Chapter Text
“I will knock you on our ass if you even think about it,” Steve murmured, his face deceptively sweet for the camera but his eyes narrowed and flitting between the mischievous smirk growing on Bucky’s face and the slice of cake he’d lifted gingerly into his right hand.
Bucky widened his eyes, his face a picture of shocked innocence as he reacted to Steve’s words. Never mind that he had obviously been growing restless over the wait, after having posed for at least a dozen photographs and videos and God knows what other methods of recording Stark had up his sleeve that had lead to the simple act of cutting a damned cake lasting eight minutes. He’d grumbled about dying of old age under his breath, earning him a quick and bemused glance from Steve, but secretly he had to admit to himself that he was grateful to know the night would be so well-preserved. While his memories had by and large recovered in the years since he’d been able to break free of Hydra, there was still a part of Bucky that couldn’t help fearing that all of this would be taken away from him: not just Steve and the team and the frankly unbelievable amount of happiness that had somehow befallen him, but all of the memories of them as well. So really, he wasn’t that bothered by the fact that the friends they had surrounded themselves with had taken it upon themselves to over-document every moment of their big day.
He still wanted them to hurry up with the flarkin’ cake, though.
The unfortunate bit was that as a result Bucky was left frustrated and a little bored, which of course got his mind working, which had led to him remembering Stark’s comments about how messy the cake-feeding bit of wedding receptions could be and how affronted Steve had seemed by it, which had started giving Bucky ideas. And apparently, getting married to the fella you’d been in love with for literally a century also conferred mind-reading capabilities, because Steve had seen right through Bucky’s plan the moment he’d come up with it, and now was looking down at him with a frankly ridiculous amount of righteous indignation, given Bucky hadn’t even done anything yet.
In that moment, feeling both up to no good and so full of love for the punk beside him that it physically hurt, Bucky felt for a second like they were back in Brooklyn Heights, in their little closet of an apartment in 1941, when Steve had angrily spat the same damned warning in Bucky’s face after nearly scaring the he out of him.
Bucky had been pulling double as many shifts as he could around the docks, quietly hoping to save up as much as they could before winter in the (inevitable) event that Steve got sick and they needed the spare cash. He couldn’t exactly remember where he’d been able to finagle the hambone that he’d brought home to make soup with, but it had meant him getting in a half hour later than usual – to come through the door and find Steve with his spindly arms raised above his crooked spine, leaning awkwardly thanks to his bad ear and their rickety dining room chair as he tried to reach the heavy stock pot Bucky kept above the range.
Instead of speaking up and risking startling Steve (and because his heart felt like it was in his damned throat), Bucky had crossed the room in an instant and grabbed Steve around the waist, getting ready to bodily lift him down before he fell and broke his neck. Steve had grabbed at his hands with a squawk, catching on to his exact intentions and angrily muttering his warning.
“And what, Steve… let you fall and break your fool neck?” Bucky had asked incredulously, his fingers gripping Steve’s hips so tightly that he could feel the edges of his bones through the material of his cheap pants. “I don’t think so, pal… let’s get you down and I’ll take care of it.”
“I swear to God, Buck, if you don’t let me go…” he’d growled, looking all the more angry for Bucky’s response.
“And what, Stevie? You gonna stay up there on the chair so you can reach to do it?”
The words were out of his mouth before he had the sense to stop them, and immediately he regretted them, moving his hands away and offering up as pleasant a smile as he could in response to Steve’s cold fury. Bucky had an apology on the tip of his tongue, but before he could charm his way out of it, Steve had come back, completely dead pan. “I won’t need a chair, Buck. Remember, I know where you sleep.”
After a beat they had both laughed the entire thing off, although Bucky couldn’t deny the quick shiver of anticipation that had gone down his spine, having Steve utter so veiled a promise while looming over him. It was so completely different from what he was used to – keeping completely hushed up about their shared single bed and what they got up to in it, never mind the odd juxtaposition of little Steve Rogers suddenly emanating all of the inner power that Bucky had always known (and seemed to be the only idiot in Brooklyn smart enough to notice) was housed in his small, fragile body.
At the end of it all, Bucky had been the one to retrieve the pot, despite Steve’s half-hearted griping.
That night they were blessed by the fact that Mrs. Burokowitz, the widow whose apartment shared a wall with theirs, was deaf as a doorknob. Steve had kept to his promise, and Bucky had made so much noise they likely would have been arrested had anyone else lived next door.
Bucky shook his head softly, shaking off the memory to find Steve’s face softened. He immediately gave him a shy smile, both to apologize for going away for a bit and to reassure him (the worrywart) that it had been to a good place, at least.
“Alright Grandpas, isn’t it almost your bedtime?” Tony’s voice cut into their reverie, effectively breaking the moment and reminding Bucky of the fact that they were still in front of a group of gathered guests. “Could we get to it while some of us are still young?!”
Bucky flipped him the bird with his metal hand, his eyes never leaving Steve’s as he remembered that night all of those years ago, and Tony’s rapturous praises of the hotel room he’d gotten them for the night. Surely there’d be a surface in it that would be able to handle… whatever it was that Steve might come up with.
“I’m holdin’ you to that, Punk,” he murmured sweetly, before jamming the entire slice of cake into Steve’s gob, smearing what was left of it down his chin before sucking the frosting off of his fingers for good measure.