"Chapter Ten"

Phil was spread out on his sofa, not doing much other than thinking and feeling. He couldn't get the flowers and their accompanying missive out of his mind. 'Phil, I'm sorry. The others have been trying to match-make us. James.' It wasn't exactly eloquent, but the message was pretty damn clear. Anything that could've been there was manufactured by outside influences.

He'd put up with the teasing from his co-workers for the past few months. Kids, all of them, except for Melinda, who Phil knew from the old days. He'd told her about Fury, but she still hadn't grown past their old grudge. Neither of them would tell him about it; he'd once guessed that they'd had an affair with each other, but the scathing look he'd received from Melinda put paid to him guessing any more. Given that it only looked a bit more severe than her usual expression, it was hard to tell; but it said, more than anything else, 'Never ask me that again'.

He didn't. And he was, in fact, grateful that she never asked him how he felt about Bucky, because he'd have to be honest with her, and saying those words out loud would make it real. It would hurt more in the end, and he couldn't deal with that.

"This is stupid," he muttered. "Over one man I barely know? Stupid, stupid, stupid." He repeatedly thumped the back of his head on the arm of the sofa. His attentions led him to notice the bouquet. He'd wanted to throw out the purple hyacinths as soon as he read the note, but he couldn't bring himself to. For all he knew, it was another prank; the card was written by the florist, after all. Except who else would know to sign the card 'James'?

So instead of getting rid of the flowers, he put them in a vase and filled it with water, along with the plant food included in the wrapping. He set the note beside it, more to get it out of the way than to remind himself that it even existed.

Deciding that he could definitely continue to be lazy today – his food shopping was all done, and it wasn't time to start Christmas shopping yet – he stayed put. Until, that is, there was frantic knocking at the door. Vaguely registering that it was his own door, he got to his feet and wandered over.

"Coming!" he said. The knocking stopped. He picked up the sound of restless movements, which matched the urgency of the knocks. Tensing – more out of instinct than habit – he twisted the knob and opened the door.

"Phil."

"James?"

"Did you get the…?"

"The flowers, yes. I got them."

"Oh." James shifted from foot to foot. This time out of habit, Phil stood aside and waved him in.

"Thank you," he said. "They're very nice. You did send them, didn't you?"

"Yes," James said, proceeding through the apartment to the kitchen-lounge area.

Phil sighed. "I thought so."

"Hmm?" James looked over his shoulder briefly, but then seemed to notice the flowers. He made a beeline for them. What now?

"Is there a problem?" Phil asked.

"What? No. I mean, yes."

"Please excuse me for saying so, Ja— Bucky, but you seem a little… twitchy."

"Don't call me that," he replied, voice sharp as a knife. Phil took a step back.

"I'm sorry, Sergeant Barnes," he said. It felt almost like that knife was stabbing him in the gut. James… he turned around and moved towards Phil.

"You don't call me that," he said. "You call me James."

"I… Excuse me?"

"You're the only one who calls me that," James said.

"What am I supposed to call you, then?" Phil asked, unable to stop a feeling of irritation, which at least overrode the hurt.

"James," he said. "You call me James. The others tried, but I wouldn't let them. I only want you to call me James."

"…Oh." Phil knew that he must have been blushing. He could feel the heat in his cheeks, and James half-smiled. "Why?"

"Because you're mine. Nothing else I own feels like it's mine, but you are. That's why."

Then James turned on his heel and resumed his walk towards the kitchen counter. He scooped up the note, and tore it into pieces. He dumped those in the nearby bin and Phil watched, in complete fascination, as James snatched up the shopping list notepad and a pen, and scribbled something on it. Uncertain about what he was supposed to be doing, he considered turning off the depressing music he'd been playing to go with his mood. Before he could make one move towards his CD player, James ran back to stand in front of him, and shoved a new note into his hands. Then he moved back a pace. Phil unfolded the scrap of paper, and turned it to read the messy handwriting.

'I want to take you to the cinema. Your James.'

Taking a few (slightly unsteady) breaths, Phil looked back up at James, who was fidgeting again.

"What does it mean?" he blurted out. James cocked his head, looking confused.

"What does it mean?" he said. "What do you think it means, Phil?"

"It… just because the others were match-making doesn't mean you have to go along with it, James."

"I know. It took a long time to relearn, but I know how to make my own decisions. And I want to court you."

Phil clutched the paper to his chest. His heart was thumping dangerously. "Why—"

"Stop asking me why, Phil! Isn't it enough that I want to?"

"No one has before," he snapped. "Why would anyone start now?"

"Because everyone else who's had a chance with you and hasn't taken it is clearly an idiot," James said, glaring at him. "Don't deny that you want me."

"This isn't about me," Phil said.

"I'm. Not. Delicate." Definitely not delicate, Phil thought. "My mental health is probably as good as it's going to get, and it's a hell of a lot better than it was before I met you. Everything's better since I met you, Phil." He huffed. "I… I never told you, but the reason I was outside The Everything Diner that night? I'd followed Steve. I was slowly starting to recognise him, but didn't want to approach him yet. That's why I was out the back of the restaurant. I'd followed him. Best damn decision I've ever made."

"Oh," Phil said again, and he smiled. James took a step closer. Phil didn't move back.

"I know that you care about me, Phil. You've shown that all along. I just didn't realise it until Sam, Steve, and Clint told me to think about your behaviour."

"Were they the ones…?"

"Trying to set us up? They were in on it, but this was after Stark told me about the original plans to get us together. I really thought I had no chance with you." He looked down to his hands, twisted together, one metal and one flesh. "That was why I sent the flowers. Or had JARVIS send them. I don't know what he wrote on the note, but… when they finally made me recognise your feelings – and my own – I came right here, because I didn't want to apologise anymore. Not for loving you."

