The post-mission debriefing when they get back to camp is relatively short, as far as those go. Bucky sits silently next to Stevie, watching the brass as they listen to her report. Whether it's because it's their first mission, or just because it's Captain America, there's an oddly high number of officers present, including two colonels in addition to Phillips and even one brigadier general from the regular US Army, not the SSR. (He's sitting in the back, watching and listening, sort of like Bucky. It's unnerving.)
The rest of the team is waiting on them when they finally get dismissed, and Stevie tells them they have four days to rest and recuperate before they're due for another brief. It's a quick turnaround for an advance team, but they don't care; they're eager now, still coming down off the high of an easy mission. Stevie tells them to enjoy the downtime while they can.
Bucky's first stop is the mess, because three days of K-rations have left him feeling lean and hungry. Then it's the showers and a nice long nap until it's time to eat again. After that, he goes in search of a drink (relax, Dugan, just one to take the edge off) and a pack of cigarettes to pass the evening.
Stevie finds him like that, sitting on a grassy patch of ground, arms around his knees with a flask in one hand and a cigarette dangling from the other. She doesn't say anything, just sits down next to him and stares out into the twilight at the edge of the camp. She's swapped out her costume for a regular captain's dress uniform, which isn't meant for sitting on the damp ground. She doesn't seem to care.
They pass most of an hour that way, watching the sun go down in silence.
Eventually, Stevie says, "Are you okay?"
Bucky blows the smoke out of the side of his mouth, automatically angling it away from Stevie even though he knows she doesn't have asthma anymore. Old habits.
"You want me to say yes?" he asks. His voice is flat, and a little hoarse from the harsh combination of tobacco and whiskey.
Stevie sighs. "You could try telling me the truth," she offers.
Bucky puts out his cigarette on the heel of his boot, then tosses it into the night. He tries to find words for the thoughts spinning through his head.
"I used to see them, you know," Bucky says quietly. "Every time I closed my eyes."
Stevie just watches him, face impassive. "See them?" she prompts.
Bucky turns his face away. "The people I've killed." He unscrews the cap of his flask and takes a long swallow. It should burn, going down. It doesn't. "Every single one, like a series of photographs, only in vivid color."
Stevie doesn't say anything, but she doesn't walk away, either.
"That's the thing about being a sniper," Bucky tells her. "You always get a good view. You always know when you've made a kill shot." He screws the cap back onto the flask and drops it to the ground. "I used to see it in my dreams, every bullet I've ever fired. The particular way that a body crumples and falls. I never knew any of their names, but I remembered their faces."
"Bucky …" She puts her hand on his shoulder, trying to be reassuring. "That's perfectly normal. Of course it upsets you, to have to kill someone."
"You aren't listening," Bucky says. It comes out a little harsher than he intends. "I used to see them."
Stevie looks briefly taken aback. "You don't anymore?"
Bucky shakes his head. "Not for a while, now," he says. He's smiling, but he knows it's bitter and grim. "I killed three people last night, and I couldn't for the life of me tell you what any of them looked like." He shrugs again. "I don't care anymore. I can't even remember why I used to."
"Bucky …"
"That should scare me," Bucky says. "But it doesn't even do that. It's just … what I've become." He laughs once, humorlessly. "I don't even recognize myself anymore."
Stevie's throat works for a moment before she can get words out. "Do you want to get out?" she asks. "Go home?"
Bucky turns to look at her, face hard. "Don't," he says. "Don't you dare."
"Everybody else volunteered," Stevie says. "But you never got a chance, did you? I just assumed you'd come with me, like always. Everyone did."
"Stevie," Bucky says, voice and face serious. "When have I ever let you wade into a fight without me?"
"Does it make me a horrible person if I tell you that I'm glad?" she says, like a confession. "I don't think I could do this, without you."
"You could," Bucky says instantly. "But you won't have to."
They sit in silence for a while after that, until the stars are all out over their heads.
"I know I'm a mess," Bucky whispers into the darkness. He doesn't look at her. It's easier if he pretends he's just talking to himself. "I'm not so far gone that I don't see it. But I can still protect you."
"Bucky …"
"Let me protect you," Bucky whispers. "Please. It's the only thing I was ever good at."
She sighs. "I could protect myself, if I had to. I'd be all right, if you went home." She shifts on the ground, uncomfortable. "It would be hard—I'd hate every second of it, actually—but I'd get along without you. As long as I knew you were home. Safe."
