Archive of Our Own ^omega

Two days after the Battle of New York, Steven Grant Rogers, more widely known as Captain America, got up and went to his usual coffee shop near Stark Tower in Manhattan. He ordered a black coffee with one sugar—his usual—and thanked the person behind the counter by name. He then put an abnormally large, even for Rogers who apparently tended to overtip, tip into the tip jar, and walked out of the coffee shop. SHIELD Agents who had been tasked with following Rogers say he took a sip of his coffee and started to walk back toward his apartment. Halfway there though, a bus passed between them and Rogers, and when it had finished going by, Rogers was gone without a trace. He’s been missing ever since. 

Well, mostly anyway… 

Bucky practices his video opening in his floor-length mirror, his video equipment and filming area set up nearby. This video is a special one for a couple of reasons. The first is that it’s his 100th video in his Mindbending Modern Mysteries vlog series. The second is that he’d once had a sex dream about Captain America in college, which probably isn’t anything particularly unique to humanity as a whole, but it had been an important part of Bucky’s bi awakening. 

He practices his teaser statement a few more times before falling into his desk chair. The video’s not ready to be made yet, and he has a few days yet to film and edit before he needs to upload. First though, he needs to finish nailing down the script. 

And he needs to do something with the fact that he’s pretty sure in all of his digging around for fun mysterious tidbits and cryptid-like sightings of Steve Rogers, like the world’s hottest version of ‘Where’s Waldo,’ Bucky might have accidentally figured out just where Steve fucked off to. 

In early July of 2014, which if you’re keeping track was about a month after the Battle, Steve Rogers briefly resurfaced to celebrate his birthday with a quiet dinner at a restaurant in Midtown called Dugan’s. We know this because the owner posted pictures on Instagram a year later, apparently having agreed to keep this event a secret until that time. By then, Rogers was… 

Bucky sighs and pulls the old Instagram photo back up. There’s Steve Rogers in simple fitted jeans and a plaid button-down, smiling next to a young blonde girl, a vintage bowler hat atop her head, a fake blonde mustache half-hanging off her lip. Behind them, Bucky can see a shock of red hair—the Widow without a face. 

He focuses on Steve again. He seems happy, but there’s a weariness in the way he’s holding himself. Or maybe Bucky’s just seeing what he expects to see. Bucky is, after all, a researcher with nearly three decades of experience under his belt. He knows better than to let his own biases cloud his findings. Although, a little bias goes a long way in having a popular online series that actually pays his rent, especially in 2033 when the vlogging market is so oversaturated that it’s difficult to get noticed at all. 

By then, Rogers was… 

Bucky backspaces, changes “was” to “had” and then changes it back again. He pulls up another photo, this one from 2031. A Google Virtual Reality Street screenshot with a weird curve when viewed flat. Bucky ran it through a program to mostly smooth it out, though some distortion still lingers, especially at the edges. 

The camera is clearly focused on the street and the buildings around it, but that’s not a focus Bucky shares. Pinching the screen of his tablet, he zooms in on a man on the sidewalk with thighs the size of Greek pillars straining the fabric of his striped joggers. The man’s bringing up a hand to cover his face upon seeing the camera, but almost 3/4ths of it is visible, and even though he’s got an impressive greying beard and faint lines around his eyes and mouth, Bucky knows that face. 

France. It had taken Bucky a minute to connect the dots, to reveal a pattern in all the places where Steve was sighted over the years. Rogers hops around, but in a way that’s predictable if you’re the kind of nerd who spent his entire youth playing around with puzzles and codes. If you’re the kind of nerd who once got paid a shit ton of money by the government to find people (before realizing that not all of those people needed to (or deserved to) be found.) 

Which means that Bucky is almost 97% sure that Steve Rogers is currently living somewhere in New Zealand. Not that he’d ever tell his viewers that. He does have some integrity. Hence the career change. 

It’s just that, well, what the fuck does Bucky do with that info? Does he tip Steve off and let him know that if he figured it out (if he in fact did) then maybe Steve needs to be better about his movements? Does he pretend he doesn’t know anything? Does he put on a pair of gold hot pants and get on a plane to Auck— okay, so definitely not that one. 

Coffee. 

Decisions are always easier after coffee. 

Bucky slips on his shoes, ties his gray-streaked hair back at his nape, and grabs his keys. 

It’s a block to his favorite coffee shop, the spring air in Brooklyn pleasantly crisp. This late in the morning, there’s not even a line, and Bucky puts in an order for an iced mocha and finds a plush seat near the window. 

He hasn’t even gotten his coffee yet when he feels eyes on the back of his neck. Slowly, Bucky turns. Across the room, tucked into a two-person table in the back corner next to the bathroom is… 

“Fuck.” 

Steve Rogers looks huge compared to the little table. And just huge in general—much bigger than he was twenty years ago for certain. There are big, polarized sunglasses hiding his eyes, but the beard looks much the same as it had in the VR Street photo, honey-bronze with hints of salt and pepper. The hair on his head is much the same in color, worn slightly long and pushed back with tufts tucked behind his ears. Faint lines cross his forehead and crease the skin around his mouth. 

For some reason, Bucky’s brain immediately does something stupid, which is to say that he can hear fucking Squidward of all things in his head saying, “Oh no, he’s hot!” which… yeah, brain, Bucky was already well aware of this fact, but thanks for the reminder. 

Fuck.

He continues to stare at Steven Grant Rogers. Steven Grant Rogers continues to stare back. 

Up until the point where a barista delivers Bucky his coffee in a metal tumbler, which Bucky very nearly spills all over his lap because he’s only human, okay? Lips twitching, Steven Grant Rogers raises one hand, sticks out one absolutely massive finger from said hand, and literally beckons Bucky across the coffee shop. 

Bucky can’t move. 

One eyebrow appears above the top of a polarized lens. Steve pushes out the chair across from him with a booted foot. 

Slowly, Bucky stands up and manages to make it across the shop, despite the fact that his knees feel a lot like they’ve been replaced with melted peanut butter. Somehow, he sinks semi-gracefully into the empty seat without incident.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” Steve says. “I’m assuming I don’t get to call you Bucky just yet.” 

Bucky takes a very long drink of coffee, his eyes down on the table where Steve’s hands are… Yep, they really are just that fucking big. 

“Why are you looking for me?” Steve asks bluntly. 

“New Zealand,” Bucky says. “You’re supposed to be in New Zealand.” 

Steve grips the edge of the little table so tightly that Bucky’s sure it’s going to crack. Despite the sunglasses, Bucky swears he can feel Steve’s gaze go from 1 to 11 in intensity in an instant. “Who else knows that?” 

Bucky blinks at Steve, seeing his own face reflected back at him twice over.

“James,” Steve says, firm and intimidating and also a little bit… afraid? Something about that little ounce of fear finally snaps Bucky out of his daze. 

“I…  just me. It’s not... I’m not working for anyone if that…” Full sentences, Bucky, have you met them? “I wasn’t gonna tell anyone. I was trying to decide if I wanted to tell you, though how I figured I was gonna do that, I got no fuckin’ clue, pal.” 

“You were trying to decide if you wanted to tell me that I’d be in New Zealand while I was in New Zealand?” 

Bucky shakes his head. 

“Look,” Bucky says, taking a deep breath. “If you know my name, you probably know I’ve got a vlog series?” 

“I might have seen an episode or two.” 

Bucky goes wide-eyed and then puts that firmly away in a box to be opened later. Much, much later after he’s processed the past few minutes and whatever’s yet to come. 

“Well, I was gonna do my next episode on you. I figured it’d be a standard guy goes missing, is sighted a few times, but no one really knows where he is now or why he doesn’t want to be found kind of thing. Drama. Intrigue. I didn’t expect to figure out where you’d actually be, but I wasn’t gonna put that in the video because I’m not an asshole. I was just trying to decide if I should tell you to be less predictable, you know. Because if I found you…” 

That earns Bucky another eyebrow, Steve’s forehead wrinkling above it like a small mountain range.

“I used a cipher,” Steve says. “It’s—” 

“—been publicly available since the operations of the Howling Commandos were declassified in the 90s.” 

“Fuck.” Steve drums one set of fingers on the tabletop three times in quick succession. “Shit.” 

“I’ll admit I was a huge nerd for things like codes and ciphers growing up so that probably helped me figure it out. But I know they’re looking for you, gotta be.” 

Steve sighs and drums his fingers again—much longer this time. 

He stops. “How’s the coffee here?”

“Fucking fantastic.” 

Steve digs around in a bag next to his feet and pulls out a worn travel mug covered in stickers of various ages. When he steps up to the counter, Bucky thinks that he could leave or at least try to. He’s got a feeling Steve wouldn’t want to make a scene. 

But… 

But. 

He keeps drinking his mocha instead, nearly finished with it by the time Steve returns with his mug clasped in his large hands. Which is a good thing, it seems, since Steve picks up his bag and slings it over his shoulder before stopping to wait for Bucky. 

Bucky downs the last few sips of his drink and leaves the tumbler on the table, following Steve out. 

It takes far too long for Bucky to realize Steve is leading Bucky to his own apartment, the fact only hitting him when Steve stops outside of Bucky’s building and looks back expectantly. 

“Oh.” 

Bucky pulls out his entry key and swipes them inside, then leads Steve up the stairs even though he’s fairly sure Steve knows exactly what apartment to head to. 

“You’re not gonna kill me or anything, are you?” Bucky asks outside of his door. He’s mostly joking. Mostly. 

