Too Long We Have Tarried | Steve/Bucky | NC-17 | Part Three
They’re stopped at a light on Union Square, just before Park turn onto Broadway, and the man is standing in the middle of traffic with a hopeful smile on his face, rapping his knuckles on the glass again when he sees Bucky’s look like it’s his front door and Steve’s taking him dancing at a clip joint.
“Found you,” he yells, almost completely muffled. “Let me in?”
Bucky’s first thought is to go through the windows on the opposite side of the limo. With surprise on his side, he might be able to make it to the taxi at the median, pull out the driver, and be headed east before Steve caught up with him. Bucky’s second thought is to hide the goddamn rings, because just looking at them feels incriminating.
He doesn’t have time for third thoughts, because the driver has caught on and popped the lock and Steve is suddenly swinging the whole of his big body into the car with gust of oppressive July air and a relieved sigh, shutting it with a snap just in time for the light to change and the limousine to start moving again.
“Jesus Christ, it’s hot out there,” he says, wiping at his face and patting around on the leather. “Trust Tony to kit out the car like this, I could see you coming up the street from blocks away. Is there a seatbelt in here or-“
He turns to look at Bucky and whatever else he was about to say seems to stall out in his mouth. He stares. He keeps staring, even when Bucky shifts away from him, even when Bucky starts to glower and crosses his arms across his chest defensively.
“What?” Bucky is eventually unnerved enough to demand. “What are you looking at?” Maybe the medals are wrong. Maybe he got that aloo gobi stuff on his face.
“You said you’d never cut your hair,” Steve says in a rush, and then looks slightly ashamed of himself. “I mean. I thought you liked it better long.”
“I do, I just-” Bucky can’t even explain it in his own head in a way that sounds anything more than stupid. “I thought, if I’m getting married, I should- you know. Clean up.”
“Yeah,” Steve says, still looking softly stunned. “You look really…”
Another long pause, and Bucky wants to reach over and shake the words out of him. The last thing they need is more unsaid words; the air between them is too full already. “Just say what you fucking mean,” he snaps.
Steve blinks, mouth snapping closed. And then, unbelievably, he starts laughing.
“I’m trying to compliment you, Jesus, Buck,” he says. “You look nice. You got a haircut, you shaved, you have a uniform on. You look good. You look just like I’d- I mean, when I thought about it I-“
“You thought about it,” Bucky says warily.
“I… I thought about it, yeah,” Steve says, quieter. He looks oddly anxious. “What? You didn’t think about me?”
Fuck, there it is again, so strong he can almost hear it like high-pitched white noise in his ears. What is he missing? What is he not remembering?
“I don’t know,” Bucky says.
“What?”
“I said I don’t-” Bucky makes a rough sound of frustration and drops his hands, holding Steve’s confused gaze. “There’s something I can’t remember and it’s driving me crazy, Steve, there’s something about this that’s so- have we done this before?” he says, demanding except that it sounds like begging in his ears. “We couldn’t, I know we couldn’t really, but did we talk about it? Did we try?”
He hadn’t ever intended to ask any of it out loud, but there it is, raw and naked in the air and for one wild moment, Bucky stares at Steve’s blank face and wonders if maybe, maybe Steve is going to tell him, Yes, we did. I’ve always felt the same, you know there’s never really been anybody else for me but you. Nobody but you.
He hadn’t known he wanted Steve to say exactly that until this moment. It’s so selfish, fuck, is it selfish and greedy, after everything Steve’s already given him. Given up.
But he wants it. He wants it and more.
Steve is silent, hat in his hands now. It’ll be mangled beyond fixing if he keeps twisting it like that. “No,” he says finally, eyes dropping to the hat. “No, nothing like that.”
Well, Bucky thinks distantly. His weight settles back in his seat and he stares at Steve, stunned silent. Well. Don’t have to worry about that anymore.
Don’t have to worry about much of anything anymore, because as soon as this car stops he’s getting out and walking down a few more blocks and throwing himself in the fucking harbor-
“I thought about it,” Steve repeats, quiet, so quiet Bucky can barely hear him. “In Brooklyn, just before the World’s Fair. When you came in that uniform, I thought about the gals I’d seen with their soldiers, lining up in front of City Hall before the next ship out. War brides. Wasn’t an option for us, but I thought about it. I thought about you.”
“Me,” Bucky says. Swallows.
Steve’s eyes dart up to his face and back down, fingers going white-knuckled around the brim. “I don’t know if you remember,” he says. “But…”
If there are more dangerous words in the entire English language, let alone their private lexicon, Bucky doesn’t know them.
“It’s fine, if you don’t,” Steve says, voice wavering slightly before he brings it back under control. “When I got to Europe, to France, those first few months- everyone, every single guy in the 107 thought you had a sweetheart you were engaged to back home. I couldn’t figure it out, because I never saw or heard about a girl like that. I wondered for a while if you’d been hiding her from me. The guys, they said- they said, when things got bad you wouldn’t shut up about her.”
Bucky doesn’t say anything, and Steve takes a deep breath.
“Gabe said- he said you told them she was thin and fair-haired, just a slip of a thing. Jacques claimed she had eyes bluer than the skies over Normandy. Dum-Dum would swear it was Dover, and that she had this temper that got you both in trouble everywhere you went. They said you were madly in love, and that you said she was beautiful, especially when she was mad enough to spit nails. You were going to marry her in St. Patrick’s in front of the whole damn world.”
Bucky still doesn’t speak. He doesn’t know if he can.
“I thought- I was mad at first you hadn’t told me about her,” Steve says. “This amazing girl you were so in love with. I thought you might have been ashamed of me. God knows I wasn’t anyone’s idea of good society back then.”
Bucky wants to tell him that good or bad, he’s always been the only society that mattered, but Steve’s plowing on.
“Yeah, I was mad. Here was a girl I knew absolutely nothing about, and you were going to marry her? I couldn’t believe it. Some pretty little dame you hadn’t even wanted to introduce me to.”
The limo slows to a stop at another intersection. Bucky stares at the toes of Banner’s dress shoes and tries desperately to understand what he’s feeling.
“You got so uncomfortable when the Howlies talked about her, though, and you looked downright terrified when I asked about her. After a while they all decided you’d made her up, and you said you had, and they teased you for weeks and weeks. They forgot about it, eventually.”
Steve laughs a little, and sounds more hurt than happy.
“I couldn’t, for some reason. I just- why lie? It wasn’t like you. You could get any girl you liked, why lie about something like that? Someone so specific, she must have been around, even if I never saw her.”
The limo starts moving again, and Steve swallows audibly.
“It didn’t occur to me until after... after the train. After almost everything. There was only one blue-eyed blond I knew you’d promised to marry.”
Fuck, Steve.
“Maybe I’m wrong,” Steve says softly.
“You’re not that dumb, Steve,” Bucky mumbles to the floor. “Just a little slow.”
There it is, the bloom of memory like blood in water. He feels strangely bruised, the insides of his ribs sore and tender, but he remembers. He remembers.
