Archive of Our Own ^beta

Barely a few weeks after he and Bucky have moved in together, Steve Rogers wakes up to a glaring, beady set of eyes.

He’s never been much of a morning person, so he just rolls over into the warmth at his back. They’re way too far into summer to sleep comfortably next to each other, but neither he nor Bucky are going to be the first one to admit it. The blankets languish at the bottom of the bed, kicked down during the night.

He’s just on the brink of falling asleep again when he realises what he’d seen. Dark, round eyes. A beak. Those unnaturally iridescent feathers. He sits up so abruptly that Bucky stirs in front of him, mouth twisting down unhappily. There’s only one way a bird like that could’ve gotten into this apartment without anybody making a fuss, and that’s if -

Well. If it was a Soulmate Goose. Something in Steve’s chest twinges, and that’s totally - that’s totally unjustified, he’s got nothing to be sorry about. This is a good thing. He’s happy for Bucky.

He’s happy for Bucky, but his heart is thumping irrationally in his chest and he has to make a conscious effort to keep his breathing even as he turns, slow and careful, towards the edge of the bed. He can’t quite ignore the tiny voice in his brain that says he might have been dreaming. For the life of him, he couldn’t say what he’s hoping to see. He doesn’t get the chance to figure it out, either, because he’s barely started moving when something bites down sharply on the fleshy part of his thigh. He yelps, leg jerking, and his knee drives into Bucky’s stomach, waking him with a wheeze.

“Jesus H Christ, Rogers -”

“I’m sorry, I -”

They’re both cut off by the loud, impatient squawk of a very annoyed goose. Steve closes his eyes and raises his face to the ceiling. That answers that question, at least. One of the neighbours bangs at the wall.

“Get your goose out of here, Barnes,” Steve says. He can almost taste Bucky’s uncertainty, the way that his eyes dart between Steve and the stupid dream-ruining Soulmate Goose. There’s no reason that he should be uncertain; Bucky hasn’t made any promises. They haven’t - they’ve neither of them done anything, been stepping around each other for ages, and Steve’s willing to bet Bucky’s going to be pretty fucking glad about that when he meets his actual soulmate.

“Uh,” Bucky says finally. His voice is sleepy and soft. “Are you -”

“I’m fine,” Steve says. “I’m going to make breakfast.” He has to hop over the goose to get to the kitchen, but this time it doesn’t try to bite him, just watches him go with inscrutable eyes.

“I’ll grab something on the way to work,” Bucky calls, which just means he’s going to skip breakfast and subsist on cigarettes and martyrdom to make their groceries last a little longer. Usually Steve would fight him on this, but this morning he can’t muster up the energy. Probably it’s better that Bucky doesn’t have breakfast anyway, because the goose might guide him to his soulmate before lunchtime and he can use that to take her out for a meal.

“Alright,” Steve mutters, and heads over to the stove. The goose follows him so that it’s standing in the doorway between him and Bucky, which just feels like rubbing salt into the wound. Steve glares at the goose, and the goose glares right back, puffing up its feathers. “Do Soulmate Geese need food?” Steve asks, mostly to avoid letting an awkward silence settle into the room.

“I doubt it,” Bucky says, dragging himself out of bed. Steve means to keep his eyes on the bread, he does, but he can’t help the way that his gaze slides sideways to watch Bucky pull his shirt over his head, always conveniently in the doorway. His arms flex, and Steve’s stomach swoops. It’s a familiar sensation by now, but this morning it’s accompanied by a hollow sort of emptiness that stains the rest of his thoughts. He looks back at the bread on the countertop.

Bucky finishes his morning ablutions in record time, ready to leave in less than ten minutes. He’s practically vibrating as he pulls his shoes on, the nervous energy crawling through his limbs probably visible from outer space.

“Buck,” Steve says, still standing impotently at the counter, picking at his bread. Bucky looks up at him, the nervousness more pronounced than ever. For a moment Steve gets lost just looking at him, at his stormy eyes, forgets everything he’d been going to say.

“Steve, I -”

“It’s fine,” Steve interrupts, a little louder than normal, a little faster. He couldn’t bear to hear the regret that’s already filling in Bucky’s features, so he keeps talking, forces his mouth into a smile. “I’m happy for you, okay? I’m sure she’ll be swell.”

