Archive of Our Own

This is my soul and the world unwinding,
this is my heart in the still winter air.

-Station Eleven, Emily St. John Mandel

The first time Steve sees her one-on-one, he has a bottle of nail polish in his hand and the Cap shield spread across his lap. He’s in a corner of Tony’s lab, which Stark had dubbed the Nursery, when Natasha appears at the door, as silent as if she’d teleported there. She stands with her arms crossed, red curls tickling her chin, her green eyes locked on Steve.

“I have a more accurate red,” Natasha says.

Steve looks at the bottle of Cherry Bomb Red in his hand, then the chipped red paint on his shield. Natasha’s right—the color is a few shades off—though Steve isn’t sure how she can tell from across the room.

“Lead me to it,” Steve says, standing up. Natasha turns without a word.

Steve follows her into the elevator, each of them stoic, unmoving. It dings on the eighty-sixth floor, and Natasha walks out and down the hall. She stops at a door with a taped-on sign, the following written in Sharpie—

—then pulls a bobby pin from her hair and sticks it in the lock. The door clicks open, and Natasha pushes inside.

The mercifully un-booby-trapped room is in complete disarray, pants and shirts and fingerless gloves strewn across the floor. A vent hangs open above the bed, its screen lying on the comforter. A pair of hearing aids sit on the end table next to three empty mugs, a broken lamp, and a half-eaten cookie. Natasha pushes the mugs aside to reveal a bottle of red nail polish called American Dream.

She picks it up and hands it to Steve. “There,” she says. “That’s a better match.”

“Whose room is this?” Steve asks, pocketing the bottle. He’s searching for traps in his periphery, careful not to touch anything.

“Clint’s,” Natasha responds, pointing to the open vent. “You’ve never seen him in there?”

“I didn’t know to look,” Steve says, examining the screen on the bed. Then he snaps his fingers and points to Natasha. “That disembodied voice in Tony’s lab—”

“Also Clint’s,” Natasha confirms with a smirk. “He thinks it’s fun to wake Stark up.”

“For some of us, maybe,” Steve mutters. He’s been in the lab a number of times, sketching or journaling while Tony napped with DUM-E as a pillow, only to hear a metallic voice utter a string of threats or curse words. Steve had always assumed it was JARVIS on the fritz. He makes a mental note to slap Clint upside the head next time he sees him. “Where is Barton, anyway?”

“Elsewhere,” Natasha says. She pushes the vent screen aside and sits on Clint’s bed, wrapping a pink, purple, and blue striped blanket around her shoulders. “You can finish painting here, if you want to return the bottle right away.”

Steve takes one look around the room and then raises an eyebrow at Natasha.

“Good point,” she says, standing up with the blanket around her. “My floor is on ninety, if you want to paint there.” She pushes out of Clint’s room before Steve can answer, and he follows.

Natasha leads Steve to the elevator, the blue stripe of Clint’s blanket dragging on the floor. Steve lifts it like a wedding train and holds the ends, careful not to let it catch as the elevator doors slide shut.

On the ninetieth floor, Natasha leads Steve to a corner room at the end of the hall. It has floor-to-ceiling windows on two adjacent walls with a stunning view of the East River—Steve feels his heart catch as he looks down at Brooklyn from above.

He sighs and turns, facing the window with the uptown view. This was what he expected when he first saw the tower—windows facing buildings that are foreign to him, a rich man’s view of a richer man’s New York. He wonders if Natasha invited him up here because of the window facing Brooklyn.

She curls up on a couch in the center of the room, wrapping the blanket around her and grabbing a book from the coffee table. Steve settles on the ground facing Brooklyn and runs his fingers over the chips on his shield. Then he pulls out the bottle of American Dream and begins to paint.

Steve presses a soft stroke to the shield’s outer stripe. He notes that Natasha is the only person he’s met in the twenty-first century who truly knows how to be quiet.

Steve runs the edge of his nail along a too-big glob of paint. He notes, via Natasha’s reflection in the window, that she sticks out her tongue when she reads.

Steve twists the cap onto the bottle and turns to Natasha, who holds up a finger, runs her eyes along her page, and then looks up at him. He notes that Natasha needs to finish her sentence before she can stop reading.

Steve holds out the finished shield for her inspection.

“Good as new,” Natasha says. She sets her book back on the coffee table and pulls the striped blanket to her chest.

“That really Clint’s?” Steve asks, nodding to the pink, purple, and blue-striped blanket.

“It’s mine,” she says with a close-mouthed smile. “Clint has never liked a label enough to stick with it.”

“What do you mean?” Steve asks.

Natasha holds out the blanket with one of her arms—the pink stripe sits on top and the blue on bottom, with a thin purple line in between. When Steve’s expression doesn’t change, Natasha pulls down the blanket and frowns. “You’ve never seen a pride flag before?”

“Pride flag?” Steve asks.

Natasha’s nostrils flare. “Who’s been teaching you history?” she asks.

“I’ve mostly been left on my own,” Steve says. He pulls a little notebook from his pocket and flips it open, then turns it so Natasha can read. She leans forward and squints.

Dodgers (Wait)
I Love Lucy (TV)
Moon Landing
Berlin Wall (Up & Down)
Steve Jobs (Apple)

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Coulson?” she asks.

“Mostly,” Steve says with a shrug. “Steve Jobs was Tony.”

Natasha leans closer. “What’s the parenthetical after ‘Dodgers’?”

“‘Wait,’” Steve recites. “Coulson thought I should be sitting down for that one.”

Natasha leans back and pats the spot beside her on the couch. Steve sets the drying shield on the floor and sits down, his back against the arm of the couch, facing Natasha.

“Disco,” she says.

“What?”

“The next item on your list. D-I-S-C-O,” she says, pointing to Steve’s notebook. “Write it down.”

“Bossy,” Steve teases, shaking his head, but he adds Disco to the line below Steve Jobs.

“Step one of queer history,” Natasha says. “Disco.”

Steve closes his notebook and looks at Natasha intently. She smirks. “You’re actually curious, aren’t you?” she asks.

Steve shrugs, then nods.

“Good.” Natasha smiles softly. “First question. Have you ever met a gay person?”

“Yes,” Steve says, reddening. “They existed when I did, you know.”

Natasha quirks an eyebrow, and Steve hopes that he didn’t sound as defensive as he feels. A familiar sensation overwhelms him—the merciless illogic of fear—and he tenses.

“I know,” Natasha says coolly. “Have you ever met a person who wasn’t straight, but wasn’t gay either?”

Steve frowns. “Aren’t those the options?”

Natasha’s eyes narrow. “From now on, I’m in charge of your history lessons,” she says. “Coulson clearly didn’t do his job.”

“To be fair, Loki interrupted it.”

“No,” Natasha says, “gay and straight are not the only options.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say to that. “What are the other options, then?” he asks.

Natasha smiles gently, then holds the blanket taut to show its stripes. “Bisexual,” she says.

Bisexual, Steve thinks. “Bi means two,” he says dumbly.

“Well observed,” Natasha says. “Bisexual means attracted to two or more genders.”

“There are more than two genders?”

“One step at a time,” Natasha says, peering at Steve. He’s never seen her look warm, but he thinks that’s what this is—her gaze is soft, her posture relaxed.

“So—“ Steve starts, then stops. He opens his mouth, then closes it. “Bisexuals are… gay and straight?”

“If that’s the way you want to look at it.” Natasha shrugs.

“So you’re…?”

“Yes,” she says.

“You date both women and men?”

“Yes,” she says again, a hint of exasperation in her tone.

Steve feels the air leave his lungs. He presses a hand to his chest, where his heartbeat thumps in perfect increments, ba-dum, ba-dum, no arrhythmia behind these soldier’s pecs. Tears burn his eyes and Steve wills them away.

“Steve?” Natasha asks, placing her hand over his.

Steve takes her hand and squeezes. “Bisexual,” he says, almost reverently. Then he looks at Natasha and says, “I thought I was the only one.”

Natasha waits for Steve to continue. After a deep breath in, he does.

