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"Do you think I should—"
"No."
"Really? You don’t think he’ll—"
"Uh uh. Nope."
"Come on, Sam, just a phone call, or a text, just to check in—"
"Is Falcon gonna have to whup Captain America’s ass? Is that gonna happen because Captain America can’t get it together enough to let his best friend have one night on his own, exploring the 21st century on his own terms? Huh? Steve, don’t make me do it. I don’t want this to be my supervillain origin story.”
"Saaaam—"
"I’ll do it, man. Natasha’s been teaching me some spy moves. I will sit on your star-spangled head if I have to.”
"Fine. But I think it bears mentioning that I lapped you seventeen times yesterday, so you’ll have to get a helluva lot faster to sit on my head—oof!”
"I told you, didn’t I? Nobody ever wants to listen to the Falcon."
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Steve's not, historically, a nag. No, he'd prefer to think of himself as...persistent. And really, it's not as if he's got a leg to stand on when it comes to keeping others from risky behavior—he's not so obtuse as to miss the fact that he regularly jumps out of speeding jets, or off really tall buildings.
But this is different. This is Bucky, out on his own for the first time in two years, liable to experience any number of setbacks without someone by his side who knows him. This is Bucky, refusing to answer any phone calls, assuring Steve that he's fine and commanding him to stop cramping my style, Rogers.
This is Bucky on a date.
Which, okay, look. Despite what Sam and Natasha say under their breaths (and they know he's got super hearing, those jerks, they're just doing it to mess with him) Steve is not jealous. He's not. So what if Bucky is going on a date when Steve's never been on a date in his entire life? So what if Bucky is texting other people, a secret, bemused smile on his face, when he's never hidden anything from Steve before? So what if Bucky is dressed to the nines, looking better-adjusted and more content than ever in recent memory, all because he's seeing a stranger that none of them have even met yet?
Bucky's recovering from something painful, sure. But he's a grownup, and he's always done just exactly what he wanted, regardless of what other people thought. That's good. It's right. It's how it should be, and Steve is happy. He's—he's not jealous.
Still. It's 7pm and Bucky's just left and Sam's just wrestled Steve to floor and ordered him not to go after Bucky, and now...now Steve is itchy.
He's a supersoldier, right? Trained in stealth. Really fast. And Natasha's always up for a little reconnaissance, especially if it means disguises.
Steve looks at his phone, the blank screen where usually, there'd be a line of grey and blue boxes. The emptiness is kind of mocking. Steve narrows his eyes.
Hey Natasha, he thumbs, I'm in the mood for pizza.You in?
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"If Sam sits on my head, I'm going to kill you," Natasha says conversationally, zipping up her hoodie.
Steve shoots a sardonic look at her, adjusting his ball cap. "If Sam sits on your head, it won't exactly be punishment," he says.
Natasha grins. "It might be," she says. "The fun kind." She cackles at Steve's horrified expression, and adjusts the collar of his jacket.
"You know Bucky's in a good place, right?" she asks, face turning slightly more serious. "Well. As good a place as anyone can be, considering what's been done to him." She bites her lip, which Steve has learned is a gift, a glimpse of Natasha's true vulnerability rather than affectation. "It took me awhile, to want to move outside the circle I'd made for myself. After. It's...a big step."
Steve lays a hand over Natasha's. "And look where you are now," he says, warmth and respect in his voice. "I want that for Bucky, too. I do."
Natasha cocks her head. "But?" she asks briskly, batting away Steve's hand after a brief squeeze.
Steve shrugs, tugs again at the brim of his ball cap. "It's been a rough road," he says quietly. "A lot has changed, and this. This is the first time since we got him back that I won't be there for him. Because he chose for me to not be there for him." He gives a self-deprecating laugh. "I guess I'm just —look, Bucky and I—our lives? The only thing that's ever come from us not being side by side, is. War. And pain."
Natasha doesn't make fun of him, bless her. "And rescue," she reminds. "However lost either of you gets, you find each other."
Emotion rises in Steve's throat, foreign, still, for all that Sam counsels him that it's okay to be sad, that it's okay to feel overwhelmed, sometimes.
"Thanks," he says with difficulty.
Natasha chucks Steve lightly in the chin. "No problem," she says. "It's hard, Steve. Change always is." She smiles, softly, kindly. "I get being afraid. Wanting some measure of control. But there are some things that don't change. That you're never gonna have to question." Her gaze is steady. "Trust all of this to turn out okay, okay?"
