Chapter Text
“Fuck,” says Sam under his breath. He’s making his way through the cafe, a tray laden with muffins, cookies, and coffee heavy in his hand. He swears again when his hip collides with an unfortunately placed chair. Serves him right, Steve thinks, still bitter about losing their “no-let-me-carry-it” competition.
“Language,” he admonishes in his most authoritative voice when Sam finally makes it to the table in the corner. Steve takes great care in maintaining his scowl as Sam looks at him through narrowed eyes. A smirk almost slips through. Almost. Sam doesn’t know him well enough to notice yet.
“I have a feeling there’s a joke somewhere underneath,” Sam says, cocking his head to the side, “but I can’t figure out where.”
Steve lets up on the frown. Sam Wilson is turning out to being an observant bastard. Steve smiles and waves his hand. “No joke, it just comes automatically. Old, remember.” He gestures to himself. “Grew up in stiffer times. Besides, Ma didn’t raise no sinner.”
Sam’s eyes narrow further. “Hmm,” is all he says before slipping into his chair, grabbing the first muffin that comes to hand and bitingin. Steve follows suit, but starts off with a sip of coffee. He’s been enjoying hanging out with Sam. They make it a point to go running in Central Park at least three times a week. Most of those times end in a not-so-healthy splurge at Starbucks.
“Bet you used to swear like a fucking sailor,” Sam says around a large bite, grinning at Steve after he swallows. Two of his teeth are coated in chocolate.
Steve laughs. He really has a knack for finding friends that call him out on his shit. “Never,” he insists.
“Mhm,” Sam takes a sip of his venti iced-hazelnut-extra shot-something-something coffee, pointing a finger at Steve’s chest. “I’ll be listening closely from now on. See how well your mama really raised you.”
“You will hear no dirt leaving this patriotic mouth.” Steve raises his right hand—Scout’s honor—and keeps his eyes as honest as he can.
----
“Jesus motherfucking bitch of a bastard pencil,” Steve almost throws the shitty piece of wood into the fire.
“Language,” Bucky says, flicking Steve’s ear. Steve bats his hand away frowning at the broken tip.
“Fuck this pencil—” Bucky tries to flick his ear again, but Steve pushes his hand away more violently this time, “—and fuck this motherfucking cow-filled country, and fuck this balls-freezing cold, and this fucking giant hand that can’t even draw right anymore.”
Steve shuts his mouth feeling a pang of shame. He shouldn’t be saying that. He likes this body, he’s healthier in this body, happier. He feels Bucky’s hand touch his arm. Thank god the rest of the Commandos are asleep, or at least pretending to be. No one is looking their way to notice the way Bucky’s thumb traces Steve’s wrist.
He should be grateful for his new hand, new fingers, new body. He is grateful. He’s not sick anymore, he doesn’t hurt, he’s strong, capable, useful. All he ever wanted was to be useful instead of useless like he’d always been. Useless to his loved ones, to society - a burden. This self-pity is unfair. Who was he to deserve a new opportunity at life? Him rather than some other sickly kid in Brooklyn? Or Boston or Chicago. He doesn’t deserve any of this. But Bucky sits there beside him, like he understands, like he doesn’t think Steve is being selfish.
“Sorry.” Steve swallows. “I shouldn’t—”
“You’re allowed to feel like this, you know. Angry, frustrated.” Bucky isn’t looking at him. He’s staring at his fingers wrapped around Steve’s wrist. They used to wrap all the way around it. Now they grasp in vain.
“I’m not. I like this body. I’m grateful. I’m glad I have it,” he says, because he is. “It’s just...drawing was the one thing I was good at. The only thing my old body was good at. The only thing it was useful for. It feels weird being this, this...”
“Perfect,” Bucky says, voice strained. Steve looks at him surprised.
“Yeah...well, yeah. Feels weird having this perfect body now and not being able to do the one thing I really enjoyed doing in my old one.”
“You’ll learn.” Bucky finally looks at him. “You’ll learn again. Just don’t fucking grip the pencils so tight when you feel like your drawing ain’t going as planned. And relax your jaw. What if they didn’t make your teeth strong enough to handle your jaw muscles? Good pencils in war might be hard to find, but I bet you false teeth are harder. ”
Steve laughs, bumping his shoulder into Bucky’s. “Maybe I should start collecting real teeth from the Krauts. Just in case.”
“I ain’t kissing cabbage smelling teeth even if they end up in your mouth.” Bucky says voice low and playful.
Steve casts a quick look at the sleeping forms around them. Keeping his ears trained for the faintest sounds of waking, he leans in until he’s only a few inches from Bucky’s face. “You haven’t kissed me in a real long time.”
