Hand Over Hand - AboardAMoose (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Steve checked his list one more time, running his finger down item after item.

Everything was already packed. It had been for weeks, and Steve wasn't actually capable of forgetting anything anyway. But still, he marked off each item in turn just in case.

Three books, which might be the last he had the time to read for a few years. Check check check. A folder full of notes. Heat pads and slippers. A bulging toiletries bag stuffed with more tubs and bottles and oils and creams than he'd ever needed before in his life - though of course, not all were for him. An array of gadgets and equipment, some of which he still felt odd saying the names of aloud. Check check check check check.

Six different outfits for himself: oversized pyjamas and loose pants, leggings and cardigans alongside a robe and a stack of undergarments, each one putting comfort over style. Packed on top of those were nine outfits for her, every single piece neatly ironed and folded into sets in their own individual bags so there'd be no fussing or confusion or odd numbers of socks, which were tiny and easily lost.

Steve dithered. What if nine wasn't enough? What if she was bigger than all the doctors expected, or much smaller? What if she was sick or had to stay in for longer and he ran out?

He slid a few more bodysuits into the bag, because he wasn't likely to be leaving her until he could bring her home.

If worst came to the worst - and he was on his knees nightly praying that it would not come to the worst - Sam could drive back to the house or nip to the store for him, or FRIDAY could organise him a delivery by drone or other souped up flying machines.

The thought had him wondering over the very thing he’d been trying to avoid. Where was Sam? The cooler filled with the food Steve had prepared for them both was waiting by the door. Steve placed the suitcase beside it. The car seat was already strapped into the back of his SUV.

He was ready.

Steve stood and stared at the bags for a long minute. If Sam was going to be late, maybe it wouldn't hurt to check the list one more time…

A phone ringing snapped Steve out of that particular moment of insanity.

"Hey, where’re you-" Steve didn't even bother finishing the question. He could hear the rumble of engines on the other end of the phone line, and the cascade of air being disrupted by the speed of Sam’s flight. He’d heard those sounds countless times running missions at Sam’s side, and as the voice in the other man’s ear. And he knew. "You're not gonna make it."

"I'm so sorry." Sam's voice bled regret. "f*ck man, I can't believe I'm doing this to you two…"

"It's okay."

"It's not. It's a sh*tty thing to do. Hands down, the worst thing I’ve ever done. It's not forgivable in any way. But it's a big one Steve. Quill's on his way to pick us up."

So Sam would be away for more than one day. He and the team had been known to be out in space for weeks on end when major interstellar threats cropped up.

That meant Steve would be doing this alone.

"Stay safe," was all that he could offer. "You can meet her as soon as you get back."

Sam shouted something urgent on the other end of the line before he broke away to reply, "You take care, hear me Steve? You're gonna be fine, the both of you. You've saved millions of lives more times over than I can count, millions of people do this every day. You've got this." There was a pause for what sounded like a jet landing, then Sam said, "Y’know what, let me speak to her."

Steve huffed a laugh. "Seriously, it's okay. You don't have to-"

"Put the phone on speaker Rogers and let me talk to my goddaughter."

For once glad there was no one else in his house, Steve did as he was told and held his phone at navel-level. His spare hand dropped down to his stomach so he could rub the top of it. "Can you wake up honey? Uncle Sam wants to say hello."

At just shy of 42 weeks pregnant, ten days overdue, it wasn't hard for Steve to feel the shape of his daughter beneath his skin. Her head had been pointing down for almost a month, but with just a little pressure Steve could trace the shape of her butt where it pressed up close to his ribs, as well as her legs where they were tucked in across the high curve of his belly. A little jolt went through the child at the press of Steve's hand, as if it took her by surprise. It never failed to make Steve feel a drop of awe. It would be over a year before she learned to speak a single word, she wasn’t even born yet, but they were already able to communicate. It was the neatest fragment of magic Steve had ever experienced, and he was friends with actual wizards.

"Okay. She’s up, you're on," Steve informed the man on the phone.

Over the speakers, Sam’s voice crackled, "Hey kiddo. It’s your Uncle Sammy here. And I know it’s not fair to ask you for a favour before we’ve even met, but I’ve not got a choice this time. See, I’m gonna need you to be good for your Dad. Just line yourself up and slide right out, okay? He’s worked damn hard to grow you the last nine months, to even have a chance at you in the first place. Don’t make him work harder than he needs to today, okay?”

Steve was laughing by the end of that. “Alright, alright, wind it up.”

“Nope, not done. Samantha, sweet thing-”

“Still not calling her Samantha.”

“-Sammi, Samuela, Samina, my sweet little Samysha-”

“That’s not a real name.”

“Baby girl. Your Dad’s a worrier, and he’s gonna be freakin’ out a little right now because I’m not there to tell him to stop being stupid. Go easy on him, will you please? He’s had to fight hard for every single thing he’s got, including you. Don’t make this a fight too if you can do a single thing about it, please.”

Inevitably, tears began to prick at the corners of Steve’s eyes. It was irritating as all hell - how his body over-reacted to minute things these days. He’d been doing so damn well fighting off the disappointment until that moment, but the soup of hormones he had in the place of his blood betrayed him at Sam’s words. He had fought for this. The sheer wanting built up inside him for this child was a force stronger than anything he’d ever known. And when he’d imagined his child's first moments, Sam had always been at his side - his right-hand man in all things.

Swallowing back the wash of inconvenient feelings, Steve had to clear his throat before he could answer steadily, “Go save the world, Cap.”

“Go make your new one, Commander,” came the sincere reply. “I’ll come see you the minute we’re back. The rabbit’ll be landing the ship on your front lawn, so make sure you park on the street.”

When Sam rang off, Steve placed the phone down on the counter before leaning himself against it too. Free of the need to seem unaffected, he allowed himself to experience the sensation of being let down by his best friend. It didn't make him resentful, not for a moment. Steve understood better than anyone that saving the world could rarely wait, saving the universe even less so. And of course, it was his own fault that the Avengers were down a man. Yet he hung his head over his daughter’s current home and brushed at his traitorous eyes with a whisper of "Get it together Rogers," until they dried all the way up.

He was allowed to be disappointed over this. Today was important, and it wasn't going to go the way he planned. Sam had meant to be there for moral support, of course, even to hold Steve's hand if that's what he really needed - but it was the baby who would miss out on his presence the most. Sam was her back up more than anything. If Steve were incapacitated or exhausted or just plain failed to do what was right, his daughter was meant to have Sam to make sure her needs were taken care of.

“Looks like we’re on our own sweetheart. I'm sorry.” When Steve ran his palm over to where he knew his daughter's feet were, he was rewarded with a kick against his fingertips. "It's alright. We'll start as we mean to go on: just the two of us."

-

Steve was intimately familiar with the Rose Crest Maternity and Paternity Centre after months of visits, not just for the purpose of keeping his baby closely monitored but also to ensure that the people who’d be delivering his child were comfortable with the extra security and unique complications which accompanied playing host to a pregnant superhero. The centre was peaceful, far off the roadway and accessed by a bridge across a silvery brook, with a parking lot located beneath trailing willow trees and a reception roof glazed over to allow sunlight to stream in. When Steve held his daughter up to look through a window for the first time, he wanted her to see a green and peaceful world far from the smog and memories which hung over Brooklyn and the opposite of the hard steel and glass edges of his workplaces. The Rose Crest would give them that, as well as world-class care.

At the entrance to the centre, the imposing security agent assigned to lead Steve’s daughter’s detail met him outside with a smart salute.

“Commander.”

“Agent Vance. All set?” He waved her to ease.

“Yes sir. We’ve just undertaken a secondary sweep. All clear. There’s been no new chatter about this operation, so we’ll be stationed outside the building as agreed. Can I confirm you have your panic button?”

Steve held up his wrist so she could scan the thin leather bracelet he wore.

Once she was satisfied, Agent Vance said, “You call us if you need us sir.”

“Will do.” And though Steve was keen to walk inside, he knew that he had to add, “You should be aware that Falcon will no longer be in attendance as planned. If you’ve no objections, I’ll be asking you to take closer positions while I’m sleeping. Once she’s here, you understand.”

“Not a problem. I’ll relay that to the unit. And your medical team will keep us informed if you're not in a position to.”

“Is that all?” Another car had pulled up as they’d been speaking and Steve could see Agent Vance’s eyes tracking the newcomer over his shoulder. He didn’t love the feeling of exposure, discussing his security protocols in the open air with someone unknown at his back. Neither did Agent Vance it would seem, as she placed a steering hand on Steve’s elbow to guide him out of the visitor’s path even as she replied.

“Not quite everything. I’ve got a message from Mr Stark.” Agent Vance grimaced and clearly had to psyche herself up to deliver it. “I’ve already advised him of your anticipated response. But he said to tell you that if you wish to change your mind and have your birth at the med centre located either at The Compound or The Tower, beds have been prepared for you.”

It was a long-running argument, and maybe it was old age, maybe it was impending fatherhood but all Steve felt was a gentle diffusion of amusem*nt at its latest round. “Tell him thanks but no thanks for me.” From the beginning, Steve had wanted his daughter growing up as far away from the Avenging life as it was possible for the child of the Commander of the Avengers to be. Starting her life in a Stark Industries facility would run counter to that from the very first.

“Already done sir.”

The man who’d pulled up outside a few moments before was making slow progress up the ramp to the centre’s entrance. Steve glanced his way, and his first thought assessed the newcomer as a low level threat: almost as heavily pregnant as Steve, his breath came in short pants while his hand clutched the top of his belly as if there was pain there. Steve’s second thought was that he would be just like that soon enough. But the moment the man came close enough for Steve to hear his heartbeat, he knew something was seriously wrong. No one’s blood should be thundering that loudly.

“Can I help you?” Steve asked at once, already preparing to catch the man should he collapse. “Agent, get his arm-”

“I’m fine.” The newcomer only cast his words vaguely in Steve’s direction; he didn’t properly turn - apparently set on making his way up the ramp to reception. Steve couldn’t see his face, as he wore sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled low. Long brown hair escaped the hat to fall to his shoulders. “I just need a doctor.”

Agent Vance darted forwards before Steve could to prop the brunet up, and signalled to Steve to stay put. “I’ll get you one. Help’s just this way.”

Obedient for once in his life, Steve waited by the entryway for Agent Vance to finish up, so they could put the last parts of their plan in place. Agent Garza, Vance's second in command, slid seamlessly into place at his side while he waited.

-

Bucky Barnes felt like sh*t. Which wasn’t exactly novel. He’d been feeling like sh*t for the better part of eight months, this pregnancy had really just been an exploration of many different brands of feeling like sh*t, and he was so ready to feel like sh*t in an entirely different way by getting his child out of him.

That morning though, his body had taken the sh*tometer to a brand new level. The kind of nausea he’d been free of for all of ten weeks hit him before he even opened his eyes. Moving his head after the nausea began had been a mistake; his brain throbbed.

Despite it all, he’d tried to stagger through his morning routine. Throughout the ordeal of this pregnancy, he’d clung on to what dignity he had by forcing himself to shower, dress and eat every day. If he could just do those three things, he could pretend to be something like a member of the human race. But when a sharp pain had kicked up beneath his ribs, persistent and constant and nothing like what he’d been told labour would feel like, he’d known something was really wrong. He'd known that he needed help.

According to his phone, the Rose Crest Maternity and Paternity Centre was the source of that help closest to his crappy bedsit.

The moment he pulled up outside the building, he knew he’d made a mistake. Even parking there was going to bankrupt him, though there was no obvious meter. But the baby was kicking up a storm inside him, feet and knees colliding painfully with his innards and - if he was honest with himself - his vision was starting to blur at the edges. It had begun two miles onto the highway, when he realised that he could hardly make out the signs above the road. It had only worsened as his head pounded, and though he squinted against the morning sun’s glare, more than once he almost missed a car overtaking him. His pounding heart leapt into his throat each time, but he’d known terror too often over the previous months to be thrown.

The knowledge chain was simple enough. Single cause and single effect. If he continued to drive, he was going to crash. If he crashed, his baby was f*cked. Ergo, driving was not an option. Ergo, he had to grab his cap and sunglasses from the glovebox to keep out the blinding sun, and consign himself to being in debt forever because he’d forgotten protection for one damn night and his skull was about to crack open without any good reason.

Bucky stumbled his way through the car park, past a couple murmuring in the sun, and found himself without the wherewithall to protest when one of them swooped forwards to help him into a horrifically bright atrium.

"I'm really sorry," he muttered, best he could.

"Don't mention it," the unexpectedly strong woman at his elbow replied, in a tone which suggested he not only shouldn't mention it ever again but forget that it was happening.

With that assistance, Bucky crossed the atrium towards a curving desk where a smiling woman in scrubs confirmed she'd take it from here. The woman at his elbow disappeared without a word.

Bucky’s vision tunnelled, but he clung to the cool wood to steady himself. “I need to see a doctor. I think there’s something wrong.”

“Can I get your name?”

“James Buchanan Barnes.”

There was a clatter of keys, then, “I don’t see you on our system Mr Barnes. Can I confirm whether you’re registered with us under a different name?”

Shaking his head was a mistake he only figured out too late. “I’m not registered. But I really need help. Please. My stomach hurts - my head. I can’t see straight.”

Even through the blurry veil drawn over his vision, he saw the look seriousness sweep the woman’s face. “Alright. Take a seat Mr Barnes, I’ll have someone come look at you straight away.”

Sitting down was something that Bucky could do. It was the getting up again that was going to be a problem. The weight of his stomach pinned him against the chair.

These people would help him, wouldn’t they? Even if this place was miles out of his league and a single glance at his clothing would tell anyone here that immediately, doctors took that oath, right? They couldn’t turn him away. Just take the pain down a notch and that would be fine, make it so he could see and direct him to another hospital. Bucky might not be able to afford any serious intervention, but they’d have to offer him some care for the baby’s sake at least. It wasn’t the baby’s fault that he needed help after all. It was the one innocent creature that Bucky knew.

The baby had to be okay. The thought that it might not be was simply unbearable. He couldn't contemplate it.

Without warning, pain stabbed deep within Bucky's abdomen, just below his ribs, and he gritted his teeth at the flare. Automatically, his palm flew to the source of the hurt. When he pressed tentatively into the flesh there, exploring, the pain only spiked - so strongly that he almost cried out at it. His body sung with the wrongness of it, as if his organs were trying to warn him to act. He knew that if they could talk, they'd be chanting ‘fix me fix me fix me’ without a pause, so loud it was defeaning. As he struggled against the pain and the impatience for assistance - he'd beg if he had to, his baby might be in danger, he wasn't above that - Bucky tried again to squint at the room, hoping against hope that his vision might have cleared a little so he could see whether help was on its way.

The sound of a suitcase’s wheels drew his attention as a broad, neatly put-together blond man entered the reception. A nurse hurried over to greet him, and Bucky heard her say, “Steve. Good to see you again. Is today the day?”

“I certainly hope so,” the blond replied. When he dropped his hand from her grasp, it moved to his bump which stood out proud and high on his abdomen. He looked even bigger than Bucky, and Bucky felt like a goddamn elephant that had swallowed a prize-winning watermelon. Even as the nurse said something about a suite and an obstetrician, the blond scanned the room around him.

A piercing blue gaze turned Bucky’s way and caught him looking.

Somehow, the man seemed to make eye contact despite the opacity of Bucky’s shades. The intensity of the gaze and the concern wound through it made Bucky’s breath catch almost as violently as the pain beneath his ribs. The man didn't look away, and Bucky wasn't sure that he had the ability to anymore. Those eyes were the same colour as the cloudless cornflower sky directly on show above them both. Bucky had never seen eyes like them before; had never been so arrested by a single glance.

Bucky had the strangest feeling that this man had the ability to see all the way through him. Like he knew the make up of him all the way down to which of his synapses were snapping down his spine. And yet it wasn't invasive or even wrong. Bucky was convinced that the blond was looking at him as if he was worried about him. Like the stranger cared.

Only the approach of an older man in a white coat severed the connection between blue and silver. To Bucky’s relief and embarrassment both, the doctor was pushing a wheelchair and the first thing he did was promise that he’d help.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

Dr Chung sat back in his chair and announced, "Well, Mr Barnes. We'll test that blood to confirm it, but I'm willing to bet my medical licence and my oldest grandchild - who happens to be the least irritating of my grandchildren - that you're currently suffering from pre-eclampsia. Your symptoms suggest that you've reached what we doctors call severe pre-eclampsia, and urgent intervention is needed to bring it under control before it drops the prefix and becomes eclampsia, which really is a no no."

"What does that mean?" Bucky asked. He'd been poked and prodded and scanned and had a dozen fluids extracted and asked about 5,432 questions since stepping inside the Rose Crest Maternity and Paternity Centre, and he'd officially entered a state of overwhelm. That probably wasn't helping his blood pressure, which the doctor had taken three times already.

"It means that you need to cancel any plans you had for today, because we're going to admit you now for treatment. Congratulations Mr Barnes, you're about to have your baby."

That couldn't be right. Surely Bucky would know if he was about to have his baby? The pain he was in didn't feel like labour. If he was in labour, why wouldn't the doctor have led with that when he was wheeled into the examination room half an hour ago? How close was he? Wasn't there meant to be something about dilation? Was he going to give birth here? He didn't feel the need to push. He was still wearing his pants. Should he take them off..?

Bucky was well aware that any grasp he'd once had on logic had flown out the window and zoomed far, far away across the fields.

His head felt like it was splitting.

"Right now? Today?" he clarified.

Almost endearingly, the doctor chuckled. "No, not this minute. Right now, your pre-eclampsia is elevating your blood pressure and we have to get it down before I'm comfortable with you trying to give birth naturally. If we get it down far enough, we'll induce you - tomorrow probably. If we can't, or if I start to feel unhappy about the direction progress is going in, we'll wheel you into surgery for an emergency c-section. Pre-eclampsia has one effective treatment: delivery. So one way or another, that's what we'll do."

"I can't have a baby tomorrow," Bucky said faintly. He looked around the sparkling, high-tech clinic, at the state of the art equipment and the decor carefully curated to put expectant patients and their partners at ease. The frames around the certificates the doctor had hung on the wall probably cost more than all the furniture Bucky had been able to scrounge off the street. More pressingly, "I can't have a baby here."

Dr Chung smiled understandingly. It was a kind smile. Everything he'd done so far had been kind and apparently competent and Bucky wasn't sure that he deserved it. "I'm afraid I can't recommend you moving at this time. Unmanaged, your pre-eclampsia poses a significant risk to you and your baby. And right now, it's not managed."

Panic and pain were a potent blend, and adrenaline only promised to stir up Bucky's nausea further. As he fought down the tide of dizziness, he struggled to protest, "Please - can't you give me something for it so I can go home? I'll get it managed, I'll do whatever you tell me to do, then I can have the baby somewhere… else." If he could just lay his head in a room that was dark and cool, close his eyes somewhere he could breathe…

"I don't want to worry you, Mr Barnes. That's not my intention," Dr Chung interrupted. "But you must understand that what you have is a serious condition. You are at a high risk of seizures or even stroke if eclampsia develops. Your risk of placental abruption is also elevated. If you experience that outside of a specialist medical facility, indeed even if you experience that within one, it can cause haemorrhage and fetal fatality, or indeed death to yourself. The effect that pre-eclampsia has on your body can even lead to liver or kidney failure. I'm talking about permanent organ damage Mr Barnes. You have to understand, I can't in good conscience let you leave this premises. You need to let us help you."

The words hit Bucky's crumbling defences one by one. They had fallen to nothing before the doctor had even used the 'd' word. It didn't matter so much what happened to him, but his baby... He couldn't walk away if it was going to hurt the child. He'd just have to make it work, once they were both safe. "Holy sh*t." His palms were tight against his stomach, where his baby roiled over and over. It was ridiculous to think that he could shield the child from harm just by holding on to it, and holding on to his stomach at that not even the child within, but that was all he had. There was nothing left of him but the aching and the fear. "You can stop all that happening, right? You can keep my kid safe. It'll be okay coming out this early and-"

Tucking away his notes in a file, Dr Chung said, "You've made it to 38 weeks so baby's fully cooked, it'll be fine coming out into the big wide world. All those last few weeks do is crisp them up a bit anyway. Like potatoes." He was already reaching to call for someone else to come in as he added, "We have a brilliant team here. You and your baby are in good hands. We're going to do everything we can to look after you."

-

"Right!" Khyati, one of the senior midwives who'd been part of Steve's care team since month five, popped up between Steve's spread legs and announced, "There we are. Not very dignified I'm afraid, but all par for the course in this business.”

“S’okay. I saw the sign at reception - ‘leave your dignity at the door’. Next to the umbrella stand.” Steve meant it only as a joke: he had faith that the clinicians here would make the process of giving birth as dignified as it was possible to be. Khyati already knew him well enough to take it that way.

“Well, as you’ve done that we might as well commit. You're going to lie back with your legs in the stirrups for me for the next 30 minutes or so, or you'll leak out all the medication I just worked so hard to put in you. We'll keep these curtains closed around you though, and I can cover you up now I'm done." It had to be the first time in a century that Steve had been tucked in, but he knew to consign himself to the idea that this was going to be a strange experience. Khyati’s hands were brisk but careful, with all the confidence around another person’s body that years of midwifery conferred, and she continued to speak as she fluffed up an extra pillow for him. "As you know, the dinoprostone will take some time to work once it's been absorbed. Could be six hours, could be twelve, could be a whole day. We'll keep an eye on you. Your only job is to lie there, relax, and let your cervix ripen, okay?"

It was a strange thing to imagine part of his body doing, but Steve was just grateful that she wasn’t directing him to visualise opening up like a lily or becoming his own personal moonrise. If that particular potential doula wandered onto the ward, Steve was going to make a human shield out of his agents, privacy be damned.

"Are those my marching orders ma'am?" he asked.

"You bet they are. Hey, if you're a Commander and I'm your boss, what does that make me?"

"Terrifying."

"Good answer. Now chop chop, hurry to it.”

“Hurry to… relaxing.”

“Yes indeed.” Khyati grinned at him. “Heather, Rita and Nigel are all monitoring this ward, Heather's got you as her only primary patient at the moment - she’s going to come in and sit with you for the next bit, just to check your super body doesn’t over-react to the drugs. But you need me, you shout for me. Okay? I’m here all day."

Khyati left, drawing the curtains around the cubicle behind her so swiftly that the patient in the bay opposite had no chance of catching a glimpse. Steve appreciated it. Over all the long hours that he and the staff at the centre had spent planning for this day, they’d decided that he should have a bed on the High Dependency Unit if his labour didn’t start naturally and they had to induce him. It had the advantage of ensuring there would always be multiple someones nearby should his supersoldier biology start playing unexpected games, but it also meant sharing a ward with seven other patients. To minimise the number of new and expecting parents filing by to gawp at the former Captain America giving birth, Khyati had placed him at the end of the row of beds, furthest from the door and therefore furthest from passersby. It also gave him a private window, which allowed through a stream of golden sunshine. It wouldn’t be the window he held his daughter up to for her first glimpse of the outside world, but the view might just be the same.

The thought that he was one step closer to that moment did little to relax him. After weeks of waiting and years of wanting, he was finally going to meet his baby girl, and the gel now seeping into his system was going to make that happen. How could he be anything other than thrilled?

-

The panic didn't really hit Bucky until he was wheeled into a hospital ward and helped into a raised bed surrounded by an incomprehensible array of machines. The midwife who aided him introduced herself as Khyati, and - though Bucky struggled to absorb every word she said as dizziness swept the first few moments after movement - he got the impression she was in charge of this place and that his life would go a hell of a lot more easily if he just did what she told him to do.

There was no denying what kind of place he was in now. Though one of the bays next to his bed was curtained off, he’d been wheeled past a father rocking a newborn emitting little bleating cries; the father had half a dozen tubes running into the collar of his pyjama shirt, sticky pads on his chest peaking out. A pregnant woman sat cross-legged on top of the sheets of the bed next to his. Her eyes were closed and breath carefully controlled, but she was clearly in pain and her stomach jutted out to such a degree that she had to be expecting twins. A male nurse leaned over her, examining the dial on an IV, and an oxygen mask was cradled in her hand. Was that going to be Bucky now? Drugged and wired up and bed bound until his baby was born?

His sight of the other patients was abruptly cut off as another midwife brought over a rattling trolley, and Khyati drew the remaining curtains around the three of them. He couldn’t help but be glad.

"Mr Barnes, this is Heather. She's the primary midwife we're assigning to you today. She's going to be in the room all day to help with anything you need. Any pain, anything that feels wrong, anything you need - she's your first port of call."

“It’s lovely to meet you, Mr Barnes,” said Heather, and Bucky found himself shaking her hand like he was present for some sort of business meeting instead of to save his and his baby’s lives. “I hear you’ve not been feeling your best. Are you experiencing any pain right now?”

“Yeah, my head and - Dr Chung said it’s my liver?”

“Let’s see if we can do something about that then.”

The two women looked so nice, stood there smiling like Bucky was their favourite person in the world and could never be an inconvenience, he almost believed they thought that.

"Is it okay if I take your shoes off and pop them at the side over here?" asked Heather. She was a pretty young black woman with her braided hair in a bun, and her hands were warm and sure when they circled his ankle.

“Um, okay." Oh God, was he already getting the bed dirty? Would they charge him for each set of laundry he forced them to do?

Khyati meanwhile was reaching for his hand. A cool cotton pad ran over the back of it. "I'm going to set up a drip," Khyati informed him. "Left hand best, yes?" When Bucky nodded, Heather stepped forwards and took his right arm. A blood pressure cuff was wrapped tight around his bicep.

"Relax your hand for me. Palm up," Heather instructed as the cuff inflated.

"Sharp scratch incoming," Khyati said, moments before the needle punctured his skin.

To Bucky's right, Heather said, “You're going to get used to this right quick. We've got you down for close monitoring, so I'll be in to check and take readings every five minutes until we've stabilised you. Though we’ll get you some fancier kit so you don’t have to have this done to you a dozen times over."

To Bucky's left, Khyati was nimbly taping the cannula in place. "I'm going to set a drip up now. We'll administer two medications initially - one to lower your blood pressure, one to reduce your risk of seizures and convulsions. Dr Chung's intake notes say you're not asthmatic, is that right Mr Barnes?"

"No. I mean yeah it’s right, no I’m not," Bucky replied, startled at the need for his participation.

"Can you grab the 200mg of Labetalol he's been prescribed please, Heather?"

The velcro of the blood pressure cuff made a ripping sound as it was detached. A number was scribbled down as a chart before Heather disappeared.

Bucky made the mistake of looking in Khyati's direction in Heather's absence, and saw the woman frowning over a syringe that she was slowly injecting into an IV bag.

A little paper cup containing two round yellow pills appeared in Bucky's blurred field of view. "Any chance you can swallow this dry Mr Barnes? We want to limit your fluid intake for the moment to reduce any odema."

When Bucky threw his head back to swallow his pills, they were chalky against a tongue made suddenly parched. They tried to catch in the back of his throat, so he swallowed and swallowed until they were down.

"You're here by yourself at the minute, is that right?" Heather checked when Bucky returned the cup to her. At his tight-lipped nod, she said, “Alright. Because you're a bit of an urgent case at the minute, I'm going to need to leave these curtains open so I can keep an eye on you."

Urgent case.

Placental abruption.

Fetal fatality.

Odema.

Seizures.

Convulsions.

Stroke.

His baby.

To Bucky's horror, it was at that point that he began to cry.

-

Steve didn't mean to eavesdrop. But he had super-hearing. And even without his enhancements, it was very hard not to eavesdrop on what was happening five feet away on the other side of a wafer-thin curtain.

The Mr Barnes that Khyati had wheeled in ten minutes before was panicking, and Steve couldn't blame him. Everything Steve had witnessed on the ward so far had seemed under control - intense perhaps, taken seriously maybe, but there had been no urgency on display. Not until Mr Barnes joined the ward. Clearly, what was happening with this man wasn’t under control but the midwives were going to get it there, by willpower alone if necessary.

Steve suspected he’d just received a preview of the kind of impressively efficient care he could expect if something went wrong with his own pregnancy. While that might be something he found reassuring, events were clearly moving too quickly for Mr Barnes. The other man was letting loose those stilted half-gasps which came when the urge to cry was impossible to deny but you were desperately trying to suppress it all the same. That scrape of fear in his breath was all too familiar to Steve. He’d heard it countless times from victims he’d had in his charge. He’d experienced that same burn in his chest from choking on despair more than once in those early years in this century that he tried not to think of.

The midwife Heather attempted to console the other man with gentle reassurances, but Khyati was more direct. "We're going to look after both of you, but you need to calm down for us to do that. Slow breaths. Calm down."

Barnes hadn’t given in to the pending breakdown, he was clearly trying to hold himself together. His strained breathing staggered on.

"How bad is it?" the man behind the curtain asked haltingly. "Tell me straight."

At once, Khyati replied, “You're not well right now. You know that. You'd be doing a lot less well if you hadn't come here. You did the right thing, and everything we're doing now is going to help you get better and have that baby safely."

Heather’s voice added, "Can you work with us on that Mr Barnes?"

"It's Bucky," the man replied. His voice was tight as a vice. "Mr Barnes makes me sound like I’m in trouble.” He took a moment to swallow a sob, and Steve was struck by how utterly vulnerable he sounded. Almost young. “Yeah. Yeah. I'll work with you. I've given up too much for this kid. I can’t lose it now."

It was that sentence which jolted Steve out of the reverie of passive listening he’d sunk into without meaning to. This wasn’t just chatter. This was something intensely private, and allowing himself to be caught up in it was an invasion. Guiltily, Steve reached for his bag. There were headphones in there which linked up to a pair of sticky speakers he could put on his stomach, so he and his daughter could listen to music together. Nine themed pre-prepared playlists waited on his phone, and ‘7. Calm’ had to be what was needed now. Steve only wished that he could extend the tunes to the patient in the bed next to his, who evidently needed them more than him.

While Steve untangled the gadget’s wires, the last few scraps of conversation filtered through. Steve couldn’t block out Heather as she asked, "Is there anyone I can call to come sit with you?"

And his heart gave a little pang of solidarity as Bucky replied, "No. There's no one.”

“Are you sure? A relative or a friend?”

“I'm new in town, my sister’s in Germany. She’s meant to be coming over in two weeks, when I’m actually due. The father’s not involved. I’m… I’m all on my own."

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

The panic blazed for well over two hours while his headache raged and his abdomen throbbed, and he waited for Heather and Khyati and Dr Chung to tell him whether or not he was about to die or lose his baby. Each new lightning flash behind his eyes had to be an oncoming seizure. Every time his stomach ached, it had to be his liver or kidneys shutting down. There was nothing but the paranoia and the fear in every beat of his pulse behind his eyes, and the midwife’s checks which came like clockwork, every five minutes, with the demands that he lift the pillow from his head and answer the same questions over and over.

How's the pain?

How does it feel if I press here?

Feeling any nausea? Dizziness? Anything new?

Can you read the fourth line on the chart?

I'll be back in five minutes.

And so it looped again.

The first ten or so times it happened, Bucky was in far too much pain and his world was far too blurred for him to be able to track Heather’s reaction. The next few, he picked up on how she tapped her pen against the clipboard in what he had to assume was a disapproving manner. But then her scowl became something blank and neutral, and that neutrality became what Bucky had to hope was cautious optimism. And finally, finally, after what had to be more than two dozen readings, she announced, "Hey look at that. 157 over 99."

"Is that… good?" Bucky was forced to ask, revealing his ignorance. It was the first time she'd said the numbers aloud.

"That depends. You been running any high altitude sprints while I've had my back turned?"

"No."

“Taken any cocaine or amphetamines?”

“Not unless you’ve slipped me them.”

"Then I probably wouldn't call it good. But it’s way down on what you came in with. You keep it falling like that and I'll be a happy midwife." She smiled warmly for him as she packed his notes away. "It means the treatment’s working, Bucky.”

Bucky had never felt a wave of relief like it. It felt like he hadn’t been able to breathe all day, and he’d just stepped out onto a breezy mountain-top, somewhere pollution had yet to reach. It was still too easy to be buffeted though, as if the wind could sweep him off his feet in an instant if he wasn’t careful. He wasn’t used to feeling so fragile. Tentatively, Bucky confirmed, “So - the kid’s going to be okay?”

“I’d say that the chances of both of you being okay are much higher than they were this morning,” Heather hedged. “I’ll put my feet up and stop worrying about you when you’re stabilised at 150/85. That's our goal."

"And we’ll be okay if we get there?"

"Much higher chance of it, yup. And once you’re at that level - and you stay there a while - we'll get the obstetrician in to see if it’s safe to start inducing you. Rest of your symptoms should clear up pretty fast once the source of all that trouble's outta you. And you’re already feeling a bit better right?"

When Bucky ran a quick mental scan over himself, he had to admit that Heather was right. He hadn’t dared think that the lessening of the storm in his skull was anything other than illusion. He was either getting used to the pressure, or there were painkillers in the drug co*cktail he was being fed which were muting the ache, or he was just confusing himself. But no… he could move his head without it feeling like the world was on a different axis. He could even look towards the light and not want to throw up.

The wind on that mountain top gentled, and he could see the green and pleasant valley below. That’s where he was heading.

"Yeah. I am feeling better." Gratitude followed swiftly on the heels of the relief. “Thank you for helping me. And the kid.”

“That’s my job. And you’ve not exactly been a nightmare patient. I might save up some of those horror stories for later for you, if you promise not to be inspired by them. Rest up Bucky. I can let you go a whole fifteen minutes before I see you again this time."

Fifteen minutes sounded like bliss. As the icing on the cake, Heather even dropped off an extra pillow for Bucky to put between his legs, so he could lie more comfortably on his side, and taught him how the controls for the bed worked before she left him to see to one of the other patients he'd no doubt dragged her away from. With the promise that he was improving in his ears, Bucky tipped himself onto his side and closed his eyes against the world's brightness.

The pillowcase beneath his cheek was crisp and clean. His own hand came around his belly in a protective sweep. He knew it was silly, but he liked to think the baby could feel itself being held like that.

"We're going to be okay," he whispered down to his bump. He didn't often speak to his belly: it felt daft to do so usually. But this time it just felt right.

With his eyes closed, the sounds of the room flowed over him. He wasn't the only person in the ward on a drip or wired up to monitors, but they were mostly quiet, not beeping away incessantly like they did on TV. The meditating woman to his left had been joined by a husband. They were only feet away, and Bucky could hear every word passed between them.

"You're so brave."

"I love you so much. All three of you."

"You can do this sweetheart, you're so strong."

It was nauseating. At the same time, it made Bucky feel devastatingly single. He didn’t necessarily want a partner telling him that he was the most beautiful person in the world and listing all his breathtaking qualities in full earshot of the entire ward, but he wouldn’t mind someone who cared for him being there either. Maybe holding his hand, so that he knew he wasn’t alone even when he closed his eyes. Maybe as a stalwart he could trust to have his best interests at heart, when he felt too ill to ask the right questions or to understand what risks he was taking accepting drugs he knew nothing about. But that was a dangerous hole to fall down, so he tried to tune it out.

Instead, Bucky attempted to distract himself with the conversation taking place on his other side, where Heather had slipped between the curtains. She appeared to be exclaiming, "You made these yourself?"

A male voice responded, "Well, I've had some time on my hands since I’ve been benched. You want one?" And… dear God, that voice. It was the kind of base note that took a dive through a moonlit lake. Just a little rough at the edges where it growled on 'want'.

Heather replied, "I shouldn't. Watching my figure."

The man on the other side of the curtain laughed, and the sound reached deep into the marrow of Bucky's bones. There was a sound he wanted to hear again, even as the man joked, "Well now you're teasing. All I can see is my figure. It’s an eight."

"C’mon now. A man like you’ll be fitting back into his Lycra jumpsuit in a week. Pull the other one Steve," Heather said. It was astoundingly familiar. She'd been kind to Bucky, and comforting sure, but it sounded as if she was flirting with his neighbour. Maybe she realised she was overstepping the mark with a patient, because she suddenly turned professional. "Now, as you know, if you were anyone else I'd be sending you home to wait for the prostaglandin to do its thing. As you're going to be hanging around with us a while, you can treat this place like your place. Go for a walk, take a shower, eat as many of those pastries as you want while you can. Just keep your monitor on so we can keep an eye on you and baby from the station back here."

"And let you know if anything changes?" Steve checked. "Thanks Heather."

“And give me that breadstick. Screw the diet.”

-

Steve was more than happy to take Heather's permission to wander down to reception and pick up Agent Vance. However, his happiness over the idea of stretching his legs and getting some Vitamin D quickly crashed when he found her smoking twenty feet from the entryway beside one of her fellow agents. He was clearly just lighting up as well.

"Are you kidding me?" Steve couldn't help but demand. He hadn’t had a cigarette for over a year, he’d been jonesing for just the taste of one for months, and there his protection officers were flaunting theirs, right outside a building filled with expectant parents similarly banned from consumption.

"Busted," Agent Garza sing-songed, as she pulled her silent apparition trick behind Steve.

Miles too late, Agent Vance made a weak attempt to hide the cigarette behind her back. Curls of grey smoke rose up above her shoulders and diffused into the sky. Even from a distance, Steve could smell the burning tobacco. "You alright Commander? Not done already are you?"

Steve funnelled his frustration into a jerky gesture down at his still-rounded stomach. “Do I look like I’m done?”

“I believe protocol states we’re not to comment on the appearances of our charges sir,” Agent Mulligan - the second guilty party - contributed.

"Christ and all the saints.”

“You wrote those protocols, didn’t you sir?”

Another man might have been less than inspired by the agents’ antics, but Steve had overseen hours of their training himself. He knew that they were the best, and he knew they were being under-utilised, that they were settling into a long, dull shift spent guarding a building in the main rather than a man, and he didn’t really begrudge them taking a smoke break. Instead of rising to the bait, he asked begrudgingly, “Is one of you gonna come guard me while I go for a walk, or do you have a sushi delivery you need to take? Is PostMates delivering steak tartar these days?"

"N’aw, we’re good. Lena was just about to get us coffees, strong and black you know, packed with all that lovely caffeine. But I guess I can have mine when we’re back," Agent Vance teased as she stubbed out the cigarette. Steve sent the butt a mournful look as he started to lead her away, imagining the next moment he’d be able to have one of his own.

-

“What do you mean, you’re in hospital?” Becca demanded, so loudly that the phone speaker blared.

“I don’t know how I can be any clearer,” Bucky replied. He was doing his best to keep his voice low to avoid disturbing anyone else on the ward, though he suspected his quiet phone call was less disruptive than the newborn opposite who was screaming and the influencer couple falling out over camera angles at the other end.

“And you’re having the baby?”

“Again, yep.”

“Jiminy Cricket Jamie BB. You’ve always been dramatic, but this is a whole new level.”

“I know it. I’m thinking of naming the kid Patti if it’s a girl, Elton if it’s a boy. Lock in those diva credentials from Day One.” At present, the baby was hiccuping. Bucky was pretty sure it was doing so in the most exaggerated way possible, each spasm unnecessarily oversized, each pause long enough to trick Bucky into thinking that it was finished and he could lower his guard. Still, he preferred the odd jolts to that morning’s pain.

Maybe he’d teach the baby to jazzhands rather than waving like every other kid.

On the other end of the line, there was a clattering noise. Then, after a minute, a groan. “Cheapest flight leaving Dusseldorf tonight is a grand and a half, and it’ll take… 30 hours to get to Detroit. I’m not sure I can even get to the airport in time and then it’s, what, a 3 hour drive to where you are? Four?”

Bucky knew. He’d already looked at Skyscanner on his phone, already processed that disappointment. It was impossible for Becca to make it over. “It’s okay Becks. It’s too much. And by the time you get here, I’ll have had the thing already anyway.”

“It’s not okay though, is it?”

“Really, it is,” Bucky lied, knowing full well his twin sister could tell he was lying but also that she’d understand he didn’t have a choice. If he said the truth aloud, he’d have to stop lying to himself too. “Stick to the plan. You can come swoop in as my saviour two weeks from now when I’m exhausted and really need a break. I’ll just… figure it out ‘til then.” Like he always did. Always had to.

Voice turned soft and serious, Becca said, “But it’s not been okay for a while, has it Bucky? That place you’re living in - it’s not safe for someone pregnant let alone for a baby. And I know you’ve been struggling to take care of yourself. What if you couldn’t have gotten to the hospital? What if something had really gone wrong and you were on your own and no one knew-”

Brusquely, Bucky hissed, “Don’t you think I’ve thought of that? They said I could’ve died, the baby could have… I can’t even say it, but what d’you think I’ve been sat on my ass thinking about this entire time I’ve been stuck in a hospital bed Becca? But I’m still safer on my own than I was being with Brock.”

“You could have died?” This time, it was Becca’s turn to sound like she was on the edge of tears. “Again Bucky?”

“I know. I know. They’re looking after me here though. I’m getting better.”

There was a long moment of thoughtful silence before Becca sighed. “I know I can’t. But I wish I could be there for you.”

More than almost anything, Bucky wished he could have that too. He’d thought that hearing his twin’s voice would make him feel better, but instead it just reminded him that his only close connection in the world was thousands of miles away, and it left him feeling all the lonelier. “You’re always here for me,” Bucky said, though his throat felt thick. Almost unconscious of the movement, he lifted his fingers to trace the tattoo which ran up his left arm - starshaped rudbeckia blooming between sprigs of buckthorn berries. Becca had a matching set across her collarbones. “I’ll keep you updated when I can. I don’t know if I’ll always be able to, if I have to have surgery or it gets a bit... Intense. But maybe the midwives can?”

“You better. I want a call with my niece or nephew the moment you’re up to it,” Becca said. Bucky wasn’t confident that regular FaceTiming was going to fill the hole at his bedside, but it was better than the nothing he’d had before.

-

The spring sunshine warmed Steve’s skin slowly as he wandered through the Rose Crest’s gardens.

It was on a day like this one when he'd decided to take the first step on this journey. The thought had been there for so many years he could hardly count them. Being a Dad. Something he was miraculously healthy and wealthy enough to try. The thought of it niggled away at him like an ever-growing wound, but it had taken a long time to grow from a consideration, a somehow, a somewhen to a decision.

He’d been looking for a perfect time. When the Avengers didn’t need him. When the world didn’t need him. When the organisation and infrastructure he was building with Tony and Sam and Nat was strong enough to hold in his absence. When he found the right place to live, the right donor, the right method… The right partner. That never seemed to come around. And that had been a huge part of what held Steve back from taking the leap before time. He knew that if he pressed ahead with parenthood alone, he’d be sacrificing any chance of a partner for the coming decade - deferring all the possibilities of a traditional romantic life until his child was older. But there came a day when one desire became a priority over the other, and when he had to drive forwards with the one that he could control.

A day like this one, a perfect Spring day, to decide that there was no such thing as a perfect moment, and that this one would have to do.

There wasn’t a trigger for the revelation. No announcement from a friend he was supposed to be entirely pleased for, without any trace of selfish wistfulness. No touching scene with a sheep and her lambs, or the piercing laughter of kids at play through the trees. Just the wash of knowledge that his arms were empty, and that he wanted a child in them to share this with him.

A tiny mite of a thing to bundle up warm and strap in close, to look down at eyes sparkling in baffled observation of the world. A toddler to stumble into his hands after an unsteady dash across the grass. A young child walking at his side, small hand in his, humming tunelessly or pointing out the first of the year's bees. An older one - Steve would learn the names of all the trees and plants and birds to teach them. A teenager to sulk resentfully at his side, having been wronged by a father who insisted they actually see some sunshine every once in a while. A young adult to talk his ear off about all the inane details of their life, to make him wish for the sulky teen who let him enjoy nature's peace. Maybe, one day, after all of that, an adult with their own baby, taking a walk with a child that would call Steve Grandpa.

A sharp pain made Steve gasp against his will, as his baby chose that moment to jam her head down into his cervix.

"I know, I know. I want you out too." Steve rubbed at the underside of his belly, where his daughter's shoulders were. "Just bear with me a little longer. I'm working on it."

In all honesty, Steve understood her impatience. His due date was two weeks gone. His pregnancy had hit every milestone with textbook perfection up until then (with the caveat that the baby was in the 95th size percentile at every check) so he'd expected his birth to be on time too.

He couldn't say he'd enjoyed the past two weeks of waiting.

On second thought, Steve added, “Though if you want to help out at all, I’m not actually gonna discourage you.”

He wanted this to be his last walk alone.

-

When Steve returned to the ward - having resisted grumbling even a little bit at Agent Mulligan as he’d snuck a second cigarette while Steve and Vance were gone - he found that the couple he'd heard chanting mantras to each other on the way out had vanished, but the brunet who'd been put in the bed next to his was sitting up and scowling at his phone. His face had been hidden beneath a pillow when Steve left, but now he saw that the ‘Bucky’ who'd been set upon by galeforce midwives that morning was the same man who'd struggled into reception earlier with Agent Vance’s help. He'd looked dreadful then: pallid and hunched over with pain. Now his features looked healthier. He had a flush that wasn’t fever, a heartbeat that wasn’t deafening.

Handsome features, Steve's unhelpful brain supplied. At that moment of maturation that came for someone in their early-thirties who was still gifted with youth’s spryness. In his prime. Those formerly bowed shoulders now filled out a simple grey t-shirt which left well-defined, partially inked arms on show. Veins ran all the way down the pale insides of his forearms and snuck down to skitter over broad hands. Dark hair which looked as if it would be silky to the touch was pulled back into a messy ponytail, leaving strands floating free to frame a strong stubbled jaw.

Silver eyes caught Steve looking.

Steve was immediately captured by them.

He should have looked away. He should have pretended he was simply scanning the indoor horizon. He’d been drilled by the best undercover agents in the world to fake it when he needed to. But instead of moving past a moment’s awkwardness, Steve found himself staring back, and waiting for the usual flicker of startled recognition which occurred when someone realised they were looking at Commander Rogers in a place they hadn’t expected him. He wanted to see if those silver eyes would widen, whether surprise would show quicksilver-bright or whether the black of the other man’s pupils would drown the grey out. He wanted to see if they’d darken like a sea in winter when confusion took charge, or if the other man would be amused enough by the unlikely turn of events that those eyes would glisten. He wanted to see if there was colour among the monochrome, and to learn all the ways it could be revealed.

In the end, Steve found himself surprised not to see any of those things. The brunet’s eyes narrowed into a squint, before clearing into an anxious smile.

"You alright?" The smile kept Steve hooked, and he offered the words as greeting before he could help himself.

"Bearing up," the brunet replied.

And… Steve had used all the words he knew apparently. He could feel himself blushing as he ducked his head and took a step towards his cubicle. But he’d only managed two paces when Bucky suddenly said, “D'you know if they'll feed us here at all? Only. I didn’t really expect to be here today. I don’t have anything with me."

As if he were some kind of birth centre expert, and he supposed he’d visited enough to qualify, Steve said, "Yeah, if you're allowed to eat. Don't worry. They'll take care of you."

Obvious relief smoothed away the furrow between Bucky's eyebrows. "Thanks. Sorry for disturbing you."

Steve didn't feel the slightest bit disturbed as he crossed the final distance between Bucky's bed and his own. But hardly had he eased his weight down against the raised back when the cooler seemed to leap out at him.

He couldn’t, could he? It would be weird to offer a stranger food. This wasn’t the 1920s - people didn’t even really talk to strangers anymore. And yet… What was more comfortable than homemade food when you were unwell? And Steve knew that what he’d made was good. Heather had praised his homemade breadsticks, hadn't she? Sam could never get enough of his oat cakes. Maybe, maybe…

He imagined his mother’s face upon learning he’d denied a hungry stranger food.

Before he could dissuade himself, Steve leaned back and tugged at the curtain which divided his bed from the other man's. Bucky looked up at the rattle of metal rings.

"I’ve actually packed more food than I needed. If they say you're allowed, I'm happy to share."

"That's incredibly - are you sure?"

With those wide silver eyes looking at him as if he’d saved the day, Steve replied perhaps a little too rapidly. “Yeah. It’ll only go to waste otherwise. You’d be doing me a favour.”

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

As the fates would have it, the built blond with the bewildering eyes from reception was not only Bucky's bed neighbour but also an incredible cook. It was devastating news.

The flapjack that the man - who called himself Steve - had offered to 'tide Bucky over' as he laid out the full spread was the perfect mouthful; chewy but not too tough, sweet but with little bursts of brightness from the raisins and the moderating notes of cinnamon, the crystallised golden syrup donating the ideal crunch at the edges. Bucky had to swallow down not only the bite he'd taken, but a little moan of enjoyment. And the flapjack was only going to be the beginning.

Steve was lining up tiny sandwiches on the table which folded out from Bucky's bed. Some of them already had layers of meats and cheeses and veg, while others had little pots of filling beside them to prevent the - homemade! - bread getting soggy. There were six different tupperware boxes layered with a dozen kinds of fruit, and another set full of chopped vegetables. There were breadsticks and granola bars and rice cakes - all homemade again - as well as little paper packets of candy that Bucky was pretty sure had been sourced from the kind of candy shop that had shelves of glass jars and a tiny man in a pink apron waxing lyrical about butterscotch.

"This is bananas," Bucky said, surveying the spread as it reached what had to be final stages of display.

"Oh, I've got a couple of those in the bag too," the blond man said. "Hang on-"

"No, no!" This 'Steve' seemed remarkably agile for a man as heavily pregnant as he was. Whenever Bucky tried anything remotely athletic - like standing up for example, or getting a mug out of a cupboard above shoulder-level - it left him breathless. Steve appeared almost spry. But each time he crouched to reach into the cooler or had to lean over the bulk of his stomach to get to something, creasing up, Bucky's ligaments stung in sympathy. "I just meant this is impressive. More than enough. And really kind. Thank you Steve."

Demurring, the blond simply replied, "It's always nicer sharing food than eating alone," as if an act this generous could be commonplace for him. "Please help yourself."

Bucky obeyed at once, scooping up a handful of blueberries as Steve reached for the carrot batons. "There've been points over the last few months where I could've eaten this entire spread, alone, in about two minutes. You wouldn't have had the time to share. These days there's no room for more than a few mouthfuls."

"I know that one." Even as he'd been unloading the cooler, one of Steve's hands had always lingered against his stomach. Not the same one, not in the same place, not over some hurt - his hands swapped as he needed them. But he was always in contact with it, and it was the same as he ate. One hand rifled for food, while the other rested against the top of his bump. When he patted it for emphasis, his palm didn't have far to move. "I can pack it away normally. Now, one sausage roll and stuffed."

That wasn't a euphemism.

That couldn't be a euphemism.

Whether it was a euphemism or not, the images in Bucky's head were pretty damn explicit.

He could feel himself blushing. Goddamn hormones. Goddamn excess blood flow.

Neither of the hands bore a ring.

Bucky tried to distract himself with a piece of quiche, and as he desperately scanned the room for a distraction, he spotted the midwife Heather approaching. She'd signed off on Bucky's impromptu picnic and only taken his readings ten minutes before. Had something gone wrong? Had she changed her mind? But instead of confiscating the snack, Heather addressed the blond instead, "Steve, do you want me to pull this curtain round?" The midwife gestured to the fabric which would divide Bucky from the rest of the world.

Surprised, Bucky asked, "Is that okay?"

"Yep. Now you're much more stable, I don't need constant eyes on you. And this'll keep Steve's privacy."

Steve thanked Heather sincerely - and dear Christ, that voice was just as powerful when it was murmuring and mild. Bucky wanted to know more about the other man, and when Heather drew the curtains to create a double bay, a little bubble for just him and Stvee, he felt he could ask, "So. This might sound stupid given where we are. But. You're here to have your baby, right?"

Though Steve had to swallow the strawberry he was eating before he could reply, eventually he said, "Not a stupid question. They might have had me here if there were complications. But you're right." In the plasticky guest chair at Bucky's bedside, Steve's palm moved in a caress of evident affection for the baby within. "She's either stubborn or lazy, I can't tell which - though my friends'd tell you if she's anything like me it's stubbornness. She doesn't seem to want to vacate the premises. So the team here're gonna help turf her out."

“She?” Bucky repeated. “You’re having a girl?”

“Yeah.” It wasn’t even a whole word, just a collection of vowels, pronounced as if he were halfway into a dream. “A daughter. What about you?”

“I don’t know. I know most people find out but… I wanted it to be a surprise.” He knew it sounded stupid. Becca thought it was strange. Then Steve surprised him right back.

“I like that. Traditional. I’d have been the same - wanted to be. I still think it’s crazy that you can see your kid inside you with all that detail... But this is probably the most looked at baby in the history of looking at babies. Once half the obstetricians in the USA knew what I was having, plus the IVF technician who I think knew what she was before he’d even put her in me, I wanted to be in on the secret.”

It was an indication of a difficult pregnancy, and Bucky knew enough of what that was like, knew not to press. “This hummus is great,” he said instead. “I didn’t even know you could make your own hummus.”

Once again, Steve demurred. “It’s surprisingly simple. Skinning the chickpeas takes a while, but it keeps your hands busy.”

“You skinned the chickpeas by hand?” That was possibly the most ridiculous thing that Bucky had ever heard, and he found himself laughing. Who had the time these days to skin chickpeas by hand? Next this man would be revealing a bowl of pre-peeled grapes and claiming he'd de-seeded the tomatoes one by one.

“Skinning them improves the texture!” Steve protested, which only tickled Bucky further.

“They’re not like…" Bucky cast about. "...rabbits!”

“Rabbits?”

"Yeah, you skin rabbits right? Not chickpeas."

A perfect, blinding white smile was beginning to spread across Steve's cheeks. Those stunning blue eyes, the first thing that Bucky had noticed about him, sparkled. "Can't say I've personally skinned a rabbit since… oh, 1943? Are you… into hunting?"

By this point, Bucky was laughing so hard he was folding over his belly, clutching it to himself to stop it shaking. It was one of the few things about pregnancy he'd enjoyed; how his laughs seemed so much bigger than before, echoing through him - though he'd felt the full extent of it far too infrequently. Spluttering, Bucky exclaimed, "No! I was talking in the abstract."

Cheekily, his own laugh rumbling out now, Steve countered, "Abstract rabbits or abstract chickpeas?"

Bucky's sides ached, and his head pounded though he couldn't truly bring himself to care. "Oh my god, stop. I'm not meant to go into labour today. If my waters break right now, I'm blaming you."

-

"Oh the old wives' tales are the worst." In his exasperation, Bucky's eyes almost rolled to the back of his head. "I've told my sister a hundred times - a thousand times I don't want to know the sex, and she gets me on video so she can be all 'well you're carrying high which means it's a girl, but you're piling the weight on your hips and thighs which means it's a boy.'" Inevitably, Steve's gaze was pulled down to Bucky's lower body. While he couldn't help but notice there was indeed some meat on those bones, his eyes were also drawn to the stiff jeans that Bucky was wearing, and the stretched t-shirt fabric that had been sewn into panels to make room for his swollen stomach. Hand-sewn, if the uneven stitching was anything to go by.

Bucky's next sentence yanked Steve's focus back and held on: "'Get your tit* out cos the colour they are will split the difference."

Steve wasn't going to look there too, he wasn't - "Dare I ask…?"

Of course, then Bucky looked down at his chest and Steve had to look too. The brunet's hands came up to cup his pectorals, as if testing their weight. His broad fingers stretched over their swells. "You know, the nipples've definitely darkened but I don't remember what that's meant to mean."

Was Bucky doing this on purpose? Drawing attention to these parts of himself, making it impossible for Steve not to look? Almost as soon as he had the thought, Steve forced himself to dismiss it and chastised himself. Bucky was just comfortable in his body. His undeniably attractive but very pregnant body. Steve was being inappropriate even thinking about any part of this man he'd only just met in any way other than with respect for a new acquaintance and a fellow patient.

He had to say something. Bucky expected a response and Steve was going to need his newly-dry mouth to cooperate. "At least your sister's in Germany, not Russia," he croaked.

"Because the Russians'd have a different view on my nipples?"

Steve worked very hard this time not to let his gaze drift.

Natasha. He was talking about Natasha, not thinking about Bucky's chest. Talking about Natasha was easy to do, just let the story run Rogers, where is the respect you were taught...

"One of my best friends is Russian. She's… not someone you argue with, and she's been whipping my entire team into paranoia. They weren't allowed to buy me gifts because that's bad luck. I practically had to disguise myself to sneak out to get a haircut, because that's bad luck too." Broken out of his haze, Steve found himself smiling at the reminiscence. She'd sent Clint to scowl at him in her place, because she'd been in Hungary. "Oh, and the time one of the team suggested they throw a baby shower - well, if looks could kill, her job would be a hell of a lot easier than it is I suppose, but she got close."

Snickering, Bucky said, "Your friend sounds like a useful person to know. I don't suppose she does house calls, to scare the bejeebus outta terrible exes for example."

If only Bucky knew…

"Then there's the heartburn," Steve continued, acting as if he hadn't heard to force the conversation to flow around that particular Widow-shaped boulder. "I've not had any so I'm told my baby'll be born bald as an eagle. Which could be fitting, considering…"

"Mine's going to be born with curls down to its waist then," Bucky said.

"Had a lot of it?"

"Tons."

"Not fun. Plus then there's the thing with the moon-"

"Steve." Bucky's voice was suddenly strangled, high-tempo humour dissolving, and worry doused the blond. Bucky had glanced down at himself again, and then up with evident fear.

At once, Steve looked to the monitors. Paternal heart rate, fetal heart rate, blood pressure. None of them had changed. "Baby? Pain?" he asked, urgent and sharp, poised to call for help.

"No - Just, look away a sec would you?"

Steve obeyed immediately. In the chair beside Bucky's bed, he turned himself from both the man and the machines tracking him. However, he couldn't turn his ears away; he couldn't help but hear Bucky's soft cursing, or the papery rustle of tissues being plucked from a box then scrunched up and… yeah, that was tissue being tucked against skin and fabric snapping back into place.

It wasn't hard to imagine what had happened. And Steve knew that they could do better than Bucky's solution.

Without a word or a glance, as promised, Steve stood and returned to his own bed. He had to kneel to get to the level of his suitcase, but it was so well-organised it took only a matter of seconds to find the nursing pads. "Here, Bucky." He tossed the box onto the other man's bed, once the rustling had stopped and it was safe to look.

"What-" When he realised what he'd been given, Bucky's cheeks turned pink. "Oh no, these are yours."

Still on his knees, wondering a little if he'd lost his mind and really just having to roll with it, Steve pulled down the collar of his shirt and nudged the edge of his cropped support top down. It revealed the white tip of one of his own pads. "You're not the only one."

Bucky coloured even further at that, but it was a different flush. An emotional one, not embarrassment. Softly, Bucky said, "Thank you Steve," as his fingers closed over the box, and Steve knew that it had meant something more to him than the meal.

-

As distractions went, Steve-the-ward-neighbour was a hell of an attractive one. Even through the flashing arcs of rainbow light that floated over his eyes and the squinting he had to do against the light to reduce the pain in his skull, Bucky could tell that.

Evidently strong hands pinched the playing cards into a fan. Plush lips were rosy and red where Steve tapped the cards against them between turns. When Steve placed a card from his hand into the middle, it made unacceptably large muscles bunch and stretch. Dear God, an astoundingly effective distraction.

And maybe, just maybe, it crossed Bucky's mind that there was the slightest possibility that Steve thought there was something attractive about Bucky too, because the blond's striking blue eyes had looked him up and down more than once. Bucky had seen his gaze lingering on his chest, on his lips, he was almost certain of that.

But there again, plenty of folk stared at pregnant people. It's not like they were unobtrusive, certainly not nine months in.

