Zhelaniye

Wanda woke up as they flew over the Mediterranean sea.

Bucky was the first to notice. Suddenly, he was unbuckling himself from his seat and hurrying to the back; when he realized what was happening, Steve set up the automatic pilot and quickly joined them. Bucky had already knelt by Wanda’s seat. She looked dazed, only half-awake. She’d extended her pale, thin hand to cup Bucky’s stubbly cheek, and she looked at him with a wondering smile.

“Did we do it?” she asked in a faraway voice. “Did it work?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said hoarsely. “Yeah, sestrika. Thank you.”

Wanda looked past him and her eyes widened. “Steve.” She smiled, bright and fond. “I told you something good would happen.”

“You did.” Steve knelt by her side as well. “I can’t ever thank you enough for this, Wanda.”

She looked so sweet and so young—and at the same time there was a hint of dark confidence in her eyes, like she’d dove into herself and seen just how deep the waters ran, how far her roots could reach.

“Wanda—Wanda,” Steve said when red power began to pulse out of her.

“Oh. I’m sorry. It comes so easily now. I’ve done so much. I could do so much.” Her eyes were closing again. “I need more time, I think—are we going home?”

“Yes. Vision said—”

“I know what Vision said,” she smiled, and was asleep again.

*

Steve half-expected the farm to be gone. When he landed the Quinjet, nothing moved for a while.

Then Scott suddenly sprang into full-size from a rose bush—and it took all of Steve’s self-control not to knock him out from sheer instinct.

“Jesus! Scott—”

“My apologies, Captain,” Scott said, before opening his helmet and yelling, “It’s all good, guys! All clear! Uh, friendlies here! SNAFU!”

“That’s not what it means,” Clint said, coming around the corner with his bow in hand. He saw the destroyed rose bush and scowled. “Lang, we’ve talked about this.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t scale plants without thorns.”

Steve was only half-listening; the front door was opening, and Natasha was leaning against the doorframe, with a smile on her face, feet crossed at the ankle. Sam got past her and marched straight for Steve.

“Never again, Rogers,” he said. “Ya hear me? Never. Again.”

Steve grinned and embraced him, clapping him on the back. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

Sam froze, then stepped back to look at him. “You don’t mean—”

“He does,” Bucky said.

They all turned to him.

He was carrying Wanda in his arms again, coming down the ramp until he’d set foot in the grass. In the lasting silence, all he said was, “Can anybody show me to her room?”

*

It was fairly obvious nobody had expected Bucky to actually come home.

There was an awkwardness to peaceful times Steve had never found in war. That first night, it wasn’t long before Sam and Clint and even Scott pronounced themselves tired. Natasha followed shortly after; before she did, she pressed a closed-mouthed kiss to Bucky’s lips, and he let her.

Catching Steve’s gaze on him, Bucky smiled a bit wryly.

“Don’t start,” he said, as if Steve was about to rib him like he would have in 1938. “This isn’t anything. I don’t do that anymore, either. It’s just…” He rubbed behind his neck, then said, “It’s nice to know we both made it.”

Steve knew the feeling.

“Wanna see your room?” was all he said.

They got upstairs in silence.

Bucky pushed open the door and smiled. “Wow. It looks bigger in person.”

There was a twin bed, neatly made, and a few shelves with books; but the room did look huge, and empty, and lonely. Bucky put down his backpack—his battered old backpack which had followed him since Romania, against wind, tide and storm. He looked out the window.

“Okay. I’m here.” He touched the glass with his vibranium fingers, then looked at him with a wry half-smile. “Now what, Rogers?”

“I don’t know,” Steve said. “Didn’t plan much further than that.”

Bucky huffed through his nose. “And that doesn’t scare you?”

“Actually? No.” Steve looked around the room. “I don’t think the world will let us have this for very long. So, yeah. I’m fine with being aimless. For now.”

Bucky looked down with a twist of his lips. Steve hesitated, then said, “Hey—come here,” and he stepped forward to fold him in his arms.

Bucky let out a small sound in his shoulder, which could have been anything. Then he pushed Steve back with a lopsided smile.

“You gonna keep hugging me this much?”

Steve felt like he’d been zapped by Nat’s stingers. It was just—he'd gotten used to embracing Bucky every time they saw each other.

“Sorry,” he said, letting go with a bashful smile. “I’ll, uh. Recalibrate.”

“No, Steve, I was just messing with—oh, Christ,” Bucky rolled his eyes, then wrapped his vibranium arm around Steve’s waist, resting his chin on his shoulder. “Look, pal, we’re ninety. We shouldn’t be alive. We can do any stupid sappy shit we want.”

Steve laughed. “I—” He couldn’t really relax. “I’m really glad you’re here, Bucky.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. He let go of him. “Yeah.”

