Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Bucky’s POV

Three years ago

Barnes & Co. had always been Bucky’s life.

He had grown up in this building—played in diapers beneath polished conference tables, napped in his grandmother’s office while executives spoke in hushed, reverent tones. When he was old enough, he shadowed his father through marble hallways and glass-walled boardrooms, absorbing the language of power long before he understood what it cost. Becoming CEO was never a question. It was inheritance. It was expectation. It was blood.

He had gone to Harvard because Barnes men went to Harvard. He had worked himself to exhaustion for his degree in Finance and Economics—not because he loved it, but because survival was mandatory in a family where failure simply didn’t exist. You endured. You succeeded. You moved forward. So when his father retired, Bucky hadn’t been surprised by the meeting. He had been surprised by what followed.

His grandmother, Lorraine Barnes, sat at the head of the long table, posture rigid despite her age. Her voice was frail but unwavering as she spoke.

“You must understand,” she said, coughing lightly into her handkerchief before Bucky wordlessly passed her a glass of water, “that for as long as Barnes & Co. has existed, this clause has governed every CEO.”

She took a sip, then fixed him with a sharp look. “You may lead the company now. But this must be fulfilled before you turn thirty-five.”

Bucky frowned and looked to his father, George, for clarification. George didn’t meet his eyes at first. Instead, he slid a thick stack of papers across the table.

Bucky flipped through them methodically. Title. Compensation. Authority. Expectations. All familiar. All earned.

Then he stopped.

THE HEIR CLAUSE

He read it once.

Then again.

Then a third time, slower.

His pulse ticked up, sharp and disbelieving. “What do you mean I have to be married?” Bucky asked quietly. The words felt foreign in his mouth.

George nodded once. “I married your mother before I could take over.”

Bucky turned to his grandmother, incredulous. Lorraine waved a dismissive hand.

“It’s the only way I can be certain the company survives,” she said flatly. “Men in power tend to lose themselves, James. You need someone behind you—someone who anchors you. Keeps you sane.” Her eyes softened just slightly. “You have three years to find someone worth marrying.”

It took Bucky a beat too long to realize what she’d implied.

George cleared his throat. “You’ve got time to find a girl—”

“Or a boy,” Lorraine added smoothly, a knowing glint in her eye.

Bucky froze. George flushed crimson.

“—or a boy,” his father amended stiffly. “To marry.”

Lorraine reached across the table and offered him a pen—heavy, engraved with the Barnes family crest.

Bucky stared at it.

The Barnes crest was severe in its elegance, designed to endure rather than impress. A quartered shield of muted midnight blue, antique silver, black, and deep green—restraint, obligation, endurance, wealth earned slowly. At its center stood a silver wolf, not snarling or in motion, but watchful. Behind it, a crossed key and oak branch spoke of inheritance, authority, and roots that could not be uprooted. Above it all, an angled knight’s helm crowned with iron instead of gold.

Fide et Silentio. By loyalty and silence.

He had grown up surrounded by that symbol. It had always meant safety. Continuity. Family. Now it felt like a weight pressing into his palm. Bucky took the pen.

George met his gaze and nodded once—approval, pride, warning all at once. So Bucky looked back down at the contract and signed on the dotted line.

Because this was what Barnes men did. They accepted the cost.

Current time

Bucky felt numb. There was no other way to describe the hollow ache lodged in his chest. His grandmother was gone.

Dead.

About to be cremated.

He had known it was coming. Grandma Lorraine had been sick for three years, and toward the end all they could do was keep her comfortable. Pancreatic cancer was cruel like that—slow, merciless. And still, she had fought it with everything she had. Bucky had seen that fight firsthand.

He let out a measured breath as he stood in the waiting room of the crematorium. Across from him, his parents sat side by side. His mother’s hand moved in slow, steady circles against his father’s back. George’s face was blank, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the sterile walls.

Because Barnes men did not fall apart.

They did not let grief overwhelm them. They tucked it away, folded it neatly, and carried on. But Bucky could feel it anyway—the tight knot in his throat, the sharp prickle behind his eyes. He inhaled deeply and released the breath just as slowly, forcing the feeling back down.

Grief wasn’t the only thing twisting in his chest.

There was anger. And shame. The last conversation he’d had with Lorraine hadn’t gone the way he’d wanted.

“You know, James,” she’d wheezed from her hospital bed, “it’s almost time for you to find a husband.”

“Jesus, Grandma,” Bucky had muttered, tugging the blanket higher around her frail frame. “Can we not do this right now?”

“You’ve been avoiding it for years,” Lorraine said, her voice thin but sharp. “You can’t ignore it anymore. I’m dying, and I had hoped I’d see you marry someone you loved before I go. But you’re too wrapped up in work. You’ve made no room for anything else.”

She’d been breathless by the time she finished, reaching shakily for her oxygen mask.

“Well, did it ever occur to you,” Bucky had snapped, too tired and too defensive to stop himself, “that maybe I don’t want to be married? Maybe I don’t even believe in love?”

Lorraine had coughed harshly, her chest rattling. Bucky had risen instantly, instinct kicking in—but there was nothing he could do.

“You don’t mean that, boy,” she’d said once she could breathe again.

“I do.”

“Well,” she’d replied quietly, eyes narrowing, “that’s too bad.”

“Why?” Bucky had challenged, frustration spilling over. “Because of your stupid clause? What happens if I don’t follow through?”

“You lose it all,” Lorraine had whispered, her eyes slipping shut.

Lose it all.

The words had followed him ever since.

The next time he’d come to visit, she’d been asleep. She’d died a few hours later. Could he really bear to lose everything? The answer came easily.

No.

He had worked too damn hard to let a clause—no matter how old—take it from him.

His spiraling thoughts were interrupted by a man stepping into the room. He cleared his throat gently. “We’ve finished with Mrs. Barnes. We just need a signature to allow transport to the funeral home.”

He held the forms out to George.

George didn’t move.

Bucky stepped forward instead, taking the clipboard and signing where indicated. His hand was steady, even if his chest wasn’t.

“Thank you,” the man said. “We’ll reach out if there are any complications.” Then he turned and left, the door clicking softly behind him.

Bucky looked at his father.

The man who had once filled every room he entered now looked hollowed out—eyes distant, mouth set in a line that hadn’t moved in hours. Winifred glanced up at Bucky then, her expression tired but gentle.

“I’m going to take your father home,” she said quietly. “I trust you can handle the flowers for the memorial? It’s the only thing left, and I’d rather stay with him tonight.”

Bucky nodded, slipping his hands into his pockets. He could have delegated it. Asked his assistant to handle it. But something about this felt… personal.

“Don’t worry about it, Mom,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

Winifred smiled faintly. “I’ll send you the contact for the florist I like, alright?”

Bucky nodded again. This, at least, he could do.

Steve’s POV

Sarah’s Garden was Steve’s baby.

He had dreamed of owning a flower shop for as long as he could remember. He’d grown up with his hands buried in soil beside his mother, learning how to coax life from the ground, how patience mattered just as much as effort. For a long time, it had been just the two of them. His father had died in the Gulf War before Steve was even born.

Sarah had done her best to raise him right. Honest. Kind. Driven. She worked long hours and worried constantly, but she loved fiercely. Watching her baby boy graduate from NYU—with honors and an art degree—had been one of the proudest moments of her life.

Steve had thought that was the beginning of everything.

But it didn't last.

A year later, he lost her to stage four breast cancer. She’d been too busy, too focused on work, brushing off the warning signs like they were inconveniences she could deal with later. Later never came.

The grief nearly swallowed him. So he built something instead.

Sarah’s Garden opened a year after her death—small at first, tentative, like Steve himself. But three years later, the shop was thriving. More than thriving. Business was booming to the point where Steve couldn’t do it alone anymore.

