Archive of Our Own

James Barnes, known to those who knew him well enough to get past his cold exterior and his flat stare as ‘Bucky’, sat at the table of his favourite restaurant and knew he was not about to be interrupted. On the table was an untouched plate of golubtsy, two glasses of water (one still, the other sparkling) and a napkin that was folded neatly into a fan. He wore a smart suit, nothing too loud or noticeable, just neatly tailored and plain black. His shoes too, were black, shined just enough to make an impression but not enough to stand out. His hair was longer than was perhaps fashionable, and he had that neatly tied back off his face.

“The surveillance at the docks still hasn’t moved.” A red-headed woman in a pencil skirt and a red blouse told him, sitting comfortably on her chair. “From what I can see the feds think that it’s a base.”

“Hmm.” Bucky nodded, looking over at the door where a young couple had wandered in. Almost instantly, the owner appeared, ushering them out again in a low voice, heavily accented. Bucky watched with a disinterested eye, as the woman watched them like a hawk watches prey. Once the couple were out of the door, the owner scurried back to his station, far enough away that he could hear nothing. There had been various attempts to bug Yashas restaurant, and each one failed. His records were spotless, taxes paid on time, and despite their best efforts, the organised crime task force had no ground to take the portly man in, or close his place. They may have had better luck if Bucky didn’t have quite so good a reach into their organisation.

“Clint tells me that they’ve filed for a warrant.” He said, watching her as she smiled. Clint thinks that Bucky is not aware that he’s sleeping with Natasha. Natasha knows this too, it’s a bit of amusement for her – Bucky likes her well enough to let her have this secret joke. Clint’s position in the bureau has been infinitely useful to their organisation, and Bucky would have been an idiot to push him away.

“Excellent.” She said, leaning back a little and taking a sip of the water. Her red lips leave no mark on the glass – just like she leaves no trace of herself when she partakes in slightly less than legal business transactions. Natasha Romanov was an excellent business woman, and James Barnes was a ghost, a myth. He kept a nice apartment, owned his own shipping company, made enough to keep himself comfortable and yet not quite enough to attract attention. The Organised Crime task force thought he was some mid-level wanna-be, climbing up the ranks.

Bucky had been the ‘Winter Soldier’ since he was 15 years old.

When Bucky was 12 years old, he was caught stealing from a local store – the owner didn’t call the cops on him, but told him that if he wanted a jar of pasta sauce so bad he’d be willing to risk prison, then maybe he had a few errands that James could do.

So he’d started running messages, and then parcels, and then one day he’d beat the ever-loving shit out of some guys trying to rape a girl in an alley. That girl had turned out to be Natasha, the daughter of the very Boss that Bucky had been running for.

Their friendship was instant – she’d been caught off her guard (it never happened again in all the years he’d known her) and once Bucky had started throwing punches, she’d already pulled out a slim blade from her boot.

Bucky was treated like a little prodigal son, and quickly rose up – Natasha at his side. No one wanted to take orders from a woman, even though she was twice as deadly as any man he knew, and her father knew this. Bucky loved working for Romanov. He learned more from that man than from any other person in his life. Not just things like how to work a racetrack, or how to hide a shipment inside another shipment, but other, little things.

He learned how to talk to people, how to control his temper, how to shake hands and what order to use the cutlery with. He learned how to dance, how to pick a good tailor.  He learned how to see things, to look at people and read them fast, what to notice and what to remember. Romanov had been more of a father to him than his own – a man only distantly remembered for his fists and the smell of cheap whiskey.

Bucky owed him everything. He paid for Bucky’s mom’s medical bills, her apartment. He put Bucky through the best schools, tutors, instructors. Moulded him. Shaped him. And then, when Bucky was 15 years old, he had a stroke.

No one knew. No one could know, any sign of weakness would have been like a drop of blood in shark infested waters. He didn’t look much different, a little weakness on one side, he walked with a cane – people assumed it was for show, a little gentlemanly twist to this educated mob boss, but his mind was damaged.

Bucky had been sitting at his side, relaying his requests for 3 years. He simply kept doing that, Natasha covering with him. Together they took over from her father without anyone knowing better. By the time he was 18, Bucky was running the show. Natasha continued her education, going on to her Ivy league college and Bucky stayed by Romanov’s side – was with him when he died, holding his hand and promising, promising…

Promising everything. He would look after Natasha. He would look after his people. He would make the old man proud.

