Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Bucky hates Fridays.

Fridays mean getting up at half past four, carefully climbing over a snoring Steve, who tends to get grouchy and pissy if he’s woken up a mere two hours after coming home from his late shift at the diner, and trying not to brain himself on the sloped roof while he rushes around their tiny attic apartment to gather his clothes.

He’s got to be at the store by five, otherwise he doesn’t have enough time to mop the floors and stock the shelves before Mister Perrelli arrives at seven to open up. Which leaves him barely an hour to get across the city to the tiny café where he works until his evening classes start.

And then, when everyone else is already talking about their weekend plans, Bucky needs to dash back home for a quick shower and a shave so he can make it to the club at nine sharp for his first set.

No, Bucky doesn’t like Fridays at all, and this one proves to be no different. Worse, actually, since he’s almost running late and sporting a rather nasty, painful burn on his hand courtesy of a misbehaving coffee machine going off right when Bucky’d been placing a cup under the dispensing spout. The skin is red and starting to blister already, and Bucky is not looking forward to his boss’ disapproving remarks or the makeup he’ll have to put on it to cover the discoloration, but there’s nothing to be done about it.

Steve is sitting at the bar aka room divider aka improvised drafting table, working on one of his drawings when Bucky pushes open the door and, with that irritating sixth sense he has for sensing when Bucky’s hurt or upset, immediately glances down at Bucky’s hand, lips pursing in a mixture of worry and resignation.

Bucky’s feud with the coffee maker has been going strong for a while now.

“Let me have a look at that,” Steve sighs, nodding at the burn, but Bucky waves him away and ignores the annoyed eye-roll sidestepping Steve’s outstretched arm earns him.

Instead, he goes to pull out plates from one of the kitchen cupboards and fills two glasses with tap water, bringing everything over to the bar where Steve is making space by carefully rearranging his papers.

“It’s not that bad,” Bucky only half-lies. He’s gotten used to getting sprayed with boiling water by now, and he’s not sure he wants to know what that says about his life. He slips off the strap of his bag and sets the whole thing down on the floor, pulling out a brown paper bag from the café and waggling his eyebrows at Steve’s unimpressed expression. “Cake for dinner?”

May, bless her heart and weakness for a good sob story, usually lets Bucky take home the leftovers she won’t be able to sell anymore the next day. According to the grandmotherly owner of Parker’s Pies, Bucky is in dire need of some feeding up, and while he’d never ask for free food, Bucky definitely isn’t going to refuse it if it’s offered. Not if there’s enough for Steve, too.

Steve takes one of the two slices of lemon sponge cake, glaring defiantly at Bucky as he does. “You gotta at least put some hydrocortisone gel on it,” he insists, stubbornly waiting for Bucky to nod before he finally takes a bite.

Bucky gobbles down his own dinner while Steve tells him about a new client who wants him to do a portrait, and the fifteen percent advance payment that will go toward this month’s rent. It’s due on Wednesday and they’re still a good three hundred bucks short, but with the unexpected commission and the tips Bucky’s hopefully going to make tonight, they should be able to scrape enough together.

As usual, there’s no hot water and Bucky curses a blue streak during the entire two and a half minutes it takes him to soap himself up and give his hair a cursory rinse. It’s equally unsurprising to find the aforementioned gel and some bandages sitting on the counter when Bucky steps out of the shower.

“Overbearing jackass,” he mumbles, a little annoyed but mostly fond.

His hand taken care of and teeth brushed, Bucky walks back out into the main, and only, room of the apartment, throwing on the first pair of jeans and shirt he finds, and then goes about packing the costume he’ll have to change into at the club.

It’s nothing elaborate, consists only of a pair of tight black leather pants with buttons up the legs for easier and quicker removal, a simple white tank, ripped for the guests’ viewing pleasure, a red thong, and Bucky’s old army boots. The patrons seem to like it, though, especially in combination with Bucky’s long hair, tattoos and gruff appearance.

And whatever gets them hot pays Bucky’s bills, so that’s what Bucky rolls with.

He’s pulling his hair up into a loose bun, hoping it’ll curl a bit while it dries and add to his overall look, when Steve says, in a way that would be completely out of the blue if they didn’t have this argument at least once a week, “You should quit.”

“You know I can’t,” Bucky replies, same as he does every time they talk about this. “It’s the only job that doesn’t require qualifications, pays above minimum wage, is great for tips, and doesn’t interfere with my classes.”

Steve’s glaring at him, angry that Bucky’s right. Bucky doesn’t have to turn away from the small hallway mirror to know it, he can practically feel the heat of it on the back of his neck. It’s one of Steve’s talents.

“But you hate it,” Steve tries nonetheless, because Steve has never learned when to quit and give up.

Bucky shrugs. It’s not that Steve’s wrong, but it is how it is. “You goin’ to do my makeup or what?”

“’Course, can’t let you outta the house lookin’ like a drowned clown,” Steve teases, thankfully letting the matter of Bucky’s job drop for now, pushing out the second barstool and beckoning Bucky over.

Bucky doesn’t need much, just some foundation and concealer for the little imperfections, and mascara and eyeliner because his boss thinks they bring out his eyes. As if anyone will be looking at Bucky’s eyes, of all things.

“So,” Steve mumbles around the tongue that’s sticking out the corner of his mouth in concentration, stroking the tiny brush over Bucky’s lashes and of course choosing the moment Bucky can’t move unless he wants to be poked in the eye to pick up their conversation again, “is Rumlow working tonight?”

It’s a low blow, and Bucky would show Steve exactly what he thinks about him bringing up Brock if Steve weren’t literally holding his eyesight hostage right now.

Brock Rumlow is the reason for the phrase ‘don’t shit where you eat’, one of Bucky’s biggest mistakes to this day, and that’s counting jumping off his foster parents’ roof on a dare and joining the army right out of high school only to nearly get blown to smithereens.

The problem with Brock is that he’s not just an asshole, but a clever asshole. He’s nice and charming, doling out smiles and compliments left and right, always available with an open ear, a beer, and a friendly hug. Or, at least, that’s Brock on the hunt. Brock in a relationship is demanding, no longer attentive, jealous and mean about it, and the absolute worst thing about it is that the shift is so subtle, so slow, that it’s impossible to get out before it’s too late.

Bucky’s learned that the hard way, and it took months of his friends telling him that Brock was no good, and Brock deciding to explore his sadistic streak without asking first for Bucky to finally kick him to the curb.

“I don’t know,” Bucky admits, not that Brock being or not being at the club changes anything. “Doesn’t matter anyway.”
“Doesn’t ma-“ Steve starts, then closes his eyes and clenches his free hand into a fist in a visible attempt to calm himself down. “You shoulda pressed charges, Buck.”

“What for?” Bucky snorts, grimacing apologetically when Steve grips his chin to hold him steady. “He got rough during sex and slapped me once, I don’t think that even qualifies as domestic abuse. ‘Sides, Pierce wouldn’t be happy with me if I got one of his most popular dancers in trouble.”

Steve quirks a pointed brow at that. “And that willingness to sweep an employee’s criminal activities under the rug like they’re nothing is why you shouldn’t be workin’ for the guy. He’s shifty. And creepy.”

“And making it possible for me to go back to school and do things like eat and live somewhere that’s not a cardboard box in an alley somewhere,” Bucky adds, standing. “Don’t worry about me, I’m a big boy, I can take care of myself. I’ll text you when I leave, ‘kay?”

Cupping the back of Steve’s neck, Bucky reels him in to press a sloppy kiss to his forehead, laughing and ducking the bony elbow aimed at his ribs in retaliation.

“Jerk,” Steve complains, rubbing the sleeve of Bucky’s hoodie, the fucking thief, over the damp spot.

“Punk,” Bucky grins, picking up his bag and heading for the door.

He’s locking up behind himself when Steve shouts, “If I find body glitter on my sheets again tomorrow morning, I’m gonna strangle you in your sleep, Barnes!”

Bucky smiles and winks at Stan, their elderly, shocked-looking neighbour, chuckling to himself as he skips down the stairs.

Bucky has to dance onstage every hour and a half from nine ‘til two, after which he’s free to either leave or work the floor until the club closes at five.

The dancing itself is fine, Bucky enjoys it even if he’d never thought this is where eight years of ballet lessons would land him, but the up-close attention he gets from the customers when he sidles by their tables on the lookout for private sessions makes Bucky cringe. His butt cheeks always need until mid-week to lose the bruises from all the pinching.

Nevertheless, after his last set he changes out of his costume and into the HYDRA uniform, if a pair of glittery black booty shorts with the club’s logo bedazzled over the crotch can be called as much. Bucky’s had this job for nearly a year now, and he’s still trying to figure out how a skull with tentacle arms relates to the mythical snake creature, but so far he’s got nothing.

The first group to wave him over is a bachelorette party, the women giggling tipsily and squealing excitedly during the five minute lap dance they’re treating the blushing bride-to-be to. They’re relatively pleasant, despite the wandering hands, and tip generously, taking turns sliding the bills under the hem of Bucky’s shorts while the others cheer them on enthusiastically.

They ask him to sit down for a drink, which Bucky refuses since it’s against club policy and he, unlike some of the other dancers, likes to keep a clear head while he works. One of them, introducing herself as Trish, slips him her number before he leaves, hand lingering on his hip for a moment as she winks up at him lasciviously.

Bucky smiles back neutrally, and quickly moves on. His boss turns a blind eye to his employees hooking up with the patrons, and Bucky knows for a fact that several of his co-workers have a pretty lucrative side business going on with some of the regulars. Taking his clothes off in front of strangers is one thing, but the thought of putting out for money makes Bucky queasy and glad that he hasn’t yet found himself desperate enough to do that.

Besides, after Brock, Bucky has vowed to keep his professional and private lives strictly separated. And even if he were to make an exception, the whole being incredibly, unwaveringly gay thing would rule Trish out immediately, anyway.

He gets called to a few more tables for short dances before he decides to take a break and retreats to the dressing room, just grabbing a bottle of water out of the fridge when the door opens and closes again, and Brock walks in. Brock opens his mouth to say something undoubtedly flirty, crowding into Bucky’s space, but Bucky shakes his head sharply and shoulders past him, back into the club.

