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Much like the previous morning, Steve woke up, registered Bucky’s bare dick pressed against his body, and tried not to freak out over it too much. Unlike yesterday, however, Punk was soundly asleep beside Bucky’s leg and therefore, could not provide any much-needed distraction from Steve’s literal gay awakening.
He was left to deal with it by himself, and lay there frozen as the gears in his mind spun frantically like a bicycle tire after falling over, useless in his panic.
He couldn’t get up, since that might wake Bucky, who was wrapped around him like a piece of seaweed or a particularly touch-starved octopus. In fact, any movement at all proved to be a bad idea when Steve tried to slip his arm from out between their bodies and froze again when Bucky shifted suddenly, moving his hips and consequently setting his hard, heavy cock on Steve’s forearm.
For a good four seconds, he was sure his heart stopped and he was dead, gone, deceased, cast from this mortal realm to some strange combination of heaven and hell.
With a surprisingly ironclad will (he had always been so weak when it came to Bucky), Steve forced himself to relax and wait for Bucky to wake up. Then Steve could address it, explain why he didn’t cover Bucky up or pull away or something like that after Bucky reacted, likely with horror or embarrassment or even shame. He would need to be reassured, and Steve planned to do just that, not able to fathom Bucky embarrassed or ashamed. Even if it was sort of a direct result of his own choice not to wear any underwear.
Just like Robert Burns had once said, “the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry,” a quote that had resonated with him a lot during the war and certainly came to mind right now, because that was exactly what was happening.
Steve did not expect Bucky to shift, lift his head a little, blink up at him and give him a soft, tired smile. “Good morning,” he murmured, just as soft, and Steve couldn’t help returning the gesture, still somewhat panicked.
Then Bucky, to his complete astonishment, laid his head back down on Steve’s shoulder and went back to sleep.
Incredulous, Steve peered down at his face and yep, that was Bucky’s sleep-slack expression, making him look so much younger than he really was. Steve had sketched that expression enough times to fill the pages of his sketchbook, had lovingly immortalized it and set forth a series of actions that meant the entire world seventy years in the future would know it, too. So he definitely knew Bucky was asleep, it was just that he could not believe it.
When his mind had finally stopped uselessly pinwheeling, and just accepted that this was his life now, held captive by Bucky’s glorious penis, that was when Punk woke up.
Steve froze again and gave him a look. “No,” he silently mouthed at the dog, who was starting to bare his teeth, ramping up for what was sure to be a loud, growling snarl that would rival his motorcycle, shattering the peace and disturbing Bucky’s sleep. Steve started frantically shaking his head at him, like that would possibly do anything.
Before Steve could do anything else, a growl rang out through the silent RV – not from Punk, but from Bucky, who had apparently woken up or perhaps been awake this whole time. Punk immediately turned away in submission, appropriately cowed and embarrassed, practically radiating it.
“Fuckin’ Punk,” Bucky muttered to himself and burrowed closer to Steve, almost into his armpit, where he inhaled deeply and let out a soft noise of contentment that was almost a moan and actually made Steve choke on his spit. “Biweekly shower day is tomorrow, if you can wait that long,” Bucky had the gall to tease, muffled against his skin.
Steve’s cheeks felt hot, even though he knew he couldn’t smell that bad, not with the thorough application of industrial, medical grade deodorant that he had sorely needed after the serum, given how musky and potent his scent was. And Bucky didn’t seem to mind, much like before the war when Steve would self-consciously try to push a laughing Bucky away if he needed a shower as Bucky did his best to sniff him and make a big show over how he hardly smelled at all, definitely not as bad as Bucky himself after a day at the docks hauling crates.
Steve trembled, remembering how rich and musky Bucky had smelled, the pinnacle of manliness and driving him crazy with want. He had wanted to put his mouth all over Bucky’s sweaty body that was corded with muscle, lean and glistening. His cheeks grew hotter and he stifled a whine in the back of his throat.
When Bucky inhaled deeply again and then rolled away and got up to use the bathroom, Steve felt betrayed by his own body feeling actual dismay. He had been trapped, unable to move. Surely the cessation of that called for some relief?
(Had he been? Did it, though?)
After Bucky got out, he went to the door and grabbed Punk’s leash and his cigarettes and bent over to snap the leash into place, a movement that revealed his entire backside to Steve, if only for a moment.
Jesus goddamn Christ.
Steve desperately willed his hard-on away, and got up to get himself ready for the day ahead, sharing some of Bucky’s excitement.
