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<www.Tumblr.com/TheAVENGERS-NEW-POP-SENSATION/going-on-tour>

Look out for the New Pop Sensation: The Avengers!

The Avengers were just a nobody pop group a few years ago with less than one album on the racks, but their recent success has proved to millions of fans that hard work and dedication can really shoot you forward. Just look at them now! Tony Stark: lead singer and guitarist says it’s all thanks to an amazing team of dedicated fans and a love of music none of them could deny.

The band consists of Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff and Thor Odinson - perhaps a big group of people for only one band, but you have to agree they make the best music nowadays. Sold out in all fifty states, the Avengers go on tour next spring, starting in the hometown of guitarist and singer Steve Rogers; New York.

The band has been dubbed ‘the S Club Seven’ of the 2015 and will surely be around for years to come with this years ‘Avengers Assemble!’ hitting Number one in eleven different countries around the world and in all fifty states. The band has hundreds of fangirls (and boys) all over the world and the group say they will be releasing world tour dates at the end of their state tour next year.

For more information on the Avengers and their perfect career, subscribe to our blog and get all the latest top gossip on the group. Is Clint Barton really dating Natasha Romanoff? Is Tony the bad boy he makes himself out to be or just sweet on the band's manager: Pepper Pott’s? Find out the answer to these and so many more questions right here! Remember to like and reblog! Tour dates available in the link below (x)

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It’s not that Bucky hates the Avengers. He’s got nothing against them as people. He doesn’t even know them as people, so it’s not like he even could have anything against them, even if he was a follower of their crazy fangirl cult (which he is not - one hundred percent not in their crazy fangirl cult because seriously those girls - and guys - are freakin’ scary. He’s ninety-nine percent certain that some of them have weird cult gatherings where they sacrifice good classic music to the accent music gods for their awful crazy pop group. He’s ninety-nine percent certain; that’s how crazy they are).

But he doesn’t hate them. Not in the traditional sense. His Ma always said ‘save words like hate and love for when you mean them’ and he always has. He’s never hated anyone he didn’t know well enough to make that judgment upon, not once in his life. He didn’t even hate the people who were shooting at him out there in Afghanistan, and he’d lost some close friends to those creeps as well as his left arm. His ideology always remained the same though: how could he hate them? He was certain he’d killed plenty of their friends as well.

So he doesn’t hate the Avengers, that’s not the problem - there’s not even really a problem at all. More of a weak annoyance, like a fly buzzing in your ear. It’s nothing at first - but it gets old pretty quickly - probably be easily solved by batting it away with your hand.

Problem is this fly just won’t go away.

He would just like to be able to go into one cafe without ‘Save the World’ being played through the sound system, lighting up the background of his world in a pattern of hard red spikes of irritation. He would just like to go into one supermarket where ‘Avengers Assemble’ isn’t bombarding him from the crappy white speakers knocked into the corners of the ceiling. He would just like to be able to tune into one radio station without ‘Asgard’ wrapping it’s catchy tune around the inside of his car.

It’s not that he hates the Avengers.

He just really really doesn’t like them.

He almost flipped out entirely when his niece got into them. He loves Becca’s kid to pieces, there’s no denying that, but the fact that she hums all their songs (mainly ‘the First Avenger’) like keeping up the tune is something necessary, like the notes hold the same necessity as breathing: well, he’s a damn good uncle not to threaten to leave the family if her mum doesn’t start teaching her not to get involved with bands like this - if she doesn’t learn some classic Nirvana sometime soon Bucky’s going to hit something (Not her, never her. Just something. He would say he’d go back and join his gym and take a  few goes at the punching bags but hey guess what his gym likes to play through the sound speakers every. Fucking. Day.)

Each time he thinks they’ll fade away they don’t. Each time he thinks they’ll fizzle out of everyone's memories, guess what? They bring out some new, even catchier album that he’s forced to listen to over and over. It’s his own personal tormented hell and they’re the fire that keeps flaring up no matter how much water he pours over the flames (and he’s almost ninety-nine percent certain he can blame that on the raging fangirls who are sacrificing his favourite songs to the ancient music gods to keep these demons on earth).

Maybe he’s exaggerating.

The thing is that his life’s not exactly a picture perfect canopy right now, and it’s easier to take his frustration out on a crappy band than it is to actually deal with his problems.

Such is life.

Today’s the day though: he hasn’t heard one song by The Avengers - not on the radio on his drive to work, not in the supermarket he popped into to pick up some lunch, not in that awful coffee shop he’d ducked into on his break to find some form of fuel in that kind-of-maybe-coffee-stuff they sell dirt cheap.

Today he has not heard a single Avengers song once.

Today is a good day.

Correction: it was a good day. See reference: getting a good look at your ex snogging some dude from IT (IT - seriously? So fucking cliché) in the elevator.

He takes the stairs.

Still - no Avengers songs, he’s counting that as a good omen as he slips into his car.

He gets about halfway to his house when he realises that maybe - just maybe - he deserves some form of pick-me-up. His job at SHIELD is going okay, he’s finally stable enough to function as a regular human being, even with his amputated arm and yeah, maybe he’s going to have to go to VA meetings for the rest of his life, but he’s going to be okay. For a second he’s pretty goddamn proud of himself. Coffee from an actual nice coffee shop instead of the awfully crappy one in the midst of downtown Brooklyn sounds like the perfect way to treat himself (he’s always been a coffee junkie after all). He knows a place, it’s secluded, nice, full of warm smiles and even warmer drinks (mainly coffee. Lots and lots of coffee).

His good mood fades as soon as he walks through the door.

Super Soldier is playing just a little too loud through the speakers on the back wall. Super Soldier by The frickin’ Avengers.

Yep. His life sucks again.

He honestly considers walking out, but then again - that’d be a bit childish right? Walking out of a coffee shop just because his least favourite band in the whole world happens to be playing over the sound system? No. No. He’s going sit down and drink his goddamn coffee and then leave. He is not running away from a coffee shop because of a band. He is not running away from a band full stop.The song will be over soon.

Besides, he’s supposed to be feeling proud of himself. Horrible ex’s and crappy bands notwithstanding, Bucky can actually see an upturn in his life. He’s proud. And proudness is the kind of thing which deserves coffee even if the worst band in the world is playing over the speakers while you drink it.

Sitting down, he orders himself some coffee.

The song will be over soon.

The song is over soon. But it turns out they’re playing the whole album. Perfect.

His head thunks down on the table with a soft ‘bang’, a groan of frustration escaping his lips, all senses of pride slipping away like grains of sand through a clenched fist.

“Hey, you alright over there? You look rough.” he hears the voice but doesn’t register it. It’s far off, somewhere in someone else's world. A world without the stress of jackass ex’s, (kinda) awful jobs and probably their world even has two arms to help them through the day (not that he’s bitter). They’re not talking to him.

“Hello? Dude with awesome hair who just died in the middle of a coffee shop?” this time he’s paying more attention if only because the voice sounds...worried? Actually worried not fake stranger worried: not I-don’t-really-care-but-I’m-gonna-ask-so-the-world-doesn’t-see-me-as-a-bastard kind of worried but actually concerned. Bucky is also pretty sure he is the only person who can be described as dying right in the middle of a coffee shop and he does have pretty awesome hair - so the voice is most likely talking to him.

He takes a second to glance up, every muscle in his body moving slowly, aching after a long day of sitting at a computer desk and wondering why the hell he decided it was a good idea to leave the army and get a job working for the evil succubus's of hell he works for now. SHIELD isn’t that bad, to be fair, but watching Brock Rumlow kiss everything that moves is really getting old.

He glances around, long brown hair (that is apparently ‘awesome’) falling in front of his eyes as he does so, ever so slightly obscuring the view of the rather tall, rather attractive man sat in the booth next to his.

No, okay take that back, attractive is one hell of an understatement.

He looks like he possibly just walked out of some magazine: a lazy smile illuminating his face, full lips that look just a little too kissable for Bucky’s mental health right now, crystal blue eyes that are far too fucking bright to be legal staring across at him with a sort of mild worry.

“Uh…” his brain is so not connecting with his mouth right now. He’s too caught up on this dude who seems to be actually concerned for this wellbeing in the middle of a goddamn coffee shop with the Avengers playing over the speakers in that annoying upbeat fashion they have. And maybe he shouldn’t be staring but…. this dudes chest through - his chest is so broad, a freakin’ ocean or wasteland or something and for a second - a stupid, momentary lapse of judgment second - he aches to run his fingers over that tight fitting shirt - possibly under that tight fitting shirt and feel exactly what’s lying under there. He’s pretty sure it’s a million gazillion abs, he’s ninety nine percent certain that it’s a million gazillion abs.

The man's brow furrows even more at the lack of response, his lips forming a little frown that radiates protectiveness and worry and all the things normal people in New York do not extend to strangers. This guy is seemingly both hot and weird.

Although Bucky doesn’t actually think that he himself can quite comment on the weird thing. After all he is freaking out about some pop sensation like they’re some kind of prophesied end to the world and he is just staring at the rather hot guy holding a cup of coffee in his hands, hair so unstyled it looks like he’s spent ages on it and Bucky would be willing to bet all of his savings that he actually didn’t. Just born with naturally good looking messy hair.

Some people have all the luck.

“Can you hear me or-”

Bucky springs back into action, and what do you know, there’s a blush covering his cheeks. Perfect. He probably looks like some stupid teenager who just got their first whiff of hot. He’s not even trying to hide the fact that he’s staring, which probably comes across as pretty weird and pretty stalkerish.

“No, hey, sorry, it ain’t been the best of days,” Bucky offers a sad smile and the guy nods as if he completely understands and the thing is he actually looks like he does. It’s not fake-stranger-understanding. It’s actual empathy that covers the whole of that guys face. Bucky has to wonder if he actually knows he’s in New York at all, because most of the people around here do not act like Hot-Guy is with just anyone. Most people around here don’t act like this with friends, let alone strangers having mental breakdowns because of crappy catchy pop groups.

“I get it,” the Hot-Guy says and then all of a sudden he’s just sliding into the seat across from Bucky, just like that, as if they’ve know each other for years. “How about I buy you some cake to cheer you up, huh? My treat?” And then he fucking winks.

Bucky’s not sure this guy is even human. If he is human he’s very possibly blind because seriously, Bucky’s not exactly a looker. And sure, this isn’t exactly flirting but it’s pretty damn close, what with an added wink to boot. Bucky’s not even in the same league as the guy now sitting across the table from him. Bucky’s not even close. If these leagues were turned magically into some sort of sport, he wouldn’t even be able to watch the league Hot-Guy is in because the bouncers would kick him out before he got to even see at the actual game.

But he’s never said no to cake or hot guys. See reference: Brock Rumlow. Yeah, maybe he should be a little bit more careful with the people he sees as hot.

Still Hot-Guy doesn’t remind him a lick of Brock and he’s offering cake (which Brock never did). That’s a win win situation in Bucky’s books if ever he saw one. So he nods, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear.

The grin hot-guy offers him should be frikin’ illegal. He’s this close to contacting Nelson and Murdock and asking if he can fill out some and of complaint to make it illegal. The guy looks so happy to be buying a random stranger cake.

Yep, definitely a weird one.

Two minutes later hot-guy’s managed to flag down a waitress to bring over ‘some of her best cake madam’ (he called her madam for crying out loud. The guy radiates ‘mother's boy’ inside out) and now he’s sat there, tapping his finger against the table, looking over at Bucky with a little grin on his face like he’s the one who hit jackpot here and Bucky’s the lucky prize.

Bucky would like to repeat: this guy is: So. Fucking. Weird.

“So...you wanna talk about your bad day? Or at least why you felt the need to die in a coffee shop of all places?” the guy teases (flirts? Maybe flirts. Bucky wants to think it’s flirting, but he’s never been that lucky. See reference: one missing arm).

“It’s nothing, it’s stupid,” Bucky mutters, taking a futile bite of chocolate cake.

“I can do stupid,” the guy replies easily, “in fact, I’ve been called stupid more than a few times, myself.”

Bucky doesn’t doubt that, the guy’s being nice to a random stranger and bought said random stranger cake for no reason. In some people’s books that’s very stupid - again, not that he’s complaining. This chocolate cake is nice.

“It’s just...I just really hate that song,” Bucky admits, sheepish, eyes cast downwards.

Hot-Guy blinks, tilts his head to the side, and then laughs.

“Hey, it’s not funny!” Bucky protests, futilely trying to defend himself, “they follow me everywhere. They’re like my hell demons.”

“They?” Hot-Guy questions, obviously trying to stop giggling although he’s just as obviously failing miserably. If hot-guy wasn’t so obviously nice and so obviously hot Bucky might be tempted to hit him for it.

“The Avengers,” Bucky explains, groaning, fingers wracking through his hair (it’s always been a nervous tick of his), “they’re following me. I mean, they’re just so awful. It’s like they don’t even know what music is, you know? I just want to whack them over the head with an actual good album one day. Although hey, I don’t really want to be a murderer, they might die if they actually heard anything good. Melt like the wicked witch of the west or whatever.”

Hot-Guy’s got a sort of twinkle in his eyes, obviously finding this extremely funny - far funnier than he has any right to. It’s kind of adorable, but Bucky would die before he admitted it. He is not finding someone finding him funny adorable. No way. “You honestly think that they’re that bad?” Hot-Guy finally asks, getting his expression into something more controllable.

“Every damn song. Maybe they wouldn’t be so bad if they weren’t everywhere.” Bucky frowns, stabbing his cake with his fork a little more viciously than he might have had to.

“Awe, hey, come on, maybe they’ll be a big scandal soon or something. One of them will come out as being gay and thousands of upset teenage fans will hire assassins to kill them,” the blonde teases, and he’s still laughing but at least he’s being semi-kind about Bucky’s problem.

Bucky snorts, “we can only hope,” he says earnestly and the sly smile on the other man's face makes him feel like perhaps that was exactly the right thing to say.

They chat for a while, about other things. Hot-Guy is actually a lot of fun: add that to the list of weird, kind and understanding. He jokes with Bucky about his weird hate for popular bands, sympathises with Bucky over his job, doesn’t ask once about the arm (or the lack of) like every single other person Bucky’s met. He’s sweet and charming and maybe Bucky likes him a little more than he should.

After about an hour Hot-Guy apologises and says he has to go. Bucky’s honestly disappointed, or at least he would be, if Hot-Guy didn’t scribble down his number and hand it over just before he leaves. Bucky doesn’t even hear the Avengers music playing in the background as he makes a little whoop of victory (once Steve is safely out of the door and out of hearing distance) and puts the number into his phone.

From behind the counter Darcy - who Bucky knows mainly from her beautiful coffee and easy-to-joke-around-with attitude - laughs at him.

It’s only a few minutes before he realises he didn’t even get Hot-Guys name.

-///-

My niece won’t stop singing The Avengers. I’m going mad. Send help. Or possibly an ambulance - ninety-nine percent certain my ears are bleeding. JBB

When Bucky texts Hot-Guy the first time (he still doesn’t have a name, which sort-of embarrassingly means that Hot-Guy is just down as Hot-Guy on his contact list, something Bucky would be mortified if Hot-Guy actually found out about) he’s moaning about something again - and he honestly does not expect a reply at all. Which means he gets the shock of his life when Hot-Guy responds about ten seconds later.

Haha, that sucks, pal. How old is she? SR

SR. Bucky has initials now that aren’t just ‘HG’. That shouldn’t feel as big a victory as it does.

Ten. I love her to pieces, but I’m starting to rethink that: the Avengers have hypnotized her into their own personal slave. JBB

Bucky types out the message and hits send, foot tapping against the ground as he waits for a response. Again it comes around about ten seconds later (9 and a bit actually, but who’s counting?) and Bucky’s thrilled. He met a hot guy who bought him cake, sympathized with him and then gave him his number. And now they’re texting. Since when did he get lucky?

The Avengers conspiracy theory #1: their songs are just hypnosis and you’re the only one immune. SR

Yes. God, yes. Bucky loves this guy. Literally. Well, maybe not literally (‘save words like love and hate for when you mean them’ Bucky’s mother's voice sings in his head) but he’s certainly feeling a strong level of liking here.

We should start a club. The Avengers Hate Club: set on proving them to be demons of hell raised by angry cult fangirls. JBB

For a moment, he thinks he might have gone a bit too far. Bucky counts to twenty (one of the longest twenty seconds of his life) before he gets a response, somehow convincing himself that in that time, Hot-Guy totally decided Bucky was far too crazy and left to find some other sad fuck to buy cake for.

You’re a little odd, aren’t you? It’s a good job I like odd. I want to meet you again, I’m so glad you text me, I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t. We could meet up for the first Avengers Hate Club tomorrow - say over dinner? SR

Wait - wait, did Bucky just get asked out on a date by hot guy? Dinner certainly sounds like a date. The usual connotations of asking someone to dinner implies a date.  Bucky swallows, heart pounding in his chest. His mind sways briefly to Brock: the last person he dated, also known solely as ‘the jackass’ and for a moment he almost types in a no. Because Brock- Brock was a lot of things, and none of them were trustworthy, even if it might have felt that way at the start.

What if Hot-Guy is just another Brock in disguise?

But no, he can’t be. Bucky would know (even if he hadn’t the first time). And besides, it’s not been specified as a date yet - it’s a club meeting. Over dinner. Which Bucky is totally not panicking about already (seriously, what is he going to wear?).

So he forces himself to type out a response and hopes it wasn’t too long a wait in between the texts for Hot-Guy to get it into his head that Bucky isn’t interested (like Bucky had done about ten seconds ago when Hot-Guy hadn’t texted him back for twenty seconds). Because he is. Extremely interested. He just doesn’t really want to get hurt again.

Bucky has a habit of getting himself hurt. Be it war or a bad choice in Boyfriends….he usually ends up getting hurt.

But Hot-Guy did buy him cake - it’s not exactly a recipe for hurt. More like a recipe for chocolate and cream.

I’d love to. Where and when? JBB

Pause in which Bucky’s holding his breath and then-

Meet me at the coffee shop we met at tomorrow night at 7:00 and I’ll walk you to my favourite restaurant. It’s a little Italian place (I know that’s cliche but I swear the food is worth it) you’re going to love it, I’m sure. SR

Bucky grins, heart pounding in his chest. Date or not date, he’s been thinking about Hot-Guy non-stop since he met the man and the man cheered him up with cake. He hopes they’ll be cake tonight along with Italian food (and maybe just a few kisses if he’s in any way lucky).

I wouldn’t miss it for the world. JBB

-///-

The ‘Avengers Hate Club’ is a total success.

Bucky meets Hot-guy exactly where he told Hot-Guy he would, and even though Bucky’s a whole fifteen minutes early (because apparently he’s that much of a dork and that egger) Hot Guy’s waiting for him when he gets there. He checks his watch just to make sure he didn’t accidently mess up the timings but it’s still saying quarter to seven and Bucky’s read that text enough times to know that they’re definitely meeting at seven. Definitely.

Hot-Guy came early. Just for him. (Bucky desperately tries really hard to not let himself think of the innuendo which clings to that thought like syrup. He might fail, just a little bit.)

It’s kind of a floaty feeling. Not once did Brock bother to show up early to any of their dates. In fact, Brock had a habit of leaving him waiting. And Brock had known him a hell of a lot longer than one encounter at a coffee shop and a string of texts.

Hot-Guy’s yet to leave him waiting (which really shouldn’t be a plus this early on. And he’s not counting the twenty seconds of waiting time he did for that text because that would totally be pushing it - that was not waiting. Twenty seconds is not waiting.)

Hot-Guy also brought flowers.

“You got me flowers?” Bucky can’t help but blurt as soon as he is standing beside him.

Hot-Guy chuckles, “isn’t that what you're supposed to do on annual Avengers Hate Club meetings?” he asks, all innocent wide blue eyes and just-sort-of-smirking-yet-vaguely-sincere smile. Taking a moment to examine Hot-Guy’s attire, Bucky finds himself swallowing away anxiety. The simple combination of a casual shirt and skinny jeans has absolutely no right looking so beautiful. Absolutely no right whatsoever.

Bucky may or may not be caught up on the word annual though. He’s almost certain this guy doesn’t mean once a year with that smirk/smile thing he’s wearing. At least he hopes the guy doesn’t mean once a year. Maybe once a week - or twice. After all, Bucky has a lot of hate (very strong dislike, his mother’s voice reminds him in his head) for these Avengers fellows, which means a lot of ranting, and a lot of seeing Hot-Guy. Hopefully.

Bucky smiles - both at his own thoughts and at the beautiful bouquet of flowers Hot-Guy is holding in his hands (red, white and blue - for once Bucky finds himself actually liking the Avengers theme colours, even if he knows the colouring is a total inside joke) and it’s soft, his smile, not like the usual expression he wears behind a smile  a hard edge that he gained from living through the army, the war, and all the shit that followed, “thank you,” he says finally, taking the flowers from Hot-Guy in his hand. It leaves him with no hand to reach forward and take Hot-Guy’s hand with - but he’s not entirely sure that Hot-Guy would want to hold his hand anyway. Even if he brought Bucky flowers, it’s not like hot guy actually thinks Bucky’s hot as well, right?

Blinking, Bucky takes a second to force himself to realise how ludicrous it is that he’s getting wound up about holding this guy’s hand. Holding a hand should not put him in this much stress. Holding a hand should not put him in any stress whatsoever. And it’s not stress, it really isn’t - at least the handholding thing isn’t the stress. The stress is hidden within the fear of rejection.

Bucky may or may not be a twelve year old child who needs to grow up.

“So, Avengers Hate Club meetings? You got nothing better to do with your Thursday evening?” Bucky asks absently as they start walking.

“Not much,” Hot-Guy grins a little lopsidedly, and Bucky mind, strangely enough, pulls up the loopy face of a golden retriever puppy - “I usually just hang out with the ba- friends. I usually just hang out with my friends.”

Bucky cocks his head a little, about to ask what Hot-Guy was about to say (the bad guy? the backstreet boys? The what?) before he catches the terrified look on Hot-Guy’s face. Bucky frowns a little but then shrugs. It’s not like he’ll lose much sleep over a little mess up of words. He can’t read anything past happiness to be here in Hot-Guy’s gaze (the brief look of terror passing over so quickly Bucky’s not entirely sure he didn’t imagine it) so he’s at least ninety nine percent sure that it isn’t something to do with rejecting Bucky - not yet at least. It’s not going to ruin his life. It’s not like ‘ba’ can lead anywhere close to ‘boyfriend’ unless you have a really strange accent. Wrong vowel second letter, Bucky’s safe as can be.

And, unsurprisingly, it really doesn’t ruin his night (mainly because he’s forgotten all about it about five minutes later when Hot-Guy’s halfway through a story about himself, his friend Dumdum and some stupid bowler hat a kid stole from down the road, describing every part of their adventure to retrieve the stolen clothing). It doesn’t feel like anything could ruin a night like this.

Avengers Hate Club is officially his new favourite thing.

The restaurant is small and sweet, the kind you see in Hollywood movies that Bucky has always been ninety-nine percent sure don't exist in real life - that is until Hot-Guy brings him right through the front door of one. Candles furnish every table, violins play dutifully through the speakers and that soft romantic glow of many vacated tables, leaving the illusion of intimacy and privacy.

The waiter who serves them clearly knows Hot-Guy. He greets him courteously, leading him to one of the tables near the back of the room. The waiter offers them wine, and Bucky sort of shakes his head absently, causing Hot-Guy to snort a little and ask for ‘two of your finest beers please good sir’.

The waiter looks at Hot-Guy like he’s very well gone mad but accepts the order and walks away.

Bucky has to hide the snort of laughter behind his hand, something he fails at. Awfully.

“So, you’re not a wine guy?” Hot-Guy asks as soon as the (rather disgusted) waiter is safely gone and out of earshot, leaning his hands on the table, body leant ever so slightly forward, as if he’s hanging onto Bucky’s every word, is desperate to hear the answer that may flow from Bucky’s lips.

“Definitely not. Me being a wine guy would imply me actually liking the taste of washing up liquid in my mouth,” Bucky throws back. Honestly, he hates the stuff. Red? White? All of it tastes no better than bitter cheap washing up liquid to Bucky’s taste buds. He has no idea how someone could actually drink that stuff and come out at the end with a happy experience seared into their memories.

Hot-Guy laughs a little. It’s a beautiful sound. Bucky would like to hear it more, if he can.

He really hopes he can.

So Bucky tags on lightly, “plus the Avengers probably drink it.”

As he hopes, it gets even more of a laugh plucked from the (kissable) lips Hot-Guy has managed to quirk into a smile.

“So, Avengers Hate Club? What’s first on the agenda?” Hot-Guy sounds like a little kid. He’s leaning forward in his chair, like he’s on the edge of his seat.

Like he cares about what Bucky has to say.

It’s been a long while since someone who wasn’t family cares about what Bucky has to say.

“The first on the agenda is roles. I honestly think I should be leader. I bet you used to listen to that crap before I freed you from their hypno musical words,” Bucky’s words are light, teasing. He feels like a kid again, in some stupid club.

He supposes they’re both acting like kids. It’s rather relaxing. It feels like he hasn’t acted like a kid in years - even when he was a kid, he always wanted to be older, he never looked around long enough to realise the best years of his life were passing him by without his consent

“Ah, yes, okay, mighty leader - does that mean I get to be the treasurer?” Hot-Guy asks, voice managing to sound both humble and teasing.

“Ah, ah, ah, no way.” Bucky shakes a finger at him, “I control the money. You can be...the founder. Seen as you suggested all this.”

Hot-Guy pouts, “that’s a lame job.”

“Live with it,” Bucky tosses back.

“I only decided to ask you to set this up because I wanted to go on a date with you. This fonder business doesn’t really seem to fit that idea,” Hot-Guy points out.

Bucky’s heart almost stops beating in his chest.

This is a date. It’s Hot-Guy asking him out on a date - nope, nope it’s Hot-Guy taking him on a date and disguising it as a club. A little kiddy Avengers Hate Club which is either the most twelve-year-old thing he’s heard in years or it's the cutest. Maybe both.

He’s on a date with Hot-Guy and honestly, he’s got no idea how he got so lucky but hey, if the world's willing to give him a gift, he’s not about to look at it too closely. At least not yet. Maybe this is another Brock, but Hot-Guy doesn’t seem like a Brock he seems like a….John. Or a Jason or something solid and strong sounding. The kind of guy who wouldn’t, in a million years try and cause you heartache.

“You’re still the founder,” Bucky decides finally, “and don’t try and argue with me on it. You’re very much the founder.”

Hot-Guy laughs again but doesn’t say anything more on the matter. Bucky takes that as yes. He’s definitely making Hot-Guy a badge that has founder written on it, there is absolutely no way he’s not doing that.

And so the night continues.

Hot-Guy is sweet, funny and all round amazing. He makes Bucky laugh way more than is most likely healthy and makes him forget all about the troubles in his life.

When Hot-Guy finally leaves, he kisses Bucky’s cheek and says he’ll text him tomorrow to discuss the next Avengers Hate Club meeting, the flowers are back in Bucky’s hand and he’s very sure he’s just had the best night of his life in a long time. Hot guy, flowers, Avengers hating testimonies (very strongly dislike, his mother's voice reminds him again). What could go wrong with this?

Chapter Text

-///-

Three and a half weeks later and Bucky is running late for his fifth date with Hot-Guy and cursing whichever idiot decided to make public transport the most unreliable thing on the planet.

Bucky can drive pretty well with one hand if he takes into consideration the fact that he managed to get himself on the trial run of the new Stark Car for army amputees with all the kit to let him drive one-handed, but because it’s only a bloody trial he has to go in every now and then to show them the results and let them mess around with the car.

Which means he’s stuck without a car for a few days.

Which means he’s stuck with crappy public transport.

And it’s raining.

And - perhaps worst of all - the subway he managed to catch which decided it was going to run half an hour late today won’t stop playing tracks from the Avengers earliest album which - while not a success when it came out - is now considered retro, hipster and cool.

Bucky feels a little like banging his head against a brick wall.

Still, he manages to file that tiny annoyance away for the next Avengers Hate Club (which was supposed to start over half an hour ago) and almost stamps his feet again over the injustice of having no car, and his persisting idiocy which this time prompted him into leaving his phone at home so he can’t even ring Hot-Guy to tell him he’s going to be late.

He really hopes Hot-Guy doesn’t think he’s stood him up.

Because the thing is, these last three and a half weeks have been amazing. Bucky didn’t even feel bad when he found out Brock has moved on to his next victim girlfriend(a really scary girl who everyone calls Sin from a few floors below where Bucky works (I.E the basement). And she’s not called Sin for nothing either, Bucky would rather be on the other side of the planet from her than stand next to her in an elevator for longer than five minutes, even if those five minutes would earn him a million pounds). Hot-Guy texts him almost every night, and they meet up for coffee every now and then. Hot-Guy is funny, interesting and proceeds to be charming as ever. They never seem to run out of things to talk about (even if it is as stupid as whether Harry should have named his child after the guy who brutally bullied him for years of his life or whether he should have named him after the real father figures in Harry’s life AKA. Remus Lupin, Sirius Black and Rubeus Hagrid.)  He’s still getting nightmares of course, awful, horrible nightmares, but at least his waking hours aren’t spent standing in the shadow of them anymore and that’s the main thing.

So Bucky really hopes Hot Guy doesn’t think he just got stood up. Because that isn’t Bucky’s intentions at all.

He arrives at the park they were supposed to meet at - Bucky checks his watch and curses - forty five minutes ago and his eyes scan desperately for Hot-Guy. But he can’t find him anywhere. Bucky’s heart feels only a little crushed as he starts to turn around and head home so he can maybe phone Steve and apologise when he hears:

“And he hates the Avengers you’re saying? Honestly, dude, I’m not sure if that can be counted as a healthy relationship.”

He whirls round in the direction of the voice zoning in on the words ‘Hate’ and ‘Avengers’ and ‘relationship’ in one sentence. He’s desperately glad he does when he spots a glimpse of familiar blonde hair, sat by a black guy on a bench, coffee in hand. He’s not too late.

Well, at least he’s not too late to apologise for being late (at least he’s ninety nine percent certain he isn’t).

“It’s not like that. He’s great, wait till you meet him,” Steve is saying, and Bucky really shouldn’t take this opportunity to listen to what Hot-Guy has to say about him because he really is ninety-nine percent certain that Hot-Guy is talking about him to what looks like his friend. But then again, if Bucky was placed in a Hogwarts house it probably wouldn’t be Hufflepuff (despite Hot-Guy’s insistence that it would be) so he’s not beyond casually pretending he’s still looking for Hot-Guy while desperately trying to listen in on what Hot-Guy is saying.

“You don’t even know his name,” Friend-of-Hot-Guy points out.

