Work Text:
With an instinctive groan sliding out of his lax mouth, Bucky takes the opportunity of the lonesome kitchen to stretch as big as he can. There isn’t one worry in his head that he’ll bump someone with his extended limbs nor that he’ll look dumb, surely an expression of pure joy painting his face at the sensation. Finally stretching.
One likely wouldn’t think that sitting at a desk all day would be hard on a body but it is. It really fucking is- sitting in one place (most days when they’re not testing models or applications of their designs), typing constantly, and thinking so damn hard urges muscles to complain much faster than Bucky thinks they would if he had kept at it with high school football and done something athletic through college and into his first job, then his career. If he were a personal trainer… maybe he wouldn’t feel so old. Maybe if he went into sports medicine, not medical engineering. He knows it’s not too late to look back, he’s really not that old. Not at all. And, in fact, he’s probably more active than he’s ever been thanks to his partner right now but that’s... besides the point.
For just another moment, Bucky stretches like a cat after an afternoon nap in the sun. Bucky would be purring if possible. As is, he bats his keys from his pocket to the counter of their kitchen island. His wallet comes out of his pocket next. Then his phone, but first he has to check if he’s gotten any messages since he left the office, and when he hasn’t gotten any new notifications he sets it there too. Already he’s toed off his shoes in the entryway, so his next order of business is to loosen his tie. The one in his shirt and the hair tie holding up his silver hair. Just a basic ponytail for keeping his hair from his face while at work so it doesn’t become a distraction. By the end of the day though, Bucky is always more eager to have the tension of it lost than the convenience of not having any hair on his face, tickling his skin, or encroaching on his line of sight.
Shaking his head with the hopes of unsettling the god-awful bump his hair can get from being restrained and possibly detangling, Bucky signs. Already he feels much better. He wouldn’t call it a headache but… yeah. It’s been a long day.
It’s gonna be a long night too. He never sleeps well without his partner at home. No matter how many times he leaves or isn’t around in the evenings. Trying to think up something for dinner, unless he wants leftovers from last night, he sighs again. Fingers push through his hair. He recalls with a slight grin how startling it was to begin going grey in his early, early twenties. How afraid he was that it would age him significantly and no one would assume he was still young and still want to go out with him because, well, that’s what you do in your teens and early twenties- you worry about your appearance and how it can boost your reputation or how it might ruin your reputation- your life.
Only if he knew how much it would fascinate people down the line- all the next partners he’d have whilst dating around. And only if he knew how his Steve would beg with stars in his eyes, hands in his hair, for him to keep growing his hair out when things got crazy at work for months and months nearing the end of a big project, so his hair stopped seeing scissors in favor of sleep and more important things. It was surprisingly easy to grow out. At first, he told everyone - blowing stray strands of hair from his face when they hadn’t been long enough to tuck back into his first ponytails - that it was for his partner. Not for him. Everyone would laugh and tell him he was fucking whipped as if that’s not half the reason most straight men have their facial hair the way it is- oh, the Mrs. likes it this way. Said I should keep it, not shave it, so I guess it’s sticking around. But he does like it, whether or not Steve started it.
Bucky is shaken from his reminiscence by the sound that he can’t identify at first. He stalls his fingers in his hair, massaging his own scalp in a way that will always be lackluster to the incredible talent that Steve has for it, and listens harder. Pushing the fading ache from a too-tight hairstyle from his mind.
Oh, he realizes. The sound must be coming from the door.
With a step forward, Bucky tries to place whether or not there are any deliveries headed their way. Something from the pharmacy? No. An online purchase? No. As much as the thought had been tempting him, so he wouldn’t have to cook himself, Bucky didn’t order any food yet. So… what? What the hell is that?
Padding just far enough to see the front door from the kitchen, peering down the entry hallway in their apartment’s layout, Bucky watches, confused, as the doorknob rattles. He pauses. So confused that it doesn’t register in his mind to be spooked. Not yet. He simply watches the doorknob rattle again. More urgent this time. When the knob rattles a third (fourth?) time but also becomes backed by the wood of the door creaking from unseen stress, Bucky’s heart jumps into his throat. Steve, he thinks urgently.
