a pan. Bucky frowns. “Give the man some privacy.”

“Why?” Bucky says.

“Because he clearly wants it?” Sam quirks an eyebrow at him. Steve whines; can’t help it. He’s been the wolf for a long time, this time. “Then again, what do I know.”

“The change is a bit unpleasant-looking,” Natasha supplies neutrally, setting her tablet down on the counter. “Or so I’ve heard.”

“I don’t care,” Bucky says, and because Steve is a wolf and is stupid, he changes right there in the hallway. Bucky swivels his head to stare at him as he does, Sam huffs, and Natasha makes a mildly interested noise.

Steve realizes he’s naked in front of three of the best people he knows and turns red. He really didn’t mean to do that.

“Sorry,” he says, then quickly ducks into his room to grab some clothes. It’d work better if Bucky didn’t follow him in, probably. “Uh . . . I’ll just be a second.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, still watching him as intently as a target. Steve prays for strength, then gets dressed and ruffles his hair back into some semblance of order. It doesn’t work very well. He needs a shower and some hair gel, but right now he’s much more worried about the others than anything else.

They’re his people, but they’re not his pack, he reminds himself. He can’t expect them to feel the same way that he feels; not even Bucky. It’s been seventy years, and a long, long time.

He still can’t help but be worried about them, though.

“Are you alright?” he asks, because it’s been a while since he’s been able to. Bucky just looks at him, which isn’t remotely helpful. “Do you need anything, I mean.”

“No,” Bucky says. “I’m effectively supplied.”

Steve isn’t entirely sure he wants to know what that means, but suspects “well-armed” covers it.

“Okay,” he says slightly helplessly. “Good.”

Bucky looks at him for another long moment, then steps in closer. Steve’s heartbeat kicks up like it always has for Bucky, even when he was a skinny little asthmatic pup with no idea what he was feeling.

Bucky grabs his hand and pulls him out into the hall. Steve follows, because he couldn’t do anything else.

“The captain needs supplies,” Bucky says as they step into the kitchen. Sam squints, and Natasha tilts her head.

“Well, I’m feeding him, so that’s my contribution,” Sam says. Bucky frowns.

“I’m fine, Buck,” Steve says. “The shield’s all I need.”

And them, but he obviously doesn’t say that part.

“No,” Bucky says. “You don’t look fine.” Steve touches his half-healed stomach, and Bucky scowls. “Not that.”

“Then what?” Steve asks, mystified. Bucky looks frustrated.

“I don’t know,” he says.

“Well, we have breakfast and a bunch of upsetting articles, and that’s about it,” Sam says frankly. “You got a better idea?”

“No.” Bucky still looks frustrated. He lets go of Steve’s hand, which Steve wishes he wouldn’t, and then frowns. Steve tries not to touch the pack bond despite the temptation to. It wouldn’t tell him what was wrong anyway; Bucky’s in no place for it to.

“Breakfast and upsetting articles it is,” Natasha says, and they head over and sit down at the counter with her. She slides over her tablet, which is displaying another very unkind headline. “There’s not much public sympathy right now. There’s also not much public information, of course, unless you count the extremely damning testimony of the data dump.”

“How much is actually in that?” Steve asks.

“Everything,” Natasha says. “Or at least everything SHIELD and HYDRA ever thought to write down.”

“So, way too much,” Sam assumes. Natasha smiles grimly.

“Way too much,” she agrees.

“We need to do a press conference,” Steve says resignedly.

“You’d probably get arrested,” Natasha says matter-of-factly. “Or shot.”

“Bye-bye, bikinis,” Steve says. She snorts. Bucky scowls. Sam just eyes them funny.

“Alternately, press release,” he says, setting a plate of eggs on the table for them. “If you’re actually worried about that, I mean. Hell, just throw a video on the internet, that shit spreads like wildfire.”

“Mmm,” Natasha says speculatively.

“Betting Tony could make sure it did,” Steve says.

“Don’t give that man an excuse to hack the internet, Rogers,” Natasha says. “He’ll take it.”

“This isn’t helping,” Bucky says, his scowl darkening. Steve gives him a confused look.

