Chapter 1: Meat Cute
Chapter Text
Chapter 1 – Meat Cute
Every day.
Every goddamned day.
Steve shot a two-middle-fingered salute at the driver of the tricked out Chevy Camaro that nearly clipped him when he crossed Atlantic Avenue. Who turned right on a red in the middle of fucking Brooklyn on a busy Wednesday morning? This asshole, that was who, the same guy who thought taillights in the shape of skull-and-crossbones and a Connecticut vanity plate that read “THEMAN” were the height of cool.
“Go back to your greige McMansion in New Canaan and stay there, jackass!” To Steve’s amusement, if not satisfaction, the Camaro stalled out behind a city bus half a block down. He would have chased after whatever dirtbag finance bro was behind the wheel to give him a piece of his mind—and had, in the past—but he’d tripped over the edge of the sidewalk leaping to safety and twisted his ankle.
A glare as hot as a thousand suns would have to suffice. Steve huddled in the entrance of a bodega so that he didn’t get trampled by the rush hour crowds as he stretched the kink out of his ankle and the anger out of his system. He’d probably have to skip his run for the rest of the week, maybe even for two, given how tender it still felt as he hobbled toward Caffeine Fiend—not his local café but his place of employment. The idea of standing on his feet all day had held little appeal before the latest incident. Now, it sounded excruciating, especially against a backdrop of revving engines and squealing tires, and the occasional thunderous exhaust pop, let alone the fumes that wafted through the windows.
Ever since the auto-body shop opened across the street, muscle cars roared up and down Atlantic as if it were the freaking Daytona International Speedway. His morning commute became a game of Grand Theft Auto, with Steve as the pedestrian minding his own business who became an obstacle in a wild car chase. Over the past three months of crossing the damn street—not even jaywalking!—he’d sprained his wrist, gotten road burn on his left leg, bruised his ass the color of spring violets, and nursed a black eye after mouthing off to a coked-out trust-fund baby in a vintage Road Runner who almost ran him over. At this point, Steve considered asking the Maximoffs for hazard pay.
Except that he was on thin ice there as well. The Maximoff Center for Universal Wellness, aka the building Steve paused in front of to find his center or balance his chi or whatever the fuck would help him bank his temper for the next twelve hours, was the brainchild of Wanda and Pietro Maximoff, Sokovian émigrés who defected after Pietro won all three sprinting events at the 2004 Summer Olympics in Athens and became a personal trainer to the Bravoverse of reality stars. His twin sister Wanda put the ‘woo-woo’ in the wellness aspect of the center, offering astrology readings, nutritional cleanses, and the latest in bullshit treatments to their distinguished clientele: hipster celebrities, one-hit wonders, Real Housewives, strollerazi moms and their small army of nannies, and other uber-wealthy residents of Brooklyn’s artiest neighborhoods.
Most MCU-Dubs patrons kept their caffeine addictions on the DL, savoring the deluxe drip of their Aarke Coffee Systems in the privacy of their million-dollar townhouses, or followed a personalized regiment of protein shakes designed by Pietro himself. But enough of their clients subsisted on redeyes, nicotine patches, and Ozempic for Wanda and Pietro to build a rooftop ‘solarium lounge’ that served hot beverages and cheat-day vegan baked goods. Steve thought they’d named it Caffeine Fiend as a sort of warning of what the excesses of caffeine addiction could do to the body.
Joke was on them, because it became way more popular than the green juice bar or the salad counter, so much that they had to open it to outside business. Which Steve was eternally grateful for, because it meant he could sneak up the back staircase, avoiding not only Wanda and Pietro, but all his other obnoxiously perfect and unbearably smug colleagues—in MCU-Dubs parlance, the guru squad.
Steve would rather stick his hand in a smoothie blender than spend one more second of his precious life listening to them condescend to him about his size, his height, his scars, his BMI, his hearing aid, the extra brown sugar he sprinkled on his morning oatmeal, the fact that he struggled to find clothes that fit at thrift stores, that time he dyed his hair the wrong shade of green and had to shave his head, that he never took advantage of his employee discount on spa treatments, the against-policy “political” T-shirts he wore, et cetera. The list was bottomless, really, as were their reservoirs of pretentiousness.
None of this particularly bothered Steve outside of being boring and unoriginal. He’d learned to weather this kind of bullying-disguised-as-concern in the trial-by-fire that was the Brooklyn public school system. Except word of Steve’s numerous injuries struck the gossip circuit like lightning to a drought-ridden forest. Rumors spread like wildfire, most related to Steve’s mysterious personal life. (There was no mystery. He was a scrawny power bottom in a borough where service tops hoarded pillow princesses like dragon’s gold, and he couldn’t get a second date to save his life.) Said rumors wound their way to Wanda and Pietro, who had questioned him about his “home situation” and begun to speculate on whether he was “the right fit” for the “emotional dreamscape atmosphere” they aimed to create. And Steve did understand their concern, because no one wanted to be served coffee by someone who looked like they’d been mowed down by a monster truck.
The thing of it was, Steve needed this job. Liked it, really—the gurus sucked rotten eggs, but the Fiend staff were solid. MCU-Dubs paid a scandalous amount per hour for him to pour coffee and dish up flourless brownies and draw artistic renderings of chai spices on the menu board. They offered an incredible benefits package, much-needed in the Rogers household with all of Steve’s ongoing afflictions and his ma’s recent, successful cancer battle. Wanda and Pietro may be purveyors of ethically dubious advice, but they took their employees’ health seriously and supported them in every way they could.
Immigrants, they got the job done.
Steve had never been afraid to lodge a complaint a day in his life, and would have gladly expounded on the delinquency of the auto-body shop’s patrons to Wanda and Pietro, except the owner of said body shop was Pietro’s oldest, dearest client, and every single one of the hirsute, Magic Mike-worthy demigods who bent all that metal to their will, aka worked there, also trained at MCU-Dubs. Every crack of dawn, they assembled in the state-of-the-art gym to pump iron with Pietro, then joined Wanda for a breakfast shake and acai bowl. At noon sharp, the former drill sergeant who ran the members-only gourmet cafeteria wheeled over a tray of bento boxes that conformed perfectly to each shop-bro’s personal dietary plan. (To be fair, Steve also received a bento box. He just supplemented that with bodega snacks and day-old baked goods during his breaks.)
Though Steve had both a temper and a kamikaze streak a mile wide, even he wasn’t stupid enough to rely on Wanda and Pietro to solve the problem. Which led to a bigger problem: what the fuck was he going to do? With his luck, one of these Max Verstappen-lite speed freaks would kill him one day.
He mused on this as he wrapped up his ankle with napkins under a tight layer of masking tape, grateful he’d worn black slacks—which never fit him quite right, given his unusual proportions—rather than jeans. He’d come up with the usual zero solutions by the time Darcy bounced into the locker room, fresh as a daisy in a tank top and leggings despite just finishing a hot yoga class. Unlike Steve, Darcy took full advantage of employee discounts when it came to Eastern-influenced exercise.
“Aww, fuck, again!” Darcy’s already pouty lips made a moue upon seeing him. “Who was it this time?”
“Lime-green Camaro,” Steve grumbled, “skull and crossbones taillights.”
“‘80s headband guy?” She growled under her breath. “I knew he was trouble. Bet he stiffed them on the tip, too.”
Steve scoffed. “Do you tip the guys who detail your car for tens of thousands of dollars?”
“You do if you’ve got any decency.” Darcy sifted through her mental catalogue of the body shop’s clientele. “That one soft-spoken dude with the Edgar cut?”
“Just because you can’t hear him when you’re craning over the edge of the terrace doesn’t make him soft-spoken,” Steve pointed out, because really. They were three stories up.
From the minute it opened, the body shop became the MCU-Dubs staff’s favorite spectator sport. A constant subject of gossipy speculation and dubious conspiracy theories for the guru squad and the Fiend baristas alike, it was a wonder any actual work got done in the center, since employees and even some members spent 90% of their time thirsting after the shop bros. All except for Steve. (Wanda and Pietro only abstained because they could get any one of them, any day, anytime.)
It wasn’t that Steve was immune to the gun show on permanent display across the street. Like anyone who worked in an environment where people sought to perfect themselves, Steve experienced awkward moments of unexpected arousal. But to him, the shop bros were like a beautiful but horny painting hanging on a colleague’s wall, like Dali’s Tuna Fishing or De Lempicka’s Women Bathing—something to glance at quickly but contemplate later, during your private alone time.
He didn’t need daily visual proof that they were over there being cock-thickeningly gorgeous, flexing their voluptuous muscles and showing off their ass-sets in the tightest jeans known to man. That most of them sported the long, wavy hair he favored, some in Viking-style braids. That many of them were comfortable enough in their sexuality to wear the occasional leather skirt, or harness-style tank top, or guyliner. That one glimpse of a farmer’s tanned thigh would be enough to send him into a sex toy and wet dream-fueled frenzy, because of course, of course, of course the brawny, beefy, rugged gentle giant type was exactly what turned Steve’s crank. The kind of guy who made Steve’s head spin but who never, ever swiped right on him.
That was the way of madness.
“But he was!” Darcy exclaimed. “Remember a couple weeks ago when Guru Shang hid one of the spinning class mics in their office? Were you there for that?”
“Unfortunately,” Steve sighed.
“It was a dark day when the battery ran out.” Darcy flopped down beside him, patted her thigh. Steve stretched out his leg so she could inspect his handiwork. “A dark, dark day.”
“Not for personal privacy.”
She snorted. “Surprised you didn’t narc us out, Captain Justice.”
“That would have meant acknowledging that I knew about it,” Steve reminded her, “and cared.”
“Which you don’t.” Darcy smirked over at him, sly. “At all.” They exchanged a challenging glare. “Their broad shoulders. Their juicy thighs. The low purr of their voices. How the sweat drenches their T-shirts—”
“Do you want me to pop a boner this close to the start of our shift.”
“Nope.”
“Then let’s talk strategy.” Steve winced when she attempted to turn his ankle. “How purple do you think Pietro would turn if I hired a personal injury lawyer?”
“See, now I’m just thinking about boners again.”
“Shut up.” Steve heeled at her far thigh, regretted it as pain shot up his calf.
“You should have wrapped some ice in there.” Darcy concluded her inspection with a worried frown. “Are you gonna smack me if I say the words ‘urgent care’? It looks really swollen.”
Sayonara, morning run. For the foreseeable. Ugh.
“I’ll go after work if it’s still bad,” he promised. Without his fingers crossed behind his back—he was too busy managing the pain. The ice would have been smart, damn it. “You think if I soak one of the shammies and chill it in the freezer it’ll reduce the amount of drip? I don’t want anyone else to slip and fall.” MCU-Dubs had a strict no plastic rule, so Steve’s options for a cold compress were limited.
Darcy shook her head. “The lengths you go for counter duty.”
“Trust me, I’d rather bus a thousand tables than have to explain this one to my ma,” Steve retorted. “Especially if we have to spend the night at urgent care. She’s there enough as it is.”
“Yeah, yeah, you come from a family of literal saints.” She fished a rubber swim cap out of her bag, presented it to him with flourish. “Lucky for you, I thought it was a pool day. Think you can manage to stay off it till the ice machine does its thing?”
“Guess that means I’m on cookie-baking duty too.” Steve shined his best shit-eating grin her way. “Everything’s coming up me all of a sudden.” He took the cap, cradling it to his chest like a newborn babe. “Seriously, you’re a lifesaver, Darce.”
She shrugged with one shoulder. “Gives me a better chance to scope out the new guy.”
“New guy?”
“At the body-ody-ody shop.” Off Steve’s eyeroll, she added, “Tall, dark, built like a brick shithouse, jaw that could chop wood, ten o’clock shadow and, get this, a metal arm.”
Steve scowled. “Like a prosthetic?”
“More like forged by medieval cosplayers,” she insisted, “or if Tony Stark— Oh, wait, that makes sense.”
“I’m glad something about this does.”
“But why—”
“Leer at the guy all you want,” Steve advised, “but please don’t fetishize his prosthetic arm.”
The sly smirk returned with a vengeance. “Wait till you see it, judgy. The thing screams auto-erotic asphyxiation.”
Steve let out a long, tortured sigh, scrubbed his face with his hands. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“You’ll have to.” Darcy stuck her tongue out at him before delicately shifting his injured leg back onto the bench. “Being stuck on counter duty and all.”
*
Seven hours, five rushes, and three MacGyvered bandages later, Caffeine Fiend finally hit its late-afternoon lull. After restocking the pastry case and prepping the fancy drink mixtures, Steve shuffled over to the terrace rail for some much-needed air—not a full break, but a respite from being chained to the coffeemaker, aka the non-stop steam machine.
A cathedral-shaped glass dome atop the MCU-Dubs complex, the Fiend was all-window, all the time. Some of the side and ceiling panels could be shifted or darkened to moderate the heat, depending on the season. Patrons lounged in ultra-plush seats surrounded by a jungle of plants, which gave off the expected serene-but-comfy vibe. But a bamboo canopy shaded the service counter, nicknamed the boiler room at the height of summer. The only escape was the eastern terrace, encased by a ‘bulletproof glass’—actually industrial-strength plastic—rail strewn with ivy to hide its unsustainability. The exit beside the counter led to a semi-private, employees only section, with a perfect view of the auto-body shop lot.
A smidge of luck must be on Steve’s side today, because the swelling in his ankle had reduced enough for him to avoid that trip to urgent care, if not having to pay for an Uber home. He sipped from his MCUW-branded, Stanley-style tumbler of iced ginger tea, doing his best impression of a dog with its head out of a car window, basking in the breeze. He felt sticky and grumpy and annoyed with himself, as well as exhausted by the idea of slathering on another layer of sunscreen, but his Victorian orphan complexion tended to go from zero to lobster, and sunburns were yet another thing Wanda and Pietro disapproved of.
Because the universe forfend that anyone display evidence of having had actual fun.
A retina-searing glare from across the street cut off Steve’s inner rant. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, almost lost his balance. He recovered in time to catch a glimpse of a surly figure peering out one of the garage doors—
Oh, shit, Darcy wasn’t kidding about the arm. Or the new guy’s hotness factor.
Steve gawked, grateful that no one was around to witness it. Not proud of it. No other word for it. New guy was a stone-cold stunner: thick, shoulder-length dark-brown hair, chiseled jaw, roughshod stubble, powerful thighs, muscles upon muscles packed into a black T-shirt with a fucking robot arm that he hoped vibrated in at least three settings. Steve was fetishizing—I couldn’t help myself, Your Honor, have you seen that thing?—but that was a goddamned fetish object. Whoever designed that must have some deep-seated kinks, hopefully not of the murderous variety.
And that threw a much-needed bucket of water on Steve’s libido, because of course. Of course that kind of modification came with a purpose, and it wasn’t nursing abandoned kittens back to health. The realization prompted Steve to look closer, at the man’s body language—hunched, hesitant, as if trying to make himself appear as non-threatening as possible—and manner—patiently waiting for a break in some of his colleagues’ conversation, a hoodie clutched tight between his hands. As soon as Steve caught the unmistakable outline of dog tags in the center of his chest, it was game over.
He'd make it his personal mission to get everyone in this stupid complex and beyond to treat this man, this veteran, with respect.
(And if Tony Stark didn’t make that arm… he shuddered to think who had.)
Steve continued to sip his tea and indulge revenge fantasies until one of the shop bros flexed a mighty arm and aimed it in his direction. This startled Steve so bad he almost fell off the step ladder he’d wedged under his ass. (Wanda and Pietro frowned upon employees sitting anywhere a patron could see them.)
No, not at him, but at the Fiend. Steve had about ten seconds to absorb the following: the new guy wanted coffee; he’d put his hoodie and ball cap on; he was headed this way.
“Shit fuck, shit fuck, shit fuck!” Steve continued to curse a blue streak under his breath as he hobbled back over to the counter.
“Did a pigeon poop on you again?” Darcy underlined the ‘poop’ in that question, since Wanda and Pietro weren’t afraid to issue a serious warning to anyone caught swearing in front of the patrons. “There’s a real black cloud over your day, huh? I think it’s affecting your aura.”
She also tended to flavor her conversation with wellness speak wherever anyone might eavesdrop. Steve rolled his eyes all the same.
“You should take your second break,” Steve suggested, in a totally not curt and harried and borderline psychotic fashion.
“What? Why?”
“It’s dead. We’re done restocking. I’m the walking wounded.” He scrambled for a reason that might win him some brownie points. “If you go now, you might catch Guru Val before the end of her shift.”
“Aww!” She batted her doe eyes at him. “Since when do you care about my sex life?”
“Since you started fetishizing a war veteran’s prosthetic.” The wrongness of that sentence hit him as soon as it left his mouth.”
“Wait! How do you know he’s a vet?” Darcy’s gasp was operatic. “You saw him!”
Steve scowled. “That’s not the point.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And you want me gone because…” She gasped with such force it seemed like she almost unhinged her jaw. “He’s coming?! He’s coming over here?!?”
“No,” Steve pronounced. Something people didn’t expect about him was that he had a deep voice. He could sound intimidating even if he couldn’t follow that up physically. “Maybe. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care. This is the best time for you to take your break, so go drool over someone you’ve actually got a chance with.”
“Harsh, Steve.” Darcy appeared hurt for two-point-five seconds before… “You think I’ve got a chance with Guru Val?!”
“Not if you stick around here trying to one-up me.”
“Point,” she conceded, already unlacing her apron. After which she thrust her index finger in his face. “I want full, elaborate details if new guy does show up here, considering this is the second major favor I’m doing you today. You are gonna owe me, Rogers. Big time.”
“I’ll perform a one-man play during cleanup.” Steve crossed a finger over his heart. “I’ll even use props.”
“You better,” Darcy warned without much heat. “If I’m doing all the mopping, I expect to be entertained.”
“Greatest show this side of Broadway, pinkie swear.”
She scoffed before scampering off. “They broke the mold when they made you, Steve.”
“That’s what they always say,” Steve sighed.
He rearranged the step ladder at the order section of the counter so he could surreptitiously lean on it during breaks in service. He’d just about struck the right balance when he sensed he wasn’t alone.
Steve glanced up to find New Guy towering over the far side of the counter, so broad and massive that he blacked out the entire rectangle of space, his head sneaking in just under the ‘Orders’ sign. Six-foot-something and even more stunning in person, he nevertheless cowered into his hoodie, his left (metal) arm shoved deep into his pocket and ultra-dark sunglasses masking his eyes. Steve recognized the same crouched, vulnerable stance from before and found his tongue.
“Welcome to the Fiend.” He tempered his smile to the moment, gentle but enthusiastic. “What can I get you?”
To his mild shock, New Guy slid a card across the counter:
Hello, my name is James.
I’m having a quiet day today.
I would like a large black coffee.
Thank you.
Steve stole an extra moment to read the card a second time while his heart shattered into a million pieces, then reformed into a stronger, meaner, implacable thing.
A shield, you might say.
He knew then that he would protect James’ right to quiet with his life.
“Coming right up.” Steve amped his smile up to full wattage. “I’m Steve, by the way.”
The corner of James’s lip quirked up, the only outward indication that he had heard him.
“Listen, I gotta do this whole upselling song and dance, so feel free to take a mental nap,” Steve explained. James arched a brow. “Unless you really would like a brownie? They’re fresh-baked, they’re flourless, and they are super fudgy.” He pointed to them in the display case, so James had a reference. “I could warm it up for you.”
James stilled for far too long, his brow furrowed as if Steve had asked him the meaning of life.
Taking a gamble, Steve added, “Thumbs up for yes, thumbs down for no.”
A blustery little huff of a laugh accompanied a resounding thumbs up.
Small victories, Steve thought to himself, then set about fulfilling James’s order. Pouring a coffee and plating a brownie didn’t require too much movement, but Steve had no choice but to hobble over to the deluxe mini-oven that blast-heated their pastries. By the time he returned, James’s eyebrows dipped into a deep ‘V’ of concern, his lips firmed in upset.
Steve slid the brownie—which made his mouth water, such did it smell of molten chocolatey goodness—across the counter in the hopes of distracting James.
No luck. (Theme of the day.) James pointed at Steve’s leg. Though Steve couldn’t even see the outline of his eyes, he felt the force of the guy’s glare.
“It’s nothing,” Steve blurted before he could think twice. “Tripped over the curb crossing the street, if you can believe.”
James’s expression turned into an outright scowl. He searched around the counter, grabbed a marker from the pile, flipped his card over, and drew… a skull and crossbones headlight on a Camaro-shaped car.
Well, shit.
“Yeah, that guy,” Steve couldn’t help but grumble. He was always three-point-seven seconds away from a full-on rant on a good day, let alone the shit sandwich he’d been served by fate that day. “Turned right on a red, if you can believe it. Musta thought he was in rural Vermont or something.”
James let out a low growling noise that did things to Steve’s insides. Then, he drew a dick on the card, tapping it twice with the butt of the marker.