Either Steve is trying and failing, somehow, to get into their apartment (did he leave his keys accidentally? When he got called in for an emergency in the middle of the night and left? Bucky would’ve found them around the apartment sometime in the last week though, right? Steve would’ve called, texted, or something to let him know, right?) or… the thought strikes fear into Bucky’s chest; either it’s Steve at the door or someone is trying to get in to get to where they think Steve is. A shudder, fearful and paralyzing, rolls down his spine. Goosebumps paint his skin. A thousand times, Steve’s told him what to do if he’s in trouble because of who Steve is, Captain America, but-
Knowing (go for soft spots… do as I showed you when we sparred, those survival moves should get you away or get the other person away… call me or another Avenger, not 911… Bucky can hear Steve’s voice in his head) and doing are two separate things.
He can’t move.
The door complains louder. He can see the strain of the wood, bending. The knob furiously rattles. A distinctly metallic chink sounds from the other side of the door, then a groan that rapidly melts into a pathetic-sounding whimper.
Oh.
Bucky’s hackles lower back down, his heart unfrozen, beating again in his chest just as his breath comes back too. Steve. He can recognize his voice anywhere, even if it’s not his speaking voice. The first sound retroactively registers in his head as Steve finally having put his key in the lock but then turning the key too hard and breaking it. The flimsy metal keys too soft for unregulated strength. And the groan/whimper… that’s purely tired frustration; an animal sound that can’t help but escape.
Steve.
Bucky takes a step forward without even thinking about it, drawn to him. Steve must be on the other side of the door, tired, pawing at the door, trying to turn his key and not quite getting it, trapped between being too tired to be delicate and being too used to brute strength from fighting for the past week. It’s pretty common after missions for him to have to adjust back to hyper-controlled motor movements, reeling back his super strength after letting all of it loose for… whatever the need was this time.
The elder man’s feet take him to the door in a sudden race, giddy and worried in equal measure as he nearly slips and falls on their tile and then their hardwood floors, his feet no longer in shoes but still wearing socks. Sliding around a little, luckily not actually falling before he makes it to the front door.
From the inside, Bucky flicks the lock and pulls the door toward him by the handle, revealing his partner on the other side. Not so much standing there as tumbling forward. Tumbling inside. Apparently, he hadn’t been straining the door with his super strength being exerted on the handle alone, but also with his bulk. Tiredly slumped against the slab of wood as he attempted to open the door.
Catching himself by grasping Bucky’s forearms, head nearly knocking into his chest, Steve glances up at him with dull eyes that are rapidly coming back to life. He breathes, “Buck,” relieved to both see him and be saved by him. Bucky is relieved too, to see him back home, but he is also relieved simply to hear the childhood nickname that only his longest-held friends and Steve himself use. James is for everyone. Less intimate and less personal. He’s been scrambling for that connection all week, well, more like a week with some spare days added on.
“Ste- oof” air gets punched out of Bucky’s lungs when the other man pushes himself into his chest, so in need of a hug that he’s impatient and possibly willing to knock him over just to get one. Nothing but a big, dirty golden retriever. Bucky knows just how dirty he must be based on the smell coming off of him. A smell that also tells him that he will have to send this set of work clothes to the dry cleaners to ensure that the smell (or grim) sticks, he doesn’t care though. Thank fucking God, he’s home. “Stevie,” he finishes, sighing easily, now that he’s here. Safe and-
Safe and sound?
With the question stuck in his head and anxiety pouring off of him at the thought that under the caked grime and dirt there might be blood (of which has come from Steve), Bucky pulls Steve closer. Steve makes a happy sound at the motion- the sound not unlike the ones he makes when he’s asleep and Bucky comes back to bed after getting up in the middle of the night to piss; always overjoyed to cuddle more, smashing himself up against his side. All but literally purring. And before moving from the entryway, the biologically older man makes sure to shut and lock the door behind them (after he pries half of the broken key from the lock with Steve still wrapped around him like a koala). Then they both go to the kitchen where he plops Steve down on one of their breakfast bar stools because he needs to sit down and the darkly stained wood will be much easier to clean later than their fabric couch- Bucky thinks fast.