“James,” He’d said, as the monitors beside him beeped slowly. “You are my son in everything but name. You are my blood,” He kissed his hand, nodded to the people standing around his bed. “You’ll do what he tells you.” He told them, before shoo-ing them out. When the door closed, he gripped James by the hand tightly. “I know, I know the things you don’t tell me, boy, my son.” He said, eyes clearer than they had been in years. “I know about the girls you take dancing and I know…” He looked at the door. “I know you won’t marry my girl.” He said after a long few seconds. “I wanted to tell you a long time, but how to say the things your heart feels? I know about the boys you see.” He said, as Bucky felt his stomach sink to his knees. He should have known, should have been more careful. Should never have acted on his desires – how could a man like Romanov be seen to have a fairy in his ranks? “I don’t care, I love you, son.” He sighed, and patted Bucky on the hand. “You’re my boy, and I love you no matter what.”

At his funeral, Natasha made a speech about how her father had been a good father, a good friend – a good man. Around them, in dark suits and sombre faces, the FBI’s most wanted but untouchable men bowed their heads in respect. Bucky thought it should have rained. The clouds should have been heavy with water like Bucky was heavy with his grief – but it was sunny, picnic weather, the weather for families in the park and couples holding hands, not standing around a hole in the ground, unsure what to say. Bucky buried his heart with Romanov, the only father he knew – and carried on, harder, colder. Brutally silent and ghostlike in his actions, no one ever questioned his right as head of the family. No one dared.

“They’ll find nothing at the dock.” Natasha told him, as she stood. “Some paperwork for a shell company that will lead them around for a month or so and ends up far, far away from us.” He got to his feet to help her with her coat, and she kissed him on the cheek. “I expect you tomorrow night.” She told him, wiping away the imaginary stain her lips left. “Birthday boy.”

James Barnes owned several nightclubs. They were moderately successful and made clean money, completely separate from his alternative means of income. He was inspected at least once a month, his invoices and inventory checked and re-checked by cops who were desperate to pin something (anything) on him, a threat over his head – he’d roll on his ‘bosses’ quick enough, they thought, if they could just get him through the door. Middle level mob guys like him, they said, are easily replaced by their bosses.

Every time they stomped over his doors, with their warrants and their swaggering threats he wanted to laugh at them. Little men with little badges, thinking they knew the lay of the land. Thinking that old men with cigars sitting behind mahogany desks ran the Romanov family, ignoring the new blood – ignoring that times had changed, and Bucky wasn’t some ‘Goodfellas’ goon, with a tommy gun and a moll by his side.

For his birthday, Natasha always hosted a party at one of his clubs, in the VIP section of course. The bar was free, and the company was good, and Bucky let his hair down a little.

His preference for men over women was no longer much of a talking point, the years had seen to that. Anyone who called him a fag ended up finding themselves in an alley one night, being told by several large men that Mr Barnes did not appreciate those comments and that Miss Romanov sends her regards. No one cared who he fucked, anyway – as long as it didn’t interfere with his business – James Barnes had a reputation for being cold in and out of bed. Not like Rumlow, who fucked his family over royally when he’d met some blond looker who’d got him 25 to life – or like Coulson, who gave it all up for love and ended up dead in some alley because folks don’t like it when you walk away from family.

So Bucky was in the happy situation (after a few teething difficulties) of being an openly bisexual man in a very intolerant line of work. People who had issues with this were invited to either shut up or fuck off, and mostly the older generation kept their opinions to themselves.

“Of course.” He agreed, and tipped well as they left, nodding to the owner who smiled back – he may have lost some business but he knew the tip on the table would more than make up for any small inconvenience. James Barnes always made sure his boys paid their dues – not like the other families who expected everything ‘on the house’ in exchange for the protection.

He was sitting on the couch as Natasha danced with a few select friends. A party was a good way to improve business relationships and this was no exception. She smiled at Skye as they moved together to the thumping bass, and Bucky knew soon that the hacker would agree to his rather generous offer of employment. She was, at heart, an idealist – which Bucky could exploit with the right incentives, and his agreement to look the other way in her own projects so she could carry on her good work was a major draw.

