Archive of Our Own ^beta

Everywhere Steve looks, the sidewalks are filled with slushy, grey snow and tourists. The air smells faintly of spiced nuts and horse manure, of the sharpness promising more snow, and all he wants to do is go home.

It’s too cold on the street, too hot in the subway, and by the time Steve’s sat down, his lungs are wound as tight as a drum. Sweat beads on the back of his neck, contrasting his freezing cold—nearly numb—face. He shuts his eyes for only a moment, steadying his breathing and focusing on the rumble of the train beneath his feet.

The tightness doesn’t go away and after a while, he finds himself digging into his bag as the subway slows to a stop at Broadway-Lafeyette. Thankfully, only a few people get on. Steve takes a puff from his inhaler and stows it away again, tries not to let the sudden, piercing cry of a toddler get to him too much.

He has a car, for Christ’s sake, but even this is preferable to getting stuck in Times Square for an hour and a half. Manhattan is alive and bustling, and the sooner Steve can get back into Brooklyn the better.

-

Forty-five minutes later, he’s back in Bensonhurst, relieved to see people he recognizes, to hear a completely different kind of noise as he enters his building. There’s the distinct smell of takeout cut through with homecooked food. Steve can’t be sure who’s cooking, but he sure it’s coming from at least the third floor. He doesn’t know the neighbors up there. Barely sees them.

“...a big deal, Becks. I mean it. Quit beating yourself up about it.”

The voice, the booming footsteps, carry up the stairs, and Steve’s neighbor, Bucky Barnes, is a snow-sodden mess, beanie pulled low on his brow, snow caught in his beard. His cheeks are flushed with the cold, gloved fingers clenched around his phone as he digs for his keys with his free hand. He doesn’t exactly wave, just raises his hand at Steve with a jingle of keys before he’s disappearing into the apartment across from Steve’s.

Out of habit, Steve watches him for a moment too long, but then he shakes himself out of it, lets himself into his own apartment.

The truth is, Steve doesn’t mind his place. Sure, it’s a shoebox, but he’s used to shoeboxes. He spent most of his life living in them. Hell, his old place in Dupont Circle felt like a palace, even with its narrow halls and bad heating. Anything bigger than a studio was something of a marvel to him.

He leaves his jacket on the hook by the door, drops his bag on the coffee table, and sits down. He’s suddenly aware of the hollowness in his stomach, the dull ache in his head. He didn’t have much time to eat today. Didn’t have time to do anything but work, really. He wanted to get as much as he could finished so he wouldn’t have to think about it later. He’s finally using his vacation time and he has five whole days to himself and two of those days will be spent in DC. Thankfully, not alone.

It might be nice, getting away for a bit. He can’t fathom staying in Brooklyn for Christmas. It was hard during his mother’s diagnosis, and even harder when she passed. Steve visited her yesterday morning, knew he would rather go to the cemetery before the holidays than go on Christmas Day. The thought was already hollowing him out, leaving him feeling like the grey slush on Fifth Avenue was caught in his insides, but at least he managed to take some time. Managed to make it through well enough.

His phone buzzes hard in his pocket, jolting him from his thoughts. He digs it out with a huff, presses it to his ear. “You know,” Steve says. “You can always just text me.”

“Hi to you, too, stranger,” Natasha says. “And you know I prefer getting straight to the point. Get me any presents yet?”

“I did, actually,” Steve says. “Got a headstart last week.”

“Efficient,” Natasha says. “I’d say you never fail to surprise me, but my next question might turn that hope to dust.”

“Come on, Nat, I’m not having this conversation right now,” Steve all but groans. “I still feel like my brain’s leaking outta my ears.”

“Yeah, well, last I talked to you, you said you were going out with someone,” Natasha presses. “And then you went radio silent.”

Steve freezes. 

The last time he’d talked to Natasha about it, he was getting ready for said date, which was almost a month ago and never happened since Steve waited for the guy at some pretentious dive bar in Williamsburg for over an hour and found himself stood up for the first time in his life. 

He’s had bad dates, he’s had bad relationships, but that felt worse somehow. A fresh, bright wound. It was too good to be true, he supposes. They got on like a house on fire the week they’d started talking, but when push came to shove, he evidently had better things to do than meet up with Steve.

“I’ve just been busy,” Steve says, and it’s technically true. “It’s been a long month. Haven’t really had time to think about it.”

“I figured you’ve been in a love nest or something,” Natasha says. “Or at least I hope so. Don’t dance around it, Rogers, spill the beans.”

“It was okay,” Steve says before he can stop himself. “Cool guy. Kind of a hipster, but he wasn’t too bad.”

“Wow, what a catch,” Natasha deadpans. “Does your vague hipster have a name?”

Steve rarely ever lies to Natasha. Scratch that, he never lies to Natasha, but the thought of explaining what really happened after two full days of telling her how ready he was to try dating again, to find something serious now that he felt ready to move forward.

God, he should just tell her the truth. At least give her the guy’s actual name, but it’s leaving such a rotten taste in his mouth, leaving him so irritated, he doesn’t want to say it out loud.

“Are you really gonna grill me about him for this whole phone call?” Steve snaps weakly. “‘Cause I can grill you right back, Nat.”

“Touchy-touchy,” Natasha says. “And here I thought we were gonna have a pleasant conversation. I’m just curious.”

“I know. Sorry. And I want to, but...” Steve runs his free hand through his hair. “I don’t know what  to tell you about him. It went fine, we got along, and I’m really thinking about—”

“Oh my God,” Natasha says. “Steve, you’re not.”

That catches him off-guard. He knits his brows together. “Not what?” he asks.

“You’re not bringing a guy you just met a month ago to DC, are you?”

Steve planned on saying seeing him again, but now, the rug feels like it’s been pulled from under his feet.

“What?” he asks incredulously. “I—I don’t know, Nat. I really don’t know if that’s gonna happen. I’d have to ask, and I doubt he’ll say yes, anyway. He’s probably got family he wants to visit and the whole point of me coming up there is to see you and Sam. I don’t wanna get distracted from that.”

God, God, what is he doing?

“I mean,” Natasha says. “If he’s such a catch, I don’t get why you wouldn’t bring him along.”

“I’ll think about it,” Steve says. “I mean it, Nat. I’ll see what he says, but only on one condition.”

“Depends on what you’re asking,” Natasha says.

“Can we change the subject?” Steve asks. “Please? I’ll ask him if we move on.”

She laughs, low and warm. “Okay, okay, I get it, you want your privacy,” she says. “Consider it one of your gifts, Rogers.”

“Wow,” Steve says sarcastically. “How can I ever thank you?”

“You know how,” Natasha says. “But moving forward... shit, that’s my other line. It’s kind of—”

“Classified?”

“Yeah, smartass, it’s classified,” Natasha says, and quickly hangs up.

Steve isn’t sure if he’s relieved or not, because now a little knot of stress that wasn’t there before has welled up behind his ribcage, twisting with every breath. He doesn’t lie to Natasha. He doesn’t lie elaborately, either, especially not to someone with an undisclosed job at the Pentagon.

And yet, here he is, figuring out how exactly he’s going to get out of it.

-

The rest of the night feels stretched thin and tense. It’s cold tonight, and even when Steve cranks the heat up, it doesn’t do much, so he turns in early, tries to remind himself that his vacation technically starts tomorrow and he shouldn’t do any more work, shouldn’t even think about it.

It’s barely nine-thirty when he falls asleep, restless and exhausted, splayed out on the bed.

-

He wakes at an ungodly hour to knocking at the door, slow and steady and constant.

Steve knows that knock all too well. Brain still muddled, he stumbles out of the bedroom, socked feet quiet against the drafty floors.

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” he says hoarsely as he unlocks the door, tugs it open.

“You look like shit,” Bucky says instead of ‘good morning,’ because that’s just the way he’s been in the year Steve has lived across the hall from him.

If Steve were more lucid, maybe he would have used some mouthwash or brushed his hair, because being around Bucky leaves him wound tight and self-conscious, like the guy can see right through him.

“It’s barely light out on a Saturday,” Steve croaks.

Bucky is wide awake and dressed, blue eyes clear and lucid. His skin is flushed and shiny with sweat, his hoodie unzipped to reveal his compression shirt. He just finished a morning run, judging by the way he’s still catching his breath.

Steve doesn’t start his run for at least another hour usually, but he doubts he’ll manage it today. The gloom and the dampness don’t sound like his idea of good conditions.

Bucky huffs, lips turning up at the corner. “Thanks for the observation,” he says. “Here’s your package.”

Steve swears Bucky gives him his packages more often than the mailman does, but it’s not like he’s complaining. Sure, Bucky’s a little...well, he isn’t nice, but he’s far from rude, far from cruel, and he avoids just about everyone in the building save for Steve, which makes him feel a little smug. He’s only had three truly positive run-ins with Bucky despite this, save for bumping into him in the hall or when they drop each other’s mail off.

The first time was actually the first time they met, when Bucky forgot his wallet upstairs and they both happened to be in the bodega across the street, so Steve paid for his jug of milk and his Lucky Strikes despite Bucky trying to stop him, but he looked grateful despite it. Steve wasn’t sure if he was imagining the lost, irritated look on Bucky’s face when he realized his wallet was missing, but he still hasn’t been able to wipe it from his memory. He hadn’t seen such a raw look on anyone before, especially someone he wasn’t close to by a long shot.

The second time was about a month later, when Steve found himself watching Bucky’s cat, Alpine, for a whole fifteen minutes, but the third time hasn’t quite let Steve be.

The main reason Steve had come back to Brooklyn was to be closer to his mother, since they both knew she wouldn’t make it through the year. She passed last February, and her funeral was small, only Steve, some of Sarah’s friends, and an uncle Steve barely knew. He’d come back to the apartment in a stupor and didn’t leave for four days.

And then there was a familiar knock at the door, but Steve opened it to find no one there. He looked down to find only two foil-wrapped trays with a green post-it note stuck on top of one. I’m sorry, I know it’s rough, it read. I’ve been there, too. -JBB

It was far from sentimental. It was clear and to the point, just like Bucky. Steve recognized his initials from his mail, all addressed to James Buchanan Barnes or James B. Barnes. There was no one else it could have been. 

Steve took the trays inside and opened it to find a lasagna in one and a dozen chocolate chip cookies under the other. It all looked and smelled homemade.

Somehow, that was the thing to push him over the edge. 

Months of going to doctor’s appointments, months of running in circles and spending nights on rickety hospital chairs, swallowing down his inevitable grief as he made arrangements with people he barely knew, holding everything in even after the burial had taken a toll on him, but Bucky’s kindness had been the thing to break Steve. Left him in rasping, heaving sobs on the kitchen floor.

He knows he told Bucky that his mother was sick, but he can’t remember telling him she’d passed. He remembers so little about that week save for that moment, but no one else would have known. Steve didn’t talk to his other neighbors.

He hoped Bucky didn’t hear him. He hoped he never somehow figured out that the post-it note is still tucked in a drawer, hidden under the cover of a filled sketchbook.

Steve takes the package from Bucky’s gloved hand, catching a peek of his elaborate prosthetic as his sleeve slips back. “Thanks, Buck,” he says. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Lose a hell of a lot of mail, most likely,” Bucky says, and his smile is soft, showing off a flash of white teeth. His hair is pulled into a half-bun and wet with sweat, curling at his temples. He smooths it back from his forehead. “See you around.”

And then he’s unlocking his door, clicking his tongue just as a furry, white blur comes to twist around his ankles. He’s mumbling in what sounds like another language, then shutting the door behind him.

Steve lingers for just a moment too long, and then gets a hold of himself before he shuts the door.

-

Steve’s thoughts on Bucky are all over the place, to say the least.

On the surface, Bucky is definitely a snarky, impatient asshole who doesn’t really get social cues. He can be very warm or very cold, and that could change in seconds. Steve has never spent more than five minutes talking to him and knows nothing about him save for the facts that he grew up in Brighton Beach, somehow lost his arm, and that he is, or was, a bouncer at a club on the Upper East Side. Nothing more and nothing less.

And yet, Steve finds himself thinking about him or anticipating bumping into him far too often. From what he can tell, Bucky isn’t in a relationship and has never had anyone over, and that shouldn’t give Steve any sort of hope, because Bucky might not be into guys at all, but it’s been a long goddamn year and if he wants to fantasize for a little while, he can’t be faulted for that. It’s not like he’s actually going to do anything about it.

He takes his mind off of it by deciding to go for a run. The sharpness of the cold feels good, has his brain getting with the program even though he plans to take it slow today. It starts snowing again as he gets home, and by then he’s relieved to shower, relieved to focus on doing nothing for once.

-

Vacation time turns out to test his patience pretty quickly, and he finds himself texting Sam over what can be considered actual food, or an attempt at it. Steve’s cooking skills aren’t exactly up to par. They never were, but at least he’s attempting to get better.

Sam ends up texting him back later on, long after Steve has cleaned up his mess and left a pot to soak in the sink.

Sorry. Long day, Sam’s message reads.

How dare you have a job and not talk to me? Steve replies.

You’re a terrible person.

Don’t make me tired of you before you even show up, Rogers. I was actually starting to miss you ;)

Sounds like I might have been replaced though…from what I heard

….What did you hear?

Nat’s good at keeping her own secrets but apparently not anyone else’s

She said you’re bringing some guy with you?

Steve’s stomach drops to his toes.

What the hell

Why did she mention that??????

You tell me

This sounds like a lot to explain over text

That’s when Steve’s phone begins to ring. He answers it quickly. Shit, he needs some air. He tucks his phone between his ear and his shoulder, opening the window and leaning out of it, watching the street below.

“So, what’s the story?” Sam asks.

If anyone deserves the truth, it’s Sam. Steve could explain it to him with no problem and break through whatever this is. A lie, twisted words, miscommunication. He doesn’t know what to call it at this point.

Steve sighs. “Just,” he begins. “What exactly did she tell you?”

Sam says nothing for a moment, and Steve can hear him shutting his bedroom door. “Well, she told me you went out with some guy last month and that you’re bringing him to DC.”

“She’s putting words in my mouth,” Steve argues immediately. “I swear. I didn’t even tell her a whole lot, but she’s really latching onto something that’s probably not gonna happen. I know she doesn’t mean anything by it, but she’s…” he sighs, tries to reel himself in. “I don’t know. I know she means well, but I don’t know how this whole thing started.”

“Look, quit worrying about what Nat said,” Sam cuts in. “She cares, she’s just got a funny way of showing it, we both know that. What are you thinking about this guy, though? What’s his name?”

“I don’t know, honestly,” Steve says, because he can’t find a window to say there is no guy, and wants to smack himself for it. “We hung out, it was good, and his name is...”

Steve happens to glance next door, and his eyes widen when he watches Alpine slip through the opened window and onto the fire escape. There’s a loud curse and then a pair of mismatched hands snatching Alpine back inside.

“Jesus, Bucky,” Steve mutters, unspeakably relieved that he didn’t have to watch Alpine jump off the fire escape.

“Bucky?” Sam asks incredulously, and oh God, this keeps getting worse. “Bucky as in your neighbor, Bucky?”

Because of course, Steve had mentioned him. A few times now, too, It’s only ever been in passing, but evidently, he stuck in Sam’s memory. His name isn’t an easy one to forget.

“I—” Steve swallows hard. “Well, I mean it’s James, but only his friends call him Bucky. Or so I’ve been told.”

“So, you’re not complete strangers,” Sam says. “Okay, that’s kind of a relief. I thought you were just bringing some random guy with you, but if you’ve known each other for a year already...sounds like something that was a longtime coming. Why didn’t you say anything about liking him before?”

Steve rubs a hand over his face. Now, he feels guilty. Really guilty. Three people dragged into a white lie that spiraled out of control. If he can’t cover his own ass right now, he can at least attempt to cover Bucky’s, even when Bucky is none the wiser.

 “I guess I didn’t want anyone doing a background check on him,” Steve answers weakly, almost phrasing it like a question. “He’s a good guy, just...I guess he’s not a people person, so I don’t know if he’ll even want to come.”

“Hey, whatever happens, we’ll have a pretty good time,” Sam says. “Don’t sweat it.”

Steve breathes out slowly, tries to focus on the chill in the air, tries to ground himself. “Yeah, no, I’m not,” he says. “I’m not. I’ll figure it out. I’ll be there regardless. I still have some stuff to sort out and I’ll be there on the 23rd.”

“23rd,” Sam echoes. “Sounds like a plan to me. You know I’d offer you to stay over here, but I got the whole family.”

“I already booked a room,” Steve tells him. “If that somehow doesn’t work out, I’ll just sleep on your roof or something.”

Sam snorts at that. “Yeah, I’ll make a blanket part of your present, then,” he says. “Call me when you get on the road, man. Maybe we’ll meet up the night you get in.”

God, that sounds nice. The thought of going to DC sounds good again, like nothing ever happened. “Yes, sir,” Steve says, and when the line clicks, he ducks back inside and shuts the window, licks his suddenly chapped lips.

Three days until he leaves.

Three days to figure out how the hell he’s going to fix this.

-

The next afternoon, Steve still doesn’t have a plan. 

