It's her turn to roll her eyes, but fair's fair, and she takes a drink. This is how he wants to play it, then? Fine.
She continues with more of the obvious.
"Never have I ever had a pet." "Never have I ever had a cat." (He'll argue it's the same thing, she'll insist that it's not.) "Never have I ever had a prosthetic limb." (She'll be nice and not overdo this one. Or say anything about adjacent topics.) "Never have I ever been propositioned by a talking raccoon."
He drinks. He argues....and then drinks anyway. And another. And one more.
He can play just the same:
"Never have I ever been an only child." "Never have I ever picked up Mjølnir." "Never have I ever filmed PSA announcements."
This game is going very quickly. When did Steph move from her chair to the couch? There is a familiar tingle underneath his skin, and his head feels a little fuzzy. The ale is really getting to him, though he isn't complaining.
"How do you know about that?" she asks with a laugh when he brings up the PSA announcements, abandoning her chair to sit next to him on the couch. Half an hour ago she'd have been overthinking it, wondering if she might be invading his space too much or asking things she shouldn't, but now there's a pleasant buzz in her head that makes her feel... cheerful. Really cheerful.
He didn't ask, but she tells him about the time they filmed them, how she'd had to do a segment about ten times over because she couldn't keep a straight face. The memory feels happier than she thought it would be, considering how that particular engagement had given her flashbacks of the USO tours. "You should've been there," she ends up saying instead, leaning in to rest her head on his shoulder. "They'd have thrown us out because you'd keep commenting how silly I look and I'd get nothing done."
It's nice. To feel some semblance of... before. When life was hard, but they had each other.
The game continues. At one point she blurts out, "Never have I ever jumped off a plane without a parachute," only to remember that she had done that too, and she almost chokes on her drink because they're laughing while she does and he's reminding her how stupid it had been of her to.
Shifting so she's resting an arm on top of the couch with her legs pulled up and tucked under her, she proclaims, "Never have I ever been on a date," with the smug certainty of someone who had been the unfortunate third wheel all her life. When it looks like he's about to deny it, she wags a finger playfully at him. "Don't, pal. I remember them all." For a moment, a strange expression crosses her face. Then her grin returns, and she starts ticking off names. "Dolores. Bonnie. Connie. You even asked Peggy out, but she was smart and knew she was too good for you, man."
“They say the internet is forever,” he chuckles softly. He didn’t ask, but he listens to the story just as intently as if he had, laughing when she admits she couldn’t keep a straight face through some of it. “It was just an updated modern version of the tours in the early days, wasn’t it? What’d they call you—” he makes a broad rectangle with his thumb and first finger of both hands like he’s angling a camera, “Star-Spangled Gal With A Goal?”
There’s a warm, heavy weight to that. Being able to so easily call up memories like that is… it’s nothing short of amazing. Something he had once thought he may never have again.
He huffs a soft laugh and rolls his eyes as he finishes off the last of his current drink. Did that make three or four? He’s lost count.
“Yeah, but who’s counting anyway?” he smirks slightly.
Her face grows warm at his teasing. Laughing, she swats at him as she pretends to move away from the frame of the 'camera', but as she does so, she leans too much to one side that she nearly topples off the couch. Is this what it's like to be properly drunk? Head spinning like you've just been punched, but you're in such a good mood that you don't mind it anyway?
"At least there was no internet before. It's bad enough they have my costume on display at the Smithsonian. Could you really see my ass from under that skirt?" she rambles. It takes a moment to register that he'd reached out to steady her, or that he'd closed the distance between them considerably. She likes it.
The moment is broken by him asking if she needs a refill and pulling away to do so.
"Never have I ever..." She's watching him, her trail of thought momentarily forgotten as she takes in his face. She remembers more than enough to sketch him from memory — probably every detail, even, if she's being honest with herself — and she suddenly finds herself filled with the desire to either do just that, or, well, kiss him. She licks her lips distractedly, then swallows.
"Never have I ever fallen in love," she decides, accepting her glass and meeting his gaze.
At one point, Bucky worried over the idea of Steph getting drunk, and just exactly the way it would have wrecked an already sickly body. But actually, she's kind of an adorable drunk, as it turns out. "Hey, you good?"
"The old shames can stay where they belong," he shakes his head again. He doesn't feel like he should answer that question. Because– "Uhhh-" he huffs a soft laugh. "I plead the fifth!" Hopefully, he doesn't need to spell out his answer any further than that.
