fanficition cove

Originally written/posted: September 2014
Fandom: Captain America (2011)
Universe: AU: College/University
Pairing: Steve/Bucky
Rating: T
Word Count: 18,715 words
Warnings: Recreational Drug Use (Weed), panic attacks, references to past violence
Notes: I haven’t reread this one for a couple years but I remember enjoying it the last time I reread it! Please heed the warnings on this one.

Bucky hates taking the subway.

It’s loud and obnoxious and there’s always a couple of teenagers that are too busy trying to find Narnia in each other’s throats that they undoubtedly miss their stop, and Bucky is over it. He’s just screeched past thirty, is working a dead end job with co-workers he hates, and the last thing he wants to do is get on a rickety subway that shudders every time the wind hits it wrong.

(Today’s different–there are no fucking teenagers, godbless.)

Bucky’s in the back of the train car and there’s a man sitting across from him who is bopping his head along to the music blaring through his headphones. It’s some top 40 track, one that he vaguely recognizes as something Darcy plays whenever she’s trying to prove a point. Bucky tries real hard not to find it adorable, because there shouldn’t be disgustingly attractive men on the subway who sing along to their shitty music, but here he is and Bucky is useless.

The guy is hot, too, hot enough that Bucky can’t help but stare at him.

His shoulders are the type of wide that makes Bucky think Hot Guy could easily bench press a train, probably, and his golden blonde hair is set into place with expensive products–well, Bucky assumes they’re expensive, anyway. His eyes are slanted close, dark eyelashes fanning along his cheeks and fuck it all if Bucky doesn’t want to run his tongue along the seam of his too-pink lips right then, just for a taste.

“Uh,” he mutters.

Hot Guy is getting progressively louder and people are starting to turn to look at him. It’s not that he has a bad voice or anything, because he doesn’t, it’s rich and smooth and settles along Bucky’s nerves. It’s also the end of a workday though, and there’s probably only a couple minute window before the yelling starts.

Bucky really doesn’t want the yelling to start.

He settles a hand on Hot Guy’s shoulder, feeling the muscles contract underneath his grip, and he might die a little inside. “Heya, pal,” he tries again.

Hot Guy actually looks up this time, and his eyes are so, so blue. Bucky has a hard time not sinking in them, like the ridiculous loser he is. He also possibly wants to get as far away as possible, maybe burrow between the old couple a few rows away and hope for the best, because this doesn’t happen to Bucky. He isn’t the type to run into attractive, not-entirely-bad singers on the subway.

Hot Guy tears out the headphones from his ears and fixes Bucky with an embarrassed look, cheeks pinking. “I was doing it again, wasn’t I?”

Bucky blinks, but then smiles at him, wide and full of charm. “If by ‘it’ you mean singing loudly enough to wake that homeless guy across the car, then yeah, that was what you were doin’.”

The guy turns even redder, and buries his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, when he surfaces, his hair messed up by the tips of his fingers.

Bucky makes a note not to approach attractive strangers ever again; he’s not sure his heart can take it. “I didn’t mean to disturb anyone.”

“You weren’t disrupting me,” Bucky assures him, and finds that it’s the truth. “Trust me, I’ll take GQ models singing on the subway over teenagers deflowering each other any day.”

The guy laughs. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” he says, self-deprecatingly, and holds out a hand. “I’m Steve.”

Bucky takes it, and isn’t surprised by the firm grip. His hand is warm, fingers calloused like he spends a lot of time working with his hands. Bucky resolutely tries not to think about all of the fun he can have with that one, and says, instead, “I’m Bucky.”

“Your parents named you Bucky?”

“Nah,” Bucky grins. “It’s what I named myself.”

Steve nods, and shoves his iPod back into his suit pocket. It’s the type of suit that Bucky would never be able to afford, could take three months rent to cover it and that still wouldn’t be enough. He feels out of place in his wrinkled black button-down shirt and battered slacks. Steve doesn’t treat him any differently for it, though, he just grins at Bucky as if the sun itself existed in this cramped subway. “Well, Bucky ‘I-named-myself,’ thanks for saving me from a world of embarrassment.”

Christ. “Just doing the rest of the world a service.”

Steve laughs again. Bucky has to turn away so he doesn’t do something embarrassing, like crawl into Steve’s lap and chase away the sound with his lips–that’s just too pathetic, even for him.

*

When Bucky gets back to his shitty apartment in his shitty neighborhood, Natasha is lounging on their couch.

He ignores her, instead favoring to get two beers from the fridge, shedding his coat by the door as he goes. Once his jacket and his keys are put away, he hurls one of the cans at her head. He’s not surprised when she catches it. Natasha doesn’t talk about her job very much, but he has it narrowed down between super-secret-service-agent and freakishly efficient assassin.

“You ever try that again,” Natasha begins, as he vaults over the couch. “I will castrate you in your sleep.”

He salutes her sarcastically. “Duly noted,” he drawls, though he’s already making plans to do it again. Natasha is terrifying really, all ninety-something pounds of her, but they both know when to pick their battles, and this isn’t one of them.

She huffs, but cracks open the can and takes a drink. It’s silent for a while, which isn’t something he minds. Natasha has always been quiet, except for when she’s had too much coffee or too much alcohol (which rarely happens, since, like Bucky, she’s not really too fond of giving up control), and he likes it. It’s nice not having to force mindless chatter, not that Bucky minds that either, can play it with the best of them, but Natasha does. More often than not, they sit around on their ratty couch taking turns burning through their Netflix queues.

He can feel her eyes on the side of his face, boring holes into his skin. He doesn’t like her looks. They usually end up with one of them consuming too much alcohol to compensate, and Bucky can think of thirty other ways to spend his Wednesday night.

“What?” He snaps.

“You look happy,” she accuses.

Bucky sighs, and runs a hand over his face. This is what he’s talking about. She’s a natural born prier and a meddler, and Bucky’s defenses around her have basically wilted to zero–it is incredible actually, how much Bucky is willing to admit to if the state of his dick is in danger; Natasha knows just where to aim if she wants results and she’s not afraid to use it, much to his own dismay.

“I’m always happy.”

She snorts, but then schools her face into a softer expression. “I mean it, James.”

He makes a face. “It’s Bucky.”

“I refuse to call you a child’s name,” retorts Natasha.

Bucky sighs, because this is an argument they have often, and one he has no chance in hell of winning. “You’re a child’s name,” he hisses, petulantly.

“Petulant isn’t a good look on you,” She says, but her tone is fond, and her eyes are smiling.

“Everything’s a good look on me,” he grins.

She pats his knee. “Uh huh,” she murmurs, non-committedly.

She drops it, thankfully, but Bucky knows she isn’t done, not in the slightest. Natasha has the wonderful tendency of keeping information close to her chest until she can use it against you in the dirtiest way possible.

Bucky would be annoyed by it if he wasn’t so impressed.

*

The second time Bucky sees Steve is a few days later, on the same subway, only this time Steve doesn’t have headphones in and he has a sketchbook perched on his lap.

Bucky eyes it curiously as he takes his seat. He holds off on asking for about five minutes, which is a personal record, and can’t keep the smile out of his voice when he asks, “You draw?”

Steve’s head snaps up, and Bucky wants to throw himself off of a very high building. He looks better than he did the other day, somehow, his bangs sweeping into his eyes just slightly, his cheeks flushed bright pink in concentration, and his eyes are that same, odd shade of blue Bucky still hasn’t quite found a name for. Bucky spends a good amount of time staring, and then fixes his gaze on the poster behind Steve’s shoulder to feel better about it.

He can see Steve gesture toward the sketchbook out of the corner of his eye. “Been drawing since I could walk, really,” he says.

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Since you could walk? Ain’t that a little young?”

“I didn’t start walking until I was two or three,” Steve admits, and he sounds embarrassed. The fact that he sounds embarrassed about any part of himself makes Bucky want to laugh.

“S’not so bad,” he assures Steve, because it isn’t. So, Steve was a late bloomer, there isn’t anything wrong with that. He’s definitely caught up in all the right departments–not that there are any wrong ones, not that Bucky can tell, anyway–since then, if Bucky has anything to say about it.

Steve grins. “Yeah? Tell that to my ma. Think I was about to work her into a heart attack by the time I started walking.”

Bucky can’t help the laugh that escapes his throat. “I was giving my own parents heart attacks,” he says, and then winks. Steve turns impossibly red, and his fingers twitch at his sides. “But, for entirely different reasons.”

“Let me guess,” Steve starts, “You were one of those kids who smeared their own feces on the wall, weren’t you?”

“No, actually. But I was one of those kids that would torment his sisters.”

Steve snorts. “I’m not even a little bit surprised.”

He can’t help the smile that takes over his face at the thought of his parents, “Neither were my ‘rents,” Bucky says conspiratorially. He’s leaning so far on his elbows he’s surprised he hasn’t toppled over yet.

Steve gives him a smile that makes the inside of Bucky’s chest feel tight, like he’s been running for too long and hasn’t stopped to breathe. Bucky is about to say something, something that he will probably end up regretting anyway, when Steve turns back to his sketchbook and drags the pencil across the paper again. They might not have known each other very long, but Bucky can see a clear dismissal when it’s presented to him and he turns to look out the window with a sigh.

*

When Steve gets off, a couple stops from Bucky, he drops something in Bucky’s lap.

Bucky looks down, sees a piece of paper that is folded over and over again, like Steve was struggling with whether or not to give it to him at all. It lights him up from the inside out when he thinks about Steve sitting in the next seat, turning the paper over in his hands with his lip caught between his teeth.

He feels like they’re twelve again, dropping notes on girls desks and asking them if they like him or not, to circle ‘yes’ or ‘no’.

Steve clears his throat, making Bucky’s gaze snap to his. His eyes are clear and blue. “Have a good night, Bucky.”

“Likewise,” Bucky says after a moment.

He throws a look over his shoulder, one that is amused, eyes crinkling around the corners. Steve pauses in the middle, like he’s thinking about turning back to say something else, but the warning chime is reverberating through the tiny space, and with one last twitch he’s off the cart and through the door. Bucky lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding.

*

In a rare exercise of self-control, Bucky doesn’t open the paper until he’s home.

Natasha isn’t anywhere to be seen and Bucky is grateful for it. He really doesn’t need her passive-aggressive teasing right now, especially not when he’s pretty sure whatever it is Steve thought was worth handing him will emotionally compromise him. And it’s pathetic, really, because they’ve only had two meetings in the last couple of days, but Bucky goes to sleep thinking about the breadth of Steve’s shoulders and the exact angle of his lips when he smiles, and he is in so, so deep that he can’t even dig himself out anymore.

(Dignity be damned, Bucky knows he’ll fall into bed later with his hand shoved down his boxers, thinking about coming on Steve’s pretty, pretty face.)

He grabs a beer from the fridge, makes a mental note to pick up more, and takes the paper with him to the couch.

Bucky fingers the edges of the paper a little bit and then huffs at himself. “Man up, Barnes,” he mutters. “Stop being such a moron.”

When he opens it, his breath catches in his throat. Fuck, this is so much worse than what he was expecting and he’s not even sure what that was.

Staring up at him is a picture of his own face. Well, a drawing of his own face. His head is up against the window like it usually is whenever he’s in the proximity of one to do so, the first couple buttons of his shirt undone so the small splatter of chest hair is visible, and his eyes are closed. Bucky traces his finger along the strong line of his jaw, over the slight shading of facial hair dusting his cheeks, and he smiles.

Once Bucky is done tracing it like the nerd he is–it lasts a lot longer than he’ll ever be willing to admit to–he stuffs the paper in the top drawer of his nightstand, smiling as he goes.

*

Bucky is pretty shitty at a lot of things and is mediocre in everything else.

