I Hear A Symphony

Steve thinks that too many people are caught up in who Captain America should’ve been, they never got to know who Captain America was.

It starts on the tenth of March: he spends the day in bed on the floor that Tony Stark created just for him. He cries into his pillow, sobbing, until he can’t cry anymore and is left staring at the deep blue bed sheets. Eventually, at noon, he musters the energy to retrieve a snack from his kitchen—a packet of chips—at the request of JARVIS.

“Captain Rogers, your metabolism has led to a drop in blood sugar, I recommend eating something—” but Steve doesn’t listen to the rest, because he knows how to handle low blood sugar, and it isn’t the first time he’s felt dizzy and nauseous from a lack of food.

He downs a cup of black coffee, stares at the stained mug as if it’ll tell him why his Bucky was left in a world he’ll never return to, and then he sits on his couch for what feels like forever.

And he stares at the wall, and stares, and stares.

He tries to open his old sketchbook, the one Tony had managed to retrieve from Peggy, but he can’t bring himself to open the pages. He already knows he’ll find Bucky’s face there.

Five p.m. is when Natasha Romanoff walks through the elevator to his floor. “Love what you’ve done with the place,” she drawls, her heels harsh clacking against the hardwood floor. “Looks real…vintage.”

He doesn’t even have it in him to laugh at her joke. Tony tried his best to make it look like home, the one he’d shared with Bucky, even getting all his things from Howard and Peggy, but it wasn’t home without Bucky.

“So,” she takes a seat next to him. “I haven’t seen you around at all. Usually, by this time, you’re abusing a poor punching bag. Silent moping?”

“Silent moping,” he confirms, kicking his bare feet against the rug.

She doesn’t speak for a moment. “Have you thought of getting a therapist?”

And Steve is ready to fight, he’s ready to deny and deflect, but he doesn’t even have the energy to say I’m fine.

Natasha tosses a card onto the table. “Doctor Harriet Rosen, Ph.D. in psychology and former sergeant for the U.S military. She’s vetted, helped Tony after Afghanistan. Think about it.”

And she’s gone with as much warning as she’d come.

Steve didn’t think he’d actually call the number on the card, but he caves.

March fifteenth, after five days of his own personal torture, he picks up the landline in his living room (because he can work those—but cell phones are a little trickier, and Steve isn’t the best with being careful with small objects).

He dials the number, meticulously punching the proper buttons and pointedly avoiding thinking about what he’s doing.

It takes three rings for the phone to click.

“Rosen,” the voice on the other end answers.

Steve licks his lips once, twice, and then— “Caleb, if that’s you again—”

“Um, no, ma’am,” Steve says, “I’m, uh,” he swallows, “This is Captain Steve Rogers speaking. I—”

“Captain America?” the voice clarifies.

“Um,” Steve stammers, “Yes, I—I was wondering if, I know you console folks that have gone through—”

“Captain Rogers,” the voice says, interrupting his train of thought, “What time would be best for us to meet?”

“Tuesday,” he says, “Tuesday is preferable, sometime in the morning, if possible.”

There’s some clicking, “I have a nine-o’-clock, does that work? It’s an hour slot.”

Steve tries to ignore the hammering in his chest, steady and repetitive against his ribs. “That works perfectly,” he says, “Thank you.”

“Of course, Captain Rogers. I’m assuming Dr. Stark has you covered under his insurance policy, as well, just bring the card with you to the office place.”

“Will do, ma’am.”

Dr. Rosen sits in a navy blue arm chair across from him—he’s sat on a matching loveseat, attempting to make himself as small as possible in the room. “So, Captain Rogers,” she says, “My first question is always what a patient’s preferred name and pronouns are.”

Steve sucks in a breath, because was she able to tell? How did she know?

But Dr. Rosen continues, “It’s standard practice for every patient to ensure they feel completely comfortable in their sessions.”

“Steve is a good name,” he says, finally, “Or Steven, I suppose. And, um, I prefer he/him pronouns? I think that’s how you’d say it.”

Dr. Rosen jots something down on her notepad. “And how have you been mood-wise recently?”

Steve licks his lips. “I’ve been—I’ve been better, before.”

Before he can even process that he’s scratching at the skin on the back of his hands, Dr. Rosen has tossed him a deep purple stress ball. He’s careful to not squish it into oblivion, keeping his strength in check. “Can I ask specifics about your current state?”

“I feel anxious, a lot,” he says, “And I—I miss the past. I know it’s been seventy years but to me it was just yesterday.” He pauses. “Like, to me, I just lost Bucky three months ago. And Peggy keeps saying we can never go back and I know but that doesn’t make losing him any easier. I watch him fall every night when I’m sleeping and,” he pauses to take a deep breath and ease his grip on the stress ball, “And I hear him yelling my name and I wish I could forget him but I can’t. I had one job in the whole war, and I failed it.”

Dr. Rosen writes something down. “When you get these dreams, when do you wake up? And do you wake up screaming or silently?”

“Um, I wake up after—it depends,” he says, “Some nights I wake up after Bucky kissed me for the last time,” he pauses, watching the psychiatrist’s face, but it betrays no emotion, “Or I wake up after I hear him hit the bottom of the ravine.”

“And how do you wake up?”

“I—I jerk awake, but I don’t—I don’t scream.”

She nods. “Watching a loved one die is something your brain can’t wrap itself around. You can’t compartmentalize it.” She gives him a sad smile. “Other than the nightmares, what else has been happening?”

“Um,” he pauses, “Bucky’s birthday passed. I keep remembering how before the war we used to put our money together the week before our birthdays and go out dancing. Bucky would usually pick up two dames, ‘cause he was always a looker. I used to tell ‘im he was mine and mine alone, ‘cause no self-respecting dame would stick with his ugly mug,” Steve stifles a watery laugh. “But I miss it. I miss the music. I miss dancing. I miss my ma, I miss Bucky’s ma and Becca. I don’t even miss the war or Howard; I miss everything before that. I wish I’d never fought to begin with.”

Dr. Rosen nods. “But would you be happy if you never fought?”

Steve thinks.

“I don’t think I would be, no.”

“Then you need to understand that your nature is to keep moving. The war, the dead bodies, those things shut you down,” she explains. “But you’re a person who stops working when they turn off. You have to keep moving.” He nods. “And how has everything else been?”

“I, um, I really like the team,” he says, “Tony and I don’t get along well, but it’s mostly ‘cause I see Howard every time I look at him and…God, Howard was the worst.” He shakes a bit. “He used to—he used to say the dumbest shit. ‘The serum changed your gender because even science knows men are superior,’ that man deserved whatever fate befell him. I used to always tell ‘him the serum didn’t change my gender. I was always like this. It made me look more like I was supposed to.”

Dr. Rosen nods. “And do you suffer from dysphoria now that you’ve undergone a sex change?”

“What’s—”

“Gender dysphoria is the feeling of discomfort from your assigned sex not matching your gender identity,” Dr. Rosen says, “Have you suffered it, recently?”

Steve shakes his head no, and then pauses, “Sometimes? I think. I just don’t like remembering how people used to see me and…but no one ever calls me she or Saoirse, not like Howard used to when he was tryna be funny. They’re all super respectful, but sometimes I lay awake, and I think about how much my ma sacrificed to keep me safe. She used to work so much just to buy the fabric I needed to bind my chest to go to school, and Buck would punch anyone’s lights out who looked at me funny.”

“You don’t have either of them now,” Dr. Rosen says, “And they were integral to cementing your identity and affirming your place in the world.”

Steve shrugs.

“My advice is to recreate those bonds,” Dr. Rosen says. “Your team supports you, sure, but you can find bonds outside of them and outside of your past. I want you to come in next week at the same time with two people you feel protected by and supported by, okay?”

She puts her clipboard and pen down on her desk, “We’re out of time, Captain Rogers, but I hope you take that note to heart. Nine on Tuesday, okay? I will see you then.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says, and before he opens the door, Dr. Rosen speaks again.

“Oh, and Steven?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m proud of you. Today was difficult, you did excellent.”

He smiles to himself when he leaves the room.

“How’d it go?” Natasha asks, walking into his place like she owns it.

“It went fine,” he says, “Have you ever learned to ask before entering someone’s space?”

She sits on his leather couch, throwing her boots onto Steve’s coffee table. “I’d be a shit spy if I did that, wouldn’t I?”

And Steve supposes she has a point. “So, you’re spying on me? That’s what this is?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m worried. It’s a thing friends feel for each other. I think you’re unwell, that you’re not coping, and that you need to see a psychiatrist to get back to your true self.”

“You don’t know my true self,” he points out. “No one did, ‘cept for my ma and Bucky.”

“Sergeant Barnes,” she hums. “Where did he get the name Bucky from?”

Steve sits on the couch beside her. “His sister, Becca, wasn’t able to say his middle name and when she was mad at him, she used to holler, ‘James Bucky Barnes’ at the top of her little lungs. That turned into Bucky and I guess it just…stuck. No one ever called him James unless they were mad at him.”

Natasha’s gaze is distant as she nods along to his story. When he’s finished, she asks, “Got anything to drink around here?”

“No alcohol, if that’s what you’re asking,” Steve says. “It doesn’t work on me.”

She pouts but Steve doesn’t feel particularly sympathetic to his Russian friend. “You can have apple juice, milk or water,” he says, “pick your poison.”

“Water,” she says the word like it’s venom. “Is it tap?”

“I have a filter,” he rolls his eyes. “And don’t be so damn dramatic. We drank tap water in my day, you know.”

“And you had polio in your day,” she points out. “The sanitization back then wasn’t exactly a gold standard.”

Steve shrugs, “I was born during the Spanish Flu, so, y’know.”

Natasha follows him into his kitchen, “We don’t call it that, anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Didn’t originate in Spain,” she says, “We call it the 1918 Flu.”

He grabs a glass from the cupboard and fills it up with the sink water—Natasha doesn’t turn her nose up to it, but she doesn’t seem overly enthusiastic of the drink. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he responds, and it’s easy to ask, “Want to watch something?”

“Sure.”

“So?” Dr. Rosen asks.

“I went to the VA,” he says, “I wasn’t even sure I was allowed to go, ‘cause I’m like, barely a veteran.”

“They won’t turn Captain America away,” Dr. Rosen assures him.

“They wouldn’t. But Steve Rogers, maybe.” He pauses, “I met this guy, Sam Wilson. He does trauma counseling for soldiers and veterans. I didn’t share, but I sat in on one of their group sessions and talked with Sam afterward. He—he gets it. He lost his partner, Riley, in the line of fire. He was, uh, Riley was a transman, like me. I didn’t know that was the word for it ‘til I met Sam. I explained how I’ve been struggling, and he suggested I keep a list of everything I miss.” Steve reaches into his pocket and shows her the notebook. “The front pages are everything I want to know about or like about the new world, the back pages are the things I miss. I’m putting things similar—or the same things—from this century on the same line next to them.”

“That’s a very good idea,” Dr. Rosen says, “It’s important to know that, while this world is different, it’s still the same world. You like dancing? There’s still dancing. You like drawing? There are museums, art supplies, art classes—it doesn’t have to be a foreign new world. It can still be your home.”

Steve nods. “I thought it was helpful.”

“So, if Sam is your first person, who’s your second?”

“Natasha Romanoff,” Steve says, with only some hesitation. “She’s been checking in on me a lot. She was the one that gave me your number.”

“She cares for you,” Dr. Rosen nods.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Steve says. “We watched a bunch of, like, pop culture stuff. Scooby-Doo and, like, Barbie movies. Stuff that can’t trigger either or us and is so childish it has to put us in a good mood.”

“Good,” Dr. Rosen says, “And it’s smart to avoid triggers, but make sure you aren’t avoiding media you would otherwise enjoy. A difficult part of getting over trauma is exposure, and that includes controlled and contained exposure to triggers. Things like war movies or documentaries may be too much, but find an action-heavy movie you’d like to watch and get with one of your people. If it becomes too much, turn it off and watch safe media, but it’s a good place to start. I want you to be back here, same time on Tuesday, with whatever movie or show you watched and how it went.”

He gives her a mock salute, “You got it, Sarge.”

“Good work today, Steven.”

“So,” Natasha sits down on his couch, throws her feet onto his coffee table, and says, “Who’s this Sam guy?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Steve grumbles, kicking her boots before she can leave marks on the wood. “Did you go through my phone?”

She dangles the newest addition to Steve Roger’s residence: a small rectangle with the logo Stark on the back. Tony had learned Steve was still using a landline from Natasha and had dropped it at his door. “Here,” he’d said, “And maybe stop avoiding me. Everyone’s numbers are preprogrammed.”

“You need a password,” Natasha tells him, dropping the device in between the couch cushions. Steve has to bend uncomfortably at the waist to retrieve it. “I thought Tony added one?”

“He did,” Steve answers, “It was ‘ironmanrulez!’ With a ‘z’ and an exclamation mark. And I will add another, eventually, as soon as I figure out how to do the fingerprint thingy.”

