Archive of Our Own

All the children were rushing outside to play, jumping and chattering because they'd been made to sit too still for a little too long. It wasn't a very nice day out, but that didn't matter when you were six years old and freedom called.

Bucky followed Steve, like he always did. Steve couldn't run real good, not like the other kids, but he did the best make-believe and he was almost never mean. Bucky liked that about him.

So Bucky followed Steve, bouncing and jumping and spinning as he went, because that had been a long time to sit and pay attention and he was happy to be moving again. He made a game of jumping on Steve's shadow before he could move away, and Steve laughed at him and started to dodge.

They made their way down the block, past Mr. Papadopoulos the greengrocer and Mr. Hall at the drugstore. Past the big newspaper boys they skipped, and the shoeshine boys, and Mr. and Mrs. Klein at the automat on the corner. All of them got a wave from Steve and Bucky, and most of them waved back. Grown-ups liked Steve. Bucky guessed they liked that he was polite, and they felt bad because he was sick so much. Not today, though. Today was a good day.

Bucky followed Steve down one block and then another. There were other children out on the sidewalk, and Bucky knew some of them from school or church, but the further they went the fewer familiar faces he saw. Pretty soon they were at the very edge of their patch.

"Hey Stevie," Bucky called. "Where're we goin'? Your ma'll have your hide for wandering so far."

Steve's smile was sweet when he turned to answer. "Not far, Buck. Just — here." And he turned into an alley next to a general store Bucky had never been to before.

The alley was a pretty nice one, if Bucky knew alleys. It was a dead end, so there was nobody else in it, and there weren't too many trash cans and they weren't too stinky. Sunlight shone in between the clouds up above, so it wasn't even dark. And there, at the very back of the alley, was a treasure for real: an empty wooden crate, almost big enough for Steve to stand up in, and longer than Bucky was tall.

"Wow, Steve," Bucky said as he walked around the crate to admire it. "How'd you know it was here?"

Steve was puffed up, he looked so proud. He pushed past Bucky to show him how one end had been partly levered off, and could make a door, if you were careful about the nails. It was dry inside, and little stripes of light showed between the wooden slats. "Heard Ma talking to Mrs. O'Brien next door. Said the general store had one of those new cold cabinets for sale. Said they came in a real big box." He patted the side of the box. "Wanna climb in, see what she can do?"

Well, sure Bucky wanted to know what would happen next. He held the door open for Steve, and climbed in carefully himself. No tearing school clothes, not if he could help it. Inside, the crate was perfect — just the right size for let's pretend. This was what Steve was best at, and Bucky was always amazed the other boys weren't jostling to play with him. Nobody else dreamed up hovering cars, or boats that flew, or trains that went a hundred miles an hour through snowy mountain peaks. Bucky settled back and waited to find out what it would be today.

But once the door closed, it went dark and still inside the crate, and the sounds of the street seemed far away. They just sat for a minute, their breathing noisy in the little space. The quiet reminded Bucky of church, somehow. It was comforting, being there with Steve. Bucky listened real hard and was pleased he couldn't hear any wheezing at all.

Steve shuffled around so they were face to face, his expression solemn. "You should marry me, Bucky."

"What?" This wasn't the kind of game they usually played.

"You should marry me." Steve said again. "Sister Eustace said that marriage is the purest form of love, and I love you more than anybody. Well, besides my ma. So we should get married."

He said it like the thinking was obvious, but Bucky wasn't so sure. He'd never heard of a boy that was married to another boy before. He thought that wasn't quite what Sister Eustace had meant. But this was Steve, and Bucky could never tell Steve no, not really.

"Sure, Stevie, we'll get married."

Steve just nodded, because of course they would. He tilted his face up and closed his eyes, and his mouth pursed like it always did when he was thinking. Sometimes it took a while, but Bucky waited, because Steve was always worth waiting for. Soon enough, Steve's eyes went wide and his face broke into the brightest smile — his whole tiny body got bigger with it somehow. He took a deep breath, said "Okay, it's like this..." and just like that they were off on another adventure.

Two on, one out.

