I don't own it.

Thank you for following along! It's been a journey and half! I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have.

The people have spoken! The next story that will be posted is Berlinterview, an alternate take on the Berlin interrogation scene from Civil War. See the end notes for a sneak preview, because you guys are awesome and I'm in a good mood from reading your lovely reviews.

And now: on to the finale, in which the story prompt finally makes its appearance.

Dinner was a riotous affair. Still riding the wave of relief that Steve's recovery had brought, Bucky felt giddy as a schoolboy. Steve himself was in fine form after the days cooped up down below; he laughed harder than anyone at Clint's story of a prank gone wrong at Natasha's sister's place. With dessert cleared away, they pushed their chairs back from the massive dining table and reconvened at the couches.

Tony hovered over the side, looking unaccustomedly nervous.

"What?" Bucky said, when Tony tried to catch his eye for the tenth time.

"I… look, you know the knife you used the other day?"

Steve snorted. "You might have to be more specific, Stark. He's got a few knives, you know."

"The one you said my dad designed."

A hush fell over the room.

"I know it," Bucky said. He glanced down at his t-shirt and jeans. "I don't have it with me…"

"No, that's okay, let me just…" Tony trailed off. He stalked to the door, thrust an arm around the corner, and came back carrying the knife in its sheath. "Here."

Bucky took it. "Uh. Okay. Why?"

"You were going to tell me about it."

"Because," Bucky muttered sarcastically, "the first thing I want to do when my best friend is recovering from a near-death experience is talk to his friend, who is also kinda my boss, about a knife that was designed by said boss's dad, who was also my friend and who is now dead because I killed him."

"You were brainwashed," Steve said reflexively.

The air grew tense.

"Well," drawled Clint, "her name's Amanda, she's tall and skinny, and she makes Sergeant Barnes a very happy man."

The atmosphere broke with the sound of Steve's laughter.

"Leisl, actually," Bucky said, fighting a grin.

Tony sat down on the arm of the couch opposite, beside Sam. "Wait, what?"

"Leisl." He flourished the sheathed knife. "Its name is Leisl."

Clint stared. "I was joking, man. You actually name your knives?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"I do," said Nat, raising a hand.

"Yeah, but you're weird," Clint said. He sipped his beer. "Do you name all of them, or just the ones that Stark — Junior or Senior— designed?"

"Just the special ones."

"No Clint, then," said Sam, and yelped as he got an elbow in the ribs.

Bucky brushed his hair back from his face. "I really don't have many on me at the moment, you know. This is Leisl — " waving the long knife. He pulled the hunting knife from the waistband at the small of his back. "Elsa, my German hunting knife. And…" He pulled up the leg of his jeans. "These three. Throwing knives. Kirk, Spock, Bones. In that order."

Tony threw his head and laughed. "Bucky Barnes is a geek. I love you."

"Speak for yourself, Junior."

"So where'd the knife come from? Uh, Leisl. Leisl's original, I mean. You know, back in the day. When Dad designed it."

"Well." Bucky stretched his legs out, crossed them at the ankle, and sipped his wine. "November 1943, he met a guy…"

"Hope he was discreet. Go on."

Steve made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

"A friend," Bucky clarified. He'd walked straight into that one. The 21st Century was so weird. What sort of a son said things like that about their father? "Or friend of a friend, really. Sergeant. He was a sniper. Had a bad habit of getting caught in melees because his C.O. wouldn't stay out of trouble." He could feel Steve glaring a hole in the side of his head. He passed Steve his glass without looking and stood. "So Stark — Howard, I mean — made him this."

He drew and flipped the knife in a single fluid movement, testing its weight and spin, and ended with the flat of the blade balanced on a fingertip at the midpoint. Or what should have been the midpoint. Leisl tilted. He juggled it for a moment until he found the right balance. There. Closer to the tang than muscle memory had told him. "You changed the midpoint?"

"I don't know," Tony said. "Did I? His notes were pretty patchy."

"You did. The old midpoint was…" He flipped the knife upright and caught the flat of the blade between finger and thumb as it came down. "Here." He adjusted his grip. "But you've put it here, closer to the guard."

"Huh." Tony cocked his head, eyes narrowing. "Alright. You used one of these knives, then? Back in the day?"

"The knife, yes. There was only one."

"You were the Sergeant?"

"Yep."

Tony's eyes moved to Steve and crinkled at the corners. "Cap was your C.O. who wouldn't stay out of trouble."

"I was," Steve sighed mock-regretfully and sipped Bucky's wine.

"Hey!" Bucky snatched his glass back. "Mine. Thief."

"What's yours is mine, pal."

"No, it isn't."

"Is, too. We had that contract."

