#em's fic-a-versary

[between-a-ship-and-a-hard-place]

Congratulations!!! Would you be able to make something based on Sufjan Stevens' song Futile Devices? Such a stucky song. Esp these lyrics-- "and I would say I love you but saying it out loud / is hard, so I won't say it at all (and I won't stay very long)"? Definitely recommend listening to the whole song lmao. It sounds like a prewar stucky or maybe a modern childhood friends to lovers pining AU 😂 (or post endgame if you want to get super angsty lmao)

Well, it feels weird to say thank you after, um, nearly five months, but thank you! This is indeed a stucky song, and a great choice. Here is a fic. It was supposed to be short and sweet, I think I managed to deliver on the latter?

In mood for some sweet sweet pining with your holiday dinner?

Rated: T

Tags: Modern AU, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Snowball Fight, Christmas Dinner, Tooth-Rotting Fluff

Summary: Bucky has been back in Brooklyn for four months, sleeping on his best friend's couch while interning at his dream job. It should be great.

Except for how sharing a space with Steve means seeing him every day and touching him and always, always trying not to look at him too much or touch him for too long.

See I didn't forget about my fic-aversary-prompts. I will keep working my way through them whenever time allows. The next one is outlined, if any impatient people are curious ;)

[between-a-ship-and-a-hard-place]

@leslienotlesley asked:

Hi Em! In reply to your ask for prompts: preferred flavor of Stuck is post-CATWS AU, recovering Bucky, and quote from WH Auden's "Lay your sleeping head, my love, human on my faithless arm". Actually the whole poem is just perfect for Stucky, IMHO. Hope you like it! Your work is amazing and I look forward to whatever this inspires.

@somanywords asked:

OMG Em congratulations on your fic-a-versary!!! 🎈🌈🎈🌈 if you're still taking prompts, post WS stevebucky, and "the moon was made for the sky to hold; and you for me" ? <3

Thank you both 💚💚💚 These two prompts went well together so I decided to combine them and it ended up sort of a mishmash of things. Well, the moodboard was mostly procrastination.

Here are some post-WS drabbles.

1.

“I’ll take this watch, you can sleep.”

Dull concrete eyes track the movement of his lips; a nod, hesitant, near imperceptible.

He sits, back against the wall, windows in his sight-line. There’s no weapon across his knees; he is a weapon.

His ghost lies down on top of warm blankets, on top of a too-soft mattress, leather boots on march-hardened feet. There’s a packed bag under the floor-boards.

He swears it won’t have purpose. No harm will come to him here. No more.

It’s a futile oath. No one can hold moonlight; not with steel bars or tenderly cupped hands.

2.

“Sleep, punk.”

He looks up from the pages in his lap. The room swims in warm-lit colors.

He blinks. “I’m okay.”

An almost-smile tears through the cavity in his chest. “I know you are. So am I. Don’t need a babysitter.”

“No, but—” He braces for the blow. “Can I stay?”

A beat. His world balances on a precarious edge. And then it tilts, nudged over by a familiar, ever-devastating grin.

“If you get over here. And sleep.”

His universe narrows to that too-soft mattress, a warm weight at his back, a contented sigh.

He’d be foolish to sleep now.

3.

Behind the door is a beast, feral snarls and glinting steel. He stays pressed to the wall, waits for it to leave, for the man inside to slump back onto the bed, sweat-drenched and panting. 

A bottomless sigh follows. “It’s fine, I’m fine. Just a nightmare.”

“Okay.” He drops his white-knuckled hold on the doorframe. “I’ll leave you alone.”

A hand grasps his wrist. “Who said I want you to?” 

The air stills.

“Sorry.” The hand is snatched away, leaving his skin branded. “It’s just ... I remembered. We used to—”

His lungs ache. “Yes.” 

“Do you still …?”

“Yes.”

4.

“Are you done watching me sleep?”

“I wasn’t—”

“And you’re a terrible liar. Glad to know some things haven’t changed.”

“I was just waitin’ to see if you’d wake up—”

“Sure you were.”

“—so I could do this.”

“... mhm, good morning. Wait, where are you going?”

“Thought I’d go for a run, now that you’re up.”

“Or you could just stay. Here. With me. In this bed.”

“It’s gonna rain later.”

“So run tomorrow. You know, if you stay, I’d make it worth your while …”

“Buck …”

“Like what you see, do ya?”

“Not fair.”

“You stayin’?”

“Hell yes.”

[between-a-ship-and-a-hard-place]

Em! ✨ Congrats on the one year fic-a-versary! 🍃 Can I ask for Stucky AU + apocalypse?

Kay my love 💚🖤💚🖤

I told you I had Ideas(TM) for this. Well I did. They didn't quite cooperate.

When I first started this fic I wrote down “apocalypse-domestic” as the vibe. Then I added some action. Then I went to add some spice—and the lid fell off the jar. Oopsie.

