Work Text:
It’s a routine. And that’s good. Structure, Sam had said: let Bucky set the parameters, let him feel out a groove—but familiarity, dependability, regularity, safety, comfort: these would help.
And yeah, Steve thinks, glancing over at Bucky as he stretches full across the length of his side of the bed, refusing to open his eyes but grinning like the goddamned cheshire cat as his left arm whirs for the motion and his right finds its way to thread through Steve’s sleep-mussed hair: yeah.
They’ve helped.
And more days than Steve can count—he does, though; he counts them, one precious moment after the next every night before he sleeps in the prayers he says to whoever’s listening, to the Almighty he doesn’t know he believes in anymore, but in thinking the words and giving the thanks he feels closer to a world that’s long been lost. He feels closer to his mother’s smile, feels the heat of Bucky’s body pressed against him all the warmer, all the more clear, and that’s reason enough: that’s reason enough to count his blessings and breathe in time with the chest against his spine.
But: more days than Steve can count, they spend wrapped in each other, one way or another. They cross-out pages of Steve’s catch-up list, tracking syndicated television over the past half-century, caught between childlike wonder at the “vintage” special effects and a cynicism born of alien invasions and advanced weaponry and the disembodied voice that runs their current flat and the Tower at large and Tony fucking Stark, which is the real feat—so, yeah. It’s mostly half gaping, half Sirs, your dinner’s arrived downstairs, shall I have it sent up to your floor? interruptions from JARVIS, where he lives inside the walls. And the ceilings. And the everything, basically. Which is actually more impressive than shimmery special effects on Star Trek.
(“Still waiting on a replicator,” Bucky pouts, and Steve smacks him—without hesitation, now, because all he gets in return are pinches to the crook of his elbow where he’s still ticklish, and the kind of warm chuckle that sets Steve’s blood running fast and wild.)
They go to a Mets game against Los Angeles, which is spent largely in bitter solidarity, hands folded as they seethe—belatedly, by any external standards of time—over the tragic usurpation of Dem Bums.
(“It says they thought about moving back,” Bucky points at his smartphone, some contraption Stark came up with that’s better than Apple, which Steve thinks might only apply to the durability and sensitivity of the touchscreen under Bucky’s left hand—he’s been to an Apple Store before, after all, and the tech was pretty nifty.
Steve leans in, glances over Bucky’s shoulder at the article he’s scrolling through between innings and sighs. “Think Tony’d buy the team, bring ‘em back to Brooklyn?”
Bucky smirks. “Ask and ye shall receive.”
He swipes along the screen and brings up his messages, where the text bubbles read:
Me: Bringing the Dodgers home. Ballpark figure.
Iron Asshat: Pun intended?
Me: Fuck you.
Iron Asshat: Interesting offer, let me get back to you on that one.
Me: …
Iron Asshat: Full diagnostics on the arm, and your genuine consideration of my super improved awesome new model to replace your Iron-Curtainy dinosaur.
Me: Done.
Iron Asshat: Hahaha, you overbid that one, dumbass. LA’s been shit this season, they’ll probably go for less than a billion.
Steve starts cackling, loud and deep until it draws stares, but they don’t care; fuck, but they don’t care.)
They order Thai food for a full week until they’ve cleared the whole menu, and yes, Steve damn near fucking sobs when Bucky twists a fork in his pad thai, when he offers a bite of his red curry to Steve by poking the chicken straight into Steve’s mouth—when he pulls Steve in and kisses him, rough and full of tongue and teeth until he can taste the banana apple roll Steve’d finished off (teach you to share next time, greedy punk)—Steve’s chest hurts for how fast his heart’s racing, for how much pressure’s building beneath his ribs because it wasn’t easy, to get here: it wasn’t simple or smooth-going, but they’re here, and it’s getting better, Bucky’s getting better and they go to sleep together, every night, and Bucky doesn’t wake immediately, doesn’t panic when Steve rolls on top of his left arm, when he pins it—when he covers it, the arm that means protection, Steve understands, less than a threat now, and that’s progress; fuck, but that is progress, too—and wakes to the sensation of warm metal on his skin, Bucky’s soft snoring playing through his hair, and they’re breathing and they’re real and they’re here, after everything, and it’s impossible except that it’s true, and sometimes Steve can’t breathe with it—sometimes it’s all Steve can breathe for.
They have a routine.
And the fact that his life, these days, is measured entirely by the presence, by the influence, by the reality of James Buchanan Barnes at his side isn’t lost on Steve, despite the quirked brows his friends shoot at him, now and again; it isn’t lost on him, but it doesn’t concern him.
It’s the first thing that’s felt right since 1943.
