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Steve’s favourite thing to do when he wakes up in the morning is to watch the sun rise on Bucky.
He always wakes up first, his body conditioned to waking up early even before the war, whereas Bucky was always the one who slept in, who would burrow under the sheets and mumble for five more minutes, and who was Steve to deny him that?
Steve wouldn’t deny Bucky anything.
The bed in their room in the Tower is facing the floor to ceiling window, which means that the sunlight filters in of a morning, creeping up along the floor and to their bed. Steve always wakes up as it hits their toes, and he watches the orange light cover Bucky’s ankles and blanket his thighs with its warmth. Steve could never tire of seeing Bucky like this – sprawled out on his chest with the blankets draped over his waist, his human arm under the pillow and his metal arm slung protectively over Steve’s hips, his face slack in sleep, eyes flickering as he dreams about something Steve hopes includes him. Bucky’s hair sticks up in all sorts of ways after Steve had repeatedly run his fingers through the strands the night before, and Steve can’t help but smile as the morning light licks up his back, sliding over the small dimples that Bucky has on his lower back and throwing shade on small freckles.
The scars it throws into relief send a wave of remorse through Steve, as is usual for when Steve thinks about the years they spent apart. Bucky has hundreds of scars, and Steve knows where every single one is, has mapped them out with his tongue more than once. There are small ones that look like blade slices, and round ones that are bullet holes. He has long, angry red ones that cross his back, and small white bumps across his hips. Bucky heals almost as fast as Steve does, but it doesn’t seem to have taken away any trace of injury after they had healed. Steve wonders what could have happened to him to cause this many marks, how someone could hurt his Bucky so thoroughly that almost every part of his skin is covered in tracks. Bucky is always quiet about his past, tenses up whenever it’s mentioned, doesn’t relax until Steve joins their hands together or presses their legs together or kisses him so deeply Bucky forgets even his own name.
As the sun glides up to Bucky’s arm, it begins to glint off the metal and send fractals of light onto the walls, creating patterns that dance as the arm moves with Steve’s every breath. Bucky’s metal arm is something that astounds Steve. He’ll find himself staring at it whilst Bucky is making their morning coffee, marvelling at the infinite complexities, listening to the almost silent whirring of machinery beneath the smooth exterior Tony had lovingly created as a surprise for Bucky’s birthday. The red star remains on his upper arm, encircled by a bright blue line that Steve had painted on one afternoon when Bucky had passed out next to Steve whilst watching him paint, much to Clint’s absolute glee. Bucky still worries that he’ll hurt Steve with the arm, worries that he’ll grip too tight or hit too hard, but Steve makes sure to pay the arm special attention, kissing it all over, and even though Bucky can’t feel it he still shivers all over and blushes like a dame.
As the sun reaches Bucky’s face, Steve follows it with his lips, kissing Bucky’s chin first and then his nose and eyelids and forehead, and Bucky stirs beneath him, his lips chasing Steve’s, small frown lines wrinkling his forehead until Steve lets out a soft chuckle and obliges. It’s soft, barely a brush, but Bucky sighs like it’s everything he’s ever wanted before he burrows back into Steve’s side, mumbling about having five more minutes, his metal arm tightening around Steve’s side.
And who is Steve to deny Bucky five more minutes?