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He stares at the two toothbrushes, sitting in a glass by the sink. They look cosy. They look as cosy as he felt up until ten minutes ago, when he was curled up in bed, under a thick down comforter, plastered against the very warm body of an incredibly handsome man.
His heart is hammering. Is he drunk? Was he drunk? Did someone slip him some date-rape drug? He runs his hands through his hair. He’s pretty sure it would take more than alcohol to make him forget his own name, which is on the tip of his tongue.
Oh god, maybe it’s Alzheimer’s. He peers at himself in the mirror. No, that can’t be right. He looks like he’s maybe thirty? He scowls at himself in the mirror. He knows his face like the back of his hand. Handsome devil. Roguish good looks. Not a fucking clue what his name is.
The metal arm’s stumping him a bit, too.
Carefully, he lets himself out of the bathroom, trying to be as quiet as possible in case the big, blonde guy is still asleep. Turns out that the bed’s empty and now he can smell coffee. He figures things can’t be that bad, if there’s coffee to be had. He pokes around the bedroom, trying to find some clues, like, if he lives here or if the other guy lives here. Is this a one-night stand? Are they friends with benefits? Boyfriends? Belatedly, he checks his left hand. No ring but, oh yes, metal.
He makes it to the dressing table and there’s a photograph there, of him and the blonde guy, at a barbeque or something? It’s not even framed, just tucked into the mirror frame. They’ve got their arms around each other’s shoulders. He wonders what the occasion is. Fourth of July, maybe, or perhaps Pride. He’s definitely wearing the brightest shirt known to man; lurid pink with BROOKLYN splashed across it.
No one ever said he was stylish. Well, he’s not sure about that. Anything could be said about him and he’s in no position to confirm or deny.
He takes a deep breath.
He can do this. He’s a brave man. If he can wear a bright pink touristy shirt, he can go out into the kitchen and meet his fate.
And, yes, there, leaning against the kitchen table, cradling a mug of coffee between two massive hands, is his blonde mystery man.
“I know this is going to sound strange,” he says, immediately. “But I don’t suppose you know who I am?”
The blonde man blinks and the corners of his mouth turn down. “Damn. I was hoping you could tell me who I am.”
He can only laugh. He runs his hand through his hair and shakes his head.
“So, I don’t know who I am. You don’t know who you are. But one of us probably lives here?”
“Maybe both of us?” says the blonde guy.
He nods. “It, well. It kind of looks that way.” Without thinking, he plucks the mug from the blonde guy’s hands and takes a long swallow. Ignoring the blonde guy’s protests, he nods, thoughtfully. “Guess we take our coffee the same way.”
“Names,” says the blonde guy. “We need names. I can’t keep thinking of you as-”
“Devilishly handsome guy? Inexplicable metal prosthetic arm-fella?”
The blonde guy smiles and it’s a thoroughly charming quirk of lips. “Well, I was thinking Coffee Thief, but okay-”
“Look, we probably have ID around here somewhere, right?”
.
It turns out that they have a lot of forms of ID, with conflicting information.
“Are we conmen?” asks the blonde guy, whose name may be Steve, Bruce, Bob, Julian or Paul. He looks troubled. “I hope we’re not conmen.”
He looks at his own array of ID. He’s not sure if he feels most like James, Dick, Fred, George or John. “Maybe we should just pick a name, for now, until we’ve figured it out a bit more.”
The blonde guy puts his hand on his forearm and squeezes and it’s meant to be reassuring and probably not send sparks of heat through him. All he can do is smile weakly.
“I’m glad we’re in the same boat,” says the blonde guy, artlessly.
“But if I knew who I was,” he says, “I could probably tell you who you are.”
The blonde guy’s thumb is still running up and down his inner forearm. It’s nice. It’s distracting. It’s - “There have to be more clues,” he says, standing up abruptly and now, somehow, they’re holding hands and the blonde guy is smiling up at him.
