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“You not going out?”
"No, not tonight.
That answer was becoming increasingly frequent. He supposed the war would do that to a guy. He’d heard them call it shell shock, and Bucky felt it deep in his body even while he smiled through it. It was a persistent, low-frequency buzz in his bones, a current running over his skin, sharp bursts of lightning behind his eyes.
Alcohol had lost its numbing effect and without it the drabness of Europe had become difficult to tolerate. He missed America's opulence, colour, and guided hope. He missed being able to pretend his life was exciting and the future full of opportunity.
He had felt lonely long before the war had started but at least he had been warm, well-fed and distracted by life. He could go to work and come back tired but whole. He could listen to the baseball on the wireless and drink beer for the flavour. He could visit his family for Shabbos and pretend he wasn't breaking every rule in the book when he left.
He had known Steve would find someone one day; like a good friend, he had wanted him to. There was nothing to resent there. That was to say, it wasn’t Steve’s fault he would never be able to dance with someone he wanted in public, settle down, live comfortably.
Now, without the distractions, his mind often drifted home, to his little apartment with its lingering damp smell and peeling wallpaper; to his mother's cooking and his father's quiet support; to the buzz of a fight that ended in friendly pats on the back. If he were there, he could do more than just linger between bouts of fighting, waiting for the enemy to come back and finish whatever job they had started on the table.
The only place that felt remotely similar was Howard’s lab. The smell of motor oil and the sound of machinery tugged at a thread of nostalgia inside him. It reminded him of before everything went to hell. The advantage and disadvantage of this was that Howard was always, always there, and not in the way he was in the magazines Bucky had back in his apartment.
Howard was there, living and breathing. And he never seemed to leave. Even when he slept, Bucky pictured him slouched against a workbench with a pen precariously balanced in his hand, ready to jot down any wild ideas that might come to him in his dreams.
“I don’t get it. A guy like you.” Howard didn’t elaborate but he did give him a look, one he wasn’t sure whether to interpret as appraising or lecherous. Had they been anywhere else, it would have felt exposing, mutually destructive.
"What of it?" Bucky knew he had no place being defensive. Howard didn't mean anything by it; he didn't mean to mock him. He had no way of knowing Bucky had once upon a time looked as his picture in the magazines or newspaper and wished a man like him would see something worth seeing. Even if he did, Howard was just like that. Words, thoughts, ideas - it all left his head before common sense kicked in and had him questioning if it should. It's what made him such a good inventor, even if it sometimes made him reckless.
When it came to friends, he wasn't the worst, if that's what they were to begin with. Since Steve had been given the suit and his newfound sense of purpose in the war, Bucky found himself being drawn towards Howard more. Nostalgia, company, some kind of potential understanding... it didn’t matter. Coffee after dark in his lab, his assistants having drawn the line under the day’s work and leaving him to whatever borderline-genius, borderline-deranged thing had caught his attention, had come to mean something more than killing time.
Lately, it had become a routine: he observed Steve following Agent Carter with starry eyes and a ridiculous grin, the Howlies went out drinking like it was their last night on Earth, he entered Howard's lab and sat at one of the workbenches and watched him work. His company had become familiar, comfortable. It was nice to have someone who could support some of the weight of his existence. It was nice to have someone depend on him again without the looming, suffocating, threat of death.
“I’m not saying he’s not a great guy. I like him.” Howard paused, pointing towards the bench a short way from Bucky before holding his hand out expectantly.
Bucky pushed himself up, grabbed what looked like some kind of cloth-wrapped tool kit and placed it in his hand. He stayed there, leaning back against Howard’s workbench.
“Got a lot of guts,” he continued. “I’m just saying, look at you.”
He had never really seen himself as anything special. Without the uniform he’d just been ‘Bucky Barnes from number 4’ to his neighbours and ‘some guy’ to everyone else. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d be ‘charming’ to the women and ‘nothing of the sort’ to their watchful mother figures.
He didn’t want to be compared to Steve. He had spent so long waiting for people to see Steve how he did that the thought that he could resent him for it sat like a lump of concrete in his gullet. “Nothing special about me,” he responded, and believed it.
The intense way Howard gazed at him as if his sole purpose had become to make Bucky feel desired, gave him pause. His lips quirked at the corner, his eyes taking their time to look him up and down, lingering.
Not for the first time did he wonder just how quickly Howard must have clocked him as someone he could pull this shit with or if his money and fame were just that vast he could take the risk. It didn’t stop his cheeks from going warm, and he thought to himself how different it felt getting that kind of attention from someone he could imagine himself following through with in place of flattered refusals and quick exits.
Maybe it was too soon to be thinking things like that, but Howard had the reputation of making people's heads foggy. His inhibition-lowering smile and the “fuck-me” eyes had a hold on Bucky in ways he couldn’t blame on Shell Shock.
He knew he was reading too much into it, but if Howard had managed to bring a little bit of America all the way to Europe with him, the Bucky could easily imagine he would fit into his life back home, even if he knew the run-around lover type wouldn’t suit Bucky’s expectations. He and his dad could talk mechanics and his mum would have another one of them to scold about breaking all the rules on Shabbos. He could imagine lips on his and warmth in his bed, and animated conversations about everything and nothing as he drank coffee and watched Howard work.
And yes, he was absolutely reading too much into it but fuck, he was lonely and homesick, Howard made him feel like he was made of something special and this time he was actually real, not just a picture in a magazine.
Bucky took a page out of the other’s book and acted before he thought. He leaned into his space and captured his lips before he could overthink himself in love with him or out of his lab altogether. He was instantly met with the warm depth of Howard’s mouth, the taste of coffee and a pair of enthusiastic hands working their way beneath his jacket.
Rough hands ran up his sides and across his chest before sliding down to his hips and around to cup his backside, their grip vigorous in their exploration until he was pulling him flat against his chest. The solid heat of him drove away the chill that had long settled into Bucky's bones. A deep, appreciative groan rumbled from Howard’s throat directly into his mouth.
“Took you long enough, Barnes.”