c

But the only thing to truly work, to finally give him a grip on discipline, was getting caught.

Two weeks pass after you catch Bucky asleep on your floor. Despite the insistence that you hadn’t minded, and what you thought was his acceptance of that fact, he doesn’t return. You might think you imagined the whole thing, if not for the awkwardness that lingers when you bid each other goodnight.

You question if it can even be called that; he throws out the word like a bomb, darting to his room before it can detonate. You’re left with the explosion and it rattles your thoughts, crashing into you as you wonder: Had you been too pushy? Did you make it awkward? Is this the end of your friendship?

The sting of rejection isn't quite fair, you know that, but still there's some deep part of you that takes a hit. However, you follow his lead and don’t bring it up, don’t invite him back to your room. After a while, accepting it is easy - or at least that’s what you tell yourself. This doesn’t mean he hates you, and it’s not like it’s something you should have come to expect. The two of you are best friends, nowhere close to the realm of... anything else.

Yeah, maybe his simple presence had provided you with the best night’s sleep in a long time, but so what? A strong drink could knock you out too. It didn't mean you should rely on it every night.

You try to shove the memory of it all out of your head as hard as possible, but it’s pushed so far that the bitter taste of it reaches your throat. It resides there, causing the occasional stutter when you speak to him, a frown to tug at your lips more often.

But you don’t care.

The day it happens again, Bucky’s arm is acting up. You’d noticed that afternoon how he winced when reaching with his left hand, how he’d closed all the windows without a word. The air is bitingly cold, which is always the worst for him.

Your room is kept warm. Bucky can do the same with his, has access to the heating system. But your room exudes warmth in a way that isn’t just heat. While his is all barren walls and bleak curtains, you’ve got fairy lights, fluffy pillows, sticky-taped pictures. The space is lived-in, not just a spot that exists between other moments.

Most warm of all, he thinks, it has your presence.

You fall asleep that night completely unexpecting, though some deep part of you might be waiting. Your senses are finely tuned, even when you’d tried slicing the wires with pliers as sharp as your own cutting thoughts. But your eyes peek open in time with the door.

Bucky’s steps are tentative, like the doorframe is a trip wire. He hesitates, scanning the room for any threats the way he does on missions. You give no indication that you’re awake. Half of you just wants to see how this plays out, while the other is sure that even breathing too hard will shatter the moment.

He crouches onto the floor slowly, as if he might startle himself or you with any sharp movements. The scene from last time is recreated, his  limbs curled up with a small, thin blanket over his torso. It’s so bunched up that it only goes to his knees, and his arms have no cover at all. He tosses and turns for a while, plagued by an antsy energy.

It’s only when he turns so vigorously and knocks into your nightstand that you can’t keep up the pretense anymore. Your phone crashes to the floor and he fumbles, sitting up, attempting to salvage the damage as you crack your eyes open properly.

“Not very stealthy for a super soldier,” you say, biting back a laugh.

His shoulders slump as he sits there, staring at the floor like he wants it to swallow him. He holds up your phone between two flesh fingers. “Not cracked, at least.”

“Good, or I’d make you pay for the damage.” You take it from him, noticing how he favours his flesh hand despite the metal one being closer. Despite knowing the answer, you ask, “Your arm acting up?”

“Mm. Cold weather.”

You wordlessly grab your heating pad and lean over to drape it against his shoulder. He lets you, eyes remaining on your face, even though the smile he gives you is rueful. “Thanks… sorry for waking you.”

You keep your own gaze on the pad, not quite sure how to handle eye contact at such close proximity. “What do you mean?” you ask, releasing a small breath as you retreat to lay back down. “I’m still asleep right now.”

He knows what you’re doing. How you refuse to give him any more interaction to overthink when he doesn’t want to be pushed. He’s being given a choice, something that was ripped from his hands for seventy years.

And while the heat seeps from the pad into his shoulder, really it’s the way you understand him so deeply that warms him.

He stays the night, still on the floor, but closer to your bed than usual.

He comes back three nights later. Once more the next. You start leaving a little extra space on the side of the bed closest to the door. It’s a silent invitation, one you refuse to acknowledge even in your own mind.

There’s no pressure. It’s simply there. Something that lingers, floats in the air like a whispering breeze instead of a billowing wind.

Sometimes you notice his stare, like he runs through all the outcomes in his head. Apparently it never weighs out in his favour. But eventually you wake and his head rests on the mattress at the foot of the bed, body slumped as he leans against the frame. You shift slowly to swipe away a piece of hair that flops over his eye, then drape a blanket over his shoulders.

You think you get away with it and don’t wake him up. But what you don’t notice is how Bucky holds his breath at the contact, all of his  willpower focused on not leaning into your touch.

A few nights later, you lean against the headboard, knees drawn to your chest as you perch in the middle of the bed. There had been a little nightmare, followed by a lot of overthinking. It casts shadows into the caverns of your mind, leaving you unable to close your eyes.

It’s one of the nights where Bucky chose not to come - or so you’d thought. Those nights are becoming much more scarce, to the point he’s now here more often than not.

“Oh -” he says, almost swallowed by the creak of the door as he peeks his head in and notices you’re still up. “Sorry… I can -”

You shake your head, hoping the action might force some of your thoughts out too. “No, no, come on in.”

He makes it to his usual spot but doesn’t sit down. Instead he stands there, eyes studying you in a way that makes your shoulders curl in but your heart call out. “You okay?”

The shrug that comes out is weak. “Been worse.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

You shake your head.

He doesn’t add anything else - he doesn’t have to. In this line of work, nights like these aren’t rare. But you’re not hyperventilating or crying, just a little spooked, so he knows not to push. What he does do is grab the bottle of water on your nightstand, holding it out like an offering. Even when you take it, he doesn’t move away. You notice his eyes are on the mattress in that way they sometimes do when he’s analysing.

He waits until you take a sip and then nudges your shoulder. “Come on, move over.”

You blink at him, figuring you’d misheard. But he’s avoiding your gaze, which is confirmation enough that you had heard correctly.

You scoot over to your usual position, and this time he follows you in. You take another sip of water to stop from staring stupidly at him.

“The floor finally catching up to those old bones?”

He rolls his eyes, elbowing you as he adjusts the pillows. “You’re the one always complaining about a sore back.”

“Not all of us have that super blue shit in our veins.” As you slide to lay down, he joins you.

Some nights you’d imagined what this would be like. If awkwardness would engulf you, or you’d miss the luxury of a full bed. But you just feel safe, grounded in a way you’ve never experienced. Your bodies don’t touch, except for the occasional brush of an arm, and you spend the next half an hour talking, not about anything important.

Even though your brain urges you closer, you don’t quite dare. Bucky looks at you with soft eyes, crinkled at the corners, and for now it’s enough.

It’s enough when his laugh is closer than you’ve ever heard it.

It’s enough when you’re able to watch his eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones.

It’s enough when you don’t think he’d trust anyone else enough for this. 

That lamp looks heavy enough to cause a concussion if swung with the full extent of annoyance surging through your body. Plenty of wires snake around the soundboard. You've got the option of a plain, school-issued pencil, or one topped with a fluffy blue pom-pom to stab an eye out. Lots of variety.