He shifts to face her, tucking one leg under the other, his arm sliding across the back of the couch. His eyes dart up to hers, he bites his lip before taking a drink. "Never have I ever... wanted to kiss my best friend..." his voice is soft, barely above a whisper.
He takes a drink, and her heart sinks. Oh. She tries to work out who it might've been, but she can't think of anyone they knew from before or during the war, so it had to be in those years after that. The years he never talks about. Maybe even someone now, and he just hasn't said anything to her. Why would he? He doesn't owe her anything. His life is his, and she's just... someone from his past that he presently happens to be stuck with.
She downs half her glass, partly in answer to her own statement, but mostly because she doesn't know how to feel about the realization that he has, or had, fallen in love with someone. The buzzing in her head grows sharp and loud that she almost misses what he says in turn, and when the words catch up with her, her expression turns incredulous. Is he making fun of her? He knows, doesn't he? He's had to have known. Why would pathetic little Stephanie Rogers hang around fearless, dashing James Barnes like an extra limb if she wasn't stupidly in love with him? He's way out of her league, and they both know it.
But he's still watching her expectantly, waiting for her answer, and though the temptation to lie and save herself from humiliation is there, in the end she simply gives him a small, sad smile before lifting her glass to her lips. He can laugh all he wants, think it weird, whatever. She's already lost him far too many times to not want him to know.
Tension hangs in the air, and in his chest. She's hesitating and it's killing him on the inside.
And then––
It's a nearly simultaneous thing, the two of them both with their drinks pressed to their mouths. He is tempted to drain it, but instead just takes a long drag from his glass. His face feels warm, but he tells himself it's just the alcohol.
He sets his glass on the table, a small smirk on his lips as he looks at her fondly. "s'definitely not what I meant," he murmurs quietly.
He lifts his right hand and brushes his thumb gently across her jaw. He licks his lips and smiles softly as he leans in, his lips hovering above hers, and whispers, "Is this okay?" He really, really wants it to be okay, but if she says no, he'll respect it.
She puts her glass away as well, because drunk or not, whatever degree of kissing he'd meant, this seems like a conversation they seriously need to have. And a long overdue one, at that. Because he... they... all this time...?
She has been in many battles, faced powerful enemies and overwhelming odds, but never has she felt so terrified in her life until now. Suddenly she's that little girl from Brooklyn again, her heart pounding in her ears, struggling to breathe.
"More than okay," she whispers back with a smile. Because that girl, too, never backs down, and most especially not when it comes to him. She places a hand on his cheek. "Thought you'd never ask."
He doesn't have anything else to say that would be any better than finally closing the space between them. His lips brush lightly over hers, almost like a final test, a last change for her to change her mind, make him stop, before there is no going back.
But she doesn't stop him. Doesn't shove him away. And so he tilts her chin up, and pours more of himself into the kiss this time. It's soft, simple, and yet still completely earth-shifting, life-changing, because it's her, like it's always supposed to have been.
Thank Nat for that kissing crash course because she'd have been mortified if she didn't know what to do and messed up this moment. Or not. It's kind of hard to think with the pleasurable buzzing in her head and the even more pleasurable feel of his mouth on hers. And while a part of her expects him to stop, to pull away... he doesn't. They're still kissing.
She probably shouldn't be, but she's giggling when they break off from the kiss. God, it feels like the years have just melted away.
"How long?" she has to ask, running her fingertips down his cheek and along his jaw.
Bucky doesn't mind the laugh, he wishes he could bottle hers and keep it in his pocket for a rainy day.
"Awhile..." he admits with a soft huff of a laugh. "A... really long while..." he chuckles, brushing his nose against hers. "Definitely since before the serum..." That seems important to distinguish. It wasn't something that he'd only felt when she became the definition of peak human condition, it was older than that.
He can probably see the surprise in her eyes. "Really?" Could the signs have been there all along, and she just refused to acknowledge them? Chalked it all up to pity, or a sisterly affection?
"Me too. Since... Coney Island, I think. You know, that time you convinced me to get on the Cyclone and you held my hair while I threw up afterward." She laughs softly. "Thought you'd finally see me if I did something reckless enough."
“Yeah, really,” he kisses the highest arc of her cheek, then presses his forehead to hers so he can see her with his next admission. “I’ve loved you for so long, I don’t think I remember what it was like to not love you…”
He laughs softly at the memory, “God, I remember that. I felt so bad afterwards…” he shakes his head a bit, “So… we have both been in the same position… and too scared to change it… for literal decades…” he snorts softly, “god, we’re idiots, huh?”