“You want to add your fingerprint?” she asks, quirking her head to the side. “Why don’t you ask Tony? He can show you face and voice ID as well.”

Steve stalls, his brain going in slow motion as he tries to rationalize and excuse his absence from Tony’s life. He’s probably too busy. He doesn’t really seem to like me. He works too much as is.

But honestly the real answer is, “I’m afraid.”

“Afraid?” Natasha asks like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world. “Afraid of Tony Stark?”

“I’m afraid he’ll be like Howard,” Steve says, voice small. “I’m afraid he’ll see me how Howard saw me: a weapon, a soldier, a scapegoat. Howard was a shit friend.”

“And a shit father, too,” Natasha says. “You and Tony agree on more than you think, Cap.”

“He’s not—Tony’s not…” Steve pauses, pursing his lips around the word, “Homophobic or anything, like Howard, right?” That had been a new word Sam had taught him—he’d needed to describe the hate he’d gotten specifically from other boys on the schoolyard or battlefield. “Transphobic,” had been the other word Sam had taught him.

Natasha smiles, the softest smile she can muster, “Tony’s not transphobic or homophobic. He’s bi, Howard didn’t take too kindly to Tony coming out at sixteen. It was a huge scandal—Howard threatened to pull Tony out of MIT, but Tony said he’d just sell all of Howard’s assets.” She tilts her head to the side and stage whispers, “Tony wasn’t bluffing.”

Steve smiles, “I’ll visit him tomorrow to set it up.”

“JARVIS?” she says to the ceiling.

“Sir has been notified and says, ‘Free for a lunch date tomorrow, Cap, meet me at noon,’ would you like me to relay a response?”

“Tell him,” Steve locks eyes with Natasha. “Tell him I’ll be up on his floor at noon, tomorrow, please. I’ll make him a pot of coffee for his troubles.”

“Sir would like to remind you that the coffee was purchased by him. However, he seems to believe you making the coffee is a worthy trade for his time.”

Noon comes with Steve struggling to breathe as he runs his hands over his t-shirt. It’s weird, the feeling of a flat chest beneath his hands, and it never fails to make him smile. He squeezes the purple stress ball in his left hand and punches the button with a golden 90 on it.

His anxiety doesn’t ease at all as he steps into Tony’s living room calling, “Tony? I need help with my phone.”

“And,” Tony announces, emerging from the staircase like some sort of dramatic deity, “I was promised coffee as payment.”

Steve rolls his eyes, “Yes. I will make you coffee.”

“You’re the only person that makes it better than me,” he says, throwing himself over the couch. “It’s good, Cap, it’s really good—”

“Can you teach me how to set up face and voice recognition?” Steve asks, and Tony leans over the back of the couch, and Steve’s now too aware of how close Tony is, so he takes a single step back.

Tony’s eyes narrow. “What’s wrong, Cap?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Steve assures him.

It doesn’t work. Tony rolls over the back of the couch, hitting the floor without grace and with a thud. “Something’s definitely wrong,” he says, “Are you okay, Cap? I know I’m not your favorite coworker, but…”

Steve hands him his phone. “Um,” he pauses, “It was Bucky’s birthday, like, three weeks ago. I know it shouldn’t be bothering me for this long, but I miss him.”

“Bucky Barnes?” Tony asks, “He was your best friend, right?”

Steve nods, even though Tony’s looking down at his phone, “Yeah. We met when we were just kids. He saved me from this asshole—Jacob Brown. Used to call me all sorts of mean names. I think he was wailing on me ‘cause I asked him to call me Steve instead of,” Steve swallows, “I asked him to call me Steve instead of the name I was born with.” Tony looks up at that, expression unreadable, just eyes locked on Steve’s. “And Bucky comes around and is all, ‘hey, the fella asked you to call ‘im Steve,’ and everyone knew Bucky, ‘cause he was the biggest kid out there. When we were fourteen, he started boxing to make money, and no one wanted to go against him. Not even the bigger guys.” Steve pauses. Tony’s gone back down to staring at his phone, but he can tell he’s still listening. “And then I took Bucky home to my ma, ‘cause she was a nurse, and she put some band-aids on his knuckles and yelled at me for being cocky with a bully.”

Tony hums. “Wish Howard had been like that. I got punched square in the jaw ‘cause I kissed a boy and you know what he did? Punched me in the ribs, ‘cause he was mad I wasn’t gonna look good for the press.”

He hands Steve his phone. “Put your thumb, or whatever finger you wanna use, on the circle at the bottom.”

Steve complies and the screen says, fingerprint captured. Steve hands it back to Tony. “Howard wasn’t, well, let’s just say,” Steve swallows, “Howard is a reoccurring character in my therapy sessions.”

Tony laughs, “We have that much in common.” He hands Steve his phone. “Just hold it like this,” he holds it in front of Steve’s face for three seconds, and then the screen says, profile captured. “Okay, now your side,” he has Steve turn his head and repeats it. “Now say ‘hi, my name is Steve.”

“Hi, my name’s Steve?” Steve says, hesitantly.

Vocal sample captured.

“Nice,” Tony says, and Steve pockets the phone. “I thought Howard liked you? He used to talk about you like you’d hung the moon and stars. I thought a couple of times that his hate for me was because he was gay for you, honestly.”

Steve shakes his head, “Well, he used to tell me that the serum made me a man because men were better,” Steve says, “But it didn’t make me a man. I explained it so many times. Peggy explained it so many times. Hell, the only times Buck met him, he tried to swing on Howard because he couldn’t get that I was always a man, the serum just…”

“Made everything match?” Tony supplies.

“Well,” Steve shrugs, “I guess.”

Tony furrows his brow, opens his mouth, closes it, and then says, “It—what’s that supposed to mean? That it didn’t make everything match? I’m—am I even allowed to be asking that? The answer is no,” he says to himself. “’If you have to ask if it’s appropriate, the answer is no,’ that’s what Pep says.”

Steve holds back a laugh. This is the most he’s ever seen Tony Stark close to embarrassed, and he plans to milk that. “No, the serum made everything match,” he puts emphasis on every, taking pleasure in Tony’s face going beet red. “But I still remember before, and sometimes I got sad for a life I never got to live, you know?”

Tony manages to straighten up and will most of the blush away, though his cheeks are still faintly rosy. “You’re Captain America,” he says with certainty, “You can do anything you want. If that means riding a bike and playing with toy cars, we’ll make it happen.”

Steve smiles. “That’s not necessary. I knew I was a guy since I was seven, Tony. I had plenty of toys and anything else a boy could want.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Well,” he says, “You know where to find me, if you ever want to play pirates or something.” He winks at Steve.

The image that runs through Steve’s head is not of Tony and him playing pirates.

He almost turns on his heel and leaves, but then he says, “Hey, Tony?”

“Mhm?”

“Do you have any good action movie suggestions?” he asks. “My therapist wants me to expose myself to potential triggers and she suggested action movies. It was my homework this week.”

Tony hops over the couch and settles into the cushions. “Are you seeing Rosen?”

Steve nods.

“She helped me loads after Afghanistan. I was a total mess,” he tilts his head to the side and then snaps his fingers, “John Wick? No,” he says, “Men in Black? JARVIS, queue it up.”

He pats the seat next to him.

Steve sits down, slowly, on the far side of the couch.

Throughout the movie, Tony moves closer, and closer, and closer, until they’re pressed thigh-to-thigh, Tony occasionally tapping or grabbing Steve’s arm at a particularly funny part of the movie.

“You’ll love this,” Tony whispers at one point and curls his hands around Steve’s bicep. Steve does love it—and Steve isn’t paying attention to the movie.

He forces his breathing to steady and then feels immeasurably terrible. He’s mourning his dead ex (ex? Is that what they were?) and here he is getting touchy-feely with Howard Stark’s son.

Here he is, sitting in the dark, stiff as a board in his pants because Tony Stark is touching him. Steve would laugh at the absurdity of the situation if he weren’t so caught up in keeping his breathing normal. “You okay?” Tony asks him.

“Mhm,” he says, “I’m fine,” but it comes out strained. “Just, uh, tired.”

Tony nods, “Time for a noon nap, honestly. But I’d like food, first.”

The movie ends—Steve doesn’t catch the ending because Tony stands up and bends over him and grabs something off of his end table. “Here,” he hands it to him. Steve silently prays Tony doesn’t catch the reason he crosses his legs. “It’s a list of menus from around here. I think I’m going to get fettuccine alfredo from Mari’s—it comes with these mushrooms and sautéed onions, it’s amazing.”

Steve swallows, pretending to read the menu. He isn’t. “I’ll have the same thing, it sounds good.”

“I’ll double yours. Want something to drink?”

“Water’s fine,” Steve says.

“J?” Tony asks, "Three orders of fettuccine alfredo from Mari’s, see if we have any Dr. Pepper in the fridge, too? Or diet Coke.”

“The order has been placed. There are currently twelve cans of Dr. Pepper and five cans of diet Coke in the fridge.”

“Order more, please.”

“Order placed. Your food will arrive shortly.”

JARVIS is right. Within thirty minutes, a kid is coming through the elevator, “Tones,” the kid calls—he can’t be more than fourteen. Steve thinks he’d have been made aware if there was a child in the Tower this whole time. “Got three bowls of pasta for you. This is…wow, Tony.”

“In here Harley!” Tony shouts.

The kid—Harley—puts the bowls down on the coffee table. “Date night? Or… date…noon?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Don’t snark me, kid, I sign your paycheck.”

“You don’t pay me,” he says.  

Tony scoffs. “I’ll start just so I can stop.”

Harley quirks a smile, “You won’t. You like having me here, it’s the only way you can convince my mom to let me go to Midtown.”

Tony opens his arms and the kid gives him a hug. “Wanna stay?”

“Nah,” the kid says, “Some old dude gave me a shit ton of tasks to get done in the R&D labs.”

“Did you get the asshole’s name?” Steve asks, lips quirking upwards.

“Yeah! I think it was, um, Tony Stank?”

“Get!” Tony shouts, but he dissolves into laughter. “Harley Keener, I will send your ass back to Tennessee!”

Harley is laughing as he walks into the elevator, “Love you!”

“Love you, too, you ass! Hey!” Tony tries to go after him, but he trips over Steve’s shoes. “Ow.”

Steve bends to look at where Tony’s laying. Tony smiles up him. “Hi,” Steve says.

“Hi,” Tony giggles. “I love that kid.”

“He seems nice.” Steve reaches to help Tony back onto the couch and hands him one of the plastic bowls of food and a plastic fork. “Here. Eat.”

“Nap, afterwards?” Tony asks, like an actual child.

“Nap,” Steve agrees.

Steve had headed down to his own floor after making sure Tony made it to his room okay—he didn’t have to stay, but he’d wanted to.

And, now, he’s sat on Dr. Rosen’s couch a week later saying, “I added a person. Uh, I added a person to my list.”

Dr. Rosen smiles, “Who would that be?”

“Tony Stark,” Steve says. “He watched Men in Black with me, on Friday. It was…it was good. I didn’t pay attention that well, though.”

“Oh?”

Steve hesitates. “He was, um,” Steve must be beet red.

“You can tell me anything,” Dr. Rosen says, “As long as your comfortable with it. I won’t tell anyone anything or say anything other than help you with your emotional and mental strain.”

Steve clears his throat. “Um, okay, well—I made a joke, right?” Dr. Rosen nods. “I made a joke—because Tony asked if, like, the serum had made everything match and I made a joke that it had. Right? And then, the whole movie, he was like pressed up against me.”

Dr. Rosen smiles slightly, “Steve, it’s okay, I promise.”

Steve holds his head in his hands. “No, it isn’t,” he says, muffled by his palms. “I—I’m still mourning Bucky and I got—I’m so sorry.”

Dr. Rosen stalls, “Steve,” she says, “Correct me if I’m out of line, but were—were you, Captain America, about to say hard.”

Steve coughs into his hands, trying to keep from dying in her office. “Erm—maybe.” He raises his head but keeps a hand over his mouth to not laugh.

Dr. Rosen shakes her head, “Sorry, it just—it caught me off guard. You’ve not said anything like that in all of your sessions.”

Steve groans and buries his head in his palms again. “It’s good!” Dr. Rosen argues, “It means you’re comfortable around me. That’s a good sign.”

“Sorry,” he says, again.

“It’s alright,” she says. “And, honestly, you’ve had this body for, what, two years?”

“Seventy, or so,” he says.

“You’ve been piloting this body for two years,” Rosen corrects. “It really doesn’t mean anything that you were…” she pauses, “I’m trying so hard to word this professionally, Steve, I promise. You were,” she shakes her head, “For lack of better terminology you got an erection but that doesn’t mean it was because of Tony. Again, this body is new, to a degree, and I don’t think anyone would hold that against you.”

She pauses.

“Bad phrasing,” she amends, “I don’t think anyone will be mad at you.”

Steve buries his head in his hands again. “Please,” he says, “Can we—can we move on?”

