Archive of Our Own ^beta

 Bucky is fine.

 Honestly.

 No, it’s true.

 Well... If one wants to be persnickety about things, there’s a very real, very tangible bubble of sheer panic building up inside of him now that he’s about to go back to New York. He’s about to return to a big city, a crowded city, a bustling, stressful city. And he’ll be living in the Avengers Tower, the home of the actual mightiest heroes of the planet, with the Avengers, the best and noblest and holier than thou. And possibly, if all goes well, Bucky will work with them.

 If one wants to be persnickety about things, this is a little too much.

 But Bucky is fine. Really. He just needs some time, and then he’ll just – fit in. Somehow. Get into the swing of things. At least Steve believes so, and Bucky wants to believe Steve. And it’s not like the Avengers themselves started out as heroes anyway. If anything, at least he can claim he started out as the good guy and –

 No matter. They are who they are, right here, right now. That’s how Bucky needs to be seen, too– Bucky, right here, right now. Not the Winter Soldier, not Sergeant Barnes of the history books, not Bucky from Steve’s perspective, but the amalgam of them all that makes him.

 Which is why he asks Steve to keep the extent of their togetherness a secret.

 Bucky is not overly fond of this idea himself, but he fears that if the Avengers meet him as Steve’s partner, they’ll treat him as an extension of Steve. They’ll expect him to shine as bright as the beacon of hope that Steve is – and, well, he doesn’t; he’s not it. That’s pressure and scrutiny and expectations that he doesn’t care to take on.

 It’s just for a while, he explains. Just until he settles in. After that, they can double-date, throw anniversary parties, shout it from the rooftops for all he cares – as long as it’s after.

 Bucky has a point, Steve thinks. The Avengers are good people, Steve would be the first to vouch for that, but they’re curious, raucous and occasionally raunchy. Steve and Bucky’s ‘togetherness’ would make the top of their list-of-things-to-tease-people-for, and Steve wants to spare Bucky from the commentary. Tony already awaits ‘American Beauty and American Psycho’ as it is, so Steve agrees: the less pressure, the easier the adjustment.

 Somehow, it works. Impossibly, shockingly, against all odds, it actually works.

 Until it doesn’t.

~

i.

 “What do you mean suit up? Steve! I just got comfy – look, I’m wearing a holiday sweater and – and – I made cocoa! With whipped cream! Steve, come on! It’s New Year’s!”

 Steve scoffs, hopping on one leg as he tries and fails to put on his boots. “Yeah, imagine that; bad guys not taking the holidays off.”

 “I’m just sayin’,” Bucky grumbles, pushing himself off the couch and shrugging off his warm plaid blanket, “saving the world should be reserved for work days.”

 “We’re not saving the world,” Steve says. “We’re just saving Central Park.”

 This gives Bucky pause. He does love Central Park.

 “Okay,” he mutters begrudgingly, “I’ll save your damn park. But I’m not gonna enjoy it.”

~

 Even with some conspicuous absences – namely Sam, who’s spending New Year’s in DC, and Bruce, who deemed the situation too minor for a Hulk out – the Avengers take care of business quickly. Bruce was right: they’ve had worse than mechanical herald angels and reindeer attacking civilians. Hell, civilians have had worse than mechanical herald angels and reindeer attacking them. The Avengers get at it, effective and swift. One more second of that distorted mechanical caroling is already one second too long.

 At least the villains are keeping with the holiday spirit.

 An unexpected snowfall has turned New York into a Winter Wonderland. Even the Avengers, often assumed hardened but secretly sappy, can’t deny the magic and beauty of the city.  As twilight slowly creeps in, those unafraid of the cold peep out for some fun in the snow. Children build snowmen, sticking wooden sticks for noses and pebbles for eyes on their round frozen heads. Adults take leisurely strolls, leaving fresh footprints on the snow-covered ground.

 It’s too pretty to pass up. The Avengers collectively take up Natasha’s suggestion to walk back instead of driving or flying. They don’t often get a chance to enjoy the festive spirit – their Christmas feast had barely been digested when they were called to the aid of their SHIELD associates – and this is as good a time as any to do so. They might look funny, waltzing through the park in their battle gear, but they’ll take what they can get.

 At least Tony lucked out on that one. The Iron Man suit is gently hovering above their heads, quietly following along as Tony tries to rub warmth into his hands.

 “Great idea,” he says. “We need to get out more. Why don’t we get out more? We’re all a bunch of losers.”

 “Says the guy that’s in his lab 24/7,” Steve remarks.

 “Did I leave myself out? No, I didn’t,” Tony says. “We should go out to dinner, order in less, we should visit galleries, go to the movies, hike, whatever. Just look at this” – he opens his arms and spins around – “look, everywhere you look it’s beautiful. It’s magical. It’s snowy, cold, it’s the season to be jolly.”

 “Well, not all of us associate snow and cold with jolly,” Clint points out.

 Natasha makes a headcount as she murmurs under her breath. Steve catches the words “ice,” “cryo,” “Russia,” “parents,” “forgot him outside.”

 “Actually,” she says eventually, “each and every one of us has a relevant sob story.”

 Tony makes a non-committal sound. If he has any words of comfort or apology, Clint doesn’t spare him the opening.

 “Does this thing really have to loom over our heads like that?” he snaps, scowling at the suit.

 “Let him be.” A hint of a smile crosses Natasha’s lips. “He feels safer when it’s around.”   

 Tony bristles. “I’ll have you know, I feel perfectly safe without the suit –”

 “Sure you do, you have us to protect your weak ass,” Natasha provides smoothly.

 “I am perfectly safe without the suit, ‘cause I’m great at martial arts myself,” Tony contends.

 Bucky’s lips quirk into an insolent little smirk and – well. Steve notices and arches an eyebrow. That smirk never means anything good, ever. Mischievous? Sure. Dirty? Absolutely. Good? Never.

 “Great at martial arts?!” Clint mocks.

 “I’ve been working out,” Tony snaps. “I don’t just depend on the suit for every little thing, and even if I did, I have no business explaining myself – I’m a scientist, not a goddamn – But even so, I can shoot a gun, I can throw a punch, I kick a mean kick, I –”

 Steve genuinely wants to cover his eyes and spare himself the second-hand embarrassment. Lightning quick, Bucky ducks, grabs a fistful of icy snow, shapes it into a snowball and hurls it straight at Tony’s face. It bursts over his eyes, nose and mouth, effectively shutting him up.

 “You have no reflexes,” Bucky says, amused. “Or peripheral vision.”

 Tony gasps. “Uh, offence taken!” He jerks out his fingers to summon the suit.

 “No, don’t!” – Bucky’s hands shoot out in warning. “The rockets; they’ll melt the snow down.”

 Tony hesitates for a moment, then decides, “I don’t need a damn suit.”

 He grabs whatever snow will fit in his hand, and lunges towards Bucky.

 And that is it.

 As if on cue, Natasha slides to the other side, assembling snowballs with both hands before Tony has even touched Bucky. Clint runs for higher ground, rushing up on a short hill.

 Steve would rather stay out of this silly kerfuffle. It’s so childish. They’re in their uniforms, for God’s sake, and snow is hard – he jumps as Natasha’s snowball hits him on the back of the head. This hurts, dammit, and it’s not his fault that he yelped – he doesn’t have his helmet on! Really, so infantile, and the sludge they’ll create, and just, why would anyone – Clint’s and Bucky’s separate snowballs strike him simultaneously on the shoulder and face and oh, it is ON.

 Natasha receives five consecutive snowballs courtesy of Captain America. She swerves and ducks and even does a backflip, but she dodges only one.

 Clint is relatively unscathed and currently building up an arsenal of premade snowballs as if he were amassing arrows for his sheath – and Steve is having none of that. The first snowball smacks against Clint’s shoulder, spraying snow all over his suit. Clint laughs, and the second snowball gets him on the chin.

 Bucky creeps up behind Steve silently. His sudden taunting cry in Steve’s ear makes Steve flinch, disoriented, and Bucky kicks out his legs. Steve slips to the ground with a startled grunt. He has barely any time to wonder why on earth everyone is playing so dirty before Bucky climbs on top of him, holding him to the ground, a huge grin lighting up his face. He yelps as Steve tries to push him off, but Steve’s attempt is half-hearted and feeble at best. He’s distracted; Bucky looks so elated, radiant, happy, with his lips cherry-red from the cold, his cheeks rosy and his hair full of snow dust. It’s like a painting, really, and Steve would very much like to freeze-frame the moment and draw him – and it’s too bad that his thoughts derail him, because Bucky pins Steve’s hands above his head and joyfully shoves snow in his gaping mouth.

