Archive of Our Own

They’ll whisper sweet words to you, Steven. The wind will sigh your name and tug at your hair, beckoning you to come closer, just a bit closer, until the waters close over your head and you’re dragged down to your death… Promise me, Steven. Promise me you won’t go to them. Don’t go to the water, dear heart, not ever, and not alone .

Steve’s abided by his mother’s warnings all his life. They weren’t just stories told to rowdy children, meant to scare them into cowering beneath their bed covers until morning; they were real , and he would have been a fool to disobey her, even if she hadn’t been his mother or queen of their kingdom. Sarah Rogers knew more than most about the dealings of the fae, having come from a long line of seers and healers, humans just on the cusp of becoming something other , but who tethered themselves to their humanity with iron-like will and a genuine desire to do good in the world. She knew the dangers inherent in trespassing in fae territory, and when she came here, to Brooklyn, to marry Steve’s father, she understood that the ocean that borders their kingdom was not theirs, not truly — it belonged to the Mer. She taught her son, taught Steve , accordingly: do not go to the water, do not give them the chance to snatch your soul.

But Queen Sarah is gone, and Steve feels as though he has been hollowed out by his grief. To feel anything besides this crushing darkness inside of him would be a blessing, and while he appreciates the efforts of his friends to draw smiles from him, to ease his burden, none of it has worked. He lost his father young, barely knew the man and could only miss the idea of him after his untimely death; but Sarah was Steve’s everything, his role model, his confidant, his first best friend. And now that she’s been taken by sickness…

Steve slips out of his chambers at night, past the guards whose routines have hardly changed since he was a child, and out into the cool midnight air. He wears only his riding jacket over his thin shirt, pant legs tucked hastily into his haphazardly-tied boots. The wind bites into every inch of exposed flesh, only growing colder as he makes his way down the cliffside path and closer to the shoreline, but he barely feels it, consumed as he is by his whirlwind thoughts. His feet sink into the soft, loose sand far from the water’s edge and he continues forward, his steps more careful but reckless all the same, carrying him inexorably nearer to the ocean he was so thoroughly warned away from.

If ma could see me now … Steve grimaces at the thought, stuffing his hands under his arms to ward off the chill. Ahead of him, the waves crash gently against the shore, the water rolling forward and back with a hypnotic rhythm. He stops just shy of the water, the sand under his feet denser now, easier to stand on. The darkness around him is complete, the moon blotted out by a swath of clouds, the stars hazy and indistinct behind them. Steve stares out across the water, squinting against the wind whipping tears from his eyes, and he’s not looking for anything in particular, there’s nothing to see , but. The nothingness is a balm in its own right.

In the weeks since Sarah’s death, Steve has had so little time to himself. Sam and Natasha have endeavored to keep him company whenever they’re available, and when they’re not he’s caught up with his advisors and the Council, discussing his duties as Crown Prince and what must be done to plan for his coronation, barely a month from now. At night he’s usually so exhausted he drops off into a restless sleep as soon as his head touches the pillow. In a way he’s grateful for it — being so preoccupied allows him to distract from the maelstrom of his thoughts. But recently even that hasn’t managed to suppress it for long, and he finds himself agitated and desolate even when Sam and Natasha are at their best. Sleep has not come easily the last few nights, either. It’s why he’s out here at all, why he’s so desperate that he’s willing to ignore his mother’s advice for the first time in his life.

So Steve stands there, wet sand clinging to his boots, arms drawn tight over his chest, head tipped back toward the vacant sky and eyes closed — and he breathes. Breathes in the salt of the sea air, breathes in the quiet that feels so different from that of his bed chamber or the crowded halls of the castle. He lets his head fill with the sounds of the water, the wind rustling over the sand, lets it turn the rest to empty static. His mother warned him that he’d hear his name called and be powerless to resist it, but Steve hears nothing like that; really, he hears his name often enough within the walls of the castle and he has little choice but to heed it then. He… he thinks he might prefer this, quiet but not quite silent, the sounds gentle and empty of expectation.

When the cold starts to seep through the numbness Steve gives himself a brisk shake and turns to start walking along the beach, warming up with the exercise as best he can. He keeps close to the water but doesn’t walk in it; he doubts he’d succumb to drowning when it only washes over the toes of his boots, but he feels he’s at least partially keeping his word to his mother like this. It’s an empty comfort, really; she wouldn’t have approved of him being here at all. He presses on, though, because for as long as he’s here he’s not turning over in his bed, unable to sleep but for the bitter, angry thoughts that flash behind his closed eyelids. 

