Chapter Text
“So you’ve been--” Sam jerked back just in time to miss a barrage of weapons-fire that chipped off the corner of the building they had ducked behind. “You’ve been boning Enemy Number One, huh, winner of the Nobel War Prize, right under our noses?”
“That’s not--,” and on Cap’s signal they crossed the street in a run, the Falcon shadowing Cap and borrowing protection from the shield. Once they were set, Steve continued, “--not exactly ... uh ... “ Where was he going with this?
And why had he been glad to have Sam back from DC, exactly?
“Yeah?” Falcon silently counted to three on his fingers, and Cap threw the shield at two of the terrorists, concussing both before they fell to the ground.
“Yeah, sure, okay, but--,” and Steve looked away too late to miss the blatant eye-roll Sam gave him. “But,” he insisted, “if it counts for anything, we were doing this before--”
Same pattern, they relocated to a different corner and spotted three more targets. Still human--where were the reptiles? Sam took a breath before cutting Steve off, “Before you were both frozen in time and he became a legendary assassin who doesn’t actually remember you, Cap?” Sam’s voice was as gentle as that message would allow.
Which was not very.
He took pity on Steve’s obvious floundering, even in the middle of taking down the targets, maybe because Steve had better aim when he wasn’t uncomfortable. “Look,” Sam said after a punch, “I’m not your therapist or your preacher, Cap--just a friend-slash-partner-not-sidekick, you know?”
That earned a laugh. Yeah, okay, glad to have him back. Steve rolled on the pavement ahead of Sam--both took shelter behind a car. Was grateful they’d managed to get Natasha out of the line of fire after her injury. The actual line of actual fire, since these damned dinosaur-things could breathe it, apparently. Steve watched as another of Tony’s drones came in, paused, hovering, over two of the men and a pet ... velociraptor or something---something from Jurassic Park--and then released an aerosolized liquid that knocked them out.
Whatever was going on back at the tower, Stark was on top of this, wasn’t gonna leave Steve as bait, as at least. And Sam ... Sam was still talking, even as he unloaded ammo into every nonhuman creature they came across.
Dammit.
“So, not your therapist, but I don’t need a license to tell you that this situation right here? Is fucked up.”
And Steve offered a pinched smile--muttered a “yeah, sure is,” and waved at the streets around them.
Got a sour look. “You know what I mean. You know exactly which situation I mean.” But then Sam said, “Oh, shit, Cap--you--”
And Steve almost didn’t turn in time to see the wall of ... what the hell was it? Eight feet of solid teeth and scales coming up fast, and he lifted up his shield as first defense until they could get it together, and--
Only heard the wet, crunching sound of a cybernetic fist punching through the spine and into the chest cavity of a living fossil.
Steve lowered the shield in time to see Bucky withdraw his arm from the now-dead whatever-it-was, turn, and offer a blank expression to Steve. An expression really not in keeping with the scene around them. But ... the effect was impressive, Steve acknowledged privately--the cold eyes, the tight mouth, even the gore that used to be inside the fallen corpse dripping from that arm. Jesus.
Sam spoke first. “Wow, that was ... “
And Steve jumped in. “Helpful. Thank you.” Tried to imbue his words with everything he couldn’t say in front of Sam. He didn’t have to actually see Sam’s eye-roll that time.
Bucky’s eyes darted between the two of them, and he shifted a little. Turned away to scan the street. “It was either this or keep listening to Stark.”
Sam gaped, for a moment, then looked off himself with a snort and shake of his head. “Look, this is a great reunion and all, says the not-a-sidekick to the guy who tried to kill you, Cap, but ... “ His face turned serious. “We still got work to do.” The last was aimed at Bucky. “So. You gonna help us, or are we about to be fighting on two fronts?”
And Bucky--or maybe he was the Winter Soldier right now, more than anything--looked to Steve for an answer. As if Steve ... as if Steve would have wanted anything else.
“Please,” he said.
And he may have hated it, just a little, but the brutality of Bucky’s skills? Changed the profile of the conflict in an instant. Not only with the extra bodily force and strategic thinking (and, God, Buck had gotten his hands on assault weapons fast, and from where?), but in freeing Steve up to do what he did best.
He had never really forgotten the feeling of Bucky having his back, both in the streets of New York and the battlefields of Europe. The warmth that flooded his skin didn’t slow him down--make him stupid. Didn’t make him any more careless.
But it did make him cocky--cockier. The clear sense of being right--being on the side of righteousness--was something he hadn’t experienced in a long time, and he had missed it.
He’d made the right call about Bucky Barnes, the right call about the Winter Soldier, and no one could tell him otherwise.
Of course, there was after. After, when Fury’s designated team arrived for cleanup, and Bucky was long gone, and there were no forthcoming witnesses to describe the arm, the star. Sam and Steve looked at each other, and ... just didn’t mention it to the agents. Steve hid a small smile as Sam divvied up the Soldier’s takedowns between the two of them--an impossible score, really, but absurdly unquestioned. The younger agents’ eyes were huge as they made notes.