Head to toe, Steve is a mess. Already his cowl is gone, leaving behind some of the most terrible, most adorable bedhead ever. His blonde hair sticking up in every direction. The shield is on his back, strapped in, but even the underside that Bucky can hardly get a glimpse of (thanks to those broad shoulders) is wrecked, stained darkly by fluids Bucky is sure that he doesn’t want to know about in detail. His boots are in the same condition, caked in shit. And his uniform is dirty too, however, it at least seems to be in one piece. No slashes, rips, or tears that Bucky can see. None that he can find, sinking to his knees to unbuckle and slip off his shoes, lifting his legs, almost like he’s a doctor checking his knees or his reflexes. Steve wiggles his toes with each heavy shoe taken off. It makes Bucky smile. Yeah, he’s okay. Safe and sound.
The worst could be some internal injury because his suit isn’t torn but… Steve would feel it and would tell him (they may have gotten into their first (and last) fight about injuries that were not conveyed to Bucky when Steve had definite knowledge about them). And in most cases when he has had internal injuries- they’re never worth surgery to fix anyway. Nor are they worth painkillers. Steve burns through them too fast.
Mirroring himself, Bucky leaves the rest of his partner’s uniform on, only taking off his shoes. The rest can wait until, “should we get some dinner in you or wash up first?” He looks at Steve as he stands, slowly rising with his hands on Steve’s knees, supporting himself. Suppressing the groan that wants to come out of him.
The blonde has palpable hearts in his eyes under his drooping eyelids. Exhausted must not be a strong enough word for how tired he is. Steve stares up at him. Staring a little dumbly.
It makes Bucky’s heart squeeze, looking at him is like looking big puppy.
Steve opens his mouth as if he might try for words but yawns hugely instead. No words come out after the yawn either. Rather, he simply shrugs.
Surveying just how grimy and dirty he is once more, leaning towards showering first, Bucky smiles privately when all of a sudden Steve’s stomach growls loudly. It’s as if his body knows exactly what Bucky’s words mean and is making a competition of who can be heard more.
Yet, Steve just shrugs again, blue eyes focused on him tiredly. A faint flush has begun to creep up over his face as his stomach makes another sound as if that’s anything to be embarrassed over. Bodily functions like hunger. There’s no doubt in Bucky’s mind that the reason is that Steve’s just purely ready to not make a single decision after playing team leader for so long and making every. single. decision.
And making this one for him mercifully, Bucky turns and gets on his tiptoes to blindly pat the top of the fridge (where Steve can see, the tall bastard, but Bucky himself can’t) until he feels the box of energy/protein bars they have. Bars made specifically for Steve. Something Bruce made, applying his medical and biochemical knowledge to the conception, then using Tony’s technology for the real-life creation of them. Bucky hasn’t ever eaten one himself because each bar is a boggling 950 calories for the size and shockingly heavy in his hands, dense, but Steve says they taste like brownies. They don’t look too far from a brownie anyhow.
Turning again and handing the bar to Steve to munch on he explains, “we can make dinner after we shower, I just got home myself.”
Steve simply nods, still mute. He never feels much like talking after. Strangely, he’s the same way with nightmares. He doesn’t like to talk about them at all, but he especially won’t talk about them when the memory of the dream is fresh and raw. Missions at least mean that part of the reason he doesn’t speak about them is because a hell of a lot of it is classified. Nightmares… not so much. They’re only judged that way in his own head.
Bucky worries more about the nightmares than missions. Not that he doesn’t worry about whatever he goes and does when he’s not here, at home, or at the tower. He does. He really, really does.
The sound of Steve’s energy bar wrapper crinkling and his chewing are the only things that follow them down the hall to the shower.
Once they reach the bathroom, an intentionally non-white space but instead a calming (maybe even moody) dark green and gold space with adjustable but dim lighting for exactly the purpose of this, Bucky yet again makes the decision. He pats Steve’s chest to tell him to begin the gauntlet of removing his suit and points dorkily to his own chest to give himself the mission of retrieving a change of clothes for the both of them. He will leave the bathroom but he’s only going to the bedroom and he will be right back, he promises. Steve nods shakily. Bucky suggests he sit on the closed toilet while he finds and undoes all the hidden snaps, zippers, and velcro that hold his suit together just well enough to survive crime-fighting without permanently trapping him inside so he doesn’t fall over on his feet.
