Archive of Our Own

The stairwell is just as cold as the damn street. That’s the first sign that something’s up. Steve won’t let himself face facts, though, until he’s climbed the six draughty flights of stairs, dug the ice-cold keys out of his bag, fumbled the right one into the lock and stepped through his front door, to find his apartment is colder than the President’s heart.

God DAMMIT. He kicks the door frame in frustration. Not It’s the coldest day of the winter so far. Steve’s had a shitty day and he’s not in the mood for a fucking igloo of a living room.

He drops his bag to the hall table and spots a piece of paper, slid under the door. A note is scrawled on it in the Super’s rounded capitals:

SORRY TO SAY THAT THE BOILER HAS STOPPED WORKING. I AM TACKING STEPS TO FIX IT ASAP. MARTY.

“Can you believe this?” he asks Bucky’s dragon tree. It maintains a stoical silence in the hallway corner, probably because it wasn’t around last year when Steve and his ex froze their asses off for three days straight. Fucking dilapidated steam heating system. Last week it was running so hot he and Bucky had to open the windows.

And it’s Friday night, for crying out loud.

He yanks off his boots, hangs up his coat and shuffles into his bedroom. All he wanted was to sweat it out at the gym for a couple hours and come home for a nice hot bath, but there’s no way he’s gonna be able to relax now. Work was a pain in the ass, he got some uncomfortable news, the subway was fucked, and he hasn’t been laid in months. And now he has to get warm inside his own apartment.

The skin on his legs prickles with goosebumps as he drops his work slacks and pulls on his oldest, thickest, sweatpants, along with some ugly bed socks Bucky’s mom gave him on Christmas as a joke. Joke’s on her, though, because it turns out they’re really soft and warm and comforting. He replaces his button-down work shirt with a tank top, a thick Henley, and huge navy Converse hoodie he never usually wears unless he’s sick.

There. He’s still pissed, but at least he’s a little warmer now. Steve pulls his hood up over his head to try and thaw his ears out and pulls the drawstrings tight under his chin.

It’s not even the not getting laid. It’s more… sleeping alone night after night. Sure, Steve can be happily single. He’s great at getting by on his own! He’s done it for years, off and on. It just… maybe it would be nice if he didn’t have to. Maybe.

He finds his phone in his coat pocket and taps out a stiff-fingered text to Bucky.

Steve: Heads up – heating’s out

No immediate reply. Bucky’s probably on his way home from work. He’s gonna be just as happy about this as Steve is.

At a loss, Steve drifts into the lounge. He should really go check on Betty across the hall. Something’s nagging at him, though. He can’t possibly fit any more clothes on his body, but the cold air is still freezing his face and finding its way into the neck of his sweater, leaving his collarbones chilly. What he needs is a scarf.

Holy shit! The scarf! Where is that thing?

Steve can’t quite remember the last time he wore the scarf. Maybe last year, maybe longer ago than that. He can picture it so clearly, though: it’s long and warm and fluffy and dorky, and it just might have the power to save this intolerable situation.

He heads back into his room rummages all the way to the back of his closet, where he finds a long-lost dumbbell, some dried up paints and his old gunbelt from his NYPD days, but no sign of the scarf. It’s not anywhere in his drawers, or in his old backpack full of camping supplies, or hanging by the door. Nor is it in Bucky’s room, so far as he can see without nosing around too much. The more it eludes him the more he wants it.

He’s considering pulling everything out from under the bed when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

Bucky: Are you fucking kidding me it’s like zero degrees out here

Under all those layers, Steve’s frozen chest warms a tiny bit. It’s always good to share the pain.

Steve: Similar in here

Bucky: It’s Friday night!

It’s obvious what that means. Bucky is religious about his Saturday morning lie-in but it’ll be no fun if his room is like an icebox.

Steve: Don’t worry, Marty’s on it :p

Bucky: oh god we’re fucked

So dramatic and yet so relatable. Steve smiles. Bucky hates the cold as much as he does. They’re both notorious for complaining about it.

For his part, Steve can trace his antipathy back to that really cold winter in High School when the lake in Prospect Park froze over. Some little kid wandered out into the middle of it while her parents were making snowballs, and then everyone started panicking and yelling, which just made the kid stand still in shock. Steve was still pretty small and light at that point, so he wobbled out onto the lake and grabbed the kid and sent her running back. But when he tried to follow her, he fell on his ass and the ice gave way under him. He plunged into water so cold it almost stopped his heart, and for about five long seconds, he was one hundred percent sure he was a goner.

Thankfully, though, his feet hit bottom and his heart didn’t stop. Bucky didn’t know whether to hug him or punch him and ended up doing both at once. Steve came out of it with a brutal chest infection and the enduring memory, deep in his bones, of the freezing water and the certainty of death.

