Archive of Our Own

Bucky wakes up to the unexpected but not unpleasant sensation of a hand stroking his hair.

It takes him a minute to get any further than that because, unlike Steve who apparently holds nothing sacred, it’s fucking Saturday and he has no alarm clock noise bullying him into action. He blinks groggily as the hand disappears, and the bed beside him dips with Steve’s weight as he crawls up next to him on top of the comforter, slotting in behind him and spooning him now that he sees Bucky is nominally awake.

“S’early,” Bucky groans, turning his face into his pillow.

Steve’s low laugh rumbles through his chest against Bucky’s back more than he hears it in his ears.

“Not that early, Buck. Nearly nine.”

“It’s Saturday,” Bucky mumbles into his pillow case. Steve reaches up again to run his hand through Bucky’s hair and Bucky huffs, rolling his head just enough to crack one bleary, resentful eye at him. “Steve, my beloved, my own, I love you but nine is early on a Saturday. You know my feelings on this.”

Steve ducks his head, but doesn’t look particularly apologetic otherwise. “Yes very aware but remember what else it is? Besides Saturday?”

Bucky sighs, giving in to Steve’s snuggling since he’s apparently awake now despite his best efforts at training his boyfriend in the art of how weekend mornings are supposed to go. He rolls over in the circle of Steve’s arms, pressing his face into Steve’s chest instead.

“What?” he grumbles. Steve’s already dressed. If Bucky had to guess he’s probably already gone running and had breakfast and been waiting for Bucky to rise for the past couple of hours.

“It’s moving day!” Steve’s voice is full of barely suppressed eagerness, despite his cautiously low tone, and he squeezes his arms around Bucky, jostling him excitedly. It’s kid-on-Christmas-morning levels of excitement, and Bucky makes the effort to open both eyes this time to peer up into Steve’s face, which is bright with happiness in the morning sunshine. It’s hard to hold onto grumpiness even in the single digits of Saturday morning hours in the face of all that.

Bucky smiles too, stretching out his back against his last bit of grogginess, and tucks his nose in under Steve’s ear. “Moving day,” he repeats.

He slips his arms around Steve’s waist, pressing in closer so their bodies are flush but for the bedding between them, and savors the sensation of Steve’s nose nuzzling in his messy bed hair and Steve’s warm, wide hands running soothingly up and down his back.

After a few minutes, Steve’s hands begin to wander a bit more intentionally. Bucky laughs softly and slips his arms up around Steve’s neck instead, shifting his body against Steve’s.

“What you trying to get at, boyfriend?” he asks teasingly.

“I dunno,” Steve says, but his voice is a little rougher than it was before, giving himself away. “Nothing. Whatever you want.”

Bucky laughs again. He’s not usually much of a morning glory kind of guy, unless staying asleep until noon and messing around after brunch in bed counts. But it is moving day, after all.

He kicks down the covers and rolls onto his back, pulling Steve on top of him. Steve’s broad arms bracket his head, weight pressing him into the mattress, making him feel pleasantly defenseless and warm. Steve rolls his hips gently into Bucky’s, and Bucky takes in a sharp breath, head tipping back against the pillow and arching into it a little. Steve moves his hands to Bucky’s wrists, pressing them down too on either side of him. Right, okay, he’s definitely awake now.

Unfortunately, just as Steve begins a tantalizing trail of open-mouthed kisses up his neck and Bucky is considering rolling him over again and making things interesting, there’s a quick succession of several aggressive buzzes from his phone on the bedside table.

Steve lifts his head away from his efforts to glance at it, and Bucky makes an annoyed noise.

“It’s your mom,” Steve says, ruefully. Another two buzzes. “And Becca.” And one more. “And your dad.”

“Jesus Christ I should never have agreed to letting them help, they—” There’s two more buzzes from the side table.

They look at each other for a moment, Steve’s hands still on Bucky’s wrists. Then they both laugh, and the rigid intention in their muscles gives way in resignation to the fact that they probably aren’t going to be able to finish what they started right now after all. Steve rolls away and lies next to him, and Bucky rubs his face with an aggrieved groan.

“Moving day,” he says through his hands, steeling himself to start the day much less slowly and enjoyably than he’d hoped a minute ago.

“Moving day,” Steve agrees. He sits up and drops a quick kiss on Bucky’s forehead, pushing his hair off of it before he’s up all the way and off the bed. Bucky allows himself one whiny noise of frustration before he, too, swings his legs to the side of the bed and sets his feet on the floor to get going.

***

It’s already warm outside by the time they hit the street and head toward Bucky’s parents, hand in hand. Though really it’s to that time of summer where it never stops being warm, just gets slightly bearable for a few hours in the dead of night before ramping right back up. Not ideal for the fact that they’ll be carrying all of Bucky’s junk over here for the next couple of hours, but hey—a guy can’t have everything be perfect all at once. Bucky shoots a sideways glance at Steve’s beaming profile and grins to himself. Worth it.

It’s been nearly nine months since they started seeing each other. Seven months since they walked the red carpet at Tony Stark’s New Year’s party and made their relationship public so that they could walk hand in hand in Brooklyn (or anywhere else) without worrying about inadvertently stumbling into a media circus. And even better, it’s been about four months since the media circus they’d intentionally walked into at said party had moved on and stopped caring about Captain America’s boyfriend.

