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The thing of it is, Bucky doesn’t say the words for a long time after coming out of the ice.
At first, Steve thinks it’s because his command of the English language isn’t as complete as it once was. In between the electric shocking and the cryofreezing, it’s an absolute miracle that Bucky can breathe let alone speak clearly. Some days, it seems like the serum is literally the only thing holding him together, or at least that’s how Bucky describes it. Bruce and Tony seem to say the same thing, and it pierces Steve’s heart every time. He will never forget finding Bucky tied up on an operating table, half delirious and mumbling nonsense. The joy at finding Bucky alive will always be tinged with the sheer fury Steve had felt when he’d realized they’d left him to die.
And then, though he barely dares to admit it out loud, the fury is quickly followed by the guilt that Steve feels about leaving Bucky to die in the Alps. He should’ve gone after him, he should’ve caught him, he should’ve…
It’s a useless exercise every time. There are so many ifs and buts and ands, and more often than not, entertaining the what if’s leads Steve into a world where he and Bucky don’t make it out together, and he just has to shake his head and move on. They’ve endured more horrors than they can bear, but in the end, it’s still worth it if it means they’re together in this moment right now.
Bucky always reminds him that he can’t change the past, and Steve is finally starting to believe it. He’d never been able to look towards the future before, but he thinks he finally can now.
*
Then, Steve wonders if Bucky doesn’t say it because he hasn’t said it, not really. He’s said it, sort of, like when he’s running out the door and throws a Bye! Love ya! over his shoulder, or when he replies to one of Bucky’s texts with a heart emoji, despite his personal struggle with modern day technology. He wants to truly tell Bucky he loves him with all the sincerity and affection that he feels, but once he starts thinking about the perfect moment, all he can do is choke.
They’re sprawled out on the couch, Bucky reading a paperback and Steve sketching, industriously breaking in his newest sketchbook with a side profile of Bucky. There’s something about drawing Bucky that always brings back memories of the before times, of late nights by the fire in their wretched tenement apartment. It always reminds Steve that Bucky is the only one who knew him before the serum.
Who loved him before the serum.
Or at least that’s what he wants to believe.
Bucky realizes that Steve’s pencil has stopped scratching across the page and looks up to find Steve staring at him. “You okay?” he asks, a look of concern growing on his face.
“Yeah,” Steve replies. “I just…” he wants to say it, wants to tell Bucky that he loves him more than anything else in the world, wants to whisper it over and over and over until he can drown out that awful memory of Bucky on the jet saying I don’t think I’m worth all this, Steve. He meets Bucky’s eyes, but in that moment, every thought in his head blends together into a mush. “I’m fine” is all that he can spit out, and Bucky gives him a curious look before turning back to his book.
*
He tries again when he comes home from a long day of meetings to the kitchen smelling absolutely heavenly. He finds Bucky in an apron, stirring a large pot of beef stew on the stove, and suddenly all of the memories of his mother come rushing back to him. She’d make this for the both of them, though he’d only found out later that it had been because Bucky had brought over beef his family supposedly wouldn’t be able to use before it went bad and perhaps the Rogers family could use it? She’d only allowed his generosity if he’d stay for dinner, and they’d both been pleased to finally feed Steve something hearty.
Steve comes up behind Bucky and rests his chin on Bucky’s shoulder. “Smells amazing,” he says.
“Tried to recreate your ma’s recipe,” Bucky says. He holds the spoon up for Steve to taste. “Not sure I got it right though.”
Steve takes the spoon and immediately is transported seventy years into the past. “It’s perfect,” he says, his voice faltering.
“Thought we could celebrate her birthday,” Bucky says softly. “Your ma’s.”
A pang of anguish ricochets through Steve’s chest as he realizes he’d completely forgotten about her birthday, and he looks up at Bucky who’s looking at him so earnestly. He wants to say it now, wants to say I love you, thank you for remembering, she loved you too you know, but all he can say is, “Yeah.”
*
He finally manages to say “I love you” for the first time in the middle of what feels like the loudest thunderstorm Steve can remember. The thunder shakes their building, and each lightning strike sets Steve more and more on edge. He finds himself in the living room, curled up on the floor and shaking.
It’s ludicrous, he knows. The chances of a lightning strike on their building that would actually injure either of them are extremely low, and he knows their particular building has endured through hundreds if not thousands of thunderstorms in the hundred years since it was erected. But there’s something about the storm that sets him so far on the edge that he feels like he’s one thunderclap from falling into the abyss.
He feels so pathetic, so small and weak like he had been back before, and all he can do is pray for the storm to pass. He knows the entire world would be aghast to know that the seemingly incomparable Captain America is whimpering on the floor like a terrified child.
There’s another electrifying bolt of lightning that illuminates the angry clouds gathered in the night sky. He hears an odd pop! and the electricity on half the block suddenly goes out. The panic burns in his stomach and he can’t seem to get control of himself when finally—
Bucky is there.
Without saying a word, he appears out of the darkness and gathers Steve into his arms. He doesn’t chide Steve for his fear, doesn’t try to reason him out of the panic. He just holds him and gently strokes his fingers through Steve’s hair. The sensation against his scalp and the pressure of Bucky against his back centers him, and he finally feels himself starting to relax.
They stay like that for a long time until the storm finally starts to abate. Steve manages to pull himself into a sitting position and leans against Bucky’s side. “Thanks,” he says in a small voice. “I needed that.”
