1741 words
After they got ready, they hit the road again, with Steve staring out the window and trying not to look over at Bucky, who looked like a million fucking dollars.
He was wearing his combat boots, fishnetstockings, a black skirt, a white, long sleeve crop top, a ripped jean vest that had a small, rainbow colored enamel heart pin on the collar, a long-wristed red leather driving glove on his left hand, and lipstick that was as red as his underwear. He also had his hair tied back with a red scrunchie, revealing pierced ears that held dangly heart earrings, and the delicate line of his neck that had a red choker fastened around it. The cherry on top was the pair of cat-eye Ray Bans he had on, like something out of the forties.
Steve was going to die.
Everything about Bucky was enough to drive a man mad.
He had to get used to it eventually, right?
He felt crazed, wild around his eyes as they stepped into a Burger King and saw every head in the place turn towards them.
They ordered the pancake and sausage platter, a burrito, and two croissandwiches each. Bucky got coffee and Steve got three orange juices since he’d never been a big coffee drinker, and Bucky had the audacity to raise a judgmental eyebrow at Steve like he hadn’t just ordered three pumps of caramel and four pumps of vanilla in his mocha frappe.
He couldn’t help grinning, though, overjoyed at the simple fact of being next to Bucky, after all these years he thought him dead.
They ordered it to go, so they could take their food back to the RV, Bucky making noises about leaving Punk alone too long, although Steve knew it was probably because he was too uncomfortable with everyone staring at him, gawking like they never fathomed crossdressing before. The disguise (or maybe it was just how Bucky liked to dress now) may have been great at fooling hydra, but it had the opposite effect on everyone else. Steve hovered close to Bucky, protective and still feeling a bit crazed.
No telling what would happen if someone insulted Bucky.
“Alright, come on, big guy, no one’s gonna hurt me,” he murmured to Steve as they grabbed their food. Steve straightened, realizing he was tense, poised, ready to strike at the littlest movement from the customer that was standing beside them, giving Bucky the stink eye like he was something he had scraped from the bottom of his shoe.
After they had settled down to eat in the RV, Bucky knocked their knees together in the small space under the table. “You should grow a beard.”
Steve blinked at him and quickly swallowed his bite so he could reply. “You think so?”
Bucky nodded, tearing off a small piece of sausage to feed to Punk, who was whining for a change, desperate to be fed human food.
Much like ladies (or men!) wearing chemises and people wearing t-shirts out in public, beards were another thing Steve hadn’t quite warmed up to yet, still stuck in his “ancient ways”. It was why he hadn’t grown one out for his hunt-for-Bucky road trip, even though it would make him more unrecognizable.
But if Bucky wanted it…
“Okay, sounds like a good idea,” Steve agreed easily, giving him a sunny grin. “That way, I won't have to waste time shaving in the morning.”
Bucky didn’t reply, but Steve wasn’t affected, munching happily on his burrito. He picked out a piece of egg and cautiously held it out to the dog, who eyed Steve warily but took it. He counted it as a point in his favor and fed him more throughout their meal.
Steve took the time to really look at his surroundings, taking in all the little things that Bucky had added that made the RV his home.
There were a few plants hanging in planters here and there, some sort of ivy that draped down. Several books were stacked upright in a small cardboard box that was duct-taped to the counter to prevent them from sliding off. There were a few decorations that dotted the kitchenette, like the hilarious portrait of a dog in a clown costume sitting upright like a human hanging over Bucky’s head. A small, portable radio hung from one of the cabinet doors handles. Some dog toys littered the floor, mostly contained inside the small pink dog bed shaped like a donut. There was a small, yellow vase with a cute, smiling bee on it that held a pink carnation inside, which was also duct-taped to the table.
At the sight of the vase, Steve wanted to break down into tears, overcome with emotion. Bucky had made this place his home, and had invited Steve into it. He wanted to sob and wail like a baby.
