“You’d probably take any poor sap’s teeth out anyway,” Bucky retorts, though it’s kind of like he’s fumbled in a dance and trying to catch up. It’s like seeing the ghostly outline of two Steve’s here, and even for a second, having the line between them blur. Steve’s hand is firm and resting on his knee, and it’d only be an easy shift for it to slide elsewhere like it had hours ago with that other Steve. Then Steve’s leaning in, palm pressed to his forehead like Bucky’s running a fever; like Bucky used to for Steve, only now he’s the one who can’t get sick anymore.
Bucky rolls his eyes and lets his shoulders sag as he pretends like he’s putting a real effort here into dealing with Steve mother-henning now. He’s not running hot like Steve does. Actually, most days, it seems like he’s always cold, or his stomach gnawing even when he eats the full ration back in camp. But there’s nothing feverish waiting for Steve’s palm.
Bucky kind expects that to be it. His stomach flutters like someone tossed a fistful of butterflies there the next moment; Steve leans in closer, concerned, voice soft, and his hand settles along the nape of his neck and how did Bucky survive until today when his best friend’s looking at him like that? He sucks in a sharp, soft gasp.
At this point, Bucky’s kind of clutching at his glass like it’s his lifeline in the growing tension heavy in the air. Steve’s noticed it; the way that something’s off, that they aren’t quite fitting back into the slots they always have with each other. It’s like Bucky’s eyes have been opened, and now he can’t see things differently even if his life depended on it.
“‘Course I trust you. With my life,” Bucky sets the glass aside so he doesn’t end up spilling it, and he turns to look at Steve, hand curling along his forearm as he searches his face while he figures out which way this is gonna go. But something’s gotta give, and he’s not gonna turn tail. “I guess after that last mission, I’ve been doing some thinking. About the War. All this.” About us, Bucky thinks. “Does it feel like it’s becoming the Mission and only the mission?”
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Bucky rolls his eyes and lets his shoulders sag as he pretends like he’s putting a real effort here into dealing with Steve mother-henning now. He’s not running hot like Steve does. Actually, most days, it seems like he’s always cold, or his stomach gnawing even when he eats the full ration back in camp. But there’s nothing feverish waiting for Steve’s palm.
Bucky kind expects that to be it. His stomach flutters like someone tossed a fistful of butterflies there the next moment; Steve leans in closer, concerned, voice soft, and his hand settles along the nape of his neck and how did Bucky survive until today when his best friend’s looking at him like that? He sucks in a sharp, soft gasp.
At this point, Bucky’s kind of clutching at his glass like it’s his lifeline in the growing tension heavy in the air. Steve’s noticed it; the way that something’s off, that they aren’t quite fitting back into the slots they always have with each other. It’s like Bucky’s eyes have been opened, and now he can’t see things differently even if his life depended on it.
“‘Course I trust you. With my life,” Bucky sets the glass aside so he doesn’t end up spilling it, and he turns to look at Steve, hand curling along his forearm as he searches his face while he figures out which way this is gonna go. But something’s gotta give, and he’s not gonna turn tail. “I guess after that last mission, I’ve been doing some thinking. About the War. All this.” About us, Bucky thinks. “Does it feel like it’s becoming the Mission and only the mission?”