On AO3 because it's another long one.

it's bloody and raw (but I swear it is sweet), 3,6k, E

Summary:

The rifle was a hard, solid line across his back. Somewhere above his head the sun was still floating high in the sky. Everything further than ten paces was covered in the same brown, putrid soup.  They called it fog, but it was more like a gaseous sludge rolling up from the bay, the smell of burning chemicals and garbage left out to rot on a hot summer day. In a world that's gone to hell, you need something to anchor you in the moment.

[between-a-ship-and-a-hard-place]

em, congrats on a year and 200k! what a milestone! for the celebration, how about shrunkyclunks + "be careful what you wish for". congrats again, sending you all the celebration cheer! <3

Hiii!! Tysm for the prompt and the cheer! My brain immediately started spinning on this one. And then it spun for quite a while. And then we ended up here. (I'm just gonna link this one on AO3, because, well ...)

They Say You Shouldn’t Meet Your Heroes, 4k, M

(Ps. I was debating with myself about the rating it's really more of a T+)

Summary:

Tempting fate or not—Bucky found it a tad overdramatic of the universe to respond by sending an army of aliens to invade New York.

Turns out, the universe was one dramatic bitch.

Bucky Barnes is having a bad day—as is most of New York—and it doesn’t exactly improve when some yahoo in patriotic spandex crashes into his workshop. But then the yahoo returns, and he’s both very familiar and nothing like Bucky expected.

[between-a-ship-and-a-hard-place]

@moonykat asked: First of all CONGRATS ON YOUR FIC-AVERSARY!!!!! ✨✨✨✨✨ You've been blessing all of us with your talent all this time, this fandom wouldn't be the same without you!!!!! 💕💕💕 Can I request some Wakanda Stucky, this line is from a song in Spanish called 'Eres' and translated it goes like this 'You are. When I wake up, the first thought I think about, that's what you are. What my life lacks when I don't have you, that's what you are. The one and only precious thought in my mind.

Kat!!! I was about to answer your ask/prompt but stupid tumblr ate my draft 😥... Anyway, thank you so much and right back at you! Thank you for being here and sharing your beautiful art with us 💚💚💚

Here's a sweet and spicy ficlet for you (though I may have mixed up the cinnamon and the angst ...)

how I loved you? like this, 0,8k, M

Read it on AO3

or under the cut

you sure about this?

He leaves his heart in a cryo tank in the royal palace; it’s been frozen for a long time anyway.

the best thing—for everybody

The guest house sits in a speck of a village straddling the bounds of the capital—it reminds him of a home in another century; he stays there until Natasha comes for him.

just a kid from Brooklyn

They hit the Raft in the gray hours before dawn and leave behind one guard in a cell, strapped into the straitjacket—a message.

too dumb not to run away from a fight

They cross the globe—Singapore to Cuba to Istanbul to La Paz—being chased and chasing, rumors and intercepted whispers.

not sure I’m worth all this

The inconspicuous flip phone he carries dings like clockwork, marking another week—minor breakthrough, adjusting the process, just a little while longer; outside the flimsy window screen he hears another city bustle, come to life for the night, and wishes he could lose himself in it, stumble through the streets with the same heedless abandon. 

you always stand up

He sees ghosts of the dead and the living—on street corners, through a tea shop window, in the rear-view mirror of a borrowed truck; he does a double take and they’re gone.

I can get by on my own

Sam sits with him on a moon-drenched rooftop in Beirut and listens, while he fumbles with words that are too big and too small and doesn’t end up really saying anything at all.

thing is—you don’t have to

Wanda learns how to tune out their nightmares while they sleep.

he’s my friend

It’s a Tuesday in the middle of the Siberian winter and his hands grow numb, unfeeling fingers cracking the screen that reads: It’s done. He’s waiting for you.

till the end of the line

Natasha finds him; they’re in the air within the hour.

∞

There’s a room on the topmost floor of the palace. It is sparse but full of color—the open balcony, a painting, a fiery sunset streaking the walls. A man stands by the open windows, his back to the door. Chestnut hair falls to his shoulders; the left one is wrapped in a blue cloth.

His heart drops and shatters on intricate stone-laid floors. No—it’s the ice that shatters; the heart beats and bleeds.

“How long have you been awake?” Asking hurts, like picking at a scab that’s been infected.

“Month—six weeks, give or take.” The man by the window turns. Bathed in the warm light his eyes are colorless; not shadow but shards of crystal, fractured light spilling through. He’s an idol of serenity—something to be worshiped.

It’s a heady mix of pain and wonder that catches his breath in his throat. “I didn’t know.”

A nod aimed at the floor. “I wasn’t ready.”

The words cut, quick and cleansing, fresh blood pouring from a never-healed wound. His body has moved without invitation; he stops, shakes his head, swallows it down.

“That’s okay, Buck.” You don’t have to be ready, ever. It’s enough that you are.

That name spoken aloud causes something to shift, a flicker of movement behind the glass.

“Steve.” It’s wavering, raw, urgent—everything he feels. 