In Bucky’s case, he always says he was sent on one too many trips to Moscow when he was working at Sperbank, earning a big salary and hating every minute, and now he has no intention of ever seeing another Russian winter.

Steve’s teeth start to chatter as he searches his closet for the third time. Where is that fucking scarf? Shit, could Sam have taken it when he left?! He used to borrow it sometimes. Wouldn’t that just…

The sound of a key in the door interrupts his rising sense of outrage.

“Jesus Christ,” comes Bucky’s voice from the hall.

A smile pulls stiffly at Steve’s frozen cheeks. “It’s cold,” he calls out.

Swinging shut the closet door, he tucks his hands into the pouch of his hoodie and shuffles towards the front hall. But when he claps eyes on his old friend, he nearly hits the roof.

“What the FUCK?” he roars. “That’s MY SCARF!”

Bucky pauses, mid-way through trying to kick off his boots, and stares back at Steve. He’s wearing black office pants, his navy blue pea coat, black leather gloves, and there, wrapped brazenly around his neck with the ends hanging almost to his waist, is the scarf. Steve’s scarf. It’s unmistakeable. Two long red stripes and two off-white, with a white star on blue background at each end, because apparently more stars were gonna be too hard to knit.

The nerve of this guy! The scarf might not be cool, or especially well-made, but it is definitely the most desirable item in the world at this moment. And it’s Steve’s.

“Not it’s not,” Bucky says. Which is bullshit.

“It is!” Steve retorts, folding his arms. “Peggy knitted it for me!”

“When?”

“In HIGH SCHOOL!” Steve yelps. He lunges forward, trying to grab the woollen coils from around Bucky’s neck.

“Hey, hands off, tough guy!” Bucky dodges out of his reach. “Pretty sure she knitted it for me.”

“Why would she knit it for you? She was MY girlfriend!”

Bucky mimics Steve’s crossed-arm stance, both amused and defiant, and crooks an eyebrow.

“Only ‘cause she could sense I wasn’t interested.”

Ugh. Defeated, Steve rolls his eyes and gives him the finger.

“You can’t flip me off with your hood up. It looks dumb.” Bucky goes back to shedding his boots.

Temporarily subdued, Steve sulks off to the kitchen and loosens the strings of his hood, letting it drop down onto his shoulders. It’s probably because their friendship started in eighth grade that he and Bucky always seem to bring the petty teenager out of each other, even though they’re both now both pushing 30, with responsible jobs and a Brooklyn apartment (technically Steve’s) which isn’t even shitty. Usually.

He blows into his hands and rubs them together while he scans the shelves for the coffee filters. It’s actually not even the empty bed that’s the problem. Not really. Steve can’t quite put his finger on what it is. The job at the Red Cross might be stressful at times but it’s definitely the right one for him, and his health is so much better now, and he has awesome friends who care about him. And Bucky’s great. And he’s even started to accept that he can’t solve all the world’s problems on his own.

But still, it feels like something’s out of whack.

“I’m making coffee.”

“Oh God, yes please,” Bucky calls back. “Hey, you check on Betty yet?”

“Not yet,” Steve mutters. “I was gonna.”

“S’OK, I’ll go,” Bucky says. “You do the coffee.”

The door clicks behind him and Steve’s rage ebbs away as quickly as it had flared, punctured by Bucky’s automatic kindness. In its place a guilty niggle remains. He had been about to check on Betty. Right after he found his scarf.

Well, he found it alright, in the hands of his treacherous roommate. Steve fills the coffee machine and switches it on while plotting how to retake his precious knitwear.

Bucky’s still wearing it when he returns.

“How’s she doing?” asks Steve, pouring out two mugs.

“Fine. Sitting there in her fur coat and fluffy slippers, looking like Joan Rivers,” Bucky grins. “Marty said he would bring her a bar heater, but her son’s gonna be here any minute to pick her up.”

Steve snaps his head up. “The hot one?”

“Yes, Steven, the hot, gay, married one,” Bucky tuts, like he doesn’t ogle the guy’s ass every time they pass on the stairs.

He accepts his mug of steaming black coffee with an appreciative groan.

“Hey, you wanna… sit down?” Bucky gestures at the couch.

Sit down? Well… sure, why not? Steve shrugs his assent. This isn’t the usual post-work routine, but neither is coffee at 7pm or shivering while inside the house, for that matter.

Steve’s couch is battered brown leather, shipped over from the place over in Brooklyn Heights where he grew up. Most of his mom’s stuff is still in storage, but this otherwise-modern apartment contains little flashes of her: a casserole dish, a rolling pin, a rug, a few books. A photo of her as a little kid joyously brandishing an ice cream. It’s been long enough that Steve doesn’t miss her in the same way, but he likes that Bucky remembers her too.