Gross. Fat. That's what he'd been told he'd become. That's how he'd felt. He was ill. A mess. Of course this man wasn't looking at him the way that Bucky was looking at him. No one ever would -

"Sorry Bucky." Steve placed the cards facedown down, and Bucky panicked. Had he said something aloud? "Gimme a sec."

As Bucky watched, braced and wide-eyed, Steve rose smoothly from his chair and reached towards the ceiling. His breath whistled as he blew it out. His shirt hitched up as he stretched, revealing a fabric band bound around his belly, skin tight and charcoal grey.

"Think these chairs might be designed to ensure visitors don't outstay their welcome," Steve said with a grunt, as he relaxed down, shaking out his limbs. "Though, to be fair to the chair, I'm not the best at sitting in one place too long."

Bucky glanced at his phone. They'd been talking and playing cards for over three hours! No wonder Steve was cramping up. And there was Bucky, comfortable against his pillows and his raised mattress, while Steve was all scrunched up in the guest chair.

"You want to go to your place instead of mine? Sure we can make it work."

It took a second for Steve to realise what Bucky was ask, to glance across to his bed and for his eyes to crinkle in amusem*nt. "Thank you, but you're alright. Actually - can I..?" It took an exchange of gestures, but soon Steve was sitting cross-legged and straight-backed on the end of Bucky's bed. It made the stomach in his lap appear even rounder than before, and he was the last person in the universe who could have been called gross or fat.

Brock didn't know sh*t.

"This really your first kid?" Bucky found himself asking, as he settled his own legs beneath himself to give Steve room.

"You're surprised?"

"A little," Bucky admitted. "I thought all first-time carriers are, you know, like me. Walking disasters. Baby brain and panic. You're all… cool and collected. Serene."

Modestly, Steve shook his head. "I'm a first responder. Faking cool and collected is a habit at this point. Though 'serene' I like. Serene I'll take. For now."

…Was Steve a firefighter? That would be just Bucky's luck; looking and feeling like human stew in front of a hunk who was also a firefighter. An unmarried hunk who was also a firefighter. "Right. I'm the disaster you're looking cool and collected for, I get it."

Steve jerked his head up quickly, eyes sharp on Bucky. "You don't look like a disaster to me," he said, and sincerity drenched his voice. "You look like someone who's been ill. Who's still ill but who's being strong and dealing with it."

An unmarried hunk who was also a fighter, a good cook and generous with his food, his belongings and his kindness.

"Oh sure. I take it all back." Bucky caught himself sounding abrupt and tried to rein it, reaching for the humour they'd been more used to. "You don't look cool and collected. You look like someone who's about to get his ass whooped at this game."

-

With someone to talk to and cards to play, time on the ward passed swiftly. Bucky was… joyful to spend time with. The hours Steve passed with him felt light, and easy.

It was so simple to make him laugh. He was vocally appreciative of Steve's cooking. He took care to skirt around anything he sensed Steve might be sensitive of, and he seemed genuinely interested in Steve for Steve's sake - as a person and a pending father rather than as a superhero. He was also irritatingly good at Gin Rummy.

"You win again." Steve chucked his pathetic hand of deadwood down on the foldout table in disgust. "That was a massacre. I'm being massacred."

"Have a lot of time to kill sometimes, at the garage I work at. Worked at," Bucky corrected himself, and Steve saw the flash of sadness there - not for the first time. Something akin to grief hung over the other man, a cloud of it which thickened and thinned with the conversation, and was all the more evident when he referenced the past.

Steve held out a verbal hand to pull Bucky away from the sadness. "And this garage was, what, in Vegas?"

"Carmel, Indiana."

"Close enough."

"Oh yeah, super close."

"2,000 miles here, 2,000 miles there. Commuter life huh?"

And there was that laugh again, summoning a bright smile and a shine to those silver eyes. Bucky was breathtakingly handsome when he smiled.

"Can't say the Vegas thing ever appealed to me," Bucky admitted, even as he gathered the cards together to expertly shuffle them. "But a windfall wouldn't go amiss right now. Maybe I should consider it."

The long-suppressed memory of an anti-gambling PSA surfaced in Steve's mind, and he very determinedly did not repeat any of the lines out loud.

In the quiet, Bucky had just begun dealing out the cards again when a chunk of them slipped from his grip and scattered in a black, white and red cascade. His palms flew to his sides.

"Oof, every time! This is properly uncomfortable," Bucky said. Beneath his hands, the swell of his belly rippled and distorted with the baby's movements.

Through the warmth of recognition, Steve asked, "Turning over?"

Bucky nodded, still grimacing. "Taking its time about it too. f*ck's sake, why can't they just roll around like the rest of us? Why do they have to cancan their way over? It's like carrying a bloody donkey on a pinwheel around." Alarm drove Bucky's eyes wide open then. "Sorry. I think I'm gonna be one of those sweary parents. This kid'll be in daycare two years from now and I'll be getting calls asking why it's called another tot a sh*thead or yelled 'damn it' after spilling juice."

That was the other thing Steve had learned about Bucky over the hours he'd spent eating and playing cards with the man. He was funny. Wry and sarcastic. Delightfully, carelessly blunt sometimes, and other times witty and smart.

"How are my rowdiest patients?" Khyati's voice interjected into Steve's moment of admiration.

"f*ck, are we disturbing people?" Bucky looked around the curtained expanse as if he'd only just remembered they were in a medical facility.

"Well, there haven't been complaints yet." Khyati headed for one of the machines Bucky was hooked up to. "And would you look at that? Bang on 150/85. Steve must be good for you." Steve was still preening from that comment when Khyati asked, "How's the vision?"

Bucky replied, "Still blurry."

"Head?"

"Achy but it doesn't feel like my brain's about to split my skull open anymore."

"Liver?"

"No longer exploding."

"And if I do this?" Khati reached over to press at Bucky's abdomen.

"I no longer scream like a goat being electrocuted."

"I… You know what, there's no box on my form for that." Khyati scribbled on the chart before returning it to its home all the same. "I'm really pleased with how you're doing. I'm going to call the consultant down. If he agrees, we'll get inducing."

"Um… actually." Until Bucky hesitated, Steve had simply been enjoying the back and forth. But the realisation quickly hit that he was an interloper in the middle of a medical conversation.

Both midwives had been in and out of the joint cubicles regularly, yet it had been easy to forget that he and Bucky were in a maternity and paternity centre, getting ready to have their first children, even if the topic had cropped up in their conversation constantly. Steve had been distracted from the wait for labour to start, and he'd liked that as much as the company.

"I'll step out," Steve offered. "Let you two speak. But I.. this was nice, Bucky. You want anything else to eat, any equipment," he gestured meaningfully at his chest, "just knock. And good luck."

He heard a muted, "Thanks Steve," as he stepped towards his own bed and drew the curtain round.

The problem he had immediately, of course, was that the curtain once again did nothing to block out the sound. As Steve sat on the raised hospital bed, he couldn't help but hear the anxiety in Bucky's voice as he asked Khyati, "I was wondering. If I'm doing better, can I maybe go home? Or change location, go to a normal hospital? I really don't know if I can afford a whole night here. Let alone give birth here. That could be days right?"

"Do you have anyone who could pick you up? You suggested earlier that was a no."

"No." And that little sound made Steve's heart hurt all over again.

"I can't speak for Dr Chung, so no guarantees. But I suspect there's only two ways he'll be comfortable discharging you. Either into the care of someone who can look after you as they take you to another hospital, somewhere that's confirmed it can both take you and provide adequate supervision. Or we can arrange for an ambulance."

"And that would be… thousands."

"I'm afraid so." Khyati did her best to break the news carefully, but Steve still found himself wincing on Bucky's behalf. "Money aside, Bucky. You were in a really dangerous position this morning. We've only just got you regulated. You've responded to treatment but you're still unwell. The best thing for you both is for us to get that baby out of you as quickly as possible, soon as it's safe to do so. The best place for that to happen is here."

"I know. I know." Bucky's sigh shuddered out.

"Why don't you take a few minutes? I have to give Steve a check over before I get the doctor."

That was Steve's cue to lie back and spread 'em, the picture of all innocence. When Khyati entered his cubicle from Bucky's, she nodded approvingly. "He knows what's coming I see."

"Yes ma'am."

Usually, Steve kept his eyes cast up to the ceiling as he was examined. It didn't matter if he watched Khyati's expression or not. He knew it was bad news before she opened her mouth, just by listening to her breathing.

"I'm not feeling any ripening yet," Khyati reported, withdrawing her gloved hand. "The prostaglandins should be making your cervix softer and thinner, but no joy yet."

"Is that a problem?"

"Not as such. It's not unusual. You're - let's see - eight hours in. We'll apply another dose of the gel now, and consider another before the end of the day. Plus another first thing in the morning if you've made no progress and we're not getting any side effects. There's mechanical methods we can try too. And we've got some time."

"Anything I can do?" It was one of the most disempowering feelings of the whole experience. He could control his diet and his exercise and reduce his stress. He could stop working and go to lamaze classes and scout out nurseries and nannies. But not this. They were just getting to the end point, and there was nothing he could do to hurry along mission completion.

"You can rest up," Khyati said. "And put your pants back on."

But Steve had to make one more point; push for what he wanted, because she had to understand that it wasn't just for him. "Khyati, I really don't want a c-section if I can avoid it. With the serum… It'll take more to numb me, and I don't know what a high does like that'll do to the baby. No one does - no one can tell me. Please. Anything we can do to make this happen naturally… Please do it."

"I know it," and she sounded as if she was taking him seriously. "I'll talk to Dr Chung. See if he'll agree to fit you with a Foley balloon before the nightshift takes over and you have to charm someone else."

Steve just wanted his baby safe. He wanted her in his arms. Bucky slipped out of his mind as he thought of her and how he craved the feeling of holding a child he'd yet to meet.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

Even in the middle of the night, in the Rose Crest Maternity and Paternity Centre, the noise never stopped. Nurses and doctors gossipped at their station just outside the ward. The two babies still on it were restless. Every now and again, a door in the hallway beyond opened and the sounds of someone in real pain loomed outwards before being snapped off again. Twice already as he'd tried to sleep, Bucky had heard a trolley rattle past at pace with doctors talking in urgent, incomprehensible tones, and then it wasn't just the sounds keeping him up but the idea that could be his fate if something went wrong - watching the lights flash overhead in the ceiling as he was dashed to the operating theatre, to see which of them the doctors could save.

The frequent visits by the midwives didn’t help. Bucky knew that they were just doing their jobs, checking that he and the baby were both okay. But every time he thought he might be succeeding in drifting towards sleep, a man hustled in to fuss over his tubes and wires, and Bucky jerked back to consciousness.

To top it all off, his headache was back. The stress of the day had worn him down, like someone had taken a planer knife against soft pine wood, leaving the core of him exposed and his strength brushed away like so much sawdust. He wanted to sleep… If he was going to be having his baby tomorrow, he needed to sleep. Bucky might not have been able to attend every Lamaze course, Bump and Baby class, and hypnobirthing session going like his ward neighbours evidently had, but he knew that sh*t was hard work. He had to rest, properly, to be ready for it.

A glance at his watch told Bucky it was half midnight.

With a frustrated groan, he rolled onto his other side - more of a performance these days than in the past - to see if another position and a cooler bit of pillow might grant sleep. Instead, he found himself looking at a small pool of light. It was diffusing through the curtains on his right-hand side.

Steve wasn’t sleeping either.

Now there was a man who was going to be a good Dad. That man’s daughter was going to skip to school every day with a lunchbox full of sandwiches cut to look like teddybears and owls, and fruit with funny faces sketched on their skins. No doubt there’d be a note slipped in there with a thoughtful affirmation written on it to boost the kid's confidence, or a napkin with a different doodle drawn on each day. Steve probably had the theme of her first birthday party already planned, and the exact shade of the icing for her six-tier birthday cake picked out.

Bucky, on the other hand, had looked at the price of formula in the grocery store one time and realised that he needed to breastfeed as long as possible because that stuff was extortionate. But to do that, he'd have to keep himself fed or he wouldn't make enough milk to keep the baby fed. And if he was breastfeeding, how was he going to work? If he couldn't work, he wouldn't be able to afford his bills, and if he was working, how was he going to afford childcare?

Oh God, how was he going to do this? He didn’t know how he was going to afford to feed his child. Bucky was going to have this little person relying on him for everything, and he was going to have to look down at its face and tell it no time and time again. At best, it was going to be the kid who got picked on because of its ratty sneakers and thrift store clothes. At worst, it was going to learn to dread the knock of a landlord or a bailiff.

Brock was right. How could Bucky have thought Brock was full of sh*t just a few hours before when every day since Bucky had left him, Brock had been proven right? Bucky was too weak to look after himself. He couldn't look after a child too. He had no job. No money. No friends. It'd taken almost three months to even get a bank account. When a stranger had offered to share a meal with him, he'd been so pathetically grateful because it meant the hospital wouldn't put dinner on his bill - like a measly $30 was going to make a dent in the debt he was wracking up just by lying down not sleeping. And that stranger had paid him the tiniest scraps of attention, and Bucky had fooled himself into thinking the blond might like him - just because it had been so long since someone had.

All of this was exactly what Brock had said would happen.

Of course, living with Brock hadn't been perfect, but Brock had provided for them. Bucky's allowance had always been enough to put food on the table and keep the house clean and warm. Maybe Bucky hadn't had lots of close friends, but he'd had colleagues that he liked, and neighbours who knew him. It was that kind of neighbourhood: safe. Picket fences aplenty.

Between one breath and the next, Bucky was back there. In his home, with the plants he'd tended for years and the cat his heart had broken to leave behind. In the light-filled kitchen Brock let him help design. Wrapped in a blanket on the deck, watching the stars while Brock tended to the fire pit.

Maybe Bucky should have tried harder to talk Brock round to the baby. He hadn't given Brock enough of a chance to adjust. If Bucky had been smarter and more patient, he'd have been able to take his baby home and know that it would be fed and warm and clothed.

Bucky could still do it. If he couldn't cope on his own afterall, he could beg Brock to take him back. He could protect the baby from the rage. Bucky could draw Brock's anger, he knew how - better than anyone.

The plant pot shattering as it crashed into the wall less than an inch from his head, spittle flying almost as far as Brock roared. Brock on his knees on the kitchen tile, begging Bucky to forgive him, weeping, promising never to hurt him again. The excruciating heat of the fire against Bucky's forearm, as Brock demanded to know why Bucky was making him do this.

“Bucky? Are you awake?”

Bucky startled out of the onslaught of intrusive thoughts.

The whisper had come from Steve - his voice, his bed.

“Yeah.” The confession slipped out before he had the wherewithal to pretend. Stupid stupid stupid.

"Can't sleep?"

A hand reaching out to pull him from the downward spiral, and Bucky was too wretched a man to do anything but grasp for it. "No. I'm - You neither?"

Through the curtain, the light rippled, as if Steve were shifting behind it. There was a distinct patting sound. “No. It's the nightly 11pm to 1am dance party going on in here."

It was so far from where Bucky's head was at, it took all the effort of a physical leap to yank himself back from the past and understand what Steve was talking about. His baby was still and settled. But a few hours before, it had been breakdancing against his ribs. “This one has the 8 til 10 slot.”

“Considerate timing.”

That low, smooth voice ran like silk out of the dark, but there was a tangle in its weave that made no sense.

“How did you know I was awake?”

"Ah." A beat, before Steve asked, "Are you alright if I open the curtain?"

When all Bucky could manage was a hum of confused assent, the curtain between them was tugged back. Too paralysed by memory and tiredness to move, Bucky found himself simply watching as Steve's upper body appeared. Covered by the thin hospital comforter, the other man was sat up against a stack of pillows with a reading light clipped to his headboard, a book cradled in one of his big hands, the other where it always was - a shield for and connection with his bump. If Bucky wasn’t much mistaken, Steve's expression was… apologetic? “I could hear you. Sounded like… maybe you were freaking out a bit? I wanted to check you were okay. If you needed help.”

But Bucky hadn’t said anything. How could Steve possibly have -

And then the golden light emanating from the reading light cast a shadow across Steve’s chin in just the right way, and Bucky’s vision must have cleared, because even that illumination was enough for him to realise that he’d been a complete and utter fool. “You’re Captain America.”

Something like disappointment crossed Steve’s face. Bucky was the only one who could possibly have disappointed him, and he found himself apologising faster than he could process how intensely he didn’t want to be the source of that emotion. “Sorry, it just surprised me. You were so nice.” Bucky was cringing even as he said it, even as Steve co*cked a sceptical eyebrow.

“Because Captain America can’t be nice?”

Bucky was f*cking this right up, but his panic over that was certainly doing its job of overriding his panic over Brock being right. With difficulty, he pushed himself to sitting, fighting against the weight of his stomach. “I didn’t mean that. I just meant - sh*t, am I blowing your cover right now?”

"My cover?"

"Yeah, is this - Avengers business?"

A cautious twinge of amusem*nt was replacing Steve's scepticism. “Avengers business… on a labour ward?”

“There could be alien parasites,” Bucky said at once. “Or someone’s about to give birth to the source of all evil and you have to stop it. Or Dr Chung’s been stealing babies to experiment on and you’re gonna catch him in the act.”

“And this child I’ve been gestating for almost 42 weeks, quite publicly?” Steve asked, pointing to the swell of his unmissable stomach - which had become a tabletop for the book he'd been reading so he could speak to Bucky.

“Either a super realistic prosthetic or you go full method actor when you're undercover.”

By this point, Steve's eyes were glimmering with smothered laughter and Bucky felt he might just have made up for his faux pas. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognise you.”

“You were wrong anyway. I’ve not been Captain America for three years. It's Commander Rogers now.” And the handsome bastard winked at Bucky.

“So you could tell I was having a panic because… you could hear it?”

“Your heart rate. I’m sorry. Invasive, I know. I try and tune it out but - doesn't always work.”

Bucky couldn’t fathom it. If he found this place too loud, a man with hearing sensitive enough to listen to someone's pulse five foot away had to be going spare. As he blinked in surprise, Steve put his book away and tilted himself onto his side with a huff, so it was easier for him to face Bucky. His body rested heavily against the pillows. Bucky felt his own form turning to match. It felt like they were sharing a secret, alone but together in the middle of the night.

In that sincere tone, voice lowered as if for intimacy's sake rather than to avoid disturbing the patients around them, Steve said, “I'm sorry too. I didn’t mean to hide anything.”

And Bucky's head had been buried in another man's apology, one he'd heard so many times over the years of that relationship. But Brock would never have apologised for something so trivial. The fault would have been Bucky's, somehow. His stupidity. Like it always was.

Movement snapped the thought apart. Steve's hand rubbing circles against his abdomen as he waited for Bucky's response. Even at a distance, even with the comforter disguising and softening the other man's form, Bucky could see how the baby's movement distorted the curve as it kicked. Hard enough to push at Steve's hands, making them jolt, and Bucky winced in sympathy. No way that didn't hurt.

From a dry throat, Bucky summoned the words, “That’s why the curtains too right? Hiding in the corner. You don't want us recognising you. You’re here to have your baby. You’re not here as a superhero.”

“Thank you for understanding." Commander Rogers lay there in his hospital bed, in his pyjamas, waiting for his labour to start, with his baby strutting its stuff like a mini Beyonce, and somehow he asked Bucky, "Would it help to talk about it?”

“Oh so you are here as a superhero.”

Bucky thought about it. For a moment, he considered opening up to this man that he’d learned about at age seven but only just met. But he didn’t want to break this peace. He didn't want to go back into the memories. He wanted to sleep - he wanted them both to sleep. “Thank you, but no. Big day tomorrow ‘n all that. ‘S just hospitals. And the noise."

“How d'you feel about Terry Pratchett?”

For all Bucky knew, he’d fallen asleep and woken up in an entirely different conversation. “What?”

From beneath his pillow, Steve revealed a small box that opened to reveal two wireless earbuds. “Baby's calming down."

"That's calming down?" Bucky asked, eyes pointedly flicking down to Steve's hand as it tried to soothe the squirming creature inside.

Steve sighed. "I know. Let me dream would you? Every night…" Dismissing the thought with a shake of his head he said, "I was about to try closing my eyes and putting on one of the audiobooks. Friend of mine got me into them. They’re good to fall asleep to.”

He held a earbud out over the space between them in offering.

“But you were about to use them,” Bucky protested.

“Can’t fall asleep lying on my side with both headphones in anyway. Not with one ear against the pillow. It’d just be lying there with the battery running down.”

A promise of distraction. Something to drown out the noise. Exactly what Bucky needed. He found himself taking the earbud from Steve's hand without a thought for the price he might need to pay for it. Their fingers brushed as he drew away, and the contact sent a rush of heat all the way down to the backs of his legs.

He couldn't remember the last time someone held his hand.

When sleep came for Bucky at last, with a ridiculous story written for the joy of it playing in his ear, the last image in his head was that of Commander Rogers with his face smoothed into sleep of his own, and his hand lax on the sheets at last.

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

When Steve awoke, his first thought was the same as every first thought he’d had upon waking for weeks.

Today could be the day he met his daughter.

But this particular day arrived with a strange feeling of dislocation. The immediate, instinctive knowledge that he wasn’t in the familiar surroundings of his own home and his own bed. That today he had a team of dedicated medical professionals outside and a saline-filled balloon nestled within him, stretching him open, so that reality could finally manifest.

Steve let his hand rise up from the sheets to his stomach, where the weight of the swell had rested against the soft padding of a pillow while he slept. “Is today the day, baby girl?” he whispered. When a limb nudged back at his palm, Steve took that as the confirmation he was after. "I'm so excited to see you darling. There are so many people who love you, who're just waiting for you to come out so they can say hello." Maybe Steve was in the Rose Crest by himself, but that was just scheduling. He knew how much affection for his child had already bloomed in the world. "They're going to show you all the brilliant things that exist outside that all inclusive womb you're enjoying so much. Uncle Sam's gonna teach you how to fly. Uncle Tony and Auntie Pepper are going to spoil you rotten. Your Auntie Nat says she's got the whole girl talk and make up thing covered so you don't have to worry about that. And I -" Everything. How did he explain everything to her? Everything he had to give would be hers. "I'm gonna do everything in my power to make you happy. If you'd just come on out, I'll show you this whole world I've been saving for you."

There was a little wiggle from the baby beneath Steve's palm then, but no other sign that she was ready to get a proper wriggle on and get out of him.

Unabashedly shaking his head at his own foolishness, Steve gifted himself another sixty seconds of rest beneath the covers. But there was no going back to sleep, only going forwards - out from beneath the covers and towards the window.

He couldn’t wait to be allowed to run again. There was energy stored up in his limbs that was desperate to be expressed - had been for months - and butterfly stroke and yoga couldn’t hope to burn it out properly. While other expectant parents craved ice cream and gherkins, he yearned to sprint a marathon before breakfast, to bench press every one of his neighbours' cars for a bit of a break, and then to throw his body and skills against a worthy opponent - Thor or Vision or T'Challa or Carol, any one of them would do. All of them would be the dream.

Perhaps just one more day and he could.

Until then, Steve moved through the stretches that his pregnant body was both allowed and had the room to make in the hospital cubicle’s limited space. Eking out the tension in his calves and thighs in downward dog and gentle lunges. Extending his sleep-furled spine with side stretches and cat cows, elbows propped on the exercise ball to create room for his belly. Each movement easy and fluid, almost gratuitous when a stretch hit just right. But none anywhere near enough for a supersoldier to raise a sweat with.

Perhaps it would help open him up. That was something to hope for. As Steve stood in tree pose, one foot flat against the floor and the other raised high on his thigh, he could feel his pelvic muscles stretching. As he squatted down into garland, balance perfect and stomach hanging, he rose and fell infinitesimally with his breath, thinking of Sam’s words the morning before as he held the position.

“You could slide right outta me like this. I couldn't make it easier for you if I tried kid.” Steve's knees were as far apart as they would go, his hips at their most open. If he just stayed like this for a while, maybe it would encourage the baby downwards. Maybe it would do what the medicines hadn’t so far.

That was the thought Steve was trying hardest to ignore. The thought that the serum would prevent the drugs doing their job, just burn them up before they could have the desired effect, no matter how much the doctors poured into him. That labour would never start and he’d be forced into the operating theatre with all the risks accompanying that and the days of recovery that would handicap him in a fight - all because he'd chosen to carry a baby in a body he'd put in a radioactive oven one time out of selfish arrogance and the desire to prove himself.

The yoga pose meant Steve’s hands were pressed together in a mockery of prayer. He suspected that thought made him unworthy of the kind of divine intervention he needed. “Please just come out baby girl.” Steve pushed the thought through his body, for lack of permission to push his muscles down and lack of action from above. “Don’t you want to meet me too?”

“Are you stuck?” The voice of Tim - one of the midwives on nightshift - broke through Steve’s plea. Steve looked up into an outstretched hand and a sceptical expression.

“Just working out the kinks,” Steve grunted back, ignoring the hand to transition into warrior pose without assistance because that’s what he was goddamn it. Even if he was trapped in a cold war with his body - a battle that he had little power over. Squats and drugs aside, he had no more control over these events than a thirteen year old had over scarlet fever.

“Be careful you don’t create any new ones,” Tim scolded lightly. “This isn't an A&E."

Biting back unfair resentment, as well as the temptation to gesture at the screen tracking his heart rate as it hadn’t shown a single blip in elevation, Steve asked, “Am I allowed a shower?”

“You are. It’s not a prison either. Saying that, Dr Tyler will be doing her rounds of this ward in an hour, so you need to be back in bed for that.”

-

The ward showers were contained in a row of three wide cubicles, each fitted with handrails and a foldout seat. While Steve tried to appreciate the lengthy explanation Tim gave detailing how every piece of equipment inside each shower worked, he couldn’t help but suspect that the other man was turning it from stanza to soliloquy in order to punish him for the tone he'd used earlier.

Steve bore it. He had time to spare.

When he finally stepped beneath the hot rush of water, the bliss which should have doused him was tinged with wondering. Would this be the last time he stood beneath a shower with a body shaped like this - with the rivulets running down his collar bones, over the curves of his chest to split into streams over his full belly? Would he be able to see his feet next time? That would be novel. Or would he seek out solace beneath the spray as pain surged through him - would the next shower he took be during labour rather than after?

His body’s third transformation was almost over. Each time the change had been stranger and achieved more.

On the ward, Steve had nursed resentment over the serum's tendency to burn through pharmaceuticals. That resentment washed down the drain as swiftly as the water when he remembered that he'd never have been strong enough to carry a child before it.

This child was the best gift that the serum had ever given him.

“Sorry sweetness. Didn’t mean to be impatient,” he murmured down to his daughter. She’d been placid within him so far that morning, maybe conceding to the lack of space around her, maybe consigned to waiting - like he ought to be. “Setting a bad example huh?”

Taking his time, Steve lathered his hands up with soap and smoothed his way over curves that had never been promised. Stretched, sensitive skin roused immediately in response. A rush of goosebumps followed in the wake of his touch.

All alone and locked away, the frosted door between himself and the patients and staff, Steve dared to let his touches linger. There was no one to judge him as he rubbed his palms against his tender sides, or as he walked his thumbs up each side of his spine. No one listening when he cupped his swollen chest and the pressure against his budding nipples made him gasp aloud. Steve blushed at his own daring; this was a public place. Anyone could walk into the room. They might not be able to see him, but he might be heard.

Had he been at home, maybe he'd have indulged. Maybe he'd have reached between his legs, taken himself in hand and slowly jerked himself off beneath the spray. Maybe he'd have brought his thumbs up to precisely circle his nerve-filled nipples and indulged in the sweet ache of contact it elicited, knowing that he didn't have to gamble on his moans being chewed up by the water's rush or not. In the days leading up to his hospital visit, he'd certainly done so enough times. Afterall, he’d tried every old wives’ tale in the book to bring on labour, despite his jokes with Bucky. He’d been desperate.

Steve couldn't help himself. His mind filled all the way up with pleasure’s recent memories. Each one of them a memory of his own hands or toys, of coming silently in an empty home but whenever he goddamn pleased. As the water poured through his hair and down his back, he shuddered with them. His body had been sensitive for so long, but this pregnancy - this was something new. He’d wanted but there’d been no one to tame the flames of that wanting. He’d known it was obscene to touch himself with this century’s inventions - things which spread him and filled him and vibrated deep inside himself - but he’d been a hair trigger away from arousal so often at times, he’d had to slake it. Even at nine months pregnant and more unwieldy than he’d ever been, while the wanting had faded some from its peak, his body had answered so quickly when he tempted it in the name of bringing on labour.

The haze of reminiscing was as thick as the steam and Steve was beginning to feel himself throbbing when he heard the tell-tale click of the outer door opening over the water’s streaming. Automatically, Steve pressed his hand to his cubicle door and braced. He froze. Waited.

Light footsteps trod by - past his cubicle, then parallel with it. A second door clicked closed and the shower besides Steve’s turned on.

It ran for at least 60 seconds before Steve relaxed. His embarrassment at almost being caught - even if it was only almost being caught fantasising - had just about begun to fade away when a low humming started up on the other side of the frosted glass. A male voice sprang up and down the scales, tune jazzy then smooth. Steve was brusquely scrubbing himself down, preparing to escape before his shower neighbour finished, when the other man swapped his humming and began to sing, “Everybody sing, everybody dance. Lose yourself in wild romance.”

It was Bucky. Steve knew it from the very first scraping syllable.

“We're going to party, karamu, fiesta, forever. Come on and sing along.”

Bucky’s voice was tuneful, and the notes he made reverbated off the glass and tiles. He sounded good. He sounded… like he was determined to sound good. Joyful by willpower.

The beat picked up a few moments later, and so did Bucky’s volume. He bellowed out, "All night long! All night long, all night."

While Steve had been ready to pick up a towel and flee, the song stopped him. He didn’t want to stop listening to it. The joy in it was infectious - tempting his own lips upwards at the edges. And it wasn’t creeping to stay; Bucky knew there was another person showering.

Splashing started as Bucky hit the chorus. Foaming soap suds had poured from Steve’s cubicle down to Bucky’s, and the other man kicked them up as he danced to the song. Steve had to lean back against the wall of the shower with his eyes closed because the vision of what was happening in the next cubicle was so clear in his mind. That attractive young man, his beautiful tattoos on show as he shifted in small rhythmic movements, beat by beat. Bare feet stomping in the bubbles. Maybe his hand curled around the shower gel for a microphone.

A little less than 24 hours before, this man had driven himself to the hospital to save his own life and that of his child. He’d been wrecked and ragged, worryingly ill, and here he was having a dance in the shower the day he was due to be induced.

In that moment, Steve felt affection bloom in his chest. The emotion struck him without warning, an immediate ballooning. The warmth of it diffused through him even more effectively than the water’s caress.

For one millisecond of insanity, Steve considered doing what the song demanded and joining in.

All the while, Bucky sang out, “Come join our party, see how we play!”

It was so very easy to imagine lying in bed, in his own haven of a bedroom, listening to this man singing in the en suite. Worryingly easy. Steve’s over-active mind put himself beneath the sheets, watching Bucky sashay over with a mug of coffee in his hand. He could feel Bucky’s body sliding into bed beside him, chest still rumbling with lingering hums.

Which was as inappropriate a fantasy as the ones he’d been having before Bucky stepped into the shower. Time for Steve to rein in his thrumming heartstrings, because he shouldn’t be feeling any kind of way about another patient in a place like the Rose Crest. Both of them were about to become solo parents. Steve was simply experiencing a hormonal misdemeanour.

Before he could embarrass himself, Steve firmly turned off the shower and reached for his towel. When he stepped outside, his heart made another ridiculous bid to free itself from his ribcage at the sight of his fresh clothes folded neatly besides Bucky’s - until he realised that Bucky’s consisted of a blue printed hospital robe which looked stiff and thin. The paper of disposable underwear and a nylon pair of compression socks poked out from beneath. In contrast, Steve's pile of clothing was all brushed cotton and flannel, with fleece-lined slippers which cost more than he dared confess.

Steve remembered, suddenly, the hand-stitched waistband he’d seen the day before.

Bucky had slid onto singing about dancing on a ceiling rather than dancing in a shower cubicle, and Steve suspected he didn’t have much time. He had to leave all those fantasies behind.

He changed quickly, but the image of that clothing stuck in his head as he left Bucky to his karaoke.

-

In the washroom mirror, Bucky snapped a quick picture of himself for Becca’s amusem*nt. He looked ridiculous - compression socks up to his knees, unflattering gown making him look twice the size… but he smiled for Becca, hoping to reassure her that he was in fact doing better. And he was. The doctors had been pleased with him and agreed he was in a state fit to induce. It was a bizarre thing to feel proud of, but Bucky was happy to accept the praise for his own blood pressure, even if it was Khyati and Heather who’d done the real work. Were that good news not enough, the porter had smuggled Bucky an extra bit of toast with breakfast; Steve Rogers had greeted him with a heart-stopping smile on his way back from the shower - his own golden hair damp at the ends; and Bucky almost, almost felt rested.

He’d been trying every trick in his book to maintain his mood: using the remnants of his phone battery to watch Instagram stories about kittens, little dance party in the shower… Anything that would count as a distraction from the reality that a needle in his arm was going to bring careening in. He was going to be going from bump to baby real damn soon, and that thought was too terrifying to contemplate up close. So Lionel Richie and Suki the cat it was.

Slowly waddling back from the washroom, feeling the ache straining at his hips and his back, Bucky wondered to himself if Steve or one of the nurses would let him borrow a charger. He was pondering who looked most likely to own a Samsung when he pulled back the curtains around his bed and found a very large cardboard box taking up the end of it. Presuming someone had the wrong cubicle by mistake, he checked the label on top. But no, it was addressed to Mr B Barnes, c/o Rose Crest Maternity and Paternity Centre.

Someone had sent this to him.

Someone who knew where he was.

He hadn’t even told Becca where he was, lest she google pricing lists.

No one should - no one could -

Trepidation frigid up his spine, Bucky reached out to touch the packing tape holding the box together. His fingers were unfathomably steady despite the panic racing through him - focus honing in on this single object to the disregard of all else. It was large but not heavy: weighed more than a balloon (which was a nice fleeting thought) but less than books. There were no postmarks and no barcodes - which meant this was hand delivered. Which in all likelihood meant that the person who delivered it was still here.

The creeping trepidation skittered and turned Bucky’s shoulders rigid in self-defence.

Brock couldn’t have found them. Not today. Bucky had been hidden for months…

He jerked his head up and looked around as if Brock was going to jump out from behind the guest chair. But there was nothing but the curtains all around. Which meant Brock could be anywhere.

Heart firmly lodged in his throat, still scanning for silhouettes, Bucky tore open the box to reveal piles of fabric. He reached inside and the first thing to emerge was a large, fluffy robe. Waiting for the catch, Bucky placed it down on the mattress and tried again, only to pull out no fewer than three neatly folded pairs of paternity pyjamas, followed by a pair of joggers, four oversized tops in different cuts, a stack of chest bands and underwear including what Bucky realised were well-padded postpartum gear. Right at the bottom of the box, there was even a beautiful pair of navy slippers, and a little box rattling about of - nursing pads?

Bucky checked twice, and he was almost certain that they were the same brand as the ones he wore. The ones Steve had given him.

“Steve?”

“Mhmm?” came the response from the next cubicle over.

“Did you… Can I come in?”

“Sure. Um. I can’t move right now.”

Unable to fathom why that would be, Bucky pulled back the curtain which divided their cubicles.

Steve Rogers was on his back on his bed, with his feet propped up on the foldout stirrups and a blanket keeping his hips raised. He was decently covered - wearing a tight-fitting tank on his top half which left every muscle of his arms on show - but it was clearly a compromising position.

“Sorry, Bucky they only just - I gotta stay like this for another twenty minutes.” There was a delicate flush across Steve’s cheeks.

Flustered several times over, Bucky held up the box of nursing pads - the last things he’d pulled out and apparently clung onto. “Did you send me these?”

“I’ve upset you.” Which wasn’t a yes but clearly was.

“Jesus Christ.” Relief had Bucky sagging. He caught himself on the mattress’ edge, palms down. The box fell to the floor. The position left him almost hanging over Steve, but with Steve’s hands bracing his shoulders. The blond had moved so fast to steady Bucky, Bucky had hardly seen the movement. “sh*tting hell Steve. Lie back down would you? I’m fine,” he gasped out. Through the light-headedness of relief, the only thing that mattered outside his own body was that Steve didn’t screw up his treatment.

The warm hands obediently left his shoulders, but Steve was close enough to almost touch anyway, and his low voice curled straight into Bucky’s ear he said, “You’re not. Would you sit? You’re shaking.”

Bucky looked down to find that Steve was right, and the trembling that he’d been suppressing had finally broken out. Making his way to the chair felt too difficult, so Bucky just shook his head, sagged there and explained, “I thought my ex had found me. I haven’t had anything delivered to me with my name on it for five months. I thought he was here.”

And Steve had been Captain America, he was Commander Rogers, leader of the Avengers, one of the smartest strategists history had ever known. Swift with urgency, he said, “There’s no way your ex would find you this way. I can guarantee it. I ordered them through the Avengers’ AI assistant on my StarkPad. Our AI handles logistics for our top secret missions, she’s utterly secure. She’ll have sent out some of Stark’s assistants to fetch what I ordered. They’re all cleared within an inch of their lives - they keep Tony’s indiscretions secret, cutting edge tech from being leaked, they’d never divulge what they were out buying for me. And the box was delivered from New York by drone straight into the hands of my security detail downstairs. No one’s seen that package or your name that I don’t trust with mine and my baby’s safety on a daily basis.”

Bucky let the responses run. The words weren’t all going in, but they were coaxing his body out of high alert all the same.

“I promise Buck,” Steve continued to assure. “My people brought it right up to me five minutes ago. Saw the drone through the window before that. Maybe I shouldn’t have-”

Unsure he could handle Steve’s feelings on top of his own, Bucky shook his head. He forced himself to look up from his hands, and found worried blue eyes locking onto his own at once. As if Steve was trying to work out what extra reassurance he could possibly give to make Bucky feel alright.

Finally, Bucky found his voice. “Everything you’ve just said is crackers. You get that right?”

“Yeah. A lot. I’m sorry.” To Steve's credit, he did look genuinely apologetic. “Will you do me a favour and sit down, please?”

“My heart rate freakin’ you out again?”

“Lil’ bit, yeah.”

Resigned to feeling as if he’d been zapped into a surreal parallel universe, Bucky cast about for a seat and sagged down onto an exercise ball at Steve’s bedside. His weight sank down and met the perfect amount of give from the inflated plastic. “Okay. That’s… unexpectedly comfy,” Bucky ruled. He could spread his legs wide enough to accommodate his belly, his spine was upright and stretched out, and he could rock out where he ached…

Still oddly hesitant for a man so powerful, Steve suggested, “I can always-”

“Please don’t get me one of these too.” With the terror that Brock had found him almost vanished, Bucky could feel the ability to think restoring itself. He could file through the last few minutes and pull the important cards from the pack. Still, all he could say was, “What the f*ck Steve? Are you expecting me to pay for all this, because I’m telling you right now that I can’t.” He’d seen the labels on those clothes, and he’d only encountered them before when he’d sorted his online shop from price high to low by mistake.

“No, not at all. I-” As Steve protested, he tried to sit up, immediately looked annoyed at himself, and collapsed back down.

The fear had left Bucky, but irritation filled up the vulnerable gap inside him, far enough that he snapped, “Is this charity then? I don’t know what you’ve overheard about my finances but-”

Eyes wide, Steve interrupted, “No - it’s not charity, it’s not debt-”

“What is it then?”

“It’s a gift.”

“For what?”

“You seemed like you were having a bit of a tough time and-” Steve was still clearly struggling with having to stay put, as if he needed movement as well to express his earnestness in full. He was going to end up straining himself or losing whatever the doctors had put inside him. Bucky found himself reaching out across the bed to place a hand on the blond’s arm.

He played back the blond’s words. “Do me a favour, huh?”

With the touch keeping him in place, Steve blew a low breath out towards the ceiling and stilled. More calmly, he said, “It’s a gift. Because I saw those papery clothes this morning and I’ve been in more than my fair share of hospitals, so I know exactly what it’s like living in them. And no person on this planet - or any of the others I’ve been to - has had a good day wearing a hospital-issue gown and paper underpants. So. I just wanted to give you something that might make today a little bit better. Cos today might be the day you have your baby, right? So it really should be a good one if it can be.”

He was so earnest. He was Captain Rogers, paradigm of virtue. Bucky couldn’t find a single trace of a lie. “That’s - that’s real nice of you Steve.” Bucky glanced at the box on the ground and back over his shoulder at the pile of clothes on his bed. Every piece high quality. Thoughtful. He’d bet they were all in his size too. “f*ck.” He was not going to cry over the chance to wear some comfortable underwear. He was not.

The man lying on the bed took a break from biting at his bottom lip to say, “I really didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

When Bucky tried to promise, “It’s okay,” the words emerged thick with the emotions trying to clog his throat. Nevermind the pre-eclampsia; he’d be happy when he shook his damn hormones off.

Quietly, Steve added, “I can send them back. If you don’t want them.”

“What did you mean - security detail?” Bucky was blunt but he couldn’t help himself. He didn’t want to lose this kindness, and wasn’t sure he could talk about it with Steve much more.

“I mean - I brought a bunch of highly trained agents with me. Just in case I need their help.” Those arresting blue eyes didn’t look away from Bucky’s for a moment. “I’m not gonna pretend that I know what happened between you and your former partner. But I know a little of what it’s like to feel threatened with a baby on the way.”

Bucky was doing his utmost to read that serious, soulful look - to understand what was going on between them, what it was Steve meant, and what it was safe for him to say - but the pool was too deep, and too intense. “I’m going to get changed,” Bucky said at last. “Because you’re right: this stuff sucks. After that, I want us to talk.”

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

Bucky was wearing the clothes Steve had bought him when he separated the curtains between them again. Steve had deliberately given him options: a floaty cotton gown if he didn’t want anything on his legs, loose wrap pants that wouldn’t constrict, close-cropped leggings if he wanted the support, but Bucky had picked a traditional, structured set in grey check. The soft fabric would be gentle where it draped against his skin, and its thickness accentuated his shape and breadth. Steve knew a uniform when he saw one. Someone had dressed for courage.

As Bucky closed the narrow distance between them, the subtle blue and purple threads woven into the check fabric brought out the flecks of colour in his eyes.

Khyati had pounced on the both of them while Bucky changed, which meant he brought a oxytocin drip along with him to Steve’s cubicle, and that there was a small blocky protrusion distorting the curve of his naval where a monitor had been strapped on. Both matched Steve’s own. The brunet manoeuvred himself and the IV stand in a beeline towards the exercise ball, and Steve suppressed a smile at the picture the other man made when he sank down onto his new favourite seat with a huff. The base of his heavy, curving stomach rested on the plastic between his wide-spread thighs, and his fingers ranged up and down his lower back, bracing and rubbing. A little line of discomfort between his eyebrows melted away.

"They all fit okay?" Steve asked, tiptoeing not at all delicately over whatever ice lay between them.

"I don't remember the comic book about your perfect eye for tailoring," Bucky grumbled, as his fingers tugged the long top into position over his bump. It was performative at best: it already covered him perfectly. "Is it some kind of state secret?"

"Yeah. You can't be letting the bad guys know stuff like that. Who knows how they’ll use it." Steve had been jostling for a smile if not a laugh, but instead Bucky cast sombre silver eyes up from his knees to Steve's face. He’d clearly spent the break thinking hard.

"But your pregnancy's public knowledge right? It's been in magazines and stuff. That's why you've got security downstairs."

Steve let out a low breath, and was glad at least that he wasn't on his back like a beached turtle anymore. It meant he could sit on the edge of the bed, facing Bucky square on to say, "Yeah. The moment I made the announcement, we started picking up chatter about the value of my baby on the hellscape of a market that exists for that kind of thing. Honestly, I've reviewed all of them - the ones that they'd let me see anyway. Most are standard darkweb, internet-weirdo nonsense. The ones that aren't - well, we tend to know who has it out for me and who has the firepower to actually get to me. It's a familiar list. They're all under surveillance, and we've been chipping away at their capability to act for a long time."

Astutely, Bucky guessed, "HYDRA, Dr Doom, Masters of Evil..."

"You got it. The baby just makes 'em want me a little more than they already did, and it makes it easier for 'em to get to me. I can take care of myself for the most part, but if they attack while I'm mid-push - could be a handicap."

“Sure, I can see that being suboptimal.”

A sudden worry occurred, and Steve could only quell it by expressing it. “If you want me to move away from you, I’d totally understand. I can request a different bed, or see if we can fast track you somewhere private.”

“Well, those comics weren’t wrong about you being one for self-sacrifice,” Bucky observed. “I’m surprised you didn’t try giving me the clothes off your own back when you were worrying about me - what - chafing?”

Steve very determinedly did not meet Bucky’s eyes because he had thought about it, but once he’d realised FRIDAY could make deliveries to them in less than an hour, he’d decided that was less weird.

A quiet “Oh,” told him he hadn’t been successful.

Mock-defensively, Steve protested, “Look, I’m the President of the Boy Scouts of America. The Chief Scout. Assume I have six of everything packed. Whatcha need? A torch? Climbing rope? Mallet? Face mask? A fan? Emergency peanut butter?”

It worked at last. Bucky was grinning wryly at him.

Steve decided to quit while he was ahead and not mention the gun, the taser, the forcefield in a button, or the babysuits with trackers sewn into their hems.

“Sure Steve. You and I can lay here next to each other, having our babies with our face masks on and cucumbers over our eyes. You’re a riot.” Bucky was gently bouncing on the ball before Steve. Their knees were almost brushing, and Steve could hardly breathe. “But that must have been terrifying as hell.”

“It was scary,” Steve admitted, matching Bucky’s sincerity with his own. He was grateful that years of therapy had made it easier for him to share vulnerabilities, so that the confession simply slid off his tongue. It helped to know that such honesty made him a better leader, not a weaker one - and perhaps a better man too. “There were a couple of times folk got within the same street as me but no closer. I spent more of my pregnancy looking over my shoulder than I’d have liked. But - more than anything - I’m lucky,” he continued, embracing that honesty. Bucky had wanted to talk, and Steve found himself happy to be an open book for him. “I knew it was going to happen. My team and I could plan for it and keep me safe. I was able to try to prepare for it at the same time as I was preparing to conceive. And the security detail I have are some of the best in the world. All of them volunteered for this shift with me - a long list of them did in fact.” Steve still felt the honour of that deeply, and knew it was audible in his voice.

Just inches away from him, Bucky’s eyes widened a fraction - noting the significance. “They must care about you.”

“Like I said. I’m lucky.” Conscious of sounding too dismissive, Steve admitted, “In a lot of ways. More luck than I know what to do with sometimes. Lord, I mean - I envisaged this future for myself and I’m making it happen. How often does that happen? But there’re a hell of a lot of people I left behind, whose generosity stood between me and something much worse than chafing. I wouldn’t be here, getting the thing that I want, without them. And they’re gone. I can’t pay them back, so I try to pay their kindness forwards instead.”

“If you can do something kind, why wouldn’t you?” Bucky reasoned, with the kind of hollow voice that spoke of memory. “My Mom used to say that.”

From the tense and their absence, as well as some intonations the day before, Steve assumed that Bucky’s parents had passed. He delicately let their ghosts lie in peace, and instead confirmed. “Sounds like a very wise thing to live by.”

“She was pretty wise. Can’t say I inherited that from her. Obviously.” Bucky blew out a long, staggering breath as his fingers pressed into a knot in his back, wincing a little at some hidden tenderness. “She also would’ve ripped me a new one by now for failing to say thank you. Thank you for this.” His fingers abandoned their massage to trace at the cotton shirt’s collar. “I’ll pay it forward one day. When I can.”

“You’re welcome,” Steve said, instead of observing how good Bucky looked in the clothes - because he’d undoubtedly pushed his luck far enough. “I’ll try not to give you palpitations next time.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, disbelieving. “‘Next time’ he says. How many outfit changes d’you think I’m going to need?”

With a shrug, Steve replied, “Birth is messy. Then babies are messy.”

“Babies are messy even before they’re born,” Bucky said with a scowl down at his belly. “Not that I resent my kid,” he clarified, as if suddenly aware of his own stormy expression. “Or don’t want it now. Just wasn’t planned, and it definitely made things messier. Or maybe it forced me to confront how much of a mess I was in. I don’t know. I do know that I should never have been in a relationship with my ex, certainly shouldn’t have been having a kid with him.”

Steve wanted to reach between them and take Bucky’s hand. To offer comfort. But he wasn’t fully convinced that Bucky needed it. There was so much strength in this man, even if he didn’t know it. There was pride within him too, even if he didn’t wear it like armour as others did.

“You got out,” Steve murmured.

“Yeah. I did.” Silver eyes found blue, and Steve was hooked by the gaze’s line all over again. “I might not have much of a life built for us yet. Not enough of one to turn down gifts like this,” his fingers gestured to his outfit. “But I will.”

They were so close to each other. If Bucky had leaned just an inch forwards, even half an inch, Steve could have kissed him.

The realisation that he wanted to arrived like the dawn. Clouds covered the sunrise’s glow when he remembered that he had no reason to think such an act would be welcome.

Unaware of the impulse Steve was stamping down, Bucky continued, “You talk about… that image you have in your head when you think about the future. I lost that when I was with him. There was just that dark present. And if I had the energy for hopin’, it was that the next day he’d be in a better mood. Not some grand, coupled up golden life. Just the same day done over, with a little less hurt. There wasn’t anything but that - until the baby.”

“Gave you something to fight for?” Steve guessed, because he understood that.

“Sure,” Bucky said in a tone which sounded more like ‘maybe’. “But also-” His fingers twisted over themselves. “I’ve never talked about this before. Haven’t put the words in order, y’know?”

Steve nodded, and gave him the space and silence to figure out what he meant. The rest of the world had fallen away.

“You know when you’re a kid? And you can be anything?” Bucky asked. “And then you make all these choices and you can never be a historian or an archaeologist because you didn’t do well enough in history at school. And then you can never be a doctor or a marketing executive or a pilot or all these things that take years of study, because you didn’t go to college or you didn’t take the right things when you were there. And suddenly you’re 33 and you’ve got all these sunk costs and all these options are closed to you… So okay, you can fix up a car so you can probably fix up a tractor. But you’re a mechanic now and you’re always going to be a mechanic of some kind. The furrow you’ve plowed is too narrow and too deep for you to jump into any other one. And the furrow I was in was pretty f*cking deep.” Bucky laughed softly at himself, but the sound was dark and wounded. “Then along comes this kid. And I know that if I have it while I’m in that furrow, that’s all it’s going to know. That trench.” And Bucky might not have meant to summon up the filth of France’s worst days, but Steve could understand the parallels. “It’s not gonna realise that there’s this whole landscape of fields that it can choose from. So I had to get out.”

“And you’ve not heard from him since?”

Victory gleamed silver. “Nope. Had to leave a lot behind to be sure of that. Friends, money he had control of, belongings. But that didn’t matter if I could leave him behind and get this kiddo safe. Packed a bag, jumped on a bus, and ran.”

In his awe at the strength that would have needed, all Steve could say was, “And now you’re free of him.”

At that, Bucky shied a little. He shook his head at the compliment, brushing it away. “Apparently not free enough if I’m gonna have a heart attack over some pyjamas turning - oh!” Surprise transformed Bucky’s expression. One of his hands rose up to the side of his belly and hovered there, as if afraid to touch. “I think I’m having a contraction.”

Steve was poised to ring for the midwife, hand already on the button. “You think?”

“Yeah, doesn’t feel like the Braxton-Hicks ones.” Bucky didn’t seem to know whether to look terrified or gleeful, but neither did he seem too pained. His gaze jumped to Steve’s hand and he shook his head. “It’s okay. Don’t bother them.”

And because Steve was desperate to feel what Bucky was, despite the fact he’d read an entire bookcase of pre- post- and perinatal literature, and despite the fact he knew he was torturing himself by doing so, he asked, “What’s it like?”

“Well,” Bucky took a moment to chew that over, as he contemplating what was happening inside him. “You know the Braxton-Hicks ones?”

“No.”

Several times, Bucky just blinked at him. Then realisation made him stare. “Oh my God. You haven’t had any. I bet you haven’t had any morning sickness either, have you? Five months straight of vomiting and you... Ya know what, lift your shirt up right now.”

Staggered by the sudden turn in conversation but reaching for the hem anyway, Steve asked, “What?”

Bucky flapped at Steve’s hands and almost overbalanced on the ball. Steve steadied the brunet as he said, “Fine, you don’t actually need to go all Magic Mike on me but - do you have a single stretch mark on that fine super body?”

“I guess, no.” Steve wasn’t sure he was meant to feel abashed about that.

“How’s the backache?”

“Not really been a problem, the serum kinda takes care of…”

“Pelvic girdle pain?”

“No.”

“Oh come on.” Bucky looked as if he’d only just managed to stop himself throwing his hands up again in despair. “I’ve had breakouts like you wouldn’t believe. I haven’t been able to wear my sneakers for weeks ‘cos my ankles are so swollen. I’ve learned first hand there’s such a thing as crotch lightning, and I bet you lost track of the number of times people said you were glowing. Look at your hair, look how thick it is. f*ck me. You’re gorgeous. Nevermind being a security threat, you shouldn’t be allowed on a ward full of people looking like beached whales when you look like that. That should be a crime."

It wasn’t just weight that Steve had gained over his pregnancy though. The extra blood his body was making to keep his child nourished seemed all to rush to his cheeks at once. He could feel them heating up in the wake of Bucky’s compliment. Quickly, trying to cover up for them, he replied, "I could make up some bizarre rare symptoms the serum's given me if it would make you feel better."

"Why would that make me feel better?" Bucky’s silver eyes were sparkling merrily with amusem*nt - so completely in contrast to the weariness they’d borne before.

"I could tell you the weirdest symptoms I’ve had from aliens and magic."

"Is this the competition we’re having now?"

"I don't know." Softly, Steve took a gamble. "I hadn't really heard anything you said since you called me gorgeous." The heart rate monitor was right at Steve's eyeline. He couldn't help but see the little flicker it gave when he called Bucky out on that.

"I'm sorry if that’s inappropriate."

Hurriedly, Steve assured, "It's not."

Bucky wasn’t shrinking away, wasn’t trying to retract his statement - but he was bowing his head and letting his hair fall like curtains over his eyes. Hiding just how stunning he was. “You must have people telling you that all the time.”

“Says he.” Somehow, as they’d been speaking, their legs had come to line up with each other. Sat on the bed, Steve was higher up, and his calves rested against Bucky’s knees, one on the outside, one on the inside. All tangled up. “Tell me if this isn’t okay and I’ll stop. I swear to you - just one word,” Steve whispered, as he slowly raised a hand to Bucky’s cheek. His fingers curved up the other man’s jawline, before coming to comb the dark tendrils of hair back. Bucky didn’t say a word, so Steve didn’t stop. Just smoothed over stubble-roughened cheeks and stroked over silken strands. “You’re beautiful. And if you don’t have people lining up round the block to tell you that, that’s a tragedy.”

The breath Bucky managed then splintered like broken glass. “You don’t have to-”

Steve insisted, “Thought it the very first moment I saw you.” Embarrassed, aware of how ridiculous he sounded, he ducked his head. “I know that was only yesterday.”

"Any other time, y'know?" And while Bucky hadn’t protested, Steve could read him well enough to know that after such an intense morning, some personal space was going to become important to him real fast. Just as carefully as he’d reached for Bucky’s cheek, he withdrew his fingers’ touch, though their legs remained pressed together.

"I kinda learned the hard way that there's no perfect time but now." The spectre of Peggy Carter hovered over the bed behind Bucky, her steely gaze and blood red lips a wordless reminder that not all love stories ended in a happily ever after. "But I understand that there might be one where you’ve less on your mind than today.”

For a very long time, Bucky just looked at Steve. Steve thought a second contraction might have come and gone as he went through an unfathomable calculation. Then, finally, the brunet said, "Gimme your phone."

Without questioning it, let alone considering the confidential content accessible there, Steve reached back and found his phone to surrender. When it was returned to him, it had Bucky's number stored within.

"There's something here, right? That's not just me," Bucky said, as he returned his hands to his knees. “This doesn’t feel like just some chat we’re doing here.”

Steve nodded his confirmation, unsure whether he was able to speak.

"So call me. Sometime next week. Whatever happens - you get shipped off to a secret underground bunker, I get chucked out to have my baby on the street because they realise I can't afford this bed anymore. Call me. We can get together for a playdate, or for a date date. Whatever we think works for us both when we're not like this." He made a gesture that encompassed his entire torso and indicated movement happening.

Not a little blown away by the act, Steve checked, "And for now?"

"For now, we do this. Exactly what we have been doing. We pass the time. We get to know each other, and maybe we help each other feel less alone. Turn this into a good day, right?"

-

The hard climb towards fatherhood had demanded more courage from Bucky than he’d previously known he was capable of. After the conversation with Steve, the most nerve-wracking of those memories were far too near the surface. Bucky had known that Brock wouldn't let him go easy, that walking out of the door wouldn't be the closing of a book but the start of a race. He'd known too that he was falling into the unknown with nothing more than his frantically flapping arms to act as parachute - with no resources, no family, no job, no home, and a child growing larger in his belly every day. Nevermind preeclampsia’s symptoms; his heart had been a frantic, fluttering thing for weeks - throughout the days leading up to his escape and so many of those following, on cross-country buses, in packed hostels and in dingy diners that would let him hide for hours because they were hardly fighting off the punters. It had taken weeks for him to settle, for the nausea to slip from his cheeks, and for a guarded hope to take its place.

Telling Steve Rogers to his face that he was gorgeous wasn’t quite as terrifying as all that, but it came close.

Bucky had never met a man whose presence he wanted to bask in like he did Steve. There had been just a handful of interactions between them, and Bucky hadn't wanted to leave a single one.

That morning, there’d been enough of a gap between the curtain dividing their beds and the wall that Bucky’s first sight upon waking was Steve Rogers, sat up in bed, cradling his abdomen as if it were the most precious thing in all the world. Of course, to him it undoubtedly was. But Bucky had tried to imagine how Steve would look when he finally got a real, solid baby in his hold instead of just his bump, and a number of receptors in Bucky’s brain simply gave up the attempt.

He had known he was observing a private moment, even as Steve rubbed tenderly at his stomach and whispered to the child within that this was the day. But Bucky had been captivated. With dawn's wash of orange light coming through the window, Steve had been haloed in holy fire, his skin doused in gold. The light peaked through bristles and hair that held just the slightest, most devastating tinge of grey at the edges. His broad hands moved over the crisp white sheets in such slow motion, they emanated care.

It should have felt like a contradiction. Anything that suggested a man was anything other than what he seemed ought to have sent Bucky flying to the hills. He'd experienced more than his share of a tough man who seemed to only melt for him, who swore that Bucky made him want to be good and better and home - but said one thing with his mouth and another with his fists. The man the world had known first as Captain America and now as Commander Rogers was a symbol of masculinity. He was a soldier: violence and strength and all-American pride. Every single one a trait that Brock had brimmed with and Bucky had run from.

But Bucky had known once what love felt like, and Steve overflowed with it for the creature inside him. The little murmurs Steve made to his child without even thinking, the way he'd sung softly under his breath to it the night before, the way he tried to give it comfort before it had even emerged into the world… All of it had to be real. There was no performance, no act like the one Brock had adopted when they were with others. Steve was at his softest and kindest when there was no one else around. He hadn’t even tried to claim credit for a lavish, expensive gift - after time to think, Bucky was sure that Steve never would have admitted to being the source of clothing if he hadn’t been forced. Why else had he just left it there for Bucky?