Bucky takes a step toward him. And another. He’s close enough that Steve could hold out his hand and touch him, feel him as flesh and bone. He is here.

Bucky’s staring right at him. “Stubborn punk,” he mutters. “You ever gonna ask for something for yourself?”

It’s staggeringly familiar; it’s time and space bending and dropping him through a wormhole; it’s a blow to ribs left exposed in a fight.

Steve’s heart lodges in his throat. “How could I?”

Bucky sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose—the gesture too human for such sacred beauty. “Fine. Then do something for me.”

“Anything.” It’s automatic, knee-jerk.

“Remind me.” He takes another step. “How.” They’re chest to chest. “You loved me.” Their breaths are mixing together.

Steve’s eyes sting. If he focuses on that it will stop the world from tilting out under his feet and dropping him into space.

“You don’t remember?”

A smile, then. “Wanna make sure I do.”

He braves a touch. His hands find solid warmth, movement, life.

“Like this,” he says into the nest of dark curls, that secret spot of soft skin, the racing pulse underneath.

“Like this,” he says against bitten lips.

“Like this,” he breathes with eyes closed and foreheads leaned together.

Like this—fabric pulled to the side revealing skin, inch by luxurious inch—like this—eyes travel, followed by fingers, followed by lips—like this—nails clawing in careful desperation, limbs crushing, teeth drawing blood to the surface—like this—the bed a heavenly cloud under his arching back—like this—he spreads himself open, vulnerable, defenseless—like this—urging, begging, praying—like this—fallen, surrendered, branded, claimed—

Like this: a body tucked next to his as velvety blackness falls over the plain.

[between-a-ship-and-a-hard-place]

This week, one year ago, I posted the first chapter of my first-ever completed fic. Since then I've added some 200k words to my AO3 portfolio. I would not have gotten this far without this little corner of this hellsite and the lovely and encouraging people I've met here.

So I thought, let's celebrate! ✨🎈

How you ask? Why with creation and WIP-procrastination, of course!

Send me an ask with:

a flavor of Steve/Bucky (pre-war, shrunkyclunks, AU, whatever you fancy)

a quote/line from a poem/saying/song lyric

and I will create something for you, be it a ficlet, drabble, moodboard, edit.

yours,

Em

1. East Coast Swing, 2k, T

2. I'm not as broken as some made me out to be, 2,8k, T

3. human on my faithless arm, 0,4k, T

4. They Say You Shouldn't Meet Your Heroes, 4k, M

5. how I loved you? like this, 0,8k, M

6. it's bloody and raw (but I swear it is sweet), 3,6k, E

[between-a-ship-and-a-hard-place]

Hello there, i cant believe I almost missed this… or that its been a year since THAT FIC. Thank you so much for blessing us all with your presence in this fandom!!!!!!

My flavor: established relationship post blip aka Brooklyn boys.

My lyric: We've come so far, through the darkest days//The long night's over and I'm starting to believe//I'm not as broken as some made me out to be

(I’ve been obsessing over this lyrics from Running For So Long and them since forever!)

T, darling, thank you for being my cheerleader ever since that first fic and for always yelling with me about these dumb, lovely men 🥰🥰🥰

(so, I was truly planning on doing these prompts in the order I got them but then this whole thing basically came to me while I was falling asleep and one thing lead to another and ... yeah)

I bet you can never guess where this prompt took me.

I’m not as broken as some made me out to be, 2,8 k words, rated T

Read it on AO3 (or under the cut)

Nothing, nothing, a pedestrian crossing the street with a stubby-legged dog bouncing behind them, nothing.

He inhales through his nose, keeps his eye fixed to the scope and keeps counting down the minutes in his head.

A brush of static in his ear piece. With the flick of a switch meditative focus shifts to full battle-readiness.

Then at once a stream of garbled fragments come through, “... ambush … conceal … Barnes … left … watch—” 

His comms give an eardrum-piercing shriek and go stone dead. It’s like someone stuck his head in a vacuum. For a split-second Bucky thinks he’s the one who’s gone deaf, but then the noises of the outside world come flooding back in—distant traffic from the four-lane highway, drunken voices and music spilling out from the clubs two blocks over, a pair of cats howling in the next alley.

“Fuck.” He rips the useless piece of plastic from his ear and pushes up from his sniper’s perch, one hand finding the sheath on his thigh. The weight of the knife in his hand becomes a new anchor point.

Back pressed to the bolted door to the stairwell, Bucky scans the waves of sloping, red-tiled rooftops around him. He doesn’t catch any movement.

The first warning is the hairs on the back of his neck rising. 

A faint crackling buzz fills the air.

He curses soundlessly and wills his sight to penetrate the velvety blackness of the Mediterranean summer night. A bead of sweat stings his eyes. He wets his lips. 

The sharp metallic taste that sticks on the back of his tongue does bad things to his brain.