Bucky’s pupils grow bigger, his eyes darkening with desire. His tongue slips out to wet his lips. God, Steve misses those lips. They’ve been on a mission for two weeks now, two weeks in the cold Italian mountains, trudging through mud and snow and deer shit and god knows what. Two weeks sleeping huddled together, rarely risking a fire like they did today. Two weeks of trying to pretend that when he presses against Bucky at night it’s for warmth only. Two weeks of keeping his distance and dreaming of that curvy mouth wrapped around his dick. Not a moment alone.
Bucky’s grip on his wrist tightens for a fleeting second, and then the heat in his eyes retreats along with his body as he pushes himself up to stand. He doesn’t have to say it out loud, Steve sees the ‘we can’t’ in his eyes clear as day. He sighs in frustration, pushing his hand through his hair.
“Better do a perimeter check,” Bucky says quietly. He’s about to turn away when he glances back once more. It looks like he’s struggling whether to speak or not. In the end he does. Bucky’s never been good at keeping his mouth shut.
“I hate what they did to you.” The look in his eyes is resolute. Unapologetic. “Got you all juiced up.”
“Why?” This is new. Bucky hasn’t said anything about it, and it’s been weeks after seeing Steve’s new form for the first time. Steve had thought Bucky would love it. That it would be a relief. After all, he’ll never have to watch over Steve’s pneumonia-wrecked body again. “They saved me. The serum, it saved me. It is saving me.”
Bucky laughs, too rough to be anything other than mockery. Falsworth stirs, but doesn’t wake up. “Saved you.” Bucky deadpans. “Why, pray tell, are we then in this motherfucking cow-filled country, with this balls-freezing cold, more unsafe than we’ve ever been?”
“Because there’s a war going on, Buck. We owe it to the world to stop it.” Steve should have known this was what it was going to come down to. Bucky’d always worried about him too much, and the mission they were gearing up to was going to be brutal. They were all dreading tomorrow.
“Exactly. And you should have stayed put. ” Bucky jabs a finger in his direction. “So, yeah, I hate that body, and so should you.”
Steve doesn’t want to fight. Not about this. Not when they can’t change anything. They’re all high-strung. Bucky especially, after Azzano. There’s something fidgety about him that wasn’t there before. Steve thinks it’s the nightmares, but Bucky refuses to talk about it, so he watches and observes, looking for cues.
“Do you really, though? Hate it?” Steve smirks, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere that’s settled between them. “Looked like you loved it when you last sucked on my new tit—”
Bucky jumps forward slapping a hand over Steve’s mouth. His eyes glance back, once, assessing how much he can get away with. Quickly, he bends his head until his lips are hovering by Steve’s ear. “Jesus fucking Christ, Rogers, you and your filthy fucking mouth.”
Steve’s eyes gleam in the firelight as he slips his tongue past his lips and licks Bucky’s palm in rebellion. He wants Bucky to know exactly how filthy.
-----
“No, Stevie, you can’t go out to play yet.” His ma’s hand sweeps his hair back from his forehead. “It’s barely been a week after your last bout of pneumonia. Your lungs are still healing.”
Steve doesn’t really understand what pneumonia is except that it makes his chest burn and his body shiver, and that he hates it. Hates it, hates it, hates it. Hates it because it makes his Ma more sad than he’s ever seen her, hates it because Bucky keeps telling him he’ll become a doctor and heal him, and Steve knows that’s bullshit because when Bucky last scraped his knee he cried because there was so much blood. Hates it because bodies aren’t supposed to be this weak.
“But Maaaa!” He pleads. He looks to the side where Bucky is standing in the door frame a football in hand. “Please!”
“No.” Her voice is firmer this time, but her hand stays just as gentle. “Your chest ain’t right yet.”
“Well then I hate this chest!” Steve cries, feeling his face get hot and angry. “I hate this goddamned chest, and I don’t wanna have it no more!”
“Steven Grant Rogers, you will not use language like that.” His Ma’s eyes go all strict, and Steve feels bashful all of a sudden. He glares at the floor but can’t keep his legs from shuffling. Ma’s fingers slip from his hair as she crouches down and takes his hands in hers.
“Listen to me well now, Stevie. You’re a better person than this.” She squeezes his hands softly, but her gaze is sharp. “I don’t care what you see or hear down there in the streets. You’re growing up into a good man, and good men use good language.”
Steve shuffles some more but finally looks at her stubbornly. “Well then I don’t wanna be a good man.” He knows he’s being petulant, but he wants to go out with Bucky and run and laugh and jump. His ma sighs.
