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The Starbucks manager's expression is a familiar blend of disinterest and pity, and Steve can almost mouth the words along with her as she says, "I'm sorry, but you're not the right fit for our assistant manager position. Thanks for applying. We'll keep your resume on file and contact you if something more suitable becomes available."
Steve's already heard this script three times today, two dozen times in the past week, and repetition hasn't made it any easier. He smiles, despite throbbing feet and frustration so bitter it makes his teeth ache, and shakes the manager's hand with a firm grip. "Thank you for your time," he says politely and heads for the exit.
A petite redhead catches his arm as he passes the condiments bar. "You're looking for a job?"
Steve needs to land a solid paycheck in the next three weeks before he has to dip into his gallery savings. After so many dead ends, he would drop to his knees and beg for a decent job. So he's not too proud to tell this nosy stranger, "Yes," and hope for more than a well-meaning referral to the local unemployment career center.
The redhead is a little shorter than him, although her business pumps give her an advantage, and wearing a tight-belted raincoat in a rich royal blue. Her other hand holds a nutmeg shaker poised over a supersized coffee cup. She looks him over with warm eyes, quirks an elegant eyebrow, and says, "I have a coffee shop in Brighton Beach that needs a manager. Nice neighborhood, mom-and-pop kind of place. Does that sound like something you could handle?"
He's floored by the offer. To be honest, Steve doesn't know the first thing about the food industry, or coffee shops, or even coffee, but he'd managed a retail store for five years, and he's a quick study. "Sounds right up my alley," he says, and extends his hand, projecting confidence. "Steve Rogers."
She shakes with a grip even tighter than his own. "Natasha Romanov." She adds a splash of whole milk to her cup, slips on a lid, and nods to the door. "Walk me to my car, Steve?"
~
Steve gets off the bus in Brighton Beach at 10:15 the next morning and walks south until he spots the pale-purple awning of Café Mamochka half-way down the block. He hurries through the drizzle to get under its narrow cover, folds up his umbrella, and tucks it under his arm so he can blow warmth over his hands. He stopped carrying his winter gloves in March, but April isn't all that much warmer—just a whole lot wetter.
When his joints stop aching, Steve tries the door and finds it locked. The dark interior is hidden behind thick, tatted curtains, giving the place a quaint, Old World look. It's probably filled with tea pots, dolls, and watercolor landscapes, all things he remembers from his nana's apartment in Gowanus. Nostalgia rises up, and Steve welcomes it, lets the imagery of his childhood distract from the patter of rain and the chill breeze while he waits for his new employer to arrive.
At precisely 10:30 Natasha steps out of a cab juggling a leather satchel, a leather purse, and another enormous Starbucks cup. Steve unfurls his umbrella and hurries forward to cover her. She looks up at the umbrella, then at Steve, and gives him a smile. That smile feels like getting a raise, and he hasn't officially been hired yet.
Natasha unlocks the front door, and a half-dozen bells clatter overhead as she pushes it open. She heads into the darkness to flip a switch somewhere off to the right, and Steve follows, peering into the shadows. He jerks back in surprise when retina-searing fluorescents kick on, yellow light vibrating off linoleum flooring and metal tables. Turning around, he takes in the entirety of the small room: six tables and a dozen metal chairs, a dark, refrigerated display case, a lunch counter with four stools backed by a massive espresso machine hulking against the wall.
When he looks closer, he notices that the countertop looks stained, the popcorn tiles in the ceiling are sagging, and the floor has an uneven, greasy sheen. No dolls. No teapots. Nothing warm and cozy. And there's an...odor.
It looks like an interstate truck stop with yellowing lace curtains.
"What do you think?" Natasha asks.
Twenty-five dollars an hour, Steve reminds himself. "It's got lots of potential."
Natasha hums for a moment, seeming pleased. "I knew I liked you, Steve. Okay, shifts are Tuesday through Saturday, 10:30-3:00. I'll come by to open every morning, and return to lock up at 3. You're on your own for the rest of the time."
"There's no other staff?"
"Just you. We don't get a lot of business, so it only needs one body to run. That's not a problem, is it?"
Steve's eyes land on a large blackboard with pastel-chalk descriptions of fanciful beverage concoctions and prices drawn in an elegant hand. It's the friendliest part of the whole room, but Steve's stomach sinks further as he realizes he doesn't know how to make anything on that menu. "I...might need a little help figuring out those recipes," he says, and jerks his chin toward the board.
She laughs. "Oh, don't worry; nobody orders those here. Plain old coffee will be fine." She takes a sip of her own coffee and licks her lips. "Have you ever used a ledger before?" She picks an oversized book off the counter where a register would have sat.
Before she leaves, she gives him a key to the cash box, explains the ledger system, and laughs again when he suggests modernizing the business to accept credit cards. She reminds him to call her if anything comes up, but her over-emphasized certainty that he won't need to bother her has him thinking he should do the opposite.
And then she's gone, the bells jangling harshly as he's left alone in the shop. He stands at the door and watches her head south to hail a cab, then notices another pedestrian crossing at the intersection, heading for a Dunkin' Donuts at the end of the block. He glances over his shoulder at the dingy, unappealing room, and his hopes wither.
This is gonna be like Reggie's Art Supplies closing all over again.
~
Ten minutes later, Steve's spirits have rallied. He can do this, he reminds himself. It's a great paycheck, especially for a part-time job. And with a little extra work up front to make the place hospitable, he doesn't see why it can't turn into a nice little neighborhood spot. Who wants to spend their time in a personality-free corporate chain like Dunkin' Donuts, anyway?
Steve starts by retracing Natasha's brisk tour of the coffee shop. He saw her lock her office, so he bypasses that and pushes open the bathroom door again. Single-occupant, genderless, that's a good start. He flips on the light—and immediately wishes he hadn't. He has to suppress his gag reflex as he takes in the grimy, cracked linoleum, the spiderwebs covering half the ceiling, and the startled mouse that darts through a hole behind the toilet.
And Steve is never speaking of that toilet bowl as long as he lives.
"Christ!" he swears, and pulls the door shut.
The small storage room at the end of the narrow hall is almost hygienic by comparison. There's a stack of collapsed cardboard boxes piled in the corner, a metal storage shelf with 40-pound boxes of roasted beans, one box of napkins, a folding chair, and an extra barstool. The only windows in the whole shop are out front, and there's a rear exit, but the doorframe looks damaged. That would explain the need for a 1-inch-thick chain and padlock sealing the door shut. All of the interior walls appear to be original brick with a coat of white paint, thin in places so the red clay shows through as a murky pink, and stained gray most everywhere else.
As far as cleaning supplies, he finds none in the whole place. Doesn't that just figure.
He pulls out a notepad and begins a drugstore shopping list for tonight.
He returns to the front to consider the espresso machine up close. It looks older than all the ones he watched on youtube last night. This is going to take a lot more Googling. Meanwhile, there's a smaller machine next to it, the kind of drip pot he recognizes from Law and Order reruns. If Natasha thinks his only orders will be for plain coffee, then the drip pot is the priority. It seems straightforward, too, at least more so than the espresso machine, so Steve starts poking at it to figure out how it works.
He has the percolator dripping something that should be coffee before the first customer arrives. Just past 11, a young woman enters in a hurry, returning Steve's smile with a determined look as she takes three steps inside. And then she seems to notice her surroundings. Her expression washes out with disgust, her steps slow, and she stops halfway to the counter before pivoting on her heel. She doesn't even look at Steve again before she's back out the door and heading to the right. Steve doesn't watch to see if she goes to the Dunkin' Donuts—he certainly wouldn't blame her.
Alone again, Steve puts his hands on his hips—he can't bring himself to touch the counter. What the shop needs is a good, deep cleaning, but that'll have to wait until after his shopping. For now, there's a sink behind the counter with clean, city water flowing from the tap. With a handful of napkins, he wipes off a square foot of counter space for his elbows, then pulls a stool around to give himself a place to sit. Tonight he'll buy some actual cleaning supplies to use tomorrow.
Luckily, his next customer isn't as easily turned off. A bald man a couple decades past his prime comes in and speaks softly when he orders a cup of black coffee. Steve is so relieved to have an order he can fill that he almost forgets to charge him when he hands over the Styrofoam cup. Their transaction complete, the customer shuffles over to a seat by the curtains and sits down, actually staying in the shop. Steve is so excited. He watches, fascinated, as his customer carefully unfolds a paper bag and begins laying out items on the table: a large paper napkin, a paperback book, a hardboiled egg, a jar of dark preserves, a knife, and a petite loaf of bread.
Once everything is where he wants it, Steve's customer tucks his bag away, picks up his coffee, and takes a sip.
And starts swearing as though gravely insulted. He glares at Steve, mutters something he's too far away to hear, and moves the cup to the far edge of his table.
So. Steve might not have the hang of the drip machine yet.
If another customer hadn't come in just then, Steve would have slunk off to hide in the storage room. As it is, he's frozen in place by the handsomest guy he's seen outside of an underwear billboard sauntering into his shop.
"Hi, what can I get you? We have coffee...." Steve blurts.
The guy looks him in the eyes—wow, those eyes—and comes right up to the counter. "Yeah, coffee, thanks."
Steve turns to the coffee pot and freezes because...it's crap. He's never drunk coffee in his life, but apparently the coffee he's made is absolutely undrinkable. And he can't very well serve it to this guy.
"Um," Steve says, turning back with a strained smile as he stalls for time, "this batch has gone...sour. I need to make more. Just a few minutes, okay?"
The guy's full, gorgeous lips twitch with what Steve hopes is good humor. "Sure, I'm not in a hurry," he says.
"Yes, thanks, great," Steve says, and freezes again as the guy leans over the counter, gets right up in Steve's face, dark hair swept back off his forehead, cheekbones so, so fine, and man-scaped stubble to die for, and reaches below the counter. Steve looks down and sees a light flash in the dark recesses of the upper shelf—a small, black wireless router he hadn't noticed before.
How the hell did this guy know what was under the counter?
Hot Guy looks smug as he drops two singles on the countertop. "I'll be right over here," he drawls, and retreats to a table on the opposite wall. He stretches out, making himself comfortable with one leg propped up on a second chair, back braced against the brick wall, and pulls a tablet out of a backpack.
Steve glances at the router again, questions crowding his brain...but first things first: he needs to learn how to make coffee, stat.
The cellular reception in the shop is nonexistent. He can see the wifi signal the customer just turned on, but he can't connect without a password. Steve checks the base of the router and all around the lunch counter, but there's no secret password posted anywhere, and he's too proud to ask a customer for the wifi password on his first day. So he steps outside for a minute to Google the drip machine and figure out what he did wrong.
Oh. Apparently he was supposed to use a filter?
With only a few sotto voce curses, Steve locates the filters in another cubby under the counter, measures out the recommended ratio of grounds to water, and hits 'Brew.' Ten minutes later, he has a fresh pot-full that more closely resembles potable coffee.
It's a learning curve.
He pours a cup and heads toward Hot Guy's table...but changes his mind at the last minute, swinging to Lunch Guy instead. He takes away the original cup—it's swimming with coffee grounds—sets the fresh cup in front of his grumpy customer, and says a quiet, "Sorry about that."
He retreats behind the counter and watches anxiously as the older man sniffs the coffee and takes a reluctant sip. He doesn't react at first. Instead, he takes a second cautious sip and sets it down alongside his novel. Steve gives himself a subtle fist pump below the counter and pours a cup for Hot Guy.
If Steve puts a little swagger in his step when he approaches the guy, it's wasted. Hot Guy just keeps tapping on his tablet, effortlessly cool in a black leather jacket and tight, faded jeans, and doesn't look up once as Steve sets the coffee down by his elbow. So. That's a disappointment.
After an hour and two free refills, Lunch Guy packs up his utensils and novel and heads out. But Hot Guy shows no sign of leaving. He hasn't touched the coffee, as far as Steve has seen. He just plays on his tablet for one hour, two, three, and Steve has nothing to do but twiddle his thumbs and play Angry Birds until Natasha comes back at 3:00.
The notion that he's wasting his time with this new job eats at his brain, like a mouse relentlessly chewing through drywall.
~
The next morning finds Steve huddled under the awning again, but this time he's come prepared. A bag of every kind of cleaning product he could find at Duane Reade dangles at his side, the plastic stretched out and digging into his fingers. He has a couple sketchbooks and pencils tucked into his messenger bag, too, along with his lunch.
Natasha arrives with another Starbucks cup, which she passes to Steve so she can unbolt the door. Steve takes a moment to savor the blithe hypocrisy of the beverage in his hand, letting his mouth twist wryly.
"On time, and with a smile," Natasha murmurs approvingly as she takes back the cup. "What's in the grocery bag?"
Yeah, Steve was hoping to talk to her about that. She'd been in such a hurry to close up yesterday, he'd only had time to switch off the coffee pot and the wifi router before she was locking the door and hopping into a waiting cab. There'd been no chance to talk to her about the vital necessity of cleaning the premises.
He chooses his words carefully, unsure how his new boss might respond to criticism. "I brought a few cleaning supplies. I thought the place could use some...sprucing up."
"That's so generous of you!" she says. "Why don't you stick those in the storage room and come join me in my office for a few minutes? I want to make sure we have all of your paperwork squared away."
Steve glances at the front door. "I should get the coffee started first. We're already open...."
"This'll just take two minutes," she says. "Come on."
Leaving the storefront unattended makes him nervous, but the bells above the door are loud enough to hear in the back and then some. He grudgingly takes his shopping bag to the storage room and heads to her office.
What follows is an excruciatingly polite chat about the limited resources of the shop's elderly owners, how they can't handle the upkeep themselves, but it's so sweet of him to offer to do it for them. No, they're not interested in extending their business hours to catch the morning commuters. No, they can't be persuaded to put a clapboard out on the sidewalk to advertise. No, they can't afford to contract with a local bakery to fill the pastry display case. And no, they don't want to take the heavy curtains down to let in more natural light.
Natasha doesn't seem offended by any of his questions and shrugs off most of his concerns—even when he points out that he only brought in six dollars yesterday. The conversation only veers toward contentious when he asks for the wifi password.
"I didn't hire you to play on your phone all day," she says, and just the faintest note of disapproval in her voice has him scrambling to reassure her that he's not, he wouldn't.... But she doesn't wait for excuses, just changes the subject as if nothing's wrong. "Now, here are the forms. I'll need your social security number, bank account number, current and previous address, and three emergency contacts."
Steve sighs and fills out the paperwork, relieved that he hasn't gravely annoyed her. The place may have seen better days, but he aims to make it better, help turn it into something worthwhile. The promise of the whimsical blackboard drawings makes his fingers itch to make the place homey and appealing. And he's determined to do it—even if he has to employ surreptitious means.
Once she finally releases him, he hurries to get the coffee ready. The drip has just started when she breezes past him, wishing him a good day as she walks out the front door. He can breathe a lot better once she's left the building, which is an odd thought, but he shoves it aside. With the coffee started and no customers in sight, Steve heads to collect his cleaning supplies from the storage room.
But they're gone.
He left the bag right there on that storage shelf; he can see the outline where the plastic bag disturbed the layer of dust. He checks the other shelves, looks for a storage closet where she might have moved it. Feeling like he's losing his mind, he takes one last look in the empty bathroom, but there's no sign of the bag or supplies anywhere. He doesn't want to check her office, but it'll drive him mad not knowing what's going on. He tries the doorknob, but it's locked.
