Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bucky Barnes was having a pretty good day, all things considered.

He was sitting on his favorite couch in the common room, his favorite rifle out in clean, polished pieces on a cloth in front of him, and all his knives were scoured and waiting to be sharpened. Everything was cared for, perfect, and exactly where and how he wanted it.

This even, for once, included Steve, who was curled up in a chair nearby drawing. For the moment, at least, he was safe at home, instead of covered in ichor, alien bits, or his own blood, trying to get himself horribly killed pulling ridiculously stupid stunts that Bucky had expressly warned him not to try.

Granted, he was also way the fuck across the room, and he hadn’t actually looked at Bucky the entire morning, but on the other hand they weren’t actively fighting.

It was a really nice change.

Bucky knew all he had to do was stop being such an asshole all the time if he wanted a few hours of not listening to Steve go hoarse shouting at him, but the assholery just happened, regardless of what he’d planned when he left the apartment. Then Captain America would assume a good dose of yelling and disheartened frowns would be the key to stopping said assholery, apply it, and get ticked off when it didn’t work.

Again.

Steve Rogers sincerely adored Bucky, with the fervor of the truly devout. Unfortunately, it felt like Captain America wasn’t too keen on him sometimes. Since Captain America was following Bucky home from work more and more often nowadays, time not spent testing their lung capacity and foul-mouthed vocabulary was in short supply.

But at the moment, everything was good. Bucky experimentally stretched out, lolling half off the couch, until his foot brushed Steve’s.

Steve glanced up, pencil going still. Bucky held his breath, but after a moment, Steve smiled, face warming with soft affection. Bucky smiled back, like a total dope, and they both looked back down at what they were doing.

Everything was okay, then. Bucky let out the breath he was holding, but the corner of his mouth stayed ticked up.

He might get to spend a whole day with Steve. They didn’t have any Avenging to do in the near future, so odds were good Bucky might not have to deal with Captain America all day.

Bucky loved spending time without Captain America. He closed his eyes and relaxed for once, letting the defensiveness that had been creeping up his shoulders dissipate. Steve stretched a bit, too, hooking his foot around behind Bucky’s, smile lingering on his stupid mug even as he kept his eyes on his drawing.

Bucky grinned and resolved to try his luck in the sex department as soon as he had his rifle back together.

It had been a while. They were going to tear the apartment to pieces.

This all meant Bucky was in a pretty good mood for once, and he even managed to stay in a good mood when That Idiot Parker showed up. It didn’t mean he was going to bother looking away from sharpening the last stiletto he was holding, but it did mean it stayed in his hand. Not, for example, the wall next to Parker’s head, when the idiot for-fucks-sake dropped from the ceiling onto the back of the couch without warning.

Did Parker just completely forget Bucky was a cold war assassin with PTSD and a hair trigger? How had he stayed alive this long?

Peter was obviously waiting for him to speak, so Bucky hunkered down and ignored him. Hopefully the kid would take the hint.

He didn’t.

Peter took a deep breath and brought his shoulders up, but then couldn’t seem to get any actual words out. Today was looking like it would soon be filled with off-putting, bizarre behavior and confounded stuttering. Again.

Bucky sighed.

“I. Uh. I made you cookies.” Peter managed finally, tilting sideways on the back of the couch as he fidgeted with… what looked like a dirty bag of chocolate chip-studded mush.

Apparently Peter had dropped it into something on the way over.

The kid was a disaster. Bucky and Peter both eyed the bag dubiously. “You probably shouldn’t eat them,” Peter admitted, shoulders hunching up tighter the longer Bucky ignored him.

“Hn,” Bucky grunted finally, which, honestly, was above and beyond. He was being super nice today. Peter’s shoulders tightened up more, and Bucky was pretty sure the kid’s arms were going to end up coming out of his own ears at this rate. He rolled his eyes and went back to the knife.

If Steve wasn’t always so pissy about it, Bucky might have felt a little bad for the way he tended to treat Peter Parker. The kid had found out from somewhere about that one dick shooting (which was one time), so now he spent most of their free hours trying to prove that he was definitely not dick-shooting material. It was a mystery to Bucky why this should consist of being unfailingly polite, anxious, and fuckin’ weird, but then he wasn’t a mind reader. Maybe it somehow made sense in there amongst the morass of senseless teenage hormones the kid was no doubt swimming in.

Bucky remembered some his teenage years, and what memories he had were cringingly humiliating at best. Still, even at his worst he could manage basic human interactions; Parker just flubbed and failed every time he saw him, usually ending the interaction by scuffing a toe on the ceiling in silence, then running away.

Steve thought it was sweet, and that Bucky was being a jerk, which just made Bucky want to shoot the brat out of spite.

Steve kicked Bucky in the ankle. It didn’t actually hurt, but it sure as hell pissed him off. He jerked away and scowled, arm whirring as it reset, then turned the glare on Peter, instead. It got a much better reception there; Steve had just glared back, but Peter visibly wilted.

“Yeah, great, thanks,” Bucky said, picking up a rifle component so he had something to do with his hands. “Just what I always wanted. A bag of grimy apology pulp for—stop it!” he snapped as Steve kicked him again.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Steve told Peter kindly, although apparently Bucky always did whenever Peter screwed up. “You mistimed a fall in practice. It happens. It’s the whole reason we practice. No one is angry with you for it.” And here he frowned at Bucky, like Bucky had even said anything to freak Parker out. He hadn’t, he hadn’t even laughed, he hadn’t done shit, but everything was all definitely his fault again.

“It happens.” Bucky echoed dully, glowering at the rifle grip in his hand while fantasizing about beating Parker’s head in with it. “I’m not mad.”

“Uh,” Peter tried, not quite stupid enough to believe it. His heartbeat was clearly audible and going about a mile a minute. “I. Uh. I like your hair. Today. And other days, of course, not just today, it’s just. Uh.” Peter turned to Steve for help, which, best of luck there. Steve’s face was encouraging, but he always wanted them to work it out themselves.

Bucky felt this was completely unfair. If Steve wasn’t going to help, why did he have to? It wasn’t his fault Parker was a mess around him. He’d gotten the kid on the team, hadn’t he?

Peter soldiered on. “I mean, today it’s… clean. I mean it is other days too it’s. Good hair,” he finished lamely.

Peter was really just amazing at off-kilter, creepy compliments. Bucky was almost impressed. “You like my hair,” he said slowly, and tried to meet Steve’s eyes. No good, Steve was just looking away, pained. “Today. And all other days. Because it’s clean.”

Peter was clearly running on pure desperation at this point. “And I like…. Your… gun.”

“My gun,” Bucky repeated. Peter’s understanding of the types of weapons Bucky favored, as far as he could tell, ran to classification as ‘shooty or stabby,’ and not a whole hell of a lot else. “Do you even know what it is?”

“Of course I do,” the kid bluffed, throwing himself to the hands of fate. “I enjoy the use of firearms and bladed weapons in real life.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows and waited.

Peter swallowed. “It’s…a Twimble… 69, obviously.”

Steve winced.

“Did you just pick a random nonsense word and a number?” Bucky asked, offended. “Did you actually think that might work out for you?”

“That’s not fair, they’re all nonsense words followed by a random number,” Peter complained, covering his face with his hands and looking ready to throw himself out the window. Bucky was going to be happy to help whenever Peter finally decided to do it. “Like the Glock 76 and the Browning 84 or whatever!”

“Neither of those are real guns!” Bucky told him, voice rising maybe a tiny bit. “What even is an 84?”

“I’m trying to find common interests!” Peter shouted back, “And you have a grand total of three things you like: Captain Rogers, knives, and guns, but if I tell you about my massive nerd crush on Rogers you will probably stick an ice pick in my ear because you are a huge jealous asshole so the Twimble 69 is what I have to work with.”

Then Peter realized what he’d said and slapped both hands over his mouth.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry YOU HAVE GOOD TEETH,” Peter yelled, voice cracking on the last, and rabbited out of there like his ass was on fire.

Bucky was left with his mouth open, a bag of sodden cookies, and a disapproving, silent boyfriend.

“Jesus,” Bucky swore, packing up his weapons. “That kid. All I hear about is what a witty little smartass he is, but he’s a bigger disaster than you were.”

“He’s usually better when you’re not terrifying him,” Steve sighed. “He just really wants you to like him. You should be nicer.”

“I was nice! I didn’t stick any of these into anything,” Bucky protested, picking up a knife and waving it at him. “I was the nicest.”

Steve was clearly unimpressed.

“He brought me a filthy bag of soggy mush,” Bucky pointed out, changing tack. “What was I supposed to say?”

Steve made an exasperated noise and moved fucking further away again. This was the pattern: Bucky fucked up, and Steve bitched, glared, and then moved into another room to make sure Bucky knew what a disappointment he was. As if Bucky couldn’t figure it out from Steve’s permanent fucking dad face.

It was getting really old, and even though he knew it wasn’t helping, Bucky usually reacted by being even more of a fuckup.

And repeat.

“He’s a kid, he’s scared of you, and every time he trips up because of it he panics more,” Steve lectured him. “You never acted like this when I was awkward, and you know I was worse.”

Steve closed his eyes and Bucky saw red. Great. They were back to What Bucky Used To Be Like. He loved this game. “Where the hell do you put your empathy when you’re not using it on me?” Steve continued, like he actually wanted Bucky to answer, and instead of just sit there while he harangued him.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, gestured to his lap and made a rude gesture. “Probably the same place I like to shove my—“

“Oh look,” Steve interrupted, clearly exhausted. Well, join the club, Bucky thought, he was pretty sick of this too. “My phone says we have to assemble, I’m so sorry I won’t hear the rest of that. It sounded like it was going to be very classy.”

