Chapter Text
Nothing you could say to tear me away from my guy...
Time: Afternoon
Location: The Cabin
Temperature: 65 degrees Fahrenheit
2 Months Since Steve Rogers Was Found
___________
Steve let his eyes flutter closed, falling in and out of sleep as he enjoyed the feeling of soft cotton on his bare skin, and the sunlight grazing his cheek. They were lying on their backs, watching the clouds float by. Steve had whipped up some sandwiches, and Bucky had brought out the radio and a picnic blanket. Mary Wells’ soft voice was carried up by the wind through the tinny speakers, mixing with the birds and crickets chirping and the tall grass rustling in the breeze. To Steve, it was perfect, like something out of a fairytale.
He was about to drift off again when he felt something cold nudge against his arm.
“Wanna dance with me, doll?”
He turned on his side; Bucky was staring back at him, grinning from ear to ear. He leaned forward until their noses pressed together. “C’mon, Stevie,” he whispered, “Dance with me.”
Steve groaned. He didn’t wanna move, not one inch. They could’ve stayed like that forever for all he cared; laying side by side in a meadow, their bodies aligned from head to toe. Bucky wiggled a little closer, tucking his face behind Steve’s ear. “C’mon, babydoll, I know you wanna.”
Well now Buck was just teasing him.
Steve huffed out a quiet laugh, turning to look back up at the sky. The bright blue of early summer reminded him of Bucky’s eyes, reflecting the warm light of the fire. He decided not to answer him in words—a smile would suffice, big enough to show off his dimples to any planes flying overhead.
“Yes! Alright, time to get up—” Bucky pumped his fist in the air and rolled up onto his feet, offering a hand down to Steve. He took it without question, and soon they were both standing in the grass with their shoes off, their toes wiggling between the dandelions and the dirt. Bucky anchored his left hand at the small of Steve’s back, pushing them as close together as he could before they’d start stepping on each other’s feet. Steve leaned into the touch with ease.
Nothing you could do cuz’ I’m stuck like glue to my guy…
“I recognize this song.”
“Is that so?” Bucky asked—with that same teasing lilt to his voice he’d had for ninety-odd years now.
“Yeah.” Steve smiled softly against his cheek. “Sam showed it to me, back when I was in the hospital.” Steve decided not to mention Sam’s teasing insistence that the song was about the two of them.
“You hear Miss Wells singing her heart out! How could you not relate? I know I sure can—”
“What’s that ‘posed to mean, Wilson?”
“I’d say that if I jump out of a building for somebody, then we better be stuck like glue, or else.”
He had to bite back a laugh just thinking about it.
They stayed like that for a while, just swaying back and forth to the music. Steve was still in awe at how gentle Bucky was with him, his metal fingers curling slightly against Steve’s back, then flattening out and rubbing tiny circles over his t-shirt. His flesh hand flexed and tightened too, just enough to let Steve know he was still there.
I'm stickin' to my guy like a stamp to a letter
Like birds of a feather, we stick together…
Steve settled his chin on Bucky’s shoulder. His eyes traced the shape of the blooming hills, leading up to the trees and eventually the mountaintop. As they slowly turned, he caught sight of the cabin, and it instantly brought a smile to his face. Since the snow had melted, they’d gradually begun to fix it up together. Bucky built the flower boxes sitting below the windows, and Steve had filled them with bright yellow daffodils and gently drooping lilies. They’d put up curtains in the windows, and fixed a carved wooden sign to the front door that simply read: Steve and Bucky’s.
A clothesline was strung up between the side of the house and one of the trees at the edge of the forest—Bucky had insisted on being the one to put up the hooks, seeing as Steve had been doing all the washing for the both of them. Something as simple as waking up to their laundry like that, all mixed together, made Steve’s heart sing. It reminded him of the old rusty fire escape, and Bucky playfully scolding him for getting paint on his only good shirts.
I'm telling you from the start
I can't be torn apart from my guy...
“Stevie…” Bucky’s voice was low and hazy. Steve felt a set of lips turn against his cheek, trailing kisses from Steve’s temple down to his chin. “I love you so much, doll. Y’know that, right?”