Stymied, he retakes his stool behind the counter. And has another odd thought.
Natasha's big leather satchel had looked fashionably empty hanging from her shoulder this morning, collapsed under her elbow as she worked the locks. Was it full when she walked out just now?
And if it was...why the hell would she steal his cleaning supplies?
~
Steve's day doesn't improve after discovering his boss stole his bleach and sponges. He spends the morning alone, alternately standing outside to look up instructions for the big espresso machine, and back inside, trying to make the monstrosity work. After more than an hour poking around in its guts, he stares in disbelief at the image on his phone screen, then back at the side console where two connecting wires should be...and clearly aren't.
It's not just old, he realizes—it's broken. And if he didn't know better, he'd think it was sabotaged. He looks at the board of pretentious drinks no one orders and snorts. Yeah, he knows why no one orders those anymore.
Lunch Guy shows up just past noon and settles at his same table with the same novel. Today's lunch looks like a bowl of brown noodles and smells like sardines. Steve keeps his distance, not pleased to have another unappealing odor in the place.
A half hour later, Hot Guy arrives to a chorus of bells chiming above his head. Okay, that might be a little too poetic even for Steve, but it's no exaggeration to say he looks even better than yesterday, with a blue shirt under his leather jacket that brings out the color of his eyes, and black slacks that make his legs look long and lean. "Hi, coffee?" Steve offers eagerly, before remembering how rude and aloof the guy had been yesterday, sitting in the shop for hours without acknowledging Steve's presence.
Hot Guy nods and lays out two dollars, then reaches below the counter for the wifi router again, and Steve remembers to add presumptuous to his list of the guy's bad qualities. Hot Guy is totally an asshole.
Steve fakes a smile, fills a cup from the pot, and sets it on the counter brusquely. "There," he says, and snatches up the dollar bills to add to the cash box.
"Thanks," Hot Guy says, watching him curiously for a moment before he turns away and heads for what must be his usual table. Steve watches his perfect ass in those slacks as he crosses the room, then glowers as he records another sale in the ledger.
With no cleaning supplies to tidy the place, and the espresso machine a victim of saboteurs, Steve eats his PB&J sandwich in sullen silence. Then, to pass the time, he pulls out his sketchpad and starts sketching his patrons.
Lunch Guy has a wrinkled brow, a long, narrow nose, thin lips, and wind-burned cheeks. His hands are pale, knuckles swollen with arthritis. Steve can picture him standing behind a newsstand, selling papers and magazines, and he begins sketching the scene, Old Fulton Street down by the ferry landing, with a view of the Brooklyn Bridge behind him. Steve loses track of time as he focuses on the subtler shadings, the hint of beard growth darkening the man's lower jaw, the shadows of his brows.
The bells chime, jolting him out of his zone, and his neck twinges with an incipient cramp. He knows better than to hunch over for so long.
A pair of middle-aged women enter the shop, chatting in that conspiratorial tone that means their gossip is particularly delicious. Steve can't make out their Russian discourse, but one of them orders tea and cake from him in heavily accented English.
He glances helplessly at the empty pastry case and holds out his hands in the universal gesture of regret. "I'm sorry. We don't have tea or cake. All we have is coffee."
That sets off the foreign-language chattering again, this time outright scandalized as they squint at Steve and his lonely coffee pot. He bites his lip, resenting his own helplessness—why doesn't he at least have tea for god's sake—until they sniff their disapproval and march out of the shop.
"That's not a very nice name to call you," Hot Guy says from his slouch against the bricks.
Steve's temper flares instantly. "Excuse me?" he snaps. "What isn't nice to call me?"
"Well I'm not going to say it to your face if they wouldn't."
Steve looks at the smile on Hot Guy's face and wants to call bullshit. No way does this guy speak Russian; he's just being a dick. "As if you even know what they were talking about. Why don't you mind your own business."
"And that's not a nice way to talk to a paying customer," Hot Guy says, his smile growing.
"Paying," Steve snorts. "Oh please. Just shut up and keep mooching your free wifi."
Hot Guy salutes him with his coffee cup, still full a half hour after Steve poured it for him. "Two-dollar wifi, thanks."
Steve steams for a moment, more bitter than he can account for, and then demands, "How the hell do you know the password?"
Hot Guy's eyes widen before he laughs, "Wait, you don't know it, do you? And you're jealous!"
"Fuck off, asshole," Steve throws back, his hand clenched in a fist he'd love to take to Hot Guy's perfect jaw and lips, the smug smile that looks increasingly delighted with every reaction he provokes from Steve.
What is it about this guy that gets so deep under Steve's skin?
Lunch Guy's chair legs scrape against the linoleum as he stands to leave with a reproachful glare for the two of them. He doesn't say anything, but Steve looks at the clock and guesses Lunch Guy is cutting his lunch hour short because of them—because Steve couldn't keep his temper in check or his mouth shut.
Steve glowers and ducks his head, determined to keep quiet for the rest of the day. He flips to a blank page and starts a rough sketch of Hot Guy getting hit by a tourist bus in Times Square. It would serve him right, the wifi-stealing freeloader.
~
On Thursday morning, Steve shoves his messenger bag—and its secret contents—deep under the counter where Natasha can't get to it and bides his time until she leaves. Since she ignored his complaints about his missing cleaning supplies yesterday afternoon, he's decided she's a kleptomaniac and not to be trusted around bleach, disinfectant, paper towels, sponges, and so forth.
The moment she's gone, he grabs his plastic gloves and canister of contraband bleach wipes and heads to the bathroom. One way or another, that room is getting clean.
His mom used to say that cleaning relaxed her, but it has the opposite effect for Steve. Every minute he spends on his knees, scrubbing suspicious stains off the side of the toilet, he becomes more bitter. Making the bathroom usable is not his fucking job, and not something he would have signed on for, no matter how much money was on the table. But his pride's been stung so badly that he can't let this go. His boss may try to steal his supplies, but he deserves a decent place to take a piss, god damn it! Even if that means clandestine cleaning sprees behind her back.
His fury sustains him through the grunge on the mirror, the scuzz at the bottom of the sink, the hard-to-reach spider webs on the ceiling, and the dead cockroach under the garbage can. Cleaning that bathroom is one of the worst things he's ever done in his life, and the very worst thing he's ever done to himself...because Steve is a fucking idiot who didn't think about ventilation. By the time he's finishing up, he can hardly breathe for the concentrated bleach fumes inflaming his lungs.
Light-headed, he stumbles out of the bathroom and strips off the gloves. He wheezes as he grabs for his bag and the rescue inhaler at the bottom. The inhaler nearly fumbles out of his grip when he shakes it—stupid to be alone, stupid to ignore the warning sensations for so long—and he shoves it in his mouth and inhales deeply to get the medicine into his lungs. He slaps a hand over his mouth and doubles over, fighting the urge to cough, trying to hold the medicine in his lungs for as long as he can. One-two-three-four. He exhales on a cough, wheezes, coughs again, and takes another puff, holding it for longer. Three-four-five-six.
He coughs again and hangs onto the counter as his inhalations gradually become easier, until he's no longer gasping for breath.
And then the door bells chime.
Steve looks up through watery eyes to see someone standing in the doorway. Dark jacket, broad shoulders, face swimming into focus...but Steve already knows who it's going to be, because it's just his rotten luck.
"Hey," Hot Guy says, approaching slowly.
Steve swipes at his eyes and forces a smile to cover his humiliation. "Hi. Coffee?"
"Yes, please," Hot Guy says, and flicks on the wifi. Then he sits right there, perched on one of the bar stools, instead of strolling to the brick wall and low table he's seemed to prefer.
Flustered, Steve turns his back on the gorgeous guy to collect himself. God, he's sweaty, flushed, and still shaky from the asthma attack. If he could breathe in the bathroom right now, he'd splash cold water on his face to settle himself down in private. Instead, he raises his t-shirt to swipe at his face a few times and rinses his trembling hands in the wash-up sink.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine," Steve croaks. It takes a few tries to pour the coffee without spilling, but he manages to get a cup filled and handed to the guy without making any more of a mess. He spots his inhaler lying on the counter and stuffs it in his bag.
"You know, it smells a little different in here," Hot Guy says.
What the hell does he mean by that, Steve wonders, but the guy jerks his thumb toward the bathroom, where light spills from the open doorway.
"You doing some cleaning?"
"Just trying to make the place livable," Steve says, defensive.
"Make sure it doesn't kill you in the process, huh?"
"Yeah. I'll do that," he says, pride still smarting from the scene Hot Guy walked in on.
Steve takes a few deep breaths to make sure he can, then holds his breath and hurries to grab the bleach canister and turn off the light, covering his tracks. He tucks the discarded gloves in the trash while he's at it.
"I'm Bucky," the guy says when Steve gets back, and holds out his hand across the counter.
"Steve." He's a little unsteady, and he can feel a headache coming on, but he tamps down on the lingering pall of self-consciousness and musters a polite smile and handshake for the guy.
"Pleased to meet you, Steve," Bucky says. He pulls out his tablet like he plans on spending his entire afternoon sitting three feet away from Steve.
"Likewise," Steve mutters, not sure what to make of this change in the guy's routine. Eventually he pulls out a sketchpad and tries to focus on something to draw.
He picks Lunch Guy again, even though he hasn't arrived yet; Steve liked the newsstand scene, liked the lines of the character. He picks a new setting, a bench in Prospect Park, and sets Lunch Guy there with his novel.
After a few minutes Bucky looks up from his tablet and notices Steve's sketching. "Nice work," he says, then leans closer. "Hey, I know that guy. He's the one with the liverwurst sandwiches, right?"
Steve shrugs and doesn't look up. "Mostly. I took a few liberties." Crow's feet around his eyes, a hint of a dimple in his cheek, the nose less imposing—Steve made a warmer version of the man, the way Steve hopes he looks when he isn't here in this rundown coffee shop.
"That's really good. You should draw me."
Steve bristles at his casual entitlement. He throws back, just to be contrary, "What makes you think I haven't?"
"Aw, you're gonna flatter me. You been drawing me?"
"I didn't say I had."
"Didn't say you hadn't, either."
Steve smirks to himself. There's a rather unflattering bus-crash sketch that would prove Bucky right, but he isn't going to tell him that.
After a minute, Bucky sighs noisily and shifts on his seat. "So are you an artist?"
"Yeah," Steve says.
"No shit, for real? You sell your stuff?"
Steve nods. "I've sold a few. And I've got some pieces up in a gallery in Williamsburg."
Bucky whistles, and Steve has to look up at that. He maybe likes the shape of it on Bucky's mouth, likes the impressed look on Bucky's face.
"You're that kind of artist huh? I suppose if you did draw me, I'd have to pay you or something."
Steve very deliberately doesn't admit it would be a pleasure to stare at Bucky's handsome face long enough to do it justice. But then he remembers— "Speaking of paying." He glances at the untouched cup next to Bucky's tablet.
"Oh right, sorry." Bucky reaches behind him to pull out his wallet. His leather jacket drags back with the movement, and Steve catches a glimpse of a leather holster under his armpit, the textured grip of a handgun.
He inhales sharply, feels the air scrape at his raw throat and tries not to cough for a minute. Bucky watches him evenly, two singles in his hand.
"It doesn't bother you, does it? I have a permit for it."
"Um, no. It's fine," Steve says. He isn't sure if he's actually fine with it, but he needs a few minutes to sort out how he feels. So he takes the money and notes it in the ledger, then fusses with the coffee pot, nearly full with the coffee neither of them is drinking.
When he turns back around, Bucky is still watching him, unexpectedly patient, like he expects more questions and doesn't mind.
"What do you have it for?" Steve asks. Not that it'll make a difference. Either Steve is fine with it, or he isn't. After so many arguments with Sam about the merits of the Second Amendment, and Steve's opinion that anyone who feels the need to carry a gun is either paranoid or a bully, there's really no point in asking.
"I work late shifts, doing security in Red Hook."
A security guard carrying for a job. That's different, isn't it? Steve considers for a minute and finds he can live with that, probably.
He's spared from giving an answer by Lunch Guy's arrival, 12:05 on the dot. Relieved to let the awkward subject drop, Steve goes back to his sketching.
After a few minutes, he realizes Bucky has turned sideways to stare at the other customer.
"What are you doing?" Steve hisses.
"Something's wrong," Bucky mutters, and Steve feels a frisson of concern, thinks about Bucky's gun, what kind of instincts a security guard has...until Bucky grabs Steve's sketchpad and twists it to face him. "The nose. That's not his nose," Bucky says, triumphant.
"No, it's not. It's called creative license," Steve hisses. "And also plausible deniability. I'm not gonna sell a picture with that guy's actual face on it! That would be so rude."
"You can't possibly think that guy's gonna go art shopping in Williamsburg."
"You don't know that he won't! Besides, when I'm the greatest living artist in the world, he'll see my art everywhere," Steve says, jaw stuck out in defiance.
Bucky laughs, brazen and full-throated in a way Steve shouldn't find charming, but kind of does. "Sure, Steve. You keep telling yourself that."
Steve gives him the finger, down low where Lunch Guy won't see it, and tries not to feel pleased that Bucky remembers his name.
Lunch Guy leaves at 12:55, and when Steve looks up to watch him leave, he catches Bucky eyeballing Steve instead. Steve would get his hackles up, but he knows that kind of look, knows what it means. He pretends he doesn't notice Bucky checking him out and waves goodbye to his only other regular customer instead.
Steve knows he's a good-looking guy, especially to guys interested in a certain type, and he's flattered and gratified to find that Bucky is that kind of guy. He also has a better idea why Bucky chose to sit at the counter today.
He returns to his sketchpad, hyper-aware of Bucky's gaze, the subtle tilt of Bucky's head in his periphery every time he lifts his attention from his tablet and onto Steve. It's no accident that Steve's charcoal pencil comes to rest against his lower lip, dragging down just the slightest bit. Bucky shifts on his stool, and Steve resists the instinct to smile, enjoying the moment too much. It's by far the best time he's had all week.
"So you're new here," Bucky says out of nowhere.
Steve looks up and blinks slowly to draw attention to his eyelashes. Maria says they're "lethal." He slides the pencil along his lip and says, "Yeah. You noticed, huh?"
"Yeah," Bucky agrees, his eyes dropping to Steve's lips for a few seconds. "Kind of hard not to."
"Thanks," Steve drawls. He gives Bucky a smile and receives one in return.
It's been two weeks since Steve got laid. Not since Maria's birthday night at Metropolitan, her and Peggy egging him on, sending him to the bathroom with...Julio something? Fuck if Steve can remember his name. But then the art supply store he managed had gone under, and he'd been so busy looking for a new job, he hadn't had the time or inclination to get laid.
But now, he really fucking does.
"You uh, you want to get coffee sometime?" Steve asks, and winces at how idiotic that sounds in this setting. Right, forget the word games. "I mean better coffee. Somewhere else. Like back at my place...."
Bucky sets down his tablet, his stare so blatant Steve knows he's made his intentions clear. Bucky's gaze rakes over Steve's button-down shirt, his hands, his mouth, his hair—Steve brushes his thick, blond bangs off his forehead, preening a little.
