see the stars again

Birnin Zana, Kingdom of Wakanda - 2017

Coming out of cryo-freeze was nothing like the soldier could describe. It was cold, yes, but also painful. Painful in the way that was almost… good. It was like waking up. A horrible tingling all over his body until it faded, settled. Only then could the soldier open his eyes.

It took him a moment to orient himself, the exceptional weightlessness of his left side, the lack of, uh, well, electrocution as he attempted to think clearly, T'Challa’s artfully blank face staring back at him.

Right, he was in Wakanda. He’d been liberated from Hydra. The brainwashing was being removed. He was James Buchanan Barnes. He was safe.

Bucky had specifically asked Steve not to be there when they decided to thaw him out. As he peered around the laboratory, he didn’t know if he was grateful or not that they had respected his wishes.

“Have a nice nap?” One of the doctors, well, Bucky assumed she was a doctor, said. T'Challa elbowed her in the ribs.

“Sergeant Barnes, we think we’ve come up with a way to help you.” T'Challa said as a nurse helped Bucky sit on an examination table.

He felt himself smirk, and a small part of his brain wondered why it felt so natural to do so. “I figured you did, seeing as I’m awake and all.” Bucky looked around warily at some of the equipment in the room. “It doesn’t involve brain surgery, does it?”

The other doctor laughed. “Eh, not exactly.” She held out her hand. “I’m Shuri.”

Bucky shook it.

“What my sister means to explain is that we think focused meditation and some very very non-invasive brain surgery could work for you.”

“No. No way. Put me back under.” There was no way he was letting anyone near his fucking brain ever again.

T'Challa tried to reason with him. “Sergeant Barnes--”

“How long was I out?” He asked sharply.

“I-- Just over six months.” All of the other nurses and staff were watching Bucky like he could snap. Maybe he could.

“That’s not a very long time at all. Put me back under and don’t wake me up until you have something that doesn’t involve anyone messing with my head.” He growled.

“We don’t think the cryo-freeze is doing you any favors,” Shuri said.

Bucky rounded his glare back at her. “What?”

“It could actually be hurting you, not allowing your brain to heal itself. Since you have some form of enhanced serum-- I’m still trying to work out what exactly it is-- if you just allowed yourself enough time, you could theoretically go back to normal.”

“Normal?” He whispered, looking down at his lap. “How long?”

“We don’t know. Hence, brain surgery.” She explained. He raised an eyebrow. “To help speed things along.”

“So I can opt out?”

The siblings exchanged a look. “Yes... I guess you could.” Shuri said.

Bucky stared intently at his lap.

“Are you sure?” T'Challa asked quietly.

“Not that I don’t trust you, but… I don’t trust you. And I think my brain has been through the blender enough not to risk it again.”

Shuri opened her mouth like she was about to speak, but T'Challa held out his hand to silence her. “That’s understandable. So long as you agree to stay out of cryo freeze for a significant amount of time, and allow us to monitor your progress, then all will be well.”

It seems too easy-- too simple. But Bucky learned a long time ago not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Kyiv, Ukraine - 2014

James knew he was being followed. He had a horrible prickling fear at the back of his neck. It’d been there since DC. James had been beginning to think he must just be paranoid by nature. But this time he knew it. Of course, he’d set up failsafes in any apartment, or campsite, or extended stay motel he holed himself up in to know when someone had broken in. He cataloged exactly where everything was placed, even if shifted just a hair out of where he had it, James could tell. He got his hands on a computer and had been through multiple phones that would alert him to anyone looking up his aliases, especially law enforcement.

James knew he was being followed the moment his apartment block came into view. He quickly turned on his heel and walked the other way. He should have known this would happen. Well, he did have an inclination, which is why he hadn’t actually been back to said apartment block in almost two weeks. But he had hoped that he was wrong. He had a nest set up in the abandoned warehouse two blocks away, perfect view into his apartment’s living room. Two men had been tailing him since… a long while. Off and on, he was able to shake them, sometimes. But as the migraines got worse and his memories started coming back James had gotten… curious. Curious enough to start leaving intentional breadcrumbs. Enough so James could keep an eye on them but not too much so that they could actually spot him. They’d gotten close this time, though. Bucky had just been returning to grab a few last minute items, provisions he may have need of on the next leg of his journey, nothing he couldn’t pick up somewhere else along the way.

