fic: If it's not love, then it's the bomb (Captain America; Steve/Bucky; pg)
If it's not love, then it's the bomb
Captain America (2011); Steve/Bucky; pg; 4,340 words
Bucky gets injured. Steve fusses over him.
For
angelgazing, who's been having a rough time lately. Title from the Smiths.
~*~
If it's not love, then it's the bomb
Steve's not sure how it happens--there's always a lot of chaos whenever the Avengers are called out to fight--but he sees Bucky attempting to defuse the bomb and before he can call out to him to stop, he gets thrown by the explosion. And then Steve's scrambling over the rubble towards him before his brain even has time to register what his legs are doing.
Bucky's dazed but conscious when Steve gets to him--he's curled up and clutching his middle, but he smiles when Steve leans over him.
"Just like old times, huh?" he says, wincing as Steve pulls him up. "Uniform's kind of a loss, though."
"A little too much." Steve laughs nervously through the tightness in his throat, gestures at the burns and cuts littering Bucky's torso, the glimpses of purplish bruising over ribs that are likely broken. The dislocated shoulder he pops back into place with a sound that raises the hair on the back of Steve's neck. "Jesus, Bucky, you have to be more careful. You were supposed to disarm the bomb, not explode it." He doesn't say, I just got you back or I can't lose you again. He's pretty sure that goes without saying, but as they fly back to headquarters to get Bucky some medical attention, those two thoughts chase each other around Steve's head as relentlessly as thoroughbreds on the track at Aqueduct.
The docs treat Bucky's burns and lacerations, give him a shot for the pain and a sling they all know he's not going to use for his dislocated shoulder, and some kind of breathing thing Steve's going to have to remind him to use so he doesn't get pneumonia. They release him to go home with Steve with a reminder that he's got a concussion on top of everything else.
"We'll take a cab," Steve says, and Bucky looks at him like he's crazy.
"What's wrong with your bike? Or the subway?"
"You've got two broken ribs and a recently dislocated shoulder. You can't--"
Bucky looks away for a second, jaw working, and Steve realizes he's made a mistake. "You don't get to tell me what I can't do."
Steve nods. "I see we need to get to the drugstore right away and get those painkillers, because someone's awfully cranky."
Bucky scowls at him. "I'll make you cranky."
Steve doesn't even try to hide his laughter. "What does that even mean?"
"Shut up." Bucky shoves lightly at him and then winces.
"Come on." Steve slings an arm over Bucky's shoulder and guides him into a cab.
Bucky settles in and tips his head back, eyes closed, sighing. Steve notes the tightness around his mouth and tries to ignore the sweep of his lashes. He wouldn't trade having Bucky back for anything, but he'd forgotten how difficult it was sometimes to tamp down his feelings. It's less dangerous now, more acceptable, but what people think has never been what's kept Steve's mouth shut, his feelings buried deep inside. What Bucky thinks--that's always been what he was afraid of, and he couldn't bear to drive him away now that he's got him again.
Steve echoes Bucky's sigh and lets himself relax, his own bumps and bruises already mending.
*
The cab ride takes even longer than Steve expected, but it's okay because while they're sitting in stop-and-go traffic on the BQE, Bucky's dozed off, his head on Steve's shoulder, warm breath tickling the skin of Steve's neck above his collar. Steve feels bad about waking him up, and not just because he needs the rest to heal.
The cab rolls to a halt in front of their building and Bucky's eyes snap open and just like that, he's awake and alert. It still startles Steve, the way it did the first time it happened back in Italy; the Bucky he'd grown up sleeping next to had been harder to wake than a hibernating bear, bleary-eyed and grouchy until he'd had coffee and food, and it had been a shock to see him go from dead asleep to wide awake in a heartbeat. Steve had realized he wasn't the only one who'd changed after joining the army.
"Let's get you upstairs," Steve murmurs, mostly to himself. Bucky grumbles but lets himself be manhandled, which means his ribs probably hurt like hell despite whatever drugs the doctors gave him. "And then I'll call in your prescription."
"My ribs are broken, not my mouth," Bucky says irritably. "I can make a phone call."
"You hate the phone," Steve points out, knowing his reasonableness is just going to irritate Bucky more but unable to help himself.
"Pushy bastard," Bucky mutters. Steve pretends not to hear.
He deposits Bucky in the bedroom and Bucky sinks back onto the bed with a low moan.
"Hey." Steve touches his shoulder, then his cheek, lightly. "You okay?"
"Yeah." Bucky looks up at him through long lashes, mouth falling into a natural pout. Steve looks away for a second, gets his cartwheeling thoughts under control. Bucky takes a short, shallow breath and gives Steve a half-grin. "Yeah. I won't be able to sneeze for a month without hurting, but I'm okay."
"Okay. I'm going to call in the prescription, pick up some food, run some errands. I'll be back in a bit."
"I'm a grown man," Bucky says, pout still in his voice as he slowly unbuttons his shirt. "I can take care of myself."
"I know you can," Steve answers, ducking down to unlace Bucky's boots so he doesn't have to bend to do it himself (and so he doesn't have to watch Bucky's agonizingly slow striptease). It's a mark of how much his ribs must hurt that he doesn't do more than put a hand on Steve's head for a moment, a silent benediction Steve accepts with a small grin he doesn't let Bucky see.
*
When Steve gets back from the pharmacy, Bucky's passed out in bed on his undamaged side and snuffling softly. Steve puts away the groceries, sets the container of chicken rice soup on the counter, and gives into his own nagging tiredness, and the desire to curve his body around Bucky's and make sure he's really okay.