In response, Steve finally tips his sunglasses down. Behind them, he’s giving Bucky a look that says, ‘ Really? Me? ’

Bucky unlocks his door and lets them inside. It’s a small apartment, with the kitchen counter directly to the left of the front door. Bucky drops his keys into a catch-all bowl sitting right against the wall. It feels a bit like bringing a date home, the way that having Steve there behind him makes Bucky see his apartment in a new light. His eyes fall on the furniture crammed into his little living room—mostly Target and Ikea with a few flea market finds thrown in. He’s wondering what Steve thinks of it as someone who used to live in Stark Tower, however briefly. 

And then he remembers that Steve Rogers also lived through the Great Depression in a pre-war tenement and feels a bit like an asshole for thinking he’d be in the least bit judgmental of Bucky’s cozy little nest. 

“You want a tour?” Bucky asks, sounding uncertain. He’s sure Steve just wanted to continue their conversation somewhere less public, but that doesn’t make it any less weird to have brought him back to his place. Or for Steve to have brought himfuckingself back to Bucky’s place.  

“Why not?” 

“Well, this is the kitchen and the living room,” Bucky says, gesturing with his left arm, the prosthetic whirring and clicking with the movement. “That’s a coat closet if you wanna toss your bag in, not that you have to.” 

Steve doesn’t. 

Down the small hallway, Bucky points out the linen closet that he really uses for quite a few things—appliances that don’t fit in the kitchen, towels, luggage. 

“Bathroom,” Bucky says, pushing open the door, and there’s a moment, however briefly, where Steve’s body lightly brushes against his shoulder while he leans in to look. Bucky’s breath stutters and he knows Steve hears it because he hears it. And because he’s pretty sure Steve has super hearing if he remembers high school history and biology correctly. 

“Interesting,” Steve says. A pause. “Your tub is huge.” 

“Oh. Yeah. Not gonna lie, there were some other apartments that had more space around the same price point, but this bath tub.” 

“Good to meet someone in this century with their priorities in order.” 

Bucky turns to find Steve smirking and, wait, is Steve Rogers teasing him? 

“What can I say?” Bucky shrugs. “I’m a man who likes to luxuriate. But also my arm and shoulder get sore and a hot bath helps. Used to be even worse back when I moved in. Prosthetics were pretty streamlined compared to even a decade before, but they were still heavier and clunkier than they are now. It’s like it gets a little better every time insurance says I’m eligible for an upgrade.” 

Steve nods. 

“You should know that I know how you got that,” he says. “If I’d known you weren’t a threat, I wouldn’t have pried so much. Given who you used to be though, you can understand why I got a little nervous.” 

“Yeah, well…” Bucky looks down. 

“You’re not proud of it.” It’s not a question. 

“Who would be? They came to our school every week, saw my test scores, and targeted me like I was some kind of prize to be won or bought. I think I started out thinking I could somehow play the system that plays everyone else. If you can’t beat ‘em, take every benefit you can, you know? And then you’re neck-deep in it all and it’s hard not to let some of it sink in, to buy into some of it and start believing them when they say, ‘We gotta find this person before someone gets hurt.’ And you realize there was never any beating it all, and now you’re part of this thing you never wanted to be part of, doing stuff you hate.” 

Steve doesn’t say anything for a second. Bucky glances at the sunglasses tucked into the front of his tight shirt, his own face distorted by the curve. 

“There’s the answer to your mystery, if you wanted one.” Steve gives him a sad smile. “I signed up for the war against Germany and Japan because it felt like the right thing to do, and of course we found out later that it was even more important than we knew going in. But even then I guess only so much of what we were doing was any good. I’m glad I was in the ice for the end of it.” Steve’s jaw clenches and unclenches. “I’ll show up again if there are malevolent aliens or, I don’t know, mutant earthworms or something. But I can’t be a soldier anymore. I can’t fight for ideals that ultimately don’t suit anyone but the people tugging at the strings.” 

“Lots of ways to fight for the greater good besides joining an army,” Bucky says. 

Steve breathes in. “A lot of them better too.”

Bucky looks down at one of Steve’s hands, the back of it showing his age in a way that even the faint lines of his face don’t. It’s tanned and sun-worn, dusted with a smattering of freckles. Bucky knows if he ran his fingers over Steve’s palms, he’d find them calloused and rough. Whatever he’s been doing while he’s hopped around the world, he’s been busy. 

“Bedroom,” Bucky says, and Steve raises an eyebrow at him in a way that makes Bucky’s stomach somersault. This time instead of nerves taking over though, Bucky laughs, a soft huff through his teeth. “Fuck you.” 

“I guess it has been a while,” Steve says, and Bucky finds it easy to reach out and give him a playful shove out of his bathroom door. 

“It’s a bit cramped,” Bucky says, leading Steve into the little room packed full with his bed, recording area, and desk. 

“So this is where the mysteries unravel.” Steve steps in front of Bucky’s backdrop, a gray tapestry printed with darker gray question marks. The lights are off and the camera isn’t even on the tripod at the moment, still stored away in its case under Bucky’s bed. Steve leans back against the wall, his massive body making the tapestry look miniature. “Did you start my episode yet?” 

“No,” Bucky says. “Still working on the script. I kept getting hung up on what to do.” 

“About me being an idiot who doesn’t think about declassified government secrets?” 

“You said it, pal, not me.”

Steve laughs and plops down on the foot of Bucky’s bed, crossing his legs. This has the effect of making his thighs look even bigger where they strain the fabric of his joggers. It also has the effect of bringing Bucky’s attention to his shoes. They’re gray and black boots that wouldn’t look out of place on a hiking trail, especially with treads that intense. But there’s something else about them… 

“Are those steel-toed?” 

“Composite.” 

“What exactly have you been up to since you disappeared?” 

“I cleaned out my accounts before I left. Or maybe you know that.” 

“I’m good, but I’m not that good without access to military databases and proper credentials.” 

Steve shrugs and keeps going. “Millions in back pay, and then I guess Howard became more and more convinced over years of studying the serum that I had to be alive. He left me money and a chunk of Stark Industries, which legally he couldn’t do because you can’t leave assets to someone who’s been declared dead. But even though they had their differences, Tony wouldn’t take no for an answer.” 

“So you woke up, what, a billionaire?”

“I thought about giving it all to charity, and I did and do give a lot of it away. But I took a lot of it as well, moved it into a bunch of accounts that N—The Widow helped me set up. No one looks too close because I look like just another asshole billionaire avoiding taxes, and no one wants to be the guy to start digging into that.” 

“And you do what with it?” Bucky asks. 

“For the past decade or so, I’ve been buying land in places with high populations of unhoused people and then putting homes there. Sometimes condos or apartment complexes, sometimes houses just outside of the city but with transit access, even if I have to make my own connecting bus services. I help build them and furnish them, then I do whatever’s needed to get people inside,” Steve says. “That’s why they’re outside of the city sometimes because some people just really fucking hate the poor.” 

“I’ve read about those projects. And the company behind them—SarahCare.” It hits Bucky a second later. Sarah Rogers. The not-so-famous mother of possibly the most famous soldier in history. “It’s a shell.” 

“Not entirely. There is technically a company that works on a bunch of things—sustainability and green tech, new ideas for education both from a cost and access standpoint, mental health technologies—again cost and access—high-speed internet for rural communities. Putting people to work at jobs that treat them with humanity is important too, as are so many things. But the housing project has been my passion for a while. Things were bad growing up, and then I wake up in an era with so much technology and infrastructure, where there’s no logical reason people shouldn’t have their needs met, and yet…” 

“And maybe if yours had been…” 

Steve looks away. 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says. “That was shitty to say.” 

“No, it’s okay. You’re not wrong. Maybe true of your needs too.” 

Bucky sinks into his desk chair, his tablet still sitting on the keyboard stand/dock behind him. It’s asleep, aurora-like shapes dancing across the screen. He picks it up, the disconnection from the power source waking it. 

“I think I might just scrap this episode,” Bucky says, scrolling through some of his research, through multiple pictures of Steve, his body changing through the years, his muscles getting larger and larger and his face slowly starting to show the effects of gravity, a thing that Bucky supposes even the serum can’t fight forever. 

“Oh?” 

“I don’t mind taking some slight liberties for entertainment value, but I don’t think I’d feel right about calling you a mysterious ‘disappearance’ when I kinda know exactly where you are.” 

“Give me a week to come up with a new way of choosing places to go, and you won’t.” 

Bucky flashes an amused smile, then immediately follows it with a frown. Right, he’ll probably never see Steve ever again after this. 

Why exactly does the thought of that feel like such a loss? 

Bucky sets the tablet back in the dock, his word document visible on the screen where he’d left off. Pulling open one of the file cabinets under his desk, he digs around for an old journal, one of those with the black and white cardboard covers and the cloth tape down the side. The pages are yellow and wrinkled, some of them water damaged from various spills. Flipping through, he stops about three-quarters of the way in. 

“These are a bunch I came up with when I was fourteen or so and obsessed with secret codes.” Bucky rips the page out of the notebook and hands it to Steve. “Assign the letters to your haunts however you want, and then you can pick a random one every time you complete a full cycle. Stay unpredictable. You can only find a pattern if there is one.” 

“You don’t want these?” Steve studies the page, then turns it over and runs one of his fingers across the lines of mismatched pencil and pen—blue, gray, neon pink.

“They’ve been sitting in the bottom of a drawer forever. You’ll actually use them for something, which I think is a lot cooler honestly than them collecting dust in my apartment.” 

Steve holds the paper up almost in a salute, then folds it carefully and tucks it into the bag sitting by his feet. 

“Thank you.” 

“Besides, I really would hate for any trouble to find you.” 

Steve smiles. “Especially considering that I’m so great at finding trouble all on my own.” 