James climbed the stairs two at a time, boots silent against the rusty metal. He got out his rifle and went to the window, snapping the legs in place. It nestled right in the T corners he had set out ages ago. Crouching down to peer through the viewfinder, James watched as his two shadows haphazardly perused the now-abandoned apartment. Captain America and The Falcon. He knew who they were. There was a muddled confusion behind his eyes and he had to lean back to blink through the pain. Targets acquired. Pierce flashed their faces in front of him. Meeting Rumlow at the rendezvous. Falcon careening over the side of the helicarrier. Captain America’s face bruised, puffy, and bloodied. Then suddenly it was his same face, slimmer, paler, still bruised but not from Bucky’s hands…

He furrowed his brow and leaned forward again. Once he got Captain America’s broad shoulders in the center of his crosshairs, James breathed out slowly. Very carefully, he kept his finger away from the trigger and simply watched. Steve turned around again, slumping into the chair behind him. James recentered on his face and watched as he lit a cigarette. He could see Falcon’s profile, but not enough to read his lips. They were speaking English.

“I wonder if Bucky remembers.”

James wrenched his head away from the scope, immediately turning around to pack up his things. He disassembled his rifle with deft hands, carefully snapping the case closed again. He slung his backpack over his other shoulder, pulled his hood up over his head, and walked back out into the bright sunlight.

Manhattan, New York, USA - 2017

“He killed my parents, Steven.” He could hear Tony seethe. “I can’t just-- just let that go.”

“Hydra killed your parents, Tony. The government did.” Steve said, obviously trying to sound diplomatic. Bucky didn’t think he was helping the situation much at all by bringing that up.

Tony scoffed. “Like that’s supposed to make me feel better.” There was some rustling on the other side of the wall. Maybe Bucky should let them know he could hear them. “They died at his hand, bottom line.”

Steve sighed. Bucky could imagine the look on his face, all pinched and frustrated. “I’m sorry, Tony, and he is too, but there has to be some way-- a way that we can come to an agreement about this.”

“He’s sorry.” Tony deadpanned. Bucky’s head hurt again. It’d been less and less since working with the doctors, his therapist, in Wakanda, but there was still pain. “He’s sorry? Sorry isn’t good enough.”

“Tony,” Clint said, because apparently, this was an as-many-Avengers-as-were-available kind of meeting. “He was brainwashed. He didn’t even know his own name. I would have thought you could understand that.”

There was a long silence and Bucky waited to hear Tony get up and leave. He didn’t.

“I’m feeling very cornered right now. Is really no one on my side about this?” Tony said in a very small voice.

“It’s not about sides.” That was Natasha. Bucky was still piecing together how and when he actually knew her-- met her.

“Is that so?” Tony asked, a skeptic lilt to his voice.

“Alright, I have an honest question.” Clint paused, probably for Tony to make a motion that he could continue. “Do you think…” Clint’s voice wavered just a fraction. “That the families of-- of the people that I…” His breath hitched. “When Loki was…” He trailed off again. There was some more rustling and footsteps. “No, Natasha. Don’t I’m-- Look, do you think that the families of the agents and civilians I killed while my mind was being controlled by Loki would be justified in feeling towards me the way that you do right now? Or would you say that their anger is misplaced and that the blame should really be on Loki since I didn’t have any control over myself?”

“Well... but that’s different--”

“How? How was that different?” Clint stressed.

Tony took a deep breath. “Those people-- You were… He’s asking to be part of the team, for me to see him every day, to trust--”

“No, he’s not.” Steve tried to interrupt.

“Well, what would you say he’s asking for, then, Steve?” Tony bit back acridly.

“He’s not asking for anything,” Steve said with a measured calm.

“If he’s not, then why the hell are we all even--”

“I am.” Steve burst out suddenly. “I’m asking. I need him here. I-- He’s doing so much better and he says he’s ready and I need him. I need him here, I’ve always needed him and I still want to be part of this team. Not him, just me. So, yeah, that may mean Bucky would be around more. You’ll probably have to see him, and I would like it if you two could get along because you’re my friend and Bucky’s my--” He paused, clearing his throat. “But I’m not going to ask that from you I just wanted to talk to you about it, because I knew you had… feelings about it, and I want us to continue to be able to trust each other, like you said, that’s important, and…”

“So you’re just letting me know where your allegiance lies. Thanks for the update.” Tony huffed.