“Helping what?” he asks.

“You,” Bucky says. “You moron.”

Steve really wishes he knew how much of him was Bucky and how much was the Winter Soldier. He’ll take either of them, he doesn’t give a damn, but he doesn’t know how to treat him. Them.

He wouldn’t know anyway, he reminds himself. It’s been a long, long time.

“Do you need help, Steve?” Sam says.

“No,” Steve says. Sam raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t press. Natasha looks even less convinced. Bucky—he just scowls again.

“You’re upset,” he says.

“I’m . . . not?” Steve says, mystified again. He really isn’t.

“Steve is always upset,” Natasha says calmly, picking up a glass to pour herself some orange juice.

“And he always thinks he’s not,” Sam says dubiously.

“So fix it,” Bucky says, glaring at them.

“Don’t look at me, man, I’m new here,” Sam says, holding his hands up. “Eat your eggs, Rogers.”

“Don’t look at me either,” Natasha says. “I’ve been trying for years.”

“I’m fine,” Steve says, because he really does have no idea what they’re talking about. He is fine. They survived, and they stopped HYDRA, and his people are all safe and intact and Bucky is right here. That’s the best his life has been since . . .

Well. Since he put that plane down during the war.

No. Since Bucky fell off that damn train.

“You’re a fucking liar,” Bucky says.

“Bucky—”

“You are!” Bucky snaps, and he looks so . . . so himself, just for a moment. If it weren’t for the hair and the arm and the twenty-first century, Steve could almost think they were back in Brooklyn.

“I’m really not,” he says.

“You are,” Bucky repeats, putting a hand on his chest with a tight expression. “I can tell.”

“Tell?” Steve says, just barely keeping himself from grabbing at the pack bond. That might not even be what Bucky means.

Bucky gives him a dirty look. He’s wearing a tank top and jeans and heavy black boots and the arm is impossible to miss, but Steve still feels like they’re back in Brooklyn. Can’t feel any other way. He’s practically dizzy with it.

“It’s not hard to tell when you’re upset, Rogers,” Natasha says, which helps him center himself just a bit.

“But I’m not,” he says, frowning at her. She gives him a pitying look.

“Steve,” she says. “You’ve been upset since the day I met you. Deservedly, but definitely.”

“That’s . . .” Steve starts, but can’t finish. Because it’s true, in a sense—he has been. He controls it, keeps it under wraps, and he’s not usually upset about anything specific, but . . .

Well. He is, isn’t he.

“It’s fine, Bucky,” he says. “I’m okay, really.”

“Turn back,” Bucky says. Steve frowns.

“We have work to do,” he says.

“I don’t care,” Bucky says, setting his jaw. “You felt better when you weren’t human.”

Steve aches, and Bucky’s scowl darkens.

“Bucky . . .” he says uselessly. Bucky shakes his head.

“You two are a trip, you know that?” Sam says, eyeing them.

“Oh, wait until you meet the rest of the team,” Natasha says, and something inside Steve aches a bit again. He wants them all to know each other. He wants to keep them. He wants . . .

“Turn back,” Bucky repeats stubbornly, and it takes far too much self-control not to listen.

“I can’t right now,” Steve says, picking up Natasha’s tablet and showing it to him. Bucky glares at it.

“I’ll kill them,” he says tightly, his hands fisting. “I’ll kill anyone you want.”

“I don’t want you to kill anyone at all,” Steve says.

“Yeah, we went to a lot of trouble getting you away from the crazy murder-happy Neo-Nazi freaks, let’s not adopt their tactics now,” Sam says dubiously. “Eat your breakfast, you weirdos, it’s getting cold.”

They eat. Bucky gets no less frustrated and Steve doesn’t really feel better, but . . . well, at least they’ve eaten.

“We could do the video,” Natasha says, taking a sip of her drink before pushing her empty plate away. “Give it to Tony and let him work his magic.”

“That’d be good,” Steve says.

“And then you can turn back,” she says neutrally. “If you’d like to.”

Steve doesn’t know how to explain to her that the only reason he feels better as the wolf is because it can’t compute the fact they’re not really his pack. He could, just . . .

