Steve had thought they’d work their way up to the hard stuff over a few weeks or months. He would prove to Bucky over and over again that it was safe until at last Bucky opened up to him, or at least didn’t hit out when pressed. But he supposes they really aren’t cut out for taking it slow. Steve doesn’t feel angry by the time he storms into the living room. Instead it’s the same grim calm that takes over when a mission goes belly-up. They’re going to work this out. There’s simply no other option.

Bucky looks up from his novel, opens his mouth to says something and shut it when he sees Steve’s face.

Steve slams the handgun down on the coffee table and watches Bucky’s expression fly from shock, show a fleeting moment of what might be fear, and finally set in anger when he demands, “You went through my dresser?”

For one wild moment Steve considers saying yes just to see what would happen – would it be better or worse if he met Bucky’s expectations? – but this has to be about the truth. “No, you left your laundry in my room last night so I washed it with mine. I was trying to put your socks away.”

Bucky tosses his head back with an easy manner that Steve can see right through. “So what, you’re my parole officer now? ‘Cause nobody told me that there were any terms.”

“I don’t give a damn about the gun, keep it on your night stand for all I care. Buy twenty and hang them on your wall! What matters is I had no idea, and I live with you! I know you want your privacy. You want to keep what’s personal to yourself. And I’ve tried to understand that. But I live with you, I sleep with you, and you still won’t trust me with anything and it’s killing me, Bucky. Half the time I don’t know what you’re thinking, I don’t know what you’re feeling, I don’t even know what you do all day!”

“I can’t tell you that.”

Steve throws up his hands. “There’s the problem. Right there. All I’m asking is for one simple fact and even that’s too much.”

Bucky leans forward, and something earnest in his face catches Steve’s attention. “No, I mean I can’t tell you.” It takes Steve a moment to process the weight of his words.

“And I guess everything else is classified too, huh?” It’s a nasty jab and Steve knows it.

“You know what,” Bucky starts, voice raised and lip curled. Then Steve watches him gather himself, or maybe let go. The aggressiveness and the fake arrogance bleed away, and when he sits back in the chair he looks tired and a little nervous. “What do you want to know?” he asks more quietly.

“I just want to know that you trust me, Bucky. That I can trust you.”

“How can I prove that? What do you want me to do?” Bucky tugs nervously at the hem of his shirt, and Steve has just enough time to think Not some fucked-up sex thing before he asks “Do you want me on the table? Over your knee?” His eyes flick to the gun and Jesus Christ, Steve doesn’t even want to think about what that might mean.

“I want you,” Steve says firmly and clearly, “To talk to me. I want you to listen to what I say to you. And I want you to try and believe me.”

Bucky sounds half-way back to normal when he waves a hand at the couch. “Sit down, I’m gonna get a crick in my neck looking up at you.” They end up sitting kitty-corner to each other, close enough that their knees would bump if Steve moved forward, they could hold hands if – if they did that.

“I’m sorry about the gun,” Bucky says abruptly.

“The gun isn’t what matters. But thank you.”

“I don’t see why the other stuff matters, though. You really meant what you said the other night?” he demands. “It really doesn’t do anything for you? Because it would be okay if it did. You wouldn’t be the first one. I get it.”

“No you don’t.” This time Steve can’t keep his voice from rising. “I care about you. Why is that so hard for you to believe?”

“You can forgive me,” Bucky says venomously, “if I find it hard to believe that you’d get with someone who used to try and suck enough dick to earn the privilege of getting one up the ass if it didn’t turn your crank, not that you seem to mind the party tricks I picked up –”

“No,” Steve cuts him off, “You’re not going to do this. I am not going to play this game again. You’ll tell me I don’t want to hear about it and then you’ll kick it in my face. You want to know what I think? I think you’re scared. And you think if you can drive me away then you won’t have to think about it anymore. But you’re wrong, because you can’t keep secrets and lie to yourself forever and because I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me. So we might as well start talking. And since you asked,” he goes on, “Yes. I would. I don’t care about what anyone did to you. I don’t care what they made you do. I don’t care what you might’ve done yourself when you were in your right mind. I don’t even care about the sex, not if you wanted to stop. I care about you, Bucky. And I hope you care about me.”

There’s a long silence, then Bucky swallows and says, somewhat thickly, “My ma used to say that you’d argue with a locked door.” Steve just shrugs, because contrary to popular belief he won’t argue with anything that’s true. “I got one condition,” he goes on. “You don’t argue with me. I mean, if I use a word you don’t like or maybe I tell something like a joke, you don’t have to laugh but you do have to let me tell it.”

Steve opens his mouth to say I’m not gonna let you put yourself down like that, I’m not gonna let you tell it like it’s funny because it’s not funny. Instead he says, “I’ll try if you try.”

Bucky’s smile is a little weak, but it reaches his eyes. “Then I guess you’re stuck with me too.”