Archive of Our Own

It takes a lot to penetrate through Bucky’s work haze, where he stands and smiles and scans and makes small talk with customers as he waits for their credit cards to process, all while floating somewhere up high in a fog of white noise.

But it’s the man again. The blonde one in the tight t-shirt who looks like he should be on a billboard in Times Square, not buying chick-lit from a chain bookstore in midtown.

He realizes a little too late that he’s staring, but the man is staring right back, breaking off eye contact only when the register next to Bucky’s clangs shut.

“I’m actually only about a fourth of the way through her first book, but I wanted to get the second one now so I’d have something to look forward to,” the man says, giving Bucky a shy smile that would probably make all the other cashiers swoon.

Bucky just blinks at him. “Her third one came out last week,” he finally says. “It’s in the New Releases section at the front if you want to grab it now.”

Something strange happens to the man’s face, like he wasn’t expecting Bucky to respond (he hadn’t said anything the first time he’d seen him, Bucky remembers, too startled by the man’s — presence, is the only way he can describe it; a solidity that Bucky found strange and jarring and magnetic all at once) but it smooths back into a smile as he lifts the book he’d placed on the counter.

“Nah,” he says. “Just this one today.”

***

He’s standing on the street in front of the bookstore, trying to decide if it makes more sense to walk than wait for the train this late on a Sunday, when he feels the tap on his shoulder.

Bucky moves aside on instinct, hand going to his pocket to make sure his wallet’s still there, but it’s just the man from the day before, as stupidly large and solid as ever.

“Sorry,” the man says. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Steve, by the way,” and he gives a dorky little wave that makes something short-circuit in Bucky’s brain.

“Bucky,” he says, then curses himself for not saying James like it says on his nametag, which is still pinned to the front of his shirt, for Christ’s sake.

But Steve just nods. “That’s a neat name,” he says. “Short for something?”

“Yep,” says Bucky, and doesn’t elaborate. “You want something?”

“Uh, yeah,” says Steve, thumbs tugging at the belt loops on his jeans. “Would you like to get some coffee sometime? With me?”

“Why?”

It’s clearly not a question that Steve was expecting.

“So we can get to know each other? And talk?”

“You asking me or telling?” Bucky says, and he’s not sure why he’s being a little shit when the obvious answer is yes, please, but — it’s never been obvious before, and plenty of people have tried in the past, some almost as gorgeous as Steve.

Steve ducks his head and huffs out a breath. He’s biting his lip when he looks at Bucky again.

“Should’ve known you’d make this difficult,” Steve says, then looks almost panicked. “Not that I’m saying you’re difficult, just — sorry,” he says. “Sorry, I just — fuck, I’m fucking this up, aren’t I?”

Bucky shrugs. “Street’s nice and empty,” he says. “And I’m still standing here.”

“Yeah,” says Steve. “Yeah, you are.”

He doesn’t seem to know where to go from there, which makes Bucky smile for some reason.

“I work late on Thursdays,” he offers.

“Okay,” says Steve, brow furrowing. “Did you want — ”

“So I can use a caffeine boost on Friday,” Bucky says. “8 am in the Starbucks around the corner. My shift’s at 9.”

He gives Steve another smile and starts walking down the street, wondering if Steve will actually show. Not that it matters much either way, but he seems like a nice enough guy, if a little off. Nothing to be afraid of, at any rate.

***

Thursday ends the way it usually does: with Bucky half-awake, half-asleep, feet heavy with exhaustion as he makes his way to the subway. Every week on the way home he asks himself if the overtime is worth it, and every week he gets to his apartment and opens his empty fridge and thinks, guess so.

So he’s not paying much attention when he crosses the street, turning slightly at the sound of an engine with only enough time to think, oh fuck, before everything explodes into shards of pain.

The next thing that registers is the sound of screeching tires and the smell of burned rubber, and something sticky behind his head that he realizes with a numb kind of horror is his own blood.

“Please,” he coughs out, even though there’s no one around and he doesn’t know what he’s asking for except to make it all stop; he never knew his body could feel like this, like nothing more than weight and pain, something separate but sutured onto the scream building in his throat.

“Please,” he tries again, and then there’s a face floating above his, blurry but real.

“It’s okay,” he hears, voice somehow strange and familiar, “I’ll make it okay, I promise.”

Two fingers on his neck, then, firm with intent, and finally Bucky gets to close his eyes and sink away into blackness.

***

He wakes up in a bed that isn’t his, ears ringing. Someone’s whispering angrily nearby. Steve, his brain tells him, and his eyes open and yep, there’s Steve, wearing another too-tight shirt and jabbing furiously at...another Steve, dressed all in black with longer hair and a beard and his hands clenched at his sides like he’s trying to keep from punching...himself.

“You fucking asshole,” Bucky rasps out. Assholes? Whatever. “You fucker...you fuckers gave me LSD, didn’t you?”

He tries to sit up and startles at the feel of the blanket under his hands. “That’s not even, like, a date rape drug!” he says. “What, did you think you could distract me with how soft this blanket is...and how bright this room is...and...” he trails off, both Steve and his brother (his twin?) looking at him in concern, but only the one he met in the bookstore makes a move towards him.

“Take it easy, Buck,” he says, hands up like Bucky’s a horse he’s trying to gentle, and fuck, Bucky needs to stop watching Lifetime movies about ranchers and he needs to get out of here and go home and...and...

“I was going home,” Bucky says, and he’s surprised by how even his voice is. “I got hit by a car. I was bleeding. Am I dead? Is this — ”

The man with the beard huffs out a laugh, but doesn’t move from where he’s perched against the windowsill. “Not quite, kid,” he says, “But some would say a penthouse with Central Park views comes pretty close.”