“Sure,” says the blonde guy. “You’re right.” He steals back his coffee in a blatant display of dirty play and he smiles that smile again. That smile must be why he fell for the blonde guy and that's an interesting thought.
When the blonde guy stands up, he can’t resist stepping closer to him. The blonde guy’s taller, by nearly a head, and he has this confused expression on his face.
“What are you-?” the blonde guy whispers and his cheeks are red.
“I’m just trying something,” he whispers and his fingers close in the blonde guy’s t-shirt, though he’s all broad chest and warmth, with very little material for purchase. He leans up and presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the blonde guy’s lips.
After a second, the blonde guy kisses back and, okay, it’s like a first kiss, in a way. Eventually, he pulls back, though it’s hard when the blonde guy chases after him for another gentle kiss, and another.
“Yeah,” he says, with satisfaction. “I thought so.”
The blonde guy is grinning now and still blushing. “Doesn’t tell you who we are, though.”
He grins back. “Maybe not our names but, yeah, I think I know who we are.”
.
“Oh my god, we’re nerds. We’re actual - do we cosplay?” He’s staring at the open closet and there are clothes in there that grown men shouldn’t wear. “What’s with this, seriously?” He jabs his finger at a blue, white and red onesie before pulling it out.
He stares at the blonde guy accusingly. “It has a utility belt.”
The blonde guy’s sitting on the bed, looking more bemused than ever. “Halloween costume?” Something catches his eye then and he pushes past to pull out what looks like a highly authentic military uniform.
“Are we Army?” the blonde guy asks.
“Are we some kinda weird fetishists?” he asks in response.
“No, but if we’re Army,” says the blonde guy, who’s clearly the persistent sort, “we might have ID tags.”
“Fuck, you’re a genius, pal.”
They start to root through drawers and rifle along bookcases until the blonde guy says, “aha!” and pulls a box down from the top shelf in the closet.
“Steven G Rogers,” says the blonde guy. “Huh.”
“James?” he whines. “I don’t feel like a James.” He puts the chain around his neck and it doesn’t help at all.
The blonde guy - Steven - looks at him and a smile curves his mouth into something more wicked.
“I think you feel like a James,” he says, putting down his own dog tags and walking towards James.
James’ heart-rate speeds up when Steven tangles his fingers in the chain and pulls him closer. “Are we sure you’re not James? Maybe I’m Steven. I could be a Steven.”
“You’re definitely a James,” whispers Steven against his mouth.
They kiss and then James pulls back. He looks at Steven and looks at the bed. “So. Wanna?”
Steven looks down and, oh, he’s blushing again and James hopes he never cures him of blushing, even when they get their memories back.
“I wanna,” says Steven, softly. “But what if we’re wrong?”
“Buddy,” says James and Steven’s chest has some kinda magnetic properties because now James is scritching his fingers over his sternum. “Buddy, we woke up in the same bed this morning. Our creepy dress-up costumes hang in the same closet and mine consists of a freakish amount of leather and is sleeveless. And-” He holds up a finger and presses it to Steven’s closed mouth. “And the pictures. Clearly, we’re a thing.”
“A living-together-thing, not a married-thing?”
“Pal, if that was your idea of a dream proposal, the romance has gone out of this relationship.”
Steven smiles and kisses James’ fingertip. “Tell me three things. Tell me three reasons why I should believe you.”
James smiles and looks up at him from under his eyelashes? “Because you’re hot and I’m hot and there are his and his bathrobes on the back of the door?”
Steve makes a sound of disapproval. James tries again. “Because you’re a good guy - you’re definitely not a conman. I could be a conman but - oh my god, do you think we’re spies? That would be so hot.”
“In costumes like that?” asks Steven, doubtfully.
“In costumes like that,” says James, his voice low and thrumming, “You’re clearly the hero and I’m the sidekick. Heroes don’t wear leather like that.” He leans up and touches his lips to Steven’s jaw. “You’ve a very heroic jawline.”
Unexpectedly, but not unwelcomely, Steven starts to laugh. “Oh god. Oh god, I bet’s that how you came on to me.”
