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Steve is fine.
Sure, he might be searching for Bucky for seventeen months now, to absolutely no avail, and sure, every trail runs cold and every lead turns out false, but Steve is fine. Really. And sure, he might have had a brief breakdown when even Natasha ran out of informants and hinted that Steve might want to consider giving up altogether, instead of attempting to turn the world over on its axis, but it’s fine, he’s fine. And yes, he might be a little worried that there’s no trace of Bucky, no trace of life so to speak, but it’s fine, honestly, it’s just – paranoia. And okay, Steve might be so restless at this point that he agreed to do Tony’s bidding in what might be the most isolated, forgotten-by-God-himself area of the country just to have something to do other than sit around thinking and worrying and wallowing, but he’s fine. Really.
Just don’t ask Sam.
Sam is currently at a certain hotel room in this very same distant, practically non-existent town, lounging on the bed after a mission successfully accomplished, leisurely watching television and waiting expectantly for Steve to bring him a warm cup of coffee – any coffee, as long it’s caffeinated – and maybe a snack.
Steve walks briskly down the narrow cobblestone alleyways of the tiny town they’ve found themselves in – and, actually? It’s a beautiful place: a tiny, picturesque, sparely inhabited town in the middle of nowhere, with short brick and stone houses, neat and lavish gardens and children playing on front steps. He breathes in the fresh, crisp fall air and, hands in his pockets, he finds his way to the town’s square and its aged bubbling fountain.
He’d spotted the small coffeehouse as Sam navigated their blue rental car towards the hotel, and filed it under ‘places to visit while pretending to be on a break from the Find Bucky Barnes At All Costs quest.’ He smiles at an elderly lady in a long rosy coat as she waves her greetings, and tilts his head at a young lad who grins at him as he’s washing the front window of a grocery store. Maybe they recognize Captain America; maybe they’re just being friendly.
Ten more steps and a turn to his left take Steve to the coffeehouse he’s after. The sign reads ‘The Small Bean’ and, appropriately, has dark coffee beans drawn on it. A bell hanging above the door chimes as he walks in and he’s greeted by a cozy interior, with wooden tables and dainty chairs, dark green counters, and thriving plants he can’t name. The narrow blackboard up on the wall serves as a menu, with the drinks and snacks written in colorful chalk. A short bookcase stands in the right corner, a sign hanging on the side inviting all and sundry to lend and borrow books.
Steve has been gazing at the place a little too long when a crashing sound jerks him out of his reverie. He barely catches a glimpse of a Small Bean employee diving down behind the counter, likely to clean up what he has just broken. The barista, a girl with pitch black hair and green highlights who is in the process of cleaning up a coffee machine, is looking down at the floor in confusion.
Steve turns his eyes at the menu, deciding between something called a White Minty Latte and Spicy Chili Mocha; he already knows he’s getting Sam a double espresso, no sugar. His eyes dart to the snacks display, full of tartlets and quiches and pastries, and Steve realizes that, actually, the whole place smells pleasantly of vanilla, cinnamon and freshly baked goods. He bounces on his feet and feels himself grinning like a kid in a candy store.
He walks to the counter, ready to order. The girl smiles at him, fleeting and slightly strained, and hisses something incoherent at her colleague still on the floor. Steve taps his fingers on the wooden surface to the beat of the soothing background music. The girl throws him a wide, pained grin, before bending down and hissing to her colleague some more, this time with elaborate hand gestures.
Steve doesn’t really mind waiting. He shuffles toward the barista, about to prop his elbow on the bar counter, and tilts his head sideways to rest his chin on his palm, when in a swift, fluid movement, the employee previously crouching on the floor stands up, and Steve loses his breath, his footing and his aim, chin jerking downwards, elbow slipping off with a loud rattle.
Because sure, Steve might only be pretending to be fine (just ask Sam), but he sure as hell hasn’t started hallucinating; he sure as hell isn’t hallucinating the person standing before him, and he sure as hell will be damned if that person, clad in a Small Bean apron, a thick light grey sweater and a glove covering his left arm, hair pulled back in a tight, tiny ponytail and partially covered by a backwards baseball cap, isn’t Bucky.
Steve’s brain shuts down.
Bucky looks healthy, strong, the dark circles under his eyes visibly lighter, the gauntness on his face gone and replaced by a hearty roundness.
He also looks like a deer caught in the headlights. His eyes are huge and unblinking, his mouth pinched tight. His shoulders stiffen as his right hand hovers over the register.
“HellotherewhatcanIgetyou.”
It comes out in one breath, eyes darting all over the coffeehouse but never actually on Steve, and Steve just stares, mute and disoriented. From the corner of his eye, he sees the barista looking curiously between them.
Bucky repeats, “What can I get you,” the sound low, guttural and strained.
Steve jolts back to consciousness and remembers how to breathe.
“A coffee, black,” he blurts out, because his mind is still blank and stringing together full sentences is beyond his ability at the moment.
“Name,” Bucky says, pen in hand, eyes on a clear plastic cup.
Steve hasn’t specified if he wants his coffee cold or hot, but he doesn’t care either way as he breathes, “Steve.”
Bucky starts writing the name before Steve actually utters it. He scrawls in one hurried move, shoves the cup towards the barista’s general direction and mumbles the price.
Steve takes a deep breath, the beginning of a sentence.
As if on cue, Bucky makes a beeline for the back, leaving Steve to stare after him.
“Hey, don’t take too long in there!” the barista shouts as she prepares the order. She turns to give a dazzling smile at Steve.
“I’m sorry, I...” Steve shakes his head, eyebrows furrowed; he raises his hands on his waist, then lets them drop uselessly by his side. “What is happening?”
“What?” the girl says, taken aback. She glances at the back, where Bucky’s disappeared. “Roger? He can be a little jittery sometimes. He’s alright.”
“Roger,” Steve repeats.
His voice comes out flat; inside, he is feeling anything but.
“Yes. His name. Roger. I’m Doreen,” she says. “You’re Steve.”
Yes, Rogers, Steve thinks. Outwardly, he just nods, his face creased with unease.
“He shouldn’t have charged you, you’re Captain America,” Doreen says, gingerly setting the plastic coffee cup in front of Steve. “You’re entitled to free stuff.”
“He – he works here?” Steve manages, his throat uncomfortably dry.
Doreen gives him a weird look, but it’s gone in a second as she says, “Yep.” She wipes her hands on her apron. “Five months now, I think. He’s... he’s okay,” she assures in earnest. “Bit of, um” – she glances to makes sure Bucky isn’t coming and leans closer to whisper – “PTSD.” She smiles a hurried smile. “Or battle fatigue, as he prefers to call it. Don’t know what battle, but” – she flexes her left hand – “must have gained some pretty bad scars there. Always keeps this covered up. But he’s okay,” she insists. “He’s a good egg. Honest.”
