Archive of Our Own

Steve tilted his head up and stared at the sky. It stretched out above him, gray as ever. A few darker clouds drifted over the park—it was probably going to rain soon. And if it rained soon, the likelihood of Steve getting wet was high. And if he got wet, he’d probably get sick, and if he got sick, then he’d be stuck in bed for days.

“Stop that angry thinking and sit down,” Bucky said, lisping slightly through his newly missing front teeth.

“No,” Steve said simply. There was no one else to do the angry thinking, so he’d have to. His ma worried enough as it was, and Bucky didn’t do much thinking in general, so all that was left was Steve.

Bucky grumbled under his breath, but went back to his book.

Steve looked down at him. He was lying on his stomach in the grass, buttercups and dandelions bobbing around him, feet kicked up in the air. Mouth moving as he read. Steve watched his gaze travel down to the bottom of the page and flip over to the next one.

Steve couldn’t read very well yet. His Ma said that was okay, that he’d learn soon, and that some people learned faster than others. Steve didn’t mind, much. He was used to Bucky doing everything first.

“Maybe we should go.” He pointed to the clouds.

Bucky didn’t look up. “No. All the crying at home is driving me nuts.”

“It’s gonna rain.”

“Steve, sit down!” Bucky flipped his book over and glared; Steve sat. “We’re sitting in the park! Try and have some fun!”

“Do you ever wonder what we’ll do when we’re grownups?” Steve asked.

Bucky rolled over on to his back, propping himself up on his elbows, giving his full attention, which Steve appreciated. “No. Why?”

Steve picked a buttercup and stared at it. “Sometimes it feels kinda close, you know?”

“You’re six,” Bucky pointed out.

Steve sighed. He knew that, Bucky didn’t need to tell him. “You don’t ever wonder what we’re gonna do?”

“Get married probably. Get a cat, an apartment.” Bucky’s eyebrows shot up. “Hey! You wanna share a place with me? That’d be fun, right?”

“I might be allergic to cats,” Steve said doubtfully.

Bucky waved a hand and somehow managed not to fall flat on his back. “Probably not. But if you are, we’ll just get a dog instead. Come on, Steve.”

Steve looked up at the clouds again. They hung close, waiting for him to answer. Waiting, so they could open up and drench him, probably. “Okay.”

“Hey, we should maybe just get married and finish the whole thing off,” Bucky advised. “I wouldn’t mind marrying you, I guess.”

Steve squinted, unsure whether or not that was a compliment. “You askin’ me to marry you, Barnes?”

Bucky tipped his head back, a cheeky smile on his face. “Yeah. You gonna answer me or what?”

“Or what.”

The clouds rumbled a warning, and a few droplets landed on Steve’s knees. All through the park, people packed up their things and started for home. A man rode his bike past and Steve watched until he disappeared around the bend.

Steve stood up and Bucky followed him, grabbing his hand. Bucky’s hand was warm and a little sticky.

“You ignoring the person who just asked you to marry them?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “I’m too young to marry you.”

Bucky let go of him and scooped up his book. “Fine. So later, then.”

The clouds rumbled again and the rain fell more heavily. They ran through the grass, shrieking. Steve’s bangs plastered themselves to his forehead and his shirt slapped on his back. Bucky tossed a grin over his shoulder and Steve made sure to glare in reply.

They turned out of the park and on to Parkside Avenue. Bucky skidded around a newspaper stand, a lady with a dog, and two businessmen. Steve tripped on a newspaper, just missed the dog, and would’ve barreled straight into the businessmen if Bucky hadn’t yanked him away at the last minute.

Running around the next corner, they took a short cut through an alleyway, and Steve managed to trip on yet another newspaper. Bucky shook his head and took Steve’s hand.

“You’re nothin’ but trouble, aren’t you.”

“You’re just as much trouble,” Steve shot back, but it didn’t have much effect since his lungs were acting up.

Collapsing right inside the door of Steve’s tenement, they both turned and watched the rain fall on the city. Steve liked the pitter patter on the roofs, the way it washed everything in gray and cleaned the dust from the roads. Steve liked the way it looked from under a roof.

Above them, a door banged open. “That you, Steve?”

“Yes, Ms. Sarah!” Bucky hollered, thumping Steve on the back.

“Come up when you’re ready, I have some tea waiting,” she called back, like she’d known they would get caught in the rain and run home and that Steve would have trouble breathing, because of course she’d known.

Steve coughed, and missed Bucky’s reply.

“Come on, let’s get some tea,” Bucky muttered, still rubbing Steve’s back.

“Yeah, okay,” Steve got out, as though it was Bucky who needed some tea, and he was going along with it to be nice. Neither of them was fooled, but Steve appreciated it nonetheless. He appreciated it a lot.

“Come on,” Bucky said, tugging Steve to his feet. He waited for Steve to go first, and then followed him up the stairs.

***

“Steve, I’m bored,” Bucky moaned. He dragged out the first E in Steve, the way he did sometimes when he was trying to get Steve’s attention more than usual.

And as usual, it had very little effect.

“Steeeeve.”

Steve bit his lip and ignored him, still pouring over his large sheet of grocery paper that his Ma had given him the day before. Bucky was getting a little irritated with that paper—ever since it had arrived, Steve had been acting as though it was his best friend. He spent all his time with that paper, and Bucky had had just about enough of it.

“Steven Grant Rogers, you listen to me right now,” Bucky started, jabbing with his finger. Steve looked up with a frown, eyes flashing, and Bucky forgot what he was about to say, and instead sputtered weakly.

“Yes?” Steve asked sweetly.

Bucky wasn’t fooled by all that surface sweetness. “Why am I sittin’ here if you’re just gonna spend all your time with that paper?”

“Cause it’s hot outside and your Ma’s in a mood, that’s why.” Steve added a swipe of something to the paper, again—again!—not paying Bucky any attention. “Be my guest, leave, if you want to so bad.”

Bucky stood up and glared, trying his best to stay glaring and not bleed into wobbly crying. “Well gee,” he said, feigning indifference, “I didn’t know your new best pal was a sheet of grocery paper. Guess I know when I’m not wanted.”

Steve looked up, brow furrowed. “What are you talkin’ about? Sit back down and bang some sense into your head. Nobody but you is my pal, and nobody but you is dumb enough to think that.”

Bucky sat.

“Wanna grab another pencil?” Steve offered, holding out the olive branch in his own way; Bucky wasn’t too dumb to see that. Offering a prized pencil, letting Bucky have a bit of his paper…Bucky scooted around him and drew a pencil out of Steve’s small case.

Only, when confronted with the other side of the good for nothing paper, Bucky realized why this was a rubbish idea. “Steve.”

“…What.”

“I can’t draw.”

Steve smiled at that. “Sure, you can! Just takes practice, is all. Try somethin’, Buck, go on.”

Bucky sighed and scribbled a little stick figure with an angry scowl and hair sticking up. Stevie, he wrote underneath, in his loopy writing. Steve frowned at him and sneezed a few times, and he added Protector of small animals, the real tiny ones, the only ones smaller than he already is.

Steve’s frown bordered on a glower, but Bucky was off now, and there was no glower that could stop him. If Steve didn’t like it, then he shouldn’t’ve learned to read.

He added on to his words, describing tiny little hero Steve, and all the animals he rescued from an alley fight. His words flowed down the page and he scooted backwards with them, until he was at the edge, squeezing the last of them in. He sat up and ran a critical eye over their work. His writing had only gotten smaller and cramped as he went, but what the teachers at school didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

Steve’s side of the paper was slowly being covered in little pictures; the vase of flowers on the table, a view Bucky recognized as from the fire escape, Becca’s face in a pout, boots thrown haphazardly against the wall.

They were good, and Bucky was no expert, but they looked real good for an eleven-year-old. He wondered how good Steve would be when they were grownups.

“When we grow up, will you paint pictures for our house?”

Steve looked up and swiped at his bangs. “Only if you tell lots of stories.”

Bucky smiled. “Hey, draw somethin’ for me?” At Steve’s shrug he pointed at a nice big bare spot in the middle. “A room like this one, with cats?”

Steve’s gaze flicked up, excited. “And you write the story?”

They stayed grinning at one another for a second, and then bowed their heads and get to work. Bucky let his mind go, his hand barely able to keep up. Their soft scratching noises were occasionally punctuated by a small sneeze from Steve. At some point Bucky looked up; the patches of sunlight on the faded wooden floors had moved, drenching them in the late afternoon warmth. Steve chewed on his pencil thoughtfully and then went back to his drawing. Bucky brushed away a stray piece of hair and finished his story.

“Okay, show me,” he said, leaning over and nudging Steve’s shoulder with his own.

The picture was larger than he’d have thought, all sprawling out as though Steve kept getting ideas and adding. It was a room like this one, with a crumpled couch and an old chair up against the wall. A record player sat on the little table next to the window, and Bucky wondered if he’d used the real life window as inspiration for the sunbeams falling through. On the couch was a figure that was clearly meant to be Bucky, dark head bent. On his lap was a cat; on the chair was a cat, on the rug there were two more, and one last one curling over the back of the couch, head on Bucky’s shoulder.

“Where are you?” Bucky whispered, delighted at the magical picture.

