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Bucky felt weighed down, which didn't make any sense because without the cybernetic arm he was lighter. He should have been moving faster. He should have felt a more pressing sense of urgency. He needed his arm back, needed to get back into the game. After everything with Nat, everything with Tesla, he needed to move on. Keep working. He was on his way to see Fury and Hill and Johnson to convince them--and himself--of that. He was willing to take some time off, a week or so, as long as it took Stark or someone from his team to get him a new arm, but...
But who was he kidding? He sighed, blowing his hair out of his face. He needed some time off. Losing Natalia hurt more than he was willing to acknowledge anywhere public. He hadn't seen Steve in too long. Without his arm, he felt crippled and exposed and weaker than he'd ever felt, even when the Tesseract had given him back his memories.
Steve's name wandered through his brain again.
Steve.
Bucky stopped and turned around.
The man sitting on the deck, his back to the bulkhead and his knees drawn up to his chest, reminded Bucky of Steve. But it couldn't be Steve. This man was lean muscle where Steve was all brawn, shaggy blond hair and a full beard where Steve wouldn't have been caught dead looking so disheveled and unkempt. His hands, fingers curled over his knees, were hard and calloused and gnarled as if from farm work. Steve had artist's hands, he had fighter's hands, he had shooter's hands, but he did not have farmer's hands.
Bucky stared at him. He'd know his best friend anywhere, through anything.
"Steve?" Bucky's voice caught in his throat.
The man raised his head. He looked old, older than Bucky had ever seen Steve look, and the light in his eyes--in his face--was gone, but it was him.
"Steve." Bucky's heart sank past his toes and his mouth went dry. Things were wrong. Things were very very wrong. He looked up and down the hall to be sure they were alone before he hit his knees in front of Steve and shuffled forward. "What's wrong? What's going on? Where have you been?"
Steve took a deep breath and winced like he was in pain. He looked at Bucky's face but didn't meet his eyes. "Hey, Buck. It's a long story." He paused and took another deep breath. He looked pale under all the yellow-blond hair, pale and maybe a little gray. "I just got done with the doctor. I was on my way up to see Johnson--" His head dropped to his knees and his shoulders heaved. "I just needed a break."
Fear and panic closed off Bucky's throat. He reached out to push his fingers through Steve's hair. It was long and shaggy and Bucky felt grease and grit. Bucky swallowed past the lump in his throat and tugged, pulling Steve's head up so he could search his face.
Bucky had never seen Steve look so broken. Not during the war, not during the Civil War, not anytime between or since. Bucky felt his heart crack. Never in his life had he ever felt so helpless. Whatever had happened--Steve was beaten.
He shoved Steve's legs out of the way and pushed in close. He wrapped his arm around Steve and took the full weight of his friend, heavier than he should have been. Steve's arms came around him, fingers dug almost painfully into his back, and Steve pressed his face to Bucky's chest. His body shuddered once, twice, and there was a muffled sound and damp heat through Bucky's shirt.
Bile rose in the back of Bucky's throat. Steve had never been afraid to cry, not ever, not even back in 1943 when Captain America was supposed to be the strongest the Allies had, but this was a different kind of crying.
"Oh, God, Steve, what the hell happened?" Bucky laid his cheek atop Steve's head and tightened his arm around him. He wished he had both arms. He needed both for this.
Steve's voice shook when he said, "I'm done, Buck. I'm done. I can't do this anymore."
*
It took both of them to get Steve to his feet. They blew off their meetings and Bucky stole a car from the motorpool and they flew it to Steve's boarded-up place near the water in Brooklyn. It was dark inside, rank and musty, and Bucky had to climb the power pole to turn on the electricity and break the bolt on the water line, but a few hours later, they were sitting on Steve's dirty old couch, hot coffee mugs in hand, with as much privacy as they ever had, and Steve was near the end of his story.
"Sharon shot him, and he fell, and then we got out of Dimension Z." He stared hard down into his coffee, unable or unwilling to look at Bucky. "I've been in the infirmary. They cleared me. The shrinks say I need some time off, but they think I'll be back on duty in a few weeks. A few weeks." He looked up then, and the pain on his face made Bucky want to stab something. "Guess it takes longer to get over your girlfriend killing your adopted son than it does losing a soldier."
Bucky was glad he didn't have his arm. He probably would have crushed the mug in his hand, at least. He'd only found the two.
"He was just a kid," Steve said, looking down again.
"Man, what has Sharon got against your kids?" Bucky tried for levity and failed miserably.