As luck would have it, he’s instantly spotted by Zola, one of his own regulars. The man must be in his early fifties, is on the shorter side with an unfortunate comb over, a thick accent, and requests that sound entirely innocent but tend to give Bucky the creeps.

“James, my boy,” he greets as he approaches, not bothering to wait before he makes his way back to the private booths, confident that Bucky will follow.

Which Bucky does, pulling the curtain shut behind them and going about pouring a tumbler of scotch, the movements routine by now.

Accepting the glass Zola says, “I have some papers to look over today, why don’t you keep me company?”
He takes one of the cushions from the couch he’s sitting on and places it at his feet, then snaps his fingers at Bucky and points at the cushion, waiting for Bucky to kneel down before opening his briefcase and proceeding to ignore Bucky for the next half hour while he reads.

It’s tame compared to some of the other things people have asked of Bucky before, and Bucky knows he can say no to whatever makes him too uncomfortable, but his boss doesn’t look too favourably on those who anger or scare off his most loyal customers.

And while it’s definitely weird that the guy is willing to spend a hundred and fifty bucks for Bucky to just sit around quietly, Bucky doesn’t feel like he has the right to complain. Zola isn’t crossing any lines, he isn’t even getting handsy or anything, just working quietly and politely asking for a refill halfway through the session.

Still makes Bucky’s skin crawl, though.

By the time Zola leaves it’s after four, and while the party on the main floor is still in full swing, Bucky’s made enough tonight to cover the rest of the rent and put something away for the electrical bill that’s coming up next month.

If tomorrow night goes equally well, cash-wise, Bucky might even be able to go get that check-up for his arm, and the medication for Stevie’s asthma. Steve won’t like Bucky spending money on him, but Bucky knows how to work the puppy dog eyes and Steve will just have to deal, the infuriating idiot.

Smiling to himself at the thought of finally seeing a doctor again and, maybe, getting something for the constant ache in his shoulder has Bucky distracted enough that he doesn’t notice his boss, nearly bumping into the man before Pierce clears his throat to get Bucky’s attention.

“Someone is asking for you specifically,” Pierce informs him, tilting his head in the direction of a table in the back. “Mister Hammer is a personal friend of mine, so I hope I can trust you to take good care of him, James.”

It’s not a question and Bucky nods, biting back a tired whine. Justin Hammer is a douchebag, to put it mildly. Full of himself to an extent that Bucky’s actually surprised his head hasn’t exploded right off his shoulders yet, never too shy to whisper dirty and completely inappropriate things at Bucky, or allow himself a few not so casual touches and pretend they’re accidental.

He’s also propositioned Bucky before, multiple times, and being told no only seems to make him more determined.
Bucky forces a smile, much less genuine than his previous one, and saunters over to Hammer’s table, glancing at the men in the chairs around him. Hammer usually comes in with his entire entourage, to show off or something, Bucky isn’t sure and doesn’t care enough to find out.

“James, darling!” Hammer croons in greeting, the words slurred, and Bucky’s heart sinks at the prospect of spending thirty minutes alone with the drunk, gropey asshole, no matter the amount he’s willing to pay for it.

Hammer, though, slings an arm around the neck of the guy sitting to his right, drawing him in roughly. “Darling, I need you to work your magic on my friend here tonight. Tony’s hit a little bit of a dry spell, and since he won’t let me pay for someone to get him back in the saddle, I’m settling for the next best thing.”

Bucky’s struggling not to be offended and to keep the sneer off his face, because who does this guy think he is, coming off like that? His friend, Tony, looks about as uncomfortable as Bucky feels, hastily disentangling himself and shooting Hammer a grin cutting enough to make Bucky’s eyebrows jump up in reluctant admiration.

“Justin, please,” Tony drawls, something sharp under all that casualness, “haven’t we just been talking about wise and unwise investment ideas? Don’t-“

“Tony,” Hammer interrupts, tisking at him, “I insist.”

They stare at each other for a long, tense moment, but then Tony sags back in his seat and Hammer crows victoriously, fishing out his wallet and nudging Tony’s side with his elbow, either ignoring or oblivious to the daggers Tony’s glaring at him.

“You’ll love him, Tony, he’s extraordinary,” Hammer sighs wistfully, reaching out to slip Bucky the money and, of course, cop a feel while he’s at it. To Bucky he adds, “Take as long as you need to loosen him up, tonight’s on me.”

Looking honestly sorry about it, Tony steers Bucky away from the table and Hammer’s laughter with a hand on the small of Bucky’s back, the touch light enough that Bucky barely feels it. It’s an appreciated sentiment.

The instant they’re on their own, Tony’s hand falls away completely. “I am so sorry about him. About all of this,” he starts, pinching the bridge of his nose. “God, I can’t stand that asshole, he- never mind, forget it. This really isn’t your problem.”

A little lost because of the unexpected apology, Bucky blinks owlishly for a couple of seconds before he manages to pull himself together again, gesturing at the loveseat and purring, “Why don’t you have a seat and tell me what you want me to do for you tonight?”
Tony flinches at that and wow, that’s a bummer for the ego. Suddenly self-conscious and super aware of how little he’s wearing and how exhausted he is, Bucky shudders and wraps his arms around himself.

What a night.

“Shit, no. Sorry,” Tony winces, plopping down on the small couch and burying his face in his hands. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s not you, it’s me, and yes, I’m aware of how cliché that sounds, all right? You’re gorgeous, and if this were six months ago, I’d be all over you, believe me, I so would be, but this just isn’t me anymore, you know? I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for Justin and the fact that I need him to agree to that damned merger. Not that being here is bad, or that being a- a stripper? Exotic dancer? Not that whatever you are is a bad thing. Not unless you think it is? Also, feel free to stop me any time now and spare us both from any further embarrassment.”

Bucky can’t help himself, he really can’t faced with that ridiculously adorable rambling, slapping a hand over his mouth to muffle the slightly hysterical giggles bubbling up his throat. “Sorry, sorry,” he snorts when Tony’s head snaps up, “this is really unprofessional, I’m sorry.”

Tony, though, relaxes at the mood shift, one corner of his mouth twitching up into a faint smile.

“How about a drink?” Bucky asks, frowning when Tony averts his eyes at the suggestion. It takes him a moment, but then Bucky catches up with what’s probably going on, silently cursing himself for making the situation awkward again.

The mini-bars in the private booths are stocked for all sorts of tastes, though, so Bucky busies himself with preparing something alcohol-free, giving Tony a couple of minutes to compose himself.

He goes to sit next to Tony, not as close as he would with his normal customers, holding the glass out as a peace offering. “Cranberry juice with lime,” he says at Tony’s questioning look, pleased when Tony takes the drink and makes a small, appreciative sound in the back of his throat at the first sip.

Obviously having found his bearings again, Tony kicks his feet up on the low table in front of them, twisting a bit to face Bucky. “So, what do I call you?”

“Bucky,” Bucky says without hesitation, somewhat startled by his own readiness to divulge as much. James is common enough that he feels safe using it with the customers, but his nickname is private, something only friends and family call him.

Tony chuckles, using the straw to swirl around the liquid in his glass, ice cubes clinking together. “Bucky? Please tell me your parents weren’t that cruel?”

“It’s a long story,” Bucky groans, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

“Is that your way of telling me you feel bad about wasting Justin’s money?” Tony wants to know, grinning cheekily. “Because I kind of get a thrill out of him throwing cash around for us to sit here and relax.”

And no, Bucky’s not about to argue with that. Grinning right back, he settles his feet next to Tony’s and leans back in his seat. “Promise you won’t laugh,” he begins, levelling Tony with a warning glare.

Tony, as it turns out, is an asshole. He does laugh when Bucky tells him which president his named after but, Bucky discovers, he’s a total sucker for the pouty lower lip wobble, even going so far as to stand up and pour Bucky some juice to make up for it. Not without still snickering, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

Talking to Tony is easy and before he knows it, Bucky has moved on from unfortunate name choices and on to his family. He tells Tony about his foster parents and sister, about Steve, his brother in all but blood, about his love for dancing and how he’d planned to pursue a career in that area before he’d decided to join the army instead, about coming home and working his ass off to go back to school eventually.

“But,” Tony interrupts him there, grimacing in mock-disgust, “accounting? Really?”

“It seemed safe, you know?” Bucky shrugs and sighs. “Lots of options once I’m done and all that.”

“It’s not your first choice, though,” Tony guesses, flicking some condensation at him when Bucky just shakes his head.

Bucky throws a slice of lemon back at him. “My back up plan, in case the ballet thing didn’t work out, has always been Russian and Eastern European Literature and Culture with bein’, you know, half Russian. But how many librarians and curators does a city need? And teachers get paid next to nothin’, so yeah, accounting it is.”

After a short, contemplative pause, Tony says, “Well, this got depressing,” and Bucky gives a weak laugh, despite himself. Then Tony adds, pointing at Bucky’s hand, “Also, I don’t know if you know, but you’re kind of leaking.”

“Shit,” Bucky yelps, scrambling up to grab the first aid kit he knows is stashed somewhere behind the bar. Ignoring the lube and condoms, he fishes out some gauze and the medical tape. He hisses at the first tentative touch, some more pus oozing out from one of the broken blisters. “Ugh.”
Before he can do anything more, though, Tony’s pulling his hand into his lap, humming sympathetically. “Did you put makeup on this?” he asks incredulously, disapprovingly clucking his tongue. “There’s a thing called infection, ever heard of it?”

“Yeah, well,” Bucky shoots back, “the people comin’ in here have certain standards, and most of them don’t give a shit about anything but us dancers lookin’ pretty.”

Tony eyes him warily, obviously taken aback, but he doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he gets a bottle of water out of the fridge and goes about cleaning the burn, thumb soothingly stroking Bucky’s wrist whenever Bucky hisses or grunts in pain.

He’s taping down the gauze when he asks, “What happened, anyway?”