And Bucky had realised too that he'd seen Steve Rogers acting. How many press conferences and podiums had that man stood at with eyes of steel, a chin lifted in defiance of anything that wasn't right and just, his muscles’ hard lines defined by a sharp uniform. Trying to coax his daughter into the world, he was so tender, so open that it had to be the real Steve.

And Bucky wanted more of that. Staring undetected at the blond in his bed that morning, and now curled up with Steve's headphones in his ears - so f*cking freely given once again - seeking out a little more rest, the craving stirred. He wanted to see Steve bathed in the sunrise again, and the sunset too while he was at it. He wanted to bask in the glow of Steve's kindness. He wanted to see Steve light up with laughter and look carefree just for a moment, because of something Bucky had done. He wanted to see if he could earn a fraction of the adoration Steve had for his child for himself.

It was a ridiculous time to be falling for someone. It was far too fast. Bucky shouldn't even be thinking of something like romance, as the cramping low in his belly tried to remind him.

But he'd seen something in the way Steve looked at him - not the same as how he looked at his bump, not even in the same universe, but not unaffected either. So Bucky had taken his chance. Maybe the Google Gods had sent him to this birth centre for a reason.

He'd be the luckiest man alive if he left it with a baby safe and well in his arms and Steve Rogers' number in his phone.

Bucky got as comfortable as he could in the raised hospital bed, and imagined waking to that golden god of a man every morning. At the very least, he could fall asleep dreaming of it, pushing harsher memories’ echo far away.

-

Bucky was starting to hurt. Steve could hear it.

In silent agreement, they'd left the curtain between their beds open, and Bucky tucked in his with his back to Steve. The covers were pulled up almost to his ears. His long brown hair splayed out across the pillow.

Steve's enhanced hearing had picked up on the moment Bucky's breath dropped and he began to sleep. Not ten minutes later, a muted grunt distracted Steve from his book. Bucky shifted around where he lay, clearly trying to find out of a position which didn’t hurt, though he slept throughout the movement. Seven minutes later, the same thing happened. Seven minutes after that, Bucky's discomfort carried him over and onto his back and onto the side facing Steve. There was a deep crease between Bucky's eyebrows, and when the next contraction came, it darkened further with his unconscious scowl.

One of the skills Steve had forced himself to develop over the years was the ability to file away the sounds of people's pain. He'd have lost his head long ago if he hadn't been able to, drowned by the screams in the trenches or the yells of frightened citizens caught up in the scenes of destruction that he frequented. Sometimes those sounds were helpful: a signal of where to run to or what pile of rubble to dig through for survivors. But most of the time, they were a distraction. He was the Commander of elite teams of first responders, who were summoned more often than not to prevent more people from starting to bleed than staunching the wounds of those who already were doing so. It was his job to make it safe for paramedics to pour in, to force danger away from the injured rather than to run towards them. That wasn't to say he wasn't regularly up to his elbows trying to stop the spill of blood or innards, or that he'd never been called upon to keep a man breathing or a woman held down to prevent further injury. But if he allowed himself to be distracted by every passing casualty, there would have been far more of them on his hands.

It was the same at the Rose Crest. If he listened, he could hear… twelve people actively labouring. One, four rooms down, was moments away from being able to hold her child in her arms, if the pitch of her cries was anything to go by.

Packing all that away was simply survival.

With Bucky though… Hearing him hurting challenged Steve's ability, in the same way that it did when one of his team hurt. It tugged at something innate and knotted which demanded that he comfort the man. Ease that pain. Make it simpler to bear.

At the same time, every cry he had to filter out, whether it was from Bucky or a stranger, sparked a tinge of jealousy. He needed his body to start doing what theirs were. Pain was a strange thing to look forward to, or indeed to be willing to do almost anything to trigger, but there was little he wanted more than his uterus to start contracting.

It had come on so fast for Bucky. His contractions had begun less than an hour after Khyati had hooked him up to labour-inducing drugs, while Steve hadn’t even felt a single ache. And Steve couldn't help but be a bit envious of that. Sure, such a thought was unworthy, but dread crawled through him when he envisioned Dr Chung's next visit, and whether he would send Steve off to the compound. Just one little cramp would keep Steve in the Rose Crest, wouldn't it?

Bucky was in the midst of something more than a little cramp if his whine of protest was anything to go by. He'd been struggling through over two hours of sleep when he startled awake with a groan of 'oh Goddd,' mid-contraction.

Steve placed down his book as the other man struggled upright, folding over his belly.

"Urgh. Oohh, this isn't any fun Steve, God damn it," Bucky grumbled through the pain.

"Ya know, I heard that about giving birth. Thought it was another one of our old wives’ tales but…"

“f*ck you," Bucky shot back. He seemed to realise what he'd said, suddenly alarmed, but Steve was laughing when the brunet looked his way. He really was going to have a sweary child.

When Bucky sagged back against his pillows, he looked mussed, still half asleep. Steve experienced a little frisson of smugness at how bundled up he looked in the pyjamas he'd bought. Wearily, Bucky scrubbed at his eyes. "How long was I out?"

Steve didn't need to check his watch. "Two hours, fourteen minutes. Your contractions have been averaging around forty seconds in length, occurring in approximately seven minute intervals."

Bucky blinked at him. "You store all that in your brain box there?"

"Well. I told Heather too when she came by to check on you."

"Neat party trick." After a moment, Bucky looked up with an eyebrow raised. "You been watching me sleep?"

Caught out as he was, Steve still couldn't lie. "Just keep an eye out for you."

Maybe another man would have been rightfully freaked out, but Bucky wasn't another man. Bucky's silver eyes widened and he muttered a swift 'oh'. Pink-cheeked with sleep and embarrassment, he instead looked a little bit pleased. "How 'bout you? Any progress?"

"None."

"I'm sorry," Bucky said like he meant it. "Can I distract you?”

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

There was no way that Bucky was meant to be enjoying childbirth this much.

Sure, the contractions were uncomfortable and Bucky wasn't sure it was fair that they were starting up so frequently and hitting him so hard from the get go. No matter how often Heather explained that was a consequence of the oxytocin they were dosing him with, Bucky still felt like he had a right to at least a few grumbles about it.

But apart from those moments of discomfort, Bucky found himself smiling more in his few hours at the side of Steve’s hospital bed than he had in months in his dingy bedsit. Maybe smiling more than he had in years. His cheeks felt stretched with those grins and his heart felt downright giddy.

He’d built thick walls of stone up around that heart. Made sure of their strength, re-pointed the mortar regularly, because the last time he’d let someone in, they’d shredded pieces from him every, single day. And each time he’d let Brock get a peek at something Bucky cared about, at best it would be taken away. He didn’t want to think about what happened when Brock did his worst, because someone beautiful and sincere was dedicating himself to making Bucky laugh.

Steve had dismantled those walls without Bucky realising. Whether they were made of something ineffective against super-serumed individuals, or whether Steve had just hopped right over them, Bucky didn’t know. But he suspected that it had something more to do with the way that Steve shared himself and his belongings so easily. Like he’d just give in an instant if he thought that it would make Bucky - a stranger - happier, because he’d decided that was the right thing to do. The instincts that Brock had to take and to crush - those weren’t Steve’s. And Bucky… Bucky was just figuring out what his instincts were now that they weren’t hide and brace, but maybe, if he worked for it, his could be a little like Steve’s. Because this moment in time gave Bucky the chance to give Steve something back. Distraction. Initially in the form of Monopoly, played out on Steve’s StarkPad with Heather, then Ludo with Khyati while she was on break.

“Last time I played sh*t like this, I was eight. Maybe younger,” Bucky said, flipping through Steve’s games folder, trying to decide between Scrabble and Guess Who. “This is pre-GameBoy-era Bucky entertainment.”

“GameBoy. Is that… a superhero who didn’t make the cut?” Steve asked. His voice strained where he was trying to stretch out a kink from his back and putting an impossible number of corded muscles in his neck on show in the process.

An explanation was on the tip of Bucky’s tongue, but he caught the words just before they spilled over - when he noticed a very slight glimmer of wickedness in Steve’s expression. Bucky screwed up his eyes in exaggerated scrutiny. “You know exactly what a GameBoy is ‘n you’re just yanking my chain, aren’t you?”

“So. Not a comic book character?”

“ You’re a comic book character,” Bucky shot back, apparently having regressed to the ‘Yo Mama’ stage.

“A comic book character who has done at least some level of revising in the decade since he was revived. Though - not enough that he’d enjoy Trivial Pursuit, thank you.” As Steve looked put out at the idea, Bucky kept scrolling and made a mental note that Steve had some sort of trauma related to trivia games. From what little Steve had said about his teammates, Bucky suspected Clint Barton’s involvement.

Eventually, after a heated debate over the rules of Go Fish, Bucky decided to introduce Steve to his own generation's digital games. That led to Bucky almost cracking a rib cackling at Steve when the blond lost his mind over Among Us; being summarily trounced at Heads Up in apparent revenge; and staging a sit in protest at Steve’s unapologetically brutal approach to Exploding Kittens.

Bucky laughed harder than he had in years. The laughter just kept bubbling up over him again and again. Somehow, Steve had unlocked that in him too.

"f*ckin' hell, that was the weirdest sensation," Bucky declared as he tried to recover from simultaneously giggling and hiccuping at the same time as his stomach contracted. "What're you doing to me?"

One of the best things about Bucky laughing was that Steve laughed right back. His bright eyes creased with humour. He was unreasonably stunning in his amusem*nt. "Your face," Steve chuckled. "Lord above. Where d'you even find games like this?"

"This is internet culture Steve,” Bucky replied, even as he tried to rub the indigestion he’d given himself from his chest. “This is what your kid's gonna be growing up with. You have to get on this stuff or before you know it your sweet baba’ll be making judgey TikToks about your wardrobe choices and going viral sledding on your shield."

"Mother Mary save us," Steve sighed, and slumped into his pillows. "Surely I can pay for someone to know about that kind of stuff for me?" He blinked several times, suddenly horrified at himself. "Nope. I sound like Tony. Take me out back and shoot me now."

"Maybe after the kiddo’s here huh?"

Instantly, Bucky knew he’d said something wrong. A worried spasm crossed Steve's face, though he tried to suppress it. It was a familiar friend. Every time Steve was forced to recall that he was in the Rose Crest for a purpose other than a games day with Bucky, there was the joy leeching away and his forehead pinching. Bucky’s eyes flittered down to the cannula in Steve’s arm. The afternoon was wearing on, the oxytocin was in Steve’s veins just as it was in Bucky's, but while Bucky was interrupting their conversation regularly to concentrate on the growing aches in his belly, Steve had yet to feel a thing.

It was evidently upsetting him. Enough for him to let it show - because maybe, in their soft, sunlit corner of the medical centre, Steve had lowered his own guards too, somehow and somewhere along the way.

The intensity with which Bucky hated the idea of anything upsetting this man he hardly knew took him by surprise. Though Bucky knew that he was staring, he had to sit there and examine that thought for a while. Check that this wasn’t the shrinking part of himself that ordered him to appease men stronger than him. But no, this wasn’t a fear response. No one vividly imagined smoothing away frownlines with their thumbs out of fear. As that wasn’t a socially acceptable thing to do to a man you’d only known for a day, and Bucky didn't have a secret stash of carefully curated snacks or orthopaedic slippers to distribute, all Bucky could fall back on were his distractions.

"Hey, there's this game where…" Even as Bucky spoke, Steve nodded along, but Bucky could see the lack of light in his eyes. "Or if you want some space, a nap-" Once again, Bucky stopped himself because he simply knew that Steve was going to think Bucky wanted a break from him, and agree for the wrong reasons. Bucky breathed twice, got himself together, and finally settled on, "You've got Netflix right? Want to put something on?"

Maybe Bucky was getting to know this man, because after offerings too sweet and too salty, he'd clearly found the one that was just right.

"Yeah. Okay," Steve sighed, visibly tucking away his distress. He pressed his hands down into the mattress and shuffled to the side. Making room as well as a man his size could. "You wanna-"

"Sure." The bed was a tight squeeze for two broad, heavily pregnant men, but once they’d put down the plastic sides and Bucky found himself pressed up against Steve, he realised that he didn't mind one bit. The other man was a furnace, and Bucky was helpless to do anything but curl into that comforting flame.

Maybe Steve had melted the walls around Bucky’s heart, if he hadn’t jumped over them after all.

Khyati popped her head into their cubicle as Bucky was browsing Steve's Netflix for a movie with nothing to do with war, children, aliens or relationship drama.

"Do you have some objection to your own bed Mr Barnes? I'm not sure I've seen you in it since I came on shift."

"Just - passing the time. Y'know."

"I see," she commented with an edge of scepticism that made Bucky feel like an unruly school child.

But Steve intervened, saying, casual as you like, "My security team would be here in less than 30 seconds if he was really bothering me."

"You kinda like showing that off now that I know about it, don't you?" Bucky returned to his screen with a roll of his eyes. Stark's PR team must be worth their pay cheques given how well they’d hidden that Steve could be a bit of a sh*t when he wanted to be.

Khyati continued, "Be that as it may… If you could bear to return to your own cubicle, I do need to talk to Commander Rogers. As this is a medical facility and not a hotel."

Bucky tried not to grimace, because he’d just found an angle for his back against the pillows that was comfortable, and that was ridiculously difficult to do these days. But he huffed a “Sure,” and began to prepare himself to go through the lengthy multi-stage process of standing up. Before he could even swing his legs to the side, Steve's hand caught at his shoulder and halted his movement.

"Hang on. You need to examine me?" Steve asked Khyati.

"Not presently."

"Then why -"

Pain had swelled rapidly in Bucky's belly, so swiftly that it had him seizing up and gripping onto the nearest surface for purchase just to get through it - apparently hard enough to break off Steve’s conversation, as Steve was the nearest surface. The contractions came on with so little warning, and weren’t quite regular enough for him to anticipate them, and as the day wore on it was becoming harder and harder to do anything but wait for the cramping to end when it took over.

Bucky was perfectly conscious. He could feel that it was Steve's arm he'd grabbed, firm and strong. He could hear Steve’s low, patient voice telling him he was alright, could feel Khyati’s hand on his shoulder assuring him that he wasn’t alone.

The pain rose in an arch and Bucky knew that he was groaning quietly, that he had to be disturbing people but -

"It's okay Bucky, you can let it out," Khyati promised.

"This is already bullsh*t," Bucky grunted, maybe a little bit because he knew it would make Steve laugh at him, and that was Bucky’s job today. "Oh hell."

Beneath Bucky’s palm, muscles flexed, hairs rasped, and as he waited for the aching to peak, Bucky found his hand slid down to be engulfed in one of Steve’s. Blue eyes sought out Bucky’s own, clearly checking for consent. They smiled when they found it, because of course Bucky wanted someone to hold his hand, it was normal and fine to want that human contact when there was hurt. Totally normal, friendly hand-holding with a man he’d just met and also had an itsy-bitsy crush on. The dull ache sharpened for an instant that made Bucky hiss, and he knew he squeezed Steve’s fingers tighter, and as it faded, Bucky maybe clung on a moment longer than he needed to, but who would even know that?

"Better?" Khyati checked.

"Mhmm.” Bucky wilted back against the pillows, trying and failing to find the spot he’d been comfortable in. Steve shifted to give him room, but it backfired when it brought their stomachs bumping together. Through the awkwardness, Bucky tried to redirect attention with, “Sorry, Khyati. You wanted something from Steve."

Perhaps Steve understood that as the prompt it was, because he took over as Bucky squirmed. "Yeah - I was saying it's okay. I don't mind having Bucky here. It's not like he can't hear everything on the other side of the curtain anyway. And before you ask - no, I've not been having any of what he's having."

Even with his eyes closed, Bucky could feel Steve's unhappiness in that statement. It rolled off him where their arms were in contact. It made his tone defensive, where mostly he'd been comforting or humour-filled.

"Hmm. I'll talk to Dr Chung about upping the oxytocin. But I suspect that is going to be the last time. You’re already getting the maximum dose. If we don't see any action by the end of the day, we'll have to talk about transferring you."

In the face of bad news, Steve replied entirely reasonably. “I know. You've tried everything you can. Sorry for being such a bother."

Bucky knew that if he opened his eyes then, Steve would be wearing that familiar, heart-breaking furrow on his forehead again.

When Khyati departed a few minutes later, Bucky discarded the StarkPad and turned himself as much as he could towards the blond. "You okay?"

Grim-faced, Steve lied with a nod.

If he couldn’t make it stop appearing, Bucky at least wanted to understand the reasoning for that furrow.

"Is it… more than the anaesthetic?” Bucky asked. “I don't wanna pry, and you can tell me to f*ck off if that’s what I’m doing. It's just a hunch but - you kinda strike me as a guy who'd go in for a c-section on a couple of aspirin if the epidural wasn't working, if that's what was best for your baby."

Steve sighed. His head hung, and Bucky knew that he was staring unseeing at the rounded globe of his stomach, where it extended out into his lap. "I guess… It's a couple'a things,” Steve admitted at last. “I don't much like the idea of having my abdominal muscles severed during her first few days. I heal quick enough but it makes her vulnerable if I can't throw a punch right, particularly with my team off world. And…” Steve hesitated before making a clear decision to confess. “I spent a long time with my body not doing what I wanted it to do. Then over a decade with it being a tool for other men's uses. I guess it's a stupid hangup, but I had the idea of what I wanted to do in my head. I wanted to do this naturally - that was the choice I wanted to make on this. That's all." Evidently miserable, Steve said, "Sorry. I don't know why I'm telling you all this."

Gently, Bucky suggested, "Maybe cos you need someone to talk to. Just like I needed underwear and PJs."

"Yeah. Maybe." Steve rallied himself and gestured to the Stark Pad. "C'mon. What're we watching?"

-

Though Bucky began their movie-watching relaxed enough, leaning infinitesimally towards Steve in such a way to make the blond ever-so-secretly pleased - as the afternoon passed, he began to grow still.

Restlessness Steve would have understood. It would make perfect sense that the younger man, hurting or uncomfortable, would try to writhe away from that hurt and discomfort. But instead, Bucky was still.

Too still. And not asleep. So keeping himself that way, perhaps? Forcing himself to breathe easily? Holding tension in his limbs so he wouldn’t squirm?

Trying, deliberately, to tamp down pain or unhappiness?

And if that stillness was deliberate, was Bucky trying to pretend that everything was fine? If so, was that to fake as much normalcy as he could gather, as if the pair of them were curled up on a sofa together somewhere that didn’t smell like disinfectant or echo with occasional moans? Was it simply that he was trying not to disturb others on the ward? Or was this - could it possibly be - that Bucky had heard Steve’s angst over his failing induction and responded by playing down the onset of his own birth in order to make Steve feel less bad about his lack?

The notion that Bucky might be trying to protect Steve called to something small and coiled in Steve’s chest.

But Steve didn't know the other man well enough to be able to guess with certainty. There was at least the chance that, maybe, one day he would. For the moment, it was enough for Steve to know that Bucky was hurting and trying to pretend that he wasn’t.

In silence, Steve looked to the hand Bucky’d left closest to his own. It was contorted into a stiff claw against the brunet’s stomach.

Reaching out to hold that hand again would be easy. Steve wanted to. Bucky seemed to have welcomed it before. Really, there were very few arguments against it. Except that it would expose Bucky’s deception, which would rob him of a choice. Even if that choice was a misguided one.

Steve had a feeling that Bucky had too many choices taken from him already.

He was pondering that, trying to decide on the right strategy, when a soft sound of pain cracked out of Bucky's throat, clearly against his will. It was followed by a whispered apology for interrupting the movie that neither of them were watching.

"You can let it," Steve promised, even as Bucky went rigid in his fight for control. “You’re fine.”

"Yeah. Fine."

That was another lie. Bucky was holding himself so tightly that he trembled.

"You cold?" Steve couldn't help but turn to Bucky then, just in time to see a pink tongue dart out and wet his lips.

"No." There was a long pause, and nothing followed.

Very deliberately, very slowly, Steve turned back towards the movie and gave the other man his space.

Still, he couldn’t help but watch that hand.

Maybe it was hormones. Maybe it was weariness. Maybe it was just the craving for skin against skin after too long without - all the worse for the reminder of how much he missed it, sparked by the few seconds he’d had. Or maybe it was this man and the magnetic pull which Steve could feel binding them together.

But he'd already taken liberties.

"I don't know if I can do this," Bucky admitted, a full eight minutes and two on-screen dance sequences later.

"The next couple’a hours or," the next few months, years, decades, stop freaking him out Steve, "What comes afterwards?" When there was no reaction, Steve gently added, “I promise, you don’t have to pretend with me. Chief Scout’s honour.”

Bucky kept his eyes fixed on the screen, as if only without eye contact were they able to speak. "Both. Mostly -” He shuddered then, somehow coming back to life. “I've got nothing to offer this kid of mine. I've got no job, no prospects, no money. My ex’s got control of the money my folks left me, can’t get references without exposing where I am…"

Slow, trying very hard not to slip into override mode and solve Bucky’s problems because he’d made clear that wasn’t welcome already, Steve asked, "Is that the stuff that matters most to you?"

"Oh sure.” Bucky snorted derisively. “When you're a millionaire and you've got stock options and you can order luxury paternity clothes by drone, it doesn't matter so much." The hand Steve had been staring at clenched into a fist, and Steve knew there was regret there, even before Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that,” in such a small voice that Steve’s heart hurt.

Carefully, making sure that Bucky could track every movement from the sounds he made, Steve reached for the StarkPad and placed it on the chair at his side. Then he shifted away and onto his side as much as he could, trying to show Bucky that he was there to listen. That he knew this mattered.

He took his time to decide what to ask, and eventually settled on, "What's your first memory of?"

"Why are you asking me that?”

"You don’t have to answer if you don’t want. But I promise it's relevant."

Bucky tipped his head back to think. His neck cricked audibly, and his hair rustled with the movement. "Illinois,” he said after a moment’s contemplation. “My Pop-pop’s cottage - middle of nowhere, but it had this big pond outside. He fed the geese through these sliding doors. I... might have let the geese into the house when I went to give them breakfast on Christmas Day. Chaos. Presents everywhere, breakfast on the floor. They made off with my sister’s new doll and my Nan’s pipe before the end. Boy did my Mom scream."

Nostalgia coaxed Bucky into softness, away from the hard lines of before, so Steve persisted, "What about when you were six? Seven? First thing that comes into your head."

"New school. We moved across the country - Dad's job. I was behind in maths. He'd come home exhausted and still help me out with every piece of homework." Bucky made it through without a wobble, but it was a close-run thing, and Steve knew he had to watch his words, aware that he risked grazing something already raw.

"Eleven or twelve? Last one, promise."

"Puppet shows.” The answer came immediately. “Becca, my twin, went through this phase. Obsessed with puppets. Made us act out every broadway show we had the soundtrack for. Our entirely spoon-based rendition of CATS was legendary in the Barnes fam. What's this about?"

"Three outta three, those memories are all about people. It’s not about toys or things. Not even vacations - the stuff money can buy. Well. Spoon puppet people aside. I'm not being dismissive,” Steve was at pains to insist. “If you're hungry as a kid, you always remember how that felt. But your baby’s got the thing that's more important than anything else, the thing they'll remember more than anything else. Someone who loves them."

"I don't know if it does."

Blinking in surprise, Steve said, "I don't understand."

Hollow-voiced and avoiding eye contact entirely, Bucky said, "You won't want anything to do with me if I tell you this."

"Try me."

Bucky shifted in such a way that no parts of their bodies were touching. No casual arm against arm, no easy knocking of the knees. He was at such pains to avoid contact that half his body must have been over the floor rather than the bed when he whispered, "I don't love this baby. Not like you already love yours. It's just this thing growing inside me. A responsibility. I know how terrible that sounds but I look at the scans and it's just this thing on a TV screen, and I feel it move around inside me and it's just strange."

"Okay."

"Okay?" Bucky's disbelief was thrown out the window as another contraction hit. For a few seconds, he tried to maintain eye contact with Steve and to pretend the conversation could continue. But then the pain escalated sharply, and silver eyes pressed closed against the hurt.

Steve didn't think this was the moment to remind Bucky to breathe or to comfort him. It was the moment to wait until Bucky's shoulders were relaxing out of their brace and his facial scrunch was fading, when Steve could pick back up where they left off as if nothing had happened. Because he’d become very familiar with self-destructive behaviour in his time, and this was a textbook case. "Yeah, it's okay not to love your baby just yet. Look, I'm not an expert Buck. But of course it's hard to love something that can't show you that it loves you back. Love ain't always at first sight. And you've not even had that yet. Sometimes you have to learn to love something, or it creeps up on you and someday you realise you've always loved it, you just didn't know it yourself. Why would a child be any different?"

With a harshness clearly aimed at himself, Bucky snapped, "Because it's meant to be. What kind of parent doesn't love their child?"

"A new parent who hasn't had a chance yet.” Steve didn’t want to argue with the man, but he didn’t want Bucky dwelling on something so wrong either. He wished desperately that he knew more of this man going in, so he knew how far it was safe to push. “Maybe because they've been afraid of something going wrong, and they’re guarding their heart. Maybe because there's been so much going with them, they haven't had a chance to get to know their child. Maybe because that's just not how it's worked out yet."

"I really want to love it,” Bucky confessed, as if it broke him more to say that than the idea that he didn’t yet.

"Of course you do. In just a few hours, it might well be easier. When you meet him or her."

"A few hours," Bucky sighed.

Suspecting there was a limit and that Bucky had reached it, Steve smoothly said, "You know your contractions’re gettin’ closer together, don't you?"

"Yeah. I'm… it’s not comfortable."

"C'mon then pal. Doing yourself no good pretending to be a statue. Let’s get you moving."

Even as Bucky got to his feet, his fingers were at his shirt and he was rapidly unbuttoning. He dumped the fabric on his own bed, which left himself in a cream-coloured tank and with miles upon miles of arms and collarbones on show. Steve couldn’t help but soak up the vision, his eyes catching on lean musculature, the veins which had attracted him before, and the somehow-masculine-looking floral tattoos. But as Bucky lowered himself back down to the exercise ball, Steve caught sight of waxy pink lines on the underside of his left arm. As it stretched out to give Bucky balance, Steve had to suppress a wince at the thought of that sensitive skin exposed to harsh flame. He’d been close enough to fire that it was all too easy to imagine.

“Hot,” Bucky grumbled as he rocked his pelvis, trying to find a position that worked for him on the ball.

With his mind wrapped up in thoughts of flame plus thoughts of Bucky’s appearance, it took Steve a hot second to realise that Bucky meant the actual temperature.

“Frozen grapes?”

“Excuse you?”

Human words Steve, come on. “I’ve got some. In the cooler. Or one of those little hand-held fans.”

But Bucky shook his head. “I’m okay.”

“Water mister?”

“‘M not a plant.” There was no strength in the protest. A smile tempted the edge of Bucky’s lips instead, which had been Steve’s intention. As it faded, Bucky closed his eyes, as if trying to find some inner peace, even as he bounced gently, his palms spread against his parted knees. Perhaps trying to convince himself, he repeated, “I’m okay.”

There was no hiding that Steve was watching Bucky now. There was no veneer of shared activity between them - no two player game as an excuse to linger, no screen to draw their bodies together over. This was Bucky choosing to sit near Steve as he laboured. Conscious of how Bucky had hidden his hurt, and how he’d clearly been dwelling on the parts of himself he thought were the worst, Steve murmured, “It’s okay if you’re not.”

“And it’s okay if you’re not okay with me being around you,” Bucky shot back, without a blink or a pause. “I don’t want you sitting round here resenting me.”

“I’ll tell you if I’m not okay, you tell me if you’re not?” Steve offered.

“Deal.” Bucky held out his hand and Steve took it in his own. Steve realised he’d been tricked when Bucky made no effort to shake or let go. It made Steve laugh, low and rolling. If this was Bucky giving permission to comfort him, maybe even asking for Steve to comfort him, Steve was damn sure he was going to take him up on that.

He’d stay like that for as long as Bucky wanted him there.

Maybe that was Steve being selfish.

-

“D’you think we should worry about them?”

“Heth, I have the capacity to worry about excessive bleeding, umbilical cords, and the woman in room 14 who sounds like a horse. I do not have the capacity to worry about two blokes holding hands.”

“Alright, I wasn’t being hom*ophobic. Calm down. Just. Thinking ahead to the headlines when Commander Rogers sues us for letting some stranger harass him.”

“Does that man look harassed to you? He looks like he’s not concentrating on the transport incoming to ship him off to a military compound to have a caesarean he doesn’t want. Which is what I’d prescribe him too if I could.”

“Takes work off our hands too, if they’re keeping each other company.”

“I think they’re kinda cute.”

“Well, obviously-”

“I mean as a couple.”

A pause.

“Y’know… Now that you’ve said it…”

“Shame they’re both already pregnant. They’d make very cute babies together.”

“$5 they swap numbers before we discharge them.”

“I think they already have. $10 they kiss before we discharge them.”

“$20 one of them makes the other cry.”

“$50 Barnes makes ‘Steve’ his kid’s middle name.”

“What are you smirking at?” Bucky asked.

“Nothing,” Steve lied, shaking himself out of the midwives’ conversation.

“Sure. You’ll share your cute polkadot compression socks, but not the joke?”

“I’m not sharing socks with you Buck, I bought you new ones.”

“Great, now you’re deflecting and I have to assume that you’re laughing at me.” Not so surreptitiously, Bucky tried to scan himself for where he might have spilled something on his clothing or had another unfortunate leakage incident. “And I can’t even see half my body.”

To appease him, Steve said, “Just overheard something. This place has some of the strangest conversations.”

“You’re telling me,” Bucky replied, his voice going tight as pain clearly crept up on him again. Over the hours that they’d shared together, the gradual escalation in labour’s rhythm and intensity had been plain. But Bucky was coping and Steve… Steve had figured out well enough that Bucky had been trying to distract him with his games, but keeping Bucky company simply with talk and with encouragement was distraction enough for him. If he couldn’t do anything to hurry his own daughter along - and all he’d experienced so far was a dull pressure along the base of his spine and a few easily discounted twinges - at least he could be of service to the other man.

“S’it your back?” Steve asked. Bucky’s hands were pressing in hard against the small of his back as he swayed on the ball. They’d been shifting there again and again whenever the contractions thudded through. It left Steve with little to do but make encouraging sounds as Bucky hurt.

“Yeah. Didn’t think it would be but… sh*t, this is a rough one.” Bucky blew out a shuddering breath, and he seemed to lose the thread of their conversation. But when Steve got up off the bed in front of him, he looked up in alarm.

Immediately, Steve soothed the instinctive reaction. “Not going anywhere. Just want to try something.” There was a small bottle of massage oil in his holdall, and if Steve was going to be shipped off to the Compound, there was no reason not to use it to help Bucky.

-

These were going to be the last few moments that Bucky spent with Steve Rogers. He knew that. He'd made 3cm dilated already so Heather and Khyati were off making up a delivery suite for him, and the superhero might have been kind about letting Bucky put his number in his phone, but he'd been kind about everything. Bucky wasn't stupid enough to think that he'd actually call.

But if these had to be the final moments together, Bucky knew just how lucky he was that he was spending them like this. He didn't even mind the pain, because those strong, long-fingered hands which spent most of their time protecting Steve's bump were against Bucky's back instead. As Bucky bounced persistently on the exercise ball, his head pressed into his mattress and a contraction gripping his belly, Steve's hands stroked surely up and down beneath the cotton of the tank top he'd bought.

It had been so long since someone had touched Bucky like this. Doctors and midwives had poked and examined him. The odd inappropriate neighbour had tried to feel his baby kick. Acquaintances had shaken his hand or clapped his back, but there'd been few of those since he fled Brock. And when he had been there… contact was more likely to arrive in the form of a punch or a kick than anything like this.

Steve was touching him to comfort. To ease pain rather than to cause it. Steve was touching him as if he cared about Bucky.

It was enough to make Bucky want to weep.

He didn’t deserve this. Not when he was winding up to be a cold-hearted parent who couldn’t love the easiest thing in the world to love. Not when he had so little to offer his child. He certainly didn’t deserve Steve’s careful efforts to soothe the fears he held, so it was ludicrous to think that he could deserve broad fingertips working miracles on his twisted spine.

When Steve's low voice asked, "You gettin' some relief?" Bucky almost laughed.

"You're so good at that," he confessed instead. Some of his mumbles were lost in the sheets.

"I've never let them put that in the comics either."

Steve had to know that the contraction was over. The tension had unwound from Bucky's sides, his breath evened out - if he could hear Bucky's heartbeat when he panicked, he had to know. But his palms still rubbed away at the simmering ache in Bucky's back, slow circles over strained ligaments and the ridges of spine and ribs. Skin against skin, pressure not yet ending, warmth not being stolen away. He’d been there for longer minutes than Bucky could count, and his touch had lingered throughout.

For one tiny break in time, Bucky let himself imagine how different it might have been, were he giving birth to his baby with a husband who cared for him at his side. In that dream, his husband leaned forwards to brush a light kiss against the back of his head. Drew him back into a firm chest and a warm embrace, steadying and cradling him. And if the husband in this dream was blond and blue eyed and sounded and smelled like Steve, only Bucky was going to know that.

If this pregnancy had started with a poor decision, at least it was ending with a few good ones.

He could stay like this forever with the heels of Steve's hands kneading into what used to be Bucky's waist, and Bucky melting a little more with each stroke, even as the tension wound up in his belly.

Evening was approaching when Steve’s body turned out to have different ideas. The blond’s hands disappeared, jerked away as Steve let out a surprised "oh!"

Bucky pushed himself out of his comfortable wallow, turned, and knew at once what was happening.

"You're-"

"Yeah!" Steve breathed. His head jerked up from its astonished contemplation of his stomach so he could look at Bucky. "Just the one but-"

"The first. That’s definitely a contraction. I think-"

Before Steve could doubt himself, Bucky turned more fully on the exercise ball. He took Steve's hands between his own without even thinking about it. "I'm so pleased for you Steve."

"Thanks Buck."

There was none of the doubt and worry which plagued Bucky clouding Steve’s face. He glowed with exhilaration. He was so excited to be the excellent Dad he was undoubtedly going to be. It felt like sitting next to the sun. It felt like a privilege to be even on the edge of Steve’s happiness.

The pain had released Steve, Bucky was between contractions, and there was no excuse for it. Bucky reached between them to take both of Steve’s hands in his own all the same.

“Hey. Your baby’s coming.”

Steve grinned brightly and squeezed Bucky’s hands right back. They’d been made somehow warmer by the movements up and down Bucky’s back, and the oil lingered damp on the skin of his palms, and Bucky could have held on to those sweet-smelling furnaces for the rest of the day.

Of course, it was then that Heather popped up to announce, “We’re ready to transfer you Mr Barnes. Can I help you with your belongings?”

“It’s just a rucksack and that box,” Bucky demurred, suddenly, irrationally wishing that Steve had bought him more so he could linger just a moment longer. Because he’d told Steve he felt something between them, and nevermore-so than in that moment of breaking, where the rope hooked into his chest thickened and braced, fighting separation. A goodbye threatening to hurt before a word had even been said.

Steve didn't let go of Bucky's hands. Instead, he stood with them grasped tight, and used them to help Bucky to his feet. The brightness which had sprung up in the wake of his contraction had dimmed, and Bucky couldn’t bear to see that.

Once more, Bucky summoned up all his daring and indulged the whims of the feeling in his chest one more time. He crossed the distance between them as best he could, leaned up and pressed a kiss to Steve's cheek. Just a brief, fleeting thing. Not significant enough a thank you to encompass everything Steve had done for him. Not a promise, because Bucky wasn’t sure what there was that he could vow. He didn’t want it to be a goodbye, but he had no idea if Steve would make use of that number on his phone, so it was at least a farewell. "This was a good day. Better than I’d ever have imagined it.”

Those strong hands gave Bucky’s own one last squeeze and let go. The man who had known exactly what to say when Bucky worried seemed lost for words. In the end, all that emerged was, “Best of luck.”

"You too," Bucky responded on automatic. It wasn’t enough. How could that be what they ended with when Bucky’s chest was sloshing with more intense feelings than he knew the names for, when Steve was looking at him with eyes blue enough to drown in and clearly suffocating in his own inability to express what allay being their waves?

But Heather had taken over. Her hand was at Bucky’s elbow, guiding him towards his bed. As she did so, Bucky was vaguely aware of Khyati leaning over to her with her palm out, and Heather scowling “That didn’t count.” It only added to Bucky’s confusion, as he was led away from Steve.

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

Bucky felt as if he'd been standing at the end of his bed for hours. Maybe he had been. The only things he knew for sure were the repetitive clenches of hurt deep in his belly and wound around his sides, and the ever-shortening breaks in between them where he could try to get his breath back, suck up the sips of ice water Heather passed him, and stave off the nausea which accompanied the pain.

A very, very long time ago - that lunchtime - Steve had rolled out another snack buffet for them. At the time, it had been a perfect accompaniment to their easy games. Bucky kind of hated him for it now.

"Nudge your legs just a little wider apart there," Heather encouraged him. "It'll help your back."

Shuffling his slippered feet as instructed, Bucky didn't know if he could bring himself to fathom the logic. He just knew that his life was fractionally easier if he did what Heather told him to.

The midwife had been almost a constant presence since they moved him into the delivery suite, and her kindness wasn’t the same as Steve’s. It was like a Mom’s. There was no hesitance in her movements, no moments of sincere complexity, no layers of thought and caution over each tentative step forward, no meaning where there didn’t need to be meaning. If Heather thought he needed his hand holding, then by Christ his hand would be held. Simple as that.

It was unfathomably reassuring.

Of course, Bucky had learned that Heather was diligent when she was checking in on him in five minute intervals and determinedly bringing his blood pressure down, titration by titration. Now, that diligence transformed into something more, though the focus didn't feel stifling. Heather wanted him to get through this, and that meant helping him hurt less and cope better, with firm hands and confident directions when he needed them.

"Gonna be sick," he warned her, not wanting to make a mess of her scrubs or the sheets again when the nausea surged.

Almost immediately, a cardboard bowl appeared before him. Bucky pressed his palm against his chest where the acid burned in the hopes that it would settle, as Heather propped him up. "Better out than in," she assured him as he struggled against the tide.

Bucky had just enough time to think that wasn’t a bad motto for the day before his stomach rebelled.

-

The sky beyond Steve's window had turned the colour of steel as a spring shower descended, and he spared a thought for his agents who would be exposed to the sudden cold because his body wasn't getting a move on.

The contractions were coming, but they weren't coming rapidly. Indeed, they were coming so slowly that - for a time, with little else to do - Steve considered counting and naming each one as they washed through him. Had he done so, he would have made his way through the seven dwarves by the time the rain fell.

"Your Pa's lost his mind," Steve murmured down to his daughter, rubbing away the last lingering aches of Bashful - a contraction which had stuttered through him, almost shied away, then resurged for its final few seconds.

But it was better when he occupied his brain with nonsense. When he didn't, his instincts to catastrophize kicked in. Each time the minutes stretched without a pain, a whispering corner of Steve's mind tried to persuade him that his first rumbling handful of cramps were meaningless, that he wasn't in labour after all, and that he'd be shipped off to the Compound against his will as soon as the medical team noticed.

Lying in the light filtering through the rain clouds, feeling more alone for having had company alongside him for a while, Steve found himself wishing for Bruce's calming presence. He'd never been very good at patience, not like Bruce was, and that's what he needed to get through the interminable wait.

Wishing for Bruce led him to wishing for Sam just as quick. Steve knew he'd relied on his best friend too much throughout his pregnancy - but Sam hadn't just insisted; he'd muscled in, knowing exactly when Steve needed support and when he needed space. Steve couldn't resent Sam for putting the mission first, not after all the times he’d done so himself. But he also knew that Sam's easy humour and gentle wisdom would make the wait so much easier.

It was a rapid slide from there to wondering how the team was getting on. Steve hadn't called, not wanting to distract them but what if they didn't want to disturb him?

He spun his phone between his fingertips as the rain pattered against the window, ready to grasp at the screen the moment a message came through.

As a powerful gust of wind drove the rain sideways, Steve's eyes were drawn to the far corner of the glass. Bucky had been taken in that direction. Steve hadn't been able to stop himself hearing that much, though he did his best not to listen through the walls for the younger man. It felt like more of an invasion of privacy this side of getting to know each other. Yet resistance was difficult. Steve wanted to be sure they were looking after that sweet, funny, beautiful man now he was no longer allowed to.

When he tried to pull his thoughts away from Bucky and his team without them circling back to paranoia, and without a contraction that he could distract himself with, it was of course his daughter who was front of mind. Steve wondered if it bothered her when his abdomen squeezed. If he was really in labour, how much of it would she sleep through and how much would she hate? She was stronger than an average baby, and more active. What if she had super-senses like him, and that exaggerated sensitivity meant natural birth was more stressful for her?

A familiar voice interrupted Steve's mini-spiral just as his daughter kicked hard at his ribs.

"Commander." Khyati raised a sceptical eyebrow when Steve looked her way. "What's going on?" She glanced towards the monitors strapped to Steve's belly, and - oh. He wasn't the only one with the ability to tell when a patient was having a quiet panic.

"Nothing."

"Uh huh." Maybe not the only one who could tell when someone else was lying either. "Wait here." When she returned a minute later, Khyati pulled the curtains around them both with a sharp tug. For the first time, Steve realised how small the cubicle was without Bucky's stuck on at the side. "C'mon," Khyati said, brandishing the equipment she'd fetched. "Let's see how she's doing."

Khyati didn't need to offer him that. The patch on Steve's abdomen was constantly sending real-time data on his daughter's heartbeat to the nurses' monitoring station in the hall. But Steve also knew that he was being offered a gift, so he pulled up his shirt to give Khyati access.

Khyati's aim with a doppler was unerringly accurate, and after just a moment's distortion, the baby's heart rate echoed out of the speakers. Like the noise of a distant propellor underwater, just as rhythmic and strange, the sound of Steve's daughter's pulse filled the air around them.

"Never get tired of hearing that," admitted Kyhati, and if Steve didn't know better, he'd think that the stern midwife looked fond. When the baby kicked out, the sound jolted, and Khyati even smiled.

"She's okay?" Steve checked, over the sound of that perfect, constant beat.

"Having the best time of her little life in there." Khyati smoothed the wand carefully up a little, getting a better angle after the baby squirmed. Without warning, her gaze flicked up from his stomach, straight into his eyes. "You know Commander. We've gone over your birth plan a number of times now, but I want you to know that we can always adapt it."

"I don't want to adapt it," Steve said at once.

"And you don't have to. But if you change your mind about us keeping our distance - all hands off, no meds - you tell me. Because I know things're gonna feel a bit different without Falcon around."

"It's still what I want," Steve confirmed. The heartbeat thrumming all around them gave him the certainty he needed to say, "I know I can do this."

Khyati gestured, holding out the doppler wand and receiver to Steve. Understanding that he was being given reassurance and distraction both, Steve took them gratefully.

-

Gloved fingers slid inside Bucky again; at least the seventh set of fingers to do so within the last 48 hours. It had been uncomfortable every damn time, but he liked to tell himself that he was getting good at relaxing into it after that much practice.

"I think that's three centimetres-"

"Motherf*cker!"

Gail, the trainee Heather had called in to get a second opinion and who still had her fingers inside Bucky, blanched.

"Sorry, that's more at me than you," Bucky groaned. His own hands slid up to cover his face, and he knew he sounded no better than a kid when he whined, "Whyyyy?" It really had been hours now. The contractions came at him like bullet trains to the gut and he was getting all of four minutes' respite between each one at best. Every four minutes was meant to mean progress. That was supposed to be the sign you should get to a hospital if you weren't there already. It was meant to be that this whole baby thing was happening.

He was no further forwards, after hours and hours of pain. Pointless, wasteful hours that left him no nearer to leaving the Rose Crest with the baby he'd been waiting for.

Which meant more nights to cover on his bill.

"I know inductions can be unpredictable-" Gail started.

She was trying to reassure, but - fraught and in pain and not all that pleased at how she'd got the angle wrong in the first instance - Bucky snapped, "What do you know?" She was a tiny slip of a thing, and there was no way those narrow hips of hers had carried a full on baby around for nine months. "This is f*ckin'-"

Heather cut in, "Bucky. We like Gail. Gail's trying to help. Apologise to Gail."

For a long moment, Bucky simply groaned into the muzzle of his palms. He was being called out. Still like a kid. Irritated at himself all over again, he grunted, "Sorry Gail."

Though Bucky couldn't see through his hands, he suspected that if he could, he'd see her staring daggers in his direction.

"If you wanted, Gail could break your waters to try and get this labour moving along," Heather said. "If she does that, are you going to bite Gail's head off? Because we don't have insurance for that."

Resentfully, Bucky peered through his fingers. "You really are like my Mom."

"I'll take that as a compliment honey," Heather replied, with a business-like pat against Bucky's knee. "Hold tight. We’ll get this baby outta you.”

-

Beneath Steve’s pencil, an outline of Khyati’s hands was taking shape. She had mercifully slender fingers, though they were often cold. Steve had found himself drawing them splayed, holding a weight between them. He was trying to get the angles right - the stretch that showed how she protected the bundle alongside the softness of a grasp that had to be inherently gentle. He hadn’t given the thing she was carrying real form. He wasn’t ready for that yet.

Steve was sketching the curve of her neat fingernails when a mournful moan yanked him out of his concentration. He knew it was Bucky with the same, immediate certainty he’d known it was Bucky in the shower.

Why couldn’t he tune Bucky out? Why did Bucky’s pain haul him out of his present and demand that he pay witness? It was so much worse being able to hear and not be able to help. How could he sit there drawing when Bucky was by himself and hurting?

A tightening in Steve’s own low belly reminded him what he was meant to be concentrating on. The muscles burned with a dull pain, and he knew it would soon be over. His fingers left grey marks behind on his cotton shirt, where he pressed against the ache.

He was still in the early stages, while Bucky’s labour had clearly intensified.

He couldn't just sit here, waiting and listening.

There was nothing he could do for his team, nothing for his baby or himself. But maybe… Maybe there was something he could do for Bucky, even from a distance.

Even as the contraction clung on through its last few moments, Steve swapped his sketch pad for a StarkPad, and asked, "FRIDAY, what aircraft do we have out in Western Europe at the moment?"

A holographic map popped up across his bedspread, marked with pinpricks of multicoloured light. Steve gestured to zoom in on Germany.

“Okay. Can you track down a phone number for Becca Barnes please?”

-

"Want to try and rest for a little while?" Heather asked, over an unhelpfully loud crack of thunder from outside.

"Don't think I can," Bucky grunted back. Everything was aching, from his chest to his calves, and if he lay down then he wouldn't be getting back up again until the baby was born.

"Alright, Bucky. Whatever feels best for you right now."

Bucky pressed his palms back down into the edge of the mattress, curling over himself as the pain wrapped itself around his stomach again. The pressure inside him rose and rose with no let up, and rolled through him in bursts, striking his nerves with lancing intensity - his own personal thunderstorm playing out in the confines of his swollen mid-section. The contractions were so much worse since his waters had been broken.

As the pain peaked and stuck there, and Bucky cycled his weight from one leg to the other in a futile attempt to get the pain to shift, sound flowed through the room.

Lionel Richie sung out, “It'd be so nice, if you didn't have to feel so lonely. It’d be so nice if I could sneak you for a moment…”

His parents’ music. Every time, Bucky saw them - singing in the car, shuffling to the music as they cooked, the dinners they’d shared with Lionel as their accompaniment, crackling out of the ancient hi-fi.

Bucky broke from the contraction smiling over his shoulder at Heather, who was occupied with his phone and the sound system. “Try’na woo me Heather? Gonna sing about sailing me to the Bahamas and all the sunshine I could be chillin’ in if I wasn’t sweatin’ bullets in agony here with you.”

“Nah, I’ll leave that to your good Captain,” Heather said, with a mischievous glint to her eye.

Bucky’s heart gave a little lurch at the visual of Steve, golden and glowing in the Caribbean sun, leaning across Bucky’s lounger to claim him in a kiss. It gave another lurch when Bucky realised that, even in his fantasy, Steve was pregnant because he didn’t really know the man without his baby weight.

“Is he okay?” Bucky blurted out, because he was a hopeless case. “Has he had her yet?”

“I don’t know, I’ve been here with you.”

“D’you think… if I asked for an extra pillow, you’d have to go out and glance at a whiteboard or something and tell me what was on it?”

For a moment, Heather frowned to herself in apparent conflict. “As much as I want to help, there’s a doctor-patient confidentiality barrier to that… But you could always take a walk yourself.”

Could Bucky take a walk? He tried to straighten up in the first instance. His back complained at once, and his palms flew to the small of his spine. His body wanted to hunch up and hide, to crease around the pain in an attempt to shrink it down. But this was about Steve. Steve who always walked tall and upright, whose body bore his pregnancy proudly.

Thinking of that man, Bucky forced himself to try taking slow steps towards the rain-spattered window. His swollen feet ached something dreadful, as they had for the past month. But as he made his deliberate journey, his cramping thighs and twisted spine seemed to loosen, their pain becoming something sweet-edged. Maybe even that small movement was loosening parts that needed to be loosened, stretching what needed to be stretched.

His forehead came to rest on the blissfully cool glass. In the dark beyond, he could see no sign of a vehicle that might be taking Steve away. A car’s headlights trundled away from the centre as Bucky clung on to the sill, and he realised that people would have arrived as expectant parents and left as new ones in the time he’d spent in this place. He thunked his head once against the glass as, around him, the playlist shifted to something peppy.

“Walk might help move this on right?”

Heather was at Bucky’s shoulder when he turned, offering her arm. “It just might.”

-

“Come on, come on,” Steve muttered to himself as he leaned against the wall, trying to will the next contraction to arrive. The unit was getting noisy as a porter served up dinner, the rain was lashing hard against the window, and Steve couldn't stand it. He didn’t want to eat. He didn’t want to be around people with babies already in their arms and people who seemed perfectly fine where they were. He hadn’t had a contraction in 24 minutes, and no matter how he rubbed at his stomach’s pendulous weight and swayed in place and shifted from yoga position to yoga position, it wasn’t f*cking happening.

He wanted to move, even if the only place that he could go was the hallway as the weather raged. Furious with himself and the storm, he strode into the corridor with the full intention of doing laps until active labour began or they moved him into a private room, because he needed something to change and he couldn't just hang out by a bed waiting anymore.

The Rose Crest was arranged in a circle around a courtyard garden, and he kept that on his right as he took long steps through fire door after fire door at a rapid clip. He supported his stomach’s weight as he went.

“C’mon body, please come on,” he begged beneath his breath, dismissing the alarmed glance a passing porter spared him.

Steve’s journey took him past multiple delivery suites, and he knew as he passed that each one of them was occupied - most with labouring parents, some recovering with their babies. He passed a nursery with half a dozen newborns, and his heart hurt with too much longing to be able to do more than glance through at them. He passed a family waiting room beyond doors that he knew opened out onto operating theatres, and he kept his gaze firmly on the path in front of him there too. Passing storerooms and launderettes and offices all felt far safer. He paused next to an office with his back against the wall to ride out the next contraction when it finally came.

Gratitude flooded him more intensely than the weak cramping. He braced his hands against the cool plaster, unwilling to do anything that might persuade his abdominal muscles to stop what they were doing - no matter how medically illiterate the instinct was. And when the contraction faded - too quickly, not enough to move him on - he pushed himself away and began to walk again.

Every now and again as he forced himself through the halls, he passed a nurse with a laundry load, a visitor shrouded by frazzled joy, or another labouring parent stretching their legs. Without exception, those other patients had a partner helping them to walk, but they met Steve's eyes with looks of solidarity - some grim and determined, some irreverent, as if to say ‘would you look at how crazy this is?’. Their partners hardly acknowledged there was another person in the hall.

At the nurses' station, Tim - who had replaced Khyati at some point in the evening’s haze - checked Steve over visually each time he passed. The rest of the time, the midwife’s eyes were on the screen before him, where Steve assumed the stats from the remote monitors stuck to his stomach were being displayed. On something like Steve's sixth round of the halls, however, Tim was chatting to a pretty, young med student. When his eyes flicked to Steve, Tim commented, “A room won’t come free any faster for you glaring at them all the time.”

Irritation snapped to fury in an instant, and Steve had to pin his tongue behind his teeth to keep back his curses. “I’d be grateful nonetheless if you could try harder to find me one,” Steve said in what could only be described as a snarl, despite his best efforts. Eight minutes after the last, and what the hell was with this irregularity, another contraction was threatening to flash up Steve’s spine but he forced himself to walk through it, away from Tim.

He’d just slumped beneath the blessed cool of an air conditioning unit a few hallways away when someone shouted, "Hey, I told you it was him!"

Steve shut his eyes with dread. Not now.

"It is you, isn't it? Commander Rogers! I said, didn't I?"

It took more effort than usual to haul over a guise of self-discipline. Steve looked within himself for the fortitude to do the grin and grip, pretend to be happy to see fans rather than put out. Instead, all he could find was something steely and polite.

"Good evening." There were three people approaching, all of them carrying balloons and gifts. "Congratulations."

"Thanks! New Uncle," the frontrunner announced. He had his hand outstretched, trying to shake Steve’s hand. Steve gave his palm over, because it was easier than saying no, but the cramping inside him hadn’t stopped. By the time he'd shaken everyone's hands, it was consuming his entire pelvis - more brutal than any of the contractions he’d experienced so far. The strangers wouldn’t know though. Steve fixed his face in the blankest smile he could.

"Can't believe this," an older gentleman declared. "Made a grandad and get to meet the first Captain America all in the same day."

"D'you think we could get a picture?"

Steve had known that was coming. Just as the pain was reaching its strongest point and his ability to suppress it was crawling up his throat, Steve tried his best to say, "This really isn't the best time."

But the grandfather insisted as if he hadn’t heard, "It would be a real honour-"

Would one goddamn thing go the way that Steve needed it to today?

"Steve!"

The familiar voice came from behind, and Steve couldn't make his body turn.

"Hey, the f*ck are you doing?" Bucky demanded, because of course it was Bucky, sounding outraged on Steve's behalf as one of the group held up a camera phone.

"S'okay," Steve tried to protest, but the word was lost in his gasp.

"Is it?" And Bucky was right there, his hand was sliding along Steve's back in warm, immediate comfort, turning Steve’s body where he’d struggled to himself. Steve had no choice left to him. He all but fell into Bucky’s touch, as another gentle hand rose to cradle his cheek, drawing Steve’s gaze to Bucky’s own. Silver eyes were lined with worry. "Tell me straight you're fine with that and I’ll go right now."

“Don’t.” Pathetic as it was, the plea just fell from Steve. It was weakness and that meant shame, but Bucky’s very presence sent the ruffled feathers of Steve’s nerves smoothing out. Steve got out "Need a second," to attempt to cover up. He was leaning onto Bucky, probably crushing him. He reached for the wall to steady himself but Bucky just took his hand and steered it to his shoulder for Steve to cling to.

"I gotcha, big guy."

When the pain finally released, Steve realised that Heather was ordering his fans away, and he was all but wrapped in Bucky's arms, his forehead pressed into the other man’s temple. Steve’s breath would be brushing across Bucky’s lips, just centimetres from his own. Bucky’s hands ranged slowly over Steve’s clothes, in spans of perfect reassurance.

“You were hurting. I heard you,” Steve had to confess.

“Well sure. I’m having a baby.”

Steve had to give up the brief moment’s comfort, had to draw back and feel his skin surrender inch after inch of contact no matter how much a vulnerable part of himself wanted to stay in that hold. When he did, he saw more of Bucky’s stress - noticed the dampness of Bucky’s skin as he pulled away, the weary way that he carried himself once he was no longer taking Steve’s weight.

Finding the guy who grinned for strangers was easier to reach for suddenly, Steve asked, "Who's the superhero now?"

Bucky just shook his head at the glib remark. He was standing so close still. Neither of them had taken a step backwards. "You out here by yourself?" At Steve’s nod, Bucky said, "C'mon. Let’s get out of here before the vultures descend again. Which way's your room?"

"You know which way's my room."

Stunned, Bucky blinked at him. "It's been hours. They still got you on the ward?"

Steve gave a second silent confirmation.

"Well f*ck that. Come back to mine then."

-

If Steve wasn't so evidently freaking out and Bucky hadn’t had to stop twice to pant through contractions, the journey back to Bucky's room would have been comical. Two pregnant men, one of whom could only walk at a waddle and the other who'd pulled the hood of his robe up as if that made him any more discreet with his giant frame and his heavy belly. Both followed by a midwife muttering darkly about people who took advantage of visiting hours.

"I’m afraid the courtesy of my halls has been somewhat lessened of late, but I can offer you cup of ice chips or a damp towel," Bucky said, as he showed Steve inside.

"I'm alright, Gandalf," Steve replied, though he made a beeline for the guest chair and lowered himself down almost immediately. He gave a mini huff of laughter as he settled. Bucky made a questioning face, so Steve explained, “Was naming my contractions after the Fellowship members for a bit.”

…Had Steve hit his head? "Okay… Well before Heather orders you up a psychiatry consult… Why haven't they got you a room yet?" Bucky demanded.

When Steve just shrugged, Bucky turned his ire on the lingering midwife instead. He’d been ignoring her efforts to shoo him towards the bed, but still she replied, "We're at capacity right now. All the rooms are full, and once they're occupied for a night we normally don't empty any out. The doctors are probably hoping Steve's labour stays slow, and he delivers in the morning once a room's been freed up."

Incensed, Bucky said, "But that's bullsh*t. That man's saved the world more times than you can count, and you can't find a room for him? He obviously needs somewhere private - people are chasing him down corridors for an autograph while he's in labour."

Heather shrugged. "I don’t disagree. Full moon tonight though. I'm sure there's always more patients this time of the month."

Steve caught Bucky's eye then. There was a little hint of amusem*nt there, at the old wive's tale apparently coming true.

"Babies aren't very good at coming when they're told."

"Don't I know it." Steve grimaced then. His hand went back to his stomach. There couldn't have been more than six minutes passed since his last pain.

Instead of going to him, Bucky kept his eyes fixed on Heather. "He can't stay on the unit like that. It's not right."

But there was nothing Heather could do. She wasn't managing the ward and wasn't in charge.

"He can stay here," Bucky announced impulsively. "This place is palatial. More than enough room for two beds."

"This room isn't meant for two patients, the equipment-"

"So wheel some in, run an extension cord-"

"There's oxygen lines-"

"So we'll try not to both need oxygen at the same time."

"Bucky." Steve lifted his head from where it had been hanging over his abdomen. "It's okay. It’s very, very kind of you to offer, but you don't have to do that."

"And you didn't have to buy me a box full of slippers and underwear but here we are."

"There's no obligation-"

"No, there's not," Bucky said. It was very important that Steve understood that wasn’t why he was choosing this. "I don't feel obligation. I just have something I can give you, and I want to do that."

"That means you're going to have me in here. With you. You'd be giving up your privacy too."

"And that's my choice to make. Neither of us want to do this alone, do we?"

"No."

"And we don't have to."

-

It wasn't as if Steve had much resolve for Bucky to chip away at. The moment Steve stepped into the delivery suite which Bucky was occupying, he'd felt some of his tension drain away. He knew his body was overreacting to something that wasn't a threat, but at a time that he felt wrong and exposed, having strangers approach and corner him while pain lowered his capacity to act didn't help at all.