There’s never been something that he’s excelled at, or well, at least there wasn’t until he joined the army. But that was years ago, and he hasn’t had a gun in his hands since the last time Natasha and Clint dragged him down to the shooting range. Bucky had never been one of those kids who had one particular hobby they shone at, instead he was that kid that bounced around. He still has pictures from the month he tried basketball, soccer and baseball, never quite finding his niche (eventually, he gave up).

Bucky’s good at insurance because he enjoys talking to people. He can tell within five seconds if he’s going to get a sale from someone or if they’re just pulling on his balls. But that came with experience.

The point is, there aren’t a lot of things Bucky is good at. He has to pay Steve back somehow though, so he gets out his mother’s old cookie sheets and mixing bowls that haven’t been touched since she died two years ago. He hasn’t baked in ages, hasn’t really had the time for it in between his deployment and his job and the bars that Natasha tends to drag him to when his moping reaches Extreme Levels, but he loves it.

He opens up his cabinets so he can reach all of the necessary ingredients to make his locally famous white chocolate chip cookies. He settles into the routine easily and he doesn’t realize how much he’s missed it until now, missed the easy follow through of baking, and it calms him down enough to where his mind is mostly quiet again.

He’s so relaxed he doesn’t notice Natasha until she’s already creeping up behind him.

“Who’re you baking for?” Natasha asks, resting her chin on his shoulder.

Bucky about throws the still cooling tray of cookies at their backsplash. “Jesus fuck, Nat.”

Natasha smirks against his shoulder. “You aren’t getting soft on me, are you James?”

Bucky slaps her face away, gently, and prepares the next batch of cookies. “Stop that,” he complains, “Your face is cold.”

“Not a chance,” She says, breezily, but thankfully dislodges her face from his shoulder in order to get something from one of the cabinets. “I’ll ask again; who are you baking for?”

“Just someone on the subway,” he admits. Natasha is relentless when it comes to digging into Bucky’s personal life, and really, he should’ve known up front that it would be near impossible to hide anything from her.

“You’re baking cookies for someone on the subway,” Natasha repeats.

Bucky shrugs. “He drew me a picture.”

He doesn’t even have to look at her to know that she’s eyeing him curiously, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow reaching for her hairline. He can feel her gaze on the back of his neck, making his skin prickle and the little hairs stand up.

“You like him.”

“He’s hot,” Bucky says, because Steve is, and there is a lot Bucky would be willing to do for a hot person, like bake him those stupidly good cookies Natasha always requests around the holidays.

“He’s hot,” Natasha repeats.

Bucky places the cookie sheet in the oven, sets the timer and spins around to scowl at her. “He is, like, freakishly attractive.”

She pats his shoulder. “There, there,” she mutters. “I’m sure your cookies will suddenly make him see the sun shine out of your ass.”

Bucky belches in her face, he’s not even ashamed.

*

He ends up being late for work because he pissed the bed.

When he looks on his nightstand, still groggy from too little sleep, to see his hand in a bowl of water, he curses whatever God is listening for ever wishing Natasha fucking Romanoff into existence, and dumps all of the cookies into a Tupperware to take to work with him.

He hates everything Natasha chooses to be, sometimes–mainly because she’s terrifyingly good at hitting Bucky where it hurts.

After a few seconds of deliberation, he leaves a note that simply says, “Pranks are a children’s game, Natasha.”

(In other words, he’s absolutely ready to go to war.)

*

Bucky is nervous about the subway, again.

He was wired all throughout work, with the thought of seeing Steve again, of thanking him for the sketch, with actually giving Steve the cookies he made him. Bucky doesn’t even know if Steve likes cookies. It would be unfortunate for Steve; Bucky’s cookies are sort of minutely short of incredible.

When he finally gets on at his usual stop, Steve is sitting in the corner again, bopping his head along to his music. Bucky snorts to himself, takes a seat close to him, and settles in. There’s a part of him, a very small part of him, thank god, that just wants to throw the bin in Steve’s lap and be done with it, but he doesn’t.

Steve looks up after a few moments, rips out his headphones, and smiles at him. He can count on one hand the number of times Bucky has seen anything as bright.

“Hey, Buck.”

Bucky raises his eyes at the nickname, and is helpless in the face of Smiling Steve. “Hey, Steve,” he greets, folding his hands in his lap. “Thanks for the sketch yesterday. You’re really talented.”

Steve flushes that pretty, pretty red again, from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, and Bucky swears he has never seen anything more adorable. “It’s nothing.”

“Don’t even play that card with me,” Bucky starts, and only narrowly avoids rolling his eyes. “Hey, do you work in the art industry?”

Steve’s eyes go distant and sad, for a second. Bucky wants to kick himself for even asking. “I was going to, but then my mom got diagnosed with cancer right before I graduated high school, and I opted for a business management degree instead. I work for Stark Industries.”

Bucky blinks. Steve works for just about the most powerful engineering genius in the country. No wonder his suits look so ridiculously expensive. He whistles. “Stark Industries, huh?”

“It pays the bills.”

Bucky nods, because it’s not like there’s anything glamourous or mildly interesting about selling insurance. It’s not that Bucky hates his job, because he doesn’t. He likes talking to people and easing their conscious with giving them something that they (most likely) need, but he misses the army sometimes, misses the weight of his rifle in his hand and the grounded support of his squad at his back, and there are times he wakes up at night expecting to roll over into a rock, but hits pillows instead.

Steve eyes him curiously. “What do you do?”

Bucky scratches behind his head. “Uh, sell insurance, mainly. Sometimes I’ll do admin work if my boss is short-handed.”

“Huh. Never pegged you for that,” Steve says, thoughtfully.

Bucky wonders what Steve pictured him doing, and shakes it off. It’s not like it matters, anyway. “I fell into it, sort of, after my stint with the army.”

“Army?”

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs, “would probably still be there, if I hadn’t been discharged.”

Steve looks like he wants to ask, his gaze straying to Bucky’s left arm where it’s folded neatly in his lap. There are deep scars that wind up the length of it, swirling into third degree burns that have just only healed over, all giving way the knot of dead nerve tissue on his shoulder.

“You can ask,” Bucky says. He’s never been shy about his arm. It is what it is, and Bucky’s alive and breathing. That’s really the only thing he can ask for.

“What happened?”

“Got hit by an IED. Pushed some of my Squad out of the way because they were standing closest,” Bucky says. “‘Cept for Clint. The little fucker wouldn’t move.” Clint wears hearing aids because of it now, and Bucky’s arm is fucked up, but they’re alive, and it’s okay. Bucky came out of it the worst off, and there isn’t a day that goes by that he isn’t grateful for it. He’s not sure he could live with the guilt of surviving something his men didn’t.

Steve doesn’t say anything, just stares at him, eyes kind and understanding, so Bucky continues, “My left arm took the brunt of it. The doc’s say it’s only about 50% functional and they discharged me. Guess I need more than that to handle a rifle or somethin’, huh?”

(Bucky’s still sort of bitter about it. Sniping is better than insurance, that’s for damn sure.)

Steve smiles at him, though, and it’s bright, and it lights up Bucky’s entire view, makes him forget about all of the shit that’s muddled up in his head, and he thinks that he’s never wanted to kiss someone on the mouth more than he wants to right now.

“You got out of it, though,” Steve offers. He seems to struggle with what he wants to say next, his eyebrows furrowing in concentration. Bucky wants to do something ridiculous, like smooth away the surface with his lips. “Thanks for your service.”

Somehow, from Steve, it sounds completely sincere. He waves it off though, because Bucky has never been very good at accepting genuine gratitude, especially for his time in the army. He did some bad things, killed a lot of people, took fathers away from sons and mothers away from daughters, and sometimes he doesn’t sleep so well at night. There is nothing about it that deserves thanking, he thinks.

“Oh,” Bucky says. He digs through his messenger bag for the cookies. Once he finds them, he can’t help the blush that colors his cheeks, setting them in Steve’s lap. “I, uh, made you these last night. You’re not allergic to chocolate, are you?”

Steve looks down in his lap for a moment, and picks it up. The Tupperware looks so small in his hands. He peels open the top, taking a big breath in of the cookies, and Bucky nearly salivates at the sound Steve makes; it’s breathy and pleased, and Christ, the things Bucky would do to hear that sound again.

“You made me cookies,” Steve says, in awe. “You didn’t have to make me cookies.”

Bucky grins at him. “Had to do something so you wouldn’t show me up, huh?”

“You really didn’t have to, Buck.”

“Just accept the damn cookies,” Bucky laughs. “They’re white chocolate chip.”

Steve closes the lid, and meets Bucky’s eyes. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Bucky actually sort of means it.

*

“I’m in way over my head,” Bucky groans. He throws himself on the couch, feet landing in Natasha’s lap, and he can tell the only reason she’s letting him get away with it is because of how pathetic he looks right now.

His gaze lands on the side table where the half-smoked joint from earlier is resting and his fingers twitch for it. It’s not like Natasha has a problem with it–they wouldn’t be roommates if she did, but he tries not to smoke around her all that much. But, talking about his stint in the army always puts him on edge, leaves him with a rattling on the edges of his skull that he can’t shake without a little help from the press of extra hands or the haze of purp, and since he and Natasha haven’t slept together since they were teenagers, he thinks maybe she’ll let this time slide.

“Do you mind?” He asks, quietly.

He can feel her gaze heavy on the side of his face. Natasha doesn’t mind, sure, but that doesn’t mean she particularly likes it, either. She must find something in his face, because she lets out a sigh, relenting with a wave of her hand.

It’s not immediate, but Bucky can feel some of the pent up tension in his shoulders leak out, and he reaches over with shaky fingers to grasp at it.

“Thanks.”

It’s quiet for a while, as he takes the time to search for the lighter that fell to the floor by the foot of the couch and light the stub. He’s careful not to blow the smoke in her face, the haze just starting to settle pleasantly along his nerve endings when he feels her hands settle on his ankles.

“James.”

Bucky looks at her through half-lidded eyes and raises an eyebrow. “Yeah.”

“What happened today?”

He doesn’t want to talk about it, but Bucky’s also useless when he’s high, unable to keep his mouth shut, blabbering about anything and everything that comes into his head. He doesn’t want to talk about Steve, but he can’t not talk about Steve. It is, as Bucky’s concerned, a fucking death trap.

He sighs. “Steve.”

Bucky sighs. “Steve.”

“Steve?”

“The guy on the subway,” Bucky clarifies. He knows that she’s only asking because she wants to hear him say it, and he’s too buzzed to fight her on it.

She rolls her eyes. “You’re always so dramatic,” she mutters. “Just ask him out on a date.”

“It’s not that simple, Tash,” Bucky hisses. “He works at Stark. He’s so fucking out of my league.”

“You’re not out of anyone’s league,” Natasha says, “There are no leagues. Leagues are for children, dating is for adults. If you want him, ask him out. It is that simple.”

Bucky sighs again. “Can we just drop it?”

“I just want you to be happy.” Natasha says, but reaches for the remote and clicks on the TV. “I get to choose what we watch tonight.” Bucky concedes. He’ll give up a night of Criminal Minds, gladly, to not have to talk about this in the near future.

*

The thing is, Bucky starts to think about what Natasha said.

She has the habit of doing that, of having her words plant seeds that eventually bloom, and bloom, and bloom. He hasn’t really ever considered asking Steve out, mainly because he doesn’t even know if Steve is even slightly bisexual. But, the more that he thinks about it, the more he thinks that maybe they’ve reached the stage in their–admittedly passive–friendship that it wouldn’t be completely out of left field if Bucky asked him out for drinks one night after work.

Steve doesn’t seem like the type that would say no, even if he didn’t really want to go, which Bucky doesn’t like, but it isn’t enough to get the idea out of his head.

He breaks the following Tuesday. He’s had a rough day at work, having had shitty sales all day with his boss breathing down his neck about his shitty sales, and he’s in desperate need of a drink.

