imaginesteverogerss:

They’re in bed together when it happens. Curled up around each other, ‘til Steve can’t tell where he ends and Bucky begins. 

On nights like this, it’s easy to pretend they’re back in Brooklyn, that it’s 1939 again. The war hasn’t come yet, Steve’s got his sketchbook stuffed under his pillow, and a couple times a night Bucky’ll roll over and mumble “Love you, Stevie,” into the crook of Steve’s neck. 

But then something’ll happen—Bucky’s metal arm will tense against Steve’s stomach, Steve will shiver against a chill that simply isn’t there—and he’ll remember all over again. This is Washington, D.C., 2015. The war is long gone, with a handful of others following to wash the taste of it out of the nation’s mouth. Steve hasn’t drawn anything in over seventy years, and Bucky, well, Bucky hasn’t spoken since—

The man in question sighs, shifts closer to Steve. “Love you, Stevie,” Bucky mumbles into the crook of Steve’s neck, then stiffens, seems to realize the enormity of what’s just happened. 

Steve wants to cry. He wants to laugh, scream, call up every single one of Bucky’s many therapists, call Sam and Nat. He wants to kiss Bucky, hot and possessive and passionate in a way their kisses haven’t been since the war. 

But he doesn’t do any of those things. Just whispers “I love you too, Buck,”  and smiles at how Bucky relaxes against him.