"I'm not that interested in coffee," Bucky says, "and my job doesn't allow time for afterhours socializing. But I'll tell you what...." He leans over the counter, licking his lips, and Steve sways forward. "I would really love to blow you. Right now."
Steve is taken aback by Bucky's direct approach, but he has to give points for cutting to the chase. "Uh, that's not a good idea," Steve says.
"Why not? Right here, right now. I'd get down there, behind the counter, and even if anyone came in, they wouldn't see a thing."
Steve can picture it, clear as day, Bucky on his knees below the counter sucking him off, and holy shit, Steve is actually considering having sex at his job—the high-paying job he lucked into after two excruciating weeks pounding the pavement—what the hell is wrong with him? So no, no way. "Not gonna happen," he says, voice a little strangled. He's gripping the edge of the counter to keep from adjusting his hardening dick in his jeans.
Bucky licks his lips, looks him up and down again, and shrugs. "Too bad," he says, and returns to his tablet.
Five minutes later, Steve hasn't drawn a damn thing. He's still thinking about Bucky's lips around his cock, that perfect face looking up at him, blue eyes gone wide and dark. Knowing Bucky wants to do it just makes the temptation that much worse. Frustrated, Steve gestures at Bucky's tablet and asks, "What are you doing on that thing all day?"
"Words with Friends," Bucky says, and tilts it so Steve can see the game board.
"Crosswords?"
"Only to the uninitiated."
"And you're using the wifi for that?"
Bucky smirks like he knows how jealous Steve is about his wifi access. And Steve isn't going to rise to his bait, he's cool, it doesn't bother him at all that he has to stand outside anytime he wants to check his texts or his e-mail or how to spell 'cocksure asshole'—
"Seriously, how do you know the password?"
"The last barista sold it to me for five bucks." Bucky's smile turns sly, predatory. "I can sell it back to you. Real cheap. Just let me come back there for a few minutes...."
"Fuck off, no!" Steve laughs despite himself. A cocksure asshole he may be, but he's fun, too.
"You're missing out," Bucky assures him. "I'm awesome at blowjobs. Best on the block, no contest."
"Yeah? You think you're better than me?"
Bucky grins. "I like my odds. But I'd go head-to-head with you right here to see who's the better man."
Steve rolls his eyes. "Still ain't happening."
Bucky hums like he doesn't believe him and goes back to his game.
The coffee pot beeps a while later, preparing to shut off the warming function. Steve looks at Bucky's untouched cup and says, "You're never gonna drink that, are you?"
Bucky smiles but doesn't stop tapping when he answers, "Never drink something the bartenders won't drink themselves."
Steve sits up straight, indignant. "This is about me? What if I just don't like coffee?"
"Do you? Not like coffee?"
"I don't know, I've never tried it."
Bucky looks up, surprised.
"Ulcers," Steve explains. "I figured I can have coffee or I can have alcohol, but my stomach can't handle both. So I picked the more sociable option."
Bucky doesn't seem to know what to say to that. After a long moment he says, "Sorry, I didn't mean.... That's my bad. Anyway, I don't drink the coffee here because it's lousy."
Oh come on, Steve is trying, damn it! "What's wrong with my coffee?" Okay, he maybe sounds a tad aggressive. But there's not a lot he could do differently—it's grounds and water in a percolator. How is he messing that up?
"The beans. They're old as shit. I can smell it, it's...flat. There's no life to it."
An anvil drops on Steve's shoulders, snapping his spine and his spirit. "They're.... The beans are bad?"
"Smells like it to me. How much do you guys have here?"
"Like, five big boxes," Steve says, and Bucky winces.
"Jesus. Already roasted? When were the expiration dates? No, don't tell me; I don't want to know."
Steve doesn't want to either. But he's already sure that Bucky's right, because it fits, doesn't it? If these assholes have set him up running their nasty little shop, with filthy floors and that disgusting bathroom that nearly killed him, serving flat, expired coffee to the bare handful of customers he gets all day, he's going to.... He swears he's going to....
He launches himself off his stool and heads for the storage room, so angry he can barely see straight.
"Wow, you look like you're gonna murder somebody," Bucky says, and Steve spins around, hands balled into fists.
"I think I am," Steve agrees.
"Look, it's not gonna kill anyone. Liverwurst-dude, he's been drinking it for months, and he's fine. It's just bad fucking coffee. And anyone coming to a dump like this would be a fool to expect better."
That stings like a slap to the face. Steve had really thought he could make something of this place. With a little elbow grease, a small personal investment, maybe he could turn it around. But the espresso machine has been vandalized, he's already lost $60 of stolen cleaning supplies, and if he has to buy fresh coffee on top of that, when the people in charge don't seem to want the place looking any better than a 'dump' anyway....
"Fuck it," Steve decides. His job is an awful joke, and if nothing else good is coming of the last three days, Steve is at least going to get sucked off by a fucking GQ-looking security guard while he has the chance. He glances at the front windows; the sidewalk looks as empty as ever, but he still doesn't have the guts to do it in the front room. Which leaves the storage room.
"Come with me," Steve says, and heads down the hall.
"Where are you going?" Bucky asks, and Steve hears the creak of his stool as he rises to follow him.
"You promised me the best blow job on the block. I assume that wasn't just an empty boast. Unless you're all talk and no action."
Steve walks into the storage room and glares at the boxes of old coffee beans, thinks about checking those dates after all. And then Bucky's hands land on his shoulders, turning him around and pressing him against the wall.
"I'm going to blow your fucking mind," Bucky says. He shuts the door and crowds in close, palming Steve's cock through his jeans.
"Still just big words," Steve says, pushing against Bucky's weight, daring him to get started. "If you've got the skills, you're gonna have to prove it. So put up or shut up."
"The mouth on you," Bucky mutters into his ear, and then bites the lobe, making Steve gasp. Steve gropes for his own fly, his cock getting harder by the second. He unzips and shoves at his jeans, but can't get them down his hips with Bucky's thigh wedged between his legs.
"Come on and do it already," Steve pants, keyed up and frustrated that Bucky's still nuzzling his neck instead of getting to work. The nagging awareness that the shop is unlocked, that Natasha could walk through the front door at any moment, should have his erection fading. The fact that it just makes him harder has Steve wondering if maybe he wants to get himself caught back here. He groans and jerks his hips against Bucky's thigh, rubbing for sweet friction.
Bucky wrenches himself away and sheds his leather jacket, slings it across the broken stool. Steve takes a second to appreciate Bucky's toned chest, wide shoulders, and flat stomach in a well-fitted t-shirt. Steve's pulse cranks up another notch at the sight of the gun and holster, which Bucky doesn't seem interested in taking off, Jesus. He looks like something out of a military fetish magazine.
Bucky kicks at the flattened pieces of cardboard and slides one in front of Steve, where he drops to his knees, right at Steve's feet. "Fuck fuck fuck," Steve hisses, and Bucky grins up at him, drags Steve's jeans and boxers down, and leans in close to lick at the head of his cock. "Oh, fuck yeah."
Bucky grabs Steve's cock and starts licking in earnest, long strokes up to the head, popping it in to swirl around the crown, and then trailing his tongue back down again. Steve couldn't close his eyes if he wanted to, vision glued to the smug curl of Bucky's lips, the obscene slide of Steve's cock into his wet, wet mouth before he presses kisses down the side. He finds a spot that makes Steve's right knee buckle for a second, and Steve can feel him chuckling on his dick.
Resentment over the state of the shop is still sizzling in Steve's blood, and Bucky's teasing sets it off, makes him want to lash out. "That all you got? Come on, I thought you were really gonna give it to me," Steve snaps, and Bucky's laugh turns into a growl, which, yeah, fuck, that feels absolutely amazing.
Bucky stops teasing and goes down on him for real, slow and deep. Steve's cock brushes the back of Bucky's throat, and Steve whimpers, then groans as Bucky adjusts the angle and lets Steve slide on down.
"Son of a bitch," Steve hisses, "that's it, show me how it's fucking done, yeah."
Bucky rolls his eyes at him, amused. But he swallows once and starts bobbing his head, slutty lips wrapped tight, excruciatingly handsome face wide open, looking like he loves every minute of it, possibly as much as Steve loves it. And oh my god does Steve love it. Bucky wasn't lying; he's sucking every rational thought out of Steve's brain, better than Steve's ever had it. One of Bucky's hands slides under Steve's shirt, strokes over his belly and presses firmly, holding him in place while Bucky's other hand rolls Steve's balls.
"So good," Steve says, his fingers sliding into Bucky's long hair, twisting and tugging to get him going faster. Steve's almost there, almost. "How're you so good at this, fuck. You fucking love it." He tugs harder, and Bucky seems to take it as a goad, redoubling his efforts, suction and friction and the tight, tight heat as he swallows one more time. "Shiiit," Steve slurs, orgasm slamming through him. His fingers pull hard and his head hits the wall. Bucky keeps on swallowing until Steve's done, petting Steve's belly and humming with pleasure.
Steve gasps and pats at Bucky's hair, tries to smooth it back in place with clumsy hands. For the second time today, he feels like he'll never catch a proper breath again, but this time he doesn't really mind. He doesn't mind anything at all right now. Bucky nuzzles at his hip, sighs heavily, and stands up, towering over Steve. He smirks with those plush red lips, looking deliciously used. "Told you."
"Mmph," is all Steve can manage. His wrist bumps Bucky's gun when he reaches up to pet his chest, and Steve barely notices.
"You should probably get back up front, before you get in trouble," Bucky says, his voice solicitous but a taunt in his eyes. "Unless you need a few minutes to compose yourself."
"Fuck you," Steve huffs and gropes for Bucky's jeans, wrenches the fly down, and gets his hand on Bucky's dick.
"Fuck me," Bucky agrees, and slumps against the wall next to Steve.
"This gonna do it for you?" Steve asks, his dry fingers catching a few beads of precum as Bucky starts leaking. He's a nice handful, long and thick, and Steve adjusts his grip to accommodate the awkward angle between their bodies. "Huh? Is this all it takes? Just a dick in your mouth and a loose handjob, and you're done?"
"Shut up," Bucky grumbles, face pressed into Steve's sweaty hair. He rocks his hips into Steve's grip, looking for more friction.
"I thought you wanted to see what I can do. Head-to-head, you said." Bucky's arms are wrapped around Steve's waist, and he squeezes tight in response to Steve's teasing. And Steve can't help the trash talk spilling from his lips, his anger mostly subsided except for this merciless need to taunt, to challenge. To see what Bucky will do. "You're already set to blow aren't you? Bet you'd come as soon as I hit my knees. Wouldn't even get you in my mouth before you came all over me—"
"Oh my god, just shut the hell up," Bucky snarls, and hauls Steve's face up for a kiss. He's found the best way to make Steve stop talking, Steve has to agree. He goes with it, sucking on Bucky's tongue as he twists his fingers around his cock, giving him extra pressure just below the ridge, right where he seems to like it best. Bucky moans, and Steve nips at his lower lip. He loves the way Bucky tastes like him, the way he smells like linen and leather, the way he feels, hot and solid against him and in his hand, his hips snapping as he gets close.
Steve lets him go long enough to lick his thumb, and then cups his hand and thumbs over the head, wet and firm on sensitive flesh, until Bucky comes with a whimper, jolting against him. Bucky goes easy and gorgeously loose then, sagging against the wall and against Steve's shoulder, lips slack, and Steve leans up to steal another kiss and another after that before finally letting him go.
Bucky makes an annoyed face and reaches for Steve again, but Steve dodges.
"Looks like you're the one who needs to take a few minutes," Steve teases. Bucky glares at him, and Steve laughs. "Yeah, you take your time." He sticks his head out into the hall, making sure nothing's changed at the front of the shop, and then heads to the bathroom to clean up.
The bleach fumes have mostly dissipated, and Steve barely notices the lingering smell as he wipes his dick with a damp paper towel and washes his hands. When he looks in the mirror, he doesn't immediately recognize the sated, exultant expression on his face. He looks like someone who just robbed a casino and got away with it. It's not a bad look for him, he decides, savoring the high.
Bucky looks alternately awestruck and disconcerted when he settles back on his stool a few minutes later, like he isn't sure what to make of Steve anymore.
Steve likes not being a stereotype or a foregone conclusion. He solicitously dumps Bucky's cold coffee cup and gives him a cup of city water instead.
"Thanks," Bucky says, surprised.
"You're welcome," Steve says, and keeps smiling.
~
If Natasha smells any traces of sex or bleach when she locks up that afternoon, she doesn't say anything.
Steve gives her an unimpeachable smile goodbye and heads up the hill to his bus stop, not guilty at all.
~
Bucky arrives later than usual on Friday, while Steve is eating his PB&J sandwich.
Steve's mouth waters at the sight of Bucky sitting across from him again, hair a little damp from the rain, a black tee shirt under a green motorcycle jacket today, and a cocky grin on his perfect lips. He looks even better than Steve remembers...and Steve remembers every second of Bucky on his knees for him, sucking his cock. He gulps and tries not to choke on his sandwich.
"Hey, sunshine. Miss me?" Bucky asks, and switches on the wifi.
Steve isn't even mad about it. That's probably a bad sign.
Fifteen minutes of increasingly obvious innuendo later, Lunch Guy draws Steve's attention by packing up early and stalking out, looking offended. Steve feels a passing moment of guilt for disrupting what was doubtless a quiet reading spot before he and Bucky started their aggressive flirtation.
But since they no longer have an audience....
"Being naked is a natural state," Steve explains to Bucky, letting a coy smile play along his lips. "And there's nothing shameful about my body."
Bucky's eyes track up and down the body in question, his lips parting.
"Every artist needs the chance to work with a live human model if they're going to perfect their skills. This is my way of giving back to the community, to anyone who wants to use me."
"I can't believe you actually pose nude at the community center," Bucky sputters. "I thought only desperate college students did that."
Steve rolls his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug that shows off his collarbones and throat. "The extra money's nice, I'm not gonna lie. But having a roomful of strangers ogling me is a perk all by itself."
Bucky looks like he's swallowed his tongue.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go brush my teeth," Steve says, and saunters off to the bathroom with his messenger bag, leaving Bucky stewing in frustrated arousal behind him.
The bathroom is spotless, and all his. Steve takes a moment to appreciate the bastion of cleanliness and normalcy he's carved out here. He's kept the door closed while Natasha's around, so she still thinks it's a mess, and he doesn't have to let any customers come back here if he doesn't want. It's his private sanctuary that nobody knows about—
Somebody knocks on the door, and Steve spits into the sink, startled by the coincidence. He opens the door to find Bucky leaning against the doorframe, one hand running through his hair like he's posing for a magazine cover. And Steve will gladly buy whatever he's selling.
Bucky smiles, slow and tempting. "We never finished our wager yesterday."
"What wager?"
"A head-to-head competition...."
Oh. Yes, please. "We can't keep doing this here," Steve says, feigning disapproval, and bends down to rinse his mouth out. He doesn't want Bucky to see how eager he is just yet.
"Why not? The place is empty; nobody ever comes in."
"You came in. And so did Lunch Guy. And a couple ladies the other day, and—"
"Whoop-dee-fucking-doo," Bucky says. "They're not here right now. So what do you say we stop kidding around and get busy?" He waggles his eyebrows, hopeful, and Steve can't help himself.
"I shouldn't reward a line like that," Steve laughs. "But get your ass in here and sit down."
Bucky hurriedly obeys, hooking the door shut and sitting on the closed toilet seat.
