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April 28th, 2012:
Upon waking, Steve hadn’t really thought about things like gender and sex and sexuality. There were more important things, like work, to be handled first. Then, when everything had settled (and what even were the Chitauri, really, but a well timed catastrophe), and he’d been set up in DC - Natasha started picking his brain.
Mostly in the form of who she could try to set him up with. The first date was somewhat unfortunate, the girl a little too bubbly and young and different than him. Then the people his friend was trying to set him up with just got more and more ridiculous.
“Why are you in my apartment?” Steve shot the words at the small red-haired form lounging on his couch, vaguely illuminated in the gloom of near-midnight by the screens of a small handheld game system. He flicked on one of the side table lamps and sat by her feet.
“Why isn’t she with you? I thought Lola was a great fit for your grandpa sensibilities.” Natasha stretches out her legs right into his lap, making herself comfortable, and Steve curls and tangles his fingers into his comforter where it covers her ankles.
“You even stole my blanket.” He mutters and closes his eyes. “Uh, no, she likes vintage cars, antique men, and beards. And she’s a republican.” He leans a little to try and better hear the very faint music coming from whatever she’s doing on the little Game Boy.
“Golden Sun, still.” She pauses the game and sets it down. “You’re vintage.” She smirks at him.
“Republican, Nat.” He sighs, opens his eyes and turns his head to her. “You still haven't told me why you’re here.”
“Clint had to leave halfway through our movie marathon, and your place was closer than mine.” The slightly smudged mascara told Steve that she’d been laughing and trying to dab away the amused tears at some point in the evening.
“So, are you two- do you-” He feels a little embarrassed, having to ask, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d missed something about the spies.
“I don’t really people. Bodies are pretty, I can physically go through the mechanics, but I don’t enjoy it.” She shrugs and goes back to her game.
“And love is for children, right.” Steve frowns a little, wondering what it would be like, to not care and love as deeply as he does, to just cut that part of himself out.
“I don’t actually feel romantic inclinations towards people, as much as I don’t really get off on people.” Steve is left stunned at that thought. He stares at the vinyl collection on the shelf, at the collection of books on the coffee table.
It takes three minutes, but he finally wills himself to dig his phone out from his pocket and start googling the things she’s talking about; wondering what the statistics are. Three articles and a few blog posts later, he feels the little device vibrate against his palms and a notification pop up across the top of the screen, it’s a message from the tiny woman on his couch, a link to another blog. “Uh, thanks?”
“Yup. It’s run by really active, intelligent people, and there’s someone for nearly every major point in the spectrums.” As always, the spy had read the exact situation. “Don’t feel bad needing to ask. I know you kids didn’t talk about sex and gender roles back then-”
“Is there a word for not always feeling like your sex?”
“Gender is societal. Just like time is temporal, Steve. But yes. Go to the identity tab, scroll down to genderqueer and start looking at the identities. Then lock your phone and carry me to bed, you beautiful brontosaurus.”
“Natasha, go home.” Steve frowns and starts slowly trying to tug the blanket off of the woman so he could go into his room without her. “I didn’t even give you a key.”
“My earrings are great for that problem.” Natasha holds onto the blanket and just rolls over and over a few times, reminding Steve of the documentary on crocodiles that he’d watched last week, wrapping herself in a blanket cocoon.
“To bed, please.”
“I’ll bring you a pillow. But you are not sleeping next to me.” As soon as he gets up, he hears her phone chime. “And tell him not to text and fly, even with autopilot.” He gets changed, flings a pillow out at her, brushes his teeth. Steve is halfway through the genderfluid tag (a few hours later, he realizes) when Natasha shuffles in, stretches across his body, and flails just enough to get them covered by the duvet. Steve, at this point too tired, gives up and moves just enough so that her curled hair isn’t going to get inhaled and he can still read.
-
June 9th, 2012:
Clint doesn’t even ask why Natasha is having him figure out Steve’s dress size or makeup that is compatible with Steve’s skin tone; the carnie doesn’t even ask Steve about it.
It’s been about three months since the conversation with Natasha on his couch, and while Steve sometimes feels a little wrong or different from how they usually present and feel (hella masculine), they’re starting to get it figured out, starting to be comfortable in this new life. So they eye the plum colored lip balm and the black lip pencil that are offered to him before taking them and getting a crash course in modern makeup.
“Yeah, you do enough clown makeup, and eventually you go, ‘Well, this is fun.’ Beauty school was a fun deep cover assignment location once I joined SHIELD.” Lipstick on, instead of dabbing, Steve leans over and presses a kiss to the apple of their friend’s cheek. “Aww, Stevie.”