Growing up, they'd snuggled up like puppies together under the covers, and that hadn't changed as much as Steve expected when they got older and moved into their own apartment. It'd had only the one bedroom and the one double bed, and Steve had been small enough at the time that sharing hadn't been a problem. Well, the problem hadn't been space, anyway. Steve used to wake up hard and aching, Bucky's breath on his neck and scent in his nose. It'd been easy enough to slip out of bed and take care of himself in the bathroom while Bucky snored on, oblivious.
The war had changed that in more than one way, but since he's gotten Bucky back, they've fallen into older habits, and he hasn't bothered to look for an apartment with a second bedroom. He reminds himself that it's temporary--Bucky will get a place of his own, just like he's making a place for himself on the team, in the future, and Steve can't just assume they're always going to be joined at the hip the way they used to be. Except not in the way that expression conjures up now, when he's tired and Bucky's warm and pliant next to him.
And injured, Steve reminds himself, hugging the edge of the bed when he lies down, feeling like even his king-size bed isn't big enough right now.
It doesn't take him long to fall asleep, and when he wakes up, it's a couple of hours later, and he's pressed tight against Bucky's back, close enough that they're breathing in time. Steve closes his eyes and hopes Bucky is still asleep and can't feel his erection. He eases back, the mattress shifting under his weight, and that's enough to wake Bucky.
"Gotta leave room for the holy ghost," Bucky mutters, rubbing a hand over his face.
"Dreaming about Sister Mary Catherine again?" Steve asks, flopping onto his back.
Bucky barks a laugh and then clutches at his ribs. "I wish. For a nun, she had nice stems."
"I don't even want to know how you know that." He glances over at Bucky. The late afternoon sunlight filters through half-drawn blinds, throwing bars of light and shadow across the bed and Bucky's stubbled, pain-drawn face. "Think maybe it's time for one of those pain pills, huh?"
Bucky grimaces.
"No need to show off for me," Steve says, rolling out of bed. "I already know what a tough guy you are."
"Shut up."
"Yeah, yeah," Steve calls back over his shoulder. "You can make me when you're not doubled over in pain."
He shakes one pill out of the bottle into his palm and fills a glass of water from the tap, and takes it back to Bucky, who's managed to sit up and swing his legs out of bed.
"I've had worse," Bucky insists, and Steve's gaze goes automatically to the metal arm before returning to Bucky's face.
"I know," Steve says, more gently than he means to as he hands off the pill and the glass.
Bucky takes both and drains the glass in two long gulps. Steve watches the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "Thanks."
"Any time. You know that, Bucky."
Bucky looks down at his hands. "Yeah. I know."
"You shouldn't take those on an empty stomach, so I bought soup from Szechuan Garden," he says before the mood goes even lower.
"Oh, thank god. I was afraid you were going to try to cook." Bucky's grinning when he looks up, and Steve can't help but grin back.
"I'm a perfectly good cook," Steve answers, mock-defensively.
"Yeah, maybe for people with no sense of taste." Bucky levers himself up off the bed slowly, and Steve has to force himself not to rush to help him.
"Then you should love my food."
"You think you're a funny guy, don't you?"
Steve busies himself with heating the soup, which is more like soggy rice with chicken after sitting for a couple of hours. "I don't think. I know."
"Yeah, yeah." Bucky refills his glass of water and then sinks heavily into a chair. He doesn't say anything else until Steve puts the steaming bowl of soup in front of him. "You know I'm not sick, right?"
"Chicken rice soup is good for what ails you," Steve answers, filling out a bowl for himself and grabbing the extra packets of noodles the girl behind the counter gave him when he asked nicely. He tosses one packet to Bucky, who tears the wax paper and eats them dry while Steve sprinkles them over his soup.
He glances up at Bucky again, and finds himself transfixed. The rice is white against the smooth cobalt of the bowl, and the scallions are bright green. Bucky's mouth is red and wet, his teeth flashing sharp and white when the silver curve of the spoon slips between his lips.
Steve thinks about getting up and getting his sketchbook. He thinks about leaning across the table and kissing Bucky until they're both breathless.
He eats another spoonful of rice.
"Remember Mrs. Feigenbaum's chicken soup?" Bucky says, tapping his spoon against his bowl and breaking Steve out of his reverie.
Bucky rarely brings up the past, and Steve's glad he doesn't spill soup on himself in surprise. "Yeah." He laughs, remembering how regularly she'd dosed him with it over the years she lived across the hall from them, and shakes his head. "I never had the heart to tell her that I really don't like cabbage."
Bucky chokes. Steve jumps up to pound him on the back and stops short, remembering his broken ribs.
"I'd forgotten that," Bucky manages after a few frightening seconds of hunched-over wheezing, one arm wrapped around his middle protectively.
"Sorry about the rice in your airway," Steve says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment.
Bucky waves his spoon dismissively. "Don't worry about it."
That sets them both to laughing; the rare sound of Bucky's unshadowed laughter makes Steve so giddy he can't stop smiling.
They make it through the rest of the meal without incident. Steve steals Bucky's eggroll and Bucky lets him, and it's like a thousand meals they've eaten together over the years. Steve's not sure why he feels like something should be different, but the sensation nags at him for the rest of the afternoon, as he reads the newspaper, writes his mission report, and generally keeps himself occupied while Bucky dozes fitfully on the couch. He must really hurt, or the pills must be really strong--some combination of the two, most likely--because it's not like Bucky to sleep so much. Steve's always aware of how often he wakes up and spends his nights prowling the apartment or, if the nightmares have been particularly vivid, the city. He's spent his own fair share of nights doing the same, though his nightmares have gotten less vivid in the year since he was thawed out.