“You know, it’s really easy to tease a guy when he does all the leg work for you.” 

“It’s a gift.” 

“One of many, I’m sure,” Bucky says. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

Steve’s smirking at him, and Bucky’s powerless. He loses his words, feels his face curve into a smile, feels his cheeks go warm. 

“Guess I would,” he admits, and the grin that gets him is both dazzling and flirty enough to make Bucky’s stomach feel like so many leaves twirling in an autumn breeze. Even so, Steve leaves shortly after that. 

“You should make your episode,” Steve says at the door. “You put a lot of work into it, and you really won’t know where I am.” 

“You gonna watch it?” Bucky asks when Steve’s already halfway to the stairwell. Steve turns back and hitches his bag up before raising both arms in a shrug, his jaw nearly hitting one of his defined shoulders. 

And then he’s gone. 

It goes like this. Bucky posts the episode in the morning before spending the day with his sisters and their kids. By the time he checks any of his socials that afternoon, the video is at 1.5 million views. It’s staggering and vastly beyond what his videos usually do in that amount of time. He’s spinning at what it’ll mean for ad revenue. There are people trying to reach out to sponsor more videos or even a sequel. 

He puts his tablet to sleep and takes a nap. 

Four million when he wakes up. 

“Christ.” 

As the days and weeks go by, the view count climbs to numbers Bucky’s only used to seeing from content farms. He has to reach out to other vloggers to see how they handle everything that comes with that level of popularity. He has to go onto the roof of his apartment building and starfish in the sunlight. He has to take a lot of baths in his very large bathtub. 

Through it all though, there’s one little thing that bothers him more than everything else—he has no idea where Steve is and he’ll probably never hear from him again. 

Two days later, the first postcard arrives. It’s handmade with the words “Greetings from New Zealand” in multi-colored letters. Bucky laughs and sticks it up on the fridge. Another two days and he gets the envelope, opening it up and finding a few sheets torn from a legal pad, all scribbled in words that appear to be gibberish. 

The name at the bottom though. Five letters. Bucky sits down at his desk and immediately pulls up the most common ciphers including the old Howlies standby. Nothing. 

“I hope you realize if you used one of the ciphers I invented in grade school, I definitely don’t remember it anymore,” Bucky mumbles. But he keeps looking, pacing in the kitchen while the microwave runs, his eyes occasionally flitting from the letter to the little postcard still tacked onto the fridge. 

“Wait…” Bucky rips the card off and reads the back message again. 

“Three houses done this week, plus a playground and community garden. Found a big bathtub of my own to laze around in today. Really enjoyed your latest.”

No signature. Just letters continuing in the same colored pattern used on the front image. 

“You genius bastard.”

The postcard is the cipher key, something most people wouldn’t think a thing about unless they had some reason to suspect that a random vlogger would be receiving top-secret correspondence from Steve fucking Rogers. And why would they? 

It takes Bucky a minute to decode, translating the letter on scrap pieces of paper he usually keeps around for the niblings to draw on when he babysits. In it are more details about Steve’s latest projects, a paragraph about how he’s been trying to get better about self-care, and that BW has been bothering him about taking time off so he’s taken up hiking. He’ll try to send pictures. 

The video really was good. You have a knack for it. I like the one about the missing astrophysicist who probably just fucked off with Thor. I can’t say I wouldn’t be tempted if he asked.  

A gift you probably don’t know about: I can sew. Still haven’t tried the modern machines, but I can handle a vintage one like a pro. 

Bucky smiles and imagines something like the old sewing machine in his grandma’s place—tucked into the corner and covered in bric-a-brac. He tries to place Steve there, the knick-knacks gone and the sewing machine itself pulled out of its wooden casing. He can almost see Steve’s booted feet working the massive pedal, his large, weathered hands guiding the fabric along. 

It’s… kind of a lot for a mental image. 

Still smiling, he tacks the letter onto the fridge next to the postcard and starts thinking of what he’ll write back, how he’ll hide a cipher of his own to keep the code going. He’s halfway through trying to describe his next topic when it hits him. 

“Fuck, Steve.” 

Because how in the hell is Bucky supposed to reply? Send a letter to SarahCare and hope it doesn’t end up in a compost bin before it gets passed on to someone who doesn’t technically exist? 

“Goddammit.” Bucky finishes writing up a reply anyway before sliding it away and getting to work on his next video. 

“To this day, no one knows what happened to Brock Rumlow, but it is important to note that according to the Widow leaks, Rumlow was involved in a Hydra serum project that started before his disappearance and continued after. I can’t say that this was the reason Rumlow disappeared, but I can say that attempts to recreate that serum have always gone pretty bad historically.” Bucky shrugs at the camera. 

“So that’s it for today’s video. Let me know in the comments what you think happened to Rumlow. Also, I got a piece of mysterious fan mail this past week that I had a great time figuring out, and to the person who sent it, I’d really like the opportunity to answer. To the rest of you, remember there are mysteries everywhere, and the truth is often stranger than fiction. Until next week.” 

Bucky gives the camera a little wave and then stops the recording. He spends the rest of the afternoon editing so he can schedule the video and have it ready for uploading. 

It goes live the following morning. 

The following afternoon, someone knocks on his door. 

It’s a woman in skin-tight motorcycle leathers, smooth burgundy hair cascading over her shoulders. And Bucky has had Steve on his mind almost constantly, but she does make him remember—if even for a moment, before the realization hits and he feels fear spike through his veins—that he’s very, very bisexual. (And okay, maybe the fact that she could literally kill him using a toothpick and a cocktail napkin just reminds him a little harder, even if he’s not actually interested per se.)

“James Buchanan Barnes.”

It’s not a question. 

“You’re…”

“That’s what they tell me.” She purses her lips and blows a very large pink bubble. A pop audibly echoes down the hall. And then she smiles at him and slaps a post-it note directly onto the center of his forehead before turning on a very thin, very dangerous-looking heel. He watches her traipse halfway down the hall before the entire moment even registers, and then, before he can actually get his hand (or mouth) to respond to his brain, she turns back. 

“You should do one on Carol Danvers. The Air Force says she died in a testing accident, but there were hundreds of UFO sightings in the area that day, and her wife doesn’t really think they told her the whole truth, especially since they didn’t recover anything to bury. Might be a fun one for you to play with,” she says. “Oh, and between you and me, Brock Rumlow is very, very dead.” 

Another pop of her gum, and the Widow slides gracefully into the elevator. It’s several seconds more before Bucky finally reaches for the post-it. 

It’s blank. 

“What,” Bucky says, “the fuck?” 

He stares at the post-it some more, blinking at it. It’s a pristine note in a nice shade of aqua blue, the paper barely bent from its journey from wherever it began to Bucky’s forehead. There are no discernible marks that show it has ever been written on. There’s nothing remarkable about it at all really, except for the fact that the fucking Black Widow hand-delivered it. To his apartment. To his face. 

Starting with the most obvious, he pulls open every single desk drawer looking for his blacklight flashlight, happy it has enough juice left to even turn on. Unhappy that it reveals not a thing. 

Okay, what else?

Bucky takes it to the window and puts it in a sunbeam, pacing the living room and waiting for anything to happen. Nothing does. 

“This asshole could just Facetime me like a normal human being. Skype. Google Hangouts. Fucking… Stark Meets.” Bucky stares at the note again. “Fuck.” 

He tries again, carefully holding it with chopsticks in between the heating elements of his toaster. He goes to the store for red cabbage to make an indicator solution. He stares at it and demands it give itself up. 

His next plan is aggressively searching through everything he can. He looks for seemingly hundreds of methods of writing invisibly and how to view them. The little square of blue goes through a lot, and he hopes he doesn’t ruin whatever message it contains by submitting it to a plethora of little science experiments. 

Frustration mounts. 

He combs through the declassified Howlie stuff again. He looks at Steve’s letter just to see if there’s any clue there, or if he misremembered the color system Steve used and might find some secret message hidden only in the aqua letters. 

Fuck. 

He’s genuinely starting to think the Widow was messing with him, possibly at Steve’s instruction but possibly just to get a feel for him—Steve might have indicated he didn’t view Bucky as a threat, but that doesn’t mean she feels the same. Maybe there really isn’t anything on the post-it at all. Maybe it’s just a post-it, and she’s somewhere laughing her ass off at a successful hazing of Steve’s new friend. (Are they friends?) Hell, maybe she bugged his apartment while he was gone one day precisely to listen in while he went through this. 

“Okay, I’m probably getting in my own head here thinking that you might have bugged my place, but if you did, you could seriously tell me how to decode this cursed little note.” 

He waits for about twenty seconds for his phone to mysteriously ring or for an email to magically appear, but he’s not that… lucky? Would it be lucky to have his apartment bugged? Fuck if he even knows anymore. 

Bucky puts his head in his hands. And then he grabs his keys and a travel cup and goes to his favorite coffee shop for a much-needed frap to help him think. 

Steve wouldn’t send him a message he couldn’t figure out. The answer would be somewhere. A cipher hidden on a postcard. A… 

“Jesus fucking Christ.” 

Bucky pulls up the Widow Leaks Wiki and starts searching various parameters, nearly walking into several people on the sidewalk between the coffee shop and his apartment. He’s in the elevator—frap in one hand, phone in the other—when he finds it. 

A technology originally developed by Howard Stark for the SSR (with limited use as Stark also developed the necessary thermal imaging technology too late in the war for wide production), SHIELD later improved upon InvisInk, using various technologies to make it safer to produce. InvisInk was particularly valuable to SHIELD (and Hydra) as it could be hidden anywhere. Documents unveiled in the Widow Leaks reference instructions stored on seemingly blank stacks of printer paper, messages laid over the text of newspapers and novels, and directions left on dummy flyers for things like babysitting services.