“Hey, Steve?” Bucky asks. They’ve been sitting there in silence for a while, with Steve sketching away in the sketchpad Bucky’s noticed he’s started carrying with him more often, tongue poking out between his lips in concentration. Bucky may or may not have spent the last five minutes staring at it; he’s not admitting to anything.

“Yeah?”

“Wanna, uh, wanna go get a drink with me?”

Steve looks up from his sketchbook then. His eyes are clear and so, so blue, his expression carefully blank. “Tonight.”

“I mean, if that’s alright,” Bucky hedges. He’s nervous. Bucky doesn’t get nervous about a lot of things. He wasn’t nervous when he graduated high school, or when he was shipped off to the middle of nowhere with the army. Even after the war he doesn’t remember ever feeling like this, like his chest was too tight with tension, like his heart was too big for his body, beating erratically.

“I could go for a drink,” says Steve.

Bucky grins. “They’re on me.”

“You really don’t hav-”

“I want to,” Bucky starts, “Let me buy you a drink, Steve.”

Steve nods. “Alright. Buy me a drink then, Buck.”

*

They decide on a bar in Clinton Hill because it’s equal distance from both of their apartments–well, really it’s closer to Steve’s, but he doesn’t want to make Steve do a loop around just to go get a drink with him, and he figures this is the best option.

“You really don’t have to do this,” Steve says, for what is definitely the hundredth time. Bucky rolls his eyes, pushing the door to the bar open. Bucky knows he doesn’t have to do this, it’s that he actually wants to.

“Trust me on this one,” Bucky drawls. He takes a seat in a booth in the back corner, because he figures it’s the best option. Steve doesn’t seem like a people person, at least not like Bucky can be, and this way he has a clear vantage point of every person in the room and all of the exits. No matter how hard he tries, he can never quite take the war out of himself. “You’re not gonna wanna turn down a free drink from me.”

“Once in a blue moon kind of occurrence?”

Bucky grins. “Something like that,” he answers, and doesn’t mention how he’d probably pay for Steve’s drinks for the rest of his fucking life if it got him anywhere near, in, or around his pants.

Bucky gestures towards the bar. “So whatdya want, then?”

“Surprise me,” Steve says.

“Trust me, bud, that I can do,” Bucky grins, and then heads towards the bar on shaky feet.

He can’t believe he’s doing this, taking Steve out for drinks, spending time with Steve that isn’t forced–or well, orchestrated previously due to the same subway route they take. Just the thought is enough to make his palms sweat where they’re resting against the bar, but Bucky ignores that. He’s not going to mess this up; really, he’s not.

After some deliberation, he orders a gin and tonic for Steve, a whiskey on the rocks for himself, and pivots on his feet to head back to their table.

“Hope you like your drinks with a little bite to them,” Bucky says, when he’s approaching the table. He takes his seat across from Steve again, sliding the small glass over to him.

Steve brings it close to his lips and sniffs. “Huh. Gin and tonic?” He beams, though, so Bucky must’ve made the right choice, and takes a hearty sip.

Bucky shrugs. “You seemed like a pine kind of guy.”

“Usually, I prefer rum,” Steve starts, and Bucky fights against the want to deflate. “But, I can always go for some gin.”

A couple of minutes pass in silence before Bucky can’t take it anymore. “So, what’dya do at Stark Industries?”

Steve flushes again, bright pink in the low lights of the bar and Bucky has a hard time dealing with it. He drains his glass completely and stares down at it in disdain; he really thought it would last longer.

“Just one of their accountants,” Steve says, but his eye is twitching. Bucky has been trained, or had been trained, once, to spot a lie from a mile away, and bristles a little at it coming from Steve. He knows that Stark Industries has every damn reason to hide what they do, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

“Just an accountant, huh?” Bucky grins, the edges a little strained. He covers it up with a cough, or tries to anyway.

Steve winces. “Stark’s a reckless spender.”

“Yeah, buyin’ helicopters and shit?”

“More like ill-advised corrupted robot parts,” says Steve, eyebrows furrowing. “I didn’t say that.”

Bucky zips his lips. “I won’t tell nobody,” He promises, “Do I look like somebody that would blab their lips?”

“Maybe with a few drinks,” Steve offers.

Bucky rolls his eyes, mutters, “I’ll show you a few drinks,” and orders another round.

Steve just laughs at him, and maybe it’s the alcohol or maybe it’s the rough day he’s had today, dealing with awful clients who pulled him in every which direction, and nosey coworkers who didn’t know when to quit, but it’s the best sound he’s heard all day.

Bucky thinks, distantly, that he’s losing his edge.

*

Natasha’s curled up on the couch when he gets home. He’s not really all that surprised, she’s probably been there since she looked at the clock on the wall and figured that Bucky wouldn’t be home until much later than normal. It’s just something that they do–have done since they moved in together when Bucky was released from the hospital.

They look out for each other.

Bucky grunts in the general direction of her, feeling tired and loose from the whiskey, but there’s a warmth there too. It starts in his chest and spreads throughout his limbs pleasantly, the kind of happy-tipsy feeling he gets when he’s not quite drunk.

She takes one look at him and makes a face. “You’re glowing, Barnes.”

He glowers at the wall. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Now, now,” Natasha tsks, but then her face turns serious, and that’s almost worse. Bucky hates when her face turns serious, because he can deal with her teasing, and her terrible snide remarks that she somehow thinks are funny, but her advice is something he’s not sure he’s ready to face. She lays her hand on his arm, interrupting his train of thought. “James.”

Bucky blinks. “Huh?”

“You back in the present?” Her voice is soft, and tender, the way it always gets when he drifts. He doesn’t do it often, at least not anymore, but it was frequent enough before that she’s overly cautious about it. There are times when Bucky will lose minutes or whole hours.

Those aren’t his favorite times.

“Yeah,” he says, quietly. He scrubs a hand over his face, resisting the urge to pull on his hair like a temperamental teenager. “Fuck. Sorry.”

She holds up a hand. “Don’t apologize to me.”

His mouth shuts with an audible clack. They don’t say anything else for a few hours, but it’s still enough.

*

She tries again a few hours later, when Bucky is in bed.

He’s up because he can’t sleep, which isn’t that unusual, but the way Natasha is leaning against his door frame, cheek resting against the molding is.

“Stop standin’ there,” Bucky grumbles. “You’re letting all the cool air in.”

She hesitates for a moment, gauging how serious he is, before he gets tired of her standing there and throws back the corner of his duvet cover. “C’mon.”

She crawls in like she used to when they were teenagers, when they would “borrow” one of his parents’ bottles of whiskey and wax poetic about the existential value of the universe and whether or not they were going to pass this years classes. He’s missed this, without even realizing it before now.

He’s dozing off, comforted by the warmth of another body in bed with him, when Natasha whispers, “You got him a gin and tonic, didn’t you?”

Bucky glares at the blackness of his room and huffs. “I dunno what you’re talking about.”

“The guy you want to fuck,” Natasha says, plainly.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, face squished into his pillow. There is not enough alcohol in the world for this conversation. “It’s three in the morning.”

“I don’t see your point.” She’s not giving him a way out on this one. He will have to lay here awkwardly examining his feelings for some nerd on the subway he can’t get out of his head, and Natasha will never, ever let him live this down.

“We went to the bar,” Bucky offers.

“Obviously,” she says. “Did you eye-fuck across the table? Was there a Marvin Gaye song flowing in the background? C’mon, James, these are things that one needs to know.”

“You’re a dick,” Bucky says passionately.

“That’s not the point.”

“There’s not a point to this conversation,” Bucky hisses. “Because it’s over. Now.”

Natasha is quiet for a while, but Bucky doesn’t fall asleep, or even try to, really.

“James,” Natasha begins. He can feel the ghost of one of her hands on his left arm, and damn him, it makes him smile. “I’m happy for you.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say. “There ain’t nothin’ to be happy ‘bout,” he settles on, because it’s neutral enough that (hopefully) Natasha won’t ask too many questions. It is, as most of Bucky’s wishes are when it comes to Natasha and Bucky’s Feeling Boundaries, a pretty moot thought.

“There will be,” she counters, “When you finally find your balls where you shoved them up your own ass.”

“Nata–”

She turns him to face her, then, because she is disturbingly strong for such a tiny person. Her eyes are hard in the glint of the moonlight streaming through Bucky’s bedroom window, but her mouth is soft, curling up at the edges, and Bucky knows, that even though she has a hard time showing it sometimes, she cares. For some reason he can’t figure out just yet, she’s always showed him more kindness than he thinks he deserves.

“I don’t know what you think you’re saving Steve from, but you can’t keep pining over him like some pre-teen girl. It’s pathetic.”

Bucky sighs. He knows his pining is getting to ridiculous levels–it’s only been a few weeks, which Bucky doesn’t think about too often; he has to scramble to save what little dignity he has left, okay–but having it pointed out by Natasha is cutting him deeper than it probably should. “He’s probably straight,” Bucky says, but it’s weak and he knows it.

She rolls her eyes. “Sexuality is fluid, James,” she says.

“Believe me,” Bucky starts, “I know. It’s just–”

She eyes him for a moment. “Different when it’s your feelings on the line,” Natasha finishes.

“We’ve got a good thing going now,” he says, nodding, but his tone says something different, says ‘I don’t want to chance ruining it.’ Judging by the scathingly unimpressed look she fixes on him, he’s pretty sure she heard it anyway.

“Right,” she says, unbelievably, and her hand lands on his shoulder. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting things for yourself, James.”

“Trust me,” he says again, “I know that damn well.”

“Then start acting like it.”

She turns the other way before he can think to say anything else. Bucky doesn’t fall asleep for a long time.

The nightmares don’t stop.

*

Steve is missing from the subway for a few days.

Bucky doesn’t let this get to him, or well, he tries not to, but it’s gotten to the point where the level of how much he enjoys his days directly reflects on how many times Steve smiles at him.

(Needless to say, the last few days have been fucking terrible.)

Steve isn’t there in his usual seat for a week. He’s not smiling down at his sketchbook or bopping his head ridiculously to some Top 40 track, and when Bucky looks around the rest of the cart, he’s not anywhere to be seen there either.

Which is fine, Bucky knows. Steve has commitments outside of their subway, probably. It was only natural that eventually, Steve would miss a few days.

On the fourth day, Bucky doesn’t even bother with trying to find Steve. He just takes his usual seat next to two teenagers who are trying their damnedest to attach their crotches together through the sheer force of will–it would be impressive if it wasn’t so gross.

One day, he’ll get off of this fucking subway.

*

When Steve does return–finally–he’s covered in bruises.

There’s a purple-blue one blooming over his left cheekbone, and there are multiple tiny cuts down the rest of his face, his clavicle, and the tops of his hands. He looks like he was mugged, taken to some back alley somewhere and beat with a baseball bat, but Steve is terrifyingly huge so Bucky doubts anyone would actually try to hurt him.

“Steve?” Bucky questions.

Steve does not have a notebook today, nor does he have his iPod. Bucky’s hesitant to approach him.

But, Steve just looks up at him, and fucking beams, smiling so wide Bucky is surprised his split lip isn’t hurting. Or maybe it is and Steve’s doing it anyway. He refuses to think about tightening of his chest at the thought and sits down next to him to cope.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve greets.

Bucky blinks. “So,” Bucky says, after a few seconds when Steve doesn’t mention it, and Bucky doesn’t mention him not mentioning it. “Are we gonna talk about how you disappear for a few days and then come back covered in bruises?”

Steve winces. “Uh,” he stammers. “Maybe not?” His eyebrows furrow, then, and a sigh escapes his lips. “Sorry, Buck, it’s just-”

Bucky’s eyes narrow. He knows that tone. “Did someone threaten you, Stevie? Cause I’ll hunt ‘em down for you-”

“God, Bucky, no. Nobody threatened me,” Steve says, slowly.