Steve shrugged; Bucky’s shoulder moved with him. “Guess I’m sitting over here drawin’.”

“It’s beautiful,” Bucky said. Together, they had pulled it from their heads—a little piece of the future laid out for anyone to see. “Marry me.”

“Still too young, Buck,” Steve laughed. “And we gotta find a real house first.”

“Nah.” Bucky flipped over on his back and draped his arm over his face while Steve shifted the paper in order to read Bucky’s story. “We can live on dreams.”

Steve laughed again, although from what Bucky just said, or his story on the paper, it wasn’t clear. “No, we can’t, silly.”

Bucky opened his mouth to argue that yes, they could, but Steve lurched up excitedly. The sound of Sarah Rogers’ boots on the walk outside were audible, and the little piece of dream they’d created shattered.

Bucky stayed on his back and listened lazily. The sunlight caught in Steve’s hair as it passed, clinging as long as it could before it slipped away behind the buildings and was lost.

***

Steve jabbed at a potato. The potato didn’t even jab back, just got the peeler to do its dirty work, and then Steve had a bloody finger to deal with. Mrs. Barnes came bustling over with a wet handkerchief and he wrapped it around his hand and kept peeling.

Mrs. Barnes shot him a look and then bit her tongue. She walked over to the stove and went back to her measuring.

Steve attacked the next potato. This one behaved, and landed neatly in the pile ready for grating. Outside, loud footsteps were thundering up the stairs—shouting followed and a loud thump, like a body had slammed into the door.

The door opened and Becca Barnes marched in triumphantly, grinning ear to ear. “I won,” she called, setting a carton of eggs down on the table next to Steve.

Steve paused his peeling in order to pay attention and still keep all ten fingers. The handkerchief moved a little, pulling at the torn skin and he did his best to hid his wince.

“You won a rigged race,” Bucky said, coming in behind her, a bag of flour on his shoulder. His shirt was rumpled and he wore an exasperated expression as he set it down next to his mother. “Ma, you raised a cheat.”

“And a beautiful daughter,” Becca said smugly.

“Becca,” her mother warned, cracking the eggs into a bowl.

Becca slipped into the chair next to Steve and took the peeler from him. “How many fingers are you missing today, Rogers?”

“Still ten,” Steve promised. “Well…maybe nine and a half.”

Bucky appeared from nowhere and grabbed his hand. “What’d you do now, trouble?”

Steve let him fuss for a minute. At fifteen, Bucky’s hands were large and calloused, too large for his skinny body. His arms weren’t strong enough to support those hands, which Steve often teased him about, and Bucky would always reply with a remark hinting to the fact that Steve’s neck wasn’t strong enough support his big head.

“Sit down and grate these onions, James Barnes,” Mrs. Barnes said. “Steve’s fine.”

When Bucky hesitated, Steve ripped his hand away and tried to steal the peeler back from Becca. She held it just out of reach, insisting he sit down and let her do her job.

“I wanna help,” Steve said, sounding a little whiny, even to himself.

“Help by putting pressure on that finger and being the taste tester,” Mrs. Barnes said firmly, mixing the contents of the big bowl. “James, get out the skillet.”

Steve jumped up before Bucky could, and heaved the large cast iron pan out of the cupboard. Bucky just sighed and went back to grating the onion as fast as possible before he could get all weepy about it.

“Stop tryin’ to grab this from me! You don’t want to get blood in the latkes,” Becca scolded. “Go sit on the couch.”

Steve frowned.

Becca frowned back.

Steve pushed his chair back and stomped over to the couch. He could hear the Barneses staring at each other behind him, but he didn’t have the energy to try and puzzle out who was glaring at who to do what. The faded couch faced the window, and as he slumped down, he watched the pigeons warbling on the rail.

The cushions sank beside him and Bucky’s feet landed in his lap. Steve turned slowly and gave him the stink eye. “Shouldn’t you be helping your Ma?”

“Aw, it’s more helpful to get you outta your stink than to peel an onion,” Bucky said easily. “And I’m’ pretty good at getting you outta your stink, ain’t I?”

Well maybe he was, and maybe he wasn’t, but Steve sure as hell wasn’t gonna give it to him that easy. “Pretty good at chattering, that’s what.”

Bucky tipped his head back and smiled up at the ceiling. Steve wished he wouldn’t—it was a lot harder to be grumpy at someone with a smile like that. Steve shoved Bucky’s feet off his lap.

Bucky put them right back. “That’s my footrest.”

“That’s my lap,” Steve hissed.

“That’s my Steve,” Bucky sang, nudging him. “And ain’t he a sight.”

Steve shoved his feet again. Bucky put them right back. Steve pulled his knees up to his chest. Bucky put his feet on top on Steve’s knees. Steve coughed. “Get your socks outta my nose or I swear to God, James Barnes—”

Bucky laughed and moved them, stretched out along the couch with his ankles crossed. Steve, curled up at one end, huffed and did his best to stay grumpy.

“Hey there,” Bucky murmured, watching him closely. “Look, I did it again. Got you outta your stink, and at a record speed too, I bet. If you looked it up, right there in the dictionary next to fast, it’d say—”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Anyone ever tell you you’re an ass?”

“Once or twice.”

“Marry me, you ass.”

“I’ll have to think about it,” Bucky said after a beat, covering up his obvious surprise with a wink, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. When you thought about it, nothing had. “I’m a little too hungry to marry you right now.”

Steve rolled his eyes again.

“Stop whining and come try these latkes,” Becca called. “You’ll have plenty of time to marry each other afterwards.”

***

Bucky leaned on his elbow and watched the moonlight drip over the rails of the fire escape. As far as the eye could see was sliver rails and crisscrossing stairs, like a ladder to the heavens from one of Bucky’s ma’s tales. He turned and glanced to his right.

Becca was snoring softly, head on Steve’s lap, knees bent up and tucked to her chest, coat collar up around her ears. Steve had his eyes closed too, and his head tipped back against the chilled brick, but Bucky knew he wasn’t asleep yet.

“Whatcha thinkin’?”

Steve blinked and smiled at Bucky. “Nothin’.”

“Well, what else is new, huh?” Bucky teased. Steve reached out and shoved him, but gently, so as not to disturb Becca.

The harsh light turned Steve’s hair snow white, left his already pale skin nearly blue. Bucky instinctively pulled Steve’s collar up, even though it’d been weeks since Steve had been sick—but he couldn’t help but feel there was an invisible countdown to the next bad bout, and if he staved it off long enough, maybe it would go away.

“Are you cold?” Steve asked, instead of protesting, which was what Bucky expected.

“Nah, I’m—”

“Don’t be stupid, it’s freezing out here. Maybe we should go back in.”

Bucky nodded and crawled around him. Becca was still completely out, and she only groaned slightly when Bucky scooped her up. Steve grabbed the blankets and led the way through the window before turning around to help Bucky through, which was no easy feat on a normal day, and even harder with an armful of sleeping girl.

They managed to throw her down on Bucky’s bed, and Bucky stretched, tipping his head back. The inside of the apartment was darker, gloomy almost, with only patches of moonlight allowed in. The window was still open, and Steve shut it quietly, closing them off from the faint street noises.

“Should we wake her?”

Bucky sighed and shook his head. “Nah, that’s okay. She’s got work early tomorrow, and Ma will know she’s here. She can stay—I’ll take the couch tonight.”

“Just sleep with me,” Steve said, bending over and messing with the pile of blankets on his bed. “Not like you’ve grown that much.”

Bucky had grown quite a lot since they used to share a bed, back when they were eight or something, and he told Steve so.

“Shut up,” Steve hissed, now taking off his jacket and throwing it on a chair. “You’re gonna wake Becca and then we’ll have her complaining to add to the mix.”

“Oh, well then we’ll be just fine!” Bucky threw his hands up, but made sure to whisper. “Why don’t we go bother my ma, get the whole Barnes set?”

Steve ignored him, sitting and untying his boots. “Get in bed, you kvetch.”

“I’m definitely not the kvetch in this relationship,” Bucky pointed out, kicking off his shoes. “Just for the record.”

“The record hears your statement and writes it off as the lunacy it is,” Steve said tartly, climbing in bed and promptly yanking the covers over his head.

Bucky debated saying something extremely rude, which would then make Steve pissed and start pointing out every one of Bucky’s flaws, and then they’d each stomp off to bed irritably until they woke up the next morning, everything forgotten. Or he could just suck up his pride and go to sleep.

“Fine,” he settled with, to make clear that this was all Steve’s idea. He pulled the covers back and crawled in, replacing them as soon as possible so as to keep out the cold air of the apartment.

Steve flipped around to face him, tangling one of his feet with Bucky’s. His breath was warm, but his toes were positively frigid. Of course. Bucky gazed at him, and then when he started, he couldn’t seem to stop. Steve just looked back, turning his head a little to keep his good ear from being buried in the pillow.

“Is this what you pictured?” he asked, his voice barely audible, his eyes pale blue in the moonlight. “When you invited me to that apartment with all the cats?”

Bucky wasn’t sure if Steve meant the two of them lying in the bed together, or Becca coming over and falling asleep, or the sheer lack of cats, or the otherworldly light making Steve glow like an angel. “There aren’t a lot cats,” he got out.