The twins, (who were not twins at all, but whenever you saw one you saw the other) were sitting across from him, chatting away, heads bowed – their own secret language of chemical equations and biological effects. Bucky might not know what the hell they were talking about, but they made sure that the production houses pumped out a pure product that was dangerous but not deadly. At least, when taken ‘as prescribed’. There were others, not quite so close to him as Fitz and Simmons, but close enough that he trusted them – and more, that Natasha trusted them – and he was having a good time.

That was until the fucking NYPD cop crashed his party.

“James Barnes?” The pintsized cop said, flashing a badge and a shit eating grin. Bucky didn’t even think that they let guys that small into the force; he looked like a stiff breeze would knock him over. His eyes though, were bright blue and his gaze steady, even with the flashing lights from the dance floor. People had stopped dancing and were watching them closely. Although no one was doing anything illegal (at that point, at least) the arrival of a police officer tended to make people uneasy.

“Yeah?” Bucky said, keeping his voice cool. They wouldn’t send a cop like this into arrest him, not unless they had back-up outside, and he wasn’t gonna cause a scene in his own club. “How can I help you,” He paused and looked at the badge pinned to the guys chest. Something wasn’t quite right about it, but the flashing lights might have been fucking with his eyes. “Officer Rogers?”

The guy squared his shoulders (to be honest, he didn’t have a lot to square) and shot Bucky a look. “I am arresting you on suspicion of being a sexy mother fucker.” He said, and the next thing Bucky knew, Natasha was wolf whistling and the music had changed to a deep, grinding tune. “You do not have to say anything,” He said, stepping over to where Bucky was sitting, hips rolling along to the beat, which was hot, but Bucky had spent a lot of time around strippers and after a while the routine got kinda dull. “But it may harm your defence,” He continued, pushing Buckys legs open so he could stand between them. Bucky smirked, normally professionals would straddle, but Bucky was pretty sure if this guy tried he’d pop a hip out. The responding eye roll was sassy as fuck and Bucky found himself snorting a short laugh. A little bit of a spitfire, then. “If you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court.” He started to move, and Bucky looked over at Natasha who laughed at him. No doubt she wanted to embarrass him with this little twinky guy. It wasn’t working; Bucky had made a long and successful career out of never being flustered. In between his legs, the stripper swayed his hips, narrow and sharp and not exactly sexy, but enough to get Bucky’s attention. “Anything you do say may be given in evidence." The little guy finished, and started to move in earnest. Bucky sat back, legs splayed, and watched the private performance. He knew the stripper was well aware of his general disinterest, and didn’t try to engage Bucky much – egging on the crowd that was whooping and cheering around him instead, using Bucky more as a prop that a client.

When the dance was over, he leaned down over Bucky, and whispered, “Your girl paid for the whole night.” His breath was hot, and smelt a little like apples, which was interesting – and Bucky nodded. He’d been faced with Natasha’s particular brand of ‘get laid’ before.

“Get a drink and come sit by me.” He said, and figured, what the hell, this guy was halfway cute and although his routine was… well, pretty routine… Natasha hired the best, so the sex would probably be worth it. He watched the skinny dude walk over to the bar and then shot a questioning look to Natasha.

“He had good reviews.” She told him, tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear. “Apparently, he’s got a mouth on him that would put Dyson out of business.”

Two hours later, Bucky was hurting. His ribs were on fire, his eyes were full of tears, and still Grant Rogers, twink extraordinaire and apparently a killer stand-up comedian in his spare time, was still cracking jokes.

He’d dutifully returned to Bucky’s side once he got his drink, a fruity looking thing that turned out to be non-alcoholic because Grant ‘Do you have any idea how many jokes I’ve heard about Rogering?’ Rogers didn’t drink on the job, sliding up against Bucky like some cat in heat. Bucky, used to his personal space being personal, pushed back just enough to make a point – and Grant had respected that boundary all night. Around him, people were laughing their asses off, and even Natasha was smiling, the kind of smile she normally only wore when they were joking around together.

Bucky had stopped drinking earlier than most people, although the tumbler in his hand looked like booze so no one was aware. Except of course, Natasha, because nothing got past her. She’d been drinking steadily all night, and looked no worse for wear. Bucky had personally watched her drink bottles of vodka in a single sitting, then carry on like it was water. Her reasoning was that she was Russian and vodka was mothers’ milk to her.