Pepper had asked if they’d planned this, and Christ, he’d plans- stupid, silly plans, plans he kept tucked in the back of his mind like some of the guys kept photos and letters from their sweethearts in their shirts. He’d made his promise to Steve that night and he’d never brought it up again, but he’d thought about it.
He’d thought about it.
Frozen in a foxhole with the thought of Steve in lace the only warm thing for miles, the veil Mrs. Rogers kept carefully packed away with lavender, how it would feel under his hands as he lifted it over Steve’s upturned face. Up in a sniper’s nest overnight, knowing the second he fell asleep he was dead, imagining how the church would smell, the candles and the droning voice of Father MacNamara as they made their promises. Sitting in that dank pit, closing his eyes and thinking how easy it would be to sweep Steve into his arms after, how Steve would probably hit him and call him a jerk but he’d be laughing too. Steve was always laughing in his imagination, always so happy. He’d wanted it with a fierceness that ached.
But it was one thing to fantasize when Steve was small and sick and safe in New York, and another to have him there, huge, larger than life, leading every charge the Howlies made and grinning at Bucky across campfires and trenches and firefights. It was better. It was so much worse.
And then there was Peggy Carter. And then, there was the train.
“Bucky?” Steve says tentatively.
He’s leaning forward and Bucky is still frozen in place, watching him come closer and closer. Steve’s not looking at his face, though, and he reaches down on the seat next to Bucky. It’s a shock when their fingers touch, hot and electric, and Bucky’s fingers spasm around the crushed ring case before he lets Steve pry it gently from his grip.
“You really did a number on this thing,” Steve muses. It falls into two pieces in his hand, revealing the rings.
“I didn’t… I told Barton not to take them,” Bucky says.
“I know,” Steve says. “I did.”
He tips them out in his hand, one plain, one with a tiny stone imbedded in the band. There’s a worn pattern on them, leaves or vines, and Steve traces their smoothed edges.
“The thing is, Buck,” he says, looking down at them. “I meant it. On the roof, when I said I wanted to marry you. When I said yes this morning. I meant it. So.”
“Alright.” His tongue feels thick and leaden. His hands are unsteady, but he manages to reach out. He picks up the ring with the stone in it.
Steve’s hand lifts when Bucky takes it, and his pulse is pounding. Bucky slides the ring past his knuckle to settle firmly at the base of his finger, flush with his palm.
Steve is staring down at it when Bucky looks up, lips slightly parted.
“You’re going to have to put the other one on my right hand,” Bucky says. “At least for now. I don’t think it’ll stay on, otherwise.”
“That’s fine,” Steve breathes, and when his eyes lift to meet Bucky’s they’re almost awed. “That’s perfect.”
“Yeah?” Bucky’s mouth is bone dry from nerves. He licks his lips and Steve watches the small movement, unconsciously mimics it.
“Perfect,” he says emphatically. “Can I…?
“Can you…?” Bucky echoes, but it’s pretty obvious what Steve means when he’s easing forward again and looking at Bucky like that. At Bucky’s mouth like that. “Uh.”
Steve stops, one hand on the seat beside Bucky’s thigh. “No?”
“Yeah. Yes, I mean-” Bucky says, and it shades out high and hoarse. He sways towards him a little and stops, his hand drifting close but not touching Steve’s where it’s pressed into the leather. “If you want.”
Steve gives him a smile, then, the one that says Bucky’s not fooling anyone in this car, and kisses him.The car pulls up to City Hall at precisely three thirty. They get out and watch the limo drive away, and then they flag a cab. They go back to Brooklyn.
They don’t talk. Steve makes one call that involves a lot of embarrassed mumbling while Bucky lays out his uniform on Steve’s rumpled bedsheet, and then turns his phone off. They grab some clothes, get on Steve’s motorcycle and take I-90 out of town.
“I thought we’d head up to Niagara Falls,” Steve says when they stop to get gas, voice all nonchalance when his ears haven’t stopped burning since Bucky slid on behind him and settled flush against his back. His hands might have ended up under Steve’s shirt once or twice. For balance. Steve did like to ride fast. “Seems like everyone and their sister went up to Niagara after they, uh.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, leaning on the pump as Steve fills the tank. “Sounds good.”
There’s a small town two or three hours out, the main square opening up onto breathtaking views of New York’s northern gorges, nothing but forest and sheer drops for miles in all directions. There’s one car in the otherwise deserted town hall parking lot, a single clerk visible through a window facing the street.
“We don’t have to,” Steve says as Bucky clambers off the bike, suddenly a stammering mess. “I mean we only just- we could date some, we could-”
Bucky nudges Steve’s chin up so he can press a quick biting kiss to his bottom lip. That shuts him up. “If you don’t marry me right now, I’m pushing you off one of these gorges. See if I don’t.”
“Not funny,” Steve mutters, but he grabs his helmet and flips down the kickstand.
The clerk is an older woman by the name of Pearl, who shakes their hands with a bony, no-nonsense grip and leads them back to a room all done up in yellow oak, the smell of stale cigarette smoke and old books strong in the air. She sits them down and makes them fill out another set of forms, and Bucky does a lot straining to remember what’s on his fake ID and lying about what he can’t.
“This says you’re about to start a tour of duty in Iraq,” she says to Steve while they write. She has the waiver in front of her and she squints at them over the rim of her tortoiseshell reading glasses.
“Yes, ma’am,” Steve says with an admirably straight face.
“Hmph. Normally I don’t approve of rushing these things, but I suppose we can make an exception for you and your young man.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Their witnesses are two janitors that get pulled from vacuuming the rec center attached to the building. Pearl directs them to stand behind Steve and Bucky, who are told to arrange themselves shoulder to shoulder in front of her podium.
“First time?” she asks dryly as they shuffle awkwardly into place.
“Uh,” Steve says, and Christ, Bucky can see the whites all around his eyes. Pearl looks at him, then at Bucky. Bucky tries to look more sure of himself, but whatever she sees seems to exasperate rather than reassure.
“Gentlemen,” she says, perching her glasses very precisely on the bridge of her nose. “Two things need to happen here. I officiate your vows, and you sign this license with witnesses. Most couples have their own vows prepared…” she glances between them pointedly, and Bucky drops sheepish eyes to the floor. “… but I can see you two need a little help. Any particular religious affiliations?”
“Catholic, ma’am,” Bucky mumbles. “The both of us.”
The words she asks them to repeat are simple, in plain English rather than Latin. Steve, always stupidly, pig-headedly brave where it matters, takes Bucky’s hand and looks straight into his eyes as he promises to love, honor, cherish and protect. Bucky, voice rough and palm sweaty, promises the same. There’s a brief fumbling with the rings, already on their fingers, that makes Bucky laugh under his breath and Steve stutter badly.
“In so much as the two of you have agreed to live together in matrimony,” Pearl says, her own lips pursed in silent amusement, “have promised your love for each other by these vows, I now declare you to be husbands. You may kiss your groom.”
Steve slowly turns to face him, and he’s holding on so tightly even Bucky’s metal hand feels pinched. He seems momentarily frozen in place, staring wide-eyed at Bucky’ face.
“Steve?” Bucky says, trying for light and falling facedown in honest appeal.
