Work Text:
It was a mutual separation, if there was such a thing. They were going to different colleges across the country, and neither of them wanted to do long-distance. Besides, they knew the statistic: only 2% of high school relationships lasted, and while they did last longer than the national average, the odds were against them.
Steve brought it up first. He waited until after graduation, which probably made it worse because Bucky knew he’d been thinking about it. Planning it. To be clear, Steve didn’t want to break up with his boyfriend. In fact, Steve had also thought about asking Bucky to marry him. (Bucky would’ve said yes.) But Steve also knew the only way he’d be able to keep his head above water at a new school with harder classes and a job or two (or three) was if all his attention went to the work.
He didn’t say that to Bucky—Steve in no way wanted his boyfriend to think he was too much work. It was quite the opposite—Bucky was the only one who knew how to make Steve stop. What he did say was that he didn’t know if a long-distance relationship was the best when starting a new adventure.
A part of him prayed Bucky would say no. A part of him prayed Bucky would remind him of their childhood promise (‘till the end of the line and then some). A part of him prayed Bucky would ask if they could wait until the end of the summer. But when did Steve Rogers ever get what he wanted? (Besides getting to date Bucky Barnes in the first place.)
Bucky nodded and said he agreed. He hugged Steve, kissed him one last time, wished him the best, and walked away with the promise to stay in touch.
They did, for a while. The night Steve moved into his dorm, they video chatted until Steve fell asleep. Steve was on speaker the entire time the Barnes clan moved Bucky in and well into the evening. Because they were still friends. The breakup was practical. (Which is why it hurt so much.)
Steve got a job and then another. His classes piled up, and if he was in his dorm, he was sleeping. Bucky went to his classes, tutored to help himself study, and went to the occasional party. They talked when they could. Once a week became twice a month became a few texts which turned into silence. Both of them thought about breaking it. Neither of them did.
Bucky’s first text from Steve in three years came on graduation day. Steve looked it up to make sure he had the date right. Bucky was graduating with top honors and an internship with the top tech company in the States. Steve didn’t know that. He simply sent congrats and hoped it was enough.
(It was.) (Bucky didn’t text back.)
Steve got the same a week later. He wasn’t graduating with any honors. It was a miracle he made it in the first place. There were several times he feared he wouldn’t due to sheer exhaustion. (Sam tried to get him to stop, but no one could work Bucky’s magic of making Steve listen.) Steve stared at the text until Sam clapped him on the back and told him it was time to walk. Steve put his phone away and didn’t look at it again.
They both moved back to Brooklyn. Bucky worked his way up from intern to research partner to head of the research division. A boyfriend turned into flings turned into nothing. He went to clubs with Tony Stark and drank high-end liquor before going home to his large, empty apartment, falling asleep, and doing it all again the next day. He wasn’t happy, but he had money to line his pockets, he had some friends, and he knew his work was important. And he was good at it. He helped people. That was the part he liked best.
Steve came home and found a job at a coffee shop that helped pay the bills while he tried to make it as an artist. He ran into Peggy Carter and fell headfirst in love. A year later, they were married. A year later, they were divorced. Steve asked both times. He gave Peggy the house, packed up his things, and went to live with Sam until he found another job. Two months later, he packed up his life again and moved to Portland, Maine.
It was cute. Quiet. That’s what he liked the most. His house was small and cozy and the windows in the living room looked out into the woods. He lost himself inside them sometimes, letting himself wander and lose sight of the tree line, and he always came out feeling a little more like someone he wanted to be. He rescued a dog. That helped, too.
He worked at the elementary school, teaching art to the kids. On his days off, he rented a small studio near his house and worked on his own things. Sometimes, he held free classes for anyone who wanted them.
He grew a beard and learned how to make pottery.
His favorite days were when it was cold and wet, and he could curl up on his couch with his dog at his side and a blanket on his lap, and they’d watch the rain beating on the windows together. Steve could do that for hours. There was something hypnotic to it. Something that healed the need to constantly be working. Eventually, he’d get up and make something warm for dinner while listening to quiet music. His dog would be at his side for all of it. Loyal to a fault.
*
“I get to pick where I go, though, right?” Bucky asked. “You just want me to find a small town on the coast and talk to the locals and see how to best update our products to serve the wider community.”
“Correct.” Tony’s feet were on his desk, and he was reading a report on his tablet with an expression that told Bucky he wasn’t absorbing a single word. (He prayed it wasn’t the most recent one he’d written; he’d worked his ass off on it, and it deserved to have every single word read.) Not once did he look up.
“You heard nothing of what I just said, didn’t you?”
“Correct.”
“Can I have a one-million-dollar bonus and a house in Bali?”
“Correct.”
Bucky sighed, left his boss’s office, and went to find Pepper. He should’ve just started with her, given she balanced the books and managed Tony’s entire schedule. If Bucky was being honest, she could probably do Tony’s job better than Tony did, and there was a nice ring to Potts Tech. Given anything would be better than Stark.