Steve belatedly realizes the girl called Doreen is vouching for her colleague Roger to Captain America Defender From All Things Villainous. She’s gently telling him that ‘Roger,’ the Small Bean cashier, is one of the good guys.
“Uh huh,” Steve says, because he doesn’t know what else he can say. “Right. Okay. Well. Thanks.”
He turns on his heels and strides to the door, wringing together his trembling hands.
“Your coffee!” Doreen calls.
Steve grabs the cup, mutters an apology, and storms out.
~
“Hey, uh, Sam?”
Steve’s voice is quivering.
“Sam, I, uh - I think I might be going crazy?”
Fifteen minutes later, and Steve’s coffee still sits untouched in his hand. Instead, he’s pacing around the town square, nerves on edge, eyes glued to the coffeehouse in case Bucky decides to make a run for it. He spots Sam hurrying towards him and exhales with relief. He reaches out to dispose of the cold coffee, but before he can do so, he notices his name on the cup.
“He forgot an e,” he tells Sam, frowning.
“What?” Sam comes to an abrupt halt. It’s the first thing Steve says, and it doesn’t make much sense.
Steve shows him the cup; the hurried scrawl spells ‘Stev’.
“He forgot an e.”
“He maybe a bad speller or...”
Sam smiles at Steve’s injured expression and pats his arm in consolation.
“Come on.”
~
This time, Bucky is visibly irritated and considerably more daring with his eye lines.
He glances between Steve and Sam and mutters a dry, “What will it be?”
“Espresso, two sugars,” Sam breezes, giving Bucky his name when prompted.
Steve clears his throat. “Black coffee, um. Hot. Steve. You forgot an e,” he blurts awkwardly as Bucky writes his name on the cup.
Bucky looks up at him.
“What,” he says. It isn’t a question.
“You forgot an ‘e’, before,” Steve says, feeling clumsy and awkward and weird. His palms are getting clammy and he wipes them on his pants. “You wrote Stev without an e at the end.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow.
“It’s – there’s an e at the end,” Steve babbles on and, God, someone should shut him up right about now, please –
Sam comes to the rescue.
“So what’s a good place to eat lunch round here?”
It’s directed at Bucky, but Bucky doesn’t even spare him a glance. He hands the cups to Doreen and punches buttons on the register with unnecessary force.
“The Core is a good place,” Doreen says with a smile. “Ralph’s too, although that’s more of a fast food place than actual food. Marty at The Core makes all sorts of cooked meals. First time in town?”
“Yep,” Sam replies.
Steve pays for the coffees and unabashedly stares at Bucky; Bucky unabashedly avoids him. At least he’s not making any hasty retreats.
“Just passing through,” Sam continues, leaning on the counter. “You from town?”
“I am, yeah,” Doreen says, the coffee machine hissing under her fingers. “Born and raised.” She cocks her head towards Bucky – “He isn’t.”
“You’re not?” Sam asks.
“Just passin’,” Bucky mumbles, his attention directed to rearranging napkins that are in no need of rearranging.
“So you’re on the morning shift,” Sam tells Doreen. “Rough. Lots of grumbling customers, right?”
Doreen chuckles. “I’m an early bird. Or a lousy sleeper. Or both, I guess. But yeah –” she indicates Bucky– “we’re the morning shift buddies.”
Bucky obnoxiously overcompensates. Steve’s cup now reads ‘Steevee’.
Steve notices by the door and swivels; Bucky crosses his arms, defiant.
~
Steve sits next to Sam by the fountain and shows him his misspelled name.
Sam chortles. “Asshole.”
“This is Bucky,” Steve insists, as if the intentional misspelling is undisputable proof.
Sam gazes at a couple of kids playing football in the distance. He deliberates, taking a sip of his coffee. “It certainly looks like him.”
“It is him,” Steve says, his voice rising impatiently. “He even has his arm covered, his hair’s long like it was the last time and – I know his eyes, Sam, I’d recognize his eyes, if nothing else.”
It sounds overdramatic, but Steve doesn’t care. He’s grown up gazing into Bucky’s eyes as they lay side by side on scraggly beds and stiff cots and cold floors. He damn well knows his eyes.
“And it’s him; not the Winter Soldier. Sam!” he adds childishly.
“Dude, chill,” Sam says, a half-amused, half-worried smile playing on his lips. “That is not the Winter Soldier, right there with you on that –that’s a human being. Which is more than what the Winter Soldier was. But let’s say you’re right, and this is Bucky – it doesn’t mean he’s your Bucky,” he points out reasonably. “Not the way you knew him.”
“Of course it’s not that Bucky,” Steve says indignantly, having the forethought to keep the ‘but he is my Bucky’ part for himself. “He’s 21st century Bucky. So what? Why didn’t he say something, Sam?”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Sam counters.
“I – I blanked out. I panicked!” Steve exclaims, throwing hands and cup in the air. “Of all the things I expected, this wasn’t it.”
“There’s two possibilities here,” Sam says.
There’s a cry from the children as their football comes tumbling down towards Sam. He throws it back to them before he continues.
“Either he recognized you and pretended he didn’t,” he says, “for his own reasons; or he’s experiencing some kind of PTSD symptoms, amnesia – or even brain damage, with all the guy’s been through I wouldn’t put it past – and he doesn’t actually remember you. He’s created a different persona – he was Bucky, then he was the Winter Soldier, and now he’s someone else entirely, and has no idea – at least not consciously – who you are.”
Steve purses his lips and shakes his head. “No,” he says firmly. “He’s faking it.” Before Sam can retort, he hurries on, “He used the name Roger. I don’t think that’s a coincidence. He didn’t want to look at me, and when he did, he just looked – pissed off, why would a random stranger be pissed off at me for no reason?”
“Maybe his girlfriend has the hots for Captain America,” Sam suggests, trying to lighten the mood.
Steve ignores him. “He even spelled my name wrong on purpose!”
“Doesn’t mean a thing. People are assholes all the time,” Sam reasons.
“And he’s got PTSD, the girl – Doreen – said so.” Steve turns to Sam, grimacing in confusion. “Why would she tell me, a stranger, about another person’s issues? Isn’t that overstepping it?”
“Again, you’re Captain America,” Sam points out patiently. “Girl would probably give you her social security number if you asked.”
Steve jiggles his foot and bites at his thumb, his body a ball of nerves and adrenaline. “What do I do, though? Sam, what do I do?”
Sam smiles. “We’re not leaving tomorrow, are we.”
Steve turns to him with a full-on sad-puppy face, and Sam quickly clarifies, “It’s fine, it’s okay, I understand! It’s cool! As to what you should do – Steve, you gotta be careful. If he’s past Hydra’s programming, he might have put up coping mechanisms which really stop him from recognizing you.”
Steve thinks that sounds fake, considering Bucky has already recognized him once before and when Hydra’s grip was at its strongest no less, but okay. He doesn’t retort.