Steve snorted. He took a drink of his coffee but didn't seem to taste it. He looked up again and finally seemed to notice that Bucky was missing a limb. "What happened to your arm?"
"Same thing that happened last time," Bucky quipped, and tried to crack a smile but couldn't. The thought of Steve watching his son die--he felt like he was doing good to breathe.
"You blew something up and lost your arm on the way down?"
"You say that like I blow things up on purpose."
Steve's lips twitched, but he didn't smile. "Sharon told me about Nat on our way in. I'm sorry."
Bucky shrugged like it didn't matter. "Her memories are coming back. She's already working again."
"She told me about--"
"Nat's fine, Steve."
"But are you?"
Bucky looked down into his coffee, staring at his wavering reflection. He would be. He'd said goodbye. She was probably better off without him, anyway--she didn't need him, and with the way things were changing, with Fury's new Secret Avengers and the world in the state it was in, it was good that Nat had Clint, good that Nat had lost him the way she had. It was better this way. Better this time around. He drained his coffee cup and set it on the coffee table.
"What's this about not being able to go on?" He glanced up.
Steve was looking at him and for the first time, he almost looked like himself. The sympathy there, the understanding. It made Bucky's heart seize. Steve was in there. He was buried deep, under pain and too much shit, but he was in there. Before he could stop himself, he reached out, brushed Steve's hair back from his face.
Steve turned into the touch, his eyes closing briefly. "I can't do this anymore, Buck. I need a break. I'm not strong enough." His face tightened. He opened his eyes, met Bucky's, and there was resolve in them, in the set of his jaw. Nothing like the steely resolve Bucky was used to seeing, but enough. Enough for him to understand that Steve meant to follow through with whatever it was he'd decided to do. "I'm going to resign." And just like that, the resolve was gone, and he was staring at Bucky with hope, with fear, with exhaustion, with expectation. He waited for Bucky to condemn him.
Bucky leaned in close. He pulled Steve toward him and kissed his temple. "When do we leave?"
*
As soon as possible turned out to be Steve's answer, and it took them a week. A week was about seven days longer than Bucky wanted, because each day they stayed to tie up their loose ends was another day Steve looked broken and beaten, but it was necessary. Bucky had to bully Stark into dropping his other projects and getting him a new arm. He and Steve had to resign--that in itself was a fight.
Pinning Johnson to the conference table, knife to her throat, shouldn't have felt as good as it did. Bucky thought he should have been ashamed of himself. He wasn't. He was free, and so was Steve, and that was worth whatever price he had to pay.
They stood at the curb in front of Steve's old place, tugging on gloves, securing saddlebags. They didn't have much--what didn't belong to SHIELD, it turned out, was shockingly little. Good, as far as Bucky was concerned, because it meant they could travel light. They could start over fresh.
He did make sure Steve got to keep the shield. Johnson had bled for that, but Bucky's argument that it was a gift--that it belonged to Steve, not to anyone else--had been persuasive. Someone else could be Captain America now, but he'd have to do it with his own symbol.
Bucky looked over at Steve. Steve, standing next to his bike in plainclothes, held his own black helmet in his hands, staring down at it as if it were a human skull. He hadn't shaved, hadn't cut his hair, had barely eaten. Bucky was worried and trying not to let it show. He had a plan--a half-assed one, as usual, but it was a plan, and if it didn't work he didn't know what he'd do. He needed Steve back.
"Ready to go?"
Steve raised his head and blinked. "Yeah." He tugged on the half-helmet and secured the chin strap. "It's only about an hour to Cornwall," he said, unnecessarily because he and Bucky had already memorized the route and the time.
Bucky tried to smile at him. "Right behind you, Cap."
Too late, he realized what he'd said. Retirement didn't make him any less of a captain, so Bucky just bit his tongue and didn't say anything else when Steve gave him a strange look and shook his head. They climbed onto their bikes. The twin growls of the engines sent pigeons up, and then they were off.
Bucky followed Steve onto the freeway, across the bridge, and out of the city. They never looked back. There was no reason for it. Bucky stayed behind him the whole way, following. Always following. The wind in his hair and the thrum of the bike felt good; the distance between himself and SHIELD felt even better.
