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It had been a rough day and you weren’t sure why.
Nothing upsetting had happened, but you woke up anxious and the feeling lingered through the day. You tried to push it down, get your chores finished. Steve and Bucky were coming over tonight, and you wanted your apartment to be presentable. Which meant you needed to do the dishes you’d been avoiding for the past few days.
Luckily, you’d already done the groceries, so you didn’t have to leave the house (just the thought made your heart beat faster).
With the help of your favourite playlist, you got down to business in the late afternoon. The dishes were finished, the floors were vacuumed, and you’d even dusted a few shelves before giving up on that particular chore.
You ran over your evening plans as you hummed along to the music. Steve and Bucky had been over to your place before, but this was the first time you were serving dinner. Usually, you just lost track of time when you were together and ended up ordering pizza when you realized it was dinnertime. Their apartment was much nicer, so you’d been there for dinner more often. Both Steve and Bucky were great cooks, and you were well-aware that you probably weren’t going to measure up, but that was alright. It was the thought that counted, as Steve often reminded you.
Steve was a good friend. You’d met Bucky first, at the library, both of you favouring the same reading nook tucked away in a private corner. After awkwardly running into each other for the fifth time, you had both resigned yourself to being friends. Bucky had introduced you to Steve later that week, and you’d been… well. Doing your best not to hyperventilate while meeting Captain America. He probably got that a lot.
You didn’t know their entire history, but you knew that they had been friends before the war (and wasn’t that strange to think about, the Second World War being something that they remembered?), and you knew that Bucky preferred to keep out of the media. As far as most of the world was concerned, Bucky Barnes had died in service seventy years ago. You hadn’t asked why he was walking around a public library in the twenty-first century, but you learned pieces of both of their past as you got to know them. It was a history defined by combat, duty, and bonds. You could understand why they now lived the way they did, deliberately normal: farmer’s markets and library books, flowers on the dining table. It was a reclaiming exercise, a carefully cultivated domestic sphere to retreat into when the fighting was done.
You smiled as you finished washing the bathroom sink, rinsing the suds down the drain. It was a keen pleasure to be included in their domestic life, your home a new retreat for them. They picked up your favourite Netflix shows, asked about your preferred stores and where you got your favourite button-up. While both of them seemed well-adjusted to the current time period, there was always much more to learn.
Your reverie was broken by a knock on the door.
Oh, crap. That was probably them. Was it really six already? You’d completely lost track of the time, and you’d been so busy with chores that you hadn’t started any of the food.
You eyed your sparkling bathroom with new contempt, tossed your sponge back onto the side of the bathtub, and went to open the door.
Sure enough, Steve and Bucky stood in the hall. Bucky was holding a salad and Steve cradled a plate of brownies. They were dressed down in jeans and t-shirts, Bucky’s shirt featuring a cat wearing sunglasses and Steve’s a plain grey.
“I told you guys not to bring anything,” you greeted them, frowning at the food in their hands.
“It felt wrong to come over with our hands empty,” Steve shrugged, and gave you the brownies. The pan was still slightly warm, and you were sure they were going to be melty, soft, and delicious. The man had a talent.
“Well, come in,” you said, and went to drop the brownies on the kitchen counter. “I haven’t started dinner yet, I’m sorry.” You were feeling a little more settled now that they were here. They toed off their shoes and put them in their place by the door. Bucky dropped the salad on the table and leaned on the counter as you grabbed vegetables from the fridge.
“Can we help?” Bucky said, snagging a red pepper from your hand and a cutting board from the dish-pile.
“Looks like you’re going to,” you pointed out. “And yeah, that would be great. Thank you.”
“What can I do?” Steve asked, joining you in the kitchen.
“Cut the broccoli and the beans.” You pushed them both into his arms, and put a cutting board on top. “It’s for a casserole, so cut them bite-sized.”
Steve offered a shining smile, balancing his armful of equipment. “Yessir,” he quipped, and went to do his work at the table, since your little kitchen was already a bit cramped with two people sharing counter-space.
“How have you been?” Bucky asked, slicing his pepper open and carving out the seeds inside. “It’s been over a week since we caught up.”
“Busy. Tired,” you said honestly. “Pulling through.”