This mental inventory of makeshift weapons is nothing new, but usually it’s because of Hawkins’ dark shadows and not a rubber chicken. It all started when you had learned about the Upside Down last year after being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Your involvement had been accidental but irreversible, and Robin - who you’d spoken to in high school a few times - was the one to explain it all. The discovery had tainted your world, changed your boring but familiar hometown into hell on earth. Sure, you’d never withheld your many complaints about its lack of anything exciting before, especially after the loss of Starcourt, but its monotony had provided its own sense of comfort.

Now certain luxuries have been taken away that you didn’t even realise you had; entering a space without planning an escape route, a vague echo in your head wondering if this is the last place you’ll see before you die. There’s too much risk in lowering your guard, and it is now your primal instinct to always be on your A-game. To be able to defend yourself against anything, no matter where you are.

And besides, even if you don’t end up using any of these things to fight off a monster, sometimes they still do come in handy. Like now, when Robin finally lowers the needle to the vinyl, muting her microphone, and you surge up out of your seat so fast it’s as though you’re on a spring.

"Harrington, if you don't give it a rest, I am going to barbecue your sorry ass on that radio tower -"

"And… here we go," Robin cuts in, spinning herself around in the wheely chair. "Can't I just experience Blondie in peace for one day? Is that so much to ask, my two dearest friends in this devilish world?"

Steve, who you’d caught glancing not-so-discreetly at you every time he was near the chicken, now tries to mask his exasperation at your outburst by crossing his arms. "Both of us?” he asks Robin through a scoff. “It’s Terminator over there with the problem. I haven’t even done anything.”

You settle for an eye roll, refusing to let the several protests leave the tip of your tongue. Steve has been tormenting you all day, even worse than usual and just subtly enough that complaining about it will make you sound like a child throwing a temper tantrum: You pulled my hair! You spilled my coffee on my book this morning! You stole all of my pens, which, yeah, maybe I have no proof of, but Robin definitely didn’t and I doubt Hawkins has some kind of pen thief!

“Why don’t we all sit in silence?” Robin suggests. “It’s meant to be, like, calming, you know… like meditating!”

You and Steve both snort at the same time, knowing damn well that Robin isn’t able to stay quiet for more than ten seconds. The joint reaction has both of your eyes snapping to each other, but your annoyance runs hotter at how synchronised it was, burns at the way his stupid brown eyes crinkle like you're meant to be sharing a joke.

You get to your feet instead of giving him the satisfaction of a response, waving around the empty mug that’s been staring at you all morning. “Okay, well enjoy your yoga. I’m gonna go get coffee. Want some, Robs?”

You head for the door when Robin shakes her head. Not that yours would even need refilling yet if not for the man now frowning petulantly. You leave the room with a little more stomp in your step than is warranted, but you don’t quite care. His insistence today on ruining your mood has been extra strong, which didn’t seem possible, but things in Hawkins stretched the limits of possibility all the time. If monsters could exist, then you’re pretty sure Steve Harrington’s methods of being the most insufferable person on the planet could grow. He can spend his time learning what gets under your skin and burrow so deep that the irritation digs and digs until it’s living in your very bones.

That’s just what Steve Harrington does. But to some undecipherable mystery, it only seems to be something that happens to you.

--

Even your first meeting has been messy. While the general consensus was that Steve was different now, you weren’t jumping at the idea of spending time with King Steve from high school. The memories of him were still fresh enough to taint his reputation. He’d stood up two of your friends in sophomore year, once tried to cheat off you during a test, and he’d sat in front of you in English for a whole semester, hair always styled high enough that you had to crane your neck to see the blackboard. You still blamed him for the pain that twinges in your shoulder when you lean too far to the left.

But this was literally the end of the world; you could bury the pettiness, at least partially, and team up with whoever you had to until you made it out the other side. The morning you were set to meet everyone, Robin kept combating your complaints by insisting that you would come around on Steve now. He was a little bit of an idiot, definitely a dingus, but overall a good guy. And she understood your trepidation - truly. It wasn’t like she’d been a fan of his back in the day. But you just had to give him a chance.

Steve was the last one in the round of introductions. You stepped towards him cautiously, noticing that he did at least seem to hold himself differently now. Still confident, but sure of himself in a new way. The smile he aimed at you was jarring too; a sneer didn’t curl the corners of his lips, and his eyes didn’t flash with internal jokes you could tell were at your expense. His expression looked… warmer. Like the past few years had filed down his harsh edges into something softer.

Still holding on to some caution, you’d listened as he told you his name. Even the way he spoke was a surprise. His name wasn’t said like it came plated in gold. His voice didn’t hold the mirth of whatever mean comment was about to follow.

Maybe Robin was right. Maybe he really had changed.

But then -

“So, how’d you get dragged into this shit-show?” His smile had widened enough for dimples to peek through. “You’re new around here, right?”

Your face was wiped blank, and any growing sense of warmth for the man froze right over. Robin winced. And from that moment forth, you decided that Steve Harrington was not worth your time.

-

"Oh, if King Steve could see you now," Robin says through a laugh once you’re out of the room. "Hey, have you switched hairspray? Because I think this one is messing you up in a different way. Like, serious sinking into your brain and -”

The way you angrily marched out of the room makes Steve deflate. He perches against the edge of the table, folding in on himself. "Thanks, Robin. That is what I need to hear right now, how’d you know?” He sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. “She’s going to hate me forever, isn’t she?”

It’s been over a year since you joined the group, helping with the Upside Down business, and somehow your hatred grows every day. He doesn’t understand how everything seems to go wrong with you. No matter how hard he tries to get you to like him, it always pushes you further away. He gets the wariness - he was a dick in high school, and the lingering reputation has forced him to prove to everyone that he’s changed. But steadily, person by person, he’s got it down. Hell, even Jonathan likes him more than you do.

Robin plants her feet on the ground, pushing her chair away from the desk so she can face him properly. "Well, you have been weird with her all day, dingus. Even more than usual, which is actually kind of impressive, because I thought that was an impossible standard to beat.”

"Weird?” He frowns, shifting on his feet at her accusatory words as he averts his gaze. “I haven't been weird."

"You rushed in here five minutes early to take all of her pens. You're not a penguin, Steve, stealing peoples’ stuff won’t get them to like you."

He opens his mouth to argue, then falters. “Wait, what have penguins got to do with this?”

“You know, it’s their mating call, they take -” Robin shakes her head, “never mind. My point, Steven, is that you’re going about this all wrong. Which I have told you twenty times this week alone.”

"But the pen thing, it... it was a tactic," he insists, trying not to sound as half-hearted as the attempt now looks in hindsight. "You'd be too busy doing your broadcast, so she'd have to ask me to borrow one. Or she wouldn't ask and I could swoop in and -”

“Swoop in? God, you are so hopeless. That whole idea might be even worse than when you spilled her coffee this morning.” She snorts at the memory, then laughs harder at his indignant expression. “I mean, come on! All over her book, Steve. Did you have another copy you were going to swoop in with?”

“Alright, you know what, I think I like that meditating idea after all,” he mutters, heading back to the soundboard. When the rubber chicken stares at him, he turns away with a scowl.

–

Truthfully, this morning he’d been planning to take Robin’s ever-insistent advice of simply talking to you. Politely. Casually. Ask you how you’re doing, maybe throw in a simple compliment that didn’t sound like it was propped up by a motive because, somehow, they always do, even if he isn’t that person anymore. But every time your eyes catch his, Steve just short-circuits. What little rationality he usually clings to slips from his fingers and he’s left flailing.