He never sees anything stir in the water beyond the waves themselves, and those are easily avoided. He doesn’t doubt his mother’s words — the Mer are out there, somewhere, he’s more than sure of it — though he wonders if things have changed in recent years. Perhaps the Mer prefer the deeper waters and no longer roam the shallows; perhaps they only venture close on special occasions. Holidays, maybe, if Mer celebrate such things. Perhaps they, like him, aren’t eager to disturb the gentle quiet of the night.

Sunrise is a few hours off by the time Steve feels more at ease, more willing to give sleep another go. He has an early morning meeting with his advisors he isn’t looking forward to, and the lack of sleep will only aggravate him further, but he doesn’t regret the time he’s spent on the beach tonight. He can’t, not when this is the first time in weeks he feels… light. Lighter than he’s felt since his mother’s death, at least, and that’s more of an accomplishment than he thought he could manage at this point. When he finally does collapse into bed, that lightness suffuses his dreams, and he sleeps deeply until he’s woken for his princely duties that morning.

___

It becomes something of a ritual for him, these nightly walks along the shore. He’s yet to speak of them to anyone, knowing he wouldn’t be understood and fearful they’d find some way to keep him confined to the castle. At most, he thinks Natasha could be persuaded to let him continue with this habit, if he could make her see the good it’s doing him; she and Sam have both commented on his improved mood since he first trekked down to the beach, obviously pleased he’s faring better, though he can tell neither of them is sure of the how or the why . They won’t ask, either, not unless he starts looking worse again. He’s hopeful that won’t be the case, as every night he spends near the water seems to lift another pound of weight from his chest.

He’s started singing again, just to himself, while he’s walking. Lilting lullabies from his mother’s birthplace that feel strangely at home in the company of the ocean’s own music, comforting and familiar when familiar has felt so grating as of late. With no one around to hear him he doesn’t feel self-conscious of his somewhat creaky voice, or his inability to hit the higher notes his mother was so fond of drawing out to make him smile as a child. His voice is probably a little too deep for some of these songs, but when he’s the only one around to judge himself, he’s not very inclined to shy away from it. And it’s… fun, singing just for his own amusement, the songs themselves silly, fantastical things that are nonetheless sweet and tender. They remind him of simpler times, when he may have been small and frail himself but so very, very loved.

He’s still loved, of course, he knows that. Sam and Natasha often remind him of it with kind gestures and crushing hugs. And his mother… gods above, he knows wherever she is, she loves him dearly still. But grief has made her warmth only a memory, and it’s all too easy to forget in moments where he’s surrounded by men and women who see him as Prince Steven, who put his station above his person. 

His nights, though, have been better, despite being alone. Or it could be because he’s alone that he feels… more himself.

Regardless, tonight won’t be one of those nights, he’s sure.

He is a week out from his coronation and today — today was his mother’s birthday. Would have been her birthday, had she lived to see it. The castle’s halls were filled with his mother’s favorite flowers: primrose and eyebrights and blackthorn. He’d arranged it himself weeks ago but somehow the reality of it was too much for him. The smell alone brought tears to his eyes, so much of it wrapped up in his mother and her gentle smiles and small, warm hands. It took Sam’s coaxing to get him out of his bedchamber this morning, and Natasha’s steadying presence to make it through his duties without breaking down in the throne room. 

Not even his routine is enough to silence his thoughts tonight. They roar louder than the waves and pulse along with his thudding heartbeat, throbbing behind his eyes, in his throat, in his chest; he’s choking back tears only a dozen yards from the cliffside path, one hand clamped tight over his mouth and the other curled brutally into his already moussed hair. 

He misses her so much . It’s like someone has scooped out his innards and replaced them with knife-edged glass shards, cutting into his flesh with every ragged breath he draws in. He can hardly breathe for the pain of it, can hardly move, and yet his mind spins faster and faster, flashing memories of his mother at him, her kindness and her sweet laugh, the feeling of her hand against his feverish forehead, her solid strength as he leaned against her, desperate to breathe through the tightness in his lungs. All of it, gone. Gone, gone, gone — forever. He’ll never dine with his mother again, never sit beside her as she tends her personal garden, trying and failing to get him to join her; never find her in the pre-dawn light making tea for herself, humming wistfully under her breath. He’ll never feel her arms around him again, never smother his tears against her shoulder. She’s dead and he’s here, so lost without her, not even empty but so full of anguish he feels as though he’ll burst with it—

He feels water lapping at his shins before he’s even registered that he’s moved, diving headlong into the surf and striking out against the tide. It’s bitterly cold, so much worse than the just the wind sweeping off the frigid water, and his teeth are chattering only moments in, but he keeps moving, keeps fighting forward, desperate to drown out the hysterical shrieking of his own mind, desperate for relief from this torment. His clothes feel heavier with every step, his hair plastered to his forehead from the spray of the waves as they break against his chest. He grits his teeth, ignoring both as he finally reaches the point where the sand drops out from beneath his feet. It’s easy from there to duck below the surface and — go still.