But in here, it was quieter. The door could close behind them, and he could cope with just Bucky and Heather - he didn't mind the idea of them seeing him hurt. The overheads were dimmed, though there were golden fairy-lights strung up across shelving, leaving the room feeling intimate. The curtains were drawn, shutting away the rain's dreariness, and he knew from the tours he’d taken previously that the bathroom beyond had a deep tub, a wide shower, and fake candles to cast a similar glow.

He wanted to be here. And he couldn't pretend to himself that he didn't want to be back with Bucky. If he was here, the persistent part of his awareness that kept trying to lock onto Bucky’s distress would be soothed.

Any resolve dissolved like candy floss out in the storm beyond. "I think my terrifying Russian friend would like you."

Bucky's grin only cracked when another contraction broke over him, and he tipped his head back, groaning. "Let's have our babies then Stevie boy."

"I'm a hundred and ten."

"And I guess I'm going to pick up a bed," said Heather. She nodded to Steve. "Will you keep an eye on this one?"

"I'll try. I hear he’s troublesome."

Despite the contraction, Bucky grumbled, "f*ck you," well enough. It was the best welcome Steve could have hoped for.

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

When Heather slipped out of the room to fetch Steve’s bed and belongings, Steve roused himself from the guest chair and crossed the distance between himself and the other man. When Bucky didn't seem to object, Steve took a seat next to the brunet on the side of his bed. Bucky didn't pause before leaning in and bumping their shoulders together.

In the few hours they’d been separated, Steve had somehow forgotten Bucky’s courage, and the way he crossed the distance between them time and again. It could be that easy again, Steve knew, and he offered his palm for Bucky to take. The younger man smiled so genuinely when he saw it, the sheer vividness of it made Steve’s heart feel fuller. He wound his fingers through Steve’s without a mote of hesitation.

It was immediately grounding. The anxiety which had peppered Steve’s hours floated away - enough at least. He somehow felt more real, with the skin of the other man’s hand against his own.

“How’s it been?” Steve breathed.

“Frustrating,” Bucky admitted. “You?”

“Same. No regularity to the contractions, no progress.”

“Tons of regular contractions, no progress.” With a long exhale, Bucky lowered his head to Steve’s shoulder. It weighed nothing at all, but the pressure was another twitch on the rope between Steve’s mind and his body. “Sorry, these are the terms of the trade. You get to move into my room, I get to get comfy on your shoulder.” Bucky fell silent for a beat. “Unless you’re not comfortable with it and if I’ve overstepped-”

“You’re welcome to it,” Steve interrupted to say, and shuffled his other hand more firmly behind himself to be able to support both their bodies. Affection’s fuzzy tendrils were spreading out across his chest from a source somewhere near Steve’s breastbone, and he happily wallowed in the sensation. They really could help each other. “Long as you need.”

“Careful what you promise.” Bucky made a soft noise of discomfort at the back of his throat, and his free hand rose to press against his hardened stomach. The movement turned him further into the shelter of Steve’s neck. “Think this time next year I’ll be gift wrapping, not clearing up toddler party leftovers.”

Steve could only hum his solidarity, and make himself a safe place for Bucky to rest. After all Bucky had intimated about his ex-partner, Steve knew how much of a privilege it was to have the other man trust him enough to surrender like this.

As the evening wore on, however, it became increasingly difficult for Steve to give himself as a refuge, as the Bucky who had swooped in and saved Steve from selfies was eroded away by the pain. It was running Bucky ragged. Steve’s contractions still skittered over the hours, not quite settling into any reliable rhythm, but he almost always had a decent chunk of time between each of his contractions. He could rest, relax, recover. For Bucky, though, the contractions sped up relentlessly for Bucky until they were coming for him almost every two minutes, and there was no such thing as recovery.

Lines of hurt engrained deep on his face, casting shadows that shifted as Bucky rocked on his heels. Moans rose and fell in waves as the pain rolled over and over him. He gripped onto Steve's hands for dear life, while Steve sat on Bucky’s bed and ran his thumbs up and down his knuckles.

The distress was difficult to watch. Steve knew, of course, that pain of that intensity was coming for him soon enough, but that wasn’t what made it difficult. He almost welcomed that thought. It was how Bucky struggled with the hurt. Each time a contraction barrelled into him was too soon after the last, and as they held Bucky in their grasp, they did so for far too long. By the end of each spasm, Bucky was often in a panic, convinced he couldn’t make it through. When they were open, his silver eyes were wide, and his body rarely stilled as it was knocked from pain to pain.

"We really can give you something, just to take the edge off," Clarissa said. It was the third time that the midwife - who had come in as Heather's relief - had offered medication. "There's nothing weak about that. Birth is hard and-"

"I'm fine." Nothing about the sweat on Bucky's forehead, the anguished cries that cracked into the air, or his ravaged expression suggested that was true. "I can take it."

Firmly squeezing Bucky's hand, drawing his attention, Steve murmured, "Of course you can take it. No one thinks you can’t."

But Bucky only groaned, "Oh god,” as another contraction tore through him. His neck gave up on lifting his head and it dropped. Hair - damp from the cloth he'd been clutching to his forehead - came loose in scattered waves. Silently, Steve withdrew his grasp from one of Bucky’s hands and, as Bucky hissed at the stinging in his abdomen, Steve carefully drew the elastic out of the brunet’s failing ponytail and untangled it. With unpracticed but attentive fingers, Steve collected up the wild strands. He made sure not to leave any trailing, maybe running his fingers across Bucky’s scalp a few more times than he needed, and tied it back up in a bun.

"Thanks," Bucky gasped, making attempt after attempt to snatch breaths as he went. His next exhales were laced with pleas. “Oh Steve.” A gasp. “Oh f*ck.” A gasp. “Oh god.”

Steve found himself hushing the younger man gently. He didn’t really have the right to tell him what to do - that was the midwives’ job. But he’d been a leader of men for long enough, and he hated to watch Bucky waste the air he clearly needed. “You’re okay. You’re almost through. Just breathe.”

A broken sound had to be something like a laugh, smothered into the bed.

“Shh. You’re hysterical Buck.” Steve kept his fingers running over Bucky’s hair, near his dampened temples.

Apparently Bucky was surfacing from the contraction’s grip enough to be able to punch weakly at Steve’s leg. A few scraping pants later, he lifted his head again. He was blurry and exhausted, but he sought out Clarissa.

“Clarissa. Can you call my sister?” Bucky asked the question as if it were his final request before his execution. “Tell her I'm okay but - don't think I can text anymore."

Steve’s secret did a little happy dance.

"Of course." Clarissa disappeared, and it was just the two of them for a few seconds. Bucky used that time to rest his head back down, his forehead pressed against Steve’s calf. Sparks flittered through Steve’s nerves as Bucky’s fingertips grazed his bare ankle.

The younger man’s shoulderblades flared as he tried to get his breath back. Steve waited him out, as Bucky did what he needed to in order to haul back a sense of control. He knew that Bucky had got as close as he was going to when a muffled, “Hysterical? f*ck you,” was grunted into the mattress. After just over a minute, Bucky resurfaced. Stormy eyes lined with concern as he asked Steve, "You okay?"

It was ridiculous. This man was clearly feeling the worst of it, of the two of them. Steve’s heart felt so full.

"Just fine," Steve soothed. "They're manageable at the minute."

"Manageable." The word was bitter, and broke part-way through with a groan as Bucky contorted again. "God, ah! I just need a break. If I could get a few minutes in between,” he said, his voice fractured by the strain. “All evening like this and - uuuhnn… f*cking hellll, only 4cm."

"Bucky…" Steve only felt he could voice his suspicion because the two of them were alone. "Are you turning down pain relief just 'cos it's an extra cost?"

Bucky's grimace deepened even further. “This whole thing's gonna - uh - uhhh, oh! - wreck me financially Steve, because of stuff I've had no choice - ah! Ah! Ahhh! - choice over. I'm not gonna add to how - mmpphhh - f*cked I am cos of a little pain."

Sure. A little pain. Biting down a scoff, Steve said, "Just put it on my bill. Put the whole room on, we're sharing anyway."

"No, I can't - can’t accept anything else from you.” The pain rose to such an intensity that Bucky had to coil on in himself again, and his flushed face hid itself away again. This time, he pushed away from the bed and instead hunched over himself where he sat on the ball. His fingers turned white as they gripped onto his thighs, fighting for balance and for a pain that he could control.

As Bucky struggled, Steve doubted. The glow of his secret had dimmed a fraction. Had it been a bad idea? He’d been perfectly aware that Bucky had been unhappy at the thought of charity, or debt that he couldn’t pay back.

There had to be a way to give Bucky a way out that was his choice, instead of something forced on him.

The idea coalesced quickly in Steve’s mind as soon as he turned his thoughts to it. Any reluctance he’d had to contact his team vanished when he looked at Bucky at war with his own body - losing the war with his own body - and knew he could do something about it.

Tony answered on the second ring. "Rogers! Is this it? Has my namesake finally come forth? Why does it sound like you're killing someone, that's our job?"

"Actually, that's what I was calling about. I'm not having the baby at the Compound. Presumably, that means I'm saving you a few bucks. What d'you say to donating the difference to the Rose Crest? Hardship fund for patients without insurance."

"You know we're fighting aliens here, right? Big ol' inter-galactic threat and you're worrying about my philanthropy?"

"I know that, yeah. Lotta time to kill waiting around for this kid to come out." Despite his focus on Bucky, Steve was constantly aware of the child tucked inside of him. She shifted rarely - sleeping, Steve thought, preparing herself. With Bucky not gripping onto his hands, he realised he could sneak his palm beneath his shirt to smooth up and down, where he was certain that her back was - for his comfort more than hers.

There was the sound of blasters over the phone line before Tony distractedly said, "Sure, whatever. FRIDAY - throw, what, $40k at wherever Steve is would you? Happy birthday etc etc. Gotta go, the raccoon's got something in its mouth it's refusing to give to the tree. Think it might be a universal grenade."

Bucky was staring at him when Steve hung up.

"Was that Tony Stark?"

"Yup."

"Was that Tony Stark in space?"

Apparently such a concept was enough to tear Bucky’s attention away from the hurt inside his body for the moment.

Amused, Steve said, "We covered the thing where I run the Avengers right?"

"Was that Tony Stark in space with a raccoon?"

"I feel like you're focusing on the wrong thing."

Silver eyes blinked rapidly. "40,000? How expensive does Tony Stark think an epidural is?"

Steve's laughter turned into a groan when a familiar hurt spiralled through his own abdomen. He pressed his hand a little harder against his belly, though he knew it made little difference at this point - and spoke through the ache. “Look, Buck. You don’t have to access it if you don’t want to. I’m not forcing this on you, I’m not throwing it at you. Just creatin’ you a choice you didn’t have before.” The hurt was radiating out from his belly, down through his pelvis to his groin and up towards his chest, but Steve forced himself through it. “If - if you wanna apply to the fund, I’m sure you’ll get enough financial assistance to cover whatever fees you rack up in here. So you don’t gotta worry anymore. If you don’t want to apply, I’m sure other people’ll use it.”

Steve had to break off then, had to concentrate on his own breath. Bucky’s warm, broad hand found his the moment his voice faltered. "Hey Stevie. Hey pal,” he heard Bucky coaxing at him, and he couldn’t resist. Bucky was smiling valiantly for him when Steve met his eyes. “There you are. You wanna do drugs with me Steve?"

-

Bucky hadn't let Clarissa turn off the fairy lights. Or Steve.

He liked them. They were twinkly.

Steve had pinky-promised he could sleep despite them. Bucky had pinky promised with Steve Rogers.

"I think you're probably a dream," Bucky told the golden man across from him, where he was bathed in an inexplicably soft violet colour. He was on his side, in bed - the two of them curled like mirror images. "Dreamy."

Steve didn't even open his eyes. "Go to sleep Buck. 'afore you say something you regret."

"A good dream," Bucky hurried to assure. "Good man."

"Shhh."

"Too good to me. For me."

Clarissa piped up, asking Steve if he was changing his mind about sharing a room with Bucky. Which was rude. Steve just chuckled, a lazy, rolling sound like an avalanche in the distance. But it was also rude.

The laughter was replaced a moment later by the high humming noise which meant Steve was in pain. Bucky didn't like that Steve was in pain. He really didn't like that Steve couldn't feel fuzzy and soft like Bucky did.

Stupid serum.

Steve was kind and generous and pretty - not pretty like the lights. Beautiful pretty. Like a statue in Greece maybe. Or a big perfume ad…

A man that pretty shouldn’t be allowed to be hurt.

Gently, Steve’s voice emerged from the gloom - which was blue-tinged now. "Try to go to sleep, Bucky. Don't worry about me."

Trying to be good, Bucky huddled deeper beneath his blankets. Almost five months since he left Brock, he still wasn't used to it. He still hated sleeping alone.

There was the rumble of wheels, and when Bucky opened his eyes again, Steve was magically closer. The lights made his eyes glow.

"You're not alone," Steve murmured. He loomed over Bucky’s bed.

Loom was a good word.

Wait, how did Steve know…?

"My pulse didn't tell you what I was thinking," Bucky grumbled. "Wait, is my heartbeat doing morse code?"

"No, you've been saying every one of your thoughts aloud as far as I can tell.” That sounded bad, but Steve was smiling like he was hiding a laugh. Steve thought Bucky was funny. Bucky had made Steve smile.

Steve was saying something about the nurses not giving Bucky morphine again if he was going to get this loopy on it, but Bucky didn’t really take it in.

"I bet you know morse code," he mused instead. Steve was a super soldier. Even normal soldiers knew morse code.

"If I tell you something in morse code, will you try and sleep?" Steve asked.

Bucky would do almost anything Steve wanted if it meant Steve would touch him.

He didn’t remember agreeing, but a hand found Bucky's shoulder anyway. It smoothed slowly up and down, warming up his skin with gentle friction. After a quiet “Ready?”, Steve's fingers tapped rapidly against Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky tried to follow the pattern, follow the longs and shorts, but it was hopeless.

"What did it mean?"

"Sweet dreams." Steve's pink-lit lips offered the tiniest of upwards curves.

Steve had made him promise. Steve had done so much for Bucky. He could try and sleep for him.

Even when Bucky closed his eyes, Steve's hand lingered. It slipped down from his shoulder and came to rest on the inside of his arm. Bucky wrapped his own hand around Steve's in return.

-

The night ticked by, the sky beyond the curtains was pitch black and star spangled, and Bucky slept. However, Steve struggled to do the same.

There was so much going on inside him. He'd become complacent after almost fifteen years in his 'new' body. He had become used to his body doing what it was asked and then some, never a bother anymore, hardly a consideration unless he was injured. Now, his bones felt like they didn't fit. There was pressure between his hips, his back ached no matter how he lay, and there was a heaviness, a tightness in his chest.

The pain was bearable still. What wasn’t bearable was sitting in near-darkness with nothing to do but absorb the strangeness, wondering at one new sensation after another.

His skin felt wrong. Why was his body this damn sensitive?

He looked to Bucky, time and again, for distraction as much as for inspiration. The man had hardly moved since he sunk into his morphine-induced haze. Rosy and peaceful, he sprawled with his tattooed arm protectively over his belly. Steve could see it contracting still - the muscles pulling in hard, making Bucky’s elbow rise and fall. But Bucky slept through.

As midnight came and went, Steve gave up on the idea that he’d be able to get anything like Bucky’s peace while his body roiled, and he forced himself to move instead. Discomfort rattled through him, and he bit down a gasp at the startling pressure which burst through him as he got upright. “Christ,” he hissed. He could feel his daughter’s head lodging herself deep into his pelvis with the change in gravity.

“Okay?” Clarissa had appeared, with her steadying hands and her steadying presence. But as if Steve were an invalid.

For the first time this century, Steve felt as if he could be. He’d been limber throughout his pregnancy, but now he was lumbering. He skimmed his palm against the wall for balance, using the other to lift his belly to take some of the impossibly heavy weight bearing down against his sit bones. The rigid skin was hot, radiating through the cotton, and he yanked the top off as quickly as he could without overbalancing.

“Steve?”

It took him a confounding moment to realise that Clarissa was waiting for his answer. “Feel-” he didn’t know how to express it. “Bad.”

Bless her, she didn’t laugh and didn’t criticise. Just gave a hum of “okay Steve.”

Cautiously, Steve tried to take a step towards the midwife. He could feel his hip joints jolt. A whimper escaped him as his bones scraped again on a second step. His baby was ramming herself so far down, and pain seared through his tailbone.

“She beatin’ you up a little?” Clarissa asked.

Steve could nod at that. He could feel everything , he realised - the oversensitive nerves his body was riddled with freaking out at everything going on inside. Without Bucky as a distraction, all he could focus on was his own body and his own baby’s movements.

Clarissa was watching him, quietly assessing. “You want me to help you walk a little? Or to try a bath?”

“Yes,” Steve realised was the answer to the second question. Anything that meant he could take the weight off his his pelvis and maybe tell his body to calm the f*ck down.

-

Tony Stark was going to have to give one of his stupid Nobel prizes up to whatever genius had invented bathtubs with doors in, because not having to step up into the bath with his daughter wreaking havoc in his pelvis was an almost overwhelming relief. All Steve had to do was lower himself down and sit back against the towelling-covered plastic and allow the warm water to rise up and envelope him in its blissful promise.

The bathroom was enclosed-enough to feel cave-like. The tiles helped smother the sounds from beyond. The heat of the water helped to ease some of the pain and the pressure, stealing it away and releasing it as steam, wafting above the tub.

Peaceful. Steve couldn’t sleep there, not with the cramps which so regularly gripped at him. But he could rest.

Steve tipped his head back, closed his eyes against the half-light, and tried to think of nothing. Let the minutes pass. Let his body open up. Let his daughter descend.

Water like silk against his skin, even as the contractions washed through his insides.

It was undeniably happening now. He didn't need Dr Chung to tell him active labour was at least on its way. Every strangeness and ache within his lower body was telling him that.

Just bear it a little while longer. Be patient one last time.

Just rest…

It would happen. This was all going to be real.

In the dim miasma, Steve trailed his fingers through the water, over his stomach’s swell. The top of the curve peeked through the water, and his skin shone where it was stretched to accommodate his daughter’s bulk.

For as long as he could, Steve tried to drift away from his body and its determination to be in overdrive. He was topping up the bath for the second time when Bucky knocked on the door.

"Steve?" came the whisper. "Can I-?"

Steve had to blink hard to surface far enough to reply. “‘ve not got a stitch on.”

There was a pause before Bucky said, “I won’t look.” His voice wobbled, and Steve wouldn’t have kept him waiting alone another moment - because suddenly he knew that Clarissa must have stepped outside.

“Sure, sure you can Buck.” Steve wasn’t quite sure what to expect when Bucky opened the door - but his breath caught as it revealed Bucky, down to grey sweatpants tied low beneath his belly and an oversized tank, as he entered the room rubbing at his eyes. He moved slowly, shuffling, with his eyes half-closed, as if even the glow of the false candles scattered around the room was too bright for him. Every time, Steve was newly taken aback at how beautiful Bucky was all over again.

Steve waited in silence for Bucky to reveal what he needed. Instead of speaking, Bucky knelt inelegantly down beside the bath’s high sides. He pressed his forehead into the plastic edge, hiding his face in the cool material. "Can I stay-" Bucky breathed.

"Of course." Not once had Steve found himself minding having Bucky near. He was already moving to turn the tap to cold, soaking a cloth to offer to the younger man.

“Thank you,” Bucky rasped, as it was placed in his hand. He draped it across his shoulders with a wet slap. “Sorry.”

“Shut up,” Steve murmured. There was no need for apologies between the two of them.

When the next cramp came for Bucky, his moan reverberated off the tiles. Morphine clearly no longer thick enough in his blood to numb him completely anymore, Steve realised that the contractions must have woken the younger man.

The next sound was a muffled thing. It took Steve a moment to realise it was a plea for help. His eyes snapped wide open.

“Tell me how.” When Bucky didn’t reply, maybe unable to, Steve reached for the younger man, found his bowed head, and slipped his hand slowly into Bucky's hair, giving him time to pull away if he needed. “Whatever you need I’ll do Bucky.”

The only response he got was a broken “holy helllll….” as Steve’s hand moved round to cradle the back of the brunet's neck, where his thumb could rub lightly at the knots of tension at the top of the other man's spine.

Pain clenched deep inside Steve then too and he clenched the bathtub in turn, with the hand not touching Bucky. That he kept gentle, channelling the tension away from someone already carrying enough of their own.

It took a good minute to pass. The bath was threatening to overflow when Steve felt able to move again, and he forced himself to stop the top.

"Not getting much let up now?" Steve asked when he noticed that Bucky had sagged down wearily.

"No. Hurts bad."

"Think you might be having a baby Bucky."

"Certainly hope I'm not doing all'a this for a sheep.”

Though the contraction had ended, the shadow of it lingered in Steve’s back. Slowly, he turned himself over onto his knees. It allowed him to rest his head on his arms opposite Bucky, watching him like a mirror. Bucky peered out dazedly from his own arms, to meet Steve’s eyes. “Glad you got some rest,” Steve murmured.

“You didn’t?”

Steve shook his head, and found sorrow looking back at him.

"I’m okay. The water helps. ‘s nice.” He felt himself slur in the drowsiness pervading him.

"So was that. Having my hair played with." There was beat, then Bucky added, “I’d forgotten how nice it was.”

No further prompt was needed for Steve to reach back out and resume the action. It soothed him too.

The pair of men rode through repeated contractions like that, together. Both of them on their knees, holding on to the sides of the tub and each other, rocking and shifting as the pain rattled through them. Steve’s attempts to work the persistent aching from his back and his thighs sent the water lapping at the sides of the bath, as his belly hung pendulously below him in the water. Bucky’s contractions had him arching backwards, the battle inside him playing out in clenched teeth and broken grunts as he strained as if to escape.

Sometimes, he trembled with aftershocks when he collapsed back down, while Steve’s touch in his hair tried to gentle him.

It was as he was still shaking that Bucky roughly announced, "I would've taken you dancing." He didn't raise his head from his arms, and Steve didn’t stop trailing his fingers through his hair, even though it was the first time he’d spoken in thirty minutes or more. "'f I'd met you in a bar. Before Brock. Before all this."

"Ain’t my forte," Steve admitted softly.

"Wouldn't've been about your moves. Would've been about showing off for you. Wasn't always a balloon animal. Man."

Steve couldn’t let those harsh words settle into the quiet space around them. “I didn’t think you were. You’re not. You’re beautiful. And if I thought I had a chance at you, I'd have taken you to dinner first." Steve let a smile lift his voice. "Old fashioned, y'know?"

"You kinda did," Bucky reminded him. "Made me dinner in fact."

"I suppose I did."

"And waited for our second date before inviting yourself over. Gentleman-like."

"I don't remember being the one doing the inviting…"

"Everything short of chocolates and roses."

"There are chocolates in the cooler. You can help yourself. The roses I'll have to think about."

-

Squatting on the bathroom floor, his knees spread wide and his bulging belly hanging low, helpless to do anything but utter growling cries when pain surged through him more sharply than he could control, Bucky should have felt embarrassed. He was a wreck. He was so much weaker than Steve (whose still-muscled shoulders and biceps Bucky had maybe spent too long staring at.)

But Steve made him feel safe. Embarrassment still trickled through him every now and again, but Steve’s softness and frequent smiles banished it over and over. It broke Bucky open frequently enough that he found himself confessing just how much he wanted to treat Steve right. How when he’d slept, the drugs had dragged his mind to a thrumming dance hall, pounding with music that he now understood masked the pounding his body was taking, and he’d been dancing for Steve.

Bucky had been shirtless in that dream. He hadn’t dared to be shirtless in front of Steve yet, far too aware of the hideous marks which littered his skin. But Steve’s easy confession that he’d thought about how he’d treat Bucky on a date called to Bucky to be bold. That - coupled with the sweltering heat lifting off the bath and Bucky’s own over-warm skin.

When the pains lifted for long enough for him to manage it, he struggled out of his shirt. A few moments later, he unclipped the support band he wore around his chest and tossed that to the ground too.

The sound of it summoned Steve’s curious blue eyes Bucky’s way.

Defensive, Bucky’s chin jutted out. For a moment, Steve only seemed confused. Then he realised that he was being allowed to look.

A ferocious contraction surged through Bucky then, his break over, and his eyes scrunched closed as his whole body braced against the pain. He knew what Steve was seeing anyway. The ugly scars that ran down half his back, where Brock had pushed him down the stairs. The burns on his left arm that Steve must have spotted already. The web of purple stretch marks that ran like lightning’s fangs across his stomach. Bucky hunched over his bloated, wretched body as the contraction climbed, and let Steve look his fill, fighting muscles desperate to contort so that he didn’t hide the reality of who he was. What Steve was signing up to if he wanted to pursue anything more with him.

The contraction reached its crescendo and stuck there, Bucky’s belly pulled in hard and tight, the pain singing through the base of Bucky’s body, filling the deepest parts of him with hurt.

He cried out. He couldn’t help it. His hands broke away from his splayed, cramping calves and pressed the base of his swollen abdomen again in a desperate ploy for relief. Steve’s touch found him in the dark, broad hand cupping his bicep.

“You’re almost through,” Steve’s voice promised. “Just a little longer.”

Bucky wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold up under the onslaught. The pain wrapped all the way around his midsection and yanked brutally, and he knew a torrent of curses and moans were bleeding out of him.

“I know, beautiful.” It was the second time that Steve had used that word for him. Bucky’s eyes snapped open, and found himself looking straight into Steve’s impossible blue eyes. He was close, and unprepared - unveiled. And he was telling the truth. There was no trace of a lie there. Steve really did think that Bucky was beautiful.

“Oh my God.” Finally, the contraction broke. Bucky’s knees gave way, thudding into the towel beneath him. It jostled the bulk of the infant’s weight inside him, and he whimpered involuntarily at the pain within.

How could a man like Steve think that of a man like Bucky?

“How are you so nice?” was the question that Bucky ultimately managed.

The question won him a low chuckle instead of an answer. But that was all the break Bucky got before the agony came for him again, and he was forcing his creaking body to brace again.

-

It was the strangest kind of companionship he and Bucky had, but Steve adored it all the same. They didn't need the talk and the snacks and the games and the banter to hold them together anymore; it was four in the morning and the dark dulled the need for distraction, while the demands of their bodies ratcheted up. The two of them sheltered in the bathroom together, hidden in the dim light and the steam and the heat.

Eventually, Bucky dragged himself away from Steve's hands in his hair and over to the shower. The noise of pleasure he made when he lowered himself down onto the chair within and the water began to fall from the ceiling was obscene.

Steve knew he should have got out of the bath to let Bucky use it. He was also glad he didn't have to. While his contractions were hovering unevenly somewhere between every four and eight minutes, Bucky's were near enough tumbling over one another.

Clarissa joined the brunet in the shower, standing behind him to keep an eye on him as he laboured between the water's stream. Noises broke out from that corner of the bathroom, and while they started out interspersed, by the time the night started to wane, the noises were almost constant, as the brunet fought against the hurt.

There wasn't much Steve could do about that. When Clarissa had tried to touch him last, Bucky had snarled at her to stop. When Steve had tried to talk to Bucky, he'd been too dazed by the pain to speak. Steve wasn't even sure he'd heard.

Bucky's voice was catching on every other exhale and Steve was stood clutching onto the sink, getting over the kind of cramp that felt like being squeezed by the hand of a giant, when he heard footsteps in the main room. A doctor, he assumed, or another midwife coming to keep an eye on him. But the bathroom felt like safety, and instincts honed over more than a decade of being a soldier demanded he look up from the sink and towards the newcomer.

At once he registered that this was not medical personnel. He wore no scrubs - a hoodie over leather jacket. Broad and tall. Strong. Combat boots with the kind of thick soles that would be terror against naked skin. Threat written in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, and a whole story told in a look. He dismissed Steve in the very first moment he entered the room. No one dismissed a heavily pregnant, close to naked Commander of the Avengers, unless they were desperately focused on something else.

Bucky, however, he honed in immediately.

He was a threat to Bucky.

All that was known in a fraction of a second's glance. Steve reached for his panic button and stepped between the man and the shower in the same moment. It put his baby in the middle, the most precious thing in his entire world, but he just knew that he couldn't allow this stranger to get to Bucky.

"Jamie, holy sh*t," the tall brunet exclaimed. He went to shoulder-barge his way past Steve, and Steve knew it was dangerous, it was confrontation, but a countdown clock had started in his head. He just had to delay, for 90 seconds max, and he grasped at the intruder. "I've been so scared, babe."

Steve didn't drop his hand. He trusted his strength. He powered straight through the instability which had plagued him earlier, tucking the inate discomfort far down and away. Busy looking over Steve's shoulder at Bucky, the newcomer grunted at him without looking at his face. "Ger'off. That's my boyfriend."

That much Steve had figured out quickly enough. Last time he'd looked at Bucky, on the other hand, he'd seen the other man clinging onto the mobility handles in the shower for dear life, his head against the tiles as if there was any chance of them still being cool. Too lost in the tides of cramping to realise they had a guest.

Low and dangerous, Steve said, "You need to leave." He applied a little pressure, the merest hint of pushback.

Finally, the man - who had to be the one Bucky called Brock - turned his attention on Steve. Recognition bought them all another four seconds closer to back up arriving. The stuttering of a brain trying to cope with the realisation that they were looking at an Avenger in a place they absolutely did not expect them to be.

"What the f*ck?"

At Steve's back, a strangled cry said that Bucky had noticed what was going on.

"No. Get out - no, you can't be here."

The panic in Bucky's voice would have grated, but Steve's focus was locked on the man before him. "You heard the man," Steve repeated, even and calm and dangerous to anyone with half a braincell, despite the fact he wore nothing but a robe and was obviously, hugely vulnerable. "Leave."

Clarissa was scuttling up to add to the barrier of bodies between Brock and Bucky. Theoretically. She was five foot nothing and only another person in need of protection.

"What the hell is going - Let go of me." Brock attempted to break out of Steve's grasp, weaving to the side to escape, but Steve preempted him with a well-timed sidestep. Through what was quickly promising to become a scuffle, Brock called, "Jamie, I just want to be here for you, let me help you. You know you need help-"

Inside him, Steve's baby was kicking hard, but he had to ignore her. Bucky cried out in rising pain, and Clarissa was trying to tell Brock to remove himself from the room, and Brock was breaking out of Steve's grasp, and Steve could already see the moment, fastforwarding to the instant that he tried to grab Brock back and he dug his elbow back into Steve's gut - and there were the pounding footsteps of his security team.

Steve judged the moment, and knew the exact instant he could step aside and allow Brock to think he was winning the fight, because agents were storming through the door.

Agents Vance and Garza made a beeline to neutralise the threat. Agent Mulligan, meanwhile, peeled towards Steve. Steve knew the protocol. He allowed himself to be steered away from danger, into the main room.

"Weapons?" Agent Mulligan demanded.

"He didn’t pull one," Steve confirmed.

"Enhanced?"

"No. 95% certainty."

"Injury?"

"None."

None of the questions required Agent Mulligan to look Steve's way, and Steve busied himself grabbing for underwear. It wasn't much in the way of armour, but it was something.

He watched from a distance as more agents poured into the space, some to haul Brock out, some to gather in a protective barrier around Steve.

"Orders sir?" Agent Vance requested over the spitting, cursing outrage of the interloper being dragged to the corner.

"Let me into the bathroom," Steve replied. "Keep the intruder here. Handcuffs on. I want him silent. He's in breach of a restraining order - or at least he should be." The wall of armoured security agents moved with Steve towards the bathroom. As they did so, nurses and midwives and medical personnel started to pour into the room. All Steve had to do was instruct, "Privacy. No one in," as he was dropped at the bathroom door, and he knew the chaos would be dealt with by the time he emerged again.

-

Brock was here. He'd found Bucky, he always found Bucky. There was nowhere safe and the baby was coming, the baby was never going to be safe.

Brock could convince Bucky to go back - that was part of the terror. There was something tangled and thorny between the two of them, and the vines made Bucky bleed every time but the thing about vines was that they were ropes that could bind him and drag him back again and again. Because Brock was a liar and Bucky knew that but his lies were honeysuckle sweet. The lies were that Brock wanted him, and loved him, and would always give him what he needed. And the truth was all the ugly dying parts in winter, that Bucky was too broken for anyone else to ever love him, and that he was stupid thinking he could look after himself let alone raise a baby alone, and -

"Bucky." Brock didn't call him that. Brock always thought it too childish. "It's okay Bucky. He's gone. He can't touch you."

"Of course he can."

The water was cascading down from the ceiling, piping hot, but Bucky could feel himself shivering. He couldn’t keep his body still, frantic with fear and hurting. Trying to swallow the cries that wanted to break free, he tensed, but it only made the cramps running up the sides of his legs worse, sent them radiating across the arches of his feet. When he released a gasp because he couldn’t hold his breath anymore, the swollen orb of his stomach rose in the air. Even his heart’s pounding was violently exaggerated in his shock.

"I won't let anything happen to you." Bucky knew it was Steve. That certainty and that strength could only be Steve. He'd shown himself gentle, but he was absolute too. This was the Commander. "My people are outside. They're not going to let him get near."

The pain finally dipped enough to let Bucky look upwards, into a face illuminated by fake candlelight and stern with concern.

The wrong question tumbled out. "Did they find me because of you?"

"No way." There was a beat, and Steve tilted his head and Bucky just knew that he was listening for something. "He's saying that the hospital called him."

Bucky had a vague memory of being asked to fill out paperwork when he'd been admitted. They'd asked for an emergency contact, so many details and Bucky had been feeling too sick to answer and he'd passed over his phone.

Was his emergency contact still set to Brock? f*ck -

It was Bucky who'd asked for them to ring Becca. This was his fault. He was so f*cking stupid -

"What do you need?"

There was Steve. Kneeling in the shower spray beside a man he'd only just met, on the brink of having his own child, and he wasn't ordering or taking charge or overbearing. He was giving Bucky control back.

What did Bucky need?

Steve had covered himself up.

"I want a blanket. Towel. Something."

"We can do that," Steve said. "Or I can get you the clothes you came in with, or something else?"

Impulsively, Bucky replied, "Something you got me."

"Okay." He expected Steve to leave, but the blond didn't break eye contact for a moment. Just lifted the leather bracelet he wore at his wrist and tapped a bead. "Cardboard box by the northern bed. Place inside the bathroom. Don't enter."

A "Sir" was snapped back, the word crackling out of the band.

Steve lowered his arm, but kept his careful distance. "What else do you need?"

It wasn't about need. Bucky wanted. He was so greedily, desperately full of want. He wanted his sister. He wanted his Mom. He wanted to go home - though he had no idea where home was, no place that was more comfortable and safer than where he was. He wanted the pain to stop.

He'd been given access to $40,000 worth of cover for his medical expenses not six hours before. He was the greediest person in the universe.

"It's okay Bucky."

Steve was talking to him like he was on the ledge. Belatedly, Bucky realised small noises had been slipping out of him uncontrolled. He couldn't think with the pain raging, unrelenting. The pressure was more than he could stand. His insides were wrought, the strength of his muscles’ spasms overwhelming, intense sensations wracking him.

There was movement. Steve was pulling away and - "No." Bucky's fingers were clawing into Steve's arm before he could even think. Bucky couldn’t ask him to stay but he didn’t want him to leave.

All he knew was that this was the one man who had kept him safe. Who'd stood between him and Brock, and he was vulnerable and hurting and he couldn't let that man step away. He was about to have his baby, he -

"Oh, pal. I'm not going anywhere." Despite the water pouring down, despite the fact he was wearing clothes, Steve reached for Bucky and Bucky found himself in the other man's arms. It was the clumsiest embrace he'd ever been a part of, but he clung onto what he could of the other man. "I was just going to get your clothes, I wasn't leaving you."

The water had long since stopped making a difference to the pain. Bucky cried out as contraction piled on contraction, burying the keens into the blond's shoulder.

"Just yes or no questions, okay? That's all you gotta tell me. Nod or shake your head if you can't speak." Steve's hand was buried in Bucky's hair again, as if he'd remembered how comforting Bucky found it. "Do you want to speak to Brock?"

"No," Bucky moaned out.

"Want me to get rid of him?"

Knowing Steve meant it, that he'd understand, Bucky nodded.

"Want me to scare the sh*t out of him in the process?"

Bucky nodded again.

Though Steve turned his head away, he didn't make any attempt to leave again. Bucky vaguely heard him speaking into the bracelet again. "Take him to the compound. Introduce him to Wanda or Wade if they're around. Cool him off if they're not. Secure the room and leave. I don’t want a crowd out there.” When Steve turned back, even through the haze of hurt, Bucky knew that he had the full weight of his attention. It was heavy, but not a burden. "You getting close?"

Bucky knew his fingers were digging in all the deeper, but he nodded again. This had to be it. He just knew.

"How do you feel about getting to bed?"

It wasn't exactly a yes or no question, but Bucky nodded all the same, trusting Steve to know what he meant. Strong arms helped him to his feet, the two of them going hand over hand until they were upright. Steve held them there for a moment, as the room beyond cleared. One of his broad palms stroked up and down Bucky's aching side, as he plucked up a towel with the other to wrap round Bucky's shoulders.

As the soft fabric was tucked around him with impossible levels of care, Bucky croaked, "Why are you doing this?"

He almost wanted Steve to say something about his duty, something about it being his job to save people, or the right thing to do. That would have made it easier. Instead, Steve said, "You'd do the same for me, wouldn't you?" As if they were equals, instead of a wreck and the most famous man in the world.

A new height in the world of agonies made it impossible to speak, but Bucky managed a nod as he leaned almost certainly too heavily on Steve for support. Steve had spoken as if reciprocity was a hypothetical. But silently, Bucky vowed he'd be the partner that Steve needed when his moment came.

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

Steve, Clarissa and Tim had hardly got Bucky settled into bed between them when Steve's phone rang. The noise broke through the sound of Bucky sucking on the gas and air dispenser that he was clutching onto like a lifeline.

"One second," Steve requested. Bucky gave him a pain-dazed nod and Clarissa stepped into Steve’s place at Bucky's side, at the head of his bed.

The burst of adrenaline that had driven Steve to protect Bucky from his ex’s threat had drained away, leaving him lead-limbed and weary, held back by the weight of his daughter low in his pelvis. She'd moved inexorably downwards in the night - real, genuine movement. But after months of carrying her high, the now oblong shape of Steve’s stomach and the drag of gravity between his hips forced him to slow even further than before. He kept his pace steady. He'd exerted himself enough.

"Steve," Natasha's voice snapped over the line the moment Steve answered. "Report."

And of course she'd have set up an alert in case Steve had to use his alarm. She was lightyears away in space, but she'd drop whatever intergalactic threat she was doing battle with in an instant if she thought she needed to tell him off.

Steve’s irritation at having to move thawed with the strength of his affection for Natasha Romanov and the particular ways she demonstrated that she cared. "I'm sure reports are the agents’ job,” Steve said. “Aren't I just the package this time?"

Natasha scoffed at him. "I'm not Wilson. I'm not going to make a joke about how long this package is taking to get delivered."

"But Tony - he'll make a joke about the size of the package. Never gets old." As Steve spoke, he gradually ambled towards the bathroom, so he could put a door between himself and the man he planned to talk about. The dull ache of a contraction welled up as Steve crossed the threshold, and he had to pause to grasp onto the doorway and hold himself there. It felt pathetic. He’d fought gods and aliens and Nazis through worse pain, run despite it, saved lives ignoring breaks and gunshots. But something even more instinctive than the fight was at work in his body now. Just as his body demanded he move at half speed, it demanded he pause and wait for the pain to pass. Demanded he be careful with himself, because for the first time it really mattered.

"Steve - you still there?" Steve’s phone asked, as he leaned his temple against the frame and tried to breathe through the pain.

"I'm fine," Steve breathed out through the aching cage of his ribs.

Natasha must have twigged the catch in his voice that the pain created, because her tone altered entirely. Almost gently, she assured, "You've got this Rogers. One last fight, and you're gonna kick labour's ass. You gotta know this fight's in the bag."

As Natasha spoke, Steve did his best to ride out the pain with the same serenity Bucky had praised him for two days prior. It started out dull and deep, but it climbed in intensity as the seconds passed, spiking into a bright, pointed hurt. It forced gasps out of him, shocked, rapid things which did little to fill him up with air. Steve ground out a breathless "Sorry," as the pain reached its most intense.

Just wait it out, wait, though the moment stretched.

Then, all at once, the ache drained away. There was a lingering heaviness in the cradle of Steve’s hips, but it didn't hurt. The absence of pain was almost euphoric.

Without his rough breath in his ears, Steve became aware of Bucky moaning out quietly behind him. He wanted to be back there. He lifted the phone to his ear at speed and made his final few steps towards the toilet which seemed as good a place as any for a little sit down. The door swung closed behind him.

"I wasn't the target," he finally informed Natasha. "I'm sharing a room with another patient. His abusive ex found him and broke in. The team dealt with it, got the situation under control in seconds."

A sceptical silence reigned. Most of Natasha's silences were at least a bit sceptical though.

"Steve," Natasha said at last. "I've known you for over a decade and I know you're a private man. Please explain to me why you're sharing something as intimate as giving birth with a stranger."

"Because we're both alone, Nat." Steve did his best to stay reasonable, not launch an unwarranted accusation because he was tired and impatient and strung out. "Because it turns out that being induced is a real slow process and there's a bunch of time to kill. Because there's this hilarious, whipsmart guy here who's hurting and I can help him feel better. Because doing so helps keep me distracted from the wait and the pain. Take your pick."

Natasha sighed. "I worried about this."

Rubbing out the residual torsion in his thighs, Steve replied, "You worried I'd find another single expectant dad to buddy up with?"

"No. But I worried you'd find some way to not focus on yourself."

It made Steve want to laugh. He tried to content himself with digging his thumb into the meat of his restless thigh. "Sure he's a distraction for me. But he's also been taking care of me Nat. He intervened with some fans who were gettin’ handsy, he got me off the shared ward, and - I'd have passed the time alone if I needed to, but I feel better having spent those hours laughing with him rather than worrying by myself."

By the end of his explanation, Steve was pretty sure he could hear Natasha grinding her teeth. "Sounds like I should be having words with Agent Vance if you've been accosted twice."

"If you'd like. But they've done exactly what they've been told."

"My Kingdom for a world in which you did the same."

Pressure was building steadily again, far more swiftly than Steve had expected and he hurried to speak while he still could. In doing so, he made a deliberate choice. "Look. The moment that I need to put Maeve first, I will. If I need to rest or space, Bucky'll understand and I'll leave him with the nurses. I'm hoping his sister will be here soon too."

"Nuhuh, you don't get to just drop your daughter's name like that and get away with it."

"Worked though, didn't it?" Steve found it unexpectedly easy to speak through the escalating sensation inside him. This contraction felt different from the others. The pain from the squeeze was far fainter, but the pressure? Pounds and pounds of it piling onto something that felt thin and stretched and fragile. Steve looked down at his belly, half expecting to see it grow. It was softer than contractions usually rendered it beneath his hands when he pressed his palm to his shirt.

"Some," Natasha admitted. "Maeve?"

"Yeah, I think so," Steve confessed. "It’s top a’ the list. I'll have to meet her to know for sure. I - haven’t been thinking of her like that in my head yet. Felt like bad luck." The pressure continued to climb, and instead of joking that Natasha had made him superstitious, Steve had to place his phone down and use the sink to stand, hoping movement would shift it. Getting upright was more challenging than he expected, and he ended up giving up bent at the waist. He stood hunched like that, propped against the sink, and switched the phone to speaker with a swipe. Bow-legged, he swayed in place, waiting for the sensation to end. Vaguely, he was aware of Natasha warning that she'd still be looking up his temporary roommate. "Wouldn't expect anything else," he grunted.

"Hurting again? Already?" Steve could hear the disapproval. "You're sure you should be looking after someone like this?"

"Doesn't hurt, 's just pressure. God, a bunch of pressure-" Suddenly abruptly worried that something was wrong, Steve forced himself to fling open the door. "Clarissa."

The midwife was there in an instant. "Talk to me."

"Pressure," was all Steve could breathe out.

"Show me where."

Steve didn't know how to demonstrate that this deep, consuming throb of weight was far inside his core. "It's right there," he managed, and then suddenly, alarmed at something new, "I'm leaking."

"I think your water's breaking Commander," Clarissa said, without a trace of either worry or amusem*nt. "Shall we get those pants off, get you sitting back on the toilet?"

Moving sounded like a terrible idea, because the pressure wasn't going anywhere. Clarissa's proposal had too many stages. All Steve wanted to do was sink into a squat not unlike his yoga poses of the day before. So he did, dropping down, his knees spread wide, hips stretched so he could rock against the pressure.

"One sec Natasha," he managed. It was an unbelievably strong force. A contraction started to pile on, sinking its teeth into his back as he swayed with increasing urgency.

The phone crackled with a well-meaning admonishment.

"Steve?"

Through the co*cktail of sensations, Steve realised that Bucky had joined them in the bathroom. He should have been in bed resting, he should - Steve was suddenly intensely conscious of the fact that amniotic fluid was slowly trickling out of him and soaking through his clothes. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment even as a hand found the back of his head. Clarissa was on her knees behind him, supporting each movement, while Bucky stroked through his hair.

"Do what feels right Stevie. Just like you tell me," Bucky's low voice encouraged him.

"My water's breaking Bucky," Steve found himself mumbling. "It's really happening."

Bucky made a soft, understanding sound. "They're not sending you anywhere now. I don't have to fight anyone off for you."

A hysterical laugh bubbled its way out of Steve. It made another small gush of water escape him. "Still time." The gentle fingers in his hair coaxed at Steve, until he found his head leaning against Bucky's leg, bowed and bent as it was. The movement twisted Steve’s body, and still more spilled out of him. "Not done yet."

"S'okay. Lean on me, I gotcha," Bucky murmured, gathering him in as much as their bodies allowed. Steve felt when pain decided to return for Bucky. His leg tensed where Steve’s forehead rested against him. Silently, Steve offered the comfort he could, rubbing at the calf he was grasping for balance.

"You can fight Tim if you like," Steve suggested.

The sound Bucky made was a strange mixture of a groan and a laugh. "Any reason?"

"Just for fun."

"Hell Steve."

Distracted as he'd been by making Bucky laugh and making Bucky feel better, Steve had hardly noticed the pressure lessening. Steve’s underwear and pants were soaked and clung unpleasantly as he used the sink to pull himself to his feet. Bucky turned his head into Steve's shoulder at once, careless of the damp or the awkwardness of their bulky forms.

The brief glimpse that Steve got of Bucky’s face showed him grey-faced and crumpled. He should never have forced himself out of bed - certainly not because Steve was having a wobble. The least Steve could do was to wrap him in his arms.

"This okay?" he checked, even as Bucky showed it was by trying to bury himself in Steve’s hold.

There was no dignity in that embrace; Steve with amniotic fluid dripping down his legs, Bucky soaked with sweat, his teeth clenched hard against the pain he was in. But all those concerns were swept aside because it was so nice to hold another person and to be held back. For someone to want to be close to Steve not because of his fame but because of how Steve could bring them ease. And for someone to want to stay in that place in Steve's arms, and perhaps it was just because Bucky was glued to the spot by the contraction's grasp. But maybe - maybe - it was because that was where Bucky wanted to be. Steve wanted him there too.

The overwarm body that clung to Steve’s own was tense as so much strung wire, the hands on Steve’s arm and side close to bruising. Steve turned his face so their temples aligned, trying to silently promise that he was there while Bucky fought to contain his pain.

Bucky’s chest was heaving when the tension dropped from his spine - but his grip stayed firm.

“We only just got you to bed,” whispered Steve. His lips were a quarter inch away from Bucky’s ear, and he took care not to make contact.

“You sounded like you needed someone.” A quiet mew of sound emanated from the back of Bucky’s throat, and the weight on Steve’s body increased as Bucky set his feet wider, some force driving him to open up his hips. “I might need to go back to bed,” he admitted, in a voice full of strain.

“Go on. I’ll be back in a second,” Steve said, as he handed Bucky over into Tim and Clarissa’s care.

A delicate cough reminded Steve that he'd been on the phone.

"Sorry, Bucky-"

"I can guess," Natasha said. And instead of 'so you've formed some kind of symbiotic bond because Steve Rogers needs to be needed,' or 'We hugged every other week when you're not a human incubator, how can you possibly be that touch starved,' the assassin instead hummed thoughtfully. "Okay. I can see how that might be good for you. The docs fine with it?"

"They've indicated it's unorthodox," Steve admitted. "But I think they can see it's good for both of us, so long as we don't get in their way." He kept the conversation he’d overheard between Heather and Khyati to himself. "And I'm Commander Rogers. Who's going to argue with me?"

There was a snort from the woman who had made it a hobby to argue with him. "Alright Rogers. I’m satisfied. I’ll let you get back to it - and we'll be with you two soon as we can, okay? We’re working on it." Natasha's voice turned husky, the way it did when she was happy letting him know that she had feelings too. "Maeve huh?"

"Yeah." Steve didn't have to tell her to keep the name to herself. Who better to trust with his secrets than a Widow? "Now I'm really gonna have to get outta these shorts. They're not sparking joy. Hurry up 'n save the universe again."

"Yes sir."

Natasha rang off, and for a moment, Steve was alone. Looking into the mirror, he held up his stomach so he could see the dark patch below his crotch, marking where his waters had broken. Undeniable proof that this was really happening, at last. He let himself just stare at it for a minute, and try to absorb some of Bucky’s belief that he’d be holding his baby soon.

-

"It's okay Bucky." The low voice was so soothing, so warm, so sure of itself, and so utterly wrong. It wasn't okay. His body was tearing itself apart. What could possibly be okay about his hips being pried in two and his muscles constricting impossibly hard and out of his control.

"You've got to breathe Bucky." A woman's voice this time, and she clearly had no idea what she was talking about because the idea of breath was ridiculous. There was an iron band squeezing his entire abdomen, the vice of it agonising, and the pressure beyond anything he’d felt before, and all Bucky could do was exist in its grip, his whole body twisted in knots to try and bear it. Any air he got was the result of quick gulps when his chest could break its lock - desperate, instinctive things, nothing he had control over.

The large hand Bucky was clutching with his own clenched back tighter. Through the grey buzzing in his ears, Bucky heard forceful exhales, controlled with military determination, and he knew that there was distress beyond his own haze of hurting. A high whine escaped him in answer as his own pain climbed - it never stopped, there was no let up, no break, he couldn't even tell if it really was getting worse or if his capacity to bear it was failing. The little tether he had to the world beyond his body held on even tighter and Bucky didn't know if it was to push comfort towards him or pull it from him, and all he could do was hang his head over the join of hands until his forehead was grinding against another man’s forearm. The pain in his low belly seared up his spine and through his guts, and Bucky grit his teeth to hold back a scream.

He shook within that particular agony for time beyond counting, vaguely aware of hands touching him and voices murmuring meaningless platitudes, and intensely aware of his uterus' deathgrip. It left every inch of him hurting, lightning flaring all the way up to his shoulders and shooting down to his knees. Even his toes were cramped and curled tight in full body labour's lock on him.

When a too-warm hand curved around the back of his neck, cradling the base of his skull, Bucky realised that even those tendons were riddled with pain. He let a small sob escape into the cavern his kneeling body had made.

The fingers pressed deep into his skin, letting out an ache that was almost sweet over his stomach's fiery, ravaging pain. Thought and heat and blood and pain hammered, but this touch was a discordant note - slow and sure.

"You're doing so well Bucky," came that low, murmuring voice again, closer now, from a mouth directly over his head. "You're being real strong," and tears were springing up behind closed eyelashes now because this man was so perfect and why couldn’t this man have fathered the child macerating its way through Bucky instead of the monster who had? Against Bucky’s neck, those strong, broad fingers smoothed their way up and down, consistently slow and firm. Bucky could feel the urgent race of his thoughts breaking down. They were being dragged back to the rhythm Steve's touch was setting. Those fingertips seemed to whisper a soporific spell: slow now, slow. No faster than you can control. Bucky tried to wonder how something that felt so solid could be so tender, but on the next languorous stroke the thought vanished.

From a million miles away, Heather promised, "Great job Bucky. You're managing this one brilliantly."

More absolute nonsense, but Bucky felt less spiteful about it.

In Bucky's blurred field of vision, a straw appeared. He didn't know whether it was put there by Steve or a midwife or a passing stranger, but he wanted to give the saviour a sainthood. Blessed ice water flooded his parched mouth as he sucked at it. Even that won him instinct murmurs of praise.

Time passed; he had no idea how much. He couldn’t move, but the pain did - thundering through him relentlessly. There was no break, no pause. He was just a vessel for the hurt, and an object to be tended to by hands more human than his. A too warm form that needed to be cooled with wet cloths. An aching thing that needed to be soothed with hot pads and firm pressure. He had no need to input. They just handled him. This broken, breaking creature that mewled and grunted because it was too much, too much, too much.

He couldn’t hold out. The pain wasn’t stopping, wouldn’t let up. He couldn’t catch his breath. Couldn’t even hold himself up.

His elbows gave way first. He tumbled onto his side and crumbled, panting.

“I can’t do this.”

He had held on to Steve’s hand as he fell, but he released it so he could cover his face, ashamed at being weak in front of a man as strong as Steve.

Heather tried to say something about it being normal to feel this way. Bucky buried his head into the cotton pillow as the thought pounded. I can’t. He couldn’t take another moment of the raging agony. It overwhelmed him, and it was worse for the fact that he’d given up the fight. He shook against the mattress. His fingers dug into his skull. He just couldn’t take anymore of it.

He was so tired, worn through by weeks and months of fear and just no help.

These people were here now and Bucky was grateful, but Bucky had to escape Brock alone. He had to hide alone and set up a new place to live alone and struggle for work alone and expend so many parts of himself just to grow the thing inside himself, all alone. He was spent.

Couldn’t they just take it out of him?

“C’mon Bucky, look at me now,” coaxed Steve.

It was hard to look at such a man. A golden man, hardly dewy while Bucky was slick with sweat. Shoulders back, straight and tall, while Bucky writhed over the mass of his belly. Smiling gently while Bucky struggled to hold whimpers back from slipping through his teeth.

Those sky blue eyes.

“I can’t do this.” The pain surged up all over again, agony in his back all the worse where he lay on his side. Too much. And it just went on and on in overlapping waves. “Make it stop. Ohh, ohhh God.” He knew that he sobbed out “Please.”

“You are doing it pal. So well.”

Heather added, “You’re really close now.”

And Bucky knew that. He could feel the baby inside him pressing down. The force of his belly’s muscles opening his cervix to its widest point, ready to move it through.

Others weren’t helping him, so Bucky sought his own help. He flung his hand out for Steve’s shoulder, and hauled himself upright. Steve was strong. He sat firm and solid, quietly helping Bucky get back up to his knees. But Bucky didn’t let go. Bucky leaned into that beautiful blond’s body, and muffled his cries into the meat of his shoulder. Vaguely, he heard Steve reassure the midwives that Bucky was no trouble. Steve’s warm palms settled against Bucky’s back, bracing him and bringing him in closer all at once - just as he had in the bathroom.

Through all those cold nights in motels and on buses and in the cramped, cold bedsit he’d eventually found shelter in, Bucky had thought that he’d never had this again. He’d always have to sleep alone, face down hurt alone but now with the responsibility of a child strapped to his back. But when Steve hauled him in like it was easy, that future started to grow spiderweb cracks.

He didn’t have to do this alone.

“Please Stevie, make them help me.” He buried the plea into Steve’s neck, possibly the safest place in the world.

Immediately, Steve asked, “What help do you want?” But Bucky couldn’t get the words out; the pain had him in his talons and wouldn’t let him go. He struggled against the pain - suddenly viciously edged - and Steve just rubbed comfort into his back and said, “S’okay, you can nod. Just like we did before, you know the drill. You want more pain meds? Epidural? Wanna get up and walk, stretch out?”

None of them were right. Too complicated. His want was simple: make it stop.

“I would if I could.” Steve was tender. Bucky found it foreign the first time Steve spoke like that. “Tell me and I’ll make sure you get it.”

And that was the thing about Steve, wasn’t it? This was a man who had broken his word by his own free will only once, famously, when he let a girl down for a dance. Bucky could bring himself to believe that not only would Steve not disappoint him, he’d never hurt him. Bucky was a squirming, shattered thing in this moment yet Steve held him like he was precious and spoke to him like he was sane and gave him the dignity of his choices. Bucky’s tears and sweat and who knew what else were slipping out and soaking Steve’s clothes, and Steve stayed a solid promise. Steve had super senses, he surely had to know that Bucky was excreting pathetically onto him physically and emotionally and yet he kept right on murmuring reassurances.

Through the clouds of pain that blurred most of the world and the distortion of tears, Steve was clear to him.

All of a sudden, so too was the most urgent need. “I want to push.” Bucky’s lower body seized with it. There was no warning - unless you counted the twenty hours of labour he’d been through so far, which Bucky wasn’t because this was so totally different. “Gotta push,” he repeated because it was all he could think about. It was the only thing that would relieve the terrible pressure that had consumed his lower body. “Right now.”

Bucky gave an experimental initial push, bowing to the urge as his body contraction kicked up and it instinctively felt right. This was what Bucky was meant to be doing.

Beyond the edge of his awareness, the midwives were trying to coach him. They were offering help and support, he knew. They wanted to check him to be sure it was time, he understood that too, but he didn’t need their fingers inside him again to tell him what he knew. His baby was coming and he had a job to do to get it out. He could hardly hear their voices over the buzzing in his ears anyway as he did the only thing that felt natural and pushed again. Steve’s voice wasn’t in that mix. Steve held Bucky, close and quiet, and when the surge of pain faded away and with it the most intense edge of the need to push, Steve carefully assisted Bucky to move to a more comfortable position. Bucky wanted his knees spread wider, his hips more open. He wanted to be higher, to have gravity on his side.

Deliverable want after deliverable want, where before there’d been the chasm of panic, and Steve took his hands and his weight and assisted Bucky to find a position that would help him to get his child out.

Even as Steve supported Bucky, he let out a long, hurt huff of his own, right against Bucky’s ear.

Pain rose within Bucky at the exact same time, and Bucky realised that comforting Steve was as essential to him as pushing for his child. He forced his hands to unlock their grip and to rub at Steve’s shoulder. From his hiding place against Steve’s neck, Bucky raised himself to lean his forehead against Steve’s.

“We’ve got this,” Bucky managed before he grunted hard, pouring his concentration down and down, marshalling his body. It hurt, but the pain was nothing like the unearthly agony of transition. This was pain with a purpose, pain with an end. He pushed and he couldn’t feel the baby moving, but he was going to push again and again until he could.

When Bucky’s contraction lifted - shortlived for once - the urge to push left him too, both sensation’s petals falling from what had been a vivid flower the moment before. He wilted, but Steve was still contorted over his belly, gripping the top of Bucky’s bed. “It’ll be over soon,” Bucky found himself promising, in a whisper only Steve could hear. “Just hold on.”

As close as he was, Bucky could only make out how dark the lines on Steve’s face were, how tightly he’d screwed up his eyes.

Bucky wondered as he waited and stroked at the rigid lines of Steve’s shoulders. It seemed so natural for Steve to help another despite his hurt, and he coped with his agonies so silently. For a moment, all Bucky could see was Steve in fatigues, with dirt smudged cheeks and smoke in the air. Scarlet seeping from his flanks, and from above the eyes of the faceless man he was helping stumble through the trees. Then Manhattan’s skyscrapers all around him, the metal monsters falling like rain from the sky, and the Avengers - bruised, scraped, bleeding but back to back. Maybe this was just how Steve made friends, forging bonds with others in shared blood and struggle, sweat and strain.

