[ Bucky says quietly, the heat of the moment makes him loose-tongued and reckless, indulgent -- this is where he can say what he's always wanted to say, with more honesty than he can remember having. He wants to do this; he doesn't serve a soul when he hides what he really wants to say, and Steve's words warm him the way nothing else ever did since he first went into the ice, watching as the glass cobwebbed with frost and white nothingness.
Steve makes him come alive again, makes him feel human and everything that comes with it. He's the chink in his armor, the one weakness that Bucky holds close to his heart. But he's also the source of his strength, this man who he's loved long before he knew what love was. He swallows hard and thinks of all the time they've lost, how their love has spanned a century, almost; how they had lost each other and come back here again.
He's the one man that Bucky would trade anything in for, the light in the darkness, and one of the most powerful reasons why he gets up and out of that bed every morning. Steve is stronger than his own guilt, and he can't help feeling his breath catch when the blond, his best friend, his best guy, looks at him like he's the most important person in the world. They're two halves of a whole, and he feels a weight off him when Steve makes that sound, when he makes him a promise that they can start here, right now, and see how it turns out for them.
Won't that be something?
Then he calls him his best guy and Bucky presses a soft kiss to the pad of his thumb, something tender, something rare, and if that isn't Bucky's explicit approval he doesn't know what else will be. They can start over, and maybe, just maybe, Bucky can believe in that. He wants to be close to Steve, even if he knows he's not worthy of any of it; he's done too many terrible things to deserve the happiness that he knows now lies in Steve Rogers. The people he killed didn't have a happy ending, so why should he?
But tonight, those thoughts, the tattered, sharp edges of himself dissipate like smoke in the summer rain, and in its absence there comes a semblance of hope. Maybe, just maybe. He wants to see where this goes, and Bucky shifts and moves when Steve does because it's what they do, (it's what they do, Steve moves, and Bucky moves with him), and he seals his lips over Steve's own like a promise.
A second, three, then, he murmurs, soft against his lips: ]
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[ Bucky says quietly, the heat of the moment makes him loose-tongued and reckless, indulgent -- this is where he can say what he's always wanted to say, with more honesty than he can remember having. He wants to do this; he doesn't serve a soul when he hides what he really wants to say, and Steve's words warm him the way nothing else ever did since he first went into the ice, watching as the glass cobwebbed with frost and white nothingness.
Steve makes him come alive again, makes him feel human and everything that comes with it. He's the chink in his armor, the one weakness that Bucky holds close to his heart. But he's also the source of his strength, this man who he's loved long before he knew what love was. He swallows hard and thinks of all the time they've lost, how their love has spanned a century, almost; how they had lost each other and come back here again.
He's the one man that Bucky would trade anything in for, the light in the darkness, and one of the most powerful reasons why he gets up and out of that bed every morning. Steve is stronger than his own guilt, and he can't help feeling his breath catch when the blond, his best friend, his best guy, looks at him like he's the most important person in the world. They're two halves of a whole, and he feels a weight off him when Steve makes that sound, when he makes him a promise that they can start here, right now, and see how it turns out for them.
Won't that be something?
Then he calls him his best guy and Bucky presses a soft kiss to the pad of his thumb, something tender, something rare, and if that isn't Bucky's explicit approval he doesn't know what else will be. They can start over, and maybe, just maybe, Bucky can believe in that. He wants to be close to Steve, even if he knows he's not worthy of any of it; he's done too many terrible things to deserve the happiness that he knows now lies in Steve Rogers. The people he killed didn't have a happy ending, so why should he?
But tonight, those thoughts, the tattered, sharp edges of himself dissipate like smoke in the summer rain, and in its absence there comes a semblance of hope. Maybe, just maybe. He wants to see where this goes, and Bucky shifts and moves when Steve does because it's what they do, (it's what they do, Steve moves, and Bucky moves with him), and he seals his lips over Steve's own like a promise.
A second, three, then, he murmurs, soft against his lips: ]
Your best guy, huh?