Work Text:
There’s a scratching sound at the door.
Sleep clings heavy still. Bucky snuffles and buries his face into the pillow. If Steve isn't here with coffee it isn't worth getting up for. Besides, his blankets are warm and Steve isn't sprawled halfway across the bed with his stupidly muscular limbs taking up Bucky’s space. He’s allowed to enjoy having the bed to himself every once in awhile. Even if he misses Steve pressed up behind him.
The scratching sound comes again, longer and more insistent this time. Groaning, Bucky pulls the covers up over his head. “Don’t wanna get up, don’t wanna get up,” he mumbles to himself. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter and wills the noise not to return. Seconds pass, then minutes, and Bucky begins, slowly, to doze back off.
A whine accompanies the scratching this time. “Damn it,” Bucky hisses, throwing the covers back. A quick glance at the clock shows that it’s eight o’clock; Steve was supposed to be back by 7:30 at the latest. Bucky’s brow steeples, and he throws the covers off completely, padding his way from the bedroom through the living room. The whining and scratching are louder as he gets closer to the door and grabs the handle.
“What the—” Bucky says when he opens it.
On the doorstep is a rather large dog, golden-furred and shaggy in the way that Golden Retrievers are, but with the kind of pointed ears they don’t have. It’s looking up at Bucky with large, sad eyes. Possibly frowning. Can dogs frown? Whatever it is, it isn’t Bucky’s dog. If he shuts the door now, the dog might find a different doorstep to look sad on.
Bucky almost shuts the door, then he sees it: the dog is, unmistakably, wearing the tattered remains of basketball shorts. Basketball shorts that look a hell of a lot like the ones that Steve was wearing when we went out on his morning run. That’s…interesting.
They end up at some weird sort of stalemate, staring at each other. The dog tucks his tail under himself, whining quietly and looking pleadingly up at Bucky. And Bucky decides, what the hell, it isn't like he isn't a formerly brainwashed assassin anyway. His life is already pretty weird.
He says, “Steve?”
The dog yips.
——
“I’m telling you, Nat,” Bucky says, tucking his phone between his ear and his shoulder, “it’s Steve. I swear to god.” Both of his hands are occupied with forcing Steve’s helmet onto his head. Steve doesn't actively fight it, but he doesn’t many it any easier, trying to wriggle back and fight Bucky’s hand on his chin. When Bucky finally gets it on, squishing Steve’s ears adorably to his head, the look he’s given is the closest to a doggy glare that Bucky has ever seen.
“No,” Bucky says, putting his phone on speaker to reach the camera, “why would I lie to you? And why this lie? It’s pretty weirdly specific.”
“A dog, though, James—”
“Come over to Steve’s place if you don’t believe me,” he replies, hanging up before she can say anything else. Bucky knows she’ll be here; there’s no way she can resist the promise of dog Steve. He snaps another photo, though, just to be thorough.
He’s taken Steve’s pitiful excuse for shorts off and thrown them away. Now with him sitting in the middle of their living room with nothing but his Captain America helmet on, Bucky thinks he may overdose on cuteness. Steve, however, isn’t taking it so well.
“Aw, come on, buddy,” he says to Steve, crouching down. Steve is hunched in on himself now, glaring up at Bucky from under the helmet. “Come on,” Bucky coos, patting the tops of his thighs. Steve’s head cocks. “Who’s a good boy, huh? Who’s my good boy?”
Steve’s tail begins wagging reluctantly, almost immediately, and his eyes narrow a bit as he turns to stare at it. Bucky openly grins, running a hand down the soft fur on Steve’s back and imagining that, internally, Steve is probably cursing him every way he knows how.
——
“Well, shit,” Natasha says as she opens the door, taking a slight step back as Bucky thrusts Steve at her, Steve wriggling in Bucky’s grip “you really weren’t kidding. Is that his helmet?”
Satisfied, Bucky sets Steve back down on the floor, then leans against the doorframe. “Can’t believe it took you actually seeing it to realize I wasn’t lying. After all we’ve been through, Nat. And yes it is. Figured if human Steve was cute as hell wearing it then dog Steve would probably be even cuter.”
“You’re not wrong.” Natasha sits down, trying to coax Steve to her. “You have to admit,” she drawls, patting the hardwood and looking at Bucky over her shoulder, “telling me that your boyfriend showed up on your doorstep as a dog is a pretty outlandish thing to believe.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “We’re both former assassins. You fought aliens. Steve and I are nearly a hundred years old. A serum changed Steve from a scrawny little punk to a punk with way too much muscle for his own good—”
Steve barks. Bucky’s pretty sure it’s supposed to be indignant. “My point stands,” he says, raising his voice slightly and glaring at both him and Natasha in turn. “My boyfriend has been turned into a dog and I have no idea how to get him back. And, cute as he is, I would rather have a human boyfriend than a canine one.”