When Steve opened those breath-taking blue eyes, they were blurred with closeness and hazy with pain. But Steve smiled with his whole face, the act lighting up his eyes. “How’s it feel to be on the home stretch?”

It took a moment for Bucky to understand. He was in so deep. “Better than I thought it would be,” he answered. Another contraction was rearing its head and he readied himself to curl into it. But not before telling Steve. “So much better, thanks to you.”

“Me too Buck.” He heard the murmur, before he was lost to his body’s insistent demand to bring his child into the world.

-

Over a gruelling forty-five minutes, Bucky was seized by singular purpose. Straining with all his might, he laboured to move his child down through his body. Each contraction threw Bucky forwards the moment that it hit, launching him into a frenzy of pushing that swivelled between determination and desperation until finally - like a messenger from something divine - Heather said, “Dr Chung’s on his way. You’re so close now Bucky.”

“I f*ckin’ know that!” Bucky shouted. His body seized with pain and his back arched, forcing his rounded, red-flushed stomach outwards for what Steve suspected was one of the final times. “Fuuuuhck!” he howled out when his body slumped backwards and he was all but compelled to crunch his sweat-drenched torso over to bear down all over again after just a split second’s respite.

“Just little pushes now, only if you really have to,” Heather instructed. “Until Dr Chung arrives.”

A look at Bucky would tell even a stranger that he was caught up in a hard, focused push, that risked going on for as long as the contraction did - the exact opposite of what his midwife seemed to be recommending - and Heather cast a glance Steve’s way.

She wanted him to speak. Steve wasn’t sure that he could. For the first time in almost ninety years, he felt sick to his stomach. And he was cold. The sweat on his skin turned clammy.

Khyati was there the moment his gorge rose, a cardboard bowl thrust in front of him and a steadying hand on his shoulder. As he spat out the final bits of acid, and every muscle in his lower body curled and cramped, Bucky’s hand held his tight. Their palms were disgusting - slipped against each other with the perspiration each of them were giving off, but neither were letting go.

“Didn’t take you for squeamish,” a cracked voice joked when Steve was done spitting up, and Steve just looked at the exhausted man in the bed before him - trying to get his breath back and recover from his latest efforts, while trying to comfort and distract Steve as hurt welled up.

Steve was looking at a man who was about to become a father. Just as Steve was.

There had been concerns from the midwives that, as Bucky’s labour reached its final stages, letting Steve see how much pain he was about to be in could be a bad idea. But Steve was no stranger to pain and he’d sworn over and over again that if he couldn’t take it, he’d step away.

This wasn’t that. The shockwave running through him - distinct from the contraction ravaging him - was another thing entirely.

There were so many sins lined up at Steve’s door, and pride and wrath were his frequent companions. He’d been guilty of envy too - before he’d conceived, of anyone with a child already; and while he was pregnant, that hadn’t changed. Even in this medical centre, he’d been envious of those in labour while he was not. Even as he cheered Bucky on, he still held that covetous feeling in his heart.

Bucky hadn’t allowed himself to love his child. Steve hadn’t allowed himself, really, to believe he could finally have one of his own. Both of them were afraid, both of them guarded.

But Steve was about to become someone’s Dad. He couldn’t deny the ongoing waves of sensation anymore.

“Steve.” The hand which Bucky had been using to grip his thigh or pull his knee back when he pushed raised. The other still held Steve’s hand. It brushed against Steve’s cheeks, first one, then the other - featherlight and tender. His fingertips came away wet with Steve’s sudden tears. “What’s wrong?”

Watching Bucky, Steve didn’t feel afraid, he didn’t feel envious. He was excited. “Good tears, promise,” Steve said, thickly.

Bucky looked at him searchingly. “You think our kids’re gonna have the same birthday?”

He was trying to give Steve something to smile about, and it worked well enough. “Yeah.” Steve attempted to swallow away the feelings. It didn’t work. “Yeah I think so.”

The pain slammed into Bucky again then - Steve saw it jerk him forwards - and the brunet couldn’t speak anymore.

“Pant through if you can,” Heather encouraged.

“I ca -ahh! ahh! - I can’t,” Bucky cried.

“Of course you can,” Khyati said, with her ever-stern brand of confidence, the kind that seemed to dare the recipient of her rebuke to do better.

Steve felt Bucky’s harsh breaths trying to keep him above the water of his ocean of pain. Their twined hands were so close to his lips that the warm air gusted over and over against Steve’s skin. That overheated air hit in staccato rhythm as Bucky puffed, “It’s burning!”

“Bucky, Buck - look at me,” Steve demanded, suddenly certain that with his own contraction draining, he could catch Bucky’s attention. Fearful silver eyes turned to him. “Birthday party, right? Gotta blow those candles out.”

Bucky got a derisive “f*ck you” out before trying to pant as Heather had instructed, fighting his body’s urge to push as it wanted until the obstetrician arrived. As he battled, his grip hopped from Steve’s hand to Steve’s wrist, up to Steve’s arm as if he could climb his way to comfort.

Whimpering tones broke from Bucky’s throat when all he could do was squirm desperately instead of push, and he cried to Steve, “It’s going back,” between the sounds and the huffs of air.

With her usual reassurance, Heather leaned in and said, “You’re stretching nicely, that’s all.”

“Get the f*cking doctor to hurry the f*ck up!” Bucky shouted then. A much belated “Please!” followed weakly only when the pain started to loosen.

Steve worked very very hard to hide a smile. He was pretty sure that Bucky was right about himself, and he was going to raise a sweary child.

-

Swift steps across the room just three of Bucky’s contractions, one of Steve’s and thirty four curses later were Dr Chung’s, and Steve was eased right up to the top of the bed to make space as the doctor took over. That was fine. He didn’t need to know what was going on between Bucky’s spread legs - he’d avoided sight of it as much as possible, out of respect for Bucky’s dignity. He did need to be where Bucky could see him. Bucky sought him out time and time again - for reassurance when he was close to the edge of what he could bear, for comfort when he got brief respite.

Steve knew he needed to lie down awhile rather than alternating between sitting and standing as Bucky needed him. His back was on fire even as he leaned over Bucky’s bed to stay in reach. His chest ached with fullness and he knew a few minutes in privacy expressing was going to help. The rate of his contractions had been slowly creeping up, and he had to get his head in the game. But his baby was being monitored, she was doing just fine, and he could give Bucky a few minutes more.

More than once, Steve thought of the moment the day before, as they attempted to watch something on Netflix that he could hardly remember anymore, and Bucky had tried to stifle the signs of his labour. Steve was just repaying that kindness.

Steve was in the middle of being squeezed by a contraction that was wrenching his entire torso in and in ever tighter, his belly like a stone beneath his palm, when Bucky let go of his hand for the first time in over an hour. He was shouting “sh*t! sh*t! sh*t!” as his hand flew between his legs.

The midwives fed Bucky a litany of praise and reassurance while Steve could hardly breathe. He rubbed hard at his back in his newly released hand, begging his body to give him a moment because the doctor was telling Bucky that his baby’s head was almost out. Every second was filled with swearing and airless gasps cycling with grunts of exertion while Bucky pushed and Steve sat there, paralysed and rendered useless by the contraction.

There was an animalistic yelp that jerked Steve’s head up despite the pain, and an outpouring of encouragement as the midwives exclaimed over the delivery of the head.

Bucky was flushed almost scarlet. Once-flyaway strands of his hair were stuck to his face with sweat. His whole face contorted as he grit his teeth and bore down once more - entirely focused on his body, Steve realised, with no idea that Steve had been distracted, maybe even no idea that anyone else was there. He was pushing so hard that he was shaking, and he didn’t stop, wouldn’t give up, even when the agony made him yell “Fuuuck!” again.

Bucky collapsed backwards at the same moment as the contraction fell from Steve’s own insides. Strangled whines escaped Bucky with every breath, and Steve understood that it was because he was being spread wide by the baby’s partly-emerged form. The midwives and doctors were praising him, but Bucky’s wide silver eyes looked to Steve for comfort, as they had done so many times before.

“They’re saying one or two more pushes and you’ll have your baby,” Steve murmured.

Beyond words for the moment, Bucky just nodded. But he stared at Steve as if he were trying to memorise his face, and Steve realised with a pang which had nothing to do with his labour that Bucky thought there was at least a risk that this might be one of the last times he saw Steve.

“I’m right here. Not goin’ anywhere,” Steve promised.

Bucky nodded, his face rubbing against the perspiration soaked pillow beneath him, clearly willing himself to believe in Steve.

An unhappy moan of “oh no,” signalled the start of the next pain. Bucky tilted on his side, in Steve direction, and he dragged Steve’s hand with him towards his stomach. Steve could feel the heat radiating from the bare, sensitive skin. He could feel the power of the contraction forcing Bucky’s stomach muscles into violent action, but more than that - how Bucky used them, driving them downwards. There was a tremble to Bucky’s body as every muscle in his lower body engaged in the fight to birth his child, and when he sobbed aloud in effort Steve felt it shake through him too.

“Keep pushing Buck,” Steve urged, when he felt the first flutter of hesitance beneath his hand.

The hot, heavy weight of Bucky’s stomach went taught again with a renewed surge of energy and effort as, growling and snarling with the force it required, Bucky pushed as hard as he could.

Steve was transfixed on the feeling of skin beneath his hand - astonished when he realised he could feel the baby being compelled down and down.

Then Bucky screamed. It was a terrible sound and his whole body recoiled from the pain his own pushing had created.

Steve’s hand flew to Bucky’s cheek. Khyati was announcing something about shoulders, but the only thing that Steve knew to do was draw Bucky’s attention and instruct, breathlessly, “You can’t stop. Push.”

Clearly in agony, coiled and wracked by it, Bucky groaned in disconsolate pain as he pushed at Steve’s instruction, with everything that he had, with silver eyes tearing up as they begged Steve to make it end.

And then Bucky simply stopped moving.

It took a beat for Steve to realise it was done. To turn his head to see Dr Chung lifting a blood-smeared, white-coated purple creature up from the plastic covers.

“Did I-”

And Steve had seen shock frequently enough. “You did it Bucky. You made it,” he said, firm, so that Bucky turned wide silver eyes towards him.

He looked utterly lost.

“It’s over?”

“Yes, sweetheart.” Steve didn’t hold himself back another moment: he reached for Bucky and gathered as much of him as he could into a tight hug, letting him shiver into the heat of Steve’s body until - before either of them could adjust to the thought - there was a baby being passed into Bucky’s arms.

Still, understanding failed to find Bucky. He looked down at the infant in a state of bafflement and then back up at Steve, down and up again, until on the third oscillation, reality hit. Staring down at the softly crying child in his arms, he exclaimed, “Holy sh*t!”

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

Bucky had a son.

He had a living, breathing child in his arms, who was his to look after for the rest of time. A child who looked like a puce-coloured, wrinkled old man, and who looked perfect too. A child who was sleeping, which was fantastic because it meant he felt safe in Bucky’s arms and which was also a source of regret because Bucky had realised that he didn’t know what colour his son’s eyes were, and he found himself wanting to know that an unfathomable amount. A child who had known only Bucky and who Bucky didn’t know a single thing about. A child who had seemed so huge when Bucky was hauling him round inside his body and pouring everything he had into trying to push him out, and yet was the smallest person that Bucky had ever seen.

How could Bucky possibly be allowed to hold him? Surely at any moment someone was going to come by and realise that Bucky couldn’t be allowed to do this? There had to be some sort of qualification to hold another human being’s life literally in his hands. Who was letting random people raise children if they had no idea what they were doing? There ought to be rules and handbooks and -

A quiet groan from the man in the bed across the room from Bucky’s dammed the river of panic before it could become tumultuous.

Bucky dragged his eyes away from his baby only for Steve Rogers. The labouring man had slipped away during those first minutes of strangely-calm chaos after the birth, and Khyati had watched over him ever since. She was a steady presence at Steve’s side, though she simply sat nearby, murmuring to him from time to time and passing him water.

Bucky would have been holding Steve’s hand. Bucky would have been rubbing Steve’s back and stroking Steve’s shoulders because Bucky knew Steve Rogers well enough after all of two and a bit days that he knew Steve f*cking melted when someone took care of his gorgeous shoulders. If Bucky didn’t have an unwieldy, oversized body, he’d have had Steve comfortably in his arms, promising that he was safe and lov- cared for, because the brief moments that Bucky had spent in Steve’s hold were the calmest of his labour.

But Bucky couldn’t do any of that because Steve had deliberately stepped away. Steve had pulled curtains around himself while he relieved the pressure in his chest. And though Steve had re-opened the fabric when he was done pumping, he hadn’t come any closer, and Bucky’s exhausted body sure as hell wasn’t going to move without help, and he wasn’t sure what to do with his child if he did move.

With their beds apart, Bucky couldn’t tell how Steve was doing. His head was buried in his arms, which were folded against the wall he leaned heavily into. The wall had to be cold and comfortless.

A twitch from the baby against Bucky’s skin dragged his attention back to the infant. The child had splayed his hand right over Bucky’s breastbone. He had the smallest fingernails Bucky had ever seen - rough edges to otherwise an utterly soft being.

The baby had to be all the things that Steve wasn’t: fragile and calm, relaxed and resting, warm and feeling safe.

There had to be a way that Bucky could bring that to both of them. The baby had cuddled up and gone to sleep within minutes of being born. He wouldn’t even know if Bucky’s attention was divided.

Even as he twitched the duvet up to ensure it covered more of his son’s back, Bucky felt a different wave of warmth swell inside as he thought back to the way Steve had made him feel, what made it different and what made it matter - in the hope he could give something similar to Steve. Steve had been so good to him. Patient and caring and closer than Bucky had ever expected him to be. Bucky hadn’t done a thing to deserve it, but… they’d clicked together like perfect puzzle pieces. He hadn’t felt awkward once or like he had to hide or be embarrassed or afraid. He’d felt like he could be himself with Steve.

The kind of comfort that Steve had brought was different from that the midwives did. Bucky was a job to them, even if they were kind. Steve had wanted to help, just because he was good.

Bucky was still going to be that for Steve. He didn’t know how now that he had this snoozing infant against his skin, a child he realised that he could not imagine letting go - but all the same. He’d try.

When Steve’s muscled shoulders relaxed, and Bucky knew that the contraction he’d been afflicted by had drained away, he murmured, “Hey Stevie. You doing okay?”

The blond slowly raised his head. “‘M alright Buck. Don’t worry about me.” Steve hauled himself to stand upright as if his body weighed a ton. But Steve didn’t stop when his spine straightened out - he tipped his head back to the ceiling, his eyes closed, and blew out a long breath as his palms ranged restlessly over his stomach. “I think - Heather, Khy - you should try ta find me another room,” Steve said, almost in a daze, swaying on the spot. “So I don’t bother you no more.”

“You couldn’t bother me if you tried,” Bucky replied at once.

Steve just shook his head, a single time. He didn’t even open his eyes.

Bucky watched him, scrutinising the honey-dripping drawl of Steve’s voice, and the drag in his movements as he rocked from side to side. “How tired you get looking after me huh?”

“I’m fine.”

It was bullsh*t, but Bucky wasn’t sure that he could argue. He had a newborn inches from his mouth, the child was half an hour old, and he wouldn’t let his son hear him rowing. To his surprise, it was Khyati who made eye contact with Bucky and picked up the thread.

“Actually, this would be a good moment to try and get some rest if you can, Commander. I know you’re getting those surges pretty close together, but before it gets more intense.”

Almost regretfully, Steve sighed. He didn’t seem to have the energy to argue, and Bucky knew he’d made the right decision choosing to persuade him. “‘Kay.”

It was then that Bucky remembered how the painkillers had given him the ability to nap. He wasn’t sure how he’d have pushed his son out if he hadn’t been able to sleep. And Steve wasn’t going to be able to get that relief.

When Steve crawled on top of the covers of his bed, Bucky signalled to Khyati. With a wink, she clicked off the locks on the wheels of Steve’s bed, and instead manoeuvred it to press against Bucky’s. She reached forwards to push down the handrails between them, even as Steve frowned in worry.

“I don’t want to wake up your baby. If… If I can’t keep quiet.”

Bucky returned his gaze to the sleeping newborn, and realised he’d looked away for too long. “Look at him. He’s out for the count. As if he did all the work today, ‘stead of you and me.” The affection which flooded Bucky as he said that surprised even him. It wasn’t love but… there was something like tenderness he felt with his eyes on this creature, who could amuse him without a word passing his lips.

It was then that Bucky realised that Steve was looking. There was naked joy in his eyes as he looked at the child.

Steve’s blue gaze flicked up to Bucky’s. He was so intensely, clearly happy for Bucky, in a way that Bucky couldn’t even fathom or relate to. But it was some kind of enchanting.

“Yeah,” Bucky breathed in agreement. “God. Yeah.”

Those eyes fluttered closed then against a new wave of hurt. Steve turned his face half into his pillow as he worked to breathe his way through the contraction. Far more controlled than Bucky had been, the brunet knew. But that didn’t mean that he didn’t want for ease.

Bucky frowned down at his sleeping child. It took a moment - he didn’t want to disturb the infant - but eventually, he was able to free one of his hands, keeping the baby secure in only one, so he could reach for Steve. Just as the blond’s contraction peaked, his white teeth showed in a grimace and Bucky began to stroke through cornflower hair.

“I’ve gotcha Steve,” Bucky murmured. “I’m gonna be here for you right back, ‘kay?”

Steve didn’t reply. But he did pull himself closer to Bucky. His warm, broad hand found Bucky’s closest leg over the covers and held on.

Softly, Bucky praised, “Yeah, that’s it. You can hold on all you need.”

Everything about the moment felt tender. Not just Bucky’s bruised and bleeding body, which he needed to be dosed with pain relief again. But the growing realisation that something so insanely vulnerable had been pushed out into a harsher world, and that would be terrifying as f*ck were he not cosseted in warm blankets and a peaceful sanctuary of a room. Add in how Bucky could feel himself being tugged to confront the new reality that was fatherhood. And then add this impossible golden man, trying almost-unconsciously to get comfortable with his forehead pressed against Bucky’s ribs and his fingers trying not to squeeze Bucky’s leg too hard.

This was meant to be a golden hour. Maybe other people’s looked a little different. But it certainly felt golden enough to Bucky.

-

Steve knew that he should have resisted Bucky’s call. If he’d been a better man, he’d have hauled himself away straight away and given Bucky space and peace with his son. Privacy, after how much exposure he’d had. Some time to bond with this child he’d been afraid that he wouldn’t love.

But Steve didn’t want to be alone or passed from midwife to midwife as rotas changed. As much as he knew any comfort Bucky could give him wouldn’t last, Steve was tired and he was hurting and his defences were already down… and he wanted the way that Bucky could make him smile. Not the physical act - the quirk of lips that could have one of a thousand meanings behind it or none at all. No. It was the way that Bucky made his ribcage fill and expand with feelings he’d only associated with his team mates for a very long time. The way that affection rushed through the crevices that riddled a man who had lived through as much as he had, and made him feel whole - at least for that moment.

That sensation stirred inside him as he lay there with Bucky’s fingers smoothing over his scalp, listening to Bucky’s quiet conversation with his new baby, as the brunet said, “I guess now that you’re here, I’m gonna have to figure out a name for you. That feels like the right step. Yeah.”

Trying not to intrude on such an intimate conversation, Steve did his best to lie still and silent. But that did not stop him overhearing every murmured word.

“You’re gonna be living with whatever name I give you for the rest of your life is the thing. So this is high pressure. Not as high as the pressure Steve’s gonna be feeling damn soon, but still.” Which suggested Steve wasn’t doing such a good job of pretending he wasn’t there as he thought. Nevertheless, he remained motionless as Bucky continued, “Maybe I’ll take some inspiration from celebs. They know what they’re doing. ‘Wolf’ maybe? Are you a ‘Wolf’ kiddo? Or an ‘Abel’? You’re gonna watch everything Amy Poehler’s ever starred in one day, so you might as well pay tribute early. Hmm… Beyonce called one of her kids ‘Sir’, but I don’t think I can pull that off…” Bucky paused, apparently thinking it over. “What about ‘Atlas’? Fitting tribute right? Greek god of a man. Gorgeous, of course. Stronger than anything and carries the weight of the world on his shoulders.” The hand which had been lightly scraping against Steve’s temple lifted, and reappeared at the juncture between his neck and shoulder. “I’m trying to get you to relax Stevie. Not very well apparently.”

“I am re- ohh, ohhh wait.” Steve hissed in a breath as a contraction speared him. Without his waters, each spasm was sharp, and they were only getting sharper with each one that passed.

As Steve panted and tried to make it through without shouting out the way he wanted, Bucky spoke at the same volume he’d used with his son. “You’re doing it Steve. You’ve got this.” It forced Steve’s groans to mute, that whispering voice, so he could hear. “You’re gonna have her in your arms, just like this. You’re gonna give her whatever pretty name you’ve already picked out for her. You’ve just gotta get through this.” Steve could see it then. Propped up in bed just as Bucky was, with his daughter clutched close.

Images like that had driven him for years: the thing he finally allowed himself to move from wanting to working towards. His mind overflowed with them, his sketchbook was packed with them. But Bucky had already helped him to realise that those drawings were about to become 3D and the visuals hit him with fresh power.

The pain was drilling up his back, skating in ravaging lines down the tops of his thighs and he contorted against it as far as he could though he wasn’t sure he actually did more than flinch because he could see her. Maeve. It hurt but he found the mastery to breathe because it was all for her.

Anything for her. Everything.

Including saying goodbye to this.

At the edge of hearing, Bucky soothed with a “There you go,” and Steve didn’t know whether it was for him or the baby but it helped.

When the pain finally faded, it vanished so completely as to have never been there. A rush of endorphins followed, and in the euphoria Steve found it in himself to raise his head and look at the pair resting above him. The baby wasn’t still as he slept: he kicked and twitched beneath the covers, still getting comfortable with his new existence outside of the womb. Further up, Bucky’s silver gaze tracked every one of the infant’s movements. Attentive and… perhaps a little shellshocked, eyes a fraction too wide.

They’d talked about the moment that a parent fell in love with their child. Steve wondered if Bucky had felt it yet, and suspected that the answer was no.

That was okay. And, assuming that Bucky would think that it was not, Steve wasn’t going to raise it. Instead, he reached for the hand which had come to rest on his shoulder. He pulled it down, stared for a moment at the fingers which had clung to his, and pressed his lips to the back of Bucky’s palm.

Steve could hear the effect it had on the other man as he sucked in a breath. Felt the spasm of Bucky’s torso, and how he immediately regretted the movement.

“Congratulations Bucky,” Steve said. “He’s precious.”

Thickly, Bucky replied, “Thank you.” A shadowplay of emotions flickered rapidly over Bucky’s face - doubt and excitement, fear and hope, and a dozen others that Steve could hardly track. Eventually, he settled on somewhere between alarm and pleasant surprise. “He is, isn’t he? Oh. Oh hi baby.” Steve was treated to a front row view of Bucky focusing his attention onto his son. “You opening your eyes? Yeah, it’s bright out here.”

Their ever-present midwives moved at the windows and the lights, and the room dimmed. Steve flashed a grateful smile in Khyati’s direction, though when he started to feel the need to act on Bucky’s behalf, he didn’t know. There was a level of presumption he had to be aware of: that he could touch for comfort even though Bucky didn’t need his help anymore; that he could still guess at what might be in his best interest even if they hadn’t talked about it. He had to take care with whatever this ‘something’ was that lay between them, undiscussed and unconventional, all the more so now that Steve couldn’t think of himself as being of service to another, as the cover his conscience needed.

A small, grating noise emerged from the baby, and any tentative notion Bucky might have built up that he knew what he was doing vanished. His confidence sapped in an instant, and Steve could see Bucky realising that he would have to answer that cry hundreds of times in the days ahead, and that he didn’t know what it meant.

“I think - could he be hungry?” Bucky looked at all three of them for help - a glance around the room - and Steve was pleased to make way for actual experts as Kyhati came forwards.

“Do you want to give breastfeeding a try?”

Feeling his cheeks heat, Steve began the laborious process of rolling himself over and away to give Bucky his space - but the hand he’d been holding grabbed at his fingers before he could slip away.

Sternly, Bucky said, “You’ve already seen my tit* Steve. I’m chill if you are.”

Steve’s ability to argue was stolen from him as another contraction poured through him, his abdominal muscles clamping down with all their improbable strength. He spared enough thought to recognise that the breaks he was getting between pains were vanishing. As he clutched at his burdened, rock hard stomach, pressing fruitlessly at the ache as it intensified, he felt Bucky hesitate and heard another unhappy noise from the baby, louder than the last. It sent something instinctive and urgent jolting through his chest.

“Feed him,” Steve grunted between rough pants. His breath was the one thing he could control as his enhanced body spasmed strongly against his will and his aching back arched against instruction and his hot, already-full chest throbbed at the sound of another man’s child. Having to speak threw off the rhythm of breath he was grasping for control over.

The hand in his slipped away. At the edge of his consciousness, Steve was aware of conversation between Kyhati and Bucky, and of movement, but all he could do for Bucky and his boy was to lie there as quietly and as still as he could manage as the contraction corkscrewed through him without let up.

-

Bucky had thought that he was going to have to teach his child how to speak. Turns out, Bucky was the one who had to learn a new language. Apparently his baby did a thing called ‘rooting’ with his mouth when he was hungry and ready to be fed, and that was one of a list of signs that Bucky needed to be on the alert for. Apparently the movement the infant did which Bucky had thought was just a random flail was him ‘crawling’ towards his source of food.

“Maybe we can learn together,” Bucky whispered. He’d meant the message for his baby, but Steve tilted towards him, somewhere between confused and curious though his eyes didn’t open. Steve was spending a lot of time like that, lost in himself, but he was constantly touching some part of Bucky, as if Bucky were an anchor in the storm his body was being buffeted by. “S’okay Stevie. Was talking to-” There was a name on the tip of Bucky’s tongue. He’d been playing it over and over in his head. Was it right? How would he be able to tell?

“We could.” Steve’s voice emerged almost inaudibly. “Learn. If you don’t want dinner.”

Something about Steve felt detached, even if the one thing Bucky could be certain of was his physical contact. Bucky could piece together what he was trying to say, however. “I do want dinner. And that dance,” Bucky said firmly. “But if you want to share diaper tutorials and baby translation classes, I’m up for that too.”

When Steve didn’t reply to that one, Bucky peered over the milk-sated baby in his arms to peer at the other man. He was rocking fractionally against the mattress. His breath blew out in long waves against the sheets. Soothing himself, demonstrating that astonishing control.

Bucky felt in awe of all that strength.

Even with the cramps falling over him regularly, Steve was clearly as close to sleep as he was going to get, and that was something Bucky drew some pride from. He’d kept his son quiet and comfortable. He’d stayed still and made sure Steve could draw from his warmth and his presence, as much as that did anything. Those had to have helped Steve rest a little.

Without warning, minutes later, Steve murmured “Italian?” It took Bucky a beat to realise that Steve wasn’t talking about languages but dinner. “Or I could cook.”

“I’d love that.” It warmed Bucky all the way through to his toes that even in this fuzzy, half-conscious state, where Steve was getting lost in his body’s machinations, the dream that Steve was choosing to chase was one in which they were still spending time together. That thoughts of Bucky were getting mingled in with the fantasies of Steve’s child. Maybe, maybe both promises of a future they could share in some way. “If you’ll let me do dessert.”

“Okay.” Steve gave his acquiescence as if this were simple.

Bucky shook his head, feeling a fondness more commonly held for life-long friends. Easily, his gaze was drawn back to his son.

The name was back in his head. It was a King’s name, which didn’t seem right. It was an inventor’s name, one belonging to creators of both cars and ketchup. But it was also a name which was entirely new. Bucky didn’t know a single person in real life with the name, and the sounds it made in his head were clean and sweetly mild. That’s what he and his son needed for their future, more than anything.

Though Steve was resting, and Bucky didn’t want to upset his careful equilibrium, the blond was between contractions and so Bucky gave it a punt. “What do you think of Henry?”

“Kissinger? Met him in ‘44. Bit of a shock to see ‘im in the history books later.” The question was discordant enough that it coaxed Steve into lifting his head. Heavy-lidded eyes turned up to Bucky in confusion. “Why?”

“I meant as a name,” Bucky explained, trying very, very hard not to laugh at Steve. “For the baby.”

“Oh!” Clarity dawned on Steve then, and Bucky immediately regretted that he’d disrupted the man’s rest.

“Sorry, don’t worry. Lie back down-”

“No, no.” Despite Bucky’s protestations, Steve pushed himself to a sitting position. He looked down at Bucky’s son for a very long moment. Finally, decisively, he announced, “I think Henry’s going to be happy and healthy, and he’s gonna love his Dad very much.”

f*ck’s sake. There were the emotions, determinedly threatening to make him cry again. Bucky swatted Steve on the shoulder. If it turned into more of a caress that wasn’t Bucky’s fault. “I said lie down, stop saying nice things to me,” Bucky said, and even he couldn’t deny the wetness in his voice.

Steve gave a syrupy chuckle, but slipped down the bed to snuggle back into Bucky’s side. To Bucky’s relief, the moment Steve was horizontal again, he exhaled deeply, blowing out any of the tension that Bucky had roused. He’d be back in his trance-like state soon enough.

The movement, however, had the baby rousing a little. Dark blue eyes revealed themselves again, unfocused and vague. Instinctively, Bucky covered the child’s torso with his hand, trying to lend him comfort. “Shh Henry. We’re all having a rest. Close those eyes again for me kiddo.” And Bucky didn’t need a baby translation manual to understand that the heavy blinking of those deep-sea eyes was a promise of sleep ahead. He didn’t even need to see Steve’s smile to know that the name had sounded right. “Back to sleep Henry.” Repeating it just because it was decided now, confirming it in place.

This was his son. Bucky’s son Henry.

And for the first time in a very long time, in the quiet of that room on the ward, as he listened to the rhythms of breath from Steve and Henry both, Bucky followed Steve’s lead and allowed himself to look forward to the future.

-

It was harder than Steve expected to keep quiet and still, but he was stubborn. For another hour and change, he allowed himself to lie at the side of an apparently also-stubborn Bucky Barnes, to oscillate between pain and rest just as Bucky ranged across the spectrum of terror to elation. But he’d always known that it couldn’t last, no matter how Bucky’s plush bottom lip pushed out or his chin turned up. He knew that Bucky needed to succumb to the adrenaline drop and sleep. He knew that Bucky would want to get clean and comfortable. But he knew, too, that Bucky wouldn’t do any of that while Steve was nearby, and that the thing which would end it all must surely have landed and be on her way.

So Steve allowed himself to live vicariously through those first moments of Bucky’s child’s life, in the gentle, tender space. He allowed himself to bury the thought of how much he would miss this man’s hand on him as the pain wracked him. And when the security team knocked on the door to announce that his visitor was on the approach, Steve didn’t feel resentful. He felt so, so grateful for the time he’d spent with Bucky, and all too aware of the privilege of what he’d been able to witness.

Despite the fact he was in the final moments of a cramp, he didn’t have long until the next began anyway, so he slowly raised himself to a seated position. It twanged strained ligaments within him, the solid bulk of his baby shifting and heightening his discomfort. Bucky watched him move with a pale exhaustion.

“Room service?” Bucky joked.

“Not quite.” Beneath the palm on his stomach, Steve could feel the muscles starting to relax, and the grimace fell from his voice as they did so. “Buck. I-” He stared at Bucky and his infant and did his best to fix the image of the pair in his mind. Even shattered and still bleeding, Bucky was beautiful, and the little boy in his arms was too. “I have to go. I’m gonna be disturbing you. I’m in your way-”

“You’re not.”

“I am. You need to recover.”

“I am recoveri-”

“You’re not, or you’d be showerin’ and sleepin’ - and you’re not, cos I’m here. I’m distracting you. And I’m not gonna get between you and your kid Buck, not even a little.”

“I’m not gonna let that happen,” but Bucky’s protest was weaker this time.

“And I can’t - I don’t think I can do what I need to if I’m worrying about you. Waking you or Henry. Getting in your way. You might say that I’m not but I’m still gonna feel it. And…” Steve inhaled and even his lungs hurt with how badly his upper body had been compromised. “I need to focus just on my daughter for a little bit. This is gettin' harder, and I've seen how hard it's gonna get and - I’m sorry, I can’t split my attention for much longer either.”

God help him, Bucky looked a little like he was going to tear up and what kind of heel made a man with a two hour old baby cry. “Steve.” His voice wobbled. “You did so much to help me. I don’t think you understand how much of a difference you made. I want to do that for you.”

“I know.” Sadness rankled then because Steve knew he was giving up the comfort of soft words and soft hands and all the smiles Bucky could bring him. He had to though, for all three of them. Four if he counted himself. “But - I promised I wouldn’t leave you alone, and I’m not going to.” Bucky looked poised to interrupt again, but Steve went for shock and awe to stop him because he was running out of time. “Your sister’s downstairs.”

“What?” Bucky’s squawk startled the baby. “Henry, I’m sorry-” Bucky said, laying his hand over his swaddled infant’s torso, rubbing gently. “Shh, shh.”

While he was distracted, Steve turned to Agent Vance. A nod instructed her to bring Becca up. Heather stepped over at Steve’s next look. “There’s a room available two down,” she said. “We’ve held it for you.”

Heart as sore as his hips, for reasons he couldn’t interrogate as clearly as he normally might, Steve began the arduous process of getting to his feet. He ached. How could his baby possibly be this heavy? Bucky’s attention was on his child, and that was where it needed to be. All that stood in Steve’s way was a contraction - lightning sharp, slicing through him, and a whine slipped from him as he sagged back against the bed.

Bucky called his name, drenched in concern, but the baby was still whimpering.

This was why. Steve couldn’t split Bucky’s attention anymore. And, selfishly, Steve knew that Natasha had been right, and he couldn’t be distracted from his own birth anymore. He was certain that this was the right thing to do. And Steve Rogers always did the right thing.

The pain cinched through his abdomen, demanding, wearing at him. How many now? How many more? How much longer in this agony? How much longer until the next? His powerful, enhanced muscles brutalised ultra-sensitive nerves, in a body that healed and healed, resisting change. Damping down frustration and the urge to groan both, Steve locked himself in tight until the contraction ended.

Heather was there with a wheelchair and an outstretched hand when Steve could finally do something other than clutch at his low belly. “You want to walk or want a ride? And before you answer, consider that your team’ll clear the corridor while we move you. No eyes.”

Conducting an audit of his own body, Steve considered. A fall wouldn’t be helpful, and this wasn’t the moment to be bullheaded. He reached for the wheelchair, wincing at the internal stretch, and turned it 180 degrees. He could use it for support.

Heather had hardly got him upright when Steve heard a huff of discomfort behind. Scowl evident, Bucky was standing. Henry was in Khyati’s arms.

“Buck, you need-”

“Shut up.” Determinedly, Bucky crossed the room with steps which limped and hands which hovered over any surface which might add him stability, in case he needed it. Steve met him as close as he could to halfway, feeling with every step the pressure of his daughter’s head, right between his legs. He knew they must look quite the pair. “f*ck you,” Bucky spat as soon as he was close. “You don’t get to swan into my life like this, to share the biggest moment of my life with me and then f*ck off. Without letting me pay you back.” He was furious. He was stunning when he was furious, it turned out. His silver eyes darkened, intense as a storm. “And Becca? You flew her here, right? So f*ck you again for putting me further in your debt then running.”

“I’m sorry,” was all that Steve found it in himself to say.

Bucky cut him off before he reached the second syllable, demanding, “D’you think I don’t care about you? Is that what it is? Do you seriously think I don’t care about you hurting, or being alone?” Abruptly, Bucky’s anger turned to upset. “Is that what you’re used to, Steve? Is that what you think you deserve? Because I’ve thought like that, and you-”

Hurriedly, Steve said, “No, I just-”

“I said shut up.”

One moment they were fighting, and the next Bucky was surging up and… everywhere. His hands were framing Steve’s face. His body was pressed as far into Steve’s as their bloated forms would allow. Swollen, aching chest against swollen, aching chest. Overheated, sweat-marked skin against overheated, sweat-marked skin - the pair of them shirtless and musky both. And soft, chapped lips against soft, chapped lips.

Demanding kisses from the get go. As if Bucky thought the only way that he would get to keep Steve was if he claimed him, utterly, overwhelming his ability to leave. It sent a new flare of heat through Steve’s confused soup-sack of a body. But it was too much and too soon for Steve, with the knowledge distracting him that his pain-free window was shrinking with every second’s passage.

Steve skimmed his fingers down the younger man’s sides, gentling, creating space but not forcing distance. Bucky broke away with a confused noise, clearly and immediately afraid he was being rejected, but Steve did his best to hum his reassurance. When he kissed Bucky again, it was with tiny, sweet motions that forced Bucky to follow him, then finally, gentle and tender motions. The kind of kissing that Steve could hold for hours, melting into his partner’s body as it did the same, and gradually turning up the heat degree by degree, enjoying each one’s difference. The kind of kissing that in any other circ*mstances would have had Steve guiding Bucky back to the nearest soft surface so he could cover the younger man with his body, so he could ensure Bucky was in no doubt of how much he was wanted, so Bucky could feel the rolling of his hips and so Steve could turn his skin into a landscape of pleasure. Any other circ*mstance.

Steve almost startled when one of Bucky’s hands floated down to smooth at what once had been Steve’s waist. Bucky hadn’t placed his hands on Steve’s stomach before. It had only been in the final moments of Bucky’s birth that Steve had felt his. Steve inhaled sharply at the intimacy. Bucky’s fingertips hovered, but Steve just kissed him more determinedly until the touch was back.

Bucky could have him. There wasn’t a part of himself that Steve was going to hold out of his reach, and he knew somehow that he would trust Bucky with his daughter. This man he’d only just met but shared so much with, and whose mouth Steve wanted to lose himself in.

When Bucky pulled back with a murmur of, “I’ve got you,” it was before Steve even noticed the contraction rising within him. “I’ve got him,” he repeated to the midwives who started forwards at the surprised grunt which broke from Steve when the force of the cramp finally breached his awareness.

But Bucky was unsteady on his feet. Steve couldn’t lean on him, he had to hold himself together as the hurt surged -

Close and inaudible to anyone but Steve, Bucky murmured, “Just one last time, let me be here Stevie.”

The nickname worked. Steve sagged and gave up some of his weight to the other man, whose strong arms held him up and whose strong hands found hard-wracked muscles to massage the ache from. One last time to hide his face in the other man’s neck the way that he wanted. One last time to stock up on comfort. The first time Bucky stroked at the base of his stomach, hand diffusing warmth through the hyper-sensitive skin. But the last time Steve would have to worry about trapping his moans or keeping himself vaguely together. So he held on through that final pain, doing all he could to memorise the sensation of Bucky’s body against his, the heat where their skin met, the freely given affection and the tenderness of his touch.

Henry began to grumble just as the contraction peaked. The moment his high-pitched noises began, their moment was over. Steve felt the sudden change in Bucky’s posture - the immediate draw towards his child - even as he ground his head against the other man’s collarbone.

“f*ck you for being right as well,” came Bucky’s whisper.

Steve was sorry for that too. Though the pain hadn’t ended, he straightened himself up, ignoring his spine’s protest, and the way his skin felt empty somehow without Bucky’s touch. “Go on.”

But Bucky surprised him. Bucky leaned up for one last kiss. “Good luck,” he whispered, close enough that their lips brushed.

Steve tried not to hear “Goodbye.”

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

Rebecca Barnes burst into Bucky's room no more than ninety seconds after Steve departed it. There, she dropped a bulging rucksack to the ground, threw open her arms so she took up as much space as physically possible, and announced, "I'm here!"

Henry began to cry.

When the tiniest person he had ever handled cried, Bucky had to work very hard not to freak out because how did you comfort something with limbs this fragile and skin this filmy and bones this bird-like? Bucky held Henry’s entire body in his hands, and moving the newborn up to his shoulder was an exercise in delicacy - one he hardly breathed through as he undertook it because they kept telling him to support Henry’s neck but his head was full of horrific imaginings of what would happen if he didn’t. But an hour previously, while Steve had been struggling to rest in Bucky's lap, the change in position had worked to stop Henry crying. Bucky figured it was worth a shot, before he had to do something drastic like standing up.

"Look at you." As Bucky had been trying to settle the baby back down, Rebecca had shed her coat and gravitated to his side. She plonked herself down on the bed beside his knees. "You're a Dad Buckster."

And wasn't that a kicker? "I guess so." Bucky startled at the idea that this mite of a creature would ever be big enough to call him Dad.

The hug that came for him then was a far cry from Becca's usual rib-cracking squeeze, but the promise of home surrounded him so totally that it didn’t matter. Family. His twin. The warmth not just of her body but of the knowledge that a person who could be trusted explicitly and totally was here to help him. Bucky didn't have the hands spare to hold Becca in turn, but as affection sluiced through him, he shuddered out, "Oh my God Becs."

"I know. I know, it's terrifying." Becca was keeping herself away from Henry's back, careful not to smother him, but her grasp tightened wherever she could touch Bucky. "I'm so sorry I wasn't here."

"You're here now," said Bucky. The words choked in his throat as the gratitude overwhelmed him. He owed Steve Rogers more than he could fathom, and had no idea how he could begin to pay the man back.

When Becca drew away, there were unshed tears in both their eyes. "I missed you so much little brother." She glanced at Henry, placing her hand over Bucky's on his back. "How long?"

Bucky glanced at the clock on the table. "Two hours and change."

Becca's bottom lip wobbled. She surged up to smack a kiss against his forehead, as if that was the only way she could express the tumult. "How was it?"

"Worst pain I've ever been in. Never wanna be in that much pain again," Bucky said decisively, earning himself a watery laugh from his twin. "Still in a fair bit of pain if I’m honest."

"So. Drugs first. Then shower? Food? Nap?" Becca asked, entering business mode, already reaching for the bell which would summon a midwife.

"All of the above. And I really need a piss."

"Charming." Becca laughed, but began to stand. A noise from Bucky halted her progress.

"Don't you want to meet your nephew first? I'm sure that Henry wants to meet his Aunt Becca."

Handing the baby over was a terrifying prospect: holding him was fine, Bucky was learning, even if the shoulder position he’d just tried left him feeling a bit like he was holding a sagging bag of flour to himself and that Henry couldn’t possibly be comfortable with his legs so scrunched. Moving him was the hard bit. But Becca took him with hands made confident by experience, and drew Henry up to her shoulder in one smooth motion. She even leaned over the bed to pluck up a muslin from a small pile that Steve had left, to place over her sweater. "Goodness, he's little. What is he, five pounds? Six?"

Bucky shrugged. "I don't know. They've not done all that yet. They - kinda just let me hold onto him."

Becca's eyes went round as pennies. "I didn't miss everything then." She stood, and Bucky tried to quell the lurch of concern as he watched Henry go with her - as if a mom of two didn't know what she was doing. "Let me look after him for a few. I'll ask a midwife to come in and look after you."

-

Steve all but crawled the final yards from Bucky's room to his own fresh one. Heather hovered beside him while Khyati and Agent Mulligan followed with his belongings.

The moment Steve stepped inside, he winced at the flood of noon-day sunlight through the wide windows. He made his first task dragging himself towards them and dragging them closed.

Feminine hands reached over his own, and guided the fabric for him. He was hunched enough into himself, drawn over his belly like a knot pulled tight, that Khyati was almost taller than him. "We've got it," she promised him.

"Too bright."

"I know, we'll make it dark."

Only half aware of his response, just that the room was getting dimmer and that was maybe not enough to make things good but less bad at least, Steve reached for the hem of his shirt to drag it over his bulk. He had to get it off. Couldn't bear the fabric's tightness or the itch of the thread. Had to be free. Had to be able to breathe.

When he reached for the ties of his pants, Heather's hands steadied him.

"No," he protested. Too warm, too close.

Heather said something about helping with his clothes, but the pain was rising too swiftly for Steve to hear through the pounding of blood in his ears. He was in the middle of the room, isolated and non-defensible with no support to grasp for, and so he sank down to his knees right there. Every muscle in his body had to act to get him there, and a gasp punched out of his chest at how it stretched something awful in his pelvis. The pain ratcheted up and up, and he knew he’d made a mistake because between one heaving breath and another it flared up his spine in bright-hot agony. Steve cried out and out again at the crush of pressure and the tear of hurt, and despite it all, there was a relief in knowing that he could. His body was in pain and that pain only seemed to bloom through more of him more fiercely, and he could yell about it now if he wanted to.

It was three agents in the end who hauled Steve back to his feet, who kept him upright as the midwives stripped him naked, and all five of them helped him to a bed. He didn’t care about the indignity. He didn’t care who saw him or what they thought of him. His hips had decided they wanted to be splayed and grating, and someone else had decided to move him when his legs decided they couldn’t, and the ultimate result was him kneeling on something soft, in a position which didn’t make his back feel like a poker fresh from the forge had been rammed up his spine.

As the pain lapped over Steve again, someone tried to place a hand on his sacrum. He swatted them away. Someone - same someone? Different? What did it matter? - tried to place a sheet over him and he clawed at it until it vanished. When he managed to communicate that he was still sweltering, a fan was turned on. It was noisy but cooling, and would have to do.

There was another sound too. Steve became aware of it only gradually. A droning, rumbling thing which stuttered every few seconds.

It took him far too long to realise that he was the source of that sound. That the stuttering was caused by the breaks he was taking to inhale.

Panic flared as he rocked against the pain. The droning was impossible to stop. What was happening to him? He felt feral. Pared back to the most basic, animal parts of himself.

Was this the serum? It changed people - Steve's head filled with images of the Hulk, raging and brutal.

Was that happening to him?

The noises fractured again and again as he struggled to breathe.

A hand landed on his shoulder and Steve snarled because he’d been very clear he wanted to be left alone.

"Commander Rogers, listen to me," Khyati instructed. "This is normal. This is transitional labour you're in now and it’s going to feel strange. Your body's in charge. Trust it."

This couldn't be normal. The pain wasn't stopping. It just kept coming. Was it even opening him up? Was it going to be worth it?

His head hung and Steve glimpsed his low-hanging belly between his knees. It held the centre of his universe, it had been his centre of gravity for months, it was the centre of the f*cking sun now, burning him up. Steve clenched his fists tight against the bed. He had no choice but to lie there and let the fire rage through him, because even he couldn’t exert his will over this.

-

Emerging from the shower two rooms over, Bucky hugged the towel to himself and wondered why they put white towels in the bathrooms of a place like this. As he made his slow, careful way towards the sink, he was aching and more ready to sleep than he had ever been before, and yet he felt about four times more human than before he showered. He propped himself up on the sink that Steve Rogers had slammed his ex-boyfriend into only hours before, and took a good, long look at himself in the mirror to see if he looked more human too.

A man he knew well looked back. He didn't look any different. Exhausted, but that wasn’t new. He’d been looking some state of haggard for months.

He didn’t look like somebody’s Dad. He looked like… Bucky. He was thirty-three - more than old enough. A few faint lines on his brow, a couple of strands of silver sneaking in - ever more evident when his hair was darkened by water. He didn’t feel old enough.

He didn’t feel like a Dad. His baby was just a few feet away in his sister’s arms, he knew it was his but… he’d hoped for the rush of love people talked about. Yet the moment Henry was placed against his chest, he’d felt relief. That the pain had stopped, that his baby was okay. And then he’d realised he had no idea what to do next with the slimy, wriggling thing in his arms.

There hadn’t been that promised endorphin rush. No immediate springing of a bond into place, or sense of connection with a child that couldn’t even look him in the eyes.

Steve had been so soothing and so kind about it, but there had to be something wrong with Bucky not to feel this. Was he broken? Had Brock f*cked him up so badly that the part of him which was meant to love his baby had just stopped working?

There was a soft tap on the door as Bucky tried his best not to lose it right there. “You still alive in there, Bucky bear?”

“Yeah,” Bucky mastered himself to reply. “Is Henry-”

“We’re just fine. Take your time,” Becca promised.

Bucky tried and failed not to feel resentful. Of course Henry was fine with Becca. She actually had a clue while Bucky had zero.

Beneath that realisation, Bucky sagged - muscles and strength giving up. He found himself looking down at the sink, and at a crack in the ceramic he’d missed before. From Brock’s back. He’d have to pay for that too, from the fund that ridiculous, beautiful man had secured for him from Tony Stark.

How could he fall so immediately and so heavily for Steve, and not for his son?

A tear splashed down against the sink’s surface, and he brushed the wetness on his cheeks angrily away. He was just tired. It was hormones. That was all.

Bucky reached for one of the remaining sets of pyjamas Steve had bought. Steve hadn’t been wrong. Bucky had bled and sweated and leaked through several outfit changes before he gave up on clothes completely. Dragging the fresh fabric over his skin, he felt an echo of Steve’s touch. The enormous man with the gentle hands, who’d called him sweetheart by accident, who’d comforted him for hours, who’d held him to his heart. How selfish was it to want to open the door and see Steve on the other side? How egotistical to think that he could be making a difference to how Steve was feeling? How awful that he’d thought he could give Henry anything other than his utmost attention so he could help Steve?

He had to look away from himself before the shame got too much.

When Bucky finally emerged from the bathroom, Becca was circling the room, singing ‘I’m easy like Sunday morning,’ and swaying with the baby in her arms. Bucky’s phone was playing in the speaker dock.

“I thought about having him to ‘Hello’ but couldn’t quite get him out in time. Playlist had moved on to Diana Ross by that point,” Bucky joked, reaching for humour in the hope that his sister wouldn’t notice the blotchiness of his face. He realised that the bed had been remade while he’d been washing up, but opted to aim for the comfortable chair by the window instead. If he went to bed, he knew he’d be asleep in moments.

“Mom would have liked that,” Becca said as she sashayed towards him. She said it casually, like she always did: trying to keep their parents alive. “You want to try feeding Henry again? Midwife said he only took a little first time.”

“Sure.” Despite the fact he’d only just sat down, Bucky forced himself to stand up again. He felt how the motion made blood spill into the pad he wore, and over-wrought muscles protested as he collected up his pillows. He’d only just dressed and he was having to bare his chest all over again, while Henry couldn’t have been in his swaddle for more than half an hour and Becca was peeling him back to his diaper. “Is this what life is now? Just constantly taking clothes off and putting them back on?”

Cheerfully, Becca said, “Yup. Congratumulations.” She passed the baby down to Bucky, onto the pillows he’d collected. “You want me to get a nurse to help you out?”

Looking down at the infant, Bucky wondered at the way that Henry turned his head towards Bucky’s chest. Three hours old and the kid was already figuring out where food came from - and maybe Bucky was getting a handle on the language thing after all. He blinked to himself as he realised that his sister had asked him a question. If Henry could figure out where food came from, then surely Bucky could figure out how to give him the food he was looking for. “Gotta learn sometime right?” They’d be on their own again soon enough.

With that realisation pooling cold in the doughy mass that was his belly, Bucky tried to remember what Heather had told him the first time. Get the baby lying flat, neck straight and in line. Okay. Bring the baby to the breast not the other way round. But how was he meant to do that while Henry’s arms were in the way, his tiny hands coming up to grasp at Bucky’s skin as a barrier? How was he meant to hold Henry close to his nipple the way he needed and move the baby’s hands away at the same time? He was meant to be relaxed and calm, but how could he do that while he was freaking out about only having two hands? The pillows felt too flat, too low - he had to lift the baby up, but that meant he definitely didn’t have enough hands.

“There’s a proper cushion. At home. Bunch of stuff - my pump and wipes and… A few clothes and - I bought what I could, there’s outfits and I picked up a carseat, I’m gonna need it-” Bucky suddenly remembered the green and white stripy coverall he’d bought. Most of the outfits waiting at home for Henry had been scraped up from Walmart, the GoodWill and Sally Army. But he’d been passing a ridiculous boutique store with $400 baby carriers and strollers for a grand in the window, and his eyes had caught on this outfit with a sweet embroidered monkey on its chest and little monkey faces on the feet, and before he’d known what he was doing, he was $38 poorer and he knew that’s what he wanted his baby to wear when he took it home.

Becca interrupted his downward spiral. “I’ll go fetch them. Soon as you’re settled. What do you need right now?”

Wild-eyed, Bucky glanced back down at Henry, who was starting to make little noises of confusion. Maybe impatience. How the hell was Bucky supposed to know? “More height.”

“Here.” At once, Becca offered over a folded blanket, just the right thickness to put Henry at the level Bucky needed. She tucked it over the pillows on Bucky’s lap as he raised the infant, and when Henry was back down, the lessons took over. Bucky drew Henry in and was relieved to see him open his little pink mouth so he could feed. Relieved all over again when Henry started to suck and, a tense few seconds later, when he started to hear Henry swallowing as the milk let down.

It hurt. Bucky tipped his head back against the back of the chair and breathed deliberate breaths, in and out, in and out, to manage the pain. Was this part of it too? He was just going to be sore now, everytime Henry needed to eat. As if on cue, Bucky felt a dull cramping start up in his belly at that moment, as his body worked to expel what had been left inside him.

A hand rubbed at his shoulder. “It’s not always comfortable, but shouldn’t hurt so much you’re all creased up like that. Try to get him on again.”

Milk spilled from Henry’s mouth as Bucky pulled away, and - denied what he wanted - the infant immediately turned red and furious.

“It’s getting everywhere,” Bucky said, tersely. He could have got over the pain if Henry was feeding. He might not be able to give Henry the love he’d thought, but he could give the baby the nutrition he needed f*ck damn it. Now Henry was crying and Bucky’s milk was flowing down them both and this certainly wasn’t f*cking relaxed - “I know, I’m sorry,” Bucky soothed the baby, because he hadn’t expected that distressed sound to pierce him as fiercely as it did. Becca was wrong, this hurt was so much worse than what he’d felt when Henry was drinking from him. “I’m sorry, shh baby, shh.” Henry’s mouth smacked open, his head turning and turning, trying to find what Bucky had taken from him, and despite the panic, Bucky tried again. This time, Henry’s mouth missed him entirely. “Come on, please pal.”

It took an impossibly long period of time to get it right. Mis-steps and screaming, frantic and fraught. By the time they managed something that worked, Bucky was sweating, Henry was soaked, the both of them frazzled and Bucky just held onto his newborn, utterly frozen so that he didn’t disturb the fragile peace he’d managed.

Henry’s soft head was cradled in Bucky’s palm as he fed, and Bucky could feel his tiny jaw muscles working. For the first time, Bucky realised how miraculous it was that his body had managed to make this person. And it was his body. Bucky was the one who had staggered through day after day to grow and protect this baby, all by himself, and now Bucky’s body was feeding his child. He’d done that by himself too. Becca had advised him, but it had been his hands and his persistence, and his body feeding his child.

The downward pulling sensation was just as strange as it had been the first time Henry fed. This time, his attention fully on his child, Bucky felt a sense of satisfaction in it too. This was what his body was meant to do. He could give Henry what he needed.

Bucky leaned his head back against the chair in victory only for Becca to say, “No, put your head forwards.”

The next moment, a brush started to make its way through his hair, which was still damp and tangled from his shower, in long, soothing strokes.

“You gonna give me pigtails like when we were kids?”

“Nah. Leah buns.”

Bucky suppressed a laugh, because the last thing he wanted was to disturb Henry while he was feeding fine.

There was quiet for a moment, filled only with the soft sounds of Henry drinking.

Becca, inevitably, interrupted the peace with, “We gonna talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” Bucky tried not to wince as she worked through a knot at the top of his skull less delicately than she could.

“Talk about how you weren’t surprised when I turned up in record time. Or at all.”

Clearly, Becca was overestimating how many braincells Bucky had available to him at present. “Commander Rogers and I are friends now. He held my hand for about 20 of the 25 hours I spent in labour. He’s two doors down giving birth to his own baby now, and he sent you to me because his heart’s even bigger than his thighs. Which, for the record, I’d happily die between.”

Becca had stopped combing his hair, presumably in surprise. “Well, that sounds even less likely than me winning a once-in-a-lifetime trip on a Stark Industries’ private jet. That had to be claimed immediately. They sent a limo. To my tiny village on the Rhine. Neighbours’re gonna be gossiping about that for days.”

Bucky could one-up that. “Tony Stark dropped 40k to cover my medical bills ‘cos Steve asked him to.”

“The waitresses on the plane were robots.”

“Steve’n I have matching slippers.”

“The pre-flight safety warnings were done by a hologram of the Hulk.”

“He fed me homemade oat cakes.”

“I’m 100% certain the woman who picked me up at the airport is a secret agent but also a supermodel.”

“I kissed him.”

Becca dropped the hairbrush. Luckily for Bucky, it made no sound as it fell. Unluckily for Becca, that was because it fell on her foot.

In Bucky’s arms, Henry’s sucking had slowed. He was getting heavy - falling asleep again, Bucky realised. Still attached to Bucky. He could hardly have been nursing for more than five minutes. “Seriously? All that fuss for that?” Bucky sighed, realising that his baby had cried over feeding for longer than he’d fed.

“I think kissing Commander Rogers - the Commander Rogers, the first Captain America, the hottest Avenger - is kinda worth fussing over!” Becca whisper-shouted.

Bucky tried to ease Henry away, only to realise that the baby was suction-cupped onto his nipple. Was Bucky just stuck like this now? So much effort to get Henry to latch on, and now he wouldn’t let go?

Becca swung round the chair so that she could look Bucky in his eyes. “Oh my God, you’re not even lying are you? What was it like? Did he kiss you back? Are you going to kiss him again?”

Aware of the flush heating up his cheeks, Bucky murmured his answer to the final question only. “I hope so. We…” He really was a ridiculous pot of emotion stew because Bucky felt the urge to cry for the ten thousandth time that day. “He was so good to me. I felt safe around him. You know how long it’s been since I felt safe? But it was so easy with him. Talking with him, and being together. And when he’d touch me… it’d make me feel like I could fall into his arms and stay there forever. Like that was all I’d need.” Bucky had tried to whisper, but Henry made a grating noise of discomfort. With a flash of guilt, Bucky realised that he’d let him lie on his side too long, that he hadn’t winded the baby and that was just a basic fundamental tenet of parenting a newborn. The cry meant Henry had released him though, and Bucky undertook the terrifying manoeuvre required to place the baby on his shoulder.

“Are you - Buck, did you catch feelings?” Becca asked, and Bucky couldn’t stand to see the pity in her eyes. Like she thought that he didn’t know how far out of his league Steve Rogers was, or that whatever they had between them was likely to be out of some desperate birth-based trauma bonding, and that they were never going to be able to have anything more than what they’d experienced during the Rose Crest because Steve was going to resent Bucky for not being there when Steve needed him.

“I think so.” How was Bucky meant to think about all of this at the same time as trying to wind a newborn for the second time in his life? And why the hell were babies made in such a way that parents had to hit them just hard enough to jolt bubbles out of their digestive tracts but not hurt them? Even as the thought occurred to him, Bucky realised how much worse that worry was going to be for Steve, with his super strength. How scared he was going to be holding his daughter for the first time.

Oh God. Steve.

Becca had no idea how bad Bucky had it for that man. It made his chest ache to think of Steve managing that nervousness alone, let alone the pain. And Bucky couldn’t bring members of Steve’s family back from the past, or bring him his friends out of space. He didn’t know what he could do for Steve.

“Becs, I need to sleep.” There was no connection between Bucky’s brain and his mouth as he said it. It’s just what had to happen next. Bucky could figure all this out if he slept, he was sure.

Swiftly, Becca finished off the plait she was doing in Bucky’s hair and said, “Aww yes, Auntie Becca cuddle time. Gimme gimme.”

-

Through classes and quiet moments both, when Steve had thought about what he wanted when the moment for him to have his baby came, it was this. He wanted space. He wanted calm. He wanted respect.

