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When Steve had made a comment on Bucky’s choice of music (“interesting choice in radio stations”), he wasn’t expecting Bucky to glare at him and reach into the glove compartment. Steve had the terrible thought of Bucky shooting him (again) before breathing a small sigh of relief that he felt horrible about when it turned out that Bucky was just withdrawing a phone.
He thrust it into Steve’s surprised face, growling out, “Educate yourself.”
Steve wordlessly grabbed it, fumbling and almost dropping it, and pressed the home button, and when nothing happened, pressed the power button, holding it down and turning it on. The apple logo greeted him upon startup and Steve greedily examined it, hungry for any little thing that Bucky wanted to show him.
The phone itself was a metallic pink metal, and was covered by a phone case that he had seen in a mall kiosk, with similar ones like it. It was clear and pink, with sparkly pink little stars and hearts that floated inside the back cover that was filled with viscous pink liquid. A pink pop-socket was stuck to the case in the lower middle portion, where Bucky could hold the phone without dropping it.
The applications were also pink, and Steve chuckled.
“I'm guessing your favorite color is pink, isn’t it?”
Bucky didn’t deign that question with a reply, not that Steve really expected him to.
The songs app held quite a few songs, by artists he’d only barely remembered the names of, despite Natasha and Sam’s gentle encouragement at getting him interested in music. They had both reacted with horror when he explained to him that he never had the urge to listen to music that wasn’t in the background of a store somewhere, like recreationally. Like Bucky had. Especially after he woke up here in the future that was just all wrong no matter how much he tried to fit in, to belong.
He’s always felt like a man out of time, resurrected when he wasn’t supposed to be.
He still hadn’t acclimated, and suddenly, Steve wondered if that was because of all the trauma his shield-appointed therapist tried to get him to believe he had or his own unwillingness.
Without Bucky, he had never seen the point, especially not when everything he had discovered left him imaging how Bucky would react, since he was always so fascinated with the idea of alien life and time travel. Those books were just about all Bucky read, before the war.
Steve had a list of several hundred trivial things that he had no intention of ever looking up, and wondered if he should perhaps start checking things off as he stared at Bucky, who sat beside him, mouthing along to a bubbly, electrified pop song, happy and carefree and so very vibrant and alive, in a way Steve never was. Bucky had enjoyed life, relished the things he experienced and always stopped to smell the roses, and take note of the little things. It was Steve that never really found the same joy and excitement in new discovery like Bucky had, for all that he was an artist.
This new idea of Steve’s was put to the test as he clicked on the first song on the list, which was called bangarang by Skrillex, someone Steve had never heard of before, and for good reason when the musical equivalent of nails on a chalkboard emitted from the speakers. He only barely controlled his flinch, and quickly glanced over at Bucky, whose face was blank, as it usually was.
Did Bucky actually listen to this?
Steve tried to paste a reassuring, encouraging smile on as he mustered up some form of a compliment. “Wow, Buck, this is – interesting. I like it.” The smile felt more like a rictus and the words came out through his clenched teeth. He peered at how long the song was, wanting to know how much torture he had to endure. It was worse than Punk barking. Bucky only hummed in reply.
Finally, mercifully, the song (if it could even be called that), came to an end, making Steve sigh in relief. He froze when he heard the next song begin.
It was a remix of bangarang, making Steve want to bangarang his head on something until he was peacefully unconscious.
“Oh, another one.”
He stoically withstood the screeching and screaming instrument noise, which he didn’t even know was possible. It was even worse than the second one, and some latent sense of self-preservation prevented him from seeing if all the songs in Bucky’s music library were by this artist Skrillex, who Steve wanted to punch in the face. Repeatedly.
Still, he couldn’t have Bucky believing that Steve didn’t absolutely cherish the opportunity to listen to the… music Bucky now liked. “This is great, Buck.” He even sounded like he meant it, god help him.