He distracts himself by cleaning up as best as he can, making sure everything is in its place, since it usually isn’t, and after he’s finished taking out more trash than he expected, he switches to errands. He goes to the drug store, picks up the things he needs, picks up his refill, and heads back to his apartment. The gloom of the day makes it seem like it’s getting darker earlier than expected. Barely four-thirty and the sun already looks like it’s setting.

A sharp whistle suddenly fills Steve’s ears, and if he wasn’t directly in front of his building, he thinks he would have jumped out of his skin.

He cranes his neck up to find Bucky sat on the fire escape, in only a t-shirt, jeans, and strangely, flip-flops. He takes a long drag of his cigarette, the embers of it bright, even from this far away.

“I look like a dog to you?” Steve calls, squinting against the waning sunlight.

Bucky exhales smoke through his nose, ashes his cigarette. “You know,” he says. “I always thought you looked kinda like a Golden Retriever.”

Steve feels ridiculous for smiling at that, for feeling his stomach flip over.  Bucky’s eyes are on him, and he looks good from this angle, one leg stretched out in front of him, hair pulled up into a bun that barely falls apart anymore. His hair’s gotten longer, then. Steve didn’t notice that before.

A gust of wind blows by and Steve sticks his hands into his pockets. “Mind if I come upstairs and finish talking to you?” Steve asks. “Freezing my ass off out here.”

Bucky leans over and lowers the ladder down. “Come up this way,” he says. “All leads to the same place.”

Steve stares at it dubiously. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s used it, but there’s something about Bucky asking him to come up that leaves him feeling...unbalanced. Hell, he knows the real reason, since he’s never talked to the guy for more than a few  minutes at a time, but if he’s asking...

Well, Steve’s not gonna pass up on that opportunity.

He slides his bag onto his wrist and climbs up. He’s relieved he’s wearing gloves, but even through them, the rungs of the ladder are ice cold. He’s not sure how Bucky is managing to sit out on the fire escape dressed the way he is, but then again, the cold has always seemed to be actively working against Steve—messing with his lungs, promising feverish winters and weeks away from school, his chest feeling so tight he couldn’t think straight. Sure, it’s easier to manage now. Sure, he’s gotten better at staying on top of his heath, but it’s hard to shake those memories off.

When he reaches Bucky’s spot, he pulls the ladder up, locks it back into place. “Alright, attaboy,” Bucky says, and claps him on the shoulder. “I’m gonna finish this and I’ll let you in.”

“Don’t rush on my account,” Steve says, suddenly not so eager to leave. He’s never sat this close to Bucky before, and his thigh is almost brushing up against Steve’s. He smells faintly of smoke and the cool burst of generic body wash. “Go nuts.”

“Not gonna smoke on you if you have bad lungs,” Bucky says, and tosses the butt of his cigarette into a little ashtray on his other side. His prosthetic is on full display today, all intricate black metal, veined with gold. Steve wonders less about what happened and more about how the hell he managed to afford it. “Trying to quit, anyway. Trying being the keyword.”

“I heard coffee helps,” Steve says.

Bucky scoffs at that, mouth pulling into a crooked smile. “Believe me, it doesn’t,” he says, leans back against the brick of the building. “Got any plans for the holidays?”

A police car rushes by, sirens blaring. Somewhere, a car backfires. The street smells faintly of trash and cold air. Steve focuses on these things instead of Bucky’s gaze burning straight through him.

“Do you?” Steve asks, and then immediately regrets it, because something distant passes over Bucky’s face. It’s gone just as fast, gone with a shake of Bucky’s head.

“Not really,” Bucky says. “My sister lives in Berlin with her fiancé, and they were here for Thanksgiving, anyway. It’s a big trip, and she can’t really go up and down as she pleases. Going to her’s an option, yeah, but I don’t got the dough to leave the country right now.”

Before Steve can think to respond, Bucky beats him to it. “Jesus,” he chuckles. “That was a downer. Sorry.”

“Hey, I probably would have spent it alone, too, if I didn’t take some time off work,” Steve says. “Or, hell, at some office party with a bunch of people I can’t stand.”

Bucky tilts his head, nose wrinkling up as he grimaces. “Yeah, sounds pretty stuffy, if you ask me,” he says. “And you never answered my question. What are you doing?”

Now, Steve feels awful. Thinking about Bucky spending Christmas alone almost makes him want to stay in Brooklyn, just so the guy has the option of hanging around with someone other than himself.

Then again, Steve could—

No. No, that’s a bad idea. In fact, it’s a terrible idea. They’re strangers. Barely acquaintances. Steve thinks this is the most time they’ve ever spent together.

“Heading to DC the day after tomorrow, seeing some friends,” Steve forces out. “Just gonna stay for Christmas. Figured I’d get out of New York for a bit. but I just…” he scrubs his hand over his face. “Christ, it’s stupid. And a long story.”

That gets Bucky’s attention, has him arching a brow. “Got some kind of problem with your friends?” he asks.

“No, it’s my fault,” Steve says quickly. “I got myself into a lie and it got twisted around.”

“Oh, now this I gotta hear,” Bucky says, and then he’s turning around, opening the window further. “If you’re up for telling me, I mean.”

Steve thinks about that. He could find a way to explain it, he thinks, in a way that doesn’t sound completely ridiculous, and in a way that doesn’t completely put Bucky off.

“You coming?” Bucky calls. He’s already inside, rolling his neck on his shoulders and moving away from the window. 

Steve is already here, anyway. It would be foolish not to follow him.

-

Thankfully, Bucky’s apartment is warm, and Steve feels it hit him as he climbs through the window, closing it once his feet touch the floor.

It’s not big. It seems to be around the same size as Steve’s, but it looks far more lived in. Bucky’s sofa is all worn brown leather with an earth-toned throw draped over the back of it. There’s a pallet and a litterbox in the far corner of the room, a surprisingly tall bookshelf, and a few framed photos that Steve doesn’t look at too closely.

“I know there’s junk everywhere,” Bucky says, despite the apartment being all but spotless. “I don’t really get a lot of visitors.”

“You should see my place,” Steve says. “It was a disaster up until about two hours ago.”

Bucky has his back turned, since he’s stepping into the cramped kitchen identical to Steve’s, dragging a mug out of his cupboard, then freezing. “Coffee?” Bucky asks. “It’s basically fresh.”

Steve just shrugs, and Bucky grabs a second mug. At a loss on what to do, he stands rooted in his spot, unsure to do with his coat, with his plastic bag. It’s as if Bucky read his mind because he says, “Hey, I’m no stickler, you know. Just throw your stuff anywhere.”

After a moment, Steve does. He takes off his glove and pockets them before he rests his coat on the arm of the couch, leaves his bag on the floor beside it, suddenly feeling a lot more exposed. He steps closer, watching the line of Bucky’s broad shoulders as he pours two steaming mugs of coffee.

“So, what’s your issue?” Bucky asks.

Steve balks. “My issue?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “The lie you got caught in, genius,” he says, bone dry. He sets the mug on the counter beside Steve with a soft clink. Steve cups his hands around it, lets the heat bleed into his skin. “Something major? Drugs?”

“Jesus,” Steve says, a laugh punching out of him as he ducks his head. “No. No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that I was supposed to go out with someone weeks ago and he never showed, so I didn’t mention it to anyone, but a couple nights ago, a friend asked about it, so I panicked and told her it went fine and she didn’t mean anything by it, we weren’t on the same page at all, but now she thinks I’m bringing the guy to DC with me. Turns out she told our other friend yesterday, but—” Steve hesitates. Why is he doing this? “You’re gonna hate me. This isn’t how I thought hanging out with you was gonna go.”

Bucky doesn’t say a word, just watches Steve with serious eyes and sets his mug down, leans back against the stove.

Steve takes a nervous gulp from his coffee, just a touch too hot, and then takes a breath.

God, here it goes.

“I saw Alpine go out on the fire escape while I was on the phone, and I guess I said your name under my breath when my friend Sam asked what the guy’s name was,” Steve forces out. He drums his fingers on the side of the mug. “And I guess it sounded like that was my answer.”

For a long, long while, silence presses on Steve’s ears, utterly deafening. Bucky is staring him down with a somewhat grim expression, fingers curled tight around the edge of the counter.

“Do your friends know who I am or something?” Bucky asks.

“I mentioned you once or twice,” Steve answers, wanting nothing more than to melt into the floorboards. “Just in passing.”

“Huh,” Bucky says, half to himself.

And then he laughs.

Bucky honest to God laughs and Steve’s never gotten more than a polite smile from him, never this. Never.

And it’s at Steve’s expense, of course. So, he can’t even enjoy the way Bucky’s nose scrunches up, the way his entire face lights up with it, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Steve huffs indignantly. “Come on, it’s not funny,” he argues, sounding petulant even to his own ears.

“Oh, but it is. It fucking is.”

“Bucky!”

That doesn’t seem to change anything, not by much, but Bucky obviously swallows down some kind of retort. 

“Sorry, Rogers,” he manages to say, raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, I’m done, I promise. I’m done.”

Steve just watches him, unsure of what to do, unsure if he should be annoyed or not. Bucky doesn’t seem to be taking this too seriously, and while that’s a relief, it’s frustrating as hell. Steve would have preferred Bucky getting pissed. He crosses his arms over his chest as Bucky straightens up, takes a slow breath.

“So, lemme get this straight,” Bucky says, laced with a chuckle. He flattens his mouth into a tight line, obviously resisting the urge to fall into another fit. “So, your friends think you’re bringing a date with you to DC, they think the date is me, and you wanna get out of this without getting caught in a lie or giving an explanation that might make it worse.”

Steve sighs, nodding. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s the gist of it.”

“Well, you’ve already dug yourself this deep,” Bucky says, suddenly sober. “Why don’t you just tell them I’m coming?”

Steve arches a brow. “Then what’s my explanation gonna be when you…”

Bucky gives him a Look with a capital L, a look Steve has gotten very used to getting and one that only meant you cannot possibly be this stupid. But how were they going to—

“You’re kidding, right?” Steve bursts out. “I can’t just ask you to drop everything to help me get out of a lie!”

Bucky tilts his head. “From what I can tell,” he says. “You already did.”

Steve opens his mouth to argue, but then he stops and considers it.

Really considers it.

He runs his hands, now much warmer, over his face, leaves them there for a long moment. “Okay,” he says shortly. “Let’s say we do this. What are you supposed to do for three days when we’re not pretending? What are you gonna do with Alpine?”

Bucky shrugs. “I can leave him with one of the neighbors,” he says. “Mrs. Gajos lives upstairs and she loves watching him. I’ve left him there plenty of times. I already told you I don’t have any plans. Everyone I know went home for the holidays, so I don’t have anything keeping me here, Steve. You need a fake boyfriend, so I’ll be your fake boyfriend. We’ll get separate hotel rooms or something and put on a show when we see your pals.”

Steve sets his hands down, allows himself a glance up at Bucky. He doesn’t appear to be irritated in any way, his posture is open and easy, less stoic than Steve has ever seen him.

He doesn’t know what to think.

“I still can’t just drag you to DC,” Steve protests, feeling even guiltier than before. “Don’t feel like you have to do this. I know I’m the one who brought it up, but—”

“Steve, you gotta be kidding,” Bucky says, mouth curling up at the corners. “This is gonna be the most fun I’ve had in a while.”

As much as Steve hates to think it, maybe Bucky just doesn’t want to be alone.

Maybe he wants to get out of Brooklyn as much as Steve does. Steve’s spent Christmas alone before, and the more he thinks about Bucky doing the same, the more tempted he is to take the offer.

Steve breathes in, slow and steady. “And you can definitely leave on the 23rd?” he asks. “You’re sure?”

“Pal, I could leave tomorrow,” Bucky says, opens his arms in an exaggerated shrug. “Got nothing holding me here.”

What’s the point in fighting Bucky on this? Why would Steve ignore a perfectly good opportunity and keep all of his friendships intact, including whatever he has with Bucky?

He sets his hands down, folds his arms in front of him. “Okay,” Steve manages to say. “Yeah, okay. It’s about a four-hour drive, depending on how traffic is. That work for you?”

Bucky nods, scrubs his hand over his mouth for a moment. “I got some things to take care of at noon, but I can cancel if it’s gonna slow you down,” he says. “I’ll be an hour tops.”

Steve shakes his head. “Don’t cancel if it’s something important,” he says. “I can even pick you up from there if you—”

“No,” Bucky says quickly, then sighs. “No, it’s...thanks, but I can just meet you back here. It’s no problem.”

Whatever it is obviously isn’t Steve’s business, so he doesn’t ask. All he can do is nod, and that seems to be enough to sate Bucky, to stop him from tensing up. “Yeah, whatever you want,” Steve says. “That works for me. We’re gonna get there that night regardless, so it doesn’t matter what time we leave.”

Bucky relaxes, then, and unwittingly, Steve does, too. 

“Okay,” Bucky mutters. “That works.”

Steve finds his gaze again. There’s a sudden, new charge in the air. “So, we’re really doing this?” he asks, tries to force himself to appear more enthusiastic.

“We’re really doing this,” Bucky echoes, and then something mischievous crosses over his face. “And I’m gonna be the best fucking fake boyfriend you’ll ever have. We’re gonna be disgusting and over the top and sell this thing to everyone. Got it?”

Steve is reeling. Now that he’s thinking about it, he’s gonna have to be pressed up against Bucky, gonna have to put his arms around him, might have to kiss him, and Christ, Steve doesn’t even want to let himself think about that.

But how can he back out now?

“Got it,” Steve says, feeling a strange combination of spiking anxiety and relief washing over him.

Bucky looks nervous, too, but his smile is warm, crinkling at the corners of his eyes, and Steve thinks this just might work.

-

However, that doesn’t stop him from agonizing over it for the rest of the night.

He didn’t stay at Bucky’s place for much longer, just long enough to exchange numbers and for Steve to double-checke that he wouldn’t be inconveniencing the guy in any way, but Bucky’s schedule was clear, he had no issues with getting out of town, and then Steve went back home. He left with Bucky’s phone number and a promise to meet in front of the building the day after tomorrow at 3:00. 

Bucky would be busy all of tomorrow, too, and Steve is relieved for that. Relieved that he has the time to sort himself out before they meet up again, before they get into Steve’s cramped old car and drive to DC.

It’s only a few hours, it’s only a couple of days, Steve reminds himself. They both agreed to this, they’re both grown adults, they can handle this. Steve can handle this.

He has to handle it. Even though his...whatever—crush? infatuation?— with Bucky is becoming hard to push to the back of his mind now. Steve never had to put to much thought into it, but now that he has to spend days and days with him, pretending to be the most lovesick bastards in the entire city, he can’t stop thinking about him.

He sleeps restlessly, dreams incessantly, and wakes the next day feeling heavy and slow. He goes for a run despite that, tries to get his blood pumping, tries to keep his thoughts sharp and clear, but fails when he falls into the thought spiral his worries bring on. What if someone figures it out? What if he and Bucky aren’t believable enough, or Bucky ends up backing out? What if Steve has to—

No, he’s not gonna think about that again. They won’t have to kiss, they’ll make sure of that. They just have to play their parts. Nothing more and nothing less.

When Steve gets home, heart racing and clothes sticking to his body like a second skin, he can’t help but spare a look at Bucky’s door, knowing full well he isn’t there.

What happens tomorrow?

What happens after that?

-

Steve must wear himself out, because he packs his bag in a haze and falls asleep, deep and dreamless, a small mercy in the midst of his constantly racing thoughts. He wakes up in the morning feeling as tired as he usually does, goes for another run, showers, and deliberately wastes time throughout the afternoon. 

He doesn’t text Sam or Natasha, he can’t even attempt to say anything to either of them right now. If they contact him, he’ll answer. Of course, he’ll answer, but he can’t reach out on his own right now. The hours are slipping by too slowly, and he can’t help wondering where Bucky is, what kind of business he’s taking care of.

The implication that Bucky was either unemployed or between jobs was there, because he would have had something to keep him here, but then Steve shakes the thought off. He barely knows Bucky, and he has no business wondering what he’s doing or if he has a job. They’re barely friends, somewhere between strangers and acquaintances. This arrangement has definitely changed things, has definitely closed some of the gap between the two of them, and  Steve isn’t entirely sure what to do with that now, isn’t sure what to do until it’s time to leave.

At a quarter to one, Steve’s phone buzzes, loud and harsh against the coffee table. He doesn’t allow himself to think about how quickly he grabs it.

finished sooner than expected. omw back now. should be a half hr if you wanna get going by then?

Steve stares at the text for a while, and without good reason, but there’s something about having a chain of communication with Bucky that isn’t knocking on each other’s doors that’s so surreal.

Sounds good, Steve replies. See you in a bit.

Bucky sends back a thumbs up and an Emoji with sunglasses. Then a row of red hearts. And then a smiling purple devil.