Just as he begins to turn, he hears Steve do just that.
Their bedroom is the same dark green and gold mainly, but there’s also a good amount of silver and white shot through the space. The bathroom is meant to be cozy and almost den-like, different from every hotel and every S.H.I.E.L.D. amenity, instantly inspiring a strong sense of home (then there’s also the immense benefit for Steve which is blood going down the drain isn’t as jarring against dark green as perfect, bleach white). And their bedroom obviously is the same but… it’s good for it to be a little airier too. Hence the silver and white.
Going straight for their closet, bypassing the fluffy and inviting surface of their bed, for himself Bucky gets only a change in pants, worn sweats, rather than his professional slacks. He returns the length of his belt to its place, coiling it up to save space. Then, without taking anything off, he starts to grab more clothes. These for Steve. The need for a change is much more substantial for his partner... from bottom to top he’s gonna need things to change into. Bucky gets all that he needs: thick socks, a pair of intentionally loose boxers, sweats that are comfortable and thick but still breathable so he won’t sweat to death, the little furnace, and a wide-necked t-shirt that’s about three sizes too big for him. It’s not Bucky’s shirt, but it is something that Bucky bought for him and sprayed with his cologne to make it seem like it is.
Gathering all of the clothes into a tippy, half-folded pile, Bucky pads back through their bedroom to the bathroom. Announcing his return with a soft, “okay, honey, let’s get you cleaned up.” He sets everything on the counter and-
Steve has made it as far as removing the top of his suit and his undershirt. Completely topless but still in his boots and tac pants.
Even sweaty, grimy, and bruised, he’s still beautiful. It steals any other words not only out of his dry mouth but out of his head too. Distracted. Steve is a work of art in flesh and blood rather than stone as created by the Romans. Based on the look in his eyes, locking with Bucky’s own, his attention all for Bucky, you wouldn’t think he’s in pain. And maybe he isn’t. Bucky-
Bucky doesn’t want him to be in pain but… he hopes that he does feel the bruises painting his otherwise perfect chest, arms, and surely over his back even though he can’t see his back, face to face as they are. Because… if Steve doesn’t feel them that means he’s gotten used to being so banged up. Bucky doesn’t want him to be used to it, it’s better to feel pain than to feel entirely numb. After all, if you’re numb to pain, you’ve got to be numb to a lot of other things too. A lot of other emotions. Shot through with holes. Numb. Empty.
Bucky shudders at the thought and ushers himself forward rather than continuing to dwell on what might or might not be going on in that beautiful mind.
“You want help?” He has to ask, reaching out but not quite touching, not yet. Even though it seems Steve’s expended all of his dwindled energy to get himself this far, marionette strings cut, he might not want help. Sometimes after particularly horrific missions, torn up inside about the one person he couldn’t save, he needs to have at least “one thing” that he can do. Then there are other times he needs someone to touch him- needing a connection to something. Someone who won’t slip away through the inevitable march of time or the fragility of the human body. Crushed and broken all too easily.
Silence greets his words. His asking. But…
After a pause to think (and Bucky’s very glad he’s comfortable enough now to actually think about it, not just telling Bucky yes because Steve thinks it’s what he wants to hear) Steve nods. Silent but clear agreement.
“Okay,” Bucky closes the space between them. He cups his jaw, sliding his hand from his face to the base of his neck, breathing calmly so Steve has a good example to follow, “okay, I’m happy to help, Stevie,” Bucky says the words as he stares right at him, blue eyes to blue eyes. He wants Steve to see how honest and real it is. He wants to help. He wants to be here for him. Bucky has been to dark places in his own life and he won’t spend his days comparing it to the vast darkness Steve has been swallowed and then spit out by. Trauma to trauma comparisons are pointless; there’s no point in trying to say who has had it worse. The positive is simply that Bucky’s own moments lend him understanding for Steve. Understanding and shouldering as much of the weight as Steve will share (while checking in with himself).
Giving and understanding is never a burden though, Steve gives just as much. Just… not in moments like these. But it’s okay. Everyone has moments of weakness. As nice as it would be to be balanced all the time… it’s not how life works. Age has brought Bucky that knowledge.