And besides: Steve’s got his own schedule, his own responsibilities outside of those moments. And the fact of it is, his own schedule’s also a routine—because no, he’s not oblivious enough to have missed Sam’s knowing glances, to have overlooked the fact that he’s not so different from Bucky, that he’s a work-in-progess in this place, in this time, as much as the man he loves; that he, too, needs order and a growing certainty that what he holds most dear, closest to his chest, won’t disappear if he turns away for an instant, won’t go away between the blinks of an eye; so yes. Steve’s life is also routine. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, he’s in DC, meeting with Maria Hill, who conveniently has “Stark business” to attend to in the Capital, three times a week. In a bunker. That’s got a secure connection to Coulson’s bus and his rag-tag team as they rebuild S.H.I.E.L.D. and fight Hydra on the down-low (Steve likes that phrase, “the down-low”, not solely because it makes Bucky laugh every single time it crosses his lips). He’ll take one of Stark’s jet sometimes; other times, he’ll fly coach—sometimes he gets the bike out and enjoys the ride down the coast, though that takes more time than he’s usually willing to spend away from New York.
From what—from who—waits for him, back in New York.
And it’s not as if he doesn’t ask, every time, if Bucky wants to come with him. And it’s not as if Bucky’s cagey about turning him down.
“Naw, Stevie,” he usually says, light and with more of a drawl than he’d had a year ago, a month ago—getting perilously close to the point where it does things to Steve’s body that he won’t be able to control. “I’ve got plans.”
Given that this is usually stated while Bucky’s seated on the obscenely-sized five-piece sectional they’d found in their living room upon taking Tony up on the offer of accommodation, sprawled in nothing more than his boxers and a pair of tube socks, munching on a Pop Tart and swearing at the controller in his free hand to “fucking work, asshole, I dodged that shell, you lie,” it’s hard to imagine “plans” meaning much more than browsing Netflix and eating the marshmallows out of a box of Lucky Charms. Maybe sparring—Bucky’d taken a shine to the gym, and had found a niche in testing his skills against every Avenger who’d take him as he systematically pushed the limits of his own restraint; which proved stronger, and far less of a concern than anyone could have imagined, but when Steve thinks on it, he’s not as surprised as he would have been: Bucky’s always been the solid one, the rock Steve’d stood upon and leaned against more times than anyone could know.
So yeah. Unless it’s Monday, which is when Bucky swings by his therapist's for the standard 50-minute session, Steve’s pretty sure he knows what “plans” entail.
“But you could join me, if you wanna?” Bucky tacks on, always sounds casual, but just a little hopeful—Steve knows, because it’s the same tone that comes out of his own mouth.
Steve knows, because Steve knows Bucky.
“That is,” and Bucky’s lips curl, even though they both know the answer, the conversation doesn’t change; “if you’re any more willin’ to play hookey these days than you were with the nuns, hmm?”
Steve smiles, ducks his head. “Sister Mary Lou was terrifying.”
Bucky snorts. “Go be responsible, Cap. And bring home pizza.”
That’s the only part of the script that changes, the food: and when it’s pizza, Steve knows he’s not taking the bike to Washington. It’s a bitch bringing pizza back, like that.
So Steve takes the kiss Bucky always seems to be offering, if the set of those goddamned sinful lips is anything to judge by, and sucks on Bucky’s tongue a little longer than strictly necessary, and saves the sound of the moan that follows—from one of them, or both of them; Steve couldn’t care less which—for the trip there and back, leaving Bucky to his plans, and looking forward to coming home to Bucky’s face, Bucky’s heat, Bucky’s laugh, Bucky’s taste, from the very moment he walks out the door.
And Bucky’s always waiting for him: always. Familiarity, dependability, regularity. Safety. Comfort.
They’ve got a routine.
It’s with a smile that Steve breaks it, though, this time: Coulson’d been on recon, nothing to report, and Maria had let him hop the jet back to New York within an hour of landing in the first place. It’s a rare enough thing that Steve spends the quick flight back to the Tower thinking about just how he might surprise Buck, in the middle of the day like this: cook him dinner, maybe, and do his damnedest not to make something Bucky has to lie about being delicious, Stevie, should be on that Master Iron Chopped show, for sure? Ask JARVIS to play their record collection (that’s not even on records, now in this century, but Steve doesn’t care) and spend the afternoon swaying to the rhythm like a couple’a kids, see if Steve can remember the steps Bucky’s been trying to teach him (and Steve’s been willfully struggling with longer than necessary, just to hold him that little bit closer, just to feel Bucky’s attention focused solely on him)? Wrap around one another on the couch for a few hours, watch the sun move through the windows? Maybe Steve’d get out his sketchbook; maybe Bucky would be in the gym, maybe they’d spar and Steve could lick the sweat off Bucky’s neck on their way back up to their floor, maybe they’d shower and Steve could breathe the scent of Bucky’s shampoo in until he dozed off, curled up in their bed?
Steve’s grinning to himself, indulging in vivid mental images of the endless possibilities, when he steps off the plane and enters the Tower, hums to himself as he makes his way to their floor, and he thinks, maybe he should do this more often. If he can’t coax his partner away from his “plans”, maybe it’s up to Steve to break the status quo, to shake things up, to keep things interesting.
To give in, now and again, to the ever-present pull back to home, back to Bucky.
Sometimes, he thinks, damn-well vibrating with an anticipation that he can’t defend, an excitement that he can’t control, that makes him feel young in a way he hasn’t felt in decades, possibly ever: but maybe, sometimes, they both need to say to hell with routine.
The thought’s short-lived, though.