"I know," Bucky says. "But I wouldn't."
"Buck …"
"I mean it, Stevie," Bucky tells her. "You're the only thing holding me together." He feels his body start to shake, and he disguises it the best he can. "You keep me sane. Keep me focused."
"Okay," she says. She reaches over and briefly squeezes his hand, trusting to the darkness to hide it from curious eyes. "You protect me, and I'll keep you grounded."
Bucky nods, mouth dry.
"Together," Stevie says, like a vow. "We'll make it through, Buck. We will. I promise."
Bucky's not so sure about that, but he lets it go. He sends Stevie away (Don't you have a girl to go see, Captain?) and waits there at the edge of the camp, looking out into the darkness, until it starts to make him feel sick. He's too jittery to sleep and too weary to do anything else, so he snags a box of extra rounds and makes his way to the practice range.
In the darkness, nothing but his rifle and his target, is the closest Bucky can get to peace these days.
/~*~/
The third time that Bucky kisses Stevie, he's twenty-one years old. It's not even his fault this time, because she's the one who starts it.
It's a Sunday afternoon, and Bucky's parents are sitting at the kitchen table after church. They have Sunday dinner together at least once a month or so, usually at his folks' place, occasionally with Stevie tagging along. This time, though, his parents decide to let Bucky host, so it's the four of them having a family dinner in his and Stevie's cramped kitchen.
(Bucky cooks, because he's not feeding anything Stevie made to his Ma. He lets her chop the vegetables, though, and subsequently take some of the credit.)
Bucky's parents know about Stevie going around pretending to be a fella, of course, and it's clear that they don't approve. Although, to be fair, his Pa doesn't approve of Stevie in general, and didn't even when she was a "proper" girl, while his Ma is mostly just upset that Bucky hasn't bought Stevie a ring and started living together "the right way." (Bucky's Ma has been planning their wedding for going on about ten years, now, and nothing is ever going to convince her that it'll never happen. Bucky's stopped trying.)
In an effort to head off some of the arguing, Stevie has pulled out one of the dresses that she hardly ever wears anymore. She even puts a bit of ribbon in her short hair, like a flapper girl, and wears heels. She'll have to duck into the bedroom in a hurry if any of the neighbors come calling—which makes Bucky lock the front door—but she's determined to try to play peacemaker with his folks.
"It's just clothes, Buck," she had said earlier that day. "If it'll make him more comfortable, I don't mind."
"I don't see why you wearing men's clothes makes Pa uncomfortable in the first place," Bucky had grumbled, but he didn't argue. Once Stevie got an idea in her head, there was no talking her out of it.
"Besides," Stevie said, twirling once on the wooden floorboards. "I miss it. A little. Sometimes."
Bucky had just managed to keep himself from saying that he missed it, too, sometimes. This particular dress was light blue and cream, and it brought out the nice color of her eyes. It hugged her slim frame and flared a little at the hips, giving her the illusion of curves she didn't really have. It looked good on her, and Bucky told her so.
Of course, he isn't impartial, and he knows it. The very first time she put on one of his old shirts three years ago, just to see how much she'd have to take it in to make it fit, Bucky had nearly swallowed his tongue. He'd had to have a coughing fit to cover it up. Something about seeing her in his clothes did things to him that he never lets himself think about for very long. He was both relieved and strangely disappointed when she started buying pants and shirts of her own.
Unfortunately for Stevie's plan, Bucky's Ma's peace of mind, Bucky's Pa's Sunday shirt, and Bucky's temper, her dressing "like a real girl" doesn't have the intended effect.
They've just finished the meal, and before Bucky can get up to gather the plates, Stevie jumps up to do it instead. He doesn't get out a single word before she's patting him on the shoulder and saying, "I've got it; you did most of the cooking, anyway. Visit with your folks."
She stacks everything up neatly and carries it all to the sink, running some water for washing.
"Humph," Bucky's Pa says, leaning back and crossing his arms. "What's gotten into her?" he asks, in a normal voice that Stevie can't help but hear, seeing as how she's just a few feet away across the small kitchen.
"Henry," Bucky's Ma says, quietly. There's a warning in her voice, like maybe they had this conversation in the car on the way over here.
"No, I want to know," Bucky's Pa says. "I mean, thank God she's finally over this wanting to be a man business, but what's prompted the sudden urge to be domestic?" His eyes narrow slightly. "Oh, Lord, you didn't get her pregnant, did you, son?"
