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Steve arrives home to the smell of pumpkin wafting out the front door.
An unconscious smile graces his lips; Bucky is a firm believer that any meals consumed between the months of September through November should incorporate pumpkin in some way. He’s quite vocal about it too, much to the dismay of those forced to listen to his oddly frequent spiels on the topic. Of course, Steve isn’t included in that group. He could listen to Bucky talk for hours on end without growing the least bit bored. The slow, syrupy drawl of his lover’s deep voice is music to his poor ears, whether it be going on about something as mundane as the day’s weather or the importance of reserving all varieties of cucurbits exclusively for the fall season.
So if Steve’s nose is correct—and it usually is—then Bucky has been to his sister’s garden recently and they will be having squash soup for dinner. Eager, he unlocks the door and heads inside, the warmth of the fireplace drawing a contented sigh from his blue lips. A pair of worn loafers a size smaller than his own sit neatly on the rack by the wall, right next to a familiar brown coat. From the kitchen comes a dull racket and the savory scent of caramelizing onions. After a long day at work, there is nothing like the sight of Bucky to help soothe the unrelenting ache in Steve’s bones. He stands at the stove in his mother's apron, faintly humming what can only be a Billie Holiday song, one of his new obsessions. When he finally registers Steve’s presence, he smiles softly but makes no attempt at conversation.
A quiet night, then.
Steve returns the smile, slithering behind Bucky to press a kiss to the back of his neck before proceeding to set the table. Most nights they don’t even bother, either too drained to make an effort or not even home at the same time. It’s rare that the both of them are together for dinner these days— this is the first time in months that Bucky hasn’t worked the dreaded night shift down on the docks, and the dark circles beneath his eyes are just another reminder of the inhumane hours he’s been subjected to since February. Steve’s heart clenches, and he resolves to cherish this night even further.
They work together like a well-oiled machine, with Steve setting out plates while Bucky brings the food to the table. Each time they cross paths, they exchange soft smiles and brushed touches. This is the Bucky reserved for Steve’s eyes only. No cocky grins, strutting around like he owns the place and preening like a peacock with no need to beg for the attention he’s been bestowed since childhood. No performance. Just pure, unfiltered Bucky.
And god is he beautiful.
After settling in his usual seat at the table, Bucky beckons for Steve to join him. Dinner is the soup with their usual bread and leftover creamed corn from the night before. They eat in comfortable silence, Bucky trying to pile Steve’s plate with food in his habitual attempts to fatten him up and Steve frowning as he seeks—and fails—to do the same. Dessert is a slice of apple pie from the bakery across the street that always gifts Bucky treats as compensation for him fixing up their old oven every time it breaks down. Feeling unusually sappy, Steve insists on feeding Bucky forkfuls of the pie, heart expanding twice its size at every muffled laugh it elicits.
It isn’t until the sun has fully set outside that they start cleaning up. Steve starts on the dishes while Bucky packs away leftovers and through it all, neither one of them speaks. Ella Fitzgerald’s rich voice emerges from the weak speaker of their radio as they work, crackled but no less melodic. The fireplace bathes the space in an orange glow, scents of cinnamon and squash persisting in the air and easing Steve’s residual stress from the long day. When he wordlessly questions whether or not he should begin wiping down the counters, all he gets in response is a shaken head and a quick peck to the lips.
Steve learned early on in his friendship with Bucky that his bouts of silence weren’t a sign of distress, but rather of contentment. Having grown up in a cramped household of eight plagued with yelling, frequent fighting, and chaos all the livelong day, silence was yet another privilege he couldn’t afford. The day after his 13th birthday—which had been celebrated with all his friends and a rare cake baked by Sarah—Bucky didn’t talk once. He just offered uncharacteristically soft smiles to anyone who expressed concern, lost in a daze of tranquillity. It was Bekka, actually, who realized a few months later that Bucky wasn’t upset when he went quiet. “I think he’s happy,” she’d said to Steve and the rest of Bucky’s sisters after George told Bucky how proud he was of him for getting straight As and he’d subsequently gone dead silent for the next two days. None of them ever brought it up with him, fine to just go along with it. The first time Bekka hugged Bucky instead of asking what was wrong, he cried.
Sometimes words are hard, but that’s not what this is. Words come easily for Bucky. He’s a poet in all avenues of life, whether it be back and forths with the fat heads that give Steve trouble or meaningless flirtations to get ahead in life. His silence is precious. During these quiet nights, it’s his words that go unspoken that mean the very most. What he says with his hands and subtle quirks of his mouth and the gentle brushes of his lips against Steve’s skin are what truly matter. Steve feels blessed to bear witness to this form of Bucky’s love, which is usually loud and flashy. Very few people in his life are privy to it, let alone the rest of the world. They’ll never know Bucky the way Steve does.
After they’re done in the kitchen, Steve leads them to the bathroom. They take turns in the shower and Bucky ushers Steve in first to ensure he gets most of their limited hot water, gesturing toward his knobby knees when he tries to argue. When they’re finished, they head into the bedroom to get dressed and Steve shamelessly admires Bucky’s naked form, lean but with a stubborn layer of baby fat on his cheeks and stomach that no amount of hours in the ring or missed dinners can get rid of. When Bucky catches him staring, he only rolls his eyes, the lamplight dancing off of his pink flush. He’s so handsome, Steve’s boy. Handsome and so very smart. And when he handles Steve with such care, such gentleness, Steve finds himself in disbelief that they ever spent time apart in this world. Every crevice of his broken frame, every peak and valley of his bony torso, every dip of his joints, all of it was molded specifically for Bucky. His calloused hands and chapped lips. And when Bucky touches him, Steve comes alive. No matter if it’s Steve pressing inside of him after so long apart or Bucky fitting himself to his front before sleeping, it all reminds him that this is a life worth living.
There’s so much Steve wants to say, and from the way Bucky is looking at him from the foot of the bed, it’s clear he yearns to do the same. Instead, they keep their mouths shut, allowing their hearts to talk louder. Bucky crawls up to where Steve is already lying, burrowing beneath the covers and making himself small as he cuddles up to the warm body he perhaps knows better than his own. They breathe in tandem, and Steve watches, mesmerized, as Bucky gradually relaxes against him, his face going slack and plush lips parting. It’s still much too early for sleep, but neither of them minds much. The world moves too quickly these days and slow moments like these, long nights ahead, are treasured. And there’s no greater treasure in Steve’s life than Bucky Barnes.
“I love you,” Steve murmurs, pressing a kiss into his wet hair.
Bucky smiles against his chest; his unspoken I love you too lingers comfortably in the moonlit room.