“The only reason I feel better as the wolf is because it thinks you’re my pack,” he says. Natasha looks . . . puzzled, a bit.

“What, they’re not?” Sam says.

“Barnes, obviously,” Natasha says, voice a little slow.

“All of you,” Steve says, shaking his head. “It thinks you’re all my pack.”

“Why does it think that, Steve?” Natasha asks, her voice a little strange.

“Because I want you all to be,” he says, just while all their other secrets have all been dragged out into the light anyway. She smiles humorlessly.

“You have better taste than that,” she says.

“I think my taste is fine,” he says.

“You’re an idiot,” Bucky says, then grips the back of his neck like he’s got a ruff he can dig his fingers into. Steve’s shoulders go loose for a moment, and he takes a breath to center himself again.

“Maybe,” he says.

“Actually we might all be idiots,” Sam says. “Steve. You know we’re here for you, right?”

“Yes,” Steve says. He’d trust any one of them with his life, or with the decision that his life was less important than the mission.

“I really feel like you don’t,” Sam says. He picks up the dirty plates and dumps them in the sink. Steve starts to get up to go wash them, but Bucky’s still gripping the back of his neck and he can’t bring himself to discourage the contact.

“I told you that you should go out and meet a nice pack,” Natasha says, perfectly neutral again.

“I know you did,” Steve says. He’s never wanted to, though. He’s always just wanted . . .

Never mind what he’s wanted. It’s all impossible, anyway.

“He doesn’t need to,” Bucky says, which reminds him that not everything he’s wanted is impossible, but—still. Still. “I’ll kill anyone for him.”

“I still don’t want you to,” Steve says, not sure how to take that. He has the uncomfortable feeling that that might be a declaration of loyalty in Bucky’s mind right now, and that’s . . . he doesn’t want Bucky to think he owns him. He doesn’t want him to consider him another handler or master. He doesn’t—

“You never did,” Bucky says tightly, squeezing the nape of his neck.

“Mmm,” Natasha says. Her hair’s so red, now, and she let them see her dye it. Steve still doesn’t know if that was a sign of trust, but he knows he wants it to have been.

“I think we’d all kill a lot of people for you, man. And already have,” Sam says, folding his arms and getting that look on his face like when he read Steve cold on their first meeting. Steve remembers how it felt when all three of them were touching him as the wolf, and thinks about how easy it’d be to change again. He doesn’t, but he thinks about it.

He misses it.

“We did the right thing,” he says, turning Natasha’s tablet over in his hands. He should do the video. People need to hear what happened. They’ve kept enough secrets.

Too many, apparently.

But right now . . .

“We know,” Sam says. He comes over and stands next to them, Bucky keeps his hand on his neck, and Natasha leans forward a bit in her seat. Steve is so aware of all of them.

They’re not his pack. Not now, and maybe not ever.

Maybe one day, if he’s very, very lucky, but . . .

“Alpha,” Bucky says, and Steve tightens his grip on the tablet so hard it creaks. He puts it down before he can break it. The headline on it really is . . . unkind.

“Yes,” he says, because he is Bucky’s alpha whether they’re pack like before or not, and he’ll never be anything else. He’s been Bucky’s alpha longer than he even knew how to be one. They’d figured it out together.

“What are my orders?” Bucky says.

“No orders,” Steve says, despising HYDRA, and seventy years, and the long, long time it’s been. “Stand down, soldier.”

Bucky frowns, but doesn’t say anything else. Sam leans against the counter; Natasha is still leaning in. Steve’s not sure if they’re all waiting for something or not, but if they are he doesn’t know what it is. He misses the weekend already. He wants to curl up in the hall with them again. He wants to scent them, and mark them, and know they’re his.

He wants a lot of things.

“Alpha,” Sam says, and Steve twitches. He looks at him and tries to repress the longing.

“You don’t have to call me that, Sam,” he says quietly.

“Sure,” Sam says, just looking back at him. “Whatever you say, alpha.”

Steve exhales, slow and shaky, and just barely keeps the wolf in. He doesn’t know if Sam knows what that means to him, but considering how much Sam already does know about him . . . well. Maybe he does.