“And he doesn’t know mine. Look, he’s cool. He’s nerdy. And I’m real lucky to have met him.”

Friend-of-Hot-Guy pauses, taps his fingers against his coffee cup which Bucky can only just here over the sounds of kids laughing somewhere else in the park. And then: “look, man, I know it’s been awhile since Peggy-”

“A year.” and suddenly Hot-Guy sounds sad like Bucky never thought he could. Hot-Guy is a bundle of smiles and rainbows. Bucky has never so much as seen him sad once, not really. Suddenly he really wishes he wasn’t listening in on this conversation - but he’s a little trapped now. He can’t exactly walk away when he does need to go and talk to Hot-Guy at some point, but this seems desperately private. Something he’d rather Hot-Guy tell him about himself.

Still….he’s no hufflepuff.

“A year, yes.” Friend-of-Hot-Guy repeats, “but she was really important to you. And I’m really happy you’ve found someone new I just- I don’t want you...I don’t know...rushing in with someone who doesn’t fit you at all because you’re finally ready to try and fill the hole she left.”

“It’s not like that,” Hot-Guy insists, almost whines, “It’s not like that at all. I love Peggy, yes but...she’s gone. And he’s not Peggy. I didn’t go to that cafe to pick up some guy he just...I haven’t seen anyone look more like they were falling apart in the middle of a cafe than him before. And then he was cute. And…I don’t know, but it’s not Peggy. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Bucky isn’t one hundred percent sure what to do with this new information he’s been granted. It doesn’t feel like he’s ready to know this, especially not in the confused one sided way he’s sort-of-maybe-finding out. Peggy….who’s Peggy? He hasn’t heard Hot-Guy mention her even once before.

But then again,  Hot-Guy doesn’t know much about Bucky’s past yet either. This is new, this is young, this is innocent: the part of your relationship that you hold onto, where it’s all about laughing and smiling and holding hands and getting used to one another. It’s the moments that can start a whole relationship burning, a whole fire igniting, and despite the glaringly obvious lack of a left arm, Bucky’s not ready to show Hot-Guy all his broken parts - hell Hot-Guy doesn’t even know his name.

Just like Hot-Guy is most likely not ready to show Bucky who his Peggy was, or the parts of himself that are broken. Maybe they’ll get to that part someday, but for now Bucky craves the innocence of their relationship, craves knowing that Steve is there and that he’s not about to run away because, just for the moment, he has nothing to run away from.

It takes a moment to realise he’s let his thoughts run away from him, let himself get so tangled up in them that he’s no longer listening. And by the time he realises this and manages to tune back into the conversation, he can hear Hot-Guy’s laugh again - gone is the insecurity, the worry, the doubt and the fear that he heard before, the sadness that crept into Hot-Guy’s tone when he whispered a year. Now there is only the Hot-Guy that Bucky knows and Bucky is unbelievably grateful for it.

Don’t get him wrong, he does want to know every part of Hot-Guy just….this is young. This is happiness where he hasn’t had happiness in a long time. This is long conversations before bed and stupid dates disguised as Avengers Hate Clubs and kisses on the cheek (not on the lips yet, but Bucky’s found he’s more than happy with the pace they’ve set themselves, more than happy with going slow). He needs this. He doesn’t need the other stuff right now. He just needs this.

Before he can hear anything else that he shouldn’t he moves forward (as he probably should have done in the first place, but then again, Bucky is ninety nine percent certain that he’s an idiot) and goes to stand in front of Hot-Guy and Friend-of-Hot-Guy, a sheepish smile plastered on his face as he half waves with his hand.

“Hi,” he murmurs quietly, “sorry I’m stupidly late. Subway was running late and my cars in for the tests and all that. Anyway….hi.” he feels awkward in the way he never has around Hot-Guy. It’s probably because of Friend-of-Hot-Guy who’s now staring at him like he’s the enigma code or something. He glances away.

“Hi,” Hot-Guy’s smile is all warmth when his eyes find Bucky’s, “I knew you hadn’t forgotten about me. Of course, as you can see I already found a replacement.” he nods towards Friend-of-Hot-Guy who actually smiles and runs with the joke, thank god.

Now, Bucky is an insecure asshole after Brock, he’s very happy to admit to that glaringly obvious fact. However, him and Hot-Guy also have this jokey banter thing going on they found after the first date Avengers Hate Club. It just sort of fits with who they are, to tease each other and Bucky is completely, ninety nine percent in love with it.

“Well, I guess I’ll just go then,” Bucky throws back and Hot-Guy rolls his perfect, sea blue eyes and grabs the sleeve of Bucky’s shirt, pulling him down onto the bench.

Friend-of-Hot-Guy makes a coughing noise and Hot-Guy looks up before blushing a little and stuttering a small apology, “sorry. This is my friend, Sam Wilson,” he nods to Sam, the introduction a simple one, but Steve is a gentleman, and will likely always be a gentleman so it’s something he feels the need to do.

Friend-of-Hot-Guy who is apparently known as Sam Wilson holds out a hand for Bucky to shake. And it’s then that a wave of familiarity hits him. He didn’t recognise it before, mainly because of the way that Sam was staring at him and him being more focused on the awkwardness and Hot-Guy but…

“Do I know you from somewhere?” he asks.

Sam glances over him before suddenly nodding, the same vague recognition passing over his face, “I work at the VA office downtown, I think I’ve seen you around.”

Bucky blinks. Oh. Oh. This isn’t just Sam Friend-of-Hot-Guy Wilson this is Sam the-fucking-legend-down-at-the-VA-for-being-able-to-sort-out-even-the-worst-of-problems Wilson. Bucky is sort of starstruck. He’s sat in on a few of Sam’s talks. He has no idea how he didn’t recognize him before because the guy is a fucking legend.  He’s just got this way of making people feel comfortable around him.

“Oh,” Bucky says stupidly, glancing at Hot-Guy. It’s dangerous territory, considering the fact that he wants to keep it simple for now, but Bucky did just find out about - or at least kind-of find out about Peggy (whoever she was, most likely an ex by the sounds of things) he can afford to have Hot-Guy know a little more about him. Besides, Hot-Guy isn’t an idiot. He’s smart. He probably worked out that Bucky was in the army at some point anyway.

“You’re amazing, man. It was lovely to sit in on one of your talks. You really speak to people, you know?” Bucky says and Sam’s eyes light up just a little at the praise.

“I think I’m more liked than you are,” Sam raises an eyebrow at Hot-Guy, “better be careful, I might steal your boyfriend.”

Hot-Guy rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything. It’s obvious that Bucky isn’t the only one Hot-Guy has a good banter with, but he’s pretty sure he’s the only one Hot-Guy brings flowers to, so he can live with that.

“I should probably take him out of your grasp then, last thing I need is you two running off without me,” Hot-Guy finally mutters, his fingers finding their way into Bucky’s hand in one fluid motion, pulling Bucky to his feet as quickly as he’d pulled him down.

“Better run, he’s a hot one,” Sam nods in Bucky’s direction and now it’s Bucky’s turn to roll his eyes but keep quiet. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks this may be the start of a wonderful, easy going friendship, but for now Sam is Friend-of-Hot-Guy and the fucking legend from down at the VA. Maybe one day though.

Five minutes later they’re walking through the park hand in hand. Hot-Guy’s fingers are pressed neatly into Bucky’s as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s quiet. The sun shines around them, children scream from a set of monkey bars somewhere in the distance and around them, a few precious couples much like them walk hand in hand. It’s normal. A feeling that Bucky hasn’t had the good pleasure in having since before he got shipped off.

“So,” Hot-Guy says, after a quick stop off to buy an ice cream. Hot-Guy didn’t have much money in his pocket to spare and neither did Bucky, so they just got one to share between the two of them, Hot-Guy holding it up for Bucky to take a little lick every now and then, “you were in the army then?”

Sucking in a deep breath, Bucky glances away. He’s back to the train of thought about keeping this relationship innocent; he really doesn’t need to fuck it up. Bucky was in the army for a good seven years of his life: from the time he turned eighteen to the time he turned twenty five. At twenty seven he’s still not sure how to talk about it, and he doesn’t want to scare Hot-Guy off…

“Long story,” Bucky decides on saying finally, “but yeah. For a long time. Did a lot of tours in my time, always thought I’d end up dying out there but got sent home once news of my arm came back in,” he shrugs. He never says it was worth it, what he went through out there, losing an arm, almost losing his life, the horrible way he spent his last year overseas. But at least he can say he went, and protected a few lives in the process.

Hot-Guy nods, and it’s not a dismissive nod, nor is it the nod that Bucky usually gets in this situation. The you’re-a-hero-for-what-you-did-out-there. It’s sympathetic but not overly so, enough to make Bucky feel comfortable. There’s the tiniest bit of admiration stuffed in Hot-Guy’s gaze as well (and Bucky is ninety nine percent certain that there’s something very much akin to affection lingering in there as well).

“I get it, it’s not a conversation for now,” Hot-Guy puts out, and Bucky squeezes his hand. Thank god this guy is so understanding, “I just want you to know that if you ever need me, day or night, just to talk about what you went through over there….well, I’m no Sam Wilson, but I can help.”

It’s a caring gesture, so sweet and considerate that Bucky feels like he might break in too with all the affection he’s got pouring off himself for this guy. He takes a lick of his ice cream when Hot-Guy offers it to his lips and prays to a god that he doesn’t really believe in that Hot-Guy can sense how damn grateful Bucky is to have him.

“I can’t believe you know him. How did you two meet?” Safe route. New conversation.

“Running,” Hot-Guy shrugs, “I knew him in school actually, but he moved to DC when we were about fourteen. Then about a year ago I’m up in DC with a few friends and I’m out for a run and he shows up suddenly next to me. And it’s like twelve years never happened and I’m fourteen again. We run a few laps and we’re inseparable as we ever were. Just like that. And then he ends up moving up here after a while, he always said he wanted to come home if he could. So….here we are,” Hot-Guy smiles one of those dazzling smiles that Bucky could probably be blinded by if he stared directly at it for too long.

He’s half jealous, he really is. A friendship so strong it’d last that long? Bucky’s never had a friendship that’s solid enough to last more than a few years in his life. It would most likely annoy him if he didn’t not care so much. It’s not that he hasn’t had good friends, just never a best friend. He squeezes Hot-Guy’s hand and tries to smile a little.

“That’s great. It must be nice to have someone like that,” Bucky says, Hot-Guy just hums.

“Hey, maybe you should introduce me to a friend sometimes, huh?” Steve asks.

“I got family,” Bucky tries, “But I ain’t got much in the way of friends. Sorry. My social circle is you and my sister roundabout. Which is pretty much as pathetic as it sounds.”

“Oh,” Hot-Guy’s eyes furrow a little before his grip tightens, “well, you can hang out with me whenever you want. I love spending time with you.”

Bucky’s grin is most likely just as bright as Hot-Guy’s usually is at that. He takes a deep breath, and turns to face him, letting go of his hand to reach into his pocket, “I did forget my phone, and I don’t have a car right now, but I did manage to remember to bring you this.”

In his hand is a small badge. It’s not much, cost him most of two dollars to get made, and is honestly pretty shitty. But he’s certain it’s the thought that counts, at least, that’s what is supposed to count, right? The white circle holds the Avengers symbol with a big cross through it, and in tiny blue writing above it reads simply ‘AVENGERS HATE CLUB FOUNDER.’

He hold it out, slightly unsure of himself, but from the look on Hot-Guy’s face, the laugh on his lips, Bucky can tell that he got this one right, finally. Hot-Guy is smiling. Really smiling. And that laugh, well, Bucky could die happy if he heard that laugh every day for the rest of his life.

“I can’t believe you got this made,” Hot-Guy takes it with one outstretched hand.

Bucky just shrugs, “the guy at the desk thought it was for my daughter actually. He didn’t quite believe me when I said it was for my boyfriend, but hey, just one more idiot in New York who’s sure that I’m a nutter.”

Hot-Guy rolls his eyes, “well, he’s certainly not the only one,” but he’s still laughing, and Bucky is gonna take that as a good thing, even if it sounds like a bad one. He helps to put on the badge with a little smile, pinning it on as best he can with his one hand.

“Never take this off,” Bucky says solemnly, the twinkle of the joke in his eyes.

“Not ever,” Hot-Guy whispers back, “I’m never going to let this go. It’s...important,” and Bucky isn’t sure he’s talking about the badge anymore and his arm is wrapped firm around Bucky’s waist all of a sudden and Bucky’s not entirely sure when that happened. He’s about to ask when he realises that Hot-Guy is leaning in and- Oh.

It’s been a long time since Bucky kissed someone. Well, since Brock anyway, but Brock didn’t kiss at all like this. When Brock kissed, it was like a fight or something - that was the image that always came up in Bucky’s head. Like bombs exploding. With Hot-Guy it was different. More like fireworks playing out behind his eyelids. Red and Blue and White.

It’s nothing much, a peck on the lips, but it’s also the slide of Hot-Guy’s lips against his own, and the promise of something more soon. “Sorry,” Hot-Guy says finally, pulling away. And he looks almost as dazed as Bucky feels, “I wasn’t planning on doing that. But...couldn’t resist you. You’re honestly such a dork.”

On the tip of Bucky’s tongue are all the things he both wants to say and can’t right now. It’s okay. He’s sure his expression says it for him.

-///-

The gentleman that he is, Hot-Guy spends most of the rest of their date asking permission to kiss him again, being permitted to do so every time. Bucky is ninety nine percent certain this is the happiest he’s ever been. 

There’s a brief discussion of Bucky’s train nightmare, and Hot-Guy is quick to sympathise saying almost too earnestly that he hates that first album, knocking shoulders with Bucky as he does.

It’s an odd but beautiful afternoon, and when Hot-Guy offers him a ride back to his place on his motorbike, Bucky feels himself raise an eyebrow. “Motorbike?” he questions. It’s not something that he had Hot-Guy pegged for, but then again, he’s not sure it’s easy to have Hot-Guy pegged for much in general. He’s not really that and of person. He’s...surprisingly, different in every aspect of his personality and yet always warm and forever kind.       

The look of childish joy on his face is such that Bucky allows himself the chance to kiss him again. He tastes like half-eaten ice cream, melted and left in some bin when Hot-Guy decided they’d had enough. He tastes like the adventure of the motorbike helmet that Steve insists he wears later - the adventure that comes from a deep need somewhere inside himself. He tastes like hope for something else and something more.

He tastes like the hatred for the Avengers and other strong words his mother wouldn’t have him using unless there was a damn good reason.

Bucky’s sure he’s found a damn good reason now.

-///-

The bike is pristine. According to Hot-Guy it’s the first thing he brought when he managed to hold down a job for long enough. It’s old, but in good shape, and Bucky can see the love on Hot-Guy’s face when he touches it. He’s almost scared to ride it, for fear of jinxing it somehow and them ending up crashing, but Hot-Guy’s pretty insistent that Bucky takes a ride.  

When he get’s off the bike outside his apartment, Hot-Guy gives him a long kiss and tells him he’ll text him soon.

Ten minutes later, when Bucky is safe and warm inside his apartment he get’s a text in the form of a photo. Opening it reveals a slightly blurred photo of the badge on Hot Guy’s chest. Five seconds later there’s another one, one of the selfies that Hot-Guy insisted they took that afternoon. It’s a good photo, Hot Guy’s arms around him, the camera catching Bucky in mid smile that used to be rare before Hot-Guy came along.

There’s only seven words underneath. It reads simply:

I’m never going to let this go.

Again Bucky is struck with the sudden knowledge:

Hot-Guy isn’t talking about the badge.

(Bucky is so happy, he goes online and orders Hot-Guy a matching shirt. He’s ninety nine percent certain he’s a sap but he can live with that)

Chapter Text

In a room invaded by the stale smell of hospitals, there is a bed. The bed is small, cramped and uncomfortable, but dazzlingly clean: like it’s been dipped in a thousand metaphors to do with washing machines and soap.

The only light is the light shining in from a window giving the room an almost heavenly glow: divine light and all that crap. This would be easily fixed if someone turned the lights on that are overhead, but that would probably kill the mood a little, destroy the confusion between simile or reality. Was it like a heavenly glow or was it actually a heavenly glow?

The man in the bed shifts, grunting. This better not be heaven he is thinking, I expected heaven to smell a bit better than this.

-///-

Bucky remembers his days in flashes most of the time, little snapshots of the perfect wonderment that is his waking hours. He wants to remember it all, wants to remember every tiny bit:

Hot-Guy smiling, Hot-Guy laughing, Hot-Guy reaching for his hand, Hot-Guy kissing him, the sound of Hot-Guy’s voice through the phone in the early hours of the morning, coaxing him back to sleep or helping him stay awake.

He is ninety-nine percent certain his life has never been better. How could it ever be better? He’s never had someone he could just talk to in this way, and he’s certainly never had such….certainty before. He knows that if he picks up the phone and calls there will be someone to answer. He knows that someone smiles every time they see him, just for him. He knows that someone is there all the time, in the corner of his vision, keeping him sane.

It is personified within the little things most of all. Like now, for example, when:

“Seriously, I’m literally covered in flour, I’m white as a ghost, I’m wearing a pink apron and I’m elbow deep in a cake that you said was easy to make and there are eggs who haven’t had the decency to wear their shells in public all over my floor. How is this easy again?”

Baking. It’s not exactly something he ever thought he’d be into. He certainly didn’t think he’d ever be elbow deep in a cake at six o’clock in the morning trying to work out exactly where he went wrong and if it would be possible to fix it.

But Hot-Guy said he liked cake…and Bucky really wanted to try making one…

“Just calm down,” Bucky can hear, through the phone that’s on loud speaker over on the kitchen table, the way Hot-Guy tries to conceal his humour for fake concern. Bucky knows it’s fake because every now and then he hears a giggle slide out of Hot-Guy’s mouth, like he just can’t contain it. If the sound wasn’t so damn cute, maybe Bucky would find it in himself to shout more about how Hot-Guy should be taking this a little more seriously, but he just can’t find it in him. “Look, have you got the recipe book I lent you there?”

Bucky’s eyes flash around the kitchen and yes there it is, underneath a layer of flour that’s looking a little like dust and something that Bucky hopes is just egg, is the recipe book that had been in a perfect condition about ten minutes ago. Huh. “Uh…Hey, how attached were you to your recipe book again?”

There’s a sigh from down the phone and then, “did you mix the mixture, or knead the mixture?”  

“Uh…what’s the difference?” Bucky’s experience of cooking is limited to the brief catch of a cooking show and that time where he was told to peal the carrots and almost cut his hand off.

Now he’s only got one hand, this is a lot harder than when he last attempted it when he was fifteen, and sort of wishes he’d kept to pre-bought cakes and microwavable meals. But then again…what’s the fun in that, huh?

The answer is nothing. However that doesn’t make this any less frustrating.

“You know, I sometimes wonder how you function as a normal human being,” comes Hot-Guy’s voice through his hectic kitchen. In the background behind the sound of the voice he knows so well comes the sound of someone laughing.

The sound of a girl laughing.

Bucky pauses, elbow deep in cake batter gone wrong. He’s silent for a breath to long, enough for Hot-Guy to say:

“Hey, sweetheart, you still there?”

Bucky clears his head. It’s six o’clock in the morning but that doesn’t mean Hot-Guy can’t have friends over. Bucky has Becca stay over sometimes. It’s normal. He can rationalise it. Except…Brock…

Hot-Guy is not a Brock. Bucky is at least ninety nine percent certain that Hot-Guy is not a Brock, if not one hundred percent. What Brock did to him, Hot-Guy wouldn’t even think of doing.

He’s never told you his name, maybe he doesn’t want you to face book him…so you can’t find out he’s married with three kids…

Bucky shakes the thought away quickly. He’s never asked Hot-Guy’s name, and besides, even when they didn’t think that Bucky was listening, Sam said that Bucky was Hot-Guy’s first relationship in a while. Bucky relaxes slightly, casting the laugh out of his mind. It was probably just the TV anyway. Nothing to worry about.

“Hey, sorry, zoned out trying to get this thing to work,” Bucky makes a quick half lie, “and the answer to your question, pal, is that I don’t function as a normal human being. I have break downs in coffee shops over bands, I’m in a two man club over a band I hate, I’m so far into obsessing over not liking this band, I’m practically one of their fangirls.”

That one does get a laugh from Hot-Guy. “Oh yeah, you go to all their concerts secretly, this whole thing was just a sneaky little lie to get me to buy you free cake,” Bucky can practically hear the eye roll.

“Well, you are like, super-hot, and super nice, so I can see why I’d do that, hypothetically,” Bucky’s now desperately trying to take his elbow out of the cake so he can wash his hand. Maybe he’ll start again on the cake, he’s not too sure that this one is worth trying to save. It’s already fallen into the pit of doom. It’s not the kind you save, it’s the kind you stop. Stop now, before you too fall into a lump of flour and eggs and sugar and can’t ever escape looking like you’re a kid who decided to get dressed as a ghost for Halloween with impromptu use of baking ingredients.

“Nah, no one can fake that much annoyance. Not even someone as wonderful as you,” Hot-Guy is speaking again. Bucky blushes. He’s not quite sure he likes the fact that Hot-Guy is very good at getting him to blush, but at least Hot-Guy can’t see it through the phone (Bucky is ninety nine percent certain that Hot Guy does not, in fact, have any kind of super powers. Even with muscles like that that prod Bucky to think the guy may have been pumped full of magical growth steroids at some point.

“Now you’re just sweet talking me,” Bucky accuses, “look, I’m giving up on the cake. The cake was a bad idea. A really bad idea. I’m afraid I’ll have to buy some for when you come round later today…or try again, maybe? I’m not sure I could stand the pain of trying again, but then again, the things I do for you…”

Hot-Guy laughs, and Bucky loves that. It’s the thing he hears most, the sentence he thinks out most in his head. Hot-Guy laughs. Bucky’s good at getting him to laugh. Three months into their relationship that’s so messed up they don’t actually know each other’s names, but Bucky thinks he might be seriously coming down with a good case of sticky feelings and almost every morning is spent like this: on the phone together, listening to the sound of each other’s voices and doing mundane things.

Bucky loves every minute of it.

-///-

His sister keeps crying. She won’t stop. He wants to tell her that he’s fine, that it’s not like he died, but then he remembers that she was probably told he had died, before they found him. He tries not to imagine her opening the letter that announces that he’s dead half way through with fake condolences that have been sent out so many times to so many different people they’re practically small talk. Dear Sir/Madam, your brother is dead, how’s the weather?

These don’t look like happy tears though, that his sister is crying now even when she knows that he is alive and well and not dead (turns out that thankfully, heaven has not been confirmed to smell like stale hospitals – at least not yet). Maybe it’s too much. Knowing he’s alive, that he’s coming home, what happened to him out there. Maybe she’s so far past the edge of her emotions, she’s past happy crying and sad crying and she’s gone into numb crying.

He stares at her, her brown hair cropped short now unlike the long plaits that she had last time he saw her (to be fair that was a few years ago now. She looks a hell of a lot older. It’s alright, he’s used to things being different. Everything is different now.) her eyes that he knows as well as his own because they’re almost identical staring up shedding tears, and he promises in the stale smell of a hospital and the light that’s coming in through the window that reminds him of heaven but thankfully, is not heaven.

This will not change him.

-///-

It’s eleven o’clock and Hot-Guy’s due to arrive in about half an hour and Bucky is still unfortunately completely covered in something that should have been cake batter and in his pyjamas and still has no cake.

So basically he’s a complete mess, but he’s pretty sure Hot-Guy already knew that much about him from the three months they’ve been together, so he’s not going to worry too much about it putting a damper on their relationship.

When his phone starts ringing on the kitchen table, for a brief stupid moment, he thinks it might be Hot-Guy calling to cancel on him. It’s stupid (and he’s ninety-nine percent certain it has something to do with that feminine laugh he can still hear ringing in his ears if he concentrates too hard) but he thinks it anyway, which means he’s strangely relieved for the first time in his relationship with Hot-Guy that it’s not Hot-Guy calling him.

Of course, there’s only two other people who call him who’s not Hot-Guy. One is Becca and the other is work. He’s desperately glad that he’s picking up a phone call from his sister. Again this is sort of unusual in itself. Before Hot-Guy he actually sort of preferred being at work. It occupied his brain and gave him back some semblance of a life that wasn’t to do with the Avengers, Brock or his PTSD.

“Hey, squirt,” he says when he picks up. He hears her huff and grins a little, can see her smile, her still short cropped hair in his mind’s eye giving her that grown up appearance that Bucky has to admit (all be it grudgingly) that she wears well.

“Buck, hi. I was just ringing, Morgan’s at her friend’s house today and so it’s just me and Michael-“ the husband that Bucky grudgingly accepted. He gave Bucky Morgan after all, and Bucky adores his niece so…he’ll live with him, “and we wanted to invite you round for tea.” So you’re not too lonely.

He hears the end of her sentence even if she doesn’t say it. Bucky hasn’t actually told her about Hot-Guy yet, which he possibly should feel a little guilty about, but he’s not. He thinks he’s ready though. For the past three months Hot-Guy has been just his. And Bucky has enjoyed that. He’s enjoyed the walks they’ve taken (occasionally with Sam) and the phone calls when Hot-Guy went briefly out of the state for a couple of weeks with his friends (Seriously, dude, you can’t. The Avengers are touring in Miami this weekend as a prelude to their like, major tour in a few months or whatever, and it’ll be all over the news.) and everything in-between, but he’s also ready to let this branch out.

He thinks that maybe he was scared of telling Becca, before all this. About Hot-Guy. Mainly because he worried he’d jinx it if he introduced them. But it doesn’t feel like he is jinxing anything when he opens his mouth to say, “Actually, Becca, I got plans.” In fact, he feels rather smug.

He hears her sigh, “Buck, I know you haven’t got anything planned….please come. I hate thinking about you all alone in that-“

“Becca,” he cuts her off, “I’m not being lonely, I’m not sulking about Brock or the war and I don’t spend my pass times looking at paint dry on walls or crying about the monsters under my bed and wondering if they might come eat me. Nor am I overworking myself. Nor am I sat screaming at radios to stop playing Avengers songs-“ that one might be a bit of a white lie- “I literally have plans. Someone’s coming over today.”

“Someone…” he can hear the suspicion in Becca’s voice and suddenly he’s sixteen again and Becca’s learning about his new boyfriend/girlfriend. It used to annoy him like hell, the way she’d push for him to spill the beans on whoever it was, but now, it just sort of makes him feel smug and happy. He licks his lips.

“Yeah, someone. A special someone. Someone who I’ve been-“

“Oh, my god, Buck!” She squeals, and she’s dropped her worried tone now and moved straight to the other end of the scale, “you’re dating? Again? Why didn’t you tell me? Who is he? How long-“

“Becca, chill,” he smiles into the receiver, “about three months now. Yes, shut up, I didn’t tell you, but…I was getting used to it, making sure that it was gonna last. Which it has. Thankfully. And he’s coming round today.”

“Tell me everything, what’s his name?”

Bucky coughs, “right, see. We have this thing…” maybe he should have asked Hot-Guy his name by now. Maybe he should ask today… “Anyway, we have this thing where we don’t actually know each other’s names. Shut up, Beck, its fine. We sort of just…forgot to ask? Anyway, that doesn’t really matter. Because now it’s sort of become a thing I think. Like the first person to ask is loses, or maybe we’re saving them for a really important time. I dunno.”

He listens to her sort of shocked silence and it’s sort of comforting.

And then she offers what he desperately wishes she didn’t.

She does anyway.

“Well, why don’t you both come round? I’d love to meet him, learn how you two met. We have enough food for the both of you. It’ll be fun.”

Famous last words:

It’ll be fun.

-///-

He’s spent three weeks in the hospital now.

Funny isn’t it? If it wasn’t for the smell he probably wouldn’t think it was a hospital at all, just some room that they’re keeping him in. Hospitals are supposed to have nice beds after all, at least he always supposed he did. When he watched his mother die in a hospital bed it certainly hadn’t looked uncomfortable.

But maybe she had been uncomfortable.

Maybe she’d been scared. Like he is now.

Time passes so quickly, in a hospital bed, and he thinks that maybe it’s because there’s nothing to do. It’s like living in an alternate dimension. Coming out of Narnia and knowing only a few seconds have passed even when it felt like centuries only the exact reverse. One day. Two days. Three. Then a week. Then two. Then two and a half. Three.

He looks up when a doctor walks in. His sister has stopped crying, but she’s not smiling either. Maybe she’s thinking about their mother as well. He hadn’t considered that before. Maybe she’s thinking about how her mother was in hospital and that lead to her brother being in hospital like some horrible circle spinning round and round and round…

He’s spent three weeks in the hospital when a doctor walks in.

Three weeks before they tell him.

-///-

Hot-Guy enters Bucky’s apartment at eleven thirty on a dot (forever punctual or early, like he’s used to keeping up with a tight schedule, or maybe he just runs through streets. Bucky’s ninety nine percent certain he has some weird phobia about teenagers. Every time a teenage girl looks at him he lowers his head and keeps his face away, like he’s worried they might – god forbid – see his face) he takes one look at Bucky and a grin stretches over his face.

“I thought you gave up on making the cake?” He raises an eyebrow.

Bucky shakes his head and moves forward to embrace him. Their relationship hasn’t changed all that much since they met…not really. Hot-Guy is holding three flowers: one white, one red, one blue (Avengers colours that have quickly come Avengers hate club colours. Their colours) and he’s still wearing that badge, only now he’s sporting a t-shirt to go with it. He still looks at Bucky like he might be half mental and sometimes Bucky still thinks he really is crazy, at least when it comes to Steve. But…well.

He supposes it’s like any relationship. One week. Two weeks. Three. Then a month. Two months. Three. It all passes so quickly, and before you know it, it’s over, but it’s also only just begun. Bucky loves it. He loves that he’s around to have it. To wrap an arm around Hot-Guy’s waist and get flour all over the shirt he brought and grin mischievously up at him, “I tried. Again. And again. It was awful. I think your book is prejudice against those without left arms.”

Hot-Guy shakes his head, “I don’t think that’s possible. I think it might be more to do with…when did you say you cooked last? Over ten years ago?”

“Shut up,” Bucky’s not sure he actually trusts Hot-Guy to shut up himself, so he reaches up to run the remaining flour he managed to get stuck to his hands through that blonde hair, and press a kiss to Hot-Guy’s lips, backing him up against the door he just walked through.

Hot-Guy is a wonderful kisser. He kisses and it’s truly impossible to resist. When Hot-Guy came back from his trip out of the state with his friends, they lost a night that they were supposed to be spending at a romantic restaurant simply to each other’s lips.  Hot-Guy had had to ring up to apologise that they hadn’t made their reservations while Bucky full out giggled in the background. The guy at the restaurant actually sounded mad. They were going somewhere fancy, after all. Apparently, they’d lost money by keeping the table reserved for them. (Bucky is ninety nine percent certain that that was bull but Steve still offered to pay the restaurant compensation. Because he’s a saint like that.)

