steve/darcy/bucky, anniversary
Bucky hears her come in the apartment--of course he does, he'd be a pretty shitty spy if he didn't--but doesn't turn. He's sitting on the sofa, watching the fat, wet snowflakes fall through the floor-to-ceiling windows Stark insists are bulletproof and Bucky can't bear to cover up, even though they are a huge security risk. It doesn't take long for Darcy to settle herself next to him. He can smell her perfume, a very light floral scent that he bought her for Christmas, as she wriggles around until she can slide one leg behind him and wrap his upper body with her arms. She leans her face against his shoulder, cheek warm through his shirt, and doesn't speak, just sits and holds him.
By the time Steve comes in, Darcy's asleep, her even breathing lulling Bucky into something approaching peace. Steve smiles at him and quirks a questioning eyebrow. Bucky can't help but give him a small nod, and Steve folds his enormous body against Bucky's other side, barely jostling Darcy as he takes hold of Bucky's metal hand. "You doing okay?" Steve murmurs, pressing his lips softly against Bucky's hair and threading his fingers through Bucky's.
"It's the anniversary of my death, punk," Bucky replies, voice low enough that Darcy doesn't stir. "I'm doing better than most people in my position."
Steve lets out a soft chuckle. "Touche."