Chapter 2
They return home a little past eight.
Bucky spends the whole car ride back with the sweetest smile on his face—soft, pleasant, and calm in the streetlights and setting sun of the city.
Steve and Bucky both finished their whole meals, and Tony’s is packed in a Styrofoam container. “Even though Steve will steal it from me,” he tells Bucky, conspiratorially. “I can’t hide anything from him.”
“He h-has a hollow leg,” Bucky responds, helping Tony out of the car. “’S what m-my m-ma always said.
“He was like this before the serum?” Tony asks.
Bucky nods. “Kid c-could eat d-damn horse and still be ninety p-pounds soaking wet.”
“I was a growing boy,” Steve defends.
Bucky gives him a sideways glance. “D-didn’t you s-stop growing when we was twelve?”
Steve doesn’t deign that with a response.
JARVIS welcomes them into the building, and it’s quiet on the common floor, save for the soft hum of the television that someone (Clint) left on in the lounge. “This is, uh, t-this is my stop,” Bucky says, voice tight. “Well, uh, y-you two have fun. Not t-t-too much. Or maybe.”
Tony laughs. “Not one to put out on the first date, Barnes?”
Steve is probably red as a tomato.
Bucky cocks his head to the side and gives Tony a confident closed-mouth smile. “You’d l-like to k-know, wouldn’t you, S-s-stark?”
“Yeah, I would,” Tony agrees.
Bucky leans forward, slow, and kisses Tony square on the cheek. “T-thank you, Tony. T-tonight was r-real swell.”
Tony practically swoons at the thick Brooklyn accent, and Steve thinks, oh, I should do that more often.
Steve takes the initiative, out of fear that he’ll never muster the courage if he doesn’t do it now, to kiss Bucky on the lips. It’s quick—nothing special, not compared to their past kisses, and Bucky takes a second to get with the program—but it’s their first kiss in seventy years, so it’s special to Steve.
And after a split second, Bucky pulls himself away and pats Steve on the cheek, eyes searching Steve’s for something.
When Bucky seems content that he has found whatever he was looking for, he presses his lips to Steve’s cheek. “G-g’night, Slugger.”
“’Night, Buck,” Steve says, voice soft. “See you tomorrow?”
Bucky nods, “W-wouldn’t miss it f-for the world.”
And then he goes back into his own room, door clicking behind him.
“He’s something special,” Tony muses. “I mean, I knew that already, but wow. How come you didn’t charm me like that?”
Steve rolls his eyes and pushes Tony towards their (their, God, Steve will never get used to that) bed. “’Cause I’m not charming,” he says, “Besides, you spent so long teasing me, I didn’t have the mental willpower to go all proper about it.”
Tony grunts, falling onto the comforter with a dramatic oomf. “What I’m hearing is, if I tease Barnes enough, he’ll break?”
“I think you’ll find Bucky is much stronger than I am,” Steve says. He sits next to Tony and works on pulling his own shoes off.
“Come on,” Tony whines, “You know exactly how to make Barnes tick. What do I have to do?”
Steve sets his boots on the left side of his nightstand and lifts Tony’s leg to begin toeing off his shoes. “Give him space,” Steve says, “He’ll come to us when he’s ready.”
“I hate it when you’re right,” Tony says, “You know, I’m supposed to be right. Genius, and all of that. It’s real undermining, this whole—”
Steve pushes their lips together. It has the desired effect, forcing Tony into silence save for a muffled moan. “Barnes told us not to have too much fun,” Tony reminds him, voice teasingly low.
Steve rolls his eyes and stands, placing Tony’s shoes in the walk-in closet. “Well, I was planning on sleeping,” he says, “I don’t know what fun your brain is conjuring, but I’m beat.”
“It’s nine!” Tony cries, “You old man! You terrible, terrible, old man. Come over here!”
“What?” Steve mock-yells, “Sorry, I can’t hear. Must’ve left my hearing aid somewhere around here.”
“Okay, Clint,” Tony says, “Plan on doing any other comedy bits while you’re up and about?”
“Nope,” Steve says, popping the ‘p’, “But I will be here all night, if you have any requests.”
“God, I forget that you can actually have a sense of humor sometimes.”
Steve sits on the bed with enough force that Tony is sent into the air an inch. “I’m hilarious. Move, on your back, please.”
“Wow, lovely manners,” Tony mocks.
“Do you want me to blow you, or what?”
“Oh, is that where this is going? I thought it was still a bit.”
Steve rolls his shirt up and bites his exposed hip bone hard. “Are you done?”
“Yes,” Tony says, “Sorry. Yes, please.”
Steve wakes up at seven, courtesy of Tony (actually, it was Steve) leaving the blinds open.
(Steve knows it was actually him because he remembers opening the window last night, sticking his face outside to feel the breeze, and hearing Tony laugh at him for acting like a golden retriever.)
He rolls his shoulders back and takes a moment to stare at Tony, sprawled over their covers.
He takes up half of the bed, despite being half the size of Steve. If Steve gets to bed even a second later than him, he’ll be laid out like a starfish, and Steve will have to fight him to get a sliver of the space.
It’s a California king-sized bed. It should be more than able to hold the two of them.
But Tony is so pretty, Steve can’t find it in him to complain when his cold feet kick Steve off of his own bed.
“I could draw you like this,” Steve whispers.
He doesn’t think Tony’s awake—his breathing is even enough that he could still be asleep—but Tony cracks open an eye. “Haven’t you?”