Steve hoisted the bat and squinted at the vacant lot that masqueraded as their field. The bat felt heavy in his arms, but that wasn't new. The pitcher on the mound was jeering at him, and the outfielders had stopped paying attention as soon as he'd stepped up, but that wasn't new either. But those two runners on base, and Bucky coming up behind him at the top of the order...

This was an opportunity.

Steve knew he only got to play because Bucky wouldn't, without him. He couldn't throw far, wasn't fast, but his best friend was the tall brunet toast of their neighborhood. Bucky charmed all the girls and joked with all the boys, and Steve was always there, just in his shadow, doing not much more than needing rescuing a whole lot. Some days, he didn't know why Bucky bothered.

The catcher hollered "To-day, Rogers!" and Steve shook himself, stepped up to the plate. He glanced over his shoulder; Bucky was leaned against the fence, talking to a bunch of giggling girls. Ruth Jepson laid a hand on his arm and smiled, and her friends giggled harder. Bucky smiled too, saw Steve looking and gave him a lazy wave. Steve felt —

The first pitch whooshed by his head while he wasn't looking. Steve stumbled backward, bat and arms windmilling, and the catcher cackled with laughter. "Strike one!" crowed the pitcher. The runner on second shifted, impatient. He wasn't gonna be thrilled if he was left stranded.

Steve stepped back from the plate and shook out his arms and legs, stalling so he could try and get some breath back. The shirt he was wearing was one of Bucky's, and it billowed on Steve's skinny frame. What if... Steve pulled himself up straight, and casually bloused the shirt out a little more as he re-shouldered the bat.

"That the only way you can get a strike, Sweeney? Wait 'til the batter ain't looking? My old grandmother throws better'n you, and she's blind and dead!" Steve stepped up close to the plate, very close, and got into a crouch. He waggled the end of the bat for effect. "Over this way, Sweeney! Throw toward the sound of my voice!"

The next pitch flew past Steve's nose, so close his eyes crossed. "Strike two!"

Steve didn't let up from his crouch, slanted a mocking smile the pitcher's way. "Nice try, pal. You couldn't hit the broad side of a streetcar, let alone little old me." Sweeney just spat, and held out his glove for the ball. Steve stared him down, bat weaving hypnotically overhead.

The third pitch, when it came, connected with a sound like a fist to the face. Oof. Steve dropped the bat and doubled over, clutching his ribs. The catcher sidled away fast, and even the girls at the fence fell silent. On the mound, Sweeney wore a satisfied smirk, but the expression was starting to slip.

Because here came Bucky, ten feet tall and livid with rage. He stormed past Steve and out toward the pitcher's mound. His hands were curled into fists, and Sweeney did not look happy at all any more. "The hell was that?" Bucky demanded. "Did you just —"

"'S okay, Buck," Steve wheezed. "I'm fine." He straightened as best he could and hobbled over to first base, still hugging his sore ribs. The first baseman took one look and backed right off, wanting no part of the wrath of Bucky Barnes.

Bucky himself was still halfway to the pitcher's mound, glaring. Slowly, his jaw clenched, Bucky turned to look at Steve, and made as if to go to him. Steve waved him off irritably. He was fine.

"You're up, Bucky." It was the catcher, who'd scooped up the abandoned bat and was holding it out like a peace offering. With a general glare at everyone around, Bucky took it and stomped back to the plate. He turned to face the pitch with a face like thunder and Sweeney, thoroughly cowed, laid a fat one right down the middle.

Bucky sent it sailing past the outfielders and right off the lot. Home run, with bases loaded. All the boys on the fenceline yelled their excitement; Bucky smiled like the sun breaking through clouds, hero of the sandlot. Steve grinned to himself as he shuffled around the base paths. That had been a good plan.

When Bucky returned triumphant to the fence, Ruth Jepson was waiting with her congratulations. She fluttered her eyelashes and all her friends giggled again, and then one of them started up that tired old rhyme: "Ruth and Bucky, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes marriage..."

Steve flushed in indignation for his friend, but Bucky only laughed. "Nah, Ruthie's too good for the likes of me, aren't you, Ruth?"

Ruth's smile seemed to indicate that she very much was not.