Dr. Rosen composes herself quickly. “Well, the good news is, the movie didn’t appear to bother you. For this week, I want you to continue that. Watch another movie. Maybe not with Tony this time, I want you to actually watch the film,” she shoots him a wink. “Same time next week, Captain Rogers.”

“Thank you, Doctor Rosen,” he says.

Tony texts him—Tony Stark texts him and Steve jumps to open the StarkPhone as if he were a teenaged boy with a crush.

He’s not—he’s a fully grown man.

He’s not confident that he doesn’t have a crush, though.

From: Tony

Hey, Cap! What’s your homework from Rosen? Anything I can help with?

He smiles before typing back.

To: Tony

I’m supposed to watch more movies! This isn’t super difficult homework?

From: Tony

Come upstairs and actually talk to me! We can get lunch and hang out :)

Steve does, despite his better judgement, go into the elevator and hit the 90^th button. When the doors open, he has to take special care to keep the skip out of his step.

“Tony?”

The response comes from the dining area, “Hey, Cap!” Steve follows the noise, watching Tony lean against one of his counters, scrolling through a hologram and drinking a diet Coke. “How’ve you been?”

Steve approaches Tony, getting as close as he can without feeling like he needs to touch him. “I’ve been alright,” he says, “Therapy is really helping, honestly.”

“That’s good,” Tony says, and he shifts closer, “Anything else going on? Nat told me you’ve been going to the VA.”

“Oh,” he says, “Yeah. I have a friend there—Sam Wilson. He’s real nice. He lost his partner in the line of duty, too, so he gets me in a way not many people can.”

And just like that, it’s like there’s a wall between them. Tony moves back an inch, takes a sip of his drink, and says, “That seems fun. It’s not something that you just can, like, get over. It’s good you’re finding people to help support you.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, “Dr. Rosen has me keep a list of the people I trust—my support people, I guess, like how Bucky and my ma were my support in the day. People I know will bat for me and me for them.”

“Mhm,” Tony hums.

“It’s not much, but, so far I’ve got Sam, Nat and you as my people.”

Tony’s face is comical, he looks like he’s swallowed a bee. “Me?” he asks.

“You,” Steve says.

“Why…me?”

Steve tilts his head. “You’re nice,” Steve says. “You and I have links that not many people have—you know just how much harm Howard Stark can do. You know what it’s like to feel like you can’t be yourself in the eye of the public. And you listen, and you tell me stories when I don’t have anything to say. It’s a good system. It helps me.”

Tony nods along to every word. “That makes sense,” he says, and shifts closer again. Steve doesn’t like this little dance they’re doing—he would rather have Tony stay as close as possible, thank you very much.

They watch Star Wars—Steve doesn’t know which one, just that there’s Tony’s thigh against him, and at one point, Tony practically crawls into his lap to whisper, “I love this part.”

If Tony notices Steve pressed firm against his thigh, he doesn’t say anything. Steve doesn’t know if he’s grateful or not for that.

“I want to do movie nights every Thursday,” Tony says. “It’s fun, and it gives me someone other than the kids to annoy with stupid movie facts.”

“The kids?” Steve asks, digging into his crab Rangoon.

Tony glances sideways at him and then opens his mouth in an ‘ah-hah!’ motion. “Harley and Peter. They’re my, officially, they’re my interns. I met Harley in Tennessee, during the whole Mandarin thing, and Peter’s a little tech genius from Queens. He, uhm, we met because of other things, but he’s mostly here for tech stuff.”

“Queens?” Steve asks.

“Mhm,” Tony says, “Can I try that?”

Steve glances at his plate and turns the uneaten crab Rangoon towards Tony, but Tony picks the half-eaten one from his hand and takes a bite right from where Steve had been eating. He doesn’t moan, per say, but he makes a sound of appreciation as he bites into the food.

And, God, Steve is depraved, because he thinks he’ll do anything to hear that sound again, to see Tony share food with him like they’re in some sort of domestic bliss.

But, alas, they’re on the communal floor, eating food that was meant to be for everyone, which means it was only a matter of time before Bruce walked up to them rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Did—Tones,” Bruce says, like he’s scolding a child, “What have I told you about making sex sounds to make Steve uncomfortable?”

Tony rolls his eyes, “I was showing my appreciation,” Tony defends. “Besides, two weeks ago, he made a joke about his dick.” He whispers the last word conspiratorially.

Bruce takes a bite of Tony’s rice. “I’m sure he did, Tones.”

“He did!” Tony says, mouth full of rice.

Bruce pats his shoulder as he wanders to the fridge. “Tell me if he becomes too much, okay?”

Steve flashes him a thumbs up and a smile.

“I’m not kidding, Brucie Bear! Stevie and I are friends now.” Steve melts at the familiar nickname. “And maybe I’ll take him up on his offer to show me everything the serum changed. You don’t know me.”

Bruce spits the water he was drinking into the sink.

“The filter broken?” Steve asks, knowing damn well why he’d spit the water out.

“Filter works just fine,” Bruce says, glaring at Tony. “Anytime he becomes too much, Cap, just let me know.”

When Bruce leaves to go back to the labs, Steve glares at Tony. “You’ll never get to see everything the serum changed if you keep acting like this around our teammates. Do we need to have another workplace harassment seminar?”

Tony’s eyes light up like a kid in a candy shop. “So, you’re saying if I’m a good boy you’ll let me see all America has to offer?”

Steve steals Tony’s fortune cookie off of his plate and cracks it open. “’To stay still while the world turns is to accept defeat,’” he reads.  

Tony steals his off of his plate, “’Big things are in the future,’” he reads, and then cackles.

“Oh my God,” Steve says, “No, there’s no way it says that.”

It does, in fact, say that.

“Have you decided to join us, today?” Sam asks. “You know, our Saturday sessions are extremely popular with the ladies,” Sam winks. “Old Beatrice might even plant a kiss on your cheek.”

Steve rolls his eyes, “Old Beatrice might have to hold off, ‘cause I’m kind of into fellas.”

“I’ll be sure to tell her,” Sam says, he pats the chair next to him. “Are you sharing today or just listening?”

“I just plan on listening,” Steve brushes a hand through his hair, as if that eases the hurt of hearing other people’s stories. “I don’t think I’m quite ready to share with an audience.”

Sam pats his shoulder, solid and unmoving, “Whenever you’re ready, man,” and then the first of Sam’s group therapy patients walk through the double-doors of the gym.

“Any advancements with Tony?” Dr. Rosen asks.

“I’m going to start canceling these appointments,” he says, but the threat is empty, and she knows it. “Tony’s… Tony.”

“That’s good?”

“Very,” Steve says. “We watched Star Wars. Apparently, it’s a favorite of his interns. He has two—Harley and Peter. I’ve met Harley but I haven’t met Peter yet. I think he’s, like, fourteen? He’s super young, but he’s a genius, according to Tony. He practically acts like they’re his kids.”

Dr. Rosen nods along, “How have things been with Sam and Natasha?”

“Good,” Steve says, “I went to another session of Sam’s and Natasha has been on my floor considerably less—I think she might be busy with something.” Steve knows he can’t say, ‘I think a certain eye-patch wearing asshole sent her and Barton out on a mission but the only person who would know is Tony and I’m afraid of asking Tony anything because I don’t want to take precious time that we could be kissing or something’ so he doesn’t say it.

“That’s good,” she says. “Natasha seems to be easing up because she’s less worried, which is a good sign. It means your closer friends are becoming more confident in your ability to care for yourself.”

Steve nods, “Yeah. It’s good, too, to not have her on my couch every damn morning. She needs to stop breaking in.”

Dr. Rosen closes her eyes, briefly, “You superheroes have the most bizarre problems,” she says. “Your homework for this week is to begin journaling three sections in your notebook: things you want to forget, things you want to remember, and things you don’t want to forget.”

Steve writes, ‘FORGET, REMEMBER, DON’T FORGET,’ in the biggest, blockiest letters he can manage.

FORGET

Bucky’s scream

Bucky falling

The sound of Bucky hitting the ground

The feeling of fluid in my lungs when I was sick

The feeling of a tight chest

The taste of asthma cigarettes and the steroids I had to take

He pauses.

Howard Stark.

And then, he continues to write:

REMEMBER

Ma’s laugh

Miss Barnes’ vanilla apple pie recipe

Becca’s favorite shade of purple

Bucky’s favorite brand of soda from that shop we lived by

DON’T FORGET

Bucky

Ma

Becca

Bucky’s smile

Bucky’s laugh

Bucky’s lips

Miss Barnes

The Howlies

He hesitates, and then he writes:

Tony

Natasha

Sam

He tucks the notebook into his pocket.

Their weekly date—because, Steve is relatively confident, it’s a date. They’re both single, both into guys, both pressed together in a dark room whispering to each other while watching movies. That’s—Steve’s confident that’s a date.

And Tony has taken to mentioning Steve in…less than work appropriate ways, recently. On Wednesday, Tony had the gal to say, “There’s something about those abs, Nat,” and Nat had rolled her eyes while Tony continued, “I could lick whipped cream off of them, I swear to God.”

Steve had desperately tried to avoid Tony’s gaze after that incident.

But now, Steve is pressed thigh-to-thigh with Tony, despite the couch having more than enough space for the two of them.

They’re watching a time travel movie—Steve doesn’t even bother with figuring out the name of it, he’s just happy that he exists in the same room as Tony Stark.

And, at the peak of the movie, there’s a shootout scene, and Tony does crawl into Steve’s lap and tuck his head into Steve’s chest, whispering, “This part makes me real sad,” as the girl on screen dies in the guy’s arms.

Steve clutches him through the scene, and when it’s over, he expects Tony to move out of his lap, but he doesn’t. Instead, Tony just lifts his face from Steve’s shirt to continue watching the movie, hips pressed against Steve’s hips and hands fisted in Steve’s shirt.

It drives Steve mad.

Steve figures, now or never, and says, “Punch me if I’m being stupid,” he leans in slow, giving Tony enough time to dodge or punch, but Tony stays still until their lips meet.

And then, Tony does move. He moves his lips against Steve’s, soft and tender, and brings his hands up to hold Steve around the waist. “This is good,” Tony says in between kisses.

“Good?”

“Mhm,” Tony pulls back and settles his head against Steve’s chest, pressing his face into his shirt. “You don’t know how long I wanted this.” The movie is long forgotten in the background, Steve’s focus on Tony and trying to keep his pants from tenting embarrassingly while Tony’s in his lap.

“I wanted this since…” Steve pauses, “Well, I realized I wanted it at the movie, but I think I wanted it before that.”

He can’t be sure, but he thinks Tony’s smiling against his shirt. “It’s nice,” Tony says, “I like this. This…this is good. I want,” he yawns.

“Naptime?” Steve asks, because naptime has become a staple of their movie watching experiencing.

“Only if you nap with me,” Tony says. “I want us to be a thing. Not just sex. Like, romance.”

Steve kisses Tony tenderly on the forehead, pushing all of the longing he’s felt into the kiss, “Does this seem like I want just sex, Tony?”

Tony’s grin is unbearably contagious when he says, “I want sex, too, though.”

“Of course.”

They do nap in Tony’s massive bed. Steve settles in first and Tony follows suit, resting his head over the super soldier’s chest. “Your heartbeat is loud.”

“Sorry?” Tony asks

“Don’t be,” Steve says. “Super hearing, remember? It’s soothing to me. Reminds me that someone is there to protect me.”

“I’ll always protect you, Stevie,” Tony says, and they fall asleep pressed against each other.

Steve wakes up, surprisingly not embarrassingly hard. That’s one thing about being given a new (surprisingly horny) body with no prior warning: a lot of awkward boners.

No, Steve isn’t hard, but Tony is.

It’s a little past three, according to the holographic clock over Tony’s nightstand. There’s nothing for them to do until Steve plans to meet Natasha for dinner at six and Tony has a meeting with Pepper at seven (Steve doesn’t know when he started memorizing Tony’s schedule, but it happened, and now it’s stuck in his brain forever).

Tony’s awake, too, but he’s pretending to be asleep. “Tony,” Steve says, “I know you’re awake. You’re breathing is too deep.”

Tony opens his eyes, slowly, “Morning, Cap.”

“It’s afternoon,” Steve corrects. And then, just because he can, he presses a kiss to Tony’s forehead. “How was your nap?”

“Good,” Tony says, and then, “A little too good, but, I’m guessing you figured that out.”

Steve can’t help but bite his lip to hold back his grin. He rolls so that his hip bone brushes against Tony’s cock, enough to make the other man hiss but not enough to make it look like anything other than an accident. “Sorry,” he says. He’s not sorry.

Tony looks halfway between jumping Steve’s bones and killing him on the spot.

“Want me to help you?” Steve asks.

“Did that line ever work for you in the forties?” Tony asks.

Steve cocks a smile.

“…I wouldn’t be opposed to help,” Tony says, “Please.”

Steve kisses him, hard, on the lips. “Are we moving too fast?” he pulls back, suddenly worried, searching Tony’s eyes for any concern.