But kissing had been ten times better than some fancy meal. They hadn’t even done anything except kissing, just one long make-out session on the couch. Bucky kind of loves that they did that. They made out on the couch like horny teenagers, but without the horny part. They made out on the couch because they’d missed each other and it was a way of saying hello.

They made out on the couch because Hot-Guy is a wonderful kisser and because they wanted to. No reason, no rhyme, no stupid romantic story line (well. Not exactly.) Just the both of them kissing.

Simplicity. 

But unfortunately, they cannot make-out forever now. Mainly because he’s still got his sisters voice ringing in his ears. He sort of wishes he didn’t.

It’ll be fun.

But would it really? And what would Hot-Guy think? Bucky was ninety nine percent certain it wasn’t too early to take Hot-Guy home to meet the family, but then again, the family was Becca and the family was also slightly weird and he also apparently thought it was too early to learn Hot-Guy’s name, so surely taking him to see the family should come later?

He remembers that conversation they had, walking in the park after Bucky met Sam and listened to a private conversation he really shouldn’t have listened to. Steve still hasn’t brought up Peggy, but that’s alright because Bucky hasn’t really brought up the war. He figures it’ll come at some point. He’s no longer oblivious.

This relationship isn’t innocent. It’s not exactly new either. It is exciting, it is fun, but it’s also taking a turn for serious.

Anyway, the point is, that conversation where Hot-Guy asked him who his friends were or whatever…and then basically got all sad when Bucky implied he didn’t really have any. It stuck with him. And then Hot-Guy was Hot-Guy and basically just really sweet about it but…

He met Sam. And that was Hot-Guy giving over a part of himself. Bucky can’t give over a best friend, but his sister is the next best thing, right?

Bucky breaks away from the kiss, and Hot-Guy hums, “you taste like flour,” he murmurs, “were you eating it, because that is not how you cook, that part is supposed to come after the cake is already baked.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and takes Hot-Guy into his rather small kitchen. He has a rather small apartment to match the rather small kitchen, but Hot-Guy’s not a snob and he doesn’t strike Bucky as rich (no one who still dresses like they’re in the 40’s and then puts on a leather jacket to contrast could possibly be rich, right?) so Bucky’s not self-conscious about it. In fact, he rather likes it really.

It’s his own personal space and over the four weeks where Hot-Guy started coming by the house, it’s their personal space.

“Jesus, you weren’t kidding this morning,” Hot-Guy says, and Bucky watches as he picks up his pretty much dead cook book (dirty not dead. Definitely seen better days) with a sort of half sigh, shaking his head, “maybe you can keep this.”

“Sorry,” Bucky mutters quietly.

“Nah, no worries. Do you need any help tidying up?”

(Bucky is ninety-nine percent certain that Hot-Guy came straight from heaven. He’s just sat there offering to tidy up as if it’s something he should be doing. If Bucky squints, he thinks one day he might see wings coming out of Hot-Guy’s back, the big fluffy ones. And possibly a harp.)

“Actually, uh, I think we should get going soon. I mean, soonish. I may have sort of told my sister that we were coming round for dinner,” he grimaces, maybe he should have actually checked with Hot-Guy first that it was okay to invite him round to random Sunday dinner. Maybe he just really and truly fucked up. Only—

“You’re inviting me round to your sisters?” and that doesn’t look like a frown. That in fact, looks very much the opposite of a frown. Bucky might even go as far to say it was a smile. The sort you see on those cute golden retriever puppies. (Hot-Guy might be a golden retriever puppy, sometimes he looks so much like one that the simile just fits)

“Uh, yeah, I mean, if you want to-“

“Of course I want to!” and he’s suddenly being wrapped up in Hot-Guy’s arms again, and it makes Bucky almost melt like warm chocolate pudding.

“Well, I know we had a Hate Club planned for today and all…” Bucky tails off, Hate Clubs are absolutely his favourite pass time. And they do actually have them properly. They’re technically dates, but dates that are Hate Clubs do tend to have a lot of talking about how much Bucky hates the Avengers in them (they do sometimes have dates that aren’t hate clubs, but they haven’t dropped the tradition of hate clubs yet. Bucky thinks that even if they end up married or something they’ll never stop having hate clubs). Mainly because it’s a sure way to make Hot-Guy laugh and making Hot-Guy laugh ranks highly on his ten favourite things to do.

Still he thinks this is important. Or at least, it’s a little important. And now he’s actually stammering and trying to think of a way to put his reasoning into words. “But she rang and invited me and as an extension you. And I figured…well, I know Sam, you know?  And I know Sam is your friend and not your family but I think we’ve gone over that my social round about is pretty much just you and me and occasionally people at work who I might reluctantly say hello to.”

Hot-Guy shushes him with lips pressed to his mouth briefly, and then to his nose, “are you kidding? I’d love to meet Becca, and Morgan and Michael. They’re important to you, which means that they’re at least a little important to me.”

Bucky feels his heart swell. Jesus, how is this guy so perfect? He hates the Avengers? Tick. He offers to tidy up after Bucky? Tick. He’s good at managing with the arm, not pointing it out but not ignoring it? Tick. He buys cake for strangers? Tick. He’s good at kissing? Tick.

Is there anything that Hot-Guy isn’t good at? (Bucky is ninety-nine percent certain that their isn’t, like when the God that Bucky doesn’t really believe in made Hot-Guy he accidently put in a little of everything and then when he tried to add a dash of perfect added in a lump full)

“Come on then, we’ll tidy up your kitchen later. She lives a little out of Brooklyn, yeah?” that’s another thing good about Hot-Guy. Not only does he listen to what you have to say. He also remembers what you say after you’ve said it. Because he cares.

This is probably why after three and a half weeks they’d had five dates and yet after three months they were living out of each other’s pockets practically. Because Hot-Guy cares.

And. Well. Bucky really cares about him to. Really cares about him.

“You are way too excited about meeting Becca. Morgan’s not even gonna be there, it is literally just us and Michael. I guess we should be thankful Morgan’s not gonna be there, she’d probably strangle you if she saw you wearing that top. She’s a massive Avengers fan.”

“Yeah, I remember. It’s pretty much the first thing you text me about.”

Bucky is not as good at remembering things, which he supposes would be a problem but he doesn’t think that Hot-Guy minds.

Yeah. He doesn’t think that Hot Guy minds at all.

-///-

There’s this operation, the doctor says.

Only it might not work.

Only it probably won’t work.

He sits in his hospital bed and stares out of his window and for the first time since he woke up here, away from that place where he was that he refuses to let his mind think about, he wishes that that light floating in through the window had been heavenly light. That he was in heaven.

Even if it meant an entirety living with the stale smell of hospitals.

-///-

They take the bike to Becca’s, Bucky’s arm wrapped tightly around Hot-Guy’s waist as they speed through the city. Bucky stares at all the people milling about on the street that sometimes almost appear as blurs (Hot-Guy appears to have a thing for going fast). He wonders what their lives are like.

Everyone has problems.

Difference is, not everyone has a Hot-Guy to make those problems not seem as much like problems as they really are.

In front of him, he can practically feel Hot-Guy’s body radiating excitement, like he’s a kid about to go on a roll coaster and not a kid about to meet his boyfriend’s family. Aren’t people usually more nervous about meeting their partner’s family?

Bucky is a little nervous even if Steve isn’t. Those words keep ringing around his head. The it’ll be fun words. They just seem like they’re asking for trouble.

The wind whips across his jumper, his head protected by the helmet that Hot-Guy insisted he wore. He’s sweating just a little when they pull up outside Becca’s house.

It’ll be fun.

-///-

There was an operation, the doctor had explained.

To save the arm before the infection got too bad.

It wasn’t too late, was what they’d said.

And the sunlight shone through the window like a benediction. Or a hint at what was to come.

What is to come.

-///-

Becca’s house.

It’s the sort of house you see on movies that you convince yourself can’t really exist, because no one lives there lives in cheesy happy ever afters (what’s the point in living in a happily ever after, it implies that nothing is going to happen ever again. Bucky’s always thought they sound a little too boring, even when he was a kid and happy endings got stuffed down your throat). It’s literally got a white picket fence, it is that cliché and it’s made out of that old fashioned red brick that looks wonderful, like it’s been pulled straight from a storybook.

Four windows. One door. A pathway through a neat little front garden with purple and yellow flowers.

A storybook ending for his sister but not one where nothing happens. Story book, but not happily ever after.

It makes him laugh now, that Becca used to always says she didn’t want kids or a husband; that she used to walk around saying that she wanted to be a spy. Becca suits motherhood and she loves Michael more than anything. Bucky doesn’t think that Becca would choose being a spy over this any day.

Bucky swallows and turns to Hot-Guy who is already taking off his helmet to reveal his matted hair underneath that still has the hints of flour in it from when Bucky whipped his hair in it earlier. He should say something, but he’s really far too mischievous for that.

Instead of saying something about the flour sticking to blonde hair, he says, “I’m, uh, sorry in advance. If anything embarrassing happens.”

Hot-Guy grins from ear to ear, like the bloody Cheshire cat or something, “uh, huh. Right. And is their likely to be any embarrassing stuff?” he doesn’t look put off, he looks excited, Jesus.

“You know you’re a little…” Bucky trails off, looking for the right insult, “punk sometimes, right?”

“What sort of an insult is Punk?” Hot-Guy raises his eyebrows.

“It is a you type insult. And it’s not an insult. It’s…affection. In an insulting fashion.” Bucky folds his arms over his chest, opening the gate to Becca’s house with his heart beating stupidly fast in his chest.

Calm down. It’ll be fun.

And then he knocks on the door.

It’ll be fun.

-///-

Here’s the thing about Hospitals.

There are two camps of people when it comes to them. People who think that hospitals are where people go to die, and people who think that hospitals are where people go to get better. The people who hate hospitals and the people who love them. There’s never really an in-between.

He’s always been firm in the camp of people who think that hospitals are where people go to die, but that’s most likely his mother’s fault (not that she asked to die in a hospital bed that hadn’t looked uncomfortable but probably was.)

Now, sat in an uncomfortable bed with some weird ass heavenly light shining in through the window he’s not sure what camp he is in. There are doctors all around that are preparing him for a surgery that will not kill him.

It will not kill him.

It might just take off one of his limbs.

Or it might save it.

-///-

There is something about the unexpectedness of everyday life that Becca Barnes has always been drawn to. She may not be a spy like she’d once planned as a child but she wouldn’t dare to say she is ordinary. In her brief experience, no one is ordinary. Everyone’s mundane could be made into something unexpected, you just have to look hard enough, poke around enough, ask the right questions.

So she wasn’t overly shocked that her brother had found someone new. It was just part of the unexpected that filled the every day.

This did not mean that she is not overly shocked though, if that made any sense at all.

After he came home from war, Bucky had thought so little of himself. He’d gotten a job, but it wasn’t one he particularly wanted, and then he got a boyfriend but not one that was particularly nice, and then his boyfriend cheated on him…

…And then his niece got into the Avengers…

For a while she’d believed her brother’s life was a downwards spiral he would never escape. And still he managed to smile, he pushed on like everything was okay but she knew more than anyone that it wasn’t…

And then, about three months ago, she’d gotten a visit where it was almost like seeing a new version of her brother – or more accurately, the version from before their mum had got sick. Could the person he’d been texting on that visit be this nameless man he is bringing to the house? (Trust Bucky to get together with a man that he didn’t know the name of.)

She turns to her husband and presses her lips briefly to his, handing over the responsibility of mashing the potatoes as she hears a knock on the door, “that’ll be them.”

“Becca, darling,” Michael’s voice echoes a little too loud in their house, “don’t be too overbearing. James might have finally found someone worth keeping around.”

She laughs, “Darling, dearest, it’s my job to be overbearing. Embarrassing Bucky is what I was born to do.”

And then she opens the door and sees her brother stood on the porch, her eyes scan over him, his hair tied up in a messy bun, on his face a strange mixture between what looks like happiness and what also looks like fear and worry. She hasn’t seen him in a while (about a month) but he looks good. Nothing how he would have looked six months ago. Now she just has to find the man to thank for that. Who-

She blinks. Blinks again. Tilts her head to one side.

In her daughter’s bedroom, there are about seventy posters of a man with golden hair the colour of the sun, bright blue eyes that shine like the sky on a summer’s day, and an even brighter smile. He’s littered over her daughter’s notebooks and on the front of her daughters pack lunch box.

In none of these photo’s does this man appear with so much flower in his hair, nor has she ever seen him wearing a shirt and proclaims a hatred for his own band.

But that doesn’t stop the man whose come to a rest beside Bucky, hand on her brother’s shoulders from being the man from a band that she knows her brother hates with a fiery passion: so much that he pins most of his everyday problems on them. Steve freikin’ Rogers – she doesn’t have to ask the name that Bucky doesn’t know, because she knows it, she’s heard it already at least ten times today before her daughter left for her friend’s house.

For a second, she thinks it’s a joke, before the man, the boyfriend, Steve freikin’ Rogers  looks at her and shakes his head slowly, obviously taking in the recognition in Becca’s eyes, and perhaps if she hadn’t trained herself to be a spy when she was a child, she wouldn’t have got it but she does.

Her brother is an idiot.

Her brother is dating someone, and he doesn’t know their name.

Becca knows their name, so does half of America and probably most of the world too, and Morgan knows their name, hell, Michael knows this man’s name.

Her brother is dating someone from the band he hates, and she would bet that he was the one who brought Steve freikin’ Rogers that top. It’s almost enough to make her laugh.

He – Steve freikin’ Rogers – extends his hand, “Ma’am, lovely to meet you,” he says, like the perfect gentleman. Becca can’t believe it.

Hello Steve freikin’ Rogers welcome to our home.

-///-

The operation doesn’t go to plan.

Or it goes exactly to plan. The odds were never in his favour.

The arm goes. It just…goes. Like it was never there. Amputated while he was under. He went to sleep thinking there might be a chance for the doctors to save it, and woke up without it.

The doctors failed.

It’s just gone. And for a moment, it feels like his life is too.

-///-

There’s this really brief awkward pause as Becca stares at Hot-Guy and Bucky’s almost worried that Becca is gonna freak out about the flour in his hair or something stupid like that. Then he tells himself off for being a prat – Becca is probably just jealous that Bucky has an amazing guy, that’s the most obvious of explanations – and Hot-Guy is reaching forward to shake her hand, and straight after offering her a kiss on her cheek.

A true gentleman.

Next, Hot-Guy is apologising for being unable to bring wine or flowers, explaining that it was such short notice. Becca hasn’t said much, which is quite unusual, but maybe she’s saving it all for when she gets Bucky alone so she can shout at him for not knowing this guy’s name or perhaps for not telling her about him for three months. She just keeps staring at him, like she’s assessing him.

She always assesses all of Bucky’s partners. Bucky’s first partner got a five out of ten. Brock got a zero out of ten (well justified). (Bucky is ninety nine percent certain that Hot-Guy is going to get a ten out of ten, but then again, he’d be the first.)

Becca never thinks any of Bucky’s boyfriends/girlfriends are good enough for Bucky.

It’s okay, Bucky never really thought that any of Becca’s boyfriends were good enough for her either.

It’s one of the ways they show how much they care about each other, that they never think that anyone is good enough for the other. They’re close, always have been.

Becca invites Bucky further inside and asks him to go and help Michael with dinner while she makes sure Hot-Guy is comfortable. Bucky’s not sure that he actually wants to leave Becca alone with Hot-Guy (seriously, Becca has a list of embarrassing stories as long as her arm about Bucky that Bucky would very much prefer that Hot-Guy didn’t hear, but he goes anyway because he doesn’t have much off a choice and he can’t exactly say ‘actually I’ve decided I’m not leaving you alone with him because I don’t want you to say anything to him.)

He and Michael make small talk. Michael asks if Becca is being overbearing already, Bucky replies yes because he’s pretty sure that she is, in the other room, alone with Hot-Guy, where Hot-Guy could be subject to all sorts of embarrassing stories. Bucky grimaces and makes his excuses to head to the bathroom.

On the way past the dining room (yes, they have a dining room. A real dining room. When Becca told Bucky they had a dining room, Bucky made comments about her being a posh snob all week) Bucky pauses to listen through the crack in the door – just for a second. He hears Becca laugh and worries at his lower lip, but he can’t hear the familiar sound of Hot-Guy laughing, so whatever story that Becca is telling, hopefully it’s not too embarrassing.

“I can’t believe him, I mean how does he not know?” Becca is saying.

“He just…doesn’t. Which is fine by me. I have a…plan. Of how I’m going to tell him. So just…don’t ruin the surprise okay?”

Wait? Tell him? Tell him what? Was ‘Him’ Bucky?

Oh god, Becca had Hot-Guy scheming didn’t she? She was good at that, getting people scheming. It was probably all that secret spy training she did as a kid (aka: looking at people really hard and then occasionally sneaking downstairs in the middle of the night to steal the secret magical food. AKA. A biscuit.)

“How? How will you tell him?”

“Well, I’m planning on writing him something, actually. And then…well…I was actually planning on using your daughter to help, if you don’t mind Becca.”

So Becca had Hot-Guy in her evil plan and now Hot-Guy was suggesting they use Morgan? How had Hot-Guy and Becca come up with an evil plan in a few minutes anyway? It probably involved embarrassing Bucky. Why tell Hot-Guy embarrassing stories when you could instead make him part of your own personal plot of embarrassment.

It’ll be fun.

Yeah, right, Becca, maybe fun for you.

He sighs and heads to the toilet, wondering what lies in store for him in the future. He knows one thing for certain, he’s going to be careful around Morgan from now on. And Becca. And Hot-Guy.

-///-

He met him at work, a few weeks after he started, the empty sleeve of his jacket swishing about beside him, reminding him of what he’d lost, of how he’d lost it, of why he’d lost it, of the stale smell of hospitals.

He had a smile like a hunter, like he was looking for prey. He was good at picking it out to, it was easy to tell from the way his eyes landed on the empty sleeve and then a face that looked like it had had most of its will sucked out of it.

Easy prey.

That’s all he was.

Easy prey.

Easy to trick, easy to fuck, easy to leave.

Easy prey.

-///-

“He doesn’t know does he?” Becca didn’t really need conformation. It was pretty obvious that her brother didn’t know exactly who he was dating. What she did need was a few minutes alone with Steve freikin’  Rogers (by golly, she almost felt star struck, standing with Steve Rogers, the guy who’s bands songs played on the radio almost every morning while she was doing the washing up) to work out exactly what her brother had gotten himself into.

It didn’t take a lot to work out he’d gotten himself into a mess. God, her brother just couldn’t find a way to make his life normal, could he?

Still, this seemed a better sort of mess than the army or Brock Rumlow so she was taking solace in that at least.

But still. Steve freikin’ Rogers.

“Uh, no,” Steve is ringing his hands behind his back, he looks almost embarrassed, like a school boy caught out stealing the chocolates or something. “He doesn’t.”

“How did you two even meet?” Becca can’t imagine it. Pop stars are supposed to run in different circles from normal people, there’s supposed to be a barrier ‘them’ and ‘us’ and most of the time, unless you are watching a cheesy romantic movie, the barriers were never breached.

Unless you are watching a cheesy romantic movie…or you are Bucky Barnes.

Steve freikin’ Rogers takes a deep breath, “Well, he was in a café, and he was sort of…he had this look on his face. It’s hard to describe, it was like he’d been pushed to the end of his tether and he just couldn’t hold it all in any more. I’ve never seen someone look so at the end of their strings in a coffee shop, certainly no one so cute. So I went up to him and…yeah. That was pretty much it. I went up to him. Brought him Cake. Asked him why he was having a break down and it turns out…well…it turns out it was because my songs were playing through the speakers.” Steve half grins. It’s a fond memory for him then. Not a bad one. Which means he does care about Bucky. He’s passing most of the boyfriend test thing…if it wasn’t for him lying about who he was, he’d probably be aiming for a ten already.

Becca shakes her head, her brother is an idiot. A complete and utter idiot. Steve’s face is practically everywhere you look these days, his whole band is and yet he doesn’t know. How does he not know? How does he not recognise his own boyfriend’s voice on the radio whenever he goes to complain about the band? Becca laughs, mainly in shock. She just can’t believe him. “I can’t believe him, I mean how does he not know?”

“He just…doesn’t. Which is fine by me. I have a…plan. Of how I’m going to tell him. So just…don’t ruin the surprise okay?” Steve freikin’ Rogers looks slightly mischievous there.

Becca narrows her eyes, “How? How will you tell him?”

“Well, I’m planning on writing him something, actually. I’m already sort of halfway through writing it. And then…well…I was actually planning on using your daughter to help, if you don’t mind Becca.”

She thinks for a moment, before nodding slowly, “fine,” she prods Steve freikin’ Rogers in the chest though. Hard, “But don’t hurt him. Or break his heart. If you do, I don’t care if you have a million billion strong ass body guards, I will hunt you down and I will complete my brother’s wish and kill you, you’re raging fangirls and my daughter’s wrath be damned.”

Steve freikin’ Rogers laughs and she can see why Bucky likes him, just a little bit as he salutes her, “yes, ma’am.”

-///-

When he cheated. He should have known it was coming.

His sister told him, half of his colleagues told him. He should have known.

He didn’t know, though, despite how awfully he was being treated, he’d convinced himself that it didn’t apply to him.

And even though it shouldn’t have mattered all that much – it wasn’t like he was in love – it did matter. It mattered plenty.

It felt like his arm was being ripped off all over again.

-///-

By the time Bucky gets out of the toilet, Hot-Guy is in the kitchen and it’s no surprise to Bucky that he’s helping to make the dinner (he’s just…that sort of guy. The guy who helps make the dinner when he’s round at your house. The guy who you just….the guy. If he was in a movie he’d be the good ol’ guy next door that the main character falls helplessly in love with.)

Becca gets out some wine for dinner, and there’s not all that much talking as the table is set up. At one point, Bucky pulls Becca to the side and makes her swear not to embarrass him. Becca just grins - which doesn’t help to instil Bucky with confidence – and slips away from Bucky’s grasp to ask Hot-Guy to help her get the chicken out the oven.

Its Sunday dinner, which has always been his sisters favourite meal of the week, and it is Sunday, so it makes sense at least, (sometimes, at Becca’s house, they have surprise Sunday dinners on Thursdays. Bucky tries not to judge her too much, but ninety nine percent of the time he manages to fail) being the man that he is, Hot-Guy compliments both Becca and Michael to no end, first on their meal and then on their lovely home (Bucky doesn’t blame him on either accounts. It’s a lovely home and it’s also a damn nice meal. Sometimes, Bucky wonders how his sister manages to get so lucky, but he figures it’s just karma. She might be a pain in the backside at times, but she is a lovely person. She deserves this.)

And Hot-Guy has his feet pressed against Bucky’s the whole time, their chairs are so close together and their bodies are practically touching. It’s a nice feeling. It’s a safe feeling. It’s wonderful. Bucky wants to feel like this for the rest of his life with Hot-Guy.

And he has to admit that Hot-Guy does seem to get on with his sister, which should be a good thing, except-

“-and that was how Bucky managed to wind up playing Rapunzel in the school play and then falling out of the tower when some kid sneezed behind him!” Becca laughs.

Hot-Guy laughs with her.

Bucky buries his head in his hands (it hadn’t been that bad. There was nothing wrong with playing the girl part…although he had to admit he didn’t much enjoy wearing the wig or the makeup that they put on him. Nor had be enjoyed falling out of the fake tower and landing on his friends head when Racheal had completely startled him by sneezing. He was only thirteen at the time.)

Hot-Guy throws his arm around Bucky’s shoulder. They’ve finished dinner by the time they come to this story. Michael is chuckling lightly while he sips at his wine, Becca is continuing with animated stories so much that Bucky can’t get a word in edge ways and Hot-Guy is laughing quietly, an arm thrown around Bucky’s shoulder that Bucky is all too happy to lean into.

Michael moves to clean the dishes after what is something along the lines of the fourth or fifth embarrassing story, and despite Hot-Guy saying he’d help, Becca will hear nothing of it. Bucky’s pretty certain that Hot-Guy has got a ten. He’s at least ninety nine percent certain.

It’s when Michael and Becca are both cleaning everything away in the room next door that Bucky turns to Hot-Guy with a blush still on his face, “shit, I’m so sorry,” he mutters, ducking his head. Your family is supposed to embarrass you, but that was a lot of embarrassing stories for Hot-Guy to digest in one night (and it included the one where Becca tricked Bucky into going to school in his pyjamas.

Hot-Guy just shakes his head, and he’s looking at Bucky with these big blue eyes, holding something like adoration in them which doesn’t exactly help get rid of Bucky’s blush, “are you kidding? I love hearing all this stuff about you, sweetie. I want to know everything about you. Plus, you’re wearing this beautiful blush right now.” He presses a kiss to Bucky’s warm cheek. Bucky blushes even more.

“Becca is evil,” Bucky insists.

“I like her very much. Hey- is that a guitar?”

Hot-Guy’s eyes have fallen to the end of the dining room where there’s a guitar sat in the corner. “Yeah, Morgan started playing when she got obsessed with the Avengers,” Bucky says, shaking his head in mock disgust.

Hot-Guy just laughs.

“Do you think she’d mind if I had a go?” Hot-Guy asks.

Bucky blinks up at him, “Can you play?”

Hot-Guy nods, “Yeah, a little. I like to write my own music sometimes.”

“Really?” now here’s something that’s never come up in all their talks beforehand. He knows that Hot-Guy is a writer by trade, so he supposes that it makes sense he also writes songs, but he’s never really thought about it before. He’s certainly never thought about Hot-Guy playing the guitar.

It’s suddenly the most important thing in the world that he hears Hot-Guy play right now, more important than chocolate cake or pizza even.

He tells Hot-Guy as much, which gets Hot-Guy laughing yet again, but it also gets him moving towards the guitar and picking it up, placing it on his knee.

“Play me something you wrote?” Bucky feels like a kid who’s just remembered it’s Christmas, at least until Hot-Guy shakes his head.

“Maybe later, I’m working on something at the moment which I am hoping you’ll really like, but that won’t be ready for a month or two,” still he does play and he is good.

He plays a few chords of smells like teen spirt simply because he knows that Bucky likes that song, then runs through a few more songs that Bucky is ninety nine percent certain the crazed Avengers fan girls may someday soon sacrifice to keep the Avengers evil music running.

Bucky relaxes into the music, into the intense look on Hot-Guy’s face as he plays, and realises that he wasn’t kidding when he thought he wanted to stay like this with Hot-Guy for the rest of his life.

Somewhere in the last three months, staying with Hot-Guy for the rest of his life…that’s become a goal. Bucky cares about him so much. He wants to do everything he can under the sun with him and more. He wants to have a house together like Becca’s, wants to marry him, wants to have children with him.

He doesn’t even know his name but he wants all this. He really does. And is wanting so bad? Surely not. Surely it’s not bad to let himself want.

He sees a future with Hot-Guy, a future that he thought he’d lost the key’s to when he signed up for the army and lost his arm.

But maybe he hasn’t.

Yeah…maybe he hasn’t.

-///-

Everything sucks. Even the radio sucks.

No, the radio is fine, it’s the songs on the radio that suck. They suck because they’re shit. Like whoever wrote them wasn’t even thinking. Who even calls a band The Avengers anyway? Who does that?

They’re making his life even worse than it already is, and that’s saying something, because outside his sister and his niece, his life is pretty crappy.

-///-

When he leaves his sister’s house with his hand slipped inside Hot-Guy’s, Becca looks at him and whispers the word ten under her breath.

Bucky already knew that Hot-Guy was a ten, but he grins anyway. Because his sister confirming it makes it even more real.

He gets on the back of the bike and feels the power of the engine underneath him. Hot-Guy’s meeting up with his other friends tomorrow, the not-Sam friends he went out of state with while the Avengers had their gig in Miami, so he’s got to leave early tonight, he'll probably only drop Bucky off at the door with a quick kiss instead of coming up to help Bucky tidy the baking disaster that is his kitchen. But Bucky doesn’t mind so much, it’s not like Bucky doesn’t have work the next day anyway, so he probably shouldn't stay up late like he wants to trying to quiz Hot-Guy about his guitar playing skills.

And he’s had a pretty perfect day, anyway, he doesn't need anything more just yet.

He looks at Becca’s house and smiles softly as they drive away, a small wispy smile: private.

Maybe he deserves – not a happily ever after – but a storybook ending as well. Maybe he does deserve happiness. Maybe he’ll get that with Hot-Guy.

-///-

When he walks into his favourite coffee shop after the first good day he’s had in a while and the Avengers are playing over the loud speakers he feels like groaning and just falling into a heap right there on the spot.

But he will not be chased away by a band. So he sits down. Orders his drink.

Has a mental break down about a band.

And then there’s a man. A man with blonde hair and blue eyes who’s looking concerned and asking if he is okay. He sits down across from him, he talks to him, he buys him cake.

He’s ninety nine percent certain, for the first time since he woke up in that hospital bed, that his life is taking a turn for the better.

Chapter Text

There is a small coffee shop in one of the back alley streets of Brooklyn opposite a well-known sweet shop and a second hand book store. It serves what could be classed as good coffee but it’s not really well known because there’s about a thousand other coffee shops in Brooklyn that serve good coffee too.

The walls are painted a mixture of deep grey and red, although that is lightened by the appearance of multiple random pictures of both kinds of stars on the walls (the real ones that hang high up in the sky and the people who have the privilege of having their names in lights that imitate the ones shining at night). Behind the counter there is a small music player that connects to a few speakers placed strategically around the room.

It is not perfect or spotless: There is a stain on the floor from where some kid decided to throw their chocolate ice cream once that must have had some lethal chemical in it because it simply will not come out. One of the few mirrors that hang at one end of the shop is cracked in the corner. There is the markings of a pen on the wall from where a toddler got over excited after he got into his father’s pencil case.

 It is nothing special at a glance, really. Just a coffee shop.

But be that as it may, all in all, it’s not really that much of a bad place to work as a waitress. The waitress sat in that day has headphones on, her head bobbing along to the latest hit by the Avengers. She’s manning the shop almost by herself today, but that’s okay because it means no one can shout at her when she inevitably drops some plates or a cup or something.

Her name is Darcy Lewis.

And she does drop a plate. At around four o’clock when the person who is singing in her ears opens the door and asks for a coffee.

“Holy shit,” she pulls both of her earphones out, not bothering just yet to clean up the plate that’s fallen onto the floor “you’re Steven Rogers.”

