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Bucky doesn't leave his apartment for six months after he gets out of the hospital. The physical therapist comes to him; he pays the teenage boy from down the hall to get groceries, and sweet-talks either Natasha or Sam into coming over with booze.
Well, he goes outside once, the first week, because New York was home, once. But now, the sounds of the cars are overwhelming, and every step is an explosion waiting to happen; every person reaching into a purse or a pocket for a cellphone is going for a gun; and in the shadows of the buildings, there lurks death. Bucky freezes in the middle of a busy street, and winds up diving for cover from the honking horns.
Some kind stranger (whose face Bucky doesn't even see through the fog of panic) helps him home, and Bucky doesn't go out again.
–
Fury calls once to say, “Glad you finally made it home, Sergeant,” and Bucky knows that what that really means is, “Glad you're alive.”
Bucky wants to say, “I didn't,” to tell someone that somewhere between the battlefield and the prison and all the things he can't chase from his mind, he didn't make it home, not really; but he refuses to be that goddamn maudlin to his CO, of all people, so Bucky just leaves it at “Yes, sir.”
–
Just because he never goes out, doesn't mean Bucky feels any safer at home. It's all nightmares and perimeter checks, flashbacks that take over a brain already full-to-the-brim with the constant awareness that they're coming for him. (You can take the boy out of the war, but you can't take the war out of the boy).
Only Natasha ever looks at him with anything but teeth-grinding worry, and that's just because she's good at hiding.
There's too many hours in a day, especially since he hardly ever sleeps, and Bucky fills the time with trying to re-build the body that's been wrecked by injury and starvation. He pushes himself too hard in PT; he orders a treadmill online, and runs on it until he collapses. He does crunches until he can't breathe, and tries to make up for his barely-functional left arm by doing innumerable pushups with just his right. (His muscles give out and won't move without screaming pain for days at a time; his physical therapist screams at him for putting so much strain on himself; Sam and Natasha show up and take away all of the exercise equipment).
All Bucky's trying to do is feel a little bit closer to safe.
–
Natasha has business in her eyes, walking through the door. “I got you a job,” she says.
“Hello to you too, Natalia,” Bucky tells her.
“No deflecting, James.”
“I don't need a job,” he says, avoiding her gaze. “I've got pension and disability.”
She glares, hands on her hips. “You need to get out of the house.”
“I really don't,” Bucky says.
“Sam and I are going to stop bringing booze.”
Bucky's eyes go huge. “You don't mean that.”
“You think we don't know what you've been doing?” Natasha snaps. “Sam and I have given you half a year worth of leeway, mostly because he's a bleeding-heart social worker.”
“And...?”
Natasha makes a face. “And because I know what it's like to come home from war,” she says, resigned. “I have a friend whose brother just ditched the family business. He needs some help, and he knows what dealing with you is gonna be like.”
Bucky's not sure why he stops fighting her. “What's the job?”
–
The first day on the job, Bucky hits the ground every time an engine revs; his hands shake when he holds a wrench. But something about the grease and the smell of gasoline feels like home, and Bucky's mind goes clear and focused when he's working. The first time a dead-silent car purrs back to life, and Bucky knows that he's the one responsible, it feels like he could fix anything—like maybe, maybe he's got a shot at fixing himself.
Clint, his boss, laughs easy, smiles often, and looks the other way when Bucky seeks cover at sudden, loud noises. He gives Bucky time to figure out how to work around the limited mobility in his left arm, and teaches anything he doesn't know.
Bucky wonders why a man would let himself—his livelihood—be saddled with a human wreck; but Natasha comes by the shop one day, and the way Clint looks at her, Bucky understands. Clint's got his own ghosts, besides (there's the brother who went away, and the parents he will never mention), but it just—it makes more sense.
It makes sense when Clint grunts, halfway under some souped-up Camero (all cliché, red, with the racing stripes), and asks, “So, how'd you and Nat meet?”
“Special ops,” Bucky tells him, passing the engine part, “classified.”
“Ain't everything that way...” Clint says. “At least, where she's concerned.”