He wants to think he does.

“I’m not calling you that,” Natasha says dryly, which is something of a relief. He’s still not sure she wouldn’t say something like that just because she thought it was what he wanted to hear.

“I don’t expect you to,” he says.

“Good,” she says, and then she puts her ankle against one of his. Steve feels penned in and warm between the three of them, which is probably not the way he should feel, but . . . but.

“We should do that video,” he says, a little abrupt.

“In a minute,” Natasha says, and Bucky squeezes the nape of his neck again. “We’ve got all the time in the world, after all.”

They don’t, of course, but Steve wants to believe they do. He wants to believe they can stay like this as long as they want, and mean whatever they want to mean to each other.

“Alright,” he agrees quietly, just letting himself feel the three of them. “In a minute.”

Chapter Text

Steve takes a shower and gets himself presentable and they make the video. Natasha tells him to just act natural. He doesn’t really know how to explain to her that “natural” isn’t an act. He knows it is, for her. She probably already knows it’s not for him.

Sam records from Natasha’s tablet, and Steve sits on the couch and talks to it. Bucky and Natasha wait in the kitchen, both watching in silence.

Steve says . . . not very much, in the end. Enough to clarify a few things; enough to make it clear where he stands and what he thinks and what he’s done. Enough to make it clear he’s not apologizing.

“That’s all,” he says, glancing to Sam, who cuts the recording.

“Damn, Rogers,” Sam says.

“You never change, do you,” Bucky says. Steve’s not sure what he means.

“That was good,” Natasha says. “Very convincing. Do you want to do a second take?”

“No,” Steve says. He doesn’t want to sound rehearsed, and he said everything he wanted to say, anyway.

“Of course you don’t,” Natasha says with a wry smile, then gets up and takes the tablet from Sam. She plays the video back, presumably making sure it recorded correctly. They all wait ‘til she’s done. “Sounds good?”

“Yes,” Steve says.

“I’m sending it to Stark, then,” she says. “We’ll let him do as he will with it. He’s the PR man, after all.”

“Thanks,” Steve says. Natasha gives him another wry smile, then sends the video and sets her tablet aside.

“So do you want to talk about it?” Sam says.

“Not remotely,” Steve says.

“Good,” Sam says. “Time for things to be someone else’s problem for a while. We can worry about how people are responding later.”

“They’ll respond well,” Bucky says. “The decent ones, anyway.”

“Hopefully,” Natasha says, and Bucky shakes his head.

“They will,” he says. “That’s how it always goes.”

“It’s really not,” Steve says.

“Someone is probably going to try to kill you after this,” Natasha says. “There’s no way we got every head of HYDRA in one fell swoop, unfortunately.”

“They can try,” Steve says.

“Maybe you should stay in the tower for a while,” Sam says. “Guessing the security here’s a lot tighter than your old place.”

“No time for that,” Steve says, shaking his head. “Natasha’s right. There’s still HYDRA operatives out there. I need to find them.”

“It was a miracle you actually took the weekend, wasn’t it,” Sam says resignedly, folding his arms.

“Yes,” Natasha and Bucky say in unison. Sam snorts.

“Yeah, figured,” he says. “Alright. So where are we starting, alpha?”

“You don’t have to come,” Steve says, something clenching in his chest.

“Obviously,” Sam says. “I reiterate: where are we starting, alpha?”

They make some plans. Mostly Steve and Natasha make the plans, Sam points out the occasional hole in them, and Bucky listens in silence. The wolf in Steve feels like pack, because so much of the time in his life with a real pack was spent like this, making battle plans in the latest makeshift war room and preparing to risk all their necks. Of course something like this would make him feel that way again.

He doesn’t let himself think too hard about it past that. It’s not the time for it. Not now.

It’s hard to ignore the pack bond in his head, though, because it’s not just reaching towards Bucky right now.

Of course it’s not.

“Am I crazy, or are you reading my mind a bit?” Sam says when they take a break to eat. “That was like the third time you finished one of my sentences.”

“You called me ‘alpha’,” Steve says. Pack bonds are opportunistic, greedy things. At least, his always have been. “If you don’t want it . . .”