Steve’s face got so hot he thought he might boil over. He sank into the barrage of gentle kisses, smiling ‘till his lips drew taught. “Yes, Buck. I know.” His left hand shifted to the back of Bucky’s neck and he gave him another affectionate squeeze. “You know I love you too, right?”
He felt Bucky pause to think—Steve could sense it in the way his shoulders shifted to one side, and how he turned to hide his face in Steve’s hair.
“Buck—”
“Yeah yeah, Stevie, I know.”
Steve rolled his eyes, pulling Bucky’s head back by the base of his neck. “Then prove it,” he whispered, a fresh smirk on his face. He leaned in, resting his forehead against Bucky’s and pressing their noses back together. He listened to Bucky breathing him in, felt their heartbeats touching—their ribs colliding like teeth. Slowly, Bucky tilted his head to the side. When their lips met, the wind seemed to slow, and Steve swore that the flowers at their feet were swaying in time with the music. Bucky’s tongue gently pressed up against Steve’s lips, and he opened himself to him completely. He tasted like peanut butter and jelly, and it made Steve wanna tackle them both into the grass and never get back up.
There's not a man today
Who could take me away from my guy
___________
The inside of the cabin was changing too. For one thing, there were more books on the shelves—as soon as he’d learned that Bucky liked to read, Tony had made sure they were outfitted with a library full of material. They’d managed to scrounge up more furniture too. A tattered old sofa now sat in front of the fireplace alongside Bucky’s chair. Once again, Tony had offered to have something slightly newer delivered but Steve had politely declined. He liked the shabby thing, with its cushions already worn in. Perfect for lazy afternoons, full of cuddling and not much else.
There were more pictures now too; plenty of sketches and paintings from Steve, but also photographs of friends. Steve’s favorite was posted up on the fridge with a vintage Brooklyn Giants magnet that Sam said he’d gotten from an uncle or a cousin—he hadn’t been particularly specific. It showed the four of them, alongside Nat and Wanda, all crowded around the dining table together for dinner. The room was lit by the soft light of the fire, and far off in the corner, just over Sam’s shoulder, you could see the full moon hanging in the window.
As the sun set over the meadow, turning the vibrant green grass to mellow blues and awaking the fireflies for their nightly dance, Steve and Bucky would begin their bedtime ritual. It started with a shower. Bucky always went first. Sometimes, he’d drag Steve along with him, but other nights, he took the time for himself—and that was just fine. In fact, Steve thought it was pretty damn great. Just like their I love you’s, they were working on it.
While Bucky took his turn in the bathroom, Steve would tidy up the living area, tossing dirty socks in the laundry bin and sweeping up stray crumbs. As a joke housewarming gift, Nat had bought him his own apron, covered in bright yellow sunflowers and fat cartoon bumble bees. He’d laughed when he unwrapped it, but it soon had its own hook on the wall next to the fridge. He found himself reaching for it often, especially during their nightly ritual, like his own silly little security blanket.
After they’d both cleaned themselves up, they’d silently head to the bedroom, exchanging shy but loving glances as they went. Bucky usually brought a book along with him, tucked under his metal arm. Sometimes, if Steve was lucky, he’d fall asleep to the sound of Bucky’s voice reading aloud. But usually it ended up on the bedside table, unopened. Tonight was no different. Steve sat on the edge of the bed, carefully removing his own socks and shirt, watching himself move in the mirror. It was different now too—the edges of the glass painted with dainty purple crocuses. They brought out the pink in Steve’s cheeks, and the blue in his eyes, and made it a little easier to glance at his reflection.
"Stevie?"
Bucky always climbed into bed first, no matter which sides they ended up sleeping on. He’d turn on his side, silently opening his arms up to him. Then Steve would follow, tucking himself in close to Bucky’s chest, falling asleep to the steady beat of his heart.
"Yeah, Buck?"
They’d wake up like that too, wrapped up tight in each other’s warmth.
"I love you."
And every morning, Steve pinched himself.
"I love you too, pal."
He swore he must be dreaming, and hoped that he’d never wake up.