Grant had been acting progressively drunker, although Bucky was pretty sure that he’d been drinking nothing but fruit juice in fancy glasses all night. His eyes were clear though, and Bucky assumed that the drunk act was just so people stopped offering to buy him drinks.

“Hey,” The smaller man said, leaning close but not close enough to touch. He wasn’t Bucky’s type. Small and skinny and mouthy – everything Bucky wasn’t, but… damn, there was just something about him, in the way he smirked a little when he shot some comment down, or the way his blue eyes crinkled at the side – Bucky figured he was probably still cashing in on the ‘underage’ thing because of his small stature and baby face, but those fine lines betrayed him, older than he looked – although Bucky wasn’t sure just how old.

“How old are you?” Bucky said, leaning forward a little, still not touching.

Grant smirked, and batted those stupidly long eyelashes at him. “Old enough.” He flirted, a practised thing, Bucky knew.

“That’s not what I asked.” Bucky said, voice firm. He wasn’t sure why he cared, told himself that it was just to satisfy his curiosity. Grant looked like he was going to try another line, and then thought better of it.

“25.” He said, shortly, and when Bucky laughed, he smiled. “Yeah, yeah.” He shrugged good naturedly. “Laugh it up, jerk, if news gets out, I’ve lost half my client base.”

Bucky didn’t doubt it; underage boys were a huge earner – a time frame that they had to cash in on quick. If Grant was still able to pass off as under 18, he’d make more in a night than most his age. “Your secret’s safe with me.” Bucky told him, and didn’t miss the eyebrow twitch.

“I don’t think a lot of things are safe around you.” Grant explained when Bucky frowned at him.

“Oh, you’d be surprised.” Bucky countered.

He didn’t fuck Grant Rogers, although by the end of the night, he kinda wanted to. He simply tipped him and nodded as he left. Skye had over-done the free booze, and Bucky didn’t think it would be a good practice to leave her slumped in the corner – if something happened to her at his party it was unlikely that she’d join his organisation. So he took her back to his apartment, put her on the bed normally kept for Natasha when she slept over, and left her. He didn’t bother taking off her boots – bad enough she’d wake up in a strange bed, waking up with her clothes tampered with would be… not awesome.

Grant had obviously been surprised that Bucky didn’t wanna fuck him – but didn’t say anything other than a flirtatious ‘maybe next time’ as he left.

A couple of weeks past and Bucky didn’t think of Grant at all. He had a turf war going on with an old school gang called ‘Hydra’ – they’d been mostly dormant for years, but the guy calling the shots now had some big plans for his goons, and Bucky wasn’t about to lose ground that he’d fought long and hard over. The docks were his territory, and Hydra would soon find that Winter Soldier was not some back alley organisation. It wasn’t until he was walking back to his apartment, snow swirling around his feet, that he thought about Grant.

The smaller man was standing in the mouth of an alley, wearing nowhere near enough clothes for the weather – a flag to any passing john that Grant was working. He didn’t see Bucky at first, as he leaned against the wall of the alley and scanned the street for potential clients, blue eyes moving constantly.

Normally, Bucky would have just kept walking, but he’d noticed the cop – plain clothes – watching Grant. The moment that a john approached, they’d both be down at the station. Why that bothered him, he didn’t know.

“Hey, Grant!” He called, voice loud and carrying. No one around paid him attention, not some guy yelling on his friend. “You look near blue. Did you forget your damn coat?”

Grant had straightened up at his name, and for a moment Bucky thought he’d misheard the code – near blue, cops around – but then he shrugged and grinned. “You told me to be here for 5, you jerk.” He called over, with a friendly wave. “I should have known you’d be late.”

“Yeah yeah.” Bucky said, rolling his eyes, reaching Grant with a few steps and throwing his arm around Grant’s cold, skinny shoulders. His leather jacket was butter soft and his gloves the same – but even through those layers he could still feel how cold Grant was. Hazard of the job, he guessed. “Right, come on, I’ll make it up to you.”

Grant kept up a steady flow of inane conversation as they walked to Bucky’s apartment. Once they got into the building though, he turned his head and said, “Is the cop still following you?”

“Don’t be a dumb punk.” Bucky snorted, “He was watching you. Find a new place to hang out, you’ll end up in cuffs if you pick up on that street.”

Grant’s shoulders slumped. “I can’t.” He said, as they waited on the elevator. At Bucky’s raised eyebrow, Grant shrugged. “A couple of guys came around to my usual spot – said I needed to move on.”

