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The couch is just wide enough for the four of them—cozy, not too tight. Close quarters are more than fine with Steve, who’s enjoying the feel of Bucky’s thigh pressed against his own. Hands on his knees and knuckles brushing Bucky’s, Steve feels the slight points of contact like little static charges. His heart races, but he keeps his eyes forward, pretending to focus on the screen.
Nat says she’s fine with this, the thing that’s brewing between her dad and Bucky, more than fine since she’s the one who pushed them together in the first place. But he knows there isn’t a kid in the world who wants to watch their parent engage in any amount of PDA. Doesn’t matter now, Steve supposes, since she’s currently passed out on his other side, bare feet pressed against his leg and head pillowed on the armrest. She didn’t quite make it to the ball drop, and Steve is soaking in the reminder that for all her grown-up posturing, she’s still just a little girl. Give it a few years, he thinks, and she won’t be caught dead hanging out with Dad and his … whatever Bucky is … on New Year’s Eve.
“This must seem pretty tame to you.” Steve nudges Bucky’s leg, careful not to disturb Nat or Roscoe—the oversized pup slumbering against Bucky’s opposite thigh. “Doing the countdown in front of the TV. No flashy parties, no wild crowds.”
Bucky turns, electric blue glow highlighting his features. “I teach sixth grade history and spend my weekends playing catch with a rescue mutt. Do I seem like the kind of guy who’s looking for flashy parties or wild crowds?”
On screen, Times Square is bursting as the assembled masses start to chant. It barely registers for Steve, who can’t decide where to let his gaze land: the ridiculous swoop of Bucky’s lashes or the obscene curve of his lips.
“Ten! Nine! …”
“Not sure exactly what kind of guy you are yet.” It’s true. One Christmas Eve dinner and one dog-park date hardly make them soulmates. But he wants to know more, and after the past couple years, that in itself is a kind of miracle.
“ … Seven! Six! …"
Bucky shifts closer to Steve, and Roscoe whines, annoyed by the loss of his pillow. “Well, we’re gonna have to fix that, aren’t we? How about a little primer?” There’s a challenge in his voice, and more than a little insinuation. He leans in, and Steve’s heart hammers all the way into his throat. They haven’t done this. Are they really going to do this?
“ … Two! One! …”
Steve answers his own question, closing the distance.
“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”
Fireworks burst on screen, but the show is distant and muted, the metaphor lost on Steve. This moment isn’t a violent eruption of light, cacophony of sound, overwhelming sensation. The soft slide of lips, the chaste exploration of Bucky’s mouth is like chasing fireflies on a summer evening. Like sinking into a warm pool of water. Kissing Bucky feels like coming home.
They linger there enjoying the surprising ease of it long after the celebratory howl on TV shifts into an out of tune rendition of Auld Lang Syne. Steve’s not sure how his hand found its way into the shaggy length of Bucky’s hair, but he keeps it threaded through his nape as Bucky takes a deep, steadying breath.
“Happy New Year,” Bucky whispers, his forehead resting against Steve’s.
“It really is.” Steve’s thankful the dim light hides his rising blush. He’d forgotten for a moment where he was—it’s embarrassing how easily he’d gotten lost in Bucky’s kiss. “I better get this one to bed. If she wakes up and sees us, she’ll be scarred for life.”
“Too late,” Nat murmurs groggily, her words like a splash of cold water. “Please tell me you’re done kissing.”
“Yeah,” he says, shaking himself. “Come on, time for sleep.”
Steve pushes up from the couch, chuckling when Nat says, “Carry me?”
He can’t remember the last time she feigned sleep just to get out of walking to bed. “Little old for that, Nat.” But he scoops her up anyway, relieved she’s not yet too heavy to carry up the stairs.
Bucky starts to stand, but Steve waves him off. “No need to disturb Roscoe. I’ll be right back.”
He nods, settling back on the couch, the corners of his mouth quirking up.
Oh lord, Steve thinks, Those lips will be the death of me.
“Hey, Dad?” Nat says a few minutes later as Steve tucks a blanket over her. She peers at him through the dark of her room. “Is Mr. Barnes going to stick around tonight?”
He swallows, completely unprepared for this conversation. The edge of the bed dips as he takes a seat, brushing out the wrinkles in the covers.
“Would that bother you?”
She scrunches up her face, like even considering the prospect makes her want to run. “I don’t know. I guess not—as long as I don’t have to see you sucking face.”