Peter and Darcy were there whenever he needed them—long days, last-minute orders, weddings that needed saving and funerals that required a softer touch. Thanks to Darcy, the shop had gone viral more than once on TikTok, bouquets filmed in golden light and quiet moments of care catching the attention of thousands. Each spike in views brought more people through the door.

Steve still couldn’t quite believe it sometimes.

Standing behind the counter, hands dusted with pollen, sunlight pouring in through the windows, he felt something close to peace.

To say he was proud didn’t even begin to cover it.

The shop itself was small but warm, the kind of place people lingered in without meaning to. Worn hardwood floors creaked softly underfoot, scuffed from years of watering cans and delivery crates. Sunlight filtered through linen curtains in the front windows, catching on floating dust and the soft green of leaves. A little bell chimed whenever the door opened—not sharp, just enough to announce someone gently.

The air always smelled alive. Damp soil. Clean greenery. Something faintly floral without ever being overwhelming. Buckets of fresh stems lined the walls in mismatched containers—old ceramic crocks, metal pails, repurposed paint cans—each labeled in Steve’s handwriting. A floral cooler hummed quietly in the back, its glass perpetually fogged from constant use.

The heart of the shop was the worktable. Solid wood. Scarred and nicked. Dried sap clung to its edges, and faint scratches from shears told the story of long days and careful hands. Jars held twine, ribbon, florist knives, and half-chewed pencils Steve forgot to replace. Underneath, wooden crates were stacked and labeled simply: Greens, Ribbons, Vases—chipped okay.

Open shelves ran along the walls, crowded with small vases, handmade cards, and bundles of dried flowers tied with twine. Old gardening books with cracked spines leaned against one another, their margins filled with notes. A pressed flower was taped to one shelf with yellowing tape—no label, no explanation. It had just always been there.

Behind the counter sat a small stool for the days Steve’s legs gave out before his work did. Beside the register, taped to the wall, was a Polaroid.

It showed Steve at his NYU graduation, cap crooked on his head, holding his diploma with both hands like he couldn’t quite believe it was real. Sarah stood beside him, arm wrapped tight around his shoulders, smiling so wide it nearly split her face in two. Her hair was windblown, her eyes bright, pride written into every line of her expression.

Steve touched the edge of the photo every morning before opening. And every time the bell chimed, Steve felt it. Pride. Gratitude. A sense that he’d built something that mattered. Sarah’s Garden wasn’t just a flower shop. It was proof that love could take root and keep growing—even after loss.

Darcy was rearranging a bucket of ranunculus with far too much intensity for a Tuesday morning.

“You’re overthinking it,” Steve said, trimming a stem at the worktable. “They don’t need to be symmetrical. They just need to feel alive.”

Darcy scoffed. “Easy for you to say, Picasso. Some of us didn’t grow up communing with plants like woodland spirits.”

Steve smiled faintly. “You’re doing fine.”

She shot him a look. “I always do fine. I’m just saying—if this arrangement flops, I’m blaming you in the caption.”

“You blame me in every caption.”

“And it works every time,” Darcy said cheerfully, snapping a quick photo before setting her phone down. “Okay, tell me honestly—do you think we need more eucalyptus out front? Or are we going for ‘cozy grief’ today?”

Steve opened his mouth to answer—

—and then he felt it.

Not a sound. Not movement. Just a shift in the air. The bell above the door chimed softly, and Steve glanced up.

The man standing just inside the shop looked like he didn’t quite belong to the room yet. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Expensively dressed in a way that felt automatic rather than intentional. His posture was rigid, like he’d braced himself before stepping inside.

His eyes—steel-blue and too tired—flicked briefly over the space before settling somewhere unfocused.

Steve straightened slowly. “Hey,” he said gently, setting his shears down. “What can I help you with?”

The man cleared his throat. “I—” His voice faltered almost imperceptibly. “I need flowers. For a funeral.”

Something in his expression cracked just enough for Steve to see it.

“Of course,” Steve said immediately. “I’m Steve.”

“James,” the man replied. Then, quieter, “Bucky.”

Darcy, blessedly perceptive, slipped past Steve and murmured, “I’m gonna check the cooler,” before disappearing into the back.

Steve gestured toward the counter. “Why don’t we talk for a second?”

Bucky nodded, but his hands were clenched at his sides. When Steve turned toward the small office tucked behind the main room, Bucky hesitated—then followed. The office was simple. A small couch. A low table. Plants tucked into the corners. Steve shut the door softly behind them.

“You can sit,” Steve said. “If you want.”

Bucky perched on the edge of the couch like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to take up space. His knee bounced once, then stilled when he noticed. Steve sat beside him, leaving a respectful distance. Silence stretched.

Steve let it.

After a moment, he said quietly, “Do you want to tell me about them?”

Bucky swallowed. “My grandmother,” he said. “She raised me. In a lot of ways.” His jaw tightened. “She died this morning.”

Steve nodded slowly. “I’m really sorry.”

Bucky stared at the floor. “She had pancreatic cancer. Three years.” He let out a humorless breath. “She was… formidable. I thought she’d outlive us all out of spite.”

Steve’s chest tightened. “My mom died of cancer too,” he said gently. “Four years ago. Breast cancer.”

Bucky’s head snapped up.

Steve met his eyes. “She was busy. Too busy to get checked when she should have.” 

Bucky’s composure shattered.

It wasn’t loud at first—just a sharp inhale that didn’t quite come back out. His shoulders hitched. He pressed a hand over his mouth like he was embarrassed by the sound that escaped him.

“I didn’t—” His voice broke completely. “I didn’t know what to do when she started getting worse. She was always the one telling me what to do.”

Steve shifted closer without touching him yet. “You don’t have to know,” he said softly. “You just have to survive it.”

That did it.

Bucky folded forward, hands braced against his knees, breath coming apart. The tears followed—hot, unchecked, humiliating in a way grief always was when it finally broke through.

“I was so angry at her,” Bucky choked. “And now she’s gone and I—God, I don’t know how to be the person she thought I was.”

Steve didn’t hesitate anymore.

He slid an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, solid and steady, and let Bucky lean into him. Bucky resisted for half a second—then gave in completely, forehead pressing into Steve’s shoulder as the sobs came harder.

Steve stayed quiet. Let him cry. Let the silence hold them.

After a while, when Bucky’s breathing evened out just a little, Steve spoke again.

“You don’t have to be anything today,” he said. “You don’t have to hold it together in here.”

Bucky laughed weakly through tears. “I don’t even know you.”

Steve smiled, small and kind. “Sometimes that helps.”

Bucky wiped at his face, embarrassed but grateful. “I—thank you.”

“Anytime,” Steve said without hesitation. “And I mean that. If you need flowers, or help, or someone to sit with you and not say the wrong thing—I’m here.”

Bucky nodded, eyes red but clearer than before.

For the first time since he’d walked in, his shoulders lowered. And Steve realized something, quietly and without expectation—sometimes people didn’t come into his shop for flowers.

Sometimes they came to breathe.

And Steve was more than willing to give them the space to do it.

Bucky took a slow, steadying breath. “She liked lilies,” he whispered.

Steve wrote it down in his notebook without looking up. “I think ranunculus would pair beautifully with lilies,” he said quietly.

Bucky nodded, eyes fixed on the counter like if he looked up, he might lose it again.

“We could add some Italian ruscus for depth,” Steve continued, thoughtful, “and maybe a few roses. Nothing overwhelming. Just… enough.”

Bucky swallowed hard and nodded again. His eyes were glassy now, lashes clumped together.

“By when do you need them?” Steve asked gently.

Bucky drew in a breath that shook despite his best effort. “Three days,” he said. “I know that’s short notice, so I’m willing to pay whatever—”

“Funerals usually are,” Steve interrupted softly. “We don’t charge extra for that.”

Something in Bucky’s chest gave at that.

