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fanfic-scribbles · 2 years

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Marry Me 2 - Boyfriend’s Back (All Right)

Sequel to: Marry Me

Fandom: MCU Captain America/Avengers

Summary: You’re settling into married life with Steve quite well when his (ex?)boyfriend Bucky starts making his way back into Steve’s life. You wish he’d do it a little faster but that’s all right– you’re more than willing to lend a helping hand. They’ll thank you for this. Someday.

Quick facts: Romance – Steve Rogers/Reader and Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers leading into Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers/Reader – Female Reader

MCU Timeline: Set some nebulous time after CA:TWS

Words: 7118

Warnings: Mention of past kidnapping/harm to the reader-character and also a brief mention of peril at the end because I like a call-back, a lot of fluff, and one vague dirty joke

A/N: Apologies; I really wanted to get this out last month, but then I got stuck, and then I got rolling, and then I got stuck, and then I got rolling again all the way to the end…and then I had to rewrite the ending three times. I couldn’t quite come as full-circle as I wanted, buuuuut I really like this and I hope you will too! I do not know how much sense this will make without having read “Marry Me” first, but give it a whirl if you are so inclined. Part 3 is partly written, but no promises on when that’ll land, as I’ll be working on another story for my next posting, and I am very…very…slow these days. Well, one sentence a day is better than no sentence a day, and that’s all I can say on that. Anyways, please enjoy, and I hope that the rest of the year finds you well (～￣▽￣)～❤

It’s cold and your husband can not take a hint.

“What about this one?”

You take advantage of the opportunity to lean in closer to try and suck up more of Steve’s ambient heat. You can’t really blame him– he’s excited and distracted and you underestimated the weather today and wore the wrong jacket.

Still…did you have to sit outside when the restaurant has so many wonderful seats open inside?

“It looks warm,” you say longingly while looking at the picturesque Greek coastline.

“It does,” Steve says blithely and makes a note on the page.

It is nice to see him so excited about a vacation, so you smile and suck it up. Mind over matter; surely you can tough out a little chill; this is nothing; you are mentally in Santorini or wherever it is Steve wants to go; you are–

–suddenly ensconced by a big, heavy…jacket…that is so soft and warm and smells quite nice, actually, that you sort of snuggle into it before you look around for whoever has surely accidentally draped it across your shoulders. They must have mistaken you for a friend or something, but while you look, so does Steve, and there is…no one else around.

“Did you see…?” you ask Steve but he shakes his head and his brow furrows in concern. He’s out of his excitement and into his danger-seeking mode, and he gestures for the jacket.

“Here, let me check for–” But as he leans in, he stops and…smells.

You raise both eyebrows. That’s new. “Steve?”

He turns pink and jerks back. “Sorry, I just– that was–” But he smiles slowly and says, “It smells like Bucky.”

“Really?” You bring up the collar and inhale. Bucky has very good taste in aftershave, you think, and Steve relaxes into his seat even though he looks like he’s holding back on as much giddiness as you feel, because that means Bucky is back, and hanging around. You grin at Steve. “You know what this means?”

“That his social skills are as atrocious as ever?” Steve says.

You whap at him with the empty sleeve. “If it’s his jacket, that means he has to come back to get it.”

Steve puts his arm around you. “I guess it does.”

“We’ll have to hold off on the vacation.”

Steve shakes his head. “No, we don’t,” he says. “We don’t even know if he’s actually sticking around.”

“But what if he is and we leave him?” you say.

At that he does look a little hesitant– but then he shrugs. “It’s not like we’re leaving him to fend for himself against the Wet Bandits,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “We won’t be gone that long. Also, if Bucky is sticking around, and decides he wants to tag along behind us, I’m pretty sure he knows how to take a flight.”

“Maybe we can get him to come with us.”

“He won’t even let us see him drop by.”

“Not yet,” you say, already thinking ahead. “It’s okay. We just have to be patient.” Steve snorts. You poke him. He may not have much faith, but this is going to be great.

Operation: Get Husband a Boyfriend is a go.

You’re in the park, trying to angle a nice selfie to send to Steve’s request for one, when you feel a presence just off to the side. Your arm twinges a bit– as if your brain isn’t sending enough danger signals on its own, it has to remind you of the one time you ignored it in favor of your (normally very safe) shortcut home– but nearly as soon as you realize someone is there, you realize that someone is Bucky.