(a flash of electric blue, the sickening smell of burnt flesh, the cloud of vapor where there had just been a person)

He pinches the skin on his wrist with metal fingers. It pulls him back into the moment a little bit. He sticks his free hand in his pocket and closes his fingers around a flat, hard shape the size of a coin. He squeezes it until the edges digging into his palm threaten to break skin.

A soft whoosh and sudden gush of wind from his eight-o-clock signals another presence on the roof. Bucky’s head twists in the direction of the noise.

Four things happen in quick succession:

A familiar voice calls his name.

There’s a flurry of movement on the next rooftop over.

The crackling noise reaches a peak.

A blue-white pulse cuts through the air, lighting the scene like a camera flash.

At the center of it, two shapes stand like cardboard cut-outs against the black sky. One wields a wide-barreled weapon that radiates with that unearthly light; the other holds a metal disk.

Their target raises his alien weapon. 

Bucky dives toward the figure in red, white and blue.

The night explodes in a blinding light.

+

“That’s it Barnes. You’re done. I’m not gonna be the one to call your boyfriend and tell him a magic shotgun blew out your super soldier brain.”

“Fuck off, Wilson. I was saving your ass,” Bucky spits with adrenaline-fueled vitriol. 

He’s got a splitting headache and no patience for sanctimonious lessons about sticking to mission protocol instead of protecting careless assholes running around with a shield and a hero complex.

Sam just glares back at him, arms crossed over his chest. The wings still on his back add to the air of dignified authority, only lessened by the tired droop of his shoulders.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky can see Maximoff and Belova, perched cross-legged on the low brick wall, exchanging meaningful looks.

A slight figure in all black breaks away from the group of squabbling agents from at least five separate local and international agencies, and strides toward their little huddle.

“Stand down, boys.” Natasha flashes a semi-threatening smile at them. “We’re not done here yet.”

“What’s going on?” Sam asks, blinking away the signs of fatigue and squaring his shoulders as he turns to face her.

“Just some clean up.” Natasha rolls her eyes. “Seems we got all these idiots rounded up, but a couple of them apparently thought they could make a break for it by dumping the evidence in the harbor. Local law enforcement aren’t thrilled to have potentially radioactive alien tech polluting their waters, so we’ve been volunteered to help out.”

Her announcement is met by a chorus of groans.

+

Dawn breaks as they file into the quinjet. 

Bucky stays back while Wanda maneuvers the vibranium-enforced box containing one of the seized weapons into the cargo hold. A humorless security council official had been called in and begrudgingly authorized them to oversee its transport to S.W.O.R.D:s New York lab. 

That a bunch of Thanos-admiring wannabe-nazis managed to dig up buried experimental Hydra weapons of extraterrestrial origin, is in and of itself a non-ideal situation. These particular weapons happening to hit a bit too close to home was only icing on the cake.

Bucky grabs a water bottle from the cooler to rinse the foul, rubbery taste from his mouth. He picks a seat close to the cockpit, straps in, and lets his head drop back against the wall. 

His hands have bunched into fists, the plastic bottle crumpling between his fingers. He flattens them on top of his thighs.

The engines roar to life.

He closes his eyes and forces himself to unclench his jaw. The headache settles at the base of his skull.

+

“A souvenir?”

Bucky lifts his head as Natasha takes the empty seat beside him.

They’re coasting over the Atlantic with Yelena in the pilot’s chair.

He opens his hand and flips the gold-colored medallion between his fingers. He holds the keychain with the ring linked around his ring finger and runs his thumb over the inscribed coordinates for a place where the earth opens at your feet and the sky is tapestry strewn with small lights.

“A promise.”

“Hmm.” Natasha tilts her head like she’s considering his answer. A smile plays at the corner of her mouth. “Not exactly traditional. But at least you didn’t go off and get married in Vegas without inviting any of your friends.”

He doesn’t gape at her or betray his surprise in any other way, but has no doubt she can tell anyway. “Steve told you about … ?”

She raises her eyebrows in a way that says who do you take me for?

“Fair enough.” He clips the keychain back in its place in his pocket. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

Green eyes glitter with barely concealed amusement. “Was it?”

He opts not to answer her.

The glitter hardens to gleaming stones. “Why are you here, James?”

That question catches him off guard more than her knowing about the engagement.

“What do you mean? We had the mission,” he attempts.

She doesn’t bother responding to his deflection.

“Where else would I be?” he asks, a bit more defensively than he means to.

That earns him another raised eyebrow and full, no-holds-barred sarcasm. “Oh, I don’t know—how about Brooklyn? You know, where Steve ‘I have a martyr-complex and can’t let anyone save the world without me’ Rogers is cozying up in your brownstone.”

Bucky sighs. The headache has traveled up to his temples. He pushes the heels of his hands against his eye sockets.

“Your boyfriend put you up to this?”

He takes some satisfaction in noting the way the word boyfriend makes her eyelid twitch ever-so-slightly before he pushes on. “I thought you would get it. This. It’s what we do. Making things right. Protecting people.” He pauses and meets her eyes. “Crossing off names.”