Then it clicks. The absences from the subway, Steve showing up after a few days, battered and visibly tired, but alive.

He smirks. “Not just an accountant, huh?”

“I would tell you,” Steve starts.

“But, you’d have to kill me?”

He laughs, then, bright and much too loud in their back little corner. “Jesus, no, of course not. More like, have you sign twenty contracts promising you’d never tell anyone.”

“Contracts,” Bucky repeats.

“My boss is a little paranoid.”

“A little,” Bucky snorts.

“Okay, more like, he would have an aneurysm just knowing that I was talking to you about this right now.”

Bucky grins. “But, you’re telling me anyway.”

“But, I’m telling you anyway,” Steve agrees.

*

It’s a couple days later when Bucky asks Steve to hang out again.

Steve’s bruises have faded to the point where they’re just barely there against his pale skin, and Bucky finds it a little easier to look at him now without filling up with an unrighteous rage–it’s obvious, no matter how much Bucky may dislike it, that getting hurt fits within Steve’s mysterious job description. Steve has taken to bringing sketchbooks on the subway with him, though he never lets Bucky see.

“Stevie,” Bucky tries, again. “Whatcha drawin’?”

Bucky can only see a shadow of his face, but even he can tell that he’s rolling his eyes. “Nothing now.”

“C’mon, don’t be like that,” Bucky can’t help his grin now, how it hijacks his face and spreads to the middle of his cheeks. Steve just has that effect on him.

Steve’s about to say something, opens his mouth and everything, but Bucky beats him before he can, takes a deep breath and blurts, “We should hang out. Again.”

He’s mortified enough that hurling himself violently out of the car sounds like a brilliant idea. He’s about to make the idea a reality when a hand settles on his shoulder, like Steve can read his inner monologue. He probably can–according to Natasha, he’s absolute shit at hiding what he’s feeling, most of the time.

Steve reaches a hand into the messenger bag hung precariously on his shoulder, searches around a bit, and between one blink and the next, shoves his phone into Bucky’s hands.

It takes a while for Bucky to understand what exactly he’s doing with Steve’s phone, and when he does, his thumbs fly across the screen to enter his information.

“Thanks,” he says, quietly.

He hands back Steve his phone, and fishes his own out. They exchange contact information, and it makes Bucky’s head spin. He was good at this once, but he isn’t now, hasn’t been for a long time. It’s comforting to know he’s not fucking this up, yet.

“I’m free when I’m not at work, usually,” Steve says, his cheeks coloring at the admission.

“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” Bucky tells him, because it’s true. There’s nothing wrong with not being a social butterfly. It took a long time for him to understand this, took months and months of his therapist pounding it into his head that just because he doesn’t necessarily enjoy being social anymore, doesn’t mean that he is worth less than anyone else for it–there are other reasons for that, anyway; reasons that keep him up at night. “Lately my netflix has seen more action than anything.”

Steve doesn’t reply, but his shoulders don’t seem so hunched over anymore, and when he smiles at Bucky when his stop comes up, it’s bright and promising and real.

*

Bucky never gets around to texting Steve. Steve texts him first.

He’s lazing around in bed, because it’s a Saturday morning and Natasha is working a shift so she isn’t there to judge him for it, when his phone buzzes next to him on his pillow.

Bucky’s still pretty hazy from the blunt he half-smoked, half-devoured earlier–he’s been running his fingers along the silk of his comforter for the last twenty minutes, unable to stop because it feels, so, so nice. Bucky always feels nice when he’s high; it is, he thinks, one of the many perks of being fucking blitized.

So, he’s not entirely all in one place, is floating between a bunch of different places he never can reach sober, but it doesn’t stop him from grinning at his phone.

Steve.

Steve [11:43:24 A.M.]
Hey, Bucky. It’s Steve.

Bucky [11:47:32 A.M.]
i know

He gets paranoid though, that it sounds a little too creepy, so he adds,

Bucky [11:48:49 A.M.]
we exchanged numbers, remember?

Bucky can see him now, blushing down at his phone. It might be because he’s spectacularly stoned, but it’s the best thing he’s thought of all day.

Steve [11:50:00 A.M.]
Oh right.

He grins at the screen like a dope. It flashes again, bright enough that he’s distracted by it for a few moments before he remembers that it means something.

Steve [11:50:55 A.M.]
Are you busy today?

Bucky is very much not busy today. His only plans were to hang out in his boxers all day, maybe to smoke a little more and shove a hand down his briefs when things got really rough and the boredom was too much to handle, but possibly hanging out with Steve sounds better than all of those. Not that he’s sure that’s what Steve’s offering or anything, but if it were on the table, Bucky would be on board with that.

Bucky [11:53:23 A.M.]
if you count lazing around all day as busy, then yeah, pal, i’m bookd

Steve [11:54:05 A.M.]
As it would have it, I don’t.

Steve [11:54:45 A.M.]
How does coffee sound? You know the place off of 5th and Liberty?

Bucky knows it. It’s his favorite coffee joint, the one that Clint has owned since they got out of the service. Clint takes his coffee seriously, so it’s none of the hunky-dorey Starbucks shit that Bucky secretly likes so much, but Clint has been a friend for years, really, and he makes a mean Americano.

Bucky [11:57:22 A.M.]
yeah, that place is good

Steve [12:00:00 P.M.]
How does 1 sound?

Bucky doesn’t write back ‘perfect’ but it’s a close thing.

Bucky [12:00:15 P.M.]
sounds good

*

He arrives at Clint’s a few minutes early because he’s too jittery to stay in the house even if Natasha’s not around, and he figures some fresh air will make him look and feel less like he spent the last few hours in a marijuana grow house and more like a functional human being.

Clint is wiping down the counter after the morning rush.

“He’s alive!”

Bucky glares at him. “Shut up,” he grumbles. He doesn’t see Steve in any of the booths or at the bar, so he takes his usual corner one with a sigh. “You haven’t happened to see a guy, have ya?”

“A guy,” Clint repeats, slow.

Bucky waves a hand erratically. “Tall. Blonde…muscular,” he hedges.

Clint’s face clears, and Bucky knows, almost immediately, that he has made a grave mistake. “Oh. You’re meeting Steve here.”

“How do you know about Steve?”

“People talk,” Clint says, which means Natasha ratted Bucky out to him. He’s not really all that surprised. “You finally going to ask him out? I’m gettin’ blue balls just hearing all about it from Tash.”

“Natasha needs to stick her head back in her own business,” He grumbles.

Clint snorts. “You know that isn’t possible.”

“Wishful thinkin’ and all that,” Bucky says, though there’s no heat to it.

“I’ll tell your boy where you are when he comes in,” Clint says, and turns on his heel before Bucky can argue against it.

*

Steve arrives right on time, with his hair styled away from his eyes, the blonde strands sticking every which way like he couldn’t decide on what he wanted to go with, and the shirt he’s wearing has to be at least two sizes too small. It stretches across his shoulders obscenely, to the point where Bucky can count the ridges on his abs–not that he would, but he could.

There are glasses perched on his nose, black and thick framed, like he picked them up from one of those fancy hipster places online with sellers who hand make everything. Unsurprisingly, Steve manages to pull them off.

“Hey Buck,” Steve greets, and takes the seat down next to him. “You find the place alright?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I’ve been comin’ here everyday since they opened.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he starts, “The guy who owns it, Clint, has been one of my best friends since high school. We were in the same squad when we were in the army and he started this place up after we were both discharged.”

“Oh,” Steve repeats, and then furrows his eyebrows. “You guys were discharged together?”

“We were hit by the same IED,” Bucky clarifies. Clint lost most of his hearing, and there’s a lot of scar tissue on the sides of his face. He grows his sideburns out a little farther than he used to so he can hide them a little more efficiently, but the hearing aids aren’t as easily hidden. Bucky would tell Steve this, except it’s not his story to tell.

Steve’s eyes widen in recognition. “He’s the one who wouldn’t move out of the way, huh?”

“That’s him alright,” Bucky grunts. “Always makin’ my life a living hell.”

Steve opens his mouth to say something, but Clint saunters over to their table, with two mugs in his hands. He can smell his Americano from here, and has to seriously resist the urge to start salivating everywhere.

“Greetings, boys,” Clint says, and sets their prospective mugs in front of them.

Bucky huffs, but shakes him off and reaches for his wallet inside of his pant pocket.

“Don’t,” Clint stops him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. Bucky doesn’t flinch at the touch, because he trusts Clint with his entire being, in the way that he hasn’t been able to trust someone, well, ever. “It’s on the house.”

“Clint–” Bucky starts, at the same time Steve says, “I can pay for th–”

Clint looks very amused. Bucky doesn’t like Clint’s amused face, not at all. Bad things usually follow it, like Bucky waking up naked in a tree–which only happened once, no matter what Clint’s camera has to say about it.

“Pay me back by having a good time,” he winks, and Bucky is horrified and he’s going to start planning Clint’s funeral immediately, holy shit.

*

Bucky expects for them to have nothing to talk about.

He shouldn’t be surprised by how wrong he was, because after Bucky orders some pastries for the both of them (a bear claw for Bucky, and a croissant for Steve) their conversation flows. Bucky hasn’t had a conversation flow with a virtual stranger–and that’s what Steve is, really, a stranger; Bucky doesn’t know his favorite color (blue) or what his Netflix queue looks like (documentaries, mainly) and it’s disconcerting, how much he thinks about Steve when he thinks about it like that–for as long as he can remember.

Bucky has always been good at talking to people, but he’s never been very good at making friends. Before the war he was charismatic and could charm anyone into just about anything, but the boys always saw him as a threat and the girls wouldn’t stick around for long. And now, after, well.

After is–different.

They talk about their roommates (Steve has two, a girl named Sharon who is interning at Stark Industries and is a proverbial firecracker and a paramedic named Sam, who Steve says saved him when he fell into a ditch and broke his fucking leg) and what movies they like to watch when it’s raining and Bucky soaks it all up like a sponge to store it away for later.

“You can’t tell me you’ve never seen Star Trek,” Bucky squawks.

Steve holds up a hand, looking painfully earnest. “It just doesn’t seem interesting.”

Bucky blinks. “Doesn’t seem interesting,” he repeats, because what the actual hell. “This is too much. I’m not sure we can be friends now, Stevie.”

Steve’s eyes flash with an emotion Bucky isn’t able to catch before it disappears entirely, but it’s still enough to send his heart racing. “Fine, I’ll watch your damn show.”

Bucky grins. “That’s more like it.”

“Just, on one condition,” Steve starts.

“Fire away.”

“One, you have to watch it with me,” Steve says this like it would be hard to watch his show with Steve. Bucky is proud of himself for not laughing in his face. “And two, you must provide drinks. And food.”

“I believe you said one condition,” Bucky grins.

“If I’m going to be suffering for hours on end I deserve some rewards.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky sighs, “It’s a date.”

Steve licks his lips, leaving Bucky utterly incapable of doing anything but tracking the movement with his eyes. It’s a fucking tragedy.

*

He’s on his way home when Natasha calls him.

“You find your balls yet?”

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters. “Hi to you, too, Nat.”

“Like we’ve ever been one for pleasantries,” she snorts, and well–she has a point. “How did your date with American Pie go?”

Bucky doesn’t want to have this conversation. He would rather not be having this conversation, but he knows if he hangs up on her, she’ll just call back until he answers, leaving increasingly embarrassing voicemails on his phone. He’s not in the mood to deal with this, so he pinches the bridge of his nose instead.

“Clint told you.” Of course Clint told her. Clint tells her everything in the name of getting his dick sucked. Sometimes, it is endlessly frustrating when both of your best friends are sleeping together.