The right corner of Steve’s lips quirked. “Wherever they are, I hope they’re eating better than we are.”

Bucky could remind Steve that it wasn’t his fault times were hard, and that they had to scramble to make ends meet. But he realized, he didn’t want to talk about the real world at the moment. Lying there together, they were decidedly not in the real world—so why should they pretend?

“They’re probably catching fish,” he said, the idea clinging to him and asking to be let out. “From the little pond we built out back.”

Steve’s eyes lit up even brighter, if that was possible, and he settled down to listen.

“Some days I hear you scolding them, get away from the goldfish, you dumb cat, they ain’t for you! And they slink away, but they’re always back the next day, terrorizing those poor fish.” Bucky was transfixed by the light clinging to Steve’s eyelashes, and distracted. Bucky was almost always distracted these days.

“What else?” Steve whispered.

Bucky forced himself to look away. “Becca made us curtains, which I hung up—bright yellow, and cheerful as anything. And you’d sit at the kitchen table and sketch out your commissions while I threw somethin’ together for dinner. And the cats would come on by every night at just the right time, like someone was hanging a sign, advertisin’ a free dinner. Or maybe a certain someone kept feeding them.”

Steve grinned.

“They’d get in the way while we ate—sittin’ underneath the table. And you’d forget and get up only to step on some sorry bastard’s tail, and there’d be a godawful yowl, and the rest of the cats would scatter and you’d probably trip and fall on your face.”

Steve wrinkled his nose. “I wouldn’t fall.”

“Yeah, you would.”

“And then you’d declare you’d had enough of cats, and you were washing your hands of the whole business,” Steve said softly, eyes bright. “And both me and the cats would know you were back to talkin’ shit.”

Bucky just shook his head into the pillow. “Sorry we don’t have a cat, Stevie.”

“It’s for the best,” Steve assured him. “What with my allergies, and the not enough food business, and me dropping dead every winter…”

Bucky looked up at that; clutched at Steve’s thin wrist. “Nobody is doin’ any dropping dead, understand?”

Steve sighed and tried to pull away but Bucky didn’t let him.

“Yeah, we have it rough, yeah winter is hard. But you’re better now, it’s been a while since you been sick, you’re breathin’ easy. Nobody’s dropping dead on my watch.”

Steve smiled faintly. “Nobody would dare, Buck.”

Bucky burrowed a little deeper into the blankets. They were quiet for a long time, long enough that he started to feel relaxed enough that he considered going to sleep. Steve coughed.

“You okay?” Bucky asked, his thoughts picking up immediately and running away without him. Oh god, you jinxed it, what have you done, now he’s gonna get sick, quick, warm him up—

“Fine,” Steve choked out in between coughs that were desperately trying to keep quiet. Bucky patted his back and whispered nonsense. After a few minutes Steve inhaled deeply and settled back into the pillows, facing the wall.

“You makin’ a liar outta me?” Bucky murmured, trying to stay calm. No point in worrying twice. “You planning on getting sick just to spite me?”

Steve, the little punk, chuckled weakly. “No promises.”

Bucky shook his head and yanked him close. Steve’s feet were no longer ice cubes, which was a good start. He should look for more blankets tomorrow, maybe borrow a couple from his ma. The last thing they needed was Steve freezing in the drafty tenement—he could wear Bucky’s sweater at night too, maybe Bucky should go get it now—

“Go to sleep, Bucky,” Steve breathed, voice low. “I’m fine, everyone’s fine, you can sleep.”

Bucky buried his face in the back of Steve’s neck. He hoped to God that his warmth would be enough, that it would keep Steve well. It was all he could do, and he hated that he didn’t have more to give. It would have to be enough.

“Marry me, Steve,” he said, and he meant be well, be well, be well.

“Okay, Bucky,” Steve whispered, and he meant I promise.

If only he could promise such a thing. In the warmth and safety of the blankets, in the pale moonlight, Bucky allowed himself the delusion that he could.

***

Steve had long since tired of staring at the wall but he did it anyway. He watched the black fade to gray, and then the first beams of the sun filter past the neighboring tenements.

The wall didn’t do anything, which he’d figured out in the first three hours. It just sat there, staring back at him, decorated in their silly little papers; a newspaper clipping or two, a postcard with a picture of the Brooklyn bridge on it and Steve’s twin sketch, a few more sketches of pedestrians, Steve’s ma, and Bucky.

Light had covered half the wall when he heard footsteps in the other room. Steve swallowed and continued staring at patterns and pictures long memorized.

Bucky appeared in the doorway, hair carefully styled, tie neat, and carrying his shoes so as to not wake up Steve. Who had been awake for hours.

Steve waited.

Bucky padded over to the door and then turned, looking for Steve, asleep in his bed; he found Steve, very much awake in the chair.

“What the hell.”

Steve flicked his eyes up—other than that he didn’t move.

“Steve, it’s too early, what are you doin’ awake? Get back in bed now, go on.”

He knew damn well why Steve was up so early, so instead of pretending he didn’t hear, Steve looked at him and ignored him.

Bucky set his shoes down and walked over. “Hey. Go back to sleep, okay?”

Steve just glared up at him—it didn’t have much effect even before his lip wobbled. He looked away, angry with himself.

“Steve.”

Steve knew if he opened his mouth, he’d say something he’d regret, so instead he stood up and buried his face in the scratchy material of Bucky’s jacket; wrapped his arms around and clung tight. Maybe if he held on tight enough, Bucky would stay there forever.

“Steve,” Bucky repeated. “It’s just training. I’ll write you every day, I swear it. And I’ll be back before too long, you know that.”

Steve shook his head, anger and fear and guilt running together inside of him, threatening to turn him into a weepy mess.

“Hey, maybe with me gone, you can finally get your cats,” Bucky offered.

Steve pulled away, appalled. “Bucky, a cat’s not gonna replace you. And I’m allergic, remember? And you’re the one who wanted the cats, I just wanted—” you. But he couldn’t say that, now could he.

“Aww, we’ll get a cat,” Bucky promised, once again falling back into his storytelling so as to avoid the harsh truth. And right then, Steve hated him for it. “Probably two so we don’t have to fight over what to name ‘em. And they’ll keep you company as you listen to the games, or write me letters, huh?”

Steve ground his teeth.

“And then when I get back, you won’t realize it at first, but the cats will be pawing at you, tellin’ you that somethin’s wrong.”

“That somethin’s right,” Steve corrected in spite of himself.

Bucky waved a hand carelessly. “Yeah. Keep an eye out for some cats, okay? And don’t catch a chill—wear that old sweater you’re so fond of. And don’t forget to pay O’Leary on the first Saturday—”

“I know,” Steve said, mostly to get him to stop talking in that awful way. “Get outta here.”

Bucky saluted sloppily and spun away. Steve watched him slip his shoes on and pause in the doorway. The lines of his back were taut, but he didn’t turn around. He disappeared through the door, framed like a painting.

Steve counted his breaths, waiting—for what, he wasn’t sure. The doorway stayed empty, along with everything else in the whole city.

Trying to breathe normally, he ran outside. The hallway was deserted, and he scrambled down the stairs without bothering to look over the rail; he’d be in time, he had to be.

And he was—Bucky was just leaving the front step when Steve called his name.

Steve couldn’t stop himself in time, and he half fell down the last three stairs. Bucky reached out and steadied him, concern etched all over his face. “What is it, pal?”

“You’re gonna write every day?” Steve gasped. “And come back as soon as you can? And not do anything stupid, or dangerous—”

“Yes, I’ll write every day,” Bucky said, concern fading into exasperation. “And I’ll come here first leave I get—before I even go to my folks’, which shows how much your pig-head means to me.”

Steve hugged him again; he couldn’t help it, not when it would be the last hug for so long. He let go too quickly and managed a smile, trying to lighten the mood a little. He wanted Bucky to leave in good spirits, wanted everything to be normal. “Marry me, Barnes?”

Bucky looked up and down the street before answering with a little sideways grin. Something about that grin was strangely sad. “Find me a cat first, Rogers. Then we’ll talk.”

He walked away before Steve could say another word, or go back for another cowardly hug. At the end of the street, he turned and waved once. Then he was gone.

Steve stood on the front step and stared at the sky.

***

Dear Bucky,

I’m awfully sorry it’s been rainin’ so much in Italy; that sounds dreadful. We’ve had pretty good weather here, I guess—it’s just starting to get cold, but I’m fine now and you don’t even have to wor—I’ve still got your old sweater at least.

Your new friends sound swell—I can only imagine the tales you’re telling them; wild stories about your heroics and bravery, or maybe how you’re always having to clean up after a real scrawny friend of yours, or maybe about that cat you always wanted but never could have.

I haven’t found you one yet, but it’s just as well. We’ve got other things to deal with right now anyways.

Write back soon so I don’t go crazy starin’ at all these pigeons.

Steve

Dear Steve,

The weather’s better now—yesterday I sat under a tree and wrote a list of all the things I wanted to tell you; from the little bird that was singin’ above my head to the smell of this godawful camp, and then this ass here named Dugan has the nerve to take it for a look and lose the whole thing.