Tony’s gaze is soft, and dare say, loving. “Steve, there’s been sexual tension between the two of us for a month. Get me off, now, or suffer the consequences.”

“Bossy,” Steve says, but he disappears under the covers, anyways, taking Tony in his mouth.

He pointedly doesn’t think about Bucky when he takes Tony to the back of his throat, doesn’t think about the noises Bucky used to make, doesn’t think about how Tony and Bucky might differ in their wants or needs.

Tony gets off quick, noisily, needily. Steve likes it, likes when Tony grabs his hair to maneuver him the way he wants, likes how Tony begs under him like he’s all Tony wants.

And Tony returns the favor, albeit, with better technique (and if Steve spends some mental energy trying to remember the things he wants to do on Tony, he won’t ever admit it aloud).

They did end up taking a shower, which ate into their time a bit, and by the time their presentable to the human race it’s only thirty minutes before Steve is meant to meet up with Natasha.

So, he presses his lips firmly against Tony’s and whispers, “I’ll see you later?”

“Come back tonight,” Tony say against his lips, “Just to sleep, I promise, I sleep better when you’re around.”

“Just to sleep?” Steve asks.

Tony pulls away, and Steve revels in the way his blush reaches his chest. “Maybe more.”

“Maybe,” Steve agrees, pressing one last kiss to Tony’s knuckles. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Don’t go all soft on me, Rogers,” Tony says, “Or I’ll just have to find a newer, cooler model. Half the fun is the fact that you could break me in half if you wanted to, you know.”

Steve blushes like mad up until he sees Natasha’s face.

Tony isn’t in bed when Steve gets to Tony’s floor.

He spends three minutes looking around the 90^th floor—searching everywhere he knows Tony likes to occupy. When that doesn’t work, he calls Tony’s phone.

It rings from the kitchen, plugged into an outlet on a countertop.

“JARVIS?” Steve asks, doing his best to keep his breathing in check (because he has issues, and Tony promised he’d be here tonight, but he’s not, and Steve can only remember that Tony is a normal human person outside of that suit. A normal human person with breakable bones and skin that can be filled with lead and—). “Where’s Tony at?”

“Sir is currently in his lab, Captain Rogers,” JARVIS answers, his voice as soothing as it can be for an AI. “I have informed him that you are searching for him, and he says he will be up in a moment.”

Steve takes a moment to steady his breathing and calm himself, clenching his fists in a slow pattern to distract his brain of how Tony can be hurt dead hurt in pain.

“Steve?” Tony asks from the locked off staircase—the staircase that is only opened by JARVIS. “Are you okay, big guy?”

“I’m fine,” Steve says, squeezing his eyes shut. “I just—got really worried, for a second. It’s stupid. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Tony’s arms snake around his midsection and he rests his head against Steve’s chest. “It’s okay, big guy,” Tony says. Steve doesn’t know why it makes him happy to hear that, but it does. The nickname cools him down from his panic. “I’m sorry, I lost track of time, I promise I’m safe. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Just,” Steve says, bringing Tony closer, “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“’Cause I’m a wreck,” he answers, honestly. “I can’t—I freak out over everything. My brain works a million miles a minute because if something happened…”

Tony sighs against his chest, breath warm through Steve’s shirt. “Can I tell you a secret?” Steve nods, but Tony doesn’t wait for the confirmation. “After Afghanistan, I couldn’t be without Rhodey or Pepper or Happy for, like, a month. It was bad. Every meeting I went to, I had an entourage of angry best friends, making sure I wasn’t about to get tortured and kidnapped again.”

“Jesus,” Steve whispers, pressing a kiss to Tony’s hair. And before he can stop himself, he says, “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’ll never let anything happen to you.”

Tony laughs against his shirt. “I like that nickname.”

“Sweetheart?”

“Mhm,” he says. “I’m trying to say—you have to be sure of where I am, right? And I need someone to know where I am. How about you get to be my EC for JARVIS?”

“EC?” Steve asks.

“Emergency contact,” Tony clarifies. “At any moment, you can ask J where I am or what I’m doing, and as long as I’ve got my watch on, or my phone, or I’m in the building, he’ll be able to tell you.”

Steve takes in the smell of Tony’s shampoo, mint and rosemary, and says, “I’d like that a lot.”

“J? Make it so.”

“The contact for both of you has been updated, Sirs.”

“Sirs?” Tony asks the ceiling, pulling away from Steve to glare at a camera in the corner.

“Have I misread the situation? I assumed due to the nature of your relationship with Captain Rogers that I should update my protocol to include him as my other primary caretaker.”

“I…” Tony pauses. “Steve, I think you just adopted a digital son.”

“We’ve already got a kid together?” Steve tilts his head (Bucky used to always tell him he looked like a puppy with his head like that. He plans to use it to his advantage in this relationship.)

“Technically, Sir has multiple pseudo-children.”

“Multiple?” Steve clarifies, leveling a gaze on Tony. “How many are we talking? Am I paying child support?”

Tony pulls him back into an embrace, pressing kisses against Steve’s jaw. “Well, if you’re going to be my boyfriend, I’d better introduce you to the kids, huh?”

“Boyfriend?” Steve asks.

“Is that okay?”

Steve presses a kiss to his forehead. “Better than okay, Tones. You gonna introduce me to your family?”

Tony claps his hands and the glass door blocking off the staircase slides open. “Follow me, Mr. Rogers.”

And Steve walks hand-in-hand with Tony Stark into the lab.

“This is DUM-E,” Tony says, petting the metal-arm-thing on the hand (hand? Head?). “He saved my life, which means even if he’s a little slow, he can never be donated to a community college. And this is Butterfingers,” he points to another bot, which appears to be sleeping. “She’s a sweetheart, promise. Not a mean bone in her motherboard. And, of course, U.”

“Me?”

Tony points to a third bot, “No. U, like the letter. That bot, right there. He’s a big baby, but I think you’ll love him. Plus, obviously, my human kids—but you met Harley. You just got to meet Pete. And JARVIS, but,” he waves a hand dismissively towards the ceiling, “He already decided you’re here to stay, I suppose.” And then Tony claps his hands, and the three bots bolt to attention. “Kids,” he says, “Come meet daddy’s boyfriend, Steve.”

Butterfingers approaches him first, beeping and whirring curiously, petting Steve’s arm, followed by U, and finally, DUM-E removes himself from his father’s side to approach Steve tentatively. “Hey, bud,” Steve says, and he only feels a little stupid as he crouches down and holds out a hand to DUM-E. “I promise, I’m nice.” And DUM-E chirps happily.

“They like you,” Tony says, and when Steve looks at him his face is so immeasurably soft.

Steve feels like he’s falling in love all over again.

“Good,” Steve says, finally, after a moment of fawning over Butterfingers.

“Good?” Tony asks. “You planning on sticking around?”

 Steve doesn’t even hesitate a bit when he says, “For as long as you’ll have me.”

Tony smiles, bright and happy. “Come on, soldier boy, let the bots recharge. Let’s head upstairs.” DUM-E whirs in what can only be interpreted as sad, pushing closer to Steve. “Nuh-uh, bub. You all need to recharge—no playing, either. Actually recharge, okay? And Steve and I have to do human stuff, like, eat and sleep. I promise we’ll be back down tomorrow, okay?”

Butterfingers tugs on his sleeve and chirps once before returning to the location she once appeared to be sleeping. “Bye, guys.” Steve waves.

“Yes, good, Butterfingers,” Tony says, pointedly towards the two bots that are still crowding Steve on the floor. “Say your goodbyes.”

They chirp and head over to Butterfingers. “You really are their father,” Steve muses.

“Hope dating a single dad doesn’t scare you off,” Tony quips, grabbing his hand and tugging him back up the steps.

“Not exactly single anymore, are you?”

Tony bites his lip, holding back the cutest smile Steve thinks he’s ever seen in his hundred years of life. “Guess not,” he hums, pushing close to Steve as soon as they’re upstairs. “You coming to bed, soldier boy?”

Steve bumps his nose against Tony’s jaw. “I wouldn’t miss a chance to stay with my best guy,” Steve whispers.

And he pulls away as he realizes he’s just recycled a line that once upon a time, Bucky had used on him. “Sorry,” he chokes out. “Go on, I’ll be right there, I promise.”

Tony looks confused, but not overly concerned, pressing a kiss to Steve’s cheek and heading in the direction of his bedroom.

Steve only takes a minute, squeezing and opening his eyes to make sure he’s seeing the world properly, and telling his brain ‘we’ll talk about that at therapy’ before he heads after Tony.

Tony is half-naked, his shirt abandoned in the laundry hamper and his sweatpants hanging tantalizingly low. “Hi,” he says when Steve finally shuts the door behind him. “You might want to lock it, too. Every night you stay here, you run the risk of Pepper breaking and entering.”

Steve presses a kiss to the tendon of Tony’s shoulder. “You run that same risk with Natasha at my place,” he says.

“Scary red heads and their illegal ways.”

Steve moves to turn the manual lock and then clicks the electronic button. “Any reason why you think we should be keeping Pepper out?”

Once he’s turned back towards Tony, Tony wraps his arms around his neck and pulls him down towards the bed, forcing them both onto the blankets. “I’ve got some ideas,” Tony drawls, drawing circles against Steve’s neck with his thumb. “I was wondering if I could run some of them by you. I mean,” he pauses, “You are the Man with A Plan, after all.”

Steve laughs at the terrible line, pushing his face into Tony’s stomach as if that will dissolve the giggles he’s fallen into. “What are your ideas, cadet?”

Tony groans, “Oh, yes, that is definitely an idea we should play around with properly. Dear God.”

Steve bites the skin of his hip in warning. “Gonna leave me waiting, or do you plan to share with the class?

“I, oh,” Tony says, when Steve begins sucking a bruise into the bite. “I was thinking that we could, um, I just wanted—”

“Can I get my mouth on you?” Steve pulls back to ask.

Tony blushes. Steve takes a moment of pride that Tony Stark, playboy extraordinaire, is blushing in his own bed because of Steve Rogers. “Please,” he whispers, “I want to—inside. Me. Please.”

Steve freezes, pausing his kisses and staring at Tony through his eyelashes. “I’ve never,” he says, slowly, “I mean, I,” he pauses, trying to find the right words while Tony gazes at him patiently despite his lust-blown pupils. “I’ve never done that,” he finally says. “Not with anything besides my fingers.”

“You’ve fingered someone?” Tony asks, and Steve braces himself for anger, but Tony just rolls his hips. “That’s—really hot. You should—” Tony pauses, struggling, “New plan, actually, and it’s you telling me about all the hot stuff you got up to. I want to hear you.”

“You want me to talk?” Steve clarifies.

“Mhm,” Tony murmurs, “Tell me about everything you like doing, everything you had done to you, please.”

“You’re calling the shots,” Steve says, dipping his head to press one final kiss to Tony’s lips. “Just sucks I won’t be using my mouth for much. That’s always my favorite. I—” he pauses, “How specific am I allowed to get?”

“So long as you don’t mention Aunt Peggy or Howard,” Tony says.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve pulls back, and he can’t help the laugh that bubbles up in him, bumping his forehead against Tony’s arc reactor. “No—I, no, oh my God. I never. With either of them.”

Tony laughs, bright and easy, pulling Steve’s lips to his once before saying, “I hoped not. Now, what were you saying about using your mouth?”

Steve presses his lips against Tony’s, opening them enough to take Tony’s bottom lip between his teeth before letting go. He relishes in the way Tony runs his tongue over his swollen lips. “Just that it’s always been my favorite thing,” he says, keeping his tone conversational as if Tony isn’t straining against his pants, “I used to get on my knees everywhere, you know. Bucky used to tell me I was made for it—for getting on my knees and,” he reaches a hand down and cups Tony’s erection. “Just taking him everywhere.”

“Everywhere?” Tony asks, breathless.

“Everywhere,” Steve confirms. “The movies, the alleys—” he pauses, “Church.”

Tony groans.

“Fuck, Stevie,” Tony says.

“Yeah, doll?”

“Can you—” he swallows, tight and constricting, “Tell me more. Let me touch myself, please.”

“Yeah, doll,” Steve reaches down to help Tony shimmy out of his pants and underwear. When they’ve managed to maneuver him out of his clothing, Steve watches the way his angry red cock bounces against his toned stomach, precum trailing across his abs. “You’re so pretty,” he says, brushing a finger through the slit of Tony’s cock, gathering the precum on his thumb and pushing it into Tony’s mouth. “I love it so much, baby doll,” he whispers, like it’s a secret, “You should’ve seen us. Bucky was always struggling so hard to stay quiet and I’d be wet through my pants on the cinema floor.”

Tony moans around his thumb, his hands coming to fist at his cock.

“And then, when I got the serum,” Steve says, “I got to experience that in return for the first time. Not that Bucky never sucked me off before,” he smiles up at Tony, reaching his unoccupied hand down to jerk Tony off slowly. “But it’s different, you know. I used to love when Buck would dip his tongue in me, he’d put his fingers in and fuck me ‘til I was all open for him, and then he’d do it again for him and him only.”