The first night he spent in the apartment, Bucky offered to sleep on the couch, and Steve said no, and he's said no every time Bucky's brought it up since. Steve's found he doesn't sleep as well without him there, so being woken up a couple times a night is no big trade-off for the constant assurance that Bucky is still alive and breathing next to him.
Now, it just means Steve doesn't have to wake him every couple of hours because of the concussion--his own nightmares take care of that for him.
*
Steve wakes up at six, the way he always does, Bucky's back pressed to his chest, the even rise and fall of his breathing a comfort Steve takes great pleasure in for a few moments. Bucky's face is slack and unguarded in sleep, making him look younger, more like the guy Steve knew before the war. Steve memorizes the lines of it, makes note of the minute changes that aren't readily apparent now that he's seeing Bucky every day, but are obvious when he pays attention. His fingers itch for his pencil and sketchpad, but he has other things to do before he can indulge himself in drawing.
He tries not to disturb Bucky when he slips out of bed and gests dressed for his morning run, and he thinks he's been successful, but Bucky jerks awake just as Steve's putting his sneakers on, his eyes wild and unseeing for a second.
"Hey," Steve says softly, "it's all right. Go back to sleep."
"Steve?"
"Yeah. I'm going for a run. I'll be back in half an hour."
Bucky nods and sinks back down onto his pillow, his eyes fluttering closed. And then they open again, narrowed at Steve. "You usually run for an hour." Lately, Bucky's gone with him, the two of them quietly challenging each other to be better, faster, stronger, the way they always have.
"I was hoping to get back before you woke up."
"Well, I'm awake now, so don't cut it short on my account."
Steve opens his mouth and closes it, aware that whatever he says is probably going to irritate Bucky, and while sometimes that's its own reward, this isn't one of those times.
"I won't be gone long," is what he settles on, giving all of Bucky's mumbled curses exactly the weight they deserve by ignoring them.
He isn't; he can't find the centered calm running usually brings him; he keeps seeing Bucky getting thrown by the explosion, conflating it with Bucky falling from the train, with finding him strapped to a gurney, staring with wide vacant eyes before they'd broken through his programming.
When Steve gets back, Bucky's up and dressed. Well, he has pants on, anyway; he seems to have a shirts-optional policy in the apartment, and Steve can't complain about that, but he doesn't like seeing the little livid burns and cuts on Bucky's skin and all the unfamiliar scars he's got from years of being someone else.
"Fucking coffeemaker. Why's everything gotta be so fucking complicated?" Bucky mutters. "I just want a fucking cup of coffee."
"That's fifteen dollars for the swear jar," Steve says, taking his shirt off and wiping his sweaty face with it before he deposits in the hamper and strips down for his shower.
"You can put it on my tab," Bucky calls, loud enough to be heard from the kitchen. He's the only reason they have a swear jar, mostly because it amuses Steve.
"Along with a new coffeemaker after you destroy that one?"
"Fucking coffeemaker," Bucky repeats, but it's more exasperated than angry.
When Steve's done with his shower, he finds a mug made just the way he likes it sitting on the vanity next to his comb and the bottle of Bucky's hair gel.
Unfortunately, his coffee's barely had time to cool off before he gets the call from Coulson about a giant squid in New York Harbor.
"A squid," Bucky says dubiously. "Are you sure you heard him right?"
"I'm afraid so."
"I should come with you."
"Bucky, you can't even get a shirt on. You're not going to be much good at fighting a giant squid."
"Long distance weapons. I don't need my ribs in working condition to shoot."
"Hawkeye's going to be there."
Bucky's grunt is remarkably eloquent for all that it doesn't actually contain any words. Steve would be impressed, and a little insulted on Clint's behalf, if he weren't in a rush.
"Listen, you know there isn't anyone I want watching my back more than you, but you're injured, and if you're there, I'll spend more time worrying about you than paying attention to what I'm doing, and I can't do my job that way." Steve hates making Bucky feel bad about wanting to help, but he's not above using Bucky's overly protective instincts against him if it means keeping him safe while he's hurt.
"Fine." Bucky says it with enough rancor that Steve believes him.
He puts a hand on Bucky's arm, holds his gaze squarely. "You'll be all right?"
Bucky's lips curl derisively, but he says, "Yeah, I'll be fine."
"Atta boy." Steve grins and sways towards him for a second, wanting to kiss the pout off his face before he remembers that that is not a thing they do (though sometimes he can't remember why). "Don't spend all your time sulking, okay?"
Bucky sends him off with a one-fingered salute, and Steve's laughing as he climbs the stairs to the roof so Tony can pick him up.
*
Even though Steve takes a quick shower before he heads home, he feels like he still stinks of rotten fish and polluted harbor water. It's late, but he doesn't bother with trying to sneak into the apartment; the first time he'd tried, proud of himself for being stealthy enough not to wake Bucky, he'd taken three steps and then Bucky had slammed him against the wall, metal hand at his throat and gun at his temple. Bucky had looked tense and guilty when he released Steve and offered to move out in the midst of his apology, but Steve had waved him off and promised to make more noise next time.