Still feeling a bit self-conscious, Steve put on an extra thick layer of deodorant after he brushed his teeth and washed his face with a few squirts of Bucky’s fancy facial cleanser and a paper towel dipped in a plastic bowl of water, like Bucky had showed him yesterday.
Bucky and Punk came back in, making Steve glance up at him.
He looked positively irate, making alarm frission through Steve’s body.
“I am so fucking glad that we parked on the edge of the trees and that the RV is angled away from everyone, because I totally forgot about my fucking arm!” he howled, waving it about madly.
Steve’s stomach dropped and he went over to the window above the table, ducking down and peering through the blinds to see if anyone was outside and calling the police. No one was around, which made Steve breathe a heavy sigh of relief.
“I’m blaming this all on you, Rogers,” Bucky grumbled, pouting adorably, sounding put out. “You're too reassuring. Too calming. I need Jason Statham or someone like that around to keep me on my toes and attack me every once in a while.”
An image of Steve ‘attacking’ Bucky flitted through his mind before he banished it.
Bucky stomped past him and Steve decided not to reply. Instead, he took the time to sort through their clothes that were still in the trash bag that was stuffed into the small closet next to the refrigerator. When he went through enough of the bag that he found a pair of his own underwear, one of his henleys and his nicer pair of jeans, he stopped to preserve his own sanity…
Sanity that was quickly depleted anyway when Bucky dumped the entire bag onto the bed after he was done brushing his teeth and washing his face, standing before all his clothes in just his slinky little purple chemise that barely covered anything, anyway.
"Now what shall I wear today? What aesthetic am I going for?" Bucky idly wondered to himself, making no small amount of dread well up within Steve.
"Ooh, I know," he said cheerfully, picking through his clothes, "Slut fashion. Hoe vibes. Prostitutionally inclined." He picked out the black thong. There it was, the moment Steve pinpointed as the reason for his mental breakdown.
Bucky stepped into his underwear, pulling the thong up under his chemise, which Steve couldn’t find it in him to be all that grateful for. Then he pulled his chemise up over his head in one quick and fluid motion, and Steve had to fight not to swallow his tongue.
He avoided looking at Bucky as he took some water and filled up the plastic bowl again, grabbing his shaving cream and a new razor and began shaving his face, armpit, treasure trail, and legs. Well, he mostly avoided looking. It was kind of hard not to, when Bucky was flexing his legs so much.
After he was done, he stepped into something else that went around his waist, with clips like a- oh no.
Steve's fears were confirmed when Bucky grabbed a pair of stockings that had an intricate design laced at the end that stopped mid-thigh. He clipped them up into the garters and then stepped into a flowy black skirt that sat low on his hips and barely covered his ass cheeks, it was so short.
Steve’s brain was going to leak out of his ears.
The shirt Bucky chose was no better: it had one long sleeve and the other absent, and it stopped just below his pecs and dipped down low in the front, showing off his bulging bicep and his muscular shoulder and his lean waist and his strong chest.
Just when Steve thought it couldn't get any worse, Bucky reached for something in his jewelry bag and withdrew a long, sparkly rhinestone... rope thing that he wrapped around his midsection and fastened to himself, leaving it draped artfully over his hipbones, dangling down to his thigh. He put a thin rhinestone choker around his neck and a matching bracelet on his right arm and dangly earrings in his ears, before brushing his hair then parting it exactly down the middle with his fingernail and setting another piece of rhinestone jewelry in place, the middle line of it resting in his part while the other two fell over the sides.
The effect was stunning and Steve suddenly couldn’t breathe.
Bucky looked demure, seductive. The thin, understated jewelry added just enough allure to contrast the sexy, provocative clothing.
“Steve? Steve?” Bucky was calling him, making him snap out of it.
“Uh, yeah, Buck?” he could feel a blush rising to his cheeks, and tried to suppress it.
He raised his eyebrows at Steve. “I asked you what makeup look I should wear.”
Oh geez.
Steve shrugged noncommittally. “Whichever one you want to. I think you look good enough already.” He ducked his head, knowing he was dark red in the face.
“Aw, thanks, Stevie. You sure know how to make a gal feel nice,” Bucky said flirtatiously, making Steve do a double take.
Did Bucky consider himself to be a woman now? Was he… trans, or whatever? It didn’t make any difference to Steve, who was glad to refer to Bucky however, as long as he could refer to him. His mind flashed back to when Bucky used the phrase “hot girl shit” and he only just now wondered over the choice in gender nouns.