And hour wasn't long enough for him to lose himself in the road, especially not when he spent the whole hour watching Steve, worrying about him. Steve had never been one to put down a weight he couldn't carry. He shouldered it and he kept moving until he couldn't anymore, and then he went a little further, and a little more beyond that... He did it even when he thought he couldn't. Everything had to be a lot worse than Steve let on, than Bucky could tell, for Steve to put down his burden and walk away from it. Not that Bucky thought losing a child wasn't enough in and of itself, but he couldn't help wondering if Ian's death was the straw that broke the camel's back. Steve had faced nothing but hardship for years, starting even before he'd faced the Winter Soldier--he'd faced Bucky--and it had gone on longer than the war. Bucky couldn't help wondering if maybe Steve could have handled losing Ian, if maybe Steve and Sharon could even have gotten through it, if it weren't for him, or for the Civil War, or for anything else that had happened.
Not that Bucky wasn't feeling pretty burnt out himself. But he knew that he hadn't shouldered half the burden Steve had over the last few years.
It was barely mid-morning when they pulled into the Cromwell Manor lot and slid off their bikes. Steve took off his helmet and ran a gloved hand through his hair. He still looked a little lost and pale, despite the fresh air and the sun, and if an hour-long ride couldn't bring his spirits up at all, Bucky had a lot of work ahead of him.
Bucky peeled off his gloves and shoved them into a back pocket. He pushed his hair out of his face and jerked his chin at Steve's head. "If you're gonna keep that mess, you need to learn that helmet hair is totally different now."
Steve frowned at him.
Bucky grinned back.
Steve snorted and shook his head, but he didn't say anything. Ah, well. Bucky shrugged to himself. He hadn't expected much. He started for the Manor's front door, Steve trailing behind him.
Inside, Steve hung back, studying a--rather boring, in Bucky's opinion--landscape hung over the mantel in the parlor while Bucky checked them in. He couldn't help flirting shamelessly with the pretty girl behind the counter, but when she confirmed the two rooms Bucky had booked, Steve drifted closer.
"You got us our own rooms?" He was frowning again.
Bucky half-turned, still smiling. "Yeah."
Steve's frown... got frownier, really, was the only way to describe it. Oh, no. Bucky knew what that meant.
He started defensively, "It... I didn't want to..." Because that kiss on the couch hadn't meant anything, he thought, no more than the hug in the hallway had. That part of their relationship had never changed. So what if they'd been sharing the bed in Steve's old apartment? Bucky thought it was necessity--he didn't want to find a place, not when they were just going to leave--or maybe the wartime habits of sleeping close when Jerry (or Skrulls, or registered heroes, or whoever) could pop up at any time. He thought, in Cornwall, Steve would want space.
Steve didn't say anything, but the furrow between his brows deepened and Bucky wanted to smooth it away with his thumbs.
He turned back to the girl and gave her his most charming smile. "Any way I can cancel one of those rooms?"
Her eyes darted between him and Steve and he saw the connections she made. They weren't wrong, they just weren't current. He thought. Maybe he was wrong.
"There's a fee," she said helpfully.
Bucky nudged his credit card closer to her with the tips of his fingers. "I'll pay it," he said.
When he finished, he thanked the girl, handed over one of the room keys, and he and Steve made their way down the narrow hall to the Wellington room, shoulder to shoulder. He glanced at Steve from the corner of his eye, wondering. Wondering, but unwilling to ask the questions, especially not in the relative public of the hallway. He unlocked the room door and let them in.
It was nice. A lot more cluttered than he liked, normally, and full of charming little touches, but the thought of staying somewhere as cold and impersonal as a chain hotel had left a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and he'd liked the photos he'd seen of this place online. He shut the door while Steve ducked into the big bathroom. He took a quick tour of the room, checking points of entry and escape, checking for weapons of convenience and the best place to stash the gun and knives he'd brought.
Just because they weren't operating anymore didn't mean he could just give it all up.
The toilet flushed and Steve came out of the bathroom, still looking lost. Bucky wanted to hug him. Instead, he dropped to sit on the edge of the bed and asked what he wanted to do first.
Steve blinked. "I guess we could probably go get some coffee. There's gotta be a diner or something around here, right?"
*
They were seated and had ordered when Bucky thought to shrug out of his jacket. Steve followed suit without word, without question, and Bucky was glad. He knew what they looked like. He was acutely aware of the looks shot their way in the little main street diner. It was curiosity--natural, in a town with fewer than fifteen thousand people--and a little mundane hostility toward the newcomers. Nothing worth worrying about, but he bet that if Steve looked like Steve in his pressed khakis and tucked-in button-down and clean-shaven face, they wouldn't have warranted so much as a second glance. Well, Steve might have, but Bucky could have hidden in his shadow.