“Hey, Pepper!” he called, catching a glimpse of the redhead in the elevator. She lifted her gaze from the report she was reading (it was Bucky’s latest and he was pleased to see the little annotations that meant she was actually taking it in) and held out her hand to prevent the doors from closing. He ran forward and slipped in beside her.
He was indeed able to choose where he traveled on the stipulation that there were less than eighty thousand people in the city and the hotel had a nice view. In the elevator, she handed him a list of towns she thought would be a good choice. Bucky tucked it in his pocket to be polite and immediately forgot about it. He already had a place in mind. Natasha had told him about a city in Maine that was supposed to be in prime color season, and Bucky needed to get out of the city; needed to get away from work. In the last week, he’d clocked more than eighty hours. He was tired, exhausted on a bone-deep level that he prayed a week away in the woods could cure.
On the way out, he told Pepper he was going to Portland, Maine, and was staying in the cheapest hotel they had, regardless of the view. Pepper laughed.
Bucky went home, packed his bags, and fell into bed. Ten hours later, he was in the car. Another seven, he was turning into the parking lot of the Best Western. He’d partly picked it because it would give Tony a stroke if he ever saw it on his credit bill, but mainly because Bucky was tired of nice.
His apartment was nice. Nice and big and empty. He was at the Tower so often he didn’t see the point of decorating it; why spend money on things he never saw? (Bucky was beginning to think he worked too much.) It was why he’d told Tony he was going on this trip. Could he have simply told Tony he was going on vacation and had him deal with it? Probably. But Bucky did want to see how they could expand their product to better serve the wider community. So really, this was all for him.
The air in his room was stale and his bed was lumpy and the pillows sucked. Bucky laid back with his feet on the floor and smiled.
He’d been in Portland, Maine for two days and hadn’t done any research. He’d spent a majority of the previous day lounging in bed and watching the Star Wars marathon on Syfy and munching on pizza. He justified it by telling himself he was here for a week, and there was plenty of time for him to do his work. Plus, it had been raining.
Today, he was going to. After a walk. There was a park a few miles away from his hotel that had good reviews on google and was supposed to offer prime views of the fall colors, and Bucky was going to go before the rain came back. Whether the weather cooperated was yet to be seen. He hoped it would. Bucky hated the rain.
Jacket tight around him and cap pulled low, Bucky started his walk. The town was cute—he’d give Natasha points for that. There was a certain charm to it, with the old mixing with the new, and lots of mom-and-pop shops dotted among the high-end stores. It also didn’t smell like rat piss, which was also a bonus, and there were more people wearing flannels than he’d seen in all his years living in New York.
He lingered by the shoreline for a while, making a fool of himself while trying to skip rocks and breathing in the salty air. He’d forgotten that the air could taste clean, forgotten that every lungful didn’t need to bring with it the chance of disease. He left when a seagull successfully stole the packet of fish and chips out of his hands.
The clouds were moving in by the time he reached the park. Leaf mold underfoot, Bucky walked across the damp grass towards an empty bench that sat under a huge flaming oak. He regretted sitting down as soon as he did. The bench was wet, and he could feel it seeping through his jeans. Resigned to a wet butt, Bucky pulled out his book and settled in.
The book wasn’t so much to read as it was a means of people watching. He usually used sunglasses, but the lack of sun made it more suspicious than not. He also wanted to read more—it was something he’d been telling himself for years now. Since leaving college, he could count the number of books he’d finished on one hand. But really, it was for people watching.
Like the man and his dog in the distance. He wore a dark green flannel beneath a leather jacket, and his boots looked nice. (Was Bucky really coveting a stranger’s boots? Had he really not breathed fresh air in so long that it was addling his brains?) The dog sniffed at a clump of bushes. From a distance, it looked like a mixed breed—not that Bucky knew anything about dogs.
The guy was gorgeous, though. He’d turned, letting Bucky see his broad shoulders and well-maintained beard. He had a cap on, but Bucky could imagine his hair was just as nice. And—fuck. The man looked up and in Bucky’s direction and Bucky looked back at his book, praying his staring hadn’t been obvious.
He was attempting to read any sentence of his trashy sci-fi pulp—any of them, literally any one would do, but it seemed he’d forgotten how to read—when the boots came to a stop in front of him. (Bucky was right. They were very nice. Dark brown leather that looked well-worn and very comfortable.)
“Bucky Barnes.”
To say Bucky’s heart flipped when he heard that voice was an understatement. It stopped and started. It came back to life. God, he’d missed it. Bucky slowly looked up.
“Hey, Steve.”
Bucky felt like a kid again, all gangly youth and tongue-tied around the boy he liked. Because Steve looked even better up close than he had at a distance. Because now Bucky could see the grey that flecked through his beard and the lines that crinkled around his impossibly blue eyes.