Bucky wants to tell him it will be alright, but Natasha is an unsolved riddle, even after all these years; he doesn't know if this is the kind of story that ends with Clint happy.
–
Bucky goes out, sometimes, now. It's easier spending time with people one-on-one—one person is still all he can manage to focus on, with the constant, looming threat of danger taking up the usual chunk of his attention. He goes out for drinks with Natasha, who always finds them quiet booths in uncrowded bars, tucked away in corners, but still somehow offering an unobstructed eye-line to the door.
He visits Sam's apartment, and they go up to the roof and make food with a rusty-but-functional kettle grill—well, Sam does all the real cooking, but Bucky chops things and passes various implements and needles Sam by calling Redwing “that damn bird.” Sam, for all that he knows better, rises to the bait every time, but the mock-confrontations always end with the two of them laughing between bites of some magical, sauce-slathered concoction.
With Clint, Bucky goes on long rides in Hawkeye—Clint's pride and joy of a car. They wind up somewhere different (and beautiful) every time, pulling over somewhere to drink cheap beers, and then then waiting out the hours until it's safe for Clint to drive again.
He manages one group outing—burgers, for Kate's seventeenth birthday. Kate's the wiz-kid who works at Clint's shop after school, and there's nothing quite as potent as her disappointment. Bucky sometimes entertains the idea that the cars she fixes purr back to life just because they can't stand to see her displeased. (He never entertains that idea for very long; Kate fixes cars because she's damn good at it, and he won't diminish that with whimsy).
–
Bucky scrubs at the grease on his hands and looks at Clint, who's up to his elbows under some car's hood. “How we met, was, she was just a kid, in the army. Enlisted because she had nowhere else to go. I knew how that felt, so I took her under my wing—taught her some things, to help her survive. She taught me Russian, in return. Even that young, she didn't like owing anyone anything.”
–
Bucky likes the classic cars best—the older, the better, but his favorites are the ones made during WWII. There's just something about cars from the forties that makes sense to him. Clint says he's got a gift, but Bucky doesn't think too much on that. He just...fixes cars. If he starts making a name for himself, he doesn't really notice.
–
“Clint's pretty gone for you,” Bucky tells Natasha, between bites of his chicken and waffle sandwich. Natasha's found the perfect bar—the pitchers are cheap, and the food is maple syrup-soaked glory.
Natasha rolls her eyes, and downs her shot. “Really. I am shocked by this revelation.”
“He's a good guy,” Bucky says. “I wouldn't even have to threaten his life.”
“I know,” Natasha tells him. “There's a reason I made you go work at his shop.”
Bucky gulps down some beer. “Any reason in particular you're not trying that out?”
“I just...” Natasha says. “I've done too much.”
“Me getting captured wasn't your fault, Natalia,” Bucky says.”
“It's not just you, James,” Natasha tells him. “I've done too much, and seen too much, and loved too much. Я больше не могу.”
Bucky smiles. “Ты можешь всё. Ну это нормально, если ты не хочешь.”
–
The car is an impeccably-maintained 1941 Chevrolet Deluxe Convertible, painted a perfect steel blue, not-working for no discernible reason. Clint says that the owner asked for Bucky by name.
“He works on her himself, usually,” Clint says. “But he just can't figure out what's wrong with her.”
Bucky grunts an affirmative; Clint's words glide right off him, so entranced is he by the beauty of a car parked before him.
“He's going to come by tomorrow, so he can talk to you about her himself. He said that he needs to meet the man who's gonna be taking care of his girl,” Clint says.
Bucky walks towards the Chevrolet as if magnetized; he strokes the hood, feeling smooth paint and cool metal. “Smart man. If she were mine, I'd wanna give the guy working on her a good talking-to, also.”
“Oh, he's more than just smart,” Clint tells him, but Bucky misses the wicked sparkle in his eye.
–
Bucky follows instructions, and doesn't start working on the car like he desperately wants to do. He doesn't go home, either, though—not for hours. It's not like Bucky sleeps much, anyway, not like he can; and just—he wants to stay with the car.