“Yes,” Natasha says. “C’mon, Barnes, details. Did you suck his dick?”

“Fuckin’ Christ–no. No, I did not suck his dick, I wasn’t even around his dick,” Bucky babbles, which is travesty all on it’s own. God, what he would do to get in the general area of Steve’s crotch; it is all levels of embarrassing.

“You should suck his dick.”

“I’m well aware,” Bucky drawls, “That you are in complete support of me suckin’ his dick.”

“Good,” Natasha says, “Then prove it, and do it already.”

*

Bucky’s on lunch break on the following Thursday when he pulls out his phone to text Steve.

Bucky [1:24:13 P.M]
so i was thinkin me + you + beer + pizza at my place tomorrow night

Bucky busies himself with going over files of possible clients and stuffing his face with his sandwich so he doesn’t have to think about all of the things that Steve could say–or the things he didn’t say.

For all intents and purposes, he really wishes he had a fucking bowl right now.

Steve [1:26:43 P.M.]
Does this offer include Star Trek?

He grins at down at his phone, feeling like a fucking nerd, but also no one is around to see him be this pathetic, so it’s not that big of a deal.

Bucky [1:27:30 P.M.]
now that you mention it…it does

Steve [1:28:00 P.M.]
Huh…I don’t know….

Bucky [1:28:59 P.M.]
oh c’mon now, ur just being a dick 

He can see Steve now, smirking down at his phone with his hair swept into his eyes and fuck, he really can’t think about that at work, or at all.

Steve [1:31:32 P.M.]
😛

They decide to ride the subway together on the ride to Bucky’s, which means after work today Bucky will have to run to the store and stock up on beer–between a born Russian and an ex-soldier, they tend to go through alcohol at an alarming rate, even with both of their aversions to it. Bucky also needs to somehow scrounge up the money for pizza, because he’s already running low on money for this month, but he supposes he can dip into his emergency cash in his nightstand if he has to.

He’s mentally calculating how long he’ll have to live off of the leftovers Natasha brings home when she gets back from work when his phone buzzes on the table next to him.

Steve [1:40:24 A.M.]
Looking forward to it.

If Bucky’s mouth goes dry, well, then, no one has to know.

*

He spends all night on Thursday cleaning the apartment. It’s not like he or Natasha are slobs, but they certainly don’t clean as much as they should, and there’s a pretty impressive pile of dishes in the sink that Bucky hasn’t had the energy to tackle since last weekend. Natasha doesn’t even help him, not that she really ever does, just sits on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and laughs at him the entire time.

“This is more entertaining than House of Cards,” Natasha says at one point.

Bucky glares at her. “Y’know, you could always help me,” he grunts, for what is probably upwards of the four hundredth time. “If you were feelin’ generous an’ all.”

Natasha pretends to look thoughtful. “I don’t think that’s in my best interest,” she smirks.

Bucky very firmly decides that he hates her right now.If someone were to come up to him and give him an ultimatum to save her life, in this moment, Bucky’s not sure he would save her. At all.

“And what is in your best interest?”

“Watching you flounder like a fish is pretty enjoyable, I must admit.”

“Remember all those nice things I’ve said about you?” Bucky hisses. “I take it back. I take it all back.”

Natasha grins. “I’m sure you do, bud,” she says, and makes sure to pat his ass with her foot the next time he passes her.

Bucky sighs. It’s going to be a long night.

*

Friday night rolls around both faster and slower than Bucky expects.

But, then he’s on the subway with Steve, and they’re riding to Bucky’s place, and he’s thinking that, maybe, all of the cleaning he did the night before won’t be enough. Steve won’t be going around their apartment with a magnifying glass looking for stray clumps of dirt and straw wrappers, but Bucky also wants to make a good impression here. An impression that lays out that Bucky isn’t a sort-of messy thirty-year-old who may or may not clean as often as he should.

“Oh,” Bucky says, and then turns to Steve. “What kinda pizza do you like?”

“I don’t really have a preference,” he shrugs. “Ah, just, uh, no mushrooms. I’m allergic.”

Bucky winces. “God, that’s awful.”

“Is it?”

“Mushrooms are pretty damn good,” Bucky says, but puts a hand over his heart. “For you, though, I’ll sacrifice putting them on my pizza. Which I really enjoy.”

Steve snorts. Bucky really shouldn’t find it as adorable but he does, but he’s pretty much been gone on Steve since the moment he caught him singing grossly in the middle of a fucking subway, so really, he shouldn’t even be surprised anymore.

“What a noble deed you’re doing there, Buck, really.”

“It is pretty outstanding,” Bucky smirks.

“You’re ridiculous.”

Bucky waves him off. “Is the place off of Grove okay?”

“Banner’s?”

“You know the place?” Bucky asks, surprised.

Steve cheeks flush, a little. Bucky’s fingers twitch at his sides to trace the color with his cheeks. “It’s a favorite. The owner’s nice.”

“I didn’t think you were familiar ‘round here,” Bucky says, because it’s true, “That’s all.”

“The owner and I have known each other for a while,” Steve says, but he makes a face like that’s not the whole truth. Bucky’s pretty hungry, though, so he doesn’t think too much of it.

“Well,” He starts, “‘Least we know you’ll like it. C’mon, it’s just the next stop.”

*

Natasha is blessedly absent from the apartment when they get there.

It’s not that Bucky doesn’t want Steve to meet Natasha, only that Bucky desperately does not want Steve to meet Natasha. It’s slightly irrational, Bucky’ll admit it, but he blissfully exists in a world where Natasha and Steve live in completely different planes, wherein Natasha will nag him about Steve’s existence and Bucky’s complete inability to make a move, and Steve thinks she’s just his roommate who he has history with.

So, needless to say, he’s pretty damn happy when Natasha’s not on the couch or raiding their cabinets for food. The pizza is steaming and fresh in his hands, and Steve is a welcome warmth at his back.

“Beer is in the fridge,” Bucky throws over his shoulder, “Plates are in the cabinet to the left to the sink.”

Steve grins. “Was wondering if you skimped out on our deal.”

Bucky snorts. “I never go back on a deal,” He says, and picks up the Star Trek DVDs sitting on the counter, shoving them into Steve’s chest for emphasis. “Especially not when pop culture education is on the line.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but leafs through the DVDs. “Buck, there are thirty different cases here.”

“That’s very good Steve,” He drawls, “Basic math is a very important foundation.”

“We can’t watch all of this in one sitting,” Steve points out, eyebrows furrowed.

Bucky shrugs. “I was just gonna start you off with some TOS anyway,” At Steve’s blank look, he groans, throwing his good hand in the air and scowls. “Really? The Original Series. With Kirk, Uhura and Spock. You’re hopeless.”

“There’s more than one series.” Steve says flatly.

“There are a bunch of series, actually,” Bucky answers, delighted, because this is going to be so, so much fun. “But,” he drawls, “There are even more movies.”

Steve looks pained, now. Bucky pretends not to find joy in that. “Buck–”

“Nope,” he pops the ‘p’ and turns one of his famous grins on him, one that doesn’t feel too big on his face, miraculously. “You promised, Stevie. You’re in this one for the long haul.”

The other man sighs, looking around Bucky’s small apartment, before his eyes finally settle on the beer on the coffee table. Dejectedly, he whispers, “I’m going to need something so much stronger than beer, aren’t I?”

Bucky laughs in his face.

*

“Buck, why is that ball of tangled yarn on the floor?”

“That’s not yarn.”

“Not yarn–”

“Nope.”

“What?”

“It’s a Tribble.”

“A what now?”

“They’re like space rabbits.”

“Space rabbits?”

“They fuck a lot.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Aren’t they wonderful?”

*

They make their way through Bucky’s favorite episodes first.

Aside from it being one of the series Bucky absolutely fucking loves, the thing that he loves about Star Trek is that you don’t need to watch the episodes in any semblance of order really, so watching it with someone who has never seen it before can be really entertaining.

Bucky doesn’t think anything about it until they land on “Mirror, Mirror”. It’s one of the darkest episodes Star Trek has under it’s belt, and Bucky hasn’t seen it since his deployment, hasn’t seen any of the episodes since his deployment, has been too busy with recovery and working and trying to become a semi-normal civilian again, but nothing could’ve prepared him for the way his body tenses up from the moment they’re thrown into the cell.

His breathing must quicken, too, because there are fingers pressing lightly to the sides of his right wrist, grounding him to the moment. “Buck? Are you alright?”

Bucky knows, rationally, that Steve is close to him, but he sounds far enough away that if he tried hard enough he could fold in on himself and be alone. It’s tempting, because Bucky very much wants to be alone–he doesn’t really want to think about it too much, but he’s pretty sure he’s experiencing the onslaught of a panic attack, if the tightness in his chest and the shakiness in his hands have anything to say about it.

He really does not need Steve to see him like this.

Bucky doubts Steve even wants to.

(There is a part of him, a sick, small, childish part of him that wants to crawl into his bedroom and huddle under blankets until the noises vibrating off the insides of his skull fade away, but Bucky is not a child anymore, and he hasn’t done that since he was twelve and he and his kid sister were left with nowhere to go.

Bucky is not a child anymore.

Bucky’s not a child anymore, but he wishes, sometimes, that he were.)

“Bucky,” Steve tries again, and his voice is tinny, minute, barely there against the static in his head. Bucky wants to tell him to speak up, to yell, but his throat closes around the words in his throat, stomping them dead.

It’s not like Bucky’s never had a panic attack before. He’s had plenty of them, since discharging. He’s had them in the VA and he’s had them on the couch with Natasha on the other end, watching him with wide, worried eyes, steadying him with calm, gentle hands. But, Natasha isn’t Steve, could never be Steve, not with her soft curves and her lips always painted that dusty, familiar red.

“I’m going to turn off the show now, okay?” Steve finally says. His voice is calm and slow.

Bucky must make a small noise in his throat because Steve reaches over just as slowly as he spoke and flips off the TV with nimble hands, setting down the remote on the coffee table where Bucky can reach it if he wanted to. He doesn’t know why that comforts him, but it does. God, it does.

The quiet helps calm him, and it’s then that he notices that Steve has kept a hand pressed to his wrist the entire time. This seems important. Bucky wonders faintly if he’s had training in this before.

“Steve,” Bucky croaks, a few minutes later.

Bucky is exhausted, his body is worn and weathered and his brain is fuzzy from the over-exertion. Bucky doesn’t know how to say any of this to Steve, though, doesn’t know how to say anything to Steve, not really, not anything that counts, so he keeps his eyes fixed on the one of the DVD cases–Voyager, as it turns out–on the coffee table, and very carefully does not notice how Steve is rubbing soothing circles into his wrist-bone.

“I’m here, Buck,” Steve answers, tone firm. “I’m here.”

He blinks. He’s quiet for a long time, again. He listens to the way their breathing eventually coordinates, a pit-pat-patter rhythm that he feels into his bones, focuses on the way Steve will change the direction of his circles every few hundred counts, the way the clock on the wall hasn’t seemed to move at all but he can hear the clicking in ringing in his ears anyway.

Eventually, he grunts, “I didn’t think I’d react to it like that.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed over, Bucky.”

Bucky rubs his bad hand over his eye, blinked away the stars that follow. “Fuck. I know, Stevie, I know. I haven’t watched it since my deployment.”

“That’s okay,” Steve says, simple.

That’s okay, like how the grass is green, and the food the diner off of 5th Avenue makes is fucking amazing, and it’s okay that Bucky is triggered by corny 60s television shows, like it’s nothing to be ashamed of.

Bucky doesn’t offer an apology, because months of extensive therapy has sort of engrained that out of him at this point. He does, however, offer a tight smile and pick up the remote again. “Wanna watch ‘nother? There’s this one episode where they run into actual space hippies.”

For a second he’s not sure Steve will take the bait, but then he melts into the couch, knees knocking against Bucky’s.