“Dick,” Bucky supplied with a bright grin. “It’s probably the same place I like to shove my dick when you’re not getting on my case about all the things I screw up all the time.”

“Good luck finding it in the foreseeable future, then,” Steve snapped, and stalked out.

“Not like I could see it with that huge stick up there already,” Bucky shouted, kicking the table so it slid across the floor and into the wall. There was a splintering crash, and both the leg and a chunk of drywall gave up the ghost. Fuck. Steve was probably going to make him fix that, too.

And his day had been going so well.

***

Because luck had abandoned Bucky sometime around the Second World War, his day didn’t take long to go from routinely crummy to the worst of his entire life.

Well. ‘Worst’ was an exaggeration. No one was bleeding out, dying, brainwashed, frozen, tortured for seventy years, or realizing their entire life had been an evil, blood-drenched lie, which made it a pretty good day when looking at his existence as a whole.

Definitely the worst day of his month, though.

“Okay,” That Idiot Parker acknowledged, hands together at his mouth like he was about to start praying. “So I take full responsibility for this situation.”

“Oh,” Bucky snarled, “great.” His wrist plates clicked up and down as he shifted his grip on the damn Twimble 69, now smeared in grit, blood, and dog spit. Dog spit. The headache pounding at his temples blossomed into a full explosion right behind his eyes. “Don’t worry,” he assured Peter, blinking back the pain, “I already blamed you way before this point.”

Steve didn’t say anything, just cocked his head and looked at them both with concern.

“Look, in my defense,” Peter explained to Steve, “I’m used to being the fastest person in the room by a lot more than I was today. I had every reason to think that I could get that shot off before you jumped in the way. Further—“

“Shut your idiot face, Parker.” Bucky hooked the Twimble (and he was always going to call it that in his head now, damnit) into place and rubbed his temples. He dropped back against the wall and slid down it. “He can’t understand your blubbering, and I don’t give a shit.”

Steve licked his face. Bucky willed himself to wake up from the nightmare, or at least for Steve’s breath to be a little bit less awful.

“I’m just,” Peter said desperately, hands fluttering uselessly, “I’m just really sorry.”

“You aren’t yet,” Bucky promised, eyes still shut tightly in the hopes it would all go away, “but believe me. Once I regain my will to live, you will be.”

Steve woofed and tried to climb into Bucky’s lap. All 240 ridiculous, furry pounds of him.

Their damn super villain of the day had been brandishing a weird looking gun, and as a veteran of many battles with weird looking guns, Bucky had been agonizingly careful around it until they’d knocked it from his grip. Unfortunately, Parker had come up with the stellar idea to web it over and start firing it, with no training, in an enclosed space, while two very fast brawlers tried to beat up the same target he was aiming at.

And then, Peter fucking Parker had turned Captain America into the biggest, hairiest, dopiest dog Bucky had ever seen.

The dopiest. A huge, adoring, tongue-lolling mess that wanted to cuddle up as close to Bucky as it could get, preferably right on top of him, and spread slobber and hair like Bucky might run out soon.

And while Steve actually wanting to spend time with him was a pretty nice change, he had kept all his weight and was heavy. Bucky swore and twisted to protect his crotch.

He failed. This led to a lot more swearing.

Captain America and The Winter Soldier needed to stop going on missions with Spiderman. If Steve could be believed, the kid was actually pretty good when he wasn’t freaked out around Bucky. But Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he made shit decisions when he thought the Winter Soldier was watching.

Or maybe Steve was right and Bucky just needed to be nicer.

God damn it.

“He makes a really pretty golden retriever,” Peter pointed out, hovering. Genuinely hovering—he was hanging upside-down right over Bucky’s head. Bucky resisted the urge to swat at him. “A… really big one, but pretty. It could be a lot worse, right? Dogs are really smart. At least he’s not a giant lizard. That’s happened.”

That kid was going to end up with his dick shot off by the end of this, Bucky swore to God. He sat in the corner and tried to contain his fury, and Cap laid his head delicately on Bucky’s shoulder and blew a great, smelly, doggy sigh right into his face.

Then he started to drool again.

“Eugh, Steve.” Bucky reared back in disgust. Cap’s tail beat the cement floor happily. “You are even more annoying as a dog.”

Steve responded with loud bark, jumped up and down on him even though he was still enormous, and smeared whatever slime a dog could manufacture all over Bucky’s face and hair. Bucky yelped and instantly regretted opening his mouth. There was a minor scuffle before he managed to stand up and level his most chilling glare on Parker.

The kid’s knees visibly wobbled. Bucky chalked up the lack of pants-wetting terror to the dog spit probably cementing half his hair straight up and sideways.

He tried to smooth it back down.

Peter rallied. “Your. Uh. Your hair looks good like that,” he tried.

Bucky turned without speaking and kicked the door down.

“We can totally fix this!” Peter called out as he skittered across the ceiling after him. “Tony will definitely fix this!”

***

Tony tossed the screwdriver on the workbench and crossed his arms. “Nope,” he declared, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “Can’t fix this.”

“What do you mean you can’t fix it,” Peter stammered, glancing anxiously at Bucky’s slowly darkening face. Steve licked Bucky’s hand and whined. “Of course you can fix it. It’s a gun. You were literally called the Merchant of Death, you made guns almost your whole life, of course you can fix it.”

Tony gave him a level stare. “Kiddo,” he said, pointing at Peter, “I have cameras everywhere. I know how badly you have been crashing and burning today, and let me say, you should probably stop right there.”

“We can’t leave Captain America a dog!” Peter moaned, gesturing at Steve wildly. “We can’t just leave the greatest tactical mind in the country in need of walkies for the rest of his life!”

At that moment, Steve moved on from licking and went all out, desperately trying to get Bucky to pet him again. It was in no way dignified and involved a lot of whimpering, writhing, and drool, and Bucky finally gave in under the onslaught. Steve whimpered in doggy ecstasy and wagged his tail so hard his butt swung back and forth.

Tony’s face split into a huge grin and he opened his mouth to say something, apparently remembered he could feel pain when Bucky caught his eye, and shut it again. “Look,” he said after a minute, “if it were actually broken, yeah, I could fix it. But this thing is only made to go one way. Fucking around trying to make it go backwards involves biology I probably shouldn’t mess with alone.”

“And Bruce is still in the back end of nowhere,” Peter groaned.

“And Bruce is still in the back end of nowhere,” Tony agreed. “I’d get Cho, but after the whole Ultron thing, she won’t work with me. Says everything I touch blows up in the world’s face.” He shrugged. “Which is fair.”

“Aw,” Peter said. “I like you.”

“Thanks kid,” Tony replied cheerfully. “That would mean a lot more if you hadn’t called me the Merchant of Death not thirty seconds ago.”

“I didn’t mean to!” Peter dropped his head into his hands. “I just get nervous around Sergeant Barnes, and then my mouth goes off all on its own!”

“Believe me,” Tony said. “We’ve noticed.”

Steve reared up on his hind legs, which brought him almost up to his human height, and started energetically cleaning Bucky’s face. He left behind a slimy, sticky, dog-breath mess in his wake.

“I refuse to believe there are only two goddamn biologists in the entire world,” Bucky decided, done with everything, hands full of struggling dog while he tried to reclaim his personal space. It wasn’t working. “Find someone else.”

Tony snorted. “Biologists with the level of expertise I need plus the engineering and math to work with me? You’re right, sure, there are more than two.” He pretended to count off on his fingers, and Bucky pretended he might not break them all if he didn't speed it up. “There are three. But the third one is an asshole.”

“He’ll fit right in here,” Peter muttered.

“No, like a serious jackass,” Tony clarified. “Steve won’t work with him unless at least two lives are at stake, he is that much of a dickbag.”

Peter looked impressed. “Wow. Two?”

“Two.”

Bucky’s patience, frayed little by little the whole god-awful day, finally snapped.

He took two long strides past Steve, picked up Tony by his lapels, and held his face so close their noses brushed. Tony made an exaggerated grimace at the smell, and Bucky just couldn’t be bothered to find any sympathy for him.

Steve decided it was all a great game and started bouncing up and down beside them.

“Look,” Bucky hissed. “I am not in a great mood at the moment, but see how nice I’m being? You can do it too. Call up number three, put on your big boy panties, and fucking deal with him like an adult, or so help me god, you will not like what I do to you.”

Tony narrowed his eyes.

***

An hour later, Bucky regretted everything,

“You should have made up with Cho,” he muttered, arms crossed, still sticky with drool.

“I told you,” Tony groused. “Fucking Richards.”

The weirdest thing about being in the same room with Tony and Reed Richards was listening to Tony argue for caution, patience, ethics, and scientific procedure. It was flat-out bizarre. Bucky wasn’t entirely certain, if they came up with a cure, that he would take the chance on using it. On top of it all, Bucky got to deal with Peter’s miserable guilt, Tony’s secretly-worried prattle, and Richards’ complete douchebaggery.

Still, that was all background noise. The actual worst thing about being in the same room as Tony and Richards was that it was a lab. He hated the smell of it. He hated the echo in it. He hated the lights, the gleaming surfaces, the beeps and the displays and the godforsaken lab coats. His arm was permanently stuck in recalibration mode, plates clicking up and down ad nauseum, and his head was killing him.

He was ready to tear the throat out of every human in sight, and it was pretty fucking obvious. Peter made sad eyes at him, and Bucky tried to pretend he was an adult and had his shit together.

Steve whined and pressed close, leaning his full bulk against Bucky’s side and stretching up to be petted. Bucky grimaced, but worked his right hand deep into Steve’s coat.

