Six weeks of experience working as a barista did nothing to prepare Steven Rogers for the disaster that his life would turn into, come the eighteenth of January.
And seventeen months of corporate business experience did nothing to prepare James Barnes for the disaster that his life would turn into, come the eighteenth of January.
--
“I am not an inconsiderate person.” To emphasize, he politely shut the door of the cab. “Who told you I was? That’s absolutely not right.”
“James, it doesn’t take a genius. You’re an ass, and the media’s starting to run with it.” The phone did nothing to mask Natasha’s exasperation, but what was he expected to do about the media? They were ruthless. Not Bucky’s fault.
“Isn’t it your job to fix that?” He sniffed, turned his chin up.
“The more you act like your true self, you piece of shit, the less I can do. So just dial it back, okay?”
His eyes flicked between two coffee shops that caught his eye, one down the block and the other up; on a whim, he picked the one to his left, and absently nodded to whatever Natasha had said, before realizing it was a useless gesture. “Yeah, sure,” he grumbled, shoving his other hand in his pocket, “whatever you say.”
“I’d thank you but this is your reputation on the line here, you’re only doing yourself a favor.” She paused, and Bucky could hear a bit of tittering in the background. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got actual work to do.”
He all but stabbed at his phone to end the call, but not before another one came in. Fucking business. Who needed business, anyway? It’s calls 24/7, that’s what it is. A guy needed a simple coffee break on the other side of town sometimes, was it too much to ask? Jesus fucking Christ.
He did make an attempt to make his voice a little more pleasant but he wasn’t really sure if it worked. “James Barnes.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Barnes,” the other voice began, and Bucky wasn’t too ashamed to say he tried his best to tune it out until he heard ‘management’ and ‘qualifications’ in the same sentence. Then his voice turned sharp enough to cut, and perhaps it was dulled through the phone lines but not too much, because the other voice slowed considerably after that.
He only glanced at the menu in the coffee shop before ordering, saying the first long name that caught his eye on the board. The barista, a short, skinny kid who looked sorta like he was fresh out of college (but a little too attractive to be that young), was silent through the transaction, but through the dull rambling coming through his phone Bucky could almost hear the kid’s disapproval. Who was this kid, with those really hot hipster glasses, to judge how he ran his business? Punk.
Bucky kept himself busy with the person on the other end of the line, with enough seething to ensure that the person probably wouldn’t call again for another three weeks at least, but it was when he got his coffee order that he almost snapped his phone in half. (He didn’t, because it was fucking expensive, but still. Almost.)
Too Busy was scrawled across the side of his coffee order, and his posture stiffened, taken aback, as he realized that it was a jab at him. Had he been asked, at that moment, why the sassy barista’s name for him had driven him mad, perhaps he would have stopped to consider that it was just a little funny, before spinning on his heel, fixing the cheeky bastard with a glare to melt ice cream in the coldest of winters, and storming out the shop.
He would never have returned to the little coffee shop again, had his iced caramel macchiato with extra whipped cream not tasted like God’s coffee.
(And maybe he wanted to piss off that barista again.)
Later, much later, as Bucky logged out of his computer at work and spun in his chair, one of his employees hurried past his door. The sight of the thick black frames on their face had Bucky doing a double-take; but by the time he looked back, the person was gone, probably eager to get home.
He’d seen those glasses before. Where were they from?
--
The only time Bucky could find to make a run down to the Stork Club was an hour sooner than the time he’d gone yesterday.
Being the petty bitch that he was, he did hope that the skinny kid from the day before would be working, but there was no telling if he’d be able to hold a conversation at the rate that his emails were coming in.
E-mail from Natasha Romanoff
E-mail from Alexander Pierce
E-mail from Darcy Lewis
They did not stop.
Furiously he typed as he shouldered the door open, but it didn’t stop him from glancing around as he made his way to the counter to order. It also did not stop him from shooting the snarky barista a smirk, one which he hoped would convey the sheer pettiness that he found himself bursting with (but was pettiness supposed to make your heart stop beating at the sight of those glasses, hot damn) .
The barista, whose nametag read ‘Steve’, managed to grit out a response despite the fact that he was trying to grind his teeth to dust. “What can I get for you today.” It wasn’t even a question, which was all the more hilarious, and it made Bucky grin.
On a whim, Bucky upped the pettiness factor. He twisted that dial about as far as it would go, and he let his eyes scan the board before promptly responding with the longest drink name he could pull together.
Steve sighed. “Anything else?”
…
“And extra whipped cream.”
Steve looked about ready to bang his forehead into the cash register’s console. To make matters worse, Bucky added, “And you can write James on the cup, since we’re such good friends. Don’t worry with putting ‘Mr.’ before it, doll.”
Steve’s mouth hung open a little, and Bucky felt like he could sing with the satisfaction it brought him. Wow. Maybe if the whole CEO shindig didn’t work out, he could pursue a career that required him to piss people off.
Customer service, prepare for Bucky Barnes.
--
James had returned. Well, Steve would show him. Doing just about the most obnoxious thing he could think of, Steve scribbled on the cup: Jimmy. That was good enough.
Fucking rich boy. Tall, and built with muscle underneath that stupidly well-fitting expensive suit of his. Stupid fucking jaw that could carve diamonds, eyes that looked like they were fucking made of crystals, who did he think he was, with those full lips and oh shit wait he was coming to get his drink. The one he’d ordered. The one Steve made.
The smugness faltered for a moment when Barnes picked up the stupid drink that had taken fuckin’ twice as long as it should have to make, but the cheeky grin that he gave Steve knocked Steve off balance. (Only because he wasn’t expecting it. Not because Steve noticed dimples. Not at all.)
“I like it. Creative.”
He breezed right out the door, without a glance up from his phone again, and Steve tried very, very hard not to stare at his ass.
Steve failed.
(At least he wouldn’t have to deal with this forever. He was only here to replace Peggy so long as she was on leave, so… that only left… okay, four months. Four more months. He’d survive.)
--
“This cheeky lil’ bastard,” Bucky slurred, “he thinks he’s so clever,” to emphasize, he waved his free hand around, as the other was busy holding a half-empty bottle of beer, “he never writes m’name on it, always some sort of nickname, as if I’ve never heard it before.”
Across from him, cozy in an armchair, Clint snorted. “Your name is James.”
“I know.”
“How many ways can you even mess that up?”
“Plenty of ways,” Natasha butted in, and though she hadn’t consumed nearly as much alcohol as Bucky or Clint, she definitely fell under tipsy, “like Jimmy or Jem or Jim or Jam –”
“– but anyway he won’t stop messing it up, and he glares at me like I ruined his fuckin day.” Bucky pouted into his bottle. “It’s not fair.” In another swig, it was gone, and he all but threw it onto the coffee table to join its pals. “I don’t like it.”
“You wanna know what I think, James?” Natasha’s lips curved up dangerously, and she leaned forward to poke him in the face. “I think you need to get laid.”
Clint laughed, far louder than was necessary, and obviously a laugh was necessary because Natasha had made a joke. So funny. She thought she was right hilarious, didn’t she?