Bucky very much wants to put his forehead down on the table. "No, Pa," he says, firmly. "And she can speak for herself, you know."
Behind Bucky's Pa's back, at the sink, Stevie turns her head just enough to give Bucky a brief smile. (She also rolls her eyes, a little.) "Just felt like a bit of a change, today," she says brightly, up to her elbows in soap bubbles. "Pretending to be a fella every day gets old, after a while. Sometimes it's nice to remember I can be a gal, too."
"Not much of one," Bucky's Pa says. It's just barely quieter than his normal speaking voice, enough that Stevie can pretend not to hear it, even though there's no way she didn't. "Never were."
Bucky lets his hands drop to the table, so that his fists make a thumping sound on the wood. "Okay, enough," he says. "If you can't be civil, can't you at least be quiet, Pa?"
"I ain't said nothing that she ain't heard before," Bucky's Pa says, as if this makes it somehow okay. "And from people other than me, too, I'll wager."
Bucky turns helplessly to his mother.
"Henry," Bucky's Ma tries again. "We were having such a nice family dinner."
Bucky's Pa snorts. "Family?" he repeats. "Last I checked, her last name wasn't Barnes."
"Well," Bucky's Ma says, clasping her hands together. "Not yet, but—"
"Ma!" Bucky says. He puts both hands over his face and rubs at his forehead. "Can we not have this conversation again, please?" He drops his hands and turns his attention back to his father. "And I don't care what her last name is, Stevie is family. Don't ever let me catch you saying something like that again."
Bucky's Pa's face goes hard. "What did you just say to me, boy?"
"Hey," Stevie says quickly, reaching for the dish towel to dry off her hands so she can turn around without dripping all over the floor. "Let's not argue, all ri—"
"You heard me," Bucky interrupts, staring his Pa down. "I won't stand for you coming here and saying things like that to my best friend."
"I am your father, young man," Bucky's Pa says hotly. "And I will not be spoken to like that."
"This is our apartment," Bucky says, just as heatedly. "And I won't stand for you speaking that way to Stevie. She's as much a part of this family as you are."
"Bucky," Stevie says quietly. "Don't fight with your father on my account."
"No," Bucky says, shaking his head at her. "I'm tired of it. I've had to listen to it for twelve years, and I'm tired of it. I'm done humoring him or making excuses."
"Don't you talk about me like I'm not in the room," Bucky's Pa says.
"It's rude, isn't it?" Bucky asks wryly. "See why I don't like it when you do it to Stevie?"
The exact sequence of events after that is a little fuzzy in Bucky's mind. Either he or his Pa stands up, leaning over the table to better yell at each other, and the other one mirrors him. The shouting gets louder, and Bucky's Ma pushes her chair back out of the way. Stevie does her best to get in between them without having to crawl on top of the table itself. Her attempts to pull Bucky backward don't move him in the slightest.
"—many times did you come home with a black eye because she got you in some kind of—"
"—never did give her a chance, or try to understand her at all—"
"—should calm down, and talk about this in a—"
"—for the life of me why her mother let her grow up to be so unnatural, or why you encourage her—"
The next thing Bucky knows, he's looking down at his Pa, who is sprawled on the floor. The flare of pain in Bucky's knuckles tells him he threw a punch. So does his Pa's split lip. It's sluggishly bleeding, running a trail of red down his Pa's chin and dripping on his best white shirt.
"Now look what you've done," Bucky's Ma says, despairing. "Blood is the worst to try to wash out."
"Um. I could try?" Stevie says, in a tone of voice that says she's not sure what else to say in the sudden silence. "I've had a lot of practice, at least."
Bucky shakes out his fist. "I think it's time you went home," he tells his Ma, apologetically.
"Yes," his Ma says, still wringing her hands. "Well. We'll see you next month, James dear."
Bucky ignores his father entirely in favor of kissing his Ma on the cheek and disappearing into the bathroom while they gather up their things and leave. Dimly, he can hear Stevie offering his Pa a cold cloth for his lip, then telling them to have a good afternoon at the door. (He worries, for a moment, that she's going to walk them out to their car and risk their neighbors seeing her in a dress.)
