Chapter Text
“What is this place?” Bucky asked.
He had only gotten a glimpse of the house, when the Jeep had briefly set off the motion-triggered lights on the driveway, showing them where to park. The house seemed tall and impossibly narrow, almost on stilts. It had taken them more than four hours to get here, though Steve had pulled off the road after two, driving the van into a near-empty parking garage. Bucky’d thought they’d reached their destination, but it turned out that they were only switching vehicles: Steve got out and swiftly transferred their belongings from the van to the cargo area of a large black Jeep with tinted windows. This vehicle bore little to no resemblance to the Jeeps they’d driven during the war: smooth and silent, it had deep leather seats and a dashboard that flickered with red and blue lights. They drove for another two hours along dark, increasingly empty roads, Shop Cat snugged up on his lap, half-under his jacket. It felt like being in the cockpit of a private plane.
Steve was now carrying their bags into the small living area, which was comfortably but impersonally furnished. Sofa and chair, dinette table and kitchen things, but no family photos or personal items. Still, it seemed warm and welcoming: there was even a tiny potted Christmas tree on the table for cheer, decorated with tiny red and silver balls.
“Does it matter?” Steve had bent over to look up into the flue of the large, empty stone fireplace, and so Bucky let the cat spring down and gave in to his impulse to secure the perimeter. He went quickly up and down the entirety of the steep, almost ladder-like staircase, which confirmed his brief impression of the house’s architecture. Tall and narrow, four flights: car park, storage and utilities on the ground floor, small living area one flight up, two small bedrooms and a bathroom above that, master bedroom at the top. A security nightmare, because all the rooms had windows, and the eastern-facing rooms also had doors that opened onto balconies.
Bucky went back to the living room—empty now, though Steve was banging around somewhere downstairs—and pushed aside the curtains to look out the main window. He could barely see it in the moonlight but he could certainly hear it, even through the closed windows of insulated glass: the rough, storming sound of a winter ocean, white-capped, dark, and dangerous.
“Found it,” Steve said, and came back into the room with an armload of firewood. He knelt on the rug before the hearth and began carefully cross-stacking the logs and layering in kindling. Bucky drifted over to watch. It took a couple of matches to catch, but when the fire finally looked like it was going to go, Steve sat back on his haunches and gave Bucky his full attention.
“We won’t stay long—we don’t have to stay long—if you don’t want to,” Steve said with a shrug. “This is just—I don't know: a way station, a halfway house—“
“Halfway to what?” Bucky asked.
Steve didn’t answer for a long moment; meanwhile his face did complicated things. “That depends on you, I guess,” he said finally. “What do you need, Buck?” and that was a question and a half, wasn’t it. Bucky let his knees soften and sank down beside Steve on the rug before the fire to think that one over.
Meanwhile Steve went on, soft and relentless: “You’ve given me everything I need, and don’t think I don't know it. I’ve got everything I ever wanted, so maybe we could spend two or three minutes thinking about you for a change. I’ll do anything you want to do. Do you want to head west? I’ll go west. Chicago is nice, I could come to love the Cubs,” Steve said, “—in time, I’m sure,” and Bucky couldn’t help but smile, “or we could go further west if you’d like. Grand Canyon, California, Mexico—anywhere you please. Or we could go home, if that’s what you want.” Steve picked up the poker to stir the fire, which blazed up bright and warm. “But I think you ought to think it over first."
"Why would you want to do this?" Bucky asked. "You've got your studio, the dogs—"
"I don't need the studio or the dogs; I need you. I love you, you idiot," Steve said, "and I think maybe we need to get away for a little while, be on our own: go back to first principles. This place here, this whole area, is full of summer people, but it’s empty this time of year. We can have till late spring—April, May; a four month window—to figure out what we want next.”
“Well, I’ve gotta admit, I’ve always wanted to see the Grand Canyon,” Bucky said slowly. “But then again—I'm invited to this party… ” and Steve jerked around to stare at him, obviously taken aback. Bucky groaned and let his head roll, trying to release the tension in his neck. “Yeah, I don't know; maybe I want to go to that. Or not. It's a lot. I really don't know, Steve."
"You don't have to decide that right now," Steve said quietly. "And it's not an either/or—you can choose both, or neither, or—I swear, we can be anywhere you want us to be. I'm with you to the end of the line, Buck," but then Steve frowned and added: "Though it's completely typical that you've managed to get yourself invited to a party without me—"
Bucky huffed and rolled his eyes. "I'm sure you're invited, Steve."
"You always say that but it's never true. You're not gonna try to set me up with one of your cousins, are you?"
"No," Bucky said pointedly, "because we are legally married in the state of New York."
"Oh, right. Well, thank God for that," and Steve’s smile was like the sunshine, all the more because he wasn’t a smiler by nature. Not that there'd been much to smile about when they were kids. So it was a beautiful thing; a little miracle. "I knew that was a good idea."
Bucky heard his own voice before he knew he was speaking. “I remember there was a time when I would look at you and I knew I wasn’t allowed to have you,” he said.
That chased the beautiful smile off Steve’s face, but then Steve leaned in close to kiss him very softly, and he didn’t pull away after—just stayed there murmuring, their mouths touching, his scruff of beard tickling Bucky's skin. Desire for Steve stirred low and strong, like always; it was his deepest, oldest feeling. “That was a long, long, long time ago, Buck. Before the war, even—"
"I know," Bucky murmured back, "but I remember."
"The war was a long time ago, now, too," Steve said.
"I know. But…"
Steve pulled back, then, to look at him. "You've got to put down some of this stuff or you're going to be crushed by it. Put it down or give it to me, I can carry it—"
Bucky shook his head; he felt oddly panicked at the thought. "No, you don't—you can't—"
"Yes I can," Steve said, and he was almost smirking with incredulity. "Don't you know who I am, you jerk? I'm Captain America.”
Bucky broke out into a surprised laugh and said, “Aw, no, you’re not, you're just some punk. I call bullshit,” just to be an asshole. “I never heard such a ridiculous story in all my life.”
“No, it’s true. I am, really I am—or I was. Used to be. I wore a whole funny outfit and everything. Lifted a motorcycle. I looked sensational.”
“Well… to be honest, I was never too impressed with all that.” Bucky reached out to fix the collar of Steve’s shirt, then traced his thumb over the hard line of Steve’s collarbone, just to watch him shiver. “But there was this little guy from Brooklyn, who—” and Steve came at him then, pushing him back against the base of the sofa and kissing him hungrily, pressing him backwards and smothering his mouth. Bucky opened his mouth for the kiss and sank back, letting himself feel everything: Steve was warm against him, his beard scraping Bucky's cheek and lips and—
He was panting when Steve finally pulled back. “—who I‘ve always let boss me around for some reason…” Bucky said, a little breathlessly. Steve’s hand was at his fly, pulling his zipper; Steve’s hand was now in his pants.
“Yeah, because you know what’s good for you,” Steve said.
“I do, actually. Yes. Yes, I do.”