“Didn’t think you were awake,” Steve says, voice returning to a normal volume. “I usually draw you in the morning.”
“I’m not. But you leave your sketchbook open on your nightstand. I get curious.”
“You’re a snoop.”
Tony hums in agreement, wiggling deeper into the warmth of the blanket. “Stay?”
“I was going to get breakfast together,” Steve says. “I was going to make something for the three of us.”
“What were you thinking?”
Steve leans in—Tony’s wide brown eyes are so sweet in the early morning light—and presses a kiss to Tony’s forehead. “Blegh,” Tony fake-gags. “You know I hate that.”
Steve does, in fact, know that Tony hates “lovey-dovey bullshit” first thing in the morning. “You hate a lot of things.”
“I don’t hate you,” Tony responds, which is a declaration of love for this early in the morning. “What’s for breakfast?”
Steve slides out of their bed, despite Tony’s whining, “Lodge a formal complaint with the board,” he says, “But to answer your question, I’m thinking French toast?”
“Ooh,” Tony says, “Sexy.”
“I want to clarify that you just called French toast sexy at,” he looks at the digital clock on the wall, “Seven-sixteen in the morning.”
“’Lodge a formal complaint with the board,’” Tony repeats. “Don’t like it, don’t buy it. And by ‘it’, I mean me.”
“And by buy, you mean…”
“I don’t know,” Tony says, “Fuck, maybe?”
“Oh, so, what you meant was a completely different sentence from what you said.”
Tony rolls onto his stomach. “This banter is a little too intellectual for me at this hour. Feel free to come back later and try again, though.”
“’Course. I’ll let JARVIS know when the food is ready.”
“That’s nice, dear.”
First task: hop in the shower.
Which is done successfully. Tony is so tired, he doesn’t even bother making a witty quip about joining Steve.
Steve manages to pull a pair of sweatpants out of his drawers (because Tony takes all of the closet space, even if he argues that he doesn’t) (and no one else, ever, hangs sweatpants up, Tony), pulls on a new t-shirt, and brushes his teeth.
Second task: find the necessary ingredients (and don’t attract stragglers).
The kitchen is empty at this hour. Natasha’s sleep schedule is inconsistent at best, and nonexistent at worst. Clint, on the other hand, just doesn’t wake up until noon. Bruce wakes up at nine, like a normal person, unless he’s in his lab (and then, like Natasha, his sleep schedule doesn’t exist). Thor is, of course, off-world, and the two interns are currently asleep.
Steve prepares the egg, milk, sugar, and cinnamon in an assembly line, starts the stovetop, and sets off combining the ingredients with the homemade bread that Steve gets from the farmer’s market.
(He thinks that they also sell challah bread. It was always one of Bucky’s favorites in their youth.)
It only takes thirty minutes or so to make an amount fit for the three of them.
He makes a few extra slices in case someone wakes up and demands sustenance and says, “JARVIS, mind calling Tony over here? And Bucky, too, if he’s awake and all.”
“Sir is headed your way right now. Sergeant Barnes has requested a few minutes and he will be right with you.”
“Thanks, JARVIS,” Steve tells the ceiling, even though he knows JARVIS isn’t in the ceiling.
“Not a problem, Sir.”
Steve sets the island while he’s waiting on the two, placing nice napkins with silverware, and serving each plate with an appropriate portion of food.
Bucky is the first to make it to the kitchen, surprisingly. His face is flushed, slightly, and he seems out of breath. “JARVIS told me you, uh, y-you needed me?”
Steve does his best to avoid staring, but he sneaks a glance at the familiar flush over Bucky’s cheeks. “I, uh, made breakfast.”
Bucky nods, “Thanks, Slugger. W-what is it?”
“French toast,” Steve says, and then he pauses, “You, uh, good with that?”
“Yeah, Slugger,” he says. “Kind of got used to eating whatever. Or nothing. I’m just happy I’m eating, half the time.”
Which is fair enough, even if it breaks Stevie’s heart into a billion pieces.
They wait, for a minute, while Steve starts the coffee pot and pulls three mugs out of the cabinet.
In that minute, Tony finally emerges from their suite, hair still wet from a shower despite him actively towel drying it. “Sorry,” he says. “What’d I miss?”
Steve makes a vague gesture to his designated seat. “We were planning on taking over the world.”
Bucky’s eyes widen, and then he glances between Steve and Tony, “Oh, y-yea, doll. W-we’re going to r-run this town.”
“Well, I, for one, look forward to our handsome overlords.”
He eats his food without complaint, leaving only half of a slice left. All things considered, it’s a pretty successful morning. “Hey, Buckaroo, wanna work on that arm with me?”
Bucky licks his lips—either out of anxiety or something else, Steve can’t tell—and says, “You c-coming, S-Stevie?”
“Yeah, Buck, I’ll go down with you guys.”
“Could go down on—” Tony starts to say, but Steve shoots him a glare full of heat, and Tony shuts his mouth before Steve revokes his promise.
“Lab?” Tony asks, hopeful, as Steve inspects his plate. Some mornings are better than others. Some mornings mean telling Tony, no, and making him eat one more bite before he can do work.
“Yeah, Tones,” he says, “We’re going to the lab.”
The lab is buzzing, literally, with electricity. JARVIS is running the fabrication unit along the far wall, the bots are bumbling about, and there’s three holograms pulled up in the center of the room.
