Chapter 8: Bewitched, bothered and bewildered am I
The next morning, Bucky stumbles downstairs, cursing and grumbling, when the doorbell rings at ass o'clock, only to find out that Stark has sent them a priority package filled with - cross Bucky's heart and hope to die, stick a needle in Stark's eye - spangled condoms.
"WHIPPED THESE UP IN THE LAB LAST NIGHT," writes Stark. "SHOULD BE GOOD ENOUGH TO HANDLE EVEN A SUPER SOLDIER. THANK ME BY NOT GIVING ME THE DETAILS."
"It's fine!" Bucky hollers up the stairs, after his scream of outrage wakes Steve and sends him running to the landing. Bucky stashes the box under the sofa and stomps back upstairs. "Everything's fine. Just wondering why I never kicked Howard Stark so his balls vacated through his nose."
"What?" Steve's eyes are wide. "What excuse did Howard give you for that?"
"Birth," Bucky snaps.
"Bucky, come on, men don't give - oh." Steve stops. "What did he do?"
"Nothing. A joke. It's not funny." Bucky blows out his breath. "And for the record, I'd planned on waking up a lot nicer than this, so I'm sorry."
"Gee, Bucky, crabby in the mornings? I'm not sure I can handle the shock." Steve grins at him, and damn him to heaven, the knot of fear and anger in Bucky's chest loosens, just a little. "C'mon, come back to bed."
Bucky trips over his feet and nearly falls down the stairs in his hurry.
He tells Steve later, after they spend a few hours in bed, talking and dozing off in the middle of the conversation and starting back up when they crawl back awake. It's a rare thing for Steve to be this lazy in the mornings, but he's still on medication and it makes him a little woozy. Bucky isn't complaining, that's for sure.
"Oh," Steve says, his face pinching around the nose, and he sighs. "Oh, Tony. I know this is going to sound stupid, but he was just trying to help."
Bucky gives Steve a flat look. He likes the Avengers fine, sure, and any group of guys that Nat can hang out with and not immediately murder has to be good for something, but he's not used to them. They're not the Commandos. Bucky hasn't gone toe to toe with these people in a firefight; he doesn't know they have his back, isn't as comfortable with the knowledge of how they move in a fight and who can protect him when like he was with the boys in the war. You never really know someone until you're with them in the trenches, and these guys, well, they haven't been tested. Not yet.
"It's how he deals with things," Steve says, waving a hand. "Giving presents. The more expensive, the better, and if they get to be inappropriate or embarrassing, well, that's a bonus, because it means the recipient is less likely to talk about it and that means no messy feelings for him. It's - a good sign. Really."
"Well, I hope you won't mind if I'm still gonna be a bit offended," Bucky says, and he focuses on the fact that they're having this discussion in bed - their bed - together, with a plate of sliced fruit between them because neither of them felt like getting up long enough to cook. It takes some of the sting off. "I just - I'm not that kinda guy, okay, first night? Really?"
Steve laughs, startled but genuine. "Really? Because I think I know a few girls who might have something to say about that."
"Well, yeah, but only if that's all it was and we both knew going in," Bucky says, unexpectedly nettled. Steve gives him a look then, soft and fond and knowing way too much, and Bucky glances away. "I didn't do that if it was going to be serious. You - yeah, you toss back shots like nothing, but if you get yourself a nice bottle of wine, you take it slow."
"I'm not sure about that metaphor, but I'll take it," Steve says, and he squeezes Bucky's knee through the blanket. "I get it, I do. And for what it's worth, I agree." He lets out a breath. "I know everything - now, I mean - moves so fast, but." And now at least it's not just Bucky who's nervous, which should make him feel better but doesn't, really. Steve picks at a loose seam on the blanket, pulling it until the fabric puckers and the thread kinks. "Just in case you were, uh, concerned - I want to take this slow but it's not because I'm not sure. I can promise you that."
"I don't need you to promise me anything, but I'll take that too," Bucky says, and Steve relaxes and spears the last piece of pineapple. It's whole, from an actual fruit that they bought and sliced and ate, just like that - no cans, no syrup, no rations - and the first time they went overboard and got mouth ulcers the next day. Bucky didn't even know that was possible.
