Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“No. We let the Avengers do their thing.”

(But why, Eddie? These are bad guys. We said we could…) Eddie can practically feel Venom licking his lips. (You said,) he repeats, almost petulantly.

“I know what I said but these are like superpowered bad guys, not guys with guns holding up a convenience store—”

(That store has the best ice cream cones. We love those, Eddie.)

“Not the point!” For what feels like the fiftieth time in the last three minutes, Eddie Brock rakes his hands through his hair in… what? Anxiety? Frustration? Anger? All of the above? “These aren’t just a bunch of punks trying to get a fix or something. They might not even be human. They’re probably not! People don’t just call in the Avengers for a bank robbery or a shootout. Something’s gotta be, like, really wrong.”

(Then why did they not call about us?)

“No idea, and we’re damn lucky they didn’t because we’d be in some crazy-secret superpower government cell that’d make Gitmo look like a vacation home. We’re supposed to be evacuated already, come on.”

He pokes his head out of the alley they’d taken refuge in, scanning for trouble. Which was the first mistake, really, because trouble always finds them whether they want it or not. In fact, trying to avoid it was probably like begging the universe for exactly what happens next:

One second, Eddie is thinking about how to slip onto the civilian side of the police barricade, and the next Venom erupts from his body, his back first and up over his head, armor against the sudden fall of bricks and crumbling plaster from the sky as something slams into the building behind them with enough violence to crack the façade. Whatever-it-is tumbles down the side of the building, flailing, and Eddie has a fraction of a second to register that it’s a human body before they’re in motion, grabbing it out of mid-air and finding purchase on the rough wall while Eddie wonders if knocking someone sideways this fast will snap their spine and Venom wonders if it’s someone edible, at least.

Neither of those things turn out to be true, because the person dangling from their right hand twists and looks up at them, expression flickering for a moment before he reaches for a thigh holster, silver-blue eyes pale in the streetlights and a black mask covering the lower half of his face. A quick peek of a red “A” on the front of his vest confirms it—this is an Avenger, and definitely not for eating.

“We’re not allowed to eat you,” they say. Just in time, too, because the Avenger dangling from their grip has a gun pointed straight at their face, and that’s just not a great way to kick off a friendship.

The Avenger’s eyes flick over their face, taking them in in an instant before he shifts the gun a bare inch to his right and fires. Its so close they can feel the bullet slice through the air, barely grazing their cheek. Something behind them shrieks and drops, spinning through the air like a whirligig and are those wings?

Whatever it is doesn’t give them much time to think, another barrelling straight after and a third right behind. It’s something not human even if it’s human-shaped, wings instead of arms, claws instead of feet, and they’re weighted down with a heavy Avenger who will drastically inhibit what little in-air combat capabilities they might have had. So they do the only logical thing they can, and throw the silent Avenger straight at one of the monsters.

Eddie has half a second to think ‘No!’ before the two figures make impact and they’re in the air on a crash-course of their own, feathers flying and the shriek of the beast just barely within what Venom can tolerate. It makes them angry, makes them see red, and the urgent need to ‘shut it up, shut it up!’ overrides what little control he has on the situation. He’s a journalist, not an Avenger, not a vigilante, and Venom’s experience as some kind of alien soldier is the only thing that’s going to save them.

The thing’s head is eerily smooth and makes a hideous noise as Venom unhinges its jaw to take it in, contorting them to try and control their violent plummet towards the ground. It doesn’t work. It never works, because Venom doesn’t understand self-preservation, and neither does Eddie if they’re being honest, but damn it they’re hungry and this is absolutely, completely, uncomplicatedly a bad guy. Bad… person. Bad thing. Whatever it is, they’re allowed to eat it, even if the feathers catch in their throat like fish bones on the way down.

They finish just in time to see the masked Avenger administer a double-tap to the last creature on the ground, straightening up from his crouch like a large jungle cat sighting another predator.

‘Can’t afford to get on the Avengers’ bad side,’ Eddie has to remind them, and if Venom were a human he’s pretty sure it would roll its eyes. As it is, they straighten up as well, with the universal body language that screams I’m not impressed! I’m a predator, too! Jesus, they really are losers.

“We are not losers,” Venom says with feeling.

The Avenger across from them reaches up with one gauntleted hand and unhooks the mask covering the bottom part of his face, pulling it away to reveal a five o’clock shadow and lips that have no right looking so plush on a guy of this size. As soon as he stows the mask in a pocket, his body language changes subtly, shoulders marginally less straight, less closed-off somehow.

“Never said you were a loser,” he says, voice a little gravelly like he hasn’t spoken in a while. His mouth quirks up in an amused smirk, his eyes warming slowly. It’s like he’s waking up, or surfacing from sleep or something. “Although I’d like to know what you are.”

“We are Venom,” they say, because it’s true but also because it always comes off with just the right amount of panache. “What are you?”

“Avenger, callsign Winter Soldier.” He gives them an ironic little salute. “Thanks for not eating me.” If he’s disgusted or horrified at what they’ve done, he doesn’t show it.

“We don’t eat the good guys,” they say in as courteous a tone as they can muster. “And we understand that Avengers are good guys.”

“Eh.” Winter Soldier makes a ‘so-so’ motion with his hand, which makes Venom perk up and Eddie wish this guy would stop making things more complicated. They’re still working on the whole dubious morality thing.

“We’ll let you get back to saving the world,” they say. Eddie more than Venom, really, because one of them has to have some manners and it isn’t going to be the thing literally from outer space. Also, if they hang around too long, there might be questions about eating an entire flying bird-person, and that’s more attention than they really want right now.

“Sure. I’ll… see you around?” The Winter Soldier raises one eyebrow questioningly at them.

“Maybe,” they reply vaguely, by which they really mean ‘no.’ Still, the other man nods and does a quick weapons check, then reaches once more for his mask. As soon as it’s settled, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He straightens, pushing his shoulders back and settling his weight more evenly. When he opens them, the friendly glimmer is gone, replaced with a gaze like cold steel. Without another word, he turns and stalks away at a ground-eating pace, a predator once again.

(They’re like us, Eddie,) Venom tells him, reluctantly handing back control of their body. Well, at least they got to eat something.

“He’s got a…” Eddie quickly rethinks the word he was going to use when he feels Venom’s defensiveness. “A symbiote?”

(No. They have two people in one body. They get along well.) Venom continues approvingly. (We should be their friends, Eddie. We don’t have any friends.)

“Yeah, well, whose fault is that?” he mutters. “It’s hard to meet people when you’re always thinking about eating them.” Luckily, everyone is straining to see the Avengers in action, so it’s easy to slip past the police barricade when they find it.

(I’m hungry.)

“You just ate an entire bird-thing!”

(I want ice cream. Chocolate chip.)

Eddie rolls his eyes heavenward and prays for patience. “Jesus. Fine.”

Chapter Text

People say they hate Mondays; that Mondays are the worst. There are a million jokes about the start of the work week. But Eddie has to disagree.

