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v. 2018 - Wakanda
“You know, it’s legal now,” Bucky announces on a bright Sunday afternoon. Steve looks up from where he’s polishing one of his boots, brow knitting slightly. Bucky doesn’t stop what he’s doing, continuing to scrub at a dish with a stubborn grease spot. There’s a dishwasher in his new home in Wakanda, but he still prefers to do them by hand.
“What’s legal?”
Bucky clears his throat. He looks down, a strand of hair falling out of his bun as his cheeks heat up slightly. “Getting married. Us, I mean,” he amends, feeling his heartbeat pick up.
Bucky hears the scratch of the brush stop and practically feels Steve’s gaze burning a hole in the back of his head. He keeps scrubbing at that damn stain, lips pulling into a tight frown. Maybe he’ll have to get out the steel wire pad-
Steve shifts a little, putting his boot down with a dull thud against the wooden floor. The only sound is the steady flow of water from the sink, the scrub of the sponge against the metal pan, and the complete lack of noise coming from Steve’s direction. The silence hangs between them, awkward. Bucky doesn’t look back, doesn’t know what he’ll find there. A hopeful part of him thinks maybe he’d see tears in Steve’s eyes, or joy. But the larger, realistic part of him is sure he’ll find pity. Steve chewing on his cheek, trying to figure out the best way to let him down easy.
“Oh. Yeah, 2015.” The words are faint, like it’s just settling in for Steve that that means something for him, too. He clears his throat, a signal for Bucky’s shoulders to tense as he braces himself for whatever he’s going to say next. “Buck, I-”
The phone in Steve’s pocket starts to ring. It’s not one of the fancy phones he’d had from Stark before this whole mess. Steve had gone and picked it up at Walmart. A cheap, easy to ditch smartphone; the same kind that Sam, Natasha, and Wanda had gotten. Bucky had politely declined. It wasn’t that he was stuck in the past. Between him and Steve, he’d had more time to get used to the future and all it brought with it, having gotten his first cell phone back when they were barely more than something in a sci-fi novel for the civilian population. He simply didn’t see any use for it, not out here. Not when he had this quiet life with his goats, therapy of both kinds, and Steve whenever he had the chance to drop in.
Bucky’s barely paying attention to what Steve’s saying to the person on the other end, glancing back at him to see a small frown as Steve hunches over his knees. He knows how this goes. It’s been about a year since they’ve been doing this whole fugitive thing and he knows calls like this mean Steve’s about to disappear again for anywhere from a few days to a few months. He tells himself he doesn’t mind so much, but a part of him always aches when Steve has to go. He wishes things could be easier, but he’s not sure if either of them could ever really be happy with that.
It’s just really shitty timing, that it had to be during this conversation. One they’ve almost had before, when it was nothing more than a fantasy.
“Yeah- yeah, I’ll be there. Of course. Alright. Bye.” When Steve hangs up, he opens his mouth like he’s going to apologize. Bucky shakes his head, lips slanting in the tiniest smile.
“Hey, don’t worry about it. Go save the world, Cap.”
“Ugh. You know I hate it when you call me that, Buck.” But he’s smiling, eyes soft and a little bit sad. He starts pulling on his half-polished boots before he goes to gather his things. He never knows how long he’ll be gone, but he always leaves a toothbrush, some clothes, and an unfinished chapter book with Bucky. It gives them both some security.
Bucky goes back to doing the dishes, finally setting aside the pan and starting to work on a spatula. Steve’s voice floats in from the bedroom, getting louder as he approaches, “We’re not done talkin’ about it, Bucky. When I get back, I’m taking you out.”
Bucky snorts, smiling a little bit as his heart flails a bit uselessly in his chest. “Oh sure.” His tone is deadpan, but he knows Steve is serious. He always is.
“I mean it.” He can hear the frown in Steve’s voice as he gets closer, stopping behind him. So Bucky turns around, tugging him into a light kiss.
“I know. Get outta here, you’re stinkin’ up the place.”
Steve smiles, a little shy even after all these years. Placing one last kiss to Bucky’s chin before he pulls away. Before he goes out the door, he calls back, “It’s a date, Barnes!” and Bucky feels his smile slip from his face.
