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"Babe?" Steve calls from the front door of their apartment in the Avenger Tower.
"Kitchen," Bucky shouts back. Usually, Steve would smell the food from the entrance but this New York City summer day is way too hot for anything but cold dishes.
"Hey," Steve greets him, not long after. He's sweaty. Bucky can't believe that his boyfriend is such a fitness freak that he goes jogging at these temperatures. Bucky would be worried that his arm might melt off if he left the tower. Okay, that's unlikely, both the leaving and the melting, but still.
Steve presses a peck on Bucky's lips.
"You were busy," he states, looking at the spread of antipasti on the worktop.
"You know I need to keep my brain occupied, and reading was impossible today."
Steve chuckles. "Why?"
"The heat."
"You know we have aircon, right?" he asks, an amused smile playing on his face.
"I don't trust that thing," Bucky mumbles.
"J.A.R.V.I.S?"
"Shh! Don't say his name."
Steve shakes his head and chuckles. "You're really a man of the 1900s."
"You are too, old man."
"You didn't call me old last night," Steve teases.
Bucky rolls his eyes. "No sex for you today," he says.
"You're only punishing yourself, babe," Steve smirks.
"Maybe I'll take an ice-cold bath and ignore you all night," Bucky says, sticking out his tongue.
"I give you ten minutes before you start spooning me," Steve chuckles.
Bucky knows he's right. Ever since he's been back, nightmares plague him, and the only thing helping is skin-to-skin contact. It's what brought him and Steve together. His old friend stayed with him, held him, and comforted him. Bucky can't remember who made the first move, who leant in earlier for their first kiss. It doesn't matter. They both had wanted to long before the war, neither of them daring to risk their friendship. But trauma can shift perspectives, and the world is a very different one than the one from their youth. Not perfect, but better.
"I think I'll eat the gazpacho all on my own," Bucky threatens playfully. He loves the ease between them, the teasing, but especially the love woven into every word and every single of their interactions, no matter how mundane.
"That would be a shame. Because I have the perfect red for that."
"Since when do you enjoy wine?" Bucky asks, flabbergasted. So much has changed, and nothing at all. Inside this bear of a man is still the old Steve, the one he fell in love with all those decades ago.
"I didn't, in the beginning, but Tony… let's say, water is seldom served for dinner."
Bucky hums noncommittally.
"Hey, where did your mind just go?" Steve asks softly, tipping Bucky's chin up.
Bucky quirks a smile. Steve knows him just too well.
"You know where," he murmurs.
Steve nods and wraps his hands around Bucky's waist.
"That wasn't you," he says firmly.
"I know," Bucky presses out. The knowledge doesn't erase the guilt one bit.
"Tony will come around. He's a man of logic."
"Grief tops logic."
"He'll get around, babe. You need to give him time. And you need to forgive yourself."
That's what his shrink said. Bucky can't hear it anymore, least of all from Steve who somehow can look at him and not just see the assassin, the mass murderer against his will, the brainwashed killing machine.
Bucky steps away from Steve's touch, his mood tipping. It always happens, like a flipped switch. Bucky hates it, hates himself for it. He always destroys everything beautiful.
"Hey," Steve says and pulls him back. Bucky could push him away, could start a fight, verbal or physical. Steve would take it in stride and give him what he craves, furniture and food be damned. But Bucky doesn't want this evening to end in a wrestling match. He wants Steve to kiss him and praise his cooking. He wants to feel him skin on skin, their sweat mixing as they just hold each other. He may not think that he deserves it, but Steve does.
So Bucky doesn't fight but allows Steve to pull him into a tight hug, to grace his lips over the cut of his jaw and whisper sweet nothings into his ears, to tell him that he's good, perfect for him.
"I hate you," Bucky whispers without heat.
"I know," Steve says, a smile clear in his voice.
Steve pulls him under the shower, washing his hair and body with tender touches as the spray hides Bucky's tears. Bucky lathers Steve in return until his mind grows quiet.
They share dinner standing in the kitchen after, and when Steve asks J.A.R.V.I.S to play 'Lights on' by Shawn Mendes, asking for a dance, Bucky rolls his eyes but starts swinging in Steve's arms.
The bad thoughts will return, the guilt, the nightmares. But he decides to shield this moment, to file it to memory: Steve's scent in his nose, his fingers on his skin, and his laughter in his ear. He's been given a new lease of life, and he won't let Hydra win. Not as long as Steve still believes in him.