That has to be it. Bucky can feel it in his bones. 

InvisInk fell out of favor with the intelligence community after consumer cell phone cameras began including thermal imaging technology in the late 2020s. However, the formula for InvisInk remains a secret, and…

Bucky closes the Web site and steps off on his floor. 

Back in the apartment, he goes for the toaster a second time, his phone open next to him with the settings switched over to “thermal mode.” 

“This better be it, Steve, you abnormally hot asshole,” Bucky mutters, putting the post-it down on the counter and picking up his phone. For a second, the entire blue square is one uniform color of orange, and then the paper starts to fade to yellow at the edges, leaving behind the address for a P.O. Box. 

In Idaho. 

“Steve, what the fuck?” 

Nevertheless, Bucky writes him back. He thanks him for the kind words about his channel in case the letter gets intercepted. Just a vlogger responding to a fan, nothing to see here. Then he talks about his next video because really Bucky has a limited scope of things to talk about. 

Most people do, he reminds himself. This is Bucky’s job, after all, a thing that consumes a good portion of his life. It’s normal that it dominates conversations. 

I’ve started research for next week. The disappearance of a woman named Ava Starr. But BW had a suggestion for me too. Did a quick search on that one and it looks pretty interesting, so I might throw it in the pipeline. 

Sewing, huh? I look forward to several handmade gifts as an apology for your friend scaring the shit out of me, so get on that. 

Guess it’s only fair I give you an unexpected skill in return though. Bucky picks up his pen and thinks. Honestly, does he even have one? He taps the pen on the paper, leaving several little dots of ink. 

“Jesus, Bucky,” he mumbles, and then he feels the answer crawl through the maze that is his brain and puts the pen on the page once more. 

I’m really good at ice skating. I think it’s because I saw that old Disney Channel Movie when I was a kid—Genius, I think is what it was called? And then Ice Princess came out a little later? But for some reason, even though I didn’t get into the movies much, I got obsessed with the idea that because I was so good at math, I had to be able to apply that to skating somehow. So I started trying to come up with math equations that gave me an edge. And then I practiced and practiced. 

Looking back on it, I think I just learned to skate and convinced myself that math had something to do with it, but I can still pull off a few cool moves. Impresses the sibkids. 

Stay safe out there in this wild world of mysteries, pal. 

-Bucky

Bucky reads and rereads it a few times before rewriting it all in code and running to one of the million stores for tourists that has postcards. He does exactly what Steve did to him, leaving the clue to decoding the letter on said postcard and hoping that since he followed Steve’s MO, Steve will get it pretty quick. 

He sends the postcard that afternoon. He sends the letter a day later, dropping it in a different blue box a few blocks away from the first. And then he goes back to his apartment and focuses on Ava Starr. 

A week goes by. The Ava video does okay. Another week. Bucky posts an update on the astrophysicist. She’s fucking Thor now? As in, she has all of Thor’s powers and is, for all intents and purposes, now Thor. Granted, she may or may not ALSO be banging Thor (and if she is, good for her), but also, what? How does a regular human woman get all the powers of an alien from a planet of high-powered… 

I genuinely can’t explain that part, though I wish I could because the way I understand it, Thor’s powers were sort of an inherent thing that were focused through the hammer. This is going to bother me for days, possibly forever. I swear, the longer I live in this universe, the stranger it gets. 

Really though. 

There are tons of commenters in the morning. A lot of them echo his sentiments of confusion re: how the powers of Thor work. One seems to be hung up on the fact that the person acting as Thor ‘can’t be a woman’ when she… literally is? Like that already happened, bud?

Someone else is talking about alleged witness-sightings of talking raccoons and trees during the various global battles of the Infinity War. There’s a response to Thor-can’t-be-a-lady guy along the lines of, ‘ Lmao, wait until you read historical lore about Loki .’ And then… 

BrooklynNomad74 I can make it weirder for you anytime, pal.

Bucky doubts, a little, that it’s him. But at the same time, he also knows it is. It has to be. He fires off a reply, forcing himself to respond to a few other commenters just to keep this one from standing out. 

TheWinterSearcher Bring it on.

A week later, a package shows up with no clues to what it is or who it’s from other than a little drawing of a thread and needle. Bucky eyes it warily, wondering if Steve really did make true on the promise to make his life weirder. But then he opens it and—

“You son of a bitch,” Bucky says, laughing. Out of the box falls a button-up shirt made out of question mark material that’s very similar to Bucky’s video background—dark gray fabric with various question marks in white and black and deep charcoal. The shirt has no tags, and the stitching isn’t overlocked like it was made in a factory. 

“Steve, you didn’t.” 

Grinning, Bucky takes the box and the shirt to his bedroom, pulling it on and shaking his head because somehow, somehow the shirt not only fits him but is so well-tailored that Bucky will now be forced to wear it everywhere. He might even have to do a different video background at least once so he can wear it during filming. He certainly knows what he’d wear if he ever had another date. 

If. 

He looks in the rest of the box. At the bottom is a note written in code, along with several stunning photos of landscapes, some cut through by hiking trails. He pulls the postcard off the fridge and starts trying to decode the letter, but… 

“Dammit.” 

Knowing the decoding postcard is probably still somewhere in the mail, hopefully to be delivered the following afternoon, Bucky pins the photos and undeciphered letter to the fridge and takes a selfie of himself in the gray shirt for his ScrapApp. 

Thanks to the asshole who made me a shirt out of my own video background. Fuck if I don’t look damned good in it too. #TheWinterSearcher #MindbendingModernMysteries #TheyNeverSaidYouWereSuchAPunk 

A comment from what is very clearly a throwaway account shows up a short while later. 

RageAgainstTheSewingMachine Speak for yourself, jerk. Btw, you’re welcome for how hot you look in that shirt. 

BuckyVlogs @RageAgainstTheSewingMachine So you admit it? You think I’m hot. 

RageAgainstTheSewingMachine @BuckyVlogs A fact that was never in question, Buck. If you’d bothered to ask. 

Bucky’s eyes widen at his phone screen. He puts it down and pushes it away from him because he definitely needs a minute to process that. Another comment comes in, and he instinctively grabs for his phone to see if it’s Steve again. 

BexIsBiAsHell Um, Bucky, is there something you need to tell us re: Rage here? Also, get a room. 

RageAgainstTheSewingMachine @BexIsBiAsHell Nothing to tell you. Yet. 

Bucky makes a very undignified noise. What the hell? Is Steve fucking with him? He has to be fucking with him, right? Rebecca texts him a single word: Um ?

Bucky, somehow, manages to reply. To Steve. Not to his sister, whom he will respond to after he’s finished having a crisis. 

BuckyVlogs @RageAgainstTheSewingMachine Why does that sound like a threat?

RageAgaisntTheSewingMachine @BuckyVlogs ;) 

RageAgainstTheSewingMachine @BuckyVlogs The shirt really does look good though. Hope I get to see it in person sometime.  

RedHairDontCare @RageAgainstTheSewingMachine You misspelled ‘remove’ there, bud. 

Bucky stares at the new addition to the conversation. In his head, he imagines lips pursed around bubblegum. Is…? No, it’s probably just a coincidence. The Widow has other, better, more secret and scary things to do. 

And then Rebecca texts him again: ?????

Bucky sighs and calls her solely because he knows nothing annoys his sister more than someone calling in response to a text. 

“How dare you,” is what he gets instead of a hello. He grins. 

“I can’t tell you anything over the phone actually but it was worth calling you just for that.” 

“Dick. Come over. Bring the good bagels.” 

“Kay.” 

In his sister’s kitchen between bites of chewy bread and playing uncle to various kids of various ages who bug him about everything from math homework to what he thinks about the reappearance of Scott Lang, Bucky quietly fills Rebecca in. 

“You mean to tell me that Captain fucking America showed up looking like some kind of lumberjack silver fox, and now he’s sending you presents and hitting on you in your social media comments?” 

“I don’t know if he is though. I think he might just be fucking with me?” 

“Bucky.” 

“I imagine it gets lonely, moving around all over the place and avoiding detection and all that.” 

“Bucky. ” 

“Sure, he has the Widow and I don’t know who else he still talks to from that time in his life. He probably has people who help run SarahCare on his behalf. There’s the people he meets doing what he’s doing, probably befriends them for a while…” 

Rebecca looks at him over a mountain of cream cheese. She reaches over and pats him on the arm. 

“You’re a fucking idiot.” 

The postcard never comes, the undeciphered letter hanging on Bucky’s fridge for days upon days upon days, taunting him. He thinks about running it through online software that can allegedly decode things, but he worries about the security of the Web sites, worries about giving up Steve. And so he waits. And keeps waiting. 

He starts working on a video about Carol Danvers before realizing exactly what happened to her. Not everything of course. He has no idea what happened between the alleged accident she died in and the appearance of a superpowered heroine who could shoot literal energy beams from her hands. But he throws that video in the trash and wonders why the Widow even recommended it to him. 

Maybe he’ll get to ask her someday. 

With a sigh, he opens up his notebook of ideas and goes down the list. Peter Quill. 

Sure, why not? He starts searching and gets about thirty minutes into his research before he realizes he’s accomplished pretty much nothing. With a sigh, he googles postcards and picks a generic stock photo to post. 

I love getting postcards. I got one a few weeks ago but would love to get another. #GreetingsFromMyEmptyMailbox

ReturnToSender Well, fuck. 

The account disappears before Bucky can reply. 

Knocking wakes him. He blinks into his dark apartment, lit only by the yellowy-orange glow of the city lights filtering around the edges of his curtains. 