“Not what I said, man.” Sam takes a drink. “Just making sure. I don’t know that much about werewolves, to be honest.”

“Pack bonds are two-way psychic links,” Natasha says, her face perfectly blank. “They’re incredibly difficult to sever.”

“Humans don’t always take to them well,” Steve says. “Dernier had the worst time adjusting when we first met. I don’t think Peggy ever really did.”

“What about you?” Sam asks, looking at Bucky. “You have a tough time with it?”

“I don’t know where it is,” Bucky says. Steve aches.

“It seems like kind of a hard thing to miss,” Sam says. Bucky shrugs.

“My head’s not like that,” he says, and doesn’t elaborate. Steve remembers how easily they’d bonded back in the day, thick as thieves from practically the first moment they’d met. He’s never bonded to anyone as easily as he did to Bucky, though Sam’s not much harder, honestly. Natasha . . . he can’t really feel Natasha, but he’s aware of her presence all the same. He isn’t reading anything off her, but he knows she’s there. He might not be seeing her, but he’s at least seeing her shadow.

It’s still not quite a pack, but it’s so, so close to one.

But this isn’t the time to be thinking about that.

“What is it like?” Natasha says.

“. . . different,” Bucky says, and again doesn’t elaborate. No one pushes him on it.

“Did Tony message back?” Steve says. Natasha shrugs.

"I really don't care if he did," she says.

"Valid, but you might wanna be sure he didn't have any important questions," Sam says. "Just, you know, for practicality's sake and all."

Natasha sighs, but she picks up her tablet again.

"He wants to know which one of us is dating Steve so he can get ahead of the tabloids," she says dryly.

". . . yeah, so never mind, you were right."

"Mmmhm."

"Which one of you is dating Steve?" Bucky asks, and Steve chokes.

"Bucky!" he says. Bucky scowls in annoyance.

"Jesus, Rogers, are you gonna die a virgin?" he says.

Well, that's definitely Bucky talking and not the Winter Soldier, at least this time. Steve's not sure if he should be happy or not.

“Christ, Bucky,” he says.

"It’s a valid question," Natasha says mildly. Steve shoots her a look.

“This really isn’t relevant right now,” he says.

“You’re not too terrible at kissing, considering the evident lack of practice,” Natasha says musingly. Steve turns scarlet.

“Yes he is,” Bucky says. Steve almost turns back into a wolf.

“Wouldn’t know,” Sam says, raising his eyebrows at them. “You merciless bastards"

"Just tell him to guess, he'll have fun with that," Steve sighs. It doesn't matter, anyway. Humans definitely don't mate the way his wolf wants. For one thing, they date. He's never really gotten the hang of that. For another . . .

Never mind.

"Too much fun," Natasha says. "He'll put us down as a polycule and be done with it."

"A what?" Bucky wrinkles his nose.

"A polycule," Natasha repeats. "A polyamorous relationship. Werewolves are notorious for them these days."

"Are we?" Steve asks, wanting to die just a bit.

"I mean, I've heard some stuff," Sam says, looking briefly sheepish.

"I did tell you to go out and meet a nice pack," Natasha says.

"We are his pack," Bucky says, and Natasha . . . pauses.

"Hm," she says, and gives Steve an inscrutable look. Steve regrets so, so many things.

"It's not actually a pack thing," he says, folding his arms uncomfortably. "Just a lot of packs formed later in life work out that way. Pack bonds are . . . intense, usually. A lot of people respond strongly to them."

"And those strong feelings can't be platonic?" Natasha says neutrally, raising an eyebrow.

"They can," Steve says. "They are, plenty of the time. Just people make more fuss about it when they're not."

"Mm," she says, which says nothing.

"All else aside, this is not exactly the time to tell the world we're dating Captain America," Sam says dryly. "We've got enough trouble going without borrowing more."

"We aren't dating Captain America," Natasha says, just slightly abrupt. At least, abrupt for Natasha.

"I kind of think we are," Sam says with a shrug. "Maybe that's just me, though."

"I'd kill anyone for him," Bucky says, and that might be the Winter Soldier again.