The thought’s short-lived, because it’s only due to the fact that they have a routine—a routine that’s established stability; a routine that’s rebuilt trust; it’s due to that fact that Steve’s heart’s only pounding loud enough for him to hear it, not the whole city block, when he exits the elevator into an empty apartment: no sounds, no movement. No nothing.
Steve’s mind’s feeding him a whole different reel of vivid mental images, horrible possibilities. Bucky taken, Bucky lost; Bucky hurting, Bucky screaming, Bucky leaving of his own accord because Steve’s not, Steve couldn’t, Steve’s failed—
No, Steve breathes. No.
Steve forces himself to inhale, to hold, to exhale over and again, slow and deliberate like his lungs are out to end him again, like he’s back in that place and that time without Bucky there with a hand on his back, on his chest, reminding him why it’s worth the sting to fight. He thinks to the last time that Bucky had a flashback, an episode he couldn’t control: months ago, now—nearly a year, and Dr. Dinaea had been so impressed with Bucky's recovery over that span of time, and Steve had started believing in the idea that maybe this is what calm felt like, maybe there were woods somewhere behind them, now, or something, but Steve tears through every room, searches every corner, checks Bucky’s closet to find his gym clothes folded untouched: there’s nothing.
There’s no Bucky.
Steve inhales; holds it—breathes out.
“Is anything the matter, Captain Rogers?”
Steve starts at the gentle intrusion of that posh, lilting voice from the walls—he chuckles, breathless; he knows JARVIS monitors their vitals, and his must be off the fucking charts.
“JARVIS,” Steve starts—breathes in; then out. “Where’s,” his voice cracks, and he shakes his head, tries his damnedest to clear it but can’t even care when he fails. “Do you know where Bucky is?”
“It’s eleven-twenty-two in the morning on Friday,” JARVIS reports. “I would assume that he’s at his appointment.”
Steve blinks.
“His,” Steve’s throat’s dry, so he has to swallow, and then swallow again, before the words come out: “His appointment?”
“His standing appointment from ten o’clock to four o’clock in the afternoon every Friday, yes,” JARVIS clarifies, and Steve frowns, because what kind of appointment did Buck have, where did he go every Friday for six hours that he’d never mentioned, not once, to Steve in all the time they spent together, in the way they lived out of each other’s pockets four days of the week and all the leftover hours of the other three days when Steve wasn’t away, how had he missed this, what else didn’t he know—
“Can I,” Steve starts, closes his eyes and sucks in a slow, long breathe, tries to center himself around that air as he lets it out, controls it like he can’t control his own self, his own mind, his own heart: not just now. “Am I allowed to ask about what kind of appointment that is?”
There’s a silence—it’s short, but it undercuts Steve’s reluctance, Steve’s multivalent fears, because he doesn’t want to pry. Bucky’s allowed his secrets if he wants them, if he needs them, hell, if they’re just there without even thinking: Bucky’s a grown man, and for all of the heart that Steve’s given him freely, Steve knows, he knows that keeping some things private, some things closer than others—that doesn’t mean there’s less love given in return. It doesn’t.
It doesn’t.
“The recurring StarkCal appointment is titled ‘Doctor Spehdahté’,” JARVIS finally caves, providing the bare minimum—information Steve could access himself, if his hands weren’t trembling a little too quick, just now.
“I thought he only had to go in once a week,” Steve murmurs, clenches his fists against the shaking—Bucky’s shown so much progress, he was doing so well, but what if he wasn’t, what if Steve had willed away the signs of struggle, of hurting because he wanted Bucky to be well so fucking bad, what if Steve had been blind and now Bucky was with the doctors twice a week, for six times the span of time in this new appointment, dear god what had Steve missed—
“Doctor Dinaea only sees Sergeant Barnes once every two weeks,” JARVIS cuts in, no doubt noticing the spike in Steve’s pulse rate across his train of thought: the possibilities assaulting his consciousness from every angle, each one of them feeling like a hand slipped quick, a scream echoing far, just beyond his grasp, too much, too late; and it works, it does work, because Steve lets the relief buzz for a second at the thought that Bucky’s psychologist only sees fit to meet with him every other week, but then it settles, sours, because that’s another thing Bucky never mentioned, a triumph he hadn’t shared.
And why?
“It does appear to be a recent scheduling change,” JARVIS adds, reading Steve’s mind in that way Steve’s long since given up being unsettled by. “Sergeant Barnes does, however, seem to have filled that calendar slot on the intervening weeks with time in the gym with Agents Romanoff and May, depending on their proximity, and afternoon appointments with the same Doctor Spehdahté.”
And Steve wishes, truly, that he was a better man, a stronger man: that he could have seen whatever it was he missed, that he could be the person Bucky needs him to be, to look at the man he loves and see every piece of him without apparently overlooking these crucial bits, these parts that need him most, whatever they are, wherever they’ve been hiding. Steve wishes he was the kind of man who could let Bucky come to him, who wouldn’t pry, who wouldn’t invade the privacy that Bucky deserves, that had been stolen from him for so long—
Steve wishes he was the kind of man who wouldn’t ask the question he’s about to ask.
“Can you pull up the,” Steve clears his throat: “can you look for, for where...”
