fic: Welcome to Wherever You Are - 2/2 (Avengers; Steve/Bucky; adult)

[musesfool]

Welcome to Wherever You Are

Part 1

Part 2

Bucky has daily meetings with a SHIELD telepath and goes to therapy three times a week. They don't let Steve stay with him for those appointments. Steve remembers what his own sessions with the SHIELD psychiatrist were like and wonders if Bucky's playing it straight or blowing smoke up her skirt. He doesn't really want to know the answer, especially if it means they'll try to take Bucky away from him. He's usually so clear-eyed about everything, but as always, Bucky's his blind spot.

Their first day, Steve hovers outside the therapist's office like a nervous parent on the first day of school, until Darcy comes by to escort him to a meeting with Coulson and Hill.

"Your team needs to set up a schedule so that one of you is on call on the Helicarrier at all times," Hill says. "Since it's back up in the air."

"Director Fury would like a more regular presence now that the team is official," Coulson says.

Steve leans back and lets them play good cop, bad cop on him for a little while. Bucky's going to be tied up for at least an hour, so it's not like he's leaving before then. After their back-and-forth has wound down, Steve says, "I can't speak for the team, but we'll put together some kind of rotation and get back to you."

"Good," Coulson says, "that's good."

Hill frowns but doesn't contradict him.

"If that's all," Steve says, "I'm going to head down to the gym."

"Of course," Coulson says.

Natasha's there, sparring with a couple of junior agents who look a little wild-eyed at having to go up against her.

"Can I tag in?" he asks when he's done taping his hands. The junior agents flee gratefully, and Natasha gives him a sharp-edged smile.

"How are you doing, Cap?"

"Okay," he says, blocking her punch and ducking under her kick. "Bucky is--" She knees him in the stomach and he grunts. She follows the knee with an uppercut that snaps his head back.

"I was asking about you."

"I'm good. Well. You know what I mean." He sweeps a leg out, but she jumps over it, and uses her momentum to tackle him. They grapple and he breathes in the scent of her sweat and shampoo. At least he doesn't feel awkward and embarrassed anymore as she shifts beneath him; he's more concerned about not getting his ass kicked than he is about any reactions his body has to hers. "I do have a favor to ask."

She rolls them over and he lets her pin him. Her lips purse in disappointment but she doesn't give up the victory. "Oh?"

"Can you teach me Russian?"

The emotions flit across her face too quickly for him to identify--her jaw tightens and her eyes narrow and he's not sure if that's anger or pain or some combination of the two. She pinches the bridge of her nose and lets out a soft sigh. "You think it'll help?"

He nods. "Yes."

"Okay. Lesson number one: Ty mne dolzhen," she says. "That means you owe me one."

"Whatever you need." He's glad he doesn't have to resort to giving her a pleading look. It's one of his best weapons and he doesn't like to trot it out needlessly in case it loses power. And there's no guarantee it'd work on her anyway.

"That's a dangerous offer." She bounces to her feet and offers him a hand up.

He grins. "I'm sure you won't take advantage. Much."

She laughs. "You've got yourself a deal."

They shake on it to make it official, and agree to meet the next day in the cafeteria while Bucky's with his telepath. Steve feels like he's accomplished something and it's not even eleven o'clock yet.

*

A couple mornings later, he and Bucky are in the bodega picking up bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches when a car backfires and they both dive for cover behind the shelves of Entenmann's cakes. Steve's pretty sure he's the only one who sees the gun Bucky pulls from the waistband of his jeans, and he files that away for a conversation when both of them are more able to handle it.

"Did you give him a gun?" he asks Natasha, in lieu of a greeting when they arrive at SHIELD.

"Would I do that?" she responds, cool as a cucumber.

"Yes," he answers without hesitation.

She huffs a small laugh. "You're right. I would. But I didn't."

Steve wishes he believed her. He decides not to push it, in the unlikely event she's telling the truth.

*

They fall into a routine after a few days. Since neither of them is sleeping much, they go for early morning runs, and then, after breakfast (Bucky eats with the same wolfish ferocity Steve does, as if he's afraid someone might take it all way if he doesn't get it in his mouth right now), they head into the city to SHIELD HQ, so Bucky can meet with his telepath and his shrink, and Steve gets briefed about the state of the world and has Russian lessons with Natasha when she's available. Then they head to the gym and they spar. Steve is still stronger, but Bucky's quick and smart and flexible, and he's been trained to go for the kill. Sometimes, Natasha joins them, and watching her and Bucky in action makes Steve's breath catch in his throat. He's not the only one who stops to watch when they go at it; usually they all three attract an audience that only dissipates when the fight is over and they suddenly realize they've all got somewhere else to be.

Today, most of the audience watching them has wandered away when Bucky, familiar with all of Steve's moves since they were twelve, ducks in under his left hook and sends him flying to the mat with a full-on tackle. They roll around for a little bit, grunting and shoving, and then Bucky honest to God tickles him, fingers skittering up along Steve's ribs in a way that's guaranteed to make him curl up with laughter.

"Cut it out," Steve gasps, but Bucky doesn't stop, so Steve flails out with a hand and yanks hard on Bucky's too-long hair. He still remembers how to fight dirty, even if he's big enough now that he doesn't always have to anymore.

"Ow, what the fuck?"

"I've seen thirteen-year-old girls handle that maneuver better," Natasha says, arms crossed over her chest and her mouth quirked up in a reluctant half-smile.

"I think we were thirteen-year-olds the last time you tried that," Steve says, shoving Bucky off him and jumping to his feet before they can descend into slap-fighting.

"Well, you both need to take this a little more seriously," she says, glancing up at the cameras overlooking the floor.

"They're watching us?" Steve says.

"If you don't think James's every move is being recorded and dissected, you're not as bright as I thought you were," she answers.

Steve nods, though it's easy to forget how many cameras are around, just in the normal course of a day in the twenty-first century, and how that's probably tripled within SHIELD's walls. (He'd asked Jarvis to keep the filming to a minimum after his first two hours at his suite in the Tower.) Going by the storm clouds gathering on Bucky's face, it looks like he forgets sometimes, too. To head that off, Steve says, "I can't believe you tickled me. Jerk." He bumps his shoulder against Bucky's as they head towards the locker room.

"You're the one who went with hair-pulling." Bucky hip-checks him, hard enough to make him stumble. Bucky's rough-housing is a lot rougher than it used to be; Steve's not sure if it's because he knows Steve can take it now, or because he doesn't remember how to be playful anymore.

"Well, it is kind of long," he says, tugging on the curling ends. "Soon you're going to have flowing locks like Thor's."

"So you're saying I have hair like a god's." Bucky smirks.

"It works for him. You, not so much."

"You wish you looked as good as me," Bucky says, and then he ducks into a stall to change before Steve can think of a comeback.

