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Daylight - I'm ready for daylight
I'm ready to praise your heaven skies when the curtains rise
Daylight - I'm ready to play right
I'm ready to trade my darkened eyes for the glitter prize
–
“She's not the girl you remember,” Natasha says.
Steve says, “I figured as much when she shot at me.”
The Bucky he remembers was never a girl, anyway; when he met her, at all of sixteen, she was already a soldier, disguised in all the trappings of a tomboy and underestimated as such. She knew it, too, and knew how to use it.
“Not what I meant,” Natasha says, “Well, not all that I meant. She was wearing the leather gloves when you brought her in, I believe?”
“Yeah.”
Natasha smiles in fond reminiscence. “I loved those leather gloves...”
“Wait—you and Bucky?” The look on Steve's face must be comical; he wishes he could see a picture.
She punches Steve in the arm, playful. “We've already established that you and I have the same taste in women, Captain. You really ought to try out Matt or Clint, so we can see if this phenomenon extends to men.” Natasha quirks an eyebrow. “--Unless?”
“Wait, how do you know about Bucky and me, anyway?” Steve asks. He rubs at his sore shoulder when Natasha's not looking, and reminds himself to ask her about how things are going with Sharon, later. He doesn't think he's ever seen Natasha quite so happy.
“Oh, please. You've had hearts in your eyes since she tried to shoot you with a sniper rifle. I've shot at lots of men, and none of them talk about me like that. “ The corners of her mouth curl into a wry, hardly-perceptible smile. “Well, most of them don't talk at all, but you know how I mean it. Was Jane your wife? The two of you were clearly serious.”
“Fiancée,” Steve admits. “We were engaged before she died—or I guess, did not die, as it turns out.”
“You're evading,” Natasha says. “Are you going to resume your century-long romance with Jane, or not?”
“We're not a hundred!”
“Evading.”
Steve glares.
Natasha glares back. “You should really stick to the puppy-dog stare, Rogers. This is more my area.”
He throws his hands up in defeat. “Fine, Natasha. I'd like nothing more than to make good on every promise I ever made to her. There was never anyone besides her for me, not really, no matter how much I tried. You happy now?”
“Yes. Thrilled.” She shimmies in delight.
“I'm going to tell everyone that the Black Widow has taken an interest in matchmaking,” Steve says.
Natasha ignores him, and continues to lead the way through SHIELD's facilities, her stride in danger of being describable as bouncy. “Now, before I take you to see our dear Winter Soldier, there is something you should know about what's underneath those scrumptious black leather gloves...”
–
The only furniture in her cell is a cot, bolted down, light blue sheets and hospital corners. There's a camera for every angle. Bucky's sitting down, one wrist cuffed to the frame, the cybernetic arm Natasha warned about limp at her side.
Steve can't help but catalog the differences. She's older now, perhaps twenty-five to her prior sixteen; her hair is chin-length waves, when before she'd always worn it long and tied-away; there is a faint, jagged scar on her right cheekbone. Steve used to know every mark on her skin, every bullet wound and careless hurt Bucky earned proving herself over and over to everyone and no one in particular. He still remembers them, every one, stories and all, from the tiny shrapnel mark at the edge of her jaw, so (too) close to the soft hollow underneath her ear, to mark she got breaking in her first pair of combat boots at the age of thirteen.
There was little heart-shaped scar on her left elbow, from dashing it, running headlong and reckless through Camp Lehigh, into a wall. That scar and that arm is gone, and there must be so many unfamiliar scars now, across that skin Steve once mapped with so much love.
What strikes Steve most, however, are the things that remained. Her eyes are still that shade of grey-green-blue he's spent to much time trying to capture with his pencils, and what's behind them, even dulled by exhaustion and inner turmoil, is still that blend of cunning, sharp-tongued woman and brave, vicious girl.
Steve looks at her a long time, before he can talk. “You changed your hair,” he says, reaching out to brush a lock of it out of her face.
Bucky smiles, a sad-but-hopeful flicker. “You like it?”
“It's great,” Steve says.
Her smile widens into something real. “Sit down.”
