Chapter 3
Bucky locks all the doors and puts on his grumpiest face to keep Steve off his feet and in bed. There’s a lot of growling and mumbled threats involved, but his efforts are successful for the most part. He convinces Steve, who is somehow wormier and whinier about staying in bed than he was at 90 pounds, that he’s exhausted and that they should catch up on rest together.
But Bucky doesn’t sleep so much as experiment in touch: pressing as much as of his body as he can stand against Steve’s warm side before his thoughts start to blur together and he has to roll away. Steve must not notice, because he dozes idly and keeps a firm hold on Bucky’s hand.
Steve tosses and turns as night falls, achy and feverish and mid-healing. Bucky brings cool rags and chamomile tea and strokes the back of his clammy hand, feeling more like the Sentinel now than ever before. He doesn’t know which pains him more: carrying Steve’s bloodied body or watching him writhe in uncomfortable pain that he cannot control. He tests bringing his lips to Steve’s knuckles while he sleeps, and notices his restlessness seems to subside, if only for a little while.
Steve is sleeping soundly at dawn when Bucky crawls carefully from the bed to make coffee. His head is still fuzzy from spending a good part of the night tossed about in the sea of Steve’s troubled sleep. He can still keep an eye on Steve from his place in the kitchen, sipping the strong black liquid and wrapping his brain around how physically close he’d let himself get to Steve. And yet, the Winter Soldier was silent beneath his skin.
Some time later, Bucky’s experimenting with a recipe for soup that he recalls from memory, yet has no name, time period, or attachment to the details of how he obtained it. Though it comes from his own mind, he’s examining the details of it like a detective, trying to place which country the dish hails from. Vegetable skins and opened spice containers litter the countertop when a knock at the door cuts through his silent reverie. Much to his dismay, Wilson’s gap-toothed grin beams at him from the other side of the door. Bucky merely blinks at him.
He finds the Winter Soldier’s most menacing glare washing over his face as he motions for Wilson to be quiet, only to have a frilly apron thrown in his face as the man slides past him and hops onto their kitchen counter, calling him a “домохозяйка” in poorly garbled Russian.
Bucky mumbles some choice words about his mother in return, in a language Wilson is sure to not understand.
Then finally, in a dramatic whisper. “So how is he?”
Bucky grunts and goes back to his roux.
“Still sleeping?”
Bucky busies himself carefully dicing green peppers with a large knife he pulls from the collar of his shirt.
“Can I go see him?”
He lets the simmering food drown out Wilson’s words as he deglazes the pan with red wine.
A soft pop and Wilson is sticking a tupperware container of homemade cookies under his nose, wiggling it enticingly.
“C’mon, man. My Mama’s recipe. They’re chocolate chip…”
Bucky directs a sharp, unimpressed eye to the cookies, all various sizes and shades of brown, their little crispy edges smiling up at him.
“Okay, okay, so my mama made them. She loves Steve. Now can I see him?”
Bucky snatches a cookie and shoves it into his mouth, rolling his eyes and shoving Wilson off his kitchen counter before he changes his mind. They are pretty good cookies, after all.
“He does this,” Steve reassures Wilson, and Bucky, who has unfortunately been obligated to play housewife after all. He’s served Steve and their unwelcome guest some of his mystery stew and now watches their interaction from his perch in the corner of Steve’s bedroom. The Winter Soldier hums in agitation just behind his temples.
“Tony locks himself in his room to pout, plays with his toys, comes out ready to save the world. Just let him stew.”
“I hope you’re right, because Nat is like a feral cat upstairs, pacing all damn day. I’m surprised she hasn’t been climbing the walls or rappelling off the building. I’m sending her down here next so you can deal with her.”
Bucky conjures images of a blood-soaked Natasha, high-school revenge in her eyes. He shudders. “No!”
That gets some attention from the peanut gallery, and both heads swivel in his direction. Steve’s eyebrows crinkle in concern, and Wilson’s face pinches in poorly concealed mirth, his eyes twinkling with glee.
“I mean, you need more rest, Stevie. Really shouldn’t be entertaining visitors,” he sneers at Wilson.
Steve gives him a fond smile in return. “Don’t sweat it, Buck. I’m good as new, honest.” As if to prove a point, he stretches his arms over his head, triceps bulging as he leans back into the pillows propping him in a seated position on the bed. His chest is bare, and Bucky’s removed the bandages from his rib cage, the minor cuts and bruises fading into new, pale skin. Bucky wants to chase each one away with his mouth, but the thought makes his hands shake with both fear and desire.
His eyes follow down the perfect curves of Steve’s pecs, the rosy flush of his fever curling down between them, stopping just above his diaphragm. He scratches his chest idly, moving a hand under the covers as he tests the wounded muscles of his knee and thigh.
Bucky’s throat goes dry, and he’d just as soon feed Wilson and his know-it-all smirk to the wolves as spare him a glance right now. Not when he’s busy undressing Steve with his filthy, fucked up mind.
But then Steve hits a sore spot, probably in the thigh, and lets out the tiniest of winces, sending Bucky catapolting to the edge of the bed, huffing and tutting in his gruff voice, gravelly with disuse. He runs a hand through his overlong hair and tucks Steve back in as Wilson snickers and remarks, “домохозяйка.”
Hell, if Bucky can turn in his Winter Soldier days to be Steve’s housewife, then somebody better hand him that frilly apron, damnit.
Tony makes his entrance a few days later, turning up at their door. He looks a little crazed, hair unwashed and clothes disheveled. There’s a Red Bull clutched in one hand and something distinctly metal in the other. Steve leans against the door and eyes it before turning his gaze to Bucky.
“We leave in two days,” Tony says evenly, looking past Steve to the man behind him. “He cleared for combat?” He asks Bucky like he fields these questions regularly.
Bucky nods, crossing his arms stiffly under his chest. “Sparred this morning. He’s right as rain.” He eyes Steve, a guarded, almost sad look in his eye.
“I have a proposition,” Tony continues, stepping into the room and gesturing toward Bucky with the long metal object in his hand. “You know Cap, we know Cap. He’s great, we need him. And I don’t know if you know this, he’s reckless as fuck.” He eyes Bucky with a look that he can’t place, and takes a step toward him. “Diving out of planes without a parachute and jumping off helicarriers; you know, the works. I can’t keep up with him anymore. I need backup. Gettin’ too old for this shit. You hunted him, you know how he works. Come with us to Russia for the mission, watch his back. Make sure we all come home safe.”
Steve thinks Tony missed his calling as an Army recruiter. He’s staring Bucky down, the two men would be nose to nose if not for the apparatus Tony clutches between them. Tony’s eyes twitch, lips slightly pursed. Bucky wears the mask of the Winter Soldier, his features schooled calm and impassive.
“But if you lose your focus for one second, put one of us in the line of fire, I’ll take you out myself. No questions asked.”
Tony suddenly juts out the object, which at closer glance, Steve realizes is a brand new metal arm. Its fingers stand outstretched toward Bucky like an extended handshake.
“What do you say, Barnes? Truce?”