“I cannot locate records of any professional practice within a viable radius where such a doctor is reported to practice,” JARVIS answers the question he intends but can’t give voice to, because Bucky deserves better; Bucky deserves more than Steve’s hand-wringing, than Steve’s meddling, than Steve’s worry—he deserves Steve’s trust, Steve’s love, and Steve doesn’t know how to make it clear that those things don’t exist in a vacuum, one side doesn’t negate the other, and it’s for all that love and the trust and the need that he worries like he does, and he knows he should just stand and wait and let Bucky come to him on his own.
And yet—
“There is, however, an address,” JARVIS adds helpfully, “attached to the calendar entry.”
Steve pauses. An address. Attached.
JARVIS brings it up on the television mounted to the wall, and yeah. An address, plain as day. Obvious.
Not hidden at all, in fact.
It doesn’t add up.
“Is there—”
“There’s no information on the nature of the operations associated with the location,” JARVIS tells him. “It appears more like an office building, than anything else, given the blueprints on file. Security footage doesn’t display any readily identified anomalies,” there’s a slight pause as the feeds run in triple time across the screen before slowing. “I do see Sergeant Barnes entering the facility, at approximately two minutes past ten, this morning.”
And yeah, there here is. Bucky. Entering the building. Hair pulled back; jacket shrugged on. One boot untied, the laces dangling. Casual. Relaxed. He swings open the door with his left hand, and Steve catches the beginnings of a smile on his face before he’s inside, out of sight.
He doesn’t look threatened. He doesn’t look ill at ease. It doesn’t look like a danger. He breathes. It’s fine.
“Would you like me to forward you the coordinates, Captain?” JARVIS asks.
Steve’s got the keys to his bike in his hand before he can think twice.
“Please.”
__________________________________
JARVIS was right; from the outside, it’s really just an office building.
Steve walks in—wary, trying not to let it show—only to be met by a desk attendant and a long line of elevators.
“Floor number?” the woman asks. She’s wearing those shoes that Pepper has, with the red lining the heels.
“I’m, umm,” Steve stalls, tries to figure his next play, but the woman blinks and her face shifts ever so slightly.
“Captain Rogers?” she asks, and it’s inquisitive, not star-struck, which is a nice change. He nods, and when she dips her head in askance, he understands her meaning and slides her his ID.
“Sergeant Barnes has approved you as a guest for Suite 529,” she informs his as she inspects his driver’s license and presses a few buttons behind the desk. “If you’ll take the lift, you’ll make a right upon exiting.” She tucks his license away without comment, idly adding, “You can retrieve this upon the completion of your visit.”
Something nags in the back of Steve’s mind that he should argue, but curiosity’s getting the better of him, now: nothing speaks threat here, just secrecy, and Steve damn well wants to know what Bucky’s doing in a place like this.
He takes the elevator up.
The doors are all identical in the hallway he’s let out on, marked in silver block letters: single words that give nothing away, He counts down from 540, stopping in front of the tenth door on the left.
Renevatio.
He doesn’t even have to put a hand on the door before it unlatches automatically and swings open to reveal yet another reception area, and the slightest scent of peppermint.
Three heads look up as he enters—two women and a man that’s about as broad as Steve himself—and all of their jaws drop to differing extents as they meet Steve’s eyes.
“Good god,” the brunette woman farthest to the left murmurs. “Anna, drinks are on you tonight.”
Anna’s still gaping as the brunette walks around the sprawling half-moon that is their desk, a leather portfolio in hand.
“Captain Rogers,” she greets him. “The pleasure is long overdue.”
Steve doesn’t understand what the hell that’s supposed to mean, but he shakes the hand she extends with a smile and appreciates the firmness in her grip.
“You’ll forgive the formality, but we do require your signature on this,” she flips open the portfolio with practiced ease, balancing it open on the heel of her palm. “We value discretion just as much as our clients do. Helps keep this a safe haven for the sorts who need a break from the rest of the world. You understand, I suspect,” she smiles knowingly.
Steve’s signed enough NDAs to recognize the similar language in the short release form—he raises an eyebrow, but figures if nothing else, Tony’s lawyers can get him out of anything he agrees to that proves incriminating; besides, if he wants to see what Bucky’s up to, he’ll need to give his John Hancock in exchange.
He takes the pen and signs.
“Fantastic,” she beams, snapping the folio closed. “Bucky is,” she glances at the desk, where Anna clicks on her computer and calls back: “Fifteen into a cuke mask.”
“Oh, well, I’m sure he won’t mind being interrupted, he’s nearly done,” he gets a smile as the brunette pops her folder behind the desk. “I’ll escort you back.”
Which is when the pieces start to reveal themselves, though Steve’s still not sure he understands them: he follows her dutifully past mostly-closed doors, but the hints are still there—steam sneaking from under some of them, too many fluffy towels, and bottles of various toiletries.
They reach a room near the back, and Steve’s ushered in quietly, the door closed behind him before he can turn to ask any questions; before he can process what’s awaiting him inside.