“Okay.” He is ginger, letting himself into her space, but he sits down by her side. Steve's hand finds its way to the cuff around Bucky's wrist. “I hate that they've got this on you.”
She swallows. “They're just looking out for you, your people are.”
“They're not my people,” he says. “You're my people.”
Bucky laughs, something bitter. “I've got a lot more blood on my hands than I did when I was your people, Steve. And I weren't much of an innocent back then.”
“Bucky—”
“Please don't,” she says, “not yet.”
“Jane?”
“Yeah, Jane. 'S my name, isn't it?”
She looks so vulnerable, in that moment, claiming the name she never liked as her own. Steve wants to pull her close and kiss her; the point of contact at her wrist isn't enough. “Jane,” he says, “how much do you remember now?”
“Most of it,” she admits, “all the bad stuff came back first, but now I've got some of my childhood, some of...us.” Bucky looks up at him, using the full force of those grey-green-blue eyes. “I remember we were engaged. I remember being with you. I'm a bit fuzzy on how it all started, and I don't remember you proposing.” She smiles, bittersweet. “One day, I'm walkin' in on you changing 'by accident' and wondering how Captain America could be so oblivious. The next, I'm in the tent doin' my best to keep your clothes off.”
Steve smiles back. “Do you want me to tell you about us?”
“Yeah.” She rests her head on Steve's shoulder and closes her eyes. “Tell me.”
“You remember being made my partner, right?”
“I do,” Bucky says. “They didn't know what to do with me, and I was a real good shot, so they decided to make me your problem.”
“Some problem.” Steve twines his fingers with hers. “Well, after that, it's like you said, you kept walking in on me, and I just saw you as a kid, even though you were all of how many years younger? I didn't think you could possibly mean anything by it.”
“What'd I do about that? 'Cause I know it couldn'ta been you that started this,” she says, teasing.
“You're on the mark with that,” Steve tells her. “One morning, your marched into the tent, yanked my uniform out of my hands, and shoved me down onto my cot—I was so stunned that I let you.”
“So I took advantage of you!” Bucky says, her eyes wide.
“Don't worry, B—Jane. I got with the program pretty quickly.”
“Good,” she tells him. Her eyes close once again. “Keep going.”
Steve reaches over to stroke her hair with his free hand. “We spent that whole day in the tent, and that was when I realized that my brave, funny, plucky girl sidekick, my only real friend, who I could trust with my life, was, in fact, a smart, beautiful, dangerous woman.”
“Sap.”
“It gets worse, I promise,” Steve says. “The first time I proposed to you was the next morning.”
“The first?” Bucky asks.
“Oh yeah. We wake up, crushed together in my cot, and you tell me that you're glad that I was your first. I kiss you, and tell you that I want you to be my last. You know what you do next?”
She says, “No,” eyebrow quirked and voice flat.
“You laugh! And then when I don't start laughing with you, you say, 'First, you take a girl out and start going steady. Later, you propose marriage.' Of course,” Steve says, smiling with the fond recollection of it, “we didn't have much time to date. Thus began the saga of my never-ending proposals. I'd just ask you after every battle and weird villain. And sometimes after sex.”
“So how'd you get me to finally say yes?”
“Same way I usually talk you into stuff. By almost dying,” he tells her. “I did the usual thing and threw myself between some people and some danger.”
She says, “Steve, I just want you to know that I'd smack you right now, if I could. Well, I could break the cuff, I think. But just now, I don't want to bother.”
Steve tests the metal. “I could break it for you, if you want.”
“Gentleman-like, but they'll just kick you out,” Bucky says. “Not crazy about the chains, but I've had worse, and I like ya here. With me.” Her voice strikes a fragile note.
“I am here,” he says, reassuring. “Want the rest of the story?”
She nods against his shoulder.
“I wake up from being mostly dead, half-healed already,” Steve says, “the first thing I hear is you yelling at me, 'Okay, okay! I'll marry you, you idiot!' I stumble to my feet and kiss you; you call me a dumb sap and make me lay back down. And that's how we got engaged.”
“I wish I could remember,” Bucky tells him, eyes still closed.
“You remember us being in love and fighting Nazis and sea monsters and all sorts of nonsense together, though.”