“Never expected to run into you here,” Steve said. His dog leaned against his leg and Steve scratched its head. Bucky thought he was right about it being a mix of some sort. Brown and white with liquid eyes that looked up at Steve with infinite love.
“Work trip,” Bucky said, standing. He tucked his book into his back pocket, wincing at the damp fabric. At least his jeans were dark.
“Here?” Steve’s eyebrow quirked. “Your boss want you to catch the fall colors or something? Or did they just want you to go to the seaside and get some air like a dame in the old times?”
Bucky flushed at the implication. “He actually didn’t care where I went so long as I got the research I wanted.” Steve hummed and nodded. “What about you?” Bucky asked. “You on vacation?”
Steve put his hands in his pockets. “No. Um. I actually moved out here about twelve years ago.”
“Oh.” Bucky didn’t know why that hit him so hard. Maybe because living in the city always seemed easier when he imagined Steve was still there, too. Like even if he was alone, he could look up and see Steve—out of reach but still there.
It was strange, staring at the face of the man he’d loved more than anything and realizing they’d been parted for longer than they’d known each other. They’d thought themselves so old and wise back then. Kings of the world. Really, they’d been children.
“You still read those pulps?”
“What? Oh.” Bucky looked down at the book now tucked under his arm (he didn’t know when he’d taken it out of his pocket) and chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah.” Steve made a face. “What? They’re good!” Steve made another face. “Better than the boring shit you call literature.”
Steve laughed. “Kurt Vonnegut doesn’t write shit.”
“We were forced to read him in high school.”
“And I remember you liking Slaughterhouse-Five just as much as I did.”
“Yeah, well, you always had the shittier memory,” Bucky muttered.
They settled into a companionable silence. Steve scratched his dog’s ears. Bucky looked up at the clouds. They’d gotten significantly darker and more layered. He shivered, pulling his jacket tighter.
“How’s everything back in the city?”
“You haven’t been back?”
“Not really,” Steve said. “Not in a few years. It’s—I don’t know. It’s a lot of memories.”
Steve’s face had more lines on it than the last time Bucky had seen him. More cares and worries. More joy and more grief.
It started to rain.
“It hasn’t changed,” Bucky said. It was a lie. Everything had changed. Steve had left. The city hadn’t cared, though—so it goes and all that shit.
“Have you?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? Sometimes Bucky doubted it—staying stubbornly the same in a silent war against the passing years. He wondered if that’s why he worked so much; why he refused to decorate his apartment; why he didn’t bring anyone home despite the number of people Tony tried to set him up with. He wondered if part of him believed that if he stayed the same, Steve would want him back.
“Yeah,” Bucky finally said. “I’ve changed.”
Steve nodded and put his hands in his pockets, looking down and toeing the wet grass.
Bucky looked up at the clouds, the rain hitting his face. “I should get back to my hotel.” He didn’t know if he would—he had half a mind to find the nearest bar and get drunk. His fingers itched for a smoke.
“I guarantee my house is closer,” Steve said. “I mean, you don’t have to, but I also know the rain isn’t going to stop and town is a few miles away and you hate the rain.”
“I do,” Bucky said, laughing despite everything. “I do hate the rain.”
“Is that a yes?” Bucky nodded, and Steve patted his leg. His dog stood, shaking his coat. “We’re just on the other side of the park,” he said. “We’ll get you dry in no time.”
Bucky was soaked to the bone by the time they reached Steve’s house. A grey truck sat in the driveway, and a large maple shaded the front yard. He hung back a minute, watching as Steve and his dog climbed onto the porch and shook off the water clinging onto them.
“You coming, Buck?” Steve held the door open, and Bucky could see the entry hall. It looked cozy.
“What the hell,” he muttered and followed Steve inside.
It was like Steve had seen Bucky’s apartment and vowed to be the exact opposite. Everything about it screamed home: the throw blanket across the back of the couch, the artwork and photos on the wall, the bookshelf and rows of movies beneath the TV. The coffee mug on the end table.
Steve had a life here. A good one from the looks of it. One without Bucky.
Bucky had what? An empty apartment purchased by his boss? Nights out on the town where he ended up drunker than expected and with nothing but a hangover in the morning? Workweeks that lasted twice as long as they should because he didn’t know what else to do with his time? It wasn’t living. It was surviving and barely that.
He stared at a picture of Steve and his ma and realized he didn’t know the last time he’d called his.
“The bathroom’s around the corner if you want to change,” Steve said. Bucky turned around to find him holding a pile of clothes. He took them and shuffled off in the direction Steve pointed him in.
Safe in the bathroom with the door shut behind him, Bucky allowed himself to break a little bit. What the hell was he doing? Did Natasha know the one thing Bucky refused to admit to himself—that he was lonely? Lonely for the past when everything was easier, when he had nothing on his shoulders? (Lonely for Steve.) It wouldn’t surprise him in the slightest if she’d stayed in contact with Steve after high school. Wouldn’t be surprised if she’d orchestrated this entire thing.