James mouths along Steven’s skin, closer to his ear and now he’s smiling too. “How do you know you didn’t come on to me? With that innocent face, I probably didn’t even know what you were doing till I was on the flat of my back.”
Steven turns his head and James rises to the bait, kissing his lower lip softly.
“It feels right,” says James, simply. “Kissing you feels right.” He can feel the curve of Steven’s cheek as he smiles. “And your smile makes me want to drop to my knees. Muscle memory, I bet.”
“I want to,” says Steven. “James, or whoever you are. I want to.”
“And I sure as hell wanna,” says James and now he’s walking backwards, till the backs of his legs collide with the bed and he sits down with a jolt. Steven follows, straddling James’s hips and James runs his hands up the sides of Steven’s neck, cupping his cheeks. Steven turns his head to press a kiss to the palm of James’s metal palm.
“You’re a goddamned ninja,” James breathes because he’s not sure when Steven got his shirt off and Steven’s chest is right there for James to kiss, first one nipple and then the other, and Steven’s breath comes in ragged, hitching gasps when James’s teeth close around it, worrying it slightly.
Even though he’s whining a little, Steven still has the wherewithal to tug at James’s shirt and that lands on the floor in short order. Steven smiles down at him and then he pushes James down and, oh god, innocent face or not, Steven plays dirty. He drags his lips along James’s collarbones, alternating sweet kisses with sharp nips and then he licks up James’s throat with the flat of his tongue and it’s kind of gross and obscenely hot and they kiss, messy and wet.
For a first time (and it is a first time), it’s only a little awkward, with laughter as they pull off their pants and James’s is delighted by Steven’s expression when he sees that James goes naked under his jeans.
“Wondering if I go commando in the costume, huh?” he asks, sucking a kiss into the side of Steven’s neck.
“Fff-,” says Steven, and James wonders if he ever swears. “Well, now I am, oh god.”
“I bet I do,” says James, gliding his fingers down the centre of Steve’s chest to his ridiculously well-defined abs. “I bet that after our nerd conventions, you take me up to our nerd hotel room and we have the hottest nerd sex ever.”
He’s all set to carry on in a similar vein but then Steven wraps his fingers around James’s cock and, oh god, this is his weakness, clearly. His goddamned Achilles tendon. Steven probably knows this, when they are who they are; he probably knows that the fastest way to shut James up is to lead him around by his cock.
James’s eyes flutter open and Steven is looking at him, and he’s not laughing. His expression is so grave and his voice is a little shaky when he whispers, “You’re really beautiful, James. I hope I remember to tell you that.”
James moans and he wants to say that he’ll never forget this but they’ve forgotten their own names and maybe they’re just ex-Army roommates who know how to comfort each other, or maybe they’re each others’ One and Only. Maybe they’re friends with benefits or -
“Muscle memory, hm?” asks Steven and he’s stroking James now and it’s like nothing he’s ever felt before, which makes sense in a way.
“Don’t know if you noticed, pal, but I talk a lot of shit-” James manages to say before Steven squeezes, just so, and then James decides that he’s not one to take things lying down (har-har) and he reaches for Steven to reciprocate. “Oh god,” he mutters, his hand fumbling over the inside of Steven’s thigh and Steven is so hard and so big and so warm in his grip. “Oh god, I bet I fell in love with your cock. What even is this-?”
Steven laughs and, yeah, he’s probably agreeing that James talks a lot of shit but they’re stroking each other, faster and harder and Steven is leaking, which is perfect and James lets go for a moment, to lick his palm and wonder, fleetingly, if he’ll ever get used to this taste; if he has ever gotten used to it and Steven lets out a mournful, wordless plea and James knows his place. He knows his place, pressed tight against Steven’s body, hand wrapped firmly around him and Steven comes first, red-faced and panting and James’s name is on his lips and it’s like the first time James has ever really heard it (and, okay, maybe he is a James) and then he’s coming too, spurting over Steven’s hand.