“Hey,” Steve says, patting Butterfingers’ new and improved claw. “How are you doing, sweetie?”
There’s beeping from the other side, and DUM-E and U are happily trilling at the three men, while Butterfingers remains cautiously by Steve’s side.
“He’s real sorry he hurt you, baby girl,” Tony tells her, “And he won’t do it again. You just got to promise you won’t scare him anymore, got it?”
She makes the most understanding beep a robot can make but makes no effort to approach Bucky.
Steve figures it’s an understandable response, especially if she’s learning not to approach people that don’t want to be approached.
Tony pushes one of the holograms—a pure black and silver arm—out of the way.
“Keeping the star, or getting rid of it?” Tony asks. “It’s the last thing.”
Bucky pauses for a moment, staring at Steve so intensely, it makes Steve want to shirk away.
But he doesn’t.
“K-keep it,” he decides, after a while. “We’ll match.”
Steve grins.
“This mean I get a star?” Tony asks, bent over the only hologram left.
“Oh, d-doll,” Bucky says, “You’re our star.”
Tony’s so shocked, he stands bolt upright, and Bucky uses it as an excuse to wrap his flesh arm around Tony’s midsection. Steve supposes he should feel weird, just watching Bucky cuddle Tony, but he feels…safe, comfortable.
“Woah, big guy,” Tony says, “You really are a charmer, huh? You know, he never charmed me.” He points an accusatory finger at Steve, “Isn’t that, like, the whole thing of the 40’s? Aren’t you supposed to woo me?”
“Wow,” Bucky drawls, voice thick with sarcasm. “D-didn’t woo you, huh? S-Stevie, I thought I t-t-taught you better than that.”
Steve shakes his head, “Must’ve forgotten it sometime in the past seventy years.”
“I’ll say,” Bucky, “M-must’ve gotten lost s-somewhere between Brooklyn and th-the Arctic.”
“Mhm,” Steve agrees. “I’m sure I’ll find it.”
Buck motions for Steve to join them with his metal hand, and Steve trots over obediently. “I r-really like you, you know that, p-punk?”
“That’s so crazy,” Steve says, “’Cause, I really like you, too.”
“Oh, dear God, just kiss already,” Tony groans in fake-pain.
“You h-heard the man,” Bucky says, pulling his flesh hand away from Tony and placing it on Steve’s cheek.
So, Steve leans in, and pushes their lips together. It’s sweeter than it was last night—Steve opens his lips slightly, Bucky taking his bottom lip in between his teeth and pulling ever so slightly.
And when they pull back, Tony’s watching, pupils blown. “How come I haven’t gotten kissed, but he gets two kisses?”
“G-gotta ask, honey,” Bucky says.
Tony narrows his eyes. “Steve, tell him.”
“No, Tony,” Steve scolds, “If you want something, you have to ask for it.”
Tony glances in between the two of them. “This isn’t fair.”
“S-Stevie an’ I are j-just gonna make out in the b-back,” Buck drawls, “’T-til you c-can ask for what y-you want.”
“Is that meant to be a punishment?” Tony scoffs.
“Might be,” Bucky says, “When you’re all b-by yourself over h-here.”
“Okay fine,” Tony caves, “I want…I would like a kiss, please.”
“Sure thing d-doll,” Bucky says, “Stevie, go g-give our f-fella what he wants.”
Steve obliges, bending to give Tony the kiss that he wanted to give him this morning (but Tony’s damn “no lovey-dovey bullshit” rule stopped him).
“As good as that was,” Tony says, placing a hand over Steve’s chest, “And as much as I’ll never get old of that, if Bucky doesn’t kiss me in the next five minutes, I'm going to go into cardiac arrest.”
Steve takes a step back and Bucky swoops in, pressing their lips together in a seamless kiss. It’s, honest to God, one of the hottest sweetest (sweetest, Steve means, sweetest) things Steve has ever seen.
Bucky kisses like a man dying of thirst, and Tony lets Bucky draw him in completely.
The only issue? Steve is noticing how Bucky’s avoided touching either of them with his metal hand.
Tony, clearly, realizes it as well, because when he pulls back, he says, “You’re not going to hurt me.”
“M-might,” Bucky says.
“You won’t,” Tony says. “And, when we get your new arm on tomorrow, you’ll never have to worry about it. My tech is… what would you old men say in the day? Aces?”
“Aces was old, even for our time,” Steve says, “But this guy used to say it all the time.”
“An old man by the old man’s standard.”
Bucky winks. “I-I was always th-the older.”
“By a year,” Steve exclaims.
“A year and,” Bucky pauses, taking a moment to count on his fingers, “Four months!”
“One year, three months and twenty-four days,” Steve corrects, “And that’s hardly nothing. We’re ninety, Buck.”
“’T-That’s hardly nothing,’” Bucky mocks, “You k-know, Ace, I g-gotta remind you, I w-was conscious f-for more o-of that than y-you were.”
Steve huffs, adopts the most comical pout ever, and crosses his arms over his chest like a petulant child. “Whatever.”
“Awe,” Bucky coos. “Awe, b-babe, you k-know that w-whole ‘pity’ act don’t work no more, y-you’re too b-big for it.”
“Well, I pity you,” Tony says. “Please, continue arguing about how old you are. It makes me feel a lot more stable in my own age.”