Steve’s oldest friend sits down at one end of his old couch and pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping both hands around his mug and sipping at it slowly. The tip of his nose is all pink and shiny. Were it not for the fact that the thieving asshole is still wearing the scarf, Steve might almost think he looks kind of adorable.

He sinks down onto the leather cushions on the other side and lets out a long, loud sigh. Bucky glances over at him.

“Sup, pal?”

“Ugh. I dunno.” Steve looks up at the ceiling. “Work sucks.”

“How so?”

“Oh, just… y’know. Management declining to support my great ideas.”

That makes Bucky laugh. “Because they won’t let you go to Afghanistan and clear landmines by yourself?”

“I have a good team!”

Bucky throws him a knowing look that makes Steve smile at himself.

“I just want us to be more… hands-on.”

“I get that,” Bucky says. “But what you’re doing is so important. Just gotta keep the pressure up, I guess.”

Steve nods. Bucky’s right, of course. Eventually he’ll get one of his pet projects off the ground. But the thing is, work isn’t all that’s bothering him.

“And then…”

He tails off, suddenly a little embarrassed to mention the other thing.

“And then?”

Fuck it.

“Guess who just made Captain. At the 78th.”

Bucky frowns for a moment, then widens his eyes.

“Wilson?”

Steve nods. Maybe he scrunches his nose a little bit.

“Woah,” Bucky says. “That’s pretty weird.”

Right again. It’s completely weird to think of Sam heading up his old precinct, where everybody used to say that Steve would soon be the youngest captain on the force. It’s not like he regrets getting out, but the news still hit him hard, especially since he had to hear it from Natasha.

“Nah,” Steve replies. “He totally deserves it. He’s a great leader.”

He slurps at his coffee even though it’s still a little too hot and looks at the floor, but he can feel Bucky’s eyes on him. He’s half expecting some smartass remark, but what comes instead is: “You miss him?”

For some reason the question catches Steve out. He frowns into his Marvin the Martian mug, unsure of how to respond. Does he miss Sam? He has to check himself for the wound and can only find a small twinge in its place. So maybe not.

It’s not like the end was a total surprise, but it hurt, and he missed Sam like hell at first. But then Bucky was there, with his mug collection and his huge Metropolis poster and his pot plants, and Steve started to find his feet again.

OK, so he still fills up the bird feeder out on the fire escape, but that’s just human decency. He does kinda miss the Knicks v Nets bickering, and the constant soundtrack of soul, disco and hip-hop, which he’s too white and awkward to replicate for himself. But Bucky has playlists with all these old songs from their younger days and he also has correct opinions about sports. Whatever it is, this persistent yearning in Steve’s chest, he doesn’t think it’s about Sam anymore.

“I mean, I miss the sex,” he says.

Bucky snorts. “Figures,” he mutters into his coffee.

Ouch. It’s just one word but it makes Steve bristle with the memory of one of his and Bucky’s worst-ever arguments. Steve had been so pumped to tell his best friend about his great new relationship, with a fellow police officer who happened to be a dude. But instead of being happy for him, Bucky made this big show of being all freaked out, and when Steve pushed him on it he had the nerve to say, ‘Well, I knew you fooled around with guys but I didn’t think you actually dated them.’

Steve was so upset it came out as anger and it all went to hell after that. It took weeks for things to really blow over, and even now, it still feels kinda sore.

“You never liked him.”

Bucky rolls his eyes

“I didn’t not like him. I just…”

“You just didn’t like him.”

“Hey, he didn’t like me either.”

There’s a terse silence for half a minute while they slurp their drinks and don’t look at each other. Steve shudders a little at the cold. If Bucky catches him throwing furtive glances at the scarf, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he asks, in a softer voice, “So… what happened there, anyway?”

What’s with the big questions today? Steve blinks, realising he’s never really spoken to Bucky about how the whole thing with Sam just went to the wall. That seems kinds strange, but thinking back, he can’t pretend Bucky didn’t try.

He shifts a little in the patch on the couch where his body has started to warm the cushions, and exhales through his nose.

“I think… We were just too similar,” he offers. “I mean, that’s probably what I saw in him, to start with, but in the end it just meant we didn’t really… I dunno.” He rocks his hand from side to side, like a see-saw. “Y’know. Balance.”

Bucky nods along silently.

“I think he would say it was me. Maybe it was. We just started to piss each other off.”

He can feel Bucky’s smirk before he sees it but carries on anyway.

“I guess it’s not easy when you’re both so…” he reaches for a word to describe himself.