He’d spent an embarrassing thirty minutes planning a conversation in his room last night. He paced, thinking up one word at a time and tossing each around until he had seen every angle, every way they could be twisted, until they were perfect. This was finally going to be it. You would realise he wasn’t as bad as you thought, become friends, then eventually he could ask you out on a date - but that was getting ahead of himself. He would move one step at a time. He would be patient.

Steve went to practise one more time in front of the bathroom mirror, then caught sight of himself and thought Jesus, Harrington, get it together. He’d promptly gone to bed, but his thoughts weren’t ready to be put to rest just yet and kept him awake for way too long.

This morning he'd arrived early (much to Robin's dismay), all charm and faked confidence, dialled just enough down so that it didn’t border on cocky. As he waited for you to show up, he ran his hand through his hair. The minutes ticked by, each one dragging some of his surety away with it. What if you didn’t engage? What if he messed it up? Should he have thought of a backup plan? Some other way to start a conversation if this went wrong?

With his hands on his hips, Steve glanced around, panic growing. What could he do that would get you to talk to him? How could he help you?

When his eyes landed on the tin of pens resting on your desk, Steve didn’t give himself time to overthink it. He ran forwards, gathering all of them in his fists and stuffing them into his coat pocket. He breathed a little easier now, knowing there was a fail-safe. That something would go right because now he could help you out.

You showed up right after he’d kicked his coat under the desk, and like every morning, Steve had to take a moment before he could tear his eyes away. Your hair was styled in his favourite way, something that made you look otherworldly. No - better. God, way better. Steve had been in another world before, but that was all darkness and gloom. You were the opposite, radiant in a way that made his heart go funny.

You ignored him as usual, settling down in your section of the booth and taking out a book. Steve knew this was the perfect time: still twenty minutes before the broadcast, with Robin out rooting around in his car for something she’d forgotten on the way in.

He took a step forward, mentally running through the words he had practised last night. This was it, he was going to do it. Steve let a hand rake through his hair, now zeroing in on you. He could be smooth. He could speak like a normal person. He could - oh! From his spot right behind you, Steve caught sight of what you were reading: Firestarter. He’d seen that movie!

Taking it as a good sign, he cleared his throat. “Good morning. How are you?” He knew he needed to leave it there, that was the plan, and it had come out interested and calm - it was a good start. But then you’d glanced up, and the second of silence was too much for him to handle. He couldn’t take the idea of you telling him to go away just yet. “How’s the book going? I’ve seen that movie, you know. Actually, yeah, I’ve seen a lot of movies. Family Video discount, it was pretty great.” His brain was aware of the rambling, but his mouth was not. God, he was turning into Robin, even with the unnecessary hand movements. “Although Dustin always came and used it all, I swear that little shit ended up -”

Steve didn’t know how he got so close to your desk, nor the steaming mug on it. But before he even realised what was happening, dark coffee was spilling over your book, covering the words and sinking right through the pages.

“Seriously?” you snapped, shoving the ruined book onto the desk before it could seep to your lap. “What the hell?”

Steve blinked rapidly, spluttering. “Shit, sorry! Uh…” A nervous laugh broke free before he could think better of it, “at least your clothes didn’t get ruined?”

You muttered something under your breath he didn’t catch, shaking your head in annoyance.

“And, god, I’m sorry about your book. You know… I can - I can tell you how it ends, it actually -”

“Oh my god, just stop, Harrington.”

You sounded so defeated that it made his mouth snap shut instinctively. He watched as you stood up, flicking your hands to get rid of the coffee staining your fingers.

“Sorry,” he said again, quieter this time as you left the room.

That had been strike one of the day. It was so discouraging that Steve said screw his plan and decided to give it up until the coffee thing blew over - though, knowing you, it wouldn’t be any time soon.

But even not enacting his plan managed to mess things up.

It was only ten minutes into the broadcast, but Steve couldn’t stop glancing at you. He watched as you blindly reached for a pen, hand closing around thin air. The stolen pens were right below him, shoved in the coat, but after the coffee mishap earlier he knew that offering you one would blow up in his face. So he kept quiet as you sighed and left for the store cupboard, returning with a variety of pens that you dumped unceremoniously in front of you. At least you didn’t shoot him a glare - maybe you wouldn’t find out that it had been another mess of his.

He kept looking as you wrote your notes, retied a shoelace that had come undone, pushed your empty mug further away from you in annoyance. His mind couldn’t stop spinning, wondering how he could fix this. But maybe there was no fixing it. Maybe you really would just hate him forever and he’d have to accept it.

He’d have to settle for what he had now: seeing snippets of your personality when you were talking to other people, not realising he was in the room. Wondering which thing wrong with him you could see, because he knew there was still a lot of them. Waiting for the others to catch on and start growing tired of him in the same way you did.

His head was starting to hurt. He wished you were someone he could just easily brush off, disregard your opinion and get on with his day. With a sigh, he thought that maybe he should try. Stop coming up with ways to pull you closer, and start figuring out methods of pushing you away.

And then, after twenty minutes of trying and failing to not look in your direction, he noticed something in your hair: a bug, sitting right on the top of your head.

Steve knew you hated bugs, one of the pieces of information he'd gathered from overhearing you speaking to others. He wanted to be someone you told things to - your likes, dislikes, fears, dreams. But for now, he got his snippets secondhand, which sometimes made him feel like a creep, even if he wasn’t actively trying to listen in on your conversations. But your feelings towards bugs was something he knew for sure.

“Hey,” he hissed, but it was no use due to the headphones you were wearing. He tried calling your name, a little louder this time, but all he got was a pointed glare from Robin as she rattled off information about the sale at Bradley’s Big Buy.

He was pretty good at anticipating Robin’s need for a sound effect, so when he sensed a dull, he quickly ran over to you, plucking the bug off before it could crawl onto your skin. With a triumphant grin he flicked it away, then watched as you turned around and shot him the most irritated look he had seen from you yet.

Those extra few seconds had cost him too; Robin was watching him impatiently, clearly having just given him a prompt for a sound. As he hurried back over, Steve really was realising that this was not his day.

–

Steve did not take his own advice. His plan of not interacting with you or trying to earn your attention was going to shit. Well, he thought, it had always been shit. But he’d been thinking about you, about the different things he’d learned over the past year: your hatred of bugs, the kinds of movies you liked, where you wanted to be in the next five years. He rifled through all of the facts, hoping to find some way to make it up to you because the plan of ignoring was sinking.

Especially when he caught sight of the extra grumpy scowl on your face, which he knew must be because of him.

He wanted to wipe it right off, smooth the crease between your eyebrows, hear the musical chime of your laugh… Laugh. That was one of the things he’d learned about. Steve quickly thought back to the most recent time he’d heard it: you’d come back from your lunch break soaked by the rain, and Robin had allowed herself a few jabs before trying to cheer you up. She’d tried jokes, insults at Steve’s expense, all of which had failed, and then… 

Steve didn’t waste any time. Even though Robin was still talking about Queen, he quickly leaned over and squeezed the rubber chicken.

It squawked loudly, and he waited for the sound of your laugh to follow, just like it had when Robin did it that day. But instead, all he got was two glares set firmly on him.

