FIC: "The Smell of Sunshine" 1/1 (Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers) PG-13
Title: "The Smell of Sunshine" 1/1
Author: Brenda (azewewish)
Fandom: The Avengers/Captain America
Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All rights belong to Marvel, not me.
Summary: Bucky and Steve take some well deserved time off, and Bucky sort of fails at asking questions. Post-Winter Soldier fluff, because, hey, it's summer and these two have earned the right to kick back on a beach somewhere and do nothing.
Notes: Written for the 2014 Slashorific fic challenge. My picture prompt is here.
Sequel to In The Blur of Serenity. I'm still blaming ignipes for this.
"Heads up!"
Bucky catches the Frisbee headed for his face in mid-spin without even opening his eyes. With a slight flick of his wrist, he sends it flying back across the beach in a perfect true arc, where it's caught by a giggling group of teenagers. At least, they sound like teenagers to Bucky's ears, all high-pitched energy and awkward shrieks.
Steve (and Bucky knows it's Steve simply by the way the air just feels different when Steve's around) drops to take his place beside Bucky. "Still showing off for the dames, I see."
It's not like Steve is wrong, but Bucky just smirks in Steve's general direction. "Hate the game, not the player, Rogers."
Steve chuckles, low and throaty and the sound (as always) goes right to Bucky's cock and settles in for the duration. "You and Clint are never allowed to hang out together again."
"Whatever you say, Ma," Bucky says, and allows the smirk to get even bigger.
"You're such an ass. I have no idea why I put up with you."
Bucky shifts, unsticking his back from the soft plastic of his lounge chair. Only the cool breeze drifting in from the sea is keeping him from melting into a puddle across the sand. "Because I can do that thing with my tongue that you love so much."
"Yeah, alright, there is that," Steve agrees, all amiability and lightness.
"I hope you didn't come back empty-handed."
"You know better," Steve says and thrusts a chilled bottle in Bucky's outstretched hand. "Although you're lucky I even came back at all."
Bucky nods his thanks and uses his upper thigh as an impromptu table. The cold feels like heaven against sun-heated skin. "Yeah, why's that?"
"Well, the bartender was flirting with me, and she was really cute. Great laugh, nice eyes, liked my bad jokes..."
"I like your bad jokes. And I bet she doesn't know the tongue trick."
"I'm sure I could teach her."
"Sure you could, but why would you want to when you've got me?" Bucky finally pries his eyes open. He takes a second to blink out the sunspots, to bring the world into focus. Steve is sprawled on the lounge chair next to him, wearing navy blue swim trunks, a perfect tan, and that ridiculously goofy smile he always seems to have these days. Six foot two inches of pure masculine perfection, but all Bucky can see in that smile is the skinny, skin-kneed runt with more heart than a lion and more courage than actual sense.
And Bucky's still a fucking sucker for that skinny runt, too, no matter what body he's wearing. Still a sucker for that wide, open smile that feels like home in a way no place or time could ever compete with.
"I suppose I already do have you trained," Steve concedes, and leans over for a too-light kiss that tastes of citrus and hops.
Bucky hums a small, contented noise and takes a sip of his beer. Light, refreshing, perfect, tastes just like summer's supposed to. He watches as Steve settles back in his chair, the sun beating down mercilessly overhead in a cloudless sky. Beads of sweat roll from Steve's forehead and neck, trickle to his chest. He looks good enough to devour one big bite at a time.
But a crowded beach in Costa Rica most likely isn't an ideal spot for what he really wants to do. And, amusing as it is to contemplate, it's probably not worth the lecture from either the President or Fury if he did give in to impulse.
"I'm surprised we've had this long without anyone calling us in to save the world from destruction," he comments, watching the waves roll into the shore, children and adults alike splashing happily in the surf. The ocean is the clearest sort of blue, matches Steve's eyes. Endless and mysterious and deadly and beautiful. Bucky thinks he could get used to both the view and the sense of peace that comes with it. Maybe they could retire here, assuming they'll actually get to retire.
"We've got a week," Steve says. "Today's only the second day."