“I could get used to this,” Steve says, his breath warm against the skin of James’s throat. “Again, I mean. I could get used to this again.”
.
The door opens and it’s a bit of a surprise because Steven is dozing with James’s head on his chest and there hadn’t seemed to be any indication of a third roommate.
“Well, shit. Nat, I called it. You owe me twenty bucks.”
“Clint - “
Steven is awake in a flash and on his feet in front of the bed and it’s kind of adorable, the way he seems to be protecting James from danger but he’s also completely naked and that’s got to be distracting.
“Ha, never mind. You owe me thirty. Seriously, Barnes, how long has this been going on?”
James sits up, maybe a little too slowly, but he doesn’t want to spook Steven. He can practically see the whites of his eyes through the back of his head.
“I’m sorry, fellas. Uhm. Ma’am. But, uh, who are you?”
“Fuck.” The guy, Clint, a tall blonde fella, talks into the ether. “Coulson, get hold of Strange. He was right. We’re with Steve and Barnes now. They’ve been hit.” James doesn’t think he likes the way Clint is looking at Steve. “Uhm. And, hey, Phil? Are there any side effects? Ask him if there are any sexy side effects.”
Nat, the hot redheaded woman, takes a step forward and though she’s not obviously averting her gaze, her intense eye contact is unnerving.
“James,” she says, and maybe there’s something mildly gleeful in her tone. “James, why don’t you and Captain Rogers put on some clothes and come with us?”
As soon as Clint and Nat leave the room, Steven - Steve - turns to James and his brow is furrowed. “Do we - do we trust them?” he asks, a little plaintively.
James stands up and smoothes Steve’s frown away with his fingertips. “We don’t have to trust them but they seem to know us?”
“Unless this is all a scheme.” Steve’s bottom lip protrudes slightly and James’ hand moves down to touch it. Steve kisses his fingers again. He seems to like that. “What if it is a scheme and they want something from us?”
“Pal - Steve - I wouldn’t even know my social security number if it wasn’t on my dogtags,” says James. “What can we possibly give them other than our good looks and comic stylings?”
“Speak for yourself.” Steve’s trying to sound cranky. It’s not really working.
“Look. You are right. Going with them is probably madness but it’s that or sit here and wait for this to wear off.” James shrugs. “I gotta say I’m not a big fan of waiting around.”
After a moment, Steve nods, slumping forward slightly, so it’s only natural for James to put his arms around him and hold him close for a moment. “We got each other, ‘kay?” whispers James. “‘tween your manly physique and my metal arm, we can take ‘em, no matter how daft their clothes are.”
“Are you suggesting I use you as a blunt instrument?” asks Steve into James’ hair but James knows he’s smiling now.
They pull on their clothes; casual stuff that they tug out of drawers and closets. James is half-tempted to go for the leather get-up but figures that, in this company, that counts as conforming to the norm. Instead, he wears jeans and his bright pink Brooklyn t-shirt. When they go outside, Clint chokes.
“Oh my god, I can’t believe you still have that.”
“You’re wearing purple, pal. You don’t get to cast the first stone here.”
.
“So, you guys seriously stopped for sex?”
James is tired. “I don’t know who you are but you need to take that finger out of my face before I bite it off.” He’s growling now. “And not in the good way.”
“Cap, put a leash on the good sergeant here. I’m just making small talk while Strange does his, does his non-scientific stuff.”
The guy in glasses takes them off and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Guys, I’m sorry. Tony takes magic personally sometimes. Usually when he’s been up all night working on science.”
“Don’t blame the methodology, Dr Banner.”
“Anyway,” says Fury, who might be the only person in the world who can make everyone in this room-slash-laboratory shut up. “What we know is that this magical singularity was very much targeted on Captain America and the Winter Soldier, who really needs to stop giggling now-”
“I’m sorry,” says James. “I’m sorry but that really sounds like some kind of porn star name.”
“You’re not wrong,” says Stark.