“Fuck,” Tony groans around his thumb. Steve removes it. “Who knew Captain America would be such a good dirty talker.”

“Brought Bucky off a few times with just my words,” Steve says.

“Starting to feel like this is a threesome,” Tony says.

Steve moves his hands back. “We don’t need to keep going, baby,” he says, “I’m fine to just do whatever. I’m just happy to be here.”

“You’re such a gentleman it hurts,” Tony mutters, guiding his hand back down to grasp him. “I like this. I know it’s weird, but…”

“Not weird,” Steve assures him, pressing a slopping kiss to his lips. “It’s hot. You know how pliant you are? You’re all spread out beneath me, you look like a painting, Tones.”

“Want it so bad,” Tony says, hands curling around Steve’s biceps.

“I know, baby,” Steve smooths a hand over Tony’s hair, brushing the stray hairs out of his face. “It’s okay, It’s okay,” he holds Tony a little tighter, moves his hand quicker between their bodies.

“Close,” Tony promises.

“It’s okay,” Steve assures him, “You can let go, I’ve got you.”

Tony cums all over Steve’s hands, panting heavy as Steve works him through his orgasm.

“Was that good?” Steve asks, brushing his lips against Tony’s temple in a not-quite kiss.

“Excellent,” Tony answers. “I want to—there’s so many things I want to do with you. You better not be lying to me about that whole ‘sticking around’ thing. I’m holding you to it.”

“I’m counting on it,” Steve says.

“Let me suck you off,” Tony says, moving quickly to take Steve’s place on the floor, but Steve holds him down with his hands. “Let me clean you up, first, okay?”

And Tony lays obediently still while Steve runs a wet cloth over his skin and kisses the red skin of his hip where Steve gripped a bit too hard. “Good,” Steve finally says, content with his cleaning. He tosses the cloth into the hamper.

“Bed, please,” Tony requests, voice overly polite. He lets Steve manhandle him onto the floor and take his prior spot on the bed. “Can you, um,” he glances up at Steve through his eyelashes, big doe eyes shy in the dim light of the bedroom, “Can you pull my hair, please?”

Steve separates his knees slowly, letting Tony settle in between his thighs as he begins the process of unzipping his pants.

Tony doesn’t even bother removing any of his clothes, just slides his pants to his thighs and focuses his attention on Steve.

He wraps a hand around Steve, steadying him while he lowers his mouth around him. Steve tentatively tangles his left hand into Tony’s dark locks. “You’re so good,” he tells Tony, pushing him a little deeper onto his cock. Tony’s hands work over what his mouth can’t reach, moving over Steve’s length. “You get—Christ, Tony.”

They spend too long like that, until Tony’s jaw gets sore and he pulls off to say, “It didn’t take you this long last time,” with a terrible pout that makes Steve want to cuddle him for years.

“Baby,” he soothes, running his hands over Tony’s hair. “Baby, I promise, you’re so good. It’s the serum, is all.”

“I wan’ you to feel good,” Tony says, muffled by his face buried in Steve’s thigh.

“You make me feel good,” Steve assures him. “I’m close, doll, I’m close.”

Tony obediently takes him back in his hands—albeit, not in his mouth, which Steve understands—working over him frantically like he’s getting paid per orgasm. “Come on my face,” Tony instructs.

And Steve obeys, nearly immediately, painting Tony’s lips and cheeks. And then, like the terrible person he is, Tony takes Steve’s softening cock into his mouth and cleans the tip.

Steve tucks himself back into his pants and tells Tony, “Sit, on your heels. I’m cleaning you up, again.”

Tony beams at him from the floor, licking his lips as if to prove Steve doesn’t have to move at all, but Steve still retrieves a (new) cloth from Tony’s massive bathroom. He picks Tony up and deposits him onto the bed, wiping his face in gentle strokes, careful to not push too hard or scrape his skin (no matter how soft the towel is).

“You’re good for me,” Tony says, “Handsome. My handsome man.” He sounds near delirious.

“Let’s get you to bed.” Steve pushes Tony’s hair back from his face. “Do you want boxers or something?”

“No,” Tony says, rolling onto his side to drag Steve into the bed. “You should get naked. Naked cuddles. It’ll be good.”

Steve can’t argue with that logic.

Steve has to go into therapy on Tuesday, smiley as can be, and Dr. Rosen reads him a little too well.

“Leave any post-coital joy at the door,” she says, clicking her pen against her notepad. “We’re here to unpack trauma, not dote over pretty billionaires.”

“So, you agree,” Steve says, repeating a line from a movie Natasha and Clint have forced him to watch, “You think he’s pretty.”

“And he’s quoting Mean Girls,” Rosen throws her hands into the air. “Will I ever get my angsty Captain Rogers back?”

“No can do, Doc,” Steve grins from ear-to-ear. “Haven’t you heard the news? I’ve got a boyfriend.”

“And I have a wife of twelve years,” Dr. Rosen says, “I’m so happy that we’ve done our introductions.” Dr. Rosen purses her lips, “Steven, relationships have this terrible trend of either encouraging a person to get better or forcing a person to stay in their worst. I need you to be diligent in getting better. No matter how good this relationship is, you are the first priority.”

Nicholas Fury is shot.

That’s—Steve doesn’t know what to do when he comes home from a meeting with Natasha to see Fury on Tony’s couch, bleeding.

“Tony doesn’t get home until eight,” Steve says, at a loss for words as Nick Fury bleeds all over the deep green couch that they usually hold movie nights on.

“I’m not here for Stark,” Fury says, and then he winces in pain, clutching his wound and gasping like he’s losing air in his lungs. “My wife kicked me out.”

He holds up a phone, it reads: SHIELD COMPROMISED.

“How many people know about your wife?”

“Not many,” Fury responds. “Just my friends.”

HYDRA. ASSASIN AFTER ME.

“You don’t think of Stark as a friend?”

Fury quirks a cocky smile. “I let some bugs into our apartment, apparently. Wife wasn’t too overjoyed.”

“What kind? Ladybugs are harmless, you know.”

“Cockroaches,” Fury answers, easily. “They infest everything. Seem to spread impossibly fast.”

PIERCE. RUMLOW. BAD.

ROMANOFF. AVENGERS. SAFE.

SHARON CARTER. SAFE.

The elevator dings and Fury turns his gaze onto the doors.

Tony walks out, saying, “I thought I heard something about Fury being in town,” he flashes such a winning smile at Steve, he almost forgets that Fury is bleeding on his couch. “Sweetheart, it looks like Fury’s got a papercut, go get me the first aid kit from under the sink in my bathroom.”

Steve glances nervously between Fury and Tony.

Neither of them take their eyes off of the other. Steve gets the first aid kit as fast as he can, practically running back to the lounge space. Tony has already pressed a throw pillow against the wound and the blinds are pulled over all of the windows. Tony then says, “I’m sure Fury can handle that on his own. Mind speaking to me in our room, dear?”

Steve blinks, once, twice, and then follows Tony into his bedroom (which he doesn’t get excited at the idea of it being their room, of course not). “Fury’s bugged,” Tony says, as soon as they’re behind closed doors. “There’s a guy scoping the place out. Fury confirmed it was the guy that shot him, originally. We’re going to send EMT’s his way, and we’re going to fake a flatline. Natasha knows this, but besides her, Hill, and us, no one else knows.”

“What is happening?” Steve asks.

Tony licks his lips. “I would never ask you to go into a fight I didn’t think you would win,” he says, “Which is why both Fury and I think we need to avoid engaging the shooter.”

“Like hell,” Steve says, and then a shot rings out.

And it hits the wall to the left of Tony’s head. “That’s our queue to get out of here,” Tony says, pulling on Steve’s arm, but Steve tugs his sleeve out of Tony’s grip.

“Hide,” Steve says.

“Steve,” Tony says, warning.

“He tried to shoot you,” Steve says, simply, “I will not let him live.”

Steve comes back empty handed, with nothing but a description of a man who shouldn’t be able to go toe-to-toe with him.

But he’s able to.

And the thought terrifies Steve.

“Bucky’s alive,” is all Steve can tell Tony before Tony’s face falls.

And Steve watches every terrible emotion flicker past Tony’s eyes as he says, “Bucky is trapped as the Winter Soldier. The Winter Soldier killed your parents, Tony, God, I,” he presses forward. “Zola, he experimented on him, in Azzano. Made him like me. And he must’ve survived the fall and I stopped looking for him—oh my God, Tony, I stopped looking for him,” and he collapses into Tony’s arms, face in Tony’s shoulder as he breaks into sobs. “Seventy years of torture and I could’ve stopped it. I just accepted that he was dead. I didn’t reach further.”

“It’s okay,” Tony whispers, pressing kisses to Steve’s face and hair, “It’s okay. You can help him.”

“I killed him,” Steve sobs.

“If anyone can bring Bucky Barnes back,” Tony continues, “It’s you. Bring him home, soldier boy, and return in one piece. I can’t be explaining to our children why they got a father and lost him in the short span of a year.”

And there’s a reminder in there, too: you promised you were here to stay. “As if I’d ever leave my bot children behind,” Steve says.

“Your baby girl would spend a year moping if you never came back.”

“Butterfingers would. But it’s their father I’m worried about,” Steve says, “He’s got this terrible habit of not taking care of himself unless I make him.”

“Bring Bucky Barnes home,” Tony says, “And bring my boyfriend home, too, okay?”

“Promise,” Steve presses his nose to Tony’s hair. “I promise. I love you.”

And when Tony presses his himself against Steve until they collapse onto the bed, he repeats, “I love you,” until he’s passed out.

“Do you know who I am?”

“You’re Steve,” Bucky says, slow, “I read—I read about you in a museum.”

And Steve would’ve bought it, too, had he not known Bucky inside and out. Had he not promised at nine years old to follow Bucky until death.

But he knows, in this life, in this universe, that Bucky is lying. He can see it in the way his eyes flick between the shield and Steve. Bucky Barnes remembers him.

Steve says, “I made a promise to someone really important, Buck.”

“What, w-what would that be?” he asks. He’s not warry of Steve standing in his kitchen, but Steve can tell he’s warry of the people outside of the apartment.

“I promised I’d bring you to safety. I promised my boyfriend that I’d get home safely,” Steve says. It’s an explanation and an apology: I found someone new. I’m sorry.

Bucky’s eyes grow large for a second at the word boyfriend, and then he schools his expression into neutrality. “That St-St-Stark fellow? I like him for you, Ace. Seems n-nice, plenty smart, real competent. Lord—Lord knows you don’t have enough of that.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “He’s not the best with common sense and self-care, though, so it balances out.”

“S-Seems like a swell fella,” Bucky drawls, eyes watching the door. “Wouldn’t mind mee-meeting him.”

“Yea?” Steve asks, “That can be arranged.”

Bucky is brought in unharmed, save for the lack of a functioning limb and the severe brain damage from his years as a HYDRA servant.

Tony holds Steve as tight as possible when he gets off of the quinjet, not even caring about the rest of the team gathered around when he presses a kiss to Steve’s lips. “Missed you,” he mumbles. “You’re not going away again, right?”

“No,” Steve promises. “I’m not going away anytime soon, promise.”

Tony removes himself from his forceful hug and straightens out his shirt. He nods to Bucky, who has slowly taken his usual place to Steve’s right. “Tony Stark,” he says. He doesn’t hold out a hand, but Bucky nods right back as if they’ve exchanged a bizarre hands-free introduction.

“James Barnes,” Bucky responds. “This punk calls me Bucky.”

And then, for the first time Steve has ever seen, Bucky twitches uncontrollably. It lasts for two seconds, but it’s a jarring motion: his flesh shoulder shoots toward his ear and his neck bends to the left. “Ouch,” he says, when the tic is finished, rubbing the left side of his neck and squeezing his eyes shut. “Th-that’s the worst one.”

“The worst one?” Steve asks.

“The worst tic, right?” Tony confirms. “You’re having tics. Like, your body is doing stuff without permission.”

“An’ I go-got this fuck-fu-fucking stutter, now,” Bucky says, almost embarrassed. “I-I’d say I d-didn’t know where it came from, bu-but I go-got so much fu-fucking br-b-brain, brain damage.”

“Probably,” Bruce agrees, softly. “You’re probably a bit out of whack. I mean, your nervous system has taken quite a hit. And, if HYDRA’s reports were to be trusted, you suffered from a severe amount of brainwashing and mental and physical torture.”

“So-sounds ‘bout right,” Bucky agrees. “So, so, s-so, fair warning, ‘m a li-li-little fucked up.”

“You’re not fucked up, Bucky,” Steve says.

Bucky offers him the saddest smile Steve has ever seen, “Awe, slugger, I’m mo-more fucked up then even I kno-know.”

“Then you’ll fit right in,” Tony assures him, and he pulls Steve’s hand into his much smaller ones and says, “We’ll take good care of you here, Sarge, promise.”

Bucky doesn’t get a whole floor—not right away, at least. He takes a suite from the common floor—the closest one to the kitchen. It contains a bathroom and a small lounge with a television and a small kitchenette.