--
i. 1926- Brooklyn
The first time he asks Steve Rogers to marry him, Bucky Barnes is nine years-old and too old to play pretend anymore. But he’s also the best big brother in the whole world and his little sister Becca had cried until he agreed that him and Steve would play with her instead of listening to the baseball game on the radio in Bucky’s room.
So here they are on the cramped back patio of their house, sweating out in the summer sun while she tells them in great detail how they’re all going to be spies, but most importantly, cat prince(ss) spies who like to throw extravagant balls. In all honesty, Bucky tuned her out about five minutes ago and is now just going where she says to go. Steve seems to be actually paying attention, giving input here and there about how to make the game better. Bucky doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry. He’d rather be playing pirates or something, if he still liked pretend, which he definitely doesn’t.
His chin is in his hand as he squints out at the alley behind them, watching a rat scurry along with a piece of garbage in its mouth. His nose wrinkles, but he wants to figure out where that little guy is off to.
“-and you’ll be the prince, but you’ve gotta make up a princess ‘cause I’m not marrying you.”
Bucky doesn’t respond, staring out at the rat. Becca is probably talking to Steve, anyway. The rat has wound its way up an old water pipe and somehow still has the garbage in its mouth. Huh. He wonders- he feels a shove at his shoulder.
“Buckyyyyy,” comes the tell-tale whine of his four year-old sister’s voice. “Come on, you’re not playin’.” She’s pouting now and he turns his attention away from the rat to look at her. He sighs.
“What?”
“I said that you’re the prince cat, but you gotta make up a princess ‘cause it’s not gonna be me,” her voice still in the whine he’s pretty sure every little kid has until they’re as big as him and Steve.
Bucky looks over at Steve, who just gives a helpless little shrug as if he’s saying, hey, I’ve been dealing with her this whole time, it’s your turn now. He frowns a little bit, his imagination running completely blank. Maybe he could base a princess on Mary at school, but she’s kind of a snob and truth be told he doesn’t want to spend that much time on it anyway. He looks at Steve again, considering. He shrugs. “Why can’t I just marry Steve?”
Steve turns a bright shade of crimson, nearly going into a coughing fit. “Huh?” he manages to croak out at the same time that Becca is looking at him like he’s grown another head.
It’s Bucky’s turn to flush. “Well, we’re cats so- it’s not really- I mean- it doesn’t count. It’s not like cats can even get married, so what’s it matter if he’s a Tom? Don’t wanna make up some princess, we ain’t got no other girls playin’ with us. Just doesn’t make sense, that’s all.” He crosses his arms defensively. That’s all it is. It’s not like he really wants to marry Steve. It’s a stupid game of make believe and if Becca wants him to play along, she’s just gonna have to accept that he’s got a box of rocks for an imagination. It’s not because he thinks Steve’s pretty, or because the thought of marrying him makes his heart race like he’s got Steve’s murmur.
Becca seems to consider it before giving a dramatic sigh. “Fine. You can marry Whiskers.” Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up. He mouths, Whiskers? to Steve, who merely shrugs again and won’t meet Bucky’s eyes.
They spend the rest of the afternoon playing and Bucky never does find out where that rat ever got to.
--
iii. 1938- Brooklyn (July)
At twenty-one years old, Bucky thinks he’s got his whole life figured out. He’s got a place with his best friend (shabby as it might be), he’s got a couple jobs at the dock and the gym, and he has no short change of luck with the ladies. Sure, he’s not one of those rich folks uptown, but he’s doing better than his father had at his age and it feels like he’s got the world at his feet.
Still, there’s this nagging at the back of his mind that’s got nothing to do with the tense air around whether or not the world was about to go to war and everything to do with Steve Rogers, who’s currently fussing over his hair in the bathroom mirror. It’s Steve’s twentieth birthday and they’re going to celebrate with a double date to the movies. Bucky’s sure it won’t be as much of a blast as his eighteenth birthday when he could finally get a drink legally and they’d gone down to the bar near the docks. Steve had gotten drunk as a skunk and challenged a few of the guys to arm wrestling matches and, god forbid, drinking games. It’d ended with a nearly dislocated shoulder and Bucky dragging him home at some ungodly hour, but they were both grinning ear to ear.