Bucky flipped the knife and passed it to Tony, hilt-first. "That contract related to a very small subset of belongs, most of which were still in our apartment in Brooklyn. They could be anywhere by now. Or nowhere."

"Probably nowhere."

"Damn. I liked that fridge magnet."

"Explains a lot," Tony said, half under his breath.

"Explains what?"

"Oh. Uh. You. With the knife. The other day. It explains how you used it so well, if you'd had one almost the same during the war."

"Different balance point. Different heft to it. Makes a world of difference."

"Hmm." Bucky could see the wheels turning in Tony's mind a second before he asked, too casually, "Which one's better?"

"What, yours or Howard's?"

"Yeah. Which one's better?"

Bucky mulled that over. "Good question." He took the knife back and unsheathed it. Glanced around to lock in his bearings. "Don't move," he told Steve.

"What are you — " Tony started.

Steve just sighed. "Yeah, alright. I won't."

Bucky closed his eyes and launched into a flurry of movement, blade spinning, circling, darting out, pulling in; spinning again, right hand, left hand, right hand; switched to a reverse hold and thrust backward.

And held it steady — he glanced over his shoulder — yes, good, half an inch below Steve's left earlobe.

They were working on the trust issues.

"They're about the same," he said after a moment. "Yours isn't better than his. Just… different." He passed the knife back to Tony, sat down next to Steve, and reassumed the crossed-ankles position. "Alright?"

Steve had an almost comical expression of long-suffering on his face. "Yes, Bucky. I'm fine."

"Excellent."

Sam glanced between them. "Is this, ah… normal? Bucky trying to stab you, Steve?"

"I didn't — " Bucky started.

"He didn't try to stab me. If he'd — "

"If I'd wanted to, he'd — "

"I'd be dead, yes."

"And we don't want that," Bucky finished.

"No," said Steve. "No, we don't."

There was a long moment of silence. Natasha looked at Clint, Clint looked at Sam, Sam looked at Tony, Tony looked at Bruce, Bruce looked at Wanda, Wanda looked at Vision — Bucky blinked; when had Vision arrived? He'd thought he was still in hibernation having repairs done — and, completing the circle, Vision looked at Natasha.

Nobody looked at Bucky. Or Steve.

"What?" Steve asked as the silence stretched.

"Uuuhhhhhh." Tony scratched his head. Looked around at the others.

They studiously avoided eye contact.

"Wanda, maybe you should…"

"I'm not leaving," Wanda said. "I was the one who pointed it out to you in the first place! And besides, there's no cheesecake left."

Bruce snorted a laugh.

Tony cleared his throat. "Nobody else wants to do this?"

"Do what?" Steve asked.

"I don't think they do, Stark," Bucky said. "Looks like it's up to you. Whatever it is."

"Oh. Right. Okay." He took a breath. Sat on the couch. Clasped his hands. "Look, you two know it's 2017 now, right?"

Steve quirked an eyebrow. "I think we've apprehended that much, yes."

"And certain, uh, customs, behaviours, shall we say… that weren't really, um, accepted in the 40's… are, are okay now."

Bucky stared at him blankly. "I have no idea what the hell you're talking about."

"I was afraid you might say that."

He glanced at Natasha for help. She grimaced and opened her mouth —

"What I'm trying to say," Tony burst out. "Is. It's okay. We're very, uh, accepting. These days. Of, of, everyone. Different sorts of people."

Bucky stared around at the group which included a black American soldier, a Sokovian woman, and an Artificial Intelligence… thing. "Yeah," he said. "We know. What's your point?"

Wanda leant forward. "What Tony is trying, very ineptly, to say," she said, ignoring Tony's glare, "is that we know you two are gay, and it's perfectly fine."

What.

Bucky looked sideways at Steve.

Steve stared back at Bucky.

And they burst out laughing.

"You — you think — " Steve clutched his ribs, eyes watering. "Ow. Ow that hurts. Ow."

"Breathe, punk," Bucky wheezed through his own tears.

"I am breathing."

"Good. Keep — keep breathing. Ow. Ow." Bucky pulled his knees to his chest, trying to ease the tightening in his abs, and sobbed with laughter.

In front of them, Tony threw up his hands. "If you two are quite finished?"

"No," Steve said, and started laughing again. "We're not finished."

"Never."

"For this? Never ever."

Tony stared at them, perplexed. Looked at the rest of the group. Looked back at them.

Bucky nudged Steve.

And then nudged him again.

"Okay. Okay, I'm fine. Breathing. Yes. Whew." Steve swiped blonde hair off his forehead and grinned. "Sorry. What were you saying? Oh yeah. Bucky and I are gay." He suppressed another fit of laughter with what looked like herculean effort. "Sorry to prove that theory wrong."

"You haven't proved it wrong," Clint said lazily, slouching in his seat.