Steve ducks, passes a hand over the hot expanse of his neck. "Does this mean we shouldn't go stalk my best friend on his first date in seventy years?" he asks wryly.
Natasha brightens. "Hell no," she says cheerfully. "Sam's out tonight, and I'm bored."
Steve feels like he ought to be alarmed, a little.
Instead, he shares a smile with Natasha, and hand in hand, they walk the rest of the way to Joe's Pizzeria.
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The thing is, maybe Steve is a little jealous.
Maybe he's tired of him and Bucky only owning the dark parts of each other, the sorrow and the trauma, the depression and loneliness, the memories that terrify and haunt, sharing their demons over beer and fading nightmares.
Maybe he's dreamt, more and more lately, of lazy summer days on a fire escape, smelling the smoke of a rolled cigarette, Bucky's arm a comfortable weight across his shoulders.
Maybe he's missed the immovable, inseparable partnership they once had. How, whatever future they painted for themselves, it was always the two of them against the world.
Sure, Steve's got a family these days—he's got Sam and Natasha and the Avengers. He's got people. But before he had people, even Peggy and the Commandos, he had a person. He had Bucky.
And now, someone else will have him, too.
Steve's an honorable man. Righteous. Determined. But he's also covetous, and envious, and so very tired of forcing a place for himself in the world around him.
With Bucky, he's never had to.
He doesn't know what he'll do if he has to start now.
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The contented glow of friendship only lasts as long as it takes for Steve and Natasha to settle themselves into a small, shadowy corner booth and for Natasha to whip out her phone.
Youve got a boner for him
Natasha reads Sam's text aloud with relish, and Steve hisses for her to be quiet.
Bucky's at the bar of this tiny pizzeria, hands in his pocket, looking around with a small, nervous smile on his face. He looks younger than he ever has before, and it makes Steve's heart ache.
Im pretty sure he has a boner for you too dude
Natasha's channeling of Sam is almost uncanny. Steve narrows his eyes and refrains from putting a hand over her mouth only because he is absolutely positive she would actually murder him if he tried.
Just tell him. If hes ready to date chances are he wont freak about his childhood best friend and all around superhero being in2 him.
Steve stares at the text, which Natasha has the decency not to read out loud.
"Is that what you guys think this is?" he asks. There's a buzzing in the back of his head, a distant warning sound.
Natasha doesn't say anything, only tilts her head.
"I..it's not." He opens and closes his mouth. "It's not."
There are flashes, sometimes. When Bucky's hand is strong on the nape of Steve's neck, when Steve's curled around Bucky's back, when they're anchoring each other to a world that won't keep spinning, won't keep slinging them around too fast for their heads to process.
He remembers the molten joy pouring through his veins, when he looked at Peggy and Peggy looked at him. He remembers the wild hope and disbelief that caught his breath, turned him shy. He remembers the fierce and unstoppable need that took him by the navel and dragged him to Peggy in moments of danger and repose, placed him there, sentry, looming over her strong, square silhouette, happy despite himself during that godforsaken but exhilarating time.
That was love. The kind that he'd only ever heard about in the pictures. What he feels for Bucky—
The flashes of hot, sharp, stomach-bottoming sensation. The uncertainty, the throat-clogging, chest-tightening fist that grabs hold of him, makes it hard to breathe. The tidal wave of—of longing that threatens to close over his head.
That's not love. He loves Bucky, yeah, loves him in such a pervasive, irrefutable, ever-present way that he stayed on a burning Helicarrier even as it broke apart beneath his feet. But with Peggy, there was that added layer of desire, the shuddery tremble of his fingers as he imagined combing through her curls, the way he'd get hard at the powdery smell of her perfume, the hazy daydreams of the curve of her red lips and the intelligence in her dark eyes. Bucky, he's got an angular jaw and low voice and a smile that's rare but bright as the edge of a knife, but Steve doesn't—Steve's never—he can't—
Natasha is looking at him with sympathy, though she chooses to express it through an eloquent roll of her eyes.
I think Captain Oblivious only just got the memo, sweetass, she texts.
Steve can simply blink, heart thudding against his ribs as he looks blindly at his hands, then the ceiling, then the bar.
Where Bucky is currently getting up, turning to the door, expression full of apprehension as he's approached by a handsome man with blond hair and a wide grin.
The buzzing in Steve's head gets closer and louder.