Phil felt light-headed. "Loving…"

"Yeah." James shuffled closer, and held out his real hand. "Phil? Say you'll… you'll think about it? I can't be wrong about this. I'm sure I read you… read you right. Didn't I?"

"Yes," he said, snapping out of his daze. "God, yes. I love you. I love you, James. I do." He took James's hand and tugged him forward. Then he took hold of the artificial hand as well, and kissed both of them, the crumpled note crackling in his fist. He let go long enough to dump it on the kitchen counter, and then led James to the sofa, where they began to cuddle up. In the blink of an eye, James pulled Phil into his lap and brought his head down for a kiss. It was relatively swift, but enough to make him even giddier.

"Could I… stay with you?" James asked. "Like you wanted me to, before I ran away?"

"Which reminds me," Phil said, tapping him on the chest lightly. "No more running away. I was terrified that something might have happened to you, and no one would know to contact me."

"I'm sorry," James said. "It won't happen again."

"It'd better not."

"It won't, if you kiss me."

"Now that's an invitation I can live with," Phil muttered, and he pulled James up by the collar of his shirt.

Later, when Phil was lying across James, who was stretched out on the sofa, he thought of something.

"Why were they trying to match-make us in the first place?" he asked.

"Hmm?"

"Your friends," Phil said. "Were they match-making us because they could see our feelings?"

"I think Stark thought that it would be successful because of our feelings, but that wasn't why he wanted to pair you off with one of us."

He arched an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Turns out that he figured whoever was dating you would get free meals," James said, disdain written all over his features. His very handsome features, Phil noted to himself. "And so would that person's friends."

"Free meals?"

"It's been pointed out to him that you're too professional for that – by Director Fury, in fact – and that Stark's a billionaire, so why should he get free food? Even if he doesn't usually pay for all of us, we… most of us can already afford it."

Phil squirmed in place, and James held him tighter. "Some people achieve their fortunes by scrimping where possible."

"He inherited from Howard."

"And built on it, I know," Phil said. "But maybe he has that mentality, regardless. Or maybe he's used to people manipulating situations to score favours."

"Well, his plan B is to hire you as the Avengers' personal chef."

He burst out laughing. "Really? He thinks I'd leave my restaurant?"

James raised his eyebrows, and his mouth fell open. "Your restaurant?"

"Yes. I own and run the place. I scrimped and saved to be able to expand, and while it's not securely tucked away in the middle of New York City anymore, I still have a loyal clientele willing to make the journey to get here. And I'm less likely to incur damage from superhero vs. supervillain battles out in the `burbs."

"Huh. Makes sense. So you definitely won't be joining Tony Stark's staff?"

"I won't be going anywhere near his staff," Phil said. James grunted something unintelligible. "But I wouldn't object to being your personal cook. You would be, if you… if you lived here."

"Well, that's something I can live with," James said, and he rubbed his nose in Phil's hair. He smelled of herbs and spices. Phil cooked his own meals, so that made sense.

Epilogue

Phil had never had much of a life outside of The Everything Diner. With a promise to cook meals which they could reheat during the week, and appropriate compensation from Tony for doing so, Phil had taken on a couple of new people to train up. There was some increased business by word of mouth, mainly from the customers who'd witnessed him beating down the two men who'd tried to hold up the truck. Consequently, he needed to employ extra people. Melinda was working a couple of extra shifts, and he was grooming the more advanced youngsters to be able to take on some of his other shifts.

After all, he now had someone to go home to at the end of the day, and it was nice to have some more free time. He would have had to train replacements eventually, and it was probably better to do it sooner, rather than later. He liked his staff, and wanted them to feel that they had a secure future with him.

James? Or Bucky, as nearly everyone else called him, had found out that he was receiving a soldier's pension, and that the money he should still have been earning all this time had been paid into his account awhile back. No one had thought to mention that; in fact, it was JARVIS who informed him. He was relieved that he could contribute to household expenses, even though Phil had promised to look after him until he had steady work.

He… sort of had work. He was studying mechanics, and was due to start an apprenticeship at a garage next fall. He helped unload the trucks of supplies at the restaurant in his spare time, but refused payment.

"I'll just feel like your toy-boy," he told Phil.

"Who taught you that term?"

"…Natasha, actually. She was joking."

"I'd be paying you for doing actual work."

"It's hardly work. I don't even break a sweat."

"Damn super soldier experiments," Phil muttered, but he certainly didn't complain when James moved boxes around while shirtless. He just glared any oglers into averting their eyes from His Man.

Where Phil Coulson's days at home had been spent watching bad television by himself, making meals for one person, he now had someone to watch TV with, and catch up on movies from the last seven decades. And now he was cooking for two. His food bill had more than doubled, but it was worth it to see the satisfaction on his lover's face after a hearty meal and dessert. His weekends were filled with visiting Stark Tower, and getting to know James's friends.

And instead of nights by himself, and days trying to find himself and his purpose in life, James Buchanan Barnes had someone to share a bed – a whole home – with, and he had studying and work to take up the hours that Phil was at The Everything Diner. He couldn't really say that Stark's match-making scheme had worked, not the way the billionaire had wanted it to…

But they had each other. That was all they needed.

Yo! Finished the story. Hurrah and all that.

Hope you enjoyed it. Romance makes its way into nearly everything I write, which is annoying, and I don't know what Freud would say about me; but then I'd say a heck of a lot back to him, even if I had to learn German to be able to get the message across. And then make his brain explode by explaining Omegaverse. Mwa-ha-ha-ha!

Erm, please review. It's a rare pairing, and I need to justify writing rare pairings somehow.