“So my opinion is,” Sam goes on, “you continue with the charade. You drop hints, you ask subtle, safe questions – let him come to you if he wants, if he remembers – or let him remember on his own time if he doesn’t. Let him be in control, let him choose what he wants to share, when and how.”
Steve nods. Control, choice – these sound about right. These sound exactly the things that Bucky would need, after everything that’s been done to him.
“But do it carefully,” Sam warns. “You don’t want to force him into something he’s not ready, so don’t push it. At least until we can gauge his identity. And we’ll take it from there.”
Steve nods, licking his lips anxiously. After a moment, he sniffles.
“He chose Roger,” he says, voice wet with sentiment.
Sam eyes him dubiously over the rim of his cup.
“Don’t get sappy on me, Rogers.”
~
Bucky slams Steve’s change on the counter and bolts for the maintenance room.
He paces the narrow space and tries to quell the nausea bubbling up in his stomach. The shelves of chlorine, detergents and coffee supplies are caving in on him. Bucky stills himself, trying to regain some self-control as fifty shades of emotion threaten to swallow him whole.
Steve is here – which means Bucky is doomed.
He takes the cap off his head and rakes a hand through his hair.
Steve is here, so that means, most likely, that whoever is in charge will be coming to arrest him – Bucky – soon, and Steve is probably here to take him in. Bucky bites down on his lip so hard he thinks he tastes blood.
It doesn’t make sense. If Steve wanted to take him in, why just not do so? Is he waiting for backup? And Steve – no, Steve wouldn’t do that, the Steve that Bucky knows isn’t like that. And if he wanted a fight – well, he’d have picked it already, he wouldn’t have ordered coffee (black. Of course. Jesus, Rogers, live a little) and he wouldn’t have looked shell-shocked, wouldn’t have been so speechless. Steve Rogers is never speechless, for God’s sake –
Bucky’s pacing comes to a halt, one hand on his waist, one clutching his hair. Could it actually be an accident that Steve has come? He scrunches his nose in doubt. He always knew it – it was one of the very first things he knew when it all started coming back– that his and Steve’s lives were intrinsically interwoven, but – he glances towards the ceiling, a glare that’s meant for the universe itself – that was taking it a little too far.
He huffs in frustration, his heart beating in erratic thuds. He wasn’t supposed to be discovered, and still, there’s a part of him that feels relief: a strange, unexpected relief that Steve didn’t look scared or pitying or judgmental –and he could be, all of these, after their last encounter, after what he must have discovered in the meantime (but Steve understands – if Steve doesn’t understand, then there’s no hope anyone will) –
The disjointed thoughts threaten to drive him insane. His brain hurts at the mental onslaught. He lightly bumps his head against a metal shelf; the cleaning sprays threaten to topple over.
Bucky’s first instinct is to book it. Up and leave, pretend like he was never here in the first place. No one would look for him – no one other than Steve, at least. But the sane, sensible part of his mind tells him he can’t – he shouldn’t. He’s got a house and a job and a life, and Steve, Steve is here, and he feels so familiar, and he was standing right there, so close that Bucky could have reached out and touched him – not with kicks and punches but tenderly, softly, the same way he’d done on his last day before – everything, but Bucky couldn’t even look him in the eye – and seriously, seriously, Rogers, black coffee? Have you seen what we serve?
Bucky decides to stay and see how this pans out.
That night, he doesn’t sleep. He lies curled on his side, curling and flexing his metal fist. He feels the plates whir and recalibrate as he listens to the silence and waits for the ambush, knowing that he can get out of it, hoping that he won’t hurt anyone and wondering which side of the fight Steve will stand on.
The ambush never comes. With the first light of dawn, Bucky accepts that maybe, possibly, most probably, this has all been a huge coincidence, or – more likely – the universe playing a huge joke. He changes into a sweatshirt and as he washes his face, he grins, amused: Steve was too gracious or too cowardly to call him out.
He wonders how far Steve is willing to take this pretend-strangers act. On a whim, he decides to play along.
And maybe mess with him a little.
~
Steve arms himself with his tablet, a sketchbook and a couple of pencils and heads for The Small Bean as early as basic decency allows.
Sam is still snoozing when he leaves.
He misses the sly crease around Bucky’s eyes as he turns to dump everything he’s brought on a table by the window. He fully intends to camp out at the coffeehouse until Bucky’s shift is over. For what purpose, he is not quite sure. He just wants to be close to Bucky, and that is good enough.
Bucky waits for him when he reaches the counter, one hand poised over the cups, the other already reaching for a sharpie. He doesn’t look panicked or irritated today, just – neutral. Steve is not sure if that counts as progress.
“You’re still here!” Doreen exclaims, beaming. “He’s still here!” she directs at Bucky.
“Swell,” Bucky replies flatly. “What will it be?”
Steve refrains from rolling his eyes. He looks at the menu and decides to be adventurous.
“I’ll have a... Crème Brûlée Latte.”
Bucky scowls and hesitates. That is, without doubt, the sweetest thing they serve, including the sweet pastries themselves. Steve has never had a sweet tooth.
“You don’t want that –” his mouth curls downwards as he shakes his head – “Trust me.”
“All right, um,” Steve says uncertainly. “A black coffee then...?”
“Of all the choices,” Bucky mutters reproachfully, as if he wasn’t the one that discouraged Steve’s first choice. “Name?”
“Still Steve.”
‘Steve’ becomes ‘Stive’. The ‘Stive’ in question raises an eyebrow and spends his morning catching up on world news and sketching the coffeehouse. Every now and then, he glances up to ensure that Bucky is still there, on his post behind the register; he always is, sometimes wiping utensils, sometimes leaning against the wall and gazing lethargically out the shop’s wall-sized windows, sometimes munching on unidentified snacks held loosely in his palm, and sometimes looking back at Steve, his expression unreadable.
Three hours later, Steve jolts upright when a gloved hand plants a new, warm coffee cup on Steve’s - or ‘Stevia’s, if the writing on the cup is to believed – table, followed by a piece of cake.
“Lemon and blueberry,” Bucky growls, and Steve is not sure whether he is expected to be thankful or intimidated. “Zesty,” Bucky continues. “Barely sweet.” He shrugs, his face halfway between grumpy and dismissive. “If you like that sort of thing, of course. I sure wouldn’t know.”
“Yeah,” Steve says slowly, sure as hell that Bucky is taking the piss out of him, for some reason, but at least this reason earns him treats. “You sure wouldn’t know, Roger.”
Bucky purses his lips in a tight, almost ironic smile. “I sure wouldn’t, Sting.”
Sam comes and goes, Steve completes five different sketches (one of them of Bucky, in his Small Bean apron, wiping the counter with a faint smile – a refreshing change from all his Winter Soldier sketches), and becomes an expert on current world affairs.
Bucky and Doreen change shifts with their evening counterparts, parting ways at the door, each off to their respective business. Bucky pauses for a few seconds to take off his cap, ruffle his hair, and scan his surroundings, just in case. Then he trots off, and there’s a spring in his step that Steve half-expected to never see again.