“Enough,” says Fury and the room is silent once more. “Our best guess is that they wanted to reset the Winter Soldier’s programming and use his proximity to Captain America to kill him.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” (Okay, so Fury’s presence doesn’t have quite the desired effect on James but this is important.) “Programming? I’m not a robot, am I?” He looks at his metal arm in horror.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with being a robot,” says Stark. “But no. You’re, like, ninety-four point two-three per cent human. You’re welcome for the arm, by the way.”
“You want it crammed in your mouth, pal?”
“James, James,” says Steve and he reaches for James’ left hand and, oh, they’re holding hands again and it’s pretty clear that everyone is trying not to stare.
“You guys are all shit covert operatives,” announces James. “Except Natasha. She’s pretty good.”
“Do you want to read this briefing yourself?” asks Fury.
Stark holds up his hand. “No, no, don’t hand me shit, Fury, my god.”
“Please, Director Fury,” says Steve. “Keep going.”
James marvels at how Steve can speak so commandingly while knowing fuck all about himself or this organisation. Steve is still holding his hand, though, which makes it all much more agreeable.
“Strange says the magic is quite primitive and he’ll be able to reverse it this evening.”
James’ hand grips more tightly and it’s only when Steve lets out the quietest of pained sounds that he realises that it must hurt, even if Steve is pretty damned strong.
Fury walks out of the room.
“Wait. That’s it?” asks James. “That’s it?”
“Fury likes to keep things simple,” says Natasha, coolly. “We have enough people in here who needlessly complicate things.”
“Hey,” says Stark. “I resemble that implication.”
.
They show James and Steve to an apartment area, with a pair of plainly decorated bedrooms off a central living area.
“I prefer our place,” says James, grumbling even as Steve tugs him into his arms on the couch.
“Don’t worry,” says Steve, his fingers tangling in the chain of James’ dog tags. “We’ll be fixed soon and we’ll go home.”
Steve’s lips barely touch James’ before the door to the apartment slides open.
“Well,” says James. “That’s the best costume yet.”
Stephen Strange is not what James expects and, somehow, that doesn’t surprise him.
“I think,” he says, and James tries not to be distracted by his facial hair and sartorial stylings, “you were the intended target, James. Whoever cast this spell did not take into account your - ah - proximity with Captain Rogers. They had anticipated, I believe, that you would awaken, amnesiac, and revert to a Winter Soldier prototype, namely -”
“Violent as all fuck?”
Dr Strange looks pained but he nods. He gestures, as though he’s about to take a photograph. “Nice and close, both of you. Ideally, I’d like to recreate the exact configuration you were in but our friends in SHIELD do talk and I am not enamoured of gratuitous nudity.”
James and Steve automatically shift closer together, thigh to thigh, and Steve’s hand is curled around Bucky’s leg.
Strange says something unintelligible and then there’s a flash of green, or maybe brown, or perhaps red light.
.
They wake up.
.
“Fuck, Steve, fuck, I am so sorry,” says Bucky, his head in his hands. Steve is standing over by the television and his hand is covering his mouth.
“I just assumed,” says Steve. “I never realised how it looked-”
“Oh,” says Bucky, reddening a little. “I know how it looked because Clint and Natalia make a point of telling me but -”
Steve holds up his hand. “Wait. You’re telling me that you knew our friends thought we were - were an item and you didn’t think to mention it before?”
Bucky’s a little angry now and he stands up. “Excuse me, Rogers, for not wanting to freak out my best friend over harmless gossip.”
Steve is silent for a moment and he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Well,” he says. “We can’t undo it.”
“Look, it was a mistake, that’s all. We didn’t know.”
“Just. I need a moment, Buck. I-” Steve shakes his head and then strides out of the apartment. Bucky stares after him a moment, his heart sinking. Well. Fuck.
He picks up his cellphone and immediately hits Natasha’s speed-dial. “Stop fucking Clint or torturing Clint or whatever it is you two do together and meet me for a drink.”