Bucky stated as much. “You’re so funny, ‘Tasha. So funny.”
“But I’m serious. Don’t you think so, Clint?”
Now that just wasn’t fair. How was Clint expected to make a proper decision when one side was Bucky and the other was Natasha and Clint was a heterosexual man? No.
“I think you’re crazy,” Bucky supplied. “And that I wanna find out who the hell he thinks he is, bothering me like that. I’m a busy person. Very important. Always on the phone ‘cos I’ve got a reason.”
“Yeah, just real busy.”
“Yes!” Bucky protested by throwing his arms in the air, then fumbled to find evidence to back his claim. “I did a thing today! I talked to people. And I made a deal.” He strained to recall exactly what kind of deal he had made, but at the moment it didn’t matter at all.
“To being super busy!” Clint announced, holding up a glass that was somehow only half-empty of its alcoholic content.
“To being super busy,” Natasha and Bucky echoed, clinking their own empty beer bottles against it.
To being distracted, Bucky thought vaguely, though he could no longer really remember exactly what he’d wanted to distract himself from.
(Maybe it had something to do with those dorky glasses. Maybe a little.)
--
The headache Bucky woke with was so not worth the few hours of slurred bliss it had offered the night before.
The craving for coffee, however… that could be fixed. Quite easily.
--
It was almost as if Steve’s perfect sanctuary of a calm Saturday morning had been invaded. Invaded very effectively, by a tall man in dark jeans, with a man bun of all hairstyles, and holy mother of God could he pull it off.
No, Steve did not stare. He did no such thing.
Steve’s mouth ran of its own accord on Saturday mornings, apparently. This he was just finding out, as his eyes decided to work independently as well; they were busy fighting a war with his mind, in which one body part wished to roam the feast laid before it, and the other wished to keep its dignity intact.
“Let me guess,” Steve’s mouth said, “iced caramel macchiato?”
James’ lips curled in a brazen smile. “With extra whipped cream,” he prompted, “can’t forget that.”
“Of course.”
For the sake of his ever-loving sanity Steve dearly wished that James would stop returning to the damn coffee shop. If he continued to appear, Steve might have to leave. Forever. (But seeing as Peggy can’t be off on maternity leave forever… he’d endure. For her.) Or perhaps he’d change his name and move to Ireland? He had family there, right?
James glanced around the small shop before leaning onto the counter, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. “I gotta ask,” he dropped his voice to a stage whisper, “how’d you manage being so bitter when your coffee’s sweet as fuck?”
Steve spluttered, eyes widening to land on James’. Today they were grey, perhaps to go with the white tee he was wearing.
(No, Steve did not notice that the tee hugged his body perfectly.)
“I am not bitter!”
James laughed, a laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes and showed his teeth. (His lil pointy teeth were kinda adorable. In general. Not like James was cute, or anything like that.) “You’re definitely bitter. Let me guess,” he drawled, imitating Steve from only a couple moments ago, “you’re angsty. Love to paint out your feelings, probably listening to some classical shit with 2000s rock thrown in, staring out your window on the bus because it makes you feel like you’re in a movie.”
Steve blinked at him. And once more. He opened his mouth to contradict James, but the statements were oddly accurate. Not that he would admit so. “I don’t listen to 2000s rock,” he finally mumbled, “it’s Pierce the Veil.” Steve busied himself behind the counter, throwing together James’ drink, with the strong hope that the redness spreading across his cheeks would go unnoticed.
Damn James. And his awfully accurate psychic logic.
Grabbing the Sharpie lying beside the ice machine, Steve thought for a moment before scrawling the name down the side of the cup: Jams. Sure. That works.
James’ smile widened when Steve shoved the cup across the counter, in his direction. Fuck you, James. Stop smiling. Why are you smiling. That’s not fair. “I’m honored. Jam and bagels happens to be my favorite breakfast food, y’know.”
Steve hummed, trying his very very very best to come off as passive, because if he looked up from the machine he was cleaning he would have to look. At James’ face. And Steve was quite afraid that he might combust if he did.
(Maybe if he did look up he’d see that James’ smile faltered for a moment.)
“Great talk, Steve. Good to see you.” James lifted the cup to his lips, and Steve took a moment to react. Was James actually psychic, that he knew Steve’s name?
James chuckled. Gosh darned jerk. “It’s on your nametag,” he pointed out all too happily, gesturing to the little black pin on Steve’s shirt that read in white letters, s t e v e.
“I’ll come back to bother you tomorrow, punk,” James waited for Steve to look up before taking a step back from the counter. And this, this is the part that resulted in Steve nearly fainting onto the cash register, this is the part that left his brain whirring with a disconnected voice box: James had the gall to wink at him.
And then he turned, turned and sauntered out with a hand in his pocket and a bit of hair slipping out of his bun to whip around his face when he pushed open the door into the Brooklyn wind.
And by the time Steve’s ever-loving brain managed to work up the wittiest remark he could think of (“Jerk!”), James was long gone, leaving Steve’s warring mind and body to play tug-of-war with his emotions.
(Not that there was anything to fight about, of course. Barnes was a jerk, that was all, one that wouldn’t let Steve alone because Steve was fun to tease. Well. Steve could deal with jerks.)
--
“The party of the season,” Natasha threw a shirt at him, dug up from the recesses of his closet, “and you wanted to wear jeans?”
“Jeans are nice,” Bucky protested, from underneath the pile of clothes over his face. “I like jeans.”
“I don’t care what you like, James. You’re going to wear a suit, and look like you put some effort into it.”
“It’s six o’clock! The party’s in two hours.”
Natasha paused her destruction of his closet to shoot him a withering look. He would have cringed from it but he was unfortunately unable to see it, as there were dirty clothes on his face. “It’s going to take you that long to get ready, idiot.”
Bucky didn’t bother to disagree, because it was an argument he didn’t have a chance of winning. At least he knew to pick his battles.
“I don’t wanna go,” he whined instead. “You go instead, and I’ll catch up on Doctor Who.”
“I’m already going,” she reminded him. The next article of clothing that landed on Bucky was definitely heavier than the rest.
“That’s a suit. Go put it on.”
“ ’Tasha.”
“James,” she mocked. “Move your ass. If you want to prove you’re taking your job seriously, you can’t skip all the events.”
“Yes, I can,” he insisted.
“I’m your manager, Дорогой. You do what I say, or you’re screwed.”
“You already screwed me, ‘Tasha. You don’t need to do it again.”
The sound from his closet ceased and Bucky held his breath, and all of a sudden the pile of clothes was gone from his face. Natasha stood over him, an eyebrow raised, before her hands clasped around his shoulders, pulling him off the plush bed.
He hit the ground with a thud and held back a groan.
Natasha dug her toe into his side. “Get up, James. I’m not above getting someone in here to dress you.”
Bucky pushed himself up onto his elbows. “Please?”
Natasha sighed, and picked her way across the floor scattered with clothing to the door. “You have to be there. It’s a charity event. Just show up, be seen, and then you can leave. Okay?”
Bucky took a moment to contemplate her offer. “Alright,” he conceded, “fine, but you owe me a Doctor Who marathon.”