Bucky’s smile flickers a little, at that. “Thanks,” he says. He sounds too subdued for someone who’s going to meet their soulmate today. “Uh - let’s go, then,” he says, this time directing his words to the goose, who’s still sitting behind Steve. It looks perfectly content and its legs are nowhere to be seen. It’s kind of weird, because Steve’s heard that Soulmate Geese are at their most agitated when they first appear, when they’re trying to convince their chosen humans to follow them. But then, this is his first time actually dealing with a capital-g Goose. It seems pretty calm. Steve frowns, looking from it to Bucky.

“Go on,” he mutters, poking tentatively at the bird with his foot. It hisses at him and doesn’t move. Of course it doesn’t. “Move it, you stupid -”

He never finishes the sentence, because the goose bites his fucking ankle. And then, while Steve is nursing it, the stupid thing hops up onto the counter and nibbles at his bread.

“Hey -”

The goose honks, the noise bouncing around the tiny flat, and spreads its wings menacingly. Flaps them a few times, as though to warn Steve away from the bread it doesn’t even need. The neighbours yell some more complaints.

“Hey,” Bucky’s voice says, and Steve turns to see him looking into the room with a funny expression on his face. “I just went downstairs.”

“What did you forget?”

“Nothing,” Bucky says. “I just went downstairs.” He looks meaningfully at Steve, whose ankle is hurting too bloody much to parse Bucky’s mysterious looks. “By myself.”

“So why’d you come back?”

Bucky sighs. “Steve,” he says, very slowly. “It didn’t follow me.” When Steve doesn’t say anything - can’t bring himself to, his brain refusing to put the pieces together - Bucky continues, even slower than before. “That’s your goose, Steve.”

Steve stares at Bucky. Then he stares at the goose. It’s sitting on his counter finishing off his bread. “No,” he says, distantly. “That can’t be right. You’re -”

“Just some schmuck,” Bucky says. “I always told you the perfect girl was out there, didn’t I?”

“That can’t be right,” Steve repeats. “I’m not -”

“Sounds an awful lot like you’re about to insult my best friend,” Bucky says mildly. Steve glares at him, and Bucky folds his arms. “I’m kinda attached to the guy, dunno why. He’s a punk.”

“Ha ha,” Steve says sourly. Bucky snorts, and Steve glares harder. “What?”

“You and that goose look awfully alike right now.”

“We do not, you take that back,” Steve snaps. He refuses to turn and look at the goose; that would be falling for it.

“Shan’t,” Bucky replies maturely, and looks down at his battered watch. “I should go, anyway. I’ll be late.”

“You can’t leave me with this goose!”

“Take the day off,” Bucky advises. “You’re still working on those posters for the WPA, right? The community centre’s on my way, I’ll drop in and tell them -”

“No, don’t,” Steve says, seized by an unaccountable panic at the thought of having people know what’s happening to him, what’s going to happen. He can already see the disbelieving stares, hear the whispers. “I’ll - I’ll tell them myself, it’s fine -”

“Steve,” Bucky says, coming close to him, his eyes way too knowing. “Tell me you’re not planning to stay cooped up in here all day with an angry goose.”

“I - I’m not planning to stay here all day with an angry goose,” Steve says lamely, and Bucky takes him by the shoulders and shakes him with the utmost gentleness.

“You’re a punk, Rogers.”

“You’re a -”

“You gotta give this girl a chance, alright?” Bucky says loudly. “Let the goose guide you. It’s a gift to be chosen, Stevie.” The statistics are unclear because Soulmate Geese - to the deep distress of census takers everywhere - disappear after their soulmates kiss, which means just about anyone can make up a soulmate goose story and anyone can deny one. Still, it’s meant to be a pretty well known fact that the geese don’t appear to everyone.

“I know,” Steve mutters, and doesn’t say that this is one gift he could do without. He doesn’t want a soulmate, he thinks pettily. Bucky takes his hands away and Steve’s shoulders feel cold. He’s avoiding Steve’s eyes again. The goose hisses unhappily, which is pretty rich considering it’s just helped itself to the better part of Steve’s breakfast.

“Alright. I really gotta go,” Bucky says. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but he claps Steve’s shoulder as heartily as ever. “I expect a great story when I come home, you got it?”