The lights are low, but Steve’s eyes don’t take much to adjust. There’s a familiar body lying prone on a cross between a table and a bed in front of him, torso bare, neck draped with a meticulously wrapped towel, something vaguely green smeared across his face, eyes presumably closed under the thick circles of… something, covering them. It’s warm, too warm, and musky with something sweet in the air, and there’s light music playing: Steve only recognizes it because he’s heard it in the Tower before—again, Pepper, but also Bruce—and he only knows what it’s called because of Tony’s disdainful spitting of “Enya!” in response.
“Gia, I’ve got at least another five minutes, we’re not even through A Day Without Rain,” Bucky’s voice floats over, petulant, and hell if Steve knows how to respond to that other than to open his mouth and say absolutely nothing.
There’s a sound to it, though: barely there, caught in Steve’s throat, and it gives him away because Bucky knows him too damned well.
Metal fingers are plucking the circle off one eye as Bucky squints up at him, not sitting up but grinning, slow and wide as he takes in Steve’s presence before him.
“Fuck me,” Bucky exhales, soft and low and enough to make something stir in Steve’s groin. “Took you long enough! Did you ditch DC? Finally grew yourself some balls?”
Steve’s still staring, still taking in the view before him and trying to put it into context, into a meaningful narrative in his head with all of the thoughts, all of the worry and the uncertainties since he landed back in New York just an hour or so before.
The silence isn’t lost on Bucky, though, and Steve nearly wants to cry for the way the perfect relaxation that had suffused that body, that heart and soul that he loves so fucking dear is starting to slip; for the way that Bucky’s uncovering his other eye and easing upward, leaving that calm behind too soon, just because Steve’s never known how not to be a worrier, not when it matters like this. Not when it’s Bucky.
“Stevie? You look like you’re about to pass the fuck out, come on, sit,” he pats the table next to him, and Steve lets himself fall onto it, lets Bucky cover one of Steve’s hands in both of his own.
Something snaps in Steve, and when he breathes, all of the things that snapped-something had been holding in place see fit to slip out of him; leave him feeling lighter.
“I’m missing something here, I’ve got that much,” Bucky says softly. “I just don’t have a fucking clue what it is.”
Steve inhales deep before speaking, letting reality slot into place over the imagined scenarios he’d been running on the ride over: hostages and relapses and reversions to blank eyes and a knife at his throat and everything lost, and Steve’s glad the room’s hot, and the lighting’s dark, because the embarrassment’s catching up with him, and making itself clearly known on his cheeks.
“You, umm,” Steve starts; “I got home early. Meeting was canceled.”
“Aww, man,” Bucky teases, squeezes his hand. “Still playing by the rules,” he laments, shaking his head. “But you’re here now. You’ll be convinced to blow off the brass more often by the time we leave, I guarantee it,” he grins, and Steve swallows.
“You weren’t home.”
“No,” Bucky says, slowly, like that’s obvious. “I told you this morning. I had plans.”
And, Steve, thinks, yeah: he did. So yeah: it was obvious.
Steve’s an idiot, sometimes.
And it’s seriously fucking hot in this room; his face is on fucking fire.
“You should have called, or texted at least, I would have asked Vee to free someone up to get you taken care of as soon as you got here,” Bucky shrugs. “But we’ll see if she can squeeze you in, you’re gonna love it.”
Steve’s still doing a lot of blinking around the room, focusing on Bucky’s firm grip on his wrist and letting the light strings and soft vocals of the music in the background sink in just a little deeper.
“You’re still confused,” Bucky finally sighs. “Spill it, punk.”
“You had plans.”
“I did,” Bucky nods patiently. “I do. Every week,” he grins, and leans back a little. “Sometimes more than once a week.”
“At a spa.”
Bucky snorts. “S’what it says on the calendar, ain’t it?”
Steve frowns at that—no, that’s not what it said on the calendar, but fine, that’s not important just now.
“So you come here, and, you,” Steve gestures to the goop on Bucky’s face, to the room at large, one big question he doesn’t know the words to form. “You…?”
“Enjoy the perks of twenty-first century living?” Bucky finishes for him. “Stark says life’s too short not to indulge. Sure, the man’s a bag o’ dicks, but I think he might have a point on this one.”
“So you,” Steve tilts his head: he’s seen movies with this kind of thing, but it might as well be an alien planet for as much as it makes any sense. “The, umm, face stuff?"
Bucky grins, and it cracks the paste around where his mouth stretches for the expression. “Do you have any idea what that eyeblack’d been doing to my skin?”
“You haven’t worn that since we were last in the field,” Steve comments idly, but he doesn’t care, really: he likes the smile far too much.
“Maintenance,” Bucky chides. “You have to maintain your skin, Steve, geeze,” he rolls his eyes. “Ain’t rocket science.”
“And, you stick those on?” Steve nods at the circles that had been on Bucky’s eyelids.
“It’s not like, essential,” Bucky concedes, grabbing them; Steve sees now that they’re cucumbers, of all things. “But it feels nice.” Bucky’s grin turns sly and he pops one of the circles into his mouth, crunching loudly. “Plus I get to eat ‘em after.”
“And then look, they bring me these,” Bucky grabs for a fancy glass full of a brownish-orange gradient of liquids. “It’s a drink with a little umbrella in it,” and indeed it is, complete with a stirring stick and a slice of fruit on the side. “Like it was hanging out at the beach, and it came straight here just for me.”