Robin cleared her throat, deadly gaze still on him as she spoke into the microphone. “Sorry about that, folks, some minor technical difficulties. It won’t happen again.”

And it didn’t… at least not until the next song was played.

–

You spend so long getting your coffee refill that Robin finishes the morning broadcast and comes out to find you.

“How many of those have you had?” She laughs.

You shrug from your spot right by the machine, the warmth of the mug still seeping into your hands. “Lost track, but not enough.”

“Well, at least it’s a coffee problem and not alcohol. Anyway,” she grabs your arm, “come with me, I need your help with something.”

“Woah - okay - Jesus -” You only just manage to put the cup down before she’s dragging you away, avoiding what would have been the second spill of the day.

“It’ll be really quick, I promise," she says, yanking you through the building. "Well, I guess we probably have different definitions of quick. Everyone does. And it depends on context, you know, one minute is quick to walk but horrible if you’re doing a plank, so really it’s all relative, but -”

“Robin,” you cut through her rambling when she brings you past the sound booth. “Just tell me what you need help with.”

She pulls to a stop right outside the storeroom, and shoves you inside. “I’m sorry, but I can’t keep having my sanity tested like this!”

You stumble from the push, hand reaching out to stabilise yourself against one of the shelves. “What are you -”

And she shuts the door right in your face.

“What the hell, Robin?!”

“Oh no.”

You jolt when the voice comes from behind you, turning around even though you know exactly what you’ll find: Steve Harrington, hands in his pockets and standing amongst the maze of boxes.

“Robin!” you yell, whirling back around to find the door locked. You bang your fists on the wood. “This isn’t funny, what the hell is wrong with you?”

No response floats back. You try again, but neither Robin nor the door are budging.

Cursing your friend under your breath, you let your forehead fall against the cool wood. Eyes closed, you grit out, “Did you put her up to this? Because I am not in the mood for -”

“Of course I didn’t put her up to this!” says Steve. “Why would I ask to be locked in a room with someone who wants to kill me? I don’t even think there are any cameras in here, it’s your perfect crime scene. Did you put her up to it?”

You allow yourself a long sigh before turning around, back now against the door. Steve has taken up residence leaning against an old shelf, fingers tapping a beat against it. “Please, if I was going to kill you, I would’ve fed you to a Demogorgon by now.”

“Thanks. That’s reassuring.”

Even though you know it won’t work, you head for the small window. But whether Robin has particularly planned this out or just got lucky (you’re betting on the former), this one never opens. You’d learned as much on a particularly hot summer day, when the entire radio station felt more like an oven. Although all of the other windows had been opened to let air drift through, the one in here had remained stuck shut, and it was everyone’s personal goal to never go near this place.

That doesn’t stop you from trying.

“Why do you hate me so much?” Steve had left you to your attempt, even though you're sure he wanted to tell you it was futile. But now his voice pipes up, quietly enough for you to choose to ignore it.

But you falter, abandoning your attempt mid-push. Is he really going to turn this around on you? “Why do you hate me so much?”

“What? I don’t hate you.”

A laugh slips free before you can stop it, especially at how earnest and confused he sounds. You look over your shoulder to see it on his face too. Is he seriously playing dumb? How mature. “You’re always tormenting me, Harrington. You - you spill my coffee, you hide my purse, you spoil movies and -”

“Woah, okay, wait…” He stands up properly, waving his hands about like he can disperse your words. “You think I’m messing all that shit up on purpose? That I’m just trying to annoy you?”

“What else am I meant to think? It’s like you get off on ruining my day or something.” It comes out as a mutter, half from irritation but half from disbelief that you're even entertaining this. You enjoy the method of ignoring Steve because it works. Yeah, you wonder why it’s you he particularly hates, and sometimes when you hear him and Robin joking around, it’s hard to understand why he refuses to have that dynamic with you. But instead of letting the thoughts spiral, you just return the hostility and move on. It’s better than wondering what he might see that’s wrong with you.

“You’re kidding, right? Like, that’s a joke?”

The softness in his tone catches you off guard. You sit down against the box you’d been standing on, wondering what he’s planning this time. “Yeah,” you say sarcastically, refusing to make yourself an easy target for whatever it is. “April fools. How’d I do?”

Steve stares at you for a second, then blinks himself out of it. “You really think I’m out to get you? That the - the coffee and the book and - all of that, it’s on purpose?”

You give him a blank look, which makes his own face drop in alarm.

“Jesus, you really don’t get it, do you?” he murmurs, sitting on his own box across from you. His words aren’t mean; they don’t strike you like knives. You don’t even think they’re really directed at you. He laughs then, tinged with disbelief. “Wow. Okay. Well, at least now I know where it’s all going wrong.”

“What are you talking about?”

He clears his throat, glancing up at you. “None of that - that crap has been on purpose.”

“Right. You just happen to always pull the exact move that will piss me off, is that it?”

“Yes! Well - okay, not exactly. It’s more, like…” He stands up, beginning to pace. Your eyes follow him under furrowed brows. “I did move your purse and I did use the chicken, and - yeah, all that stuff. But I wasn’t doing it to piss you off.”

You fold your arms. Sensing your impatience, Steve halts in his tracks and faces you fully.

“I - I’ve been trying to get you to like me.”

“Come again?”

“You’re like the one person I can’t get to at least tolerate me. In the group, at least. Ever since we first met, which - which I know was back in high school! Robin told me you hated me the first time we met because I asked if you were new. I just didn’t recognise you until after. Your hair is different and… well, I was a dick back then. I’d never spent much time getting to know anyone who wasn’t an ass."

You don't reduce your glare, but some tension in your shoulders uncurls of its own accord.

“But everything that’s happened…" he continues, "none of that was meant to go wrong. I moved your purse because it kept spilling over on the floor, I switched out our chairs because yours squeaked more and I know it annoyed you. And I move around more during the broadcast anyway and don't need to sit, so…”

His words sink right into you, which usually happens even though you fight it, but this time it leaves you feeling... warm, rather than bruised. Can he really be telling the truth?

“What about when you ate the last doughnut?”

Steve's posture has been straightening over the last few minutes with each word you haven't thrown back in his face, but now he deflates. “... Okay, yeah, that one doesn’t have a good explanation. I was just hungry.”

“I labelled it, Steve!”

“And I didn’t see that! Look, I’m sorry. Not just for the doughnut, for all of it. For every day I made shittier. For not just… I don’t know, figuring out a way to talk it out sooner.”

A heavy sigh leaves your nose. There’s a small, nagging part of your brain that still insists this is some kind of trick. That he’s going to gather any vulnerability you show and use it to humiliate you. But he sounds so sincere. And besides, most of the group really likes him, is able to see something you never have. Haven’t you been wondering why it’s only you he seems to target? What you could have possibly done to warrant it? Maybe it does make sense that it was all a misunderstanding.

“So… you don’t hate me?”

“God no,” says Steve. “It’s the opposite of hate you.” His eyes widen. “Wait, no, okay, that sounds way too intense - I didn’t mean - well, I didn’t mean I don’t, but I didn’t mean I do and that -” 

He cuts himself off at your laugh, which slips free before it can be stopped. This is more like the Steve you see interacting with Robin and the others. So instead of forcing your face impassive like usual, you let him see the pull of your lips.