Bucky’s mouth drops open at kid, but then Steve places a giant hand on his shoulder and looks earnestly in his eyes, and Bucky loses his train of thought. “I know you’re confused, Bucky,” he says, “And it’s not ideal, what happened, but you were — you were hurt pretty bad, and we just — we just wanted to make sure you’d be okay.”

“So you what, kidnapped me?” Bucky asks, lifting his fingers to the back of his head. “And — patched me up and washed my hair after?” He can hear himself getting a little hysterical, but he thinks it’s justified, given the situation. “What the actual fuck, Steve?”

“Steve wasn’t there,” says the man by the windowsill. “I was. I brought you back here, and then we decided to give you the serum before you bled out all over our hallway. The hair washing was all him, though.”

“Right,” says Bucky, nodding like any of that made sense. “And you are?”

Steve opens his mouth, but the other man answers first. “You can call me Nomad.”

“The fuck I will,” says Bucky. “That’s not a name.”

Steve lets out a laugh that he tries to turn into a cough. “Sorry,” he says. “But — he’s not wrong, you know.” He turns back to Bucky. “He’s also Steve, actually, but he hasn’t gone by that in a while and we thought it might get confusing, so —”

“Oh, yeah, that’s the part that’s confusing,” says Bucky, sitting up straighter in the bed. “Why not Steven? You can pretend the N stands for Nomad.”

“Or just call him Steve and we’ll figure it out,” says the first Steve. “Listen, the important thing is that you’re okay, and you’re free to leave and go home if you’d like, but we’d really like it if you stayed here instead.”

“We’re a little short on roaches,” says the guy who told Bucky to call him Nomad, “and there are no expired tubs of Greek yogurt in our fridge, so I know it’s a difficult choice.”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “Is everyone an asshole all the time in the future, or did I just luck out with you two?”

“Riiiight,” says Bucky. He’s hit with a sudden wave of exhaustion, like his body’s just remembered its recent trauma and would very much like to shut down for a while in response. “Okay, well, I think that’s about the limit of weirdness I can handle in one day, so I’m just gonna lie back down and maybe pass out again, 'kay?”

“Here?” asks Steve, a hopeful tilt to his mouth.

“Sure,” says Bucky. “Here, there, anywhere’s good as long as I don’t have to move.” He’s already managed to turn himself most of the way into a blanket burrito by the time he’s done speaking, but he can still hear the two Steves as they make their way out of the bedroom.

“Huh,” says Steve. “That went better than I thought it would.”

“Told you,” says the other Steve. “Prime real estate and high thread-count sheets go a long way these days.”

***

The next time he wakes up, he’s so hungry he barely notices his surroundings, stumbling out of the bedroom and making a beeline for the fridge in the open kitchen, which is luckily filled with all sorts of sandwich meat that Bucky can start stuffing into his mouth.

“Yeah, we probably should’ve warned you about this part,” says Steve, and Bucky wants to know what that means but can’t pause in his eating, so he just grunts in response.

“Protein shakes work a little better than deli meats at keeping the hunger under control,” Steve says. “The serum makes you burn a lot more calories.”

“Wha’ serum?” Bucky manages around another fistful of salami. “The fuck you guys give me?”

“Nothing bad,” says Steve, moving slightly closer to Bucky, close enough that Bucky can see his hair is still a little damp from the shower, one lone cowlick sticking up in the back. “It’s a — drug, I guess you can call it. It helped fix us up when we needed it, and it saved your life the other night. It makes you stronger, healthier.”

“It also slows down your aging process and makes you a whole lot harder to kill,” says the other Steve, emerging from the darkened hallway like he’d been standing there for hours, lurking.

“Uh-huh,” says Bucky, now scooping peanut butter directly onto his fingers and licking them clean. Steve looks down to stare intently at the marble countertop, making his cowlick stick out even more. “Why’d you give it to me? And why were you there when I got hit by that car, anyway?”

The other Steve moves to stand in front of him, tugging the peanut butter jar out of Bucky’s hands and replacing it with a bottle of green stuff from the fridge.

“What do you know about alternate universes?” he asks.

Bucky stares at the two Steves, hunger momentarily forgotten. “I mean, I’ve watched Star Trek, so — hold on — are you saying you two are the same guy, but from different realities? Wait, is there a third Steve from this world roaming around somewhere?”

“No,” says Steve, eyes back on Bucky. “That’s actually what makes this universe unique — it’s the only one with a Bucky but no Steve.”

“Oh,” says Bucky. “That’s...huh.” He frowns at the bottle in his hand and lifts it up to take a sip. “Like...the only one out of all them?”

“We’re pretty sure you’re not from here, either,” says Steve, crossing his arms in front of him, the black wool of his turtleneck pulling tightly across his chest.

Focus, Bucky tells himself, taking another swig of the green stuff.

“You see, in both of our worlds, when you — died — you didn’t just die, you disappeared in a beam of light from the Tesseract, an alien weapon that could, in theory — ”

“Take the atoms from your two Buckys and combine them in me?”

“Basically, yeah,” says Steve, lifting one hand to scratch at his neck, t-shirt sleeve straining against the bulk of his arm. “Guess you read a lot of science-fiction in this universe, too, huh?”

“So how’d you guys end up here?” asks Bucky. “No, hold on, let me guess, you pointed the giant alien weapon at yourselves and hoped for the best, didn’t you?”

“We had some help,” says Steve, sounding indignant. “An engineer named Howard Stark in my universe, and a mystic named Dr. Strange in his. We needed to make sure we’d get here as we were, with our memories intact.”

“Uh-huh,” says Bucky. “Wait, so I’m dead where you guys are from?”

“Not dead, just...gone,” says Steve, voice soft. “Gone to here, it turns out. Except in my universe, you disappeared in 1942, and in his, it was the year 2096, so I guess the Tesseract decided this was kind of a...middle ground?”

“Yeah, sure, that makes sense,” says Bucky, placing the now-empty smoothie bottle on the counter. “You know, in a world where stuff like this actually happens.”