So we’re starting now?

i’m ready when you are pumpkin

That’s pretty unfitting for Christmas...

ok i’ll try again

sure thing sugar plum

hahaha

So sweet

I’m touched Bucky truly

aww i’m blushing

see you soon

Steve doesn’t even bother responding, just pockets his phone and tries to focus on making sure he has everything he needs. He takes a slow walk to the garage, retrieves his car, and by the time he pulls up in front of his building, he sees Bucky getting out of a cab. Steve honks and Bucky turns, gives him a two fingered salute before he disappears, returning less than five minutes later with a duffle he stuffs into the trunk, and then sliding into the passengers’ seat.

“Fuck me, it’s cold,” Bucky grits out, tugging his beanie off and stuffing it in the pocket of his leather jacket. He looks over at Steve. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

God, they really are doing this.

Steve shakes his head and pulls out of his space, something akin to anxiety welling up in his chest as he begins to drive. “I wasn’t gonna stop you, even if it wasn’t important,” he says, spares him a glance. “I really owe you for this, Buck. I...honestly, I don’t even know where to start.”

Bucky looks back, nodding once. His nose and cheeks are flushed red, hair turned wavy and windblown.

“You can start by turning on the damn heat,” he says, and Steve can’t help smiling at that, turning it up high before he turns off their street.

-

They get caught in traffic soon enough,  and Steve should have expected that, really, but even as annoyed as he is, he’s not going to give into any type of road rage in the car with someone he barely knows. So far, it’s been dead silence save for the radio, no words exchanged between them and Steve does his best not to press for conversation when he notices Bucky looks a little rough around the edges. 

Frankly, it’s a relief that neither of them have anything to say, and for a while, they don’t. Not until they finally get out of the congested little bubble and they’re halfway through Staten Island, on a surprisingly quiet road. 

Bucky unbuckles his seatbelt, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it in the backseat along with his scarf, bright red plaid. “I got you on tolls and gas, by the way,” he says as he settles back into his seat. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh,” is all Steve manages to say. “Thanks. Really, Buck, you don’t have to do that.”

Bucky shrugs. “I’m the one who jumped in the car with you,” he says. “Only fair.”

Steve nods, drums his fingers on the wheel. “You ever been to DC?”

“On a field trip in junior high,” Bucky answers. “Just got dragged around with a bunch of other kids to the monuments and the museums, but it’s not like I spent a lot of time there. How’d you end up there, anyway?”

“I went to American University,” Steve answers. “Then I got a job right after graduation, so I lived out there for about seven years, and everyone I’m close to lives out there. Sam, who you’re probably gonna meet first, was my roommate, and we just stuck like glue from the minute we met. He did a tour in the army, but he ended up back in DC and wanted something else in the end.”

“Huh,” Bucky says. “No kidding.”

Steve glances over to him, finds his brows knitting together. “No kidding what?”

“I served, too,” Bucky says. “Mainly ‘cause I didn’t know what the hell I was doing with my life. How do you think I got this?”

He raises his left hand toward the end, wiggles his fingers. Steve hears a soft, purring whir as he does, and wonders why he never noticed that before.

Steve shakes his head. “I didn’t think it was any of my business,” he says. “Not like I was just gonna ask how you lost your arm.”

“I told my godson I cut myself shaving,” Bucky says, lips curling up at the corners. “Probably would have just laid that one on you. Don’t sweat it, Rogers. Not like I’m gonna get pissed at people for asking.”

Steve’s going to have to catalog all the things he learns about Bucky, because it only comes in snatches. He supposes he has to learn as much as he can for this trip, though. It only makes sense.

“It’s not like I could have asked when I saw you in the hall,” Steve says. “‘Hey, Bucky, good to see you. How’s your cat? And by the way, what’s the deal with your arm?’”

To Steve’s surprise, Bucky laughs at that. Something unwinds in Steve’s chest. Maybe he can make it through the next couple hours.

“Shit,” Bucky mutters suddenly, yanking his phone out of his pocket. “I never booked a room. Where are you staying again?”

“Marriott in Penn Quarter,” Steve answers.

“I can probably get a discount,” Bucky says, typing rapidly. “Gimme a minute.”

Steve turns the radio down as Bucky puts his phone to his ear, silences his own as it begins to ring. Whoever it is, he can call them back.

-

“This is a joke,” Bucky snaps, exasperated. “I’ve been on hold for fifteen—yeah, hi. Are you sure? There’s nothing you can…” he squeezes the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Okay. Yeah. Thanks. Have a good day.”

He hangs up. jaw set tight. 

“They’re booked,” Bucky says. “They said I can try again when I get there, but I know it’s gonna be the same shit. I gotta find somewhere else nearby.”

“I can change my room to a double bed when we get there,” Steve suggests. “It’s no big deal, Buck, really. I don’t mind sharing. You don’t have to go running all over the city looking for a room if you can just stay with me.”

Bucky runs his hand over his face. “I don’t wanna get in your hair,” he says.

“Hey, I’m the one who dragged you into this,” Steve argues. “I’m not gonna make you drive yourself nuts trying to find somewhere to stay.”

Outside, it’s beginning to snow, fat flakes of it falling onto the windshield, and according to the thermometer, the temperature is steadily dropping. Steve can feel the chill creeping into the car as deeply as he can feel Bucky staring a hole through him.

“Sure,” Bucky says. “That’s...yeah, that works. Thanks, Steve.”

Steve’s brows knit together. “Yeah, of course,” he says. “Only fair, anyway. You okay?”

Bucky waves him off. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Just...it’s nothing. Forget it.”

Before Steve can protest, Bucky forces some of his gloom away and asks, “So, do we have a backstory? In case anyone asks?”

Steve curses quietly to himself. “I...haven’t really thought about it yet,” he says. “I mean, they know we know each other so it’s not gonna be that much of a stretch if it’s something like one of us just asking the other out.”

Bucky grimaces, slouching back in his seat. “That’s boring as hell,” he says. “Come on, why don’t we go for something more exciting?”

“I don’t know, I just thought the simpler, the better, that way no one thinks it’s too far-fetched,” Steve says. “I keep thinking someone’s gonna notice something’s up, and by someone I mean Natasha.”

“Gonna take a guess and say this is the person you mentioned when you first told me about this?” Bucky asks.

“That’s her,” Steve says. “She’s a good person, I’ve known her forever, but she can be...look, I think she’s just used to it because of whatever’s in her job description. All I know is that she’s government and out of the country for months at a time.”

Bucky whistles, long and low. “Gotta be intelligence,” he says. “Vigilance doesn’t just go away.”

Steve’s certainly thought about it, wondered what the hell it is Natasha does, but he’s never wanted to probe to deep, even on his own time. “Guess not,” Steve says. “But like I said, I still haven’t settled on anything.”

“Well, we might as well work on it,” Bucky says. “‘So, Steve, how’d you two meet?’”

Bucky is watching him expectantly, and Steve deliberately keeps his eyes forward, watching the snow grow heavier and the windshield wipers moving as he turns them on. “Uh,” Steve says.

“Wow,” Bucky says, deadpan.

“Oh, come on, gimme a second,” Steve groans.

“You can’t even remember where we met,” Bucky says, theatrically scorned. “That’s it. We’re done. Pull over. Can’t even look at you.”

Steve finds himself smiling, the knot in the pit of his stomach loosening ever so slightly. 

It’s not like there’s ever been any animosity between them. Bucky seems to be content being around Steve, and Steve...well, maybe Steve likes Bucky a little more than he should, but all they have to do is break the lingering barrier between them, leave the mutual fondness behind and actually work on being something close to friends, especially if they’re going to make this work until they get back to Brooklyn.

They only have a couple of hours left in the car, a couple of hours until they get to the hotel. It shouldn’t be too much trouble.

-

Once they get into Jersey, the snow has turned from a heavy fall to a full-on storm.

“I checked the weather every day,” Steve says irritably. “Hell, I checked it every few hours.”

“You think I haven’t been doing the same?” Bucky says. “My phone still says it’s fuckin’ snow showers. This ain’t a shower.”

The road ahead is a windy, white mess. Steve can barely see in front of him, even with his defrosters and his wipers on, and he’s squinting against the overcast light, quickly growing darker, and—

“Shit,” he whispers as they come to a nightmare of a traffic jam, slowing to a stop. “There had to have been an accident up ahead.”

The windows are frosted and rattling with every gust of wind, bringing a wet chill into the car despite the heat cranked up as high as Steve and Bucky can bear.

“Looks like a mess,” Bucky mutters, shakes his head, and then he’s checking something on his phone. “Five hour backup?”

Steve whips around to face him. It’s not like looking away from the road will hurt. They obviously aren’t going anywhere any time soon. 

“What?” he asks frantically. “Lemme see.”

Bucky shows him and sure enough, they’ll be stuck here for five hours. Steve slumps against the steering wheel, forehead braced against it. “I shouldn’t have made you come,” he says. “What the hell are you gonna do stuck with me here all night?”

“Can you quit actin’ like you dragged me here at gunpoint already?” Bucky snaps, shoves Steve half-heartedly. “Look, just listen, there’s probably an exit up ahead. We’ll stop there, get our shit together, and if we gotta find somewhere to stay for the night, we’ll do that. No point even trying to drive in this storm, anyway. Just reschedule your room and tell your friends you’re not gonna be there till tomorrow. Simple as that.”

Steve lifts his head, bewildered. “How do you do that?” he asks.

It’s Bucky’s turn to look confused. “Do what?”

“You just made this seem ten times easier than I thought it was,” Steve says.

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. “Pal, if I didn’t learn how to do that, I would have drove myself over the edge years ago,” he says. “It doesn’t fix everything but it helps. Helps me, at least.”

Steve forces himself to exhale, slow and steady. Bucky’s right. God, he’s right. He can do this. He can fix this. Getting there a day late won’t hurt anyone. Sure, they’ll charge him for his room, and Steve doesn’t mind that since he was able to afford the days he booked, anyway. He’ll just call in, get in touch with Sam and Nat, and start fresh in the morning.

He nods, lifts his head. “Thanks,” he says. “Really.”

Bucky shrugs, a half-hearted thing, then straightens up. “Since we’re gonna be stuck here till we can get to the exit,” he says. “I’m not listening to anything else on the damn radio. You got an aux cord?”

-

They move inch by inch through the jam, all over whistling wind, car horns honking, and Chet Baker.

Steve is relieved that Bucky’s music taste isn’t bad. He’s not picky by any means, but Bucky’s music is smooth and slow, doesn’t grate on Steve’s nerves, and isn’t the damn Christmas station they were stuck with earlier. The Most Wonderful Time of The Year loses its charm after a while.

“You’re an art guy, right?” Bucky asks after a while. “Graphic design and stuff?”

Steve didn’t think Bucky would remember that fact at all, since he’s only mentioned it once. 

“Yeah,” Steve says instead of pointing that fact out. “Yeah, I am, but I’m not in any art scenes or anything like that. I wanted to be a while ago, wanted to when I came back to New York, but it’s so hard to break into. I feel like I just keep sitting on it.”

“Oh, so, you’re an artist artist,” Bucky says slowly. “Means you got some pieces hidden somewhere.”

Steve snorts. “Not like I’m any good now,” he says. “Feels like I only ever start a project for work these days.”

“Come on, that can’t be true,” Bucky says. “I can’t even draw a circle, but I’m not a creative type anyway. I always liked it though, goin’ to museums and stuff. I can appreciate it, it’s just not something I ever wanted to do, you know? I got real good with computers when I was younger, and now I’m thinking about trying to go to school next year. Maybe computer science or something like that. I dunno. Wanted to be an engineer way back when, but I can’t really see myself jumping back into researching it again. This feels better.”

Meaning, Bucky’s whip smart. He’s analytical. He’s a thinker, he’s a problem solver, he’s got a head on his shoulders and he’s focused. It makes sense for him. Steve could never pinpoint what exactly Bucky did, never really got a clear read on him. He still hasn’t, really, but then again, he’s never really had the best sense of judgement. He’s taken chances on people and had good and bad experiences, and that’s about all he can say for himself, really.

“You gonna stay in New York?” Steve asks. “For school, I mean.”

Bucky arches a brow. “Why? You gonna miss me if I go?” he asks.

“I’ll miss Alpine more than I’ll miss you,” Steve says.

“Oh, well in that case, no, ain’t going anywhere,” Bucky says, then shakes his head. “No, I’m staying local. Can’t really picture being anywhere else.”

Steve nods. “Me neither,” he says. “I don’t think I’ll ever leave again.”

“No point,” Bucky says, shakes his head. “I’ll go see my sister if she doesn’t come back to the US anytime soon, but I’m not leaving for good. I got stationed overseas for a while and all I wanted to do was come back home and forget about all the time I wasted out there.”

Steve almost wants to ask if Bucky regretted enlisting, because it sure as hell seems that way, but he can’t. If Bucky tells him, then fine, but Steve isn’t going to press him for answers.

He flattens his lips into a tight line as he inches a few feet forward, relieved at the small ease in the traffic, at the fact that he can move despite barely being able to see ahead.

“There’s an exit with a hotel over here,” Bucky says quickly, and Steve drives toward it when he finds a gap to slip through, relieved to be out of the mess.

“You hungry?” Steve asks, able to see a few restaurants ahead already

“I could eat,” Bucky says.

-

They kill time in a diner not too far away from a motel, and it’s mostly empty, just a few people tucked into booths or sat at the counter.

Strangely, Bucky orders a chocolate milkshake.

“You’re not cold,” Steve says, a laugh lacing his words. “At all.”

Bucky makes a noncommittal sound without looking up from his menu. “We may be stuck in Jersey for the night, but I’m not gonna pass up a milkshake from a grease trap like this. They’re good. They use actual ice cream, not whatever bullshit they have at Wawa.”

Steve goes for his coffee, takes a long slow sip, and lets it warm him to his core. “I believe you, but you’re not convincing me to get one,” he says, half-aware of his leg bouncing under the table. He looks down at his own menu instead of saying anything else.

The waitress returns with Bucky’s milkshake and they order quickly after. Bucky orders a patty melt and disco fries, Steve orders a chicken noodle soup and Bucky looks at him like he’s grown a second head.

“Are you crazy?” Bucky asks. “That ain’t enough food.”

Steve stares at him, incredulous. “I’m not hungry,” he says slowly.

“Yeah, you’re gonna be,” Bucky says. “You’re gonna be asking me to split my fries when they get here ‘cause you’re stuck eating a bowl of soup.”

“Are you really arguing with me over soup right now?” Steve asks.

“You bet your ass I am!”

“I said I’m not—” Steve snaps his mouth shut. “Fine. Scratch that. I’ll have meatloaf.”

“And give him a strawberry shake too,” Bucky says, looking Steve directly in the eye before he turns to the waitress. “Sorry for botherin’ you so much, sweetheart.”

She smiles at Bucky, any lingering annoyance evidently slipping away as she writes everything down. “No problem,” she says. “I’ll get that out in a little bit for you.”

When she walks away, Steve arches a brow. “How’d you know I like strawberry?” he asks.

Bucky shrugs. “Lucky guess,” he says. “And I saw you come back from the bodega with one of those shortcake bars a couple times. Just figured.”

Steve crosses his arms, slouches back in the booth. “I feel like you know more about me than I know about you,” he says.

Bucky goes into his shake with a spoon. “You’re not really a mysterious type,” he says. “Or maybe I’m just perceptive. I dunno. But go ahead, I’ll test you. I won’t think anything you say is creepy. Let’s see what you got.”

“And what if I mess up, huh?” Steve asks.

Bucky licks whipped cream from his top lip, tongue flicking out, and Steve very pointedly doesn’t look. “Gotta get to know each other better if we’re gonna sell this, anyway,” he says. “Come on, Rogers. Shoot.”

Steve watches Bucky for a long moment, sighs quietly before he sits forward, arms resting against the table. “Okay,” he says. “I know your middle name’s Buchanan ‘cause of your mail. I know you get an everything bagel with lox pretty much every day for lunch. You go for a run every morning, you smoke Lucky Strikes and nothing else because I saw you throw a full pack of Newports out after you tried one. You have a sister named Rebecca. You named your cat Alpine because you thought Snowball was overrated. And you grew up in Brighton Beach.”

A slow smirk creeps up Bucky’s lips and he takes a slow sip from his shake, cheeks hollowing out. “Not bad, kid, not bad,” he says, fond, and something about kid makes Steve’s head swim, just a little. “Alright, enough guessing games. We’ll, hell, we’ll do twenty questions. That work?”

“That works,” Steve echoes, just as his own milkshake is set in front of him.

-

By the time their food arrives, Steve learns that Bucky’s thirtieth birthday is in March, he hates Star Trek, hates olives, learned to drive when he was twelve, has a tattoo somewhere, and that he used to play the piano.

“That makes you an artsy type, you know,” Steve says. Outside, the sky has darkened completely and the storm has worsened. “Music snob.”

“Fuck you, I’m no music snob,” Bucky says. “I listen to whatever’s on, I just got my preferences.”

“Says the guy who’s making me listen to Chet Baker,” Steve says. “Jazz is snobby.”

“I like it, but I ain’t one of those guys,” Bucky argues. “Now shut your trap and eat your meatloaf. Bet you’re glad you ordered that now, huh?”

Steve attempts to scowl at him, but it’s not exactly an easy feat with a mouth full of mashed potatoes. “Shut up,” he says, garbled.