“James,” she says. “You’re back. The usual?”
“The usual.”
The usual is a dive of a bar three blocks away from Times Square. It’s tiny, but dark, and has the best vodka selection this side of Moscow.
Of course Bucky orders a Budweiser.
“Which of you do I need to slap?” asks Natasha, sitting next to Bucky as Clint sits down on the other side.
“What happened, man?” asks Clint. “Stephen says you guys should be back to normal.”
“We are,” says Bucky, stiffly. “Apart from the bit where we fucked under the influence and now Steve can’t really look at me.”
“Wait,” says Clint.
“You mean,” says Natasha.
“First time,” says James, gritting his teeth because talking about bedroom exploits when they have been most exploitative is not how he envisaged spending tonight.
He jumps when a hand lands on his shoulder.
“Oh, wow, man, you could look less pleased to see me.”
“Sorry, Sam, I was expecting-” Bucky stops himself but he’s clearly already said too much.
“Yeah, I missed all the fun today, huh?” Sam sits on Natasha’s other side. “Where is the big guy?”
“Dunno,” says Bucky sullenly. “He left.”
“With Tony, I think. Or Thor. He needed to talk to someone.”
Bucky snorts into his pint. “And he chose them?”
“They were all that was left,” says Clint, clapping him on the back. “You got us in the pre-nup, you lucky bastard.”
Bucky looks at his drink, speculatively. “Shit.”
“Hey.”
“No, shit. Steve’s talking to Tony? To Thor? Fuck only knows what they’re going to tell him. Sorry, guys, I gotta run.”
Bucky gets off his barstool and has enough self-respect not to break into a run till he gets outside the door and then he runs slap-bang into a solid wall of muscle.
“Steve?” Bucky hates that his voice sounds plaintive. It’s like he’s sixteen again.
“I’m so sorry, Buck-”
“No, not this again, please. We fucked, we fucked up. I get it, I-”
Bucky would keep going because if Steve’s going to reject him out of hand then he’s certainly going to be subjected to everything Bucky has to say on the matter but - But Steve’s kissing him and they’ve never kissed like this before. Bucky would remember. Bucky would remember. Even when they didn’t know who they were, beyond each other’s, they didn’t kiss like that.
"You're really beautiful, Bucky," whispers Steve and Bucky's heart swells to about four times its natural size.
“Fucking fags,” says someone, pushing past, and he’s almost as big as Steve and Bucky spins around, ready to launch himself at him except Steve holds him back, his arms around his waist, his chest pressed against Bucky’s back and he murmurs against his ear. “No, Buck, don’t. It’s tempting, I know, but I need you to -” Steve takes a deep breath. “I need you to come home with me, that’s all.”
“Why?” asks Bucky, as though he can’t still taste Steve on his lips.
“Because we need to talk,” says Steve.
Bucky groans. Steve squeezes him more tightly.
“About how it took losing our goddamned memories to see what’s been plain as day for years.”
“What - what exactly did Tony say to you?” asks Bucky.
“Well, he started going on about how when two nonagenarians love each other very much, they might want to get it on before the hip replacements and hearing aids become a necessity.”
Bucky shuffles around so that he’s facing Steve again. “It took Tony fucking Stark to make you see sense?”
Steve looks a little abashed. “It’s not as though you can talk, Buck. Who made you see sense?”
Bucky’s lips curve into something unfamiliar; too sweet to be a grin or a smirk. “Your smile, you dumbass. Your cock. I’m sure I told you these things.”
Steve rolls his eyes and laughs and he looks beautifully embarrassed. “So,” he says, resting his forehead against Bucky’s. “You ready to come home? It’s not gonna be easy but I wanna.” He kisses Bucky briefly. “I really wanna.’
This time, it’s a grin and Bucky’s hand doesn’t leave Steve’s back pocket for the whole ride home.
(Or for the whole ride back to SHIELD the next day, where Clint groans and slides a fifty dollar bill across the conference table to Natasha.)