“I always liked girls,” he says, blushing. “Growing up, they didn’t often feel the same. But boys—men—paid me attention.” He pauses, taking his hand from Natasha’s and running it through his hair. “You’ve seen what I looked like pre-serum?”

Natasha nods.

“So you can understand,” Steve says, “why a certain type of man would pursue me.”

“The twink’s appeal has always been strong,” Natasha says gravely. Seeing Steve’s confusion, she shakes her head and says, “Continue.”

“For the longest time, I thought I was a homosexual—a gay man. I sucked cock in dark alleys and out by the navy yard where Bucky worked—where my friend—my roommate—anyway,” Steve says, his face heating, “That lasted until I met Peggy.”

“Agent Carter,” Natasha says.

Steve nods. “I’m not sure how much you know about—“ Natasha’s lip quirks— “right, you know everything. So I think that I’m a hom—a gay man, and then there she is.” Steve smiles wistfully, remembering Peggy’s red lips and sharp tongue and brown curls, the way her eyes danced when they met his. “This whip-smart dame who looks at me like I can be salvaged. Like I’m not just a skeleton with skin.”

Natasha smiles. “You fell in love with her.”

“I did,” Steve says. “But it was long after Project Rebirth.”

“Steve,” Natasha says warningly. “Don’t tell me—“

“—that I thought the serum made me a heterosexual?” Steve scratches the back of his neck. “I wish I could.”

Natasha groans. “That’s terrible,” she says. Then she softens. “That’s sad.”

Steve shrugs. “It was my first theory,” he says. “I went to war as a crippled homosexual and emerged as Captain America. It was a miracle.”

There’s a hint of rage behind Natasha’s eyes, and Steve wonders if she sees the same in his.

“What was your second theory?” she asks.

“Came about six months later,” Steve says. “USO show in Italy, fucking Brandt sent me to my father’s old regiment and didn’t tell me—there was a battle, nearly the whole unit was captured—”

“I know this story,” Natasha interrupts. “Azzano. You saved nearly four hundred men.”

“It was a team effort,” Steve says.

“That’s when the Commandos were formed,” Natasha adds.

Steve nods. “First time I used the serum for more than a dance routine,” he says. “Ran into that factory half-thinking I’d die. Found the cages first, all those men—the Commandos—Jones asked if I knew what I was doin’ and the first thing comes to mind is, ‘Yeah, I’ve knocked out Adolf Hitler over two hundred times.’ Confused every last one of ‘em, but they listened to me, didn’t they?” Steve stops and takes a breath, his hands shaking. A part of him feels Krausberg’s aching heat as he recalls it, the smell of burning metal mixed with blood. He lets out an involuntary shudder, then shakes his head.

“You don’t have to finish,” Natasha says quietly.

“I want to,” Steve says, “if you want to hear it.”

Natasha nods. “I do.”

“My best pal was in that factory. Isolation ward. Found him strapped to a table, delirious. Alive. I looked at him, and I knew I was in love.” Steve takes a deep breath and looks for a change in Natasha’s expression, but her face is blank. “So I had a new theory,” Steve says. “The serum didn’t rid me of unnatural desire. It expanded my ability to love.”

“The serum didn’t change your sexuality,” Natasha says. “It sounds like it allowed you to discover it.”

Steve is quiet. He reaches a hand for Natasha’s blanket and extends it, gazing at the bright pink and cool blue. He touches the thin purple line.

“I was a science experiment,” he says. “I thought I was alone.”

“So dramatic,” Natasha says. She unwraps the blanket from her shoulders and hands it to Steve. “Here,” she says. “I’ll have JARVIS buy another one.”

Steve accepts the blanket with an unsteady hand. “Thank you,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” Natasha replies. Then she picks up her book from the coffee table and curls into the corner of the couch.

Steve remains beside her, smoothing out the blanket’s folds. He glances at Natasha, and she looks at him over her book.

“Thai food,” she says.

“What?”

“The next item on your list,” she says. “After disco.”

Steve smiles and jots it down.

It starts with a keychain. Steve finds it on his bedside table, next to his notebook and pen—a rectangle with pink, purple, and blue stripes. He attaches it to his keys.

Next, there’s a mug in his cabinet. The pink fades into purple into blue, a pretty gradient. Steve fills it with coffee and admires its shine.

Then, he finds a book in his kitchen: The Collected Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay. “JARVIS, who is this?” Steve asks, holding the book in the air.

“Edna St. Vincent Millay is a Pulitzer Prize-winning twentieth-century poet. She is best known for coining the phrase ‘my candle burns at both ends,’ as well as for her unflinching portrayals of bisexuality.”

Steve’s eyes widen as he flips to the first page.

The next time he sees Natasha, at the Triskelion in early February, he gives her a kiss on the cheek. She’s changed her hair—the curls are gone, it’s long and straight and stops just past her shoulders. Steve wonders if she changed it for a mission or if SHIELD agents are allowed to make vanity calls.

“Start with First Fig,” Natasha says.

Steve gives a curt nod and turns his attention to Fury, whose visible eye is narrowed at them.

The mission is a simple search-and-rescue; Steve is in and out in thirty minutes. Back on the quinjet, spitting dirt and blood out of his mouth, Steve looks up to see Natasha cock her head at him.

“Have you met Jeff from Operations?” she asks.

Steve runs his tongue over his teeth, checking for anything loose. “No,” he says.

“You should ask him out.”

“No,” Steve says automatically. His eyes dart around, but the STRIKE team isn’t looking at them.

Natasha crosses her arms. “Why not?” she asks.

Bucky’s face flashes in Steve’s mind—a teenage grin, a uniformed salute, an unbuttoned henley in the Austrian woods, hands clasped over each other’s mouths as Steve presses into him, moaning against his sweating palm—Steve shakes his head and says, “Not interested.”

“He’s usually in the Triskelion’s sub-levels, if you change your mind.”

On what would have been Bucky’s ninety-sixth birthday, Steve spends the day moping in the Nursery. He sketches Tony idly, running his pencil over the curve of his elbow and the strange shape of his beard. Steve’s phone vibrates, and Tony snaps his head around.

“You text?” he asks.

“Only Natasha,” Steve replies.

Sure enough, the text is from her—Clint picked up a graffiti artist w/ exploding spray paint on 12th and 3rd in Queens, call dibs or I ask her out

Steve grins and responds, Dear Romanoff, All yours. From, Steve

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Cap texting the Widow,” he says, shaking his head. “Now I’ve seen everything.”

When the holiday season rolls around, Steve doesn’t expect any pomp. He watches the snow fall from Natasha’s kiddie-corner windows, sketching her while she reads or throws knives or FaceTimes with Clint. On Christmas morning, Steve leans against her uptown window and looks sideways out at Brooklyn, his head resting on the glass. Natasha isn’t here yet—she gave Steve access to this part of her floor once she realized how much he enjoyed it—so Steve looks at his city in silence, his pride blanket on his knees.

Natasha walks into the room around ten in the morning and says, “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Steve says, smiling up at her. He picks up the package sitting next to him and stands, then hands it to her.

The gift is wrapped in purple paper with pink and blue ribbons forming a bow at the top. Natasha smiles slightly as she opens it.

Inside is a framed sketch that Steve drew of them. Natasha’s silhouette is outlined in blue, pointing a gun at the edge of the page. Steve stands in pink, his back to hers, holding his shield—but the Cap shield is pink, not red, and purple, not white. Only the blue remains unchanged.

Natasha runs her thumb over the frame, then looks at Steve. She places the picture on her coffee table and leans forward, wrapping him in a hug.

“Bout time you got something from me,” he says.

Natasha glows as she pulls back. “Thank you,” she says.

“Merry Christmas, Nat,” Steve returns. “We should see if Pepper needs help setting up brunch.”

“Always the hero,” Nat drawls, but she follows him to Pepper’s floor. They sit next to each other at the Avengers’ Christmas brunch, content to listen to Bruce and Tony’s bickering. At one point, Natasha reaches for Steve’s plate and takes a piece of his bacon.

Bruce looks at them like they’ve each grown a second head. “Have they always been like this?” he asks Tony.