It’s more than enough, Bucky tells Tony.

“Welcome, Sergeant Barnes.”

Bucky doesn’t even flinch when JARVIS speaks—doesn’t make the mistake of staring at the ceiling like Steve does. Instead, he simply glances to one of JARVIS’ cameras to nod.

“That’s JARVIS,” Steve explains, “He’s the AI that runs the Tower. Tony made him, back in MIT at…um, I think twenty? Rhodes helped him. Anyways, JARVIS is pretty neat. I think you’ll like him.”

“Flattered, Sir,” JARVIS responds, drily.

Bucky nods, once, and shoots Steve a semi-shaky smile of crooked and chipped teeth. “You befriend snarky Brits in every century?”

Steve shrugs and smiles back.

Steve wonders if Bucky—if the Winter Solider—had been spying on the Tower. It would explain why nothing seems to ever surprise him.

Or he could just be a damn good assassin.

There’s a split second of time where Steve watches Bucky with the intent to talk to him, as he sits on his brand new c but Tony grabs him by the shoulder, “Let him be,” he says. Tony’s not soft, or gentle, hardly even kind when he tries, but he can be damn convincing when he wants to be. “Let him have time to adjust. We have to prove that we aren’t forcing him into anything, and that means letting him seek people out.”

So, Steve sulks away, following Tony into his lab like they would do when Steve was restless and wanted to sketch the bots or play with them.

“Good afternoon, Sirs,” JARVIS says. “Captain Rogers, I believe DUM-E, U, and Butterfingers have felt your absence deeply.”

As if summoned by JARVIS, the three bots slowly whir into action, moving off of their charging stations and surrounding Steve and beeping incessantly. “Hey, guys,” Steve says, sitting crisscross on the floor while the bots tug at his clothes and hair and hands. “I missed you, you know, but I’m not leaving again, I promise.” He shoots a look to Tony—he’s watching them with the softest smile on his face—and prays he gets the message.

“And, maybe,” Tony says, “We’ll bring a new friend down here for you guys to play with.”

Butterfingers makes a weird clicking noise with her claw, Steve interprets it as a happy noise by the way she whirs like a small motorcycle. “You’d be willing to bring Bucky to your lab?”

“Mhm,” Tony hums. He turns his back to them and pulls up a hologram—a 3D spec of Bucky’s arm. “He needs a new arm. I had J scan it, on the roof, just to make sure we didn’t have any hidden Soviet explosives in there that might go off. Turns out, you’re buddy is in chronic pain. Look,” he zooms in on the elbow joint. “It’s attached to his nervous system, right? But it’s so heavy, they had to reinforce his shoulder with that ugly mass of metal, and his spine, too. He’s probably miserable, super strength or not, and I bet he’s having awful joint problems because of it.”

Steve thinks of the tic Bucky had on the roof, how his shoulder had so suddenly jerked, and how even the small, “ouch” he’d let out had been painful to hear.

He feels like shit for not realizing it.

“That doesn’t mean—Tony,” Steve says, “You don’t have to do this.”

“He’s the longest held prisoner of war, ever,” Tony points out. “I’d be a monster if I didn’t do this.” He pauses, though, as if rethinking his words. He doesn’t take them back. “Kids, show your father the terrible projects you’ve been up to.”

And just like that, DUM-E is tugging Steve off of the floor and into the “bot-friendly” zone. He whirs, pointing to a completed Rubik’s cube, and Butterfingers proudly shows him a 300-piece puzzle, and Steve pats them both on what he imagines is their heads.

Bucky spends about two days by himself in his room, and then, on the third day (a Friday, when everyone including Peter and Harley have been forced by Tony into a family dinner) Bucky emerges.

Steve takes note of the clothes he must’ve had JARVIS order—a blue hoodie and a pair of light blue, straight-legged jeans.

“Nice ‘fit, Buckaroo,” Tony comments as Bucky walks bare-footed into the team kitchen. “Actually, wait, I don’t think I ever asked what name you want to be called by. I know you said Bucky but—”

Bucky takes a seat right next to Steve. “Bucky’s fine.”

Tony blinks at where Bucky’s seated. “Bucky it is, then.”

“’S there a p-problem, doll?” Bucky asks, gazing back at Tony, and Tony just continues to blink.

“It’s just, um, I usually sit next to Steve,” Tony says, “And Natasha usually sits on the other side of him. But, if Nat’s got no problem, I’ll just take her spot.”

Steve watches as Bucky moves to stand up, bumps into Tony, and subsequently pushing Tony into Steve’s lap on accident. There’s an oomf as Tony falls, and Bucky tries to reach for him, but it’s clear that he’s desperately trying not to overstep at all, because he pulls his hand away at the last minute.

“This is an okay seat,” Tony says, and Steve rolls his eyes.

“I’ll push you onto the floor.”

“You wouldn’t,” Tony says, scandalized. “Did you hear that, J? He leaves for a few months and thinks he can go bossing us around.”

“Certainly, Sir. The attitude on him.”

Steve picks Tony up bridal style and deposits him into the chair to the left while he complains, “The sass! I was your father first, JARVIS. Don’t forget it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Sir.”

Tony false-pouts and pulls his legs up into a crisscross position on the chair—which Steve figures is perfectly comfortable when you’re that size (he remembers doing that, himself, before the serum). Now, at six foot, Steve doesn’t think it would be quite as stable.

“You,” Steve says, pointing a finger at Tony, “Sit, and eat, and stop antagonizing JARVIS before he rewrites his own code again.”

“I’ve been grounded?” Tony demands, eyebrows furrowed and mouth open in shock.

“Payback,” Tony’s intern—the one that Steve never really officially met—says from across the table.

“You deserved a time out,” Tony argues, “Stevie, tell them. They deserved timeouts!”

“You deserved timeouts,” Steve agrees.

“You weren’t there,” Harley protests, “How can you be on his side if you weren’t there?”

Clint makes a motion with his hand, “Wapush,” he says, “Whipped.”

Natasha must stomp on his foot under the table because he yelps and brings his feet onto his chair.

“I still know what you did,” Steve says, “I’m ninety, not dead. Tony sent me pictures, and let me tell you, I don’t think there’s ever meant to be footprints on a ceiling. Especially not when accompanied by burn marks, Jesus, kids.”

Bucky leans into him, which Steve tries desperately not to show a reaction to, and whispers, “Do—do you have ki-k-kids?”

“Kind of,” Steve whispers back. “Not really. They’re our interns.”

“I’m o-old,” Bucky says, “but, but, I d-don’t think interns reg-reg-regularly have din-dinner with their bosses-es-es,” he pauses, working his words slowly, “With their bosses, unless some-something ch-changed in the past fifty, fifty years.”

Steve shrugs. “We’re a bit unorthodox.”

“Unorthodox,” Bucky mocks. “Who, who, who are y-you and what di-di-did you do to my St-Steve-Stevie who could-could-couldn’t even say his ‘r’s and ‘w’s c-correctly?”

“The speech impediment is still there,” Steve says.

“Impediment,” Bucky mocks. “You, you, you b-barely passed th-third grade,” he says, and then he slows his sentence to his every sound smoothly, “An’ you tellin’ me that you, you, you use these words now?”

“Steve can be smart,” Natasha says.

“Thank you!”

“Rarely,” she says, as an afterthought. “But it’s been known to happen.”

“I hate you,” he grabs a generous helping of the sugar-glazed sweet potatoes. And then, he notices that on either side of him, there’s been no movement towards the food.

Tony has spent the whole conversation glancing between Steve and Bucky, gears turning as he seems to compute something. Steve doesn’t bother forcing him to eat—if he’s in the zone (probably about Bucky’s arm), he’ll appreciate being left to think. Steve will force him to eat as soon as his brain slows.

Bucky, however, is eyeing the food like it’s poison.

“It’s good,” he promises Bucky. “Tony and Pepper vet every single chef or staff that comes near our food. You don’t have to eat it, if you don’t want to, but I promise it’s way better than what we used to eat.”

And that seems to be the push that Bucky needed, taking the salad tongs from the bowl and loading his plate with a baked potato, a generous ribeye steak, a salad drowned in balsamic vinegar, and enough sweet potatoes to kill.

Steve wonders if he’s been eating enough for his metabolism since he’s arrived.

Steve settles in comfortably between Bucky and Tony, watching as Tony mimics Bucky the same way he mimics Steve.

It was a trick Steve had learned early on—eating food in front of Tony makes Tony mimic you. It works better if he liked you more, but he’ll copy most people at least a bit.

It reminds Steve of how Bucky used to trick him into sleep by telling him he needed Steve to nap with him—and when Steve would wake up, Bucky would’ve stayed up making dinner while Steve slept off his fever.

And it hits Steve like a bullet to his chest, like a plane to the artic—he never really stopped loving Bucky Barnes.

And he doesn’t think he can stop loving Tony Stark.

They turn in early, or at least, Steve does.

Tony spends thirty minutes making sure Harley and Peter get to Peter’s aunt’s apartment okay. Apparently, Happy drove them, but it didn’t stop Tony from wanting to tag along.

And when they’re finally both alone in the same room, Tony wastes no time pushing Steve onto their bed like a sack of potatoes.

Of course, Steve lets himself fall, but Tony is so pleased with himself as he straddles Steve’s hips, he’ll never say it aloud.

“Missed you,” Tony mumbles, pushing his lips to Steve’s collarbone.

“Missed you, too,” Steve says, and his voice hitches, slightly. “Missed you so much, you’ve got no idea.”

“You’re not allowed to leave again.”

“I’m not planning it,” Steve assures him. “I need you like I need air, Tones. I’m not leaving your side ever again.”

“Good,” Tony whispers. He lifts his head from Steve’s chest, and Steve pushes the tears that are beginning to spill away with his thumbs.

“Sweetie,” Steve says, “Are you okay? You’re crying.”

Tony’s eyes well even more. “’M fine,” he says and kisses Steve softly. “Just…been thinking.”

“You and your brain,” Steve says, fondly. “What’re you thinking about?”

“What I’ll do without you,” Tony whispers.

Steve freezes, his thumbs under Tony’s eyes, wiping away tears that haven’t fallen yet. “What?”

Tony gives him the saddest smile, “I know you love him,” he whispers. “It’s okay. It’s going to be alright. I’ll get through it, I swear. I just want tonight, okay?”

“Tony,” Steve’s voice is dying in his throat like a failed music box. “I’ll never leave you. You’re—I love you, Tones.”

“I love you, too,” Tony pushes Steve’s hair away from his eyes. “I love you so, so much, Steve. I’m trying to be the bigger person, for once in my life. You need Barnes. Barnes needs you. You’ve been mourning him since the day we met.”

“And I’ve been loving you,” Steve argues. “I don’t—sure, I never got over Bucky, not completely. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you, still. Didn’t you think about what I want?”

“What do you want, then?” Tony asks, angry. It’s weird to have him here, hips pressed together, fire in his words, and feel sad.

Usually, Steve’s at least half-hard by now, but that died when the crying started.

“I want,” Steve pauses. “I want you, Tones.”

“But you want him, too,” Tony argues.

“And can’t I?” Steve says, slow, “I’ll never leave you, Tones. But he’s my best friend. I’ve got to be there for him.”

Tony’s tears slow and Steve wipes them away again, placing his palms on either side of his face to kiss him hard. “I want both of you,” Steve says, “But I can’t have both. I’m choosing you, okay?”

Tony frowns and Steve’s afraid he’s going to have to get a box of tissues in the case of more tears, but Tony says, “Why not?”

“What?”

“Why can’t you have both?”

Steve’s jaw drops. “Because I’d never cheat on you, Tones.”

“Not cheating,” Tony says, slow, carefully. “Just…dating two people. We’d all be aware of it, you know? We’d just…you’d have both. Barnes and me. I’d still have you, and you could help Barnes, and you could have everything you ever wanted.”

“No,” Steve says, immediately. “I want you.”

“You’re not listening,” Tony groans, “You can have me. And Barnes, too. I’m into it. I’m fine with it. If Barnes is, too, it could work.” Steve goes to protest, again, but Tony says, “You’re not even letting yourself want that. Really, really think about it, okay? Right now. Imagine what it would be like.”

Steve lets himself to think about what it would be like to have a date night with Bucky and come home to sleep in Tony’s bed, to kiss Bucky good morning and Tony good night, to hold either of their hands whenever he wants.

He thinks Bucky—thinks about how his hands feel, his mouth, his—

“You’re imagining a little too well,” Tony says, breathless, “What were you thinking of, Stevie?”

Steve’s breath leaves his lungs as Tony grinds slow and lazily against his cock, “This feels—” he pauses, “It feels wrong, that I—that you know things about Bucky, now, and Bucky didn’t tell you.”

“That I know things?” Tony smirks. “Like how hard he would get from your mouth alone? Anyone would be like around you, Steve, you’re a goddamn marble statue. You’re a fucking work of art.”