“You already are good. But in this world good takes courage, it takes practice, it takes dedication.” She turns his face up after he looks away. “Every day we decide to be good, Stevie. And sometimes we fail, but we must try again the next day. God might’ve made us good, but it ain’t easy to stay good. So we gotta try, okay. It’s our duty to keep ourselves good.”
“You ain’t need to worry ‘bout that Mrs. Rogers.” Bucky’s voice comes small but determined from the doorway. “I’ll keep ‘im good.”
Steve’s ma looks surprised. Steve doubts she forgot Bucky was there—Bucky’s always there—but she looks unsettled all the same.
“Oh, James,” she says. “Come here.” She gestures to him with one hand, keeping the other clasped over Steve’s. When Bucky comes over she clutches his hands in hers as well. “Don’t you go worrying about Stevie so much. You worry too much as it is. Just keep yourself good. Just keeping yourself good is more than enough.”
Bucky nods. “I’ll try.” He squares his shoulders and looks her straight in the eye. “But I ain’t letting him go bad either.”
-----
“Gentlemen,” a familiar voice comes from Steve’s left and he shoots to his legs, all his attention immediately on the woman in front of him.
“Agent Carter!” Dum Dum shouts. Steve loves Dugan’s buoyant nature, but really, the only time this man ever stops being obnoxiously loud is when he’s lying in a bush preying on Nazis. In Steve’s opinion, it’s been much too long since their last mission. It’d be nice to go on another one, if only to shut Dugan up. “Fancy meeting you here, Agent. Been getting tired of these ugly faces.” Dugan waves at his companions.
Peggy smiles, her lips as red and as dangerous as always. “Stop fixing your mustache in the mirror so much then. You might realize not everyone’s as ugly as you.”
“Ouch,” Dugan says. He slaps his palm over his heart but follows it with booming laughter. “It’s good to see you’re just as mean as you were on the first day I met you.”
“Mean and getting meaner,” Peggy retorts, her eyes sparkling, and Steve is struck again by how beautiful she really is. Not pretty. Beautiful. From her warm brown eyes to her sharp tongue, from her disarming smile to her quick wit. The most beautiful woman he’s ever met.
“We finally going on a new mission?” Bucky interrupts, the question sharper than it has any need to be. Steve looks over at his best friend, but Bucky’s not looking at him; his gaze is trained on Peggy, seemingly nonchalant. Only Steve notices the flash of anger in the otherwise cool blue eyes. A great urge to sigh and roll his eyes overwhelms him. They’ve been through this a hundred times. Just because he finds Peggy attractive, it doesn’t mean anything. Peggy is beautiful, yes, but Bucky is all encompassing. Peggy is someone he could love, but Bucky, Bucky is someone he always will. His past, his present, his future. Eternity compared to a moment in time.
“With all due respect, shut your mouth, Sergeant,” Jones speaks up from the crate he’s sitting on. He and Falsworth have been playing cards for hours now, quiet bar from a few loud groans announcing who the loser of the round was. “I’ve been rather enjoying this Nazi-less time. I ain’t in no rush to go after those motherfuckers again.”
“Language,” Steve says mostly because Peggy is there, and he’s supposed to keep his soldiers in line. He knows Peggy has tough skin—she has to, being one of the only women around so many crass, and, frankly, shamelessly horny men—but Steve wants his soldiers to do better.
For a few seconds all goes quiet, all men turning to look at Steve with flabbergasted expressions on their faces. Then it all erupts into a fucking zoo.
“Language?!” Morita cries, high-pitched from disbelief.
“Booooooooooooo!” Dugan shouts, placing his hands to either side of his mouth to make the sound carry. Jones joins him, while Dernier throws the pants he’s been patching to the ground. “Ah, quelle putain d’hypocrite!”
He continues ranting in French, while Falsworth rants in English opposite a baffled Morita. All Steve catches is as if and British ladies and swear and as fucking much. As if their reaction hadn’t already made Steve’s face heat up, the sight of Bucky slowly but steadily losing it makes him go red from indignation. As if it wasn’t Bucky who kept reminding Steve about language all the time. As if it wasn’t Bucky who kept throwing acorns and pebbles and twigs at the men every time any of them got out a cuss word harsher than a general fuck. As if it wasn’t Bucky, who didn’t walk the walk of the talk he talked. Jerk.
Later, after Peggy gives them the details of their mission, Steve finds Bucky smoking at the outskirts of the camp. He’s leaning on a tree, his head tilted up to a slowly darkening sky. It’s warm for spring, so all he’s wearing is the standard-issue shirt. The top few buttons are unbuttoned, and Steve can see the sparse few hairs on Bucky’s chest. He misses lazily running his fingers through them. He stops a few paces away, allowing himself a few moments to simply look. Soak in everything that Bucky is. Tired, peaceful, desperate, angry, thoughtful, kind, worried, beautiful, everything. He’s everything.