Steve barked, tail wagging again, and Bucky felt a little bit better. If he sometimes clenched his fist and pulled too hard, Steve never made a noise. It was actually…kind of nice. Bucky tried an experimental scratch.

Steve went into raptures. Bucky almost managed a smile. Finally, though, he just couldn’t take it anymore.

“Leave the dog,” Richards called as Bucky made a break for freedom.

Bucky paused, frowned, and turned. “’The dog’? You mean Captain America?”

Richards glanced up from his work with a look that said he didn’t have much belief in Bucky’s intelligence, but he wasn’t about to lower himself to repetition.

Bucky’s hand clenched in Steve’s fur and started to whir. “You want me to leave Steve here,” he said. “With you. Alone.”

Steve’s head ducked low and he bared, as it turned out, a surprising number of teeth. Tony may have been exaggerating Steve’s inability to work with Richards as a human, but as a dog, Bucky’s bestest do-gooder pal had nearly taken the guy’s face off the last time it got too close.

There had been one single, shining bright spot in this whole awful day, and it was that the stupid, soppy, gargantuan lapdog at his side was only that way with Bucky. The second Richards had strolled in, Steve had suddenly looked a lot less ridiculous and a lot more like something that would eat you.

Steve had also stopped drooling everywhere, which told Bucky that a) Steve was a lot smarter as a dog than he was letting on, and b) the bastard had been slobbering all over Bucky on purpose this whole time.

The little shit.

Richards set down his stylus and curled his lip, making Bucky want to growl, too. “Yes. I want you to leave the dog. Which is why I asked for you to leave the dog,” he clarified.

Bucky raised his eyebrows in faked surprise. “You’ve had to get a new coat twice already because you keep trying to touch him and then not dodging quick enough,” he reminded Richards, incredulous. “You think that’s going to go better with me not here?”

Richards sighed, clearly beset with ignorance on all sides. Bucky kind of wanted to leave Steve just to see what would happen, but he changed his mind quick when Reed opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle and a syringe.

“We’ll simply sedate him and secure him,” Richards explained, standing. Steve stiffened, a soft growl in his throat, his eyes fixed on the waving needle. Bucky felt his own hackles rise. “We’ll get much more done this way. If you would just hold him still, I’ll administer the medication and we can get on with our work.”

Bucky laughed, amazed. “You want me to hold down 240 pounds of superserumed, vitarayed deathdog while you inject him with an unknown drug from an unmarked bottle.” He looked at Tony for support, gesturing. Can you believe this guy? “What part do I address first?”

Tony threw his hands in the air and turned back to the computer he was working at.

Richards was undaunted. Steve backed away, his fur standing on end and his growl getting louder. “Of course it’s unmarked, for it to work on Rogers I had to synthesize it myself. Now I’ll just—“

Bucky drew a pistol and cocked it.

Tony froze, then slowly sank a bit behind the desk he was working at. Peter leapt backwards over it, an unusually graceful move that he ruined by falling with a huge crash at the end. Bucky could hear Tony whispering furiously at him once the glass all settled.

Richards remained unruffled, his eyes flicking from the gun, to Steve, to the needle. “I have not had a good day,” Bucky told him. “I really want to shoot something, but so far, there has been nothing I have an excuse to shoot at.”

“I can see that,” Richards replied, snide. “I don’t see how it’s my fault, or why I should have to deal with it, but you’re hardly keeping it a secret.”

“Don’t shoot him in the dick,” Peter stage whispered from behind the desk, where he and Tony had ducked completely out of sight. “There is no way Captain Rogers will believe that was an accident twice. Do the arm instead.”

“You’re a lot smarter than me, pal,” Bucky told Richards, “but I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I’m frustrating, and I’m in the way, but we both want the same thing. That I’m not really going to shoot you, and it’s better to ask forgiveness. You’re thinking you’re pretty damn flexible, and have a really amazing reach, but I’m willing to bet I’m meaner, more reckless, and a lot faster. And I tell you what, I am dangerously stupid when it comes to Steve. Back off. I’ll bring him by every few hours for tests, but I’m not leaving him drugged and chained in a room with you.”

Richards made a sour face, but shrugged and turned back to whatever he’d been working on before.

Jesus.

What an asshole.

Bucky slowly tucked the gun away, snapped his fingers at Steve, and headed out. Steve was ecstatic to leave, bouncing and leaping along beside him, weaving around between his legs, and immediately turning the drool faucet right back on again. Not only was he disgusting, Steve came up to Bucky’s waist. It was only years of Soviet training that kept him on his feet in the face of Steve’s overexcited, doggy adoration.

Bucky glowered. “I feel like you just found me in the warehouse again. You gonna start crying this time, too?”

Steve barked and tried to tackle him. Bucky rolled his eyes.

***

Home. Fucking finally. Bucky headed straight for the shower, shedding slobber-soaked combat gear as he went.

Steve tried to follow him in.

“Oh no. No. No way,” Bucky yelped, shoving Steve back through the door with his hip. Steve yelped, trying to wriggle his way by. “No fucking way are you coming in here with me,” Bucky insisted, dancing angrily side to side, trying block him. “No. No.”

Steve gave a mournful whimper, struggling to nose his way past, but Bucky was resolute. The tile floor worked in his favor; he finally body-checked Steve away, leapt back inside, and slammed the door shut.

As soon as Steve regained traction, though, he slammed his full weight into the door. It buckled nearly enough to pop open, creaking ominously, but Stark didn’t pay for crummy materials. It held, mostly because Bucky was leaning heavily on the other side. There was a furious scratching and scrabbling, a frustrated whining, and then finally, blessed silence.

Bucky took a deep breath and started unbuckling the rest of his gear.

Then nearly put his metal hand straight through his tac vest when Steve started howling.

Steve Rogers had not lacked in lung capacity for many years, regardless of species, and the howl combined with super hearing echoing through the bathroom felt like a banshee had set up house right in Bucky’s skull. He covered his ears, hissing curses, and then almost jumped out of his skin when half of a clawed, hairy paw squeezed its way under the frame of the door.

“Why do you even want in?” Bucky shouted over the din, stumbling away and pulling off his boots. Steve just kept crying. “There’s nothing in here! I’m just taking a shower!”

Steve ignored him.

“No!” Bucky yelled through the door, skinning out of his once-black pants and turning on the water. Everything he’d been wearing had blond fur in a thick, golden carpet wherever Steve could reach, and probably would for the foreseeable future. That shit was ingrained. Bucky was lucky his arm was so well designed, because getting the inner workings cleaned out would have been hell. “I’m not getting naked in front of a dog,” he bellowed. “I’m not showering with a dog. Steve, there are laws. I don’t care how much you miss me, I’ve done some shit but I haven’t shown a dog my dick in my entire life and it is not happening now. That is gross.”

Steve made a sound like he was dying.

“No fucking way!” Bucky roared.

***

“Stay on your damn side. You smell like a dead skunk when you’re wet,” Bucky complained, shivering in the far corner of the shower in swim trunks, trying to speed-shampoo his hair. “Jesus. The crap I put up with for you.”

***

Bucky flopped back onto the sofa and rubbed at his temples. He felt a little better. Steve had stopped drooling on him, so that was nice. Now all he had to worry about was the shedding. He was trying to count his blessings.

Steve hopped up too, washed and blow-dried and smelling much less like roadkill. He landed one enormous paw in Bucky’s solar plexus and the other terrifyingly close to his balls, and Bucky grunted, trying to dodge. Steve flopped down on top of him, gave a deep, contented wuff, and settled in.

Steve was warm, and comforting, and Bucky had dog fur in his fucking nose.

“You don’t fool me,” Bucky told him waspishly, “you’re doing all this on purpose. I bet you understand every word I say.”

Steve pulled his head back and stared, uncomprehending.

“I hate your stupid plaid shirts,” Bucky told him, looking for a rise. Steve just panted at him. “You can’t pick clothes for shit. It’s either mom jeans or skintight Underarmour. You snore. You leave your dishes in the sink every damn time. Your hair looks like it’s auditioning for last decade’s boy band. I hate your stupid helmet, and I hate your stupid stomach stripes on your stupid uniform.”

Steve barked and cuddled in, pressing his face up under Bucky’s chin and shuffling a bit to get comfortable.

“I hate your stupid face,” Bucky bit out, rubbing Steve’s ears. It was automatic; he couldn’t help it. “I hate that stupid look you give me when I’ve fucked up, when I know I’ve fucked up, you don’t have to look at me like that every time I fuck up, Steve, I know I fucked up.”

Steve went still, then pulled back to look at him again.

“I hate that every time I’m not Bucky-before-the-war you look like I’ve kicked a puppy,” Bucky blurted, unable to stop now he’d started. “I hate that I can’t tell if you even like me anymore.”

Steve whimpered and pressed down on him, cuddling closer, and Bucky finally wrapped his arms around him and held on. His breath came out in soft, tiny gasps.

It was…

It was actually… really nice.

Regardless of the dog thing, they didn’t do this anymore. Steve never just sat with him. They didn’t touch. It was sex, or angry shouting, or nothing.

Sometimes it was angry sex.

Recently it was nothing.

“I miss you,” Bucky choked out, his throat closing up. “I’ve missed you for a while, Steve. But right now I really miss you.”

Steve whined again and licked his cheek, leaning harder.

“I knew you could understand me, you faker,” Bucky told him without much venom. Steve’s tail beat the cushions a few times. Bucky’s breath caught. “I’m sorry I’m such a fuckup,” he muttered into Steve’s fur, grip tight. “I’m sorry I keep threatening team members and losing my shit. I’m sorry I never fix it and just walk away instead. I love you. I’m sorry.”