It's... strange, to hear him speak that way, because that's exactly how she feels, too. It might have taken a near-death experience (she might jump off planes without a parachute now, but that first rollercoaster ride had been simply horrifying) to make her realize that she loved him, but she knows it had started well before that.
"Hey, up until a minute ago I didn't think I ever had a chance with you," she says with all seriousness. It's not even the alcohol that's making her ramble, just the things she's left unsaid all those years, all those decades. "You were everything a girl could ever want, you know? And you deserved someone who could be there for you, take care of you, give you children, not... leave you a widower at 25 because she just might not wake up one winter morning." Life had been hard enough back then without being ill, and she'd always been sick. "You would've just... wasted away with me. Become unhappy, maybe even grow to hate me. I didn't want that for you. And I didn't want to lose you."
“I didn’t want things to change…” he gives her a soft smile. “I was basically terrified of losing you…” These are no small admissions that he is making right now, and he isn’t entirely sure what’s making it all spill out like this.
He traces one finger feather-light against her cheek, “I love you, Steph…” his fingers brush lightly against her arm, “Your mind,” he kisses her temple, “Your smile,” this one is to her lips, “not what the serum made you.”
"You're an idiot," she says with a laugh. He was never going to lose her. She would fight for him, for them, until her last breath. "But you're my idiot, and I love you."
The couch is somewhat cramped and not very comfortable, but she lies back and tugs him with her. "Now please kiss me," she murmurs, still a little giddy from the alcohol. "That's what you really invited me over for, isn't it?" she teases.
“I’ll be whatever you want me to be, Ms. Rogers,” he kisses her cheek, then her neck. “Long as it means I’m yours.”
He falls with her, bracing himself above her with his left arm; it puts him leaning above her now. He nuzzles against her neck, soft, barely-there kisses whispered across skin in a languid manner. “It wasn’t my original intention buuut… I’m not complaining about it happening,” he admits, a quiet hum of words in her ear.
She giggles, in an utterly girlish way that she hasn't done since probably before the serum. "It's actually nice having you on top when you're not trying to kill me," she murmurs with a contented sigh at his kisses. She brings a hand up to his hair, the other to his side by the hip. God, how she's longed to touch him, and now she could, and she's not even thinking about anything more than just kissing and holding each other tonight.
"Did you think of me, then?" she asks, kissing his jaw. "After you left for the war?"
“Yeah…?” he murmurs his words into her neck, trailing kisses slowly across sensitive skin. His entire body feels like a live wire in the best of ways. Every touch from her fingers, every kiss from her lips feels like fire in his veins. He didn’t know how much he missed affection until now, it’s a little overwhelming if he’s completely honest. He nuzzles against her neck again, just slowly breathing her in.
“Jesus Christ, are you kidding?” He mumbles softly, incredulous. His eyes slip shut at the soft brush of her lips along his jaw. “Only every fucking day… did you forget about the locket?”
She's not too far gone in her intoxication that she's forgotten he used to have issues with touch and affection, so while she keeps him close, she makes sure he doesn't feel trapped, that he knows he can pull away anytime and retreat into himself if he needs to. But it sure is something else to be snuggling together like this, to feel him warm and real against her own body.
"The locket?" She looks into his eyes and is surprised by how she clearly understands what he's trying to say now. All the barriers that had been between have fallen away; the programming, the jumbled memories, her own denial of what had been right in front of her all along. "I didn't think you actually brought it with you."
After all, if he wasn't frustrated with her, he didn't seem to be serious about anything. The only times he was was when her mother had died, and whenever she was sick. But she knew he was kind despite how he swaggered around like there was nothing to worry about. She'd believed he would've have done that for anyone else.
He huffs softly, “Why wouldn’t I?” He eyes her curiously. “The thought of getting to see you again is all that got me through some nights, Steph…”
“Yeah… I remember you thought I was joking when I called you my best gal. I got away with a lot of that kinda thing, you know?” He reaches up to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, warm fingers grazing her cheek lightly. “Kinda sad, cause I know I only did because you thought it was impossible for me to really feel that way about you…” Yet, here they are. All these years later and he’s still so in love with her.
"How could I not think that? I couldn't... compete. I couldn't do a lot of things." It sounds so silly now, especially because she's intoxicated. That makes her laugh. "Rebecca was right, we really were idiots."