It’s great, being Old News. The immediate fallout and hot takes and opinions circulated about his looks, career history, social life, and general worthiness at the time wouldn’t exactly go on Bucky’s list of the most fun he’s ever had. Still, he’d been proud of his own ability as an emotionally healthy adult to mostly stay well out of it and not google himself for a while. It had been Steve who got heated about it on a nearly daily basis for several weeks—which of course just led to the whole thing taking on new life every time he got righteous and decided to defend Bucky’s honor to some idiot on the internet. Eventually Bucky had convinced him that not saying anything was the high road. And at last, everyone had moved on to something newer and shinier to play with.

So now they just do stuff, like real boyfriends. Every once in a while he’ll catch someone unsubtle taking their picture when they’re out to dinner—usually if they’re in Manhattan, less around their own neighborhood. But it’s not so bad. Holding Steve’s hand on the street without thinking about it is more than fair compensation.

“Bucky Barnes, what kinda trouble are you up to today kid?” calls a scratchy voice from a stoop as Bucky and Steve are walking by. Steve’s hand tenses slightly in his, an involuntary reaction. Bucky just smiles and squeezes his hand reassuringly, raising the other one to wave at Mr. Dorrity.

“Mike you leave him alone! How you doing honey?” Mrs. Dorrity pops up from beside her assortment of potted plants, dusting her gloved hands off from where she’s re-potting a wilted looking begonia, smacking Mr. Dorrity’s shoulder, who just chortles and lights another cigarette. “Oh and Steve too, you boys heading over to your ma’s?”

“That’s right,” Bucky says cheerfully. “We’re all moving my stuff into Steve’s place today.”

“Is that right!” Mrs. Dorrity exclaims. “Good for you. Gosh I remember when you were just a little kid crashing your bike into my azaleas—”

“Yeah it’s great!” Bucky interrupts, keeping his tone as cheerful as possible but knowing if he gets sucked into letting Mrs. Dorrity reminisce they’ll be standing here for way longer than he wants to commit to right now. The Dorritys have lived here, five houses up, since Bucky was a kid, and their youngest daughter had been his and Becca’s babysitter once upon a time, so she’s got a lot of material if she gets rolling. “Gotta get started before it gets too hot out here. Plants are looking great Mrs. Dorrity, I’ll tell my ma you said hi.”

“You do that sweetie, come by and see us sometime huh? You and your boyfriend—Steve,” she says, maybe realizing mid-sentence that it’s weird to talk about him like he’s not there, and giving Steve a friendly nod. Steve waves back, looking sheepish.

Bucky agrees and tugs Steve’s hand to get them moving again, laughing to himself. In Manhattan he may get photographed occasionally for being Steve’s boyfriend—but on his street, Steve is Bucky Barnes’ boyfriend and not the other way around, no matter what else he’s got going for him.

The door of Bucky’s parents’ house is standing open when they walk up, so they can already hear the sound of Winifred’s voice pouring out, directing George to do something, though it’s unclear what as it’s Becca’s voice that replies for him instead.

“Ready for this?” Bucky asks, stopping at the bottom of the stoop.

Steve grins back at him. “Been ready for weeks, Buck.”

And Bucky melts, as always, as they head together up the stairs.

***

“Bex,” Bucky puffs, feeling the cardboard of the box slipping out of his hold and trying to peer around the one stacked on top of it, “can you at least get the door?”

“Hmm?” Becca hums, not listening at all as she walks up behind him. She’s huffing almost as badly as he is even though she isn’t holding anything but her phone in her hands. Which she’s looking at now, completely unaware of Bucky’s precarious box situation. “Oh.” She says, doing her best to sidle around him as he makes a pained noise at her.

“Yeah oh,” Bucky grunts, trying to resituate his handhold. Nearly there anyway. “Why did you even come if you aren’t capable of doing anything that remotely resembles helping?”

“Be nice,” Becca says, tartly. The door to Steve’s apartment swings open, and Becca saunters in still ignoring Bucky’s troubles. She tucks her phone into her back pocket and turns to watch him struggle the two boxes into the living room where he lets them fall with a thump beside the others stacked there already. He slumps back to sit on top of one and raises the back of his hand to his sweaty forehead with maybe a little more theatrics than necessary.

Becca grins wickedly at him, and then puts on a very wide-eyed simper, hand going to the swell of her belly. “I’m with child,” she says, meaningfully, “I can’t be expected to grow this human and move all your shit across town. Besides,” she drops the fake expression and shrugs, pulling her phone back out of her pocket, tapping at the screen. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—this whole thing is your fault. And Steve’s. You’ll be lucky if I don’t leave her in a basket on your doorstep on the way home from the hospital.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, hauling himself up off the box of books and shambling toward the kitchen. “Rebecca for the last time, Steve and I agreeing to babysit did not make you get so wasted at an office Christmas party that you and Ray couldn’t—”

“Uncle Bucky!” Bucky cuts off abruptly as a small figure hurtles out of the second bedroom and flings herself at his waist. Both Bucky and Becca turn to the door with matching expressions of Barnes children embarrassment.

“—uh, couldn’t wait to um, give Soph a sister,” Bucky finishes guiltily. Ray follows Sophie out with his usual expression of equanimity, though Bucky notes that his ears are extremely pink.

“I thought you guys went with Mom to pick up the food,” Becca says, chagrined.