Natasha looks down at her hands. She shakes her head once from side to side.

“I’m done with that. That’s not why I’m here. I figured the whole ‘dying to save the world’ bit was grounds enough for me to get out.”

“Then why don’t you?”

Bucky follows her gaze to the row of seats on the other side of the cabin—where Sam is sleeping, mouth open, with Wanda’s head resting on his shoulder—and watches it soften into something almost unrecognizable.

When she turns back to him her smile is wry, but there’s a raw vulnerability there he can’t remember ever being afforded to see before. “It’s a bitch, loving people.”

She shakes her head again, grimacing like she’s thought of a joke. “You know, the first time Steve stayed back from a mission, I nearly had to chain him to the wall.”

A pain he knows as affection lances through the gaps in his ribs. “Punk,” Bucky mutters.

They sit in silence as the jet hurls them through the mid-Atlantic night; moving forward and back in time.

Natasha leans down and picks up two containers of high-energy, high-protein sludge from the cooler box. She hands him the chocolate flavored one. It tastes like the idea of chocolate and doesn’t really do anything to ease the gnawing hunger that’s starting to make itself known. He downs half of it in one go.

“What—” Bucky cuts himself off, not knowing if the question he’s thinking of is one he should be asking or even wants to know the answer to. 

Except, he thinks he needs to know.

“What was he like, during … when we were—” belatedly, Bucky realizes that we includes the man sleeping opposite them, who Natasha Romanoff a moment ago admitted to loving, and wants to bite his tongue off “—gone.”

She doesn’t say anything at first. He stares at an uneven weld in the floor.

“He … he never stopped. Never stopped working, never stopped hoping. Not really. But—” Natasha takes a deep breath, as if asking if he’s sure he wants her to continue.

“But?”

She touches two fingers to the back of his wrist. When he lifts his gaze, she looks him straight in the eyes, face impassive.

“But that’s also what broke him down, I think. Steve was a leader. He would talk to everybody else about moving on, moving forward, but the only thing he could bear to look at was the distant past. I think that hope was the only thing that kept him standing—and if he dared to name it, it too would crumble to dust in his hands. So he kept quiet and held on until his fingers were worn to the bone.

“Sometimes, I got to his place and there was a second before he opened the door when I wondered if—this time—he would be gone.”

The cloyingly sweet chocolate curdles in Bucky’s mouth and he has to will himself not to gag. You wanted to know.

He swallows down the bile and the things that want to claw their way out of his gut. “I didn’t—Was he … I know it was bad. But this, it’s the thing we don’t talk about.” Because he’d been afraid of asking, of knowing. Because he’d selfishly told himself he was sparing Steve the pain of carving up old wounds.

Natasha, because she is Natasha, doesn’t look at him with pity or spare him any blows. “He was always bad, when it came to you.”

That hurts in a different way, the ache of broken bones that never set right.

“I know we, what we are, isn’t exactly normal or …”

She laughs then, even if it’s quiet so as not to disturb the others. “James. Take a look around you. Normal’s not really in the cards for people like us.”

She looks across the cabin again. Her hand is still resting on top of his. He flips his own palm up and she laces their fingers together.

“We do the best with what we got and learn to accept that we can have the things that are given to us.”

+

It’s still night in Brooklyn.

The door to the apartment locks behind him with a soft click. The place is quiet, but the presence of another person is still palpable.

Bucky stands on their hallway carpet and lets out a long breath. His shoulders slump forward. The sense of relief that hits him is so sudden and powerful he could almost cry.

He unlaces his boots and walks on socked feet through the dark rooms. In the bathroom he discards the pieces of his uniform one by one and piles them on the floor. Then he flicks the lights on and looks into the mirror and waits for the Soldier to stare back at him.

The person in the mirror grimaces. His face is lined and streaked with dirt. His eyes are a dull gray under the harsh fluorescents. Tired—not lifeless like a machine, but the way only someone who’s alive can be tired.

He pulls out the elastic holding up his hair and lets it drape around his face, sweat-damp and limp, and still he sees only himself.

He washes in the sink, with the meticulous care of a ritual. Dirt and grime and blood stains pure-white porcelain and is rinsed away.

In the towel cupboard there’s clean underwear and that ridiculous, fluffy bathrobe he’ll never admit to wearing around the apartment whenever Steve is out.

The kitchen gets light from the street outside. There’s a dish of leftover creamy mac and cheese in the fridge and he devours it leaning against the kitchen counter. 

He leaves the dish in the sink, brushes his teeth, hangs up the robe on its peg.

He walks toward the bedroom with slowing steps, like he’s not really sure it’s actually there, that his oasis isn’t just a mirage in the desert.

He slinks in through the door and holds his breath until he sinks down on the edge of the mattress. Nothing stirs. Silvery moonlight pokes in through the slit in the curtains. Bucky sits with his hands on his knees and watches it trip over the cracks in the floorboards.