“Um,” Peter said, frozen in the open doorway with one foot still raised.

The thing about super hearing was this: it didn’t do much good if you weren’t paying any attention. Bucky tensed, all good feeling draining out of him, fury rushing in to fill the space, but Steve’s weight held him against the sofa. Short of throwing him off, there wasn’t much to do other than seethe, and Bucky wasn’t so mad he was going to push off the one good thing he had left to cling to. He closed his eyes and thumped his head back on the cushions.

“I.” Peter swallowed, shifting from side to side. “I brought you.” He held up a pristine freezer bag filled with perfect chocolate chip cookies.

Bucky’s eyes were probably red rimmed and swollen, his cheeks were wet, and how much had Peter even heard? Fuck. Fuck. He flexed his arm and listened to the clicks, staring straight ahead. “If your next move is not turning around immediately and heading straight back through that door,” Bucky said, voice level and dangerous, “it will not go well for either of us.”

Peter turned around immediately to head straight back through the door.

“…leave the cookies,” Bucky said after a moment’s thought. Peter dropped them mid-stride and slammed the door behind him.

Chapter Text

It was a while before Bucky could stomach heading back to the lab. Richards was pissed; Bucky had to turn off every form of communication in the apartment to ignore him until he worked up the willpower to face everything again. He stalked in, sulked like a kid for the entire time it took Tony to rush through some tests and samples, then stalked back out with a terse, “Spiderman.”

Peter scrambled to follow, tripping over his own feet, and somehow managed to walk and cringe at the same time. Bucky was mildly impressed. Peter had cleaned up and changed, but it was into another Spiderman suit—he was still trying to keep his identity secret from most people, and Richards apparently wasn’t on the ‘I trust him with my life’ list.

“…Sir?” he asked, when they’d made it a bit down the hallway.

Bucky took a deep breath. In through his nose, out through his mouth. “Take…” He cleared his throat. “I’d like you to take Steve for a walk,” he said, strained. “Please.”

Peter, eyes wide as saucers under his mask, nodded. “Um. Okay.” Bucky handed him a plastic bag and Peter frowned, confused.

“Look,” Bucky told him, deathly serious, “the day I pick up Steve’s shit in my actual hand is the day the romance has completely gone out of our relationship.”

Steve looked offended at the very idea.

Peter kept his eyes on the bag, nodding, then froze and looked up at him in horror. “Captain Rogers is my hero,” he protested. “I can’t… I can’t pick up…”

“Good man,” Bucky said, cutting him off with a slap on the back that nearly sent him to the floor. “Knew I could count on you.”

“But Captain Rogers is my boss, I can’t just watch—“

“Captain Rogers just chewed a hole in one of my boots and then licked his own ass,” Bucky countered. Steve stared at him, betrayed. “He’s a dog. You’ll be fine.”

Peter rubbed his shoulder for a minute, looking at him hard. Bucky fidgeted. “What?” he muttered. “It’s not that complicated.”

“You’re trusting me to protect him like this?” Peter asked finally, gesturing at Steve. Steve looked like he was pretending that he’d never taken a dump in his life. “You’re not afraid I’ll mess everything up?”

“No.” Bucky set his jaw and looked away. “I know I’m a jerk, but it’s a walk. Any idiot can handle a walk. I’m not worried.”

Peter grinned suddenly, nodded, and took off for the elevators. Steve followed, communicating his displeasure at Bucky’s treachery with every step. “I won’t let you down, sir!” Peter called over his shoulder. “I’m just gonna change into street clothes, and then I’ll take him right out. I won’t disappoint you, I promise!”

“You’re dragging him around a park until he takes a shit, putting it in the trash can, and coming back,” Bucky called after him. “It’s not rocket science. I would have to be the biggest, most paranoid asshole on Earth to freak out about this.”

***

Bucky pulled up a chair in front of the bay of video monitors, adjusted his second set of armor and gear, and turned up the volume for the bugs he’d planted in Steve’s collar, his leash, and Peter’s sweatshirt.

Bucky was the biggest, most paranoid asshole on Earth, and he was absolutely freaking out about this.

What was important was that Peter felt trusted, though. Right? He didn’t actually have to believe that the kid’s babysitter with a supersuit wasn’t going to attack the second he went outside unsupervised. It was about Peter’s feelings, not reality. Steve would have glared at him for this, but Bucky would have ignored it, and they would have gotten into another fight.

So it was just as well that Steve was out having performance anxiety in a park while Bucky listened in instead.

“Sir, I swear to you, sir, that I am not going to think any less of you once I’ve seen you pooping,” Peter’s voice came, loud and clear over the speakers. “Everyone poops. I poop all the time. Even the President of the United States poops. I mean probably, I guess I’ve never seen him do it. I guess I’ve never seen anyone else do it, really? But I’m pretty sure all the same.”

Bucky rubbed his mouth and regretted every decision he’d ever made.

“Please,” Peter begged. “I know it’s creepy, especially since I used to stalk you and all, but if I let you out of my sight, Sergeant Barnes will kill me. If I take you back and you haven’t… haven’t taken care of business, Sergeant Barnes will also kill me. This is my chance. This is probably the only chance I will ever get. He trusted me and I can’t fuck it up, please sir.”

Steve was unmoved. They wandered to the edge of the closest camera, then strolled right out of view. Bucky narrowed his eyes at the display and turned the camera as far as it would go, but it was no good. At least the audio was still working.

“I can’t believe this,” Peter muttered. “What am I saying? ‘Hey boss, I want to watch you take a dump so my coworker doesn’t hate me as much anymore. Go on. That’s not weird at all.’ What is my life?”

There was a long silence, in which Steve was apparently still not on board with the pooping thing.

“What do you care, anyway? You have sex all over the living room.” Peter complained. “And I saw you drooling on Sergeant Barnes’ crotch earlier. I actually saw my actual boss drooling on my coworker’s pants in a room full of people like it was no big deal. I started working here because I went to a press conference where you talked about my OTHER boss rubbing his dick all over your face. The most normal thing about any of this is that you’re a dog, honestly, and—“

There was a whistling noise and Peter’s voice cut off with a gasp, followed by several grunts Bucky guessed were from dodging things before everything ended with a heavy thump.

“Freeze or dogwalker dies,” came a new voice, but Bucky was only listening with half an ear at that point, snatching up the Twimble and racing for the garage. “Toss his leash and collar, they’re probably bugged. Dump the kid’s shoes and jacket, too.”

There were some shuffles, a jingle and a snap, and the voices started to go distant. “That’s… With his… Don’t forget…” Bucky was opening up his pocket scanner as he stole the keys to one of Stark’s SUVs from the board on the wall, bugs not doing much as whatever dead meat had grabbed Steve got further away. The dickbags hadn’t found the tracker clipped into Steve’s fur yet, and he breathed a prayer of thanks as he pressed the buttons to find a route with one hand and started the car with the other.

Hopefully neither of those reckless idiots would do something to get themselves killed before he got there.

“Jesus!” someone on the other end shouted, barely registering on the speakers. “This fucking asshole just took a crap on my shoes!”

***

Bucky was a fucking idiot.

He could literally have yelled two words to Stark’s AI as he ran for the car and had twenty-five armed gunmen ready to storm his location on his command. He could have had a jet. He could have had rocket launchers. Instead, he’d gone off half-cocked like a complete panicked jackass, and was now clambering up an unused laundry chute by himself, deep in a secluded Hydra bunker. He had no backup, no plan, and no cell reception to fix the problem.

And the fucking chute was too small. He mouthed a few silent obscenities and pulled his rifle loose after it stuck on a corner again.

The only upside was that while it was clear Steve and Peter had been grabbed by Hydra, it wasn’t Hydra Hydra. This was a splinter, and they clearly had no idea who they were dealing with, or what Bucky was capable of.

These jerkoffs were using a base that Bucky had been inside of before. The Winter Soldier had been kept inside of this base, and they’d kept him there awake, and now these mouth-breathers had barricaded themselves inside like it was going to help them.

It was not.

Still, he’d gone through about seven or so dead guards at this point, and he was starting to run low on time. Soon enough, someone was either going to notice people were going missing, he was going to miss a camera, or someone was going to try to clean a toilet and find all the bodies stuffed in the broom closet.

Bucky tried to cheer himself up by picturing some slob opening the door and having a cascade of corpses fall on his head. It even helped a little bit; the next guard almost copped it out of fear alone when Bucky swung down from the ceiling with a smile on his face. No Peter or Steve, though. Bucky climbed back up and tried not to swear.

Finally, finally, Bucky got lucky and picked up the faint echoes of Peter’s endless prattle. Thank God the kid couldn’t shut up if you wired his jaw shut.

“Seriously, you guys are fucked. Have you even heard of the Winter Soldier? He is so scary.”

Bucky dropped out of a vent and into the hallway.

“Like he made me almost crap my pants, just today, like just an hour ago, I swear, he is terrifying. We’re all going to die. All of us. Me, because I let you kidnap his boyfriend, and you, because you kidnapped his boyfriend, and maybe even Steve, for being his boyfriend? I’m not sure what I’m talking about now.”

Guards at the double doors. Bucky could fix that.

“Wow. These are serious drugs. You gave me serious drugs. Are these safety rated? I’m still growing, you know, I’m only a teenager. You don’t know what some medications can do to adolescent brain development. Can I see the material safety data sheets for these? Wait, no, that’s for like, acid and stuff. Did this have a box, or a bottle? I could look at that.”

Bucky took the corner at a run and took both the men out at the knees, smashed one in the face and snapped the other’s neck before they had a chance to shout. He was feeling pretty smug about it, too, until he noticed he’d finally missed a camera.