Steve doesn’t dare open his eyes, but he relishes the blackness surrounding him, the cold and the darkness both. Even with his sodden clothes he’s close to weightless, drifting through the water, held aloft by it. And it’s… quiet. Everything is muffled, even the blood rushing through his ears; toned down enough that he can simply think . 

Steve stays there, barely moving, until the burn in his lungs has eclipsed the sharp ache in his stomach, and then he’s kicking upwards and flailing his arms. He knows the basics of swimming, was taught at a young age despite his staunch warnings never to venture close to the water, but theory and practice are two very different things and it’s much harder to break through to the surface than he would have expected. The moment he feels air on his chilled face he’s instantly slapped with another wave, and he sputters as he fights to right himself in the water. Another wave knocks him underwater again, and a third keeps him there; his throat is raw from the water he’s been forced to swallow and it hurts when he lets out a shout as he kicks at nothing but water, unable to find purchase so far away from the sea floor. 

He’s going to drown.

The clarity hits him on the heels of yet another brutal wave. He gulps down a mouthful of water and thinks: This is what I get for disobeying Ma. This is how I’m gonna die, and it’s my own damn fault, no Mer necessary . 

Exhaustion is steadily weighing down his limbs, sapping what’s left of his adrenaline-fueled strength. Every push against the water is weaker, more feeble than the last, and Steve can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, can’t even tell which way is up or down, can’t feel anything beyond the cold and the pain and crackling fear that builds in his chest, right beneath the hot ball of agony that is his lack of air . He opens his eyes but it’s all black and it stings and Steve has never been more terrified in his life. He can’t — he wants —

Something only just warmer than the water around him closes tight around his wrist, but Steve’s fading fast and it registers faintly, not enough to jar him closer to consciousness but enough to distract him from the spiral of his thoughts. It feels — like a hand, holding onto him.

Ma? Steve thinks, before the world falls away completely.

___

Warm, gentle pressure at his throat is his first sensation after the numbness has started to recede from his flesh. What follows is an ache so pervasive he feels it in every inch of skin, in every muscle, every bone in his body . His chest throbs with pain, and when he opens his mouth the air that rushes down his throat has teeth to it that shred his insides to tatters. His hands convulsively close around fistfuls of sand, toes flexing as his legs shudder and curl in towards his torso. Something — a hand, he remembers a hand — presses down gently on his throat, drags down his chest and back up in a soothing motion that also serves to coax his blood into moving again. The points of its fingers are scalding on his frozen skin but he’s grateful for it, this reminder that he’s alive.

“ You’re alright ,” a voice murmurs from above him, soft and strange. He can’t place the accent; it sounds like nothing he’s ever heard before. “ You’re alright, shh. Breathe, that’s it, just breathe. You’ve coughed up half the ocean, you can spare a little room for some air now. Shh, shh, you’re doing so well, sweetheart .”

Steve takes a shuddering breath, relieved that the burn has diminished some, and his body finally goes limp atop the sand. The hand on his chest continues its minitrations, moving to rub briskly at his arm, chafing the skin to warm him up. It slides down to drag over his palm, and Steve notices something… odd. The sensation of more skin than he’s expecting. But his curiosity fades as the hand withdraws altogether, and a rush of fear seizes him, his hand lashing out to grab onto something solid and reassuring and real . 

“ Oh! ” the voice gasps, and the forearm (he thinks it’s a forearm, at least, from the shape and feel of it) beneath his hand flexes in his grip. Then the hand is back, and this time fingers entwine with his own, and — yes, he’s sure of it now. Far more skin than he’s used to, like… webbing, between the fingers. He doesn’t let go, but he’s reflexively careful not to crush what feels like terribly thin skin. “ You’re awake? ”

Steve’s tongue darts out to swipe over his lips, and his grimaces at the tang of salt. He swallows, winces again, then slowly bobs his head in a nod.

