In All Our Years Series - 4 In 1 | Captain!Bucky, WinterSoldier!Steve | Stucky

2030

| 2030 |

Steve barely ever hesitated to drape himself over Bucky, his back or his shoulder, or just sticking to his side like they were fused. He came back home to find Bucky sitting at the couch with a worn paperback book in one hand, a scribbling green gel pen in the other. He glanced up when he walked in, the focused crease in his brow vanishing and being replaced with a slight ghost of a smile. He looked like he was practically born there, having not moved for a while - feet propped up on the coffee table, a large mug on the end table beside him, a giant fleece blanket tucked and folded and bunched so it was just right. His hoodie was one of Steve's, slightly too big and stained with oil paint.

The blond smiled back at him, and Bucky turned back to the book in his lap. Steve went into the bedroom, taking a quick, hot shower in the connecting master bath. He got dressed again in his own pajamas, hair damp and pushed back away from his forehead, tucked behind his ears.

He walked up to the couch, playfully smirking at Bucky. "Any room for me?"

"Always," Bucky responded, not looking up. He tilted over to the left, to pull part of the blanket out from underneath him. He held the corner up for Steve, who took it and lifted the blanket up even more so he could clamber underneath, curling up against Bucky's warm side. He may not feel it himself, but to Steve, he was always warm. But before Steve could put his head down on his shoulder, Bucky said, "Wait until your hair's dry."

Steve was used to this. Bucky hated getting wet, even the slightest bit, but especially if it was cold. He didn't protest, just lifted a hand and framed Bucky's chin with his fingers, leading him to turn his head so he could press a gentle kiss to his slightly chapped lips. Happy with where he had him, Steve dropped his hand to Bucky's abdomen, smoothing his palm over his side until his arm was around him.

Bucky gently smiled against his lips, leaning their foreheads together. When he spoke, it was a gentle murmur, voice deep and soothing as it always was. "How was group?"

"It was good," he said with a small, honest smile. He'd found a group therapy specifically for prisoners of war. Hearing what the other soldiers had to say, it helped ground the fact that he was not alone. He'd been alone for so long, and now he could find comfort in people with like experiences. As much as he understood why Bucky didn't like to talk about his experiences with Arnim Zola, respected that drawn line, getting it out of his head helped himself. It wasn't bottled up, it couldn't overflow. He took a risk, gently saying, "I wish you'd go."

Bucky turned his head away, eyes flicking back to the pages of his book, lips pursed into a tight line. Steve set his chin on his strong shoulder, casting his gaze down. He was a bit surprised to see that it was a poetry book. Neat rows of Bucky's scratchy handwriting bloomed from the printed lines in the book. As Steve quickly read through a few, he noticed that Bucky was responding to what had already been written.

"I didn't know you did creative writing," he noted, urging Bucky to say more about it, gently squeezing his left oblique muscle.

"Not enough to really talk about." He nodded down at the poetry book. "I think of this as an exercise, of sorts."

He was silent for a long moment. "If I asked, would you let me read something of yours?"

"Oh." Bucky sounded surprised, which turned it back on Steve. He sat up slightly, to be able to properly look at Bucky, just before the brunet said, "I don't think you'd want to. It's nothing great, it's just...It's shit, that's what it is."

Steve raised his hand again, and thumbed at Bucky's cheek until he turned his gaze back to his own, looking at him again. "Hey. I once thought that about my art. But guess what? My art was good enough to be life-ruining."