Work Text:
Bucky waited on the tarmac of Avengers Tower as the Quinjet landed, his jacket pulled tight around him as the crisp night air whipped around.
He shuffled from foot to foot, worry coursing through his brain, his mind supplying what-ifs and terrifying situations that may come as a result of this mission. Logically, he knew that nothing bad had happened on the mission. That, had there been any injuries that required medical treatment he would have been informed. However, there was a side of his mind that never quite did “logical” whenever Steve Rogers was concerned.
Steve. His best friend. His lover? As it stood, their current relationship was more confusing than ever.
Bucky had been back three months, recovering and reclaiming himself. The first few nights had been terrible, the Winter Soldier part of his brain unable to relax in these new surroundings, so used to working himself into exhaustion or having a chemically-induced cryo sleep thrust upon him, that he hadn’t been able to sleep. When he had, when the exhaustion finally won out and his body could do little more than sleep, he did.
But, his mind soon became too muddled. With his lack of sleep, mixed with dreams filled with both fond memories and unexplainable horrors, Bucky would wake confused, disoriented, unable to tell who, when, or where he was. He vaguely remembered he and Steve sharing a bed in their younger days, and sleeping like a rock in the blonde’s presence.
When he brought it up, Steve immediately offered up the other half of his bed, seeming perhaps excited, at the very least content, at the offer. And though the two didn’t touch, just likethe rest of the time, it helped remind Bucky (and perhaps even Steve) that the other was there. That this was real, that despite a World War, plane crashes, ice, HYDRA, Chitauri, and everything else this damn world had thrown at them, they had found their way back to one another.
So, the two once more shared a bed, with Steve waiting up on nights Bucky couldn’t sleep, and going to bed whenever Bucky did. However, it was much different than it was pre-fall. The two didn’t touch. And Bucky remembered how much of a snuggler Steve was, how, as soon as Bucky would come back from work at the docks or crawl into bed after working another odd job, Steve would be all over him, fitting himself against Bucky’s side, tangling his legs with Bucky’s, using his fingers to draw invisible patterns against the planes of the brunette’s abs.
However, now there was only distance, which was fine. The past was a long, long time ago, longer than most people’s lifespans, and Bucky knew that. He hadn’t expected Steve to still be waiting on him. And, even if he was, why would he, Steve Rogers, All-American Boy, a man with a body like a Greek god, whose smile felt like sunshine and goodness was almost tangible, want a broken assassin?
Bucky wasn’t sure if Steve wasn’t interested, or was scared, or disgusted by Bucky, but he took what little Steve would give (and if he was honest, it was more than he could have ever hoped for) and loved it. And, if all Steve ever could give him was the other side of his king-sized feather bed, than he would gladly take it. He wouldn’t press the issue.
Unfortunately, his traitorous body wasn’t completely in line with the program and in his sleep, his hand (his right, never, never, the monstrosity that HYDRA had cursed him with) would reach out and take Steve’s. Luckily, Bucky generally woke first and would extract their hands before Steve was any the wiser.
The hatch lowered, revealing Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, Sam Wilson, and of course, Steve. Bucky let out a loud exhale, the tension in his shoulders loosening almost instantly upon seeing the quartet. From a distance, he could see they were dirty, tired, and a little banged up, but he saw no blood and no major injuries.
He hated that he hadn’t been able to go on the mission with them, but, it had only been five months since Bucky had recovered the last of his memories, and a mere three since he destroyed the last of the Hydra agents who worked on him and returned to Steve, who welcomed him with a tight hug. (And, sadly, that had been the last hug between them. Honestly, other than generic, impersonal touches and the unconscious handholding, it has been the only significant touch between them.)
Steve had taken a sabbatical from the Avengers immediately, holing up with Bucky at the tower, trying to make up for lost time. (Steve had wanted to go to his apartment in DC or, hell, buy one in Brooklyn, but Bucky still hadn’t fully trusted himself at that point, and wanted others around in case he ever hurt Steve, because Steve had already proven he couldn’t, or rather wouldn’t, protect himself from Bucky).
Steve had returned to work a month ago, only taking one-day missions, two at the most. However, when Coulson (who Bucky claimed might have some super soldier in him since he too came back from the dead) had personally come to Steve and asked that he lead the near week-long mission, Steve couldn’t refuse. And Bucky, still seeing a team of therapists three times a week and readjusting to being just Bucky and not the Asset knew he couldn’t go, couldn’t add the stress to Steve’s life.