“Hey.” A scratchy whisper makes him turn around.

“Hey, you. I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

Even half-asleep, Steve demands to know how the mission went, and scolds himself for his absence.

Standard mission, Bucky tells him. It’s a white lie, he tells himself.

It’s a testament to how tired Steve really is—and to a level of trust Bucky can’t wrap his head around—how quickly he relents once he’s confirmed everyone is all right.

He lies down in their bed and Steve, sleep-drunk and sweet as anything, curls up to him. Without reservation.

Bucky cradles his jaw and traces the shape of him, the softness, the way he yields and melts under a tender touch—melts to fill cracks and smooth out jagged edges.

It’s the most precious thing he’s been given. And no, he doesn’t think that he deserves it, could ever deserve it—but he’s starting to think he could learn to accept it.

To have and to hold.

He thinks Steve’s fallen asleep when he opens his mouth and confesses to the darkness. “I think this was my last one. I think I’m done.”

The arms around him tighten their grip.

+

“Morning.” He slides out a chair and plants his elbows on the kitchen table.

“Morning, Buck,” Steve greets him over the shoulder from the counter where he’s putting together … something with oatmeal and yogurt and fruits. (Bucky’s the first to admit his own knowledge of 21st century cooking isn’t the most extensive.) "Sleep all right?"

Bucky grunts an affirmative. He could have done with another four hours, but what sleep he did get was calm and undisturbed by replays of yesterday’s mission.

He makes a grateful grab for the mug of steaming coffee Steve puts down in front of him. 

Steve lingers by the table, hands hanging by his sides. Bucky sacrifices the feeling in his tongue for a glorious mouthful of coffee and waits for him to speak.

“Did you mean what you said? About quitting,” Steve says quietly. He’s got his eyes cast down, tracing the pattern of the table cloth.

Bucky’s throat closes up unexpectedly. “Yeah,” he croaks out.

When Steve looks up at him, eyes shiny with hope, he wants to bang himself over the head for not getting here sooner. 

“Why now?” Steve asks. “What changed?”

“Had a talk with Romanoff. She’s got our number by the way.” He reaches out and touches a fingertip to the dog tags hanging over Steve’s t-shirt; his name resting in the only real home he's known in this lifetime.

Steve smiles. “Figures.” 

He folds his fingers around Bucky’s wrist and keeps his hand there, pressed to his chest. “Welcome home, Buck,” he whispers.

The way Bucky’s eyes prick must be a delayed reaction to the coffee scalding his throat. 

“Thanks for waiting, sweetheart.”

“Always.”

[between-a-ship-and-a-hard-place]

The Curious Incident of the Cat in the Tower | 4,6k | Stucky | G

Tags: Canon Divergence, Everybody Lives in the Tower, Fluff and Humor, Mystery, POV Multiple, 5+1 Things

Summary: Something curious is happening in Avenger’s Tower. No, it’s not an impending alien invasion or a disgruntled intern sabotaging the coffee machine or a new breed of Doom bots. Probably.

That’s the thing. No-one seems to really know what’s going on. (Or if they do, they’re not telling.)

Honestly—what hell is up with this cat?

hey @firestar11025 remember that time you sent me a prompt and I took 15 months to write it? -- I hope you enjoy!

[between-a-ship-and-a-hard-place]

congrats on your fic-a-versay!! your writing is amazing, i love to read your interpretations of the boys 🥺💞

request for this event: prewar (and either steve or bucky is trans ?? if you'd be ok with that?) and the lyric "I would go out tonight but I haven't got a stitch to wear / This man said, "It's gruesome that someone so handsome should care" (the song is This Charming Man by the Smiths and it's such a good prewar stevebucky song ;; ) /t4tstevebucky 🌟

Thank youu!!! 💚💚💚 Gaah, I do hope you'll like this one. It only got away from me a *cough* little bit. (If you were trying to drop me into a research rabbit-hole you did a great job 😅)

East Coast Swing, 2k words, rated T

Read it on AO3 or under the cut

one-and-two

“Come out with me tonight.”

“Bucky, don’t be stupid.”

⁕

“So there’s this girl up at the offices who was askin’ if we could—”

“Absolutely not.”

three-and-four

“Ste-vie—”

“No.”

“You didn’t even know what I was gonna ask.”

“Still no.”

⁕

“Please?”

“Quit it, Buck.”

Bucky pulled out the second chair and straddled it with his elbows resting on the table. If Steve looked up he’d no doubt see him batting his eyelashes. (They were longer and thicker than any girl’s he’d seen, which wasn’t really fair any way you looked at it.)

“I found a place I think you’d really like. There’re some people who’d love to meet ya.”

Steve held back a snort. He flexed his aching wrist and dipped his brush again, sliding off the excess on the edge of the cup. The tip of his tongue flicked out as he angled the hairs just right, keeping a steady hand while he filled in the black shading on the letters. 