It takes Steve a little aback to hear someone that isn’t Bucky or Ma calling them that. The over-fond look on the guy’s face tells Steve that he’s not mad. “That- okay.” When they turn back, they see the slight quirk to their own mouth, and it feels nice to settle in to learning mascara. Even more so when they get manhandled by the archer during the eye shadow lesson.
-
October 18th, 2013:
When Steve is standing over Fury’s grave - Natasha and Fury both off to do what they do best - Sam is standing with them, agreeing to help, even though Steve never asked him. And then offering to let Steve move into the guest room in his home indefinitely during this search.
“Maybe. I’d certainly like a place to be able to sleep that HYDRA doesn’t know about, but I don’t know about living there without an exit date.” They start walking out of the block, and then to the car so the two can leave.
“Dude, this isn’t a mission, and if it makes you feel better, you’re welcome to pay me rent.” Sam’s got that slightly sarcastic note to his voice. Sure, he means the words, but he thinks the ideas he just spouted are a little ludicrous.
“I might need to call Stark. He’d have a better sense of where to start. Might be able to start gathering footage from the bridge and carriers-” Steve rifles around their pockets to see where their phone got off to.
“I’ll dri- did you end up carrying Natasha’s lipstick?” Sam pauses when the other veteran starts pulling things out of their pockets to do an inventory, setting things on the roof of the vehicle in quick, neat lines.
“No, that shade’s a little too unsaturated for her tastes.” Steve doesn’t think about this information. This is normal for them now, and they’ve forgotten that there are friends that don’t know, that might not understand the way Steve identifies.
“For those, what, days you want to feel pretty, oh so pretty?” Sam’s eyebrows are knit tight, mouth a little pursed, but doesn’t really look upset.
But hell, if Steve’s not a little nervous. They’d kept this one to themselves, to the small group of friends they were comfortable with knowing. “That gonna be a problem?” They don’t mean for it to come out as cold and bitter as it does.
“I mean, if you’re happy, that’s dandy, man.” Sam still has that expression painted across his face. “Anything else I need to know to make you more comfortable if you’re sleepin’ over on a more regular basis?”
“Neutral pronouns.”
“What?” Sam waves a hand as he finally unlocks the car. “Right, yeah. Continue with things as visually normal in public, or?”
“Yeah. I still have this gross image to maintain.” Steve resettles their pockets and unlocks their phone before getting into the car. “Fucking Fox news.”
“I feel ya. Oh, my using ‘man’ or ‘dude,’ that a problem?”
“No. You and Clint both do that. ‘You’re a dude, he’s a dude, she’s a dude, your mom’s a dude. The president is Mr. Dude. The queen is Your Royal Dudeliness.’” Steve snickers as they scroll through contacts and tip the screen to Sam.
“That is Tony Stark hanging upside down from a server bank by his ankle.” The airman is shocked and amused. “Didn’t know you two were that close.”
“No, but Pepper is a good woman and figured that I could use some laughter in my life. Thus I get pictures she, Happy, or Colonel Rhodes sometimes snap of him in terribly awkward spots.” Steve hits the call button on the contact. “So, food first?”
“You’re bottomless.”
“I don’t know what Natasha told you but n- Tony, hey!”
-
August 22nd, 2015:
They find Barnes in November of 2014, so Steve’s best friend has been back ‘home’ for a while. Actually been something vaguely in the mental realm of Bucky for… maybe a month. It’s the first time that they have gone down to the gym to spar since the rehabilitation had started.
Stark had reached, and subsequently shelled, out for the treatment of the soldier-turned-ghost. So there had been more shrinks and doctors and the like, leaving Buck with a bad taste in his mouth, a little uncomfortable with the sheer amount of looking people did over his shoulder. But the peace of mind that he was actually healing, that made all of the looking worth it.
And so, when he and Steve were given the all clear, both had gleefully dove into beating the living shit out of one another for all the crap they’d gotten up to over the course of seventy and change years since the train. Both were bruised, sore, over-stretched, and could feel cracks in bone knitting back together as they lay on their backs panting into the now mostly empty gym.
Natasha finally got up from where she was sitting on the little bleacher stand tucked into the corner, trotted over in over-sized sweatpants (that she might have lifted from someone else) rolled over at her hips and a cropped tee to straddle Bucky’s waist. “No, stay put. I want to see if this color would suit me, but I don’t want to wipe mine off.”
Steve laughs a bit and glances at Bucky. “He’s not got your skin tone, Tash.”