Steve rolls his eyes, pushes Bucky towards the door. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll sweep you off your feet, it’ll be like one of those Love Magazine radio broadcasts you like so much.”

“Shut up, Rogers,” Bucky mutters, letting himself be pushed. There’s no point denying it or pretending that it’s Becca who wants to listen like he used to try to, not when they live together and there’s just no possible way for Bucky to hide the fact that he’s tuning in every Friday for his weekly fifteen minutes of sap. “Hey.” He turns at the edge of the doorway, and when he looks down at Steve his expression is devastatingly sincere. “I’m happy for you, yeah?”

Abruptly, Steve wants to cry. “Thanks,” he chokes out instead, and Bucky gives him an awkward nod, not meeting his eyes again. Finally, finally, he turns and leaves and Steve can shut the door after him. Rest his head on the wood for a moment.

His moment of self-pity is rudely interrupted by another squawk and a thud, like the goose has finally deigned to hop off the kitchen counter. When Steve sighs and turns around the goose has already made up an alarming amount of ground. There’s a dangerous look in its beady little eyes as it closes in on him.

“Oh no,” Steve says, sliding back towards the back of the room and wiggling his finger at the goose like it’s a wayward child. “No you don’t. I’m not leaving this room.”

Steve’s firmest tone doesn’t seem to have any effect at all. The goose screeches and flaps its wings as though to herd Steve towards the door. Steve points even more firmly. “No.”

The goose lunges forward and bites his finger.

~*~

Steve had always wondered why it was geese - loud, annoying, generally unromantic creatures - which were the animals that led humans to their soulmates. He’d always thought that a more romantic creature would make more sense: a dove, a lovebird, maybe something delicate and soft like a deer.

Well, now he knew why it was geese: there was no escaping a goose. They were the peak of evolution when it came to harassing people into going places. They were fucking annoying.

Which is how he found himself traipsing angrily across the street not even an hour later, having barely managed to hold the angry goose off for half an hour and now herded insistently by a pair of outstretched wings and a series of loud honks. That’s how he finds himself in the subway clutching an indignant bird to his chest - it shuffles around angrily and screeches, and snaps at everyone who looks at it, but the goose has nothing to blame but itself, because it was the one who’d wanted to come down into this stinking sweatbox anyway.

And just as Steve had thought, he’s been getting a lot of looks: some jealous, some impressed, some just plain disbelieving. There was no mistaking those iridescent feathers, though, the way they threw little rainbows of light everywhere, no mistaking what had happened to Steve - Steve, of all people. Steve keeps his head down and doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

“Will you shut up,” he hisses at the goose. The goose does not shut up; it seems utterly determined to draw the attention of everyone in the train car and then scream at them for staring. Every time Steve tries to get off the train the goose threatens to break free of his hold. Naturally, as soon as he shuffles to the back of the car to disturb as few of his fellow passengers as possible is the moment that the stupid goose decides he needs to get off the train and flaps ponderously through the crowd and to the door. Steve only just manages to get out before the doors close on him, only to find the goose standing placidly in the middle of the platform, right in everybody’s way.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, moving close enough to the goose that it can grab his hand and pull him towards the station exit. “You’re such a fucking asshole, you know that?” He shakes his hand free once it becomes clear which exit they’re heading towards, and there are red scratches down the back of it. Steve scowls and the goose just stares back at him. Fluffs its feathers, unrepentant.

He’s not sure that New York air could ever be described as fresh, but the air above the subway is at least comparatively fresher. Steve takes a breath and then another, one vigilant eye on his goose. For the first time he’s able to properly take stock of where he is, blinking as he sees the community centre down the street.

The goose rustles its feathers threateningly. Steve covers his face with one hand.

“Listen,” he says through his palm. “I’m just going to go explain to Mr. Novak that the next poster he wanted might be a little late, okay?” He’s always heard that Soulmate Geese were smarter than other animals, but for all its subway-navigating prowess he’s really not sure that a goose - even a Soulmate Goose - will understand the concept of a commission, or even of lateness. Steve beats it down the street before the goose can herd him in the other direction.

When he sneaks a glance over his shoulder the goose is following him placidly. The jerk. Steve speeds up a little, enough that he’s able to slip into the community centre and slam the door behind him.