“Coffee machine at work hates me,” Bucky says sullenly. “Doesn’t like to be rushed but people don’t like to wait for their coffee, so.”

“Coffee?” Tony’s mouth quirks and Bucky narrows his eyes, bothered that he can’t read the expression. “How many jobs do you have?”

Bucky yanks his hand back angrily, glowering at Tony. “Excuse me, Mister Stark,” he snaps defensively, making sure to put emphasis on the name, “but not all of us were born and raised with a silver spoon in our mouths. Some of us actually gotta work to make a livin’.”

It’s harsh, too harsh, Bucky realises and regrets his words the instant Tony’s face goes eerily blank, walls springing up between them and masks of fake indifference sliding into place.

He’d recognised Tony, of course he had, the guy has been plastered all over every front page ever since he went missing a couple of months ago, and then came back only to turn his entire company completely upside down, half of his board resigning over night without so much as a warning, some of them even ending up in jail.

Or worse, if rumours are to be believed.

Tony Stark, the genius, billionaire, playboy philanthropist creating things that go boom and drinking the responsibility away while sleeping his way through New York’s high society.

Still. That doesn’t exactly give Bucky the right to jump down the guy’s throat like that, especially considering he’s still working and that Tony is a paying customer. Or a customer who has someone who does the paying for him, whatever.

‘Sides, gossip has the tendency to be mostly bullshit and even if it weren’t, Bucky likes Tony. Like, a lot. To a dangerous degree for someone he doesn’t really know at all and has been talking to for all of an hour. While sitting around in his underwear.
And it’s not like Bucky’s shitty financial situation or the fact that Bucky gets snippy at the mere reminder of how crappy his life is at the moment are Tony’s fault.

“Sorry,” Bucky mumbles sheepishly, managing a weak smile when he touches Tony’s knee with the tips of his fingers and Tony doesn’t immediately brush him off. “Overreacting’s kinda my thing, I’ve been told.”

Tony takes a deep, drawn out breath, and Bucky thinks he’s about to be yelled at, but then Tony shrugs, his face softening a little. “Sore subject, I get it,” he says self-deprecatingly. “Got a lot of those myself, trust me.”

“Stands, though,” Bucky insists, “it was uncalled for and I’m sorry.”

Squirming under the genuine apology, Tony picks Bucky’s hand up again, ostensibly to check the new bandage. “Don’t worry about it, it’s fine. And for fuck’s sake,” he adds, grinning and poking at Bucky’s fingers, “stop with the cow eyes, I forgive you and they’re making me feel bad.”

Tension broken again, Bucky laughs and scoots closer, smirking mischievously at Tony’s questioning look. “Time’s up,” he reminds him, jerking his chin at the clock above them on the wall and trying not to feel too crushed about that.

In quick, practiced motions he loosens Tony’s tie and undoes the top button of his shirt, then ruffles Tony’s hair into a debauched mess, feeling Tony chuckle under his ministrations.
“Really?”

Bucky tisks, nodding once he’s satisfied with his handiwork. “There, perfect. Go get ‘em, tiger,” he instructs and, on a whim, leans in to brush a chaste kiss over Tony’s cheek.

“I-“ Tony croaks and clears his throat. There’s a flash of something in his eyes, there and gone again too fast for Bucky to read before it’s replaced with a cheeky smile. “So, on a scale from one to kicking me where it hurts, how angry would you be if I left an outrageously large tip?”

“Out, now,” Bucky barks but he’s laughing, sad to see Tony go but definitely enjoying the view as he watches him leave.

Ignoring Brock’s gaze, which he can feel lingering on himself, Bucky crosses the main room over to Pierce’s office to collect tonight’s earnings, trying and mostly failing not to fidget as he sits opposite his boss while the man counts out the money.

Bucky can’t put his finger on it, but Steve’s right. Something about Pierce ain’t right, and it’s more than the fact that he clearly has favourites among his employees and that there are at least half a dozen semi-legal, highly questionable things going behind the scenes.

Quickly grabbing the envelope Pierce slides across the desk toward him, Bucky mumbles a polite goodbye, Pierce is known to cut wages for what he deems a lack of manners and order, and retrieves his bag from the dressing room, relieved not to bump into his ex again.

He’s fumbling with a pack of smokes, leaning back against the hideously tacky neon Boys! Boys! Boys! sign outside the club, when a car that most likely costs more money than Bucky’s earned in his entire life pulls up to the curb, and none other than Tony steps away from a group of people nearby, happily greeting the driver getting out and opening the backdoor for him.

It’s a split-second decision to call out a totally lame, “Hey!” and follow that with an even more embarrassing wave, but Tony whirls around and then his eyes crinkle, and he lifts his own hand to wave back, apparently unbothered by Bucky’s awkwardness.

“Hey. Again,” he smiles, head cocked to the side, clearly waiting for Bucky to say something else.

“You, uh,” Bucky starts, nervously worrying at his bottom lip, taking a deep breath before he manages a shaky, “You want some company?”

Tony’s eyebrows shoot up and Bucky falters, ready to bolt. Shit, what is he thinking, making a pass at the Tony Stark, what the fuck, brain, why-

“The direct approach, I like it,” Tony interrupts his internal panicking, glancing down at Bucky’s lips, tip of his tongue darting out to wet his own.

The sight of that makes Bucky wish for something a bit looser than the skinny jeans he’s currently wearing. But they seem to be on the same page, at least, Tony moving back a little and gesturing at the open door in invitation.

Bucky nearly trips over his feet in his haste to get into the car, shooting Tony a half-hearted glare over his shoulder when the ass actually laughs at his sudden clumsiness.

The moment the driver shuts the door behind them, Bucky and Tony are all over each other, Tony’s hands insistent on Bucky’s hips, tugging and directing until Bucky is firmly seated in his lap, legs on either side of Tony’s waist, and his hands buried in Tony’s hair.

It’s something Bucky hasn’t felt in a long time, maybe not ever, this instant attraction, both physical and intellectual, the almost burning need to touch and feel. Not since coming back from the desert, broken in all the ways imaginable, not with any of the anonymous one-night stands, always knowing that something’s missing, and definitely never with Brock.

Kissing Tony is like arriving home, soothing, a relief to a hurt Bucky hadn’t even known was there.

Under him, Tony groans, arms tightening where they’re wound around Bucky, one hand splayed over Bucky’s shoulder and the other curled gently over the back of Bucky’s neck to keep him near, hot breath ghosting over Bucky’s parted lips before Bucky closes the last distance between them and brings their mouths together, soft and chaste, asking for permission.

Not that it stays that way for long, quickly growing deeper and more demanding, all heat and pure want; Bucky’s nails scratching over the back of Tony’s neck, teasing and making Tony gasp, Tony giving Bucky’s lower lip a playful nip before licking a hot, almost searing line back to his ear, sucking the lobe into his mouth and moaning filthily, grinning smugly when Bucky’s hips jerk forward, already half-hard cock twitching against Tony’s abdomen.

Tony’s sneaky hand under Bucky’s shirt, low on his back, inching down to push under the hem of Bucky’s jeans, tracing his tailbone, urging Bucky closer still until-

Tony chuckles, holding on tight when Bucky, mortified and flushing bright red, he’s sure, tries to move back, kisses Bucky’s chin.

“Sorry,” Bucky groans, resigning himself to his fate but hiding his face away in Tony’s shoulder, digging a fist into his grumbling stomach in a futile attempt to get it to quiet down. Words muffled by Tony’s suit jacket, he mumbles, “Sorry, just, we only had ca- never mind, it‘s fine, it‘s all good.”

When he straightens up again, Tony’s frowning, clearly sceptical, but he has enough sense not to say anything about it and ruin whatever’s left of the earlier mood. Instead, he raises an arm behind himself to tap at the driver’s partition, telling the driver to, “Make a small detour, you know what I like, Happy.”

“Sure thing, boss,” the driver, Happy, salutes, catching Bucky’s eye in the rear view mirror, and winking before concentrating back on the road, the partition sliding back up again.

Bucky wants to ask about the exchange but gets derailed when Tony draws him into another kiss, slow and sensual, exploring now that some of the urgency has left them. He makes Bucky shiver when he sucks on his tongue, makes him melt against his chest when he starts kneading the dance-tense muscles in Bucky’s back.

It’s enough to thoroughly distract Bucky, who’s boneless and pliant under Tony’s hands, and doesn’t realise where they are until Tony rolls down the window to reveal the politely smiling face of a drive-through employee, her professional expression shifting into a tiny, amused smirk at the sight of the two of them, Bucky all but curled up in Tony’s lap, breathing heavy and open-mouthed against Tony’s cheek.

“Good evening, sirs,” the girl chirps, as if this is completely normal and nothing at all out of the ordinary. “What can I get you?”

Tony orders in fluent Italian, which is doing absolutely nothing to tamp down the low burn of arousal in Bucky’s belly, refusing to let Bucky go even after he’s accepted the containers with their food.

He feeds Bucky pasta and licks stray tomato sauce from the corner of Bucky’s mouth, pupils blown wide, hums and lets his eyes flutter shut when Bucky dips a finger into the tiramisu to paint on Tony’s neck before cleaning it off with his lips and tongue. It’s messy and ridiculous, they’re grown men, after all, but Bucky moans and rocks against Tony nonetheless as Tony brushes their mouths together, tasting of dark chocolate and desire.

They only part long enough to stumble out of the car, through the lobby of Stark Tower, something Bucky would be impressed by if he wasn’t nearly blind with horniness, and into the elevator where Tony pins him against the wall, lips back on Bucky’s and rubbing their straining erections together.

Clothes are stripped off hurriedly and left in careless piles all the way from the foyer to Tony’s bedroom, Bucky standing unashamedly naked at the foot of Tony’s huge bed with Tony sitting on the edge in nothing more than his briefs and an undershirt, trailing wet, sloppy kisses along Bucky’s hip. His left hand is cupping Bucky’s ass, a finger dipping teasingly into Bucky’s crack every now and again, the right curled loosely around the base of Bucky’s cock to hold it steady, warm breath ghosting over the damp head while Tony looks his fill.