She catches his hand and turns her head to kiss his palm. "You know I would do anything for you, right?"
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dysmorphics) wrote2024-10-16 03:19 pm
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She continues with more of the obvious.
"Never have I ever had a pet."
"Never have I ever had a cat." (He'll argue it's the same thing, she'll insist that it's not.)
"Never have I ever had a prosthetic limb." (She'll be nice and not overdo this one. Or say anything about adjacent topics.)
"Never have I ever been propositioned by a talking raccoon."
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He argues....and then drinks anyway.
And another.
And one more.
He can play just the same:
"Never have I ever been an only child."
"Never have I ever picked up Mjølnir."
"Never have I ever filmed PSA announcements."
This game is going very quickly. When did Steph move from her chair to the couch? There is a familiar tingle underneath his skin, and his head feels a little fuzzy. The ale is really getting to him, though he isn't complaining.
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He didn't ask, but she tells him about the time they filmed them, how she'd had to do a segment about ten times over because she couldn't keep a straight face. The memory feels happier than she thought it would be, considering how that particular engagement had given her flashbacks of the USO tours. "You should've been there," she ends up saying instead, leaning in to rest her head on his shoulder. "They'd have thrown us out because you'd keep commenting how silly I look and I'd get nothing done."
It's nice. To feel some semblance of... before. When life was hard, but they had each other.
The game continues. At one point she blurts out, "Never have I ever jumped off a plane without a parachute," only to remember that she had done that too, and she almost chokes on her drink because they're laughing while she does and he's reminding her how stupid it had been of her to.
Shifting so she's resting an arm on top of the couch with her legs pulled up and tucked under her, she proclaims, "Never have I ever been on a date," with the smug certainty of someone who had been the unfortunate third wheel all her life. When it looks like he's about to deny it, she wags a finger playfully at him. "Don't, pal. I remember them all." For a moment, a strange expression crosses her face. Then her grin returns, and she starts ticking off names. "Dolores. Bonnie. Connie. You even asked Peggy out, but she was smart and knew she was too good for you, man."
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There’s a warm, heavy weight to that. Being able to so easily call up memories like that is… it’s nothing short of amazing. Something he had once thought he may never have again.
He huffs a soft laugh and rolls his eyes as he finishes off the last of his current drink. Did that make three or four? He’s lost count.
“Yeah, but who’s counting anyway?” he smirks slightly.
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"At least there was no internet before. It's bad enough they have my costume on display at the Smithsonian. Could you really see my ass from under that skirt?" she rambles. It takes a moment to register that he'd reached out to steady her, or that he'd closed the distance between them considerably. She likes it.
The moment is broken by him asking if she needs a refill and pulling away to do so.
"Never have I ever..." She's watching him, her trail of thought momentarily forgotten as she takes in his face. She remembers more than enough to sketch him from memory — probably every detail, even, if she's being honest with herself — and she suddenly finds herself filled with the desire to either do just that, or, well, kiss him. She licks her lips distractedly, then swallows.
"Never have I ever fallen in love," she decides, accepting her glass and meeting his gaze.
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"The old shames can stay where they belong," he shakes his head again. He doesn't feel like he should answer that question. Because– "Uhhh-" he huffs a soft laugh. "I plead the fifth!" Hopefully, he doesn't need to spell out his answer any further than that.
He shifts to face her, tucking one leg under the other, his arm sliding across the back of the couch. His eyes dart up to hers, he bites his lip before taking a drink. "Never have I ever... wanted to kiss my best friend..." his voice is soft, barely above a whisper.
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She downs half her glass, partly in answer to her own statement, but mostly because she doesn't know how to feel about the realization that he has, or had, fallen in love with someone. The buzzing in her head grows sharp and loud that she almost misses what he says in turn, and when the words catch up with her, her expression turns incredulous. Is he making fun of her? He knows, doesn't he? He's had to have known. Why would pathetic little Stephanie Rogers hang around fearless, dashing James Barnes like an extra limb if she wasn't stupidly in love with him? He's way out of her league, and they both know it.
But he's still watching her expectantly, waiting for her answer, and though the temptation to lie and save herself from humiliation is there, in the end she simply gives him a small, sad smile before lifting her glass to her lips. He can laugh all he wants, think it weird, whatever. She's already lost him far too many times to not want him to know.