In response, Natasha shut the door behind her on her way out.
--
Bucky arrived at the gala a little after eight thirty, but this, he tells himself, is because he likes to be fashionably late- not because he’d spent over a half an hour trying to style his hair perfectly.
The gala was set up to be an art charity event, in which pieces to be sold were donated by New York’s hopeful artists. Bucky wasn’t much of an artist himself, but as he stared at the pieces on display he had to remind himself not to shove his head into the art just to get a closer look.
Drink in hand, eyes fixed on display, unmoving in his place, it came as a jerk back to reality when someone bumped into him.
“Oh! I’m sorry, I – I didn’t mean –”
Whatever the person didn’t mean, the words died on their tongue, and Bucky’s mind took a moment to register the face. When he did, a grin took no time to spread across his face.
“Hi, Steve.”
--
What the fuck.
Of all the people to run into, literally, of all the people he could’ve bumped into at an event like this, the universe shoved him into the one person with eyes like ice and cheekbones like knives and damn did he look good in a suit.
But then he spoke.
“Hi, Steve.”
Steve’s mouth hung open, all semblance of a response getting caught trying to claw its way up his throat, because his voice made it all the more real; what the hell was the jerk from the coffee shop doing here?
And, being the eloquent English-speaker that he was, Steve said: “I – what?”
Barnes’ grin spread a little wider and he looked like maybe he was about to laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth. With the hand that wasn’t holding the stem of a glass, Barnes offered a little wave. “Looks like I didn’t have to wait too long before I got to bother you again, huh?”
“Fuck,” Steve swore, and though he had the good sense to keep his voice down he probably should’ve put more effort into censoring himself. “Goddamn. Should’ve expected this. Why am I here. I should leave.” Another scrutinizing look at Barnes’ goddamn perfect features and that feral smile, and he repeated himself. “I should leave.”
James tilted his head to the side, and the how his hair shifted to cascade down to his shoulder was not helping Steve’s resolve. What the hell. Steve should not be noticing this shit. Steve should be angry. Demanding customer, jerk customer, who thinks he can do anything he wants. Ugh. “Oh, come on. Don’t be like that, Stevie. Stay ‘n talk to me.”
Stevie. He said Stevie. What the fuck. He is not allowed to do that. They are not friends.
Steve spluttered, trying to think of a response. Cleverly, the words that made their way out of his mouth: “Stay? Not to talk.”
“James!” A sharp voice cut through Steve’s thoughts, saving him from having to explain what he just said, and Barnes’ eyes were drawn to the owner of the voice.
“James,” the voice repeated, “when I said to show up, I didn’t mean late. I can’t do everything for you, you’ve got to talk to people on your own.” A woman, wavy red hair pinned back, with eyes that seemed to burn through James and perhaps leave him incinerated on the nicely carpeted floor.
“Lovely to see you too, ‘Tasha. I’m wonderful, thank you for asking. Great evening. In fact, there’s even someone I’d like you to meet.”
Her burning eyes landed on Steve, and her features settled into an easy smile, head tilting to acknowledge him. “Rogers, not sure if you remember me. Natasha Romanoff? I’m glad to see you made it. I’d apologize for anything James has done wrong so far, but I’m really not his keeper and it’s not my mess.” It was directed towards James mostly, but Steve smiled back, lifted his fingers in a wave.
“Hi, Natasha.” Steve vaguely knew her by name, from a piece he’d sold a while back, to someone by the name of Barton.
James looked from Steve to Natasha and back to Steve, a knot of frustration appearing between his eyebrows. “Of course. They’re even friends. I can’t even have a small victory.”
“No,” Natasha said sagely. “And you won’t have your position at the company for very long if you don’t sweet talk people, because you won’t have any business, either. Now I suggest you go make yourself useful.” She turned and disappeared, leaving Steve squinting up at James.
“Looks like you’ve got stuff to do. Can’t say I see why you’re so high up in the food chain.”
“Hey, not everyone’s a little punk like you. I know how to get my way.”
Steve sniffed lightly. “Hm. Jerk.”
James grinned, all pearly whites, and it make Steve’s cardiovascular muscle cease for a moment. For no reason. “Big insults, coming from an artist.” James tilted his head towards the painting they were stationed next to. “Or did you think I didn’t notice?”
Steve had rather hoped he didn’t notice. The little plaque below the piece read ‘Steve Rogers’ but perhaps it’d been too much to wish for that Barnes hadn’t associated that with the nametag that was part of his uniform at the Stork Club. “I… uh,” eloquently, Steve fumbled for a response. “Yeah.”
James laughed. “Okay, then.”
Steve could feel the heat spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. “I’m… you know, it’s real stuffy in here. Think I’ll get some air.” Nailed it. What a genius move, Steve! Now you can make your smooth getaway.
Steve turned and fled, heading straight for the doors and the dark night air outside. The cool breeze stung at his warm cheeks but oh, dear. Wow. It’d been a long time since he’d flirted with anybody, hadn’t it? He dragged his hand down his face in an attempt to maybe change the face. Perhaps if he had the ability to change his face he’d be able to run away and start a new life in Argentina, where nobody would recognize him and so Barnes wouldn’t find him.
“I think I like it out here better than in there, Stevie.” The voice made him jump out of skin, and dread seeped out of his pores like sweat when he realized it was Barnes’ voice. “You’re a real genius. The air’s nice.”
Yeah. The air’s nice. What’d be nicer was if James could fucking leave. Gosh. Steve didn’t have the energy to embarrass himself more.
James jostled his arm with an elbow. “What’s wrong, Stevie? Coulda sworn we were gettin’ along fine.” Steve didn’t need to look at him to know he was smiling that cocky little half-smile. Gah.
Hushed whispers somewhere off past the corner of the building caught Steve’s attention. And if James’ sudden change in posture was anything to go by, he’d noticed them as well. Slowly, the whispers escalated in intensity until they were clear enough to be coherent.
“What’s –” Steve was cut off when Barnes put a finger to his lips, shushing him effectively. Steve narrowed his eyes at the hand on his face but he didn’t say anything, because he was polite.
The voices got louder and then they mingled with the unmistakable sound of shoes against concrete, approaching quickly. “ – I can’t do that –”
“I’m not asking you why not, I’m telling you to get it done, and I don’t have time for this.”
James’ grey eyes went wide in the dim lighting filtering out from the building. He must’ve recognized at least one of the voices, and he shrank away from them as they neared. The hand against Steve’s lips dropped and snaked around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him away and further into the shadows. “Don’t make a sound,” James whispered, and Steve almost didn’t hear it.
What. Don’t make a sound? What the fuck. This was a high-profile art gala, not a goddamn spy mission. Who were those men, anyway. They sounded pretty shady. (But then again, rich men. In suits. When were men like that not shady?)
James drew Steve closer to himself as the men in question came into view, and Steve squinted at them to maybe see them a little better. Their faces weren’t particularly memorable; he found himself unable to even associate the men with faces on magazines or newspapers.
“Look, what you’re requesting is impossible. There’s no way any number of us can get so many.”
“Do what you have to do. And don’t breathe a word about it.”