“What do you want me to call you?” Steve blurted out suddenly, making Bucky look up from where he was doing his lips, layering them with shiny gloss.
“Bucky’s fine.”
Aw hell, Steve didn’t mean that, but it raised the question: should he still be calling Bucky Bucky or something else? Steve would still love him even if he wanted to become a burlesque dancer called Bianca. It made no difference to him. All he wanted was for him to be happy.
Steve watched as Bucky went through his sunglass collection that was hanging up in his closet. He chose a pair of black oversized frames that had rhinestones around the edge and looked just like the pink ones he wore two days ago.
Steve sighed. “Bucky, I meant your pronouns.”
“Huh?” he seemed distracted, bending down to grab a panel under the bed, sliding open what turned out to be a drawer that held quite a few purses. He grabbed the Birkin bag, holding it up to the light and eyeing it speculatively.
Then he suddenly gasped, dropping it carelessly, and stepped over to the cabinet where Punk’s food was.
The reason was soon obvious when he withdrew a black leather collar with sparkly rhinestones that matched his own jewelry pretty well. Punk was then lovingly bedecked in the item, smothered with kisses and cooed over, and once again, Steve felt inappropriately jealous of the little animal as he preened under the attention, smug and delighted.
“Ooh, you're perfect, my sweet little prince,” he crooned, to Steve’s bitter resentment. That demon dog wasn’t sweet at all. (He didn’t actually believe that, of course.)
Steve wasn’t sure where they were going to go for breakfast, since Bucky had said that any fast-food restaurants were out, since they were everywhere and this was Roswell, Steve, where they had exciting, alien themed restaurants that they wouldn't find anywhere else!
It turned out that they were going to go to Alien Zone, a campy alien themed eatery that had photoshoots set up in the area 51 zone at the back of the restaurant. It was even pet friendly, so they could take Punk out of Bucky’s Birkin bag and snap some pictures with him.
The only downer was all the specialty brews that wouldn’t have any effect on their superserumed metabolisms, as Bucky pointed out with a pout, even though he still ordered a bright pink margarita that he sipped at daintily.
Steve perked up. “Actually, I may have a solution to that,” he admitted, cursing himself for not thinking of it earlier. Bucky had loved to drink, and obviously still did. “I have some specially distilled Asgardian mead from my friend Thor.”
Bucky blinked at him. “Your friend Thor. The alien?”
Steve rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yeah? He’s more on our level, in terms of physicalness. So he needs special alcohol to get drunk. And he gave me some before I left on my- my road trip.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes and hummed, not convinced. Steve swallowed. From within the Birkin, Punk let out a growl at him in solidarity.
“A few drops are enough to get me drunk. Really. And there’s no hangover. I have an entire flask full of the stuff in my duffle. He brewed it like that for me so I wouldn’t run out. You can have it, I don’t drink that much anyway.” Even if he did, he would still give it away to Bucky.
In response, Bucky perked up. “Okay. Thanks. We’ll go back to the RV to fetch this fucking mead that came from an honest-to-god alien after we eat.”
Their waiter came then to bring their food, and Steve didn’t know if he was relieved that the guy didn’t seem to mind Bucky’s attire or angry over the fact that he clearly liked it.
“Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?” he asked, a bit too eagerly.
Bucky only shook his head and said with a smile, “That will be all for now… Curtis.” The man practically tripped over himself as he left, blushing bright red.
Steve wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure what. That he felt a little sorry for the poor guy? That he wanted to trip him the next time he came by? That he wanted to get down on his knees and bury his face under Bucky’s very short skirt?
In the end, Steve wisely chose to remain silent to preserve any sense of dignity he still had.
Their food was delicious, some sort of fusion burger and steak with a UFO themed name that Steve forgot.
Bucky looked so seductive as he sat back in his chair when he was finished eating and sipped on his margarita, holding it in his gloved hand. He glanced around the room through his sunglasses and smiled privately to himself, a little upwards quirk of his lips. Steve wanted to lay down on the floor and pass away. He felt like he’d be able to, weak and lightheaded at the sight.
Where was that mead when he needed it?
No, that was a bad idea, since there was no telling how he’d act if he got drunk.
A stone of dread settled in his gut when he belatedly realized that Bucky would want Steve to drink with him, since he always did, even when he was ninety-five pounds and drunk off of a single shot of whisky. He got Steve sloppy drunk on more than one occasion, black out, falling all over himself, a giggly, drunk mess.