Steve left them to it, Sam’s exaggerations and the youngsters’ adoration. The whole way back to the tower, he looked for the shimmer of sunlight off metal. Sam, if he noticed it, was generous enough not to mention it. Gave him an eyeball a few times, sure--smacked the back of his hand against Steve’s upper arm when no one was looking, yeah. But at least didn’t talk about it.
***
Steve woke up some time in the middle of the night to a disturbance in his room. He braced himself for an attack--
But it never came. Bucky was there, but this time ... this time, he was sprawled next to Steve on the bed, face down on the covers, eyes closed, hair falling sloppily into his face. Shirtless, like Steve, and seemingly comfortable.
Steve’s heart could have pounded out of his chest. He made a soft sound, happy in his discovery, before he stifled the rest, before tamping down everything he wanted to say. But he wouldn’t resist the urge to touch. Knew that he had to make it count--Buck didn’t really sleep here, however much he pretended, and those eyes would snap open at the first move, but Steve had to risk it--
Had to pet while he could.
He reached out to touch the strands spilling over that unlined forehead. Rubbed them between the pads of his fingers. Tangled, yes, and raw at the ends, but soft and thick and still that shining auburn he’d memorized in late-afternoon light when they were young ...
Wondered again how they thought he wouldn’t know--wouldn’t recognize-- If they were that careless, or if they cared that little.
Brought his fingers to his face. Sniffed, and his pulse thudded at the lingering sweet scent--Bucky had used his shampoo. He’d suspected it, sure, but had the confirmation. After Steve had left for the battle, Bucky had made use of Steve’s shower, rubbed that abused bar of soap over his body, and washed the oil from his hair.
It felt intimate. More intimate than everything they’d done up ‘til now.
Yeah, maybe it was a stupid thing to find contentment in, but what were you gonna do. Bucky would tell him he’d always been sentimental. Always foolish.
It had only been a moment, but Bucky was, of course, watching him now. Frowned a little at Steve’s pleasure. Shook his head and began, “The museum exhibit made me out to be some kind of lost hero.” He paused. Pulled his living arm up under his chin to prop it up. “I can see why you would have missed that.”
He teased the loose hair out of Bucky’s eyes with a finger. Took heart in the fact that the man didn’t pull away. “I did miss it. But that isn’t all you were.” This was as close as the Soldier had been to being Bucky, and Steve had to press. “Are you gonna stay?”
He saw the movements of a shrug. Got an answer: “I don’t know where else I’d go. Right now.”
And Steve could live with “no other options,” if the one left was right here. “You’ll always have a place where I am.” He looked around the bedroom--in Stark Tower. “Did you and Tony--” The trailing-off didn’t work out as a prompt--he was only squinted at--so he tried again: “Did Tony talk to you about--”
Bucky moved onto his elbows. “I told him what he wanted to hear,” and that wasn’t--wasn’t ideal, but-- “You still tired?” was all Bucky said next.
He shifted, confused. “No, I could get up--” Made to move from the bed, but he was stopped by a hand on his stomach. He watched as Bucky slid up the sheets and pressed awfully close.
“That wasn’t what I was getting at.”
This time, the approach was slow and telegraphed, and Steve gave a little “oh” to feel the warmth of that body lining up tight with his. They shifted, fumbled, Bucky pulling himself over Steve with strong arms as Steve slithered down the mattress to lie flat on his back. He ended up pinned after all, with Bucky’s remaining hand cradling his face, thumb and fingers caging his ear, as intimate as they’d been, since. Since before.
And the other hand ... the other hand slipped down his stomach, with little scritches up and down, before it slid under his waistband.
Wasn’t expecting--
“Oh, wait--”
The pause was minute, but it was there, and Steve’s whole body heated as his words were considered and then, obviously, discarded. As a slow and by-no-means-kind smile spread over that perfect mouth. Steve’s legs twisted under the sheets, driven by energy and nerves, before they were tangled with Bucky’s and held still.
“Steve,” Bucky said, and that was the password, wasn’t it. Steve’s fingers curled into the sheets. Bucky was watching him carefully, pressed so close, looking for something in him. Recognition, yeah, but also honesty, and ... and he could never lie to Buck about what he wanted, when they were like this.
And, oh, he wanted. His body confessed for him as it immediately roused under those hands, both of them. The soft touch cradling his face, and the harder one making him throb and gasp, until--
Bucky withdrew his other hand to slick it up, spreading a glistening layer of fluid over sleek mechanical fingers. Shouldn’t have found it breathtaking, but his chest hitched anyway, and Bucky’s smile grew wider, maybe even a little warmer, as that hand pushed down his waistband and slid back under his shorts.
“You sure are ... sure are fast,” Steve fake-chided, still breathless, with that metal palm gliding smooth over his cock, and he got back, quick, “That’s only because you’re so easy.” And, God, old times, and he wondered again about the inner workings of the mind, because the words coming out of Buck’s mouth, words that sounded so natural, so right, seemed to just confuse him more.
And yet--
And yet he knew just what he was doing with that hand, now warm and coaxing, settling into a tight grip that made Steve groan. Undeniable, and the last thing Steve Rogers wanted was to fight it. He couldn’t help but arch his back, lift his hips into the movements, and he basked in rapid-fire dirty words, just broken phrases uttered low that fueled his arousal.