“ Thank the gods. Your heart was beating, I made sure of that, but I didn’t… I’ve never seen someone drown before. I didn’t know what to do once I’d gotten the water out of your… chest. ”

The hand holding his squeezes, equally as careful, and another hand traces at his hairline, brushing wet hair back over the crown of his head. Steve leans into the touch, the heat of it; he’s freezing, he realizes, absolutely freezing , and the water still clinging to his skin feels as though it’s leeching every ounce of warmth from his body. The hands on him aren’t quite normal temperature, either, but they’re infinitely warmer than his own and he relishes every moment of contact between them. 

The voice continues murmuring quietly to him, not expecting much of a response, and the hands move to spread their warmth over the rest of his upper body. He’s lost his shirt and jacket at some point, and while normally he’d be self-conscious about his nakedness, he thinks his wet clothing would only make things worse given the state he’s in. 

He can’t say how much time passes (minutes, he hopes; anything longer and the fear nestled under his rib cage might swell into the raging inferno he’d nearly been consumed by before), but the presence at his side and the hands on his skin stay with him through it all, and when Steve finally manages to lift his leaden eyelids he finds a vision hovering over him.

The man is… stunning. His golden skin seems to almost shimmer in the pale moonlight, the droplets of water beading at his cheekbones and across his broad shoulders flashing as silver as his eyes, framed by dark lashes that kiss his cheeks with every slow blink. His dark hair must be a riot of curls when it’s dry, but damp as it is now it rests in clumps against his forehead, only hastily brushed aside so it’s out of his eyes. Steve darts a glance down the length of his body, his prone position only allowing him a glimpse of the man’s ( bare ) torso, but he sees the corded muscles under his tanned skin, a handful of silvery scars across his ribs and down his arms, and—

Webbed hands.

Steve can only blink in surprise. He’s not completely unfamiliar with the condition; a girl who lived on the outskirts of the local village he used to sneak out to visit in his youth had the extra flaps of skin between her fingers and toes. An anomaly, yes, but harmless. But the longer Steve looks his mysterious savior over, the more otherness he sees.

His arms are toned, strong, and the backs of them are lined with — scales. Red, glittering scales, limned in silver. They cover patches of his ribs, too, and Steve had been too distracted by the scarring and the dim lighting to recognize them at first. Scales, webbed fingers… Steve braces himself, already clenching his jaw, and leverages himself upright. The man expels a worried breath and takes him cautiously by the shoulders, fingers splayed, to take some of his weight, and Steve appreciates it even as he’s blinking through the dark spots in his vision to look down the man’s body.

Where Steve expects to see legs, the man instead possesses… a tail. A Mer tail, as red as the scales on his arms and ribs, stretched out in the sand, the wide, gauzy fins curling slightly at the ends.

He waits for that cloying fear to return, to run rampant through his veins and burn all sense from his head; he waits for his muscles to seize, for his heart to race. He waits, and he waits, and he waits — but as the seconds tick by, marked only by the man’s growing concern and Steve’s even breaths… he’s calm. More than that he’s grateful , because he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that without this man — this Mer — Steve would have sunk to the bottom of the ocean and died there, never to be seen again. 

Promise me, Steven. Promise me you won’t go to them. Don’t go to the water, dear heart, not ever, and not alone . 

Steve looks into the Mer’s eyes, bright and beautiful and concerned , and says a silent apology to his mother, hoping she can find it in her heart, wherever she is, to forgive him for being the fool he is.

“You saved me,” he rasps, clasping a hand over the Mer’s, still cradling his shoulder.

A pleasant pink scrawls its way across the Mer’s cheeks, and he ducks his head, damp curls flopping down into his eyes at the movement. He says something, quiet and indistinct, too low for Steve to think it was meant for him, then gives himself a subtle shake and raises his head again to meet Steve’s eyes.

“I wasn’t going to swim that close to you,” the Mer says, a note of apology in his voice that Steve immediately takes issue with, “but then, when you went under and you didn’t… I couldn’t leave you like that, it wouldn’t have been right. Besides that, I—” He cuts himself off, his blush darkening as he averts his eyes again. Steve is positively enchanted , and he wonders, faintly, if this was the real danger his mother cautioned him against, this quickening of his pulse and the buzzing in his ears and his inability to look away from the Mer’s pretty face. “I don’t see humans out in the water often,” the Mer says, and the change in topic is obvious but Steve doesn’t try to steer it back to what the Mer couldn’t say. “What were you doing, anyway?”