“Capsicle and Gorbachev?” Tony asks. “Oh, Bruce. They text.”

Bruce turns to Natasha and says, “You text Steve? I don’t even have your real number.”

“You don’t need it,” Natasha says simply. She takes another piece of Steve’s bacon and he pushes the plate in front of her, chuckling and sipping his eggnog.

“But Cap does?” Tony asks.

“Yes,” Natasha says. “Is that a problem?”

Tony shakes his head. “Not a problem,” he says, putting his chin in his hands and looking between Natasha and Steve. “It’s just fucking weird.”

Steve and Natasha look at each other and shrug. They’ve seen weirder.

Natasha sees the look on Steve’s face before she sees the Winter Soldier’s, and immediately knows something is wrong. Steve’s expression is scrunched and contorted, clearly pained, with a ripple of confusion between his brows. The Soldier’s eyes bulge before he runs away.

According to Steve, the Winter Soldier’s name is James Buchanan Barnes. He was born in 1917 to George and Winifred, has a sister named Rebecca. He grew up in Brooklyn and got drafted into World War II at the age of twenty-four. Arnim Zola experimented on him, likely with a bastardization of Erskine’s original serum. Hydra stole him and brainwashed him and sent him off to kill.

“He doesn’t know you,” Sam says to Steve. Natasha placed a bug on his collar before he met Steve at the bridge, and she’s beginning to feel a bit guilty about it. She sits beside Fury, comms in their ears, drumming her fingers on the table.

“He will,” Steve says, and suddenly Natasha understands. This is the man that Steve altered his heart for, the one he thought only the serum could love. But now Steve knows better—he knows he’s bisexual—he knows his love is real, and the man that it belongs to is undead.

Natasha listens as Sam tries to change Steve’s mind, but she knows as well as he does that it’s set. She focuses on her part of the mission—compartmentalization, Fury would say—but a corner of her mind stays with Steve on the helicarrier, holding a blue hand to his pink one. She wonders if they’ll paint Barnes in lavender, smooth his red star to maroon, take the brown of his hair and stroke the violet underneath. Natasha glares at Pierce with someone else’s face and kicks him with someone else’s shoe, but it isn’t until Natasha feels her bite that she realizes—Steve’s face is what her mind wants to see.

After the river, they’re quiet. Steve hates himself for letting Barnes escape; it’s written all over his face. Natasha reaches out, a soft hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs it off, shakes his head, walks away.

“Give him time,” Sam whispers in the hallway. “He just got out of the hospital.”

“He’ll kill himself to save him,” Natasha says. “You can’t let him.”

“When has anyone let Steve do anything?”

“You can’t let Barnes kill him,” Natasha says. “Please.”

Sam crosses his arms and examines her. Natasha keeps her face as steady as she can.

“I have the same reservations that you do,” Sam says. “But the man is a ghost. We’re not gonna find him unless he wants to be found.”

Natasha nods. “Be careful,” she says, leaning forward and kissing Sam’s cheek.

“You too, Romanoff,” Sam says. Then he straps on his goggles and extends his wings, lifts into the air, and disappears.

Natasha knows that the United States government doesn’t like Russians that threaten them. She goes underground for a while, cuts her hair into a bob again. Fluffs it. Curls it. Swings her head to the beats of the clubs where she dances all night, sucks cock until men spill their secrets, and sells them to whoever can house her for the night. She thinks of SHIELD and Nick and Hill, but never Steve, on his quest to reunite with the man he knows best, whom he loves.

Every once in a while, Natasha wonders how well Steve knows her. How well she let him know her. If she lost a part of herself when she left him, if he carries it still. Does he protect it well enough that she can allow it to remain with him?

The worst part, she thinks, is that he would. If Steve knew that he had another’s heart, he would case it in glass and stand sentinel. But Natasha’s is locked in a containment unit deep within her chest, inaccessible to those without clearance. Steve, who doesn’t know a secret from a donut and can’t lie to save his life, can’t be trusted with something so volatile.

Sam texts her in June: Getting nowhere. Hope you’re safe.

Natasha crushes her phone and throws it in the River Seine. She’s as safe as she’s ever been—she doesn’t need a shield to protect her, no matter its vibrance or warmth. No matter how she’d felt when Steve had pulled her underneath.

On the fourth of July she’s in Moscow, applying red lipstick in the mirror of a Hydra agent’s hotel room. The agent is facedown on the bed, his arms tied to the bedposts and his ankles cuffed together. Blood drips from his forehead and lips.

Natasha smiles at him as she leaves. “How do I look?” she asks.

He doesn’t answer.

“Hmm,” Natasha says. “You’re right. I should wear heels.”

That night she dances in a ballroom, the classical music providing her with a sharp clarity. It reminds her of the way she used to dance, so delicate, pristine, her arms like paperclips. Her partner grips her waist, and Natasha pinches the back of his neck.

“Watch it,” she says.

“Sorry,” Clint replies. He looks as out of place as ever in a ballroom, his hair greased like Domino’s pizza and a circular band-aid on his chin. As always, he seems to be enjoying himself, twirling Natasha around as she scours the room.

“I don’t see the target,” she says.

“She’ll be here,” Clint replies. “Oh, did I tell you? Thor has a lead on the scepter.”

Natasha stops dancing. Clint nudges her leg with his knee and she snaps out of her daze, resuming their pace. “Has he found him?” she asks.

“Loki?”

“Steve,” Natasha says. “Has he found Barnes?”

“Not yet,” Clint says. “Sam’s been following cold trails—no pun intended.”

“The pun was intended.”

“Alright, you got me.” Clint is quiet. Natasha hums the music. “You gonna tell him?”

“Sam?”

“Steve,” Clint says. “You gonna tell him?”

“No,” Natasha snaps, “and neither will you.”

“Course not,” Clint says. He pauses. “You were happier when he lived at the Tower.”

“I was,” Natasha says. She looks down, lets Clint lead her for a moment. “Where is Thor’s lead?”

“Little country called Sokovia,” Clint says. “You’ll be there?”

“I’ll be there,” she promises. But in how many pieces, she’s unsure.

The next time she sees Steve, he grins. “Natasha,” he says, reaching for a hug.

Natasha grants his wish, leaning into his chest for a moment before pulling back. They’re in the quinjet, Clint piloting, Tony pestering him from the front and Thor chatting with Bruce in the back.

“Was I the last stop?” Steve asks, peering into the jet.

“Yes,” Natasha says. She sits next to Thor and stares forward.

Steve takes the seat across from her as Clint closes the on-ramp. “Where we headed?” Steve asks.

“Hydra Research Base in Sokovia,” Bruce says.

“The last of its kind,” Thor adds. “Loki’s scepter will surely be there.”

And it is, deep within the mountains of Sokovia. Clint lands the quinjet in a clearing and everyone unbuckles, grabs their weapons, steps outside. Bruce takes off his shirt and sighs.

Tony finds the scepter while the rest of them battle in the forest. Clint gets hit but survives—Natasha whispers jokes to him in Russian, but he doesn’t need to be kept calm, simply chuckles good-naturedly while holding his stomach, sweat dripping onto his cheeks. Natasha loads him onto the quinjet and sits by his side while Tony, Bruce, and Thor hover near the dash.

“You’ll be all right,” Natasha tells Clint. “Cho’s going to meet us at the Tower.”

Clint nods and closes his eyes. His face is pale.

Once the jet is in the air, Steve joins Natasha at Clint’s side. “How is he?” Steve asks.

“He’ll be fine,” Natasha says. Her eyes sweep over Steve’s ruffled hair, the patches of dirt on his neck, the mud-caked star on his chest. “How are you?”

“Alive,” Steve says with a shrug.

Natasha’s eyes rest on Clint’s sleeping form, the soft rise and fall of his chest. She isn’t often surprised, but she feels Steve’s hand eclipse hers and she is—her eyes widen before she slips back into carefully composed neutrality. She clutches his hand.

Cho meets them when they land, pulling Clint away and snapping orders at people in scrubs. Natasha watches them leave, then turns to Tony.

“What now?” she asks.