Steven Rogers runs a hand through his hair and acts as if he isn’t framed in one of the photos on one of the walls (Darcy had to fight to get that one up there, but she thought it was appropriate.)

“Right now, I’m just Steve,” he offers, “Can I help you tidy that up. And get a coffee? I- yeah. Can I get a coffee?”

She nods and then realises as he’s helping her pick up broken bits of plate that maybe she shouldn’t be asking a celebrity to help her tidy anything up (aren’t they supposed to have maids or something equally posh) But he doesn’t seem to mind. He smiles at her and she almost melts. Then he tips her (a lot) and asks for the coffee again.

Darcy makes the best damn coffee she ever has (although it certainly is not the best coffee in the world) and hands it over.

That is the first time that Steven frikin’ Rogers from the frikin’ Avengers comes into the café and asks for a coffee.

It is not the last.

-///-

“I am not joking, every single radio station that I tuned into. Every. Single. One.” Bucky punctuates each word with a stab of his fork into the apple pie he’s currently eating (he may not be able to bake, but Hot-Guy is a genius with an oven and a few simple ingredients. Bucky is ninety-nine percent certain that if Hot-Guy ever decided to open a restaurant he’d make millions within days).

“You know, the apple pie doesn’t control the radio stations, and on behalf of it I would like to point out that it feels rather betrayed you’re taking your anger out on its fluffy crust.” Hot-Guy raises an eyebrow, letting his fork dip in to steal a bite.

“Well, you can tell the apple pie, Mr Apple Pie representor that it should blame its current position on the idiots who think the Avengers make good music, and leave it’s betrayed feelings with a nice little bow on top as a present to whoever taught those idiots to play musical instruments. If you can call what they do playing.” Bucky takes another stab at the apple pie. It really isn’t the apple pies fault; the apple pie did nothing expect be extremely tasty. Still, he has to take his anger out on someone and the apple pie seems a better resort than Hot-Guy.

“I’m sure they regret their decision immensely,” Hot-Guy intones solemnly, a cheeky smile hanging on the corner of his mouth that he is apparently trying to push down into a somewhat serious expression.

Bucky rolls his eyes and let himself stretch out a little more, the soft rays of the sun warming his body as he takes yet another bite.

That morning, Bucky had received a text to let him know that Hot-Guy had a surprise all planned out if the weather held out to allow it. As it stood, the weather was indeed holding out and as such, they are now sat having a picnic in a tiny public park Bucky had never heard of a half an hour drive out of New York.

It’s…idyllic, that is probably the best way to describe it, although Bucky’s never been the best with words. He wishes that he was, sometimes, good enough with words to somehow accommodate all the different adjectives and similes and metaphors that Hot-Guy deserves. For now, all he can claim is that it is idyllic and so god damn peaceful to be able to sit on the warm grass with Hot-Guy beside him eating apple pie.

It’s not a forever – not yet anyway – but as Hot-Guy leans in to kiss the crumbs off the corner of Bucky’s lips, he’s ninety nine percent certain that it could be someday soon.

“You know, you’re rather adorable when you’re ranting about the Avengers,” Hot-Guy points out.

“Oh, so that’s why you like me so much,” Bucky is always ranting about the Avengers, at least ninety nine percent of the time anyway.

“Maybe it is,” Hot-Guy concedes, but he leans in for another kiss anyway. It tastes of apple pie and passion, and Bucky’s hands curl in the back of Hot-Guy’s t-shirt that is way too tight fitting to be legal (Nelson and Murdock are so getting a call about that later) and remembers not for the first time that he’s found someone perfect, he’s found a ten.

“I just don’t see why they’re so big do you get me? Like, they’re so big, everyone’s talking about them,” he keeps a hold of Hot-Guy so that Hot-Guy is forced to move closer so he can get comfortable. Bucky doesn’t exactly mind. Bucky wants him as close as possible, forever. If he had it his way, he’d never have to be outside a three metre radius of Hot-Guy, “I picked up a newspaper to check the news the other day and there’s this massive headline splatted all over the front page about whether Natasha Romanoff is a sleazy hoe and sleeping with both Clint Barton and Steve Rogers on the sly. It’s a newspaper I didn’t pick up gossip mag to try and get a daily dose of casual sexism and if you’re friends with someone you must be shagging them.”

Hot-Guy actually giggles. Like a five year old girl, “you said shagging.”

“Yeah, got a problem with that?” Bucky raises an eyebrow but he’s giggling now too. What can he say? Hot-Guy’s laughs are contagious.

“Well, for where it counts, I think that Natasha Romanoff is not shagging Steve Rogers or Clint Barton,” Hot-Guy’s fingers run through Bucky’s hair and Bucky can’t help but lean into the feeling.

“Oh my god, don’t tell me you follow stories like that,” Bucky fake gags and Hot-Guy’s laugh fills the air again, sweeter than the apple pie flavour still clinging to Bucky’s tongue.

“Nah, I don’t,” Hot-Guy says finally, “I just think that maybe Steve Rogers might have someone else he’s totally head over heels for.”

“You do follow those stories. Jesus, dude, you can’t be serious. This is a Hate-Club, not a gossip club, I’m already so obsessed with hating them I probably talk more about them than their fans. We can’t let ourselves be pulled into their orbit, we have to be strong, you have to resist.” He prods Steve’s chest hard enough for Steve to tumble backwards a little so he’s lying on the grass but that’s pretty much just what Bucky wants, as he curls up beside the big lug and rests his head against his chest, staring up at the sky. “Don’t let yourself slip into the empire’s clutches, the resistance is far too low on members as it is.”

“In that analogy am I Leia or Hann?” Hot-Guy asks, his hands coming to play with Bucky’s hair in an almost absentminded fashion, like he’s hardly aware he’s doing it.

Bucky chews on the question for a moment, content with Hot-Guy’s fingers in his hair, “Finn. Definitely. And I’m your hot pilot co-star who managed to steal you away from the First Order after I was almost captured into their evil clutches my niece.”

Hot-Guy raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything against it. In the forever ongoing battle of ‘who will Finn end up with’ Bucky’s well set on the Poe Dameron side and he’s not afraid to point it out. Steve seems slightly more dubious but just as Bucky will never consent to calling himself a Hufflepuff, he would never admit those two weren’t written in the stars.

Eventually Hot-Guy talks again, but this time with less Star-Wars related references almost to Bucky’s disappointment, “I’m just saying…from what I’ve seen while trying to gather information on exactly how much I should hate them…Steve Rogers seems pretty damn in love with someone else. But maybe the person he loves…Maybe they don’t know he loves them yet…maybe he’s too nervous about what their reaction would be to tell them,” Hot-Guy’s voice washes over him, thoughtful and almost pensive.

Bucky snorts, trying to hide the grin on his face (and he’s ninety nine percent certain that he fails miserably) “Yeah, yeah, alright then big guy,” he shakes his head, “you know, I have half a mind to kick you out of the Hate-Club for all this talk.” He’s teasing, of course he’s teasing. There wouldn’t be a Hate Club without Hot-Guy (strongly dislike club Bucky’s mothers voice sings in his ears).

“Oh yeah, but then who would you rant to?” Hot-Guy’s reply comes straight back.

There’s a pause. Bucky’s eyes are still on the sky above them filled with those fluffy white clouds that only really exist in stories: yet there they are above Bucky, defiant in their very existence. Then again, Bucky supposes his life has been a bit like one of those crazy romantic comedy stories since he met Hot-Guy. At least, he really hopes so, because those stories always seem to have happy endings.

“You know, there’s something I want to tell you. I was sort of waiting for the right moment, had it all planned out but…every second I spend with you, it just makes me want to tell you more. No, it makes me need to tell you,” Hot-Guy says finally, startling Bucky out of his thoughts. He sounds nervous.

“Oh yeah? What’s up?” Bucky looks up curiously, “you know you can tell me anything.” And it’s true. Hot-Guy could tell him he was part of the Russian mafia or that he was secretly ninety years old with really good plastic surgery and Bucky would probably still bend over backwards to make him happy. Bucky’s not an idiot, he knows when he’s in deep, and damn if he isn’t in deep for this man.

“Well- it’s just-“

He’s cut off by the sound of a phone ringing. Hot-Guy makes an exaggerated sighing noise before flipping open the phone and holding it to his ear, “Hey, come on, you know I have a date.”

Bucky’s not close enough to hear whatever the response is, but he hardly cares. He’s half caught up in curiosity (what could Hot-Guy want to tell him?) and he’s half caught up in the fact that Hot-Guy said the word date. Bucky is very possibly a twelve year old girl with a massive crush but he can’t help it: when he’s around Hot-Guy, almost anything is enough to get his heart beating double time.

“Seriously? Now? Come on Tash, can’t it wait?” he sounds like he’s pleading.

“No—well, okay then – look, fine, I’ll be there in half an hour, let me drop him home first at least. – you owe me.” Hot-Guy hangs up with an awkward sigh, lightly pushing Bucky off his chest so he can sit up properly. Bucky follows suit.

“Look, I’m really sorry it’s-“

“Hey,” Bucky holds up a hand, “no need to explain. If you gotta be somewhere, you gotta be somewhere.”

Hot-Guy’s face is twisted into a sour expression as he stares down at their half-eaten picnic, “but I spent ages planning all this out,” he says in a sulky fashion, like he’s a child who just had their favourite toy confiscated.

Bucky rolls his eyes and presses his lips against Hot-Guy’s cheek once. “And it was lovely,” he says softly, “first time anyone’s ever taken me to a surprise picnic. Honestly, you’re just trying to reinforce my belief that you’re a literal angel by now, but I’m telling you, its fine. Your friend needs you.” At least, Bucky assumes its friend. He’s ninety nine percent certain that Hot-Guy isn’t married with three kids in another state, but then again, sometimes his paranoia gets the best of him.

“Yeah,” Hot-Guy shrugs, looking slightly defeated, “I guess she does. I am sorry though. I’ll make it up to you.”

“Maybe you could take me to meet some of your crazy friends sometime,” Bucky knows that Hot-Guy has considerably more friends than he does, and he’s okay with that. He figures it’s nice Hot-Guy has people who randomly drag him across states who he’s so close to. But after a few chosen stories he’s heard about all their adventures, he really does want to say hello to a few of them.

“Honestly, I’m not sure if you’d like them,” Hot-Guy warns, starting to place the things into the traditional picnic basket (yes, Hot-Guy has one of those, but Bucky is ninety nine percent sure that’s because his last name is ‘from a fairy-tale’)

“Hey, you like them. And you had to put up with meeting Becca, so I think I can put up with meeting your crazy friends who I possibly might not like,” he begins to help packing everything up. It is a shame that they’re going to have to pack up early, but Hot-Guy tends to have one of those unpredictable schedules that you can never fully rely on and Bucky’s okay with that, “What could be so bad about them anyway? It’s not like there the Avengers or anything.”

-///-

The waitress AKA Darcy, has stopped dropping plates every time that ‘just Steve’ walks into the coffee shop and asks for a coffee (and he reminds her that he is ‘just Steve’ every single time).

“I don’t see why you keep coming here, dude,” she says one day, as she finishes making the coffee. The shop is quiet today, Steve and some guy on his laptop in the back corner (he says he’s working on a novel but Darcy keeps catching him on Tumblr) are the only people around. She likes it best that way. “We’re one in about a billion coffee shops in New York. We make shitty coffee.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “But I miss shitty coffee. You get famous and suddenly everyone wants to give you all this really nice coffee, and these really nice everything’s. I like it here. I like just sitting. Watching people instead of having them watch me. I grew up here, you know? I miss being not an Avenger sometimes.”

Darcy raises her eyebrows, “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” she says as she hands over the coffee.

Steve just smiles. He has a really nice smile, Darcy thinks. He wonders if it’s a requirement of being famous: you must be talented, you must have had some form of sad backstory that can stand up against Bat Mans, you must have a charming smile that makes people melt and want to hand over the entire contents of their pockets.

Darcy has never been known to be exactly low key on anything in her life. She feels a mischievous smile grow on her face as Steve sits down at his usual booth (the one that’s next to the pen on the wall). She moves to the music player they have connected to the speakers on the walls. She brought a connector for this, but it’s pretty worth it. When she turns round, Steve has his head in his hands and only lifts it to glare at her.

Through the speakers is now playing what usually plays through her earphones, which is the Avengers latest album on loop.

“I think you like messing with me.” Steve accuses, loudly. Darcy laughs.

Half an hour and a few more customers later who all ignore Steve as if he’s a nobody – as most people pack in from work and need pick me up’s in the form of coffee - ‘Super Soldier’ starts playing. As it does, the door opens.

The guy who comes through looks like all his hopes and dreams just got squashed into a million tiny pieces. He glares at seemingly nothing in particular and Darcy has the vague notion he might start to growl any second at something that looks like it’s annoying the living crap out of him. He looks sort of like a stray dog: long hair that hasn’t been cut in ages, dark eyes, slight stumble, smart clothes that don’t really suit him.

No arm.

From the corner of her eye she watches Steve Roger’s head dart up.

Huh.

The guy orders coffee and a second later it appears Steve Rogers is flirting with him. It takes her by surprise for just a second because they look so juxtaposed: blonde hair where the stray dog man’s is a deep brown, dark clothes where Steve’s clothes are light. He is not smiling and Steve most certainly is, he looks a step away from a metal break down, Steve actually looks pretty well put together.

Steve calls her over and she comes, he says ‘some of your best cake, please, madam’ and oh yes, that is flirting. It really is. It’s not just flirting, it’s showing off. Like Steve frikin’ Rogers really needs to show off like that, like he isn’t a wonder to begin with without heaping perfect gentlemanly skills on top.

It isn’t until she’s locking up that she realises that it probably means Steve is bi. She figures she could go to the papers with it, but she doesn’t – that’d just be gross and wrong and a total dick move. Steve looked so damn happy when he saw that guy and besides, she’s come to realise that Steve really isn’t a god who makes music and stands above everyone else in society.

He’s just a guy who makes music.

-///-

It’s five thirty PM on a Friday night and Bucky’s just about finished his report on something that he doesn’t really understand for SHIELD to go through. He was supposed to leave the building two hours ago, but he figured he might as well get this done. It’s been plaguing him all week and with a little bullshit here and there, he can probably make a finished version that sounds at least part way sensible by the end of tonight.

It’s not that he’s exactly having a bad week, it’s just that he’s not having a good one. Hot-Guy made sure to text him every single day since he left the picnic on Saturday (like always) but they’re always short little texts that range somewhere from ‘I hope you’re okay’ to rambling apologises about leaving on Saturday and not being able to see him this week. They haven’t seen or spoken to each other once which is…weird. It shouldn’t be, but it undeniably is. It’s not like he’s trying to be too clingy or anything, but something—something—

He knows it’s stupid. He can go a week without speaking to Hot-Guy, but he keeps imagining that woman’s laugh he heard on the phone that morning with the baking incident.

He’s paranoid. He knows he’s paranoid. And he shouldn’t be, because Hot-Guy tells him more than enough times that he’s wonderful and perfect or whatever. But there’s that nagging part of him that wonders why Hot-Guy would be around some girl at six o’clock in the morning if he wasn’t in bed with her.

And then there’s the thing that Hot-Guy wanted to tell him on Saturday. He’d thought it might be a good thing and for a while once he got home that night he’d imagined that perhaps just maybe, Hot-Guy had been planning to tell Bucky that he loves him.  But now, he’s wondering if maybe he read it wrong. What if Hot-Guy wants to break up with him? What if Hot-Guy wants to tell him about the hot wife he has who is infinitely more attractive than some soldier with mild PTSD and no social life? What if-

He’s being stupid. He’s being stupid. Because it’s not that he doesn’t trust Hot-Guy because he does. And he knows that he’s being stupid, that Hot-Guy just isn’t a Brock, but it’s amazing how past experiences can bring confidence in yourself down. He taps his desk with his hand and tries to remember the way Hot-Guy’s kisses feels.

He’ll text Hot-Guy tonight and everything will be fine. Maybe if he wakes up from nightmares he’ll actually let himself ring the man too, instead of battling on like he has been doing most days this week. No reason to act weird just because of his own insecurities. He sees himself as ‘less than’ because of the arm and everything, but Hot-Guy has never once hinted that he feels the same, about any of it. In fact, he’s always acted quite the opposite.

“Hello sugar.”

The words are enough to startle Bucky back into typing: caught unaware at suddenly being caught dazing into space. Then he pauses, thinks over what he just heard and glances up. Great. He really didn’t need this today.

“Brock,” he says coldly, finishing off his final sentence (it’ll have to do. He’s ninety-nine percent certain he’ll fall asleep at his desk if he continues to work for any longer) “what do you want? And don’t call me that.”

“Just wanted to check on you,” Brock drawls out from behind Bucky’s computer. When Bucky first met Brock he’d been inclined to say he looked pretty handsome. Now he’s inclined to say he looks like god took a shit and then accidently made it corporeal. It’s funny how somebodies personality can make or break how attractive they are.

“Yeah, fuck off,” Bucky hasn’t had the week to start dealing with Brock’s shit. To be honest he’s never once had a week where at the end of it he could have dealt with Brock’s shit, even if the week has been particularly good. He’s thought in the past that if he didn’t need this job he wouldn’t stick around to give Brock the pleasure of seeing him every day.

“That ain’t very nice,” Brock does something with his face, which Bucky is ninety nine percent certain is supposed to be pouting. Bucky rolls his eyes and presses print on his laptop (he’s ninety nine percent certain that he’s does enough work for today anyway).

“Neither is cheating on someone,” Bucky’s voice feels icy cold in his throat as he moves to stand.

“Low blow,” Brock has the audacity to say as he folds his arms in front of his chest, “especially when you found someone new. Heard you talking to Sharon about it. Only…you’ve been looking pretty down this week…could it be your lover boy’s had some sense put into his head. Maybe he don’t want no one armed freak like you.”

Bucky clenches his jaw. Brock is full of shit, he reminds himself as he pushes his phone into his pocket. Brock is a sadist bastard who enjoys pulling people down however he can.

Brock doesn’t even know Hot-Guy.

Brock doesn’t know anything.

“That’s a double negative,” Bucky starts, “and for your information, he’s perfectly fine with a freak like me, thank you very much,” Bucky folds his arm across his chest, wonders if he should have admitted to having a Hot-Guy at all, “I’ll be heading off now, but thank you for your input into my life. Too bad you have to stoop so low just to feel up to talking to me anymore.”

He leaves before Brock can say anything else, his one hand stuffed into his pocket. Who does Brock even think he is? He doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t know Hot-guy and he doesn’t even really know Bucky.

Except…hadn’t he just said what Bucky has been inadvertently thinking all week?

Bucky shifts on the balls of his feet he waits for the lift. It slides open to reveal Sin, her long finery red hair tied up (that Bucky is ninety nine percent certain burns red as a signal that she is the spawn of the devil), wearing clothes that Bucky is pretty sure should not be allowed in the professional work place. She winks at him as she slides past and Bucky blatantly ignores how fucking scary she is for priority of getting into the lift that will take him far away from this building. Everything will feel better when he can get home and ring Hot-Guy, or even just text him. Just a text so he knows that he is still onto a good one here.

Just a text to forget about a feminine laugh at six o’clock in the morning.

Just a text to forget about Brock’s words.

Just a text to remind himself that he’s found a ten, and that he’s not letting go.

-///-

Steve Roger’s may be just a guy who makes music, but he is also, Darcy has come to realise, a man with one hell of a giant crush for men with no arms and long hair.

He doesn’t come in as often as he used to anymore, but when he does come in the stray dog of a man is always with him. They smile, they laugh, they flirt. They order cake and the stray dog man lets Steve feed him like they’re on some very cheesy romantic comedy. Darcy wonders if he’s a fan boy, if he knows how lucky he’s gotten, if he’s been listening to Steve’s music all his life and he thinks all the wishes in his world have come true.

“So, what’s your boy’s name?” Darcy asks as Steve comes to the counter one day. He has this sort of blissed out look on his face. Apparently Steve Rogers is a soppy romantic.

“I have no idea,” Steve admits, leaning against the counter and giving her another way to generous tip. She’s tried getting him to stop doing that, but he’s explained he has way too much money anyway.

She raises one eyebrow and glances over Steve’s shoulder to where said stray dog man is staring out of a window, the same blissed out look on his face that Steve is carrying. Seriously they’re saps, the both of them. Darcy actually finds it pretty damn cute.

“He doesn’t know mine either,” he hands out, as if that somehow makes the situation normal.

“Of course he does,” Darcy scoffs, it’s not exactly like Steve has to introduce himself. Darcy had known from the second that he walked in.

“Nope,” Steve pops the ‘p’, “he ain’t got a clue,” and then Steve winks in a way that would have her swooning if she thought there was any heat behind it at all. (Add the ability to wink and it not seem overly creepy to the list of things that you need to be able to do before you become famous)

When Steve comes in next time, a few weeks later, he’s wearing a shirt ‘The Avengers Hate Club’ is written on it ‘Founder’ underneath, he’s holding the stray dog man’s hand.

-///-

He’s halfway home when he figures he could actually do with a coffee.

It’s almost the same thought that he had before he met Hot-Guy and it’s almost odd to think of it again. He entertains for a moment, the idea of texting Hot-Guy and asking if he has a moment free, if perhaps he could meet Bucky back at that same old coffee shop and Hot-Guy would be perfect and lovely all over again and the doubts would fade from Bucky’s mind like water from a ducks back (He’s ninety-nine percent certain that he’s used that expression correctly, but then again, he’s never been too sure why the water would need to be off the ducks back in the first place).

He remembers it as if it was yesterday: the way that Hot-Guy had called his hair awesome, the sound of his laugh when Bucky had admitted why he was feeling so down, the way he’d bought cake without a second thought just to see Bucky smile.

He doesn’t text Hot-Guy about meeting up at the café because he knows Hot-Guy is having a busy week and he doesn’t want to make him feel guilty for not being around as much as he should. Yes, Bucky is feeling paranoid, yes Bucky is worried, but he knows that really he has no reason to. The memories of meeting Hot-Guy are almost like medicine and they keep him sane as he parks his car and drags his phone from his pocket.

Thinking about when we met. Feels like a fairy tale. JBB

He sends that because he’s a sap and he’s finally come to terms with it. He doesn’t get one back but he knows that Hot-Guy will send one eventually. Hot-Guy has always replied to every single one of Bucky’s texts and he knows that when Hot-Guy has a second free he’ll get a teasing text back asking about whether Bucky is the Prince Charming or the pretty princess. (Bucky is ninety nine percent certain he’s the princess because Hot-Guy has most certainly swept him off his feet).

For a moment, just a moment, everything is okay. He stares out towards the sky above him and convinces himself that he is simply crazy, that he’s making up problems where there are none, because he’s not sure how to deal with everything going well in his life.

And everything is going well. So this crazy idea that there’s someone else in Hot-Guy’s life and that’s why Bucky doesn’t have a name yet so Bucky isn’t met with a Facebook page that announces Hot-Guy as married with a family: this is his minds defence mechanism against the good stuff. He’s ninety nine percent certain this is true and as he steps out of the door of his car there’s something of a smile on his face and his phone is slipped into his pocket for when he’ll need it later, finally managing to push Brock’s words and everything else to the back of his mind.

The café is just around the corner from where he’s parked, but he doesn’t rush.

When he sees what he does, he wishes that he had rushed, because at least then it would be quick: it would be ripping off a band aid instead of elongating the pain as he tugs it off inch by inch. It would be a bullet to the head and a quick death instead of a bullet to the shoulder and bleeding out in mountains of pain, unable to move.

It would be an explosion instead of the full war.

But he is taking his time, so when he rounds the corner he notices it in almost slow motion. He sees Hot-Guy first because his eyes are drawn to him like a magnet. He see’s Hot-Guy and the smile – bright as anything – adorning his face. He see’s bright blue eyes and strong features and a mop of ruffled blond. And Bucky’s about to call out, can’t believe his luck because Hot-Guy is here and Bucky is here and it’s a little like the first time they met: unexpected and unpredictable and everything that Bucky needed at the time and Bucky really does need to see Hot-Guy right now because he really has missed him over the past week.

Only then his eyes actually zoom out so that they can take the whole picture in front of him and he almost doesn’t believe it. He can’t believe it. But there it is all over again.

He remembers when he caught Brock cheating. He remembers every second of it. And while what he’s seeing now is more PG-13 rated than the X rated show Brock put on to break his heart, it’s still a scene he never wants to see again, can never see again. It’s still something that makes him want to burst into tears.

Because Hot-Guy’s arm is looped around the back of some women’s shoulders. She’s beautiful – really beautiful, eerily so – her light auburn hair falling straight down her back, a smile so natural yet carefully constructed set against her deep red lips. She’s smaller than Hot-Guy but she doesn’t really look it from a distance because they seem to match. Like they were built for one another: two picture perfect beauties for the front cover of every magazine.

In front of them are two children. They are holding something in their hands. Hot-Guy is smiling and he has a pen in his hands, Bucky realises, as if he’s writing something down for them. She hands them something, and they run off squealing, towards the nearest sweet shop across the road.

Hot-Guy and Hot-Girl share a look and Bucky’s heart sinks to the floor. He suddenly feels like he might fall over because there is so much…history, in that look. So much friendship.

Bucky’s hands are shaking as Hot-Guy holds open the door to their coffee shop: the coffee shop where Bucky met Hot-Guy and now Hot-Guy is taking someone else there.

It doesn’t make sense, Sam – when he met him – was talking about some girl though, wasn’t he? Peggy? But he made it sound like she’d died or left Hot-Guy. But maybe she’d come back. Maybe that was why Hot-Guy had left so quickly on Saturday: because he’d gotten a better offer. Someone far more beautiful than Bucky with his one arm could ever be.

Or maybe – maybe – she’s been there all along. Maybe she was the feminine laugh over the phone at 6’o’clock in the morning. And those two kids? They could easily have been Hot-Guy’s children.

He doesn’t even know Hot Guy’s name.

He stumbles away before he can see them sit down in the booth he met Hot-Guy because that would be too painful. He can’t seem to get enough air into his lungs and he isn’t sure why. He feels like he’s been catapulted back to months before. He feels half dead where he stands. He feels like he’s falling.

He wants to go home and curl up on his bed and never wake up.

He’s ninety nine percent certain that everything that was good about his life has just fallen down the drain in one quick swoop.

Brock was right – who would want to date a one armed freak like him?

-///-

In the coffee shop where Bucky first met ‘Hot-Guy’ AKA Steve Rogers, a waitress AKA Darcy watches with a raised eyebrows as Steve takes his seat beside Natasha.

He hasn’t come in in a while, and he’s never once brought one of his band mates in here. Darcy tries not to lose her shit and fails (seriously, they’re both stupidly hot) and ends up almost dropping a cup.

“They’re just kids, Natasha.” Steve is saying, over the sound of the coffee machine.

“Kids annoy me.”

“That’s because they’re more likely to recognise us. And they left once you gave them some money to buy some sweets. Which is bribery, by the way.”

Natasha snorts, “yeah, but it works.” She glances around, “so this is where you met him, huh?”

“Yep,” Steve runs a hand over his face, “damn it, Natasha, I’m in too deep. Way too deep. I haven’t spoken to him for most of this week and I feel like my head is going to explode. I’ve missed him, you know? I hate these press conferences and TV show spots. I just want music and him.”

Natasha brings the cup of coffee that Darcy has just brought over to her lips, “he sounds like a special guy.”

“He is.” Steve agrees, tapping the table, “I think I love him.”

Darcy grins behind the counter of her work top.

Steve Frikin' Rogers in love with the stray dog guy, who would have thought?

Chapter Text

A brief sample of (unread) Text Messages from James Buchanan Barnes’ Phone:

[Friday - 05:52PM sent to Hot-Guy] Thinking about when we first met. Feels like a fairy tale. JBB

[Friday – 06:22PM received from Hot-Guy] Really, huh? Am I the prince in that analogy or the badass princess? SR

[Friday – 06:30PM received from Hot-Guy] I missed you this week. Practically been going round the bend. Want me to come over tomorrow? I’ll try and teach you how to bake without getting flour everywhere? SR

[Friday – 08:21PM received from Hot-Guy] You okay? I’m feeling pretty exhausted so I’m going to bed. But you can ring if you have any nightmares, alright? Let me know about tomorrow. SR

[Saturday – 11:00AM received from Hot-Guy] Hey, I’m not trying to pester you but could you let me know you’re alright? SR

[Saturday – 05:21PM – missed call from Hot-Guy]

[Sunday – 11:21AM – missed call from Hot-Guy]

[Sunday – 08:22PM received from Hot-Guy] Are you mad at me for leaving that picnic? I’m so sorry, really. SR

[Sunday – 09:55PM received from Hot-Guy] I tried ringing on your house phone. I’m pretty scared now. Give me a reason not to be. Don’t care if you’re mad about the whole picnic thing, just let me know you’re fine? I’m going crazy over here. SR

-///-

There is the overpowering smell of gunpowder and dirt clogging his nose, his fingers held firm in position around a rifle posed to shoot. In his vision, he see’s nothing but red and he wonders why that is. Everything is loud: the sound of explosions in his ears ringing. He needs to get out but he’s not sure how. There’s no room for getting out. He’s just forever here, with a gun, fingers posed on the trigger as he waits…waits….waits…

He misses his mother, for one insane moment. He misses his mother and he misses Becca. He’s ninety nine percent certain that he’ll never see his sister again, but in the red that’s clouding his eyes, he’s pretty sure that he’ll get to see his mother really soon.

He’s not sure that’s such a bad thing anymore.

He’s a shell of a man that he once was. Barely worth anything and he can see that already starting to form on the edges of his vision. If he squints his eyes a little he can nearly see the absence of his left arm – glaringly obvious in this half-light of tinged red.

If he closes his eyes (a stupid thing to do in the middle of all this) he can see Brock standing right there. Brock’s got a gun too and he’s just as ready to pull the trigger – in a different way to the bastards around him, but it’ll do the same amount of damage. He can see the doctors as well, flickering in and out of his mind. They have saws. They’re ready to take the arm away, just as Brock is ready to put a bullet through his heart.

And then the image shifts slightly and there’s blonde hair and blue eyes and he suddenly feel’s so safe, so safe. From the war and Brock and all the doctors around him he is safe.

And then a flash of red – no, lighter. This is not the colour of the film that covers his eyes and tinges the world. It’s auburn. And he’s falling and he’s falling and he’s-

Awake.

On his bedside table his alarm is beeping at an unprecedented rate. He stares at it like it might just have been the war itself, or maybe the doctors who took his arm, or maybe Brock, or maybe the legion of crazy fangirls intent on sacrificing his favourite music to the music gods for the crap that is the Avengers or maybe- maybe-

His phone buzzes and he knows who it’s from because his inbox is nearly filled with messages from the only person in his life who ever bothers to text him.

