Chapter Text
Steve pushes open the reinforced steel door and limps into the vault. The table in the center of the small, bare room is empty. He swallows a sigh. Too late again. The artifact Hydra’s using to create enhanced soldiers is nowhere to be found. Three bases raided, three times they were too late. In the meantime, Hydra continues to churn out soldiers that are almost strong enough to take him.
“It’s gone,” he says into his comms. There’s no response. Everyone’s busy corralling the last few pockets of enhanced soldiers.
He keeps an eye on the vault door while he checks out the table. Maybe this time someone was careless enough to leave a clue behind. After hunting for weeks, all they know about the artifact is that it exists, and that it’s small enough to fit into a case that’s two feet long by one foot high.
The table is a plain wooden one, about three feet square. He’s pretty sure he can pick out the exact model in an IKEA catalog. At the corner… is that a drop of dried blood? It’s about the right color, dark from oxidation, but he’s seen enough blood to know something about the texture is off. Too viscous. He doesn’t touch it—Tony will kill him if he gets his cooties all over it before it can be scanned.
“In case you’re wondering,” a warm, silky voice says, right next to his ear, “that’s not blood.”
Steve leaps straight up into the air, and comes down swinging. He gets a brief impression of long, brown hair as the man sidesteps the blow with a casual nonchalance. The edge of the shield passes close enough that the man’s hair stirs in the wind of its passage.
“Who are you,” Steve snaps. “How did you get in here.” The vault was empty. It’s a windowless room no more than a hundred square feet in size. There’s no way in or out except for the door. The door that Steve’s facing.
He backs up to give himself more room as he studies the… elf. Because really, that’s what he looks like—an escapee from a Lord of the Rings film set, from the tips of his pointy ears down to his leather knee-high boots. He looks somewhere in his mid-twenties, but something about the way he holds himself has Steve revising his estimate up by a decade.
His deep green tunic and pants stand out against the utilitarian gray of the room, announcing his presence, not camouflaging it. They’re made of a light fabric and cut to allow freedom of movement. A bo staff is strapped to the elf’s back. He wears a diamond-shaped gemstone on a chain around his neck. The emerald green gem is nestled in a gold filigree cage.
The elf is too calm and amused for someone who’d been an inch away from having his head bashed in. His ease around physical violence raises Steve’s wariness by a factor of ten. He knows about cosplayers, but he also knows about the dark elf that destroyed parts of London. Since cosplayers don’t tend to materialize out of thin air, he’s left with the very unwelcome alternative.
“Cap?” Clint whispers over the comms. “ETA five minutes.”
The elf smiles, easy and open, and something lurches inside Steve. He’s beautiful. His wide gray eyes and high cheekbones wouldn’t look out of place in a classic Hollywood movie.
“My name is Buchanan,” the elf says, in an oddly inflected accent. It isn’t American, and it’s not quite British. It’s almost… lilting. It reminds Steve of his mother’s accent, the one that came out sometimes when she was very tired. Buchanan places a hand over the pendant and sweeps Steve a courtly bow. “But you can call me Bucky. As to how I got in, why… I walked in, of course.”
“There’s only one door,” Steve says, ignoring the wicked gleam in Bucky’s eyes. “And I know you didn’t come in from there. I’ll ask again, how did you get in here.”
Bucky gives a long-suffering sigh that seems dragged from the depths of his leather boots. “Walked,” he says again. “One foot in front of the other.” He takes a step forward, and another, and another. Steve backs up as he approaches, not trusting the flamboyant creature one bit. “Like this.” Bucky shifts to the side—and disappears.
“Fuck!”
“Hello again.”
Steve spins around to find Bucky standing by the vault door, studying the table. No, not the table. The drop of dried… something.
“You seek it too,” Bucky says. When Steve tenses, Bucky nods with satisfaction. “You do.”
Steve sets his jaw and readies for a fight.
“It seems like we’ll be meeting again. I do look forward to that.” Bucky cocks his head to the side like he’s listening to something. “I should probably leave before your friend arrives. Goodbye for now, Captain.” With a jaunty wave, Bucky takes half a step to the side and disappears.