“Now,” Tony says with a grin, wagging Loki’s scepter, “we celebrate.”

Tony’s idea of a party most closely resembles the unbridled desires of adolescent boys, with mixed drinks that taste like Starbursts and music pounding from the speakers. Natasha feels an unusual flash of nostalgia as she thanks God or whomever that Tony isn’t dying this time.

She slips behind the bar and makes herself a martini, then puts a toothpick with an olive between her lips and pulls it with her tongue. She chews slowly, leaving the toothpick in her mouth. It dangles on her lower lip as she takes a sip of her drink—weaker than intended; strong enough to do its job—then places it back on the bar as she notes Steve’s approach.

“How’d a gal like you wind up working in a dump like this?” Steve asks with a grin.

Natasha cocks an eyebrow. “Fella done me wrong,” she says.

“You got a lousy taste in men, doll,” Steve says, grin widening. The apples of his cheeks are pink and flushed, his grin lopsided.

“Are you drunk?” Natasha asks wryly.

“Can’t get drunk,” Steve says, leaning his elbows on the bar.

Natasha matches his position, their faces mere inches apart. “You sure about that?”

“S’what Peggy said,” Steve replies. His eyes dart back and forth between hers, and Natasha feels her heart contract. It feels as if it’s folding, as if Steve’s strong hand is squeezing it. But Steve’s hands are on the bar, gently running over the surface.

“I think Carter was wrong,” Natasha says. She can see specks of green in Steve’s eyes. She can feel his warm breath sting her cheeks. “You still love her?”

“Of course,” Steve says. He frowns. “Once you love someone, you love them. Done deal.”

“Not for me.”

“Bullshit.”

“You talk about love as if you learned it,” Natasha says. “As if it’s a skill.”

“Isn’t it?” Steve asks.

Natasha’s lip quirks up, just slightly. “To some.”

“To you?”

“Love isn’t for me,” Natasha says.

“More bullshit,” Steve says, leaning closer. “I know you better than that.”

Natasha pulls his face forward and kisses him.

Steve returns the kiss eagerly, ghosting a hand on her neck as he slips his tongue into her mouth. Natasha traces his jaw with her fingers and nips on his lips with her teeth, feels her heart swell like a sunrise, loud and bright.

Natasha breaks the kiss and pulls away. Steve’s mouth is open slightly and his eyes shine as they look at her. His expression, filled with tenderness, makes Natasha feel like a fool.

“You can’t kiss me and put your past first,” she says.

Steve looks away. “Thor’s drink may’ve been stronger than I thought.”

Natasha pours the martini down her throat and relishes its burn. She shudders, eyes closed, and takes a deep breath. Opens her eyes. Refuses to meet Steve’s. He turns toward a sound behind the bar and Natasha disappears, sneaking away before he realizes she’s gone.

Bucky opens his eyes, and Steve is hugging him. It’s Bucky’s first hug since 1945. The last one had been with Steve too, though their clothes had been stripped and their touches more salty than sweet. This one is a marshmallow feeling, Steve’s hands returning warmth to his skin.

“Just like that, we’re supposed to be cool?”

“Relax,” the Russian says, glaring at the Falcon. “Look at him. He’s a kicked puppy.”

“I’ll kick him again if he tries anything.”

“Sam,” Steve says, shooting the Falcon a look. Sam’s arms are crossed and his brows are narrowed at them.

Bucky’s eyes turn to Steve, the Russian’s sparking bracelet in his periphery. There’s something about the way she looks at Steve that makes Bucky feel feral inside, like he wants to rip her from her skin. From the way she and Sam are shooting daggers at Bucky, the feeling is mutual.

They head to the airport in silence. Bucky sits in the back of the car with the Russian, Sam in the passenger seat, while Steve gets out and talks to a cute, leggy blonde. Bucky’s legs are trapped uncomfortably behind the front seat.

“Can you move your seat up?” he asks Sam.

“No.”

“Sam,” the Russian warns.

“What?” Sam says. “I’m comfortable.”

Through the front window, Bucky sees Steve kiss the blonde on the cheek. He returns to their car shortly after, the Cap shield and a bunch of other gear in his arms. He walks around back, dumps it in the trunk, then returns to the driver’s seat.

“Everyone ready?” Steve asks, turning to smile at the back.

The Russian nods. Bucky tries to smile. Sam doesn’t move his seat up.

They meet three others at the airport—a jovial man with a bow and arrows who greets the Russian with a hug, a sullen woman with red hair, and a sycophantic man-child who looks at Steve like he’s goddamn FDR. Bucky wonders if everyone in the twenty-first century looks at Steve like that. The Russian certainly does, though her affection is guarded. Bucky sees it in the way her gaze lingers, in the twitch of her fingers when they near his. Bucky sees the little blush on Steve’s cheeks when their eyes meet, the warning on Sam’s face as if he’s waiting for a bomb to go off. Bucky wonders if he is the bomb.

When they’re dressed and at the airport’s parking garage, Steve gathers the group in a huddle. “We head for the tarmac,” he says. “Our jet is on the other side.”

“Bad idea,” the Russian says. Her arms are crossed, and her eyes are on Steve.

Sam shoots her a glare. “Care to explain?”

“Tony,” she says.

Steve narrows his eyes. “Tony’s here?”

“With a team,” the Russian says. “We need to be stealthy.”

“Kinda hard with the extra muscle,” Sam says, nodding his head to the newcomers.

“Hey, we can help!” the man-child says. “If you want stealth, I’m your guy.”

“I am used to operating from the shadows,” the sullen woman says.

All eyes turn to the bow-and-arrow man. “What?” he says. “I can be stealthy.”

“Clint stays in the van,” the Russian says.

Bucky tunes out the bickering and looks around the sparsly populated garage. In addition to their van, there are a few ratty cars and one motorcycle.

Sam follows Bucky’s gaze and leans into his ear. “Can you get Steve to the jet on that thing?” Sam asks, gesturing to the motorcycle.

Bucky nods.

“New plan,” Sam says loudly. The others turn to him. “Cyborg’s taking point.”

The plan is this: Bucky and Steve ride to the quinjet on the motorcycle while Sam and Clint distract their opponents from on high. The man-child will shrink down and rest on Steve’s shield in case they need him while the sullen woman and the Russian meet their attackers on the ground. It’s a good plan, except for one thing.

“How will the rest of you get to the jet?” Steve asks.

“We might not,” Sam says. “Wanda, has Tony got Vision on his side?”

“Probably,” the sullen woman says.

“Then we’ll need to stay in the fight so he can’t get you from the air,” Sam says. “You two focus on the real threat. We’ll meet you at the jet if we can.”

The Russian is the only one who makes it. She shoots a bolt of electricity at the Black Panther, watches him double over while she backs into the jet. The man-child is sixty feet tall, stomping around while Clint shoots arrows, Wanda shoots beams of red light, and Sam zooms through the sky. Steve rushes to the pilot’s seat with the Russian beside him, while Bucky straps himself into the back.

“Ready for takeoff,” Steve says, and he maneuvers the quinjet into the sky. The Russian pulls up the weapons system and switches through screens. Bucky stays in back, clutching his straps, trying not to think about what awaits them in Siberia.

Once they’re in the air, Steve switches on auto-pilot and turns to Bucky.

“What’s gonna happen to your friends?” Bucky asks.

Steve shakes his head. “Whatever it is, I’ll deal with it.”

“I don’t know if I’m worth all this, Steve,” Bucky says.

To his surprise, the Russian answers. “This isn’t a matter of worth,” she says. “Are you in this fight?” When Bucky doesn’t respond, she narrows her eyes and repeats, “Are you?”

“Yes,” Bucky says.

“Then quit whining,” she says, turning to the dash. “We need you at your best.”

Steve shoots her a look. “He’s been through a lot, Nat.”

“Natalia,” Bucky gasps. The name fills a gap in his memory. He sees a little girl, red hair in braids, knives poised and aimed at him. He sees a woman in black, her body covering an Iranian scientist—the target—as Bucky shoots a bullet through her hip, killing the scientist instantly.