 Steve splatters and squirms – “You son of a –”

 Bucky giggles. It’s adorable. Steve is actually concerned that he might leap up and kiss him, secrets be damned, but Tony – bless him – picks this moment to attack. Steve is saved from the precarious position of having to physically stop himself from lovesick displays.

 Bucky jerks his head just in time. The snowball successfully misses his face, but lands on his ear with a loud splat. Tony throws himself against Bucky, sending him to the ground.

 Steve hoists himself on his knees and before he knows what’s coming, Natasha’s vicious throw gets him on the nape of the neck. He lets out an indignant cry, covered by Bucky’s equally indignant shouts of, “Stark, why are you tackling me? What are you trying to do?!”

 Natasha’s throws keep coming, hard and well-aimed, and – You know what? Steve is fed up with playing fair. He decides to join the dark side and whoever catches the bait, well – God help him. He hopes it’s Natasha; it probably won’t be.

 “Ow!” he screeches dramatically, clutching his neck. “Ow ow ow!”

 He makes a show of losing his balance and landing on his palm. Said palm is covertly closing around a snowball.

 Tony scrambles to his aid – “Hey – seriously? Are you –”

 Natasha’s “No, don’t!” and Bucky’s “He’s hustlin’!” come a second too late.

 Tony gets closely acquainted with Steve’s mean snowball fight techniques.

 There’s scuttling behind Steve, but he’s too busy scattering from Tony’s retaliation to pay attention. Bucky is scrambling up the hill, right at Clint and his premade ammo. A snowball crashes against his side and Bucky raises his hands appeasingly.

 “No, wait! I want to join you.”

 Steve, Tony and Natasha don’t stand a chance.

 Steve catches up quickly when a flurry of snowballs hit him so hard and fast he gets momentarily blinded. Blinking snow out his eyes and eyelashes, he snatches his shield and thrusts it before him, hanging on for dear life. He hears Natasha’s oomph and Tony’s muffled cursing as he slips to the ground.

 Steve raises his head to investigate.

 Clint and Bucky, higher ground, fortress of snowballs; no, that won’t do.

 Steve levels his arm and throws the shield right at the snowy pile. It crumbles to the ground.

 “What the hell?!” Clint protests.

 Bucky, shield in hand, lets out a husky chuckle. “SHIELD FRISBEE!” he yells, hurling the shield back to Steve. He slides down the hill and dives to catch when Steve returns the throw.

 “Is this game just for super soldiers?” Natasha has barely finished her sentence and the shield flies her way. She somersaults to reach it and deftly tosses it to Tony.

 “I’m pretty sure we’re committing some sort of sacrilege, playing around with Captain America’s historic shield like it’s some kind of goddamn Frisbee –”

 “Duck!” Bucky shouts; the shield wheezes above Tony’s head as Steve lunges forward to catch.

 They’re being silly, carefree; just leaping and sliding and rolling on the freshly fallen snow on the first day of the New Year – no cries for help, no danger; only cold noses, red cheeks, numb lips and breathless screams of laughter. They’re just a merry group of friends having some holiday fun.

 Panting and pleasantly tired, they call a truce. Tony immediately flops to the ground, heaving. Since he’s down anyway, he makes snow angels. Natasha smirks above him, hands resting loosely on her hips. Clint stretches his neck and rolls his shoulders. Steve, feeling playful, makes a small snowball and lightly throws it on Clint’s arm. They’re side by side so the impact is imperceptible, but Clint scoffs.

 “You’re such a smartass. You weren’t always like that – were you always like that?”

 Steve barks out a laugh. “Hey, Buck!” he calls, “Clint wants to know if I was always a smartass!”

 People always do this, Bucky’s realized: they see Captain America as a saint, and Bucky loves to dispel them of that notion. Embarrassing or incriminating stories of America’s sweetheart are his weak point. He’s always happy to join in some friendly Captain America roasting, much more so now, that he’s high on endorphins and he’s giddy and giggly and – and –

 And he kind of forgets himself; it kind of slips his mind. He bounces to Steve, squeezes his backside, then clutches Steve’s arm and pecks the corner of his mouth, all the while beaming like a madman.

 And he freezes.

 Shit.

 They’ve seen. There’s no way they haven’t seen.

 Bucky swallows, wincing. He gives Steve’s shoulder one stiff pat.

 “Yes,” he says awkwardly. “Always. Nothing but.”

 Clint nods his approval. “Nice.”

 And the thing is.

 The thing is, no one says anything.

 Bucky takes a step back and forces himself to gauge the Avengers’ reactions. He expects staring, crossed arms and teasing smirks, comments about war buddies and geriatric romance and dirty secret-keepers – something, anything.

 What he gets is absolutely nothing. Natasha is helping Tony up to his feet, Clint is ruffling his hair to get rid of the melted snow – no gawking, no frowning, no jeering.

What the hell?

~

 Really, Bucky should be happy. His secret is, apparently, still safe. Apparently, no one noticed; apparently no one saw.

 And yet.

 Bucky tucks his wool-socked feet under Steve’s thigh and frowns to himself. Steve is thoroughly immersed in a movie about time-travelling and paradoxes and – whatever the hell else, Bucky hasn’t been paying attention for a while now. Steve absently squeezes Bucky’s ankle. His hand rests there, and it’s warm and nice, but Bucky huffs and puffs and can’t sit still. He fetches a blanket, wears it like a cape. He gets hot and throws it over his knees. He unties his hair, then ties it again.

 Steve studiously ignores him. He really, really wants to watch this movie.

 “I just think it’s funny how...”

 Steve side-eyes him.

 Bucky blows out his cheeks. “I practically fondled you in front of everyone and no one bats an eyelash. What’s up with that?”

 “Maybe they didn’t notice,” Steve says, eyes on the screen.

 “No way,” Bucky counters firmly. He bends one leg under the other and shoves a stray strand of hair behind his ear.

 “Did you want them to notice?” Steve asks distractedly.

 “That’s not the point!” Bucky objects. “They just didn’t say anything – it’s weird.”

 “But you don’t want them to know,” Steve points out, “so who cares.”

 Bucky exhales a ruffled sigh. Steve suppresses a sigh of his own.

 “Do you want them to know?”  

 Bucky answers in a feeble one-shouldered shrug.

 It’s clear he’s not about to drop the subject and the movie is not going to watch itself, so Steve proceeds to drastic measures. He fishes his phone off the coffee table.

 “You wanna test it?”

 “Yes, please.”

 “Nat!” Steve says cheerfully when Natasha picks up; she’s on speaker, but what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her. “What’re you up to?”

 “I’m cocooned in a Happy-New-Year sweater and two quilts,” she says. “A Happy-New-Year sweater – I don’t even know how it found its way into my closet, it’s a monstrosity. What’re you up to?”

 “All’s good, everything is good,” Steve says, nodding even though she can’t see him. “Hey, guess what,” he announces, “Bucky and I are together.”

 “Yeah, I figured,” Natasha replies. “Didn’t see you in the rec room. You better be watching Star Trek, like we discussed.”

 Steve catches Bucky’s frown and tries again, “No, I mean –”

 “Steve, we’ve talked about this,” Natasha admonishes. “You can’t watch Star Wars a dozen times and Star Trek not even once. You’ll like it. You’ll both like it, I promise. Come on, do it. I trust you will.”

 She makes a smooching sound and hangs up.

 “See?” Steve says, setting the phone on the table. “Oblivious.”

 He only half-believes it himself, but that’s as far as it goes without asking outright.

 Bucky’s eyeing him suspiciously.

 “Did you tell them?”

 “No, Buck,” Steve says, falling back against the couch.

 “Did Sam?”

 “I don’t think he would, no,” Steve says, eyes back on the screen and – dammit, what did he miss? He hopes it wasn’t important.

 “Do they know,” Bucky insists.

 “I don’t –” Steve sighs, half-raising his hands in exasperation, then letting them fall on his thighs. “I literally know everything you know on this one. Do you want them to know? If you do, it’s fine with me, we can just go ahead and tell them and clear it up –”

 “But don’t you think it’s weird?” Bucky maintains.

 Steve cocks his head backwards; he just has to accept this is a movie for another day.

 “Yes, alright, it’s weird, but I’ve long given up on trying to make sense of the Avengers.”

 “But here’s the thing,” Bucky says, shifting in a crossed-legged position. “This is important. Not to be cocky, but this is it. They can’t not acknowledge this. So, they’re either honestly oblivious because they think it’s so off, so impossible for us to be together that it completely went over their heads – which, why. Do they think we don’t match, that we’re incompatible? What?” – he gesticulates indignantly.