"I thought we just did," Bucky said. "You know. Laughing at you."

Steve sighed. "Would it help if I said, out loud, the words we're not gay?"

Bucky caught a mutter of denial from somewhere on the other side of the room. He groaned and dropped his head back against the couch. "Seriously?"

"Um," said Bruce. "You do, kinda, act a bit gay."

"No, we don't."

"Yeah, you do," said Tony.

"No," said Bucky. "We don't. We act how any other pair of close male friends would have acted in the 40's. And how they still act these days, actually. You've just been so, so —" he groped for the words, "so indoctrinated that you couldn't spot a platonic physical relationship if your life depended on it."

Natasha shrugged. "Alright."

"You believe us?"

"I can see your perspective on it."

"That's not a yes."

She flashed a smile. "I do have a pretty compromising photo of you two."

Steve bolted upright, frowning. "What?"

"Just a sec." Tap, tap, on her phone. The screen on the wall lit up.

Steve groaned. "You got a photo of that?"

It was the morning after Steve's wanna-go-home crisis. Bucky and Steve curled together on the couch, Steve's arm flung over Bucky's chest, the blanket fallen to drape over their tangled legs…

"Come on." Bucky rolled his eyes. "You've heard of a hug, right? Or do they not exist these days?"

"That's a lying down hug."

"Fully clothed."

"Lots of contact happening."

"Contact? If that's all the supposed proof you need, I have plenty of proof that you and Clint have a thing going on, and he's — "

Clint's eyes narrowed.

" — got that thing going on with your sister," Bucky finished.

"Okay," Tony broke in, "what about that time I found you two in bed together?"

Steve stared at him blankly. "When was that?"

"Morning of the Atlanta mission."

"Oh, that," Bucky said. "One, get your facts right: we were on the bed, not in it, and you make it sound like we were naked when we were…" he did a mental check, "almost fully clothed."

"Almost?" Wanda asked.

"I don't wear a shirt when I sleep. Get too sweaty. And I'd been throwing up and freaking out in the bathroom for an hour before that, so. Draw your own conclusions."

Sam winced. "Bad night?"

"You could say that." Steve's expression was thunderous. "Tony, you've never been in the army, so let me make one thing very clear to you before you go any further: Bucky and I shared a tent — and, in fact, a bunk — for a month after I rescued the 107th remnant from Kreischberg. If we did that during the war, at the height of the blue-ticketing, and never got sent home, doesn't it make you wonder why? You want to know the reason? It's because there was nothing sexual going on."

Tony scoffed. "So why did you share a bunk?"

Despite himself, Bucky's breath hitched. "Because Arnim Zola had just spent two weeks strapping me down to a lab table and experimenting on me. Thank you, by the way. If I have nightmares tonight, I'll know who to blame."

Something almost like remorse flashed across Tony's face.

"Okay," said Wanda. "What about the food? Thor said you were feeding Bucky on the way to the fight."

"He'd spent the last hour throwing up," Steve growled. "He had nothing left in his stomach, and he forgets to eat. You'll excuse me for making sure my best friend doesn't collapse in the middle of a battlefield."

"Who forgets to eat? That's stupid."

"Part of me," Bucky said, deathly quiet, "is used to being ordered to eat. Or force-fed through an IV line. Hydra considered that more efficient."

She flushed, stammered an apology, and subsided.

"And the roaring rampage of revenge?" Tony asked. "Your complete inability to leave his side, Barnes? You cleaned his shield!"

Steve blinked. "He what?"

Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. "I cleaned your shield. After Atlanta. It was a mess."

Natasha brought up a picture of Bucky perched on the back of the couch outside the operating theatre, dressed in filthy utility trousers and Steve's clean shirt, muscles standing out as he scrubbed away at the shield. He looked at her sharply. He hadn't realised she'd taken a photo of that.

Natasha grinned shamelessly.

"Oh," Steve said. "Thank you."

"Welcome."

"T-that's all?" Tony spluttered.

"Yeah," said Steve. "I'm sorry, were you expecting more shouting?"

"You never let anyone touch the shield!"

"Bucky's not anyone."

"There we go! There! You said it!"

Steve groaned. "What part of best friends since childhood do you not understand, Stark?"

Tony waved his arms wildly. "You have no concept of personal boundaries with each other!"

"Childhood friends," Bucky said through gritted teeth. "Freezing winters. No stupid culturally-conditioned fear of showing physical affection. And we were in the army, where privacy was in very short supply. If it's a choice between modesty and hygiene, I know which one I'd pick."

"And for gosh sake, you speak French with each other!"

"Damn right," said Bucky.

"Yes we do," said Steve.

"It's the language of love!"

Steve dropped his forehead into his hand. "It's also the language of France. Where we spent some time. Because we fought. In the army. In World War II."