“He was a dick!” Steve vehemently agreed. “You must get a lot of ‘em over there.” By the way James nodded, it seemed like he also rolled his eyes. “Yeah, same here. Although things aren’t too bad at the Fiend. We got a few cool regulars, and the really obnoxious wellness crowd won’t do caffeine, so—”
A moan, rough and throaty, cut him off. James had taken his first bite of brownie, startling himself with how much he approved. He almost dropped his plate in the rush to cover his mouth.
“Told you,” Steve chuckled, resisting the urge to fan himself.
James wasted no time in devouring the rest—sans porn-worthy sound-effects, alas—then jabbed a finger into the side of the display case, right beside the tray of remaining brownies.
“You want ‘em all?” Steve laughed outright. James was something else.
He appeared to consider this, raised three fingers.
“Warm?”
Thumbs up.
“To go?”
A nod.
Steve packed everything up and fetched a paper lid for his coffee. James’ scowl returned when he observed Steve struggling; Steve didn’t miss how he dropped a twenty in the tip jar. He wished he was financially stable enough to refuse it, but no. The gesture officially confirmed James as Steve’s new favorite customer, though, so it was with genuine regret that he rung up the purchase.
“Hope to see you again soon,” was a customer-service mainstay that Steve never thought he’d utter, let alone mean, not in all his time at the Fiend.
Steve almost fainted at the adorable little wave he got in response.
In his not-so-humble opinion, James deserved the world.
***
A sentiment borne out at ass-o’clock the next morning, when Steve crawled up out of the subway like one of the infected in a zombie horde. He’d come straight from urgent care, where he’d dozed intermittently throughout the night on the most uncomfortable metal chairs known to man, his ma having insisted as soon as she’d spotted his limp. Personally, Steve thought the limp would be easier to deal with than another night of no sleep and a flash-wash in a grody YMCA shower. But being the son of a shrewd, capable, and caring nurse had its consequences, and this was one.
Turned out, subsisting on vending machine coffee and pretzels didn’t exactly prepare a person for the non-stop obstacle course that was the MTA. Steve might have walked, even from as far as urgent care on a bum leg, but he now sported a deeply annoying boot brace, which made the hairpin turns and tight staircases of the subway even more impossible to navigate than usual. He emerged cranky, dazed, and craving a raspberry-oatmeal breakfast muffin with extra apple butter.
Little wonder he all but crashed into someone not two paces onto the sidewalk. The fact that the someone smelled really, really good, like chai spices mixed with crack-level pheromones, was the only reason Steve mumbled, “Sorry,” before attempting to side-step the person. Who clamped a hand on his shoulder that felt suspiciously like a vise.
“Hey—" The protest strangled in his throat, with no help from the gloved metal hand that held him in place, despite Darcy’s insinuations the day before.
James. It was James.
“What…” Steve was way too sleep-deprived to contend with six-foot-whatever of leather-clad James, muscles straining the seams of his jacket, stubble a shade darker from the day before, blackout sunglasses still concealing what must be very expressive eyes if he kept them hidden on the regular. “Hey. Hi.”
James smirked in a way that made Steve want to bite it off his mouth, then offered Steve his arm.
“Are you…” He wanted to curl up in the bend of James’s elbow. “What are you…?”
As Steve continued to struggle to form a simple sentence, James grabbed Steve’s closest arm, laced it through his, and nudged him into action. To Steve’s never-ending shock, James matched his strides to Steve’s pace, his bulk and general air of surliness warding off anyone who tried to get in their way. It took every last ounce of energy Steve had not to slump against him. What to others might seem intimidating to Steve looked extra comfy.
They even made it across Atlantic Avenue unscathed, though they had a close call. Some delivery biker attempted to swerve around them and through the light, but James shot his metal arm out at the level of the biker’s throat, and he slammed the breaks but quick.
Steve realized this was a full-on protective escort around the time they reached the MCU-Dubs entranceway. James’s Terminator glare made the actual security guards cower—anyway, they recognized Steve. They made it all the way to the elevator without drawing any unwanted attention, it being too early for any of the usual gossipy gurus to be lingering in the lobby. He’d assumed James would drop him there, but no. They rode up to the fourth floor in blissful silence, except for Steve’s rousing gasp every time he almost passed out on James’s… well, he couldn’t quite reach his shoulder, but the crook of his elbow called to him.
James guided him all the way to the bench in the locker room, helped Steve off with his bag, then waited until he sat down. Satisfied, he about-faced—
“Wait!” Steve squawked.
James stilled, but did not turn back around.
Steve inhaled deeply in a bid to corral his last functional brain cells. “Only take me a minute to turn everything on. Nothing’s fresh-baked yet, but I could warm up one of the day-olds. Got some apple cinnamon scones, blueberry crumble muffins…”
James thumbs-downed every one of his suggestions. Steve appreciated the bodyguard routine, but he wasn’t giving up his raspberry oatmeal for love or money. James raised a hand to stop him before he could get to the multigrain bagels, which… fair.
“Okay, well…” Steve cleared his throat, tense and nervy all of a sudden. “Will I see you later?”
Thumbs up.
“I’ll save you a brownie. On the house.”
James raised three fingers.
“Fine, but you gotta pay for two of ‘em,” Steve groused. “Gotta make a living over here.” The snort caught him by surprise, enough to make Steve smile. “Thanks for having my back.”
James performed a short, sharp salute, then quick-marched out of there. Steve found himself desperate to learn some of James’s story.
Steve understood the negative space that was his allure as a person—a scrawny, cranky, accident-prone righteous asshole who alienated most people from word one. He’d grown up poor and sick and bullied, an only child whose best friends consisted of a threadbare, one-eared stuffed rabbit and his latest sketchbook. No one had done anything that nice for him… well, ever. His ma didn’t count.
The idea that upselling a fudgy brownie to a dark lord of hotness like James somehow unlocked the secret code to his protective instinct was a lot to process, and Steve’s neck still ached from being impaled on the chrome edge of a waiting room chair all night.
He rubbed the crick out of his neck and got to work.
*
As expected, the late-afternoon lull lured his favorite specter out of his garage lair. Seconds after Steve finished restocking the display case, a shadow fell over the trays of pastries and cakes Steve slid onto the racks. He’d made an extra batch of brownies, for reasons. Steve hadn’t managed to shoo Darcy down to ogle Guru Val today, but she was neck-deep in the books for the monthly account, which should keep her in the back office for at least the next half-hour or so. Long enough to execute the tactical maneuver he had been planning all day, conceived after he caved to Darcy’s pestering and downed three ginger shots from the ground floor juice bar. Steve hadn’t felt reenergized, exactly, but they had given him some wild daydreams.
And some thinky thoughts re: James. The pictograms yesterday, for instance. Did James struggle to write as well as speak some days? Did he have some sort of throat-related injury he didn’t care to address? Was conversation itself too much for him? Or was an overabundance of choice the problem? Maybe James just liked his coffee black and his whiskey neat, but someone who dressed in that much leather didn’t strike Steve as all that vanilla—especially given his nascent fudgy brownie addiction.
Steve somehow got it in his head that the psychedelic kaleidoscope that was their menu board overwhelmed James. It overwhelmed Steve, and he’d drawn the thing. Perhaps James just needed a little help navigating it…?
“Hey there.” Steve stood up from his crouch only to realize that he was not, in fact, taller than the display case. He limped over to the order counter; James followed him.
He’d wanted to greet James with a smile. A blinding smile. Steve didn’t smile often, or for just anyone, but he’d been told that when he did, when he meant it, it added a little sunshine to someone’s day. (Okay, to his ma’s day. His ma called him her sunshine boy. He only ever smiled that way for her, and now James.)
Except instead Steve almost swallowed his tongue. James hadn’t worn his hoodie. Because duh, he hadn’t been wearing it that morning. Instead, his dark brown hair billowed out in waves that perfectly framed his insanely handsome face. And worse. So much worse. James’s sunglasses nested in that gorgeous hair. For the first time, Steve got the full bore of James’ stormy blue eyes. They were the color of vast, open ocean, all-seeing, elemental, with a hint of ferocity hovering under the surface.
Steve almost fainted on the spot.
Illegal. It should be illegal to walk around inflicting that kind of hotness on unsuspecting baristas who were just trying to impress you.
Another adorable wave from James. Steve wasn’t sure what his face was doing, but it felt like it was melting off. With a bashful little bow to his head, James slid another card across the counter to Steve. He forced his hands not to shake as he picked it up.
Hello, my name is James Bucky.
I’m having a quiet fuck of a day today.
I would like a large black coffee and three brownies.
Thank you, Steve.
Steve stared stupidly down at the card for way too long, because it was so damn charming, and he didn’t trust himself not to leap across the counter and kiss Bucky senseless. Except that would have been weird and predatory, so shut up, dumb exhausted brain. You’re too tired for this.
“Nickname?”
A shy nod.
“Rich hotrod assholes out in full force today, huh?”
A vigorous nod.
“Hmm, well, you’ve come to the right place.” Steve unleashed the sunshine smile. He didn’t think he imagined Bucky going a little pink in the cheeks. Time for stage one of his master plan. “Listen, I know you’re a cup of joe kind of guy and all, but we’ve got a lot more than just triple-shot, no whip mochaccinos with extra sprinkles. I could give you some samples to go with your coffee and brownies? They’ll give me a sense of your palate, so I’ll know what to recommend. Same system, thumbs up or down.”
To his surprise, he got two thumbs up.
It took Steve too many blinks to absorb the fact that Bucky wasn’t wearing his usual glove. His artist’s eye was immediately drawn to the intricate plating of the metal hand. He felt his attraction spread across his skin like a heat rash.
Illegal in all fifty states.
“Great,” he rasped, then darted behind the espresso machine.
Through an intricate breathing/panicking/self-berating process, Steve managed to get a hold of himself by the time he returned to the counter, bearing Bucky’s coffee and brownies, along with a tray of eight sample cups ordered in pairs of two. Bucky appeared intrigued as he sipped from his coffee, then reached for his first brownie.
Steve whistled him to a halt. “Wait on those a sec.” He set the initial test pairing in front of Bucky—level of bitterness. “Try these.”
A flash of uncertainty from Bucky’s vivid blue eyes, but he brought the first sample to his lips. He grimaced the second it hit his tongue. Thumbs down. The second got a thumbs up.
Steve placed three more samples in front of him. “These’ll give me a sense of how much body you like in your brew.”
Darcy sing-songing “Body-ody-ody” did not run on a loop in his head as he watched Bucky down each tiny cup. It did not.
As expected, he preferred full body. Insert joke here.
“Now, some syrup combinations,” Steve explained as he doled out the last three. “Take a second between each of these. I haven’t added any milk, but that’s an avenue we can explore later, if you’re interested.”
Bucky did not seem all that interested. The samples, though, provoked a whole range of new expressions, every one a delight. The first, hazelnut syrup, got two enthusiastic thumbs up. Bucky shoved his large coffee back at Steve, pointing at the empty sample.
“Try the others first,” Steve chuckled, savoring another sweet victory.
The second, caramel, Bucky seemed torn on. He set it to the side as if he needed time to ponder it in more detail. The third, flavored with a dark chocolate nib powder, made his eyes bug out.
Diagnosis: chocoholic.
Bucky stacked the first and third sample cups on top of each other, then mimed pouring them into his larger cup. Not that Steve needed such dramatic visuals to get the message. He stole Bucky’s cup back to remake his drink.
“I’m gonna add a touch of cream,” Steve warned him. “Not too much. Adds depth and richness—you’ll see. Any problems with lactose?” A head shake. “Good.”
Bucky almost grabbed it out of his hands when he returned with the drink. He held it under his nose for a full minute, basking in the aroma, before taking a sip. His pretty eyes just about rolled back in his head. By the way his jaw clenched, Steve could tell he bit back a moan, damn it.
“Yeah?” Moan or no, Steve was feeling very smug.
Bucky set the drink down and did the jazz hands gesture for applause that the deaf and hard-of-hearing use.
Steve just about jumped out of his skin with excitement. “You know ASL?” he signed.
Bucky froze for a full thirty seconds. Then, an explosion of movement.
“Yes!” he signed emphatically. “How do you—”
Steve turned so Bucky could see his hearing aid. “They weren’t sure how my hearing would develop as I got older, so my ma taught it to me when I was little, just in case.” Bucky’s lips curled into the closest thing to a smile Steve had ever seen on him. “I have a couple friends who also have hearing issues, so I’ve kept it up. If you ever need, you know…”
Bucky’s eyes twinkled. Steve gripped the edge of the counter for support.
“More than three brownies?” Bucky signed.
Steve snorted. “I did make an extra tray…”
“Really?”
He nodded. “All for you, if you want ‘em.” Feeling nosy, Steve decided to take the temperature of Bucky’s job situation. Someone as gentle and vulnerable as Bucky seemed like a bad fit with the shop-bro oafs. “Or you could bring them back to share.”
That got him an eyeroll that tickled his insides pink.
“Not enough kale,” Bucky quipped. “And when it comes to brownies, I don’t share.”
“Noted.” Steve busied himself with packing the extra tray of brownies up.
A few customers wandered in to claim tables before making their way to the counter. Bucky stiffened, canted his head to keep them in his peripheral vision. Steve watched him do a swift mental tally of all the exits, wondering how long Bucky had been back from overseas.
Tell me you’re military without telling me you’re military, Steve thought to himself. He entered the details into the cash register so Bucky could exfil.
Still, he couldn’t help himself. He had to know when he’d see Bucky again.
“Same time tomorrow?” Steve signed, attempting to project a confidence he didn’t feel.
With a shy nod and a hastily signed “Thank you”, Bucky made his retreat.
End of Chapter 1
Chapter 2: Intimate Coffee And Protection Detail
Summary:
A week. Bucky waited for him at the subway exit every morning that week to escort him to work. Steve couldn’t fathom why, other than some outdated sense of chivalry, or paranoia, or guilt because one of the body shop’s clients caused Steve’s sprain. But Bucky hadn’t twisted Steve’s ankle. From what Steve could tell, he didn’t think Bucky had been the one to work on the Camaro.
And yet, every day, no matter what time his shift started, Steve found his self-assigned bodyguard at his post, leaning against a streetlight a few paces from the subway stairs, in his all-black uniform and goggle-like shades, his resting bitch expression encouraging commuters to give him the widest of berths. He’d swagger forward a few steps as soon as he spotted Steve, offer his arm, no greeting, barely an acknowledgement until he’d delivered Steve to the Fiend’s front doors. As if he had to stay alert at all times. As if his primary responsibility in this life was Steve’s safety and wellbeing.
Notes:
My lovelies, thank you, thank you, thank you so much! Your response to the first chapter was surprising and overwhelming in the best way. It means so much to me that this particular tale is striking a nerve. Lots of fun, fluffy shenanigans to come.
In this chapter, Steve has some *feelings* about Bucky's sense of protectiveness that he needs to get off his chest. He and Darcy get up to some mischief while bored at work. And Bucky checks in with an old friend of ours about all these new feelings he doesn't want to admit he's experiencing. A bit of froth for your end of summer reading pleasure.
Thanks so much again for all your comments and kudos. They really do mean the world to me. Until next week, take the best of care and enjoy the sunshine! <3 <3 <3
Chapter Text
Chapter 2 – Intimate Coffee And Protection Detail
“We gotta stop meeting like this.”
A week. Bucky waited for him at the subway exit every morning that week to escort him to work. Steve couldn’t fathom why, other than some outdated sense of chivalry, or paranoia, or guilt because one of the body shop’s clients caused Steve’s sprain. But Bucky hadn’t twisted Steve’s ankle. From what Steve could tell, he didn’t think Bucky had been the one to work on the Camaro.
And yet, every day, no matter what time his shift started, Steve found his self-assigned bodyguard at his post, leaning against a streetlight a few paces from the subway stairs, in his all-black uniform and goggle-like shades, his resting bitch expression encouraging commuters to give him the widest of berths. He’d swagger forward a few steps as soon as he spotted Steve, offer his arm, no greeting, barely an acknowledgement until he’d delivered Steve to the Fiend’s front doors. As if he had to stay alert at all times. As if his primary responsibility in this life was Steve’s safety and wellbeing.
A twink with a chip on his shoulder the size of Long Island couldn’t ever get used to Bucky’s brand of special treatment, but he didn’t hate it, exactly. It confused him more than anything. So much that Steve’s usual fierce independence and extreme sports version of stubborn decided to stay mum on the subject.
Despite their discovery of having a shared silent language, Bucky hadn’t been any more forthcoming about… anything. With an uncanny sense of timing, he always managed to venture over to the Fiend when they were least occupied. Bucky would order his drink and his brownies, ask how Steve’s ankle was doing, frown a lot at Steve’s answer, thank him profusely, then disappear into the ether as soon as another person arrived. Darcy teased him mercilessly about his ‘ghost boyfriend’, accusing Steve of eating all the brownies himself or pretending that Bucky was a figment of Steve’s dirty, dirty mind. As if he needed more drama in his life.
Another manic Monday, another torturously early shift—this time for a good cause, aka Steve’s evening class at the School of Visual Arts. Bootless and fancy-free, he’d decided to walk to work that morning since running was still verboten. He’d already planned to swing by the subway exit, just in case a certain bodyguard decided to patrol there, but sternly scolded himself not to get his hopes up. Or anything else that might rise when he thought of a certain monosyllabic chocoholic: his blood pressure, his heart rate, his much-neglected cock…
Steve hadn’t even reached the point where Malcolm X Blvd turned into Utica Ave when Bucky just appeared beside him—poof!—as if conjured out of thin air. One minute Steve slalomed through a group of high schoolers too cool to walk, like, together-together; the next, Bucky rode shotgun on his left flank—also his better ear—once again matching Steve stride for stride. Before Steve could have an emotion about it, Bucky’s arm shot out, elbow up. He always gave Steve his flesh arm, always made a small attempt to forge a human connection.
Steve gawked at it for almost half a block, mentally cataloguing all the ways it was fucked up and borderline stalkery that Bucky tracked his route, or however he had found him. Steve may have been delusional in some ways, but he wasn’t dumb enough to chalk this up to coincidence. But he was stupid enough to think it was weirdly romantic.
He latched on.
Though Steve’s kamikaze streak worked both ways, so he asked, “Why do we keep meeting like this, Buck? You keeping tabs on me?”
Bucky halted. Steve heard a few muttered curses behind them, but no one so much as dared complain. Even seen-it-all New Yorkers respected Bucky’s game. Steve couldn’t tell what was going on behind Bucky’s blank expression and blackout sunglasses, what sort of mental gymnastics he had to perform to come out with a suitable answer, one Steve did not expect.
“You were hurt,” Bucky signed. The whole arm-latch thing left his hands free—strategic.
Steve suddenly wondered if Bucky had been waiting for an opening this whole time.
“Once. I was hurt once.”
Bucky turned to glare at him. As Steve prepared to dig in his heels, he entirely forgot to ask himself just how long Bucky had been surveilling him.
“Because I walked you the rest of the time,” Bucky insisted.
“I’ve been working at the center for three years,” Steve protested. “This was the first time anything’s happened.”
Bucky set his sunglasses in his hair so he could glare at Steve properly. It only made Steve wish he could hop up to buss the corner of his scowly mouth.
“First time this happened,” Bucky signed.
“So, what, I get some kind of personal escort now?” Steve demanded. “What makes me so special?”
Bucky stonewalled him.
“Those hotrodders are a menace,” Steve continued, blood on a quick boil. “They rip out of the lot like bats out of hell, and devil may fucking care who gets in their way. You wanna do something for me? Fix that.”
Bucky let out a soft huff of frustration, frowned.
“I can get by on my own.” Steve maybe hadn’t realized how the whole thing got his hackles up until he did the exact opposite of what he wanted—discouraged Bucky from ever escorting him again. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice of you, Buck, real nice. But if this is some kind of charity bullshit—”
“Shut up,” Bucky signed, curt, making the gesture on Steve’s face instead of his own. “You’re gonna be late.”
He stormed off at double their usual speed with Steve still attached. Steve skipped along as best he could for a couple of blocks, too stubborn to let go, too short to match Bucky’s pace, until his ankle started to smart. They stalled out at a street corner, enough for Steve to recover—or so he thought. When he limped off the curb, Bucky’s head whipped down. He gasped, soft, stricken, then wrapped his arm around Steve’s torso and carried him over to the other side.
Too stunned to protest, Steve didn’t come back to himself till Bucky propped him against the fence around the Nelson Mandela High School football field and crouched down to examine Steve’s ankle. Not exactly how he had imagined getting Bucky on his knees, but Steve wasn’t complaining. Steve watched him rotate the ankle this way and that, not exactly unmoved by Bucky cradling his foot.
He decided then and there that despite his intensity and his lack of social graces, Bucky meant him no harm. Which meant Steve had been kind of a dick.