He turns his phone off.

His eyes are on the ceiling and he thinks he’s numb. He also thinks he’s stupid because no one in their right mind would become this worked up about a man – it’s pathetic. Considering all he’s been through, what’s one thing more? He can deal with this, he knows he can. One more thing. Only-

Hot-Guy was supposed to be the end of it. The end of the bad stuff. Maybe not the end but the cure at the very least. Hot Guy was his light at the end of the tunnel.

Even now he wants to reach out and grab his phone, ring Hot-Guy because he’s scared of the nightmare he just had and it won’t stop flickering through his mind like some crappy TV show on loop. But he can’t so he just stares at the ceiling and wonders how he got through nightmares when there was no promise of someone on the end of the phone who’d listen, who’d try and understand, who’d care if Bucky was feeling sick or scared and try to fix it when he was.

There’s no one now. The city feels empty despite its extraordinary mass of people clogging up its streets and back ally’s. His phone is turned off.

He turns it back on after a second, but only so he can ring work and call in ill. The last thing he needs is to see Brock today – he doesn’t think he’d ever be able to cope with that again if he’s honest. Brock will see it on his face and he’ll taunt Bucky like nothing else in the world. He’ll tell Bucky all the things Hot-Guy must be thinking about him:

Pathetic, loser, one armed freak.

He wants to scream, or at least a part of him does. Instead he stares at the ceiling and wishes everything would just stop for a moment. Wishes that Hot-Guy was here. Wishes that he could go back to just a week ago because ignorance? It’s pure fucking bliss.

-///-

[Wednesday 12:33PM received from Hot-Guy] Am I loosing you?

-///-

He does eventually have to go back to work though he puts it off for as long as he possibly can manage. He knows that his employers (the mysterious men who run SHIELD who barely come out of their offices and might very well be some form of secret gods or demons – he’s not really sure which but he’s at least ninety nine percent certain that they’re not actually human) will not be happy he’s taken a week off in the first place and he really does not need to be fired.

That would just be the cherry on the cake that represents everything that Bucky apparently will never get in his life: sweetness. Happiness.

He’s thinking about his cake analogy as he gets into the lift. He actually tried with his appearance this morning, which means that he does not look like the half dead thing that his appearance made him out to be yesterday. He got a shower. He washed his hair. He even ironed his shirt and put on a tie.

When he left the house that morning he looked in the mirror and saw a put together man who looked ready for another day of work.

He feels somewhat like a fraud.

His steps are heavy and his gaze is set. He forces a smile onto his face when he sees Sharon who waves a hand at him and he wonders whether imagining worst times in his life will help put things into perspective.

Sitting down at his desk he remembers the time when his mother died and feels sick.

Note to self - things that don’t work to make you feel better: thinking about awful things.

It’s a good half an hour later before he realises that he’s just been staring at his computer screen doing nothing for the past few hours. The computer is still switched off. He wonders if he’ll ever find the energy to reach over and turn the machine on at the plug. (He’s ninety nine percent certain such energy is not even possible.)

It’s an hour after he walks in that he turns on the system and loads up his emails. Work. Work. He can easily throw himself in to work, right? It’s not a hard thing to do. It’s been a week since he was here, a whole week since he saw Hot-Guy with his kids and what was probably his wife and he can’t stay like this forever.

How long did it take him to recover from Brock again?

He thinks this might take longer.

Thing was, a part of Bucky had always known that Brock was a jackass. Maybe he’d let himself be pulled into Brock’s orbit simply because he believed that was what he deserved. But Hot-Guy? That is a completely different story. Even now he can’t think of Hot-Guy as anything more than one of the loveliest men he’s ever met: one of the most charming, the sweetest. The person who apparently had a wife and a kid or a girlfriend and a kid or whatever seems a million miles away from the man who planned a picnic for him.

He’d thought, for a long time, that Hot-Guy was the one.

Hot-Guy was his ten.

How do you just…get over that? How do you just keep on living? He’d opened up to Hot-Guy. Not about everything yet. Not about his mum or about what really happened with his arm but about the important mundane stuff.

Hot-Guy knows how he likes his coffee and he knows that he can’t cook for shit. Hot-Guy knows Bucky’s favourite T-shirt and that Bucky thinks wine tastes more like washing up liquid. Hot-Guy knows how much Bucky hates (save words like love and hate for when you mean them) very strongly dislikes the Avengers. Hot-Guy knows what Bucky looks like after he’s been kissed. Hot-Guy knows how much of a movie nerd Bucky is. Hot Guy knows what Bucky’s favourite song is. Hot-Guy knows that Bucky doesn’t see himself as a Hufflepuff and knows how ready Bucky is to rant about the injustice of Harry’s child being named after two of the worst characters in the series.  Hot Guy knows these things.

And now he’s gone.

He’s just…gone.

“Why the down face, sugar?” the words jar Bucky away from his thoughts but unfortunately they don’t propel him into a better reality.

“Brock.” Bucky glances up coolly and feel’s a million miles away from last Friday when they’d spoken last, “how’s the she-devil? I heard you too are about to get caught for murdering tiny babies.” He tries to actually taunt Brock, get Brock to back the hell away but it just feels so damn flat. Everything just feels so. Damn. Flat.

“Glad you asked, Sugar. Sin’s great. We’re having crazy sex. And she’s smart enough to not get caught for any of her crimes even if she did end up committing any.” Brock’s grin is so damn testy. Bucky really wants to punch it.

And that urge suddenly becomes the only important thing in his life. His hand clenches into a fist. He might only have one good arm but he is ninety nine percent certain that he can at least break Brock’s nose if it comes to it. And that’s less than the corporal piece of shit deserves.

“Go away, Brock.” He grunts out.

“What? You jealous of my amazing sex life. Your guy not delivering as much as I could, huh?”

Your guy.

Bucky isn’t really sure what happens after that, he just knows that Sharon has her hands against his back and is rubbing a hand over his arm softly.

Brock’s nose is bleeding and he’s staring at Bucky like he just sprouted wings and started singing some amazing opera song (which he didn’t, because Bucky can’t sing for his life and that’s okay because he doesn’t inforce said singing on those around him – like a certain band he knows.

He stops thinking about the Avengers after that. Because even that one tiny comment makes him hurt. It makes him think of a T-shirt and a badge and a bright smile and blonde hair and it hurts.)

“Bucky. Stand down. What’s going on?” Sharon is whispering in his ear.

Brock is shouting something, and he thinks that it actually is about how Hot-Guy must have left Bucky but Sharon is leading him away with a tossed, ‘grow up, idiot,’ over her shoulder at Brock. She leads Bucky into one of the small offices on their floor and shuts the door.

Sharon Carter is an amazing woman, she really is. She’s pretty too, and Bucky’s ninety nine percent sure that if she’s not doubling as a secret agent now, she definitely was in a past life. She has something about her that makes Bucky both trust her and be one hundred percent certain that she knows exactly how to handle a gun. She’s pretty much his only friend at work and while they don’t speak often, Bucky is sort of lucky to have her around. Maybe more than just ‘sort of’.

“You weren’t sick last week. What happened?” she asks.

He shrugs, “remember that Guy I told you about?”

She nods and uh oh, no. He does not want to talk about this out loud. Because right now he is the only person who knows. Becca doesn’t know (how could he tell Becca that she maybe judged her ten wrong?), Michael doesn’t know, Sharron doesn’t know (and yeah, okay, maybe there’s only those three people in his life but still. None of them know.)

She waits and he doesn’t talk and eventually she wraps him up in a hug and sighs, “hey, it’s alright. Look, you can’t be here if you’re going to go around hitting people. Even people like Brock. No matter how much he deserves it.”

Bucky goes to protest but she holds her hands up. He goes quiet again, stares at the floor.

“You need to get your head sorted out. Whatever happened, you are pretty strong, I’m damn sure that you can sort this out if you actually put your mind to it. But you need to stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something. Grab a coffee. Anything to just…get you back up to speed with your life. So go. I’ll cover you today and tomorrow if you need it. Go see your sister, take your time and come back in when you’re ready. Got it?”

Bucky wants to protest, because he really should not be in such a state that he cannot even come into work over a guy. But he guesses it’s not just the guy, it’s more of the loss of the distraction to all of the problems that he has in his life.

He’s an idiot, and he’s pathetic and he knows all of this because he knows that he’s not got it as bad as some people. Hell, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t even have it as bad as some people in the building he’s in right now.

But Sharon is stern and he knows that she isn’t about to take no for an answer so with a rather sheepish thanks he ducks out of the office and into the elevator again. When he stares in the mirror that’s on one wall of the elevator his tie is a little out of place and that one tiny thing makes him feel just slightly less like the fraud he knows he tried to be that morning.

Sharon is right, he needs to get his head sorted out.

-///-

[Monday 9:01AM received from Hot-Guy] I’m trying to give you space, I really am but I’m really worried about you. I don’t know your name, how am I supposed to know if you’re that Garry Laughton man who was in the paper this morning for falling off a cliff? I’m freaking out. SR

[Monday: 9:31AM received from Hot-Guy] I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, please. If it’s- if it’s something you’ve seen around then please just call me so we can talk about it. I care about you. SR

[Monday 11:51AM received from Hot-Guy] I came to your house but you weren’t there. You weren’t at your workplace either. Asked a woman but she said you’d taken the day off. At least I know you’re alive, she said you were in this morning. SR

[Monday 12:02PM received from Hot-Guy] Stop it. This is childish. Ring me. Please. I feel like some desperate idiot over here. SR

[Monday 12:10PM received from Hot-Guy] I’m sorry about that. I’m sure it’s not really childish. Just…take your time. Just… SR

[Monday 02:34PM received from Hot-Guy] I thought I’d let you know that I’m going to your sisters house. I just want to check on you, make sure you’re fine and then I’ll leave you alone, okay? I figured that if something happened you’d tell her. I just...that’s where I’m going. I hope that’s okay. SR

-///-

Bucky really just wants to go home, but apparently the universe is not that kind. The street is packed, crowded full of people and Bucky’s not sure which way he should be heading in. He isn’t walking towards the company car park, so he assumes he’s walking home. It’s quite a way, but it might actually do him some good to walk it, even if it means he’ll be walking for an hour or so.

He’s not really paying attention to anything. Not really. He’s looking at things, but not really seeing them. He’s already avoided a few streets because they’re filled with Brock memories or of Hot-Guy memories, neither of which he actively wants to deal with right now.

Walking for just over half an hour, he’s actually feeling slightly better than when he originally set off walking. Just a little. And that’s a good thing, right? He figures that’s the reason that his brain subconsciously decided to leave the car behind. Or maybe he just wanted to get out of that building as quickly as possible.

A car door shuts to one side of him.

Loudly.

And he freaks out. Nothing like that has happened in a long while, in fact he thought he was over that side of the PTSD thing, he really did and it sucks to be reminded that anything can trigger this sort of thing but here it is all the same – mistaking a loud nose for a gunshot, freezing up and shaking and oh god no, please no, no, no-

“Hey, stray dog man, you okay?” Bucky blinks.

The gunshot is gone. The way it was ringing in his ears is gone. There is nothing anymore but the crowded streets of New York, the chatter of so many people walking down the same road, the smells from the various bakeries nearby and the knowledge that he is thousands of miles away from that war, those gunshots, that lifetime.

There is a women in front of him. It takes a little longer to realise that a) she is talking to him, and looking at him expectantly and b) he knows her. At least he kind of knows her.

Her brown hair is let loose down her shoulders like it never is when she’s working at the coffee shop and she’s frowning instead of smiling, but she is the waitress from the coffee shop: Darcy.

She’s the waitress from the coffee shop where Bucky met Hot-Guy.

Why the hell does the universe keep doing this to him? Bucky is ninety-nine percent certain that the world is out to get him, he really is. He wonders what god is punishing him for.

“Oh, uh, what was that,” he tucks a strand of hair behind his ear and the waitress – Darcy – sighs.

“I said are you alright, you look sort of like you’re about to have a panic attack and I know how shitty that can be so I thought maybe I should get you somewhere quiet or at least check, you know?” she looks around and he wonders why. Briefly, he wonders if she’s going to call for help or something, and he’s about to stop her from doing so (he’s fine, really) when her eyes focus back on him, “where’s your man?”

His heart sinks. Out of all the waitresses in the whole of the densely populated New York that he could have bumped into, it’s one who knows Hot-Guy and him are a thing (were a thing, he corrects himself and his heart begins to sink further into the black hole that’s taken up residence in his chest).

“That’s not-“ he pauses, as his brain actually starts to work, “Hold on did you just call me a dog?”

Waving her hands she brushes that off, “s’what you looked like the first time you came into the café. Honestly, you looked like the world had sent assassins after you. I’m just glad your boy was there, I was seriously worried that you’d died when your head thunked down on the table. Shot by secret invisible bullets from the mysterious assassins that were making your life a misery and that had stolen your left arm already.”

Most people don’t mention the arm outright, or they mention it in a sympathetic way. Bucky thinks this is the only times anyone has insinuated that he lost it to evil assassins, but he surprisingly doesn’t mind. In fact it’s rather refreshing. If only they weren’t talking about Hot-Guy in all of this.

“Yeah, well, uh, he’s not- we’re not dating anymore.” It feels horrible to say it, and the words almost get lodged in his throat. He wants to scream and cry and throw things because how is this fair? It’s not fair, it’s not fair at all.

“You what?” Darcy looks shocked, and Bucky wonders why. Maybe she wasn’t working the day that Hot-Guy decided to bring his wife into the coffee shop with their kids.

“We’re not dating. He has someone else.” Burning. That’s what the words feel like. Like they’re burning on the way down his throat, like he’s swallowing fire and it’s going to torch him alive.

“No way,” she says, “he loves you. He was in the shop barely over a week back talking about how happy he is now that he’s found you. You’re having me on. You’re lying.”

Bucky does not want to talk about this, he doesn’t want to hear how Hot-Guy may or may not be happy around Bucky. He almost wants to tell Darcy that Hot-Guy is probably only happy because of how easily lead on Bucky is, how pathetic he is, how funny he is to be around (and not in a good way either).

But…are all of those things really true? Hot-Guy isn’t a Brock, he showed up early to that first date. So maybe he does feel bad about it and that’s the reason that Bucky has so many unread messages clogging up his inbox. Maybe he is sorry. Bucky would be thankful, because maybe this Peggy person is the auburn haired girl, and maybe she only just came back into Hot-Guy’s life and Hot-Guy couldn’t say no.

Maybe he’s not an asshole. Maybe he just loves her more. And that- that still hurts, but it seems more likely than the idea that Hot-Guy just cheated on him.

At least it does…until he remembers that woman’s laugh on that phone call so early in the morning. It’s so confusing, all of this. Hot-Guy cheating on him or cheating on someone else with him just doesn’t seem to compute in his head and it’s giving him a headache. Darcy is still staring at him. He wants to leave.

“Look, uh, I gotta go.” He says as he sidesteps her, “thanks for stopping, but I’m really fine.”

He keeps walking, and doesn’t turn round when he hears her call out to him. He doesn’t want to think about this right now. He doesn’t want to think about this at all.

-///-

[Monday 5:04PM received from Hot-Guy] I’ve spoken to your sister. I think I’m just going to leave you alone now. I want you to know that whatever you saw, heard or…or whatever you think is going on here, I care about you so much. If I thought going that week only texting you was awful then this…this silence, it’s eating me whole. I spent a long time thinking I’d never find anyone again, that I’d always be empty, but you- you’re so much more than just a boyfriend to me. And I don’t know – people tell me I get overly sappy when I’m upset or scared so I’m sorry – but you have my number. And I want you to know that if you have a nightmare or- or any of it, then I want you to ring me. Or if you need anything. Take care x SR

-///-

“James Buchanan Barnes!” he almost didn’t pick up the phone. Now he’s wishing that he didn’t. His sister has a goddamn temper on her sometimes, and he can hear the anger in her voice – real anger, not just fake teasing anger that she occasionally throws his way.

The phone had been on the side and he’d just been about to turn it off when another text from Hot-Guy – a long one, it looked like – came through. He was so tired of it all, of Brock and then Sharon and then running into Darcy on the way home. He can’t begin to iterate how goddamn tired he is right now. Little pieces of his time with Hot-Guy keep coming in and out of his mind, and none of them make sense. Not a single one.

When he caught Brock cheating on him, he looked back on it and he saw how much of an idiot he’d been. How the signs had been there all along, really, he just hadn’t wanted to look.

But he couldn’t see any obvious signs of this one – his paranoia not withstanding – he just really…couldn’t. Yes, he’d been worried, but Bucky was always worried about something. In reality, the worrying had all been him, not any overbearing signs from Hot-Guy.

So he’d been about to turn his phone off, when the phone had lit up with Becca’s call screen and he’d considered not picking up but it might actually be good to hear his sisters voice. Or at least that’s what he’d thought. Now, he’s holding the phone to his ear and trying to think of a good response to her angry tone.

“Not really in the mood, Becca.” He mumbles into the phone.

“Don’t give a shit,” she responds and Bucky sits up straighter, runs a hand through his hair and prepares himself.

“What have I done now?” he asks.

“Your boyfriend just showed up on my door, worried sick and terrified because you’re neither texting, nor ringing. He’s been to your work but you’re not there and when he came to check on you at home you weren’t there either. What the hell happened? He said you just completely dropped off the map.”

Hot-Guy went to Becca’s house, Bucky thinks, only he’s not sure why. He’s ninety nine percent certain that when you cheat on someone you don’t actively go and try and find their sister. But maybe he’s wrong. He’s never cheated on anyone before.

His tongue is poised on the edge of words he doesn’t know how to get his mind to work around. Becca is angry. Hot-Guy has spoken to her. He wonders if Hot-Guy happened to mention he had kids at any point in this.

“I caught him with someone else.” He murmurs down the phone.

The end of the line goes quiet for a second. Huh, so Hot-Guy hadn’t mentioned that. Becca obviously wasn’t expecting Bucky to come out with it.

It’s still silent so he continues speaking, “I just wasn’t expecting it. Not from him. Not…not now you know? He’s never given any indentation that he’s cheating on me. Not like Brock. And I know he’s been texting but I can’t read them, I can’t even think about it. It’s just so confusing and it hurts Becca and he has kids and-“

“Hold up,” Becca speaks and Bucky shuts his mouth because he doesn’t really want to continue anyway. He’s ninety nine percent certain that if he does continue he won’t stop, like a broken tap he’ll just keep on going until he runs out of words – flowing out of him like water, “he doesn’t have kids.”

Bucky shakes his head sadly, “he does. I saw- last Friday I was heading to the coffee shop where we met. He’d been so busy all week and we hadn’t even seen each other once and yet there he was, walking towards this coffee shop. And I was so- I was happy because I’d missed him all week and stuff. But then I focused on what was around him, and there were these two kids handing him their pens and then this woman who he had his arm around – god she was so beautiful – she gave these kids their pocket money or whatever and they ran off towards the sweetshop. And then he takes her into the coffee shop, our coffee shop and he’s laughing. He’s happy. He looked so…good with her. He suited her. They were both walking personifications of the word ‘beauty’. I ain’t competing with that.”

There is silence again on the end of the line and then a quiet, tiny sound, “oh, Bucky,” she murmurs and here it is, he sympathy he doesn’t really want and won’t know what to do with, and probably the guilt for saying that Hot-Guy is a ten.

“You’re so stupid, Buck. That’s not- what did she look like?”

Bucky blinks. He expected more sympathy than that, if he is honest.

“Uh, auburn hair, smaller than Hot-Guy, green eyes and-“

“That’s Natasha.” Becca interrupts, “Bucky, that’s his friend.”

Bucky doesn’t understand. He does remember a Nat from the picnic – the person who called Hot-Guy in the middle of their date - but that doesn’t begin to explain the kids and how would Becca know about her anyway? “How would you know?” he asks finally.

More silence, and then, “look, he was talking about her when he came round and was saying how he was really looking forward to introducing you too her and we got talking about her. I swear, Buck, they’re just friends. I think maybe the kids were her kids or something and he was just helping out. He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

Wait- what? Bucky isn’t quite sure he heard right, he can’t be sure that he heard right because that means that he’s been…an idiot for no reason. That he’s been ignoring Hot-Guy for over a week and using up most of his sick days in the week he took off. But-

“I heard a laugh. On the phone a while back. A feminine laugh at 6AM. How do you explain that?”

“I don’t know,” and Bucky feels almost triumphant in his own downfall, “But maybe you should ask your boyfriend instead of leaving it so long that he comes over to my place worried about you. Jesus, Buck. He thinks you hate him or something. And that’s not fair on him. He’s head over heels for you, the least he deserves is to explain himself by himself.” She sighs and Bucky’s about to say something, but she cuts right in, “don’t. Just don’t say anything. Ring him. Please?”

The pause is longer and this time it’s on Bucky’s behalf. He’s thinking everything through, every little thing and he’s feeling like the largest goddamn idiot on the planet, he really is. He has something good – maybe he had something good – and he’s just gone and thrown it away without thinking about it. He just…he was just so upset seeing them. He didn’t think—

He was in the shop barely over a week back talking about how happy he is now that he’s found you.

That was what Darcy said on the street, wasn’t it? And yet, Bucky and Hot-Guy hadn’t been into that coffee shop in a long while. The last time that Hot-Guy was in there, was with this ‘Natasha’ lady (not Peggy apparently) and Hot-Guy had been…talking about him? Telling his friend how much he cared about Bucky?

Bucky Barnes is a goddamn idiot.

He groans and rests his head against the table. Why does he fuck up everything he cares about?

-///-

[No New Messages.]

-///-

Despite everything, Bucky doesn’t call Hot-Guy straight away; nor does he read any of the texts that Hot-Guy has left clogging up his phone. He feels like a fool, if he’s being honest and besides, there’s still the doubts there. Becca’s explanation actually makes…well, it makes a hell of a lot more sense than what his own panic stricken mind had come up with upon seeing Hot-Guy with some kids and someone else, especially put beside what Darcy had been talking about out on the street – but Bucky can’t seem to quell that feeling that he got when he saw them together, he can’t seem to stop thinking about what a good couple they looked like. Even if they’re not a couple, how can Hot-Guy ever feel as good as that stood next to…well…Bucky? He’s hardly a striking thing of beauty and he’s ninety nine percent certain that he draws nobodies head on the street unless they’re wanting to stare at his arm – or rather, his lack of an arm.

So he doesn’t call. In fact, he goes to bed that night and he still hasn’t called. He’s set on doing so in the morning, he just needs to think everything through first, think about what he needs to say and how and why and all that. He just needs a night to process a little before he puts himself on the edge and hopes that maybe – just maybe – he still has someone waiting around to catch him.

And then the nightmares come.

He wakes up and he doesn’t even think. His hand is on his phone before he really realises why. It’s reflex because this was a bad one and he just needs-

“Hello?” Hot-Guy’s voice floods through the tiny speaker in his phone and it’s stupid but Bucky suddenly feels safe – feels safe just as he remembers all the reasons he hasn’t spoken to Hot-Guy in over a week and all the reasons he was going to wait till tomorrow to call. It’s an odd equilibrium of feelings that flood down his body in that moment as he waits to find his voice.

“Hi,” he whispers and there’s an audible sigh of…something, down the other end of the phone. Bucky wants to say relief but he’s honestly not sure that that is what it is – maybe it’s annoyance, he can barely hear it over the sound of his still laboured breathing. Whatever it is, it’s there though and Bucky’s not sure what else to say.

“Did you have a nightmare?”

And there it is. Hot-Guy doesn’t sound pissed off, resentful or condescending or any of the other things that Bucky was ninety nine percent sure he’d sound like once Bucky got up the nerve to ring him. Instead he just sounds like he wants to help and comfort. Bucky’s kind of at a loss for words.

Eventually he does find them though, enough to murmur, “Yes,” and then, “I’m sorry.”

He’s not sure what he’s apologising for: for ringing at god even knows what time it is, or for having a nightmare or maybe for everything else.

“It’s okay,” Hot-Guy whispers, words soft as anything, as he always is with Bucky when Bucky rings after a nightmare. Bucky’s not sure what’s ‘okay’ – it could be any of the things that Bucky himself could have been apologising for. “I mean it. It’s fine.”

And suddenly Bucky knows what he needs. He needs- “I need to see you,” he whispers quietly into the phone, his body vibrating with it because they need to sort this thing out between them, whatever it is. And he really hopes it still is something because when he wasn’t talking to Hot-Guy that was one thing but after hearing him on the phone? He just needs to see him. “Please. I’ve had a really bad week and I just- I just need to see you, is that okay?”

“Yes,” there’s no hesitation.

It feels almost like a hush has come over the world, it feels so calm. And Hot-Guy is there speaking and Bucky’s speaking and Bucky is ninety nine percent certain that if he makes one wrong move it will all shatter in front of him.

“I’ll send you my address. Can you get here? I can pay for your cab money.”

Oh. Bucky’s never been to Hot-Guy’s place before. And offering to pay for cab money? Hot-Guy is a gentleman through and through. How Bucky ever got in into his dumb head that he was anything less…

“Yeah. I- give me half an hour.” He glances at the clock, it’s two in the morning but this is New York and people don’t really ever sleep in a city like this: things are always awake and lively. “I’ll pay for the cab. I’ll see you soon?”

And just like that Hot-Guy is gone again, away from the end of the phone and seemingly not to some sleeping wife and some kids. Bucky’s half way through getting dressed in the dark confines of the shadows of his bedroom when the text comes through with Hot-Guy’s address.

Manhattan. Huh.

-///-

When the cab pulls up outside the address Hot-Guy gave him, Bucky is ninety nine percent sure that Hot-Guy is fucking with him at least in some way, maybe to get back at him for the week of silence? It’s either that or Hot-Guy is stupidly rich because Bucky’s pretty sure that the rent on his apartment wouldn’t cover a bathroom in a place like this.

It’s massive, that is Bucky’s first impression. It’s not quite a sky scrapper but it certainly doesn’t have to worry about being called ‘small’. There’s a doorman standing at the door like this is some kind of famous movie set to broadcast the few highlights of city life instead of the multiple low ones and Bucky’s ever so slightly nervous about walking in. Outside on the street there are a few men standing around not doing much, large hoodies, glaring rather openly at the doorman who appears to be just as intent on glaring back. On closer inspection they appear to have cameras, a couple also holding lit cigarettes to their lips. Paparazzi, Bucky realises. Some real famous people must live in Hot-Guy’s building.

It’s kind of daunting walking up the steps to it, because Bucky realises that he really doesn’t belong here. This is simply not his life. Places and buildings like these are for people with money and fame and everything Bucky could never hope to achieve in his life. They’re for the people who made something out of their lives, the people who everyone watches when they walk into a room, the people who can make money on pictures of their faces alone.

“Can I help you or are you lost?” the Doorman asks in a brisk sort of manor that has Bucky jumping a little and trying not to catch the eyes of numerous paparazzi who’s eyes have suddenly landed on his, and okay, wow, he must not look the part either. Bucky has the intense urge to try and smooth down his clothes a little before someone tries to take his picture.

“Uh, I’m here to see…someone.” He blinks and realises how crazy that sounds. But he’s so far from home and he just gave that cab driver a hell of a lot of money (enough so that Bucky might not be eating a few nights this week) and he’s not going back until he’s seen Hot-Guy. He stuffs his shaking hand in the pocket of his red hoodie and tries for something of a smile. It fails, he’s pretty sure, but he damn well tries.

“Do you want to move along, pa-“ but before he can finish his sentence the doorman’s phone begins to ring. He picks it up, seems to go through some stuff that Bucky’s pointedly not listening to in case that’s deemed rude and then-

“Wait, this homeless man is yours?” The doorman gives him an uneasy look like he’s scared that Bucky might be hiding a knife and/or a camera in his pockets.

Bucky is certain that was directed at him, the sentence, simply because of the look and he is ninety nine percent certain that he does not look like homeless man but he’s pretty sure that the doorman is talking to Hot-Guy so he’ll wait it out (but seriously, between a dog and homeless he’s really considering a change of style.)

“Yeah. Alright. I’ll send him up.”

The doorman looks at him a little disdainfully as the doors slid open, like he’s offended to be letting an apparently ‘homeless’ looking man into the building. Bucky just shrugs and heads inside, out of all his problems, a doorman’s instant dislike for him is not something that he needs to be dwelling upon.

If he thought this place was nice on the outside though, then that’s nothing compared to what’s on the inside. Bucky himself feels slightly dirty coming in here and he rushes to where the elevators are so that no one catches him looking so out of place.

Hot-Guy’s room is on the top floor. The elevator is playing something from the Avengers album. Bucky’s not sure whether he should bank his head against one of the walls or if he should laugh. Maybe it’s time to schedule another Hate Club meeting.

There is the awkward meandering of Bucky not being too sure which door he should be knocking on. But eventually he finds the one: number 23. Hot-Guy.

He stands outside and takes a breath. Thinks of what an idiot he’s been. Wonders what those texts said. Wonders what’s waiting for him inside the room.

And then he just forgets about it and knocks, because if Hot-Guy is not here to break his heart, then Bucky needs to see him.

Hot-Guy opens the door and there’s such affection and relief on his face that Bucky’s suddenly pretty certain that that sigh he let out when Bucky had spoken on the phone was of relief.

And then they just stare at each other and for a second it’s okay but then it slowly inches towards awkward which is just bullshit because Bucky has never felt awkward around Hot-Guy since he met him. It’s not about feeling awkward around Hot-Guy when Hot-Guy is around. The whole point is that Hot-Guy makes him feel safe and decidedly not awkward.

“Your doorman called me homeless,” Bucky blurts out, before he can really give much thought into what he needs to say. He wants to smack himself in the face, when he realises his first words to Hot-Guy are that. Why is he always such a fool?

Hot-Guy, to give him credit, just laughs a little, although it feels slightly forced, “You get used to him,” he offers, to which Bucky nods, clenching his hand into a fist. Another bout of silence. He wishes Hot-Guy would stop looking at him like that: like Bucky might vanish if he blinks, or like Bucky’s worth something more than what he is. It’s a little off putting.

“You, uh, don’t have any wives or children you’re hiding in your apartment do you, maybe a well-dressed husband?” he tries to make it sound like a joke but Hot-Guy’s face contorts a little in obvious confusion.

“Wives? Children? Well-dressed husbands? What are you on about, huh?” he asks, and he’s not quite teasing in his tone of voice, it’s more on the confused and worried side of things.

Swallowing, Bucky shakes his head, “let me in and I’ll explain,” he finally decides on, and Hot-Guy seems to have no problem, opening his door wider for Bucky to step inside.

And yep, that pretty much settles it. Hot-Guy is rich as fuck.