Ray shakes his head. “I was putting Bucky’s desk together.”

“Ah.” Is Becca’s only comeback.

“Did you know that Steve has every kind of paint Uncle Bucky?” Sophie asks, looking up at Bucky from where her arms are still wrapped around his middle. “Can I try them?”

“Maybe sometime we’ll have another art day, how about that?” Bucky asks, not actually sure if Steve would enjoy letting Sophie at his collection of supplies. But they could always pick up some washable tempera before he has to make good on it.

“Like today maybe?” Sophie asks, tightening her grip around him.

“Um maybe not today, we’re moving remember?” Bucky hedges.

“Tomorrow?” Sophie prods, and Becca snorts beside Bucky but doesn’t offer him any kind of succor in the negotiation.

“I think we’d better wait to ask Steve, since they’re his paints. But soon okay?” Bucky gently disengages Sophie’s vice-grip, but squeezes her shoulder. She frowns, clearly turning the offer over in her mind.

“Okay,” she says after a moment, face clearing. “I’ll ask Steve. I think he will want me to come play with him tomorrow.”

With that pronouncement Sophie turns and scampers off again into the recesses of the apartment, leaving Bucky not quite sure how he just got checkmated so neatly. He turns a bewildered look to Becca, who smiles back with at least a small amount of sympathy mixed into her amusement.

“I’m telling you, kid’s gonna be a hostage negotiator one day. She’s gotten way worse since she realized this is going to result in another actual kid in the house and she needs to assert her dominance,” Becca says, again patting her baby bump. She cocks her head, considering. “At least, I’m hoping for hostage negotiator—otherwise I’m worried I’ve got a budding Elizabeth Holmes on my hands and I’m not smart enough to counteract that.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to snort, shaking his head. “I’d better warn Steve—not that it’ll do any good, she’s got him wrapped right around her little finger as it is.” He laughs. “If I had to lay bets, I’d say we’ll be seeing you tomorrow.”

There’s a commotion outside the front door—what Bucky recognizes as the low rumble of Steve’s voice followed by his mom’s burbling laughter before the door swings open and there’s a confusion of three new bodies entering the apartment.

“Bucky we got lunch, honey—are you guys ready for a break?” Winnie asks cheerily, bustling toward the kitchen with a bottle of wine in both hands. Steve trails after her, three plastic bags full of takeout containers hanging from both arms—which are nicely on display today under Steve’s plain white t-shirt.

“Jamie, it’s William Powell day, okay if I put on the TV?” his dad asks, already brushing past Bucky to plant himself on the sofa.

“Hi, Buck,” Steve says, leaning in to drop a quick kiss on his cheek before depositing the food on the kitchen counter. It’s nothing showy, but the fact that Steve has gotten comfortable enough around Bucky’s family for casual PDA at all makes him feel several happy, twisty things in his chest even amidst the chaos.

His family is unmoved. There’s a sudden blast of sound from the TV as George figures out how to turn it on and begins flipping through to find TCM, and his mom strikes up her own efforts at adding to the sudden din by pulling what looks like every single plate, fork, and cup out of Steve’s cupboards like she’s expecting to feed at least twice as many people as currently occupy the apartment. Steve shoots Bucky a wry smile as Winnie bustles around him, bossing him on where to unpack the takeout containers.

“Dad can you turn it down,” Bucky doesn’t quite but almost shouts.

“Bucky do you know where the wine opener is?” his mom calls over the counter.

“It’s Life with Father, you love this one!” his dad shouts back without turning.

“Isn’t that a little on the nose?” Becca asks, shooting a look at Bucky as she slides in to sit next to George, tugging the remote out of his hand and turning the TV down to a more reasonable decibel level for Steve’s apartment.

“I don’t have any idea what you mean,” George replies with a huff. He grabs the remote back from Becca, but refrains from messing with the volume again, bringing up the guide instead. “Anyway it’s almost over. It’s My Man Godfrey next, Steve have you seen that one?” he calls the question over his shoulder toward the general vicinity of the kitchen where Steve is trailing Winnie as she replates everything he’d just unpacked, his presentation apparently not up to par.

“That,” Bucky says, making eye contact with Becca again, who’s hiding a snicker behind her hand, “might be even more on the nose, all things considered.”

“All you need to start an asylum is an empty room and the right kind of people,” George quotes back, deadpan.

“Think that makes you my ditzy dame, doesn’t it Buck?” Steve asks quietly, coming up behind Bucky’s shoulder, the question low enough to be just for him. As is the teasing smile that goes with it while Bucky sputters in indignation. “Yeah I loved that one George!” Steve adds, louder. “Always loved William Powell. I couldn’t grow one of those mustaches in the 30’s, maybe I should try it now huh?”

“Don’t you dare,” Bucky and Winnie both say at the same time, and Becca stops trying to cover her laughter at Bucky’s expense.

“Nana would probably approve,” she says.

“Nana doesn’t get a vote,” Bucky shoots back. “Ma can we eat yet? Yes? Time for everyone to eat and definitely stop ruining my life.”

“That’s not a very grateful way to talk to your loving family who came to help you move,” Becca says with a smirk, rising a little awkwardly with a hand on her lower back, as pregnant women seem obligated to do.

Bucky looks pointedly around at them sprawled out on the couch and kitchen, decidedly not helping in any discernible way. “You’re right, and you will not hear me speak one ill word of Ray on this day.”

