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Steve’s in the kitchen, pouring steaming hot coffee into his mug, when he hears it.
There are hesitant steps to his left, ones that approach and retreat, ebbing and flowing back and forth in the hallway leading up to the kitchen. Steve listens closer – too light to be Bucky or Sam, too heavy to be Natasha. He glances at the digital clock on the microwave. 2:30 am.
Steve leans his back against the kitchen counter, calmly sipping his coffee. The steps approach and stop again, and Steve counts to eleven before he clears his throat and says, “There’s some coffee left, if you want.”
He’s surprised but not taken aback when Peter Parker rounds the corner, looking sheepish. His hands are pushed deep into his pockets, and he’s holding himself awkwardly, like he’s not quite sure how to be. Steve figures that’s his default, and reaches into the sink for a clean mug to hand over to him.
Peter pours himself coffee. He turns towards Steve, looking hesitant.
“Milk’s in the left fridge,” Steve offers.
Peter nods. “Right, yeah, I– I know that.”
When he makes no move to getting the milk, or asking for sugar, Steve nods as well. “I was thinking of watching a movie or something – got any suggestions?”
The kid’s eyes light up for a second, and it’s progress enough that Steve lets his shoulders relax a little. Probably not life or death, he assesses – though still serious enough to warrant a nightly visit. Serious enough to make his pace in the hallway. Serious enough that Peter’s not stopped tensing his muscles, or fidgeting.
They end up in the living room, Steve sitting on the couch with his legs crossed and Peter to his left, knees drawn up to his chin and hands circled around his legs. Steve doesn’t mention the defensive position, nor the rest of the signals of restlessness and stress he’s projecting. He notes them and quietly files them away, determined not to scare Peter away.
Steve hands the remote to him, deliberately looking at the TV screen rather than him. “No war flicks, please.”
A startled laugh escapes from Peter. “Don’t worry, not really my scene, either.” He pauses, and from the corner of his eye, Steve can see him throw the remote up in flips. “So, how much of pop culture did you miss? Like, if you were in the ice for, like, a hundred years–”
“Seventy,” Steve mumbles.
“–does that mean you haven’t seen Aliens? Back to the Future?” He turns to look at Steve, eyes bulging a little. “Star Wars?”
“I’ve seen Star Wars, kid. Sam took it upon himself to sit me down and watch a gazillion classics with him.”
“Oh.” Peter looks away. “That’s good.”
Steve hesitates, staring into the depths of his coffee. He’s not sure why Peter’s here, but he feels that it’s important to keep him here. “We can watch Star Wars, if you want.”
Peter shakes his head. “Nah, that’s fine. What about, uh – have you, uh, have you seen Monty Python?”
Steve hasn’t. They put it on, and Steve relaxes further against the cushions of the couch. It’s dark outside, and the rest of the quarters feel quiet, for once. Steve finishes his coffee and sets his empty cup on the table, next to Peter’s, still full and gone cold, untouched.
They make it fifteen minutes in silence until Peter speaks up.
“Can I ask you something?”
Steve side-eyes him, before returning his focus to the screen. “Sure, kid. Shoot.”
“How was… I mean, did you – did – uh. How did you meet Mr. Bucky?”
Steve blinks in surprise. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that. It takes him a while to sort his thoughts, while still keeping one eye on the movie and one on Peter, who's fidgeting nervously.
“This boy from our school was trying to rile me up,” he eventually starts. “I don’t really remember why. I guess it doesn’t matter. He was going for a punch, and I was going for a block and kick, when Bucky stepped up, nailed him square in the jaw, and told him to pick on someone his own fucking size.”
Peter looks up at the curse word, eyes wide, but he doesn’t say anything, so Steve continues.
“I was pissed. Pride, you know. Figured I could’ve handled myself. But Bucky told me that no matter how much of a punk I was, the odds weren’t in the favor of a chronically ill garden stick.” Steve smiles at the memory, tainted by years but still polished in his mind. “And that was it, really. Been stuck with him ever since, minus decades of ice and… well, you know.”
“The Winter Soldier stuff,” Peter fills in. Steve doesn’t flinch, but he’s fairly sure Peter can tell he hit a sore spot, because he continues, “I mean, I read about it on Twitter and stuff, but that was just… rumors and that kind of thing.”
“Yeah,” Steve says. “He’s got some weight on his shoulders. We all do. We’re – he’s working through it. One day at a time, and all that.” On the screen, someone catapults a cow. Steve frowns, lost to the plot. “What rumors?”
“Hmm?”
“You said there were rumors, on the internet. What kind of rumors?”
Peter wrings his hands, and tries to make himself smaller. “Oh, just – just some silly stuff, like, he killed JFK, or he’s the Zodiac Killer, or he’s in love with you, I don’t know, just – stuff.”
Steve blinks, slowly turning to look at Peter. “That’s what this is about? Me and Bucky?”
Peter does an incredibly accurate impression of a deer in the headlights. He shuffles an inch or two away from Steve, who makes note of it with a frown and a sudden heaviness in his chest. “No,” he says, but Steve knows a terrible liar when he sees one. “No, I was just – curious. I mean. You asked. I just told you, ‘cause you asked.”
“Hey, kid,” Steve says, and reaches out with his hand – he aborts the gesture halfway through, seeing Peter’s eyes flicker from his hand to his face and back to his hand. “Peter. It’s alright.”
Peter’s eyes settle on Steve’s, a little scared and a little apprehensive and a little hopeful. “Is it?”
Steve nods. “Yeah. I don’t know what they’ve said, but… I’m guessing most of it is just hearsay.”
Peter’s expression falls, and he looks away. “Right." He sounds defeated.
Steve frowns at the sudden change. The movie’s become a blur in the background – he’s barely aware of it. Steve thinks back on his words, rolls them over in his mind, and wants to smack himself.
“I meant–” He clears his throat. “I mean, Buck’s not… the Zodiac Killer. And he didn’t kill JFK.” Steve pauses. “At least, I don’t think he did.”
Peter bites his lower lip. “And the other thing?”
“And the other thing,” Steve echoes. He sighs. “The other thing’s maybe not that far off.”
He’s stalling, averting – Peter catches on, and asks, “Maybe?”
“It’s… complicated.”
“How is it complicated?”
Steve swallows air. He’s not anxious, but there’s an odd feeling in his stomach, a certain kind of nervous tingling. “Well. When the man you’re in love with dies, only to come back seventy years later as a brainwashed assassin, it does put a wrench in things.”
Peter’s quiet for a long time. Steve doesn’t say anything, letting him sort his thoughts on his own.
“Does he know how you feel?” Peter asks after a while.
Steve huffs. “Yeah. He does.”
“And does he...”
“Yeah.”
Peter nods. He reaches for his cold coffee and takes a larger gulp than necessary, making a face at the taste. He takes another one, and another, and then slams the cup on the table, somehow still managing to be gentle, and blurts out, “I think I’m bisexual.”
Steve turns to look at him, smiling. The nerves have dissolved away, replaced by a warm feeling of something like pride and happiness. It’s still a little foreign, and Steve clings to it while he can. “Welcome to the club, kid.”
Peter smiles back at him. Then he glances at the TV screen. “Oh, we missed the best part. I’ll rewind.”
Steve doesn’t say anything when Peter shuffles a little closer to him. They settle back to watching the movie, quiet once more, except for when Peter says, barely audible, “Thank you, Mr. Rogers.”
Steve ruffles his hair. “No problem, kiddo. No problem at all.”