An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
It's just an innocuous comment, that's how it starts. Bucky elbowing him in the ribs, leaning in. The two of them in a bar, drinking whisky even though it won’t touch the sides, not for Steve at least. He’s not sure about Bucky; seems like it could go either way. Bucky’s got hollows under his eyes but he’s very sharp, very bright, throwing back drink after drink and letting his words slur a little like the whisky is doing something for him.
He's not even sure why he says it; it's too much, entirely, pushing things too far, but— “It's not—one and done, you know? I got, uh. Stamina.”
“Stamina,” Bucky repeats, flat. “Uh huh.” And then he's throwing back the rest of his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, turning to Steve and squaring his jaw all challenge. “How many times?”
“Yeah. How many times. In one go.”
“I—” Steve starts, flushing so hot he feels like he must be a beacon in the bar, shining through the grey-out. Bucky's still looking at him, curious, and something else under it, something Steve can't place. “Four,” he says, compulsively too-honest in the face of Bucky’s gaze, and Bucky's eyes widen.