“Quit talkin’ with your mouth full,” Bucky says. “Animal.”

Steve swallows his food, grabs his straw wrapper and crumbles it up before hurling it at Bucky. It gets caught in his hair.

“Cute,” Bucky grumbles as he tugs the paper out, drops it to the floor. “Real cute.”

“Glad you think so,” Steve says.

“Well, I gotta play a part, don’t I?” Bucky shoots back. “Hey, I never asked, how much am I getting paid for this?”

Steve freezes. “I—”

“Oh, no. Oh, Jesus, Rogers, your fucking face.”

“Shit,” Steve mutters, puts his face into his hands. “I hate you. I really hate you.”

“Alright, fine, that wasn’t nice,” Bucky says. “Sorry.”

Steve lifts his head, then. Hell, maybe he should have offered.

“Do you want me to pay you?” Steve asks. “‘Cause I could.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Tell you what,” he says. “You get me one of those pies to go and consider that my payment, but only if you guess which one I want.”

Steve glances to the case behind the counter, really thinks about it before he turns back to Bucky.

“Cherry?” he asks.

Bucky only smiles at him, crooked and warm.

It might be one of the best evenings Steve’s had in a while.

-

Steve pays the check, gets Bucky’s pie to-go, and they drive through the muck and snow until they reach the motel. Bucky is getting out of the car before Steve can unbuckle his seatbelt.

“I got it,” Bucky says, waving him off. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re already doing everything else, anyway.”

“But—”

“But nothin’, Rogers,” Bucky says, and gets out of the car before Steve can say anything else, shutting the door behind him with a slam.

Steve takes that opportunity to breathe, leaning his head back against the driver’s seat and shutting his eyes. God, it’s becoming too easy just...being around Bucky. Steve had anticipated feeling awkward, feeling unsure of what to do, but his ease is what’s making him uncomfortable. Bucky is making it far too easy to be friendly, to be teasing, and the affection Steve has been stomping down for him for the past year is only getting harder and harder to ignore.

And they’ll have to pretend to be attached at the hip for the next three days. It’s going to be a nightmare.

At a loss, Steve puts Sam and Nat in a group text.

Traffic is hell and there’s a snowstorm in NJ. Gonna stay in a hotel for a night and drive in tomorrow morning. See you then.

A frowny face is Natasha’s only reply, meaning she has to be busy, unable to reply any more than that, because otherwise she would have asked for more details.

Sam’s message pops up. Nothing more romantic than a Best Western in North Jersey

Right? Really sets the mood.

Still on for tomorrow night at my place?

You know I’m not gonna miss that

You better not

I hope your BF isn’t vegan or anything

Well, at least Steve doesn’t have to lie about an imaginary guy anymore.

He just plowed through a patty melt, a plate of disco fries, and a chocolate shake. Does that answer your question?

Lol

Drive safe

By the time Steve pockets his phone, Bucky is knocking on the window. He rolls it down, now able to see how off Bucky looks.

“They only have one room left,” Bucky says, dejected. “But it’s just the one bed. Next hotel’s about seven miles up and they’re booked, so I just got this one.”

There’s nothing else Steve can do, save for shrugging in agreement. “That’s...yeah,” he says. “That works.”

Bucky doesn’t unwind, but he does nod, comes back around to the passenger’s side and sliding back inside “I woulda asked, but—”

“Buck, it’s fine,” he says, a failed attempt at sounding reassuring as he drives forward, pulls into a parking spot. “I mean it, it’s fine. We’re gonna share a room when we get to DC, anyway, so it’s not that big of a deal. I don’t mind if you don’t.”

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, I don’t...I don’t mind,” he says, flopping his hand down before he forces a humorless smile on his lips. “Gotta break the ice, anyway, right?”

That familiar stiffness has returned to Bucky’s posture, and Steve can’t say he blames him. They were going to share a room regardless, but the thought of accidentally keeping Bucky up all night with tossing and turning, with snoring or coughing or just being a bother is far more stressful now that their quarters will be even closer.

Steve tries his best not to let his worries show. All he can do is be grateful that they have somewhere to stay for the night, that they’re not braving it on the road.

-

There’s no sofa, just the lone bed, as promised. It’s covered with a tacky, shiny comforter that they pull off to reveal standard hotel bedding. The carpet looks outdated. The room is so cold it’s almost damp, but Steve’s slept in worse. Lived in worse, too. He can’t bring himself to care, not when all he and his ma had was a sleeper sofa until he was at least thirteen. It’s not his own comfort he’s worried about.

Bucky looks tense as he sets his things down, shrugs out of his jacket. Steve busies himself with doing the same, with messing with a heater until it finally rattles on, spitting out hot air in less than a minute, thankfully.

“You need to get in there?” Bucky asks, bag in hand as he nods toward the bathroom.

“No,” Steve says quickly. “No, go ahead. Knock yourself out.”

He disappears inside, shutting the door with a soft click. It’s not as if they’re going anywhere, so Steve begins changing when he hears the sink running, kicking off his shoes before rummaging through his bag until he finds pajama pants and a long sleeved shirt. He grabs a hoodie for good measure. It feels like the cold has burrowed its way inside of him.

Sat on the edge of the bed, he calls his hotel, asks how they can help him and thankfully, they manage to reschedule him for tomorrow without a hitch and just to press his luck, he asks if there are any extra rooms available.

It turns out there is, and Steve books it quickly, like they’re gonna yank it away from him. He hangs up feeling more relieved than he expects to be, his worries finally finally beginning to ease just as Bucky steps out of the bathroom, changed into an undershirt and sweatpants, hair pulled back from his face.

“Hey, good news,” Steve says. “I guess there must have been a cancellation or two, because I got you a room.”

Bucky lifts his head, looking far more worn than he did a few minutes ago, and nods. “Oh,” he says faintly. “Yeah. Thanks. Thanks a lot, Steve. Really.”

There’s something off about his expression, but the last thing Steve wants is to make him feel like he’s on the spot. He tries to give him a reassuring look when he comes closer, but Bucky keeps his eyes forward, choosing to sit at the far end of the bed.

So much for progress.

-

Steve is drying his face with a scratchy towel soon enough, rinsing his mouth one more time for good measure, and then stepping back into the room. Bucky is still sitting on the far left side of the bed with his arms crossed in front of him. He’s turned the TV on, just loud enough to drown out the quiet, and the heat is on high, so yes, while the room is more comfortable now, there’s a discomfort to it, too. Something he can’t quite place, but knows has to be related to Bucky’s suddenly chilly demeanor.

“You okay?” Steve asks. “Bucky?”

Bucky looks up fast, like he’s been dragged out of his thoughts. “Sure,” he mutters. “Right as rain.”

Steve sticks his hands into his pockets, unsure of what to do with himself. “You know, I could sleep on the floor,” he suggests. “Or ask if they have a roll-away if you’re not comfortable.”

That has Bucky knitting his brows together, shaking his head. “What? I don’t...” he sighs shortly. “That ain’t the issue, Steve. It’s nothing to do with you. I mean it.”

Steve just nods, unsure of what else to say. He moves to the other side of the room slides into one of the stiff chairs set up by the window, covered in drab, red curtains that match the bedspread.

“Even if one of us slept on the floor, it wouldn’t make a difference,” Bucky says after a while. “The problem’s me, anyway.”

When Steve looks up, Bucky’s facing him. Dressed like this, Steve can see all the details of his prosthetic better than before. The smooth, black metal veined with gold. The plates that surely increase his mobility, shifting and moving with him.

“I had a rough time,” Bucky admits quietly. “When I was serving. I stood long enough for it to stick bad, Steve. I still wake up not knowing what the hell’s going on or thinking I’m still stuck under a goddamn building, and it doesn’t happen much anymore, but it ain’t something I can flip a switch on. I just want you know that.”

Of course that was the problem. Steve is glad he gave into the instinct to check for a second room, that he won’t have to make Bucky feel on the spot for the entirety of their time in DC.

 “Hey, that’s...it’s okay, Buck, really,” Steve says carefully, mulling his words over in his head. “I told you, I knew Sam when he got out and he had some trouble getting back to civilian life. I lived with him for most of that. Sometimes he needed space, sometimes he needed a helping hand, and if that’s what you need in case anything happens…”

Bucky says nothing, eyes focused back on the TV, the veins in his right arm front and center as he clenches his fist.

“And if it makes you feel any better, I’m no dream to share a room with,” Steve continues, maybe sounding like he’s tripping over himself in an attempt to anchor Bucky back to where he was earlier. “And you can rip me a new one about that. It’s happened before.”

The smallest of smiles pulls at the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “You a snorer or something?” he asks.

Steve shrugs. “Sometimes,” he says. “Most of the time.”

“I can sleep through that if you can,” Bucky says, waving him off. “I’ve been smoking since high school. Doesn’t really help my case with snoring either. Hand me that case over there, huh?”

Steve looks over to the corner of the room, brows knitting together when he notices the long metal briefcase. He grabs it by the handle, slides it up on the bed toward Bucky before he sits down once more and watches as he opens it.

“So, nothing else planned for the next few days?” Bucky asks, reaching high up on his prosthetic. Steve can hear a faint click, a soft whir and a squeak, like something is loosening.

“Not really,” Steve says. “Just a lot of socializing.”

Steve notices that Bucky isn’t tweaking his prosthetic at all, but rather, he’s taking it off. Steve looks away, runs his hand over the back of his neck. It’s too intimate. Almost like watching Bucky get undressed, like this isn’t something Steve is supposed to see despite Bucky doing it right in front of him.

“I can deal with that,” Bucky says. Steve looks back when he hears the briefcase click shut. Bucky rises to his feet, sets the case down against the wall, and then pulls the bedcovers back before getting underneath. He grabs the remote control, waves it at Steve. “You want this thing?”

What remains of Bucky’s left arm ends just past his shoulder. Steve can see something like a groove for his prosthesis to fasten in, but otherwise, it’s just smooth, pale skin, waxy with scar tissue.

“Nah, it’s all yours,” Steve says after a moment.

Bucky immediately starts channel surfing, so quickly Steve can’t figure out how Bucky sees what the hell is going on.

-

Steve pushes past his nerves eventually, long after Bucky has turned the lights off, abandoning his chair and getting into the bed. Bucky is at the far end, too, but somehow looks more comfortable than Steve feels despite him being the one to speak up earlier.

That could be because Bucky has no interest in Steve whatsoever, and Steve is the one being pushed into sharing a bed with someone he’s been struggling not to think about romantically for over a year, and the guy is just making this harder and harder to manage.

They’ll have to really commit tomorrow. Steve assumed their time to prepare would have been a little more linear, but tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and now they’ll be thrown head first into this entire farce.

Steve takes a steadying breath, trying to keep his eyes on the TV and far away from Bucky, who’s slid further down, turned onto his side. He’s still awake for the most part, arm tucked under his pillow, shoulders rising and falling slowly.

“Bucky,” Steve says, just loud enough to be heard.

Bucky hums in response, low and muffled. He sounds like he’s on his way to falling asleep.

“If you need me to wake you up, it’s no problem,” Steve says. “I mean it.”

Nothing for a long moment. Steve hears him breathe in, slow and deep. “You’re pretty nice to a guy you barely know,” Bucky says quietly, turning ever so slightly, eyes looking colorless in this light and far more serious. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t look away, and neither does Steve. “Yeah,” Steve says, chest suddenly feeling tight. “‘Course.”

Bucky turns around before Steve can say anything else, the mattress jerking slightly with his weight.

Steve keeps his eyes on the screen for a short time after that, soon grabbing the remote from between Bucky and himself and shutting the TV off. He really should just get some sleep while he can. They can get an earlier start and get into the city before it gets too late, and the storm should be finished by the time they get going, if Steve’s weather app isn’t lying to him again.

Steve turns onto his side, keeping his back to Bucky. All he can hear is the heat kicking in occasionally, hear the way Bucky’s slow breaths slowly turn to snores. Outside, the wind whistles and moans almost miserably, and once it finally begins to die down, Steve finds himself drifting off.

-

His sleep is almost entirely uninterrupted. Bucky never startles awake, never moves an inch. Steve only wakes up around two to relieve himself, but then he’s crawling back beneath the covers, too tired to care that Bucky has flopped onto his back, that his fingers are brushing against Steve’s bicep, too tired to care when his hand settles between Steve’s shoulder blades, heavy and warm.

When Steve wakes again, the bed is empty and according to the digital clock, it’s half-past seven.

He sits up, scrubbing his hands over his face, feeling sluggish, warm all over. He’s not stiff, he doesn’t feel as awful as he usually does after a night in a hotel. Sharing the bed with Bucky wasn’t bad. It was easier than he expected, but the lingering sensation of his hand on Steve...it’s making him feel tense all over now that he’s lucid enough to care.

That’s when Bucky comes out of the bathroom, fully dressed with his prosthetic fastened back on. “Hey, you’re up,” he says, looking sharp and awake, even better than he did yesterday. He smiles at Steve, bright and warm with a flash of white teeth. “Sleep okay?”

Steve shrugs, then rolls his neck on his shoulders. “Can’t complain,” he says. “You?”

“Real good, yeah,” Bucky says without an ounce of hesitation. He grabs his jacket from the back of one of the chairs, shrugging it on and shaking his hair out of his eyes. “Hey, I’m gonna go check us out, so you got the place to yourself, alright?”

If they leave soon, they can make it to DC by noon and have plenty of time until they need to be at Sam’s. The initial plan was four o’clock, anyway, and Steve can still make that. He can do this. 

-

Steve decides he’ll shower when they get to the hotel, make himself look more presentable there. He washes his face with cold water for now, cleans himself up as best as he can and repacks his bag, digging out a new shirt and pulling his coat on. He notices Bucky’s to-go container in the trash, only a few stray bits of crust and filling left inside. 

So, he’s already had breakfast. Probably sat at the table with it while Steve slept on beside him. Steve isn’t sure how that makes him feel. He almost would have liked to wake up around the same time, just so Bucky didn’t catch him at any vulnerable moments, but Steve should know the guy is an early riser. Steve has heard him during his sleepless nights before, thundering down the stairs for his jog as early as five-thirty in the morning.

He does a final sweep of the room, making sure nothing has been left behind, checking his pockets. Bucky knocks at the door, and Steve lets him in without a word. He gathers his own things, and they leave the room behind, heading for the car.

“Stopped snowing,” Steve remarks, relieved despite the bitter cold. “Should be fine going forward.”

“Should be,” Bucky repeats. “And let me drive for a couple hours, why don’t you? You still look dead on your feet and I need to do something to keep myself busy for a while.”

Steve unlocks the car and opens the trunk, dropping his bag inside and moving aside so Bucky can do the same. Steve watches him shut it with a short slam.

He would be a fool to decline the offer. He still feels spacey and slow. Maybe he’ll doze off for a while. They still have a few hours to go, anyway.

“Sure,” Steve says. “Thanks.”

“Quit thankin’ me already,” Bucky says without malice. “I’m doing all this because I want to, not ‘cause you’re pushing me to do it. Now, if you’re real nice and give me directions, I’ll stop you somewhere for breakfast.”

-

Breakfast ends up being from a drive-thru and Steve goes through greasy hashbrowns and coffee with too much cream and sugar before they’re driving again. The roads are clear, the sky is cloudy and bright, but it’s warm in the car, and Steve finds himself dozing off to Baker and Sinatra, to Bucky’s GPS occasionally interrupting, head resting against the window.

He comes out of it feeling more rested than before, waking to Bucky turning onto an exit. “How long was I out?” Steve asks, running a hand over his sore neck.

Bucky shakes his head. “Not too long,” he says quietly, eyes on the road. He pulls toward a gas station, squinting against the sun trying to break through the clouds. “We got into Delaware a little while ago.”

Steve exhales, blinks long and hard once Bucky stops, getting out of the car first and breathing in the cool air, allowing it to wake him up in measures as he walks inside, Bucky trailing close behind.

-

The tank is filled and they switch positions, Steve sliding into the driver’s seat and Bucky into the passenger’s. Their bag of junk crinkles as Steve roots through it, soon cracking a bottle of water open and taking a swig before he sets it in the cupholder.

“Saw you looking at those energy drinks,” Bucky remarks. “Shaking ‘em off?”

Steve knits his brows together, carefully pulling out of his spot and driving back toward the highway. “Guess you could say that,” Steve says. “You’re not the only one who was on my neck about it.”

“Hope not,” Bucky argues. “You’re the one with the damn heart palpitations, and those things are garbage, you know that? Straight garbage. You just get more tired without ‘em, then you want more, and therefore you buy more. It’s a scam, I’m telling you.”

Steve huffs a laugh at that. “Says the smoker,” he says.

Bucky opens his mouth to argues, and then shuts up.

“Touché, asshole,” he mutters after a while, flashing Steve a lopsided smile.

Steve has to force himself to look away before he drifts into the wrong lane.

-

For a long while, they drive without any conversation. Bucky plugs his earbuds in, and Steve is half-aware of him typing rapidly on his phone, meaning he has to be texting someone. Does Bucky have any close friends? Any other family?

The note he left for Steve all that time ago had to imply that Bucky had lost a parent, too. He would have mentioned going to visit his family, or they would have at least showed up at Bucky’s place at some point, but no one has ever showed up save for Rebecca, as far as Steve knows.