"In fact, no girl'd give me the time of day, if she knew any better. I'm gonna have to settle for Steve here, he's the only one who'd take me." The girls tittered, scandalized, and Bucky's smile grew broader. "What do ya say, Stevie? Will you marry me, and save me from a life of bitter loneliness?" He put his hands on his heart and swooned theatrically.

Steve scowled. He knew Bucky was only joking, but little Steve Rogers was enough of a joke as it was. Too old to be cute, too small to be handsome. And now a gaggle of girls and half a sandlot baseball team were staring at him in expectation. Fine. Steve tried to sigh, but gave up halfway through when it hurt too much. "If it'll save some poor upstanding dame, I guess I'd better."

Bucky whooped with laughter and shot Ruth Jepson a broad wink. She blushed bright red and scurried away, her friends behind her. Bucky wandered over, still smiling, but when he slung a companionable arm over Steve's shoulders Steve couldn't help his flinch. Bucky looked down, his smile fading. "You okay?"

Steve shifted, but didn't slide out from under Bucky's arm. "I told you, I'm fine."

Hours later, though, after the game broke up and everyone had run home for dinner, Bucky pulled Steve into his bedroom and tugged his borrowed shirt up to see for himself. There was a livid bruise there, over the scant muscle on the edge of Steve's back. Bucky hissed.

"It's fine, it just grazed me, I had him right where I wanted him," Steve started, but Bucky just shook his head and placed a gentle palm over the mark. He looked up at Steve, eyes impossibly blue under long black lashes, and Steve lost his train of thought.

"You gotta be more careful, Stevie. You're supposed to save me from a life of bitter loneliness, remember?"

It was supposed to be a joke, Steve knew, but Bucky's hand was warm on his skin, and neither of them were smiling now.

Bucky wheezed theatrically as he mounted the stairs.

"You got me loaded down like a packhorse here, Steve. What's in these bags? Bricks?"

He had a battered valise in each hand, with another tucked under one arm, and an old army duffel slung over his back. Steve, half a flight above him but slowing down, carried a cardboard box of oddments and wheezed for real.

They came to a stop on a dim landing before a sad-looking door. It had paint splintered away in long strips, and the doorknob was dented and dull. A generation's worth of drunken fumblings at the keyhole had made the metal there bright with scratches, the only shining thing in the whole place.

Well, aside from Steve. Steve, who was fumbling now for his pocket, cardboard box propped between one bony hip and the wall. He was muttering under his breath. "I just had the blessed thing a minute ago. Where could —"

Bucky hurried to catch up, set one of the valises down. "Here, Steve, let me."

And before Steve could protest or his own better judgement could stop him, Bucky thrust his hand into Steve's trouser pocket. From this angle, all he could see of Steve was the shell of one ear, which went suddenly pink, and his narrow shoulders, which were abruptly tense. There were a few unbearable moments when Bucky's reaching fingers brushed along Steve's warm thigh, only a thin layer of cloth between them, then —

"Here!" Bucky's grin was triumphant, and his blood roared in his ears. He bent his head to the lock, to give them both a moment to catch their breath, if for very different reasons.

The door swung open with exactly the kind of creak Bucky'd been expecting. The small room revealed beyond...

Bucky picked up the abandoned valise and stepped through the doorway. Steve, with his box, followed after, and the two of them stood shoulder to shoulder just inside the door to take it all in. The room was small, dark, cramped, and nearly bare. Wallpaper peeled and curled in the corners, and the floor was splintered and stained. There was a small window near the sink, and Bucky could see gaps in the frame even from this distance. The view it offered was nothing but sooty brick and flapping laundry.

In their silence, the noises of the neighborhood filtered in. Not the furtive rustling of an active rodent population, thank goodness — though it was daylight still — just street noise. Cars and delivery trucks rattled below. Voices rose and fell; angry drunkards, laughing dames, newsboys with their wares. Dogs barked. Somewhere close by, a baby was crying, the thin hopeless wail of a child who had been at it for some time.

And then there was the smell. Boiled cabbage, it was, and cat piss, and rotten oranges, too. Some kind of foul lingering rot from the walls, stale smoke mixed with old whiskey maybe. Garbage from the alley below bloomed in the heat, and its bouquet curled florid tendrils through the gaps in the window sash.