“What…” Bucky gropes for his phone. It’s a little before 3 a.m. The knocking continues, and so he pulls his blanket around his shoulders and heads for the door, a little worried it’s a neighbor in distress or something. On the other side of the peephole, he sees honey hair dusted with salt. 

“Steve.” Bucky yawns when he opens the door. Steve yawns back on reflex before gesturing with a large hand to ask if he can come in. Bucky moves aside. 

Steve’s wearing joggers again—black with pink, purple, blue stripes down either leg. They’re tight on his legs and very very tight on his ass, showing off the shape of him where they taper to his ankles. His composite boots are even more beat up than they were when Bucky first met him. 

“You’re bi,” Bucky says, half-asleep and half-dazed, his eyes fixating on the stripes on Steve’s pants. 

“Extremely.” Steve drops a small duffel on the floor of Bucky’s apartment and leans against the counter between the entrance and the kitchen. “You should see me parallel park.” 

Bucky blinks at him, just now catching up to the fact that Steve’s shirt is clinging to… everything. He can count each abdominal. He can see his nipples. Why is Steve talking about parallel… Bucky huffs in amusement. “Did you just…?” 

Steve shifts his weight. “Truthfully, I wasn’t the best driver for a long time either. Not like I drove around Brooklyn in the 40s. Basically got handed a Jeep and a set of keys somewhere behind enemy lines in Germany and was too chickenshit to tell the brass I couldn’t drive. How hard could it be, right?” 

“Oh no.” 

“Oh yes.” 

“But you know now?” 

Steve nods and shifts his weight again. 

“You wanna sit down?” 

“I wanna kiss you.” 

“Just make yourself at—” Bucky rubs at his eyes and sways a little where he stands. “What?” 

“I said I wanna kiss you.”

“Good morning to you as well, Steve.” 

“When I showed up here last time, I thought I was just gonna tell you to leave me alone. I didn’t want to come back, and I didn’t need someone digging. But then you weren’t what I thought, what I was afraid of.” 

Bucky stares. He’s asleep. That’s the only explanation for this, right? He’s asleep and having a very vivid dream and hopefully, his brain will conclude it somewhere good instead of making him wake up longing for a few more minutes of REM time. 

“So then I thought, okay, guy seems nice enough, is an absolute knockout too, not that it matters. I’ll tell him it’s okay to make his video, maybe watch it to appreciate those cheekbones one more time, and go on about my life.” 

Bucky’s cheeks go warm. It’s way, way too middle of the fucking night for this. 

“Steve, it’s 3 a.m.” 

Steve glances at his watch. “So it is. You want me to wait until sunrise to finish my speech?” 

“No, keep telling me how pretty I am.” 

“So, so fucking pretty, Buck.” 

And maybe Bucky is the one who needs to sit down because he suddenly feels like a porch light on a summer evening—so many fluttery things twirling in his belly and in the tips of his fingers and toes. 

“But that’s not why I couldn’t get you out of my mind.” Steve leans a little more casually against the counter. “It’s because I felt…” Steve shakes his head. 

“Felt what?” 

Steve rubs at the space between his brows with his fingertips and then scrubs his hand over his face and through his beard. “Like I could let it all go. I’ve always felt like, even before I got the shield and a pair of tights, I was always performing. When I was maybe 100 pounds after a big meal fully clothed and soaking wet, I felt like I had to perform. I had to be tougher. I had to prove my value, why I should be allowed to take up space. Then I was Cap, and I had to keep being this ideal, and only a couple people saw me for who I was and let me be him.”

Bucky nods. 

“And then I went into the ice, and I came out, and I came out to a different… Who I’d been, who Cap had been, a lot of that had changed since I went in. There’d been documentaries and movies. Books. Tons of speculation about me, decades of politicians and pundits putting words and ideals into my mouth. There were notions about my generation in general, stereotypes that followed me everywhere. Hell, look at the clothes they bought me. Not the stuff I wore in my day, but the stuff people my chronological age wear in movies. Not in real life, necessarily. Just in movies.” 

“You woke up in a world you didn’t understand with people who didn’t understand you and immediately put you in a box.” 

“Exactly, and I know they meant well and were trying to help me transition, but it didn’t work that way. They didn’t bother to ask who I wanted to be in this world, one with options I didn’t have growing up. They didn’t give me the chance to figure it out either.” 

“They didn’t meet Steve Rogers,” Bucky says. 

“But you did. You met me and you probably had preconceived notions, but whatever they were, you didn’t put them on me. You gave me the space to show myself to you. And I told you who I was and who I wanted to be, and you took out your middle school notebook and said, ‘Here, Steve, to help.’”

“Oh.” 

“I wrote to you because I knew I could, because I could sit down and pen a letter, and other than having to be careful for obvious reasons, I could just…” 

“Yeah.” 

“And you get it too, why I left all that behind. Why I don’t want to be theirs or wear that uniform.” 

Bucky nods. He does. If, for some inconceivable reason, he’d been even considering revealing Steve’s whereabouts, the second Steve had explained that he just wanted to be free of all that, he would’ve cut that part out of the video. Because he did understand it, on a level that went bone-deep. 

“I watched more of your videos than I let on,” Steve admits, after a long silence. “Not even because I was a little into you. You’re really good at it. And every time I’d look up something you talked about, I was impressed by the research you put in. I’ve found similar vloggers who are…” 

“Full of shit a lot of the time?” 

“Yeah. You tell a good story without needing to stretch the truth, and you’re always honest about what’s speculation and what isn’t.” 

“Thank you, Steve. That means a lot, that you watched them because you found value in them beyond, how’d you put it? My cheekbones?” 

Steve laughs lightly and looks down at his boots. “They’re really good cheekbones.” 

“Yeah. So you’ve said.” 

“Great hair too. Gorgeous eyes. Thighs that would be so pretty around my hips.” 

Bucky swallows. “Can I reiterate that it’s 3 in the goddamned morning?” 

Steve grins at him. “You can tell me if I’m allowed to get that kiss or not.” 

Bucky fidgets with the leg of his pajamas—soft blue cotton covered in happy, sleepy sloths. He meets Steve’s eyes. “Yeah, Steve. Take what you want.” 

“And what do you want?” 

“I don’t let things happen to me unless I want them to, Steve. Not for a very long time.” 

Steve nods and pushes off the counter, holding his hand out to Bucky, who takes it and lets Steve pull him close, arms encircling him, fingers gently sliding up his spine to curl around the back of his neck. Bucky shivers, goosebumps rolling up his arms. Steve kisses his cheek first, a soft thing that he doesn’t completely pull away from. 

“Cool if I stay here a day or two?” Steve asks, lips and breath tickling the skin over Bucky’s cheekbone. Bucky shivers again. 

“Mhm.” 

Lips follow the contour of Bucky’s face to press gently between his eyebrows, holding the kiss before seemingly letting gravity start to pull them down toward Bucky’s mouth. Bucky feels his own lips part in anticipation of what’s to come. And then Steve places a small kiss right on the tip of his nose before meeting them with a soft sigh. 

It stays soft, at first. Steve’s mouth moves gently against his. His tongue slowly finds its way into Bucky’s mouth, each stroke of it as fluid and languid as an ice dancer. And Bucky, well, Bucky’s not sure he can remember ever being kissed like this. He’s been in love a few times, had people whose kisses made him feel cared about. But this…? 

It hits him like lightning, this overwhelming feeling that Steve is something more. His Ma and Pa had been okay together, but they weren’t great, and eventually, it fell apart. When his Ma remarried a woman named May after knowing her less than a year, he’d asked her how she’d known she was it. 

‘Sometimes, you just know.’

Those are the words that come to him, with Steve holding him so tenderly, kissing him like he’s the only thing that matters. He dismisses the thought. He and Steve have barely even been near each other in person. But… 

Bucky sighs into the kiss, lets himself relax even more in Steve’s embrace. Eventually, his back hits something solid, and he realizes Steve has somehow managed to work them both around and push Bucky up against the kitchen counter. It’s nice to have something to lean on when his knees feel a little more like wax melting in the sun with every passing second. 

“I can’t say I didn’t imagine this,” Steve says. “I can’t say you aren’t better than any dream.” 

“Flirt.” 

“It’s working though, isn’t it?” Steve claims another kiss, before trailing off Bucky’s mouth, lips moving along his jaw, down onto his neck. And suddenly, it’s not so soft anymore. Bucky’s body has seemingly caught up to the fact that they’re very much awake and are likely to stay that way for the foreseeable future. It’s also caught up to just how solid Steve’s body feels beneath his hands. How Steve’s mouth feels working on his neck. Bucky finally notices the heavy warmth starting to settle into his belly when Steve noses under the hem of his tank to kiss and lick at his collarbone. 

“Fuck me,” Bucky sighs, half as a general expression of his mood, half as a demand. 

“Yeah?” Steve hums, though he’s already sliding hands up the back of Bucky’s legs, finding the natural curve under his ass and using that as a grip point to easily lift Bucky up, seating him on the edge of the counter. He coaxes Bucky’s legs apart and steps between them, mouth never leaving Bucky’s skin. 

And, yeah, Bucky knew logically that Steve was a supersoldier, despite walking away from being Captain America a very long time ago. He knew that. But he didn’t connect the dots to the fact that Steve can literally pick him up without so much as a grunt. That Steve… 

He has the sudden mental image of Steve taking him against a wall, holding Bucky up by the thighs. And he’d be able to do that for… hours? Presumably. 

“It’s really late or really early depending on how you look at it,” Steve mutters. “I’m gonna need you to tell me if you meant that or if you’re just a bit out of it.” 