“Sorry,” he says.

“It’s okay,” you say and go back to trying to pose while also keeping the camera at a good spot. If you don’t look at him, maybe he won’t be so nervous and he’ll stay? You’ve handled stray cats more high-strung than Bucky; you can do this.

He reaches over and, with a touch so light it’s like he needs to be able to bolt in an instant, shifts the camera into place for maybe the best angle you’ve ever had. “Thanks! You know, I’m only sending it to Steve. Do you wanna–”

“No.”

“Okay,” you say easily, because boundaries are important and it’s honestly nice to know he’s firm about his. You snap the picture and shoot off the text as quick as you can. “Hey, since you’re here, do you wanna–” But as soon as you lift your head you see that he’s gone. You look around, futile though that is, and let out a sigh.

Well, he came around on his own, so this is still a net positive. Baby steps. Steve himself has bemoaned your stubbornness on more than one occasion when it has won out over his. Bucky has no idea who he’s dealing with.

You’re shifting your grocery bags for the fiftieth time in maybe five minutes and wondering if it would somehow behoove you to eat a third of the food you just bought, when there’s a familiar presence at your side. You take a peek and, thankfully, it is in fact Bucky. “Don’t take this the wrong way, since I do like seeing you show up, but I feel like if you’re watching me grocery shop, we’ve got to get you some better hobbies,” you say and wince as one of the bags falls from your elbow to your much-less fortified wrist.

“I’ve got hobbies,” he mutters, almost as if offended.

“Are they purely for fun or do they serve another purpose too?” you ask.

He looks at the bags. “Do you want help or not?”

You hold out a bag, and he slips two of them off your arm, and then snakes another one from your other hand, leaving you with a decidedly lighter load before he takes a few steps forward and looks back at you. You take a few quick steps to catch up– and hook the elbow of your newly freed arm around his. He stiffens and you hesitate, ready to pull back, but he looks at you and inclines his head forward.

Later, all the groceries are laid out on the counter and you’re in the middle of putting them away when you (very calm and casual and not at all incredibly eager) call out, “I know Steve says he wasn’t much of a cook before, but he’s gotten a lot better now and tonight we’re having–”

As soon as you peek your head into the living room you realize you’re all alone. You sigh heavily– and then again, even heavier, when you see Bucky’s coat is now missing from the rack. Slippery bastard. But he showed up in the first place, and you’re not giving up now. You’re just getting started.

The problem with this situation, though, is that you’re still fairly dependent upon Bucky deciding to show up. Which he hasn’t done for over a week now. Walking into traffic just to see if he pops up like a demented guardian angel seems a bit extreme– and also not something you can do more than once or twice, so you’re keeping it well in reserve.

…But it’s tempting.

“Hey,” Steve says as he enters the room. He sounds happy– just shy of delighted. “How did you know I needed a new shaving brush?”

“Uh…” You look at him and have to think back, but Steve’s shaving set-up is not something you touch. Not after you ruined the nice leather thing he used to sharpen his razor and had to grovel for almost a month. Or at least, what felt like a month. No, everything you learned about straight razors and the maintenance thereof was entirely against your will and only stayed in your head for as long as it took for him to forgive you, and you have kept your distance ever since.

“You didn’t replace it,” he says, watching your face and whatever journey it has gone on while wandering off on memory lane. You shake your head and his expression becomes perplexed. “I could have sworn I didn’t– no, I didn’t even get to the store yet, so how…”

You gasp at the same time Steve’s eyes widen. “I can’t believe it,” you say and turn back to the TV in a fit of annoyance. If he’s going to be leaving gifts would it kill him to also leave a little card?

“I’m going to regret asking this since I know what the answer probably is,” Steve says as he leans on the back of the couch next to you, “–but you didn’t give him a key, did you?”

“I didn’t get a chance,” you grumble. And you’re not sure how you’re going to now, when he won’t pop up, but then Steve is rubbing your shoulders and very successfully distracting you from the problem at hand. “Mm, what’s this for?” you ask but lean in.

“I’m sorry,” he says earnestly.

“For what?” you ask, only half-caring.

“For Bucky,” he says, but before you can tell him he shouldn’t apologize for his boyfriend’s bad manners he adds, “You seem pretty upset about him breaking in and I understand, but he–”

“Pffft.” You wave your hand. “I don’t care; it’s Bucky and he probably left the place safer than he found it. No; my problem is that he left you a gift and didn’t also leave a little note or something telling you. That’s not romantic at all!”