In a way, he’s glad Bucky is coming along—not because he agreed to help Steve, not because Steve is so adamant to keep his lie up, but because Bucky shouldn’t have to be alone.

-

Once they get into DC, it’s shockingly quiet.

Though, Steve supposes it’s not that shocking. Most of the people here live in the area for work or school and then leave for the holidays, but it doesn’t take long at all to get to the hotel, to park his car. 

It’s clear today, but has a chill in the air that promises more snow. Whatever they left behind in Jersey is going to catch up to them soon enough.

They take their time getting their things, and when they get into the lobby, Bucky wolf-whistles, long and loud. “Well, it’s a step up from a motel in fuckin’ Jersey,” he says. “Didn’t think you liked it swanky, Steve.”

“I don’t,” Steve says, then shrugs. “But I figured why not?”

Checking in is easy, luckily. It turns out their rooms are a few floors apart, and when they get to the elevator, slip inside, Steve leans back against the wall, shuts his eyes for a moment.

“You gonna get lonely with me being four floors up?” Bucky teases, nudges Steve’s side with his elbow. “Come on, I know you will.”

Steve ducks his head forward, resists the urge to smile. “Yeah, real bad, Buck,” he says. “I won’t be able to sleep knowing you’re not across the hall.”

Bucky gives him an odd look, but it quickly fades and he has his now-familiar grin again. “That makes two of us, pal,” he says. “That makes two of us.”

Steve is about to respond, but they reach his floor and he ends up stepping out, watching Bucky for a moment. His bun is falling apart, stray hairs slipping out around his face, and his eyes don’t tear away from Steve, not for a second, even as the doors begin to close.

“Meet me in the lobby at three forty-five?” Steve calls, craning his neck to see Bucky as the gap grows smaller and smaller.

Bucky only has time to nod, and then the doors shut.

-

Steve’s room is big, the bed is soft, and it’s all creamy ivories, dark reds, and earthy beiges. It’s not his speed by any means, but if Sam had no room and neither did Natasha, he figured he’d might as well have been comfortable, been somewhere familiar.

The bed sinks underneath him when he sits down. He fishes his phone from his pocket and texts Natasha.

Just checked in. You busy? 

Steve’s phone instantly begins to ring.

“So, you are alive,” Natasha says the moment Steve answers. “I figured you got lost. Or murdered.”

“I’ve been driving to and from here for too long to get lost,” Steve shoots back. “If I’m dead, well...we’ll figure out how to deal with that.”

“You sound dead.”

“I just need to wake myself up,” Steve says, running his hand over his eyes. “Are you gonna be at Sam’s tonight?”

“I’ll be around tomorrow as planned,” Natasha says. “I’m in Richmond until late tonight. Been out here since I talked to you.”

Steve knits his brows together. “What the hell are you doing in Richmond?” he asks, and then it hits him. He puffs out a laugh. “Wait, are you—?”

“Steve,” Natasha warns.

“You’re visiting her family?” Steve presses, in blatant disbelief. “I didn’t think you two were that serious. You said you were just testing the waters.”

Natasha says nothing for a moment, and then finally, “What can I say? I caved.”

“If that’s not a clue you’re in this for the long haul, I don’t know what is,” Steve says. “I’m happy for you, Nat. Really I am.”

“Yeah, well,” Natasha says. From what it sounds like, she’s outside. “I guess I’m happy for me, too.”

“I won’t keep you for too long,” Steve says. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Tell Sharon I said hi?”

“You can tell her yourself. She’s coming back with me,” Natasha says. “We can all be mushy and disgusting together, if that floats your boat.”

That’s when Steve’s stomach flips over.

He might have forgotten that detail.

“We’re not gonna be gross,” Steve says. “We’re gonna act like adults, not horny teenagers.”

“Speak for yourself, Rogers,” Natasha says. “You’re the one in the honeymoon phase.”

Steve sighs. “Yeah, alright, we’ll tone it down,” he says, deadpan. “Your wish is my command.”

“So sweet,” Natasha says. “Hey, I have to go back in. See you tomorrow night.”

And then the line is going dead before Steve can say anything else.

-

He figures he’d might as well take his time if they won’t be leaving for a while. Bucky might want some time to himself, might want to stretch out and take advantage of the space he now has before they have to actually start playing their roles.

That’s all it is, Steve tells himself. They’re playing roles and nothing more.

-

Steve takes advantage of the shower, which actually stays hot rather than very warm, scrubbing the grimy feeling from his body, letting the water soothe his sore muscles as he takes a few slow breaths, tries to ease his growing nerves.

By the time he steps out, his skin is pink and flushed, the bathroom bright and steamy. He shaves when he feels a barely there scratch of stubble on his cheek, towels his hair dry, and steps out into the room, the carpet plush beneath his bare feet.

He still hasn’t unpacked, and hell, he might have to iron, too. His clothes have been sitting in his bag for almost two days now, so it would be better if he just—

Someone knocks on the door.

“Steve? You alive in there?” Bucky calls, muffled.

“Hang on a second!” Steve shouts, tugs his towel tighter around his waist as he struggles to get a hold of himself, to relax. He can’t just leave Bucky waiting at the door while he digs through his bag. Screw it, he tells himself. You can do this.

“Woah, shit,” Bucky says, and there’s no denying his chuckle is laced with embarrassment. “Sorry. Guess that’s why you didn’t answer your phone.”

Steve knits his brows together. “Yeah, I was…” he shuts his eyes for a moment, tries to get a hold of himself. “Sorry. What’s up?”

“I was gonna go for a walk, stretch my legs for a while,” Bucky explains. “I was just seeing if you wanted to tag along.”

He looks like he opted for a shower, too, hair dry and smooth, loose and open. He looks like he’s just gotten dressed for the day. Dark jeans, the sturdy boots Steve has noticed him wearing before, a turtleneck in a burgundy so deep Steve almost mistakes it for brown. He looks...he looks good. Very good.

Steve is suddenly all too aware of how naked he is.

“You go ahead,” he says with a shake of his head. “I still gotta get ready.”

“Yeah, seems like it,” Bucky teases, taking a step back before he shrugs his jacket on. “I’ll be around.”

All Steve can do is nod and watch him go, walking heavily down the hall, footsteps muffled by the plush carpet.

-

Steve tries to calm his nerves by getting ready, suddenly thrown off because, hell, he was going to wear red, and the last thing he wants to do is match Bucky. He’s almost relieved when he finds something he forgot he packed, a dove grey sweater that’s barely been worn. He can’t even remember why he bought it or if it was him who bought it at all,  but all of Steve’s clothes are so worn, he grabbed whatever wasn’t on its last dregs.

He sends a text to Bucky after a while, asking if he’s ready, and then a message to Sam telling him it won’t be long until they come his way.

They answer back only a minute or so apart, and oddly, both with emojis. Bucky with yet another thumbs up, and Sam with a beer.

Steve will definitely need something to drink if they’re going to sell this.

-

Bucky meets him in the lobby as promised, knocking back what must be the last of a coffee as they walk out of the building before he tosses it in a nearby trashcan as they walk.

“So, what’s the story over there?” Bucky asks, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Your buddy’s got a big family?”

“Kind of,” Steve says. “It’s gonna be nine or ten people, maybe a couple of people we knew back in college. They’re more Sam’s friends than mine, but it’s...you’ll like everyone. Trust me.”

Bucky only nods, tightens his scarf as they head for the garage.

Before Steve knows it, they’re back in the car, pulling out onto the street and now, he feels less frazzled. He knows the way to Sam’s by heart, and since they’re not far from where Steve used to work, it’s no trouble at all to get his bearings.

There’s a bit of traffic now that they’re in the middle of the city, but thankfully, they’re not gridlocked. They pass by the National Christmas Tree, which won’t be lit for another couple of hours, make their way through the area patiently, since they won’t have to be at Sam’s for a little while longer.

“You, uh,” Steve starts awkwardly. “You hear from your sister at all?”

“Oh,” Bucky says, like he was lost in thought. “Yeah. Yeah, I texted her earlier, but I guess she has a lot going on today, spending a week at some ski resort with her fiancé and his family. Plus it’s already late over there.”

Meaning, he never got a response. Steve drums his fingers on the steering wheel, searching for the right words. “I doubt she means anything by it,” he says. “The time difference and being around a bunch of people can’t be easy.”

Bucky nods. “For sure,” he says. “We’re close and all that, I just think she’s too wrapped up in this guy. I told her she’s movin’ way too fast, but hey what do I know?”

It’s said with a certain degree of sarcasm, but the worry behind it is obvious. “Guessing you’re not a fan of the guy?” Steve asks.

“Don’t fucking get me started,” Bucky says quickly. “Big blond asshole stompin’ all over the place.”

“Hey,” Steve shoots back. “As a big blond asshole—”

Bucky waves his hand. “You’re an asshole with a heart of gold, that’s different,” Bucky argues, and Steve isn’t sure if he should be pleased or insulted. “Anyway, like I was saying—Grade-fucking-A asshole. He came to Brooklyn last year and goddamn, was he pissy about it. I hope you never meet him. I know you, Steve, and I know you’d wanna knock his teeth out.”

“Jesus, Buck, tell us how you really feel,” Steve chuckles.

Thankfully, some of Bucky’s sourness has dissipated enough for him to laugh, for him to reach over and shove Steve hard. “You know what? I will,” he says. “I’m opinionated, too, kid. I just ain’t as vocal as you.”

The familiarity of Woodley Park appears in front of Steve as he drives, past the zoo with its lights already going on. “But, shit,” Bucky says, glancing at it out the window before he turns back to Steve. “It’s not like I want Becks to be unhappy. I just want this guy to quit being such a schmuck if they’re really gonna spend their lives together.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Steve says. “I get what it’s like. My ma was dating this guy while I was at school and I came home for Thanksgiving and I just...I couldn’t stand him. It’s not like I wanted her to break it off with him or that I didn’t want her to be happy. I did want her to be happy, and I wanted the guy to treat her right. They didn’t end up working it out later on, just ‘cause they didn’t see eye to eye, but I get what you mean. I really do.”

“Well, aren’t we two peas in a pod,” Bucky says, and he nudges Steve again, in a way that shows he isn’t joking around at all.

Maybe they are more similar than Steve initially thought. Outwardly, not so much, but Bucky being blunt and honest, putting other people first, being unable to shake any sarcasm out of his vocabulary, it all feels a little too similar.

Maybe that’s why they’re so comfortably around each other. Neither one of them has to put up a front.

-

They park on a side street a block or so away and grab Sam’s present from the trunk before they walk past the houses, past the grey snow piled up on the curb, breaths puffing out in front of them with every step.

And then Bucky’s gloved hand closes around Steve’s.

Steve whips his head up to face him, surely looking as surprised as he feels. Bucky only shrugs, nonchalant. “We’re supposed to be dating, remember?” he says.

Even through his glove, Bucky’s hand is warm and secure, lightly squeezing Steve’s fingers. Something in his stomach swirls, in an almost nauseating way. “Right,” Steve manages to say, and pushes himself a little closer to Bucky before he squeezes back. “Right.”

“So, what are you thinkin’?” Bucky asks, something mischievous pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Light or heavy on the gross factor?”

Steve’s laugh is nervous and breathy. “Definitely light,” he says. “Super light. There’s gonna be kids there.”

“Gotcha,” Bucky says. “I’ll make sure not to plant one on you in front of everyone.”

Steve almost chokes at that, but Bucky must think he’s laughing because he cackles at it, lets go of Steve’s hand to sling his arm around his shoulders and tugging him down a bit in the process as they come to Sam’s doorstep. Steve is a swirling combination of relieved and nervous as all hell.

He rings the bell, still aware of Bucky’s hand lingering at his shoulder.

Sam’s the one to open it and God, Steve is so glad to see him. “Hey, you made it!” he says over the noise behind him. “Come on, you’re lettin’ all the cold air in.”

“Hell, he’s right, it’s fuckin’ freezing,” Bucky says to him, eyes on Sam. He keeps his hand on Steve’s shoulder as he walks in, and Steve follows him inside, into the warmth of the house and the smell of good food.

-

Steve expects to feel edgy, to feel uncomfortable, but he’s so relieved to see familiar faces, he doesn’t pay it any mind. Sam and his family—his parents, his brother and sister along with their partners, nieces and nephews, a couple of familiar faces from college and from Sam’s circle, too. Scott, Bruce, Misty, Carol and Maria with Monica, and God, she’s walking and talking now; so many faces Steve hasn’t seen in so long. It feels a little like relief, but he’s suddenly aware of Bucky, caught in the sea of more people than either of them initially expected.

“I thought you said it was nine people,” Bucky mutters to him when they bump into each other at a table full of drinks.

“I mean, I never asked,” Steve says to him and grabs a cup of something that smells vaguely like cranberry juice. He kicks himself internally, turning his eyes back to Bucky. “Too many people?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, shakes his head. “I can work a crowd, Rogers, don’t you worry,” he says, nonchalant, and strangely reassuring. “Ain’t that our whole point?”

It’s not said with any venom, but it does leave Steve feeling off-balance. He nods, a bit absently.

“Well, come on,” Bucky says with fervor. “Kick it up a notch.”

Kick it up a notch, Bucky says. That can be done with a bit of liquid courage.

Steve knocks his drink back in one go, feels it burn through his chest and melt the knots in his neck in one go. It’s stronger than it looks. “Alright, Barnes,” he says. “Let’s do it.”

-

Kicking it up a notch doesn’t mean much, really, but it does involve a lot more keeping close, it involves touches people are bound to catch—lingering things that feel like work until Bucky puts a hand on Steve’s lower back while he’s sat on the arm of the sofa and says, quiet, “I’m just goin’ out back for a smoke.”

That has Steve just about jumping out of his skin. “Oh,” he says, far too close to a yelp for his liking, and remembers to touch him in return, lets his hand linger in the crook of Bucky’s elbow. “Sure. See you in a minute.”

And then Bucky is gone, disappearing from the living room. He must have asked Sam how to get out to the patio, but before Steve can wonder about anything else, Sam is taking advantage of Bucky’s now-empty seat.

“Hey, you know, it’s pretty unfair that I haven’t seen you all night,” Sam says.

Steve feels a little looser with the few drinks in his system, and reminds himself to stop soon, just so he can sober up enough to get himself and Bucky back to the hotel. “You’re trying to be host of the year over here,” Steve retorts. “Not like I can keep up with you.”

“Well, maybe you should try helping out, lazy ass,” Sam says, standing up and nodding toward the kitchen. “Come on, we’re running low on booze.”

-

All they have is a pair of two decent sized pitchers and what remains of the ingredients for the drinks.

“Think we got enough to last tonight?” Steve asks, pouring a generous glug of brandy over the wine, fruit and ice already dumped into the pitcher.

“We might, if you quit being so liberal with that,” Sam says, flashes a teasing smirk at Steve. “Not all of us are Irish, in case you forgot.”

Steve feels himself smile, crooked with tipsiness. “How’ve you been?” he asks.

Sam shrugs. “Can’t complain,” he says. “Happy to be here with everyone, I guess.”

“Yeah, yeah, me too,” Steve says. “I missed everyone. Missed being here.”

It hangs heavy in the air, the question Steve wants to ask, and he almost doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to mess with Sam’s good mood, but it still slips out. “You visit Riley yet?” he asks.

Sam shakes his head, stopping pouring and sets the shaker down.

“Gonna save it for tomorrow, I think,” he says. “His folks want me and the family to come over tomorrow, so I think that’s the game plan. It’s...it’s not as hard as it used to be, Steve. It’s not easy. I still wish he was here, I’m always gonna wish he was here, but I’ve been working on being okay with moving on for a while.”

He glances out of the doorway and Steve follows his gaze, noticing Misty and Sarah, Sam’s sister, sitting close, talking about something he can’t quite hear. He looks back to Sam. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks. “Sam, that’s great.”

The laugh that pushes out of Sam is almost relieved, but he looks happy. He looks hopeful. “Look, nothing’s going on right now, anyway,” he says. “We’re just friends, but we’re...we’re both open to it. Baby steps.”

“Baby steps,” Steve echoes, and he feels his smile broaden. “I’m happy for you, Sam.”

“Yeah, yeah, I knew you were gonna be a big softie about it,” Sam teases, but then he meets Steve’s gaze, lighter than before. “Thanks, Steve. Really.”

Before Steve can respond, he hears muffled laughter and turns his head to the window overlooking the patio, seeing Bucky and Carol sat at the table. Bucky’s cigarette burns red in the dim light, a plume of smoke releasing from his mouth as he starts talking animatedly, gesturing with both hands.

“What about you?” Sam asks, snapping Steve out of his thoughts. “What’s going on in your world, huh?”

Steve turns to face him, shrugging. “Like you said,” he says. “Baby steps. We’re—” he laughs to himself, because it really is no exaggeration. “We’re making it up as we go.”

That’s when the back door creaks open and Carol comes back in with a rush of cold air, closely followed by Bucky.