He wants to see it again; more of it, all of it.
Impulse takes over. Steve fumbles to gather his things and rushes out the door before Bucky disappears. He’s going to follow Bucky back to his home, or wherever he’s going. It’s rash, it’s inappropriate, and it is possibly the most horrible executive decision he could have made, but still: he’s going to do it, and he’s going to be smart about it, and he’s going to put to use everything that SHIELD taught him, and everything he’s learned by watching Natasha, and he’s going to be cunning and sly and swift because dammit, he needs to see how Bucky lives outside of the small coffeehouse.
Half an hour later, Steve lurks in the shadows, waiting, watching. Bucky opens his front door and sets a bowl of milk on the stoop. A grey stray cat wraps its tail around Bucky’s leg and rubs its face on his ankle. Steve’s heart bubbles up with warmth.
Bucky’s house is small and, unlike most other houses in the town, it doesn’t have its own garden. Nonetheless, it still looks cozy – at least on the outside; sugar-colored curtains are pulled over the front windows, obscuring the view inside. Steve was half-afraid Bucky would be living in a slum.
The sun is slowly setting, casting the quiet neighborhood in warm, glowing light; the stray cat is lapping up its milk, its tail wagging back and forth; Bucky softly closes the door behind him and Steve folds his hands and congratulates himself at his spying skills. Clearly he’s good at it, or clearly the former Winter Soldier has let his guard down in this new quiet life. Maybe it’s both.
Steve leans his head on the wall to his side and smiles so wide his mouth hurts.
The minute the door is closed shut, Bucky makes a run for the kitchen.
He hurriedly sets an assortment of cookies on a paper towel as water boils in the kettle, tongue between his teeth in a lopsided smirk. He has to be quick. Steve is patient, but not that patient, and Bucky assumes he’ll soon call it a day. He rams a clean mug on the counter and fills it with cocoa powder.
Three minutes later, he’s out his front door and heading straight for the absolutely-useless-at-stealth-and-espionage Captain America, hot mug in one hand, cookie-filled paper towel in the other.
He cherishes the way Steve’s expression grows mortified when he realizes what’s happening, and has to suppress a giggle at the sudden change in his demeanor. Steve’s shoulders harden, his back stiffens, the corners of his mouth tense, and Bucky is sure that if he had his shield with him, he’d soon be ducking behind it. Good. Good. As if Stevie could ever outsmart Bucky in slyness and covertness. As if Bucky wouldn’t pay him back.
Steve starts fumbling for words and Bucky presses his lips smugly. He raises his eyebrows and casually hands the spooked Steve the mug and cookies.
“Hot cocoa – careful, might be too hot – been a while since temperature bothered this –” he casually indicates his gloved hand – “and cookies. Not homemade, but they’re cinnamon.”
Steve numbly takes what he’s proffered, eyes shining with something akin to comical terror.
“’Cause you’re patrolling the area, right?” Bucky prompts.
Steve blinks once, twice.
Three would be one too many, so he tries to save face – “I...”
The words get lost in his throat.
“You’re patrolling the area,” Bucky acknowledges. “Why else would you, an Avenger, in the flesh, be lurking here? Patrolling. Right? Keeping us safe?”
“Right,” Steve catches up; he looks like he might keel over any second now.
“Well, we should keep you warm and cozy!” Bucky says.
It comes out more jovial than he’d meant, so what the hell, he ups the ante and adds a friendly pat on Steve’s shoulder.
“Well.”
He takes a moment to commit Steve’s openly humiliated expression, complete with huge eyes and mouth hanging open, to memory.
“God bless America and the star-spangled man with a plan!” he chirps in his best, most familiar Brooklyn drawl and, with a salute, he turns and departs.
A giddy laugh escapes his lips as he heads home; so this is what glee feels like.
~
Sam’s face is turning purple and he squirms. Choking noises are coming out of his throat. Steve is mildly concerned until he realizes Sam is just failing to conceal his laughter.
“The little shit!” Sam exclaims, slapping his thigh in delight.
Steve throws his arms open in frustration – “Right?! And I thought I was doing such a good job. I thought even Natasha would be proud!”
“Amazing.” Sam shakes his head, grinning. “And you think it’s Bucky fucking with you.”
Steve bites his lip at the inadvertent comment that pops up into his mind – well, Sam, see, ‘been there, done that’, so to speak.
Sam doesn’t know enough to go there though, so he continues – “Maybe it’s just the new person he is now that’s fucking with you, though. Maybe he’s an asshole in all lifetimes.”
Steve shakes his head firmly. “No, he knows exactly what he’s doing, he’s –”
The shrill tone of Steve’s phone cuts him short.
“Man, you gotta change this thing.” Sam shakes his head like a disappointed parent. “It’s horrible.”
“It’s Natasha. Nat,” Steve answers, glancing at Sam with furrowed brow, trying to impart that they are not to share this Bucky-shaped development with anyone just yet.
He puts the phone on speaker per Natasha’s request.
“Where are you, boys?” Natasha’s husky voice fills the small hotel room.
“The godforsaken place Stark sent us?” Sam teases. “Literally. Forsaken. It’s not even on the GPS maps.”
“Not even on the actual maps,” Steve adds, earning another patented disappointed-parent look from Sam.
“Thought you’d already taken care of business,” Natasha says smoothly. “But it’s good that you’re still there – that’s why I’m calling. Had a word with Coulson’s SHIELD agents. They’re coming your way.”
Steve winces. He definitely doesn’t want any SHIELD agents up in his and Bucky’s business. In a moment of self-interest which conveniently doubles up as selfless camaraderie, he says, “Can we help? Make it quick?”
“Probably. I’ll tell my contact you’re still there, give her your numbers, just in case,” Natasha says. “Be good, boys.”
“Huh,” Sam says when Natasha hangs up. “SHIELD agents at it again.”
Steve shrugs.
“Must be Tuesday.”
~
Steve stays up all night, lost in thoughts of Bucky.
Or maybe it’s just caffeine jitters.
By five o’ clock, he can’t lay still anymore, and by six, he’s out the door and off for an early jog. The streets are still empty and quiet, the morning dew still lingering on the freshly-cut grass, shrubberies and trees, and Steve makes his way down to the town’s park. He passes empty picnic tables, birds pecking on the ground, and a sleepy, heavily clad woman nudging her dog to get on with the walking. He turns to his right to find a narrow lake, the sun hitting it just so, making the water sparkle and shine.
He’s only half-surprised to find Bucky, in a soft sweater and sans his customary cap, running alongside it. Steve catches up to him and finds comfort in the fact that at least this time their run-in is coincidental and Steve isn’t actually engaging in any stalking – until, that is, he realizes he has no way of proving that.
Bucky just gives him a side-glance and a lopsided smirk and runs beside him as if he doesn’t really care either way, or as if this was all planned and they’d had a run date.