There had been doctors enough in his life, invading him with their interfering gloved hands and superiority complexes, pre- and post-serum. He’d bled enough for them.

When it came to Steve’s daughter, it was his hands that he wanted holding her first if he had any choice in the matter. And when it came to Steve’s body, he knew it best. He knew how much pain it could take, how long he could fight, and when he’d had enough.

So when the medical team backed off and just let him be, Steve was grateful.

As contraction after contraction washed through him, Steve dealt with them his way. And slowly, he learned how best it worked for him to breathe - in slow, measured movements, convinced himself each time that opening up and filling his aching belly with air was better, that if he let the tension flow from his shoulders and down it would disappate and that was better too. Slowly, he moved through positions that worked the best for him at that moment in time, gradually transitioning from one to the other when he felt the benefit waning or simply needed some sense of progress.

Putting aside worries about the noises he made was the biggest relief. He was past the point of embarrasment, but it helped to be able to groan his way through his deliberate exhales even as he braced himself against the wall or clung to the sides of the bed. He had enough cognitive power left to him to know that he wouldn’t mind if Bucky was there, that Bucky wouldn’t think vocalising hurt was weakness. Steve just hadn’t wanted to wake Bucky’s baby.

Steve was on his knees in the bath, the tailend of one of those droning cries being muffled into his arms, when one of the midwives approached. She waited until the pain ebbed to approach. Normally, this meant a gentle nudge to drink some water or to check the attachment of the monitors strapped or stuck to him. This time, Khyati offered his phone. “Someone called Friday for you.”

“Speaker. Please,” Steve sighed. He only had a few moments to rest before the next pain reached him, so he laid his head back down and told the phone, “I’m here. Hello.”

“Commander. I have a message from Mr Wade Wilson, though I’m sure it can keep if you are indisposed.” The last word was laced with more meaning than an artificial intelligence should ever be able to imply.

Inexorably, one of Steve’s hands drew to the base of his belly, palming in tender strokes in the hope of comforting the child who was compressed inside him. He knew well enough by this point that the action would do nothing to slow the next onslaught, but he could pretend. “I know you’re monitoring me, it’s fine. Tell me.”

“Just doing my job,” Friday replied, sounding mildly miffed. “Translating from Mr Wilson’s more colourful language, I would suggest that he thinks Mr Barnes’ former partner is ‘a piece of work’. He would like some guidance on the scale of consequences you believe it is appropriate he receive.”

For a moment, the only thing that Steve could see was Bucky’s fear as he tried to hide himself in the shower two rooms over, in the first moments after Brock’s invasion. Rage made him snarl, “Take him for everything he’s got. Get Bucky what he’s owed. And make sure he never gets near Henry again.”

The pain was back, jumping suddenly and making Steve grunt as Friday said, “Very good, sir.”

Steve’s muscles squeezed inexorably harder, pulling down beneath his hand and he had to abandon the conversation to resurrect the rhythm of breath that was his main source of control over the rising hurt. For a full minute, he hunched there in the water, hearing his own groans echoing in his ears at ever higher pitches as the pain escalated. The last hour’s contractions had brought with them a deep, almost burning soreness between his legs, distinct from the ache in his abdomen, and it was that he struggled with the most. It lingered and held for a long volley of seconds after the contraction seized.

Just as it was finally letting him go, Friday spoke again - to Steve’s surprise. He’d assumed she’d hung up. “Commander, is there any message you’d have me convey to the Avengers? I’ve been receiving enquiries.”

Of course Steve’s ridiculous team would be checking on his health with their AI. Steve amended that mentally a moment later - of course Tony would be peppering his AI for updates. Quill’s spaceship probably had a dashboard up projecting every data point sent by the monitoring tech strapped to Steve’s stomach. Steve didn’t mind. Tony meant well, Natasha knew Steve’s boundaries, and Sam was an able moral compass.

“Tell ‘em there’s still time for Sam to come hold my hand if they get a move on.” It wasn't just Sam’s handholding abilities that Steve missed. Surrounded by petite midwives who’d be knocked over by his strength, Steve was limited to the positions he could hold alone. Sam was strong enough to give Steve something to fight against if he needed it, or to prop him as he squatted, to haul Steve’s body upright when he needed to stretch out his back as it burned or to brace his leg as he pushed against it. Khyati and Heather wouldn’t stand a chance.

When Friday signed off with a promise to convey Steve’s sentiments, Khyati approached to take the phone away. “Anything you need?” she checked.

Steve swallowed and tried to examine how his body was feeling. Evening was approaching. He’d been at this for hours and he hadn’t slept. He wasn’t beat yet, but he could start flagging if he didn’t take care. “Energy drink’d be great,” he admitted.

Another contraction was on him before he even got the sentence out, and he curled into the pain. The water wasn’t taking the edge off anymore. Or if this was the pain with the edge taken off, he didn’t love the idea of its full assault. But he got a hold of the one thing that he could and huffed his way forcefully through yet another aching minute.

Bottle in hand, Khyati returned just as the contraction was peaking, spearing through Steve’s core and setting sensitive receptors aflame. “You know I’d give you all the good drugs we’ve got if I thought it would make a difference for you and be safe that mite inside you. The very best drugs. Top tier, top shelf.” She was trying to make Steve laugh. All he could manage was a grimace. “But you can do this. You know that.” All Khyati was doing was kneeling there by the bathtub, talking. She was stretching the rules Steve had put in place for his own sanity and to keep his own strength, but he suddenly found he didn’t mind the encouragement. It wasn’t as irritating as he’d assumed it would be. She was reinforcing the thoughts he grasped for in his own head and making them easier to hold onto.

Steve forced his head up to look at her, and for one moment of disorientation, he could see his Ma. There was Sarah Rogers, in her own nurse’s uniform, as she coaxed him through an asthma attack just like this. The soap on her skin smelled different, like lye, but her mix of sterness and gentleness was just the same.

He missed her so much. The memory of her presence jolted him fully - fully enough that he sucked in a breath without ever meaning to.

Khyati smiled. “I know we’re not the Avengers. But Heth and I - we’re your team for this one. We’re gonna get you through this.”

Steve couldn’t help but pull away at that, protecting himself. “Your shift’s gotta be over soon.”

“Shift was over twenty minutes ago. Neither of us are going anywhere until you’ve got that little girl in your arms.” Khyati got herself to her feet, complaining about her creaking knees, to cover the fact that Steve was tearing up at the kindness.

-

Bucky hadn’t factored a baby into his plan to figure out his Steve Rogers problem. He’d thought that he would emerge from his nap clear-eyed and ready to take on any challenge thrown at him, now that he’d done something as immense as giving birth to a whole other human and figured out how to feed and change it.

He hadn’t been prepared for how long it would take to do a single task his baby required of him or how quickly he’d have to do it all over again. He hadn’t been prepared for how inconsolable Henry would be at having a tiny prick of blood taken from his foot. He certainly hadn’t been prepared for Dr Alexander to tell him they weren’t sure whether Henry had some partial hearing loss on his right ear - because how could a baby lose hearing before he’d even had a chance, and was this Brock’s fault or was this Bucky’s and if it was Brock’s then it was Bucky’s too for not leaving fast enough - and they were referring him on for follow up appointments in a few weeks to see if it was a temporary or permanent thing. He hadn’t been prepared for the moments of mindnumbing stasis, where he sat with Henry in his arms, relieved that the baby was quiet but unable to rouse his body or his brain, because if he just stayed like this then Henry would stay being quiet and Henry being quiet was the same as him being happy so let’s just stay like this shall we?

Throughout the rollercoaster of it all, the little part of Bucky’s brain which emitted occasional peeps of Steve’s name had to be stifled - because Steve had been right, and they both had to put their children first. Nevertheless, the voice was louder each time that Bucky was thankful for Becca’s steady presence at his side, which was a blessing, and entirely down to Steve’s deliverance. It sung out again when Dr Chung ruled Bucky should stay in overnight as a precaution, so they could ensure no ill-effects relating to his preeclampsia - because that meant staying in the same place as Steve a night longer, and maybe running into him again. The pricetag of such a possibility crossed Bucky’s mind and was firmly placed in the ‘Tony Stark can deal with this’ category, and so dismissed.

That voice only gained dominance again at the end of the day, after nightfall, in a temporary period of peace, as Bucky watched his son sleeping in the basket he’d had the nurses place at the right-hand side of his bed.

“You are kinda cute looking when you’re not screaming,” Bucky whispered, just over the sound of Becca’s snores. Jetlag had taken her out at last, and she’d claimed the truckle bed meant for partners as her own. Tentatively, cautious of waking the boy, Bucky reached over to place his hand over Henry’s torso - full, at last, after much negotiation. He found himself simply wanting to be in contact with his child. A strange, easily assuaged desire.

Bucky’s eyes lingered on the impossibly small curve that was Henry’s left ear. It was just peeking out beneath the baby’s hat - velvety skin, thin enough in places that Bucky could see the veins. Perfectly formed and working perfectly. Bucky had put Henry on that side of the bed so he could be sure that if he spoke to Henry, the baby would hear him. If Bucky’s voice was something that Henry knew and might just possibly be used to comfort him, then nothing could be in the way of that. The doctors had said that was particularly important, if there was anything permanently wrong with the right ear.

“I’ve got your back now, see,” Bucky murmured, as if he’d said his thought aloud. “I know I didn’t chat to you much when you were inside me, but… you must’ve heard me gabbing to other folks. It’s weird talking to a thing you can’t see.” The fragile body beneath Bucky’s hand kept on sleeping, apparently unperturbed - and Bucky knew that he’d do anything that Henry needed to for him to grow up safe and well. He’d known the moment the doctor started pulling worried faces as they tested Henry’s ears that he’d be looking up ASL courses before the afternoon was out, if that was what is son needed. “I’ll read you the dictionary every day if I have to, buddy.” The endearment slipped out, but its accuracy filled Bucky’s chest with warm realisation. “That’s who you are now. You and me. We’re gonna be buddies. We don’t have all that much, so don’t be expecting Disney World and holidays in Hawaii from the get go. But I’m gonna look after you.” He was going to look after this child so damn well. “I’m gonna make sure you grow up happy. You bet I’m gonna teach you how to catch, and we’re gonna throw popcorn at bad movies and… And we’re gonna be pals, you ‘n me. It won’t be so bad, hangin’ out with me, I promise.”

On the bedside table, Bucky’s phone lit up. His stomach jumped in immediate response.

Steve.

Bucky expected to see a photograph of a chubby blonde newborn girl with the world’s biggest blue eyes when he picked up the phone. Instead, he had a message from someone called Friday.

‘Dear Mr Barnes, Commander Rogers has authorised me to inform you that a sum of $290,000 has been transferred from the possession of Mr B Rumlow to your own. As you appear to only have access to a current account at present, I have taken the liberty of creating you a savings account with beneficial interest rates for the time being. The details have been couriered to your current residential address. However, I would strongly recommend making contact with a financial advisor to ensure the proper management of such funds, and I would be happy to put you in contact with a qualified professional of repute should you wish.’

Several times over, Bucky blinked at the message. Astonishment roiled with disbelief, mixed in with a drop of hurt. Had Steve just referred him to an accountant instead of dealing with Bucky himself?

First things first, Bucky typed back, ‘$290,000???????’

The response came so quickly, Bucky didn’t understand how Friday had time to type it. ‘Yes Mr Barnes. That sum reflects the value of the inheritance you acquired from your parents, in addition to confiscated wages that Mr Rumlow has admitted to acquiring from you illegally. These have been adjusted for inflation. Should you have reason to believe this is not an accurate reflection of that value, please do let me know. I did take the liberty of rounding up from what I estimate to be the true sum of $288,745.’

Was this a scam? Was Friday a Nigerian prince with a weird amount of insight into Bucky’s personal and financial matters? This couldn’t be real.

“I mean. Forget what I said about no Disney World,” Bucky murmured in Henry’s direction. “We could fly to the one in Paris now if this ain’t some practical joke. Heck, we could fly to all of them.”

His phone lit up again with another missive.

‘Of course, this sum does not account for any compensation owed to you as a result of the harm Mr Rumlow has done to your person, the value of which would be decided by the courts should you choose to pursue legal action against him. I am pleased to advise you that in the process of meeting with Mr Rumlow, my colleague Mr Wade Wilson acquired a substantial volume of evidence which would allow criminal proceedings to begin - subject to your consent. Additionally, I believe Stark Industries’ lawyers would be happy to provide their services to you pro bono to facilitate criminal and/or civil suit(s).’

What the actual f*ck was happening?

Was this Friday person - and through them, Steve - offering Bucky justice? There was no taking back the wounds which had been dealt to Bucky’s head and his body, but Bucky had never thought that Brock would face consequences for his actions. It had never occured to him that a man who held so much power over him could be held accountable.

And with that… Was Steve offering Bucky freedom? That money was enough to put Bucky and Henry on a stable financial footing which was a kind of freedom, sure, but if Brock got locked up for what he’d done, then Bucky would be able to walk down the street without fear. He wouldn’t have to live a life in the shadows, hiding himself and Henry away to avoid the risk of bumping into the man who’d taken so much of his life already.

His eyes were reading the next message even as he struggled to process the first two.

‘You should also be aware that your previous residence at 15366 Whistling Lane, Carmel, IN 46033 has acquired new ownership. All the contents within the property are to be auctioned. Please do inform me directly if there is anything you wish to be retrieved from the house and I will ensure that it is safely delivered to your current residence. I understand that you are currently convalescing so please be assured there is no rush: the contents will be held in secure storage prior to auction as long as is required.’

It was kind of terrifying that Steve could wield power like this.

It was kind of hot.

Bucky put his phone down and returned his gaze to Henry. The words spilled out of him. “He’s such a good man Henry. An extraordinary man. I’ve never met anyone… You wouldn’t… I want you to know him. Whatever he wants from me, I… f*ck. He’s the sire you deserved, he-” Bucky had to cover his mouth before anything else slipped out.

The phone lit up again, and it took Bucky a moment to prepare himself to read it - to get through the weight of feelings that threatened to overwhelm him.

When he did, it made the knot of emotions in his throat tighten to the point he couldn’t breathe.

‘One final thing before I leave you to your recuperation Mr Barnes. I attach to this message a legally binding document signed by Mr Rumlow today. It relinquishes irrevocably any paternal rights he might have been able to claim over your child…’

The message went on, and Bucky vaguely registered it was explaining where copies were lodged, about judges and witnesses of unimpeachable character, and that there were platitudes involved, and it all mattered but two things mattered more. The first was that Henry was Bucky’s. Only Bucky’s. Henry was safe from Brock - and that was freedom, more than money or jailtime ever could offer.

The second thing that mattered was Steve.

“I have to see him.”

Abruptly, Bucky threw back the bed covers and crossed the room so he could shake his sister’s arm. She startled awake and looked at him as if he were a ghost, before realising where she was.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just. I’ve gotta go. 10 minutes. Look after Henry for me.”

Becca nuzzled her head back into the pillow. “M’kay. I’m awake.”

It would have to do.

Bucky flung himself out of the room. He didn’t stop to put anything over his shoulders or his socked feet. There wasn’t space in his brain to worry about what he looked like or getting cold, he just had to find Steve. He had a clear image of Steve turning left out of the room, guided by his midwife team, and he remembered that one of them had said he was going two doors down.

Bucky closed the distance between his room and Steve’s in a flurry of slapping feet, casting aside his body’s reminders that he should be taking it easy. Then he was outside the room and knocking - and there was no response.

He had to see Steve.

He pushed open the door.

The room inside was strewn with Steve’s belongings, but devoid of life. Bucky’s eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to the mangled metal bars that used to be part of Steve’s bed, and the pieces of foam mattress strewn on the floor. The bed had gone, and Steve with it.

There was a hole the size of a fist in the goddamn wall.

Bucky gasped out Steve’s name, frigid with alarm.

“You’ve just missed him.” The voice from behind made Bucky whip around. In the corridor, he found Khyati. She was pale with tiredness, grim with it. There was blood on her scrubs, and Bucky knew it had to be Steve’s.

Chapter 14

Chapter Text

In and out, out, out. In and out, out, out. Steve clung to his breath’s rhythm as the one thing that he could control. His lungs did what he demanded, much of the time at least. The rest of his body did not. Because it had been hours. And Steve was stuck. Every time the midwives pushed their fingers inside him, they shook their heads and drew back as miserable for him as he felt for himself.

There was no comfort anymore. No position that didn’t hurt in some new and creative way, ranging between an hour’s old stabwound to his guts and the crush of falling masonry on his spine. Though Steve tossed and rolled and crawled from one position to another in a futile attempt to feel like something was changing, in reality, at some point, moving had stopped being about seeking out relief and turned into an attempt to flee his own body’s confines. He didn’t have the expectation anymore that anything was going to get easier anymore.

Heather and Khyati were stalwart guardians and guides but he knew even they were giving up hope for him.

On the bed again, Steve braced himself against the pain twisting like a corkscrew in his gut. He could feel blood slipping down the back of his thighs. Khyati was being stern with him as she tried to help him get his leg back at the angle she wanted, to spread his hips. Steve bit his lip hard enough that it bled too, stifling a cry as the position added pressure to his tailbone, already on fire with the weight of his daughter’s head pressed hard against it. “Hold it for ten,” Khyati instructed, brooking no argument. Gasp frozen in his throat, body locked up to cope with what Khyati was asking him, Steve worked to bear it. When he got to ten, Khyati squeezed his knee. “And another ten.”

It was the worst trick in the world, and Steve groaned his protest but did was he was being told. All he had to do was think of his daughter. He was doing this for her.

An incomprehensible “Uuuhhhnn,” escaped him until Khyati let him relax.

Hours and hours and hours like this. Trapped. Making no progress out of the worst part of labour. Nothing they tried was moving him on.

“Khy-” he panted.

“I know. You’re doing brilliantly.” She said it just as firmly as she sent her orders marching out.

“I’m stuck. You know I’m stuck.”

Despite the fact she could weigh no more than he did at 18, the nurse held out her hands. “Where’d you want to go?”

“No, I- ohhhhh.” He didn’t mean that, he meant his labour. It wasn’t going anywhere and that frightened him - but his voice was stolen away by a new rush of pain through his lower body. He arched backwards, frantically palming the base of his abdomen with one hand, the other tearing into the sheets beneath him because nothing was stable, there was nothing sturdy enough to hold onto for a man like him.

He’d already crushed the metal handles on the bath, snapped three of the supports in the shower clean in two, and was on his second mattress after his fists shredded the foam of his first. The stupid birthing ball hadn’t survived hadn’t the transition from 7cm to 8cm three hours before. This fragile f*cking building couldn’t cope with this body that wasn’t doing its goddamn job.

He struggled through the onslaught moored only by flimsy fabric, as wave after wave of pain came for him.

“I’ve gotta push, let me try,” Steve begged, as he hunched over his misshapen belly, palming the skin as if the motion had a chance in hell of soothing his daughter and promising that he was doing everything that he could to get her out. Filled with the need to move, he swivelled off the bed and staggered the distance to the wall where he could press his forehead against cold plaster and try to stretch out his cramping spine. From the shelter of his folded arms, he grunted out, “I’m gonna. Next time.”

From behind him, there was conversation. There was talk of him tiring himself out and bruising and he didn’t care.

Abruptly furious at them talking about him, not to him, Steve punched the wall with a balled-up fist. The plaster broke beneath the side of his hand, and didn’t do anything to quell his anger. “I’m a damn supersoldier. I don’t get exhausted.”

Dr Chung appeared in Steve’s line of vision. “I’ll let you try. No one with your physiology has given birth before - so we’ll let you try. But I wouldn’t put too much hope in it.”

They’d let him. It wasn’t like they could stop him.

Roiling in the bitterness, Steve was at least glad he’d be doing something other than restlessly shifting around and around, constantly hurting. So when the next contraction came, he pushed his bare heels into the floor, bent his spread knees and strained. His baby felt so low between his legs, surely, surely if he pushed hard enough, fought long enough, this would end. Small, growling moans escaped his throat as he pushed, long and hard, long and hard. He pulled at his knees, trying to muscle them apart, trying to make space even as something fearful ran up his spine telling him this was wrong, wrong, wrong. As he pushed, he was aware of Heather coming closer, but she didn’t try to stop him. She was wielding the doppler, and Steve bit at his lip to stop the sounds to hear his baby’s heartbeat instead.

It was racing.

With a gasp, he stopped. All at once. His weight toppled, tumbling him to the ground, leaving him slumped against the wall.

Khyati knelt at his side, and took his curled fist in two of her own slender hands. “Look at me please, Commander Rogers.” Too defeated to argue, despite his previous protestations, Steve turned to look into her face.“I know you’re a big bad super soldier. I know you’ve handled a lot of hurt. Doesn’t mean pain’s not gonna wear you down. Nothing wrong with that, and nothing weak about it.” As she spoke, she stroked up and down his knuckles, trying to drag his attention away from the rolling ache inside. “It’s gonna be easier for you if you don’t treat this like a fight. If you - don’t hit me when I say this, but if you try to surrender to it, relax into it, it’s going to be easier.”

Wearily, Steve summoned a chuckle from a deep trench inside. A single huff of amusem*nt. “I’m not gonna hit you.”

“Wall says otherwise,” Khyati said, casting her eyes upwards.

“We’ll probably frame it,” Heather said. She came to sit on the floor at Steve’s other side, flanking him in protective bodies. “Could you sign it before you go? This can be the Steve Rogers Suite.”

When the pain rose up through Steve this time, he felt himself clam up against it. It was agony in his back, from his coccyx radiating right up to his shoulderblades. “Go gently,” Khyati said. “I think you’re right to try, just go gently.”

Once he started bearing down, Steve wasn’t sure he could stop. The cool wall was blissful at his back as he wrenched himself into a squat. But pushing into the burning soreness that existed so far down his birth canal felt like a ghost of control at the very least, almost as if he could push the pain through him and out as he was trying to do with his child.

“Come on sweetheart,” Steve grunted in a gasp between pushes. “Come down for me.”

The tension and the pressure raged in a concentrated stretch of his body. But he had trained control into his muscles and he could undertake small, satisfying pushes that Khyati asked of him. And when Heather let him listen to his daughter’s heartbeat, it was calmer.

“We can try this for a while,” Khyati said, and Steve had to trust they weren’t just pitying him.

At first, trying to push was different enough that it felt like it could be progress. The pain rose and Steve bore down and felt like fight rather than surrender. Grunts of effort fell from him instead of mewling noises of hurt.

But intensely concentrating on his baby’s weight within the taught, overheated confines of his swollen belly, Steve pushed and pushed and he couldn’t feel her moving. The pressure didn’t change from its continual throb. He wasn’t opening up.

As night deepened, Steve’s room gradually filled with staff. Heather had promised Steve that he wasn’t becoming a spectacle, but there were so many sets of eyes watching him struggle through the tides of hurt and failing to get his daughter to descend.

It wasn’t just midwives and nurses either. Dr Chung was there - well after hours. Dr Alexander too. Another third obstetrician he’d never met.

Steve could hear them debating in fierce whispers over the readouts emanating off the monitors.

He knew something was wrong.

He’d wondered whether it might be when it took him so long to dilate. He’d suspected when he got stuck at 8cm and wouldn’t budge. And now, he knew.

His heart rate was elevated but fine. Which meant it was his daughter’s which was troubling them.

As the pain he was presently being wrangled by eased, as much as any pain did these days, Steve flailed for Heather. “My phone.”

She got it to him immediately.

It rang only twice.

“Sam,” Steve breathed, voice wrecked.

“I’m here,” his calm reply promised. “Tell me.”

“Can you get here?”

There was a pause. Steve knew that silence meant the answer was no.

Resigned, he replied, “S’okay. Doesn’t matter.”

“It does. f*ck.” Lightyears away, something clanged as Sam kicked at it. “I’ll try. Gimme - couple’a hours.”

“I don’t have a couple’a hours Sam.” Across the room, Dr Chung and Dr Alexander seemed to have come to an accord. They were crossing the distance between him and them, mouths grim lines and eyes hard. “If something goes wrong-” And it could, because it wasn’t meant to be like this, and these people had never operated on him before, and Steve knew that and Sam knew that too.

Instead of offering false reassurances, Sam gave him the honest one. “Like she’s my own.”

Swiftly, knowing he only had seconds left, Steve said, “Nat. She knows her name.”

“Hey. I love you man,” Sam replied.

“You too. All of you.” Steve handed back the phone, and gasped as pain assaulted him again. It rocked his tired body totally, compressing in and in and in and doing nothing to open him, nothing but hurt. Futile pain. The doctors waited him out, and when Steve raised a golden head dripping with sweat, he panted, “Give it to me.”

“We can’t let this go on any longer Commander Rogers. The longer this lasts, the higher the risk to you and your baby. We have to get her delivered,” Dr Chung informed him, gravely.

The fair-haired Dr Alexander appeared more sympathetic. “We know it’s not your ideal-”

To confirm what he already knew, Steve said, “You want to cut her out.”

“We do.”

Unhappily, Steve clung to his belly for what might be the final time in his pregnancy. “It’s for-”

A shout from Khyati interrupted them. “Doctor!” Whatever she showed them on the monitor made both obstetricians startle.

They were unlocking the brakes of the bed and rolling it towards the door before Steve had the chance to say a single word.

“Your baby’s heart rate’s dropping. We have to get her out now,” Khyati explained, even as they rushed down the hall.

“We have a bleed,” Clarissa announced urgently, and when Steve looked down he saw dark red seeping into the sheets.

“Out of the way,” Agent Vance snapped. The heavy tread of booted feet told him security was following.

“Anaesthetist’s coming,” another voice called out.

“Tell her it’s Rogers. She knows the protocol.”

The lights in the surgery were bright enough to make Steve wince. He was still flinching from them when the mask was put over his nose and mouth.

“Just breathe normally for me Commander,” a female voice instructed him, as if the pain in his abdomen would let him do anything but gasp.

Khyati appeared in Steve’s field of vision. “I know you know how. Deep breaths now. It won’t hurt in a minute.”

Steve inhaled. Again. Then again.

The last thing he remembered was the gentle touch of tissue beneath his eye, as Heather wiped away a tear before it could reach the mask’s seal.

-

Pain. Hot and bright.

Sound that swelled, echoing, then fell away.

Something ticking, close by.

Something tapping, far away.

Terrible pressure across his abdomen.

Fear. Fear. Fear.

The knowledge that something was hurting his baby. Not something. His body.

Then nothing.

-

Someone was humming. Tuneful. Low.

Someone he knew.

Someone safe.

It was an old song, Steve knew, but not as old as him. From the years he’d missed.

Missed.

Missing.

Something was missing.

All at once, realisation drenched him. His baby. What had - Where was - Who had -

White hot pain as he tried to burst upwards.

“Woah, woah, Steve.” Weight beside him, hand on his shoulder, pressing into the bed, and Steve forced his eyes open, looked up and found Bucky leaning over him. The other man had his son in his hold, and that wasn’t fair.

Where was she? Was she okay? Was Bucky here because she wasn’t?

He hadn’t even had the chance to hold her.

“Is she-?” Steve’s words scraped as he forced them from a worn out throat. He looked desperately to Bucky, willing the other man to know what he was talking about without him having to spell out each individual word because he’d never felt such urgency and visceral fear in all his life.

Miraculously, Bucky soothed, “Your baby’s fine. Healthy as a horse. Lungs of an elephant.”

For a moment, Steve couldn’t work out whether that was a good thing or not. Confused and disoriented, he found himself asking, “She’s an elephant?”

“I mean. She weighs about as much.”

And in a blurred and unclear world, Steve was made afraid. He couldn’t understand what Bucky was saying, but it sounded like something was wrong.

“Why don’t you see for yourself?” Bucky said, and when Steve looked down he saw Bucky was proferring his child. Which didn’t make sense. Steve didn’t want Bucky’s baby, he wanted his baby. “Take - oh. Stevie.” Bucky’s voice turned soft and honeyed. “This is your daughter, Steve. I’ve just been looking after her for you. She’s all yours. Becca’s got mine.”

When Steve followed Bucky’s glance to the side, he realised there were four - no, five other people in the room - two of his agents, Clarissa with a mysterious smile on her lips, a woman who looked like Bucky, and in her arms a newborn. Bucky’s baby. Which meant…

Steve followed Bucky’s gaze as it moved again, dragged with the other man’s attention as if all he could do was trail in Bucky’s wake, and found himself staring down at the blanket-wrapped infant. Wide blue eyes looked back. Wondering, wandering eyes trying to take in the world. “You’re sure?” There were so many babies in this hospital. Steve’s heart would break if this was someone else’s child.

“I’m sure. I was right outside the theatre. I haven’t taken my eyes off her since. Neither’ve your guards over there.” There was no trace of a lie in Bucky’s earnestness, but Steve wasn’t sure that he could trust. Wasn’t sure this wasn’t a dream. He was so afraid that if he moved wrong, he’d wake and tragedy would greet him. Bucky persisted. He didn’t seem to have realised he’d tucked the baby instinctively back into himself. “We watched Heather get her cleaned up, and Khyati got her all swaddled. And I - I knew that you wouldn’t want her to be alone. So I made sure she wasn’t. But - you can hold her now Steve. She needs her Dad.”

That was enough. Steve reached for the baby, and a moment later she was in his arms. This was her. The child he’d worked so long for and wanted with every fibre of himself.

She was heavy but it still wasn’t real.

Steve could feel a slight trembling start up in his limbs, his body trying to heal, anaesthesia and painkillers swirling and - “Here.” Bucky’s touch returned at Steve’s neck, pulling. Steve was too busy trying to keep still to do anything about it, as the collar of the gown strangers had dressed him in while he was unconscious was separated. “Let’s get her out of the blanket.”

“She’ll be cold.” Steve didn’t know much but he did know his daughter couldn’t be cold.

“No one ever tell you you’re a furnace Stevie? Even now. You’ll keep her warm.” Bucky’s fingers didn’t move until Steve gave him a nod of permission.

The moment the baby’s skin met his own, properly, every inch of her body that wasn’t hidden by a diaper or pinned by a peg against his hands or his heart, Steve felt as if he could breathe for the very first time. “Jesus Christ.” She was here and she was his and she was real and she was moving just like she’d moved when she was inside him, and he was going to hold her forever. He was never going to let her go. “I’m so sorry baby,” he whispered. “I wasn’t here, I tried to be. I’m here now. I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.” As he spoke to her, Steve tried to absorb everything about her. The little bits of white wax still between her minute fingers and in the creases of her elbows. Two tiny light-brown birthmarks, one at her hip and one on her arm. The white curves of her fingernails. The blood vessels webbed across her forehead, spreading towards a shock of pale hair. Alive and his, and everytime Steve looked he saw something new and astonishing and perfect.

Distantly, Steve was aware of his leg being gently stroked over the covers. There might have been conversation between Bucky and his sister. At some point, Steve was asked if he needed anything.

He couldn’t imagine needing anything but this ever again. She was perfect.

Steve found himself smiling as he realised why Bucky had compared her to an elephant. She was a chunky little thing. Small as she was in comparison to him, there was something reassuringly sturdy about her about her chubby legs and the rolls of fat on her arms.

“Maeve,” Steve said, decisively. “Maeve Margaret Rogers.” A strong name, for a strong child. Suddenly, he wanted to share, and looked up into Bucky’s eyes, which were shining with an overflow of affection. “It means ‘she who rules’.”

“Oh hoh,” Bucky chuckled. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” Just as Steve was returning his gaze to his daughter, Bucky spoke again. “And Margaret. For Peggy Carter, right?”

There was nothing troubled in Bucky’s expression when Steve took it in. Just sincerity and warmth. When Steve nodded, the other man replied, “With names like that to live up to, she’ll be a force to be reckoned with.”

Steve didn’t know how much more room there was in his chest for affection, but it seemed to grow all the same.

“How long?” The question seemed to blurt out of Steve, becoming real at the same time as the thought occurred. But he suddenly, viscerally needed to know how long he’d left his daughter alone for.

From the end of the bed, Clarissa informed him Maeve was born 48 minutes before.

48 minutes.

Because Bucky apparently knew Steve well enough already to know when he was beating himself up, he intervened in a murmur. “Soon as you were sewed up, I was sat right here with her. Kept her in your reach the whole time.”

Not alone, Steve remembered. Maeve had been with someone Steve knew to be kind and good. Who apparently cared enough about Steve and his daughter to insist she never be put down, to sit vigil at Steve’s bedside, and - to be there when it mattered. Bucky hadn’t been able to be there throughout Steve’s birth as Steve had for him, but he’d sure as hell been there when it mattered most.

–

The tiredness surrounding Bucky was golden-tinged and blurry.

Somewhere along the way, Dr Alexander had returned to Steve to give him the rundown on his recovery. Somewhere or somewhen else, Becca had gone back to bed in Bucky’s room, after Bucky assured her it was fine. A lactation consultant had been by, done an amusing double-take at Bucky’s presence, and ultimately helped them both feed their children more comfortably. Despite the hour, Steve’s agents had even dropped in to deliver enormous platters of fresh sushi which Steve and Bucky hoovered up between them.

Then they’d been left alone. It had to be around 1am, the both of them holding sleeping babies in their arms, and neither of them sleeping themselves yet. Bucky could see that Steve didn’t want to close his eyes because he didn’t want to miss a moment more of his daughter’s first hours. It had to be just as evident on his own face that he didn’t want this moment to end.

But at some point, they both needed to rest. And this was Steve’s room, so it was on Bucky to leave. To place Henry down in his plastic-edged cradle, depart, and leave Steve to his business.

Bucky knew that the nurses would be nearby. Steve could summon instantaeous help if he needed it. He didn’t need Bucky.

Still, Bucky didn’t like the idea of leaving Steve and Maeve behind, by themselves. Not after what had happened the last time.

Putting off the moment, Bucky allowed himself to watch Steve. Propped up on pillows, his eyes closed and Maeve tucked up near his heart, Steve looked like he already might be drifting. He looked content. But when Bucky forced himself to raise his creaking body from the chair, ready to wish Steve goodnight, the blond spoke first.

“You’re tired.”

“Think I’m not the only one.” Bucky’s gaze was on Henry as he said it. The infant hardly stirred as Bucky lowered him down into the wheeled cradle. He was utterly conked out. Bucky could only hope that this level of cuteness wasn’t an attempt to lull him into a false sense of security.

“Maybe not.” Steve’s eyes glimmered in the dim light when the opened to seek out Bucky. “Figure I should walk you home. Make sure you get there safe.”

Was this the game they were playing again? “Steve, they cut you open not four hours ago. You’re not walking me anywhere.”

“Guess you better stay then.”

“For safety?”

“For safety.”

Wavering in place, Bucky said, “I can be back tomorrow.”

“It is tomorrow.” Steve held his gaze. Those blue eyes which had first caught Bucky’s in reception, but unmoving now. Fixed on Bucky. It was powerful - that gaze, that intensity from a man like Steve. Not that there was anyone else like Steve.

Bucky felt himself starting forwards, drawn by the spell. There were a hundred reasons to say no. The bed wasn’t big enough. Their babies were going to set each other off. Doctors actually had to have access to their bodies from time to time. Instead, intensely mindful of Maeve and of Steve’s injured body, he reached for Steve’s cheek. Soft skin yielded beneath Bucky’s thumb, as he ran reverent pressure up along Steve’s cheekbone. When he cupped Steve’s jaw, Steve followed him as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be guided up into a kiss. Just a gentle movement, just a touch. Steve’s response was featherlight, but sure. There was so much left behind the kiss, it roused an aching in Bucky all the way down to his core. Bucky had to think of it as a promise that there would be so many more kisses to come. “I’ll be careful.” And maybe he mainly meant that he’d be careful of Steve’s wound and the fact that it didn’t look like he’d be putting Maeve down anytime soon, but maybe a little part of him also meant that he’d be careful of what lay between them because it was fragile and precious too.

It looked as if it cost Steve the earth to say, “I can’t bend.” It took Bucky a moment too long to realise that the other man meant he physically couldn’t contort his stomach muscles, rather than he wasn’t willing to shape his life around Bucky’s in any way.

Understanding the importance of what he was being trusted with, Bucky offered Steve his hands. He knew, from how much longing Steve looked at his daughter with, that the other man’s hesitation was over letting Maeve go, not over Bucky taking her. Bucky experienced a flash of gratitude that he’d been able to handle Henry without damaging him, as he received the child and placed her into a cradle on the opposite side of the bed. She’d been so good for Bucky in those first few minutes, after he’d persuaded the nurses it would be fine, and as he sat and prayed that Steve would wake up before she cried to be fed. It was a relief when she was good again.

Before Bucky lay down, he turned Henry’s cradle 180 degrees. Steve made a questioning noise at the act, though it might have been a noise of discomfort as he was lowering the bed down flat.

“He’s - uh, maybe a little hard of hearing on the right side. This way he’ll hear me better.”

Steve’s eyes widened. “f*ck, Bucky - I never asked, I was so caught up-”

“Exactly where you should be caught up,” Bucky intervened. The bed was far too small for the pair of them to sleep in, but as they whispered to each other, Bucky tucked himself around Steve the best he could. He found himself looking at the other man’s strong profile in the light of the single lamp. He still wasn’t sure how he found himself so close to a man this stunning and this kind. Only that he wasn’t going to let it go. “Stevie, whatever there is between us, even if it’s only friendship, our kids come first. For both of us. We both know that and there ain’t gonna be any apologising or excusing that. Whatever we have starts there.” Bucky hadn’t come into the Rose Crest an optimist, far from it, but with everything that Steve had made possible today, he was certain that they could make something good work. And that meant groundrules. This seemed like an obvious one.

From beneath the covers, Steve’s hand sought out Bucky’s arm. He held it, and Bucky had the strangest feeling that Steve needed some kind of anchor. “You’re right,” Steve said, in a voice that sounded strained. “Could you just - tell me if you’re okay though?”

There had only been a day of absence between them, but Bucky realised it was dark for them both. The most important day of their lives, and all Bucky knew of Steve’s time in that gap was that something went wrong, and all Steve knew was this - and of Bucky’s sudden windfall. More forcefully perhaps than their proximity required, Bucky said, “My life changed maybe five times over today. Four of those times were down to you, and all of ‘em were for the better. Yes, I’m okay.”

Bucky leaned up to steal himself one more kiss. Steve turned towards him, chasing the contact, though he kept his back flat, and after a moment his head fell to the side on the pillow. Clearly exhausted, his eyes closed. His long, dark blond lashes fluttered once, then pressed together.

Bucky had never felt so protective. He could feel himself stretching out between Steve and Henry and yes, Maeve too, awareness pulled in each direction. There was tenderness inside and outside of him. It was a ridiculous amount to feel when he was as tuckered out as he was.

“It was my right ear too,” Steve whispered. His lips hardly moved.

“Oh my God, go to sleep Steve. Wait, what?”

“Deaf in my right ear. Til the serum.”

On that bombshell, every last ounce of tension left Steve’s body, and he fell into unconsciousness. Bucky stayed staring at him for at least a minute, trying to process the idea that his son and this man had something in common before Bucky even had anything in common with his son, and that maybe Steve had more in common with his son than his biological father, and holy sh*t was this some kind of sign?

Bucky had managed to still his rapidly churning mind and sleep for what felt like all of twenty minutes when Henry began to whimper. At least he woke with the sight of Steve Rogers wearing a wry smile on his lips, and running his fingers comfortingly over Bucky’s skin before Bucky pulled away to answer the summons.

-

The first night of Maeve and Henry’s lives passed in fractured, fragmented, and every so often fractious, form. Between two newborns needing attention and clinicians needing to check in, sleep came only in short bursts. Even when Becca discovered Bucky missing and re-joined their Sleeplessness Crew just before dawn, bringing an extra pair of hands, it was hard.

There were moments of that night though that Steve knew he’d treasure forever. Every time that Bucky or Becca placed Maeve in his hands, Steve’s heart felt newly full - even if she was squalling and disconsolate, because he could do something like that and because she was here. Watching Bucky swaying in the dark, half asleep, trying to settle his son back down while his own eyes were closed, lost in their tired, shared world. The patient, wordless way that Bucky ensured Steve had what he needed, attuned enough to know when to carry Maeve to the changing table for him, or to pass Steve what he needed to clean up after a feed, without speaking and break from the trance-like states that reigned. And Maeve. Every little wiggle that showed off her strength. Every slow, tired blink of gorgeous blue eyes. Every time she rooted for his chest in hilarious determination. He was going to score each of those moments on his mind.

When they gave up on sleep via exhausted consensus, it was morning, and Steve could already tell that his healing factor was being slowed by the lack of rest to feed off.

“I think I was less tired before I went to bed,” grumbled Bucky. He rubbed his face against his shoulder because his hands were too full with Henry’s weight for him to get to his eyes.

Steve felt a heap of guilt for that. He’d been the cause of Bucky being up more than his fair share in the night, as it was he who needed help. He would do until his severed muscles cooperated well enough to allow him to lift Maeve out of her cradle without pain, ripped stitches and torn tissue. When Bucky and Becca left, Steve would just have to power through it, but they wouldn’t hear of it while they were near.

With a sleepy noise, Bucky summoned Steve’s attention back to the room. He was rumpled and sleep soft, curled on the sofa in the pyjamas Steve had bought him, almost absentmindedly caressing the back of his baby. He did look tired. But he also looked beautifully at peace. Worries lifted. Sharing occasional jokes with his sister, who clearly adored him. He’d made no moves to leave or to pack or to even dress for going home. Like Bucky knew that he had implicit permission to stay and to stay again.

Steve had done some of that too.

At Steve’s chest, Maeve abruptly stopped feeding and coughed. Milk spilled from her mouth.

“Sorry darling, sorry.” Steve drew the baby upright so she could breathe more easily. She came to rest against his shoulder, and on the retained mass of his stomach. Even calming down, there was something blissful in the fact that she found comfort in his warmth and his skin. Bucky had been right on the mark when he’d insisted on getting skin-to-skin in those first minutes of getting to know each other. “Too much, I know,” Steve soothed, trying to convince Maeve to settle.

Steve had read hundreds of books about this, but the reality of becoming a parent was already different from the words on those pages. He’d thought that if he learned more, he’d be more in control. That’s what he was used to. But he’d lost control before Maeve was even born. Now his body was oversupplying milk and he had no control over its flow. He’d woken in the night drenched in sweat because his hormones were in flux. If he couldn’t control his own body, how could he be in charge of this child?

“I’m really glad you’re here, Bucky,” Steve found himself murmuring.

The brunet looked over, surprised. He’d been playing with Henry’s hands, while Becca was off scouting for coffee. “You okay?”

How could Steve communicate how much it meant to be able to look over in the night while he was struggling to feed Maeve, to see the same struggle for patience and against stress playing out for Bucky? To be able to turn revulsion at the way he was seeping sweat in the dead of night into a joke, just for the pair of them. To grimace at the experience of diaper changes with, and to be exasperated at when their children decided to pee the moment their diapers were actually taken off.

He’d treasure all those moments too, even if they were harder.

“It was never about not being alone,” said Steve at last. “I only just realised. It was about sharing this with someone.”

That’s what it all came down to. Why all they’d done together mattered.

“Steve…” Bucky breathed.

Steve wished that he could see Bucky’s face in that moment - but instead, he had to blink rapidly at the sudden brightness of sparks flying in a circle in the air, bright burning orange, and even as Steve hurried to cover and protect Maeve’s eyes, a portal into an alien city appeared in the middle of the hospital room between him and Bucky.

“What the actual f*ck?” Bucky squawked as - one by one - Tony, Sam and Natasha hopped out of the portal. Dr Strange leaned into view and nodded in Steve’s direction. “Congratulations Commander,” he stated, before the portal disappeared mid-flick of his fingers, taking him with it.

“America’s First Baby!” Tony declared even before the portal’s sparks fully faded. However, he had his back to Steve, and his finger pointed at Henry. “And… America’s First Babysitter?”

“Noope.” Bucky was hunching defensively around his child. “This is my baby.”

“America’s First Baby Thief-?”

“Tony.” A snap of Natasha’s voice and Sam’s hand on his shoulder forced the billionaire to rotate on the spot.

Steve nodded down to the child in his hold. “This is my baby. And look away now if you’re going to be weird about bodily fluids because I’m trying to feed her again for the thirteenth time in her nine hours of life.” As Steve lowered Maeve back down to his chest, Natasha swooped forwards. Her shoulders gave Steve cover as he tried to convince Maeve to latch on. He was determined to pay attention this time, to keep on eye on whether she was being overwhelmed, even if his friends were here at last.

“Поздравляю,” Natasha murmured, fierce enough to impress on him her sincerity with a single word.

“Thank you.”

Steve held still so Natasha could peel back his covers and peer critically at the dressing over his surgical wound. She gave a judgemental huff, but as far as Steve could tell she could find nothing wrong.

“Thirty-one hours of labour ending in an emergency c-section.” The words emerged from Steve in a sigh of relief, because Maeve had finally got comfortable and each swallow was pulling milk from his chest and that still felt like a miracle.

“You’re telling us you should have gone straight to the Compound, got a quick nip and tuck in the process, and saved yourself thirty hours of hurt?” Tony said, his eyebrows raised in scepticism.

“Thirty one hours,” Sam corrected, because he listened and knew that extra hour mattered. “And I think the Chief has a pass on ‘I told you so’s for the day.”

“For an hour,” Tony argued.

Bucky’s voice broke through. “I’ll just. Um. Go.”

“This him?” Natasha asked, turning her critical eye on Bucky instead of Steve. Steve knew that look. “James Buchanan Barnes? Born in Shelbyville Indiana, 10th March-”

“Stop it. Right now Natasha.” His gaze darting between his now contentedly-feeding daughter and his friends, Steve said, “You don’t have to go Buck.”

Clearly uncertain, Bucky looked between the fully-uniformed Avengers, Steve and his own child. “I think I do. I’ve gotta get discharged, I’m taking up space and. Becca’s got the car seat so. She can drive me home. Get Henry settled. I’ll leave you with your friends.”

Steve didn’t want that. Steve also couldn’t move to prevent Bucky leaving.

He wanted to ask for a kiss, but he was suddenly unsure whether Bucky would want what they have exposed to the scrutiny of his team. His loud, dirt, alien-goo stained team, so very incongruous with the quiet intimacy that they’d had before.

And Bucky was talking about leaving. Taking all that comradeship and that affection with him.

“Becca’ll look after me, and your friends’ll look after you. Right?” Bucky asked, and it was almost as if he wanted Steve to say no, though he was still depositing Henry in the cradle and scooping up the belongings he had strewn around Steve’s room as they spoke.

Steve tried one last time. “You really don’t have to go.”

“I’ll see you Stevie. Soon, okay?” was all that Bucky seemed able to promise before he began to slip out of the room, taking Henry, and Steve’s peace with him.

“Wait!” Steve whispered the word because he wasn’t about to disturb Maeve, but his tone was abrupt enough that Bucky paused. “Just - guys, give us a minute. Go clean up, you’re not holding Maeve until you’re decent. Buck-” Steve would plead for him, but Bucky didn’t make him. Bucky took wary steps back towards him, even as Sam wrangled the other Avengers out of the room.

Dropping his head, Steve kept a close eye on Maeve rather than the room as it cleared. Waiting until a fragment of the connection they’d had before could be resurrected.

Bucky made the first move. He slid onto the mattress that they’d shared. “You know I don’t want this to end, don’t you?” he asked. “Just like you didn’t want to leave when you had to yesterday.”

“I hope that,” Steve admitted, screwing up his courage. Bucky had shared with him incredibly vulnerable moments - it had to be Steve’s turn. “But can’t say I know it.”

When Bucky sighed out “Steve,” the blond realised he’d heard Bucky use his name to summon his attention and as a cry for help and when he was the one doing the rescuing and even as an admonishment, but there was something different about the way Bucky used it then. As if there was a depth of tenderness and understanding there which Steve had only just begun to discover. A finger tipped Steve’s chin, and reluctantly, he met Bucky’s eyes. “If I had a choice - no, that’s not fair, I’m not shrugging off responsibility.” Bucky took a breath and tried again, this time clearly enunciating each word for emphasis, so there was no mistaking it. “I’ve never felt like this. You make me feel safer and more cared for than anyone I’ve ever met - anyone who wasn’t family - and it’s only been three days. You’ve changed my life in that time. I don’t wanna leave you, and I wouldn’t if I thought your team weren’t gonna have your back. But - all this? It’s been like being under a spell. Real life ain’t this. We’ve gotta face up to it at some point.”

“I don’t know.” Once he’d opened his mouth, Steve’s words left him in a rush. “I’ve been thinking about asking you to come home with me today. So we don’t have to.”

“f*ck, Steve.” Bucky sagged into Steve’s side, but he did so carefully. His forehead came to rest on Steve’s shoulder, and his warmth a comforting line without disturbing Maeve. It was almost perfect. Steve knew that it would have been, had Henry been tucked up with them too. He just knew. “I want to.” Bucky’s hand came up to grip Steve’s leg beneath the covers, just as Steve had clung to Bucky’s in the final hours of his labour that they’d shared. Bucky took long, shaky breaths against Steve’s skin. Steve already knew that he was going to say no. “We’ve gotta put our kids first. You said that and you were right, you knew you were right. We gotta concentrate and - I’m worried. If we fall into each other now, we’re gonna resent each other ‘cos we can’t do that for our kids. Not properly. And that’s not a good basis for anything that lasts.”

“I want to try for something that lasts,” Steve said, and the admission left him lighter because Bucky had just confirmed that he wanted that too. At his chest, the magnetic pulling of Maeve’s feed was slowing. The other pull that he felt - the one that stretched between him and Bucky - could it survive the distance? Bucky was right, of course, that it was nothing if it wasn’t strong enough to be tested like that.

Bucky was already breaking from Steve, reaching for a muslin so he could clear Maeve up. Steve caught at his hand instead of the cloth. “Will you let me date you Buck? Let me treat you the way you deserve? I wanna do that dinner properly, and sure I’ll try dancing for you. Spend time with you when neither of us are in pain for a change.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll let you date me.” Steve knew for certain then what Bucky’s eyes looked like when he was happy. They shone bright, as Bucky leaned in to give Steve the kiss that he’d craved.

Chapter 15

Chapter Text

Sam stood at Steve's elbow as he held Maeve up to the window in his room at the Rose Crest.

"You see how bright it is, little girl?" Steve asked, as she went wide-eyed at the sunshine.

"Your Dad's been saving all that earth for you," Sam said. "And your Uncle Sam's gonna take you to see all the stars out there, just like that sun."

Steve shook his head. "No space travel until you're 21. At least. No matter how shiny the stars are." He brushed a kiss against Maeve's downy head, even as Sam leaned down to whisper conspiratorially to the baby.

"Don't worry. You and me can argue him down to 14."

Steve nudged Sam in the ribs with his elbow.

Sam elbowed him back. Pain exploded behind Steve's eyes, and Sam was apologising before Steve could even cry out. His strong hands came up to support Maeve's back so Steve didn't either squash or drop her.

"Some godfather you are," Steve gasped.

"Oh I'm a great godfather," Sam said, as he guided the baby back up to Steve's shoulder. "Terrible best friend, I'll give you that. Here, let's get you sat back down."

-

"How much?"

"$290,000," Bucky repeated for the fourth time, as he swung about the room with Henry in his hold, trying to distract the infant from crying because he couldn't be hungry, he couldn't be tired, he wasn't wet and that meant literally anything else in the world could be wrong. Typhoid. Rabies. Too much attention. The wrong colour light. Injustice. An ill-fitting sock.

"Does Brock even have that kinda money?" Becca demanded.

"I think that's why they've sold his house. And everything in it."

Cross-legged on the floor, Becca looked up from the laundry pile that she was sorting - the second of the morning. "And what's happened to him?"

In all honesty, Bucky was half too afraid to ask for details and half too afraid of losing the mystery. The truth was probably far more mundane than he liked to imagine. “Locked up for the minute, I guess. One of Steve’s minions is waiting for my answer of what I want done with him. Honestly, don’t know if I wanna do the whole court thing. But. Think I can take my time deciding.”

As Becca unpeeled two milk-dampened muslins, she asked, "Do you think Steve could arrange to have him killed?"

Bucky couldn't deny the flush that went through him then. He might be two days post-partum, still bloated and bleeding, but he was only a man. And the thought of Steve Rogers wielding that kind of power did things to his insides which hadn't been done for years.

"Oh my God, you think that's hot," Becca cackled.

"I really, really do," Bucky admitted, hoarse-voiced and flushed with embarrassment and desire in equal measure. He pressed a kiss above Henry's ear. "Sorry baby. Your Daddy's a disaster person."

"And your other Daddy's been dropped into a volcano by the man that your main Daddy wants to be your Step-Daddy," Becca mumbled into her washing.

"Please stop using the word Daddy to refer to Steve," Bucky begged, as strained by all the images that threw up as the ones of Steve’s muscles bulging as he tossed Brock off a cliff. "It's really not helping."

-

Everything about the third day of Maeve's life was a more difficult than it should have been. The Rose Crest was finally letting Steve leave, but getting discharged took hours. A traffic accident on the way home meant they had to pull over on the road to change Maeve's diaper in what would have been an hilarious tableau had Steve's painkillers not worn off half-way through the journey. And when Steve stood to get out of the car, he realised that the coffee he hadn’t had a moment to drink yet had spilled all over his Jeep's suede seat.

Steve was sore and he was exhausted, and none of that was helped by Sam's sympathetic looks and Tony making ridiculous levels of noise clattering round his house or Maeve screaming fit to burst for the last fifteen minutes of the drive.

"Gimme her," Steve ordered Natasha, who had his sobbing daughter in a carrier. He threw a blanket over a chair and lowered himself down into it, trying to hide his winces.

"Drugs first." Sam lobbed the pill case across the room, and Steve tossed them down dry.

Getting Maeve calmed down enough to feed, when that was all that she was desperate to do but too frantic to realise that’s what she was being offered, was a nightmare. Steve had underestimated how much it was going to hurt him to hear her cry. All those years training himself to tune out certain sounds, and this one pierced every barrier he had. And by the time Maeve had actually drunk her fill, Steve was gasping with thirst but too fraught to go anywhere near the kitchen, where it sounded like Tony was taking apart the dishwasher and replacing bits of it with a church organ.

Maeve contributed to Steve's mood by vomiting everything she’d just imbibed straight down his shoulder.

When Natasha hopped onto the sofa opposite Steve's chair with a water bottle fresh from the fridge in her hands, Steve could have wept with gratitude. That was, until Natasha cracked open the lid and swallowed a glug, all while staring directly at him with her piercing green eyes.

"What do you want, Natasha?" Steve groaned. She knew that he wasn’t meant to stand up with Maeve in his arms but he could if he wanted to damn it.

"I want you to tell me why you haven't texted him yet."

There was condensation sliding down the side of the water bottle.

"Texted who?"

"Aw Steve, don't be coy." Natasha licked along her bottom lip, where she'd deliberately left droplets behind. “Or do be coy. While I slowly drink the rest of this delicious, ice cold water. So refreshing.”

Professionally trained torturers were the worst possible best friends. Swallowing with some difficulty, Steve replied, "Because he has a three day old baby, same as me. And because he asked for us to focus on our kids for a bit first." The lump in Steve’s throat wasn't just dryness anymore. "Because he asked FRIDAY for my number and hasn't used it. Because I think the moment he got a look at what my life is really like, when all of you tumbled into my room, he spooked a bit and I’m giving him time to adjust to the ten thousand things he has to adjust to."

Natasha slunk closer, bottle in her hand. She paused a few paces away, just out of his reach. "Man's six months out of an abusive relationship. Sounds like it took a hell of a lot of brains and courage to get out of. You really think we're enough to spook him? After he literally gave birth holding your hand, fought off medical professionals who were gonna pop your baby in a nursery so that she’d be held and kept near you, and agreed to date you?"

Steve tried his best to ponder that, but Natasha didn't make it easy for him. She put her head back for a long, decadent swallow. The bottle was already half empty. Throat on fire, Steve tried to concentrate, thinking of everything he knew about Bucky. And no, Natasha was right, it didn't make sense that he'd have been made nervous. He'd taken Steve being who he was in his stride.

"D'you think he was using you?"

"No!" Steve couldn't pretend that he hadn't considered that, because it was his job to overthink things from time to time. But Bucky had argued him down about every single thing that Steve had done for him. He'd been embarrassed about being in a position to benefit from generosity. "Embarrassed," Steve realised suddenly. That’s why Bucky would have scarpered so quickly if Steve hadn’t called him back. "He would’ve been embarrassed. Worried that you lot’d judge him, thinking that he was freeloading off me. I talked about how protective you lot are. He never asked me for a thing. Except." The memory rose and choked him more than the dryness in his throat. "To stroke his hair."

The cold of the water bottle came as a shock as Natasha pressed it into his hand. “How you gonna date him if you don’t text him?”

-

At 2.17 the next morning, Bucky's phone buzzed. Through eyes blurred with half-sleep, Bucky blinked at the text.

'Are you awake? - SGR'

The message lit him up even more brightly than the backlight. Listening to Becca trying to negotiate changing Henry's diaper because she was a goddamn hero, Bucky typed back, 'If your next question's 'what are you wearing?', you're going to be sorely disappointed.'

There was a pause, where a bubble filled with an ellipsis appeared, disappeared and appeared again on the screen. Bucky grinned to himself, imagining Steve spluttering.

The reply came through as Becca was placing Bucky’s newly clean newborn into his arms. "Oooh!" she exclaimed as she peered over at the screen. "What's this? 'I don't know. I kinda got attached to you looking cosy and snug.' Wait, there's a follow up. 'I'm sorry if that's strange, I'm a bit sleep deprived.' This man is adorable BuckBuck."

"I know." Bucky luxuriated in that knowledge. How Steve made him feel even with a few words. The sensation did something at least to offset how uncomfortable it was trying to get Henry to latch on the way he was supposed to. "Can you tell him that his cosiness fetish explains his pyjama gifting. Wait, no. That's insane. Ask him if he can get a refund on the serum if it's not up to having a newborn. Wait. Just ask him how he is. No. That's too boring. Is that too boring?"

Becca looked at him as if he'd lost his mind, and Bucky wasn't sure that he hadn't. "I'm going to ask him what's keeping him up."

For a few minutes, Bucky concentrated on trying not to fall back to sleep while feeding Henry. A squeak from Becca interrupted his haze. She didn't report the words, just turned the phone screen towards him. Instinctively, Bucky shielded Henry's eyes from the glare, but he wasn't sure how good a job he did because the picture was of a half-naked Steve Rogers with a three day old baby on his chest. Maeve was holding on fiercely to one of his fingers. Soft-looking blue blankets covered him up to the ribs.

Bucky was thrown back in time to Maeve’s first night, and to the feeling of Steve’s skin all along his own. To the perfect grounding of that contact and how Bucky felt a fierce need to hoard each touch and guard each vulnerability. He could remember the handful of kisses they’d shared, and the photograph just caught the perfect bow of Steve’s lips in the frame. Bucky wanted to feel them molten in passion and sucking bruises up his neck. He wanted those strong hands to hold him close and to pry him apart.

"f*ck me," Bucky sighed.

Becca had typed it out and pressed send before Bucky had a chance to stop her, and he couldn’t even strangle her because he had Henry in his arms.

"I'm sorry Henry. You're going to have to live with your Auntie Becca now because your Daddy's about to die from embarrassment."

When the next text read 'One day, I hope', he very nearly did expire on the spot.

-

From then on, they exchanged messages almost every day. Mostly at night, when their friends had gone home or gone to sleep, and they were all alone with their tiny, incomprehensible infants who were terrible conversationalists and possibly also terrorists. Steve found himself leaning closer and closer to the one person he could consistently rely upon to understand him, and leaned closer still when his friends started to depart back to their actual lives and Avenging. Bucky found himself doing the same when Becca flew back to Germany.