“You don’t believe us,” says Steve, uncrossing his arms. “But you’re here, alive, looking at two versions of the same man, who’ve managed to amass a surprisingly large amount of money because your universe is close enough to mine that I knew which stocks to invest in and which sports teams to bet on.”

“I know things like this don’t happen in your world,” says the other Steve, reaching out a hand towards Bucky, “But they happen all the time in ours.”

“Look,” says Bucky, “I’m not saying you’re making all this shit up, because — ” he gestures vaguely at his head, “but — this is...a lot.”

“We just have to find another way to convince you, then,” says Steve, mouth set in a firm line, his ridiculous cowlick at odds with the new rigidity of his spine.

“Or we can give you some time to think it over,” says the other Steve, giving Bucky a look from under his bangs. “Come on, I’ll drive you back to your place.”

“But — ”

“No,” says Steve, turning to disappear back into the gloom of the hallway. “We can wait. He’s right. It’s a lot.”

***

“So should I give you my address so we can pretend like you don’t know where I live?” asks Bucky, more to break up the silence than anything else. “Or do you want to find something else to talk about?”

Steve keeps his eyes on the street ahead, navigating the low, sleek sports car around a UPS truck with a faint frown. “Talk if you want,” he says. “Or don’t.”

Bucky hunches further into his seat, fingers twisting into the fabric of his seat belt. He’s somehow less comfortable around this Steve than the other one, which is stupid because he shouldn’t be comfortable around either of them — but there’s something about the way this Steve holds himself that’s inviting in a dangerous way, like a warm dark cave that turns out to be the mouth of some ancient predator.

“You've been watching me for a while, huh?” he asks, because sure enough, Steve’s turning left exactly where he should be.

“About a year,” Steve says. “Setting up operations. Gathering intel.”

A year. Bucky's mind briefly blanks out as he tries to think of all the embarrassing things they might’ve seen him do in that time frame, before he decides to just not think about it.

“So, stalking me, basically,” he says instead.

Steve shrugs. “The Steve from 1945 wanted to find you and explain everything right away, but I convinced him it was smarter to wait.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “That must’ve been some convincing,” he says. “Guy seems like the stubborn sort.”

“I had some twenty-second century tech to help persuade him,” Steve says, which Bucky interprets as: I had some real fancy handcuffs to hold him still until he agreed to do things my way.

“What made you decide to work together, anyway?” he asks. “Why not just go, you know, all Highlander on each other?”

“Needed him,” Steve says, easing off the gas as he turns the car onto Bucky’s street. “And he needed me. I knew how to operate the tech, where to find money. He was good at talking to people, making them want to help.”

“And yet you’re basically the same person,” says Bucky, glancing over at Steve. “Just — from different times? With slightly different timelines? You don’t find this whole situation, just, like, mind-bendingly weird?”

“I’m over 200 years old, kid,” Steve says. “There’s not much I find weird anymore.”

“Huh,” says Bucky. The car slows to a stop and Bucky looks out at the dim entrance to his building. “Well, thanks for the ride, Steve.” He almost jumps when Steve’s hand covers his on the seat belt release, skin warm and unexpectedly soft.

“I wired $250,000 into your bank account while you were sleeping,” Steve says. “If you want to come and stay with us, you should. But the money’s there either way.”

He lets go, then, and turns to face the street again. “I also fixed your phone screen and added our contact info. You should think about changing your passcode to something other than your birthday, by the way.”

“Fuck off,” Bucky says automatically, then: “I mean — okay, sure, give me a bunch of money if it’ll make you feel better about the whole stalking thing, but I don’t think I wanna get involved in whatever you guys have going on, you know?”

Steve just shrugs again. “Sure,” he says, gazing out at Bucky’s apartment building with its boarded up windows on the ground floor. “Looks like you’ve got a lot to lose.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “Like I said, thanks but no thanks.” He resists the urge to slam the door on his way out, and doesn’t turn around to see if the car pulls away before he shoulders his way inside the building. Unlikely, he thinks.

***

Steve Rogers, (718) 555-3879. Notes: May call if you text him.

SteveN Rogers, (718) 555-3878.

Account balance, 2:48 AM: $250,076.58.

Bucky sits sideways on his couch, hand cramping as he switches between his contacts and his credit union app for the hundredth time.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” he says. Then he sighs and gets up to find his backpack, pausing to grab an empty takeout bag near the trash can for his peace lily. “Absolutely fucking ridiculous.”

Nineteen minutes later, he’s standing on an empty subway platform, palms sweating against the paper bag in his hands as he waits for a train uptown.

***

“Okay,” says Bucky after he’s done swallowing the last bite of his pizza. “If I’m gonna be living here, I think there’s some stuff I need to know.”

“Like what?” asks Steve. He’s brushed the cowlick out of his hair, which Bucky finds disappointing.

“Like, clearly you guys didn’t travel across dimensions just to be reunited with your best buddy Bucky Barnes, right? Plus, you asked me out that night in front of the bookstore.”

“I thought we agreed you’d just introduce yourself,” says Steve. There’s a small dot of pizza sauce in his beard.

“Hey, he said yes,” says Steve. He looks right at the spot of sauce says nothing.

“Anyway,” says Bucky, taking a deep breath before deciding that if this is all the work of his last few exploding neurons, he may as well go for it, “I’m not, like, completely against the idea, but how would it work? I mean, are you gonna arm wrestle for it? Set up a time-share system?”

“We could do that, if that’s what you want,” says Steve, leaning back into the couch and stretching his white tee to its limits.

“Or you could fuck both of us at the same time,” says the other Steve.

“I could — uh, okay, but wouldn’t that be...weird?”

“Neither of us actually got to that point with you in our worlds,” says Steve. He shifts forward and drops his gaze to the coffee table. “Never a good time.”

“Uh, good to know,” says Bucky, filing away that information for later. “I meant more for you guys, since you’d kinda be boning yourselves and all.”