"You want to take a walk later?" Steve asks him. "Not to go anywhere, just get outside. I could use the exercise."
Bucky snorts. "You spent all of yesterday getting tossed around the city and getting punched by the creations of a madman," he says. "And now you want exercise."
"I didn't say I wanted a marathon, I said I want to go on a walk," Steve says. "With you."
Oh. Right. Bucky wonders if everyone in maybe-relationships feels like they got hit in the chest all the time, or if this is just him. If it's everyone, it's kind of amazing that humans have managed to reproduce enough for a global overpopulation problem.
Steve shakes his head, grinning, and Bucky feels the ever-mature urge to hide under the covers. "Fine, let's walk," Bucky says, and he rakes his gaze across Steve, sleep-rumpled and gorgeous, and something sticks in his throat. "But only if you don't comb your hair."
"What?" Steve goes cross-eyed trying to look past his own eyebrows, and Bucky grins.
"Your hair. You still comb it like you're waiting for inspection or Sunday School. You're a grown man, have a little pride."
Steve gawks at him. "What part of being an adult means I shouldn't take care of myself?"
"You iron your shorts," Bucky says, and mimes throwing a dart straight at a bulls-eye.
"I don't! Not anymore!"
"You do. You get up early so I won't see you and make fun, but Steve, I've known you since we were kids and I might be screwed six ways to Sunday now, but I still like laughing, and I'm not gonna miss an opportunity like that." Bucky grins, lazy, and he leans back against the pillow. He catches the now-empty plate with his foot and transfers it to the ground. They took out all that assassin stuff from his head, thank God, but the reflexes will stay forever. Steve watches him with a dubious expression. "Plus your pjs have creases down the front. You make me feel underdressed when we're sleeping."
Steve makes a face at him. "There's no reason not to take care of yourself!" he snaps, defensive, and they've had this argument a hundred times, in another era, and the familiarity and the strangeness both wrap Bucky like a blanket that's a little too warm and maybe a bit itchy. "Dressing nicely just means you respect the other person enough to make an effort."
Bucky laughs this time, bright and unreserved, and before he can think too hard about it, he catches Steve's arm and tugs him down, kissing him just like that. Steve blinks at him, pleased, but still wary. He knows when a punch line is coming. "So you're dressing to impress me in bed, is that what you're saying?"
"Well," Steve says, and this isn't his area of expertise by any means but he did pick it up, having the friends he did. "Apparently I have themed condoms. May as well complete the ensemble."
Bucky has no idea how to react to that, and so he kisses Steve again.
Eventually Steve pulls back, eyes vaguely glassy, and he slaps Bucky on the chest. "Up," he says, his voice all Captain. "Walk."
Bucky groans. "Sir, yes sir," he says, rolling over and trying to suffocate himself with the pillow. Turns out that giving himself free rein to think about certain things meant the emergence of a problem that he hadn't had to deal with in, oh, a long, long time.
Steve coughs. "You shower first," he says, getting up and picking up the plate and the empty glasses of orange juice to take downstairs. "I'll do the dishes, so take your time."
"Thanks," Bucky says, unable to hold back the sarcasm, and Steve at least has the decency to look chagrined.
"Not forever," Steve reminds him, and he gives Bucky a long look that's mostly uncertain and a little shy, but with just enough of something deeper, darker, that oh yeah, Bucky's gonna need to take his time all right. "I'll meet you downstairs."
"Yes sir," Bucky says again, but the words taste funny this time, and Steve's grin quirks before he leaves.
As a rule, Bucky doesn't like uncharted territory. He's not born and bred a soldier or anything, but there's something about wartime that brings everything into sharp, terrifying clarity: do this or you die. Don't do this and more people die. New horizons are just unsettling. It's not like it was better to know that getting caught holding hands with a guy meant a broken nose if you're lucky, but at least you knew where you stood. This new world where everything is apparently fine is kind of terrifying.
Still, as far as they go, this one is pretty good. Steve slides his hand around Bucky's waist and kisses him once when they're at the door, getting their shoes on, and it hits Bucky that this could very well be his life now. He thinks he could get used to it.
Classic mistake, really.