Wouldn’t surprise him if she was worried about him.
He’d be fine. He’d take more time off and find things to decorate his home. Go out more with friends.
Bucky changed into Steve’s clothes and shuffled back into the living room with his soggy pile in hand. The room was empty. Figuring Steve was changing too, he went to stand by the window. Steve really had lucked out with the view. Bucky thought he was lucky with the singular tree he saw from his apartment, and here was an entire forest.
“Are you still against tea?” Steve asked. He’d been in the kitchen, apparently, and now slouched against the wall like some kind of domestic asshole.
“Depends,” Bucky said. “Are you still bad at boiling water?” He asked it mainly to be an asshole and to see if Steve’s cheeks would still flush. They did.
“You melt a pot one time,” he muttered, and Bucky laughed, following him into the kitchen. “Here. I’ll take those and throw them in the wash.” He pointed at Bucky’s clothes and Bucky handed them over. A second later, Steve had disappeared. Bucky felt strangely naked without them. He sat at the counter and traced the patterns in the granite while listening to the rain.
“Sorry about the paint stains,” Steve said when he returned, motioning to Bucky’s shirt. “I’m not always great at keeping my clothes clean when I’m in the studio.”
“So you’re still painting then?”
Steve nodded. “Most of the art in the house is mine.”
“How much would it cost to commission you?”
Steve looked over from where he was putting the kettle to boil. “Nothing for you, Buck.”
“No, Steve, I couldn’t—”
“I’m serious, Buck. Whatever you want is yours.”
What if I want you? The question soured on Bucky’s tongue. What right did he have to even think it? Steve might’ve been the one to suggest they end things, but he was the one to agree. He’d been the one to walk away.
He nodded and looked back at the counter. Steve busied himself getting the teabags together and grabbing mugs from the cupboard. Bucky only looked up when one was slid in front of him, steam curling. He cupped it in his palms.
“I like these,” he murmured. They were clearly handmade, and the way they fit between his palms was like a friend. “Where did you get them? I might need to pick some up before I leave.”
“I made them,” Steve said, ducking his head. “There was an old potter I took classes from a few years back, and I still dabble in it every once in a while. It’s nice to let go and get your hands dirty.”
This was a mistake. Bucky should’ve gone back to his hotel. He would’ve been miserable the entire walk, but he could’ve taken a bath and ordered a pizza and watched bad movies in his mediocre hotel room until he’d fallen asleep on his lumpy bed.
He’d had exes before and after Steve. He wasn’t a stranger to being dumped or being the dumper. None of them had been as hard to walk away from as Steve. He’d cried for months. Because Steve had been more than a boyfriend. They’d been best friends since they were six. He’d been the first boy Steve had ever kissed. Steve had been the first and only person he’d been deeply in love with. And now he was supposed to act like everything was fine? Like nothing had happened between them? How could he when Steve was there and looking like that?
But how could he not? He hadn’t seen Steve in nearly two decades and none of it mattered. They would always be those boys, and Bucky would always love him.
Steve gestured with his head and Bucky followed him back to the living room, where they settled on the couch. (Bucky was going to leave soon. That’s what he kept telling himself. As soon as the storm let up.)
“What else do you do?” Bucky asked. “Apart from getting paint everywhere but the canvas.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “I teach, actually. Down at the local elementary school. There was an ad out for an art teacher that I saw after—and well, I decided I was done with New York and applied. I got the job, moved out here, and never looked back.”
“You ever regret it?”
Bucky knew by the expression on Steve’s face that he knew the question was more than what was on the surface. “No,” he said. “I needed to get out of the city. Needed to be alone and figure out a bunch of shit.”
“You figured out you were a dog person.”
Steve smiled fondly at his companion tucked in at his side. “Goose. I don’t know if I saved him so much as he saved me. Right, Bubba?”
Goose raised his head and rested it back on Steve’s chest. Steve looked down at him, smile soft. (Bucky refused to think about the times Steve used to look at him the same way.)
“What are you doing these days?”
“Stark Technology,” Bucky said, looking at his tea. “Been there since graduating.”
“You like it?”
“It’s good enough.” He took a sip of tea, burning his tongue in the process. “Well—” He chuckled. “I head my own department, so I kinda get to decide everything that goes on. And when I go on work trips.”
Steve laughed. “We all know you liked to control everything.”
Bucky shrugged and took another sip. Thunder rolled across the sky and rain pelted against the window. Steve pulled the blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over his lap. His hands wrapped around his mug, his fingers overlapping, as he stared outside. Bucky tried to look away, but his gaze always landed back on Steve’s profile.
