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Steve pulls the guy into his apartment, past the entrance to his bedroom, and into his kitchen.
“You needed to use my phone?” He calls out. The guy nods with a puzzled expression.
“Why are you yelling, dude?”
Steve shushes him with wide eyes and a stern expression. He gestures toward the bedroom.
His neighbor, a lean brunet with a perpetual smirk, lowered his voice. “What’s the plan here, buddy?”
Steve levels him with a steely gaze—or tries to. The guy gives him an amused smirk and rolls his bottom lip into his mouth.
“Seriously, let me know and I’ll help out. I’m real accommodating,” his grin full of teeth.
Steve started to respond several times, but interrupted himself each time. He must look like a complete idiot here. He’s never exchanged more than a ‘hello’ with this guy before in the six months he’s been living here, and here he is, trying to explain his mistake of a one-night-stand who he can’t get to leave. And it doesn’t help how good this guy looks with a mocking grin on his face. Not to mention that he’s cute, with a mouth that won’t quit moving and bright, heavy lidded eyes.
A pang of shame runs through Steve as he wishes he’d woken up to this guy, rather than the man currently in his bed who—well, was fine, but more than a bit of an ass. He remembers shutting the man up with a hot and heavy open-mouthed kiss just as the man started parroting opinions Steve can’t stand, and letting the night take them back to his place, where Steve kept shutting him up, over and over. Not his best moment.
“I—there’s this dude here and I can’t get rid of him.” Steve tries to play it off like it’s nothing, like he does this all the time. Inside, he’s anxious and annoyed and wanting to get as far away as last night as possible, but his face is placid as a lake as he smiles and shrugs.
The guy raises an eyebrow. “A dude? Really?”
“What?”
“Nothing. I mean, I’m just a little surprised.”
“At what? I see guys coming out of your apartment all the time,” and Steve hears himself and cringes internally. He didn’t mean to get defensive, but it came out quick. He still wasn’t quite used to this—not one-night stands, not talking to people about his sexual preferences. “Not that I’m judging, I just don’t really—“
The guy laughs, and looks Steve up and down, apparently appreciating the view. “Man, I just thought you were straight, is all. Weren’t you with that blonde girl for months or something?”
“I’m bi, not that it’s any of your business.” He peeks his head into the hallway, where he can see into his bedroom. Damn. The man, whose name (shamefully, so shamefully, Lord it had been such a rough night) has escaped him, would not get out of his bed. Steve was an affectionate guy, but while morning snuggles were fantastic—the best—when you liked someone, he’d woken and jumped out of bed, and out of reach of whatever-his-name-is.
“Oh, you’re one of those dudes,” this guy says with a knowing tone, but whatever he knows is sure to piss Steve off; obstinate bull that he is, he barrels ahead.
“What dudes,” he says, and turns to look for his phone. He finds it. “Before you say anything, could you fake an emergency. I don’t know, I have to drive you to the hospital or something.” He pleads with his eyes, even while annoyed as shit.
“Sure, buddy,” this guy says with a fucking grin, and God it’s attractive, his lips are so full and his whole face changes when he smiles and his tongue keeps running across the bottom of his teeth, but then he says, “you know, those bi dudes who date girls and fuck guys in between.”
“That’s not a thing,” Steve says, still on the defensive, and really, that’s not a thing.
“It really is,” the guy says, taking Steve’s phone and walking into his living room. He’s loud, a bit too loud, but Steve’s grateful either way. He walks around the couch as he talks, walking around the periphery of the room to study the paintings on the walls.
“Becky? Beck, what’s up? It’s Bucky, is everything alright? What? You were hit by a car and need me to come see you right now? You need your insurance card? Of course I’ll be there sis, you’re the only one I got,” and Steve is rolling his eyes at the fake sincerity in his voice, “I just need to get a ride. Don’t worry, I got this real nice neighbor, I’m sure he’ll do it for me,” and the guy looks at Steve and fucking winks. “Great sis, I’m real sorry about the accident, see you in a bit.”
Then he pitches his voice toward Steve and says, “hey, neighbor. Could I trouble you for a ride across town,” and just keeps grinning. He mouths “pretty good, right” and Steve shrugs with a deadpan face. Steve wants to smile back—his grin is infectious, and Steve can feel the corners of his lips pulling up.
The man from last night—Brett maybe? Or Brick? Neither of those seemed like real names—stumbled out into the hallway in his underwear. His neighbor looked Brett (maybe) up and down, nodding his head as he got to the man’s abs.
“Steve? What’s going on?”
Steve gestures behind him. “This is my neighbor—he’s having a family emergency, and I have to give him a ride. Thanks for understanding,” he says, and turns on this placid smile that fools basically everyone. “It’s been really great.”
“Yeah, yeah it has,” he says, and shoves his face right at Steve’s in a hostile kiss, pulling him in and groping his ass. Steve waits it out until the guy releases him and smiles. “Let’s do this again, slugger. You got my number?”
Steve nods and grabs the man’s bag and clothes off the hallway floor, thrusting them into his arms. “I’m so sorry to do this, but you know how it is, I’ll definitely call you later,” and half-shoves him out the door. Blocking the doorway, he waves the guy off—I give up, I’m calling him Brick. He was as good in bed as one—and goes to close the door. Not, however, before seeing someone exit 5B—a slender man with glasses and skinny jeans and a neck tattoo. Steve turns to look into his living room just as his neighbor jumps (actually jumps) back into his kitchen, out of sight. The door closes with a click, and Steve breathes out. Thank the Lord he’s gone.
“Need to use my phone, huh? Weren’t you locked out?”
His neighbor pops his head around the corner, and steps out when he sees the closed door. He pulls a sheepish grin out of nowhere and bites his lip. It’s charming as all fuck (where did this language come from, oh right, Natasha).
“Don’t you think your guest could have let you in?” Steve knows the efficacy of his teacher’s voice, especially combine with his don’t-bullshit-me face. He could do stern with the best of them. But his neighbor seems resistant. And difficult, generally.
“Hey, we’re even now. You helped me hide from my guy, I got rid of yours. What a service,” he says. He throws himself onto Steve’s couch, back against the arm and legs spread out on the cushions.
Steve gives him an amused smile and raises an eyebrow. He’s been glad since college that he got that gene—it’s a truly indomitable eyebrow.
“Great place, by the way. Love the art. Oh, I’m Bucky,” he keeps grinning as he extends a hand.
“Steve. Thanks.” They grasp hands, and Bucky holds on.
“Steeeeeve,” Bucky draws it out. He looks Steve up and down, from him socks and bare legs up to his boxers briefs (navy) and sleeveless undershirt (white). “So, slugger, what you got planned? We have the whole day ahead of us.”
“Ugh, do not call me that,” he says, pulling his hand free and walking into the kitchen.
“What, only the gropey bald dude gets that one?” And seeing Steve fill the carafe with water, says, “you making coffee?”
Steve cocks his head in Bucky’s direction. “You want some?”
“Oh baby, you know it,” Bucky says, ironic smarm rolling around his words. Steve suspects he could do this all day—turn innocent questions
“Ok, first of all, stop. Just stop,” he laughs. “And second, would you like a cup of coffee or not.”
“Sure, slugger, nice and strong. Like a kick in the teeth.” Bucky’s thrown his head back and relaxes on the couch, watching Steve in the kitchen.
Steve just laughs.
+
“So, Stevie, what do you do?”
“Mmmph?” He says, a mouthful of eggs and pancakes. He washes it down with coffee—cream and two sugars, he has a sweet tooth, so sue him—and answers, “I teach. Art.” No one’s called him Stevie since his mother passed, and as much as he wants to react, to give into the provocation, he enjoys it. And says nothing.
“Yeah? Huh. How bout that.” All throughout breakfast, which Bucky had whipped up fast and good, he’d been looking all over Steve’s apartment, eyes never resting on anything long. He wriggled in his seat like a kid; Steve, despite himself, couldn’t help but find it charming.
“What do mean?” At Steve’s question, Bucky gave him an ironic look, blue eyes narrowing and widening in a fraction of a second.
“I mean, I guess I can see it. This apartment have a second room?” Bucky’s looking past him into the living room, where he’s noticed a door cracked open, a gentle shaft of light resting on the hardwood floor.
“Yeah, I use it for my studio. Best afternoon lighting in the building.” It did, and Steve’s grateful for that—his own place, his own time, good light, afternoon’s off from school. He’d never thought he could make it just as an artist, but he’d wanted to carve out a life where that was as present as he could make it.