The room he steps inside is completely open plan – there’s a kitchen furnishings on one side of the room that look like they’ve been ripped straight out of some very old British Victorian mansion, sofas and chairs, bookcases lining the wall on one side and a few easels out in the open. Behind a few doors, Bucky has to assume that there are bathrooms and bedrooms and anything else in the world you could possibly need, but what Bucky finds himself drawn to is the art work.

It only takes one glance at Hot-Guy to realise that he’s been painting. His clothes weren’t something that Bucky had really been focusing on, but now that he takes a second look he can see obvious paint stains on the grey shirt that Hot-Guy is wearing. But the canvas’s? They’re things of beauty. The one closest to Bucky looks almost finished: it’s a landscape outlook on a concert from a performer’s point of view, the thousands of people staring upwards in what looks like awe. It’s absolutely amazing, but it’s nowhere close to the awe and sudden jaw dropping feeling he has when he sees the one behind it.

“Is that…me?” he asks carefully. It doesn’t look like him, not really. The person in the picture looks too happy to be there, laid out on the grass and smiling up at nothing in particular. The way Steve draws him he looks beautiful. Bucky is ninety nine percent certain that it could never be himself.

“Of course it is.” Hot-Guy replies, he’s a respectable distance away, his hands behind his back as if he’s waiting for Bucky to do something or accuse him or maybe make a comment about the place he lives in.

“I don’t look like this,” Bucky say’s instead, staring at the upwards curve of his mouth, the slight ruffle of his hair from where someone – whether it be himself of Hot-Guy – has obviously been running their fingers through it, the lightness in his eyes.

“It’s what you look like to me,” Hot-Guy admits, stepping closer, “beautiful. The most beautiful and awe inspiring thing I’ve ever seen.”

Bucky shivers at that. How can Hot-Guy just say shit like that and expect it to not be earthshattering?

“I- I saw something,” now’s a good of a time as any, he realises. His eyes dart up from the picture to meet Hot-Guy’s and he bites on the inside of his tongue.

“Look-“ Hot-Guy sounds pained, “I’m sure I can explain-“

He looks worried and hurt so Bucky holds his fingers up and amazingly Steve shuts up. Huh. Bucky thought only Sharon could command attention like that.

“I saw you, with your friend. Natasha, Becca says her name is? Anyway I saw you with her and a couple of kids outside our coffee shop and I- I freaked out. I’m sorry. I thought the worst and you at least deserved to be spoken to about it, have a chance to explain yourself,” he rubs his hand though his hair as he stares at Hot-Guy. He wants to pull his gaze away, he feels like he somehow let Hot-Guy down. He assumed the worst of an amazing guy. It’s not Hot-Guy who needs to be sorry it’s himself.

“You- that’s why you’ve been ignoring me?” he sounds surprised.

“Well yeah,” Bucky shrugs, “what else? You’re perfect. I’ve been thinking you’re too perfect for months. And I guess I was waiting for the other shoe to drop, so when I saw you with someone else I just- I just assumed that was it. The other shoe. Falling on my head.”

“But why?” Hot-Guy takes another step forward and he’s smiling just a little now, which is something Bucky really didn’t expect. He’d just accused Hot-Guy of cheating and Hot-Guy was smiling, apparently wasn’t too upset.

“I promise, the only person I’m interested in is stood right in front of me.” Hot-Guy murmurs.

Melting into Hot-Guy’s arms is all that Bucky can think about right now. But they need to talk this through first. It’s important. And it’s not just Hot-Guy’s side either. Its Bucky’s too. Because Hot-Guy at least deserves an explanation as to why that was the first thing that Bucky’s mind came to.

He needs to know about Brock.

“I heard a woman’s laugh, on the phone one morning. It was six AM and I- I don’t know. I don’t know your name. And I wondered if maybe I did and I typed it in on Facebook you’d be married with two kids,” Hot-Guy has a pained look in his eyes, so Bucky hurries on, “look, it’s not about you. I trust you, that’s not it. I’m paranoid because…I mean. I was with someone. A little while ago now. After I came back from overseas and they…they really fucked me up, you know? I caught them cheating on me and it just…it wasn’t pretty. And that’s an understatement.”

Hot Guy’s face contorts a little, and finally there is the anger that Bucky half expected to be sat there when he walked in, although Bucky supposes it’s for a different reason. His eyes flicker down to where Hot-Guy’s hands have curled into fists and he realises that Hot-Guy is mad. Honest to God, mad. Just not at Bucky.

“Who hurt you?” he says it like a growl and Bucky kind of wants to smile a little.

Hot-Guy is protective.

And from the looks of things he wants to defend Bucky’s honour.

Which is, well, yeah, Bucky’s not going to lie, it feels pretty damn good. The way Hot-Guy’s hands have curled into fists and the way that Hot-Guy wants to protect him. Because he has that from Becca of course, but not from anyone else really. Still now’s not the time for vengeance plans. He really does want to talk to Hot-Guy. Just get everything out in the open. The war. Brock. Just so he knows. “How about we sit for a bit, talk it out?” Bucky asks finally, because he’s almost certain that if he says ‘Brock Rumlow’ Hot-Guy might walk out of the doors and try to track Brock down.

Brock was already punched today. Well- yesterday now, Bucky supposes. It’s not time to start throwing more punches although Bucky is ninety nine percent certain that Brock deserves it.

Hot-Guy nods a little stiffly, but his hands uncurl from their fists as he moves, “sure, I’ll make us some hot chocolate, if you like? I have some really nice stuff in.”

Hot-Chocolate, huh? Maybe Bucky isn’t the only stupidly sappy five year old in the vicinity of a five mile radius. Still, if there aren’t points in your adult life where you can’t have a hot chocolate what’s the point of growing up?

They stand around each other for a while as Hot-Guy begins to put everything together for their drinks. Bucky even manages a grin when Hot-Guy produces cake from one of his cupboards and finds a comfortable place to sit on the couch, although his heart is beating far too rapidly in his chest.

Because he is scared, just a little, of what Hot-Guy will think when he knows all this stuff. Their relationship isn’t still innocent, it’s solid and real and important. But Bucky doesn’t like talking about this with anyone let alone someone he doesn’t want thinking badly of him.

But here they are. And Steve gives him a small smile to urge him to begin, it looks like.

Right. Talking time.

He can do this.

“So,” Bucky begins as he takes a sip of his drink (and wow, yes, that really is good) setting it down on the coffee table. “uh, I guess there’s some stuff. About my past. That we haven’t really spoken about. Only- I want to tell you. Maybe you’ll understand my messed up head a little better that way, okay?”

Hot-Guy nods, and a hand slips into Bucky’s, “there’s stuff I want to tell you about my past too,” Hot-Guy murmurs. “We can take it in turns.”

Bucky nods and takes a deep breath, savouring the comfort of Steve’s warm hand in his and wonders where is best to start.

“You understand my time at war, I suppose, a little. I mean, I talk to you about my nightmares, what happened to me,” he bit his lip. Looking back on this stuff wasn’t something he wanted to do a lot. But it would always be lurking, right there, like earlier on the street before he ran into Darcy. And the man holding his hand was the man he wanted to spend most of his foreseeable future with. It was only right that Hot-Guy knew parts of it. The important parts.

But this stuff, it was horrible. It’s the stuff that Bucky’s nightmares are based around, those last few weeks overseas. He finds that there’s a lump in his throat when he actually tries to speak. Deep breath. “Towards the end of when I served, me and the rest of my squadron came under heavy attack. I’m talking, real big. We all should have died. Most of us did. We got sent into a place that was too well guarded, no one was ready for it. What surprised us more was that they didn’t actually want to attack us. They just wanted to- to take us in, I guess. I’m not completely sure what for. Human lab rats, I suppose.”

He can see it now. People screaming. Guns going off. The fire and the heat and all of it. And those cells they kept the people they caught in: dirty and rank and horrible. There was so much darkness – not a window to see the sun, not a light. After being down there for a weak Bucky had honest to god thought that he’d never see sunlight again.

“We were declared MIA, all of us that were captured. For about four weeks we were out there. Becca got a letter to say I was dead and everything. It was- it was traumatic. But they didn’t do much to us, the people they got. Locked us in cages and kept us there for the most part. There weren’t…toilets. And we got water twice a week from these little bottles. People started drinking their own piss,” he cringes a little. How long had it been since he’d spoken about this? It’s hard to talk about because it’s hard for someone to even begin to understand what it was like down there. Alone. In the dark. It was worse than gun fire and bombs. It was like being sealed into your own grave. “Some of us weren’t as lucky, they took some of ‘um. They were gonna take me but that day we got rescued before they could stick much stuff in me. Someone high up decided they gave a shit about us I guess. But on the way out the building we were kept in started to go down: big explosions and stuff. My arm it-“ he stares down at where it used to be. He’s grown used to the absence, over time, but sometimes he still had phantom limb syndrome. Sometimes parts of himself that weren’t there anymore hurt. You never got used to something like that completely, he supposes, it’s always going to be there – or not there, as the case may be.

“Anyway. They said they might be able to fix the arm. There was an infection, it was pretty bad. And they weren’t sure. There was a ninety nine percent chance the surgery wouldn’t work. Only one in one hundred people actually came out of the surgery with a limb attached.” Ninety nine percent certain that he’d loose a limb. He can’t really remember why he was clinging so hard to that one percent. Someone tells you – a doctor with a PHD tells you that you’ve got a ninety nine percent chance of something going wrong…something is probably going to go wrong. “I mean, I guess I was thinking that meant one hundred in a thousand which seemed like better odds. I told myself all kinds of crazy shit just to believe I’d come out of it intact, with all my pieces together.”

Hot-Guy squeezes his remaining hand and Bucky looks up to meet his gaze, wondering when he dropped it. Hot-Guy looks sympathetic, but not overly so, not so much that Bucky doesn’t know how to deal with the look on his face.

“You don’t talk about it a lot, the arm,” Hot-Guy murmurs, “does it hurt?”

Bucky shakes his head, “No. Not really. The scars are a little nasty and living with that? Yeah, that sucks. But it doesn’t hurt often. Phantom Limb every once in a while but I’ve learnt to deal with that. It’s- most of the time when I think about the arm I think about the surgery that took it, not the time MIA. I don’t think about MIA unless I’m having nightmares.”

Hot-Guy’s thumb rubs gently over Bucky’s knuckles and Bucky let’s himself relax into the feel of it for a second. It’s grounding more than anything: he’s here. With Hot-Guy. He’s safe in what looks like a million dollar apartment, sat on a couch and drinking Hot-Chocolate and trying to explain his past to someone who’s at least trying to understand.

“So when you phone me and tell me that it’s too dark?” Hot-Guy asks, and Bucky nods. Yeah.

Hot-Guy nods and then goes still again, waiting for Bucky to finish the story, Bucky supposes, or perhaps just waiting for Bucky to need something else. And Bucky is innately glad that Hot-Guy is allowing him to do this, is allowing him this moment of quiet contemplation, is listening. The only person who’s ever listened to all of this before is Becca and she was obliged as family. It’s not easy talking about it, but he’s got Hot-Guy’s hand in his and that’s what matters. That’s what matters.

“Anyway, I came back home and I met this man. Brock. And I guess a part of me knew that it wasn’t right, that he was a scum bag. But I let myself get pulled in by him. And I thought- I tricked myself into believing that I finally had a good thing after the war, that I was safe and healthy and happy and in a relationship and living a normal human life like everyone else.” It’s almost laughable now, but back then he’d just thrown himself at the first piece of normality he could find. He’d thrown himself into sex and being stood up on dates and whatever else he could to get his head out of the sand.

Steve’s face has all the hard lines it had a moment ago, like he knows what Bucky is about to say and he does. Bucky gave the spoilers out for this story almost the moment he walked in.

“And then he cheated. I caught him cheating. I caught him having sex with someone else. And it was…awful? Just, broke down my final pieces of confidence I had stored up in myself, is how I’d describe it. I don’t know how I even got through all that before you. I pinned my problems to a band, I guess, and pretend that it was at the root of everything when really it was just something vaguely annoying.”

Finally though, Bucky managed out half a smile, because all of that crap? Yeah, it was pure crap. But then there was that coffee shop, which was just by chance playing one of the Avengers albums, which just by chance prompted Hot-Guy to talk to him, “And then, I met you. And you were wonderful, but everything that I’d ever been through? All of it, the war, being MIA and the arm and Brock? I don’t know, I guess I just expected something to happen. Something bad. I was paranoid, I know I was. And then I heard that woman laugh on the phone that morning really early and then seeing you with that woman talking to those kids I just…”

Hot-Guy does but in then, his voice rising a little above Bucky’s, “look at me,” he says and Bucky realises that his gaze has slipped from Hot-Guy’s again so he drags it back up, “there,” Hot-Guy murmurs, soft, steady, reaching up to gently cup Bucky’s cheek in his free hand, “is that how the story ends, at the moment?”

Bucky nods. Yeah. That’s how it ends. Bucky seeing something that he didn’t understand and his paranoid mind coming up with explanations.

Hot-Guy searches his eyes and Bucky wonders if he’s searching for tears. But Bucky doesn’t cry a lot, cried more than enough in that cell. He’s more emotionally exhausted than anything, talking through all that again. But it’s out there now, out in the open, and Steve knows why he’s fragile and maybe that’s a good thing or maybe it’s not but Bucky’s still glad that he decided to do it instead of just explaining the fact that Brock cheated on him. Because now – hopefully – Hot-Guy will understand. “And I ain’t trying to make excuses for believing that you cheated. That ain’t what I’m trying to do,” Bucky begins, “I just- I just want you to know why I jumped to that conclusion. Basically because I’m a mess of a man but you make it better. So just…don’t go away because I ignored you instead of talking to you about it like a normal person?”

Hot-Guy shakes his head, as if he doesn’t need Bucky’s words of apology at all, “Thank you. For telling me that. But that was Natasha, and she’s my friend – maybe even one of my best friends - but she’s nothing else.”

“You just-“

“It’s my turn now,” Hot-Guy doesn’t let him finish, squeezing his hand again, “let me say what I need to say, okay? I promise you I don’t have kids. I would never ever hurt you like that. You’re my best guy. More than that. You’re what’s been making me smile. I never thought it was possible for me to care so much about someone else ever again and then you walk in with your hair and your smile and you’re falling apart over a song and it just- it just fit. I wanted to get to know you. I wanted to go on a date with you. I wanted to kiss you senseless.” His hand that’s holding Bucky’s slides gently up Bucky’s arm, as he uses the thumb of his other hand to stroke over Bucky’s lower lips. There’s a moment held so delicately between them, mixed with all that Bucky has said and all that Hot-Guy has yet to say. Hot-Guy opens his mouth and Bucky waits for the story – perhaps about Peggy who he heard Hot-Guy talking to Sam, perhaps about something else.

“My names Steve.”

And there it is. It’s just…there. His name is Steve. This man that Bucky is head over heels for it called Steve. Bucky’s hand moves to Hot-Guy’s waist, a firm grip that he manages to slip just under the hem of Steve’s shirt, the warmth of Steve’s skin underneath echoing against Bucky’s fingertips.

“Steve,” Bucky tries it out on his tongue and Hot-Guy full on grins.

Steve grins.

“Stevie,” Bucky slides closer, decides that after all of that they need something to bring a lighter atmosphere to the couch, “were you too scared of telling me in case I decided I couldn’t be with someone who shares their name with an Avenger?”

And Steve laughs. It’s such a beautiful sound. Fuller and richer than the laugh that Steve managed out earlier that night at the door. It’s something that Bucky has been missing for far too long: since that picnic over two weeks ago now. And the air settles in a wonderful relaxed moment.

There’s a weight, Bucky realises, that’s been pulled straight off his chest after talking about all of that. Steve understands, and he knows Steve’s name and it’s all just…fitting together. Like puzzle pieces. Like parts of a jigsaw.

When Steve leans forward, Bucky expects it, leans into the touch of Steve’s lips against his own and holds there for just a second – savouring it, savouring that feeling – just a second before he begins to let himself kiss back. And oh, how he missed this. Steve kisses like no one else Bucky has ever known. He kisses with a weight that would be suffocating if it wasn’t also a cure for every disease or aliment that Bucky could think of (at least, Bucky is pretty sure it’s a life changing cure. He’s at least ninety nine percent certain).

Steve tastes like hot chocolate and cake and Bucky is brought back to thinking about the cake analogy that was floating in his head before he went to work that morning. Here, right in front of him, is his cake. His real cake. In a man named Steve who used to be called Hot-Guy (at least in Bucky’s head). This is his sweetness, his chocolate, his treat.

And Bucky is damn well sure he has a sweet tooth.

There’s the gentle slide of Steve’s tongue in his mouth, the soundtrack of soft panting that they’re beginning to build up as the hand that isn’t cupping Bucky’s face moves to trail down Bucky’s body until it reaches just under Bucky’s shirt.

“I think,” Steve say’s as he pulls back, and Bucky whines at the loss because no, he’s missed this too much and he’s just been so emotionally open to Steve, and now he needs to be physically open to Steve, needs to be so full of Steve, so clogged up with Steve that he’s drowning in it. But Steve continues, as if adamant to keep Bucky away from what he needs for a few more moments, or maybe he just enjoys teasing Bucky. It’s honestly hard to tell. “I think that I might need to know your name. You know, so I know what to moan later,” his hand moves a little further up the underneath of Bucky’s shirt, hitching up the fabric, and Bucky can just feel his fingers begin to land on some hard earned scars. “If that’s okay with you, of course. I just- I just really want to show you a tour of my bedroom maybe? I missed you so much.”

Bucky blinks, realising what Steve is offering.

Sex.

He wants to have sex with Bucky.

Not some really supermodel hot red head or someone else who’s equally as attractive as Steve is. No. He wants to have sex with Bucky. He wants to take Bucky to his bedroom and he wants to see the scars and he wants to do that, be as intimate as Bucky wants to be with Steve. It’s mindboggling, mind blowing, that Steve could ever want that, and yet as Steve pulls back to stare Bucky in the eyes it’s so obvious that that is what he wants.

Those bright blue pupils are lust blown, and Bucky’s smile nudges at his mouth, demanding attention because oh. Oh.

Steve isn’t cheating on him. He’s here, wanting to have sex with him.

“I haven’t, uh, done that, in a long time.” Bucky murmurs.

Steve shrugs, “me neither, and we don’t have to. We can just continue talking, if you like. But I just- I just think you’re so beautiful.” His hand skims gently over the skin he’s uncovered in his pulling up of the shirt.

“And you’re horny.” Bucky teases.

“And that too, maybe,” Steve relents, smirk well set on his face, “and maybe I’m just as desperate to know your name.”

Bucky moves to carefully extract himself from Steve, moving his hand and standing but pulling Steve up with him. This time it’s his own actions that earn a whine, “to the bedroom then, if it’s as fancy as the rest of this place, it’s probably a lot more comfy than these couches. Might even have silk sheets,” Bucky says, stealing a kiss that doesn’t quite work considering the fact that he’s grinning like an idiot and apparently Steve is too. Their teeth clash but it’s still one of the best kisses that Bucky has ever had in his life.

“My name is Bucky Barnes.” He murmurs as Steve leads the way.

“Bucky,” Steve shakes his head, and Bucky’s ready for the teasing: people have teased him about his name more than once before. But instead all he gets is, “Bucky, come to bed with me?”

Blue eyes staring at him like that, Bucky was never going to say ‘no’.

-///-

The first time that Bucky had seen Steve he’d been entranced by the broad chest on the guy, the thing looked like a wasteland, or an ocean. He’d been entranced by all of Steve really, those kissable lips and the fact that he seemed generally concerned for Bucky’s wellbeing and all of it.

Now he’s laid here, his feet tangled with Steve’s, his head on Steve’s chest, listening to his heartbeat as his fingers trace over the large expanse that is Steve’s chest. The patterns that he draws are completely and utterly aimless, they’re not even worth comparing to the pictures that Steve was painting in the main room of this luxury apartment. Steve’s chest is rising and falling, bliss painted all over his sleeping face and Bucky can’t help but lean up and kiss his cheek, sooth a hand through that golden hair.

Hot-Guy did not disappoint once he had all of his clothing off, Bucky could testify in a court of law about that.

The start of last night: the phone call with Becca, the nightmare, driving over here and being insulted by the doorman, all of that seems a million years away from now, in this moment, his head against Steve’s chest, his thoughts brimming with what they’d done the night before.

Perhaps Brock saw it fit to taunt Bucky about his own perfect sex life, but Bucky had had to awful misfortune of sleeping with Brock Rumlow and he could honestly say that Brock couldn’t hold a flame to the way it was to be with Steve in bed. Steve was both gentle, and demanding, and Bucky’s scars still tingled with all the attention that Steve had seen fit to grant each and every single one.

(“You gonna hurry up and actually touch my dick anytime soon, Stevie,”

“Hmmm…gotta kiss over every single one of these scars first. They all need love.”

“You’re a sap.”

“You’re a jerk. Let me do this.”)

And now? And now Bucky was just completely blissed out. Steve. He finally had a name for his man and Steve had a name for his (which he’d used vocally last night. Bucky sure hoped Steve’s apparently famous neighbours had sound proof walls or else he was ninety nine percent certain that most of them would know Bucky’s name now as well as he would likely know there’s).

He wonders what Steve is dreaming about and can only hope that whatever it is it is a good dream. Steve deserves every single good dream in the world. If someone had accused Bucky of cheating he would have been offended to no end but Steve? Steve listened, he listened and by the end of it he still wanted Bucky. He listened and at the end of it he’d kissed Bucky and asked him to come to bed.

Steve deserves only good dreams.

His head turns to the sunlight creeping in through the window, fingers keeping up there careful patterns against Steve’s chest. It was a beautiful bedroom one that looks even nicer with Steve’s paint stained shirt and Bucky’s ‘hobo’ outfit on the floor - and Bucky had been right, there was silk sheets in here, but he wasn’t exactly about to start complaining about the luxuries that came with his boyfriend.

Against his hair there was suddenly the press of lips and Bucky’s face lifts just a little, eyes lighting up, “good morning,” he hums, uncaring about whatever morning breath he is likely to have as he leans up to give Steve a kiss.

“Happy you came over?” Steve asks, one arm snaking further around Bucky’s chest. Apparently Steve was a cuddlier this early on in the mornings. Like some big golden octopus.

“Yeah,” Bucky is desperately happy he’d reached for the phone without thinking the night before, he wasn’t sure he’d have gotten this if he’d waited until morning to ring Steve and finally sort things out with him. “Last night was…wow. Where did you even learn to do all of that stuff?”

Steve wiggles his eyebrows, his free hand playing lightly with Bucky’s hair that was most definitely a mess, “what can I say, you just bring out that side in me.”

Bucky nuzzles against his chest, “wonderful. It was wonderful.”

“I know, I was a little worried, haven’t actually been intimate with anyone in…well. Over a year now.” Bucky watches as Steve drags his lower lip into his mouth to chew on. He sits up just a little, just enough so that he can stare down at Steve as he talks to him, look him properly in the eye.

“A while ago, long time now, when you were talking to Sam. I- I might have heard some stuff. Only I didn’t want to bring it up because we’d only just started all-“ he waves his hand around “-this, you know? But he said that he didn’t want you filling the hole that Peggy had left with just anyone. You don’t have to talk about it,” he adds quickly, “But if you need to then you can. I mean, you said some stuff yesterday about how you didn’t think you could care for anyone again. And I can testify that getting that stuff off my chest yesterday…it helped. Having you know all about that. My past, what I’ve been through. So you don’t have to tell me but I wanted to offer.”

Steve’s smile falters just a little, and Bucky is almost regrets that he brought it up, except that Steve deserves to be able to talk to him, deserves the same opportunity to get things off his chest as he offered Bucky last night. Bucky runs his hand what he hopes is in a comforting way through Steve’s hair, “was this the wrong time to bring it up?”

“No,” Steve says softly, voice a little horse, “if I’m honest it’s…I was thinking about her just now. Before you brought it up.” He sighs, “have you ever…have you ever had anyone you love die?”

Bucky’s thoughts move to his mother in her final few days and he nods, “before I joined the army my mum was in hospital. I, uh, joined when she died. Couldn’t deal with things like college anymore. Threw it away and joined the army just because.”

“So you get it then? How you just can’t deal with anything. How a part of you just wants to die?” Steve asks and yeah, Bucky gets that. He does. Grief does crazy things to you, it makes the things you used to view as important seem nothing but worthless.

“Yeah, I get it.” Bucky confirms.

Steve takes a deep breath and for a second, Bucky’s not sure if he’s actually going to continue until he speaks, “Well, Peggy was my wife. So I guess in a way you were right, I was married, I’m just not anymore.”

Oh. Oh. The pieces click together as Bucky pulls Steve closer, so he has someone to hold onto. Steve was married to someone, to a woman named Peggy apparently. And then she died. Bucky could barely imagine that. He thought about how if he lost Steve now, how it would break him and he hadn’t known Steve long enough to get married to him.

“She got a brain tumour.” Steve murmurs, and his voice sounds just slightly wet with something cogging it, “It was…awful, towards the end. We knew each other all the way through high school, and she was really supportive of everything I did. Strong woman. Could really hold her own. And pretty as hell. You would have loved her. But then she got diagnosed and it was…yeah. She started to forget things as it went on, had a few operations but none of them really came to anything. And then she died. Peacefully. In her sleep.”

“Oh, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs, unsure what to say. What do you even say to something like that? But last night it hadn’t been about what Steve said – for him it was just that Steve was there. So Bucky just had to do the same in return.

“She told me, before she died, that she wanted me to find someone, be happy. That’s why I was just thinking of her. Because…I did.” He looks up at Bucky, and there’s such adoration in his eyes that Bucky feels like he might break under the pressure of it, under it all.  “And she would have really liked you, I just know it. So yeah, I guess you’re messed up. But I’m a widow, so I’m messed up to. We’re all messed up. But we can take care of each other through that, right?”

“Right,” Bucky repeated, leaning over to press a kiss to Steve’s forehead, “oh, baby, I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Steve shook his head, “It’s alright. Its- she’s in a better place, that’s what I have to keep thinking. And she did have a really good life. You don’t gotta be sorry. Best we can do for her is just keep living. That’s what she’d want. And yeah, I ain’t ever gonna stop loving her, but that doesn’t mean that there isn’t room in my heart for someone else,” Steve takes Bucky’s knuckles and carefully kisses over each one. “Thanks for listening, I know it can’t be easy to hear that your boyfriend is a widow.”

“Nah,” Bucky shrugs, “your boyfriend has problems to. Like you said, we look after each other.”

Steve leans backwards, “just so long as you know that I ain’t like that arsehole. I’m still half tempted to find him and kill him,” Steve rubs the wetness from his eyes as he speaks, the room returning to its slightly more even toned atmosphere, “I ain’t gonna cheat on you like that.”

“I know,” and Bucky does know now. After seeing this, after them both opening up to one another he does know. He feels sort of uncontrollably, innately, incredibly guilty about the whole misunderstanding He should have gone after Hot-Guy or rung him or given him a chance to explain. He was just so upset. But he has no reason to be, he really doesn’t. “Just don’t beat up Brock. He’s not worth it. I punched him yesterday anyway, he’s had enough shit.”

“He deserves more, no one should be allowed to hurt you like that,” Steve says as he gently presses lips to Bucky’s nose, causing Bucky to laugh a little. This punk was such a sap, honest to god.

“So you’re really okay with it? You forgive me?” Bucky asks.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Bucky.” He promises, “Nothing at all.”

There’s another moment of relative silence, of Bucky taking in what he knows now. Steve had a hard time with Peggy, he watched his wife die. But now he’s here. Bucky had a hard time in the war and with Brock. But now he’s here. They’re both here, and safe and they’re working towards something like happiness, and Bucky supposes that that’s good enough for both of them.

-///-

The moment is interrupted by the sudden sound of footsteps and the call of: ‘Steve?’ just outside the bedroom door.

Bucky actually jumps. His whole body just sort of freezes but beside him Steve just rolls his head into his pillow and groans.

“Who’s in your apartment?” Bucky asks, but before Steve really has time to reply the door to the bedroom is being slammed open.

“Steven get out of bed now, seriously, we know that you’re bummed about your guy but if you miss one more practice session because you’re moping around listening to emo music and painting pictures of the idiot who decided to leave you hanging then I swear to god I will kick-“

The words flowing from the mouth of the red head stood in the door stem, but Bucky can practically feel the threat leaching in the room. Steve absently waves a hand from where he’s buried himself back into the pillow and Bucky just sits awkwardly, trying to nonchalantly rearrange himself to make sure that he’s covered by the blanket.

“Uh, hi. You must be Nat,” because the woman stood there is most certainly the woman that Bucky saw with Steve a week ago that sent him into spiralling panic. You don’t forget a face like hers. There’s something striking about her whole appearance, or maybe it’s just the way that she carries herself. He raises his arm into something of a wave and tries not to look too sheepish. “I’m the, uh, idiot.”

Natasha surveys him for a moment, and Bucky has the awful feeling that if she decides he’s a serious danger to Steve she might pull out a gun and shoot him.

“You’re Steve’s ‘Beautiful Angel’?” Natasha say’s finally, leaning back against the wall.

Angel.

Steve’s been calling him angel. Bucky feels slightly bad for reducing Steve to a merge ‘Hot-Guy’ but in all fairness, Bucky doesn’t have the sappy capacity that is apparently built into Steve’s hard drive.

From where Steve is hiding under the covers there is a distinct groan, “Natasha. We don’t tell the hot boyfriend that we’ve been calling him an angel for weeks. It’s weird. He might run away.”

Natasha’s eyes flash and Bucky actually gulps. Steve called her one of his best friends, but she seems honestly scary as hell, especially when se murmurs, “it’s a good job that I would actually be able to track him down then, isn’t it?”

Steve remerges from under the covers to raise an eyebrow.

“So, are you actually coming to practice today?” Natasha asks, “Or is this one of those situations where I have to pretend you’re ill. Because I think that Tony is getting sick of your shit.”

“Tony worries too much,” Steve yawns, “Bucky, this is Natasha. Natasha, this Bucky.”

“What kind of a name is Bucky,” Natasha raises her eyebrows, completely comfortable in her element apparently, despite the fact that two naked men have been thrown off guard by her appearance. She has something of a real smile on her face though, underneath the smirk and if Bucky had to guess he’d take a stab in the dark and say she was happy for them both? Or perhaps just for Steve.

“My real name is James, but people only call me that when they’re angry,” Bucky shrugs, as Steve stretches and climbs out of bed.

“Nat, you cannot just barge in here at whatever time in the morning you wake up,” Steve says and oh. Oh. That makes sense. Natasha was the laugh he heard, but it was just because she was here. With Steve. In fact, Bucky’s willing to place money that she lives in the same building as this. “You don’t know what you could be interrupting.”