Bucky eyes him mischievously. “W-what, Stark, you feel ol-older than us?” Tony’s eyes widen, as if he’s catching onto what Bucky’s saying. “G-gonna be our s-sugar—”
“You finish that sentence with ‘daddy’ and I’ll paint bring green dicks on your arm,” Tony threatens.
“Daddy,” Bucky finishes. “Now, see, that threat a-ain’t s-so bad when you’ve b-been w-waterboarded.”
“I’ve been, and let me tell you, I think the green dicks would be a step down,” Tony says.
Bucky draws back, slightly, blinking hard. “S-sorry, honey.”
“It’s all good, Bucky,” Tony says, voice softer, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Y-you ain’t upset me, d-doll.”
“If you’re sure,” Tony says, and he shoots Steve a nervous glance with his bottom lip between his teeth. “How does the arm look?” He angles the hologram towards Bucky.
“Lookin’ stunning,” Buck says, “I-I could k-kiss you right now, doll face.”
“Do it, then,” Tony says.
He does, pressing a sweet kiss to Tony’s forehead, his metal arm glued obediently to his side to avoid hurting him. “J? Start the construction process.”
“Estimated completion in twenty-nine hours, sir.”
“Brilliant.”
Steve manages to corral them upstairs into the movie room.
The old couch that was bled on by Nick Fury himself has been replaced by a velvety purple couch.
“D-didn’t y-you have a…green couch?” Buck asks. “W-why am I r-remembering a g-green couch?”
Tony pauses halfway on the couch. “I had a green couch, but we got rid of it a few months before you came along.”
Bucky pauses, “I-I t-think that might’ve been, uh, not m-my memory.”
“Winter remembers us having a green couch?” Steve asks.
Bucky nods, slow, eyes distant, “Y-yeah, he, uh…I’m really trying over here, p-promise, he’s n-not giving me much to work with. G-green couch, and, uh, a gun?”
Tony nods and moves his feet onto the couch in a crisscross position. “He, uh, shot Nick Fury in the street, and Fury came to our place to be safe. He bled all over the damn couch, so we had to replace it. It was a good couch, too. But all is fair. And then he tried to shoot me through the wall.”
“No,” Bucky says, “He d-didn’t t-try to shoot you. T-that was me.”
Steve jumps in between the two—he’s not sure who he’s planning on protecting, but it’s one of them.
“You tried to shoot us?” Steve demands.
Bucky shakes his head and furrows his brow, thinking. “N-no, I…wasn’t in f-full control. But, I think, I was t-tryna warn you.”
Steve relaxes. It makes sense—Steve knew Bucky when they were just two kids in Brooklyn—and Bucky never missed a hit on another person. In the ring, on the schoolyard, in the back alleys, Bucky threw punches that hit and hit hard.
And in the war, Bucky’s bullets never missed. He always had the eyes of a sniper. Keen and calculating.
Had Bucky—or Winter—wanted to hit either of them, they would have.
“That was, uh, nice of you?” Steve attempts.
“Yeah, Bear, thanks for not killing us,” Tony says.
“Bear?” Bucky asks.
“Bear,” Tony confirms. “Like Bucky Bear. You know?”
Bucky opens and closes his mouth. “B-Bucky Bear. Where did that n-nickname come from, again?”
“Oh my God,” Tony coos. “Stevie, he doesn’t know about Bucky Bears. Come on, Stevie, let me show him, please.”
Steve doesn’t know why Tony’s begging him, but he throws his hands in a go-ahead motion, regardless. He knows all about Cap Bears and Bucky Bears.
Cap Bears had been in production during the war—cute teddy bears adorned with Captain America’s shield and suit. They sold for more than they’d ever be worth, and some portion of the profits was supposed to go to war efforts.
Bucky Bears came later—years after The Valkyrie went down in the ice—after the resurgence of Captain America and the Howling Commandoes (both the comics, and the shows, which Steve adamantly refuses to watch).
“JARVIS, pull up a Bucky Bear on the television, please,” Tony requests.
JARVIS doesn’t even respond, just pulls the image up onto the TV.
“Why am… I w-wearing hot rod red…y-you know, I-I won’t question it.”
“In the comics and shows that came out after Stevie went down, all the Howlies had matching America-themed fits,” Tony explains. “And you were such a heartthrob that you got your own toy line and everything.”
“I…b-but,” Bucky stares at the picture, “They m-made shows about d-dead men?”
“Oh, yeah, still do,” Tony says. “Except all of the Avengers stuff that comes out now is through us and actually is about the Avengers. I don’t think there’s anymore shows or comics about your life back in the day. Most kids want to hear about the cool adventures of the now.”
“I…” Bucky shakes his head. “W-what do you mean th-through us?”
“I own the Avengers title,” Tony says.
Steve gapes. “You own the Avengers?”
“No,” Tony corrects, “That’s the government. The U.S Government, specifically Homeland Security, owns the Avengers. They’re the ones that take responsibility for us, when we inevitably break laws or something. I’m the one that pays for damages we cause. And this—selling merchandise, getting revenue from networks wanting to make shows about us—is the easiest way to funnel money back directly into the business.”
Steve’s a little dumbfounded—he hadn’t even known that the Avengers were owned by anyone, or that the name and the group could be divided, but he figures Tony’s a bit better at the business aspect of the group.
Bucky chooses the show—Criminal Minds—and Tony confirms it at least nine times.
“I watched it a l-lot in Romania,” he explains, “There was a total of two television channels I c-could get to, and for some reason, this was on one of ‘em all the t-time.”