Only, like the past forty-eight hours haven't been a fucking miracle, Bucky thinks. "I didn't think we'd get twelve hours, let alone two days."
"I don't think facing my wrath or yours is really the hill most people - not even Nick or Tony - want to die on. We made it pretty clear we wouldn't take kindly to being disturbed. I'm just glad they're taking us seriously."
"You seem inordinately pleased with yourself," Bucky chuckles.
Steve's grin grows wolfish. "We have well-earned reputations for a reason. It's good to remind people of that every once in awhile."
"You should threaten people more often." He glances at Steve out of the corner of his eye. "It's kinda hot."
"If you say so," Steve replies, and there it is, just like clockwork. A faint flush that's got nothing to do with the heat of the mid-day sun creeps across his cheeks. As long as Bucky lives, he will never get tired of making Steve blush.
"Definitely," Bucky confirms, and they finish their beers in comfortable silence.
"Oh, the bartender invited us to a bonfire party thing later, if you wanted to check it out," Steve says, after awhile. His voice is all thick and lazy, sort of the way he tends to sound after a few rounds of really athletic sex. Bucky's pretty sure his reaction to hearing it is hard-wired (pun intended) into his system at this point.
"Maybe." But probably not. Bucky's feeling too sluggish to go anywhere or do anything that's not heading back to their frankly way too opulent hotel suite with its way too opulent bed and putting another good-sized dent in their lube supply.
"You really are taking this whole vacation thing to heart, aren't you?"
Bucky lolls his head so he can look at Steve. "Remind me the last time we actually had one. And you laid up sick before the serum or one of us recovering from an injury in the hospital doesn't count."
"We had those three days in Paris in '44," Steve replies, eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiles. His hair is a sticky blond mess, looks like he'd run his fingers through it one too many times. "Does that count?"
Buck grins in remembrance. He and Steve had never particularly thrown their relationship in anyone's face during the War. (Back home had been different. Their area of Brooklyn had been somewhat of a queer haven, and no one had batted an eye at two fellas holding hands or even living together in a one-bedroom walk-up.) But they'd always been pretty careful once they'd put the Commandos together and had gone hunting for Hydra bases across Europe. Sure, they'd shared a tent and sure, there had been stolen moments here or there, but there hadn't been time for much in the way of physical intimacy, what with Schmidt and Zola to bring down and a war to win and all. And besides, Steve had been real sweet on Peggy Carter (not that Bucky had blamed him at all, because she was grade A through and through), with Bucky doing his level best to encourage that interest. God knows Steve had deserved - still deserves - all the happiness the world can scrape together for him, and Bucky's never been the jealous type.
But Paris had been a different story, and not just because Carter hadn't been around for it. (Bucky forgets exactly where she'd been, London maybe or back in the States securing more funding from that one senator who'd seemed to think he and Steve were friends.) He does remember that their last operation had been harder than usual and every one of the guys had been strung out and on edge, needed a few days just to regroup and remember to breathe air that wasn't thick with ash or didn't stink of death. And Steve had gone to bat with the Colonel to make sure they'd gotten it, too.
"Did we ever even leave the bed?" Bucky asks, because if they did, he doesn't recall it. All he remembers is ripping Steve's uniform off of him and running his hands over every inch of Steve's body, taking comfort in its newfound strength, its lack of scars or marks. He remembers Steve's breath in his ear, the frantic rush of movement as they'd fallen onto the too-small bed, both of them impatient and rough, remembers biting kisses and the push/pull of callused hands on skin and wondering if they could stay locked away in their little room for the rest of the war.
Steve's lips press together in thought. "Well, we went to that burlesque joint one night with Gabe and Dernier..."
"Oh yeah, yeah, you're right, we did," Bucky nods, pleased with himself that it's coming back to him now. "Joint was all done up in red velvet, and all the dancers had great legs and really big...smiles."
Steve snorts. "Pretty sure no one was looking at their faces, Buck. Least of all you."
"I remember yours was about as red as the curtains when you got a good look at what all they weren't wearing," Bucky replies, amused. "One woulda thought you'd've gotten used to seeing naked breasts during your USO days."
"I keep telling you it wasn't like that."