It was the same one he’d memorized a thousand times over, the one that went from bony to that of a Greek God. It was more rugged now but no less beautiful. The grey flecks amongst the gold made him look more dignified. (Bucky wondered what it would be like to run his fingers through his beard.) (He looked away, staring at the rain-stained glass instead.)
“Stay for dinner,” Steve said. Bucky couldn’t say how much time had passed. The rain still thundered down and the trees bowed in the wind.
“Alright,” Bucky found himself saying. He wondered what Steve would do if he said no. If he said this hurt too much. Bucky wondered if he’d even be able to say it—because even if it did hurt, he was here ; he was with Steve, and that was something he’d dreamt of for over a decade.
“Alright,” Steve said, pushing himself off the couch and padding towards the kitchen. When Bucky saw the lights flick on, he followed, sitting back at the counter. There was already a pot of water on the stove. Steve pulled out a cutting board and an onion. He’d sliced half of it when Bucky couldn’t hold his question back anymore.
“What made you want to leave New York?”
Steve’s knife stalled momentarily before continuing on. “I got divorced,” he said, looking up and meeting Bucky’s gaze.
Oh. “I’m sorry,” Bucky murmured. It sat in his gut like a twisted knife.
Steve shrugged. “I was young, in love, and stupid.”
“Who broke it off?”
“I did.” Steve finished slicing the onion and scraped it into the waiting pan with a glob of butter. For a while, they did nothing but listen to the sizzle.
“What happened?” Bucky asked, and then immediately realized the gravity of the question. “I mean—you don’t. It’s none of my business.”
Steve looked up and shrugged, pain twisting his features. “Ma died,” he said, and weren’t those words a punch to every fiber of Bucky’s being. “It was a month after the wedding.”
“Steve.”
“I mean, she’d been sick for years, but she lived with it for so long that you began to think nothing could kill her, you know?”
Bucky nodded, numbness spreading through him. He had countless fond memories of going over to Steve’s and having Sarah Rogers greet him at the door with a hug and a fresh batch of soda bread with honey. And then he thought of Steve going through all of it alone.
“I wish I’d known,” he murmured. “I wish I could’ve been there for you.” It didn’t feel fair that he’d gone unscathed while Steve had drowned. The first thing he was doing when he got back was figuring out where she was buried and visiting. It was the least he could do for everything she’d done for him.
Steve stirred the onions and added a container of mushrooms to the pan. “Peggy was there at first. But as the months went by, it was like she wanted me to just get over it. She wanted me to be the man I was when we’d first met, as if losing my ma hadn’t fundamentally changed me. I tried at first. Tried to pull myself together and walk tall, tried to laugh and smile and be the husband she wanted, let her pull the strings, but after a while, I couldn’t do it.”
“I’m sorry, Steve.”
Steve looked up and shrugged again. “It’s okay.”
It wasn’t, but Bucky let it be. “Did you think about telling me?”
Steve nodded. “I almost called you the night it happened.”
And that was enough.
They were quiet the rest of the time Steve made them dinner. Bucky kept watching Steve’s hands; how they never stayed still, like as long as they stayed busy, everything would be okay. If he wasn’t preparing something, he was washing dishes, or drying them, or putting them away, or scratching Goose’s ears. Bucky wanted to reach out and take them, to stand up, look Steve in the eye and tell him to take a deep breath.
He did nothing.
He wondered what he was more scared of: Steve’s reaction or his own.
Bucky made his escape while Steve did the dishes. Outside on the porch with a cigarette between his lips and cold rain pelting his face every so often, he let himself break a little more. Sarah Rogers was gone. Sarah Rogers was gone, and he’d lived his life for years without knowing that, lived his life just going through the motions while Steve’s foundation shifted.
The burn of nicotine helped. He blew out the acrid smoke and tried to forgive himself for not knowing.
“I thought you gave them up.”
Bucky wiped his face and looked around to see Steve standing in the doorway. “For the most part,” he said and took another drag.
The door creaked when Steve came to join him. He sat against the opposite post, his stockinged feet sliding against the wood. “Got one more?”
Bucky reached into his pocket and grabbed his pack of Marlboro’s. Lighting it as it hung from Steve’s lips, it felt like nothing had changed.
“Don’t tell Ma,” he said, breathing out smoke and leaning his head back.
Bucky’s lips twitched while his heart ached. “Cross my heart.”
Image: "Don't Tell Ma” || Art by: inflomora
“Stay the night?”
They sat at the table with beers and a game of Battleship. The rain had stopped for now, but Bucky still heard the slow rumble of thunder as it rolled across the sky.
“Alright. So long as you have an extra toothbrush.”
Steve smiled and sank Bucky’s largest ship.
“I’m just here,” Steve said, lingering in the doorway of his own room. It was down the hall from the guest room, which appeared to be just as cozy as the rest of the house. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to grab me.”
