[ Sometimes Bucky forgets that things have changed. That the world’s moved on, that Steve’s not quite the same guy he’d been before the war, that there are years between them now that they’ve missed, moments that have changed them in ways that the other is only just discovering. When it happens, when he’s reminded that the scrawny little punk from Brooklyn doesn’t exist anymore and his chest constricts so badly it hurts and his throat tightens until he thinks he’s going to suffocate, he tries to remind himself that it’s worse for Steve.
Steve went into the ice and woke up in the future, but he’s still mostly the same. It’s only Bucky who recognizes the differences, only Bucky who looks a little too low sometimes or waits for a reaction that doesn’t come and is somewhat blindsided by the one that has taken its place. He knows that in a lot of ways, it's Steve who’s dealing with an entirely new person. One who doesn’t smile as often or as freely, someone darker, more troubled, with patchy memories and the occasional black mood swing. He tries so hard to be the man Steve remembers, the one he himself remembers more frequently now, but sometimes he slips and he knows how hard that is for Steve.
Thankfully today, when it happens, it’s not the end of the world.
When Steve doesn’t react by flushing and stammering and getting flustered or hiding in the bathroom, Bucky doesn’t feel that crippling sense of loss and displacement. He does trip, which is clumsy enough and so completely Steve that the seductive smirk melts into a genuine grin. No matter how much time and distance work its way between them, some things never change, and it’s a comfort Bucky doesn’t realize he takes until it happens and he’s smiling at his smirking friend, thinking… Wait.
Smirking.
Bucky blinks, and in that time, that infinitesimal instant, Steve’s airborne. He can’t react fast enough, can’t get his mouth open to tell him to wait, hold on or get his hand up to try to ward him off of just leaping onto him. Because there he is, on top of him, all two hundred plus pounds of half-naked supersoldier, pressing him into the mattress and Bucky, unable to help himself, starts laughing. ]
You... [ Between the laughter and the kisses, Bucky can do little more than splutter, trying to kiss back and laugh and breathe and talk all at the same time. It doesn't work out so well. Eventually he gets himself untangled enough to get his flesh hand on Steve's face, which he cups gently and grins up at without care for the rose petals he can feel sticking to the back of his head. ] If you've been this excited about it, you should've said something. We could've skipped dinner.
[ He's kidding. Mostly. In the way that he's really not. ]
Sure you're up for this, Rogers? I'm not gonna go easy on you in your old age.
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Steve went into the ice and woke up in the future, but he’s still mostly the same. It’s only Bucky who recognizes the differences, only Bucky who looks a little too low sometimes or waits for a reaction that doesn’t come and is somewhat blindsided by the one that has taken its place. He knows that in a lot of ways, it's Steve who’s dealing with an entirely new person. One who doesn’t smile as often or as freely, someone darker, more troubled, with patchy memories and the occasional black mood swing. He tries so hard to be the man Steve remembers, the one he himself remembers more frequently now, but sometimes he slips and he knows how hard that is for Steve.
Thankfully today, when it happens, it’s not the end of the world.
When Steve doesn’t react by flushing and stammering and getting flustered or hiding in the bathroom, Bucky doesn’t feel that crippling sense of loss and displacement. He does trip, which is clumsy enough and so completely Steve that the seductive smirk melts into a genuine grin. No matter how much time and distance work its way between them, some things never change, and it’s a comfort Bucky doesn’t realize he takes until it happens and he’s smiling at his smirking friend, thinking… Wait.
Smirking.
Bucky blinks, and in that time, that infinitesimal instant, Steve’s airborne. He can’t react fast enough, can’t get his mouth open to tell him to wait, hold on or get his hand up to try to ward him off of just leaping onto him. Because there he is, on top of him, all two hundred plus pounds of half-naked supersoldier, pressing him into the mattress and Bucky, unable to help himself, starts laughing. ]
You... [ Between the laughter and the kisses, Bucky can do little more than splutter, trying to kiss back and laugh and breathe and talk all at the same time. It doesn't work out so well. Eventually he gets himself untangled enough to get his flesh hand on Steve's face, which he cups gently and grins up at without care for the rose petals he can feel sticking to the back of his head. ] If you've been this excited about it, you should've said something. We could've skipped dinner.
[ He's kidding. Mostly. In the way that he's really not. ]
Sure you're up for this, Rogers? I'm not gonna go easy on you in your old age.