–
Bucky rolls out from underneath the car and tries to get at some of the grease with a rag. He doubts it's gonna have much of an effect--he must be a mess, and this customer's the most attractive human being he's ever seen in real life. Standing there in his stained, white undershirt—the shop really heats up—he feels like a scarred-up cliché. He hates Clint for letting him walk into this like an idiot, letting him meet the perfect man who owns the perfect car without a warning.
“So, can you save her?” the beautiful blonde man—Steve, he said his name was Steve—asks.
“Yeah,” Bucky says, grinning. “I think I can.” Fixing cars is the first thing he's been good at since he got back from the war, and he's never been more glad of that than at this moment.
“You've got a little something—” Steve touches his own face to indicate a spot of grease.
Bucky wipes at his face, trying not to blush.
Steve shakes his head, his smile warm. “Let me get it.” He steps in close and takes the rag from Bucky's hands.
Bucky is suddenly extra self-conscious of his scars, but then Steve's touching his face, all careful and gentle, like Bucky's something special, and then he's not conscious of anything besides Steve, all warm and close.
Steve dabs lightly at the grease on his face, and Bucky's heart must be trying to beat its way out of his chest, but not like usual; it's happy excitement in the place where mortal terror tends to lie.
“There,” Steve says. He's grinning like he knows the exact thoughts racing through Bucky's mind. “Perfect.”
Bucky's stomach does somersaults at the word. “I very much doubt that.”
Steve's sure gaze turns sheepish when he realizes he's still touching Bucky's cheek. “So, uh,” Steve says, “when do you get off work?”
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Six.”
“Can I take you out afterwards?” Steve asks; he passes Bucky back the rag, and lets his hand linger when their finger-tips brush. “Got to get to know the man who's working on my girl a little better.”
“I'd really, really like that,” Bucky says—except, he keeps talking, mouth moving of what must be its own accord. “But I'm not exactly going to be fit for going anywhere after work.” He gestures at his soiled undershirt.
Steve's smile flickers, but doesn't wane. “I was actually going to ask if I could pick you up after work, take you to my place, and make you dinner,” he says. “I don't mind the getup if you don't.”
Bucky looks at Steve, standing there, all insipidly handsome—confident but terribly earnest—and he realizes where his sudden fit of hesitation came from. Steve is, objectively speaking, attractive in a ludicrous, traditional manner—the kind of man they model statues after. So maybe he gets kind of turned on watching a moody, sad-eyed cliché working on his car—this isn't going anywhere besides the bedroom. The self-loathing streak Bucky had running through him even before his nightmare of a war experience has no plans on sitting this one out; he might not be ready for sex with a stranger, but if the gorgeous man who owns that gorgeous car wants to sleep with him, that's what Bucky's going to do. “Alright,” Bucky says, putting on a brave face. “I'm in.”
“I've just got my bike right now,” Steve tells him. “Would you be okay with riding on the back, or should I get us a cab?”
“Let's see this bike of yours,” Bucky says.
Steve leads him outside to show off the vintage motorcycle—and yeah, Bucky's definitely going to sleep with him, delicate grip on sanity be damned. “I will never forgive you if you call us a cab.”
“Alright,” Steve says. “That settles that. I'll bring an extra jacket and helmet. Anything in particular I should make—or should avoid making—for dinner?”
“Nah, I'll eat just about anything,” Bucky says. “I'm ex-military, you know.” He avoids mentioning that this particular theory's been tested over and over in a POW camp. He's eaten things that merit their own nightmares.
Steve beams, and Bucky's pretty sure that someone that beautiful shouldn't look so happy about the fact that he's going to get laid.
“I'll surprise you then,” he says. “See you at six.”
Steve hugs Bucky before leaving, despite Bucky's protests about the mortal danger to the plaid button-up he's wearing. He smells good, warm and just a bit old-fashioned—and yeah, Bucky's probably going to be in trouble here; this is probably going to hurt. But somehow, he can't really bring himself to care.
–
“We don't know this man,” Clint says.
“Okay, mom,” Bucky shoots back, rolling his eyes.