So, I remember nothing of that list, and Dugan got his sleeping bag stolen and had to sleep without it last night. The person who took it will probably give it back today—but if he squirms for a little, that’s okay with me.

The fellas all ask after you, and it’s a good thing I can never run out of stories of your stupidity. I’m joking, there are some that aren’t about your stupidity, but they’re few and far between, and the fellas don’t like ‘em as much.

How’s Becca? I got a letter from her a few days ago that said she was real mad at you about somethin’ or other, and the only reason she missed me was so we could be mad at you together. I’d be mad at you if it meant I could be home right now, sitting on the fire escape teasing Becca and you defending her with your face all red from indignation. Tell her I said to go to hell.

I found a cat out here; did you know that? Tiny scrap of a thing, just like you, although her hair was black. She followed us for a few days, and I fed her some of Dugan’s dinner, but then the fighting got real close and she hasn’t come back—probably found some other sorry sap to feed her.

Thanks for the drawing—the apartment looks a mess though, is that how it is when I’m not there to keep you in line? Clean up your socks, you heathen.

I gotta go, I think Dugan found his sheets rolled up in my pack, but I’m not too worried—now I’ve got him in the act of goin’ through my pack for my rations—oh look, he’s comin’ my way shouting up a storm.

So, take care of yourself, you hear me?

Yours, Bucky

Dear Bucky,

You know I’m not home right now—working on something I can’t tell you, but I wrote Becca to let her know, and she would like me to inform you that she’ll see you in hell and you won’t be you comin’ out on top. Also, she said if either of us rats on her swearing to your father she’ll tell him about the time we accidentally smashed Mr. Cobbler’s window and ran.

I still think we shoulda owned up about that you know.

Dugan sounds like a real character, and I’m glad you’ve got your friends, even if they sound like snooping fellas who have terrible taste in stories. Maybe I’ll write Dugan a letter with a full out novel enclosed, titled  The Stupidity of James Barnes. The mailmen wouldn’t be able to carry it, it’d weigh so much.

Write soon,

Steve

Dear Bucky,

It’s real rude of you not to write. Are you mad at me? Your ma wrote me two days ago soundin’ all worried and wondering if I’d heard from you recently, and what was I supposed to say—oh your son holds a grudge for a while and isn’t speakin’ to me? At least write her, huh, and let her know you’re okay.

I found a cat where I am too. It was yellows and muddy browns, and about as sorry lookin’ as you, when you come in from the rain. I coaxed it under the tents and fed it a few crackers, but it didn’t like me much. So, don’t worry about me bein’ too forward or anything; that’s not the cat for you anyhow. I’m still lookin’, though, and I’ll hold you to your word, unless you’re feelin’ particularly tired or somthin’.

Please write, Buck.

Steve

Bucky, I swear to God, get your head out of your rear. Jesus Christ how can anyone accuse me of bein’ the stubborn one?

Steve

Dear Bucky,

You had better be bein’ stubborn and prideful. In fact, you better have a whole lotta pride because when I see you next, I’m gonna smear that fat face of yours in the mud for not writing me back. But either you’re bein’ stubborn, or you’re somthin’ else, and I can’t even think that. I’d know, wouldn’t I? I thought I would, at least.

Becca says she’s not mad at us anymore and just wants us home. Her and me both.

You not writing is driving me loopy, you jerk. What if I found you a cat, a real one, and you never knew because of your stupid stubbornness? What then?

I’m tired and I’m going to bed, and I’m mad at you. You owe me big, Barnes.

Steve

***

The sun didn’t rise exactly; the clouds just went from black to white. It reminded Steve of that day last year when Bucky had left for Basic: the way the wall had slowly shifted from one monochrome to the other.

Only this time, he spotted all the little pieces of color—the pale yellow flowers stubbornly swaying by the side of the road, the red of his shield prop that was leaning on a tree.

Bucky’s friend Dugan was snoring a little ways away, loud snoring that had the men lying around him rolling their eyes and trying to go back to sleep with their arms over their heads. Steve didn’t mind it—he found he didn’t need much sleep anymore.

Someone had to keep watch, so it might as well be him.

Beside him, Bucky twitched. Steve glanced down at him to make sure he was really there, and then went back to watching the yellow flowers. If he had a sketchbook right now, he’d draw them in soft lines and try to capture their gentle swaying.

Bucky twitched again, making a quiet moaning sound. Steve hesitated before placing his hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

“Hey, Buck, wake up.”

Bucky shook once more and then opened his eyes.

“Hey,” Steve said again, trying to smile. “How’re you feeling?”

Bucky shrugged him off and sat up. The shadows under his eyes had only grown, and he wasn’t talking much, which worried Steve the most.

Steve reached into his pack and pulled out a square of chocolate he’d been saving. He offered it to Bucky hopefully.

Bucky pushed his hand away.

“Come on,” Steve said. “You gotta eat something.”

“You gotta eat something,” Bucky said, speaking for the first time since last night when he’d gasped out How could you, you idiot, I’m gonna kill you myself—you just jumped—you idiot, I swear to god—

Steve, who’d leaped across the exploding base and hauled himself over the rail only to fall on top of Bucky, was already looking for the exit. Now he wished he’d had a moment to tell Bucky that they were gonna be fine. He wished for a million moments to just talk to Bucky and convince them both they were fine.

“I don’t need—”

“Don’t lie to me, Rogers,” Bucky said tiredly. “I know you, and I know my own head even better. You’re just trying to get me to eat, but jokes on you. Even the dream version of you needs taking care of.”

That stopped him for a moment. “Dream version?”

Bucky sneered back. “Yeah. Am I dead now, is that what this is? Or are you just one more of their tricks, tryin’ to get me to talk? They couldn’t even get you right, the assholes.” He waved a hand, gesturing to Steve’s whole appearance. “You don’t look like this.”

Steve frowned, putting a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. He didn’t know what to say, how to convince Bucky that he wasn’t an apparition; hell, if the situation had been reversed Steve probably wouldn’t’ve believed it either.

“You’re not him,” Bucky said, but his voice shook a little, like he wasn’t so sure anymore.

Steve bowed his head. What could he say? Sometimes he felt the same way. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky squinted at him angrily. “Stop that. That’s exactly what my Steve would say.”

Steve looked away. The other men were slowly waking up, muttering to each other quietly and still shooting the snoring Dugan dirty looks. It was almost time to start again, and Steve didn’t know how he was going to rally everyone, not if Bucky was doubting him and still unsteady on his feet.

A man with a red beret perched jauntily on his head walked over and squatted next to them, shooting a concerned glance at Bucky before turning his attention to Steve.

“Everyone’s made it through the night, Captain. We can switch out the wounded on the tank today, to give a few others a bit of a rest.”

“Thank you,” Steve said, wishing to death that he remembered this fella’s name.

“Major James Falsworth, sir,” the man said with a tiny grin.

“You see him too?” Bucky asked.

Falsworth turned to Bucky. “Yes, Sergeant. I think he’s real.”

“Goddammit,” Bucky muttered.

Falsworth nodded once more at Steve and walked away, kicking Dugan gently and saying, “Stop that godawful racket, if you would.”

Steve shot a glance at Bucky, who was staring back at him suspiciously. “Bucky…”

“Marry me,” Bucky said at once.

Steve shushed him. Nobody would think twice about it, he hoped, not if Bucky clearly wasn’t thinking right, but they didn’t need to take that chance.

Bucky crowded up close to him and stuck out his jaw so there was no way Steve could miss it. “Marry me.”

“I’m too dirty,” Steve said finally. “And I haven’t found you a cat yet.”

Bucky sank back against the tree and studied him. Slowly he reached out and brushed a finger across Steve’s nose. “Steve.”

“Yeah, Bucky.”

“Oh god.” Bucky buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking, but from what, Steve couldn’t tell. “Oh god it’s actually you. Oh my god, Steve. What the fuck did you do?”

Steve paused, halfway in between reaching for him and backing away. “What?”

Bucky turned and threw his arms around Steve’s neck, breathing irregular. Steve took a deep breath, only just realizing he hadn’t been this whole time, until then. It was odd hugging Bucky like this; his arms went all the way around Bucky’s back—although it was hard to say whether that was the serum, or just the fact that Bucky was so thin. Steve held him tighter.

“What the fuck did you do,” Bucky kept muttering, clinging just as tightly. “What the fuck did you do.”

Steve decided it would take too long to go through everything he’d done it the last few days and try to piece out what it was Bucky was pissed about. He just held him close for as long as Bucky let him.

“I can’t believe I want to marry such a stupid shithead,” Bucky whispered.

***

“When all this is over, I’m gonna take you to a dance hall.”

“Aww, Buck, no,” Steve moaned.

Bucky kicked him, scanning the area with his binoculars. Behind them, Falsworth fiddled with the radio. In front, below them, was snow and trees and more snow and trees, and then a solid stream of smoke reaching heavenward.

“Aww yes,” Bucky continued absently, waving a hand over his shoulder at Falsworth. “Just you and me, Rogers, and the band. And somethin’ good for dinner. None of this shit they’re givin’ us right now.”

Steve scowled, and glared down at him. It had stopped giving Bucky headaches at least, Steve looking down at him. It was still disconcerting as hell, and Bucky was always happiest when Steve was slumped down somewhere below him. Everything had been turned upside down, and he scrounged for the scraps of normalcy, however small.