He hates Wednesdays.

By Wednesday, people are either irritated because they’re two days into their work week, or wound up because of the upcoming weekend. And the “hump day” jokes, don’t even get him started on those.

That’s what he’s brooding about when Venom tells him they should eat; that they want hot dogs from the shitty corner vendor, but the one on 87th and 5th because they taste better than the other ones, Eddie. He’s arguing under his breath because seriously? They’re not exactly rolling in money and they’ve got some at home, V! Jesus Christ, he’s starting to sound like his mother.

And then the car hits him.

It happens fast, the flash of bright yellow paint and blaring of the horn and the hard impact against his hip. Feeling the momentum throw him a few feet while he yells and curses and tries to land on something non-vital. It takes him several seconds to realize that he’s not actually hurt, because one of the advantages of having an alien symbiote inhabit your body is that it protects you from things like otherwise-hip-shattering impacts.

(Get up, Eddie, you’re making us look bad.)

Venom isn’t wrong. When he risks a glance up, he can see dozens of pedestrians staring at his prone form. He gives a sheepish smile and spares a hand for a tiny wave, and he hears the fake camera-shutter click of someone snapping a picture.

And people say that New Yorkers don’t care.

“He jumped out in fron’a my car! I got the right’a way here!”

Ah, there it is.

“Holy shit, don’t move,” a husky voice commands. He squints at the guy who kneels down beside him, placing a hand on Eddie’s shoulder to try and keep him down. There’s a lot to see, because the guy is pretty stacked, but he’s got on a baseball cap and aviators and a jacket, so it’s hard to make out his features from this angle.

“No, it’s fine. I’m okay.”

“You got hit by a car—okay is a million miles away from you right now, buddy.”

“He said he’s okay! You all heard ‘im, right? He’s fine!” someone—Eddie assumes the driver of the bright yellow cab that just ran him down—yells at the crowd.

“Really, look. Nothing’s broken, see?” He starts to get up again, pointedly moving his leg to show off that it isn’t broken into pieces.

“We should probably take you to the hospital just in case,” the stranger says dubiously.

“Shit, no! No hospitals!” If he goes to the ER there’s no way he’ll be able to explain his abnormally high body temperature or whatever Venom will end up looking like on a CAT scan.

(We didn’t like the tube-machine.) Venom hisses.

“It’s called an MRI and that’s why we’re not going,” Eddie mutters back. But apparently not softly enough, because he can see the stranger’s eyebrows raise even behind his sunglasses. “Uh. No insurance,” he covers quickly. That, at least, makes the stranger’s expression clear up a little.

“I know what that feels like, but listen, I was the one who told the guy to book it, so this is pretty much my fault. Lemme pay for you.”

“Nope. No. Can’t let you do that,” Eddie stammers. “It wouldn’t be, you know.” He manages to get his feet under him despite the guy trying to get him to lie down. “Besides, if anyone was gonna pay, shouldn’t it be that guy?” he asks, jerking a thumb to the cab driver.

“You said no hospitals!” the driver blusters, face flushing an angry red.

(He’s not very nice,) Venom observes. (We could eat him.)

“Okay, then lemme take you to my friend’s place, at least. Just for a few hours so I can make sure you’re actually okay. He’s not too far from here,” Sunglasses coaxes, completely deaf to Eddie’s internal conflict. He has, Eddie notes wearily, the look of someone who knows how to dig their heels in.

“You’re not gonna take no for an answer, are you?”

Sunglasses smirks a little, even though he’s still radiating concern. “Pretty much.”

“All right.” He lets Sunglasses help haul him up, just to make the guy feel useful. He’s pulled upright so quickly and easily that it actually does make him dizzy, and he has to throw out a hand to steady himself. Sunglasses wraps one arm around his waist to help keep him upright.

“Hey! You still owe me the fare!”

Sunglasses freezes, making Eddie bump into him. He’s almost more solid than the car.

“You’re lucky neither of us sue you, pal,” Sunglasses says coldly. “Shove your fare up your ass.”

“Seriously, I’m fine.”

“Sit.”

Eddie sits, but only because it’s either that or stand around awkwardly in someone else’s home. Someone else’s absurdly expensive home, if the location and size of the apartment are anything to go by.

“You got a name, or should I just keep calling you Sunglasses?” Eddie asks as the other man rummages in a cupboard for what turns out to be a drinking glass. He fills it from a pitcher in the fridge and sets it down on the table before answering.

“Bucky,” he says, slipping off the aviators to reveal pale blue eyes bright with concern. “You can call me Bucky. It’s a nickname,” he explains in response to whatever expression Eddie must be making.

“Eddie,” Eddie says in response. He takes the glass and gulps down the cool water, only just realizing how thirsty he is. And hungry. Shit, they were supposed to be getting hot dogs; no wonder Venom wanted to eat the cab driver.

(And because he was—what was it? Ah—an asshole.)

Eddie snorts in amusement, but Bucky must mistake it for a noise of pain because his brows furrow again.

“You need help getting your shirt off?”

“Shirt? Off?” Eddie manfully does not squeak. It’s not that he thinks he has anything to be ashamed of, and it’s not that he really cares if he’s naked in front of another guy. It’s just this particular guy is built like a brick shithouse, and while Eddie is in shape, he’s not porn-star ripped.

“Yeah. I don’t have x-ray vision, and it’s kind of hard to tell what the damage is without being able to see it.”

“You a doctor or something?” Eddie hedges.

“Nah. My buddy, the one who owns this place, he used to get into a lot of scrapes when we were younger. He couldn’t afford a hospital either, so I got used to patching him up. So, are you gonna take of your shirt or do I gotta cut it off?”

It’s not like Eddie has so many shirts that he can afford to shred one up. Freelancing doesn’t pay well, and it pays even worse when you’re writing under a new pseudonym and have no reputation built in the industry.

“I’m telling you, I’m fine,” he repeats, casting about for some kind of excuse. It comes to him when his shirt is halfway off. “I worked as a stunt guy for a while. This isn’t that big a deal. I barely felt it.” It’s like playing two truths and a lie. God, the story of his life.

“Well.” Bucky removes his cap and rakes his long hair back, tying it into a sloppy bun. “You don’t look bad.”

(Thank you,) Venom rumbles smugly.

“Thanks,” Eddie echoes, eyes still riveted to Bucky’s face. He looks familiar. Not in the ‘guy I went to high school with’ kind of way, but in the ‘maybe we shop at the same grocery store’ way. Immediate familiarity, like he’s seen him in the last couple weeks. It isn’t until pink dusts the apples of Bucky’s cheeks that Eddie realizes that what he’s doing—the offhand comments, the staring—definitely fall into the category of ‘flirting.’

“Shit. I mean,” Eddie backpedals. Although… would it be so bad? Bucky is easy on the eyes, with his dark hair and aristocratic cheekbones and plush lips.

Wait.