Well, shit.

Fine. He’d have to go in the obvious way, then. He strolled down the hall and waved.

“That’s him. Did you see him? That’s him. He’s going to kill us. Look, he’s doing the murder strut, that means a lot of people are about to die soon. Spoiler: those people are us.”

“Yes,” came another voice, tight with nerves and frustration. “I can see the video monitors directly in front of me. If you don’t shut up I’m going to kill you before he even gets here.”

“Who cares?” Peter moaned, fatalistic. “I’m dead anyway. Do it. Maybe your way will hurt less.”

“You don’t want to kill him,” Bucky announced, opening the door. It had been locked, but when you had a metal arm, things like locked doors were really just a minor inconvenience. Peter was slumped over on the floor in front of some big bruiser with a gun, struggling to get up on hands and knees. He was failing. Steve was standing, looking indecisive but furious, and another grunt had a rifle pointed at his head. “He’s a hostage, and you are really going to need a hostage, here.”

“We have two, actually,” the other agent announced, gesturing with his rifle at Steve. “And this one is your boyfriend. If you ever want us to turn him back, you need to stand down.”

Bucky paused and cocked his head at the agent’s tone. “You know who he is but not that I knew he was a dog already.” He grinned, the one that made people the most uncomfortable. “Interesting.”

The grunt shut his mouth with a snap.

“I’m so sorry Sergeant Barnes,” Peter moaned, words slurred and near tears, sliding back to the floor. His guard pulled him up by the hair, and his back bowed to what had to be a painful extreme. “I’m sorry. I fucked up. I always fuck up. I’m sorry.”

That sounded uncomfortably familiar. Bucky grimaced, feeling like an asshole.

Peter tried to make eye contact with Bucky through enough sedatives to keep him barely conscious. Bucky could only read it because he was so used to reading it on Steve almost literally all the time.

That Idiot Parker was about to make a suicide play.

That idiot.

Shit.

And they all had guns.

Bucky had been genetically engineered to be fast, accurate, quick-healing and nigh unstoppable, but bullets were a problem for him when it came to other people. They couldn’t be dodged, or outrun, or leapt in front of. Unless you were the Flash, or the Speed, or, Bucky didn’t know, Lieutenant Quickydicks or something, you could do fuck-all once the bullet was in the air.

The trick, therefore, was moving faster than the bastard with the gun. Bucky was very good at that, but he wasn’t fast enough to get off two shots before either of the Hydra agents—already aiming point blank with their finger on the trigger—got off one.

Peter knew that. Peter knew that.

Peter knew Bucky had time to shoot one of them. And Peter clearly had a pretty good idea which one it was going to be.

Bucky exhaled, glanced at Steve and bared his teeth, and--

“GO,” Peter shouted, and rolled as hard as he could into the guard holding his hair.

Bucky’s hand came up and fired the instant he saw Peter move. The Hydra agent’s head jerked backwards in a spray of blood, grip going slack, dropping a gaping Peter hard on the tile. Bucky pivoted immediately to the other guard, but he was too late.

Steve had already bitten the other guy’s hand clean off.

Because apparently everyone else in the room had completely forgotten that Cap was a 240 pound ball of furry death; enormous, fast, and now equipped with an entire mouth full of dangerous, pointy teeth. Bucky cut off the agent’s screaming with another bullet to the face.

Peter stared at Steve until Bucky scooped him up like a rag spider-doll and tossed him over his shoulder. Steve, meanwhile, looked like he wished dogs could spit. He had to settle for drooling all the blood out of his mouth and onto the floor, which wasn’t nearly as effective.

“It’s not cannibalism if you’re a dog,” Bucky told him sweetly, and Steve gave him a look that said he could definitely understand him.

There was a sudden crash, and a shout, and a sound like a lot of bodies tumbling out onto an intern’s head. Bucky swore and started running.

“You shot my guard first,” Peter slurred into Bucky’s back. Bucky banked a sharp left and neatly clotheslined a Hydra agent heading the opposite way. “I said ‘go,’ and you shot mine first.”

“Yup,” Bucky managed, stuffing a knife into someone’s throat and throwing a second into someone with a machine gun. “I did. The amnesia didn’t fry my whole brain, kid, I can remember ten minutes ago.”

“But,” Peter persisted, between grunts, as Bucky stopped being careful with him and started a full-on sprint. “But you only had time for one. And you shot mine first.”

“Yeah, I know. I was there.” Bucky ducked as Steve vaulted over their heads and bowled over the three agents neatly lined up for them. Oh, hey—and messily decapitated two of them before the third wet himself and passed out. Nice.

“But Captain Rogers could have died,” Peter said, confused, “you had to pick one of us and you picked me!”

“Yes, I know,” Bucky growled, yanking his right glove off and slapping his hand against a dusty section of wall. It slid silently away and Bucky ducked in, Steve following close behind. “Which is why your plan was complete shit.” He shot one last agent as the door closed, and no one else had seen it open in the first place. The soundproofing dulled everything outside, even the alarms, but super hearing meant he could listen in on the confused shouts and the sound of boots running straight past their hiding spot without hesitating.

Bucky smiled grimly. He always felt a lot better after shooting things in the face.

Parker was still complaining that Bucky hadn’t left him to die. “But you were supposed to save Captain Rogers,” he wailed, finally getting his breath back.

Bucky made an annoyed sound, dropped Peter onto his arm, then shoved him up against the wall. “Yes,” he hissed, “I know. And you know what? I can only take one of you self-sacrificing assholes at a time. Fuck you. You know who your martyr complex endangers? Me. Me and everyone else on your team who has to think six steps ahead of you to get you out of the damn corner you always paint yourself into!”

Peter stared at him, eyes wide. “I…I feel like you’re not actually yelling at me, here.”

“You are part of a team, now,” Bucky growled, completely ignoring him. “You don’t get to make decisions for the rest of us. You don’t get to sacrifice yourself so we can all run away. Teams rely on eachother, and trust eachother, and what am I doing?” Bucky dropped Peter, who slithered down into a boneless heap at Bucky’s feet. “I’m giving a Captain America speech in a secret Hydra bunker.”

“It’s a pretty good Captain America speech, though,” Peter assured him from the floor.

“I even started it with ‘you know’,” Bucky moaned, staring at his hands. “It’s like he just crawled out of my mouth. It’s like he just climbed up my throat and just crawled out of my fucking mouth!”

“Well,” Peter said, barely able to lift his head on his own, “I mean. He’s in there often enough? I guess we shouldn’t be that surprised when he comes out of it.”

Bucky paused. “Did you just call me easy?” he asked, indignant.

Peter’s head dropped back to the floor. “Only for Captain America.”

Bucky frowned. “Look. You know who is great at being part of a team? Sam. You know how Sam lived through the helicarrier crashes? By telling everyone exactly where he was and exactly what he needed. Steve lived through sheer dumb luck and probably divine intervention. Be like Sam instead.”

“Okay,” Peter said to the ceiling, “right. Like Sam. Good. I am going to be a team player! Is he on your rescue team? I will talk to him about this right away if you please stop yelling at me.”

There was a short silence.

“I am the rescue team,” Bucky admitted.

There was another silence as Peter clearly decided he didn’t want to die, and swallowed whatever smartass remark was working its way up around his head. After a while, he said, “I’m on a lot of drugs right now, you probably shouldn’t hold me entirely responsible for my actions.”

“I’m the Winter Soldier, I do what I want,” Bucky muttered, but he left Peter and flopped down in a disused chair. The room was covered in a thick layer of dust, and clearly hadn’t been entered since the last time Bucky was here. He wondered if there was anything to eat.

“Where are we, anyway?” Peter asked after a moment, dragging himself into a sitting position against the wall. He looked sick, and he didn’t even have any shoes. Bucky felt a little sorry for him. “Shouldn’t we still be running somewhere? We’re in a Hydra base, it seems dangerous to… what are you even doing?”

“Looking for snacks,” Bucky answered, rummaging around in the rusty cupboards. He swept aside some moldy papers and finally hit on a crumbling box of something wrapped in foil. Jackpot. “We’re in a secret underground room in a secret underground bunker, and these dipshits are not Hydra,” he explained, unwrapping what appeared to be a ration bar, and sniffed it. Probably still edible. He took a bite.

“Looking for snacks?” Peter’s voice broke. He leaned forward and tried again at a lower level. “Looking for snacks. During a solo rescue mission in a secret Hydra base. Is this torture?” Peter flopped back against the wall. “This is torture, isn’t it. You’re torturing me for fucking up a poop run.”

Bucky shoved the dry, gummy mass of protein to the side of his mouth. “It’s not torture, and it’s not Hydra,” he said, working on the awful, ancient ration bar. It was not noticeably different from the fresh ones. “Hydra kept my freezer down here for a year or so in the eighties, and it’s pretty clear it hasn’t been used since. Anyway, Hydra proper is a lot more subtle about shit than sending a goon squad to grab Captain America off the street. You know how poorly that could have gone for them if I’d been the one walking him?”

“Subtle,” Peter said, unconvinced, and Bucky swallowed a few times, trying to work the paste out of his throat. “The last time Hydra used you, they sent you after Captain Rogers with a rocket launcher in broad daylight, on a crowded traffic bridge, during rush hour.”

“The last time they used me,” Bucky corrected, pointing the half eaten bar at Peter, “they sent Captain America’s dead boyfriend to sow fear and destruction as publically as possible, then reveal myself to him before trying to shoot him in gut. You think they usually gave me a mask that just falls off every time I do a somersault?”

“…oh,” Peter said, voice small.