Steve glares at the spot where a six-foot tall elf had stood a moment ago. That was a very irritating habit. “He’s gone,” he says into his comm.
“Aw no,” Clint says plaintively. “I ran all the way!”
*
Tony leans back in his chair and tosses a stress ball straight up into the air—throw, catch, throw, catch—in a maddening rhythm. “So JARVIS, what can you tell us about the goop.” The whole team is in the meeting room, everyone cleaned up, wounds attended to.
“I scanned the substance that Captain Rogers found in the vault and I’m 98.4% certain that it originated from a life form.”
“What happened to the 1.6%?” Tony asks.
“If I may finish, Sir.”
Tony rolls his eyes but makes a waving motion with his hand.
“The sample does not contain the nucleic acids that are the building blocks of Terran life, but it does have the molecular complexity that is a hallmark of life.”
Goddamit. Aliens.
“Now can we talk about the 1.6%?” Tony asks.
“There are particulates suspended in the sample that are too complex for my sensors to scan properly.”
“That’s not good,” Tony says. “JARVIS has the most advanced scanners in the world. I know, I—”
“Built them,” Bruce says. “Yes, we know, Tony. What else can you tell us, JARVIS?”
“I’m afraid that’s all I have for the moment, Dr. Banner. I will continue to study the sample and will notify Sir as soon as I learn anything new.”
“Thank you, JARVIS,” Steve says. “Anyone have anything to add?”
The silence in the room is broken by the soft rasp of Thor scratching his beard as he stares at the ceiling. “I have come across it before.” He frowns. “I must return to Asgard to speak to my mother. If anyone will know, ‘tis her.”
“They knew we were coming,” Nat says. “No one got in or out of the facility, but somehow, they got the—thing—out.”
Her voice is cold and hard, her expression flat. She hates failure. They all do. Steve can see it in the flippancy of Tony’s exchange with JARVIS, the downward curve of Sam’s mouth, the angle of Wanda’s head. He can feel it in the tightness across his shoulders.
“However they’re doing it,” Nat continues, “it’s not by mundane means.”
“Great,” Tony mutters, as everyone looks at Steve. “Magic.”
Steve straightens in his seat, wishing he had more useful intel on the man in the vault. He doesn’t think telling them laughing eyes haunted him all throughout his shower is going to be particularly helpful. “You’re suggesting Bucky had something to do with it?”
Nat exchanges a look with Clint, while Tony appears more interested in seeing how high he can get the ball to go.
“It’s possible,” Steve concedes. “Given what he can do.”
“You don’t think so, though,” Nat says.
“Just a gut feeling—”
“Sir.” At the uncharacteristic interruption from JARVIS, everyone falls silent. “There is an unauthorized person in the back left-hand corner of the room.”
Steve turns around, already knowing who he’ll see as everyone scrambles to their feet. Sure enough, it’s Bucky, curled up in an armchair, loose-limbed and relaxed as a cat. Long brown hair cascades around his shoulders and the tips of his ears are exactly as pointed as Steve remembers.
Nat whips a gun out from somewhere and points it at him. Tony has a repulsor on his hand. Bruce backs out of the room, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Wanda’s hands are up and surrounded by a red glow. Sam looks between Bucky and Steve, waiting for a cue. Only Thor seems unworried—resuming his seat after an initial moment of battle-readiness.
“Bucky,” Steve says.
Bucky glances around with bright, inquisitive eyes. The corners of his lips tip up in a smile, as though amused by the chaos his appearance caused. “We meet again, Captain.”
Tony’s eyebrows are parked halfway up his forehead as he studies Bucky. “I see what you mean by Lord of the Rings, Cap.” Then, aggrieved, “JARVIS, how did he get in?”
“He appeared on my sensors without any warning, Sir.”
“That’s not possible.”
“My sensors are in perfect working order, I assure you, Sir. Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”
“Did you just quote Sherlock at me?” Tony hisses.
Bucky ignores everything going on around them and keeps his gaze locked on Steve, still with a smile flirting at the corners of his lips. The deep green of his tunic sets his light eyes to glowing.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Sam says. He punches Steve in the arm.