“Gorgeous,” he says, thumb catching on one of the dydoes, teeth closing around the small frenum ring and giving an experimental tug. “Gorgeous.”

“You talkin’ about me or my dick?” Bucky laughs breathlessly, the sound morphing into a quiet moan when Tony licks away a bead of precum.

“Both,” Tony declares, grinning and eyes twinkling, shuffling up the mattress and crooking a finger at Bucky, urging him to follow.

Which Bucky does gladly, divesting Tony of his underwear as he goes and pressing a too light kiss to his shaft, but quickly moving away when Tony’s hips twitch up, trying to get his dick closer to where he wants it.

He nuzzles at the crease where thigh meets groin, kissing his way up and dipping his tongue into Tony’s bellybutton, shoving the undershirt up only for Tony to freeze suddenly, hands shooting out to catch Bucky’s wrists, his whole body tensing.

Bucky wouldn’t have pegged Tony for the self-conscious type, but he’s nothing if not adaptable, smoothing a soothing palm over Tony’s quivering stomach. “Wanna keep that on?”

But Tony’s already shaking his head before Bucky has finished talking, clearly uncomfortable at the prospect of baring his chest but equally determined to ignore that discomfort. In one swift motion, he grabs the hem of the shirt and yanks it over his head, dropping it off the side of the bed, lying back and not quite meeting Bucky’s eyes, looking like he’s awaiting judgement.

Slowly, giving Tony the chance to change his mind, Bucky leans down to leave a lingering, reassuring kiss right on the middle of the mess of thick, gnarly scars that have been revealed, feeling Tony’s breathing grow faster where his hands are resting over Tony’s ribs.

“It’s not pretty to look at, I know,” Tony says, voice rough, throwing an arm over his face. “You know some of what happened, if you follow the news at all. It’s- I- I-“

“Hey, ssh,” Bucky hums, taking Tony’s free and slightly trembling hand, kissing his knuckles. “’S all right, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, it’s okay.”

Tony sucks in a somewhat unsteady breath, shaking his head as much as possible without removing his arm. “I want- I want to. I should, maybe? I think. It’s what my therapist says, anyway,” he chuckles dryly, then clears his throat. “There’s the part the public knows about, the trip to Afghanistan, the weapons demonstration, me getting captured and held hostage for months. Only, it wasn’t supposed to happen like that, I wasn’t supposed to come back. It was all planned out, the entire trip just a setup to get me out of the way, organised by the person I trusted most, the man I’ve considered a father figure for longer than I ever even knew my real parents.”

“Shit,” Bucky blurts, eliciting another humourless laugh from Tony.

“That’s one way to put it, yeah,” he sighs, moving both hands to grind the heels into his eyes.

“But I survived, with a chest full of shrapnel. Wouldn’t have made it if it hadn’t been for Yi- another captive. Cut me open with what he had at hand, removed the shrapnel. Would’ve wandered into my heart otherwise, shredded it to pieces. The terrorists, they recognised me, realised I was worth more to them alive. Wanted me to build weapons for them. I refused, and they were not exactly happy about it. Tried to- to convince me. I ended up building weapons all right, blew their whole base sky high, wandered around the desert for hours, days, maybe, until a search chopper found me, brought me home.”
Bucky doesn’t know what to say, if there is something he can say besides the meaningless platitudes, so he stays quiet, encouragingly stroking his hands up and down Tony’s sides instead.

“And now I’m back, trying to clean up the mess I let them make behind my back, fix the things I fucked up by being stupid and not paying attention. Flushing out the people who were in it with Ob- the guy who wanted me killed. They were selling weapons under the table, to the terrorists, so I shut the weapons department down completely. Been digging up evidence, forcing them to resign or turning them over. It’s- it’s fucked up, it really is,” he finishes, finally chancing a glimpse back up at Bucky, visibly pushing away the hurt and tragedy, willing a weak, wobbly smile onto his face. Gesturing at his chest, he says, “I can, if it bothers you, I can turn around, it’s fine, doesn’t matter-“

Turns out, Tony can easily be shut up through kissing. “It doesn’t bother me,” Bucky promises, running the tip of one finger along one of the more prominent lines. “’M not gonna go all sappy on you and tell you they’re beautiful or anything like that, but they’re here, they’re part of you, and that’s that. Besides,” he says, mouth twisting wryly as he guides Tony’s hand up to his left shoulder, “we match.”

“What,” Tony frowns, sitting up until his nose is brushing against Bucky’s shoulder, squinting at Bucky’s inked skin, the old scars underneath. “Didn’t notice those. Huh.”

“That was the point of the tattoo,” Bucky points out, amused. “Well, kinda, anyway.” At Tony’s intrigued look, he elaborates, “I mean, I didn’t exactly like looking at them, yeah, but covering them was only part of the reason. My convoy got hit by an IED on my third tour, I ended up pinned under one of the cars for hours, torn metal cutting into my shoulder. I don’t remember, but they tell me I almost lost the arm, they were only able to save it ‘cause it somehow never got infected, despite everything.”

Tony is blinking rapidly. Bucky kisses the soft skin beneath his eyes, then his nose, grinning faintly when Tony wrinkles it at him. “When they shipped me back home, I threw myself into physical therapy, did everything they told me and more, all the exercises. Didn’t work, though. Never got back full motion, I can only lift the arm up to about this high,” he says, indicating his sternum.

“Almost no sensation left, I knock shit over all the time ‘cause I can’t feel what I’m doing. There I was, frustrated and angry, my body not doin’ what I was telling it to, my arm feelin’ like it didn’t belong to me at all. So that’s what I made it look like, too. Like a spare part, a machine, a replacement. My psychiatrist wasn’t thrilled, and it’s a good thing I have a friend who owns a tattoo studio, otherwise I could’ve never afforded any of these, but strangely enough, my little temper tantrum actually helped. Arm’s still fucked up, still feels like it’s not mine, but now it also looks the part and everything kind of, you know, fits. Again. In a weird, screwed up sorta way.”

They’re silent for a long moment after that, digesting the other’s confessions, until Tony breaks the tension with, “Well, this sucked,” and Bucky snorts out a laugh, giving Tony’s thigh a half-hearted swat.

“Change of topic,” Bucky agrees readily, squirming and rubbing his mostly soft-again cock against Tony’s belly, relieved when Tony’s hands return to squeeze his butt. “What I do want to know, though,” he says, tapping the name written in delicate letters across Tony’s collarbone, “is who Maria is, and why you’ve been ogling my ink without telling me that you have some of your own.”

Tony perks up at the mention of the name. “My mother.” Lifting his arm, he shows off a tiny black bowtie just under his pit, followed by an almost scarily cheerful smiley face on the backside of his other arm above his elbow, and a small collection of white flowers Bucky doesn’t recognise on his biceps.

“And then,” he goes on, nudging Bucky to get off his legs so he can turn onto his stomach, “there’s this.”

There’s nothing Bucky can do but stare, slack-jawed, for several seconds, at the bright pink, smoking, shades-wearing pineapple on Tony’s right ass cheek. Then he starts laughing, collapsing forward until he’s sprawled half on and half off Tony, head turned to the side so they’re nose to nose.

“Glad you can find joy in my drunken, youthful indiscretions,” Tony drawls, tipping his chin up in a request for a kiss that Bucky’s happy to oblige. When they part, Tony adds, “I’ll have you know that my best friend is sporting the same monstrosity, and while mine has certainly been the source of some mockery over the years, he’s an Air Force Colonel who’s spent the last twenty odd years having to explain this idiocy to naked soldiers in communal showers, so I think I still win.”

“You’re such a dork,” Bucky teases fondly, their next kiss filled with happy, giddy laughter.
They shift onto their sides, still facing each other, Tony wriggling out of Bucky’s arms for a moment to retrieve something from the drawer in the bedside table, returning to his position plastered against Bucky’s chest with a bottle of lube in hand and an excited smile on his lips.
Tony squirts some of the liquid, faintly smelling like vanilla, into his palm, spreading it over his fingers, but then, much to Bucky’s surprise, he reaches behind himself and between his own legs.

“Oh,” Bucky breathes, nosing at Tony’s cheek and trailing a hand down over his back, stopping just shy of where Tony is opening himself up. “Want some help with that?”

Tony sighs against Bucky’s mouth when Bucky slips a finger into him, sliding his own out and handing over the reins to Bucky, all but melting into the sheets under Bucky’s ministrations. He only moves again when he grows too impatient to wait any longer, giving a sad little whine when he stretches to grab a condom and accidentally dislodges Bucky’s fingers.

A condom Bucky eventually has to take away from him and put on himself after Tony gets distracted playing with Bucky’s piercings and foreskin, lazily grinning up at Bucky when Bucky rolls him over onto his back.

The first slide into Tony’s body makes Bucky groan shamelessly, the heat and tightness so overwhelming for a moment, he has to squeeze his eyes shut and bite the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from coming much too soon. Tony, knowing exactly what’s happening, laughs and bucks his hips up, drawing another grunt out of Bucky before Bucky pins him back down to the mattress, biting at his shoulder in retaliation.

Not that it’s helping, judging by the way Tony’s back arches and the downright filthy moan.

Indulging his inner teenager, Bucky goes to work on a hickey which, much to his thrilled delight, is high enough that it will definitely be visible unless Tony starts walking around in turtlenecks. He’s got one hand tangled in Tony’s hair to tilt his head to the side for better neck access, using the other to hook one of Tony’s legs around his waist, grabbing at Tony’s thigh to keep it in place. Although it seems as if Tony’s perfectly willing to stay as Bucky’s positioned him, pliant and still except for the hands clutching at Bucky’s shoulders, kiss-swollen lips parted slightly, and glazed honey eyes fixed on Bucky’s icy grey ones.

The whole experience is intense, not what Bucky would have expected from a random hook-up, but he does not mind at all. In fact, he’s lucky Tony’s equally on edge, wriggling his hips a little so Bucky’s hitting his prostate with every other thrust and cock trapped between their bellies, reaching his climax after only a few short minutes with a choked cry against Bucky’s neck.