“Well, don’t break the door off its hinges,” Mr. Novak says, and smiles as Steve flushes, waves off his attempt at an apology. “Are you here with the posters? A little early, isn’t it?”

“Yes - I mean yes, it’s early, I’m not here with the posters,” Steve says, flustered. “I’m here to say they might be a little late, I’m sorry -”

“Late? How late?” He doesn’t sound particularly concerned, though he does cast an evaluative look over Steve, who probably looks windswept at best and - well, and like he’s done a few rounds with an angry goose at worst.

“No more than a few days, if that, I’m -”

“Steven,” Mr. Novak says suddenly, his eyes wide and fixed on the window. “Is that -?”

He’s cut off by a horrendous screeching and a loud thud. Steve lets himself close his eyes for a second. The bell above the door jingles, and the plat-plat-plat of goose footsteps echo ominously behind him.

“That’s,” Steve manages, “uh, that’s the thing. I think I’m going to miss a - a day of work? A few days of work?”

Mr. Novak watches with a mixture of fascination and horror on his face as the Soulmate Goose circles Steve menacingly, sidling around the edge of the room to come out in front of him with eyes narrowed and tail waggling.

“You’d better go, Steven, that thing looks ready to eat you. I’ll handle the delay.”

“Thanks, Mr. Novak. I don’t know how long this will take, but -” Steve has to cut himself off hurriedly when the goose finally loses its patience and hurtles towards him, wings outstretched and beating the air. “Sorry!” Steve calls over his shoulder again, and flees.

The Soulmate Goose chases him the better part of a block before apparently deciding that Steve has been punished enough and settling back into its slow, waddling walk. Someone whistles at the pair of them; the goose screeches so loudly that even Steve’s bad ear feels like it’s ringing.

At least it seems to have a destination in mind, though; it overtakes Steve to lead the way with surprising speed, unafraid to smack at ankles when it finds them obstructing the sidewalk and forcing Steve into a half-jog to keep up. New York’s always busy, and today’s no exception; it takes most of the attention he has to keep one eye on the goose and make sure he doesn’t trip clean over his own two feet.

At least, that’s the excuse he’s going to use if anyone ever finds out that he’s passing Washington Square before he finally realises that the goose cutting clean through Greenwich Village. Before he realises that his Soulmate Goose has guided him to one of the queerest neighbourhoods in New York like it was nothing.

Steve’s heart thumps. He hadn’t even thought - he’d grown up not ten blocks from the Hotel St. George, and still he’d assumed that he was going to be led to a girl. The goose looks back at him like it knows what he’s just managed to put together and is nothing but amused. Then it takes a sharp turn into Sheridan Square, bustling with people even in the daytime, during work hours.

Steve spots Bucky immediately. How could he not? He’s been looking at Bucky most of his life; his eyes have to have developed some kind of sixth, magnetic sense for it. Bucky’s sitting sprawled on a stoop next to the Greenwich Village Inn, sleeves rolled up and shoes kicked off, somehow looking more like a movie star in that disheveled state than Steve has ever looked in his entire life. He doesn’t see Steve, preoccupied as he is with a flask that he’s alternately waving around and drinking out of. Some poor bored sucker is sitting next to him making halfhearted grabs for the booze and failing more often than not.

It doesn’t even occur to Steve to see where his goose has gotten to until he’s halfway to Bucky, but as it turns out the goose has beaten him there. Bucky’s shaken out of what looks like a very cathartic rant when Steve’s stupid, idiotic Soulmate Goose waddles up to him and sits on his leg. The look on his face would be priceless if Steve was in the state of mind to appreciate it: shocked and openmouthed, cut off mid-sentence. Mid-word, probably.

Steve, though - Steve’s in the same boat. He’s stumbled to a stop halfway across the square, and though this is a safe part of New York he finds that his feet don’t want to take another step. The thin crowd between him and Bucky has started making noise about the goose on Bucky’s leg, but they don’t seem to have noticed Steve, standing dumbstruck behind them. Not yet, anyway.

Finally, Bucky looks up. His face flickers in that way it does when he’s very desperately trying not to let it show any emotion. Even half a square away Steve could drown in that gaze.