They were on their third cups of coffee by the time the food arrived. They ordered too much, but Steve ate every bit of his and some of Bucky's while they waited for Steve's second order. That was all Bucky really cared about.
"I got us a real estate agent," he said without preamble, after the waitress had brought Steve's second plate of steak and eggs.
Steve sipped his coffee. "We're buying a place?"
"I don't want any temptation to go back." The last thing Bucky wanted was for Steve to feel like this was a place he could leave and it wouldn't matter. He wanted to give Steve a home, and the first step was putting his name on a piece of paper. He pulled a folded stack of real estate website printouts from the inside pocket of his jacket, unfolded them, and slid them across the table to Steve. "There's the list she sent me. I told her lots of acreage, three bedrooms, three bathrooms, some kind of room with lots of light, and a garage. Anything else I should have asked for?"
Bucky was going to give Steve a place to raise the family he wanted, whether Steve realized it or not.
Steve stared down at the papers for long, long moments before he set his coffee aside and reached for them. He looked up at Bucky. Something in his eyes made Bucky's heart crawl into his throat.
"Why are you doing this, Buck?"
There were hundreds of reasons. Maybe thousands. Mostly, he couldn't stand the memory of the haunted anguish on Steve's face when he talked about Ian. Bucky stole a slice of bacon from the edge of Steve's plate and gave him a half-smile. "Why do you think I'm doing it?" He nodded toward the papers. "See anything on there you like?"
Bucky watched in silence as Steve perused the list. Steve fished a pen out of a pocket and started scribbling stars next to the ones he liked and Bucky felt a pressure in his chest ease. He'd gotten so used to Steve questioning every step everyone took that he forgot what it was like to just have his words taken at face value. He finished his coffee and flagged down the waitress for a refill for himself--and Steve--as Steve worked all the way through each sheet of paper.
When he was done, he pushed the papers back across the table and met Bucky's eyes. His jaw clenched.
"I'm not going back."
*
They saw three houses, riding together in the backseat of the realtor's new-smelling Jeep. Steve didn't say much and neither did Bucky, but he thought they slipped easily back into their roles from before the war, when Steve was the quiet serious one and he was the more engaging. He didn't mind flirting and he certainly didn't mind telling her why the three houses they saw weren't exactly what they were looking for.
At the end of the day, they set an appointment with her to meet again the next morning and work through the rest of the houses on Steve's list.
The more they saw, the more convinced Bucky was that Cornwall and Cornwall-on-Hudson were perfect for Steve.
Back in the room, they took turns showering while they waited for dinner to be delivered. They ate together in silence in the bedroom, Bucky sitting tailor-style on the bed and Steve looking too big on the ridiculously tiny love seat. It would have been funny if Bucky didn't feel like everything was just... off. He hid the remote so Steve couldn't watch the news and he'd unplugged the clock radio.
He didn't need Steve feeling guilty about the state of the world. Not now. Not ever again.
Steve crawled into bed and Bucky shut off the lights. He stood at the edge of the bed for too long, considering, before he, too, crawled under the covers. In Brooklyn, they'd started every night stiffly on opposite sides of the bed; here, Bucky rolled to his side, facing away from Steve, and he shut his eyes.
He wanted to reach for Steve. Wanted to pull him close, share breath and heartbeats, and let him know that he wasn't alone. It had been a while, maybe too long, and Bucky just wasn't sure which nerves were too raw for that. Regardless of events or baggage, he and Steve always seemed to come back together, but Bucky thought about how he'd feel if Natalia had shot his son in front of him, and he just wasn't sure sure he'd want--
No. That wasn't right at all. He knew exactly what he'd want. Bucky was just about to roll over, to pull Steve in the way he wanted, when Steve's hands slid up his back and around him. Steve pushed close, arranged himself around Bucky carefully so that Bucky's arms and legs were free. He pressed his face to the back of Bucky's neck and he sighed.
Bucky slid a hand along Steve's arm, covered the hand on his stomach with his own and squeezed strong calloused fingers. "You okay?"
"I will be."
*
It was at the end of a long gravel street flanked by heavy woods. It sat on forty acres, backed up against the freeway along one side and a cheese plant at the back and a mountain on the third side. The house was new--less than five years old--which to Bucky was a strike against, but the classic frame and the fact that the closest neighbors were nearly a mile away went a long way toward compensating for the age.
Bucky was sold on the space. Steve would be safe. Steve was sold on the second-floor "bonus room" with the windows on three sides that captured the morning and evening sun. Bucky watched him stand in the middle of the room and watched the light almost come into his eyes.