He doesn't realize that he's staring at his knuckles, one of which is busted and bleeding, until Stevie takes his hand and pulls it gently to the bathroom sink to run some cold water over the cut. He hisses slightly at the burst of pain, but he doesn't jerk his hand out of the flow. Stevie gives his fingers a reassuring squeeze and goes to get the antiseptic. It's probably too small of a cut to make such a fuss, but Bucky doesn't stop her. He knows, on some level, that she's probably feeling a little guilty—which is dumb, because this was Bucky's Pa's fault, not hers—and she needs a chance to try to fix the damage.
"You didn't have to do that, you know," she tells him quietly. She's jumped up to sit on the bathroom counter, and Bucky's hand is resting on her thigh while she cleans his knuckle. "He's always been a bit mean, and he's never liked me, but he is your father."
"Lucky me," Bucky says dryly. "And don't even pretend that he wasn't upsetting you. If it had been anybody else saying things like that, you'd have punched them yourself."
"Yeah," Stevie says, shrugging. "But nobody ever accused you of needing to be more like me, did they? You're supposed to be the reasonable one."
Bucky shakes his head. "He said you weren't family," he says quietly. "How was I supposed to be reasonable about that?"
"Well," Stevie says, squeezing the rag out under the water, trying to get the blood to wash out. "I'm not, you know. Technically."
"Yes you are," Bucky says immediately.
When she drops her head, looking at her feet, Bucky puts a finger under her chin and tilts her head back up so that she's looking at him.
"Yes you are," he repeats. "Bucky and Stevie, always. Remember?"
Stevie smiles at him, slowly, still a little sad. Wistful, maybe. "Yeah. Bucky and Stevie."
She gets up, then, and leaves the bathroom.
Bucky frowns. "Stevie?" he asks, turning around to follow her. "What's wrong?"
She doesn't answer, just walks toward her bedroom door.
Bucky catches her in the doorway and lightly grabs her wrist, not tight enough that she couldn't slip free, but enough to stop her. "Hey," he says. "Talk to me. Is it my folks? Just ignore them, all right? Especially my Pa."
Stevie turns around to face him, still standing in the bedroom doorway. "Do you think he's right, about me?" she asks quietly. "I mean, I always was sort of rubbish at being a girl, but do you think I should go back?"
Bucky hesitates. "What I think isn't important," he says after a moment. "Or anybody else, for that matter. The only thing that matters is what you think."
Stevie meets his eyes, and she looks oddly lost. Bucky's not used to seeing Stevie Rogers look uncertain.
"What if I don't know what I want?" she asks him, biting her bottom lip.
Bucky smiles. "One thing you've never lacked is an opinion," he points out. He thinks for a moment. "Are there things about pretending to be a fella that you like?" he asks.
"People aren't so patronizing," Stevie says immediately. "Getting work is easier. I don't get so many funny looks when I go out alone, even at night." She tilts her head, considering. "Pants are more comfortable than skirts. Don't have to worry so much about how I sit."
"Okay, then. Are you happy, being Steve?" he asks. "Do you like drawing for the paper and living with me and going out with the guys on weekends and flirting with dames at a bar?"
"Yeah, of course," Stevie says. "I guess I just wish I could do all those things and be a gal at the same time. I don't mind being Steve, or letting people think I'm a fella. I just miss being Stephanie, sometimes."
"So be both," Bucky offers. "Who says you have to pick one?"
Stevie gives him a strange look. "I think people might notice if 'Steve' suddenly decided to wear skirts."
"Okay," Bucky says. "So be Steve around here, but maybe sometimes we can go back to the old neighborhood, or someplace people don't know us at all, and you can be Stephanie there. If you want."
She's still looking at him funny. "You wouldn't mind?" she asks. "It wouldn't be, I don't know, confusing?"
"Why?" Bucky asks. "It doesn't make any difference. Boy or girl, Steve or Stephanie." He shrugs. "All you changed was your name and some clothes. You're Stevie either way, to me."
She smiles at him, and leans forward to give him a hug. Bucky hugs her back, tucking her head under his chin, careful not to squeeze her narrow shoulders too hard. It's so strange, how tiny and frail she seems in his arms, when the truth is that she's one of the least fragile people he's ever known.
"Thanks, Buck," Stevie says. She tilts her head back away from his chest, and Bucky immediately leans down to press his forehead to hers. It's an automatic response, after all these years. "For standing up to your Pa for me, even if I wish you hadn't. It means a lot."
Bucky shrugs. "I'll always choose you, over anybody in the world. You know that, right?"
She stares at him, obviously shocked. (He doesn't know why; it's just the truth. Always has been.)