*

The next morning, Wanda was up, and smiled at Steve when he came down in the kitchen.

“Hey,” he breathed. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.” She kissed him on the cheek, and as she did it he realized the breakfast was making itself in a corner of the room, pots and utensils moved by tendrils of red. That wasn’t all; the TV remote was zapping by itself, and there was even a book with self-turning pages on a windowsill.

“Wanda—”

“Oh. Sorry. Is it freaking you out?” She smiled. Her eyes were faintly glowing. “I just… I can do so much. I think I never realized how much.”

Steve looked at her for a minute. Then he just said, “Be careful.”

Wanda kept smiling. “Always.”

*

The thing was—Steve had good ears. People tended to forget that. He didn’t often overhear conversation in places like Stark Tower or the UN buildings, with their soundproof rooms and double-glazed windows. But in an old French farm—

“What’s wrong, man?” Sam asked for the second time.

Steve tried to focus on the board and shut off the sounds of Bucky tossing and turning in his bed upstairs.

“Nothing.”

Sam sighed. “Good thing we’re playing chess and not poker.” He moved his fool. “I hope you’re not here humoring me just ‘cause you feel guilty about leaving us in the dark for a week.”

Steve played his turn without a word.

“Steve.” Sam rolled his eyes. “If Riley came back I wouldn’t leave his side for three solid months. And yeah, he’d get tired of it. And yeah, all my friends would get tired of it. That’s just the way it is. Stop trying to make everyone happy all the time.”

Upstairs, Bucky shifted again, audibly taking unnaturally deep, slow breaths to try and fall asleep.

“’Sides, I lost.” Sam frowned at the board. “Isn’t this game supposed to be a metaphor for conversations? Just so you know, I just obliterated your ass. Metaphorically.”

Steve laughed, and thanked him, and went upstairs. But he didn’t knock on Bucky's door.

*

“Dude,” Clint said on the third day. “Is it me, or are you guys never in the same room at the same time?”

Steve said nothing.

*

“Even Scott noticed,” Natasha said after a long evening of drinking vodka and saying nothing.

“I’m not avoiding him,” Steve said, pained. “He’s avoiding me.”

Natasha huffed.

“This really has gone on for long enough, Steve. Don’t you think?”

*

Bucky was tossing and turning again, occasionally groaning in frustration.

All of a sudden, as if a dam had broken inside him, Steve got up. He put on a shirt, then shuffled down the corridor. He knew Bucky could hear him coming. 

He pushed open the door and said, “Let’s put the mattress down. It’s a twin, we’re never gonna fit.”

Bucky got up, slid the mattress down, and lay down with Steve without a word, tucked against his side. He was asleep within five minutes.

In the morning, though, Steve woke up alone.

*

“He’s outside,” Wanda pointed out helpfully when Steve came down.

Bucky was sitting by himself near the bare rose bushes, in a rusted garden chair. The flowers were long gone, but the trees had been set ablaze by fall; in contrast with the severe grey-and-black ground, they painted an austere but beautiful tableau.

When he walked out of the house to join him, Steve was struck by the crisp taste in the air, which reminded him vertiginously of World War II—the quieter times, when they smoked with their back to a pine tree, getting back up sticky with golden resin.

Bucky had his eyes closed, his face turned up to the pale November sun.

“Feels like you’ve been waiting for something," Steve said eventually. "You wanna tell me what?”

Bucky didn't reopen his eyes. “You said it yourself, pal. It ain’t gonna last forever.”

“So you’re expecting the apocalypse?”

“I’m expecting you to call Sharon.”

Steve blinked. This he hadn’t seen coming.

“Sharon?” he repeated, nonplussed. “I haven’t… We haven’t really been in touch.”

He wasn’t sure why he’d kissed her, to be honest. Maybe because their fragile flirting had been one of the few things to keep him sane in the long dead months between the battle of New York and the fall of SHIELD. Maybe because Sharon had wanted it, and Steve had wanted to give her something in return for her help. Those were not noble or decent feelings, and so he tried not to dwell on them too much.

“Because you were fussing over me.” Bucky shifted in his chair as if to get more comfortable. “I’m here now. So you should start thinking about the future.”

Steve stared at him.

“Jesus,” he said eventually.

His tone alerted Bucky, who reopened his eyes. “What?”

“You’re still expecting me to keep you in storage.”

Steve’s mind was running double time with indignation. He knew this had been too easy. Bucky was too quiet and too compliant. Bucky was still resigned. He was enduring this like he’d been enduring the tests in Wakanda—to keep Steve content. He still expected to be forgotten and put aside eventually.

“Get up,” Steve said.

“Steve…”

“Get up,” Steve repeated, and grabbed his metal hand to hoist him to his feet so he could look him in the eye. He’d never been so frustrated in his life. “Bucky. I’m with you.”