“I meant that you’re barely even bruised,” Bucky says, ghosting one gloved hand just over Eddie’s ribs, close enough to feel the displacement of air from his fingertips, but not close enough to actually touch. He drops his hand to poke closer to Eddie’s hip, where the car fender should have made contact, and the motion moves his sleeve a little so that Eddie catches a discreet gleam of silver.

Plush lips? Check. Killer thighs? Check. Big metal arm? Check.

He just got run over by the Winter Soldier.

Well, not really run over. It was more like a love tap, all things considered. And, he realizes, Bucky won’t know that they’ve met before. And Eddie can’t tell him, because how do you even start a conversation like that? ‘Hi, we met on a battlefield once. I’m the one who was eating bird-people’? ‘Gee, you look a lot different when you’re not firing a gun six inches from my face’?

“I was really good at my job,” Eddie supplies. Not technically a lie.

“Huh.” Bucky sits back for a second, then shakes his head like he’s clearing it and settles himself on a chair instead, so they’re eye to eye. “So you got hit by a car, but you don’t feel anything unusual at all?”

“Uh.” And, because his’s such a monumental fuck-up, Eddie says the first thing he thinks of when he opens his mouth. “I’m hungry?”

“Hungry.”

He cringes, but at least he’s successfully distracted Bucky from the question of why all his bones are miraculously intact. “Yeah, I was going to get lunch when, uh.” He makes a little crashing motion with his hands.

“Oh. I mean, my buddy’s probably got protein bars or something around here.” Still looking slightly puzzled, Bucky starts rifling through some cabinets, apparently completely at home at his friend’s place.

“I couldn’t possibly—”

(Protein bars taste like sawdust, Eddie.)

Eddie bites his lip so he doesn’t start yelling because this is not the time to argue about protein bars. Instead, he takes a deep breath and counts to five.

“I can’t put your friend out any more,” he says as politely as he knows how. “I can just run down to a corner store and grab something—it’s really not a big deal.”

Bucky stops what he’s doing and frowns at him. “At least let me buy you lunch, then. You can eat and I can keep an eye on you, and you won’t have to feel weird in someone else’s home. Deal?”

(Yes, let’s get Thai food.)

He can feel Venom getting impatient, and nothing good ever comes of that. Plus, free food. He thinks of his bank account and how many extra bags of potatoes he can buy with the money he’ll save, and nods reluctantly. “If you’re sure.”

(Yes!)

“Yeah.” Bucky grabs his hat and sunglasses again, surreptitiously tugging his left sleeve down in what Eddie suspects is a subconscious gesture. “Anything in particular?”

“Thai, please.”

Chapter Text

Here’s the thing.

Here’s the thing:

The Winter Soldier, AKA Bucky, thinks his whole disguise shtick is working, and it’s equal parts adorable and concerning. He’s an Avenger. These are the people most of the free world trusts to beat back superhuman invasions and bust open global conspiracies. Surely they’re better trained in things like simple espionage? Is he counting on the complete and utter lack of shits given by New Yorkers to stay blended into the crowd?

When they parted ways—after Eddie ate a truly embarrassing amount of Thai food on someone else’s dime—Bucky insisted on giving him his phone number. His personal one, judging by the way the voicemail mentioned nothing about the Avengers. What else was Eddie supposed to do, other than give his number in exchange?

A concerned check-in turned into a casual conversation turned into another meet-up, and then grabbing some coffee together, and now, Eddie is about 75% sure they’re on a date.

(It’s definitely a date, Eddie. We should pay.)

“Here, I got it,” Eddie says, fumbling for his wallet. Besides, how much can a couple cones of ice cream cost? He looks at the total and almost chokes, but Bucky’s been really nice and paid for their last maybe-date of overpriced ‘street food’ from a food truck, so the least he can do is pay for whatever this gourmet ice cream shit is that Venom insisted they try. As if he can even taste the difference.

(No one else has hamburger-flavored ice cream, Eddie,)

“Where did you even find this place?” Bucky laughs, taking a bite of his popcorn-flavored ice cream. Because, apparently, Bucky is a heathen who bites into ice cream and doesn’t even flinch. Eddie wonders if it’s some kind of special training.

“Heard someone talking about it,” Eddie says vaguely, trying his own. The truth is that Venom overheard some people talking about it, after he was told explicitly not to eavesdrop on random strangers’ conversations. Especially when Eddie was trying to eavesdrop on specific strangers’ conversations. For journalism. And free speech.

Huh. Hamburger-flavored ice cream isn’t too bad.

“So?”

Eddie catches Bucky giving him a sidelong glance, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth.

“What?”

“How is it? I’m dying to know.”

“Not bad, actually. Wanna try?” Eddie holds out his cone unthinkingly. And then all higher thought sputters out when Bucky, without missing a beat, leans in and licks the light-pink ice cream. For an inordinately long time. Eddie swallows hard as he watches Bucky’s long lashes flutter from behind his obnoxious aviators. He licks his lips when Bucky does, subconsciously mirroring him.

“It’s weird. But not bad,” Bucky agrees, cool as you please. Like he didn’t just do the second-most-suggestive thing Eddie’s seen outside of porn. “Did you want to try mine?”

(Say yes, Eddie.)

“Y-yeah. Sure.”

He leans in, just like Bucky did, and… bites into the cone. Fucking bites it. Like an idiot. And now an idiot with brain freeze.

“Christ!” he yelps, nearly dropping his ice cream. “Oh my God, how the hell do you do that?!” He clicks his teeth together like somehow that’ll help the cold ache of them while Bucky laughs uproariously.

“Sorry, sorry,” Bucky apologizes, sounding not sorry at all. “Here, lemme warm ‘em up.”

Bucky leans in and for one wild, exhilarating moment, Eddie thinks he’s going to kiss him.

And then an alarm goes off.

Bucky pulls back at the same time Eddie does, both of them checking their pockets even though Eddie knows the tone isn’t his. Sure enough, Bucky produces his phone from his pocket. When he checks his screen, his expression shutters closed.

“Something wrong?”

“No,” Bucky says through a forced smile. “Well, kind of. I need to go. Work emergency. But this was fun. We should… Yeah.”

Eddie stares after him as he takes off down the street, ball cap pulled low over his brow. ‘We should… yeah’? What the hell was that?

It’s radio silence from Bucky for almost two weeks, which Eddie can understand. The Avengers got called out to deal with something in Eastern Europe, according to the news. Only, when he does come back and Eddie invites him out to his favorite shitty Chinese place, Bucky acts… weird. Listless, if Eddie had to pick a word.

“Okay, the food was shitty, but I know it wasn’t that shitty,” Eddie says as soon as they’re far away enough that the owners can’t overhear them. Bucky picked at his food and Eddie’s pretty sure that less than a spoonful actually made it past his lips. Which is ridiculous, because someone of Bucky’s size should have a crazy caloric intake, much less someone who just came back from some kind of international emergency. “We could hit somewhere a little more normal,” he suggests. He can’t help but notice the way Bucky’s been keeping to himself more today, extra careful of accidentally brushing up against other people and looking away as soon as someone focuses on him. “Or… I mean, I’m not a great cook, but I’m not the worst. I can do pasta all right, if you don’t feel like being outside.”