As soon as the two disappeared in through the doors and melted into the crowd inside, James relaxed behind Steve. Steve could feel the sigh that James let out, his breath against Steve’s hair, and it was in that moment that Steve realized just how close they were standing.
Steve leapt away as if he’d been prodded with a red-hot poker, blood threatening to color his face an embarrassing pink. (His back was cold now, but that was normal. January air, right?)
“Who were they?” Steve’s throat felt a little dry.
James blinked at him, and he showed no sign of registering the question. Steve repeated himself.
“Oh. They, uh.” Barnes took a deep breath. Blinked again. “Pierce runs a corporation. Hydra, you must’ve heard of it, but it’s not commercial. They. They work with me.” James’ features twisted into a frown. “He’s shady as fuck. There’s no way whatever he’s doing is legal.”
Steve’s hands, itching for something to do, tugged at the lapels of his suit. “Oh.” He straightened his tie. “D’you…” he hesitated, “what will you do?”
James locked his grey eyes onto Steve’s blue ones and it was all Steve could do not to shrink away from the attention, because it felt like it was burning into him, lighting up the tingling in his chest. “Dunno.” His lips stretched into a grin. “But I guess, since I’m so high up in the food chain, I’ll have to figure it out.”
James hooked his hands into the pockets of his slacks, and slipped back inside the building.
Steve could’ve sworn he’d winked.
--
Natasha lay with her legs across Bucky’s lap, her head thrown against the armrest, eyes closed because she was goddamn tired. She wiggled her toes to indicate that her feet were in pain and Bucky was now expected to relieve them.
And because Bucky is a really good friend, a really really good friend, he dug his fingers into those stinky feet (they really were not stinky, but Bucky’s petty so he pretended they were).
“James,” Natasha said.
“That’s my name.” Bucky really was a child sometimes. He really was.
“James.” This time it was more firm.
“What.”
“When are you asking Steve out?”
His ministrations on her toes stopped abruptly and she kicked his thigh in retaliation but his attention was firmly fixed on her closed eyes. “What.”
She opened one clear blue eye and one corner of her mouth lifted up in a smirk that made Bucky’s chest constrict because oh no that’s never good.
“You heard me.”
“Steve?”
“Yes. The short blond one. Kinda cute.”
“Cute?”
“Why d’you sound so defensive? Afraid he likes me better?”
“I – I do not – I don’t care if he likes –” he at least had the good sense to stop speaking before he dug himself any further. Upon further consideration, he finished with “You can have him. But he’s not your type.”
“Well, he’s male. I think that makes him closer to your type."
No argument.
“When is it, then?”
Silence.
“I know you can hear me, James. Put those two brain cells of yours to work.”
…
“I don’t need brain cells for this.”
“Right,” she drawled, “you never do. And that’s why you can’t find it in yourself to answer the question.”
…
“I won’t.”
“You won’t answer the question?”
“I won’t ask him out.”
“And why’s that?”
“Generally, ‘Tasha, when people ask other people out it’s because they’re interested in each other and want to date.”
“James, don’t insult my intelligence. You can’t lie to me.”
“What? I’m serious.”
Natasha lifted a shoulder. “Well. Okay, then.”
It took Bucky by surprise because he really hadn’t been expecting her to drop it so fast.
“I was just getting a little sick of the bedroom eyes you two were making.”
Ah. There it was.
Bucky rolled his eyes, and she must’ve seen it because she smirked.
“Right,” he said, shoving her feet off his lap, and standing abruptly, “thank you for that insight. I’m real tired now, I think I’ll turn in early. It was great talking to you.”
Natasha’s laugh was audible even after Bucky shut the door behind him.
--
He was back. Oh dear mother of God he was back at the damn coffee shop, he’d come for another goddamn iced caramel macchiato, and after Saturday it would really be wonderful if Steve never had to see Bucky’s gorgeous face again.
But of course, it was Monday, and Bucky was back.
“Hiya, Steve. How ya doin’?”
“Amazing, James, til you got here.”
“Stevie, I’m hurt.” But then Bucky grinned. Why.
“What’s the smile for, huh?”
Bucky paused for a moment. “You’re making my drink.”
Steve looked down at his hands. Yes, he was indeed making the drink. “Yeah?”
“I never ordered it.”
It took Steve a moment, but when he caught up, he almost dropped the damn cup. “… oh.”
James laughed, a wonderful sound that was not supposed to make Steve’s chest constrict. (Maybe it was the asthma again.)
Steve all but shoved the completed macchiato at James’ face in an attempt to get him to leave, but James stayed by the counter, sipping the drink slowly and leaving his eyes on Steve.
“Call me Bucky.”
“What?”
“Bucky. Don’t call me James, nobody but ‘Tasha calls me that.”
It made Steve’s lips twitch a little, almost as if they wanted to smile of their own accord. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Bucky repeated. He pushed himself off the counter. “Nice seein’ ya, Stevie.”
And he left.
And Steve felt a little funny inside.
--
Not to be vain, but Bucky was attractive, wasn’t he? He’d been told so, many times. So sue him if he believed it.
Would it be a stretch to assume that Steve thought so as well? No, definitely not. (Probably not?)
And if Steve wasn’t straight… then didn’t that give Bucky a chance?
Sure, the math all pointed to one conclusion (ask him the fuck out) but to be entirely honest Bucky had passed Algebra 2 with a wobbly B- and Calculus with a solid 80% so maybe his math wasn’t the best…
“Or maybe you need to ask Steve out.”
“What.”
“James, you’re pining. This is called pining.” Natasha waved a hand around to vaguely gesture to his form, sprawled out on the sofa, the television remote hanging from his fingers. “It’s also goddamn pathetic, so stop being a teenage boy.”
Bucky sighed. “ ‘Tasha, this again?”
A noncommittal sound from Natasha.
“I’m gay, doesn’t mean I want to go out with every man I see,” Bucky tried again, and at once it registered that it was the wrong thing to say because Natasha’s lips turned up at the corners and an eyebrow arched up.
“But you want to go out with him.” (It wasn’t a question.)
“I never said that!”
“James, you forget I’m trained in interrogation techniques. You did say it.”
With a groan, Bucky tossed the television remote at her. It bounced off her chair and Bucky shut his eyes, hoping against hope that maybe she would be gone when he opened them. And maybe she’d also give up trying to get Bucky to jump Steve’s bones. That’d be an added bonus.
“Nice try, Дорогой, but stop sulking. I don’t see the problem.”
“I see the problem.”
“Yeah?”
“The problem is that Steve is not a Bucky Barnes type o’ guy at all.” This was true. Extremely true, because you see, Steve was small. And adorable. Got flustered very easily and was sassy to the point of being a little offensive and Bucky might take it as a challenge but none of those things meant he found Bucky interesting.
Natasha scoffed. “Oh, please.”
Bucky didn’t respond, and slowly she narrowed her eyes at him. “You really think that?” Her disbelief put Bucky on the defensive.
“Yes, I do! Why. What’s wrong with that. It’s true.”
“James, that’s a lie. Your entire train of thought is a lie.”
“And how would you know that?”