“Alright, stop before you pop a blood vessel.”

Steve only snaps himself out of staring at you when he clears his throat, but a smile still mirrors your own. “Yeah, shutting up now.”

You bite your lip, giving yourself only one second to think it through before deciding fuck it. “I don’t hate you either, Steve. Well, maybe I did a little. But, you know… not really.”

His eyes remain on yours, soft and slightly crinkled from the happiness gracing his face. After a moment where he says nothing, you raise an eyebrow.

“I didn’t mean that you literally have to shut up.”

“Right. Yeah. Of course," he says sheepishly, glancing at his hands. He looks like he's thinking something through, then extends a hand to you. "Can we start again?"

Your instinct screams to push it aside, but with a deep breath you clasp his hand in yours. You try not to think about how nice it feels, and make sure not to let it show on your face.

"I'm Steve," he says. "Harrington. I was in your class in high school and I was a complete dick. But I'm... I try to be better now."

You tell him your name, exaggeratedly shaking his hand, an odd feeling fizzling in your chest at his laugh. "And I agree, you were a complete dick."

"Yeah... I'm sorry I cheated off you that time."

"You remember that?"

"I've done a lot of thinking about the people I fucked over in high school," he says, eyes holding yours.

You hum slightly, realising then that your hand is still in his. But you don't want to pull away. "So, Steve Harrington, me and Robin are going to get milkshakes later. Wanna come? I'd love to hear more about how all these fuck-ups were supposed to go."

His eyes widen; it's the first time you've ever invited him anywhere, even with Robin's company. Usually you even avoid group hangouts if he's there. "Yes -" he says, too loudly. "Uh, I mean, yes. Yeah, that'd be nice. My treat."

You're about to respond, when you spot movement out of the corner of your eye by the window. Knowing that she's been caught, Robin's head pops up from behind the glass.

Or, at least, no one can prove otherwise.

Steve’s mission is iron clad, the details sealed in airtight secrecy. Thinking about it in a public space would probably have you shot down by Nick Fury before you could even open your mouth. Which means you haven’t been in contact with Steve. It’s not the first time he’s been on a mission like this - but three weeks ago was the first time you kissed. It’s plenty of time to think: About if he regrets it. About if it was a result of early-morning bleariness or preconstructed adrenaline on his behalf. About if he’s even going to make it back this time, but you try to stray away from those thoughts as much as possible.

Your thoughts tip like scales by the minute, never managing to balance themselves out. It’s humbling, acting like a kid picking at flower petals and singing ‘he loves me, he loves me not.’ But the longer your thoughts are given to stew, the stronger they get.

After twenty days, a key slides into the front door. The click echoes louder than a gunshot, stopping your heart just the same. It’s like a beacon, demanding your attention from where you’d been rummaging through near-empty cupboards and wondering what to have for dinner.

The first thing you notice is that he looks tired: cap on his head, something he occasionally uses in the hope of avoiding recognition. Shoulders worn, socks unrolled, one shoelace flopping onto the floor and crossing the threshold just before he does.

You’re glad you’d been paying attention, because with one look up his eyes land on you, and it’s as though he transforms.

With a blink, he seems to lose some of the weight that had been pressing him down. His face brightens, a smile that doesn’t just pull but yanks the corners of his lips up. It’s so distracting that you don’t notice the bouquet in his hands until he toys nervously with one of the petals.

The moment stretches between you like a wire, beaded with the memory of what happened before he left. You’re terribly aware of the fact you’re almost standing in the exact same spot as that night.

But all of that is new. And you’re not quite sure what to do with new. So you say what you would say if none of that had ever happened, making a show of looking him over like you might suddenly realise he’s missing a leg: “Wow. One whole piece.”

Steve’s laugh floats out of him like a breeze, sweeping away any of your lingering nervousness. “Well, you did make a request.” He swallows, takes off his cap, then lifts the bouquet. It’s not the first time he’s ever bought you flowers, far from it, but accompanied with the nervous tilt of his head and softness of his eyes, this isn’t quite in the domain of familiarity. “I saw these on the way home. Same colour as your eyes, so I thought…”

Despite how soft his words are, they hit you like fire: your face heats, heart melts, and a warmth blooms in your chest. You finally take a step towards him, accepting the flowers. His fingers brush yours, and you think you need to find an excuse to sit down.

“Thinking about me a lot, huh?”

His smile ticks, revealing the split second hesitation he takes to decide if he should let the words leave his mouth. “It’d probably scare you off if I admit just how much over the past three weeks.”

You hadn’t been aware that you were getting closer, but from here you can see the brush of his eyelashes when he blinks. The flowers sit cradled against your chest, your heart blooming in a way that rivals their own. “Technically that’ll be in twenty-six hours -”

“So you were counting too?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The crease of his eyes deepens. He shakes his head slightly. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Was just about to have dinner. You kinda intruded on the plans.”

“Now, that’s just unforgivable.”

You grab some water for the flowers, more to give yourself something to do, because the way Steve is looking at you has your head spinning. “I’ll report you,” you say, placing them on the counter, “they’ll take away your title, Captain.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t mind. I’d get to spend more time here.”

God, you’re glad you’re not facing him. It doesn’t seem fair that he gets to make comments like that, not when it comes out as casual as telling you how the weather is. Like it’s just a god given fact that he wants to spend more time with you.

“In the luxury apartment with chipping paint and the most pathetic water pressure you’ve ever experienced?”

“Well, the rest doesn’t matter. There’s one thing I’d like to see every day.” At your raised eyebrow, he answers, like it’s obvious, “My favourite couch, of course.”

You can’t help but snort, one hand shoving his chest. He’s such a solid mass of super soldier that you couldn’t move him if you tried, but he lets himself stumble back anyway - just not far enough to be out of reach of your hand. His fingers wrap gently around your wrist before you can take it back, then keeps it pressed against him, right above his heart. The beats thud right into your fingertips. It’s the first time you’ve been able to take a deep breath in almost three weeks.

“So…” he begins, thumb tracing over your knuckles, and you’re unsure whether it’s to soothe you or him. “I know I’m still not entirely up-to-date with modern customs, but… before I left… when we… I mean, do you, uh, do that to all your friends, or…”

His own raging nerves seem to calm your own, like he’s taken some of them from you. And the notion of what he’s asking makes it hard to keep a straight face.

“Only the attractive ones,” you hum.

His laugh is a little awkward, unsure exactly where to push. But you decide to put him out of his misery.

“It wasn’t for nothing,” you say, firm now. “Not a heat of the moment decision or anything. On my end, at least.”

He stumbles over his words in his haste to force his words out. “It wasn’t for me either. I… you… God, I just…”

And though you laugh at the desperation on his face, you let your hand slide from his chest up to his neck, the other one joining it. His own hands hover for the barest second before landing lightly on your waist.

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

— His favourite reason for having it was discovered by accident. 

The window is cracked open, but only pearly moonlight and humid air drift through. You’ve long since kicked your way out of the bed sheets, tossing around in a desperate attempt to cool down. As soon as you settle in your new position, however, Bucky brushes up against you.

It’s too much for your sweat-slicked body to handle, especially when he runs like a hot furnace.

“I love you,” you tell him, “but if you don’t back up I’m gonna have to smother you with these sheets.”