Steve began to sketch, pencil moving with quiet certainty. He worked for a few minutes in silence, the only sound the soft scratch of graphite against paper. Then he turned the notebook around and slid it toward Bucky.

The arrangement bloomed on the page—elegant, balanced, alive in a way grief rarely allowed.

Bucky stared at it. “She would’ve loved those,” he managed, voice breaking.

Steve nodded once. “We’ll have everything ready for delivery by Saturday.”

Bucky nodded and stood, and Steve followed, leading him toward the counter. On the walk over, they went over the number of arrangements again—placement, size, delivery timing. Steve kept his voice steady, but his eyes widened despite himself. It was a lot. Manageable—but a lot.

He swallowed before naming the final amount.

Bucky barely blinked. “Huh,” he murmured, almost thoughtful. “I thought it’d be more expensive.”

Steve let out a quiet, incredulous laugh. “Most people don’t say that.”

Bucky smiled faintly and slid his AmEx into the reader. He took his time, scrolling through the options before signing with a careless flick of his wrist.

When the total refreshed on Steve’s screen, his breath caught.

“That is an obscene tip,” Steve said, blinking at the number.

“I’m an obscene man,” Bucky replied easily.

Steve looked up just in time to catch the crooked smile aimed directly at him, and his heart skipped in a way he absolutely refused to acknowledge.

“Besides,” Bucky added, shrugging like it was nothing, “this was my grandma’s favorite flower shop. My mom’s too, I guess.”

Something warm settled in Steve’s chest. “Well,” he said softly, meeting Bucky’s eyes, “thank you, Bucky.”

Bucky nodded once, then hesitated—just long enough to make it matter.

“If you ever need anything,” he said, voice steady, sincere, “and I mean it—Barnes & Co. is mine.I’ve got resources that could help.”

Steve didn’t deflect. Didn’t joke. He smiled instead, gentle and real. “And if you ever need a shoulder,” Steve said, just as quietly, “or a listening ear—Sarah’s Garden is mine.”

For a moment, they just stood there. Not strangers. Not anything else yet. But something had begun.

The next few days were hectic, to say the least. Peter, Darcy, and Steve pushed back every order they could, combing through schedules and supply lists to make sure the Barnes memorial flowers came first.

Darcy grumbled—right up until she saw her share of the tip.

“I can pay my half of the rent with that,” she said, eyes wide as she refreshed her banking app. “For, like… two months.”

Peter let out a low whistle. “That covers this semester’s fees,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

Steve watched them with a quiet sense of pride. They were tired, overworked, dirt under their nails and stems scattered everywhere—but they were good. And this mattered. He knew they’d do right by the memorial.

As his hands worked—trimming, arranging, adjusting—his thoughts drifted, unhelpfully, back to Bucky.

To the startling blue of his eyes. To the way his long hair softened an otherwise sharp, imposing presence. He looked like one of those pristine Ken dolls—if Ken had broad shoulders, a worn edge, and a gravity that pulled people in without trying.

And the height. Steve had always liked men taller than him, though that wasn’t exactly a high bar. Still, Bucky stood well over six feet, and Steve hated how easily his mind filled in the rest.

He shook his head, scolding himself.

Get it together.

Bucky was grieving. He was carrying a loss that still sat raw and heavy in his chest—and here Steve was, distracted by thoughts he had no right indulging in. He focused back on the flowers, on the work, grounding himself in something tangible.

This wasn’t about attraction.

This was about care.

And Steve intended to give that—nothing more, nothing less.

When Saturday came around, all three of them loaded the finished arrangements into the shop’s van. Peter and Steve would handle delivery, while Darcy stayed behind to man the shop and field last-minute calls.

The drive to the cathedral was filled with Peter’s running commentary—updates on classes, MJ, Ned, and whatever minor crisis had popped up in his life that week. Steve listened with an easy smile, happy to let the chatter fill the space.

Until Peter veered sideways.

“So,” he said casually, “that Bucky guy is kinda hot, huh?”

Steve chuckled and shot him a look. “Didn’t know you were into dudes.”

“I’m not,” Peter said quickly. “But I can recognize a hot piece of ass—man or woman. And besides,” he added, glancing over, “he’s totally your type.”

“My type?” Steve echoed dryly.

“Yeah,” Peter said, counting off on his fingers. “Dark hair. Tall. Handsome. A little broody. Looks like he could throw you around.”

Steve laughed, nearly missing the turn. “And how exactly did you figure that out, Parker?”

“Your dating history,” Peter said easily. “Brock—who Darcy and I hated, by the way. Frank—who we loved. And that guy you went to dinner with last week, Johnny.”

Steve winced. “You remember their names?”

“I remember everything,” Peter continued. “Also, low-key, you and Johnny looked like you could’ve been on one of those shows—Siblings or Dating?”

Steve snorted. “Okay, that’s fair.But even if Bucky is my type,” Steve said, sobering a little, “nothing’s happening there. I don’t even know if he swings that way. And I definitely don’t date CEOs. Too controlling.”

Peter hummed thoughtfully. “Hey, don’t knock it till you try it. Maybe he bosses you around in the right environment.”

Steve shook his head, laughing, as he pulled around to the back entrance of the cathedral and parked the van. “You’re ridiculous.”

They hopped out, and Steve barely had time to grab the clipboard before a woman with a headset approached them.

“Sarah’s Garden?” she asked.

“That’s us,” Steve said, nodding as Peter opened the back doors and started unloading the cart.

“Perfect,” she said. “The family’s already here. You can come in and set up wherever you think works best. Artistic freedom.”

That gave Steve pause—event planners were usually far more specific. She noticed his expression and smiled.

“I’m just Bucky’s assistant,” she added. “Wanda.”

Steve blinked. “Steve. This is Peter.”

“I’m filling in,” Wanda said with a shrug. “The planner got married today. Apparently love is contagious.”

Steve smiled. “Well, we’ll get everything set. Just let us know if you want anything moved before we head out.”

With that, he and Peter wheeled the arrangements inside, the enormity of the cathedral swallowing them whole as they began placing flowers—lilies and greenery softening stone and shadow alike.

Bucky’s POV

Bucky had been a bundle of nerves all morning.

His father was still deep in grief, and Winifred had been hovering close—focused entirely on keeping George upright. That left Bucky to handle the logistics, the speeches, the quiet expectations that came with a Barnes memorial.

So he did what Barnes men had always done.

He buried it.

He checked schedules. Confirmed seating. Smoothed tension before it surfaced. He was reviewing his speech one last time when something caught his eye near the front of the cathedral—a mop of blond hair nearly swallowed by an enormous arrangement, the stems tilting precariously.

Bucky didn’t think. He moved.

He crossed the aisle in long strides and caught the arrangement just before it toppled, lifting it easily and setting it securely at the top of the stairs.

“Thanks,” Steve huffed, breathless, brushing hair off his forehead.

“No worries,” Bucky said, smiling before he could stop himself.

Steve looked up at him, cheeks flushed from exertion, eyes bright—and something low and warm curled in Bucky’s chest.

He cleared his throat. “You want some water?”

Steve shook his head. “I’m okay. Just trying to get everything set before people start arriving.”

Bucky nodded, glancing around. “Is it just you?”

“No, I have—”

Before Steve could finish, a tall, lanky man appeared carrying two medium arrangements with impressive balance. Something sharp flickered through Bucky.

Jealousy.

Which was ridiculous. He barely knew Steve. Still, the words slipped out. “Your boyfriend helping you?”

Steve laughed immediately, loud and genuine. “God, no. That’s Peter—one of my employees.”

“Oh,” Bucky said, heat rising to his face. “Sorry.”

Steve smiled, unfazed. “How are you holding up?”

Bucky shrugged. “I’m… hanging in there. I meant to stop by your shop, but it’s been busy.”

Steve nodded like he understood completely. “Anything on your mind?” Steve asked gently.

Bucky smirked despite himself. “Lots of things.”