“I’m not stupid, James, and everyone is a ‘Bucky Barnes type of guy’.” Her air quotes made him turn away, a huff escaping his lips.
“But Steve’s not.”
Natasha sighed. She began to flick through the movie options of Netflix and as she did so Bucky was almost sure that he heard her mumble “stubborn ass”, but he wasn’t entirely positive.
--
“Sam, let me get this straight.”
“Sure, man.”
“You want me to wear a suit.”
“Mhm.”
“And show up to a fancy party.”
“That’s right.”
“For the second time in as many weeks.”
“Correct.”
“And you want me to enjoy it.”
“That would be preferable.”
“Sam, no.”
“Aw, c’mon man, why not?”
“Because!”
“That’s not a reason. I don’t accept it.”
“Because. I hate wearing those suits. The ties are so itchy.”
“I’ll find you a nice, comfortable tie.”
“And I hate talking to so many people. I hate it.”
“Man, don’t tell me you don’t wanna use this as an excuse to reel in some new clients.”
“But I can do that somewhere… somewhere else.”
For a long moment, Sam did not respond. When he did: “Your man crush Barnes will be there.”
Steve hung up.
--
“Shit, man! You showed up!”
Steve pulled at the bowtie that sat like a noose around his neck. “Against my better judgement.”
Sam pulled Steve into a one-armed hug, and Steve tried very hard to breathe. It was not fair that his friends were extremely muscular and that Steve was not. “Thanks, man. Means a lot.”
“I’m not here just so you could talk to the ladies, am I?”
Sam laughed. Steve tried a smile (his nerves were a little bit on fire and Steve pretended he didn’t know that it was because Bucky would be there why). “Nah, man. You and I both know it’s cause you need a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Hell, even a one-night stand. Go find a hook-up, Rogers, you need it.”
Steve didn’t need a mirror to know that a blush was probably staining his cheeks, and that Sam’s laugh was probably because of it, and that he really needed to stop blushing at everything.
“Oh, look,” Sam began, and Steve did not like that tone, no he really didn’t, “I think I found one for you. And he’s headed this way.”
And against his better judgement, Steve turned to see who it was (he knew who it was). That was the second thing he’d done that day that was against his better judgement.
When he turned back to Sam, Sam was gone. Gee, what a friend. Thanks, Sam.
“Hey, Stevie.” Bucky’s eyes, the color of an electric current even when unfocused with three too many drinks, made Steve’s mouth go dry. He had to remind himself to breathe. (Fuck. He didn’t like Bucky, he didn’t, that was so unreasonable.)
“Hi,” he might’ve said.
“Fantastic, runnin’ into you. I was afraid I’d be bored the whole evening.”
“Aw, Bucky, you sure know how to make a guy blush. I sure love being entertainment.”
Bucky smiled a little at that. “I’m sure you do, Stevie. I really do, but I think I’d prefer you be a little something else. I think I’d prefer if you were just my entertainment.”
Steve’s cardiac muscle ceased to beat for a moment. “What.”
Bucky winked at him and oh goddamn him and his stupid gorgeous face.
“Bucky, are you drunk? The party started, like, an hour ago. You can’t be drunk already.”
Bucky shrugged. He also pointedly looked away from Steve, as if it would express anything other than pettiness. His chin went up. “No. I’m not drunk. What, a guy can’t hit on his friend from time to time?”
Steve’s eyes narrowed in speculation. “I really don’t think that’s how it works.” His gaze zeroed in on the glass dangling from Bucky’s fingers and lightly he snatched it from him, but Bucky hardly seemed to notice. “I’ll just… keep this from you. Don’t get any more drinks. You don’t need them.”
“But I do need them,” insisted Bucky, “I need them a lot.”
“You really, really don’t.” After a short moment of hesitation, Steve decided ‘fuck it’, and hooked a hand around Bucky’s elbow, because Steve might not have known what to do with a buzzed Bucky but he’d have bet Natasha would know. However it proved to be more than difficult to find Natasha at an event such as this one, because it took Steve the top side of twenty minutes of dragging Bucky around before he finally spotted her flaming red hair.
“Steve, where are we going?”
“I don’t know what to do with you.”
Bucky’s face lit up like a lightbulb. “I know lots of things you could –”
“Shut your face, Barnes, now is not the time.” It occurred to Steve that he had started to sound a little bitter. On the surface of his mind he ignored the fact but it did strike him that the only time he found himself in a position to flirt with Bucky Barnes, it was when the other guy was hyped on alcohol – not quite the confidence booster. He could always turn around and flirt back but oh, what a disaster that could be, if Bucky remembered it the next morning.
“Stevie, stop for a moment,” Bucky ground his feet down so Steve couldn’t budge him, “hold on.”
A sigh. “Yeah, Bucky?” He had to stop himself from getting lost in the startling color of Bucky’s eyes, opting instead to search the crowd behind him.
“Steve?”
“That’s me.”
“Steve.”
“Mhm?”
“Steve, I gotta ask you something.”
“Okay, Bucky.”
“On a scale of one to ten, or maybe from like a ruler to a paperclip, like from spaghetti in the box to after it’s been cooked –”
“Where is this going?”
“Exactly how straight are you?”
If Steve’d been drinking anything, he would’ve choked on it. Given his impeccable skill to embarrass himself no matter the circumstance, Steve ended up choking on air. “I – what?”
Bucky seemed extremely proud of himself. “Seems you heard me just right.”
Steve tugged on Bucky’s arm again. Drunk Bucky was apparently far more loose-lipped than normal Bucky, and given that normal Bucky didn’t have much of a filter in the first place, it was disconcerting.
“I’d feel absolutely heartless if I left you here to fend for yourself when you can hardly walk in a straight line, so we’re going to find you a cab and you’re going to go home.”
“I don’t like that idea.”
“Well, I don’t really care.”
Bucky placed a deliberate hand on Steve’s shoulder. “I don’t like that idea,” he repeated, “but I like this one.”
And all of a sudden the cheekbones he’d been admiring were hazardously close his own and the eyes he’d been staring at were closed, and the lips he’d been tearing his gaze away from were touching his enough that he could taste the alcohol on them. The firm pressure of Bucky’s mouth made Steve’s knees buckle but Bucky’s hands held him in place and oh this was a bad idea but it sucked any reasonability right out of him.
Steve’s heart was pitter-pattering so erratically against his ribcage that he was a little afraid Bucky would be able to feel it. A sliver of sense wound its way into his addled mind and he began to pull back but Bucky’s lips chased his own and he felt his chest tighten, like he was going to cry, because it felt absolutely perfect despite the bitter taste of the vodka.
Right. Vodka. Drunk.
Steve shoved Bucky’s elbow so he stumbled, and Bucky straightened, looking a little dazed, and a little hurt. His tongue darted out to wet his red lips and it made Steve want to collapse all over again.
“Okay. Right. Well, I…”
Bucky smiled. “I think you like my idea too, Stevie.”
“I – really don’t – I think we should find…” he kept his gaze firmly on the inanimate walls. What was he searching for? Oh, right. An exit would be nice. An exit, right? To get a cab and send Bucky the hell home.