Steve shifts in the sand, drawing his knees up to his chest, leaning forward to rest his arms across them; the Mer drops his hands but doesn’t move away, and a smile twitches at Steve’s lips, but he bites it back. With what he’s been through tonight, he can’t imagine how he has the capacity to smile , and the conversation now certainly doesn’t warrant it — but the Mer is warm beside him, the quiet comfortable, and Steve is, more than anything, so, so grateful to be alive right now. 

Perhaps it’s not as odd an urge as he thought.

Steve debates with himself how much to even say. How much this Mer would understand, with no context of Steve’s life. “I was… I wanted everything to stop being so… so loud. In here,” he says, gesturing at his temple and frowning at the vagueness of his response. But the Mer nods, like it makes any sense at all, and so Steve goes on. “I come here to quiet my thoughts, and most nights, it’s simple. A long walk will clear my head enough I’m able to sleep when I return home. But tonight…” 

“Everything was too much,” the Mer finishes, smiling ruefully. Steve’s surprise must show on his face, because the Mer laughs, and Steve gets a glimpse of his teeth — sharper than Steve’s own but far more fascinating than they are terrifying. “I know the feeling, that need to get away. It’s… actually why I come this close to shore.”

“Really?” Steve asks, his voice hitting a much higher register than he’d like to admit.

Another brief smile. “Yes. My people prefer the open water, where there’s no chance of getting dashed against the rocks, or.. Well. Encountering humans, really. But I like it here. I’ve always liked, um, watching people, too. Your people. Humans. I learned your language from the sailors whose boats I sometimes follow around.”

This Mer… learned English from random sailors? Steve has something of a gift for languages himself, having learned the tongues of the neighboring kingdoms for political reasons, but he’s always had tutors, native speakers who could guide him through the intricacies of their language and correct his hiccups. What this Mer has accomplished is so much more amazing, in Steve’s opinion.

“What language do you speak, then?” Steve asks, curious. “If it isn’t English.”

“Oh, that’s… I can’t speak it for you here,” the Mer says, biting his lip. Steve fights not to become distracted from his words. “Out of the water, I mean. Our language won’t sound like anything but high-pitched nonsense on land. Sorry,” he adds, flushing.

“No, no, don’t apologize!” Steve says, grabbing for his hand instinctively. The Mer’s eyes widen but he lets Steve hold his hand, doesn’t disengage, and Steve swallows down his worries about overstepping. “Gods, no, there’s no need for that, I promise. My curiosity has always gotten the better of me. More importantly, I—” Shit. Has Steve not even thanked him for saving his life? What a miserable prince he is, forgetting his manners so easily. “ Thank you , for what you’ve done for me tonight. I would have died without you, and I have idea how to repay such a debt.”

“What?” the Mer all but squeaks . His entire face has gone a delightful shade of red. “There’s no debt! I told you, I did what was right, I would never ask you to repay me for that! It’s… you don’t even know that I’ve…” 

Steve waits, but the Mer remains silent, studiously gnawing on his lower lip. He still hasn’t taken back his hand, though, and Steve considers that a good sign.

“My name is Steve,” he says. “Steve Rogers.”

The Mer blinks. “ Steve ,” he repeats softly. Steve can finally feel an answering blush rise in his own cheeks at the reverence with which he says his name. “Ah, you can call me…” He moves his mouth for a moment, as if testing out the syllables without speaking them. “Bucky. You can call me Bucky. It’s close enough to my real name,” he explains, sheepish, at the look of confusion Steve offers him.

“I like it,” Steve says, without thinking, like the gods-damned fool he is, “Bucky. It suits you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve grins. “Then, thank you, Bucky. You say I have no need to repay you for your kindness, but I want to do something for you. Is there anything you can think of that I might be able to do?”

He thinks Bucky might just dismiss him again, but he surprises Steve by blurting out, “Can you come back? Here, to the beach? Can we… can we talk again, like this?”

Steve’s heart thumps behind his ribs, painful and euphoric. Bucky wants to see him again — he wants to talk to him . It hardly seems like a gift when it’s exactly what Steve wants for himself, but he’s happy to agree all the same. “Yes. Yes, absolutely, I would love to do that.”

The smile Bucky turns on him is brilliant and arresting and Steve is in so, so much trouble. He’ll be lucky if he escapes with his life should Sam or Natasha find out about this, and for once he can’t say that he cares. He knows already that Bucky is kind and good , whatever the stories might say about his kind; he’s known him only a short while but Steve trusts his instincts, and everything in him screams that Bucky is… wonderful, really. 