There was even something special about lying on the rug watching Maeve kick her legs, and knowing that a few miles away, Bucky was doing the same thing with Henry. To get the photo twenty minutes later of Bucky’s sweet boy stretching on his mat, and the satisfaction of knowing that Steve was right, that they had that kinship.

The pair of them shared little victories and little gripes, whatever the hour. Sometimes it was as mundane as swapping diaper cream recommendations and swaddling tips. Sometimes it was full of awkward intimacy. Just needing to complain, Bucky confessed early one morning how much he hated the night sweats, because it wasn’t fair that he was having to wash his sheets all the time in addition to Henry’s bedding and Henry’s eight outfit changes a day and everything that got thrown up on - and was his washing machine actually going to last until his kid was two months old because it didn’t f*cking feel likely. When Steve’s milk came in properly, and his chest was rock hard and throbbing, Bucky coaxed him gently into confessing what was making him crotchety and he felt better for doing so, and better still when Bucky Amazon Primed him ice packs.

Sometimes, it was nice to admit to someone who wouldn’t judge him how mind numbing the constant circle of crying and feeding and changing was. Sometimes, it was nice to put a sh*tty movie on and trade commentary over WhatsApp while they were stuck in arm chairs, or too tired to tackle the lengthy list of chores that awaited them. And sometimes it was nice to share the simultaneously enormous-yet-minute things that he loved about his daughter and wanted to praise about her development with someone who would do the same about his son.

Steve loved learning about Henry just as much as he loved learning about Bucky. His phone was filled with almost as many photos of Bucky’s son as of his own daughter. Each day he was gifted stories of all the new things that Bucky was discovering about Henry and the personality he was growing almost hour by hour, and how could Steve fail to begin falling in love with both of them as a result?

It wasn’t too long before Bucky started doing the same.

-

One day, four weeks into fatherhood, Bucky looked down at Henry wiggling away under his sensory mobile, and he realised what he feared would never happen finally had. He loved this child. He loved him so f*cking much.

His first instinct was to call Steve.

There was a crowd on the other end of the phone line - joking, teasing, laughter. Steve was hushing his friends as he picked up the phone. "Hey Buck, you okay?" And Steve's voice was low and private even though he was in a group. "Bucky's what's wrong?" Steve asked when, overcome, Bucky struggled to reply. "Are you - sweetheart, I can hear you crying."

Bucky hadn't even realised that he was, but when he touched his fingers to his cheeks they were wet. "I love him, Steve."

"Brock?" That one syllable was filled with so much devastation, Bucky could hardly bear to hear it.

"No, you idiot. Henry."

"Well of course you love him." When Steve said it, he made it sound so simple. Like it was obvious. And of course, it was. Of course he loved his son.

Steve sat on the phone for long minutes, listening to Bucky cry himself out, ignoring his friends, as the tears on Bucky's cheeks changed from revelation to relief.

-

The first time they tried to meet up, they’d planned for it to be in a park between both their houses. Bucky was the first to text that he'd be late because Henry had projectile vomited over every piece of clothing they both were wearing and some they weren’t yet. The delay on his end meant that Steve had to linger at home, which threw off his short window to get Maeve out of the house without needing to be changed or fed. When the heavens opened and Bucky called to literally rain check, Henry was screaming in the room with him and he could hear Maeve doing the same beside Steve.

The second time they tried to meet up, Bucky proposed a mall closer to his place than Steve's. It made sense: there were places to change the children, cafes that wouldn't mind if they nursed, and - feeling flush with cash for the first time in a very long time - Bucky had an extensive list of things that he wanted to pick up for Henry, himself and maybe for Steve too. When it came to heading out, however, Bucky just couldn't make it. The pressure of getting everything he needed together was far too much. Bucky was trying not to have a panic attack when Steve called him to promise that it was okay.

Later that day, the biggest bouquet of roses Bucky had ever seen arrived on his doorstep with a note saying ' Sorry it took me so long - S x '.

The third time they tried to meet up, it was Steve who cancelled when Maeve screamed for two hours straight, finally fell into an exhausted sleep in his arms the minute he was meant to leave, and he couldn't bear to move her. Everytime Steve shifted, Maeve’s little face screwed up in a precursor to a cry.

Determined not to miss Steve this time, Bucky received the text message when he was already at the lakeside. He looked down at Henry, who was staring in fascination at a black and white spotty page in his crinkle book, and sighed, "Sorry baby. Looks like you're gonna have a single Daddy forever."

The fourth time, Bucky had to rush Henry to the doctor over a rash that turned out to be nothing.

The fifth time, Steve simply messaged ‘I can’t’ with no explanation, which had Bucky calling up Friday in a worry only to learn that she was in fact an AI, and for Steve to admit that PTSD was a thing that was still part of his life some days.

The sixth time, Natasha took over.

-

Fussing over his shirt in the hallway mirror, Bucky wondered if he'd made the right choice. Baby vomit managed to show up on pretty much everything that baby poop didn't, so he'd opted for a dark blue that ought to bring out his eyes and for prayer that Henry would behave. He badly wanted to look respectable for Steve. Not the hot mess he'd been when he was admitted to the Rose Crest and not the pyjama-wearing milk zombie that he was most of the time afterwards.

Nervously, Bucky tugged the hem of his shirt down over his stomach. Eight weeks on from giving birth, he was still a hell of a lot bigger and saggier than he used to be.

A beep from outside told him that the car Steve had sent had arrived. Bucky sucked in a low breath and turned to Henry. The baby was squirming contentedly in his carry seat, drooling on a clenched fist and unaware of how important the day was to his father.

"Best behaviour please kiddo. No vomming, no screaming, no disgracing yourself or me, and I'll let you stare at some LEDs for as long as you want tomorrow, 'kay?"

When Bucky, predictably, received no response to his offered bribe, he steeled himself, picked up the carrier, and headed for the car.

Natasha Romanov was in the driver's seat. Because of course she was. The world hated Bucky and wanted to keep him and Steve apart forever.

"We weren't properly introduced," Natasha commented as Bucky opened the side door of the car.

"No. We weren't." Bucky tried to focus on buckling Henry in while his heart pounded out of his chest because surely you weren’t supposed to turn your back on a Black Widow or you had to keep her in your sights at all times and not blink or something. “I’m Bucky. But you knew that already. And my social security number and all my passwords I’d guess.”

“A safe assumption.” When Natasha spoke from a place of smugness, she almost purred. “I’m Natasha Romanov. But you knew that already too.”

The car seat was secure. Bucky hesitated all the same. "I'm not being rude-" the last thing he wanted to be was rude to the Black Widow, because that would probably be the last thing he did "-but if he kicks off…"

"Sit wherever you're most comfortable," Natasha said, with a cloying smile that was undoubtedly the final thing several men had seen before they died. "No overnight bag?"

Fervently wishing that the ground would swallow him up, Bucky swallowed because he had several bags to take with him and any one of them looked like they could be an overnight bag but mostly they were filled with diapers and changes of clothes and a million pieces of equipment he'd never thought he'd need. And he'd left them all in the hallway, and locked that door behind him.

They were two miles down the road before Bucky's cheeks cooled down.

"So I've been spending some quality time with your ex," Natasha announced utterly out of the blue. "He's quite the charmer."

Within Bucky's chest, something possessive and territorial reared its head. Not Brock. Nowhere near Henry. Never. That’s what Friday had promised him. "Where is he?"

"Far away from here." Green eyes flicked to his in the rearview mirror, and something softened in them. "A prison facility in Indiana. Not a very comfortable one - I can assure you of that. It's the darndest thing. They got an anonymous tip off, and found about half a million dollars' worth of heroin and cocaine stored inside his basem*nt. You get yourself a lengthy stay inside for that kind of haul."

Bucky blinked in surprise at that revelation. For all of Brock’s many, many flaws, he'd never been involved in organised crime, let alone dealt drugs. He'd certainly never been involved in financial deals of that size.

"It's completely irrefutable of course,” Natasha continued. “No testimony needed. No need for witnesses. Just a hefty sentence and a teeny tiny cell." She winked at Bucky then.

Bucky had decided already that he didn’t want a protracted court battle with Brock. Friday had told him they could press the criminal charges without him, based on Brock’s confession, and if Brock was stripped of his rights to Henry and his finances, what power could he have? Bucky had known that meant Brock walking free sooner, but that was a compromise he was fine to make - because Bucky wanted to draw a line and move forwards. He had a future now and he wanted to live it. And this arrest meant that he could, without a single conversation with a lawyer or a cop or a judge.

Strangled, Bucky asked, "Steve..?"

Natasha Romanov began to hum the Friends theme song, and Bucky had to check that he wasn't having a stroke.

-

Steve wasn't watching out for Bucky and Henry’s arrival. Nope. He'd just decided to sit out on the swing on his front deck because it was comfortable, it was a nice day, and Maeve could benefit from some fresh air.

After five failed attempts, maybe a little part of Steve was unconvinced that the pair would make it. Maybe he wanted to watch the car drive towards his home in the hope that it would be a visit worth remembering. The start of something.

Despite the tug of nervousness over his impending house guests, Steve enjoyed his time on the deck, rocking Maeve gently back and forth on the swing and working to amuse her. Just the week before, Maeve had started to smile for him. It had become a reflex she offered up whenever he made an exaggerated boop with a finger on her nose, or when he sent her soaring up into the air with a "Whee!". Steve loved it. He loved the little dot of processing time it took between his action and her reaction. He loved how easy it was to be ridiculous with Maeve - to shed the skin of Captain America and become something even more simplistic and joyful than he remembered being as a child, but was the persona his baby’s development needed. He fell in love with Maeve over and over again with every smile she gave him. It ought to be impossible to feel as much love as he did, but he’d yet to find a limit to it. Steve buried a kiss into Maeve's thickening hair when it overwhelmed him, and hoped that she could tell how she was adored.

When the car crunched across the gravel path, Steve realised that Natasha was in the driving seat and groaned. “Your godmother’s a menace,” he informed Maeve, as he stood and made his way to greet their guests. He deliberately crossed to Bucky’s side of the car to open the door, only to find it was locked.

Steve rolled his eyes, leaned up against the sun-heated metal, and waited a good sixty seconds until Natasha released the first of her captives.

“You been given the shovel talk?” Steve asked, offering a hand to Bucky to help him out.

The fingers which clasped Steve’s were clammy. “Something like that. Your friend has a gift for putting the fear of God in someone while saying very little at all.” Bucky dropped Steve’s hand halfway through speaking, and hurried at once over to the other side of the car to free Henry as if he was worried Natasha might drive off with him. Only once the car seat was in Bucky’s hand did the younger man seem to shake off the alarm and summon a timid smile. “It’s nice that you have friends who feel so protective of you,” Bucky said, clearly trying to convince himself.

Steve had missed Bucky’s smile. He wanted to see it full and bright again. He was about to cross the distance to… he wasn’t sure. Hug Bucky? Kiss him? Say hi to Henry? - but Bucky was looking about himself in awe.

“This is some property Steve.” Bucky gaze drifted across to the waterfront: narrow lake-side beaches surrounded the house on three of its four sides. “Some very not-childproofed property.”

Was Bucky thinking that because he was thinking about his own child here when he was old enough to run?

No. No it couldn’t be that.

Bucky was just worried about Maeve.

“There’s a forcefield,” Steve explained, when he realised Bucky was waiting for a response. “Around the water. Any tot runs that way’ll get harmlessly bounced back on the sand.”

For a moment, Bucky squinted at him, sceptical. “I forgot how you just… say the craziest things sometimes.” Then he shrugged, accepting. “We should - outta the sun, y’know?”

Steve startled. He had no idea how long they’d been standing there. He hadn’t even clocked that Maeve would be getting too warm, distracted and - he was a wreck. This man turned him into a wreck with no effort whatsoever. “Let’s. House. Yes.”

Natasha beeped twice to say goodbye, and Steve almost jumped out of his skin. He’d fully forgotten that she was there. He waved, and she scowled before cranking the window down. “I got your boy for you Rogers. I’m not getting his luggage as well. Come put those super-muscles to work.”

When they finally got inside, with themselves, both children and all the bags Bucky apparently felt he needed, Steve was in the rear. He stood behind Bucky in the hall as the brunet paused to take in the fine wood crafting and the big bay windows, the intricate modern lighting and the thick carpets underfoot. In usual circ*mstances, Steve would have offered a tour. He would have highlighted some of the things he was proud of building, explained a bit of their creation if his guest was interested. Instead, Steve stood there struck by just how glad he was to have Bucky in his space. In his home. How he wanted Bucky to discover this place for himself, and for him to stay long enough that they could stretch that conversation out over months and years.

“Buck.” With Maeve nestled close to his neck, Steve stepped into Bucky’s side. Bucky looked up at him with those huge silver eyes. They darted to Steve’s lips once, twice. Not doubt, surely not doubt? Invitation. Confidence then, in Bucky’s gaze. Heat, maybe? Slowly - what if they had all the time in the world? What if they had only seconds? - Steve leaned down to kiss the man he’d been wanting to kiss again for the past two months.

Henry interrupted the moment by making the most unmistakable biological noise before they could too. Bucky broke away, embarrassed, with a blush bright across his cheeks. “Sorry, he-”

“It’s okay,” Steve rushed to reassure.

“D’you have a changing table? Or I could just-”

“Of course, I’ll show-”

“Well of course you do, stupid question. You don’t just - change your baby on a mat on the floor.” And from something complicated that flashed over Bucky’s expression, Steve knew that was what he’d been planning to do before he had his money returned to him. Bucky breathed out, “Yes, please?”

They stumbled over each other up the staircase, carrying their respective infants and the bags up to the nursery. Bucky didn’t even glance around, focused on freeing his child from the straps of the carseat, and Steve deflated. He had a whole spiel prepared about the mural he’d painted, but Henry was starting to grouse with discomfort so of course Bucky was pouring all his attention down onto his child.

“Everything you need’s in the drawers there. Wipes, cotton balls - anything you need. I’ll…” Steve hesitated, remembering those first diaper changes as newborns, when Henry screamed every time a piece of clothing passed over his head, and when Steve got a little shaky with shock at just how difficult it was to clear Maeve up properly. They’d felt like a team then. Was that gone now? “I’ll be downstairs.”

Bucky said “Thank you,” belatedly, as an afterthought.

In the kitchen, Steve dithered. He’d spent hours getting ready. Everything was clean, food was already prepared, coffee was hot in the machine. It didn’t take that long to pour the coffee into mugs. He almost wished that Maeve would kick up a fuss to distract him, but she was napping happily on Steve’s shoulder, and didn’t even wake to protest being put down when Steve buckled her into her bouncy chair.

Was the intimacy they’d shared in the Rose Crest gone? It had been present for their births, when they were struggling and unbearably lonely, but was that all they were going to have? How could he resurrect that connection? Was it even possible?

“Steve?” He whirled on the ball of his foot at the call of his name. He’d been so lost in his head that he hadn’t even heard Bucky descend the stairs.

There was caution in Bucky’s approach - a guard set in his shoulders, and a possessive hand against Henry’s back.

“Coffee?” Steve asked. His voice emerged strangely high pitched.

Bucky ignored the question. “You want to explain why there are two moses baskets in your bedroom?”

A full-body flush of embarrassment went through Steve’s body. He’d been too presumptuous, he’d scared Bucky off -

“I’m not kidnapping you.”

Steve realised how insane that statement was far too late.

What did Bucky do to him?

“I didn’t think you were. Until you said that.” Bucky lowered his head to Henry’s. His long, dark hair fell across his face and hid his expression. He stood there for an impossibly long time as every one of Steve’s hopes for what he could share with this man tumbled away.

It had been such a nice dream.

The moment stretched, the violin strings of Steve’s heart trembling, ready to be snapped.

“Two moses baskets. President of the fricking Boy Scouts,” Bucky said at last. “Good God, I’d missed you.”

A whole orchestra struck up a concert in Steve’s chest.

“You missed me?”

“I - yeah, Steve. I mean, I know we’ve spoken every day. But I still missed you.” Bucky looked out from between the curtains of his hair, trying to sweep it backwards though Henry had a chunk of it in his fist, and there was something raw and vulnerable in his expression. “It’s okay if it wasn’t the same for you, I just-”

How many more times would Bucky have to be the brave one?

No more. Steve wasn’t going to hide behind gestures and gifts any longer. Bucky had just offered Steve his heart on a plate, and Steve had to let him know that he felt the same.

Steve swept across the distance between them. “Buck. Sweetheart.” He needed to touch him. He couldn’t stand another moment’s distance. Had to slide his hands up Bucky’s arm, over the burn scars, to create a shield between that sensitive skin and the sharpness of the rest of the world. Had to wind his touch all the way round to Bucky’s back so he could bring his body in close and closer still, surrounding the pair of Barneses with all the strength he had, because they had to know that it was at their disposal now. “I haven’t been able to quit thinking about you. Every day. Every time I get a message from you, no matter how I feel, I smile - even if I haven’t had a chance to open it yet, knowing it’s there. I’ve wanted to see you again so bad.”

There was that smile. It lit Bucky up, even as he unconsciously nuzzled against Henry in his hold. “So that’s a yes to it being the same for you?” he asked, with a shyness that Steve hadn’t seen before. It was clear that distance had put it there, and given Bucky time to doubt, so Steve forced himself to put the enormity of how he felt into words.

“Yes, Bucky. I missed you. I… I have all these dreams. About you. The two of you - you and Henry. About how we might be a four. They’re dreams, not plans, and they’re too much and too soon too, but… I have two moses baskets because I want you and Henry to be comfortable here, no matter how long you’re here for. And I got Henry a moses basket that matched Maeve’s because I didn’t want him to feel any different from her, even if that’s a bit insane, because that’s all you. You make me a little crazy Buck.”

As Steve poured his feelings out, under one of his hands, he felt a new looseness in Bucky’s shoulders as the younger man began to relax and to trust. Under the other, he felt Bucky’s ribs expanding, as if Bucky were beginning to grow taller and fill right up as a result of Steve’s words. Silver eyes shining, Bucky said, “I’m gonna kiss you now. Fair warning. Cos you can’t say shi- stuff like that and not expect me to kiss you.”

“I consider myself warned.”

Both sets of lips were smiling as they finally kissed again.

-

It was easy then to sink into the sofa in Steve’s ridiculously expansive open plan living room, overlooking cornflower blue sky and azure blue water, and to fall into the bluest pools of all in Steve’s eyes. To tangle hands and press legs and trade soft words. Not about the future and Steve’s dreams for them, as much as Bucky craved every word he could extract to see if they matched his own imaginings - it felt too tender still, beneath the bright sun and the shelterless wall of windows. It was enough to just be with each other, for the moment. To touch, not casually but easily, and to speak of things which made them happy.

Henry was milk-drunk and quiet in Bucky’s hold, while Maeve slept in her rocker. One of Steve’s feet kept it jiggling gently for her, and every now and again he tugged her blanket up to her neck to keep her warm. Yet Steve’s eyes went to Henry, over and over, and it wasn’t a surprise when he finally, almost shyly, asked, “Do you think I could say hi to him?”

“Sure.” Bucky carefully detached Henry from his hair, and offered him to Steve, and his immediate urge to yell ‘freedom!’ and sprint from the room to take an hour long bath was crushed by the gentle expression which appeared on Steve’s face.

“Hey bud. I’ve heard a lot about you but we weren’t properly introduced last time round. Your Dad got lots of cuddles with my Maeve but your Aunt Becca had you anytime your Dad didn’t,” Steve murmured as he raised Henry to eye level, and it looked almost as if he’d forgotten Bucky was in the room. “Oh you think that’s funny do you?”

Bucky startled forwards, and there was Henry’s face creasing in a gummy grin. “Oh my God, you got his first smile!” Bucky couldn’t help it. He was trying very hard not to swear and be a reformed adult, but a “f*ck!” slipped out all the same.

Despite Bucky’s jovial tone, Steve’s face fell into lines of devastation. “I didn’t - I didn’t mean to. It’s probably just gas, I-”

“Make him do it again,” Bucky demanded, firmly putting an end to Steve’s gibberish by curling into the blond’s shoulder so Henry could see them both.

With the warmth of Steve’s body seeping into his own, Bucky watched Steve amuse his son for the next fifteen minutes. When Maeve woke and began to complain that she was the only one not being held, Bucky got to free her from her confines and let her cuddle against him. He had to hide his own smiles at how heavy she was compared with Henry, who’d grown exponentially but clearly couldn’t keep up with a supersoldier’s baby.

“Looks like she remembers you.” Steve’s voice was so low, it must have rolled from the depths of his chest. His eyes looked very slightly damp.

Bucky couldn’t hold that gaze. The intensity was too much. “Nah. Babies’re just a good judge of character. That’s why Henry’s so happy with you,” he replied thickly, as he tucked himself back into Steve’s side. Steve shifted Henry into one arm, so the other could come around Bucky’s shoulders. So Steve could hold all three of them close.

It was so perfect that Bucky’s eyes misted a little too.

-

When evening began to dim the sky outside, both of them tried to ignore it.

It had been such a perfect day, after their initial bump in the road. Both Maeve and Henry were on their best behaviour - feeding without a hitch, sleeping without real protest, and Bucky and Steve could just fit themselves around each other. Steve did everything he could to encourage Bucky to feel as relaxed as possible in his space, while Bucky did everything he could to encourage Steve to chill the f*ck out.

However, as Bucky smothered a yawn while swaying on the spot with Henry, Steve knew he couldn’t remain quiet much longer. He knew that Bucky usually took an afternoon nap in one of the slots when Henry did, but he’d missed it in exchange for kissing Steve some more.

As Maeve was content, Steve was free to cross the distance between them. And as Bucky had gifted him permission to touch as much as he wanted so far, Steve approached him from behind. He slowly slid his hands around Bucky’s waist, and drew him back against his chest. They hadn’t been able to do that while Steve was pregnant, or in the hours afterwards. Too much bulk between them. Steve fitted there now. Bucky seemed to think so too, because he relaxed into Steve’s hold without pause, as if he knew that he could rest there.

Steve was going to do the gentlemanly thing. Offer to drive Bucky home. Order him up a cab. Instead, he whispered, “Stay,” into the other man’s hair. He pushed all his longing into that syllable, as much of the future that he wanted into a single sound.

Bucky hesitated.

It was too big of an ask, too soon.

All the same, Steve held on to the body in his arms a little tighter. A little too needy to let him go yet.

“I haven’t been with anyone,” Bucky said, at last. “Not since Brock. And - I was his for almost ten years.”

Instincts warred: the desire to hold closer and comfort, the need to let go and show Bucky that Steve respected the space he needed, and the utter imperative not to let Bucky feel rejected. Steve let go of it all and stayed exactly as he was, as he breathed, “Just to sleep. Or to hold each other. Whatever you want.”

Bucky nodded back against Steve’s shoulder. “I want that. I want to stay.”

-

Later, in Steve’s expansive bedroom, with Maeve and Henry tucked up in their matching - Jesus Christ Steve - moses baskets, Bucky wondered if he’d made a mistake. Because Steve had stripped off his shirt and was wandering around his bedroom with a ridiculous number of well-sculpted abdominal muscles on show, skin golden like he’d somehow had time to lie about sunbathing, and a still-swollen chest with hard, enlarged nipples on show. He was gorgeous. And Bucky was torn between wanting to lick a line from treasure trail to throat, and feeling even more like a marshmallow than before.

“Can I - d’you have a shirt I can borrow?” he asked.

“Sure. Second drawer in that bureau. Whatever takes your fancy.” Steve shot a breathtaking smile in Bucky’s direction as he slipped into the en suite. It might have been a strategic move to give Bucky space to change. Knowing him, it probably was.

But when Bucky sorted through the shirts, checking the labels, he found every single one of them was miles too small. How did Steve even fit in these shirts?

It forced him to confront Steve when he returned from the bathroom, minty fresh and badly tamping down how happy he was to see Bucky there. He flickered with confusion. “You not changing after all?”

“I’m still in paternity wear, Steve,” Bucky ground out. “I’ll split the fabric of anything in those drawers.”

“Hey, no problem.” Steve ducked down to tug a box out from beneath the bed. Instead of handing it over in full, he combed through it himself and withdrew an oversized shirt with a complex twist of fabric on the front. “I lived in this for a while. It’s real soft. You want pants too or you okay in your shorts?” Still on the carpet, he pivoted until he was kneeling up between Bucky’s legs. When Bucky shook his head at the offer, Steve reached for Bucky’s jaw with a touch that could only be described as reverent, his fingertips stroking up and down in inch-long lines. “Every time I look at you, I want you a little bit more. You take my breath away every time I touch you. Don’t forget that.”

The words sent a bolt of heat straight through Bucky, to pool in his belly. Steve wouldn’t lie to him. Steve had only ever been sincere and honest with him.

Something cheeky stole over Steve’s face, and he added, “Plus you were literally there when a midwife scooped out a bit of my poop from a bath with a little poop scoop she had just for that purpose. You might not have been paying attention, for which I thanked many religious icons, but you were there.” A business-like kiss was pressed to Bucky’s forehead, and Steve stepped away to check on Maeve.

It was - somehow, impossibly - the right thing to say. And when they were both beneath the duvet and Steve curled up around Bucky’s back, Bucky found he didn’t mind at all when Steve slid his hand over his retained stomach to hold him close. In fact, he found his body all but melting into Steve’s own, just as it had done every single time either of them found a way for their bodies to align. It was so damn nice.

“Want to take bets on how long it is before we’re woken up?” Steve’s low voice asked in his ear.

“Don’t give them any ideas.” Bucky slid his hand backwards to cover Steve’s, holding on tight. The change in angle brought his body weight more heavily into Steve. More skin. More warmth. Yes please and thank you. “D’you think it’s easier to be a single parent of one kid or one of a pair of parents of twins?”

Tired and sleep-deprived, Bucky had only meant the question as an idle wondering. Only. Mostly. Yet Steve’s whole, broad body sucked in a breath beneath him.

Clearly strained, Steve replied, “I guess. There’s a chance that we’re about to find out. Maybe.”

Bucky squeezed at the hand he was holding. He was damn sure going to take that chance. Pillowed on Steve’s body, a peace stole over him like no peace he’d ever experienced before. Just lying in that space, feeling Steve’s slow breathing beneath him, tension breezed away.

This was a safe place. A luxuriously comfortable place.

“Can I change my mind?” Bucky ventured in a whisper, and regretted it immediately when Steve went tense. “I don’t mean to leave. I mean. Will you- it’s okay if you touch me.” And that wasn’t fair, he couldn’t leave Steve room to doubt. “I don’t want to just sleep. I missed you touching me. I want you to - I want to see how it feels when you touch me.”

“Bucky,” Steve rumbled, using his fingers to guide Bucky to look towards him in the dark. Steve was just a shadow - a shape - to Bucky, but maybe Steve could see more. “I don’t want to hurt you, or scare you. So I need you to be clear with me. What are you asking for?”

Breathing evenly, Bucky realised there was no fear, no concern. He knew what he wanted and how Steve could give it to him. “I’m allowed to ask?” He checked, instinctively.

“You are being asked to ask.”

“I want your hands on my skin. I want your mouth. I think you can make me feel good and… I really, really want to feel good.” It had been such a long time since he’d felt real pleasure under another man’s touch, and he was sure that Steve could give that to him. “If that’s what you want too.”

In a jerky, half-cut off movement, Steve went to press forwards then hauled himself back. Bucky had to work not to flinch. He heard Steve take a steadying breath. “I’m gonna turn the light on, okay darlin’? I don’t want a second’s doubt in your head that it’s me and my hands on you. And I wanna be able to see you.”

Dim golden light flowed into the sphere around them, reminiscent of the single lamp that had lit them the first night of Maeve and Henry’s lives. Steve’s eyes were dark. He reached slowly for Bucky, and curled them back together beneath the sheets - as they were before, on their sides, Bucky’s back against his chest. Rolling Bucky back to a state of comfort.

“We’ll go slow. Only as far as you want to,” Steve whispered close to Bucky’s ear, and the whisper turned into a kiss to the sensitive skin just beneath the lobe. One of Steve’s palms smoothed slowly up and down Bucky’s bare thigh in dreamlike movements. Steve had done this to him before, Bucky remembered. He’d coaxed Bucky’s body into calmness. Bucky exhaled some of the tension he’d been holding unconsciously, and let his legs fall open and back against Steve’s own, spreading himself for Steve. It roused a languorous noise of approval from the blond.

Another kiss followed the one beneath Bucky’s ear. A lazy trail of them made its way down Bucky’s jaw, then his neck, until Steve’s mouth reached the collar of Bucky’s shirt and circled back again. Each spot of warmth lingered and spread. When Steve’s hand grazed up and up the insides of Bucky’s thigh, trailing through coarse leg hair just as the heat of Steve’s mouth sucked lightly at the base of his throat, pleasure shivered through him.

All Steve was doing, objectively, was stroking Bucky skin and dropping small kisses against him. But it was the intent. It was the heaviness that lay over the room. The promise. Any moment, Steve could sweep his hand up and grasp at Bucky’s already-plumping co*ck and blow his mind, but the teasing touches shied away each time.

Desire slipped over Bucky at speed, and before he knew it he was flexing backwards and breathing, “Kiss me.” Steve turned him slowly almost onto his back - were it not for the blond’s arm, which kept him crowded into Steve’s body. Steve kissed him deeply, and for the first time Bucky felt Steve’s desire for him. It was banked and restrained, Bucky could feel Steve holding himself back, but flickers of heat boiled over, breaking free as he lost himself in the kiss.

“f*ck, Bucky,” Steve breathed into Bucky’s mouth because he didn’t seem able to move away any further than that. Bucky was pretty sure it was the first time he’d heard Steve swear. And he’d done that. Steve wanted him; he was affecting Steve Rogers like this.

Helplessly, Bucky whimpered back because Steve’s hand had reached his crotch, cupping his growing hardness over the fabric of his underwear. Arousal bloomed through him. “Oh please,” Bucky begged, arching his hips upwards into the pressure of Steve’s palm.

“Soon,” Steve promised. His hand ran further upwards, drawing a line of warmth towards Bucky’s middle, beneath his shirt and over Bucky’s abdomen. The gorgeous, golden man hovered over Bucky in the dim light, dark-blown pupils ranging over Bucky’s face, intense and serious and stunning. “Will you let me see you?”

Anxiety reared its head, and - not yet, Bucky knew he wasn’t there yet. He shook his head, and Steve’s fingers withdrew, finding safe harbour back on Bucky’s thigh. But if there was disappointment there, Steve didn’t show it. Instead, Steve lowered his head and his mouth found Bucky’s breastbone. He kissed over the fabric of Bucky’s shirt, as if he didn’t care, and his eyes fixed on Bucky’s from below him, keeping constant watch for any discomfort. Bucky knew where that mouth was going. It was obvious, inevitable. He still moaned out “Oh God,” as warmth enveloped one of his nipples, through the cotton. “Oh, oh God, oh Steve, oh God,” he chanted in whispers, over and over, because it had been a couple of hours since Henry fed and his chest was heavy and full, tissue impossibly tender, and Steve’s touch made him ache so sweetly.

Bucky almost reared off the bed in shock when cool fingers slid over the bare skin of his chest on the side that Steve’s mouth wasn’t occupied with because holy sh*t, Steve had put him in a nursing shirt. Arousal sang in a white hot chain between his nipples and his co*ck, as Steve drove him wild with his touch and his tongue. Bucky scrabbled for the shirt, because he didn’t want the cotton between Steve’s mouth and his skin for a moment more, but it was complicated and there was elastic and he couldn’t figure it out, but Steve read him. The fabric tore beneath Steve’s hands, a violent wrench of movement but precise - down to Bucky’s navel and no further. The thoughtfulness clutched at Bucky’s heartstrings.

In a swift movement, without warning, Steve swung his leg over Bucky’s hips so he could properly straddle and then devour him. Bucky clung to the golden head as a wet tongue trailed across feverish skin, sucking and kissing like Steve couldn’t get enough. Bucky had never felt so wanted . God, he was hard, throbbing in the confines of his underwear, entire body on fire. As Steve’s mouth found his neglected nipple, it swirled around the impossibly sensitive bundle of nerves, and Bucky whimpered in sheer need until Steve engulfed him.

Bucky was going to leak, he could feel the familiar tingle and pull, and humiliation rushed through him but his traitorous hands just clung on to Steve’s head, refusing to let him move because it felt so good. Desperate for more, Bucky’s knees spread. He struggled with the covers until they let him escape and allowed him to put his legs fully around Steve’s back and pull Steve in. In one, bold movement, Bucky pushed their hips together and felt the hard blaze of Steve’s co*ck throb against his own.

Steve’s moan vibrated right through Bucky’s chest. Bucky’s milk rushed down.

“f*ck, f*ck, please,” Bucky begged, incoherent with need. It had been so long. How could Steve set him on fire like this? Steve licked Bucky’s chest clean in broad stripes, and the kisses which followed against his lips were sweet and wet, but Bucky could hardly concentrate on them because they were struggling together to drag their underwear down so that Steve could wrap his enormous, strong hands around them both.

“Yes, yes, yes,” chanted Bucky, relishing the deep, wrecked groans that Steve buried into his neck as he worked to bring them both off. Steve was everywhere, surrounding him. Bucky was drowning in the intoxicating smell of Steve’s musk, his skin slipping in their shared sweat, their bodies wrapped tight and close and all he wanted to sink into, forever.

When Steve came, it was with a shattered gasp of Bucky’s name. His body trembled for a long, arching moment over Bucky’s own, pleasure creasing his brow and screwing his eyes closed until they burst open to soak up the sight of Bucky launching himself up for a heated kiss. Steve’s newly slick hand never let up the rhythm of his pulls over both their dicks despite the obvious, tortuous overstimulation Steve was feeling, evident in high pitched whines that escaped him on every upstroke.

“C’mon baby,” Steve urged. His voice quavered. “Give it up for me, c’mon.”

Bucky was trying. He was so close, right on the edge of perfect pleasure, arching as he reached for it. “Ohh, oh fuuck,” Bucky moaned. He tried to smother the sounds with his palm as he vibrated close to the brink, never quite falling. He needed. He was empty and hollow. He wanted it so much that he sobbed, he strained and bucked trying to reach completion but something was holding him back - was he broken? Had Brock f*cked this up for him? What if he couldn’t come with another man anymore. Had -

Steve’s strokes slowed. The chances of org*sm retreated even further.

Tears sprung behind Bucky’s eyelids. Steve had given up with him.

“Shh, shh sweetheart. No, I got ya,” Steve’s low voice promised, even as he released their dicks. A gentle kiss was pressed against the side of Bucky’s mouth, but Bucky couldn’t open his eyes because he was going to cry. He’d just lie there, trails of cooling milk seeping into his ripped up shirt, Steve’s spend turning tacky, until Steve passed out and - Kiss after kiss was placed in a line against the back of Bucky’s knuckles. “You gotta look at me Buck. Please.” When Bucky couldn’t, Steve dropped his hand. His warmth withdrew, leaving Bucky cold, and the tears tipped over. “Did I hurt you?” a voice laced with heartbreak asked.

“No!” Bucky’s eyes flew open, though it meant further tears dripped down his cheeks. Steve should have been floating in post-org*smic bliss, and instead he was looking at Bucky with fear, distraught. “I’m sorry.” Bucky reached for Steve, finding a way to wrap his hand around his arm. “Come back, please. Please come here.”

A tug at Steve’s hand finally had him folding back towards Bucky, though it required Bucky to cross the distance between them, to weave his legs back through with Steve’s where they lay side by side on the sheets. “I don’t know what’s goin’ on,” Steve murmured.

Running his fingers through the short hair at the back of Steve’s neck, Bucky whispered back, “I know. I didn’t mean to freak you out, I’m sorry.” He tried to work out what was happening to his body, as it continued thrumming with adrenaline. “Got a bit overwhelmed I think. That’s all.”

Devastation washed across Steve’s face. “I pushed you too fast. I said I’d take it slow-” Steve tried to break away, and with his super strength he surely could have done, but Bucky was tangled up in him and tensed, refusing to let him go.

“You made me feel so good,” Bucky said, firmly. “I felt amazing. Like. Jaw-dropping. Mind-blowing. You didn’t do a single thing wrong. Just didn’t finish, that’s all.” It really wasn’t a big deal, and Bucky had to hope that Steve would believe him. “I had a baby eight weeks ago. I’m still pretty mixed up. It’s no one’s fault, and I’m only bothered that you’re so bothered about it.”

“I couldn’t keep going when you were panicking,” Steve said. He drooped back into place at the brunet’s side, and drew the covers up to surround them both, as if he just had to provide comfort for Bucky somehow. “Your heartbeat…”

“C’mere,” Bucky insisted again, and drew Steve in for a kiss. Steve’s lips were swollen by all of those he’d lavished over Bucky and the marks he’d sucked against Bucky’s skin, and Bucky’s own lips moved slowly against the blond’s, careful of him. But he opened his mouth for Steve, and coaxed him into deeper kisses, until Steve was losing his tension and melting into him again. It made Bucky smile to know that the gorgeous blond didn’t seem to be able to resist his touch, and how obviously Steve wanted to make Bucky feel good.

When Steve pulled away to let Bucky breathe, the blond said, “I don’t ever want to hurt you. I’ve been falling in love with you.”

The world stood still. Steve Rogers was holding Bucky in his arms, his blue eyes were dilated in the dim light and an entire world of affection was pouring out of them.

“With me?” Bucky repeated, because it paid to be sure.

Steve gave a small nod.

“I thought it was just me feeling that way.”

“For me?”

“Yeah, for you, Stevie.” It was a delight to see the joyful surprise spread over Steve’s face at Bucky’s announcement. Far more memorable than any org*sm, Bucky figured at the time. Though when Steve descended to take Bucky into his mouth and work him with absolute dedication and determination to an earth shattering climax, Bucky did reconsider that thought.

Chapter 16

Chapter Text

It was impossible to watch Steve handling two infant children and to fail to fall in love with him. Bucky didn’t have the fortitude nor the will to resist.

Steve was a big man, and he dwarfed the two babies with his broad, strong hands when he cradled them, and with his wide shoulders when he held them. Yet he was impossibly gentle, almost overcompensating for his size and his strength with his slow, attentive movements and his ever careful gestures.

Bucky pondered the contradiction that was Steve Rogers as he lay in bed one exhausted pre-dawn morning, watching Steve humming to Maeve in the dark. The blond’s other hand dandled in Henry’s crib. Bucky’s baby was clinging on to one of those enormous thumbs.

“He likes you,” Bucky mumbled.

“I like him too,” Steve replied, and his smile was unbearably fond. “And his Daddy.”

Blushing, Bucky chuckled and buried his face back into his pillow. The time he had to sleep was precious now, but he stayed near the surface of consciousness until Steve slipped back into bed - bringing his huge body in to cover Bucky’s own instead of the babies, drawing Bucky into his warmth. He’d stayed awake just to chase that feeling of being surrounded by Steve - as safe and protected as the children must feel with him. Once he had it, Bucky melted back into dreams in total contentment.

When he surfaced from that sleep again, Bucky found he was alone. The sun was up and the sound of Steve’s low voice murmuring could be heard from the nursery. Bucky stumbled from bed and shrugged one of Steve’s oversized cardigans on as he followed the noise.

“Hey, what a strong neck you have, Henry,” Steve crooned. His voice grew louder as Bucky crossed the distance. “You’ll be giving me a run for my money soon enough.”

“Not if Maeve beats you first,” Bucky observed. The two infants were on their stomachs on the soft rug, propped up on brightly coloured pillows, practising their tummy time as Steve watched closely over them. Maeve was doing her best to follow her Pa’s voice, straining to follow the sound. Steve had dressed them both in stripy blue bodysuits which almost matched.

“I don’t know. Henry’s got determination on his side,” said Steve, smiling in greeting. He was sitting in a patch of light that streamed in from the sunrise beyond his window, and it turned him golden. He was perfect. He had to be a dream. “Maeve’s a lazy so and so.”

Bucky ducked down to try for eye contact with Henry. At 12 weeks old, he still didn’t show any glimmer of recognition at the face of his father, but he did follow movement. Bucky scooped up a stuffed toy which rang with tiny bells when he shook it for his son’s amusem*nt, and chose a spot kneeling on the carpet behind Steve.

“How long have you been up for?” Bucky asked, as Steve relaxed into his proffered arm with a soft, contented sigh.

“‘Bout forty five.”

“You wanna go back for a bit? I can take these two.”

“Nah, I’m good.” That blinding white smile was turned in Bucky’s direction, Steve wielding the superpower he didn’t even seem to be aware of, and Bucky felt himself warm from that as much as their spot in the sunbeam.

Just as Steve was getting properly comfortable tucked under Bucky’s arm, Henry decided he was done with facing the world like this. Before Henry could start to cry in earnest, the blond jerked upwards again to turn the baby over, supporting him with that exquisite, addictive care. “Aw, lad. You’re just fine. You settle down and stare at that swinging duck huh?”

Trailing his fingers up and down Steve’s side, Bucky waited until the blond resettled to say, “Good of you to take him.”

Steve just shook his head. “You gotta stop thanking me for that Buck.”

“But I’m grateful.”

“I know. But I don’t wanna keep a count of favours with you.” Steve shifted Maeve over too then, before the baby could add her complaints to the room. When he sat back, he swivelled around to make eye contact with Bucky. “This ain’t video games for pyjamas, or baby guarding for sister delivery anymore. One offs. This is just… life. You make the coffee, I get them dressed, you do a diaper change, I put the laundry on - and who the hell cares if I end up making the lunch too? I don’t.”

“I kinda care. I care quite a lot about being a burden on you.” For a moment, Bucky was overtaken by a guilt he’d been trying his best to suppress because it disturbed the perfect, honey-hued bliss he wanted to wallow in for long enough that it soaked away all his wounds. “I’ve not been home in three days, Steve.”

Steve’s body stiffened against Bucky’s front. “You’ve not been a burden Buck. I’ve loved having you here with me.”

“And I’ve loved being here. But you gotta understand - Brock… I was a burden to him. That’s how he made me feel. Everything was a transaction, everything had a cost. So I’m not used to it. I do trust that you’re being free and generous. I see you with Henry and Maeve, and I get that. I’m just not used to it.”

Bucky’s fingers were lifted in the air then - raised to Steve’s mouth so he could press a kiss upon one after the other after the other, in a line of sweet, tiny dots of affection. “Well you know what the cure is to that, don’t you? I’m just gonna have to be with you long enough you get used to it. Like. Immunity.”

“Like a disease?” Filling up with affection - it happened over and over again, as if they could never find a limit to his capacity - Bucky was ready to reach for a good morning kiss with this giant sweetheart of a man he was falling so heavily for. Instead, he was distracted by movement on the rug before them. “Look,” he said, nudging Steve.

Maeve and Henry had turned to stare at each other. They were still enough that it really seemed as if each one had properly caught the other’s attention. As both fathers watched, Henry reached out, and - was he about to try and say hello properly? Before either of them could intervene, Henry unceremoniously bopped Maeve on the cheek.

“Uhoh.” Bucky reached to move Henry and separate them, just out of reach of the other, so that Steve wouldn’t have the embarrassment of shifting someone else’s unruly son. “Sorry.”

“We might have to take that word off the list too,” Steve said, as he distracted Maeve from her surprise at being whacked in the face. “At least over sh*t that’s not your fault.”

“Will you at least let me put the coffee on?” Bucky tried, though he was warmed through and through by the ease that Steve exuded.

“Yeah. I could do with a coffee.”

-

The negotiation didn’t stop there. It wasn’t as easy as all that, not least because dating Steve Rogers was nothing like dating anyone Bucky had dated before.

Part of the strangeness came from them being new fathers. Spending time with each other inevitably meant spending time with two infants, fitting romance around feeds and changing and doctors’ appointments. Coffees and walks were punctuated by crying children, and late night dinners and drinks felt too much like abandonment in those early days, so they tended towards staying close to home and to early nights.

It added a new level of intimacy and familiarity. It made them feel like partners, against a world that was sometimes cozy and sometimes fraught.

They cooked meals together in Steve’s gorgeous, gleaming kitchen - taking over for one another when a baby summoned their attention, and eating hand in hand by candlelight to allow for romance in the quiet moments in between, and if the food needed shoving in the microwave because they’d had to abandon it mid-bite then that’s just what had to happen. They curled up with movies and each other, and were joined more often than not by at least one baby, and that was gloriously fine. Bucky learned more about Steve that way: how he liked his old fashioneds made up, how he melted when Bucky brought his feet into his lap to massage them, and how easy it was to please the man who seemed surprised at any thoughtful mote of kindness. Somehow, the world hadn’t held Steve enough - because he was like a touch-starved cat in response to any physical affection, and Bucky was more than happy to lavish it upon him as they juggled their children and their relationship.

Part of the strangeness of dating Steve Rogers, of course, was that… it was Steve Rogers. Bucky woke up from an impromptu nap one day to hear voices from downstairs, and to discovered Thor - the actual God of Thunder - singing to Henry in Steve’s living room, his biceps about as broad as the baby, while the Scarlet Witch made the coffee. Tony Stark turned up one day to upgrade a security system and ended up playing hologram table tennis with the current Captain America, while the former Captain America lobbed criticism and Bucky checked for the thousandth time that he wasn’t hallucinating. The first trip they took away together was because Steve needed to speak to NATO, and the second was to an uncharted private island.

Despite their numerous conversations on the topic, Steve still insisted on showering Bucky with gifts he could never repay. He could never turn them down either because every single one was impossibly thoughtful. When Steve realised that Bucky was slowly adding decent teas to his cupboards, a beautiful glass teapot appeared alongside them with a gorgeous antique tea strainer that Steve confessed - blushing - was solid silver and over 100 years old. When Bucky grumbled that Henry was already growing up too fast, a photographer appeared and turned Steve’s living room into a studio, where both Maeve and Henry were posed and captured while they were small and sweet in a series of pictures Bucky would treasure forever.

The most extravagant gift Steve tried to sell as a gift to himself, but Bucky was pretty sure Steve had no plans to install a hot tub before he started dating Bucky.

“Is this part of your grand plan to make me comfortable with my post-baby body?” Bucky asked, as he watched Steve figuring out what each of the buttons on the giant tub did. Bucky had Maeve in his arms and Henry in his lap, keeping them occupied while the blond fiddled with his new toy.

“It’s part of my plan to make you relax in a totally baby-free space,” Steve replied.

“You realise this is the least child-friendly thing you’ve ever purchased?” Henry looked curiously towards his father at the strangled tone, and Bucky dropped his voice into one of teasing, “Yes it is. Stevie’s bought himself a baby death trap.”

Steve looked almost hurt at the joke. “Tony’s set up-”

“If you say forcefields, I’ll leave right now. Yes I will,” Bucky continued for Henry’s benefit.

“...Energy barriers?” Steve tried.

“That’s a synonym.” Bucky jiggled Maeve gently on his shoulder when she gave an unhappy noise. It truly was amazing how often the problems the babies complained of were just gas, and he had to wonder how humans had produced infants for centuries that were unable to undertake simple digestion of the food their parents produced for the purpose of sustaining them.

“I think you’re gonna like it,” Steve decided.

Bucky certainly liked walking into the new hot tub room that evening after the children were down, to find Steve Rogers reclining in the gently-steaming water, wearing not a stitch, every muscle on show. Candles glowed in sconces around the room, and as Bucky approached, Steve held a glass of champagne out to him.

Brock used to do grand gestures too, but always as apologies and always with strings attached. Steve hadn’t done a single thing he needed to apologise for in the five months Bucky had known him. He just did ridiculous things to make Bucky smile and to feel loved.

The way Steve looked at Bucky as he stripped off and climbed into the water… There was no making up that heat and that awe, no matter how little Bucky felt that he deserved it. He straddled Steve’s spread legs, dropping down to bring their upper bodies together in the water. “You’re ridiculous.” Bucky’s words emerged on a moan as Steve’s strong hands slid up his back in an undeniably possessive gesture. But Steve didn’t make him feel owned. Steve made him feel desired. Steve wanted to carve out time to spend with him, even when they were being pulled every which way by two infants. Steve wanted to make him smile, and to know what he was thinking, and to bring ease to his life whenever and however he could. And Steve wanted Bucky’s body too. Somehow, Steve thought that Bucky was beautiful.

It wasn’t just that Steve told Bucky that. It was there in the reverent way that Steve touched his skin. It was there in his awe-filled sky blue eyes when he looked at Bucky, and in the hunger that Steve had for his skin. Steve lowered his head and kissed his way slowly up Bucky’s neck as if his lips were pressing against something precious. Steve held Bucky to him as if he couldn’t imagine letting him go.

“God, Bucky,” Steve breathed. One of his hands emerged from the water to reverently trace Bucky’s jaw. He was already growing hard.

Bucky let himself be kissed for long, luxurious minutes, his body temperature rising not just with the water but with Steve’s touch and Steve’s attention and the way his body responded to each of Steve’s silent entreaties. When Bucky ducked away to get his breath back, resting his forehead against Steve’s until he was close enough to blur before his eyes, Bucky asked, “We’ve talked about this. You. Gifts.”

“I know,” Steve murmured, stealing himself another tiny kiss in the process. “This is kinda a gift for me too you realise.” Steve laced his words with humour as his hand trailed up Bucky’s spine.

“I’m not kidding.” Bucky forced himself to detach, pulling away enough that Steve couldn’t distract him with his mouth. “You don’t gotta buy me. I’m sold.”

A frown stole over Steve’s previously relaxed brow. “I’m not buyin’ you, Buck. I’m just out to make you happy. If…” A low breath blew out of his kiss-reddened lips. “Sweetheart. You know I’m… This is long-haul for me, right? I know this is early days, we’re still getting to know each other but…” Something vulnerable, often hidden, revealed itself then, as if Steve were letting Bucky see something he usually guarded because it could so easily be hurt.

Hurriedly, needing to reassure that fragile thing that it was safe, that it was just the two of them in this sanctuary and maybe in the world and Bucky was going to take care of Steve too, Bucky said, “Me too. Stevie. I want this to work. I’m here, my baby’s here, we’re here more than we’re not, and when I’m not, I wanna be. This has never been casual for me, okay?”

Steve settled back a little against the hot tub’s sides, but his fingers ranged restlessly over Bucky’s skin. “I wanna do things to make you happy,” he said, just as sincerely. “I wanna be doing things that make you happy five years from now - fifteen years from now, if things work out between us. And if what I’m doin’ doesn’t make you happy, I’ll stop. But I’ve told you, money ain’t an object. So if you tell me you have a really hot dream about me railing you in a hot tub - today or in a decade from now - I’m gonna buy you a hot tub to make that dream real.”

“Excuse you?”

Already flushed by the heat, Steve’s cheeks blushed even darker. “You don’t remember that?”

Bucky shook his head, slowly, still cautious of the bit of Steve’s heart he’d put on show.

“It was a few days ago. 3am”

“I do not remember that dream.” Before Steve could utterly melt in embarrassment, Bucky tried to reassure, “But I’m pretty sleep-deprived. Sometimes I don’t remember Henry’s name. It does sound like a dream I’d have. Look - I wasn’t trying to complain. Or stop you buying me things. I like you buying me things. I was just trying to say, I know this ain’t what courtin’ looked like in the 40s, or today, nothing about how we’ve started out is normal. But I love you. And I’m with you, okay? I don’t need to be wooed or showered with stuff, I’m here.”

“Can I woo you ‘cos I want to?” Steve asked, a little bit of his usual humour re-emerging.

“God yes.” Bucky let his own touch wander down then, taking his time, drifting over the perfectly sculpted muscles below. Steve’s erection had flagged a bit while they spoke seriously, but Bucky knew well enough by now that he could get hard again and again damn fast. “Let’s see if you can get me to remember this dream, huh?”

Neither of them knew how long they were going to get before either of the children kicked off again, but they were both getting good at using the time they had wisely.

And for all the strangeness, if this was dating Steve Rogers, Bucky never wanted it to end.

-

“How’s this bub gonna learn to share if you never teach her?”

Used to Natasha’s wheedling approach to conversation, Steve obeyed the implicit instruction and held Maeve out. “Gotta warn you, she’s a little grumpy.”

“We’ll get along just fine then.” Despite her joking, Natasha lifted Maeve into her arms with care enough to satisfy even the most anxious new parent. It always made Steve smile to see her with the Avengers’ children - when she left all her other guises and personas behind and just became Auntie Nat. That one suited her best.

Freed from his infant handling duties, Steve edged towards the buffet table to make up a plate, motioning for Natasha to follow as he did so. With all of five months’ experience in baby wrangling, he figured he had about eight minutes’ grace to eat before Maeve went off on one. Nine minutes if he accounted for Natasha’s ability to rouse a state of speechless terror even in the smallest children.

As Steve was scarfing down several tiny pastries at once, Natasha observed, “So your new beau seems to be holding his own this time. He’s only run out of the room twice and I think both times were genuinely to fix up his kid. I was keeping an eye on the closets, and he didn’t hide in any of them.”

“Of course he’s holding his own.” Steve’s eyes drew across the garden, to where Bucky was chatting with Clint and Laura on a picnic rug. “He’s perfect.” Henry was in conversation with Vision of all people, kicking his legs as Vision helped propping him upright. Though Bucky was keeping the android in the corner of his eye, the set of his shoulders told Steve he was relaxed about the interaction. Steve felt the same thrill of pride he had back in the Rose Crest five months before, knowing that he’d helped bring Bucky that ease - a lasting ease this time. That the money the Avengers had wrested from Brock would let Bucky spend as much as time as he wanted - within reason - with his son, getting to know and love every bit about him. Abruptly, Steve realised Natasha was watching him with an amused smile. “He’s getting used to it,” Steve hastily corrected himself, before his heart spilled out on the floor between them. “I was recognised when we were having lunch out the other day, and he just took Maeve while I did the gladhanding. Ribbed me about it for a bit afterwards, then ordered dessert. And we talked a little about emergencies the other day. He brought it up, actually. That if I needed him to look after Maeve, he’d be there.”

The knowing look on display from Natasha didn’t falter. “So when’s the big day?”

Steve had just put a mini quiche in his mouth - maybe two mini quiches if he was honest - and almost choked. “Shaddap!” he managed.

“I only meant when’re you asking him to move in?” Natasha Romanoff, the picture of innocence, lied. “I’ve been upstairs. He’s got two drawers, a third of a hanging rail, a whole box of kid stuff…”

“Kids take up a lot of space!” Steve protested half-heartedly. But his eyes were back on Bucky. The brunet was leaning back in the sun, his face upturned like a flower, absorbing the warmth of the late autumn rays. If they’d been alone, Steve would have slipped between Bucky’s parted knees to bring their bodies together, leaned Bucky back against the rug, and ravished him there in the golden light. He would have had Bucky boneless and puddled with pleasure. He would have picked the fragments of fallen leaves from Bucky’s hair, and gloried in how the brunet looked when ruffled and debauched because of Steve’s hands and mouth. Instead, he told Natasha the only thing he could: the truth. “Honestly?”

Natasha looked at him like she would expect nothing less.

Steve flicked his gaze down to Maeve, to how she was drooling liberally on Natasha’s shoulder. He thought of all that he wanted for her life as well as what he wanted for himself. “I hate it when he’s gone. The moment he steps out the door.” He ducked his head, struggling suddenly to make eye contact with anyone other than the spring rolls. “Sam asked me once. Who was looking after me, while I tried to look after the world. And - I really like that’s where we started. Looking after each other. It’s hard - y’know, to kiss that goodbye and not know when it’s coming back.” Steve stuffed a mini pizza into his mouth then, before Natasha could get anything more out of him.

But Natasha didn’t mock him. She didn’t tease or try to extract anything more. Instead, she smiled, hugging Maeve closer to her. “I’ll start hat shopping.”

-

The most complicated part of having Bucky as a boyfriend wasn’t anything to do with Bucky himself, not really. It was not knowing what the boundaries were with Henry. Because Henry was Bucky’s son. But often enough, Steve was left alone with Henry and Maeve when Bucky went out, or slept or just took some time for himself to get his life in order, and how could Steve pretend to be some kind of casual babysitter when he was half-living with the baby and his father? He felt anything but casual for the child.

When Henry cried, it was as painful to hear as when Maeve was upset and couldn’t be consoled. When Steve sat watching over both babies as they played, increasingly interacting together as the weeks and months passed, Steve found himself easily as enamoured with the tiny signs of Henry’s development as he was with Maeve’s.

For a man who’d guarded his heart for a decade and a half since he emerged from the ice, the combination of his daughter and the Barneses overcame all his defences, as if they were made of nothing so strong as spun sugar.

But eight months in, Bucky still acted like Steve was doing him a favour when he took care of Henry for a while. And whenever a stranger referred to the pair of babies together as twins, Bucky rapidly corrected them.

It didn’t help matters that babies were mercurial creatures. Sometimes, only Bucky’s hilarious wiggle dance would settle Maeve down after a screaming fit, and sometimes when Henry was exhausted by wearing his hearing aid for too long when it was new, he flung his arms out for Steve even as Bucky held him. But there was a deadline for figuring out what was going on between them and how they were going to untangle themselves for the twins or not, because the children were going to be talking soon, and Steve knew he didn’t want Maeve to call his partner ‘Bucky’. And a secret part of Steve’s heart was desperate for Henry to call him Pa too, so long as Bucky granted that permission.

It came to a head one night when Steve returned from a mission. He pushed open the door and two sets of palms and knees slammed their way over the wooden floors as the children raced to say hello. As usual, Maeve made it first, but Henry’s scooting technique meant he wasn’t far behind, and Steve scooped them both up in his arms. “Hello, hello, hello,” Steve said, grinning as brightly as the infants as he pressed kisses to each of their foreheads. Maeve screeched in delight and tried to explain something very complicated about her day that Steve nodded and hummed along to, while Henry seemed content snuggling in as close as possible and grasping tightly onto the ties of Steve’s hoodie so he couldn’t leave again.

With a “Hey,” Bucky appeared in the hallway, a vision in tight-fitting jeans and a sauce-splattered shirt.

Steve raised his eyebrows. “Food fight?”

“Your daughter’s not a fan of sweet potato. This is what we’ve learned today,” Bucky announced as he crossed the distance between them, and Steve knew what was about to happen because it happened every time he came home. Bucky was going to kiss him, but then he was going to ease Henry away as if he were bothering Steve.

Steve could blame it on the mission - three days away from home, without sleep, dealing with civilian casualties - but he didn’t want to be separated from the child his heart treated as his son after a thirty second cuddle that wasn’t anywhere near enough to fill him back up.

“Our daughter,” he answered, more abruptly than he intended. Maeve’s gabbling went quiet at the harsh tone, and Bucky froze, a deer in the headlights, even as he reached for Steve and Henry both. “Buck, you’ve been raising her with me for eight months now. You’ve all but moved in. All we’re teachin’ ‘em by treatin’ the two of ‘em different is that one of their parents has a favourite - we’re teachin’ ‘em rejection and I can’t do that anymore.”

Ever sensitive to the moods of the room, Maeve made an uneasy noise, and Steve turned his attention to her, hitching her higher on his hip. He feigned joyfully pulling faces at her until she giggled, though his heart wasn’t in it. He could feel Bucky’s hand was still at Henry’s back.

“But you love her so much.” Bucky said it as if it were a protest, and that made no sense at all.

“I love all three of you so much.” On Steve’s other side, Henry was wiping his slightly-potato-y mouth against Steve’s shoulder, where the remnants of his meal mixed with a dribble of snot, and he was still just as utterly gorgeous to Steve as Maeve was. Briefly, he pressed his face into Henry’s hair, inhaling the scent of him in case it was the last time. “You’re all family. If you’ll let us be.”

