Chapter Text
These days, with how much HYDRA fucked with his head while they had him, he can't be sure of anything. On his worst days, he's certain this whole thing he's got going with Steve and the Avengers is just some fantasy cooked up by HYDRA to keep him compliant.
But even if he doesn't have any way to know whether his memories are real without bringing it up to Steve, Bucky's sure that he's never fully fit the gender norms-- not the norms of the 2010s and definitely not the norms of the 1940s. And it's got nothing to do with the fact that he's bisexual, a term he'd clung to with desperate relief when he learned there was a word for it.
At least, he's pretty sure it doesn't.
This shit's complicated.
See, on the surface James Buchanan Barnes has always seemed like a pretty solid representation of traditional masculinity. Sure, he's always spent a bit too long getting ready for dates with whatever dame had caught his eye at the time, and he had prettier and better-kept nails than plenty of women he'd known, but you only saw those details when you really got to him.
To everyone else, Bucky seemed very solidly male.
Except.
Now, here's the part where it gets a little shaky for Bucky, because he can't be sure how much of the images that have drifted to the surface of his mind are real and how many are just plain wishful thinking.
What he does remember is spending long hours in front of the dingey piece of semi-polished metal that served as a mirror for him and Steve. While he always complained about not being able to see his reflection properly, and Steve always teased him for it, there was a part of him that was always kinda grateful he couldn't really see himself on a day-to-day basis.
Something about his body always just struck him as wrong. He's pretty sure he'd brought it up to Steve once, and it'd ended in one of their few shouting matches. Of course he hadn't been thinking about Steve's poor health when he'd brought it up, but he'd learned quickly to choose his words much more carefully from then on, at least when it came to matters of the body.
Bucky's always known he's considered attractive, and he's never really been above using it to his advantage either. Even in HYDRA-- but that's not a trip down memory lane he wants to take, ever, if he can help it.
The thing is, though, knowing he was attractive and that he stayed in good shape never really changed the sense of wrong that he felt. He knew about the fellas down by the docks who dressed up like ladies, and rumor had it some of 'em had even had themselves altered down below. But the thought of being a woman wasn't something that sat right with him either, even if it'd been possible back then.
No, being a woman definitely wasn't something he was after, but he was never quite content with being a man either.
God bless the Internet for helping him put into words, finally, what had been kicking around in his head for years.
"Hey, Buck, you mind givin' me a hand-- whatcha readin'?" Steve's always been like an over-excitable puppy, too interested in anything Bucky does. Most of the time it's endearing. Today it gets right under Bucky's skin, settling there like pins and needles right alongside the dysphoria he's just been able to put a name to.
"None o' your damn business," Bucky growls, as he grabs the tablet cover and throws it over the web page he'd just looked at, a listing of numerous alternative pronouns people use. He's flushed red, like he's been caught looking at porn, and he's defensive as hell already on the off-chance Steve actually caught a glimpse of the screen.
But Steve just holds his hands up and takes a step back, giving Bucky his space like he's learned to in the long months since his recovery. He actually looks a little guilty, and Bucky sighs and shoves his tablet under the nearest couch cushion. Now he feels like an asshole, though he knows Steve would refute it if he called himself one out loud.
Steve, meanwhile, is waiting with all the patience of a Golden Retriever. Bucky can practically see him with a tail wagging behind him and a tennis ball in his mouth. With a rueful smile, Bucky shoves himself to his feet. Steve's clearly cautious, but excited about something.
"Alright, punk, sorry for bitin' your head off, what is it you wanted help with?"
Now Steve's rubbing the back of his neck, a little sheepish, but his enthusiasm not quite dampened.
"I, uh-- I bought some groceries."
Bucky gives him a blank stare, because he doesn't understand why groceries would require his assistance. Is this one of those domestic things? One of those normal human things he hasn't quite mastered yet? His brows knit together in the beginnings of a frown.
"...A lot of groceries," Steve clarifies.
Well, that'd explain the sheepish look then.
And then the other shoe drops, and Bucky groans, reaching up with his right hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, because of course he couldn't have expected Sam to keep his big goddamn mouth shut.
"Don't be mad!" Steve begs, though it's a little too late for that already. "You know how much I've been beggin' him to let me help with-- with things, and this was the first thing he could tell me without actually breaking confidentiality."