“Hey, speak of the devil, there he is now,” Bucky says, grinning as he walks past, cheeks red with the cold and possible drunkenness. He jerks his thumb at Carol. “You never told me about this one, Rogers. She’s fuckin’ amazing. You gotta come over here when you get a chance.”

And then he’s gone all over again, but Steve doesn’t stop him. At least he isn’t sulking somewhere, at least he’s not uncomfortable.

“Yeah, in a minute,” he calls. “Don’t wait up!”

“Well, shit,” Sam says. “Look at you.”

Steve doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he stops. “What?” he asks.

“I should have figured when you said it was your damn neighbor,” Sam says. “I had a feeling you were into him the first time you mentioned him, which was also the day he moved in.”

Steve feels himself darken, skin flushing hot in a matter of seconds. He huffs, suddenly edgy. “It wasn’t the day he moved in,” he argues back weakly, crosses his arms. “Okay, fine, you’re not that far off.”

They finish filling the cups and take the trays back into the sitting room, set them down on the table. Sam’s niece and nephew, Jules and Jody, rush past them, stomping up the stairs and out of sight before Sam can tell them to slow down.

“The twins definitely grew up,” Steve says.

“Yeah, it’s blowing my mind,” Sam says. “Swear they get taller every time I see ‘em. And louder.”

Steve glances across the room to find Bucky absorbed in another conversation with Carol and Maria, but somehow Scott has joined in, too. He watches Monica tap Bucky on the shoulder and when he turns, Steve notices the plastic reindeer antlers she has in her hands, trying to shove it onto Bucky’s head the moment he ducks down.

It’s hard to hear over the music and the overlapping voices, but Steve catches him say, “Wow, thank you, sweetheart, I love it,” before he lifts her up onto his lap. He says something to Maria, then grimaces when Monica tugs the antlers off his head, messing up his hair in the process.

“Oh,” Sam says, and Steve turns to face him. “Oh, you’re really gone on this guy, huh?”

Steve wishes he had a rebuttal, wishes he had the ability to deny it, but he doesn’t. 

God help him, he doesn’t.

“Yeah,” Steve says, glancing back at Bucky and locking eyes for a split second as he nods, motions him to come over there. “Yeah, Sam, I think so.”

-

The rest of the evening goes by slow and easy. Steve is aware of Bucky’s hand resting between his shoulder blades in intervals, of his own hand resting on Bucky’s thigh, but he doesn’t realize how close they’re willingly sitting until they leave the sitting room for the dining room, doesn’t realize how easy it was once Bucky’s sitting across from him rather than beside him and the solid warmth of his body is no longer there.

Steve tries not to think about it as he eats, relieved to feel slightly sobered up. Maybe he’ll be less upfront then, more aware of what he’s doing rather than getting lost in touches that don’t mean anything at all.

It’s easy to get absorbed back into conversation again, easy to get into it with a sense of relief because no one asks how he and Bucky started dating, at least not yet, but Steve won’t rule out tomorrow. It’s not going to be as big as tonight, meaning more time for conversation.

The night begins to die down, eventually. Slowly but surely, everyone begins to leave. First Sam’s brother, Gideon, his wife and their son, then Sarah and her husband and the twins, Carol and Maria, and so on. It’s only Sam, Steve, and Bucky left by the end of it, cleaning up the last of the trash, loading up the dishwasher, putting bottles of alcohol back where they belong. Steve hears Sam and Bucky get to talking and by the time he comes back, watching them disassemble a folding table, he catches wind of what they’re saying.

“You’re shitting me,” Bucky says. “No way he did that.”

“I got a video and everything,” Sam says. “I’ll show it to you when my battery’s not dead.”

“I leave for one damn minute,” Steve begins, watching them both turn to face him. “And you guys are making fun of me.”

“Hey, come on,” Sam says. “We’re laughing with you, not at you.”

“Speak for yourself, Wilson,” Bucky says, meeting Steve’s eyes as he lifts the table with Sam, carrying it toward the basement. “I’m definitely laughing at you, just so you know.”

Steve feels himself warm under his gaze, feels it deeper than the little spike of humiliation threatening to bubble up. “Wouldn’t put it past you,” he says. “And just to even us out, I’ll tell Sam about the laundromat.”

Bucky raises his brows. “Oh, you’re cold,” he says, already stepping down the stairs with Sam. “Cold as ice, Stevie!”

That catches Steve off-guard, has him sobering up a bit more. It’s part of the plan, he reminds himself, and Bucky’s liberal with nicknames as it is. It’s not like it means anything.

This is all an arrangement. This is Bucky doing Steve a favor, and Steve’s gonna owe him a hell of a lot when the time comes. That’s the furthest it goes.

-

“You sure you don’t need anything else?” Steve asks.

“Not like we’re in a rush to get back,” Bucky adds.

Sam shakes his head. “I just gotta throw out some trash and then I’m gonna sleep everything off, head up to Charleston in the morning. I’ll be back later in the evening, though. Think I’ll try to meet up with you if I’m not totally wiped out.”

Steve nods. “Call me when you get over there?” he says.

“Yeah, ‘course,” Sam says. “Merry Christmas, guys, I’m glad you came. Real glad.”

“Me too,” Steve says. “Yeah, Merry Christmas.”

It seems that Sam has the same idea as Steve, going in for the hug they didn’t jump at when Steve arrived. Steve feels Sam squeeze at the same time he does. “You’re not getting a hug,” Sam says to Bucky. “Friendly shoulder pat.”

“I’m not much of a hugger, so no hard feelings,” Bucky says. “Good meeting you, man. Merry Christmas.”

And then they’re turning around, stepping back onto the quiet street. Steve remembers to drop his arm around Bucky’s shoulders, and feels Bucky’s snake around his waist, bodies pressed close against the bitter air.

“Bucky!” Sam shouts, and Steve turns with him. “Ask him about the story I told you!”

Bucky’s grin is wolfish. “Will do,” he says, and they keep walking, heading for Steve’s car.

Even once they’re out of sight, it takes a moment before Bucky moves away, and Steve does the same, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, watching his breaths cloud in front of him.

“So,” Bucky begins after a long, heavy pause. “What’s all this business about you jumping out a window?”

So, that’s the one Sam told him. Steve ends up barking out a laugh at it. “Okay, to preface,” he says. “It wasn’t that big of a drop.”

-

Bucky ends up offering to drive, and Steve is relieved for that, truly. The drinks went to his head more than he realized. Bucky turns on his GPS and pulls out slowly onto the street.

“You know,” he says quietly, over the sound of his phone and the soft whir of the heating. “I really had a good time. Don’t think I was faking that.”

Steve’s slightly dialed down willpower makes him say, “I’m happy you did. Really. I was worried you’d feel—”

“Awkward?” Bucky finishes. “Sure, I did, but I liked everyone just fine. Besides, I haven’t had a Christmas Eve like that in years.”

That has Steve turning over to him, meeting his gaze as they come to a red light. Bucky looks almost wistful. “Buck,” Steve says, just loud enough to be heard. “Is everything okay with you and your family?”

The light turns green and Bucky turns away again. Steve can tell by the set of his shoulders that there’s definitely some piece to this he’s missing. “Yeah, everything’s okay,” Bucky says, pauses for only a moment. “I just don’t wanna bring you down, you know?”

Steve shakes his head. “I’m not worried about that,” he says. “But you don’t gotta say anything if you don’t want to. I just wasn’t sure if there was something wrong.”

Bucky drums his fingers on the wheel. The droning voice from his GPS tells him where to turn and when it quiets down, he exhales slowly. “I only said that because I don’t have much left in the way of family save for Becca and a couple of cousins I lost touch with,” he explains. “My pop was a hell of a lot older than my ma and he died when I was a kid. Heart attack. We lived in Brighton Beach that whole time, everything was fine but then my ma had to...shit, it’s ridiculous. She had a messed up disk in her back, came out fine, got a blood clot a couple weeks later, and…” he shakes his head. “That was it. Gone, just like that. I was seventeen, Becca was fifteen. She ended up with our uncle in Connecticut, I crashed with friends since I was graduating soon anyway and I didn’t wanna switch schools, didn’t wanna leave Brooklyn till I was ready. I graduated, came out pretty well, but it’s not like I could afford college. We didn’t have a whole lot when it came to money, Steve. I didn’t know what else to do.

That’s when it clicks. “So, you enlisted,” Steve says.

The nod he receives is slow and almost solemn. 

“Worst decision I ever made,” Bucky confirms. “You know what? I didn’t even make it. I was pushed to make it because the army fucking preys on kids like that. Recruiters know they don’t know where to go or what to do, know they don’t have anyone, and that’s when they swoop in. It worked on me, it worked on every other kid in that office, too. I didn’t even have an answer when I got asked why I wanted to join up, I just said the first line of generic bullshit that came into my mind. I sailed through everything, got promoted to sergeant after a couple years, but I only started realizing it wasn’t what I wanted until it was too late. I was in too deep, spent half my time deployed and I’m not gonna tell you about that, but I served for eight years and I wish I could take it all back. When I lost my arm, all I could think was that I could finally go home and start over, leave it all behind. And this—” he raises his left hand. “I don’t know how I got chosen for it. I was drugged out of my mind and ended up agreeing to volunteering for an advanced prosthetics program and next thing I knew I was on a plane headed to Wakanda. Spent some time out there, got back to the US in 2016 with my head screwed on mostly straight and a hell of a lot of PT to follow once I settled in. I stood with a buddy of mine who got discharged a year before I did, then I found the place I’m in now.”

For a moment, Steve says nothing, still staring at Bucky, stunned. He’s not even thirty yet, barely had time to get his life started due having it put on pause for almost a decade of blood and fear, of being manipulated and dragged into a world he never wanted to be involved in in the first place.

The silence in the car is thick, weighing on Steve’s ears until Bucky forces out a hollow laugh and says, “I told you it was a downer.”

“Can you quit doing that?” Steve asks before he can stop himself. “You’re... look at you. You made it out. You made it out and you’re starting your life over, you have time to think about what you want and where you really want to be, and God, I don’t know how you did it. You’re tough as hell, Buck. You are. Maybe you don’t see it, but I—”

He forces himself to stop, swallowing hard. He’s saying too much. Too much, too fast, too close.

“What?” Bucky asks, quiet. “Steve, what were you gonna say?”

Steve stalls, just for a second. “I see it,” he makes himself say. “I see it, Buck.”

And I can’t keep making myself look away anymore hangs heavily at the tip of Steve’s tongue.

Once again, there’s silence. They’re getting closer to the hotel. The streetlights in front of them are all covered in wreaths and the city looks cold and quiet, like it’s holding its breath.

“You can thank my therapist for that,” Bucky says, obviously deflecting and something in Steve shrivels, regret heavy in the back of his throat. It was too much, then. Way too much, but Bucky doesn’t give any indication of it. “I was a wreck when I came back to the states, and I would’ve never made it this far if I didn’t swallow down all the worry I felt and went. Where do you think I was the day we were leaving?”

That’s why he looked so drained. That’s why he was so quiet, so irritable, until he eventually warmed up again.

“No shame in getting help,” Steve says, which is rich coming from him. “I’m glad it’s working for you. Really.”

The smile Bucky gives him is gentle, with a small, sheepish tilt to it. “Yeah,” he murmurs, half to himself as he turns toward the parking garage. “Yeah, I’m getting there.”

They walk back into the warmth of the hotel soon enough, and Steve feels it thaw him almost instantly. He takes a few slow breaths, relieved the cold hasn’t tightened up his lungs as bad as it usually does.

“Hey, since we’re close to our rooms now,” Bucky says. “You up for another drink?”

The bar is nice, and it’s relatively quiet. Bucky orders a whiskey, Steve opts for a beer, and when their drinks come, Bucky takes a slow, savoring sip of his whiskey, throat working with it. His lips are wet when he sets his glass down. Steve doesn’t look anywhere but his eyes.

“Alright, Rogers,” Bucky says, already sounding like he’s unwinding. He looks good in this light, dim and warm, eyes turned stormy grey. “You know all about me now. What’s your story?”

Steve notices the way he’s gripping the neck of his bottle and tries to loosen his hold. “No guessing games this time?” he asks, takes a sip.

“Nah,” Bucky says quietly, crossing his arms over the bar and leaning forward. “Gimme Steve Rogers, up close and personal.”

There’s something about the tone of Bucky’s voice, the looseness to his body. He’s not drunk, not be a longshot, but he’s certainly got a different sort of swagger on. Yes, Bucky’s usually dry. He’s funny and he’s obviously a better talker with people than Steve is, but the look on his face and the way he leans forward isn’t unlike the way Steve imagines he’d chat up a stranger. This is, without a doubt, Bucky Barnes, but with a whole different edge Steve is surprised he never saw.

If Steve wasn’t so warm, if his beer wasn’t taking him right back to the state he was in at Sam’s house, he would have had his words stuck in his mouth. But that can’t be what Bucky wants. Steve can’t say he’s actually assumed anything about Bucky’s sexuality because it felt like wishful thinking above all else, and he isn’t even sure now. What if this is just Bucky finally warming up and Steve’s misinterpreting it all?

“Up close and personal,” Steve echoes, half aware of his leg bouncing, foot balanced on the stretcher between the chair legs. He averts his gaze, just for a moment. “Well, there’s not much to tell you. Lived in Brooklyn for most of my life, came back a little over a year ago, and not much has changed since.”

“Oh, come on,” Bucky goads. “There’s gotta be more to you than that, Steve.”

It’s impossible not to feel like he’s being put on the spot. There’s so much that Steve has just compartmentalized and stored in the back of his mind. So much he’s tried to put to rest, but it’s not fair to have Bucky lay everything about himself out on the table only for Steve to clam up when he’s asked the same question.

Hell, maybe there’s a part of him that’s afraid of scaring Bucky off, worried about appearing as either too weighed down or too boring.

“I lived in Bensonhurst for pretty much my whole life, but I didn’t really have a good time as a kid because of how sick I always was,” Steve says. “It’s not like anything’s changed, I just got better at handling it and I can afford the medicine I always needed. I had—I have bad lungs and a bad heart, but it was a bigger risk when I was younger. I wasn’t good at taking care of myself and my ma did everything she could in our circumstances. I ended up doing school mainly online because I was in so much pain all the time and when my scoliosis got too bad, I had to go for surgery and that took a hell of a long time to recover from, even though it helped. I ended up with doctors who actually wanted to help me instead of poke and prod wondering what the hell was wrong, and then I started getting the willpower to take better care of myself than I was before because I couldn’t just sit there anymore now that I was able to get the help I needed and feel like myself. I started trying anything. Commissions, part-time jobs, whoever would take me, then I started applying for colleges, got into AU, got an internship at a company down here, had a relationship that ended pretty badly, and then I just...I needed to be home. I moved close to my ma, made up for all the times I couldn’t see her and I’m glad I did, I’m real glad I did because she didn’t stick around for much longer after that. Lung cancer, just spread all over the place and there was nothing anyone could do for her. I think you mighta saw her once or twice before that. She came around a lot before she got too sick to.”

Bucky nods after a moment. “Yeah, I think so,” he says. “You two were close, huh?”

Steve shrugs. “We were all each other had for a long time,” he says. “I only met Sam when I was eighteen, met Natasha about three years ago. Didn’t really have any friends for a while since I didn’t spend a lot of time in an actual school.”

“Look, I don’t mean to keep prying,” Bucky says, and he sounds like he means it despite his obvious curiosity. He takes another, longer gulp from his drink. “But with what you mentioned a minute ago and what you told me the day I agreed to coming here with you, something ain’t adding up.”

Steve’s brows knit together. “What’s not adding up?”

“You ending up with assholes that keep wasting your time,” Bucky says, shakes his head. “I don’t get it.”

The laugh Steve breathes out is bitter. He takes a sharp swig from his beer. “It’s not like I plan on being around them,” he says. “Or that I have a type. I think I just give people the benefit of the doubt too much, put too much faith in them.”

The words are out in the open now and Steve can’t take them back. It’s far too intimate of a thing to tell Bucky, but the alcohol has long since loosened Steve’s tongue, and there’s nothing he can do to change that.

“They don’t know what they’re missing,” Bucky says, his arm dropping heavily around Steve’s shoulders, his hand squeezing firmly. “You’re one of the best guys I know, Steve. You deserve more than that. You deserve someone who…”

He trails off, but he holds Steve’s gaze through it, warm and unwavering. He smells something like cologne and whiskey, sharp and clean and a little dark. Steve’s chest feels tight with it.

“You deserve better, Steve,” Bucky finishes.

For a moment, Steve’s voice is caught in his throat, words sticking stubbornly before he finally gets them out. He thinks he’s smiling, but hell, Bucky’s flaying him to the bone like this. His kind eyes, his arm around Steve, everything that’s coming out of his mouth.

It would be so easy to just…

Bucky cuts that train of thought off fast when his arm slides away, leaning on the bar once more. Steve feels like he’s been doused in cold water.

It’s redundant to say, “Thanks, Buck,” but that’s all Steve manages. It’s the only thing that won’t be too much. The last thing he wants is to be cold, but Bucky doesn’t seem to be heading in the direction Steve thought he was, so it’s better to let it pass, to pretend it never happened at all.