“Do you think he plays fetch?” Natasha says absentmindedly. She begins looking for something to throw.
“Are you even listening?” Bucky snaps. Damn it, he just wants answers, none of which he’s getting by watching Natasha’s hunt for something to throw.
Steve tries to scratch at his ear with his paw, letting out a low growl when it comes into contact with his helmet. He is, Bucky notes for what feels like the hundredth time since he opened the door, pretty goddamn adorable for a dog. Though why should he expect any less—human Steve, before and after the serum, is still the most gorgeous person Bucky has ever laid eyes on.
“Ah-ha,” Natasha finally says, grabbing one of their smaller throw pillows. She clicks her tongue. “Steve, wanna play fetch?”
Steve perks up, looking up at her and tilting his head. It makes the dangling straps of his helmet sway. After a moment he pulls himself into a standing position, tail held high and slowly beginning to wag back and forth. Steve stares at Natasha intently, and it’s the same intensity that furrows his brows when he draws, or when he plans out a mission.
Bucky bites back a smile when Natasha fakes a throw and Steve’s hind legs quiver; when she actually throws it across the apartment Steve is off, letting out a loud bark as his nails clatter on the wood.
“I thought wolves were supposed to be scary,” Natasha says when Steve trots back to her, panting and dropping the pillow in her hand. Steve lets out a yip, closing his jaws around Natasha’s wrist in what Bucky thinks is supposed to be a bite; from his perspective it looks nothing like it, and it must not be because Natasha just raises an eyebrow in response and says, looking down at Steve, “You’re just furthering my point, Rogers.”
Steve huffs, something close to a doggy sigh, closing his jaws around Natasha’s hand this time before retreating to the couch. Eyeing it, he hesitates before jumping up, with only a little struggle, and laying down. When he keeps staring at Bucky, Bucky decides to finally take pity on him, removing the helmet and scratching Steve gently behind the ears. It earns him a soft sigh and Steve’s tongue wet at his wrist. Bucky’s heart throbs, clenches. It’s the closest thing he’s going to get to a kiss in all this, he thinks.
He glances at Natasha. “Can we please focus now? I’d really love to figure out what in the hell happened.”
She sighs, pulling out her phone. “Time to call in reinforcements.”
——
“Oh my god,” Sam exclaims as he steps through the entryway, “this is the cutest thing ever.” He crosses the room and squats by the couch, running his hand over Steve’s side before sliding it lower, under his belly to scratch at the fur there. Steve’s head tips back and he rolls over, baring his belly with a contented sigh.
Sam looks over at Bucky, grinning. “Favorite status: updated.” Steve wriggles his back, kicking his hind leg.
Bucky glares, crossing his arms over his chest. “He only cares because right now he’s a dog and that’s what makes him happy. Try saying that next time my tongue is in his—”
“Boys,” Natasha cuts in, sharp, “that’s enough. Before I have to put you both in a time-out. You can have your macho little pissing contest over who Steve loves more once we figure out how to change him back.”
Sam rolls his eyes, taking a seat in the armchair and crossing his arms over his chest. Bucky immediately lets his drop. “Fine. What do we know?”
“Steve came back from his run like this,” Bucky says. “That’s all I know.”
“Nothing else?” Natasha asks. “No recent encounters with strange people?”
“Steve and I are pretty low-profile these days,” says Bucky. “We aren’t exactly going out of our way to meet with strange people anymore. We’ve done enough of that.”
From the couch Steve lets out a little whuffle of agreement.
It’s silent for a few minutes as they think; it’s eventually Sam who breaks it, asking, “Did Steve come back with any sort of bites?”
Bucky blinks, cuts his gaze over to Steve on the couch, the sun warm and yellow on him. One ear twitches forward, Steve looking up from where he’s licking his left foreleg. “I…didn’t look?”
Natasha looks thoughtful. “That could be a reason. A very outlandish reason, but at least something.”
“What?” asks Bucky, looking between the two of them.
“Steve is favoring his left leg,” Sam adds, standing and walking back over to the couch.
“Will someone please tell me what is going on?” Bucky snaps, feeling like he’s watching a very strange game of tennis.
“Here,” Sam says, holding up Steve’s paw. When Natasha and Bucky look, there’s an unmistakable bloody gash on his foreleg, small but there. Steve whines, jerking his leg back from Sam’s hold.