“I feel that,” Bucky sighed. “Thanks for having us over, by the way. We’ve been looking forward to it.”
“So have I!” Your hands are busy peeling potatoes over the sink, but you give Bucky a smile. “Gives me a reason to clean the apartment, too.”
“We should come over more often,” Bucky teased.
“Maybe you should.”
You turned back to your work with a smile, but just then, your knife hit an odd divot in the potato you were peeling and dashed sideways into your thumb. You hissed as the blade cut into your finger, and dropped everything into the sink. The clatter caught the others’ attention, and Bucky was at your side in a flash.
Blood welled in the cut, and you felt abruptly dizzy. You’d never been good with blood, you remembered your mother teasing you about it when she’d cut herself in the kitchen. It had been just like this, dripping into the sink, and you’d cried and clung to her despite her protests.
You could feel the tears in your eyes now, either from the pain or the surprise. The blood kept coming, and you were scared. What if you had to go to the hospital? You hated the hospital. Needles and doctors and that awful smell of people dying. You couldn’t go to the hospital. They couldn’t make you go.
“It’s alright,” you could hear Bucky saying. “Just a little cut, Steve, get his first-aid kit. Above the bathroom sink.” A hand on your shoulder, solid but gentle. “Hey, it’s alright. We’ll get it patched up right away.”
“Sorry,” you managed. Somewhere in the back of your head, you were aware that you were over-reacting to a little cut. But mostly you were just scared and tired and dizzy. “Bad at blood.” The weight of the day was rushing back in all at once, and you couldn’t handle it on top of everything else. Your knees gave out, but Bucky was there, scooping you up.
You could feel the cold of his metal arm even through the back of your t-shirt, his other arm looped under your knees as he lifted you.
“Oops,” Bucky said, as if he hadn’t meant to pick you up. “To the bathroom, I guess.”
You knew you shouldn’t, that you should protest and try to walk, but you couldn’t help but curl into Bucky’s chest as he carried you. They were so strong, these two, and it was easy to see in their bodies, but it was a different thing to feel the ease with which he lifted you, almost heedless of your weight.
“Is he okay?” you heard Steve ask, and the rustle of a bag. Probably your first-aid kit? Bucky said something about that.
“Overwhelmed,” Bucky said, and shifted you around in his arms. Suddenly, you were sitting on the couch on Bucky’s lap, which was kind of silly but also surprisingly comfy. “Ready for Doctor Rogers to fix that finger up?” he asked you, carefully picking up your injured hand.
You did your best to frown at him, but you were well aware that it probably looked more like a pout. He was talking to you like he knew that you were fighting off your regression, and that wasn’t fair at all. Bucky and Steve didn’t even know that you were a regressor.
Something cold pressed against your thumb, making you jump. You looked over to see Steve carefully wiping the blood from your hand, his expression almost comically focused on the task. He was even gentler with the area around the cut, but you still winced.
Bucky put a hand on the back of your neck, humming sympathetically.
Seriously, what was up with them? It felt like they were falling into caregiver behaviour, and you couldn’t call them out on that. But it was making it harder and harder to fight your regression, and you didn’t know what to do.
“Sorry, bud, but we’ve got to clean it before you get a band-aid,” Steve said, and smeared some cream across the cut. It didn’t hurt, but you weren’t expecting it, and you made a sharp noise of complaint. “Almost done,” Steve reassured you.
“Being so brave,” Bucky said, squeezing your uninjured hand. “Good job.”
Alright, that was it. That was not something that someone should say to an adult who had given himself a little cut. You pulled your hand from Steve’s grasp and got off Bucky’s lap, stumbling a little but determined to make your point.
“What’s going on?” you asked, hearing your voice wavering on the line between regressed and adult. “Why are you guys treating me like a kid?”
Steve and Bucky shared a look, and Steve ducked his head slightly.
“I’m sorry if we overstepped,” Steve said. “We… hm.” He stalled out, glancing at you and then at Bucky. “Do you know about a thing called age regression?” Steve said.
“I- what?” Your knees felt so weak. What was happening right now?
“It’s a coping mechanism, usually a reaction to trauma or stress,” Bucky explained. You could barely hear him over your heartbeat in your ears. “We saw it a lot in the tents between missions. People who feel a little younger when they’re not doing well. We didn’t have a word for it at the time.”