 Steve frowns, not quite believing that he’s actually making this conversation. “Bucky, what the hell, we’re not incomp –”

 “Exactly!” Bucky affirms.

 “And even if they did think that, who the fuck c –”

 “Or,” Bucky stops him, holding out a finger, “they just don’t care, which, honestly, it hurts my feelings and makes me want to shove PDAs down their throats till they scream for mercy. Or...” he concludes softly, teeth clasped around his lower lip, head pointedly tilted downwards.

 There’s something Steve should be getting, but doesn’t. He waits for Bucky to continue.

 “They know, and they just act like they don’t know,” Bucky says, eyebrows raised. “It’s not like we don’t know that game. We have done it, why not them?”

 Steve grunts, rubbing his neck. “It’s not like them to be discreet. Or respectful, for that matter.”

 “Exactly,” Bucky says resolutely.

 “You think they’re trolling us,” Steve says; he’s gotten such a good handle on the word ever since he heard it from Clint that it’s borderline alarming.

 “Maybe. I don’t like it.”

 “You want to tell them?”

 “No.” Bucky shakes his head, face serious and determined as if discussing battle strategy. “I want to show them. Get them to the point where they’ll have to stop acting all oblivious and admit that they know.”

 Oh, right. Steve’s better half is a little shit. How could he forget?

 “You want to catch them off-guard and outsmart them, don’t you,” he realizes.

 Bucky shots him a wolfish grin.

 “Well,” Steve says, scratching his cheek, “I guess we can play this game with the best of ‘em. God knows we’ve had practice.”

 Bucky hums his agreement and nods eagerly.

 Steve shrugs. “Let’s do it.”

 ~

ii.

 Steve announces a Star Wars marathon for any interested parties. The Avengers – sans Sam, still happily in DC and therefore not part of this charade – assemble, not so much for the movies themselves as for the amenities. Steve is the movie nights master. He brings Cheetos, Doritos, popcorn, cookies, gummy bears and, tonight, marshmallows. He neatly sets blankets in strategic places in case anyone wants to warm it up, and he’s the first to cater to everyone’s drinking needs, be it for water, soda or spirits.

 Unless the movie is on, that is. If the movie’s on, Rogers is out.

 Steve is, yet again, enthralled by Han, Luke and Leia, absently shoving popcorn in his mouth. Bucky, Natasha and Bruce are idly watching along, occasionally speaking out lines they’ve heard at least ten times now. Clint browses on his tablet, sprawled in a position that should be uncomfortable in a mere armchair but somehow works for him. Tony, visibly bored, fiddles with a deck of cards.

 “I think I want a light saber,” Bucky says after consideration.

 “That’s what I’ve been saying for practically ever,” Natasha says, openly glaring at Tony.

 “Imagine what we could do with it.”

 “Oh, I’ve imagined exactly what we could do with it,” she assures, propping her feet against the coffee table.

 “I’m not making you kids any more dangerous toys,” Tony says, starting a round of solitaire. “You have enough for a life time.”

 Bucky feels this is a good opportunity to go ahead and say, as nonchalantly as nonchalance goes, “Fine. I’ll make do with a different kind of light saber.”

 He discreetly nudges Steve with his knee and waggles his eyebrows. Not once in his life has he waggled his eyebrows. He feels like a cartoon. 

 “Yeah, dream on,” Steve mutters distractedly. He is playing along, just – give him a sec, they just found Leia.

 Bucky shoots him a dark glare.

 “I’m – come on, Buck, I’m trying to watch the movie.”

 “For the millionth time,” Clint mutters in a sing-song voice, grabbing the bowl of marshmallows.

 “Is this because I kicked you out of bed last night?” Bucky asks, because this is as good an opening as any to hint that he and Steve share the same bed these days; also, he did kick Steve out of bed the previous night and has yet to address it.

 Steve sighs, half-for show and half-for real, because – movie, dammit, movie.

 “No, I’m seriously –”

 “Because it was one time –” Bucky cuts himself off – “Okay, it was not one time, but I told you I get nightmares.”

 “I –”

 “And you know what, I might’ve been speaking in Russian, but you know what” – Bucky’s voice rises and he hopes that someone, anyone catches up on the fact that this is a lovers’ scuffle, not just friendly fire – “maybe you should learn Russian – in our line of business you should know Russian already!”

 “True,” Clint remarks, arranging and rearranging marshmallows on a pillow propped on his lap.

  “Is it because I knocked over the Monopoly board after you won?” Bucky narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Is it because I don’t like peanut butter with jelly?”

 “N –” Steve scowls – “Weeell...”

 Bucky glowers. It makes Steve chuckle.

 “No, Buck, come on, you’re perfect.”

 “You’re perfect, punk,” Bucky spits.

 “So we’re perfect together,” Steve says lightly.

 Neither Steve nor Bucky quite get why, but Tony and Bruce grow instantly excited and belt out, “Born to be forever, dancing through liiiife...”

 Tony spreads his arms open, grinning almost maniacally as Bruce whispers a very passionate, “Yes.”

 Steve is thoroughly confused. Bucky is nonplussed.

 Tony catches up on their expressions. “Oh, you weren’t quoting Wicked? Apologies.”

 He goes back to his game of solitaire.

 Bucky sighs, glancing at Steve with something close to desperation.

 “Look,” Clint says, turning the pillow around. He’s made a smiley face out of marshmallows.

 “Are you five?” Natasha says drily.

 “It’s cute,” Steve says politely, because it’s art. Well, maybe not art, but it’s creative, and Steve respects creative.

 Cute. There are people who are romantic by nature, and then there’s Bucky, who definitely ain’t it. But ‘cute’ is too good a word to pass on, and part of his dignity dies as he says, “Not as cute as you, baby doll.”

 Steve smiles self-deprecatingly. “Thanks, but you’re more so than me.”

 Bucky grits his teeth at the sickly sweetness of it all. He feels an intense need to rinse his mouth with soap.

 “No, you are,” he forces.

 “You are,” Steve maintains, amused at Bucky’s exertions at romance.

 Bucky can feel himself wither on the inside as he says, “Fuck you, you are!” Just to hit the point home, he snarls, “You’re the most beautiful human being in the whole fucking world.”

 “Yes, science did do a remarkable number on him, didn’t it,” Tony remarks.

 He holds up the cards.

 “Anyone up for a game?”

 ~

iii.

 “It’s weird.” Bucky yanks open the oven door with unnecessary force. “I’ve been thinking of it all night –”

 “You were snoring all night, right next to my ear,” Steve interjects, leisurely leaning against the counter. “Which is fine,” he adds, just in case. “I love it, it’s perfect.”

 Bucky rolls his eyes, his lips curling in a silent comment of ‘Don’t bullshit me, Rogers.’ With his metal arm, he drags the cookie-filled pan out of the oven (yes, they don’t have to cook, he knows that, but sometimes he actually enjoys it. Sometimes).

 “All right, I’ve been mulling it over in my head all morning,” he says pointedly, yanking the pan towards Steve, bending to get the next one out.

 Steve jolts back, palms shooting out proactively. He knows – he’s learned – Bucky is not good with temperatures.

 Bucky clucks his tongue in acknowledgement. He tosses Steve the oven mitts.

 “There’s talk about bed-sharing and who’s” – his face contorts in disgust – “the cutest” – there’s a full-body shiver as if he’s trying to shed the word off of him – “in the same conversation – that’s a little suspicious, isn’t it?”

 “Is it?” Steve dismissively throws the mitts on the table.

 “Maybe they think it’s a 30s thing,” Bucky says, getting the second pan out.

 “Maybe they were too into the movie to pay attention,” Steve suggests innocently, blowing on a hot cookie, tossing it from one palm to the other.

 Bucky has to do a double-take at this one. His eyebrows cannot possibly go any higher.

 “Okay, never mind,” Steve says, defeated. He takes a bite out of the cookie. “Christ, salted caramel. I love you,” he moans.

 Bucky leans in for a quick peck and tastes sugar.

 “I think,” he continues undeterred, folding his arms, “it’s time for stories.”

 Steve stops mid-bite. “Real stories or...?”

 Bucky shrugs. “Let’s make ‘em up. Let’s drive ‘em crazy.”

~

 “Glad you’re back, man.” Clint hands Sam a beer and perches beside him on the couch.

 Bruce leans forward eagerly. “How was DC?”  