She grins. “I do. Was pretty swell.”
“Wanna do it some more?” Steve asks.
“What do ya mean by that?” Bucky says, voice tinged with a cocktail of wariness and concern. Her eyes are very wide now, but she's still letting herself rest against Steve.
“You're alive and I'm alive,” he says, trying to keep his tone light, even though his heart won't stop hammering his way out of his chest. “I still wanna marry you. You in?”
Bucky makes a shocked noise and lifts her head off his shoulder. “Steve,” she says, her voice raw, and her whole body practically trembling. “Steve, I'm a murderer. Not like before, during the war. What I did as the Winter Soldier? You're the best man I ever knew. You can't be with someone like that, like me. You can't.”
“Jane,” Steve tells her, looking straight into those eyes (as if he's got the option of looking away). “ I don't wanna know who I can and can't be with. That part of it's up to me, and I want you. I wanna know if you want me.”
“Yes,” she rasps, her voice hoarse and raw with the want of it. “Of course I want to be with you. Since I've got my memory back, thinkin' about it's been the only thing holding me here. But you have no idea what you're getting yourself into.”
“Seventy years ago,” Steve says (he's got her hand in his so tight it must be hurting her, but he can't loosen his grip and she doesn't seem to notice), “I told you I'd be there for you no matter what. I meant it, and I still mean it.”
“Steve, stop being so fuckin' noble. You're telling me you want to marry a stone cold killer that can't sleep for all the damn nightmares, because of a promise you made a fuckin' century ago,” Bucky growls.
“I'm telling you I wanna marry you. Now, not seventy years ago. And it ain't because I'm being noble, Buck,” he says—she flinches at the name. “It's 'cause you're who I love, nightmares and all.”
“You're a damn fool for it, pal,” Bucky says, so fond that it's painful. “Of course I'll marry you, you idiot.”
She surges forward to capture his mouth in a kiss, hot and open-mouthed, her teeth nipping at his bottom lip before she goes in for the kill. Steve's hands roam her body of their own accord, finding every place they ever liked to rest. Bucky groans when he gets one large hand on her breast, and the other tangled in her hair. “Wish we could fuck right now,” she says. “Miss you like that.”
“Gotta get you out of here,” Steve tells her. “Then we can have the engagement sex again.”
“Mmm,” she says, “is engagement sex anything like 'I'm so glad you're alive' sex?”
Steve kisses her neck. “It's been my experience—” Teeth at her collar bone. “That those two things—” His mouth on her ear, the way she always liked. “Tend to go together for us.”
Bucky lets out a ragged little gasp and pulls away. “Put out or get out, pal.”
“I missed you,” Steve says, wrapping his arms around her. He kisses her temple, her face, her hair, and if his voice is level, then his body is the betrayal, the measure of just how much the words ring true.
She says, “I ain't goin' anywhere, Steve.”
“Yeah,” he says, very serious, “not until I get you out of here.”
“You know I deserve whatever they wanna do with me, right?” Bucky says.
Steve sighs. “The Winter Soldier's not you.”
“She is, though,” Bucky says. The quirk of her mouth is the midpoint between mirthful and tragic. “And you know it, too, because you know me.”
Steve just gets up, and then bends down to kiss her on the lips. “I love you, Bucky.”
She doesn't react to the name, just lights up, the way she's always done at those words. Bucky's always had a hard time saying it back, and Steve is well-versed in the reasons why—the things she loves are always ripped from her, sooner or later—but Steve knows her face and he knows her eyes and he knows that the open, perfect way she looks at him means 'I love you, too.'
He walks out of Bucky's cell grinning like a fool.
–
“She's an American citizen, you can't just detain her like this,” Steve says. “Bring her up on charges, or let her go.”
“Cap,” Fury says, “I don't think you want me bringing your girl up on charges. She's killed more people than some small armies.”
“Not of her own volition. She's just as much a victim of the Department X as any of them.”
Fury raises an eyebrow. “If she's just like any of them, then where are their love notes from Captain America?”
“Director, my personal life isn't part of this,” Steve says.
“No,” Fury tells him, “your personal life isn't part of this. It's all of it. I will take your thoughts on the matter into account; but the fact of the matter is, there's no proof that woman in our custody is Jane Buchanan Barnes.”