“What? No! Fuck, Tony, didn’t you-- No, I’m saying, I care about you both and I want to have you both in my life. There is tension between you and I’m not going to pussyfoot around the idea, not anymore like I have been.” Steve said.

Even with Bucky’s spotty and limited memory, this was the most he’d ever heard Steve curse in one conversation.

“Like you have been? What’s that supposed to mean? Oh, so now I need to be treated with kid gloves is that it?” Bucky could almost hear Tony’s teeth grinding together.

“Well, can you be adult and reasonable about it?” Steve was starting to sound a little petulant.

“This is turning into a circular argument.” Vision helpfully supplied.

He heard Tony let out a harsh, angry breath. “Fine, Rogers, do whatever the hell you want I don’t know why you thought you needed my permission to have friends.” A door swung open. “I’m going to go spend some time with Pepper in Malibu. If the world needs saving again or whatever, you know where to find me.”

Bucky winced as a door slammed, followed by a huge crash. He waited patiently where Steve had left him, in a random office that he said was his own but looked so unused Bucky doubted anyone but the maid ever came in. He rolled a cigarette between his fingers; he didn’t know if he could smoke inside so he had refrained. But the waiting, and subsequent overhearing, had made him nervous. So skittish that he jolted when Steve opened the door.

Slipping the fag behind his ear, Bucky stood up.

“You heard that, didn’t you?” Steve asked, with confident assurance of Bucky’s answer. He wasn’t accusatory, though.

Bucky shrugged, his mouth tugging down into a frown.

“How much?” Bucky just stared at his feet. “All of it?” Steve sounded sad, instead of angry like Bucky thought he should have been.

“I’m sorry, I--”

“No, Buck, it’s okay. You… at least I don’t have to try and summarize it all for you.” He took a step forward, like he was going to reach out and touch Bucky, but when he flinched-- he didn’t mean to flinch, god he didn’t mean to-- Steve pulled away.

“Maybe I should go back--”

“No! No, Bucky--” Steve tried to interrupt him, but Bucky just kept pressing forward. He had to get this out.

“Maybe I should go back and spend more time… there. I was fine with M’Koni and her family, helping out on the farm, it was… it was good for me.” Bucky looked down at his hand. He didn’t like wearing any prosthetic anymore, even though Shuri had made him almost a dozen different models.

Steve’s voice was so small, obviously hurt, but still so careful to spare Bucky’s feelings. “Do you-- Do you want to go back?”

‘I need him here,’ rattled around in his head. But he wasn’t doing this for Steve. He wasn’t coming back, coming home just because Steve missed him. Bucky wanted to do this for himself. To gain a little bit more back of who he was. Wakanda was amazing, the people, the technology, the agriculture, it gave Bucky a place to work hard at something, do something with his hands-- hand, that wasn’t destructive. It was a great place to heal and to grow and to figure out who he was now. Not 1940’s Bucky, Sergeant Barnes, not Soldat, not even James, just himself. Be he’d come to realize out there, laboring under the burning Wakandan sun, that all those other identities had to be part of himself too. And the only real way he could connect with his past was to go there, no matter how different or modern it might now be.

“No, I don’t want to go back.” He said, decisively.

This time, Bucky held very still as Steve reached out, watching his every move. Steve wasn’t hesitant, just slow and deliberate, as he reached out a hand and caressed Bucky’s face. It felt-- complete. When his palm perfectly cradled Bucky’s cheek, calloused thumb brushing on top of his cheekbone, Bucky felt finished and whole in a way he hadn’t in a long, long time. He closed his eyes, willing the tears not to spill over.

“Then you’ll stay. And we’ll figure it out, together.” Steve whispered. Bucky could feel the heat radiating off of his chest as he stepped even closer.

“‘Til the end of the line.” Bucky murmured, tipping his head down and forward to rest against one of Steve’s pectorals.

“‘Til the end of the line.” Steve replied.

Brooklyn, New York, USA - 1934

Bucky glanced back up the alley to make sure he wasn’t being watched before he swung himself up to grab hold of the fire escape. He knew just the right places to step on and cling to so the worn metal wouldn’t make a sound. It was late. Bucky didn’t even look at the clock before he’d left his house, but he knew it had to be late. That time of night between dark midnight and early morning where everything felt surreal and mysterious.