“He might be so handsome that being straight doesn't prevent me from being able to comment on it, and with a gorgeous lady of a car to boot,” Clint says, “but that won't stop him from turning out to be a serial killer.”
“That's not the kind of car you dispose bodies in, Clint,” Bucky says.
Clint concedes the point. “Natasha's going to murder me if I let something bad happen to you.”
“Nothing bad's going to happen to me,” Bucky says. “Unless you count getting laid for the first time in years as something bad.” He tries very hard to believe that what he's saying is true.
–
“Jesus,” Bucky says. “This tastes even better than it smells.”
“Thanks,” Steve says, smiling and ducking his head. “More wine?”
Bucky nods, and Steve fills the glass.
Dinner is parmesan-and-pesto-crusted chicken breast and homemade mac-and-cheese; the red wine is velvet. It's all the right combination of nice-date fancy and comfortably homey, and Steve, as it turns out, is more incredible even than the sum of his good looks and his impeccable taste in vehicles. (Bucky fell a little bit in love with the bike on the way over, the rush of the wind and his chest pressed up against Steve's leather-clad back).
It winds up being that they have quite a bit more in common than their affinity for WWII-era American vehicles. Steve, like Bucky, is a Brooklyn boy, born and bred, and then raised in the foster system. They figure out that when Steve was twelve and Bucky was ten, they missed living with the same family at the same time by just a few months. Steve tells Bucky about growing up scrawny and sick, about the way it made him appreciate the health, vigor, and power of the body he eventually grew into. Bucky tells Steve about his army buddies—the first real family he ever had—and when, at nine o'clock, his phone starts ringing off the hook in various permutations of Natasha-Sam-Clint (with the occasional call from Kate thrown in, for good measure), he tells Steve about his friends, and about the shop. (He turns the phone off, after a while, and hardly even feels guilty; it's hard to concentrate on things like guilt when Steve's right there, beaming at him from across the table).
Bucky's heart still sinks when Steve suggests the conversation move elsewhere, though he knows Steve will be nice about it, that the sex will be alright, for all that he's not ready for it. Elsewhere, however, turns out to be the living room, where Steve puts on a record (something sweet and old) and opens up another bottle of wine. Freed from the tight band of anxiety, something in Bucky's chest flutters and unfurls when Steve's knee brushes his on the couch.
Steve's arm winds up wrapped around Bucky's shoulder. (He hadn't realized how much he missed this, missed touch that wasn't clinical or pain or the hesitant contact of friends terrified of him breaking). They talk about growing up fighting, scraps in alleys and on school playgrounds. Steve gives up on pouring the wine into their glasses, and they pass the bottle back and forth, all intimate and sweet.
Bucky nods off at four in the morning, mid-sentence, his head resting on Steve's shoulder. Steve wakes him with a careful nudge, and tells him, “hey,” voice thick with affection. (Bucky wants to wake up always to his smile). “Morning,” Steve says. “Do you want me to call a cab and escort you home, or do you want to stay here? I'll give you the bed.”
“I can just sleep on the couch,” Bucky murmurs, eyes fluttering. Staying awake is a battle, one he's been fighting too much and for too long.
Steve shakes his head, all noble and determined. “You're my guest. Guest gets the bed.”
“We can share, then. If you're gonna be stubborn,” Bucky says. He mock-glares at Steve. “No funny stuff, pal.”
Steve's lips curl into another one of those wonderful smiles. “Wouldn't dream of it.”
He helps Bucky off the couch (despite protests), and to his room, where Bucky cocoons himself in the blankets of the marvelous, warm bed. Steve watches Bucky get comfortable with this terrible warmth in his eyes, and then he bends down for a kiss—it's brief, closed-mouthed—just this touch of the lips, but firm, and sweet, and full of intention.
“A good night kiss,” he says, before walking around to the other side of the bed, and climbing under the covers.
Bucky falls asleep giddy.