Nat shrugs, “Morning sex later. Practice now. Your pal can stick around, can’t he?”

Steve shoots him an apologetic look but honestly? “Yeah, I don’t mind sticking around,” Bucky nods, “in fact, I think I’m gonna stick around as long as you’ll let me.”

Chapter Text

Bucky almost cringes as he hands over the envelop to his niece and he swears that his hand is shaking.

Morgan for all her credit looks excited and slightly worried (although he’s ninety nine percent certain that the worry is just her being an actor). She basically tears open the top of the envelop.

Bucky’s not sure if he’s a really good uncle or whether he’s just trying to make his own life hard as hell when the tickets fall out and she gasps.

-///-

The coffee that is produced from Steve’s coffee machine is so desperately good that Bucky has to wonder what miracle lead Steve to even be in a coffee shop when he was lucky enough to meet the man because Bucky is pretty sure that Steve could have made his fortune on this stuff that comes out of the coffee machine alone.

It’s certainly enough to tempt Bucky into staying over at Steve’s far more often than he ever viably should for someone who doesn’t live in the building (or would ever have enough money to in a million years).

A smile flickers onto his face as he turns, warm mug steaming in his hand. Across the room he watches as Steve tunes his guitar up, nimble fingers gently plucking each string, his brows furrowed in concentration, sunlight spilling from the window to grant him with the halo that Bucky knows he deserves.

Well. Maybe it’s not just the coffee that has Bucky over here so often.

“An artist, a musician, is there anything else I should know about you?” Bucky sidesteps a few of the canvases as he makes his way to Steve’s side. Often enough he prefers not to offer a distraction when Steve is working on one of his hobbies (be it art or music), but this morning is different. This morning there is temptation within the dark bruises lining Steve’s neck and peeking out of the top of his shirt. Oh this is the way to start every morning. Bucky’s not even annoyed that he has to go to work in less than an hour.

Steve’s concentration moves from his guitar up to Bucky, “well, that depends. Do you want to PG-13 rated version to that answer?”

Bucky snorts. Steve is such a…such a…a fucking punk. He’s not even sure there’s another word that he could use to describe this miracle of a man. Asshole is a bit too strong, but he’s certainly a little more than just a plain old simple gentleman that Bucky had assumed he was on that first date. Bucky knows that from more than one ‘sleepover’ he’s had here.

“Well, you know my ears are fragile,” Bucky winks as he presses a kiss to the top of Steve’s forehead.

This.

Stupidly, domestically this.

It’s something that Bucky could get used to. Something he is getting used to. There’s a draw in Steve’s room of his clothes and if it wasn’t for the whole ‘wow, you’re rich and your apartment makes me feel like I fell into a cheesy movie’ then he’s pretty sure that it would just be a normal morning. A normal morning.

How did he find himself in this position? With a man and an amazing coffee machine and forehead kisses.

Maybe he’s dreaming.

He’s probably dreaming.

If it didn’t feel so real he would be ninety nine percent certain that he was dreaming.

“So when do I get to come and see your band practice again?” Bucky asks.

On cue, Steve rolls his eyes, “I told you,” he groans, “I’m not sure you could handle us yet.”

As it happens, Steve is actually in a band. He talks about it sometimes, in a loose sort of fashion but Bucky figures he’s just a little shy about it (which Bucky is ninety nine percent certain is a stupid assumption to make. Anything that Steve is in has to be at least fifty percent better than anything else. At least.) Still, he won’t tell Bucky much other than that they practice every day and that Bucky ‘can’t handle’ them yet.

It’s fine, Bucky can wait. He’ll listen to Steve’s songs another time. It’s actually sort of cute, the whole band thing. Like Steve is in high school still. Most people in their late twenties don’t have bands that don’t have concerts anywhere or perform outside of their friends apartments (Bucky is ninety nine percent certain that Steve’s band doesn’t play concerts anywhere. Steve would have invited him.)

“I don’t know what you’re worrying about. You can’t be any worse than the Avengers,” Bucky grants.

And there’s that laugh. So beautiful. “Yeah, certainly not any worse than the way the Avengers play,” Steve agrees.

“Exactly. So stop worrying.” There’s the need for more things after that. The need for a shower for one thing, and clothes for another. As wonderful as it is to walk around Steve’s apartment in nothing but boxer shorts (and as much as he knows Steve likes it) he is ninety nine percent certain that his co-workers would not enjoy the view of Bucky not wearing practically anything. Not everyone loves his scars as much as Steve does.

When Bucky exists the god given beauty that is Steve’s shower (his shower at his own apartment is a mere peasant in comparison to the king that lives in Steve’s bathroom) Natasha is in the living room drinking her own cup of heavenly coffee.

Bucky thinks that she likes him. It’s hard to tell. Steve says that she does but she’s still scary as hell sometimes but maybe that’s just because he knows that if he ever hurt Steve she’s the kind of person who would make good on the threat of killing him for it and she would know where to hide the body and she wouldn’t get caught. She would be able to make it seem like it was an accident.

If the secret assassins are really after Bucky like Darcy thought, then Bucky is ninety nine percent certain that Natasha is in their leagues. And if she’s not then she deserves to be.

“You’re over so much I’m starting to believe the doorman,” she comments as Bucky tries to do up his tie (which is really not the easiest thing to do with one hand), “which alleyway do you live on when you’re not sleeping in Steve’s bed.”

“Ha, ha,” Bucky fakes dryly, but there’s something of a warmth to their playful banter. He’s been round at Steve’s most nights for the past two and a half weeks. It seems like more times passed since he first came here – surely a place can’t grow to feel like a second home in less than a month?

Natasha pulls her hair into a bun as she waits and Bucky’s almost reluctant to leave. Maybe Natasha doesn’t like him, but he’d pick hanging out with her and Steve over work.

That is perhaps the one downfall of sleeping here most nights. He never wants to leave.

Steve places his guitar down after a second, and stands to cup Bucky’s face, giving Bucky one of those sweet kisses that have Bucky aching for more, “see you after work, Bucky,” Steve murmurs, all soft and delightful. Steve uses his name a lot now, as if he’s addicted to saying it. Bucky would hate it if he didn’t secretly love it.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m going to my sisters after, so I’ll be back for about seven,” Bucky reminds Steve, running his hand through Steve’s hair.

“Just in time for a hate club,” Steve agrees and he’s smiling in a way where the corner of his lip is just ever so slightly raised up, his eyes actually sparkling in a way Bucky was ninety nine percent certain could only happen in fiction before he met Steve. Maybe he could just stay a little longer…

“You too can’t tell because you’re too lost in each other’s eyes but I am gagging right now,” comes the call from behind Steve and Bucky sighs as he pulls back, turning a glare at Natasha.

“Oh, double bitch face, you two were made for each other,” Natasha’s eyebrows raise and Bucky realises Steve is glaring too. He presses a final kiss to Steve’s cheek, decides to go risky by flipping off Natasha (and prays to every god he can think of that she won’t assassinate him for it) and begins to head out the door.

-///-

Morgan is singing ‘the First Avenger’ from the top of her lungs as she dances around the sitting room, her top displaying the frankly horrid image of the Avenger’s logo.

Bucky tries as hard as he can to be supportive, but there is a limit. “You know, just because it’s your birthday next week that does not mean that you can do anything you want in the next few days.” Next Wednesday. Morgan’s birthday. And he still hasn’t quite decided what to get his niece.

Yeah, okay, so maybe he’s not the best uncle in the world. But he’s sure he’ll find something she’ll love.

“You’re just bitter because you haven’t realised how amazing the Avengers are,” Morgan breaks her singing to quip, which half achieved what Bucky wanted it to. After all, the singing did stop.

“I’m just saying, you’re going to have to grow up eventually. Start listening to some real music for a change,” Bucky advices as Becca slaps his knee gently.

“She’s going to be eleven next week, not fifty, she doesn’t need to start listening to classical music just yet,” Becca reprimands. Michael laughs from the other side of the room, soft and gentle as he takes a sip from his coffee that Bucky is ninety nine percent certain could never taste as good as the stuff from Steve’s coffee machine, which is part of the reason why Bucky refused one when offered. Steve’s coffee machine has ruined him for any other coffee.

“Not classical dear sister, classic. There is a difference.”

Morgan sticks out her tongue, “yeah, one of them requires skill, the other requires screaming into a microphone,” she makes a face. Ah. Well. Maybe Bucky shouldn’t have shown her Nirvana’s ‘smells like teen spirit’ when he was trying to change her idea’s in what was needed to merit tasteful.

“It almost sounds like your saying that the Avengers have skill there,” Bucky rolls his eyes.

“They do!” Morgan insists and oh, here is this argument again. He almost wants to text Steve and complain but it would be considerably rude to get his phone out now, he believes. And it is Morgan’s birthday next week. He should at least try his hand at being nice.

“Prove it,” Bucky demands and she sighs.

“Okay, so Steve Rogers, he’s not only an amazing singer and guitarist but he’s also a painter. Only he’s really secretive about his work. There’s a few pictures of his work that’s been released online though and he could make a living out of that alone.

Another thing that Steve has in common with the ‘Steve’ of the Avengers. Only his Steve actually is a good artist whereas Bucky doubts the pictures that Steve Rogers apparently drew even come close to being as good as his Steve’s. And he’s never heard his Steve sing before in his life.

“My boyfriend is a better artist than he’ll ever be. Your argument is invalid.” Bucky says.

Beside him, Becca and Michael both snort simultaneously.

“Hey, he is a good artist. He has these big canvases all over his apartment.” Bucky feels the desperate need to defend Steve’s honour because Steve is a damn good artist.

Becca’s eyes widen and glow.

Ah. Shit.

“You go to his apartment now, do you?” she asks.

“Oh shut up, Becca. I’m an adult now. I can go to my boyfriend’s apartment.” He defends but nope. He knows Becca well enough that he knows he’s not getting out of this one that easily.

“What’s it like?” she asks.

Bucky pauses to think, “Well, uh. Large is how I’d put it. Real large. I think his family might be super rich or something because he has a doorman and stuff. I don’t think I could afford the bathroom of his place. But it’s nice. And his best friend lives across the hall. You know. Natasha.” He adds her name a little sheepishly. He can’t believe that he let Steve come over here to find out if he was okay because he wouldn’t answer his phone. He was a bit of an idiot.

But Steve understands, and he understands why Bucky was a bit of an idiot. Bucky certainly doesn’t think that Steve is blaming him for anything that happened, that much he can be thankful for. Becca was right about one thing, Steve really is a ten.

“Oh, and how’s that?”

“She’s…scary, actually. But one hundred percent not married to Steve. They’re real good friends though.” Really good. He’s had more than a few breakfast-in-bed’s with Steve and Natasha to know that Natasha isn’t the sort of friend that you only ever see once a week. Bucky sort of likes it that way though. At least Bucky knows for certain that Steve had someone to look after him once Peggy died (he’s ninety nine percent certain that that’s where Natasha’s habit of being over so much comes from. Steve doesn’t talk much about Peggy other than what he said initially but he has said that Natasha was there for him one hundred percent during all of it)

“I’m glad. Well done for sorting your shit out. And apparently learning his first name.” Becca raises her mug in mock toast and Bucky throws a pillow at her.

A second later Morgan starts singing Avenger’s songs again.

Morgan is very lucky that Bucky loves her.

“Okay, well, I’ll see you all next week then. Although I can’t quite remember why I’m coming round…”

His eyes land on Morgan who laughs that beautiful laugh of hers. It’s almost as beautiful as Steve’s and it has such an innocence to it, such a wonder at the world. Morgan is a lot of things, as his niece, but one of the main things, one of the things that he loves the most about her is the way the world hasn’t had a chance to touch her yet, hasn’t had a chance to bring too much sadness to her life. She laughs in a care freeway and her smiles are untainted. She is perfectly, amazingly, beautiful.

Becca walks him to the door when he leaves, “you know, Steve is welcome to come to Morgan’s birthday is she wants to. Although perhaps warn him again that she is an Avengers fan.”

Morgan is an Avengers fan, but Bucky thinks that Steve might be able to deal with that. Bucky’s pretty certain that he’d be one of those people who are amazing with kids. Just one more perfect thing, on top of all the perfect things about Steve.

Yeah, he thinks, he will bring Steve. They can suffer through all the Avenger’s music together.

-///-

“I’m going to take it by that hello Natasha is not hiding in here anywhere,” Bucky pants as he pulls back from Steve who has such a mischievous smirk on his face it’s almost silly. There are worst ways to enter your boyfriend’s apartment than an impromptu make out session, Bucky supposes.

“Nope. Despite what she may believe she actually doesn’t live in my apartment.” Steve whispers into Bucky’s ear, as if he’s telling some sort of large secret.

“I don’t believe you,” Bucky murmurs straight back, pulling away. Steve’s got on one of his paint stained shirts so it is obvious what he was doing before Bucky interrupted him. When Bucky looks down at his hand it’s covered with wet paint from where his hand had been running all over Steve’s shirt.

“Any problem with the doorman?”

“More of a problem with the people who hang out outside your door with cameras. Seriously. Who lives in this place that’s so bloody famous?” Bucky raises an eyebrow.

Steve just shrugs, “I don’t know. I mean, if I didn’t get you for free I might be tempted to take pictures of you whenever I could from street corners. Maybe they all just have become so dumbfounded by how attractive you are?”

Steve is stupidly and unbelievably smooth when he puts his mind to it. It took a while for him to work up the courage and Bucky thinks it might come more from him being so comfortable around Bucky than it does from his actual ability to flirt. But Bucky loves it anyway, he loves it even more because Steve is comfortable enough around Bucky to really just let himself talk.

“That’s creepy. But no. Although one of them did snap my picture today. Maybe I’ll appear in the next gossip magazine. I wonder who I’ll be dating in it?”

Steve taps him lightly around the head, “Oh shut up and kiss me,” he murmurs but Bucky is laughing too much for that, so he steps back and moves towards the kitchen, “I’m going to order pizza,” he shouts through, “as amazing as you are at cooking I really don’t have the energy for that today.”

He’s slightly worried about what the doorman will think of the pizza delivery person but at least if they get called homeless like Bucky did it will be an interesting story to tell their friends. Maybe they’ll even catch sight of the famous people that apparently live around here that Bucky has never seen.

“You know, the doorman doesn’t exactly like it when we order take out,” Steve supplies even as he hands over his phone.

“I don’t particularly like the doorman so that works out well doesn’t it?” Bucky says as he types in the number and rings up an order, then collapses next to Steve on the sofa.

Steve is careful often, in the way he sits in places in his house. Bucky sometimes wonders if he worries about being watched or something like that, being judged. It takes a while for Steve to relax in his own home in a way it didn’t take in Bucky’s. He sits still until Bucky flops onto his lap or something similar.

“Hate club,” Bucky grins. It’s almost their private joke now. Hate club. It’s there thing, the Avengers Hate Club. It’s what brought them together, what gave Steve the excuse to ask Bucky out on a date. It’s beautiful.

“Hate Club,” Steve mirrors as he begins to relax at Bucky’s insistent prodding. An arm falls around Bucky’s shoulders and Bucky curls closer to Steve, his head resting on the others shoulder.

“Okay, so as the first port of call, I think I’d like to rant for a moment, about my niece, and then possibly ask you a favour,” he really does hope that Steve will want to come and see Morgan on her birthday because he’s pretty sure that – bar the fact that he’s in an Avengers Hate Club – Morgan would love Steve, she really would.

He doesn’t think it’s possible for someone to not love Steve once they get to know him, he really doesn’t.

Maybe Morgan will even learn to love Bucky’s Steve more than she loves the Avenger’s Steve. It could be the first step or recovery to her Avenger’s habit that Bucky is one hundred percent ready to send her to rehab for.

“Morgan,” Steve strokes a hand through Bucky’s hair, gently loosening it from the ponytail that Bucky has it tied in. “What did she do this time?”

“Sing at me. Loudly. One of the Avenger’s songs. And I can’t even do anything about it because it’s her birthday next week,” Bucky sighs, “and I have no idea what to get her, Stevie, because all she wants is Avengers crap. I’m not sure that that is a habit that I should be fuelling, if you get where I’m coming from.”

“Well, lucky for you that I talk to your sister sometimes, isn’t it?” Steve say’s nonchalantly.

Bucky raises his head and narrows his eyes, “what are you scheming with my sister about this time?”

He still hasn’t forgotten hearing them talking in the lounge about using Morgan to help Steve tell Bucky something. Scheming. Becca is always scheming and Steve is just the kind of person who would gladly go along with her plans.

“Nothing,” Steve promises, “well….perhaps something.”

Bucky glares expectantly.

“Okay, well, your sister may have mentioned that Morgan’s birthday was coming up and that you might want…help…picking out a gift. Which you do, so I took the liberty of getting her something from us,” Steve explains.

But Bucky’s mind? Yeah, that’s still caught on the us. Steve and Bucky getting something for Morgan together. As a couple. And Morgan hasn’t even met Steve but…

“You’re in this aren’t you?” Bucky asks quietly, momentarily distracted, “for the long haul?”

Steve looks slightly surprised at the question, like it’s the stupidest question that Bucky’s ever had the audacity of asking.

“Well, yeah. That’s what you want right?”

What he wants. Yes. Yes. A million times yes. He wants to wake up next to Steve every day like today, he wants to talk about Steve with Becca and stand and watch Steve tune his guitar in the morning and drink from Steve’s coffee machine and all the other amazing things that he wants but that doesn’t mean that he thought he’d be lucky enough to get them.

He realises that he’s been quiet for an awfully long time when Steve’s mouth begins to frown. Oh. Whoops. “Yes,” he says finally, “yes of course that’s what I want. Sorry. I just- yes.”

Steve’s grin is blinding.

“Good,” Steve coughs, seemingly breaking out of the trance that he was put into when Bucky said he wanted that, both of them settling into their odd sense of domestic bliss. “Well. If we’re heading down that route…it’s not like you have to put my name on the tag when you give it to her, but I do have something that I know she’ll like.”

Bucky is so caught up in how amazing it is that Steve thought of this, thought of his niece that he doesn’t think about the fact that while Bucky talks about Morgan a lot the only thing that anyone can be certain that Morgan would like is…

Steve neatly deposits two Avengers tickets into Bucky’s hands.

Oh.

Oh no he didn’t.

“What are these?” Bucky asks, like he doesn’t already know.

“They’re tickets. VIP tickets actually. To an Avengers concert. So that you can take Morgan.” Steve says and he sounds proud. Bucky would never hurt Steve but at the same time he has the sudden violent urge to throttle him.

“Where did you even get these from? The show’s been sold out for months. And I only know that because Morgan’s been going on about it. I think the VIP tickets sold out in the first five minutes because I’m ninety nine percent certain that the world is insane. This is the opening act of their next tour, isn’t it?” he runs his hands over them and if he didn’t know their value he would rip them in two, he really would. “We’re in the hate club. We’re having a hate club right now.”

Steve nods, “I’m fully aware of that. But I’m also aware of how much your niece loves the Avengers and my friend was selling these off for cheap. I thought, well, I thought it would be a good plan,” Steve doesn’t look so sure and wow, okay, Bucky needs to shake himself out of this right now because Steve tried to do a nice thing here for Bucky’s family and Bucky should be grateful-

But come on.

“So you want me to sit for two hours listening to these guys sing live. Do you think they’d chuck me out for heckling,” Bucky asks almost hopefully.

Steve rolls his eyes, “do not heckle. Especially considering you have VIP tickets. You’ll be meeting the band after the show.”

Well this keeps getting worse and worse, doesn’t it? It’s like some horrible downwards spiral. Bucky is pretty certain that he’s falling.

“This is terrifying for me, you’re aware,” Bucky finally points out, “I have to go and meet this other Steve who is no way as cool as you. Can I at least not be happy about it?”

Steve kisses Bucky’s cheek and nods, “yes, you can be not happy about it. As long as you still actually go. She’ll love you forever. You’ll be the best uncle in the world if you do this for her.”

Bucky is ninety nine percent certain that he doesn’t want to be the best uncle in the world but he doesn’t think that Steve is actually going to give him the chance to say no to this one.

He glances up at Steve somewhat sullen but Steve just laughs and leans in to whisper in his ear, “Bucky, it’s okay. You can survive one night with the Avengers. Do it for me?”

And what can Bucky do but say yes?

Bucky would do anything for Steve.

-///-

Bucky almost cringes as he hands over the envelop to his niece and he swears that his hand is shaking.

Morgan for all her credit looks excited and slightly worried (although he’s ninety nine percent certain that the worry is just her being an actor). She basically tears open the top of the envelop.

Bucky’s not sure if he’s a really good uncle or whether he’s just trying to make his own life hard as hell when the tickets fall out and she gasps.

“You got me tickets to see the Avengers. Uncle Bucky you’re the best!”

Yeah.

The best.

-///-

There are too many people; that is Bucky’s first thought. And by too many people Bucky means that the place is full of all those fangirls who sacrifice good music to the music gods for the crap he’s about to endure.

At least Steve promised that he’d pick them up at the end of all this. He hadn’t been able to make it to Morgan’s party unfortunately, but Morgan is desperately excited to meet the man who convinced her uncle to take her to see the Avenger’s. Apparently almost as excited as she was to actually see the Avengers.

He wishes that Steve was here with him now. The stadium is about to fill to the brim with people desperately excited to see the band that Bucky wouldn’t want to listen to for a million dollars. Most of them are teenagers or pre-teens like Morgan and all of them look far too loud and boisterous. But Steve had held him the night before and kissed him and told him to at least try and enjoy himself. Surprisingly, Steve had seemed utterly nervous, more nervous even than Bucky. The type of nervous that’s pretty damn hard to fake. Bucky had to assure him multiple times that he wasn’t actually mad that Steve got the tickets and Steve still seemed nervous. He seemed more and more nervous the closer it got to Bucky going to pick Morgan up to bring her to the show.

“It’s just…I just feel bad. I’m not sure that you’re going to like it,” Steve said, just before Bucky walked out. He’d spent all day practically clinging to Bucky. He kept dragging him in for kisses and that morning Bucky had received breakfast in bed.

“Steve, it’s the Avengers, I was never going to like it,” Bucky raised his eyebrows, “but at least I get to go and tell this Steve man that he’s nowhere near as good as you.”

That hadn’t seemed to cheer Steve up particularly, so Steve tried again, “Look, I know you and Becca have probably been planning this for ages. Enjoy your prank and I’ll get you back eventually. Now stop sulking and kiss me for luck. I’m going to need it.”

And now he is here, stood in a que waiting to get in to see a show that he really doesn’t want to see. Morgan is stood right next to Bucky, holding Bucky’s hand and practically jumping up and down in excitement.

“Calm down,” Bucky murmurs, trying to quell his own nerves. He can’t believe he’s doing this. Him. Standing with the crazy rabid fangirls who think it’s okay to sacrifice his favourite music to the music gods to see the atrocity that is the Avengers.

“Calm down!” Morgan all but shrieks, “we’re going to see them, Bucky! We’re actually going to see them. I feel like I’ve been waiting my whole life for this!”

“Your aspirations are set high then,” Bucky teases and she slaps him lightly against his shoulder.

“At least pretend to be having fun,” she chides and Bucky shakes his head. To be eleven years old again and to think it’s so easy to pretend to have fun when going to see people like this. Raging, hormonal fangirls parading around and screaming at good looking guys pretending they can play music.

“The goal here is for you to have fun, and for me to suffer, I think,” Bucky points out.

Morgan just sighs and continues her bouncing up and down, undeterred by the conversation.

The bouncing turns into nervous ramblings when people start to let them in.

“I’m going to meet them. We have VIP tickets and I’m going to meet them after the show. I’m going to meet Steve. And Wanda. And Tony. And Thor. And-“

“Okay, okay,” Bucky quiets her as he hands the tickets over and the woman checks them over, points them both to someone else who’s going to lead them to their seats in the front row, “you’re going to see them all, and they’re going to love you, I’m sure. Let’s make it through the show alive before we start thinking about what we’re going to say to the people who never learned how to play musical instruments correctly.”

Morgan slaps him again.

Maybe he deserved it just a little bit.

The stadium is so large around them as they’re directed to where they’re supposed to be. And Bucky knows that this whole concert was sold out meaning that every single seat will be full. Including, unfortunately, the front row seats that they’re being lead to now, staring up at the people that Bucky has spent a long time staring down at.

It’s just a few hours, that’s all that Bucky has to deal with. Just a few hours and then after Morgan has had the chance to meet her Steve Rogers, Bucky can go home to his Steve and never think about any of this ever again. He can have a full on rant at an Avengers Hate club and Steve would lean in and kiss him to tell him to shut up and then he’d kiss everywhere else to until Bucky forgot all about the concert and how awful-

“Bucky, you’re not even paying attention to me,” Bucky blinks as Morgan stares up at him almost expectantly.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky apologises, “did you say something?”

“Yeah, I said, it’s weird that there’s no posters of them or anything. And I got a glance at the people selling merchandise and all of it’s just the logo. None of it has their faces on it, you know.”

Morgan was right, but maybe that was to build the anticipation? Not being able to see them yet but knowing you’d see them live soon. Although, most of the people who would come here, Bucky figured would have pictures of the Avengers on their phones so that kind of defeated the purpose. He isn’t really here to think about that though. He doesn’t really care what the Avengers look like, he’s just hoping that they managed to get a few singing lessons in here and there so they don’t burst his eardrums when they come onstage.

The person who is leading Morgan and Bucky and the rest of the people ‘lucky’ (Bucky is ninety nine percent certain that that is not the word that he would use for this experience) people in the front rows stops then, placing them all in their seats. It’s only then that Bucky thinks about how much Steve must have had to pay for these tickets even if they were selling them cheap. They’re so close to the stage that they’ll be able to see every detail on each of the Avengers faces and they’re right in the middle of the row as well.

This- yeah. This is pretty damn good. If it was any other band then he’d feel like he was sitting on seats made of gold. As it is-

The stadium is filling up around them, so many people, Bucky feels a little squashed and also sort of bad. Here he is, and he hates this band (save words like love and hate for when you mean them, Bucky’s mums voice sing songs in his head) and yet he’s got best seat in the house.

It’s like being a fraud again.

“Do you think they’ll be nice?” Becca is fiddling with the logo of the Avengers that she has on her necklace.

Bucky sighs. Now, now is the time where he has to be a good uncle, no matter what he might think about this band in private. Or vocally sometimes. He doesn’t thinks it’s safe to be that vocal here though. If he was silly enough to do so, he’s pretty sure that the masses on masses of fangirls would eat him alive until it wasn’t just his arm that he was missing. He’s kind of glad Steve didn’t let Bucky borrow the Hate Club top because he’s not sure they would have let him in at the door. “Look, there’s got to be a reason all you people like them right? And it can’t just be the music. They have to at least sort of be nice people at least to their fans.”

“I’m just…” Morgan trails off and Bucky squeezes her fingertips.

“Stop with the nerves,” he says, “come on, I’m here for you. Me. And I’m here because you deserve to have fun here. You don’t deserve to be sat in a pit of nerves the whole show, do you? It would ruin it for you. This is your birthday present.”

She smiles just a little, and Bucky is reminded why he’s doing this, that he’s doing this for her, “thanks Uncle Buck. For all of this. I know it’s not your cup of tea.”

“Understatement,” he agrees, but he’s smiling. He can do this. If it’s for Morgan. He can do this and tonight Steve will make it all better after the show. He can do this for Morgan, he loves her enough. He loves her more than enough.

There’s a sudden hush over the audience and then almost as quickly as the hush began deafening screams that make Bucky’s ears ache. He realises that Tony Stark is stood on the stage, something of a smirk on his face as he stares out over the crowd. It’s odd but Bucky could swear that he catches Bucky’s eyes and winks. Maybe it’s just a trick of the light.

Still, frikin’ weird. There is no way that that won’t be brought up at the next Hate Club. As will the way the lights dim after Tony walks on stage so that the audience had to realise he was there before the concert started.

Tony grabs a microphone.

Bucky cringes.

Here they go.

-///-

“Ladies, gentlemen, all those in-between,” Tony begins, and the crowd is suddenly screaming again, forcing Tony to pause. Oh damn, this is going to go on longer than it should, isn’t it? If they have to keep pausing to accommodate screaming fans. Bucky kind of wants to hit his head against the wall.

“Tonight we have a very special show for you all. Well, all our shows are special, that goes without saying-” more. Damn. Screaming. “But, this one? Super special. Not just because it’s the first show of the tour we’re heading out on-” cue the screaming “-it’s doubly special to at least one of our members. He’s actually super nervous about the show, so I’m counting on all of you to make him feel super welcome and- “there Tony goes again, catching Bucky’s eyes. It’s probably an accident, but it’s really, really weird. Bucky kind of wishes that they weren’t sat on the front row so that wasn’t possible, “-loved.”

Loved. Right.

“And to top it off, we have a brand new song for you all. Uh, huh. Never before heard. Not even sure we’re going to put in on the albums. You might be the only people in the world to ever hear it, so strap in your seat belts because this is going to be a night to remember. A night that could very well Save the World!”

Beside him, Morgan begins screaming as loud as she possibly could. Her eyes are so wide, her breathing laboured, her mouth slightly pouted in the same sort of wonder that Bucky feels whenever he so much as glances at his Steve. Even Bucky had to admit that the excitement in the room was palpable as the music began up, and suddenly-

One – red clothes, brown hair, large smile, hands fluttering around her in time to the music

Two – blue shirt, white hair, practically running towards the stage in exuberant joy

Three – all in purple, and is that a hearing aid Bucky could just make out or were his eyes tricking him?

Four – a large guy, huge, long hair trailing down his back, making his way towards the drums

Five – a sort of almost quiet? Could you call someone quiet who was on stage, looking just a little over shy but with such a god damn smile on his face? Probably not but that’s how Bucky would describe him.

And-

The song begins, them all singing loudly, some with guitars, the drum loud – others like the woman in red singing and dancing a sort of liveliness to the stage that if Bucky is being honest he’s never seen in any other concert.

That doesn’t make the song any better but they are just kind of visually stunning to watch.

But weren’t there supposed to be eight of these freaks not just six?

Everything is swirling, dancing, singing, the music so loud it was thudding in Bucky’s ears and the screams of the fans almost enough to drown out the sound from the speakers. Bucky wasn’t sure if it felt like a concert or some kind of creepy, occult spell.

Still, the music was bad. Really bad.

The things he’d do for his niece.

The song finishes and – like some kind of inescapable nightmares – moves right onto the next one, still with only six members on stage.

