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The futon ends up moving into the living-room for the fall and winter for basically two reasons.
Firstly, the weather gets ugly before Steve has a chance to take it the frame apart and put it in storage, while at the same time the dining-room table'd gotten broken, so that it's pretty easy to drag it into the dining-room - with the famous words, just for now.
Except secondly, "for now" keeps getting longer, because Bucky keeps using it.
It makes, Steve supposes, a certain amount of sense. There are days it would honestly be better if Bucky would just stay in bed, or at least go back to bed once he's dragged himself across a few miles of roof-top, but he won't - or maybe can't, because the bedroom's tucked away in the corner of the condo, designed to be out of sight and out of mind of any guests, like it's own separate world, and maybe that feels like a cage.
The couch is a reasonable substitute for bed, except that Steve's pretty sure it ends up tying knots in at least a few places on Bucky's back that don't need anymore knots, because it's got a back and arms and most couches aren’t really built for, well, them, so the contortions Bucky ends up with aren't good for him.
The futon flattens out by pressure; the mechanism just needs whoever’s on it to hit the little lever for the lock and lean back. That means half the time, if he's listening to something or watching something else - and half the time "watching" is really just listening to dialogue or voiceover, the TV screen showing pictures to no particular purpose while Bucky stares at the ceiling - Bucky winds up sprawled on his back or propped against a pillow along his back or front while he lies on his side, and as far as Steve can see, in less pain.
That's enough reason. That's enough reason for a lot of stuff.
When the new dining-room table arrives, Steve rearranges the living-room so that the couch is under the window and the armchairs face it and the futon, which runs along the back wall. And also happens to get the best sun, when there's any to be got. He does that at about 6 AM, while Bucky's still out, and then goes to argue with Tony about new uniforms ("Tony, I do not need knee-pads." "Okay fine, I need you to have knee-pads, you make my knees ache in sympathy every time I see the shit you do - no, seriously, knee-pads are happening, let’s move on - “) and whether or not he has a hope in hell of getting Natasha into something with a stylized A on the arm (Steve figures it depends on his approach, and that Barton's actually going to be the tough sell).
When he comes back, Bucky is lying on the futon, basically like Steve expected, his knees bent, staring at the ceiling as he listens to something in rapid Portuguese. As Steve comes in and gets rid of his shoes, Bucky moves a knee so he can look at him.
"You're hilarious," Bucky says, dryly, and Steve shrugs in cheerfully fake indifference.
"You're comfortable," he retorts, putting his shoes on the shelf and coming into the living-room.
Autumn this year is a study in meteorological indecision according to Tony, or just messed up according to Jane, and can't seem to decide if it's going to be slow and unexpectedly hot, or short, miserable and savage, so it alternates days or weeks before going back on the choice again. Today it's absurdly warm and sunny, which Steve's actually grateful for: clothes, specifically shirts, are making Bucky unpredictably and unexpectedly twitchy, frustrating the Hell out of him and making things awkward when the weather's cool.
Right now, in the full sun with the windows in this room and the kitchen closed, Bucky's just not bothering, and it's still probably a little cooler than he'd like.
(Steve's revised his opinion about Bucky and cold: now he figures it's only half psychological and-or psychosomatic, and the other half's got more to do with the fact that Bucky’s still chronically underweight and-or underfed, if nowhere near as bad as he used to be. There's only so much Steve can do about that, though.)
Steve doesn't have anything else planned today - not really planned, just sort of sketched in in his own mind - and it’s almost as if the inside of his head feels slightly abraded from arguing with Tony, who has to be fighting with Pepper about something, because that's all that can make him that eager to be as obnoxious as humanly possible. So instead of making a grocery list or looking at paint samples for the bedroom wall or even answering the adorable PhD student's email, he sort of drops himself onto the futon beside Bucky and rolls over onto his side, leaning his head on one hand.
Which is the other nice thing about the futon: it fits two people better than the couch does, without enforcing the kind of closeness which, while it has it's good points, usually means somebody's got a sleeping limb or a deep pressure imprint from clothing or the couch itself before long.
Bucky gives him an amused sideways look, reaches over for the remote and flips the channel on the radio to something innocuous in English. "That good, huh," he says, and when Steve's reply is one big huff of a sigh, he laughs softly and reaches over with his right hand to ruffle Steve's hair.
"I actually," Steve says, only half-heartedly moving his head away, "genuinely, if against my better judgement, like Tony. It'd be nice if he stopped making that so damn difficult. What were you listening to?"
Bucky makes a small grimace of distaste. "Brazilian coup d'état, 1964. Program on it." He rubs his forehead with his left wrist and says, "Pretty sure I was there, but honestly the program wasn't making a lot more sense than what I might be able to remember anyway. And don't lecture me about 'seeking out negative stimulation'," he adds, "or I'll kick you the fuck off this thing.”
"What about seeking out negative stimuli?" Steve asks blandly, and then fends off a couple of mostly-joking shoves and kicks. "Okay, fine," he says, laughing. "I won't. Station's changed now anyway." He pulls over a cylindrical cushion for his head and then reaches one arm around Bucky's waist to pull him over, which he doesn't resist.