Now, he drops his keys into the bowl by the door and lets it swing shut behind him with a soft but audible click. The television is on the living room, and Bucky is sprawled--still shirtless, or shirtless again, since there's a half-eaten pepperoni pizza on the coffee table, which wasn't there when Steve left--on the couch, eating pistachios.
"I see you've adapted to your life of leisure," Steve says. "I hope you didn't scare off the delivery boy."
"Nah, he appreciated the view," Bucky says, gesturing at his bare chest. Steve drops his gaze and then forces himself to look back up at Bucky's face. That isn't really any less distracting, despite its familiarity. "Everybody loves the metal arm." He shells another pistachio, then offers the bag to Steve. "Want some?" Steve snorts and grabs a handful of pistachios and Bucky wrinkles his nose. "It really was a giant squid, huh? You smell like you took a dip in the harbor."
Steve grimaces. "I showered."
Bucky hums in response, giving Steve an assessing once-over that makes him flush. "Maybe use soap next time, huh?"
Steve tosses empty shells at him. They bounce off his shoulders; one lands in his hair. Bucky shakes his head, dislodging it, and laughs, and Steve thinks they could have this--they do have this--and everything else, too. He's never been afraid to push for what he believes is the right thing, but the fear holding him back now is old, as old as the desire that sparked it. Maybe it's time he faced it. He starts to lean forward, intent on Bucky's smiling face, and catches a whiff of himself. He pulls back with another grimace.
"I'm going to take a shower."
"Good plan. Otherwise, I'm just gonna sleep here on the couch."
Steve tosses another shell at him and heads for the bathroom. Maybe he missed a spot, or maybe the squid's real mutation wasn't its size or its malevolent intelligence, but its lingering stench.
He takes his time, scrubs until his skin is pink and all he can smell is soap.
Bucky's asleep by the time he's done, the moment long gone, so Steve sighs and climbs in beside him. There will be another moment. He'll make sure of it.
*
Bucky heals faster than most people--one of the few benefits of being Dr. Zola's lab rat all those years ago--but he has a sneezing fit in the morning that leaves him ashen-faced and shaking. Steve grabs the bottle of pills and shakes one out into his hand.
"Thanks," Bucky says, his voice hoarse and his mouth still pulled tight with pain.
"No problem."
Steve goes about his morning routine, trying not to hover, because he knows how Bucky hates it (remembers how he hated it himself when their situation was reversed), but when Bucky still hasn't made it out of the bedroom to chastise Steve for somehow making his eggs both burnt and runny (a talent Steve only practices on him), Steve gets concerned.
He finds Bucky still sitting on the edge of the bed, jeans on but shirt only half-buttoned.
"Hey," he says.
Bucky looks up at him and smiles. "Hey."
Steve crouches down in front of him so he can hold Bucky's gaze without looming or making him crane his neck. "You need help with that?" He doesn't bother waiting for a response, just starts doing up the buttons on Bucky's light blue shirt.
Bucky sighs softly. "You know, all the times I've pictured this, you've been taking my shirt off."
Steve freezes. "What?"
"I know you heard me." Bucky's voice is low and dark.
"Maybe I just want to hear you say it again." Steve drops his hands to Bucky's knees, thumbs digging in harder than is probably comfortable.
"Oh, you're gonna be like that, huh?"
Steve holds his gaze for a long moment, wondering if it's the moment, their moment. He takes in the challenge in the set of Bucky's chin at odds with the softness of his mouth, the warmth of his eyes, so achingly dear and familiar. Then he surges up and kisses him. Their teeth clack and their noses bump, and for a second, everything is awkward and Steve wonders if he's made a mistake.
Then Bucky laughs softly into Steve's mouth, his lips warm and his breath minty.
Steve cups his face gently, kisses his cheeks, his jaw, the tip of his nose. "Jesus, Bucky, are you sure?"
In response, Bucky captures Steve's lips with his own and hums into his mouth, the sound of yes vibrating through them both. He licks at Bucky's mouth, curling his tongue around Bucky's and tightening his grip at the wave of desire that jolts through him.
He pulls back and this time Bucky's the one nuzzling at him, his mouth warm and wet against Steve's jaw and throat.
"I was starting to think not wearing a shirt wasn't enough," Bucky says breathlessly as he pulls back just far enough to scoot up the bed and settle on his uninjured side. He pulls Steve along with him, and Steve lets him, presses up against him and slings a leg over his knee so he can't go anywhere. "But I knew you couldn't possibly be as stupid as you looked."
"You're stupid," Steve answers, kissing every inch of Bucky's skin he can reach, unbuttoning the three buttons he'd managed to get done and shoving the shirt off Bucky's shoulders.
"Your face is stupid," Bucky says, biting Steve's lower lip and then licking away the sting.
"You seem to like it all right."
"I guess I'm stupid, too." Bucky's mouth is hot and wet and demanding and Steve moans into it, his hand dropping down to grab the curve of Bucky's ass so he can rub against him. "Stupid for you."
It's Steve's turn to hum in agreement, and then he's too busy kissing and licking and biting to talk. He's dizzy with kisses, giddy with the taste and feel of Bucky's lips against his own, the heat of skin on skin and the ragged sound of Bucky's breathing and his own heart pounding in his ears.
Later, after they've surged together and come apart (Steve mindful of Bucky's injured ribs even when Bucky seems to have forgotten them), Bucky traces lazy patterns on Steve's chest, sending tiny shivers through him.
"Took you long enough," Bucky says sleepily.
"I just got you back. I couldn't bear losing you again."
"Idiot."