“Probably shouldn’t have told you those things,” Steve chokes out. “He didn’t really get a say in you knowing, huh?”

Tony stills. “Did it make you uncomfortable? To know that I found that hot?”

Steve shakes his head—“It makes me uncomfortable how hot I found it.”

Tony grins. “Maybe I’ll be able to see it in action, one day.” Steve groans, pulling him down for a heated kiss. “You like the idea of that? Of me and Barnes there, together, for you to use? Whatever you wanted, we’d listen.”

Steve whispers, so quietly, “I want it.”

“I know, baby,” Tony smooths a kiss over his forehead. “I know you do. I know, baby.”

“Want you—” Steve struggles to breathe as Tony pushes his pants down to his ankles, taking time to remove ever strip of clothing, leaving him bare and shivering on their bed. “In me, please, Tony.”

“Of course,” Tony says, and presses a kiss to his lips. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Steve manages to choke out, feeling Tony’s fingers brushing up and down his cock, collecting precum on his fingers. “Please, Tones, please.”

Tony does—slow, agonizingly slow, like he’s proving to Steve how much he loves him. Like he’s trying to convince Steve. And Steve cums with Tony’s name on his lips, and Tony’s close to follow, mumbling sweet things into Steve’s ear and kissing his neck right above his pulse point.

“We’ll tell him,” Tony promises. “You’ll get your boy back, Rogers.”

Steve sleeps through the morning and lays alone in bed until noon.

Which is, probably, the first time he hasn’t woken up before 9 in two years.

He tumbles into the kitchen, where a stack of waffles, a Tupperware container of fruit, and maple syrup are waiting for him on the table. There’s a note that says: morning Stevie! You seemed tired, so I let you sleep. I’m working on Barnes’ arm today. -TS

“J?” Steve asks the ceiling—something Tony makes fun of him for.

“Yes, sir?”

“Where’s Tones?”

“Sir is in his lab with Segreant Barnes.”

“What are they doing?” Steve says, trying to keep in heartbeat in check.

“They are going over Sir’s potential prosthetics for Sergeant Barnes.”

Steve punches the code into the wall—Tony’s graduation date from MIT (something his parents never saw and Obie never really bothered to remember)—and heads into the metaphorical lion’s den.

“Tones?” he calls, “Hello?”

And something whirs, beeps, and then there’s a mechanical squeal that has Steve moving out of the way as DUM-E runs circles around him.

And an out-of-breath Bucky is following closely behind. “Jesus,” he breathes. “Th-this g-goddamned,” he has a tic, then, his flesh hand clenching into a fist and shooting into the air, “Bot moves t-to fast.”

“DUM-E?” Steve asks, turning to face his bot-son. “Why is Bucky chasing you, bud?”

DUM-E beeps.

“DUM-E claims that he wanted to hold Mr. Barnes shiny thing. I believe he means Mr. Barnes’ arm. They’ve been playing for the past thirty minutes or so. Butterfingers is charging, currently, and U is aiding Sir in the fabrication process.”

Steve pats DUM-E. “You can’t grab people’s arms, bud. It’s not nice.” DUM-E beeps mournfully in response. “Say sorry, bud.”

DUM-E wheels to Bucky and lets out a series of whirs and beeps. “DUM-E expresses apology for attempting to steal your arm, Sergeant Barnes.”

Bucky looks a bit oddly at the bot. “I-it’s okay, bu-bud. I was jus-just, just playing with y-you.”

DUM-E beeps, wheeling a circle around the two super soldiers. “Where’s your dad at, bud?” Steve asks, before he can stop himself from saying it.

Bucky furrows his brows, staring Steve down.

Steve doesn’t know how to say, sorry, Tony builds sentient robots, and they all think of him as their dad so I’ve sort of adopted them and they’re all my kids, too, now, sorry.

DUM-E wanders through the lab to the fabrication tube, where Tony’s watching U delicately weld metal plates together. “There’s my handsome super soldier,” Tony says as the trio approaches, “Oh, and he’s brought Steve, too.”

Steve smiles, taking his place next to Tony and folding his arms over his chest. “How’s it going?”

“It’s, well,” Tony shrugs. “Trying to figure out whether I should keep the reinforced joints or suffer Barnes unto surgery. Difficult choices.”

“I’m sure you’ll pick the best option,” Steve assures him, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“You put too much faith in me.”

Steve smiles and presses a kiss to his lips, “I put the right amount of faith in you. Where’s my baby girl at?”

“She’s at her charging station. Her battery got replaced—she bent it in half, somehow, and now she’s all angry at me for replacing it. Maybe she’ll like you better than me.”

“She always like me better than you,” Steve points out. “C’mon, Buck. Wanna meet another one of the bot-kids?”

Bucky raises his eyebrows, “A-Are they alive?”

“Don’t ask that about our kids!” Tony says, scandalized. “Of course, they’re sentient. And they love their father, you know, especially Butterfingers.”

“DUM-E’s definitely Tony’s kid,” Steve tells Bucky. “But I think I’m Butterfingers’ favorite.”

Bucky hums, nervous (if the way he clenches and unclenches his flesh hand is any indicator), but follows Steve to the back of the lab. “B-bot kids?” he asks, when they’ve finally moved out of Tony’s ear range.

“They’re like,” Steve turns the words over in his head, “They all think of Tony as their dad, basically. When Tony and I started dating, I was adopted by a hoard of robotic children. Bot-kids.”

There’s a beep from the corner and the sound of a motor started as Butterfingers slowly restarts. “There’s Butterfingers,” Steve says, pointing to the slow-waking robot. “She’s a bit of a goof, but she’s a sweetheart, I promise. Here, come here, Butterfingers. This is my friend Bucky.”

Butterfingers chirps curiously, approaching off of her charging pad slow and cautious.

And it happens in slow motion—Steve doesn’t know what it is, though. He watches Butterfingers wheel towards Bucky at top speed, watches Bucky shirk backwards, eyes wide and metal hand formed into a fist, and then—

And then, Bucky’s eyes are no longer soft and loving, but hard, cold, and calculating. He raises his lips as if to snarl a warning at Butterfingers and begins to growl in Russian and then—“Buck,” Steve gasps out, Bucky’s flesh hand gripping onto Steve’s wrist with the intent to break, “Stand down.”

Steve stares at the huddled lump that is Butterfingers—her claw snapped backwards while she cradles it against her charging pad.

Bucky—The Winter Soldier—complies. He stares Steve down with nothing but malice, but makes no effort to move towards him.

Steve has never felt closer to death.

“JARVIS,” Steve says, “Tell Tony to get out of the lab, please.”

“Sir has begun the packing up of projects. His estimated time of evacuation is T minus ten minutes.”

“Tell him to speed it up.”

“Sir has informed me that he is going as fast as he can.”

Steve can hear Bucky’s breathing, heavy and alert, but the Soldier makes no attempt to speak. He makes no noise, at all, and his breath slows and softens so quickly, Steve realizes that the Soldier is trying to avoid detection from an unseen threat.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Steve says, and he holds his empty hands in the air, as if to prove that he’s unarmed. “Butterfingers wasn’t going to hurt you, either.”

The Soldier doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch, and doesn’t speak.

“Do you know who you are?”

That seems to stump the Soldier, even if just for a second, before he resumes his defensive position. “The Asset does not have a name.”

The words are in Bucky’s voice, but they lack the stutter that was present three minutes prior, and they’re laced in a Russian accent that Steve has never heard Bucky speak in.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Steven Rogers, Captain America, target o-nine-seven-two, threat level extreme.”

“You can call me Steve,” Steve tells him, hoping that the nickname will bring Bucky back from whatever this is.

It doesn’t work. “Target revised. Steve, threat level extreme. Ready to comply.”

“There’s no mission,” Steve says, “There are no orders.”

Bucky blinks, slow, confused at the situation, and pinches his eyebrows together. “Mission nullified by Handler?”

“I’m not your handler, Buck,” Steve says.

And Bucky gnashes his teeth together and groans. The gears in his mechanical arm whir at top speed.

“Are you okay? Bucky?” Steve moves to help him, but Bucky cries out, again.

“Asset—not,” he manages to grate out, “Operating within proper parameters. In need of maintenance.”

“Steve what the hell is happening?” Tony says, and Steve throws an arm to motion him to leave. “Hey, Snowflake, you doing okay?”

“The Asset is not operational,” Bucky informs Tony. “Maintenance is required.”

Tony purses his lips and nods. “Okay, big guy, sounds like a plan. Let’s get you to the table and I’ll sort out the issues The Asset is having, okay?”

Steve doesn’t miss that Tony has used Steve’s nickname on The Winter fucking Soldier.

Bucky eyes Tony warily, stares at Steve, and then must assess that Tony is on Steve’s side, because he follows Tony to the fabrication unit.

Tony directs him to sit down in the wheely chair. “What seems to be the problem, Winter Wonderland?”

Bucky sniffs at the name, like he’s never been given a nickname before Tony was around, and now he has five. “The Asset is—struggling for control.”

“Who are you fighting?” Steve says.

The Asset moves back from Steve. “James Buchanan Barnes, threat level nine.”

“Where is he?” Tony asks, voice calm.

Bucky—The Asset—taps a metal finger to his temple. “The Asset was threatened. In order to protect, The Asset must be in charge.”

“James isn’t very good at keeping himself safe?” Tony guesses.

“Affirmative,” Bucky agrees. “The Asset is fighting him.”

Tony lays a piece of scrap metal in front of Bucky. “Asset, I need you to listen and comply, it’s a requirement for maintenance. Understood?”

“Ready to comply,” The Asset confirms. Steve shakes, slightly, from the sidelines, terrified of what Tony thinks he’s doing attempting to control a HYDRA assassin.

“Focus on the metal, please.” The Soldier lifts the scrap metal and analyzes it closely. “Can you tell me what James thinks about the scrap metal?”

The Soldier frowns, “He does not like that it is cold. Too cold.”

“What do you think?”

“Nothing.”

“Can you let James come out, for a bit?”

The Asset shakes his head. “Negative.”

“Don’t fight James, okay? Don’t fight to take over, and don’t hold James down. When I call on The Asset, I will ensure you are operational within parameters. Until then, I need you to allow James Barnes to control The Asset’s body. Understood?”

“Affirmative.”

And, just like that, The Asset’s eyes aren’t cold and angry, and Steve is staring back at James Buchanan Barnes.

“Wh-what the hell.”

“I didn’t think that would work,” Tony breathes. “Holy shit. You okay, Barnes?”

“Functional,” Bucky says, and then he frowns, “O-operational.”

Tony raises his eyebrows. “What does operational entail?”

“C-can carry a mission,” Bucky says. “I’m not g-g-good,” he supplies.

“That’s not good,” Tony hums. “Have you been—this is a weird question, bear with me—is the Winter Soldier a separate personality from you?”

Bucky licks his lips and nods. “The Asset is…d-dif-difficult. He d-does not appreciate my ex-existence. He d-demands cont-t-t-trol.”

“He said he was trying to protect you,” Tony says. “What were you doing when he took over?”

“Butterfingers approached him,” Steve says, “I think maybe too fast.”

“Winter must-must’ve seen ‘er as a th-threat,” Bucky says, “Shit, shit, sorry, Sl-slugger. Didn’t m-mean to knock y-your daughter out.”

“It’s okay, Buck, Tony will fix her claw,” he assures Bucky.

“This complicates things, a bit,” Tony says, “But I think the plan is still the same. We’re just going to make sure your psychiatrist is also equipped to handle a DID case.”

“D-DID?”

“Dissociative identity disorder,” Tony answers. “When two or more personalities inhabit the same body, essentially. Or, like, one personality fractures into many, I suppose. It’s a more complex disorder than that, but I’m not an expert. Which is why we’re finding you an expert. JARVIS?”

“I am currently running through a list of the leading psychiatrists in the field of DID or DDNOS, along with counselors and other mental health advisors.”

“Brilliant,” Tony says. “Call Butterfingers in here. I’ve got to fix whatever that terrible communist did to her.”

Bucky barks a laugh at that, so Steve considers it a win.

They’re lying in their bed—Steve’s ear is pressed against Tony’s chest where the arc reactor hums softly. “Butterfingers is okay,” Tony says, voice soft in the quiet of their bedroom. “A bit traumatized, but she’ll be just fine. She just learned not to move fast around strangers, which isn’t a bad thing to learn.”

Steve nods his head. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for, big guy?”

Steve remembers, again, how Tony had called Bucky big guy in the lab earlier and sits up, straight as a rod. “Do you like Bucky?”

Tony’s hand falls out of Steve’s hair and onto his chest with a thud. “’Course, I like Barnes. Why?”

“No,” Steve shakes his head. “Do you like Barnes?”

He watches Tony’s expression intently, taking note of how Tony’s eyebrows pinch together, how his lips curl downwards, as he says, “He’s kind, he’s attractive, and he’s plenty interesting. Sure, I guess?”

Steve doesn’t know why that doesn’t bother him. Shouldn’t that bother him?