He would, however, be lying if he said that his gear hadn’t been freshly washed, armed beyond belief, and by the door so Bucky could leave at a moment’s notice if he caught word that Steve was in trouble.
He smiled brightly as the quartet made their way toward him, Steve leading them, his pace quick, his body seemingly vibrating with nerves. Bucky’s smile faltered slightly when he saw the pinched look and dark circles under Steve’s eyes.
He looked beyond exhausted, like weariness had crept into his every bone, every fiber, every molecule and decided to call it home.
Steve made his way to Bucky, coming to a stop in front of him. And Bucky longed for the old days, during the Howling Commandos when the two would be reunited after a long mission. Steve would practically collide into Bucky, pulling him into a hug so tight that Bucky could hardly breathe.
Of course, Bucky would return the hug with equal fervor, holding Steve as the blond buried his head in the crook of Bucky’s neck, breathing in the scent of gunpowder, sweat, and home, until the tension melted out of his shoulders and both knew the other was alright.
However, today, in 2015, Bucky merely settled for a lopsided smile and an impersonal hand on Steve’s shoulder.
Bucky glanced over said shoulder and locked gazes with Natasha, who was giving him a meaningful look. He returned it with a slight nod, then turned his attention back to Steve.
“Miss me, Punk?”
“You wish, Jerk.” Steve tried for lighthearted, but something was off, way off. Bucky just couldn’t put his finger on what.
Rather than push it in front of God, country, and the rest of Steve’s team, he instead reached for the blonde’s bag, pulling it out of his hand.
“You look beat. Go ahead downstairs. I’ll be right there.”
“I-“ Steve looked reluctant at first.
“I got your bag. Go,” Bucky softly ordered, giving Steve a quick smile.
“Don’t be too long, okay?” Steve requested, looking somewhat uneasy, and damn it, that’s not what Bucky wanted. He hated seeing that look on Steve’s face. He wanted to lead him to bed, wrap him in a cocoon of arms and blankets, kissing away the stress lines that had developed across Steve’s forehead and eyes, until the blonde man looked less like the weight of the world was on his shoulders.
“I won’t be. Go get cleaned up.”
Steve nodded, finally stepping away from Bucky’s hand and walking inside, glancing over his shoulder twice as he walked inside.
As soon as he had disappeared inside, he turned to Natasha, the calm façade and easy smile hardening into concern and anger. Though not aware of all the facts yet, he was entirely ready to find anything and everything that had harmed Steve and burn it to the ground.
“What happened to Steve? Is he hurt?”
“Steve’s fine,” Natasha tried to placate, but Bucky merely growled, rounding on her, fire in his eyes.
“Bullshit. Did you see him? He looked dead on his feet.”
She shrugged. “He doesn’t sleep on missions.”
“What do you mean he doesn’t sleep?”
“He doesn’t sleep on missions. He never has, really.”
“It’s been a week! Why didn’t you make him sleep!?”
Natasha raised an eyebrow, body tense and annoyance on her face. Her scowl silenced Bucky, and she continued to stare for another minute before she answered.
“I am not in charge of Steve’s sleeping habits. I’ve tried to talk to him about it. We all have. But, if you hadn’t noticed, there’s only one person around here that he seems to listen to.”
She strolled by him, bumping his shoulder with her own, before ordering. “Talk to him, James. He keeps up at this pace and he’s going to get himself killed.”
Bucky ran a hand down his face, letting out a deep breath. “What the hell, Stevie?”
Bucky walked into the room, expecting Steve to still be in the shower or waiting up, since the idiot never went to bed without Bucky, despite how often Bucky assured him he was fine.
However, he stopped short in the doorway when he saw Steve in the bed, face down, dressed in sweatpants and a long-sleeved thermal shirt (because both of them absolutely hated to be cold. They had been frozen over 70 years, damn it). Bucky’s lips turn up in the corners, the sound of Steve’s quiet snores calming the anxious beating of his heart.
Bucky quickly changed out of his jeans and into a pair of sweatpants, and crawled into the opposite side of the bed.
Bucky’s hand (his right, never his left, not after what that traitorous appendence had done to Steve, after the blood it had spilt or the bones it had broken) twitched, moving toward Steve to smooth down his still damp hair, to cradle his face. Just to touch him.