“Put your dick in my ass, Steve.” 

Steve laughs. “That works.” 

“I want you to know that I fully see you as a human being and not an object, but I need you to know that you are absolutely ridiculous to look at. Christ, your hands are so big.” 

“Yeah. Nice big fingers, huh?” 

“You’re such a shit. You know exactly what you’re doing at all times, don’t you?” 

“Me?” Steve asks with mock innocence. 

“You know what you’re doing when you talk about your fingers being big. You know.” 

Steve answers him by finally pulling his lips away from Bucky’s skin, leaning back far enough to look him in the eyes. For a second, Bucky’s confused, though he can tell Steve’s not stopping, not with the way he’s looking at Bucky like he wants to unhinge his jaw and swallow him whole. But also Steve DID stop and why did he—

And then Steve slowly holds up two fingers, telegraphing a very long motion that ends in him shoving them between Bucky’s lips. Without a second thought, Bucky groans, sucking on them and going wide-eyed when Steve pushes them in deeper and deeper, curling them down his throat. 

Steve raises one eyebrow—impressed and surprised—when Bucky doesn’t gag. 

“Interesting.” 

Bucky smirks around his skin. 

“Guess we both know what we’re doing, huh Buck?” 

Bucky hums and keeps sucking and opening his throat wide, letting Steve violate his mouth, the wet spot on the front of his joggers growing. Bucky fixates on it, some part of him wanting to slide off the counter and put his mouth right there. He could get the whole front of those pants sloppy wet until they clung to the erection underneath. 

And he’s so busy imagining that scenario that he doesn’t notice Steve’s other hand at first, not until it lands on the meat of his thigh, squeezing all the way up before sliding over the tent in Bucky’s pajamas, finding Bucky’s cock beneath the fabric and caressing it through the cotton. Bucky moans around his fingers. Steve rewards that by finding the opening in the pants, popping the single button holding it shut, and slipping his hand inside. Calloused skin wraps around Bucky’s bare cock, gently moving down the length and arcing over the head where it picks up a little moisture that aids it on the way back down. Not enough though. 

Steve pulls his hand free, pulls his fingers out. 

“Spit.” 

Bucky spits. 

“Oh c’mon, Buck. A gorgeous little whore like you? You can do better than that. I wanna stroke that beautiful cock of yours, make you feel good. You gonna help me out?”  

Bucky squirms on the counter, dick twitching in his pants. And then he spits a big glob of saliva onto Steve’s palms. 

“There’s a good boy,” Steve says with a smile, before shoving his hand back inside of Bucky’s pajamas, wrapping it around him and giving him a good, long stroke. “You okay with all this, by the way?” 

“Hmm?” Bucky blinks at him, too lost in the warm rough skin moving around him. Fuck, Steve has definitely done this before. Many, many times. 

Steve slows down, just enough that Bucky can actually focus. “Me calling you names. Praise kink. Is that all okay? Rather I didn’t?” 

“Very okay.” 

“You like it?” 

“Yes. Fuck.” 

Steve nods and speeds back up, still-damp fingers on his other hand wrapping around Bucky’s neck once more to pull him in for a kiss. It’s not tender this time, their mouths meeting with hunger, Bucky’s moans punctuating the kiss—commas, periods, exclamation points. 

“That’s it. Feels good, huh?” 

“Fuck. Steve, if you don’t ease off…” 

“Yeah? That’s okay.” 

“But…” 

“Shh.” Steve does stop though, pulling his hand free, pulling Bucky’s cock free with it. “You’re gonna come for me, yeah? Soon?” 

“But I… don’t you?” 

“Oh, I do. I will.” 

“I’m not a supersoldier, Steve. And I definitely haven’t been young for a long time.” 

“I know, Buck. I’m not young either. Which means I am very, very patient.” 

“I…”

“Here’s how it’s gonna work.” Steve leans over Bucky’s lap, planting his forearms on either side of Bucky’s thighs for stability. “I’m gonna suck you.” Steve illustrates this by putting his mouth right on Bucky’s cock and sliding it all the way down, pulling off with a pop. “Right. I’m gonna suck you, and you’re gonna relax. Enjoy it. Let it feel good, huh?”

“Y-yeah.” 

“You’re gonna fill up my mouth, give me something nice to swallow, huh?” 

“Jesus, Steve.” 

“And then I’m gonna take you back to bed. And you’re gonna finish sleeping. And then we’ll see about the rest of it in the morning.” 

“Okay.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes.” 

Steve’s mouth slides onto his cock again. He pulls him in deep, and oh, oh fuck. Bucky has had his cock sucked many, many times. Vastly more times than he’s been in love. But he knows no one has ever done it like this. He lets out a small laugh of surprise because all he can think about is how much history really doesn’t know Steve Rogers. 

“Something funny?” Steve asks, pulling off and replacing his mouth with his hand, slowing down the motions enough to make Bucky feel right on the edge of desperate. 

“You’re right,” Bucky breathes, watching Steve’s hand glide up and down, honey-slow. “No one fucking knows you.” 

“You do. Now.” 

“You’re right. I do. Enough to know that there were probably a lot of well-fucked folks in pre-war Brooklyn.” 

Steve beams at him, pleased with himself. “Lots of well-fucked folks in wartime Europe too. And in New Zealand and France and… well, you get the point.” 

“Steve Rogers, a giver.” 

“You know it, Buck.” And then, before Bucky can think of a retort, Steve opens his mouth and takes him all the way in with a pleased groan, one Bucky echoes when he feels the head of his cock hit the back of Steve’s throat, right before Steve angles his head to allow it to slide even deeper. 

“Jesus fucking… Steve.” 

Steve hums in response, pulling back off, his lips so tight around Bucky that he has to think it’s some kind of supersoldier skill. And then Steve starts to work him over, really work him over, and Bucky can’t think much at all. 

He’s so good at it. Every time Bucky moans or sighs, every time Bucky’s body reacts in a way that betrays how good something feels—Steve notices and seems to catalog it. A curse, and Steve licks this spot a little more. A twitch of Bucky’s fingers where they’ve somehow wound themselves into Steve’s gold-gray hair, and Steve changes angles. 

Bucky’s going to die. He’s going to die and ascend to heaven and then take the stripper pole right down to hell. And it’s going to be fucking worth it. 

“St-St-Stevie, sweetheart, I’m…” 

Steve’s hand finds his—twining with the prosthetic and squeezing his permission, blue eyes looking up at Bucky with so much lust he feels like that gaze alone might consume him. Steve sucks him all the way down again, and that’s it. It’s over. 

Bucky throws his head back, gasping up at the ceiling, squeezing Steve’s hand back and white-knuckling his hair. 

True to his word, Steve greedily takes every drop, following that up with slow licks up and down Bucky’s shaft that have Bucky in the mind of someone licking the plate clean after finishing a particularly good meal. 

For a second, Bucky revels in the bliss of it, petting at Steve’s hair in some kind of gesture of thanks. And then all the hormones and adrenaline taper off, and the exhaustion hits him like a truck to the point where Bucky has to force his body not to just fall back onto the counter and sleep right there. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, knees popping when he stands up. “I thought that might happen.” Bucky barely registers that Steve has to tuck his own softening cock back into his joggers. He glances down at the floor, finds come glistening on the tile. 

“You jerked yourself off on my kitchen floor.” Bucky yawns. 

“Yeah, Buck, I did.” Steve kisses his forehead, then puts his arms around him, carefully helping him down off the counter. Bucky doesn’t know if he walks or if Steve carries him or if it’s somewhere between, but Steve tucks him into his bed and kisses him on the forehead a few times. The next thing Bucky knows, the sun is shining brightly and the apartment is full of the sound of running water. 

“Steve?” Bucky asks, throwing his legs over the side of the mattress and getting up. The sound of water cuts off before Bucky can get to the bathroom. The door is wide open, and inside— “Oh Christ.” 

Steve is in his bathroom, standing next to the tub with his back to the door. His very very bare back that leads to his very very bare ass and thighs. Slowly, Steve turns. 

“Morning, Buck.” 

All the want Bucky had at 3 in the morning comes flooding back like someone turned on a tap. There’s a dusting of hair all down Steve’s front—mostly brown tinged with gold that catches the flickering candles Steve lit on the counter, but not without a smattering of gray here and there. His pecs and abs are as defined as they’d looked in that overly tight shirt, and Bucky’s sure his thighs could pulverize cinder blocks if he tried. Steve smiles at him, eyes flicking down to the crotch of Bucky’s pajama pants. 

“That didn’t take long.” 

“Yeah, well…” Bucky gestures at Steve, standing in his bathroom like some kind of horny statue of a Roman god. 

A smirk. “Pretty sure you’d get a similar reaction if you were a little less dressed.” 

“Oh, would I?” 

“Yes. Although…” Steve looks down at his cock, already growing hard in its nest of curls. “You’re not doing so bad right now.” 

“Still, you know, I do like to research. We should see what the effects of nudity have on erections.” 

“New vlog series idea.” 

“I think I’d get demonetized pretty quick.” 

Steve lets out a mock sound of disappointment. “We’ll just have to keep the nudity between us then.” An eager look up and down Bucky’s clothed body. “You gonna strip for me, Buck? Nice hot bath first thing in the morning?” 

Bucky glances over at the bath properly for the first time. Steve has made good use of his bath table. There are two travel mugs of iced coffee, two decadent breakfast pastries dripping with cream, and a bottle of lube—the kind you’d use if you planned to fuck in water. 

“You got breakfast,” Bucky says. “Guess I should at least show you my tits for that.” 

“Let me put them in my mouth and I’ll get lunch too.” 