Bucky leans against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest while he watches Steve frown and fret. “You know it’s never gonna stay down, right? You got a cowlick.”
“I do not.” Steve shoots him a glare and Bucky returns it with a toothy grin. The one he reserves for Steve; not all sly smiles and innuendo, but genuine joy.
And that’s the issue, the one thing that’s out of place in Bucky’s life. The way his heart races whenever Steve bumps up against him, how his breath leaves him in a rush whenever Steve pads into his room to share the blankets during the winter, or the way those hands of his hold charcoal or a pencil or pastels as he sits hunched over a sketchpad on a spring day. Sometimes, he’ll find himself getting lost in the blue of his eyes or the straw gold of his hair and feel a flair of guilt low in his gut. He shouldn’t be watching him like that and he knows it. But it’s hard not to, not when they spend all their time together and always have.
Bucky nods to the door. “C’mon, Rogers. Let’s go. Maybe this one’ll get you out of your shell.”
**
The night is a goddamn trainwreck; Bucky’ll be the first to admit it.
Steve hadn’t done a goddamn thing wrong. He’d been the perfect gentleman, opening doors for his date, Betty, and buying her any snacks she wanted at the theater. And things had been going great, his date asking excitedly about his art and batting her lashes demanding to know more about the fights he’d been in. Bucky had exaggerated for him, knowing Steve wouldn’t have the heart to bolster the stories up himself.
During the picture, things went smooth as butter too. Betty had tucked herself right up against Steve’s side, smiling as he wrapped a nervous arm around her shoulders. Bucky had grinned at him, giving a thumbs up from around Shirley’s shoulder before going back to carding his hand through her soft hair. As for Bucky, things were going alright. About as good as always, which was to say he was sure by the end of the night he’d have Shirley swooning and another date set up with her for next Saturday. Hell, he’d even been betting on going home with her that night if things had gone right.
They hadn’t. Afterwards, they’d gone out for drinks before heading out to watch fireworks from the roof of the girls’ apartment. Tucking themselves into a booth at a respectable bar, nothing like the one Steve and Bucky liked to go to when it was just the two of them. Bucky had been whispering in Shirley’s ear, sweet talking as she giggled with flaming cheeks, when he picked up a question that damned their night before it had really even started.
“What about you, Steve? You ever think about kids?”
Bucky stills where he’s tucked against his date’s side, glancing at Steve to see his best friend pale a bit. Steve fiddled with the button on his jacket, practically floundering like a fish. Before Bucky could jump in and change the subject to spare the poor man, Steve opened his big old mouth like an idiot. “Well, I can’t really- the doctor says I might not be able to have any.”
Bucky can see all the dreams of a beautiful wedding and white picket fence with some damn labrador leave Betty’s eyes just like that. The date went downhill from there, all awkward smiles and the two of them trying to put as much space between them on the booth before Shirley finally had some sympathy on her friend and made an excuse for the both of them, making a hasty exit.
After they’d walked out the door, Bucky turned back to Steve with a pained expression. “Shit, pal, I’m sorry. You shouldn’t’a brought it up-”
“It’s my life, Bucky,” Steve snapped, standing up and dropping a quarter on the table for the server before shoving his hands in his pockets and storming out.
Bucky wanted to hit himself. Great, Barnes, you lost your date and Steve’s pissed at you. He shoved off the booth, jogging after Steve. He breathed a sigh of relief when he pushed out the door and found Steve just leaning against the wall. Steve didn’t look up from his feet as he started the walk back to their apartment about a mile away.
The walk home had been awkward as all hell. Now that they’re back, Bucky’s sitting on the couch, listening to Steve in the other room as he strips out of his nice clothes with more banging around than necessary. When Steve doesn’t come out in the next half hour, Bucky decides to steel himself and go in after him with his tail tucked between his legs.
Softly, he knocks on Steve’s door, the pressure pushing it open. Steve’s sitting on his bed, turning something over in his hand. When Bucky realizes what it is, his heart clenches. It’s Sarah’s wedding ring she’d given to Steve a few weeks before she passed. She’d pressed it into his palm, telling him to save it for the right one. Bucky ducks his head.