Steve is about to interrupt, but Fury silences him with a glare. “Yes, the resemblance is uncanny, and she's got some of the memories; but for all you know, she's some dirty ex-Soviet tactic to bring you down. She shot at you, Captain.”
“And she missed,” Steve says. “That was no accident.”
“So her implanted memories of you gave her just enough pause for the wind to change.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “That's weak, Director. I expect better manipulation from you.”
“Guess I respect you too much, Cap.”
“Bullshit,” Steve says, grinning. “It's just hard to talk your way around the fact that I'm the only person, in all her decades of...work, that the Winter Soldier, who just happens to have the face and, with some help from the cube, the memories, of my dead partner, failed to kill.”
Fury smiles back, lethal. “That there's a fine set of coincidences, Captain Rogers.”
“So your plan's to keep her locked up forever for things the Department X allegedly made her do.”
“Well,” Fury says, “we've got some experience dealing with former Soviet operatives. The Soldier's got some excellent intel, and once we've got it, we'll talk provisional release. Of course,” he adds, “we're going to have to be thorough.“ The emphasis on the word is icy. “So if I were you, I'd find a new lady friend, Captain. Maybe go see if Agent Romanov can spare Agent Carter for a while.”
Steve fixes Fury with an iron stare. “Good-bye, Director Fury. I think I have business elsewhere.”
–
“I figured he wouldn't give up Jane without a fight,” Natasha says. “But he seriously suggested you go back to Sharon?”
The look on her face is not one that Steve would ever like to see directed at himself. “She's your lady.”
“Yes.” All the violence melts into a faint smile. “My lady. Now...do you have any thoughts on getting your lady out of SHIELD custody?”
“Just one,” Steve says. “It won't get her out right away, but it'll make damn sure she won't rot in there forever.”
“Ah, so we're going to be capitalizing on the public's love affair with Captain America.” Natasha sighs. “Too bad. I really wanted you to fight Director Fury. That would have been a good fight...”
“Another time, Natasha, another time.”
“I'll hold you to that, Rogers,” she says, hands on her hips and eyes bright. “So, what's the plan, Captain?”
–
“It's not...the worst plan I've ever heard,” Natasha says, the words evenly measured and carefully picked. “It's...rather elegant.”
Steve frowns at her. “You think it's stupid.”
“No, it's a fine plan. Fury can't very well have the press getting ahold of a story about SHIELD holding Captain America's wife indefinitely, but...” Natasha starts pacing; she has the air of a big cat, caged. “You're going to be counting on Fury's unwillingness to go public about her Soviet assassin past. And of course, there's the matter of getting someone who has clearance and can perform a marriage, and the potential legal issues of her being in custody.”
“I'm hoping Fury won't want to ruin Captain America's reputation. It's part of what makes me an asset,” Steve says.
“Hoping,” Natasha says, about as close as she comes to incredulous.
“And as for who could marry us, I've got that in the bag...” Steve can't help but grin at the mental image.
Natasha frowns. “I can't help thinking this is going to be an unwise decision of some sort.”
“Probably,” Steve admits, “but it'll be one hell of a story.”
“Shall I tell Stark the good news, or would you like to?” Natasha asks. “By which I mean, of course, that he gets an excuse to disable some SHIELD security cameras.”
“I'll tell him, but first...” Steve watches Natasha's face, trained on her reaction. “I've got an Atlantean to go see.”
“Oh no,” Natasha says, “you don't mean who I think I mean.” Her eyes are rather wide—the closest to a shocked expression Steve has ever seen on her. “Anyone else in the entire world would probably be better.”
“He's...probably not the biggest jerk we know.” Steve can't help grinning. “Besides, there's some stuff he's been holding on to for me that I need to pick up, and he owes me and Buck a few favors. He's the practical option.”
Natasha rolls her eyes and shrugs. “Fine. At least he's not Richards. I guess I'll still be your witness.” She smiles at him. “You're welcome for that.”
Steve pats her on the arm with an amicable hand and heads for the door. “Whatever would I do without you, Agent Romanov?”