Steve looks up from the table, cheeks flushed. It’s a definite improvement from his sad eyes. “You gotta understand, Buck, before I got the serum, I was 5 foot 4 and 95 pounds on a good day. This body’s still pretty new to me, and while it’s not exactly my type, it’s not...unappealing.”

The other Steve just raises his eyebrows at Bucky. “Like I said, not much I find weird anymore.”

“Right,” says Bucky. He looks at the Steve next to him, still somewhat flushed, and the one lounging at the end of the sectional, limbs spread against the cushions. “So, uh, how would we start?”

“We don’t have to rush into anything,” Steve says. He places his hand on top of Bucky’s, covering it completely, and Bucky’s never thought of his hands as small before, has never thought of himself as small before, but next to these guys...he swallows, throat suddenly dry.

“Maybe just some kissing to start with?” Steve asks, and his hands tug Bucky towards him and then his lips are brushing against Bucky’s with a sigh, and Bucky lets out a sound that’s definitely not a whimper as his mouth opens and then Steve is there, everywhere, lips and tongue and teeth —

And hands, those big strong hands tugging at his hair, holding him still while Steve devours him, nipping and biting —

“Fuck, your mouth,” Steve rasps, and Bucky whines in response and pulls Steve back into him, and then he feels more hands on his shoulders, palms pressing down his chest, pausing to pinch at his nipples. He tears his mouth away from Steve’s to gasp out a moan that gets cut off by another mouth, just as firm and insistent but surrounded by soft, tickling hairs.

He’s not sure how long he sits there, mouths nipping at his lips, his ears, his neck. Everywhere he touches is thick, hard muscle. At some point, his fingers scratch at the fabric under his hands, and then he’s feeling skin instead of cotton and wool.

The next time he tears his mouth away to breathe, he pulls his own shirt over his head, which Steve takes as a sign to stand up and lift Bucky against him, the rough denim of his jeans scratching against Bucky’s abs. “This okay?” he asks.

“Uh-huh,” Bucky says, and goes back to kissing him, using one hand to tug the other Steve up so he’s sandwiched between them again.

Somehow they make it into the master bedroom, where Bucky takes one look at the enormous bed and he has questions, he really does, but right now —

He falls back on the mattress, Steve following him down and wedging his thigh between Bucky’s legs, unzipping his jeans and palming his cock.

“Fuck, you’re pretty like this,” he says, leaning back to tug the rest of Bucky’s clothes off as the other Steve shifts to sit behind him.

“C’mon, honey, relax,” Steve breathes against his ear, beard scratching against the skin of his neck, and then there’s thick, slick fingers pushing at his hole and Bucky yells, almost rearing up off the bed if not for the hands on his shoulders pushing him down, cradling his head on the smooth black leather of Steve’s pants.

The other Steve’s hands move to rest above his knees, and Bucky opens his mouth on a silent scream at the stretch as he pushes slowly in. Fingers tap at his lips and he sucks them in, eyes watering at the feeling of fullness in his mouth and ass.

Steve starts fucking into him with short, sharp thrusts; dick rubbing up against Bucky’s prostate in a staccato beat that has him writhing on the sheets until the other Steve bends over him from above, keeping him still.

“Fuck, you smell good,” Steve says, rubbing his beard against Bucky’s cock, making Bucky’s legs jump against the hands splayed on his thighs.

“Bet he tastes even better,” the other Steve says, and Bucky can feel Steve smirk against him before he swallows him down to the root.

“Fuck!” Bucky shouts, head hitting the mattress with a thump. Somewhere in the haze of straining against the hard dick inside him and trying to push further into the warmth around him, he notices Steve’s groin above his head. He manages to raise a shaky hand to draw out Steve’s cock and get his lips around the tip, his own dick pulsing at the musky smell and taste.

“Mmph,” Steve groans around him, hands squeezing against his thighs before lifting them up, splaying him open so the other Steve can fuck into him harder, deeper, and Bucky swallows down a burst of precome as Steve rams straight into his prostate and that’s it, he can’t, it’s too much, and he lets Steve slip out of his mouth as he comes with a strangled shout, clamping tight around Steve.

“Shit, Bucky, fuck — ”

He can feel Steve pulsing inside him, the zipper of his jeans almost painful against his skin now, before he slowly moves to Bucky’s side, settling one hand on his heart and giving him a wide grin. The other Steve moves off his dick with one last suck and slides down to rest between his legs, fingers opening him up again as Bucky whines at the feeling of Steve’s come leaking out.

“Loosened him up for you,” Steve says, finally taking the time to strip off his jeans.

“Still feels plenty tight to me,” Steve says, pressing in deeper as Bucky shudders and gasps. “Hungry little thing, aren’t you?”

“Nngh,” Bucky manages, almost kicking him in the head as Steve bites him on the swell of his ass.

“On your knees, honey,” Steve says, helping him turn on shaky legs. The other Steve moves to sit at the headboard, hands rubbing at Bucky’s shoulders.

Steve fucks into him with one sharp thrust, his dick making an obscene squelching noise as more come leaks out of Bucky’s ass. Bucky tries to keep his head up and fails, rubbing his face into the sheets as the other Steve holds him steady with one hand at his neck, the other moving steadily against his own dick.

“Don’t you — fuck — even think about getting come in my hair,” Bucky says.

“Well, since you asked so nice, guess I have no choice but to come all over your pretty little face,” Steve says with a laugh.

“Focus,” the other Steve says, delivering a deep thrust and taking Bucky’s dick in his palm, squeezing tight around the base.

“Mmph,” Bucky says, and closes his eyes, shoulders collapsing into the bed.

“C’mon honey,” Steve says, moving his hand over Bucky’s cock with quick, tight strokes. “Let me feel you.”

“It’s okay,” the other Steve says, stroking Bucky’s sweaty hair back from his temples. “You can let go.”