"Cock out, let's go," Steve says as he settles onto his knees on the hard floor.
"I guess foreplay's dead," Bucky sighs. He unzips his tight jeans and shimmies his hips as he drags his cock out of his boxers.
"Who needs foreplay? All I care about is winning." And before Bucky can challenge him on that, Steve ducks his head and gives Bucky's cock a strong suck...and Bucky doesn't get another coherent word out for a very long time.
~
Back out at the counter, Bucky snags Steve's sketchpad. Steve doesn't try to stop him, indulgent in victory.
Bucky starts at the beginning and flips through. "These are...." Bucky says on the third page, but doesn't finish.
Steve is too proud to fish for compliments, so he distracts himself by wiping down Lunch Guy's table with a paper towel.
"Are these the final pieces?" Bucky asks.
Steve drifts closer to peek over Bucky's shoulder. He's stopped on an image of a young girl climbing onto a bike while her older brother steadies it. "No, they're just sketches, like...shorthand. I do the finished versions in watercolors."
"They're good. I figure you know that, though."
Steve stifles the deflections he usually makes and settles on something honest. "I like hearing when people like my work."
"I like it. A lot," Bucky says. "I'd love to see what the finished product looks like."
That particular painting is stacked in his apartment, intended for display at his first gallery opening in SoHo, once he has enough saved to afford the rental space. For now, he could invite Bucky back to his place, show him his collection and his workspace, take him to his bedroom and get Bucky fully naked for once. But something about their current...arrangement...feels impersonal, opportunistic. Hell, he already asked Bucky out yesterday, and Bucky said no.
"I'll send you an invitation when I finally display it," Steve says instead.
"Yeah, thanks," Bucky says. "What color is her hair?"
"Strawberry blonde," Steve says. Another creative liberty. The original girl he'd spotted on the sidewalk had light blonde hair with tangled bangs. This close to Bucky's profile, Steve notes the way his dark hair, fashionably long on top, arches from a dramatic widows peak just to the top of his ear, before the trimmed sides swoop into the clean line of his sideburn, and the tempting path of stubble along his jaw. "Why?" Steve asks, distracted by his study of Bucky's striking features.
"She reminds me of my little sister," Bucky says, and strokes the edge of the page. "I haven't seen her in a couple years. I should call her later." And then he skips ahead a few pages and starts laughing. "You did draw me!"
Steve shoves his hands in his pockets and rounds the counter to a more defensible position. "Didn't say I hadn't. Anyway, I haven't gotten around to finishing it yet."
"Does that mean there's still time to avoid this tragic fate?" Bucky gestures at the bus bumper inches from Bucky's face, attractive despite the rictus of horror and Steve's best attempts to ruin his looks.
"Only Superman could get to you quick enough," Steve says. "And he's copyrighted. So I guess there's no hope for you."
"Well, at least I'll make a pretty corpse. Yolo, right?"
Steve is about to give Bucky some serious shit for saying 'yolo' when the bells chime, and two men in gray, zip-up tracksuits walk in. There's an arrogant set to their shoulders, and their noses look like they've been busted a few times apiece. Steve can already tell they're going to be assholes. Nice guys don't get punched that many times.
...which also makes Steve an asshole, but he owns that.
"Good afternoon," Steve calls, forcing politeness.
They amble toward a table, turn the chairs to face Steve, and sit down. "Coffee," one of the men grunts, and taps the tabletop with a meaty finger.
Steve's spine stiffens, and his jaw sticks out, even as his rational brain points out that it isn't unheard of for a coffee shop to offer table service. Choking down his indignation, Steve grabs the pot and two Styrofoam cups and walks around the counter to serve them.
He pours both cups, places them in front of his customers, and says, "That'll be four dollars."
The big guy glances at the even-bigger guy and sneers in a Brooklyn accent, "He thinks we're gonna pay."
Steve can't say he's surprised. He plants a hand on his hip and says, "If you're not going to pay, I'll have to throw you out."
They laugh, of course. "Sure you will, runt."
"You want to try me?" Steve asks. He sets the coffee pot down on the counter and raises his fists.
They laugh even harder. "And who's gonna back you up? That guy?" One of them points a finger in Bucky's direction, and Steve gets even angrier. He'll handle this himself; he doesn't need Bucky's help to—
"Hey, let's everybody settle down, alright?" Bucky says, sounding relaxed, unworried. "Nobody wants a fight."
"If they don't pay, they have to leave," Steve repeats firmly.
"You really want to start a fight over the worst cup of coffee in Brooklyn? Come on, Steve, drop it before you get hurt. Guys, come on, he's just a little guy. Leave him alone, alright? Take your coffees and clear out."
That hits like a dagger in the back. Steve glares at Bucky, still sitting easy on his barstool, smiling benignly...except not quite. Because Steve knows the shape of Bucky's eyes when he's really smiling, knows all the wrinkles and the way his forehead smooths out. And Bucky is not as pleased as he's pretending to be right now.
Still, Steve is fucking pissed off.
The bigger guy slaps his buddy's arm and says, "He's so skinny your mom could kick his ass."
They both laugh at this awful joke, not intimidated one iota by Steve's boxing stance. He wants to lunge at them, to swing first and wipe those smirks off their faces. But Bucky is watching, and for some reason, Steve doesn't want Bucky to see him get pummeled today.
His customers stand up to leave, stepping into Steve's space as a final taunt, so he has to either answer the challenge or give ground. And he gives. They pick up their cups and leave, still laughing about how bad the shop is, how stupid Steve is.
His pride damns him for a coward, even as his rational brain points out the futility of provoking a fight they were walking away from. Steve's only consolation is the knowledge they're drinking expired coffee grounds. Also, he didn't get punched in the face, which is a not-unwelcome deviation from his usual encounters with bullies. But he's misjudged Bucky, who didn't have his back at all. Not that Steve wanted his help, but all Bucky did was insult Steve.
Disgusted, he repositions the chairs around the table, takes up the coffee pot, and rounds the counter to dock it back in the machine. He isn't speaking to Bucky for the rest of the day.
And then Bucky says, "I'm sorry, Steve. That was some lousy shit to say about you, and I'm sorry for it."
Steve turns around, incredulous, the pot still in his hand. Bucky's looking at him intently, sincere. Steve doesn't mean to respond, "Then why'd you say it?" But he really wants to hear the answer.
"I didn't want you to get hurt—physically," he adds, when Steve scoffs. "So I hurt your pride instead."
Steve isn't sure what to make of this rare breed of honesty and self-awareness. "You could've just helped me. Two against two, it would've been a fair fight."
"I have a gun," Bucky reminds him, his gaze heavy as he lets that sink in. "That's never going to be fair. And don't say I should've waved it around to scare them off. That's not what guns are for."
Steve has no context for this discussion, and he's unexpectedly fascinated. So he stares and hopes Bucky will elaborate.
Bucky obliges. "The certification course I took— You only draw a gun when you're willing to use it. It's not something I'd ever take lightly. And if you'd gotten hurt, I would've had to draw my weapon. So I took the safest route out of the fight, where only your feelings got hurt. And I'm sorry about doing that."
Steve pictures what Bucky's just described, Steve knocked down, and Bucky drawing his gun on two unarmed men...and yeah, okay, Steve doesn't want Bucky to have to do that, either. Mollified, he sets the pot back in the machine and considers. He likes how Bucky talks about his gun, likes how serious he is about that responsibility. And even if he would've preferred that Bucky come off the bench swinging for him, like Peggy or Sam would've, he can see some value in Bucky keeping his cool while Steve blew his lid.
After a long moment he says, "Apology accepted," and watches Bucky's posture relax. "But no more 'Little Guy' cracks, okay? Or you're the one who's going to get punched."
"Or hit by a bus, I get it," Bucky says. His watch beeps, signaling 2:45, and he slides off his stool. "I gotta get to work. Don't start any more fights today."
"No promises," Steve says.
"I'll see you on Tuesday. Be good." And with a wink, Bucky heads out the door.
Steve has a sudden impulse to follow and kiss him goodbye. But it's not like they're dating or anything.
~
That night he goes to his favorite bar with Maria, Sam, and Peggy to drink some pints and shoot pool. Mostly Sam plays pool, winning rack after rack while the rest of them ignore his gloating and buy his drinks for the night. Steve's on his third beer when Peggy asks about his new job—when can they come get free coffee from their best friend the barista? She knows a terrific Russian bakery in Brighton Beach, it's probably right around the corner....
Steve shudders at the image of his friends walking into that dump, having to serve them lousy coffee; no, there's no way Steve is inviting them to experience Café Mamochka for themselves. "I don't think it's working out," he says, finally sharing what he decided yesterday. "I'm gonna work my last shift tomorrow and start the job hunt again."
They commiserate and buy him an order of mild buffalo wings to feed his sorrows, but there's nothing Steve's going to miss about that place. Except maybe Bucky. And not just the casual sex, even, but the time they spent flirting, too.
Steve bites into a wing and thinks how awesome it would've been to get Bucky's phone number before he left.
~
On Saturday morning, Natasha changes up the routine. She unlocks the door at 10:30 and tells Steve that the owner is stopping by later in the morning. "I need to get the accounts ready. Bring your ledger to my office."
Steve complies, delivering the heavy book with its carefully documented record of coffee sales. Not that he sees much point to it, as his sales for the last four days totaled just $22.
He stands in her office doorway, passes her the book, and watches in shock as she rips out the first two pages, the ones she'd taught him how to fill out, and runs the pages through a shredder.
"What are you doing!"
She smiles pleasantly. "Book keeping. Now go out front and make sure you look busy when the owner arrives. He doesn't like slackers in his organization."
Steve goes, completely baffled. Something is very wrong, both with her accounting practices and how she runs the shop. He has a growing suspicion that she's been taking advantage of the absentee owner's trust to steal from him. She's pretty clearly not taking care of the business: the sabotaged espresso machine; the coffee grounds that expired 18 months ago; and hiring Steve, whose experience with brewing coffee has gone from zero to negative-two just by setting foot in this place.
Well, when the owner arrives, Steve will try to get some answers about what's going on and see if he can help the guy out. Determined, Steve starts a pot of terrible coffee brewing and waits.
Half an hour later, the bells chime. He looks up, expecting to see an elderly couple teetering through the door, but stands abruptly when he recognizes the two big assholes from yesterday. They look right at him, glance cautiously around the shop, and zero back in on him again, scowling as they advance. And oh shit, Steve's about to get that beating after all. He balls his hands into fists, ready to go down swinging...
...and the bells chime again.
A man in his 50's enters, weekend-elegant in pressed slacks, polished shoes, and a camel-colored sweater in the kind of soft, expensive fabric Peggy always covets. The newcomer looks to the two men, who nod in unison, more dutiful than polite, and veer toward the same table as yesterday, the one closest to the door. The man's dark-eyed gaze lands on Steve for a moment, he says something in Russian to the men, and then heads down the back hallway as if he owns the place. Which he obviously does...just like he also owns those two thugs, who are watching Steve and the exit with none of the rude menace of yesterday, because today they're on duty, protecting their boss.
And oh. Everything clicks into place in one calamitous snap.
Oh no.
This is a mob business, and that man is Russian mafia. Brighton Beach; the shop they don't want anyone frequenting; cash-only; ledger shredding. Steve wants to vomit.
He ducks below the counter and crouches in a ball, head between his knees as he focuses on breathing. Before the office door closes, he hears Natasha greeting the man in Russian, followed by the whir of the shredder chewing through more incriminating evidence. Fuck his life, what the hell has he gotten himself into?
"Hey, skinny guy. Let's have some coffee!" one of the goons calls out. Steve cautiously peeks over the countertop to see them relaxing in their chairs, looking bored. "Pronto, chop chop!" he adds, and grins meanly when he spots Steve.
Steve curses under his breath and stands up to fuss with the coffee pot. He would rather walk out the front door and never look back, but he doesn't know what these men would do to him if he tried. Reluctantly, he fills two cups and sets them on the counter for them to take.
"Over here, princess," the other one says, and taps the table with a dull thud.
Steve gulps and raises his chin, determined not to show them how afraid he is. They're still just bullies. Who work for an organized crime syndicate and doubtless have lots of experience getting away with whatever brutality they feel like dishing out, but still. Just bullies who enjoy making other people cower in fear.
Steve forces a neutral expression and circles the counter to bring them their cups.
The bigger one takes a sip and grimaces. "How hard is it to brew decent fucking coffee? You're a fucking moron, aren't you? What'd I tell you, Alex?"
Steve bites his tongue. Antagonizing these men would be the stupidest thing he's ever done in his life—aside from getting accidentally recruited to work for the Russian mob. Which is why he isn't going to say, "Four dollars," to them in a snotty voice.
Only he just did.
"Buzz off," the one who isn't Alex says, and Steve's temper rises up with gleeful energy, blood rushing to his extremities as he prepares to fight.
"Make me," he says, stooping to their level.
Alex, the bigger one, rises to his feet and cracks his knuckles. "Do you wanna go?" he demands. "Do you really wanna go? With me? Because I will crush every bone in your body and piss on your fucking corpse, dude." He takes one threatening step forward, his massive arm swinging back with the inevitability of a pendulum.
Down the hall, the office door creaks open, and Natasha's voice cracks like a whip, "Leave my staff alone, meatheads, or I'll end you. Personally."
Steve catches a glimpse of her red hair and furious glare before she ducks back into the office and slams the door, leaving him on his own again.
But it worked. The goon lowers his fist, grumbling about skinny bitches and where he'd love to dump Natasha's body someday. The two men don't spare Steve another glance, ignoring him as they nurse their shitty coffee and dutifully watch the only exit.
Steve exhales with relief.
Over the following hour, the conversation in the back office becomes tense, escalating from low murmurs to what sound like dire threats, while the shredder chews angrily. Steve contemplates the steps necessary to get out of the building if violence breaks out. Vault over the counter, dodge past the goons' table, and make it out the front door without getting shot or grabbed. His chances are slim, but it's reassuring to have a plan.
By the time the boss leaves, his and Natasha's differences appear to have been resolved. They smile politely and say goodbye in English as she walks him through the shop, and she nods to his two men before they escort him out the door. And then she turns on Steve, and he instinctively ducks his head, too nervous to meet her eyes now that he knows who she is and who she works for.
"You've done a great job this week, Steve," she says, a smile in her voice as she slides an envelope onto the counter. "Here's your first paycheck—feel free to spend it all in one place if you want."
He stares at the envelope, questioning whether or not he can accept it.
"It's almost noon. We'll close up early today, and I'll see you on Tuesday."
"Actually," he blurts, and has to take a deep breath to muster the guts to continue. "This job really isn't for me. I'm not going to be coming back next week."
"Don't be ridiculous; you're perfect for this position. I'll see you on Tuesday, I'm sure of it." He glances up, checking to see if he imagined the menace in that statement, but she's smiling at him, warmth and approval in her eyes just like when she'd recruited him at that Starbucks.
"No, you won't," he says with more assurance. "I need to find something else, something...not here." He refrains from itemizing all the unhygienic and illegal ways this place sucks.
"Let's be real for a minute, Steve," she says, and sits on the stool across from him—Bucky's stool, Steve thinks, and immediately tries to shake that thought away. "You're a bright guy, and pretty honest from everything I've seen. No criminal record, a good credit score, your landlord liked you enough not to raise your rent last October, and your neighbors think you're a sweetheart."