“Sorry. ‘Bout what I said back there. I shouldn’t have-”
Steve shakes his head. “Not about you, Buck. Not everything is.” The words might sting, but Steve looks up at him with a small smile that tells him he’s not mad at him anymore. But that smile is tinged with such sadness, Steve’s eyes red rimmed.
Bucky takes a breath, jerking his chin towards the bed. “Can I?” When Steve nods, he comes to sit down on the edge of the bed, hands going awkwardly between his knees. He wants to reach out, but he doesn’t, knowing Steve would probably just push him off like he usually does when he’s feeling like this.
They sit in silence for a few minutes, before Steve gives this absolutely pathetic sniff that makes Bucky’s chest ache a little bit. Steve laughs, scrubbing at his face. “The worst part, she wasn’t even doin’ nothin’ wrong, you know? I get it. No point in carryin’ on with somethin’ if you’re not compatible. One date or twenty, you’ve gotta get it outta the way.” He pauses, sighing as his hand falls limply to his lap. “I just- I’m never gonna have that. Who wants a guy who can’t even give ‘em kids?”
Bucky sighs, bumping their shoulders lightly. “I mean, you could always adopt.”
“Who has that kinda money? I’m an artist, Buck. Nah. And most girls don’t want that anyway.”
Bucky decides not to correct him on that, because he’s honestly not sure. He’s never really been on the kind of dates where they talked about that kinda thing. Any time someone brought up anything more serious than dating or messing around and Bucky would bolt like they’d upended an ice bucket on his head. He chose not to examine it, but he thought if he did it would have something to do with the fact that a future with someone else meant leaving this life he’d built with Steve.
“I’m not- I’m not the kinda guy gals wanna marry. I’m not gonna have that. And I need to- I’ve just got to accept that and move on.”
Steve looks so miserable, sitting there with his head hung and the weight of the future on his shoulders. Before he can think about it, Bucky’s reaching over to tilt Steve’s face towards him, brushing a thumb over the line of his jaw. “I’d marry you,” he blurts out. Feeling the breath go out of him as Steve’s eyes go a little wide. And before Steve can answer, he leans in to kiss him, wanting to chase that sad, haunted look from his eyes.
His eyes close and Steve makes a quiet noise against his lips, hand coming up to rest on the back of his neck as his fingers brush tentatively against his skin. Not nearly careful enough, Bucky presses him back against the bed, hands reaching out to curl around his hips, kisses turning heated with years of want and curiosity behind them.
After a moment, Steve pushes lightly at his chest, though his fingers grasp at the collar of his shirt. “What are we doing?”
And Bucky gets that smile, that one he only has for Steve, but it’s half drunk now off the feeling of Steve’s lips under his own. “I have no idea,” he answers with a little laugh, bumping their noses together until Steve kisses him again. His hand slides up Steve’s hip to tug at his shirt, fanning his fingers out over the warm skin of his side. He sighs against his mouth, brushing his thumb over the slight dip in his hip.
It’s Steve that makes the first real move, sending Bucky’s head reeling as Steve starts to tug at the buttons on his pants. “Off-” And Bucky can’t help but laugh at the demanding tone, one he’ll always go along with, earning a light smack against his ribs for it. “Shut up.”
“You’ll have to make me, Rogers.” Bucky’s practically preening, not sure he’ll ever come down from this. Maybe later he’ll think about it, feel guilt and panic curl under his skin like a familiar friend, but right now he just wants to feel. And feel he does when Steve’s hand shoves up under his boxers, gripping his cock in those delicate artist’s hands he’s spent too damn long looking at and not- Bucky gasps, “There’s one way to do it,” voice strained as his hips arch up into his touch with a little hiss.
“Uh huh.” Steve sounds a little smug as Bucky tucks his head against his neck, rocking his hips down against him as Steve starts working him in earnest. Steve’s other hand comes up to card through his hair, soft, featherlight touches that make Bucky feel almost as dizzy as the hand wrapped around his dick. He presses a soft kiss against the skin of Steve’s neck, earning a sigh and what sounds like a whine. With another kiss to his pale skin, he shuffles until he get a hand under Steve’s pants too. He feels like a damn teenager again, fumbling around under Mary Ann’s skirts after graduation without a clue in the world about what he’s supposed to be doing.