“I have a feeling I’ll regret saying yes to this,” Steve mutters, but his arm settles around the back of the couch, anyway, and Bucky’s mouth tastes like a victory.

*

Natasha throws a party a few weeks later.

Bucky is hanging out with Steve frequently enough by now that he doesn’t feel like it’d be weird if he invited him to a party. But then there’s also the part of him that comes to Steve that will always tell him he doesn’t deserve Steve, that Steve wouldn’t want to come to his party anyway, and it makes Bucky nervous.

“God, your moping is the worst,” Natasha tells him.

Bucky only minorly succeeds in not rolling his eyes at her. “I’m not mopin’.”

“You kind of are,” Natasha says, and then lays her hand on the tops of his shoulders, her hands small but warm, enough to heat up his chest. “But, that’s okay, James. Just do something about it.”

“I’m already invitin’ him to your party.”

“I know,” Natasha says, smug. “But that’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it. Don’t play coy with me, James.”

Bucky makes a face. “Is this another one of your ‘suck his dick, or else’ lectures you’ve been doin’ lately?”

“James–”

“–’cause I’m not interested.”

“You’re just making excuses now,” She says, but she’s gentle with it, like she always is when Bucky and his Delicate Feelings come into play. It’s annoying, sometimes, because he isn’t fragile, he isn’t made of glass, he’s a person who can take it, but Natasha insists on doing it, and there’s a part of him, maybe, that’s even a little grateful for it.

Bucky sighs. “I already said I’d invite him to your damn party,” he says again. He really doesn’t want to talk about this, preferably, ever, if given the choice.

“Ask him out for coffee,” Natasha insists. Her hand is cold on the top of his leg. She’s tactical when she’s trying to prove a point, but he’s never had a problem with it. “Take him to a baseball game, I don’t care. But it’s not fair for you to punish yourself like this, James.”

Bucky is quiet for a long time.

He could ask Steve out for coffee, or maybe take him to a Mets game, because he’s heard Steve talk about them before but when it comes down to it, Bucky’s always been a coward. He went to war because he was scared of staying home and amounting to nothing, he works insurance because he’s scared of trying for something better, not thinking he’s good enough, and he’s stuck in a filthy apartment in Bushwick, because, well, he’s afraid to go anywhere else.

So, Bucky has always been a coward, and he doesn’t think Steve has ever actually been close, and it isn’t as easy as Natasha thinks it is.

“I’ll think about it,” he hedges, after a while.

Natasha’s eyes are hard, snapping to his face. He doesn’t think she believes him, and he doesn’t blame her.

*

Bucky does ask Steve, eventually, and as feared, it is a full-fledged disaster.

They’re at a hole in the wall cafe off Atlantic Avenue because Steve had suggested it when they were on their way home, and well, Bucky has a pretty hard time saying no to Steve. Steve’s hair is swept into his eyes, and his lips are pink and chapped from the cool November air. Bucky has a hard time not staring at him.

(Bucky is pretty much always staring at Steve. It is as a tragic as it sounds.)

“So, uh,” Bucky starts, because the party is tomorrow, and he should’ve asked this days ago. “My roommate is having a party tomorrow, to, y’know, and I was wonderin’ if you’d like to come.”

Steve blinks. “You’d want me there?”

Bucky looks at him funny. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“We don’t really do a lot of hanging out outside of the subway, Buck,” Steve says.

“Yeah, well,” Bucky waves a hand. “Natasha throws some pretty great parties, and the alcohol is free. Just was seein’ if you were interested is all.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“Yeah,” Bucky confirms, and hopes his face doesn’t betray how nervous he is. Steve could easily say no, he realizes, which means Bucky will probably be spending all night with a bottle of vodka, locked in his room.

“I don’t think I’m busy,” Steve says, with a small smile. “Just let me check my calendar, make sure Stark doesn’t have me scheduled for meetings.”

Bucky doesn’t think Steve actually attends meetings, and he also doesn’t think Steve will end up showing up, either, but he just smiles and says, “Okay.”

*

“Where’s your boy?” Natasha asks, sliding into the seat next to him on their couch.

The party is in full swing by now, has been for an hour at least, and there is no sight of Steve. Not that Bucky is exactly surprised, anyway. He never thought he would accept Bucky’s offer, but he’s still upset about it, is sitting on their couch in a middle of a party nursing a glass of vodka. Bucky likes parties, likes the useless window talk you take up with everyone, likes the useless games and the easy camaraderie.

People are always easier when there’s substances involved, Bucky’s found.

“Dunno,” Bucky shrugs.

Natasha pulls him off the couch, his vodka sloshing as she does. “Well, his loss,” she says, primly. “C’mon. Don’t sit here and stew all night. Have some fun, James.”

Bucky grunts at her, looking to say something snarky about not needing a damn keeper when Clint bounds up with a beer pong ball and an over-zealous smile. She disappears with him, presumably to go kick some ass whatever dumbasses they’ve lured into challenging them.

(You do not, under any circumstances, challenge them to anything. They are the very definition of a power couple.)

Bucky wanders around helplessly for a while, greeting some of Natasha’s friends he runs into whenever she drags him out to some seedy bar to play pool. He likes them well enough, finds them dry, but funny; good company to have around when you’re getting smashed. He’s just deciding on whether or not to sneak off to his room to smoke the half-bowl he has packed in his dresser drawer when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

Steve [11:45:12 P.M.]
Hey, sorry I got tied up at work.

Bucky blinks at his phone.

Bucky [11:48:24 P.M.]
was wonderin’ why u weren’t on the subway

He thinks that’s pretty neutral.

Steve [11:51:34 P.M.]
Is the party still going on?

Bucky tries very, very hard not to grin down at his phone, and then gives up, because fuck it, he’ll be happy if he wants to be.

Bucky [11:52:53 P.M.]
nah it ended hours ago

Bucky [11:53:11 P.M.]
since nat and i are early birds and all that

Steve’s reply is almost immediate. Bucky doesn’t know what it is with him befriending people who absolutely take no bullshit, but he seems to be pretty fucking spectacular at it.

Steve [11:54:25 P.M.]
Are you already tipsy? 😛

Bucky [11:55:00 P.M.]
fuck u i’m completly sober

Bucky glares at his phone violently enough that he misses that he has new text messages until he his phone starts vibrating in his hand. Steve’s calling him, and Bucky might be more than a little drunk, so he fumbles with it until he’s pretty sure he presses the accept button, slamming it into his ear.

“‘Lo?”

There’s a rich, hearty laugh at the other end of the line, and it sets the little hairs on the back of Bucky’s neck upright. He’d know that laugh anywhere, has spent weeks closing his eyes to it, and he can’t help but redden.

“I’d say you’re pretty drunk, Buck,” Steve says, warmly.

Bucky glares at the wall. He’s done nothing in life to deserve this. He’s a soldier. He can totally deal with some cocky attractive asshole who skips out on friend’s parties for work–seriously, who even does that, anyway?

“Not drunk,” Bucky clarifies, and tries really, incredibly hard not to slur. He thinks it mainly works. For the most part.

“Uh huh,” Steve concedes, and he sounds like he’s laughing at him. “Still want me to come to your party?”

Bucky pretends to think about it, just to be a dick. “Huh. I don’t know, Stevie.”

“You’re real funny, Bucky,” Steve says. He does sound amused, like he’s trying not to openly laugh at him, which Bucky appreciates. “Tell me your address again. Want to make sure I have the right apartment number.”

“You’re comin’ to the party?”

“Of course I am,” Bucky can hear his eye-roll, “Now give me your address.”

Bucky rattles it off, albeit a little sloppily. “Just come on in, alright? Nat won’t mind at all.”

“I’ll be there in twenty,” Steve promises, and then pauses. “And, Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“Save some alcohol for me, alright?”

“You don’t even hafta ask, Steve,” Bucky drawls.

*

Bucky is well on his way to plastered when Steve arrives exactly twenty minutes later.

Natasha has disappeared off with Clint again, probably to go defile each other against some vertical or horizontal surface that Bucky really doesn’t want to think about anymore. His head is the kind of hazy that only comes when he’s had too much to drink, and his body is warm, limbs moving through syrup. He hasn’t felt this relaxed since he last smoked a joint–which was, literally, this morning, but it still stands: he’s pretty fucking zen right now.

Steve walks right in, just like Bucky told him to, and Bucky almost wishes he hadn’t.

Instead of the way Steve dorkily does his hair–bangs always swooping into his eyes, parted slightly down the middle–it’s slicked back so Bucky can see just how cornflower blue they are, even twenty feet across the room. He’s still wearing his work shirt, a crisp white button-down that does nothing to disguise the breadth of his shoulders, the couple of buttons undone like he hastily removed his tie on the subway.

Bucky wants, has never wanted anything more. His hands twitch at his side, and he belatedly remembers he’s holding the neck of a half-empty bottle. He paints his best smirk on his face, and saunters up to.

“Hey there,” he drawls, slurring more than he’d like. Steve notices, because he doesn’t let anything get by him, and grins, wide and shit-eating. Bucky decides he doesn’t like a single expression on his face more.

“Told me you’d save me some,” Steve says, teasingly.

Bucky scowls at his stupid, pretty face. “I did,” he says, petulantly, and shoves the bottle into Steve’s hands as a peace offering.

Steve laughs, then, brightly. “Shoulda known,” he murmurs, and much to Bucky’s own amusement, takes a sip straight from the bottle. Bucky has a hard time imagining anything other than Steve’s lips wrapped around his cock. It is an uphill battle, really.

“I can see why Bucky likes you,” Natasha says. She appears out of nowhere, as she often does, and he’ll swear it on his ma’s grave that the only reason he jumps is because of how plastered he is. Steve jumps too, which ridiculously, makes him feel better about it.

Bucky glares at her. “Don’t,” he warns.

She holds her hands up in mock defense. “Just stating something Steve probably already knew,” she winks in Steve’s direction, causing him to laugh. Bucky very firmly decides he wants nothing more than to die right there. “I’m Natasha.”

Steve holds out his hand, which she doesn’t hesitate to take. “Steve,” he pauses, lets go of her hand. “Nice to meet you. I assume you’re his infamous roommate?”

“Guilty as charged,” Natasha says conspiratorially, leaning towards Steve with a smirk on her face. “He doesn’t give you too much trouble, I hope.”

Steve shakes his head. “He doesn’t, at least not too much.”

Natasha’s smirk widens into a grin. Bucky hates his friends. He does, he really does. He takes solace in the fact that Clint isn’t here, because if he was–he’s probably out there decimating people at beer pong, or drunken pool, because other than archery it is what he excels at–Bucky would’ve already locked himself in the bathroom my now. “He’s an idiot, but I am quite fond of him,” she agrees.

“Y’know, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop talkin’ bout me like I’m not right here,” Bucky points out.

She pats his shoulder. “I’ll let you have the spotlight again princess,” she promises, and looks between the both of them. “Don’t have too much fun now. Later, boys.”

If Bucky were a blusher, which he’s not, it takes a lot for him to even get slightly pink, he would be fucking red right now, but he’s not, so he stares at Steve instead, who is about as red as he’s ever seen him.

“She’s just messin’,” Bucky murmurs. Natasha fights dirty, but she means well.

Steve waves him off. “Yeah,” he says, and passes the bottle to Bucky.

He takes it without hesitation.

*

It’s an hour or so later when Bucky leans into Steve’s ear, and whispers, “Hey, Stevie?”

Steve isn’t drunk, but he is pretty tipsy. Bucky likes him tipsy, likes the way his eyes are bright and unguarded, the way all of the tension seems to seep out of him, leaving him loose. Bucky hadn’t really noticed how tightly coiled Steve was until now, but it sets off something warm in his chest, seeing Steve so comfortable around him.

“What?”

