Title: The Daffodil Project
Wordcount: 990
Summary: It's springtime in Brooklyn, and Steve has something to show Bucky. Complete and utter fluff, based on NYC's Daffodil Project.
“C’mon, Buck, it ain’t so far now. Ya just gotta hold out a little longer, ‘kay?”
Bucky rolls his eyes and stifles the laugh; it must be pretty damn important if Steve’s slipping into his old school Brooklyn drawl.
“Mkay, Stevie,” he says with a little shake of his head, “whatever you say, sugar.” Okay, Bucky’s a sap, and his fella’s got him wrapped around that super-soldier pinky. So sue him.
Steve’s eyes are all lit up like a kid on Christmas morning as he tugs Bucky by his metal hand toward…well, toward somewhere. Stevie wants it to be a surprise, and well. What his best guy wants? Bucky would go to the ends of the earth to make it happen, so he just lets himself be led. Besides, why not enjoy the journey?
There’s an extra bounce in Steve’s step as he hurries them along the surprisingly quiet streets, his whole body practically quivering with excitement as he moves, and he carries himself strong and proud, actually meeting the rare gaze of any passersby. It’s bittersweet, Bucky can’t help but sigh at the thought, because it’s not something he sees that much these days. When Steve—his Stevie—goes out into the world, Bucky’s noticed, he closes in on himself, like he can somehow shrink that supersoldier frame back to his prewar dimensions if he just ducks low enough. When Captain America ain’t out actively saving their asses from the next big bad, Steve Rogers hides behind aviator glasses and his favorite Dodgers ball cap, keeping his gaze down to the ground to avoid the stares. And damn if it don’t break Bucky’s heart every time he sees it.
But today? The sun is shining; the warmth of spring is finally shaking the chill off the city, with bits of green and pastel pinks and yellows dotting the bare limbs of the trees lining the sidewalks; and best of all, Bucky thinks, is how beautiful his Stevie looks right now, content and comfortable in his own skin, leading Bucky by the hand with his head held high. It’s such a rare thing, for Steve to be out in the world and letting his guard down, and Bucky falls just a little harder watching it happen. Wishes that the world wasn’t so damn fixed on Captain America that it made Steve Rogers feel like he has to hide.
“Alright, doll, we’re almost there.” Steve stops abruptly, making Bucky stumble into six feet of solid muscle. And that ain’t bad at all, because of course Stevie catches him, wraps him up in those strong arms and pulls him in tight. Bucky nuzzles in close, brushing his lips against the pulse point in Steve’s neck as he just basks in the closeness, in being held. And while sometimes Bucky misses the old days, before the war, before he got fucked up and lost and broken, back when he was the one who could fold Stevie up in his arms, this is pretty damn perfect, too.
“Close your eyes for me, Buck,” Steve murmurs, his breath a hot tease on the shell of Bucky’s ear, “this next bit’s the surprise.”
“Okay, Stevie.”
With a delicate kiss to the center of Bucky’s forehead, Steve slowly unwraps himself from Bucky’s body, sliding his palms down Bucky’s arms to take hold of both of his hands. Bucky trusts Steve implicitly, allows himself to be guided, their steps now slow and measured.
He’s pretty sure they’re in a park now. The scent of springtime floods Bucky’s senses—cut grass and flowers and nature coming back to life after a long, hard winter. Bucky knows a thing or two about that, himself.
When Steve stops this time, it’s careful. Bucky doesn’t fall into his arms so much as he’s pulled into them, into the safety and comfort and rightness of Steve’s embrace. His eyes are still closed—because Stevie hasn’t told him to open them yet—when he feels the soft press of Steve’s lips against his own. And maybe he whimpers into the kiss a little, shut up. Stevie’s an excellent kisser.
“Open your eyes, Bucky.”
And of course, Bucky obeys. How could he not?
The first thing he sees when he does is his sweetheart’s beautiful face, those ultramarine eyes sparkling down at him, the corners of his lush lips quirked into a delicate smile, and Bucky’s a goner. Always has been, always will be. One hundred percent gone on Steven Grant Rogers. He can feel his own mouth curving into a dopey, lovesick grin of his own, and the sight makes Steve’s eyes twinkle all the more.
Steve nuzzles the tip of his nose against Bucky’s, and Bucky just purrs like a kitten in a sunbeam. “Whaddya think, Buck?” Steve asks, gently nudging Bucky to look off to the side, where he’s met with a shock of brightness.
Daffodils, a whole mess of them, in variegated shades of white and peach and yellow, the bright green of their stems and leaves a gorgeous highlight breaking up the sea of blooms just enough to emphasize the movement of the flowers in the springtime breeze, gentle rolling waves of flax and goldenrod and butter and peach and orange.
It’s so beautiful, the wash of color, the mesmerizing sea of daffodils, and for a moment, Bucky’s too choked up to speak. He hasn’t seen anything like it since the war, since that day in Rennes, and it’s all he can do not to cry just thinking back to it.
“They’re beautiful,” he whispers, tilting his head, offering himself up to Steve’s kiss. “Thank you, Stevie…for, for everything.”
“Anything for my best guy,” Steve rests his forehead against Bucky’s, and they just stand there, lost in the moment. “‘M so glad I get to share the springtime with you again.”
Bucky kisses Steve this time.
“Til the end of the line, and then some.”