"Punk," Bucky says, without much conviction.
"Jerk," Steve retorts. "You warm enough?"
Bucky half-shrugs, shoulder moving against the front of Steve's. "I'll live," he says, which isn't actually an answer. Steve takes a few seconds to pay attention to how warm the sun is here and figures Bucky's probably fine, or at least still on the side of the question where irritating him by getting up and getting a blanket isn't worth it.
He rests his hand just in from the join at Bucky's left shoulder, leaving his arm across Bucky's chest: he knows that on twitchy days, touch helps, and also that Bucky won't ask or even hint much, because it makes him feel pathetic and that makes the twitch worse. Steve more or less expects it when Bucky's right hand rests on his lower arm near his elbow, fingers curling lightly around.
The speakers are quietly providing some show about a jazz musician Steve's never heard of from sometime mid-century, produced by Canadian public radio. Steve likes Canadian public radio, or at least the bits of it that whatever this station is broadcasts across the border. Bucky doesn't fall asleep, but his eyes are closed and his breathing's calm and relatively slow. Steve takes note of the part of him that wants to point out how easily he can count Bucky's ribs, and then tells it to shut up and go away and for now at least it does.
After a while, Bucky says, "This thing doesn't match anything else in here," which since the futon frame's pale wood and the cushion cover's a kind of pale blue isn't wrong. Bucky also shifts and settles closer to Steve, which is not exactly the way to argue for getting rid of the futon.
Steve resettles his arm so his hand's resting on Bucky's stomach and actually feels just a bit of tension let go, and more as he slowly moves until his fingers curve around Bucky's side, and back. Absently, filing that away for the day he does get to make a Power Point presentation entitled my best friend is actually a cat: a study, Steve says, "Easy enough to stain and get a new cover."
"Guess it is," Bucky admits, settling into the cushion a little more, which makes this probably up there in the top ten of half-hearted arguments they've had.
Steve's curiosity gets the better of him, after weighing things for a bit and deciding that right now, at least, Bucky really didn't seem bothered about it, so eventually he asks, "What happened in Brazil in '64?"
"Mm," Bucky says, and sighs. "Mostly the kind of stuff that makes you disappointed and frustrated with what America did with history while you were gone. Washington being so afraid of the Communists under the bed they decided to back the right-wing bastards outside the door."
Steve considers for a minute and then says, lightly, "No, I think I get to bug you about seeking out negative stimuli now." Bucky snorts, and makes a kind of half-hearted flail with his left hand in the direction of shoving at the side of Steve's head.
"I didn't have to seek it," he says, but isn't actually managing even very convincing irritation. "It was right there, waiting. Besides, it's fine."
Laughing a little, Steve leans over and kisses his shoulder. "Now that's a convincing argument."
"Yeah, shut up," Bucky replies, his right hand resting on Steve's where he paused it in moving, fingers resting in the space between ribs just below the space where scar started and gave way to metal.
"That one's even better," Steve says, and then laughs again, ending in, "Ow," when Bucky shifts his hand and digs his thumb-knuckle into Steve's wrist.
"Smartass," Bucky says.
"Yeah, it's all revenge," Steve replies, comfortably. “I’ve still got at least ten years of revenge left.” His hand opens from its reflexive clench, his fingertips landing on metal and scar-tissue because he’s not looking or thinking about how he’d moved; and now -
He'd move his hand, but Bucky stops him.
Steve hasn't been as strictly careful about the seam-scar since Bucky adjusted to his replacement, mostly because Bucky hasn't, but all that means is these days he doesn't keep the fact that he needs to avoid it in the forefront of his mind. Scars are complicated; Bucky's are even more so, given he doesn't remember how he got half of them; and this one's the most, because he does, almost every agonizing minute of it. It might not be a minefield to quite the same extent as it was before, but Steve hasn’t been about to push it, hasn’t thought it worth it at all.
Now, Bucky's fingers almost hesitantly stop Steve from moving his and, well -
Bucky's breathing changes, as Steve draws his middle fingertip along the bottom curve, but he doesn't tense and he doesn't flinch. His head tilts back a little; that's all. When Steve gets to the bend over the top of Bucky's shoulder, Buck inhales deep and slow, and then lets it go, carefully as Steve traces back down.
This is the one part of this arm that's always warm, warm from shared body-heat. And it strikes Steve to wonder if that's part of the way Bucky's always cold, too - if it's the metal constantly leeching heat away. If it is, Bucky might not, probably wouldn't even notice. Steve wonders if there's anything to do about it. Even a fraction of an inch up, the metal starts to cool, but at the seam itself the difference is all texture and give, softness of skin ending and something completely unyielding picking up. Steve wonders what it's like, to feel on both sides of that: the arm lets Bucky feel pressure, crude texture, but not heat or touch or pain. It's not really something you can use words to tell, he knows. If you haven't felt it, you don't know, so Steve just wonders.