“Stevie? You good with it?” Tony confirms. “It might be a little rougher than the stuff we’ve been watching.”
“Dr. Rosen will be proud.”
“She, actually, might be pissed off. This one’s more on the nose than the other ones we’ve seen,” Tony bites his lip. “It deals with things like homicides, crime cases, kidnappings, torture—it’s not an easy watch for people like us.”
How come Bucky can watch it, then?
But Steve doesn’t ask that question.
Tony still answers it, anyways: “Bucky can probably get through it ‘cause Winter took on a lot of this sort of thing, and for the times he was conscious, he was so desensitized or not lucid.”
Steve looks at Bucky for confirmation. He just shrugs. “N-nice psychoanalysis, d-doc.”
“Thanks, I try. J, put on the easiest episode of Criminal Minds, please.”
Steve gets through it well enough, but he does request that they change it after the episode is up, and Tony tells JARVIS to play a show called Community.
Tony falls asleep on the couch, wedged safely in between the two super soldiers. His head is in Bucky’s lap and his feet are throws over Steve’s while he snores softly.
“Help me put him to bed?” Steve asks, moving to grab Tony’s feet.
Bucky blinks, slowly, like he’s trying to wake up as well. “Yeah, s-sure.” He lifts Tony’s head tenderly and moves out from under him. “Y-you want to c-carry him?”
“Nah,” Steve says, “You can.”
Bucky stares at him. “I-I d-don’t want to hurt ‘im.”
“You won’t hurt him, Buck,” Steve tells him, “He’s a grown man, not an egg.”
Bucky shoots him a glare but picks Tony up anyways. “Wh’re we goin’?” Tony slurs.
“We’re p-puttin’ you to bed, sweet thing.”
“Oh, tha’s nice,” Tony says, wrapping his arms and legs around Bucky like a koala, and proceeds to drift off again.
“He’s a h-heavy sleeper,” Bucky observes.
“Not usually,” Steve corrects. “He’s been real tired as of late.”
“I-is it…” Bucky doesn’t finish, but Steve knows what he was going to ask: is it me?
“No,” Steve says, “Not at all, Buck, promise. He’s been busy with SI stuff and his nightmares keep him up, too. It’s not your fault.”
Bucky doesn’t look convinced, but he also doesn’t push the topic. “Where, uh, w-where d-does he sleep?”
Steve leads the way through the penthouse. “This is our room,” he says, pushing the door open. “You can set him on the right side of the bed. He likes to be the furthest away from the door.”
Bucky obliges. As soon as Tony’s head hits his pillow, he sprawls out, taking his usual three-quarters of their bed. Bucky laughs, soft (as to not wake Tony), and says, “He takes up so much space for b-being s-so small.”
Bucky closes his flesh fist tightly and releases it. “Is that, uh, a tic, or are you about to swing on him?” Steve asks.
“T-tic,” Buck clarifies. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to apologize for,” Steve pats the bed on the other side—the quarter that Tony hasn’t taken up. “Want to take a nap? I don’t know about you, but Tony and I always take naps.”
Bucky looks torn for a split second.
“Or we could just lay down in here. Tony always needs someone looking after him when he sleeps, and I feel more comfortable when someone is there, too…”
“I’ll n-nap with ya, Slugger,” Bucky walks to the other side of the bed and punches Steve softly on his shoulder. “But I’m t-tryna f-figure out where I-I’ll make room.”
Steve rolls his eyes and flips Tony onto his side, maneuvering him to take up less space. “See? It’s big enough. Promise.”
They pile in like that—Steve in the middle with Bucky and Tony on either side of him. It’s the best Steve’s slept in a long, long time, if ever.
When Steve wakes up, the digital clock reads 1:09 and Tony is already awake, staring at Steve intensely.
“Good morning,” Tony chirps.
“It’s afternoon,” Steve corrects.
Tony, maturely, blows a raspberry in Steve’s face.
Bucky isn’t asleep, either, but he’s quiet on his side of the bed. He’s laying on his back, a safe distance from Steve, like he’s trying to avoid touching him. “Want to make lunch or do you want to order out?” Steve asks.
The question throws Bucky off. “Me?”
“Yeah, you, Buck,” Steve fights the urge to push him.
“Uh, make food,” Bucky says, “P-please?”
“We could get the team together for a good old-fashioned lunch.” Tony’s grin guarantees nothing will go to plan.
“N-nothing old-fashioned about this place,” Bucky tells him.
“Nothing good about team lunches,” Steve tells him.
Twenty-five minutes later, Steve’s made a plethora of sandwiches, Natasha has put together a fruit salad, and Bruce has sliced vegetables into a vegetable salad. Clint and Bucky, as it turns out, both share a penchant for baked sweets.
“D-didn’t I used ta bake?” Buck asks him.
“Yeah,” Steve answers, “You used to help your ma with her baking all the time. I think you were the one that taught Becca.”
“Huh,” Buck says, “Prolly still h-have all that in here,” he taps his temple. “C-Clint, find me the brown sugar and all th-that shit.”
“Oh, hell yes! We’re getting cookies?”
“S-sure,” Bucky answers, and sets off to find measuring tools. “Stevie, p-preheat the oven, uh, four-twenty.”
“Wow, you really do have this memorized,” Natasha gawks.
“I’m winging it,” Bucky winks at her. “I-I know nothin’. H-hoping it kicks in b-before I p-poison you all.”
