It was the complete opposite before. The 107th (newly announced, received the telegraph three days ago) and possibly the entire US Army’s best marksman had a reputation to protect, and even the good lord knows this title came with a responsibility. Every Saturday, Bucky hauled Steve to Coney Island, and shot down all the tin cans, and won all the little toys, and gave it away to the dames who watched, slack-jawed and in awe.

Steve always rolled his eyes slightly, lips quirked in a small smile. Your head’s gettin’ a little too tight in that cap there, pal.

Bucky always grinned back. Yeah? You jealous?

Steve always snickered. Of you?

Bucky always smirked. Of them.

Steve laughed. Jerk.

There’s a little bear in his hands suddenly, so small it fit in one hand. It had a white shirt and brown pants and the smallest button of a nose.

Reminded me of those sad-lookin’ khakis you always wear.

Steve pressed it against his cheek. It’s kinda cute.

Yeah? Bucky grinned.

Let me win one for you.

Can you shoot?

‘Course I can.

You can’t even shoot your piss properly into the toilet—

WATCH ME—

BANG

The last can topples off.

Steve triumphantly takes the bear and fixes it against Bucky so it’s sitting on his shoulders, its paws on either side of his head.

“This is too cute.” Sam says, shaking his head, “I know you tried to kill me and everything, but shit, this is too fucking cute.”

“You tried to kill me too, excuse you.” Bucky sulks, adjusting five more bears within his arms as he fights gravity tooth and nail to steady the one on his shoulders. “Fuck you, Rogers.” he grumbles.

Steve smirks. “Told you to watch me.”

“Whatever, you still miss the toilet though.”