The flask that Thor had given him was made out of some sort of nearly indestructible Asgardian metal with a higher capacity than the average Midgardian flask, he assured Steve.
What was he going to do when Bucky got him drunk?
Back at the RV, Steve watched warily as Bucky opened the flask and sniffed cautiously. It didn’t have any smell at all, some sort of Asgardian sorcery at work, so he turned it over into his palm, leaving behind a few drops that he licked up, the exact maneuver that Steve himself had used to test the power of it without overdosing. He smacked his lips and his eyes brightened behind his sunglasses. “This’ll do,” he said as he tucked the flask into his Birkin bag next to Punk, who gave it a few curious sniffs but otherwise dismissed it.
“Glad you like it,” Steve responded gruffly, too overcome with nerves at what would happen if they should get drunk together.
Bucky giggled and Steve felt his stomach sink a little. That did not bode well for him. However, his laughter was infectious and Steve felt himself grinning despite his nerves.
They went to the International UFO Museum and Research Center, the Roswell Museum and Art Center, and the Anderson Museum of Contemporary Art, both of which Steve liked a lot. Then they had lunch at the Cowboy Café where everything was western themed and everyone was wearing cowboy hats, even some of the customers.
“It’s like he doesn’t know I have a sig Saur nine millimeter handgun in my Birkin bag,” Bucky mumbled to him, giggling a little as an ugly, middle-aged, overweight, balding white guy gave him a nasty look. Steve glared at him.
In response, Bucky blew a kiss at the guy and Steve had to steer Bucky out the door when the man turned red and started spluttering indignantly so Bucky wouldn’t escalate the situation any more than he already had. “Let’s go, buckaroo.”
The phrase made Bucky giggle.
“Yee haw. Let’s giddyup, partner.”
Steve had a sinking suspicion that Bucky was sneaking a few drops of the Asgardian mead every now and then, but it was confirmed when Bucky wanted to go antique shopping at the Roswell Antiques Mall.
“The shit there is as old as us,” Bucky slurred, leaning against Steve, who hailed another taxi.
“You won't be able to buy anything,” Steve warned, even as he told the driver where to go. There would be no place in the RV for any piece of furniture.
That didn’t stop either of them from looking around.
There was a mint green refrigerator that Steve liked, and an old, refurbished, battery-powered blue Dreamliner clock radio that Bucky liked a whole helluva lot, judging by the smile on his face. Steve sighed when he saw Bucky holding it.
They both gravitated towards the jukebox that sat in the middle of the floor that was all lit up and belting out music. Upon closer inspection, it held all the top hits from the crooners, Sinatra, Dean Martin, Perry Como, Bing Crosby. Etta James came on just then, and it made heat rise to Steve’s cheeks when he recognized the song, since it had been one of the very few he’d listened to after he dethawed. It had been the one to make him stop listening, since all it did was remind him of Bucky and rub in his face how he’d never get to see him again.
“At last… my love has come along. My lonely days… are over… and life is like a song. Oh, yeah, yeah, at last… the skies above are blue. My heart was wrapped up in clovers the night I looked at you.” His eyes fell to Bucky just then, who was swaying to the music, his eyes closed from behind his sunglasses.
Unthinkingly, Steve stepped into his space and took him in his arms, in front of god and everybody. His eyes opened and he shot Steve a wide grin. “Dancing, Rogers?”
Steve shrugged meekly. It did seem like it, his body swaying slightly.
“I never took you for the type. Does that make me Fred Astaire?” he wondered teasingly with a raised eyebrow, making Steve flush helplessly.
“I guess.”
Bucky chuckled lightly, showing off his wide, brilliant smile. God, was Steve in love with him.
Right when Steve felt himself lean in slightly, drawn to him like a magnet, Punk, reaching his breaking point, growled ferociously, startling the both of them and breaking Steve out of his Bucky induced stupor. He was grateful for the interruption, but the idea that he owed Punk anything for it made something in him hilariously rebel.
The song ended not too long after that, making him inordinately relieved. Thankfully, Bucky decided to move on, moving towards the kitchenware. Steve moved over to the stuffed animals and kids toys, intrigued.
His heart stopped when he saw the stuffed Bucky bear that someone had just gottenrid of. It had a bandit mask and a red and blue suit, even though Bucky had never worn either of those things, as they depicted otherwise in the comics where they’d aged him down to a kid, which was why Bucky sort of hated them both. Still, Steve grabbed it and gently held it close, furtively glancing around like someone was going to take it from him.