 “It was good!” Sam grins. “Good to see the nephews, my sister. Gave me a lot of crap for being an Avenger.”

 “Sounds like they have the right idea,” Tony says, plopping down on an armchair with a resounding thud.

 “And how are things here?” Sam asks pleasantly.

 A little too pleasantly, Bucky thinks, but he knows he’s being extra paranoid these days. For once, he acknowledges that he might be imagining things.

 “Quiet,” Natasha replies, nibbling on the straw of her cherry juice.

 “Abnormally normal,” Tony adds, his hands clenching and unclenching around a stress ball.

 “Nothing out of the ordinary,” Clint agrees, fingers drumming quickly against the couch’s arm.

 Bucky side-eyes Steve.

 “Tell us about DC,” Bruce prompts. He’s been cooped up in the Tower a little too long. It’s beneficial for science, but he’s been going stir-crazy with wanderlust.

 “Visited the zoo, with the kids,” Sam offers.

 “Ooh, the pandas,” Clint coos.

 “Visited the VA. Caught some shows. One of ‘em” – he turns to Steve and Bucky – “it had this WW2 battle sequence and I thought of you. I kinda wished you were there, see if it was accurate.”

 It doesn’t even come out natural, but Bucky has been waiting for an opening for some time now. He barks out a rough laugh that he hopes doesn’t sound as fake to the Avengers as it does in his own ears, and says, “Ha, did the soldiers go to a brothel or a burlesque after? ‘Cause if they didn’t? Not accurate.”

 Steve swallows down his snort. This is so wildly untrue it’s downright funny. Bucky himself never caught a burlesque show or went to a brothel.

 It catches Tony’s attention though. “Really? That a fact?”

 “It’s a fact.” Bucky chuckles awkwardly. “There’s a funny story about that, actually. Steve and I – right?” He grins at Steve, urging for contribution.

 “Yeah, yes, there is,” Steve confirms. “We were catching a burlesque one time – so funny – great performance –”

 “And the girls,” Bucky takes over, “they finished their act – they’d spotted us from the stage and we thought it was because we looked so strapping and charming that night –”

 “Because we’d actually gotten some sleep,” Steve supplies.

 “And they came to us, and they straight-up started flirting,” Bucky says, “but we told ‘em, naturally, Sorry, darlings, we like to keep things between ourselves. And then” – he slams his hand on his knee – “they brought out guns and started shooting. Turns out they were Nazi spies. Tried to kill us.”

 “But lots of tables around, and chairs – great for cover,” Steve adds. “No one died.”

 Hey, imaginary stories have imaginary happy endings.

 The Avengers stare.

 Natasha reacts first. She gives a half-shrug. “Eh. Many people were Nazi spies. I’m more surprised you didn’t suspect.”

 Bruce nods thoughtfully. “Yeah, every third person was a spy back then. At least as far as we know. Obviously, you know better. And maybe they wouldn’t suspect,” he tells Natasha, “we know that now, but back then, maybe they didn’t.”

 Okay. Maybe ‘keeping things between ourselves’ isn’t clear enough. Maybe it means people from Brooklyn, or people from the army. Bucky is very much willing to try again, with better luck this time.

 “I mean, there were some tough times during the war, some unexpected things,” he says, eyes darting on Steve.

 “Yeah, yeah, like – like that time on the mountain top? When we got trapped?” Steve suggests. It’s vague enough for Bucky to fill in with whatever story he wants.

 “Yeah, we were surrounded,” Bucky describes. “There were enemy soldiers down at the bottom and just – they waited for us, we couldn’t climb down. And then the eagles came,” he adds with a quizzical tilt of his head.

 Yes, he’s been re-reading The Lord of the Rings. So what? It’s a classic.

 Well, okay, maybe he shouldn’t have said that.

 “The eagles, yes, the eagles came, swooping down and bearing grenades,” Steve supplies, because – the eagles came? Steve is half-trolling Bucky too, at this point.

 “The eagles came,” Bruce echoes with polite disbelief.

 “The all-American eagles?” Tony’s voice is – understandably – dripping with sarcasm.

 “Trained eagles, man,” Steve says smoothly as if it’s common sense – of course the SSR would have trained eagles in its pocket during World War II. Who wouldn’t?

 “They dropped the grenades on the enemy lines so we could escape,” Bucky elaborates. “We were so fucking” – he searches for the word – “thrilled, we Frenched right there” – he indicates Steve and himself – “Howlies be damned.”

 Again, the Avengers stare.

 They stare so intently that Bucky thinks, They got it.

 “I’m sorry, who thought of that strategy?” Tony asks, stress ball limp between his fingers.

 Okay, maybe Frenched means something else in the modern days. Maybe the meaning has changed; many meanings have changed.

 “I mean, it is possible,” Clint says, scratching his head. “Trained animals, happens all the time.”

 “All the time?” Sam asks, eyebrows raised.

 “Just – it happens,” Clint amends.

 “I don’t know,” Natasha says, a smirk slowly making its way on her lips, “it sounds a little far-fetched. Are you sure you didn’t get stranded on that mountaintop and, starved and sleep-deprived as you must have been, had a mass hallucination?”

 “Surely if something that remarkable had happened, it would have made the history books,” Bruce says, puzzled.

 “Lots of things didn’t make the history books,” Bucky says pointedly.

 “It was kind of a secret,” Steve explains. “Didn’t want everyone to know that we – trained– eagles.”

 They really need to drop that storyline soon. The more they talk about it, the dumber it sounds.

 “It was a thing,” Bucky insists, because he started it and, dammit, he’ll back it up. “Trained animals. A real thing.” Then he adds in a small voice, not quite able to hide his incredulity at the words leaving his mouth, “We fought Nazi bears once.”

 The Avengers’ staring intensifies; they are not wrong.

 Steve clears his throat. “They had little Nazi armbands and all. Wild. Dernier was terrified,” he adds, for credibility’s sake. “It was his greatest fear.”

 “Nazi bears,” Natasha clarifies.

 “No, just bears. Any kind of bear,” Steve sticks with it.

 “One almost mauled me to death,” Bucky says, because there’s a point to this madness and he’s getting to it, “regrettably. I’m not proud of it, but it did. And Steve was so scared, the fucking wimp – he got so angry that he attacked the whole pack, killed them all with just his bare hands.”

 “I – panicked,” Steve says, staying in character; he would have panicked, had something like this happened. “Couldn’t bear” – he pauses, smug, to let the pun sink in –“to lose you like that.”

 Bucky rolls his eyes with unhidden affection. “Bare hands. What an idiot. And I was lying on the cold hard ground, watching, and I couldn’t breathe, and when he came to me, I said, Well, baby doll, I’ll be damned. That was hot. If I weren’t bleedin’ to death, I’d be jumpin’ your bones right about now. And then a bear roared,” he adds for suspense. “But then it died. So it didn’t roar anymore.”

 Clint draws in a sharp breath. “That was hot,” he says, looking amazed.

 “Now wait a minute!” Tony holds out a hand, his eyes hard as they go from Bucky to Steve.

 It doesn’t get much more obvious than this. Tony got it. Of course Tony got it, Tony would be the first to get it, the dirty, raunchy –

 “There is no fucking way you fought Nazi bears!”

 ~

iv.

 Bucky pours antiseptic on cotton balls, glowering and muttering something obscene. He flinches as he squeezes the bottle, the movement rough on his freshly burned hand. He puffs out a breath and scoots closer to Steve.

 “Seriously,” he murmurs.

 Steve frowns. The blood dripping from his nose finds its way between his lips and he grimaces at the taste. At least he’s wearing clothes, which is more than could be said for him ten minutes ago.

 “To be fair, you screamed.”

 Bucky holds out his right palm, red and somewhat blistered. “Burned. Caught me off guard, hence the sound.”

 “The sound,” Steve scoffs under his breath, because the sound was heart-wrenchingly pained and impossibly loud. The sound.

 “Television distracted me,” Bucky talks over Steve, “and I shoved this” – he indicates his flesh hand – “instead of this” – he holds out his metal hand – “in the oven. What’s your excuse?”

 “You screamed!” Steve protests as Bucky begins to dab a cotton ball around Steve’s nose. “I’m in the shower, happily showering, and I hear you scream bloody murder – what did you expect?”

 “Not for you to fall out of the tub, for one,” Bucky replies drily, expertly wiping away the blood. “Not to break your nose. Not to bring the shower curtain down.”

 “You screamed,” Steve repeats stubbornly.

 There’s a buzz from the couch and Steve reaches for his phone.

 “Group chat” – he looks at the screen – “Clint asks if anyone’s up for some friendly sparring. The ‘friendly’ part is capitalized.”