But, he resisted, touch being a barrier Steve didn’t seem comfortable crossing. And that was fine. Bucky would never fault him for that. He wouldn’t want to touch him either, not after everything he’d done as the Winter Soldier
Oh, he had no doubt that Steve had forgiven him, but the fact remained that he was dangerous, and if Steve still didn’t feel that safe around him yet (hell, even if he never did), that was fine.
Instead, Bucky kept his arms close to his body, hoping, praying, that his double-crossing hand (still only his flesh, never, never, his metal one) wouldn’t betray him tonight. Wouldn’t reach across the bed while he slept, finding Steve’s hand and clutching it as though it were the only thing that anchored him to this world.
“Night, Stevie.” He whispered into the air, reaching over and turning off the bedside lamp.
Having been the “Fist of HYDRA” for over 70 years, Bucky was pretty much the dictionary definition of a light sleeper. Some nights were better than others, as though his body knew he was safe with Steve around. However, other nights, especially the nights he fell asleep after Steve, the quietest noise – the buzzing of a mosquito, a car horn blocks awake – would have him awake in an instant, ready to fight, ready to kill, to protect the only person he had left.
Tonight, it was Steve’s slight stirring, his muttering of “no. No, please.” His face screwed up in agony, tears leaking from behind his clenched eyelids.
Bucky was about to call out to Steve, to wake him up, pull him from whatever nightmare had gripped him.
Before he could, Steve sat bolt upright in the bed, a scream that sounded like Bucky’s name tearing itself from his throat in a manner that would likely leave him hoarse for hours (days if not for the Super Soldier serum). Steve’s left arm shot out to his side, reaching for whatever ghost was currently haunting him.
“Steve!” Bucky shouted, sitting up and throwing the covers off of himself, not sure what to do, but knowing he needed to do something. He was panicked. In the months he had lived with Steve, the man had never had a nightmare, or at least not one of a great enough magnitude to wake Bucky.
Luckily, the screaming combined with Bucky’s frantic shouts and movements had pulled Steve free from the chains of his dream.
His breath came out in short, panicked pants, eyes frantically scanning the room.
Bucky’s throat seized up, his heart dropping into his stomach as he took in Steve’s state: his bloodshot eyes were wild, frenzied, the dark circles underneath pulling at the strings of Bucky’s heart. Steve’s shirt and hair were damp with sweat, his entire body coiled like a spring.
The moment his eyes landed on Bucky, he exhaled loudly, tension seemingly melting from every pore. Closing his eyes, he turned his face toward the ceiling, running shaking hands over it.
Bucky reached toward Steve with his flesh hand, resting it awkwardly on Steve’s shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze.
It remained there until Steve’s breath regulated, which took a good few minutes. Bucky squeezed the shoulder one last time.
“I’m going to go get you some tea, alright?”
Waiting for Steve’s nod, because he felt like leaving Steve at the moment without the assurance he’d be right back might be the worst thing he could do, he rolled out of the bed. He left the bedroom door open and put leaves from the calming tea that Bruce had brought them into the Kuerig. Bucky had once scoffed at the contraption, feeling it was pointless and could people in this century seriously not wait a few minutes for coffee?
But, as he glanced over his shoulder and saw Steve’s wide eyes boring into him, afraid to blink as though Bucky would disappear into a puff of smoke, never to be seen again, he was so grateful for the speed that he wanted to find the person who invented the machine and kiss them.
He kept himself within Steve’s line of sight, quickly adding a sugar cube and dash of milk (just the way Steve always took his tea) and brought it back into the bedroom, carefully handing the Yankees mug (a gag gift from Clint – Steve and Bucky both despised the Yankees) to Steve.
“Be careful. It’s h-”
He hadn’t even completed the sentence when Steve began draining the mug, making a slight pained sound as the still steaming tea made its way down his throat.
Bucky gaped for a moment, before reaching up, pulling the tea away from Steve.
“What the hell, Steve?” Bucky asked as he wrenched the mug from his grip.
“Thirsty.” Steve barely managed to get out, his throat scratching and raw from the screaming and the tea he had just forced down it.
“So you burn your mouth?” Bucky was out of bed, once more walking into the kitchen. He thought he saw Steve reach for him out of the corner of his eye, but that was likely a trick of the light.