(The apartment is what you call ‘a shithole,’ Eddie. Why would you invite him there? He will not be impressed.)

God, he knew it was a bad idea to watch romcoms with Venom.

“That’s not—” Bucky chews on his lower lip, shoulders hunching in. “Okay, yeah. Thank you.”

The walk back to Eddie’s apartment doesn’t take long, which is a blessing because the space between them is starting to feel tense, and Eddie can’t for the life of him think of why. He hasn’t done anything especially alarming lately, hasn’t done the uncontrollable sweating thing in months, and he’s pretty sure he’s kept the talking out loud to Venom at a minimum while Bucky has been around. Maybe the guy’s just tired?

“We need to talk,” Bucky says as soon as the apartment door is safely closed, which… well, shit. That isn’t what Eddie was expecting. Is he getting dumped before they even start dating? Can you get friend-dumped? He’s pretty sure you can get friend-dumped. Is he so pathetic that he can’t even make it to getting regular-dumped?

(I told you not to show him the apartment.)

“Uh, sure. What’s on your mind?” He busies himself with getting out a couple of bottles of water. When he turns back around, Bucky’s already taken off his aviators and cap, and is raking back his hair, now free of its normal pony-tail.

“We can’t… do this anymore,” Bucky says reluctantly. He looks anywhere but Eddie—at the floor that needs sweeping, the peeling paint on the walls, the scuffed-up cabinetry.

“What?”

“I’ve been lying to you,” Bucky says, wrenching his gaze back to Eddie’s with what looks like a supreme act of willpower. “I—I’m an Avenger.” His posture stiffens, like he expects Eddie to take a swing at him or yell or something. “My name is James Barnes and I’m the Winter Soldier, and I’ve been lying to you. And you’re great, but you didn’t sign up to be with—” He stumbles to a halt, glaring at Eddie, who’s biting his fist in an attempt to hide his amused grin and hold back laughter. “This isn’t a joke. I’m serious, Eddie. If you need me to—”

“No, no, I believe you,” Eddie chuckles. He holds up his hands when Bucky scowls even harder, wounded. “It’s not sarcasm! I already know you’re the Winter Soldier!”

“Wh—How?”

God, it’s cute how honestly baffled he looks. “Did you really think the baseball hat and sunglasses thing was working? I figured you out the first time we met.”

“When I hit you with the car?!”

“Technically the cab driver hit me, but yeah. I’m an investigative journalist; how many people do you think are running around with an arm made of metal?”

“I wear gloves—”

“I know. You wear them everywhere. Even indoors. Even while we’re eating. You’re either hiding something under there or you’re a serial killer who’s too scared to leave fingerprints in case you get tracked.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything? Call me out?”

Eddie shrugs, still chuckling. “You went through so much trouble, I thought it’d be rude.”

“And this isn’t concerning to you at all,” Bucky asks flatly.

Eddie gestures vaguely with his bottle of water. “I mean, the part where you thought the ‘disguise’ was working did, yeah. You don’t do like… covert ops or anything, do you? Because if that’s honestly your idea of subterfuge…”

“That’s classified,” Bucky he snaps, snatching the bottle from Eddie. He cracks the seal and chugs about half of it down, and for a minute Eddie is worried that Bucky is honestly angry. But then he puts the bottle down, drags his sleeve across his mouth, and takes off his gloves, holding his left hand out. “Here.”

Eddie stares at the metal hand, then cautiously puts the second bottle of water in it. Bucky stares at him like he’s lost his mind.

(You should have given him food. He’s probably hungry,) Venom says sagely.

“You can look at it, if you want,” Bucky explains, setting the second bottle aside as well, then pushing up his sleeve for emphasis. “Most people want to, when they see it, even if they don’t say anything.”

“Oh.” He has to fight back a blush at his mistake. It is a pretty cool piece of technology, he has to admit. It looks and even moves just like a real hand. But it’s still Bucky’s hand, and it feels kind of weird to just poke at a part of someone’s body like that. “So, white sauce or red sauce?”

“What?” Bucky asks incredulously, watching Eddie turn away to grab his biggest pot, leaving Bucky holding his hand in the air.

“For the pasta. I just buy the stuff in the jars, but—”

(We’re out of the white one, Eddie.)

“Well, never mind. I guess I’ve only got red sauce. Sorry.”

“That’s it?”

“Hey, if you wanted fancy, you should’a taken me out to a restaurant.” He glances over, and Bucky is shaking his head, grinning at him as he ties his hair back up, all defensiveness gone like it never existed.

“So is that what this is, then? Between us? Me takin’ you out?” He leans against the tiny counter and picks up the box of noodles, shaking it between the two of them. “Like dates?”

(Say yes, Eddie.)

“It… doesn’t have to be?” Eddie says cautiously.

(I said to say yes!)

“And if I want it to be?” Bucky murmurs, hiding a sly smirk behind the dark blue box.

(SAY YES, EDDIE!)

“Then, yeah, I guess that’s what this is,” Eddie agrees breathlessly.

Bucky bops him gently on the nose with the box, eyes crinkled in a smile. “Then I guess that means I’m cooking, next time.”

Chapter Text

It isn’t dark, and it isn’t stormy, but it does happen at night.

They tend to spend a lot of down-time at Eddie’s place, even if it is a shithole, as Venom so kindly pointed out. Eddie has apologized time and again for the state of his place, but Bucky doesn’t seem to mind in the least. In fact, he says it kind of reminds him of home. Of course, given that the guy grew up during the Great Depression, Eddie isn’t so sure it’s actually a compliment. At any rate, when Bucky isn’t busy with Avengers business and Eddie isn’t furiously typing up commissioned fluff pieces for questionable online magazines, they’re usually puttering around his one-room in Bed-Stuy.

Tonight, they’re watching something positively inane on Eddie’s staticky cable. Bucky hogs most of the broken-down sofa and Eddie, by necessity, is draped half-atop him. It puts a crick in his neck to watch from this position, but Bucky is a pretty good pillow despite the metal arm, and Eddie is disinclined to find a better position. The movie is just getting to the good part when Eddie glances up to see what his boyfriend thinks, only to find Bucky’s eyes closed and his breathing deep and even, lips parted slightly in sleep. It’s adorable.

Eddie hopes he drools, so he can take a picture and blackmail him forever.

“WE WON’T EVEN LOOK AT YOUR CREDIT HISTORY! BAD CREDIT? NO CREDIT? NO PROBLEM—” blares from the TV, what feels like three times louder than their program, making Eddie jump and curse. But the effect it has on Bucky is much, much worse.

