Work Text:
"Buck." Steve emphasizes the word with a roll of his eyes, ducking his head as he bumps Bucky good-naturedly with his shoulder. "You know I'm not sick anymore. You don't have to do that."
Bucky only shrugs, lifting the shield higher over their heads to ward off the rain. "Humor me, would ya? Maybe I miss takin' care of you, Stevie." He grins, wide and teasing with wet hair falling into his eyes, and the sight makes Steve’s chest go tight with a warm, aching feeling.
For a minute he forgets to breathe, but then the tightness loosens and he swallows down a laugh when Bucky leans in to dig an elbow into his ribs. Retaliation for the shoulder check, Steve imagines, but it’s becoming more frequent, these easy little touches. They always horsed around as kids; headlocks and half-assed punches and trading barbs like it was a goddamned competition, but now there’s an undercurrent of awareness to it. A softness in their actions that wasn’t there before. It’s strange and good and terrifying and Steve thinks that he could live in moments like these forever.
Bucky still hasn’t pulled back yet; Steve realizes this belatedly once he’s waded out of the pool of old memories in his head, and the contact has his skin burning hotter, leaving him oddly flustered. He tells himself that he should withdraw, should put some distance between their bodies, only before he can move, Bucky is slinging his free arm over Steve’s shoulders, resting flush against his side, and the steady, solid pressure of having him that close feels so familiar, so comforting, it’s almost more natural than breathing.
"Thank you." The words pour from Steve's mouth before he can stop himself; overwhelmed with the sudden, pressing need to show his gratitude, to make sure Bucky knows how much these little moments matter. How much they've always mattered to him. "I don't know if I ever thanked you enough - thanked you properly - for everything you did for me back then. Everything you're still doing now."
"Christ, Rogers." Bucky’s laugh is rough as he fixes Steve with a look that can only be described as incredulous. "You don't gotta...it wasn't like it was work or anything." His face melts into a softer, floundering expression, like he's struggling to properly translate his thoughts into words. "You were my best pal. I would've done anything for you."
"What do you mean, were?" Steve comes to a sudden stop, forcing Bucky to pause with him since they're still connected at the hip; Steve's shield lifted high overhead. "Went out and got yourself a new best friend, did you?" He means for it to be teasing, but he can't manage quite enough levity so instead it comes out sounding strangely flat and somber.
He knows that he should have prepared for this. The Bucky Barnes who stands before him now isn’t the same man that exists in Steve’s memories. That man died in the Alps, and it’s only fair that this Bucky gets a chance to grow and change and find his place outside of the past. Outside of HYDRA and Pierce and the image of a cryo chamber that still rests all too vividly in the back of Steve’s mind, like a waking nightmare that leaves him sick and shaking and angry in ways he never thought possible.
If this Bucky wants to move on, then Steve will step aside and let him go. He’d never dream of letting Bucky be confined again. Least of all by Steve himself.
For one long moment Bucky just stares at him and the silence feels so heavy and suffocating, it's like Steve's a skinny little asthmatic all over again and his lungs are seizing and he can't breathe and-
"You're more," Bucky finally says, following it up with a huffed sigh and slight shake of his head as he gives Steve a somewhat helpless look. "You're not my friend, Steve. God, you're...you're my whole fuckin' heart."
Steve blinks.
His mouth opens, then closes soundlessly.
That’s so far from what he expects to hear, he has to swallow twice before any of his voice returns.
"Good," he manages to get out, tone low and slightly choked, "cause you're mine too. Now will you drop the shield already?"
Bucky chuckles, finally allowing his arm to lower as it returns to his side. “Yeah, but only ‘cause I need both hands to do this,” he says, metal leaving metal as his fingers uncurl around Steve’s shield, letting go until it’s falling to rest at their feet, and then he’s taking a step in, fitting his hands onto Steve’s hips, and pressing their mouths together.
It’s a warm, slow slide of lips and teeth and tongue and he tastes, Steve thinks, like home. Like long summer nights and tiny Brooklyn apartments. Like sketchbooks and Jack Daniels and laughing until his chest hurts. It’s a feeling that’s both achingly familiar and yet exhilaratingly new, and it must be a dream, Steve tells himself. It has to be, because he’s kissing Bucky, and nothing could ever possibly feel this good.
When they pull apart it’s short and brief before Bucky is dropping his head to bump his nose against Steve’s, seemingly reluctant to withdraw any further than that.
"Still don't trust you not to catch pneumonia," he murmurs, mouth curving up into a slight smile. "C'mon, Stevie. Let's get you inside."
Steve pulls in a long breath and when he exhales, it’s like a century of worry and tension are unfurling from deep within his soul, leaving him light and warm and almost giddy.
"You gonna make me soup and rub my feet too?" He asks, easily swooping down to grab his shield before he falls into step next to Bucky, thinking that he’s never been more eager to get back to Stark’s tower.
Bucky grins, eyes bright as his hand makes contact with Steve’s shoulder in a playful shove. "Don't push your luck, Rogers."