“But if we break up,” and Steve had been home all of two minutes and he’d somehow already managed to devastate Bucky. Swallowing back his distress, Bucky continued, “I don’t wanna think about it anymore than you. But if it happens, I don’t want Maeve to lose a Dad.”

Steve was abruptly terrified that he’d been on a different page to Bucky all along - maybe a whole different book. “Don’t you think that’s how she’d feel?” Bucky’s hands grasped at Steve then, drawing him and the children into his own hold as if to comfort them, as if he needed to reassure Steve that they weren’t anywhere near the end even if they were forcing themselves to consider what it would feel like. “Don’t you think she’d feel she was losing a brother and - I’d feel like I was losing a son?” Steve asked. “I might not have the right to call him that. I don’t have permission, I know and I’m sorry. But I can’t help what my heart does when it comes to you two.”

“Please don’t be sorry for loving my son.” Bucky swallowed hard, then, as if testing the words, corrected himself. “Our son.”

Steve felt so full he might burst. “You sure?” Because he couldn’t bear the thought that Bucky might change his mind. “If you need to think about it-“

“I’ve thought about it every time you’ve held him, you idiot,” Bucky said. He was clear eyed and smiling, as he guided Steve down into a reassuring but brief kiss. “I’m gonna clean the kitchen. Why don’t you give them their baths? Then we can talk properly about what this means.”

It was a perfect gift, the biggest gift Steve had ever been given.

-

Bucky was feeling very spoiled. As he tucked into the lavish breakfast which had been served to him in bed, he couldn’t help but think back to his birthday a year before, when he’d been seven months pregnant and desperately lonely, and his birthday treat to himself was the small tub of mint chocolate ice cream that he’d been craving for weeks. This morning, there was smoked salmon and eggs and toast from bread that his boyfriend had made himself, he’d had juice options and perfectly brewed coffee. Best of all, they’d been served to him with a kiss from the most handsome man alive, who was single-handedly wrangling twins to give Bucky some peace.

That was the theory anyway. As Bucky munched his way through the final pieces of his breakfast, he could hear Henry crying, and he could guess at why. With a sigh, he put the tray aside. “S’okay, bring him here,” Bucky called.

A sheepish Steve Rogers appeared a minute later, a weakly crying Henry in one arm and Maeve being led in stumbling steps by the hand.

“Won’t take the bottle?” Bucky checked, holding out his arms.

“Won’t take the bottle,” Steve confirmed. He heaved Henry into Bucky’s arms, then tried to turn Maeve around. As much as they’d agreed to raise the children as siblings, it wasn’t possible to treat them entirely equally. Maeve’s development was obviously accelerated: she was bigger and stronger than her brother, which meant splitting their attention when she wanted to run and Henry was still stranded on the playmat; she needed to eat more often which meant smuggling her snacks where Henry couldn’t see: and because Steve had gone back to work and never wanted to risk leaving her hungry, she’d been taking formula from six months, while Henry was still breastfed twice a day. Bucky wasn’t working, and he wasn’t willing to give up that connection yet. He’d never nursed Maeve, but he tried not to let her see him do so for Henry lest some part of her developing mind register the injustice.

“I gotcha,” Bucky murmured to Henry, as his pyjama-d son wiggled down to lay in his arms. Henry calmed down the moment Bucky pulled his shirt up and the baby understood that he was getting what he wanted. “Steve-” Maeve had toddled on her unsteady feet until she reached the bed, and was trying her best to climb onto the far-too-high mattress.

“Got her.” The blond swooped Maeve up, and Bucky could see her obvious delight at getting to come up and see him. That delight became rage as she was carried from the room, and though Steve tried to toss her up in the air and draw giggles from her, Maeve screamed.

This wasn’t how Bucky wanted to start his birthday. As Henry sucked hungrily from him, Bucky held his warm body close - but he couldn’t relax when Maeve was sobbing. For him. She wanted to be with him. Bucky took one last lingering look at his son’s rosy cheeks and contentment, and ran his fingers through his impossibly soft dark curls, before he called for Steve again. “Just bring her back honey.” Reluctantly, Bucky pulled a light blanket over Henry to shield him from view. He could still feel his baby’s closeness and his hunger, Henry’s tiny hand was pressed against his neck, curling and uncurling sleepily. But then there was another small form being placed on his legs, and Bucky smiled for his daughter too. “Hey sweet pea. You got a birthday cuddle for me?” Maeve scrambled up to Bucky’s side, and the man hid his winces as she managed to hit every pressure point on the way. When she reached his torso, Bucky hauled her into the arm that Henry wasn’t being held in. Silently, Steve passed Maeve her bottle, so the little blonde girl could have her first meal of the day too.

When they were all settled in for a brief spell of peace, Steve returned to Bucky’s side. “Well. I tried to give you a break.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” Bucky said agreeably, because how could he resent a morning that started with breakfast in bed for the whole family, with two perfect children demanding to be held by him, and Steve Rogers crawling back under the duvets to hold him in turn? Steve’s broad hand snuck around Bucky’s waist, fingers tracing across bare sensitive skin, and Bucky sighed in contentment. Sometimes, it was too much. Too many people needing something from his body, needing comfort or warmth or milk. It was easy to feel surrounded, even easier to feel overwhelmed when this much touch was still something to get used to. But Steve understood that. Steve, with his hyper-sensitive nerves and his deep-seated loneliness, got it when Bucky needed space. But now… Now he had Henry nursing from him, still sleep soft and pyjamad. He had Maeve, brilliant and quiet only so long as she was being fed, delighted in his attention. And he had Steve, watching over all of them with a pleased, proud expression. Bucky was surrounded by his family, and found love could be so easy like this.

-

“All I’m saying is you don’t like doing Thanksgiving at Tony’s and you don’t have to do Thanksgiving at Tony’s so let’s not do Thanksgiving at Tony’s.”

Bucky always got animated in the car. Something about the children being confined and usually snoozing, combined with the sight of the open road seemed to unlock a very specific verve for life in him. Steve suspected the fact that he had a captive audience also played a role. Steve loved it, even as he patiently countered, “It’s tradition.”

“And you have a family now, f*ck tradition. We can make our own traditions.”

In the back of the car, Maeve and Henry hadn’t been coaxed by the engines and monotony into napping as their fathers had hoped. Instead, Henry was poking at a sensory book and Maeve was - Steve flicked his gaze into the mirror to double check - yup, Maeve was picking her nose. Thankfully, they were coming up on a field on her side, and Steve raised his voice to say, “Hey kids, look at the window. You see the cows? What noise do cows make?” As the sounds of competitive mooing broke out from the toddlers, Steve shot his boyfriend a mock glare.

“Frick tradition?” Bucky tried, meekly. “Darn that shivering tradition?”

Far too in love for his own good, Steve gave Bucky’s knee a squeeze and returned his attention to the road. “They became my family when I didn’t have anyone, Buck. It’s just one day-“

“It’s two days, and you know what Maeve is like after a night drive,” Bucky replied, but his voice was just as low and calm as Steve’s now. “Hey Henry, you see that car? Is that your favourite colour?”

Over Henry’s enthusiastic yet poorly-pronounced shouts of “Green!” Steve said, “I’ve already told Pepper we’ll be there. Can we see how we feel for next year?” He raised his voice to say, “A green what Henry? Is it a green car?”

“f*ck!” Maeve announced.

Both Steve and Bucky froze, the pair of them hoping that they’d misheard.

Then she said it again. Clear as day. Unmistakeable.

“This is on you,” Steve shot at Bucky.

“This is absolutely on me.”

“You’ve turned our sweet baby into a sailor.”

“I have, and as punishment I’ll never fight you over Thanksgiving again,” Bucky said.

An enormous 18-wheeler thundered across the other side of the highway, and Bucky slapped at Steve’s thigh in realisation. “Truck. She’s saying ‘truck’.”

Steve had figured that out a fraction of a second before Bucky, and was swift to counter, “You already said no more fighting.”

Bucky’s groan echoed over Maeve’s contented chants of “f*ck, f*ck, f*ck,” in the back.

-

The video began with smudgy pink lines, which were soon shown to be fingers covering the camera lens. As they slipped down and the view cleared, it revealed the bulky shapes of two men. At first, it seemed the camera was the wrong way up, but then the camera focused and the sofa the men were lying on together resolved.

Facing the camera was an individual known to the world as Commander Rogers, and yet this was not the Commander Rogers most of the world knew. This man wasn’t a symbol of strength mid-fight or a symbol of justice mid-patriotic pose. This man was mid-doze, his face lax where it was pressed against the thick knit sweater covering the chest of the second man. All the violence and self-righteousness and the plain old concern for his fellow man that the world was used to seeing on this man’s brow was washed away to be replaced by a blissful peace. Commentators on the internet were almost united in their agreement that he looked ten years younger as he slept in the arms of his lover - though these sentiments were shared with a plethora of heart-themed emojis.

The video panned across to reveal the face of the man against whose body Commander Rogers slept in total, heavy surrender. This man was in profile - his head just back against the arm of the sofa they’d been caught napping on, dark hair loose against his shoulders and dark eyelashes pressed closed as he too slept.

A quiet giggle that could only have come from the person wielding the camera spoke of the kind of glee which occurred only when a child knew they were doing something they weren’t meant to be.

The camera zoomed in, apparently determined to get a close up of Commander Rogers’ nose. The keen-eyed viewer was able to spot how the brunet’s hands held Commander Rogers almost protectively as he slept, and how Commander Rogers’ leg crooked possessively over the brunet’s, tipping them together as close as it was possible to be. One of Commander Rogers’ hands could just be glimpsed where it covered the brunet’s abdomen. For a fraction of a second, a flash of silver that the public has never seen before was visible.

There was an audible sigh, long and protracted, then a low adult voice asked, “What’cha doin’ kiddo?” The camera abruptly blurred with movement, then went dark as it clattered to the carpet. Still recording, the man could just be heard saying, “Is that my phone?” The video brightened again, and a “Ah, fiddlesticks,” was audible before the livestream cut off.

-

Mornings were the most chaotic time of the day. Bucky didn’t know why, because they had a schedule and he tried really hard to stick to the schedule, and if they woke up any earlier because they needed more time in the schedule, that time was just filled with ever greater amounts of chaos. That was one of the fundamental laws of the universe Bucky supposed. It didn’t help that Henry took after him and hated mornings, so Bucky had to conduct most of his early chores with a three year old acting like a limpet on his side. Maeve, on the other hand, had all of her Pa’s enthusiasm from the moment she opened her eyes, would often wake up as Steve left for a run at the crack of dawn, and so bounce on Bucky’s bed asking eighteen questions a minute all before he’d absorbed a single drop of caffeine.

This morning was no different. One moment, Bucky was wallowing in drowsy bliss snuggling into the patch of warmth Steve’s body had left behind, the next a little voice was announcing, “Daddy, wake up time.”

“Is it?” Bucky groaned, through the crowd of stuffed toys that Maeve pushed into his face. A glance at the clock showed him it was 6.30, which was indeed the time she was allowed to get up and see him, because otherwise she just pissed Henry off. “Alright. Come read with me.”

It was the compromise that kept all of them the happiest, and honestly Bucky did enjoy when Maeve elbowed her way into his lap with the pile of that morning’s books and allowed herself to be cuddled, so Bucky could half-doze to the sound of her reading the books back to him by memory until he was bullied into take a turn. It was his time with just her, even if the words of The Little Engine that Could and Dragons Love Tacos were scored forever into his brain.

This morning, Maeve decided she wanted to braid Bucky’s hair while singing a song about Peppa Pig. Bucky allowed it while inhaling the coffee Steve had left on the side table for him in a keep-warm mug because he was an angel.

“Daddy,” Maeve said, in a wheedling voice.

“Yeah baby.” Bucky didn’t open his eyes.

“No nana today please.”

“No banana? Is that your way of telling me it’s time for breakfast?”

“Just a little snack.”

Bucky cracked his eyes open at that. His daughter was kneeling directly in his lap and her best appealing expression on. Those big blue eyes were trouble. “Yeah, I’m not falling for that. I’ll get you a cup of milk and your colouring book out so I can get your brother up, how’s that?”

Maeve appeared to consider this proposal. “And two biscuits,” she suggested.

“I love your optimism, but biscuits are not for breakfast. Cup of milk and some blueberries, final offer.”

She managed to negotiate her way into raspberries and blueberries by the time she was satisfied - which, more fool her because that was fruit and fruit was good for her - and Bucky was free to wake up his son. Henry was effectively buried beneath his Spiderman duvet, the cotton dragged all the way up to his nose. Bucky just stared at him for a moment; his flushed cheeks and thick eyelashes; his absolute peace - before reluctantly opening the curtains so that the sunlight started filtering in.

“Nooo,” came the immediate whine.

“It’s morning,” Bucky sung softly.

This time, Henry’s protest was unintelligible.

“Come on sweetheart.” Bucky tried to make himself sound thrilled to be alive, which was a challenge at 7am because if he had his way, he’d be crawling under the covers with Henry and napping for at least another hour.

Knowing the routine by now, Henry threw his arms out and around Bucky’s neck and tightened his hold, while Bucky navigated the blankets.

“You have any good dreams?” Bucky asked, as he dragged himself to his feet with his son hoisted on his hip, because the more he prompted Henry to talk, the quicker he’d wake up.

Henry muttered something about a lion.

“Oh yeah? Was it a good lion or a scary lion?”

“Bad lion.”

“Uhoh. Did Pa chase the bad lion away?”

“No. Stomped him.”

“You on stomped him or Pa stomped on him?”

“Turtle stomped him.”

In much the same way, Bucky made his way down the stairs. Maeve had decided to use some of her raspberries to colour the nose of the reindeer in her colouring book, but Buckyjust swallowed that one down and began to make the twins their packed lunches one-handed until Steve returned from his run.

The sight of Steve Rogers, shirtless and sweaty after running half the state and back, never got old.

“Morning beautiful,” Steve said, as if he weren’t a chiselled Greek god of a man. He dropped a kiss on Maeve’s head and praised her drawing with genuine awe on the way to kissing Bucky properly.

The only sensible one of their family, Henry protested, “Icky,” when Steve tried to say hello to him too.

Bucky glanced at the clock on the wall. “You have negative three minutes to shower,” because as much as Bucky wanted to lick Steve clean, they had a schedule to keep to.

“On it,” Steve promised. The blond disappeared up the stairs in a hurry but, much to Bucky’s irritation, as he started on the children’s breakfasts, he realised that he couldn’t hear the shower turning on.

“What’s your Pa doing?” Bucky muttered, as he managed to bribe Henry into detaching from him with the promise of strawberry jam on toast.

Increasingly grumpy, because every minute that Steve wasn’t showering was a minute that got subtracted from Bucky’s own precious shower and prep time, Bucky tried to keep a smile on his face as he scarfed his own toast and coaxed the twins into eating their breakfasts.

Five minutes into their slot for getting the children dressed, Steve finally returned to the kitchen. He was still dressed in his running shorts. “Steve! What the -” Bucky’s irritation drained away the moment that he caught sight of Steve’s expression. “What’s wrong?”

Unusually grave, Steve said, “Can I borrow you a sec?”

A remnant of attachment to the schedule had Bucky protesting, “We’re running late,” but still he followed Steve to the living room, with exhortations to the twins to finish up their juice.

“I’ll be quick,” Steve promised, gesturing Bucky to sit down. “Buck - I just got off the phone with Nat. She -” He clearly pulled himself together and decided bluntness was the only option available to him. “Brock’s dead. There was a riot in the prison early this morning. They think one of the other prisoners got to him.”

Bucky blinked. Once, twice. “Okay.” He didn’t feel… anything. Other than a sense of urgency, because he had to get to work and the twins had to get to pre-school. “Can you get the kids dressed please? I can’t be late again.”

“Buck wait-”

And Bucky loved Steve deeply and totally. He knew that Steve was his forever, and he knew that with a certainty that gave a firmness to his tread and strengthened the core of his very spine. But Steve wasn’t half irritating when he tried to handle Bucky, with his appealing blue eyes and his softness and his kicked puppy expressions that were meant to see off Bucky snapping.

“Kids. Clothes. Please. I’ve gotta get dressed.”

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. Bucky took the world’s quickest shower, threw his clothes on, and was there to hand off with Steve to do the children’s teeth while he cleaned up too. Then it was off to work while his fiance zoomed off with Henry and Maeve.

Only when Bucky pulled into the parking lot of the garage, time decided to stop. Normally, Bucky would be scanning the cars already waiting, wondering what new challenges the day was going to bring and which he was going to get stuck into first. But he couldn’t make himself get out of the car. His coworker Danielle knocked on the window after five minutes, but Bucky couldn’t even roll the glass down.

He didn’t have the capacity to feel surprised when Steve’s SUV pulled up alongside him. His broad shouldered, impossibly strong superhero fiance unfolded himself from his driver’s seat, crossed the distance between them at a jog, and yanked the door of Bucky’s car open.

“Come on Buck. We’re goin’ for a drive.”

“Gotta work,” Bucky responded, on automatic.

“Ditch day. C’mon.”

Bucky moved to the key to switch his engine back on, but Steve’s hand came up to lightly loop his own. Not holding him back, but guiding his movement.

“Let me drive. Please doll.”

When Bucky was next fully conscious of where he was, Steve was pulling into a parking spot off a dirt track road, overlooking the lake far below. Steve was looking at him, frown engraved deeply between his brows.

“You wanna scream?” Steve asked, when Bucky made vague eye contact.

Bucky laughed bitterly. He didn’t know what he wanted. “You’re meant to be working,” he said, because that was something solid he could cling to.

Grave blue eyes just gazed at him, with all the weight in the world. “I’m right where I’m meant to be.”

“I’m not gonna be sad he’s dead, I’m not that good a person,” Bucky blurted out.

“You feel whatever you feel.”

There was Steve, handling him again.

“I’m - I’m not happy either. I knew his Mom, Steve.” The ramifications inexorably began to build in Bucky’s mind through the daze of shock. Henry was never going to meet his biological father now. It was much easier to tell a child that his sire was dead than that he was in prison for being an abusive bastard, though, technically, he was in prison for drugs. They were safe. Free.

It was hard to wrap his head around.

Warm fingers tentatively linked through Bucky’s own. He could bear that touch, Bucky realised, but if Steve tried to hold him it was entirely possible that he would find himself screaming after all.

“I can’t regret knowing him. Not when that means regretting Henry. And Maeve. And you.”

Steve just sat there silently with him. Endlessly understanding. Impossibly kind. How could Steve quietly hold Bucky’s hand while he tried not to cry over his former partner - mourning not for the loss of Brock but for everything Bucky had lost when he was with him. He sat there with Bucky for hours as Bucky grieved, until the younger man finally croaked out a request that they pick up the twins and go home because he’d wasted enough of his old life, and all he wanted was his new one back in his arms.

Chapter 17

Chapter Text

A warm hand snuck up beneath Bucky’s sweater and came to rest around his waist, as he leaned against the bannister in a patch of autumn sunshine. A mug of steaming tea appeared at his elbow.

“You are a very good fiance,” Bucky sighed.

“You’re a better one,” Steve replied, like the cheesy, blind fool he was. Yet that was exactly how he looked at Bucky. As if he’d hung the moon. As if he were Steve’s own personal sun. It was ridiculous. Bucky had never felt so adored, and Steve made him feel that every single day.

When Bucky turned his head up for a kiss, Steve wound him in for the kind of embrace that utterly stole his breath.

Hysterical screams broke them apart, and Bucky turned his gaze back down to the children he’d been watching. “You know when you’re not sure if they’re having the kind of creative play you should be encouraging or if they’re putting their tiny lives at risk?”

“Yeah, I know that one.” Steve settled in at Bucky’s back, resting his chin on Bucky’s shoulder so he too could watch Henry and Maeve. The pair ran shrieking towards the lakeside, only to harmlessly bounce back into the piles of leaves Bucky and Steve had painstakingly gathered at the edge of the trees over that morning’s work. The children then scrambled up to repeat the process all over again in an apparently endless cycle of hilarity. “It’ll take days to get all those leaves outta Henry’s curls.”

It was hard to feel bothered about that when Steve’s thumbs were running over Bucky’s hip bones and his strong body was radiating heat at his back. He was a very distracting man. Knowing that Steve was keeping watch for things getting out of hand, Bucky closed his eyes to enjoy the embrace.

Secure in those strong arms, Bucky was wondering at the idea of staying there forever when Steve murmured, “Would take a while to get out of your hair too I figure.”

Before Bucky could get a “What?” out, he was being unceremoniously lifted up, hoisted over Steve’s shoulder, and run down the stairs into the garden. “Steve!” he yelled, squirming helplessly to escape his boyfriend’s grip, but there was no chance he was going to be able to escape a supersoldier’s grasp. “Don’t you dare! Maeve, Henry - help!” The piles of leaves were approaching, and Bucky just knew what was going to happen to him.

Maeve and Henry appeared in Bucky’s upside down eye line. Henry rushed forwards, but if Bucky thought that he might be coming to rescue him, he was sorely mistaken as the little boy opted for attacking him with tickles the moment Steve held still.

“Conspiracy!” Bucky shouted, twisting and flailing. “Where are the Avengers when you need them?”

“What d’you think, kids?” Steve asked, completely ignoring Bucky’s protests. “Shall I throw him in the lake, or in the leaves?”

Maeve and Henry cheered in loud encouragement of either option. They were jumping up and down just out of Bucky’s reach, clearly convinced this was the funniest thing they’d ever seen.

“Don’t you dare,” Bucky huffed through his own helpless, breathless laughter, even as Steve hauled him into a bridal carry. In any other circ*mstances, the casual display of strength would have been incredibly attractive. His bright-eyed partner grinned like some kind of predator, before he began to march Bucky down to the waterside. “No, Steve!” he protested. The lake was going to be freezing. “Not the water.”

“Oh, the leaves then?”

Before Bucky could object, Steve launched Bucky in the air. He soared for a moment, weightless, then collided with the biggest pile of leaves on the treeline.

There was a shout of “Get him!” and suddenly Bucky was being pelted with handfuls of leaves from three different directions. He was laughing so hard he almost choked on a bit of oak tree, as he was hopelessly ganged up against. It took fifteen minutes and three bribes to convince Henry and Maeve to switch their allegiances before he could lead a counter-insurgent attack. With the only individuals who could ever overwhelm Steve Rogers at his side, the three of them drove Steve spluttering into the sand until they were all a helplessly laughing, filthy, exhausted mess of a family.

–

There was nothing quite like the job satisfaction that came with a happy parent and a healthy newborn baby. Heather was filled with that contented glow, having helped deliver Mrs Oyama in Room 6 of a bouncing baby boy, and was making her way to the supply closet to swap her scrubs out when she heard shrieks from inside the break room.

While she was used to hearing a range of shrieking throughout her day - the full spectrum of it from rage, frustration and pain at one end all the way through to absolute, total joy and exhilaration at the miracle of new life - it usually didn’t take place in the break room. Heather poked her head around the door and was greeted by an immediate cry of her name.

“There’s one for you too!” Clarissa shouted, and scrabbled on the table for an envelope to wave at her.

Now, Heather had received post at her place of work before. She’d been a midwife for over fifteen years, and in that time parents had sent her all sorts of gifts and tokens for helping their precious bundles of joy enter the world. She treasured them. They didn’t usually elicit this reaction though - certainly not from Khyati, whose stern-faced visage was bright with a wide grin.

Cautiously, Heather peeled open the embossed envelope and pulled from within it a card.

She read the words ‘ The honour of your presence is requested at the wedding of Steven Grant Rogers and James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes’ and started shrieking too.

“Open the rest of it,” Khyati urged.

Riffling inside the envelope, Heather drew out sheafs of paper. A menu selection card and pre-paid envelope for the RSVP followed - as thoughtful as Heather would expect given Steve Rogers’ involvement. A longer, thinner piece of card emerged next, and… were they plane tickets? To Hawaii?? She gasped aloud, as her quick brain put the date on the tickets and the date on the invitations together. Her fingers caught on a note clipped to the back of the tickets.

‘We owe everything to you. We’d be delighted if you’d join us. Your villas have, of course, already been provided for.’

A second hand added beneath the first, ‘Natasha Romanov will be running the sweepstake this time. There’s good odds on me crying first, but I reckon you have an edge on our first dance song too - BB.’

-

Lying on the playroom’s rug, Steve gave a resentful groan as Bucky’s fingers trailed up the dip between his tense shoulderblades.

“You okay there pal? Was looking after two first graders all day too much for Commander Rogers?”

“Commander Rogers is older than he used to be,” Steve grunted into the shelter of his folded arms.

“Oh gorgeous.” Soft, familiar lips pressed their warmth behind Steve’s ear, and then made their way up to Steve’s temple, tracing the patches of silver. Bucky reached over him, and Steve peeked above his arms to see Bucky’s fingers trail through the mess of game pieces the twins had left behind. “Did they beat you?”

That was the worst of it. “No. I can answer every single question about sodding Disney Princesses that those children of ours can come up with. What is a dinglehopper? What’s Rapunzel’s lizard called? How many… buttons does Merida have on her dress? It’s all stored in my brain.” Exasperated, Steve flopped over onto his back. Bucky’s hand settled on his chest instead, a perfect weight against his ribcage, bearing the wedding ring Steve had slipped on there not so long ago. “Fifteen years I was in this century, trying to stuff 70 years of the… the trivia I missed into my skull. And the last five years it’s been this. Remembering the names of 101 dalmations and every word of every episode of Paw Patrol our kids have seen.”

“Nothing super about that,” Bucky shot back. “After you’ve watched something twenty times, it tends to worm its way in there.”

“Every single entry in Maeve’s dinosaur encyclopaedia. Did you know that the Argentinosaurus could be up to 98ft tall and mostly ate conifers? Longer than a tennis court and the weight of twenty elephants - I mean, what the hell am I going to do with that information for the rest of my life?”

“Win really specific game shows?”

“You’re no help,” Steve ruled, though it was nice enough simply to watch Bucky laugh at him. Those silver eyes which were the first things he’d fallen in love with creased up and sparkled, reflecting the sun from outside. Steve covered his husband’s hand with his own, keeping it in place. “Where’d they get to?”

Bucky’s gaze flicked over to the next room. “Henry’s making you a badge for winning the quiz. I think it’s probably a princess crown. Maeve’s bossing him around.” Suddenly, Bucky frowned. “Don’t they only say the names of like three dalmations?”

Steve felt a little bashful. “Yeah, I was just being dramatic.”

“You? Never,” Bucky chuckled.

There was a shout from the next room as Maeve and Henry started an argument about what colour glitter to use on the crown/badge, and Bucky moved to haul Steve to his feet so they could deal with the next slice of drama in their day together. But Steve locked in his elbows and halted the movement.

“Wait.”

Bucky was leaning over him, just out of kissing range but close enough that Steve could see every detail of the face he woke up to each morning and fell asleep beside each night. But here, in the sunlight, there were no shadows to hide it.

When Steve had first seen Bucky, he was ill and worn through and hurting. He’d still been beautiful. Now, six years older, still shy of forty but not by much, there were faint lines by his eyes, and deeper ones across a brow that crumpled too easily. Silver dotted down his hairline. But if Bucky wore a greater age, he wore a greater happiness as well. He was healthy and whole and his, and Steve let his incessant mind soak up the sight.

“That’s a better thing to remember always,” Steve said, just to win himself a smile and a blush. He snapped away that image too, and stored it in his heart with all the others.

-

Five days into one of Steve’s missions, and distraction was the name of the game. Thankfully, it wasn’t one of the undercover, no comms allowed gigs, which Bucky hated with the power of a thousand suns. But he still had two six year olds who missed their Pa and, quite frankly, he didn’t sleep so well alone anymore, particularly not when Steve was in a war zone, undisclosed enemy territory or the site of a recent disaster. So distraction it was.

Today’s trip to a diner for an enormous pancake breakfast was just the first on the list of distractions. Danny and Meg who ran the place had supplied coloured pencils and paper to occupy the children, and there were back up StarkPads in Bucky’s bag. The expedition was going well. Maeve had shuffled her food around on her plate so the berries made a smiley face, and Henry had agreed that a belching competition wasn’t appropriate in public after only the third obnoxious burp. Bucky managed to swallow a few mouthfuls of buttered toast through an unsettled stomach, and was nibbling at a corner of Henry’s waffles when Maeve asked, “Why’s Pa in the TV?”

Bucky whipped his head around to follow his daughter’s gaze, and - yup, the TV behind him was showing CCN and they were interviewing Steve at the site of an earthquake in Cambodia. Steve had his serious Commander Rogers face on, and a smudge of dirt across one of his cheeks. Uninjured but a little tired - emotionally as much as physically, Bucky suspected. Steve took natural disasters hard, because he couldn’t punch out a volcano or a tsunami, just hope to free survivors from the wreckage and restore infrastructure as quickly as possible. These days, the UN liked to use him to negotiate access for NGOs when governments were being difficult and infrastructure failing, and Bucky knew Steve found the diplomacy and handshaking far more exhausting than the manual labour.

Bucky wanted to reach through the screen and hold him, just for a minute. Just to remind Steve there was a home waiting for him where he didn’t have to be this hard.

Across the bar, Danny clocked the three of them gazing up at the TV and turned on the volume. Steve’s voice filtered through the diner, explaining something about aftershocks.

Belatedly, Bucky realised that he’d been asked a question. “That’s part of Pa’s job. When he’s off saving people, sometimes the news wants to talk to him about what’s going on.”

When he turned reluctantly away from his husband, Bucky found Maeve frowning sceptically at him. “Why?”

“Well. Because he’s a superhero. So lots of people know him, and so it probably makes them feel better if he tells them what’s going on,” Bucky explained. “Cos they can trust him.”

“A superhero?” Henry repeated. Both of the children were looking at Bucky as if he were speaking a foreign language. Bucky blinked back at his son as if he were the one speaking gibberish.

“Yeah. Commander Rogers. You know your Pa’s one of the Avengers right?”

Maeve laughed in Bucky’s face. “No he’s not.”

Through half a mouthful of breakfast, Henry said, “Yeah, don’t be silly Daddy.”

“He. Is,” Bucky said. Surely they knew this? He and Steve had never hidden who he was. “Just like Uncle Tony’s Iron Man. You know that for sure. He came to your birthday party in the suit.”

“Daddy,” Maeve mocked Bucky. They were literally both trying to gaslight him. “Uncle Tony was just dressing up.”

Bucky said, “He flew in. In his suit.”

Patiently, Henry reached across the table and patted Bucky’s hand. “I thought it was Iron Man too but then he put his face back and it was Uncle Tony in real life.”

Bucky’s brain was exploding. He repeated, “Uncle Tony flew in his suit because he’s Uncle Tony and he’s Iron Man. Just like Pa is Pa and he’s Commander Rogers. He was Captain America before Uncle Sam was.”

“And and and loads of people can fly,” Henry continued, because once he had the thread of something by God did he pursue it. “Auntie Wanda can fly and Uncle Vision can fly-”

“Uncle Thor can fly too,” Maeve added, though her interruption did little to halt the flow of Henry’s explanation.

“And Uncle Sam can fly but only with his backpack on -”

“Because they’re all superheroes!” Bucky exclaimed. “They’re all the Original Avengers.”

Maeve sat back in her seat and folded her arms, looking worryingly like a petulant teenager. “I don’t think that is Pa on the TV. His clothes look bad.”

Bucky rolled his eyes so hard he almost strained his optic nerve. Whose fault was it that he’d raised children this sassy? He stood with his phone, snapped a picture of Maeve and Henry sat beneath the TV screen, and shot a quick text off to Steve. The blond was still talking to the CNN anchor, occasionally touching the ear piece when it didn’t fit well. Bucky saw the moment that Steve’s phone buzzed, and knew without a doubt that he’d read the message because Steve only ignored a message from him when they were on black out comms.

“The airport runway has been repaired as of this morning, so humanitarian supplies are now getting through,” Steve said on the TV screen, words flowing smoothly even as his eyes flickered down the message. “And we are still finding survivors in the wreckage; just an hour ago the Hulk and I assisted the local teams of volunteers here to free a senior woman and her three grandchildren - sorry, I appreciate this is serious, I do just have to say ‘hey kids. I’ll be home tomorrow. Be good and do what Daddy tells you’.” Bucky saw the exact moment that Steve realised what he’d said aloud, and how many times that was going to be clipped on the internet. Steve’s expression stuttered, then he resumed, “That senior and those children are safe and well, and reservists from Doctors Without Borders are providing support to the local hospitals.”

“You see!” Bucky declared.

Maeve and Henry still looked doubtful, and Bucky threw his hands in the air and gave up.

“Okay, who wants milkshakes?”

When Bucky’s phone rang twenty minutes later, he didn’t even glance at the screen before greeting the caller with “Be good and do what Daddy tells you?”

Steve groaned. “I know. I know.”

“I’m gonna be seeing that everytime I go on the internet for the next month. Hey, did you know your children don’t believe you’re a superhero?”

Overhearing him, Maeve was swift to reignite their debate. “He doesn’t even have superpowers.”

Bucky explained, “He’s super strong.”

Henry piped up, “No, superheroes have laser eyes and magic lighting and and and web hands.”

“See what I’m dealing with?” Bucky asked Steve, then immediately regretted his mock complaint when Steve just swallowed thickly, not trusting himself to reply. “You’ll be home soon honey. Then you can deal with this pair all you want.”

“Can I talk to them?”

There was so much desperation laced through that plea, Bucky had to close his eyes for a moment and breathe through it himself. Bucky knew the math. Steve might talk a good game for the cameras, might play his role in inspiring hope in others, but after five days it would mostly be bodies he’d have been pulling from the rubble, and that meant Steve had been holding dead kids in his arms. And there was nothing, really, that Bucky could say that could make that better. All he could do was put the phone on speaker. No sooner had he laid it on the table than Henry was demanding, “Pa, can you breathe fire?”

-

“I want another one.”

It was just an ordinary Saturday afternoon. Steve was painting in his studio - or painting as much as he could while supervising two children, one of whom was experimenting delicately with watercolours and one of whom was determined to make a clay flamingo. He looked up from his easel to find Bucky stood stock still in the doorway, a tray of drinks in his hands.

“Sorry?” Steve asked. “Miles away. Another what?”

The more he looked at Bucky, the more concerned Steve felt because the brunet was wearing an expression of shock that the peaceful circ*mstances simply didn’t warrant. Steve checked on the children automatically - but no, Henry was still using too much water but was fine, and Maeve’s sculpture was doomed to topple over but again she was fine.

“Buck?”

Steve was moments away from placing his palette down and checking Bucky was still breathing when the brunet shook himself out of his daze and crossed the room. He handed out the drinks without comment, brushed a routine kiss to Steve’s jaw, and disappeared.

Perplexed as he was, Steve could only linger on the confusion for so long because Henry was asking, “Pa, is this enough blue?”

Then Maeve wanted to know if she could use sticks to give her flamingo more structure.

Then Henry spilled his cup of water and Maeve laughed at him which led to insults from Henry and it was a good fifteen minutes before the room was calm again, and Steve’s own paint was drying out.

Throughout it all, Steve was aware of his husband’s thundering heart in the next room. When peace was finally restored and no further artistic enquiries seemed imminent, Steve made his excuses and slipped into the room next door. It was one of the guest bedrooms, hardly used. Why had Bucky chosen it to have a breakdown in?

The younger man sat at the end of the bed with his head in his hands. He didn’t look up as Steve took a seat next to him, but he did slump against Steve’s side. So at least it was nothing Steve had done. “What’s going on?”

“You’re gonna laugh at me,” Bucky grumbled, his words muffled by Steve’s shoulder.

“Want me to promise not to?”

“You know I love you, don’t you?”

That just made Steve more confused, but he responded calmly, “Yeah Buck, I’ve some idea of that.”

Creakily, Bucky forced himself to sit upright, to look Steve in the eye and to say, “I walked into that room, and I saw the three of you together and - I see you together everyday, but d’you have any idea what kinda sight you make? My gorgeous family. And it’s complete. It’s enough. It just hit me, how nice it would be… if it was bigger.”

The words Bucky had blurted out rose slowly in Steve’s head and slotted into place. “You want another baby.” Steve sat there very aware that his own heart was beating up a storm now. He’d thought about it, of course he had, but “-I don’t even know if we can anymore. I’m coming up for 50, if you’re bein’ kind in how you count it. You’re almost 40 - you know how much harder it’ll be this time?”

“But if we could,” Bucky persisted, because apparently this was important enough that he wasn’t even going to get sensitive about his age. “Would you want a baby? With me?”

Steve didn’t hesitate because all he could see was a child with Bucky’s eyes and his smile and dear Lord he wanted that. The words tumbled out of him. “If the kids weren’t up, I’d ask you to throw me down on this bed and knock me up right now. Or you, I don’t mind-” He was trying to talk, but the vision of their child was replaced with a vision of Bucky, glowing and rounded with Steve’s hand sheltering his belly. Bucky heavy with Steve’s child, wherever he went. Steve taking care of anything that Bucky needed, so that Bucky could enjoy this pregnancy, doted on so the old memories floated away replaced by gentle hands and Steve’s willing heart. But then… but then… Steve had loved being pregnant. He’d loved that tie to the being slowly growing inside of himself. He’d loved carrying a little bit of his future inside of him. And to know this time that it was Bucky’s child? The moment he allowed himself to contemplate it, as a real thing that he could have, the want was almost overwhelming.

“Stevie?” Bucky’s nervous voice interrupted the storm in Steve’s head. “You’ve gone like fifteen different colours in thirty seconds and it’s freaking me out a bit.”

“Would you… Who would-?” And this wasn’t the husband that Steve had promised to be. The husband Bucky needed wasn’t a wreck. Slowly, Steve sucked in a breath and allowed it to calm himself. He reached for Bucky’s hand, and laced their fingers together. “Yes Bucky. I’d want another baby with you. I’d want to try - and. I’d be happy to try and carry it, or if you wanted to. You gotta know I’d be with you every step.”

Gently, Bucky’s thumb pressed against the ring that Steve wore. “Yeah. I know that.” Bucky smiled, and there was so much nervous hope there. “Whatever we decide, we’ll do it together.”

-

Sometimes, Bucky couldn’t believe his luck. As he stared out the kitchen window at the crowd gathered for Steve’s retirement party, he knew this was one of those times. Because there was his husband, laughing in the sunshine, utterly gorgeous, utterly happy, and just rounding out at five months pregnant. Henry was holding his hand, being twirled around to the music, and Bucky’s son was so damn happy too. Bucky would have raised him right alone, he would have taken care of him, but he thanked whatever guiding hand was out there each day that Henry had never had to worry about where the next meal would come from or being cold in the winter. And that Henry had Steve, who had adored him like his own from the start.

“Daddy, are we finishing this cake?” Maeve demanded from the countertop. “Or are you asleep?”

“Sorry, sorry.” Startled into action, Bucky finally dug the candles he’d been looking for from the cupboard. “You know, it’s not traditional to have candles on a retirement cake.”

“All cake should have candles all the time,” Maeve ruled, as she began to choose the perfect spots on the icing for her candles. The tip of one went right through the nose of an icing Captain America 1940s style.

Given how Maeve looked like she was casting great judgement down from on high with each placement, Bucky left her to it and concentrated on putting together the rest of the desserts. He went to the fridge for cream - and froze with the door open.

He was going to be sick. If he moved a single muscle, he was going to be sick. If he breathed even once, he was going to be sick. The nausea swept over him in a sudden tide, and then the only option he had was to run to the sink as his body rebelled.

He threw up to Maeve’s commentary of “Ew, Daddy that’s disgusting, ew that smells so bad, gross, gross.” To his dismay, she then started to shout, “Auntie Nat! Come see this.”

Bucky managed to choke out a “Don’t,” but he couldn’t do anything effective like smothering his daughter because his abdominal muscles had pinned him in place.

A hand was at the small of Bucky’s back when he finally finished coughing up his lunch. He turned and found Natasha looking at him with a mix of scepticism and concern.

“You need me to put out health warnings?” she asked, with an expression that clearly communicated that she knew that wasn’t the problem.

“I haven’t - Steve doesn’t know yet. I don’t know yet,” Bucky confessed, because what was the point in bullsh*tting someone who’d made bullsh*t an artform? Conscious of nosy, tiny ears listening in, he made his words vague. “I’ve not confirmed.”

“Uh huh. And how long have you thought about ‘it’?”

“…Three weeks.” Bucky winced. He was a coward. Steve’s friends were going to know that he was a coward. “Thought it was just a stomach bug at first. Kids, y’know, germ magnets.”

“Well. No time like the present. Come on Barnes. Bun’s not going to get more or less present in your oven by peeing on a stick. You got a test or do I need to go get one?”

They had cake to put out. It was Steve’s party. The Secretary of State was outside, in Bucky’s garden, waiting for cake.

On the other hand, it was Natasha Romanov making clear that she was taking no nonsense. Which is how Bucky Rogers-Barnes emerged from his en suite with a pregnancy test in hand and found himself facing not only the Black Widow but the Scarlet Witch and Hawkeye, in a little row of Avengers sat on the bed he shared with the former Captain America.

Natasha waved vaguely at the group. “Thought you’d appreciate some company from some folks who’ve been through what you’ve been through.”

“Bearers’ Club. Whoop whoop!” Clint pumped the air.

His joke fell as flat as a pancake. Wanda held out her arm for a hug instead, which Bucky allowed himself for about half a second.

“You look as if this may be a bad thing?” Wanda ventured.

“Not bad,” Bucky sighed, sinking to the floor. “Just terrifying. Twins was hard enough the first time round when I was a little more spry… This… Wrangling a newborn while pregnant and lookin’ after two seven year olds? Then the two of them all over again. Jesus.”

“I get that,” Clint offered, and he was more serious this time. “I was 41 when I had Nathaniel, and back to Avenging pretty soon after. Lucky Laura had the fort under control.” He rustled as he talked, and pulled a packet of cheetos from his pocket. Bucky readily accepted the chip that he was offered despite knowing better. His stomach grumbled, and he had the strangest vision of just a chip and a fetus in there because everything else had been thrown up.

“And surely Twin Club’s not so bad if you’ve got two of you nursing,” Wanda suggested hopefully. “I felt like a cow with the boys. And Vis just felt helpless.”

“Maybe,” Bucky conceded. He ran his fingers over his belly uncertainly, letting them dance there.

He had vivid memories of the day he discovered he was pregnant with Henry. Of hiding in a department store bathroom trying not to sob with fear at the mere thought of how Brock was going to react. It was different now. He was in a bedroom where he had only ever felt safe and cherished by the man who loved him. He had friends around him: the sound of them mirth-filled and happy spilled through the open window, even as Wanda, Clint and Nat offered quiet reassurances. And he’d done this before. He’d been pregnant alone and he’d raised children with Steve.

They were so excited about the new baby. Steve thrilled by the novelty of having someone to share the journey with. Bucky enjoying the chance to prepare for a newborn without balancing on precarious foundations as he did so.

Steve would be thrilled by this baby too, wouldn’t he? Bucky twisted at that thought, as he stared at the test, no longer sure what he was hoping for.

-

“You feeling properly retired yet old man?” Sam teased Steve, as they waved off the final party guests.

“Put out to pasture more like,” Steve said, pointedly patting his belly. “To graze and get fat.” He browsed the buffet table unashamedly as he stood by Sam, because he was a pregnant supersoldier goddamn it. He was always hungry.

At the other end of the table, Henry and Maeve were sneaking cookies into their pockets. Steve opted to ignore it, because he was too content to get into an argument about proper nutrition. They’d had a lovely day. All he wanted to do was go on their traditional Sunday afternoon walk through the woodlands around their home, maybe skip a few stones across the lake, then make his slow way through the washing up while Bucky did the drying and Sam kept the children in appropriately managed mischief. He was staying on another night, and the twins were ecstatic about it.

“Pfft. Get fat. Future tense,” Sam scoffed, as if the Captain America uniform wasn’t a little tighter these days than it used to be. Really, he only ever wore it for formal functions. There was a new generation of Avengers that had gone well past the ‘snapping at the heels’ stage, and the team’s founders spent more and more time on strategy and handshaking, if they weren’t already full time at their lakehouses.

“Don’t I know it.” Steve ran his hand down the curve of his abdomen. “This kid popped fast.” At this point with Maeve, his bump had been a neat, rounded protrusion. The daughter Steve was currently carrying wanted the world to know where she was from the get go, and Steve’s shirts were already well stretched out. Not that he minded too much. Bucky was obsessed with it.

As if summoned by the thought, Bucky appeared in the doorway to the house and began crossing the distance between them. Steve greeted him with a smile and a curious look. Bucky had disappeared for the bulk of the party, and kept his distance when he returned. Steve had figured there was a surprise in the offing, but none had appeared during the party itself. And as Bucky came closer, Steve realised he was pale. Nervous looking. Almost ill.

“Baby?”

Alarmed silver eyes flashed in Steve’s direction. “You know?”

Wrongfooted, Steve repeated, “Know what, baby?”

“Oh my God.” With a groan, Bucky rubbed at his temples, looking genuinely aggrieved. Was his head hurting him? There was a tightness at the corner of his eyes which hadn’t been there that morning. “I can’t - let’s just. We walking?”

“Not if you’re feeling sick.” Steve reached for Bucky’s forehead and found it clammy. His concern for his husband only grew when his hand wasn’t batted away. “You should be lying down. C’mon, tidy up can wait.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky protested, despite the evidence to the contrary. “I wanna go on this walk. Get some fresh air.” As if they weren’t standing surrounded by the stuff. “Maeve! Henry! Let’s go see the tree house!” he called for the children, before casting his gaze Sam’s way. “You wanna come run off some excess energy in the woods too, Wilson?”

Sam demurred, and soon the four and a half of them were off - making their way down the paths they’d trodden in well over the years. As they strolled past reams of summer wildflowers poking their way through the undergrowth, Bucky’s hand wound through Steve’s and only a little twitchy from it, Steve was as grateful as he ever was in this place. The dream he’d had so many years ago, of walking under sunlit trees with his child at his side, seemed shockingly lonely when he considered all the love he had now.

Around him, his family caused their usual chaos. As Steve watched, Henry stuck his arms out for balance to carefully make his way up a half-felled tree trunk. The boy had his tongue stuck out in concentration, just as Bucky so often did. Bucky nudged Steve with a shoulder, drawing his attention to a kingfisher flitting through the trees a moment before it vanished - bringing beauty to Steve’s gaze just because Bucky knew that he’d appreciate it. Out in front, leading the pack, Maeve zipped back and forth, running three laps for the one they were taking. She was red-faced with the exertion and her eyes glinted with the exhilaration of movement, and Steve just knew there was no chance of getting her to bed on time.

Inside Steve’s abdomen, a flutter of movement suggested that Maeve wasn’t the only one who’d be awake. Steve caught his breath, as he felt the tiny life growing beneath his heart twist within, reminding Steve of her constant presence.

“Pa, come catch me!” Henry shouted, as he teetered at Steve’s head height. The tree had run out of room for him to go any higher - he was at the edge of where it had snapped.

“Pa, come catch me please,” Steve automatically corrected. “But you know I can’t. You gotta be gentle with your old Pa at the minute because of the baby. But if you ask your Dad nicely-”

“Actually, you might have to be gentle with your Dad too.”

There was a beat. Because Bucky couldn’t mean what it sounded like he meant. There was no way. He couldn’t be -

Steve spun on his heel.

He was.

Bucky’s expression was a chaos of terror and thrill and apprehension and - And they were standing together on the precipice of another stage in their lives, another love to take into their hearts, and tears were running down Steve’s cheeks as he felt his own heart grow to take in the promise of this fourth child because how could he run out of room for the children he and Bucky were creating and raising together?

“Dear God. Buck.”

“I know.” Bucky was crying too then, and Steve did the only thing he knew how to which was to kiss Bucky hard, regardless of their pint-sized audience making retching noises and demanding to be lifted off a tree. “I think I’m only a coupla’ months behind you.”

“Dear God,” Steve repeated, because a blessing like this was about the only thing which could tempt him back to the Church. “This could only happen to us.”

Even as Steve shook his head to try and toss the shock away, anxiety returned on the face of his husband. “I know it’s a lot,” Bucky mumbled urgently. “We didn’t say - if you don’t think we should… It’s not a good idea. Four? That’s so many, it’s not what we agreed, it-”

And Steve Rogers, a man who had spent decades putting others’ desires first and following the wishes of other men, made sure that Bucky could not doubt what he wanted. “I want it. If you want it, I want it. f*ck, I’d have a whole football team with you if you wanted it with me.”
Only mildly hysterical, Bucky muttered, “Maeve’d be the quarterback.” Steve smoothed his hand down Bucky’s back, and resisted the urge to fall to his knees and press kisses to the soft skin over his husband’s stomach, because they were in the woods and small people were watching. After a moment, Bucky added, “I’m worried Henry would be the mascot.”

“Well we won’t have an actual football team then,” Steve said, having to content himself with placing a tender array of kisses down Bucky’s jaw. He was sure that Bucky could feel the smiles on his lips, and hear the happiness in his voice. “But I’ve got your back. We can do this together. We did it once already, we’ve had practice. We didn’t do so bad first time around.”

They didn’t need to agree out loud. They knew each other well enough. They were going to have this baby too. Bucky shuddered with the strength of the realisation, and Steve did what he did the best: he held strong.

“Pa, Daddy. Are you going to get Henry down from the tree or do I have to?”

Reluctantly, Steve turned away from his husband and then found himself choking back laughter at the sight of his daughter with her hands on her hips in a gesture she’d picked up from Bucky as surely as Henry had picked up his sweet concentration face from him.

“I’m sorry darling, were we keeping you from some important running?” Steve asked, as Bucky surreptitiously tried to wipe away the evidence of his mini breakdown on Steve’s shirt.

“Is anyone going to get me down?” Henry morosely asked from his tree.

“I’m coming sweetheart, I’ll help you,” Bucky said, breaking out of Steve’s hold.

“Why don’t you show me how fast you can run to the pond and back?” Steve asked Maeve, quick to distract her before she could scrutinise their tear-streaks. “I’ll count.”

Because Steve had to prove that he could do this - from the very first moment. They could get through their pregnancies together, they could raise four children together. Together. They’d been doing it together since the start.

-

Bucky shifted the flowers in his hold. The bouquet was the largest he’d ever bought for Steve, and boy did he hope that it met with Steve’s approval because it was Steve’s due date and there was no sign of the latest Rogers-Barnes joining their expanding brood. Understandably given what happened with Maeve’s birth, it was making Steve anxious. And when Steve was anxious, everyone else in the family ended up anxious too. Hence the flowers, which Bucky had picked up on his way home from dropping the twins off at school.

He opened the door, and the first sound he heard was a moan. Bucky’s heart dropped into his stomach. Which, at six and a half months pregnant, was quite the feat because there wasn’t much room left for his heart in there alongside his ever-squirming unborn child.

The baby was coming. Steve was hurting, and Bucky had left him alone.

Bucky tossed the flowers onto the side table and waddled as fast as he could to the bedroom, where the sounds were emanating from.

“I’m here Steve, I’ve got the-”

The moment the door swung open, Bucky stopped in his tracks. Steve was there. He was propped up in their bed with not a stitch on. His legs were spread and Bucky could see the nub of purple silicone peeking out between them. It was vibrating.

“-car.”

“Thank God. You’re back. Get in here and f*ck me,” Steve gasped out. The buzzing toy inside him kicked up a notch, audibly, and Steve’s co*ck let out a blurt of precome against his belly. “f*ck, f*ck - please honey, need you.”

“What the hell?” Bucky demanded even as he crossed the distance between them. He reached for Steve automatically, sitting on the bed at the blond’s side, and his hands found sweat-slicked skin. For a broken second, Bucky found himself distracted by the dregs of a cup of tea and a bowl containing a few small pineapple pieces on the bedside table. “You lost patience baby?”

The only response he got was a protracted “Ooooh,” as Steve was drawn back in an arch by the pleasure running through his body. That handsome face screwed up as he braced against the rush of sensations, and Bucky knew that expression well enough, knew that Steve was trembling on the edge. He just needed a little more to push him over.

Another broken “Please,” cracked through the air as Steve’s fingers grasped for Bucky’s thigh.

Bucky could feel amusem*nt warming him up from the thorax outwards. “Oh sweetheart,” he crooned, as Steve trembled. Bucky smoothed his palm up his husband’s arm, then down and down his heated, curving side. Skin that he knew as well as his own shivered beneath his fingertips. When Bucky’s touch reached Steve’s hip, he could feel the toy’s powerful vibration through Steve’s body. All Bucky’s panic had slipped away to be replaced with mellow adoration. “You want me to touch you?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Steve panted. His hips jerked into the air with each breathless word. His hands ranged restlessly over his swollen belly, but when one twitched in the direction of his co*ck, Bucky guided it aside.

“Nuhuh. That’s my job.” Carefully, Bucky replaced Steve’s touch with his own. Steve’s hard co*ck throbbed as Bucky jacked it with loose, unsatisfactory pressure. “Were you waiting for me, huh? Did you want my hands on you? You know I can give you what you need. Make you feel good. Make you come so hard your water breaks?”

Brow creased and eyes scrunched closed, Steve managed a frantic nod.

Bucky had to kiss him. It was awkward. Everything was f*cking awkward when they wandered around with beer kegs strapped to their fronts. But Steve surged upwards to get his mouth on Bucky’s the moment the younger man even breathed close to him.

Steve kissed like he was starving for it. The desperation was sharp enough that Bucky knew he had to take the edge off his husband before he’d be even within touching distance of calm again.

“C’mere,” Bucky instructed, when he broke away. He eased himself back off his bed and down to his knees, while swiftly manoeuvring Steve by his thighs. Steve’s dick was hard and straining, a blood-flushed warmth as Bucky got his mouth on him. The pleasure of it had Steve moaning out, even as he tried to clutch his swollen stomach out of the way and spread his thighs wide - anything to get more of Bucky’s mouth.

Matching Steve’s desperation to come with his own determination to get Steve there, Bucky slid his hand up a straining calf, up and up, until it reached the vibrating toy. Bucky tapped it and Steve jerked. So Bucky did it again and then again, until he was matching the toy’s pressure against Steve’s prostate with each hard suck of his mouth.

This was his guy. His husband. Bucky’s saviour and the love of his life. He was stunning. He was the first moment Bucky spotted him in the Rose Crest, and he was in this moment as he shook with the strength of the pleasure rocketing through him.

“So close Buck, God - your mouth, oh God, God - f*ck! It’s - right there, right there-” Steve’s incoherence vanished in a silent, extended gasp. Every perfect muscle tensed in a protracted moment of ecstasy, before bitterness spilled into Bucky’s mouth.

Bucky was all ready to pull away. He was going to kiss Steve through the aftershocks and get him to answer Bucky’s pressing questions - mainly “What the hell?” - once he got his breath back. But when Bucky reached for the plug to ease it from Steve’s trembling body, a supersoldier hand wrapped hard around his wrist.

A voice rolling over a river of gravel warned, “Don’t.”

“No?”

Rising up on his knees, Bucky took a good look at his husband. Pink and debauched, sprawled half on-half off their bed, one hand rubbed ceaselessly over his heavy belly while the other clawed against an enlarged chest that Bucky knew was almost unbearably sensitive. Tiny, simpering cries of overstimulation leaked out of Steve on the exhale of every other breath as the toy vibrated ceaselessly inside him. Then Steve grappled for something hidden in the sheets, and the vibration kicked up a notch. The broken noises accelerated. His chest heaved.

Then Steve moaned Bucky’s name, wrecked and cracking.

“Shh baby, I’m right here.” Carefully, Bucky cradled Steve's erection, which had never flagged, and crawled back onto the bed to cover Steve’s body with his own as best as he could. Steve curved into his touch, and keened once at the new angle. “You can do it, sweetheart,” Bucky coaxed, even as he ran his thumb beneath the head of Steve’s co*ck, where he knew the nerves would send pleasure flaring brightly through him. “Come on.”

“It’s so much, so much - I can’t,” Steve panted. His breath filled the condensed space between them, humid and rapid. “I can’t, Buck.”

“Want to stop?”

“No! Don’t stop!” Steve’s bright blue eyes flew open, and then rolled back as Bucky rewarded him by moving his hand faster and faster. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” Steve chanted. The pleasure had to be so intense it was hurting him, sharp and spiking on Steve’s insides. Steve felt so much, so intensely. But they’d spent enough time practising this particular art, and they both knew where that line was. “Oh God! Don’t stop, please, please-”

“Not gonna stop, Steve. I know what you need. Right here, not gonna stop.” A moment later, Steve was pulsing in his hand, liquid spilling over his fingers as Steve moaned. The sound went on and on as the org*sm flooded him, Steve stretching his way through the pleasure until it really did become overwhelming and Steve began to make noises of real distress.

The remote was in the corner of Bucky’s vision, and he snatched it up. The buzzing stopped, and Steve dissolved against the sheets.

For whatever reason, Steve had decided to take care of himself that morning without Bucky. But now Bucky was here. He wiped his hand on his pants, and used it instead to gentle Steve, stroking soothing lines up and down his husband’s arm and side as he trembled. Even as he gathered Steve up, the blond mumbled into his shoulder, “You gotta f*ck me.”

Through amusem*nt, Bucky said, “Okay pal. In a minute though, huh? Get your breath back for me.”

Sweat was drying and Steve was shivering, so Bucky pulled what blankets he could reach over Steve’s overexerted form. Bucky was pretty sure that he could get Steve to take a nap before another round. He knew that Steve was out of his head, because he hadn’t even realised his hard jaw was digging into the tender chest tissue he usually had the braincells to avoid.

Warm liquid trickled across Bucky’s chest, and he knew that it was tears.

“We’ll get that baby out of you Stevie,” said Bucky. “We’ll try anythin’ you want to. And I’ll take care of you while we try it.” He knew well enough there was no point in warning Steve not to push himself. Steve was incapable of not pushing himself - but he wouldn’t go too far while their daughter was inside him. As Steve’s breathing settled out, Bucky pressed a kiss to the top of his head alongside a promise he planned to keep this time, the same promise he made over and over to see off the ghosts that haunted Steve. “I’m right here.”

When the contractions started two hours later, that’s exactly where Bucky was. When Steve realised that this birth was going to be nothing like his first one, and that their daughter was coming fast and now and there’s so much pressure Bucky, drive faster, Bucky gripped the wheel with one hand and Steve’s hand with the other. He only let go when they pulled up alongside the Rose Crest and Sam was there to help Steve out of the car and Natasha was there to lend Bucky her aid. And when Steve started pushing minutes after they helped him into a bed, he was surrounded by people who loved him. Bucky made sure that Steve was as far as he possibly could be from the loneliness that had once felt like everything.

It hardly took any time at all. One minute Steve was all quiet, fixed determination and extended effort. The next, Bucky had a wriggling, screaming, slippery miracle of a baby girl in his arms that he was passing into Steve’s outstretched grasp. No wait this time. Hardly a breath between her birth and Steve getting to hold the baby he’d grown, the one they’d made together.

The minute after that, Steve pulled Bucky in to sit on the bed alongside him. A wholly unnecessary “Thank you,” was whispered into Bucky’s skin. The baby in Steve’s arms gave a little cry, and the baby still inside Bucky’s belly did a little backflip. He was next and… he wasn’t afraid. He’d been terrified before Henry. He knew that when his time came, Steve was going to make it just as different as Bucky had for Steve. Whatever was in his power - just like he always did.

“I’m so proud of you,” Bucky found himself whispering back. He was proud of everything that they’d done together. It had been a complicated emotion once, when dignity felt like something he’d been stripped of. Steve had given him that back, and so much more.