(A few hours later, when Bucky wakes up from his customary nightmares, Steve wakes up with him. He doesn't touch until Bucky lets him know he should, and he does not say that it's okay. He just tells Bucky that it's safe, that no one's gonna hurt him, and Bucky grabs the anchor of his voice and comes back to the present, where he drifts back to sleep within the secure confines of Steve's embrace).
–
Natasha shows up several minutes after Steve drops him off at the shop. She pins Bucky with a cool glance, studying him as if he were on a slide. “Same clothes,” she says. “If that man you went home with took advantage of your ridiculous self-destructive streak and had sex with you, so help me...”
“It wasn't like that!” Bucky tells her.
“Pray tell, then,” Natasha says, tone measured, “what was it like?”
Bucky glares at her, but Natasha levels him with one of her legendary death-stares. “He made me dinner. We talked—until four. There was wine. I may or may not have fallen asleep on him...” A smile creeps across his face, entirely of its own volition.
“You look happy,” Natasha says. “It's sickening. I'll allow it.”
Bucky rolls his eyes.
“When you didn't come home last night, I called in some favors and ran a background check on him...” Natasha says.
Bucky sighs. “Of course you did. Go ahead, ruin this for me. What did you find?” He waves her on with a flick of the hand.
Natasha swallows. “He actually wouldn't be the worst candidate for sainthood,” she admits. “Has a non-profit whose goal is to provide art therapy to victims of trauma. When he's not doing that, he works as a storyboard artist for films. Some director got really obsessed with him and talked him into starring in a movie once, and he used the money from that to start the non-profit...”
“Wow,” Bucky says.
“Yeah,” she agrees, “I'm not even sure I have to threaten his life.”
“He probably wouldn't even mind your scary speech—he's that nice,” Bucky tells her. “I am so out of my league here.”
“I will hurt you if you say that again,” Natasha says. “Don't make me tell you soppy things like 'you deserve the best.' That's Sam's area, not mine. And you mean I can give this Steve of yours my speech?”
She looks so chipper about the prospect that Bucky doesn't have the heart to tell her no.
–
Bucky spends the rest of the day fending off a volley of questions (Kate is curious; Clint won't stop smirking; Sam tries to make him promise never to disappear for so many hours again). He goes into hiding underneath Steve's car, quieting his thoughts and their voices in tools and grease and metal. The Chevrolet is fixed by the end of the day.
–
“You sure fixed your boy's car quick,” Clint tells him. His grin is terrible.
Bucky glares.
“Such a sweet romantic gesture,” Clint says. “It's touching.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Let's not have the conversation about romantic gestures, pal.”
“You saved his lady! Can you imagine the gratitude...”
“Hey,” Bucky says, “Remind me again why you hired a trauma-wrecked vet with no civilian job experience and one properly functioning arm, again?”
“Because, in my infinite wisdom, I foresaw the fact that your wartime experience would make you a kick-ass mechanic?” Clint says.
Bucky snorts. “Yeah, try that one again. Think 'red hair'.”
Clint frowns. “I admit to nothing.”
–
“I have to tell you something,” Steve says. “It's totally gonna make me sound creepy.”
“So that's why you let me drive your car. Softening me up so you can show all the bodies in the crawl space,” Bucky says.
Steve leans in for a quick kiss. “Maybe.”
“I knew you were too perfect,” Bucky tells him.
“'M not perfect,” Steve says, pouting.
(In the three weeks since they went on their first date, and all the dates and drives therein, all the nights curled up in Steve's bed—kissing and sleeping because they're taking their time—Bucky has seen plenty of evidence to the contrary). “Sure, pal,” Bucky says. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “The day at the shop, when I asked you out, that wasn't the first time we'd met.”
“If you're about to tell me that we knew each other in another life, please stop,” Bucky says.
Steve laughs. “Oh yes, Bucky. Don't you know we were Achilles and Patroclus, before? You must believe me! Don't you remember our love?”
“Wait, they were gay?” Bucky asks. “Cool.”
“But seriously, Bucky,” Steve says. “The first time we met. Well, not really met per se, but...”
“Okay, tell me.”
“It was about a year ago, maybe a little more,” Steve says.