Bucky’s rolled them both off the couch in an instant, landing hard on Eddie and knocking over his crappy coffee table. His eyes are blank as the commercial keeps screaming about used cars in the background. Bucky’s body pins him to the floor, weight heavy on Eddie’s chest, his knees clamping Eddie’s arms to his sides, and his metal arm wrapping cold fingers around his throat. Bucky’s metal hand is around his throat, oh shit. He manages to wrench one hand free to grab at the metal wrist, like that’s going to help him at all if Bucky decides to squeeze, and Bucky, predictably, pays him no mind. Eddie’s not stupid—he knows what PTSD is, and Bucky’s got this blank, faraway look that’s frightening because it says he’s not all there and Eddie is going to have to talk him down while avoiding being strangled to death in his own home.

(This isn’t the nice one, Eddie.)

“Thanks, I noticed, could you maybe just help a little instead?” Then, “Wait! Go slow! Can’t let him see you!”

(Are you saying we’re an embarrassment, Eddie?)

“No, but I also think that Bucky in murder-face-mode isn’t gonna react well to us in eating-faces-mode and I really want to keep the deposit I put on the apartment!”

The Winter Soldier assesses him coldly, head cocked slightly to the side like he can’t decide if Eddie talking to himself is important or not. Eddie’s holding on to Bucky’s wrist so hard that the tips of his fingers are starting to lose feeling, but it’s not moving in the slightest. If anything, Bucky begins to tighten his grip.

Venom slowly insinuates himself between Eddie’s skin and the metal around his throat, spreading ink-dark underneath his clothes and up his arm so they can get a better grip on Bucky’s wrist.

“Hey, Bucky. Hey. Hi.” Eddie gives a strained sort of smile and tries not to let it turn into a grimace when that garners no flicker of recognition. “It’s December 2019 and we’re in my apartment in Bedford-Stuyvesant, New York. I’m Eddie Brock, and you’re Bucky Barnes, and we were watching TV when a really shitty commercial startled us.” Bucky relaxes marginally.

Just stay calm, that’s the key. “Commercials these days, right? Gotta be louder than anything else. Not even entertaining, either. Do I really wanna buy a car from a place that screams in my ear on my Sunday off? No. Nope. I’d just turn around and walk the other way. Not that you need a car when you live in the city. Which is why I’d be walking to the dealership. Hypothetically speaking. Point is, that was a bad commercial and watching movies from the 80s was going really well up until then, and the telecom industry is a series of monopolies that ask us to pay increasing amounts of money for the privilege of letting other people spending even more money to try and brainwash us into buying crap we don’t need. Oh, shit, I shouldn’t have said ‘brainwash.’”

(Good job, Eddie.)

“Hey, when did you learn sarcasm?”

(We’re very nuanced.)

Eddie’s still trying to think of a response when the grip around his neck loosens slightly. Venom takes the opportunity to push at Bucky’s fingers even more, easing the pressure on his carotid.

“Speaking of washing. I re-caulked the shower. It wasn’t as hard as everyone makes it sound. Actually, I lied. I went through three tubes of caulk before I figured it out, but after that it was pretty smooth sailing. I didn’t want to spend money on one of those plastic things—the squeegees?—so I made out out of cardboard but it kept collapsing so I had to make, like, ten—”

Bucky lets go of him all at once, confusion, then recognition, then horror flitting across his features. He throws himself off of Eddie and scrambles back until he hits the couch, chest heaving for breath.

“Okay, hey, welcome back, Buck.” When that gets no response, he tries, “Can you breathe a little more deeply for me? You’re kind of hyperventilating there. You’re in my apartment in Bed-Stuy—”

“I know where I am,” Bucky rasps. He shivers, but he forces his breathing back under control. It’s kind of eerie how fast he does it, and it reminds Eddie abruptly of the articles he looked up about the Winter Soldier. The ones that referenced him as being ‘created’ and ‘shaped’ into being ‘the perfect soldier.’ They didn’t seem to care that there was a human underneath all their ‘shaping,’ and Eddie would hazard a guess that panic isn’t a trait one looks for when making the perfect soldier.

“Cool. Good. I’m gonna get you some water. And a soda. Here.” He picks up the throw that had fallen to the ground and drapes it over Bucky’s shoulders quickly, unsure if extended contact is welcome at the moment. And was it hot drinks or cold drinks that you’re supposed to give someone having a panic attack? Probably can’t go wrong with room temp. He grabs a bottle from the shelf and pushes it into Bucky’s unresisting hands before going in search of a soft drink. It should be something without caffeine, probably.

He’s still got his head in the fridge when he hears Bucky stand up. When he looks, Bucky’s face is set in hard lines, like he’s steeling himself for something unpleasant. He’s folding up the throw with stiff movements, and the water sits untouched on the coffee table.

“You should probably rest for a few more minutes. You can lie down on the bed if the couch isn’t a good spot,” Eddie offers.

“This isn’t working,” Bucky tells him, words falling from his lips like shards of ice, cold and cutting.

“This… I mean, sure, movie night didn’t end great, but it’s easy to mute the commercials so it won’t happen again.”

“That’s not what I mean, and I think you know it,” Bucky cuts him off sharply. His voice is tired, though, and sad. Resigned. “I mean… this. Us.” He gestures back and forth between the two of them, Bucky standing there with his metal arm on partial display; Eddie with his fridge cracked open and a Sprite in one hand.

(Is he breaking up with us?)

“Um. Us?” Eddie closes the fridge and makes the same gesture. “I don’t really see the problem.”

“I had my hand around your neck,” Bucky snaps.

“That is a factual statement, yes.”

“I could have killed you!”

(He could not.) Venom sounds vaguely insulted. (We are very hard to kill, Eddie.)

“I’m not sure you could, actually.”

“You don’t understand,” Bucky says, voice pleading. “The way I was made—it’s easy. It’s too easy, and I’ve killed—” His throat works with a dry click. “I couldn’t live with myself if I added you to the number.”

“No, I mean, I don’t think you can. Physically. Wait. That came out wrong. Here, just… put your hand around my throat again. And don’t freak out.”

The metal is warmer this time, and Bucky is obviously reluctant, holding his hand loose around Eddie’s neck in more of a caress than anything else. That’s fine, because it’s still enough to prove his point. Eddie can feel Venom bloom from his chest, under his clothes, to reach and flow across his body. It’s always a weird feeling, and it’s even worse in slow-motion. The extra protection around his neck thickens, pressing against unresisting fingers. Bucky’s eyes go wide as he sees the inky, viscous spread of it, then again when it becomes thick enough to push his hand away, until they’re completely merged.

“Hello again.”

Bucky releases his tenuous hold and stares. “You’re Venom.”

“You are not the only one who can keep secrets,” they tell him. “We are very hard to kill. And I am very fast.” He unravels up Eddie’s arm all the way to the shoulder, then snaps back down in an instant to demonstrate.

Bucky is still staring at them, and Eddie is starting to worry that he’s slipping again. Maybe this was a bad idea after all? They extend their hand and Venom pulls away to reveal Eddie’s very much human one, Venom’s black flesh spiraling around like a protective cocoon. After a moment of hesitation, Bucky reaches out to take Eddie’s hand in his.