And Bucky follows him right over the edge, using the last of his energy to turn his head enough to messily smear their mouths together as he trembles and shakes through his own orgasm. He has just enough brainpower left to roll away from Tony so not to squish him, ending up on his stomach beside Tony with his face mashed into a pillow, blissed out and panting.

He’s startled out of a light doze when the bed dips as Tony stands up, giving Bucky’s ankle a gentle squeeze on his way into the bathroom.

Bucky considers getting up and leaving to spare them both the post-sex awkwardness and stilted small talk, but actually moving seems like too much of an effort right then. Before he’s come to a final decision, Tony is returning already, stroking a hand through Bucky’s hair with a tenderness that is hard to resist, bending down to kiss Bucky’s forehead and murmuring a quiet, “C’mon, sweetheart, that’s not going to be fun lying in for much longer.”

With a dramatic whine, Bucky turns onto his back, the pout he’s directing up at Tony melting into a fond little smile when Tony straddles him, using the damp and pleasantly cool washcloth he’s brought to clean the drying, sticky mess off Bucky’s stomach. Finished, he kisses the now pink skin, then stretches out on top of Bucky, throwing a leg over both of Bucky’s and tugging the blankets up over their lower halves, effectively taking the decision whether or not to stay the night out of Bucky’s hands.

Bucky falls asleep with Tony in his arms, a warm, comforting weight against his chest, and Tony’s slightly parted lips pressed against his neck.

It’s nice, and Bucky does his best to tell himself he won’t miss it when the time comes to go back home.

Bucky wakes to the enticing smell of dark, freshly brewed coffee, which is swiftly followed by the sensation of warm, slightly damp lips peppering kisses up his spine.

“Gah?” Bucky manages, eloquent as ever first thing in the morning, painstakingly peeling open one eye to blink up at Tony’s chuckling face appearing in his field of vision.

“Morning, sunshine,” Tony laughs and brushes a brief kiss over Bucky’s mouth, apparently completely indifferent to the morning breath Bucky’s sure he has. “Coffee?”

“Nngh,” Bucky grumbles sleepily, but allows Tony to manoeuvre him onto his back and fold his fingers around a steaming cup of black, bitter deliciousness. It takes him about half of it to form real, coherent words, a slurred, “Thank you.”

Tony just smiles and retrieves a tray from the foot of the bed, setting it in Bucky’s lap. Bucky stares at it and its contents for a long moment before looking back up at Tony with a grin that’s threatening to split his face right in half, by the feel of it. “You’re spoiling me.”

“It’s nothing,” Tony waves dismissively, flopping back down next to Bucky, tearing off a piece of croissant and popping it into his mouth. Bucky doesn’t know him all that well yet, not at all, really, but if he’s learned something about Tony in the last couple of hours, it’s that he’s shit at taking compliments.

And also that it’s fucking adorable how shit he is at it.

“Thanks,” Bucky says again, leaning over for another quick kiss, and then he starts digging in. Even though this entire situation is mind-bogglingly surreal because, well, breakfast in bed!

At home, Bucky doesn’t even have a real bed. At home, Bucky has an old, ratty second-hand double mattress he shares with Steve, pushed up against their equally old, rattling radiator so they don’t freeze to death in their otherwise poorly insulated apartment.

And now here he is, eating breakfast in bed, a bed that has to be custom-made because it is freakin’ huge, with Tony fucking Stark, who Bucky’d fucked the night before, snuggled up to his side, alternately nibbling on pieces of fruit and Bucky’s shoulder.

The food is amazing and if Bucky weren’t almost one-hundred percent sure that asking your one-night stand for a doggie bag is super impolite, he’d take some of it with him when he leaves because Steve and him could probably live another two days off of the leftovers. There are the croissants and the fruit, most of which Bucky doesn’t know the name of, scrambled eggs, two kinds of bacon, and bagels with cream cheese and what’s probably some kind of fancy fish on them.

In short, Bucky’s in heaven.

Even more so when, halfway through the meal, Tony declares that he’s hungry for something else, flips back the blankets and, without preamble, proceeds to suck Bucky off after telling him to, “Keep eating, it’s fine.”

Bucky returns the favour in the shower later, crowding Tony up against the conveniently heated tiles, jerking him off with two soapy fingers buried in Tony’s ass and his mouth attached to Tony’s neck, adding some more hickeys. Because he can, and he likes looking at them and knowing he’s the one who put them there, which is strange but something Bucky decides not to think about too closely right then.

Afterwards, they kiss lazily, more groping each other than actually getting each other clean, taking a few more minutes to enjoy the frankly fantastic water pressure of Tony’s ridiculously extravagant shower.

“You,” Bucky snorts, amused, batting Tony’s hands away from his still sensitive cock, “have a worryin’ obsession with the metal in my dick.”

Tony pouts at him, which is cuter than it has any right to be given that Tony is a man in his late thirties, but moves away after a last teasing flick against the frenum ring.

Tony’s playful mood drops, however, when they get back to the bedroom and Bucky starts dressing in his clothes which, to his delighted surprised, have been washed and dried over night. Bucky shimmies his hips and bites his lip as he adjusts himself in his jeans, but Tony’s just sitting there, perched on the edge of the bed and fidgeting with the cord of his robe.

“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, going for bold and straddling Tony, nudging their noses together, “what’s up?”

Wrapping his arms around Bucky, Tony tugs him flush against his chest, chin propped against Bucky’s sternum, his expression uncharacteristically hesitant as he gears up to saying whatever it is that’s bothering him. “We should do this again,” he blurts eventually, talking fast enough that the words stumble over each other, “like, soon. Tonight?”

“Can’t,” Bucky says, then quickly bends down for an apologetic kiss when Tony’s face falls and his shoulders slump dejectedly. “Not that I don’t want to, but I gotta work. Sunday’s my night off, though, if you’re free?”

“Yes!” Tony agrees before Bucky has even finished his question. When Bucky grins at his obvious enthusiasm, he tries to scowl but completely ruins the effect with the happy smile he can’t seem to hold back. “Yes, that’d be great. Dinner and a movie? Only, not a movie. If I want people being loud and annoying I’d go to one of the meetings I usually skip. I’ll think of something else. Yes?”

“Sounds good,” Bucky smiles and gives a startled little yelp when Tony lets himself fall backwards, taking Bucky with him and pulling him into another kiss.

Bucky hadn’t gone home with Tony expecting more than one night of fun, hadn’t been enthusiastic about getting to know new people ever since Brock, but he could go for a steady friends with benefits sort of arrangement if that’s what Tony wants.

And, judging by the fingers in Bucky’s hair and the mouth on his jaw, Tony’s definitely up for that. Pun kinda intended.

The lose another half hour making out sprawled out on the bed and then, again, a few minutes against the wall next to the elevator before Bucky can finally bring himself to leave.

Tony insists on his driver taking Bucky over to Brooklyn, and Bucky just shrugs and doesn’t protest because how often is someone like him going to get the chance to be chauffeured around in a limo, sipping cool lime water and pitying the poor suckers bustling in and out of the subway stations?

The apartment is empty when Bucky arrives, Steve working the afternoon shift at the diner on Saturdays, so Bucky strips down to his briefs and goes to sleep. It’s not like he got a lot of that while staying at Tony’s, and between juggling three jobs and attending his classes, Bucky can always use a couple of extra hours of rest.

He manages to get some homework done before heading to the club with a skip in his step that’s partly due to the thrill of anticipation coursing through him whenever he thinks about meeting Tony again the next day, and due to the fact that Brock only works weekdays.

Sunday morning, Bucky is roused none too gently by Steve sitting on his chest, literally, demanding to know every single little thing that’s happened since Bucky’s Friday night text of, Met a guy, staying out, don’t worry., and Steve’s answering message of, Use protection.

“Why?” Bucky whines and tries to roll away and onto his front, but despite his nearly four years in the army and Steve being all of five foot nothing and ninety pounds soaking wet, the little shit manages to successfully prevent Bucky from doing so, digging pointy elbow into Bucky’s ribs and kneeing him in the stomach more than once while they tussle and play-fight. Eventually, Bucky admits defeat with a groaned, “You’re a fuckin’ menace, Stevie.”

Steve grins, looking inordinately proud of himself. “Tell me about your mystery man, c’mon!”

“Morning people should be illegal,” Bucky gripes but sits up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he starts with Justin Hammer buying a dance for Tony.

“Well,” Steve says once Bucky’s finished his retelling of the last two days, mischievous little grin tugging at his lips, “looks like you got yourself a sugar daddy.”

“He’s not-“ Bucky begins agitatedly, then cuts himself off and chucks a pillow at Steve’s stupid, laughing face. “We’re just, we’re having fun. He’s nice. I like him. Shut up!”

Steve, wondrously enough, actually does stay quiet for a minute before fixing Bucky with an all too knowing stare. “You don’t do casual, Buck,” he points out, entirely reasonable. The jerk.

Bucky purses his lips, puts on a half-hearted glare. “Who says it’s casual?”

That earns him one of Steve’s eyeball-dislodging strong eye rolls. “You called him, and I’m quoting you here, word for word,” he says, hands lifted and ready to do the air quotes, “your ‘middle-aged but in a good way like whiskey or something, dreamy ‘n steamy piece of fuckbuddy goodness’. I’m not claimin’ to be an expert, but that does sound pretty casual to me. ‘Specially the fuckbuddy part. Just sayin’.”

“Yeah, yeah. Cut back the sass,” Bucky grumbles, aiming a lazy kick in Steve’s general direction. “And I’m perfectly capable of keeping things casual, thank you very much.”

Steve just snorts at that. “No, you’re not.”

“Excuse you? I have-“

“Mike,” Steve interrupts, one eyebrow raised challengingly, daring Bucky to interrupt him in return, “Leonard, Felix, Clint, Alejandro, Gene, Kyle, Oli, and, oh yeah, Brock. Am I missing anyone, or?”

“Not all of those were supposed to be casual!” Bucky exclaims, throwing his hands in the air. “You can’t just list everyone I’ve ever been involved with, what are-“

“Sven!”