It makes Steve a little crazy, because no matter what they're doing, Bucky keeps his mechanical arm covered, as if he's ashamed of it, and Steve doesn't understand, because Tony could have made it look real--he's seen the prototypes Tony's working on now, with synthetic skin over synthetic flesh and bone, nothing like the gray metal Bucky'd insisted on but won't ever display. He even changes in the bathroom at home, which would be funny if it didn't make Steve worry so much, because Bucky had never been modest. They've known each other since they were skinny boys with scraped knees, and living with a dozen other boys in the orphanage had never given them much sense of privacy, and what little they might have had left after that had been stripped away by life in the army. So Steve's concerned, and he's not sure how to say anything that won't come off as a creepy attempt at a come-on. Especially since they're sleeping in the same bed and it would be so easy to--Steve doesn't know what. Press Bucky back against the pillows and kiss him until his mouth is red and swollen and the shadows have fled from his eyes. Until he knows how Steve feels about him.

Because back before everything, it'd been Bucky's body Steve had coveted, strong and lithe and lean. He'd wanted to look like Bucky, yes, but he'd also wanted to press up against him, feel those muscles move under that skin, map every inch of it with his fingers and his mouth. He'd always shoved those feelings away, not wanting to make Bucky uncomfortable, but they keep surfacing again now, making Steve unexpectedly awkward around his closest friend, and giving him hope for things he can't have.

What he has gotten is a whole new set of fantasies not just from sleeping with Bucky pressed up against him, but from sparring with him, relearning the feel of that body shift and give under his. Steve's usually breathing hard at the end of their sessions, and not just because of the workout. He's used to the frustration, though, has been dealing with it since he was a teenager. It used to be just more fuel on the fire in his belly; now, he can laugh at himself, and know that there are people who want him like that, even if Bucky doesn't.

But Bucky hides beneath oversized t-shirts and baggy sweats, even to sleep in, and Steve wonders if it's some kind of penance, if Bucky thinks he doesn't deserve--Steve isn't sure what. Forgiveness, maybe, or basic human kindness--after what he was made to do.

"It wasn't just that they made me do it," he says one night, when Steve broaches the subject after Bucky's had enough bourbon to make him talkative. Steve would feel guilty about that, but he also misses his Bucky, who'd opened his eyes and his mouth at the same time in the morning and even mumbled in his sleep at night, and he's willing to fight dirty to get him back. "It was how good I was at it."

"You'd already been trained," Steve says. "If you hadn't been, there's no way we would have survived taking out those HYDRA bases."

Bucky snorts. "We didn't survive that."

"Oh, yeah, right." Steve wishes he had his own drink to sip right about now.

Bucky shrugs and splashes another two fingers of bourbon into his glass and then drinks it down in one long gulp. Steve watches the way his throat works when he swallows, and then distracts himself with wondering why Bucky's even bothering with the glass.

Bucky must be thinking the same thing, because he sets the glass down and takes a swig straight from the bottle. His mouth glistens wetly and he licks his lips. That's even more distracting than the motion of his Adam's apple, and Steve has to look away so he can gather his thoughts to make his point.

"Listen," he says, after he's collected himself enough to look directly at Bucky, to try to make him hold his gaze. "Listen to me," he says in his best Captain America voice. "You were a soldier and it was war." He grabs the bottle and takes a sip himself, the acrid taste and the heat of it burning down into his belly familiar, even if he's lost the ability to feel the world turning under his feet after a few sips. "We all did unspeakable things."

"You didn't." Steve opens his mouth to argue but Bucky keeps talking. "And I'm not talking about the war. I'm talking about all the things I did after."

"Wasn't you." Steve's certain of that, and he's never needed Professor Xavier's telepathic confirmation to believe it.

Bucky reaches for the bottle and Steve shakes his head. Bucky's smile twists into something grim and sad. "I remember it like it was."

Steve lets him have the bottle.

Later, he carries Bucky to bed; Bucky curls up on his side and sighs into his pillow, and Steve resists the urge to brush his hair off his forehead and give him a kiss goodnight. Instead, he leaves a bottle of aspirin and a bottle of water on the night table, where Bucky will easily find it in the morning. He doesn't sleep much that night himself, spends most of it sketching Bucky the way he remembers him from before the war.

*

In the morning, Steve eases out of bed, and waits a few seconds for Bucky to mumble and subside back into sleep before he slips out of the apartment to go for a run, as if he can escape the memory of the devastation on Bucky's face, the wreckage of his voice as he'd talked last night. People keep telling Steve they're doing everything they can for Bucky, but it's not enough. It'll never be enough, because Steve couldn't save him from falling, and he couldn't save him from the Red Room, and he doesn't know if he'll be able to save him now. It's a long time before he goes back to the apartment.

Bucky is awake when he gets there, sitting at the kitchen table with wet hair curling over his collar (he really does need a haircut, Steve thinks absently, and he forces himself not to take out the scissors right now and give him one) and a mug of coffee in his hand, the paper spread out on the table. Steve pours himself a cup, takes a sip, and nearly spits it back into the cup.

"They gave you all those super-assassin skills, they couldn't teach you to make a decent cup of coffee?" He freezes as soon as the words leave his mouth--they've always joked about everything, but not about this. Not yet.

Bucky laughs, though, and Steve relaxes. "Looks like mine, they knew I'd be wasted in the kitchen," Bucky drawls.

"Yeah, looks like yours'd curdle milk."

Bucky gives him the one-finger salute, and it's Steve's turn to laugh. "I'm going for a shower. Try not to get into trouble while I'm gone."

Bucky snorts and goes back to reading the paper.

Steve's rinsing the shampoo out of his hair when he sees it--a series of green dashes drawn on the far wall of the shower, where the water doesn't normally reach. He steps closer, trying to figure it out. It's not Morse code. There are seven dashes, a space, four more dashes, and then one longer line, all drawn with the crayons Darcy had bought him after he'd told her he thought best with a pencil in his hand.

"The shower's the best place for thinking," she'd said a few days later, handing him the box, "and you can work out your masterpiece on the wall and then wash it off when you're done."

"I like the future," he'd answered, and though he hasn't used them that often, he's occasionally indulged himself in drawing fanciful pictures on the walls of his shower, especially after he discovered the wax really did wipe off with soap and water.

He looks at the marks again, blinking water out of his eyes, and starts to laugh. He writes an E under the single long line, unsure what set of rules they're playing with, and then finishes his shower.

He doesn't mention it to Bucky, but over the course of the next few weeks, they play hangman in the shower. Steve doesn't read anything into the words Bucky chooses (Yankees suck, maple syrup, and in a stroke of genius he's still crowing about, xylophone), and keeps his own words fairly generic, as well. Still, it's another sign that Bucky's coming back to himself more fully; they'd spent hours playing hangman as kids, when Steve was sick and their deck of cards was so beat up that they always knew who had the ace of spades or the jack of hearts (and even with that advantage, Steve could still beat Bucky two out of three hands on a good day).

*

Steve surfaces enough to notice when Bucky gets out of bed in the middle of the night, but usually he comes right back after taking a piss or getting a drink of water, and Steve goes right back to sleep. Tonight, he rolls over and the space beside him is empty, the sheets already cooling.