"Bucky," Stevie says, and it comes out an awed whisper.
Bucky is suddenly nine years old again, with that warm feeling spreading through his chest. He knows what it means, now. All these years later, and he still thinks that he'd be okay with her looking at him like that anytime she wants. (Forever. Please, forever.)
Then she kisses him.
It's awkward and obviously done on impulse. Bucky hardly has time to register what's happening before she pulls back, a horrified look on her face. (She also turns bright red almost immediately.)
"Sorry," Stevie says, stepping further backward. "I didn't mean—I mean—I shouldn't have—"
Bucky realizes that he's staring, and makes himself blink. "It's fine," he says. It comes out a little strangled.
"No, it isn't," Stevie says. She has her hands up, like she's trying to ward him off. "I'm sorry."
"Hey, wait," Bucky says, because she's through her bedroom door now and looks like she's about to close it in his face. "Just—hang on for a minute. Can we talk about this?"
"No," Stevie says flatly.
She starts to shut the door, but Bucky puts his foot in the way.
"Stevie, will you just—"
"It was a mistake, okay?" Stevie says. She's looking anywhere and everywhere except his face. "I didn't mean it."
"You didn't mean it?" Bucky repeats. He swallows. "Because you don't really feel that way," he says, unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice. "Not about me, anyway."
Stevie freezes, both hands on the bedroom door like she's considering shoving it closed hard enough to force his foot out of the way. "Because you're my best friend," she says, very quietly. "I'd rather be your buddy Steve than just another one of your girls."
Bucky feels like she's punched him. "You could never be just anything," he tells her. "You're …" He doesn't have a word to finish that sentence that wouldn't sound trite or childish. "You're Stevie," he says helplessly. "You're not going to stop being my best friend, even if …" He trails off.
"Even if what?" Stevie asks, wary.
Bucky licks his lips. "We could just, you know, try it," he says, a little nervously. "A proper kiss, to find out if we like it, or not. Once and for all."
Stevie watches him for a moment, clearly thinking. "And if we try this …" She has to stop and gather herself. "If we go down this road and it doesn't work, then what?"
Bucky's heart is pounding so hard he's sure she can hear it. "Then we go right back to how we've always been," he says, more confidently than he feels. "At least we'd know for sure."
She doesn't look convinced.
"Come on, Stevie. We've been friends for twelve years; you really think we're going to mess that up over one little kiss?"
She hesitates. When she speaks again, her voice is almost too quiet to hear. "What if we try this, and it does work? What do we do then?"
"I don't know," Bucky says honestly. His breathing is off, and it's starting to make him feel lightheaded. "But don't you want to find out?"
Stevie closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again, she's made her decision. Bucky can tell by the way she steadies her feet and squares her shoulders, like she's gathering her courage before she throws a punch.
"All right," she says.
"Really?" Bucky asks, taken aback. (He hadn't expected that to work.)
Stevie's face, which had just recovered from her first blush, starts to turn pink again. "All right," she says again, a little firmer. She takes one step out of the doorway and back toward him, arms awkwardly at her sides. "Um, how do I … ?"
Bucky clears his throat, trying to remember how to form words. "Just," he says. His mouth is dry, and he's having trouble getting his heartbeat under control. "Let me?"
Stevie nods once.
Bucky steps forward to meet her, hands slipping naturally around her thin waist. He pulls her just a fraction closer, watching as she tilts her head back to maintain eye contact. "Here," he says. "Put your arms around my neck."
She does. He pretends not to notice that her hands are trembling, just a little. Is she as nervous as he is?
"Like this?" Stevie asks, looking up at him.
"Yeah," Bucky says in a rush of breath, and he leans down and kisses her.
He does it slow and sweet, just the barest pressure, and keeps his hands stationary at her waist. It's a perfect first-date sort of kiss, just enough to leave an impression, not enough to be improper.
When he pulls his head back a moment later, Stevie is scowling at him.
"That bad?" Bucky asks, stomach sinking.
"Don't kiss me like my Pa is watching you through the window," Stevie says, clearly annoyed. "Did you want to really try this, or not?"
Bucky stares at her.
She's blushing harder, now, but she's as determined as ever. "Well?" she demands, something fiery in her eyes. "You going to kiss me like you mean it, Mr. Barnes?"