Oh, fuck. Steve was so screwed.
--
When Bucky awoke the next morning, the sun was far too bright, and his phone was far too loud. He reached out to slap it, hoping it would shut up, but it only fell off his nightstand to buzz incessantly against the carpet floor.
With a groan, he opened his eyes to the welcoming sight of wide-open windows and the intensity of the pounding in his brain. The name gracing the screen of his phone was Natasha’s, and Bucky made a mental note that if he was going to murder anybody in the near future, and sacrifice his freedom for jail time, the person he was going to stab would be Natasha. Definitely Natasha.
“What.”
“James, great to hear you’re up.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Even better. You need to stop getting wasted at these parties.”
“Don’t worry,” he assured, “I’m never drinking again.”
“It’d be great if you could keep that promise.”
“I will.”
“James, I’m serious. You have to stop it. Speaking as the person hired to make you look good in front of people, you’re making my job very difficult. People are starting to talk.”
“What.”
“Not everybody is a twenty-something year old, which means not everybody gets drunk off their asses at the mention of free alcohol. Now, I actually have things to do today, and I’m going to do them, and because it’s still a weekday, you should too.”
Bucky would’ve responded, but she hung up before he had the chance to formulate coherent thoughts. He shoved his face back into the pillow to shut out the sunlight but the effect was ruined by his morning breath, which still reeked of alcohol.
Alcohol. Right.
Fuck.
(Steve.)
And then, with more feeling: “Fuck.”
Maybe… maybe staying away from that coffee shop would be the best idea today. For fear of Bucky’s own safety, of course, because it wouldn’t be uncalled for if the next time Steve saw him he got a handful of ice thrown at him (and he also wouldn’t put it past Steve to do something like that).
Yeah. Best idea.
--
Bucky didn’t show up for coffee that day.
Or the day after.
Or the day after that.
On the fourth day (gloriously boring Wednesday), when Steve had given up on glaring at the doors, a familiar voice pulled him out of aggressively putting stacks of cups away in the cabinet. “Hey.”
Startled, Steve nearly hit his head against the counter straightening himself up. At the sight of Bucky’s face, he narrowed his eyes. “Hi.”
“… hello.”
Steve sighed. “Do you always get drunk off your ass at parties? Or is it a once in a while sort of thing?”
Bucky at least had the sense to look sheepish and one of his hands went up to rub at the back of his neck. “Yeah, it… it happens. Sorry.”
Right. Sorry. (He was sorry. Given Bucky, he probably made a habit of kissing people he hardly knew.)
“How much do you actually remember?”
Bucky shrugged. He didn’t look at Steve. “Not too much. I remember I talked to people and probably said some things I shouldn’t have. Thanks for hauling me to a cab, or I probably woulda just fucked things up more.”
“Welcome,” muttered Steve. He couldn’t keep his gaze focused on Bucky, for fear that he would give in to the urge nagging at the corner of his ribcage and say something that he would deeply regret later.
“Hey. Stop that. What’s wrong?”
What’s wrong. Oh, psh. (But really. What was wrong. Steve did not know. He also was unable to get his voice under control. Steve was not so temperate that he got flipped inside-out and upside down by one drunk kiss, goddammit.) “Nothing.”
“Yeah, right. Is everything okay?”
“Bucky, we met like a week ago when I spelled your name wrong on your coffee cup just to be an ass about it. Why would you care if something was wrong?” (And especially if that something is you?)
Bucky quieted. He worried at his lower lip, drawing Steve’s attention to it, before Steve could berate himself for staring. “Alright then, fair enough. Just one question, though.”
“Yeah?”
“Ain’t we friends?”
Steve couldn’t find it in himself to respond, but really it was just because he didn’t know how to respond. Because… friends. Friends was great, but did Bucky make a habit of kissing his friends? Of making his friends pine over him with a sort of abandon that made it almost unrealistic?
Steve thrust the topped off cup of coffee underneath Bucky’s nose. “Ta-da. Coffee. That you wanted.”
Bucky’s attention on him did not waver. “Alright then,” he said simply. “Okay.” And then he… turned. And left. And Steve did not like it, not one bit.
As soon as Bucky was out of Steve’s line of sight, the deepest of sighs wound its way out of him. He didn’t know what to do. On the one hand, kissing Bucky made Steve feel as if fireworks were going off inside of his ribcage; on the other, it turned out Bucky had to be utterly wasted for that to happen, and he didn’t even remember it after – just came waltzing back as if nothing had happened, ready to two-step his way back into throwing Steve’s brain off-kilter every time he so much as smiled.
It was absolutely infuriating.
(But at the same time, also a little pleasing; because even if Steve couldn’t have Bucky, at least he could stash away the alcohol-scented memory of the moment in which Bucky Barnes kissed Steve Rogers, in the darkest, dustiest corner of his mind, where it couldn’t be bothered.)
--
Every new e-mail that made its way into Bucky’s inbox felt the sort of frustration at being ignored that his dirty dishes probably felt every night.
And why was this? Why were there thirty-six new e-mails outlined on his computer screen that were still unopened, unread, and unacknowledged?
Because Steve fuckin’ Rogers, that’s why.
Bucky was not a teenager, he didn’t get hung up on shit he did when he was drunk, he was a mature adult and he made good decisions with his life. Right? (Wrong.)
“Mr. Barnes?” one of the interns cleared his throat at the door to Bucky’s office. “You have a last-minute appointment set up for right about now. A new client.”
A new client? Bucky hadn’t spoken to a prospective client in what felt like ages. They always had employees handle those, but Bucky supposed that if he wasn’t going to do anything useful at his desk, he might as well do something useful outside of his desk. “Alright,” he blinked, “where?”
“Right here,” the intern, his name was possibly Peter but also possibly Parker, it was something like that, glanced nervously behind him. “Sharon said to send him right to your office.”
“Okay, okay, send him in.” Bucky waved the boy away with a couple wiggled fingers and was greeted immediately after with an image that made his head swim for a moment.
“Steve?” He could hear his own voice, rising in pitch and incredulous, and at the same time hoping against hope that he was making it all up in his head.
The figure that unmistakably belonged to Steve Rogers startled as if slapped. “Bucky.” Then, louder, “Bucky?”
And because Bucky was a cheeky little shit, he let his mouth quirk up and nodded his head toward the chair on the other side of his desk. “By all means, Stevie. Come on in.”
Steve made no effort to move, only stared at Bucky with his mouth open comically and the most betrayed sort of disbelief emanating from his posture.
“So you’re a client, huh? What’ve you been roped into doing?”
“Graphic… graphic design. They called me up, wanted me to put something together for some software being developed?”
“Graphic design? What happened to your paintings?”
“It’s not all I do.” Steve said shortly. His attention roamed Bucky’s office and suddenly Bucky was all too antsy, and sitting still was too much to ask. He began to drum his fingers on his desk.
“Okay, then.” A pause. “Okay, well why’re you here with me?”
Steve’s baby blues finally landed on Bucky’s grey, and it was all Bucky could do not to lurch up and towards him.