There’s a joke in here, somewhere, and he almost laughs. But it’s not fair teasing her about this, not when she’s so clearly focused on making him happy. She could have said, Yeah, it totally squicks me out, after all. Eventually they’ll need to talk about this, whether it makes her uncomfortable that Bucky is a man or her teacher or just not-Mom. She probably carries a kernel of uncertainty about all those things, though she’s clearly silencing any reservations for his sake.
“I really like him, Nat.”
“I know, Dad.”
“And liking him means there’s probably going to be more kissing.”
“Ugh. I know, Dad.”
There’s no doubt in Steve’s mind he wants that. More kissing, more connection … just more. He’s not about to discuss his sex life with her, but there are certain realities they both need to face. If things go they way they have been, she may wake up one day and find Steve and Bucky sipping coffee in the kitchen; he needs to know she can deal with that.
“I want to give this a try, Nat, a real one. So I think you’ll be seeing a lot of Bucky.” He smooths his palms over his jeans, trying to find the words. It’s so early to feel so invested, and his attraction to Bucky isn’t the only factor here. “But you come first. Your happiness. Your safety. Understand?”
She squeezes her eyes closed, grimacing. “Will you just go make out with your boyfriend and let me sleep?”
Okay, then. Discussion over. “Can do,” he says with a snort, bending down and pressing his lips to her forehead. “And he’s not my boyfriend yet.”
Steve is almost out the door when her sleepy-slurred voice stops him. “You owe me chocolate chip pancakes in the morning. And a six month reprieve from any kind of birds and the bees talk.”
“All right.” Sounds like a deal. “Love you.”
“You too.”
…
The stairs creak as Steve descends. Knowing what he’ll find down there, he feels the sudden urge to brace himself. Bucky is splayed across the couch, petting Roscoe and watching the closing festivities on screen. He reaches for the remote, clicking the TV off as Steve makes his way into the living room. The space is thrown into darkness, quiet and close.
“So, what’s the verdict? Think she’s really scarred, or was that just tween melodrama?”
There’s a lot packed into that casual delivery, if Steve’s reading it right: trepidation masked as jest, a ready retreat. What if Nat decided this was all too much—or Steve did, for that matter? Then Bucky’s handed Steve the perfect out.
Steve shakes his head, tapping the back of his knuckles against Bucky’s thigh as he sits. “It’s fine.”
Tension eases out of Bucky’s sprawling limbs, his stance relaxing into something loose and natural. Less forced. And now Steve’s sure he had been readying himself for a swift exit.
“She’s too invested as a match-maker to let herself be discouraged by a little kissing.” Steve smiles awkwardly, then drops his gaze. This is hard to say, and he’s so out of practice. “Still, I think keeping things … covert is probably best for the foreseeable future.”
“I’m pretty solid on covert ops.” Bucky says through a relieved smile.
Steve chuckles, realizing too late how careless it is to be tossing out military double-entendres. Unconsciously, his gaze is drawn to the shine of Bucky’s metal arm, and from there it’s a hop, skip, and a jump to things that are too ugly and too painful to think about. It needs to be addressed—Peggy and Afghanistan and the way Bucky lost his arm. He knows that. But it’s so much easier to bottle it up for a while longer, pretend the world hasn’t handed them both an absolute shit deal.
“So does this mean I can look forward to a follow-up mission?” Bucky rests a cautious hand on Steve’s thigh.
Steve’s thoughts stutter-halt. What mission? Bucky licks his lips, and suddenly he’s flushing with the memory of Bucky’s mouth pressed to his. Oh, that mission. His throat is dry, and much as he wants to say Hell yes! there are no words coming.
“I’m sorry, I’m not trying to push.” Bucky closes in on himself, and no, that’s so wrong. “I didn’t—we don’t have to do anything.” Before Steve can get a word in, Bucky is patting Roscoe’s haunches and leaping up in an embarrassed flurry. “It’s late, and I’m sure you’re tired. We’ll get out of your hair.”
Steve hates these land mines, the smallest misunderstanding blowing up in their faces.
“Bucky—wait! Slow down.” He tugs on Bucky’s hand, cool and solid, and steps into his space. He’s leaving no room for doubt. “You just caught me off guard. You don’t have to leave.”
Bucky eyes him, brows furrowed.