“What?” Bucky said, dropping the binoculars. They bounced once against his chest and then hung still. It was an easy habit to get into—too many times he’d forgotten he hadn’t been using the strap, and dropped them straight to the ground. It was lucky they weren’t more than scratched—he had the feeling they wouldn’t be getting replaced out here. “You got a problem with some good music?”

Steve went back to watching the plume of smoke. “They get out okay, Monty?”

“Affirmative, Captain. Perhaps with a little less of Private Dugan’s mustache, but otherwise else unsinged.” Falsworth said.

“Well, that’s alright,” Steve replied, a grin creeping up on his face. “I’m only interested in valuable losses.”

“Hey,” Bucky said, tilting his head to get it in between Steve and Falsworth. “Don’t ignore me, punk.”

“Did you hear something, Monty?”

“Not a thing, Captain.”

Bucky kicked snow at Falsworth and then tackled Steve to the ground. “I am offering to take you out for dinner and you’re not even listening!” He held Steve down and shoved snow in his face.

Steve giggled, squirming to get away. He was strong now, stronger than Bucky, but he never used that monster strength during one of their small tussles. In fact, he never used it unless he was throwing that metal target he wore on his back all the time, or muscling open a tank. Bucky ground one last handful on his crooked nose and then let him go.

“Okay,” Steve breathed, cheeks rosy and eyes bright. “Okay, buy me dinner.”

Bucky decided not to offer him a hand up, on account of those eyes trying to do things to him. “And then dancing.”

“No,” Steve wailed. “I hate dancing—I’m not your stupid date, Barnes.”

“Well, out here, you are,” Bucky said cheerily. “My date, pal, and family all rolled into one.”

Falsworth coughed.

“Is something wrong?” Steve sat up, his captain voice showing up again, all careful concern. “Is it the fellas?”

“No,” Falsworth assured, looking strangely cheerful for someone with a snow covered rock digging into his rear.

“So anyway,” Bucky said, irritated that they kept trying to change the subject, “We go dancin’, and then climb up too my Ma’s fire escape and fall asleep under the stars like we used to when we were kids.” He can imagine it; horns honking a block away, the warm night air that’s so different from the crispness of the mountains, Steve beside him, soft breathing noises as they drift off. And then Becca’s loud singing would wake them up in the morning.

“I refuse to go dancing,” Steve said.

Bucky jerked out of his daydream, thoroughly done. “Yeah? Fuck you too, Rogers.”

“Marry me, Barnes.” Steve beamed, and if Bucky had a little more selfishness or foolishness in him, he’d say yes right then and there. A few snowflakes drifted down and landed on Steve’s bangs; Bucky reached out and brushed them away.

“Yeah, okay, punk,” he said quietly. “When hell freezes over.”

“What do you call winter in the Austrian alps?” Falsworth quipped.

***

Steve blocked Bucky’s punch and launched a series of blows. Bucky retreated, smacking each one away and brought his knee up. Steve danced around it and got a good punch in toward his jaw. Bucky ducked it at the last moment and ripped away, smacking Steve with the metal arm.

Steve flipped over backwards and brought his arms up just in time to block Bucky’s hit. Bucky shoved and Steve wrapped his arms around him and yanked him down too.

They lay on the mat breathing rapidly.

“Again?” Steve asked.

“Again.”

Steve stood up, swiping his sweaty bangs off his forehead. He bounced on the balls of his feet, waiting. Bucky smirked and waited too.

“Fine,” Steve said, and he leaped forward. Bucky blocked each of his hits right before they made contact and Steve lost himself in it, so happy, just delirious, that he could fight this way, and still have it be a game; still have it be safe. He’d only ever been able to do that with Thor before, and Thor wasn’t around much these days, and anyway, it was three times as fun with Bucky.

Bucky grinned, like he knew Steve’s mind was wandering, and lashed out, knocking Steve around on to the defensive.

Steve caught his left fist and pulled, yanking Bucky past him; Bucky rolled and came up with a kick that landed Steve on his knee before he straightened up and got Bucky in a headlock.

“Done yet?” he gasped, doing his best to tighten his grip as Bucky tried to wiggle out.

“I can—do this all day—you ass!” Bucky hissed, jabbing his elbow into Steve’s gut.

“Rude!” Steve kicked his arm away and continued clinging on like his life depended on it. Which it didn’t. “Only I get to say that.”

Bucky stopped fighting, which only made Steve tighten his arms even further, waiting for the attack. They waited like that; Bucky standing still as death, and Steve on his back hanging on. It’d look pretty funny to a person walking by, and the thought of that made Steve chuckle.

Bucky twisted violently and all of a sudden was facing Steve. Steve locked his arms together, unwilling to give at all, even though Bucky’s face was inches from his own.

“Let go, you punk,” Bucky breathed.

“No.”

Bucky grunted and then the metal arm ripped Steve’s right arm away. Steve clung as best he could, but then Bucky kicked his leg off to, and Steve let go as quickly as possible in order to leap into a kick, which nailed Bucky square in the chest and gave Steve a heartbeat to leap on him, knocking them both to the floor again.

Steve laughed into Bucky’s sweatshirt, and underneath, he could feel Bucky laughing too, along with the steady beat of his heart.

“Punk,” Bucky declared, relaxing and letting his head rest against the mat.

Steve inhaled deep gulps of air and remained where he was, still on top of Bucky. It was nice, on top of Bucky, mainly because it meant he didn’t have to move.

He reached out over the edge of the mat and pressed his hand flat to the gym floor, which was cool. Bucky’s left hand was lying nearby, and it was cool too. Steve ran his finger from Bucky’s wrist to the tip of his tallest finger.

“Steve?”

“Yeah?” Steve said distractedly. Bucky’s wrist plates shifted, making their funny little whirring noises, and he brushed one with his hand; the panels clicked away.

“…Will you marry me?”

Steve jerked his head up, everything but Bucky bleeding into white hot silence. “What?”

Bucky frowned, looking bewildered. “Did…did we not say that? I thought…”

And now Steve felt like an idiot—they did, they said it a lot, but not like that, and for a moment he’d thought…and how best to explain it? The kinds of joking that had come so easily to Bucky before, the kinds he was only just relearning, tentatively poking fun at Steve, or his hand, or his hair, constantly in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Steve said finally. “Yeah, we did say it. It was…”

Only now that he was thinking about it, had it been a joke? Of course, it had, but it hadn’t just been a joke, right? It started out as a promise, two kids deciding what kind of future they’d wanted, and then it’d become a game, to see what kind of excuses they could make up, and then it had been something else.

Find me a cat first, Rogers. Then we’ll talk. Steve had spent weeks feverishly looking for a cat. What he’d do with it, he had no idea, but there was a part of him that thought that if he’d just found that cat, Bucky would’ve come back home and everything would’ve been okay again.

“I haven’t found you a cat yet,” he said stupidly.

Bucky stared for a minute, and then threw his head back laughing. Steve watched him, a queasy feeling in his stomach, although he wasn’t sure if it was from the uncertainty of something that used to be so certain, or that after lying on Bucky for so long his foot was falling asleep, or from the sweat gleaming on Bucky’s neck.

Stop, he told himself sternly.

“Get off me,” Bucky said finally, still smiling brightly.

Steve rolled off and on to his back. His hopes for not moving were dashed when Bucky offered him a hand up and mentioned a shower and getting something to eat. Steve followed him out of the gym, wondering when Bucky was going to bring it up again—surely there was a conversation there, in the whole marry me/cat business?

But Bucky didn’t bring it up.

***

Bucky braced one foot on the edge of the roof. On his right Barton was waiting too, for the signal, which should’ve been a few seconds ago. What was going on?

“Steve, what the hell, we’re waiting.”

The reply came almost immediately. “He’s a little busy right now, there’s a set of little girls asking him to sign their plastic shields.” Natasha sounded remarkably amused for someone who was waiting for the call to apprehend a van full of smugglers.

Bucky swore. The one thing that might’ve distracted Steve Rogers while he was on a job was a little girl. And more than one? They were goners.

“Steve Rogers, you tell those kids to go home and eat their cereal, and get your butt over here right now!” he hissed into his comm.

Clint leaned over, the bow on his back like some terrifying metal bird wing. “How much you wanna bet they’ll ask for a photo?”

“Ten bucks says he won’t say no if they do,” Natasha replied.

Bucky ground his teeth. “We don’t have time for this!”

“Ten bucks says he’ll let them hold his shield,” Clint sang.

“Can we stay on topic for once in our lives, please?” Sam said wearily. “Please?”

“Bird man 1 is right, come on,” Bucky said, scanning the streets below. “Do you have eyes on the van?”

“Bird man 1?” Clint asked, shooting Bucky a dirty look. “Dude. I was here first.”

“It’s on East Avenue, coming fast,” Sam said, and his voice was wobbly, like he was doing some fancy weaving around the skyscrapers. “If Steve doesn’t get it together in a minute or so, we’re gonna have trouble. And he might not, so Natasha—”

“Already in position,” she murmured. “Get eyes on Steve and tell me he’s giving them piggyback rides.”