With a guilty start, Steve says, “What do you want?”
Bucky unfolds from the chair in one smooth, sinuous motion. “The same thing you do, Captain.”
Steve feels an unaccountable heat in his cheeks at the teasing note in Bucky’s voice. He clears his throat and avoids making eye contact with the others. “And what would that be.”
Bucky straightens his shoulders and looks Steve squarely in the eye. He doesn’t look young now so much as ageless. “Something sacred to my people. It was stolen from us some months ago. We know someone here in your world is using it, and we believe one of our own is helping them.”
“How do we know we can trust you.”
“He can vouch for me.” Bucky bows to Thor. “Your Highness.” Thor’s just opened his mouth to respond when Bucky says,“I greet you as the humble emissary of my Queen, here to provide assistance in the capture of the oathbreaker, and ensure the safe return of that which was stolen.”
Thor nods, a furtive glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Greetings, humble emissary of the Elf Queen of Oileáin Thuaidh,” he says, mimicking Bucky’s odd emphasis on the title.
From the look on Nat’s face, Steve’s not the only one who notices it. “What aren’t you telling us,” he says, addressing the two offworlders.
“Ah,” Bucky says, looking a little shamefaced. “Thor probably recalls the not altogether dignified circumstances of our last meeting.” He exchanges a glance with Thor. “It really doesn’t bear repeating. Suffice it to say that he’s probably surprised the Queen trusts me enough to appoint me as her emissary.”
Thor smiles down at his hands. He does seem pretty amused by something, Steve concedes. He’s glad his gut feeling about Bucky wasn’t wrong. “Let’s hear what you have to say,” he says.
Bucky curls back up in the armchair. One by one, everyone sits back down, and weapons are hidden away.
“Okay, elf-boy,” Tony says. “Before we talk assistance and interdimensional extradition, how about you tell us how you got into my building.”
“You should tell him, Buchanan.” Thor gives Tony an indulgent look. “He won’t know any peace otherwise.”
“He won’t know peace even if I tell him.”
“I’m right here,” Tony interjects.
“Are you sure you want to know?”
There’s a glint in Bucky’s eyes, an invitation to mischief that has Steve’s fingers itching for a pencil. It’s not as though there isn’t already a hasty drawing of Bucky in his sketchbook, one which, for some reason, he’d elected not to share with the team.
“Yes,” Tony says.
“I slip into the in-between.” Bucky shrugs. “That’s where my world exists, in the interstices between yours.”
Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Not sense as you understand it. So let’s call it”—Bucky gestures grandly—“magic.”
Steve bites back his smile at the scandalized expression on Tony’s face and steps in before Tony can work up a good head of steam about the whole magic thing. “That’s why we’re always too late,” he says. “This oathbreaker of yours is teleporting away with the item as soon as we show up.”
“Really, Cap?” Tony says. “‘Teleporting?’”
Steve widens his eyes. “Can you think of a better word?”
“Bruce should be here, goddamit.” Tony subsides back into his seat. “I shouldn’t have to put up with this on my own.”
“Okay.” Steve leans forward in his seat. “Can we get back to the issue at hand.”
“And which one would that be, Captain?”
“Actually,” Steve says, “how do you know who I am?”
“Did you think I sought you out by accident?” Bucky gives him a reproachful look. “My Queen’s advisers identified the Avengers as the ones most likely to succeed in locating the oathbreaker.” He nods to all the Avengers seated around the table, one warrior acknowledging another.
Great. Yet another alien race keeping tabs on Earth. “How about you tell us about this sacred item, and then we can discuss how we can work together.”
Bucky glances at Thor.
“I vouch for them,” Thor says.
The room is silent except for the soft hum of the central air-conditioning, and the soft, rhythmic thump of Tony catching the stress ball.
“There is a tree,” Bucky says, “that grows over the burial place of the Morrigan; three sisters who lived as one, ruled as one, and died as one. Each of them was a powerful mage in her own right, but together, the triumvirate was greater than the sum of its parts. It is said that their hearts were the seed, and their blood, its sap.”
