Chapter Text
Steve
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Steve wakes with a low groan, his muscles sore in a way he hasn’t felt since before the serum. His body aches, but it’s a satisfying ache, a reminder of the night before. It’s a feeling he’s never had the luxury of experiencing—at least not like this. Before the serum, they had to be careful, Bucky always holding back, afraid to hurt him. And after, it had never been the right time or place. But last night? Last night had been something else entirely.
Steve blushes as the memories flood back, the heat of Bucky's hand on his body, the way Bucky had taken control—fully, completely. Steve had let him. More than that, Steve had needed it. After everything they’d been through, all the decisions and responsibility weighing on his shoulders, giving up control had felt like slipping into something warm and familiar. He trusted Bucky like no one else, trusted him with the side of himself no one else ever saw—the vulnerable side, the one that longed to be taken care of.
Bucky had been almost possessive in the way he touched Steve, as if reminding him, he was Bucky's alone. And Steve had let him. Bucky had pinned him down, his hand gripping Steve’s wrists together above his head, his body pressing hard against Steve’s it felt safe as Bucky explored his chest with his tongue.
He trembles now, thinking of how Bucky had bitten down on his shoulder, where the mark used to be holding a phantom tingle, a reminder that he was wanted, loved, and protected. Bucky had been rough, yes, but he’d also been careful in all the ways that mattered. The small tin of Vaseline Bucky had pulled from his pocket, the deliberate way he’d taken his time opening Steve up, making sure he was ready—it wasn’t just about the act. It was about trust. The kind of trust Steve could only ever give to Bucky. In that moment, he hadn’t needed to be Captain America, or the man with all the answers. He just needed to be Steve. Bucky’s Steve.
Steve had mewled, a sound he couldn’t control as Bucky stretched him, slow and patient, despite the raw need in his eyes. When Bucky finally thrust into him, Steve had gasped, the feeling overwhelming, the possessiveness in Bucky’s movements shaking him to his core. “Mine,” Bucky had whispered, the word sending shivers down Steve’s spine. And in that moment, Steve was his.
Even now, lying curled up against Bucky’s chest, Steve feels that same sense of safety wash over him. Bucky shifts in his sleep, his hand tightening around Steve protectively, like he’s still holding onto him, even in dreams. Steve closes his eyes, sinking into the warmth of Bucky’s body, letting himself be held.
Bucky stirs, his breath warm against Steve’s hair. “Morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
Steve smiles into Bucky’s chest. “Morning, Buck.”
Bucky shifts slightly, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Steve’s head. “How’d you sleep?”
Steve sighs contentedly, the soreness in his body a reminder of just how far they’d gone the night before. “Amazing. No nightmares.”
Bucky’s arm tightens around him, pulling him closer. “Good. I want that for you. Every night.”
A loud clatter echoes from the kitchen, pulling both of them out of the moment. They groan in unison, already knowing who’s behind the noise.
Bucky grumbles, “I swear, that kid’s gonna be the death of me.”
Steve laughs, pushing himself up. “He’s not made for stealth, that’s for sure.”
They sit up, still moving slowly, Bucky grabbing random clothes from the dresser. Steve catches the way Bucky grimaces as he pulls on a too-large sweater and trousers.
“Ugh,” Bucky grumbles, tugging at the waistband. “I look like someone’s grandpa.”
Steve snorts as they head toward the kitchen. “You pull it off,” he jokes and kisses Bucky.
When they step into the kitchen, they find Lawson hunched over the stove, fumbling with the matches.
“Oh, sorry chaps!” Lawson says, looking sheepish. “I was trying to be quiet.”
Steve shrugs, crossing the small kitchen to help. “No worries. Let me do it—plenty of practice.”
“How do pancakes sound?” Steve asks, glancing at the old cookware on the counter.
Lawson’s eyes light up with surprise. “You can make those?”
Steve laughs, opening the cabinet to check for ingredients. “A rough version, maybe. Just need some flour, a rising agent, and if we’re lucky, some spices.”
Lawson perks up. “Oh! I saw those!” He starts rummaging through a cabinet with new enthusiasm.
Bucky turns on his heel, heading for the back door. “I’m gonna go check out the shed out back—see if they’ve got any traps.”
Lawson looks up from his search, confused. “Traps?”
“Animal traps,” Steve explains. Lawson nods slowly before handing Steve a handful of ingredients: flour, sugar, salt, and something that looks suspiciously like nutmeg.
Steve rolls up his sleeves and gets to work on the pancakes. Behind him, Bucky calls for Lawson to join him outside, leaving Steve to the quiet comfort of the kitchen, the soft sounds of batter mixing with the scent of something close to home.
It’s peaceful. For now. And Steve clings to that peace, knowing how fleeting it can be.
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Bucky and Lawson return from setting the animal traps. The smell of pancakes hits them as they open the door, warm and inviting. Steve’s hunched over by the fire, hands busy working on something. Lawson narrows his eyes, curious.
“What are you doing?” he asks, stepping closer.
Steve glances up, chuckling. “Mending socks. The ones I’ve got on now are full of holes. Once done, I'll knit a scarf. Still cold out there judging by your faces.”
Lawson stares, wide-eyed, like he’s just seen Steve grow another head. “Knitting? You?”
Bucky bursts out laughing, clapping Lawson on the back. “We were really poor back in Brooklyn. The Depression hit New York hard.”
Steve nods, his fingers deftly moving the yarn through the needles. “I learned how to make and mend a lot of things before I… changed. I was sick most of the time. Knitting helped save money, and sometimes it even brought a bit in when things were tight.”