“Reckless?” Bucky says, a little too quickly. “Bloody-minded?”

Steve raises his eyebrows in mock offense.

“I was gonna say impassioned.”

He tries to look serious but ends up laughing at the way Bucky shakes his head in despair. Despite his continued possession of the scarf he still looks cold – his cheeks are pinched and pale.

“Yeah,” Steve smiles. “We probably both needed to find someone a little calmer.”

“You mean you actually learned something?”

“Huh. See if I ever act on it.”

“I won’t hold my breath.”

It’s funny, it used to drive Steve crazy when Sam would call out all his little foibles, but somehow, when Bucky does it, it just feels comforting. That this guy can know him inside out, and still want to sit with him in a freezing apartment and drink coffee with him. He never has to hold back with Bucky.

“Sucked when he left, though. Just like that.” He snaps his fingers. “Got home and he was gone.”

Bucky whistles, genuine sympathy in his pretty, ice-blue eyes. “Well, neither of you exactly do subtle.”

Steve shakes his head, ruefully.

“I’m sorry, man.”

“Nah, it’s OK. I’m over it.”

Then, because he feels it needs saying, he adds, “Glad you were here.”

Bucky drains the last of his coffee and puts the mug down on the table. Then he turns to Steve with a smile and a shrug, as if to say, well, the hell did you expect? And all of a sudden, Steve can’t look at him.

His belly flips over and his cheeks burn, in spite of the chill in the air. Too much sincerity? Or maybe it’s that fond, resigned look in Bucky’s eye, taking him straight back in time to that winter break in the first year of college. Steve used some of his mom’s life insurance money to take Bucky interrailing around Europe, and they took that freezing train ride through the Austrian Alps, which was when Bucky finally told him he was almost completely sure he was gay, and Steve told Bucky he was in love with Peggy and thought they might get married one day.

Come to think of it, Steve is pretty sure he was wearing the scarf on that trip.

He’s still trying to think of something to say that doesn’t sound super weird when the lights flicker and go off. All of them. The apartment is plunged into semi-darkness – even the standby light on the TV and the clock on the cooker are gone.

“Oh my GOD, Marty!” roars Bucky.

“Shit,” is all Steve can think of to say. The orange glow from outside confirms that the issue is just with their building, not the whole block. Marty probably smashed the fuse box while trying to fix the boiler.

“It’s a sign.”

“Oh wait,” Steve exclaims, getting up. “I think we’ve got some candles under the OW! Fuck!”

“Steve?”

“That was just my knee.” He fumbles in his pocket for his phone and thumbs the button, trying to remember how to make it light up like a torch.

“Steve.”

“Wait, I got it.” He shines the beam right in Bucky’s face.

“The fuck? Steve!”

“Sorry! I just…”

“Let’s just go out.”

Steve pauses in the darkness and frowns.

“I was, uh… I was gonna go to the gym.”

Bucky’s face is in shadow, but Steve still knows what expression he’s making.

“What? C’mon! Let’s go to the Pineapple. They got this incredible grilled cheese now.”

For a moment Steve chews it over. Go out? He’s kinda resistant to it, but he can’t really say why. There’s no reason to feel awkward about hanging out with Bucky on a Friday night. And it’s been nice, just sitting and chatting like they used to.

Plus, grilled cheese sounds AMAZING.

Bucky’s smiling expectantly up at him in the half-light, the woollen stripes adorning his neck like a trophy.

“OK,” Steve says. “If you let me borrow your scarf.”

*

Minutes later Steve’s back at his closet, scarf slung over one shoulder, hunting for some suitable Friday night jeans. What do people even wear these days? Eventually his eyes alight on a white fitted tank that Sam always used to go nuts for. Over the top he pulls on a thick plaid shirt with permanently folded-up sleeves.

As he pauses to check himself in his bedroom mirror, a cloud of apprehension settles over him. Coffee jitters? Or could it just be that it’s so long since he’s hung out at a crowded bar that he can’t remember how to do it? It reminds him of how he used to feel a decade ago, back when Bucky was always trying to drag his skinny ass to places that were never gonna serve him in a million years.

Well, that’s certainly not a problem anymore, now he’s grown up and bulked out. Steve parts his loose-hanging shirt and turns a little to the side, admiring the hard-won cut of his torso. It’s not like he was out of shape before, but he’s been hitting the gym hard since he split from Sam and it shows.

“Steve! Let’s go!”

Shit. Steve grabs the scarf from his bed and darts out to the hall. Bucky’s bouncing from foot to foot, eager to get going, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of a thick leather jacket thrown over a hooded sweater. He looks a little exposed without the scarf, especially in that low-cut shirt, but he’s got this cute newsboy cap that makes him look like he belongs in an old movie.

