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[therealmcu]

In the Margins | Part 10

[Part 1 ] [Part 2 ] [ Part 3 ] [ Part 4 ] [ Part 5 ] [ Part 6 ][ Part 7 ][ Part 8 ] [ Part 9 ]

Steve’s Cabin – Late Evening

The cabin is quiet. Steve sits on the edge of the narrow bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely in front of him. He hasn’t turned on the lights. He hasn’t moved in twenty minutes.

He keeps hearing the same words.

“Different people. Different… types.”

And then that question , casual on the surface, but it hadn’t landed like a casual question.

“You ever try something different?”

At the time, Steve hadn’t answered. He couldn’t. Not because he didn’t have one, but because he didn’t know if Bucky wanted the truth, or if he was just tossing a line into the water to see what Steve would do.

He’d replayed the moment a hundred times since then.

Bucky hadn’t said it outright. He never used the word men. Never spelled anything out. But something in the way he looked at Steve, like he was already bracing for something, like he’d already done the math, had made Steve’s heart stutter in a way he didn’t know it still could.

Because Steve had tried. Years ago. Quiet, discreet moments of confusion and shame and late-night realizations he never quite knew how to voice. It had never gone anywhere. It had never felt like enough to claim, not in the world he came from. Not in the body he wore. Not with the expectations that had followed him like shadows.

But now… Bucky.

Bucky, who he’d spent a decade arguing with. Bucky, who knew the exact placement of the tattoos he thought were private. Bucky, who remembered a woman in a red dress from ten years ago and who asked if Steve had ever wanted someone unexpected, someone he wasn't sure he was allowed to want.

Steve leans back on the bed, pressing his palms flat against the mattress, staring at the ceiling. The silence feels thick.

Was that what Bucky meant?

Or was Steve just hoping that’s what he meant?

There had been something tentative in Bucky’s tone. Not baiting. Not even flirty, not exactly. Just… vulnerable. Like he was reaching for something and leaving Steve to decide if he’d reach back.

Steve shuts his eyes.

He can still feel the look they shared right after. The stillness. The question that never really ended.

He doesn’t have an answer yet.

But for the first time in years, he wants to find one.

Bucky’s Cabin – Same Night

The bed’s too firm, the blanket too scratchy, and the silence too loud.

Bucky lies flat on his back, staring at the ceiling like it might give him answers. His arms are folded behind his head, elbows wide, fingers drumming restlessly against his skull. He hasn’t moved in over an hour. Can’t.

His words keep playing back in his head.

“Different people. Different… types.” “You ever try something different?”

It was subtle. He’d made sure of that. He didn’t say men. Didn’t say I’ve liked you for ten years and I’m pretty sure you’ve never even looked at me like that, because he didn’t want to ruin it, whatever “it” even was.

Still, the silence Steve gave him after… it wasn’t empty. It was something.

Bucky had felt it. The way Steve looked at him. The way his hand tightened slightly on the fishing rod. The way he didn’t answer,  not in a way that said no. Not in a way that shut the door.

And that scared the hell out of him.

Because what if Steve was just too polite to tell him he crossed a line?

What if that was Bucky reaching too far, again, and he just made it awkward between them?

He shuts his eyes and exhales through his nose.

He shouldn’t have brought up the woman in the red dress. He doesn’t even know why he remembered her so clearly. Except he does.

It was the first time he saw Steve,  really saw him, and realized that charm and confidence and warmth could look like that. That a man could be all steel and softness in one package, smiling like he didn’t even know what it did to people.

To Bucky.

That was when everything started.

And it only got worse when they became… whatever they are now. Colleagues. Friends. Close, in a way that dug under Bucky’s skin and stayed there. Close enough to hurt. Close enough to hope.

He rolls over and presses his face into the pillow, groaning quietly. He feels like an idiot. Like a high schooler circling a crush with cryptic mixtapes and meaningful glances.

He should’ve just kept his mouth shut.

Or , if he were braver, he should’ve just asked.

"Steve, have you ever wanted a man?" "Steve, have you ever wanted me?"

But no. Bucky Barnes doesn’t do brave when it comes to things like this.

Now all he can do is lie here and wonder if Steve caught it. If Steve’s still thinking about it. If he’ll bring it up again, or if Bucky just buried it in silence like everything else he’s ever been afraid to say.