Steve remembers that name from a time when his mother would tell him stories of her homeland while he lay sick in bed. Goddess of war, chaos, death. Was it coincidence that the Morrigan that was the genesis of the tree was also a triumvirate like the Morrigan from his mother’s stories?
“We call it the Heart of the Morrigan, and honor it in memory of them. The oathbreaker cut a branch from the Heart,” Bucky says, “and brought it here. We believe they are using it to gain power in your world.”
“He desecrated the Heart of the Morrigan?” Thor frowns, horror and disgust evident on his face.
Bucky’s gaze sharpens. “‘He’?”
“So we gather from the soldiers we captured,” Thor says. “Tall. Dark brown hair. That’s all we know.”
Bucky nods, his mouth set in a grim line.
“He brought it to Hydra,” Steve says. “To a man named Wolfgang von Strucker. He heads up their science section.” Science being a euphemism for human experimentation, a phrase he would rather not use in front of Wanda. “They must be using it to give their soldiers superhuman strength.”
“It’s as we feared,” Bucky says.
“What can you tell us about the oathbreaker?” Nat asks.
“We know he seeks power, and that he’s one of a limited number of elves allowed to travel to other worlds. My people will work on identifying him while I hunt him here. As soon as I know more, I will share that knowledge with you.”
Wanda leans forward in her seat. “Emissary Buchanan, how is the Heart of the Morrigan able to grant superpowers?” Her face troubled, like she’s recalling her time being experimented on.
“We have some suspicions how the branch is being used, but I’ll need to see the enhanced soldiers to understand more.”
“The next time we locate a base,” Steve says, “you can come with us.”
“I will enjoy that.”
“Okay, but how the hell do we stop the elf from teleporting away?” Sam asks.
“This is a keystone.” Bucky taps the green gemstone hanging from a chain around his neck. “Access to the in-between is protected by powerful spells. Without one of these, we cannot”—he slants a glance at Tony—“teleport.”
Tony narrows his eyes. “Don’t do that.”
“For the next month, our mages have closed the way between our worlds to all but a few travelers on the Queen’s business. The oathbreaker can no longer use the in-between to move from place to place.”
“So no more escaping whenever we show up,” Nat says, with vicious satisfaction. “Doesn’t matter whether the elf’s on Earth or not, von Strucker’s stuck.”
Bucky grins, a sharp, feral thing that makes the blood course faster through Steve’s veins. All around the room, answering grins break out on everyone’s face.
“We can work with that,” Steve says.
“Wonderful!” Bucky claps his hands together and gives Steve an expectant smile. “Might I trouble you for a place to stay for the coming weeks?”
“That would be my department,” Tony says. “I own the building, after all. Why don’t we discuss terms? I’d be willing to rent you a whole floor if you tell me more about this in-between.”
Bucky laughs and stands up. “I do love a good bargain.”
Tony leads Bucky away, the sound of their voices fading as they go out the door. Before Steve can follow, Nat places a hand on his shoulder. “He’s not what he appears,” she says.
“I’m listening.”
Clint and Sam, the only other people left in the room, move closer to listen.
“You said he moves like a fighter,” Nat says.
Steve nods, remembering the way Bucky had slid out of the way of his shield.
“He calls himself an emissary, moves like a fighter.” Nat raises her eyebrows and gives him an expectant look.
“Sounds familiar,” Sam says, nudging Nat.
“I’ve never called myself an emissary, Sam. But I could if I wanted to.”
“So,” Steve says, “you’re saying, that Bucky’s…?”
“Probably an assassin,” Nat says.
“And a spy,” Clint adds.
Which confirms Steve’s own suspicions that Bucky’s no mere diplomat. If anyone would be able to tell, it’d be Nat and Clint. “Do you trust him?” he asks, including Sam in the question. He trusts Sam’s instincts as much as he trusts Nat’s almost preternatural skill at reading people.
“I got a good feeling about him,” Sam says.
Nat and Clint exchange a look. “We trust him,” Nat says. “But be careful, just in case.”