As soon as they step outside, blinking into the late morning sun, and hop down the steps into the street, Bucky freezes. It's similar to the way the Winter Soldier sometimes takes over his brain, turns his muscles to steel and his mind to a hair trigger, but not quite. An older lady with a walker and a gigantic, grey-whiskered dog shuffles by and bids them a cheery good morning, and Bucky's breath rasps in his throat.
"Bucky?" Steve asks, and he's close, way too close, and his fingers are on Bucky's arm.
Bucky jerks away and puts space between them before he even realizes what just happened. "Sorry," he says, but he can't make himself narrow the gap. "Sorry. Just. I know it's okay, you've told me and I've seen it, just. I feel like everybody knows."
"I'm pretty sure there's no neon sign or anything above our heads now," Steve says, but he's Steve and he respects Bucky's boundaries, just puts his hands in his pockets and strolls along as though Bucky hasn't just acted like he's worrying about contracting the plague. "For the record, I wasn't going to - well, I mean, nothing we haven't done already for years, that's all."
Bucky glances over at Steve, who keeps his expression neutral. Steve left his hair mussed when he left, didn't comb it to its usual Sunday best, and he's amazing. He's amazing and Bucky is one giant tangle of neuroses on legs, neuroses he didn't even know he had until they knocked him to the ground. "I know, I'm sorry."
"Don't." Steve's hand twitches like he was about to touch Bucky in reassurance - as they always did, as kids and right through to the end, and it didn't mean anything except it did, it did and Bucky just lied to himself for years, but now he's stopped lying and that has to mean something - but he stops himself. "Don't apologize, it's okay. I didn't mean to push you."
"You didn't, it's fine, I'm just, I don't know." Bucky starts with the number three and counts up by squares. His brain handles even numbers better than odd, so this is a bit more of a challenge, and it helps him fight the rising panic. "I don't even know what's wrong. You said it's fine. I've seen it be fine. Marriage, parades, all of that, it's just."
"It's just that last year it was '42," Steve says. "Or, well, some weird mix-up of the years in between for you, but I know what it's like. It's weird for me too."
"Okay." Bucky mocks Steve for his tendency to apologize overmuch, yet now he has to bite back another of his own. "I guess a walk was a bad idea after all."
Steve shakes his head and stops at a corner stand for a newspaper, tucks it under his arm. "It's fine," he says firmly, stressing the word. "Don't, let's not even talk about it, not here. Do you want to go back home?"
Yes, Bucky thinks. Yes, yes, yes, the word and the desire pounding in his chest, but no. It won't help. Everything is easier at home, with nobody but bored SHIELD goons watching; it's easy to pretend it's just him and Steve and the rest of the world has gone to hell. It's simple and clear and nothing challenges him, and as soon as they get home and he can press his face into Steve's neck and breathe him in, feel Steve's fingers in his hair and his lips against Bucky's temple then everything else will fall away. Then Bucky will go outside again and this will start from scratch.
"Not yet," Bucky says, squaring his shoulders and shifting into military posture. He sees Steve's gaze flick over him and knows he hasn't missed the change, but everyone copes the way they can. "Haven't changed my mind," he says, just for good measure, and his throat tightens.
"Thought never even crossed mine," says Steve, quiet and warm, and Bucky thinks something that might be I love you and might be I don't deserve you, but either way he's not sure because he stamps it down. Talk about not helpful.
"Thanks," Bucky says instead, and Steve smiles but keeps looking straight ahead.
It's irrational, but of course fears often are, and that doesn't help anything. There's no reason for Bucky to ratchet back, to pull himself tighter and further from Steve than he ever did when things were unacknowledged between them and their surroundings more dangerous. He only hopes he'll work out whatever the hell is wrong with his head so they can fix this mess.
They make it to Prospect Park and are walking the perimeter when Steve chuckles to himself and stops. "What?" Bucky asks, but Steve just turns and waves. Bucky doesn't see anyone until he realizes he's looking too high off the ground, and a little boy maybe five years old darts behind his mother's legs. Steve grins and jogs over, Bucky following in his wake.