“-you even tryin’ to accomplish here, huh? This is so unfair, not everyone can be as disgustingly cute and perfect together as you and Sam, this is-“

“Oh! That French guy, the exchange student? A-something, right? A- A- Armand, yes!”

“-so dumb, Steve, oh my God! Stop it! Why are you so invested in my sex life anyway, you creep?”

Steve’s face softens suddenly and he moves closer again, flopping down over Bucky’s legs. “I’m invested in your happiness. Idiot.”

He wriggles and rearranges himself until his back is pressed against Bucky’s chest, Bucky’s arm automatically coming up to hold him. It’s their preferred ‘talking about serious shit’ position, has been ever since they were little and sneaking into each other’s rooms in the foster home. Makes things easier, not having to look the other in the eye.

“I’m fine, Stevie,” Bucky sighs, blowing into Steve’s ear just because he knows Steve hates that and it’ll make him squirm and curse.

“You’re so far from fine, you can’t even see where fine used to be anymore,” Steve disagrees, smacking a paint-streaked hand into Bucky’s face in retaliation. “You’re halfway to being in love with that guy already, is what you are. A guy you claim is out of your league and unavailable, I might add.”

“It’s not like I choose who I fall in love with,” Bucky defends himself, hiding his face away in Steve’s hair. “Not that that’s what’s going on. Because I’m not. Falling in love with Tony Stark. After meeting him once. ‘Cause that’d be-“

“Just like you,” Steve finishes, but not unkindly. Understanding.

Bucky hates it so much when he’s right.

They stay like that, cuddled together and quiet, for a while, not talking anymore, just taking a few moments to calm down and remind themselves that whatever happens, whatever’s going on, they still have each other. Always had, always will.

The thought never fails to cheer Bucky up. He props himself up on one elbow to lean over Steve and kiss his cheek, a silent thank you. Neither of them is particularly good at accepting help or thanking the other for receiving it, but they both have their ways to show how much they care. Steve frets and gets bossy, and Bucky steals the occasional kiss when he can get away with it. He’s well aware that they get mistaken for a couple all the damned time, though he doesn’t care all that much. Steve and him have known each other all their lives, have grown up and grown together, made it through everything, all the tragedies and terrible crap the universe has decided to throw at them, and something like that, so much shared history, binds together. Steve’s his brother, for all intents and purposes, his Steve.

Steve calls them queerplatonic life partners, and Bucky goes along with it ‘cause he loves the faces people make when Steve tells them as much, doing their best to be supportive and inclusive while obviously having absolutely no idea what the tiny, fierce guy with the faded purple Mohawk and no nonsense attitude is talking about.

“Get off me,” Steve grimaces, shoving at Bucky until he does, laughing and ruffling Steve’s hair as he goes. “And get up, you’re comin’ to the diner with me today. You’ll just end up moping around in here, and forget to eat and drive yourself crazy over what to wear if I leave you on your own.”

Bucky shoots up at that, wide-eyed and on the verge of panic. “Fuck! What am I going to wear tonight?”

Steve groans, long-suffering.

There’s candle in the middle of the table, and Bucky doesn’t know what to do with that.

The restaurant itself is nice, more upscale than anything Bucky would choose or could ever hope to afford, but not so much so that Bucky feels out of place or inappropriate in his simple black jeans and button up shirt.

Tony is wearing another suit, dark grey with a burgundy shirt, the jacket draped over the back of his chair and the tight waistcoat doing things to Bucky’s nether regions. In fact, Tony looks delicious enough that Bucky’s seriously considering skipping dinner and going right to the naked and sweaty part of the evening.

But he can’t do that, Bucky reminds himself, because first of all, Tony’s probably paid a shitload of money for their food, which is magnificent and difficult not to moan over with every bite, and secondly, there’s that damned candle.

Not every table has one, Bucky’s checked already. Which means that Tony either requested one, for some unfathomable reason, or that the wait staff has put it there accidentally, assuming what Tony and Bucky are doing here is an actual date.

Which it is not.

Because men like Anthony Edward Stark don’t date fuck-ups like James Buchanan Barnes, that’s not a thing that happens in real life.

More likely that Tony’s just a classy sort of guy, making sure his conquests are fed and happy before he takes them home.

Yeah. Yeah, that makes much more sense.

“Hey,” Tony breaks Bucky out of his musings, reaching across the table to cover Bucky’s hand with his own. “You all right over there? Liking the food?”

“It’s really good,” Bucky says, immediately feeling like a complete idiot. Really good. Geez, eloquent much?

But Tony’s mouth stretches into a smile, genuine as far as Bucky can tell, and the hand still holding Bucky’s gives a brief squeeze before retreating. Bucky mourns its loss for all of a second, then Tony’s foot is hooking around his ankle, apparently there to stay for the time being.
“Glad to hear it,” Tony says, spearing another piece of steak.

He launches into a speech about the cows the meat is coming from and why it’s the best steak this side of Manhattan, and Bucky nods along and hmms and ahs whenever necessary, much too busy cataloguing the feel of Tony’s leg pressed against his to do anything else.

They share an enormous slice of chocolate lava cake for dessert, Bucky amusing himself with licking liquid chocolate from his spoon as seductively as possible and watching Tony’s eyes go dark, before they head out.

To Bucky’s confusion, however, Tony tugs him in the opposite direction of where Happy had parked the car earlier, insisting that, “It’s just two blocks, we can walk,” and linking his arm through Bucky’s.

So. Another pit stop before the sex happens. Or kinky sex somewhere that isn’t Tony’s penthouse. Bucky can definitely get behind that. Or under that, he isn’t picky.

What he doesn’t expect is to be led to what looks like a community centre, people just beginning to file into the auditorium visible through the huge glass front on one side of the building.

“Tony?” Bucky questions, suddenly nervous. He wasn’t prepared for this, whatever this is, and the suspense is just about killing him.

Tony, at least, seems similarly keyed up, absently playing with Bucky’s cuff when he explains, “A friend of mine, Tasha, she’s teaching a class here. I- I didn’t really know what you’d like, so I hope I’m not going to embarrass myself here. But you talked about dancing and I figured, well, you wouldn’t want me going all out and taking you to the opera or something, so here we are. Want to go in?”

Bucky nods mutely, allowing Tony to steer him to their seats in the front row up on the small balcony.

It’s not a date, but spectacular nonetheless.

The kids must be around twelve to fourteen, flying across the stage with obvious enthusiasm and excitement, reminding Bucky of his own time spent in a company. God, does he miss dancing, real dancing, not the kind he does at work, sometimes.

They chat briefly with Tony’s friend after the recital is over, a terrifying redhead who warns Bucky, in Russian no less, to be good to Tony and doesn’t look away until he promises to give it his best, before Bucky can’t take it anymore and drags Tony into the first unoccupied room he finds, pushing him back to sit on a strategically placed desk.

“You,” Bucky gasps, overwhelmed, mind-reeling, “are something else.”

He has Tony’s belt open before his knees even hit the floor, relishing the deep, drawn out moan sucking Tony’s quickly hardening cock into his mouth earns him.

“I take it you approve of my entertainment choices,” Tony quips after spilling himself into Bucky’s hand, panting but not letting that deter him from pushing Bucky back to lie flat on the floor, kissing him deep and stroking him off torturously slowly.

Since both Tony and Bucky have work in the morning, they decide to call it an early night and Tony texts Happy to come pick them up. They’re turning into Bucky’s street when it hits Bucky, all of a sudden, that Tony’s going to see where he lives. How he lives.

Shit.

Even worse, Tony is being a gentleman and insists on seeing Bucky up to his door where Bucky is about to say goodbye, the hallway still being less rundown than their actual apartment, when Steve opens the door, stubbornly lifted chin telling Bucky that he’s got something planned and that Bucky won’t like it.

“Mister Stark,” Steve greets, sweet and innocent like he decidedly is not. “Would you like to come in for a drink?”

Bucky is going to kill him. Smother him in his sleep. Drop him out of a window.

“Uh, sure,” Tony shrugs, taken aback but not put off yet, stepping inside when Steve gestures for him to do so.

The fuck are you doing? Bucky mouths at Steve once Tony’s back is turned.

“Makin’ sure he’s good enough for you,” Steve whispers back without a hint of shame, following Tony inside, and leaving Bucky to ball his hands into fists and count back from ten before doing the same and closing the door behind them.

Tony is standing in the middle of the room, glancing around with what Bucky assumes is morbid fascination. “Cosy,” he settles on eventually, “with a certain college dorm-vibe. Less dirty underwear.”

He accepts the glass of water, cheap tap water and not cooled lime water from a spring somewhere in Iceland, and, after considering for a moment, kicks off his shoes and sits down on the bed aka sofa, looking up at Bucky expectantly.

Behind them, leaning against the counter, Steve nods approvingly. Whatever test he’s putting Tony through, Tony seems to be doing okay, at least, which is something.

“We could, ehm, we could watch something?” Bucky suggests, sheepishly rubbing at the back of his neck. “Any requests?”

Which is how they end up squished onto the too small mattress, all three of them with Bucky between Tony and Steve, Steve catching Tony up on Orange Is The New Black on Steve’s ancient school laptop, courtesy of Sam’s Netflix account, with running commentary that Tony not only appears to be unbothered by, but actively participates in.

In fact, Tony and Steve get along scarily well, arguing and ribbing each other good-naturedly. It’s a little eerie to watch, if Bucky’s being honest.

They’re two episodes in when Steve falls silent and Bucky realises Tony’s asleep on his shoulder, one arm behind Bucky’s back and the hand of the other on Bucky’s hip, breathing steadily against Bucky’s collarbone.

“He’s not what I expected,” Steve admits quietly, and Bucky knows him well enough to take it for the apology it is.

Steve goes to retrieve a spare blanket while Bucky manoeuvres Tony out of his jacket and waistcoat, loosening his tie and the first two buttons of his shirt so he won’t choke himself or anything, then curls up with Tony cradled securely against his chest, Tony’s head tucked under his chin and his nose in Tony’s hair.

