Steve is breathing heavy, plopping onto the wooden locker room bench with a grunt. Moments later, Bucky is laying there next to him, head resting on Steve’s thigh.
He moves so quietly now, one of the remnants of the Winter Soldier, even now that Bucky has recovered so many pieces of himself that he had lost.
So while Steve huffs and puffs, Bucky smiles up at him, chest maybe moving a little more than usual, but looking like they haven’t just been sparring for three hours straight.
“Jerk,” Steve says on reflex; Bucky’s grin just gets wider.
“Old man,” Bucky replies, so casual that it takes Steve’s breath away.
It’s just, oh god, it’s just that it feels so right, the two of them being here. Together.
And this, these casual moments of intimacy, these are what Steve dreamed of during those months of searching and chasing—then the brief interlude of fighting giant,
evil robots—and finding and recovery and now, and now Bucky can lay there smiling. It’s all too much an not enough, mixed up in one.
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