He pulled back and studied his work. Not perfect, but it would have to do. He didn’t have time to start over, Mr. Martin was going to dock his pay if he didn’t have the lot done by Sunday.

Bucky cleared his throat, then acted all wide-eyed and innocent when Steve glanced up and fixed him with a glare. It was annoyingly endearing. Steve bit the inside of his cheek.

“I’ve got commissions to finish.” He grabbed the stained rag from beside Bucky’s hand. “Now stop whining and make yourself useful, I ain’t darning your stinkin’ socks for you.”

five, six

“Look.” Steve pinched the bridge of his nose and counted to five. “Even if I wanted to be dragged off to some of your bars, it’s not like I got anythin’ to wear.”

He waved his arms to illustrate his point, shirt cuffs flapping over his hands. The shirt, like most of his clothing, had been Bucky’s, patched and hemmed and taken in to fit him passably. They served him well enough for everyday use. (He preferred it, to be truthful, being able to sink into shapeless shoulders and too-long sleeves and disappear from view on the crowded train.)

Oddly enough, his completely valid argument didn’t seem to deter Bucky, rather the opposite. He perked up and beamed at Steve over his plate of mushy beans.

“That it? Why didn’t you say so to start with? I’ll take care of it.” He patted Steve on the cheek and shoved another forkful into his mouth.

“No, that’s not what I—”

beat

It had been Bucky’s idea. That god-awful spring when Steve had just buried his mother and was about to be kicked out of the tenement because their landlord was a heartless bastard.

“Just two bachelors rooming together to save on rent. No one will question it.”

Steve was standing on the front steps, shivering under a borrowed coat, socks and shoes soaked through by the neverending rain that flooded the gutters. He swallowed, a mixture of dread and sick hope churning in his stomach. “What if they do? What if someone says something?”

“Then we go somewhere else. Plenty of rooms in the city.” Bucky shrugged, like that was nothing. “But they won’t, trust me. It’ll be fine.”

The last scraps of his pride had forced him to hold his ground for a bit longer. “I can get by on my own.” 

The sigh Bucky let out was mostly fond. His hand was an anchoring weight on Steve’s shoulder, warming him through damp layers. Today his eyes were slate-gray like the sky. “Thing is, you don’t have to.”

right turn

There was a pile of new clothes on the bed. Almost new. But still in better condition than anything Steve owned. 

“For my best guy,” Bucky had said as he dumped them in Steve’s lap without ceremony—no wink or cheeky grin to accompany it.

Steve stroked his hand over the striped wool of the suit jacket. It was soft but sturdy and seemed like it might be close to his size. He wondered what it would look like on him, if it would make his shoulders look broader and hide the way his spine was curved.

Then he put it down on the pile. “You shoulda spent your money on something useful.”

“Come on, Stevie. What's it gonna take with you?” Bucky let himself drop back on the bed, springs creaking under his weight. “I wanna dance.”

“So go dance. Take that girl, what’s her face. Don’t know why you keep buggin’ me for.” He dipped his hands back into the sudsy water.

Bucky sat up on the bed and watched him. 

Steve kept his head down and scrubbed at a stubborn stain—a bit too vigorously. He prodded at the raw skin on his knuckles and cursed under his breath.

Bucky still didn’t say anything.

“What?” Steve snapped.

Bucky cast his eyes down and fiddled with the hem of the blanket.

“What is it?” Steve asked, voice softer this time. The soap stung his scraped hand.

“Just ... wanted to dance with you. Is all.”

beat

“Hey, Stevie.” 

Bucky’s speech was a bit slurred, the words coming out of his mouth sticky and slow like molasses. He was draped over the bed with his suspenders pulled down and half the buttons of his shirt undone; underneath, the contours of his body, lean and powerful, chest flat and hard from hours in the boxing gym.

“Yeah?”

“Do—you don’t mind that I call you that?”

“... no. Why would I?”

In fact, Steve hadn’t really thought about it.

He handed him the glass filled with water. Their fingers brushed. Bucky’s skin was hot. There were tracks of dried sweat along his temples. He smelled like booze, stale cigarettes, and too-strong perfume that made Steve’s throat itch.

Bucky brought the glass to his mouth and squinted at him. “‘Cause I can stop if ya want. Just gotta say the word.”

Steve shrugged. “It's fine, honestly. Thanks for asking though.”

Bucky smiled dopily at him. “Anything for my best guy.” He straightened up and put the glass down on their wobbly nightstand. “C’mere.” He patted the mattress beside him.

Steve sat down. With the way Bucky was sprawled their legs were almost touching. The room was hot, the muggy August heat only tempering once the sun set. Steve’s palms were clammy. He rubbed them on his trousers.

Bucky’s hand came to rest on top of his.

“You know you’re my best guy, right?” he half-whispered in that way drunk people do.

“Sure do, Buck.” Steve forced a smile. “And you’re my best friend too.” Not like there was much competition for that spot, but it was true either way.

Bucky’s brows did a complicated dance move, settling on a frown.