He releases a lighthearted protest as you move away, grumbling out something about the hot weather always making you cranky. Then you try another position and he hops out of bed, saying he’s going to get you some cold water from the fridge.

When he’s returned and handed you the glass - complete with ice cubes - your hand brushes his metal one. And you pause.

It’s freezing.

What are you doing?” He laughs as you quickly put the glass aside and latch onto his fingers, staring down at them in awe.

“Lie down.”

“What?”

You nudge his shoulder and he goes back willingly. There’s a confused furrow to his brows as you lean down too, pressing your back to his chest. His body heat seeps into you, but then you reach back and grab the arm, draping it across your waist.

The biting cold makes you flinch at first, but then you sigh in content.

He realises what you’re doing, running his hand over your body: neck, waist, thigh. "Am I gonna have to start putting my arm in the freezer every night just to hold my girl?"

"Only if you love me."

Sometimes he does it during the day too.

— Magnets splay out on the fridge before you like a game of Tetris. Splashes of colours, sizes, pictures you can’t even remember buying. A small pile still rests on the kitchen counter, waiting for you to finally make a decision on the cat with a moustache.

Your eyes narrow further, a spot opening up that looks good for the Coney Island magnet. You ask Bucky to pass it over and he does so absentmindedly with his eyes fixed on the book in his hand. But when you hum out a thanks and grab it, you feel a slight pull.

Glancing down, a laugh escapes your throat. The little ferris wheel has stuck itself right to the arm’s metal.

Ten minutes later you’re sitting on the counter, smiling as the moustache cat latches onto his forearm. Bucky’s been muttering weak protests the whole time, but as soon as you press a kiss to his cheek or run your free hand through his hair, he doesn’t seem to mind.

— After every shower together, Bucky, whose guardedness seems to dissolve slightly in the hot water, lets you guide him to sit on the closed toilet. He’s pliant beneath your touch, trusting. No shirt covers his chest yet, and his hair drips  tiny rivers down his neck. You spend the next few minutes smoothing moisturiser, oil, anything that might help, onto the scarred skin of his shoulder where metal meets flesh. 

His hands slide to the backs of your thighs. Usually he starts with rubbing small circles, but after relenting to the feeling, he squeezes lightly, paying attention just enough to make sure it’s not painful.

Sometimes he’ll let his head fall against your stomach. Other times he’ll watch your concentrated face. But every time he’ll groan softly and let you know how good it feels.

When you’re in bed later, your finger traces gently along the puckered skin. It looks a little less angry in the dim light, or maybe your routine really is working.

The goosebumps that raise on his body cause a smile to tug at your lips.

“Can you feel it?” you ask.

He nods, titling his head so he can press a kiss to your knuckles. “Tickles a little.” All of the scarring and nerve damage makes it hard to feel sometimes. Before, when he did, it was only pain. But here you are, finger ghosting along and causing a shiver to shoot down his spine. 

He still feels the pain. But now he feels you too.

And when you begin peppering soft kisses along the area, Bucky swears it’s like a taste of heaven he’ll never otherwise experience.

— There are days when the shoulder pain flares up, igniting as something vicious that assaults his whole body. A certain level of discomfort is always surging through his left side, but you can tell when it gets bad.

He tries to hide it, pretend everything is okay, even though you see the way his back tenses with the strain. He shrugs like it’ll just roll the pain right out. His head tilts more to the right as if he can escape it if he moves far enough.

Although he’s still insisting on being fine, you get him painkillers and water, usually paired with a heating pad. That’s always the hardest step, because you take his hand and guide him to bed while he’s swallowing the pills down.

“Don’t need to lie down,” he’ll try. “I had the Advil, that’ll take the edge off.”

“Fine,” you say, already down on the mattress. “But I’m kinda tired. Maybe I’ll take a nap.”

He joins you, heaving out a sigh because he knows your game - and hates that it works.

After a while, when he’s on the brink of sleep and more susceptible to your care, you ask if you can get him anything else. His arms wrap tighter around your body. When he speaks, his lips brush against your skin from how deep his head is burrowed into your neck.

“Just want you.” 

— Bucky’s metal hand threads through your hair as you rest against his chest. The movie playing on the TV casts a soft glow on your face each time he glances down. Even as his fingers brush against your temple, you don’t react except for a content hum or pressing closer against him.

For years, he only saw this arm through violence. The crush of a skull, pulling the trigger of a gun, grasping a knife. It’s a symbol to remind him he will never be who he once was.

But now his fingers intertwine with yours. They ghost along your wrist, right over the fluttering pulse. You kiss his knuckles, lean into his palm when it cradles your face. You tell him you love it because it’s a part of him.

— Steve likes to do the grocery shopping. He grew up during the war, when food was rationed and it was rare to have two pennies to rub together. When you have free time that aligns with his, you go with each other. It’s more fun than going alone, and you also like being there for him - Steve is strong, most likely the strongest person you know, but sometimes an entire store full of choice can be a little overwhelming. He used to have to save food, would sometimes go longer without it after giving half his loaf of bread to a lost child on the street, the other half to his mother. Now he’s presented with an entire section full of different cereals in bright boxes that hurt his eyes. He never even says anything, but he makes that face - the corner of his lips tug down, a crease between his brows. But you notice because Steve is your best friend. His tells are second nature to you by now. So you follow his cue of not mentioning it, but you've found what works:  You man the shopping cart, walking through the aisles with purpose and grabbing the items that have stayed with you from your childhood. Unlike other times, you don’t linger near new products and ask for his opinion. It seems to ground him as you take charge and tell stories about the things you’re buying - he likes hearing about the fruit that was your favourite in school because eating it meant you were allowed ice cream after dinner that night.  Under the pale lights of the store it’s hard to notice, but his eyes soften considerably as he notices what you’re doing.

— On the days you don't go with him, he always makes sure to pick up what you need. You tell him he doesn't have to, that you'll get around to it when you have time, but he says there's no point in two separate trips being made when it all comes back to the same kitchen. He doesn't want to be a creep and go looking around your cupboards before heading out, so he makes it his mission to keep up with it during the week. He'll see you finish off the last can of something, see a packet in the trash, and add it to a small list.

Any allergies or dietary requirements, he’s watching out for new products that you can try. He loves returning with something that looks good, and his day improves significantly when you end up liking it. Your heart melts as he stands before you with a box of something new, almost trying to justify himself in his abashed state. "And it was on sale - felt like a sign."

— Steve likes his lists and writing things down - it’s something you love calling him old-fashioned for. But you take this into consideration with each event that requires a card. For his birthday, you get him one that says ‘Happy retirement, Grandma!’ and for Christmas it’s ‘Sorry you failed your driving test.’ Your favourite is when you find a website that lets you customise the picture, and you choose an old 1940s one of Captain America. And while the laugh that bubbles out of him warms your heart with each one he opens, your favourite part is the sincere smile gracing his lips as he reads the long message you write inside.

Steve always appreciates your gifts, but you can tell this is his favourite part. He keeps every card you’ve ever given him in the bottom drawer of the stand beside his bed. He always returns the favour, gifting you cards with words crammed into the corners because of how many he writes. Sometimes when it’s late and you’re alone in your room, you pull them out and read over your favourite ones. You try to figure out the things that have been scribbled out too, but Steve was too careful. ‘Stability is something I never really expected for myself, but you’ve given me a place to breathe.’ ‘Even after being part of teams where we held each other’s lives in our hands, I’ve never trusted someone the way I trust you.’ ‘I wouldn’t trade the last year with you for anything. Here’s to many more, until we can’t even fit the right amount of candles on your cake. Just like what happened to me last year. I keep thinking about the way you laughed. Honestly, I can't get it out of my head.'