His head is full of thoughts as he helps his partner from his uniform with careful hands. Guiding him to stand and then taking over. He feathers his fingertips over his bruises first, counting them in his head for no reason other than he’s always been a numbers guy (“a nerd” as Steve will cheerfully tease, laughing when they’re baking together and Bucky insists on using a scale rather than measuring cups, insisting that they’re more accurate because they are). Then he finds the snap-zip combo at his waist, loosening the pants and peeling them down gently.
Steve’s hands shadow his, chasing his fingers and trying to help.
“It’s okay, honeybee,” he murmurs, pausing with his pants halfway down his thighs to entangle their hands for a moment. Right and left to right and left. Squeezing Steve’s hands and looking up into his shining eyes. Steve nods again. Bucky continues. A couple more undone zippers and two more snaps and his pants come off easily, pooling at his feet. Leaving him only in his compression shorts. Bucky peels them off too, hissing at the biggest, darkest bruise he finds, front and center of Steve’s left thigh.
The other man looks at the mark like he doesn’t know what it is. Like he’s never seen a bruise before rather than having extensive experience with such surface-level injuries (and even deeper, harsher injuries but Bucky isn’t going to make himself sad thinking about it right now).
Bucky kisses the purple and blue patch of skin. “Shower?”
Steve shakes his head rapidly. Mute but screaming at the same time. He keeps standing where he is with his feet in a puddle of his dirty uniform and his hands outstretched, fingers spread but unmoving as if frozen mid-way between standing independently and leaning in for a hug. Without a word exchanged, Bucky knows what he wants and moves accordingly- standing up and stepping into his static, vaguely trembling arms. Instantly his arms constrict. Steve inhales sharply, ducking his head so he can bury his face in Bucky’s neck. Pressing them together tightly, tip to tail.
Time comes to a standstill like that. Not frozen exactly because it’s a warm and pleasant moment, not cold, but… still.
It’s peaceful.
They’re swaying together, just a little, because they can’t help but move to the tide of emotion tugging at them both.
The (biologically) younger man is the first to move. It makes Bucky’s lips tick up at the corners, humming with soft amusement, naturally, he thinks, Steve would be more impatient, thanks to his youth and all.
“Stevie?” He breathes.
Yet he doesn’t really need to ask because just before his name leaves his lips, Steve thumbs the highest button on his shirt at the hollow of his throat. Somewhere along the way, he lost his tie after he came in through the door. They’ll have to track it down later. Now it doesn’t matter, Bucky sighs, wry, and steps just farther away, giving him room, so Steve can return the favor, undressing him. Unbuttoning his dress shirt. Peeling off his slacks. Rucking up his undershirt and messing up his hair as he pulls it over his head. Dropping his briefs to the floor. Bucky beats him to his own socks, bending one leg at a time to reach for them but he lets Steve help still. He uses his partner as an anchor point, holding onto his waist as he shucks the fabric from his feet. Right then left.
When they’re both stripped down the brutal honesty of their bare skin, Bucky herds Steve into the shower where he notices the suddenly much more pronounced tremble in his partner’s legs.
“You can sit down if you like, you know,” he says over the pleasant but loud cacophony of the water starting. Both of them are out of the way of the spray, just until it warms. And Steve starts to shake his head but must think better of it because he does.
He sinks to his knees where he clings to Bucky’s lower legs like a little kid, hugging them. His forehead is hot against his shin.
Suddenly it feels like one of Bucky’s ribs gouges further into his chest. That or maybe his heart has just grown more, too large for the cage under his skin, on sight alone. Affectionately gazing down at his partner. So trusting and so unafraid to be himself. Now unafraid to get what he needs with a gentle push (at least when he’s worn down like he is now).
It feels a little upsetting how much he himself enjoys this sometimes- how much he loves how vulnerable Steve lets himself be around him… sort of like, like, he’s being selfish somehow? Knowing that if Steve didn’t put himself out there in the first place, he wouldn’t get this and Bucky would miss it if it suddenly stopped. He likes taking care of Steve. But? Bucky isn’t so sure Steve could stop. Not before hell itself prevents him.