He pads into the bathroom to find Bucky hunched over the sink, the fluorescent light glinting off the scissors in his shaking hand.

Scissors.

Steve freezes. He sucks in a breath or two, but it feels like the air isn't reaching his lungs. He forces himself to do it again, slow and steady, remembers Bucky's hands on his back a lifetime ago as he huddled in a steamy bathroom, trying to catch his breath.

"Hey," he says softly once he finds the air and his voice. "Hey, Bucky, hey."

Bucky looks up, meets his gaze in the mirror. His eyes are dark and shadowed, and when he drops his gaze, Steve looks down into the sink to see clumps of dark hair scattered over the porcelain. He gulps down another long breath, this time in relief.

"You need help with that?"

Bucky nods, his mouth drawn tight and his hand still shaking as Steve takes the scissors from him.

"Come on, sit down," Steve says, nudging Bucky onto the lowered lid of the toilet. "I need to see what I'm doing. Unless you want to end up looking like Moe."

"Nyuck nyuck nyuck," Bucky manages softly.

"Attaboy." Steve pats his shoulder and then drapes a towel around his neck. "Remember when I used to do this for you?"

"No."

Steve nods. There's always a chance that he'll get that answer when he asks a question like that. It hasn't happened often, but Steve feels it every time like a punch to the gut.

"Yeah, for a long time, we couldn't afford the barber, so we'd cut each other's hair," he says. "Yours was always curling like little lord Fauntleroy if you let it get too long, and you hated that, though you said the dames liked it well enough." Even though it's been more than seventy years since he's done it, it doesn't take long to find the rhythm. He runs a wet comb through Bucky's hair and starts cutting away, the snip-snip sound of the scissors lulling him into a reverie.

Bucky sits completely still, no fidgeting, no complaining, no threats to shave Steve's head if he screws up. It's a little unnerving, even at three o'clock in the morning, when it could easily be attributed to sleepiness. When he's done as much as he can with the scissors, he pulls out the trimmer and plugs it into the outlet under the mirror. The buzzing sound is loud in the silence and Bucky flinches.

"I can skip this part," Steve says, laying a hand on the nape of Bucky's neck. He squeezes gently, in what he hopes is a reassuring manner.

"It's okay," Bucky says. "I'm fine."

Steve hums noncommittally, not wanting to call him on the lie, and tips Bucky's head forward so he can make a nice, neat line that will keep his hair above his collar. When he's done, he dusts the hair off Bucky's skin (and if his hands tremble a little when he brushes them over the warm skin of Bucky's collarbones, Bucky doesn't call him on it), and pulls him up to stand in front of the mirror. He looks more like the Bucky Steve remembers from those months right before he died, his hair parted and slicked into submission like the overgrown choirboy he never was.

"What do you think?"

Finally there's some life in Bucky's eyes. He looks himself over carefully and says, "Well, it's better than a poke in the eye."

Steve grins and lets out a sigh of relief. "I can live with that." He throws the towel in the hamper and says, "I don't think I'm getting back to sleep tonight. You want some hot cocoa?"

Bucky looks at him for a long moment. "The kind with little marshmallows?"

"No," Steve says. "Ovaltine. The kind we drank when we were kids. If you want little marshmallows, the bodega's open all night."

That actually makes Bucky laugh. "Punk. I'm not going out now for little marshmallows. But I'm adding them to the grocery list this week."

Steve laughs, too. Maybe they're both a little punchy. "I'm not supporting your weird marshmallow habit, Barnes. That one's all on you."

"Liar."

They don't talk much while Steve heats the milk and stirs in the Ovaltine, but the silence is less fraught now, and when Bucky heads back to bed afterwards, Steve goes with him, even though the early predawn light has started seeping through the blinds. They can sleep in for once. They've earned it.

*

The first couple of times Steve is called on for a mission, he takes Bucky back to SHIELD HQ with him.

"You should let me go with you," Bucky says.

Steve gestures at the car they're riding in, that Tony sent to pick them up. "What do you think this is?"

"I mean, on the mission. Let me fight. I don't have to be an Avenger to watch your back."

Steve looks at him incredulously. "You're not in fighting shape yet."

Bucky laughs harshly. "I'm always in fighting shape, Steve."

"Tony's still testing the arm."

It's Bucky's turn to look incredulous. "That's the hill you're going to die on?"

"What do you want me to say, Buck? You haven't been sleeping, and when you do sleep you have nightmares. A week ago, you couldn't even handle a pair of scissors without your hands shaking." The idea of Bucky fighting again makes Steve's heart seize in his chest, because on the one hand, of course he wants Bucky at his side more than anything in the world, but on the other, he never wants to have to watch Bucky fall again.

Bucky sets his jaw and looks away. "You don't trust me."

"You know that's not true."

"Your team doesn't trust me."

Steve feels his heart break a little. "Give it time, okay? They don't know you like I do." He puts a hand on Bucky's arm. "You know there's no one else I'd rather have at my back. But you're not ready yet, and I don't want to have to worry about you on top of everything else."

"Then why am I even going with you?" Steve watches the penny drop. "Oh, I get it. You think I'm going to run off and cause mayhem if I'm not in SHIELD custody."

"I don't think that," Steve says. He doesn't, though he's still afraid sometimes that it could happen. He squeezes Bucky's arm. "Come on, you know you're not ready for this yet."

Bucky grunts and doesn't speak to him for the rest of the ride, but he eases up once they arrive and Coulson lets him sit in on the briefing.

He doesn't ask to go out on missions again, though he complains that he doesn't need to be babysat every time Steve drags him into the city. He contributes at strategy sessions, and it feels a little like old times, only better, because not only does he have Bucky watching his six, but he's doing it from someplace far away from the fighting (Steve's not sure anyplace is safe anymore, but he'll take safer if he can get it). And Bucky's always there when he comes back, waiting for him with tired eyes and a lopsided smile.

It happens often enough that Steve doesn't worry (much) anymore that a briefing is going to be cut short by alarms that Bucky's gone on a rampage or that he's being taken into custody for some newly-revealed thing he did as the Winter Soldier. It also gives Bucky the opportunity to spend time with the team, let them size each other up.

After a mission to Melbourne, it takes longer than expected to get back to New York, and Steve's not surprised Bucky got tired of waiting and went home. He takes a quick shower after the briefing, declines Tony's offer to come by the Tower for a late dinner, and heads to Brooklyn.

Steve is surprised that Bucky's not there. The apartment is empty and there's no note stuck to the fridge or message for him in green crayon in the shower. He doesn't panic. He's Captain America and the leader of the Avengers and he absolutely does not panic when Bucky isn't where he's supposed to be.

Okay, maybe he panics a little, because he knows that for every good reason he can think of for Bucky's absence, he can come up with a dozen bad ones. But since he's alone and Bucky disabled the SHIELD cameras in the apartment after the first week (at least the ones they found), nobody knows about it.

His phone pings then, and he almost drops it in his haste to pull it out of his pocket.

The text is from Darcy and it says, B's here at the tower with me and Pepper.