*
One nice thing about staying in the Tower is the 24-hour kitchen. Even though the sun’s barely up, Steve can get a world-class breakfast at the cafe reserved for the Avengers. Had anyone explained to Bucky how to go about getting breakfast in the Tower? Sure JARVIS can answer all his questions, but the neighborly thing to do would be to show him the ropes. Sarah Rogers raised him right, he’s not about to let her down now.
He rinses off his toothbrush and drops it back into the cup by the sink. “JARVIS, where’s Bucky?”
“Still in his room, Captain Rogers.”
This early in the morning, where else would Bucky be. Not everyone wakes as early as him. He could always go for a run while he waits for Bucky to wake up. It might help burn off the strange agitation he woke up with, something left over from the tantalizing cobweb trail of dreams still clouding his mind. His stomach chooses that moment to growl. Problem solved—breakfast first.
“If he comes out while I’m still at breakfast, can you please invite him to join me?”
“Certainly, Captain Rogers.”
Halfway through his third poached egg, Bucky walks in wearing a Stark Industries T-shirt and navy blue sweatpants that hug the long, muscled length of his legs. His feet are bare—long and bony and looking vulnerable against the black marble of the floor. He wears the clothes with the same ease as he did his elvish clothes and wouldn’t look out of place slinking down a catwalk for an athleisure fashion line. Steve’s survived enough Fashion Weeks in New York to know.
“Captain!” Bucky’s smile is wide and pleased.
Steve waves him over to his table for two by the window. “You’re up early.”
“Elves don’t need much sleep.” Bucky eyes Steve’s plate of poached egg, bacon, and toast. “Don’t humans believe in sweet things for breakfast?”
“I’m sure Chef Anne and her team can whip up something sweet for you.”
Bucky’s eyes widen at the suggestion. “What do you recommend?”
Ten minutes later, Bucky contemplates the spread before him: a stack of pancakes with a large dollop of creamy yellow butter melting on top, a small jug of maple syrup, and eight little pots of jam. With a happy sigh, he tucks his hair behind his ears and scoops up a dollop of jam with his finger. He sucks it off with a contemplative look on his face.
By the third pot of jam, Steve’s restlessness has gotten worse, like static buzzing under his skin. He leans back in his seat, takes a few deep breaths, relaxes his shoulders, and thinks about increasing his daily workout. When Bucky reaches for the maple syrup, Steve tenses up all over again.
Bucky sucks the thick sticky liquid off his finger and makes a low sound, almost like a purr. “Oh,” he breathes. “This is the one.”
Steve forces his shoulders back down again and revises upwards his initial estimate of the extra exercise he needs.
“Truly a gift from the gods,” Bucky says, as he empties the entire jug of maple syrup over his pancakes. When he shakes off the last drop hanging stubbornly on the spout, he stares into the now empty pot with such a forlorn expression that Steve would swear he can feel his heart melting in his chest.
“Here you go, sir.” Sally, one of the waitstaff, places a fresh pot of maple syrup in front of Bucky. From the way her lips are compressed, she’s not immune to that look either. Bucky’s expression turns to one of delight as he smiles up at her like she’d personally delivered him a piece of heaven.
“Thank you,” Bucky says. Sally flushes a bright, pretty red, stammers out something unintelligible, and rushes back to the kitchen.
“So how did you land this job,” Steve says, as Bucky pours more syrup over his pancakes.
“Shh. Eat first, talk later.”
Steve snorts. “Okay, Buck. Don’t let me get between you and your sugar.”
Bucky pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth, thick, heavy drops of dark gold syrup dripping down onto his plate. “Do you really think you could get between me and this—this sunlight made edible?” He makes a rude sound. “I would demolish you, Captain.” Smiling lips close over the tines of the fork. Without taking his eyes off Steve, Bucky pulls out the fork in one smooth motion.
Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. “You can certainly try.”
“Captain, I hope you’re as good as they say you are, because it’s been a long time since I fought an equal.”
Anticipation fizzes in Steve’s blood. He leans forward. “I’m better.”
“I look forward to putting that to the test,” Bucky says. He scoops up another piece of syrup-soaked pancake.
Steve thinks about introducing Bucky to the astounding variety of food New York has to offer. Especially the desserts. Pancakes and waffles and gelato. Baklava. Dragon beard candy. Milkshakes.