“We didn’t mean to push things,” Steve said, still apologetic. “I guess we have, patterns, for dealing with people who seem younger than usual. We didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“You guys are… caregivers?” you managed.
“Yes!” Steve perked up. “Or, at least, we’d like to be. It was… it was…” He trailed off, and you noticed that Bucky had started holding his hand at some point.
“It was one of the things we shared with our old team,” Bucky finished for him. “We miss it. It was part of how we relaxed, taking care of our friends. But Steve’s right, we shouldn’t have pushed things with you. Old habits.”
“No, it’s. It’s okay.” You stared at your feet, feeling overwhelmed and dizzy and impossibly far behind. “You’re right, I’m a regressor. I didn’t think you knew.”
“We didn’t, really,” Bucky said. “Not until now.”
“I’m sorry.” The tears were threatening to start again, and you didn’t even know why. This was all so big and it felt so important but you couldn’t think. Your head hurt from all the crying, and your thumb was still aching, and you should have had dinner in the oven an hour ago. “I messed it all up.”
“No!” Both of them said immediately.
“We’re the ones who messed up,” Steve continued. “Of course it was scary to have your friends treat you like a child. Even if you were regressing, it would have been disorienting. We should have said something.”
“Maybe.” Steve has a point, it was pretty confusing. And they could have just asked you. “But it was nice.”
“Yeah? It wasn’t bad?” Bucky asked, looking hopeful.
“Gosh, no, of course not,” you rushed to reassure him. “It was really nice. I was just trying to stay big, and you were making it hard. But it was nice.” You needed to find another word, but it was just… nice!
“Well. You can be big if you want,” Steve said, fiddling with the corner of the first-aid bag. “You can put your own band-aid on and cook dinner.” You wait, knowing from his tone that he isn’t finished. “Or… we could help you put the band-aid on, and I can finish dinner while you show Bucky what you like to do when you’re younger.”
“That sounds good,” you confessed. “The second one.” You were still wavering in your adult headspace, and all you wanted to do is climb back into Bucky’s lap.
“Yeah?” Steve and Bucky both looked cheered by the idea. It was sweet that they were so excited about this. It must have really been something the two of them missed.
“Yeah.” You dug your socked toes into the carpet, suddenly shy. “Um, I’m pretty… small though. I dunno if you really want that.”
“How old are you, bud?” Steve asked, leaning forward.
You held your hand out with three fingers up. Now that you knew the nicknames are deliberate, they pushed you even deeper into your regression. You weren’t sure you could have talked if you wanted to.
“That’s not small at all,” Steve said seriously. “I think you’re a very big, brave boy, who still needs a band-aid for his finger.”
Bucky patted his lap and held out a hand, a clear invitation.
You walked forward to him, feeling a little out of your body, certain that this was a dream. But Bucky’s lap was just as comfy as you remembered, and it was easy to lean into his chest and drift. Steve lifted your hand, wiped it down again, and then produced a band-aid from the bag. It was one of your patterned ones, and you fought the urge to hide your face when you realized it was one of the Iron Man ones.
“Ah, I see how it is,” Steve teased, and then gently wrapped it around your finger, smoothing the adhesive. “Well, as long as you’re protected, it’s alright.” He kissed the tip of your finger where it poked out from the band-aid, and this time you couldn’t fight the instinct to hide your face against Bucky’s chest.
“You’re embarrassing him,” Bucky chuckled, running a hand over the back of your head, fingers slipping through your hair. “Give him a break, he’s only three.”
You made a little happy sound and pushed into Bucky’s fingers. You’d always liked getting your head petted when you were regressed. It was the most wonderful feeling, especially after a bottle or a warm meal.
Bucky obediently continued to pet your head, and Steve got to his feet.
“Well, I’d better tackle dinner,” Steve said. “You two enjoy the rest, and I’ll let you know when it’s in the oven.”
“Thanks, Stevie,” Bucky said. “I think it’s going to be a good night, even if dinner’s a little late.”
Nuzzling closer into Bucky’s chest as his fingers trailed through your hair, you found that you had to agree.