His eyes betrayed him, trailing down Steve’s frame before he caught himself. Steve noticed—and blushed.

Bucky mentally swore at himself.

Church. Memorial. Grandma.

Get it together. You can’t be flirting at your Grandma’s memorial.

Steve chuckled softly. “Well, I’ve got open ears.”

Bucky exhaled. “Just… contracts. Things my grandma left behind that need to be sorted.”

Steve nodded. “I don’t understand contracts much, but sometimes saying things out loud helps.”

Bucky hesitated, then blurted, “You doing anything after this?”

Steve blinked, surprised—then smiled. “I was heading back to the shop. But I am the boss,” he added with a small wink. “I can delegate.”

“You want to meet at the café near your shop?” Bucky asked, the words tumbling out before he could reconsider.

Steve’s eyes widened, then softened. “Yeah. Sure. Let me get your number.”

They exchanged phones quickly, fingers brushing just barely.

Steve was about to say something when a deep voice cut in behind them.

“Barnes.”

Bucky turned to find Sam Wilson approaching, dressed in black, expression solemn but familiar.

“Wilson,” Bucky replied dryly.

Sam nodded to Steve before pulling Bucky into a tight hug. Bucky returned it without hesitation.

“I’m really sorry, man,” Sam said quietly. “She was incredible. I’ll miss those little butt slaps she used to give me.”

Bucky laughed under his breath. “Yeah. She liked you.”

“Steve,” Bucky said, gesturing, “this is Sam—my best friend and CFO. Sam, this is Steve. He owns the flower shop who took care of the arrangements for today.”

Steve offered his hand. Sam shook it firmly.

“Nice to meet you,” Sam said.

Steve glanced back at Bucky. “I hope today goes smoothly. Text me when you’re done.”

Then he was gone, jeans and polo disappearing back into the forest of flowers.

Sam watched Bucky watch him.

“New interest?” Sam murmured.

Bucky frowned. “No. Why?”

Sam shrugged. “He’s your type.”

“And what exactly is my type, Samuel?”

“Tiny,” Sam said easily. “You like twinks. I assume it's because you enjoy throwing them around.”

Bucky scoffed. “You think I can’t throw around a big guy?”

“Oh, I know you can,” Sam said. “You just don’t want to.”

Bucky huffed. “I’m not trying anything. He seems… soft. The kind who wants romance and feelings and all that.”

Sam raised an eyebrow.

“I’m just meeting him because…” Bucky trailed off.

Because Steve listened. Because he didn’t look at Bucky like a legacy or an obligation. Because, for a moment, the weight had eased.

“…it doesn’t matter,” Bucky finished. “I just want to get through today.”

Sam clapped him on the back. “Then let’s do that.”

They turned toward the front of the cathedral—flowers lining the aisle, grief settling in quiet waves.

And somewhere between the lilies and the silence, something new had begun to take root.

The service was beautiful.

George’s eulogy had been steady until it wasn’t—his voice wavering as he spoke of Lorraine’s strength, her expectations, her unyielding love for her family. Bucky followed, sharing quieter stories. Small ones. The way she corrected his posture even as her health failed. The way she never missed a board meeting. What she’d taught him about responsibility—and restraint.

Bucky stayed as long as was deemed acceptable before saying his goodbyes. He hugged his parents, clasped Sam’s shoulder, then slipped away before the weight could settle too deeply.

He slid into his Lexus and pulled out his phone.

The reply came almost immediately. 

Bucky smiled down at his phone and merged into New York traffic, punching the café’s name into his maps.

When he arrived, Steve wasn’t there yet. Bucky claimed a small table near the window and waited. A few minutes later, Steve walked in. Bucky watched him pause, scanning the room—until his eyes landed on Bucky and a smile bloomed across his face. Something in Bucky’s chest loosened.

He stood and met him halfway.

“Hey,” Bucky said, suddenly aware of his hands, his posture, everything.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve replied softly. “How was the memorial?”

“It was… fine,” Bucky said. “Lots of fake smiles and well-wishes. You know.”

“I do,” Steve said, his smile faint but understanding.

Bucky nodded, then gently placed a hand at the small of Steve’s back, guiding him toward the counter before he could overthink it.

Steve rattled off an impressively specific coffee order. Bucky ordered a black coffee with two Splenda packets.

Steve laughed as Bucky nudged him aside when he reached for his wallet. Bucky slid his card into the reader without ceremony, leaving a tip that made Steve’s eyebrows climb.

“That’s generous,” Steve said quietly.

The barista beamed. “Thank you.”

They returned to their table, settling in.

“Why doesn’t it surprise me that you drink your coffee black?” Steve asked, amused.

“Occupational hazard,” Bucky said. “Comes with the job.”

“Hmm,” Steve hummed.

“How’s business?” Bucky asked.

Steve lit up, launching into a story about Peter slicing his finger on a stem knife and Darcy immediately turning into a full-blown mother hen. He talked about bookings, about being busy in the good way, about gratitude.

Bucky listened—really listened.

Their coffees arrived, steam curling between them, and conversation slipped into something easy. Bucky explained his work in simple terms when Steve admitted he didn’t quite understand it. He talked about travel, about long flights and quiet hotels.

“Oh, I’d love to travel,” Steve said wistfully. “The farthest I’ve been is New Jersey.”

Bucky laughed. “My favorite place has been Italy.”

“I want to go everywhere,” Steve said. “Italy. Spain. Paris.”

“We should plan it,” Bucky said lightly, a wink softening the words.

Steve laughed. “Slow down, big guy. I barely know you.”

“We can fix that,” Bucky shrugged.

Steve smiled—slow, warm. “I’d like that.”

And they did fix it.

For months, Bucky and Steve met at the café at least once a week. Sometimes more, if schedules allowed. It became routine in the best way—the kind that settled rather than demanded.

Steve gently bullied Bucky into trying new drinks, sliding menus toward him with an expectant look until Bucky relented. Somewhere along the way, he discovered he actually liked frappuccinos. He pretended to be annoyed about it. Steve never believed him.

They talked about everything and nothing. Steve shared stories from his childhood—muddy hands, his mom’s laugh, learning patience through flowers. Bucky countered with tales from boardrooms and negotiations, power plays softened by Steve’s quiet fascination.

It didn’t feel rushed. Or performative. Or like something borrowed.

It felt real.

Bucky found he liked being with Steve more than he’d expected. Liked the way Steve listened without trying to fix anything. Liked how calm followed him out of the café every time, lingering long after they parted.

In a life built on pressure and precision, Steve was easy.

And Bucky realized—slowly, steadily—that easy might be exactly what he’d been missing all along.

On one particular afternoon, Bucky was venting in a way he rarely allowed himself to.

“I’ve got to go to Vegas for work,” he said, stirring his coffee like it had personally offended him. “Sam was supposed to handle it, but his girlfriend has some important event, and he promised he’d go. So I’m stuck.”

“Oh no,” Steve said, deadpan, lips twitching. “A paid trip to Sin City. How will you survive?”

Bucky huffed a laugh. “Okay, yeah, I know how it sounds. But these trips are boring. Meetings, dinners, more meetings. And Wanda can’t make it—too short notice. So I’m riding solo.”

“I’m sure you won’t be solo for long,” Steve murmured.

Bucky frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Steve shrugged. “Good-looking billionaire in Vegas? I’m guessing there’ll be plenty of ladies to keep you company.”

Bucky snorted. “Not interested in the ladies.”

Steve blinked. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

“Well,” Steve recovered, “men then.”

Bucky shrugged again, but something thoughtful crossed his face. He went quiet for a beat, eyes fixed on the condensation sliding down his glass.

And then—before he could talk himself out of it—he said, “Do you want to come?”

“Me?” Steve squeaked, eyes wide.

“Yeah,” Bucky said quickly, suddenly very aware of his own heartbeat. “Why not? It’s all expenses paid. Company jet. Three days, tops.”