At a burst of laughter from Sally and another of the waitstaff, the world rudely reasserts itself. Steve straightens and looks down at his plate. He’s surprised to see there’s still a half-eaten slice of bacon there. He shoves the bacon into his mouth so he has an excuse not to say anything while he gathers his scattered thoughts.
“You never did say how you got the job to come here.”
“My Queen commands and I obey.”
“Bucky.”
“I’m good at what I do, and… she knows I’ve always wanted to come here.” His hand goes to the keystone resting on his chest. “My father used to tell me stories of Earth.” His face is almost wistful when he looks out the window. “I wish I could have more time here. But once my mission is complete, I’ll probably be sent somewhere else.”
So much for showing Bucky more of New York, Steve thinks, and quashes the little flare of disappointment. He points at the keystone. “Did your father give you that?”
Bucky looks down at the stone. “He said his adventuring days are behind him. So he gave it to me.” Bucky’s lips quirk into a gentle smile full of warmth as his thumb traces the gold wires wrapped around the green gem.
Steve almost envies Bucky. He barely has any memories of his own father beyond a faded photo on the mantelpiece—an unsmiling face and an ill-fitting suit. His mother looked so sad whenever Steve asked about him. After a while, Steve stopped asking.
“What does your father do now that he’s no longer traveling?”
“A scholar, mostly. He oversees all us travelers.”
“That’s convenient.” Steve quirks an eyebrow at Bucky as he takes a sip of his coffee.
“So you would think. But I swear he made it twice as hard for me to get this”—Bucky waggles the keystone at Steve—“since he still thinks of me as a child.”
“What about your mother?”
“Mother… well, she’s in politics.”
There’s a note of finality in Bucky’s voice that tells Steve he won’t say more on the subject. Steve’s curiosity is fired, but he decides not to push. “And what about you? What is it exactly that you do?”
Bucky considers him over the rim of his glass. “A soldier for the most part.”
“How does a soldier end up as an emissary of the Queen?”
“My unit is… let us say we report directly to her.”
Which pretty much confirms that Bucky’s probably a trained assassin, a spy, or some combination of both. “I see,” Steve says.
“Yes.” Bucky takes a sip of his milk. “I think you do.” He licks off the pale pink milk mustache left behind, and smiles. Turning to look out the window, Bucky watches the sun rise over the New York skyline with a look of soft wonder on his face.
*
They’re three days into Bucky’s stay at the Tower, and still no hits on a Hydra base. To stop them all from going stir-crazy and destroying the training room, Nat declares a movie night.
Steve arrives at the entertainment room at 8:45 pm sharp to find everyone already there except for Bruce, who’s begged off, and Bucky. After considering the assortment of snacks laid out on the refreshment table, Steve grabs the bowl of salted caramel popcorn instead of his usual buttered one. Dropping into the last remaining loveseat, he pops a piece of popcorn into his mouth and winces at the sweetness.
“What are we watching?” he says to the room in general while keeping an eye out for Bucky.
“The Hobbit,” Nat says.
“Am I late?” Bucky sweeps in wearing a floor-length scarlet robe with fur-lined collar and cuffs.
Steve chokes on his popcorn.
Bucky’s robe flares out behind him as he walks, like a trenchcoat in the John Woo movies Clint and Wanda love. Under the robe is a flowing, pearl-gray tunic with a lace-up front and matching pants. One side of Bucky’s hair is pulled back in a loose two-stranded braid, revealing the delicate point of his ear and the elegant angle of his jaw. A few artful strands frame his face.
Steve thumps his chest a few times to dislodge the bits of popcorn he sucked down his windpipe. When he catches his breath, he almost wants to stand up to applaud. It was a truly impressive dramatic entrance—perfect timing, flawless execution.
“What,” Tony says, “the hell are you wearing.”
Bucky glances down at himself and back at Tony. “They’re… pajamas?”
“No,” Tony says, over Sam’s laughter. “They are not. They are most definitely not pajamas.”
Even Nat looks bemused. “You’ve been walking around in regular clothes for days now. What brought this on?”