Bucky swallowed and put down his bags all at once. He'd been complaining the whole way, mostly for form's sake, up all those flights of stairs, but the burden wasn't heavy. Not when this was Steve's whole life, now his Ma was gone. Not when they only had to make one trip. The space was small, but even so Steve's things wouldn't fill it. Bucky took a deep breath, regretted it, then swallowed again.

He turned to Steve beside him, lips parted to say... something, but Steve wasn't looking at him. Steve was looking out at this, his new home, and there was a quiet gleam in his eyes. Steve's hair glowed gold in the dim light, and those eyes might have been blue witchfire, a will-o'-the-wisp Bucky couldn't help following. Bucky's heart floundered in his chest. He could not look away.

After a moment, Steve must have noticed Bucky's gaze, because he turned slightly to meet it. That cardboard box was still in his arms, clutched to his chest like a precious thing — yes, Bucky could see a paintbrush sticking out from one flap, so he supposed it was. Steve sighed slightly and put the box down at his feet. When he straightened, his shoulder bumped Bucky's arm, a lonely point of warmth between them.

"Marry me, Bucky, and take me away from all this."

Steve's voice was perfectly even, and Bucky held still, held his breath beside him. He didn't know whether to — his mind a whirl of wanting, shock and confusion and yes, of course, if only —

Steve bumped his arm again, and the corner of his mouth began to curl up in that lopsided movie-star smile. "Well? What do you say?"

The laugh left Bucky as if he'd been punched. "I'm not that easy, Rogers."

Steve raised an eyebrow. "'S not what I heard."

"Fine. You got me. I am absolutely yours."

"Jerk."

The bickering fell into an old, comfortable groove as Bucky kicked the door closed behind them. This wasn't home, but Steve was. In a month or two he'd ask to move in, so they could save money on rent. He would bring the things Steve was missing, and together they'd make the place almost nice. If it wasn't truly domestic bliss?

Well, it couldn't hurt to pretend for a while.

Outside, the world was deep into night, cold and still. It was a churlish kind of cold, deep and bone-aching, without even the scent of snow to ease the insult. Outside, no one moved that didn't have to. A whole city of souls lay silent in slumber, waiting on morning.

Inside — well, inside was cold, too. A man could see his breath, most days, and he'd best put on his shoes if he wanted to run to the bathroom. Thin walls gave scant protection against the chill, and frigid curlicues of air slipped through gaps around every window and door. The best that could be said was that the cold laid down the smell some.

Nights like this, it was useless to pretend at propriety. Lying alone in bed cloaked in righteousness did absolutely nothing to keep a body warm. Nobody who'd been there would say a word against sharing for warmth, this time of winter.

Which is why, if anyone cared to ask, Bucky and Steve were both lying in Steve's narrow bed. It seemed innocent enough, unless you'd been there to hear the gasps and choked-off moans, to hear the way Bucky said Steve's name, frantic and overwhelmed. If you knew the kind of sounds that came from Steve's mouth in the heat of passion — it was profane.

Except that here — here, hidden under the blankets, their shared breaths and body heat making an island of warmth in all the cold — Bucky's mind took a turn for the sacred.

It was the dim light that did it, filtered multicolored through threadbare patchwork quilts, a two-cent version of the stained glass at St Mary's. It was the way the blankets tented overhead, like their own private cathedral. Steve himself, too: Bucky traced his ribs with gentle fingers and was reminded forcibly of architecture, a fragile scaffold of bones that built up something great.

Bucky would make a litany of praise, if Steve would let him. He'd press his mouth to all of Steve's skin in pilgrimage, coax out that call and response the best way he knew how. With my body, I thee worship, that was the line, but Steve was stubborn and shy; so Bucky kept to plainsong. He smiled, joked and flirted, but in the secret spaces of his heart Bucky was perfectly devout.

Their hands were clasped, Bucky's left in Steve's right, fingers intertwined. Bucky thought of the old kids' rhyme, this is the church, this is the steeple... Their skin was starting to get sticky, and their lips were stained with kissing rather than with wine, but Bucky thought it a sacrament all the same.

Steve was drifting off.

"Hey, Steve," Bucky breathed, bare inches away.

Steve blinked his eyes open, slowly. "What?"