Natalia stiffens at the name. “You remember me,” she says.

“You’re from the Red Room,” Bucky replies. He unbuckles his seatbelt and stands, hovering over Natalia’s seat.

Steve places a hand on Bucky’s chest, halting his movement. Bucky stares at the hand, then covers it with his. Steve intertwines their fingers and squeezes. “It’s gonna be okay, Buck,” he says.

Natalia rolls her eyes and looks at a screen on the dash. “We’ll arrive in a few hours,” she says.

“You should rest,” Steve says, eyeing Bucky like he’s fragile. Bucky wonders if Steve knows that he’s trained to kill with his metal arm tied behind his back. Natalia’s wariness seems more logical than whatever emotion is flowing through Steve—Bucky remembers enough to recognize the face he’s making, those moony eyes and goofy grins. Bucky could kill Steve slowly in a chokehold, and Steve would smile as he did. Bucky already learned the hard way that Steve was willing to die for him, even if it meant dying by his hand. Bucky wishes he could change that, but knows that he can’t. He never could.

Natalia’s presence is, surprisingly, a comfort. She looks at Steve like he can break, a rare detail that others can’t see. Bucky is grateful that if he becomes the Soldier, Natalia won’t let him hurt Steve.

They touch down in Siberia in mid-afternoon, though the pure white sky gives Bucky an impression of timelessness. Steve puts on his helmet and holds out his shield; Natalia throws Bucky a rifle, which he catches and straps to his back. Natalia straps her bite bracelet to her wrist and shoves a pistol in her holster, then nods to Steve. Bucky watches as Steve slides his thumb over her wrist and whispers something in her ear, eliciting a small smile from her. Bucky didn’t know that the women of the Red Room were capable of such quiet love.

Steve leads them to the bunker, Natalia and Bucky flanking his sides. They head into an elevator—Steve presses a hand to the crook of Bucky’s neck, and Bucky nods to him. Steve nods back.

Natalia pushes the elevator open and the three of them enter a cement-covered room. Natalia shines a light from her bracelet, but the room is empty. They hear a noise behind them and turn—Bucky stands behind Steve, his rifle pointed over Steve’s shoulder, the Cap shield in front of them both. Bucky can feel Natalia’s breath on his neck; she must be behind them.

Iron Man appears, his hand shining light into the room, and removes his helmet. “You seem a little defensive,” he says.

Bucky keeps his rifle trained on Stark as Steve steps forward. “It’s been a long day,” Steve says.

Natalia leans into Bucky’s ear and whispers, “He’s here to help.” When Bucky doesn’t move, she adds, “He’d never take his helmet off before a fight.”

Bucky loosens his hold on the rifle, but keeps it on Stark.

“Why are you here?” Steve asks, his shield at attention.

“Could be your story’s not so crazy,” Tony says. “Ross has no idea I'm here. I'd like to keep it that way. Otherwise, I gotta arrest myself.”

“Well that sounds like a lot of paperwork,” Steve says. He lowers his shield, and Bucky’s heart tightens. “It's good to see you, Tony.”

“You too, Cap.” Stark looks at Bucky and Natalia and says, “Hey, Manchurian Candidate, you’re killing me. There’s a truce here. You can drop that.”

Bucky looks at Natalia, who nods. He lowers his rifle.

“Come on,” Steve says. “He’s not gonna hurt you.”

Bucky moves forward, standing between Tony and Steve.

“He’s not gonna hurt me either,” Steve says, pulling Bucky behind him. Bucky watches as Natalia stands next to Stark, whispers something in his ear. She leads Stark to the next room, and Steve follows. Bucky stays as close to Steve as he can manage while holding up his gun.

When the fighting is over—Stark unconscious with the Cap shield at his feet, Steve’s arms slung over Bucky and Natalia—Bucky lets Steve lead him and her outside, then all three of them collapse in the snow.

“The living are not done with you yet,” Bucky hears—and then the Black Panther is there, holding Baron Zemo in handcuffs. “I owe you a debt,” the Panther says, looking at Steve.

“We wouldn’t say no to a ride,” Steve says.

The Panther glances at Bucky, then nods.

Steve insists on leaving their quinjet for Stark, so Bucky follows the Black Panther into his. Steve sits with the Panther in front while Natalia and Bucky sit in back, the handcuffed Zemo stuffed between them.

“This is cozy,” Zemo says.

Natalia zaps him with her bracelet. He doesn’t speak again, after that.

When Bucky awakens from cryo, Shuri is beaming at him. “We found it, White Wolf,” she says. “We have a cure.”

Bucky squints as his eyes adjust to the warm blue glow. Shuri’s lab is brightly lit, though the windows are dark.

“Come with me,” Shuri says. She extends a hand for him to take, and helps him out of the cryochamber.

Shuri leads him outside and into a sleek black car. “You old enough to drive that thing?” Bucky asks, sliding into the passenger seat.

Shrui places her hands on the wheel and shrugs. “I’ve driven it before,” she says. “Theoretically.”

“What do you mean, theoretically?” Bucky asks.

Shuri grins and starts the car. In a flash, Bucky’s back slams into the seat as Shuri peels out of the lot and hurls them into nighttime traffic. Bucky thanks Mother Russia that his right arm is still intact as he grabs the handle above the door for dear life.

Shuri screeches to a halt at the edge of a forest. Bucky gets out of the car, a bit dizzy, and follows her into the trees. A few feet away, a group of Dora Milaje stand at attention, spears ready and eyes on their princess.

One of the Dora steps forward. “Everything is prepared,” she tells Shuri.

“Thank you, Ayo,” Shuri says. She turns to Bucky. “In the center of the circle,” she commands.

Bucky follows her orders, keenly aware of every eye on him. Ayo and another Dora step forward, holding shackles.

Bucky steps backwards on instinct. “No,” he says.

“We must restrain you,” Shuri says apologetically. “Just in case.”

Bucky closes his eyes and nods. He feels the shackles cuff his wrist and ankles, then tighten uncomfortably.

Shuri steps forward. “Are you ready?” she asks.

Bucky nods.

“Soldat,” Shuri says. She takes a breath and continues in Russian. ”Longing. Rusted.”

Daggers press into Bucky’s temples, blurring his vision. He squeezes his eyes shut as images flash through his mind—a lick of blond hair, an outstretched arm, a shot of whiskey—“Seventeen,” Shuri says, and Bucky is dancing with a dame, though he doesn’t remember her, now—Steve is off to the side, visibly pouting; Bucky leaves his date and rushes over, a thumb on Steve’s jaw, risking the touch until he smiles—“Daybreak,” Shuri says, and the summer sun blinds Bucky at the beach—”Furnace,” Shuri says, and yes, Bucky feels its heat, sweat drips down his chin and falls into his hot dog; Steve laughs and takes a bite—“Nine,” Shuri says, “Benign,” and the pain gets so loud that Bucky can’t hear the next words, but he knows that they’re coming, the click-clack of the freight car’s approach—

The Soldier’s vision goes white and he says, “Ready to comply.”

“Well that didn’t work,” Shuri says as they walk to her car.

Bucky sighs. “Are you putting me back in cryo?”

“No,” Shuri says. “It would be a waste. We will tweak this to perfection within weeks. For now, you will stay in new quarters.”

“Can I see Steve?” Bucky asks.

“Yes,” Shuri says, squeezing his hand. “You can see Steve.”

He arrives on New Year’s Eve with Sam and Natalia in tow. He’s grown a beard since Bucky last saw him, and his hair is longer, slicked back. His costume is darker, and he isn’t carrying a shield.

“Bucky,” Steve says, walking out of the quinjet and into Bucky’s arms.

Bucky puts his face in the crook of Steve’s neck and inhales his familiar scent. He feels Steve’s thumb stroke his waist, and buries deeper.

“Steve,” Natalia says. Steve breaks away from Bucky and turns to her. She’s blonde now, her hair short and straight. Bucky finds himself missing her red curls. “We need to tell T’Challa that we’re here,” Natalia says.

Steve nods. He takes Bucky’s hand in his. “Show us to the palace?” Steve asks.