Eddie leads them both back to the sofa, kneeling by Bucky’s feet as Venom recedes. He squeezes Bucky’s hands to get his attention, taking a deep breath before trying a little half-smile that he doesn’t quite feel.

“Look, Bucky. If you really want to break things off, I’m not going to stop you.”

(WHAT?!)

“That’s your right. But if you were only saying that stuff because you’re worried, then we’re trying to tell you that you don’t have to be. We—I don’t care that you used to kill people. Hell, Venom wants to eat them. It’s not what we’d call a defining trait, or a dealbreaker. And, sure, sometimes stuff happens and you’re not sure if you’re gonna accidentally strangle someone. That’s fine; sometimes stuff happens and we aren’t sure if we’re gonna accidentally bite someone’s face off. What we’re trying to tell you is: We get it. Or, we get it as much as anyone else is going to. So if you’re in, then we’re in. And I’d really like it if you said you were in.”

Bucky swallows hard, eyes searching Eddie’s face. “This is… this is the weirdest pep talk anyone’s ever given me. And I grew up with Steve.”

“Uh, well… is it working?”

Bucky closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but yes.”

“Really?”

“I still—I mean, I’m still… scared. It’s not an easy thing to shake. But knowing that you’ve got… insurance, I guess. That’s…” He shakes his head again, a slightly hysterical smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “It’s actually kind of nice not to be the weirdest thing in the room.”

(I like him, so I will allow that to slide. But he will apologize next time.)

“So no more of the sacrifice-the-relationship-for-his-own-good stuff?”

“We’re still gonna have to talk about this,” Bucky warns. But he leans in so he can press his forehead to Eddie’s, and he looks calm for the first time since he woke up. “But… yeah. Next time I tell you it’s not gonna work, it’ll be because of something that’s actually your fault.”

Eddie grins and pushes back against Bucky, making the two of them sway gently. “That sounds fair.”

Chapter Text

“Hey, Eddie?”

“Yep.” Eddie doesn’t look up from where he’s icing a cookie, brow furrowed in concentration.

“If we had sex, would it be a threesome?”

Eddie’s grip tightens in surprise, icing slopping all over the cookie and completely ruining the design, but he can’t even care right now, because what the hell.

“Because of Venom,” Bucky continues, nonchalant as he rolls out dough to an even thickness. “He’s got his own brain… kind of. His own thoughts, at least, and he’s basically a separate entity, right? So he’s one whole other person.”

“He—we—” Eddie sputters, dropping his icing bag. Venom reaches out and catches it before it hits the ground. “No!”

“No, he’s not another person, or no—”

“It’s not a threesome!” Eddie yelps. Venom snickers, the sound echoed by Bucky, and if he wasn’t literally attached to Venom, he’d think the two of them planned this out for maximum embarrassment.

“Your logic?” Bucky prompts. He’s moved on to cutting out shapes while Eddie continues to stare at his icing.

“What does this have to do with logic?!”

“Well, I told you mine. It’s a very practical kind of question, I think.”

“I—” Eddie gives up on pretending that he’s still working on the cookies, and moves so he can sit down without being in Bucky’s way in the tiny kitchen. “Wow. Okay. I never thought about this.”

(It is not a threesome,) Venom says, sounding incredibly sure of himself.

Eddie nearly chokes on his own spit. “How do you even know what a threesome is?! I thought you… I don’t know, replicated or something! Like, budding, or mitosis!” Unlike some people, Eddie doesn’t sit around and think about sex mechanics of alien species.

(We do. But you know what a threesome is, so I do too, Eddie.)

Right, the whole literally-sharing-his-brain thing.

“Talking to Venom?” Bucky wonders aloud. “Does he know what a threesome is?” Then a wide grin spreads across his face. “Got a porn preference you want to share with me, pal?”

“No!”

“No, you don’t have a preference, or no, you don’t want to share?”

Once upon a time, Eddie’s biggest worry had been being taken hostage while investigating something in a hostile nation. Now, it’s being cornered by his talking internal parasite and his supersoldier boyfriend. “Venom knows what a threesome is because I know what a threesome is. And he says that it isn’t one. Won’t be one.”

(I am not especially interested in what you do with your genitalia, Eddie, so long as you do it with someone we like. But orgasms are… nice. Almost as good as food.)

“He wouldn’t be… active… so it doesn’t count,” Eddie says, instead of opening up that entire can of worms. He could have gone his whole life without knowing or thinking about any of this conversation. “Look, the timer went off!”

Bucky gives him a look that says that he knows exactly what Eddie is doing by changing the subject, but he lets it slide, cramming himself into one side of the kitchen so Eddie can actually open the oven door enough to reach inside it.

“Sorry the kitchen’s so small,” he apologizes for what feels like the hundredth time. “And that the oven sucks.” Case in point, the heating coils don’t work properly on one side, so they set two timers per tray: one to tell them when to rotate so all the cookies are evenly baked, and one to actually pull them out before they’re completely unsalvageable.

“Hey, I’m the one who asked you,” Bucky tells him easily. “Barracks kitchen is communal, so it has more room, but anyone could walk in and steal the goods.”

“And that happens… often?” Communal kitchen? Where is Bucky living—an undergrad dorm?

“Bunch of agents tired of cafeteria food but too lazy to go out? Yeah.”

Now that he thinks about it, Eddie has no idea where Bucky lives. Eddie knows it’s not in the main part of the city, but he visits friends in different boroughs pretty often. He’s always talking about going somewhere with Steve, or Sam, or Clint. And he gets the distinct impression that Bucky keeps half his clothes at his friends’ places, too. Certainly he’s got a couple of changes over at Eddie’s, rolled into neat, unobtrusive bundles and shoved into one of his drawers.

“Where the hell are you living?” he wonders aloud. “I haven’t had to deal with a communal living space since college.”

“I told you,” Bucky says defensively. “SHIELD barracks.”

“Wait, actual barracks?” Eddie has to put down the icing bag again. At this rate, it’ll be Christmas day before he has these ready.

“I know I’ve said this before. What did you think I meant?”

“I don’t know! I thought it was a fond name for your house or apartment or something!”

Bucky laughs and abandons his task to grin at Eddie. “You never wondered why I never invited you over?”

“Well, maybe you like terrible New York apartments with broken radiators.”

(No one likes those, Eddie.)

“No one likes shitty New York apartments,” Bucky echoes with a smirk. “No, the SHIELD barracks require security clearance. Can’t even get family in there if they’re civilians. Why? Did you…” Bucky’s eyes widen and he abandons his task, nearly knocking the dough to the floor. “Did you think I was ashamed of you or something? Hiding us?” He gestures back and forth between them emphatically.

Eddie just shrugs. “Being out is different from getting caught with someone. And I’m not really a popular person in certain circles.” As evidenced by his chronic inability to land any long-term gigs. “Besides, people are always nosing into the Avengers’ business, even when things are quiet. I figure you don’t need me to contribute to it.”