 “Yeah, no one’s sparring today,” Bucky mutters.

 He pries the phone off Steve’s hand, wincing as the blisters hit the metal casing. He holds it at arm’s length and makes his best sad emoji face. Steve rolls his eyes at the camera.

 Bucky sends the photo to the group.

 Then, he gets an idea.

~

 Bucky slides forward, making room for Steve. Steve settles behind him, the tub water pleasantly hot on his skin. He nuzzles Bucky’s neck, hands circling around his waist. Bucky rubs his cheek against Steve’s as his fingers fly over his phone screen. Tongue sticking out between his teeth, he searches for the perfect angle.

 “This is it. Where’s your phone?”

 Steve cocks his head to the floor.

 “Smile.”

 Bucky sends the picture in the group chat. It is, unmistakably, Steve and Bucky, in the bathtub, together, snuggling for the camera, huge grins on their faces. Bucky thinks of adding a flower crown effect (Clint really does show them the best things), but eventually deems it too much.

 Steve texts three question marks.

 Bucky, huddled against Steve and having his head massaged with a thick coat of apple-scented shampoo, texts, “Shit, sorry. Was meant for you, obv.”

 Still, either way one looks at it, there must be something really wrong with the Avengers.

 Their replies are confounding.

 Tony texts first. “Guys. We’ve hot water now. You don’t have to share. Seriously.”

 Natasha screens their background: “Is that Herbal Essences I spot? Have you tried... Hydralicious?” She follows up with, “Too soon? ;)”

 Clint texts last with a, “Is this a hint we need to bathe more often? If yes, dick move.”

~

 Bucky flops on the bed, glancing grumpily at Steve’s back. He hasn’t drifted off yet, but he’s probably on his way. Bucky’s wet hair drips over his forearms and sweat shorts and he hastily wipes the ends with his t-shirt.

 He looks back at Steve, nose scrunched in contemplation. He decides to give it one more try.

 He leans over, makes his grumpiest grumpy face, and snaps a picture of him looking disgruntled at the sleeping Steve beside him. Then – and he knows what he’s about to do is crass and brash and maybe little bit on the side of too much – he kisses Steve’s neck as an advance apology and gently turns him on his back.

 Steve sighs.

 “Why,” he says, rubbing his face tiredly.

 “Sorry,” Bucky says, and means it.

 “What are we doing now?” Steve asks hoarsely. “Don’t drip on me, you’re cold.”

 Bucky tenderly presses his lips on Steve’s forehead, because he does feel bad. Not that this helps with the cold, since now his hair curtains around Steve’s face, but – sigh. Bucky just can’t do anything right today. Steve reaches out and pulls him closer. When Bucky catches himself pressing his teeth on Steve’s lips, he pulls back before it goes too far; first, the picture.

 God, is he petty or what.

 “I want you to remember that I love you,” Bucky stresses.

 Steve groans and smacks a hand on his forehead.

 Two pictures are ‘accidentally’ sent in the group chat that night. One, the grumpy Bucky and sleeping Steve; two, Bucky, face beaming, appreciatively peering into Steve’s sweatpants as Steve throws out a hand to catch him, playful and grinning. It doesn’t look sexual at all, but it sends the message loud and clear.

 Or so Bucky thinks when he immediately texts, “Shit sorry shit my hand slipped ignore IGNORE!”

 It sounds fake. Bucky doesn’t care.

 The fucking Avengers don’t fucking care either.

 Natasha promptly responds, “Take a nude and keep it for blackmail ;)”

 Tony is snarky, but misses the point: “Is the eagle up and awake?”

 Clint gives ‘missing the point’ a whole different meaning: “Slip him ice cubes in his down unders, see how he likes that!”

 Bruce is ... Bucky just gives up altogether: “These sheets look amazing! Tony, did you pick these?  No way you did. Was it Pepper? Who was it?”

 It was fucking Steve and they’re fucking old and who pays attention to the sheets anyway! Bucky fumes.

 At least Sam has the good grace to ignore them.

 ~

v.

 Bucky throws himself against the doorframe and, sticking out his head, he scouts the empty hallway. He stretches his body as far as it goes and perks his ears for any noises coming his way. There’s only silence, but he’s willing to wait.

 Steve watches him. He shakes his head, incredulous, and turns on the television.

 “You sure about this?” he asks, flipping through channels.

 Bucky’s look as he turns to Steve is clearly a question, so Steve clarifies, “If this works, if someone actually comes, it’s out-and-out outing. You sure?”

 “You’re not?” Bucky’s forehead creases as his eyes narrow in concern.

 “Buck, I told you, it’s fine by me,” Steve assures. “I told you from the very beginning.”

 Bucky nods, relieved. “It’s fine for me, too.” He shrugs, calm. “It’s fine, it’s not like at first. Now I live here; this is my life.”

 Steve’s heart swells with happiness – just a little, just enough to not pop out of his chest.

 “And I –” Bucky lets out a sharp breath, because he actually hasn’t said this until now and it’s scary admitting it – “it’s the best thing that’s happened to me besides you” –  he gestures towards Steve. “I mean, besides you existing and us together and –” and is Steve fucking tearing up?

 Bucky gasps softly, eyes growing wide. Sad tears he can handle; happy tears leave him too humbled to function.

 “Bucky...” Steve whispers and sits straighter, face open and full of affection, eyes –yes! – glistening –

 Bucky would rather not admit that the voices coming their way bring him relief, but they do and he springs to action. He scampers to Steve with a hurried ‘Shhhh!” and jumps onto his lap. He secures his feet under the couch’s back cushions and the very second that the door opens and Clint and Bruce walk in, Bucky straddles Steve, cups his face between his palms and proceeds to heavily – almost sloppily, he’s not proud to confess – make out with him.

 And that’s that. This leaves no room for argument. There’s panting, and some soft grinding even. Steve has surrendered to the pressure of Bucky’s tongue, and Bucky’s so into the kiss that his lips are actually starting to get numb. He’s almost forgotten why he planned this in the first place, when he hears Clint’s very concerned, very troubled voice.

 “Oh, Steve, fuck, you need CPR? What’s wrong?”

 Bucky pulls back and turns, slowly; if he looks as stunned as he feels, he should be making a pretty funny picture.

 “Are you alright?” Clint asks anxiously, walking forward. “Was it asthma?”

 Steve, disheveled and breathless, doesn’t make this any better. He’s panting so hard that Bucky can feel his hair ruffle with Steve’s each exhale.

 “Didn’t think you’d get asthma anymore – or – were you in an op? Were you sparring? Are you okay?” Clint insists tautly.

 “There’s a nebulizer downstairs,” Bruce says sympathetically. “D’you want us go get it?”

 ~

vi.

 Steve balances his sketchbook on his legs, meticulously shaping the New York skyline. He side-eyes Bucky, curled next to him on the couch, attention focused on a space documentary. Steve has half a heart to start chatting him up as retaliation for all the movies he didn’t get to finish these past few days, but Bucky looks so soft with his pleated blanket and his oversized sweater that’s threatening to swallow him whole, his fuzzy socks and the fluffy hair bun at the nape of his neck. He looks like the poster child for winter coziness and Steve can’t find it in him to disturb him. He turns back to his sketch, joining lines and shading angles.

 “And yet.”

 Steve looks up. The end titles of the documentary are rolling on the screen.

 Here they go.

 “You do realize it’s certain they’re taunting us, right?” Steve asks.

 “I think I’ve gotten there, yes,” Bucky says. “We should be more obvious.”

 “You’re not sending naked pictures,” Steve says firmly, gently running his finger over the drawing, softening the hard lines.

 Bucky stares at him like he’s insane. “Steve, no, what the hell?”

 Steve shrugs. “You can get a little aggressive when it comes to winning games.”

 “This isn’t about winning – it’s – it’s –” Bucky fumbles for words.

 “About winning,” Steve helps out.

 Bucky lets out a resigned sigh. He follows Steve’s hands over the page, swift and graceful, as he mulls things over.

 “We should get a dog,” he finally states.

 “Right!” Steve laughs. “’Cause that’ll show them!”

 There’s no response.

 He turns to look at Bucky. “You’re kidding, right?”

 Bucky folds his knees against his chest and looks at Steve, calm and contemplative. “Why shouldn’t we?”

 “You want a dog?” Steve asks, setting pencil and sketchbook aside. “You never said.”

 “I’ve – been thinking of it. We could do it,” Bucky says softly, voice small with hesitation. “We could find a little guy or gal in the pound, take care of it, give it a good life” – he licks his lips – “Just shelter it. You know? Give it a second chance.”