“You should get home now, though,” Bucky says, reaching out to press his hand to Steve’s arm. The contrast in temperature has gooseflesh rippling over Steve’s skin, and he hisses at the feeling, suddenly reminded that he’s shirtless and dripping wet and cold . “Get warm. Rest . I would hate for you to waste all the effort I put into saving you by catching your death out here.” Bucky’s smile turns sly, his eyes sparkling with mischief, and Steve thinks: oh, he’s perfect . 

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he says, stupidly earnest.

Thankfully Bucky refrains from laughing at him. He just shakes his head, still grinning, and gives Steve’s chest a playful shove. “Go rest, Steve. Come here when you’re feeling better. I can wait.”

Steve gives his hand another squeeze. “Tomorrow,” he repeats firmly.

Bucky does laugh at that, and it’s joyful and sweet, and gods, Steve is fucked . A laugh like that has always been his undoing, not to mention Bucky’s accent, the way Steve’s name sounds from his lips… Steve can’t say he minds, not when just the sight of Bucky smiling and at ease has a bright burst of happiness rushing through his entire body.

“Tomorrow, then,” Bucky agrees, squeezing back.

___

Steve spends the rest of that night sore and chilled, no matter how many blankets he piles on top of himself, and he feigns illness the next day when his advisors come to collect him for another meeting regarding his coronation. The preparations have mostly been completed at this point, so while they may be worried about him recovering in time to be crowned king, they don’t specifically need him for anything, for which Steve is grateful; he would have dragged himself from bed if he had to, but the extra sleep does him good.

Natasha is suspicious, though — Steve rarely gets sick now, after the harrowing years of his childhood where every common cold was touch and go for him. But he looks the part, with the shadows hanging beneath his eyes and the sickly pallor of his skin; his lethargy, too, lends itself to the idea that he’s suddenly taken ill. It’s a horrifying thought, so soon after his mother’s death, and a spike of guilt stabs into his heart when he sees that Sam, at least, believes he’s actually sick, fretting over him for most of the day. Natasha leaves him be about it, but he catches the look in her eye that says she knows he’s hiding something; it’s just a matter of time until she figures him out.

He tries not to dwell on it, because he isn’t looking forward to Natasha’s reaction to him willingly meeting with a Mer.

But he does, regardless. He goes back the next night, and the next, and the next. He talks to Bucky — he shares some of his grief, his fears, and in turn Bucky tells him of his family and his own life. Bucky knows loss as intimately as Steve, having lost his younger sister just a few years ago; he tells Steve that the chaos he feels now will fade, eventually, tamed by time and love alike.

He also discovers exactly what Bucky was so cagey about the night they met.

“That wasn’t the first time you saw me?”

Bucky’s face is red , ruby red, so much brighter than the burgundy of his tail. Steve shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as he is. “It’s— It’s not as bad as it sounds, really,” Bucky assures him, despite Steve giving him no indication he was worried in the slightest about Bucky’s intentions. “I told you, I rarely ever see humans here, even on the beach, and I was just so surprised, I… and you kept coming back , Steve, I didn’t understand it. I was curious” — he shoots a look at Steve, to which Steve grins indulgently, recalling his own confession of wayward curiosity — “so I would swim along beside you as you walked, trying to see what you were doing, why you were here… And then I heard you singing—”

Steve blanches. “You heard— Oh, Bucky, I’m so sorry, I thought I was alone, I know my voice is awful —”

“Awful? Steve, I love listening to you sing. I’d never heard that language before, and it’s… beautiful.” That sly grin Steve’s become so familiar with appears and it’s enough to kick Steve’s heart into a gallop even before he says, “Just like the man singing it.”

Steve’s mouth goes dry. He opens his mouth to speak but nothing of substance comes out. Bucky’s smile grows more smug the longer Steve’s rendered speechless by the compliment, his eyes tracking over the blush that’s no doubt burning at Steve’s cheekbones. 

“You play dirty, Bucky,” is what he settles on, wrong-footed.

“I speak the truth, that’s all. I hardly see how that’s playing dirty , Stevie.”

“If anyone here is beautiful it’s—”

“Yeah, Stevie?”

“...it’s not me, alright?”