“You like him, too,” Tony says, and it’s not an accusation. And it’s not like Tony doesn’t already know.

“He’s different,” Steve says, voice small. “He’s—he’s not the Bucky I remember. I mean, sometimes he is, minus the stutter and tics, but…”

“This is about The Winter Soldier, isn’t it?”

“Of course, it is,” Steve’s voice raises an octave, but he’s quick to lower it. “I’m so afraid. The Soldier is…he’s a murderer, Tony. That’s a killing machine, and that’s Bucky, and—”

Tony shushes him, pushes his head back down to his chest and smooths a hand over his hair in slow strokes. “Calm down, big guy. The Soldier is a trauma response. I’ve been doing reading on this, with Bruce, we’ve been discussing whether Barnes could suffer from a personality disorder as a result of trauma,” he explains. “My theory, at least, is that The Winter Soldier was his brain’s response to being forced to do things. If he fought, if he followed his morals, he’d be punished in incomprehensible ways. But Barnes isn’t the type to give in to fear, is he?”

Steve shakes his head no.

“So, I’m assuming The Soldier split off from Barnes to comply with the orders he was given and keep Barnes safe,” Tony continues, “You heard him, in there. He was all complying, operational, and he said Barnes was bad at keeping himself safe. He said he was keeping Barnes safe, right?”

“So, what? The Soldier is just…a murderer, but it’s okay, because he’d be punished?” Steve asks. “We let him roam free?”

Tony shrugs. “No, I’m not saying that. I just think we need to understand that he’s a protector, at the end of the day.” Tony sighs. “Let’s get Barnes into therapy, okay? And then we can keep the talks of polyamory.”

“We’ve got something good,” Steve argues. “We don’t gotta ruin it, Tones.”

“It’s not ruining. We’re adding.”

Bucky’s stutter has slowed, notably, with speech therapy and cognitive behavioral therapy. It’s one of those many ‘is this a result of seventy years of brain damage or is this The Winter Soldier impacting Bucky?’ situations.

Therapy is good for Bucky.

And, consequentially, it’s good for The Soldier as well.

Steve knows this because Bucky tells him one day, over coffee (even though caffeine doesn’t work on either of them, Bucky says the taste reminds him of their old apartment). “D-Dr. Wheeler says, says Winter is a re-response to me not c-complying with the Soviet’s and HYDRA.”

Steve remembers how Tony had something similar. “He’s a protector.” Steve doesn’t bother to mention how Winter now apparently has a name rather than a title.

“Mhm,” Bucky blows the steam away from his mug. “D-Dr. Wheeler calls, calls, calls it a p-protector alter. A-apparently, I’m too sh-shit at handling t-trauma, so my brain made another p-personality to handle it.”

“You didn’t want to give in to them,” Steve defends, “You weren’t bad.”

Bucky’s lips quirk upwards, slightly, but his gaze remains locked on his black coffee. “W-, uh, W-Winter is starting to g-gain his own thoughts,” Bucky says. “I c-can hear it, sometimes. They’re n-not my th-thoughts. It’s like I’m speaking through the w-w-world’s w-w-worst w-walkie talkie. He really doesn’t like me l-listening, either.”

“Can he hear you?”

Bucky shrugs, “M-must be able to, some-sometimes, ‘cause he makes c-comments. B-but he’s not, he’s not controlling at all. He’s staying in the back, l-like Tony told him to. He’s l-listening to you g-guys. Not b-b-because he’s scared. For once, in his e-entire e-existence, I think he’s listening to people of out of t-trust and not fear.”

And damn if that doesn’t melt whatever fear Steve had left of Winter. “He trusts us?”

“Wheeler says it’s ‘cause you d-d-defended me from Butterfingers by, by, by sending her back to the charging pad, that f-f-f-first day in the lab,” Bucky hums. “Wheeler also says we gotta l-let Winter explore the w-world safely.”

“Winter could kill us,” Steve reminds him, as if Bucky has forgotten about the destruction his alter ego can wreak if given the opportunity.

“But, but, but he won’t. Not unless he thinks he h-has to,” Bucky says, “He’s like—a s-super loyal dog, or a k-kid. He’s c-confused and scared and no one ever taught, taught him how to be a person. G-god, Stevie, his thoughts. You don’t have to he-he-hear them, but they’re so—” he takes a frustrated breath, “He’s all, ‘w-what’s this? C-can I play with that? Is that something to be scared of? Who is that? Are they n-nice?’”

“I just…worry,” Steve says, raising his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry.”

Buck leans back in his chair, eyes warry of Steve, “How are y-you and Tony?”

“We’re fine, Buck,” Steve assures him. “There’s no need to worry about me.”

“’M worrying about Tony, punk,” Bucky says, and Steve is so thrilled by the fact that Bucky doesn’t stutter once, he doesn’t even process what Bucky has said.

Worrying about Tony?

Dr. Rosen crosses her arms. “Two months without another appointment, Rogers? Are you trying to cost me my rent?”

Steve sits on the couch, arms folded over his chest. “Sorry, forgot I was paying that.”

“Technically, Stark is,” Dr. Rosen corrects. “What seems to be the problem, Captain?”

Steve sighs, “You know about Bucky.”

“Ex-HYDRA assassin back from the dead?” Dr. Rosen asks, “Or are we talking about your ex-boyfriend?”

“They’re the same person,” Steve says.

“Are they?” Dr. Rosen cocks her head to the side. “Why are you here today, Cap?”

Steve tells her everything—tells her how Bucky came back with another personality attached to him, how he’s brain damaged and scared of the world around him, how Steve wants so badly to pursue whatever paradise Tony keeps thinking about but he just can’t let himself hurt Tony.

And Dr. Rosen sits back in her chair, just like she did in that first session, hands not touching her pencil, but Steve can see her mentally taking notes as he rambles.

And when he’s done, she opens her mouth, closes it again, and then says, “Why do you think you’ll hurt Tony?”

“It’s—Tony doesn’t want that. No one would want that. To see someone they love with another person,” Steve explains. “I can’t do that to him.”

Dr. Rosen nods, “Maybe you wouldn’t be okay with that, but people are different.” She hums, “But, you also have to realize, Tony might genuinely want to bring Bucky into your relationship. Not just to comfort the two of you, but because he likes him. Is that too far out of the realm of possibility?”

It isn’t.

“I recommend talking to them. Both of them. That’s your homework. And I would tell you same time next week, but…”

“Same time next week,” Steve says, “I won’t miss it. I promise.”

“You’d better not.”

“Dr. Rosen wants us to, uh, talk,” Steve starts.

Tony cocks his head to the side, stares Steve down with those calculating brown eyes that understand the world, “Communication is good, sometimes, or so I’ve been told.”

Steve sits on the opposite side of the bed, watching the way Tony brings his knees to his chest. “Why do… why do you keep pushing the Bucky issue?”

Tony rolls his eyes, “Really, Cap? Out of all of the questions to ask? This one should be the most obvious.” But Steve doesn’t respond, at all, and it must make Tony so uncomfortable that he speaks, “He makes you happy, right? And, yeah, I like him well enough. You know, we spend a lot of time together, working on his arm, now. And he wonders why you avoid him.”

“I’m not avoiding him,” Steve argues, “I’m…”

“Scared,” Tony supplies. “Which is fine. It’s understandable. Look, Cap, I’m not getting in the way of your happiness. I just think that Barnes and I could both be a part of that, if you’ll let us.”

“How would we even tell Barnes?”

“Easy,” Tony says, “We ask him out on a date. I’m thinking that nice sushi place in Brooklyn?”

But Steve rolls his eyes, “Bucky hates fish,” he says, “And we’ll have to find someplace that serves Kosher food.”

If the revelation that Bucky is Jewish surprises Tony, he doesn’t show it. “So what does Barnes like?”

Steve shrugged, “His ma used to cook a lot. He really liked sweets. Like, half of the meals he used to eat when we were little was just pineapple and apples or something. He won’t ever admit it, though, but he loves it.”

And the beginnings of a plan begin forming in Tony’s head—Steve can see it. He leans forward and kisses Steve square on the lips. “Have you ever been to a Hibachi table?”

“No?”

Tony grins, “We just have to find out if Barnes has any issues with fire.”

Which is—what?

Steve is in the lab with Tony and Bucky today.

It’s the first step to proving to Bucky that they want him around. Steve has to be around.

“So, Barnes,” Tony drawls, “Either you or Snowflake have issues with fire?”

Bucky frowns, an expression so familiar it hurts Steve’s chest. “N-No? I don’t think so. D-definitely not me, at least. Why?”

Tony’s grin is infectious. Bucky adopt a similar, albeit, slightly nervous, grin as Tony takes a step towards him. “Because, Bucky Bear,” he says, “We’re taking you out. A night on the town. There’s this sweet little hibachi place in Manhattan—they’re literally known for being Kosher friendly. I thought we could all swing by for some food.”

Bucky looks to Steve, as if asking him for support, but Steve shrugs.

“Uh,” Bucky, “Hm. W-well, uh, Ace?”

Steve shrugs, “Is up to you, Buck.”

“I-I’m down,” Buck says, “But what’s the mood? We’re not…what’s, uh,” he waves his hand around the two of them. “I’m not crashing a date night, am I?”

“No, Buck,” Steve assures him. “We, uh,” he pauses. Is this how Bucky feels when he can’t get the right words out of his throat? “We—”

Thank God Tony takes pity on him. “We were hoping you’d join us, on our date.”

“I’m n-not t-tryna be a third wheel, d-doll,” Bucky cocks his head to the side, staring down Tony.

“Good thing I’m not asking you to do,” Tony says, “So? You gonna join us? Or should we bring a doggy bag back?”

Bucky bites his lip and smiles wide, “’C-course I’ll join you. Just been waiting on an invi-invitation.”

“Common floor, six, okay? Be there or…whatever, actually, just be there.”

“W-wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Bucky looks good. It’s no full suit, but he’s got a nice dark grey buttoned shirt (the first three buttons undone), black slacks reminiscent of what he’d wear in the thirties, and nice deep black boots freshly shined.

“I wasn’t g-given a dress code,” he explains while Steve ogles him. “Figured this was a safe enough b-bet.”

“It’s nice, Buck,” Steve says, his tongue clicking in his dry mouth.

“Real nice,” Tony says, raising an eyebrow. “Is that Prada? Wow, whoever bought that for you and hid it in your closet knows what you look good in. Oh, and Doc Martens, too. Amazing.”

“C-crazy, they just s-showed up,” Bucky says.

“Might have to kiss the guy who gave you those,” Tony says, wistfully.

“Might,” Bucky agrees, and shoots Steve a look, like he’s watching his every reaction. “C-can you believe this fella?”

Steve rolls his eyes and catches Bucky’s sleeve to roll it up. It doesn’t need rolled up, but Steve feels the need to reach out and touch, and this is the safest way to do that. “Real piece of work,” Steve says, “Don’t know why I even put up with him.”

“Well,” Bucky smirks, “Y-you’ve got me, now, to help.”

“Yeah?”

“’Course,” Bucky says, like the answer is easy. “A-as long as you want me, bud, I’ll be by your side.”

“You’re not getting away from me that easy,” Steve tells him.

And the smile he gets in return is worth it, “I wasn’t planning on it.”

Dinner’s good. Happy drives them, all three in the back of a Audi Hatchback. Steve only knows this because Tony tells him, rambling for the thirty minute drive about how he doesn’t have a favorite car, but if he did, it’d be a tie.

“This one or the Jaguar. I got both of them at the same time—custom painted, too, you know? The Jag changes colors in the light,” which Steve did know, because he saw it once while riding his bike and almost crashed. Tony laughed at him for a week. “But I really do like the interior of this one.”

“It’s a nice car,” Bucky agrees.

“Nice?” Tony scoffs. “She’s beautiful. I love her, with my whole heart.”

“What’s her name?”

“Lou-Anne,” Tony answers, quick.

Bucky turns his attention to Steve, who’s sitting on the other side of Tony. “See, punk? I told you back in the war—car people are insane. They’ll name their car before they name their kids.”

“Hey!” Tony gasps. “They are my kids!”

And when they’re finally in the restaurant, there’s next to no one there.

Which is suspicious for a Saturday night.

Tony must be aware of Steve’s suspicion, because he leans forward and whispers, “I bought the whole place out.”

“What!?”

Tony shrugs, “I wanted tonight to go smooth. Too many people, too many variables, not enough control. And isn’t that Bucky’s whole thing? Isn’t that my whole thing?”

Which is fair.

The fire terrifies Steve more than it terrifies Bucky.

(For a second he’s back in the building, watching everything fall, watching Red Skull—)

And then Tony places a hand on Steve’s shoulder, and Buck asks, “Doing okay?” and he’s back in his own body, watching a chef cook his food right in front of him.

“I like this,” Bucky tells them. Mostly to Steve. “Watching them make the food. It limits the chance that it’s tampered with.”

Which shatters Steve’s heart, but he manages to say, “Well, then, we’ll just have to do this more often, won’t we?”

“Guess we will.”