“You run pretty fast,” Steve remarks after a few minutes of silence.
“Hadn’t noticed,” Bucky says flatly. “Usually don’t run with company. But then again” – he tilts his head in mock contemplation, eyes on the gravel as he twists his lips – “the company I did keep was always so much smaller and slower than me, they couldn’t run for their life.” He looks at Steve. “Literally.”
Steve scoffs. This feel close to what Clint Barton calls trolling. “Where’s your friend now?” he asks, in an attempt at being playful and treading softly, just in case.
“Around,” Bucky says vaguely.
“Where – where are you from?”
Bucky can just barely stop himself from rolling his eyes. Christ, his best friend is a useless spy and an idiot at baiting. Seriously. That’s the question he’s going for?
“Brooklyn,” he replies and suppresses a sigh because –well, where’s that conversation going to go?
Steve grins with relief. “Same.”
Yeah, no shit, Bucky thinks, his lips pressed in a tight disapproving line.
“What are you doing here?” Steve, the ever-shrewd sleuth, inquires.
Bucky’s getting bored; this is too simple. He spices things up a little.
“Well,” he says slowly, then licks his lips, a playful twinkle in his eyes as he looks straight ahead. “First I was afraid. I was petrified. Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side.”
He gauges for Steve’s reaction.
Steve is visibly choking on thin air. His face is going disturbingly red.
“Jesus, Rogers, it’s a song!” Bucky hurries with a startled laugh.
“Sure,” Steve chokes out.
“A popular song!” Bucky stresses. “A modern, popular song? Know any of those?”
“Sure,” Steve says, strained and hot and embarrassed. “Lots.”
“21st century,” Bucky gripes, amused. “Get with the times.”
He shakes his head and slowly comes to a halt. He rests his hands on his knees for a couple of seconds and lets Steve gaze at his surroundings, gather himself and his wounded pride. Bucky suppresses a smile and plops himself on the nearest bench. Steve deliberates, but sits down beside him all the same.
Bucky sniffs, his nose wet in the chilly morning air, before he says, “That woman there.”
He beckons in the distance, at a woman in a beige suit and high heels hastily making her way through the park, checking her watch every two seconds.
“Always gets caramel syrup in her coffee. Comes over at her lunch breaks. She works for the town’s resident lawyer. She’s always late.”
Steve narrows his eyes. This sounds an awful lot like invasive tactics. It sounds an awful lot like, while there’s a million things Steve and Bucky could – should – be talking about, Bucky chooses to beat around the bush and discuss random townies. For Steve, who knows he’s talking to Bucky but doesn’t feel entitled to address the fact unless Bucky admits it first, this is frustrating.
It is, also, oddly comforting. It takes Steve back to half-broken benches on piers and precarious fire escapes, dirty building steps in old-Brooklyn alleys, when the younger, different versions of themselves would sit and yammer for hours, talking about everyone and everything until words ran out. When there were no more news and gossip and it was still too early for the existential type of conversations, the two of them would make up stories for their neighbors, just to pass the time.
It is in this vein that Steve feels safe enough to say, “I bet she’s got a fella at home and he loves her just a tad too much to wake her up.”
Bucky smiles a crooked smile, pleasantly surprised. “Bet he doesn’t have a job, that’s why he doesn’t get she has to wake up in time. But he doesn’t care –” he throws his head back, letting the sun warm his neck – “’Cause they’ve got the love.”
“Bet he wants a dog,” Steve says.
“But she’s a cat-person,” Bucky adds.
“What about that one?”
Bucky levels his head to look at the one in question – a short young woman dressed in spandex, utterly absorbed in her phone as she alternately steps on gravel and grass.
“Haven’t seen her before, I don’t think. But –” Bucky presses a finger on his mouth – “it’s obvious she’s looking up –”
“Nude pictures,” Steve blurts.
Bucky grins. “Of Captain America.”
“Oh, shut up –” Steve turns away.
“And clearly,” Bucky adds, “she’s doing it out here, in the park, because she’s got a girl back home. And it’s a secret. She’s leading a double life.”
“Which one’s the secret life?” Steve asks.
“The Captain America one,” Bucky says, stretching his arms on the back of the bench.
Since he’s in the vicinity anyway, he lightly taps his gloved fingers on Steve’s left shoulder.
“She’s very much in love with the girl at home, but –” he presses his lips remorsefully – “she just can’t stop staring at the Captain’s –”
“What about him?” Steve asks, his voice an octave higher than usual.
Bucky smirks and looks at ‘him.’ ‘He’ is a slouching boy of about twelve, drowsy and morose as he slowly makes his way to, presumably, school.
“That’s no fun,” Bucky says, frowning. “He’s so sad, look at his face. Shitty family life.”
“Maybe he’s just sad he’s got to get up early,” Steve says. “’S not like you enjoyed it,” he slips out casually, never quite forgetting the stray kicks that caught him on the shins and knees every time he had to wake Bucky up.
Bucky’s mouth twitches and Steve expects some kind of comment on his directness –an offended remark about how Steve couldn’t possibly know that about a stranger, or maybe an acknowledgement of their shared past. He gets neither.
“Yeah, I did love my sleep.” Bucky lowers his eyes; he pauses before adding softly, “It’s gotten a little harder these days.”
Steve gazes at him. He’s given him enough openings to drop the make-belief act, but Bucky jumped at none. He hasn’t skidded from or concealed anything either though, so what is Steve supposed to do with that?
“Roger!”
Steve is the first to turn at the sound. Bucky doesn’t turn at all.
“Roger!” the girl’s voice insists, getting closer, and Steve gently nudges Bucky’s side.
Bucky remembers his adopted name and gathers himself as he turns to Doreen.
She waves cheerfully at the pair of them. “What’s up?” she asks, perching on the bench.
Steve selflessly scoots closer to Bucky to give her space.
“Hanging out? You’ll be late,” she informs Bucky.
Bucky presses his lips in what should pass for remorse but really isn’t, and really doesn’t.
“I’ll be late,” he sighs.
~
In the shower, Steve has a terrible, horrible, utterly cruel, novel idea. But Bucky did mess with him yesterday – quite possibly was messing with him today, for that matter, with his popular song references that could have double meaning and his jabs at ‘his smaller friend.’ Steve didn’t have the guts to call him out – Sam has successfully instilled the fear of God (or rather, the fear of a breakdown) in him – but it’s only right that he steps up to the challenge.
Bucky is off on errands when Steve arrives at The Small Bean. Steve deems it right to order the Crème Brûlée Latte he was advised against, stubbornness overclouding his better sense. His name is, for once, correctly spelled on the cup thanks to Doreen, and Steve feels what he recognizes as ‘a pang in his heart from missing Bucky.’ He suppresses a smile because he won’t have to miss him for long, and if that isn’t bliss, Steve doesn’t know what is (okay, it’s many things. It’s many, many things. But none of them count half as much as they do with Bucky on his side).
