Chapter 1
God.
As a twenty-three year old, Bucky has had his fair share of hangovers. But this one, the one he just woke up in, has got to be his worst.
He comes to himself slowly. He remembers Brock slapping him across the face when Bucky said he was leaving. He remembers the police being called by Brock's neighbor while Bucky packed up his bags and listened to the older man scream in his ear. He remembers being shoved against the wall, head being continuously slammed until he knew he was bleeding. Then, finally, the cops showed up and escorted his violent ex into a cop car.
Meanwhile, Brock screamed, "Fuck you! You're a whore! You'll be back, you fucking whore. You need me!"
So, naturally, Bucky had gone to Nat's house, because he was homeless, cried to her, and got so drunk he passed out on her floor.
Saturday mornings are busy for Nat, so he can only be grateful to her for even letting him in last night. She's a wedding planner, and most couples want to scope out venues on the weekends. He knows she had to have been gone as early as five. He pulls out his phone, squinting painfully, and types a text.
JBB: Thx for the love. I'm sorry about keeping u up.
Bucky barely had time to sit up before his phone buzzed with her response.
NR: No problem, babe. Get some breakfast downstairs and settle in. I'll be able to spend more time tonight.
Bucky doesn't deserve her. He exhales softly and stands up completely, still in his jeans and t-shirt from leaving so quickly last night. He trudges his way down the stairs, scrubbing a hand down his face before wincing and cursing softly. He had sort of forgotten about the open wounds and throbbing bruises on his face.
He walks into the kitchen with a big yawn, grabbing a cup and filling it with water, grimacing at the too-loud tap. He lets his head roll back and sighs, settling back only when he can tell his glass is filled.
He tips his head back and turns, mouth suddenly going dry even as he's dumping moisture down his throat. His eyes widen, as much as they can, at least, at who he sees.
He's tall, blond, hot, and has only a towel wrapped around his waist. God, that shoulder-to-waist ratio should be a crime, probably is somewhere, and Bucky wouldn't be surprised if he were just spilling water on the floor now.
His hair is freshly washed, he's eating some healthy looking bullshit (granola, maybe?) and his washboard abs are so mesmerizing the brunet flips from his face to his stomach every two seconds. And that face, God. The man is looking down at his granola, on the phone, so Bucky can't see his eyes. But he can tell they're incredible.
The guy tilts his head up just as he's letting out a soft sigh, clearly tired of listening to whoever he's on the phone with. It's then that those gorgeous (fuck, he knew it) blue eyes meet Bucky's steel grey and he tips his lips up in a smile.
"Hey, Ma?" he asks, and Bucky's insides turn to mush at that deep, rumbling voice. "I gotta go. Mhm. Love you, too. Buh-bye."
Once he hangs up and sets his phone on the table, he grins up at Bucky. "Hi, there. You must be James."
Bucky chokes on his water and sets it down, coughing a few times before he puts a hand to his chest and breathes. "Nat's the only one that calls me that, other than my mom. People call me Bucky."
"Bucky?" the man asks, raising an eyebrow.
Bucky's cheeks heat up. "Uh, yeah. My middle name is Buchanan, and it's just... Bucky."
The blond smiles. "Alright, Bucky. I'm Steve."
"Nice to meet you, Steve. A friend of Natasha's?" he assumes, returning back to basic human functions as he grabs eggs from out of the fridge.
"I'm actually the new roommate."
"Oh, shit," Bucky breathes. "I'm so sorry! Y'had to hear me do all that last night, huh? Fuck. Sorry about that."
Steve bit the inside of his cheek. "It's alright. You were in a tough spot."
"God. Did Nat tell you?" he asks, suddenly annoyed his best friend would spread his ugly business on to, well, hot guys like Steve.
"Some," Steve says, shrugging. "But I think I woulda figured it out with those bruises you're sportin'."
Bucky scowls, putting the eggs back in the fridge, his appetite disappearing. "Okay, well, nice to meet you Steve."
"Hey," Steve calls as Bucky turns away. He can hear the squeak of the chair being pushed backwards and he stands still, willing himself not to get angry at this strange sexy man.
He doesn't move until he feels Steve's body heat behind him. Then, out of sheer curiosity, he turns his head.
"Hm?"
"I need to clean your wounds."
"Jesus, Boy Scout. I can clean my own wounds."
He starts again when Steve grabs his elbow, gently but strongly. "No, Nat told me to. I'm a doctor, Bucky. I don't... I think it would be better if you had medical-grade attention."
Bucky huffs in frustration. "I have my own family doctor, thank you very much. His name is Richard. He's nice. Now let me go, would ya? I don't need nobody feelin' sorry for me."
Steve releases him as per his request, but Bucky doesn't move.
"Let me clean 'em up, Buck. Just let me do that."
Bucky thinks for a moment. "Kay. But you gotta get some clothes on first."