Steve lets go of his hand and brings up both of his to cup Bucky’s face, thumb stroking the corner of his mouth like he’s mesmerized. Steve leans in and Bucky closes his eyes and breathes out shakily before their lips meet, dry and warm. Oh, God.
Oh, God, finally.
The janitors start clapping. Steve draws back, but not very far, and though his face is the color of a barn door he’s giving Bucky this dazed little grin, eyes hooded and his hands lingering on Bucky’s face.
“Congratulations,” Pearl says. “You still need to sign.”
They sign the license, but not before Steve sneaks in another kiss to the corner of Bucky’s mouth. He steals another while Pearl is making photocopies for state records, and gets in a couple more on Bucky’s cheek, his throat, his ear before she shoos them out of the building with an admonishment to save it for the honeymoon.
“Niagara?” Steve sighs. They’re sitting astride the bike and his head is turned to the side as Bucky noses into his shirt collar and the hot skin beneath, arms tight around his waist, knees snug up behind his thighs. He’s allowed to do that now. He can put his hands all over Steve if he wants, and oh, does he ever. He can open his mouth and bite, taste him and hear him gasp.
“Bucky, we’re in public,” Steve says, but not like he minds.
“Mmmm. Better get us somewhere private, Mr. Barnes,” Bucky says into the nape of his neck.
“Better hang on then, Mr. Rogers,” Steve says archly, and away they go.
They might make it to Niagara. Bucky’s got no earthly idea. After sundown the roads all blend together in a rush of orange and velvety black, and Bucky’s hands wander and cling. He can’t help it. He’s a newlywed.
When they do stop hours later, pulling into a random drugstore parking lot, Steve is breathing hard and flushed from cheek to chest, and he seems torn between arousal and exasperation and something that tugs his mouth into a smile, even when he’s trying to scowl threateningly at Bucky.
“You little-” he starts, and then Bucky gets pulled into a kiss that has him curling his hands into Steve’s leather jacket and laughing breathlessly into his mouth. It’s open and lush and a little mean, and so, so good. Bucky doesn’t have to wonder anymore; he knows, he knows he’s wanted this forever, and Steve has too.
“So, you wanna grab dinner?” Steve has the nerve to ask when they separate. He’s back to a wide, ready grin, mouth red and eyes unfocused; Bucky’s obviously kissed him stupid.
“How about a room,” Bucky suggests, and Steve makes a noise low in his throat that might be a laugh but mostly sounds like greed.
“Yeah, but- uh, wait here, okay?” he says, and leaves Bucky sitting alone on the bike for fifteen increasingly confused minutes before coming back out of the store with a bulging plastic bag and a face that’s absolutely crimson in the wan light from the window display.
“What’s all that?” Bucky asks, craning to see as Steve tries to stuff it hurriedly out of sight in their satchels.
“Just a couple snacks and things?” Steve tries, yanking at the zipper, but Bucky’s already leaning in to pull the plastic open with a finger and peer inside. He gets as far as the five bottles labeled PERSONAL LUBRICANT and jerks back so fast he almost falls off the bike.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Steve!” he yelps, and Steve’s face shifts from embarrassment to sheer, abject panic.
“I just, I thought- I’m sorry!” he almost yells.
“No, it’s- I didn’t mean-”
“Of course we don’t have to- it’s fine, I wasn’t going to-“
“No, I’m just-”
“I can return everything! I have the receipt!” Steve says, brandishing it like Perseus with Medusa’s head, and Bucky starts laughing. He starts and he can’t stop, folded over the handlebars of the bike with his husband of a few hours sputtering wordlessly beside him and enough skins and lube for twenty people riding in the saddlebags.
“You’re such a jerk, you know that?” Steve says when Bucky’s quieted down to the occasional wheeze. “I just wanted to be prepared.”
That sets Bucky off again, stomach cramping from how hard he’s laughing. “Oh, you’re prepared all right. Where’s the orgy? Why didn’t you invite me, huh?”
“I was trying to,” Steve complains, and the blush that had been fading from his face comes back in an awful, boiled-lobster red. “I mean.”
Bucky married this moron. “For Christ’s sake, Steve, come here.”
Steve is glaring, but he shuffles closer and Bucky wraps his arms around his neck and pulls him down to kiss his eight and a half year old’s pout.
“So, d’you wanna?” Steve mumbles against his mouth, always such a persistent bastard.
“You’re lucky you’re so pretty,” Bucky says, and when Steve starts to frown he adds, “Yes, Steve. I want to. I’ve wanted to for a really long time. Since your twentieth birthday. Since we were kids.”
“Oh,” Steve says quietly, “oh,” and it’s not Bucky’s fault they get wolf-whistled by another drugstore shopper a few minutes later.
It’s a real challenge to keeps his hands to himself when they finally get back on the bike, but sliding fingers down Steve’s thighs on a straightaway nearly sends them careening over the edge of a cliff, so Bucky settles for clinging as tight as he can for the rest of the mercifully short ride.
The hotel Steve picks is surrounded by trees and nicer than Bucky was expecting, green and white marble and a massive staircase dominating the foyer. They visibly scandalize the front desk workers and then it’s up to the second floor with a card that’s supposed to be their key and the smug knowledge that Steve is probably staring at his ass as they climb the stairs.
Definitely staring, Bucky thinks, as he slips the card in the door and Steve’s big hands settle on his hips and dig in. Bucky opens the door and pulls him inside, crowding him up against the wall instead of turning on the lights.
“I don’t know, Buck, I’m kinda hungry,” Steve slurs into his mouth. Punk.
“Bet a place this swank has room service, Captain Asshole,” Bucky says, and accidentally rips Steve’s shirt open in his eagerness to pull it off.
Bucky is forbidden from removing any clothing after that, and happy to be shoved backwards towards the bed. He sits and settles back on his hands and watches Steve drop his leather jacket to the floor with the pieces of his shirt, already starting on his pants before he seems to notice Bucky’s not moving.
“You can take off your own clothes, you know. Just not mine,” Steve says as he pops the top button.
“Nah,” Bucky drawls, smirking up at him. “Think I’ll just enjoy the view, thanks.”
That gets him Steve kneeling on the bed between his spread legs with his pants half-undone, pressing Bucky flat to the plush coverlet with his mouth hot and wet against Bucky’s throat. Bucky’s laugh edges into a moan that sounds embarrassingly needy to his own ears, but it makes Steve shiver and bite at his pulse.
Bucky starts losing clothes and doesn’t even notice, too caught up in Steve’s hands and Steve’s mouth and the low tug of heat in his belly when he feels the still-new tightness of the ring on his right hand. He’s down to a shirt, then pants, and there’s a moment where Steve stops what he’s doing and says, “Bucky, what the hell’s with all these knives?”
“I won two off Natasha today,” Bucky says, grinning up at him. “Nice, right?”
Steve makes a face. “Nice is not the word I was thinking of,” he says, and the sheathes disappear to the same parts unknown as the rest of his clothing. Then Steve’s pulling back to wiggle gracelessly out of his pants and Bucky’s laying back on the bed laughing at him because he looks fucking ridiculous, all the muscle of a big cat and none of the grace. He never did have any poise to speak of.