“I’ll be honest, it’s been a while, and I’m not sure how to navigate this. But I don’t want you to leave. Please. Stay.”
Bucky’s defenses deflate at that, his shoulders collapsing and frown turning rueful. “Been a while for me, too, you know. Not a lot of guys looking for—” He shakes his head. “—what I have to offer.”
And that just about breaks Steve’s heart. He squeezes Bucky’s hand, caught between disbelief that anyone could ever reject this man and thanking the good lord for their blindness. “Then those guys are idiots.” He reaches for Bucky’s waist and pulls him closer. “But I ain’t crying.”
It’s strange, the way old cadences come back. The words. The posture. How he suddenly feels fierce and protective, like that kid who used to get his nose bloodied for defending strangers on the F train. The guy who screwed up all his courage to ask Peggy-freaking-Carter out on a date. He hasn’t been that person in so long, he’s hardly been any person, come to think of it. He’d been so hollowed out by grief, he forgot what it was like to feel full. But he’s tired of feeling that way. He wants to be something. Somebody.
Mischief flashes in Bucky’s eyes, an answering call to whatever it is Steve’s sending out, and his mouth curves into a smirk. “You planning on sweet-talking me all night, Rogers, or you gonna kiss me again?”
It’s all Brooklyn, that voice—a hint at something Bucky’s been keeping tamped down, too—and Steve doesn’t need to be asked twice. He pulls Bucky to him, collapsing back on the couch as their mouths connect with an awkward, bruising smack. They laugh, limbs tangled, and scoot into a more comfortable position. Bucky props himself up on knees and prosthetic arm, leaving a Bible-widths distance between their hips. Amusement shifts into something heady as he leans down, slow and serous, breath falling across Steve’s face. Dimly, Steve hears Roscoe’s low whine, the sound of paws scraping their way to another room, and then he’s much more concerned with the heavy press of Bucky’s chest on his and the warm, wet slide of their tongues.
And it’s so fucking perfect he can hardly breathe.
He pants into Bucky’s mouth, lungs heaving and hands scrambling to anchor himself. He traces the curve of Bucky’s spine, pressing fingertips and palms onto the landscape of muscle and bone. Bucky’s mouth roams, scratching stubble across Steve’s cheeks with a delightful burn. It’s not entirely unfamiliar, the coarse scrape against his face, the firm warmth under his hands, but Steve wasn’t lying when he said it’d been a while. A long while since his hands were exploring strong geometric lines rather than soft curves. Calloused digits tug at the hem of his shirt, reaching under to skate along his side, and Steve knows, familiar or not, this is exactly what he wants.
“I think we scared Roscoe off,” Steve gasps, because it seems safer than the keening cry threatening to burst out of him.
Bucky snickers, nipping at his jaw. “You really want to be talking about my dog right now?”
“No. No. Sorry.” And, Jesus, he’s too old to be feeling this kind of nervous energy quaking through him.
Bucky smiles against his skin, murmuring, “You’re adorable, Steve Rogers, d’you know that?”
Steve can’t help but return the grin. He likes the way Bucky teases, even if it leaves him feeling childish and silly. He’ll take the gentle ribbing any day, if it comes with all the rest.
Bucky steals in with a kiss, and Steve sinks, deep-diving into ocean blue, any possible reply stolen from his tongue. He drives his fingers into the thick tangle of Bucky’s hair, urging him on and holding him close. He’s not sure how long they stay there, exploring each other’s mouth. It’s hard to focus, his thoughts slow-moving, like molasses. All he knows is he wants more. He hasn’t kissed anyone in so long, hasn’t touched anyone. He hasn’t been touched. It feels so good, he doesn’t ever want to stop.
(And if somewhere inside—down in the cracked, black basement of his thoughts—he imagines Peggy’s face and wonders what she might think about all this, well, it’s not so overwhelming that it ruins the moment. It’s just a whisper, and he can wrap it up softly until it’s so still and quiet that he can forget to remember.)
So they kiss and touch. And Steve lets himself feel the weight of the moment, lets himself tune into the rough slide of hands and eager drag of mouths. By the time Bucky pulls away, closing the kiss with a lingering press of lips, Steve’s on the verge of tears or hysterical laughter, shivering with a tensile ache that hurts as much as it excites. Bucky traces patterns into Steve’s side as his mouth trips down his chin, teeth nipping across tender skin. Steve tilts his head in invitation, biting back a moan when Bucky brushes his mouth across his Adam’s apple. Bucky licks into the hollow of Steve’s throat, and—oh, God, that feels so good—his hands clench in Bucky’s hair as his hips judder up. They meet, stiff under their clothes, and Steve does cry out then, overwhelmed. Too excited to be embarrassed, he trails his fingers down and down until they’re cupped around the firm curve of Bucky’s ass, splaying legs wide while he rocks up again and again.