He drinks his first sip of the novelty drink and promptly chokes.
He is still gulping down coughs when Bucky takes his place behind the register.
“You all –” Bucky starts, then notices Steve’s grip on the guilty cup. “I told you not to order that, you moron,” Bucky scolds, throwing his apron over his clothes. “Too sweet.”
“Too sweet,” Steve wheezes.
The embarrassing mishap isn’t enough to deter Steve from his plan.
When Bucky beckons with a new coffee – which he’s made himself and which Steve has no doubt he’ll enjoy and only pays attention to his new nickname, ‘Steeb’ – Steve leans casually over the bar counter, a little too smug for comfort.
Bucky eyes him suspiciously.
“Getting’ chilly,” Steve begins. “Good thing it’s downtime on the whole avenging thing.”
He takes a sip of his hot coffee. It’s definitely not anything he’s tasted before, and it’s definitely delicious.
“Ooh, Thor is so dreamy!” Doreen exclaims. “Is he really as big as he looks?”
“Oh yeah,” Steve says easily. “But Thor’s fine, it’s easy working with Thor. It’s the Hulk that’s the real danger.”
Bucky narrows his eyes.
Doreen leans on the counter and props her chin on her hand, intrigued. “He’s uncontrollable?” she asks.
“Absolutely,” Steve says with no qualms, silently apologizing to Bruce; what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. “He’s beat up pretty much every one of us – and he hits hard.”
Bucky’s face is getting sterner and less impressed by the second. Yep. Steve was right. Leave it to good ol’ recklessness to make his blood boil.
“Nothing that heals in a day, not even for a super soldier.”
“Really,” Bucky says drily.
“Yeah, it’s technically a hazard working with him,” Steve confirms lightly. “Can’t tell apart his enemies from his teammates sometimes. But otherwise, he’s great! Worth the cost of constantly praying he doesn’t accidentally smash us if he gets angry. Personally, I wouldn’t stand a chance – one flick –” he flattens his palms across the counter in a finite manner – “I’m gone.”
Bucky purses his lips. “Really.”
“But you fought against aliens,” Doreen chimes in.
“Yes!” Steve exclaims, grateful for the input. “So many aliens! And a god!”
“And a god,” Bucky echoes.
“Yes, Loki,” Steve says, with the air of someone who boasts about having successfully swatted away a fly.
“Thor’s brother,” Doreen clarifies.
“With his alien army,” Steve says, because this takes repeating. “And their flying alien jets. Under their interdimensional hole,” he adds for good measure.
Bucky just stares.
“Oh come on, you must’ve heard,” Doreen says, catching up on Bucky’s expression. “It was all over the news back in 2012!”
“I was a little out of commission at the time,” Bucky says slowly, his face menacing as he rounds on Steve, “but I did catch up later.”
“So you know already,” Steve says, eyebrows raised in challenge as he pleasantly sips coffee.
“I thought it was a gimmick,” Bucky growls.
Steve laughs over his cup. “A gimmick? God, no.”
“Captain America doesn’t do gimmicks!” Doreen exclaims, outraged.
“Dangerous stuff,” Steve adds. “You could say even – stupid.” He pointedly cocks his head at Bucky.
The bell chimes and Doreen glances up. Neither Bucky nor Steve bother, locked in a battle of stares. The newcomer – Sam – cheerfully marches up to them and Doreen waves her fingers in greeting.
“Hel– oh boy –” he stops when he sees Bucky’s face. “The hell did you do to the man? He gonna kill you?” he asks Steve.
“Nah.” Steve gives a dismissive, overly casual half-shrug.
Bucky continues to stare.
“We’re just talking ‘bout Avengers missions,” Steve explains.
Sam’s eyes flicker to Bucky. “That’s – that’s violent stuff.”
“Yeah, well,” Steve says, running his hand over the counter. “We lived to tell the tale, so we’re telling it.”
“Any crazy stories you’ve got to add to the endless pile of Captain America’s brave deeds?” Doreen asks perkily.
Sam looks hesitant, so Steve prompts, “Yeah, Sam, anything you’ve got to share? We’ve done some crazy things together. Go on,” he insists. “We’re just having fun here.”
“I mean, you do do a lot of dumb shit,” Sam says slowly. “Like that time you jumped twenty stories down SHIELD’S HQ from an elevator with just your shield to land on. That was ridiculous.”
“Oh, right!” Steve beams at the half-forgotten memory.
Bucky’s left hand grips the counter and he looks fairly homicidal as he says, “What.”
“Yeah,” Steve confirms, grinning. “But I had to get away somehow –”
“And you landed on the shield,” Doreen says admiringly.
“It was tough, I’ll give you that, but it absorbs vibrations,” Steve replies. And before he can stop, he hears himself say, “Not like before I had the shield, when I stormed an army base with no backup and just stage props!”
Bucky goes deathly still. Really, it’s quite possible that he has stopped breathing altogether. He’s not blinking either.
Steve stifles a gasp and stares at him, frozen with panic. This was a secret. This was always a secret.
“What base,” Bucky grits out, acutely aware of Sam’s and Doreen’s eyes on him.
“Uh,” Steve says eloquently, slowly shrinking back. It’s not fun and games anymore, his brain is yelping, not fun and games anymore!
“What. Base.”
“The – uh, the –” Steve shakes his head.
“Before you got the shield –” Bucky’s grip on the counter tightens – “You got the shield after. So. Azzano.”
“Might have?” Steve says evasively.
“The hell did I not know about this?” Bucky demands, eyes dark and furious; the counter starts giving under his grasp.
Doreen is looking awed at Bucky’s apparent physical strength. Steve gently reaches to pry Bucky’s fingers open before he makes a deep dent. Bucky doesn’t make it easy.
“The hell did I not.” He jerks his hand away from Steve’s fingers.
“’S not in the history books,” Sam supplies quickly, trying to salvage the unsalvageable.
“Right,” Bucky rasps.
If eyes could kill, Steve would be ten times dead – and buried – by now.
~
Sam assumes his place at Steve’s customary table-by-the-window. Steve forces himself to unglue his eyes from Bucky, who hasn’t stopped sulking and death-glaring at him for the past three hours.
“Bri McCreed.” Sam cocks his phone at Steve. “SHIELD agent –” he lowers his voice– “They’re close, after some guys who’ve stolen source codes that absolutely should not have been stolen.”
Steve nods, serious.
“They’ve got the drives with the codes, SHIELD wants them back. Bri just said if we could please keep an eye out,” Sam recounts.
Steve glances out the window for any sign of activity, as if the bad guys will materialize out of thin air on demand. “Bri McCreed, you said?”
“Yep,” Sam says, propping his elbows on the table.
“Who – Is that... ”
Bucky is suddenly on their table, serving them glasses of water. Bucky has never served them or any customer any water, ever – or at least for as long as Steve has been haunting the place. Well, then; he must be curious of all the whispering.