"Marry me." Bucky knew he was smiling, that soft, close smile no one else ever got to see, but by God he meant it.

Steve's gaze sharpened on his in the gloom. He didn't say no, though, and Bucky loved him all the more for it. "You know we can't, Buck."

Bucky squeezed their fingers tighter, brought his free hand up to cradle Steve's face. He put his thumb on Steve's lip and felt warm breath puffing over it. "Nobody'd have to know. Just us. We don't need any church or priest to make it real. You're for me and I'm for you. That's all."

Steve's lashes swept down as he closed his eyes to think. It didn't take more than a second or two before he found Bucky's gaze again. His lips pressed around Bucky's thumb in a soft, damp kiss.

"Yeah, okay."

"Okay?"

"I'll marry you. You're for me and I'm for you. Okay."

They were both smiling that soft, secret smile now, staring at each other in their patchwork chapel until the light failed or they fell asleep, who knew which.

It was Steve's birthday, and bombs were actually bursting in air.

Of course, every July fourth for years now Bucky had joked that the fireworks were for Steve, Bucky's own special gift and you're welcome. This, though — this was a little too much.

"I hope you kept the receipt on these sparklers," Steve shouted in Bucky's ear as they hunkered down in a wet ditch to wait out the shelling. They were deep behind enemy lines, somewhere in a forest somewhere in Europe, and the shells weren't even for them. "They're not up to your usual standard."

"Oh yeah?" Bucky yelled back, his eyes rolling white in the flickering gloom. "Ain't you just a hard man to please?"

Steve raised an eyebrow, slanted his best matinee idol grin, and flicked his glance down. "Not that hard."

Just like that, the mood shifted. Well, they always did say a man's instincts came to the fore in life-or-death situations. They were crouched side by side, shoulders pressed together in the muck and heads ducked down below the line of the earth. Every half minute or so, something would explode nearby, and Steve could see shapes around them, the other Commandos likewise seeking shelter. It wasn't safe — not in any sense of the word, but Bucky still freed a hand from his rifle and set it on Steve's thigh, stroking upward.

Things had been different. There was an understatement, Steve snorted to himself, and flinched as a particularly close shell rained down pine needles and bark down their heads. They'd found each other again in Austria, and Steve had been different, and so had Bucky. With Steve, the changes were obvious: he cast a much larger shadow than before. Bucky, though — Bucky had more shadows now, hiding in the corners of his smile and the depths of his eyes, and Steve thought maybe he was the only one who could see that.

There'd been no time, either, not to relearn each other, not properly. Just hurried moments in flimsy canvas tents, a few nights of leave stolen away from drunken companions, and all the while Bucky slept less, and his shadows grew deeper. So this, the heat of a hand through Steve's uniform and the warmth of an inviting gaze — this was a rare gift all its own.

Steve moved to place his own hand over Bucky's, put his mouth right on the shell of Bucky's ear. "I, uh... I have something for you."

Bucky slid his hand incrementally higher on Steve's thigh. "You don't say."

Steve took a risk, used his free hand to cup Bucky's cheek and turn it so he could meet Bucky's eyes. "No, I mean I, uh, got you a gift."

Bucky cracked a small, uncertain smile, and his hand stilled. "Not supposed to give out gifts on your own birthday, punk."

"You gonna tell me what to do now? It's my birthday." Steve brushed his thumb tenderly over Bucky's cheekbone, leaving a faint muddy smear, and then reached into his jacket. There was a — deep in an inner pocket, tucked safe close to his skin... Steve fumbled for a full minute. His big new hands still felt clumsy, and these buttons were confounding. Bucky watched with a blank expression, not even flinching when the shells struck, and it hurt Steve to look at him.

There. A small green velvet pouch with a little knotted drawstring. Steve kept his eyes down as he loosened the neck and spilled the contents onto a grubby palm: two plain gold rings, a little worn, a little battered, one in each of their sizes.

Nothing happened for a moment.

Oh, around them bombs continued to fall, lighting the night with gouts of flame and muzzle flashes. The world shook, and gunfire of all kinds tore holes in the air — but there, in that ditch, all was still. Steve looked up and saw Bucky's beautiful lips opened in wonderment. It was a look Steve saw every year on his birthday, when Bucky cast his gaze heavenward and the fireworks shone in his eyes, and Steve secretly thought it was his favorite birthday gift of all.