“Oh, before I forget again,” Bucky said suddenly, getting up and helpfully distracting Steve from his overdramatics. He watched as Bucky wiped his hands off and reached down to pick the seat up, surprising Steve. He withdrew a duffle bag and placed it on the counter next to the sink, before replacing the seat and sitting back down. “That’s your shit from the various museum exhibits that had it in possession and on display.” Bucky scowled like it was a personal affront to his freedom, and Steve didn’t blame him. He’d been resigned to never seeing any of his stuff again. He’d been given the run around from the Smithsonian a couple of times when he had asked them if he could have his stuff back, which hadn’t instilled him with confidence and after a while, he had given up.
He blinked at the bag, which sat innocently on the counter, completely unaware that it held priceless treasures and “collectors’ items” within.
“I… oh, Bucky, thank you,” he breathed, reverent and awed.
Bucky ducked his head down bashfully, his voice quiet. “No problem.”
Steve wolfed down the rest of his food, eager to go through his reclaimed stuff.
He carefully unzipped the bag, which was stuffed with his belongings. Among other things, which were mostly books, there was a picture of his mother’s face, his father’s gold pocket watch and their wedding rings that he had never parted with, even when money got real tight. The holy grail of the collection were the many sketchbooks he had before the war, and the holiest among them was the one reserved for sketches of Bucky, his face, his long limbs, the disjointed curve of his smile that dotted a corner on most pages, one scandalizing nude drawing that Steve had folded in half so he wouldn’t accidentally see it, if he was flipping through the pages, he was so ashamed of it.
The only time he had tried to draw anything after he woke up here in the future went horribly when he realized that he was outlining Bucky’s beloved face. He had never tried since, not even after finding out that Bucky was still alive.
Bucky finished eating and put his wrappers in his paper bag, standing and grabbing Steve’s own paper bag full of trash, wiping the table down with a wet wipe. “You should sit down while I drive,” he suggested to Steve, who looked up. “Give ya time to spread it all out and refamiliarize yourself. I’ll go throw this away, take Punk out again and have another smoke before we head out.”
Bucky was giving him privacy, Steve realized, and smiled at him, soft and grateful.
So, Steve took the time to set the duffle down on the table and carefully lay each item down in front of him. He trailed his fingers across them, light and reverent, welcoming them back home. There were a couple of items that were Bucky’s, like the pocketknife he’d loaned Steve before their last mission in the alps, and the pencil that had toothmarks on the eraser end, a habit that had formerly driven Steve absolutely crazy since he kept finding all his drawing pencils in that sorry state, until he had needed to use a pencil a couple of days after Bucky fell, and reached into his pocket and had stared at the chewed-up object, utterly lost, hollowed out. Desperate and aching, Steve had gently pressed his own mouth and teeth there and had broken down for the first time properly after losing Bucky. It was the closest he would ever come to kissing him, too late, too late, too fucking late.
He clutched the pencil tenderly to his chest, holding it like the treasure it was, trying hard not to weep, because there was no reason to, not anymore, not when Bucky was alive and apparently thriving, despite everything hydra had done to him.
There was also the journal of Bucky’s that Steve had seen him writing in during his downtime when they were supposed to be relaxing in their tent back at base. Steve had never dared to open it, the idea much too painful. He didn’t dare open it now, out of respect for Bucky’s privacy.
He carefully packed everything of his back in the duffle bag and stood, leaving the bag on the booth as he made his way to the passenger’s seat, the RV shaking around him as Bucky drove it.
He set the pocketknife, pencil and journal down on the dashboard in front of the passenger’s seat. “These are yours,” Steve said, gesturing timidly, watching Bucky’s reaction.
From his lap, Punk gave Steve a baleful look and bared his teeth, but didn’t bark, growl or snarl. Steve suppressed the proud grin that wanted to make itself known, and sat down triumphantly.
“That’s… mine?” Bucky wondered, glancing over at the items.
Steve nodded and went for lightheartedness. “Yup. You loaned the knife and pencil to me. Guess the people thought the notebook was mine, since it was with my sketchbooks.”
Bucky didn’t respond right away.
“Thanks. For telling me. You can keep them safe for me, though. I’ll look at them later.”
He gave Steve a small smile, his white teeth peeking out from behind red lips, before he straightened back towards the road.
Steve’s heart soared. Bucky trusted him enough to keep his stuff safe. He smiled at Steve. Steve felt like swooning.
Although he wasn’t a damsel, there were times he sure felt like one, all of them in Bucky’s presence.