Steve can tell Bucky knows he’s there even though Steve’s still out of his line of sight. He takes a slows drag of the cigarette, blows the smoke out even slower, the edges of his lips settling into that familiar curl. Steve’s heart thuds emptily in his chest. God, he loves. He loves so much.
“Buck,” he says softly. He has to get this off his chest. Bucky must know. He must know how much he loves. “You gotta understand, me and Peggy, it’s nothing, Bucky. And it ain’t ever gonna be nothing. Just because I think she’s a fine looking dame—”
“We’ve been through this.” Bucky cuts him off.
“Well, then I don’t know what your problem is. She’s beautiful and she’s smart, a woman anyone would want. I look at her like any sensible man would. You looked at her like that when you met her.”
“You really don’t get it do you?” Bucky throws the half-burnt cigarette to the floor. He must be more annoyed than he looks, spending valuable cigarette rations like that. “The problem isn’t that you look at her like that. The problem is she looks back at you like that too.”
“And I don’t care! I’ve already told you. I don’t care!” Steve throws his hands up in the air, exasperated.
“Well, maybe you should!” Bucky raises his voice, finally abandoning his deceptively peaceful pose. “Maybe you should.” It’s softer this time, his eyes not meeting Steve’s.
“But I won’t. I won’t, Bucky. I’ve already chosen a long time ago. I’m done choosing.” Steve wants to step closer, but he doesn’t. They never know who’s watching. “So quit with this jealousy, it’s stupid.”
“Jealousy. You think it’s just jealousy that’s making me all mad at you, Rogers. Mad at me?” Bucky steps closer because apparently his anger makes him care less. His eyes look black in the darkness that’s fallen, but there’s no mistaking the fire in them. “I’m mad. I’m mad as hell. You could have a life with her, Steve. A proper life. A real one. So, yeah, I’m jealous. I’m so fucking jealous it fucking rips me to shreds whenever she smiles at you. But more than jealous, I’m mad. I’m mad at you ‘cause you have a chance at a good life and you won’t take it. And I’m mad at me ‘cause I can’t let you go.”
“Well, that’s fucking stupid.” Steve complains.
“Watch your mou—” Bucky starts saying, lifting his hand to give Steve the familiar flick on the ear. Steve catches his hand before it reaches its goal. On an impulse, he pulls Bucky farther in between the trees, into the darkness. He pushes him against a trunk of what looks like a century-old beech tree.
“Never,” Steve whispers, their mouths already too close as he tries to keep his eyes on Bucky’s without going cross-eyed. “I’m never watching my mouth when I’m around you. And get it into that stupid head of yours that I ain’t giving up on you. And I ain’t giving you up either.”
“Who’s stupid now?” Bucky’s palm is on Steve’s jaw, his thumb resting gently against his cheek. Steve must look confused at the question, as Bucky’s lips slide into a smirk. “Still using your mouth all wrong, when I’m right here.”
The last few words are but a ghost against Steve’s lips, and then Bucky is kissing him and it feels like it’s been years since he last kissed him instead of weeks. Steve lets out a gasp that, given the chance to form, would probably sound a lot like a very pathetic, very yearning version of Bucky’s name. When their tongues slip against each other Steve’s knees go weak, and for a moment everything slips away. The camp, the war, the responsibility. Like Bucky, instead of feeling like a moment in time, the kiss too, feels like eternity.
-----
“Aliens. Again.” Clint’s voice is clipped.
"No, no, no, no,” Stark whines, while stomping his foot like a five-year-old. Real mature, Steve thinks and makes sure his disdain is obvious from his face. ”I did not sign up for this!” Stark stomps his small feet some more.
“You kind of did,” Natasha tells him, reminding him that the Avengers initiative is a voluntary project.
“God,” Stark whines, throwing his hands in the air. “Let me have my temper tantrum in peace, will you?”
Steve feels like no amount of years lived, in the ice or not, could prepare anyone for dealing with Tony fucking Stark. He restrains himself from rolling his eyes because he’s mature like that, but he can’t prevent his eyelids from closing for a second or two, praying for patience. He tries to steer the conversation back to the topic. “So, is this an actual threa—”
“Shhhhhh!” Stark interrupts, pressing his finger against his lips. “Still having it, Rogers, still having it,” Stark whispers.
Steve’s jaw squeezes so hard he hopes he’ll be able to unhinge it later. Clint, who’s the only one sitting down (lounging, really) while the others stand around the oval table, snickers. Steve fails to see the humor.