Becca rolls her eyes and Bucky rolls his back, and she opens her mouth looking like she’s going for another zinger before Bucky’s mom steamrolls over them both, cheerfully ignoring the sibling struggle.

“Yes come eat! Wine is open too! Hopefully there’s enough food.”

Steve ducks his head and squeezes Bucky’s shoulder. There’s enough food now spread out on the counter for twenty movers, like it might have taken that many to cart over the half dozen or so boxes and two pieces of furniture that had comprised Bucky’s belongings from his room at his parents’.

His dad and Becca crowd over, muttering to themselves on two separate topics but both of which Bucky feels are probably directed at him, and start filling their plates with a few of the thousand pounds of Italian food on the counter.

Bucky follows suit, pulling Steve’s hand and urging him to do the same.

“Desk’s done,” Ray says quietly, exiting the office and shutting the door behind him.

“Thank you Ray,” Bucky says, meaning it.

A small blur streaks over to them from behind Ray, launching herself at Steve this time. Bucky realizes his error at once in not having put Steve on guard the minute he walked in, but it’s too late. He makes a frantic abort, abort! gesture over Sophie’s head, but Steve doesn’t see it—already caught in her web of cuteness as she peers up at him with big eyes.

“Steve, do you think I could come over tomorrow and play with your paint?”

“Sophie Elizabeth Proctor,” Becca says in her best Mom Voice. “Can we use our manners please?”

Sophie shoots a withering look at her mom before turning a solicitous one back to Steve again. It’s a tractor beam, that look, Bucky can already tell—Steve’s a goner.

“Steve, do you think you could please invite me over to play with your paint tomorrow?”

“Oh—I—um—” Steve stutters, looking uncertainly at Becca, who sighs and shrugs with an “it’s up to you” hand wave.

“I would really like to come play with you, since you are my uncle now too,” Sophie says, going in for the kill.

Bucky mentally makes preparations to go out and buy some kid-friendly snacks in the morning as he resigns himself to the inevitability that Sophie will be spending some part of the day with them.

“I—your uncle?” Steve asks.

Sophie gives him an eloquent look of disbelief. She’d definitely just have said duh, if that weren’t a no-no word at her house.

“My uncle Bucky lives with you now so you are my uncle too.”

“I guess—guess that’s true, huh?” Steve says, meeting Bucky’s eyes over the counter. Bucky tries to look jaded because he knows Sophie’s tactics well enough that they shouldn’t work on him too but falls somewhat short. Sue him, she’s really frickin cute when she turns it on. And Bucky likes the sound of Uncle Steve just about as much as Steve seems to, from the pleased flush climbing his cheeks as the rest of the family watches the interaction. “So you want to—paint? Tomorrow?” he asks, voice helpless.

Sophie nods decisively. “I used to have three uncles, and now I have four, but you are the only one who would like to paint with me.”

“Oh...kay then. Let’s uh—paint.” Steve says, and Sophie beams.

Bucky sighs and leans over the counter to dish a heaping round of mozzarella-smothered eggplant onto his plate, catching Becca’s eye. “Guess I’ll text you later and figure that out.”

“Guess you will,” Becca says with a laugh.

“You staying at mom and dad’s tonight?”

“Wasn’t sure but might as well if we’d be heading back this end of town anyway.”

“Nothing before twelve o’clock,” Bucky says sternly, gesturing with the eggplant parmesan spoon for emphasis.

“Yes brother, I do remember barely escaping my own tragic murder once or twice after accidentally waking your highness up before noon in high school.”

Bucky doesn’t deign to respond to that kind of trash comment from someone to whom he will apparently be providing free unexpected babysitting services the next day, and moves on to dishing himself a large serving of fettuccine alfredo.

It ends up being fortuitous timing with the movie, actually. His family is drawn around the television likes moths, and lulled into relative quiet (or at least letting Bucky alone for a minute) by the apparently greater entertainment of screwball 30’s antics. Even Sophie has a good time. But then, she’s got sophisticated taste for a five year old. That’s why he’s her favorite of her (now) four uncles. He’s pretty positive anyway.

Steve watches for a little while too, laughing and eating and fending off Winnie’s efforts to keep topping up his wine glass, insisting to her that she shouldn’t waste it on him when he can’t feel it anyway. Sometime in the middle though, after he’s cleared his way through two or three plates of Italian food, Bucky can sense him getting restless from his perch at Bucky’s elbow.

Eventually, he slips away to clean up the kitchen before moving on to fuss with Bucky’s boxes, carrying them off into the appropriate rooms of the apartment for getting unpacked.

“Can I help with something?” Bucky whispers, catching his wrist as he slips past, tucking a box in the back corner of the living room. Steve smiles and shakes his head.

“Sorry, just can’t relax quite yet. But you go ahead and take it easy—I know you love this movie.”

Bucky sighs and slouches lower on the couch, feeling a little guilty that Steve’s still working, but not guilty enough to get up at once. He hasn’t been quite as successful in fending off his mom’s campaign with the sauv blanc either.

After the movie ends, Bucky announces that he and Steve will happily walk back with everyone to the Barnes house—to double check he’s got everything he needs one last time, and to help carry at least half of the astonishing number of leftovers from the meal. Really though, it’s because he doesn’t think they’ll take the hint and make their way without being shooed, so he’s happy to make the walk once more to come back to a little peace.