“You know why Loki almost won the Battle of New York?” Bucky asked him, dropping back into a chair and kicking up his heels.

“…Because he was a magical god with a mind-controlling scepter and an entire army of monster aliens from space?” Peter tried.

“Because the Avengers almost didn’t stop fighting each other long enough to fight the bad guys,” Bucky told him. “So what do you do when Captain America is about to fuck up your day? Keep in mind, at this point Steve had lost everything that mattered to him,” Bucky pointed to himself, “and crashed a plane into the arctic over it. Then he woke up in the future and realized, no, now he had lost everything that mattered him. Then he discovered that the world was still at war and the damn cube that started it all was back, now he had definitely hit rock bottom. Then he found out the very organization he had been working for was actually the same group that had taken everything in the first place, alright, now he’d finally hit the bottom.”

“Wow. Captain America’s life sucks worse than mine does,” Peter murmured, awed.

“But he still wouldn’t quit fucking shit up for Hydra,” Bucky continued. “So what do they do? They send in Captain America’s dead, murderous boyfriend and think it’s finally enough to break him.” Bucky shrugged and tossed the rest of the ration bar in the corner. “You’re alive because Steve Rogers doesn’t break.”

“I’m alive because you shot my guard first,” Peter said quietly, and Bucky shut up. “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” he said uncomfortably. “You’re welcome. Whatever. Anyway, we’re waiting here until the drugs wear off you enough that you can walk. I can get into a secret Hydra base all on my own, but getting out with a giant dog and a seventeen-year-old dead weight is going to be tricky. So focus on sobering up.”

“Right,” Peter nodded, and then clearly regretted it. Bucky held out a ration bar towards him, but eventually took it back when Peter just stared at it with disgust.

The silence stretched and got awkward. Bucky started looking over his weapons, impervious to social discomfort.

Peter was not. “So you were dating Captain Rogers before the ice, then?” he asked after a while.

“Nope,” Bucky answered. He flipped a section of the Twimble open and squinted into it. “We were fucking, though.” Steve growled at him a little at that. Bucky shrugged.

“The history books always talk about all the girls you were seeing back then,” Peter mused, closing his eyes. “I guess I should know better than to completely trust the official story by now.”

“Oh, no, there were definitely a lot of girls,” Bucky corrected, snapping the Twimble back together. He put a hand in Steve’s fur, scratching deep, and Steve’s tail started to wag against his will.

“Was,” Peter’s face screwed up with concentration. Still pretty stoned, apparently. “Was that before Captain Rogers? Or did you break up?”

“It was during,” Bucky admitted. Steve nipped at him, which was actually a bit scary with all of those teeth. Bucky yanked his hand back and glared. Steve glared back.

“You cheated on Captain America??” Peter blurted, appalled.

“Hydra made me into an evil killing machine, not an asshole,” Bucky bit out, still glaring at Steve. “I was an asshole already.”

“Are you cheating on him now?” Peter gasped, horrified.

“Of course not.” Bucky managed to get a hand back behind Steve’s ears without being bitten, and got a good scratch in. Steve relented. “I’m a lot less tortured about the sodomy now. Seven decades of impersonal murder have kind of pushed the internalized homophobia into the backseat.”

“Internalized and homophobia are pretty big, future-y words,” Peter congratulated him.

“Thanks,” Bucky said. “I’m a future-y guy.”

“I think I can probably stand, now,” Peter offered, struggling to his feet. “They had me on some kind of drip until you came in, I think it’s really short lived.”

“You are very clearly lying,” Bucky told him, watching him trip and fall back on his face. Peter tried valiantly to get up, but he was well and truly drugged. It was not happening.

“I really think hanging out here until I sober up is a bad idea, though,” Peter mumbled around a mouthful of floor. “I feel like that will lead to a lot more Hydra to get past.”

“Nope,” Bucky told him, stuffing the last of the protein bar in his mouth. “We’re waiting. I can’t call anyone because of the reception here, so you’re my backup. I need you sober.”

“There’s a computer in here.” Peter whined. “Use your Russian spy skills. Can’t you just send an email or something?”

“I—“ Bucky paused. Frowned. Looked at the computer. Looked back at Peter.

Bucky Barnes was an idiot.

“Yes,” he said, finally.

“Oh,” Peter said, surprised. “Good.”

And then he passed out.

Chapter Text

“Ten seconds, Bucky!”

Captain America was human, livid, and shouting at Bucky already, so it sure did feel like old times again. Good thing he’d stormed a secret Hydra bunker, risked his life and his freedom, and saved the day. It definitely all felt worth it.

“I have been human again for ten seconds!” Steve repeated furiously, as Peter and Tony plastered themselves to a wall to stay out of blast range.

“I feel like yelling that, too,” Bucky shot back, “but somehow I don’t think we agree on what it means.”

“Technically,” Tony pointed out, “the fight actually started before we even started your transformation. So.”

“Thanks, Tony,” Bucky said, glancing over from his public reaming to glare at the peanut gallery. “I absolutely need help to fight with Steve. We never get enough practice.”

“I’m just saying,” Tony protested, and Bucky resolved to add him to his secret kill list soon.

Really, the situation shouldn’t have had time to go bad yet. Once Bucky had finally gotten his shit (and a trained tac team) together, he’d cleared out the Hydra base in less than half an hour. The helicopter they’d brought along had gotten the drugged teenager, blood-drenched death dog, and Bucky back to Stark in fifteen. By then, the ‘un-der-dog’ ray (as Stark was calling it) was finished, and it had only taken maybe ten minutes to get it set up and Steve walking on two legs again.

All told, about an hour, tops. For about an hour, Bucky had been the dashing hero saving the helpless child and his dog/love of his life from the clutches of evil.

For fifty-nine and a half minutes, Bucky was not a screwup.

It had felt pretty nice.

Unfortunately, it had taken only fifty-eight minutes for Bucky to get in a knock-down, table-throwing, you-contacted-Hydra-for-data, I-don’t-give-a-rat’s-ass-how-reformed-they-said-they-were fight with Richards, and he went straight back to total disappointment all over again. Steve had pulled them apart as soon as he had arms, and had waited only until Richards was out of earshot to completely flip his shit.

“I have Hydra agent stuck in my teeth,” Steve hissed. “I think I accidentally swallowed part of someone’s neck. I have about half a pint of human blood curdling in my stomach, I still smell like that half-rotted squirrel from the park, and you couldn’t have given me five minutes? Just five minutes.”

“Oh no, you poor baby,” Bucky simpered. “What exactly would you have done with those five minutes? I can’t even remember how you spend time when you’re not yelling at me. Do you smile sometimes? Could I have had five minutes of you smiling at me for rescuing your drooling, dead-squirrel-covered carcass? Shit.” He snapped his fingers. “If only.”

“Bucky, I am tired of this,” Steve said, exhausted. He dropped into a nearby computer chair, which dipped alarmingly under the sudden weight. “Can we not? Just for an hour, even. Can we take a break from fighting for just an hour?”

“Can we—what?” Bucky sputtered, mouth dropping open. “Can we take a break? You want to take a fucking break?”

“I hate this part,” Stark muttered to Peter, who was still a little woozy on his feet. “This is the part where the sex thing happens.”

“I think it might be the part where the killing someone thing happens, actually,” Peter replied, trying to look small. “Maybe you should stop trying to make it us.”

“You want a break? You want a fucking break?” Bucky’s arm was whirring loudly, and between it buzzing through his bones and the ringing in his ears, he was officially done with everything. “Great, let’s take a break! I’ll go stay with Parker for a while, how about that? Hey Parker, wanna houseguest? I’ll crash on your dear auntie’s little floral couch, I’m sure she won’t mind!”

“Uh,” said Peter.

Bucky turned back to Steve with a bright grin. Steve thinned his lips and crossed his arms, which did nothing to suppress the giddy fury. “Great idea buddy! We can take a few weeks apart and -- oh wait I still work for you and have to see your disappointed face every day.”

“I don’t want a break from you, I want a break from this,” Steve shouted. “We are always fighting, Buck. I want a break from always fighting.”

“You! First!” Bucky roared, losing what patience was left and dropping the grin. He stabbed a finger into Steve’s chest, poking him with every word. “You. Go. First! You think you’re sick of this? You think you’re sick of this?”

“Yes!” Steve bellowed back, “I think I am sick of this. Aren’t you?”

“Aren’t I?” Bucky gaped at him. Then he poked him again, hard. “Everything I do gets me a non-stop week of grief, minimum. I fucking look at Parker cross-eyed, and Captain America bitches me out at work. He bitches me out at home. I go to bed and there he is, bitching me out, until I wake up and surprise! Captain America is still making sure I know I fucked up. Steve, Of course I am sick of this.”

Steve frowned and batted his hand away. “That is a huge exaggeration—“

“Is it?” Bucky asked. “Really? Is it really, Steve? When is the last time we had sex?”

“I told you,” Tony said, and Peter shrugged, giving up on that one. “This is definitely the sex part.”

“Why is everything about sex with you?” Steve accused. “You always have to let everyone know about it, too, you keep starting it in wildly inappropriate times and places, and then you act like I’m an asshole when I maybe don’t want to get caught in the showers with my—“

“Great, no, keep going,” Bucky allowed cheerfully, “tell everyone about how much you don’t wanna fuck and what a floozy I am, that’s cool, but first tell me the last time you touched me when your dick wasn’t out.”

Steve opened his mouth, froze, then slowly shut it.

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “That’s why it’s always about sex.”

Peter made a sad noise that he hastily suppressed, and even Tony looked a little uncomfortable. Steve groped for something to say.

Eventually Bucky just turned around and headed for the door.