"And I keep telling you that you wasted a prime opportunity."
Steve nudges Bucky's leg with his foot. "I didn't say I was a monk."
"Good, because I know I taught you better," Bucky says.
"Yeah, yeah," Steve says, but he's still smiling. "Anyway, aside from that night, I don't remember leaving the room, no. We were kinda occupied."
"If by occupied, you mean fucking each other's brains out, sure." Bucky lets out a long, lusty sigh at the memory. And, if he is remembering right (it's still a hit or miss thing these days sometimes), that was the last true time that they'd had alone together before...
Well, before.
His metal fingers find Steve's, squeeze, feels the heat and strength in Steve's grip transfer to him, warming him from the inside out. "We should do that again."
"Not leave the bed for three days or visit a burlesque club?" Steve asks, confused.
"Not see Paris," Bucky corrects, and brings the back of Steve's hand to his lips for a quick, rough kiss. "Maybe for our honeymoon. People still honeymoon in Paris these days, right?"
Steve's breath hitches. His eyes look impossibly wide and blue. Bucky can feel the rapid flutter of his pulse where their wrists are touching. "Buck? Are you -?"
"Don't look so shocked. I'd've asked back in '42 if it had been legal. Maybe even before then." Sure, Bucky's loved other people, and he knows Steve has, but there's never really been anyone else for him except Steve. Brighter than the sun overhead, a truer compass than the North Star and everything good in this world that's worth fighting for.
Steve's eyes soften. He takes a long, deep breath, and exhales. And the look that comes over his face - indulgent and affectionate and exasperated all at once - is as familiar as it gets. A look Bucky's seen a million times, and God willing, will see at least a million more. "You still haven't actually asked, you know."
Bucky laughs, sharp and surprised, and shakes his head. Still the same old Steve, alright. "Such a fucking sap. We're on a gorgeous bit of beach and I'm holding your hand and talking honeymooning in Paris and laying my poor battered heart at your feet and that's still not enough romance for you."
"What can I say, I'm an old-fashioned kinda guy," Steve replies, returning the grin. "But you could always get down on one knee."
Bucky raises an eyebrow. "Pal, I get down on my knees right now, we're gonna get arrested for an indecent act, national icons or not."
Steve clears his throat and shifts. His swim trunks do nothing to hide how much the thought doesn't repulse him. "Alright, scratch the one knee thing. But, seriously, you want to -"
"What, make an honest man out of you finally?" Bucky jokes, even though he's sure he's never been more serious about anything in his life. "You're already the most honest person I know. What if what I'm aiming for is for you to make an honest man out of me?"
Steve scoots closer. So close Bucky can count the freckles dotting both of his cheeks. "You're the best and bravest person I've ever met. You don't need me for that. But, if you wanna...I mean, if you're sure -"
Bucky cuts him off. "I've always been sure of you."
"Me too," Steve replies softly, and that's all the answer Bucky's ever needed.
A wild, wide swell of happiness surges in his chest, expands with every fast beat of his heart. He can't remember the last time he's ever felt this way, or if he ever has at all. But now that he has, he's taking this feeling with both hands and no way in hell is he letting go.
"We deserve this," he says, low and fierce, all but choking on the words. After so much time, so much bloodshed and darkness, they've more than earned the right to take this for themselves and for each other.
"You're goddamn right we do," Steve answers, just as fierce, and he looks just like Bucky feels. Defiant and elated and disbelieving all at once.
"Soon as we get back Stateside," Bucky promises, and they bump noses, laughing, when they kiss. It tastes a lot like relief. Like something they should have done a long, long time ago.
"Deal," Steve says, when they part. Then a speculative gleam starts to shine in his eyes, and Bucky is deeply, deeply interested in that look and the promise it holds. "But if you wanted to - you know, assuming you're not too busy and all - get in some practice for the honeymoon, I've got some free time right now."
With a speed that surprises even himself, Bucky scrambles to his feet, pulls Steve up with him. They fit against each other, sweat-slick and sun-warmed, as perfect as always. "I like the way you think, Rogers."