“No. Hey, no,” Bucky says firmly, coming to Eddie’s side of the table, expression somewhere between angry and concerned. He cups Eddie’s face in his hands, mismatched and smelling of cloves and cinnamon. “Some of the Avengers still live there because it’s convenient and it’s free. When we’re on-call we need to stay there anyway, so a few of us figure, what’s the point? Most of us don’t have too many people we care about outside SHIELD, so it doesn’t matter much. And when you’re paranoid enough, having other agents watching your back while you sleep starts sounding like a good idea. I don’t have you over because I can’t, not because I don’t want to.”

Eddie waits for his rant to calm down before he speaks again, grinning fondly. “I wasn’t offended, Buck. I’m a grown-ass man; if I thought I was—I don’t know, a piece of ass on the side—I would’ve told you off a long time ago.”

(We do have a very nice ass, though.)

Eddie has to bite his lip so he doesn’t laugh.

Bucky relaxes somewhat, although he doesn’t go back to the counter either. “All right. But you’d tell me if you thought I was being an ass, right?”

Eddie pins him with a look. “Do I seem like the kind of person who takes shit from anyone?”

Bucky inclines his head, acknowledging his point before sliding into the rickety chair across from him. “So, I know why I need so many cookies, but you’ve almost doubled the recipes. Even with Venom, you’ll be swimming in cookies for weeks.”

“Oh, they’re not all for me.” Well, not more than half, but Bucky doesn’t need details, right? “I’m giving some out to a few folks I see around.” He ticks the list off on his fingers. “I was going to give some to you, and Steve as a thank-you for crashing his place after the taxi thing. There’s Missus O’Malley on the floor below—she’ll trade me a bottle of whiskey for about three dozen cookies, assuming she ‘approves’ of them, whatever that’s supposed to mean. But I’m pretty sure the alcohol and cigarettes have burned the taste buds off her tongue, so as long as these aren’t burnt or ugly it should be fine. Oh, and Annie and Dan invited me over for Christmas at their place, and it’d be rude to show up without a gift, right?”

Bucky frowns, his brows furrowing together adorably. “Annie… that’s your ex, right? Doesn’t she live in San Francisco?”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about her,” he hastens to assure. “It’s definitely over between us. It wasn’t even a nice breakup, it was kind of nasty, actually, but we’re adults and now we’re kind of… friends? But she’s got a… Dan. I think he might be gearing up to propose to her, actually,” he adds thoughtfully. It would explain a few things, at least.

Bucky barely contains a chuckle. “I wasn’t worried about her being your ex. I just didn’t know you’d be gone. You need me to come by and check up on things? Water the plants, feed the pets?”

They look around Eddie’s cramped apartment, which is definitely devoid of any plant or animal life. Unless they count the cockroaches and rats undoubtedly inhabiting the walls, but he likes to think they don’t.

“Are you just trying to get a key to my place?” Eddie ribs playfully. “You could just ask like a normal person. I could ask the landlord for a spare.”

The timer for the oven goes off again, and Bucky waves Eddie away, getting up to retrieve the tray. He doesn’t even bother with oven mitts, opting to use his left hand instead. Show-off. “If I wanted to get into your place, I wouldn’t need a key,” he says over his shoulder, reaching for the next batch.

“You saying that you’d seduce my key away from me?” Eddie flirts, finally resuming his icing. His last cookie is a total wash, so he starts on a new one, painstakingly tracing out little gingerbread scarves and faces.

“I’m saying that I’m good at breaking into places, and the locks on your door are insultingly simple.”

“Way to make me feel safe,” Eddie grumbles. Not that it matters much—the most valuable thing he owns is his laptop, which is with him more often than not. Even then, it’s a couple years old and has definitely seen better days. And if a run-of-the-mill robber tried to threaten him, they would be in for one hell of a surprise.

“I could find some better locks and install them while you’re out,” Bucky offers.

Eddie shakes his head. “Part of the lease—can’t do any modifications or alterations to the apartment’s walls or hardware without prior approval, and that guy wouldn’t even approve putting a nail in the wall to hang his own grandmother’s picture.”

That makes Bucky laugh and shake his head. “Ornery sonofabitch, huh? I bet I could get him to change his mind, if you want. Turn on the famous Barnes charm.”

“Charm?” Eddie makes his eyes as wide and innocent as possible. “Where?”

“Sure, sure. Laugh it up.” Bucky rolls his eyes. “Just remember: you fell for it, too.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, smiling down at the happy gingerbread man in front of him. “I guess I did.”

Chapter Text

Eddie likes to think of himself as a practical kind of guy. Down-to-earth. Or as down-to-earth as he can be with a literal alien sharing space in his body. So, speaking as a practical, down-to-earth kind of guy, he told his boyfriend that it was totally fine that he had to work on Eddie’s birthday. And it is! It’s fine. Bucky has an important job and sometimes that job puts him halfway around the world at a moment’s notice. Eddie is a big boy, and it’s not like he resents Bucky for it or anything. This is how adulthood works.

Still.

(You’re sulking, Eddie.)

“I’m not sulking,” Eddie retorts, maybe with more force than he means to. He’s cleaning his apartment because he finished his final deadline last night and he doesn’t have anywhere in particular to be. There’s snow on the ground and he never quite got around to buying boots, so wandering around outside is out of the question. So here he is, flipping all the cushions on his sofa because it needs doing and that’s what adults do.

(Call him, then,) Venom presses. (I cannot stand all this… what is it called? Pining?)

He’s saved from having to answer when his phone chimes. He’s already smiling when he sees that it’s a text from Bucky, because he might be an adult who is above such things as birthdays, but it’s always nice to know his boyfriend is thinking about him.

It’s a picture of a café. A moment later, another series to texts come in:

[coffee?]
[real coffee not ‘coffee’ coffee]
[coffee stopped being a word]

Eddie struggles to both text and pull on his coat at the same time, but he manages to type out ‘y es bthere in 20’ as he clatters down the stairs. He already knows the café—he should, since he’s the one who took Bucky to it in the first place. They serve liquid chocolate that costs way too much money but does a good job satisfying his sweet tooth. Bucky hadn’t liked the drink as much as Eddie and Venom do, but he’d accidentally gotten addicted to the house chai blend, so they go whenever they’re in the area. It would be hell on Eddie’s budget, except that if Bucky is the one to suggest it, he always insists on paying. He isn’t sure if being an Avenger pays well, or maybe he had some kind of investment from the forties that panned out, but Bucky never seems to hurt for money and if he wants to spoil Eddie with chocolate drinks then he’s damn well going to let him.

It takes him all of five seconds to find his boyfriend when he finally gets inside. Bucky looks remarkably casual for someone who’s supposed to be on call today, hair half-up and an oversized sweater softening the hard lines of his body. He’s facing the door, and he grins and waves as soon as Eddie makes eye contact, gesturing to the drinks he’s already ordered.