Steve, the sneaky bastard, uses Bucky’s distraction to wrestle the covers down and get them both close to naked. Then he’s settling between Bucky’s legs with his hand gripping Bucky’s dick, and Bucky chokes on his name.
Bucky hasn’t asked if Steve’s done this before, with a man, with anyone. He was afraid of the answer, jealous of anyone who might have had what he wanted and aching for Steve at the same time. The way Steve touches him now makes him wonder, his hand moving too slow and too dry to be anything other than torture. He’s close, staring at Bucky with an intensity bordering on manic, and Bucky flushes, face heating and body moving into Steve’s hand without conscious thought.
“You gonna paint a fucking picture later?” he pants. He drops his hands to twist in the sheets because he can’t trust them on Steve now, might hurt him, his heart pounding and skin sparking from the gritty contact. He tries to arch and gets nowhere because Steve, fuck, Steve can pin him with one arm across his hips and then nothing’s touching his dick. “Come on!”
“I’m gonna get the lube, I just,” Steve says, and then ducks his head to lick a fat stripe up Bucky’s cock with the flat of his tongue.
“Fuck! Fuck, Steve, don’t just-” Steve’s lips catch around the head and Bucky’s knees pull in hard against his sides. “Shit!”
Steve makes an indecent noise and tries to fit as much of Bucky in his mouth as he can, hands coming up to pin Bucky in place, the soft insides of his cheek and tongue hot enough to burn. “You shithead,” Bucky whines, bucking against the bed and Steve’s grip. He gets himself nothing but finger-shaped bruises and mindless little sounds as Steve thoroughly enjoys himself. It’s messy and uncoordinated, shallow until Steve figures out how to swallow around him and then almost too tight, too wet. “Fuck, slow down!”
Though it’s mortifyingly short, it’s probably the best blowjob of his life. Adding insult to injury, once Bucky is done fighting and shoving and eventually coming his goddamn brains out, Steve slowly pulls off of his softening cock with a last luxurious suck and rasps, “Always wanted to try that. Was it good?”
Bucky opens his eyes to glare blearily down at him and sees his mouth is fucking covered with come, lips streaked, chin dripping. “Holy fucking shit, Steve,” he says on a weak groan, head dropping back.
Steve licks his lips, which Bucky can feel because they’re still pressed low on his stomach. “Hey, you can go again, right?”
“Wha-?” But Steve is already manhandling Bucky’s body further up the bed, getting his legs over his shoulders and his hands on his ass.
“Like me? You can go again right after?” he says into the crook of Bucky’s thigh, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.
Bucky has no time to try and figure out what he means, too busy yelling himself hoarse as Steve pulls his hips up to his face and sucks him in again, takes him right through “Too much, damn it, too much,” into agonizing, razor-wire “Fuck, yes, please.”
Bucky gets his revenge later, somewhere in the hazy, blissful time between rounds four and five, when they discover just how smooth lube makes metal joints and he discovers he can make Steve fucking fall apart with three fingers. He can afford to be slow and patient while Steve curses him and thrashes because he’s come three times on the bed and once on the floor next to it, he’s done. He can coax Steve to the blind and trembling edge where he can’t seem to do anything but mouth Bucky’s name, no noise, just his lips moving and his body straining up against the slick movement of Bucky’s fingers in him, shallow and then deep, a twisting, grinding motion Bucky could keep up for hours. He tells Steve that. He curls up to Steve’s heaving side and whispers it in his ear, tells him he’s so fucking beautiful he could make angels cry. He tells him about how he’d imagined Steve was his, how he’d imagined the church, the veil, the wedding night. When Steve gasps out, “Please, Bucky please,” Bucky threads their fingers together and watches Steve arch and come for him, open-mouthed and shaking.In the morning- later in the morning, because they fucked each other practically blind, got room service around three and then did it all over again- Bucky wakes up to find Steve running light and lazy fingers along his back. He’s pinned under Bucky’s weight, metal arm slung across his hips, and listening to someone rant at him on phone. Bucky pretty quickly figures out it’s Stark.
“-you’re doing! This is Nora Roberts, this is Nicholas Sparks, one of you probably has stage five inoperable brain cancer. I’m ashamed to know you.”
“Yep, you said that,” Steve says, turning his head to brush a kiss over Bucky’s hairline. “Anything else before I hang up? Bucky’s awake.”
“Only about five million things, you disgustingly smug cancer patient. We had a great time at your party, by the way. There are still news crews circling the tower."
“Bye, Tony,” Steve says.
"I still haven’t heard a thank you for dealing with all those giant-"
Steve firmly thumbs the end call button and tosses the phone off the bed. Bucky shifts more of his weight onto him. He kisses his collarbone, already liberally decorated with bites and bruises, and works his way up to his adam’s apple, the point of his chin. Then his mouth, which curves under Bucky’s lips.
“The bathroom has a tub big enough for four,” Steve says, and Bucky leans back a little to give him a narrow stare.
“Are you saying I stink, Mr. Barnes?” he says archly.
Steve just smiles. “You could brush your teeth while we’re at it, Mr. Rogers.”
“Fuck you,” Bucky says, sitting up on top of him. “You’re none too clean yourself, you know.”
Steve winces. “Oh, I know. Wanted to let you sleep. I know you don’t, always.”
And there it is: Steve Rogers, everyone. Steve Rogers, who can’t seem to stop saving him.
“Hey,” Steve says softly. “What’s that face? Everything okay?”
Looking down at Steve, at the flash of gold on his hand as he settles it on Bucky’s thigh, Bucky realizes that it is okay. It’s fine if he doesn’t remember, if he gets confused, if he doesn’t have all the pieces all the time. It’s fine because Steve has most of them, and the ones he doesn’t they’ll make new. They’ll make them together.
“Yeah,” Bucky says, and leans down to kiss him again. “Yeah, Steve. It’s perfect.”
Goodbye to all care and all sorrow
I'm chasin' the blues out o' my way
I'm gonna start all over tomorrow
I telegraphed my baby to say
That I'm all wrapped up in sunshine
Underneath a sky of blue
'Cause I'm sailin' on a sunbeam
On my way to you
Not a cloud is gonna stop me
I'll be comin' right straight through
'Cause I'm sailin' on a sunbeam
On my way to you
We're gonna get married, get married and how
Too long we have tarried, it won't be long now
Set the weddin' bells a-ringin'
Let the whole world know it's true
That I'm sailin' on a sunbeam
On my way to you
<< Part Two | Marvel Masterlist >>
“Found you,” he yells, almost completely muffled. “Let me in?”
Bucky’s first thought is to go through the windows on the opposite side of the limo. With surprise on his side, he might be able to make it to the taxi at the median, pull out the driver, and be headed east before Steve caught up with him. Bucky’s second thought is to hide the goddamn rings, because just looking at them feels incriminating.
He doesn’t have time for third thoughts, because the driver has caught on and popped the lock and Steve is suddenly swinging the whole of his big body into the car with gust of oppressive July air and a relieved sigh, shutting it with a snap just in time for the light to change and the limousine to start moving again.