Why the hell has she spoken to his neighbors, his landlord? Steve twitches and drops his gaze to the check on the counter.
"I really need somebody to keep this place open every day, and that somebody is going to be you. So I'll see you on Tuesday. Or I'll come knock on your door on St. Nicholas Avenue. And if you don't answer, I'll go see Maria Hill at the Public Defender's office. And Peggy Carter at Liberty Mutual. And Sam Wilson at the VA. Do I need to keep going?"
Steve feels the blood drain out of his face, almost lightheaded with how fast his pulse is racing.
When he doesn't immediately answer, she keeps going, her rich voice still low and charming. "If you make any large withdrawals from your savings account at Bank of America, I'll know. If you apply for a new credit card, I'll know. Those are warning-sign behaviors, and I don't tolerate them from my employees. I expect you to live a normal life, just like you did before. Work on your art, hang out with your friends, and show up to every shift with a smile on your face. That isn't too much to ask, is it, Steve?"
He shakes his head, mute.
"Perfect. Thanks again for a great first week. I'll see you on Tuesday." She picks up the envelope and holds it out to him.
Steve takes it, shoves it in his bag, and heads out the door as fast as he can go.
~
He stops running when he hits the boardwalk. A damp breeze sweeps off the ocean, chilling him until he puts on his coat and shoves his hands in the pockets. A pair of joggers dodges around him, a few kids chase the shrieking seagulls down on the beach, and to his right, the Coney Island rides spin slowly. Yet Steve feels entirely alone, like he's come to the end of the world and there's nowhere else to go, no one to talk to.
He can't believe he was so stupid to have missed it all week. It should've been obvious the moment he set foot in the little shop. Everything about the place was set up to keep customers out, and the way Natasha hamstrung his attempts to make it more appealing, to keep it looking like a dump....
But running a business poorly isn't illegal in and of itself. In fact, nothing he's seen is technically illegal; even Natasha's threats were all implied. He can guess at the money-laundering scheme she's running, and the mob's involvement seems obvious, but there's no proof for any of it, nothing he could take to the cops.
Well he's not going to keep working for the mob. He can't. But what other option does he have? He just tried to quit, but Natasha apparently wants to keep him, and no matter what angle he studies it from, it looks like she can. He remembers writing his friends' information down as his emergency contacts and feels his stomach twist with the knowledge that it's his fault, that anything that happens to them is on him. If he went to them for help, Sam would offer to call his old Ranger buddies and handle it Charles Bronson style. Maria and Peggy would suggest a civil suit or offer to hide him. Which would just paint targets on all of their backs—targets that Steve put there.
Fuck.
If he runs, his friends get hurt. If he fights back, they'll get hurt even worse. And if he stays.... If he stays, he's working for the mob, consciously, with no way out. Jesus, all he wanted was a fucking job! A steady paycheck so he wouldn't have to dip into his savings. He remembers his pride, watching as the amount in his savings account ticked slowly higher, closing in on affording his dream of a gallery opening in SoHo. For money, he got them all into this. It's his fault.
Steve lifts a hand to rub his nose and realizes it's shaking—he's shaking. Fear, helplessness, and guilt burn a hole in his stomach, and his vision blurs as he stares at the cold expanse of saltwater and gray clouds in front of him. He knuckles at his eyelids and wills the tears away before they form. He's suddenly furious with himself for crying over his own helplessness, when it's Natasha and her business associates who are doing this to him. And that's who he's most furious with.
Anger steadies his hand, even as the ball of icy rage in his chest threatens to crack him apart. There's only one safe way he knows to get it out of his system, if he doesn't have anyone to fight. He turns north and heads for a bus stop to take him back to Williamsburg, and to the heavy bag at his gym.
~
Natasha lets him in on Tuesday with another charming smile, as poisonously beautiful as ever. She asks if he did anything fun over the weekend, reminds him to take careful notes in the ledger, and generally pretends nothing's changed—that she doesn't have a gun to Steve's head to keep him here. He grits his teeth, nods, and tries not to let her see his anger and fear.
Everything's fine, he reminds himself. Everything's fine. It has to be.
He settles behind the counter and tries to clear his head, four-and-a-half bitter hours standing between him and temporary freedom. If he dwells on his predicament the whole time, he's going to go mad.
It's a relief when Bucky arrives at 11:30, earlier than his usual time.
Steve's pulse quickens, a flush of genuine pleasure and a dash of anticipation zipping through his veins. His cheeks threaten to pink, so he hops off his stool and flicks on the wifi himself, then busies himself fixing a cup. When he turns around, Bucky's settled onto his stool and beaming up at Steve.
"Hey, stranger," Bucky says.
"Hey yourself," Steve says, and hands him a cup of tap water.
Bucky looks at the water and raises his eyebrows. "Thanks. What do I owe you?"
"It's on the house."
"Well then I guess I really am mooching off the free wifi."
Bucky pulls out his tablet, and Steve looks away to conceal how happy he is to see him. Steve might be slightly infatuated, and the flush of that feeling settles warm in his chest, thawing the ice that held him immobilized all weekend.
Which reminds him....
Steve thinks about the sketchpad hidden in a box under his bed, the one with the sketches of the four mobsters: Natasha, the boss, and the goons. He spent Sunday recording every detail he could remember about their appearances, trying to capture their exact likenesses without any of his usual embellishments. What he'll use the sketches for, he doesn't know yet. But they gave him something to do while his exhausted shoulder muscles recovered from Saturday's workout—a pastime that wasn't drinking himself unconscious or staring at the wall in misery.
"Your security job—what is it you do, exactly?" he asks, before he remembers why this is a terrible idea. Because he went over this a dozen times this weekend, every time his thoughts circled back to Bucky. Bucky knows the shop. He might know something Steve doesn't, something that could break Steve free from Natasha's clutches. Or if it came to it...Bucky has a gun. He said he would use it if Steve got hurt. Well, Steve's hurting right now. What could it hurt just to ask him a couple questions—
No, he reminds himself angrily. If he wouldn't risk Sam's life getting him mixed up in a showdown with the Russian mafia, he's sure as hell not going to risk a stranger's life. No matter how friendly that stranger may be. Steve scowls, frustrated and worked up all over again, but Bucky doesn't seem to have noticed.
"A little patrolling, a lot of sitting behind a desk watching video cameras. Why, you interested in security work? Looking to do a little moonlighting?" Bucky asks, and he makes it sound suggestive, poking his tongue against the inside of cheek.
"Nah," Steve says, and chuckles weakly. "Just figured there couldn't be much strenuous going on, for you to have that spare tire around your waist."
Bucky gapes at him and then guffaws. He pushes his leather jacket aside, rolls up his tee shirt, and straightens on his stool to give Steve an unobstructed shot at a truly mouth-watering expanse of sculpted abs, not a bulge of fat to be seen. "You saying I'm fat, buddy? Yeah? How you like that? Take a nice long look at these beauties so you can sketch them later."
For a long moment, Steve forgets about how truly shitty his life is and just enjoys the view.
Until the percolator makes a strange clanking noise, followed by an extended, alarming whine.
"Oh my god, why is it doing that?" Steve demands, poking frantically at the buttons. The red 'power' light is flashing; is that supposed to mean something? His temper, simmering close to the surface for the past few days, boils over again, and he slaps the machine a couple times. No response. "Fuck, what is this, I can't!" he shouts, and yanks out the power cord.
The high-pitched whine mercifully stops.
"Hey, you got it!" Bucky says.
"Everything about this place is trying to kill me," Steve fumes. "It's evil. The purest form of evil I've ever seen. This fucking shithole should be burned to the ground."
"Wow," Bucky laughs, as though Steve is exaggerating. Steve shoots him a death glare, and Bucky throws up his hands in apology. "Sorry. Just, if you hate it that much, why not quit?"
"Of course I want to quit," Steve snaps. "I'm not an idiot. I just can't right now."
Bucky's lips wrinkle in concern. "Okay, got it. I'll drop it." He hesitates before adding gently, "I'm just saying, no job is worth being that miserable. So I hope you get out of here sooner than later."
And Steve's temper is soothed for the moment. But he can't very well explain that he's trapped in the employ of the mob. He makes himself shrug and say, "It'll happen. One day you'll come in here and there'll be a new barista to sell you the wifi password."
Bucky pouts. "I like the current setup."
"Because you're a cheapskate," Steve says, and tries not to feel touched at Bucky's sympathy.
~
By 12:30, it's obvious that Lunch Guy isn't coming. Steve feels another twinge of guilt for driving the guy's business away, but on the bright side, Lunch Guy's definitely safer wherever he is right now.
Another notable upshot of his absence is there's no one stopping Bucky from coming around the counter and crowding Steve up against the espresso machine.
"I was thinking about this all weekend," Bucky says against his temple, one hand edging along the waistband of Steve's jeans in the back, dipping in to trace along his crack.
"Me, too," Steve says, arms wound shamelessly around Bucky's neck.
"Should've gotten your number. Wanted to call you on Saturday night, come by your place and rock your fucking world."
"God, yeah," Steve agrees. Saturday night was bad, but Sunday night was worse, fingering himself while he jerked off, remembering Bucky's lips wrapped so sweetly around his cock. "You should fuck me right now."
"Really?" Bucky says, even as his fingers stroke down Steve's cleft, driving him mad. "Here?"
And sure, it's more complicated than a quickie blowjob, but Steve no longer gives a fuck what Natasha thinks of his job performance. Getting fired would be a dream come true at this point—as would getting Bucky's cock up his ass.
"Bathroom," Steve clarifies, and nudges Bucky until he leads the way.
With the door closed, Steve shoves Bucky's jacket off and traces his hands over Bucky's shoulders. Bucky follows his lead and folds the jacket atop the toilet lid, removes his holster and places it carefully on top. Steve kisses him once and then turns to face the sink, starts unbuttoning his jeans and toeing off his left shoe. Bucky comes up behind him, hands on Steve's hips to steady him.
Steve shoves his pants and underwear down to his knees, and Bucky shoves at the material, too, helps drag it down to his ankles. Steve kicks his left foot free so he can spread his legs and leans forward, pressing his bare ass against Bucky's jeans. An empty lube packet lands in the trashcan, and Bucky's wet fingers slide between his legs, rubbing teasingly over his hole. Steve pushes back as the first finger slips into him, feels it slide all the way in, and moans softly.
"Yeah? This what you wanted? What you needed?"
Steve nods and clenches around Bucky's finger, already wanting more.
"I bet you were thinking about this, huh." Bucky fucks him a few times with one finger and then pushes in a second, the lovely stretch of it just what Steve's been craving.
"All weekend," Steve pants. "Wish you'd fucking called me."
"Yeah," Bucky agrees, and kisses Steve's throat while his fingers work shallowly, scissoring to loosen him up. "I should've. I should've given you a real answer, too."
Steve doesn't know what Bucky's talking about, but he doesn't really care, not with Bucky's fingers going deep, crooking against his prostate. Steve's hips jerk, and Bucky rocks with him, holding him close while he does it again.
"Last week, when you asked me out," Bucky says. "I've been thinking about that, thinking I should've said yes. Taken you out on Saturday and back to my place. Spent the whole weekend with you in my bed, doing this."
And fuck yes, he should've. Steve rolls his hips, practically purring with pleasure. That would've been a much better weekend than the one he actually had, pacing and staring at the walls in misery, alone with the fear of Natasha knowing where he lives and who all of his neighbors are, the threat of mob guys banging down his friends' doors—
And oh, he can't.
"No," he gasps. "Not a good idea. Terrible idea."
Bucky slows the thrusts of his hand, and he looks up, meets Steve's eyes in the mirror. And that visual's just not fair, Steve thinks, part of him swooning over the way Bucky's muscular body dwarfs his in their reflection, even as Bucky's eyes narrow with confusion and hurt.
"I can't.... I can't date anyone right now. My life's a mess. It's not a good time, the worst time. Don't ask me that, please don't, I couldn't—"
Steve's shaking his head, and Bucky catches his chin with his free hand, keeps him still so Bucky can hold his gaze in the mirror. "It's okay, Steve, I get it." He kisses Steve's ear, his cheek. "It's okay."
And Steve wants to tell him that it really fucking isn't okay. Because Bucky could've brushed it off with a quick, 'I didn't mean it,' but he didn't. Instead, this amazing, funny, stunning man, whom Steve has a crush on, actually wants to date Steve, and Steve's life is so screwed up he has to turn him down for Bucky's own good, can't risk endangering anyone else.
Bucky crooks his fingers again, rubs hard against his prostate, and Steve whimpers. "Get out of your head," Bucky says in his ear. "You look like you're driving yourself insane. Just forget about it, okay? I didn't ask; nothing's changed. It's just you and me," he gives their reflections a cheeky grin, "getting freaky in a public bathroom."
"Fuck," Steve pants. He shoves the thoughts away and braces his hands against the counter, determined to stay in the moment. "Then how about you quit teasing and get your cock inside me."
Bucky doesn't need to be told twice. He grabs the condom off the sink.
Steve watches in the mirror as Bucky slides into him, the way his own mouth falls open at the slow breach, the way Bucky shudders, gaze fixed between their bodies as Steve leans back into it, settles onto Bucky's big cock until he's snugged up behind him, the zipper teeth of Bucky's jeans cool against Steve's ass.
"That's it. That's amazing," Bucky says, and rolls his hips a few times, stretching Steve out a little more. "You good?" he asks, checking in with Steve's reflection like he's some kind of gentleman.
Steve feels himself choking up, inexplicable and ill-timed. He ducks his head so Bucky won't notice and grits out, "Come on," shifting his hips with intent, urging Bucky to start moving, to shake the frustration and self-pity out of his head.
Bucky obeys, driving hard into him, forcing Steve up onto his toes so he's just coming down when Bucky thrusts in again, slamming into him, absolutely perfect.
"Yes. Fuck, come on, harder," Steve gasps. He shifts his legs, changes the angle so he can try to get Bucky deeper, the sweet, slick friction coursing through him, obliterating anything resembling a thought or a regret.
Bucky gropes at the top of Steve's shirt, gets a few buttons undone and slides his hand under, finds Steve's nipple and scrapes at it with a fingernail. Steve cries out and arches into it, feeling caged in and taken over and loving it. The things Bucky says as he fucks him should be illegal, calling him sweetheart, and baby, and gorgeous slut in between affectionate kisses and praise, making Steve feel so good he could die.
When Bucky's brutal pace falters, Steve gets a hand on his cock and strokes wildly, trying to catch up so they can finish together. He's close, only a few heartbeats behind when he feels Bucky's cock jerking inside him, Bucky's deep exhalation against his throat, and Steve comes into the sink, shaky and destroyed.
Bucky's hot hands slide over Steve's hips and stomach, dip under his shirt and inch it up, holding him close. Steve lets himself dissolve into the possessive embrace, tips his head against Bucky's shoulder so Bucky can kiss him, soft and slow. Steve licks at Bucky's lips, savoring the intimacy, the feel of Bucky still hard inside him, slowly softening.
If he could keep this—this connection; this man; this safe space inside the living nightmare his life's become—Steve would give anything. Anything. The injustice of that impossibility feels like a fist around his chest, and Steve murmurs, "Please," nonsensical even to himself. Bucky kisses him deeper, cups his cheek, and holds him tight.