“Must be nice,” Bucky says, and finishes off his breakfast with a swipe of his toast across the plate. “Thanks, Stevie, that was delish.”
Steve laughs against his will and better judgment.
“It was all your doing. I just supplied the food. You?”
“Huh?” And with his head tilted just to the side and his expression of mild confusion, Bucky looks just like a puppy. Steve snorts.
“What do you, Bucky?”
“Oh. I fix bikes. And other stuff. Mechanic stuff, but mostly bikes.” Bucky’s restless hands are moving, threading his fingers together and stroking them apart. He has lovely hands, and watching them makes Steve itch for charcoal.
“Like, bicycle bikes? Or motorcycle bikes?”
“Both, actually? But mostly bicycles. I spend most of my time at a bike shop, covered in grease,” he says with a grin. Steve wonders whether that grin ever disappears. Here and now, Bucky’s squeaky clean and dressed in tight dark jeans and a loose red shirt that exposes his collarbone but covers his arms. He seems to notice Steve watching his hands, and he pulls his left sleeve lower. “So, what the story with that dude?”
Steve looks up. “What do you mean?”
Bucky shrugs. He has a hand wrapped around his coffee, and the other has disappeared under the table.
“I don’t know, nothing? I just—well, honestly, I picked him up at a bar.” He drank deep from his mug, feeling significantly more human after the coffee and calorie fest. He had woken up hungover with a strange octopus of a man and a mild panic had set in quickly, leaving him shaky and unsettled until he could met his physical needs. “It was ok, I guess. I don’t know, I don’t really do one night stands. They always make me feel like shit the next day.”
Well, that was some honesty for a dude he just met. His mouth, sometimes. Jesus. Although it was true, and sometimes he heard himself saying something he hadn’t known he thought. But still, as soon as it’s said, he wishes he could pull the words back into his mouth and swallow them down.
“Too bad,” Bucky says, and when Steve gives him a sharp look, he continues. “I don’t know, it’s just nice sometimes. But if you’re not into it, you’re not. No thing.” He considers Steve for a moment, brow furrowing just a little. “So you’re a relationship guy, I guess.”
“I mean, I guess? It’s been a while since Sharon. A really long while. Thus, that dude,” and Bucky just laughs at Steve’s self-pity which, somehow, is exactly what he needs.
“What happened with her?”
“With Sharon? Oh, I don’t know. We just wanted different things I guess.”
“You guess.” Not a question. Bucky drinks deep from his cup.
“It’s what she said.” And Jesus, Steve’s just laying it all out there. Maybe it was the residual loneliness from yesterday, maybe the residual hangover, or maybe just Bucky’s easy smile and laughing eyes. Whatever’s going on, it feels good to be honest, even as he’s blushing at his frankness with a near-stranger. Steve tries for a smile, but the thought of Sharon, their last non-fight, pulls him back into the depression he felt yesterday.
“Mmm,” Bucks hums. He reaches around the table and claps Steve on the back. “Well, that’s rough, slugger.”
Steve laughs and lets his head fall in his hands. “God, not that. Call me anything, just not that.”
“It’s too good! Who’s says that. Seriously Stevie, who says that. What did you do to him? Or should I not ask.” When Bucky smiles, his mouth opens and Steve can see his tongue run along the inside of his lip. He’s trying to cheer Steve up, and it works.
“I don’t even know,” and they’re laughing, so easy, and the light in Bucky’s eyes just draws him in. But, oh yeah. Steve wasn’t the only one with an unwelcome guest this morning, and the thought sobers him. “What about the hipster librarian coming out of your place?”
“Oh, that guy? Who knows. Fixed his bike yesterday, and he was super appreciative,” Bucky puts on a mock serious face. Steve can tell he’s being invited to laugh with him, but for all Bucky’s charms, Steve draws back, just a little.
“He’s cute.”
“Yeah? You’re welcome to him.” Bucky pushes back from the table without taking his eyes of Steve’s face, but drops them as he stands. He walks into the living room, looking around at the art on the walls. “Any of this yours?”
Steve follows him, leaving the dishes out on the table. “No, not in here. I have some stuff in the studio, if you want to see,” he says, gesturing with a finger toward the door on the far side of the room.
Bucky pushes in, drawn to a standing stack of paintings, pulling them forward and considering each. It was a portrait series Steve had worked on for months, most of friends and acquaintances, some of paid models. Bucky stopped at the second-to-last one, a modeled work; Steve could see the top of the painting, where his model’s threaded fingers were stretched high above his head. That had been a rough one for Steve, where he’d blushed his way through the initial sketches of this highly attractive, barely clad stranger, and never felt as absorbed as he liked to. After Bucky studied it for a minute, he turns to Steve with eyebrows high on his forehead.
“You’re real good, you know. Very lively.” He catches the tip of his tongue between his teeth.
“Thanks,” Steve manages, and punctuates that with several deep nods. He’s not great with receiving compliments, not from attractive men who were clearly interested and . But Bucky’s already turning away and looking around at the room, its floor to ceiling windows taking up two adjacent walls at the corner of the building. On another wall is Steve’s old bike, hanging up, never used these days, and Bucky takes a close look. He spins the front wheel and shakes his head at a clicking noise.
“Well, Steve, it seems you fucked up this bike real good.”
“Yeah. In my defense, I got doored coming home from a bar. Probably shouldn’t have been biking at all, that night.” Steve had been drunker than he ever got, the night of his dumping. He decides not to mention this. Although, at the time, he had found it more than a little funny—lying in the street, his bike off to one side, and he had said to himself literally adding injury to insult and laughed so he didn’t do anything ridiculous, like cry.
“Woof, that blows.” Bucky keeps inspecting the bike, running his fingertips over the chains and moving the back tire back and forth. Addressing the bike, he says, “you should bring this in to the shop. I can probably fix it in a day, maybe a couple. You know, if you want.”
“Really? No, that would be great,” Steve stumbles over his words, a bit too eager for his own words. He’s telling himself to tone it down—it’s just fixing his bike—but he’s having trouble thinking as he gets a full view of Bucky’s back and legs, his arms stretched above him. Steve wants to draw him, God what a gorgeous guy, but realizes that somehow it would be even worse than the sexy model he had stared at and ignored.
Bucky lets go of the bike and turns to Steve, rolling his bottom lip into his mouth and wetting it with his tongue. God, no wonder he had guys coming out of his apartment most mornings. Alright Steve, time to go.
“Bring it in tomorrow. I’ll leave the name of the shop, but it’s just a couple blocks down on 12th. Next to the Cuban place with the sandwiches.”
“Will do,” Steve says, and wonders what to say next. Bucky beats him to it, stretching up for a second—a little too similar to that painting, and he can see a strip of flesh suddenly exposed with a collection of dark hair leading his eyes down, down. He can’t tell if he’s really just this sex-starved, or if this is a latent reaction to the breakup. Either way, given the disaster that was last night, he was beyond suspicious of his own desires.
“Well, I smell terrible,” Bucky says with a laugh as his arms fall. “I better go hit a shower. You know, you probably should too. Wash off baldie’s sweat.”
“God, you’re terrible,” Steve makes a noise of disgust, and Bucky snorts at him.
Steve does not, really he does not, spend the day thinking about Bucky. And if the lips he ends up drawing bear a passing resemblance to his neighbor’s, well, he’s an artist. He studies the human form. It’s not a problem at all.
Maybe a little problem.
+
Bucky knocks on Steve’s door in a repeat of the previous morning. He grins and holds up a newspaper as an offering, and when Steve opens the door, Bucky walks right around him into the kitchen.
Bucky wasn’t sure what the fuck he was doing here, but he figured news for coffee was an acceptable trade. And Steve made good coffee. That’s what this was—and maybe another chance to ogle Steve before clothes. The guy was like a living statue, only prettier.
“Hope you like the Times,” Bucky says, and tosses the paper onto the counter. He goes for coffee, pulling a mug out of a cabinet, guessing right the first time. The trick to meeting people, he thought, was pretending like you already lived in their pocket until you actually did. Worked pretty well, at least some of the time. And as Clint had taken to reminding him, he needed more friends.
“I was thinking last night, I’ll walk you to the shop this morning. You know, so you don’t get lost,” he teases.
“Thanks, really appreciate that, Buck.” Steve has apparently mastered the so-sincere-it’s-ironic thing, bypassing sarcasm altogether. “Have some coffee, if you want.” He says after Bucky half-drains the mug.