It took three days for the banks and the realtor to get their paperwork together. They spent those three days exploring the little town and the surrounding villages, those three nights in their room at the Cromwell Manor Inn with Steve wrapped around Bucky even though Bucky knew damn well that Steve was the one who needed to be held.
They passed the barber shop on the main street three times. Steve didn't so much as glance at it. He didn't pull his straight razor out of his kit, either.
Keys in hand, they stood together in their new foyer, alone in the silence of the house. Bucky watched Steve just look and felt a surge of hope well up inside; maybe this place really could be Steve's home.
Steve turned to him. There was a weird quirk to his lips. It wasn't quite a smile, but it looked like it wanted to be. "I think we need to get some furniture," he said.
Bucky grinned at him. "Where do you want to start?"
Steve pocketed his keys and drifted toward the kitchen. "In here, I guess..."
It was bare except for the cupboards and the sink; Bucky had already checked and he could have appliances delivered same day if they ordered them early enough. Even if they didn't, he thought he and Steve could at least pick up a grill and an ice chest.
They'd survived longer with even less.
Steve wouldn't have to do that anymore. Not if Bucky had a say in it.
He leaned against the wall just inside the kitchen and watched Steve stare at the place between the counters where a refrigerator would go. He wore a wistful smile.
"I saw this icebox online a while back. It was pink. Mom would have loved that."
Bucky frowned at him. It had been a long time since Steve had talked about his mom--or his dad for that matter. He glanced around the kitchen. It was neutral enough and he figured he could repaint the cupboards. Pink wasn't exactly what he had in mind, but... "You want pink stuff?"
Steve started as though he'd forgotten Bucky was there. He looked at Bucky as though he'd lost his mind.
Bucky was pretty sure at least one of them had. Maybe both. But if Steve wanted pink kitchen appliances, he could have the pink kitchen appliances. Hell, Bucky would paint the walls pink and redo the floor with pink marble if that was what Steve wanted. Whatever it took to make him stand straighter, brighten back up.
Steve laughed. He actually laughed. He bent at the waist and put his hands on his knees and laughed so hard, so loud, it echoed through the kitchen.
"We can get the stove to go with it!"
Bucky thought he sounded a little hysterical, but Steve was laughing. Bucky didn't care if he'd gone off the deep end. He just grinned and listened.
When Steve's laughter died down, he shook his head and wiped at his eyes. "No pink."
"You sure? If it makes you laugh like that again..."
Steve actually grinned at him.
They settled on sleek modern appliances in shiny stainless steel, as large as they could fit into the designated cubbies, and from there they went on to fill the rest of the house. Bucky let Steve make all the choices, offering his input when he was asked, but otherwise just being present to pay. He developed a whole new appreciation for the personnel responsible for their households in SHIELD-issue living quarters and in safehouses; setting up house was exhausting and expensive. He developed a new appreciation for what money could do, too. Eventually, he stopped looking at the totals on the receipts. He just signed his name where they told him to and he filed everything away in a plain black folder in a drawer in the kitchen.
State-sanctioned murder paid well. Bucky'd spent so long without money that he'd never known what to do with it. Now he did.
Steve stopped looking like he was surrounded by all of his ghosts sometime during that first week. Bucky still caught him staring blank-eyed through windows or at books more than he would have liked, but he took what he got.
Steve's hair got longer. His beard got scruffier.
Bucky had bedroom furniture delivered for one of the spare rooms, but he never got around to setting it up after they finished the master bedroom. Steve looked so hurt when he saw the second mattress that Bucky didn't have the heart. Not that he minded spending every night with Steve wrapped around him. There were no nightmares then--or at least there weren't many.
The pre-dawn runs reminded him of morning PT back at Camp Lehigh. Lounging on the couch in the afternoons while Steve spent hours in the bonus room with the entire stock of the main street art supply store was like nothing he'd ever experienced. It was nice. He watched TV, he read books.
He even napped.
Steve didn't talk and Bucky didn't push him. He could take all the time he needed.
Two weeks after they were settled in, Bucky left Steve painting or sketching or... whatever... upstairs and went for a walk. He returned home hours later in a rusty old pickup, bought from an old man's driveway on the edge of the village, loaded down with everything he needed to start on the privacy fence. He knew he could have called someone, could have hired someone or a bunch of someones to do the job, but he figured the project would give him something to fill the hours.
Naps were nice enough, but restlessness would set in soon and he knew it. At least this way, he was doing something good.