“I’m okay.” He patted Bucky on the shoulder so he’d look up as Steve signed to him. “Really. Gimme a minute and I’ll be good as gold.”
Bucky hung his head, signed, “Sorry.”
And Steve couldn’t have that, not from someone who’d done everything in his power to protect him.
“Get up, soldier.” A flash of something dark and wary lit Bucky’s eyes as he glanced up at him, but he obeyed. “How do you feel about hugs?”
Bucky blinked at him for so long, he thought he’d gone offline. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t remember.”
Suddenly, all of the little scattered pieces of the Bucky puzzle spread across the table in Steve’s mind began to lock together. He still couldn’t quite see the full image—and maybe didn’t want to, because yeesh—but he gained new admiration for the man standing in front of him. Bucky was still scraping his way back from something horrible, something life-altering, or maybe life-erasing was a better word.
And if he needed Steve’s help to revive him? He’d be there, all day, every day.
“Wanna try one anyway?” Steve suggested. “If you hate it, just tap me on the shoulder. I’ll stop.”
“Okay.”
Steve approached cautiously, telegraphing his movements. He opened his arms out wide at first, pressed in with his torso before wrapping them around Bucky’s middle. His head, he discovered, rested right over Bucky’s heart, his fingers rubbing circles into his tense shoulder blades. Bucky exhaled several breaths in rapid succession—Steve feared for a moment he’d hyperventilate—then crushed in around Steve. He rested his chin on top of Steve’s head, arms cinched almost to the point of suffocation. Invited Steve in closer to his powerful body, a wall of muscle with enough grooves and cushion to feel beautifully snug.
They fit. Tight, perfect harmony. Treasure unlocked.
Steve decided then and there that he would do anything, anything to give Bucky the peace he sought.
“I’m the one who should be sorry,” he muttered into the buttery surface of Bucky’s leather jacket. “Here you are looking out for me, and I… I can be a real asshole sometimes.”
Bucky let out a long, blustery sigh, then rasped, “Tell me about it.”
“Hey!” Steve wriggled around until he could see his face. “You talked!”
He very much deserved the eyeroll he received. “Never said I was deaf, just—”
“Quiet day.” Steve kneaded his fingers into Bucky’s rigid shoulders, fought not to let it show on his face when some of them hit metal. “How you feeling about hugs, on a scale of hotrod douchebags to fudgy brownies?”
He blushed, averted his eyes. “Half a brownie.” He appeared to give the matter intense consideration. “The last half on an empty plate.”
“I can work with that.” Steve broke out the sunshine smile. He might actually float to work at this rate. “Buck, would you do me the honor of escorting me the rest of the way?”
The frown returned with a vengeance. “You can’t put pressure—”
“I’m good.” Reluctantly, Steve eased away to demonstrate. Trotted up and down the sidewalk without a wince. “See? Healing powers of platonic affection.”
Bucky scoffed, but fell in beside him. Because two could play at that game, he waited another half-block before offering Steve his arm. Steve made a big show of latching on tight, grateful, so grateful to be under Bucky’s guard.
***
Early summer afternoons at the Fiend tended to be dead. Deader than dead. The dead zone. Nobody would be caught dead. Better off dead, at least in Steve and Darcy’s case, because they could get creative. A potent combination of boredom and artistic instinct resulted in some of their best—and by best, they meant insaneballs—ideas. Like the Dragon’s Breath, which combined a red-eye with a dirty chai, topped with coca-cinnamon whip cream and cayenne-brown sugar sprinkles, then torched like a crème brulée. Or the Triple Decker, a tiny tower of brownie, blondie, and red velvet cake separated by thick layers of Nutella and dipped in chocolate ganache. Or the whole-ass wraparound mural of famous locals Steve drew on the employee bathroom walls in highlighter and magic marker.
Agents of chaos, the pair of them, much to Pietro and Wanda’s chagrin.
Another heat index spike led to another tomb-like Tuesday, customers scarce as the sun hit the apex of the sky. Darcy, in her infinite wisdom, decided to try out the stained-glass decals she’d found at the dollar store on a section of windows. Steve, uninspired by the idea of glueing art instead of creating it, took a fresh whack at the menu board.
A literal clean slate for his imagination to run wild on, since he’d washed off all the chalk dust in the industrial-sized sink in the back. Ten minutes outside, and the board was dry enough to serve as his canvas. He’d jammed a couple of the tables together to lay it out flat and improve the drawing angle. After an hour of stops and starts, he was bicep-deep in rainbow chalk dust with nothing to show for it except a border of ultra-plump plums. Not that they had plum-flavored anything at the Fiend.
He wasn’t thinking about Bucky’s ass in his tight black jeans when he drew those plums.
He wasn’t.
Darcy didn’t seem to be faring much better. She blew out a long, wet raspberry as she backed up to examine her handiwork. The door to the employee terrace now looked like it belonged in a cathedral. Medieval-lite roses, lilies, and peonies imbued the decals with a summery air, pretty but pedestrian to Steve’s artistic eye. At least it gave him some menu board inspiration—it wouldn’t be great if the two didn’t vibe together.
“Don’t say it,” Darcy warned, as she flopped down in the middle of the floor.
“I wasn’t gonna—”
“Could hear you thinking it,” she insisted. “Your criticism’s fucking loud, dude.”
Steve snorted, because accurate. “You’ve been taking too many of Wanda’s ‘Unlock Your Inner Psychic’ seminars.”
“At least that shit’s fucking useful.” Darcy crossed her arms under her breasts, gone full pout. “This is not what I imagined doing with my life, you know?”
“Pays the bills.” Steve shrugged—he didn’t want to get into it. He grabbed a second marker to use as a straight edge as he tested out a stained-glass pattern in the corner of the board. “That counts for a lot in this town.”
“Truth.” She scraped herself up off the floor, ambled over to the counter. “You want something?”
Steve mulled that over for a moment, planning out his vision for the board, plotting a way to get more people in for the afternoon. One of the Fiend’s mandates was that they only served caffeinated beverages, to differentiate themselves from the juice bar downstairs. In the summer, that meant cold brews and iced teas—a limited, familiar selection, not distinguishable enough from their street-level competition to convince already sweaty people to travel up four floors.
Unless…
“Yeah.” Steve smirked in her direction. “A summer specialty menu. Theme: floral elixirs, to go with the decor. Mix me up the craziest thing you can think of that has ice, caffeine, and a flower-based syrup.”
That knocked Darcy out of her boredom, if her expression of manic pixie glee was anything to go by.
“Challenge accepted!”
Unbeknownst to the other baristas, Darcy and Steve maintained a hidden cupboard of unusual ingredients for just such an occasion. Every so often, one of the MCU-Dubs trust fund brats got it in their heads that Caffeine Fiend had a ‘secret menu’ of alcohol-based drinks. Being the arrogant little snots they were, they rarely took no for an answer, so Steve and Darcy would make them something so abominable they’d never want to drink at the Fiend again. Watching these try-hards choke down some vomitous concoction in front of their posse of friends—because they always came with an entourage—were some of the most entertaining moments of their tenure at the Fiend.
Thus, they kept the cupboard well-stocked with all sorts of bizarre goods, the more stomach-churning when paired with coffee, the better. One of Darcy’s priceless contributions came from a ren faire alchemist’s shop: six old-fashioned floral cocktail syrups. The flavors by themselves could be quite delicious; the key was in the amount added to the drink. Anything one-part violet syrup out of three, and you were in for a rough time.
“No cheating!” Steve snapped, when Darcy reached for her phone. “This is a Google-free zone!”
“I’m using the timer, dumbass,” she shot back.
“Pull the other one.”
“Not an amateur over here.” She peered over the top edge of her glasses at him as she heated up some milk product. “Hey, isn’t it about that time?”
“About what time?” Steve mostly ignored her while he shaded in some petals. “Back on your bullshit o’clock? Remains to be seen.”
“I mean for the apparition.” Darcy glanced around as if someone might invade any second. “Shouldn’t you be cracking out the pottery wheel or speed-dialing Whoopi Goldberg or something?”
“Har, har.” Steve started whistling Unchained Melody just to spite her.
“Wondering what would be worse,” she continued to prod, “him not showing because I’m here, or you going delusional after a bout of heatstroke and pretending to talk to him.”
“Joke’s on you.” Steve felt an absurd swell of pride at the declaration. “He came in early today.”
“Fuck, are you serious? I missed him again?” Darcy scrutinized the display case. “Damn it, we are low on brownies.”
“Told ya.” He started in on the actual menu items, giving his cursive a calligraphy-style flourish. “I didn’t want this place to turn into an actual oven, so I didn’t make another batch.”
“No complaints here.” Darcy muddled the ice and rose water at the bottom of a glass with a long spoon, poured in a half-glass of coffee, then added a layer of pink froth on top. “Except that I’m this much closer to going full tin hat conspiracy theorist over your imaginary boyfriend.”
“For the last time, Bucky’s not my boyfriend.”
“Boy toy, then.” She raised a daring brow in his direction when he glared at her. “Arm candy? Personal escort? Private dancer?”
“Friend,” Steve grumbled, annoyed that she’d gotten to him. “Let’s go with friend.”
“Order up!” Darcy bellowed, before he could sulk for too long. She sprinkled a few rose petals atop the daintiest iced drink Steve had ever seen. He wiped his chalky hands off as he made his way over to the counter. “Inspired by the Rooh Afza that’s served at Ramadan, I present the Iced Coffee Rosé.”
Steve twisted the bottom of the glass to appreciate the drink from all angles. “Well, she definitely looks the part. Every teenage girl from here to Jersey is gonna be obsessed.”
“Ah, you’ve cottoned on to my evil plan.” Darcy’s grin was all teeth. “Try her.”
In for a penny, in for a pound. Steve sipped generously.
“There she is,” he sang out in his best Johnny Desmond impression, “Miss America.” He stole another draught. “It’s not my thing, personally, but some people will love it.”
“Yes! Gooooaaaaallll!” Darcy giggled at her own inanity. “Tag, you’re it.”
Steve, of course, had been plotting all this time. He stirred up an iced strawberry, Early Gray, and elderflower drink, which they nicknamed the Savoy, that they both judged stupid refreshing. Darcy’s second at-bat, the Moonflower, aka butterfly pea flower tea, lemonade, and coffee extract, came in an eerie blue color that would drive the green juice crowd wild. Steve struck out when he attempted to make violet syrup happen in any coffee capacity, but three fun drinks did a summer specialty menu make.
Feeling especially proud of themselves, and just a wee bit like playing hooky, they repaired to the terrace to toast their success with the remains of the three drinks. But no sooner had they recovered from the blast of heat that assaulted them as they stepped out the door when Darcy almost dropped the tray along with her jaw.
Steve followed her line of vision across the street to—
And then did a double take, because—
Really, no one had the right. No one, let alone a quintet of god-tier muscular someones, had the right to display that much taut, rippling flesh on a stultifying afternoon in Bed-Stuy. Steve almost burned his hands on the rail when he grabbed it to steady himself. He was gonna pass out. Or pitch over the side. Would one of them give him mouth-to-mouth? Might actually be worth all the broken bones. What a way to go, though.
“Are they just… allowed to do that kind of thing?” Darcy downed the last of the Savoy as she fanned herself. Furiously. “Out in public like that? Without, I don’t know, some kind of subscription charge?”
The they in question were five of the shop bros—Thor, Luke, Logan, the one Steve called Scary Tribal Tattoos, and the one Steve called Beardy the Red—all playing some weird hacky sack/basketball game in the middle of the lot, attempting to get some weighted ball into a garbage can that hung from one of the truck winches. Shirtless, wearing nothing but a variety of cutoff jeans or teeny tiny bicycle shorts.
Steve almost swallowed his tongue. What was a twink with a gym-bro fetish supposed to do in the face of all that man meat? Drool, obviously. Also, pull up a chair and enjoy the show, which was exactly what he did. Darcy hurried to join him. They clinked their summer specials and said not a word as they basked in the majesty before them.
Until the ante got upped to a level that threatened Steve with sunstroke. Two ‘baskets’ later, Bucky swaggered out of the far garage to join them—not as half-naked, not that it mattered. Black jeans and a sleeveless shirt did nothing to conceal Bucky’s massive thighs, muscle-packed chest, or gleaming metal arm. He took two long gulps from a giant water bottle, then poured the rest over his head.
Steve swooned so hard that Darcy grabbed his shoulder to keep him from pitching off the chair.
“Him,” she half-scoffed, half-sighed. “You are friends with him?”
“We are,” Steve growled, feeling a bit possessive. “Your point?”
“Prove it.”
He tore his eyes away from the vision that was Bucky to stare her down. “Challenge fucking accepted.”
But Bucky, with his hawkish instincts, had already spotted him. A sharp whistle drew both their attention back to the lot. Bucky waved in his adorable way. Steve very much wanted to faint. Instead, he raised his specialty drink high in the air as a salute, then followed it up with a wave of his own.
And Bucky did him another solid by signing, “What you got there?”
Which was when Steve remembered that he, too, knew sign language, and could prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that not only did Bucky exist, but they were friends. He raised a smug eyebrow in Darcy’s direction as he set down his drink so he had both hands free.
“Testing out summer specials,” he signed. “Trying to beat the heat.”
“No, no, no, no, come the fuck on,” Darcy hissed under her breath. “You two have your own secret code?”
“TKO, Rogers,” Steve whispered out of the corner of his mouth, as Bucky signed, “Any good?”
Which gave him the brainwave to end all brainwaves, and all the points, forever. If this worked out, he’d never let Darcy forget it for the rest of their natural lives.
“Come up and try for yourself,” he signed, all smiles. “Place is deader than Casper the Friendly Ghost.” Then, the piece de resistance. “Bring the bros. We could use some guinea pigs.”
Bucky conveyed the message to the shop bros, who let up a cheer that sounded like a huzzah.
“Wait, wait, what was that?” Darcy demanded, her voice rising several octaves. “What did you do, Steve?”
“Made it so that you owe me unto infinity.” Steve cackled, drunk on power, then signed a “See you soon” down to Bucky, who waved back. “Battle stations. We’re about to get hit with an attack of the bros.”
“I fucking hate you sometimes,” Darcy groused as they cleared the tray and hustled inside. “Except I love you. I hate you. I love you. It’s Chinatown, Steve.”
By the time the motley crew ascended four flights of stairs—bros didn’t do elevators, apparently—Steve and Darcy had lined the counter with six samples of each specialty drink, along with a few cold brews in case the flower theme really did not go over well. Steve also surreptitiously made Bucky his usual chocolate monstrosity, setting it aside for later. They even spared a second to primp in the bathroom—Darcy longer than Steve, but then she had more skin in the game. And on display, apparently, by the low-cut top she changed into.
Not that a little cleavage held a candle to the shop bros, some of whom donned loose-fitting tanks over their glistening torsos, some of whom… did not.
“This one of them ‘No shirts, no service’ type places?” Logan barked through the open door before the six of them paraded in like Magic Mike’s backup dancers.
“Not today, boys.” Darcy flashed them a saucy smirk. “Come wet your whistle.”
Bucky, the hotter-than-all-of-them-combined manager, aka the McConaughey, brought up the rear. Steve positioned himself at the far end, against the counter; he couldn’t help shining the sunshine smile Bucky’s way as he took point at his side. He got another adorable wave for his trouble.
“Greetings, fiends!” Thor bellowed, which for him was normal volume. “Friend Barnes had told us much about you and your decadent coffees. I see he has not deceived us.”
“I don’t know, boss, these look too pretty to drink.” Luke crouched down to counter-level to wander the forest of drinks with his eyes. The others mimicked him, as if they were of a hive mind.
“Definitely getting a little Mad Hatter over here,” Scary Tribal Tattoos, who Steve would later learn was named Drax, muttered.
“This one smells like my Aunt Freya’s petunias.” Beardy the Red, aka Volstagg, aka Volt, furrowed his brow at the Savoy.
“At least they don’t taste like her lawn,” Logan reminded him. “I’ve had enough green juice to last me ten lifetimes.”
Darcy cleared her throat. “You boys gonna let me give you the razzle dazzle, or what?”
“Sorry,” they all mumbled.
She launched into an explanation of theme and ingredients as if she was the ringmaster of the greatest show on earth. The shop bros gawked, rapt on her every word.
“See what I put up with?” Bucky signed to Steve.
He signed back. “You deal with me, so already know you have the patience of a saint.”
Steve got an eyeroll, but also the hint of a smile.
“I really gotta drink this?” Bucky scowled down at the rose petals. “It looks like fairy puke.”
Steve shifted his eyes back and forth, speakeasy style, then nodded toward the table where the unfinished menu board awaited. He exchanged a glance with Darcy, who shooed him off, then escaped with contraband for both of them. Bucky let out something that sounded suspiciously like a purr when Steve handed him his usual drink—not now, brain, I’m trying to flirt here—clutching it to his chest and angling it out of view. Steve set his cold brew in the one scrap of space left on the table and nabbed a piece of chalk from the box.
They sat in contented silence, listening to the oohs and ahhs and ughs from the bros as they sampled the specialty drinks. Except then Steve chanced a glance over at Bucky and met with a gobsmacked expression.
“You drew this?” Bucky dragged his seat around the corner of the menu board to better take in the whole. And if it was that much closer to Steve, no one was complaining. “Did you do the mural in the bathroom, too?”
Steve frowned. “How do you know about the mural?”
“I have my ways,” Bucky demurred. “Steve, these are incredible.”
“It’s a menu board.”
“By Waterhouse, maybe.” Bucky ghosted a hand over the stained-glass flower frame. “I feel like I can pluck…” He mimed lifting a flower to his nose, smelling deep of its bloom. “Tell me you’re doing something with all this talent.”
“Night classes at the School of Visual Art, yeah.” Steve fought off a serious blush at Bucky’s words. “Can only take a couple per semester since my ma got sick, but I’m getting there.”
Bucky snapped to attention in a way that reminded Steve of a well-trained Doberman. “Your ma is sick?”
“Was,” Steve reassured him. “She’s been in remission for two years. If it wasn’t for this place, the bills would’ve killed us both.”
“Fuck.” Bucky glared at their surroundings as if they had personally done him wrong.
Steve decided he wouldn’t want to be on the business end of a revenge quest led by Bucky. “Don’t get it twisted. Wanda and Pietro have been real good to me. It’s why we can mess around on an afternoon like today. As long as we keep this place in the black, they don’t care how we run it.”
Bucky let out an indignant little huff, which got Steve a wee bit curious as to what the response would be if that hadn’t been the case. Just how far would Bucky go to protect him?
“Speaking of.” Steve veered them onto safer ground before he ran away with his imagination. “My ma wants to meet you.”
Bucky’s eyebrows lifted almost into his hairline. “You told her about me?”
“Of course I did.” Steve shrugged. “She’s my ma. I tell her everything.” When he received no response, he prodded, “You’re invited for dinner, whenever you’re free. Weekends are best, since she’s on night rotation this month.” At Bucky’s quizzical look, he added, “She’s an ICU nurse.”
Bucky woolgathered for longer than Steve expected at the prospect of a home-cooked meal, then bowed his head. “Someone like that shouldn’t…” He frowned so hard creases dented the sides of his mouth. “Not with the likes of me.”
“Whaddya mean, the likes of you?” Steve struggled to temper his voice, all too aware of their nearby audience. “The guy who goes all Kevin Costner the minute I break a nail? Who plays crossing guard every morning so I can get to work in one piece? Who’s addicted to chocolate and jeans a size too small? My ma’s gonna love you. And her colcannon is to die for, so.”
Bucky ruminated in the direction of his lap for a long, long while, before saying, “Colcannon, huh?”
“Also makes a mean coddle,” Steve elaborated, in a hush tone. “Adds a little stout to the broth.”
“That sounds…” Bucky shook his head, violent. “I gotta talk to Sam first.”
Steve desperately wanted to know who this Sam was, so much that he risked being a little nosy, a teensy bit rude.
“Is that your partner?” He barely kept the whine out of his voice. “Happy to have him along.”
Bucky let out a strangled laugh. “No, nothing… Not like that.” Then, after a beat. “He’s helping me reintegrate.”
Steve didn’t pry, but it was a close thing. This wasn’t the time, or the venue, or the circumstances—part of why he’d promised his ma he’d extend Bucky this invitation. He maybe hoped a different environment might draw him out.
“Okay.” Steve reached across Bucky’s lap to catch and hold his flesh hand. It hurt his heart to see how the gesture startled him. “Offer’s open, whenever you’re ready.”
“That’s…” He swallowed hard. “Steve…”
“No pressure.” Steve gave his hand an extra squeeze. “I mean it.” Then, because he was himself, aka a relentless son of a bitch. “You’ll just be missing out on the best apple cake in all creation.”
Bucky must be onto that side of him, or was maybe just a good judge of character, because he snorted. “Apple cake, huh?”
“With candied walnuts as big as your eye and maple frosting.”
He considered this for a while, sour expression somewhat undermined by the glint in his eyes. “Not enough chocolate.”