Bucky looks him over—blue striped button-down and khakis, brown leather boots—and says nothing. His perfect mouth frowns. Well, he missed his chance for Steve in boxer briefs. Sometimes the world was too sad.
“I work at a high school, ok,” Steve says, with a hint of a whine.
He wants to tell Steve that of all the men he’s ever met, Steve’s the only one who can actually wear the hell out of a pair of khakis. Instead, he keeps his face innocent instead of lascivious and finishes his coffee. “I wasn’t saying anything, Stevie.”
Steve stands there, a bit awkward, and Bucky worries for a moment that he’s gone to far by barging into Steve’s apartment. Steve shrugs into brown leather jacket and goes to get his bike. “Let’s go, if you’re ready.”
When in doubt, mock, was Bucky’s modus operandi. “Sure thing, slugger,” he ventures, and he feels a sense of real reward when Steve laughs. Steve’s whole face lit up when he laughed, and Bucky felt this urge, an itch really, to keep him laughing all the time.
“Nope, do not call me that,” Steve says, his face a combination of exasperation and fondness, an expression that tugged at Bucky’s chest. Friends. He needed more friends. Not crushes on unattainable blond statues. Not fuck-buddies. Friends.
+
Steve follows him into the shop, not yet open for business. The front of the store is full of used bikes, fixed up for resale; the back has half a dozen stands that serve as work-stations. The walls are covered in hanging tools, and the whole of the shop smells like metal and bike grease and a little sweat. Steve, who’s the least handy person in the world, has a bit of a thing for handy guys, and while he’s trying not to think about it, the whole shop has him on edge.
Bucky stores his bike in a back room and comes to retrieve Steve’s, lifting it and clamping the frame into the stand.
“I should head to work,” Steve says, gesturing toward the door.
“Where do you work, again?”
“You know Ridgemont? The fine arts school?”
“Oh, that private school? Huh,” he says, making a face. Steve wants to challenge it, but he really does have to go.
“When should I pick it up, do you think?”
Bucky, apparently in work mode already, doesn’t remove his gaze from the bike. He’s pulling the wheel back and forth, listening to the clicking sound of the gears; he spins the wheel and brakes it. He examines it for a few moments more before responding. “Come by after work. I’m not sure, but I might be able to finish it today.”
“Cool, great,” Steve says, walking backwards, not his most graceful decision. He bumps into the front door and gives Bucky a half-wave that goes unnoticed as Bucky frowns at his bike. “See you then.” And turns to flee. Bucky flirting with him, hitting on him, eying him up and down—Steve can resist that. But watching him get to work, all competence and concentration, working with his hands…well, to the the least, it tested him in a new way. And Bucky—well, he didn’t seem the dating type, even if he was interested. Which, you know, he probably isn’t—not in what Steve would want, anyway. The thought is grounding, sobering, but Steve wishes it weren’t true all the same.
+
At the end of the school day, Steve has red paint covering one sleeve of his shirt and purple ink spilled down the other. Also, unbeknownst to him, he had wiped some of both on his neck, and a bit on his face; the back of his head had red paint mixed in with his yellow hair. The shirt had been one of his favorites, though now it would forever be relegated to his growing “art clothes” collection. The khakis that he’s been itching to retire for months now, however, were fine. Some days you have no luck.
“Well, you’re a hot mess,” Bucky says, looking up from Steve’s bike. Which is more than a little unfair, because he’s sitting there with grease stains on his tight grey jeans and his hands are nearly black. But Steve shrugs.
“Yeah, that’s kids.”
Bucky swivels around on his stool, and Steve notices—oh, his hoodie’s off and his shirt is sleeveless and he would be turned on so quickly by the slightly damp fabric molded to his abs, except that he notices Bucky’s left arm, covered in scarred flesh, red and shiny and white. It looks like burn scars and surgery scars Bucky sees him notice and points to it with his right hand.
“Did I mention that I was in the army,” he says, no inflection in his voice, his face a mask of placid calm. Steve feels like Bucky’s done this many times.
“What happened?”
“Explosion fucked up my arm. Had a million surgeries, and I’m more metal than man these day. Suits me, I guess,” looking around at the gear on the walls. “Got discharged, honorably.”
“I’m sorry, Buck. That’s awful,” Steve looks at him with genuine compassion, and Bucky screw up his mouth and looks away.
“What are you gonna do. It’s no thing, really,” a shrug accompanying his litany of meaningless things to say. He scratches the back of his neck for a second and swivels to face Steve. “I don’t know, I’ve been thinking of getting it covered. Like, a whole sleeve.” He spreads his right hand over and sweeps it over his arm. “I don’t know. Is that dumb?”
He’s nervous. Steve guesses he gets talky when nervous, and can’t stop moving. And Steve, he really wants to help (too much, Sharon had yelled at him, you can’t fix people Steve no matter how hard to love them) and so he nods with enthusiasm.
“No, not dumb at all. That would be really awesome. What were you thinking of getting?” He gives Bucky his full attention and his softest smile. They look at each other for a second, silence stretching out. Bucky breaks the gaze, rolling his head back to stare at the ceiling.
“I had this idea. You know, with all the metal pins in it, and the whole I’m-a-mechanic thing, I just—I had this idea for like, what looks like a metal arm?”
Steve’s imagination is at work immediately; he studies the tools on the wall for a moment. He holds his own arm up to look at it. He’s visualizing. “You mean, maybe with metal plates? Overlapping, downward, outlined in black, with silver and grey detailing.”
Bucky stares at him, startled. “That sounds totally sweet.”
Steve’s still thinking, still seeing things in his head. “You should have a focal point for the sleeve.” Before he realizes it, he’s reaching out to take hold of Bucky’s arm, looking at his shoulder and bicep. He point to the side of his shoulder. “Here. Something to concentrate on, to draw the eye.” He looks up into Bucky’s eyes, so close now, and holds onto the inside of his elbow.
“That’s so great,” he breathes out.
“And like, you could make it look painted on, with a whole contrasting texture to ground the metalwork. You know, paint slightly chipped, metal a little tarnished. Can’t look too polished.”
Bucky’s mouth is open, and he’s watching Steve, not moving.
Steve lets go of his arm, and starts to say backtrack, but Bucky stops him.
“No that sounds amazing. Could you do that? Can you draw that?”
“Yeah,” Steve stutters out. “Just tell me what you want. I’ll mock it up for you. And you know, if it’s not what you’re imagining, you can just toss it.”
“No, Steve, this is great,” he keeps saying. “Here, let me finish up. You got plans tonight?”
He’s walking to the back and Steve’s heart is beating hard and fast, but why, he’s not sure.
“Nothing, it’s a school night,” and he cringes at himself. Bucky, thankfully, has disappeared. When he comes out, his hands are clean (or at least, cleaner), and his hoodie’s back on.
“Can I buy us some beer, and we can, I don’t know, keep talking about this?” He’s gesturing with both hands, turning his wrists in circles as if juggling a ball.
“Let’s do it,” Steve says, smiling like an idiot. He look at his bike. “Should I come back for the bike tomorrow or..?”
“Oh, it’s good to go,” and he lifts it down for Steve to take.
“How much do I owe you?”
Bucky pulls a face. “Don’t worry about it, buddy. You’re paying me back tonight.”
And Steve’s mouth opens but he closes it and swallows. Bucky takes a look at his face and laughs.
“You know, with the drawing.”
“Yeah. Of course.” And shakes his head at himself as they walk their bikes out the store. Steve’s blushing, and hoping that Bucky won’t notice.
+
One night spent on their roof, sipping beer and talking tats, turns into every night that week. And Steve makes larger pots of coffee, every morning, just in case Bucky knocks. Which he’s taken to, a little earlier every day.
It’s Friday morning, and Steve’s talking about finishing the mock up that weekend, and Bucky’s holding his mug with both hands watching Steve’s hands as they fly across the paper. And Bucky thinks, he really needs to get laid.
+
Bucky sleeps better with someone there.
Or not better, precisely, but lighter, and when his nightmares hit him, it’s easier to crawl his way out because of the warm body next to his. And it’s easier avoiding questions when you only sleep with someone once, because everyone has nightmares, but when it’s a recurring thing, people notice. And ask. It’s just easier, and that’s what Bucky wants, easy.