Steve stared at him like he’d short-circuited.

Bucky rushed on. “You said you wanted to travel more. Consider this the universe handing you an opportunity on a silver platter, kid.”

“Don’t call me kid,” Steve said automatically. “You’re only seven years older than me.”

“I’m also seven years wiser,” Bucky replied, smirking. “Think about it. We’d leave Friday. I just need an answer by tomorrow.”

Steve nodded slowly, already pulling out his phone. “I’d have to check with Darcy and Peter—make sure they’re okay running the shop for the weekend. Peter’s been asking for extra hours, so… it might work.”

Bucky watched him type, hope blooming quietly in his chest.

They waited a few minutes, Steve filling the silence by animatedly explaining the plot of a new Netflix show—something involving a disappearance, a conspiracy, and far too many plot twists for Bucky to keep straight. He just watched Steve talk, the way his hands moved, the way his eyes lit up when he got excited. Bucky had never been this fascinated by another human before. 

Steve’s phone pinged. He glanced down, thumb scrolling. Then he looked up at Bucky, frowning.

Bucky’s chest sank.

“Well?” he asked, trying to sound casual and failing.

Steve tilted his head thoughtfully. “Do you think I’ll need my parka for Vegas?” The frown cracked into a slow, teasing smile.

Bucky laughed, relief rushing through him. “No,” he said, grinning back. “But you should definitely pack your swim trunks.”

Steve’s smile widened.

Steve’s POV

Steve was on the phone with Natasha, his best friend, telling her about his upcoming trip.

“You know you don’t even know this Bucky guy,” Natasha said skeptically. “What if he’s a serial killer?”

“Nat,” Steve replied dryly, “he’s a billionaire CEO.”

“So?” Natasha scoffed. “You know the more money people have, the weirder they are.”

“Well, you have my location,” Steve countered. “So you’ll know exactly where I am.”

“Okay, fine,” Nat sighed. “But you better bring me back a fridge magnet.”

Steve smiled. “Deal. I’ll leave Frida’s stuff packed so you can pick her up tomorrow. Thanks again.”

“No problem,” Natasha said warmly. “You know I love that little dog.”

Steve glanced over at Frida, who was licking her paws on the bed. Her big ears perked up at the sound of her name. He ended the call and lay back down, and she immediately curled up against his neck.

“You be good for Aunt Natasha, baby,” Steve murmured, rubbing behind her ears. “No peeing inside the house. You have to wait for her to walk you.”

Frida yawned and tucked herself even closer, her small body warm against his throat.

Steve drifted off to sleep. The next thing he knew, his alarm was blaring at 6 a.m.

He groaned, turned it off, and stretched—Frida stretching right along with him. He reached for his phone, blinking at the notifications, when he noticed a new text from Bucky.

Steve’s stomach fluttered as he opened it.

Steve picked up Frida and carried her out onto the porch. He was lucky—lucky in ways he didn’t always remember to name. The house was the one he’d grown up in, mortgage-free. His mom had worked herself to the bone to pay it off while Steve was still in high school. When she passed, it became his. Safe. Familiar. His.

The yard was small but respectable for a Brooklyn suburb. Steve kept the grass neat with stubborn dedication. A small breakfast table with a faded umbrella sat near the back door, just big enough for four. Flower bushes lined the fence, bursting with color in the warmer months.

He set Frida down and she immediately bolted for the grass, did her business, then sprinted back inside like the cold had personally offended her.

Steve followed, brushing his teeth and washing his face. He applied moisturizer, then sunscreen—habits drilled into him by his mother that he refused to abandon. He brushed his hair and moved to his closet, choosing his most comfortable jeans and his coziest sweater for the trip.

As he was buttoning his jeans, his phone chimed.

Steve swore softly, grabbed it, and saw the text. Bucky was here. 

“Shit.”

He hurried to the front door and swung it open.

There Bucky stood—tall, broad, devastatingly handsome in jeans and a dark blue sweater that made his eyes look even bluer. Steve caught the way Bucky’s gaze dropped, widened slightly, lingered on Steve’s bare chest.

“Sorry,” Steve said quickly. “I was just finishing getting dressed. Come on in.”

Frida chose that moment to launch herself at Bucky’s legs.

Bucky immediately folded down, scooping her up like it was second nature. She looked impossibly small in his arms.

“Well hello there,” Bucky cooed. “And who might you be?”

Steve smiled despite himself. “That’s my baby. Frida.”

“Oh,” Bucky said softly. “Hello, Ms. Frida.”

He used a voice usually reserved for infants.

Steve watched as Frida, dressed in her ridiculous little tutu dress, began enthusiastically licking Bucky’s chin.

“Frida, no!” Steve scolded. “We talked about this. You can’t just hoe yourself out to every man you see.”

Frida paused, tail still wagging furiously, and looked at him like she had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

Steve glanced at Bucky. “Sorry. She’s a little slut for all men. I don’t know why.”

Bucky grinned. “They say pets take after their owners.”

“Hey!” Steve protested, chin lifting. “She’s only met one of my boyfriends. I will not have my daughter meeting every man I date.”

Bucky laughed, shaking his head. “Go finish getting ready. Our plane leaves at seven-thirty. I’ll hang out with this cutie.”

He settled onto the couch, Frida immediately losing her mind on his lap.

Steve lingered for a second, watching the scene—his tiny dog absolutely besotted with this six-foot-something billionaire—and shook his head before heading to his bedroom.

He pulled on his sweater, slipped into his sneakers, gathered both suitcases and his backpack, sliding his glasses case inside. When he returned to the living room, Bucky was still there, letting Frida lick his face without complaint.

“You’re gonna break out,” Steve warned.

“It’ll be worth it,” Bucky replied easily—then froze, eyes widening. “You know it’s only four days, right? We’ll be back Tuesday.”

“I know,” Steve said, biting his lip. “I didn’t know what the vibes would be, so… I overpacked.”

Bucky chuckled, stood, and took the backpack and the larger suitcase from him. “Let’s go.”

“Uh—do you wanna put Frida down?” Steve asked.

Bucky stared at him, horrified. “We’re not bringing her?”

“No?” Steve said.

“She’s staying here? Alone?” Bucky hugged her closer.

Steve laughed. “No! I’m not a monster. Natasha’s picking her up after work.”

“Oh,” Bucky said, clearly disappointed.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Bucky muttered, setting Frida down. “I’ve always wanted a dog. I just don’t have the time.”

“Well, you can always come hang out with this one,” Steve said as Frida scratched insistently at Bucky’s pant leg. “She clearly likes you.”

Bucky gave her one last scratch before heading for the door. Steve followed, checking for his keys and phone.

He looked back at Frida. “Be good, baby. I’ll be back in a few days.” He blew her a kiss and locked the door.

Bucky shook his head. “I don’t know how you leave her. I’d be in shambles.”

“She’ll be safe,” Steve said. “Natasha’s ex–special forces.”

Bucky laughed as the driver loaded their luggage into the trunk of the Lincoln Navigator.

Steve slid into the backseat, scooting over to give Bucky room. The ride to the hangar was quick. When they arrived, Bucky held a hand out to help him down.

“Thanks,” Steve murmured.

The driver—Eddie—introduced himself as they unloaded the bags and handed them off to the crew. Steve followed Bucky up the stairs where a stewardess greeted them. Steve noticed how her gaze lingered on Bucky—then flicked to him, confused, before she corrected herself.

“Welcome aboard,” she said brightly.

Bucky nodded. The pilot stood at the cockpit entrance. “Hey, James. We’ll be departing in about fifteen minutes.”

“Steve,” Bucky said, gesturing, “this is our pilot, David.”

“Nice to meet you,” Steve said, shaking his hand.

“Likewise. Have a seat—we’ll take off shortly.”