No, Bucky thinks, it’s too much, I can’t — and he bites down on his fist as he comes a second time, dick pulsing out stream after stream of come into Steve’s hand as Steve grunts through his own orgasm and the other Steve tugs him up by the hair and he feels sticky warmth hit his lips and cheeks.

Fuck, Bucky thinks. Maybe I can die in peace now.

***

Bucky wakes up the next morning with a sharp sense of panic that he's late, fuck, the sun is way too bright, he's going to get fired, then evicted, then starve to death on the streets, and he's halfway through pulling his pants on before he registers his surroundings and thinks, Oh. Right.

No need to go to work, and it's unlikely that his job is still waiting for him, given that he's been out the past two (three?) days with no notice.

No need to do anything, really, except...spend time with the Steves?

His dick gives an interested twitch. Bucky glares at it, then finishes getting dressed. If this — arrangement — is going to work, he should probably get to know these guys. Have a conversation or two.

"You've already fucked them," Bucky tells himself, "How hard can it be to talk to them?"

He takes a second to cast a longing look at the giant bed and its rumpled sheets, warm and dappled with sunlight, then grits his teeth and marches out of the bedroom.

The first thing he sees is Steve, standing in the open kitchen in a tight blue henley with a pink ruffled apron over it, cursing at a pan on the stove and poking at something with a wooden spoon.

"Morning," says Bucky. "Uh, can I help with anything?"

"Not unless you know how to un-char a pancake," Steve says, giving the pan another vigorous poke. "Think maybe I'll just pick up breakfast from the diner on 88th."

"That sounds good," says Bucky, "Or we can try another pancake? I've never made any from scratch, but it can't — " be that hard, he's about to say. "I mean, maybe we'll have more luck if we work together."

"I appreciate the offer," says Steve, giving him a wry grin, "but let’s save that for another day." He pulls off his apron and tosses it onto the counter, and Bucky takes a second to make sure the stove's off before looking back at Steve and the way Steve fills out that henley, and — right. Talking.

"Want me to come with you to the diner?" he offers.

"Sure," says Steve. "It's a nice day for a walk. Maybe we can find a cafe with some outdoor seating, grab a bite there."

"What about — " Bucky makes a vague hand motion, looking around for the other Steve.

"He went out early," says Steve, shrugging. "Back this afternoon, probably."

Bucky feels a sharp spike of worry, fingers fumbling as they reach for the keys Steve tosses at him. They’ve been here a year already, they know what they’re doing, Bucky tells himself, but he can't shake the anxiety as he follows Steve out the door.

Steve doesn't seem to share his concern, humming what sounds suspiciously like Somewhere Over the Rainbow as they wait for the elevator.

"This okay?" he asks, and Bucky wonders if he means leaving while the other Steve is out wandering by himself somewhere when he realizes that Steve's hand is brushing against his.

"Yeah, that's — it's fine," says Bucky, and Steve entwines their fingers and gives his hand a tug.

"I should burn breakfast more often," Steve says, and the elevator finally arrives with a ding.

They're sitting at a tiny table outside bistro down the block, knees knocking against each other, when Steve puts down his menu and frowns at Bucky.

"Were you being serious this morning?" Steve asks. "When you said you'd never made pancakes?"

"Uh, yeah," says Bucky, fingers tightening against the edges of his own menu. "Why? Was — was your Bucky some kind of pancake master or something?"

Steve puts his hand on Bucky arm and squeezes. "You're my Bucky, punk," he says. "And no, it's just — back in my world, you and your Ma used to do a big pancake breakfast every Saturday."

"Look," says Bucky, looking down at the vinyl sheet of breakfast specials, “I'm not sure I buy the whole — atomic displacement theory you guys got going, so maybe —” maybe don't get too invested in it, he wants to say, but can't quite get the words out. "Anyway. My mom died the day she had me and it pretty much destroyed my dad, so. Not a lot of opportunities for pancake breakfasts."

"Hey," Steve says, and moves his hand to tilt Bucky's face up. Bucky stares resolutely at his chin. "Atoms or no atoms, the Bucky in my world was never mine the way that you were last night, okay? And I'm sorry about your mom. How's your dad doing now? Do you need to call him and let him know you're okay?"

"My dad died after I left for college," says Bucky, shaking free of Steve's grasp. "Pretty sure he just held out till he thought I could make it by myself. Heart attack," he adds, because he knows what Steve would assume otherwise. "So. No one to call."

He looks up, then, glaring at Steve. "Can we order now or what?"

"Sure," says Steve, leaning back in his seat. “Just gimme a sec to figure out if I want a quiche or not. What’re you getting?”

“Omelette,” Bucky says in a low voice, avoiding eye contact again. He hadn't thought about it yet, but — if he wasn't meant to exist in this universe, then his mother —

“Jesus, not you too,” says Steve. “Listen, one brooding idiot's all I got the energy to deal with, okay? So don't start.”

Bucky's head snaps up.

“Fuck you,” he says, “If my mom was fine until your fucking Taser-thing decided to stick my atoms in her uterus, then she — ”

“Probably died because maternal healthcare in this country is still abysmal,” says Steve, cutting him off. “NewsHour did a whole thing on it last week. Let's not start blaming alien lasers for everything.”

“Still,” says Bucky, “If she hadn't gotten pregnant with me — ”

“She would've gotten pregnant with some other baby,” says Steve, shrugging. “Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, it's not your fault, but you've probably been carrying that guilt your whole life, so my opinion’s probably not gonna do much to dissuade you. Even if it is the official view of Captain America.”

“You're not Captain of anything here,” Bucky mutters, but he does feel a little better, hearing Steve say it.

“Pretty sure I'm the Captain of your dick,” says Steve, and puts his shoe on the edge of Bucky's seat.

