Chapter Text
The apartment had changed a lot since Bucky had been discharged from the Veteran’s Hospital. Most of the changes Bucky had made himself, and Steve had never complained.
He woke alone after having a series of early-morning seizures that left him feeling fuzzy and gross. They weren’t the most serious form of seizures anymore; sometimes he didn’t shake or fit at all. His morning seizures usually arrived in the form of auras, nausea, sleep paralysis. It was unpleasant, but manageable.
He wasn’t worried about being alone, either. That was how he woke most mornings.
Next to the bed, on the wall, was a large pinboard. Bucky had filled it with all sorts of useful information, though he hardly ever needed it. He still cast his eye over it, taking in the date, his location, the picture of Steve. Even though he knew all this, he liked to remind himself. Just in case.
He rolled to the edge of the bed and tested whether his legs were going to cooperate before standing. Most mornings he spent at least a moment staring at the huge painting on the bedroom wall. It didn’t have quite the same solitary impact that it used to, now that Bucky had filled another wall with cutouts and photos and crap. But Bucky still thought it was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen.
He took his meds, showered, and got dressed, then went through to the kitchen to start making breakfast.
The kitchen was covered with more reminders: words and pictograms on each cupboard door to remind him what was kept in each one, which stopped him from having to do a frustrating search for a mug or a spatula or a can opener. Next to the phone that was mounted on the wall was another long line of photographs and phone numbers; people who he could call, if he needed someone and Steve wasn’t home.
He didn’t need people very often. But it was good to know that they were around, in case he did.
Steve had left a note on the kitchen table.
Out for a run. Should be home by 8. Take your meds.
“I already did,” he muttered, grouching to himself. Not that he really minded. Steve had definitely chilled with his mother hen routine and didn't cluck and fuss anywhere near as much as he used to. Bucky would never admit it, but he liked the fussing. Just a little bit.
It was seven forty-five. Bucky decided to make coffee.
He stood in the middle of the kitchen for a full minute before remembering that he could get help with this.
“Friday, I need instructions on how to make coffee.”
“Verbal or written instructions?”
“Verbal, please.”
It didn’t matter how many times Stark told him he didn’t need to say please and thank you to the AI, Bucky did it anyway. They’d tested a number of different voices and personalities for the AI after Stark got done installing it in the apartment. Bucky found he asked for different things from different AIs; Friday was for help, but a gruff, no-nonsense voice Bucky called “sir” was good for when he was having an episode.
Damn that military conditioning. That had apparently stuck fast in a way knowing how to tie his own damn shoelaces hadn’t.
Friday was good at explaining things in a way that didn’t make him feel stupid. She gave clear instructions without any kind of judgement and didn’t care if it took him three attempts to identify the correct kind of spoon.
Between them, Steve and Sam and Tony had built a world for Bucky where he could live almost independently. He had support structures in place that meant he could go to the store or a bar or take a run around the park, and bad things almost never happened. They hadn’t managed to eliminate all risk from his life entirely… but he lived in New York City. That would be impossible.
“Bucky, Steve just entered the building.”
“Thanks, Friday.”
He’d got the coffee going and the pot would be full by the time Steve was done with his shower. Having Friday announce when someone was approaching the door stopped him from panicking and barricading himself inside. In his defence, that had only happened once.
“I’m home!” Steve called.
“In here.”
Steve came over and kissed Bucky’s cheek. He looked like he’d barely broken a sweat, but Bucky knew he’d probably covered a solid half-marathon before most people had even started their day.
“It smells good in here.”
“Did you pick up any pastries on your way home?”
Steve grinned. “No, but I can go get some.”
“Go take a shower. I’ll go out.” The bakery was only across the street.
“Sure? Okay.”
Bucky hooked his arm around Steve’s waist before he could leave. Steve looked confused, but didn’t complain, and when Bucky drew him back in for another kiss… Steve came willingly.
“Oh,” he murmured as Bucky took a proper kiss this time, from Steve’s lips, and Steve wrapped his arm around Bucky’s shoulder to anchor them together.
Bucky closed his eyes and did that thing Sam talked about—living in the moment, appreciating everything he had and the world around him. Being present.
The feel of Steve’s lips on his own, the sweet slide of their tongues, the way Steve’s fingers curled against Bucky’s shoulder.
“I love you,” he murmured.
Steve made that face, the one that said he was secretly really pleased but he didn’t want it to show. Bucky didn’t say I love you very much. It was a given. At this point in their lives, Steve had to know.
“I love you too. Thank you for breakfast. You’re such a good husband.”
That made Bucky laugh. “The best.”
“Yeah, all right,” Steve said, and gave Bucky’s butt a squeeze before he headed back to the bathroom. “The best.”