“The holes in the sweater are kind of defeating the purpose of it,” Eddie tells him cheerfully as he sits down. He shoves his coat to the side and takes a quick sip of what he sincerely hopes is his drink, considering that it’s on ‘his’ side of the table.

Bucky flicks his forehead, and he jerks away, trying not to spill chocolate everywhere.

“I’m told it’s called ‘shabby chic’ and that it’s extremely ‘in’,” Bucky informs him. “Happy birthday, idiot.”

“Thanks, asshole,” Eddie says fondly. Bucky shakes his head and wordlessly slides Eddie a cheerfully-frosted cupcake, complete with a candle. He fishes a matchbook out of one pocket, lighting a match using the fine plates on his prosthetic arm because he’s a show-off. Eddie rolls his eyes at his antics, but the middle schooler in him can’t deny that it’s kind of cool. “Pretty sure that’s illegal or something,” he points out, just to be a dick, and maybe a little bit because he’s giddy that his boyfriend made time for him on his birthday despite his normal obligation of saving the world.

“No one’s going to stop the guy who can crush their skull with his thighs,” Bucky shrugs.

“Yeah, but what a way to go,” Eddie smirks, and then promptly has to duck when Bucky takes a playful swipe at him, eyebrows drawn together in mock outrage.

“I’ll have you know I’m a globally respected operative with outstanding military training. My name strikes fear into the hearts of my enemies.”

“Yes, because the name ‘Bucky’ inspires so much awe.”

“Shut up and make a wish.”

He blows out the candle, more to avoid accidentally knocking it over and burning down the building than because he actually wants to make a wish. He’s got pretty much everything he needs. Crap, except a steady job, Maybe he should ask Bucky to re-light it so he can wish for that? And speaking of jobs…

“I thought you were working today?” he asks, hooking their ankles together underneath the table.

Bucky pauses, eyes sliding away. He looks… sheepish? Guilty?

“I might have lied about that.”

“Oh.”

He’s not really sure how to feel about Bucky lying to him. On the one hand, it’s a pretty harmless lie. On the other, would it have been so hard to say he wasn’t up to doing anything together on Eddie’s birthday?

“I was out getting your birthday present. Kind of.”

Okay, that’s a pretty good reason to lie, he’ll admit. Also, that means Bucky got him a surprise; and so long as they aren’t corporate douchebags destroying his life, or alien symbiotes taking over his body and destroying his internal organs, he really likes surprises.

(Is it a puppy?) Venom asks. They watched too many Christmas movies over the holiday. Why do so many kids get surprise pets in those things?

“It’s probably not a puppy,” Eddie mutters.

Bucky frowns for real this time. “Getting someone a live creature as a surprise is a terrible idea,” he informs them. As if Eddie didn’t already know.

“Venom,” he explains. Bucky’s expression clears—oh, okay—and he finishes going through his backpack, surfacing with a box. He presents it to Eddie with a flourish, still looking kind of flustered.

It’s small, fitting easily into the palm of one hand. It’s been painstakingly wrapped in plain pink paper and tied with a ribbon. It’s… nice. Innocuous. But all he can think about is that it’s a small box. As a surprise. On his birthday. In a quaint café, while fluffy snow falls outside and—

“This isn’t a ring, is it?” he blurts out.

Bucky flails so hard he almost sweeps both their cups off the table. “WHAT?!”

“I don’t know! You went out of your way to make sure I didn’t know about this! You told me where to meet you! You actually wrapped this nicely!” He waves the box around for emphasis. They draw a couple curious glances and a few more glares, but no one says anything because they’re in New York and, frankly, no one cares.

“That doesn’t mean it’s a ring! Christ, Eddie, we haven’t even been dating for half a year!”

“That’s why I’m freaked out!”

They stare at each other across the table, both of them flushed with alarm and embarrassment. The moment stretches taught between them, awkwardly silent in the middle of all the bustle in the restaurant around them.

Bucky cracks a smile first.

Eddie dissolves into laughter, reaching out to squeeze Bucky’s hand for a moment. “Wow. God, at least we’re on the same page.”

“Just open the damn thing,” Bucky commands, shoving the present at him again.

He pulls the ribbon off and ties it around one of Bucky’s fingers before prying up the tape to reveal a lidded box. It definitely looks like the kind of thing that holds jewelry, although Eddie doesn’t really wear much normally. He prays at Bucky at least has better taste in jewelry than he does in clothing, and opens the lid.

“It’s a key,” he says uncertainly, holding up the offending item. “A blank key.”

“I thought about it. How I never bring you home, seeing as I don’t have a place of my own. And I know you said you’re fine with it, and maybe I could be fine with it too, but I kind of like the idea of having somewhere that’s just mine. A kitchen to mess up, shitty furniture that doesn’t match, a bathroom I don’t have to share with anyone I don’t want to. I only finished signing for it this afternoon, so I didn’t have a chance to actually make a copy of the key yet.” He’s slowly starting to blush, obviously unsure of Eddie’s continued silence. The Winter Soldier. Blushing. And stammering. God, it shouldn’t be so cute.

“I’m not asking you to move in with me or anything,” Bucky adds hastily. “I just—I know you said you don’t think it, but it felt too much like I was trying to hide you. Or maybe I was hiding me from you? I don’t know.” Bucky groans and puts his head in his hands. “This is why I leave the speeches to Steve,” he says, voice muffled. “Will you just say something already? Or you could shoot me. Venom could eat me, I guess.”

“V likes you too much to eat you.” Eddie’s grinning like a fool now, wide and uncontrollable. Bucky risks a glance up and blinks a few times, looking confused.

“Just so we’re clear: Your birthday present to me is getting yourself a place so you can drag me home after dates and have your way with me? And also a cupcake.”

“I—” Bucky sighs. “Fine, yes. I guess it is.”

(It is a nice cupcake.)

“I love it,” Eddie declares.

(Now, kiss him.)

What?

They surge up, lean across the table, and tilt Bucky’s chin up for a kiss. Eddie wonders for a moment if this counts as a threesome, but honestly, it doesn’t really matter. Bucky’s lips are chapped but warm, and they taste vaguely of tea and spices. They break apart for a moment to look at each other. Bucky smiles, syrup-slow and just as sweet. Eddie doesn’t need a prompt to lean in for another.

Eddie pulls back before things get out of hand. Then he stands up and starts chugging his rapidly-cooling hot chocolate.

“You in a rush to go somewhere?” Bucky asks, licking his lips and laughing.

“Yup.”

“Oh?”

Eddie starts shrugging on his coat. “I’m gonna meet my boyfriend at his place so we can make out like teenagers and then eat way too much Chinese food.”

“Oh.” Bucky’s eyes darken. “I haven’t turned the heating on yet, you know.” Despite his warning, he also stands up and grabs his own jacket.

“So we’ll warm it up.”

(You are disgusting. Both of you.)

Bucky laughs and grabs his hand, towing him out the door.

Best. Birthday. Ever.