Steve laughs and kisses him, thinking, this is something they can have, and something they can keep.
end
~*~
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~*~
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Captain America (2011); Steve/Bucky; pg; 4,340 words
Bucky gets injured. Steve fusses over him.
For
angelgazing, who's been having a rough time lately. Title from the Smiths.
~*~
If it's not love, then it's the bomb
Steve's not sure how it happens--there's always a lot of chaos whenever the Avengers are called out to fight--but he sees Bucky attempting to defuse the bomb and before he can call out to him to stop, he gets thrown by the explosion. And then Steve's scrambling over the rubble towards him before his brain even has time to register what his legs are doing.
Bucky's dazed but conscious when Steve gets to him--he's curled up and clutching his middle, but he smiles when Steve leans over him.
"Just like old times, huh?" he says, wincing as Steve pulls him up. "Uniform's kind of a loss, though."
"A little too much." Steve laughs nervously through the tightness in his throat, gestures at the burns and cuts littering Bucky's torso, the glimpses of purplish bruising over ribs that are likely broken. The dislocated shoulder he pops back into place with a sound that raises the hair on the back of Steve's neck. "Jesus, Bucky, you have to be more careful. You were supposed to disarm the bomb, not explode it." He doesn't say, I just got you back or I can't lose you again. He's pretty sure that goes without saying, but as they fly back to headquarters to get Bucky some medical attention, those two thoughts chase each other around Steve's head as relentlessly as thoroughbreds on the track at Aqueduct.
The docs treat Bucky's burns and lacerations, give him a shot for the pain and a sling they all know he's not going to use for his dislocated shoulder, and some kind of breathing thing Steve's going to have to remind him to use so he doesn't get pneumonia. They release him to go home with Steve with a reminder that he's got a concussion on top of everything else.
"We'll take a cab," Steve says, and Bucky looks at him like he's crazy.
"What's wrong with your bike? Or the subway?"
"You've got two broken ribs and a recently dislocated shoulder. You can't--"
Bucky looks away for a second, jaw working, and Steve realizes he's made a mistake. "You don't get to tell me what I can't do."
Steve nods. "I see we need to get to the drugstore right away and get those painkillers, because someone's awfully cranky."
Bucky scowls at him. "I'll make you cranky."
Steve doesn't even try to hide his laughter. "What does that even mean?"
"Shut up." Bucky shoves lightly at him and then winces.
"Come on." Steve slings an arm over Bucky's shoulder and guides him into a cab.
Bucky settles in and tips his head back, eyes closed, sighing. Steve notes the tightness around his mouth and tries to ignore the sweep of his lashes. He wouldn't trade having Bucky back for anything, but he'd forgotten how difficult it was sometimes to tamp down his feelings. It's less dangerous now, more acceptable, but what people think has never been what's kept Steve's mouth shut, his feelings buried deep inside. What Bucky thinks--that's always been what he was afraid of, and he couldn't bear to drive him away now that he's got him again.
Steve echoes Bucky's sigh and lets himself relax, his own bumps and bruises already mending.
*
The cab ride takes even longer than Steve expected, but it's okay because while they're sitting in stop-and-go traffic on the BQE, Bucky's dozed off, his head on Steve's shoulder, warm breath tickling the skin of Steve's neck above his collar. Steve feels bad about waking him up, and not just because he needs the rest to heal.
The cab rolls to a halt in front of their building and Bucky's eyes snap open and just like that, he's awake and alert. It still startles Steve, the way it did the first time it happened back in Italy; the Bucky he'd grown up sleeping next to had been harder to wake than a hibernating bear, bleary-eyed and grouchy until he'd had coffee and food, and it had been a shock to see him go from dead asleep to wide awake in a heartbeat. Steve had realized he wasn't the only one who'd changed after joining the army.
"Let's get you upstairs," Steve murmurs, mostly to himself. Bucky grumbles but lets himself be manhandled, which means his ribs probably hurt like hell despite whatever drugs the doctors gave him. "And then I'll call in your prescription."
"My ribs are broken, not my mouth," Bucky says irritably. "I can make a phone call."
"You hate the phone," Steve points out, knowing his reasonableness is just going to irritate Bucky more but unable to help himself.
"Pushy bastard," Bucky mutters. Steve pretends not to hear.
He deposits Bucky in the bedroom and Bucky sinks back onto the bed with a low moan.
"Hey." Steve touches his shoulder, then his cheek, lightly. "You okay?"
"Yeah." Bucky looks up at him through long lashes, mouth falling into a natural pout. Steve looks away for a second, gets his cartwheeling thoughts under control. Bucky takes a short, shallow breath and gives Steve a half-grin. "Yeah. I won't be able to sneeze for a month without hurting, but I'm okay."
"Okay. I'm going to call in the prescription, pick up some food, run some errands. I'll be back in a bit."
"I'm a grown man," Bucky says, pout still in his voice as he slowly unbuttons his shirt. "I can take care of myself."
"I know you can," Steve answers, ducking down to unlace Bucky's boots so he doesn't have to bend to do it himself (and so he doesn't have to watch Bucky's agonizingly slow striptease). It's a mark of how much his ribs must hurt that he doesn't do more than put a hand on Steve's head for a moment, a silent benediction Steve accepts with a small grin he doesn't let Bucky see.
*
When Steve gets back from the pharmacy, Bucky's passed out in bed on his undamaged side and snuffling softly. Steve puts away the groceries, sets the container of chicken rice soup on the counter, and gives into his own nagging tiredness, and the desire to curve his body around Bucky's and make sure he's really okay.