He hesitated like he expected Bucky to need something. (Like he wanted Bucky to need something.) He looked soft and warm in his flannel pants and worn t-shirt, and there was a tiny smudge of toothpaste from when he’d brushed his teeth, and Bucky wanted to sink into him and never let go. He stayed in his corner, safe with his hands tucked in the pockets of Steve’s old sweatpants.
“I think I’ll be okay. I know where the bathroom is.” It was right across the hall from his room, and the kitchen was just down the stairs.
Steve nodded. “Goodnight, Bucky.”
“Goodnight, Steve.” And before he could tempt himself further, he went into his room and closed the door.
He didn’t expect to be able to sleep. He never slept well when it rained. But the bed was comfortable, and the rain hitting the window was monotonous to the point of soothing, and if he listened hard enough, he could hear the soft tones of Steve as he talked to his dog. That helped, somehow, knowing Steve was right there. (It was the same comfort he’d taken in the city, but this time, it was real.) Before he knew it, he was asleep. If he dreamed, he didn’t remember them come morning.
(It was different for Steve. His bed had never felt so big and empty as it did that night, and he stared at the ceiling, feeling every lonely beat of his heart as it echoed in his chest. He didn’t know what he was doing. Didn’t know why he’d invited Bucky back, didn’t know why he invited him to stay, didn’t know why he’d told him everything. They weren’t kids anymore. Their lives weren’t so tangled it was impossible to tell one thread from the other. (But weren’t they?)
But he’d seen Bucky sitting on that bench, and it felt like he could breathe for the first time again. And Bucky was still Bucky. He was still beautiful in the effortless way only Bucky Barnes could be, and Steve couldn’t live with himself knowing he hadn’t made at least the effort to reach out. So now he was faced with the consequences of knowing Bucky was asleep in his guest room and he was alone.
He eventually fell into a fitful sleep and woke up feeling like he hadn’t slept at all. He went on a run.)
Bucky woke up to sunlight and birdsong, and it took him more than a minute to remember where he was. He felt the weight of it sink into him as soon as he did. He shouldn’t have stayed.
His plans of leaving undetected were thwarted as soon as he started down the stairs. Steve was in the kitchen, and something on the stove was sizzling, and when he turned around and smiled, Bucky’s heart stuttered. Because after all this time, Steve was still Steve, and Bucky didn’t know if he’d fallen out of love with him.
“Morning,” Steve murmured.
Bucky grunted a response and pulled out a barstool, burying his head in his arms.
(Steve could barely breathe, seeing Bucky like that again. Wearing his clothes, the sleeves overlong and hiding his hands, the hem of the sweatpants slipping under his heels. His hair was longer now, but the bedhead was just as bad, and it seemed like he handled mornings just as he always had.)
Bucky looked up when he smelled the coffee. “Just a touch of cream and sugar,” Steve said, sliding a mug in front of him. “That’s how you still like it, right?”
Bucky was too busy drinking to respond. The coffee was perfect. When he set the mug down, more than a third of it already gone, there was a plate of eggs, bacon, and hashbrowns in front of him. Steve held his own plate and leaned against the counter as he ate.
“I don’t bite, you know,” Bucky said, nodding towards the chair next to him.
Steve smiled and sat. Their knees brushed. (If Bucky leaned towards Steve, stopping just before their shoulders touched, that was for no one but him to know.)
“I should go after this,” Bucky told him. “I do actually have work I need to get done while I’m here.”
“What if I asked you if you wanted to go on a hike with me? There’s a good trail through the woods that’s not too strenuous, and it’s beautiful this time of year.”
Steve looked hopeful, and as much as Bucky did need to get his work done, he couldn’t say no. “Alright. So long as it doesn’t rain on me.”
“I fucking hate you, Rogers,” Bucky panted as he crested what had to be the fortieth hill. Steve waited patiently, Goose up ahead on the trail. “Not strenuous my ass.” It was muddy and rocky, and Bucky had nearly broken his ankle at least five times on a protruding root.
“Okay, so maybe it’s mildly challenging,” Steve amended when Bucky reached him. “But it’s gorgeous, isn’t it? And trust me, the overlook is worth it.”
Bucky glared at him and kept walking. Yes, the trees might be pretty, but he was full of mud from the numerous times he’d slipped, and his thighs burned. Cold water hit his head from a branch that grew too heavy, and he glared up at it.
“The lunch you packed better be fucking amazing,” he yelled. All he heard was Steve’s laughter in response.
The overlook was pretty cool—not that Bucky would admit it out loud. As soon as they made it, Bucky flopped onto the rock, his belly heaving as he tried to bring air into his struggling lungs. Cold sweat coated his back. His heart pounded pathetically. When he could breathe again, he sat up and made his way over to where Steve was sitting with his knees against his chest. Goose rested beside him, his tail wagging every so often.
“I came up here a lot when I first moved here,” Steve said as Bucky sat. Their shoulders almost brushed. “The openness of it helped. I felt small and insignificant and in the grand scheme of the world, my problems felt like they didn’t matter. It felt like I could slow down.”