 Bucky doesn’t do sentimentality. Bucky used to do charm – not anymore, but he used to – and even then it was more tongue-in-cheek than anything else. Bucky doesn’t do sappiness, he doesn’t do all these things – so how is it that he can always tug at Steve’s heartstrings with a proverbial flick of his finger?

 “And,” Bucky goes on, oblivious, “I think we’re in a good place, both of us. Good enough to take care of a – creature – that needs it. And we live with so many people that when we’re both on a mission, there’ll always be someone to look after it. And” – he lifts his shoulders – “you know. It’ll be – ours. Our dog.” He clears his throat awkwardly. “You know?”

 Steve bites his lips, trying to suppress a smile. He reaches out, entwines his fingers with Bucky’s.

 “We’re not calling him Meatloaf,” he says solemnly.

~

 Steve rests his hands on his hips and turns his head every which way, at the barks and the meows and the scuffling.

 “Promise me you’re not looking for a dog resembling a meatloaf.”

 Bucky, crouched in front of a cage, lets out a snort. “How would a dog resemble a meatloaf? You’ve got to let this go,” he says, scratching a lethargic brown dog’s head. “It was one time.”

 “It was definitely not one time,” Steve stresses. “Every stray we ever saw” – he reaches out to pet a grey kitten – “every damn time, you named them with whatever food you had missed.”

 “It was one time.” Bucky gets up on his feet.

 Steve falls into step beside him. “The cat in Mrs Brandy’s fire escape: Banana” – he counts on his fingers – “The other cat, the one with the black spots – Choc Choc.”

 Bucky lets out a startled laugh.

 “The dog behind Little Timmy’s house –”

 “The starving one,” Bucky agrees, eyes lighting up at the memory.

 “Coffee Bean,” Steve says. “The dog that followed us home after that night in London, when we left the Howlies at it to go back –”

 “Chili Con Carne,” Bucky realizes with a smile.

 “The scruffy cat, in that abandoned village – I could go on,” Steve says after Bucky shakes his head. “And the one time. The one time you desperately craved meatloaf and you couldn’t find a damn stray to name after it.”

 “Yeah,” Bucky says softly, “yeah, you’re right.”

 “’Course I’m right, you griped about it for three days straight,” Steve says. “No Meatloaves.”

~

 In hindsight, the introductions could have been staged better.

 The Avengers are herded into Steve and Bucky’s apartment to meet their new neighbor. The neighbor in question has three legs, floppy ears and is in the process of destroying the living room.

 It has excitedly ripped apart Steve’s sketchbooks. It has eagerly gnawed on stray sneakers. It has successfully peed on various spots of the carpet, which now waits, rolled up and proverbially dismayed, for a clean-up.

 It doesn’t help that Steve and Bucky, eager to make the new member of the family welcome and comfortable, have bought an inane amount of dog toys. In their attempt to distract the puppy from the shoes, they tried to lure it with toys. Most of them now lay scattered on the floor, ignored and forgotten.

 “Your dog,” Tony says, stepping over a squeaky duck, “is in serious need of discipline.”

 “He’s our son and he’s perfect,” Bucky states, sternly crossing his arms and leaning against the wall, mirroring Steve’s posture.

 “He’s awesome!” Clint kneels and extends his fingers to the puppy for a handshake.

 Natasha inspects the torn sketch pages. “High places are your friends, Steve,” she says, salvaging what’s left of the sketchbooks.

 “Is he mixed breed?” Sam asks, bending down to scratch the puppy’s neck.

 “They said it’s border retriever, hence the golden fur and small size,” Steve explains.

 “What’s his name?”

 Bucky glances at Steve and murmurs, “Mutt.”

 “Mutt?” Tony exclaims, incredulous. “Mutt?! You named your mongrel dog mongrel dog?”

 “Oh, believe me, it was a close call,” Steve says, eyes shining with restrained desperation. “It was either that or Clafoutis. By the way,” he adds, “anyone know a good French bakery in the area?”

 “Is this his bed?” Natasha asks, prodding the sepia-colored bed with her shoe, nose turned up with distaste.

 “Yes,” Steve confirms.

 Bucky has half-forgotten how all this came to happen. Natasha’s question reminds him that there’s still a game to be won. It takes the backstage compared to the fact he and Steve have now adopted a puppy – but hey.

 “He’s not sleeping on our bed, that’s for sure.”

 ‘Cause we share a bed, he tries to impart. Get it?

 “No, that’s wise,” Natasha says, crossing her arms, “but I don’t like his bed, it’s too plain.”

 “That’s all we could find at short notice,” Steve says.

 “I’m getting him a new one,” she announces.

 Tony kneels behind Clint and Sam. He takes a rubber chicken and throws it to the puppy. The puppy follows the toy’s trajectory as it lands on Steve’s and Bucky’s feet. It deems the distance too far to bother and fixes its eyes on the coffee table. It wobbles its way there and starts to chew on the wood.

 “Your mutt –”

 “Our son,” Bucky corrects.

 “Your son,” Tony complies, “is a walking disaster. Congrats.”

 “He’ll learn,” Steve says. “He’s a puppy.”

 Tony follows the dog’s unsteady movements. “What happened to him?”

 “They found him like this,” Steve says. “They think maybe a car accident, or something attacked him. We figured, not –” he glances at Bucky and hates what comes out of his mouth next, but these were Bucky’s words, and he was right – “not many people would choose to adopt a crippled pup, and he was very enthusiastic to meet us, so we figured, there’s chemistry here.”

 Bucky nods his approval.

 Tony rubs his mouth skeptically. “I’m making him a prosthetic,” he informs.

 “He’s perfect,” Bucky says protectively.

 “That’s TBD, but still,” Tony says, “that’s rich coming from you, C-3PO.”

 He raises an eyebrow, voice going up an octave as he mimics Bucky – “‘Tony, help, my arm’s making a clanging noise, whatever will I do?! Tony, help, I think Villain Number 145 disabled my elbow! Tony, oh holy heavens, I think there’s rust there, is that rust? WELL, IS IT?’ Spoiler alert,” he says to the Avengers, “it wasn’t. I’ll make it like your own,” he tells Bucky, cautiously patting the puppy’s back once. The puppy turns around, inspects Tony’s hand and then licks it.

 “He’s too trusting” – Natasha lowers her eyebrows disapprovingly.

 “Um, excuse me!” Tony says indignantly.

 “I’m just saying, he’s too friendly, there’s bad people out there,” Natasha says.

 “It’s not like it’s gonna walk itself!” Tony retorts.

 “That’s right,” Clint says in a voice usually reserved for toddlers, his face close to the puppy’s. “Daddy Number One, Daddy Number Two, Auntie Number One and Uncles Number One to a Million will keep an eye out for you, won’t they, won’t they” – he squeezes the puppy’s face.

 “Dibs on Uncle Number One,” Sam chimes.

 “I could be the godfather,” Bruce suggests sheepishly. “I’m good at holiday presents.”

 “Still, he has to have some degree of independence,” Natasha gripes.

 “Independence – we’ve literally fallen all over him the moment we saw him, how much independence do you think he can have –”

 “Sam’s right, it’s just the lifestyle he’s come into,” Bruce agrees while Natasha argues, “He should be trusted not to eat glass or plastic or whatever on the street...”

 The argument escalates quickly, the Avengers talking over each other about safety measures, dog-hating street bullies, a potential patch of dog grass in the pool deck, all the while fondling and petting and squeezing a very excited, very loved Mutt.

 Steve and Bucky just look at each other and sigh.

~

 “That went well,” Steve says mildly as he gets under the covers.

 Mutt is successfully sleeping in his bed. In the bedroom, yes, but in his bed. That’s more than one can expect from a puppy.

 “Mm?” Bucky hums, eyes closed as he rolls to his side and drapes his arm over Steve’s chest.

 “If I could take a shot for every time you said our son –”

 Bucky’s eyes snap open. “Right,” he says, titling his head to look at Steve. “Apparently it wasn’t clear enough. Still” – his eyes grow wide, vulnerable – “we have a puppy.”

 Steve buries his nose in Bucky’s hair. “We have a puppy.”

 A few minutes later, as he’s slowly drifting off, he hears Bucky’s ominous murmur:

 “We need to top our game.”

 ~

vii.

 Steve has some ideas of his own.