“What guys?” Bucky asked, as the doors opened and he stepped into the metal box, hand on the base of Grant’s spine.

“Hydra.” Grant told him, leaning against the wall as Bucky hit the floor button. Not the penthouse. Technically he owned the building – through various shell companies and ‘inventive’ accounting, it was practically untraceable. All the tenants were unaware that their building was built on the Winter Soldiers money, but neither did the cops. The penthouse would be too noticeable. “Winter Soldier’s moving out of this area, they say.” Grant told him. “Those guys, they told me I’d need to pay a protection fee if I wanted to stay in my normal spot. I already paid Banner.”

Banner ran girls, and guys, and was one of the mildest mannered people that Bucky ever had the pleasure of working with. He kept his books in order, and his ‘employees’ safe and Bucky had nothing but respect for the man. He owned the sex trade on the streets, and had always passed on any relevant information Bucky needed to know. He technically worked for Winter Soldier, but their dealings didn’t cross much, as long as the money kept coming in and Bruce got the protection he paid for, it all worked out just fine. “Banner know this?” He asked, as the doors opened to his floor.

“Not yet.” Grant admitted. “But I guess as soon as he does it’s gonna be another shit storm.” He cast a sideways glance at Bucky, who unlocked his door and stepped through. The apartment was warm, decorated in neutral tones with slashes of bright colours – Natasha decorated. “You know Romanov.” He said. “You could tell her, and she could tell the Soldier.”

And that was when Bucky realised that Grant didn’t know who he was. Like the cops, Grant thought Bucky was some mid-level pusher.

“I could do that.” He told Grant, keeping his tone steady. “For some incentive.”

Grant rolled his eyes, but dropped to his knees with a grin. “About time.” He smirked, before reaching for the zipper of Bucky’s jeans.

Grant was sleeping when Bucky made a few calls, feeling satiated and a little confused – Grant wasn’t his type, too small, too skinny by half, but he also knew sex like that didn’t just happen. Bucky had fucked a lot of professionals, and yet Grant was the first one to really make him lose his shit. He left him sleeping, cocooned in a mass of blankets (he had the coldest feet ever) as he picked up his phone and dialled Bruce Banner. Their conversation was short and to the point, he didn’t mention Grant. When he called Natasha, he didn’t mention Grant either. He told himself that it had just slipped his mind. It didn’t matter who he fucked.

It really wasn’t a problem.

Grant was a problem.

The little asshole just couldn’t seem to keep himself out of trouble, and Bucky felt like he was running a fucking ER in his kitchen by the end of the month, the amount of fights that little punk got into. For some reason, Grant had yet to leave Bucky’s apartment. The first day was because he’d been sleeping, and when he’d woken up, they’d eaten and then fallen back into bed. Grant wasn’t charging him – not yet at least – although he continued to work the street. When Bucky had answered the door to a beat up Grant, lip bust and nose bleeding, he’d been furious to find that the reason had been one of his guys. “Told you,” Grant said, although because his nose was packed it kinda came out like ‘toad oo’. “As soon as Winter Soldier found out the shit hit the fan.”

“Did you tell em you were one of Banners boys?”

“No, Buck.” Grant shot back, instantly. “I didn’t think to tell them that before they started to beat the shit out of me.”

“Alright, smartass.” Bucky grinned. “You know who they were?”

“Garret and his guys.”

A week after that, Bucky was in his kitchen wondering if he should just order in or if he should at least try to cook something, when there was a very distinctive knock at his door. He hadn’t been expecting Natasha – but her visits were always welcome. When he opened the door though, she wasn’t alone. “I found this,” She said, nodding at Grant, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, a bust nose (again) to match his healing bruises. “Trying to sneak up here.”

“M juss gonna go.” Grant mumbled, trying to pull away – stopped by Natasha’s hand on his shoulder. “Or nod.” He said, sagging. “Nod is goob doo.”

Natasha wasn’t talking as Bucky got Grant cleaned up. He had a spare shirt belonging to Grant, left one night and cleaned along with Bucky’s things – which he threw at the skinny man once the bleeding had stopped. “What the hell happened to you this time?” He demanded, grabbing a bag of peas from the freezer unit and pressing it against Grant’s face.