'One of these days, maybe we could go dancing. I think I've finally found the right partner.'

— You get stories about the 40s, even if it takes a while. It isn’t because he’s trying to keep it a secret or separate from his current life, but Steve doesn’t speak much about himself unless asked. Sometimes he’ll fade off after talking for a while, worried he’s taking too much of your time. But you always assure him you want to hear more; everything about Steve is interesting, but hearing about who he was in the beginning is a different kind of special.

During one of your movie nights, you ask if he can show you any favourites from his time. He’s excited to share more of himself with you. A lot of people only care about the Captain America side of things, but you have a way of making him feel grounded. Just human. Just Steve.

— Your ankle is lightly brushing Steve’s knee. This isn’t a position either of you chose, but one of you moved and now there’s the slightest contact that burns your skin. The heat isn’t enough to thaw your frozen muscles; you stay as still as possible, mind making up for the lack of movement as it whirs rapidly. The first thing it latches onto is the current scene of the old movie, where a character you’ve forgotten the name of is dancing in a large hall. Desperate to break the tension you’re sure only exists for you, you begin to speak. “That looks complicated.” The guy spins a girl around, her skirt twirling out. “And everyone knew how to do this? Did you get lessons or was it entertainment for the adults to watch you embarrass yourselves?” Steve laughs, light and easy. Unbeknownst to you, he’s glad you’ve spoken because it gives him something to focus on other than the desire to lean into your touch. “Some kids got lessons. The rest of us had to learn from family or pick it up by watching.” “Sounds difficult.” “It wasn’t that bad. I could show you, if you want.” That’s how you’ve ended up here: with both of your hands in Steve’s as he brings one to rest by his shoulder. His free hand hovers by your waist until you give him a slight nod. His touch is light but steady, warm in a way that makes you want to step even closer. But you don’t.  Because the two of you are just friends. You’re best friends as he shows you how to move your feet. You’re best friends as you glance up to see him looking down at you and your breath hitches. You’re best friends as he pulls you back in from a twirl, and it feels like his heart is what’s being spun.

— But after that, neither of you are quite so sure anymore.

— Not many nights after, you leave your bed for some water. Sleep isn’t coming easy, that moment from before still heavy on your mind. The apartment is dim, lit only by the moonlight slipping through the windows and fairy lights you’d put up around the kitchen. The gold and silver soothes you, along with the movement of your legs. You don’t notice Steve until he sucks in a breath. When you turn, he’s sitting by the open window dressed in tactical gear. His hair is the kind of messy that only comes from running his hands through it. You can’t fully discern his expression in the dark, but it looks like a myriad of thoughts are trying to scream at you from behind his eyes. “Hey,” he says finally, almost breathless. That worries you a little; you’ve seen Steve outrun several cars. “I have to leave for a couple weeks,” he continues. “A mission, a big one. I was just about to…” He isn’t quite sure. “When do you leave?” “Ten minutes.” You nod, ignoring the sinking in your gut. There’ll be plenty of that over the following weeks, when your brain torments you with countless dangers he could be in.  It’s almost subconscious how your legs carry you over to him. He stands up. Your hands go to the straps that span his shoulders, smoothing them down. Steve lets you, hoping you don’t notice the slight shiver that runs through him. “You’ll stay safe?” you ask. “Of course I will.” You haven’t stepped back yet. If anything, you’re leaning in more. His hands graze your waist as you look up at him. “Steve.” His features morph from promising to something almost desperate. “I swear. I’ll be back. I’ll come home to you.” Your fingers curl around the straps as you remember the last mission he came back from, covered in blood and with three broken ribs. “I’d prefer if it was in one piece.” Neither of you are sure whether you’re pulling him down or he’s just leaning, but his forehead comes to rest against yours.

“One piece.” The way he whispers it comes out soft, his breath hitting your lips. You aren’t sure how long you stay like that, just looking at each other. But then something snaps. And you’re both leaning in.

— Living with Steve means learning even more about him, witnessing things that the rest of the world never will. You see him out of the tactical gear and workout clothes, when he's in pyjamas that make his shoulders look lighter and face a little younger.

Sometimes he loses his rigid posture, hunching over the board game you're both getting way too competitive over. You make a joke that startles a laugh out of him; it comes out quick, like it never got permission, and you like getting to hear how it really sounds rather than how he wants it to be heard. A few times you've caught an accidental glimpse of him just out of the shower, towel slung low around his waist and unfairly toned chest on display.

— You learn the little things too. Steve always makes sure his socks are paired correctly once they're out of the drier. Apparently it's so he can feel put together in a simple way as he starts the day and puts them on. But you notice the small quirk of his lips whenever he glances down and sees the mismatched colours you're padding around in.

"Isn't it a bit early for Christmas?" he asks in amusement, referring to the reindeer on your socks. He doesn't know why the sight of something so simple warms his chest.

You stride past him, raising your other foot a bit higher. "The easter bunnies balance it out."

— Before agreeing to the move, Steve insisted on a rule: He's allowed to make you dinner at least once a week. You can't see how it's a rule, exactly, but indulge him anyway.

At first his food isn't great. There are some burnt edges, sauce that's been in the pan for too long, and vegetables that weren't in for long enough. But it's always edible, so you eat around the worst parts and tell him you'd never know he was from the 40s where they just boiled everything. He tries not to show it, but he can never quite hide the proud beam that brightens up his face.   

— You think he might put an end to it after a few weeks, but he's sticking intently with his rule. And it's always what he calls a proper dinner. Steve says it doesn't count if it's not pots clanking in the kitchen, steam breezing out an open window kind of dinner.

It usually happens on a day you're late home from work, returning to food you can smell through the thick door, bubbling pots echoing the effervescence of your heart as he greets you with a ladle in hand and hair slightly messed from the heat of the room.

One day you'd called him during your break, just wanting to complain about the worst day you were having. When you get back home, he has a new meal laid out before you.

"It was my ma's recipe," he says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "She used to make it on the bad days. I hoped it could help."

— Two weeks in, you decide that if he gets a rule, so do you. And when he tells you that's fair, you propose a weekly movie night. He has a lot to catch up on and, in your not-so-humble opinion, you're certain you can give him the best experience.

Maybe the smallest part of you is hoping he'll say yes so you can spend more time with him, curled up on the couch.He was going to say yes no matter what, but the excitement that pulls your lips into a grin makes him think he would agree to anything you asked of him.

— They happen every weekend. You always get the snacks and blankets from your room, and the two of you sit next to each other on the couch.

At first Steve is quiet during them, not wanting to interrupt. But when you look over and see - even in the dim light from the screen - that he has plenty of thoughts churning in his head, you're encouraging him to speak. You've seen most of these movies before anyway. And after a little assurance, he lets himself loose.

"... There's definitely enough room on that door for him too."

"Why didn't Mother Gothel tell her she has a different birthday? This raises suspicion."

"But why did they let him win if they said that blows to the head weren't allowed?"