 He uselessly fiddles with his bowtie in front of the mirror. Bucky, beside him, with his face almost pressed against the glass, is trying to tame his hair with a gallon of gel. Tonight’s mission inexplicably has the men dressed in tuxedoes and Natasha – rumor has it – dressed in a shimmering green dress. Everyone must look their best; everyone must own their part and play it well and pray to God they won’t have to physically fight in these inconvenient, patently not flexible clothes. Steve huffs as his bowtie turns yet again lopsided. His hands drop to his sides in resignation. Mutt is happily gnawing away on yet another shoe, comfortably sprawled in his little bed, and Steve half-wishes he could join him.

 At least Bucky looks dashing. In another life, he could be easily owning galas and parties and dancehalls. In this life, he’ll probably be drinking way too much to pass for a normal person that doesn’t appear drunk, will tease Steve for his uptightness (he hates these events, dammit), and will later coax the Avengers into getting some probably very unhealthy but certainly very delicious food.

 In that other life, Steve would probably be Bucky’s personal painter or photographer. His tuxedo-averseness would be excused, because he’d be a free-spirited artist with a beret and a paintbrush between his teeth, or an ever-present camera hanging from his neck.

 In this life, Steve is a coward lovesick shmuck with a proposition of sorts that makes his palms clammy and his heart beat out a nervous tune. 

 “I’ve thought of something they can’t ignore,” he says casually – and it’s too casual, unnaturally casual, but Bucky is too focused on his hair to notice.

 “What?” he asks, sticking the last hairs into place. “You said no nudes.”

 “We could – exchange promise rings,” Steve says awkwardly.

 Bucky snaps to attention. “What?” he blurts.

 Steve shrugs feebly, tucking his hands in his pockets. “That’ll get their attention. If we do it while they’re there.”

 It’ll also fulfill one of Steve’s greatest wishes, which he has yet to share with Bucky, because Bucky will most likely call him a sap. Bucky isn’t romantic, sure – but Steve is, and Steve would very much like to pour his heart and soul into a ring and give it to Bucky to carry with him at all times, and vice versa. But yes, he does realize this is sappy.

 Bucky hears ‘promise rings’ and his mind stutters. He doesn’t care about the Avengers and whether they know; Steve’s talking about promise rings, for God’s sake, and even if Bucky knows they’re already committed to each other for life, that’s some extra level of ‘togetherness’. That’s Bucky and Steve carrying a solid symbol of that commitment and trust and affection, on each other, at all times, to hold and caress and feel against their skin in times of loneliness or self-doubt. Holy shit, who the fuck gives a fuck about the Avengers, Bucky just cannot believe his fucking luck –

 “Fellas?” Natasha’s voice calls from the living room.

 “You left the door open?” Steve asks.

 “I told Jarvis to let ‘er in,” Bucky manages, swallowing hard.

 Natasha saunters into the bedroom and, boy, her dress is shimmering alright. Her glossy hair is styled into loose curls, her high heels are clacking on the floor with her every step – for all intents and purposes, she looks like she’s about to walk the Red Carpet. She inspects Steve and Bucky.

 “You did this yourself?” She squints at Bucky’s hair. “Nice. Last time you were washing wax out of your head for days.”

 Bucky refuses to acknowledge her comment, and also? Rings.  

 Natasha adjusts their bow ties. “Oh, please order martinis,” she coos.

 Steve blinks blankly. “What?”

 “They go with the tuxe– James Bond?” Natasha says. “No?”

 She pinches Steve’s cheek, squeezes Bucky’s hand and prompts them to follow her.

 “Goodnight, Mutt!” she calls as she exits the bedroom.

 “What d’you think?” Steve asks quietly before he follows Natasha. He rests his hand on the small of Bucky’s back and frowns. “That a gun?”

 “Knife. Gun is...” Bucky points at his ankle.

 Steve nods. “I feel safer already. So, the rings? Agreed?”

 “I – agreed. Agreed,” Bucky mutters, stunned.

~

 The Avengers are once again assembled, browsing on their tablets and idly snacking on cereal in their customary weekly attempt at eating healthy. Mutt is peacefully dozing on Natasha’s lap as she absently scratches his fur and watches America’s Next Top Model reruns.

 Steve and Bucky, in opposite sides of the room, exchange furtive glances.

 Steve clears his throat. Bucky licks his absurdly dry lips (It’s nerves. He’s nervous. Yes, it’s a joke. Yes, it’s a game. He’s still nervous).

 “Hey, uh, Buck?” Steve says.

 “Hm?” Bucky makes a show of conveying an ‘Oh wow, you talkin’ to me, what a shocker, so surprised, totally didn’t expect it’ message.

 “There’s – uh – I... Can you come out for a minute?”

 ‘Out’ is the pool deck, conveniently within the eye line of each and every Avenger. Fairy lights just happen to be on, pool lights give the water an ethereal silver glow – and yes, these conveniently happen because Steve has had a hand in it, but the full moon high up in the sky that’s making the moment ten times more romantic is honest-to-God convenient. Steve can’t actually control the moon.

 He draws in a long breath and takes Bucky’s hands into his own.

 His hands are trembling, Bucky notices. That’s some A-level commitment right there.

 “Bucky, I –” Steve’s voice is loud enough to carry inside – “You’re the most important person in my life.”

 He sniffles. Weird. It isn’t cold – Bucky doesn’t think so, at least.

 “So much so that – I could eat a fucking fern for you,” Steve announces, on par with their ridiculous game.

 Bucky scoffs. “I could eat a fucking cactus. Pricks and all.”

 “I could burn the Amazonian forest down if it meant I’d keep you safe.”

 “I’d burn the whole continent,” Bucky growls.

 Steve shakes his head. “No, you’re not getting it enough. I love you more than the moon and stars and all the constellations combined,” he enunciates.

 “I could eat a fucking sun to prove that I love you,” Bucky counters; it really isn’t a lie.

 “You could be hidden in a burrow at the other end of the world and I would still find my way there just to be with you,” Steve declares.

 He looks awfully sincere. Bucky half-forgets this is for the Avengers’ sake. It is for the Avengers’ sake, right?

 “Pal,” Bucky says, voice slightly quivering, “a comet can shatter the planet in three million fucking pieces so that we all have to live in separate little earths and I would traverse the fucking universe to be with you. Please. I win at this.”

 Steve looks at Bucky’s hands in his own. He strokes Bucky’s knuckles. “I...” He shakes his head. “I thought I’d lost you. Twice. And you’re still here, and I’m so grateful that I just feel – numb by the enormity of it.”

 Bucky’s eyes widen. He might be gaping; oh, wait – he is gaping. He snaps his mouth shut.

 Steve continues, face earnest and eyes glinting, “I know I never say any of this, it’s not how we do things, but I never told you and I’m not losing another chance, not again.”

 He swallows hard, his voice going wobbly as he says, “I could tell you in so many ways how you’re my person, I could show you in even more, but it still wouldn’t be enough. You still wouldn’t feel how – how deeply I mean all this. I know it’s not right, I know it’s irreverent to even think it, but at least all those terrible, inhumane things that brought us here – at least they brought us here together. And that’s not just a silver lining – that’s all the solar systems of every damn universe in the whole of creation.”

 Bucky thinks his heart might explode. Can hearts explode? His own will.

 This isn’t directed at the Avengers. This is too well-thought out and at the same time too raw, too intimate to be directed at anyone else but –

 “Bucky,” Steve breathes, “in a million lives, an infinite number of lives, an infinite number of times, I choose you. No one else. Not ever.”

 He squeezes Bucky’s fingers and – is Bucky’s vision getting blurry? For God’s sake, no – no, self, no! He blinks the blurriness away.

 “Were you... Did you plan that?” Bucky says in a rasp whisper. “Did you mean –”

 “I love you,” Steve says resolutely. “And I fucking mean it.”

 He fumbles in his pocket and brings out two plain bronze rings, hanging from thin chains. He holds them between his and Bucky’s fingers like twin rosaries.

 “If there’s one thing I know,” he continues, “if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s this. It’s you.”

 Bucky doesn’t quite trust himself to speak. He doesn’t trust himself to do anything – he’s pretty sure he’s unable to move, at this point; he’s pretty sure his muscles have turned into jelly, and feels like all he can do is gaze into Steve’s soft eyes. But that won’t do, Steve has to know. Bucky has to share.

 “Steve... Every damn day,” he says, his voice thick with emotion, “every damn day I thank whoever will listen – heavens, or God, if there is one, or the fucking void if nothing else exists. Every damn day I thank them all that I am lucky enough to have you, that I’m lucky enough to –” he lets out an incredulous chuckle. “And now you’re here, holding these!” – he indicates the rings – “and I –”

 He shakes his head and laughs weakly.

