Steve Rogers was many things. He was a great leader in all respects, an attentive assistant soccer coach to a team of little kids in the area, and a ridiculously talented artist. But above all that, Steve Rogers was an insufferable damn punk. He was always hiding shit that Bucky needed all over the apartment, which was funny the first few times but now made Bucky want to give him a good smack right on the back of his head.
And Bucky would never let Steve get his stuff for him at first, because hell if he wasn’t able to find his own damn things in his own damn apartment. He would make himself crazy looking for a file or book until Steve came traipsing out of some secret crevice, taunting, “Don’t leave your crap lying around my apartment and it won’t get lost.”
And then they would bicker. “It’s just as much my apartment as yours, Steve,” would be met by “That doesn’t mean you can leave a mess everywhere,” and then “One cup is not a mess,” would be fired back. And most of the time their fussing would evaporate into good-natured teasing, and then Steve would sit down and draw or read a book while Bucky reviewed a report for his next assignment or cooked the pair some dinner. Sometimes, though, Bucky would take a low blow at Steve, or Steve would say something a little too personal, laced with venom.
When Steve realized he had hurt Bucky, which was always almost immediately after seeing the brunet’s face fall, he would sink into a fit of apologies, always touching and sincerity and “God, I’m so sorry, Buck, that wasn’t right.” But when Bucky realized he’d hurt Steve, which took a bit longer because he was still re-learning how to read the guy, he would retreat. His stomach would twist into knots and he would hide in the bedroom, squeezing his flesh arm in metal fingers until his skin blossomed with bruises, until tears pricked his eyes but not from pain, never from pain. Because of course he hadn’t meant to hurt Steve, but of course he had managed it anyway. Because that’s what he was: a weapon, meant to hurt, and all the therapy in the world couldn’t change that.
And after an hour either Steve would go to him or he would go to Steve, because the only way to make the knots go away was to apologize, to be forgiven. He would watch his own feet, mumble an apology to Steve, always afraid that this time Steve would say “Tough,” and Bucky would be lost again, out on the street or made to hurt again, and for just a second his heart would pound and panic would begin to rise in his chest.
But every time, Steve would wrap his arms around Bucky and place the sweetest, gentlest kisses against his lips and face and neck. He would scowl at the bruises on Bucky’s arm as if they’d gotten there on their own, then he’d kiss again, more determined, tongue and heat and hands tangling in the mess of hair on Bucky’s head. And more often than not, Steve would pull Bucky into his lap in the armchair in the living room, and he would kiss everywhere his mouth could reach, whispering “’Course I forgive you,” and “I love you” into Bucky’s skin, until tears pricked at his eyes again and he would whisper “Thank you, thank you, thank you” for forgiveness, for love, for Steve just being who he was. And sometimes Steve would take him to the bedroom and take him apart, sometimes he’d do it right there in the living room, but most times they would just kiss, lazy in the armchair, until all the knots in Bucky's stomach were gone and there was no doubt that if anything was true, it was that Steve loved him.
Steve never stopped hiding his shit though, the insufferable punk.