It was Steve’s turn to scoff. “One-track stomach.”
Bucky didn’t bother to disagree.
With extreme reluctance, Steve untwined their hands so he could get back to coloring in the menu board. Though Bucky kept tight focus on his technique, Steve couldn’t help but feel him retreat to some inner landscape. He hoped upon hope that it was filled with flowers, and not some of the horrors his own mind inferred from Bucky’s storm-cloud aura.
Against the backdrop of the shop-bros’ boasts and Darcy’s aggressive flirtation, Steve and Bucky sat together in silence, close, content, each unknowingly filling a void in the other’s life with their presence.
***
After midnight. Old Astoria, Queens.
Bucky stalked across the still-toasty blacktop roofs of a row of apartment buildings, feet swimming in his combat boots. Humidity had not abated in the absence of the sun, the city as rubbery as an over-poached egg. The hazy atmosphere rose so high it swathed the moon in a gauzy sheet, which helped to conceal him as he dropped into the back alley between rows of tidy brick houses, but offered no other form of assist. Decked in his usual all-black stealth gear—jeans, hoodie, gloves, face-guard—Bucky outwardly appeared as mission-ready as ever. Except apparently this mission required that he be drenched from head to toe in enough moisture to water an entire greenhouse of plants.
The body had its ways of wreaking perpetual vengeance upon him, and this was one: perspiration. Of the five most degrading excretions he now produced en masse, sweat came in a solid fifth. What they didn’t tell you about reanimating after the better part of seventy years frozen in a cryogenic tube could fill every gulag in Siberia. Being an actual, functional, productive human was about one-part torture to three parts other stuff he hadn’t quite figured out yet.
Though reacquainting himself with hunger pangs, muscle cramps, headaches, drool, shit, piss, vomit, nocturnal emissions, and the twisted feeling he got in his chest whenever he talked to Steve was worth it when the alternative was being a mind-controlled assassin for a fascist syndicate, that didn’t mean Bucky had to, like, do cartwheels over it. Sam always said he had a right to feel things, and he felt decidedly mid about independence and consciousness most days.
Except for when he was with Steve. Like a ray of scintillating sunlight you knew would burn you something awful after prolonged exposure, but you still couldn’t resist basking in its luster, Steve’s presence evaporated the shadows that shroud Bucky. He felt warm in ways he didn’t remember ever having been before—down to his bones. Deeper, even. A firecracker lodged in his chest, sparkling and singeing in equal measure, until all Bucky knew was light.
It confused the hell out of him.
A surprising number of people lounged on their back porches for such a late hour, some chatting, some smoking, some sleeping on an inflatable mattress to escape the furnace of their bedroom. It made progress more difficult, but not impossible. Bucky had skulked through remote villages during high holidays, festivals in major cities. Or so he reminded himself as he attempted to blend in with fence planks, to slip by the gaps between unnoticed.
It must have worked a trick, because he managed to sneak past Wilson as he stared out into the void of his sister’s yard, the moonlight too weak to illuminate the spaces between the fruit trees that lined the back fence. Bucky slipped around to the side of the house—every squish in his boots setting his teeth on edge—scaled up an ivy trellis, crawled across the roof, then flipped down to land right in front of Wilson, who let out a high-pitched scream that would have made Laurie Strode proud.
Some things in Bucky’s second life were very, very satisfying.
“Motherfucker!” Sam spat, quite literally at his feet. He indulged in a rare cigar, the smoke from which grayed out the air around him, except for the twin fires of outrage that were his eyes. “That is the last motherfucking time you pull that stunt, Barnes.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
“How do you even know I’m here?”
“Do you really want me to answer that question?” Bucky drawled, as he flipped his hood down and stowed his face guard.
He took point, leaning against the strip of brick on the outer kitchen wall. Inside, he heard someone—probably Sarah—humming along to the radio, the occasional buzz of a sewing machine. A swell of relief accompanied the memory that Sam had once told him she made all the boys’ clothes, since they were still young enough not to complain about it.
Maybe he wasn’t half-bad at this human thing after all.
“What I would prefer,” Sam underlined the word in triplicate, “is some warning. A text message. A phone call. Hell, I’d take smoke signals at this point.”
Bucky scoffed. “In this weather?” He really, really, really wanted to yank off his hoodie and wring it out over the grass. Thank fuck the fashy scientists who ‘enhanced’ him had the foresight to blight body odor in their super-stealth assassin. “My luck, I’d torch an entire block.”
“Except you don’t do that kind of shit anymore.”
“Drug dealer neighbors are testing those boundaries.” Bucky may have reallocated their pot stash to the patients of a palliative care facility. Several times. “But no. Now I get creative.”
Sam blew out a smoke-laced breath. “I do not want to know.” He ambled over to the screen door, paused with it half-open, his way of letting Sarah know they had a guest without spooking her. “Beer, lemonade, or julep?”
“Surprise me.”
“Peach cobbler?”
Bucky did a quick stomach eval. His digestion still plagued him during times of stress. “Next time, thanks.” Which was as good of a way as any to signal to Sam that the problem was serious.
He nodded sagely. “I still question your methods, but I’m glad you came.” He disappeared into the house, probably to politely suggest to Sarah that she go to bed.
They had a love-hate relationship, him and Wilson, in that they loved to hate on each other, but otherwise got along fine. Sam had been the only one to earn his trust, rather than assume it, after Bucky broke his programming for a final time, staggering into the VA clinic where Sam worked with a drive full of uber-secret HYDRA files and a case of dehydration that would have killed a normal man. Sam stood by him through all the S.H.I.E.L.D. bullshit that followed—and there had been mountains of it—convincing the King of Wakanda to pay for Bucky’s legal team and to rehab him in Birnin Zana, and this after HYDRA compelled him into an assassination attempt on the King’s himself.
He owed Sam a debt he could never repay, not in twenty serum-enhanced lifetimes.
Didn’t mean he’d ever call first, though.
“I said no on the cobbler,” Bucky groused halfheartedly, when Sam reemerged balancing two plates and two beers.
Sam snorted. “These are both for me for putting up with your ass.”
It did smell delicious. Bucky’s mouth began to water, because his fucking body knew no quit when it came to pumping out some gross substance. To add insult to injury, his stomach gurgled.
He downed his beer in three gulps.
“Knew I should have brought the cooler out,” Sam sighed. He darted back in to fetch it because he really was a stellar guy.
Which reminded him…
“You still thinking of taking up the shield?” Bucky inquired, after Sam stowed the cooler by his side to better draw Bucky into the chair beside him. Up to his old tricks, as usual.
Bucky was very pro-Sam replacing Isaiah Bradley as Captain America, despite some selfish concerns about losing access to him for long periods of time. Long before the fall that had stolen his left arm and his liberty for over half a century, Bucky served as one of the Howling Commandos, Isaiah’s team during WWII.
In the race to create the first super-soldier, the US experimented on unsuspecting Black soldiers, claiming to give them a tetanus shot. When they saw what Isaiah, the lone survivor, could do, they blackmailed him into becoming Captain America, a figurehead in a star-spangled uniform they’d send on impossible missions, ones he wasn’t meant to survive. To add insult to injury, they gave Isaiah a team of ‘minders’, not trusting him to remain allegiant with the country that experimented upon him without his consent.
Duh, Bucky thought to himself. One of his few recovered memories was of those first fraught days, the Commandos attempting to prove to Isaiah that they believed in him, that they were happy to follow his lead. Not unlike how Sam struggled to convince Bucky he wasn’t a threat so many years later.
The symmetry appealed to his cyborg brain. Not to mention that Sam was the worthiest candidate by far.
“Now how the hell do you know about that?” Sam shook his head in that way of his, unsure whether to be impressed or scandalized. He normally settled on a bit of both.
“I got my ear to the ground.”
“Thought you were done with all that.”
“Better safe than sorry when it comes to the Nazi fucks who want to make you their personal death robot,” Bucky reminded him. “And I’m not just talking about HYDRA.”
And Sam must have been negotiating with Isaiah, because he sighed, long and loud. “Fair enough.” But in classic therapist fashion, he turned the tables on him. “What do you think about it?”
“Big shoes to fill.” Bucky conceded that there probably weren’t any snipers lurking on the neighboring roofs, with the exception of the doofus S.T.R.I.K.E. team down the block it had been child’s play to avoid, and meandered over to take a seat beside Sam. Also to get himself another beer. “They’re gonna want a dog and pony show. Turn you into a puppet, excuse being you don’t got the serum.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Sam griped.
“You’re the only one who can carry Isaiah’s legacy into the future.” Bucky permitted himself a tiny smile at Sam’s shocked expression. “You’re strong enough to tell them where to go and how to get there. Do things on your own terms. Recruit your own team. Not just soldiers and spies, but lawyers, journalists, community activists.”
Sam raised a skeptical brow. “This you signing on?”
“I’m done fighting,” he murmured, sometimes unable to believe it himself. “But if you’re asking if I’ve got your back… with fucking bells on, Wilson. You need me, you call.”
“Or I could just show up at your apartment unannounced in the middle of the goddamned night.”
“Like to see you try.” Bucky’s smile broadened half an inch. His stomach grumbled dyspeptically—fuck, did I forget dinner again? “That cobbler still spoken for?”
“Not even a little bit.” Sam slapped him on the back, stood up. “Lemme make you a sandwich. Go down easier.”
“Hold the hot sauce,” Bucky shouted after him.
“That’s not something a man forgets after last time,” Sam shouted back, laughter in his voice.
It took Bucky the whole sandwich, the accompanying sour cream and onion chips, and most of the cobbler to say the thing he’d come to say. Sam waited him out, infinite patience in full effect, nursing a lemonade to keep his wits about him.
“I made a friend.” Bucky whispered as if divulging a state secret.
“No shit!” Sam’s grin went full-on fireworks display. “Lemme guess: disgruntled postal worker. No, no, wait… geriatric wallflower librarian. Cranky guy who came to fix your plumbing? Tell me when I’m getting warm—”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Excuse you.” Sam scoffed. “The rule is, if you interrupt a dude in the middle of the night, he can make fun of you all he wants.”
“Spitfire barista,” Bucky blurted, before he chickened out. “Baristo? Anyway. Steve.”
Sam must have heard the reverence in his voice, because he stopped with the teasing. “Good guy?”
“Yeah.” Bucky bit his lip so he didn’t smile too wide, give the entire game away. Especially the parts he hadn’t even admitted to himself yet. “He didn’t judge. Not once. Even when…” He signed the word for ‘quiet’. “He knows ASL.”
“Sounds like a keeper.” He clinked his lemonade glass against Bucky’s beer bottle. “So what’s the problem?” When Bucky didn’t answer straightaway, he added, “And let me remind you of another rule, one that involves the words ‘I don’t deserve’.”
“It’s not that,” Bucky assured him.
“Then what?”
He blew out a gusty breath. How do you solve a problem like Steven Grant Rogers? Especially when you shouldn’t even know his full name, address, date of birth, and all the other sundry details of his life, which he has not told you about or given you permission to know.
Sam, because he really was the best, understood that Bucky hadn’t found a way into talking about it yet.
“Tell me about him,” he encouraged. “How did you meet?”
“He works at a café at the woo-woo place across from the shop.”
“Wanda and Pietro’s digs?” Sam whistled. “Fancy.”
“He’s not like that though,” Bucky hastened to reassure him. “He actually kind of hates the place. And the customers. And anyone not on the café staff.”
Sam chuckled, fond. “Sounds like the two of you are kindred spirits. No wonder you get along.”
Bucky ignored that, too lost in attempting to explain Steve. “He’s like a raging ball of stubborn and righteous indignation. Goes on these rants. Wears T-shirts with political slogans. Always giving the finger to somebody. Got no sense of self-preservation, despite being 5’5” and skinny as a rake, with enough scars that maybe he enjoys being a punching bag, intimidating to exactly no one.” Bucky let out an indignant huff. “The douchebags who bring their cars to the shop have almost run him over multiple times, but no matter how many times he sprains his damn ankle, he still crosses at the same intersection every single morning.”
“Ah.” Sam’s grin turned too mischievous for Bucky’s liking. “There it is.”
“There what is, Wilson?”
“Nothing.” He did not buy Sam’s innocent act for one solitary second. “So he has the personality of a feral cat, but he was kind to you?”
“H-He…” Bucky stammered. When it came to Steve, he just couldn’t find the words, and he didn’t know why. “He took the time to…” He swallowed hard; it was difficult even now to admit how impossible some normal things seemed to him. “I didn’t know what kind of coffee I liked. He made me these samples, but not… So I could figure it out on my own.”
“Smart,” Sam acknowledged.
“He doesn’t push,” Bucky continued, feeling like he was on firmer ground. “Everyone else pushes, even if they don’t mean to. Steve just… accepts.”
Sam nodded, approval in his expression. “How you doing on communication? You said he knows ASL?”
“Yeah.” Bucky laughed, rueful. “I’m still me, though. That’s part of… I don’t know what comes next. What do we do now?”
“You mean you want to see him outside of work?”
“Like real friends,” Bucky agreed.
He turned thoughtful. “Has he given you any indication he’d be open to that?”
And there it was. The final frontier. The invitation that would be innocuous to most people but to Bucky had gone off like a landmine.
“His ma asked me for dinner,” Bucky confessed in a mumble. “He’s been talking to her about me, I guess.”
“He is smart,” Sam commented cryptically. “All right, walk me through it. Scariest to least, what’s triggering you about the situation?”
“Everything,” Bucky admitted to his empty cobbler plate, still precariously balanced on his lap. “New person. Unmonitored environment. Food stuff. Social interaction. Not wanting to give away too much. Not wanting to fuck it up.”
Sam absorbed this with his usual meditative expression. One of the things Bucky appreciated most about him was how well he listened, no objections, no expectations.
“Have you told him anything about your circumstances?” Sam asked, gentle.
“Only that I’m reintegrating.”
“Same as any vet. Got it.” Sam ruminated for longer than Bucky thought he would. “What’s your gut tell you?”
“Too soon.”
He didn’t hate the pride in Sam’s smile. “I agree. I think you’ve got to build a bit more of a foundation between you before you’ll feel safe in that kind of hostile environment with him as your only backup.”
Bucky blew out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. He doubled over, head between his knees, relief crushing his chest. He wanted so much, so much to be a person, a real person who’d grown roots in this century, not just a transplant who rotted in unfamiliar soil. But it would take time and perseverance to revivify the dried-out husk HYDRA had left him.
“Good instincts.” Sam rubbed slow circles into his back. “I’m glad you came to me. You’re learning your limits, when to ask for help. I’m proud of you.”
“Don’t gotta lay it on so thick though,” Bucky croaked as he lifted himself back into a seated position.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Sam admonished. “You need more than a little TLC, Barnes. Credit to this Steve of yours that he seems to sense that and is trying to do something about it. And I do think eventually you’ll need to let him. But you’re not there yet. We gotta do a little bond-strengthening before all that.”
“How do I do that?” Bucky grumped, never a fan of vulnerability.
“I’mma throw that one back to you.” He imitated lobbing a baseball. “What feels like a low-pressure thing the two of you could do outside of work? Or maybe not even completely outside, but before, after, lunch break—”
“That.” Bucky suffered a dizzy spell, the relief was so potent to have come up with a reasonable compromise. “We could take our bento boxes to… to…”
“The park?” Sam’s grin returned full force. “I like it. Only a block away. Time limit. Privacy. Ticks a lot of boxes.” Concern began to limn Sam’s features. “How you feeling about it?”
“Like an asshole who has a freak out about asking someone to have lunch with him.” Bucky savored the bluntness, his favorite defense mechanism, the equivalent of pressing on a sore tooth. “I’m such a fucking mess, Sam, I—”
“Nope.”
“But you—”
“Nuh-uh.” Sam’s scowl could be hella intimidating when he wanted it to be. “You know the rules.”
Bucky shut his eyes, attempted to find his center. Maybe he should sign up for classes at MCUW.
Whenever hell froze over.
“There’s something else,” Bucky blurted before he could stop himself, the feelings viscous, bubbly, frothing out of his mouth, just another one of his goddamn excretions. “I think… I might…”
“Mmm-hmm.” Sam anchored his grip at the base of Bucky’s neck, steady, strong. “All the more reason you should take your time. You do not want to fuck this up.”
Bucky glared at him, weirdly outraged. “You know?”
“Don’t lose your shit, but it’s kinda obvious.” Sam’s grin turned shit-eating in all the wrong ways. “The things your face does when you talk about him. Man, I didn’t think you even had that range of expression.”
“I—” The protest died in Bucky’s throat. His face did things when he thought of Steve?
“Please try and remember that this? Meant to be exciting.” Sam slapped him on the back, then reached for another beer, implying the session would soon be over. “And robots only catch feelings in sci-fi movies. So if you ever start doubting you’re a real boy? Just have a little chat with your dick about it.”
Bucky rolled his eyes so high it almost gave him vertigo. “You are such a fucking asshole.”
“Hey, you came to me.” He winked in Bucky’s direction. “Loverboy.”
End of Chapter 2
Chapter 3: Bear Hug
Summary:
Annoyed at being interrupted for the umpteenth time that hour, Bucky glared up to see Darcy pushing a rolling cart across the lot, hips swinging in the va-va-voom way that reminded him so much of 1940s starlets. He’d been rigging up a particularly tricky custom headlight setup on a 1971 Ford Mustang. The owner had requested ‘bisexual lighting’, a fun challenge despite the fact that Logan had to explain the expression to him. It had led Bucky down a fascinating internet rabbit hole, full of so many useful tips he’d filled three pages in his blue notebook. Knowing that their client was likely queer also motivated him to deliver beyond her expectations, which he could not do if the rest of the shop collected around the rolling cart like pigs to the trough.
Notes:
Friends, I'm not ready for summer to be over (even though it officially ends in a couple of weeks.) I love the fall, don't get it twisted, but winters here in Canada are not for the faint of heart. I need more sunshine in my life.
As does our dear beloved Bucky Barnes. His feelings, for a certain mouthy blond but also in general, are returning with a vengeance, and he is struggling to keep his head above water. Lucky for him, he happens to be among some of the best people ever, capable and kind and devoted to him. A rough chapter for him, but Bucky lands in a good place. Steve, well, he's just trying to hang on for the ride. Not letting Bucky go anytime soon. (You'll get the puns I just used by the end of the chapter, pinkie swear.) I also got to write two characters I had never written before this chapter, so that was fun.
Also, please note the updated total chapter count. I've finished writing this. Thank you all so much for your kudos and comments. It has been so exciting to read your responses, and it touches my heart to know you love these two as much as I do. Take care and enjoy the sunshine! <3
Chapter Text
Chapter 3 – Bear Hug
When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade, or so the saying goes. Bucky had no idea what to do when life gave you banana splits, or fudgy brownies, or golden opportunities. Especially when one practically fell into his lap. The phrase “What would Wilson do?” wasn’t exactly something he was eager to get tattooed on his ass.
“Special delivery!” a familiar voice sung out.
Annoyed at being interrupted for the umpteenth time that hour, Bucky glared up to see Darcy pushing a rolling cart across the lot, hips swinging in the va-va-voom way that reminded him so much of 1940s starlets. He’d been rigging up a particularly tricky custom headlight setup on a 1971 Ford Mustang. The owner had requested ‘bisexual lighting’, a fun challenge despite the fact that Logan had to explain the expression to him. It had led Bucky down a fascinating internet rabbit hole, full of so many useful tips he’d filled three pages in his blue notebook. Knowing that their client was likely queer also motivated him to deliver beyond her expectations, which he could not do if the rest of the shop collected around the rolling cart like pigs to the trough.
“I got drinks, I got eats, I got snacks,” Darcy drawled in her smoky voice.
Her visits had become a daily affair ever since the afternoon they’d sampled the summer specials, her and Luke circling each other like dogs in heat. As far as Bucky had overheard against his will, they’d gone out on several dates so far—they had, in Luke’s words, “sealed the deal”—so he wasn’t sure why Darcy bribed Guru Gamora into letting her deliver their lunches, aka an excuse to flirt with Luke in public for an hour.
But it exasperated him nonetheless. Especially since he had yet to enact Operation Park Lunch. Bucky wanted someone to bring him chocolatey treats on the regular. To moon over him in the break room. To perch on the hood of whatever car he worked on, brushing his dark-gold bangs out of his eyes as he ranted about the latest jackass to ask for a drink off the secret menu the Fiend didn’t have. To give him a long goodbye hug after Bucky escorted him safely back across the street. (Bucky’s imagination didn’t linger too long on how Steve managed the devil’s crosswalk in the first place.)
“Hey, mama.” Luke loped into Darcy’s space, blocking out the sun. He had a good foot on her, close to the same height difference as him and Steve—
“Hey, yourself.” Darcy grabbed his arms and locked them around her waist. Bucky wasn’t jealous. He was not. “Got that creole rice dish you like.”