“I’ve been touching you today,” Steve finally managed. “I haven’t been…thinking really clearly, but I’ve been trying.”

“That’s probably why I liked you a lot better as a dog,” Bucky told him, and Steve looked miserable.

“That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard,” Stark said. “Shit, I thought even Barnes would draw the line at bestiality.”

Bucky rounded on him, ready to rip his fucking balls off and cram them up his ass right in front of Steve. It definitely wouldn’t make anyone feel any better, and it would help absolutely nothing, but he was going to do it anyway.

No.

Shit. No he wasn’t. Bucky hunched over, arm whining from how tightly he was holding it. It wasn’t like Steve was always yelling at him for no good reason. Bucky took a deep breath, and another, and didn’t even punch the wall. He was an adult. He was a human adult, full of self restraint and discipline. He could avoid bloody, disfiguring assault on someone who was theoretically kind of his boss.

Stark, who had been cringing away until Bucky nearly bit through his own lip keeping his arms at his sides, looked like he’d just won the fucking lottery. Then he opened his mouth to say something that was obviously going to be even worse. Self-restraint sucked.

And suddenly, a miracle happened.

Parker lurched forward, squinted drunkenly, and punched Tony Stark square in the nose.

Blood fountained out all over Stark’s ridiculously expensive threadbare clothes, angels sang, Steve gaped, and Bucky almost kissed Peter on the mouth right there. Tony squawked and sprayed blood all over his lab, while Steve spread his hands and stared wordlessly at a trembling, unrepentant teenager, and that was pretty much the only bright spot in the whole wretched day.

“I’m on drugs,” Peter said defensively, and fell on his ass.

***

“No. Yes. No.”

Bucky pulled the blankets over his ears. He could still hear Natasha talking to Sam over the phone if he tried, but he could at least pretend he wasn’t listening in.

The newly drugged adolescent on his ceiling was helping with that much, anyway.

“I’m not leaving Sergeant Barnes,” Peter shouted, gripping the bedroom lamp with both hands and swinging his head unsteadily back and forth. The metal creaked ominously. “Did you hear that, Sergeant Barnes? I’ll punch them all! I’m not leaving you!”

“I heard you buddy,” Bucky called, covering his head with a pillow and sticking a hand out from beneath the covers. “Thumbs up!” He turned slightly towards the door as Natasha walked by. “Those drugs are definitely not ‘burning off quicker with this injection’ with ‘no side effects at all, trust us.’ What the hell did medical give him?” he asked plaintively.

Natasha just shrugged and went back to the phone.

Whatever it was, Bucky had only partially managed to stuff the kid back inside a suit before he’d begun wandering around sticking to things in public. Bucky was fairly sure at least part of it was on backwards, but the important parts (the ones covering his face and underwear) were mostly okay.

So now Bucky had a disheveled, half-undressed minor crawling around the rafters screaming his name.

Hooray.

“I am with you, Sergeant Barnes!“ Peter pointed at Natasha, now standing in the doorway with her mobile in hand. “Agent Romanoff, Sergeant Barnes saved my life.”

“He’s a hero,” Natasha agreed distractedly, as if shirtless, doped up teenagers hung out on her light fixtures all the time. Bucky rolled over and pressed the pillow over his face, hoping to smother himself. “James, do you want to talk to Steve?”

Bucky wanted to talk to Steve more than he wanted Peter to leave him alone, which was a lot. Everything was awful, he couldn’t get anything right, and Bucky just wanted to hole up with his boyfriend and disappear for a few days. Curling up in the corner with the phone sounded amazing.

What sounded even more amazing, though, was not getting yelled at, and Bucky was pretty sure that it would start back up again pretty soon. If Steve didn’t say something stupid and start them off again, Bucky would.

“No. Fuck him,” Bucky said into the pillow, getting the jump on the stupid talk ahead of the game. “Fuck him, and fuck his perfect hair.”

Peter, now swinging from the overhead fan by his knees, started making up a song about Steve’s perfect hair. Bucky wondered what kind of a person it made him that he wanted to murder the same kid he’d risked Steve’s life to save not two hours previous.

“No. Yes.” Natasha was still talking to Sam; Bucky plugged his ears. “Don’t let Steve do it. The Winter Soldier is hiding in my bed under an enormous pink duvet and eating ice cream, not off on a European murder spree or whatever Steve is scared of.”

“Steve thinks I’m what?” Bucky shouted, flipping the sheets back. “Why the fuck would I be in Europe?”

“I didn’t say that!” Steve shouted back, distant and tinny. He sounded like he was about a foot from Wilson, the sneaky eavesdropping bastard. He would be able to hear everything happening in the room with Natasha. “Bucky, I don’t think that!”

“I’m not going to go on a European murder spree, Steve!” Bucky yelled. “I wouldn’t do that when you’re having such a bad day.”

“I miss having phone conversations without superhearing drama queens listening in,” Sam said on the other line. Natasha ‘mm’ed in response.

“Bucky, please, can’t we just—“ Steve sighed, then got louder—he must have taken the phone from Sam. “Look, can’t we just. You hate this. I hate this. Let’s just forget this for now and not fight about it? I’m…Look, you’re right.” There was a long pause. “We’ve both had a really hard day, Buck. Let’s just go home,” Steve said quietly.

“Don’t act all put-upon,” Bucky sneered, snatching the phone from Natasha. “You get all your yelling out and then we stop fighting? Fuck you! You ever give me a break because I had a hard day? Ever?”

“Bucky, I—“

“I’m sick of fucking my boss,” Bucky bellowed, and threw the phone at the wall.

Electronic gadgetry clattered softly onto the hardwood floors, and Bucky felt like a heel. Again. After a moment, his phone in the other room started ringing.

“I got it, Sergeant Barnes!” Peter slurred.

“No, damn it,” Bucky swore, diving for the bedroom. “I’m gonna screw it up again and I don’t want—“

Peter pressed the call button and piped a happy, “Hello!”

“—told you, don’t call him back until you both calm down, man,” Sam said in the background as Steve took a breath to speak. “You’re just going to—“

“Bucky?” Steve said, and Bucky glared silently at Parker. The kid just gave him a sunny smile back. “Bucky. Hey. C’mon.”

“Hang up the phone,” Bucky told Peter, who tapped the end button and set the mobile lovingly on the bedside table with a pat.

Bucky flopped backwards onto the bed and closed his eyes.

Then opened them again in horror.

“I see,” the Black Widow said evenly, eyebrows up and arms crossed. A Russian twist was creeping back into her voice, and Bucky felt a cold shudder run down his spine. “My phone, you smash, but yours gets hung up and set down like a small child, yes?”

“Natasha,” Bucky tried, sitting up and holding out both hands in supplication. Natasha stared back, murder in her eyes. “Look, okay, I—“

“You’re having a difficult time right now,” she told him evenly, “so I’m not going to kill you right this second.”

She paused. Bucky swallowed.

“I can wait until you’re happy enough to feel it,” she decided.

“Thank…you?” Bucky managed.

“Mm.” Natasha turned and breezed out. Bucky crawled back under the covers and wished for a murder spree in Europe.

On the ceiling, Peter started singing a something about gremlins stealing his shoes.

***

When Bucky woke up later, someone had tucked him in, put a glass of water by his bed, and left a bottle of pain meds.

Bucky gave them a dirty look, since a) he hadn’t been drinking, b) pain meds didn’t work on him anyway, and c) he was actually kind of thirsty and wanted to drink it regardless.

He was chugging the water, but making sure he didn’t enjoy it, when someone knocked on the door.

Bucky swore. Not someone. Steve knocked on the door. It was no use pretending; he knew the rap, he knew the shuffle that was barely audible through the door down the hall, he recognized the creak of the floor where Steve shifted from foot to foot. There was a pause, and the knock came again.

Apparently Natasha was out. Well, Bucky sure as hell wasn’t answering.

Peter hurried down the hall. “I’ve got it,” he said softly, and Bucky idly considered climbing into the vents to escape, before giving it up as a bad idea requiring more energy than he had at the moment. Maybe Steve would go away if he just pretended to not exist for a little while.

At the front door, Bucky could hear the click of the latch, followed by the soft swish of Natasha’s well-oiled hinges.

“Hi! Uh. Peter,” Steve said, caught wrong-footed. “I. I didn’t realize you were here.”

“Captain Rogers,” Peter said, voice thick with judgment.

What followed was a long, loaded silence, and Bucky suddenly realized that Peter Parker was giving Captain America a disappointed stare. Spotty human failure Peter Parker was actually giving the Champion of America, the man who had perfected a Dad Face that made Hydra agents cry with shame, a Look so overpowering that it had robbed him of the ability to speak.

A Look that actually shut up Steve.

Bucky almost regretted staying in bed where he couldn’t see it.

“You just missed Agent Romanov,” Peter told Steve, still frosty. “She headed over to your apartment a few minutes ago.”

“Natasha went to our place?” Steve asked, confused. “Why would she go to our place?”

Peter’s voice thawed a little. “You didn’t know she was picking up clothes for Sergeant Barnes?” he asked. Apparently the drugs had finally worn off, which was lucky. Bucky couldn’t imagine how awkward this whole thing would be if Peter was still high.

“No!” Steve’s voice was tight with sudden understanding. “No, I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to come when—I wasn’t trying to get him alone. I just—“ He stopped. “Is Bucky—Is he planning on staying that long?”

Peter was silent.

Steve rushed to fill the gap. “No, no, of course you shouldn’t tell me about him, I should—“ He squeezed something that creaked alarmingly, then took a deep breath, sounding more certain. “I’ll talk to him instead. Can I come in?”