Bucky nearly threw the mug into the sink, but at the last moment, decided the mug was not deserving of his anger, and set it inside rather than shatter it. Because Bucky knew exactly what Steve was trying to do: using pain as a grounding technique to see what was real and what wasn’t.
It was a technique Bucky himself had been unhealthily reliant on during his time after the Project Insight catastrophe and returning to Steve.
Seeing Steve like this, causing himself pain…wasn’t a good feeling, and Bucky needed a moment to rein in his strained emotions. He rested his hands on either side and took a deep breath Calmed after a moment, he filled a glass with ice water, bringing it back into the bedroom, where Steve refused to look at him.
“Here, drink this.”
Steve didn’t look up as he reached for the glass, muttering a “thanks” as he took greedy gulps of the water to calm his damaged throat.
Bucky studied his friend, taking the glass back when Steve was finished.
“You want to tell me what that was all about?”
Steve finally looked up, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing to worry about. Weird dreams. Clowns.” Steve gave a fake shuddering, the somewhat chuckle his damaged throat produced not even fooling himself.
“Steve…”
“Leave it, Bucky,” he said, harsher than he had meant to. Noting the hurt that flashed across Bucky’s face, he quickly backtracked. “It’s nothing to worry about. I’m tired. Let’s go back to sleep.”
His hands still shook as he talked, the tear tracks from before not yet dried. He looked at Bucky, opening his mouth as if he wanted to say something, then, seemingly thinking better of it, closed it and rolled over, turning his back to Bucky for the first time since his return, perhaps even the first time in their friendship.
Bucky fought to keep the pain of Steve’s actions at bay. Because, yeah, it hurt. In the past, Steve never hid from him. They were each other’s comfort, from scuffs with bullies to the grief of losing parents.
Bucky swallowed hard, watching Steve’s back, taking note of how the breath was strained, shuddering, his emotions just on the surface of bubbling over and breaking him apart.
And, the vindictive part of Bucky just wanted him to turn around, turn his back to Steve and see how the other liked it. Shut him out and refuse his help.
But, the larger part of Bucky, with a heart that had always been so wrapped up in Steve Rogers, could never do that. Instead, he lay back on his side of the bed, watching Steve, able to see the tension through his entire body.
“I’m here if you need me.” Bucky said softly, his heart nearly breaking as Steve’s breathing hitched in response. He could tell by the taut muscles of his arm that the blonde had gripped his hands into fists, tension and frustration and fear running through his veins.
Bucky watched him for a long moment, but finally let his eyelids slide shut. If Steve wanted to deal with whatever this was in private, Bucky would allow him that. He regulated his breathing, hoping it would lead him back into slumber, though he knew that so long as Steve was in pain, he wouldn’t be getting any rest.
He was unsure of how much time had passed, how long he had been trapped in his own brain, his thoughts circulating around Steve and how to help him, when he felt Steve begin to stir, rolling over to face him.
Bucky kept his eyes closed, no matter how much he wanted to look, hoping that he was doing the right thing by giving Steve some sense of privacy.
What he didn’t expect was for Steve’s hand to fumble in the dark for a moment, before it gripped Bucky’s flesh and blood hand. Steve let out a loud breath that sounded more like a sob, as he gripped tightly, his thumb going to the pulse point on Bucky’s wrist.
Bucky let out a shuddering breath of his own, startled by the contact. He opened his eyes, meeting Steve’s blue ones, which were bright with tears.
“I’m sorry,” Steve said, pleading, a broken whimper more than anything. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t-.” He tried to pull his hand free, only to be stopped by Bucky tightening his grip.
He looked up and met Steve’s gaze, the guilt and pain pouring from the blond feeling like a punch to Bucky’s gut.
“I’m sorry,” Steve insisted, looking away, once more trying to pull his hand free, though it was not near the attempt that he had given earlier.
Bucky shook his head at the other man, adjusting his grip so that his and Steve’s fingers were interlaced. “Talk to me, Punk.”
Steve looked away, letting out a shuddering breath, his thumb once more finding it’s home on Bucky’s wrist.
And it finally hit Bucky that maybe it hadn’t been him that had been crossing that invisible line almost every night.
“I’m s-.”