Tonight, though, he finds himself leaving the bar, surprising both himself and the tall blond accountant he’s been hitting on for hours. He tells himself he’s just not feeling it, that he’ll just hit the sack and hope for the best. It has nothing to do with how the dude looked like Steve, but only washed out. Clean-cut like Steve, but boring. Nothing at all to do with that.
“Who am I kidding,” he says under his breath, rolling into a stop in front of his building. He wants Steve, wants him bad, but he’s off-limits for too many reason to count. Don’t fuck people where you live is a good principle to live by, and though he’s thought about offering, just a little bit of fun, he doubts either of them would escape that unscathed. Steve’s not a “little bit of fun” kind of guy—he’s a relationship guy. And bi. So, a relationship with girls kind of guy, even if Bucky thought about dating him for real. Which he isn’t. Which he can’t.
The trouble was, Steve was just too good (and fuck him, too attractive, with insane shoulders and just massive arms and a perfect face). Kind, but funny—easy to be around. Easy to talk to. Easy to listen to. Easy on the eyes. Spending time with him was easy, too easy, and Bucky didn’t trust easy things.
And seriously, what is he thinking, because Steve was designing his sleeve and if he fucks this up all he’ll have is a lifetime reminder inked onto his skin. Well, if he fucked it up beforehand, he didn’t have to get the tat. But now he wanted it, and couldn’t imagine anything else, so.
He’s up the stairs, fumbling for his keys, and he hears laughter coming from Steve’s apartment. Steve’s booming cackle—before they met, Bucky didn’t know a cackle could be so loud, or so charming—and a distinctly female one. He frowns and leans his head against the door. Yeah, of course.
He opens the door just as Steve opens his, and Buck’s inside, about to shut the door, when he hears his name. He sighs and turns around. His buzz has worn off, mostly on the bike home, and he’s really not up for this shit.
“Hey, Steve.” His smile is more of a grimace really, but Steve beams right back at him.
“Bucky, Buck,” and oh, how wonderful, Steve is plastered and glassy-eyed, his lips wet and open, “we’re going up. Come with us.”
Steve smiles like a golden retriever. Like the fucking sun. His whole face opens up, crinkled eyes and open mouth, his full bottom lip stretched wide. Bucky bites his lip, hard, and well fuck him, says, “Sure, Steve.”
“Oh, Bucky, this is Nat, Natasha,” and Steve has grabbed him by the arm, pulling him toward toward a petite woman with an auburn bob. She, Bucky decides, is not drunk in the least; instead, she give him a cool glance and shakes his hand.
“And Sam,” and there’s a hot guy behind Natasha, who grins and claps Steve on the back.
“Steve, man, did you start without us, because you’re a little loose already,” Sam says. “Nice to meet you, Bucky.”
“Yeah, definitely,” Bucky answers as they shake hands. And he’s thinking about going to the roof with the three of them, drinking and laughing on the old patio furniture, and then he’s thinking about which of them is fucking Steve, and he wants to get the fuck out of there.
“Hey Steve, I’m actually beat. I’ll catch you later, yeah?” He weasels his way out of Steve’s grip and backs toward his room with a wave and a forced smile. “Don’t fall off the roof.”
Steve stares at him, mouth open, eyes unfocused. “Bucky?”
“Night,” and that’s the last thing he sees, a puzzled Steve, as he closes the door. He lies in bed for a few hours, post-drunk buzz having become a sugar high that keeps him tossing and turning, and he thinks about this fucking crush on a dude who would never have him. And how even if he did, Bucky would fuck it up.
+
The tattoo takes three days of work, and Bucky is sore as hell when it’s over, but for the first time in years, he wants to look at his arm.
It took the weekend, plus a half day after work. It’s done, finally done, and it’s all he can do to stop running his fingertips on the raised flesh. The skin hurts, sure, but it’s amazing, it’s beautiful, and it’s all Steve.
After he’d seen Steve with his friends and maybe fuck-buddies (probably not, right?), Bucky avoided him, went out Saturday, and took home a hot Brazilian dude with a sweet mouth and nice hands (and a poor understanding of English besides yes and no and harder). It seems to have righted his tilted world, and when he brought the paper and some muffins (not an apology, just a thank you) on Monday morning, it was like nothing happened. Bucky’s happy and confident and only mostly attracted to his hot blond neighbor, but not like before. He decided it was just a moment of self-pity, and puts on his best grin.
Until he saw the mock-up Steve made of the tattoo, whereupon he was fucking speechless.
“Steve, it’s—this is amazing,” and it’s the same as when he’d first started talking about it, the incoherent babbling, the pure wonder and adoration. He hears himself speak and hates himself, a little bit.
“You think so? You don’t have to protect my feelings, you know,” and Steve is blushing red, his face and neck and Bucky wonders how far down that blush goes. He loves the blush, almost loves it more than Steve’s laugh.
“No, it’s incredible. I don’t—I mean, Jesus, Steve. I don’t know how to thank you.” He bites his lip and smiles around it.
“You fixed my bike, didn’t you,” Steve says with his little smirk that Buck half-wants to slap off his face.
“That was nothing,” he dismisses, ducking his head and looking up at Steve.
And they’d gone on, watching the sun lower on their roof with cold beers in their hands. And most nights, Steve would ask “wanna get a pizza” or “I can make some spaghetti if you want to come over” (although honestly, Steve was a terrible cook, just the worst) and Bucky would follow him home, talking until time for bed.
It was fine. This was fine. His skin felt on fire whenever he was around Steve, flames licking up his spine when their bodies touched, and he wanted to climb Steve’s body and wrap himself around Steve’s waist and never leave, but this was fine. They were friends.
And now, Monday evening, he walks home from the parlor and climbs the stairs and he wonders, should I knock? He doesn’t, and instead throws himself on his bed and falls asleep, lonely and sore, but kind of happy.
And of course, he wakes up at four am in the throes of a bad one, and he’s breathing hard too hard and all his muscles are tensing too fast and there’s no one there, he’s all alone, always alone. And he’s just convinced, absolutely convinced, that he’s about to die. He pulls his bedside drawer open and pulls out a mint to eat. The burst of cool flavor and sharp, bright scent bring him down, enough to climb out of bed and drink a glass of water. He’s wide awake and antsy and distracted. Pull it together, pull it together, he chants in his head. He supposes he could call Clint, but doesn’t want to. His shrink would only call him back in the morning. There are people in his life, he knows, who wouldn’t hesitate to pick up the phone if he called, but instead, before he really thinks about it, he’s out his door and knocking on Steve’s. His fingers tap a quiver into the wood of the doorframe. Every few moments his body seizes up, and his breath comes jerking into his lungs, which feel as if they’re closing. Breath, you asshole. You fucking dick. His fingers won’t stop drumming on the wood, even after he hears movement from inside. The drumming is like shaking, but more controlled—he can never tell if that’s better or worse than standing, quivering.
The door opens, and Steve is there, bleary-eyed and confused. “Bucky, what?” He blinks and takes in Bucky’s ragged breathing and shivering chest. “Come in, come in.” His arm falls around Bucky’s shoulders as he leads him to the couch. Bucky’s fingers are tapping, tapping on his knee, and his eyes won’t focus for more than a moment, his gaze darting around the room, never settling. Steve strokes his back and makes soothing sounds, repeats his name and moves closer on the couch. One hand finds Bucky’s and he’s squeezing their hands together until it hurts, and the pain, sharp and deep, clears his head for a moment.
“Fuck, Steve,” he exhales. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“No, no, there’s nothing wrong. You’re ok, you’re ok,” he says, which starts Bucky’s heavy breathing all over again. “No, shit, that’s not—Bucky, hey, I’m here. I’m here and you’re here. We’re on my couch.”
Fat tears squeeze from his eyes, unbidden. If he could stop them, he would. He concentrates on Steve’s hands, one held tight in his, one moving up and down his back, up and down. He focuses on Steve’s breath, close to his face, and his deep voice that thrums through Bucky’s bones. His eyes close, and his gasps become something resembling normal breath, until he breathes in deep, as deep as he can, and lets it out in a loud sigh.
He swallows, dry throat scratching. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Steve draws it out, kind and caring. He’s looking at Bucky with real affection, and his hand has moved to the back of his neck, where he can feel the little curls of his hair gently twisted in Steve’s fingers. He wants to lean back into that hand, relax into its grip and let his head fall back, lengthening his neck, so he can look into Steve’s eyes. But he stills, and feels it, nothing more.