“Jesus Christ, it’s hot out there,” he says, wiping at his face and patting around on the leather. “Trust Tony to kit out the car like this, I could see you coming up the street from blocks away. Is there a seatbelt in here or-“
He turns to look at Bucky and whatever else he was about to say seems to stall out in his mouth. He stares. He keeps staring, even when Bucky shifts away from him, even when Bucky starts to glower and crosses his arms across his chest defensively.
“What?” Bucky is eventually unnerved enough to demand. “What are you looking at?” Maybe the medals are wrong. Maybe he got that aloo gobi stuff on his face.
“You said you’d never cut your hair,” Steve says in a rush, and then looks slightly ashamed of himself. “I mean. I thought you liked it better long.”
“I do, I just-” Bucky can’t even explain it in his own head in a way that sounds anything more than stupid. “I thought, if I’m getting married, I should- you know. Clean up.”
“Yeah,” Steve says, still looking softly stunned. “You look really…”
Another long pause, and Bucky wants to reach over and shake the words out of him. The last thing they need is more unsaid words; the air between them is too full already. “Just say what you fucking mean,” he snaps.
Steve blinks, mouth snapping closed. And then, unbelievably, he starts laughing.
“I’m trying to compliment you, Jesus, Buck,” he says. “You look nice. You got a haircut, you shaved, you have a uniform on. You look good. You look just like I’d- I mean, when I thought about it I-“
“You thought about it,” Bucky says warily.
“I… I thought about it, yeah,” Steve says, quieter. He looks oddly anxious. “What? You didn’t think about me?”
Fuck, there it is again, so strong he can almost hear it like high-pitched white noise in his ears. What is he missing? What is he not remembering?
“I don’t know,” Bucky says.
“What?”
“I said I don’t-” Bucky makes a rough sound of frustration and drops his hands, holding Steve’s confused gaze. “There’s something I can’t remember and it’s driving me crazy, Steve, there’s something about this that’s so- have we done this before?” he says, demanding except that it sounds like begging in his ears. “We couldn’t, I know we couldn’t really, but did we talk about it? Did we try?”
He hadn’t ever intended to ask any of it out loud, but there it is, raw and naked in the air and for one wild moment, Bucky stares at Steve’s blank face and wonders if maybe, maybe Steve is going to tell him, Yes, we did. I’ve always felt the same, you know there’s never really been anybody else for me but you. Nobody but you.
He hadn’t known he wanted Steve to say exactly that until this moment. It’s so selfish, fuck, is it selfish and greedy, after everything Steve’s already given him. Given up.
But he wants it. He wants it and more.
Steve is silent, hat in his hands now. It’ll be mangled beyond fixing if he keeps twisting it like that. “No,” he says finally, eyes dropping to the hat. “No, nothing like that.”
Well, Bucky thinks distantly. His weight settles back in his seat and he stares at Steve, stunned silent. Well. Don’t have to worry about that anymore.
Don’t have to worry about much of anything anymore, because as soon as this car stops he’s getting out and walking down a few more blocks and throwing himself in the fucking harbor-
“I thought about it,” Steve repeats, quiet, so quiet Bucky can barely hear him. “In Brooklyn, just before the World’s Fair. When you came in that uniform, I thought about the gals I’d seen with their soldiers, lining up in front of City Hall before the next ship out. War brides. Wasn’t an option for us, but I thought about it. I thought about you.”
“Me,” Bucky says. Swallows.
Steve’s eyes dart up to his face and back down, fingers going white-knuckled around the brim. “I don’t know if you remember,” he says. “But…”
If there are more dangerous words in the entire English language, let alone their private lexicon, Bucky doesn’t know them.
“It’s fine, if you don’t,” Steve says, voice wavering slightly before he brings it back under control. “When I got to Europe, to France, those first few months- everyone, every single guy in the 107 thought you had a sweetheart you were engaged to back home. I couldn’t figure it out, because I never saw or heard about a girl like that. I wondered for a while if you’d been hiding her from me. The guys, they said- they said, when things got bad you wouldn’t shut up about her.”
Bucky doesn’t say anything, and Steve takes a deep breath.
“Gabe said- he said you told them she was thin and fair-haired, just a slip of a thing. Jacques claimed she had eyes bluer than the skies over Normandy. Dum-Dum would swear it was Dover, and that she had this temper that got you both in trouble everywhere you went. They said you were madly in love, and that you said she was beautiful, especially when she was mad enough to spit nails. You were going to marry her in St. Patrick’s in front of the whole damn world.”
Bucky still doesn’t speak. He doesn’t know if he can.
“I thought- I was mad at first you hadn’t told me about her,” Steve says. “This amazing girl you were so in love with. I thought you might have been ashamed of me. God knows I wasn’t anyone’s idea of good society back then.”
Bucky wants to tell him that good or bad, he’s always been the only society that mattered, but Steve’s plowing on.
“Yeah, I was mad. Here was a girl I knew absolutely nothing about, and you were going to marry her? I couldn’t believe it. Some pretty little dame you hadn’t even wanted to introduce me to.”
The limo slows to a stop at another intersection. Bucky stares at the toes of Banner’s dress shoes and tries desperately to understand what he’s feeling.
“You got so uncomfortable when the Howlies talked about her, though, and you looked downright terrified when I asked about her. After a while they all decided you’d made her up, and you said you had, and they teased you for weeks and weeks. They forgot about it, eventually.”
Steve laughs a little, and sounds more hurt than happy.
“I couldn’t, for some reason. I just- why lie? It wasn’t like you. You could get any girl you liked, why lie about something like that? Someone so specific, she must have been around, even if I never saw her.”
The limo starts moving again, and Steve swallows audibly.
“It didn’t occur to me until after... after the train. After almost everything. There was only one blue-eyed blond I knew you’d promised to marry.”
Fuck, Steve.
“Maybe I’m wrong,” Steve says softly.
“You’re not that dumb, Steve,” Bucky mumbles to the floor. “Just a little slow.”
There it is, the bloom of memory like blood in water. He feels strangely bruised, the insides of his ribs sore and tender, but he remembers. He remembers.
Pepper had asked if they’d planned this, and Christ, he’d plans- stupid, silly plans, plans he kept tucked in the back of his mind like some of the guys kept photos and letters from their sweethearts in their shirts. He’d made his promise to Steve that night and he’d never brought it up again, but he’d thought about it.
He’d thought about it.
Frozen in a foxhole with the thought of Steve in lace the only warm thing for miles, the veil Mrs. Rogers kept carefully packed away with lavender, how it would feel under his hands as he lifted it over Steve’s upturned face. Up in a sniper’s nest overnight, knowing the second he fell asleep he was dead, imagining how the church would smell, the candles and the droning voice of Father MacNamara as they made their promises. Sitting in that dank pit, closing his eyes and thinking how easy it would be to sweep Steve into his arms after, how Steve would probably hit him and call him a jerk but he’d be laughing too. Steve was always laughing in his imagination, always so happy. He’d wanted it with a fierceness that ached.
