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“I’d like a venti iced skinny hazelnut macchiato, sugar-free syrup, extra shot, light ice, no whip, please.”
The woman at the desk gives the pair of them a disbelieving look before dragging her eyes down Bucky’s sweaty, post work out frame and raising an eyebrow. Steve already knows how this is going to go; first, the woman is going to ask if he’d like some diet water with it, then she’s going to ask Steve how he puts up with him in what she thinks is a whisper, and finally, Bucky’s going to threaten her entrails in poorly accented Russian that Steve’s going to call poorly accented, earning him a place on the couch for a week.
In short: Steve hates getting coffee with Bucky.
The namesake is ironic; Sam’s been telling him as much since he met Bucky for real. Bucky just happens to like Starbucks above all other coffee places, despite the fact that it tastes about as much like coffee as a can of twenty-first century soda tastes like real soda.
“And what is your name?” the woman behind the register asks with a smirk. “Hipster coffee-snob douche?”
Bucky just growls, “poshel na khuy,” and makes his way towards the other end of the bar, tapping his foot as he glares at the clock ticking away.
Steve sighs and pulls out his wallet, making sure to leave the poor woman a generous tip and an apology. “He’s not a total dick,” he says, passing over a twenty. “He’s just not big on mornings.”
She just dimples up at him in reply and says Captain America’s lack of bullshit is enough to forgive a grumpy asshole. He nods and walks away, trying to quell a blush as hard as possible.
Five minutes later Bucky’s sipping his ridiculous coffee and wrinkling his nose in distaste. When Steve asks him what’s wrong, he just says that the syrup wasn’t sugar free.
*
The next week, they go back to the same Starbucks and the same woman is manning the register. She gives Bucky a wry look when they walk up to her, Steve already preparing an apology when he thinks of the non-fat possibilities Bucky might think of.
What surprises him is when Bucky requests, simply, “a grande soy chai tea latte, please.”
Steve’s not the only one surprised, going by the wide eyed shock written over the woman’s face. She quickly replaces it with the same unperturbed mask of cynicism and tired boredom. She does scrawl ‘Вы говорите с плохой грамматики,’ on the side of his cup, and while Steve can’t read it, Bucky can. He mutters something in angry sounding Turkish before pulling Steve towards the end of the counter with him.
All the while the woman’s wide green eyes are smirking up at them from behind the register, red painted lips twisted in a smart grin. When she notices Steve’s looking, she just shoots him a wink and turns her attention back to the businesswoman ordering before her.
Bucky gets his coffee not three minutes later, and by the time they round the corner around the café, he’s already guzzled it down.
*
This time the woman behind the bar speaks before Bucky can manage to list off some ridiculous order. She says, “I’m Natasha,” and holds out a hand to both of them.
After a beat, they both reach out and shake, introducing themselves back to her in parroted tones. “I’m Steve,” Steve says. “Menya zovut Bucky,” Bucky murmurs. She just smiles at them before plugging in Steve’s usual order of a trenta dark roast and glancing at Bucky with her typical raised manicured eyebrow.
He chews his lip for a moment, but Steve can see the trace humor lurking in the corners of his eyes. He hesitates a moment longer, scrutinizing the menu before grinning and levelling down Natasha with a smirk. “Iced, half caff, ristretto, venti, 4-pump, sugar free, cinnamon, dolce soy skinny latte,” he says, smiling. “If you please, Ryzhiy.”
Steve rolls his eyes at the same time as Natasha, on his part from understanding that it’s an insult, on hers fully contemplating the insult and spiting Bucky because she can. It gets a rise out of him, Steve notices, as his shoulders tense and he stiffly walks away, but he can see the swinging in his hips and hear the little tittle of his laughter.
He makes sure to give his usual twenty dollar tip before grinning and saying they’ll be back tomorrow.
Bucky smiles around the straw stuck in his overly sweet drink all the way back.
*
Their hands are squeezed together beneath the table as Tony briefs the team on the newest addition to the Avengers.