His phone pings again and this time it's Bucky. Sorry. Got distracted by two gorgeous dames.

Steve lowers himself slowly into one of the kitchen chairs and texts back, You want me to come and get you?

It feels like forever (but is only twelve minutes according to the timestamps on his phone) before Bucky answers, No, I think I can manage the subway by myself.

There's really nothing Steve can say to that except, Okay. See you soon.

He takes another, longer shower and spends some time drawing cartoon figures on the walls. He missed his weekly visit to the pediatrics ward at Bellevue because of this mission, which will set back the wall-sized mural he's been painting with the kids, and, more importantly, make him seem unreliable to kids who need stability, because he wasn't where he said he'd be. He remembers being one of those kids, his mother reading softly to him from a book he stupidly thought he was too old for at the time, and then brushing his hair back off his forehead so she could kiss him good night. He wipes away the images of Pooh and Tigger, Kanga and Roo, with an annoyed swipe of his hand and sets up another game of hangman. It's too easy, and they're not supposed to use proper names, but right now, he feels like Eeyore and he wants Bucky to know.

He heats up some soup and makes himself a couple of sandwiches with the cold cuts that are left in the fridge. He's made a shopping list (he purposely leaves off Bucky's marshmallows, knowing Bucky will add them himself; it's just another game they're playing, though Steve wonders now if Bucky finds it as amusing as he does).

Bucky looks as tired as Steve feels when he finally stumbles home, dark circles under his eyes, two days' stubble shading his jaw, and his lips pressed tight and thin. He certainly doesn't look like he was out having a good time with two gorgeous dames. Steve remembers what that looks like, and it isn't this.

"You okay?" Bucky asks, tossing his keys into the bowl on the counter and slouching against it, arms crossed over his chest.

"Yeah," Steve says. "There's some soup, and I made you a turkey sandwich, if you're hungry."

"We ordered in," he says. He pulls a beer out of the fridge and pops the top off. Steve wonders if he should worry about that, on top of everything else. Bucky must see it on his face because he says, "What?"

Steve bites back the comment he was going to make and gives voice to his relief instead. "I'm glad you're home."

Bucky nods, a short sharp jerk of his head, and takes a long sip of his beer. "Right back atcha, pal." He offers the bottle to Steve, who takes it and drinks down half of it in one gulp while Bucky gives him the stink-eye.

"You shouldn't have offered if you didn't want to share."

Bucky snorts and scrubs a hand through his hair. "Keep it. I'm going to bed."

Steve blinks. "What?"

"You sleep on the plane?"

Steve shrugs. "Same as ever." He'd never slept well in the air, and since he's been back, he can't sleep on the Quinjet at all.

"Then we've both been up way too long."

The silence as they get ready for bed is oppressive, and it makes Steve feel like he's going to jump out of his skin. "You could have left me a note, is all," he says when Bucky's tossing around under the covers trying to get comfortable, and Steve's still standing next to the bed, t-shirt in hand, and it's clear that Bucky's not going to say anything.

Bucky rolls over to face him. "I figured Coulson would tell you. Since I was in custody at all times, I didn't think it was a big deal."

"Custody?"

"Only technically, because let's face it, you and I both know that it would probably take your whole team to put me down if I went off the rails, and Darcy and Pepper are swell gals, but they're not exactly field-rated."

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. He hasn't slept in three days and he spent most of that time fighting giant robots dressed like clowns. Fatigue is starting to be a factor. He might have nightmares about the one with the curly red wig and the economy-size bottle of seltzer, if he doesn't have them about Bucky killing Darcy and Pepper instead.

"Maybe that's true," he says slowly, "though I think Natasha could probably do it on her own, and I know you're susceptible to hair-pulling, but that's not what I was worried about." Which is ninety-nine and forty-four-one-hundredths percent true. "And not what SHIELD is worried about." Which is the opposite, and Bucky knows it.

"Then what's with all the tests, all the cameras? They're perfectly happy to pick my brain for intel but they won't tell me jack shit about when they're going to give me something to do other than wrestle with your friends and a bunch of junior agents who'd piss themselves if they knew who I really was."

Steve focuses on the only part of that he knows how to answer. "You're really Bucky Barnes, American hero. The other--that's what was done to you, not who you are."

"Give me a fucking break, Steve. You're the hero in this room, not me."

"You were right there with me--"

"But I wasn't, was I? I was already strapped to some table in Moscow while you were saving the world and getting yourself turned into a popsicle." Bucky's up and pacing now, his left hand curled into a fist. "You came back and they rolled out the red carpet, treated you like a fucking hero. Which is fine, because you are. I'm not--I don't disagree with that. But me, I can't take a shit without someone watching on a secret camera."

"Bucky--"

"And I get it, I do. I wouldn't--I don't trust me either. But sometimes I just--I need to get out, okay? I need to go somewhere where people aren't watching me every minute, waiting for me to go crazy and start shooting." He rubs his chin, and Steve feels a phantom prickle against his palm, curls his hand into a fist to stop it, to keep from reaching out and pulling Bucky into his arms. "Sometimes, I'd just like to have dinner with pretty ladies without having to call home to mother first."

"I--I hadn't realized it was that bad. I'm sorry."

Bucky shoves both hands into his hair. "It's not you, Steve. Well, maybe a little. You've got this whole mother hen thing going on that I don't remember being this bad before." Steve opens his mouth but Bucky shakes his head and keeps talking. "But stop apologizing. It's not your fault. I just--It's just making me a little crazy, is all. Crazier."

Steve moves, then, puts his hands on Bucky's shoulders and hauls him into a hug. Bucky lets him but doesn't relax.

"I'll fix this," Steve says, his mouth against Bucky's temple.

"You can't." It's as if all the anger drains out of him--Bucky sounds broken, defeated, in a way Steve hasn't heard since the day he told Steve he was being poisoned. He melts against Steve and lets himself be held.

"We can try." It's all he can do, all he's ever done, and he knows it won't be enough this time, but he can make Bucky better, even if he can't ever make him whole.

*

The elevator doors are closing when a familiar voice calls out, "Hold it, please." Steve lunges for the "door open" button and Pepper joins him in the car. She pushes the button for the lobby and smiles. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"You're one of the only people I know who actually pushes open instead of close when that happens."

He shrugs. "Maybe I only did that because I knew it was you."

She studies him for a moment and then shakes her head. "No, you'd do it for anyone."

He ducks his head and smiles. "Almost anyone."

The doors slide open on the lobby and she says, "Do you want to get coffee?"

He hesitates for a split-second, because he'd been planning on heading down to the gym, but coffee with Pepper is a much more appealing prospect. "I'd love to." He offers his arm and she takes it with a smile.

Times Square is always full of tourists, which makes it more difficult to hide, but they make it around the corner without being recognized and slip into a dark corner of Starbucks with two large coffees; they switch cups, because Pepper likes it black and Steve's is covered in caramel and whipped cream.

"You and Bucky will have to come by the Tower for dinner soon," she says.