“So far gone already,” Steve clucks, squeezing into the tiny remaining space, back to back with Bucky.

Bucky’s almost asleep when Steve starts chuckling, the sound muffled through the hands he has clasped over his mouth, slurring a somewhat annoyed, “Wha’?”

“We, we have Tony Stark in our apartment,” Steve wheezes, whole body shaking with mirth and a hefty dose of disbelief that’s audible in his voice, too. “We have Tony Stark in our apartment, Buck. In our bed. What even is our life?”

And yeah, when he puts it like that Bucky can’t help but laugh along because really, what even?

That’s how it goes from there.

Tony comes to pick Bucky up after his shift early Saturday morning so they can spend the rest of the night and the day together, then drives him back to the club in the evening. Sundays are for outings and dinners, Steve joining them more often than not and even Sam tagging along once or twice.

There are some of Bucky’s sweatshirts and ripped jeans neatly stacked between Tony’s slacks and button ups so he always has a fresh set of clothes to change into, and Tony has a spare toothbrush and one of his favourite pillows at Bucky’s for convenience’s sake.

And if Bucky has to keep resolutely pushing away the hope that bubbles up in his chest when Tony holds his hand during a movie at the drive-in, and pretend everything’s all right when Sam calls one of their dinners a double date even though he has trouble meeting everyone’s eyes afterwards, well, it’s still worth it to wake up in Tony’s arms and have Tony shower him with kisses after an exhausting night at the club and bring him breakfast in bed the next morning.

Bucky’s not about to ruin the best relationship he’s had in forever by being clingy and needy. He can do casual, damn it, Steve!

Time flies and before Bucky knows it, October has turned into November and November into December with Christmas fast approaching. It’s tradition for Bucky and Steve to pack their meagre belongings and head upstate on the twenty-third to spend the holidays with Bucky’s foster parents and stay there until the twenty-sixth, three full days of being surrounded by family and loved ones.

Becca’s coming from Chicago with her husband and the kids, and Steve, for the last two years, has been bringing Sam along as well, so Bucky shouldn’t be as surprised as he is when Steve asks, during a break at critiquing Sam’s packing strategy, “Are you going to invite Tony?”

“I- I-“ Bucky stutters, caught completely off guard, “I don’t know? Do you think he’d want to? Come, I mean?”

“Won’t know until you ask, man,” Sam says, clapping him on the shoulder as he passes by with Steve’s toilet bag in hand.

No one mentions it again, but the thought doesn’t leave Bucky alone for the rest of the day. Would Tony want to meet his family? Or is this too personal, too intimate for the kind of thing they’ve got going on? And, more importantly, does Bucky want his family to meet Tony?

Right, who’s he trying to kid here? Bucky’s been gushing to his sister about Tony to an extent that she’s actually passed the phone off to his three year old niece twice over the last few weeks because, according to her, his infatuated pining has stopped being sweet and crashed right over into level ten annoyance.

Not that Bucky doesn’t appreciate talking to Tamara, but her off key renditions of Let It Go have, so far, not helped him solve the dilemma he’s currently in.

He puts off asking Tony until the last possible moment, texting him the evening of the twenty-second, wanting to know if he’s busy over the next couple of days and, should he be free, if he’d like to come visit the family with him, Steve and Sam.

There’s no reply, but Tony rings the doorbell an hour and a half later, bags at his feet and balancing a cardboard tray of coffee for everyone, which is answer enough.

Even though Bucky isn’t entirely sure why Tony’d want to spend Christmas with him instead of his own friends, but he’s definitely not about to look a gift horse in the mouth here.

Tony insists on driving them himself and since his car, or one of his armada of cars, rather, is way more comfortable and roomy than Sam’s old Beetle, and also has a mini-bar, no one says a word about him breaking the speed limit and yelling at the other people on the road. Steve’s right with him there anyway, sharing Tony’s road rage while Sam and Bucky kick back and watch.

“We sure know how to pick them,” Sam chuckles and Bucky nods in agreement, clinking his bottle of beer against Sam’s.

Contrary to what Bucky’d been fearing, Tony and his family get along splendidly despite the blaring, impossible-to-miss status and class difference.

The first evening, Tony gets into a discussion with Doug, Becca’s husband, about something no one but him and the mathematician can follow, so they leave them to it and settle down around the fireplace for drinks. Doug and Tony join them an hour later, Doug cuddling up to Becca on the couch and Tony doing the same with Bucky on the loveseat.

Winifred coos at them, snapping pictures to send to everyone she’s ever met, Bucky suspects and whines a drawn out, “Moooom!”

But Tony waves dismissively, winding his arms around Bucky’s waist, his chin coming to rest on Bucky’s shoulder, and demands, “Take another one.”

“You realise those are going to end up on Facebook and from there who knows where, right?” Bucky mumbles against Tony’s neck later that night when they’re curled up in Bucky’s old room on his tiny twin bed, Bucky’s head tucked under Tony’s chin and one of Tony’s hands idly playing with Bucky’s hair.

“It’s fine,” Tony yawns, dropping off to sleep soon after and leaving Bucky to contemplate just what the hell it means that his very famous fuckbuddy doesn’t mind cutesy pictures of the two of them being spread around on the internet.

There’s one obvious explanation, but Bucky chooses to carefully ignore it because it’s exactly what Bucky’s not so secretly wanted things between him and Tony to mean, and Bucky doesn’t get that lucky. Ever.

The twenty-fourth is mostly spent wrapping presents and preparing massive amounts of food, and since Bucky can’t cook to save his life and Tony is a walking, talking fire hazard, they get saddled with babysitting duty. It’s not so bad, all things considered. Clara, at six months, is happy to sit in Bucky’s lap with her teething toy, gurgling and babbling to herself. Tamara is watching Frozen for what Becca claims has to be the hundredth time at least, which only leaves Emmett needing active supervision.

And Tony, surprisingly enough, has got them covered there, showing uncharacteristic patience with the seven-year-old and his fumbling tries at putting his model airplane together.

Bucky can practically feel his heart swell at the sight of them, falling in love all over again.

Damn it.

Predictably, they’re woken by Emmett and Tamara excitedly running up and down the hall shortly after dawn on Christmas morning, dragging themselves out of bed only to collapse again on the couch. At least Steve and Sam look similarly Zombie-like. Bucky’s fairly sure Steve’s actually still asleep on Sam’s shoulder.

Tony, to Becca’s unending despair and Bucky’s amusement, has somehow, in the hour between Bucky asking about coming along and turning up at Bucky’s apartment, organised a copy of the Frozen soundtrack signed by Idina Menzel for Tamara. They’re all fully awake after the five minutes she spends screeching and jumping around on the armchair, chanting, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

The gifts for the rest of Bucky’s family are equally thoughtful, proving that Tony is actually paying attention and not just humouring him whenever Bucky talks about them. It does absolutely nothing to quell the warm, fuzzy feelings that have started to make themselves at home in Bucky’s stomach ever since they arrived at his parents’ house.

Before they leave on the morning of the twenty-sixth, Becca pulls Bucky aside for A Talk, capital letters implied, so they sneak out while the others are loading up the car, climbing up into their old tree house for a little nostalgic privacy, bundled up in their coats and carrying cups of hot chocolate against the cold.

“You need to tell him,” Becca starts without preamble and all reasonable, letting Bucky feel the ten years of additional life experience she has on him. “You’re torturing yourself, Buck, it’s painful to watch.”

Bucky briefly thinks about acting clueless and insisting that he has no idea what she’s talking about, but decides against it in the end because Becca is ruthless. Instead, he pulls up his knees to hide his face behind them, moaning out a miserable, “It was supposed to be casual.”

“One would think that you’d have learned by now,” Becca sighs, whacking him over the back of the head. “You don’t do casual.”

“Stop talking to Steve about me,” Bucky groans, batting her hand away. “’Sides, I’m fine, I know what I’m doing.”

Becca levels him with a flat look. “You’re twenty-four years old, James Buchanan, I believe it’s time you stop lying to yourself.”

“Shut up,” Bucky sniffs, pouting at her but leaning into her side nonetheless when she pulls him close to press a kiss to the crown of his head.

“Tony?” Bucky begins tentatively that evening, his sister’s words rattling around in his head as he watches Tony dress for some sort of gala thing he has to attend as a Stark Industries representative, and has been complaining about the entire drive back to New York. “What are we?”

“In an existential sense, or?” Tony grins at him through his reflection in the full-length mirror, adjusting his bowtie.

Bucky opens his mouth to explain, but loses his nerve at the last moment, settling on, “Never mind, it’s not important. Here, let me,” he says, getting up to join Tony, taking his hands to fix his cufflinks in place.

“You sure?” Tony asks, frowning a little, cupping Bucky’s face between his hands once Bucky’s finished, tilting his face up to press a kiss to the tip of his nose. “You’ve been quiet.”

“It’s nothing,” Bucky repeats and smiles, knowing it’s not reaching his eyes when Tony’s expression slips from slightly concerned right into worried. “Really,” he tries to reassure, “I’m fine. Just, you know, post-Christmas melancholy or something.”

Tony looks sceptical, but thankfully lets the topic drop.

He leaves and Bucky goes to take a shower of his own, getting ready for his Saturday shift at the club. He’s working on Sunday, too, after begging Pierce to get the holidays off to go see his family. It’s a fight to get a day off every single time.

Since Tony’s out already and the chance to get distracted by sexy times has therefore dropped significantly, Bucky doesn’t bother with a robe after drying off, wandering out into the kitchen for a quick snack in the nude. Something he regrets when the woman sitting at the bar lets out a startled half-scream and promptly drops the glass she’d been drinking from.

“Uh,” Bucky says dumbly, blinking owlishly at the unexpected visitor. “Hi?”

The woman’s gaze snaps up from where it had been steadily travelling south, a faint blush spreading across her cheeks as she lifts a hand to her eyes, the other flailing helplessly. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!”

“No, I, uh, this is on me. I’ll just,” Bucky fumbles, pointing over his shoulder in the direction of the bedroom and then, remembering she can’t see him, turns around and practically runs there to get dressed.