“I’m more interested in if you’ve got a minute.”
“For you?” Darcy batted her eyelashes up at him. “I’ve got sixty.”
Bucky only barely resisted the urge to puke all over the circuit board in front of him. The rest of the shop bros—anyone who spent any kind of time with Steve ended up calling them that, even if he was one of them—fetched their orders and retreated to the picnic table unfortunately located right behind Bucky’s work station, in case he got any ideas about having a moment’s peace. To add insult to injury, Luke and Darcy sauntered off in the direction of the park, hand in hand, Luke carrying their lunches, Darcy expertly balancing their drinks like the queen barista she was.
He scowled over at the bento box Thor had deposited on the edge of his table, out of the line of fire. It smelled stupid delicious. Someone had added an extra order of brownies, a hand-drawn black dahlia sketched over the box’s seal.
Fuck my life.
As if his day couldn’t get much worse, the bros then began their ritual display of toxic masculinity.
“Luke is one lucky guy,” Logan sighed. “That Darcy is a Muhammad Ali-level TKO.”
Thor tisked. “You had your chance, my friend.”
“This wee one here?” Volt scoffed. “No lass gets hot for someone whose eyes stand at breast-level.”
“But what a view, am I right?” Drax quipped, to a chorus of loud cackles.
Bucky googled Muhammad Ali to keep from gouging his own eyes out. He ended up doing a deep dive on the history of boxing as related to the civil rights movement, then on local amateur clubs. He wondered if Steve liked to watch people getting punched in the face as much as he did. He jotted it down in his portable notebook as a potential social activity, along with “Wrestling? Jujitsu? Muy Thai?” MMA, he thought, might trigger too many flashbacks.
Before Bucky knew it, someone cleared their throat. He glanced up to find Darcy standing in front of his work station, Cheshire cat smirk in full effect. Bucky darted a look at the clock; he’d lost an hour to his pugilistic daydreams.
“You haven’t touched your brownies,” Darcy pointed out.
Bucky scrambled for a reason, came up with the most obvious. “Too pretty. Don’t want to ruin it.”
She nodded sagely, as if she heard that kind of dumb excuse all the time. With expert skill, Darcy flipped the box over, snicked the bottom open, then extracted the brownies. She flattened the box so that the drawing remained intact before slipping it over to him.
“There you go.”
“I…” His brain once again picked the perfect moment to short-circuit. “Thanks.”
“My break’s over in five.”
“Uh, sure.”
“I went first.”
Bucky blinked twice. Then again. Still couldn’t figure out what she meant. “Okay.”
She craned around, pointed up at the Fiend. “Employee terrace in ten.” She winked at him, walked backwards toward the garage door. “Enjoy the view.”
Bucky gaped at her until she disappeared into traffic, the rolling cart enough of an obstacle to justify jaywalking. The clang of a dropped wrench startled him into action. He jumped up, scrambled to clean his station. He shelved the circuit board, stowed the extra brownies in a sealed container, and grabbed his bento box, unimpressed with the way his flesh hand shook.
You know him, he reminded himself, a mantra he clung to when anxious. You know him.
By the time Bucky stalked out into the sundrenched lot, Steve was just settling into the lone chair on the employee terrace, his lunch balanced on his lap. Bucky didn’t want to startle him into a spill, but needs must. He whistled.
Steve’s hawkish eyes zeroed in on him immediately, smile so bright Bucky wished he remembered his shades. He waved, stupidly. Why Steve had this brain-cell melting effect on him—more than the usual—should probably be studied by scientists who didn’t want to take over the world.
“Park?” he signed, defaulting to the one word that blared through his mind.
“Great idea!” Steve’s smile stretched even wider, shined even brighter, scorching Bucky through. “Be down in a sec.”
The next few minutes passed in a blur. Bucky had lost time before, but this was next-level dreamtime. Somehow, he found himself lounging in the shade of a tall tree, bento box cradled in his metal hand, chopsticks in the other, Steve talking animatedly beside him about Bucky didn’t even know what. Well, ranting, per usual. He didn’t remember how they got from the MCUW building to the park, how they chose this spot, if he greeted Steve like a functional human being. Knowing Steve, he may very well have emerged from the building in full rant and not let up for the entire walk, but they had crossed multiple intersections during which Bucky had been nearly catatonic, which could not stand.
Steve’s safety came before all.
“Hey.” Steve nudged his boot with one of his turquoise sneakers, the ones with the star that he seemed to have in several shades. “You okay?”
Bucky focused in on him. Horrible idea—his eyes were really, really blue.
“N-No.” A problem couldn’t get resolved without honesty, Sam had taught him, but ooh, his stomach roiled at the prospect of Steve’s anger being directed at him. “I… Did I say hi to you just now?”
To his surprise, Steve blushed. “You would have, if I’d let you get a word in. Sorry, it’s been a day.”
Bucky shook his head, dismissive. “Did we have problems crossing the street?”
“Not after you basically threatened to punch a hole through some egomaniac biker’s engine.” Steve appeared more awestruck than upset about that turn of events. “Making you my personal hero.”
Which helped elucidate things for Bucky. The Soldier had come out. Events surrounding his Soldier episodes tended to get a little foggy in the aftermath. Good news: the Soldier would likely do everything in his power to protect Steve. Bad news: now he had to tell Steve about the Soldier.
Steve got ahead of him by frowning. “Are you… Did it trigger your PTSD?”
And Bucky must have a horseshoe up his ass today or something, because the powers that be kept lobbing him softballs he could easily knock out of the park. “Yeah. Sorry, I—”
“Don’t you dare apologize.” The frown deepened. “I’m not asking you to talk about it, but if you could give me an idea of what symptoms to look out for, what works best for you in terms of recovery, then I’ll do better about handling it next time.”
Wait. What?
“Steve, it’s not your problem to handle.”
“The hell it’s not.” And, ooh, there was that righteous fury that did things to Bucky’s insides. “You suffered everything that you suffered, and I’m just over here yapping like a dumbass while you’re having a full-on blackout episode. That’s what happened, isn’t it?”
“Sort of.” Bucky worked his jaw, unsure of how to right this ship without accidentally capsizing them. “It’s complicated.”
“Tell me what to look out for next time,” Steve insisted, in that adamant but heartfelt way of his. “What do you need now? Some water? Or juice? To lie down? Anyone you want me to call?”
“No, I…” Do not tell him you don’t have anyone. “Lying down would be nice, but after we finish eating.”
“Right, right, you should eat.” Steve gestured toward his bento box. “You okay with everything in there? It’s spicy today. You want my vegan hush puppy? There’s no peppers in it.”
“I’m good,” Bucky reassured him, scooping a bit of vinegary slaw into his mouth to prove it. “Could… could you keep talking? It’s grounding to hear your voice.”
Steve chuckled, fond. “Sure, Buck. You want an endless monologue, you came to the right place.”
Afterwards, they lay in the soft grass, gazing up at the peerless blue sky through the canopy of leaves. Steve seemed to intuit that Bucky needed quiet, lulled into his own contented trance by the distant sounds of traffic and city life. Bucky listened to the whisper of Steve’s breath beneath all that, to the potent beat of his heart. The electric tingle of his proximity made him shiver, but Bucky couldn’t quite bring himself to reach for his hand. The outing hadn’t gone exactly as he’d hoped it would, but he still got the sense that they’d come to a new understanding of each other, and the fact that they could enjoy the silence together boded well—very well.
In Steve, Bucky had gained a new ally in the fight against the darkness. A good thing—the best thing—because a few weeks later, he found himself in full-on crisis.
***
Some days, Bucky reveled in his routine. A sense of order, of regimentation, of moral balance had been instilled in him at his mother’s table—it hadn’t taken a lot for HYDRA, and the US Army before them, to bring that out in him, hone it to their questionable purposes. A significant part of his recovery came after mapping the boundaries of this new world and his place in it, organizing both his thoughts and his activities. There was peace in knowing where you were meant to be, what skills you required, what tools you’d have at your disposal. Bucky chose to work with his hands precisely to give himself the necessary level of control.
Some days, no matter how strictly you followed your rites and rituals, your lists and graphs and timetables, no matter how many alarms you set for yourself, no matter how much excess energy you purged through strength and effort, ghosts haunted your every step.
They loomed behind the fogged glass of the shower door, summoned by the squeak of the showerhead when you didn’t switch to the bath tap in time. They lurked behind every overbright shop window, with their clipboards and stopwatches and trays of surgical instruments. They hovered around the open roof of the limo Thor and Volt customized, the shape of the extra-large seats with deluxe cupholders, the shiny copper color of the fresh paint job reminding him of… reminding him…
Some days the past had you by the throat, squeezing tighter and tighter with every breath.
Just like…
“Barnes!”
Bucky jolted back into himself. He squatted behind the bumper of a Firebird they’d painted to resemble an actual phoenix, holding the customized back bumper… well, the now-mangled remains of the customized (and expensive) back bumper in his exposed metal hand. His glove lay shredded on the cement floor. Worse, he had absolutely zero idea how he’d gotten out of bed after hours in nightmare hell, let alone how he’d gotten himself to the shop.
Fuuuuuuck.
“Hey, Barnes,” Luke called over from his station, sotto voce. “Thor needs a consult on that Cybertruck.”
Bucky stole a moment to do some breathing exercises, because today of all days he shouldn’t shortcut his self-care regimen, then stowed the bumper where none of his fellow bros tended to look. Probably not the worst day to hammer something back into recognition—but that workout would have to wait. He ambled out of the garage, studiously ignoring each and every HYDRA sniper perched around the lot, despite their sights being aimed directly at him, their rictus grins so menacing that venom dripped from their fangs.
He repressed the urge to bolt at his first sight of the car. It looked even more like the chair in motor vehicle form, a mobile urban torture chamber for Neanderthals who hadn’t yet embraced their masochistic streak. It made him want to rage-smash everything in the vicinity.
Instead, Bucky flicked his eyes in Thor’s general direction. “How can I help?”
“Mr. Killian—”
“This guy? You’re serious?” Aldrich Killian, 43, founder and CEO of Advanced Idea Mechanics, DOB 8/7/1973, 5’10”, 178lbs, history of childhood illnesses, recent recipient of a hair transplant, Botox, fillers, spray-tan—stop. Stop it. Focus. “I’d say pull the other hand, but he doesn’t have one.”
Thor frowned. “I assure you—”
“What, does he get along with the cars because he’s one of them?” Killian sauntered over to inspect Bucky’s arm. Because he’d forgotten to nab another goddamned glove, like a chump. “Is that why Stark says you’re the best? You got a cyborg?”
Expression thunderous and fists clenched into twin hammers, Thor rumbled, “I won’t tolerate that sort of talk, about anyone. Please take your business elsewhere.”
“How about for a million large?” Killian began to circle Bucky as if appraising a high-performance vehicle. “You take my business then, Fabio? You probably do well for yourselves here, but that kinda dough can take you to the next level.”
“You heard the boss,” Logan barked. The rest of the bros formed a wall beside Thor, arms across their chests, stares hard enough to pulverize diamond. “Pack it up.”
Instead of heeding that warning, Killian did the unthinkable. He got right in Bucky’s face.
“How about you, Mister Roboto?” He leered up at Bucky as he closed the space between them. “You happy being a grease monkey, or you aspire to more, more, more? The things I could do with a body like yours—”
Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t, he screamed inside, but no one ever heard him. He should have learned long ago—no one ever came for him. Bucky panted, panted, panted, a galling metronome in counterpoint to his racing heart. His skin crawled with ants at the man’s proximity. He grit his teeth near to cracking, his jaw muscles a spasming riot. If they can’t get the bit in, they won’t risk the chair—
Click. The sound of a thousand rifles aimed at his head. The sound of vibranium manacles being locked in. The sound of the switch flip before the pain blighted everything out. Ghosts of villains past surged toward him, swarmed around him, blocking out the sun.
Then someone seized him by his metal arm, and the blackness swallowed him whole.
*
A fuck of a day. A motherfuck of a day. Relentless, sweltering, and under-stocked—Steve’s least favorite trifecta. Thanks to some influencer who believed in coffee enemas or some shit, the special summer menu had gone kaboom on social media. Teen girls flocked in from out of state to get a pic holding the Iced Coffee Rosé like a rose between two palms, part of some cover challenge based on those sparkly vampire books Steve did not understand. Or tippling the Moonflower. Or sipping from the Savoy.
There were memes. Tribute songs. Theme costumes. Fan art. (Steve felt particularly salty about those, mostly because he didn’t think of it first.) They’d just about depleted the entire New England stock of floral syrup. Darcy had spent the better part of the previous afternoon sourcing more from Europe, mostly because a few imitators had sprung up in West Coast coffee shops, where they hoarded their stock like greedy little Gollums.
The only upside was that Wanda and Pietro were hella impressed. MCU-Dubs membership had gone up exponentially. Some of the juice bar staff had been repurposed to the Fiend to give Darcy, Steve, and their weekend warriors Yelena and Kate some much-needed help. They already pestered them about expanding the floral theme into fall and beyond, dangling raises in front of their noses.
But with the carrot came the stick of being busy all the damn time. No more lulls. No more leisurely hours before the morning rush. If they were lucky, their syrup stock lasted till three in the afternoon. Any free time Steve had was spent making yet another cutesy sign to let people know that when they ran out, they ran out, no complaints, no substitutes. No harassing the baristas.
So forgive him for being a wee bit cranky at being interrupted in the seventh hour of an endless rush.
The thing of it was, Steve hadn’t been expecting Bucky. Now that the Fiend was a proverbial hive of activity from open till close, Bucky stuck around until the machine revved up enough for Steve to pour him his drink after his usual morning escort, then made himself scarce. They’d managed a few park lunches when Steve could get the entire hour—beyond grateful that only three people could functionally fit behind the counter—but otherwise hadn’t seen much of each other save for the occasional ASL convo from the employee terrace.
And then, that morning, Bucky hadn’t shown up at all.
Steve couldn’t decide which was worse: Bucky being in such bad shape that he couldn’t get out of bed, or Bucky being so exasperated with Steve’s impossible schedule that he surrendered his protection detail. Both made him want to punch something until he’d slashed his knuckles to ribbons. He did not need this kind of stress, not today, not ever, but especially not when confronted by an entire busload of nepo babies from the Hamptons—literally, they had chartered Taylor Swift’s actual tour bus—demanding they substitute in agave syrup and scrutinizing the list of ingredients for unsustainable dyes.
Steve was about two seconds from biting all of their heads off like a Komodo dragon on meth, when he caught a flash of movement in his peripheral vision. He glanced over his shoulder mid-muddle and—
Oh. Oh, shit.
Bucky peered desperately in through the glass door to the employee terrace. He looked like a dog who’d been hit by a series of cars, but who’d somehow crawled his way out of the ditch he’d expected to die in. Agony etched deep into the lines of his face. His eyes resembled ponds that had frozen over. His metal hand, exposed to the elements, kept signing the word “Please” against his chest, as if a malfunction in its circuitry caused the order from Bucky’s brain to play on loop, as if this was his only way to self-soothe.
Steve just about fell apart at the sight of him. He was too goddamned exhausted for this. He’d made a hundred and seventy-eight drinks that morning alone. He wanted to slaughter celebutards for sport and/or sleep for a thousand years. Not to mention what Darcy was going to do to him if he even suggested—
“Shiiiiiit.” Too late. Darcy glanced at Yelena, who frothed oat milk like her life depended on it. The vociferousness of their silent conversation made him want to hurl. “Steve, we got this. Go.”
“What—”
“Take all the time you need,” she insisted. “Katie’s a half-hour out. She’s covering breaks anyway.”
“But—” He gestured to the throngs in front of them.
“We’re gonna run out by noon at this rate.” Darcy spared another glance at the window, softened further. “Get him some help. Somewhere safe.”
Maybe it was the fatigue, maybe it was her compassion, but Steve choked back a serious case of the verklempts. Then he remembered that he was a creature of spit and gristle and no quit, so he chugged the rest of his stashed coffee, refilled his water bottle, whipped off his apron, and beelined for the employee terrace.
Bucky appeared on the verge of collapse when he noticed Steve headed his way. He backed away enough to leave a sliver of space for Steve to exit, glaring at him all the while. The frost over his eyes had melted a bit, replaced by a cyclone of hurt.
“Hug,” he signed before Steve could say a word. “Hug, please.”
Everything about Bucky broke Steve’s heart.
“Of course, Buck,” he signed back. “But are you sure you’re okay with touch right now?”
“Need hug.” Bucky inched closer, so close Steve could see him vibrating with anguish. “Long hug.”
“Come here,” Steve whispered, then wrapped his arms around him.
Held him, held him, held him, tight as he could. Bucky let out an animal whine, dug his fingers into Steve’s sides, hard enough to bruise. Steve didn’t care. He pressed his cheek over Bucky’s left pec, listening to the frantic beat of his heart. Felt the gust of Bucky’s panicked breaths like a hot breeze down his neck. Still, he held him, an iron rod around which a colossus had bent, until Bucky began to teeter from side to side, still on the verge of collapse.
Steve steered him over to the lone chair. Guided him down, slow, slow, so that he avoided crushing it. Before Bucky could get his bearings, or think about protesting, Steve climbed into his lap and cradled his arms around him anew. Bucky buried his face in Steve’s neck, let out a pathetic little bleat. Steve massaged his flesh shoulder till the tension leeched out of him, till Bucky slumped against him like a rag doll made of sandbags. Or concrete.
He was about fifty percent sure he’d fallen asleep when Bucky rasped, “What did I do?”
“Kept me from decapitating a bunch of one-percenter spawn thereby saving my job and, let’s be real, my life as I know it, so thanks for that.” Steve guesstimated Bucky absorbed about a quarter of that.
“Did I hurt anyone?”
“I’m gonna go with no.” Steve sighed, forced himself to add, “But you only got here ten minutes ago, so I can’t pinkie swear or anything. Still going with no on instinct.”
Bucky let out a soft groan of dismay, pressed his flushed face against Steve’s skin. Despite the heat of the day, he welcomed the burn.
“What’s that squealing noise?” He felt Bucky’s brow furrow. A good sign, the being attuned to his surroundings thing. Meant he might be coming back to himself.
“Late-stage capitalism reaching its zenith.”
“This chair really sucks.”
“That, it does.”
Without warning, Bucky hoisted them both out of the chair, lurched over to the small rectangle of wall at the far side of the employee terrace, and huddled down against it. Only then did Steve register that the metal arm had been supporting his ass the whole time. The position also brought them face-to-face, more or less, Bucky slouched against the invisible rail to his left so that he couldn’t be seen from inside the café.
Steve shifted to the right, doing his best to shield him with his body, but stayed in his lap. For now, he told himself.
“Bad day?” He went back to rubbing Bucky’s shoulders, because he could.
Bucky huffed. “Understatement.”
“Can I get you anything?” Steve defaulted to service in the face of… whatever the hell this was. “Water? Coffee? A blanket?”
“Just you.”
Bucky shut his eyes. Steve watched him count through several breathing exercises, sometimes mouthing the numbers, sometimes falling into long minutes of silence. He sent a silent prayer to the universe that no one would interrupt them, all too aware of the chaos that waited behind the terrace doors and down below. He spared a thought to the shop bros across the street, but didn’t want to break his concentration on Bucky to check what might be happening over there.
Eventually, Bucky’s eyes fluttered back open, his blues stormier than Steve had ever seen them.
“Been seeing ghosts all day,” he confessed in a whisper. “In my peripheral. Happens sometimes, after…” He swallowed hard. “I was a prisoner of war, Steve.”
“Oh, Buck.” Steve pulled him into another intense, eternal hug. Thought about never letting go.
“Gotta get this out,” Bucky insisted, nudging Steve away so he could see his face. “They tortured me till… till I didn’t know my own mind. Took my arm. Controlled me. Wiped my memories. Made me their weapon.”
Everything Steve had, he devoted to being there for Bucky, to biting back the murderous, murderous rage that roiled inside him. Whoever hurt him like this was gonna pay. Steve would find a way.
“There’s other stuff I wanna tell you, but…” Bucky’s face crumpled. Steve shoved back in close, squeezed him tight enough to shatter bone in a lesser human. “You’re gonna think—”
“I’m gonna care about you,” Steve growled, adamant. “I’m gonna make it my life’s work to kill everyone who hurt you. You don’t gotta tell me anything you don’t want to, Buck, but I’m with you. I’m always gonna be with you.”
“Steve.” He hadn’t ever heard Bucky sound so small. It made him want to scream. “What happened to me, it’s crazy. You’re never gonna believe it.”
“Don’t tell me what to think, Bu—”
Lightning struck. Steve didn’t know how, didn’t know why it had never occurred to him before. He wrenched away from Bucky, far enough to reel his dog tags up, to flip them right-side up, to read them for the first time. To confirm the connection his brain had only just made after a flash of a long-forgotten memory from a history book.