But Steve seems appreciative enough, keening as he rocks his hips up into the tight circle of Bucky’s hand. Bucky feels a little lightheaded, Steve’s cock a warm weight in his hand. And god, that’s his best friend. The one he’s been dreaming about for about goddamn ever, who he never thought he’d get this with.
It’s over far too fast, Bucky biting against Steve’s neck as he comes with a moan that’s muffled against warm skin. Steve’s quick to follow, chest heaving as his cock jerks in Bucky’s hand, come spilling warm on his fingers. He thinks he should be a bit disgusted, but he’s not, a heat settling low in his stomach as he pants against Steve’s neck.
They stay like that a moment, just breathing as sweat cools on their skin and they both pull their hands out to stretch their cramping hands, Bucky pressing light kisses to Steve’s neck while Steve presses them against his temple. He’s not sure who pulls away first, but they find themselves laying side by side, Bucky reaching over to wipe his hand off on the side of the bedsheets.
“That’s fucking disgusting, Bucky,” is the first thing Steve says and it sends Bucky into a fit of laughter, Steve following right on his heels.
--
ii. 1934- Brooklyn
The two of them are sitting side by side on the fire escape of Steve’s apartment. They’re both drunk as shit, having nicked some booze off of the old man next door who’s always out working late and has enough alcohol for an entire army. He won’t miss any of it, they rationalize, and he’s a mean drunk too who whistles at the girls in their grade when they pass by. Definitely not a guy Bucky feels bad stealing from.
Bucky’s seventeen and he’s got no idea what he’s supposed to do with his life. School’s ended for the summer and next year, he’ll be a legal adult who’s graduating from high school. Steve’ll still have another year after him, but he’s sure he’ll wind up going to college. Bucky, on the other hand, already has a job lined up at the factory making shoelaces or some shit when he graduates. His cousin works there and Bucky’s not really sure what they do, but he knows it’ll make him good enough money to maybe get a place of his own. He loves his family, loves his younger siblings most of all, but he wants to get his life started. And besides, Sarah’s been getting worse and he’d rather be ready to have somewhere Steve can stay without having to crowd into a corner with a spare blanket.
Bucky’s pretty sure this is Steve’s first time getting drunk. His eyes look a little glassy and he’s swaying against Bucky while he hums some bastardized tune under his breath. Bucky couldn’t recognize it if he tried, but he smiles and hums along anyway. Steve rolls his eyes at his efforts, shoving into him a little harder but there’s a fondness in his eyes that Bucky vaguely thinks he’d die for.
“You know,” he says conversationally, “If you were a dame, I’d scoop you right off your feet with those big blues of yours. Marry you ‘fore someone else got the chance.”
Steve turns that red color he does anytime someone compliments him, scoffing as he knocks his shoulders into Bucky’s again. “You’re soused, Buck.”
Bucky grins, wrapping his arm around Steve’s shoulder and dragging him close against his side. “Yep.” He still thinks Steve’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, but he keeps that to himself this time.
--
iv. 1945- Brenner Pass, Italy
If the other Howling Commandos have any objections to the fact that Steve and Bucky share a tent every time they set up camp, they never mention it. They’re situated some way away from the group; not far enough to miss out on any trouble should it find them but far enough that they’ve got some measure of privacy.
But despite their measures to get quality time, things between them have been… less than great, lately. Bucky’s not the same bright eyed young man that went into the army, tempered down and edges a little torn now. The bags under his eyes seem to get darker every day and he’s nowhere near the toned shape he’d kept himself in boxing back home. He’s too thin and he knows it. Steve knows it, too. And then there’s the issue of Margaret Carter. Bucky’s not go problem with her, honest. And he keeps trying to tell Steve that, because honestly, he’s fine. It’s fine. The heat that rises in his throat and the sick that settles in his stomach when he sees them together- it’ll pass. He always knew one day Steve would find someone to settle down with and he’s not bitter about it. He’s not. He’s got Steve when it counts. In these moments out on the field where they’ll make stories to share back home (if you ever make it there, his mind whispers) and strengthen their bond beyond what any relationship could hope to find. So what if these are his last moments of quiet mornings and soft kisses? It’s not like those are the things he loves most about Steve and he’s pretty sure Steve could say the same about him. At least he hopes so.