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And then––
It's a nearly simultaneous thing, the two of them both with their drinks pressed to their mouths. He is tempted to drain it, but instead just takes a long drag from his glass. His face feels warm, but he tells himself it's just the alcohol.
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She blinks. Frowns. Lowers her glass to her lap. He's just drunk. Or she's drunk, and seeing things. He couldn't possibly mean... could he?
"So are we talking a kiss on the cheek or...?"
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He lifts his right hand and brushes his thumb gently across her jaw. He licks his lips and smiles softly as he leans in, his lips hovering above hers, and whispers, "Is this okay?" He really, really wants it to be okay, but if she says no, he'll respect it.
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She has been in many battles, faced powerful enemies and overwhelming odds, but never has she felt so terrified in her life until now. Suddenly she's that little girl from Brooklyn again, her heart pounding in her ears, struggling to breathe.
"More than okay," she whispers back with a smile. Because that girl, too, never backs down, and most especially not when it comes to him. She places a hand on his cheek. "Thought you'd never ask."
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But she doesn't stop him. Doesn't shove him away. And so he tilts her chin up, and pours more of himself into the kiss this time. It's soft, simple, and yet still completely earth-shifting, life-changing, because it's her, like it's always supposed to have been.
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She probably shouldn't be, but she's giggling when they break off from the kiss. God, it feels like the years have just melted away.
"How long?" she has to ask, running her fingertips down his cheek and along his jaw.
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"Awhile..." he admits with a soft huff of a laugh. "A... really long while..." he chuckles, brushing his nose against hers. "Definitely since before the serum..." That seems important to distinguish. It wasn't something that he'd only felt when she became the definition of peak human condition, it was older than that.
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"Me too. Since... Coney Island, I think. You know, that time you convinced me to get on the Cyclone and you held my hair while I threw up afterward." She laughs softly. "Thought you'd finally see me if I did something reckless enough."
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He laughs softly at the memory, “God, I remember that. I felt so bad afterwards…” he shakes his head a bit, “So… we have both been in the same position… and too scared to change it… for literal decades…” he snorts softly, “god, we’re idiots, huh?”
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"Hey, up until a minute ago I didn't think I ever had a chance with you," she says with all seriousness. It's not even the alcohol that's making her ramble, just the things she's left unsaid all those years, all those decades. "You were everything a girl could ever want, you know? And you deserved someone who could be there for you, take care of you, give you children, not... leave you a widower at 25 because she just might not wake up one winter morning." Life had been hard enough back then without being ill, and she'd always been sick. "You would've just... wasted away with me. Become unhappy, maybe even grow to hate me. I didn't want that for you. And I didn't want to lose you."
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He traces one finger feather-light against her cheek, “I love you, Steph…” his fingers brush lightly against her arm, “Your mind,” he kisses her temple, “Your smile,” this one is to her lips, “not what the serum made you.”
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The couch is somewhat cramped and not very comfortable, but she lies back and tugs him with her. "Now please kiss me," she murmurs, still a little giddy from the alcohol. "That's what you really invited me over for, isn't it?" she teases.
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He falls with her, bracing himself above her with his left arm; it puts him leaning above her now. He nuzzles against her neck, soft, barely-there kisses whispered across skin in a languid manner. “It wasn’t my original intention buuut… I’m not complaining about it happening,” he admits, a quiet hum of words in her ear.
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"Did you think of me, then?" she asks, kissing his jaw. "After you left for the war?"
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“Jesus Christ, are you kidding?” He mumbles softly, incredulous. His eyes slip shut at the soft brush of her lips along his jaw. “Only every fucking day… did you forget about the locket?”
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"The locket?" She looks into his eyes and is surprised by how she clearly understands what he's trying to say now. All the barriers that had been between have fallen away; the programming, the jumbled memories, her own denial of what had been right in front of her all along. "I didn't think you actually brought it with you."
After all, if he wasn't frustrated with her, he didn't seem to be serious about anything. The only times he was was when her mother had died, and whenever she was sick. But she knew he was kind despite how he swaggered around like there was nothing to worry about. She'd believed he would've have done that for anyone else.
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“Yeah… I remember you thought I was joking when I called you my best gal. I got away with a lot of that kinda thing, you know?” He reaches up to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, warm fingers grazing her cheek lightly. “Kinda sad, cause I know I only did because you thought it was impossible for me to really feel that way about you…” Yet, here they are. All these years later and he’s still so in love with her.
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She catches his hand and turns her head to kiss his palm. "You know I would do anything for you, right?"
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