"Josh," the mother hisses, clearly embarrassed. "It's not him." She stands up straight and gives Steve an apologetic look. "I'm really sorry, it's just, he thinks -" She cuts herself off, not even wanting to say it out loud.
Steve drops down to his knees, crouching so he's at eye level, instead of bending at the waist and looming like people who aren't good with kids usually do. Bucky stands back, a small smile on his face, because while it took him a second, he gets it now. It just took him a second because Bucky was never out with Captain America when they weren't on the battleground or at a bar.
"Hey there," Steve says, and he sounds friendly and encouraging and not at all condescending. "You know who I am?"
The boy nods, one finger in his mouth. "You're Captain America," he says, shooting his mother a defiant look.
"You're absolutely right," Steve says, and the boy gasps. His mother's eyes widen, then narrow, and Bucky sees her start to wonder if this is just some handsome creep taking advantage of her kid. Bucky gives her thirty seconds, max.
"Where's your suit?" the boy whispers.
"Well, that's the thing. Sometimes I'm just a regular guy. But you bet if there's trouble I'd put it on." Steve winks at him, then digs into his wallet and takes out his official SHIELD ID, the one with his name and alias underneath it. He actually lets the boy hold it, and it honestly looks like the kid just had Christmas all over again. His mother chokes, then looks ashamed.
They chat for a while, about what the boy wants to be when he grows up (an astronaut, or maybe a subway train conductor, or Captain America's sidekick) and what things he has trouble with (reading, and listening to his mom when she tells him it's time to go to bed or that he has to eat his spinach) and what he's scared of (thunderstorms and big dogs). Steve tells him that he'd be glad to have him as a sidekick if he's still serious when he's older, that he should listen to his mom about both bedtime and spinach but that maybe he could ask her to cook it in things so he doesn't notice, and that he doesn't need to be scared of thunder because it just means Thor is flying around the sky protecting the Earth but that sometimes big dogs are scary and it's a good idea to ask their owner first.
After awhile the kid looks up at Bucky, and he squints, obviously trying to fit him into his mental slots for the Avengers. "Are you a superhero too?" he asks.
"Josh," says his mother, but Bucky waves her off with a grin.
"You bet," Steve says before Bucky can answer, and he glances up with a placating expression. Bucky doesn't roll his eyes, but only barely. C'mon, just because he has massive guilt issues over being an assassin-for-hire doesn't mean he's going to tell that to a kid.
"What's your superpower?" the boy asks.
Bucky glances around, and what the hell, he was a kid once, and he damn well could've used a hero. He pulls his glove loose and lets the kid see the glint of metal. "I use this," he says. "It's good for all kinds of stuff. But it's a secret, so don't go telling folks you saw it."
"I promise!" he says, wide-eyed, and Steve talks to him a little bit more, gives him advice on bullying and what to do when his sister makes him mad, and finally his mom drags him away after taking a few pictures with her cell phone.
Bucky shakes his head. "You and kids," he says. It comes from growing up in the orphanage and knowing what it's like to be young and starving for any scrap of attention or validation from adults, but it's not just that. Lots of kids grew up in orphanages, and lots of them turned out mean. Lots of them turned out okay but with no real affinity for children, either, like Bucky. Steve really is some kind of magic.
"I like them," Steve says, smiling.
"Do you want them?" Bucky asks, the question settling uncomfortably in his stomach.
Back in the Depression, before the shades of war, before Hitler's name became as common as Wonder Bread and Pearl Harbour hung over the heads of every able-bodied American and the war consumed everyone's thoughts - back instead when Bucky worked any job he could and Steve did odd jobs that chafed him because they were only given out of pity by people who wanted to help the nice young orphan with all those health problems - Bucky had thought about their future. He knew that the things he didn't think about would never happen, and the best he could hope for was that he and Steve settled down with nice girls and bought houses next to each other and raised their kids as best friends. He'd seen himself vaguely, then, tossing a ball back and forth and teaching his son to hate the Giants, and while Bucky had absolutely no idea about his parents or what raising a kid might be like, he thought maybe that wouldn't be too bad.