Across the way, Bucky throws his head back and laughs. The man leans in, whispers something in Bucky's ear, and instead of rearing back like he sometimes still does when Steve gets too close, Bucky smiles.
A pizza slides in front of Natasha and Steve.
It tastes like cardboard in Steve's mouth.
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"You know," Steve says an hour and three large pizzas later, his voice sounding very far away. "I once stopped Pietro Maximoff in his tracks, and I'm still not quick enough where it counts."
Natasha sighs. "They didn't slip any rum into your diet Coke, did they?" she asks rather rhetorically, since Steve can't really get drunk.
"No," he answers anyway. "I'm being morose all on my own."
Natasha sighs again.
"There's no rule saying this date is going to turn into anything more," she says reasonably. "Honestly, I think he went on it just to prove to himself that he could."
Steve looks down at his empty plate. "No, I get it. I know. I just..." he makes a face. "I had an epiphany, and I don't think—" He scrubs a hand over his eyes. "Bucky's nowhere near ready to process that. This." He motions vaguely to himself. "Boy, for a tactical genius, I'm a real mess."
Natasha twinkles at him. "And modest, too," she says gravely.
They both look at Bucky for a moment. There's a plate of pasta between them, two forks sharing one dish. His head is bent close to his date's, listening closely. Steve remembers when Bucky would lay out on a threadbare blanket in Central Park, arms folded under his head and nodding along to whatever nonsense was being spouted by his sisters or his friends or Steve (because Steve was more than friends, more than family) at the moment.
A lot about Bucky is different. But some stuff isn't, and that's comforting to Steve. Because if the fundamentals of how he feels for Bucky haven't changed, maybe the fundamentals for how Bucky feels for Steve won't change, either. Regardless of whatever new blond interloper arrives on the scene.
That has to be enough.
"What if he did want you?" Natasha's voice interrupts Steve's grimly determined musings. She sounds curious. "He's obviously at a place where he can admit he's attracted to people. Attracted to men, even. What if he...made a move?"
Steve's already shaking his head. "No," he says. "Whatever you're planning, stop. I know you love that Millionaire Matchmaker show, but you're a hundred times scarier than Patty and I'm not Tony Stark."
Natasha hides a grin. "Good," she says. "Because Bucky sure isn't Pepper Potts."
Steve feels a migraine coming on. "Natasha. I know it sounds like a barrel of laughs for you and Sam to manipulate Bucky into—into some kind of situation with me, but I'm telling you. Don't."
Natasha's eyes lose their good humor. "You're my friend, Steve," she says flatly, and crosses her legs. Bad sign. "I've tried my hardest not to treat my friends like marks. However stupid they're being." She leans in, looks down her nose at him. "And I of all people know what it's like to be made a puppet again even after you think the old strings have been cut. If Bucky does anything, it'll be of his own volition." Her face softens. "I swear it."
Steve feels abruptly ashamed. "Okay," he says weakly.
"I know you don't see it. But sometimes, when he thinks no one is looking..." Natasha trails off, glances speculatively at Bucky. "Maybe all he needs is a push. Just a reminder that he's more than your best friend. More than a ghost. That he's someone you want."
Her eyes look faraway, one thumb swiping over the well-loved buttons of her phone, the other thumb rubbing over the glinting arrow on her neck. Steve knows she's got something complicated going on with the two bird-themed members of their little superhero club. But he also knows it took them awhile to get to this place.
He wonders, abstractly, which of them made the first move. And then he decides it doesn't matter. What matters is that someone did, and they're all a lot happier for it.
There's another laugh, quieter this time, more strained. Steve watches as Bucky ducks his head. He looks tired.
Before he can talk himself out of it, he sends a text. Then, after a moment, another text. And another, until he makes himself snap out of it and shoves the phone into his pocket.
Then, he's letting Natasha know he has to go to the bathroom, slipping out of the booth with his adrenaline pumping hard.
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Hey Buck. Probably your date is going swell. But if it's not, come home.
I hope you always come home.
And if you ever can't, or aren't sure if you should, just let me know. I'll come get you.
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Steve splashes water on his face, cheeks still flaming hot with embarrassment.
Maybe he is drunk. Only explanation for the neat about-face he's done via mobile phone, of all things, and the message that will surely only serve to bewilder Bucky.
The door opens behind Steve, and out of habit, he glances at the reflection in the mirror before going back to his own thoughts.
A throat clears.