Steve stops, snorts, and then lets his head fall against the cushion next to you. “Seriously?”

“Of course! If he’s going to woo you, he needs to put in more of an effort.” You turn your head and give Steve a little kiss on the cheek. “Don’t worry; I’ll teach him everything I know.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “You’re not seriously going to teach Bucky how to flirt with me, are you?” But just as you open your mouth he stands up. “Sorry; I forgot who I was talking to.”

You pat his hand. The one with the ring. “I’m an expert.”

“Are you also going to teach him how to set someone on fire?”

“First: it wasn’t my fault, the waiter bumped into me; second: nothing should have exploded like that so I’m pretty sure whatever she was using in her hair has been illegal since the eighties; third: she was fine; fourth: Bucky probably knows much better ways of setting fires and explosions,” you say. “Oh…”

Steve sighs heavily and starts walking out of the room. “I need to find out if I can get a restraining order on behalf of another person just to keep you two away from each other.”

You lean back and watch him go. “But would you get it to protect me from Bucky, or to protect Bucky from me?”

“Yes.”

It has taken you way longer than it should have to position this one stupid picture frame when you realize you’ve left the hammer just out of reach. For a moment you consider the merits of driving the nail you’re holding into the wall with your own skull, for the arrogance of trying to do this without a pencil if nothing else, when someone walks casually up behind you. In your securely locked and very safe home.

“Think you forgot something,” Bucky says and slides the hammer over your shoulder so you can grab it.

“You are my hero,” you say and reposition yourself so you can finally drive this stupid nail into the stupid wall. Once that’s done you take a moment– if you turn too fast, will he bolt? …If you don’t turn, will he think he’s unwanted, and bolt? You sigh, and decide to take a chance. “You know, when you get someone a gift, a little card with a sweet message would not go amiss,” you say, turn, and to your (pleased) surprise he’s actually still there.

He rolls his eyes. “Do they have greeting cards that say ‘hey honey, back from the dead?’” he asks.

“Hm…” Probably not, but considering what there are cards for, you hesitate to commit. “If we can’t find one, I can at least get a blank card with a cute picture and we can make our own.” You put your hand on your chest. “I can definitely give you some pointers on romantic messages.”

He stares at you, inscrutable. “You married him.”

“I did!” you say proudly. “I married him knowing he loves me, and knowing he’s always going to love you.” You stare right back at him. “This isn’t a fight, and nobly sacrificing yourself isn’t going to do anything good for either of you. For any of us. That’s not atonement, that’s martyrdom, and don’t you think you and Steve have been through enough without enduring pain just for pain’s sake?”

He looks down, shifts his weight, but though you tense, he doesn’t run. He stays. But it’s so quiet, and he looks so scared, so you clear your throat. “We’re having take-out tonight from an Italian place we love,” you say. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

He doesn’t move, at first, doesn’t say anything, but then he settles on his back foot and says, quietly, “I like Italian.”

To his credit, he only looks like he regrets it a little when you punch your fist in the air.

It’s dark and you really shouldn’t be walking alone in this area but there is something to be said for taking your life back after a traumatic experience. Or so you will say, when Steve inevitably gets mad at you for being out and alone like this.

Truth be told, you’re not so fond of it either– if you could go back in time you’d pick a nice bright coffee shop to sit at while you text Steve to come meet you, or just suck it up and pay for a cab. But no, an interminable subway delay led to ‘doing something different,’ and ‘it isn’t that far,’ and ‘can’t be a nervous wreck forever,’ and now you’re gripping your phone like it’s more of a literal lifeline than just a glorified map.

A car comes up on your side and slows. You cross your arms and hold your phone closer to your body. Great; just what today needed.

“Hey baby–”

Another body comes between you and the car– a very bulky one, and an arm slides gently over your shoulders as Bucky grunts, the men spit out rude epithets, and the car speeds off. You take a deep breath and he tightens his hold on you. “What the hell are you doing over here?” he asks, apparently having taken the same lessons on how to lecture that Steve has. Actually, Steve probably got it from him, now that you think about it.

“Taking a detour,” you say and stand straighter. “The subway was way delayed.”