Winnie fusses as she watches Steve pick up the takeout bags. “Oh Bucky I wish you’d keep at least a little something for later!”

“Ma,” Bucky says with some exasperation, “I kept enough for us to eat for like, three days! There’s way more of you guys at the house to finish it off. Besides,” he adds, nailing the coffin shut on the argument, “I wouldn’t want it to go bad and have to throw it out.”

Bucky’s mom purses her lips, but doesn’t push it further. Winifred Barnes lives in horror at the idea of leftovers going to waste. Not when the old “put it in a sandwich” rule can be applied to anything to create new and exciting ways to use up every last crumb. Thanksgiving turkey? Put it in a sandwich! Chicken parmesan? Put it in a sandwich! Fettuccine alfredo? You know what, it can’t hurt to try! Put it in a sandwich! Bread, in Winnie’s book at least, covers over a multitude of sins.

So she allows herself to be gallantly escorted to the door by Steve, calling for the rest of the Barneses to follow after in her wake.

Bucky’s dad hands Bucky the remote as he rises, and tells him in a low, conspiratorial tone, “Libeled Lady doesn’t start for another half hour Jamie, if we hurry your mom up you and Steve can be back just in time to catch it.”

Bucky’s mouth twists up in an affectionate laugh, and he slaps his dad on the shoulder. “Good looking out dad.”

His dad winks, and brushes the tip of his index finger across his nose like an old-timey con man, as if they’d just pulled off a grift of some kind instead of notifying one another about the TCM scheduling timetable.

Ray and Becca follow after him, Sophie nearly sacked out in her dad’s arms, head lolling on his shoulder blearily.

And Bucky trails at the end, locking the door of the apartment behind him with his ridiculous star-spangled key before taking up his spot as rear-guard, making sure that he and Steve don’t lose any of the flock before they’ve shepherded them all safely back home.

***

About an hour, three unplanned conversations with nosy neighbors, and several years off Bucky’s lifespan later, the front door of the Barnes’ house at last closes behind them with a decisive click, leaving Steve and Bucky standing in the relative quiet of the stoop.

Bucky sighs heavily, and slumps into Steve’s side, Steve’s arm going around his shoulder.

“I’m wiped out,” he says, slanting his face to rub his cheek on Steve’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, pulling his arm back and twining Bucky’s fingers with his instead. He looks down at Bucky for a minute, halo of gold hair even more golden and halo-y at the moment, backed by the soft orange glow of the streetlight. It got dark somehow, while Bucky wasn’t paying attention. Steve’s mouth tips up at the corners, eyes searching Bucky’s. “Let’s go home.”

The words are simple, but they shoot all the way through Bucky’s veins to his fingers and toes like beams of light, filling him up. Right. Home. Together.

Bucky squeezes his hand tighter, and looks away, knowing if he doesn’t and he just keeps letting Steve look at him like that they’re gonna end up making out on his parents’ front stoop. And that’s foolish when they can just walk back to their apartment right now instead. What a concept. Bucky's never reached the cohabitation stage with someone before, and it's definitely a rush. Though he doubts it would be half as much of one if the someone were anyone other than Steve—but everything about Steve so far has been a rush, really.

The air, which has been muggy all day, is suddenly congealing into something that feels like more intentional weather. Supposedly there are thunderstorms headed their way this week. But right now it’s just an added weight to their breath, and a stickiness where Bucky’s t-shirt is clinging to his back. It’s still hot out. The months of spring where the daytime temperature gave way to pleasant nights is gone—it’s truly summer now. And smells like it, too, Bucky thinks as they walk past the mouth of a particularly rank alleyway.

They walk in silence for a few minutes, the trip going much faster now that it’s just the two of them with no extra boxes or Barneses in tow.

“What are you thinking about?” Bucky asks at last, as they make their turn onto the end of Steve’s—their—street and begin to close the last handful of blocks.

“Hmm?” Steve hums, seemingly pulled from some kind of reverie. Bucky smiles to himself at Steve’s wide eyed eyebrow raise. God he’s cute. You’re a lucky bastard, Barnes.

“I asked what you were thinking about,” he repeats. He steps in a little closer, wrapping his other hand around Steve’s bicep so they’re in lock step side by side. “I’m assuming it’s about how on earth you’re gonna get rid of me after spending yet another stellar day with the Barnes circus.”

“Oh, definitely.” Steve says good-naturedly, grinning back. “I was just thinking—if I constructed some sort of platform or sling—with my extra strength I’m pretty sure I could get all of your boxes back here in one trip even. Leave you on the doorstep with a note pinned to your shirt.”

“Jerk,” Bucky says, without much heat, smacking Steve’s arm. His grip on his hand doesn’t relent a bit though. “Convenient of you to mention this in consideration of getting rid of me, where was this information earlier when we had to put up with my whole family in the process of you acquiring me? I’d’ve happily built some sort of—of howdah for you. To just sneak my stuff out in the night.”

“Howdah?”

“You know, the like—platform thing people used to put on elephants. That’s what I’m assuming you had in mind.”

“Mmm that was exactly it, thanks,” Steve says dryly.

They walk the last few blocks until Steve’s building is in view.

“But really,” Bucky says, swinging his hand. “You seemed very pensive, what were you thinking about?”