She snorts. “I detect a hint of sarcasm that shouldn't be there,” Natasha says. “I'll call Matt and take care of the legal aspects of your jailhouse wedding.”
Steve stops in his tracks and looks back at her. “You'll talk to Matt? For Bucky and me? Are you sure? There are other lawyers, you know.”
“I'll worry about my feelings, Rogers,” Natasha says. “You worry about your fiancée.”
–
“You kept them, Namor, you sentimental bastard!” Steve says; he's more delighted about it than any human really has a right to be.
“I just knew you and Barnes were entirely too stubborn to die,” Namor shoots back. “And then you would be here, annoying me, going on and on about how I threw away your wedding rings.”
Steve claps him on the back. “Save some of the feeling for the wedding ceremony.”
Namor's face is priceless. Steve really should be photographing all of these glorious expressions. It's a good day for those. “So not only are you marrying Barnes, but you are also forcing me to officiate your terrible mistake?”
“Unless you don't think you have the power to do so on land,” Steve tells him.
It's a low sort of manipulation, and a terribly obvious one at that—utterly heavy-handed. None of that, however, precludes it from working.
–
“Your wedding is not up to standards, Rogers,” Natasha says. “My date has to keep guard.”
Bucky's cell is a hotbed of activity, the center of so much efficient chaos. Steve has no idea who's running the show here, and at the moment, he is restricted to observing from the outside. Things keep happening. Namor was led away the moment they got in; someone's taken the rings from Steve; at one point, he's pretty sure that Pepper materialized out of thin air with flowers, and then vanished into the ether after depositing them in the cell and giving Steve a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“I like it,” Sharon says. “If we ever get married, I wanna keep guard.”
Natasha blinks.
Stark's disembodied voice crackles from a speaker. “I kicked your girl's arm back into gear for the time being, though we're really gonna have to get on making her something that isn't an insult to cybernetic technology. The surveillance system is going to be down for another forty-eight minutes,” he says. “But I calculate that, taking the confounds I've set up for them into account, there will be SHIELD agents—besides you, Thelma and Louise—at the door of Barnes's cell within twenty-two minutes.”
“I'll be able to buy an extra five minutes or so once they're here,” Sharon tells Steve.
“Are you sure?” Steve asks. “I wouldn't want you to risk your career.”
“Steve,” Sharon says, exasperated, “I'm Agent 13. My career doesn't bruise so easy. Besides, this is fun!”
A new footfall and voice join the melee. “I think that between the two of us, we could hold off SHIELD a lot longer than five minutes.”
“Carol!” Steve says, leaning in for a quick hug.
“You didn't actually think that you could get married without me there, did you, Rogers?” she asks, grinning.
Steve responds, “Fair. I'm glad you're here, even if I'm not quite sure how.”
“Wait, if you're here,” Natasha, says, “who has Namor?” Her face screws up when she says his name.
Carol turns back to Sharon and Natasha. “Don't worry, I left him with Sam. They'll be here in a minute.”
Sam and Namor appear as if on cue. “We're ready to go,” Sam says. “You got the papers, Natasha?”
Natasha pulls out some forms seemingly out of nowhere. “All ready to be signed. Bride, groom.” She gestures to herself and to Sam. “Witnesses.”
“Good,” Sam says, grinning. He puts a casual hand on Steve's arm. “Your final minutes as a free man, Cap. How's it feel?”
“Exciting...I think,” Steve says; he's smiling like a fool. “Seventy year engagement, but it still wheels like a whirlwind.”
“And I finally get to meet this Bucky Barnes I've heard so much about,” Sam tells him.
Namor's ever-present frown deepens. “You should not be so eager. Rogers, it is still not too late to back out.”
“Not a chance of that happening, Namor. Not a chance. I'm ready.”
“Alright,” Natasha says, unlocking the cell. “Jane, we're coming in!”
–
Bucky stands by the bed, looking at her bouquet—it's pink peonies, and there's one bloom tucked behind her ear. She's dressed in the same SHIELD-issue tee-shirt and soft pants as the last time Steve saw her—laceless, canvas shoes.
Steve walks towards her as if magnetized. “You look perfect,” he says.