It shocks a laugh out of Bucky. “Fuck, just order already, will you? I’m starving.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart,” Steve says. “One serum-approved breakfast, coming up.”

***

Steve doesn’t come back that afternoon. It’s almost nine o’clock when he finally appears, ruffling Bucky’s hair as he passes the couch on his way to the balcony.

“He okay?” Bucky asks.

Steve doesn’t look away from the TV screen, which has been playing Chicago Fire for the past four hours. “You’ll have to ask him.”

“Are — are you okay?” Bucky asks. He thinks about shifting over to sit in Steve’s lap, but settles for placing a hand on his shoulder.

Steve smiles and tugs Bucky over to straddle his legs like he’s some kind of mind-reader, which…maybe he is? Bucky should probably find out.

“I’m just fine, Buck,” he says, ducking his head to give Bucky a quick kiss. “He might appreciate some company, though.”

“Yeah, okay,” Bucky says. He doesn’t move, though, looking out at the glass door to where he can just about see Steve’s silhouette.

“It’s harder for him,” Steve says, hands resting at Bucky’s hips. “I only lost you the one time, and it nearly broke me. He — from what I’ve pieced together, he lost you three times, before the Tesseract.”

“I just — I don’t think he likes this version of me very much,” Bucky says quietly.

“Sweetheart, he likes you so much it absolutely terrifies him,” Steve says, giving him a squeeze. “Do you know, when I first realized there was another — another me here — I thought, Great, one more thing I have to deal with before I can find Bucky, but he was — he was so relieved to meet me, and I couldn’t understand why.”

“He said — he said he needed you, because you were good with people,” Bucky says.

“Huh,” says Steve. “I guess that’s one way of putting it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll figure it out,” says Steve, resting his forehead against Bucky’s. “Hopefully in less time than it took me.”

The door to the balcony slides open, and Steve walks back in to settle on the sofa next to them.

“You guys look cozy,” he says.

“You want a turn?” Steve asks. “My leg’s going numb, this guy’s heavier than he looks.” Bucky lets out a squawk as Steve gets up and dumps him in the other Steve’s lap, making his way into the kitchen.

“Should we do Chinese tonight? Or I can try to make a lasagna.”

“Chinese sounds good,” Steve says over Bucky’s shoulder, then, into Bucky’s ear: “Don’t eat anything he cooks; even the serum might not save you.”

“Yeah,” says Bucky, holding back a shiver at Steve’s breath so close to his neck. “I kinda got that after he made lunch today.”

***

They settle into something of a rhythm, after that. Sometimes Bucky wakes up alone; sometimes he’s pressed up against Steve’s chest while Steve tries to do the crossword with the help of his phone. If the other Steve sleeps he’s yet to witness it, but he’s always there in the evenings, content enough to follow Steve’s lead even if he never instigates anything himself.

“Fuck,” says Bucky, trying to keep his legs straight from where he’s bent against the kitchen counter, the marble surface already sticky with his come. “At this rate you won’t even need to prep me before you can just slide in.”

“Mm, there’s an idea,” says Steve, pumping into him at a leisurely pace. He leans forward to rub his beard against the soft skin behind Bucky’s ear, making him gasp. “Think we’re a little big for that yet.”

“Plus the serum,” says Steve, looking up from where he’s sitting near Bucky’s feet, giving his cock and balls the occasional tug.

“We could get a plug for you, maybe. Something nice and fat for you to wear.”

“How many loads do you think we could fill him with before it starts to leak out, do you think?”

“Could be an interesting experiment.”

“Unf,” says Bucky, clenching down even tighter as Steve runs his fingers around Bucky’s rim.

“Don’t worry, we wouldn’t let you get too dirty.”

“No, we’d lick you clean, all around the edges.”

“You think we could fuck him and give him a rim job at the same time?”

“Worth a shot,” says Steve, rising up onto his knees.

“Come on, Bucky,” says Steve, surrounding Bucky’s cock in a warm fist as Bucky’s mouth opens on a scream; Steve’s tongue lapping at his own come spilling out of him, teeth just brushing against his skin.

“Fu—fuck,” Bucky yells, legs giving out as his dick spurts into Steve’s hand, Steve’s arms clamping tight to keep him upright.

“Hold on, honey,” Steve says. “We’re not done with you yet.”

“Couch?” Steve asks, getting up.

“Couch,” Steve agrees, lifting Bucky up by his thighs, the change in position pushing him even deeper inside and making Bucky’s cock dribble out another thin stream of come.

“Gonna milk you dry, sweet thing,” Steve says, helping him down onto the sofa as Bucky shakes apart in their hands.

***

It’s another two weeks before Bucky finally ventures out on the balcony after Steve, leaning against the stone wall and staring out at the murky depths of Central Park.

“Steve really seems to like it here,” Bucky says after a minute of silence, because he’s not sure how to ask this Steve if he doesn’t.

"What's not to like? He went from trench warfare, rations, anti-sodomy laws and a dead best friend to all that 21st century America has to offer, and you."

“Is that why he’s so much more upbeat?” Bucky asks, elbowing Steve in the side. “You missing the wonders of the next century?”

Steve gives a low laugh. “Pretty sure he started with the Mr. Cheerful attitude to fuck with me when we first met, and then just...grew into it.”

“Doesn’t really answer my question,” Bucky says; then, after another minute of silence: “Does it get really bad? You know, with climate change and all that…”

"It's not great," Steve says, leaning down to rest his elbows against the top of the wall. "But we had different issues. Lots of eccentric geniuses to fix the energy crisis and bring down carbon dioxide levels, but also lots of bad guys destroying cities, setting off nukes, that kind of thing."

"Was it — was it hard to leave?" Bucky asks, because for all that, there’s still something wistful in Steve’s tone.

Steve flicks his gaze up. "Everyone else already had, pretty much. You. My friends. The only one left of my original team was Dr. Strange. He's the one who helped me make a copy of the serum and got me here."