“Christ,” Bucky breathes, but he takes hold of the hem of his tank top and pulls it toward the ceiling. When he finds Steve’s face again, he’s looking him over appreciatively. 

“Keep going,” he says, just enough demand in his voice to make Bucky want to drop to his knees with his mouth wide open. Instead, he hooks his thumbs in the band of his pants and pushes them down. Steve lets out a noise this time, a quiet hum of approval that goes straight to Bucky’s cock. 

“Just as pretty as I thought you’d be.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Steve takes a step toward him, his cock fully hard now, the size of it truly something to behold. 

“How’d I know you’d have a huge dick?” 

“Know or hope?” 

“Know. Like we said back in the day, you’ve got that big dick energy. Can I ask a weird question though?” 

“If it’s whether or not the serum did it, no.” 

“No?” 

Steve gives him another sinful smirk, a little pride seeping in at the edges. “No.” 

“Weird if I say I wish I could’ve fucked you then? Not… I guess when I was younger, a skinny little punk with a massive cock would’ve been exactly my thing.” 

“Pity you weren’t there,” Steve says, putting his fingers on Bucky’s chest and running them down between his pecs. He pulls away all but one finger, trailing it through the line of hair that leads to Bucky’s erection. “I would’ve taken you on every surface of my apartment, especially after I heard those pretty sounds you make.” 

Bucky watches Steve’s finger go lower, landing on the base of his cock and moving up it in a serpentine pattern that does nothing but make Bucky want . And just like that, Steve drops his hand and steps away, turning toward the tub. One leg goes over the porcelain, followed by the other, Steve sinking down pretty gracefully into the water. He holds out his hand to Bucky. 

“Come.” 

And, fuck, that word said in that tone? Bucky almost does. His body certainly gives a little jolt of a threat. But he takes Steve’s hand and steps into the tub too, sinking down until he manages to tuck himself between Steve’s bent legs, Steve’s erection unmistakable against his back. Casually, Steve wraps one arm around Bucky’s waist, his mouth pressing against the nape of Bucky’s neck before trailing a wet kiss across his shoulder. 

“Hungry?” Steve asks against his skin. And oh, Bucky is. Just not necessarily in the way Steve means. Steve reaches around him with his other hand, pinching a bite of pastry off and raising it to Bucky’s lips. 

“FYI, if you hate blueberry-lemon or have a gluten allergy or something, I promise to still give you an orgasm if you turn this down.” 

Bucky smiles fondly. “Thanks, Steve. It’s okay.” 

“Yeah?” Steve moves the pastry to his lips. “Open your mouth then.” Bucky does, letting Steve push the pastry in. It’s clear that it’s more of an excuse to put his fingers back in Bucky’s mouth than anything, even clearer when he leaves his middle finger inside long after the bite is gone and Bucky has sucked off any remaining icing, lemon curd, or blueberry compote. 

“That’s it,” Steve says, a hoarse whisper right in Bucky’s ear before he pulls his finger free and takes a sip of his own coffee. “You can have some of yours if you want.” Bucky does, washing down the taste of blueberry and Steve. Steve must have asked someone at Bucky’s usual shop what he orders because it’s just right, down to the extra shot of vanilla. 

“Thanks for breakfast by the way, even if I’m not sure we’re gonna finish it.” 

That gets him a kiss on the shoulder that feels more domestic than horny. “You’re welcome.” And then Steve’s right back to it, pinching off another bite that Bucky sucks from his skin. 

“I bet I’m not the only one of us who’s good at sucking cock,” Steve says, voice low enough that his chest rumbles against Bucky’s back. 

“You want a demonstration?” Bucky asks. 

“Later. Right now I want you to relax and keep working on your breakfast.” Steve pulls the plate closer to them on the table before sliding both of his hands into the water, his palms and fingers gripping Bucky by the hips and pushing him a few inches across his lap, putting a sliver of space between their bodies.

“What…” 

“Breakfast,” Steve says, picking up the bottle of lube. Bucky swallows hard but manages to grab his coffee, sipping on it and doing his best not to start begging at the sound of popped tops. Steve kisses his shoulder again, and then Bucky feels a very very large finger pressing against him, teasing at his sensitive rim. 

“I’m gonna slip this in and feel how hot and tight you are. That okay?” 

“Yes.” 

“Nice and clear. That’s good, Buck.” Steve puts his mouth back on Bucky’s skin, sucking obscenely at the crook between Bucky’s neck and shoulder. All the while, he pushes his thumb into Bucky’s hole—or at least Bucky thinks it’s his thumb. Christ, it has to be as big as it feels. But… no, it’s too long. It…

“What finger is that?” Bucky gasps. 

“Middle, why?” 

“Why are your hands so fucking big?” 

“Is it too much?” 

“No, not that. I’m just…” 

“Mhm.” He can hear the smile in Steve’s voice, slotting in there alongside the lust like they’re old friends. “You like being stretched wide, don’t you? Big thick fingers in your pretty pink hole, getting you all wet so you can take an even bigger cock.” 

“You are the filthiest person I’ve ever met.” 

“Now, now, Buck. Don’t say that without admitting that you’re just as dirty as I am.” Steve nips at his skin. “I think we’re two sides of the same coin. Heads.” Steve holds his free hand out to point to himself where Bucky can see. “Tails.” This, he illustrates by pushing a second finger up inside Bucky, making him gasp and squirm. 

“Fuck, don’t stop.” 

“Don’t stop talking or don’t stop this?” His fingers push deeper, worming their way in. 

“As I’ve been saying since I realized I’m not straight—both.” 

Steve huffs an amused breath. “Do you just take it good or do you like it to hurt a little?” 

“Both again.” 

“You think, if I went really slow…?” 

“I could.” 

“You sure?” 

“You haven’t seen inside my nightstand yet, but trust me. I’m sure.” 

“Well, there’s a new avenue to explore later,” Steve says. “Especially if you have enough toys for both of us to use. Always fun to fuck yourself while someone watches and fucks themself too, huh?”

“Please never leave my apartment ever again.” 

“Ha.” 

“Fuck, where have you been all my life?” 

“Well, for some of it, I was frozen in a giant block of ice in the arctic.” 

“You’re not funny.” 

“Mhm.” Steve slips his fingers out and leaves Bucky empty. 

“I take it back. You’re hilarious.” 

“Thanks, Buck. But don’t worry. I’m gonna fill you back up in just a second.” 

Behind Bucky’s back, the lube bottle pops again. Steve’s hand brushes against his iliac crest, Steve letting out a soft sigh of pleasure behind him that’s enough to have Bucky licking his lips and swallowing. 

“Okay,” Steve says, hands finding Bucky’s hips again, one of them slipping a bit against his skin. “Nice and easy onto my lap.” He adjusts his grip. And he’s so strong, handling Bucky like he’s nearly weightless. “I need you to help line me up.”

Bucky nods frantically, twisting his spine to reach back and grab hold of Steve’s cock, holding it steady until Steve has him low enough that he can set it right up against where he wants it to be.

“God, that looks so pretty just like that and I’m not even inside of you.” Steve leans forward to nuzzle his forehead against Bucky’s damp back. “Okay. Tell me if I go too fast. I can hold you steady all day.” 

Bucky bites his lip and waits for the moment Steve starts to breach him. He waits some more. 

“Bucky?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you get all that?” Steve asks. Oh. Oh, right. Words. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.” 

“It okay if I…?” 

“Am I gonna sound like a desperate cockslut if I say, ‘Please’?” 

“Yes, but that’s really really not a bad thing.” 

“Please.” 

Very slowly, Steve starts to give Bucky’s body back to gravity, the massive head of his massive erection forcing Bucky wider and wider. Bucky closes his eyes and savors the feeling, the slight burn of that stretch, the broken air between his shoulders that is Steve’s breath stuttering out of his lungs. Somewhere on the way down, he finds Steve’s hands on his body, covering them with his own and holding tight. 

“Need me to slow down or stop?” Steve asks. 

“No. No, I just… It’s…” Words. Bucky does know words. He just can’t remember them right now.

“Overwhelming?” 

“Yes. Yes, that.” 

“In a good way or in a bad way?” 

Bucky sinks a little lower. Steve doesn’t even fully have the tip in, he doesn’t think, and he already feels so full. So so full. He sighs at the contentment of it all. “Good.” 

“Good. You’re taking it so good too, Buck. I wish you could see how pretty your hole looks, all stretched out around me.” 

“I wish I— Oh God yes.” Bucky’s body finally relents, giving way and letting Steve easily slip the rest of the way in. And honestly, Bucky’s impressed that he still lowers him carefully despite the absolutely obscene moan that tears out of his lungs. 

His forehead falls against Bucky’s spine, breath coming out hot and fast against Bucky’s skin. “Fuck, that’s tight.” 

“Huge.” 

“Yeah?” 

“So much,” Bucky practically slurs. 

“I’ll say.” Steve’s hands grip Bucky’s hips tighter. And with gentle coaxing, he encourages Bucky to start rocking back and forth in his lap. “Keep going.” Steve snakes his hands up Bucky’s torso, holding onto him, keeping his forehead pressed against his spine. 

It’s not enough. Neither one of them is going to come like this. But it feels good enough for now, and there’s something very hot about the way the bathwater sloshes rhythmically against the walls of the tub. 

“How you doing?” Steve asks, voice breaking. “You think you can take getting fucked?”

“Please.” 

“Say it again.” 

“Please, Steve.” 

“Details.” 

“I need it. I need you to fuck me.” 

“How? Come on, Buck. Be a little dirty for me. Pretty mouth like yours? Just makes it all that much better when something filthy comes out of it.” 