Quick as a flash, Steve's eyes are on the mirror again. Where Bucky's image is outlined, watery and pale and speckled with the kind of grime only a public bathroom can generate.
His arms are folded, face wiped clear of expression.
"Hiya," Steve says, and damn. His voice hasn't cracked like that since he was a kid.
Bucky raises one eyebrow. "Hiya," he drawls. You absolute mook, is the unspoken undertone.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Steve blusters, because he’s nothing if not game to pretend none of this is happening.
Bucky steps further into the bathroom, tilting his head almost sympathetically. “Try again,” he commands.
“Uh…I was in the neighborhood?” He really needs to stop questioning his own cover stories.
Bucky narrows his eyes. “Nope.”
Steve gives a gust of breath. “Fine,” he says, drying his hands and finally turning to face Bucky head-on. “Natasha and I wanted to see how your date was going.” A distant part of him is apologetic of throwing Natasha under the bus too, but it lessens his creepiness the necessary degree to add her culpability.
Bucky frowns, tensing. “Why?” he asks, letting his arms drop to his side. “Were you afraid I’d do something?”
Steve strides forward, hand on Bucky’s shoulder in an instant. “No,” he says firmly. “Not ever. It’s—“ he cuts off. “Sometimes it feels like I only just got you back,” he says. “It’s hard to see you go. Even for a night, when it’s with someone we don’t know. Someone who could…”
Hurt you. It’s what Steve doesn’t say, but what Bucky hears, and even though it’s only the half-truth, it seems to satisfy him. Bucky’s expression softens, and he places a hand over top Steve’s.
“That’s nice, Steve,” he says, cracking a small smile. “But I’ve got fifty pounds of muscle on this guy, and the only thing I’m in danger of is falling asleep into my spaghetti bolognese.”
Steve tries not to feel viciously happy that Bucky’s tired laugh was indeed an indication of boredom.
Bucky notices, though, because even after his brain’s been rearranged, even after his conditioning and unconditioning and rebuilding, he recognizes nuances in Steve that no one else ever will. Call it sense memory.
“Well, don’t look so happy about it,” Bucky says dryly. He leans in, knocks his head companionably against Steve’s.
Steve shrugs. “You’re a good one,” he says. “Whoever’s got you should deserve you.”
Bucky looks struck dumb, for a moment. Then, he gives a rough laugh. “You’re feeling sappy tonight,” he observes. “What’s got you so sweet?”
Steve breathes in, still pressed against Bucky, still squeezing his shoulder. “Just proud of you. Happy you’re here.” He fumbles, but words aren’t his strong suit, not when sincerity could also lead to ruin. “Want you to know that I am, too. Here. For you. If you want me to be. Whenever you want me to be.”
When Bucky’s quiet, he teases, heart in his throat, “And, I guess, even when you don’t want me to be.”
It works to break the tension, Bucky huffing a laugh. But it also works to break Bucky apart from him, and Steve feels so raw in the wake of his realization, needy in an unfamiliar, scrabbling way. He follows Bucky without thinking, crowding into his space.
This time, Bucky doesn’t recoil. Instead, he goes still. Looks at Steve, the open expanse of his face, the way his torso is angled in parallel with Bucky’s, the rapid, heavy breaths that are expanding his chest. He sweeps Steve from head to toe with an assessing gaze.
“Ah,” he says, into the sudden silence. And the recognition breaks through the veiled caution in his eyes.
Steve swallows, lingers with his hand hovering over Bucky’s shoulder, his foot following Bucky’s retreat.
“It’s no big deal,” he says. “You don’t have to—it’s nothing, it doesn’t change anything. I only just realized it anyway, so. I can deal with it. You know I can. It’s okay, Buck, we’re okay, and I’m okay as long as you’re okay—"
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What cuts Steve off is a rapid succession of events:
Bucky grabbing him by his collar, hoisting him close.
Bucky slanting his head, pressing his lips firmly to Steve’s, arm not even trembling as he leverages Steve up the scant centimeters needed for their mouths to be level.
Bucky, kissing Steve, with no finesse but a finely-drawn restraint that makes Steve gasp into Bucky’s mouth, helps unleash the groan and the wet heat of Bucky’s tongue.
They kiss, and Steve feels undone. Like his atoms are unraveling and time is rewinding, like Gershwin is playing in the distance, like he’s jumped off a train into icy mountain ranges and found something that was buried and lost.
It’s maybe only a minute that they kiss before wrenching apart, but it feels like years.