“We should play some beer pong,” Bucky murmurs. “I’m pretty damn good.”

Bucky’s more than pretty good. He’s not nearly as fast as Natasha, and he isn’t anywhere close to as focused of an aim as Clint, but he’s getting there.

“As long as we aren’t against Clint and Natasha,” Bucky slurs, because Steve isn’t talking. Steve’s just looking at him with this expression that Bucky can’t quite make out, not yet, but he doesn’t look like he’s against the idea. That’s good, Bucky thinks. That means he hasn’t made too much of an idiot out of himself, yet.

“Are they good or something?”

Bucky snorts. “Good? More like the reigning champs,” he grumbles. It is, as Bucky will never admit to anyone, a pretty sore subject. “They’re ruthless.”

Steve blinks. “Oh,” he says, slowly. Bucky almost thinks he’s going to decline, but then he’s leading Bucky into the living room where there’s a crowd gathered around for the next match. “Lets do it.”

Bucky grins, “Fuck yeah.”

*

They win eight rounds in a row.

By the time they’ve reached twelve, no one will face them. Well, that is, until Natasha and Clint appear, literally, out of thin air. They’re wearing twin predatory grins, and Bucky will never, ever be drunk enough for this.

“No,” He says, and tugs on Steve’s shirt sleeve. “Nope. Not happenin’. Let’s go, Stevie.”

“C’mon, Barnes,” Clint drawls. “Not up for a little bit of a challenge?”

Bucky’s eyes narrow. “Not particularly, sorry. You’ll eat us up and spit us out,” he says, and then turns to Steve. “We’re leaving.”

Natasha looks nothing but amused, her eyes light and filled with a humor that she usually doesn’t let other people see, and Clint’s arms aren’t folded across his chest like they usually are. One’s wrapped around Natasha’s shoulders, and the other hangs by his side. Bucky’s eyes narrow.

“Is this a test?” He blurts.

Her eyebrows raise. “Yes.”

Bucky is quiet for a moment, mulling it over. “You’re not going to let us just walk off, are you?”

“Got it in one, Barnes,” Natasha grins.

“Guess we got no choice in this one,” Bucky grumbles, turning to Steve.

Steve is watching the three of them with amusement, a grin curling his mouth upwards. Bucky wants to press him into the nearest wall and lick it off, which is becoming a problem. He can’t look at Steve anymore without having to seriously contain his limbs from doing things he’ll regret later, like making a move on a straight guy. That’s never a good thing.

*

“I wanna show you something,” Bucky says, when they’re away from the crowd, tucked in the back corner of the hallway.

Steve’s eyebrows furrow. “What’s that, Buck?”

“The rooftop,” Bucky grins, “C’mon.”

Steve scrunches up his nose in a way that Bucky has an extremely hard time not smoothing away with his lips. “Are we even allowed to do that?”

Bucky snorts. “This is Brooklyn, pal,” he starts, and encircles his fingers around Steve’s wrist. His skin is warm and flushed. Bucky doesn’t want to let go. “It’d be a crime not to.”

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs.

The cool air is like a slap to Bucky’s overheated face, but it’s a welcome one. It’s his favorite place to come when he’s had a rough day or on a day where Steve looked particularly attractive, when he wears the tie that brings out his eyes and the stupid American Flag cufflinks, that Bucky, for the life of him, cannot find anything other than adorable.

It sobers him up a little, but not enough that he doesn’t stumble into Steve.

“You alright there?” He asks, his eyes are wide, and pupils dilated.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky waves him off, doesn’t think about how wide Steve’s biceps are, instead walks up to the ledge that overlooks his neighborhood, and sighs.

He loves the view. It’s not much, Bushwick isn’t much, not really, there’s a lot of graffiti (not that he minds this all that much, if he’s being honest), a lot of hipsters–with really fucking good weed, now that he thinks of it–and a lot of hard workers. But, it’s his home, has been since his ma woke up one day in a loveless marriage with his father, and moved them here to get away. He just hasn’t had it in him to move yet.

Not even the war could change that, it seems.

“Wow, Buck,” Steve breathes. When Bucky looks over at him, his throat closes on him.

Steve’s eyes look like liquid silver in the light of the moon, and his pale skin is practically glowing, and it takes every fucking ounce of his self-control not to do something stupid about it. Like kiss Steve senseless, which he’s been wanting to do now since he saw him that first time on the subway. Bucky has never wanted to sink his fingers into someone’s hair and drown in them more than he wants to right now.

“Well,” Bucky’s voice wavers, but luckily Steve doesn’t notice, or if he does he kindly doesn’t say anything about it. He’s a gem, really. “It’s certainly not Brooklyn Heights or nothin’, that’s for sure. But, it’s home.”

Steve nods. “You grew up here?”

Bucky can’t help his grin, probably looking a little sloppy at the edges with the alcohol. “Yeah,” he says, “Moved here back when I was little with my ma and sister. I just haven’t had reason to leave, I guess.”

“I grew up a few neighborhoods away,” Steve admits, and Bucky’s eyes snap to his. “It was hard leaving at first, too.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve confirms. His face changes, then, eyebrows furrowing. “I miss it sometimes. Heights is too–”

“Clean? Pretentious?” Bucky tries, though he’s grinning.

“There are a distinct lack of dirty hipsters,” Steve muses.

“To be fair,” Bucky drawls, “I was here long before they came into town.”

Steve bumps shoulders with his own, shaking his head, but his eyes are fond, and there are crinkles around his eyes.

*

They end up on a ratty couch up there, eventually.

Bucky has no idea where it came from. He’s lived in this building for a few years, ever since Natasha told him one day that she needed a roommate. Her place was cheap, and she was a friend, a good friend, and it was a reasonable distance from the office; Bucky would’ve been dumb to say no. The couch itself is disgusting, covered in mysterious stains that he tries really, incredibly hard not to think about, but Natasha’s draped a blanket over it for the party, so it’s useable, at least.

He’s warm all over, now, a leftover effect from the alcohol, and his mind is still a little hazy around the edges, but it’s clear enough to feel the way Steve’s leg keeps knocking against his own.

“Hey, Stevie?”

Steve’s head rolls over so their eyes meet. “Yeah?”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, licking his lips. “Y’know. For coming out here tonight.”

He must be drunker than he thought, because he doesn’t realize how long they spend smiling at each other like morons until Natasha comes barreling up the stairs, hair primly in place, eyes sharp and focused.

She takes one look at them and cringes. “Pathetic,” she mutters. “Clint threw up in your drawer.”

Bucky blinks. “The fuck.”

“You might want to clean that up, before y’know, it stains,” she says, and he’s pretty sure she winks at Steve, who smirks.

“I hate you,” Bucky hisses at her. He points a finger at Steve. “And I’m getting close to hatin’ you.”

“No, you don’t,” Natasha and Steve say at the same time, identical smug smirks painted on their faces.

“I do,” he mutters to himself, getting up off the couch. “I really do.”

*

(It’ll take two weeks to get the stains out of his favorite shirt.

Bucky doesn’t kill Clint, but only because Natasha would kill him before he even seriously considered it.)

*

The next morning, he wakes up with Natasha looming over his bed.

If he really thought about how common of an occurrence this turned out to be, he wouldn’t sleep as well, or as often, probably, so he refuses to, just groans in her general direction and tries to pretend that he doesn’t notice her. Only, Natasha’s like a cat, and the lack of attention only encourages her–really, Bucky should know these things by now.

“James.”

He waits a in a few precious moments of silence before he grunts. “Fuck.” He shoves one his pillows over his face. The light from his window is streaming in, unwelcome and too-bright in the small space of his bedroom, and Natasha is curled up in it, a book dog-eared on her lap. “It’s way too early for this shit. Really, Tash?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Fuck,” he repeats. “What time is it?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she says, easily. She pauses, for a second, and he’s thinking about how surprised he is that he’s not hearing the sound of her camera going off when her hands wrench his pillow away, throwing it across the room. He stares at it sulkily. It’s his favorite pillow.

“That’s a little unnecessary.”

She ignores him. “What happened last night?”

“You saw what happened last night,” he points out. He’s a little hazy on some of the details, but he mostly remembers getting extremely fucking drunk and making an ass out of himself, which is pretty much what happens whenever Natasha thinks it’s a good idea to throw a party–which is, to say, not often.

“I saw you and your boy on the couch staring at each other,” she says, and then stops, as if something occurs to her. “Don’t tell me that’s all you guys did.”

Bucky doesn’t blush, because he’s a fuckin’ adult, but his cheeks do get sort of warm in a way that he can’t control. “Shuddup.”

In a moment of desperation and weakness, unable to deal with Natasha and her knowing looks, he grabs his other pillow and throws it over his face. It’s really the only thing he can do when she asks him invasive questions like this.

She wrenches the pillow away, because she lives on this shit, on embarrassing the fuck out of him whenever she possibly can. “James,” she scolds.

He’s quiet for a long time. He hopes, for a fleeting moment, that maybe with enough silence, she’ll leave. It’s never worked before, but it’s a new day, and new days bring new beginnings, or something like that. He’s pretty sure he read that in a self-help book, once.

“I need coffee,” he says finally.

“You’re not getting out of this.” She gives him one last (scathing) look, and turns on her heel.

He sinks back into his bed, stretches out the uncomfortable crick in his neck and sighs. Now that Natasha has left the pounding in his head has become more prominent and light pouring in from the slit in his curtains is more bothersome than it was before. He’s about to burrow back underneath his covers, coffee be damned, when his phone buzzes next to his head.

Bucky doesn’t remember putting his phone there.

Steve [10:34:28 A.M.]
Are you awake?

Bucky’s heart beats in his chest, pathetically faster than usual.

Bucky [10:36:48 A.M.]
not really sure if i’m honest with ya

Steve [10:37:20 A.M.]
Coffee?

Bucky blinks at his phone for a bit.

Bucky [10:38:00 A.M.]
is that an offer or a question??

Steve [10:39:11 A.M.]
An offer. I’m offering obscene amounts of coffee and greasy food, Buck.

Bucky [10:40:03 A.M.]
well obviously thats an offer i cant refuse

Bucky [10:40:11 A.M.]
we gonna meet at our usual?

Steve [10:41:00 A.M.]
Yeah. In an hour?

Bucky [10:43:21 A.M.]
if i’m late i fell in the shower

Steve doesn’t reply, but that’s okay, Bucky thinks.

*

Bucky’s ten minutes late.

He did end up falling in the shower, but Natasha also ended up cornering him outside of the bathroom with his towel wrapped around his waist, eyes curious, mouth curling up into a smile he wasn’t quite sure what to make of. It took way longer than he cares to admit to shake her off and convince her that yes, he did actually find his balls sometime during his hangover because, yes he is actually getting coffee with Steve.

Bucky doesn’t mention that Steve asked him first, but he’s pretty sure Natasha can read it in the slope of his wry grin, anyway.

Steve’s in one of the back booths, by one of the windows with the curtain pulled down. The girls behind the counter are eyeing him warily, probably deciding the probability of Steve blowing chunks all over the table, and Bucky can’t hide his grin at that.

His head is pounding, and his mouth still tastes like shit even though he brushed his teeth three times before leaving this morning, but this moron in the booth still has the ability to make him smile.

He walks up to the counter. “Has he ordered yet?” Bucky asks, gesturing with his good arm to Steve.

“No,” one of the girls says, helpfully. There’s a curious glint to her eye. “He’s been staring at the table for the last ten minutes. The bet’s up to fifteen that he’s actually asleep,” she eyes him for a moment. “If you want in, of course.”

Bucky snorts. “Is that even morally responsible?”

She grins, teeth razor sharp. Bucky thinks that he likes her, likes her a lot. Her nametag reads Gwen, and the boy beside her is rolling his eyes like this happens all of the time–Bucky isn’t surprised, it seems like she makes this is a regular thing. “Not really, no.”