Steve’s window was already open. It was summer and hot as the dickens, it seemed like every window in New York City was open, desperate and hopeful for a lick of the nonexistent breeze.

Bucky was almost positive Mrs. Rogers knew whenever he snuck into their apartment, no matter how quiet he was or how early he tried to leave. He probably could have just gone through the front door; he’d known where they hid their spare key for ages. But then, where was the fun in that?

Even after all these years of being friends, of sneaking into Steve’s bed, Bucky had yet to find a way to crawl under the covers without the bedframe letting out a horrible tinning squeak. It woke Steve up every time, without fail.

“Hm? Buck?” Steve mumbled, turning over on his back to squint at him in the dim light.

Bucky didn’t say anything. He never had to, Steve just slid over to make room, disentangling his skinny arms from the threadbare topsheet. He picked up his head and offered up the other half of his pillow for Bucky to share.

“Your Pa again?” Steve was still half asleep, lips barely moving as he tried to talk.

Bucky grunted, noncommittal. He brought his right arm up and tucked it behind his head, the other fiddling with a button on his shirt.

It wasn’t that his Pop was a mean drunk. He wasn’t mean at all, really. And Bucky should be thankful Pop was around at all, let alone able to actually hold down a job. He had a lot to be thankful for.

But Pop was a drunk. And when he drank, he would get this vacant look in his eye and a slur around his words that put Bucky on edge. He never yelled, he never hit any of the girls, Lord knows Bucky wouldn’t have stood for that at all, but he just wasn’t himself. He’d talk and ramble on about horrible things, gruesome things he’d seen during the war, shit that made no sense if you thought about it long enough. He’d sit in his armchair in the livingroom, whiskey bottle clutched loose in his hand. Bucky didn’t have a bedroom, not since Adelaide and Constance were born and the girls needed more space. He slept on the couch, or he tried to. Sometimes Pop would cry. Just sit there sobbing all night long until the sun came up. Only then would he finally pass out, followed by a loud clank as the glass slipped from his fingers. Those nights, Bucky would lay on the lumpy, itchy, old sofa with his eyes closed, trying not to wince every time George hiccupped.

It was disgustingly hot and stuffy inside, but still Steve’s toes were like ice as he pressed them up against Bucky’s thigh.

“Jesus, Stevie, fuck.” Bucky cursed, but he didn’t flinch away.

“S’rry.” Steve tugged at Bucky’s arm, slipping underneath when he held it up. His soft blond hair tickled Bucky’s chin as he pressed his cheek up against Bucky’s chest.

Bucky stared at a stain in the ceiling until his eyes burned from keeping them open so long. Steve’s breath puffed out regularly against his collar. Bucky’s thumb brushed rhythmically against Steve’s ribs, over and over and over, until his mind finally quieted. He turned his head to peer out the open window, he could see the sky through a tiny sliver between the buildings. It was cloudy.

Brooklyn, New York, USA - 2017

Bucky was curled up reading a book in a rusty, was-probably-green-at-some-point, folding beach chair on the roof of his apartment building. Steve helped him get a place that was really only a few short blocks away from their old neighborhood. Technically, it was Bucky’s apartment, but Steve had pretty much moved in by now. He was always hanging around, or at least when he wasn’t away on missions. Which he was. Today.

Steve had left on a mission earlier that morning, while the sky was still dark outside and the frosty chill blanketed the city. Bucky did actually have a guest room, but it never got used. For about a week Steve determinately started out in his own bed, but after night after night of migrating over to Bucky’s bunk, they’d just given up any pretenses. When Steve got the call, he answered it quietly, clicking on the dim reading lamp that sat on the bedside table. He gingerly shuffled out of bed. Bucky rolled over and watched him throw a duffle bag together, eyes still hooded and half asleep.

He pulled on a pair of jeans and a hoodie, something easy to change out of because he never took the suit home. Steve turned around to say goodbye and he startled a little when he saw Bucky was awake. Usually Bucky pretended to be asleep until after Steve was actually gone.

“Hey, uh, got a mission,” He whispered, like Bucky didn’t already know that. Steve perched himself on the edge of the bed and, always so hesitant, tucked a loose strand of Bucky’s hair back behind his ear. “Should be a short one, I’ll be home tonight or early tomorrow.” He forced a smile that looked downright painful. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, of course, Stevie. Why wouldn’t I be?” They both knew why he wouldn’t be but Bucky didn’t want him to worry and Steve wanted to believe him.