"That was nice of him."

"Think he was worried that I was starting to...lose perspective, I guess."

Bucky's pretty sure that's a euphemism for some kind of superhero no-no, like going on a violent rampage with a high civilian casualty count, but he doesn't press.

"It's a good thing you came," he says. "Who knows where the other Steve would've ended up without you. And, you know, I might've gotten killed by that car."

"Don't remind me," says Steve, grimacing.

"But there's still something bothering you, right?"

Steve sighs. “Just starting to wonder if any of it mattered. I mean, I didn't exist in this world until now, and the Nazis still got beat, there's no such thing as Hydra, no alien attacks, so maybe — ”

“Hold on a sec,” says Bucky, “You think you're the reason your planet got attacked by aliens?”

“I think every action has an equal and opposite reaction,” says Steve, mouth grim. “And the thing that made me, my transformation, possible, is also what enabled everything else.”

“And now, what? You’re worried that stuff might start happening here?”

Steve doesn’t say anything, but he takes Bucky’s hand in his and gives it a squeeze, which is so unexpected it almost makes Bucky lose his train of thought.

“That’s just bullshit,” Bucky says. “Even if we get invaded by aliens tomorrow, that doesn’t mean it’s your fault.”

Steve looks at him, then, eyebrows raised. “No?”

Bucky flushes. “I guess Steve told you about — about my mom.”

“No,” Steve says. “But I already knew.”

“How — oh. Right. Gathering intel.”

“Steve wanted to respect your privacy, get to know you from you,” Steve says in a low voice. “But — what you don’t know can hurt you.”

“Sure,” says Bucky, “But you should really let me follow you around for a few months, even the score a bit.”

“Be my guest,” Steve says, and Bucky thinks there’s a hint of a smile there, maybe. “Might be fun to see if you can keep up.”

There’s a crash from inside the apartment, then, and they both turn to look at Steve trying to wrest a skillet from a pile of pots and pans.

“I promised I’d help make dinner,” Bucky says, turning to leave.

“Good luck,” Steve says, releasing his hand. “I’ll be in soon if you need backup.”

It’s easier, somehow, to say it while his back is turned.

“No one ever felt right, before,” Bucky says. “I don’t — I just thought there was something off about me, but then you — and Steve — you felt familiar, almost, from the very beginning.”

“Like recognizes like,” Steve says, and Bucky can almost feel his gaze on him.

“Yeah, maybe,” says Bucky, one hand on the door. “Or maybe I’m just rationalizating how I suddenly ended up with two super-hot sugar daddies by buying into their soulmate theory so I don't have to think about it too much.”

“I don’t believe the word ‘soulmate’ was ever spoken,” says Steve, voice warm enough to pass for the other Steve’s.

“Yeah, whatever,” says Bucky. “Like I don't know what the pink glittery version of your 'like recognizes like' bullshit would be.”

“It’s not bullshit,” Steve calls after him. “The Bucky in my world, he went through a lot of...permutations, but the core of him, that stayed true.”

“Right,” says Bucky.

“And the hair,” Steve adds before Bucky can shut the door on him. “The hair stayed consistently amazing throughout.”

“Wow, he sounds almost bubbly,” Steve says from the kitchen. “Good talk?”

“I think he likes my hair,” Bucky says, moving to the stove and turning down the flame before the chicken can burn. “Maybe? Did it look like this in your world?”

Steve just stares at him, “Your — for fuck’s sake, Bucky.”

“What?”

“Your hair’s fine, Bucky,” Steve sighs. “Now come here and help me chop up this eggplant.”

***

“Oh, hey, you’re home,” Bucky says, dumping the groceries in the kitchen. Steve starts rifling through the bags and sorting the items in his brisk, efficient way, so Bucky sits down at the counter and just watches the black cotton of his sweater stretch across his shoulders as he moves.

“Where’s the other guy?” he asks, spinning around on the stool.

“In the bedroom, getting ready,” says Steve, and gives Bucky what could almost pass for a wink.

“Ready for what?” asks Bucky, noting absently that his dick doesn’t seem to care about the specifics, already starting to stiffen in his pants.

“For us,” says Steve, and he pulls Bucky off the stool and into his arms, mouth catching Bucky’s for a long, deep kiss.

“This — what — mmph,” Bucky says, before giving up and biting at Steve’s lips, hands grabbing at his beard so he can catch a breath.

Somehow Steve half-walks, half-carries Bucky into the bedroom without letting Bucky do much more than pant around his mouth, and sure enough, Steve’s in there already, kneeling naked on the bed, one hand tugging on his hard, flushed dick.

He looks like someone’s carved him out of marble, pale and gorgeous and staring up at Bucky with a smile on his face, and Bucky stumbles a bit as the other Steve pushes him gently towards the bed, then climbs in behind him.

“First thing's first,” Steve says. “You’re wearing way too many clothes for this.”

There’s two sets of hands on him, then, tugging away his shirt and pants and shoes, rolling his underwear past his cock and off his legs, as the Steves take turns kissing him, biting at his neck and shoulders and pinching at his nipples while Bucky tries and fails to get a hand around his dick.

“None of that,” says Steve, rubbing his beard against Bucky’s back as he sits up against the headboard and strips off his own shirt and pants. “We’ve got plans for that.”

“Mmm,” says the other Steve, pulling his mouth away from Bucky’s chest. “Big plans. Just gotta get you ready for us.”

Steve’s fingers, wet with slick, nudge against his hole. “Shouldn’t take too long,” he says, and every word sends a shivery tingle down Bucky’s back. “You’re still a little loose from this morning, aren’t you, honey?”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky manages, before his head thumps back and he bites back a scream as Steve’s fingers work their way in from behind just as the other Steve’s hand wraps around Bucky’s dick and slicks him up.