“Stevie, if you tell me you’re sorry one more time without giving me some context, I’m going sock ya,” Bucky joked, trying to lighten the mood. When he saw the tears begin to fall from Steve’s eyes, though, his heart jumped to his throat. He began to reach out, his instinct demanding he comfort Steve, wipe away his tears. However, upon noticing that the only free hand he had was the metal atrocity, he aborted the movement.
“Hey, talk to me,” Bucky urged, his own thumb making soothing circles near the juncture of Steve’s thumb and palm.
“I know you don’t like being touched and I-” Steve took in a shaky breath, pausing. Bucky began to interrupt, but, thinking better of it since Steve was finally talking, let his jaw snap shut as the blond continued.
“And I don’t want you to feel restrained or held down or like you owe me anything, when it’s my fault, but I just…I can’t…I…”
He blinked his eyes rapidly, looking up at the ceiling, a futile attempt to keep his tears at bay. Bucky stared, lost, not sure what Steve was trying to get at.
“I’m sorry, I’m being stupid. I shouldn’t.” He stopped short, scrubbing his free hand over his face. “You need sleep.”
He began to roll over, but Bucky tugged on his arm. “Hey.” When Steve turned to face him, he pulled his hand free, ignoring the spark of pain that shot across Steve’s features, and instead cupped his friend’s face. Using the pad of his thumb, he wiped away the tears, giving the man a small smile in return.
“Now, you ain’t making a lick of sense. Just, talk to me, okay? It’s me. You can tell me anything.”
“I-” Steve paused, chewing nervously on his lower lip as he broke eye-contact. He looked so lost and broken and Bucky wanted nothing more than to pull him into a hug, but if Steve was still scared of his touch…
“What can’t you do?” Bucky decided to throw his friend a life preserver, hoping that giving him some direction, some question to answer might help him form into words whatever he was trying to say.
Steve’s hand reached up to hold Bucky’s wrist, and the former assassin definitely didn’t miss that Steve’s fingers landed at his pulse point. “I can’t sleep,” Steve whispered miserably.
Bucky sat up, eyes wide, fear set in as his hand moved away from Steve. He mentally scolded himself for not telegraphing his actions more when the blond flinched. “What do you mean you can’t sleep? Did you get hit with something? A spell? We’ll get you to medical. No, I’ll call Banner, he’ll-“ He was reaching for his phone when Steve cut him off.
“No, Bucky. I…” He swallowed loudly, once again looking away. “I have nightmares, unless…” He gestured miserably between the two.
“Unless what?”
“Unless I’m touching you.” Steve whispered.
Bucky instantly put his hand back in Steve’s, praying he hadn’t imagined how the other man relaxed at the touch.
“You fall,” Steve hiccupped, the tears breaking the surface again. “I let you fall every damn night I sleep without you.” A sob. “If I had just reached a little further, been able to grab you-”
“Hey, hey,” Bucky cut off forcefully. “None of that, okay? I never want to hear you say that again. Ever. You did all you could. I know if you could have gotten to me, you would have. I know, Stevie.”
He brought Steve’s hand to his chest, resting it over his heart. “I’m here, alright? You brought me in from the dark.”
“I let you fall,” Steve repeated miserably. “I didn’t do a fucking thing. But when I fell, you-”
“No.” Bucky hissed venomously, his voice sharp and full of anger. “You don’t get to do that to yourself. You don’t get to compare apples and oranges. We didn’t know about my serum. You didn’t know I would live. It would have been a suicide jump, Stevie. I knew I’d survive from the helicarrier. It’s not even close to the same, so I never want to hear that shit again.”
“I should have -”
“Enough,” Bucky demanded. “I ain’t never blamed you, Steve. Never. Don’t go blaming yourself.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want- the last thing I wanted was to make you uncomfortable.”
“Uncomfortable? Steve, what the hell are you on about now?” His confusion only growing as Steve gestured to the held hands between them. “Why the hell would this make me uncomfortable?”
“I know Hydra would restrain you.” Steve paused, looking as though he was going to be sick. His hand tightened instinctually in Bucky’s. “And, I know they didn’t care about personal space, and I didn’t want to remind you of that and…”
Bucky groaned, rolling his eyes. “Dumbass.” He scooted closer to Steve, resting Steve’s hand over his heart. He reached out and ran a hand through Steve’s hair, but did not touch the other man further, wanting the blonde to make the final step.