Lawson’s shock turns into a smile, his lips curling in amusement. “You Americans are quite interesting.”
Steve smirks. “Hope that’s not a backhanded British compliment.”
Lawson laughs, shaking his head. “No, no. Just surprised, is all. My mum came from money. We weren’t rich, but we were comfortable.”
Bucky leans back in his chair, raising an eyebrow. “So why join the war? You could’ve gone to college or something.”
Lawson sighs while getting some pancakes. “After the bombings, my parents took us to live in the country with my grandparents. I came back to the city to finish school, just in time for the second round of bombings. When my home got destroyed again, I knew I couldn’t just sit around. I wanted to help end the war however I could.”
Steve nods, understanding. "I did a lot of stupid things trying to enlist."
Bucky groans around a mouthful of pancakes. "This asshole lied how many times just to get accepted?"
"Five times," Steve says with a smirk.
Bucky glares at him, and Steve laughs, the sound light and warm in common room.
Lawson looks between them, eyes wide. "I feel like this is a story for another day."
Steve nods, grinning. "Yes, no need to piss Buck off this early."
Bucky mutters, "Har, har," with a grumble, but the tension in his shoulders eases slightly as he finishes his breakfast.
Bucky
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Bucky finishes washing up in the steamy washroom, the warmth of the water soothing the soreness in his muscles. He had insisted Lawson go first, knowing the kid could use a moment of peace after everything they’d been through. Then, Steve. And now, finally, it’s his turn. The warmth of the water feels damn good, especially with a full stomach of pancakes.
When he steps out of the tub, he dries off, running the towel over his skin with quick, efficient movements. The clothes he puts back on are warm, sure, but damn ugly. He grimaces at his reflection in the mirror, his beard wild, covering his jaw.
Time for a shave.
He’s lucky enough to find a straight razor, and within a few minutes, the sharp steel has him looking more human. Well at least… presentable.
He heads back to their room, the low light filtering through the window casting long shadows across the floor. He finds Steve in bed, leaning over a book, trying to make sense of it. He raises an eyebrow, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed.
“Anything good?” Bucky asks, voice low and amused.
Steve glances up, a small laugh escaping him. “It’s a Bible. In Romanian. Guess I’m lucky I remember my Latin lessons. I’m picking up a few words here and there.”
Bucky laughs, shaking his head. "Romanian Bible, huh? That’s a first." He sits beside him, glancing down at the pages.
Steve chuckles softly and tosses the book aside, his hand reaching out to trail over Bucky’s freshly shaven face. “You look good, Buck,” he murmurs, his voice soft but full of warmth.
Bucky leans into the touch, then presses a kiss to Steve’s lips, gentle but lingering. “I left the kit in the bathroom, if you want to shave,” he says with a smile, brushing Steve’s hair from his face.
Steve nods, returning the kiss quickly before he pulls away. “Thanks,” he says, heading into the bathroom.
Bucky watches him go, then turns his attention to the drawers. He rifles through them, looking for any extra clothes or supplies. His fingers brush over a few more balls of yarn, and he pulls them out, setting them on the bed for Steve. He figures the man can use them, knowing how Steve always finds ways to keep his hands busy.
When Steve walks back into the room, Bucky notices the look on his face. Something’s off—nervous energy, his posture stiff, he’s still unshaven. Bucky raises an eyebrow, turning to face him fully. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
Steve doesn’t look at him, his eyes downcast. “Can you shave me?” His voice is quiet, almost hesitant, like he’s unsure of asking.
Bucky’s heart clenches, but he doesn’t hesitate. “Of course, come on.” He stands, grabbing a wooden chair from the kitchen and setting it in the washroom. He prepares the soap, the razor, everything needed to take care of Steve.
Steve sits in the chair, the tension in his shoulders visible, but he stays quiet. Bucky works, his hand steady as he carefully shaves Steve, taking his time with each pass of the blade. The room is silent, save for the occasional sound of the razor gliding over Steve’s skin.
When Bucky finishes, Steve stands, moving to the basin to wash his face. He dries it off, then turns back to Bucky with a small, quiet smile. “Thank you,” he says, his voice rough.
Bucky feels a lump in his throat but pushes it down, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Of course, doll. Just got to ask,” he says gruffly, turning to empty the basin in the tub.
But before he can, Steve grabs his wrist, pulling him back. Bucky looks down at Steve’s hand, then up into his eyes, sensing the weight of whatever is coming next.
Steve’s voice trembles, almost too quiet to hear. “I didn’t trust myself… but I trust you.”
Bucky’s heart aches. He pulls Steve close, wrapping his arm around him, his breath catching in his throat. “I’m so damn proud of you, Stevie.” He whispers it softly, his voice thick with emotion. His chest tightens as he feels the heat of Steve’s tears on his shoulder.
“Don’t cry,” Bucky murmurs against him. “Nothing sad or shameful about this. You’re amazing doll.”
Steve closes his eyes, swallowing hard. He presses a kiss to Buckys cheek, his hand gently running through his hair. “You’re everything, Buck. You’re everything to me.”
Steve pulls back slightly, wiping at his eyes with a small smile. “Well, I’m thinking it’s time to start making food,” he says, his voice lighter but still full of the lingering tension.
Bucky swats him lightly on the ass as Steve turns toward the door. “I'm full but you definitely need the calories. Go on then. I’ll have Lawson check the traps. Hoping for at least a rabbit.”
Steve grins over his shoulder, “Please, no squirrels.”
Bucky chuckles, following him out. “Beggars can’t be choosers, Steve.” They share a quiet laugh as they head toward the kitchen.