Tonight, though, is the night before Steve’s coronation, and he feels like he’s made up solely of one giant exposed nerve, like everything is too vivid, too bright, too much . He can’t settle himself at all, keeps getting up to pace up and down the beach, wringing his hands out in front of him. Bucky watches from where he’s laid out in the surf, the waves rolling gently over his tail, which twitches occasionally, sending up a spray of water every time. His chin is propped up in his palms, head tilted slightly as he studies Steve’s frantic movements.

Bucky knows who Steve is, that he’s the prince — soon to be the king — of his land, though his people are not aligned in the way humans are, grouped into tribes rather than kingdoms, without kings or queens of any kind leading them. He understands enough, though, to make sense of the pressure Steve is crumbling under in this moment, and he is kind enough not to dismiss Steve’s concerns out of hand by telling him everything will be fine, that he shouldn’t be working himself up like this. 

“Steve,” he calls out, and Steve turns, hands tangled in his hair and eyes pathetically wide. Bucky radiates calm as he beckons Steve closer with a toss of his head. “Come here, sit down. Talk to me, please. I want to help however I can, but I can’t do it while you’re all the way over there.”

Steve has walked quite a ways away. He scrubs both hands over his face, then forces himself to walk back to Bucky’s side, sinking down into the sand. It’s not enough, though — he wants, needs , to be closer. Steve leans forward to unlace his boots and kick them, then rolls up his pant legs, hoping to keep them from getting completely soaked. Bucky says nothing until Steve’s twisted onto his back beside him, stretched out with his feet exposed to the incoming tide, his side pressed into Bucky’s from hip to shoulder — or elbow, seeing as Bucky’s still sitting half-raised off the ground. Bucky sends him a warm smile that Steve does his best to return.

“What’s got you so scared, Steve?” Bucky asks softly.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Buck. I don’t know if I can be king.”

“Steve, you were born for this, weren’t you? It’s in your blood.”

“That doesn’t make someone a good king, that… it’s not enough. I’m not enough.”

“Steve.”

“I’m not, Bucky!” Steve closes his eyes, his heart clenching in his chest. “My mother.” He has to swallow down the hot press of emotions that wants to spill out of him just at the thought of her. “My mother was a wonderful woman and an excellent queen. I have never met someone kinder than her; she loved each and every one of our people with her entire selfless heart, and she always knew how best to diffuse a conflict before it could turn ugly and bloody. She treated this kingdom like her garden, always tending to it, nurturing it, in the hopes that it would continue to bloom for years and years, even after she was… she was gone. I can’t be that , I can’t. I’m not her, and I don’t know how to be. I never have.”

Bucky draws in a deep breath next to him. Steve can feel it as it expands in his chest (and Steve will always, always marvel at the adaptability of Bucky’s body, that he can breathe easily whether he’s on land or in the water), as it leaves him in a quiet huff. 

“You’re right, Steve. You’re not your mother. You’re not Sarah.”

Steve just nods, because what else can he do? The truth is as horrible as it is irrefutable.

“ But ,” Bucky says, his hand reaching down to card through Steve’s hair. The contact startles Steve into opening his eyes, and he sees Bucky looking at him with such unrestrained fondness that he can hardly bear to breathe at the sight of it. “But. That’s alright, Steve. You don’t have to be Sarah, because you’re Steve . Brave, loyal, headstrong Steve, who would do anything for his people. Steve, who sings such lovely lullabies to anyone who asks it of him.” Bucky smiles. “You are more than enough, Steve Rogers. You are exactly what your kingdom needs, because you would never allow yourself to be anything less.”

Tears prick at Steve’s eyes, burning twin tracks down his cheeks. Bucky brushes them aside with his thumb, gently caressing his skin, and he still looks so indescribably fond, and Steve just — Steve loves him. He’s known him a week and he loves him. He thinks this was inevitable, from the first moment he laid eyes on his beautiful savior. Steve feels nothing but right at the realization.

“ Bucky ,” he says. What else could he possibly say in this moment, with his heart in his throat and invariably on his sleeve, and Bucky staring at him so tenderly?

He watches Bucky swallow, traces his eyes along the length of his throat. His voice is breathless and lovely when he asks, “Can I kiss you, Steve?”

“ Please .”

Bucky shifts to plant his hands on either side of Steve’s head, half draped across his chest, so warm and so solid. Perfect . Steve wishes it was warm enough that he could have forgone his jacket, at least, wanting fewer layers between them, but he stows the thought and focuses on threading his fingers into Bucky’s curls and guiding his mouth down to Steve’s in an achingly soft kiss.