“I was set to talk with a production manager or whatever but they had to run somewhere, so I… was redirected. To you, apparently.”
It was a little hurtful that Steve was determined to be so distant after the events of a drunken encounter but Bucky supposed he’d brought it upon himself when he’d chosen to get shit-faced at a party that he knew he’d see Steve at. Who did that sort of thing, anyway? Get drunk, embarrass yourself, just wonderful, isn’t that the best idea?
(No, it’s not, please don’t ever do it, it’ll only cause trouble.)
“That’s. That’s wonderful. Great, have a seat.” He gestured, again, to the chair across from him. “Please.”
This time, Steve obliged.
--
“Care to enlighten the rest of us, Barnes? You seem awfully quiet today.”
Bucky’s chin jerked up from where it had been resting on his hand, and he was met with a roomful of bored executives with expectant eyes on him. “Hm?”
At the front of the room, a small smile played on Sharon’s lips. “Okay, then. That makes a wrap for this week. Have a nice weekend, everyone.” A hand splayed over her files and charts, she beckoned to Bucky.
He slunk towards her and past the people filing out of the room, not anxious to share any sort of feelings with anyone, but Sharon would probably drag it out of him. She often did that.
“So, Mister Barnes,” she drawled, “I hear there’s an unlucky boy out there who’s caught your attention.” She lifted her eyes to settle on his and for an awful, blinding moment her drilling gaze reminded him of Sharon’s terrifying cousin Peggy. “It’s just a shame I never heard it from you. Got something to tell me?”
Bucky bristled. “Okay, unlucky? Carter, that’s harsh.”
Sharon laughed. “Ah, well, I had to.”
“And what do you mean, ‘caught my attention’?” He accentuated the phrase with air quotes. “You know I’m single, sweetie. Single and ready to mingle.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he cringed.
“Please never say that again.”
“Yeah, okay.”
--
“Steve, do you want me to be honest?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really. It sounds to me an awful lot like you’ve got a crush.”
Steve gasped, his hand flying to his chest as perhaps because he was extremely offended that Peggy would think he had a crush. “Peggy, that’s ridiculous. Please.”
“I’m just telling you what I’m seeing, Steve. Or rather, hearing from you. And if I can hear from your side of the story just how much you like him, well. Imagine how obvious it is in real life.”
Steve was quiet. It might have been nice to be able to say that his mind was whirring with all the possible ways he could refute Peggy’s statement, but it might also have been a total lie. Sure, his mind was working. Running quickly through ever scenario Steve could recall that involved Bucky. Being the traitorous little shit that his mind was hell-bent on being, Steve found himself unable to focus on anything other than the fuzzy sort of feeling that Bucky’s smile gave him.
At the silence, Peggy spoke again. “You should give it a go, Steve. Ask him out.”
“He wouldn’t go out with me,” said Steve automatically. It didn’t occur to him what he’d said until he could almost hear Peggy’s skeptical eyebrow raise through the phone line.
"Oh, I didn’t – I didn’t mean that I’d – he –” Steve’s words came out half breathy, chopped up into fragments and frantic.
“Steve, it’s alright. You’re a fraction as subtle as you think you are, I’m only surprised everyone and their uncle doesn’t know by now.”
“No, you don’t understand, I don’t –”
“Steve, you’re a rubbish liar. You’re just fooling yourself.”
Steve opened his mouth to argue some more, defense mechanisms idling at the base of his throat, but something held his voice back. Rather, he swallowed the words, and said these instead: “Yeah, alright, Pegs. Alright.”
“Steve.”
“Yeah?”
“Do something about it. It’s been too long since you’ve had a partner, it’d do you some good.” Her tone was gentle, something he hadn’t been expecting but welcomed all the same. He did not want to have a crush on Bucky. In fact, it was the last thing he wanted to do. Sympathy was everything he needed and more. (Poor, pathetic little Stevie.)
Steve sighed. “My life isn’t a romance novel, Peggy. I do wish it was, sometimes, but it’s not. Me and Bucky? Things like that don’t happen. But thanks for trying, really.”
“If acknowledging it doesn’t make you want to chase him, at least it will help you get over him. It’ll be one of the two, Steve, so if it’s not the latter… I suggest you get ready to put your running shoes on.”
Steve didn’t say anything.
“If my gut is to be trusted, there’s a part of the story you haven’t told me.”
“Hm?” Steve began to fidget with the hem of his t-shirt. He really was awful at lying.
“I think you’re hiding something because you think I’ll get on your case about it.”
Dammit.
“And I’m going to be right no matter what I choose to do about the situation. So if you don’t tell me, I’m just going to bother you about it.”
“Fine.”
“Fine, what?”
“Finehekissedme.”
Silence. Then, “What?”
“He was drunk! Intoxicated! Lost his inhibitions! Had no idea what he was doing.”
“If he was drunk, it just means he wasn’t stopping himself, which means he’d wanted to do it in the first place, stupid.”
“That doesn’t make sense, Peggy.”
“What part of he’s interested doesn’t make sense to you?!” The indignant rise in pitch gave Steve a strong sense of déjà vu, most likely because he’d gone through this scenario so many times in his mind that he felt like he’d already heard it all before.
“He’s not interested, Peggy. You haven’t seen him. He’s gorgeous and successful and he could have anyone he wanted.”
“And if he wants you?”
“He doesn’t. I saw him after the party, and he didn’t even remember what he did.”
The phone didn’t do much to convey Peggy’s expression but he could guess at the softening of the stubborn outlines in her forehead and at her lips. “Alright, Steve. But my advice stands. If this doesn’t blow past soon, go after it. Please.”
After a moment of silence, Steve responded. “Okay, Pegs. Okay.”
--
To be perfectly clear, Bucky was scared. Scared at the mere idea of facing Steve again, but also equally scared to not go back because if he didn’t, he’d probably spend the next three weeks with Steve’s face gracing his closed eyelids.
An irritated hand shoved its way through his slicked coif before he shouldered the door open, though the switch to warm air did nothing to calm his freezing nerves. The sight of Steve assaulted his eyes, again, as if he hadn’t just been thinking about the man for the past couple of days.
“Steve?” A crack in his voice cut the name off halfway. He cleared his throat. Tried again. “Steve.”
The locks of hair falling over Steve’s forehead flew up as his head abruptly turned to see Bucky. The attention made Bucky want to crawl into a corner. “I just… wanted…” he stumbled over his words, “are… hi.”
Steve blinked a couple times, and the cup in his hand looked about ready to fall through his fingers but he tightened his grip on it at the last moment and finally looked away from Bucky. “Hey.”
Bucky began to drum his fingers on the counter, a nervous habit. “How… how are you? Haven’t been by here in a while.”
Steve still did not look at him. “Fine. How’re you?”
“Alright. I meant to say…” he trailed off. Where to begin?
“Hm?”
“I just… I wanted to… talk with you.”
Steve paused in drenching his drink with chocolate syrup. An eyebrow arched up. “You wanted to talk with me? Well, I’m right here. Go ahead and talk.”
Ouch. The lack of emotion stung, poking at him to get a better reaction out of Steve, because Bucky Barnes was not about to let Steve push him away, no sir. “Yeah. It, um. The party. What do you remember?”