Steve would need a fence to keep the kids in. The kids in and everyone else out.
He parked the truck in the backyard at the side of the house, rolled down the windows and turned up the radio, and started unloading wood and shovels and post hole diggers and concrete mix and a wheelbarrow and power tools.
He was nearly done when Steve wandered out through the mud room door. "What are you doing?"
Bucky glanced up. He had to shove his hair out of his face to grin. "Privacy fence. Wanna help?"
Steve frowned. "Do you know how to build a fence?"
Bucky shrugged. "It can't be that much different from entrenching and building barricades, right? What was all that practice in Europe for if we can't even use it to keep the pigs off the lawn?" Maybe, while Steve was doing whatever it was he did with sketchbooks and canvas, Bucky was reading up on household maintenance. Maybe.
Steve's frown deepened.
Bucky's grin only widened. He loved that face. It meant Steve was listening to him. "So? Wanna help? I think I could probably use that super soldier strength..."
"And planning," Steve added wryly. He wiped his hands down the thighs of his jeans, smearing charcoal, and he stepped off the little concrete step onto the grass. "Got an extra pair of gloves?"
They worked together until the sun dipped too far below the treeline. Halfway through the afternoon, the heat made Steve strip his shirt off and Bucky couldn't help looking. There were scars. So many new scars on Steve's wiry frame. The one the length of his back, running from shoulders to waist along his spine, would have killed almost anyone else. Bucky's fingers itched to trace it and his lips burned to kiss it. Slowly, so slowly, Steve's old body was coming back. Bucky had caught him more than once working over the old punching bag he'd installed in the basement.
He didn't want Steve to be training to fight. Not anymore.
Bucky would have to be dead, really dead, and long gone before Steve ever had to fight again.
Eventually, Steve stood up. He swiped the cuff of his glove across his forehead, leaving behind a long smudge of dirt. He blinked at Bucky.
"Ready to go in?"
"Yeah." Bucky sat the nailgun in the bed of the truck, up against the cab, and he started collecting the tools from the ground around where they were working. He glanced over his shoulder. "What do you want for dinner?"
"Do you think anyone is still delivering?"
Bucky couldn't help the snort. The sun set fast, plunging the valley into thick darkness. Having to keep track of delivery schedules, of what was open and who would make the drive out, would take some getting used to. It would be worth it, though. All of it would be worth it. Bucky would cook every single night if he had to.
"Maybe. Pizza or something, probably."
They stowed the tools in the bed of the truck and stacked what was left of the wood up against what they built of the fence. Bucky slammed the tailgate shut and looked at Steve.
"What do you want?"
"I don't even care." Steve sounded tired. Physically tired, not the soul-deep exhaustion Bucky had gotten used to hearing from him. "Something hot."
Bucky grinned. He opened his mouth to say something, but Steve just frowned at him. Through the shadows, his sternly disapproving face just made Bucky want to kiss him. Bucky laughed.
Steve smiled.
It was something.
Inside, in the kitchen, they gulped down tall glasses of water and perused the delivery leaflets Bucky had collected on various trips into town.
He snorted. "I was right. Looks like our options are pizza or pizza."
"Hmm. That's a tough one." Steve tapped his chin. "I think I'm in the mood for pizza."
Bucky laughed. It was terrible, it was uninspired, but Steve was trying and that itself was worth being happy about. He reached for the phone. "You can have the shower upstairs. I'll call them now."
Steve moved past Bucky, fingers trailing across his back. "Thanks." He started up the stairs.
"You're doing the dishes!" Bucky called after him.
He ordered the pizza, then grabbed a towel out of the dryer and showered fast in the second bathroom upstairs. On his way through the master bedroom for a pair of sweatpants, he paused when he noticed that the bathroom door was ajar and that he could see part of Steve's reflection in the foggy mirror. The shower was off. Bucky opened his mouth, tempted to tell him to at least shave his face and save them both some beard burn, but he didn't. He wouldn't joke about that. He knew what it meant that Steve still looked like a mountain man. He tugged on his pants, grabbed his wallet, and headed downstairs to wait for dinner.
The pizza made it before Steve did. Bucky stood at the foot of the stairs, hot cardboard box balanced on one hand, and he yelled up.
"I'm going to start without you!"
Steve's answering, "Don't you always?" made Bucky chuckle.
He headed for the living room, shutting off lights behind him and checking doors and windows as he went. It was as much to kill time as it was to make his rounds. Satisfied that they were locked down, he deposited the pizza on the coffee table, armed the security system, and retrieved beers from the refrigerator.