"I would've come last night if I'd known he was there." He takes a sip of his coffee, then, "That sounded a lot more passive-aggressive than I meant it to." He wraps his hands around the cup, letting the warmth of it seep into his fingers.

Pepper reaches out and curls her fingers around his wrist for a moment. Her touch is cool and dry, but comforting all the same. "It's okay, Steve. I know what you meant." She leans back in her seat. "Darcy said he didn't sleep the whole time you were gone. We were hoping that he would if we could get some food into him, once we knew you were on the way home."

"I didn't know that." He pops the lid off his coffee cup so he has something to do with his hands. "He sleeps with his back to the wall, when he sleeps at all."

Pepper nods. "After he got back from Afghanistan, Tony was like that. He'd work until he couldn't stay awake anymore. I used to find him hunched over his workbench, mumbling in his sleep."

"I thought he was getting better. I thought--" Steve brushes his hair off his forehead. "I don't know what I thought. I was feeling sorry for myself because he wasn't there when I got home."

Pepper opens her mouth to say something and then closes it, as if thinking better of it. "Did you talk about it?"

Steve shrugs. "If you can call it that."

"Fighting is better than him shutting you out. It's a step in the right direction, at least."

He looks up at that, meets her gaze and tries not to let hope flare through him. "You really think so?"

"I really do." She touches his hand again, and gives him an encouraging smile. "And you don't have to do this alone. You know that, right?"

"Yeah," he says. "I do."

*

It's with those words in mind that he seeks out Bruce a few days later, makes a special trip up to Bruce's lab, which always makes him feel big and ungainly, a bull in a china shop of delicate instruments whose names he can't pronounce and whose functions are esoteric even to people with graduate degrees.

"Tony's not here," Bruce says. He doesn't look up from the computer he's hunched over.

"I'm actually here to see you."

"Oh. Steve. Hi." Bruce takes his glasses off and sits back on his stool. "What can I do for you?"

"You said that the secret to keeping control is that you're always angry."

"Wow, okay, we're cutting right to the chase here, huh?"

Steve huffs softly. "I'm not really good with small talk, and I need your help."

Bruce gives him a thin smile. "Okay."

"You know they're monitoring Bucky at all times. We even found a camera in the light fixture in my bathroom." Steve picks up a tiny Phillips head screwdriver and turns it over in his hands, then glances up at Bruce, who doesn't look surprised at this revelation. "It's getting to him."

"The fact that he's on the watch list, and they're always going to be waiting for the other shoe to drop?"

"Yeah."

Bruce nods. "You don't get used to that. Resigned, maybe, because it's necessary, but it's never--it's never okay." He takes his glasses off and looks at Steve. "It is necessary, isn't it?"

"That's not my call to make," Steve says. "I believe you believe it's necessary. But I trust you."

Bruce's smile is real this time, one that lights up his whole face. "There's your answer."

He squeezes Bruce's shoulder gently. "Thanks." Now he just has to make Bucky believe it.

*

Steve comes out of his latest session with Natasha mumbling Russian poetry under his breath and wondering if he's fluent enough to order off the menu at this restaurant in Brighton Beach he's been thinking of taking Bucky to. Bucky hadn't said anything when he found out Steve was learning Russian, just leveled a long, unfathomable look at him that Steve returned squarely, even though he could feel his ears burning.

His phone beeps and the text from Darcy says, Come down to the shooting range.

He doesn't know what to expect, but Clint and Bucky having a shooting contest isn't it.

"Of course," Natasha says with a sniff. "Boys and their toys." But there's real affection in her voice, and Steve doesn't think it's just for Clint.

When they're done, Bucky grins and claps Clint on the shoulder. "You're kind of a showoff."

Clint shrugs. "Someone's gotta be the best. It just happens to be me." He turns and smiles at Steve and Natasha, and the crowd of agents who've gathered to watch. "Hey, Cap. Your man's a good shot. Not as good as me, but I wouldn't mind having him watching my back."

"He's not my--" Steve starts, and then stops at Bucky's raised eyebrow and half-grin. "Yes," he says instead, because if Bucky's not going to complain, Steve's not going to correct Clint. "He's good at that."

Clint slings an arm over Darcy's shoulders and then says, "Well, it's been fun. Remember what we talked about, Barnes."

"How could I forget," Bucky asks, "when you punctuated it with bullets?"

Clint's laughter lingers after he and Darcy leave.

"What was that all about?" Steve says. "Are you okay?"

"Don't fuss, Steve." Bucky waves a hand dismissively. "I'm fine. He just wanted to make sure I lived up to the hype if I'm going to be out in the field with Natasha."

"Are you? Is that what's going to happen?" He turns to Natasha. "Did you know about this?"

"There's nothing to know about yet," she says. "Discussions are ongoing."

He turns back to Bucky, who gives him an almost imperceptible shake of his head. "I've worked up an appetite," he says. "Why don't you take me to lunch?"

*

Steve waits until the waitress puts down their food--a reuben for him, a burger for Bucky, and Steve is never going to get used to the huge portions restaurants serve nowadays--and takes a sip of his iced tea before he says, "They've cleared you for field duty?"

"Not yet, but soon, I think." Bucky eyes a virulently green lettuce leaf with skepticism before pulling it and the watery tomato it's stuck to off the bun. "The tests are becoming more targeted, the questions more specific."

"You don't have to do it, you know." Steve cuts his sandwich into precise bites, eating with a knife and fork so he doesn't get anything on his shirt. "You died fighting the good fight. They can't ask any more of you than that."

Bucky shakes his head, mouth too full of cheeseburger to answer at first. After he swallows, he says, "What else am I good for?"

"Bucky," Steve chides.

"No, seriously." He uses his fork to stab viciously at the little paper cup of coleslaw on his plate, which collapses under the onslaught. "I am what they made me and I can't be anything else now." He sounds so matter-of-fact that Steve wants to lean over the table and give him a hug. He would, too, if he thought Bucky would let him.

"You can be whatever you want," he insists, but Bucky shakes his head again.

"That's you, Steve. That's not me." Bucky looks away, jaw clenching. "But even if I could, I have so much to make up for that I couldn't walk away now."

"It wasn't your fault."

Bucky lets out a pained noise somewhere between a snort and a groan. "Even if that's true, it doesn't matter. I've got to do what I can with what I've got, and this is what I've got," he raises his left hand, "so SHIELD it is. If they'll have me."

Steve remembers Natasha talking about red in her ledger, debts that need to be paid. It shouldn't surprise him that Bucky feels the same way.

"Okay, but don't let them push you into anything you're not ready for. I'm meeting with Fury at two. I'll put a word in his ear."

Bucky huffs and shakes his head. "Please don't."

"Someone's gotta look out for you, since you're too stupid to do it yourself."

"I seem to recall that's my line."

"Times change," Steve says.

"But you haven't." Bucky's mouth curves in a familiar, rueful smile, his lips shiny with grease. "You're still--"

"Fighting for the little guy. And let's be clear," Steve says, returning the smile and pointing at Bucky with a French fry, "you're the little guy in this scenario."

