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If I should meet thee
After long years
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.
~ Lord Byron.
He woke up to the smell of gardenias and vanilla, and with his face pressed into a soft yet scratchy fabric. A quick glance up revealed Natasha sitting on the bed next to him, her back against the headboard and her eyes on whichever historical romance novel she had decided to read for fun that week.
He rolled over from his previous position- on his side with his face pressed into the side of her left thigh and his arms wrapped around both her legs.
“Please tell me you at least brought coffee,” he groaned, deciding not to ask her exactly why she was sitting on his bed while he was sleeping. It was only marginally less creepy than the time Coulson had inadvertently told him that he had watched him while he was sleeping after being pulled out from the ice. Marginally, being the keyword here.
“Is there something you would like to tell me, Rogers?” she replied mildly, turning a page and not bothering to look at him.
The fact that she called him by his surname, together with the lack of eye contact had him worried. He moved towards the bathroom (she made no move to stop him) and it was only while he was towelling his hair dry several minutes later that it hit him.
The slamming sound the door made when he threw it open did not seem to faze his guest who remained in the exact position he had left her.
“When did you arrive, Natasha?” he asked, keeping his voice level.
She finally looked up, raising a brow at the state of his hair (uncombed and sticking up in clumps) and clothes (red boxers with tiny white hearts all over it).
“Gag gift from Tony,” he said, guessing at her unasked question.
She smirked and stood up in a smooth motion, her book disappearing into the top drawer of his bedside table. “Only about an hour ago”.
He followed her downstairs, his eyes roaming over every single corner of his house, sighing when he did not see any evidence of what he supposed was their topic of conversation. His relief, however, dissipated when he stepped into the kitchen behind her, to be replaced with a strange mix of rising hysteria and happiness.
“I… uhh…,” he hesitated, cleared his throat and tried again. “I thought… it was a dream”.
He glanced at Natasha, who still stood one step in front of him, her arms held deceptively loosely at her sides, muscles taut and ready to jump into action at any time.
The man sitting on a stool at the island, however, looked completely unconcerned that a highly accomplished and well known assassin who most likely already had several methods in mind on how to incapacitate or kill her opponent in her current situation was standing in front of him. Said man, also seemed to be drinking his Starbucks coffee (Steve could see his name written in a neat script on the cup, complete with a smiley face) and eating his bagel (topped with Nutella, banana slices and marshmallows). Natasha’s right index finger twitched.
Steve took her down with a move that would have made The Rock (as in Dwayne Johnson during his WWE phase) proud.
Much much later, while he was explaining his side of the story to an extremely unamused Fury and an extremely amused Coulson on a three way video chat, he would vehemently deny that he had also snarled “That’s my coffee and bagel, you jerk”, and instead had said something along the lines of, “It’s all right, Nat, we can take him if he turns violent”.
Natasha’s report, however, begged to differ.
Sam, Steve learned, was very good at keeping quiet and letting you collect your thoughts. He was also extremely capable of staying silent and giving you the evil eye as you squirmed on his very comfortable sofa and demolished a platter of his mother’s homemade brownies while avoiding said evil eye.
“I’m judging you, Steve,” Sam finally said, pointing dramatically at him and making a face.
“So am I, if you hadn’t realized that yet,” Natasha quipped. She sat facing both of them, her feet on Steve’s lap as she demolished the last tub of ice cream available in Sam’s house. For the past half an hour, she had stared at them like she was watching a particularly plot heavy movie in which every tiny detail mattered in order for you to understand the brilliance of the story. She had even twisted her distinct red hair into a messy bun and had a pair of spectacles perched low on her nose (All the better to see you with, Steve).
Steve looked longingly at the tub in her hands.
“It was 3.00am. People do not make the best decisions at three in the morning,” he said and paused. “I still stand by this particular decision though”.
Sam snorted. Natasha smirked.
Steve ignored them. “I woke up. I don’t know. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe I had a nightmare. I went to the toilet. I took a look out the window. And there he was. On my lawn. Petting my dog”.