The smile Bucky’s been holding back breaks through. Steve thumps his chest again. “Since we are watching a show about elves,” Bucky says, “I thought I should dress the part.”
“Where the hell did you get those clothes?” Tony demands.
Wanda eyes the robe with interest. “I like it.”
Bucky bows to Wanda with a flourish. He swings the robe this way and that to show off the rich fabric. “I’m sure I can find one in your size,” Bucky says.
Wanda looks very intrigued by the prospect. Steve can already picture her swanning about the Tower with Bucky in matching scarlet robes. It brings a smile to his face.
“Someone needs to explain where he got those clothes,” Tony says. “JARVIS?”
“Emissary Buchanan partially disappeared off my sensors for a period of ten minutes at 8:30 pm. My apologies, Emissary. I am not monitoring you, but my sensors are programmed to detect anomalies.”
“No apology necessary, JARVIS,” Bucky says. “Security is important.”
“‘Partially’.” Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. “How does one disappear partially.”
“I didn’t go all the way to my world. I have my things with me, halfway in the in-between.”
“Like a little pocket dimension where you can store things?” Tony’s eyes widen with interest. “So you just reach an arm in and—”
“And now,” Thor says to Bucky, “you will be the one who will know no peace, my young elf friend. Tony will hound you until you cough up the secret of your pocket dimension.”
“—pull out whatever you need?”
Bucky looks chagrined as Tony leans towards him with avid eyes. Then he smiles. “I’m afraid,” he says solicitously, “it’s against the laws of my people to trigger a technological leap on any world we visit.”
“Are you fucking kidding me.” Tony seems to grow two inches out of sheer outrage. “The fucking Prime Directive?”
“It’s a very responsible approach, Tony,” Thor says. “Even your Gene Roddenberry could see that.”
Tony glares at Thor. “Et tu, Brute?”
While Thor continues to tease Tony, Bucky scans the room. His face lights up when he spots Steve and the empty seat next to him. He saunters over, takes off the cape and drapes it over the back of the seat. “Prime Directive?” he says, as he sits down.
“It’s a television thing.” Steve shrugs, trying to sound casual. “A show called Star Trek. Set in the future, where humans have achieved space flight and go around visiting other worlds, some less advanced. The Prime Directive is basically what you were saying about not triggering a technological leap.”
There’s a burst of applause from Nat, Clint, and Wanda, which he acknowledges with a mock salute. “Private joke,” he says in response to Bucky’s curious look. “Ignore them.”
JARVIS dims the lights and everyone settles down as the opening credits roll across the screen. Bucky shifts closer, close enough their shoulders almost touch. When a warm hand brushes against Steve’s thigh, he nearly flings the bowl of popcorn into the air in surprise. Only Bucky’s hand fumbling its way into the bowl prevents disaster. Eyes still focused on the screen, Bucky stuffs a few pieces of popcorn into his mouth. His entire body freezes, eyes going wide. A warm little glow lights up in Steve’s chest—he’d made the right choice.
“What is this?” Bucky whispers.
“Popcorn.”
“No, what flavor.”
“Salted caramel.”
“Salted caramel,” Bucky whispers, soft and awed like a man receiving an epiphany. He pops in a few more pieces, his eyes slipping closed as he chews.
Steve’s stomach swoops inside him, like he’s going down the first drop on the Cyclone, like he’s stepping out of a plane in mid-air. When Bucky’s eyelids drift up, Steve forces his attention back on the movie.
The only thing that distracts Bucky from working his way through the popcorn is Thranduil appearing in the dwarf king’s throne room in shimmering silver robes. Bucky points at the screen and murmurs in Steve’s ear, “I’d wear that if it was red. Silver makes me look like death warmed over.”
Goosebumps chase over Steve’s skin at the feeling of warm air brushing over his ear. The scent of Bucky’s hair wraps around him, a warm, sweet scent with hints of something almost like magnolia. “Even the crown?” Steve manages.
Bucky squints at the screen. “I think it would suit me.” He slants Steve a smiling glance. “Don’t you agree?”
Steve has to concede that he does.
When the dwarves are served nothing but salad by Elrond’s elves, Bucky whispers, “You think this body comes from only eating leaves?”