Bucky nods and leads the way.

T’Challa sets up the trio in a suite—Bucky notes with a twist in his gut that Steve and Natalia share a bedroom—and Sam collapses on his bed, immediately curling up for a nap. Bucky sits on a couch in the living area, tightening his robes around the stump on his left side.

Natalia joins him, slipping silently onto the couch. She has a blanket around her shoulders, with a thick pink stripe on top, a thick blue stripe on bottom, and a thinner purple stripe in between. Bucky’s seen the same pattern on Steve’s keychain.

“Where’s Steve?” Bucky asks.

“He passed out when Sam did,” Natalia says. “It’s been a long day.” She curls the blanket around herself, a blonde head poking out of a colorful blob. Bucky thinks it makes her look unusually small.

Natalia quirks an eyebrow when she notices him staring. “Do you know what a pride flag is?” Natalia asks.

A red skull with six tentacles flashes in Bucky’s mind, emblazoned on banners and flags.“Sure,” Bucky says. “Can’t say I’m a fan.”

Natalia frowns and pulls the blanket to her chin. “Do you know about this one?” she asks.

Bucky shakes his head.

“Alright, soldat,” Natalia says. Bucky suppresses a shudder. “It’s time you learned your history.”

When Natalia’s finished explaining, Bucky is quiet. He runs the word over in his mind—bisexual—an uncovered secret; an identity that Bucky never knew.

He’s spent so much time relearning the depths of himself that one more discovery isn’t earth shattering. In the past few years, Bucky’s learned that he had a sister, that his ma’s name was Winnie and his pa’s was George. He remembers secret touches with Steve and shared cigarettes with Dugan and Morita, Jones’ voice on the radio and Agent Carter’s pretty red lips. He remembers kissing girls and fucking guys, sometimes at the same time, the extent of his past self’s promiscuity. He knows he’s never heard the word bisexual before, but as soon as Natalia explains it, something clicks into place. Bucky likes kissing girls and fucking guys, and for the first time in his life or what came after, Bucky has a word for what he wants. A word he shares with Steve.

“I’m bisexual,” Bucky says. He fingers the corner of the blanket.

Natalia sighs and pulls the blanket from her back. She clenches it into a ball and presses it into Bucky’s hand.

“For you,” she says.

Bucky looks at her with pleading eyes. “You sure?” he asks.

“Yes,” Natalia says. She leans forward and kisses Bucky on the cheek. “This won’t be my first replacement.”

Bucky’s hand jumps to the wet spot on his face. “Thank you,” he says, smiling softly.

To his surprise, Natalia smiles softly in return.

When Sam and Steve wake up, Bucky and Natalia are in the suite’s kitchen, cooking dinner for four. The table is already set, four plates and a candelabra in the center, casting shadows over silverware and napkins.

Sam raises an eyebrow. “This was you two?” he asks.

“Yes,” Natalia says. She turns and presents an enormous bowl of pasta.

“Sit,” Bucky says.

Steve and Sam sit across from each other. Natalia brings the pasta to the table and Bucky brings the sauce. Then Natalia opens a bottle of wine and places it in front of Steve.

“Toast,” she says, sitting beside him. Bucky takes the seat beside Sam.

Steve takes the bottle and pours wine into each of their glasses. They raise them.

“Happy New Year, folks,” Steve says. He tilts his glass. “To Wakanda.”

“To Wakanda,” the others echo.

Bucky holds his glass to Sam’s and gives him a tentative smile. Sam rolls his eyes and clinks their glasses together.

It takes a few days for Steve to notice the shift. At first, Bucky and Nat are the same as they’ve always been—quiet, introverted, withdrawn, with a fierce protective streak they summon when Steve does something stupid, like try to use the toaster. But as the days in Wakanda pass by, Bucky and Nat fuse their solitudes together.

On the third of January, Steve wakes to find Bucky and Natasha curled together under Natasha’s pride blanket. Bucky has a novel in his hand, angled so both he and Natasha can read. Steve stands in the doorway, shocked, as Natasha turns the page in Bucky’s hand. Rather than disturb them, Steve backs quietly out of the living room and heads to Sam’s bedroom.

“Did you see that?” Steve whispers, barging into Sam’s quarters.

Sam is in bed, comforter pulled over him. He groans when Steve enters the room. “M’asleep,” he says. Steve sees the blob under the comforter wriggle, then settle.

Steve sits on the edge of Sam’s bed and pulls the comforter off of his face. Sam blinks sleepily, then glowers. “Did I see what?” he asks.

“Nat and Bucky,” Steve says. “They’re bonding.”

Sam pushes himself up on his elbow. “They’re what?”

“Come see,” Steve says. He stands and beckons Sam out of bed. Sam sighs and pushes the comforter off of him, exposing a thin undershirt and sweatpants. He follows Steve out of his room, matching his silent pace as they creep down the hall.

Steve pokes his head into the living room and waits for Sam to follow. Bucky and Nat are still under the blanket, reading together. Steve’s heart skips a beat—their book is Steve’s copy of The Collected Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay. Sam comes up beside him and watches the scene, bemused.

Steve steps into the living room and says, “Hey.”

Bucky and Nat look up from their poems and smile. “Hey,” Bucky says. Natasha lifts the blanket and pats the space beside her.

Steve sits on the couch and accepts the blanket Nat throws over him. From the doorway, Sam crosses his arms. “A room full of polysexual Avengers and I’m the only one who’s pan,” he says, shaking his head. “Our flag is cooler.”

Bucky hands Steve’s book to Natasha and pulls the blanket to his chin.

“Our flag has a logical color scheme,” Natasha says. “Yours is meaningless.”

“Bullshit,” Sam says. “We got pink and blue, same as you, with yellow for nonbinary people.”

Bucky frowns and turns to Nat. “What’s nonbinary?”

“And what’s pan?” Steve adds.

“You didn’t tell them there was another label they could use?” Sam asks. He walks into the room and settles in an armchair beside the couch. “You had an agenda, Romanoff.”

Nat smirks. “Maybe.”

“You and your goddamn blankets,” Sam says. He pulls out his phone, dials, and brings it to his ear. “Hey princess?” Sam asks, a people-pleasing smile on his face. “You got any pansexual pride stuff we can borrow?”

Steve can hear Shuri respond through the phone. “I can do better than that,” she says, an air of mischief in her tone.

Ten minutes later, Shuri has the four of them lined up on a couch in her personal suite. She stands in front of an enormous screen, a laser pointer in her hand. The screen displays a number of striped flags—Steve recognizes the rainbow flag and the bisexual flag, and notes the flag with pink, yellow, and blue stripes that Sam mentioned—Shuri stands before it, fidgeting with her laser pointer as Steve, Bucky, Nat, and Sam settle into the couch.

Sam leans into Steve’s ear and whispers, “You still have that notebook?”

Steve chuckles. “Ran through the list,” he says. “Only item left is Steve Jobs.”

“You never learned about Apple?”

Steve frowns. “Of course I know about apples.”

“That’s not what I—“

“Avengers!” Shuri says, clapping her hands. “One-two-three, eyes on me.”

“Yes, children,” Nat says, “pay attention.”

“You too, Black Widow,” Shuri says.

Sam sticks out his tongue, and Nat scrunches her face in return.

“Now,” Shuri says, pointing her laser at an orange-and-pink striped flag. “Let your formal education begin.”

When her presentation ends, Shuri clicks off her laser and says, “Any questions?”

Bucky raises his hand. His expression is one of minor terror.

“Yes, Bucky?”

“Am I nonbinary?” Bucky asks.

Shuri’s eyebrows shoot up. “I’m not sure that I—“

“Yes,” Natasha says. She examines her nails.

Bucky nods. “Cool,” he says. “Thanks.”

“Wait a minute,” Steve says, holding out his hand. “Nonbinary is the one with the pronouns. Bucky, do you want us to use different pronouns?”

Bucky’s eyes widen. He looks at Natasha.

“One step at a time,” Nat says, peering at the back of her hand. One nail is jagged. Nat pulls out a file and runs it back and forth across the offending nail.