Steve notices his friend’s eyes drop briefly to his chest. There’s no visible reaction but it’s enough to make him feel good about the outfit.

“How long have you had this?” Steve asks, holding up the scarf.

Bucky shrugs. “Dunno.” He smiles a little distantly. “Lost track, I guess. I didn’t know you liked it so much.”

Steve responds with a wry smile. “In fairness, I only realised today how integral it is to my life,” he says, winding the scarf around his neck. It smells of the cologne Bucky’s worn pretty much since senior year.

“Well, it looks good on you.”

“Really?”

“Yes, you fucking dork. C’mon!”

Bucky’s the first one down the stairs. Steve’s right on his heels as he flings the door open and steps out onto the street with a breathless laugh.

“It’s snowing!”

Steve barges past him, a grin spreading across his face. However much you hate the cold, the first snowfall is always irresistible – the way it makes the old familiar streets look suddenly magical. In New York the excitement usually lasts for about 24 hours, or until the next time you really have to be somewhere.

It’s falling hard already, swirling thickly in the air and piling up in blue-white drifts on the sidewalk, faster than the evening pedestrians of Brooklyn can stomp it away. A gleeful Bucky stoops to pick up a handful. Steve finds his excitement a little bit endearing until he receives a snowball to the face.

“FUCK that’s cold!”

He laughs it off until he can fall a pace behind, then retaliates by yanking open the neck of Bucky’s sweater and dropping a handful of snow down his back, earning himself a shriek and a good-natured blow to the ribs. It’s so much fun Steve’s almost disappointed when they arrive at the bar.

The Pineapple used to be a real dive, but some new owners have done the bricks and pipework thing, and now the bar draws a crowd of hipstery types and grilled cheese fans. The music may be a little loud and a little recent for Steve’s taste but it’s a friendly place – the food’s good, the beer’s good and the heating is fully functioning.

Bucky walks right in, of course, and greets the barman by name. He’s always been like this. Always fitted in. Steve used to be so jealous of that superpower. It seemed to him that Bucky’s good looks and easy charm meant high school was a total breeze, and it came as a big surprise when he learned how hard his friend had been struggling with his sexuality at the time.

Back then Steve sometimes used to wonder why Bucky bothered with him. Steve was a scrawny, angry trouble-starter and Bucky was Mr Popular. But people always used to say they were joined at the hip. Any time there was a party Bucky would stick with Steve in the kitchen instead of hanging with the cool kids. Looking back, maybe watching Steve’s back was a way of getting Bucky out of flirting with girls. Nowadays, of course, he flirts with pretty much everyone.

Steve flops down into a seat at an empty table and shrugs off his coat, but the scarf stays firmly around his neck. It’s really hot inside the bar compared to outside, and the wool is prickling at his skin, but he’s not ready to risk taking it off in case Bucky snatches it away when he’s not looking. His nerves have settled a little but a few stray butterflies are still fluttering around, somewhere behind his carefully cultivated abs.

A few minutes later Bucky slides into the chair opposite, placing a beer in front of Steve.

“I got you bacon jalapeno.”

“Oh my god, I LOVE you.”

The chat flows as easily as the beer. It’s no time at all before the grilled cheese appears, and Steve’s wondering why they don’t do this every week.

He takes a huge bite out of his sandwich, which tastes perfect: hearty, comforting and delicious. Bucky looks just as blissful with his slow-roasted pork and pickles. A little string of cheese hangs from the corner of his mouth and Steve has a strong urge to reach over and scoop it up with his finger, but he realises that would probably be weird.

Instead he scrambles to fill the gap in their conversation.

“So how’s work going?” he asks between mouthfuls.

Bucky’s face brightens. “Cool,” he replies, still chewing.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. We’re, uh, working with Stark Industries now.”

He says it all casual, but Steve’s blown away.

“Holy shit. Really?”

Bucky’s smile is unusually modest, given that this is HUGE news for his small company. He nods, looking down at his sandwich.

“I got us the gig, actually.”

“Wow! When? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It only happened yesterday. You were at the gym.”

There’s no irritation or resentment in his voice, but Steve feels reproached anyway. This isn’t something he should’ve missed. Why’s he working out so much, anyway? It’s not like he needs the distraction anymore.

“Don’t they do their social responsibility stuff in-house?” he asks.

“Sure. But they need us for the audit side. We’re gonna look at some clean energy projects, some international development stuff. The guy has so much money it’s unreal.”

Steve nods, slowly, like anyone could miss Tony Stark’s huge fortune. “You think he’s sincere?”