The price tag said it was only thirty dollars, money Steve happily forked over before he realized what he’d just done.
“Steve? Whatcha got there?” Bucky called out, surprising him. He whipped the bear behind his back and shot a terse smile at Bucky, who was stumbling slightly towards the front desk.
“Nothin’. It’s nothing. Really.”
Bucky didn’t look like he believed him, and Steve didn’t blame him. A blind man could see through that lie.
He paid for his radio, and a china plate that Steve didn’t think qualified for an antique, since it was patterned with his shield.
“Here.” Bucky thrust the plate at him as they walked out, surprising Steve. “Thought you’d like it.” He glanced away, his cheeks pinking up.
Steve smiled widely and took it from him. “Thank you, Buck. I love it.” Then he sheepishly withdrew the bear from behind his back. “I, uh, got this. It’s a Bucky bear. They made them during the war, based on the comics they made of you and me,” he explained, a tad embarrassed. “You always hated how young and dumb they made you and the bears based off your character. But you can have it. I was going to give it to you anyway.”
Bucky gave him a little half smile and took the bear. “Guess I’ll owe ya another one.”
Steve paled, not wanting Bucky to believe that he owed him. “No, Bucky. You don’t owe me anything. I just wanted to get somethin’ nice for ya. ‘Cause you deserve it.”
Bucky didn’t say anything for a minute, and Steve was afraid he’d said something wrong, even though he meant every true word.
“Thanks,” he eventually replied, soft and quiet.
After stopping by the RV again to drop off their new stuff, they went to Happy Jack’s Inc., where they sold beads and books, of which Bucky bought some of both. There were even a few that interested Steve enough to buy. They had to drop them off at the RV, then they headed back out, this time to the Spring River Park and Zoo, and saw all the rehabilitated animals that they both fawned over. Punk stayed inside the bag the whole time, not seeming to mind all the noises from the animals and people and being in the dark, unable to see them.
The Miniatures and Curious Collections Museum they stopped to see afterwards definitely lived up to its name, leaving Steve awed as they walked around, marveling at everything. That awe lingered and built as they went to the next two places on Bucky’s mental list: Spaceport Roswell, a virtual reality experience that made him feel like he was really there at a spaceport and boarding a spaceship that had alien passengers, and then the Roswell UFO Spacewalk, which was an amusement theme park that had a walk-through, blacklight adventure that was set in outer space that Steve found real fuckin’ swell.
He said so to Bucky numerous times during and after at Billy Ray’s, where they stopped to eat dinner. The cut of steaks they each ordered were huge and the side of fries they had were delicious. It left them both stuffed, although they definitely had room for some wine at the Pecos Flavors Winery, where they sat through a tasting and bought a few bottles of their favorite kinds.
Bucky, who had been drinking probably one million proof Asgardian mead steadily the entire day, was barely able to walk in the downtown historic district after dinner. It was dark out, since night had fallen and made all the neon lights really pop. Bucky looked beautiful, glowing softly, his face flushed from the alcohol as he grinned widely at Steve, who was carrying the wine.
“I’ve got one more place on my list for today,” Bucky slurred out, surprising him.
“One more, huh? Are you sure you can make it, Buck? I might have to carry you back to the RV. And I’ve been doin’ an awful lotta walkin’, see, so I might-“
Bucky shook his head and swayed into Steve, who was smiling the same shit eating grin that he wore when he was being a little punk, something that Bucky always called him out for.
“Stevie doll, shush your mouth. Anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?”
Steve swallowed at the nickname. When he replied, his voice was hoarse. “Yeah, you. Several times, in fact. Always told me that I was talkin’ ‘bout everything but not sayin’ anything.”
Bucky nodded like he expected this. “He was smart, that Bucky Barnes.” Steve wanted to say something about how Bucky was still Bucky, but was cut off. “Wasn’t a dumb little punk like you. Like you're being right now. So dumb. We should go, so we can get home and into bed quicker. Whaddya say?”
Any protest dried up at that logical reasoning.
“Okay.” His voice came out weak, in contrast to his heart that was pounding in his chest.
When he saw what the last place was – Rustic Essentials Soap Company – Steve almost turned on his heel and frog marched them both back to the RV. He should have done so anyway, damn his hesitation. He would have prevented himself from being tortured as Bucky, brimming with delight, had tested various different types of lotions and oils on his neck and stomach, the only parts of his skin he could reach with his flesh arm.