Bucky had been seeing Sam therapeutically for three months now. He and Steve had both been on him since the start to find someone with more experience with PTSD and Bucky's somewhat unique trauma than Sam had experience handling, but so far Bucky had refused to budge. And amazingly, it hadn't made anything too awkward with anyone's friendships so far, even if Sam had to tiptoe around things talking to Steve about Bucky.
Anything mentioned in Sam's office was strictly confidential, Sam and Bucky had agreed, or anything over Sam's work phone or email. Anything else was fair game.
So, really, it shouldn't have surprised Bucky so much that he'd told Steve about his growing interest in cooking. It was just the timing of the thing, that's all.
"Fine," Bucky responds flatly, not willing to cave on his annoyance yet but not quite willing to drag Steve over the coals for it either.
Of course, he was starting to reconsider by the time they'd unloaded over 30 paper sacks of groceries and at least 15 or 20 cookbooks. But by that time, too, Bucky was also starting to think that maybe Sam had the right idea when he'd casually mentioned cooking as a kind of self-therapy.
"You seem a little more cheerful," Steve comments, nudging the door shut behind him with his foot. Ever the houseboy, he'd eagerly scurried off to the grocery store to pick up the few things Bucky lacked for the dinner he planned to cook up that night.
Bucky grimaces, knowing Steve's referring to the day before, when he'd damn near bitten his head off just for asking what he was reading.
Before Steve can start backtracking hurriedly, Bucky makes a grab for one of the four bags perched atop Steve's truly impressive arms.
"Thought I only asked you to get a few things," Bucky drawls. Steve's ears turn a charming shade of pink, and he clears his throat as he shuffles past Bucky to reach the spacious kitchen.
"I just-- well, y'know, while I was there..."
While Steve's back is turned, Bucky lets an infatuated little smile creep onto his lips. Steve is ridiculous and kind of adorable, and Bucky's not about to damage this precarious thing they have going by letting feelings come into the mix.
Luckily, or unluckily, Steve's always been pretty fucking clueless.
"You at least leave some groceries at the store for the other folks who shop there?"
Bucky can never resist teasing Steve; it's always been a staple of their relationship.
"I didn't buy that much--" Steve's just turning around from the fridge as he starts to reply, and he promptly slams his head into the top of it. The string of curses he lets out is both impressive and decidedly unpatriotic. Bucky's highly amused.
"You need a hand takin' out that villainous appliance, Cap?"
Still rubbing his head, Steve scowls.
Bucky grins.
The rest of the evening, including the cooking of an impressive French-inspired meal, goes off without a hitch.
Well, mostly.
Bucky's been careful as hell about where he leaves his tablet and when he researches all this gender stuff on it, even if he knows Steve's probably way too good of a guy to ever actually snoop on it behind his back.
That doesn't mean he isn't always itching to look up more stuff on there, especially now that he's stumbled into the labyrinthine collection of terms people use to identify themselves.
This stuff's eating away at him, but Bucky doesn't have the faintest goddamn clue how to bring it up.
Luckily, Steve sorta breaks the ice first, clearing his throat as he pushes aside the plate that'd contained his third helping. Between the two of them, they could eat damn near a whole herd of cattle.
Bucky's immediately on guard, tense and worried as hell.
"Buck, you know you can talk to me about anything, right?"
He remains still while Steve speaks, but his heart rate has taken on an insistent thump. The adrenalin's already starting to flood his system, but he'll be damned if he's gonna flee the table because of some stupid conversation.
"Right." His tone is flat, expression giving little else away as Steve searches it anxiously. Steve bites down on his lower lip, gaze falling to the table in front of him while he fidgets with the edge of the table cloth.
"I just... You been on that tablet a lot lately-- which is fine! And I'd never break your trust or anything by--" Steve flounders, the way he always does when it comes to touchy-feely conversations, even if he's always been a little better about Bucky.
Admittedly, that's till not saying much.
Bucky's immobile as stone, leaving Steve to fumble his way through the rest of his little speech.
"I'm just... worried, I guess. And I just wanted to let you know that-- that I'm not goin' anywhere, no matter what."
Steve gives him a little smile, one that looks strangly pained, before he gets up and takes his plate to the kitchen. He even rinses it off, for once, probably to give Bucky time to compose himself.
He really doesn't have the faintest fucking clue what he's going to do now, and he's sure Steve's onto him.
Fuck.