Bucky sits back in his chair and takes a swig of beer. “I dunno,” he says. “Stark doesn’t feel too much like a box-ticker. Not all of them are, you know.”

Steve takes the point, albeit a little grudgingly.

“I kinda think what matters most is that they actually do stuff?” Bucky goes on. “We’re never gonna get perfect altruism from corporates. We just gotta keep pushing them to get more responsible.”

Steve smiles a goofy proud smile. It makes him feel genuinely happy to see Bucky succeeding at something that really matters to him. He’s come such a long way since packing in his banking career a couple of years ago. He’d put so much pressure on himself to earn well and help his mom out that he completely lost sight of himself, but it was obvious to Steve that his friend didn’t belong in that cutthroat world, and that it wasn’t doing his mental health any good.

They fought about it when Steve brought it up, but Bucky ended up quitting Sperbank three weeks later. Soon after that that Steve and Sam got together, and Bucky went off travelling in Europe to clear his head a little. They weren’t in touch much for a little while, but Bucky called Steve from Bucharest on his birthday and listened to him rant about all his frustrations with the NYPD, and the next day sent him a link to a job in the International Committee of the Red Cross’s weapons contamination programme, right there in New York.

“I’m just really impressed, Buck. I’m honestly so… proud of you.”

It takes Bucky a moment to lift his eyes to Steve’s, but when he does, they’re piercing and warm all at once.

“Thanks, man. Means a lot.”

His smile is oddly bashful. It even looks like he’s blushing a little, but it could be the pink glow from the neon pineapple sign on the wall above them. Steve hurriedly swallows the last of his sandwich and gets up to go get another beer.

When he sits back down the awkwardness has dissipated again. Bucky grins and takes a slurp.

“This is nice,” he says.

“Yeah,” Steve smiles back.

“S’been a while since we hung out.”

“Yeah.” His smile fades a little. “Sorry.”

“S’OK.”

It’s not OK, though. There’s a growing sense in Steve’s gut that he’s got something important wrong when it comes to Bucky. Maybe taken him too much for granted.

When Bucky needed somewhere to live a few months back, Steve had been glad to be able to do him a favour, but the truth is that having his friend so close was what got Steve through. That pulled him out of his funk and made the future look bright again.

“No, it’s not OK. I think since Sam left I’ve been pretty distracted.”

Bucky waves a hand to dismiss him.

“Steve, it’s fine. You’ve been through a lot.”

Steve’s about to protest more, to explain, or apologise, or get a handle on this unsettling feeling, when he notices Bucky’s eyes flick over his shoulder and linger somewhere behind him. Steve turns to follow his gaze and immediately spots where Bucky’s attention has gone. An exceptionally hot guy has walked in. Tall and broad, with long, blond hair in a scruffy ponytail, and the most gorgeous twinkly blue eyes. In Steve he inspires violent animosity.

“Don’t stare, asshole,” Bucky murmurs, but Steve gives holds up his middle finger and keeps looking. A moment later, the hot guy is joined at the bar by a small brunette woman, who slips her hand into his butt pocket. Ha.

Steve turns back to Bucky, who rolls his eyes.

“Looks like a total jerk to me,” says Steve. Bucky looks sceptical, which makes Steve even more convinced of the guy’s jerkiness. He changes the subject.

“ANYway,” he says, folding his arms and leaning forward onto the table. “What I was trying to say is… how’ve you been, pal?”

“Oh, y’know,” Bucky shrugs. He glances over to the bar again, and then back at Steve. “Horny.”

His mischievous Buckyish grin is meant to say hey, it’s funny cos it’s true, but the effect of it knocks Steve way off balance. This must be what it’s like to be on the end of Bucky Barnes’s moves, he supposes. There’s a reason why the guy hardly ever strikes out – those eyes are killer. And that artfully stubbled jaw, that dimpled chin… and there’s something so mesmerising about that mouth. Always has been.

Steve’s seen it a million times, of course, but that’s not to say he’s fully immune. Hey, he’s only human. It’s just that… it’s Bucky.

Woah, he’s thinking about this way too much.

“So, um… you still seeing that Scott guy?”

Bucky frowns and shakes his head, making Steve feel guilty again for being so out of the loop. Behind that is this little flicker of gladness, which is weird, given that he never even met this Scott character.

“Nah,” says Bucky. “He was too… I dunno. He never had an opinion on anything. I always had to decide what to do. Like, I’m tired, dude.”

Steve laughs. “Come on, man. Just pick a takeout.”

“Any takeout.”

“Not Domino’s.”

“Fuck no.” They clink bottles.

A waitress walks past their table carrying plates of fresh grilled cheese. Even from behind Steve can see her make eyes at Bucky, who responds with a rakish smile and a slow wink. God dammit, it’s like the guy can’t help himself. He flirts with everybody.