“Shouldn’t you watch out for your jewelry?” Steve wondered, a desperate attempt to get Bucky to stop… fondling himself in public and making noises about it.
Bucky glanced up at him, unconcerned. “Nah, a little bit of lotion residue won't hurt gold. I’ll wash ‘em off when we get home, anyway.”
Steve opened his mouth and then his mind went blank. Gold. Bucky was wearing gold. His jewelry was gold. Which then meant that the rhinestones were not rhinestones. They were diamonds.
His eyes darted to each jewelry piece, wild and wide, feeling like they would bug out of his head. Steve choked, realizing that he was staring at what was easily, easily a few hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry. Perhaps even a… he couldn’t bring himself to think it.
Sure, Steve himself had hundreds of thousands of dollars in his duffle bag right now, but that was his own money from his army back pay and shield salary and royalties that he had left over after he funded the hunt for hydra trip that he, Sam and Natasha went on in the wake of Project Insight. Natasha would funnel him more money from the little amount they had managed to recover from hydra if Steve ever needed it, so it wasn’t like he was worried about how poor he was, especially living on the road like this, but Bucky…
This was where the missing hydra funds had gone to, he realized, the earlier comment the day before about the Birkin bag comforting Punk now making sense. His purse must be worth so much money.
Suddenly, Steve was viciously glad that Bucky had it, and was using it to buy himself things that made him happy, things that made his dog happy, and Steve was happy for Punk too, happy that Bucky had him and that Punk had Bucky.
Forgetting himself, Steve reached down to pet the dog, who had his head poking out of the Birkin to look around at the smelly place he was in. Punk snapped at him, snarling, making Steve yank his hand back. He gave the animal the stink eye in return.
“Hey, no,” Bucky pouted sadly, setting the lotion aside. “My two best pals can't fight with each other. It’s unconstitutional.”
“I’ll show you unconstitutional,” Steve muttered under his breath.
Bucky frowned, his eyes huge behind his sunglasses.
Steve ducked his head at the look.
“Sorry, Buck. I’ll do my best; I know how much it annoys you that we can't get along.”
Bucky's frown became deeper. “It doesn’t annoy me, it hurts me. You don’t like my dog and he doesn’t like you. How can he not like you? I don’t even blame you, I’d get tired of always having to be on my guard, too, waiting for an attack from an unpredictable animal full of issues.” His voice broke, and Steve’s heart along with it.
“Hey, no,” he murmured, pulling Bucky in for a hug, ignoring the several people that were now staring at them like they were afraid that Steve would have gay sex with Bucky right here and now with one chaste embrace. “I love him, I think he’s great. I don’t blame him one bit for being so scared all the time, even if it is a little frustrating since I can't just explain that I'm not going to hurt him. I’ve never taken my frustration out on him and I never will. He deserves love and affection and patience, not more abuse.” His own voice came out thick, since the situation was a thinly veiled metaphor for the topic Steve suspected they were actually talking about.
And he did care about the dog. Boy, did he care about him. It was hard not to, when he had so much in common with Bucky, who Steve also loved more than everything else in the universe combined, probably even more than his mother.
Bucky sniffled a little against Steve’s shirt and made his heart pang with guilt for having made him feel that way. He pulled away and shot Steve a reassuring smile, the sunglasses obscuring most of his face.
“You're so understanding. So nice. Ugh,” he exclaimed in put upon disgust as he turned away. Steve bit back a smile.
Bucky went back to slathering on lotions and oils and sniffing body scrubs and exfoliators and body washes and moisturizers and shampoos and all sorts of hygienic stuff. It was a very relaxing way to end the day, if Steve didn’t consider the torture Bucky inadvertently put him through.
“You’ll hafta gimme a foot rub when we- when we go to bed, my feet need it after the day of walkin’ we been doin’,” Bucky slurred as he brought the wicker basket crammed full of his intended purchases up to the cashier, whose eyes just about bugged out of her head at his appearance.
Steve kept a careful eye on her as she scanned his items, mulling over what Bucky said. They left after that and hailed another taxi to go back to the RV, where Bucky clumsily fed and watered Punk, brushed his teeth, and undressed. Steve locked himself into the bathroom to brush his own teeth while Bucky did that to give him privacy. And to give himself some well needed peace, having been taunted throughout the day with that damn outfit.
When he came out, Bucky was wearing an absolutely fetching baby blue chemise and lying down in bed, sprawled sideways.