Bucky’s smile is barely there. “What are friends for?” he asks.

Friends. Steve guesses they can call themselves that now. God, they probably could have months ago, but he never had the courage to talk to Bucky for more than a few minutes at a time, constantly wondering if he was bothering the guy, if he was holding him up when he could be doing something better.

“I think I’m gonna get some sleep,” Steve says after a pause, resting his hand on Bucky’s shoulder for a moment before he slides off the stool. “You can just charge that to your room, it’s no big deal.”

“Oh,” Bucky says after a long moment. He’s rolling his glass in his left hand slowly. “Yeah, sure. Night, Steve.”

“Night,” Steve says, and he walks away despite something in his gut telling him to go back, to sit back down in the spot he abandoned instead of leaving Bucky alone at the bar now. They’ve been in the process of getting to know each other more intensely than before, and to leave now...it feels wrong.

But if Steve has another drink, he thinks he might do something stupid, like wreck everything he’s trying to keep afloat.

-

In his room, he’s a mess of nerves, and by the time he’s finally getting in bed, he feels wide awake despite his exhaustion, thoughts circling endlessly in his head. Did Bucky leave the bar soon after? Did he stay for a while?

Did any of his gestures mean more, or is Steve getting the clear line between real and pretend blurred?

It’s impossible to just forget how close he and Bucky sat at Sam’s, the comfortable weight of his body leaning against Steve’s back, his arm wrapped loosely around him, the looks he knew just how to give. He’s selling it because he’s good at this, and Steve’s only selling it because his—is it even a crush anymore? It feels so meaningless, calling it that.

His feelings, then. Steve’s only able to make this work because his feelings for Bucky can be glaringly obvious, and Bucky has no idea.

When he finally falls asleep, it’s light and restless, even with the buttery softness of the bed, his entire body unwinding. He glances at the clock, waking up every so often. He thinks he hears a knock at the door, but he’s drifting in and out of half-formed dreams so frequently, he doesn’t bother getting up to check.

-

At half past eleven, his phone buzzes against the nightstand and he grabs for it blearily, squinting against the harsh light.

breakfast?

So, everything’s okay, then. If something was off between the two of them, Bucky wouldn’t face him until he absolutely had to, but here he is, asking Steve to come with him somewhere again. And Steve will not be turning him down this time.

Be ready in 5. Lobby?

nope coming to your room

Steve’s stomach drops.

He immediately drags himself from the bed, trudging into the bathroom and steeling himself, gripping the edges of the sink as he takes a long look in the mirror. He needs to get his hands back on the wheel, needs to stop worrying so much. It’ll turn out fine. 

Everything will turn out just fine.

-

Steve makes a mad dash to make sure he looks presentable, that the bed doesn’t look so bad. He doesn’t bother getting dressed since he’ll have to get ready soon enough, anyway. Natasha is more punctual than Sam, but despite that, Steve still isn’t sure where exactly he’s supposed to go. 

Natasha has been saying we’ll figure it out for two weeks, and Steve would rather be ready for anything, especially now that she and Sharon are apparently official. Natasha is only in Adams Morgan, but Sharon lives in Alexandria, and Clint’s also offered to host but he’s all the way in Falls Church. So, it’s really a goddamn tossup on where exactly Steve’s headed.

He’s smoothing the bedcovers back when Bucky knocks on the door, and half jogs for it, wrenching it open a little too eagerly.

Bucky stands in the doorway with a tray holding two large paper cups of coffee in one hand and what looks like a dozen of donuts in the other. He has snow caught in his beard and on the ends of his hair, cheeks bright with the cold.

“Didn’t have time to buy you a present,” Bucky says, winded. “So hopefully these are good enough for now.”

He doesn’t look like he’s gotten dressed for the day yet. His jeans are baggy and riddled with holes, and Steve can’t see what he’s wearing underneath his leather jacket, under the thick scarf he has wrapped around his neck, but it’s like all of his worries are melting away, if only for a moment.’’

“I didn’t have time to buy one either, so I’ll figure out a placeholder soon,” Steve says. “Get in here, c’mon.”

Steve takes the tray from him and sets it on the desk while Bucky drops the donuts beside it. He wrenches his jacket off, his beanie, his scarf and sets it on the back of the chair.

“You’re not cold like that?” Steve asks, noticing Bucky’s thin henley.

“Cold doesn’t bother me,” Bucky says. He runs his fingers through his hair, slightly damp with snow. “You should drink that before it gets nasty.”

Steve is not going to ignore hot coffee right now. He grabs a cup from the tray, takes the cover off, and breathes in the smell of it before he takes a sip, feeling warmed from the inside out.

-

They spend Christmas morning on Steve’s hastily made bed, not doing much talking with their eyes on the TV. The donuts are sickeningly sweet, the coffee is slightly acrid, but it doesn’t matter. There’s less discomfort between them now, less of a feeling of being strangers, and Steve is relieved he’s not spending this time alone. He’s not sure he would have been able to do it at all.

“Well, I gotta ask,” Bucky says, blessedly breaking Steve out of his thoughts. “What’s on the agenda today?”

Steve finishes off his final bite of boston cream and dusts his hands off over the box. “Right now, I don’t know,” he says. “From what I can tell, Natasha’s in a new relationship herself and you would think that would make her not pay attention to what we’re doing, but I know her well enough to tell you it ain’t that easy. I think she’s been onto me from the start and she was calling my bluff at first, but now I think it’s more about...I guess it’s more about selling it even more.”

“Selling it,” Bucky says thoughtfully, nodding slowly. “Huh. In other words, we milk this for all it’s worth?”

That has Steve’s nerves returning full force. They’ll have to do a repeat of yesterday, maybe tenfold. God, the idea of Bucky being that close, touching him again, is enough to send Steve spiraling all over again.

“I think...” Steve begins, then thinks better of it, sitting up straighter. “You know what? Yeah. We’re gonna milk it. We’re gonna be as disgusting as we possibly can.”

He grabs what’s left of his frosted strawberry donut, and takes a pointed bite as Bucky gets a devilish grin on his face. “Disgusting, got it,” he says, taking on a whole different sort of tone. “Your wish is my command, sugar plum.”

Steve nearly chokes.

-

Bucky ends up slipping out after a little while, presumably to get ready or try getting in touch with his sister. “Hey, be more festive this time, huh?” he says to Steve as he walks down the hall, jacket folded over his arm. “You gotta have something better in your bag. We gotta look like assholes, remember?”

He turns back for just a moment, and Steve wonders, not for the first time, what kissing him would taste like.

-

Steve sends a text to Sam, forces himself to respond to a few messages from his co-workers, and takes a longer shower than he usually would, shampooing his hair twice just to kill time.

He tries to think of how to answer certain questions if he’s asked them, how to go about them appearing as natural as possible. They won’t be sticking around for much longer, anyway, so selling this today is key. Like Bucky said, they need to milk this for all it’s worth.

Damn right, Steve is going to milk it. He’ll be the best fake boyfriend he can possibly be, and no one will be the wiser.

-

Festive, Bucky’s voice echoes through his head all over again. Steve doesn’t have anything else festive. Not really, and he’s not feeling like red anymore. The only other option he has is a thick, cream colored cable knit turtleneck he impulsively packed despite never wearing it before. Possibly a Christmas present from a few years back. He has to rip a tag off before he slides it on and God, he’s relieved it doesn’t irritate his skin the way sweaters usually do. He couldn’t wait to tear off the one he wore yesterday, but this he can do, even with the collar being a little too close on his throat. 

Steve’s phone lights up with a text from Natasha— please tell me your bf knows how to cook and rapidly defrost a turkey because we need help ASAP

Steve arches a brow. Is something on fire?

no but your long-lost twin is as helpless with food as you are

we’re at my place and my kitchen is too small for this

That does end up making Steve smile. It’s been a running joke for a while, Steve and Sharon acting and looking enough alike to be siblings, the fact that they share a birthday only fueling the fire.

Don’t know about the turkey, I’m pretty sure he can cook. I’ll ask him and let you know when we’re on our way.

Steve knows firsthand that Bucky can cook. He’s smelled food wafting in from across the hall almost constantly over the past year, polished off the trays left at his door when his mother passed over a few days. It was the first time Steve had had good homecooked food in months, since his own attempts always seemed to fall flat every time, barely classified as edible.

He doesn’t wait for the answer to his text, shrugging on his jacket, pocketing his wallet, and grabbing Natasha’s presents, relieved he bought two. He can just give one to Sharon now that Steve knows she’s definitely there.

And then he’s waiting for the elevator, rocking on his heels impatiently. It’s full inside, leaving Steve forced into a corner and then having to shuffle his way out to Bucky’s floor, searching for his room until he finds it, knocking and shoving his hand into his pocket.

There’s a moment where nothing happens, and then Bucky answers the door, completely dressed save for a shirt. Steve can see faint, pearly scars surrounding his prosthetic, see his strong shoulders, the dark thatch of hair on his chest, leading starkly down toward his stomach and even further down after that.

It takes enormous effort not to stare.

Bucky narrows his eyes. “You look like a snowball,” he says.

Steve frowns. “Hey, I’m not the one who said—”

“Oh, come on, I’m kidding,” Bucky chuckles. He’s not as uncomfortable as he was when their positions were switched. Maybe he’s just more at ease in his skin than Steve is. “I’m kidding. You look great. I mean it.”

“I hope so,” Steve says, tugging at his collar again. “‘Cause this is driving me nuts.”

“Well, quit fiddling with it, dumbass,” Bucky teases, then his brows knit together. “Something wrong?”

“No,” Steve says, far too quickly. “Just...Nat wanted to know if you’re any good at cooking. There’s some kind of mess going on over there.”

“I know my way around a kitchen,” Bucky says. “Define mess.”

Steve sighs, put upon. “All I know is that it involves a turkey,” he says. “She just wants us to come over earlier. Her place is only about ten minutes from here.”

Bucky runs his fingers through his hair. “Well, I’m just about done,” he says. “You don’t gotta stand out there. I’ll only be a minute.”

He steps aside to let Steve into the room, which is identical to Steve’s. The air inside is close and hot, like Bucky showered only a little while ago. There’s the faintest hint of cologne wafting around—a warm, dark scent. The same one he smelled on Bucky last night.

Now, Steve is sure it wasn’t just the alcohol messing with him.

He sits on the desk chair while Bucky digs through his drawer. His back is even more defined without any clothes, and Steve can see a bit of softness around Bucky’s sides, on the very edges of his stomach. It makes his chest ache.

“This gonna be another affair with a lot of people?” Bucky asks. “Just wonderin’.”

“I think it’s just us, Natasha, Sharon, maybe Sam, a couple friends of Nat, and that’s not lowballing. She keeps a pretty tight circle,” Steve answers, trying not to watch the shift in Bucky’s muscles as he pulls a forest green knit sweater over his head, tugging his hair out where it’s gotten caught inside before he turns around. “So at most, five or six people.”

“Pretty small get-together,” Bucky says. He runs his fingers through his hair, grabs his jacket off the bed. “Guess we can head over and see what the hell’s going on, unless you want to park your ass in that chair for the rest of the day.”

Steve feels himself warm under Bucky’s gaze, his easy way of talking. He isn’t sure when exactly they started getting more comfortable with one another—maybe it was always there and they just never had a chance to realize it until now, realize that they get along even better than they expected.

-

It’s nice not to drive for once. They slide into a cab and head for Natasha’s address. Snow is beginning to fall fast and thick over the city, and Steve can already tell it’s going to stick.

“Hey,” Bucky says after a short bout of silence, catching Steve’s gaze. “You okay? You look kinda...”

Steve only becomes aware of how he must look when he forces himself to smile. He didn’t realize he was sulking, and he’s not sure he can even call it that, since it might be an understatement. The chill in the air has gotten into his bones, reminded him that this would be his first Christmas without his mother, without seeing her or hearing her voice.

And Bucky seems to notice, eyes all concerned and burning straight through Steve like a flame through paper.

“Yeah,” Steve says, and mostly means it, relieved to have someone near him who gets it, who still feels the wound like it’s fresh. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

Bucky nods minutely, just enough for Steve to see, and says nothing more. In many ways, Steve is relieved. Bucky doesn’t expect much from him, doesn’t even expect Steve to be chipper, and Steve thinks he feels the exact same way about him.

By the time they pull up near Natasha’s, the wind has picked up, stinging Steve’s eyes and leaving him squinting against it as he bundles his coat tighter. Bucky is, of course, right beside him as they walk past the row of townhouses. Steve still isn’t sure what Natasha does to swing a place like this, but it looks beautiful down here, and will surely look even nicer tomorrow. Steve tries to commit it to memory, wonders if he can manage to sketch it all out when he gets home.

He notices Bucky isn’t wearing a glove on his right hand, that it’s chapped and dry with the cold.

Steve reaches for it before he can stop himself and Bucky whips his head up to meet his gaze, staring at Steve with his brows knit together.

“It’s just for appearances,” Steve says.

Bucky’s mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. “Right,” he says, laces his fingers with Steve’s and smiles softly, in a way that makes Steve’s stomach flip over. “Makin’ me feel like I’m meeting the folks or something.”

Steve laughs at that. “Well, Nat’s pretty protective,” he says, walking a little closer than before. “Always has been.”

“I’m sure she’s got good intentions,” Bucky says. “But I’m not gonna lie and say I ain’t intimidated already.”

Soon enough, they’re walking up the stairs carefully, rock salt crunching beneath Steve’s shoes. “I can’t fault you for that,” Steve says and rings the doorbell. “Really can’t.”

It’s only a moment before Sharon pulls the door open, hair pulled up into a knot at the top of her head. “Hey, you!” she says, pulling Steve past the threshold and in for a hug, tighter than he expected. He squeezes back, and before he can say anything, Sharon is pulling away, making a beeline for Bucky. “No exceptions, you’re getting one too.”

Bucky looks a little taken aback, one arm at his side as he brings the other around her shoulders. “Hey, good to meet you,” he says, then mouths at Steve is this her thing?

Steve shakes his head, holds back a laugh. He’s seen Sharon in plenty of moods, but she’s never been like this. Hell, if she’s this happy, then what is Natasha going to be like, with both of them on the high of going in for the long haul?

Sharon moves away from Bucky, runs her hand through her hair. She looks winded, somehow. “Oh, right,” she says. “Nat’s in the living room. We just took a breather after you said you guys were heading over, come on.”

“You got some fancy friends, pal,” Bucky says as they follow Sharon down the hall, all open and airy despite it’s narrowness, to the living room. “Gotta tell you. How come that’s not rubbing off on you, huh?”

Sharon laughs at that. “Steve’s whole thing is being low-maintenance,” she says. “Give him a billion dollars and he’ll still be living in Bensonhurst.”

“Well, I guess that’s why we get along,” Bucky says. His eyes are on Sharon, and he doesn’t notice Steve looking at him, eyes swiveling all over his face. Once again, Steve’s fingers itch for a pencil. “I came back home the first chance I got, and I know I could probably move somewhere nicer, bigger, but you know how it...oh, shit, it’s you.”

Bucky’s expression shifts as they come into the living room, like he’s putting pieces of a puzzle together. He turns toward Steve. “Jesus, you could’ve mentioned what your friend looked like, because then I would have known who she was,” Bucky says. “Met her outside the building a few months back.”

Steve finds himself unsure of who to get an answer from and out of habit, turns to Natasha, who’s already unfolding herself from her spot on the couch and standing up. “Last time you came to visit, I guess?” Steve asks.

“He was trying to break into his own apartment and I helped,” Natasha explains. “After he proved that he actually lived there, obviously.”

“Yeah, well, that helped me learn about the magic of a spare key,” Bucky says, shrugging his jacket off. “Good to see you, Red—Natasha. Sorry.”

They’re off to a good start, Steve thinks. The ice is breaking as well as it did yesterday, and even though the day has barely started, he’s finding the drive to do this again. He only has to keep it up for tonight and then he and Bucky can go back to whatever they were before, or maybe come out a little closer.

-

Natasha didn’t exaggerate about the size of her kitchen, and the oven can only fit so much at a time. It’s not as if there’s going to be mountains of food, but the fact that only so little can be fit in at a time and the fact that barely any of what she and Sharon planned on is finished. It seems like it’s going to take hours.

“Nevermind,” Natasha says, pinching the bridge of her nose tightly. “Give it up. We’ll just go get food out somewhere and tell Sam and Clint to meet us there.”

“You’re really giving up that easily?” Steve asks.

Natasha glares at him. “Do you really want to sit around here watching a turkey cook all afternoon?” she asks.

“Well?” Sharon asks.

Steve supposes she has a point.

Bucky is leaning forward on the countertop, checking his phone. “Oh, hey, there’s a game at five,” he says, gaze jumping between the three of them. “Wizards against the Celtics, could be something to do.”

Sharon and Natasha are having some kind of nonverbal conversation, and Steve takes that chance to turn to Bucky. “I didn’t think you were a basketball guy,” he says.

“I like it well enough,” Bucky says, shrugs. “I’ll pay for tickets if everyone wants to go.”

“I don’t think the guys’ll make it, but they can meet us somewhere after,” Sharon says. “Or we can go and leave these two here.”