The clock reads 4:37am, and he can hear the dawn chorus begin its brigade. He hates those fucking birds. Still pitch black and there they are, chirping away on the tree outside their building. He’s coming back to himself, limbs loosening once more. His heart has resumed its normal operations. So, as much as he wants not to, he releases Steve’s hand and pulls away from the other, turning on the couch. Running a hand through his bed-messy hair, he half-smiles and apologizes again.
“No, Buck, don’t say that. You don’t have to be sorry for anything,” Steve says, earnest, and Bucky believes him. But he feels like he owes an explanation so he says it again.
“Sorry, Steve, I—fuck, it was a nightmare. It doesn’t—it doesn’t matter.”
“Do you have them a lot?” Steve’s kind eyes are too much right now.
“I don’t—I mean, not really.” It sounds like the lie it is.
“No, it’s fine, we don’t have to talk about it,” and Steve seems to have guessed, maybe from the way Bucky’s limbs seemed to draw up and in at his questions, to back off. “Can I get you some tea? Let me get you some tea.”
The mug he sets in front of Bucky gives off mint and jasmine. Bucky wraps both hands around it and breathes in the steam. The warmth of the tea comforts him, loosens him up more. He’s ok, mostly, but more than a little embarrassed. He shouldn’t have come here.
While Bucky resolutely attempts to forget that he’s wearing nothing but underwear on Steve’s couch, and not in the sexy way he’d been imagining, Steve sits on his left side with his own mug and slurps off the top. Bucky gives a soft laugh without looking over. They sit in silence, listening to the birds attempt to convince the world to get the fuck up. Maybe it’s the aftershocks of the panic attack, but if Bucky had a rifle, he thinks he’d pick them off one by one at the moment. Well, probably not. But he’d think about it, at least.
They finish their tea; Steve collects the mugs on the coffee table at their feet.
“Hey, Buck, can I ask you something?”
Bucky nods, no words, a little spike of anxious worry threading into his heart.
“Do you think I could look at your arm?” which is not the question he expected. He looks at Steve with surprise, but nods again.
Steve runs his hand up Bucky’s arm, fingers soft against the sore flesh. “You sure it’s ok for me to touch it? While it’s healing?”
“Yeah, not too hard,” his voice thick.
Steve’s fingers trace the overlapping metal plates, the hard black linework. He holds Buck’s hand with his right and the other follows the line of Bucky’s vein up his arm underneath the silver metallic design. His eyes are focused, his eyebrows pulled together. His gentle touch leaves a trail of goosebumps in its wake, all the way up his arm. Steve lingers over the red star on his shoulder, following its outline around and around. Bucky shivers while he watches, and Steve looks up, his face close to Bucky’s flesh and for a moment their eyes are locked together, both wide dark mirrors of the other. Bucky runs his tongue across his bottom lip and bites down; Steve follows the motion with his eyes. Bucky take a breath, deep and low in anticipation, but Steve is pulling back, pulling away, leaving Bucky tender and sensitive and alone.
“It’s beautiful, Buck.”
“Thanks.” His throat hurt, from the panic and the trying-not-to-cry and the crying. The tea had helped. But here, with Steve so close and touching so much, his throat closed again, and swallowing seemed to do nothing.
“Are you tired,” Steve asks. He wants to laugh, bitter and unkind; instead, he moves forward on the couch, intending to stand. But Steve has caught his hand again and pulls him back with no effort at all. And Steve’s pulling him deeper into the couch and pushing his shoulders back against the seat—“here, can I” and he’s running his hands through Bucky’s hair and Bucky’s heads lolls to the side with his eyes half-closed. “Close your eyes, just for a little bit,” he hears, and he follows orders and feel the pads of fingertips trace circles and spirals and rivers on his scalp, tender and gentle and comforting.
Bucky wakes, his head pillowed on Steve’s shoulder. Their bodies are flush together, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, stretched out on the couch. When he raises his head, he finds himself meeting Steve’s eyes, and shit, Steve is gorgeous like a fucking sunrise, golden hair like a messy halo, blue eyes blinking slow right at him. He has to get out, get out fast. Bucky tries to move away, but Steve’s arms tighten around him for a short moment—it’s good, so warm and so right—but they release him. He sits up, stretches until his eyes black out for a second. The morning light slants through the tall windows, bathing the room in soft yellow light. It’s early, and when Steve pulls himself upright, the sun is rising just behind his blond head. Beautiful, so beautiful.
“Can I make some coffee,” Steve offers, but Bucky’s decided. He heaves himself up and cracks his back in a noise that makes Steve wince. Bucky feels the cool air brushing against his back, and recognizes that he’s wearing next to nothing; instead of the erotic moment he thought this could be, he feels exposed.
“Nah, I need a shower. See you later, ok?” And he’s walking to the door, careful not to run.
“Bucky, wait—“
“Thanks, Stevie, for—everything. I’ll make it up to you later, yeah?” He calls out through the door and shuts it behind him. Fuck his life.
+
Steve throws himself a party. For his birthday.
“Your neighbor coming?” Sam asks. They’re standing around in the faculty lounge, drinking hot brown water that calls itself coffee. It’s best taken quick and fast and full of sugar.
“You know, I haven’t seen him in a while, but I’ll mention it to him.” Cool, Steve. Play it cool. Although that’s not very possible with Sam. And maybe he’s been talking about Bucky more than a little recently, but hey, it’s a new friendship.
“Ok,” he says, directing a knowing smile at Steve. “Sounds good. Need us to bring anything?”
Natasha, apparently bored of the party talk, changes the subject. “So, Steve, I have this friend.”
Steve knows what’s coming, but deflects. “That’s great, Nat. We all need friends.”
“Funny. And cute.” She gives him a hard look. “And single, and looking.”
Taking a long pull of his coffee, he grimaces at the styrofoam cup. “Well, there’s lots of options these days. Best of luck to him. I hear good things about dating websites.”
“Steve.” She leveled a stare at him. “Go out with him. He’s nice.”
He stared right back. They wore out their teacher faces on each other, mirror images of single raised eyebrows and lips pressed into thin lines.
“Steve, Steve, what should I bring,” Sam, ever the conflict negotiator, turned the conversation back around. “Food, booze…people?”
Natasha and Steve broke their staring contest, and Steve shrugged. “Whatever you want, Sam. It’s a great view up there, so.” He turned to head back to class, but Natasha stepped into his line of sight, right in the doorway.
“Think about it, Steve.” An order, not a question. Steve knew, from watching her wrangle the toughest students, the best way out was to accede.
“Sure, Nat. I’ll think about it.” She meant well, he knew. But he wanted—well, he wanted to see if Bucky would come, and maybe they’d see each other more, and maybe that was enough. Steve knows it’s not enough, but there’s this thing between them that feels real. He wants to know it’ll never happen before going on another sad, awkward date.
She smiled, without teeth. “Come on, Steve. You deserve a nice guy. Can’t be single forever.”
“Thanks, Nat. See you guys on Friday,” he called behind him as he walked to class. Ugh, it was acrylics day.
+
Steve asks.
“Buck, how’s it going?” It’s Thursday morning, and Steve really has to go. He kept waiting for Bucky to knock on his door and pour himself coffee and throw himself all over Steve’s apartment, but Buck was a no show. And so he waited longer than usual to leave, and surreptitiously checked the keyhole (is it really surreptitious if it’s inside your own apartment, Steve?). And he caught Buck leaving, a half hour later than Steve would. He’s biking; he can pedal extra hard. This is a reasonable thing to do. It’s been a few days since they saw each other, and maybe Bucky is avoiding him, a little. Steve, ever optimistic, hope this is awkwardness from the other night, and not—not real rejection. Hard to say when you’re not speaking to someone, hence the waiting by the keyhole.
“Hey Steve,” Bucky waves with his left arm. The shirt he’s wearing is rolled up his forearm to his elbow, and his sleeve is apparent on the strong muscles of him arm. It looks good—he looks good.
“So, Buck,” he starts, not knowing where he’s headed. They walk down the stairs. “I’m having a thing on Friday. You know, on the roof or whatever.”
It was difficult being this embarrassed for himself on a daily basis.
“Fourth of July party?” Bucky side-eyes him.
“Yeah, grill out, drink some beer. The whole thing,” he rushes through it, though he’s trying to play it off as nonchalant. “And it’s my birthday.”
“Yeah, when?”
“July fourth.”
Bucky laughs, loud and rich. “That’s cute, slugger.”