“To the end of the line,” Bucky completed. “I know.” His vibranium fingers loosened around Steve’s. “There’s more to life than that.”

Steve stepped away for a second to scrub a hand over his face. “Christ. Okay. That’s it.” He dropped his hands and took a deep breath. “Nothing to it. Let’s just get married.”

Bucky just stared at him.

“What,” he said eventually.

“Good times and bad, sickness and health, till death do us part. That sounds a lot like what I’m trying to tell you and what you just won’t hear.”  Steve huffed through his nose. “You’re my best friend. You’re my only family. It’s always gonna be you first and foremost, Bucky.” Desperation crept in his voice despite himself. “Do you still not believe that?”

Bucky looked too shocked to speak.

Steve felt himself heat up. “Look, I know it’s dumb. But it’s about the plainest way I can put it. And you did say I could do any stupid sappy shit I wanted.”

Bucky just blinked at him for another few seconds. Then he started laughing—quietly at first, and then louder, until he had to sit back in his chair and rest his face in his hand and just laugh and laugh and laugh. He was crying a little, too, but Steve didn't mention it.

“Oh,” Bucky exhaled eventually, “Jesus.”

Steve was still very red but refusing to back down. Bucky stared at him for a while, then he looked away with a scoff. “You’re something else, Rogers.”

“Look, maybe I will call Sharon one day,” Steve said. “And maybe whatever you had with Nat doesn’t belong entirely in the past. I don’t know. We’ve got time. But as far as I’m concerned, if I ever look someone else in the eye and tell them they’re the most important person in my life, then I’ll be lying.”

He exhaled, then looked down. “And… I want to live with you again,” he said quietly. “I missed it. I’m tired of needing excuses for it.”

Bucky huffed again, incredulously. He looked away, at the bare fields surrounding the house. A chilly breeze came down and lifted the ends of his hair, making them move in soft, slight touches over his throat and neck.

“Alright, fine,” he said in a strangely subdued voice.

Steve looked up at him. “What?”

Bucky had closed his eyes, smiling.

“Fine,” he repeated.

Then he turned his head to look at Steve again. His eyes were crinkling at the corners. “Can we actually get married, though? I wanna see Wilson’s face.”

Steve stayed still and dumb for a second. Then he found himself smiling and absolutely unable to stop.

“Christ,” Bucky mumbled, “I’d forgotten how stupid you could look,” and he dragged Steve close to wrap him in his arms, and hold him tight, for a long, long time.

*

“Is this a prank?” Sam said. “This is a prank. Right?”

Before anyone else could say anything, Scott said, “That’s perfect! I’m a priest!”

Sam uncrossed his arms like he’d wanted to throw his hands up, but stopped himself at the last second. “You’re a priest?”

“Yeah! Got an Internet diploma a few years back.” Scott’s smile faltered. “Do they take those away if you go to prison?”

“We’re in France,” Wanda pointed out. “I do not think it would be valid here anyway.”

“We’re on the run,” Sam said, “it’s not gonna be valid anywh—Jesus, what the fuck am I even saying. Dude.” He looked at Steve indignantly. “I won’t say I didn’t have my doubts, but you could’ve said it was like that.”

“It’s not, though,” Steve said. “I mean, it’s not like we—”

“I don’t wanna know. I do not want to know,” Sam said, raising his finger.

“Oh, but we’re doing this,” Natasha said with a spark in her eye. “Whose best man am I?”

In the end, it was a huge collective mess. As the only married man in the room, Clint turned out to be the most qualified to officiate. He was helped in this by Scott, who had his pride; Sam, who delivered all his lines in a deadpan tone while looking Steve right in the eye; and Natasha, who couldn’t have sounded more ironic if she’d tried. All the people present were simultaneously Bucky’s and Steve’s best men and maids of honor. At one point, Wanda said gleefully, “You may kiss the bride,” and Bucky planted a huge wet kiss on Steve’s cheek, causing him to curse and struggle to get away. They had no rings, no cake, nothing to drink but vodka and orange juice. By the end of the night everyone was drunk. It was the most ridiculous thing Steve had ever done.

Bucky wouldn’t stop smiling.

Natasha sat next to Steve and clinked their glasses together. “Keep glowing this much and you won’t need a nightlight.”

*

Zhelaniye, a voice was saying in the dark.

Steve didn’t know if the voice was his own—and that fear was enough to startle him awake.

He shook and gasped for air and stared into space for a long, sweat-soaked minute.

Then Bucky’s arms wrapped around him and pulled him back to lay down again. “Hey,” he said. “M’ right here.”

Steve closed his eyes, still breathless. “Can you—” he said. “Can you say one of them. Just one. Any of them.”

Bucky smiled and said, “Vozvrashcheniye na rodinu.”

Then he kissed Steve’s temple.