“No, I meant like …”

His thumb was rubbing the top of Steve’s hand, tracing the tendons. Then his fingers traveled up Steve’s arm like they were explorers hiking a mountain. The furrow between his brow deepened, focus honed in like when he was fiddling with some new piece of machinery, trying to figure out what made it tick.

“Bucky, wha—”

The rest of his sentence was swallowed up.

By Bucky.

Because Bucky’s lips were on his.

Bucky’s hand was on his neck, thumb pressing into his jaw.

His breath was sour; his lips burned like that split-second between touching a hot plate and pulling your hand away.

Steve gasped.

Bucky stumbled off the bed, away from him, wide-eyed and frantic. 

“Shit. ‘m sorry, I didn’t—”

“You kissed me.” Steve touched a finger to his still-tingling lips.

“Yeah.” Bucky stood frozen at the other side of the room, back pressed to the wall like he wanted to sink into the cracks between the boards. “I’m sorry.”

“You ...”

Steve forgot what he was about to say. He rose from the bed and crossed the floor to Bucky, who flinched like he thought Steve was going to hit him.

Steve lifted his hand and touched the tip of his finger to his lower lip. He needed to see if it would burn him

—if it would hurt the way his heart sometimes did when he looked at Bucky, sitting on the fire escape beside him, a cigarette dangling between his fingers, smoke curling around his gilded face, tilted up to meet the last rays of evening sun.

It didn’t. It hurt in a different way. Perhaps the same way that made Bucky screw his eyes shut and clench his jaw.

“Can I?”

Eyes closed, Bucky nodded.

Steve kissed him.

left turn

“Buck …” Steve sighed. “You know that’s not gonna—”

“I said I know a place,” Bucky interrupted. “Will you just trust me?”

beat

“I could be a girl. If—if you wanted me to.” Steve showed his hands in his pockets so Bucky wouldn’t see they were shaking and he squared his shoulders.

“What?”

Bucky stared at him. 

“It’d be easier, right? If I was. We could, like, do things the proper way.” 

Get married, have a family.

(wear a dress and a meek smile and lower your voice)

He stuck his chin out. “Not—not hide away here.”

Bucky wouldn’t have to come home on Fridays after visiting his parents with a storm cloud over his head and a dozen probing questions ringing in his ears; when was he going to settle down, he knew he was the oldest, supposed to set an example, didn’t he want something less temporary now that he’d gotten foreman duties at the factory —Steve had heard every variation muttered under his breath as Bucky scrubbed their chipped plates with angry efficiency.

A series of emotions flashed over Bucky’s face.

“I don’t like girls,” he said gruffly, not quite meeting Steve’s eyes.

“Oh.” The fight Steve had prepared for trickled out of him. “But then—but I’m—”

“Not a girl. So I don’t know why you’d wanna pretend to be one.” Bucky pushed past him and braced his hands on the window ledge, looking out over the street.

“I thought—We have it good like this, don’t we?”

Steve watched the rigid line of his shoulders. “Yeah, Buck, we do.”

“Then fuck ‘em."

one-and-two, three-and-four

The room was loud and smoky and dimly lit. Steve had to blink a handful of times before he could make out more than the contours of people.

It was smaller than he expected, a bar lining one short side and a row of booths filling up the other. There were people everywhere, milling about, sitting by the tables, talking, a few of them dancing. 

All kinds of people.

The person that closed the door behind them was wearing men’s trousers and a leather jacket. A curvy—woman—with a feather boa and a mane of blonde curls was sitting behind a piano on a small, raised stage.

Steve pulled his mouth shut and tried not to stare as he took it all in. He’d had no idea there was a place like this in their part of Brooklyn.

A hand wrapped around his wrist. Steve looked up.

“Told ya.” Bucky grinned at him. “Now let’s dance. I’ll let you lead, if you promise not to step on me.”

“I think you oughta buy me a drink first.”

five

“Don’t know why you’d care what you wear.” Bucky’s hand rested on Steve’s waist, light and steady, his breath brushing over Steve’s cheek. “You’re the prettiest face in this place.” Bucky shifted his grip and spun them around in a tight circle.

Steve grimaced and missed his step. “‘m not pretty. ” He considered stomping on Bucky’s feet, which he’d so far avoided, just for that.

Bucky reeled him back in and grabbed his chin with two fingers. “Punk. Listen up. I swear there’s not a soul in here that isn’t jealous I’m the one that gets to dance with you.” His grip softened and so did his eyes. “Handsomest guy I ever saw.”

Steve’s face burned brighter than the glittering dresses of the queens standing over by the bar. “Shut up.” He punched Bucky in the shoulder. 

six

“Wait here a second.”

“What are you—”

“...”

“Bucky. Somebody could see us.”

“Nah. It’s dark. And we’ll hear if someone comes.”

“But—”

“Can’t I kiss you goodnight?”

“No.”

“Aw, sweetheart.”

“... but you could take me home.”

“Steve.”

“...”