“...girl you should date number...”
“Five,” Sam and Steve finish together.
Bucky stiffens. His lips are twitching – and not in a smile.
Bucky has just endured a bout of Let’s-Remember-The-Stupid-Reckless-Insane-Things-That-Steve-Rogers-Has-Done-Ever-Since-He-Became-Captain-Fucking-America (and thank God it was contained to the Captain America years, because if Steve had gone back to the pre-war days, Bucky might as well have bleached his brain). Bucky is feeling a little salty. Bucky has absolutely no intention of letting this one go.
“I used to have a friend like that,” he says slowly, his voice ominously honeyed, “always had to find girls for him to go out with, ‘cause he was too useless to find any himself –” he shrugs, eyes innocent and sad – “And then all his dates were a disaster, ‘cause he was a moron. And a punk.”
Steve draws in a breath and raises his hand, a ‘Now, wait a minute!’ almost slipping out of his mouth– because they are obviously talking about him and he should clear his good name, point out the girls in question were always after Bucky – but thinks better of it. No, this won’t do; it’s weak. Bucky’s pushing further and Steve has to rise to the bait.
“I also used to have a friend kinda like that,” he says pleasantly. “He did date a lot of girls, sure, but –” Steve purses his lips in exaggerated remorse – “at the end of the day, he always found his way back in my bed, not theirs.”
Sam chokes on his coffee.
“You must’ve had a warm bed then,” Bucky replies without missing a beat.
“Nothing to write home about,” Steve says, leaning back, his fingers toying with a napkin. “But he sure loved some winter cuddling.”
“Bet you were always so cold your friend took pity on you, tried to warm you up,” Bucky suggests.
“Oh ho – no –” Steve shakes his head, a thoroughly amused grin spread wide on his face. “He was a total jerk, he let his feet outta the covers for as long as, then shoved them against mine just as I was drifting –”
“My friend had to get up on his toes to kiss anyone –” Bucky raises his eyebrows.
‘Anyone’ means Bucky himself, and Steve grins at the memory. “Bet that made him all the more endearing.”
“Well, then he bulked up and that sort of changed,” Bucky says. “Couldn’t straddle him just as easy anymore – had to be the other way round.”
Steve gives him the onceover and lightly observes, “You’re doing fine for yourself these days. Bet you could try it again.”
Bucky coughs to cover a laugh.
“Forgot to tell me something, maybe...?” Sam says conversationally once Bucky is out of earshot.
Steve’s sly smirk is unlike any smirk or smile or any expression whatsoever Sam has ever seen on Captain America’s face. It’s downright elated; it makes him look young, untroubled.
“There might be, uh, a reason I haven’t dated anyone in the past century,” Steve says, his eyes following Bucky, “and that reason might be 10% culture shock and 90% Bucky Barnes.”
~
Bucky takes off his apron and ruffles his hair, swerving to avoid the evening staffers taking their place behind the counter. He’s ready to call it a day when, surprise surprise, Steve runs up to the counter, all smiles and charm.
“One last cup?” he asks brightly.
Bucky’s lips curl in reluctance. He abstractly wipes his hands on his thighs and fleetingly looks at the evening barista.
“The one you made me earlier, no idea what that was,” Steve insists sweetly.
Bucky grumbles something mildly obscene about pests and self-entitlement and stalks his way to the coffee machine.
Sam slides next to Steve, all serious and determined. “I need food. And you need food. We all need food.” He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets and calls to Bucky, “We need food.”
Bucky whirls, clearly ready to retort with something very scathing and impossibly vulgar if looks are anything to go by, so Sam clarifies, “You’re getting off and we’re getting food. Pick the place.”
Bucky considers this. He is pacified, and Steve smiles gratefully at Sam as Bucky tinkers with the coffee maker.
There’s an actual, honest-to-God reason that Bucky opts for the register instead of the coffee-making. It’s not that he hasn’t been properly trained – he actually knows how to make coffee with the best of them. It’s just that Bucky sometimes gets lost in the clutter that is his head, and sometimes his mind just draws a blank, rendering him half-oblivious to his surroundings; some other times, against all hope, he gets too relaxed for his own good and his brain just sort of mellows and forgets what’s what. At times like these, he has found through painful trial and error that he forgets hot and cold are supposed to elicit different reactions on flesh and metal, and many a customer have burned their hands on unholy temperatures that Bucky hasn’t even registered. Bucky knows to stay away from the coffee machines.
At the moment, he is light and carefree and patently distracted. He grasps the cup with his gloved hand. Said cup is scorching. Bucky doesn’t realize and absently passes it to Steve.
Steve squeals like a little girl.
He reflexively lets go of the offending object burning a hole in his palms, and the cup, unheeded and unwanted, pours its scalding insides on Sam’s thighs and nethers. Sam screams bloody murder.
Everyone in the coffeehouse stops and stares– and rightly so: Bucky stands still and petrified, his mouth slack with surprise and guilt; Steve reaches out towards Sam without touching, his face a mix between shock and hysterical laughter; and Sam, poor Sam, is gasping in air, swearing under his breath and trying to unstick his pants from his skin.
Steve gulps down a laugh. He feels bad, he really does – even if the sentiment doesn’t quite reach his face.
Sam glares at Bucky, then at Steve. He shakes his head disapprovingly.
“I’m gonna take a fucking cold bath,” he announces, his voice hard. “I’ll meet you here. You owe me one evening of utter enjoyment. I don’t care how you do it – just fix it.”
The second he’s off, Steve snorts a laugh; it’s inappropriate, he knows, and waves his hand apologetically. Bucky rolls his eyes.
~
Steve leans against the wall in the alley by the coffeehouse and stretches his neck. He watches Bucky speculatively as he paces, his steps lazy and slow. Again, Steve doesn’t know if they’re supposed to be who they are or if they’re still acting as strangers, but he finds himself asking once more, in a voice as gentle as voices come –
“Why are you here?”
Bucky stops and looks at him.
“Chillin’,’” he deadpans, and it sounds so out of place in his mouth that Steve can’t help but snigger.
“Seriously, what are you doing here?” he presses, promising to himself that it’s the last time he’s asking.
“It’s limbo, Steve, it’s nothingness!” Bucky says matter-of-fact, gesticulating to emphasize his point. “Nothing good, nothing bad, just – nothing. Nothing going on, no one cares, just life, frozen.”
“That what you want?” Steve asks carefully, aware that he might not like the answer.
“That’s what I need,” Bucky says. “Need-ed,” he amends, frowning to himself. “Needed somewhere to – find myself. Get back to the way of things. Of life.”
“Is it getting better?” Steve asks quietly.
Bucky’s smile is soft, tender. “It is.”
Steve looks at him with undisguised affection and Bucky feels his face getting warm.