Growing up, they'd snuggled up like puppies together under the covers, and that hadn't changed as much as Steve expected when they got older and moved into their own apartment. It'd had only the one bedroom and the one double bed, and Steve had been small enough at the time that sharing hadn't been a problem. Well, the problem hadn't been space, anyway. Steve used to wake up hard and aching, Bucky's breath on his neck and scent in his nose. It'd been easy enough to slip out of bed and take care of himself in the bathroom while Bucky snored on, oblivious.
The war had changed that in more than one way, but since he's gotten Bucky back, they've fallen into older habits, and he hasn't bothered to look for an apartment with a second bedroom. He reminds himself that it's temporary--Bucky will get a place of his own, just like he's making a place for himself on the team, in the future, and Steve can't just assume they're always going to be joined at the hip the way they used to be. Except not in the way that expression conjures up now, when he's tired and Bucky's warm and pliant next to him.
And injured, Steve reminds himself, hugging the edge of the bed when he lies down, feeling like even his king-size bed isn't big enough right now.
It doesn't take him long to fall asleep, and when he wakes up, it's a couple of hours later, and he's pressed tight against Bucky's back, close enough that they're breathing in time. Steve closes his eyes and hopes Bucky is still asleep and can't feel his erection. He eases back, the mattress shifting under his weight, and that's enough to wake Bucky.
"Gotta leave room for the holy ghost," Bucky mutters, rubbing a hand over his face.
"Dreaming about Sister Mary Catherine again?" Steve asks, flopping onto his back.
Bucky barks a laugh and then clutches at his ribs. "I wish. For a nun, she had nice stems."
"I don't even want to know how you know that." He glances over at Bucky. The late afternoon sunlight filters through half-drawn blinds, throwing bars of light and shadow across the bed and Bucky's stubbled, pain-drawn face. "Think maybe it's time for one of those pain pills, huh?"
Bucky grimaces.
"No need to show off for me," Steve says, rolling out of bed. "I already know what a tough guy you are."
"Shut up."
"Yeah, yeah," Steve calls back over his shoulder. "You can make me when you're not doubled over in pain."
He shakes one pill out of the bottle into his palm and fills a glass of water from the tap, and takes it back to Bucky, who's managed to sit up and swing his legs out of bed.
"I've had worse," Bucky insists, and Steve's gaze goes automatically to the metal arm before returning to Bucky's face.
"I know," Steve says, more gently than he means to as he hands off the pill and the glass.
Bucky takes both and drains the glass in two long gulps. Steve watches the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "Thanks."
"Any time. You know that, Bucky."
Bucky looks down at his hands. "Yeah. I know."
"You shouldn't take those on an empty stomach, so I bought soup from Szechuan Garden," he says before the mood goes even lower.
"Oh, thank god. I was afraid you were going to try to cook." Bucky's grinning when he looks up, and Steve can't help but grin back.
"I'm a perfectly good cook," Steve answers, mock-defensively.
"Yeah, maybe for people with no sense of taste." Bucky levers himself up off the bed slowly, and Steve has to force himself not to rush to help him.
"Then you should love my food."
"You think you're a funny guy, don't you?"
Steve busies himself with heating the soup, which is more like soggy rice with chicken after sitting for a couple of hours. "I don't think. I know."
"Yeah, yeah." Bucky refills his glass of water and then sinks heavily into a chair. He doesn't say anything else until Steve puts the steaming bowl of soup in front of him. "You know I'm not sick, right?"
"Chicken rice soup is good for what ails you," Steve answers, filling out a bowl for himself and grabbing the extra packets of noodles the girl behind the counter gave him when he asked nicely. He tosses one packet to Bucky, who tears the wax paper and eats them dry while Steve sprinkles them over his soup.
He glances up at Bucky again, and finds himself transfixed. The rice is white against the smooth cobalt of the bowl, and the scallions are bright green. Bucky's mouth is red and wet, his teeth flashing sharp and white when the silver curve of the spoon slips between his lips.
Steve thinks about getting up and getting his sketchbook. He thinks about leaning across the table and kissing Bucky until they're both breathless.
He eats another spoonful of rice.
"Remember Mrs. Feigenbaum's chicken soup?" Bucky says, tapping his spoon against his bowl and breaking Steve out of his reverie.
Bucky rarely brings up the past, and Steve's glad he doesn't spill soup on himself in surprise. "Yeah." He laughs, remembering how regularly she'd dosed him with it over the years she lived across the hall from them, and shakes his head. "I never had the heart to tell her that I really don't like cabbage."
Bucky chokes. Steve jumps up to pound him on the back and stops short, remembering his broken ribs.
"I'd forgotten that," Bucky manages after a few frightening seconds of hunched-over wheezing, one arm wrapped around his middle protectively.
"Sorry about the rice in your airway," Steve says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment.
Bucky waves his spoon dismissively. "Don't worry about it."
That sets them both to laughing; the rare sound of Bucky's unshadowed laughter makes Steve so giddy he can't stop smiling.
They make it through the rest of the meal without incident. Steve steals Bucky's eggroll and Bucky lets him, and it's like a thousand meals they've eaten together over the years. Steve's not sure why he feels like something should be different, but the sensation nags at him for the rest of the afternoon, as he reads the newspaper, writes his mission report, and generally keeps himself occupied while Bucky dozes fitfully on the couch. He must really hurt, or the pills must be really strong--some combination of the two, most likely--because it's not like Bucky to sleep so much. Steve's always aware of how often he wakes up and spends his nights prowling the apartment or, if the nightmares have been particularly vivid, the city. He's spent his own fair share of nights doing the same, though his nightmares have gotten less vivid in the year since he was thawed out.