The childlike giddiness in Bucky’s eyes is enough to effectively erase the fear and worry of the last hour, because goddamn, Steve would move heaven and earth to see that look on his partner’s face, and he’s going to enjoy it, here and now: he’s going to soak it in and bask in it and commit it to memory; he’s going to go home and paint it, he’s going to buy cucumbers and paper drink umbrellas and put that smile on Bucky's face every goddamned night.
It’s only after a moment that Steve realizes Bucky’s been holding the drink toward him to try; by the time he wises up, though, Buck’s lost his patience, and with a huff is sucking Steve’s lips into his mouth, slipping his tongue between Steve’s teeth and giving him a taste that Steve, personally, prefers to a sip from the glass.
He’s breathless when Bucky pulls back; he can feel the cool smears of facial cream that have wiped onto his skin in the process, and Bucky’s grinning so fucking wide and Steve thinks he’s already sold on this place, if this is what it brings: if this is what it does for Bucky.
“S’good, right?” Bucky smirks, and Steve eyes are almost painfully wide as he nods, because yeah.
S’real good.
“And the acupressure,” Bucky moans, and Steve has to shift against the way that sound goes straight to his dick. “And hell, scar tissue massage? Stevie, good god.” His eyes fall closed, but then he cracks one open to pin Steve down with a knowing glance. “How the hell’d you think I got so limber on this side all of a sudden? Serum only goes so far, babe.”
And yeah, now that Bucky mentions it: they’ve been getting almost impossibly inventive lately. Even Steve’s been feeling it in the morning.
"Speaking of,” Bucky brightens once more. “I've got two words: deep, tissue. S'almost as good as sex, I swear."
Steve doesn’t mean to let the impatient huff escape him, but seriously, that’s insulting.
The sex, with them, is fucking incredible.
"What?” Bucky puts his hands up, all innocence, but the glint in his eyes gives him away. “I said ‘almost’!"
Steve snorts, and Bucky takes the opportunity to lean in and press his lips against Steve’s mouth again, full and firm and sweet, like Steve can taste the joy there—it tingles through him like a current, like a drug.
“So…” Bucky nips against the corner of Steve’s mouth, pulling back slow before he asks: “You wanna try it?”
“Do I want to,” Steve trails, and he can’t even be blamed for not quite following: Bucky’s lips on his do strange things to Steve’s ability to process words. S’just how it is. “What?”
Bucky rolls his eyes, burying his face in crook of Steve’s neck, biting lightly at the skin.
“I only been askin’ ya to join me every fucking time you leave, moron,” he growls into the side of Steve’s throat. “Why’d you think I put it in my calendar with the fucking address and a fake name that’d tell you exactly where I was just as soon as you stopped bein’ too chickenshit to skip out on your little meetings?”
“Fake name,” Steve says, and with Bucky’s tongue against the pulse-point at his neck, it comes out a hell of a lot less damning than Steve kind of wants it to.
Oh well.
“Dr. Spehdahté doesn’t exist, we figured that out, but—”
“Spehdahté?” Bucky jerks backward, face incredulous. “The fuck…” His face screws up as he tries to process something, and Steve watches as realization dawns with disbelieving laughter on that cream-covered face.
“Doctor Spadate. Spa date, Steven, seriously, don’t fucking hurt yourself figuring that shit out,” he snorts. “Did you even read it?”
And Steve thinks, no. He didn’t. JARVIS did. So sue the AI for thinking the fake name had an accent to it. JARVIS was cultured like that. Or whatever.
Steve’s back to feeling like the room is way too hot for human beings, particularly as Bucky returns to sucking his way up Steve’s neck, lingers at the line of his jaw where Steve knows he can feel the blush against his lips.
“You really did think I spent the whole fucking day on the couch, didn’t you?” Bucky accuses, but it doesn’t have any real bite.
“I…” Steve trails, wavering on the edge of shame. “I figured you probably went to the gym, sometimes.”
“And then sat my ass back down to veg?” Bucky asks the side of Steve’s face, nipping at his ear lobe. “For real?”
Steve starts at the spark of pain before Bucky laves it smooth with his tongue, soothes as Steve shrugs helplessly, only just saves himself from spluttering like he used to when the nuns scolded him in school.
Now, like then: Bucky saves his ass from further humiliation.
“I go running with Sam after you leave. When you have to leave,” Bucky tells him, starts kisses around the frame of his face in the pauses, the breaks. “We sometimes grab coffee, after. Most times we grab coffee, after. Sometimes he drags me to the his thingys at the VA,” Steve can feel the smirk pressed into his skin before the kiss comes. “Which means he owes me lunch when it’s done.”
Steve laughs, a little breathy.
“Pepper’s been teaching me how to cook,” Bucky starts again. “All the good shit we get delivered, from the list.” Steve doesn’t say anything, is honestly too impressed, really, but Bucky sighs, like he reads disbelief in Steve’s features anyway. “Okay fine, JARVIS helps. Gives us pointers, turns the burners down when something’s getting done too quick. Some of that shit’s hard.”