She scoffs at the same time Clint yells, “Found it!” and storms over with arms full of bags. “Flour, sugar, brown sugar, vanilla, baking powder and baking soda—” he sets each respective ingredient on the table and the gasps for breath, “Chocolate chips, powdered sugar, gluten-free flour?”
Bucky takes a moment to inspect each bag and bottle and rejects the chocolate chips.
“No chocolate chip cookies?” Clint pouts,
“You c-can have some,” Buck slides the bag over to the dejected spy. “B-but I can’t. I-I’ll make two batches.”
Clint frowns. “You can’t each chocolate chips? Are you a dog? That’s so sad, man—”
“I-I’m not a dog,” Bucky says, but there’s a smile pulling at his mouth, probably from the absurdity of having to say that out loud. “I’m Jewish.”
That clears nothing up for Clint, because he says, “But…chocolate?”
“Not Kosher,” Steve butts in, sparing Bucky from Clint’s obliviousness. “The chocolate chips. They must’ve not been kosher.”
That must get through to Clint. He nods and gives up on his interrogation.
The cookies are placed in the oven for twenty minutes. “How do you know that’s how long they cook for?” Bruce asks.
“I have not a s-single clue,” Bucky tells him, taking his place next to Steve.
They serve up the food easily, Tony calls the interns to the table and it’s domestic. “Don’t you wish we had this every day?” Tony whispers to Steve.
Yeah, he does. He wishes every morning was spent kissing his favorite guys, wishes they always had time to nap and watch television, wishes everyone had the day off to put a nice lunch together (no matter how late).
“I do,” Steve hums, “I’m happy we have these days.”
“I am, too,” Tony tells him.
They have to split up after lunch. It’s a surprisingly well-behaved affair (save for Peter threatening Harley’s bloodline. Steve doesn’t question it). Bucky’s cookies turn out burnt, albeit edible, and everyone boasts it as a win for not following any recipe.
Clint shovels at least three in his mouth, unbothered by the crisp bottoms, and Peter has to physically wrestle him away from the tray to get his own share.
Again, not as bad as it could’ve been.
Steve has to handle clean-up of the penthouse (he doesn’t have to, but someone does, and Tony definitely won’t).
Tony has to meet with Pepper about something SI-related, Bucky has a therapy session, Bruce has lab work, etcetera, etcetera.
Peter spends a bit helping Steve before he gets a text on his cellphone. “Sorry, Mr. Rogers,” he says, with the utmost of seriousness, “I have to go help Ned with his Lego sorting. I completely forgot.”
It’s endearing that he treats Lego sorting with the same somberness that he treats lab duties.
Steve deep cleans the whole penthouse before Bucky makes it back from therapy.
Tony still isn’t home, yet, but Steve receives a text: be up in like thirty. There was stock stuff. I hate it here >:(
He texts back: see you soon. No, you don’t.
Tony sends a series of red exclamation points back.
The elevator dings and Bucky steps out. “Hey, Buck, how was therapy?” Steve calls.
He looks up from the ground and stares at Steve with calculating eyes. “It was well,” Bucky says.
Except, it’s not Bucky, because Bucky stutters, has a slight Brooklyn drawl, and leaves his shoes by the elevator doors.
Winter, apparently, does not leave his shoes by the elevator door.
Steve pauses, halfway through wiping down the coffee table. “That’s good. Were you at therapy, or…?”
Winter’s grey eyes stare right through him. “I do not understand.”
“Were you the one at therapy, today, or was Bucky present?” Steve clarifies.
“Bucky,” Winter says, with some hesitation.
“When did you come around?”
Winter’s eyebrows furrow in thought. “Barnes is scared of something,” he tells Steve. “He is hiding. Why is he hiding?”
“I-I don’t know, Winter,” Steve says.
“I don’t know,” Winter says, his voice low and soft. He sounds distressed—or as distressed as he can sound with his low-energy voice.
“He’ll be okay,” Steve promises. It’s weird—reassuring Bucky in the third person. He has to remind himself that this isn’t Bucky. “Tony and I will take care of him.”
“Is there a mission?”
“No, there’s no mission, Winter.” Winter nods. He still doesn’t move to remove his boots. “Do you, uh, do want to do something?”
He does his best to aim everything as a suggestion or question, not an order. Winter swallows and grits his teeth. “Want…”
“Do you want anything, Winter?’
“I want…to sleep,” Winter says. “I want to sleep. On the couch. Like Tony did.”
“Like Tony did?”
“On your lap.”
“You were there for that?” Steve asks.
Winter shakes his head. “I see it, though. Tony slept well. I want to sleep well.”
Steve pauses his cleaning and nods. “JARVIS? Turn on some TV, please.”
He pats the space on the couch and places the cleaning supplies away. When he returns, Winter is on the couch, arms glued to his sides. “You can relax, if you want,” Steve tells him. “And you can lay on me if you want. Whatever you want.”
Winter does both. He places his head in Steve’s lap, albeit it’s a bit awkward, at first, and then reclines his legs out.
It’s only a few minutes later that Winter’s breathing settles.
Twenty or so minutes later, the elevator dings, and Tony steps out. He’s about to speak, undoubtably to complain or excitably babble about his meeting, but Steve holds a single finger to his lips.
Tony says, “Oh!” in a half-whisper, and gets a throw blanket out of their linen closet to throw other them.
He then proceeds to take half a dozen pictures.
“I ordered from the Irish place you really like,” he whispers, “Is that okay?”
