Chapter Text
I'll take you for a ride
On my garbage truck
Oh no!
I'll take you to the dump
'Cause you're my queen
Take you uptown
I'll show you the sights
You know you want to ride
On my garbage truck
Truck truck truck
- Garbage Truck, Sex Bob-Omb (Scott Pilgrim vs. The World)
"This was… a mistake," Bucky declared as he slogged unsteadily down the sidewalk towards his home.
Despite his enthusiasm last night for the news of Natasha's big promotion, going shot for shot with his best friend had been a bad idea, and agreeing to the strip poker that had come afterwards had been infinitely worse. If The Sliding Scale of Poor Decisions had been a game on The Price is Right, Bucky was most definitely the little yodeler dude who had just helplessly careened off the edge of the cliff.
He had lost not only his coat and sweater but also a single shoe for some inexplicable reason. His phone and wallet were also MIA, and he was still unsure of whether they had (best case scenario) joined his clothing pile, still in Natasha's venomous clutches, or if they had just fallen into a random gutter or toilet at some point in the night.
Oh alcohol, you cruel, cruel mistress.
The one thing Bucky was sure of was that his car keys were safely behind the bar and would remain there until he sobered up, but judging by the rate at which his head was already beginning to pound, he'd be lucky to go back for them by the end of the week.
He hunched a little deeper into his borrowed coat, the autumn chill of the early morning creeping in around the gaping collar of the double XL monstrosity. He had taken it out of the bar's lost and found in a fit of desperation, his thin undershirt no match for a late September drunk-walk of shame, and despite being a supposed 'windbreaker,' the only thing it was really breaking was every fashion law known to mankind.
"Forgive me, Anna!" Bucky wailed to the Vogue goddess herself, on the off chance she was in his neighbourhood at 5am on a random Thursday to judge him for his life choices (as she should). The odds were unlikely, but you could never be too careful when it came to these things.
Unfortunately for Bucky, any thoughts of ‘careful’ melted away from his vodka-soaked noodle brain as his house finally came into view and he picked up his pace down the sidewalk, his shoeless foot aching a bit from the repeated battering against the cement. He was gonna have to throw his sock out; it was almost black from the ground now, and ripped in a few places too. What a shit show this had turned into.
He was essentially running by the time he came up to his lawn and decided to end his nightmare of a walk a few seconds sooner by cutting across the grass to his front door. His grimy sock didn't agree with this plan, however, and betrayed him in the foulest of ways by deciding to treat him to an early morning slip and slide instead. One fast-moving, half shoeless, still slightly drunk 30-year-old man was no match for the dewy splendor of a cool fall morning, and Bucky immediately skidded and face planted into the wet grass, Anna Wintour be damned.
"This is it," Bucky murmured to no one but Mother Earth herself, blades of greenery tickling his lips as he sang his dying whale song into the ground. "This is where I perish."
Giving into his fate, he relaxed into the wet grass, deciding a simple front lawn nap was just what he needed to sober up. His peaceful half-doze was soon interrupted by the increasingly mind-rattling rumble of a large engine though, and he squinted one eye open to follow the approach of a garbage truck down the street, stopping at the curb in front of the trash bin he had dutifully set out the night before. Life had been so sweet back then, he lamented internally. He was just a man of the grass now, nothing more than a mulch muncher.
"Uh, excuse me, sir," came a deep voice from behind him. It was obviously the baby Jesus, who had grown into the now-adult Jesus, because no one but a holy being could have a voice so nice. "Can I help you? Is there someone I can call, or…?" The nice voice trailed off questioningly, and Bucky groaned into the ground, his headache cresting within his brain like a wave.
"I have nothing and no one," Bucky stated bleakly into the earth.
"Oh. Oh no," said the baby-adult Jesus voice. He sounded sad now and Bucky suddenly wanted to cry just by proximity alone. "Where do you... I mean... If you don't mind me asking, where do you normally sleep?"
"Here," Bucky answered, spreading his arms like a face down grass angel, or maybe a starfish. He heaved out a sigh, clearing himself of the momentary touch of melancholy. "This is my home." He was pretty sure he had made it to his own property line at least. Things were blurry from down here.
"Oh dear," the voice murmured, genuinely upset now. Oh dear. How endearing could this man get? Bucky giggled into the grass.
"You're adorable," Bucky decided, rolling over onto his back. The sun was still in the process of coming up, but it was already entirely too bright out. The sickening glare was blocked out a moment later though, the image of Adonis himself appearing above with a literal halo of light illuminating the gold of his hair. He looked like an Easter card and a Magic Mike poster rolled into one.
"Baby Jesus fucking Christ," Bucky exhaled, completely overcome by the beauty suddenly radiating down on him. The Touched by an Angel theme song was going to start playing any minute now, he knew it.
"Can I help you up?" The most glorious man in the world questioned, his perfect blonde eyebrows pinching together in concern. Bucky wanted to smooth that worried line in his forehead out... with his dick. (He was still more than a little drunk perhaps). The man pulled a work glove off his hand and held his palm out in offering, and Bucky didn't hesitate to take it, getting hauled easily to his feet as if he were a daisy getting plucked from a garden on a spring day; delicately and with care.
"Just wait here a minute, please?" The man almost pleaded, and Bucky bobbed his head. He would do whatever his angel wanted for the rest of eternity.
Golden Adonis baby-adult Jesus jogged gracefully over to the garbage truck and half disappeared into the passenger side door for a moment, his fine, fine ass hanging out the side a bit. Bucky had a terrible case of the drinky dry mouth, but even his parched tastebuds couldn't resist watering at the sight of that luscious rump. The gentleman (because he truly was one) returned a moment later, carrying a large grey hoodie, a thick pair of socks, and a wrapped, generously heaped PB&J sandwich.
"I'm sorry I don't have any spare shoes to give you," he frowned down at Bucky's feet, and Bucky would have objected, he had more shoes at home after all and it wasn’t even his birthday, but he had already taken a heaping bite of the sandwich and his mouth was currently dealing with a healthy influx of sticky, crunchy peanut butter (the best kind) and delicious strawberry jam. He made a kind of moaning noise of appreciation as it was, and it seemed to do the trick as the man met his eyes and smiled like Bucky had just made his day, when in fact the opposite was true; this man had just made Bucky's life.
"Steve, let's go!" The driver of the truck stuck his head out the window and waved an arm impatiently, causing Bucky's perfect saviour, Steve, evidently, to flash him an apologetic look before turning and sprinting back over to Bucky's garbage can.
"Take care of yourself, ok?" Steve called to him as he tossed Bucky's trash effortlessly into the truck before hopping on the back ledge to ride to the next address.
Bucky just nodded and lifted the half-eaten sandwich in a mock salute, and Steve grinned before riding the truck down the rest of the street, his muscles flexing under his bright city-provided sanitation shirt as he moved.
Bucky plopped back onto the grass and ate the rest of the sandwich, watching Steve work and chewing thoughtfully. The food was absorbing some of the lingering alcohol in his system, it seemed, and he felt a little better for having eaten it.
He sat on his lawn until the truck disappeared around the corner, the seat of his pants damp from the ground once he stood to collect his now empty trash bin. He hauled it up to its usual spot beside his house and then let himself in, placing his gifted socks and hoodie on the top of his dresser for future sober contemplation.
He stripped down to nothing and crawled into bed, dreaming of flying garbage trucks and handsome peanut butter sandwich angels as he drifted off to sleep.