Steve laces their fingers together, and his smile is dazzlingly bright. "That's why I'm the smart one, Barnes."
***
Author: Brenda (azewewish)
Fandom: The Avengers/Captain America
Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All rights belong to Marvel, not me.
Summary: Bucky and Steve take some well deserved time off, and Bucky sort of fails at asking questions. Post-Winter Soldier fluff, because, hey, it's summer and these two have earned the right to kick back on a beach somewhere and do nothing.
Notes: Written for the 2014 Slashorific fic challenge. My picture prompt is here.
Sequel to In The Blur of Serenity. I'm still blaming ignipes for this.
"Heads up!"
Bucky catches the Frisbee headed for his face in mid-spin without even opening his eyes. With a slight flick of his wrist, he sends it flying back across the beach in a perfect true arc, where it's caught by a giggling group of teenagers. At least, they sound like teenagers to Bucky's ears, all high-pitched energy and awkward shrieks.
Steve (and Bucky knows it's Steve simply by the way the air just feels different when Steve's around) drops to take his place beside Bucky. "Still showing off for the dames, I see."
It's not like Steve is wrong, but Bucky just smirks in Steve's general direction. "Hate the game, not the player, Rogers."
Steve chuckles, low and throaty and the sound (as always) goes right to Bucky's cock and settles in for the duration. "You and Clint are never allowed to hang out together again."
"Whatever you say, Ma," Bucky says, and allows the smirk to get even bigger.
"You're such an ass. I have no idea why I put up with you."
Bucky shifts, unsticking his back from the soft plastic of his lounge chair. Only the cool breeze drifting in from the sea is keeping him from melting into a puddle across the sand. "Because I can do that thing with my tongue that you love so much."
"Yeah, alright, there is that," Steve agrees, all amiability and lightness.
"I hope you didn't come back empty-handed."
"You know better," Steve says and thrusts a chilled bottle in Bucky's outstretched hand. "Although you're lucky I even came back at all."
Bucky nods his thanks and uses his upper thigh as an impromptu table. The cold feels like heaven against sun-heated skin. "Yeah, why's that?"
"Well, the bartender was flirting with me, and she was really cute. Great laugh, nice eyes, liked my bad jokes..."
"I like your bad jokes. And I bet she doesn't know the tongue trick."
"I'm sure I could teach her."
"Sure you could, but why would you want to when you've got me?" Bucky finally pries his eyes open. He takes a second to blink out the sunspots, to bring the world into focus. Steve is sprawled on the lounge chair next to him, wearing navy blue swim trunks, a perfect tan, and that ridiculously goofy smile he always seems to have these days. Six foot two inches of pure masculine perfection, but all Bucky can see in that smile is the skinny, skin-kneed runt with more heart than a lion and more courage than actual sense.
And Bucky's still a fucking sucker for that skinny runt, too, no matter what body he's wearing. Still a sucker for that wide, open smile that feels like home in a way no place or time could ever compete with.
"I suppose I already do have you trained," Steve concedes, and leans over for a too-light kiss that tastes of citrus and hops.
Bucky hums a small, contented noise and takes a sip of his beer. Light, refreshing, perfect, tastes just like summer's supposed to. He watches as Steve settles back in his chair, the sun beating down mercilessly overhead in a cloudless sky. Beads of sweat roll from Steve's forehead and neck, trickle to his chest. He looks good enough to devour one big bite at a time.
But a crowded beach in Costa Rica most likely isn't an ideal spot for what he really wants to do. And, amusing as it is to contemplate, it's probably not worth the lecture from either the President or Fury if he did give in to impulse.
"I'm surprised we've had this long without anyone calling us in to save the world from destruction," he comments, watching the waves roll into the shore, children and adults alike splashing happily in the surf. The ocean is the clearest sort of blue, matches Steve's eyes. Endless and mysterious and deadly and beautiful. Bucky thinks he could get used to both the view and the sense of peace that comes with it. Maybe they could retire here, assuming they'll actually get to retire.
"We've got a week," Steve says. "Today's only the second day."
Only, like the past forty-eight hours haven't been a fucking miracle, Bucky thinks. "I didn't think we'd get twelve hours, let alone two days."
