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I can't tell you how many times I stared into that goddamn mirror.
"Look nice," he said, with that stupid charismatic little smile-nod combo he does. Nice? What constitutes as "nice?" I mean, I thought I looked pretty damn "nice," but from what I'd seen lately, people don't really dress up when they go out "looking nice" anymore. Tie? No? Hat? Hell no. Jacket? What kind of jacket? For God's sake, does anybody even pay attention to that? I mean, sure, I didn't look "nice" all the time back in my day, but -
Jesus Christ, I just said "back in my day." Remind me later to not use that phrase at all, ever again. Maybe when I've lived another 70 years but experienced them as a human being. I cannot believe that phrase just passed through my conscious mind. Now, what was I going to do about that whole "looking nice" business?
I really should have been kinder to the shirt I finally settled on - a white button-down, what else? - but I yanked it down, smoothed it out, tucked it back into my pants, only to repeat the cycle again. Jeans are weird. They come in a lot of colors. This little factoid pisses me off more than it should, I know, but God, would you give a guy a few weeks to get in the swing of things again before throwing out a term as obscure as "nice?" Again I looked over the odd style and flashed what was meant to be a sarcastic smile but ultimately looked more like a pained grimace.
"Good job, Buck."
My reflection scowled at me for the umpteenth time that evening and I scowled right back at it. This was stupid. The whole thing was stupid, I felt stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I mean, I did look pretty good, I guess, but, did it meet the standard of "nice?" Something that may have been helpful in my (stupid) wardrobe selection would have been a location. "Out" is not a location. "Out" in 2015 New York is very different from what it was pre-knockout.
I probably kicked some shit around the floor for a while until Steve came for me. I wasn't too thrilled at the idea of not having another pair of eyes tell me if I was anything near acceptable (forget "nice") for whatever "out" would entail. At any rate, I was pleasantly unsurprised to hear Steve at the door promptly at 7:30, exactly the time he set. Right there, at my place, with that crooked grin of white teeth - that grin that really couldn't have been appropriate for him to have. It was the kind of grin that made me think he had to have something less than pure on his mind, but, it's Steve.
I shook that one off mentally. Something about the air that smile brought just didn't match with his personality, so I could've been projecting something there. Let's not dwell on that. (Look at me, still dwelling. Fuck off.)
So, there we were, just a couple of guys being dudes, as they say; one dressed to impress and one haphazardly making his way toward decency. Guess who was which.
"The silence is killing me, Rogers," I finally said. "Any hints as to where we're actually going?"
"Out," was his entire response.
"Not like that's vague and infuriating or anything."
"Infuriating? Really, Bucky, you think I am so much of an irritant that I cross the threshold right to infuriating? You really have dropped to a new low."
I waved off his comment, making sure he could see me laughing. I didn't want the guy to think I actually hated him or anything.
"Maybe, if that's how you really feel, I won't take you -"
"Take me where?" I prompted.
"Out."
"Goddammit, man, will you never share with me your secrets?"
He laughed that brilliant laugh again, the one that accompanies that weirdly uncharacteristic grin. Beautiful, but almost alien.
"C'mon, Buck, if we don't get out now, we never will."
I rolled my eyes at him and nudged him with my shoulder on my way to hold the door.
"The suspense kills."
--
"I gotta hand it to you. This really does surpass my expectations."
His eyes are fucking sparkling. God.
"It's not like you haven't seen the city," he teased me.
"Yeah, well, I was a weapon at the time so I wasn't exactly stopping to smell the sewage."
I leaned against him to nudge his shoulder. Steve laughed.
The whole "outing" so far consisted of grabbing coffee at a subpar café and sitting there until we had each downed a few cups and probably a whole platter of cookies. Just goes to show what a supersoldier and a supersomething like me can do. After the coffee and treats, we meandered back out to the rain-soaked and soggy sidewalk of the city. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, truth be told. A coolish breeze blew against us as we continued on our way around a corner now, toward a little park surrounded by impossibly tall skyscrapers.
"Cute," I commented, nodding around at the little light-strung trees.
"Ain't it so?"
I looked at him to catch him with another cajoling line but paused enough to absorb the less-than-subtle smile he wore and the reflection of the lights in his eyes and on his cheeks, even getting caught in his hair. I smiled back - a little brighter - and looked out again at the park.
"Yes."
I could feel his eyes on me but I'd already reserved myself to the role of "cool and nonchalant" so had to keep it, of course.
"Hey, Buck?"
"Yeah?"
I was all set for something mushy but realized that I should to wrestle that idea to the ground before I had an expectation that wasn't met. But what if it was-? Likely that it wouldn't be. For fuck's sake, calm down, man! Already I was fighting in my head, and this all played out within the span of a few fractions of a second before Steve continued.