They joke that when Bucky retires, still maybe two decades away, Steve will too. And they’ll be a sappy old couple together, doing retirement… activities? Bucky’s not really sure what you do when you’ve retired anyway. He’s never looked forward to it before. He, like Steve, is a workaholic. So, it hasn’t held any appeal before. Now he has someone to spend it with though so… it colors a good bit of his daydreams these days.
The water is plenty warm now. Steam curling around them, thickening the air, alerts Bucky to the change. Pulling him from his thoughts and gentle, nagging guilt. Which he dismisses the best he can. Instead, Bucky wiggles his toes to alert Steve and they shuffle into the hot spray.
Under the hot rain in the dim, homey space, Bucky runs his fingers through Steve’s hair as it soaks up water. Darkening to brown while the hair on his own head turns black, pseudo turning back time to right before he went grey. He had deep, chocolate brown hair originally. Then it turned black, faded to salt and pepper, and then finally went all salt, the way it stays these days.
They both are enveloped by the water and steam before long.
Steam is breathed into their lungs, exhaled out, and shared between them. Water makes falls, rivers, streams down their bodies. As Bucky starts to wash Steve’s hair - cleaning from his head down so he does get re-dirtied by the water’s flow - he wonders how long they would have to stand here before the rain unveils its shy power and erodes them. Smoothing their sharp edges, blurring them into one eventually, forever cradled in by each other…
Maybe they can figure that out after getting all this dirt off along with the dirty impressions of a not-so-fantastic day. As he starts washing, Steve does too. Soaping up his legs as Bucky slicks his hair with shampoo.
“You don’t have to, honeybee,” Bucky hums, just happy to do this for Steve. Scratching his scalp with extra care.
“I wanna,” he says, voice with an inflection that Bucky can’t exactly identify but he knows it makes him sound like a little kid. Stubborn and pouty. Also, it’s the first thing he’s said since he got back and it shows- voice hoarse and raw. It sounds like his insides are caked with grime and mud too. Bucky grins to himself even as his heart cracks, just a smidge. Ribs tightening or heart growing as it breaks (can you get stretch marks on your heart?) whichever, it doesn’t really matter. He won’t deprive Steve of his own caretaking wants.
With easy words, they move through washing up in the shower. When Steve needs to rinse the shampoo from his hair but he’s still washing his legs, Bucky just says, “rinse,” and Steve does. Leaning better under the spray so Bucky can run his fingers through his hair, aiding the water by pushing the suds down the drain. When it’s his own turn to wash the suds off of his lower body, Steve says the same to him. He steps forward farther into the spray. However, strangely, the part of the routine that leaves an affectionate ache the deepest in his chest is not when he kneels to sit with Steve on the shower floor (which makes his knees pop as he sinks down, groaning, and Steve laughs a little, flicking water at him. He doesn’t tease him, saying, “old man,” as he might on a different day, but the teasing motion is enough. A peak of the sun through the rain clouds) but it’s that first part. When Steve is sitting and Bucky is standing and Steve, not shy at all, suds up his hands to wash his dick and balls for him. Gently handling him without even a word. No dirty tricks or other intent. Just washing him. Both of them are so unashamed in nudity and so intimately comfortable.
It might be a stupid thing to get him. But it does.
It makes him feel like they’ll be alright. Like there’s nothing they wouldn’t see in each other and wouldn’t not embrace. Anything. Them against the world; knowing each other better than any part of the outside world ever could.
He loves Steve.
He loves Steve so much that he tears up a little, vision blurring his vision (which is already hazy thanks to low lights and steam). It feels monumental and stupid all at once. Tearing up with such hearty emotions as a result of his partner washing his dick. What the fuck?
Bucky keeps it (mostly) together through the rest of the shower though; he washes Steve and Steve washes him. More thorough and precious with each other than they would ever be with themselves alone; more cherishing of the other person’s body than they’d be with their own. They say humans are selfish but whoever first said it, Bucky pities. Truly. They must’ve never seen- must’ve never known true love.
Suds wash down the drain, slipping on by once they’ve had their use.
The water starts to temper down. Hot and instantly pink staining to their skin but then becoming just warm… warm enough to keep them happy but make them aware of just how long they’ve spent in the shower. Pruney yet clean. Stewed in the steam now enhabiting their bathroom, hanging heavy in the air.