But it was one thing to fantasize when Steve was small and sick and safe in New York, and another to have him there, huge, larger than life, leading every charge the Howlies made and grinning at Bucky across campfires and trenches and firefights. It was better. It was so much worse.
And then there was Peggy Carter. And then, there was the train.
“Bucky?” Steve says tentatively.
He’s leaning forward and Bucky is still frozen in place, watching him come closer and closer. Steve’s not looking at his face, though, and he reaches down on the seat next to Bucky. It’s a shock when their fingers touch, hot and electric, and Bucky’s fingers spasm around the crushed ring case before he lets Steve pry it gently from his grip.
“You really did a number on this thing,” Steve muses. It falls into two pieces in his hand, revealing the rings.
“I didn’t… I told Barton not to take them,” Bucky says.
“I know,” Steve says. “I did.”
He tips them out in his hand, one plain, one with a tiny stone imbedded in the band. There’s a worn pattern on them, leaves or vines, and Steve traces their smoothed edges.
“The thing is, Buck,” he says, looking down at them. “I meant it. On the roof, when I said I wanted to marry you. When I said yes this morning. I meant it. So.”
“Alright.” His tongue feels thick and leaden. His hands are unsteady, but he manages to reach out. He picks up the ring with the stone in it.
Steve’s hand lifts when Bucky takes it, and his pulse is pounding. Bucky slides the ring past his knuckle to settle firmly at the base of his finger, flush with his palm.
Steve is staring down at it when Bucky looks up, lips slightly parted.
“You’re going to have to put the other one on my right hand,” Bucky says. “At least for now. I don’t think it’ll stay on, otherwise.”
“That’s fine,” Steve breathes, and when his eyes lift to meet Bucky’s they’re almost awed. “That’s perfect.”
“Yeah?” Bucky’s mouth is bone dry from nerves. He licks his lips and Steve watches the small movement, unconsciously mimics it.
“Perfect,” he says emphatically. “Can I…?
“Can you…?” Bucky echoes, but it’s pretty obvious what Steve means when he’s easing forward again and looking at Bucky like that. At Bucky’s mouth like that. “Uh.”
Steve stops, one hand on the seat beside Bucky’s thigh. “No?”
“Yeah. Yes, I mean-” Bucky says, and it shades out high and hoarse. He sways towards him a little and stops, his hand drifting close but not touching Steve’s where it’s pressed into the leather. “If you want.”
Steve gives him a smile, then, the one that says Bucky’s not fooling anyone in this car, and kisses him.The car pulls up to City Hall at precisely three thirty. They get out and watch the limo drive away, and then they flag a cab. They go back to Brooklyn.
They don’t talk. Steve makes one call that involves a lot of embarrassed mumbling while Bucky lays out his uniform on Steve’s rumpled bedsheet, and then turns his phone off. They grab some clothes, get on Steve’s motorcycle and take I-90 out of town.
“I thought we’d head up to Niagara Falls,” Steve says when they stop to get gas, voice all nonchalance when his ears haven’t stopped burning since Bucky slid on behind him and settled flush against his back. His hands might have ended up under Steve’s shirt once or twice. For balance. Steve did like to ride fast. “Seems like everyone and their sister went up to Niagara after they, uh.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, leaning on the pump as Steve fills the tank. “Sounds good.”
There’s a small town two or three hours out, the main square opening up onto breathtaking views of New York’s northern gorges, nothing but forest and sheer drops for miles in all directions. There’s one car in the otherwise deserted town hall parking lot, a single clerk visible through a window facing the street.
“We don’t have to,” Steve says as Bucky clambers off the bike, suddenly a stammering mess. “I mean we only just- we could date some, we could-”
Bucky nudges Steve’s chin up so he can press a quick biting kiss to his bottom lip. That shuts him up. “If you don’t marry me right now, I’m pushing you off one of these gorges. See if I don’t.”
“Not funny,” Steve mutters, but he grabs his helmet and flips down the kickstand.
The clerk is an older woman by the name of Pearl, who shakes their hands with a bony, no-nonsense grip and leads them back to a room all done up in yellow oak, the smell of stale cigarette smoke and old books strong in the air. She sits them down and makes them fill out another set of forms, and Bucky does a lot straining to remember what’s on his fake ID and lying about what he can’t.
“This says you’re about to start a tour of duty in Iraq,” she says to Steve while they write. She has the waiver in front of her and she squints at them over the rim of her tortoiseshell reading glasses.
“Yes, ma’am,” Steve says with an admirably straight face.
“Hmph. Normally I don’t approve of rushing these things, but I suppose we can make an exception for you and your young man.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Their witnesses are two janitors that get pulled from vacuuming the rec center attached to the building. Pearl directs them to stand behind Steve and Bucky, who are told to arrange themselves shoulder to shoulder in front of her podium.
“First time?” she asks dryly as they shuffle awkwardly into place.
“Uh,” Steve says, and Christ, Bucky can see the whites all around his eyes. Pearl looks at him, then at Bucky. Bucky tries to look more sure of himself, but whatever she sees seems to exasperate rather than reassure.
“Gentlemen,” she says, perching her glasses very precisely on the bridge of her nose. “Two things need to happen here. I officiate your vows, and you sign this license with witnesses. Most couples have their own vows prepared…” she glances between them pointedly, and Bucky drops sheepish eyes to the floor. “… but I can see you two need a little help. Any particular religious affiliations?”
“Catholic, ma’am,” Bucky mumbles. “The both of us.”
The words she asks them to repeat are simple, in plain English rather than Latin. Steve, always stupidly, pig-headedly brave where it matters, takes Bucky’s hand and looks straight into his eyes as he promises to love, honor, cherish and protect. Bucky, voice rough and palm sweaty, promises the same. There’s a brief fumbling with the rings, already on their fingers, that makes Bucky laugh under his breath and Steve stutter badly.
“In so much as the two of you have agreed to live together in matrimony,” Pearl says, her own lips pursed in silent amusement, “have promised your love for each other by these vows, I now declare you to be husbands. You may kiss your groom.”
Steve slowly turns to face him, and he’s holding on so tightly even Bucky’s metal hand feels pinched. He seems momentarily frozen in place, staring wide-eyed at Bucky’ face.
“Steve?” Bucky says, trying for light and falling facedown in honest appeal.
Steve lets go of his hand and brings up both of his to cup Bucky’s face, thumb stroking the corner of his mouth like he’s mesmerized. Steve leans in and Bucky closes his eyes and breathes out shakily before their lips meet, dry and warm. Oh, God.
Oh, God, finally.
The janitors start clapping. Steve draws back, but not very far, and though his face is the color of a barn door he’s giving Bucky this dazed little grin, eyes hooded and his hands lingering on Bucky’s face.
“Congratulations,” Pearl says. “You still need to sign.”
They sign the license, but not before Steve sneaks in another kiss to the corner of Bucky’s mouth. He steals another while Pearl is making photocopies for state records, and gets in a couple more on Bucky’s cheek, his throat, his ear before she shoos them out of the building with an admonishment to save it for the honeymoon.