That makes Bucky laugh outright and Steve grins to hear it. "Only you think so."

"It'll be great to have you on the team."

Bucky pauses, two of Steve's fries halfway to his mouth. "You think they're going to let me be an Avenger?" He starts laughing again, but this time there's a mocking edge to it. "Really? Remember your first reaction to my going out on a mission with you?"

"That was different. That was about your health, not your loyalties."

Bucky ignores him. "Can you just imagine how the press would respond to that? Not to mention Fury's higher-ups in the government?" He bares his teeth and bites down hard on the French fries. When he's done chewing he says, "I can see the headlines now: 'Infamous Russian murderer on superhero team.'"

"You're not a murderer." Steve's voice is loud enough that the couple in the next booth over looks up. He gives them a tight smile that feels more like a grimace and their eyes dart back to their table. "That wasn't you."

"How many times are we going to have this conversation?" Bucky asks, exasperated.

"As many times as we need to until you understand what it is that I'm telling you. Those things are not your fault."

"You can dress it up any way you like, Steve--operative, specialist, assassin, whatever. It all comes down to the same thing."

Steve shakes his head and plays his counterargument like the pair of aces it is. "Clint and Natasha are Avengers."

"And they did their killing on SHIELD's dime," Bucky answers, his voice low and furious. He holds up a hand. "I'm not saying that they wouldn't burn Natasha in a heartbeat if it benefited them in some way to scapegoat her, or if something from her past made her too hot to support anymore, but they've both been SHIELD agents for a long time. They've proved their loyalty."

"I want you on the team."

"I don't want to be there because I'm Captain America's special friend."

Steve overrides him. "And so do the others." Which is not exactly the truth--Steve hasn't actually brought it up with the team, but he thinks Clint and Natasha would be for it, and there's no real reason for Tony, Bruce, and Thor to be against it. So it's not really a lie either. From a certain point of view.

Bucky shakes his head and Steve decides not to argue any more. He saves that for his two o'clock meeting with Fury, who gives him a skeptical look and after several minutes of heated back-and-forth arguing, agrees to take his concerns under advisement. Steve's an optimist, but he knows when he's being humored, and after that, even he's not sure Bucky's chances are good.

*

When a hostage situation at a pharmaceutical factory in New Jersey turns out to involve HYDRA, the Avengers get the call. There's no time to waste--Tony picks Steve up on the roof of his apartment building and deposits him in the Quinjet before flying off ahead to do recon.

The fight is ugly and familiar in a way that reminds Steve of the war and his nightmares, where he searches endless factories for prisoners strapped to gurneys and never arrives in time to save any of them and they always have Bucky's face. Compounding the issue are way too many civilians who turn out to be working for HYDRA.

Steve and Natasha are pinned down by enemy fire and waiting for Thor and Tony to give them the all-clear when she says, "The others have already had this conversation with James, so I figured I would have it with you on his behalf." She eases out from behind their cover and ducks back as a shot rings off the cabinet shielding them. "Since I don't think anyone else will."

"Okay," Steve says, only half paying attention. He hauls her back behind the shield as another volley of bullets comes at them. A canister clunks off the shield and falls at their feet; Steve lobs it back towards the militant chemists before it starts smoking, and wishes vaguely for a gasmask.

"I know you love him very much," she says as she reloads, "and I know he loves you, so if you hurt him, I will have to hurt you. And you know I can."

Steve looks at her in surprise, his mind jerked away from the fight for a moment. "Wait, what? Why would you--When you say everyone has already had this conversation with him, what do you mean?"

"I believe Thor even made a special trip back from Asgard just for that purpose."

Steve's at a loss. "I--Well, thank you for speaking up on his behalf, then, I guess. Though I would never intentionally hurt him. And we're not--he's not--it's not like that."

Natasha hums and starts firing at the closing HYDRA agents. "I believe that you wouldn't intentionally hurt him. Unless he asked nicely, of course."

"I--Yes?"

"But I don't believe you're not 'like that.'"

"I didn't say I wasn't," Steve says, scrupulously honest. "But he's not."

Natasha actually stops shooting and turns to look at him. "What do you think we're talking about here, Cap?"

Steve grimaces and has to spend a few moments tossing the shield at some advancing HYDRA chemists before he can answer. In fact, he'd rather just fight HYDRA than continue the conversation, but he can't leave Natasha hanging. "Feelings."

"Well, you're not completely hopeless," she replies dryly, and then Iron Man bursts in and there's no more time for chatting.

They split up after that. Bruce, Thor and Tony chase after the escaping leaders of the cell, while Steve, Natasha, and Clint help with evacuating the nearest town (they don't know what's in the smoke rising from the ruins of the factory and they don't want to find out) and it takes another eleven hours to wrap the whole thing up.

The debriefing after the mission is almost enough to put Steve to sleep, especially once Tony and Bruce start talking about the various chemical compounds being cooked up in the factory and their street names and street worth and what they can do to the human brain, singly and in combination. He's tired enough to lean his chin on his hand while they babble, and it's a battle to keep his eyes open. Looking at Clint and Thor, he's not the only one fighting it.

Right up until Natasha, who appears to be paying more attention to her cell phone than their conversation, suddenly looks up and says, "That's very similar to the drug protocols used by the Red Room."

Steve straightens up.

Bruce nods, his mouth twisting into a small moue of disgust. "Why does it not surprise me that they took medications meant to help people deal with serious mental illnesses and turned them into brainwashing drugs?"

"That's not all," Tony says. "According to their records, they were supplying the drugs to Kronas Corporation. I didn't know Kronas was even into pharmaceuticals. I thought they were all weapons and energy."

"Why do I know that name?" Steve asks, more alert than he's been for the past hour. "I've heard it before."

"They attempted a hostile takeover of Stark Industries a while back," Tony says. "They failed, of course."

At the same time, Natasha says, "Alexander Lukin is the President and CEO of Kronas Corporation."

Steve stands. "Let's go."

Natasha stands with him. Coulson and Hill frown and exchange glances; the others just look confused.

"Settle down, Captain," says Fury. "We can't just go charging off like cowboys. We need to build a case, establish a chain of evidence. Going in hot will cause an international incident, and Lukin will walk away clean."

"Bullshit," Steve barks, ignoring the shocked looks on everyone's faces. "You've never needed probable cause before, and we have an eyewitness account."

"From a known assassin and terrorist."

"From an American hero Lukin brainwashed and poisoned."

They glare at each other across the conference table, but Steve's never been cowed by powerful people who want to tell him what to do, and that includes Nick Fury.

After a few long seconds, Fury backs down, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing. "Lukin will be dealt with when we have a plan that consists of more than kicking in his door and shooting him in the head."

Natasha smiles, all sharp edges and menace. "I was thinking of using a knife, actually."

Steve's glad she's on their side.

"Go home, get some rest," Coulson says, standing and giving all of them what Steve's come to think of as his let's all be reasonable here face (it usually precedes someone getting threatened with a taser). "We'll call you when we're ready to move on Lukin." He must see the hesitation in Steve's shoulders, the mulish frown on his face, because he says, "You have my word, Captain."