“They run out of cabs when I wasn’t looking?”

You look away. “It’s not that far.”

“It’s safer.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t be a scaredy-cat forever now can I?” you say a little sharper than you mean to. You take a few moments, and you sigh. “Though I guess that’s not true, since I am.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being cautious,” Bucky says, and squeezes you gently. “Taking risks and bein’ reckless ain't exactly sticking it to them.”

Given some of the…explosive methods Bucky has used in taking out Hydra bases, you hope he can feel the way you stare at him.

Feel, no, but otherwise sense, yes, apparently. “Shut up,” he mutters and shoots you a side-glare.

“I didn’t say anything,” you say and lift your nose.

“Don’t hav’ta,” he huffs and pokes your side, making you laugh reflexively and you hit his stomach. Which feels about as solid as his arm, so at least you don’t smack it hard. He gives a little half-smile, and nods ahead at your home coming into sight. “I know what I’m doing.”

Steve comes to the door to meet you and is, predictably, unamused by how late you are, even with your very handy escort, but it all gets smoothed over, because you are an expert in handling Steve Rogers by now.

“Do you want to stay the night?” Steve asks Bucky, very casually, and you try to mimic his attitude by being very normal (really) and pretending like you haven’t been waiting forever (a few weeks) for an opening like this.

Bucky stares at you, though, enough that confusion helps you calm down enough to ask, “What?”

He fights a losing battle against a small smile. “Just wondering how long it’ll take you to vibrate into the stratosphere from pretending to keep your cool.”

Your jaw drops and Steve (the traitor) laughs. On one hand, that was pretty good. On the other hand…you can’t just let him win.

“Sorry Bucky; as much as I appreciate and respect you as Steve’s boyfriend, seeing me vibrate into the stratosphere is a relationship milestone you have to apply for after a substantial amount of groundwork.” You grin. “Just ask Steve.”

Steve chokes and Bucky turns red, and for a moment you fear you might have actually scared him off, but he slumps. “Good luck,” he mutters to Steve before going inside and Steve, still a traitor, rubs his face and nods, and then all but drags you in.

Bucky leaves in the morning before you wake (of course), but while the bed is made to look as pristine as if no one was ever there, you know for a fact that Bucky stayed, and for no real reason other than it was offered. You’ll take it.

Over the next few weeks Bucky pops in and out as he pleases. Sometimes he lets himself be seen, but rarely, even though he always makes his presence known. Mostly by Steve, who mentions hearing the guest room window pop open, or having heard someone putter around the kitchen. You find traces of him by the replenished food stores– you can barely tell he drank any juice but he still gets a whole new carton to make up for the half-cup he must have taken– and the way the house gets mysteriously cleaner overnight. Typically, the kitchen and the spare bathroom get a wipe down, but the guest bedroom is always way nicer than you left it.

It’s starting to drive you a little insane.

You leave a note on the fridge telling him not to replace anything, you’re going shopping later and it’s fine, only for him to predict half your shopping list and put it where you can see it. You hide the cleaning products only to walk in to a kitchen counter fresh enough to perform surgery on. His hospital corners somehow get even tighter when you start going into the guest bedroom at night, pulling at the blankets and setting the pillows just slightly askew. Not enough to make a mess, but enough to make it…human.

He's acting like he has to make up for his very existence and, though there’s probably a lot of psychological heartbreak in that, you know he’s also doing it to tweak you at this point.

He’s doing too damn good a job at it.

One night you’re replacing one of the pillows slightly left of center when someone loudly clears their throat behind you and you jump guiltily to find Steve, arms crossed and leaning against the doorway with a look that would be stern if he wasn’t also slightly smiling.

“You know, it might be old-fashioned…” he says and drops the act as he walks into the room to stand in front of you. “But I thought a host was supposed to make a room nicer for a guest.”

You huff and cross your arms. “Some people get guests that aren’t constantly antagonizing them.”

“By doing shopping and cleaning up whatever mess he’s made?” Steve asks. “Other people would kill for a guest so considerate.”

“Yeah well maybe they don’t care about their guests enough, but I know what he’s doing and why,” you say, starting to get a little heated, but this has been coming for a while, and if Bucky won’t show his face to get it, Steve can damn well pass it along. “He’s being too considerate; he’s acting like his entire existence is a stain and it’s driving me up a wall!”