“Well, shit,” Natasha reiterates, tucking her hair behind her ear and leaning in closer. “I can’t believe it.”
“I swear—” Bucky starts.
“Lycanthropy,” Natasha clarifies, scratching under Steve’s chin before turning around.
“Lycan—what?”
“He’s a werewolf,” Sam says, smoothing a hand over Steve’s ears. “Now, at least. That bite means he was bitten.”
“I know what werewolves are,” Bucky snaps, agitated and fidgeting, tugging at the hem of his shirt. He may have been an assassin for the last seventy years but he has seen horror movies. It’s just that most horror movies don’t begin in the morning, and they certainly don't feature the sad, whimpering excuse for a supersoldier that is on his couch. Bucky scratches Steve’s snout to get him to calm down. “But what—can he change back? Because I’d really love it if Steve could change back.”
Steve lets out a howl, covering both ears with his paws.
“I swear, Barnes,” Natasha says, exasperated, as Bucky rubs Steve's ears again, “your knowledge of lore is about as dated as you. You don't need to wait until the moonlight to change.”
“Since when?”
“Since…I don't know, ever? Since when have you ever encountered a werewolf that wasn’t in a movie?”
“You act like you have.”
“It’s called reading.”
“Who reads werewolf lore in their spare time?”
“Moving on,” Sam cuts in loudly. “We’ve established that Steve was bitten. I’m with Bucky on this one. Can Steve change back now, or does he have to wait until tomorrow? Or whatever that full moon shit means.”
Natasha shrugs. “There are voluntary cases, and involuntary cases, depending on what you read.” She stands up and heads towards the kitchen. Steve lifts his head, ears perking; he’s scrambling up from the couch, bounding into the kitchen. When Natasha gets a glass and sets it under the ice dispenser on the fridge, Steve lets out a pitiful whine.
Natasha fills her glass and then fills a bowl with water, setting it on the floor; Steve drinks greedily from it, knocking the bowl around a bit. “So, what?” Bucky asks, once Steve’s managed to push the bowl against the cabinets. “We wait?”
“Seems to be,” says Sam. “What’s the protocol for this?” he asks. Steve trots back into the living room and sits down on the floor next to Bucky. He looks up, like he’s making sure that Bucky isn’t going anywhere, before finally settling down onto his belly, tongue lolling out. Bucky barely resists the urge to coo.
“Right now we should just enjoy cute puppy Steve while we can.” Bucky bends and cards his fingers through Steve’s thick fur, splaying his palm to rest on Steve’s ribs. He’s warm, breath coming long and slow. “We always wanted a dog,” Bucky says, low, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “Some little scrappy stray mutt we could call our own. Who would’ve thought.”
Steve lets out a quiet whoof, as if in answer. Bucky scratches between his ears and wonders just how his life became so damn weird.
——
As it turns out, changing back is as easy as thinking about it. Apparently.
Bucky’s lap, which was once full of warm, furry dog tired out from another round of fetch and scratches as they watched mindless daytime television, is suddenly full of warm, naked Steve.
“What the fuck!” Bucky yelps, just as Steve lets out his own; Sam and Natasha turn, surprised, just as Steve is scrambling up, covering himself the best he can as he dashes for the bedroom.
“Why the fuck did you take my pants off?!” he yells, muffled.
Bucky, still reeling, says, “You were a fucking dog! Dogs don't wear pants!”
“Actually—” Sam begins to say, holding his hands up when Bucky whips his head around to glare at him.
Natasha rests her elbow on the arm of the couch, lifting up. “How did you change back?”
“I don’t know, I just—I thought about it, okay? It’s been a weird day for me.”
“Same,” Sam mutters.
Bucky throws a pillow at him. Sam catches it with a grin, pointedly setting it down next to him on the couch.
“Okay, so,” Steve says, red-faced, when he emerges from the bedroom in a white t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, “none of you saw that. No one saw me playing fetch with a pillow. No one saw me getting belly rubs. And no one definitely saw me naked.”
“Tell that to my iPhone,” Sam says, holding it up. Bucky snorts as Steve’s face gets even redder. “Relax,” Sam adds, pocketing his phone when it looks like Steve’s going to lunge for it, “no one is gonna see this.”
“Except maybe Tony,” Natasha says.
“And Bruce,” Bucky adds.
“And Thor,” Sam adds.
“Do you think that wolf Steve would have the same effects from the serum?” Bucky muses. “Because if this is gonna be a monthly thing, imagine having a little doggy Captain America saving the day.”
“The internet would explode,” Sam says sagely. “It’s not like Steve doesn't already play fetch with his shield.”
The bedroom door slams behind Steve as all three of them begin howling in laughter.