He was on the couch, feet propped on the table, beer in one hand and half-eaten slice of pizza in the other, when Steve's shadow loomed over him.
"Your dinner's cold, pal, what took you--" He looked up from the TV and choked on his words.
Steve's hair was in its familiar crew cut and his face was bare. He looked thinner, cheeks still a little hollow, but he looked more like himself than Bucky had seen in a month.
Steve was back. His Steve was back. Bucky's heart swelled in his chest.
He sighed. "You don't look like a hobo anymore. Great."
Steve rolled his eyes. He stepped over Bucky's legs and dropped heavily onto the couch next to him. "No one says hobo anymore, Buck." He snatched the pizza from Bucky's hand, fingers brushing warm skin, and added, "I forgot what a pain in the ass it is to cut your own hair."
"You could have asked me," Bucky pointed out, watching Steve finish off the slice in three bites.
He mumbled around a mouthful of cheese, "Wanted to surprise you."
Bucky scoffed to dislodge the lump that formed suddenly in his throat. He wanted to put his arm around Steve, pull him in close, kiss the sauce right off his lips. Instead, he shook his head and said, "I'm surprised. Thought you were gonna start wrestling bears or something there for a while."
Steve snorted. "I thought that was your department."
Bucky grinned at him.
They ate in companionable silence in front of ESPN Classic. Bucky kept waiting for Steve to ask him to change it, but he figured, until he did, they could catch up on all the years of baseball they missed. Together, they finished the whole pizza and all six of the beers from the refrigerator, and by the time the last pitch of the 1993 World Series was thrown, Bucky felt sated and drowsy and ready for bed.
Today, he thought lazily, half-dozing with his head on Steve's shoulder, was a really good day.
Steve nudged him. "Come on. Let's go to bed."
Bucky grunted his agreement. He started to heave himself up, but Steve was there, fingers warm and tight on his arm, and when Bucky was upright, Steve slipped his hand into his and tugged him along.
Something had changed, Bucky's brain registered. He wasn't sure what, but something had definitely changed. Things were beginning to seem familiar again.
Steve led him up the stairs. He didn't bother to ask or even to check for himself the doors, the windows, the security system. Warmth spread through Bucky; Steve trusted him for that. At the top of the stairs, he pitched forward and kissed the back of Steve's bare shoulder. They were going to be okay. Steve was going to be okay.
Everything was dark and soft-edged in the cool bedroom. Steve pulled him down to the bed.
Bucky had gotten used to Steve pressed up against his back while they slept. He wrapped a hand around Steve's wrist and started to roll. Steve stopped him. Fit them together on their sides, face to face, chest to chest, hips to hips.
Bucky froze.
Steve threaded his fingers through Bucky's hair and pulled him into a kiss. Chaste, but with promise. Bucky remembered the last time they did this and all the time between then and now, everything they tried for... for what? He sighed into the kiss, parted his lips, but he held back. Unsure. Not of Steve--never of Steve--never of them--Steve was the only thing he'd ever really wanted--but of the moment. But Steve's tongue moved against his lips, hot and soft, and Bucky heard the quiet pleading whine from somewhere faraway and-- Hell. Bucky wouldn't deny him. Not when this was all he wanted, too.
He tangled their legs together and laid his human hand along Steve's jaw. He kissed him, slow and deep, and when his cock twitched, he felt the answering twitch from Steve's through their pants. He shifted his hips forward for the friction, but felt no urgency. He had no need to move down, no need to tease skin or taste flesh. One kiss became another, became more, until it was all the same kiss, lips parting, sliding, tongues meeting. Until he could taste Steve every time he breathed in.
Steve splayed a hand on the small of Bucky's back and slipped a thigh between his. Bucky took the hint, grateful for the relief of the pressure. Their breathing came together, harsh and low and stuttered. Steve broke the kiss to press his forehead to Bucky's, to bite his lip and groan softly against his mouth. Just like during the war, in tents all across Europe, Steve stifled himself. Bucky kissed his cheeks, his eyes, and rocked against Steve's thigh, holding his breath. Silence was habit, familiar and comfortable, and Bucky took it for the moment.
Later, he'd think about how they were all alone, no one for miles.
They rocked together. Steve came first, hot and sticky through his pants, body tight and still in Bucky's arms. He melted, sagged against Bucky, pressed his face to Bucky's neck and sighed heavily. Bucky followed, caught on the wave of Steve's release, and he turned and ducked and kissed him hard, swallowing the moan of surprise.