Steve nods, still trying to keep Winter asleep. “Winter was here.”
“That’s… good?” Tony guesses.
Steve shrugs. “He said Bucky was scared.”
“Not good, then,” Tony whispers. “It’ll be okay, Steve, we’ll figure it out. Promise.”
Steve runs a tentative hand through Bucky—Winter’s?—hair.
(Does it matter when they’re asleep? Is one of them still in charge? Who wakes up from their nap?)
“Food will be here in thirty,” Tony whispers. “I’ll get the table set up.”
He presses a kiss to Steve’s cheek and then one to Bucky’s (Winter’s?) forehead. “I cleaned,” Steve whispers.
“I see,” Tony presses another kiss to Steve’s cheek. “You do that whenever you’re bored.”
“Mhm,” Steve hums. He melts into Tony’s touch—the hand on his cheek, Tony’s other hand making its home on the back of Steve’s shirt. He could stay like this forever.
But Tony leaves, regardless of Steve’s budding comfort, to set the dining area. They usually don’t use it, unless there’s other people on the penthouse floor (like Pepper, the boys, or Rhodes), but Tony must not want to wake Winter (Bucky? This is so confusing) by clanging silverware.
Winter stirs slightly, pushing his head further into Steve’s lap. It’s uncomfortable, but Winter is content, so Steve can’t complain.
No less than ten minutes later, Tony’s returning from the dining room, holding three glasses of water. He sets them down on the newly cleaned coffee table and takes a seat on the other side of Steve. There’s not much room, so he half-perches on the armrest in order to fit.
“Should we wake him up?” Tony asks.
Steve figures they probably should. If Winter’s still around, it’s best to not have him attack Harley or Peter. Plus, it ensures that Bucky or Winter at least have some time to wake up before they have guests.
“A twenty-minute nap isn’t bad,” Steve observes at a normal volume. “Come on, wake up,” he shakes Winter’s shoulder slightly.
“Wah,” the body says. “F-five more minutes.”
“No, come on, Buck,” Steve shakes him again. “It’s almost dinner time.”
Bucky sits up all the way. “When d-did I get home?”
Steve tries very hard not to let it show how happy he is at the word home. “Winter came home,” Steve explains. “He wanted to take a nap.”
“He—he sle-slept on you?” Bucky asks, as if he can’t believe that the Winter Soldier put himself in a compromising position. Honestly, Steve can’t believe it either.
“I have pictures to prove it,” Tony chimes in.
“No,” Bucky says in disbelief. “No w-way.”
“Yes way!” Tony wiggles off the arm of the couch, over Steve and onto Bucky’s lap. If Steve hears Bucky’s breath hitch, he chooses to ignore it. “Look,” Tony shows him the series of pictures captured when he’d come home. “Isn’t it just precious?”
“P-precious,” Bucky agrees.
Steve watches as Bucky flips through the images, biting back a smile. “I’m making this one my lock screen,” Tony says, and proceeds to do just that. Steve would argue, but the image is just adorable.
“What’s the plan for dinner?” Steve interjects. He knows Tony probably ordered their usual—soda bread, rib-eye steak, shepherd’s pie, and beef boxty—but isn’t sure if Tony’s branched out for Bucky.
“I ordered from The Downtown Dublin. Three things of soda bread, two of those rib-eyes that you love, and I was thinking we could split a shepherd’s pie and beef boxty? I ordered two things of the fries with that white-wine cream sauce, too,” he tells them. “Oh! And those cheese curds.”
“T-that’s…” Bucky pauses. “I r-remember some of th-those. Sarah used ta m-make ‘em, d-didn’t she?”
Steve nods, “I mean, my ma never made a rib-eye, or fries, or cheese curds or anything, but yeah. We had beef boxty that one year on my birthday—when you punched Billy Eisen’s lights out over calling me Ciara.”
“Th-that was a g-good day,” Bucky says. “Motherfucker h-had it comin’. We had s-shepherd’s p-pie?”
“Probably,” Steve says. “It was my dad’s favorite, according to ma.”
“Your d-dad…” Bucky thinks for a second, “H-he died, wh-when you were a b-baby?”
“Yeah, Buck,” Steve answers.
“An’ m-mine left,” Bucky says, but it sounds more like he’s guessing. “I’m g-getting stuff b-back. I just…I’m n-not always s-sure how t-trustworthy my head is.”
Tony, still in Bucky’s lap, wraps his arms awkwardly around Bucky’s frame, like he can squeeze the distress out of their partner.
He pulls away after the hug, untwisting his arms and extracting himself from Bucky’s lap. “I’m sorry, Bucky,” Tony whispers.
“’S al-alright.”
Tony looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Instead, he presses a firm kiss to Bucky’s lips. Bucky takes control quickly, moving his hands to cup Tony’s hips and opening his mouth slightly. Steve isn’t sure who he’s jealous of in the situation—but he’s also just content to watch.
Unfortunately, they don’t get much further than that because Tony pulls away right as the elevator makes the tell-tale sound of someone coming up to their floor. Obviously, he made the correct choice, because the two interns come out of the elevator not a second later wielding bags upon bags upon bags of food.
“Someone ordered a fuck ton of food?” Harley calls out, tossing the bags onto the coffee table and almost knocking the cups of water over.
Peter carries his bags all the way to the dining room. “Can I have some fries, please?”
“Go for it, kid,” Tony answers. “You guys can stay and eat, if you want.”