“In all my suicide-proof, wedding finery,” Bucky says, but she's blushing.
She takes a peony from the bouquet, and sticks it into the buttonhole of a pocket on Steve's leather jacket. “There, now we match,” she says.
“You two can carry on if you prefer,” Namor says, “unless you would actually like to get married before we are swarmed by agents.”
“He may have a point,” Natasha says, more than a little reluctant.
“You ready to get married, Buck?” Steve whispers.
“Steve,” Bucky says, leaning in for a quick kiss. “I've only been waiting for like seventy years.”
–
Sam stands by Steve's side with a smile on his face, and Natasha stands by Bucky's wearing an uncharacteristically pleased expression, and Steve doesn't notice much of anything Namor is saying (it's better that way, really), until it's time to say “I do.” They're the most emphatic two words of Steve's life, and two syllables have never sounded so nice as when Bucky says them. No moment has ever been so right as taking the ring from Sam and putting in on her finger (right hand, given the circumstances), and her putting a ring on his hand in return.
“With the power vested in me by the occasion of my high birth, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Barnes, good job. Rogers, you could have done better. You may now kiss.”
(They hadn't exactly been waiting for his permission).
“Hey,” Steve tells her, breaking away for air. “We're married now.”
Bucky grins. “Who said you could stop kissing me?”
Natasha clears her throat. “You've got about five minutes left until they're storming the castle.”
“We'll get out of your hair,” Sam says. “Just sign the papers, and I'll get them where they need to be.” He hands them a pen, and then the form, which they both sign.
“Thanks, Sam,” Steve tells him, giving back the document, “for all of this.”
“How'd you know I was the one who pulled it together?” Sam asks, sheepish.
(Bucky is watching him and Steve, very fond).
“Please,” Steve says, “as if Natasha or Carol would plan a wedding.”
“Fair enough,” Sam says, heading for the door, Namor and Natasha on his tail. “I'll leave you to it. I expect to properly meet your wife once she's out of here, though.”
“Wait!” Bucky calls out. “Wilson, right?”
(Steve nods a confirmation).
“This is for you,” she says, tossing Sam the bouquet.
“Why do I get the bouquet?”
“Like I'm gonna give it to Natalia,” Bucky tells him.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Rogers,” Sam says, and then he really does leave.
“Yes, good. I don't want the bouquet,” Natasha says, following suit.
Namor just tells them, “Congratulations,” before walking out. And then they're alone.
–
Bucky collapses on the bed. “Mrs. Rogers. We're married now.”
“Took us long enough.” Steve sits down by her side.
“We can talk about the name, later, though,” Bucky says, putting her head on his shoulder. “If I ever get to leave.”
Steve kisses her hair. “You will. I won't give them another option.”
She kisses his neck in response. “Captain America's wife, can't keep her locked away.”
“You holding up okay?” he asks. “You seem tired.”
“I am,” Bucky says. “But it's better, when you're here.”
Steve wraps his arms around her; he can hear the sounds of delighted battle on the other side of the door—Sharon, Carol, and Natasha in action together must be a beautiful sight to behold. The best thing of all—the most beautiful sight—is right by his side, though, and Steve soaks up every second of her presence. Their marriage is no kind of guarantee that he'll be seeing her again as soon as he'd like.
“I want to be here for you always,” Steve tells her.
Bucky smiles. “Good. Maybe not here-here, though. Somewhere else.”
Steve says, “Anywhere you want.”
There's rattling at the door; the melee outside grows more intense. Bucky looks up at Steve, bittersweet. “You're going to have to leave, soon.”
“I'll be back,” he says. “I promise.”
Bucky touches Steve's face, tracing the features, re-committing him to memory. “Steve, I—”
The door shudders and groans; Steve kisses her. “One for the road,” he says.
“Cute,” Bucky says, “but shut up for a second. I have to say something.”
Outside, there is yelling; she squeezes his hand.
“I love you, Steve,” Bucky tells him; if he were anyone else, she'd be crushing bone. “I love you.”
Steve smiles—brighter, even, than she could have possibly asked for. “I love you, too.”
Neither one of them notices (or particularly cares) when the door finally gives.