“So you saw me in your dreams. That's the only actual way you could have met me then. Unless you watched me sleeping at the hospital...that would be pretty creepy.” Bucky settles into Steve's space, curling against his side and sprawling one leg across his lap.
“No! Not there,” Steve takes a moment to laugh at Bucky's position, “how can that even be comfortable?”
“Sh'up,” Bucky says. “You're the one who's not comfortable.”
Steve shrugs and hugs Bucky close. “So, anyway, do you remember, about a year ago, having a panic attack somewhere in Brooklyn?”
Bucky looks up at Steve, suddenly very intent.
“I was the one who helped you home,” Steve says.
There's nothing to do, then, but start laughing. “I should have known,” Bucky tells him. “There's not two idiots in Brooklyn who help strangers like that. I'm dating the only one.” He pulls Steve down for a kiss.
“I kept thinking about you, after that,” Steve says. “I didn't know why. And then my car broke, and I couldn't fix it, and someone told me there was this vet working at Barton's shop who was the person to see in Brooklyn, about 1940s models of American cars.”
“Damn right I am,” Bucky chimes in.
“So I get to the shop to talk to the guy who's gonna be working on my lady, and there you are. The same guy I helped on the street a year ago. I had to ask you out, of course,” Steve tells him.
Bucky agrees. “Naturally.”
“I've been wanting to tell you about it, but it's just so weird,” Steve says.
“It's...kind of ridiculous,” Bucky says. “Promise you won't tell Natasha. It's too cute. You're like...my hero or something.” He wrinkles his nose.
“Yeah?” Steve laughs, and it's the nicest goddamn sound.
Bucky can't believe in fate, not after everything, but he believes in luck—and for the first time since he was a cocky kid who never seemed to miss a shot, he believes that he is lucky.
–
Sam visits the shop, and tempts Bucky into taking a break with a beer—just one, because Bucky's on the job. “You seem more like your old self,” he says.
Bucky does not feel like his old self; nor does he feel, however, like the broken thing he's been since his return. He feels new—renewed.
–
With Steve, everything, for Bucky, is more natural than breathing; and when, a few more chaste dates later, sex comes into the equation, the customary first-time awkwardness is summarily passed over. Steve doesn't ask about any of the scars, even the ones that Bucky knows must raise questions. (The ones on the insides of Bucky's thighs, electrical burns, they were, Steve kisses, and it's a quiet sort of benediction).
Afterwards, in the sweaty, hair-all-askance afterglow, when Bucky is just a little bit high on the feeling of safety he has found with his head on Steve's bare chest, and he is lost in the comforting cadence of Steve's heart (and how, how can such a small sound mean that so much is right with the world), Bucky looks up at Steve, closeness curling around them like smoke, and says, “There's some things I should probably tell you.”
Steve runs fingertips down his spine, and says, “Take your time. When you're ready, I'm ready to listen.”
Bucky lets himself bask in the radiant warmth of the present, and Steve's sweat-dampened skin, a little while longer.
Eventually, he says, “I was special forces. Really fucking classified shit. Me and my patrol got caught in an explosion. It was bad.” (The images bloom in his mind—red, the blood, and guttural screams, the way men only scream when they're dying. Bucky pushes them out). “Our comms got knocked out in the blast, and we were behind enemy lines. We were taken. I was the leader, so I was interrogated.”
Steve takes his hand, and Bucky holds on—tight, and it probably hurts, but Steve does not say a word.
“I spent eight months as a POW. I thought I was gonna die every single day of it,” Bucky starts tearing up. “No one knew where I was, and even if they did, the kind of job I had—they couldn't have put public appeals for my release on the news. They couldn't have even sent anyone under a certain clearance to come get me. I just kept hoping it would happen before I gave anything up...”
The tears come for real, now, broken sobs from someplace so deep that Bucky's powerless to stop them. He hides his face in the crook of Steve's neck, no longer able to focus on his reassuring heartbeat.