“Okay,” he breathed. He looked like he wanted to say something else but Bucky didn’t prompt him about it so he stood and left without another word.

He’d spent the rest of the day like he always did. Cleaned the kitchen after breakfast, then the living room, then all his guns. He went to the bodega on the corner to buy ingredients for dinner and made small talk with the old man behind the counter. Texted Rebecca and Cassie, the girls from California who he actually was able to track down again, and gave his opinion about their kitchen remodel. He looked up a bunch of stuff on the internet and journaled in one of his many notebooks, still trying to piece together exactly where all his memories fit along a consecutive timeline. It was a normal day, all said and done. It was normal and good and healthy. And, no, being with Steve hadn’t been the cure-all for his life, not that he ever thought it would have been, but Bucky had to admit that being with Steve had helped, so far.

Now, though, he was pretending to read his favorite book, favorite even before the war. His eyes were drawn to look at the unfamiliar Manhattan skyline over the East River. He staved off the windchill with a musty wool blanket that positively reeked of mothballs. Clutching it tighter around himself, he went back to reading. He was just to the part where Phileas Fogg was about to rescue Aouda from committing sati, the best part of the whole thing as far as Bucky was concerned, when the metal pipe he had propping open the door clanged briefly as it was disturbed. Bucky didn’t take his eyes off the page in front of him, but listened intently, recognizing Steve’s gait.

There wasn’t another seat up here. Which was kind of stupid because Bucky ended up on the roof a lot, always feeling stifled when he was indoors too long. And if Bucky spent so much time on the roof, that meant Steve spent just as much time up here with him. But there was never a chair for him to use.

Bucky felt the air displace beside him as Steve sat down. He could see the hint of his bare arms crossed over his knees just on the edge of his peripheral vision. When he leaned his head against the armrest, Bucky could smell his strawberry-scented shampoo. Bucky shifted in place and, without letting go if his book, reached out his pinky to rub against Steve’s kneecap, soft denim under the pad of his finger.

“How’d it go?” He asked, barely above a whisper.

He could feel Steve tense, and then slowly relax. “No casualties.”

Bucky knew that was the best he could ask for most of the time. Things would go better, easier, if only Steve didn’t feel so much goddamn guilt and fucking personal responsibility for every--

“I can’t believe you’re reading Jules Verne again,” Steve said, craning his neck around to see the cover. “They’ve come out with thousands of new science fiction novels, I know you’d love if you just gave them a chance.”

Bucky finally looked up to meet his eyes. “How many times have you read The Sun Also Rises?” He raised an eyebrow and reveled in the blush that bloomed along the apples of Steve’s cheeks. He moved his thumb from the spine of the book, letting it fall shut against the bookmark, and reached out to cup Steve’s chin, pressing into the corner of his mouth. It was a move very reminiscent of his mother, which surprised him both because he actually remembered his mother and also because who actually likes realizing they’re turning into their parents? “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He murmured, smile tugging at his lips.

Instead of wrenching his head out of Bucky’s grasp, playing it off like a joke, Steve just grinned up at him. It felt like all the love in the world filled his eyes and Bucky’s heart stuttered in his chest. Not knowing what else to do, he pulled his hand away and cleared his throat. He stared blankly at the maroon cover in his lap.

It felt like there was a hot lead weight right in the middle of his gut. Bucky didn’t like it.

There was a long silence that seemed to stretch on forever with Bucky’s eyes intent on his abandoned mug of tea on the ground in front of him and Steve hunched over resting his chin on his knee.

“Steve, I--” Bucky started suddenly. It surprised him; he hadn’t meant to actually let any words out this time. He didn’t want to bring it up, but now Steve was staring at him expectantly and Bucky resigned himself to having to continue. “What were we? Back then,” he clarified, not that he needed to. It seemed like Steve always knew what he was trying to talk about.

He was quiet for such a long moment. So long that Bucky had kind of written it off that maybe he hadn’t actually said anything out loud after all. That would have been ideal.

“You were my best friend,” Steve said with a sort of cagey finality that didn’t sit well with him.

“And what are we now?” Bucky pressed on. He’d made his bed, might as well lie in it.

Steve sighed in that put-out kind of way he had always so good at doing. “Well I don’t want to speak to how you feel, but you’re still my best friend.”