Steve jerks back but your frown is deep-set and you tighten the fold of your arms. “Like you said, he’s a guest, which means we take care of him,” you say. “If he doesn’t want that then he can be a-a resident; a member of the house– if he wants to be– but either way he’s walking on eggshells right now, like he owes us something, and I swear to God if he starts leaving rent money I am getting Natasha involved to track him down so I can deck him. He’s not a fucking Brownie and I don’t know how else to make him stop acting like his presence is an inconvenience when it’s not!”

“Hey, easy,” Steve says softly and gently takes you in his arms. It’s nice. He does give really good hugs, and against your will some of the anger fades. “This really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

You let your head flop against his chest. “I could be a good host if he’d fucking let me.”

Steve rubs your back and lets you cool off a little bit more. After a few moments he says, “And a good host short-sheets the guest bed?”

You push yourself further into him and grumble. “At this point he deserves it.”

Later that night you wake to some noise and shuffling– and open your eyes to the delightful sight of Bucky, sour-faced, wearing a soft shirt and sweatpants, crawling into bed on Steve’s other side as Steve holds up the blanket. When Bucky sees you awake his scowl deepens. “Fuck you,” he says, and though Steve is facing away, you see him shake with laughter.

“Good night jerk-face,” you say and snuggle back into the best sleep of your life.

After that Bucky no longer takes great pains to sneak in and out. He goes back to the guest bed (that he makes you painstakingly remake under his very watchful eye) and spends his days doing…something you’re probably better off not asking about. But he takes the key you had made for him and uses the door. He sticks around for movie night and shares in the popcorn you offer. He drinks a soda without immediately buying a replacement case, but comes grocery shopping when you ask for a little extra muscle. He writes insulting messages on the whiteboard for Steve that make your husband roll his eyes and pout at you in betrayal when you laugh. He keeps his room tidy but starts to leave little things behind. He forgets his jacket on the back of the couch. At the end of the day, he comes home.

The more Bucky settles in, the less you have to worry about him. Which is, of course, a good thing– however, it means you have more mental energy to devote to your own crap. Which is…not ideal. You’d swear you had been doing better after that whole ‘kidnapping’ thing, but now the nights seem to get darker, the side streets emptier, and nearly every person looks suspicious. It’s stupid. And you don’t want to tell Steve– it took forever to get him to stop hovering and you don’t want to make him anxious for no reason too, but you’re starting to get paranoid. It feels like someone’s watching you– not all the time, but often enough that constant vigilance is starting to wear.

Like now. You’ve had such a rough day you decided to treat yourself to a well-made drink at a nearby coffee shop. Steve is still working and though Bucky hadn’t wanted anything when you’d asked, he had offered to walk with you. You had declined– it was so close to home and you were going to come right back– and so you had left him tap-tapping away on his laptop in the living room.

Now though…

It’s really, really stupid. It’s not even night; the sun is right in the midst of setting, and you’re in the middle of a bustling coffee shop, getting ready to walk down a city sidewalk that is far from barren, back home where the world’s most dangerous (former) assassin sits waiting, and you…

You feel so unsettled you can’t even make yourself step just outside.

After a few minutes of awkward shuffling to get out of the way of other people coming and going while pretending to text, you concede defeat and actually send a message to Bucky that reads, ‘Do you want to take a little walk still?’

Not even five seconds later you receive a response: ‘Are you safe?’

‘Yes,’ you reply immediately and sigh. You know Bucky well enough by now to know that as soon as he got the text he shut his laptop and started getting ready to head out. That’s a guy who doesn’t do take-backs. ‘I’m just being stupid.’

‘You got a long way to go to catch up to Steve. ETA 10 min’

‘15 if this damn tourist doesn’t MOVE’

You smile at the follow-up and look around. You don’t want to commandeer a table for the short time you’ll be here, but standing by the door is weird. You wander back over to the display case and pretend to very seriously consider baked goods you just don’t have a taste for right now.

It doesn’t feel like ten minutes have gone by when a hand settles on your shoulder, and that’s why you jump. Or so you’ll say if anybody asks, but Bucky studies you like he’s just looking for confirmation for an answer he already has, and then he lifts his head and glances around.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” you ask.

“Nah; don’t wanna spoil my appetite,” he says and throws his arm around your shoulders. “You’re getting extra potstickers tonight, right?”