“Okay, I lied, I just want to see that pretty mouth all painted up, but look at this and tell me I’m wrong about how gorgeous that is.” She carefully drags the pad of her pinky against the edge of his top lip, and Bucky pouts.
“I’m gonna guess it was a bunch of shit when you said the makeup in your bathroom was Natasha’s?” There’s a faint hint of anger there, of upset at the perceived lie.
“Some of it actually is. The glittery mascara you had held up, definitely hers.” Steve crosses their legs as they finally sit up fully, Bucky doing the same when Natasha backs down to sit on his thighs. “So, you and I might need to have a discussion.”
“Sounds like, punk.” Bucky snorts, and rolls, suddenly, so that he’s got Nat pinned, before hopping up to give her a hand. “Shower first, we stink like hell. And I want this crap off me.”
“There is nothing wrong with a man wearing lipstick. Besides, that dark blue is- no yeah, that’s more of a me color. Worth a shot.” Natasha saunters back to where she had been sitting and digs out her phone.
-
The talk has to wait three days and a minor invasion of some sort of mutated sea creature in Maine. But it’s less of a talk and more of Bucky asking for Steve’s opinion and the information on it to read up for himself.
Steve leaves Bucky to his room, a mug of apple cider, and a bunch of open tabs on the browser app of his tablet about gender and sexuality.
Steve’s in the middle of doing a 3D puzzle of Notre Dame with Sam that evening when they feel someone sit on their butt. “You’re genderfluid.” Oh, Bucky, and not Clint. Less worrisome for Steve’s health.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, so, that sounds about right. You used to love the idea of wearing rompers and floral anything on weird off days.”
“Not really weird or off. Just some days.”
“Sorry, that sounded offensive. Uh, so,” Steve feels the tablet get set on their back, “I think you might be able to help me with this, when you have a chance.”
“I think you could do it on your own, since this is a personal thing, but I’m more than happy to let you use me as a chair while you do.” Steve has a little strike of realization and slots in a piece of the brick wall he’s working on.
“Mmmh, that’s the spirit, Stevie. I’mma keep reading. See you whenever.” And just as easily as their friend appeared, he was gone.
“I don’t want to hear you whining about beard-burn.” Sam places another piece in the rose window.
“What? That’s- how is that what you got out of- that” Steve waves his hands vaguely around him as he speaks.
-
“So, I’m a people.”
Steve rubs their face. It’s three in the morning, the Notre Dame puzzle is blessedly done, glued, and dry (thank you Bruce for the fast drying paste), their pants don’t have to be on, and Bucky is in their bed wearing one of their army sweatshirts and a pair of very soft looking plaid pajama pants. And apparently far more wired than Steve. “Yes, you’re a people. We long established this.”
“I am, I believe, also a genderfluid people. And I might have texted Pepper about cancelling that haircut appointment.” Bucky is sitting up, cross legged, and looking at Steve intently.
“Because you really don’t want to cut your hair, and haven’t.” Steve’s a little sad to hear that, because the slick, barbershop-fresh look was something that they’d loved on Bucky. “Okay, Pepper’s ruling?”
“She asked if I needed any help with anything, any orders, figuring out presentation. That sort of thing. And said to go ahead and cancel it.” Big bright grin. Steve can tell Bucky’s happy. They sit on the edge of the bed and tap the edge of the tablet.
“Anything else?” Steve wants to be sure that Bucky has the chance to speak. There had been three months of selective mutism, and another few before that of clipped, sharp answers. Expressing himself is something Bucky is just getting back.
“And I’m still as queer as ever, I really wanna see what you look like in a romper and all painted up, and I wouldn’t mind figuring out all of that so I could, maybe, too.” It comes out rushed, and Bucky actually flinches a little after a beat of silence, as if they realized that had all come out out loud.
“Okay. Clint taught me everything I know about makeup. Natasha and Pepper are clothes people. But be warned, Natasha will suggest the ugliest, most ridiculous shoes.”
“Like those dinosaur boots?” Bucky makes a face. “I’ll take that under advisement. Can I kiss you now?”
“I am not really sure I’d ever have much reason to tell you no.” Steve grins and leans into it. Enjoys the feeling of stubble and a soft mouth. When they break apart, foreheads resting against one another, they have to ask. “Pronouns? Name?”
“Momma had everyone call her Fred. Bucky sounds a lot cuter, Stevie. And I don’t really give a shit. As long as you still call me pretty when you are nailin’ me to the bed.” Bucky kisses Steve again, this time it’s more heated, and the way he licks into the other's mouth elicits a breathy whimper, before a surge of muscle has him pinned.
This is a great way to get back together, Steve thinks. A great way to fall back into place with the most important person in their life.