"I don't think facing my wrath or yours is really the hill most people - not even Nick or Tony - want to die on. We made it pretty clear we wouldn't take kindly to being disturbed. I'm just glad they're taking us seriously."
"You seem inordinately pleased with yourself," Bucky chuckles.
Steve's grin grows wolfish. "We have well-earned reputations for a reason. It's good to remind people of that every once in awhile."
"You should threaten people more often." He glances at Steve out of the corner of his eye. "It's kinda hot."
"If you say so," Steve replies, and there it is, just like clockwork. A faint flush that's got nothing to do with the heat of the mid-day sun creeps across his cheeks. As long as Bucky lives, he will never get tired of making Steve blush.
"Definitely," Bucky confirms, and they finish their beers in comfortable silence.
"Oh, the bartender invited us to a bonfire party thing later, if you wanted to check it out," Steve says, after awhile. His voice is all thick and lazy, sort of the way he tends to sound after a few rounds of really athletic sex. Bucky's pretty sure his reaction to hearing it is hard-wired (pun intended) into his system at this point.
"Maybe." But probably not. Bucky's feeling too sluggish to go anywhere or do anything that's not heading back to their frankly way too opulent hotel suite with its way too opulent bed and putting another good-sized dent in their lube supply.
"You really are taking this whole vacation thing to heart, aren't you?"
Bucky lolls his head so he can look at Steve. "Remind me the last time we actually had one. And you laid up sick before the serum or one of us recovering from an injury in the hospital doesn't count."
"We had those three days in Paris in '44," Steve replies, eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiles. His hair is a sticky blond mess, looks like he'd run his fingers through it one too many times. "Does that count?"
Buck grins in remembrance. He and Steve had never particularly thrown their relationship in anyone's face during the War. (Back home had been different. Their area of Brooklyn had been somewhat of a queer haven, and no one had batted an eye at two fellas holding hands or even living together in a one-bedroom walk-up.) But they'd always been pretty careful once they'd put the Commandos together and had gone hunting for Hydra bases across Europe. Sure, they'd shared a tent and sure, there had been stolen moments here or there, but there hadn't been time for much in the way of physical intimacy, what with Schmidt and Zola to bring down and a war to win and all. And besides, Steve had been real sweet on Peggy Carter (not that Bucky had blamed him at all, because she was grade A through and through), with Bucky doing his level best to encourage that interest. God knows Steve had deserved - still deserves - all the happiness the world can scrape together for him, and Bucky's never been the jealous type.
But Paris had been a different story, and not just because Carter hadn't been around for it. (Bucky forgets exactly where she'd been, London maybe or back in the States securing more funding from that one senator who'd seemed to think he and Steve were friends.) He does remember that their last operation had been harder than usual and every one of the guys had been strung out and on edge, needed a few days just to regroup and remember to breathe air that wasn't thick with ash or didn't stink of death. And Steve had gone to bat with the Colonel to make sure they'd gotten it, too.
"Did we ever even leave the bed?" Bucky asks, because if they did, he doesn't recall it. All he remembers is ripping Steve's uniform off of him and running his hands over every inch of Steve's body, taking comfort in its newfound strength, its lack of scars or marks. He remembers Steve's breath in his ear, the frantic rush of movement as they'd fallen onto the too-small bed, both of them impatient and rough, remembers biting kisses and the push/pull of callused hands on skin and wondering if they could stay locked away in their little room for the rest of the war.
Steve's lips press together in thought. "Well, we went to that burlesque joint one night with Gabe and Dernier..."
"Oh yeah, yeah, you're right, we did," Bucky nods, pleased with himself that it's coming back to him now. "Joint was all done up in red velvet, and all the dancers had great legs and really big...smiles."
Steve snorts. "Pretty sure no one was looking at their faces, Buck. Least of all you."
"I remember yours was about as red as the curtains when you got a good look at what all they weren't wearing," Bucky replies, amused. "One woulda thought you'd've gotten used to seeing naked breasts during your USO days."
"I keep telling you it wasn't like that."
"And I keep telling you that you wasted a prime opportunity."