— He never complains about the movies you pick, and even when you can tell he didn't particularly enjoy one, he always finds something nice to say about it. One day you tease him for practically yawning through the whole thing.

"That wasn't the movie. I just didn't get much sleep."

"Steve, I heard you snoring at 10pm last night."

He shrugs, avoiding your gaze slightly. But then he bumps your knee with his beneath the blanket. "Doesn't matter what I think of them anyway. You're helping me catch up. And I like spending time with you."

— The apartment always has fresh flowers. Not too many, but the vase by the window always seems to be replenished before you can even notice any wilting. Each time they're different, and you've almost got a little game of trying to guess which colour or type they'll be this time.

They're never roses, though; those are for the special occasions, when he makes sure to present them to you himself. Birthdays, when you got that promotion. And even though he doesn't give it to you in person and you just find it in a small vase on the kitchen counter, he gives you some on Valentine's day. There's a note attached, and you have to take a few moments before you convince yourself to read it.

There are no words. It's just a simple, hand-drawn smiley face. And you never get rid of it.

— Steve always wakes up at ungodly hours to go for a run, when the sun itself is still tentatively peeking into the morning. He makes sure to stay as quiet as possible, laying everything he needs out the night before so all he has to do is get dressed and tiptoe out. Most days he's back before you wake up. And you can always tell whether or not he is. Because he's made a habit of getting you something from the local bakery he passes on the way back.

— There are a lot of quiet and unguarded moments that come from living together. But perhaps the most intimate are in the bathroom - there's something that hits you when you see your toothbrushes next to each other. You know what shower products one another uses. And it's where you patch him up when he comes back after a mission.

He tries to politely decline your help at first, insisting that he's alright and you don't need to worry. But you give him the specific look that tells him you're not backing down, so he sighs and relents.

You make him perch on the edge of the bath, standing between his legs with nothing more than a meagre first aid kit and utter attentiveness for the man in front of you.

— He gets a little nervous when it's a wound that requires him to take off his shirt. Steve isn't arrogant, but he's no idiot - he knows what the serum has done to him. Yet something about the way your fingers brush carefully over his bare skin always manages to send his pulse stuttering. As you work with a firm and steady determination, he feels completely naked under your gaze. What really confuses him is that he doesn't mind. That he likes your hands against him.

— With anyone else, this would be funny. Sam and you would plot an unnecessarily dramatic backstory to your relationship, probably something involving secret affairs and illegitimate children. Torres would insist on actually enacting a proposal, but only when you're least expecting it, and with whatever words he could come up with on the spot. Hell, you don't even like Walker that much, but if the mission ever calls for a diversion, you'd have fun making a whole scene of threatening divorce.

— But you're paired with Bucky. Your best friend, who you've been harbouring intense feelings for since that time you fell asleep on him during movie night and he refused to move an inch, even when everyone else had left. Who causes you to mentally berate yourself any time you look at him for a little too long. Who is way over the opposite end of what you're sure is a one-sided crush. Crush. God, even just saying it in your head makes you feel pathetic.

— But there's no choice in the matter. You could fight your way to the top of the corporate chain and it still wouldn't change a thing. Once a mission has been cleared, only a fatal illness or injury can change it.  You're mature. You can accept that. You certainly do not spend an embarrassing minute wondering if you should break your leg to get out of it.

— He doesn't have much of a reaction after the meeting as the two of you head for lunch. "Remember when these missions used to just be punching your way through?" While he doesn't seem like he's just been presented with the worst news of his life, he doesn't sound all that happy either. By now you notice the little things with ease; the tick of his jaw, the extra prominence of the wrinkle between his brows. You figure he does just miss the simplicity of what things like this used to be. But he doesn't have much to complain about - at least his experience isn't being weighed down by feelings.

— You two don't talk much on the plane ride over. Separate hotel rooms have been booked, but they're adjoining in case anyone sees you heading through different doors. You get ready for the upcoming banquet in your own space, giving you plenty of time to get your heart rate pumping as you swipe eye shadow over your eyelids. You're a professional. You don't nearly poke yourself right in the eye. God, get it together.

— Bucky looks good, which you had been expecting. He always looks good. But this is unfairly good. Hair slicked back, revealing his pretty eyes and a fancy suit that's so perfect it must be tailored. You swallow hard when you see him, fully reconsidering the plan to break your leg.

— By the time you're clearing your throat to regain your composure, he still hasn't said anything. His fingers tighten around the small velvet box he's holding, eyes unsure where he's allowed to look. His jaw is working, like he's trying to decide whether it's best to open his mouth or not. "You look..." It's a little breathless, and there's a softness swimming in his eyes. "Jesus, doll..." You look down at your outfit. "I think they usually draw Jesus in sandals." He huffs out a laugh. "Shut up."

— Then comes the box. He opens it like what's inside might attack if he's not careful. But it's only two rings - your wedding rings. He doesn't need one of his own since his left hand has to remain in gloves so that his cover isn't blown. But he has one anyway. You try not to think about why. He gingerly picks up yours, but instead of holding it out, he asks for your hand. "Gotta get used to playing the part, right?" And when he slips it on, he does it slowly, almost devoted. What you don't know is that he's cataloguing this in his head, sure that it's the only chance he will ever have. He feels almost guilty about it, but allows himself this one moment of pretending, insisting that he'll tamper every hope back as soon as the mission is over. "You look beautiful," he finally manages to get out, voice low.

— The gala is stifling and full of obnoxious chatter. But you stay with your arm looped around Bucky's the whole night, laughing about people once they're out of earshot. It's all going well, and you can just pretend you're on an extremely weird night out with your best friend.

— But then the questions start. "How long have you two been together?" "When are the children coming?" "How did you know you were with the one?" You hold your own surprisingly well until the last one.  But Bucky doesn't even blink. The story flows out of him easily, something about you cooking dinner one night after he'd had a long day, dancing and singing the words of a song you didn't even know into a sharp knife (though for the sake of these people, he says it's a spoon). You'd twirled at the wrong part, then tried again and stumbled right into him. He knew then that you were it, that no one could lift his mood quite like you. That if he could spend his life with you, he'd know what it was like to have the one. What gets you the most is that night actually happened.

— The story is in your head for the rest of the night, latched on tight no matter how many times you try to shake it off and tell yourself it was for the cover. You think it's the worst thing you'll have to deal with, but then comes the couples' dance. You don't dance. But Bucky does. And he isn't taking no for an answer.

— His hand is warm on your waist, firm without being possessive. You hold his gloved metal one in yours, other hand loosely toying with his lapel as you mutter under your breath about how stupid this is. But he just laughs, eliminating the careful space you've put between yourself and him. "You look like a fourteen-year-old at your first dance." "Yeah, well, not all of us were boogying around the 1940s." That prompts another laugh, his breath fanning across your face a harsh reminder to how close you're standing.

— He moves you around gently, in time with the slow music. When he senses you're comfortable, he surprises you with a spin that makes you laugh before you can realise what's happening. And now you're against his chest, even closer than before. His eyes drop to your lips before he can help it, which prompts you to do the same. It's impossible to tell who's leaning in, or whether the both of you are. There's a small pause, right before your lips brush each other's. Then, seeing that neither of you want to pull away, the gap is closed. It's slow, warm, nervous but certain. But then the distant bomb goes off, your cue to go and find the safe hidden in the back.