“I have never thought of you like HYDRA. You ain’t gonna send me into some assassin flashbacks because you need to cuddle.” He smiled. “Hell, it’d probably help me too.”
He could feel Steve trembling beside him, the blond closing his eyes, letting Bucky’s heart beat and the vibrations of his words register against his palm.
“Now,” Bucky rested his hand at the base of Steve’s skull, gently forcing him to meet his gaze, “what do you need?”
Steve worked his bottom lip between his teeth, taking in a loud breath.
“Can I-…” Steve began, his voice quiet and shaky, his hand trembling against Bucky’s chest. “Can I hold you?”
The words were barely a whisper, broken and anxious, lost in the night air as soon as they sounded. Bucky’s heart shattered at how terrified, how traumatized Steve sounded. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, blinking back the tears that were threatening to spill.
“Of course, Stevie.” His heart pounded against his rib cage as he scooted closer to Steve, wanting nothing more than to comfort the man, craving the closeness that had once come as easily as breathing.
He moved to where he was but a hair's breadth from Steve, but stopped, wanting to let the other man set the boundaries for this. Because Bucky…Bucky wanted everything with Steve. He had spent too long, been too far for decade after decade. He wanted to meld into Steve, breathing him in, to where the two were seemingly one entity and everything screamed Steve.
Then, maybe then, could Bucky finally accept that he was home.
However, Steve didn’t take Bucky into his arms, squeezing him tightly against his body. He didn’t maneuver Bucky’s head to pillow on his chest, where the sound of Steve’s heart would act as a metronome to lull the former assassin to sleep. He didn’t tangle their legs together so intrinsically that it was impossible to extract one from the other.
Instead, he slung a loose arm over Bucky’s torso, careful to keep the weight off of it, and intertwined his fingers with Bucky’s flesh hand. Steve let out a breath, calming, and moved his head closer to Bucky’s, but did not allow their foreheads to touch.
Bucky lay still, waiting for the next moment, for the arm around him to tighten and pull him against Steve’s warm, broad chest. To feel Steve’s breath against his collarbone and his toes against his calves.
But it never came. What felt like an eternity to Bucky passed, but Steve did not move. The tension was less noticeable in the blond, the anxiety and fear seeping out of him slowly, but he still looked as though he were wound tighter than a boxspring, body far too tense for sleep or even to relax.
And like hell was Bucky going to stand for that. He questioned what to do at first, but then just decided to go with his gut instinct. After all, taking care of Steve Rogers had always come second nature to Bucky.
“You call that cuddling, Punk?” Bucky asked with an eyeroll, pushing Steve’s shoulder so the blond was on his back.
He snuggled against Steve’s side, practically laying on top of the man, resting his head below Steve’s chin, right above the heart. Draping a leg over one of Steve’s, he finally rested one arm over the man’s chest, once more taking Steve’s hand into his own.
Steve’s breath stuttered, going completely still, before the tension seeped out of him, like putty melting. He wiggled under Bucky, allowing himself to bury his face into Bucky’s hair, his arms going around his friend, clutching the material of Bucky’s shirt. “God.” He muttered, sounding like a sob.
Steve shook under Bucky, who merely burrowed further against him, letting the weight of his body be a calm, grounding presence. It did little, however, to keep Steve’s sobs at bay.
“Shhh. You got me.” Bucky murmured, moving his flesh and blood arm to Steve’s bicep, resting it comfortingly. (The monstrosity that HYDRA cursed him with was flung out to the side, as far from Steve as he could get it.) “I’m right here.”
Bucky lowered his lips to Steve’s exposed collarbone that peeked out of his too-large, long-sleeve shirt. The kiss was nothing but gentle and featherlight, but Steve completely froze, his grip on Bucky loosening.
And Bucky panicked internally, because, damn it, they hadn’t been this close since before the fall. Steve had barely touched him because he was afraid or disgusted, Bucky wasn’t sure. Yeah, they used to live in one another’s back pocket, always touching, stealing kisses at every turn and trying to keep quiet during the nights they did more than steal kisses.
But this wasn’t the 40s. This was 2015, and damn it, Bucky had done too much to expect that kind of love from Steve anymore. The blond hadn’t hinted toward any desire to continue their relationship, and now Bucky had gone and shown his cards.
“Shit, Steve, I’m sorry.” He pushed himself up onto his metal arm, getting ready to vault off the bed and into the other room before he died of embarrassment.