The noise Steve lets out at the touch of Bucky’s lips would be far more embarrassing if he didn’t hear an answering groan from Bucky in the next moment. He feels Bucky smile against his lips, and nips at him in retaliation, which prompts Bucky to growl playfully and roll himself fully on top of Steve. Steve laughs and snakes his arms around Bucky’s back, pulling him flush against him; he tangles his legs with Bucky’s tail, and there isn’t even a second of hesitation, no second-guessing despite the unfamiliar anatomy. Bucky is Bucky , and he’s everything Steve never knew he wanted.

He loses track of how many kisses pass between them, some tender and chaste, others gaining heat and intent that they can’t possibly act on tonight. Bucky proves much better at reigning Steve in than the other way around; he slows them down when Steve grows desperate and restless, his hands wandering over the join of scales and flesh where Bucky’s tail begins, and he chuckles softly at the whine Steve lets out when Bucky pulls back far enough that Steve can’t chase him.

“Buck, c’mon, get back here—”

“Steve!” Bucky laughs, pressing a hand to Steve’s mouth to cut him off. “We can’t spend the night here and you know it. Some of us have places to be in the morning.”

Steve glares up at him sullenly. The reminder of his coronation is unwanted… but not unwarranted. It might just be the only thing that could prevent Steve from figuring out exactly how he’s going to pleasure Bucky right this second, the differences in their bodies be damned. 

When Bucky removes his hand, Steve says, “You’re evil.”

Bucky cocks a brow. “Evil, hm? That’s not what you said earlier…”

“Earlier you had your tongue in my mouth. Circumstances have changed, Bucky, and so have my perceptions of you.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

Ridiculously in love , Steve agrees silently, which is about when he realizes the sheer insanity of the situation. Not that he would trade a second of it for anything, but… he’s going to ache walking back to the castle tonight. Alone. He won’t be able to share this with his friends, either, not fully; he could tell them he’s met someone, but they’ll want to meet them and he hasn’t yet figured out a way to introduce Bucky to them without inciting panic in Natasha and Sam. Or Bucky for that matter. In the short time they’ve spent together Steve has learned some unsettling things about the relationship between humans and Mer; not all of his mothers stories were unfounded, but neither are the stories Bucky has from his own family about the brutality of human beings.

Now isn’t the time to parse through his tangled thoughts. They can wait until after tonight, until after his coronation tomorrow. For now, he lets himself hold Bucky close, tucking his face into the Mer’s throat and breathing in the sharp, salty smell of him. Steve could live off this scent, he’s sure; replace all the air in his lungs with it and live a perfectly happy life. Dramatic, sure, but no less heartfelt than anything else Steve has thought about Bucky.

He feels Bucky’s fingers in his hair again, his lips at his temple. “You’re going to make a great king, Steve,” he murmurs. “And I’ll be here for you as long as you’ll have me.”

“I’ll have you always if I get my way,” Steve mumbles into his skin.

“You’ll hear no complaints from me.”

They stay like that, wrapped around one another, for another few minutes, content to exist together and for each other only. And then Steve sighs, dropping back into the sand, his hands sliding regretfully from around Bucky’s waist to fall down at his sides. Bucky rolls again onto his back, linking their hands together without hesitation. Steve smiles despite his worries. He’s happy here with Bucky — that’s worth fighting for, and he will fight for it when he has to. But not tonight; tonight there’s no struggle, no strife. Just the two of them. Steve can have this until dawn, and he’ll do whatever he has to to ensure he has it for all the dawns to come, as well.

He turns his head to see Bucky already looking back at him, smiling softly. He’s practically glowing in the moonlight, not just his scales but every inch of him, silver and shimmering from his very pores. Steve loves him. He loves him, loves him, loves him, and he has no intention of letting him go.

Steve draws up their clasped hands, presses a lingering kiss to the back of Bucky’s. Bucky’s nose scrunches as his smile widens, that sweet hint of pink in his cheeks again. 

Bucky’s like the sea, he thinks — he quiets the storm inside of Steve, leaves him buzzing pleasantly, makes him feel so much more himself than he can ever remember being. Steve can only hope he’s as much a comfort to Bucky as Bucky is to him, and if he isn’t then that’s only something for him to work on in the future. Their future.

“Tomorrow?” Bucky asks, still smiling, as light begins creeping up from the distant horizon.

“Tomorrow,” Steve agrees.

I’ll give you all my tomorrows , he thinks . All of them, for the rest of my life.

Forever .