"I thought about you a lot. Y'know, before we fought there."
"Yeah?" I said again. Mastery of language is evidently my thing.
"Yeah."
Steve, if he could read minds, I would want him to know that I was shouting at him to say more on the subject. Subject being me. Talk about me, Steve. Talk to me. What are you doing, starting a conversation and dropping it like that? Oh my God, you socially inept boy. It must be my turn to save the conversation.
"I didn't."
Steve, if he could read minds, would have heard a long string of cuss words and mental ass-kicking because I have no idea how that combination of syllables stumbled its way out of my stupid mouth.
But no, he laughed.
"Hah. I find that hard to believe. Brainwashing? Hydra intel being pumped right into your brain at all times? I cannot believe you didn't think about me and solely me through it all. Listen to how shocked I am."
Oh my God thank you, you precious angel, Steve Rogers.
"Hah! Yeah."
Good way to go, right? Right.
Silence filled the space around us again, but it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. It was… well, not that I'm the literary master here, but it was more like a dry silence. Maybe that was just me. Maybe it was me, picking it up from him. But it wasn't actually uncomfortable, just a little dry, like a hesitation that begged address. I glanced at him again, and he was still focused on the lights. He was looking at a different tree, then, but I watched his eyes. I think he was counting the lights on the trees.
"Steve?"
"Yeah, Bucky?"
"I do think about you. Now, I mean. And before, but… you get it."
"Do I?"
I looked from his eyes to his lips and back, down to his hand, his lips again.
"I think so."
"I think so, too."
It wasn’t sudden because I watched him turn, but the moment his eyes focused on mine sent a shock of surprise through me. I wanted to say something but found myself incapable of speech. God, he knew what I was thinking and he knew exactly what I meant and he totally didn't agree. He was so, so going to knock my teeth in.
Okay, no, that's not characteristic of the fella most people would call an angel, but I felt this sucking notion of dread and dizziness pulling me down into the dirt below my feet. He looked so serious, eyebrows furrowed and facial muscles all taut like they get when he would say something he feels strongly about. Oh, God.
"Bucky, I don't want to give you the wrong impression."
There it was. I felt even dizzier.
"I don't want to ruin the friendship we had - or, well, have."
"Steve, I'm sorry, I -"
"So," he continued, completely brushing my interjection aside, "I want to make it very, very clear that I will not be giving up on my responsibilities as a defender of this nation in favor of you."
I almost threw up.
"I will not be a stay-at-home housewife."
I did throw up. A little. I swallowed it. Sorry. That was gross.
"That means you may have to do some reading and training while I'm doing SHIELD things, but otherwise, I'd be more than happy to make you those apple pancakes you went on and on about after splurging at a restaurant that one time as a kid."
"As a kid?"
Who pays that much attention to remember such a trivial moment from childhood three quarters of a century ago?
"You know I have 'hero things' to do sometimes and I ask you to be patient with me until you are grounded enough in this century's reality to join me."
"Wa-"
"I would love to ask you right now if you would move in with me, but I've been asked to leave you be in your own place and I keep mine to myself until the agency deems you stable enough to 'officially' be my partner."
I threw up. Right there, on the ground, right in front of my own shoes.
"What?"
Steve stared at me very seriously and nodded once.
"No, I mean, explain this to me. My hydra-recovering brain is spinning."
Finally, he broke into a more Steve-like smile, a genuine one.
"My nerves are firecrackers, Mr. America."
"First of all, James, it's Captain, and second, I'm more telling you that you should consider moving in with me once you can so that we can worry less about looking nice and going out and being fully awake or sober or professional in each other's company."
I swear I would have feinted if he hadn't been right there for me to grab.
"Are you gonna be alright, Buck?"
I squeezed his arm and nodded.
"Just gimme a sec. Lots of newness here. Jeans are the least of my problems right now. You basically described married life."
I felt him laugh.
"I did."
"With me."
"Yes, sir."
"Married."
"God bless New York State."
"I could kiss you."
"Why don't you?"
"May I?"
He beamed at me. I never felt so warm in my life, and simultaneously just a smidge irked that I was turned into a mushy, giddy schoolgirl over a stupid fucking smile. All those decades made me bitter (brainwashing, nonconsensual bodily modification, loss, and war can do that, I guess) but Steve sliced right through that as easily as if we were stupid teens picking on each other on the front porch. Then Steve, beautiful, charming, unfathomably frustrating, and wonderful Steve, nodded invitingly so that I could kiss him.
"Steve?"
"Bucky?"
"Can we make Romanoff be a flower girl?"
He laughed warmly. What a beautiful sound.
"Only if you're looking for the most unflattering way to die."
I smiled back.
"Okay then. Bruce it is."