He turns onto his back again and stares at the ceiling, thoughts swirling too loud in the silence, so he got up, dragged himself to the chair, let out a heavy sigh, and buried his face in his hand, elbow resting on his knee.

Please, he thinks. Just let him understand what I meant.

And maybe, just maybe, let him feel the same way.

[therealmcu]

In the Margins | Part 9

[Part 1 ] [Part 2 ] [ Part 3 ] [ Part 4 ] [ Part 5 ] [ Part 6 ][ Part 7 ] [ Part 8 ]

[therealmcu]

In the Margins | Part 8

[Part 1 ] [Part 2 ] [ Part 3 ] [ Part 4 ] [ Part 5 ] [ Part 6 ] [ Part 7 ]

[therealmcu]

In the Margins | Part 7

[Part 1 ] [Part 2 ] [ Part 3 ] [ Part 4 ] [ Part 5 ] [ Part 6 ]

*Late night, shared office*

It was nearly ten when Steve finally looked up from his papers and realized how long they’d been there.

The office was quiet, the kind of quiet that only happened after hours, lights dimmed to save energy, hallway silent except for the distant hum of an old vent system. He rubbed at the back of his neck, blinked hard, and glanced across the room.

Bucky was still perched on the edge of the window ledge, his legs stretched out, a red pen loose in his fingers. His jacket was folded beside him, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and there was a small furrow between his brows as he stared down at the open folder in his lap. He looked tired. Not unusually so. Just… worn-in.

They hadn’t spoken in a while. Maybe an hour. Maybe more. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. It rarely was, these days.

Steve sat back in his chair and exhaled quietly. His eyes lingered.

He hadn’t meant to keep staying late like this. But Bucky had shown up just after six, complaining about a backlog of ungraded midterms, and somehow Steve had ended up staying too. A refill of coffee, some shared groaning over their students' chaotic formatting choices, and now here they were, not exactly talking, not exactly avoiding it either.

Bucky flipped a page, glanced up, and caught Steve looking.

Steve didn’t look away fast enough.

“You ever think we give them too much?” Bucky asked, his voice low but easy. He tapped his pen once against the folder. “Like, maybe we’re the problem?”

Steve gave a half-smile. “Every semester.”

Bucky nodded like that made sense. “Kid cited a meme as a supporting argument earlier.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Was it… relevant?”

“That’s the worst part,” Bucky muttered. “It kind of was.”

Steve chuckled. He let the sound fade into the stillness, then leaned forward again, reaching for another paper. But the words on the page were blurry. He blinked again, read the same sentence three times, and still couldn’t make it stick.

He could feel Bucky watching him.        

“Can’t focus?” Bucky asked, soft but not unkind.

“Long day,” Steve said.

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, and didn’t press.

Minutes passed. Steve thought about calling it a night, he should have, ages ago. But Bucky was still there. The room was still quiet. And leaving felt like giving something up, even if he didn’t know what.

Eventually, Bucky stood, stretching his arms above his head. The hem of his shirt lifted slightly, and Steve looked away without meaning to.

“I’m making another cup of coffee,” Bucky said. “Want one?”

“Sure,” Steve said, voice too even.

Bucky moved toward the kitchenette at the back of the office, filling the silence with the soft clink of mugs and the rush of the ancient machine sputtering to life.

Steve leaned back again and closed his eyes. Just for a second.

The air smelled like burnt coffee and paper. The kind of smell you only get when you stay too long. When the day had worn itself out and left only the edges of things, half-graded tests, half-finished thoughts.

Bucky came back with two mugs. He set one down next to Steve without a word. Their fingers didn’t touch. Not quite.

“Thanks,” Steve said.

“Yeah.”

They went back to reading.

But every now and then, Steve’s eyes drifted sideways. Just a glance. Just long enough to see Bucky sipping from his mug, his brow still furrowed, eyes tired but focused.

And every now and then, Bucky looked back.

Neither said anything about it.

They just kept working, like it meant nothing.

Like it wasn’t everything.

*Steve’s kitchen, 11:48 p.m.*

The apartment was silent except for the occasional crack from the radiator and the slow drip of the tap Steve hadn’t fixed yet.

He stood in the kitchen, hands braced on the counter, staring down at the mug in front of him. Half-full. Gone cold. He didn’t even remember making it.