Then the war, and once Bucky had looked into the eyes of a man through his sniper scope and fired, precise and straight into his brain, he knew he'd never, ever be able to be responsible for the life and upbringing of a kid. Guys came back from war and raised kids all the time, but sometimes they came back mean or drunk or quiet or all of the above, and while Bucky knew he'd have Steve to pull him through it, he knew he couldn't do that. Now with the Winter Soldier in his head it's only more apparent.
Steve, though.
"I don't know," Steve says, and he's taken a minute to answer the question. He looks out over the park at the kids with their parents. At least, based on what Bucky's seen, it's not a stupid, impossible question for him to ask. Not these days, not if that couple with the cell phone and the ice cream and stroller mean anything, which really kind of blows Bucky's mind - how are two guys supposed to raise a daughter, he's pretty sure he'd run screaming - but in a good way. "It was never really - I don't know."
"Sorry," Bucky says, because Steve's not any better off than Bucky is, at the end of the day.
"It's okay, I just don't think it's a good idea." Steve glances at him, gives Bucky a wry smile. "Besides, Captain America should be for all the kids, not just one, right? It would be selfish."
He can't identify the reason, but Steve's answer sticks in Bucky's throat, and he has to fight the urge to grab him and haul him in for a headlock-hug combo, right there in the park. Before he would've done it and thought nothing of it, but now he freezes. "Food?" Bucky asks finally, because hell's bells.
"Food," Steve agrees.
They find a small diner - they probably should expand their repertoire to other kinds of food, they're sitting in the culture capital of America in the future, but screw that, this is America and Bucky can do what he wants - and sit at a booth in the corner. They sit across from each other, and nobody even looks at them funny but Bucky still can't help glancing around to make absolutely sure.
This, though, this is ridiculous. They've crammed into the same side of a booth in larger restaurants than this, Bucky's arm draped casually over Steve's shoulder as he reached across and sneaked fries onto Steve's plate. There's no reason for him to be paranoid, and no matter what fears Bucky has developed, he refuses to be like the guys he sees nowadays who sit two to a four-person table diagonal from each other to make it absolutely clear how not-dating they are. Bucky has issues, but he likes to think he's not that dumb.
"You doing okay?" Steve asks, and the table is small so their knees bump underneath it.
"Yeah," Bucky says. He takes a breath, reaches over and covers Steve's hand with his, just barely tangling their fingers together. Steve looks up, startled, and then he smiles, the expression absurdly pleased. Bucky swallows. It's not so bad.
"What can I get you guys?" asks the waiter, and so much for being a super assassin because Bucky didn't even notice her walking up. This is why they discourage super spies from having relationships, Bucky thinks.
He nearly jumps and pulls away, but if sneaking around has taught Bucky two things: one, that you never, ever answer the question 'what were you doing' with 'nothing'; and two, that making a big deal by flailing in your attempt to escape is actually worse than holding your ground. Bucky's heart rate hikes, and his fingers spasm, trapping Steve's against the table, but he doesn't move. "I'll have the special," Bucky says, amazed at how calm his voice is.
"Same," says Steve. "And a side of home fries, please, ma'am."
And this, right there, is the twenty-first century in a nutshell, because the waitress blinks in surprise at the 'ma'am' but not the two guys holding hands. "Sure thing," she says, and takes the menus away.
Steve flexes his fingers under Bucky's iron grip, and Bucky starts and lets go. "Sorry," Bucky says, and wow, he really is getting worse than Steve.
Steve just shakes his head. "I think you're forgetting a couple things," he says. "It's strange to me too, for one. And the other is that after waiting this long, you really think I care whether you want to hold hands in public? I'm pretty sure Mr. Hassan running out of cinnamon-raisin bagels is higher up on my list of concerns than that."
"Oh," Bucky says, and now he feels like a heel all over again. He wonders if this will ever stop or if it's just the way things go when you're doing - whatever it is he's doing - with Steve Rogers.
Steve gives him an impish grin. "But if you're worried, we can split a milkshake," he says, and Bucky laughs.
They do split the milkshake - with spoons, rather than straws, but still - and the world doesn't end. Once they get back home, Bucky catches Steve by the arms, presses him against the door and kisses him, and that gets easier, feels less strange, every time. Steve grins down at him, flushed and dazed, and Bucky's heart settles a little.