At the mere mention you scowl. “I’d love to ruin your appetite,” you say even as he leads you out of the shop. “Especially if it means you stop stealing my food.”

“It’s called ‘sharing.’”

“Sharing implies asking, and being granted permission.” But you stay close to him as you walk home. “We’re getting extra extra potstickers.”

“Sounds like permission to me,” he says and squeezes you a little closer. Though he can’t protect you from everything– something you learned the hard way– you feel safe right now, and that’s enough.

The feeling lasts well into the remainder of the night, as you and Steve settle into bed. He curls his arm around you and dims the lights, and you snuggle closer into his chest. The doors and windows have all been checked, as Steve, and now Bucky, are wont to do, and you are as safe as anyone can be.

“I’m sorry I’ve been busy lately,” Steve says softly and runs his hand up and down your back in soft, slow strokes.

“I know. I go through all this trouble to get you a boyfriend and you hardly see him,” you say and turn your smile up at him, just in case.

He smiles back. “To say nothing of my wife,” he says with an added little huff, though his tone is light, and he kisses your forehead. “At least my boyfriend goes running with me in the mornings.”

“He does?” There is not an expression sad enough even for Captain America to make to get you up before the sun just to try to keep pace with a supersoldier. Even Sam has long since lost patience with him, and only joins when he can deal with Steve’s nonsense. “Oh. I’m glad you have a regular jogging buddy again.”

“Yeah. I do.” He goes quiet, but he remains looking at you. “I’ll be home sooner this week. We can go back to planning our vacation.”

“That’ll be nice.”

“Mm hm.”

He stares for a few moments and it slowly dawns on you as to why. You sigh. “Bucky’s a snitch,” you grumble and flop face-first into the pillow.

“A real double-crosser,” Steve agrees lightly and continues stroking your back. Well…it does feel nice, so you fold your arms under your head and look at him again. “You feeling all right, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you say. At his raised eyebrows you flop your face back into your arms. You peek, though, and Steve has changed to a gentle expression that breaks your heart.

“A strategist through and through,” you huff and turn your head back to the side. He chuckles and you try to relax. “I’m…better, I think; I’ve just been a little off lately.”

“If you’ve noticed anything–”

“I haven’t,” you say. “I’m just being paranoid. Honest.”

He studies you for a few moments more, as though he can see whether or not you’re telling the truth. Foolish, considering you once hid a mountainous chocolate cake practically right under his very nose, but you let him have a few moments to determine your sincerity until he comes down on the right side and settles in. He shuts his eyes and you follow suit.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again,” he says, his arm laying across you. “And neither will our boyfriend.”

You’re just about to drift off when you catch his wording and you crack open your eye. “Your boyfriend.”

“Mm hm,” he says, already well on his way to sleep. You smile to yourself and follow. You can needle him about his slip of the tongue later.

It has been another long day, but when you come home at the end of it, Steve is home, and making dinner with Bucky in the kitchen. They don’t acknowledge you at first, too caught up in a conversation obviously well-established, and you take a moment to watch Steve shoulder-check Bucky and get cursed out before he turns his head to you, smiling and laughing. He brightens even more when he sees you, though he then takes in all of you. “Hey sweetheart,” he says warmly. “Rough day?”

You don’t respond with words, instead going up to him and flopping your forehead right onto his shoulder. He shifts to circle an arm around you, and brings you in between him and Bucky.

Bucky lifts a spoon filled with steaming sauce up to your face. “Try this,” he says.

You blow a bit and then have a taste. “Mm,” you say. “Just a little more salt?”

“Told you,” Bucky says and Steve moves as if to hip-check him, before remembering you are in between. Steve ducks sheepishly and you roll your eyes before you hip-check him.

“That’s my cue to get out of here,” you say and step back, giving Steve a little kiss on the cheek before you go. Instinctively you turn towards Bucky and– stop, because you can’t kiss him, he’s not your boyfriend, he’s Steve’s boyfriend, that would be weird, but oh no, now he’s staring at you, and Steve is staring at you (and smirking, like he knows how you almost slipped,) and it’s getting a little awkward so you do the only thing you can think of.

You kiss two fingers and press them to Bucky’s cheek.

Steve snorts, and Bucky looks bewildered. He then looks so offended that you ask, “What?”

“I don’t have fucking cooties,” he says, sounding a bit sour, and turns back to the pot.