Bucky's reacting before he can think better of it. One hand goes to the small of her back, and the other to the side of her neck. He uses the new grip to pull her tight to him, until she's pressed flush against him from shoulder to hips. When Stevie lets out a little gasp, probably in surprise, he doesn't hesitate; he uses the hand on her neck to tilt her head and get the angle he wants, and presses his mouth to hers.
This kiss is very different, heated and almost desperate. A sound he didn't know he could make uncurls from somewhere low in the back of his throat, and he doesn't realize that he's pushing forward until Stevie's back hits the wall next to the door.
The impact knocks their teeth together, and it jars them apart. They stare at each other for a moment, still pressed tightly together. They're both breathing a little harder than the kiss itself should have caused.
Stevie blinks once, and starts to giggle. It's probably just nerves, but it startles Bucky into a full-throated laugh. A moment later, they're leaning up against the wall and each other, cracking up.
"Buck, honestly," Stevie says around chuckles, shaking her head. She keeps her hands around his neck, though, and doesn't pull away or try to put any distance between them. "We're awful at this."
"Nah, it's just you," Bucky says, grinning. "I'm usually good at it."
Stevie snorts. "Oh, really? Because I've watched you kissing all your girls, and you never seem to keep one around for very long."
"Kept you around, didn't I?" Bucky asks.
"Doesn't count," Stevie says, shaking her head. "You don't use kissing to keep me around."
"Well." Bucky leans forward, but instead of tipping his forehead down onto hers the way he normally would, he hovers just out of kissing range instead. "I could give it a try," he says suggestively, voice gone low and soft.
Stevie flushes pink again, and he's close enough to feel the heat as it radiates off her skin.
Bucky turns slightly and places a soft, feathery kiss to the side of her head, somewhere between her temple and her ear. When her breath hitches, just a bit, he grins, knowing she can feel the way his lips move. He drifts across her skin, leaving fluttery kisses as he goes, down her jaw to the open collar of her dress. He's rewarded when her head falls back against the wall, giving him better access.
"What do you mean," Bucky asks, pressing the words into her throat, "you watched me kissing all my girls?" He grins when he feels her hands tighten on the back of his neck. "You taking notes, punk?"
"Why?" Stevie asks. She swallows once, which makes her throat pulse beneath Bucky's lips. "You looking for a critique or something?"
Bucky hums noncommittally. He drifts his way back up the side of her neck, soft and light, until he reaches the hollow behind her ear. Once there, he switches to an open-mouthed kiss, wet and hungry. She doesn't quite manage to stifle her little gasp, and Bucky pulls back triumphantly.
"How am I doing so far?" he asks, grinning ear-to-ear.
Stevie is mock-glaring at him. "You're a smug jerk, Bucky Barnes," she says. Her voice wavers just slightly, and the sound sends a thrill through him. "Anybody ever tell you that?"
"Just you," Bucky admits. "Usually about three times a week."
Stevie's glare is somewhat undercut by the fondness he can see in her eyes. It takes his breath away, the way she looks at him sometimes, like he's the best part of her world. (Like he's the special one, when anybody with sense can see that he's perfectly normal, and Stevie is the amazing one.)
Bucky reaches out with one hand and brushes the tips of his fingers through her short hair. "Don't know why you put up with me, to be honest," he says quietly.
"I don't know," Stevie says, smiling at him. "It just makes me stupid, I guess, how much I love you."
There's a moment of silence. Her eyes slowly widen as she realizes what she's just said.
"God, Stevie, we are such idiots," Bucky whispers, staring at her. "I think I've loved you since I was nine years old."
Her eyebrows come together, and she smacks him in the shoulder. "Jerk," she says. "Why didn't you say something before?"
Bucky's eyes widen. "The first time I kissed you, you punched me!"
"We were kids," she says. "And you only did it on a dare!"
"Okay, fine, but the second time I kissed you, you acted like it never happened," he points out. "I thought I'd almost ruined everything."
She gapes at him. "You were drunk," she says. "You didn't mean it!"
"I meant it," Bucky says quietly. "I've always meant it, Stevie. Always will."
She kisses him again, after that, and the whole thing is messy and uncoordinated. Stevie in particular is clumsy and unpracticed, but Bucky doesn't care. She's got the general idea, and her hands get brave and start to wander across his shoulders and down his back. When her fingers move up to curl in his hair, it just might be the best feeling in the world.
It makes him dizzy, and part of him wants to check to be sure he isn't dreaming. The rest of him is too busy hoping he never wakes up again. He's actually shaking, like all the feelings coursing through him are too strong to contain, like they're going to rip him apart. It terrifies him, because he already knew how he felt about her—has for years—but it's almost too much, after suppressing it for so long.