“What’re — what —” he tries, because they can’t mean to — they can’t —

He does scream, then, and his dick pulses out a wad of come as one Steve pushes into him and the other Steve lowers himself down, and Bucky can’t help it, can’t even hold it together long enough to get fully inside, just comes in thick stuttering pulses against Steve’s ass, squeezing around Steve’s dick, and it’s too much, he can’t —

“Sorry,” he gasps out, “sorry, I’m sorry — ”

“What’re you apologizing for, sweetheart?” Steve asks, leaning forward to hush him with his mouth, ass flexing against Bucky’s still-hard dick in the process.

“Just breathe,” says Steve from behind him, starting to fuck into him with deep, steady strokes that push Bucky deeper into Steve in front, who lets out a moan. “You’re not driving anything here, honey; we’re just using you to make ourselves feel good. Don’t you want us to feel good?”

Bucky nods shakily, letting his head fall back against Steve’s chest.

“Here,” says Steve, pulling off just long enough to get on his hands and knees in front of Bucky. The other Steve takes hold of Bucky’s dick and guides it back inside, then pushes them both forward with a thrust. “Just put your hands on my hips, Buck, and hold on. You’re doing just fine.”

Bucky thinks “fine” might be a little generous given how he feels like he’s going to come apart at the seams any second now, but he moves his hands to Steve’s hips as directed, and then, just. Holds on.

Holds on as Steve finds a rhythm that has his big hands clenching tightly against Bucky’s thighs and makes the other Steve let out short, raspy moans.

Holds on as he shudders through another orgasm when Steve’s dick punches up against his prostate just as Steve’s ass squeezes tight against his cock.

Holds on as Steve fucks him through his own orgasm, forcing another stream of come from Bucky’s dick into Steve, who’s fucking into his own fist and comes with a roar.

He’s not sure how much time has gone by, when one Steve finally slips out of him and the other moves off of him with a satisfied sigh, but it feels like forever, like nothing’s left of his body except a string of lights where his nerves should be.

“Guess we should clean you up, huh?” Steve asks, and Bucky turns to blink at him, realizing dimly there are tears in his eyes.

“Oh, honey,” says Steve, and bends down to pick him up and carry him into the shower, and Bucky might feel embarrassed if he had anything left in him to feel shame, which he doesn’t.

When he comes back to himself they’re in bed again, sheets crisp and clean against his skin, and he can’t help it, he lets out a small whimper and tries to curl in on himself, feeling empty and wrong, but he doesn’t get very far before Steve’s sitting up and pulling Bucky’s head into his lap; the other Steve kissing down his body, beard scratching against his stomach and making him shiver.

“Shhh, you’re okay,” says Steve, and his big, strong hands start to rub against Bucky’s scalp.

Under the covers, he feels Steve’s mouth, gentle and warm, engulf his soft cock, just as three of his fingers push into him and hold still, filling him up and making him gasp.

“There,” says Steve, hands moving through Bucky’s hair, tugging softly. “We’ll always give you what you need, no need to fret.”

Steve hums around him in agreement, thick fingers twitching slightly against Bucky’s rim, keeping him grounded as everything turns sticky and warm.

“You’re so gorgeous like this,” says Steve, pushing against the tender spots behind Bucky’s ears, then moving down to rub at his neck. “So good for us, sweetheart, make us feel so good.”

He falls asleep like that; one Steve’s mouth around him and fingers inside him as the other Steve pets and strokes him, calling Bucky beautiful; perfect; everything they’d ever wanted.

***

There are waffles for breakfast the next morning.

“Hey, these are actually pretty good,” says Bucky, biting into his with more vigor as Steve pretends to swat at him with a spatula.

“I told you I could cook!” says Steve. “I just needed to learn some basics, and turns out YouTube’s a great resource for that.”

The other Steve, having already eaten five waffles, narrows his eyes at him. “You found that cooking channel hosted by the guy who looks a little like Bucky and does everything shirtless, didn’t you?”

“Oh-kay,” says Bucky, putting down his waffle. “Listen, I’ve been thinking, and maybe — maybe it’d be a good idea if I got out of the apartment a little more. Like maybe take some classes somewhere, or something.”

“Last night was a little intense, huh?” Steve asks, coming to stand behind Bucky and rub his shoulders.

“Last night was — good. Really, really good. But I think we need to balance it out with other stuff, you know? Stuff that doesn’t involve lurking around in alleyways looking for danger,” he adds.

“Like what?”

“Like, maybe I could sign up for an engineering course at a CUNY college or something,” Bucky mumbles.

“That’s a good idea,” Steve says, leaning back in his chair. “You can transfer to Columbia later on if you want.”

“Uh — sure,” Bucky says. “Maybe. But what about you guys? Isn’t there anything you want to do?”

“Huh, I guess I could ask down at the firehouse if they have any openings,” Steve says, giving Bucky’s shoulder a squeeze.

“Typical,” Steve says, so Bucky flicks a blueberry at him that he manages to catch with his mouth.

“You gotta pick something too,” Bucky says. “Or we’ll pick for you.”

“Art classes,” Steve says. “We’ll sign him up for art classes at whatever college you end up at. Then he’ll have an excuse to lurk on campus while he’s shadowing you.”

“Like I need an excuse,” Steve says.

“Either you sign up for art classes or I’ll — I’ll get a haircut,” Bucky says, tossing out the only credible threat he can think of. “A bad one.”

“You two, I swear to god,” Steve mutters behind him.

“Fine,” says Steve, shoving his seat back to get up from the table. “I’ll go to the classes. But that’s all.”

“Just wait till he gets a pencil in his hand again,” Steve says, watching him leave the room. “This whole apartment’s gonna be covered in drawings of you.”

“Wait,” says Bucky. “Maybe — ”

“Oh, hey, I found a pancake recipe I want to try tomorrow,” Steve says. “You wanna help?”

“Sure,” Bucky says, leaning back in his chair and reaching for another waffle. “Why not?”

***