You smirk, and then start drawing on his flesh arm. “Circle, circle–” You lose all pretense of gentility and jab his arm a couple of times, which makes him jump and swear which you ignore to finish, “–dot, dot, now you’ve had your cooties sh– ack!”

Bucky has you in a gentle headlock and Steve, your husband, love of your life, apple of your eye, supposedly devoted, there through sickness and health, or so he has lied, does absolutely nothing to help you. “If you two are going to roughhouse, can you do it away from dinner?” he says.

You and Bucky stop and share a look.

Soon Steve is rubbing his arm and muttering under his breath and giving the both of you dirty looks as Bucky goes back to calmly stirring the sauce. You smile sweetly and give your husband a kiss that seems to mollify him a little– and then, you figure, what the hell, and you give Bucky an exaggerated kiss to the back of his head. “Mwah!”

“Inoculation working great, doc,” he says without turning around. “I don’t feel even a little queasy.”

You roll your eyes over to Steve. “I’m going to murder your boyfriend.”

Steve snorts and then, in unison, they both say, “Good luck.”

You mutter and retreat to the bedroom to change into more comfortable clothes. And call Natasha to see if she can help make you a widow.

“What do you think of this one, Bucky?”

“I think it’s your vacation,” he says and continues to read his book.

You’re laying across the couch and, by association, Steve and Bucky, who sit on it properly– poor suckers they are. Your legs are draped across Steve’s lap and your head is on Bucky’s thigh, and though you can’t read whatever language the spine of his book is in, you’re pretty sure it’s boring and not as nice as the pretty pictures you’re perusing on your tablet.

You poke the book just above your face. He somehow keeps it completely still so you poke it harder, and he retaliates by bopping your nose with it. “Ow,” you say mostly on reflex. Steve chuckles and pats your feet but otherwise keeps reading his boring reports. He’d humor you if you asked, but in all honesty you’ve made your decision already, and it’s more fun to bother Bucky.

“Come on,” you say. Maybe you whine. Just a little. “When’s the last time you sat on a beach for hours doing nothing?”

The way he goes still make you think he’s thinking– and you suddenly realize, yeah, assassin who was an exceptional sniper even before the bad guys got their hands on him, that’s probably not something you want him to delve too deep into, so you quickly amend, “When’s the last time you laid on a beach for a vacation?”

He moves his book just so he can give you an incredulous look. You grin and move your tablet in front of your face, image-side up. “So you’re overdue!” you say proudly.

He, somehow, bops you with your own tablet. “Ow.”

You lay the tablet on your lap and rub your nose, and you’re back to staring at the spine of his book. However, he says, “I’m not crashing your vacation.”

You roll your eyes. “You followed us close enough to give me your jacket when I was cold. You really expect me to believe you weren’t planning on following us?”

Unfortunately, you are not fast enough to put your hand up before he gets you again. Next time you’ll forgo the leg rub and keep your head closer to Steve; you’re pretty sure he’s smart enough not to provoke you.

“I don’t know if you need protection from Bucky or protection from yourself.”

Then again, maybe not.

Bucky slots into your life with Steve even better than you had hoped. He’s handy around the house, considerate, and always fun to bug when you need some quick entertainment. It’s really quite…nice. You had worried about the potential awkwardness– a lot, actually; more than either Steve or Bucky would likely ever give you credit for. However, the only uncomfortable moments come when Bucky is trying to be too polite (in your ever un-humble opinion) and you’ve found you can easily diffuse said moments by being very rude, which has the intended effect of making Bucky more comfortable around you, and the unintended-but-still-pleasurable side-effect of making Steve very red. Every time.

Bucky even eventually gets used to you throwing an arm around him, or giving him a hug, to the point where he starts to relax, and lean in, and one day, miracle of miracles, even reflexively puts an arm around you in return. He’s busy (because the best hugs are given randomly) but he squeezes you, rubs your shoulder, and lets his arm drop, but he’s only handling the TV remote and so it just kind of curls partly behind you on the sofa. You smile proudly at Steve to find him already watching the both of you with undeniable love in his eyes. It’s…nice. It’s nice how happy Steve is, and how well you get on with Bucky, to the point where you’re happy to see him and sit with him and spend time with both him and Steve. It’s nice. You should be friends with your husband’s boyfriend. This is totally appropriate. This is completely fine.