“No, stop calling me that,” he grins, “and, whatever, you can’t choose your birthday. So, you think you can make it?”
“Am I coming to your birthday party, Stevie?” The corners of his eyes crinkled in humor, and his teeth flashed white as he laughed. “Sure. What do you want, a pony?”
“Nah, the city sets off fireworks just for me. That’s enough of a present for me.” They reach the bottom of the stairs and walk out the door. Steve swings his leg over his bike and stands to go.
“Fireworks, right,” Bucky nods, distracted.
He really has to go. “See you later, Buck,” and he’s pedaling hard and fast, but still, worth it.
+
Well, it was a party, alright.
Sam came early, at noon, crating thirty racks of beer and bags of bratwursts. They fire up the grill and get to drinking, Steve’s friends trickling in as the day stretches on. Mostly, they were work colleagues: Nat taught dance for tiny driven ballerinas; Sam was a licensed general counselor, put to good use in that pressure keg of a school. Tony and Bruce and Jane, the sole members of the understaffed science department—what kids want to take science classes at a fine arts school—stand over a pack of fireworks, arguing and gesturing forcefully. Steve hopes they wouldn’t blow anything up this time, and finishes half a beer thinking about the last time this had happened.
The sun bears down on them as it lowers; the city humidity hangs in the air, making everyone sweat, but the beer is cold and the company friendlier and louder by the minute. Steve sits on the old patio furniture, and feels content, picking at the woven plastic fraying on the arm. He tries not to look for Bucky every time the roof door opens, but lets himself a few times. Happy birthday, Steve—and it does feel happy, or almost there. The happiness that’s made primarily of anticipation hangs over him, making him a little skittish and too quick to laugh.
The sun sets, and Steve felt a warmth in his heart at the beauty of it, orange underlit clouds hanging in the sky, rose and gold streaks behind them. His head fell back, and the looked up into the darkening sky above him. For a moment, he feels like it’s all for him, and even while he laughs kindly at his own self-centeredness, he revels in the feeling.
And Bucky shows up.
He stumbles through the roof door, one hand around a bottle, mostly empty, the other around a tall blond guy who’s propping him up. Behind them a torrent of other bodies come through the door; Steve’s friends pause their conversation and glance over at the door.
“Stevie,” Bucky calls out, waving the bottle in his direction, and before Steve can feel the pang of worry at this guy’s arm slung around Bucky’s shoulders, he’s sliding out from under it and sauntering to the old plastic loveseat where Steve sits alone. He plops down, legs spreading out, arms curling around the back. He gives Steve a dazed, open-mouthed smile. “Happy birthday, Stevie.”
The blond guy stumbles after him, extending a hand. Bucky gestures at him with the bottle, liquid swishing after. “Steve, Clint. And other guys. They work at the shop.” He nods forcefully, looking dazed.
“Thanks for coming. There’s beer in the cooler, and a few brats left, if you’re hungry.” Steve shakes Clint’s hand.
“Nice to meet you, Steve. Hope it’s been a happy birthday,” Clint says, and he tumbles into a chair slightly off balance—an old chair, like all their furniture, that at that precise moment had decided to give up the ghost. It breaks with a loud crack, and Clint is lying in the wreckage.
“Ok. This looks bad.” His body is prone on the ground, and he’s looking at it, as if surprised to see it there.
“Looking pretty good from here,” Natasha stands over the wreckage and quirks an eyebrow down at him, with just a hint of a smile.
“Seems like you guys started early,” Steve says under his breath.
“Yeah,” Bucky says, and shifts closer. “Party at the shop.”
The night progresses and the sky darkens, but Steve doesn’t move. A couple times he calls out to Sam, “beer me,” and a can is thrown his way. Privilege of having a birthday, he supposes, and smiles to himself. But he doesn’t want to move, not with the healthy buzz thrumming through his veins, not with Bucky’s legs pressed up against his and Buck’s arm tickling the back of his neck. They’re laughing at Clint, who’s following Natasha around duckling-style, although she doesn’t seem to mind. One of Bucky’s friends sits next to them, admiring the arm.
“Dude, I can’t believe you drew that. It’s fucking gorgeous, dude.”
“Yeah, great job Stevie,” and if Bucky won’t look away, neither will he. “You ever quit teaching, you got a lucrative career in the tattoo world.”
“Good to know,” and he’s smiling because Bucky’s hand is tracing little patterns on his far shoulder. He feels torn between the blue, blue eyes staring into him and the fingertips running over his skin. Bucky takes a swig from the bottle, and Steve watches his wet lips, watches his tongue roll over them and disappear into his mouth.
The fireworks start; the sun is fully set, and the moon risen. The few clouds in the sky have dispersed, leaving the night black beyond the shimmering light from the city. Their roof is perfect for this, the best view for bursting patterns of color over the darkened sky. Steve loves fireworks, always has, even past the age when he thought they were set off just for him.
But Bucky tenses next to him and one glance fills Steve with concern. Bucky’s lips are pressed into a thin white line, and his eyes are focused on nothing, not moving, not seeing.
“Buck, Bucky,” Steve whispers into his ear. “You ok?” Steve’s hand curls around his shoulder, thumb pressing into the back of his neck. Steve can feel the tension caught in his muscles.
He presses two fingers into his forehead and closes his eyes. “Yeah Stevie, just been a long day.”
Steve takes hold of the bottle and swishes the last dregs back and forth. “You’ve been hitting it pretty hard. What’d the whiskey ever do to you, huh?”
Bucky laughs, and relaxes a fraction. His arm curls around Steve’s shoulders, their arms crossed behind them. It’s perfect—the moment regained—and a burst of fireworks goes off close to them, maybe a block away. The hand on his shoulder curls into a fist.
“Bucky, Bucky,” he says, pushing closer. Clint notices, and bends close to them both.
“Man, you should probably head in,” he says to Bucky. He and Steve consider each other for a moment. Clint nods. “Think you can take him down?”
“Yeah, let’s head that way,” and they’re standing up, arms wrapped around shoulders to steady each other. They duck out of the party during a glorious explosion of red, blue, and white.
They manage down the stairs without incident, and Bucky fumbles for his keys deep in his pocket, which promptly fall to the ground when found. Steve retrieves them and opens the door, hands still steady.
“Where’s your bedroom, Buck,” and Bucky tugs him down the hall to an open door. The dark room briefly lightens from the fireworks past the window, and Steve stumbles to find a lamp. Objective accomplished, he finds Bucky sitting at the end of his bed—huge, with dark grey sheets, not that Steve notices—and bends to the floor to help Bucky toe his shoes off.
“How’re you doing?” More fireworks, and he glances around the room. He closes the drapes and looks for a fan, for white noise. “You got anything that makes noise around here?”
“Stevie, be quiet,” Bucky shushes with his eyes dark.
“Come on, what can I get you?” He sits down, body turned toward Bucky, knee bent and resting on the bed. He raises his eyebrows in a question.
“You’re so nice to me Stevie,” and Steve laughs at the sweet smile playing on his face. Bucky’s head is tilted to the side as his eyes roam over Steve’s face. “You’re great.”
“Flattery’ll get you—well, somewhere, I suppose.”
“Yeah, where do you think,” Bucky addresses to his mouth.
They’re quiet for a moment. Bucky gets this expression on his face, half a smirk, and says straight into Steve’s eyes, “Slugger.”
Steve smacks him light on the arm and laughs. “Don’t call me that.”
But Bucky catches his hand and tugs him in and kisses him, sweet and soft lips tasting his. And he pulls Steve closer, pulls him by his shirt, and then there’s nothing sweet about this at all. Bucky’s tongue runs over his lips, past them right under his teeth; Steve moans into his mouth. Bucky sucks Steve’s bottom lip between his own and scrapes his teeth across it. Steve’s hands fall to his waist, stroking up his sides and sliding up to his neck and down underneath his shirt. Bucky’s pulling, pulling him forward and down, and Steve’s on top of him, knees braced on either side of his hips. Bucky grips Steve’s beltloops and pulls him tight, pulls Steve down onto him as he falls back onto the bed. They’re hard against each other, too close to be ignored. Their lips are hard and insistent against each others. Their hands won’t rest as they map each other’s skin. Bucky’s got his hand on Steve’s neck, fingers tangled in his hair, and the pressure and pull make Steve breathe a moan right into Bucky’s mouth. They barely break for air. Steve’s tasting him, tasting him deep, drowning in the whiskey-sweet curves of his mouth.