“Niagara?” Steve sighs. They’re sitting astride the bike and his head is turned to the side as Bucky noses into his shirt collar and the hot skin beneath, arms tight around his waist, knees snug up behind his thighs. He’s allowed to do that now. He can put his hands all over Steve if he wants, and oh, does he ever. He can open his mouth and bite, taste him and hear him gasp.
“Bucky, we’re in public,” Steve says, but not like he minds.
“Mmmm. Better get us somewhere private, Mr. Barnes,” Bucky says into the nape of his neck.
“Better hang on then, Mr. Rogers,” Steve says archly, and away they go.
They might make it to Niagara. Bucky’s got no earthly idea. After sundown the roads all blend together in a rush of orange and velvety black, and Bucky’s hands wander and cling. He can’t help it. He’s a newlywed.
When they do stop hours later, pulling into a random drugstore parking lot, Steve is breathing hard and flushed from cheek to chest, and he seems torn between arousal and exasperation and something that tugs his mouth into a smile, even when he’s trying to scowl threateningly at Bucky.
“You little-” he starts, and then Bucky gets pulled into a kiss that has him curling his hands into Steve’s leather jacket and laughing breathlessly into his mouth. It’s open and lush and a little mean, and so, so good. Bucky doesn’t have to wonder anymore; he knows, he knows he’s wanted this forever, and Steve has too.
“So, you wanna grab dinner?” Steve has the nerve to ask when they separate. He’s back to a wide, ready grin, mouth red and eyes unfocused; Bucky’s obviously kissed him stupid.
“How about a room,” Bucky suggests, and Steve makes a noise low in his throat that might be a laugh but mostly sounds like greed.
“Yeah, but- uh, wait here, okay?” he says, and leaves Bucky sitting alone on the bike for fifteen increasingly confused minutes before coming back out of the store with a bulging plastic bag and a face that’s absolutely crimson in the wan light from the window display.
“What’s all that?” Bucky asks, craning to see as Steve tries to stuff it hurriedly out of sight in their satchels.
“Just a couple snacks and things?” Steve tries, yanking at the zipper, but Bucky’s already leaning in to pull the plastic open with a finger and peer inside. He gets as far as the five bottles labeled PERSONAL LUBRICANT and jerks back so fast he almost falls off the bike.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Steve!” he yelps, and Steve’s face shifts from embarrassment to sheer, abject panic.
“I just, I thought- I’m sorry!” he almost yells.
“No, it’s- I didn’t mean-”
“Of course we don’t have to- it’s fine, I wasn’t going to-“
“No, I’m just-”
“I can return everything! I have the receipt!” Steve says, brandishing it like Perseus with Medusa’s head, and Bucky starts laughing. He starts and he can’t stop, folded over the handlebars of the bike with his husband of a few hours sputtering wordlessly beside him and enough skins and lube for twenty people riding in the saddlebags.
“You’re such a jerk, you know that?” Steve says when Bucky’s quieted down to the occasional wheeze. “I just wanted to be prepared.”
That sets Bucky off again, stomach cramping from how hard he’s laughing. “Oh, you’re prepared all right. Where’s the orgy? Why didn’t you invite me, huh?”
“I was trying to,” Steve complains, and the blush that had been fading from his face comes back in an awful, boiled-lobster red. “I mean.”
Bucky married this moron. “For Christ’s sake, Steve, come here.”
Steve is glaring, but he shuffles closer and Bucky wraps his arms around his neck and pulls him down to kiss his eight and a half year old’s pout.
“So, d’you wanna?” Steve mumbles against his mouth, always such a persistent bastard.
“You’re lucky you’re so pretty,” Bucky says, and when Steve starts to frown he adds, “Yes, Steve. I want to. I’ve wanted to for a really long time. Since your twentieth birthday. Since we were kids.”
“Oh,” Steve says quietly, “oh,” and it’s not Bucky’s fault they get wolf-whistled by another drugstore shopper a few minutes later.
It’s a real challenge to keeps his hands to himself when they finally get back on the bike, but sliding fingers down Steve’s thighs on a straightaway nearly sends them careening over the edge of a cliff, so Bucky settles for clinging as tight as he can for the rest of the mercifully short ride.
The hotel Steve picks is surrounded by trees and nicer than Bucky was expecting, green and white marble and a massive staircase dominating the foyer. They visibly scandalize the front desk workers and then it’s up to the second floor with a card that’s supposed to be their key and the smug knowledge that Steve is probably staring at his ass as they climb the stairs.
Definitely staring, Bucky thinks, as he slips the card in the door and Steve’s big hands settle on his hips and dig in. Bucky opens the door and pulls him inside, crowding him up against the wall instead of turning on the lights.
“I don’t know, Buck, I’m kinda hungry,” Steve slurs into his mouth. Punk.
“Bet a place this swank has room service, Captain Asshole,” Bucky says, and accidentally rips Steve’s shirt open in his eagerness to pull it off.
Bucky is forbidden from removing any clothing after that, and happy to be shoved backwards towards the bed. He sits and settles back on his hands and watches Steve drop his leather jacket to the floor with the pieces of his shirt, already starting on his pants before he seems to notice Bucky’s not moving.
“You can take off your own clothes, you know. Just not mine,” Steve says as he pops the top button.
“Nah,” Bucky drawls, smirking up at him. “Think I’ll just enjoy the view, thanks.”
That gets him Steve kneeling on the bed between his spread legs with his pants half-undone, pressing Bucky flat to the plush coverlet with his mouth hot and wet against Bucky’s throat. Bucky’s laugh edges into a moan that sounds embarrassingly needy to his own ears, but it makes Steve shiver and bite at his pulse.
Bucky starts losing clothes and doesn’t even notice, too caught up in Steve’s hands and Steve’s mouth and the low tug of heat in his belly when he feels the still-new tightness of the ring on his right hand. He’s down to a shirt, then pants, and there’s a moment where Steve stops what he’s doing and says, “Bucky, what the hell’s with all these knives?”
“I won two off Natasha today,” Bucky says, grinning up at him. “Nice, right?”
Steve makes a face. “Nice is not the word I was thinking of,” he says, and the sheathes disappear to the same parts unknown as the rest of his clothing. Then Steve’s pulling back to wiggle gracelessly out of his pants and Bucky’s laying back on the bed laughing at him because he looks fucking ridiculous, all the muscle of a big cat and none of the grace. He never did have any poise to speak of.
Steve, the sneaky bastard, uses Bucky’s distraction to wrestle the covers down and get them both close to naked. Then he’s settling between Bucky’s legs with his hand gripping Bucky’s dick, and Bucky chokes on his name.
Bucky hasn’t asked if Steve’s done this before, with a man, with anyone. He was afraid of the answer, jealous of anyone who might have had what he wanted and aching for Steve at the same time. The way Steve touches him now makes him wonder, his hand moving too slow and too dry to be anything other than torture. He’s close, staring at Bucky with an intensity bordering on manic, and Bucky flushes, face heating and body moving into Steve’s hand without conscious thought.