His favorite book from when he was a kid, a history of the Howling Commandos.
And there it was, proof engraved in steel:
JAMES B. BARNES
32557038
“What the fuck?” Steve muttered to himself. He ran a finger over the embossed letters, over and over, but that did nothing to change them. “What in the ever-loving fuck?” It took him way too long to notice Bucky had gone completely rigid beneath him, as if bracing for a body blow.
And that, Steve would not let stand. He reached out, cradled Bucky’s heavy skull, so that he could peer into his solemn, handsome face—a bit more weathered, but still as youthful as the one in his picture book from long ago.
“How?” Steve exhaled more than said the word. “How are you here with me, Bucky Barnes? Didn’t you fall to your death off a train in 1945?”
The storm clouds cleared from Bucky’s eyes at that. “You know about me?”
Steve nodded. “My da was a history buff. I inherited all his books when he passed. Captain America: A Complicated Legacy. At War With The Howling Commandos. Cap And The Howlies: The True Story Of America’s First Avengers.” Steve snickered at himself. “Slept with that one by my bed every night.”
“They wrote books about us?” He wished he could bottle the innocence in Bucky’s expression and sell it as a party drug. “Cap, I figured, but us?”
“Think they left out a few chapters.” Steve stroked his thumbs along the edge of Bucky’s jaw, not ready to lose contact with the miracle that he was. “Nothing good, I bet.”
“No.” Bucky kneaded his cheek into Steve’s palm like a stray cat who’d finally found a gentle touch.
Steve fell, then, quicksilver-fast, Mariana Trench-deep, intensely, irrevocably, for the tender, haunted man in his arms—no blast out of an alpine train required. Just the vibranium-strong determination that no one, no one would ever hurt Bucky Barnes again. Not on Steve’s watch.
A commotion from inside caught his attention. The shop bros shoved their way through the throngs of hyperactive nepo babies, who reacted as expected when anyone dared to approach their person uninvited—claws out. Darcy attempted to intercede while Kate and Yelena continued to pump out drink after drink. Steve could tell she was about this close to getting her training whistle out.
“This place is a madhouse,” Steve grumbled under his breath. With reluctance, he shifted his hands down to Bucky’s shoulders. “Let’s get you out of here, huh? Somewhere quiet.” Steve evaluated their options for a tactical retreat, which… weren’t great. “Think you can climb over the rail? We can sneak around to the far door—”
“You really don’t…” A whole row of stitches knit Bucky’s brow. “You’re not scared of me?”
“Why would…” Steve grimaced. “Buck, you’re…” No, nope, too soon for any of that. “Let’s get you safe, then we can—”
Before Steve could complete that thought, the door burst open and three of the shop bros—Thor, Luke, and Logan—stomped out onto the employee terrace. The now overcrowded employee terrace, though that didn’t stop Steve from jumping to his feet and forming a petite human barrier between them and Bucky.
“Leave him alone!” Steve snarled. Since the best defense was a good offense, he stared them down with what he’d been told was his ‘disappointed mentor’ face. “I don’t know what you meatheads did to make him like this, but you should be fucking ashamed of yourselves.”
To his surprise, Thor looked nothing short of bewildered.
“I assure you, Mr… Fiend, we did nothing to trigger—”
Like the scrappiest lawyer in the public defender’s office, Steve leapt on that admission, “So you agree he was triggered?”
“One of our clients—”
“Color me shocked.” Steve scoffed. “What did he drive, a Beemer? A Humvee?”
“Cybertruck,” Luke offered, apologetic.
“Let me get this straight.” Steve crossed his arms over his chest and deployed his ‘maximum judgment’ expression. “You put a disabled vet in a situation where one of your brain-trust clients could shoot his mouth off without supervision, enough to trigger a panic attack? Hope you got a fortune squirreled away in one of those novelty tires, because any worker’s comp lawyer’s gonna take you to the cleaners.”
“Barnes, will you call off your pet Dachshund here?” Logan barked. Steve smugly noted that Logan had to stretch to his tippy toes to see over Steve’s head. “We just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
Thor hastened to add, “We banished Killian from the lot. Volt is on the phone with Ms. Potts as we speak, demanding a formal apology from Stark.”
“Wait, Aldrich Killian?” Steve’s chest heaved with outrage. “Extremis Aldrich Killian? King Tech Bro himself? The guy who wiped out the power grid across the Tri-State area and caused the deaths of thousands of unhoused—”
“Stark called in a favor,” Luke explained, appearing as exasperated as Steve. “Only found out who for when he rolled up.”
“You ever try getting rid of someone that power-hungry?” Logan seconded. “They don’t go quietly.”
Thor eyed Steve, wary. “That is no excuse, of course, for the poor choice I made in permitting him to speak to Friend Barnes as he did. In attempting to avoid a physical altercation, I did not act swiftly enough.”
It took everything Steve had not to spit fire. “You shouldn’t have—”
“Is he hurt?” Bucky hadn’t moved from the corner, legs tucked up to his chest. “D-Did I—”
“Hey, no, Barnes.” Luke crouched down to his level, though he stayed behind the barrier of Steve’s legs. “You bolted. That’s all. He was the one that grabbed you.”
“His arm,” Bucky bleated. Steve ached to go to him, but he didn’t want to give these troglodytes an inch. “Is it—”
“You should have broken it,” Logan growled. “I would have snapped it clean off, if I was you.”
“You ran straight here,” Luke continued. “Moved so fast, I don’t…” He cut his eyes over to Steve, cautious. “I don’t think anyone saw you.”
Something about the way he said it lit a tiny spark in the back of Steve’s mind, but he was too busy playing guard dog to give it his full attention. Except…
“Wait.” He turned around just enough to include Bucky in the conversation. “How did you get up here, Buck?”
Bucky went stone-faced, his default reaction when stressed. Shit.
“Please take the rest of the afternoon, Friend Barnes,” Thor insisted, an obvious distraction. “The week, if you need. I’ll make sure all your consultations are private from now on.”
When Bucky didn’t reply, Steve invaded Thor’s sightline, bulldog lock to his jaw and flint in his eyes.
“And?”
Thor shifted from foot to foot, restless. “And you’ll receive double pay for today.”
Steve raised an expectant brow. “And?”
Thor gulped. “And we’ll soundproof the door to your section of the garage, so that you never see or hear our clients.”
Steve nodded, satisfied. “That sound good to you, Buck?”
He let out a disbelieving huff. “The stones on you, Stevie.”
“I think that’s a yes.” Luke flicked his concerned brown eyes from Steve to Bucky, then back again. “You’ll take care of him?”
Steve arched his brow even higher, resisted the urge to bare his teeth. “What do you think?”
Logan snorted. “This one’s a keeper, for sure, Barnes.”
The shop bros muttered goodbyes and well-wishes, then trooped back into the café. Steve watched to make sure they reached the exit, tracking their progress through the nepo baby swamp, the vile waters of which had thinned out a bit, but hadn’t drained enough for Steve’s liking. They must have just run out of floral syrup.
A gesture from Darcy caught his attention. She mimed punching out, then shooed him off with a whisk of her hands.
Steve didn’t need to be told twice. He whirled around, only to find Bucky right there, kneeling before him. In an adorable mirror of the way Steve hugged him when they were both at full height, Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve’s middle, buried his face in Steve’s chest. Steve embraced the role of protector, carding his fingers through Bucky’s velvety locks of hair and latching a supportive arm around his back. They held there for long minutes, Steve quietly marveling at the fact of Bucky’s existence.
He wouldn’t push for the rest of his story, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t curious. Still, priorities.
“Can you hold tight here while I get my stuff from my locker?” He couldn’t resist a few more pets to Bucky’s head. “Then I will do you the honor of walking you home. For a change.” He couldn’t help a frown when Bucky tensed up. “Or we could stay out here till we both burn to a crisp.”
Bucky let out a soft groan. “Meet you down there?”
And Steve? Well, Steve already had some suspicions.
“If you’re gonna do that,” he drawled as casually as possible, “then I wanna see how.”
Another pointed huff, and Bucky let him go. “Get your stuff,” he said to the floor.
Steve also wasn’t born yesterday. “You gonna be here when I get back?”
“Yeah.”
He sped through his normal closing-out routine, both to avoid being devoured by the voracious gaggle of pouting proto-debutantes and to preempt Bucky second-guessing himself. Steve shouldn’t have worried—he found Bucky testing the buckles on this harness-like contraption he’d pulled out of literally nowhere, which he proceeded to fasten around Steve.
“What are you…” It was one thing to suspect and another thing to be rushed through preparations. “Wait.”
“Backpack on.” Bucky magicked a rubber band into being, which he used to tie the arms of Steve’s bag together across his chest without seemingly making a single knot. Then, he crouched in front of him. “Hop on.”
Steve gaped at him. “You want me to piggyback?”
Bucky rolled his eyes at his tone. “You’re too big to carry in front.”
“Carr—" Steve shook his head, violent. “We can sneak around to the far door.”
“You can,” Bucky insisted, with infinite patience. “If you want. I can’t do that kind of crowd. Not today.” There was no challenge in his tone, but Steve, being Steve, heard one all the same. “Meet you downstairs?”
“Like hell you will.”
Clamping himself to Bucky’s broad, muscled back was no hardship. Steve didn’t know what to do with his legs that avoided his—soft, from nerves—dick nudging into Bucky’s back, but Bucky had it covered, looping the harness around Steve in a snug but movable tether. Steve hugged his arms around Bucky for an extra layer of support, pressing his hands into his chest. Nothing wrong with providing a little comfort while they… whatever.
Steve knew, he did, what they were about to do, but he didn’t want to think about it.
“Shoulders.” Without warning, Bucky stood.
Steve went with him, feet leaving the ground. “Huh?”
“Arms around my shoulders, Stevie,” Bucky instructed as he demonstrated. “And whatever you do, do not let go.”
Before Steve could think of a smartass retort, they were off. Back to the corner, boot wedged in a crack in the brick, a leap off the top of the rail to propel them, then up the side of the building.
Up the fucking building.
“Holy shit, holy shit,” Steve panted, as they swung over onto the roof.
Before Steve could blink, Bucky zoomed across it, halting with a foot propped up on the ledge. The building behind MCU-Dubs was attached to it, but its roof was a story down.
“You okay?” Bucky checked in, a thin skein of tension over his voice. “I can bust into the stairwell. Drop you here.”
“Don’t you dare drop me.” Steve didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry or to scream. “We gonna jump or what?”
“Stubborn as a fucking mule,” Bucky grumbled, before launching them off the ledge.
Luna Park Cyclone, eat your heart out, Steve thought in order to stay sane. Because what in the ever-loving fuck was his life? He’d gone from the shift from hell, to hug therapy with a needful Bucky, to snarling at gym-bros who could snap him in half with their pinkie, to soaring over the rooftops of Bed-Stuy on his own personal rocket man.
Steve bit back the urge to whoop like an over-sugared teenager as Bucky leapt across the width of an entire two-lane street when they needed to change direction, skidding to a temporary stop to control his momentum before racing over the top of a pedestrian overpass. He swung from streetlamps and road signs to avoid the park, the closest Steve had ever felt to flying. After somehow landing on a tin roof without a sound, Bucky kept to the back of the row houses to avoid being seen from any nosy neighbors’ windows, flesh hand curled around Steve’s thigh to steer his weight in the right direction.
But under other circumstances…
Mind out of the gutter, Rogers, sheesh.
Steve felt almost disappointed when Bucky slid down a drainpipe with firefighter skill, landing them in a backyard—wait, this was home. Their dual salaries permitted Steve and his ma to rent the ground floor of a modest brownstone, with a small back balcony and access to the communal yard. He’d recognize the fruits of his ma’s gardening obsession anywhere—their balcony being more of a tribute to her green thumb than a place where, say, two people could relax for an evening. Bucky, unsurprisingly, had sprung for the yard as landing pad, a barren but empty space at this time of day.
The feeling only just started to return to his legs when Bucky deposited him on the edge of the ancient, graffitied picnic table their super considered deluxe patio furniture. He wasted no time in whipping the harness off both of them, rolling it into a ball and poof-ing it away like a souped-up David Blaine. Before Steve could properly recover from the ride of his life—non-sexual edition, or was it?—Bucky cowered away from him, walking into the shelter of the lone tree and refusing to meet Steve’s eyes.
“Hey, no fair, I can’t…” Steve tested out putting weight on his legs by setting them on the seat—nope. “Pins and needles are a bitch, Buck. Get back here.”
Bucky hunched into himself, all the comfort Steve’s hugs had given him lost in transit.
“I should go,” he signed. “I won’t—”
“If you say you won’t bother me again,” Steve groused—aloud, since Bucky wouldn’t look at him, “let me tell you right now, that’s really gonna bother me.” When Bucky didn’t so much as smirk, Steve added, “I thought we were going to your place?”
Bucky shrugged.
Steve got that message loud and clear. “This because I know you’re enhanced? Because, Buck, I do not give a single solitary shit about that. Your secret’s safe with me.”
He made a second attempt at putting some weight on his legs, managed to stand while supported by the table. Steve wasn’t proud—he would have crawled over to Bucky if need be. But he recognized how vulnerable Bucky felt in that moment, likely to bolt if Steve made the wrong move. Instead, he reached out.
“I don’t know about you,” he said in his most beseeching voice, “but I sure could use another of those hugs right about now.” Bucky twitched, violent, jonesing for affection. Steve had him on the hook all right. “How about it, Buck?”
“Steven, my darling, my sunshine, you might have told me you were bringing a guest home.”
Steve shut his eyes, said a silent prayer to whatever god his desperation might conjure into existence that his ma’s arrival wouldn’t ruin everything.
“Stay,” he signed to Bucky, all but pleading. Also to that same invented god that his ma hadn’t seen them swoop down the drainpipe. “Please, stay.” And to force the issue a bit. “Sorry, Ma. Thought you were on days this week.” An obvious lie, which her soft gray eyes clocked as soon as Steve turned to greet her. Also the fact that Bucky was making himself one with the trunk of their elm tree. “Buck walked me back. We both had kind of a rough day.”
“This is your Bucky, then?” Leave it to his ma to somehow produce a pitcher of lemonade out of thin air the instant she spotted them. And bless her instincts, she marched right over to Bucky and opened her arms after depositing the tray on the picnic table. “What a thrill to finally meet you.”
Bucky straightened, bashful smile in full effect. “The pleasure’s mine, ma’am.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he let her fold him into her arms, despite his ma being a couple inches shorter than Steve himself. Neither of them missed the soft whimper that slipped from Bucky’s lips as he nestled into her embrace. A sort of peace came over Steve, seeing his two favorite people together.
Something about Bucky just fit here with them.
“Please, dear, call me Sarah.” She maintained vigilant eye contact with him even after he broke away, her way of assuring him of her acceptance. “Well, lucky for the pair of you I put a roast on. Bucky, I assume you’ll be joining us for dinner?”
“I…” He saw it clear as day: the panic, the insecurity, the conflict. The soldier in Bucky calculated some way, any way to get out of it, despite the rest of him craving the company, the stability. In the end, he’d been raised too damn polite to say no. “Yes, ma’am. I’d appreciate it.”
“Call me Sarah, love,” his ma underlined. “Now have some lemonade. You both look like you’ve been climbing the walls.”
End of Chapter 3
Chapter 4: Glitter Bomb
Summary:
Bucky drifted into wakefulness, but didn’t open his eyes. His instincts prodded him to assess his surroundings, so he did, begrudgingly, having no memory of how he found himself somewhere so comfy. Snug. Warm. With the fluffiest pillows and the downiest blanket. Some folk singer humming away on the wireless nearby. No threats, no constrictions, no enemy to speak of—just the shuffling of slippers and the susurration of voices approximately eighteen feet away. Bucky didn’t know how he’d found himself in such a place, but he never wanted to leave. He let himself sink back into blissful…
Notes:
My lovelies, the subtitle of this chapter should be Bucky Barnes gets spoiled rotten, because our favorite traumatized curmudgeon gets a dose of what real kindness and tenderness feels like, and it rocks his little former brainwashed assassin world. Even though it is but a drop in a swimming pool after all the agony and dehumanization he went through, he reacts to it with... well, I guess that's for you all to find out. ;)
I had so much fun writing Sarah Rogers for the first time that she's going to be in my next fic, too. I hope upon hope that you can see how being her son shaped Steve into the man he is--and when the two of them band together to love someone? Well. *Well*.
Thank you all so much for your kudos and comments and cheers. They are the highlight of my week. <3
Chapter Text
Chapter 4 – Glitter Bomb
Soft, mmm.
Bucky drifted into wakefulness, but didn’t open his eyes. His instincts prodded him to assess his surroundings, so he did, begrudgingly, having no memory of how he found himself somewhere so comfy. Snug. Warm. With the fluffiest pillows and the downiest blanket. Some folk singer humming away on the wireless nearby. No threats, no constrictions, no enemy to speak of—just the shuffling of slippers and the susurration of voices approximately eighteen feet away. Bucky didn’t know how he’d found himself in such a place, but he never wanted to leave. He let himself sink back into blissful…
The smell roused him sometime later. What was that incredible smell? Like Sunday afternoons, family gathered around a long table, little girls giggling whenever a rumpled, bearded man glanced their way, eyes twinkling with mischief. And a woman, a woman in a burgundy dress, the same color as the wine, patting each of their heads as she set a plate in front of them, her fingers bunching in the curls at the back of his neck…
Thanks, Ma, someone with a high-pitched version of his voice said in his vision.
“Thanks, Ma,” he heard Steve say in the kitchen.
Oh, fuck.
Oh, fuck.
Bucky shot up into a seated position so fast, the room spun. Not that that would have helped him orient himself any—he didn’t recognize the cozy living room he found himself in, or the plush green couch, or the fuzzy blanket swaddled around his legs. He sank back into the pillows—the fluffy, fluffy pillows—before he could think better of it, concentrated on breathing in and out. The ceiling above had dainty egg-dart molding that wouldn’t have been out of place in an apartment of this size in the ‘30s, and so Bucky counted the little egg shapes and listened to the clink of utensils and tried not to lose his shit at his first memory of his family in over seventy years.
“Hey, sleepyhead.” Steve brushed cool fingers over Bucky’s forehead, pet over his hair in a mirror of the action from his memory. Settled down on the slip of space between Bucky and the cushion edge, gaze fond as it took in Bucky’s face. The corner of his mouth twitched—Steve fought not to show his distress.
When he had learned to read Bucky so easily was yet another thing that had slipped through the cracks in his memory. The cracks being the size of valleys, this was hardly a surprise.
“H-How long?” Bucky rasped, throat thick from disuse.
Not from screaming for once, he realized, or Steve would have woken him much earlier.
“Just a couple hours.” Steve also didn’t need to be told Bucky blanked on the details. “We were sitting under the tree when you started drooping. Dead on your feet. Lucky for me, didn’t take much to convince you to come inside. Otherwise, you’d be bunking in the garden.”
“Wouldn’t-a minded.”
“Figured,” Steve chuckled. “But my ma would never have forgiven herself. ‘Sides, everyone needs a little spoiling now and then.”
Those nimble artist’s fingers resumed their gentle carding through his hair. Bucky couldn’t find it in himself to disagree.
“Did I dream?” Not what he wanted to ask, but Steve somehow heard the real question anyway.
“Don’t think so.” His lips curled into a smirk. “Snoring was pretty non-stop, so.”
Bucky scoffed. “Jerk.”
“Guilty.” Steve shrugged, mock-innocent. “Dinner’s about thirty minutes out. Ma thought you might want to take a shower or something?”
Steve’s fingers felt the tension in him immediately, starting stroking double-time.
Bucky fought to regulate his breathing. Can’t let any of my bullshit touch him. Not one single speck.
“Is there a bath?” he forced himself to ask.
“Mmm-hmm.” With a final, wonderful squeeze to his neck, Steve stood. “Come on, I’ll show ya.”
Bucky almost begged him back. Instead, he slowly emerged from his blanket cocoon, feeling a bit like a caterpillar who’d gotten a glimpse of the good butterfly life. He ambled along behind Steve, avoiding every angle that might expose him to the kitchen, and therefore to Sarah’s too-kind gaze, so much that before he knew it, he had an armful of towels.
“Dug out one of my da’s old rugby shirts.” Steve plopped it atop the pile. To Bucky’s eternal shame, it smelled freshly laundered. “Might be a bit snug, but Ma says it should fit. If not, we can try one of his bathrobes…”
“This works,” Bucky hastened to reassure him. Not that Steve seemed to be the one who needed reassurance.
“Anyway, temporary.” Steve gestured him into the small bathroom, but didn’t follow. “Drop your shirt and hoodie outside the door. We’ll give ‘em a wash.”
“Stevie, you don’t gotta—”
“Spoiling, remember?” And the bastard winked. He winked at him. “Whole mess of bath bombs in the cupboard there. Shampoo, conditioner, all the good stuff. Ma says to use anything you like. She gets tons of them. Grateful patients bringing in gift baskets and all.”