And then he pulls back, sits upright. And breathes, collecting himself. Bucky tugs on him, tries to bring him back down. Steve looks down at him, shirt ridden half-up. He’s got a gorgeous red flush on his cheeks and chest. His mouth is bitten cherry red, and his eyes are dark, all pupil. It’s all Steve can do to lean back, to stand up. Bucky sits up, not processing.
“Steve, what?”
“Buck, you should get some sleep. You’re probably going to have a rough morning,” he tries for a joke, but his words are stilted, awkward.
“Are you leaving?” He sounds hurt, and Jesus, Steve wants to kiss it all better. Which can wait. He’s patient. Steve tries to explain.
“Just tonight, ok? I’ll see you in the morning. Whenever you wake up, come find me.” Steve smiles, and Bucky, still dazed, smiles back in a mirror image. He presses a kiss to the corner of Bucky’s mouth and moves before Bucky can respond. “See you tomorrow, Buck. Get some rest.”
He heads to his apartment for water before heading back up to the party. He’s not the best actor in the world, but his poker face is making its best effort as the gathering winds up. He’s floating, happy, happier than he can remember. After everyone leaves, he sits in the quiet dark and looks out at the bright city. Content.
+
He’s made a full pot of coffee, waiting for Bucky. Actually, he’s made one three times now, once every couple hours, dumping the old out. Fresh coffee is better.
He sketches on his couch, and everything he draws turns into Bucky’s lips. Steve laughs at himself, and commits to it. He thinks he’s got it—the perfect Cupid’s bow of his top lip—when he hears the knock at his door.
His smile is wide and bright as he opens the door, and it widens when he takes in Bucky’s bedhead. His whole body looks wrecked, and Steve adores it.
“Hey Buck, feeling ok today?” he teases. But Bucky’s not looking back at him; he’s looking at his hands, fingers intertwined and pulling at each other. “You want to come in?”
“Steve, I—I wanted to say sorry about last night.” And Steve’s heart sinks, plummets deep down into his stomach. He takes in Bucky’s stance, shoulders hunched in, head dropped. All of a sudden, he knows what’s coming, and it’s all he can do to play out his part.
“Sorry?”
“Yeah, I mean,” and Bucks looks up, not at him but doorframe above him and between them, “I shouldn’t have—” and his head is turned to the right looking past him down the hall, “I shouldn’t have done that, I mean,” and he laughs, low and bitter, and finally looks Steve right in the eye. “Last night, I was just sad, and lonely, and you were there.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry, Steve. I shouldn’t have done it.”
“Oh, it’s ok,” he hears himself say. His heart is in a vice; his chest feels tight, unbearably so. “Do you want some coffee” is what leaves his mouth and God, he hates himself right now.
“Nah, I’m going to work this hangover out on my own.” He’s backing up towards his door, half-turned away. “See you later, Steve?”
It’s a question, and it doesn’t make a lick of sense.
“Sure thing,” Steve nods without realizing any of it. He hears the door click; his sight has gone unfocused.
He sits on his couch staring out the window into the bright happy day for the better part of an hour. His coffee goes untouched. He makes a decision. They can be friends—they are friends. He’ll get over this, and they can resume their morning coffees and nights on the roof, because Steve’s not giving this up. He just needs to—to move on. And fake it until he stops thinking of Bucky as a possibility. That’s it. Friends.
“Hey Nat, you know I gave it some thought,” he said into the phone. “And I think you’re right.”
+
Bucky feels like shit.
This is it—the final one. The death sentence. The fatal hangover. He and alcohol had parted ways forever; the poison had finally claimed him.
He drops Alka-Setlzer into a glass of water and rests his head on the counter while they fizz. He can feel like drops of moisture fall on his face from his proximity to the glass. He wants to die.
He woke early, way earlier than he should’ve, and he’d been paralyzed thinking about the night before. And heartsick. This is—this is the fucking worst.
The fizzing stops, and he chugs the water down in three gulps.
“Fuck this,” he says. “I’m going back to bed.”
+
It’s seven in the evening, and he’s starting to feel human again. And his cell phone buzzes on the table. Repeatedly.
Steve: hey can you do me a favor
can you rescue me from a date
I’m at the dawn brigade on 3rd
Fuck his life. He pulls on shorts and buttons a shirt over his bare torso and he leaves without thinking about it. Because fuck thinking about decisions, fuck everything.
+
The Dawn Brigade, packed to the brim, requires a bit of navigating before he finds Steve, tucked into a corner with a well-dressed bald guy. He can see from here the guy has a hand on Steve’s knee. God, if only he weren’t so hungover, he’d take a shot before heading that way. A whole round of shots.
Instead, he steels himself and brushes pasts a million people before arriving at the scene. Steve sees him first, a panicked expression on his perfect face. Fuck this, he was never drinking again.
“Steve!” He calls out. “Steve, Beck’s in the hospital. There’s been an emergency. I wouldn’t do this, I know you’re busy, but could you drive me? She—“ and here he chokes up, time for his Oscar, “Becky’s not doing great, and I don’t know if I’ll make it in time.”
Steve slides off his chair and grabs his brown leather jacket. “Yeah, Buck, of course. I’m so sorry to hear about Becky. Your sister, she’s a great lady,” and it’s all he can do not to laugh. “I’m so sorry Roger. Raincheck on dinner?” And they’re brushing past all the young urban professionals out on the town, and finally out into the night.
“Roger?”
“Nat set us up,” Steve says. His voice sounds strained. The night’s too dark to see Steve’s face, so he looks forward as he walks.
“You know, if you got married, he’d be Roger Rogers.”
Steve laughs, and thank God he can still do that. They’re walking quickly, long legs put to good use, their strides evenly matched.
“Not likely, I promise.”
“Yeah, what’s wrong with the guy?”
“I don’t know, nothing really? He’s nice.”
“Come on, Steve.” He can hear him sigh.
“It’s just—why do people think I’m into bald guys? And God, that place—Buck, it’s so pretentious. My drink came in a bag of lavender air.” Steve’s voice is pained, sincerely so, and Bucky wants more of it, wants to know exactly how bad a date with someone else had gone. It’s not his best moment, but at least he’s honest with himself.
“What.”
“Seriously—they cut it open and the waiter and this guy Roger kept telling me to waft it. Waft it, waft it. I’ve never heard that word used so much in my life.”
Bucky can’t do anything but laugh.
“And God, he had no sense of humor. At all.” He huffed. “I just—I needed to get out of there. Thanks, Buck.”
They crossed another block before Bucky had the courage to ask.
“Why’d you call me, Steve?”
“Honestly? Nat set me up, and Sam—well, Sam would tell me to ‘man up,’ and ‘be honest about my feelings.’ And I knew you didn’t have reservations about that kind of thing.” Bucky can hear the smile in Steve’s voice, even in the dark.
“Yeah, I run with real loose morals.” They cross the street, hurrying out as a herd of cyclists flies by.
“Really, though—I’m not very good at dating. All my relationships, they just sort of happened? Now, when I try to date, I don’t know how to get out of it.”
“Learn to lie better, I guess. Or keep me around,” and fuck him, what was he doing, what was he saying.
“I have to admit, you’re real helpful, Buck.”
Occasionally, they stumble into each other as they walk. Bucky doesn’t think this is an accident, and the push-pull he feels around Steve gets harder to ignore. He’d fucked this up—he knew he had, and done it on purpose. So why the fuck had Steve texted him? Why did it feel like where they were yesterday?
“Hey Buck, can I ask you a question?” Steve’s voice arrives out of the darkness, and Bucky hears his smile without seeing it.
“Shoot.”
“Do you really have a sister named Becky? Are your parents that cruel?”
“And Billie and Betsy.” He gives an exaggerated nod. He says in a singsong voice, “Bucky and Becky, and Billie and Betsy. In that order.”
“No.” They pass under a street lamp, and Bucky glances beside him. Steve is horrified and grinning, his perfect face contorted in an attempt to suppress his laughter.
“Yes.”
“She ever been hospitalized?”
Bucky snorts. “Nope, healthy as a horse.”
“Glad to hear it.”
They walk in silence the last block. Bucky follows Steve up the narrow stairs, looking at the navy shirt tight across his shoulders, and the jeans tight over his ass and thighs. He bites his lip and keeps climbing. When they reach the end of the stairs Bucky heads for his door, mostly out of habit (and a little to escape), but when Steve gestures toward the ceiling and says “Come up,” he follows again. The worst part of this is that he can’t seem to help it—where Steve goes, he follows.