Big, fluffy, deep evergreen colored towels await them outside the shower, super-soldier-sized and softer than the blankets Bucky grew up with because what is life without a little indulgence here and there?
He wraps Steve up in one first. Drying himself off quickly and discarding the towel, then focuses on Steve. He takes his time with his partner, unwrapping him from the cocoon he just put him in only to dry him. Making sure to get every inch of his body, Bucky sweeps the towel softly over his bruises and sensitive areas. Only getting water, not tugging on frayed nerves. Unable to help himself once he’s done drying him, Bucky gives Steve a mohawk, shaping his towel-dried, still damp hair into a peak in the middle of his head. Pink from water temperature, hair ruffled, and eyes only half-open with exhaustion tugging at his limbs, making him a little clumsy, Steve looks so young that Bucky’s heart aches with it. A soft laugh is startled out of him at the sight too. Steve grins, his eyes closed as he stands, swaying on his feet. Although, before he falls asleep standing… they have business to addend to. So, they dress. Or, more accurately, Bucky dresses them. Both himself and Steve. Not that he minds. It’s pleasant to wrap his man back up, making him as comfortable as he can in lounging clothes. Also taking the time to lightly smear his bruised skin in lotion even though he knows it won’t do anything before the serum does. It’s the thought that counts. If Bucky could will the serum to work faster, the marks would already be gone.
Washed, dried, and clothed, Bucky steers them both to the kitchen where this all started. His wallet, phone, and keys remain on the kitchen counter, silently watching them. They can wait. They’re aware that Steve is in more need of his help than they are.
However, at the prospect of food, Steve delves into his last reserve of strength to hoist himself up onto the kitchen counter. Settling in with a yawn. Sitting on the cold stone, swamped in an adorably too-big t-shirt, Steve leans against some of the cabinets. So tired.
He sits.
Bucky doesn’t sit. He squeezes Steve’s knee with a wayward hand but otherwise moves through the space. Spinning around to turn the stovetop on first, click-click-click the little knobs sing, telling him that the electricity is on and working. Then, opening the fridge to gather the old-fashioned beef and vegetable stew he made for himself the night before, too lazy to not reheat the leftovers tonight, he sets the heavy pot on the burner. In addition to being tired, broth has a bunch of good fatty acids, proteins, and other helpful nutrients that will be good for them. For a normal human but also for an enhanced human in the right amount, of course. Which it will be. Over his shoulder, he hears Steve’s stomach growl. The muscles in his face can’t help but pull his lips into a secret smile.
He’s grown used to making enough food for them both and so he accidentally made way too much the other night when Steve wasn’t even home. But it doesn’t matter now. Actually, it’s helpful, he’s already planning to take a healthy bowlful (or two) of it for himself while the rest can be Steve’s to eat.
“We can eat in the kitchen, but you might want to not be on the counter for it, yeah?” He says softly, finding a utensil to stir the simmering stew with so it won’t burn. Ah, the wooden spoon in the drying rack where it was resting after being used and washed yesterday. Bucky snatches it up easily.
Stirring wafts the scent through the kitchen- the steam too, reminiscent of the shower they just took. The humidity between both will make his hair curl, fascinatingly more so now that he’s gone grey. No matter, Steve likes it curly. He’s always twisting strands of his hair around his fingers when it gets like that, smiling to himself at the sight
Steve, speaking of the devil, doesn’t respond but he hears the sound of the cotton fabric of his sweats sliding off of the cool marble counter. And then he feels the heat of him slump up against his back. A big blonde lug.
“Smells good,” he speaks, voice still rough and quiet. Not yet really coming back around to being verbal but… getting close.
Bucky leans back into him, agreeing with a hum. Even as tired as Steve is, he’s still a wall of muscle, firm and warm against his back. Feverish feeling if Bucky didn’t know better. He turns his head to press a kiss to the top of that blonde head where Steve is burying it in his neck.
“Just a few more minutes, kay?”
Steve nods slowly. Placing his arms around his waist to squeeze him. His calloused fingers slip under his shirt too, touching him because he wants to feel him. Not his clothes. Bucky can’t help but shiver.