This year, though, Bucky was huddled down in the earth, and the gold bands flickered with fire that would kill them it it could. "Marry me, Buck," Steve whispered, and his mouth was still right up against Bucky's ear, and the sound carried.

Bucky looked up at last. He tugged his hand free from Steve's thigh — Steve mourned the loss immediately — and set it gently over the rings on Steve's palm, covering them. "When did you — Where — Why now?" he wanted to know.

"Before I shipped over here. I had a day of leave, and I passed by a pawnshop. I wanted some hope, something to hold on to, I guess. I had cash in my pocket, so I made a fourteen carat wish, that's all. And why not now? Why wait, when every day of waiting could be a day too long?"

"Don't talk like that," Bucky muttered, but the shadows in his eyes said he knew better.

"So?" Steve pressed. "Will you?"

Bucky huffed a hollow little laugh and reached into his own jacket for his answer. He produced a small pouch of his own, this one dusty blue, and tipped the contents onto Steve's waiting palm. "I got 'em years ago, with a Christmas bonus one of the bosses gave out. Been carrying 'em around ever since, like some kinda lucky charm. Won't fit you now, of course." Now that Steve looked, he could see that one of Bucky's bands was petite, almost small enough to be a lady's ring. "Dunno if that's lucky or not."

Steve picked up the little ring. It would barely fit over the end of his pinky finger — so strange to think that once he could have slipped it on with ease. "We're here, aren't we?" he asked absently.

Bucky scoffed his bleak indignation.

Steve closed his fist around the gold bands and met Bucky's eyes squarely. "We're here, alive, together. We can watch each other's backs. If that's not luck, I don't know what is."

"Yeah, but what kind," Bucky mumbled, half to himself.

"The only kind that matters," Steve said, and reached into his shirt to pull out his dog tags. Carefully, he threaded the small ring onto the chain and tucked the whole set away out of sight. "You gonna wear yours?"

"Nah, can't, it'd get caught on things. That, and the boys'd have some questions."

Steve grinned at that, and then couldn't suppress a chortle when he opened his hand. There were three rings there still. "You could wear all three, that'd really get 'em wondering!"

Bucky's smile was there, and then gone, and he was solemn as he tried on each band in turn to decide which fit the best. Once he'd chosen, he held the other two out to Steve, wordless, until Steve slid the largest one onto his own finger.

It seemed to Steve there was no vow they could make, in this place of fire and pain and bloodied earth. He simply gripped Bucky's hand, with its simple gold ring, and clasped it tight with his. Steve's lips traced the shell of Bucky's ear, ghosted over his dirt-smeared cheekbone and pressed a prayer to Bucky's lips, which were waiting soft and open on a prayer of their own.

If any were there to witness, in the unreliable firelight and shuddering noise, they did not say. Bucky strung his ring on his dog tag chain, and Steve slipped the extra two back into a safe inner pocket. Soon enough the shelling stopped. They watched out the night in silence, and it felt like a gift.

A shadow crossed the page, blotting out the buildings Steve was trying to shade. He looked up with an irritated frown, only to have it quickly turn into a smile.

The smile was a reflex. He couldn't help it — just like he always said "bless you" if anyone sneezed, Steve smiled whenever he saw Bucky Barnes.

Bucky padded across the living room floor, silent as ever, and Steve was put in mind of the poem about fog arriving on little cat feet. He looked good, barefoot in jeans and a loose t-shirt, his hair clean and tidy in its bun. He might never lose that air of caution, the inclination to silence and watchfulness, but he was Bucky, well and truly, once again.

Steve set down his pencil. "Hey, Buck. What's up?"

Bucky looked up at Steve from under his lashes, and then quickly glanced away. He seemed... nervous. Steve frowned. He'd seen many emotions cross that expressive face in the long, fraught months since they'd found each other again, but that one was new. "Everything okay?"

Bucky startled a little, as ever light on his feet, and compounded the cat comparison by darting in and dropping some small gift onto Steve's sketchpad. He retreated just as fast, and then hovered barely out of reach at the end of the couch.