Bucky collapses onto the little loveseat, and Steve sits next to him. Their knees are the only parts that touch, but Bucky can feel the warmth burn into him at the contact.
He hears himself start to speak before he realizes it. It’s the hangover, he rationalizes. Brain still not working.
“So it was a dude.” It was his question, the one he’d been holding back since he walked into the bar. Still, Bucky wishes he could take it back.
“Yeah, it was a dude,” Steve’s voice quick and defensive.
“I didn’t think it would be. I was a little surprised.” He had been. And now he was wondering whether that was why Steve wanted out so fast.
“Bucky, I’ve dated men before. I was in a relationship with one guy for two years.” Steve’s looking at him; he can feel it. But the roof’s dark, and the light’s all wrong for him to see Steve’s face.
“Really?” Eager surprise fills his voice, and the self-loathing he’s felt all day hits its apex right after.
“Yeah, Buck, really,” his voice soft in the darkness. Bucky wishes he could see his face—it’s all he wants. The moment stretches on, Steve’s gaze on him, the sounds of their breathing filling the air, the contact of their knees. Then Steve shifts, and the contact breaks, but he’s closer now, turned toward Bucky. He can feel the breath on his face. Then, a hand on his shirt, gathering it into a fist and pulling. “Come here, Buck.”
Steve tugs him forward, and kisses him. Bucky’s still for a muddled second, then moves, molds himself against Steve, kissing him back. Their mouths open; their lips pressing against each other sweet and tender. It’s like last night, just like last night, and that thought makes Bucky kiss him hungrily, press their bodies together. The moment shifts. Their hands are everywhere—Steve’s in his hair, holding his neck and his face; Bucky’s gripping Steve’s hard sides, never letting go. It’s hot and hard and heavy, the silence of the roof filled with the sound of their harsh breaths.
Bucky’s half on top of Steve, but he shifts them over. Bucky’s collapsed against the back of the seat, and Steve’s mouth finds it way to his neck, his pulse point, down to his clavicle and the hollow of his throat. He’s sucking and licking with that perfect mouth, and Bucky’s imagining that perfect bottom lip when Steve unbuttons his shirt, mouth following the hand down Bucky’s chest. His breath catches after a point.
“Steve, yes,” he says, Steve’s hand on his leg sliding up, up. His hands are threaded into Steve’s hair; he’s trying not to pull. It’s too good, it’s too much; in his head he’s pleading just once, just one time, that’s all I want.
Steve sucks hard on his abdomen, and a startled groan bursts from his mouth. “Ok?”
“Yes, Steve, yes, more.”
And he’s licking down, down, his hands gripping Bucky’s hips as they jerk forward. One hand slips over the side and palms him, and fuck, please don’t let him come in his pants. The pressure is good, so good, but when Steve starts to move his hand, rolling from heel to palm, Bucky moans out loud into the dark open air. It’s good, so good.
“Bucky,” Steve says, and Bucky opens his eyes to see Steve kneeled before him, hand on Bucky’s fly. His look is serious, but his mouth hides a smirk. “Is this ok?”
Bucky’s head is fogged, mostly from the night before, and it takes a second for him to get it. “Yeah, please, yes.”
And his pants are open and sliding down his legs—and fuck, he’s outside without pants on, but this is perfect—and Steve has a hand around his cock, licking his lips. The sight is too erotic, and he knows he won’t last long. Not with Steve, not the first time.
Steve’s mouth closes around him, hot and wet; it’s all he can do to hold himself still. Steve’s got a hand around the base, moving up and down with the motion of his mouth. He runs his fingers through Steve’s gold hair, silky-soft and straight, and the sweetness of it is too good. Steve’s looking at him, looking up at him with Bucky’s cock in his mouth, as he slides up and down. He’s good, perfect—he sucks just enough at the end, and tongues the vein as he pull off. Bucky’s holding on, trying to make it last, last forever, because once will never be enough. It’s sweet and hot and perfect. It’s Steve, sucking his cock, and God, he’s going to think about this for the rest of his life.
Bucky comes with a strangled moan, hands tangling in Steve’s hair. His brain breaks for half a minute, and when the orgasm fades, Steve’s looking up at him with his face pressed against Bucky’s thigh. He rises and falls against the seat, sitting on his side facing Bucky.
Their eyes meet, but Steve’s back in shadows. Bucky’s breath levels back out before he speaks.
“God, Steve, that felt—so good. Amazing.” His pants, his boxers, are still pushed down his legs. He ignores it. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know. I wanted to.” And fuck, if that’s not the most erotic thing he’d ever heard, Steve’s absolute sincerity convincing him that yes, Steve wanted to blow him.
A breeze blows across his legs, and unfortunately, in a moment of bracing cold, over his limp cock. Time for pants. He sits forward and pulls them up. He turns on the seat and runs his hands over Steve’s chest, down to his jeans, and his cock his hard, so hard. Bucky grins and leans in.
“Bucky,” Steve stops his hand, but holds it, threads their fingers together. He hears him pull in a deep breath, and sees him runs a hand over his face. “Bucky, will you go on a date with me?”
“What?”
“I like you.” He shrugs. “I want to. I like spending time with you.” His hand slides up Bucky’s arm and shoulder, and finds its way into his hair. He reels him in and kisses him soft, and Bucky can taste himself on Steve’s lips. “And I think you like me.”
“Steve—“ he starts, voice betraying his reluctance, but Steve beats him to it.
“Bucky.” They shift on the seat, and a band of light falls over Steve’s face. His eyes are bright and genuine, his lips swollen. Bucky tries to pull away, but Steve stops him with a challenging look, almost a dare. Bucky thinks that he should say something, should let Steve down easy, but he can’t remember why.
“I’m not good at this,” he begins.
“You don’t have to be. I’m not good at this either.” Steve’s drawing circles on the back of Bucky’s hand, light and soothing.
“I’m a mess.” His fingers are pulling at each other. “I have nightmares and panic attacks, and I’m scared of fucking fireworks.”
“Stop trying to convince me not to like you.” Steve gets a hand on the back of his neck and shakes him; the touch is grounding. “You don’t have a say in that.”
“Why not,” but he laughs at himself.
Steve picks up his hand and threads their fingers together once more. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and draws himself in—it’s too much, too difficult—but this is important. Steve is important.
“Why did you text me tonight, Steve.” It’s been on his mind all night—why the fuck would Steve contact him? After last night, after this morning, after seeing Steve’s face stunned in pain and knowing he’d done it. He doesn’t get it.
Steve huffs a small laugh. “It was a bad idea, but I wanted to see you.” Steve jiggles his knee up and down next to Bucky’s. He can practically hear Steve thinking. “I just—I was sitting there, on this date, and I just felt lonely. And annoyed as anything, because that place was the worst. And I wanted to tell you about it. I wanted to talk to you.”
Bucky’s silent, his gut in turmoil, like he’s at the edge of a cliff.
“I’m sorry about this morning.”
At that, Steve pulls them together, his hand on Bucky’s neck, their foreheads touching.
“You gonna make me ask again, Buck? I already got down on my knees for you,” Steve laughs at him. Bucky tilts his head back at the night’s sky and clenches his eyes shut. His body thrums with anticipation, and all his muscles tense for long moment, before he relaxes them. If he was once on a cliff, now he’s falling.
“Ok, but you gotta let me choose the place, yeah? I’m not taking you to a pretentious hipster bar.”
“Oh please, I said I hated that place.” Steve is grinning bright and rolling his eyes, but their hands are gripping hard. Both of them lean in.
Bucky’s stomach flips over and around; he’s antsy and happy and a little embarrassed all at once. He bites down hard on the pad of his thumb, and grins at Steve around it.
“And let me make you dinner. Your spaghetti is not that good.”
Steve cackles at that, but his eyes are smiling at Bucky. “Yeah? Any time in mind?”
“What are you doing right now?” They’re grinning like idiots, pressed into each other. “Wanna come over?”
Steve stands and gives a quick shrug. Bucky can’t tear his eyes off Steve’s wide, bright smile; neither can he wipe his stupid grin off his own face. “Let’s go.”
And Bucky lets him pull up. They stand their, hands intertwined, faces close to each other. For the first time in a while, the world drops away, and Bucky stands there, simply happy, and sees that reflected back at him in Steve’s shining eyes.