The guy next to Bucky punches him in the shoulder, effectively tearing his gaze away. Steve watches with hungry eyes as he talks fast, jerking his chin briefly at the inn and pushing something into Bucky’s hand as he relieves it of the flask. Bucky’s fist goes white as it clenches around the new object. He glances at Steve once, fast, and then he picks up the goose, tucks it under one arm - it permits this indignity with more grace than it has shown in every single interaction with Steve combined, the little asshole - and heads into the inn.

Steve takes one stumbling step and then another, drawn helplessly after his soulmate. After Bucky.

The woman behind the reception desk gives him a knowing look when he pokes his head tentatively through the door and then lets the rest of him follow in increments. She gestures with one thumb to the staircase behind her. As though to punctuate the kind movement, an annoyed-sounding honk echoes floatily into the foyer, as though from several flights up. Steve squares his shoulders and takes the stairs.

The goose honks again, louder and more impatient. There’s a muffled sort of flapping noise, and a low swearing. Steve comes out on the third floor feeling distinctly like a hunted rabbit: peering out of the stairwell head-first and then stepping out, as though someone’s going to jump on him, or - worse - he’s going to discover that he’s imagined the whole thing. His goose is sitting contentedly outside a door marked 312 which is just a little ajar. Steve’s blood sings through his veins as he walks to it and pushes the door open.

“Took you long enough,” Bucky says, shying away before Steve’s push of the door sends it into his face. His hands are in his pockets and he’s unbuttoned the top of his shirt. He’s so unbearably handsome that Steve’s not sure he can speak, in the face of it.

“You’re supposed to be at work,” he gets out eventually. Bucky shrugs with one shoulder, turns away. The goose follows the pair of them into the room and closes the door behind them for good measure. The click of the latch is enough to send shivers down Steve’s spine.

“I got sent out in disgrace when i fidgeted one too many times for old Gordon. Told me not to come back ‘til I got my head on properly.” The goose waddles over to the bed and hops on, watching Steve with inscrutable eyes. It’s so calm, as calm as it had been this morning, and still Steve can feel fear curled deep and dark in his heart.

“What was wrong with your head?” Bucky gives him a sardonic look which is probably well-deserved. Steve thinks he knows the answer, and the knowledge of it sends liquid warmth down his spine - but he wants to hear it from Bucky’s lips, so sue him.

“It thought you were going off to find some awful stranger to be your soulmate,” Bucky says mulishly, helplessly endearing.

“My soulmate wouldn’t be awful,” Steve says, though it lacks any sting. Bucky looks at him with soft, nervous eyes. Takes his hand, and the world narrows down to that gentle point of contact between them.

“No?”

Steve shakes his head, wordless again. Silence hangs heavy between them, expectant, and then Steve pushes himself onto his toes and kisses Bucky, decisive and desperate.

With a squawk and a flap, the goose disappears: there one moment, gone the next, and taking all of Steve’s fears with it. He gasps in a breath that sounds like a sob and feels Bucky doing the same when he presses his face into the top of Steve’s head.

“We’re idiots,” he hears Bucky say mournfully, distantly. “You think the goose appeared because we’re idiots?”

“I don’t care,” Steve says into the safety of Bucky’s collarbone. “You’re my soulmate.”

“You’re my soulmate,” Bucky echoes, managing to sound shellshocked about it, though he knows perfectly well what a Soulmate Goose is. “God, Steve.”

“You should kiss me properly,” Steve says thickly, because it’s that or start crying.

Bucky makes a teasing, contemplative noise, but can’t keep the charade running for more than a few seconds before he tips Steve’s chin up and does. Steve gasps and melts into it in a way he’s never melted into anything before, his fingers slotting comfortably into the gaps between Bucky’s ribs, his heart singing and warm.

“So,” he says, barely able to tear his gaze from the way Bucky’s lips look after he’s just been kissing, “you think your head’s on properly again?”

He twists and yelps when Bucky’s hand pinches his side unexpectedly. “Absolutely not,” Bucky says, sounding so utterly certain that he tips over into absurdity again. “And it doesn’t intend to be, either.”

“For how long?”

“Days and days,” Bucky murmurs, and kisses Steve again so that everything else slips immediately out of focus, unimportant. Steve curls his fingers into Bucky’s hair and gives as good as he gets.