And he wants, God he wants so badly. He wants to lose himself in the feel of Bucky, in heat and sensation. He’s so mesmerized by the motion, the intoxicating pressure and pulse, it takes him a minute to realize Bucky has gone still above him. His kisses have stalled on Steve’s neck, and his grip on Steve’s ribs is bruisingly tight.
“Fuck, Steve,” he pants, warm and wet against Steve’s skin. “Are you—I mean, fuck, this is—”
Steve stills and blinks into the dark room. Everything’s buzzing: inside his head, under his skin, in the back of his damn teeth. He claws his way back, meeting Bucky’s uncertain expression, sobered by what he sees there.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry, Buck,” he says, pulling away, trying to squash himself back into the cushions. “I don’t know what—”
“No! It’s fine. It’s fine.”
Bucky gulps air like a man drowning. He pushes up to sitting, running a hand through his wrecked hair. Steve scrambles to the side of the couch, wrapping his arms around his knees, giving space as much as taking it for himself.
“It’s just … a lot. Maybe more than—”
Steve swallows thickly and nods, finishing the unspoken words with a whisper. “More than you’re ready for.”
Bucky looks sorry—says as much—and, fuck, that’s not what Steve wants at all. Bucky shouldn’t apologize for that, he shouldn’t ever feel sorry for that.
“Jesus, no. It’s more than I’m ready for.” And it’s true, he realizes. This is too much. Too soon. “I don’t know what got into me.”
Bucky shoots him a pained grin, but Steve can’t get his eyes to focus on that face. Certainly can’t respond with a grin of his own. He feels off-balance. Shaken.
What was he thinking? His hands are trembling, and his chest is tight. Bucky shrugs and says something meant to be comforting, but Steve can’t hear it for all the white noise thrumming in his ears. That whisper of a thought comes screaming back, and he knows it was foolish to push it down. Impossible to ignore.
Peggy. What would Peggy think?
Here in the home he made with her, on the couch they shared, he’s kissing someone, thrusting unwanted advances on someone with his daughter right upstairs. And oh fuck what if Nat heard and she’s scared or plugging her ears right now and what kind of shitty father, what kind of shitty person does that?
There’s a rattle in Steve’s throat as he tries to breathe, but it burns and he can’t. He can’t catch his breath.
“Hey. Steve, hey.” Bucky’s voice cuts through the fog. He’s crowded close now, stroking Steve’s back with wide, worried eyes. “Are you okay?”
Steve nods automatically, but he doesn’t know if he’s okay. He doesn’t think he’s okay, and it hurts, everything hurts, but he wants Bucky to keep touching him. His eyes are watering and his chest feels like its caught in a vice, and he can’t think. He can’t breathe.
“Steve. Listen.” He’s talking slow and calm, bathing Steve in a steady stream of simple words, like he’s a child. “Can you hold my hand? Good. Just hold my hand, and squeeze if you need to. You won’t hurt me. We’re gonna breathe okay? We’re gonna just breathe.” Bucky takes a long inhale, holds it for a second, then lets it out. He does it again, stroking Steve’s back, squeezing gently with his prosthetic hand, and Steve clamps his eyes closed, at last managing to draw in a shallow rasp of air.
“Good! That’s good,” he says, as though Steve has done something amazing. “Keep squeezing my hand. I’m right here. Let’s try again. Breathe with me, okay?”
Steve manages another breath, but it sounds awful and he knows he’s not doing it right. Bucky heaps on more praise, more encouragement, and Steve can’t quite believe it, but Bucky promises him it’s going to be okay. It’s a lifeline, something to hold onto, however tenuous his grasp. After a few minutes with Bucky’s calm presence and soothing words, it becomes easier. It stops feeling like Steve’s dragging sand through his lungs on each inhale, and his exhale grows quiet, the grating wheeze fallen away. His heart is still pounding in his ears, but the tightness in his chest has abated, and Bucky’s hands are warm and reassuring where they stroke him.
“That’s good, Steve. It’s okay. I’m here.”