"Okay, not just me," Sam says, then gives Natasha a pointed look. She doesn't say anything; just looks back at him evenly. Steve isn't entirely sure how the conversation ended up here.

"No one's dating anyone. Nobody signed up for that," he says, trying to sound . . . not awkward, if nothing else. Sam snorts.

"Man, I don't make breakfast for every stray super-spy that comes by," he says. "I am not platonic about you."

"You made breakfast for both of us," Steve says, slightly inanely.

"Did I say I was platonic about anyone in this situation?" Sam says pointedly. "Well, maybe you, Barnes, I don't know if I want to deal with all that."

"I broke your wings," Bucky says.

"Yeah, I was there," Sam says. "Gonna hold that one against you for a while, for the record."

"I tried to kill you," Bucky says.

"Also was there for that," Sam says. "Little more willing to forgive that one, on account of all the brainwashing. The wings thing was just not necessary, though. That was gratuitous.”

“. . . sorry?” Bucky says doubtfully.

“Yeah, that’s a start,” Sam says.

“We might be able to fix those,” Steve says, seriously wondering about all of their priorities given the current political climate. Including his own, because he currently cares way too much about the idea of Sam and Bucky getting along. It's better if they do, obviously, just it really should not be so important right now. “Well, Tony might. If he's in the right mood."

"What mood and how do I get him in it?" Sam says immediately. Steve would probably feel similarly about the shield if it were damaged like that, so doesn't blame him.

"I'll ask him," he says.

“Tell him you’re dating, he’ll like that,” Natasha drawls, resting her chin in her hand. “And probably make Uncle Sam jokes for at least a week.”

“If he fixes my wings he can make Uncle Sam jokes for a month,” Sam says.

“Don’t give him permission, he’ll only abuse it,” Steve sighs, hoping the “dating” thing will just blow by and—

“Can you dance yet?” Bucky says, frowning faintly. Steve glances heavenwards. So much for that slim hope.

“Not even slightly,” he says. “It’s not as much a thing these days, though.”

“Sounds like an excuse,” Bucky says, giving him a dubious look. Steve has no idea why they’re talking about his love life when they should still be making plans to track down HYDRA agents, but it’s not the first time Bucky’s gone off on that particular tangent. It’s almost enough to make him homesick, in fact. “You dance, Wilson?”

“Actually, yeah,” Sam says. “Took some lessons when I was younger.”

Bucky gives Steve the same dubious look. Steve tries not to sigh again. It’s better than the death threats, he reminds himself.

“It’s really not the time for dancing, Buck,” he says.

“I mean, I wouldn’t say no,” Sam says, and Steve’s heart sort of . . . clenches. He steadies himself, and exhales slowly.

“That’s . . . okay,” he says. “I’ll, uh. Remember that.”

“Should we get you a dance card so he can reserve a spot?” Natasha drawls.

“You should too,” Bucky says. Natasha arches an eyebrow at him.

“What, dance?” she says. “How about you first, Barnes.”

“Alright,” he says, then stands up and holds his hands out towards Steve. Steve . . . blinks, slowly. Bucky waits with a sniper’s patience, apparently unbothered.

“There’s no music,” Steve says, feeling like an idiot.

“It’s the future, alpha,” Sam says, pulling his phone out of his pocket and looking down at it. “Any requests?”

“Something old-fashioned, I’m going to bet,” Natasha says. Steve deeply regrets not being the wolf right now.

“I’m ninety-five, not dead,” he says, and Bucky steps in close and grabs his hands and pulls them into position. It’s not the first time he’s done it, though Steve doesn’t know if he remembers. He’d tried to teach him, though, once or twice over the years. Never really managed it.

Sam plays music, and Bucky pulls Steve into the dance. Steve almost immediately trips, and Bucky huffs at him. If he couldn’t feel the other’s cool metal hand and see Sam and Natasha, it’d be just like Brooklyn, or the war, or . . .

Steve exhales, and Bucky pulls him back into the dance. Steve can almost, almost feel him like he used to.

This isn’t what they should be doing right now, but he’s not going to be the one to stop it.