“I wanna feel you. I wanna feel you sliding in and out of my ass. Over and over, Stevie.”

“That’s it. Keep going.” 

“Then I need you to decide sliding is too nice. And that’s when you start fucking me for real, pounding me with that massive cock, fucking me open until neither one of us can stand it anymore.”

Steve’s hands tighten their grip on his hips and start to raise him back up off Steve’s lap, up the length of Steve’s erection. “And then?” 

“And then you come, buried in me, marking me up inside. Steve was here and he liked what he saw.” 

“Oh, he did. Does.” He unseats Bucky from his lap completely, and Bucky lets out a noise that is somewhere between a sigh and a whimper. “Easy. I’m not done with you.” Steve kisses his shoulder, using his foot to slide the table all the way down the tub. “Turn around for me. Not realizing I’d wanna kiss you the whole time I was fucking you was a big oversight on my part.”

Grinning, Bucky manages to only slosh a small puddle of water out of the tub while changing directions. Steve immediately pulls him into his lap, slotting his thighs between Bucky’s this time. And Bucky has fucked in this position enough on dry land to know exactly where this is going. He and Steve are staring each other in the eyes with unbridled intensity when Steve lines his cock up again, giving Bucky a small tilt of his head and quirk of his eyebrow as a way of asking, “Well, aren’t you gonna get back on there?” 

Bucky very much gets back on there, vastly thankful that he has more control now. He can rock his own body onto Steve. He can take as much as he wants as fast as he wants. He can…

The way Steve kisses him is… It’s like he’s giving in to an impulse that has haunted him for years, a hunger that has gnawed for a lifetime. His fingers grasp at the back of Bucky’s neck before moving up to tangle in his hair, pulling at it with even pressure. Bucky groans against his lips and fucks him harder. And oh it feels so good, so good to have this, to be pushing himself onto Steve again and again and—

Bucky’s hands grasp at any part of Steve’s body they can latch onto, a loud cry escaping from his mouth into Steve’s. Steve breaks the kiss to gasp for air. 

“Oh fuck oh Christ fuck shit fuck oh…” Bucky trails off in a series of unintelligible mumbles. Beneath him, Steve has started pumping his hips up, meeting every rock of Bucky’s body with a thrust of his own. Everything is faster, harder, more. And his hand is still tangled in Bucky’s hair, pulling hard, making his scalp ache so good. 

“St-Steve.” Bucky gasps against his mouth, against his cheek, his face scraping against Steve’s coarse beard. “Fuck.”

“Bucky,” Steve moans, his voice so wrecked that Bucky will never forget it. “Can… Can you… Like this?”  

“Didn’t think so,” Bucky says, words slurring together. 

“Gonna?”

“I…” Bucky makes a noise he hopes finishes the sentence. He thinks so. He isn’t sure. He’s never… 

Steve moves his hips even harder, even faster, even higher—deep, so deep and so big. The light in the bathroom seems to get brighter. Bucky manages one sloppy kiss before his mouth falls open in a deep moan, his face sliding alongside Steve’s again, trailing wet across his cheek. 

“Please,” Bucky says, lips moving against the shell of Steve’s ear now. “Please, I can’t. I don’t think… I…” 

“Just hold on a second longer, Buck.” Steve lets go of his hair. “You’re doing so good. So so good.” 

Hands hold his hips tightly in place, Steve’s body moving frantically, fucking into him like it’s the last time he’ll ever fuck in his lifetime. Bucky buries his face in the crook of Steve’s neck. Steve presses his mouth hot and open against Bucky’s shoulder. The moan he lets out is so loud that Bucky swears he feels every bone in his body vibrate. And then Steve’s coming, pumping into him, one of his hands coming off Bucky’s hip to wrap around his cock and stroke and stroke and—

Bucky thinks he claws at Steve’s back. He knows he claws at his shoulder and his upper arm, streaking the skin there with raised red lines. A series of noises tear free from his chest, leaping from his throat. 

And all the while, Steve mumbles in that rough voice. “That’s it, Buck. That’s it. Give me every last drop.” 

If someone had told him he spent an hour coming, he would have believed them just as easily as if they’d told him it had been done in a second. He slumps against Steve and pants, slumping harder when Steve starts rubbing his spine up and down with the backs of his fingers. 

“You did so good, Buck. So good.” Steve finds his chin with the other hand, gently coaxing it up, leaning forward to claim a kiss—tender and soft and thankful. When he pulls away, Bucky finally looks down between them. Steve’s intensely-defined abs are covered in come. Bucky’s come—streaking through thick hair and across tanned skin. Steve catches him looking and reaches down to trail a finger through the mess, raising it to Bucky’s lips in offering. Bucky’s mouth parts and Steve gives him a taste, pulling Bucky in for another kiss before he gets the chance to swallow. 

“You are disgusting,” Bucky says, but he’s smiling. 

Steve smiles in return. “I know.” 

After several more kisses, Steve finally slips out of him, trailing come into the bath water that they promptly drain so they can rinse off under the spray of the shower. 

Steve salvages the breakfast—popping the breakfast pastries in the microwave and adding a little of Bucky’s hazelnut-flavored creamer to the coffee to cover up the taste of too much melted ice. He serves both of these to Bucky on the couch, where he sits in clean pajamas, wrapped in his softest blanket. 

“Still okay?” Steve asks. 

“Great.” Bucky sighs his contentment and leans back against the arm of the sofa, coffee in one hand, pastry in the other. 

“Just in case you didn’t say anything in the heat of the moment, anything you wouldn’t be eager to repeat?” 

Bucky thinks about it all, reviewing everything from Steve’s fingers in his mouth (again) to Steve railing him within an inch of his life. 

“All good here,” he says, reaching over to pat Steve on the leg. He’s back in joggers, these ones heather gray and much looser than the others, the shirt he’s wearing with them much the same. 

“Good.” Steve goes back to his breakfast, finishing it up by licking icing from his own fingers. “Oh, I almost forgot.” Steve hops up and grabs his duffel bag, pulling something from it and tossing it at Bucky. 

It’s another shirt, this one black fabric printed with various math equations. 

“You’re gonna keep sewing me things, aren’t you?” 

“Yes.” 

“I could use some potholders.” Bucky nudges Steve’s leg with his foot. 

The look Steve gives him is… worrisome to say the least. “Okay.” 

“Steve, why are you looking at me like that?” 

“Like what?” 

“Like I’m gonna regret saying that I need potholders?” 

Steve shrugs and takes a long sip of his coffee. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Steve stays for two more days before he feels like that’s risking it. By the time he leaves, Bucky is half in love and fully unable to stand up without his thighs burning like he spent an entire day doing intense squats. 

He finishes up that week’s video. It’s not his best considering his brain has other thoughts to occupy him, but that’s okay. They can’t all be the Captain America episode. 

He doesn’t hear from Steve at first, and he was told to expect this based on Steve’s travel plans, but it still sucks because he misses him already. A thing he tells his sister when he goes crawling over there for some distraction in the form of children hanging from his arms. 

“So what I’m hearing is that I was right?” Becca says. 

“Don’t.” 

“And that my brother is dating a superhero.” 

“Becca.” 

“The subject of one of your own videos?” Becca gives him an exaggerated tut. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest, Bucky?” 

Bucky cuts his eyes to her. “I’m going to replace one of your hair products with glue and I’m not gonna tell you which one.” 

She rolls her eyes and hands him another plate to put in the dishwasher. 

“I’m happy for you. Really. I hope it all works out. Gonna be a weird relationship, but hey, you’re weird so…” 

“I’m not getting you a Christmas present this year.” 

Becca pats him on the arm with a soaking wet hand. 

Two weeks after Steve leaves, Bucky gets a box. Inside are about thirty potholders in increasingly ridiculous fabrics—HOW did Steve find one covered in Nick Cage’s face despite the fact that Nick Cage’s heyday of cultural meme relevance was DECADES ago? 

He’s so busy being in awe of Steve’s ability to be an asshole on such short notice that he almost misses the other thing in the box. A plane ticket dated two days out and a short note. “ Let me know the usual way if this is too soon. Or if this package comes too late. ” 

With a grin, Bucky hops up to start packing. 

Thank you again to AltEd by SarahCare for sponsoring the Mindbending Modern Mysteries: On Location series. Today, I’m here outside of Sacramento, where on August 7, 2027—

At the feeling of a pair of large arms snaking around his waist, Bucky hits the spacebar to pause playback in his editing program.

“I’m busy, Steve,” he says, but there’s no heart in it, a fact he double gives away when he leans into Steve’s touch. 

“Ten minutes,” Steve says, beard tickling Bucky’s neck. Bucky scoffs. 

“What could you possibly do to me in ten minutes?” 

Steve spins the chair around now, grabbing hold of both of the arms to stop it. He leans down enough to lock eyes with Bucky. “Oh, I’m sure I could think of something.” 

His kisses are as good as they ever were, so much that Bucky would have relented by now even if he had been serious about working without distraction. But he wasn’t. He can never say no to Steve, not that night in his apartment, not a year and six months after. 

Which is how he finds himself pinned beneath Steve on the bed of the place they’re staying in for now, letting Steve grind his body into his until they’re both panting with how bad they need it.

“Okay,” Steve says. “Maybe twenty.” 

“Thirty,” Bucky counters, and Steve immediately laughs. 

“I don’t think that’s how you’re supposed to negotiate in this situation,” Steve says, rolling his hips faster. He finds Bucky’s mouth and gives him a long kiss. 

“Forty-five.” Bucky wraps his legs around Steve’s hips. 

“Sure, Buck,” Steve says. “I can do this all day.”