They come to a stop in front of Steve’s building, and instead of answering, Steve turns to face him, taking Bucky’s other hand in his and looking at him again with that soft, thoughtful look he’d given him on the stoop of Bucky’s parents.

This time Bucky doesn’t keep himself from leaning forward into the warmth of Steve’s chest, tipping his face up. They’re in front of their own house now after all. Steve meets him halfway without hesitation, kissing him softly. He slips one of his hands from Bucky’s as Bucky leans into it, moving it up to cup the back of his head and sliding his fingers through Bucky’s hair. It’s getting long again—not the longest it’s ever been, but just enough to tuck behind his ears. Which Steve does now as he pulls back from the kiss, brushing one long lock that had fallen against his cheek back into place.

“Guess I was thinking,” Steve says, voice low as their faces are still tilted close to one another, “about how you’re staying here tonight.”

Bucky gives a soft puff of laughter, letting his eyes close a moment as Steve brushes at the lock of hair again, though it’s decidedly in place now. Steve runs his thumb over his cheekbone, and lets his hand come to rest against the side of Bucky’s neck.

“I stayed here last night,” Bucky says.

“Mmm,” Steve hums, leaning forward and pressing a kiss first to one cheek, then the other. “But you’re staying here in the morning, too.” He kisses Bucky’s mouth again, and Bucky tries to chase after his lips when he breaks it, but Steve holds him gently in place. “And the next night, and the one after that. That’s what I was thinking.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, opening his eyes to find Steve’s on him again, with something a little like wonder and more than a little like adoration, if he were forced to put a fine point on it. It’s a quiet feeling, to be on the receiving end of that look. One that isn’t exactly unfamiliar, because it’s been growing steadily between them in the eight months since this all started. But somehow it’s no less likely to swamp him in this moment for all that. “That’s a good thought.”

He leans forward to kiss Steve one more time, letting all of his senses narrow down to the softness and warmth of Steve’s mouth against his, a bright point of connection.

“Know what another good one is?” he asks, taking a half step back out of Steve’s space. Steve raises his eyebrows in question. “That we can go upstairs and get in our bed right now if we want to.”

“Ah,” Steve says, mouth twisting in a grin as they both turn back and start moving again up the front steps toward the door. “You’re right, that’s another good thought.”

Bucky squeezes his hand before he lets go so they can climb the stairs, which aren’t quite wide enough to go up side-by-side very comfortably even in Steve’s nicer-than-average building. Bucky goes up ahead of Steve, so Steve can’t see his grin turn teasing before he sighs dramatically and rolls his shoulders.

“Glad to hear it—because my back is killing me from moving boxes and spending time with my family and now that we’re settling into domestic bliss I’ll expect you to put those strong hands to work helping me out with that.”

Steve snorts as they turn on the landing up the next flight, shooting Bucky a look with one eyebrow raised. “Whatever you say, darling.”

Bucky laughs as Steve puts both hands on his back, helping propel him up the stairs. It really is sore, and he’s tired as hell. He’s gonna sleep great tonight, no doubt.

But first...first he’s full of shit, because his sore back doesn’t in any way counteract the light buzz of desire that started humming through him as soon as Steve stepped in to kiss him, and it’s not going to stop him from getting Steve to pin him up against the door as soon as they get into the apartment either. Then he’ll be able to sleep really great.

Bucky lets himself lean progressively further and further back against Steve’s hands as they do the final flight of stairs, just to see if Steve will eventually notice and either drop him or tell him to walk like an adult. He’s practically horizontal by the last step, and Steve just tips him gently back onto his feet as he comes up behind him. Bucky chuckles and Steve pokes him in the ribs, suddenly seeming to realize he’s being teased.

“Brat,” he says, and Bucky laughs harder. “Want I should carry your majesty the rest of the way through the door?”

“No, Steve,” Bucky says with mock indignation, “carrying me over the threshold is for wedded bliss not cohabitation. You in a hurry or something?”

Steve blushes brilliant pink, despite being at the point where he’s had plenty of practice with Bucky’s sense of humor that one would think he’d have been trained out of it. Bucky lets out another peal of laughter at the deer-in-the-headlights look on his face and pauses to take Steve’s burning face in both hands.

“I’m kidding, Steve. Don’t forget to breathe okay?”

Steve gives him a doleful look, and Bucky smacks a kiss over his pout.

Steve opens his mouth to say something, and Bucky’s already smirking preemptively at whatever it’s going to be when the sound of a door opening in the hall distracts them both. Bucky spins, for some reason feeling guilty, his back bumping into Steve’s unmoving wall of chest.

It’s the door across from Steve’s, and Steve’s neighbor Kate—of the scrubs and eternal laundry runs—who gives them a wide smile when she sees them.

“Hey! Just who I was looking for!” She steps out into the hallway, shutting her door carefully behind her.

“Hi Kate,” Bucky says sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck and stepping aside so it doesn’t look like Steve is hiding behind him. “How’s it going?”

“Oh you know, the usual,” she says. Bucky doesn’t have time to reply that he actually doesn’t know what “the usual” means for her before she continues, holding up a bright blue pot containing a lush looking plant in front of her. “I wanted to give you a little something to welcome you to the building, now that it’s official!” Her eyes flick over Bucky’s shoulder, looking at Steve. “It’s just a plant, Steve,” she adds, her voice going soothing in a way that strikes Bucky as odd and unnecessary. But then he looks over at Steve too, and sees that his shoulders have gone tense, and the line between his brows is out in full force.