Steve blinked, bemused. When he glanced down, though, the thing on his sketchpad was not a dead mouse but a small square box in a distinctive robin's egg blue. Steve touched it, gently with one finger, as if to make sure it was real. "Buck?"

Bucky hunched his shoulders. "'S legal now. Natasha said. I checked."

"Yeah." Steve let out a long breath. "It is. Isn't that something." He held out a hand, coaxing. "Come sit with me?"

Bucky sidled around the end of the couch and sat next to Steve, perched as if he might have to run away at any moment. Steve just scooted closer, though, and took Bucky's hand in his. With the other hand, he flipped the lid off the box to reveal a simple gold ring, shining and perfect in its velvet nest.

"You bought this? How?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "They have a website."

Steve snorted. "Jerk."

But Bucky was still serious, still tense. "You like it? They had some real fancy ones..." He frowned at the plain band, doubtful.

"No, it's perfect." Steve thought of the other rings, safe in storage, just three of them. He'd never known how to bring them up. Bucky's recovery had been complicated enough, and he... Well, they had both changed.

"Try it on?" Bucky suggested. "Or — Unless you don't want —" He began to pull away, face averted.

"Bucky." Steve used their intertwined hands to pull Bucky back, and leaned until he could catch Bucky's eyes. "Of course I want. Of course I do."

Bucky's expression was heartbreaking. "You mean it?"

Steve set the ring box carefully on the end table, out of the way, but left it open so they could both still see the gold. "I mean it." He held eye contact, to make sure Bucky understood exactly how much. "I always meant it. Every time I asked, and every time I answered."

"Even with —" Bucky tipped his chin at the metal hand, clasped tight with Steve's, and all the scars and nightmares it implied. "I'm a mess, Stevie."

Steve used his free hand to cradle Bucky's cheek, leaned in for a soft, sweet kiss. "You and me both, Buck."

Bucky sighed. His eyes were still closed when he leaned back against the couch cushions, relaxed at last. "So, you gonna take my name or what?"

"What?" Steve scoffed. "Steve Barnes? That's got no ring to it at all. No, Buck, you'll have to take mine."

"Bucky Rogers." Bucky's voice was flat with disapproval, but his eyes sparkled when they opened and the corners of his lips turned up. "You have got to be kidding me."

Steve did his best to look all innocence. "Well, a lot of the kids these days are hyphenating. You know, Rogers-Barnes."

"Barnes-Rogers, you mean. 'S alphabetical."

"I like Rogers-Barnes."

"You would."

Bucky poked Steve in the side for emphasis, and Steve poked back, and the discussion devolved into a poking match, which turned into tickling, which quickly became breathless, grinning kisses. Steve nipped at Bucky's lip and fisted a hand into dark hair fallen loose from its bun, and he kept his eyes wide open; he didn't want to miss a single instant. Maybe Bucky thought the same, because his eyelids fluttered as the kisses slowed and deepened, but they did not close. Bucky kissed like all his prayers had been answered, and Steve knew exactly how that felt.

Later, as they sat curled into each other, Bucky's head on Steve's shoulder: "Just one ring?"

Bucky raised his left hand, waggled his fingers so they caught the light. "Can't exactly wear a ring on this."

Steve pressed a kiss to Bucky's temple. "We'll figure it out. I'll bet Stark would design you something, if we asked."

Bucky's groan rumbled against Steve's chest. "He'll be thrilled." Bucky shifted, and the movement knocked Steve's forgotten sketchbook to the floor. "What were you drawing?"

Steve uncurled a little to lean down and retrieve the book. It had fallen shut, and he flipped through until he found the right page, then offered it to Bucky. It was a sketch of their old neighborhood, where they'd lived before the war, the streets shadowy in predawn light and the buildings blanketed with layers of fog.

Bucky reached out a hand toward the image, but couldn't seem to find anything to say.

"You asked me to marry you on the night before a morning like this," Steve said softly. "Once upon a time."

"Oh, yeah?" Bucky answered, just as soft. "What did you say?"

Steve found Bucky's left hand with his own once more, curled their fingers together.

"I said yes, Buck. The answer's always been yes."