Steve’s different too. He likes to pretend like he’s not, but Bucky’s known him long enough to know that he looks so damn tired. He’s buckling at the seams, being stretched too far in every direction. He can tell Steve feels like he’s got to be perfect, especially with the cameras that always seem to find them to encourage the men and women back home and the soldiers on the front. He wants to yell at them, tell them Steve never signed up for this, but he did. A part of him just always wants to protect him, but that’s not his place anymore. He’ll always have Steve’s six, but it’s not the same as it used to be. He knows that should make him feel better, but it just makes his stomach fill with a slow dread that tells him he’s unneeded.
Bucky’s sitting against a tree, rifle slung across his lap as he keeps watch. They’re in the middle of the Alps. There won’t be anyone around for miles, but it’s better safe than sorry. His head throbs with a dull ache that’s been hiding between his eyes for the last few days. He hasn’t slept in just as long, but he knows it’s useless to try. He feels like he’s living on borrowed time and he just wants this war to be over. It would’ve been, but he could never say no to Steve.
The wind is biting at his face, making his ears and nose go numb. He closes his eyes a moment and feels his head fill with radio static. He’s falling, falling-
He’s startled from his half sleeping state by Morita shaking his shoulder. “Up you go, Sarge. Go get some damn sleep for once.”
Morita settles in against the tree, letting Bucky stand up and crack his joints. “Thanks,” he murmurs, flashing him a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Morita nods, a worry in his expression that Bucky’s not going to stay long enough to hear. He’s fine.
He trudges his way through the path they’ve made in the snow, though it’ll be covered again in the morning if the thick snowflakes landing on his coat are anything to go by. He makes it to the tent he shares with Steve, kicking the side a bit to warn Steve. “Comin’ in. It’ll be cold.” He unzips the flap, hurrying inside so the wind doesn’t blow in too much snow. It takes him a moment to zip the tent back up and turn around. He comes to a stop when he does, eyebrows shooting up at the sight. “What the hell’s all this?”
Candles are set up around the tent- and Bucky’s going to have to have a talk with Steve about fire hazards- music playing softly from a small radio sitting in the corner. In the middle of the floor sits some unpacked MREs trying to masquerade as a proper meal. Their sleeping bags are pushed off to the side and Steve’s dressed in his civvies, something he rarely does unless the mission calls for it.
He’s hunched over slightly in the tent, not quite standing straight as he smiles shyly with a shrug of his right shoulder. “What’s it look like, Buck? It’s a date.”
Bucky feels his voice leave him. Looking at Steve like he’s something out of a damn dream. And he thinks he might be, standing there in his button down and a jacket so much like the one he used to wear when Bucky would drag him off on double dates. His throat feels thick in a way he can’t quite explain, a sadness clutched around his heart that’s so unlike the giddy rush he should be feeling.
“Well, damn,” he breathes, smiling up at Steve even though it probably looks forced. He feels guilty, about that. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, that this is only making him feel like he’s got so much more he’s going to lose instead of appreciating the moment. He shakes himself out of it, coming around to sit down on the floor. “Let’s eat and then you better dance with me.” He shakes his finger at him as Steve sits down next to him, far too delicate like Bucky’s some wild animal that’s going to spook. He understands Steve’s past frustration, now, when he used to be too gentle and too forgiving with him when he’d been ill all the time.
“Sure thing. Why else would I get that radio out? To listen to the weather?” Steve’s teasing him and it makes a soft warmth settle in Bucky’s chest despite the emptiness he feels there. He flashes him a smile to show he appreciates it before starting to pick at his food. He’s starving, but it’ll settle wrong on his lack of sleep and he doesn’t want to have to deal with feeling sick when it’s looking to be a nice night.
Steve seems to be in the same situation, neither of them touching much of their food before they start packing it away in some silent agreement. Steve stands, brushing off his lap even though there’s no trace of food on his clothes, before holding out a hand to Bucky. He takes it, pulling himself up and feeling that familiar swoop in his stomach at how Steve is stronger than him now (not much, his mind whispers, not lately). Steve pulls him into his chest, starting to sway with him. He’s never been much of a dancer, no matter how many times Bucky’s tried to teach him the right steps. But it’s nice, being close like this. He closes his eyes, tucking his head against Steve’s chest with a little sigh.