~
"You're such a fan of the pet names, I figure I should get to call you some. I'm thinking...Stud? Big Boy? Honey Buns?" Steve pants on Wednesday morning, Bucky's cock slick and hard in his ass, pressing just slightly against his prostate. Bucky scowls up at him, and Steve laughs, hands braced on Bucky's shoulders as he rides him in a torturous grind, keeping them both on the edge. "Snookums?"
"Punk," Bucky mutters, and slaps Steve's ass.
Steve gasps and clenches at the sharp sting. Bucky makes a strangled noise, and Steve snickers at the payback, then leans in and licks at the sweat trickling down Bucky's throat. "Mmm. Dumpling," Steve taunts. When Bucky raises his hand for another swat, Steve picks up the pace, bouncing a bit to ruin Bucky's concentration. "Yeah, you love it," Steve gloats.
And then the door bells chime.
Steve freezes and whispers, "Shit!"
"Crap," Bucky agrees, gaze flying to the closed storage room door.
Steve peels himself off, ignoring Bucky's grunt when his cock slips free. He keeps one eye on the door as he hauls up his pants and looks around for his sneakers. How the hell did they end up clear across the room? "Fuck, fuck, fuck." He zips just enough to keep his pants up and hopes his untucked shirt can cover for the hard cock pinned in the waistband of his boxers. "Um...."
"Go," Buck says, stripping off the condom and lurching out of the chair, looking flushed and unsteady.
"Fuck," Steve says again, heart in his throat. He jams his feet into his sneakers and hustles out the door.
In the front of the shop, a young woman stands at the counter, studying the blackboard, a low heel tapping impatiently. "Hi, good morning," Steve says, and ducks behind the counter. His jeans slip down an inch, and he clutches the side seam with one hand. He slaps a smile on his face. "Can I help you?"
"Hi, I'll have a soy mocha macchiato, no whip."
"Um, I'm sorry but...the espresso machine's broken."
Her eyes narrow behind red plastic frames. "What?"
"The machine's broken, so there's no espresso drinks. I have coffee," he offers.
"Just coffee? That's it?" He nods, and she huffs, "Fine. Coffee with soy milk."
"Sorry. Black's all I have," he says, wishing she'd hurry up and leave. Bucky's still back there, waiting for him. Steve swipes a wrist over his sweaty hairline and hopes she doesn't ask why he looks like he just ran a marathon.
"Unbelievable," she mutters, wasting more of Steve's precious time to show him just how annoyed she is. "Fine. One black coffee. For here," she adds, and Steve's heart sinks. She drops a five on the counter, unslings a laptop bag from her shoulder, and heads toward a table by the windows.
This can't be happening, Steve thinks to himself.
Down the hall, the toilet flushes, and Bucky wanders out of the bathroom—good cover, Steve thinks. Except for how Bucky's still disheveled, sweaty and out of breath. He doesn't have a long shirt like Steve, and the full outline of Bucky's stiff cock is on display through his jeans. Steve gulps.
Bucky settles gingerly onto his usual stool, jaw clenched to avoid wincing too visibly. "Hey," Bucky says, and jerks his chin toward the woman, inquiring.
Steve shrugs helplessly and does up his pants while her back is turned. He makes change and grabs the pot and an empty cup for her. She's hunched under the table plugging in a power cord when he pours the coffee. "Here you go," he says, and she waves dismissively at him before going back to her work. "You're welcome."
That's just rude, he decides.
Back at the counter, Bucky has his hands pressed together, head bowed as though praying. "Are you okay?" Steve whispers.
"Fucking no." Bucky shifts on his stool and groans softly. "I'm dying."
"I'm sorry," Steve says, and shrugs again. What's he supposed to do? Kick a paying customer out so he can finish having sex in the storage room? He's just glad it wasn't Natasha. Or her mob friends. He shudders at the thought.
"I should just finish in the bathroom," Bucky says, looking hopefully down the hallway.
"Don't you fucking dare," Steve hisses. "You're saving that for me. I mean it."
Bucky looks like he could murder Steve with his own hands, but instead he drops his head again and whimpers.
The woman gets her laptop set up to her liking and starts typing, enormous headphones covering her ears. After a minute she raises her head and shouts, "Hey, what's the wifi password?"
Bucky snickers, and Steve shoots him a warning glare before he remembers...he doesn't actually know it. And he takes great pleasure in telling her so.
"Are you kidding me?" she demands, before huffing again and putting her headphones back on. "This place is the worst." Her keystrokes get louder as she takes her anger out on the keyboard.
Steve gives Bucky a conspiratorial wink. Bucky licks his lips. And it's Steve's turn to groan and look away. He can feel the lube leaking out of him, warm and ticklish as it crawls over sensitive skin. He throbs around the hollow ache where Bucky's cock had stretched him just five minutes ago. His cock, which had softened slightly in his moment of panic, is growing harder the more he thinks about it, about climbing back on Bucky's perfect cock, being filled up again, with Bucky's hands digging into his hips as he lets Steve control the pace.
Shit, now Steve's the one who's dying.
He casts about for a distraction and settles on his sketchpad. He unzips his backpack and pulls out two pads, the one he's been using here in the shop...and the other one. He hesitates, still torn about taking this step. But it's such a small thing to ask, and if Bucky doesn't know, he doesn't have to explain it to him.
"So I wanted to ask you something," Steve says, oh-so-casual.
Bucky looks up agreeably, his blue eyes dark with lingering arousal. His gaze trails down Steve's face, lands on Steve's neck, and fuck if it doesn't feel like a finger tracing across his lips, his throat. Steve gulps and tries to hang onto his focus.
Cool, blasé, he opens the sketchpad and turns it to face Bucky. "You're in the shop a lot. Do you recognize this guy?"
Bucky leans over the sketch, studies it for a moment, and shakes his head. "Sorry."
The breath Steve hadn't realized he was holding slips out on a sigh. "Okay, thanks."
"He a friend of yours?" Bucky asks.
"Just uh, just a guy I saw here last week. I liked drawing him," Steve lies. He makes himself smile and shake off the tension, before he tucks the sketchpad safely away. Nothing gained, but that's for the best, he reminds himself. This way Bucky stays safe...
...and playing his annoying puzzle game again, Steve notices. He dislikes when Bucky ignores him, hunched intently over his tablet screen, but Steve won't admit that he's jealous of a computer game; he's not that obsessed with the guy. Although Bucky said it's multi-player, which means he's engaging with other people right now, when Steve is literally two feet away from him, his whole body aching with the need to get Bucky back inside him, to have all of Bucky's attention firmly on him.
And wow. He won't even go on a date with the guy, but he's completely jealous of his computer game friends. Sam would smack Steve upside the head for being so out of touch with his own feelings.
Steve is completely gone over Bucky.
Now, what the hell is he supposed to do about it?
Across the room, his customer takes the first sip of her coffee and spits it on the floor. "Ugh, that's disgusting! What the hell is wrong with you?" she demands. And then she rips her headphones off, shoves the table aside to collect her power cable, and starts packing up her laptop.
Steve catches Bucky's gaze, and twin smirks of anticipation stretch across their lips as she rants about the epic Yelp review she's leaving this god-awful rat trap, the worst fucking coffee shop in Brooklyn, you just watch, you asshole.
~
After Steve finishes his very satisfying ride in the back room, the afternoon is blessedly quiet. He spends it working on a new sketch, a close-up of Bucky's left hand, with its weightlifting calluses and faint scars from a childhood pet.
"Mr. Fluffy didn't like having his tummy rubbed," Bucky explains, fingers twitching slightly with mirth. "And once he got a taste of human blood, there was no going near him again."
"Knowing you, you probably had it coming," Steve says, and leans in closer to catch the shadows in the crease of a knuckle.
The bells chime, and he looks up guiltily—even though he isn't doing anything inappropriate at that precise moment.
Natasha breezes through the door, 45 minutes before closing time, and Steve looks around, surprised. He half-expects to see the goons following her, but she's alone. She snaps her fingers as she heads to her office, calling, "Steve, a word please?"
Steve meets Bucky's stare and shrugs one shoulder. Maybe the customer really did post that Yelp review. Although he would've seen that as a plus for Natasha's business model. He packs away his sketchpad and heads to her office, where Natasha is already settled in her chair and sipping her massive Starbucks cup.
"Hi," he says, and follows her nod to take the other chair. He sits a little too quickly and has to swallow a hiss at the well-used ache that jolts through him.
"Steve, I'm concerned about you." She frowns slightly, a crease appearing between her well-plucked eyebrows. "I'm hearing some disturbing things about your behavior."
God, he hopes it was the Yelp reviewer. "I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do about the coffee. If you actually care about customer reviews, maybe you should—"
"Steve," she says sharply, and he stops talking. "What I've heard is that you've been showing off some sketches. Of very important people. Sketches that could get you in a lot of trouble."
Steve's face flushes even as his hands go cold, his legs twitching with a primal instinct to run. "What?"
"What did I tell you about warning signs? I don't tolerate them. And I'd say this is a particularly ugly warning sign, wouldn't you agree?"
She can't know about those sketches; he made those in secret. He hasn't told anyone about them, except Bucky, who didn't know their significance and was with him all afternoon besides. Does she have cameras in his fucking apartment now? He wouldn't put it past her, he realizes, his lungs hitching with a wave of hysteria. Spying on him, on his friends, just because she can, because she enjoys controlling him.
Anger rears up, giving him the bravado to say, "So what if I've made sketches? They're just art...unless I take them to the cops. Maybe they'll be interested in hearing about your connections to the Russian mafia. Maybe I've sent them to the police already."
Natasha laughs, a throaty, delighted peal. "Oh, you're so naïve. Do you really think that's an option? I'll let you in on a secret," she says, and leans close. "We own the police. We've bought people in all the precincts. The second you try to contact anybody, we'll know. And our employees will make sure you don't cause any problems for us ever again."
She's bluffing, Steve thinks. She has to be. There's no way they could find enough crooked cops to cover every precinct in Brooklyn, let alone all five boroughs.
Natasha watches him, long scarlet fingernails tapping at her mouth. And then she smiles brightly. "You know what? Why don't I introduce you to another one of our employees—one of New York's Finest. I think this'll clear things up." She leaves her coffee cup and heads out the door, calling, "James! So nice to see you."
Confused, Steve follows her out. There wasn't anyone else in the shop, no bells rang while they were in the office....
She's shaking hands with Bucky.
"Steve," she says, turning a pointed smile his way. "I'd like to introduce you to Sergeant James Barnes of the 76th Precinct. I think his friends call him 'Bucky.'"
"Natasha," Bucky says, "Always a pleasure. And Steve and I have met." He gives Steve his all-too-familiar lascivious smirk.
Steve's mind is a gibbering ball of denial, watching Bucky give Natasha a friendly smile. She says something in Russian, and Bucky laughs his big, stupid laugh, and answers her in the same language. The complex consonants drip with amusement as they roll off his tongue.
"Well, I'd better get going. My shift starts soon," Bucky says in English, and dips his head to Natasha, as though acknowledging an employer. "Steve, be good. I'll see you tomorrow." And he walks out the door a half-hour ahead of schedule, leaving Steve with a satisfied-looking Natasha.
Steve stares at her, too stunned to speak. The rug's been yanked out from under him, and he doesn't know which way is up anymore.
"Now, let's not have any more sketches—or talk of going to the police," she says, and pats Steve's cheek before returning to her office.
~
He stumbles while climbing into the bus and tears a hole in his jeans. The driver reaches out a hand to help him up, but Steve brushes it aside, furious with himself and the entire world. He slumps into the first available seat, shaking. The doors wheeze shut, the northbound line eases into traffic, and Steve closes his eyes, wishing he could wake up from all of this.
Bucky's a dirty cop.
He can't even process it. Bucky claimed he did security, made it sound like he was a night watchmen or something; all lies, except maybe not. Because how oblivious was Steve to miss the fact that an armed security guard hanging around a mob business every day was probably providing security for the mob?
The worst part is knowing he's brought this on himself. He's the one who asked Bucky out, who dragged him into the storage room that first time and has been throwing himself at Bucky ever since. Steve's the one fantasizing about a relationship with a guy who takes bribes and turns a blind eye to the mob's crimes...or worse, commits those crimes himself.
In the back of his mind, an image takes shape unbidden. One Steve can't push aside, no matter how hard he tries: Bucky hunting him down and putting a gun to Steve's head the day he doesn't show up for work. He would do it, too, wouldn't he? Smile so charmingly as he drew his gun, the one Steve's been eyeing with naked fascination all week, an unfamiliar part of him wanting to touch, getting off on knowing it's always there, under Bucky's jacket.
And Bucky's eyes would gleam blue, smile lines wrinkling around his eyes as he raised the pistol....
Steve presses his forehead harder against the glass, trying to will the image away. To think, Bucky's been the best part of Steve's shifts. Thank god they aren't dating.
~
Bucky arrives at the shop at 11 a.m. Steve wants to hide; wants to jimmy the padlock on the back door and escape down the back alley; and most of all, he wants to punch Bucky right in the face. Instead, he sits on his stool with all the dignity he can muster and doesn't react when Bucky leans over the counter to switch on the wifi.
That arrogant son of a bitch.
Steve pivots on the stool and pours the most spiteful cup of coffee of his life. He smacks it down in front of Bucky, spilling half of it across the counter, and says, "Two dollars."
Bucky pulls out his stool and settles across from Steve, laughing like he thinks Steve's joking.
Steve glares. "I mean it. The wifi isn't free anymore. And from what I hear, you've got enough extra income to cover it."
Bucky doesn't even have the decency to look confused. He pulls out his wallet and says, "Sure, Steve," fondly amused.
The spilled coffee pools between them, a bitter line in the sand for five minutes, ten, because Steve will be damned before he cleans it up, and Bucky...well Bucky's completely ignoring it, absorbed in his tablet as always.
He's ignoring Steve, too, which Steve always hated, but today it pisses him off that much more. Bucky can't menace Steve's thoughts all night and then pretend it's just another day for him.
"So how much was it?" Steve demands, aiming to provoke, no matter how stupid a move that is. "How much to sell out your fellow cops and work for the mob."
"That's a mighty personal question," Bucky says, not looking up.
"It's supposed to be. Well? How much did it take?"
"Two grand a month."
Steve sputters for a minute, taken aback by how trivial that sounds. He'd expected ten times as much, a briefcase filled with cash, something that could turn a life around. But it's fitting, isn't it? That Bucky's honor is that fucking cheap.
"And what does two grand get you? In this city?" he demands.
Bucky finally looks up and shrugs. "New clothes. Some good weed. And plenty of cash to spend on pretty things like you." He looks Steve up and down with a comical leer, a taunt that makes Steve flush.
He tells himself it's with anger, not shame. It's not like Bucky's spent any money on Steve, after all, so where does he get off implying that Steve's willing to be bought?
But maybe it's really the opposite. Maybe Bucky could be bought. If he's really as mercenary as he seems, Steve could make him a substantial offer. He has savings, almost enough for a three-month lease in SoHo. It's taken more than two years to save, but it's time and money well spent if it gets him out from under Natasha's thumb.
He grips the edge of the counter to steady his nerves before asking, "Is that enough for you? Or do you do any more freelancing?"
"What?"
"Are you open to taking another bribe," Steve says, spelling it out for him.