"We can speak German if you'd like," Bucky offered. "But then you'd probably accuse us of being Nazis. Steve, do you remember Howard being this stupid?"

"No," Steve said. "He knew when to admit he was wrong. Remember the flying car?"

"It didn't fly for long."

"No, it didn't. But at least he could admit he'd been wrong."

They stared Tony down in silence.

"You," he said weakly. "You, um. Have a… a contract?"

Bucky closed his eyes and prayed for patience. "For the apartment. Where we lived. Because we were working bachelors and both of us, oddly enough, quite liked having a roof over our heads."

"Even better if it didn't leak," Steve quipped.

"Oh," said Tony. He looked utterly deflated. "It's not for, uh…" He mumbled something under his breath.

Clint barked a laugh. "Violent, dubiously-consensual sex? Have you talked to Steve, Tony? Ever? Give it up, man."

"Nnnnyaaaaah." Steve's voice was strangled. "I… I don't want to know. I really don't."

"Yeah," said Nat. "You don't. It's rubbish anyway. Completely inaccurate depiction of the lifestyle."

"You believe us?"

Clint shrugged. "With Nat and me no-one bats an eyelash. Everyone knows we're just good friends. I don't see why you two should be any different."

"Thank you," Bucky sighed. Finally, someone who could see sense.

Tony took a breath.

Steve groaned and brought both hands up in a double facepalm.

And Tony said, in the voice of a desperate last-ditch attempt, "You finish each other's sentences."

Bucky stood up. "Right. You and me, Junior. Down in the gym. We'll go a few rounds and once I've whipped your sorry behind, you're going to admit you're wrong."

Sam cleared his throat.

Bucky sat down. Rolled his eyes heavenward. "Yes, Sam. Sorry, Tony. Violence is not the answer."

"It's the question," Steve muttered, sotto voce. "And the answer is yes."

Sam looked at Steve and raised his eyebrows.

"Oh for goodness' — yes, Sam, no, I know. Sorry. I didn't mean it, you know that."

"I'm with the Sarge," Tony said unexpectedly. "Gym. Let's go."

"What?" Sam burst out. "Tony. No."

"No, no, it's fine. I agree to their terms. If Barnes beats me in a fair fight — or, well, fair-ish — then I will freely and of my own will admit that they are, both of them, completely heterosexual and they're totally not in a gooey romantic relationship with each other at all."

"Because we're not," Steve said with a sigh.

"And if you beat Bucky?" Clint asked.

"Then…" Tony hummed. "I'll still be open to negotiations. I mean, I've never known Cap to lie to my face. He might be in denial, but that's a different matter."

Bucky cracked his knuckles and stood. "You're on, Stark."

"Bucky," said Sam.

"Are you coming?"

"No! This is lunacy."

"This is politics." Tony grinned. "And we need a referee. Who's your second, Barnes?"

"Second?"

He winked. "In case I kill you."

"Steve. Who's yours?"

"Uh… Where's Rhodey? On holiday, right. Bruce."

"What?"

"You're my second." Tony clapped him on the shoulder and steered him toward the door. "If Barnes kills me, I want you to avenge my death. Make it loud. Messy. Dramatic. You know the sort of thing I like."

"Steve," Bucky whined, overly loud, "Tony's touching another man! And he's making innuendos!"

Tony flipped the bird over his shoulder. The crowd vanished into the hall.

Bucky popped his head back in. "You coming, Wilson?"

Sam groaned and stood up. "I suppose someone's got to make sure you don't kill each other."

"That's the spirit."

"You know this goes completely against any professional code of ethics ever invented, right? You don't solve sexual crises with a fist-fight. It doesn't happen."

Bucky laughed. "The only crisis we're solving today," he said, "is Stark Junior's temporary insanity."

The hallway rang with sound of their laughter, which lingered for a moment before fading into silence.

And Tony admitted defeat. Eventually.

fin

Berlinterview Sneak Preview

"Will you talk?" Broussard asked. His voice was deadly soft.

Bucky's metal hand trembled. "No."

"I would prefer not to force you."

Bucky swallowed. He kept his eyes closed.

"Very well." Broussard moved a dial on the remote and hit a button —

Bucky's back arched, teeth gritting, eyes opening to staring sightless at the ceiling for a moment —

And it passed. He slumped, breathing heavily.

"What the hell!" Steve shouted, turning to pin Sharon with a glare. "Did you know about that?"

Bucky's laugh filled the room, dark and humourless. He sagged in his restraints, blinking at the ceiling. "You think pain will make me talk?"

"I would prefer," said Broussard, "not to do that again. But if you refuse to cooperate…"

Bucky stared him down. When he spoke, his voice was low and angry. "There's only one person whose questions I'll answer. And you're not him."