(Steve strokes Bucky's hair, and kisses his temple, and keeps him close. He does not say that everything is okay, nor that it will be, just says, “I've got you,” and “you're safe, now.” And when Bucky is done crying, he wipes at the tears with the pad of his thumb, and whispers, sweet and clear through all the static crowding Bucky's mind, “I love you.”)
It's sooner than Bucky would have ever thought, except it's at the perfect time, and Bucky smiles with red-rimmed eyes, and says, “I love you, too.”
–
“When are you coming in to get a piece from me, Barnes,” Carol says, she's got an arm slung around Jess, and no drink in her hand. “Or are you wimping out, Sergeant?”
“Wouldn't dream of it, Colonel.” Bucky tells her, flashing a grin. “Just waiting for Steve to finish drawing it for me.”
Steve, upon hearing his name, appears by Bucky's side as if summoned. “It's going on your skin, forever. It needs to be perfect.”
Natasha grabs Steve by the arm. “Barton is trying to let Kate drink. Fix it,” she says, dragging him away.
“I'll be in your shop soon, ladies,” Bucky tells Carol and Jess. “Promise. There's a lot of skin I'm looking to cover. Gotta get it started quick.”
Carol and Jess drift off into their own little world, and Bucky is left to take in the scene. Steve is where his gaze drifts first, every time. He's talking to Clint, animated, while Natasha watches, a satisfied smirk on her face.
Kate has escaped the confrontation Clint and Natasha built around her, and seems perfectly happy in an alcohol-free bubble with a few of her friends. They're all so young it kind of hurts.
Rhodey and Pepper chat on a couch, ostensibly taking a break while Tony argues with someone about something complicated and scientific—Bucky can spot Bruce and Reed and someone he's yet to meet in his circle.
Between the heat of all the bodies crowded into their Brooklyn loft, and the many overlapping conversations, it all becomes a bit overwhelming, and Bucky sneaks out to the balcony. He stands there a while, staring out at the darkening skyline. It's a beautiful sunset, and the sticky afternoon has faded into something pleasant and cool.
“There you are,” Steve says, stepping out to join him. “I thought we agreed you'd tell me if you needed a break, so I could come with you.”
“It's your birthday party. You should be enjoying it,” Bucky says—but he's not exactly complaining when Steve comes up behind him, kisses the back of his neck, and pulls him close, arms around his waist.
Steve kisses his ear. “I wanna spend it with you.”
“I guess I can do that,” Bucky says, grinning.
“We can go hide out in our room, if it's too much. No one will mind,” Steve says. “They'll just tease us relentlessly for ditching the party to have sex.”
“No,” Bucky says, “I wanna stay. Just needed a little air. Though ditching the party to have sex does sound like a plan, but in a while. Sam's just left to go and pick up the his mystery date.”
Steve smirks. “Not much of a mystery. I'm almost one-hundred percent sure it's Sharon.”
“Wouldn't Sam have asked you, though?” Bucky says. “Since you and she used to—”
“Sharon's a grown woman. No one needs my permission to date her,” Steve says.
Bucky ponders a while. “I still think Sam would, just to make sure. How about we bet on it?”
“What're we gonna bet, Buck?” Steve asks, raising an eyebrow.
“That's true,” Bucky says, “I was gonna say blow-jobs, but it's not like those are exactly a rare commodity at our place. Bragging rights it is.”
“If I'm right, it means my friends and your friends are starting to get together,” Steve says.
Bucky laughs. “First living together, now this. Soon we're going to have to adopt a pet or something.”
“Or something,” Steve says, and Bucky can hear the smile in his voice.
“Happy birthday,” Bucky says. “I love you.”
Steve kisses his temple. “Love you, too, Buck.”
It's one of those moments where Bucky's almost shockingly content—he's got the city, spread out before him, slowly being overtaken by the glittering lights as the sun goes down; he's got Steve (right now, in that moment, willing to drop everything to make sure he's okay, but also in the big, always kind of way); he's got friends, a job, and a life, everything he never thought he'd get.
Somewhere in the distance, fireworks go off. Bucky flinches a bit at the first explosion. Steve takes his hand, entwining their fingers. “Okay?” he asks.
“Okay,” Bucky tells him.