“Um…” Bucky says, uncertainly, looking back and forth between them. “Thanks, Kate, it’s...it’s pretty.”

“You’re welcome Bucky,” Kate says, stepping forward to hand him the pot. But her eyes go right back to Steve and whatever silent conversation the two of them are having. “It’ll be great to have you here. I’d like to drop by tomorrow, if I can. To see if I can help you getting settled. Officially.”

Steve makes a low noise of displeasure in his throat, and Bucky’s mouth drops open in confused concern, not even trying to hide at this point since Steve and Kate aren’t bothering to hide...whatever this is.

“We’re busy, Kate.” Steve says, his tone unusually stern. “He just moved in, there’s plenty of time for—for dropping by another time.”

Kate smiles a little sadly, and shakes her head. “It’s time Steve. I'm sorry, but you know I’m right.” She stares back at him, meaningfully.

To Bucky’s continued surprise and alarm, it’s Steve who looks away first, dropping his gaze with an irritated huff.

“Okay. Tomorrow night. We’ve got our—Bucky’s—niece coming over in the afternoon.”

Kate nods, smiling again, though it’s a bit strained. “You come knock on my door when you’re ready for me, I’ll be around.”

“Yeah,” Steve says with a sigh, sounding resigned. “Okay.”

“If you—forget,” Kate says, “I’ll knock on yours.”

Steve shoots one final glare at her, before letting his shoulders slump. “Right, I get it. See you tomorrow.”

“You boys have a good night,” Kate says. Then she makes her retreat, disappearing back into her apartment before Bucky can get any traction with his thoughts.

“Uh—” He starts, turning a significant look to Steve.

“Hang on, let’s—let’s get inside first,” Steve cuts in, stepping forward and taking Bucky’s elbow protectively. It’s the kind of thing he does if he notices someone following them on the street with a camera, or when he thinks somebody nearby is up to no good.

Bucky lets himself be herded into the apartment with the plant clutched in both hands. He goes first and sets it on the counter to pour a cup of water into the soil absently while he considers what he just witnessed. Then he turns around, and finds Steve hovering at the end of the kitchen island.

“Alright Rogers, spill,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “You guys what? Used to date or something?” he asks because that used to be his assumption about Steve’s chilly treatment of his neighbor, though honestly that doesn’t seem to account for this latest interaction. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about it for ages because you’re always weird about Kate and I let you off the hook. But it’s time to explain because that was weird as shit.”

“Her name isn’t Kate,” Steve says, still sounding grumpy as he shuffles around Bucky and starts unloading dry dishes from the draining board. He puts a few glasses away in the cupboard with a clatter, and Bucky just watches him with raised eyebrows.

Steve shuts the cupboard shut with a little bit too much strength, and Bucky winces as the whole cabinet shakes with the force. He bites down on a tart comment though, because he can see Steve’s shoulders hitch up around his ears with instant regret over it. Steve takes in a deep breath and turns again, his face carefully schooled into a calmer expression, and he grips his hands together in front of himself.

“I’m sorry Buck I—she’s kind of a sore subject.”

“Clearly,” Bucky says, allowing himself just a little bit of sarcasm. Steve’s face twitches and he looks at the ground.

“Her real name is Sharon Carter, and she’s a Shield agent. My handler,” he adds, the last word coming with some extra venom. He looks back up at Bucky. “I don’t need someone spying on me, but it turns out when you work for an agency of spies it’s non-negotiable. And I’ve tried. Repeatedly.”

“Okay,” Bucky says slowly, wrapping his mind around this, and letting the pieces of Steve’s strange reactions to Kate’s—Sharon’s presence over these months fall into place. “So she just—checks up on you? Or what?”

Steve shrugs. “Mostly. When I first moved in the place was full of bugs, but I put my foot down about that. She’s supposedly just there as back-up now, if anything happened over here.”

“She spying on you or for you?” Bucky asks, eyeing the potted plant now with some suspicion. Her comment about it being just a plant makes more sense now.

Steve snorts. “I dunno. Not sure she does either. Shield agents spy, full stop. The why doesn’t always occur to them.”

“But she keeps to her side of the hall now? That you got rid of the bugs and stuff?”

Steve gives another rolling one-shouldered shrug. “That’s the idea.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, frowning. “I mean...don’t bite my head off or anything but—isn’t it kind of nice to know you’ve got back up? If you need it? I mean if someone wanted to get at you, by the time they got here...” Bucky trails off, following the thought through for a minute. “Has that ever happened? Someone made it to your home to…?”

Steve goes pink across his cheekbones again, and looks away. “Not since the very beginning, some uh—bad mail made it through,” he admits, and Bucky opens his mouth in consternation, but Steve rushes ahead, “but that was just because nobody knew what to do with me yet! It hasn’t happened since then. You’re safe here, Buck, we both are. I swear to god.”

Bucky opens and closes his mouth a couple of times. “Let me guess, K—Sharon checks all your mail now first?”

Steve shifts evasively, but finally nods.

Bucky ponders that for a moment. “She a good agent?”

Steve hesitates, his expression going stubborn. But he nods again.

“She ever come in here uninvited since you got rid of the bugs, or violated your privacy outside the scope of her job?”