Steve turns, and meets Bucky’s lips this time, kisses him full on and reaches, eases Bucky to sit in his lap, to straddle his hips on the table, his weight gorgeous as it settles against Steve, as it grounds him: reminds him, subtle and sure, that this is real. There is joy.
They are here.
“I spar with everybody, basically whenever,” Bucky continues, runs his hands up Steve’s arms. “They just drop by our floor, or they have JARVIS track me down. I’ve been trying to pay attention to where the weak spots are, when we go at it, for any member of the team. So we can work on it. Make everyone less vulnerable to a hit.”
Steve pulls away, studies Bucky with a careful stare.
“You train them?”
“I…” Bucky pauses, looks unsettled as he searches for the words. “I just point out where I’d take the kill shot, where they leave it open. If I was the enemy coming at them,” he shrugs. “I’ve got a sharp eye.”
“Always have,” Steve agrees, cups Bucky’s face and draws him in, kisses him even deeper, now, for the pride welling up in his chest at this perfect fucking man who has overcome worse than hell to be here, to be in his arms, to give and to live and to love, and Steve can’t be blamed for wondering when it will disappear, if only because it’s such a novel concept: that a man like this could ever be real.
“Will you do it for me?” Steve finally mouths against Bucky’s skin.
“Hmm?”
“Will you point out the weak spots, for me?” Steve asks.
Bucky huffs, leans in again to take Steve’s mouth. “You ain’t got no weak spots, Steve.”
“You mean you cover all my weak spots,” Steve protests, easing away to speak clearly, to make his point heart. “To the detriment of your own stupid ass,” he adds, and this time he takes both his hands and frames Bucky’s face, not even bothering to be mindful of the messy streaks of facial cream they’ve not yet worn off between them.
“How many times do I gotta tell you,” Steve speaks in earnest, “that you watchin’ my back is something I love about you, about us, more than I can say. But it ain’t got nothing to do with battle, or bullets, or war. Not really.”
He waits until Bucky looks at him—really looks, and keeps the gaze—and he lets himself be read by those sharp eyes, those soft eyes, until Bucky nods, and looks down as he says, rough and low:
“We’ll go to the gym tonight, if you want.”
Steve ducks his head and catches his mouth, and Bucky tastes like promises that Steve can’t name, but takes into himself in that moment in ways he’ll never lose.
“Bruce’s been showing me actual yoga, versus just the meditation stuff that he did before,” Bucky picks back up, once the breath between them’s settled again. “Because, like, that was necessity. This is more,” Bucky gestures broadly, but with great focus, as if it’s at all indicative of whatever the hell he means. “It’s kinda cool, y’know?”
“And Tash, she’s teaching me Russian,” he carries on. “I never learned it for real, just what I needed to know. I want to know what the files mean, not just what she’ll translate.”
And it’s a thing Steve’s still adjusting to, the way the memories, the way the past seventy years have started to lose their sting, are starting to lose the edge and the danger and are being left where they belong—are being overcome by something better, and brighter, and warmer, and now.
“So she’s teaching me. And I think it,” Bucky pauses, sucks on his lip as he thinks before he decides with a nod: “I think it helps her, too? So. That’s good.”
“Clint comes with her,” he adds. “He’s a good guy.”
Steve grins at that—the marksmanship rivalry, it seems, must have calmed to a dull roar between those two.
“Tony’s been taking me up on the arm thing. Repeatedly.” And it’s funny, because Tony’s an acquired taste, but Steve can hear more fondness, here, than exasperation in Bucky’s voice, and that is definitely new. “I am not sure the Dodgers are worth this shit, Stevie, I swear.”
Steve chuckles, and Bucky joins him, and it feels better than Steve can say, pressed against Bucky’s frame, feeling the laughter run through him alongside hearing it. Tasting it when he leans in for yet another of the kisses he cannot get enough of.
“I read two more books off the list.”
Steve’s brow quirks. “The list?”
“Time Magazine,” Bucky clarified. “100 must-read novels since the 20’s. I’ve only got like, seventy-two more to go.”
Steve’s lips curls. “Nerd.”
Bucky smacks his arm—not too hard, but not soft, and Steve snorts, because it’s true. Steve’d picked the fights, and Bucky’d always had a book to set down before he stepped in and finished ‘em.
“Figured it’d be nice to start with a list where I had at least a couple I could cross off from the get-go,” Bucky muses, and Steve tries to think of some of the books he remembers Bucky dog-earing that he’s seen floating around in the now.
“Appointment in Samarra,” he tosses out, and Bucky nods approvingly.
“Grapes of Wrath.”
“Never finished it,” Bucky shakes his head. “S’still on the list.”
“Gatsby.” Bucky nods, and Steve lets himself remember, just for a second, the way Bucky’s interest in dancing had hit a fever pitch after reading that damned book.
“The Heart is A Lonely Hunter.”
Bucky’s smile turns sad.
“Didn’t read that one,” he breathes out, nostalgia and a little bit of heartache in the words as he watches Steve through his lashes. “Title hit a little too close to home,” he explains, but then grabs for Steve’s hand and lifts it to his lips: “At the time.”
“To the Lighthouse,” Steve says, soft while Bucky presses his mouth to each of Steve’s knuckles in turn.
