["I’m not 35 by any way of counting.”
“Eh. You’re supposed to round down
a bit, everybody does it.”
image found in Chapter 2
edit by unremarkable]
["Steve can’t say why that particular
photo catches his attention."
Author's Summary:
With the Snap undone, the stones returned and the shield passed on, Steve Rogers would ask for nothing more than a quiet, simple life for them in Brooklyn—much like the one they had before. There’s just one thing he hasn’t factored into his plan: Bucky.
“If you want a life as someone other than Captain America, maybe you should get to know people as someone else. As Steve Rogers. Or—as anybody.” “That's your grand plan: catfishing people on a dating app?”
Or: the one where Steve Rogers experiences 21st century online dating and learns some things about himself along the way.
This is a story about guilt, forgiveness and rebuilding.
Excerpts:
(From Chapter 8) --
The next message that lands in his inbox is a photo. It takes a second for the picture to load—and when it does, Steve's brain short-circuits.
It’s a close-up shot of the lower half of the man’s face: wet lips loosely wrapped around two fingers, dripping with his own come. It’s filthy and mind-numbingly erotic.
That’s not what causes Steve to blank out. Captured underneath the full lips is a sharp jawline with dark stubble, a small divot in his chin—
He drops his phone like it’s caught fire in his hands.
He knows that face.
He stares at the phone lying in his sheets like it’s about to grow legs and crawl under his bed.
Then he picks it up and looks at the photo again.
It can’t be.
But it is.
These features are unmistakable to Steve, who’s drawn them hundreds of times, looked at the dip in that chin a thousand, wanted to press his thumb into it, his tongue, sink his teeth into the soft flesh of those lips. And if that’s not enough, there’s a gleam of gold right where the photo cuts off, where there’s a hint of collarbone and shoulder in shadow. Someone who doesn’t know probably wouldn’t notice—but Steve knows.
His brain flips through a record of all their conversations. Mark has been as evasive as Steve himself when it comes to giving away any identifiable details, perhaps even more so. But when he puts it all together …
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Steve gets up and paces back and forth, running through his entire vocabulary of profanities. His breath is coming in rapidly. Eighty percent of his mind is blaring sirens. The other twenty is filled with plush red lips wrapped around fingers—Bucky’s lips. Steve shudders.
What’s he supposed to do now? Delete the app and throw his phone in the river? That wouldn’t be fair to Mark—to Bu—
He slumps down on the bed and puts his head in his hands. He pinches the bridge of his nose, hard.
There’s only one thing he can do.
His hands shake as he brings up his contacts and presses the call button.
The phone rings out. Steve holds his breath.
One signal, two. He shivers and pulls the bedcovers over his lap, suddenly feeling exposed, vulnerable in his naked skin despite being alone in the room.
Three signals, four. His thumb hovers over the button to disconnect the call.
Five. No answer. The call goes to voicemail.
Steve types out a text with clumsy, too large fingers that feel like they’ve barely thawed out from the ice.
Bucky answer your phone
The answer that comes within seconds is just one word: busy
Steve types, I think you have time for me, marksman and presses send before he can regret every life decision he’s ever made.
Then he calls again. This time the call picks up.
“What the ever-loving hell, Steve?”
(From Chapter 9) --
“What the ever-loving hell, Steve?”
Bucky’s voice when he answers is low, raspy, shot to pieces, and Steve will never, under penalty of death, admit to the ice-hot sparks it sends flying up his spine. He runs a hand over his burning face and tugs at his hair, hoping the stinging in his scalp will provide enough distraction.
“I was gonna ask you the same thing.” He coughs to hide the way his own voice cracks on the last syllable.
Bucky is silent for ten excruciating seconds.
Then he says, “Brooklyn son, really?”
Steve lets out a semi-hysterical chuckle. “That was all Nat. And you’re one to talk. 310. Don’t know how I didn’t put it together.”
Bucky groans. “Romanoff, I should have fucking— I swear if I find out they planned this …” He trails off and mutters something to himself that sounds a lot like “make friends, my ass”.
“So,” Steve says, sobering as the shock starts to release its grip on him, “that happened.”
He closes his eyes and lets his head fall against the headboard with a thunk. His mind is rapidly spinning through a highlight reel of their texts over the past four weeks, everything from dirty talk and explicit images to late-night heart-to-hearts plastered across the backs of his eyelids. And he can’t help feeling that he’s ruined something—maybe everything—ripped the petals of something budding and delicate.
“Yeah …” Bucky says, sounding equally off-kilter. He clears his throat. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll delete everything. Forget it happened. I have an excellent track record in that department.”
The casual remark cuts Steve like a hidden blade sliding between his ribs.
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