“You’re welcome,” Bucky says.
And then, without even thinking, the words spill out of Steve’s mouth before he can stop them. “I love you, Buck. Really.”
Bucky puts his arm around Steve and pulls him close, but he doesn’t say anything in return.
*
Eventually, Steve wonders if Bucky doesn’t say those three little words because he doesn’t feel the same way about Steve as Steve feels about him. And he gets it, he does. It had taken him a long enough time to learn how to be human after coming out of the ice, let alone to love, and he hadn’t had nearly the same level of trauma that Bucky had. He tries to put it all out of his mind, because isn’t having Bucky here with him enough?
But then, there’s one day that’s particularly filled with self-doubt and loathing. Steve’s not quite sure why he’s in such a funk, but he can’t seem to shake himself out of it. He walks around all day in a dark cloud, and when he comes home, he dutifully plods his way up the three flights of stairs hoping to be able to collapse onto the couch and wallow in self-pity.
But instead, he finds a set of cozy slippers and his house sweater laid out on the couch for him as if anticipating his arrival. He hurriedly shrugs out of his overcoat and kicks his shoes off and feels himself sighing in relief as he slides his feet into the slippers. He realizes that Bucky must have set them out for him, but how could he have known that’s what Steve had wanted?
He asks Bucky about it when he returns from running errands, and all Bucky does is shrug. “It’s drizzling outside, and you always like to be cozy when you get home on drizzly days.”
Steve is momentarily surprised. He’d never made the correlation between the soggy, dreary days and his bad moods, but Bucky had.
*
Then, there’s the obscene amount of food Bucky seems to make all the time. Steve remembers him cooking a little before the war, not that they’d had much to cook, but the Bucky of today seems to spend all day in the kitchen until their dining table is laden with all sorts of dishes. Besides Steve’s ma’s stew, Bucky will make homemade bread and Sunday roasts and tantalizing ethnic dishes and sumptuous desserts and anything and everything he can possibly dream up. All Steve will have to do is mention something he’s interested in trying, and Bucky will spend hours searching up the perfect recipe.
He asks Bucky about it, and Bucky just shrugs. “You’re out there saving the world,” he says. “The least I can do is make sure you’re fueled enough to do it.”
Steve realizes that this isn’t just a new hobby: It’s Bucky’s way of supporting his mission.
Of supporting him.
*
Bucky finally says the words Steve’s been longing to hear at the most incongruous of moments, or at least that’s how it seems. Steve’s packing up to head out on another long mission, and he’s running around the apartment trying to gather all of the essentials. He knows that someone will have all of what he needs on their mission, but he’s grown rather particular about the brand of toothpaste he likes, so he brings his own.
He's a terrible packer, always has been, and his bag sits in the middle of their living room with items haphazardly shoved into it. Steve digs through the laundry for a clean pair of socks and emerges from his bedroom triumphant, only to find Bucky removing all of the items from his duffel. Steve watches as Bucky painstakingly folds every article of clothing neatly after checking it for holes or stains, as he checks all of Steve’s toiletries to ensure they’re full, as he runs his fingers over Steve’s helmet. He tucks everything so carefully into the bag that Steve is hesitant to interrupt the ritual, but finally he sits down next to Bucky and hands him the socks. Bucky unrolls them from the wad Steve had made and neatly folds them before tucking them into the bag.
“You know it’s just going to get all cluttered on the mission, right?” Steve says, trying to keep things lighthearted.
“I know,” Bucky says, “but this way I can make sure everything is ready for you.” When he finishes with the socks, he zips up the bag and stands up.
They make their way to the front door, and Steve pulls on his boots and his jacket. He takes the bag from Bucky and says, “Thanks for keeping me organized.”
“You’re welcome,” Bucky says. There’s a beat, and then he meets Steve’s gaze with eyes filled with all the sincerity in the world. “You better come home safe,” he says.
“I will,” Steve says, reaching out to pull Bucky into his arms. “I promise,” he whispers into his ear.
“I’m holding you to that,” Bucky says, holding Steve tightly. He gives him a squeeze and then pulls back. “I love you, punk.”
In that moment, Steve’s heart explodes into a thousand pieces, and he reaches out to pull Bucky back in. “I love you too,” he says, emotion filling his voice. He wants to say something like I’ve always loved you, I will always love you, I never stopped loving you, but words fail him. Instead, he just holds Bucky in his arms until he hears the agency car honking for him outside.
He hefts his bag to his shoulder and heads out, giving Bucky one last wave. As the car drives down to the airfield where the jet is waiting, Steve starts thinking about over all the things Bucky had said to him.
Bring a jacket, it’s cold out. Maybe you should get some sleep. I made this for you special. I want you to have this. I remembered this about you. You don’t need to apologize. I noticed this about you.
And finally,
Come home safe.
In that moment, he realizes that Bucky had been telling him that he loved him over and over and over, and Steve had been too blind to see it. He shakes his head at his own stupidity and pulls out his phone to try to compose some sort of text apology.
But before he can say anything, his phone pings with an incoming message.
BUCKY: Text me when you’re on your way back. Irish soda bread will be ready.
All Steve can do in reply is text back the words that have been echoing through his mind ever since he’d met Bucky on the playground all those years ago.
STEVE: Will do.
STEVE: I love you.
And with one final ping before the car rolls to a halt, Steve gets one last message before he has to lockup his phone.
BUCKY: I love you too.
BUCKY: Punk :)