"Okay," Steve says after the silence stretches long enough to be awkward. "But if I don't hear something soon, I might just take matters into my own hands." He keeps his gaze on Coulson. "And you know I will."

"I know," Coulson says. "Now go home."

*

Steve lets Tony's driver take him back to Brooklyn. He dozes while they're on the FDR and doesn't wake up until they hit the Gowanus. His eyes feel gritty and sore, and while he's not that tired physically--it takes more than a day's fighting to wear him out--he feels hollowed out after his stare-down with Fury. The need to go after Lukin is like an itch under his skin, and only Coulson's reassurance that SHIELD is working on a way to do it is keeping him from doing it on his own (well, that, and the fact that he doesn't know where Lukin is, but he's pretty sure Natasha would help him out with that one).

It's not--it doesn't make up for not saving Bucky on the train in the first place, or for the years he was tortured and used by the Red Room--nothing can--but it's something Steve can do now. In some vague way, he feels like he should be thanking Lukin for giving Bucky back to him when even he had started to believe he was truly gone.

He slips up the stairs to his apartment to find Bucky sitting in front of the television, crossword half-finished and discarded on the coffee table, along with an empty mug and a paper plate containing the uneaten crusts of three slices of pizza.

"Everything okay?" Steve asks, already stripping off his uniform on his way to the bathroom.

"It is now," Bucky answers, and Steve smiles.

He makes the shower as hot as he can handle. He can feel the tension leaching out of his shoulders as the water washes away the blood and sweat and grime of the mission. He blinks soap out of his eyes and looks at the puzzle Bucky's left for him: two words, seven letters followed by four. He doesn't even have to guess. He fills in WELCOME HOME in blue crayon, and thinks maybe he is, finally, home, or as close as he's going to get in this new century, this new world. If his choked off laugh feels more like a sob, well, Bucky never needs to know.

The hot water lasts a long time, and Steve's skin is pink and warm when he finally steps out of the shower. He wraps a towel around his waist and goes to the bedroom. Bucky's curled up on the bed, the covers hanging half off, his metal arm dull and gray on the white sheets. Steve pulls on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and crawls in next to him. He falls asleep before his head hits the pillow.

He wakes up to a mouthful of dirty hair and the heat of Bucky's back pressed against his chest. He breathes in the scent of Bucky's skin and tries to ease his body away before Bucky wakes up.

"Hey," Bucky says, eyes still closed. He nestles back against Steve, closing the space Steve tried to put between them, his rear end snug up against Steve's erection, and then his eyes fly open. "Steve?"

Steve flops over onto his back and covers his eyes with his free arm. He can feel his face heating up. He wants to say, "It's a perfectly normal physiological reaction," but he only gets out the first two words before Bucky slings a leg over his hips and kisses him.

Steve ignores the sour taste of sleep in favor of the slick heat of Bucky's tongue sliding over his to curl against the roof of his mouth, sending a deep shiver through him.

"Hey," Bucky says again, this time from about half an inch from Steve's mouth. "You okay?"

"I--Yeah. You?"

Bucky answers him with another kiss, and from there things start moving so quickly Steve wonders if he's still asleep and dreaming.

Bucky's mouth is hot and hard over his, and his hands are everywhere--the left is slightly cooler and smoother than the right, but it warms up quickly enough when Bucky strokes down over Steve's collarbone and thumbs his nipple through his t-shirt. Steve gasps and bites Bucky's lower lip in response. Bucky growls into his mouth when he returns the favor, sliding his hands up underneath the old SHIELD t-shirt Bucky sleeps in.

"Off," he says, pushing at it. "Now."

"Sir, yes, sir," Bucky answers, sitting up and tossing a lazy salute at him before tossing the shirt off over his head.

"Let me, let me look," Steve says, his hands settling on Bucky's hips, thumbs rubbing the warm skin beneath the waistband of his boxer shorts. "Oh my gosh," he says when he finally gets a look at the replica of his shield painted on Bucky's shoulder. He rolls them so he's on top, and Bucky lets him. "Why did you hide this?"

"Well, gee, Steve, I don't know. Maybe I didn't want you to know how far gone I was over you."

Steve's heart stutters. "Was?"

Bucky huffs. "Am."

That calls for another long kiss before Steve goes back to petting the metal arm, finally allowed to touch and explore as much as he wants. "Can you feel that?"

"It's like a light pressure, not really anything else." Bucky looks away. "I'm sorry."

"No, no, it's fine. It's great. It's amazing." Steve leans in to kiss the scarred, gnarled skin where it gives way to the metal, which is oddly smooth against his tongue. Bucky squirms beneath him. "Am I hurting you?"

"No, it's good." Bucky sounds strangled, but he rolls his hips, making Steve gasp in response.

"I can't believe you've had this the whole time. I can't believe you told Tony, but didn't tell me."

"I've been trying to tell you since 1942. You're a little slow on the uptake." Bucky curls metal fingers in Steve's t-shirt and pulls him in for another kiss. "I didn't think you'd ever catch on."

Steve leans back, skeptical. "But that was before--What about all those dames you were making time with?"

"You were more interested in picking fights and joining the army." Bucky shrugs. "And those dames were looking for a good time." He cocks his head and his mouth quirks in a half-grin. "You know Natasha will gut us if we ever say that in public."

"If Pepper doesn't do it first," Steve says, laughing against the stubble-rough skin of Bucky's jaw. He licks a stripe up to Bucky's ear and Bucky moans again, an open invitation; Steve bites his earlobe gently, and then kisses his cheek, his nose, the corner of his mouth. Bucky's hands move over Steve's skin, trailing sparks in their wake, and Steve pulls back long enough to shuck his own t-shirt. Bucky whistles appreciatively and Steve feels another wave of heat flood his veins, pooling low in his belly. He grinds down and Bucky pushes up against him, hot and hard even through two pairs of boxers.

"You need to take these off," he says, plucking at the waistband of Bucky's shorts.

Bucky wraps a warm hand around Steve's wrist and Steve is sure Bucky can feel the quick heavy beat of his pulse, the way his body gives away everything he's feeling even as he tries to keep his words light. "You sure this isn't moving a little too fast?"

Steve blows out an exasperated breath. "You don't think I've been wanting this as long as you have? Longer even?"

"Okay," Bucky says. "Okay." And then he uses his legs to roll them over and starts kissing his way down Steve's body.

Steve shivers and gasps, fingers digging into the firm flesh of Bucky's shoulder as Bucky pushes his boxers down and wraps a hand around his cock. Steve has to close his eyes for a moment, because for all the times he's imagined this, it's still better--hotter, more overwhelming--than he ever expected. He thrusts up into Bucky's grip, breathless and aching for friction, but Bucky just strokes him lazily once or twice. He rubs his thumb in the precome beading at the tip and spreads it around the head and then down the shaft. Steve bites back a moan and covers his mouth with his forearm.

Bucky raises his head, his eyes dark and intent. "Don't hold back, Steve. I want to hear you."