Bucky desperately wished he could pretend to understand. But, “Bath… bombs?”
Steve grinned from ear to ear. “Fill about half the tub, drop one in, you’ll see.” And now Bucky had to do it—like he said, bastard. “The glitter ones are my favorite.”
Bewildered, Bucky could only gape at him. “Why?”
“Because I’m queer AF, Buck.” He winked again. “Duh.”
*
The knock came way too soon. Way, way, waaaayyyy too soon.
When he came into this world, Bucky may have been given a cosmology by his parents and their traditions. Likely, he thought, though his memory provided only blurry, abstract images: a tall candle in a window, the threadbare cover of a massive gold-flecked tome, a silver tassel. Now, after everything he’d been through, Bucky didn’t believe in a deity or a force or even the astral plane with all his ancestors like in Wakanda. After decades of endless, excruciating pain, after losing every last scrap of himself, after witnessing evil on a scale that few could even fathom, the only thing Bucky believed in was human fallibility.
But, boy, had he found himself a little slice of heaven in the Rogers’s tub.
He’d gone for the glitter because he knew it would make Steve smile. What he hadn’t expected was to be transported to another dimension, one where everything was beautiful and nothing hurt. Silken waters poached his skin a beguiling pink. His speckled knees emerged like ice cubes in a sea of absinthe—fitting, since the bomb he’d used was called The Green Fairy and smelled like eucalyptus. Waves of sunlight dappled the far wall, rippled by the filter on the lone window, the room’s only illumination. It was like bathing in a lagoon in a tropical rainforest. Bucky never wanted to leave.
Then, the sharp series of knocks. Trouble in paradise.
“Bucky dear, we waited as long as we could.”
Shit, shit, shit. If there was one person who could get him to pull the plug, it was Sarah Rogers.
“I’m afraid Steve’s going to launch a search-and-rescue mission if you don’t come out of there soon.”
In the distance, Steve wailed, “Ma!”
Another reason to come back to Earth: the embarrassment factor.
“Coming, ma’am.”
With visceral reluctance, Bucky eased himself out of the tub and toweled off. He did his best to remove the glitter, but suspected it snuck into certain orifices that he didn’t have the time or the inclination to excavate. Besides, it gave him a little thrill to keep some of the bath with him. Steve’s father’s shirt smelled wooly and fresh, an echo of Steve’s own scent. Bucky lost another minute to rubbing the collar all over his face, then dressed.
He followed his nose to the dining room, where a feast had been laid out: roast beef with rich gravy, potatoes dripping with garlic butter, honeyed carrots, a citrusy summer salad, and Yorkshire pudding. And a seat just for him beside Sarah at the head, across from Steve, as if they’d always been waiting for him. As if he belonged.
Bucky bit his tongue with the effort not to weep.
“About damn time.” Steve must have seen it, by the furrow of his brow. “Sit down already. We’re starving.”
“The manners on you, Steven,” Sarah tisked. “I know I didn’t raise you to be rude to our guests.” Steve bowed his head, mollified, as Bucky slid into his seat. “What’s your preferred cut, Bucky dear? Steve here is a heathen who only eats the pink, but you look like an outside cut type man.”
“Please, ma’am.” Truth be told, Bucky had no idea what kind of cut of meat he preferred, except for snarky, scrawny, mouthy blonds with more stones than sense. But he wasn’t about to say that to Sarah Rogers.
“Buck, she wants you to call her Sarah,” said mouthy blond reminded him.
“I want him to call me Ma,” Sarah primly declared. “I’ll settle for Sarah. I give you fair warning that ‘ma’am’ won’t be tolerated much longer, Bucky love, so you’d best find a way to get your tongue around my given name.”
“She means it,” Steve warned, eyes bright with mischief. “If you keep it up, next time she won’t make Yorkshire pudding. And apple instead of peach pie for dessert.”
Sarah shook her head in mock-dismay. “You see what I put up with?”
“He can be a lot.” Bucky nodded, earnest. “But you get used to it.”
The two of them froze, stared at him for a beat, then burst into laughter. Bucky, surprising even himself, joined in.
“I see you’ve been on the business end of one of his rants.” Sarah passed him a heaping plate, with three thick slabs of beef ensconced in savory mounds of potatoes and carrots, with a river of gravy running through it, buoying up the flaky pudding balloon. An individual salad portion already sat in a bowl beside his knife. “I’ve hidden earplugs all around the place, since I never know when he’ll strike.”
Bucky swallowed back the gush of saliva in his mouth. His stomach spasmed, let out a furious gurgle—they ignored it. It took everything in him to wait till everyone had been served. He almost passed out after the first, scrumptious bite—it was beyond delicious.
It was a taste of home.
“Buck loves my rants,” Steve insisted, like the little shit he was. “Listens like a champ.”
“They block out the noise of the city.” Carrots melted in his mouth like butter. He might never be able to eat anywhere else ever again. “Help me focus.”
Steve, onto him, cheekily noted, “And he agrees with every single word I say.”
“Sure, pal.” Bucky let out a sigh that would not be out of place post-coital. He wondered if they would mind if he poured the rest of the gravy right down his throat. That reminded him of his own ma, and his own manners. “S-Sarah, this is… This is…” He looked to Steve, who always seemed to have the words.
“He hasn’t eaten like this in a long time.” There was so much warmth mingled with so much sadness in Steve’s eyes that Bucky forced his own back to his plate.
His three-quarters eaten plate. Bucky pouted, missing his garlicky potatoes now that they were gone. Sarah came to his rescue, spooning a second helping of everything onto his plate, along with an extra pudding.
“It does my heart glad to know that you’ve found each other,” Sarah remarked, sincere. “Bucky love, you’re welcome here anytime.”
Then, something remarkable happened. Something else remarkable. It had been a heck of a day. Sarah reached over, stroked his forearm in that soothing maternal way.
His metal arm.
Bucky breathed through it, four-seven-eight, the way Sam taught him. Not because it made him uncomfortable. Because it meant everything. Once he felt steady enough, he set down his fork and slipped his flesh hand over hers.
“Thank you, Sarah.” He stared at their twined hands, struggling to push through the emotion. “For giving me so much. Thank you.”
She gave him a final squeeze, then reached up, pinched his cheek. The gesture gave him courage enough to meet her shining eyes.
“Darling boy.” She winked. Must be a Rogers thing. “Call me Ma.”
*
Halfway through Bucky’s third piece of peach pie—the juiciest, flakiest, most buttery and scrumptious dessert he’d ever eaten, second only to the Fiend’s fudgy brownies—Sarah rose from the table. She leaned over to give Steve a kiss on the cheek, then, to Bucky’s never-ending surprise and slight embarrassment, Sarah crossed around to give him one, and a squeeze on the shoulder besides.
“Night shift,” she explained, to Bucky’s stunned face, kindly pretending he wasn’t freaking out. About everything: her leaving early, being alone with Steve after their bout of parkour today, what the hell he was gonna do tomorrow without roast dinners and sumptuous baths and beyond excellent company. “Make sure this one does the dishes before you two young men get about whatever your evening portends. He tends to get distracted, you see, with his little projects.”
“I do not!” Steve protested. Weakly, it should be said.
“Much as I appreciate the flower mural inside the pantry door, my sunshine,” Sarah continued as if he had not spoken, “I appreciate not having to scrape out the roasting pan at seven in the morning much more.”
“I’ve never—” Steve crossed his arms over his chest, huffed. “That is a misrepresentation of my character.”
“I’ll let dear Bucky be the judge.” Her hand still hadn’t left his shoulder. Bucky considered following her around all night, just so she wouldn’t have to let go. “Will I be seeing you tomorrow morning, my darling, or is this goodbye for now?”
“Ma!” Steve turned the color of sour cherries.
Bucky forced himself not to find it so damn attractive, since he had a ton of practice at controlling his face.
“No matter.” After a final squeeze, she left them. “Hope to see you soon.”
Steve waited until they heard the click of the door to roll his eyes. “You mind moving to the kitchen? Might as well get started.”
Bucky stared forlornly down at his empty plate. The bitch of it was, he could eat all three helpings of dinner all over again and still not be full. But Steve had already had a front-row seat to his particular circus, so instead Bucky helped carry everything over to the kitchen island, then waited for further instruction.
Which turned out to be Steve dishing up another three pieces of pie and setting the plate on the counter in front of the stool at the far end of the island before patting the seat, inviting Bucky to partake. The last piece Steve stowed in a plastic container in the fridge.
“For Ma,” he needlessly explained. Sarah hadn’t managed a full piece at dinner, her appetite still not restored after her recent illness. “Coffee? Tea? Beer?”
“How about you pass me that roasting pan, and I can get to scrubbing?” Bucky suggested.
“How about you take a load off while I get this done,” Steve pointed emphatically to the stool, “and we can watch a movie or something.”
“Stevie, come on.” Bucky didn’t recognize the whine in his voice, but it was there all the same. Another specter of the past invading his present. “You gotta let me help some.”
“I don’t gotta do nothing of the sort.” Steve tempered his glare with a glint of mischief. “Now eat your pie and think about after. If you wanna do something for me, stick around awhile. Could use the company after the day we both had.”
Joke was on Steve, of course. The longer Bucky stayed, the more he didn’t want to leave. Instead of fretting over his inevitable departure—see, Sam, I can exhibit healthy behaviors or whatever—he concentrated on doing as he was asked. Also on savoring every single morsel of pie. Steve, for his part, attacked the dishes with typical resolve. Now that he had been called out on past delinquency, he would polish each and every one until they gleamed like new.
Which Sarah must have known when she made the challenge. Bucky wondered if it was always so easy to play Steve like a fiddle. Probably only his ma could so adeptly pluck his strings.
“You said your dad has history books?” Bucky contemplated how rude it would be if he licked his plate.
“Three full bookcases of ‘em, yeah.” Steve called over his shoulder as he stacked the dishes in the cupboard. Using a step-ladder—adorable. “You wanna do library time? I could stand to catch up on my sketching.”
“Library time?”
“Something my ma invented so she could get some peace and quiet when I was small.” Steve had the grace to chuckle at himself. “I would draw, and she would read, as if we were at the library. No talking allowed.”
For the gazillionth time that night, Bucky found himself dumbstruck by something the Rogers family took for granted. A bath before dinner. A roast on a Thursday. Lemonade in the yard on a hot afternoon. Now, library time. Everything about them was like a warm blanket. Bucky wanted to swaddle himself in their goodness forever.
“Let’s do that.”
“You got it, Buck.” Steve strode over to the pantry and opened the door wide, displaying the gorgeous flower mural he’d painted there. Bucky had no doubt Steve had sprinkled the same artistic magic in other hidden places all over the apartment. He stifled the sudden impulse to hunt down each and every one. “What are we thinking for snacks?”
An hour later, after careful perusal of every single spine on the three bookcases and a meticulous selection of the five most intriguing tomes, Bucky set them on the night table beside Steve’s bed and… well, stalled out. Because—Steve’s bed. Queen-sized bed. In Steve’s colorful, homey, welcoming room, with a mini art studio in the corner and a second mural on the wall behind the bed, this one of rolling green hills, a rocky beach, and an aquamarine sea that spread across the rest of the room. Steve fanned a whole heap of pillows along the headboard for them to lounge on, put on soft music and dimmed the lights, creating an atmosphere so foreign to Bucky’s current existence that he had to blink away tears every few minutes.
It had taken him an inordinate amount of time to catalogue and sort the history books for this reason. The Soldier did not have an emotional breakdown over kindness and choice. The Soldier never knew kindness, never had any choice to speak of. But Bucky Barnes did, now. He had a stack of books and a comfy spot and a friend curled up like an angry cat on the far side, nose-deep in his sketchbook. He had a delicious dinner in his belly and a bowl of snacks within reach.
He had a place. He had a purpose that didn’t involve death. He had shown himself to Steve—his true self, with all his complications—and Steve had shared his life with him.
It took everything in him not to sob like a child.
Instead, Bucky burrowed down into the pillows. Stretched his long legs out. Grabbed the first book, A Queer History of the United States, and skimmed the table of contents. Listened to the scritch, scritch, scritch of Steve’s charcoal stick as he brought some domestic scene to life. Or person—Bucky hadn’t peeked.
A half-hour later, he’d blazed through the first third of the book.
A half-hour after that, he was out like a light.
***
Steve wasn’t surprised, exactly, that he woke up to an empty bed. He tried and failed not to be disappointed as he rolled over, smushed his face into the mattress that had berthed Bucky. Though the sheets had been tucked with military corners and the pillows fluffed back to their normal puff so as to give the illusion of no one having slept there, Bucky’s scent lingered, leather and spice and smoke. His da’s rugby shirt lay folded atop the laundry hamper. Steve didn’t doubt he’d find all the doors locked, all the windows shut. Bucky left no trace.
The trill of his alarm reached him under the covers, where even the gauze of sunlight through the curtains feared to tread. Steve kicked the sheets all the way down, wrecking Bucky’s meticulous work, then wriggled over to shut off the alarm. Only when he lurched to his feet did he notice the line of glitter that bisected the center of the bed, having slid into the dip there sometime during the night. On impulse, Steve swept a bit of it into his hand, sprinkled it across the woven carpet in front of the bookcases.
Bucky dust, for good luck.
Maybe if I spread it in a circle, I can summon him back.
Since Steve did not have the day off due to an upsetting incident with a client, he set out on his usual five-mile run. The glitter followed him everywhere. He found some on the kitchen island stool when he went to fetch his water bottle. On the front walk—had Bucky lingered there for a while before slinking off into the night? A sparkly smear surrounded the tub drain when Steve went for his post-run shower.
Something about the traces spoke to his artist’s soul. An idea twinkled at the periphery of his creative eye, growing brighter and brighter—the glint off Bucky’s metal arm, the glare off a windshield—but not crystallizing just yet. He made a mental note to experiment with unusual glitter patterns during his next studio session as he dressed for the day.
To his relief and delight, Steve discovered his ma scarfing down the last piece of pie for breakfast. He never thought he’d be so thrilled to be stuck with a bran muffin and a banana.
“Top of the morning to ya.” Steve dialed up the Irish cheese to make her smile. It worked. “How was your shift?”
“Pfft, a cakewalk.” She angled her cheek up so he could kiss it. “Was daydreaming of this all night. How did you manage to pry it from dear Bucky’s metal hand?”
Steve snorted. “I told him it was for you.”
“Charmer.” She clicked her tongue. “And where is your fair shadow this morning?”
“Gone.” Steve knew better than to hide his disappointment. “He conked out on my bed after ten minutes of reading. I managed to get the sheets over him when I turned in. He was still there when Mr. Gilchrist dropped another frigging barbell on the floor at one a.m. He must have slipped out before my alarm.”
His ma nodded, pensive. “Give him time.”
“Don’t got much choice about it,” Steve grumbled as he peeled his banana. Because he deserved something sweet, too, he hacked it into a bowl, poured oat milk over it, and doused it with brown sugar. Packed an extra helping as a snack for work, impulsively added one for Bucky. He would see him today, Steve decided, even though it was more wishful thinking at this point. “What did you, uh… think of him?”
Sarah almost choked on her mouthful of pie crust. “Let the record show that this is you asking.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Steve climbed onto the stool, careful not to displace the glitter. Mashed his butt in the hopes it might stick to him—a lucky charm. “Come on, put me out of my misery.”
Her sly features softened at that. “He’s lovely. As you well know. I don’t grant a lot of open invitations, as you also know, but even I am not immune to someone in such need.”
Steve eyed her over the edge of his bowl. “Must have grown up in some other halfway house, then. Who needs siblings when half the neighborhood’s bunked on our couch?”
She scoffed. “Need I remind you that it wasn’t my bedroom with the revolving door during your teen years, my darling.”
“You bring it up every ten seconds, so no.” Steve smirked in her direction—razzing each other was their love language. “And I meant professionally. Well, the other way too, but… you know. His situation.”
“Would do better if it could be spelled out for me,” his ma insisted. “Not to pry, but to help.”
“He’s military.”
“Yes, dear, that much is obvious.”
“Injured in the line of duty.” Steve stuffed a bit of muffin into his maw to stall for time. Decided the only way out was through. “He was a… a POW. Saying anything else feels like a betrayal.”
Sarah set her fork down, stared at the crumbs on her plate. He’d seen his ma react to bad news before, but never quite like this. That, above anything she said, spoke of how much she already cared for Bucky.
“That poor, darling boy.” She inhaled a deep breath, self-soothing. “That certainly puts things into perspective, my sunshine. Thank you for confiding in me.” She reached across the kitchen island, clasped Steve’s hand. “You’ve done well spoiling him as you have. Keep it up. As a matter of fact…” Catching a second wind, she abandoned her coffee in favor of puttering around the kitchen. “Let’s make him a care package.”
“Way ahead of you.” Steve pointed to the cooler in the fridge. “Packed up the rest of the roast and nicked a couple tubs of stew from the basement freezer. Gonna stop by the market on my way to the Fiend for bread, cheese, and fruit.”
“Of course you did.” She dropped a kiss into his hair as she bustled off to gather more things.
Steve smiled to himself. “How attached are you to Da’s old rugby shirt?”
“Oh, I think we can do better than that.” By the distance of her voice, she’d moved on to the bathroom. “I’m rather partial to his wedding suit and those corduroy trousers that hugged his ass so tightly.”
“Ma!”
“First thing I noticed about him, after his eyes.” His ma had never been shy about expressing the depth of her attraction to Steve’s father, which he’d always had mixed feelings about.
Namely, that it was sweet his parents had been so gone for each other, but he could go the rest of his life without hearing about it.
“Dear Bucky would look rather fetching in his Fair Isle sweaters.” He heard the distant rumbling of the washing machine as his ma scooted back into the kitchen. “Some of them hold memories I’m quite fond of, but… well, it soothes my heart to think of the two of you making some of your own.”
“Ma,” Steve sighed, sending a wish out into the universe even as he complained, “I don’t even know if it’s like that for him. He needs a friend more than anything.”
“He does,” she agreed, firm. “And he’s certainly… Our first priority needs to be helping him to take better care of himself. For all his muscles and hair and those stunning blue eyes… Well, my professional opinion—without having examined him, mind—is that he’s malnourished. Whether that’s psychological stress or food insecurity or just not being very far along in his recovery, I can’t say. But if you need somewhere to start with him, start there, my darling. Use your stubbornness for good.”
“Always do,” Steve grunted. But he met her mischievous grin with one of his own. “Anything else I should watch out for?”
His ma paused mid-care-packing to shoot him a shrewd look.
“No.” She grinned from ear to ear. “Love makes fools of us all, my dearest. But what they don’t tell you is, none of us who have loved long and well live with regret, even if things don’t turn out how we expected them to. Hold his heart with gentle hands, but give him everything you have. He’s a special one.”
She abandoned her work to circle around the island, hug him from behind.
“And so are you, my sunshine boy.”
*
Steve carried the warmth of her hug with him all the way to work, enough emotional fuel to see him through the lonesome journey. Physically, his muffin and bananas left something to be desired, especially after his five-mile run. People who’ve loved and lost may not live with regret, but Steve sure did, having to play pack mule to a backpack, a cooler, and a rolling suitcase, his good intentions transformed into multiple care packages for someone who might not even be there and had failed to show up for his usual protective escort.
That last one stung a bit. Bucky had only missed one day since they’d first crossed paths. Though intellectually Steve understood that last night might have thrown Bucky for a psychological loop—kindness can have strange effects on people in crisis, or so his ma always said—his absence still smarted.
Steve hadn’t done anything wrong, was the thing, and yet he was being punished. If anything, he was trying to do even more right by carting an entire capsule collection, half a Bed, Bath, and Beyond, and a significant portion of their freezer in to the Fiend. He couldn’t even go through with his plan to stop at the market—he couldn’t possibly balance one more bag, let along a parcel filled with fresh fruit and awkwardly sized bread. As he reached the first major traffic artery on his route, he debated whether to put the cooler down for a second, fearing that if he did and some Candy Crush-obsessed, phone-glare bedazzled bozo rammed into him, he’d get run over.
Sigh.
Once he’d unlocked his first rush hour-related achievement for the day—successfully crossing Halsey Street without being pancaked—Steve let his mind drift back to the previous night. How wonderful it had been to feel Bucky’s solid presence in the bed beside him while he sketched. To listen to his soft, raspy breaths as he drifted off to sleep. To sense that at any moment, he could be enveloped in Bucky’s muscular arms, the ultimate anchor as he sailed through his dreams.