“So are any of you pan?” Sam asks hopefully.

“Sorry pal,” Steve says, throwing an arm over Sam’s shoulders. “I still like bi.”

“Me too,” Bucky says, nodding. “I like the purple.”

“Man, c’mon,” Sam says.

Nat reaches over Steve to poke Sam with her nail file. “Victory is mine,” she says.

“You’re all children,” Shuri says, crossing her arms. “The fate of our world is in the hands of children.”

“If you think we’re immature…” Steve says, looking at Nat.

“…you should meet Tony,” Nat finishes. “If we’re children, he’s an infant.”

“Powerful infant,” Bucky mutters, rubbing the stump on his left shoulder.

“About that,” Shuri says, nodding at Bucky. “If you’d like a new cybernetic arm, I’d be more than happy to design one.” She grins. “I may or may not have blueprints drawn already.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Thank you,” he says, “but I’m not ready for that.”

To Steve’s surprise, Natasha places a hand on Bucky’s cheek. His eyes lock onto hers and soften.

“You won’t have to fight before you’re ready,” Nat says. “You’ll be safe here.”

Bucky turns to Shuri. “I know,” he says.

Steve looks between Nat and Bucky dumbly. He feels as if he’s missing something.

The next day, Steve gets a call from Vision. “Backup requested in Athens!” he yells into the phone. Steve hears gunfire in the background, followed by a grunt and an explosion.

“On our way,” Steve replies. There’s another grunt and three bullet pops before Vision hangs up.

Bucky walks Steve, Sam, and Nat to the quinjet. Sam wraps Bucky in a hug and pats his cheek, then heads inside. Natasha kisses Bucky on the forehead and whispers something in his ear, which makes him smile. Then she follows Sam into the jet.

Steve puts his hands on Bucky’s neck, his thumbs on Bucky’s jaw. Bucky puts his hand on Steve’s elbow and looks up at him.

Steve presses a soft kiss to his cheek. “Next time I see you, the Soldier will be gone,” he says.

“The Soldier will never be gone,” Bucky says. He looks away. “But at least I won’t become him anymore.”

“We’ll be back before you know it,” Steve says. “I promise.”

Bucky nods and lets him go.

Steve paces around the quinjet while Sam flies them to Athens. When they’re at a steady altitude, Natasha unbuckles herself from the co-pilot’s seat and walks up to Steve. She places her hands on his shoulders.

“Stop,” she says. “He’ll be fine.”

Steve shakes away her hands and continues to pace.

Natasha sighs. “Fine,” she says, heading back to her seat. “Get this out of your system. We need you focused on Wanda and Vision in Greece.”

Steve is not focused on Wanda and Vision in Greece. He’s still getting used to fighting without a shield. He remembers something Coulson said—If you need a gun, take one—rips the door off a nearby car and flings it like a frisbee at Rollins, the traitorous motherfucker—Natasha shoots him with a bite and he shudders and falls; his buddies in similar shape. Soon Hydra is down, and though everyone is sweating, none of Steve’s team is worse for wear.

“There’s a nice bar a few blocks from here,” Wanda says, wiping dirt from her neck and kicking an unconscious goon. Vision flings an arm around her shoulders and phases into his humanoid skin. Steve still isn’t used to seeing Vision as a blond.

“I could use a drink,” Nat says, holstering her weapons.

Sam folds his wings into his wingpack and says, “Lead the way.”

Steve, antsy and sullen, follows the others to a place called Allgood Lounge. Booths line the back walls, short tables in front of them. Wanda, Vision, and Sam head for a booth in the back while Steve follows Natasha to the bar.

“Dýo potíria Oúzo, diatiriména me aplí psýxi,” Natasha says. The bartender nods and slaps down two glasses, then pours from a bottle labeled Ouzo. When the glasses are full, he slides them to Natasha and she places some Euros on the counter. Steve carries the glasses to the booth, where Wanda and Sam are each nursing a beer.

They chat about nothing until Wanda’s beer is gone and Sam is on his third. His cheeks are flushed and his grin is wide, while Steve and Nat, each on their second glass of Ouzo, watch him with amusement. Sam pushes past Vision out of the booth and spins around, then holds out his hand. “Let’s see if Tony programmed you to dance,” Sam says with a grin.

Wanda chuckles and pushes Vision onto the dance floor. Sam twirls him around, laughing—soon Wanda joins them, shaking her hips while Sam holds Vision’s hands.

“Those three are a sight for sore eyes,” Nat says, leaning her back against Steve’s chest.

Steve puts an arm around her waist and kisses her hair. “It’s nice to see Sam having fun,” he says.

Natasha hums in agreement. “You think Bucky will have fun like that again?”

Steve pauses. “I hope so,” he says. He runs his thumb along Natasha’s arm. “Sweet of you to ask.”

“I care about him,” Natasha says, reddening. Steve doesn’t think it’s from the Ouzo.

In the morning, Vision takes the pilot’s seat from a hungover Sam and flies the five of them to a safehouse in Cyprus. Steve makes sure that everyone has each other’s numbers, then hugs Wanda and Vision goodbye. He heads back to the quinjet, where Natasha is placing a trashcan next to the pilot’s seat. Sam mutters a quick “Thank you” and flies them, slowly and smoothly, to Wakanda.

Bucky is waiting for them when they land. He smiles at Natasha first, then Steve. Steve feels a twist of jealousy as Bucky runs—actually runs—to Natasha and scoops her into a hug.

“Am I invisible?” Steve asks, pouting as Nat and Bucky hug.

Sam claps him on the shoulder. “I thought you wanted them to bond.”

“Not without me,” Steve replies.

Sam shoots him a knowing look. “You’re jealous.”

“Shut up.”

Sam shakes his head and whistles. “Talk to them,” he says. “They’re more amenable than you think.”

“Since when are you the Nat and Bucky expert?” Steve asks.

“Since I’ve been watching you pine after them for years, man,” Sam says. “Years. It’s no secret, the way you three act around each other. The way you three feel about each other.”

Steve punches him in the shoulder.

Sam allows T’Challa to talk him into a favor, extends his wings and gives Steve the type of stink-eye that only a best friend can. “You better talk to them,” Sam says.

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve replies. He waves as Sam shoots into the air and disappears.

Bucky and Nat are still huddled together, whispering within their own world. Steve feels almost hesitant to interrupt them, but allows the flare of jealousy in his gut to walk him over and throw an arm around them both.

“Steve,” Natasha says.

Bucky leans into his shoulder.

“Let’s head to our suite,” Steve says. He sees Sam’s face in his mind—It’s no secret, the way you three feel about each other—and takes a deep breath as they go.

In the palace’s guest suite, Natasha lifts Steve’s arm off of her shoulders and settles into the couch. Bucky sits beside her, his arm pressed to hers. Steve sits across from them in an armchair and clasps his hands in his lap.

“So you two get along now,” Steve says awkwardly. “That’s great.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “What’s this about?” she asks.

Steve doesn’t know how to say it, so he just blurts it out. “I’m in love with the both of you,” he says, “and I’m not sure what to do about it.”

Bucky’s face turns the color of Natasha’s roots. “Really?” he asks, watching Steve with sparkles in his eyes.

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Boys,” she says, frustration and exhaustion in her tone. Then she places a hand on Bucky’s neck and kisses his lips.

Steve jumps out of his chair. His jaw drops as Bucky’s arm flails in the air, then comes to rest politely on Nat’s waist.

“What is happening,” Steve deadpans. He settles back into his chair.

Natasha breaks the kiss and looks at Steve. “I’m in love with a moron,” she says.

Bucky’s eyes never leave Nat’s face. “Two morons?” he asks hopefully.

“We’re getting there,” Nat says. She rests her head on Bucky’s shoulder and holds out a hand to Steve.

Steve stares at her short black nails and hesitantly takes her hand. Rubs a thumb over the knuckle, feels a twist in his stomach when Nat squeezes. He lets her pull him to the couch and sit beside her, throw an arm over her shoulders and rest the other one on Bucky’s thigh. Steve is sure that the mix of excitement and disbelief on Bucky’s face echoes his own, but Natasha is simply pleased. Her smile is small but relaxed, her green eyes bright. Her blonde hair falls in waves on Bucky’s shoulder and Steve brushes it away with his thumb.