Bucky cocks his head and squints at Steve. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"I have savings," Steve says. "I can pay you to get me out of—"
Bucky throws up a hand to stop him, and Steve trails off. Bucky glares for a few seconds, like Steve's giving Bucky a headache, and then Bucky barks a short laugh. "You don't get it. Once you're in, you're in. You don't double cross the mob; I knew that going in."
"Yeah, well I didn't. Nobody warned me I was signing on with the fucking mob," Steve growls.
The look on Bucky's face is a new one: pity. Steve doesn't like it one bit.
"A dollar's a dollar, what's it matter who's paying?" Bucky says, placating. "Look, I'm sorry you got dragged into this. Natasha can play a little rough sometimes, I know the feeling, but she's not even the worst of them. You gotta just keep your head down, keep plugging away. And don't give any of them a reason to come after you."
"Easy for you to say. You don't have to spend hours every day trapped in this filthy prison."
"Yeah I do," Bucky laughs. "Look at me, Steve. I've been coming here a lot longer than you, and for the same reason; it's my job. Luckily, the job's gotten some new perks in the last two weeks." He winks, and Steve fumes, even as his cock stirs at the memory of how many perks he's enjoyed in the back rooms here.
Steve drops his gaze and the subject for a while. He wipes down the counter testily so he can make room for his sketchpad...and then he can't think of anything to draw. Because his go-to distractions of the past week have been flirting with Bucky, fucking Bucky, and fantasizing about Bucky.
Bucky's the one who's going to kill me, Steve reminds himself, but it doesn't erase the dimple in his cheek as he types into his tablet, the way his hands gently cradle the device, so like the way he'd cupped Steve's ribs yesterday, urging him up and down on his cock....
Steve wrenches his head away from that memory and casts about for something ugly instead. Something concrete. Like Bucky's actual crimes.
"So what do you do for them? Natasha and your other bosses. Apart from sitting on that stool every day."
Bucky snorts and shakes his head.
"Hey, I'm part of this now. I deserve to know."
Bucky sets the tablet down and folds his arms on the counter so he can lean over them. "I bet you'd like to know, huh? Bet you'd like me to spill all the dirt. How much I've stolen, evidence I've covered up, names of guys I've killed."
Steve isn't sure he does want to know, but he won't take it back. He sticks up his chin and waits.
Bucky snorts again. "Yeah, I'm not telling you squat. And as for being part of it? You're the fucking barista, Steve. Get over yourself."
"Part-time manager," Steve grits out, bristling.
"Oh, is that what you are? Sorry, Mister Big Shot," Bucky teases. "You aren't wearing a nametag or a uniform. I figured you were just some hipster who wandered over from Coney, with your sketchpad and self-important attitude."
Steve is this close to destroying the wifi router, so help him.
He looks at the blank page in front of him and tries to imagine a shark biting Bucky in half or Bucky getting sucked inexorably into a pit of quicksand. But he doesn't want to draw those perfect, male-model cheekbones, the dark stubble on his immaculately shaped jaw. Steve looks up and realizes that Bucky's looking back, has been watching Steve with the same open want in his eyes that lead to that first blowjob last week.
Steve looks away, fingers clenched so hard they almost snap his charcoal pencil. It's like there are two Buckys in his thoughts—the one he likes and wants to fuck, and the one who's a lying, dirty cop. It's hard to remember that the first one doesn't exist when his own libido keeps telling him otherwise. He sneaks a hand into his lap to press on his cock, willing it not to respond to Bucky's proximity, or the way Bucky is smirking, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek.
Steve knows he can't trust Bucky, knows that Bucky is Natasha's spy, that he already betrayed Steve's trust once that he knows about. He knows, because he searched his apartment last night, tore apart his blinds, dug through the lamps in his bedroom, and peeked behind every picture frame and mirror looking for cameras that don't exist. Which confirms that the only way Natasha could've found out about that sketch was through Bucky. And maybe it's time Steve called him on it, if that'll finally put an end to Bucky's flirting.
"You told Natasha about my sketch. I know it was you."
Bucky leans back and smiles, always so fucking charming. It drives Steve crazy.
"You aren't denying it. Even though there's no way you could've made a call yesterday. I watched you the whole time."
"Then you must be right, obviously," Bucky says, patronizing, before dismissing Steve's righteous wrath and going back to his game.
His game.
Steve tries to grab the tablet, to see for himself, but Bucky's hand lands on his wrist, grips it hard and pins it to the counter.
"It's dangerous to go grabbing things like that, Steve," Bucky says, voice lower, meaner. "Especially things that aren't yours."
Steve stands up and tries to leverage his hand away, but Bucky holds fast. A frisson of instinctive fear shoots up his spine, but Steve is energized by the vindication. "You've been spying on me! Sending Natasha reports about me, about the shop. Haven't you?"
"Yeah? What would I tell her about, Steve? About how you're gagging for it the second I walk in every day? How you eye-fuck me for hours until I give you what you want? How you moan when I get you on my cock, all tight and hot...."
Bucky pulls on Steve's wrist, drawing him over the counter. For a moment, Steve is caught up in the flash of Bucky's eyes, the white of his teeth. His traitorous cock throbs with want.
"What do you think? Do I tell her how you beg me to suck you harder, fuck you longer—"
"I never begged you for anything," Steve spits. "You were the one so desperate to get your lips on my cock that first time."
"And I'd do it again in a heartbeat. Right fucking now," Bucky promises. His hot breath washes over Steve's skin, their faces just inches apart. "In the bathroom, the back room, behind that counter, out on the damn sidewalk, you name it."
Fuck, Steve wants it so bad his cock's aching for it, to have Bucky on his knees for him again. He tries to remember why that's a no-good, awful idea, but Bucky licks his lips, leaves them shiny and wet and almost within reach.
"All you gotta do is want it," Bucky whispers, his eyes dropping to Steve's lips, and Steve's control snaps. He lunges forward, gets a hand in Bucky's hair and drags him close enough to kiss, so Steve can shove his tongue into him, let Bucky suck on that for a minute.
And then Bucky lets go of Steve's wrist—Steve hadn't realized he was still pinned—and shakes Steve's grip loose from his hair. "Stock room, now," Bucky pants, pupils dilated, voice husky, and he heads to the back, clearly expecting Steve to follow.
Steve takes one look at that magnificent ass and pushes away from the counter.
~
He doesn't think he'll ever get used to this view of Bucky, kneeling at Steve's feet and reaching for Steve's fly. Bucky's smirking like he's exactly where he wants to be, like he knew this is where he would end up from the minute he woke up this morning. Steve follows that thought to its unpleasant conclusion—that Bucky's been getting exactly what he wants from Steve every single day, using Steve in all the ways he wanted. Steve's temper flares, and he tangles his fingers in Bucky's over-long hair, jerks hard to get Bucky's attention.
When Bucky stills, watching him with narrowed eyes, Steve keeps him leashed with his right hand and unzips with the other, pulls his hard cock out. Perched on the edge of the stool, he tugs Bucky close enough to slide his cock over Bucky's dry lips, teasing both of them for a few seconds, before he finally sinks into Bucky's mouth and says, "Now, suck."
Bucky obeys, sealing his lips around the head of Steve's cock and sucking lightly at first, swirling his tongue over the sensitive head. Steve shivers with it, doesn't resist the urge to buck deeper into Bucky's mouth. He rocks his hips, pushing deeper, deeper, mixing up the pace so Bucky can't get a rhythm going, reminding Bucky that Steve's the one in control.
"You're scum, aren't you? Absolute scum, taking their bribes and turning traitor like that. You don't give a shit about anyone but yourself, do you?"
Bucky glares up at him, a crease between his brows, the corners of his mouth pulled down. Steve laughs, reckless with the heady rush of getting some of his own back. Spit drips down Bucky's chin, sloppy and debauched. He's overheating in his leather jacket, sweat already beaded along his temple, and that's great, knowing Bucky's uncomfortable but can't do a thing about it.
"A fucking Judas for two grand a month. They're gonna ruin your life one day, just like they're gonna ruin mine, only you're gonna deserve it."
Bucky growls—which does fantastic things for Steve's cock—and reaches up for the open fly of Steve's jeans. Without warning, he pulls Steve forward so his ass is riding the hard edge of the stool. Steve hisses and yanks at Bucky's hair again, trying to reassert control, but Bucky just winces and ignores it, tugs at Steve's belt loops and hauls the denim and underwear down.
Bucky's teeth graze his dick as he gets a little careless with his lips. "Watch it," Steve hisses. He wrenches hard on Bucky's hair, forcing his dick in deep, so Bucky chokes and gags before Steve pulls back to ride his tongue again. Bucky swipes at his chin and curls his plush lips dutifully over his teeth, and Steve purrs with approval at the wet heat of Bucky's mouth.
And then Bucky's hands are back on him, trailing wet between Steve's thighs, and one of Bucky's fingers worms its way between his ass cheeks. "Fuck," Steve yelps, caught off guard. Bucky smirks and twists his wrist, forces his finger into Steve's clenched hole.
Steve's hips buck, and Bucky rocks with the motion like he expected it—like he's the one who made it happen. Steve glowers and lifts his foot to shove Bucky's arm away, but Bucky flutters his tongue around the crown of Steve's cock, and Steve has to hold onto the stool for dear life, because Bucky's been holding out on him. A decadent swirl, a glance of teeth right under the head—pleasure licks up Steve's spine, and he groans with it, hardly notices when Bucky nudges Steve's legs wider and settles in closer.
"So good," Steve says, petting at Bucky's hair, and then gasps in shock as Bucky slips another finger into him and curls both viciously against his prostate. "Ah, oh—oh, fuck you, you bastard," Steve says, and jerks in another breath as Bucky does it again, drowning him in another wave of too-bright pleasure. "Oh that's, shit, that's too much—"
Bucky's openly gloating as he works Steve ruthlessly, saliva-slicked fingers scissoring to open him up, wicked suction wrecking Steve's ability to think. It's too good, too fast, and Steve forgets to hold himself up, sags back until his shoulder blades hit the wall, riding it out as Bucky works him over, inside and out. And he shouldn't let him get away with this, but the way Bucky's staring him down, challenging him, winds Steve up even hotter, and there's no way he's telling Bucky to stop when Steve's whole body is burning up with the need to come.
The orgasm is so good it almost kills him, with Bucky swallowing the whole time, drawing whimpers out of Steve's throat as his head lolls against the dirty brick wall. He palms Bucky's head, smooths down the hair he'd mussed so thoroughly, and then gives a little shove to separate them before the lingering waves of pleasure turn to oversensitive shocks.
Bucky surges to his feet and leans over Steve, catches the back of his neck and kisses him, filthy and bitter with Steve's come still on his tongue. Steve tries to turn his head, annoyed at losing his afterglow, but Bucky's grip tightens into a dull pinch at the base of Steve's skull, and he kisses him again, holding him still for it. And the fingers of his other hand, still deep in Steve's ass, stroke against his prostate.
Sensation jolts through him like a live current, and Steve groans and twitches his hips, the touch too intimate, too soon. In about five minutes he could be up for this, but Steve needs to come down first. He just needs a chance to regain his equilibrium, get his body's reactions under control....
But Bucky doesn't stop, keeps him gasping and off-balance. Bucky crowds even closer, stifles Steve with lavish kisses and rubs inside him, implacable. Steve arches against him, Bucky's firm chest and thick arms pinning him in place, making him take it. And fuck, Steve shouldn't be getting off on this power play, shouldn't like Bucky turning the tables on him so thoroughly, not when Bucky's someone he can't trust, someone dangerous.
Steve wrenches his face to the side, not sure what he even means to say when he gasps, "Bucky," before shuddering through another merciless stroke to his prostate.
"That's it," Bucky croons into Steve's ear. "Take it. That's it."
Bucky thinks he gets to order him around? Steve tries to get his hands to move so he can indignantly shove Bucky off of him. But his hands have other ideas, tangling in Bucky's t-shirt and holding on for dear life. "That's enough," Steve pants, even as his body betrays him, cock hardening from the stimulation.
Bucky laughs against his throat, rasps his stubble in a sharp burn along Steve's jaw. "We're just getting started, baby," he promises, and takes Steve's mouth again in a slow kiss as his fingers match the rhythm of his tongue, thrusting into him, relentless.
Steve whimpers, feeling out of control and shaky, pushed way past his limits by the sensations Bucky's wringing from his body, too good to stop. He stifles a weak groan against Bucky's lips.
"Yeah, give it up for me," Bucky says, almost sweet, and all Steve can do is hold on tighter, lick at Bucky's tongue, and mumble, "Fuck you," between decadent, unhurried kisses, Bucky's fingers working him determinedly past the threshold of too-much and into not-enough. Steve presses his forehead against Bucky's cheek and gasps for breath, drenched in sweat and jittery with want.
"You ready for me?" Bucky asks, his lips brushing against Steve's sweaty bangs, and Steve bites his lip as he rolls his hips on Bucky's fingers, near frantic with the building need to come. "Yeah," Bucky purrs, "hang on for me, sweetie," and pulls his fingers away.
"No, where are you—" Steve starts to protest, resenting the rush of cold air as Bucky releases his embrace. But Bucky is dragging him off the stool and turning him around, forcing his head down with a hand on the back of his neck, until Steve's bent over the stool, the skin-warmed metal digging into his hips and stomach.
And fuck, Steve thinks, holding still as Bucky's zipper slides down, as a foil packet crinkles. Fuck yes, as Bucky slides into him, slick and in control, pinning Steve with a hot hand between his shoulders, another digging into his hip as he thrusts and takes, using him just like Steve knew he would—like Steve wants him to.
Ass up and shameless, he clutches the lower rung of the stool and groans, "You're such an asshole," just on principle.
"Takes one to know one," Bucky laughs, and keeps fucking him.
~
Steve forgets his umbrella on Saturday morning and spends the first hour of his shift in uncomfortably damp jeans and a wet collar. He fidgets absently with the neckline of his shirt, tugging it away from his throat and then smoothing it back in place, worried he'll expose the line of hickeys Bucky gave him on Friday. He'd gotten a little carried away—they both had—and Steve isn't complaining, but he doesn't want to see Natasha's particularly incisive smile this morning.
She's preoccupied in the back, shredding a bankers box full of documents, judging by the constant grinding whir. Steve tries not to fidget knowing the boss and his goons are due to arrive any minute. There's one customer in the shop, a middle-aged guy with narrow shoulders and a soggy copy of The New York Times spread out over a couple chair backs to dry. Steve watches him drink the coffee without a word of complaint, his eyes glued to the Politics section, so preoccupied he probably doesn't even taste it.
What Steve wouldn't give for concentration like that; his mafia-nightmare pretty much erases all of his focus. He hasn't sketched anything decent in a week, let alone touched any of his canvases or paints. The only times he feels he can actually breathe are when Bucky's....
...walking in the door, with a dripping umbrella under his arm.
"Hey," Bucky says, and smiles disarmingly as he slides onto his stool.
"Hi," Steve says, as his pulse speeds up helplessly.
Bucky's gaze trails from Steve's ruined hair down to his neck, and his smile turns wolfish. Steve coughs and adjusts his collar again. "So," Bucky asks, leaning forward like he has a secret to share, "how much does the wifi cost today?" And he winks.
Just for that, Steve is totally making him pay the two dollars.