The first night he spent in the apartment, Bucky offered to sleep on the couch, and Steve said no, and he's said no every time Bucky's brought it up since. Steve's found he doesn't sleep as well without him there, so being woken up a couple times a night is no big trade-off for the constant assurance that Bucky is still alive and breathing next to him.
Now, it just means Steve doesn't have to wake him every couple of hours because of the concussion--his own nightmares take care of that for him.
*
Steve wakes up at six, the way he always does, Bucky's back pressed to his chest, the even rise and fall of his breathing a comfort Steve takes great pleasure in for a few moments. Bucky's face is slack and unguarded in sleep, making him look younger, more like the guy Steve knew before the war. Steve memorizes the lines of it, makes note of the minute changes that aren't readily apparent now that he's seeing Bucky every day, but are obvious when he pays attention. His fingers itch for his pencil and sketchpad, but he has other things to do before he can indulge himself in drawing.
He tries not to disturb Bucky when he slips out of bed and gests dressed for his morning run, and he thinks he's been successful, but Bucky jerks awake just as Steve's putting his sneakers on, his eyes wild and unseeing for a second.
"Hey," Steve says softly, "it's all right. Go back to sleep."
"Steve?"
"Yeah. I'm going for a run. I'll be back in half an hour."
Bucky nods and sinks back down onto his pillow, his eyes fluttering closed. And then they open again, narrowed at Steve. "You usually run for an hour." Lately, Bucky's gone with him, the two of them quietly challenging each other to be better, faster, stronger, the way they always have.
"I was hoping to get back before you woke up."
"Well, I'm awake now, so don't cut it short on my account."
Steve opens his mouth and closes it, aware that whatever he says is probably going to irritate Bucky, and while sometimes that's its own reward, this isn't one of those times.
"I won't be gone long," is what he settles on, giving all of Bucky's mumbled curses exactly the weight they deserve by ignoring them.
He isn't; he can't find the centered calm running usually brings him; he keeps seeing Bucky getting thrown by the explosion, conflating it with Bucky falling from the train, with finding him strapped to a gurney, staring with wide vacant eyes before they'd broken through his programming.
When Steve gets back, Bucky's up and dressed. Well, he has pants on, anyway; he seems to have a shirts-optional policy in the apartment, and Steve can't complain about that, but he doesn't like seeing the little livid burns and cuts on Bucky's skin and all the unfamiliar scars he's got from years of being someone else.
"Fucking coffeemaker. Why's everything gotta be so fucking complicated?" Bucky mutters. "I just want a fucking cup of coffee."
"That's fifteen dollars for the swear jar," Steve says, taking his shirt off and wiping his sweaty face with it before he deposits in the hamper and strips down for his shower.
"You can put it on my tab," Bucky calls, loud enough to be heard from the kitchen. He's the only reason they have a swear jar, mostly because it amuses Steve.
"Along with a new coffeemaker after you destroy that one?"
"Fucking coffeemaker," Bucky repeats, but it's more exasperated than angry.
When Steve's done with his shower, he finds a mug made just the way he likes it sitting on the vanity next to his comb and the bottle of Bucky's hair gel.
Unfortunately, his coffee's barely had time to cool off before he gets the call from Coulson about a giant squid in New York Harbor.
"A squid," Bucky says dubiously. "Are you sure you heard him right?"
"I'm afraid so."
"I should come with you."
"Bucky, you can't even get a shirt on. You're not going to be much good at fighting a giant squid."
"Long distance weapons. I don't need my ribs in working condition to shoot."
"Hawkeye's going to be there."
Bucky's grunt is remarkably eloquent for all that it doesn't actually contain any words. Steve would be impressed, and a little insulted on Clint's behalf, if he weren't in a rush.
"Listen, you know there isn't anyone I want watching my back more than you, but you're injured, and if you're there, I'll spend more time worrying about you than paying attention to what I'm doing, and I can't do my job that way." Steve hates making Bucky feel bad about wanting to help, but he's not above using Bucky's overly protective instincts against him if it means keeping him safe while he's hurt.
"Fine." Bucky says it with enough rancor that Steve believes him.
He puts a hand on Bucky's arm, holds his gaze squarely. "You'll be all right?"
Bucky's lips curl derisively, but he says, "Yeah, I'll be fine."
"Atta boy." Steve grins and sways towards him for a second, wanting to kiss the pout off his face before he remembers that that is not a thing they do (though sometimes he can't remember why). "Don't spend all your time sulking, okay?"
Bucky sends him off with a one-fingered salute, and Steve's laughing as he climbs the stairs to the roof so Tony can pick him up.
*
Even though Steve takes a quick shower before he heads home, he feels like he still stinks of rotten fish and polluted harbor water. It's late, but he doesn't bother with trying to sneak into the apartment; the first time he'd tried, proud of himself for being stealthy enough not to wake Bucky, he'd taken three steps and then Bucky had slammed him against the wall, metal hand at his throat and gun at his temple. Bucky had looked tense and guilty when he released Steve and offered to move out in the midst of his apology, but Steve had waved him off and promised to make more noise next time.
Now, he drops his keys into the bowl by the door and lets it swing shut behind him with a soft but audible click. The television is on the living room, and Bucky is sprawled--still shirtless, or shirtless again, since there's a half-eaten pepperoni pizza on the coffee table, which wasn't there when Steve left--on the couch, eating pistachios.