A couple of SHIELD spies are joining up, that’s all Steve was aware of. A man named Barton who’s handy with a bow and a rifle, and a woman named Romanoff who’s skilled in deception and hand to hand combat. Fury even paid Stark Tower a visit for the event, which is all but unheard of in times of peace. The only person missing is Thor, and that’s only because there was something happening on Asgard with Odin’s sleep and Loki calling a tribunal against Thor’s lineage for their blood shared great-great-great-great aunt.
Yeah, Steve knows a ploy when he hears one.
Regardless, he’s excited for new members. The welcome Bucky got was big and lasted a week, though the parade Tony had proposed was denied by all but one of the team (and only because Thor has a particular enthusiasm for festivities). The addition of two permanent members is a thinly veiled blessing, and Steve’s not about to stare it in the face.
He turns his attention back to Tony, who looks to be in the middle of some pointless speech about repulse technology versus the advantages of alien technology when Bucky squeezes his hand again and nods towards the door.
Steve can barely make out the bright familiar shade of ruby red hair and the arch of a familiar cheek curled up into a grin.
“Stark,” Fury interrupts, pulling both Tony and Steve out of their dozed wandering. “Bring out the agents.”
Tony sighs but complies. “All right, you heard ‘em kids, c’mon down Bonnie and Clyde.” Tony rubs his forehead before they step into the room, one after the other. The man is unfamiliar, but the assortment of bandages covering him from head to toe suggests recent combat. He looks happy though, well meaning.
The woman who follows is undeniably the barista Steve and Bucky have gotten to know all too well. Natasha shoots them her trademark smirk before taking her place beside Barton, brushing her fingers through her curly hair and minutely adjusting her jacket.
Barton introduces himself first. “I’m Clint,” he says simply, not adding anything else. Steve can feel Bucky tensing beside him, suggesting familiarity with the unassuming man who probably isn’t as unassuming as Steve thinks.
Natasha goes next, sighing and tugging on her shirt and introducing herself with a small smile.
When Steve peeks over at Bucky, he’s frowning.
*
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Natasha glances up once she finishes tucking the second firearm into her boot. Barnes stands above her with his hands on his hips, his features set in grim determination to get answers no matter how he has to go about getting said answers.
Instead of answering him, she smiles. “Do you remember anything from Moscow in ’86?” she asks, tilting her head and fixating him with a curious look.
He shakes his head. Of course he doesn’t remember, the asset had most of the eighties warped from his mind forever.
She sighs before pushing herself to her feet and reaching up to comb her fingers through his hair. “Do you remember this?” she asks, already knowing the answer. She pulls away after a moment, slumping backwards into the wall. “Zola really did a number on you, didn’t he?”
“How do you know about Zola?” His voice is sharp, angry.
Natasha had been given Bucky’s file under the instruction of caution, but she already knew enough about him from earlier missions. The Asset, as he used to be, was ruthless but still had a heart. He’d smile at Natasha, tell her she was beautiful and smart, but she’d always catch the lingering ‘almost as beautiful’ or ‘almost as smart’. She wasn’t bitter; she still isn’t. Steve is a force to behold, no matter the angle from which he is observed.
“You trained me,” she says. “And I brought Steve back to you.”
She doesn’t wait for his questions; instead, she pushes past him and out of the room, signaling Clint over her shoulder before departing the room.
Natasha doesn’t have to look back to know that Bucky’s wearing that same confusion she used to be so accustomed to.
*
“It’s fine.”
“Uh huh,” Bucky says around the flask. His eyes are cold when he meets Natasha’s, his fingers tight where they’re bundling Steve’s jacket. “What’s your motive? Your purpose? Is Pierce still training you, or have you left Russia behind?”
“I used to be Russian.” Steve peers between the two of them, waiting for something to break. Natasha’s composure is solid, unbreakable, but even he can see the slight tension in her shoulders, the tremble in her lower lip.
Bucky either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care for what he sees because he just huffs and leans a little more into Steve’s side. Steve mouths his apology over Bucky’s head, but Natasha just shakes her head, raising her eyebrows as though to placate him.
They sit in silence for over a half hour, and Bucky’s so buried into his chest that Steve’s begun to think he might be asleep. It’s only when a twig snaps that he’s on his feet, wielding a knife in one hand, a Glock in the other that Steve realizes he was just listening.
“Wwʻr s dʼárt?” Bucky asks, voice dark and quiet.