Steve followed Bucky down the aisle, his heart already doing something stupid and hopeful—before the plane had even left the ground.

He took in the cabin, eyes wide. Everything felt impossibly luxurious, like he’d stepped into someone else’s life by accident. Steve had never been on a plane before. He wasn’t afraid of flying, exactly—but his nerves were definitely humming.

Bucky motioned for him to take the window seat. Steve thanked him and slid in, Bucky settling beside him a second later.

“Nervous?” Bucky asked quietly.

“A little,” Steve admitted.

“Nothing a drink won’t fix,” Bucky said, flagging down the stewardess. “Order whatever you’d like.”

Steve thought about it for a moment. “Vodka soda. With lime.”

Bucky nodded. “Old Fashioned.”

“Ooh,” Steve teased. “Dark.”

“Need something to take the edge off,” Bucky said with a wink.

Steve chuckled and turned to the window, his leg bouncing faintly. A few seconds later, he felt weight settle over it. He glanced down—Bucky’s hand, warm and steady, resting on his knee.

Steve’s stomach flipped.

He looked up. Bucky just smiled.

“Relax,” he murmured.

The stewardess returned then, her eyes flicking briefly to Bucky’s hand before she handed them their drinks and disappeared without comment.

Steve took a long sip. “You know, I’ve never been blacked-out drunk.”

Bucky blinked. “Never?”

“Nope. Not even in college.”

“Well,” Bucky said thoughtfully, “we are going to have to pop that cherry.”

Steve laughed so hard he nearly choked. “I can’t stand you.”

“I’m serious,” Bucky nudged him with his shoulder. “Why not? I’ll keep you safe.”

“We’ll see,” Steve said, smiling.

The plane began to move, the seatbelt light chiming on. Another stewardess came by to make sure they were buckled in. Steve fastened his belt and glued his eyes to the window as the plane started to ascend. His mouth dropped open.

Oh shit, he thought,  I’m actually on a plane.

The city shrank beneath them, buildings turning into patterns. Once they broke through the clouds, Steve turned to Bucky, who was already watching him.

“That’s incredible,” Steve breathed.

“It is,” Bucky agreed—though his gaze lingered on Steve a second too long.

Steve cleared his throat and leaned back. The pilot’s voice came over the speakers, announcing they’d be landing in just under five hours.

“You know,” Steve said after a moment, “your life doesn’t sound so bad. You get to travel like this.” He gestured around the cabin. “And you make bank.”

Bucky shrugged. “Sure. But sometimes it’s not enough.”

“That’s what all rich people say,” Steve shot back.

Bucky laughed. “Fair. But it’s hard to know who’s around because they like you… and who’s around because of your title.” He paused. “That’s why you’re refreshing. You don’t want anything from me.”

“Oh, I absolutely want this jet,” Steve deadpanned. “Now that I know you own one.”

“Jerk,” Bucky said fondly.

They talked the rest of the flight away. Steve told him how he’d adopted Frida from the pound—how she’d chosen him, really. Bucky shared stories of begging for a dog as a kid and being denied because his family traveled too much. He admitted he’d had a turtle once—and how his mom told him it went to help Nemo’s dad when it died… only for his grandmother to later ask why no one had told him the turtle was dead yet.

Steve laughed until his sides hurt.

He told Bucky about breaking his arm ice skating. Bucky countered with a story about a camp counselor crush—and being outed by a bully.

Time slipped by so easily that they both startled when the stewardess announced their descent.

Steve blinked. “Already?”

Bucky smiled. “Told you.”

And for the first time, Steve wished the flight were longer.

Steve didn’t realize how loud Vegas was until the car doors closed behind them.

The Strip pulsed—light, sound, movement layered on top of each other like the city was breathing too fast. Neon reflected off the windows of the Lincoln as it rolled to a smooth stop beneath an arched entrance that looked like it belonged in another country entirely.

The Venetian.

Steve tilted his head back, taking in the columns, the warm stone, the illusion of an Italian sky painted across the ceiling of the drive-up. It was beautiful in a way that felt… intentional. Controlled. Like someone had decided chaos could exist nearby, but not here.

“Wow,” Steve said quietly.

Bucky stepped out first, smooth as always, then held a hand out for Steve. Steve took it without thinking, the contact grounding him as his sneakers hit the polished stone.

“I figured you’d like this one,” Bucky said, voice easy. “Most of my meetings are here.”

Steve blinked. “All of them?”

“Most,” Bucky corrected. “Private conference rooms. Discreet floors. Easy access for people flying in and out.” He nodded toward the Strip just beyond the entrance. “And it’s convenient.”

“For… business,” Steve echoed, skeptical.

Bucky’s mouth curved. “And for when we want to go out at night.”

We.

Steve felt his cheeks warm and hoped the lighting was doing him favors. “You’re assuming I’m going to survive tonight.”

Bucky laughed softly. “You survived a private jet and three vodka sodas. Vegas should be terrified of you.”

They stepped inside and Steve actually stopped walking.

The lobby opened up like a cathedral—marble floors, gilded details, soft classical music threading through the air. The ceiling arched high above them, painted like an eternal dusk. Tourists drifted through in clusters, but somehow the noise dulled the deeper they went.

“This is insane,” Steve murmured. “Do people just… live like this?”

Bucky glanced at him. “Some do. Most don’t.”

That felt like an answer to more than one question.

They checked in quickly—Bucky didn’t even look at the credit card slip—and were ushered toward a private elevator. Steve noticed how the staff greeted Bucky with polite familiarity, not awe. Respect without spectacle.

Old money, his brain supplied helpfully.

The elevator doors closed with a soft chime, sealing them into a quiet that felt suddenly intimate. Steve shifted his backpack on his shoulder.

“So,” he said, because silence made him nervous. “Meetings.”

Bucky leaned back against the wall. “Tomorrow morning, a couple this afternoon. Nothing you need to worry about.”

“I’m not worried,” Steve said immediately.

Bucky smiled like he didn’t quite believe him. “You can hang by the pool, explore, order room service. Or—” he shrugged, “—you can sit in on whatever you want. I won’t make it weird.”

Steve studied him. “You’re very confident for someone who literally controls billions of dollars.”

“I’m confident because I don’t need you to be impressed,” Bucky said simply.

Steve swallowed. The elevator opened onto a hushed hallway lined with patterned carpet and warm light. Their suite door clicked open and Steve stepped inside—

—and actually laughed.

“Oh my god.”

The room was enormous. Living area. Dining table. A view straight down the Strip that made the city look like a river of light. The open  bedroom doors beyond showed to identical suites, all soft neutrals and clean lines.

“This is where you stay for meetings?” Steve asked.

“This is where I sleep,” Bucky said. “Meetings are downstairs.”

Steve dropped his bag and walked to the window, pressing his palm to the glass. “You could lose me in here.”

Bucky came up beside him, close but not touching. “I wouldn’t.”

Steve glanced up at him. “You say that very confidently.”

Bucky’s gaze softened. “I mean it.”

For a second, the Strip roared silently beneath them and everything else faded—the work, the money, the weight of expectation. Steve became acutely aware of how near Bucky was. He cleared his throat. “So. On-the-Strip nights, huh?”

Bucky chuckled. “I thought we’d start easy. Dinner. Walk around. You tell me when it’s too much.”

“And if I say I want to go home?”

“Then we go home,” Bucky said without hesitation. “This isn’t a test.”

Steve exhaled, something in his chest loosening. “Okay.”

Bucky’s smile widened, genuine. “Okay.”

Steve looked back out at the city, bright and endless and terrifying and full of possibility—and for the first time since agreeing to this trip, he felt something settle into place.

Maybe Vegas wouldn’t swallow him whole.

Maybe—just maybe—it might give him something back.

Steve decided pretty quickly that Vegas did something strange to time.