“My Lily,” Bucky grins against Steve’s wrist before tonguing around the pulse there, too. “You use’ta get so sore over that shit, Stevie,” he laughs, shaking his head. “It was a compliment, y’know.”
Steve won’t admit it, but the pout he offers at that is mostly so that Bucky will suck at his lower lip until Steve opens his mouth wider; gives him free reign.
“I unlocked Mirror Mode on Mario Kart,” Bucky breathes against him, nips at the corner of his mouth.
“Seriously?”
“Dude,” Bucky exhales low, and the vibration against Steve’s lips, against Steve’s teeth runs shivers down his spine in the absolute best way he can think of, the best way he’s ever known. “Everything’s flipped over, s’fucking insane.”
“So, when you say you’ve got plans,” Steve says, swallows hard, because he’s a thrice-damned fool sometimes; he really and truly is.
“I am not, in fact, covering up for my life on the sofa with a bag of Cheetos, no.”
And Steve’s a fool, but he’s lucky: because Bucky’s just smirking up at him, all green-cream streaked and full of more love than Steve’s ever earned, than Steve’s heart knows how to hold but he’ll learn, goddamnit: he won’t let any of that love get away.
He’s greedy like that.
“And you’re…”
“Here, at least once a week, because it’s awesome,” Bucky nods with a cheeky grin. “And because some of the ladies like how my metal hand can work out their kinks,” he wiggles the fingers on his left hand demonstratively. “Been learning a few massage tricks myself.”
Steve raises an eyebrow, and lets all the implications of Bucky’s suggestive tone register on his face. And then some.
“You dirty motherfucker!” Bucky gasps in feigned shock. “What would the nation say if they knew where your mind really went behind that cornfed face.” He bumps his shoulder into Steve’s. “Not like that, asshole. Not unless it’s you. Which it could be,” Bucky adds, eyeing him hopefully, pressing his weight a little closer against Steve’s crotch; “if you wanted.”
And Steve does, yes, fuck yes, but he’s got to get the words out before Bucky robs him of coherent thought.
“I,” Steve gasps; “I’m sorry.”
Bucky groans, and sits back.
“Are you for fucking serious, here?” he complains. “What for now?”
Steve flushes, and hell: he’s gotta be red enough now that Bucky can see it just fine, regardless of the lighting. “Y’know,” Steve starts, awkwardly. “For thinking you were… or else, for not asking about—”
Bucky’s real good at stopping Steve from yapping by using his lips. Like, real fucking good at that.
“Can it, moron,” Bucky smirks against his mouth. “Do you really think I’ve been jonesing like hell to waste precious time telling you about my fucking hobbies on your days off? When you’re all mine to have to myself, and we got better things to do?”
Steve can’t argue there. They do tend to do really awesome things when Steve’s in New York all day.
“‘Sides,” Bucky’s eyes glow, narrow in the sly way he’s got that’s both dangerous and enticing. “You can make it up to me by enjoying the licorice mask. S’my favorite.”
He pulls away, stands and tugs Steve to his feet, leading him out the door and through some winding hallways Steve hadn’t noticed before, stopping finally in an open area lined with chairs and tables similar to the one Steve’d found Bucky on, before.
Bucky lifts his head and meets the gaze of the brunette from earlier—Gia—who gestures toward the over-stuffed chairs in the corner, one next to the other.
Bucky settles in the one that doesn’t have a bowl of dark, sweet-smelling paste next to it, but it doesn’t stop Bucky from leaning over and dipping a hand into the goop—which earns him a smack on the wrist when Gia approaches to find Bucky licking the substance off of his fingertip.
“Oh, hell,” he says around the digit between his lips, and oh hell is right, given what that image does to Steve’s cock. “They already love you. They’ve got you the chocolate.”
“You’ve talked him up enough over the past nine months, Bucky,” Gia smirks. “‘Course we already love him.”
Steve feels slightly better about the entire process as Bucky flushes, just a touch, while Steve’s eased back into the give of the chair.
“We can use what’s left,” Bucky leans over to whisper into his right ear, while Gia instructs him to close his eyes as she starts spreading the chocolate mix onto his left cheek: “when you’re done.” The words are wet against the skin, and Steve can feel it tighten straight through him, from his chest to his thighs, all anticipation and heat: “If y’want.”
Steve definitely wants.
__________________________________
Maria Hill glances at the time. Five minutes past ten on a Friday morning. It’s not incredibly late.
It’s just that Rogers isn’t ever late.
She’s been calling his cell, but no luck. Eventually, she tries the Tower.
“Assistant Director Hill,” JARVIS answers pleasantly; “Good morning. How may I assist you?”
“JARVIS, you wouldn’t happen to have a twenty on Rogers, would you?”
There’s a brief silence that Maria’s too well trained to worry through.
“His calendar indicates an appointment with a Dr. Spehdahté,” JARVIS informs her. “He appears to be indisposed through the afternoon.”
Oh, well. Medical.
Maria frowns—it’s not like him to neglect to mention if something comes up and he can’t make a meeting—but she concedes the point. It is Steve Rogers, after all.
She’ll let this one slide.