Like iron filings drawn to a magnet, Steve’s gaze travels the coiled length of Bucky’s body, taking in the lean graceful lines of him, from broad shoulders all the way down to his bare feet. The ends of Bucky’s hair trail into the bowl of popcorn he’s hugging to his chest. Steve almost reaches out to tuck it back behind one pointed ear.
Bucky cackles when the dwarves get into a food fight while the very proper and refined elves watch, looking distressed to the point of pain. Steve leans close. “You’re not much like those elves, are you.”
Bucky turns laughing eyes on Steve. “What makes you say that?”
Steve plucks a few stray pieces of popcorn from the cuff of Bucky’s sleeve, and combs some crumbs from Bucky’s hair. He drops them into Bucky’s hand while Bucky watches him with a soft look in his eyes and a half-smile curving his lips. “Just a hunch,” Steve says, feeling breathless again for no reason at all.
They watch the rest of the movie in silence. Bucky leans against him, warm and pliant. Steve watches the play of light and shadow over Bucky’s face, trying to understand what in the particular arrangement of features that make up Bucky’s face captivates him so.
It’s not an unfamiliar occurrence, this fascination of his. He accepts it as one of the occupational hazards of being an artist—every now and then he meets someone who fires his imagination. Man or woman, attractive or not, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the soul that looks out from behind their eyes. After a week or two of furious sketching, the fascination passes. In the past, he’d been obscurely ashamed when an attractive man caught his attention, knowing how easily that could have been misinterpreted. He’s glad the future is a lot more accepting, and that the few women he’d dated didn’t seem to mind when they found his sketches.
What’s less familiar is his intense curiosity about Bucky. But then again, he’s never met an elf before—surely it’s natural to want to spend more time with him.
Maybe he’s staring a little too hard, because Bucky catches him at it. “What?” Bucky whispers. Steve shakes his head and pretends an interest in the giant eagles carrying everyone to safety.
The closing credits have barely started scrolling across the screen when Nat stands up. “It’s late, I think I’ll turn in.” She kicks Clint in the shin.
Clint pops out of his seat like a prairie dog emerging from its burrow. “Me too.”
With a loud rustle, Wanda scrambles up from the bean bag in a whirlwind of flailing limbs. “I’m also very tired.”
There’s a sudden chorus of good nights, over which can be heard Tony’s plaintive, “Aw Pep.” In under two minutes, everyone is gone.
“I suppose clean-up falls to us,” Bucky says wryly. He sits up and combs his fingers through his mussed hair.
Steve blinks at the empty room. “I suppose so.”
Which isn’t exactly true since the Tower staff will see to it in the morning. But Steve’s not comfortable with having people clean up after him, and this way, he can have Bucky for a little longer. They gather up the empty bowls and cans and bring everything to the kitchenette at the back of the room. Steve spots another can under Clint’s seat. He’s on the way to the loveseat when Bucky gasps from somewhere behind him. Steve spins around, hand automatically reaching for a shield that isn’t. His mind shuffles through multiple alternatives to deal with Hydra soldiers stepping out of thin air—
“More popcorn!” Bucky holds up a bowl in triumph.
“Bucky.”
“What?” He stuffs a handful of popcorn into his mouth, eyes wide.
Steve wills his heart rate to slow down. “Never mind.” He can’t hold on to his ire when Bucky looks like a chipmunk with its cheeks full of nuts.
Once things are squared away, they get into the elevator and head up to their rooms. Bucky’s long, dexterous fingers comb through the fur trim of the cape draped over his arm in a slow, hypnotic motion. A nudge snaps Steve’s gaze up to Bucky’s face.
“Breakfast tomorrow?”
A little pop of warmth at Bucky’s easy familiarity makes Steve duck his head and smile. “Yeah. Can’t wait to see what the chefs whip up for you this time.” They haven’t had this much fun since Steve moved into the Tower and they’d taken it upon themselves to introduce him to the culinary wonders of the present day.
“They perform miracles,” Bucky agrees. The bell dings and the door opens. “Till the morning, Captain.” Bucky steps out and the door closes on his parting wave.