#dortito

It won’t hurt forever, Steve tells him. But it might last.

(OH NO MY GREATEST WEAKNESS <333)

 They’ve been standing out here long enough for their breathsto turn from vapor to fog to crystals to sheets of ice, and even Steve’s toesare starting to tingle. The forest is so still he can hear the Commandosbreathing in their tents five hundred yards away. Every crunch of snow undertheir boots sounds like a gunshot. There’s no chance some Hydra goon in theirstiff leather coats could sneak up on them—not after they left two dozen ofthem dead earlier—but protocol must be followed. So Steve claimed.

“That’s real rich, coming from you,” Bucky had said, andjust for that Cap puts Bucky on first watch with him, not that it seems likemuch of a punishment.

The first acorn pings off the crown of Steve’s head,snapping him out of his half-asleep stupor. Jumping to his feet, he looks up tothe branch where Bucky’s seated above him, legs swinging, sly grin gleaming inthe reflection of the snow.

“Watch it, Sarge.”

“You were dozing off,” Bucky replies.

Steve rubs the top of his head with a gloved hand. “Sorry.Pretty dead out here.”

“Come up here. I’ll liven it up.”

Steve chokes back a surprised laugh. In this winter air,they can probably hear him halfway across the Alps. “Keep it down, Sarge. We’resupposed to be on watch.”

“Like we were supposed to be in Nice?” Bucky asks. The treebranch groans, and powdery snow sprinkles down onto Steve’s shoulders. “OrStuben? Ohh, or how about on the shores of Lago Maggiore, you seemed realconcerned about an attack on the shore there . . .”

“Bucky, stop.” Steve’s face is burning red as a furnace nowas the memories of those other missions—or the nights after them—stoke theembers in his chest. “Keep your voice down.”

“Why? You never do.”

Steve suppresses another cough. A pair of laced-up boots danglein front of his face, then dark wool jodhpurs, and then a pale strip of skin,lean with muscle, its hard lines vanishing up beneath a thick blue coat.Suddenly, the bitter late-night cold seems like a distant memory.

“A little help here?” Bucky asks, dangling from the branch. “Sun’salmost up anyway.”

“Sorry.”

Steve catches Bucky by the waist, the exposed tips of hisfingers in the motorcycle gloves clinging to Bucky’s torso and bunching up hisjacket as he drops down into the snow.

“Well, hello, handsome.” Bucky’s words hang between them ina tuft of white. They’re face to face now, Steve’s fingers searing into thefirm flesh at Bucky’s hips, and Bucky slings his arms over Steve’s shoulderswith his wickedest grin. Steve can’t quite bring himself to let go; his breathfeels lodged in his throat.

“Th—the watch, Buck.” He tries to sound as commanding as hecan, but it isn’t so easy when he feels flushed enough to melt the snow allaround them.

Bucky traces the tip of his nose against Steve’swind-chapped cheeks. He smells like pine and smoke, and Steve just wants todrink it in. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of it. Bucky’s lips hover ahair’s breadth over his, taunting him to lean in.

“So keep watching,” Bucky says.

(YES! Love it!)

The worst part of not getting drunk, Steve decided, was how hard it made it to understand his friends when they were trashed.

“Not a chance, Queenie,” Bucky slurred, half-sliding off the bar stool. “Ten out of ten Brooklyn dock workers agree. These pecs are made for smoochin’.”

Peggy wagged her empty shot glass at Bucky. “Dock workers, but not tortured sensitive artist types--” she paused to hiccup--“with super soldier serum . . . who know . . . these knockers would crush a man given half a--a chance.”

Steve strode up to them--his best girl and his best guy--and slung his arms around both their shoulders. “Do I even wanna know what’s happening here?”

(Steve Rogers had plenty of good reasons to keep the two of them apart. But somehow, the sight of them together, bonding through alcohol and unknown competitions, set a secret thrill down his spine.)

“Steve Rogers.” Bucky clapped his hand over Steve’s. “Steven Fucking Rogers. Just the goddamned man we need to settle a little--disagreement. Between friends.”

“No disagreement,” Peggy said quickly. “There’s simply no contest. There’s a reason these ladies are painted on five airplanes in the RAF--”

“Listen.” Bucky turned toward Steve, eyes turned conspiratorial. As he did so, he lowered one hand to goose Steve, who jumped. “Hah. Sorry. Listen, Cap--”

“--You’ll have to be our tiebreaker,” Peggy said. As she leaned over the bar, she knocked a few empty shotglasses over. “There’s no other way.”

“Tiebreaker for what?” Steve asked.

Bucky loosened his dress uniform’s tie. “For who has the better chest.”

“Whoa. Okay, okay.” Steve clamped his hand down on Bucky’s to keep him from undressing further. “How did this even . . . Never mind, I don’t want to know.”

“But you’ll be our judge, won’t you?” Peggy asked. “Come now, Captain, be a good sport.” Even drunk, her lilt still sounded so commanding, so agreeable, that he couldn’t help but want to comply.

“I don’t exactly think the pub is the place for that kind of show. I mean--it’s not that kind of pub.” Steve could feel the heat all over his entire body as he turned beet red. He’d seen hints of Bucky’s pecs before, after all--and the lacy trim of Peggy’s brassiere--

“Then we’ll go elsewhere. How about my flat?”

Steve and Bucky turned as one to stare at Peggy.

“What?” She waved a nonchalant hand through the air. “It’s only a few blocks.”

Bucky laughed, low, to himself and smacked Steve on the arm. “I gotta hand it to you, Steve. You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

Steve smiled at him in spite of himself. “You know, I think I do.”

“Come on, boys. Let’s not dally. Besides.” Peggy slid off the stool with a clang of her heels and held out her arm. “I’ve got half a bottle of scotch with both your names.”

Steve looped his arm through Peggy’s. He was still bright red, he was sure, but embarrassment wasn’t the only thing he was feeling anymore. Then he held his other arm out for Bucky. His best guy and his best girl, and he pressed his hands to the smalls of their backs.