Bucky looked out at the trees and lake below them. “I remember how I had to physically move you away from things sometimes because it was the only way to get you to stop.”
“It all seemed so important, back then. The work, the grind, everything. Out here, it doesn’t seem to matter as much.”
“I’ve had the same apartment for ten years and haven’t once taken the time to decorate it.” It felt sadder, saying it out loud; like it was an admission of something. Bucky guessed it was. “I guess I just never really saw the point of it because I was always at work. There was always something else I could be doing rather than spending my time at a place that always felt temporary. But now I think I was running.”
Steve was staring at him now, and Bucky felt the piercing gaze in his soul. “From what?”
“My loneliness.” He looked back at the view, unable to continue meeting Steve’s gaze. “It was like if I decorated, if I made my apartment into a home, I needed to contend with the fact that I was alone, and it felt like that would rip me apart, and there would be no one there to put me back together.”
“You ever think about adopting an animal?”
“The complex doesn’t allow pets.”
And then Steve was laughing, a full-bodied laugh that felt like rich honey and home, and Bucky let the sound sink deep into his bones, like he could bottle it up and keep it with him as a balm for the rainy days.
“What’s the point of spending millions of dollars on an apartment if they don’t allow animals?”
Bucky was smiling now, too. “The landlord’s an asshole.”
“Well, glad to know some things about New York will never change.”
Bucky huffed a laugh and they settled into a comfortable silence. Eventually, Steve handed him a sandwich and they ate. Bucky stared at Steve as he stared out at lake and the trees. He wanted to reach out and run his fingers through Steve’s hair. He wanted to tell him that the grey suited him. He kept his hands to himself.
It started raining on their way back, and by the time they reached Steve’s house, they were both soaked. This time, Bucky took a shower before changing into the pile of warm clothes Steve handed him. They spent the afternoon on the couch, sometimes talking but mostly watching the rain and taking comfort in not being alone.
Steve asked him to stay for dinner. Bucky agreed. He offered to help this time and Steve spent half the time teaching him how to properly hold a knife.
The rain continued.
They watched a movie before Steve asked if he wanted to stay the night. Bucky said yes. There was no hesitation. He didn’t think it was possible to say no.
Steve once again hesitated in his doorway before going to bed. Bucky held himself back from going over and doing whatever it took to wipe the look of pain and longing written across every line on his face. He closed his door and got into bed and tried desperately to fall asleep as easily as he did the night before. It didn’t come.
He tossed and turned for over an hour before giving up. Quietly as he could, he left his room and padded down the stairs. The house hummed in the silence. Bucky turned on the living room lamp and went over to the bookshelf. His hand was hovering over the pulp novel he’d been pretending to read the other day when he saw Slaughterhouse-Five . He carefully pulled it out and went back to the couch, pulling the blanket over his lap and settling in.
He was thirty pages in when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Steve rounded the corner, running a hand over his tired face. He grabbed the pulp novel Bucky abandoned and joined him on the couch. Neither of them said anything.
An hour passed with nothing but the sound of their breathing and the rustling of pages to keep them company. Bucky kept his gaze firmly on his book, refusing to spend any more time looking at Steve. He knew how soft he looked, knew how his hair stuck up, knew the tired gleam in his eyes, knew how if he looked he’d do something he’d regret.
(Steve did look. He tried memorizing the specific way Bucky’s hair curled over his shoulder, the way his brows furrowed just so, the way his eyes moved over the page like he was studying it, the way he played with the folded hem of his sweatshirt. The way his heart felt both complete and pulled apart.)
Bucky’s eyes itched with exhaustion when he finally put his book down and went to go back upstairs. Head down, he didn’t realize Steve had moved until large hands gripped his shoulders. Bucky’s breath caught in his throat. He could feel his heart. In the overwhelming silence of the room, he was sure Steve could hear it.
Soft, calloused fingers caught his chin, pulling it up, and Bucky couldn’t resist it. He finally allowed his hands to find Steve’s waist. The second before they found the soft fabric of Steve’s shirt, Bucky almost believed they’d pass right through, that he’d find Steve was only a mirage created by his loneliness and desperation. But he was solid, and he smelled like clean sweat and laundry detergent and fresh dirt, and Bucky felt drunk on it. He could see the battle in Steve’s eyes, the want and the desperation, the pain and the loneliness, the hope. Mostly, he noticed how this close he could see the flecks of green in them.
Steve’s hand slid into Bucky’s hair and then he was pressing their lips together. It was soft and warm, and it felt like a homecoming. Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve’s back, pulling him closer, needing his solidness, needing his warmth, needing the assurance that he wouldn’t wake up to find this was all a dream. Steve deepened the kiss, and Bucky let him.