The scarring is ugly, if by ugly you mean that by looking at it you know what made it had to be agonizing. Skin runs right into metal and piles over the edge, like sand deposited by sea or something like it. Some of the scar and the skin beside it goes red with irritation, sometimes. It remembers that metal and flesh aren't supposed to coexist and tries to let the rest of the body know. But that's less often now. In places it's just a seam; in places, though, the scarring extends like rays, or like runs in cloth, adhering to the texture of the metal underneath and then dragging it past the metal's edge.
When Steve traces one of those, Bucky's breath catches abruptly; Steve stops, watches Bucky’s face and asks, "Should I stop?" but Bucky shakes his head before Steve’s even really finished saying should. And maybe he's worried Steve won't believe that, because he moves his right hand up to Steve's shoulder and then takes a careful breath.
"It's fine," he says, like he's picking the words out of a box and having to look for the right ones. "Just wasn't expecting that."
"Expecting what?" Steve asks, drawing his fingertip down the space of abused skin again, and the look he gets has something a bit off-kilter in it but it's mostly fond and kind of exasperated. And Bucky reaches over with his left hand and gently catches Steve's jaw, pulling him up and into a kiss.
It’s the first time he’s been willing to do something like that with his left hand, and Steve’s startled enough to be a fraction of a second or two behind. His hand goes still and for a moment his thoughts skip, so that Steve’s not thinking of much more than Bucky’s mouth, of Bucky’s tongue licking past his lips, or the way that makes him want to give in, has always made so much of him want whatever Bucky has in mind and he doesn't care what, just more.
No more than Bucky’s mouth, and this time the cool touch of his left hand by Steve’s jaw, drawing him in, holding him there.
"What do you think?" Bucky asks, when he lets Steve go. "It's not like I expect anything I enjoy from that.”
It’s mostly impulse, instinct, when Steve moves his hand, flattens his palm so that the seam of scar and skin and metal runs across the centre and then slides it up, up over the top of Bucky’s shoulder and then back, not even enough pressure to leave a shadow of depression in the skin. Bucky’s eyes close and his head tilts back again, a little.
And Steve remembers bone and skin, remembers a mark there from the time they both fell off the fire-escape because they were idiots, both of them, but it was Bucky spending twenty minutes telling Steve that Steve could have broken his neck, and a week and Steve’s mom’s gentle explanation before Steve realized Bucky was mostly mad at himself for getting them both up there; remembers two freckles here, and then the small silvery scar, from the one freckle that had grown and changed shape and that Steve’s mom had then cut off with a scalpel she stole from the hospital, because nobody could afford a doctor that year.
Steve remembers a lot of things, including a time when Bucky might’ve said the same words, given voice to the same wry, sardonic ideas, but there’d be more laughter behind the words, and they’d be less tired.
Bucky smirks when Steve moves, when he pushes himself up and over so he can straddle Bucky’s hips instead of lying beside him. But it’s one of the smirks that Steve likes fine, thanks, and he kisses the corner of it before Bucky obligingly tilts his head again so Steve can kiss the underside of his jaw, the side of his neck and the hollow of his throat.
When Steve touches his mouth to the scar, Bucky inhales sharp and sudden; he shifts under Steve and his left hand rests gently on the back of Steve’s head - but not to stop him. Which is all Steve needs.
He leans on his right arm, fingers spread on the cushion beside Bucky’s neck. Head bent, unseeing, Steve searches carefully with his left hand until he touches skin, finding Bucky’s upper arm and then the front of his right shoulder, idly drawing over his collar-bone while Steve’s mouth moves down along the line he traced before. He tastes skin-salt and the tang of metal and feels the different shape of both parts, the texture of both, neither perfectly smooth. He shifts down, kissing and mouthing where scar and anchor curve under and along Bucky’s side, his left hand stroking down Bucky’s ribs to his hip on the other side, while Bucky’s breathing turns fast and sharp.
Until Bucky’s catching his face again with both hands this time and pulling him back up to kiss again. Harder this time and deep, demanding, as he pulls Steve closer and rolls them both until Steve’s flat on his back underneath him, moaning a little as Bucky grinds his hips down into Steve’s.
And then for a second Bucky just looks down at him, like he does sometimes, like there’s a question he’s trying to figure out the shape to. Steve’s not sure what it is, figures he’ll find out when Bucky finds it, but by now he knows it’s not a great idea to let Bucky chase it too long in moment’s like these - eventually it’ll shut him down, and the shadow of it can last for days.
And no, thanks. So Steve reaches up and presses both hands flat against Bucky’s lower back, sliding them up to his shoulders and this time Steve doesn’t his move his right hand away to Bucky’s spine, either. Bucky’s head falls forward, almost resting on Steve’s shoulder. The noise he makes is soft, but most of his sounds are, and after he catches a deep breath he leans forward to brush parted lips against Steve’s ear.
Murmurs, “Christ, Steve,” which is probably the closest he comes these days to prayer.
The futon is staying exactly where it is.