Steve looks like a butterfly pinned to a board, but Bucky holds his eyes and he shakes his head.

“No-o,” he says. Then he cocks his head. “Well, one time she did break my lock because I was supposed to check in with medical from a concussion and I forgot. But I was fine.”

Bucky takes in a deep breath, and pinches at the bridge of his nose.

“Okay so one time because she thought there was a possibility that you had died in here she broke in. And the rest of the time she just says hi in the hallway waiting around to kill bad guys as needed and scans your mail for—for explosives and anthrax and whatever. I’m hearing this correctly?”

“Yes,” Steve grunts, the monosyllable managing to sound extremely petulant, apparently seeing where Bucky is going with this.

“And she wants to come over to talk to me officially tomorrow because…?”

“Because she probably wants to set you up with your own panic code, and run down the protocols for if something happens here while I’m away.”

Bucky bites the corner of his cheek, and watches how Steve’s shoulders hunch up in that trying-to-look-smaller way that he does when he’s uncomfortable or upset. Then Bucky sighs, the irritation going out of him. He steps forward and cups a hand under Steve’s chin, making him look up at him and stop avoiding his gaze.

“Steven Grant Rogers,” he says, in a much softer tone, searching Steve’s unhappy expression. “You are one of the kindest, most fair-minded people I’ve ever met. Why does Sharon wanting to protect you—or me—bother you enough to be as rude as I’ve ever seen you be to someone who wasn’t actively punching you?”

“I didn’t—” Steve starts, then clears his throat. “I didn’t want her scaring you or making you think—think it might be dangerous to be here.” Steve meets Bucky’s eyes steadily now, intent, and he reaches up and grips Bucky’s hand forcefully where it rests against his cheek. “I can protect you Bucky. I’d never let anything happen to you because you chose to move in with me. I want you to feel safe here, like you do at home. Not thinking about what-ifs of something going wrong. I can keep you safe.”

“Oh Steve,” Bucky says with a sigh, taking one more step forward. Steve raises his arms automatically, and Bucky falls against him into the protective circle of them, resting his head on Steve’s shoulder, and feeling the rise and fall of Steve’s chest against his. “I know that. You think I could feel safer anywhere than I do with you? That’s crazy, and I don’t. I know you. How long you been stressed about this?”

Steve sighs, tightening his arms around Bucky, and turning his head to rest his chin on top of Bucky’s hair. “Since I gave you that key, I guess. She wanted to bring you in to Shield then but I talked her out of it. I just wanted...to have a little time to get to enjoy this like normal people for a bit, is all. Before you got a forceful reminder that I’m not. Normal.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, with a small nod that jostles them both. “Well you can stop worrying, alright? I’m not gonna be scared off knowing you’ve got contingencies. And I know you aren’t normal. I love how not normal you are. I love just how safe I feel with you.” Bucky smiles against the skin of Steve’s throat. “And I actually love knowing there’s at least someone worrying about whether you’re safe too, aside from me. She probably has a gun even. Best I could do is throw that plant at someone, so it’s good news.”

“You sure?” Steve whispers.

Bucky tilts his head to kiss Steve’s cheek, and lift a hand to smooth out the line between his eyebrows with his thumb. “I’m sure. I know it seems like I forget about your day job half the time but I’m not dumb, and I knew what I was getting into. Sort of. Eventually.” He pauses. “I get it now anyway. And I love you with my whole heart and I have never ever wished I was dating a—a barista, or a contractor or a finance guy or whatever instead of you. I’m very content as Captain America’s now-live-in boyfriend, okay?”

“I love you too,” Steve says, voice a little thick. “And you—you make me feel safe too, Buck.”

Bucky doesn’t have an answer involving words for how that makes him feel. So he settles for closing his eyes and tipping his head back to let Steve kiss him, long and slow in the kitchen of their apartment.

Pretty soon, Steve has him backed against the adjacent counter, with Bucky’s arms clutched tight around Steve’s neck as Steve kisses all rational thought out of him.

Steve grips Bucky at the waist and lifts him up to sit on the kitchen counter, and Bucky reaches for the hem of Steve’s shirt.

They don’t make it out of the kitchen for a good while longer than Bucky’d intended. But in the end he wraps his legs around Steve’s waist beside the sink and thinks fuck it, time for that later too.

When Steve dumps him into bed later, it’s to the pleasant discovery that he’d somehow managed to find time to remake it with fresh sheets while Bucky was distracted with his family. It’s luxury unparalleled.

Tomorrow, he muses, they’ll entertain a five year old, make nice with a secret agent (who Bucky has already planned to make a batch of cookies for to begin apologizing for Steve’s crankiness), and maybe even unpack some of Bucky’s things to fill up some of the empty spaces of Steve’s apartment. It’s always been a little sparse on decor. Like it was waiting for another half of a pair to add their mark on it. Maybe they’ll cook together, because Bucky has been trying to teach Steve—a slow, mostly losing but still very fun battle. Or maybe they’ll just eat leftover Italian and flip a coin for who has to wash the dishes.

However tomorrow goes, tonight it’s just them and their potted plant in a quiet apartment.

Bucky snuggles down, wrapped in the cool, clean scent of Steve’s detergent. And between the new sheets and the stillness and Steve’s arm carelessly tossed over his waist already heavy with sleep, Bucky shuts his eyes thinking this night is just about the closest to perfect he’s ever had.