Steve lowers his arm and lets out a moan that turns into a gasping laugh as Bucky sucks kisses down the inside of his thigh. Who knew he was ticklish there? He can't catch his breath, can't find the words to tell Bucky how good it feels and how much it means. He can't stop moving, pressing up against Bucky for more, and then Bucky licks the head of his cock and Steve practically levitates off the bed.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph." It's been a long time since Steve actually prayed that fervently.

Bucky laughs, the vibration of it against the shaft of his dick setting off more shockwaves down Steve's spine. "Taking the Lord's name in vain, Captain Rogers? Gonna make you say a whole rosary for your sins by the time I'm done."

"Yes," Steve answers. "Please."

Bucky grins at him, and then he wraps his slick, red lips around Steve's cock. Steve pushes up into the wet heat of Bucky's mouth, his hands curling into fists so he doesn't grab Bucky and hurt him. Bucky seems to understand, because he takes one of Steve's hands and puts it on his head. Steve twines his fingers through the silky curls of Bucky's hair and holds on for dear life as Bucky licks and sucks until Steve thinks he's died and gone to heaven.

He wants to keep his eyes open, watch as Bucky's lips slide up and down, cheeks hollowing out as he sucks, the flat of his tongue pressed to the shaft as his mouth meets the fist he's got curled around the base. Bucky uses his left hand to hold Steve's hip in place, warm metal stroking over his hipbone, and Steve thinks fleetingly of Bucky pressing that arm against his chest, pinning him in place while he does whatever he wants to Steve's body. Desire claws its way through him, hot and needy at the images it conjures up.

He can't catch his breath and his vision starts to go fuzzy around the edges and it should be frightening, a sense-memory as old as he is, but it feels incredibly good. Bucky chooses that moment to scrape his teeth gently up the shaft, and that's it for Steve--he's gone. His climax rolls over him like the ocean, overwhelming but hot and welcoming, his whole body flooded with pleasure.

Bucky pulls off and smacks his lips, and Steve tugs on his hair. "C'mere." His voice is rusty as an unoiled hinge, weird and foreign to his ears, but Bucky smiles and shifts up his body willingly, pressing kisses to his belly, his chest, and finally, his lips.

They kiss sloppily, salt and bitter and sweet and hot mingling on their tongues. Steve reaches down into Bucky's shorts and curls a hand around his dick, strokes it slowly, learning the weight and shape of it, hot and hard and covered in soft skin against his palm. Bucky makes a choking noise and bites down hard on Steve's lower lip. Steve laughs, delighted.

"You're a real laugh riot," Bucky mutters against his cheek, thrusting up into Steve's hand, his body a beautiful curving line that Steve wants to draw and paint and devote whole wings of museums to. But not until he knows every inch of it by touch alone, can trace it in the air with his fingertips before he ever sets ink to paper. Bucky's whole body strains, and his chest heaves, and the fact that Steve is the one doing this to him is lighting Steve up like a rocket.

Bucky comes with Steve's name on his lips and Steve licks the words off his tongue, holds him while he shudders and shakes.

They slump together in a sweaty, sticky heap and Steve wants to stay there forever, the tenderness in his chest even better than the heat and pleasure of sex.

Bucky pushes his way out of the circle of Steve's arms with a muttered, "Gotta clean up."

Steve lets him go and misses his warmth for the whole three minutes he's gone. Steve folds his arms behind his head and watches Bucky pick his way across the room in the dim morning light, lean and lithe and graceful, before he flops onto the bed and starts tickling Steve. They roll around like puppies in a pile for a few minutes before they both roll over onto their backs, laughing and gasping. It's the best morning Steve remembers since--maybe forever.

He rolls his head to look at Bucky on the pillow next to him. "So Natasha's little chat with me the other day makes a little more sense now," Steve says. "It was kind of surreal. Mostly because Natasha was talking about feelings. In the middle of a fire fight."

"That sounds like her," Bucky says, laughing briefly. "That's probably the only time she talks about them." His face falls into serious lines though, and he says, "Your whole team thinks I'm going to break your heart."

"She seemed more concerned that I would break yours."

"It's nice to know someone's sticking up for me," he says, "but I think we both know which is the more likely scenario here."

"You would never hurt me intentionally," Steve replies. "Unless I asked nicely."

Bucky blinks. "Is that a possibility?"

"I--don't think so? It's just something Natasha said."

"You did go out of your way to get beat up an awful lot," Bucky muses.

Steve shoves him lightly. "I don't think that's the same thing."

"Well, let's table it for now. We can come back to it later if you want." Bucky grins and nudges him back with his shoulder--the shoulder with his shield painted on it, and Steve doesn't think he's ever going to get over that. He remembers wondering if Bucky could hold him down, so maybe there are some things he wants to try, some things that very few people could actually give him, but he doesn't really want to talk about it right now.

"Okay," he says, rolling onto his side so he can press kisses to Bucky's neck and shoulder, enjoying the way Bucky trembles at the touch. He runs his fingers over the fine cross-hatching of silvery scars over Bucky's ribs, and then follows his fingers with his tongue. Bucky twines his fingers in Steve's hair and pushes up into each touch like he's starved for it. They both are.

Bucky is cursing a blue streak, alternately begging Steve not to stop and threatening him outlandishly if he does, when Steve's phone rings.

"Mission's a go," Fury says tersely. "Is Barnes there with you?"

Steve blushes, his whole face going hot, but he thinks he sounds normal when he says, "Yes, sir."

"Then put it on speaker." Steve touches the button and sets the phone down on the pillow. Bucky raises an inquisitive eyebrow and Steve answers with a one-shoulder shrug. "Sergeant Barnes, SHIELD has evaluated your performance over the past few months and has decided you are fit for active duty."

"Thank you, sir."

"Don't thank me yet. We'll have a long conversation very soon about your role at SHIELD, but at the moment, you're being assigned to the Avengers. Report to HQ with Captain Rogers at twenty-two hundred hours tonight."

Bucky's eyes are comically wide and impossibly blue. "Yes, sir."

"You'll be briefed on your mission at that time, though I'm sure Captain Rogers can fill you in on the background ahead of time."

"Yes, sir," Steve says, and he's pretty sure Fury can hear the smile in his voice before he hangs up.

Steve tosses the phone back onto the night table and grins at Bucky, who's watching him with a shocked look on his face. "We're going after Lukin tonight," he says. He feels invincible, like for the first time in a long time, things are going to go his way. Steve doesn't know if taking Lukin down will help Bucky sleep better at night, but he wants to find out. "I thought you might want in on that."

"Hell, yeah," Bucky answers, his own smile sharper and scarier than Steve's ever seen it; the resemblance to Natasha is uncanny. "We have some unfinished business."

Steve pushes him back against the pillows and presses a kiss to the old, jagged scar low on Bucky's belly, enjoying the way Bucky's muscles jump at the touch. "I think you and I have some unfinished business of our own." And now, he thinks, they might finally get the time to take care of it.

end

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Part 1

@ DW or AO3

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