But doubt invaded his fugue, as it was wont to do. Had something he’d done made Bucky uncomfortable? Is that why he’d slipped away? Steve didn’t tend to octopus in his sleep, but maybe his subconscious had decided to indulge his intense attraction to Bucky? Maybe he’d babbled something that spooked him? Maybe Steve stayed zonked out through one of Bucky’s nightmares, and he’d made a tactical retreat to a safe zone? If Steve hadn’t made Bucky feel safe, then no wonder…
The jab of someone’s suitcase jolted him back into the moment. And just in time, too—he was only steps from the Decatur intersection. When he saw the single-digit crossing-light countdown, Steve slowed. But the tight crowd around him had other ideas, forcing him into the street. He jogged across as fast as he could, hoping there was strength in numbers, but wasn’t surprised when the wind off a passing truck ruffled the back of his hair.
Steve cursed whatever action or impulse had led Bucky to flee—not just for selfish reasons, but because Bucky would never forgive himself if Steve got injured on his way to work. He may not be clued into all the mysteries surrounding the continued existence of one Bucky Barnes, Immortal Commando, but Steve knew that much was true.
It happened somewhere between Bainbridge and Chauncey. A school bus unloading brought sidewalk traffic to a begrudging halt, as everyone collectively watched the kids file into the schoolyard with the help of not one, but three fluorescent crossing guards. This only made Steve ache for his own self-appointed bodyguard even more, until a couple of the little dumplings stalled out in front of the gate. Like a pair of miniature E.T.’s, they pointed up at the sky—
No, not the sky. On impulse, Steve followed the trajectory to the roof of an adjacent building. Between the second he glanced up and the focus of his eyes, something flickered away, blink-and-you-missed-it fast. Or superhuman reflexes, one might say.
Steve’s heart—his stupid, stupid heart, still giving him no end of grief after three major surgeries and an alleged growth spurt (a growth-ish spurt?) that corrected most of his problems—kicked up. Every chance he got after that, he scanned the rooftops. Not dumb enough to take his eyes off the rush hour mob, he had to be strategic about it, checking at random intervals, at moments safe for him, but vulnerable for anyone who may or may not be shadowing his progress.
He caught several blurs of movement that he did not think were heat fumes off blacktop roofs. Heard a telltale clank as he rushed across Fulton. Spotted what could have been a head, could have been a giant fucking pigeon bobbing between the vents on the high school’s roof. Watched a shadow from above stretch across the asphalt as he waited on the far side of the overpass.
Pissed and fascinated in equal measure—and maybe, if he was being honest, a little bit touched—Steve picked up enough breadcrumbs along his path to move beyond suspicion that his security detail hadn’t quite abandoned him on the road to the Scarlet Witch’s house. But as annoyed as he was that Bucky allowed him to struggle along with the bags, a larger part of Steve worried that he had indeed hurt or offended Bucky in some way.
Why else would he keep his distance after everything they’d shared?
Give him time, his ma had counseled. Steve wasn’t sure whether that was genuine advice or one of her reverse-psychology deals to kick his instincts in the butt. Either way, Steve could be no one but himself about it—cranky, impossible, unyielding, and crafty as fuck.
If Bucky wanted to play keep-away with his presence, well, Steve would not let that bullshit stand. (Not in a creepy way.) He’d shove the intensity of their bond right back in his face, until Bucky realized exactly what was good for him. Exactly who cared about him. Exactly who he’d come running to in a moment of crisis.
That Steve could be a safe harbor amidst the shitstorm of his life thus far.
***
One night. One night, and Bucky was ruined forever.
Fiercer opponents had attempted to dismantle him, to degrade him, to dehumanize him, but he’d resisted. Powerful governments, global syndicates, spy associations, cabals of vainglorious, despotic white dudes had tortured him, maimed him, wiped him, and in time he’d broken free. Gotten his revenge. Utterly and irrevocably destroyed them.
Survived, the biggest middle finger of all. Pieced himself back together again—still a work-in-progress, but Bucky could see the beginnings of the puzzle image, could identify shapes and colors, motifs even.
Then Steve Rogers had come in like a wrecking ball of kindness and compassion, and Bucky no longer recognized himself in a whole new way.
In the wake of his evening with the Rogers family, everything about his clothes, his apartment, his life felt wrong. After sneaking out of Steve’s house, Bucky lay on his creaky mattress in his rattiest T-shirt and boxers for all of eight minutes before his skin began to scream. Yesterday, he’d been grateful for every single thing he owned, for this simple place he’d maintained for almost two years, the safest of safe houses. Now he only saw everything it lacked: a sturdy bed, a full fridge, a large tub, blankets, books, plants, snacks, art.
People, lovely people, who petted your head and kissed your cheek and gave you shit and snuggled into your side as if they trusted that your arm—the death-dealer connected to your fucking neural pathways, so caked in blood that no one would ever be able to get the gears completely clean—wouldn’t snap their long, delicate neck when said neural pathways were in the throes of a nightmare.
At 3:38 a.m., Bucky had roused to find Steve tucked under his arm. He’d permitted himself a full minute of reveling in the quietude of the moment—Steve’s tousled blond head on his chest, his slender body curled around Bucky’s side, the silken womb of the sheets that cradled them—before freaking the fuck out about it.
Abort! Abort! Abort! The Soldier’s menacing monotone demanded, and Bucky had been powerless to obey. Or at least it had felt that way as he’d disappeared from the house, hurdled across the roofs, collapsed through the door to his apartment.
But now. Now. All he could think of was how cold Steve must have been, without him. How upset—no, angry. Steve would be seething mad. He’d rant to his empty kitchen. In the shower. All the way to work. He’d never want to see Bucky again. Would never lay on the grass in the park with him. Wouldn’t send him brownie packages decorated in art. No more hugs, no more history books, no more bath bombs, no more pie, no more of Sarah’s crinkled smile, no more of Darcy’s sardonic eyerolls, no more of Steve’s…
No more Steve.
Bucky paced around his spare living space until the walls started to close in. His stomach wrenched—he raced to the bathroom, afraid last night’s scrumptious dinner might revisit him like Jacob Marley’s ghost.
On the way, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He looked…
Better. Anxious and haunted, but better. His hair betrayed a glossy sheen he’d not seen since his pomade days. Ruddy and eye-ring-free, his skin glowed. Though stubble peppered his jaw, he appeared younger than even the day before, closer to a sergeant in his prime than a battle-scarred, brainwashed former assassin. A crescent of glitter twinkled at his temple, as if he’d been blessed by a star.
He went to work. Order, logic, routine—the only way to escape what he’d done. How thoroughly and brilliantly he’d torched everything good in his life to ash.
Except, he couldn’t help himself. Worry gnawed at his insides, worse than hunger pangs after months of starvation. What if Steve, distracted by the anger Bucky had inspired, missed some danger in his path? What if that uber-jerk Killian—or one of his ilk—roared out of the lot just when Steve crossed Atlantic Avenue?
What then?
Even when he was nothing but a ghost in a shell, Bucky’s first instinct was to protect. (Himself, back then, the last vestige of his humanity.) He let that guide him now, over the rooftops that lined Malcolm X Boulevard, waiting with sniper stealth for a sighting of Steve’s blond head.
Only later, safe in his garage at the shop, did Bucky permit himself to wonder why Steve carried so many bags that day. Why he hadn’t called Bucky’s bluff when he’d clearly spotted him. Why he hadn’t seemed as enraged as Bucky expected. No ranting to speak of—not even when that truck nearly side-swiped him. Instead, he’d stopped just before entering the MCUW building and gazed across at the auto-body shop, an enigmatic expression on his face.
Hours later, Bucky couldn’t get the image out of his mind. Or the smells and tastes of the roast dinner. The luxurious waters of the bath. The cozy climes of the couch. The rapturous comforts of holding someone in your arms while you slept…
Bucky hammered and hammered and hammered the customized back bumper back into its original shape, the best therapy he could find on short notice with Sam in D.C. Besides, he felt too raw to admit to Sam how badly he’d fucked up. Bucky didn’t want any condolences, or assurances, or coping strategies.
He wanted Steve.
What he got was a shrill goddamn buzzer and a low-level throb in the back of his skull.
“Hey, Barnes.” Luke’s mellow voice through the intercom lowered some of his hackles. “Lunch.”
Thor had come through as promised on the sound-proofing and solitude. The only way to get his attention was the intercom or waving some sort of white flag over the skylight. Yesterday, post-Killian, Bucky would have been grateful for it. Today, post-life lesson, he wondered if it was just another straightjacket he’d volunteered to be strapped into.
Then his insides rumbled, and Bucky remembered nothing good was ever decided on an empty stomach. He stowed the hammer, yanked on his hoodie. Decided in favor of his glove, against sunglasses. He formulated a half-baked plan to somehow get a temperature read on Steve’s state out of Darcy as he ambled out into the lot.
Except today, a certain slender blond with a chip on his shoulder the size of Park Slope accompanied the lunch cart.
And Bucky, overstressed and strung out after going cold turkey on Steve Rogers’s care, saw red.
“What the fuck is this?” Bucky murder-strut out into the light, man on a mission, no matter how harshly the glare seared his retinas. “You got a death wish or something, Stevie, pushing that thing through noon-hour traffic?”
The assembled bros whistled in surprise at Bucky coming in so hot, a macho chorus he could have done without. Steve, for his part, had the gall to smile at him.
“Heya, Buck.” And, oh, he was in for it. Steve only deployed that killer grin of his in two scenarios: when he was gearing up for a lecture or when he was plotting revolution. Bucky was about to get his Bastille stormed but good. “Nice of you to join us.”
“I…” His robot brain, confronted with several things that did not compute, not to mention blaring a red alert, did its usual short-circuit routine. “It’s lunch.”
“Nothing gets past you, huh, Barnes,” Logan quipped, as he picked up his bento box and protein shake. “You better not be saying Steve here can’t do something because he’s short, or I’ll kneecap you where you stand.”
“Don’t think it’s a comment on Steve so much as indictment of Brooklyn drivers,” Luke sagely opined.
“Animals,” Volt glanced up from polishing his monster truck to second. “I should know, being one of them.”
“More like human scum, then,” Drax volunteered, which earned him a punch to the arm.
“Friend Barnes is merely concerned for Friend Rogers’s safety,” Thor chimed in. “And with good reason, given his past injuries.”
“That right, Buck?” Steve’s grin turned sharklike. “Something about the situation twig your mother hen instinct?”
“No,” he blurted, his discombobulated brain this close to fight or flight.
Logan snorted. “I don’t know. Sure looked like you were grinding his gears to me.”
“Or want to,” Volt sniggered.
Drax made a crude gesture, not that anyone needed a demonstration.
“For fuck’s…” Bucky shook his head. Only made it worse. “It’s not…”
“Talk about internal combustion,” Luke muttered to the others, who continued to watch Bucky melt down like the huge fucking assholes they were.
“Please,” he signed as a last resort, when panic cinched the words in his throat.
“Please, what?” Steve said aloud, not giving Bucky an inch. “Please don’t cross the street anymore? I gotta say, Buck, that kinda cramps my style.”
“Forgive me,” Bucky begged with his hands, mouth full of acid mush. “Please forgive me. I fucked up. I don’t know how to make it right.”
Steve’s flinty resolve evaporated in an instant. “Aww, hey, Buck, don’t—”
He closed the distance between them, pushed into his arms. Bucky almost missed the next part, so fully did he give himself to the unexpected hug—once again his sanctuary in a storm of confusion. The shop bros, embarrassed by any display of emotion, grabbed their lunches and retreated to the picnic table out back.
“Sorry I gave you a hard time,” Steve murmured into his chest. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right, after...”
Breathing in the sun-washed hay smell of his hair gave Bucky the courage to say, “I’m not.”
Steve squeezed him even tighter. Bucky almost sobbed.
“You wanna go to the park or hang out here?” Steve attempted to ease away, but Bucky nudged him back in as gently as he could. He wasn’t ready to let go.
“Here.” Bucky still made no move to unfurl. “Too many eyes in the park.”
“That’s good.” Steve’s chuckle reverberated against Bucky’s pec. “‘Cause I’m done hauling all this stuff around.”
Too distracted by the Steve-ness of Steve, it took him awhile to connect the dots. “Stuff?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Steve craned his head back to gaze up at him, eyes glittering with such determination that Bucky should probably be shaking in his boots. Except he was too busy admiring their particular shade of iridescent blue. “Care packages.”
“Packages,” he repeated, brain still mostly offline. “Multiple?”
“The Sarah Rogers Special, you might say.”
“The—” Bucky almost jolted back with shock. “Your ma?”
Steve nodded. “She’s decided to adopt you without actually adopting you. It’s her way.” He took advantage of Bucky’s loosened hold to slip out of it, return to the cart. “Let’s get this inside before the bros come back for seconds.”
A mission, even one as small as this, gave Bucky something to concentrate on long enough to recalibrate. His reboot cycle hadn’t quite completed by the time he steered the cart around the dismantled hotrod that was his latest project to the work table at the back, but at least he’d begun to process the last ten minutes. Steve had already made himself at home, stealing a root beer from the mini-fridge and dragging a stool up to the opposite end of the table. He made a beeline for the cart as soon as the garage door shut behind Bucky, sliding open the middle and bottom compartments to reveal a whole trove of extra bags, which he proceeded to pile beside Bucky’s stool.
He jutted his chin at the cooler he placed on top. “That’s got stew, soup, and the rest of the roast. Gave Ma the last of the pie, but grabbed some peaches, plums, and pears from the fruit shop.”
Nope, Bucky still wasn’t back online. “You…”
“This one’s bath stuff.” Steve pointed to an overstuffed gym bag. “More bombs, but also shampoo, conditioner, body wash, two sizes of towel, loofah—”
“What the fuck’s a loofah?”
“That’s for you to find out.” Steve winked over his shoulder, then moved on to the third bag. “Da’s shirt fit you better than expected, so Ma thought you’d like some sweaters and… sweats, maybe? Couldn’t really hear her over the washing machine. Didn’t want to, honestly. Makes me smile how in love they were, but that doesn’t mean I need to hear about what a great ass he had.”
“He…” Bucky shook his head. Didn’t work any better the second time. “Stevie, this is too much.”
“No.” There was so much steel in his voice it reverberated a little bit. “It’s not.” He grabbed three bento boxes off the top of the cart, shoved them at Bucky. “Eat your lunch. Your stomach’s starting to sound like a group of throat singers.”
Bucky barely scraped his jaw off the floor. “Which one’s for you?”
“This one.” Steve dropped a fourth bento box onto the work table, popped the top off his root beer, made himself at home. “Your usual’s in the cup holder under the handle.”
Bucky spied a whole batch of fudgy brownies there too, boxed up with Steve’s artistic flair. Dizzy with relief, overwhelmed with gratitude, done in by the Rogers’s kindness, he shuffled over to his stool but couldn’t bring himself to sit. He didn’t deser—
Barnes, he heard Sam from hundreds of miles away and didn’t finish his thought. Instead, Bucky perched on the stool, opened the first bento box… and proceeded to devour every last scrap of food inside it as if he’d been on a hunger strike.
Which, he learned after demolishing the other two, half the box of brownies, the rest of Steve’s lunch, two pears, and three plums, maybe he had.
“Thought maybe we could go to the market together after work.” He couldn’t tell if this was Steve’s version of stealth or the implications of the suggestion were meant to be obvious. “Get you stocked up.” Or maybe Bucky was the one who could be read like a book, because he hastened to add, “It’s open air. Not too crowded in the evening. I can show you my favorite stalls. The good vendors who won’t give you any hassle.”
Bucky snorted. “Not like this nosy barista I know.”
“Ma’s worried you ain’t been eating enough for your size.” He admired Steve’s bluntness even when it pummeled him. “Tell me to go to hell if you want, Buck, but you need fuel for strength like you got.”
The worst of it was, Bucky couldn’t deny it. He still hadn’t gotten the hang of whether his stomach twisted in upset or spasmed with hunger.
“What else?” He wouldn’t bow his head in shame. He would not. Bucky had always taken his licks with his head held high, no matter how flayed raw.
“What else what?”
“What else do I gotta do to be a person?”
“You are a person!” Steve’s voice vibrated with so much outrage it bounced off the walls. “Buck, you’re the sweetest goddamn person I ever met. You been watching my back for weeks now. Keeping me company, keeping me sane, keeping me from biting all those trust-fund babies’ heads off like a fucking praying mantis!”
Bucky may have chuckled at that mental image, but he still felt like warmed-over shit.
“You brought yourself back from the brink of I don’t even know what into…” Steve switched to a whisper, lest anyone overhear. “Into this new century. And don’t get me wrong, you’re surviving, you’re thriving, you’re doing incredible taking care of yourself. But, Buck…” Steve’s hand strayed close but didn’t connect, as if still unsure of whether the affection would be welcome. Bucky grabbed his hand, twining their fingers tight—a lifeline. “Don’t you wanna live?”
Bucky gaped at him. Blinked away the sting of tears. Steve couldn’t know, would never really understand the tenor of the chord those words struck in him.
Except maybe he did, because he let Bucky pull him off his stool, into his arms for another intense, essential hug.
“That’s all I want,” Bucky confessed into the silken strands of Steve’s hair.
You’re all I want, he didn’t add, in case the darkness heard and swallowed him whole.
“Then let me help.” He melted all over again when Steve rubbed circles into his back. “Let’s do it together. Whatever you need. Consider me your… I don’t know, your warmup act. Your sounding board. Your emotional support buddy. Your wingman.”
Bucky snickered. “Already got one of those.”
“Oh.” Steve sounded so disappointed that Bucky squeezed him that much harder. “We’ll workshop it.”
“No, I mean my therapist is ex-pararescue,” Bucky reassured him. “It’s a whatchamacallit. Inside joke.”
“Oh!” Steve chuckled at himself. “That sounds…” Steve stilled in his arms, drew back till he could look him in the eye. “Wait—your therapist is The Falcon?!”
“Wilson, yeah.” Bucky rolled his eyes. “Pain in my ass, more like.” Steve glared at him, expectant, so Bucky elaborated, “He was the only one in my corner when I came in from the cold. Kept me out of the fight; saved me from being used worse than my captors ever...” He shuddered at the memory. “Sam put up a one-man shield against the government, spy agencies, evildoers. I wouldn’t be here without him.”
Steve smirked. “Then he’s invited for dinner tomorrow night too. Sure Ma’d love to meet him.”
“Too busy saving the rest of the world,” Bucky scoffed. “Dinner, huh?”
“She’s making the lasagna she learned from our ex-neighbor, Mrs. Ortensi.” Every word out of Steve’s mouth was pure temptation. “Meatballs, braciole, garlic bread, Caesar salad, the works.”
Bucky surreptitiously slurped back the saliva pooling in his mouth. “W-What time?”
Steve shrugged. “Come over whenever. I gotta catch up on some school projects, but I don’t mind company. We could do library time in the afternoon, family movie night after dinner? Ma says you’re welcome to take another bath. If it’s hot enough, we walk to the Brown Butter Creamery around midnight for a cone, sit in the park for a while.” He worked his jaw, then added, “You could stay over for real this time.”
“I—” The ‘yes’ was off his tongue before the last syllable dropped from Steve’s lips, but Bucky bit it back. Speaking of Sam—he’d taught him impulsiveness was his enemy, especially in potentially uncomfortable situations. He took the time to think it through before confirming, “I’d like that.”
“Good.” Steve’s eyes glittered with approval, and something more besides.
Something that gave Bucky’s much-abused heart the energy to do a little flip. Maybe there was something to this fully belly stuff after all.
“I gotta get back,” Steve declared, then made exactly zero moves to leave.
“I’ll walk you.”
“I got the cart.” He nodded toward the empty silver chariot as if it couldn’t be crushed five different ways under some jackass’s chassis. “I’m good.”
“Yeah, Stevie, ‘cause I got your six.”
Inspired, Bucky hoisted him up, threw him over his shoulder as he strode the five paces to the cart, then deposited a blue-streak-cursing Steve on top. Rolled out before Steve could find a way to scramble off.
“What in the ever-loving fuck!” Steve demanded once his fury had calmed enough to form words.
Bucky wheeled him across the lot, serene. “Teach you to risk life and limb to bring me three helpings of tofu scramble and a lackluster bean salad.”
“I did not—” A precipitous skip over a pothole forced Steve to white-knuckle the sides. “I’m—"
“Your own worst enemy? Agreed on that, Stevie.”
“You fucking—”
“I feel like Sarah’d back me up.” Now that Bucky had the upper hand, he suddenly found entire dictionaries of words stored in the recesses of his fractured mind. “Since I’m her favorite now and all.”
Steve let out a wild, frustrated howl, right there in the middle of the sidewalk. It being Brooklyn, no one batted an eye at a tiny blond man frothing at the mouth on top of a delivery cart. After huffing out three long, blustery breaths, Steve clamped his legs over the sides so he could cross his arms over his chest, express his displeasure to Bucky in every possible way, including a death glare.
Bucky suspected this was what fun felt like. He’d wait till Steve was in a better mood to confirm.
“You’re lucky you’re my favorite,” Steve grumbled as Bucky wove them through the traffic.
Even the blast of honking horns couldn’t spoil Bucky’s mood after that.
End of Chapter 4
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