“Sorry,” he says, turning an apologetic smile to her that is far more genuine than it would have been five minutes ago. “Gotta go make sure he’s not, y’know, dead, but,” he leans in closer, palms resting on the pristine counter. “Thanks, anyway.”

“Your loss,” she shrugs.

He laughs, then, because she’s a firecracker, and Bucky’s always been drawn to those types, to the types that are wilder than he is, that are fast on their feet and witty and don’t back down from trouble. He looks back over his shoulder to wave at her awkwardly and looks back at Steve.

He’s in the same position he was when Bucky first walked in, and he doesn’t move, not even when Bucky slides into the seat across.

“I may not look like it,” Steve mutters, and he sounds miserable. His voice is scratchy like he’s spent all night screaming. “But, I can take you if you refuse to leave. I’m waiting on someone.”

Bucky grins. “Yeah, buddy? I’m sure you can.”

At that, Steve’s head snaps up. There are dark purple circles under his eyes, and his hair is sleep-mussed like he’s been running his fingers through it all morning, but god, if he’s not the most perfect thing Bucky has ever fucking seen.

“Buck,” he says, sounding considerably less miserable now. It does things to Bucky’s stomach to hear that tone in Steve’s voice. “You’re late.”

Bucky blushes at that. “Ah, yeah. I fell in the shower.”

Steve snorts. “I thought you were kidding when you said that might happen.”

“I’m useless when I’m hungover,” Bucky says, and if he sounds petulant he doesn’t think he can really be blamed. “According to Natasha, at least.”

“I’ve been sitting here for thirty minutes and haven’t moved,” Steve says, and yeah, okay, maybe Steve has him beat, just a little.

Bucky leans closer, just ‘cause, and grins. It’s not his fault, really, that this fucking nerd looks so adorable with his hair sticking in every which direction, and his normally sparkling blue eyes are still somehow glittering underneath the lights of the coffee shop. “‘Tween you and me, they got a pool goin’ on ‘bout how long you’d be passed out.”

Steve blinks. “Seriously?”

“I think it’s up to twenty dollars,” he says.

Steve head falls down on the table. “Oh.”

Bucky pats his forearm, and ignores how Steve’s skin jumps under his touch. He’s probably just sensitive from the hangover.

“What’dya want?”

“What?”

“For coffee, I mean,” Bucky gestures to the front counter.

“Thought I was the one that offered,” Steve protests, but he doesn’t look like he’s moving anytime soon.

Bucky pats his arm again. “Next time, buddy.”

His heart slams in anticipation against his chest at the thought of there being a next time, but somehow he manages to keep it off his face, thank god. Steve’s probably too hungover to notice it anyway, but Bucky will take any small victory he can get, really.

Bucky’s halfway to the counter when he has to turn back around because he realizes he doesn’t know how Steve takes his coffee. Bucky feels like he should know how Steve takes his damn coffee.

“Hey,” Bucky places his good hand on the back of Steve’s neck, and he absolutely must be imagining the way Steve arches into the touch. Shit. Bucky’s too far fucking gone for this.

“Steve,” he tries again. His voice is hoarse, and Bucky wishes he could blame it on all of the smoking he’s been doing lately, but it’s always been Steve, here, lately, and he’s been doing way too much lying to himself. “I don’t know your coffee order,” he says, quietly.

Steve snorts. “I’m offended, Buck.” Steve murmurs. “Two creamers, please.” He adds. “I don’t think I can survive sugar right now.”

Bucky’s surely the most hopeless he’s ever been because he tries (and fails) not to find that really, really adorable.

“You got it,” His fingers are still at the back of Steve’s neck, and it’s only because Buckys’ sure Steve’s reflexes are way too slow to properly punch him in the face that he lets his fingers squeeze the skin there.

Steve lets out a downright indecent moan that sends a jolt straight to Bucky’s dick. Bucky has to take a moment to will his very sudden, very painful boner to go the fuck away before he can make it the counter safely. He’s sure the only reason he’s capable of actually making it to the counter again is from sheer dumb luck alone.

He orders a black coffee, double espresso added for himself, Steve’s drink, and adds two cinnamon rolls at the last minute because the thought of Steve with sleep-mussed hair and cinnamon caked on his face is too satisfying to pass up.

He ignores the filthy grin Gwen gives him, and definitely doesn’t blush when she leers at him and says, “Just your friend, huh?” He makes the off-hand, mental note to never take Natasha here.

Bucky’s pretty sure that’s an unstoppable force he never wants to face.

He mutters his thanks with his cheeks flaming red. Bucky will die today. He can sense it. It is very possible today is the day he will not be able to beat, and it will all be because of two fiery blondes that don’t know when to quit. Bucky’s not quite sure what that says about him.

By the time he returns to the table, Steve is sitting up, finally, his head propped up on his hands. He’s staring out the window, golden-blonde hair catching the fractals of sunlight in a way that makes Bucky’s breath catch in his throat. Buckys’ never been very poetic by nature, but Steve makes him want to try.

He sets the tray down on the table, sliding into the booth across from him again. “I’ve returned with coffee and pastries,” he announces.

Steve grins after a moment. “Now there’re cinnamon rolls? You gotta stop changing the script on me, Buck.”

Bucky very narrowly escapes winking at him like a moron. “I’ve got to keep you on your toes somehow, Stevie.”

“And anyway,” Bucky adds, after a few seconds, “Breakfast food is the only hangover food.”

“Is it now?”

Bucky blinks. “If I had the energy to be offended, I would be.”

“On behalf of breakfast food everywhere?” Steve teases.

“I don’t appreciate your tone,” He points out, but pushes Steve’s coffee and pastry to him anyway. Steve smiles at him, bright and slow and it fills up the spaces in Bucky’s chest he forgot were there.

“Thanks,” Steve smiles at him.

Bucky doesn’t melt, but it’s a close thing, really.

“Anytime.”

*

They’ve been at this coffee shop all morning.

They’ve been at this coffee shop all morning and Bucky can’t stop fucking smiling. Their knees keep knocking together under the table, and his ankle has been taken hostage by Steve’s for the last fifteen minutes. Bucky hasn’t been this blatantly flirted with since high school–he has no idea what he’s doing, though, and it’s probably written all over his face, in huge, Broadway style letters on his forehead ‘I Don’t Know Anything, Ever.’

It all just makes Bucky feel like a teenager again. He feels like he’s on his first date with Cindy Meyers, stuck in a 60s diner off some back-road in Downtown Brooklyn, eating cheeseburgers and wiping milkshake on the tip of her nose so he could kiss it off while she giggled and shoved at him to stop. But, Steve isn’t Cindy Meyers and Bucky doesn’t know how to do that anymore, and he’s left sitting here like an idiot, playing footsie with the sun personified.

Bucky thinks that if Natasha were here she’d be in the booth opposite of them, laughing at his disastrous attempts at communicating like a functioning human being.

He needs so much handholding sometimes, he has no idea why he isn’t under constant supervision.

Steve’s eyes are sparkling across from him in the low lighting of the coffee shop, though. It’s late enough in the afternoon by now that they’re the only patrons left, and Bucky’s gotten up a few times to fill up their mugs, Gwen eyeing him more lecherously every time.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says, suddenly.

They haven’t talked for a while, now, but that’s okay. Bucky doesn’t mind the silence so much, especially not around Steve.

“Yeah?”

“Are we ever going to talk about it?”

Bucky’s throat closes up. It takes longer than necessary until he’s able to speak properly again. “Talk about what, buddy?” Bucky’s always been a bit of coward so playing dumb is easier than it has any right to be.

Steve narrows his eyes like he knows what Bucky is playing at, and he probably does. His death grip on Bucky’s ankle tights, mouth thinning.

“This. Us,” He gestures between them.

Bucky bites on his lip. He had been under the very firm impression that whatever was going on between them was also seriously one-sided, so he really had no desire whatsoever to talk about it. He still doesn’t, actually, not really, but Steve is looking at him with wide eyes, filled with something an awful lot like hope. And well, Bucky can’t say no, not to that.

But, Bucky also can’t say yes, either. He’s always been extraordinarily shitty at talking about how he feels, or expressing what he wants, so he reaches across the table to cover Steve’s hands with his own. His left hand is trembling from the unexpected movement, sending jolts tingling down his spine, but Bucky ignores it. Bucky is good at ignoring it, gaze intently focused on Steve.

Steve’s face immediately melts into a smile, and his hands wrap up around Bucky’s. There’s something in Bucky’s chest that loosens at that.

“What do you think you’re doing, Bucky?”

“I’m holdin’ your hand, Rogers.” Bucky quips.

“Bucky.”

“Steve,” Bucky says, because he can’t, not.

Steve makes a frustrated noise that vaguely sounds like “this is ridiculous” before he’s leaning over into Bucky’s space. From this close, Bucky can count every single one of Steve’s impossibly long eyelashes, can see the gold specks that litter the blue of his irises, and Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to kiss someone more than he wants to kiss Steve right now.

Bucky is thirty-years-old and what he wants is right in front of him, looking at him with a downright sinful mouth like he knows exactly what Bucky is thinking and he likes it.

So, yeah, Bucky has always been a bit of a coward, but he’s also sure that Steve wouldn’t be this close if he wasn’t at least somewhat interested in having their lips touch in the near future, and there’s only so much patience Bucky can execute before it starts to become too much.

(It’s started to become too much.)

“Stevie,” Bucky murmurs. His left hand is trembling again, but it’s the hand he raises to card through Steve’s hair. It’s as soft as it looks, silky-smooth and it seems to float right through Bucky’s fingertips. He never wants to stop.

“Yeah, Buck?”

“I’mma kiss you now.”

Steve’s eyes widen slightly, but Bucky doesn’t give him a chance to respond, instead using the leverage from his right hand that still rests on the table to push him the rest of the way into Steve’s space. They bump noses for a few seconds, simply breathing each other’s air, before Bucky makes a small, distressed sound in his throat, and angles his head just right to finally, finally, press their lips together.

Steve’s lips are soft and pliant on his, slightly chapped around the edges but Bucky doesn’t mind, not at all. They open when he runs his tongue along their seam. He can’t help the sigh that tumbles into Steve’s mouth because he’s probably jerked off to this moment about a hundred times, has catalogued what Steve’s lips might feel like against his if he finally got up the nerve to finally fucking kiss him, but nothing compares to this.

Nothing could’ve prepared Bucky for the way Steve’s tongue curls around his own whenever Bucky bites on his bottom lip just right or the way that Steve’s hand trails up the sides of his cheek, somehow managing to trail along the flush that has started to reside there. It’s not the best kiss Bucky has ever had; Steve tastes strongly of too much mint and coffee and something that faintly tastes like projectile vomit but it’s his favorite because it’s Steve, and Bucky figured out a long time ago that everything of Steve’s was his favorite.

Steve pulls away after much too soon, but his eyes are shining, and his mouth smiling. Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever been so enraptured by another human being before.

“As much as I want this to continue,” Steve rumbles, and fuck, if that doesn’t send an excited shiver straight to Bucky’s dick. “Getting arrested for public indecency isn’t on my to-do list today.”

Bucky licks his lips. “Well,” he drawls. “How ‘bout we go get some takeout and bring it back to my place, then?”

Steve narrows his eyes, and his hands tighten around Bucky’s own. “Are you trying to suggest that I put out on the first date, Buck?”

“I dunno, do ya?”

“You’ll just have to see about that, won’t you?” Steve snips back. The corners of his mouth are twitching upwards like he’s having difficulty containing his smile, and Bucky has never seen his eyes so bright before.

“Guess so,” Bucky answers with a grin and doesn’t let go of Steve’s hand, not even when they exit the diner and make their way onto the cold, Brooklyn streets, huddled together for warmth.