The goons stride in as he's pouring Bucky's unwanted coffee, and Steve's muscles freeze up for a moment. Their boss follows right on their heels, wearing another expensively casual sweater and an impatient expression. The three of them eyeball Steve's customers, ignoring Steve completely, and then all turn to the door as an older gentleman with a white beard and an imposing scowl enters behind them.
For a second Steve thinks it's another customer looking for coffee, but the three mafia men give way to the newcomer, shuffling out of his path, and Steve reassesses which one is the 'boss' in the room. They hold an unspoken conference of glances, and the 'senior' boss and 'junior' boss head toward Natasha's office for their meeting, with the goons taking seats at their usual table.
Steve takes a hard look at the senior boss as he passes, dedicating his face to memory so he can add it to his sketchpad, currently hidden under his bathroom sink at home. He's so intent on capturing the sharp nose, the bristly eyebrows, that he almost misses the nod the junior boss gives to Bucky as he passes...and the nod Bucky gives back.
And oh, right—these guys are Bucky's bosses, too. Caught up in the exhilarating rush of Bucky's attention, Steve nearly forgot that Bucky had lied about recognizing the junior boss's face from Steve's sketch; that Bucky had ratted him out to Natasha; that Bucky takes bribes from the mob.
Mechanically, Steve makes himself go through the motions to finish the sale, returning the coffee pot to the machine, setting the Styrofoam cup in front of Bucky, locking Bucky's money in the cashbox, and recording the sale in the ledger. A pit of fury yawns wide in his chest, but he keeps it locked down. Losing his temper right now won't do him any good.
Bucky makes a few comments about Steve's damp clothes and limp hair, teasing him for forgetting his umbrella, but Steve doesn't play along. Bucky's too damn good at worming past Steve's defenses. He can't be trusted—not with Steve's safety or even a simple conversation. So Steve slides his stool further along the counter and tries to tune out Bucky's efforts to engage him.
In the back room, the shredder falls silent, replaced by raised voices, and Steve's glad he doesn't understand what they're saying. But Bucky gets jumpy as the conversation turns increasingly contentious. Steve watches his body language out the corner of his eye, curious. But the arguing seems on par with how last week's meeting went...until the two goons stand abruptly.
They share a glance with each other, then sidle over to the table at the front window where Newspaper Guy is frowning over the Op-Ed Section.
"Hey," the big one grunts, looming over the seated man. "Time for you to clear out, pal."
The guy looks up and blinks a few times, surprise swiftly turning to apprehension. "Excuse me? I'm not in anyone's way...."
"He said get out of here," the bigger guy says, stepping next to his colleague to present a solid wall of intimidation.
And Steve has a long history of standing up to intimidation.
"Leave him alone," he snaps.
Bucky's head shoots up to look at Steve, but Steve doesn't want Bucky's backup this time. He yanks the coffee pot out of the machine and marches over to face the thugs.
"He can stay as long as he wants," he informs the two tall men, who sneer dismissively down at him. "Would you like a refill, sir? On the house," Steve offers to his patron, catching a glimpse of the man's confused face between two track-suited elbows.
All of the goons' aggression refocuses on Steve. "Get your ass back behind the counter before I pop you right in the mouth, kid," the bigger one snarls. He pushes up the sleeve on his right forearm, and a spike of adrenaline hits Steve's bloodstream. The certain knowledge that he's a minute away from getting hit only ramps up his anger, and he's already got plenty to burn.
"I'd like to see you try," Steve taunts, egging them on. Because Steve might not be able to stand up for himself against the mob, but he's not going to stand by while these meatheads rough up an unsuspecting civilian. "I bet your moves are as slow as that brain of yours."
"Christ, Steve, cool it," Bucky says, his hand falling on Steve's upper arm. Steve jerks his arm away. "Alex, Daniil—just don't. You know Natasha doesn't want you messing with this guy. Leave him alone."
Oh, Steve hates Bucky so much right now. Lies on top of lies, acting like he didn't know these two a week ago. Humiliation stokes his fury, and Steve's tempted to throw the first punch Bucky's way.
The sharp crack of a gunshot breaks the moment, slamming Steve out of his hate spiral.
He whips his head around, looking for the source of the sound. Somebody yells, "Now! Now!" and before Steve has his bearings, Bucky's wrapping an arm around Steve's waist and hauling him back against his chest. The coffee pot slips from his fingers and smashes on the linoleum, steaming coffee and glass spraying under the table legs and all over the goons' track pants, and Steve watches in slow-motion horror as they draw large handguns out from their baggy zip-ups.
He knows what happens next—Bucky's gun at Steve's temple as he holds Steve hostage in some kind of standoff—but Bucky's the one shouting "Get down!" and folding forward, his weight bearing down on Steve's back, forcing him to the wet floor. Steve catches himself on his hands and knees, all the breath jolted out of him, but Bucky's relentless, shoving Steve's head down and curling over him, even as the door bells clang and more shots go off above their heads.
One of the windows explodes, and Steve stops resisting and tries to make himself as small as possible, shaking under Bucky's body. Heavy boots slam across the linoleum, running toward the back rooms, and Steve hears FBI, hears NYPD, hears Bucky saying in his ear, ragged and urgent, "Keep your head down, Steve, please."
It lasts less than a minute, but it feels like forever, crushed under Bucky's weight and gasping for thin wisps of air. A couple tables hit the ground, followed by the goons. Agents call affirmatives to each other in decreasing volume. And Bucky slowly eases off of him, rocking back onto his heels and tugging Steve up with him.
"Are you okay?" Bucky asks, leaning to the side to catch his eye. "Do you need your inhaler?" He's anxious, earnest, and Steve's too dumbstruck to even shake his head no. "Come on," Bucky says, and helps Steve to his feet. "Look at me. Are you okay?" Bucky grips his shoulders and checks him over, not waiting for him to answer.
Which is a good idea, since Steve's too numb and light-headed to tell whether he's hurt anywhere. He looks down the length of his body for any injuries. His jeans are soaked with coffee and his sleeves are wet, but there isn't a scratch on him. "I'm fine," Steve says, mystified, and makes the mistake of meeting Bucky's eyes. They're huge and blue, and filled with so much concern that Steve's throat constricts with nascent tears. He coughs and jerks his gaze away, tries to make sense of the scene around them.
Three police officers are handcuffing the thugs, overseen by two armed agents in FBI jackets. Paramedics are heading toward the back room. Natasha is leaning against a wall and smirking as she watches the senior boss get hustled out. Everyone's scowling and calm, and Steve feels the noose that's encircled his neck for the past two weeks suddenly loosen.
"Sergeant Barnes," someone says, and Steve realizes it's Newspaper Guy. Only he looks like a different person now—his back military straight and expression unruffled, in command. "Your presence today was unexpectedly beneficial. Thank you." He reaches out a hand to Bucky, who shakes it.
"Special Agent Coulson," Bucky says. His other hand, still on Steve's shoulder, squeezes tighter.
Steve should probably sit down before his legs go out from under him. But another FBI agent approaches from the other side and shoves something into Steve's arms—his messenger bag.
"Mr. Rogers," Special Agent Coulson says pleasantly. "We'd like to take your statement at FBI headquarters now. If that's alright with you?"
"Sure," Steve agrees absently. He doesn't expect the agents to catch his elbows and draw him out of Bucky's grasp, to urge him straight out the door. He still doesn't have an umbrella, but the rain's little more than a drizzle now, and Steve looks around at the black SUVs and squad cars, the yellow crime scene tape, the growing crowd, and it hits him all at once that he just survived a shootout between the police and the mob. And he starts to laugh with a desperation he doesn't have words for.
"This car, Mr. Rogers," the woman at his right elbow says, unperturbed by his barely controlled hysteria, and guides him into a plain sedan just beyond the tape. He slumps into the passenger seat, bag clutched to his chest, and looks back at Café Mamochka, the faded-lavender awning and shattered front window. And he knows he's never going inside that little shop ever again.
~
The agent who takes his statement is every bit as brusque and officious as Steve imagined a federal agent would be. He has Steve write down the comings and goings of all parties involved with Café Mamochka, any interpersonal dynamics he observed, anything he overheard, and so forth. There isn't a whole lot Steve can offer; most of his knowledge and testimony is about Natasha, all of which the agent brushes aside as irrelevant.
Steve can guess what that means.
A cup of FBI coffee sits untouched at Steve's elbow as he fills out the paperwork and signs his name a dozen times. To Steve, it smells the same as the coffee he brewed with those expired beans, and it occurs to him that he isn't cut out to be a barista after all. At least when he laughs at the thought, the hysterical edge is gone.
The agent escorts him into an elevator when he's finished, and asks on the trip down whether Steve has any questions about his rights and obligations as a witness who may be called upon to testify in the State of New York. Steve is sure he should, but the only questions he wants to ask are about Bucky, and he isn't sure how to put any of them into words.
The elevator doors open on the lobby, and Steve follows the agent through the security checkpoint, toward the two-story wall of windows letting in some late-afternoon sunlight. And then he sees Bucky standing up from a padded bench against the windows, his eyes locked on Steve.
"Thanks," Steve says to his escort, and veers off into Bucky's orbit, hurrying across the granite tiles to meet him. Relieved doesn't even begin to cover how Steve feels at seeing Bucky's smile again.
He stops right in front of Bucky and grins up at him, and Bucky says, "What the hell took you so long? I've been waiting for two hours." And Steve finally takes that swing, landing a light punch on Bucky's arm. "Hey, what's that for?"
"For being a lying asshole," Steve says, but he can't make a frown stick, and Bucky grins right back at him for a long moment.
"Here, I brought you a present," Bucky says eventually, and bends down to pick something up—Steve's sketchpad. The one he'd left on the coffee shop counter.
"I hadn't realized I didn't have it," Steve says, stunned, and hugs it to his chest.
"Yeah. I was doing cleanup and figured...." Bucky shrugs. To Steve's amazement, he looks bashful. And then he says, "I'm so sorry about this morning."
"That was.... I don't even know what that was," Steve says. "The agent wouldn't answer any questions until I'd signed my statement, and then he just kicked me out...." Steve glances over his shoulder, belatedly wondering if the guy's still waiting to take him to the exit, but his escort has left the lobby. "What was all that? And what even are you? A Fed?"
Bucky looks around, too, sizing up his options, and then nods toward the bench behind him. "You want to sit down and I'll fill you in?"
Yeah, Steve definitely does. Bucky sits first, and Steve joins him on the padded bench, close enough that their knees touch, and not by accident. "I take it you're not a dirty cop," Steve says, to prove he's at least got the obvious parts figured.
Bucky flashes a quick smirk. "Technically I was, for about fifteen minutes. They really recruited me six months back, gave me an envelope with two thousand dollars and said they'd be in touch. I had to take it."
"They're not the kind of people you say no to," Steve agrees. He remembers what it felt like when Natasha put the screws to him, and he doesn't wish that on anyone else, least of all Bucky.
But Bucky laughs. "Nah, I just really wanted to bust them. Also, do you know what kind of a career boost I'll get from being on an FBI taskforce?" His smile is cocky for a moment, before he sobers. "I knew what I was doing; I reported the bribe and got put in touch with the Fed's Organized Crime unit, and they told me what was up in Brighton Beach. I met Natasha—she's the mob's accountant and the whistleblower that made the whole operation possible. Without her, we wouldn't know anything about the top levels of the Yegorovich family."
"Natasha's a good guy?" Steve sputters, incredulous. No way in hell....
Bucky snorts. "Her? No. She's more on her own side than the side of the angels." A scowl settles over his brow as he adds, "She nearly fouled up the whole sting this morning, and could've gotten people killed."
Steve makes an inquiring noise. This, he has got to hear.
Bucky runs his fingers through his hair, looking suddenly tired. "We had a camera back there to record the meeting. She'd been doing some creative bookkeeping to lure the old man out in the open, and once we had him on tape admitting to their illegal activities, the Feds would've scooped him up on his way out the front door. But she kept ramping things up, made it sound like the lieutenant had been stealing from the family, and provoked Yegorovich into pulling a gun and trying to kill him. And all hell broke loose."
Bucky's jaw tenses, and his gaze loses focus, drifting to the elevator bay across the lobby. And Steve remembers Bucky listening to that argument, getting twitchy over the Russian words Steve couldn't understand.
Bucky shakes it off and drawls, "So now we've got Yegorovich on tape attempting murder—and it couldn't have happened to a more-deserving pair—the perp and his vic. And yeah, that's an even sweeter bust than racketeering, extortion, and tax evasion. But I am really, really pissed off with that woman. There wasn't supposed to be any violence; it was supposed to be a clean snatch outside the shop. And you weren't supposed to be caught in the middle of it."
He glances at Steve, mouth tight, and Steve puts a hand on Bucky's knee.
"I'm sorry you were in that, Steve. You were supposed to be safe."
"It's okay," Steve says, and musters a wry smile. "Shit happens, right?"
Bucky huffs. "Shit happens? Yeah, I bet you were cool as a cucumber while I was shitting my pants, huh tough guy?"
"Are you kidding? I was scared to death." Bucky's scowl deepens, which isn't what Steve wants at all. So he punches Bucky's arm again, harder.
"Ow!" Bucky protests.
"Your face is ugly when you wallow," Steve says, and waits for Bucky to rise to the bait. Bucky shoves Steve's shoulder, and Steve rocks with it, surprised how easily his smile comes in the aftermath of the shootout. "You got me out of there—not just this morning, but permanently," he says. "I thought I was trapped when Natasha wouldn't let me quit. I thought I was screwed."
Bucky manages a juvenile smirk, and Steve rolls his eyes.
"Shut up. I'm trying to thank you. For all that you made things harder—seriously, shut up—you got me out of there. And that's so huge I don't know how to say a thank you big enough to cover it."
"You don't have to," Bucky says, eyes fond. "I'm just glad I could help."
"Of course, you've also cost me my job."
Bucky blinks and then laughs. "Are you saying you're holding that against me? That job? The one you hated so much I half-expected you to torch the place some night?"
"You're the one who arrested my employers. Now I have to start job hunting all over again." He means it to be a joke, but it sours in his mouth. For all the lightness Steve feels at having slipped the noose of the mob, the prospect of pounding the pavement again is still fucking awful.
Bucky squints at him, trying to figure out how serious he is. And then he says, "Have you considered doing sketches for the police?"
Steve rolls his eyes. "Like for wanted posters? Please."
"Or courtroom sketches," Bucky counters. "The pay's gotta be better than Natasha gave you. And you're really good. Like, really good. I mean this one in particular—" he tugs the sketchpad off of Steve's lap and flips a few pages to find the one he wants, the picture of Bucky getting plowed over by a double-decker bus packed with camera-waving tourists. "The likeness is uncanny."
Steve laughs and grabs the sketchpad away so he can hide it in his messenger bag. "Thanks. I'll keep it in mind."
And then Bucky says, "Steve...I know you said your life is pretty complicated right now, and not to ask. But I was hoping maybe that was just the mob stuff. And if I asked you out, you might want to get together sometime—"
"If you say you want to get coffee," Steve interrupts him.
"Nah, I don't think coffee's really our thing," Bucky laughs. "I'd buy you a beer, though?"
Steve looks at Bucky, the way his smile lights up his eyes, as distracting as he was the first time Steve saw him. "Yeah, that sounds pretty great," Steve says, and smiles right back.