Thor, who had patiently waited, uncrosses his arms, nods as if Tony’s tantrum is perfectly understandable. “My intention wasn’t to distress you,” he says slow and clear. “But I thought it best to let you know. To answer your question, Steven, no, I don’t think this is an actual threat to your planet. For now.”
“What does that mean for now?” Natasha’s leaning on the table, but her arms have lost some of the tension they held before.
“It means that for now Asgard has the issue contained. The civil war on Vanaheim is in full swing but we’re trying to appease the situation. I only came here because one of our spies heard the rebels were searching for other realms to subjugate, and the Earth’s name was mentioned. Apparently…” Thor falters. “Apparently, Loki’s attempt gave them the impression that conquering your planet was...doable.”
“Well...fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” Tony is being helpful again, and Steve’s annoyance rises to new levels. Instead of them trying to evaluate the potential threat and devising further plans of action in case it comes to a fight, they’re dealing with crybaby Tony Stark who loses all pretense of being a grown man when Pepper is out of the room. That woman is literally the only thing holding this man together and by a few misplaced strings at that. Not that it’s her fault. Doing the god’s work, she is.
“Language,” Steve can’t stop himself from saying because he’s annoyed, and he might as well get some amusement out of this too. It’s unfair that only Clint’s having fun.
“Language? Language? Are you fucking kidding me?” Tony’s frustration rises and surpasses Steve’s. Steve fights down a self-satisfied smirk. He’ll play the righteous man Tony thinks he is and who irritates him so much and laugh about it later.
“Good men use good language,” Steve echos the words his mother used to say. Words he never truly believed. Bucky cursed like a drunkard cursing the Prohibition laws, and Bucky was the best man he’d ever known.
“Good men use good language. Did you hear that? Write that down, Jarvis. Make a note for posterity. Words straight out of our pure-hearted virgin fossil.” Stark is really getting worked up now, and Steve has to fight down another smile when Natasha’s narrowed eyes meet his. “Never said a bad word in your whole damn life, did you? Maybe that’s why you’re so stuck up. Try it sometimes. Might soften that stick in your ass.”
There is something privately amusing about being considered a paragon of virtue in this brand new world. With Tony sniping about his ‘prehistoric virtuousness’, Steve feels closer to Bucky than he had since waking up. A private joke they’re sharing, Bucky’s mischievous eyes clearer in his mind than they’d been since 1945. He can still clearly see Bucky’s shoulders starting to tremble from contained laughter and his mouth, though trying for nonchalance, pouting even more than usual.
“I can’t even curse the aliens now? Literally, is there a better, more noble excuse to say a few choice words than a potential alien invasion?” There was no one quite like Tony when it came to overreacting. “So, what? No more fucks, Cap? Fine, I’ll be a good man. Falafel!”
Thor sighs, pulls out a chair, and flops down, Natasha pushes off the table and takes herself to the water fountain. Clint just rolls his eyes. This is going well.
“Tony, shut u—”
“Fffffff-udge!”
“We should be devising strate—”
“Fffffff-unky flip flops.”
“Thor only has so much time, stop wast—”
“Fffffff-illadelphia’s ffff-uchsias!”
“You are an actual five-year—”
“Fondue!” Tony shouts at the top of his voice, and Steve can’t fight it anymore. Tony getting worked up is a treat in itself, but him screaming fondue brings up an echo of an old (admittedly embarrassing) memory, and Steve’s shoulders start to shake. When that happens there’s no force in the world that could stop the laughter bursting out of him.
Tony stops waving his hands. “Oh my god, are you fucking with me? Were you fucking with me?” Steve nods, exchanging an amused look with Natasha. Clint is snickering again, and Thor looks even more radiant than normal.
“Jarvis, write this down, too. Captain America’s a jerk.” Tony waves his hands at the ceiling like he always does when talking to his AI.
“Do I put it in the I’m Having A Fit folder or Avengers’ Profiles folder?” Jarvis’s voice is innocent, but Steve’s long suspected Jarvis derives more human amusement than he lets on.
“Jarvis!” Tony squeaks. “You’re not supposed to say that out loud!”
“I’m sorry, Sir.” Jarvis says, actually sounding deeply remorseful.
“Anyway.” Tony waves his hand dismissively. “Make a new folder. Cap’s A Jerk. I feel like I’ll need it.”
Steve smirks. Tony’s right. He’ll probably need it.
“I was pulling your leg, Tony.” He nods, smiling, but then lets his face fall back into a more serious expression. “But I also kind of meant it. Language.”
“Well, fudge yourself!”