 “I can’t do this, Steve, I can’t tell you how...”

 He sighs.

 “See, every thing has its opposite thing and so when I try to tell you what you mean to me, I want to say, ‘Now you’re here,’ but then I think, what if you weren’t here and” – he shakes his head, face pained – “I can’t go there, Steve, I can’t breathe when I go there. I’m thinking that there’s no one else that – that lights up my life like the fucking sun the way you do, and then –” he tugs Steve’s hands and bumps them against his chest – “I can’t, because at the thought of the opposite, if we hadn’t found each other, if you didn’t – if I didn’t... I can’t lose you again. And so I promise you, I will do anything I can, in all my life, to never let anything, anyone –”

 He shakes his head, lips tight and eyes intense, because this still isn’t enough. Words aren’t enough and they never will be, and he keeps tripping over the damn things anyway –

 “I love you,” he stammers fiercely.

 Before he knows what’s happening, his face is captured between Steve’s hands and Steve is kissing him, his skin against Bucky’s smooth and warm and – wet? Is Steve crying? Oh God, he’s crying.

 Steve pulls back, sniffling, and smiles. Bucky just stares at him, dazed and flustered.

 “I don’t know how they do this.” Steve chuckles self-deprecatingly. “Um. Bucky” – he holds out the rings – “will you take this ring as a promise of – of– till the end of the line?”

 Oh. Back to the classics. Bucky laughs hoarsely.

 “Please,” he says thickly, “you know I’d harass the afterworld till I found you. There’s no end to the line.”

 Bucky is just being sincere, dammit, and Steve is tearing up again. He lightly bites at Steve’s knuckle, trying to distract him or make him laugh – preferably both. He spices it up with small roaring sounds for a better effect.

 Well, at least it works. Waterworks deterred, Steve untangles the chains and holds them up.

 “Chains. I figured wearing rings wouldn’t do, with the punching and all.”

 Bucky laughs his appreciation.

 “Wait – is this really happening?”

 Steve and Bucky turn at Tony’s voice. At some point – neither Steve nor Bucky noticed when – the Avengers have gathered to watch. Now they’re standing around, mouths agape, attending the ceremony unfolding right before their eyes.

 “Is this for real?” Tony asks. “We thought it was another stunt.”

 “I – no, it’s real,” Steve says sheepishly.

 “What do you mean another stunt?” Bucky frowns at Tony.

 “I’m – um – I’ve been meaning to do this for a while now,” Steve elaborates, pink creeping into his cheeks as his eyes dart towards Bucky’s, “and I just – I didn’t know how. I didn’t know how you’d take it. ”

 Bucky shakes his head fondly. “You goddamn idiot.”

 Steve grins abashedly and passes the ring chain over Bucky’s head. Bucky gently takes the other ring off Steve’s hands, secures it within his fist and gently thumps it against Steve’s heart, letting out a small contented sigh. He gives Steve’s lips a quick peck and lets the chain fall around Steve’s neck. Steve, misty-eyed and glowing, passes his fingers over the ring and chuckles.

 “Holy Jesus Christ,” Tony exclaims.

 Sam shakes his head, grinning. “This is amazing. I’m so happy for you, guys.”

 “Congratulations, this is excellent – the best thing to happen in a while,” Bruce beams, eyes teary because if Steve is a sap, Bruce is even worse.

 “I can’t believe this!” Clint whoops with excitement.

 “One could say,” Natasha croons, stroking Mutt, peacefully curled in her arms, “that it was about damn time. If you’re into rings and such.”

 “About d –”

 Natasha’s words register. Bucky turns sharply at Tony.

 “What did you mean another stunt?”

~ ~ ~

 Rewind:

 Avengers Tower – Tony Stark’s Lab

 New Year’s Day – Late at Night

 “You can’t watch Star Wars a dozen times and Star Trek not even once. You’ll like it. You’ll both like it, I promise. Come on, do it. I trust you will.”

 Natasha cuts off the recording and arches her eyebrows at her teammates.

 “You recorded this? You recorded the call?” Tony asks, astonished.

 “I did,” Natasha says, unruffled. “I figured Steve would pull something like this. Always trying to be stealthy, always hilariously failing.” She shrugs.

 Tony stares at her in wonder. “You’re so petty. I love it.”

 “Wait – what are you saying?” Bruce asks, putting aside a bag of pistachios. “Are they together?”

 “That’s debatable,” Clint replies.

 “Oh please!” Tony cries indignantly as Natasha says, “Pretty sure they came out to me twenty minutes ago. Let’s try something else.”

 She turns to her phone and starts pressing buttons.

 “Sounds like they were testing the waters,” Bruce observes.

 “Yeah, after the park groping – Hey, lover, let’s test out how thick-skulled our friends are!” Tony brittles.

 “Sam?” Natasha says in her phone. “Hi. Is this a good time? Good. Hey listen, we have a question.”

 She swipes over the screen and Sam’s smiling face projects into thin air.

 “Happy New Year everyone!”

 There’s a chorus of less than enthusiastic, “Oh right,” “That,” and “Happy New Year.” That’s old news at this point.

 Natasha resumes, “So. We have a question.”

 “American Beauty and American Psycho,” Tony cuts to the chase. “Couple, yes or no?”

 Sam’s face turns reproachful.

 “Are they together or not?!” Tony persists.

 “Listen,” Sam says slowly, “even if they were –”

 “Oooh!” Bruce exclaims. “Oooh, that’s evasive, that’s diplomacy – you don’t want to lie so you avoid the answer. They are together!”

 Sam’s mouth twists in disbelief. “Seriously, Banner? You too?”

 “Oh please, he’s secretly the worst” – Tony waves his hand dismissively. “Also, I fucking knew it! I called it!”

 “We all knew, though, more or less,” Natasha points out, sitting back. “Or suspected. Or were sure they’d eventually end up together. We just weren’t sure they knew.”

 “Right, we weren’t sure if they knew. How long have they known? How long has this been going on, exactly?” Tony questions.

 Sam does try to protect Steve and Bucky, he really does. He’s their only trustee after all, and – “Listen –”

 “I say they go back to their war buddies days,” Clint says.

 “A romance that spans the ages?” Bruce says softly. “That’s so... nice.”

 “It would explain so many things,” Natasha remarks, swiveling in her chair.

 “But why are they keeping it a secret,” Tony muses.

 “Maybe because you’re all a bunch of nosy, meddling buttheads?” Sam suggests.

 “Is it even a secret though?” Bruce reasons. “They did almost kiss earlier. We all saw.”

 “They slipped,” Clint points out. “I was right next to them, I saw. It was an accident.”

 “How come you didn’t say anything?” Sam inquires. “Doesn’t sound like your usual selves. Tony? I’m a little disappointed.”

 Tony makes a huffing noise as Natasha says, “We’ve been debating it for so long that we actually needed to talk it over before getting to the snark and saltiness. We’re so codependent on this, it’s really sad.”

 Sam sighs audibly. He still attempts to save the situation. He’s a good bro like that.

 “Look,” he says patiently – and dammit, he’s had that conversation before with Steve himself and his coffeehouse-Bucky problem, hasn’t he?

 Jesus, the Avengers are all just – infants. Earth’s mightiest heroes his ass. The world just has to ask Sam, and he’ll give them all the scoop, see if he won’t.

 “Look. Even if you’re right, ambushing them with it will just –” he shrugs. “What if they’re not ready?”

 “Oh, we’ll let them get ready, we’ll let them get there,” Natasha purrs, her smirk weirdly unsettling. “We’ll let them get there real hard,” she says slowly, and if she were a villain, she’d be petting her furry chubby cat right about now. “We’ll be so unaware of what’s happening it’ll bring them to tears.”

 Tony narrows his eyes. “Are you suggesting –”

 “Natasha,” Bruce says, his expression equals parts of awe and fear, “I didn’t expect this from you.”

 “I respect their desire for privacy,” Natasha says, “but I love nothing more than out-sneaking the sneaky. So, if they want to come clean, they’ll have to really come clean. Not by accidents and sketchy ambiguous statements. ‘Bucky and I are together,’ as if that means anything out of context. Full-on clean!” she says firmly.

 “Okay” – Tony nods. “It’s on. On?” he asks Bruce, then turns to Clint, “On?”

 “For sure,” Clint agrees.

 Sam lets out a tired sigh.

 “Don’t sigh us, don’t you dare breathe a word, you little backstabber!” Tony snaps.

 “I –”

 “Swear it on your suit’s life!”

 Sam sighs.

 “I swear.”