“Now, that’s an idea,” Bucky says as he points at her. “These two can sit around throwin’ snide comments at each other while you and I have the time of our lives.”

Steve and Natasha say, “Fine, let’s go,” at the same moment, and God, between the looks they’re getting, between Bucky and Sharon getting along like a house on fire, he knows they’ll be ganged up on tonight.

-

They only stick around long enough to exchange presents, and then they’re leaving, walking to the Metro as the snow grows heavier. It clings to Steve’s lashes, blurring his vision as they walk, and by the time they’re inside, waiting for the train, his hair is damp.

On the platform, just low enough for Steve to hear, Natasha says, “Gotta say, I wasn’t sure if you were actually bringing a guy with you, but I guess I was wrong. I just wish you told me you knew him already. You made it sound like he was a complete stranger.”

Natasha says it with mirth, but it still makes Steve feel like he’s been put on the spot, and suddenly, there’s a twinge of guilt in the pit of his stomach, which makes sense but he has absolutely nothing giving him away. He and Bucky are making a good show of this. They haven’t done anything to make things seem off.

Steve rubs his hand over the nape of his neck, watching the train slow to a stop in front of him. “I guess I didn’t want to jinx anything,” he says. “It’s still pretty new.”

Natasha bumps him lightly. “Well, you look happy,” she says. “That’s for sure.”

Steve knows, though, that Bucky is just good around people. He’s good at making people like him. It gives off the illusion that he and Steve are actually invested in this, and Steve reminds himself to play it up a little more once they get to the arena.

The ache he felt this morning returns with a vengeance and he slides his arm around Natasha’s shoulders as they board, Bucky and Sharon walking a few feet ahead of them.

“You too,” Steve says. “Both of you.”

He watches her glance over at Sharon, who’s stealing a few seats nearby, and waving them over. After that, they’re going to meet her, sitting opposite from one another, Natasha sliding next to her, while Steve sits down beside Bucky, feeling the warmth of his thigh pressing against his own.

-

The arena is already getting crowded, and the line is long when Steve makes a stop for food and drinks, trailing close behind Sharon as they walk back to their seats. “Nat said you two were with your family yesterday?” he says. “How’d it go?”

Sharon shrugs, falling into step beside him, holding a large cup of beer in either hand. “Better than I expected,” she says. “Way better than I expected, but I still wish we came to Sam’s, it sounded like a lot more fun than my parents and the cousins. Seeing Aunt Peggy was probably the only highlight of the trip for me.”

They slip back inside, walking awkwardly down the stairs, looking over the rows of chairs until they find Bucky and Natasha. “Still tough as nails?” Steve asks.

“Still tearing everyone a new one, save for me,” Sharon says. “Being the favorite makes you kinda smug.”

“Hey, we thought you got lost,” Bucky says, half-jogging over to grab some of their cargo.  His left hand is surprisingly warm when it brushes against Steve’s. “Come on, game’s starting in a minute.”

It’s just a night out. No stress, no worries. He has to keep reminding himself of that.

-

Halfway through, they’ve run out of food and as the night continues, it looks like it’s going to be a pretty close game, but Steve was never a fan of the Wizards or basketball, anyway. Bucky’s shouting over the noise into his ear, explaining the ins and outs, and leaning over him to shout something at Natasha.

Steve thinks he can call himself buzzed now, warm and light all over, unable to bring himself to care about the way he’s leaning into Bucky, and evidently, Bucky shares the same sentiment, his arm heavy around Steve’s shoulders, knee bumping against his.

“Oh, man,” Bucky says, and Steve follows his gaze up to the jumbotron as the kiss cam begins, Can’t Take My Eyes Off You beginning to blare through the arena. “These always kill me. They’re so embarrassing.”

Couple after couple are filmed in a pink heart-shaped frame, and Steve can’t help laughing, catching Natasha’s gaze when Bucky begins to sing along. She says nothing, just watches him as she takes a slow sip from her beer, eyes squinted wryly at him.

“But if you feel like I feel, please let me know that it’s real,” he sings in Steve’s ear, surprisingly well, and making him startle. Steve almost flounders when Bucky makes a show of it, pulling him closer with a shit-eating grin. “You’re just too good to be true, can’t take my eyes off of you.”

The instrumental break kicks in as the camera switches, and it takes Steve a moment to figure out why Sharon and Natasha are laughing, why the crowd has started up again, why Bucky suddenly freezes.

They’re on the jumbotron.

Suddenly, Steve’s heart is kicking into overdrive, ears ringing as he meets Bucky’s gaze. He’s grinning, but he looks wired all over, as tense as Steve. He raises his brows as if to say okay?

Steve almost wishes he can say no, but it’s go big or go home. They have a whole goddamn crowd to convince now.

He answers by meeting him halfway, just as Bucky grabs Steve’s face in both hands and leans in hard and fast. Steve’s arm hooks around his neck just before he finds his mouth and Jesus Christ, he’s kissing Bucky in front of thousands of people. He tastes like the beer he’s been nursing, his beard scratches Steve’s face, and he smells of cologne and smoke.

If circumstances were different, Steve thinks it would be one of the most exhilarating kisses he’s ever had.

Bucky pulls away beaming, and he digs his knuckles into Steve’s hair for good measure. “How’s that for gross?” he shouts in his ear, nose digging into his cheek, and Steve’s head is spinning so intensely, he finds himself laughing, stomach aching with it.

Bucky licks his lips as he eases away. He feels tense against Steve, but he doesn’t make any moves to distance himself. Neither does Steve. He doubts he’ll be able to move without feeling shaky all over.

“One hell of a kiss, I’ll tell you that,” Steve manages to say, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and quickly putting his shaking hand down.

“Always a pleasure, Rogers,” Bucky says, and winks at him.

Steve isn’t sure what to do with that.

He isn’t sure what to do at all.

-

The Wizards barely beat the Celtics, but Steve can’t bring himself to focus on it. Not completely. The kiss still has him reeling, but Bucky seems to be completely and utterly unphased, watching the game with the same intensity he had before, or maybe even more, and he’s not any more or less uncomfortable around Steve. They’re still keeping up with the charade, and by the time they leave the arena, it seems like they’ve upped the ante, never moving away from each other for too long.

“Oh, this is Sam,” Steve says when he digs his vibrating phone from his pocket. “He wants to know where to meet us.”

“Ramen place around the corner?” Sharon suggests.

They used to go there whenever they were in the area—Sam, Steve, Natasha, Sharon. It wasn’t uncommon to see a hockey game and go there afterward, get the chill of the arena out of their bodies for a while.

Steve sends the text and immediately gets a reply. “He says he’ll be there in twenty,” he says. “Any word from Clint?”

“He’s leaving Lucky with a friend, he’ll be here eventually,” Natasha says. “So, come on, no point standing in this mess anymore.”

Walking to the restaurant takes only a couple of minutes. It’s warm and dim inside, and when they sit down, Steve feels a little better. Maybe it was the crowds getting to him more than anything, the closeness and the noise. He orders another beer when everyone else does, and soon enough Sam is joining them, sliding into the chair between Steve and Natasha. Cold air is coming off of him in waves and he takes a moment, rubbing warmth back into his hands.

“I miss a good game?” Sam asks. “I checked the score, looked like they were neck and neck.”

“It was something to see,” Natasha says. “But the game wasn’t the good part.”

Sharon pulls her phone out, clicks something before music starts playing and God, no, no, no.

“And there I was makin’ fun of people who get caught on the damn cam,” Bucky says. “Should’ve made fun of people who have shitloads of money instead.”

“Hey,” Steve says dramatically. “You’re choosing money over me?”

“Sorry, sugar plum, but a man’s gotta get by in the world,” Bucky shoots back, takes a sip of his sake.

Steve barks out a laugh. “You’re really not giving that up, are you?”

“Absolutely not,” Bucky says, and raises his cup. “‘Tis the season.”

It’s hard to look at him and not feel the phantom pressure of his mouth on Steve’s own, soft and warm and a contrast to the rasp of his beard and the solidness of his body. Steve’s heart might start pounding all over again.

“So,” Sam says, motions to Sharon and Natasha. “When did this start?”

“Story for another time,” Natasha says, crosses her arms over the table with a smirk playing at her lips. “And one that won’t be told till I know how that started.”

She nods at Steve and Bucky, and Steve runs a hand over his eyes. God, isn’t it enough that Steve actually showed up with someone?

“It’s not that interesting of a story,” Steve answers. “I promise it’s not.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Sam says, waving him off. “He’s just gonna say they went out, it went great, now they’re here.”

“You guys are neighbors, right?” Sharon asks. “I would think that means you’ve liked each other for a while.”

Steve opens his mouth to speak, stops himself for just a second. “Buck,” he says, at a sudden loss. “You wanna take this one?”

“You know what?” Bucky says, bumps his knee under the table. “I absolutely do.”

He downs the rest of his sake and sets it down with a clink, puffs out a breath. “Right,” he says. “I guess I’m just gonna go back to the beginning for context. So, it’s way past midnight, I’m at the bodega across the street ‘cause I wanted cereal and I was out of milk, and this guy—” Bucky jerks his thumb at Steve. “Is standing at the cooler staring down this huge row of energy drinks like they’re gonna disappear if he doesn’t grab one. So, I ask him if he’s having a rough night and he rolls his eyes and goes, ‘if I could inject this shit into my veins, I would,’ and hell, you should have seen what he looked like. He looked like death warmed over, but I was still getting distracted lookin’ over at him every damn second.”

Bucky isn’t making this up. He’s telling the story of how they actually met, and God, Steve is an idiot. Why the hell didn’t he think of that?

“So, anyway, I get up to the register and I’m about to pay and that’s when I realize I forgot my wallet upstairs. I’m...look, I wasn’t in a great place last year, so I start panicking, but then Steve swiped his card and boom, no more worries. I think I acted like a real jerk after that, I don’t know why, and I kept doing that because I was so damn nervous every time I saw him. I didn’t think I’d ever see this guy again and then it turns out he lives across the hall from me. That didn’t help me much, and…” something wistful comes over Bucky’s face before it quickly fades. “I planned on asking him out so many times after that. after we got to know each other better, I mean. I planned it all out in my head. I brought his mail up to his door as an excuse to work up the guts to say something. I didn’t even know he was into guys until he happened to mention it a while back, and that just made me feel like I was going nuts because I kept kicking myself in the ass wondering whether going for it was a good idea or not, and then chickened out and clammed up every time I saw him. I was gonna ask him out on Valentine’s Day ‘cause I’m a cheesy guy, but—”

“I got a call from the hospital about my ma,” Steve says, half to himself. He isn’t sure where to look. What to do. Now, he distinctly remembers Bucky saying hey, I wasn’t sure if you were busy or anything, but I was thinking... right before Steve’s phone began to ring with the news he’d been dreading.

God, it can’t—Bucky has to be—

“Yeah, and then I felt like an ass, so I stopped trying. I tried to...I guess I still wanted to be a friend, even if it didn’t work out, but then I started thinking about asking again a few weeks ago, but I just couldn’t find the right time to say what I wanted to say,” Bucky says, quieter than before, and he pauses for a long moment before a smile slips easily over his mouth again. “Then Steve beat me to it, and now we’re here.”

“You’re a hell of a better storyteller than him, I’ll tell you that,” Sam says.

“Figured it was gonna be mushy,” Natasha teases, looking Steve right in the eye.

“Shut up, it’s cute,” Sharon says, reaches over to lightly touch Bucky’s shoulder. “You two seem great together.”

Steve’s ears are ringing, heart pounding even harder than before. He can’t see Bucky well enough in this light, can’t see what he’s feeling, what he’s thinking, if he’s just playing along with the lie anymore.

“Yeah,” he says distantly, voice cracking as his chest twinges painfully. He clears his throat, forces a smile on his face. “Yeah, we’re a pair.”

Before Steve can think anything else, Bucky is sliding out of his chair, pulling his jacket on. “Well, I think the better half needs a smoke break before the food comes out,” he says quickly, and he’s already walking out of the restaurant when he adds, “Be back in a minute.”

Steve is rooted to the spot, unable to get his legs to move to go after Bucky before something breaks permanently between them. If it’s a lie, then Steve can accept that and move on. If it isn’t…

“I, “ Steve says, swallows hard. “I’m just gonna go see what he’s doing. Gimme a minute.”

He gets up before Sam, Natasha, or Sharon can say anything more than okay, pulling his jacket on as he tries not to run outside, breath short and fast.

It’s even colder than before when Steve gets outside, squinting against the wind blowing snow in his eyes. The streets are deserted now, almost completely silent save for cars rushing past, a siren blaring in the distance, but still, he can’t see Bucky.

Not until he sees the figure walking toward the end of the block, hand cupped over a lighter.

“Bucky!” Steve shouts, jogging after him. “Bucky, wait!”

Bucky doesn’t speak and doesn’t stop, walking away with a plume of smoke and ashing his cigarette as he goes. 

“Buck, please,” Steve tries again. “What you said back there, I—”

“We’re playing roles, Rogers,” Bucky says sharply, stopping before he turns around. Steve almost runs right into him. “That’s all it was. I know that was a lot of truth, but there ain’t no truth to it. It’s not like that.”

Steve tries not to let that sting. He tries his damnedest not to let it sting. 

He holds himself straighter, shakes his head. “It didn’t sound like that to me,” he says, not caring how desperate it sounds. “It didn’t feel like that at the game.”

“We were on the goddamn kiss cam,” Bucky argues. He takes a drag from his cigarette, blows smoke out through his nose. “What the hell were we supposed to do?”

“We could have chickened out!” Steve snaps, raising his arms. “You didn’t have to kiss me, and I knew, I knew I didn’t have to kiss you, but I did.”

Bucky says nothing, giving Steve a scowl that cuts him right to the core. “I did,” Steve says, softer this time. “I did it because I didn’t think I’d have a chance to ever do it again otherwise.”

Steve breathes in, then out, then in again. “You want my side of the story?” he asks. “I was nervous as hell the first time I met you, and once I figured out we were neighbors I felt like I was gonna jump out of my skin every time I saw you and I still feel like that but—” he swallows hard. “I wanted you to ask me out that night. I was hoping you would and then everything in my life went to shit and I knew I would have just pushed you away. I would have ruined everything. And just so we’re clear, I didn’t ask you to come to have a glimpse of what it’s like to be with you. I needed help, you offered, so I took it. If you never said what you said in the restaurant, I would have never mentioned this again, but God, Bucky, I gotta know. You gotta tell me what’s going on in your head because I feel like I’m about to ruin everything, so just tell me what to do. Please.”

His chest is heaving, eyes stinging harder than before, and he isn’t sure if he can blame it on the wind or the snow  this time, not with the knot in his throat.

Bucky’s glare is cooling in measures, nowhere near forgiving, but some of his anger is ebbing away, making room for something else. He drops his cigarette on the sidewalk, still burning gently.

“Steve,” Bucky says, worn and soft in a way that makes Steve feel like his knees are going to give out. “Steve, listen. I ain’t the right guy for this, I ain’t the right guy for you or anyone.”

“That’s not true,” Steve says, taking a step closer. “I know it’s not. You’re a good person. You’re so good, and it’s like you don’t wanna let yourself see it. You barely knew me and you were there for me so many times, and I wanna be there for you, too. I feel like I’ve had more luck getting to know you in two days than I have with anyone I’ve dated in the past two years. That’s gotta mean something, Buck. There has to be more to this, and if there isn’t, I’ll walk away, we can fake it through the rest of the night, and we’ll go back to the way we were before I dragged you into this.”

“You didn’t,” Bucky says, shutting his eyes for only a moment. “Drag me into anything. I agreed. I didn’t ask you for nothing, I didn’t ask any questions, I do the things I do because I…” his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Don’t make me say it, Rogers.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, throat tighter than before.

“You deserve to have all the things we’ve been pretending to have,” Bucky says. “That’s all I want for you.”

If Bucky Barnes knows how to do anything, it’s make Steve feel like his chest is going to crack open from how much it’s swelling with what he feels for him.

There’s so much Steve can say, but all that comes out is, “And what if I want you to give me that for real?”

It has Bucky’s expression softening, morphing into a raw sort of sweetness that Steve has never, ever seen on him before. He shakes his head. “God,” he mutters hoarsely. “God, Rogers, just come here.”

Steve lets himself be pulled closer, and this time, there’s only relief when Bucky kisses him, when Steve lets himself melt into it, letting his hands slide up to frame Bucky’s face, keeping him close as his arms, strong and sure, circle Steve’s middle, fingers twisting tight in his coat. Steve is shivering, but Bucky is so warm, so solid against him, and he feels like he can breathe.

When they break the kiss, there’s a measure of hesitance to it, and Steve finds himself sticking close, finally feeling something inside of himself go still.

“There,” Bucky says, voice barely above a whisper. He’s pulled back just enough that Steve can see him, see the snow caught in his lashes and feel his breath fan across his face. “Was that real enough for you?”

Steve takes a moment to commit it to memory, fingers sliding into Bucky’s hair. “I dunno,” he mutters. “Why don’t you try again?”

The look Bucky gives him is even better than a kiss.