While they sway, Steve starts humming along to the song. It’s that Fred Astaire song he likes, the soft melody always reminding him of Steve, as sappy as it sounds. The lump in his throat grows, his heart aching painfully as Steve holds him close. He loves him. It’s not going to last.
“Why don’t we leave?” Bucky asks, whispered against his shirt. Steve pulls away slightly, making Bucky look up. He swallows, looking away, not meeting his eyes. “I just… this war’s hell, Stevie. I can’t stand it. We could go home. Hell, we could go anywhere we wanted. Find a place together like we used to have, somewhere no one would ever bother or care. It’d be like- it could almost be like we were married, you know? You’ve always wanted that. Think I’m startin’ to.” He can’t seem to stop the words tumbling from his lips. “We’d get a dog, maybe a cat if you don’t want a dog. Go into town for groceries and- and you could work on your art again. I’d get a job, probably down at a mine or doing some lumber work. We’d be happy.” His voice is a hoarse whisper now, looking down at where their feet have come to a stop.
“Buck,” Steve whispers. “Look at me.” He tips his chin up, hand sliding to frame Bucky’s face. He presses a kiss to his chin. Bucky realizes he’s started to cry, tears dripping down on his cheeks. Steve kisses them away, his own gaze turning so sorrowful. “We’ve got all the time in the world-” Bucky’s heart lifts for a moment, wondering if he’s going to accept his offer. “-after the war. After the war, we can do all that. But we’ve got a duty, Buck. We made a promise and it’d be wrong for us to leave now. Not when they need us. There’s so much resting on us, Bucky-” He shakes his head, kissing Bucky’s nose now. “It’ll be over soon. You’ll see.”
And damn him, Bucky believes him. He always does.
--
+i. 2023- Washington DC
It’s been six months since they all returned. Six months since Steve had given the shield to Sam and retired. The world is starting to adjust again, making space for those it thought it had lost forever.
For his part, Bucky’s been gone from the world and awoken in a new world more times than he can count. But it’s different for Steve. For the first few months, he’d been withdrawn. Cautious, unused to being around Bucky. For him, it’d been the longest he’d gone without seeing Bucky. Bucky had decades of experience in missing Steve and the other side of the coin was just as bitter a taste. But things had gotten better. They’d started sleeping in the same bed again, keeping each other safe from the nightmares they both suffered through in the night. They’d talked through their past, they’d come to some understandings with new words for the way things had been back then.
Now, Steve is a freelance artist and activist. Bucky privately thinks it suits him better than soldier ever had. Steve had always been a fighter, but not for some government with an agenda far removed from its people. Bucky still works with Captain America, the new one this time with just as much passion and hope in him, maybe even more. They still bicker, but he can honestly say Sam’s his closest friend aside from Steve. If he ever tried to tell Sam that, though, he’d never hear the end of it, so he keeps that knowledge to himself.
They’re sitting on the couch together, watching some show on Netflix that’s apparently a cultural icon now that the ones taken by Thanos missed when Steve asks. Bucky can feel his gaze on him, flushing a little under the attention as he slides down against the couch slightly. “What? Do I have popcorn in my beard or something?” he mumbles, wondering how he still manages to be flustered by Steve Rogers after all these damn years.
“Marry me,” Steve says instead of answering, confident and unyielding.
Bucky freezes. He swears he can feel his heart somewhere in his throat, ears ringing slightly. He looks up at Steve, gaping. Steve starts to look nervous, opening his mouth to explain himself. Bucky just surges up to kiss him, hands clutched against his shirt. Steve makes that soft, surprised sound he’d made all those years ago when they first kissed, and Bucky pulls back to rest their foreheads together while he tries to catch his breath.
He grins. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask me that since I was nine years old, you asshole.”
“Guess I’ve got some years to make up for?” There’s a giddy light in Steve’s eyes and Bucky’s sure there’s an answering one in his eyes.
“You bet your ass, Rogers.”