When Bucky turned his head just enough to look at him, Steve had his face turned up at the sky, not exactly pleading for something from someone, but more that he needed a neutral place to look at.

“You’re lying.” Maybe he wasn’t so good at reading people anymore, but he sure as hell knew when Steve wasn’t giving the whole truth.

Still watching the blank clouds, he scoffed. “I’m really not.”

Bucky tried to let it go, he really did. But after a moment he found himself opening his mouth again. “Have you thought about it?”

A puff of air, frustrated, came from Steve’s lips. “Buck, you gotta cool it with this existential interview.”

Oh, okay. “Sorry,” he breathed, shuffling his book off his lap and moving to get up.

Steve put a hand on his thigh. “No, wait. I didn’t mean that. Just-- What’s on your mind?”

Bucky got up anyway, but he didn’t leave. He walked just to the edge of the roof, staring at nothing, hand stuffed into his pocket. “I know, sometimes, I couldn’t even tell you how to spell my own name, but I-- I remember… I thought things would be different. Now.” He spoke barely above a whisper, words carried away by the wind. He knew Steve could still hear him.

There was a frustrated lilt to Steve’s voice. “Bucky… What do you mean?” He stood from his crouch and stepped closer; faint heat from his body radiated against Bucky’s back.

Bucky itched to have something in his hands, something to fiddle with and give him some direction. He’s definitely not as eloquent as he used to be. Maybe he shouldn’t try talking about it at all. Bucky tried to keep a cap on his amount of rash decision making; there was instinctual and there was rash, and those were two different things. Braced ready for a fight, he turned around and met Steve’s keen, calculating face.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

“I want what we couldn’t have before.” Voicing his desires. Bucky was getting better at that.

There was a fraction of a moment where Steve didn’t do anything. But then his eyes went wide with understanding and surprise. His breath hitched and his arms-- his whole body, really, rocked forward in a sort of knee-jerk reaction to get closer, but then settled back again like he wanted to reach out and decided against it. Noticing all these details, watching the expressions play across Steve’s face, felt like a rejection. A rejection that hurt.

They stood, stoically gazing at each other for what felt like an eternity. Bucky had shown his hand, he had nothing else left to do. Steve’s brow furrowed together and his eyes darted around to different parts of Bucky’s face, cataloging. They settled on his lips. Quicker than Bucky was ready for it, but really he’d been ready and waiting for more almost a century, Steve stepped forward and crashed their lips together.

It was hot, burning, overwhelming in the best of ways. Every part of him, every facet of his perception, focused down to that one feeling. Maybe Bucky couldn’t remember every time he had wanted this, desired Steve, but he still knew that this was only a culmination of a lifetime waiting in the shadows.

They broke apart and Bucky kept his hand wrapped around Steve’s waist.Their faces were so close it felt like they were breathing the same air. For a moment, Bucky paused and allowed himself to just be, to exist in this moment, and know that it was real.

The wind blew and it raised goosebumps up along his arm, tousling his hair so that it fell away from where it was tucked behind his ear. Steve reached with his free hand and brought it back against his face.

“I love you,” Steve whispered, a small smile on his face.

Bucky hesitated, wary. “Why didn’t you-- sooner… How long…” He almost didn’t want to know the answer. “How long have you wanted this? Between us?”

Steve stayed silent, which was answer enough.

“You should have said.” But Steve was shaking his head before Bucky’d even finished.

“I didn’t want you to feel pressure, I thought… I thought it’d be a distraction, from your recovery.” He ran his hand up and down Bucky’s arm. “Besides, I-- even if just… knowing you were alive, alive and safe, even if that was all I could have it would have been enough.” He searched Bucky’s face for a calculating moment. “You’ve already given me more than I ever thought was possible.”

Bucky very determinately did not blush. “I can’t say that it won’t be different now. We’re different now, but I do remember… parts, some of it, and I--”

“Nothing has to change if you don’t want to!” Steve was quick to interject.

He gave him an unimpressed stare. “Yeah, I know. You’ve made that abundantly clear.” He mumbled sorry under his breath, tucking his chin. “Have you even heard what I’ve been tryin’ to say here? Or did that doc really not fix your ears neither?” He teased, slipping into his old Brooklyn accent, easy as breathing.

Steve’s eyes sparkled, obviously trying to tamp down a delighted grin. “Nah, I heard.”

Bucky, because he could, surged up to kiss him again, and again.