Harley makes a face. “There’s tension thick enough that you can cut it. Pete, get me some, too!”
“On it!” Peter yells back.
“We’ll be headed back now, feel free to go back to whatever inappropriate displays of affection you were doing once we leave.”
Peter returns with a bowl filled to the brim with fries and cream sauce. “We’ll be going, Mr. Stark!”
And with that, the kids are back in the elevator, heading down to whatever place they were before.
“We weren’t being inappropriate,” Tony says, scandalized.
“Y-your m-mouth is s-sinful, doll,” Bucky drawls. “I’d h-have p-pushed it.”
Steve almost says, ‘I would’ve been happy with that development,’ but he bites his tongue in favor of food.
Tony spends dinner brushing his foot up Steve’s calf—not that Steve needs a reminder of what they could be doing, Tony just likes being a damn tease. Steve has to resist the urge to tackle him to the floor right then and there.
Self-control has never been his strong suit.
Bucky, surprisingly, is the one to break. He grabs Steve’s shirt collar and kisses him senseless.
Bucky’s kisses haven’t ceased to leave Steve breathless, even after seventy years apart. He tilts his head and moves his chin slightly, drawing Steve in completely at his mercy, and takes Steve’s bottom lip between his teeth with reverence.
It drives him completely insane.
“Buck,” he says, breathless against his lips.
“Steve,” Bucky teases back. “I th-think we’ve got an audience.”
Steve looks to where Bucky’s gaze is, and sure enough, Tony’s watching them with blown-out pupils. “Don’t stop on my account,” Tony assures them.
“I think we should move this, actually,” Steve corrects and moves to stand up. His brain moves a bit fast—how are they going to do this? Steve’s never—Bucky’s probably never either…Tony might’ve. Steve doesn’t want to think of what Tony might and might not have done.
Instead, he leads them to the bedroom by their hands. As soon as the door is closed and locked, Steve pushes Bucky back onto the bed, grabbing the front of his shirt and bringing their lips together. It’s less coordinated than the kiss in the kitchen, but it elicits a terrible sound from Bucky that goes straight to Steve’s cock, so it’s a win in his opinion.
“How do you want to do this?” Steve asks. He turns to watch Tony—who’s already working off his shirt and pants.
Tony answer first, “I don’t, uh, no fucking.”
Bucky nods in agreement. “Just, uh, h-hands and m-mouths,” Bucky answers. It’s weird to have Bucky spread out under him again, after all these years. If dating Tony Stark gave him a god complex, dating Tony Stark and Bucky Barnes surely made him an actual god.
Steve’s happy to comply, removing Bucky’s clothes with no patience. Maybe, later, he’ll do it slow and sweet, but Steve is kind of absolutely desperate.
He takes Bucky into his mouth with no hesitation, working up a rhythm that leaves Bucky gripping the sheets between white knuckles.
He looks up, for a split second, to see a stark (hah) naked Tony latched onto Bucky’s neck.
And the noises Bucky is making…God. He moves upward, taking Bucky’s cock in his hands and working him to completion in order to kiss him solid on the lips. “Love you,” he pants.
“Love y-you, too,” Bucky responds.
“Love you, three,” Tony says, removing his mouth from Bucky’s neck. “But that may change if I don’t get the same treatment Bucky Bear just got.”
Bucky laughs, hard, pushing Tony onto his back and bending over him. “I l-love you, too,” he tells him, “And it’s b-been a while, you know.”
“’S fine,” Tony promises. “You’ll be good, I know.”
Bucky doesn’t protest, just takes Tony into his mouth with an age-old confidence. It might’ve been a while since Steve’s first blowjob, but he remembers how it felt to have Bucky’s mouth around him. From the noises Tony makes, Steve assumes that Bucky’s skills haven’t gone down at all.
Steve works on praising Tony while Bucky works over him with his mouth. “You’re doing so good, Tones,” Steve tells him, pushing a hand through his hair. “You’re doing great, sweetie.”
It only takes a few minutes of coaxing while Bucky works him with his mouth for Tony to cum.
And Steve watches as Bucky swallows all of it.
Tony lays, boneless on their bed, arms spread out like a starfish. “No more,” Tony says, “All done.”
“it’s S-Stevie’s turn,” Bucky reminds him. Steve manages to undress with minimal embarrassment—he does trip over his pants, but that’s to be expected at this point. Bucky works over him with his hand, kissing his neck and whispering, “S-so good, Stevie,” every so often until the heat boiling in Steve’s belly releases.
“Not bad for a few geriatrics,” Tony drawls.
Steve lays on top of him for the comment, earning a groan and a few shouts of, “Off, you mangey beast!” Steve does roll off of him, but not before nipping at Tony’s stomach. “You always bite me. I’m going to stop sleeping with you if you keep biting me.”
“H-he’s done it fore-ev-ever,” Bucky drawls, cleaning Tony’s stomach off with a wet washcloth he must’ve retrieved from the bathroom. He moves on to Steve, wiping at his hands, belly and face is soft pats.
“Sleep now,” Steve tells the two of them. “Talk tomorrow.”
“Goodnight, old man,” Tony says, and Steve can practically hear the eye roll in his statement.
Steve doesn’t mind. Even if Tony’s sarcasm flies over his head half the time, even if Bucky’s learning to be human again, even if he himself is still out of touch with the modern world—they match, the three of them. Steve couldn’t imagine anywhere he’d be happier.