Dinner blurred into a low hum of light and sound and movement—the kind of restaurant that felt dim and intimate despite being surrounded by spectacle. They sat near a window that overlooked the Strip, the city glowing gold and electric beyond the glass.

Steve stared at the menu like it might personally judge him.

“Relax,” Bucky said, amused. “You don’t have to pick the most responsible option.”

“I don’t know what any of this means,” Steve muttered. “Why is there truffle foam on everything?”

“Because it’s Vegas,” Bucky said. “And because people like pretending food is an experience.”

Steve snorted. “I just want something that tastes good.”

They ordered easily—Bucky guiding without controlling, Steve appreciating that more than he wanted to admit. When the waiter asked about drinks, Steve ordered a vodka soda with lime again, then paused.

“And… maybe another one later,” he added, glancing at Bucky like he was asking permission.

Bucky smiled. “Live a little, Rogers.”

By the time the food arrived, Steve was warm. Not sloppy—just loose around the edges. His shoulders weren’t hunched. His laughter came easier. He talked with his hands, gesturing wildly as he told a story about a wedding he’d worked where the best man fainted during the vows.

“And Darcy just—” Steve snapped his fingers, missing. “—dragged him out like a corpse.”

Bucky laughed, deep and unguarded. “I would’ve paid to see that.”

Steve grinned at him, eyes bright. “You’re laughing a lot more lately.”

“Only around the right people,” Bucky replied.

That made Steve pause. He lifted his glass, took another sip, and tilted his head. “Am I… the right people?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He watched Steve instead—the soft flush on his cheeks, the way he leaned in when he was engaged, the fact that he seemed lighter here, like something had finally unknotted.

“Yes,” Bucky said quietly. “You are.”

Steve ducked his head, smiling into his drink.

By the fourth vodka soda, Steve was definitely tipsy. He leaned back in his chair, legs stretched out, toe nudging Bucky’s shoe under the table like he hadn’t even realized he was doing it.

“Okay,” Steve said thoughtfully, “I get why people like this city.”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky asked.

“It’s loud,” Steve continued. “And ridiculous. But it doesn’t pretend to be something else. It’s just… a lot.”

Bucky watched him, fond. “You’re a lot right now.”

Steve gasped. “Rude.”

“Accurate,” Bucky said, smiling.

When the waiter cleared their plates, Steve looked at Bucky with sudden seriousness. “Thank you for this.”

“For dinner?”

“For letting me come,” Steve corrected. “It’s fun.”

Bucky’s gaze softened again. “I’m glad you’re having fun.”

Steve laughed quietly. “I’m just drinking your expensive alcohol.”

“And I’m enjoying watching you,” Bucky said, then stopped himself—cleared his throat. “Enjoy yourself.”

Steve’s smile lingered, slower this time. “You don’t mind that I’m a little buzzed?”

“I mind if you’re uncomfortable,” Bucky said. “This?” He gestured to Steve’s relaxed posture, his easy grin. “This makes me happy.”

Steve blinked, emotion flickering across his face before he hid it behind humor. “Careful, Barnes. You keep talking like that and I’ll start thinking you’re sweet on me.”

Bucky leaned in just slightly, voice low. “Maybe I am.”

Steve’s breath hitched—but then he laughed, soft and disbelieving, and stood. “Okay. Before I do something bold or embarrassing, we should probably leave.”

Bucky rose with him, steadying a hand at Steve’s elbow—not guiding, not holding on too tightly. Just there.

“Good call,” he said. 

As they walked out into the warm Vegas night, Steve slipped his hands into his pockets, swaying just a little. Bucky matched his pace without comment.

Saturday unfolded like a soft exhale Steve hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Bucky disappeared early that morning, already half-dressed and half-on his phone, murmuring apologies as he bid Steve goodbye and promised he’d be back between meetings. Steve watched him go from the edge of the couch, sunlight spilling over into the room. Once the door shut, Steve  sat back and stared at the ceiling, listening to the muted hum of Vegas waking up outside.

Okay, he thought. What do people do when they’re accidentally staying in a luxury hotel on someone else’s dime?

Apparently—whatever they wanted.

He ordered room service and ate cross-legged on the bed, scrolling through texts from Darcy and Peter. Darcy demanded updates. Peter sent memes about Vegas ruining lives. Steve replied with voice notes because typing felt like effort, narrating his morning like a documentary.

By late morning, he’d wandered downstairs to the gift shop.

That’s where he found Nat’s fridge magnet—bright, tacky, aggressively Vegas. He laughed out loud and dropped it into his basket. He grabbed matching Vegas dog shirts for Frida and himself, because if his dog had to suffer public humiliation, so would he. Shirts for Darcy and Peter followed—both of them reading My friend went to Vegas and all I got was this shitty t-shirt.

He could already hear Darcy cackling.

Bucky popped back in mid-afternoon, jacket gone, tie loosened, hair a little wild. His eyes softened the second he saw Steve sprawled on the couch, shopping bags everywhere.

“You went feral,” Bucky said, amused.

“You left me alone,” Steve shot back. “That’s a you problem.”

Bucky laughed, changed his tie and then he was gone again, swallowed by meetings and phone calls.

That night, Bucky came back exhausted but wired, eyes bright despite the long day. Steve told him everything anyway: the gift shop, the shirts, the magnet. Bucky listened like it mattered, smiling at Steve while he talked. They ordered room service again and when sleep called them, they each went into their own room.

Sunday blurred even more.

Steve booked a massage because why not, then another because absolutely why not. He wandered aimlessly, watched fountains, read by the pool, visited the casino, and eventually caved and bought himself a designer messenger bag he would normally never even touch. Dark leather. Clean lines. Expensive enough to make him wince.

It’s an investment, he told himself firmly.

Bucky returned late again, jacket draped over his arm, eyes tired but lighting up when he saw Steve waiting for him. They talked until Steve’s throat hurt and Bucky’s eyelids drooped. When they finally slept, it felt easy. Comfortable.

Dangerous.

Monday came too fast.

Bucky had promised the day together, and he meant it. They had breakfast downstairs—simple clothes, no suits. Bucky in jeans and a soft henley that made Steve’s brain short-circuit entirely.

Damn, Steve thought, stirring his coffee. I don’t know if I like him better like this or in suits.

Immediately followed by: Stop. He’s your friend. Don’t ruin this.

They spent the day wandering the Strip, drinking ridiculous oversized cocktails hanging from plastic straps around their necks. Steve laughed until his cheeks hurt. Bucky laughed too—real laughter, the kind Steve hadn’t heard from him all weekend.

By dinner, they were buzzed enough that Bucky insisted on food “before this turns irresponsible.”

Wine turned into cocktails.

Cocktails turned into honesty.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling like the answers might be written there. “The board’s breathing down my neck.”

Steve frowned. “Why?”

Bucky scoffed softly. “Because my grandmother was… old-school. She put this clause in my contract. If I want to stay CEO, I have to be married.”

Steve blinked. “You’re joking.”

“I wish. Apparently every Barnes who's held this title has had to follow it,” Bucky ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t even believe in love. Thought I had it once. College. Blew up. So now it’s like—great. Love’s fake, but paperwork is forever.”

Steve’s brain felt fuzzy. Warm. Dangerous. They were quiet for a long moment, both lost in their own tipsiness. 

“So,” Steve said slowly, slurring his words together. “You need a bride.”

“Or a husband,” Bucky shrugged.

Steve stared at his drink. Then at Bucky. “Well,” he slurred just a little, “I’ll marry you.”

Bucky laughed. “Okay, punk. Sure.”

“I’m serious! What? You don’t think I'll make a good husband? ” Steve said. “We get married. We divorce in a year. Does the clause say you have to stay married forever?”

Bucky thought about it. “I… don’t think so?”

“There you go,” Steve said, proud. “We’re friends. That’s what friends do.”

Bucky stared at him like Steve had suggested robbing a bank. “I’ll pay you,” Bucky blurted.