Bucky glanced up and down the street as Sam said that he would not send Redwing to babysit Steve when it was doing actual work, thank you very much. Bucky was gonna kill Steve. The quicker they handled this, the quicker Bucky could be in his pajamas and eating dinner, and if Steve failed his part of the plan, the easy capture mission could turn into a full out battle with civilian casualties, which nobody needed.

“I’m at the corner of East,” Steve said suddenly, his voice too loud in Bucky’s ear. “Where’s the van?”

The link exploded with voices, and Bucky yanked it halfway out so it wouldn’t deafen him. One deaf sniper was bad enough.

“Yeah, I see it Sam. No, I didn’t give them a piggyback ride—what the hell, Nat. No, I didn’t—shut up, Bucky—”

“Ass,” Bucky said viciously, and lowered his rifle.

The job did turn out alright, no thanks to a certain Steve Rogers. The smuggler’s van was easily apprehended and the smugglers tied up in the back for Natasha to drive them back and into custody.

After, Bucky followed Clint back to the street level where Sam and Steve were waiting. Sam looked up as they approached, goggles on his forehead. “This loser tells me he did let the little girls hold the shield while his team was waiting for him.”

“Yes! Nat owes me ten bucks,” Clint said, with a little fist pump.

“They had this huge cat with them too—” Steve held out his phone.

Bucky elbowed his way past Sam and leaned over to see. Steve laughed and angled the phone. The picture was of two little girls with dozens of tiny little braids, and the one who wasn’t holding a little plastic shield was holding a huge, orange, fluffy cat.

“Now he wants to see,” Steve said in Bucky’s ear, letting Bucky enlarge the picture to get the cat in the best possible viewing position.

Bucky decided not to deign him with a response since the cat was more important anyway.

“Marry me, Barnes,” Steve murmured, shocking Bucky into looking away from the cat. Marry me, he said, and it meant I’m sorry. It meant this was a joke of theirs, and if they were going to reclaim all the little pieces of their lives, then why not this one too? It meant Bucky was right, and he did remember correctly, and Steve didn’t mind the joke.

“Yeah, no, I’m too tired,” Bucky blurted.

Steve only smiled.

***

“Careful with that peeler, Steve.”

Steve set the peeler down carefully and glared. “Rebecca Barnes, just what are you insinuating?”

She laughed, eyes crinkling the exact same way, seventy years later. Nudging him with a shoulder and chopping expertly with her knife, she said, “I think you understand me perfectly, dear. I’d like to eat dinner with you two tonight, and that means no hospital trips, understand?”

Steve rolled his eyes and continued peeling potatoes, muttering under his breath about how if she was looking forward to dinner so much, then maybe she shouldn’t mistreat her guests.

“I might not be a supersoldier, but I can still hear you,” she said serenely.

With the same determined toss of her head, crooked smile, and laughing eyes, she could almost be the Becca of seventy years ago. Her hands were worn and warm, and her curls short and white. Her cozy little home in Brooklyn was adorned with photographs of her career, children, grandchildren. She had lived more of a life than Steve could’ve dreamed—and she was still managing to boss him around.

He finished with a potato and set it aside to be diced up. The front door slammed shut.

Becca looked up from her cutting board. “It’s about time. That lazy brother of mine could drag out any task, and gettin’ old hasn’t improved him whatsoever.”

“What are you saying about me, you hag?” Bucky asked cheerfully, setting his bags down on the counter and winking at Steve.

Becca opened the oven and expertly shook each pan before straightening up with her hands on her hips. “How dare you disrespect your elders, James Barnes?”

“Oh no you don’t,” he replied lazily, opening one of the fruit containers he’d brought and eating a strawberry. “I don’t care how old you are, missy, you will never be my elder.”

Steve grinned down at his potatoes.

“See if I feed you next time,” Becca retorted, smacking her brother’s hands away from the bag. “Stop eatin’ the desert!”

Bucky rolled his eyes dramatically and moved over until his shoulders were brushing Steve’s. “Whatcha doin’, trouble?”

Steve nudged him back, which almost resulted in a peeler accident. “What’s it look like? Stabbing at this potato and pretending it’s your head.”

Bucky threw back his head and laughed.

“Like that peeler would be strong enough to split his thick head,” Becca scoffed. “You’d have to use my chef’s knife instead.”

“What the hell’s wrong with you two?” Bucky smirked. “Obviously before either of you so much as moved in my direction, I’d disarm you. They didn’t teach me all kinds of moves for nothin’.” He did a funny kind of wiggle, the kind that he managed to make look alright, and that if Steve tried, would make him look like a complete loony.

“I’d put my money on Steve,” Becca said, turning back to her vegetable chopping. “My old bones ain’t what they used to be, but he’d give you a run for your money.”

“He wishes.”

Steve couldn’t let that go, not like that. “Oh, you think she’s wrong?”

“You can’t think she’s right,” Bucky responded, crowding him up against the counter, and grinning at Steve’s slight discomfort. Really, there was no room for Steve’s arms like this, where were they supposed to go? “Seriously, Rogers, you know all the smarts in the family went to me—there wasn’t a thing left when she came around.”

Becca came over and smacked him with a spatula. “Stop flirtin’ with my kitchen staff! If you’re not going to help, the least you can do is leave!”

Bucky rolled his eyes and ignored her, still close enough that Steve could feel his breath. “You still gonna look for a cat, if this is the kinda family you’re gonna have to marry into? Hmm?”

“Good God,” Becca said blankly. “You’re still making that joke? You haven’t done anything about it yet? You really are the dumbest boy alive.”

Bucky turned away, which was good, because Steve could devote some time to figuring out how to get his lungs working again.

“You really shouldn’t talk to your elders like that, dear. They won’t leave you anything in the will.”

“Oh, you make me sick, you tease. Get your ducks in a row before you speak to me again, the both of you.”

Steve held up his hands. “Hey, don’t drag me into it, Becs.”

The look she gave him was positively withering. “The last time I looked, Steven, a marriage involved two people. I’m not getting any younger, and I’d like to be at this make believe wedding, so figure it out before I do it for you!”

She stomped out of the kitchen, and Bucky turned wide eyes at Steve. “Jesus, do you think she’s serious?”

“It’s gonna be kinda awkward, eating dinner together, if she is,” Steve said uncertainly.

They stared at each other for another moment before Bucky’s mouth twitched, and then they were laughing uncontrollably.

***

Bucky turned the corner and spotted Sam in his gray sweatshirt, illuminated against the bright green of Prospect Park. “Come on,” he muttered under his breath, speeding up.

He didn’t need to say anything; Steve was already increasing speed too, a sly smile curling in the corner of his mouth.

They approached Sam, keeping quiet until right as they pulled alongside him. “On your left!” Steve said cheerfully.

“On your right!” Bucky hollered.

“On my nerves!” Sam shouted as they ran past him laughing hysterically.

Stopping in the shade of a large maple tree, they waited for him to catch up. Steve lay on his back looking up at the bright green leaves, while Bucky leaned against the tree. The bark was cool and rough through his shirt, the park quiet enough for him to lower his guard.

“He’s gonna stop running with you, Stevie,” he remarked, looking over his shoulder.

Steve inhaled. “What about you? You hate running.”

“Yeah, I do. It’ll take more than that to get me outta your hair though, punk; it’s far from the worst habit you have.”

Steve braced himself up on one arm and stared. “Oh, and what might the worst one be?”

Bucky shook his head and smiled.

“Come on, you gotta tell now.” Steve stood and stalked over, raising an eyebrow threateningly. Bucky rolled his eyes and shoved him away, not fooled, but Steve was ready for it and jumped him, wrapping his legs around Bucky and holding on tight like an octopus.

“Stop it, you big dork!” Bucky yelped, collapsing and thrashing around in effort to get him off. It never failed to amuse Steve—and it was slightly amusing, Bucky could agree—that a skilled fighter like him could forget everything and resort to pillow fight techniques he’d used as a ten year old, but in Bucky’s defense, the pillow fight techniques worked. Normally.

“Why are you two the way that you are?” Sam asked, ducking under the tree and staring disapprovingly as Steve and Bucky grappled in the grass. “You deserve each other—remind me never to go running with either of you ever again.”

Bucky sighed as Steve flung an arm over his waist and laughed. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re absolutely incorrigible?”

“Once or twice,” Steve replied, face smashed into Bucky’s shoulder.

“Punk.”

“Jerk.”

“Children,” Sam muttered with a small smile, pulling out his phone.

Steve laughed again, eyes crinkling. Bucky watched him fondly, happy for a reason he couldn’t explain.

“Marry me, Rogers.”

Sam choked and dropped his phone before snatching it back up again and angling it towards them.

“I’m kinda sweaty Bucky,” Steve began, making a face. “So, looks like you’ve struck out yet again.”

“Darn,” Bucky said, pushing him away and sitting up. “Maybe I should stick with trying to find breakfast instead of love.”

Sam looked back and forth between them, his eyes going from huge-and-shocked to huge-and-confused. The phone was still aimed at them, but so what. Sam wouldn’t do anything with it, and worse things had been filmed by friends.

“Can we make bacon?” Steve whined, still on his back. “Please, please, can we make bacon?”