"I see you've adapted to your life of leisure," Steve says. "I hope you didn't scare off the delivery boy."
"Nah, he appreciated the view," Bucky says, gesturing at his bare chest. Steve drops his gaze and then forces himself to look back up at Bucky's face. That isn't really any less distracting, despite its familiarity. "Everybody loves the metal arm." He shells another pistachio, then offers the bag to Steve. "Want some?" Steve snorts and grabs a handful of pistachios and Bucky wrinkles his nose. "It really was a giant squid, huh? You smell like you took a dip in the harbor."
Steve grimaces. "I showered."
Bucky hums in response, giving Steve an assessing once-over that makes him flush. "Maybe use soap next time, huh?"
Steve tosses empty shells at him. They bounce off his shoulders; one lands in his hair. Bucky shakes his head, dislodging it, and laughs, and Steve thinks they could have this--they do have this--and everything else, too. He's never been afraid to push for what he believes is the right thing, but the fear holding him back now is old, as old as the desire that sparked it. Maybe it's time he faced it. He starts to lean forward, intent on Bucky's smiling face, and catches a whiff of himself. He pulls back with another grimace.
"I'm going to take a shower."
"Good plan. Otherwise, I'm just gonna sleep here on the couch."
Steve tosses another shell at him and heads for the bathroom. Maybe he missed a spot, or maybe the squid's real mutation wasn't its size or its malevolent intelligence, but its lingering stench.
He takes his time, scrubs until his skin is pink and all he can smell is soap.
Bucky's asleep by the time he's done, the moment long gone, so Steve sighs and climbs in beside him. There will be another moment. He'll make sure of it.
*
Bucky heals faster than most people--one of the few benefits of being Dr. Zola's lab rat all those years ago--but he has a sneezing fit in the morning that leaves him ashen-faced and shaking. Steve grabs the bottle of pills and shakes one out into his hand.
"Thanks," Bucky says, his voice hoarse and his mouth still pulled tight with pain.
"No problem."
Steve goes about his morning routine, trying not to hover, because he knows how Bucky hates it (remembers how he hated it himself when their situation was reversed), but when Bucky still hasn't made it out of the bedroom to chastise Steve for somehow making his eggs both burnt and runny (a talent Steve only practices on him), Steve gets concerned.
He finds Bucky still sitting on the edge of the bed, jeans on but shirt only half-buttoned.
"Hey," he says.
Bucky looks up at him and smiles. "Hey."
Steve crouches down in front of him so he can hold Bucky's gaze without looming or making him crane his neck. "You need help with that?" He doesn't bother waiting for a response, just starts doing up the buttons on Bucky's light blue shirt.
Bucky sighs softly. "You know, all the times I've pictured this, you've been taking my shirt off."
Steve freezes. "What?"
"I know you heard me." Bucky's voice is low and dark.
"Maybe I just want to hear you say it again." Steve drops his hands to Bucky's knees, thumbs digging in harder than is probably comfortable.
"Oh, you're gonna be like that, huh?"
Steve holds his gaze for a long moment, wondering if it's the moment, their moment. He takes in the challenge in the set of Bucky's chin at odds with the softness of his mouth, the warmth of his eyes, so achingly dear and familiar. Then he surges up and kisses him. Their teeth clack and their noses bump, and for a second, everything is awkward and Steve wonders if he's made a mistake.
Then Bucky laughs softly into Steve's mouth, his lips warm and his breath minty.
Steve cups his face gently, kisses his cheeks, his jaw, the tip of his nose. "Jesus, Bucky, are you sure?"
In response, Bucky captures Steve's lips with his own and hums into his mouth, the sound of yes vibrating through them both. He licks at Bucky's mouth, curling his tongue around Bucky's and tightening his grip at the wave of desire that jolts through him.
He pulls back and this time Bucky's the one nuzzling at him, his mouth warm and wet against Steve's jaw and throat.
"I was starting to think not wearing a shirt wasn't enough," Bucky says breathlessly as he pulls back just far enough to scoot up the bed and settle on his uninjured side. He pulls Steve along with him, and Steve lets him, presses up against him and slings a leg over his knee so he can't go anywhere. "But I knew you couldn't possibly be as stupid as you looked."
"You're stupid," Steve answers, kissing every inch of Bucky's skin he can reach, unbuttoning the three buttons he'd managed to get done and shoving the shirt off Bucky's shoulders.
"Your face is stupid," Bucky says, biting Steve's lower lip and then licking away the sting.
"You seem to like it all right."
"I guess I'm stupid, too." Bucky's mouth is hot and wet and demanding and Steve moans into it, his hand dropping down to grab the curve of Bucky's ass so he can rub against him. "Stupid for you."
It's Steve's turn to hum in agreement, and then he's too busy kissing and licking and biting to talk. He's dizzy with kisses, giddy with the taste and feel of Bucky's lips against his own, the heat of skin on skin and the ragged sound of Bucky's breathing and his own heart pounding in his ears.
Later, after they've surged together and come apart (Steve mindful of Bucky's injured ribs even when Bucky seems to have forgotten them), Bucky traces lazy patterns on Steve's chest, sending tiny shivers through him.
"Took you long enough," Bucky says sleepily.
"I just got you back. I couldn't bear losing you again."
"Idiot."
Steve laughs and kisses him, thinking, this is something they can have, and something they can keep.
end
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