Steve nudges Bucky's leg with his foot. "I didn't say I was a monk."
"Good, because I know I taught you better," Bucky says.
"Yeah, yeah," Steve says, but he's still smiling. "Anyway, aside from that night, I don't remember leaving the room, no. We were kinda occupied."
"If by occupied, you mean fucking each other's brains out, sure." Bucky lets out a long, lusty sigh at the memory. And, if he is remembering right (it's still a hit or miss thing these days sometimes), that was the last true time that they'd had alone together before...
Well, before.
His metal fingers find Steve's, squeeze, feels the heat and strength in Steve's grip transfer to him, warming him from the inside out. "We should do that again."
"Not leave the bed for three days or visit a burlesque club?" Steve asks, confused.
"Not see Paris," Bucky corrects, and brings the back of Steve's hand to his lips for a quick, rough kiss. "Maybe for our honeymoon. People still honeymoon in Paris these days, right?"
Steve's breath hitches. His eyes look impossibly wide and blue. Bucky can feel the rapid flutter of his pulse where their wrists are touching. "Buck? Are you -?"
"Don't look so shocked. I'd've asked back in '42 if it had been legal. Maybe even before then." Sure, Bucky's loved other people, and he knows Steve has, but there's never really been anyone else for him except Steve. Brighter than the sun overhead, a truer compass than the North Star and everything good in this world that's worth fighting for.
Steve's eyes soften. He takes a long, deep breath, and exhales. And the look that comes over his face - indulgent and affectionate and exasperated all at once - is as familiar as it gets. A look Bucky's seen a million times, and God willing, will see at least a million more. "You still haven't actually asked, you know."
Bucky laughs, sharp and surprised, and shakes his head. Still the same old Steve, alright. "Such a fucking sap. We're on a gorgeous bit of beach and I'm holding your hand and talking honeymooning in Paris and laying my poor battered heart at your feet and that's still not enough romance for you."
"What can I say, I'm an old-fashioned kinda guy," Steve replies, returning the grin. "But you could always get down on one knee."
Bucky raises an eyebrow. "Pal, I get down on my knees right now, we're gonna get arrested for an indecent act, national icons or not."
Steve clears his throat and shifts. His swim trunks do nothing to hide how much the thought doesn't repulse him. "Alright, scratch the one knee thing. But, seriously, you want to -"
"What, make an honest man out of you finally?" Bucky jokes, even though he's sure he's never been more serious about anything in his life. "You're already the most honest person I know. What if what I'm aiming for is for you to make an honest man out of me?"
Steve scoots closer. So close Bucky can count the freckles dotting both of his cheeks. "You're the best and bravest person I've ever met. You don't need me for that. But, if you wanna...I mean, if you're sure -"
Bucky cuts him off. "I've always been sure of you."
"Me too," Steve replies softly, and that's all the answer Bucky's ever needed.
A wild, wide swell of happiness surges in his chest, expands with every fast beat of his heart. He can't remember the last time he's ever felt this way, or if he ever has at all. But now that he has, he's taking this feeling with both hands and no way in hell is he letting go.
"We deserve this," he says, low and fierce, all but choking on the words. After so much time, so much bloodshed and darkness, they've more than earned the right to take this for themselves and for each other.
"You're goddamn right we do," Steve answers, just as fierce, and he looks just like Bucky feels. Defiant and elated and disbelieving all at once.
"Soon as we get back Stateside," Bucky promises, and they bump noses, laughing, when they kiss. It tastes a lot like relief. Like something they should have done a long, long time ago.
"Deal," Steve says, when they part. Then a speculative gleam starts to shine in his eyes, and Bucky is deeply, deeply interested in that look and the promise it holds. "But if you wanted to - you know, assuming you're not too busy and all - get in some practice for the honeymoon, I've got some free time right now."
With a speed that surprises even himself, Bucky scrambles to his feet, pulls Steve up with him. They fit against each other, sweat-slick and sun-warmed, as perfect as always. "I like the way you think, Rogers."
Steve laces their fingers together, and his smile is dazzlingly bright. "That's why I'm the smart one, Barnes."
***