He could feel a migraine beginning, despite the serum. It was more proof that this conglomeration of sounds was sent straight to Bucky’s phone from Hell, likely by the devil’s bidding.
He sat through three more songs that were equally terrible before Bucky said anything.
“You know, I stole that phone from someone,” he mentioned idly, making Steve look up at him.
“You did?” His brain was fried, which meant the realization was slow to happen.
Bucky hummed, sounding unbothered. Steve blinked at him, still not connecting the dots.
Bucky had the nerve to raise him eyebrow in judgement. “Yeah, from some preteen girl in a Claire’s. Why don’t you pause that, Steve?” he gestured down at the phone, which Steve looked dumbly at before numbly complying.
Three seconds later, it sank in.
“Oh, you – you fucking bastard,” Steve said, not really meaning it at all and meaning it with his entire being.
A helpless laugh bubbled up and Steve’s shoulders shook with it and his face was wet and oh shit, he was sobbing.
“Oh, shit,” Bucky unknowingly echoed, before Steve felt him pulling off the highway.
He tried to blink through his tears, but that only made more fall. It became worse when Bucky, crouched down next to him, laid a hand on his shoulder, making Steve completely fall apart.
He gasped for breath, shaking and jerking under the weight of his emotions, the crack in his chest that had been threatening to burst open.
“There, that’s it. You're fine. Let it out, Stevie.”
Hearing the beloved nickname on Bucky’s lips was enough to make Steve cry harder, probably as intended. Bucky had always been gently ruthless with Steve.
Feeling unmoored, adrift at sea and drowning, he twisted around for purchase, reaching for the only solid thing in his world: Bucky. He clutched at Bucky’s shirt and when he realized what Steve was doing, he stood up, manhandling Steve upright and closer like he was still ninety-five pounds. Steve tripped on something and fell forward into Bucky, his arms going around Bucky’s bare waist, and the feel of his soft, warm skin under his hands soothed something inside Steve, even as he cried himself dry, his face smushed desperately into Bucky’s shoulder. It was the left one, and Steve didn’t care, not when it meant that Bucky was here with him, alive and breathing and singing along to shitty pop songs on the radio and holding Steve.
After a time that felt both too short and too long, Steve stopped crying, which meant he no longer had the excuse of holding Bucky close.
“Come on,” Bucky murmured gently as he withdrew, “I’ll show you the kind of music I actually listen to. I keep that EDM trash there as a decoy.”
A decoy? What kind of sadistic bastard did that?
Steve bubbled up with laughter and couldn’t contain it, doubled over with it, a hand on his belly. Bucky smiled, chuckling a little, too.
The music Bucky actually listened to was inside a YouTube playlist that he had downloaded so he could listen offline, too.
As a matter of fact, Bucky had several playlists, each one with more and more wild names.
Badassical classical was the first one in the alphabetized list, and Steve grinned to himself at the clever name.
Hot Girl Shit™ grabbed his attention, remembering the phrase coming out of Bucky’s mouth yesterday. He clicked on it and blushed as the lyrics immediately rang out into the camper.
“Outrageous when I move my body, outrageous when I'm at a party, outrageous in my sexy jeans, outrageous when I'm on the scene, outrageous my sex drive,” and that was about when Steve’s brain short circuited, and he became a mere passive observer as Bucky started singing along to it at full volume.
It was catchy, despite the… outrageous subject matter, and Steve found himself liking it.
“It’s hot girl shit,” he explained rather nonsensically to Steve, who still felt a bit dumbstruck as the singing died down.
“It’s catchy,” he mumbled out, avoiding Bucky’s gaze.
The next one was even worse, somehow.
“I pick all my skirts to be a little too sexy. Just like all my thoughts, they always get a bit naughty.”
Dear sweet baby Christ. He felt the urge to cross himself, which he hadn’t done in years, since before the war.
It was a small price to pay, however, for seeing Bucky so happy as he sang along to the admittedly catchy tunes.