“Nuffin.” Was the answer he got, which wasn’t good enough for Bucky. When he told the scrawny guy as much, he got a glare for his troubles. “Jus’ ah John. Nuffin, Buck.”

“Go have a shower or something.” Natasha told Grant, and Bucky fought back a completely unreasonable wave of ‘mind your own damn business’ that flew across his mind. Grant nodded, peas still smushed up to his face, and headed toward the bedroom en-suite. Not the guest bathroom. When the door was shut, Natasha shot Bucky an amused look. Her amused look never really looked all that amused. “I take it he’s been here before? Buck?” She said, indicating to the shirt Bucky had thrown at Grant, left on the table. There was no way of lying, it obviously wasn’t one of Bucky’s shirts, so he shrugged.

“Couple of times.”

“How much does he charge?” She countered, “I might have a go myself.”

“Back off.” He snapped, before realising that was exactly what she wanted him to do – rise to the bait. Her eyebrow twitched. “He doesn’t charge me anything,” He told her. “It’s a mutual thing.”

“He the one who told you about Garret?” She said, opening his fridge and pulling out a bottle sparkling water, the stuff he kept there just for her. When he nodded, she gave him a flat look. “Keep it business. Pay him.” She shot the closed bedroom door a look. “Bucky, if people find out you’ve got feelings for a hooker, they’ll line up the block to fuck him – just to disrespect you.”

Grant took longer in the shower than required. In the end, Bucky just walked in and told him that Natasha had gone, and that he really should get out of the shower before he pruned up so much it’d be like fucking a damp sponge.

Later, when Bucky sat on the bed, skin damp and a towel around his waist, watching Grant wrap a towel around his thin, fragile body.

“Is she gonna tell your boss you’ve been messing about with me?” He asked, once he padded through to the bedroom, water running in rivulets down his legs, his thin ankles and too large feet. He wasn’t unattractive, just… no one would call him sexy. Cute, maybe. Pretty, at a push, that masculine prettiness that confused old homophobes who’d pay more to fuck him while denouncing their gay sons. Not sexy.

Bucky wanted to fuck him so hard he couldn’t walk. Bucky had, in fact, fucked him so hard neither of them could move for a half an hour. Four weeks since he’d walked Grant through those doors and Bucky still hadn’t gotten used to just how strongly he wanted this streak of trouble.

“Hmm?”

“She gonna tell your boss you’re messing around with me?” Grant said. “Cause you can tell her I aint charging you, it’s not… it’s not on the books.”

“I’m the boss, Grant.” He said, running his hands through his long hair. It snagged in his fingers – he’d been too busy with Grant to worry about washing it while he was in the shower.

“Yeah, of course.” Grant agreed. “But I mean like, you know, your Boss. The Boss.” He emphasised the last words, straining them.

“I’m the Boss, Grant.”

For a few moments it looked like Grant was going to argue with him, tell him he wasn’t getting the point – but then it dawned on his face. Those fucking gorgeous baby blue eyes went wide, that damn sinful mouth, dropped open. “Oh, shit.” He breathed. “You can’t… its not…”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.” He said, looking around. “I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t tell you.”

Grant looked... hurt? Bucky could hardly tell, the mix of emotions on his face was fast and confusing, rotating through several different expressions. “We can’t... you can’t...” He took a deep breath. “You can’t date a rent boy.” He finished, finally. Flatly. “Can you?”

“No.” Bucky said, and didn’t say anything else as Grant pulled his clothes over his damp skin, marked from where his previous clients had touched him, hurt him. He didn’t say anything when Grant pointedly took his wallet and pulled out some notes. He didn’t say anything when he left.

Natasha watched him with a wary expression. Hydra were being pushed back with a brutality that left many reeling – Bucky took no prisoners, made no demands. The Winter Soldier remained cold and calculated, harder than ever – and Natasha watched him carefully. She knew that Grant had left, left and gone god knows where, months ago. Bucky had not been... unhappy... with that. He’d been a little relived. He honestly didn’t think that he’d have been able to stay away. And he needed to focus.

“Do you know a Steven Rogers?” Natasha asked one day, while Bucky recovered from a bullet wound given to him by one of his own guys, Garret and his boys had tried to double cross him – he’d gotten a slug to the gut, but they’d paid a higher price. They’d been delivered to Pierce, the head of Hydra. Well... parts of them had been delivered.