“I could get used to this,” Steve says quietly.

Natasha pulls Steve’s arm off of her shoulder and takes his hand. Then she reaches for Bucky’s and holds their hands together. “Mine,” she says.

Steve kisses her cheek. He runs a thumb over her and Bucky’s hands. “Yours,” he agrees.

“When will Sam get back?” Bucky asks.

“Later,” Steve says. “Much later.”

Natasha grins devilishly. “I say we consummate this relationship,” she says.

“It’s a relationship now?” Bucky asks.

“Yes,” Natasha says. She runs her fingers along Bucky’s and Steve’s. “My boyfriends are boyfriends.”

“I’m starting to think she’s too happy about this,” Bucky says to Steve. “What’s she got planned for us?”

“You’ll never know,” Steve says. “That’s part of the deal.”

“Even you two knuckleheads could figure this one out,” Nat says, standing. She tugs on each of their hands. “Come with me if you want to… well, come,” Nat says. She releases their hands and sways her hips exaggeratedly as she walks into the bedroom.

Steve looks at Bucky. Both of their eyebrows are in the air, their hands beside each other’s on the couch.

“Better not keep her waiting,” Steve says, taking Bucky’s hand.

Bucky smiles, threading their fingers together. “Better not.”

Steve stands and pulls Bucky to his bedroom. Natasha is inside, facing the back wall, her shirt halfway off. She turns her head when she hears them enter the room, flashing a wicked grin.

“What took you so long?” she asks, pulling off her shirt.

Steve and Bucky exchange another grin. Steve can’t quite believe this is real. He wants it to be—the love of his past life and his new one, mixing like harmonies—but something holds him back, some vestige of insecurity, an ancient and long-held belief that Steve can’t have this, only stolen moments and secrets. His love was unknowable and dangerous, it was going to get Bucky killed—but then Bucky died anyway, and it was still Steve’s fault.

But now, Bucky is alive again. He walks up to the woman Steve loves and places a hand on her waist, spins her toward him and kisses her neck, her collarbone, the preview of her breast above her bra—Steve exhales his worries and inhales this view, two bodies and souls from the depths of Steve’s heart joined together.

Steve feels himself grow hard as he watches Nat and Bucky kiss. With a start, he remembers that he’s not a voyeur—he steps forward and unties Bucky’s robes, lets each swell of fabric sink to the carpeted floor. Once naked, Bucky turns, kisses Steve on the cheek, then steps back and frowns at his outfit.

“How the fuck do you take off these suits?” Bucky asks.

Nat smirks and steps forward. “Allow me,” she says. With a few nimble movements, Steve’s suit is disassembled and falling to the floor. He steps out of the pieces in an undershirt and boxers.

“That’s better,” Bucky says. He drops to his knees and places his hand on the edge of Steve’s boxers, pulling the left side down. Steve pushes down the other side until his boxers are pooled at his ankles and his cock has sprung free, its head at Bucky’s eye-level. Bucky looks up at Steve and bites his lip, and Steve’s brain short-circuits. His hands go to Bucky’s hair and twist into it, gripping the locks behind his ears. Behind Bucky, Natasha unclasps her bra and shimmies out of her pants. As soon as she’s naked, Bucky leans forward and takes Steve in his mouth.

Steve closes his eyes and groans, gripping Bucky’s hair more tightly. His lips are hot and wet, his nails digging into Steve’s left thigh. Bucky’s tongue slides out and puts pressure on the sensitive vein on the underside of Steve’s cock, and he groans again—then Natasha’s voice says, “Stop.”

Bucky’s lips immediately pull off of Steve. Steve thrusts forward, chasing the feeling, and opens his eyes.

“On the bed,” Natasha says. She looks at Steve. “On your back.”

Bucky stands and pushes Steve onto the bed. Steve grins and crawls back, resting his head against the pillow. Bucky crawls onto the bed and settles between Steve’s thighs, gently stroking Steve’s cock. Steve closes his eyes again, though they fly open as soon as Natasha climbs onto Steve’s chest.

“I’m going to sit on your face now,” she says.

“Okay,” Steve says. He thrusts his hips up, eager for the feel of Bucky’s lips, and places his hands on Natasha’s ass. “Up you go,” he says, lifting her onto his mouth. He feels the hot pressure of Bucky’s lips return to his cock as Steve slides his tongue into Natasha, her familiar taste wetting his lips. Steve matches his licks to Bucky’s strokes, swirling his tongue around her clit as Bucky slides up and down on his cock. Natasha finds a rhythm, gently swirling her hips around Steve’s tongue and leaning into him. Steve licks her clit gently, then adds pressure until she moans, then licks softly again.

Steve moves his tongue to her entrance and slides inside, moving in and around to the pace of her rolling hips. Steve keeps time by gently fucking Bucky’s mouth, careful not to move too fast or overwhelm him. He feels the familiar build of his orgasm and grips Natasha’s thighs tighter, pulling her closer with his nails. Finally he comes, hot and wet in Bucky’s mouth, his tongue shuddering inside of Nat as he lets out a moan. Bucky sucks him through his orgasm, putting pressure on his spasming cock, and Steve can taste Natasha’s come as she unravels.

After a few soft thrusts, Natasha pulls herself off of Steve’s face and wipes a finger under his lip. She twists around and places the finger in Bucky’s mouth.

“Your turn,” she says. She rolls off of Steve and onto her back, her eyes on Bucky’s. “Fuck me,” she says.

Bucky glances at Steve. “You’re clean and she’s safe,” Steve says.

Natasha shrugs. “I can’t get pregnant.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. He moves away from Steve’s thighs and climbs over Natasha, loose strands of hair swinging into her face. Steve moves Bucky’s hair out of the way as Bucky leans down, cock hard and leaking against Nat’s thigh, and slides inside her.

Natasha moans and digs her nails into Bucky’s back as he thrusts into her. Steve, flushed and fatigued from his orgasm but not wanting to be left out, grabs one of Natasha’s hands and holds it in his as Bucky moans and thrusts, his pace quickening. Steve feels himself grow hard again and squeezes Natasha’s hand. Her eyes dart to his thickening cock as Bucky rolls his hips and pushes into her. Steve’s cock twitches at Natasha’s steely gaze, and she lets go of his hand and reaches for it. Steve closes his eyes as Natasha strokes him lazily, in between gasps and moans, occasionally squeezing too hard when she lets out a loud noise. Steve thrusts into her hand and turns to look at her—her blonde hair is fanned out on the pillow, her eyes closed and lips parted. Steve leans forward and slaps a messy kiss on her cheek, causing her lips to quirk up in a smile.

“Nat,” Bucky pants, “I’m gonna—“

“Do it,” Nat says, “Come for me,” and Bucky does, pressing himself deep inside of her and throwing his head back, loose strands of hair sticking to his forehead. At the sight of Bucky coming, Steve groans into Nat’s fingers and comes too, feeling the aftershock of overstimulation. He thrusts gently into Nat’s hand as Bucky collapses on top of her, kissing her collarbone and nuzzling into her neck. Natasha slaps his ass with the hand that isn’t touching Steve, and Bucky pulls out of her slowly, then settles against Natasha’s chest. Steve sighs and flips onto his side, his head in the crook of Nat’s neck, a breath away from Bucky—Steve leans forward and kisses Bucky’s lips, his chin resting on Nat’s breast.

“That was nice,” Natasha says. She kisses Steve’s forehead, then Bucky’s. “I could get used to this.”

“Me too,” Bucky says sleepily. He closes his eyes and nuzzles Natasha’s neck. She smiles and pulls him closer, then wraps her other arm around Steve.

Steve’s head is on Natasha’s collarbone, his left arm thrown around her and resting on Bucky’s waist. He closes his eyes.

Steve feels Bucky’s waist under his hand and Natasha’s chest under his cheek. He curls around his favorite people, hot and sticky and content, before drifting into a peaceful sleep.