The answer comes less than a minute later. “Calm the fuck down, Barnes,” Tony replies, crass. “We’re pulling you out, Loki’s back with Thor.”
“Why?”
“Because fuck you, that’s why.” Tony emerges less than a minute later, all but buried in a large parka and highlighted by the weird RC controller he wears as a headset whenever he doesn’t feel like activating one of the older Marks.
Steve watches as he presses a button and Rhodes’ face projects from the device, informing them that the pickup site is less than a mile from their coordinates. Bucky still doesn’t relax, but when Steve lays a hand on his shoulder, at least he stomps off in the right direction.
Bucky’s quieter than usual the whole way, but after a few hundred meters he reaches back and takes Steve’s hand in his own.
*
Natasha doesn’t have time to react when Barnes stomps down the hall and pins her to the wall with a growl.
“I’d say hello but I would rather know why you’ve shoved me into one of Pepper’s favorite paintings,” she bites, not even bothering to keep the anger out of her tone.
He immediately eases up, but he doesn’t back off more than five paces. It’s not enough for her to relax but she doesn’t reach for the Tasers she has strapped to each ankle. Instead, she folds her arms and waits for him to elaborate.
“I,” he starts. He clears his throat and tries again after a beat. “I, uh, remember some things.”
She smiles, trying to prompt him to continue. After a minute he does.
“Steve and I got hitched,” he says. “I remember remembering him in Russian, I remember you telling me that I’d get to the mission soon enough on the concrete in Siberia, and I remember you pinning his picture to the ceiling with a knife, telling me that if I failed you’d skin me alive and make a coat out of the two of us.”
“I couldn’t have done it if I tried, you were dangerous.”
“I was vulnerable.”
“You were armed and necessary.”
“So were you.”
Natasha sighs and slicks her fingers through her hair, rolling her shoulders a bit to divest herself of some of the glass that pushed through her clothes. He’s right, of course; she said a lot of things. To her credit, she was more than a little under control of superiors who kidnapped her, and to her credit she was a trained assassin that would’ve done anything to complete her mission.
To his credit, his brain was mush. At least she thought it was.
“Congratulations,” she murmurs a moment later, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
Bucky smirks down at her, his cheeks going a little peachy. He scowls, though, and the effect is instantly lost. She watches as he turns on his heel and makes his way down the hallway, but he doesn’t round the corner before replying, “Thanks.”
She doesn’t miss the little smile on his lips when he turns to pull a door open.
*
“What the hell are you still doing here?” he asks, partially enraged, partially surprised.
“Working.”
“I can see that,” Barnes replies, crossing his arms.
Steve rolls his eyes before asking for his usual, to which Natasha replies with a smile. Steve is so predictable, like a checkpoint of sorts. She can see why Bucky would choose to stay with him.
“One boring coffee coming right up,” she announces, plugging the order into the register. She glances up at Bucky when she finishes, giving him her usual taunting grin.
He just rolls his eyes before knocking his shoulder against Steve’s. “Recommend something,” he says simply, keeping his eyes off of hers. She smiles to herself as she plugs in her favorite drink: shaken lemonade black tea with a little bit of milk and cinnamon. It’s a strange order, but she thinks Bucky might like it. It’s bitter and her favorite thing on cold days, and God knows that Barnes had enough of those.
“Thanks,” he mutters, scratching the back of his head.
She lets her gaze slide down to where their hands are tangled together on Bucky’s hip, Steve’s pale thumb swiping over his knuckles whenever Bucky’s foot starts to tap a little too feverishly. As usual, Steve pays her, gives her a two-hundred percent tip, and says he’ll see her later.
She watches their retreating backs, the way Steve disentangles their fingers so he can wrap an arm around Bucky’s shoulders and press him flush against his side.
Maybe that’s what was always missing: the comfort component. Natasha doesn’t have any regrets, of course; she’s not a relationship kind of girl and Bucky’s just too old fashioned for her. That’s not to say that Bucky is, but the way his body is molded against Steve’s like something of divine creation, or like two pieces of a puzzle, suggests that he found his other half.
And hell, she supposes seventy years of waiting was damn well worth it. Because Bucky never smiled like that in Russia, not even when he was marginally happy.