Steve grabbed one of his feet and a bottle of oil from within the bag on the bed. “Hey, what’re you doin’?” Bucky wondered, peering up at Steve. He warmed the oil up in his palms before he wrapped his hand around Bucky’s foot.
“Seems obvious,” Steve snarked, rubbing his thumb up the sole of his foot.
“I wasn’t really that serious,” he said as he shifted around, getting more comfortable.
Steve shrugged. “I don’t mind. Anything for my best guy.”
He froze as he registered what he said. Bucky didn’t seem to catch it, fumbling around in his purse for something. It was his very pink phone, which he woke up, illuminating his face. They had used it to take many pictures throughout the day, and he scrolled through them, showing Steve some as he gradually relaxed.
He sent Steve the best ones, and took another lick of mead from his palm.
“Man alive, today was fun,” he told Steve, who smiled at him indulgently. “You’ll have to paint me a picture about today, about us. Somethin’ renaissance-y. Somethin’ real fuckin’ cool. We – we’ll hang it above our bed. That way we can always be reminded of what a good time we had in Roswell, New Mexico, the place where aliens once landed.”
Steve had gone still – not frozen, but pretty close to motionless at the words ‘ourbed’. He regarded Bucky gently, his eyes soft. “Maybe I could paint you sometime,” he mentioned quietly as he switched feet. “If you’d like that.” It was the next logical step, and he knew Bucky would eventually get around to asking.
He had always wanted a picture of himself, and Steve had always teased him about it, saying that he thought Bucky spent enough time in front of a mirror to know what he looked like, to get sick and tired of his own face. It was the only time Bucky went from being interested to downright nosy in his drawings, when he thought it might be something of him, peering past Steve’s shoulder and trying to get a peak. “You make me seem even more handsome, is all. I'm vain, what can I say?” he had explained once when Steve had wondered aloud why he always wanted a drawing. The explanation had made Steve go pink, just like it did now.
Steve had lovingly rendered every part of him down on paper, and it had shown; painstaking detail of how Steve saw him and what he felt for him. Bucky clearly enjoyed the result, even if he didn’t know exactly why it was like that.
“That’s a great idea, Stevie,” Bucky mumbled, his eyes fluttering closed briefly. “I can't wait to see how you dick – predic – depict me.”
Steve snorted at the mispronunciation. “It’s anyone’s guess, really. I could give you three eyes and some antlers or I could turn you into a snail with an orange dress.”
Bucky crinkled his nose good-naturedly. “Ew, orange. It’s like brown contaminated yellow. I’d rather be naked. Can't ya just paint me naked instead, Stevie?” His voice was nearly a whine.
Steve swallowed convulsively, his mouth gone dry and his head fuzzy and clouded with sudden arousal.
“Nope, sorry, it’s all orange,” he said a bit too quickly. “Orange dress, orange snail. Sitting on a pumpkin, even. Leaving an orange slime trail. Nothing you can do about it, sorry not sorry. Don’t worry, I’ll still make you look like the prettiest snail this side of the Mississippi.” He didn’t know how he still had the presence of mind to keep teasing Bucky about it, but he was grateful for the ability nonetheless.
Like he was getting revenge on Steve, Bucky spread his legs a little more, and the movement made his dress ride up, revealing his soft cock and balls. Steve choked on nothing, feeling part of his soul evaporating out of his body. He wrenched his gaze away from the indecent sight and focused on giving Bucky the best damn foot massage anyone had given anyone, relieved when Bucky shifted again after a couple of minutes and concealed himself again.
After a while, Steve noticed that Bucky was dozing off, so he released his feet, figuring he was done with the massage.
When Steve reached for the phone in Bucky’s limp grasp, he noticed that the home screen wallpaper had been changed from the cute little frog inside the rose to one of the pictures Bucky had snapped of them earlier today. It was one of them both that Bucky had cropped himself out of.
Steve was smiling widely at the camera, his mouth full of a bite of his lunch, his cheeks bulging with it. His eyes were scrunched up from the force of his smile and there was a spot of food on his chin, to his deep embarrassment. But it was the happiest Steve had probably ever seen himself look, even including the silent film footage the Smithsonian had on display that someone took of him and Bucky during the war when he'd been smiling widely at Bucky, overjoyed at rescuing him and so in love his smile had hurt his cheeks.