Steve waved him off. “Nah. Take me to Italy. And France. That’s payment enough. Oh! And be my sugar daddy on the trip. That’ll do it.”

“Are you sure?” Bucky tried to stare at Steve’s face. “Fuck, I’m seeing two of you.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. 

Steve let out a laugh so loud he had to cover his mouth, “Of course, Buck! I want to help! It’s just a year. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Steve held out his hand.

Bucky stared at it. Then shook it.

“I guess,” Bucky said thickly, “it’s a good thing we’re in Vegas.”

Steve woke up with a pounding headache and an overwhelming dryness in his mouth. He sat up and put his head in his hands to try to help the pain he was in. He grunted and finally opened his eyes. The light coming in through the windows was so bright he recoiled.

He opened his eyes slowly again and looked down at himself. He didn’t have a shirt on. He looked underneath the blanket and realized he also did not have pants on. He was naked.

What the fuck? 

He ran his hands down his chest to try to appease the heartburn threatening to invade him when he noticed something on his hand catch the light. He held it out in front of him.  He had a ring. On his left hand. On his fourth finger to be exact. It was a beautiful silver band with a line of diamonds —or what looked to be diamonds—around it. 

What the fuck?

Steve sat straighter and looked up. There were clothes strewn everywhere and this was not his room, he realized. 

Steve looked over at the figure next to him and almost yelled. It was Bucky. Naked. His whole ass on display. It was a nice ass, Steve thought but the thought was quickly shoved away by the fact that Bucky laid next to him. Naked. 

Steve stared for a moment as Bucky snored, deep in sleep. His left hand was on the pillow. Also sporting a metal band. This one much simpler than his. Steve looked down at his naked form, then to the clothes that laid in different places in the room. 

Steve was confused. Had they…had sex? Steve assessed his body and felt the dull ache between his hips that confirmed they absolutely had been intimate. 

Shit.

Steve poked Bucky but got no response. He tried again, this time shaking his shoulder. 

“Five more minutes, mom,” Bucky grumbled into the pillow. 

“No, Bucky, get up!” Steve exclaimed.

Bucky grumbled again but put his hands on the bed and rose to stare at Steve. His long hair was messy and over his face. “What?” He snapped.

“Bucky, what happened last night?”

“Huh?” Bucky flipped on his back and moved the hair from his face. He shielded his eyes from the light. Bucky’s entire front was exposed, his hard morning wood on full display. 

Steve gasped and threw a pillow at him to cover it. Bucky didn’t even react. 

“What happened last night?” Steve said through gritted teeth.

“I—shit… I don’t—” Bucky mumbled, finally opening his eyes fully and settling on Steve. 

Bucky looked at Steve and then his eyes trailed down his form, his bottom half covered by the thick duvet. “Are you naked?” 

“Yes. And so are you.” 

Bucky looked down and finally noticed the throw pillow that barely covered his cock. He jerked and quickly threw a blanket over his hips. Bucky looked around and Steve could see that he was coming to the realization he himself had a couple moments ago. 

“Did we—” Bucky began.

“Uhuh,” Steve said. 

“Are you sure?” Bucky whispered, stealing a glance towards Steve. “How do you know?”

“Because I know,” Steve said in a snappy tone. 

Bucky nodded and took a deep breath. “Okay. That’s fine… We were drunk. We just gave in to our human urges. No biggie. Shit happens.This doesn’t mean we have to stop being friends.” His voice took a tone that said he was trying to make himself believe it rather than Steve. 

“No, not okay. Look at your left hand. We might be more than friends,” Steve said. 

Steve met his gaze then he followed his line of sight as he dropped it to his new piece of jewelry. Steve held up his own hand once Bucky looked up, dumbfounded. 

“Shit happens, huh?” Steve said dryly. 

“What the fuck happened last night?” Bucky asked, finally sitting up, He ran his hands through his hair. Once. Twice. 

“I don’t fucking know!” 

“Okay, okay, okay. Let’s assess the situation.” Bucky got up and the blanket fell off his hips as he stood. Once he turned, Steve caught an eyeful of Bucky’s cock again. 

Steve’s mouth almost watered until he realized his predicament. 

“Christ,” he shifted his eyes to the ceiling, “will you please cover up your anaconda?”

“Shit. Sorry.”

Steve heard some shuffling, an elastic snapping then finally, “There. I’m decent.” 

Steve looked at him again and saw him wearing briefs. Steve motioned for him to hand him the pair of pants that had been thrown over a chair. Once Bucky threw them at him Steve motioned for him to turn around. 

Once Steve had pants Bucky turned to look at him. “Okay, there’s gotta be clues somewhere, right?”

“Well, what’s the last thing you remember?” 

“Shit. I…remember you dared me to add two zeros to the tip I was leaving at the mobile drink cart on the street,” Bucky scrubbed at his beard. 

Steve frowned. That had been in the afternoon. They were still missing the whole night. 

Steve tried to remember. Drinks. Laughing. 

“Check your pockets!” Bucky exclaimed suddenly. 

Steve jumped and checked his pockets but came up empty. Bucky picked up his pants by the door and looked through. He pulled out a crumbled paper. He began to uncrumble it and read it over. He looked up at Steve, horror marring his features. 

Steve stomped over to him and took the paper from his hands. 

THANK YOU FOR CHOOSING
THE BINDING AGREEMENT CHAPEL 💍

Steve frowned.“…What?”

He kept reading.

RECEIPT #004721
Date: Monday 11/11/2025, 11:48 PM
Service Time: 12:07 AM (express package)

Wedding Package Purchased:
✔ The “Sure Thing” Midnight Special

Includes:
– Immediate ceremony
– Licensed officiant
– Two witnesses (random tourists, sober-ish)
– Music selection: “Lover” Taylor Swift
– One bouquet (artificial)
– Legal marriage filing with Clark County
– Complimentary champagne toast 🥂

Add-Ons:
➕ Rush Marriage License Processing
➕ Keepsake Photo Strip (4 poses)
➕ Matching Bands Upgrade (Sterling Silver + Diamond upgrade)

Couple:
James Buchanan Barnes
Steven Grant Rogers

Officiant:
Loretta “Lola” Martinez
(Certified, ordained)

Total Charged:
$1,487.63

Tip:
$1,000.00
(“You’re an angel.”)

“We’re married,” Steve deadpanned. Looking up at Bucky, he had his phone out. He reached for the receipt and scanned the QR code at the bottom of it. Steve went to stand next to him and saw that he had a website for the chapel pulled up. It led him to a site where there were photos and videos. Of them.

“Oh my god,” Steve whispered. Bucky clicked on the first picture. It was of them both, Steve holding a tacky blue flower bouquet and Bucky standing holding him impossibly close by the waist. Both of them with big, bright cheesy grins. 

The next picture was of them standing holding hands while in front of a lady dressed like Dolly Parton. 

The last picture was of them kissing. Steve has his hands on Bucky’s waist as Bucky grabbed Steve’s face with both hands.

“Christ, there’s a video.” Bucky mumbles as he clicks on it. Once it starts playing Steve could hear Dolly-Wanna-Be spewing crap about marriage being a commitment that lasts a lifetime and should be cherished. Wanna-Be-Dolly even introduces their witnesses, two drunk girls with birthday sashes who waste no time cheering them on. When Wanna-Be-Dolly announced they were now husband and husband, Bucky grabbed Steve’s face and pulled him in for a long, slow kiss. 

Steve could see from this angle there had been tongue. Lots of it. 

“I’m going to fuck you so good tonight, doll.” Bucky’s voice comes through his phone's speaker as the video ends with the girls cheering loudly. 

Bucky looked down at Steve, “Well. Now that we’re husbands,” he swallowed, “who’s family are we spending the holidays with?” 

Bucky smiled weakly and Steve looked at him like he had grown a second head. 

Again, what the fuck?