“No.” Bucky told her, ignoring the twinge at the surname ‘Rogers’ – it was a popular name. He needed to get the fuck over Grant. Move on.

“He’s an up and comer, great artist.”

“We have forgers.” He told her, coolly. She knew that, so she was either testing him or being deliberately difficult.

“Hmm.” She agreed, crossing her arms at him. She’d been furious that he’d been shot, blamed him for it, he knew. He shouldn’t have responded so violently to Hydra, but he’d needed a distraction. Jesus, he’d fucking looked everywhere for Grant, and when it looked like he’d fallen off the grid, he’d... he’d been stupid. “I was meaning more... canvas, paints, plates with little canopies and horse-faced women who say ‘yah’ looking at blocks of colour.”

“Hmm.” He responded.

“He sent me a canvas of his work.” She carried on, and Bucky recognised the deliberate steamrollering of conversation. “Stunning. He’s on his way up with a piece for here. It’s a good investment.”

Bucky, who was wearing sweats and a faded tee, gave her a pointed look. He wasn’t dressed for company. He hadn’t washed his hair a week; he had a full beard because he’d stopped shaving after Grant left. “Anyway, I have to go. He’ll be here soon, so... bathe. You stink.”

“I got shot.” He called after her, only to hear a very familiar voice exclaim –

“You got shot?!”

Steven Grant Rogers, 26 and a starving, struggling artist, lay in bed and watched through the open bathroom door as Bucky shaved. “So Natasha set you up with an arrangement?” Bucky said as he carefully trimmed the hair from his face before dragging the blade over his skin.

“Yup.” Grant – Steve – told him, stretching out like a cat. “She found me the day after I left here; told me I needed to change a few things, get out of town for a while.”

Bucky looked in the mirror at the reflection of the small man on the bed. He’d changed a few things – his hair was cut shorter, styled better than before, a little product in it. He wore glasses, thick black frames that made his eyes look huge and sometimes when he blinked, his lashes would brush the glass. Bucky didn’t know why he found that so endearing, but he did. His clothes (mostly on the floor, except for his shirt, which was still on, opened with all the little buttons scattered everywhere) were just regular clothes, no rips or ‘accidental’ tears that flashed more skin when he moved. Hell, Bucky would probably have walked right past him, and the changes weren’t all that amazing. It was still Gra – Steve – under it all. “She told me if I wanted to date you, I needed to get out of that life.” He shot a grin at Bucky. “I want to date you.”

“I don’t date.” Bucky reminded him, pointedly.

“I want to live here and suck your dick whenever I want.”

Bucky pretended to think about it.

“You do realise that your boyfriend is a little shit, right?” Natasha said, watching Steve as he worked the room. He was wearing a beanie. Bucky didn’t know why, or when he’d bought it. It looked fucking ridiculous. He wanted to pull it off. Or fuck him in it. Both, probably, but he figured that it would attract a bit more attention than he wanted at the gallery.

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“You literally have adopted a kid with the guy.” Natasha pointed out, only to have Bucky shrug at her. “You live in a house with a white picket fence with him. You have a fucking dog.”

Bucky shrugged. “And?”

“And? And you’re still clinging to this ‘not my boyfriend’ shit like it’s the last lifeboat on the Titanic.”

Bucky shrugged again. Peggy, 4 years old and walking around the room with her two ‘babysitters’ in tow like she owned the damn place, smiled at him and waved. Steve found her in a dumpster, a few days old and dying of about eight different things. He’d simply put his foot down and refused, point blank, to put her in the system. Legally, she was Steve’s daughter from a previous relationship. Everyone knew that was bullshit, but they let it slide because Bucky was way more laid back when Steve was happy.

They certainly didn’t want a repeat of the last time Steve was threatened.

The fact that no one had every actually found all of Pierce was something of a legend, although it was rumoured that someone once found his eyeball in a warehouse.

Later, when Peggy was in bed and the dog was sleeping by the fireplace, Bucky found himself running his hands through Steve’s blond hair, and couldn’t help but laugh a little to himself.

“Whazzat?” Steve mumbled, half asleep.

“Natasha gave me a lecture about not calling you my boyfriend.” He said.

“Gonna haveta tell her ‘m your ‘usband at some point.” Steve said, through a yawn.

“Hmm.” Bucky replied, non-committally.