Steve’s hand gripped around his bicep, tight enough to leave just a hint of a bruise, stopping him.
The blonde’s eyes were wide, awe and hope and love in them, as if someone had just returned his most cherished treasure. “Do you….can you…?” Though the words were silent, they hung in the air between them, because Bucky Barnes had always been able to read Steve like a book. Still love me? Still want me? Be with me?
And how the hell could Steve ever question that?
“Of course I do. Til the end of the line, Steve.”
Steve let out a loud exhale, his grip loosening. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“You didn’t say anything either, pal.”
“That’s cause I didn’t want to push you! I didn’t want you to feel like you owed me anything. I thought maybe you didn’t want me any-”
Bucky’s lips crashed against Steve, stealing his breath and the words from his throat, trying to express all the love and care and admiration he had for Steve.
He pulled back momentarily, resting his forehead against his lover’s. “I love you.” A quick peck on the lips. “I’ll never not want you. Ever.”
Steve sat up, grabbing Bucky by the back of the neck, kissing him deeply, his hand falling under the hem of Bucky’s shirt, the flesh of his fingers resting lightly on Bucky’s exposed abs.
When Steve’s hand began to travel below Bucky’s waistline, the former assassin pulled back, carding a flesh hand through Steve’s hair. “Uh, uh. No. We’re not doing this tonight. I’ll be damned if you fall asleep on me while we having sex for the first time since the 40s.”
“Buck-”
“You haven’t slept in a week, Rogers. You’re going to lie down, hold me, and we’re going to sleep until you’re rested. I don’t care if the end of the world starts coming.”
Bucky laid down on his side, pulling one of Steve’s arms over his waist, tugging the blond closer to him until he was molded around him. He scooted back until his back was pressed snuggly against Steve’s chest.
“Besides, what kind of guy do you take me for? Gotta wine and dine me before you get a piece of this.”
Steve chuckled wetly, tangling his feet with Bucky’s. “Tomorrow. You and me. I’ll take you on that date we always talked about.”
Bucky smiled, remembering all the hypotheticals they had come up with, the things they would do before the war, during the war, had they not had to hide. Talks of dinners at fancy restaurants, ice skating, picnics in the park, holding hands as they walked through the city, going dancing.
“Which one?”
Bucky could feel Steve shrug behind him, his lips moving against the back of Bucky’s neck as he spoke. “Any of them. All of them.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” Steve murmured. His hand scrambled blindly in front of them until it found the metal one. Bucky stomach dropped, immediately maneuvering Steve’s hand into his flesh and blood one, intertwining their fingers
Bucky’s heart stuttered in his chest as the blond lowered a kiss to the scar tissue surrounding his metal shoulder. “Steve…”
“I love you.” The veracity and assurance of it not affected by the quiet whisper Steve proclaimed it in. “All of you. Including this.” He lowered another kiss to Bucky’s shoulder.
“But you never hold that hand.” Bucky whispered, wanting so badly to believe Steve, but unable to do so.
Steve twisted the hand holding Bucky’s so the thumb was pressed against the pulse point. “Your left arm doesn’t have a heartbeat anymore.”
Bucky shuddered, letting out a loud breath. Understanding dawned on him, because how many nights before the serum did he stay awake, his hand resting against Steve’s chest to ensure the younger man was still breathing, that his heart was still beating?
“If it makes you uncomfortable, that’s fine. You’re allowed to feel that. And I’ll respect that,” Steve vowed. “But the only thing about it that upsets me is the pain you went through to get it.”
Slowly, carefully, Bucky raised his metal hand to rest over he and Steve’s joined hands. He could feel Steve’s lips against his neck, pulling into a smile, before he took in a large breath, filling his nostrils with the smell of apples (the scent of the shampoo Bucky used), a hint of sweat, and something that was distinctly Bucky.
“I love you.” Steve whispered once more.
“Love you too, Punk.” Bucky lifted their joined hands to his lips, so he could kiss each of Steve’s knuckles. “Get some sleep, baby.”
Steve pulled Bucky even closer to him. His breathing even and calm, his eyes drifting close until he fell asleep, Bucky securely in his arms.
His dreams that night, rather than filled with trains and ice, were filled with kisses and smiles, picnics and sunshine, and the promises of all the things that were yet to come.