Steve is so stupid. Steve is so very stupid. It’s taken him such a long while to get with the program, they could’ve had so much more time.
“I was jealous,” he blurts out, because Bucky looks like he wants to flee. All the color’s drained from his face, and he’s let Steve go, stepped back, eyes wide and mouth pink. His fingers, flashing silver in the low light, worry at his lips.
“I followed you because I was jealous. Because I was worried. You were better, Buck, you are better, and you were getting ready to do all these things, this thing, this dating thing, and it—it wasn’t with me. And I wanted it to be with me.”
Steve feels something frightening and honest come rising from the depths of his belly. “I thought it was about being able to—protect you. Because I’d failed before. But it wasn’t. It was about being with you. I want you and me to be more than tears and beers on Sam’s couch. I want us to be us again.”
Bucky gives a semi-hysterical laugh. “I would’ve remembered if we’d ever done that before,” he says, and he still looks spooked.
Steve grins, albeit shakily. “Yeah, well. Maybe we should’ve. Maybe it’s something we just never got around to.”
He steps closer, because he’s brave, and tenacious, and if Bucky doesn’t want him, he will say no, and it’ll still be a victory of some kind because it’ll be his choice.
“Or maybe,” and now Steve’s voice is hushed. “Maybe you’re a new person, and I’m a new person, and this could be a new thing.”
Bucky’s brow furrows, face screwed up into an expression of intense thought. “Steve,” he says, helplessly. “I want to.” He twists his hand in his hair, closing his eyes. “I’ve wanted to.”
Steve can’t stop the smile on his face, the relief and wonder that pulls at the muscles around his mouth. “So, go for it,” he suggests quietly.
Bucky stares at Steve. “I can’t,” he says. “I gotta…” he waves his hand vaguely. “There’s stuff I gotta do. I had a date, for Christ’s sake.”
Steve’s belly plummets. “Oh,” he says. “Right.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, looks down. “Of course. Yeah.”
“Steve.” Bucky’s voice is exasperated. Steve hears footsteps, then Bucky’s tucking a hand under Steve’s chin. “I didn’t say not ever. Just…not yet. Let me at least let this guy down easy, huh?”
And all at once, the sunshine comes flooding through Steve’s bones again, makes him feel light and dizzy.
“Really?” he asks. “You’re sure? I’m not gonna stop jumping out of planes, you know.”
Bucky rolls his eyes so hard that Steve’s almost concerned for him. “I’m sure,” he says. “Pretty much the one thing I’ve always been sure about, I think.” He raises an eyebrow and knocks his head against Steve’s again, softer and affectionate. Hesitantly, he presses a kiss to the side of Steve’s mouth, one that Steve chases till they’re kissing again, short kisses punctuated by their sharp breathing.
When Steve slides into the booth, studiously avoiding the bar area, he’s more than a little mussed.
Natasha gives him a disgusted look. “Your life is so charmed,” she says.
For once, Steve has to agree.
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You asked me to let you know
If I wanted to come home. When I wanted to come home.
Well, I’m outta 20 bucks. I got all this pizza to eat and theres an episode of dog Cops on and a hot blond in a size small t-shirt makin eyes at me.
So ditch the redhead, please, and come get me.
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“I told you he’d try and sit on your head.”
“This is what he gets for not listening to me, isn’t that right, Nat?”
“Definitely. I tried to warn him, but he didn’t listen.”
“Nat, come on. Traitor! Stop it, Sam–come on, stop it—oh my god, Sam, she helped!”
“Quiet, Steve. Come here so I can wrestle you into submission.”
“Steve’s right, Wilson. She did help.”
“You be quiet, too, Barnes. You’re too damn scary for me to try and sit on your head, but I’ll think of something. You should be thanking me anyway—this dude ruined your date!”
“Bucky, come on! Tell him. Tell him I didn’t ruin your date.”
“Well, technically, you kind of did.”
“Et tu, Buck? Sam—Sam, I need that arm, dammit! You are literally climbing me right now, how the hell—”
“It’s just Sam’s way of congratulating you two, you know.”
“I know, Nat, thanks.”
“I’m happy for you. You guys are good for each other. Good to each other."
“Yeah. Yeah, we are.”
“…so…are you gonna help Steve out?”
“Not a chance.”
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A week later, Bucky finds himself once more 20 dollars poorer. But this time, it's kinda worth it.
Steve ends up getting his first date.