They both breathed hard when Bucky broke it. Steve rested their foreheads together, their noses brushing. Unable to help himself, Bucky pressed another soft kiss to Steve’s lips before tucking his head into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent. His lips brushed against the soft skin of Steve’s neck. Steve shivered.
“God, I’ve missed you,” Steve whispered.
Bucky could feel his eyes closing. He could feel the heaviness of his body dragging him towards sleep. He refused to release his hold on Steve. Steve crouched down and easily lifted him. Bucky wrapped his legs around his waist, retucking his head into Steve’s neck.
They fell asleep that night curled around each other.
Bucky woke up to sun streaming through the window and a heavy arm curled over him. Soft breath tickled his ear. Barely daring to believe this was real, Bucky rolled over. He was met by a sight that would be lodged into his heart forever. Steve, still deeply asleep, lips slightly parted, eyelashes soft against his cheeks. He looked younger like this, vulnerable and gentle. Bucky had to fight not to reach out and wake him. This was a gift all in itself.
A soft sigh accompanied Steve waking up. He swallowed and nestled deeper into the mattress, frowning when he was met with empty space rather than soft body. Eyes still closed, his hand reached out, fingers searching. Bucky met him halfway, twining their fingers together and pulling his hand against his chest, over his own heart, over the proof that he was here, that this was real. It was only then that Steve opened his eyes, bleary and sleep-stained and oh, so perfect.
“Good morning,” Bucky whispered.
Steve smiled, half of it swallowed by the pillow. “Mornin’,” he replied, voice low and rough from sleep.
This time, it was Bucky who moved, closing the space between their lips. It was sleep-sour, but Bucky had never tasted anything so sweet.
“I need to work today,” Bucky said over breakfast. “I have a meeting with my boss, and I haven’t gotten anything done, and I need to work.”
Steve nodded, frowning into his coffee. “I get it.”
Bucky turned Steve’s head and pressed another kiss to his lips. “I wish I didn’t have to.”
“It’s okay, Buck,” Steve said. “We’re both adults here. There’s things I need to get done, too.”
Bucky looked at his watch. “But I don’t need to leave quite yet.”
Steve smiled at that.
He was an hour into his meeting with Tony when his phone vibrated. Checking to make sure Tony was still preoccupied with hearing his own voice, Bucky pulled it out to find a text from Steve.
Steve <3 [3:12 pm]: Dinner’s an open invitation, if you want.
Me [3:12 pm]: I’ll be there
“What’s got you smirking like a school boy?” Tony asked.
Bucky immediately schooled his face. “Nothing.”
He knew Tony didn’t believe him, but Tony didn’t need to know everything.
They watched another movie that night. Bucky didn’t remember what it was. He did remember the way Steve’s tongue felt against his.
The next three days followed in much the same way. They woke up curled around each other and took Goose on a short walk before breakfast. Bucky did his work and gathered the data he needed in order to diversify their product line and was always home in time for dinner. After the dishes, they took Goose out again, their fingers tangled together.
On occasion, it rained. Bucky didn’t mind it so much anymore.
On Friday, he finished Slaughterhouse-Five and was forced to admit to Steve that it was better than he remembered. (Steve also finished the pulp and reluctantly agreed they were addicting. Bucky felt incredibly vindicated.) They kissed until they fell asleep and did it all again.
“You really have to leave tomorrow?” Steve asked. It was Saturday night and they were curled up together on the couch. It was raining, thunder rumbling low and slow across the sky. Their movie had just finished and the credits rolled across the screen.
“I do. We have a big rollout in the next few weeks, and I need to be there to supervise. If anyone else knew how to properly test this item I’d figure out a way to stay, but...”
“No one else does,” Steve guessed.
Bucky shook his head. “Weird how the guy who helped invent the product is the best person to figure out if it’s right.”
“Inconvenient.”
Steve was so close Bucky could feel his eyelashes every time he blinked. “Kiss me,” he whispered.
Steve did, long and slow and perfect. Bucky all but melted into it. It didn’t take long for it to become heated. They both let it.
They fell asleep wrapped up in each other that night, naked and sated and happy, happy, happy.
Bucky left after breakfast. He hugged Steve, gave him a chaste kiss, and got in his car with the promise to call. He didn’t look back.
When he got back to New York, he found a box he didn’t remember packing. Safe in his apartment, he opened it to find a collection of mugs and a battered copy of Slaughterhouse-Five.
Three months passed. Steve woke up, went to work, and came home to make dinner for himself with his dog by his side, just as he did before Bucky came. The only difference came from him looking at his phone, wondering if Bucky would call.
It was snowing the night his phone finally buzzed. He was chopping an onion for stroganoff, the news playing softly in the background. Goose slept on the couch. Wiping his hands on a towel, he took it from his pocket to find a text.
Bucky [5:45 pm]: Is that dinner invitation still open?
Me [5:46 pm]: Always
And there was a knock on the door.