“Feels good, don’t it?”
That voice--he still had that voice, and--
“This is what you’ve been waiting for, right? My hands on you?”
If any part of him was gonna to play hard to get, Bucky’s words were tearing that resistance right out of him. Steve grabbed for those wrists, a loose hold on the one touching his face, and a rough one, guiding, holding Bucky’s other hand so he could ride up into it.
Loved the look of determination on the face above him. Couldn’t tear his eyes away even as the talk made him blush harder. “That’s it. That’s good,” Buck said, and, oh, God, Steve wanted to kiss that mouth but wanted him to never stop talking. “Come on. Come on, Steve. You’re so good ... so good ...
“So good ... Steve ... ”
And Steve was pushing himself up now, hard, yes, fucking--sweet God, fucking that hand that squeezed him just right, and not taking his eyes off Buck’s for a second as he did it, could see the rhythm of that shoulder moving up and down as he worked Steve’s cock, but the hand on his face never faltered.
“Come on, Steve--you gonna come for me? You gonna make a mess?”
“Bucky!” And, oh, God, he was. And too soon, so Steve turned into the soft touches along his cheek, his temple, and he moaned out Bucky’s name again and “yes” and “oh, God” and desperately tried to keep his eyes open. Wanted to watch the one doing this to him. The one he had loved almost his whole life.
Wanted--oh, wanted to see real recognition in that look, not just these scant crumbs, this sense memory, but ...
But.
He would live with what he was given. Had to.
“Come on, Steve--Stevie--” and maybe the diminutive came from another latent memory, somewhere in his fractured subconscious, but it was enough, and Steve pressed his face down hard into that palm that touched him as gently as the other took him apart. He came, finally, with a hard shove of his hips into that slick smooth hold, and groaned without shame as his semen spattered thick over metal.
After a surprisingly generous moment, Steve catching his breath, Bucky broke. “Can I-- Let me. Please--” And that was all Bucky, that tone, that “is this gonna hurt you I don’t want to hurt you” insistence that made Steve crazy in the best way.
But, hell, Steve didn’t want to wait either. “God, yes, come on--” Pants and underwear hit the floor, and Bucky climbed back on top of him after, settling between his spread thighs and then--
Looking at him desperately, which was expected, but then:
“I told Stark I didn’t kill his parents.”
Unexpected, and fear spiked, suddenly, like when he’d heard those rending screams in their early fights. But he forced his body still, inhaled even, legs loose where they bracketed Bucky’s hips. “Okay,” he managed, finally, fake-casual, and ... probably had to ask. “What did you--”
The answer came out in a rush. “I don’t actually remember. What I did. Where I was.” He shook his head. “I don’t remember.”
Here's what Steve remembered: Howard and Bucky, together. Just moments, flashes--they didn’t have much in common, and Howard wasn’t all that interested in the regular soldiers, but Steve owed them both. Seeing them together, talking like chums those couple of times--just a few--had made him feel good--
What was the last thing Howard saw?
But that-- No. He dropped his hands to Bucky’s shoulders--both of them--and squeezed in what he hoped was reassurance. “Then you’re not sure. You can’t be sure. And even if you were--”
And the look he got was bitter, killing the rest of the words and reflecting every one of the Soldier’s years, wounds taken, and Steve wondered if he would ever not say the wrong thing. But Bucky continued, at least: “I thought you should know. I thought you would want to know.”
And then he pressed himself into place, Steve’s hands guiding him, short nails digging into the skin over his shoulder blades, and that conversation was over.
When Steve pushed up for a kiss this time, he got one, then more, with no hesitation.
Afterward, Steve turned onto his stomach to look at Buck’s face. His eyes were closed like maybe he was planning on sleeping there. Steve took a breath, took a risk and slid one arm over the other’s waist. Stroked along his ribs gently with a thumb. Not holding down--just holding. Maybe Bucky didn’t notice the touch, or maybe--Steve hoped--he was done fighting it for a little while.
When the words came, they were quiet and small. “I wonder if there’s any hope.” And Steve’s arm settled a little heavier on his stomach. “Is there, Steve, do you think?” The cadence was familiar, but something in the eyes was still wrong.
“Yeah,” Steve said, and he wanted it to be the truth so bad.
He wanted it so bad.
“Yeah, Buck--I do,” he said anyway.
***
On another floor, Natasha wedged herself between Tony and his ever-present work--held up a bottle of shitty, paint-stripping vodka in one hand and two shot glasses in another.
“Talk, or drink?”
Tony looked at the bottle, the glasses clinking together in her wiggling hand, and then gave her the once-over. She was wearing that neutral expression--that “stewardess offering you a pillow” mock-politeness that he goddamned hated, but right now it was just about all he could take.
Tomorrow was for dealing with the lovebirds, his new tenant--whatever the fuck Sergeant Barnes was--and whether he wanted the Winter Soldier to give him any other answer.
Today? He knew Natasha was seeing a pathetic pile of brooding, stink, and sleep deprivation.
So, yeah, fuck it. He reached for the bottle.
“Door number two. Because even I’m getting damn sick of talking.”