[They were. Soulmates is probably an over-romanticized concept, but the idea has occurred to Steve more than once. Maybe it's Bucky's patient loyalty that won Steve over when they were children, the ridiculously longsuffering tolerance with which he put up with his scrawny friend's escapades. Maybe 'till the end of the line' wouldn't be a thing to them if they'd met or been raised under other circumstances. If the timing had been off. If Steve had been a little more stroppy, or Bucky had been a little less good-natured.
The thing is, Steve doesn't think so. He thinks they belong, always have, always will. He couldn't imagine life without Bucky. Oh, he could trudge through it and get things done, could even smile and laugh and make friends he would give his life for, but there was always going to be a piece subtly lacking. Like a color suddenly went missing from the rainbow.
His heart and soul hunger for Bucky. There are things about himself Steve can't change, serum or no, and that's the biggest one of them.
He blushes a little at the look on Bucky's face when he discards his shirt, and honestly, Steve is anything but vain, even now, but he almost wants to preen under that gaze. It wouldn't work with anyone else; it wouldn't feel like they were looking at him. Bucky is different. He sees right through him.]
Oh, god, Buck... [He's breathless, and now that the suggestion has been made he's not going to be able to get it out of his head.] I...your bed? Can we?
[It shouldn't matter. They both have the same goddamn bed. The only difference is the color of the sheets (Steve's are blue, and some smartass got him a faux-patchwork quilt with an Americana theme to it). But Bucky's bed is, well, Bucky's bed and even after seven decades there are some fantasies that are hard to shake, and impossible to turn down when they're offered.]
Fuck it. Whatever happens...let's just let it happen. [He pulls himself up and offers Bucky his hands, as if he needed the help to rise.]
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2018-05-16 02:50 am (UTC)The thing is, Steve doesn't think so. He thinks they belong, always have, always will. He couldn't imagine life without Bucky. Oh, he could trudge through it and get things done, could even smile and laugh and make friends he would give his life for, but there was always going to be a piece subtly lacking. Like a color suddenly went missing from the rainbow.
His heart and soul hunger for Bucky. There are things about himself Steve can't change, serum or no, and that's the biggest one of them.
He blushes a little at the look on Bucky's face when he discards his shirt, and honestly, Steve is anything but vain, even now, but he almost wants to preen under that gaze. It wouldn't work with anyone else; it wouldn't feel like they were looking at him. Bucky is different. He sees right through him.]
Oh, god, Buck... [He's breathless, and now that the suggestion has been made he's not going to be able to get it out of his head.] I...your bed? Can we?
[It shouldn't matter. They both have the same goddamn bed. The only difference is the color of the sheets (Steve's are blue, and some smartass got him a faux-patchwork quilt with an Americana theme to it). But Bucky's bed is, well, Bucky's bed and even after seven decades there are some fantasies that are hard to shake, and impossible to turn down when they're offered.]
Fuck it. Whatever happens...let's just let it happen. [He pulls himself up and offers Bucky his hands, as if he needed the help to rise.]