When the episode is well and truly done, shame creeps easily into the vacated space, sliding hot and thick through Steve’s veins. “God, Bucky, I’m so sor—”
“Nope.” Steve can’t finish the thought before Bucky cuts him off, kind but firm. “No apologizing for that.” He eyes Steve sternly, brooking no argument. “I don’t know if there was something else I coulda done for you there, but at least now you know what usually works on me.”
When his mind latches onto the meaning of those words, Steve feels a new kinship—and immense gratitude. He smiles his thanks, understanding this isn’t the time to ask for details about the panic attacks Bucky may have had. Because he gets it now, here, on the other side: it was a panic attack. That overwhelming crowding of his mind, the inability to breathe. He hasn’t had one since the early days after Peggy’s death, and sitting here in the warm glow of Bucky’s gaze, he realizes that’s probably because he’d shuttered most of his emotions a long time ago.
“Thank you,” Steve whispers, and his voice sounds as shaky as he feels.
“Anytime.”
Silence stretches on, and still Bucky holds him, seeming unwilling to let Steve go even now that the cracked shards of him have been pieced back together.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he says, hesitant and without pressure.
Steve would love to not talk about it. He would love to take everything they need to discuss and keep stuffing it down, filling the air with teasing flirtation until those uncomfortable thoughts are drowned out by the noise. He’d like to choke off the voices in his head. Suffocate them. Of course, that’s what got him here in the first place, isn’t it?
“I don’t know what to say,” he says instead. It’s a beginning, even if it’s not much.
“That’s okay. I’m here for whatever you need.”
Bucky is patient and kind, and probably too good for someone as broken as Steve is. He winces. Takes a breath. That’s depression talking, and grief. He knows that. But even so, he can’t quite silence the toxic voice telling him Bucky would be better off without him. Steve’s gaze is drawn to where Bucky’s fingers wind through his, surprised by how comforting the hard, smooth texture feels against his hand. He realizes maybe they’re both a little bit broken. And maybe that’s okay, being broken together.
“Hey, is this all right?” Bucky asks, tensing.
Of course. Steve’s meditative gaze is on Bucky’s prosthetic. Steve can only imagine what’s going through Bucky’s head.
“This is great. It’s perfect,” he says quickly, gripping Bucky tighter. “Please,” he whispers, uncertain what he’s asking for.
Even without the words to guide him, Bucky knows. He strokes Steve’s back and presses a chaste kiss to his temple. Steve relaxes into the hold, shaking through unspent adrenaline and some new wave of emotion. The words come before Steve knows what they’ll be.
“When we stopped, um, kissing. When you stopped me,” he corrects. “I realized how close I’d been to doing something huge, something I couldn’t take back, and that scared me. I kept thinking about Peggy, how she’d feel if she could see me.”
Bucky’s face is in his peripheral, so Steve can’t see if his expression falls, but he can feel it in his hold, in the hesitation of his caress.
“I know it’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not, Steve.” His voice is muted. Sad.
“It is. I know it is. Peggy would want me to be happy. She would, Bucky. She would want this for me.”
Roscoe pads into the room, nails clacking on the hardwood floors, whining uncertainly. Steve smiles when he rests his head on Steve’s thigh. He pets him with his free hand. Soft, steady strokes until Roscoe plops onto his bottom, tail wagging. Bucky’s quiet, and after minute, Steve dares a glance. His eyes are downcast, bottom lip clamped between his teeth.
“This is hard, Bucky. Clearly, I have stuff that needs working out. Part of me thinks it might be impossible.”
Bucky’s eyes darts to Steve, hurt, closing down. Steve hates that expression, wants to wipe it off his face as quickly as he can. He smiles softly and draws Bucky’s hand to his cheek, kissing the smooth plates of his palm.
“But it was harder to think I had to do it all alone.” He tells himself to breathe, to get this out right. “It’s up to you, of course. But I don’t want to do it alone.”
With a huff of relief, Bucky reaches for him, pulling Steve into his arms. Roscoe barks, frustrated at losing a warm lap for the second time tonight. Steve vows to make it up to him—sometime later, sometime Bucky’s not hugging him so tight.
“You don’t have to do it alone, you punk,” Bucky says, mouthing the words against his skin. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
Steve sinks into Bucky’s embrace, heart fluttering happily. “Okay,” he says as he turns to steal a kiss. “Okay.”
....