He knows Tony has a state-of-the-art security system, so if there’s a woman in Tony’s kitchen while Tony isn’t at home, it most likely is for a reason. That reason being him. With an uneasy feeling in his stomach, Bucky, fully clothed now, returns to the kitchen to find the shattered glass gone and the woman back at the bar, papers spread out in front of her.

“Really, I’m so sorry,” she starts when she spots him, gesturing for him to join her and pouring some water for him. “I was just coming over to leave some paperwork for Tony where he’ll actually see and read it, I didn’t expect anyone to be here.”

Bucky shrugs to mask his discomfort. “No harm done.”

“Still,” the woman smiles, holding out her hand. “I must apologise. Pepper Potts.”

“Bucky Barnes,” Bucky introduces himself, shaking the proffered hand. Recalling that he has a thing called manners, he adds, “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“Oh, please. Just Pepper is fine,” Pepper, Pepper Potts, CEO of one of the most successful fortune 500 companies in the world, one of Tony’s oldest and dearest friends, dismisses his formality. “But while I have you here, Bucky. Might I call you Bucky? While I have you here, there is something I need from you.”

Picking a briefcase up from the floor, she rifles through it for a moment before producing a small package of papers, presenting them to Bucky. She must see his confusion because she says, not unkindly and even reaching out to give his arm a little squeeze, “It’s nothing bad, I promise. It’s standard for everyone involved with Tony.”

Everyone involved with Tony.

Bucky’s heart sinks. That means he isn’t Tony’s only- only arrangement. Right? Or that Tony does this, the friends with benefits thing, on the regular, so often that it’s become routine for the people in his life.

Either way, Bucky’s suddenly extremely glad not to have asked Tony if they are something more earlier. God, he’s such a fool. Rubbing a discrete hand over his eyes to wipe away the first traitorous tears threatening to spill, Bucky starts reading.

Non-Disclosure Agreement.

Of course. Of fucking course.

Bucky could point out that he’d never do anything to hurt Tony or tarnish his reputation, apart from being involved with him, apparently, that he’s in love with Tony and would do anything to make him happy, but he doesn’t really care about being laughed at. Or, even worse, pitied.

He reads mechanically, signing and putting his initials down where indicated before sliding the papers back to Pepper and getting up, mumbling something about having to get ready for work and getting out of there as fast as he can.

The trip to the club passes in a blur, and Bucky dances his first set in a daze, not really acknowledging or even noticing his surroundings until he’s back in the locker room, numbly staring at himself in one of the mirrors and wondering how he could ever have been this stupid, this naive.

He’s so far away with his thoughts that he doesn’t hear Brock approach until he has the other man plastered along his back, hands painfully tight on his hips and a warm, hard length pressed against the small of his back.

It’s too much, coupled with everything else that’s happened over the last couple of hours. Bucky chokes on the first sob, not bothering to hold them back after that or stopping Brock from turning him around and steering him to one of the couches.

He allows Brock to draw him into a hug, crying uncontrollably by now, dimly aware that he shouldn’t be doing this, that he doesn’t want this, should be pushing Brock away, that Brock doesn’t actually care, but being held feels good right then and Bucky can’t help himself, clinging and sobbing and generally being pathetic.

What eventually snaps him out of it are Brock’s lips on his own.

“What the fuck,” Bucky manages, wiping a hand over his mouth as he ineffectively tries to push Brock away. “Get off me, what the fuck.”

“Come on, baby,” Brock cajoles, catching Bucky’s wrists in one hand and sliding the other down his back to grope his ass, laughing as if this is all a joke when Bucky growls at him, renewing his efforts to get away. “You’ve been teasing me for weeks, babe.”

“What? What’s wrong with you? We’re through, what the fuck, don’t touch me, let me go, what are-“

“What is going on here?” comes Pierce’s voice from the doorway, and Bucky’s never been gladder to see his boss than in that moment, Brock startling enough to let go of Bucky.

Bucky uses his chance to move away, quickly jumping up and backing away, glaring at Brock with his teeth bared.

Pierce glances from Bucky to Brock, then back to Bucky, forehead creased in irritation. “Please solve your domestic disputes somewhere else from now on, James. There is a client waiting for you in booth three.”

Bucky snaps.

“Are you fucking kiddin’ me?” he yells, grabbing the first thing in reach, someone’s styling iron, and hurls it at Brock, watching in grim satisfaction as it hits him in the shoulder. “You- you walk in here to see me nearly gettin’ sexually assaulted, and all you do is tell me to do it somewhere else and- and to get back to work? Fuck you!”

“James-“ Pierce starts menacingly, but Bucky’s done, done being scared of the man, and done with all his shit.

“Fuck you!” he snarls, snatching his bag up from where he’d dropped it on the floor earlier. “Fuck both of you, I quit!”

With that and without a backwards glance, he storms out of the club, slamming every door on his way.

The anger lasts him four blocks, then it turns into shock and, eventually, more tears. It’s still early enough that the streets are full with people, but no one pays any mind to him at all. Bucky isn’t sure if he’s grateful for that or resents it. Possibly both.

There’s no telling how long he’s been walking, teeth clattering and throat sore from the sobbing and the cold alike, when he realises he’s standing in front of the venue where Tony’s gala is being held.

“Yeah, fuck you too, subconscious,” Bucky groans, ready to turn around and start the journey back across town to his apartment when a hand lands on his shoulder, Happy’s worried face coming into view.

“Mister Barnes?” he questions.

“I-“ Bucky croaks hoarsely, “I- I- I don’t know. I’m not, I didn’t, I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Happy says, smiling gently as he takes Bucky’s arm and starts to guide him inside. “Why don’t we go find Mister Stark, huh?”

Bucky nods meekly, not caring anymore even when he can feel everyone’s eyes on them, can hear people whispering behind help up hands or unashamedly pointing at them, not paying attention to where they’re going, eyes fixed firmly on his sneakers.

And then Tony’s there and Tony’s arms are around Bucky, warm and secure and so, so good. With a sound dangerously close to a whimper, Bucky buries his face in Tony’s neck and fists his hands into Tony’s jacket, holding on tight.

“Hey, ssh,” Tony soothes, kissing the side of Bucky’s head and stroking a hand up and down Bucky’s spine, “I got you, sweetheart.”

They stay like that for a long moment until a camera flashes and Tony tenses. But unlike Bucky expects, Tony doesn’t push him away and put distance between them, pulling him impossibly closer instead, and shielding Bucky from what Bucky assumes must be a reporter by putting himself between Bucky and the nosy paparazzi.

“Mister Stark, are you-“

“Not now,” Tony hisses.

“Just a few questions, Mister Stark. Who is-“

Tony’s voice is hard, protective and possessive, Bucky thinks, as he barks, “My boyfriend, as you can see, isn’t feeling well, so I suggest you leave before I have security throw you out, and sue the ever-living shit out of you.”

The man is smart enough to do as he’s told and Bucky finally lifts his head once he’s gone, Tony’s words catching up with him. “Boyfriend?”

“Yeah, I know,” Tony grimaces, “sounds a little middle school. But partner is just too prone to confusion and-“

“No, I mean,” Bucky interrupts, only noticing he’s shaking when Tony starts rubbing his trembling shoulders, “you- you consider me your boyfriend?”

Tony’s face does something complicated Bucky can’t even begin to decipher, but he definitely sees some hurt in there, maybe a hint of sadness. “I- yes, of course I do. Did I- did I read this wrong-“

“No!” Bucky hastens to reassure, hands coming up to settle on either side of Tony’s neck. “No, I just- why? I mean, you’re you and I’m me and, just, why? You never said! And then the- the thing, Pepper brought that thing for me to sign and I thought, well, you never talked to me about it and-“

“I love you,” Tony talks right over him, a little wide-eyed at his own admission but seeming determined to get everything out now. “I love you so much, darling, you have no idea.” He chuckles. “Literally no idea. And if there’s someone in this relationship who could do better it’s you, Buck, trust me. I’m nearly forty, for Christ’s sake!”

“But- but-“ Bucky stutters, embarrassed to admit that he feels a little faint. “What about the NDA?”

Tony winces, brushes another kiss over Bucky’s forehead. “It’s company policy, in case I blab about something SI related. I meant to talk to you about it but, well, there’s no romantic way to say ‘Hey, I love you and trust you but would you mind signing off your rights to talk about me?’, is there?”

Which makes a certain amount of sense, but all Bucky can focus on is, “You love me.”

“I love you,” Tony agrees, smiling fondly, lovingly. “And I would really like to know what happened because, no offense, you look like hell, honey.”

“Brock happened and I- I quit,” Bucky says, holding up a hand and shaking his head when Tony’s eyes narrow and he opens his mouth to ask. “Not tonight. Brock was being a pushy creep and Pierce was an asshole, and I will tell you everything, I promise, but not tonight. Tomorrow. Tomorrow you can go all rich, influential industrialist on them, if you want. But not tonight. Please?”

Tony’s jaw clenches but he nods, takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Steve and Tony both agree that Bucky should report Brock to the police, Pierce right along with him, and Bucky is beginning to seriously consider it, especially after tonight.

“Let’s go home,” Tony suggests, “and, I don’t know, take a relaxing bath or something. I even have candles. I think?”

Bucky laughs, giddy, grinning up at Tony. “You love me.”

“I love you,” Tony smiles indulgently.

“I know,” Bucky crows, and kisses him.

There’s the telltale click of another camera and Tony, mock-incredulous, demands, “Did you just Han Solo me? Seriously?” and Bucky can’t stop grinning because he’s happy.

Really, truly happy.

Their gala kiss makes the front page of every gossip rag the next morning, and Bucky doesn’t give a single shit because he’s reading the news lying in Tony’s bed with Tony curled around him, feeding him French toast and snarking about the photographer catching him from an unflattering angle.

“I love you,” Bucky cuts Tony off mid-rant, stretching to bring their mouths together. “I love you.”

The smile spreading across Tony’s face is nothing short of breathtaking. “I know,” he teases and then, whispered against Bucky’s lips, “I love you, too.”