“I’ll do bacon if you help me with the French toast,” Bucky agreed, giving him a hand up, already planning out the menu. “Sam can do the eggs, since he claims that there’s an art to them.”

Sam looked even more bewildered. “I’m sorry, what just happened here?”

“We signed you up to make eggs,” Steve said helpfully.

“Wait, maybe Steve should make the eggs,” Bucky interrupted. “Are eggs harder than French toast?”

Steve shook his head, jabbing a finger at Bucky. “The last time I made eggs, you accused me of scraping the bottom of the frying pan off as seasoning, and I refuse—”

“Hold up!” Sam yelped. “Is no one gonna address the fact that Barnes just proposed? Steve, I’m pretty sure he was proposing to you? You’re gonna argue about eggs?”

“What?” Steve asked, looking about as confused as Sam.

Understanding flashing through him, Bucky waved a hand and pressed his lips together. “No, it’s not—we do that all the time, Sam.”

Sam only tilted his head, looking even more incredulous, which Bucky wouldn’t have thought possible. “You two propose to each other, and it’s just a joke?”

“Yeah?” Steve said nervously.

“Yeah,” Bucky said simultaneously, firm and proud.

Sam sighed. “I can’t believe you two sometimes, do you know that? I can’t believe I’m friends with you.”

***

“Okay, okay, he’ll be here any minute,” Steve said, mostly to himself. “Okay. I think everything’s ready. Okay.”

He turned and stared out the back windows. He peeked in the oven. He even poked around in the fridge, which was absurd, because there was nothing really interesting in there.

“Okay, stop freaking out,” he said again, and then he freaked out a little because he was still talking to himself.

The door opened, and the sound of keys landing on the door side table jolted him out of his head. He peeked through the kitchen doorway.

Bucky unzipped his jacket and slipped it in the closet. He kicked off his shoes and turned.

“Hey,” Steve said.

Bucky smiled. “Hey. How was work?”

“Good.” Steve waited for him to pass and then followed him into the living room. “Got off early so I made dinner.”

Bucky eyed him but said nothing.

“How was your day?” Steve asked, resisting the urge to check the oven a fourteenth time.

“Fine,” Bucky said, sinking on to the couch and tucking his feet underneath him. His hair was tied back in a tiny little ponytail; the hair tie was yellow.  “Called Becca, walked to the library and spent some time there, went on a walk with Clint and Lucky, chatted with Mrs. Morelli…everything you could want from a quiet day off.”

Steve gave in and checked the oven. He pulled out the casserole and straightened up right as Bucky hugged him from behind.

“Hey,” he said, setting the pan down on a wooden cutting board.

“Hey,” Bucky whispered into his back. “Thanks. I was gonna come home and cook, you know.”

Steve walked over to the sink and Bucky followed him, feet matching up. “I know. I wanted to.”

Bucky stepped away with a wink. “Let’s hope we survive the night then.”

Steve only rolled his eyes back. He’d followed the recipe to the letter, praying it would work out despite the number of things that could go wrong. He’d mess up the measuring spoons. He’d undercook it. He’d overcook it. He’d put in the wrong seasonings. Or maybe Bucky just wouldn’t like it.

“Stop freakin’ out, I’m sure I’ll love it,” Bucky murmured, setting the table.

Steve carried the salad and rice to the table. “Or you’ll hate it.”

“Steve.” Bucky took the spatula from him and jerked his head; Steve sank into his chair. “You made it. I’m sure I’ll love it.”

Steve watched carefully as Bucky took his first bite. It was okay if Bucky didn’t like it, he knew. There was a fifty fifty chance he wouldn’t—hell, Steve wouldn’t blame him, it wasn’t like he had a great record in the kitchen, but then they’d have to make something else, and—

“Did you put lemon on the chicken?” Bucky asked, surprised, and Steve relaxed enough to answer.

“Yeah. It said half a lemon, which I thought was ridiculous, because a whole lemon couldn’t possibly be too much, but I followed the recipe perfectly, so now we have a half lemon dryin’ out in the fridge and…yeah.”

Bucky smiled. “It’s really good.”’

“Really?”

“Really. Might need a little salt though.”

Steve passed him the salt ruefully. “If that’s the most of our problems, then I’ll be thrilled.”

After dinner was over—it looked like salt was the most of their problems, or Bucky was a very convincing liar—Steve cleared the table and then cleared his throat nervously.

“What,” Bucky said, not fooled at all.

“Well, I know you said you didn’t want a fuss, or for me to do anything—”

“—But you did something anyway?” Bucky guessed. He just looked amused.

Steve shrugged. “It’s your birthday, Buck! We gotta do something! Come on.”

Bucky leaned back in his chair. Whether he was enjoying Steve’s nerves or the impending fuss, it wasn’t clear, but he was definitely enjoying himself. “Well, go on then. We don’t have all night.”

Steve bounced once on his toes and then went into the kitchen. “Firstly,” he called over his shoulder, “I didn’t make you a cake.”

“That’s probably a good thing,” Bucky said thoughtfully. “Dinner was a good start, though.”

Steve had figured much the same, thinking that he’d be more likely to burn the house down than end up with an actually good cake. The recipes online that he’d checked had seemed more and more complicated and he knew Bucky wouldn’t really mind, so he’d decided that could be a goal for next year.

He walked back to the dining room and set down a family sized container of coffee ice cream with a loud thump.

“Steve,” Bucky said, his voice showing how pleased he was. “This is better than a cake.”

Steve jammed the candles into the ice cream, which was harder than he’d reckoned on, given that the ice cream was so cold. Bucky took one and tried too, with his metal arm, which only bent the candle over at a sad angle and barely dented the ice cream.

They were both laughing by the time they managed to get them standing up and stable. Steve lit them and smiled at Bucky over the flames.

“Make a wish.”

Bucky closed his eyes and blew out the candles. Without saying a word, they both pulled the candles out, licking the ice cream off the bottoms and setting them away. They were a little dinged up, but they could most likely be reused. Steve fetched a couple of spoons and they hacked away at the container.

“Thanks, Steve,” Bucky said, hooking his foot around Steve’s under the table. “This is a pretty swell birthday.”

“Wait, I’ve got my presents for you.” Steve set down his spoon and hurried out of the room. “Gimme a second!”

“What the hell?” Bucky yelled but Steve was already out the front door.

He was back in under five minutes, which he thought was pretty good. Bucky was still at the table with the coffee ice cream, feet up on Steve’s chair. He sat up straight as Steve returned, eyes wide with expectation.

“Where on earth did you go?”

“Couldn’t keep them in the house, you might see ‘em too soon,” Steve explained. “Open those two first.”

Bucky unwrapped the packages and grinned when he saw the contents. “Three new books—that’s amazing of you, Stevie. And a new hoodie too!”

“Maybe you can stop stealing mine all the time,” Steve teased.

“Fool. I’ll never stop, no matter how many you buy.”

Steve held out the last box, suddenly nervous again. It was a big box, and it wasn’t wrapped, and Bucky took it hesitantly. He set it down gently and peeled the lid off. He froze.

“Steve.”

Steve swallowed. “Yeah. If you want a different one, we can go back and—”

“Steve. Shut up.” Bucky reached in the box, already cooing, and lifted out the cat. He held her up in front of him and stared, mouth hanging open slightly. “Why hello there. What’s your name?”

“She doesn’t have one yet,” Steve whispered.

“She doesn’t have one yet,” Bucky said to the cat. “We can’t have that, can we, doll?”

The cat stared back with unflinching green eyes. Pure white with a fuzzy tail, she looked like a snowball to Steve. He didn’t know why, but the moment he’d seen her at the shelter she’d started meowing at him, like she’d known and was practically yelling to be taken to Bucky. He watched the two of them now, something expanding in his chest until he thought he might float away from it.

Bucky tucked the cat against his chest and she stretched up, batting at his hair and tugging a few strands out of the ponytail. Bucky turned with wide eyes to Steve. Are you seeing this?

Steve nodded.

The cat climbed up his shoulder and sat there for a beat, licking her front paw. Then, she slumped down and lay across his shoulders, and closed her eyes.

“Do you think she likes me?” Bucky breathed.

“How could she not?” Steve said truthfully. He stood up and reached out to pet the cat. She opened one eye and looked at him, and then sniffed his fingers. Bucky wiggled, and lifted her down.

“She should explore the place, so she can get used to it,” he explained, setting her on the hardwood floor.

Steve picked up the empty ice cream container and went into the kitchen to throw it out. When he came back, Bucky was lying on the rug with his head under the couch, talking.

“Yeah, I see why you like it under here, Alpine, but come on, you haven’t even seen the upstairs yet—” He crawled out, grinning up at Steve. “She likes it here.”

“Alpine?”

Bucky bit his lip. “Yeah. We’re tryin’ it out.” His grin faded into something more serious. “Don’t think I don’t know what this means, Rogers. You got me a cat.”

Steve felt as though the rug had been yanked out from under him. “Bucky, it doesn’t mean anything—”

“Maybe it does,” Bucky murmured, coming over and standing awfully close. “Ask me again, who knows. I’m all out of excuses, trouble.”

Steve held his breath and then released it. “Marry me, Bucky?”

“Hmm…” Bucky tilted his head to one side. “Let’s see. We got our own flat together, you got the cat, I’m not too hungry, or too tired…guess there’s nothin’ left to do but say yes.”