Bucky vaguely knows this one is called Scarlett Witch, the girl – Wanda? That’s her name right – taking centre stage to sing solos and continue with – ballet? Bucky is ninety nine percent certain that is the kind of dance she’s doing. It is sort of beautiful whatever it is. Whatever she’s doing, her hands moving, her body leaping in the places where she doesn’t have to sing, her hands wrapping around the microphone in a sensual way when she does.

And then-

It stops.

The music comes to an end and everyone is screaming and going crazy. Bucky feels trapped in and only slightly scared as Tony comes to the front again, “Enjoy that?”

Bucky’s ninety nine percent certain that the scream from the crowd is supposed to be a yes.

“But wait,” Tony makes some kind of show of counting everyone on stage, “we’re missing two, aren’t we?”

The lights dim, suddenly, a single spotlight illuminating the front of the stage. The large one – who Bucky can only assume is Thor – moves a small stool and an acoustic guitar into the centre. Everything is quiet. Even the screaming has stopped as everyone seems to wait with bated breath. Bucky supposes that this is going to be the brand new song.

And then Natasha walks on stage and Bucky’s breathing stops too.

Because Natasha walks on stage. Not Avenger’s Natasha, no. Natasha who walked in on Steve and Bucky in bed together, Natasha who teases Bucky relentlessly and is Steve’s best friend. Natasha.

The screaming starts up again, but Bucky barely hears it. This time when Tony catches his eye and winks, Bucky thinks it might actually be meant for him.

What the hell is going on?

And then, suddenly, horribly, everything fits into place just as Natasha shouts, “Please welcome, Steve Rogers to the stage.”

Steve Rogers doesn’t walk out over the roar.

Steve does.

Bucky’s Steve.

Steve who had kissed him goodbye and listened to him rant about the Avengers and Steve who he was always going to be there for. Steve who had a fancy house and obviously a lot of money. Steve who bought Bucky cake and helped Bucky through all the nightmares and loved every single one of his scars. Steve who laughed whenever Bucky said he hated a song from the Avengers and who held him close and promised him everything. Steve who listened, who kept him wanting to wake up in the morning. Steve who he had an Avengers Hate club with and who brought him cake to combat his mental break down and stupid songs. Steve who had seemed incredibly nervous to see Bucky coming to the show even though he’d been the one who had somehow managed to get VIP tickets so close to the time the concert would be opening.

Steve.

His Steve.

“And he hates the Avengers you’re saying? Honestly, dude, I’m not sure if that can be counted as a healthy relationship.”

Isn’t that what he’d overheard Sam telling Steve?

He hates the Avengers.

He hates the Band you’re in.

Oh Jesus.

“Hi,” Steve says, in a voice that sounds ever so slightly awkward. His eyes catch Bucky’s and he holds them, “I’m pretty terrified tonight, of this show. But I wrote someone I love a song that they’re probably going to hate, and I really want to play it for them.”

Someone I love.

Did Steve just-

“Play me something you wrote?” Bucky feels like a kid who’s just remembered its Christmas, at least until Hot-Guy shakes his head.

“Maybe later, I’m working on something at the moment which I am hoping you’ll really like, but that won’t be ready for a month or two.”

This can’t be- Bucky has to be dreaming- this is-

“How? How will you tell him?”

“Well, I’m planning on writing him something, actually. And then…well…I was actually planning on using your daughter to help, if you don’t mind Becca.”

This was Steve’s plan all along. Steve since he’d met Becca.

Natasha has a microphone now, and the crowd around Bucky goes wild as Natasha shouts, “Give it up for the original song by Steven Rogers: The Winter Soldier.”

Bucky can barely breathe, barely speak, barely think as beside him he hears Morgan say, “Why is Steve wearing a shirt that says that.”

He’s wearing the shirt that Bucky got him.

He’s wearing the Avengers Hate Club founder shirt.

One of the lead singers of the Avengers is wearing the Avengers Hate Club founder shirt.

Chapter Text

< www.Tumblr.com/TheAVENGERS-NEW-POP-SENSATION/ Opening-Tour-Drama

Steve Rogers: Is He a Lover or a Hater

Audiences and fans were shocked last night when Steven Grant Rogers - One of the leaders of the Avengers, the hit pop sensation that's been sweeping the world by storm - Came on stage not in his usual red, white and blue uniform that fans have come to see as iconic for his stage persona but instead wearing a shirt that proclaimed him an ‘Avengers Hate Club founder’ (picture found above).

Think things couldn't get any more shocking? Well you're wrong. The avengers opened with their usual act missing the leads Steve and Natasha only for the two to reappear later to play a brand new song quoted by Tony Stark to ‘Not be on the album’. Steve surprised and upset fangirls everywhere when he admitted to writing a song for someone he loved - and if the t-shirt has anything to say about it - someone not in the band at all.

What does this mean for Steve and Natasha’s relationship? What does this mean for the future of the Avengers as a group? Could this have something to do with the picture snapped outside what witnesses say might be where Steve Rogers lives of a man without an arm? We’ll keep you all updated if you click the follow button at the top of the page!

-///-

Steve read an article once that stated neatly, in bold capital letters that being on stage could give anyone a miraculous feeling.

There was a time when a crowd was enough to put Steve’s nerves on edge: digging into Steve’s skin, worrying, his mind wondering if this was the best thing he could possibly be doing with his life, fingers slipping over notes, breathing elevated.

He hasn’t felt that way in years.

It’s such an odd feeling, standing above a crowd and looking out over it now, he finds. He wishes he could describe it as miraculous but it’s strangely not. It’s more of…a burning, perhaps, but also a way for music to get lost. Steve has always preferred their practice sessions to this. He is here for the music not the audience.

There is energy in it, though. So much energy in it that everything almost appears to quake under the pressure, pressing downwards and upwards and all sorts of ways. And there’s a joy in it to, in people screaming your name and screaming the words you wrote.

But it’s not miraculous.

If Steve had to write a definition for Miraculous it wouldn’t include things from his concert or even feelings that came from when he found the time to put pencil to paper, paint brush to canvas.

Miraculous (as defined by Steven Grant Rogers): comes in the form of long, straggly brown hair, in a hand curled neatly around a coffee mug in the morning, in Hate Club’s and lips gentle against his own and a slightly deepened laugh. It comes in stupid marathons of stupid shows and arguments over Hogwarts houses and the sexual preferences of Star Wars characters. It comes in the form of a tragic backstory blossoming into something wonderful, someone wonderful who can’t cook to save his life and has the most ugly nightmares but is so, so beautiful anyway.

That is what miraculous is.

It’s funny - he finds - how miraculous just sort of crept up on him; how it took him by surprise. His life wasn’t bad before Bucky. He was slowly recovering from the loss of his Peggy, throwing himself into his music career, drinking coffee in places he was less likely to be asked for an autograph.

But it was all so…bland in comparison to what he has now. In comparison to who he has now.

There was a time when a crowd was enough to put Steve’s nerves on edge: digging into Steve’s skin, worrying, his mind wondering if this was the best thing he could possibly be doing with his life, fingers slipping over notes, breathing elevated.

He hasn’t felt that way in years.

But now? Now he suddenly does all over again. Because out there in that crowd is Bucky and lord knows how they’d managed to get this far in a relationship that was practically built around hate for Steve’s band. But they had. They had gotten this far without Bucky realising that there was anything wrong with who he was dating.

Steve hopes that that isn’t about to change just because of this.

“Stop fretting. It’ll be fine,” over the speakers playing ‘Save the World’ Natasha’s voice enters his ears and Steve just shakes his head.

“Nat…”

“So he hates our music? He doesn’t hate you.” Natasha squeezes his shoulder with beautifully manicured fingertips, a comforting smile sitting on her lips.

She’s trying to be nice. Helpful. And he loves her for it, he does.

It’s just not quite helping.

“Yeah, he doesn’t. Until he finds out I’ve been lying to him for months now. What if he thinks I’m another Brock, Nat?” it’s been a worry, but he just got so….carried away. And he was going to tell Bucky on that picnic, he was. But then there was the phone call and Tony and Nat had already helped him come up with this whole ‘show with no posters’ thing, with this big reveal.

Only Steve isn’t quite sure that big reveal is the best way to go all of a sudden.

“Are you cheating on your boy?” Natasha asks.

Steve makes a disgusted face, “no.”

“Then,” Natasha concludes, “You are not another Brock. You love him. And he obviously loves you, Steve.”

Steve laughs but it's without the humour that usually paints it, “he doesn't love Steve Rogers though, does he?”

The soft smile on Natasha's face is a rarity, usually faked for the camera, but the reality is a lot nicer, warmer. Steve has been on the end of it more than once, and it makes him feel slightly more comfortable to see it now, in the face of his nerves. Her words are also soft, as gentle as the smile she’s giving him, as she puts a hand on Steve's shoulder, “he will.”

-///-

You look like an angel, that didn’t let death take you...

-///-

Maybe the bit about love is a bribe, a part of reminding Bucky that he loves him, that nothing has changed. He's stood here in front of over a thousand people, all of them screaming his name and he loves Bucky. The only one who doesn't want to be here, the one who admittedly hates Steve's music and everything about the band that he's in.

Bucky, the one in thousands sat on the front row who he loves. He loves. It's an ache. It's nothing like what he felt with Peggy but it's no less powerful: it's different, new, exciting.

There is a guitar in his hands and words that he knows off by heart buzzing in his brain. He’s been practicing them for weeks whenever he could get a spare moment (which admittedly, isn’t as many as he used to get before he met Bucky but he’s not complaining)

Don't hate me, I love you. It's funny really, all of this. But none of it really matters.

He's half convinced that Bucky is going to hate the song anyway: not that he'd have it any other way.

-///-

You’ve got too many scars, but you didn’t let it break you…

-///-

Silence.

And then the notes of a song, the gentle strumming of a guitar that's reminiscent of the sounds Bucky has heard every morning for the past few weeks.

Steve admitted - or at least Natasha forced him to admit - that he had been calling Bucky an angel in his head but now the spotlight makes a halo against his skin, and Bucky's mind still isn't working quite right but in the vague fog of it all he thinks that Steve got that all wrong. Bucky's not the Angel, Steve is.

Steve is also- also such a- such-

Such a punk.

He's such a punk and he's singing a song that is solely for Bucky. In front of all these people, he is singing a song that is purely for Bucky. In front of all of these thousands of people and Steve is singing for the one who Steve knows hates it. Hates all of it.

Damn punk.

He can feel his own breath leaving him, hear the sound of it in the non-existent wind. His world has narrowed down from the whole stadium to just Steve and he's not sure that his mind is comprehending it all, if he's honest, he's not sure that his mind can comprehend that the man of his dreams is also the man of his nightmares.

(Well, not quite his nightmares. Brock is the man of his nightmares but he figures that in situations like this he is allowed to be hyperbolic)

Bucky is over ninety nine percent certain that Steve is a Damn Punk.

-///-

My Winter Soldier, didn't let the war take you…

-///-

Steve doesn’t actually believe that it’s possible for him to do a show after this. He’s got a whole set to get through, which includes ten different songs and dance routines and he’s going to have to do them all without knowing if Bucky liked...well, the song, but more than that really. He has to do it all without knowing if Bucky likes him.

Stupid, stupid. He is such an idiot. Bucky hates his music, why would he want a song written by Steve? Why would he want to sit through one of his concerts? The light in his eyes from spotlights means that he can’t make out Bucky’s face if he tries so he can’t even try and gouge some meaning from an expression.

Stupid. This is so, so, so, stupid.

But still, he’s doing it anyway.

He wrote it for Bucky. He started writing it a long time ago, way back before he first met Becca. It’s been a long process, but he finally had something which sounded just about right. Mainly, he just wanted to put all his feelings for Bucky into a song. A song about how strong Bucky was, a song about how wonderful. On the surface it’s about a soldier in winter who lives through the battle and the pain and the cold to make it to spring. But he knows that that isn’t what Bucky’s going to take from it.

No. If Bucky’s listening, all he’ll take from it is how goddamn much Steve loves him.

So he plays it. Plays it as well as he can with thousands of people watching even if it’s only meant for one person.

And then, just as quickly as it began, it’s over. He’s finished. The three minutes and thirty two seconds it took him to perform it are up, people are clapping, screaming, smiling, shouting.

Steve glances towards where he knows the front row is and mouths ‘I love you’ somewhere down into the crowd. People might take it as he’s talking to the audience, but Bucky damn well won’t. And then he turns to the crowd and thanks them for listening, wishes them a good night and does his own bow.

And then, barely a minute later, he’s back to doing what he’s paid to do: perform.

He’d sneakily managed to get a list from Becca about what Morgan’s favourite songs are, so they’re mostly doing stuff from that mixed in with all the hits from their new album people actually came here to see. It’s an exhausting process which doesn’t come with many breaks for talking to his colleagues about how his song went. Tony looks at him at one point and winks and Bruce is smiling from his position of singing and then occasionally manning the drums (especially for Smash which was a song basically written so Bruce could have it out at the drum kit. For a well-mannered, slightly shy guy Bruce has some serious anger issues. It’s alright. He’s working on it. Doesn’t mean that he doesn’t take it out on his drum kit sometimes though.)

Steve’s just counting down the songs in his head until it’s time to leave the stage and find Bucky. Oh, Jesus, what has he done?

-///-

Spring times coming, I want to be your sun, but you shine so bright, I’m not sure you need one…

-///-

It’s over an hour after Steve performed Winter Soldier when they finally get off stage to a lot of cheering and yelling and someone even screams ‘I’ll be in your hate club!’ Which inspires a laugh out of most of the audience and the band. But finally, finally they’re done.

There are people all around them; it’s always amazingly hectic when this kind of thing comes to an end. People are rushing about everywhere: check this, check that, make sure the band is in the right place and still breathing.

A hand grasps the back of Steve’s shoulder and he glances back up to grin at Thor, “good?” he asks.

“If your soldier doesn’t like that we’ll never please him,” is Thor’s only response. Steve would laugh or even try his hand at being grateful at the warmth on Thor’s face if his insides didn’t feel a little too much like jelly just then. From the corner of his eye, he catches the way Tony has Pepper wrapped up in a hug, and wonders if that’s how Bucky will great him, or if it’s more likely you’ll never get hugged again.

“Cheer up, Cap. Honestly, you’re such a drama queen. Are you positive he won’t have seen that coming?” Pietro asks, taking his mouth away from the water bottle his lips are wrapped tight around to waggle his eyebrows a little. He’s got one arm round Wanda’s waist and Wanda is laughing too as they’re all herded towards the after stage room where they’ll get fifteen minutes to relax and wind down before the VIP guests arrive.

“Actually, all things considered, Bucky has been pretty dense about it,” Natasha flops onto one of the two already occupied sofa’s when everyone else is already seated, her head in Steve’s lap and her feet propped against Clint’s knees. Steve knows the second she gets word that the fans are coming in, she’ll be sat straight and proper but for the most part, she’s relaxed around all of them, which Steve is almost proud of her for.

No scratch that, he is proud of her. He’s proud of all of the band for various reasons. Each of them has had something of a shit load of cards handed out in life – a couple more than others – and each of them has overcome it. And if that’s not something to be proud of, Steve doesn’t know what is.

“He’s not dense. It’s not like I refused to be in his Hate Club or ever acted like I liked the band at all,” Steve points out, feeling a strong urge to protect Bucky’s honour a little.

“Steve. There are posters of you in a lot of places,” Clint points out. While the rest of them are holding water, Clint is clinging to his mug of coffee like it’s a very important life line.

“He hates the Avengers. He’s not looking for our posters in super stores,” Steve groans. He’s actually crazily nervous about Bucky meeting these guys. There will be…a lot of teasing. But Steve can’t help but feel they’re going to get on and eventually round up on Steve because Bucky can be just as much of a little shit as Steve can sometimes.

It’s one of the main reasons that him and Steve work so well together.

“There’s a fine line,” Wanda sing songs.

“Between love and hate,” Pietro finishes.

Steve wishes, for the briefest of moments, that they’d all disappear thank you very much. “Yeah, I’m hoping,” Steve mutters when everyone is still staring at him expectantly.

He’s really, really, hoping.

The conversation turns to other things eventually, Steve left to his nerves in peace. Everyone’s trying to analyse the show, go over good bits and bad bits and what they could go better next time.

Ten minutes later Wanda is in the middle of going over a certain dance move with Clint for next week’s show when someone comes in to warn them that the VIP guests are there. Everyone straightens themselves, tries to look more presentable and slips an inch away from who they really are into who they are in front of their fans. It’s not like Steve thinks the difference is huge but there is a difference even if it’s a smile one.

The door opens and the thirty people lucky enough to have VIP tickets walk in. Everyone is inside after barely a moment and Steve very suddenly feels his stomach bottom out.

Oh.

Not thirty. Twenty eight.

He left. Bucky left.

Despite everything, despite his nerves, Steve never expected that. He never expected Bucky wouldn’t show up in the VIP lounge to shout and maybe hug and maybe say ‘I love you’ back. Even if he didn’t want to show up, he’d assumed that Morgan would make him, he really had and that way if Bucky was really angry then Steve would be able to talk him down and beg forgiveness.

The blow of Bucky not being there here hurts so much, Steve would rather one of the VIP guests had walked in and stabbed him straight in the chest. It is the pain he felt when Bucky suddenly stopped texting him times a thousand. It is horrible. It is excruciating. It is-

“What the hell do you mean he’s your Steve?” comes the high pitched sound of an eleven year old girl who’s just appeared in the doorway. The room that had been pull of nervous teenagers saying hello halts in its progression to stare at the doorway where a little girl clad in an Avengers T-shirt is scowling, arms folded across her chest.

“You hate the Avengers!” She continues, as Steve’s heart leaps, Bucky coming into view, “And now you’re dating one of them? Are you serious?”

-///-

Spring is coming round…

-///-

Morgan is pulling at his hand as if she’s intent at ripping another one off so he looks semi-symmetrical, her voice is whining something about how if Bucky doesn’t hurry the hell along she’s going to kick him. Bucky doesn’t not believe her for a moment, but he’s stuck between a) stalling so he can work out what he’s actually going to say to Steve and b) getting there as fast as humanly possible so he can see Steve and tell him off for being so goddamn Steve like. As a result of the two conflicting emotions, his body has gone a bit numb and it isn’t really moving right, hence the eleven year old girl getting increasingly frustrated and trying to rip his arm off.

“Come on. We’ll get to ask, we’ll get to ask him why he was wearing that shirt! And who he loves before anyone else!” Morgan is practically screaming as they’re ushered from their seats by the same person who led them here. Bucky is surprised to find that she does not particularly stand out. There are at least three other girls of her age squealing in excitement.

Bucky hasn’t quite worked out how to tell his niece that the person Steve Rogers’ is so in love with just happens to be her uncle who an hour ago, would have said he hated his guts.

Save words like love and hate for when you mean them Bucky can hear his mother’s voice echoing in his brain and maybe he should have taken that advice before he decided to pin the word hate to the man he is so desperately in love with.

Because he is in love with Steve, he really is, even now. And of course Steve - as the dramatic shit he is - had to announce that he loved Bucky right back to a stadium full of thousands of people before Bucky was even ready to say it with just the two of them alone, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less true. He just- this is a lot. It’s a lot. Steve wrote him a song, for crying out loud.

Bucky’s not even sure if he likes the song.

“Uh, Morgan,” they’re being led through backstage now, and Bucky’s feeling more than a little overwhelmed and more than a little like he might pass out at any second. He’s about to see Steve and there’s going to be some kind of reaction but he hasn’t quite formulated what he wants that reaction to be just yet.

“Bucky come on. We only get an hour with them, we don’t want to waste it!”

Bucky could get her longer than an hour. He could get her days. For her birthday he could have just gotten her a weekend with Steve. And he didn’t even know it.

“They played all my favourite songs you know, I just want to thank them, ya know?”

They played all my favourite songs. Somehow Bucky can’t think that is a coincidence. How can Steve be so annoying and yet have such a kind heart at the same time? It makes everything very confusing.

He’s ninety nine percent certain that he isn’t moving, he’s stopped dead in his tracks a few feet away from the door as he watches everyone enter. Steve is through that door, his Steve and Steve Rogers because they’re the same fucking person.

“Uncle Buck, come on. I know you hate them but you just have to stand be polite alright, look everyone’s already inside-“

“Wait, Morgan I-“ he should probably warn her, somehow. It would be the polite thing to do, after all, but all that comes out is: “That song. It was mine. He wrote it for me. That’s my Steve.”

There is a beat. Silence. They’re stood in the doorway now. People are staring and not because of the arm. They’re staring because- well. Because an eleven year old girl is now shouting very loudly. Bucky wishes he’d found some way at some point in his life of stopping a blush from spreading across his cheeks, he really does. He’s ninety nine percent certain that Morgan’s next words may end up in a newspaper or gossip magazine in the near future.

“What the hell do you mean he’s your Steve? You hate the Avengers! And now you’re dating one of them? Are you serious?”

-///-

Fix my broken heart and I’ll fix your broken smile…

-///-

Steve can’t find it in himself to breathe. Everyone in the room is staring now and Bucky is a delightful shade of red. In any other situation Steve would already be thinking of the millions of adjectives he could use to describe that blush, he’d be drafting the song in his head for it. Now? Now he just wishes the floor would swallow him whole. He’s not used to being nervous like this, he usually barrels into everything head first and the consequences can go strew themselves but today he’s having a bit of trouble with that.

He’s having trouble because he really doesn’t want to screw the consequences of his actions. Or well- he does ­but not in the bad way.

He really hopes that after today Bucky will still let him screw him. And touch him. And kiss him. And hug him. And make him coffee. And write him songs that he’ll likely hate.

Tony is the first one to do anything, as usual. He’s clapping his hands slowly and whistling. “Damn, Rogers. You got yourself a hot one.”

Steve watches as Bucky’s blush darkens.

Morgan (she’s cuter in real life than in Bucky’s pictures, and Steve can see that she has Bucky’s nose. The family resemblance does something strange to Steve’s stomach) is now glaring at Steve and Steve never thought he’d be intimidated by an eleven year old girl but the way she’s staring he’s fearing for his life just a little.

“Wait- this is the person you wrote that love song for?” someone – one of the VIP guests – asks. He realises that the room is quiet, the room is full of a kind of tension that he can’t name. Everyone is looking between Steve and Bucky and Steve reckons he’s probably just as red as Bucky is.

Clearing his throat, Steve manages to address the thirty pairs of eyes suddenly trained on him, “uh, yes.” He decides to say. He thinks he’s made the right decision when Bucky steps further into the room.

“But-“

“Oh you can blog about Steve’s sexuality later,” Tony says, in a way that might sound rude, only he’s smiling and he’s moving forward to clasp a rather startled Bucky on the shoulder. Bucky flinches. He looks a bit like a rabbit caught in some very bright head stage lights, Steve’s half nervous he might bolt any second.

“Hi Bucky,” various members of the band call out as if they’ve known him for years, all relaxing back into their seats a little more. It’s Wanda who first begins to take the attention away from the scene by starting up a conversation with the two sixteen year olds closest to her. Eventually people focus on talking to the rest of the band again although everyone is also occasionally glancing between Steve and Bucky as if they’re cataloguing every moment. Steve feels more on show than he does on stage.

Steve gulps.

There is a tugging on his trouser leg. He looks down.

“Oh, hi,” he crouches down so he’s on eyelevel with Morgan who is now gone from glaring to half smiling.

“Did you play those songs because they’re my favourites?” she asks, looking slightly shy.

Steve nods, “we got a list of your mum.”

Morgan grins like Christmas just came early.

“You really wrote that song for my uncle?” she asks.

Steve catches Bucky’s eye when he nods, “yeah. He’s kind of one of the most important people in the world to me. Even if he hates my music.”

Morgan squeals.

Bucky snorts.

It’s not attractive in any way, it’s not one of Bucky’s whole hearted laughs. Instead it’s a full on, unattractive, snort – the kind that happens because you’re trying to keep laughter bottled up and you just can’t, sounds spilling over the edges of your lips.

It’s unattractive. It’s kind of gross.

It might just be the cutest thing that Steve’s ever laid eyes on.

“You’re such a goddamn punk,” Bucky mumbles and Steve isn’t quite sure what that means.

Ringing his hands behind his back like he used to do whenever he got in trouble with his mother, Steve bites at his lower lip. “I was hoping it would be….funny? I might have miscalculated.”

Bucky has this look on his face that reads something along the lines of funny? Really?

“I think you almost gave me a goddamn heart attack.” Bucky supplies helpfully.

“I never was very good at the whole thinking about the consequences of my actions.” Steve puts out there, truthfully.

“No. You weren’t.” Bucky pauses, running his hand over his lower lip in thought. Steve’s eyes flicker to watch on instinct. “You were really in the band that whole time?”

Steve nods. He can’t quite trust himself to speak anymore, he doesn’t think. The more he talks, the more his voice rises dangerously high.

And then-

A grin.

Bucky is grinning.

No, wait, he’s not grinning. He’s laughing.

Relief runs through Steve so quickly, he might just black out from it for a few moments. Bucky’s laughing, he’s laughing and he’s staring at Steve like Steve is simultaneously the stupidest and most wonderful thing he’d ever set eyes on.

That laugh.

Steve just wants to bottle it up. He’s pretty sure that laugh is the cure to everything. It could solve world hunger. It could cure cancer. It could save lives.

“And why-“ Bucky says, through more fits of laughter, “did you even want to date me when I insulted your band so much?”

Steve just shrugs, “you were cute, I thought it was funny. Glad I took the chance.”

“You’re such a damn punk,” but a second later Bucky is nudging Morgan out of the way and wrapping his arm firmly around Steve’s waist. Steve doesn’t even care that people have gone back to staring. The way that Bucky’s looking at him, Steve doesn’t blame them for staring, he truly doesn’t. He wants to stare at Bucky too.

“I love you,” Steve whispers in Bucky’s ear, holding tightly, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I just got so carried away I didn’t know how but I do love you.”

“I know.” Bucky whispers. And then, quietly, “I love you too, Rogers.”

When they finally break about, they’re grinning like idiots.

“Will you at least admit that the bands good now?” Morgan interrupts, causing both their eyes to flicker to her.

Bucky glances between Morgan, and Steve and then the rest of the band. Very slowly, his grin shifts into something of a smirk,  “no, Morgan. The bands still terrible.”

Steve feels something warm light up in his stomach.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

-///-

You’re a wonderment, you’re amazing, you make my life worthwhile…

-///-

There is laughter, and fingers wrapped around Morgan’s tiny hand to reposition her fingers on the drum stick. Her body is perched in Bruce’s lap and she’s staring at the drums like she might be in heaven.

“Hold like this and you’ll have better grip, meaning you’ll be able to hit harder.” Bruce is saying, in his gentle voice which rings in juxtaposition to the fact that he’s teaching an eleven year old how to bash the shit out of a drum kit.

No surprise came from how quickly and happily Morgan took to the band. At first she was mostly star struck but now she’s calling Steve Uncle Stevie and Natasha Auntie Nat and she spends whatever time she can sitting around in the Avengers garage (which they do have and they do practice in on the outskirts of New York in the garage attached to Bruce’s house) and trying to learn to play each and every respective instrument they thrust her way.

Bucky’s been stood in the doorway of the garage for a good ten minutes, but nobody is paying him much notice. What came as slightly more of a surprise was how quickly the band took to Morgan. She’s gained half a family from them, from her self-proclaimed favourite people in the world. Thor braids her hair, Wanda is intent on giving her dance lessons and Bucky’s slightly nervous that Natasha might be teaching his niece the magical powers of intimidation.

From the other side of the room Bucky notices the way that Pepper and Tony are looking between Morgan and themselves and think that the band might have more than one accepted child in the near future. 

Hands wrap around Bucky’s waist from behind and he startles but then relaxes immediately into the scent of Steve’s cologne and a kiss pressed against his neck, “enjoying yourself?” asks Steve’s voice into the shell of his ear.

Bucky fakes a loud sigh, “you know I never enjoy listening to the shit that you guys produce,” he says and Steve’s right hand pinches his waist.

“Yeah, I know,” Steve mumbles, “s’good to be home though. Good to practice with you here.”

He sounds tired, which is unsurprising considering the tour that Bucky has still not quite forgiven him for going on at such short notice but Steve’s one of those people: hard to not forgive. Bucky forgave him for the tour just as he forgave him for the way he almost gave Bucky a heart attack by revealing his job on stage.

They hadn’t even really argued about the tour thing. Not really. It had been more of mild acceptance that had come after they’d got home from what’s now being referred to as ‘The Big Reveal Show’, after Bucky had decided to show Steve just how much he loved him with the tip of his tongue (perhaps not as snazzy as telling saying it in front of thousands of people, but whispering ‘I love you’ into every pore of Steve’s skin seemed to work just as well for Steve). And then laying down afterward Steve had brought up how he’d be heading out of state for a bit in a week to do some more of the tour.

They bickered for five minutes and then agreed on a skype timetable and that was about it.

“I’m not here for long and neither are you,” the band is looking after Morgan for the afternoon (something which Becca signed off on with a happy smile and raised eyebrows and an accusation of you like them on her lips which Bucky just huffed indigently at).

“Think we should make our escape before your niece begins making a racket with those drums?” Steve asks.

“Well, it can’t be any worse than the noise that you guys make…”

Steve laughs and kisses his neck again but a second later Bucky is wading into the group of people surrounding the drums to kiss Morgan on the forehead and promise the gang he’ll be back in an hour to pick her up. He’s ninety nine percent certain that Morgan won’t miss him anyway – she probably won’t even notice that he’s gone.

Bucky may or may not have been somewhat replaced by his least favourite band.

He’s pretty sure he’s okay with that though.

After all – they’re not so bad as people.

Steve walks them out and as they head into Bucky’s car and strap themselves in, Bucky finds himself pulled into a very heated kiss.

“What was that for?” he asks when Steve pulls back.

“For being amazing,” Steve says finally, “and because I love you.”

Steve says it a lot: ‘I love you’. He says it when he kisses Bucky good morning, and when he kisses Bucky goodnight. He says it when he hands coffee to Bucky. He says it when someone snaps Bucky’s picture after the press found out that he was the one Steve’s song was about (a PR nightmare, apparently, but one that Pepper dealt with easily and Steve was happy to set the world straight on his sexuality. Well. Maybe not quite straight).

Bucky says it less. He says it when it matters. He doesn’t really need to say it all the time, because he knows Steve already knows.

“So you’re ready for a hate club?” Bucky murmurs as they begin driving.

Steve nods.

Hate Clubs have not stopped being a thing, even if Bucky knows the truth now.

Bucky’s pretty sure that when they’re ninety, hate clubs will still be a thing.

Because maybe there aren’t a lot of things that Bucky actually is sure about, but there is one. Bucky is one hundred percent certain that he’s with Steve till the end of the line.

And the line is a long way from ending yet.