Peter didn’t answer for a moment. Then, “Captain Rogers,” he admonished quietly, “Sergeant Barnes has already hung up on you twice.”

The surprise of Peter standing up to him seemed to throw Steve again; he flailed verbally for a moment. “Yes. I mean of course. You’re right, Peter, you’re…” He sighed, and then said, “I’ll go, you’re right. Just—could you give him a message?”

No reply.

“I just,” Steve started, then audibly shook himself and said, stronger, “Sorry doesn’t mean anything unless you’re willing to change what you’re sorry for.” The floor creaked; he was actually standing to attention.

“Tell Bucky…” And here Bucky could almost see him nodding decisively. “Tell him I’m ready to change.”

There was some more silence, and then Bucky heard Steve turn to leave. The door sighed shut. They both waited until they couldn’t hear footsteps anymore.

Then Peter muttered, “’Give him a message.’ He knows full well you can hear him from the front door. What a sneaky bastard.”

Bucky thought maybe he liked Peter enough for that to forgive him every other thing he’d ever blamed him for, dog incident included.

***

Bucky stood at his front door and breathed in. Breathed out. Rolled his neck. His arm clicked its way through recalibration once, twice, three times.

It was just his apartment. He fought with Steve all the time; there was nothing to worry about. They could work this out; Bucky could avoid being a dick for long enough to work this out.

He could.

It was worth it. Steve was worth it. He could do this. Bucky set his jaw, squared his shoulders, and opened the door.

In the living room, Steve looked up suddenly from a fight with a roll of packing tape. Bucky had a moment of vague disconnect, long enough to think, neither of us were listening for anything happening on the other side of the door, before the hot rush of horror, fury, and self-disgust blossomed in his gut and robbed him of speech.

Bucky had finally fucked up enough.

Steve was packing boxes.

“You—“ Bucky managed, frozen, terrified, enraged. “You. You’re.”

“No,” Steve blurted, dropping the tape and holding his hands in front of him. “No, Bucky, stop. Stop thinking that. I’m not leaving.”

“Don’t tell me what to think, you’re--” His eyes burned, and he blinked, choking. His body wouldn’t listen to him, which was possibly for the best—He wanted to hit something for a few hours, then crawl inside something else and hide. “You can’t-- I. I.”

Steve was rushing forward, now, hesitating only a moment before he clutched Bucky to him, gripping him tighter than was really comfortable. Bucky didn’t mind; he could feel himself shaking. “This was stupid. I’m stupid. I was so stupid, Bucky, Buck, I’m not leaving you, I swear. Bucky, I promise. I’m not leaving.”

“You’re packing,” Bucky croaked, finally able to move and clutch Steve back. He twisted his hands in Steve’s shirt, eyes shut, breath coming in painful gasps against Steve’s shoulder.

“No!” Steve swore, then realized how obviously he was lying. “Yes. No! I’m not—I shouldn’t have started yet. I should have talked to you first. But you were at Natasha’s and I missed you and hated myself and I had to start doing something and—Bucky I’m an idiot, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Bucky swallowed thickly, not looking up from the crook of Steve’s neck. In the end, he realized, he always had zero pride— but with Steve it hadn’t taken years of torture first. “I can be better,” he begged, hating himself for it. “I’ll. I’ll be better. I promise I’ll do better. Please.”

“No. Bucky. I’m not leaving,” Steve swore, trying to pull Bucky away and look at him. Bucky clung, then let go, staring at the tile between them. “I’m not. We are.”

Bucky frowned and glanced up.

“I mean,” Steve backpedalled, looking alarmed, “I mean, if you want to. I’m not deciding for you. I can unpack this all again in no time, I just—I needed to do something and I thought, if I showed I was really willing, and I didn’t think, because I’m an idiot, I didn’t think what it looked like and—“ Steve trailed off. “Sorry,” he finished, biting his lip.

Bucky frowned again, understanding none of it. “You love living here,” he said, confused. “You love having everyone you care about in one place where you can see them. You love running into them at all hours of the night, and having Sam right upstairs and Natasha right down.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, “but you hate it.”

“I don’t…hate it,” Bucky offered, hesitant. “I’d like to mess around on the couch without locking all the doors first once in awhile, and everyone always in my space gets… but, look, it’s okay. I don’t mind.”

“You do,” Steve countered, “but I thought, you know.” He sighed. “Maybe it would help. With the fighting.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “We fight over pretty much everything, but our living space may be the one thing we don’t,” he said eventually.

“We do, though,” Steve countered, earnest. “I’m not leaving Captain America at work. And I’m not leaving myself at home.”

Bucky paused. “Steve, you’re the same person. I’m pretty sure I haven’t been cheating on you when we fuck in the suits.” His breathing was easier, now, and the prickle had gone away. It was okay. Steve wasn’t leaving. They were okay.

“I’m not.” Steve scrubbed at the back of his neck. “I’m acting like there’s a camera on me all the time. You make me crazy sometimes, Buck, but…I have to be… I shouldn’t be your commanding officer at home. I shouldn’t… You should be able to come home to your boyfriend. Not your boss. And, well, I haven’t exactly been professional at work, either. It’s all mixed up, and you’re suffering for it.”

Bucky didn’t have anything to say to that, so he didn’t try.

“So I thought,” Steve made an aborted move towards Bucky again, then dropped his hand to his side. “If you want to, I think we should move out. I don’t think it will fix everything by magic or anything, but, you know. I’m going to try more. I think it will help.”

“I can—“ Bucky’s arm hissed. “You don’t fight with me for no reason, Steve. You aren’t wrong when we fight.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. But I fight with you a lot more than I should.”

“I’m trying, though,” Bucky swore, searching Steve’s face. “I’m trying. I promise I’m trying.”

“I know you are, Buck,” Steve said softly, and he caught Bucky’s hand in his own. Bucky held tight, eyes stinging again. “I can tell. I can see it. I just get so wound up when you don’t that I wind you up too, and set you off on something else.”

They just stood there for a while, holding hands, trying really hard not to cry because they weren’t six anymore, Christ.

“Yeah,” Bucky finally croaked, then cleared his throat again. “Yeah. That sounds good. Let’s shack up, Rogers.”

“Great,” Steve said, smile ghosting back in. “Where do you want to go?”

“Oh,” Bucky said carelessly, breathing deep. “Anywhere. But no downstairs neighbors, Stevie, we got enough noise complaints in the forties when we were trying to be quiet about all the sodomy.”

“Right,” Steve agreed, turning red. “Yes. No neighbors.”

Bucky took another breath, and another, and then his mouth stretched in a careful grin. Steve’s eyes narrowed, suspicious. “So,” Bucky drawled softly, leaning back against the kitchen island and tugging Steve forward to stand between his knees. Steve went readily, that brilliant smile Bucky had missed drifting across his face again. “When I said that thing about it always being about sex.”

“Mm,” Steve agreed, moving in close, and Bucky shivered as Steve’s fingers trailed up his arm to his shoulder.

“I was—“ Bucky bit back a gasp as they slid closer, that excited twist in his gut trailing up from where they pressed together. “I may have been exaggerating a little bit.”

“I knew you were full of shit,” Steve told him conspiratorially, ducking a bit to trail his teeth along Bucky’s ear. Bucky moaned, hot already. “I just didn’t think it was the time to point it out.”

“It was true,” Bucky protested, tipping his head back and arching into Steve, who took full advantage of it. God, he’d missed this. “It was true. But I just also really like having sex with you.”

“Mm,” Steve hummed, “me too.” And then he put his hand down the front of Bucky’s jeans, and they stopped talking about it pretty damn fast.

***

Bucky woke up again, this time in his own bed, but just as thirsty as before. He wormed his way out from under Steve, who gave a groan that went straight to Bucky’s dick, but he rolled over and fell back asleep before Bucky decided if the super serum could carry him through another round. Probably not, so nothing lost. He shrugged philosophically and climbed out, then picked his way past the shattered lamp, unstuffed couch, and cardboard boxes spilling knickknacks and books from their burst seams. Upside, he mused, looking around at the carnage, there was a lot less they would need to pack.

He filled a water glass, downed it, then stumbled back to the bedroom to find something to wear.

“Mnnngh,” Steve said, reaching out from under the covers and grabbing at him. Bucky laughed and climbed in, and Steve sleepily pulled him down under the sheets to curl up close, nosing at his hair.

“Really?” Bucky asked, impressed, “another round? Really? I don’t know if I can, but sure, we can try.”

“Noo,” Steve moaned, throwing a leg over him and burying his face in the pillow. “Can’t.”

“You sure?” Bucky offered, biting his lip to stop a snort as Steve wormed closer. “You’re sure. Cuz you’re cuddling up pretty close there, Stevie.”

“Love you,” Steve breathed, curled up and over and around Bucky now. “Cuddling close cuz I love you.”

Bucky stopped, looked down, and smiled. “Well,” he said gruffly, “at least your breath is a little better when you’re not a dog.”

Steve rolled a little to heave a huge gasp out into in Bucky’s face, which started a sleepy wrestling match that ended with all of Steve’s weight on top of Bucky, starfished out and panting heavily over his nose. Bucky, breathless with laughter and Steve’s bulk, finally gave up and settled in. Steve hm’ed, blearily delighted. He dropped his head to rest under Bucky’s chin and shifted some of his weight to the bed between Bucky’s legs.

“…Love you too,” Bucky said softly after a while, and Steve smiled against his chest. Bucky buried a hand in his hair and closed his eyes.

Then opened them again, wide. “Oh shit,” he said slowly. “Noise complaints downstairs. Natasha lives downstairs.”

“And she is going to be thrilled that we are moving out,” Steve assured him, and fell back asleep.