“Oh, you guess, huh?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said softly. “My turn. Marry me?”

Steve blinked.

“You backin’ out on me, Rogers?”

“No! No,” Steve said, warming up to the game, “No, I think I’m just the right age, actually. I think if you wait any longer, I’ll die from impatience. I think I’ve been wanting to say yes my whole life.”

Bucky grinned and cupped Steve’s face in his hands. “This is the best birthday of my life. Thank you.”

Steve ducked his head. “It’s the best birthday of my life too.”

“Hey, don’t go stealing my birthday, Steven Grant Rogers. Get your own birthday.”

Steve laughed. “Okay,” he said. “Only if you promise to be there.”

“As if there was anywhere else I’d be,” Bucky scoffed.

***

Bucky tilted his head up and watched Steve stare at the sky. It stretched out above him, gray as ever. Rain was imminent over Prospect Park, although hopefully not for a little bit—Bucky had no intention of leaving just yet.

“Stop thinkin’ so much,” Bucky said, looking back down at his book and trying to find his place.

“No.”

Bucky marked his place with a metal finger and squinted up at him. “I remember,” he said softly, intent on saying it, on making it known. “I remember that day, Steve.”

Steve frowned down at him.

Bucky wasn’t quite sure what he meant, or whether it was the same day Steve was thinking of, or whether it had been one day at all. It had been weeks, years, a childhood or two. But it was there, right at the front of his mind; Steve in the same position, hands on his hips, brow furrowed, clouds dark above him, only he was six years old.

“You wanted to leave, I wanted to read,” Bucky murmured. “And it rained on us.”

“I remember,” Steve said. “Maybe we should go?” he pointed to the clouds.

Bucky smirked. “Nah. Let’s not just yet.”

“It’s gonna rain.”

“Is it?”

Steve flopped down next to him and ripped up a dandelion flower. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re an absolute ass?”

“Once or twice,” Bucky said absently, flipping his book open again. Steve leaned over and used his back as a pillow, twirling the dandelion between his fingers.

Above, the clouds darkened, rumbling quietly. Bucky ignored them and tried to concentrate on his reading. A dog ran past, the teenagers attached to its leash shrieking and shouting. They disappeared around the bend and Steve turned his head to watch a squirrel scamper up a tree.

“I think we should—”

“Steve!” Bucky closed his book with a snap and sat up, tossing Steve off. “We’re at the park! Relax, and shut up!”

“You’re going to get rained on.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and patted the grass. “Sit beside me and tell me somethin’.”

“It is about to rain and you’re being a stubborn sonofmmmph—”

“Nope, I’m gonna tell you somethin’,” Bucky said cheerfully, his hand still covering Steve’s mouth. “I don’t care if it starts snowing, I am sitting in the park with my fella, reading and getting fresh air, and nobody’s gonna take that away from me, you understand?”

The clouds rumbled again, and raindrops started to patter down.

“Fresh air,” Steve said flatly.

Bucky immediately tucked his book into his jacket, hair falling in his face as he leaned over, fighting the urge to smile. “Shut up.”

“Nobody’s gonna take that away from you?” Steve asked. He lay back on the grass, arms crossed behind his head, the picture of nonchalance, raindrops sprinkling down on his shirt. “Not anybody?”

“Shut up,” Bucky laughed.

“Make me.”

“Such Chutzpah,” Bucky said sternly, but he wasn’t about to turn down a challenge like that. He leaned over and kissed Steve, slow and sweet. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Steve said happily, arms coming up on either side of Bucky’s waist. Bucky barely felt the rain as he flopped down on to Steve’s chest.

A long time ago…he isn’t sure when…he’d sat under Steve’s blankets and watched the rain pelt against the window…were they eight, maybe? Or no, maybe it was in a tent in France…the canvas had barely kept the damp out, and Bucky had crawled into Steve’s sleeping bag, muttering about keeping him warm while both of them ignored the fact that he didn’t need to anymore. Or maybe it was…maybe it didn’t matter. In every situation the result was the same; Steve and Bucky watching the rain together.

“What are you thinkin’ about?” Steve whispered into Bucky’s hair.

Bucky took a moment to answer. “You.”

He heard Steve smile. “Oh yeah? Good stuff or bad stuff?”

Bucky tightened his arms and buried his face in Steve’s shirt.

“Bad stuff, huh?”

“All stuff,” Bucky confessed. “Thinkin’ bout that pretty little boy with the banged up knees, and the skinny rotten mouthed kid with his fingers all charcoal smeared, and the sharp and thoughtful fella who still made it his business to remind me of a silly childhood fantasy. And I’m thinkin’ about how he actually did it, that fella. He made it come true.”

Steve sighed, ruffling Bucky’s hair. “Is that so.”

“What’re you thinkin’ about?”

“You,” Steve answered simply. “Although not as poetically.”

Bucky grinned, pushing himself up until he could stare at Steve, his damp hair hanging in his face. “Marry me, Stevie?”

“Yes,” Steve promised, a small smile curving on his lips. “Always.” He held up his left hand, where a thin gold band glittered.

Bucky leaned down to kiss him again but the sky grumbled and increased its assault.

“Come on!” Bucky called, jumping to his feet and pulling Steve up. He turned and bolted for the street, knowing he’d be followed. Steve’s steady footsteps echoed behind him, and Bucky threw a grin over his shoulder. Steve shook his head, smiling.

They raced down the sidewalk, dodging around a few umbrella-holding pedestrians. Cars sped past, windshield wipers flashing, horns blaring.

Bucky’s head got caught halfway in the past, and he impulsively ducked down a side alley. Steve tripped over a can, but Bucky was waiting for it, and yanked him up and along.

When their doorstep was in sight, Bucky ran a little faster, and Steve kept up with him, and they both landed on the stoop at the same time, collapsing against the door.

“Open it, open it,” Steve chanted as Bucky struggled with the key.

They fell inside laughing wildly, the kind of wildness that came from running in the rain and feeling triumphant and alive.

Steve’ bangs were wet and floppy, and his eyes were squeezed shut as he gasped. Bucky brushed his own hair out of his eyes and grinned.

“Let’s get some tea or somethin’, huh?” He left his wet jacket and Steve in the entryway and went into the kitchen to boil some water.

He heard Steve walk into the living room. After a minute some quiet jazz started playing; John Coltrane. Steve’s feet padded around, doing who knew what.

“What are you doing, you crazy cat?”

Bucky peeked around the door just in time to see Alpine leap off the bookshelf and land in front of Steve, who promptly tripped and landed on the floor, twisting so as to avoid falling on her. He looked up with a petulant frown.

Bucky laughed, shaking his head. “You’re nothin’ but trouble, aren’t you.”

“That cat is trouble,” Steve corrected, standing up gingerly. “And you too, Barnes.”

Alpine wove her way through Bucky’s ankles and turned to smirk at Steve. Bucky crossed his arms and smirked as well; Steve threw up his hands and crawled on to the couch.

“Marry me,” Bucky called as an apology, going back to the hot water.

“Yeah right,” Steve replied.

Bucky made tea and carried the mugs to the living room, setting one down on the coffee table and sitting beside Steve. Alpine leaped up and sat herself in Steve’s lap.

“Oh, now she wants attention,” Steve said grudgingly. “I don’t think so, ma’am.”

Bucky sipped his tea and kept quiet. Sure enough, in a few minutes Steve was petting her absently while she purred away. John Coltrane rambled on the saxophone.

“Flat with the cats,” Bucky said softly. “You and me, Rogers. Did you think we’d ever get here?”

“Getting sentimental on me again?” Steve teased. He reached out and brushed away a strand of Bucky’s hair, curling with dampness.

Bucky held his gaze. “Answer the question.”

Steve tilted his head thoughtfully. Alpine batted at his hand, and he resumed his petting. “It didn’t look like this when I thought about it, but this is pretty swell.”

“It doesn’t matter what it looks like,” Bucky agreed. “But I’ll tell you a secret. We always had it. Didn’t matter that there were no cats, or that the heat didn’t work, or that we barely had enough to get by even. We were already there.”

Steve’s eyes crinkled. “You sayin’ we’ve been married this whole time too? And you didn’t tell me?”

“Shut up, I tried my best,” Bucky said, pushing away and setting down his tea in case Steve got any wrestling ideas. “Not my fault you didn’t get the memo for seventy years.”

“I did some of the proposing too,” Steve pointed out. “I think I got the memo.”

“Well let’s fight about it, that’s sure productive,” Bucky said sarcastically. He watched Steve tip his head back and laugh again. Jeez Louise, he was gorgeous.

Steve grinned, ducking his chin, and pushed Alpine out of his lap. She sniffed dramatically, stalked down to the other end of the couch, and curled up.

“Okay, okay—” Bucky grunted as Steve climbed into his lap. “Well then.”

“You love me,” Steve murmured, curling up as if he was trying to be 5’4 and skinny as a beanpole again.

 “Do I?”

“That’s what they say,” Steve breathed against Bucky’s neck.

Bucky hauled him close and watched the rain drip down the windows, listened to the music playing softly. “Well, in that case. Guess I’ll keep you around.”

It’s good.