The stew is just about boiling now. It’s not supposed to cook more though, so Bucky just turns the heat down a touch, stirring a little faster after being successfully distracted. Just simmering should be good to heat it, through and through. Warming the thinner sliced vegetables but most importantly the chunks of meat and potatoes.
They stay like that, pressed together until it’s ready to serve. At which point Bucky playfully shoos Steve away, pointing him to one of the kitchen bar stools all over again. A loop in time. This time he’s much less dirty and much more comfortable though.
Bucky sets a few potholders down on the counter to avoid burning or cracking the stone, then he ladles out a larger than serving for himself into a bowl. Then, he sets the rest in front of Steve. The other man’s lips twitch up. Smiling large enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes. Silent mirth shines in his tired eyes, saying, am I really supposed to eat all of this?
Wacking him lightly with the silver spoon he had been trying to hand him, rounding the kitchen island to sit next to him, Bucky tells him playfully, “shut up. Just eat what you want, you don’t have to have it all. I mean, if I’d gotten you a bowl you would spend more time refilling it than you would spend eating out of it.”
That comment earns him the first laugh of the night.
So what if it’s really more of an exhale of air through his nose and an amused shake of the head? Close enough. And better than not getting any reaction at all.
When he slides into the chair next to him, Steve kisses his cheek. Bucky leans into it and says, joking but also sincere, “thank you, dear.”
Steve eats basically the whole pot. There’s, like, maybe half of a Bucky-sized portion in the bottom. Normally Bucky would give him shit for it, just finish up, honey, a little more won’t hurt, but tonight he simply puts it in a smaller container to store easier in the fridge. It’s easier than making himself make Steve do anything he doesn’t feel like.
After getting up from watching Steve finish up, chin in his hand, they move to the living room. More specifically to the couch. Cuddling in close with too many blankets. They’re going to overheat in two seconds, bellies full of hot stew, sweats, and one enhanced human being with a constant slight fever. The only company they decide to keep is that of the remote, held in one of Bucky’s hands while the other lays over Steve’s broad shoulder, his body tucked up against him.
“Have you seen this movie?” Bucky asks softly, the title screen appearing as it loads on screen. He picked it from the lineup the second he saw it, not in the mood to watch something that’s made to force viewers to think.
Steve is back to not using real words, just shaking his head vaguely- probably heading for a crash now that he’s got all those calories and injuries, his body fueled and ready to repair itself while he sleeps. Bucky should probably join him and rest up but it’s only eight p.m.
“Mmm, didn’t think you would’ve,” Bucky breathes, getting back to the topic at hand, squeezing his partner a little more, “it came out when I was a kid,” the real application of the meaning is you were in the ice but in context, it means that Steve would’ve either been too young to see it or not even born yet if he wasn’t frozen but instead born as many years ago as his age would suggest. With it surrounded by gentle context, swaddled, Steve wiggles in his grasp. Content to be babied and made to feel young. Made to feel his age rather than twice that.
Steve starts the movie being smushed up against Bucky’s side, one of Bucky’s arms around his shoulders but as it plays and his eyes get heavier, starting to fall asleep only to then twitch awake, again and again, Steve slips down to have his head on his shoulder. Bucky kisses the top of his head, Steve murmurs his name. He keeps melting into the couch after wrestling himself out of the plush blanket cocoon, too hot. Then he has his head in his lap. He really does fall asleep like that, head in his lap, the rest of his body taking up the rest of the couch with his feet still hanging off the edge. It’s not a cat nap but the first cycle of that crash. Bucky pets his hair easily like that, brushing his bangs down over his forehead, impossibly making him look more innocent. Steve makes a sweet sound in his sleep, leaning into the touch wonderfully.
Bucky will wake him up eventually since he himself is too old to spend a night on the couch when they have a perfectly good bed down the hall, and while Steve would be fine normally, tonight he has bruises that, although they will be gone by tomorrow at noon, his muscles will still hurt. In a little bit, they’ll go to bed. But, he can sleep for now. Until the movie is over.
When the credits roll, he’ll wake Steve up, get him some more water and make him brush his teeth, then put him to bed. He will tuck him in as the little spoon and hold him until he wakes up. He will stay here with him. Together.