Stucky Oneshots

what the fuck are perfect places anyway

Here it is! The first work of AUgust I'm publishing... Stucky! My entrance into the MCU fandom, here we go.

"Maybe I shouldn't be here."

Bucky looks up from watching his new metal hand—courtesy of Wakandan technology and hospitality—recalibrate as he moves it back and forth to find Steve Rogers leaning against the doorway between their rooms.

Steve.

Bucky has... he has slivers of memory—ones that Steve tells him about, ones that come to him in dreams and in nightmares, ones that come to him from a thought, an object, an idea.

He knows enough about Steve to know that he doesn't want Steve to leave.

"Why?" His voice is raspy from disuse. He's not sure when he last said anything, and he can see from the way Steve's eyes jump quickly to his face that Steve is surprised he's said anything now.

Steve seems to study him for a moment. From what memories Bucky does have, he remembers Steve being much easier to read—somewhere in the years Bucky has missed, Steve has learned to keep up his guard. Bucky hasn't learned how to see past it yet, and he's surprised by how much he wants to. It's not common that he feels... like he wants things.

It's not common that he feels.

Whatever's on Bucky's face seems to mean something to Steve, because he strides casually into the room, taking a seat beside Bucky on Bucky's bed, as easily as if they're still best friends.

Maybe they are?

Bucky isn't sure.

It doesn't escape his notice that Steve keeps his hands loose and in front of him, and that all of his steps are too soft to be jolting but not soft enough to be stealthy.

"Don't get me wrong," he says, blue eyes focused on Bucky's metal arm as Bucky picks things up curiously and puts them down, still getting used to his day-old arm. "There's nowhere I'd rather be than here with you." He pauses. He seems to do that a lot. Whether he's considering his next words or giving Bucky time to process what he's said, Bucky isn't sure. "But... there are people looking for me, and there are people looking for you. The two of us together—we're a bigger target."

"You think I'll get you in trouble," Bucky rasps. He clears his throat and glances at Steve—his jawline that Bucky knows is objectively attractive, the furrow of his brow, the steady and intense blue of his eyes when he looks up at Bucky. He used to be shorter than me, Bucky thinks, picturing the little Steve he has in his memories. And skinnier. "This place is safe. You should stay. I'll go."

Bucky looks around the humble residence they've been provided. The blinded windows, the shieldable door that locks from inside, the bed and modest kitchen and a coffee table with a couch all in the same room, barely anywhere to hide.

He moves to stand.

Steve has stayed with him in Wakanda for about a week now, but Bucky was under no illusions that this would be a permanent setup. They're encroaching on Wakanda's kindness, and however much Wakanda says they want to help, the Winter Soldier is an international target and Wakanda is probably the closest thing to a utopia anywhere on earth. Bucky doesn't want to ruin that because someone finds out he's here and suddenly Wakanda's in international trouble, their borders being invaded by UN-sanctioned forces.

He's quite literally ready to go at a moment's notice. He can go now, if that's what Steve wants.

"No." Steve's hand—big, gentle—settles on Bucky's shoulder, wordlessly entreating him not to stand up. Bucky obeys. "That's not what I meant. I said maybe I shouldn't be here."