What’s not completely fine, is that you weren’t just paranoid. Somebody has been watching you, and now you’re in a derelict factory, on the run from a maniac who wants to hurt Steve by proxy, which is gross and offensive and if you weren’t so tragically allergic to pain you’d take this large plank of wood you’re holding and go give him a good whack with it. You almost had when the guy had actually done a little sing-song “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” There’s a level of pathetic you’ll allow in your kidnapping/murder attempts and you have far, far surpassed it.

You sigh heavily. Kidnapping/murder attempts. Plural. Seriously, what is your life.

A body suddenly comes from around a corner and you shriek and bring up the flimsy piece of wood to bring it down as hard as you possibly can. The man holds up his arm defensively and the fucking thing breaks the goddamn cheap piece of–

Wait. Arm.

“Bucky!” you gasp, toss the broken piece of wood down, and leap onto him to cling like a koala.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, holding you easily even as he feels you over for injuries, and then immediately wraps both his arms around you. “That was a good swing, doll.”

“You have no idea how glad I am to see you,” you say into his chest. Your heart starts to return to normal. You can breathe. Steve isn’t here, and you do desperately want to see him, but seeing Bucky is good too.

“I think I can imagine,” Bucky says and doesn’t let go even as you set your feet down and loosen your grip to give him a chance. You pull your face back to look at him and…oh dear; you suddenly feel very, very grateful. His hair is a little windswept, and he’s looking at you just as intensely, and you wonder if maybe, possibly, perhaps, you need to have a conversation with Steve about how sharing is caring. As Bucky puts his hand on your cheek and presses his forehead to yours, but does not move to do anything else, you…

“Bucky?” you say, nearly breathless and very, very much restraining yourself.

“Yeah Doll?” he says, sounding just as hard-pressed as you not to move forward.

“We…” You lick your lips and his eyes immediately flick down and damn it, when they flick back up there’s an intensity there that nearly makes you weak in the knees. “We should talk to Steve.”

He swallows and your eyes flick down to his throat before you make eye contact again. He opens his mouth.

“Steve is going to be damned glad to see the two of you stop dancing around each other.”

You gasp and try to jerk away but Bucky reacts by hugging you tight with one arm while the other brings up his gun and the two of you look to a walkway just a level up to see–

“Steve!” you breathe in relief, happy to see him safe.

He grins, and before you can remind him for the umpteenth time to stop testing the limits of his poor knees, he grips the railing with one hand and leaps down. Bucky exhales heavily and slips his gun back into place, letting you go for Steve to come over and check that you’re all right for himself.

“Wait,” you say and pull back from him. He looks like the cat that got the cream, looking between you and Bucky. “You’re smug.”

“I am,” he says and flashes you a little grin. “You two finally got a goddamn clue. So can you just kiss already?”

“You knew?” you– and Bucky– say in unison.

Steve rolls his eyes like the know-it-all little shit he is (seriously, you love him, but some of his past ass-kickings must have been deserved), but his gaze softens when he looks at you again. “Yeah, I knew. Serum gave me perfect vision, you know,” he says. “And it’s plain common-sense. Knew it was only a matter of time before the two most charming people in my life charmed the socks off each other too.”

You roll your eyes and look at Bucky, but instead of shared exasperation, you find his gaze very firmly settled on you. You don’t know what to do at first, but you smile and eventually say, “Your boyfriend’s a pain in the ass.”

“Been that way for a century now,” Bucky says, cracking a smile and sliding an arm behind you. You take a step, and he slowly pulls you in. “It’s good to have backup for a punk like him.”

“Mm hm,” you say, because there’s nothing else to say, and you and Bucky continue your slow trajectory into each other, until your lips finally meet, and it feels natural and good and right to kiss your husband’s boyfriend. And…yours now too.

You get about ten seconds of peace before said husband ruins the mood. “Finally. I can’t believe it took you two so long though do you know how many times I’ve wanted to take both your heads and just knock them toge–”

Bucky yanks him in by the shirt collar and Steve reflexively steadies himself with one hand on Bucky’s shoulder and the other hand on yours. A three-way kiss is as awkward as you would have assumed, but that’s all right. You have plenty of time to figure it out.

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x bucky barnes x reader #captain america reader insert #avengers reader insert #mcu reader insert #established steve x reader #developing bucky x reader x steve

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