Except Steve, that is.

Steve isn’t really sure where that thought comes from. They’ve been best friends since their teens. Why would Bucky flirt with him? OK, maybe there was that one time that they went out drinking after Steve quit the force, where Bucky expressed serious disappointment about Steve turning in his uniform. Does that count as flirting? Steve clearly remembers the way he said it, and he’s pretty sure that it does. There may even have been some muttering about handcuffs.

But that didn’t mean anything. Just like the waitress. It’s just how Bucky is, Steve knows that. Steve knows him better than anyone.

He takes a big gulp of what might be his third beer, revelling in the warm fuzziness it brings. God, it’s so good to have him around. Steve missed him so much during the two years he was with Sam, and Bucky was either away travelling, or acting uptight and distant. It was kind of annoying that he wouldn’t give Sam a chance, but that’s all over now.

So why, then, has Steve been avoiding him? It’s not cool at all. Bucky’s always been there for him. Always a soft place to land. Always amazing, and beautiful, and basically everything Steve could ever…

It hits him like a punch to the gut.

“Oh, SHIT.”

What the fuck. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck?

“Wha’?” says Bucky.

Steve just stares, his mouth flapping uselessly, as his whole life is silently rearranged. He can’t breathe. It’s like he’s spent years working closeup on an abstract painting, and then stood back to see that it’s actually a very accurate portrait.

“Ah…. Uhm….. nothing. Sorry. I just…”

Bucky looks at him funny. “What?”

Even like that, his face is so fucking handsome it’s not true. Steve feels like he might spontaneously combust. He tries to say something reassuring, but all he can think about is how Bucky looked, that very morning, coming out of the shower wearing only a towel.

Fuck, his body. So familiar as to be almost invisible. And yet none other has ever quite measured up.

He desperately tries to close his mental floodgates but it’s too late. Mental images come thick and fast, as if they’ve been lurking in there, waiting to break free. Bucky leaning in to kiss him. Bucky reaching for his belt buckle, Bucky dropping to his knees. Bucky on his back, sweaty and panting, saying Steve’s name like he never has before.

“Steve.”

“Huh?”

“You alright?”

Steve’s not alright. His mouth is dry and his dick is hard and he doesn’t know what the fuck to do.

Then, from the backroom of the bar, there’s a screech of feedback and the squall of a mic being plugged into a speaker.

“Well, thank God it’s Fridaaaaay!” booms an enthusiastic voice, to a chorus of whoops and cheers.

“Oh God,” groans Bucky. “Karaoke.”

Steve grimaces in reply.

“You wanna get going?” his friend asks.

“Yeah.”

Somehow, Steve manages to get to his feet and pull on his coat.

“Hey,” Bucky says. “My turn with the scarf?”

*

This time Steve’s glad to hand the scarf over. Once they step outside the cold air feels like a welcome relief, calming him down and kick starting his lungs.

There’s no snow-throwing on the short journey home. Steve stares straight ahead, hands in his pockets, desperately trying to marshal his thoughts. How can he have missed this? What’s he been doing all these years? He needs to work out a plan, but his mind keeps racing off down wild avenues. Bucky’s mom’s speech at their wedding. Their retirement ranch in Vermont, surrounded by animals and bright-eyed, round-cheeked grandchildren.

Bucky stumbles tipsily alongside, occasionally bumping into him.

“Hey,” he asks. “How’re you feelin’?”

Would Bucky want to get married, or move to Vermont? Would he even be interested in Steve like that in the first place?

“Fine. Sorry. Just a little nauseous.”

Maybe? What if he isn’t? What if he is? Looking back now, there are one or two signs that could be interpreted… oh. Jesus. What if…?

“Too much of a good time, huh?”

How are you supposed to act normal when you’re bursting out of your own skin?

“I – No, it was great, Buck. Thank you for… yeah.”

At least the lights are back on when they get home, but the building’s still arctic inside. Hopefully someone with better skills than Marty will show up in the morning to fix the boiler. They shed their coats and shoes and wander into the still-frosty lounge, Bucky still wearing the scarf.

Part of Steve wants to run off to bed and spend a bit more time with his thoughts, work through this mess of feelings and beer. But the clock says it’s only 10pm. His bed is cold. He’s way too wired to sleep, and if he doesn’t talk to Bucky now, he might go nuts.

“Hey man, you wanna… can we, like, hang out a little longer?”

Bucky only hesitates for a second before smiling brightly. “Sure.”

He sits down at one end the couch and fiddles with the TV remote while Steve arranges himself awkwardly somewhere in the middle.