Technically, the dog belonged to Clint. But Clint also had a baby in the house so Steve happily agreed to dogsit temporarily. Neither Sam nor Natasha decided to point this out.
“Didn’t you ask him why he was there? Isn’t it too convenient? We spend over a year tracking this guy and going on wild goose chases around the world and he just appears in front of your house?” Sam said.
“I always thought that Bucky would be found only when he wanted to be found,” Steve nodded wistfully.
Sam’s jaw dropped. “He’s going to be killed in his sleep, isn’t he? Could you ask Stark to sponsor me a nice suit?”
“I’m sure he can protect himself,” Natasha said soothingly, and while Steve had to admit that it was true, he couldn’t help feeling a little outraged that Natasha did not seem at all concerned of the state of his existence. Just saying.
Steve’s house was actually one of Tony’s safe houses. It was also one of the less ostentatious ones, which was part of the reason why Steve agreed to live there, apart from the very strategic location and very heavy security measures.
Tony had appeared an hour after Steve and Natasha had found Bucky contentedly eating Steve’s breakfast, holding a large suitcase.
“Does Pepper know that you’re planning to move in? There are only three rooms here and I’m not bunking with you,” Natasha had said when she opened the door to let him in.
“While I’d love to have a sleepover with you and do our hair and nails together and discuss our favourite guns and movies, I’m here mainly to beef up the security and to talk the Captain’s ears off,” Tony replied, holding out his hand to reveal a few micro SD cards for Natasha’s perusal. “Pick one. They all do a good job, they just have differing personalities. Jarvis, of course, is still number one in my heart”.
Natasha leaned forward and poked the one closest to her. Monday. The cards were all labelled with the days of the week, but the one labelled Friday was missing.
“Good choice,” Tony said. “Monday’s child is fair of face”.
“I doubt we’d be able to see his or her face,” Natasha said.
“Wait, I forgot. Are they here?” Tony said abruptly.
“They went out for a run,” Natasha replied, noting the way Tony’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Why?”
“Nothing, I just work better without Steve hovering around behind me”.
“That’s not it”.
“It’s fine, Natasha. I just haven’t decided what I would like to say to Commander Barnes yet”.
An accident, Natasha remembers, thinking of the reports in the newspaper. The wild speculations. The hole Howard’s death had caused at SHIELD, in the industry, for the future. Peggy’s voice over the phone. She looked at the marble tiles they were standing on, not wanting to meet Tony’s eyes.
“And the added security measures are for Steve’s protection”.
Tony nods. “His happiness may be his downfall”.
“Steve’s not an idiot”.
Tony shot her a dubious look.
“You’re an idiot,” he said.
Steve turned, setting the book Natasha had left behind on his bedside table (it actually was pretty good, if a little too much of a cliché). Bucky was standing at the doorway of his room, looking both annoyed and bemused.
“You’re going to have to elaborate,” Steve said finally.
“You…,” Bucky fumed, in a very good impression of Sam’s exasperated tone. “You have no idea who I am, and what I’ve done. As I am now, I’m merely a physical clone of your Bucky, with none of his memories and none of his personality. We’re practically strangers. You should have me locked up at SHIELD instead of treating me like a perfectly normal housemate. Do you have a death wish?”
There is a long silence after that particular outburst.
“Well yes, but I’m still alive, aren’t I?” Steve sighed. “It’s late, Bucky. Go to sleep”.
Bucky, if possible, looked even more livid even as his stance seemed completely relaxed.
Steve took his chance. “Would you like to join me?”
If Bucky were a normal person, if they had still been two young boys fresh out of the army, if the past seventy or so years never happened, Bucky would probably have facepalmed, but dropped into bed with him. However, all he did was give Steve an undecipherable look and stalk back towards the living room.
When Steve woke up the next morning though, Bucky was lying in bed next to him, one of his hands gripping the hem of Steve’s shirt, and Steve was still perfectly alive.
He smiled.