"I can feel you thinking," Stevie hisses in his ear, when they come up for air. "Stop it."
"Jesus, Stevie," Bucky says, breathless. "This is dangerous." He swallows. "This could get away from us. From me. In a hurry."
"We're going to have a very long, very serious conversation," she promises him.
"Oh," he says. "Okay. That's good."
"Bucky," Stevie says. It comes out like an impatient growl, which does all sorts of interesting things to his stomach. "We're going to have it later."
"Right," Bucky says, and actually picks her up off the ground, making her yelp and scramble for a grip on his shoulders.
Luckily her bed isn't very far away.
The promised conversation does eventually happen, and they decide that nothing has to change. Stevie is still 'Steve' everywhere but inside the apartment, and they don't act any differently most of time even when they're at home. It's the exact same relationship they've always had, just with more kissing, and they sleep in the same bed at night even when the weather is warm, instead of just when Stevie needs the extra body-heat.
They still go out on the weekends, and find girls to go on double dates. They still get in fights everywhere they go. Stevie still gets bad asthma attacks and catches the flu when the weather turns.
It's not the life everybody always told Bucky he should want, but he doesn't care. He's got his best friend by his side everywhere he goes, and the girl he's always loved in his arms at night. (The fact that they happen to be the same person is just a nice perk.) They've both got good work to pay the rent and keep food on the table, and that's all they really need. They'll figure everything else out as they go.
Bucky, with all the wisdom and confidence of his twenty-one years, thinks that he could live the rest of his life like this and have everything he could ever want.
It's September of 1938, and one year later, Europe will be at war.
/~*~/
By the time dawn arrives, Bucky's impromptu all-night shooting session has worked through most of his bad humor. He's not happy or relaxed, exactly, but his dark mood has cleared. He's just Bucky again, not the pre-war model he can barely remember, but Bucky-the-sniper, Bucky-the-Sergeant, Bucky-the-Commando. He has a job to do, and that's enough for now.
He decides to finish off the box of bullets before he leaves, and he's four shots away when he hears someone approaching him. He settles in his prone position, sighting the target, and releases his breath in a slow rush. He waits for that perfect moment, when something in his blood tells him the shot is right, and fires.
"Very nice," a voice says, once the crack of the gunshot has faded. It's British, upper-class, and female. "I thought I might find you out here, Sergeant Barnes."
"Agent Carter," Bucky says, still on the ground. He pulls the bolt to release the casing and slots the next bullet into place.
"I was hoping I might speak with you, if that's all right," Carter says.
Bucky turns his head away from his scope to glance at her. She's sitting on the wall of sandbags that mark the edge of the range, impeccably dressed in her uniform for such an early hour. She's got that same fire in her that Bucky always liked about Stevie, but without Stevie's confrontational attitude. Here is a woman who managed to make it to the war without having to lie. Instead of breaking rules and picking fights, her strategy is finding ways around the obstacles in her path. It's a quieter kind of strength, but Bucky wonders if that isn't harder, in the long run. (He sees why Stevie likes her.)
Bucky puts his eye back to his scope and sights his next target. "What can I do for you, Agent Carter?" he asks.
She politely waits until after his next shot, understanding the etiquette involved in interrupting a sniper, before she speaks again. "Perhaps we should talk in a more private location, Sergeant."
Bucky smirks. "The closest person is sixty yards away, at my eight-o-clock," he says pointedly. He ejects the casing and loads the next round, hands moving almost without conscious thought. "We're as private as we're going to get, in a place like this."
Carter glances where he'd indicated, presumably checking his perimeter report. When she looks at him again, she's smiling faintly. "Captain Rogers said you were good."
"Well," Bucky says, shrugging a little. "She's never been very impartial."
Bucky gets off another shot before she says anything else.
"Can I be frank, Sergeant?" Carter asks suddenly.
"You can call me James, you know," Bucky says. "I'm not one for formality."
"James?" she repeats. There's a crooked little smile on her face. "Not the 'Bucky' that I've heard so much about?"
Bucky sighs. "Stevie has got to stop calling me that in public," he says. "Half the Allied forces think it's actually my name."
"James, then," Carter says. "I suppose that makes me Margaret, if you like."