They laid together until their skin cooled. Bucky moved first and Steve didn't let him go far; that was fine because he didn't want to go far. He stripped them both, wiped them clean with his wadded-up pants, and pulled Steve with him under the covers. He pushed Steve over. Yeah, he was taking advantage of Steve's afterglow, but after a month of letting Steve do the holding, it was time to switch.
He brushed his lips to the back of Steve's shoulder and to the curve of his neck. "You okay?"
Steve brought his hand up to kiss his palm. "I know you know," he said quietly, lips moving against Bucky's hand, "but thanks, Bucky."
He shut his eyes tight and pressed his forehead between Steve's shoulders. "Nothing to thank me for, Steve."
"I was there for twelve years," he said abruptly. "I counted. We celebrated his birthday--well, the day I got him."
"Ian?"
Steve shuddered. "He was twelve. Do you remember when you were twelve?"
Bucky said nothing.
"Shit, Bucky. I'm so sorry." Steve pressed another kiss to Bucky's hand.
Bucky shook his head, rubbing his face against Steve's skin. "That was a long time ago."
"Not long enough." Steve sighed. He relaxed back against Bucky. "I'm glad it's you. I'm just-- I'm really glad you're here. Thanks for being so patient with me. Thanks for--" He shuddered again.
Understanding of what Steve was stumbling over dawned in Bucky's sleepy brain. He jerked back. "Steve are you-- Are we-- Is this--?"
Steve rolled over. He was frowning, expression harsh in the silver shadows. "Aren't we?" He searched Bucky's face.
Bucky's heart sank. Of course they were. But Steve had been so hellbent on keeping Sharon after everything, Bucky thought-- "Do you really want this? Us?"
Steve swallowed hard. "Yes."
Bucky touched his face. "It's been a while."
"Yeah." Steve turned his face and kissed Bucky's wrist, then leaned forward to kiss his mouth. "Yeah. Too long." His eyes widened and he pulled back. "Unless you don't--"
"Nope." Bucky sank his fingers into Steve's hair and pulled him back, kissed him again fiercely. "Nope. You know I do. Jesus Christ, Steve, you know I do. I only ever gave you up because--"
Steve rested his forehead against Bucky's. "I know." He shut his eyes. "I tried. No one else was you. It's just-- I know you still love Nat." He opened his eyes again.
Bucky read what he didn't say. It's okay if you still love her. It's okay if you want her back. Part of his heart would always belong to Natalia. She'd made him feel human when he hadn't been. But even Nat couldn't compare to Steve and had never tried. Bucky kissed him again. "Loving Nat's got nothing to do with loving you, Steve."
Steve quirked a smile. "She's got parts I don't."
Bucky laughed, sharp and rough and thrilled.
Steve relaxed against him. He curved a hand around Bucky's neck. "I want this. I wanted this. I want you. It's the only thing that makes sense to me anymore, and I don't know how long--"
Forever, Bucky thought recklessly. He said, "As long as you want, Steve."
Steve searched his face. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Bucky pulled him closer, kissed him again. "Yeah."
Steve ducked his head, laid his cheek against Bucky's shoulder, and he breathed out. "All right."
*
Bucky woke to a warm strong hand wrapped tight around his dick, sliding up and down, to Steve's wet mouth on his neck. Dawn was breaking and it was warm between the sheets, skin stuck to Steve's. He was pretty sure he'd died and had made it to heaven.
He came too quickly over Steve's fist.
Steve laid against him, heavy and reassuring. He lapped at the salt of Bucky's skin in the hollow of his throat. Bucky threaded his fingers in Steve's hair and traced the line of the scar along his spine as he came down and woke up. He was thinking about pushing Steve to his back and sucking the ability to think right out of him when Steve rolled away.
He slapped Bucky's feet through the blanket as he bounced out of bed. "Come on. I'll fix breakfast, then we can get outside and put up more of that fence."
Bucky blinked at the space Steve had vacated. He reached out, snagging Steve's wrist, and tried to pull him back. "Hey! Where's the fire?"
Steve leaned across the bed and kissed him soundly. "No fire." He grinned. "I just want to watch you pound some nails."
"I could pound something else." Bucky licked his lips.
Steve laughed at him. "Not yet, you can't." He twisted out of Bucky's grip and started for the bathroom. "Come on. Get up. I'll make you pancakes."
The man knew all of his weaknesses. Bucky threw off the covers, grinning, and followed Steve into the bathroom.