“You gonna paint a fucking picture later?” he pants. He drops his hands to twist in the sheets because he can’t trust them on Steve now, might hurt him, his heart pounding and skin sparking from the gritty contact. He tries to arch and gets nowhere because Steve, fuck, Steve can pin him with one arm across his hips and then nothing’s touching his dick. “Come on!”
“I’m gonna get the lube, I just,” Steve says, and then ducks his head to lick a fat stripe up Bucky’s cock with the flat of his tongue.
“Fuck! Fuck, Steve, don’t just-” Steve’s lips catch around the head and Bucky’s knees pull in hard against his sides. “Shit!”
Steve makes an indecent noise and tries to fit as much of Bucky in his mouth as he can, hands coming up to pin Bucky in place, the soft insides of his cheek and tongue hot enough to burn. “You shithead,” Bucky whines, bucking against the bed and Steve’s grip. He gets himself nothing but finger-shaped bruises and mindless little sounds as Steve thoroughly enjoys himself. It’s messy and uncoordinated, shallow until Steve figures out how to swallow around him and then almost too tight, too wet. “Fuck, slow down!”
Though it’s mortifyingly short, it’s probably the best blowjob of his life. Adding insult to injury, once Bucky is done fighting and shoving and eventually coming his goddamn brains out, Steve slowly pulls off of his softening cock with a last luxurious suck and rasps, “Always wanted to try that. Was it good?”
Bucky opens his eyes to glare blearily down at him and sees his mouth is fucking covered with come, lips streaked, chin dripping. “Holy fucking shit, Steve,” he says on a weak groan, head dropping back.
Steve licks his lips, which Bucky can feel because they’re still pressed low on his stomach. “Hey, you can go again, right?”
“Wha-?” But Steve is already manhandling Bucky’s body further up the bed, getting his legs over his shoulders and his hands on his ass.
“Like me? You can go again right after?” he says into the crook of Bucky’s thigh, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.
Bucky has no time to try and figure out what he means, too busy yelling himself hoarse as Steve pulls his hips up to his face and sucks him in again, takes him right through “Too much, damn it, too much,” into agonizing, razor-wire “Fuck, yes, please.”
Bucky gets his revenge later, somewhere in the hazy, blissful time between rounds four and five, when they discover just how smooth lube makes metal joints and he discovers he can make Steve fucking fall apart with three fingers. He can afford to be slow and patient while Steve curses him and thrashes because he’s come three times on the bed and once on the floor next to it, he’s done. He can coax Steve to the blind and trembling edge where he can’t seem to do anything but mouth Bucky’s name, no noise, just his lips moving and his body straining up against the slick movement of Bucky’s fingers in him, shallow and then deep, a twisting, grinding motion Bucky could keep up for hours. He tells Steve that. He curls up to Steve’s heaving side and whispers it in his ear, tells him he’s so fucking beautiful he could make angels cry. He tells him about how he’d imagined Steve was his, how he’d imagined the church, the veil, the wedding night. When Steve gasps out, “Please, Bucky please,” Bucky threads their fingers together and watches Steve arch and come for him, open-mouthed and shaking.In the morning- later in the morning, because they fucked each other practically blind, got room service around three and then did it all over again- Bucky wakes up to find Steve running light and lazy fingers along his back. He’s pinned under Bucky’s weight, metal arm slung across his hips, and listening to someone rant at him on phone. Bucky pretty quickly figures out it’s Stark.
“-you’re doing! This is Nora Roberts, this is Nicholas Sparks, one of you probably has stage five inoperable brain cancer. I’m ashamed to know you.”
“Yep, you said that,” Steve says, turning his head to brush a kiss over Bucky’s hairline. “Anything else before I hang up? Bucky’s awake.”
“Only about five million things, you disgustingly smug cancer patient. We had a great time at your party, by the way. There are still news crews circling the tower."
“Bye, Tony,” Steve says.
"I still haven’t heard a thank you for dealing with all those giant-"
Steve firmly thumbs the end call button and tosses the phone off the bed. Bucky shifts more of his weight onto him. He kisses his collarbone, already liberally decorated with bites and bruises, and works his way up to his adam’s apple, the point of his chin. Then his mouth, which curves under Bucky’s lips.
“The bathroom has a tub big enough for four,” Steve says, and Bucky leans back a little to give him a narrow stare.
“Are you saying I stink, Mr. Barnes?” he says archly.
Steve just smiles. “You could brush your teeth while we’re at it, Mr. Rogers.”
“Fuck you,” Bucky says, sitting up on top of him. “You’re none too clean yourself, you know.”
Steve winces. “Oh, I know. Wanted to let you sleep. I know you don’t, always.”
And there it is: Steve Rogers, everyone. Steve Rogers, who can’t seem to stop saving him.
“Hey,” Steve says softly. “What’s that face? Everything okay?”
Looking down at Steve, at the flash of gold on his hand as he settles it on Bucky’s thigh, Bucky realizes that it is okay. It’s fine if he doesn’t remember, if he gets confused, if he doesn’t have all the pieces all the time. It’s fine because Steve has most of them, and the ones he doesn’t they’ll make new. They’ll make them together.
“Yeah,” Bucky says, and leans down to kiss him again. “Yeah, Steve. It’s perfect.”
- Clint’s signing: disgusting, I know a guy.
- Natasha is playing off an old Russian saying, “Не делай из мухи слон,” / “Don’t make elephants from flies,” or don’t make a big deal out of nothing. Bucky responds by telling her to go to hell. Rude!
- The KGB loooooved their tiny little PSM pistols
- I want a karambit, it seems like something I'd be able to use a lot in my day-to-day life
- From the Catholic Latin (wedding) mass: Esto eis, Domine, turris fortitudinis. / A facie inimici. - Be unto them, Lord, a tower of strength. / From the face of the enemy.
- Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue: Bucky's haircut, the dress blues, Bruce's shoes, Bucky's medals
- The cow of 1944 is a reference to dropdeaddream's glorious The Not-Christmas Not-Truce of 1944 because I almost died laughing
- Tony should really know what spats are
- Studly Do-Right is a parody of Dudley Do-Right, obvs. If you don't know who Dudley Do-Right is you're probably not from North America
- Nora Roberts and Nicholas Sparks are hetero romance writers. The latter is especially known for super-sappy titles where one of the two lovers has, for instance, a secret terminal illness or some other ridiculous overblown cause for angst
- Title from the 1929 song “Sailing on a Sunbeam,” (vocals at 1:04; alternate link of the movie version) which is the fucking cutest song, IT’S SO FUCKING CUTE
Goodbye to all care and all sorrow
I'm chasin' the blues out o' my way
I'm gonna start all over tomorrow
I telegraphed my baby to say
That I'm all wrapped up in sunshine
Underneath a sky of blue
'Cause I'm sailin' on a sunbeam
On my way to you
Not a cloud is gonna stop me
I'll be comin' right straight through
'Cause I'm sailin' on a sunbeam
On my way to you
We're gonna get married, get married and how
Too long we have tarried, it won't be long now
Set the weddin' bells a-ringin'
Let the whole world know it's true
That I'm sailin' on a sunbeam
On my way to you
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