The alley is silent, enclosed, and otherwise empty; the moment feels intimate enough that Bucky finds himself half-jokingly half-seriously teasing, “So about that straddling –”
Steve grins and closes the distance between them. He opens his mouth to respond, his lips already forming the words, so close to Bucky’s that it’s quite possible when he speaks they’ll actually brush against Bucky’s own. Then his eyes flicker towards something in the distance and his expression shifts.
Bucky flinches at Steve’s concern. “I mean, you don’t have to –”
“Aw, shit,” Steve breathes in alarm.
He places a hand on Bucky’s arm. Bucky turns, and straightens up at once.
A chase: three men running at the front, guns drawn at the ready, three people running after them, hands on guns of their own. One of the men at the front fires three successive shots. His aim is unsteady, impeded by the motion, but he gets one of the chasers all the same. Her leg goes out and she hits the ground, blood pooling around her knee.
“Shit,” Steve repeats, shrugging off his jacket.
Bucky removes his glove, metal hand shiny under the lamplight. “Friends of yours?” he asks drily.
“We’re with the guys who got shot,” Steve says. “The one on the front, his name’s Coulson.”
“Could do without the introductions right now,” Bucky says, rolling his shoulders, eyes on the runners and chasers.
Steve stares at Bucky.
“Bucky,” he tests.
“What,” Bucky snarls, attention focused on the fight coming their way.
“Bucky –” Steve lets out a small laugh.
Bucky glances at him. “You goin’ insane on me?”
“No, you’re – you’re Bucky!”
Bucky is now openly alarmed as he turns to face Steve. “You okay there, pal?”
“No, it’s just –” Steve lets out a gurgling laugh – “Bucky. Not Roger, Bucky.”
Bucky starts. “Seriously? Now?! You want to do this now?”
The first runner approaches and Bucky throws out his arm, catching him on the chest. The man oomphs and staggers backwards.
“Why did you act like you didn’t know me?” Steve asks. It comes out almost as a wail as he steps forward to stop the second man.
The man fires and Steve has to duck to avoid the bullet.
“Where’s your shield, baby doll?” Bucky asks wryly, elbowing his opponent on the nose, ignoring the cracking sound that follows.
“In my room,” Steve says as he dives for his opponent’s legs. “I went out for coffee. Why did you –”
“Jesus, I was terrified, Steve, that’s why!” Bucky shouts over the men’s grunts. “You come here out of nowhere, not saying anything –” he kicks his guy square in the stomach and fights the gun out of his hand – “not actually talking to me – I didn’t know what was happening! Why did you act like you didn’t know me?!” he yells as the now gunless man finds it productive to hop onto Bucky’s back in an attempt to strangle him from behind.
“I panicked,” Steve protests and pounds a fist on his opponent’s chin. “Need any help there?” he adds, as Bucky appears to be taking the man on his back for a piggyback ride.
“No, sweets, I’m just swell,” Bucky wheezes out, reversing and slamming the man against the wall until he lets go.
Bucky pants and walks to Steve. They assess the two groaning, semi-unconscious men sprawled at their feet.
“Okay,” Steve deems, hands resting on his waist after a mission well accomplished.
Bucky glares at him. “You’ve a shield for a reason, Rogers.”
Steve stares.
“I fucking missed you,” he states eventually.
Bucky’s lips twitch in a smile. “I know.”
Steve scoffs, his mouth twisting in exasperation. Bucky leans in in one swift motion and pecks the frown off Steve’s lips.
“I missed you, too,” he says, always happy to catch Steve off-guard.
Agent Coulson treads up to them, winded and sweating. In the distance, the SHIELD agent still standing is putting handcuffs on the third runner.
“Oh, thank God,” he manages. “Thank you, Cap, thank –” he stops, his gaze fixed on Bucky.
He recognizes him, of course he does; Steve tries to say something, but Coulson shoots out a finger and cuts him off.
“Is that Sergeant Barnes?”
“Yes,” Steve says as Bucky responds, “Been a while since I heard that one.”
Coulson sighs dramatically and buries his face in his hands.
“It’s not what you think,” Steve tries. “He’s not – the Winter Soldier ordeal –”
“I know, I know about that,” Coulson says dismissively. “You trust him.”
Steve startles at the question; the answer should be obvious.
“I do trust him.”
Coulson nods. “Okay. I have so many questions right now, too many questions, but” – he shakes his head – “Look, I gotta go overthrow a branch of the government. Can I trust you to be – good?” he says awkwardly.
“Of course.” Steve straightens his back and applies his best I’m-America’s-Symbol-and-Pride face.
Bucky, at his side, merely snorts.
“Now, about that straddling,” Steve says when they’re once again clear of prying eyes.
Bucky smiles wanly. Steve has him almost pinned against the wall – when Sam shows up. Steve’s face falls, as does his romantic appetite.
“I want you both to explain how you got into a fight and finished it in the thirty minutes I’ve been gone,” he states.
“You weren’t even here!” Steve exclaims.
Sam cocks his cell phone. “I have my sources.”
Steve clucks his tongue. “Sam,” he says ceremoniously, “meet Bucky. Bucky, Sam.”
“We’ve met,” Sam says carefully, and it’s the second time in the last half hour someone looks at Steve as if he’s gone insane.
“I mean properly,” Steve clarifies. “Officially. It’s – it’s been Bucky, the whole time.”
Sam smiles slyly at Bucky. “Nice to meet you officially, then. Third time’s the charm.”
Bucky winces, his eyes darting to where Sam’s wings would be, were he in his Falcon getup. “Yeah, about that.”
Sam shakes his head. “It’s okay, we’ll figure it out.” He turns to Steve and sounds almost hopeful when he says, “We going home now?”
Steve’s eyes turn to Bucky. “Yeah? Possibly. Can you, uh...”
He trails off awkwardly. Sam chuckles.
“I’ll give you a minute,” he says. “But only a minute, you can catch up later. I’m still starving and you still jeopardized my progeny.”
“So,” Steve resumes when the two of them are alone again.
He takes a step forward, his hips pressing against Bucky’s.
“So,” Bucky echoes, looking up at him. “Where’s home?”
“New York,” Steve replies. “Avengers Tower.”
His hands reach to Bucky’s shoulders, rubbing gentle circles on flesh and metal. “You ready to come back?”
Bucky cocks his head contemplatively.
“Yeah,” he says lightly.
“You sure?” Steve says. “If you need to stay here some more –”
“I think I got everythin’ I need from this town,” Bucky says. “Time to try on something different.”
Steve beams, his grin toothy, joyful and bright, and what the hell – he swoops, squeezes Bucky’s cheeks between his palms and kisses him with an excitement befitting teenagers just fallen madly in love. Noses and foreheads bump against each other as Bucky chuckles into the kiss and tightly grips Steve’s jacket.
Steve pulls back, evaluating his work; Bucky is breathless, flushed, his lips puffy and red, his eyes sparkling and dilated. A job well done.
“Does reverse straddling count as differ –”
Bucky cuts him off with a breathless laugh.
“Jesus, Rogers, come here.”