He'd been so embarrassed when he first saw the footage there, immortalizing his cheesy, dumb fucking expression. He had also been so very grateful, because it had immortalized Bucky’s smile, too, and for all Steve's jealousy and anger over the thought that the world had seen it first and at all (because that smile was just for Steve), he knew that smile never deserved to be lost to time, like Bucky himself had been.
But Jesus Christ, couldn't Bucky have chosen another picture of Steve, one where he didn’t have food on his face? He admitted to himself that the reason Bucky probably chose that particular one was because Steve looked so very stupid, and he looked up at Bucky’s slack face, besotted. The desire to kiss him was so powerful it made Steve ache.
The phone screen went black from the inactivity, which was probably for the best, otherwise Steve would have sat there all night staring at himself, his mind spinning as he wondered what Bucky setting Steve’s face as his wallpaper meant, the particular emotional significance behind it.
Steve fell asleep after debating texting Natasha to ask her. She would only laugh at him and send him a meme making fun of him, not even bothering to answer his question.
-
Steve opened his eyes and looked around, not sure what woke him at first. Then he heard Bucky.
He was whimpering softly, murmuring something inaudible. Not wanting to take the chance that Bucky was having a nightmare, Steve reached out and shook him, making him wake with a gasp.
“Hey, you okay?”
In the dark, Bucky nodded, glancing at him. “Yeah, thanks. I was… dreaming.” He stopped abruptly, like he hadn’t meant to say that much. Steve stroked his thumb over the smooth skin of Bucky’s hip, wordlessly reassuring him.
With huff of frustration, Bucky rolled over onto his back, the action making Steve’s hand land on his dick. Steve froze, as rigid as the ice that he suddenly seemed like inside. He felt like one wrong move would make him splinter and crack apart.
Strangely, bizarrely, Bucky’s cock firmed up under his hand. Steve desperately worked his throat, which had a lump in it.
He couldn’t believe it. He must still be dreaming. There was no way this was actually happening outside of Steve’s wildest wet dreams.
“Why don’t you take me dancing sometime, Rogers?”
“Dancing?” Steve blurted, high and strangled.
“Yeah, it’s that thing two people do standing up while moving to music,” he replied easily, as if Steve’s hand wasn’t on his cock. “You seemed to know what it was earlier in the antique store. Or can you only dance among old relics? If that’s the case, we’ll go to another antique store with a jukebox, then. We’ll have a real swell time, dancin’ to all the hits of the crooners and bumpin’ into furniture. Some more Etta James.”
Steve swallowed. He couldn’t believe they were discussing this while Steve’s hand was on Bucky’s dick.
“Sure, that sounds nice,” he heard himself reply, as if far away. Bucky was rock fucking hard now, and Steve’s brain was leaking out of his ears.
“We should get you a suit,” Bucky mused, ignoring the choked noise Steve made when he felt Bucky’s cock jump because he was stillholdingit and why was he still holding it? “Pinstripe, of course, with black and white wingtip shoes. I should wear heels and some type of matching suit jacket skirt combo. I’ll have to wear stockings, of course, and my garter belt. Maybe they’ll be fishnets. Of course, the look wouldn’t be complete without a hat with a short mesh veil.” His cock jumped again, and the noise Steve made then wasn’t even human. A veil. Jesus goddamnChrist. “And some lipstick. And some jewelry. And gloves, can't forget those. We’d be the height of sophistication. Very vintage and debonair. Just like something right outta the forties.”
“Yuh-huh,” Steve managed, rendered stupid.
Mercilessly, Bucky continued like Steve didn’t have his hand on Bucky’s fucking penis. “You’d have your hair slicked back and a flower in your lapel. You’d get me the matching boutonniere and I would show you a good time. On the dancefloor. Because that’s where dancing happens, in case you forgot.”
Before Steve could summon up any reply at all (let alone an appropriate one), Bucky rolled away from him, dragging his dick through the grip Steve had on him, wiggling backwards until his bare ass was pressed right up against Steve’s crotch, where his own dick had gotten hard despite his mental state. “Goodnight,” he told Steve cheerfully, and then pulled the blanket up over them both.
Jesus shitting holy goddamn fuck.
They laid there, breathing in the silence, Steve harsh and ragged, and Bucky with ease, like he hadn’t spent the last several minutes rock hard in Steve’s hand.
Steve felt his eye start to twitch as he stared at the back of Bucky’s head.
Gritting his teeth, he thought about Rumlow, and felt his cock start to soften, making him breathe a sigh of relief. Bucky let out a huff, and Steve fell asleep wondering about it.