“’Sup, man? You OK?”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs, sinking back into the cushions. “S’just been a hell of a day. And I’m cold.”

He glances sideways. Bucky meets him with a fond, boozy smile. He takes one end of the scarf and holds it out towards Steve, like an invitation, and Steve slides over and collapses against Bucky’s side.

Bucky drops his arm down over Steve’s shoulder, along with the scarf.

“Hey,” he says, in a soft voice. “Tomorrow will be better.” He gives Steve’s shoulder a little squeeze.

Steve could stay like this all night. The room’s so quiet he can almost hear his heart hammering against his ribs. It must be freezing in here because it kinda feels like Bucky is shivering.

They’ve hugged thousands of times before. There have been brief hugs and longer ones, hugs to say hi or bye, to celebrate or commiserate. But none of them quite like this. Side-by-side in a half-embrace, with a woolly approximation of the stars and stripes draped around the two of them.

It feels like they’re on the edge of something, and Steve can the enormity of it now. The scale of what could be gained or lost.

He holds his breath as he nestles his head into Bucky’s shoulder. Hesitantly, gently, Bucky’s cheek comes to rest on top of it. Steve thinks he hears him let out a shaky sigh.

Making romantic moves has never been Steve’s strong suit. On the other hand, leaping headlong into the unknown definitely is.

“Um, Buck?” he says.

“Yeah?”

“So, I figured some stuff out today and, uh… I think I might have fucked up.”

Bucky laughs a little breathlessly. “What else is new?”

How to answer that? Everything? Nothing? Steve’s all out of words.

He lifts his head up and their eyes lock. Bucky’s motionless, staring at him uncertainly, his arm still resting around Steve’s neck. Their faces are so close Steve can feel his breath. There’s only one thing he do now.

So he does it.

And that’s it. That’s the right answer, the way things ought to be. The warmth of Bucky’s lips spreads though him like waking up and finding that it’s springtime.

The kiss doesn’t last long but it leaves Steve in no doubt about what he wants. As he pulls away with a dreamy smile, the future falls into place. He may have taken too long to figure things out with Bucky, but he plans to spend however long he has left making up for the time they lost.

But then he catches Bucky’s blank expression and his smile fades abruptly.

Bucky clears his throat.

“You mean that?” he asks, his voice low and wobbly. “Because I swear to God—"

“Yes! I do!” Steve says, nodding earnestly. “I really do. I, uh… Sorry.”

Bucky closes his eyes for a long moment. When he opens them again, his expression is very familiar.

“Sorry?” he says. “SORRY?”

His face slowly morphs into a picture of incredulity.

“You fucking DUMBASS!” he yells, flinging up his hands in disbelief.

Steve desperately tries to look apologetic, but a smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth.

“You… you stupid fucking punk-ass IDIOT!” Bucky rages on. “JESUS! I cannot believe this!” He shoves Steve hard, which does nothing to stem the grin spreading across his face. “We are gonna talk about this, Rogers! Oh my Guh…”

Bucky’s still protesting as he helps Steve throw the scarf off and sinks back into the couch, but the insults soon give way to moans as Steve starts to kiss him in earnest. He makes a brave last stand, landing one final, half-hearted blow on Steve’s chest, but then Steve’s mouth finds his neck and he surrenders.

*

Steve wakes the next morning sticky with sweat, especially in the places where Bucky’s glued to him. Jeez. Who needs a scarf when you could have Bucky Barnes wrapped around you?

The room is like a sauna. He kicks off the covers to let his legs breathe a little.

“Hey, give that back,” comes a muffled voice from somewhere among the pillows. Bucky’s scowling face emerges beneath a dark, tousled mop of hair.

“What?” he says, catching Steve’s expression.

“Your hair is a mess.”

“And whose fault is that?”

Steve just grins at him stupidly.

Bucky half sits up and looks around, frowning.

“Hey,” he says. “Is this the warm glow of romance, or did Marty actually come through?”

“Both?” Steve beams. It occurs to him that with the heating fixed, they might not have to get dressed again until Monday.

Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.” Steve advances towards him, still grinning.

Bucky does his best to not to smile as he falls back against the pillows, but it shines through anyway, radiant and irresistible, filling all of Steve’s darkest corners with light. This might be the first time in his life he’s felt really, truly, uncomplicatedly happy.

He slips Bucky his whole tongue and Bucky kisses back twice as dirty. Things are just starting to escalate when Bucky breaks off for a moment.

“It’s getting kinda gross in here,” he says.

Steve shrugs, because he’s not exactly wrong.

“C’mon,” says Bucky. Finally, finally, that seductive smirk is aimed squarely at Steve and Steve alone. “Let’s go trash my bed, too.”