Bucky actually laughs. "That's fair. Margaret." He fires the chambered round, holds his posture just long enough to judge the shot, and rolls smoothly to his feet. His rifle goes over one shoulder, and he offers his other hand to shake. "Nice to meet you. Officially."
"Likewise," Peggy says. Her grip is pleasantly firm without being a strength test. Bucky's not at all surprised by the callouses on it, from a pistol grip.
"Great," Bucky says, leaning against the sandbags next to her. "Now that we're proper friends, what did you want to talk to me about?"
Peggy hesitates, just for a moment. "I'd very much like that, James. If we could be friends, I mean."
Bucky has a feeling he knows where this is headed. "Stevie talked to you, didn't she? About me?"
"She says a lot of things, about you," Peggy says. "She cares about you a great deal."
Bucky's smirk comes out humorless. "Say what you mean, Margaret."
Peggy nods, accepting the challenge. "She loves you," she says.
"Has for a long time," Bucky agrees.
Peggy purses her lips slightly. "Well, I admit I have a hard time understanding. Anybody who takes one look at you can tell how you feel about her."
"Yeah," Bucky says. "I never was much good at hiding it."
Peggy sighs. "You're determined to make this as difficult as possible, aren't you?"
Bucky grins. "I thought you said Stevie had talked about me."
"Just tell me," Peggy says. "If I'm going to … be involved … with Captain Rogers, then I think I have a right to know." She cocks her head at him, just a bit, curious. "If the two of you are in love, then why is she acting interested in me? Is it just to keep people from being suspicious? Camouflage, to protect her secret?"
Bucky's grin fades to a normal smile. "Stevie and I have been through too much," he says. "We're always going to love each other; we can't help it." He shrugs. "Doesn't mean she isn't falling in love with you, too."
Peggy looks startled.
"Not what you were expecting?" Bucky asks. "Did you think I was going to warn you away from my girl, Agent Carter? Stake some kind of claim?"
"Maybe," Peggy says slowly, considering him carefully. "And I thought we were being friends, Sergeant."
"I hope we can be, Margaret," Bucky says. "Because I really think you might be the dame Stevie and I have been looking for, all these years."
Peggy raises her eyebrows, like she's not quite sure she wants to hear what that means.
"We used to talk about it," Bucky admits. "We could never be together, not like other couples, not if she was going to keep being Steve. Neither of us wanted her to give that up. We used to sit around and talk about how one day we'd find a woman who would understand how we felt about each other, without being threatened by it. One who also wouldn't run when she found out Stevie's secret."
Peggy doesn't say anything.
"I hear you managed the second one," Bucky says, pointedly. "How do you feel about the first?"
Peggy blinks. "Are you suggesting that we share?" she asks, and he can't quite tell if the outrage in her voice is feigned or not.
"I'm suggesting that Stevie loves you," Bucky says. "Or she could, at least, if you give her the chance. And I love her too much to ask her to stop on my account." He looks her in the eye. "What about you?"
Peggy meets his gaze, unafraid. "You really aren't jealous at all, are you?"
"Why?" Bucky asks. "How she feels about you has nothing to do with how she feels about me. Why wouldn't I want that, for her? To have something that makes her happy?"
"And if I force the issue?" Peggy asks, crossing her arms. "If I ask her to choose just one of us, and she chooses me?"
"Then, assuming we manage to keep her secret from the general public, I'm going to be the best man at my good buddy Steve's wedding," Bucky says immediately. "If you scrounge up kids somehow, I expect at least one of them to be named James. And for the love of God, I will not be Uncle Bucky. That's non-negotiable."
Peggy smiles at him. "She was right about you," she says softly. "You're a good man."
Bucky snorts. "She's got a blind spot for me," he says. "Don't hold it against her. She's normally a good judge of character."
Peggy stands up and offers her hand again. "Thank you. You've given me quite a lot to think about, Sergeant Barnes."
"Agent Carter," Bucky says politely, shaking her hand.
She starts to turn away, but hesitates. "In the interest of being friends," she says, inclining her head, "would you care to have breakfast with me?"
Bucky smiles. "Let me get cleaned up, first?"
"Of course."
"Deal," Bucky says. The smile threatens to turn into a smirk. "We inviting Stevie?"
Peggy smiles back at him. "Next time, perhaps," she says, turning to walk away. "James."
"Margaret."
Bucky watches her walk away, thinking about the future for the first time in months. His, and Stevie's, and maybe—if they're very lucky—Agent Margaret Carter's.