The night at the university had felt normal, almost. They’d sat close, papers and red pens and tired jokes passed between them. The office light flickering like it always did.

But underneath it all was that something. That heavy, humming something Steve couldn’t name. Or wouldn’t.

He told himself it was the long hours. The stress. The quiet. He told himself the way his eyes kept drifting to Bucky’s hands, to the crease in his brow when he read, to the way he shifted in his seat like he was holding something in, that it was just habit. Familiarity.

Not longing.

Not that.

Steve had caught himself staring more than once.

He closed the fridge. Walked to the sink. Turned on the tap just to hear something other than his own heartbeat.

He told himself he liked this version of them, civil, even friendly. Working well together. Balanced.

That it was better than the years of arguing, the distance, the sharp words.

But it wasn’t easier.

It just hurt quieter.

He wiped his hands on a towel, put it away, sighed through his nose, flexed his fingers against the edge of the counter, then let go. He paced a few steps, then came back. The room felt too small. Too still.

He hadn’t said anything when they packed up. Just a quiet “night, Buck” and a smile that felt wrong on his face.

And Bucky had smiled back. Easy. Casual. Like nothing in the world had shifted.

Steve hadn’t asked if he was lying.

He picked up the mug, didn’t drink from it, and set it down again.

He was too awake. Too full of things he wouldn’t let himself want.

*Bucky’s home office, 11:50 p.m.*

The lamp cast a warm pool of light over the desk. The rest of the room was dim. Quiet. Still.

Bucky had changed into more comfortable clothes. He hadn’t planned on doing more work, but he couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t lie down. Couldn’t shut his brain off.

He stared at the open folder in front of him. Student paper, midterm comments, some terrible paragraph about post-war realism, none of it registered.

He tapped his pen once. Twice. Stopped.

Steve had laughed earlier, soft, tired, eyes crinkling at the corners. It was nothing. It was everything.

There’d been a stretch of silence in that office tonight where Bucky had looked at him — really looked — and Steve had felt it. Bucky knew he had. Could see it in the way Steve shifted, cleared his throat, changed the subject like the air wasn’t suddenly too thick.

They’d let it pass. Like always.

He wasn’t sure how many more times he could let it. Keep it safe.

But there were moments , flashes, that didn’t feel safe at all.

Like Steve’s eyes lingering too long.

Like Bucky almost leaning in without thinking.

Like tonight, when they’d sat in a room together for hours and said almost nothing, and somehow that had been louder than any argument they’d ever had.

Bucky let out a breath through his nose. Shook his head.

“This is stupid,” he muttered.

But he didn’t move.

He just stood there.

And didn’t sleep.

[therealmcu]

In the Margins | Part 6

[Part 1 ] [Part 2 ] [ Part 3 ] [ Part 4 ] [ Part 5 ]

[therealmcu]

In the Margins | Part 4 [ part 1 ] [ part 2 ] [ Part 3 ]

[therealmcu]

part 3 of that stucky rival professors au [ Part 1 ] [ Part 2 ]

[therealmcu]

The stucky rival professors au sequel

[therealmcu]

A Stucky au in which they're rivals in the same department.

Steve teaches History or Political Science, Bucky teaches Philosophy or Literature. They constantly disagree in faculty meetings. Students 'ship' them before they even realize they're falling for each other. One's up for tenure, the other is on the review board—conflict and longing ensue.

[therealmcu]

What happens in Paris 3/?...

( part 1 ) ( part 2 )

[therealmcu]

Wounds Too Deep For Healing / Part 2

[ Prologue ] [ Part 1 ]

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domestic bliss activated

[therealmcu]

What happens in Paris ...

A Sucky au in which they are rival art thieves (with an unspoken history) who keep stealing from each other, until they're forced to team up for the ultimate heist.

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some knifewood in 2025

[therealmcu]

imagine it ... what do y'all think will happen next?

a stucky au

[therealmcu]

A Stucky au inspired by My Secret Agent Husband on DramaBox app.

Prologe

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

[therealmcu]

Part 5

A Stucky au inspired by My Secret Agent Husband on DramaBox app.

[ Prologue ] [ Part 1 ] [ Part 2 ][ Part 3 ] [ Part 4 ]