A sharp exhale. After a beat, “You were the drunk one, Buck. I remember perfectly fine.”
Oh. Oh.
“Is that why you’re being such a dick?”
Steve’s fingers gripped the counter but he hadn’t turned to face Bucky yet. Bucky could see the clench and unclench of Steve’s jaw as he possibly debated whether or not to throw the first punch. “Yes. No. Dammit. Don’t make me sound so unreasonable.”
“What, you’re completely justified in acting like a damn ice queen?” Then, quieter, because he really couldn’t bring himself to be upset with Steve, “If you want… if you want me to take it back, I will.” I won’t ever take it back. “Please, just forget it? I want to be your friend.” I want to be so much more than that, too.
Steve shot him a glance from the corners of his eyes. His grip on the counter loosened considerably, but nothing changed in his defensive posture. “Yeah? Friends?”
“Right.” Oh, please. He was lying through his teeth. He just wanted to kiss the motherfucker again but if he said as much Steve would probably kick his ass into next week.
Steve plucked another plastic cup from the stacks on the counter beside Bucky’s elbow. “Okay.”
The answer caught Bucky off guard, and it felt sorta like a pinch to his nose; vaguely uncomfortable and blocking his airway. His breath hitched in its course. “Okay?”
Finally, finally, Steve turned to look at Bucky, his baby blues unwavering like a wall, and he pursed his lips. Bucky searched his expression for some reaction, something at all, but he found nothing that wasn’t guarded, in the way Steve’s lips were pressed together and the little crease between his eyebrows. Suddenly, the crease lifted, and the corners of his eyes relaxed along with the heavy set of his mouth, into a smile. “Okay. That sounds great.”
(Steve’s voice revealed that no, it really didn’t sound great to him, but Bucky supposed he would take what he could get.)
Mission accomplished.
He couldn’t help the grin that broke out over his face and he knew he probably looked like an idiot, standing there smiling at those four words from Steve, but he kind of didn’t care. Something about Steve’s smile seemed genuine and it made Bucky feel like rainbows were running through his veins.
(Very, very gay rainbows. Steve didn’t have to know that.)
“Alright. ‘m glad, Stevie.” Bucky pushed off from the counter. “I’ll be back later, then. Sound good?”
Steve smiled. At least, it looked like a smile. Bucky hoped it was a smile. “Sure.”
--
“So you’re friends now?”
“Yeah, we are.”
“Are you that intent on self-sabotage, James?”
Bucky’s foot hit a bump in the sidewalk. He stumbled. “What?”
“You can’t be friends with him, you’ll just mope more. Not only is it a problem for you, it’s a problem for me, too, as I’m the one that has to deal with your sorry ass for the rest of the week.”
“ ‘Tasha –”
“No. Shut up. Go back there and ask him out.” She pointed in the general direction of the shop. “Go.”
“No!” He wrenched her arm down before it could hit any innocent passersby. “No,” this time, it was a hiss. “No.”
“So I’ll ask you again. Are you that intent on self-sabotage?”
He narrowed his eyes. “No.” Stuck his chin out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
--
The next time Bucky returned to the Stork Club, on Monday, he came with a red-haired woman beside him, and if the look on her face didn’t terrify Steve enough, it was the fact that she was with him that made Steve want to hide in the back room.
Sure, friends had seemed like a good enough of an idea to Steve. But when Bucky said friends… he’d really meant friends, huh?
The woman’s attention lingered on Steve as Bucky dragged her to a table by the window. Steve somehow managed to convince himself that he was not trying to catch Bucky’s attention by boring holes in the other man’s neck, but that was purely through willpower as it was entirely untrue. He was very much trying to catch Bucky’s attention. It just wasn’t working.
The two sat across from each other at the table. They didn’t order anything, not for the first ten minutes. Their conversation was hushed but by no means serious – Bucky laughed a total of twelve times. (No, Steve wasn’t counting, that would be weird.)
Well, fuck that. Bucky could have a life if he so wanted. Steve was not petty. He would not get in the way of anything.
But then the woman stood up, with every intention of coming to the counter, and Steve sort of began to panic and was considering slotting himself between the counter and the floor, and then Bucky shot out a hand to hold her in place and then Steve really wanted to melt. Please, he could see Bucky saying, but the woman rolled her eyes and shook free of his grasp and Steve registered just in time that he was staring and he kind of wasn’t supposed to be.
He tore his gaze away from the couple just as the woman wound her way around the other tables over to where Steve was pulling a doughnut out of the display case for a customer.
When she didn’t move to the register, Steve gathered what remained of his flighty courage and opened his mouth. “Hi,” he squeaked, “how can I help you?”
The woman’s eyes, a startling dark green, all but drilled him down. And with the force of a grand piano falling on his chest, recognition slammed down on him: this was the woman he’d met at the party. Natasha, his brain supplied.
“Hey, Rogers. I didn’t know you worked here.”
Steve lifted a shoulder in response, trying to hide the feeling that his insides were melting under the force of her scrutiny. “I’m helping a friend out. Running things for her until she gets back.” This was true. So why did he feel like he was lying? He did not want to lie to this woman.
“James over there,” she gestured to Bucky with a tilt of her head, “says he loves this place. Wouldn’t quit telling me to come check it out. Any particular reason why?”
“Ah,” Steve’s mouth went a little dry, “we make a wonderful Frappuccino?” It came out as more of a question, and Natasha’s lips curved into what could be called a smile.
“Alright, fair enough,” she leaned forward, “but what do you recommend?”
Steve blinked at her, then slapped on his widest smile. “Our hot chocolate recipe is one of a kind, that’s all I can say.”
“Sounds great. Do you usually memorize your regulars’ orders?”
The question caught him off guard. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Um… can’t… I can’t say I do. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason. I’ve got to head back to the office anyway, I think James and I will head out. But I do know that you’re working with our software development team, is that right?”
Steve nodded.
“Well, that’s great. Don’t be afraid to drop by my office sometime, we can chat some more.” She tapped the counter as she took a step back. “Nice seeing you, Rogers.”
Terrifying. Absolutely terrifying. Steve felt like if he said the wrong thing, her sheer willpower might tear him in two. “Of course, Natasha. Thanks for stopping by.” He flashed her what he hoped was a bright smile before sliding his gaze to Bucky. The brunet looked about ready to murder Natasha.
(Well, if it was Steve in a relationship, he probably wouldn’t want his new partner to meet Bucky any time soon, either.)
Natasha lingered by the door and Bucky all but pushed her out the door.
(Okay, then.)
--
“Natasha,” he lowered his voice to a hiss, then tried again: “Natasha.”
“Yes, James?”
“What the hell did you do.”
She blinked at him, green eyes wide with innocence. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I told you not to talk to Steve. That is not why I agreed to get coffee with you today, and you know it.”
“Oh, so you had a motive, too? Tell me, what was your reason?”
Bucky spluttered. “A – a motive? I’ve never had motive.”
She smiled. “Right, James. Never have you had a second reason for going to that little shop even though there are about twenty coffee places within a five-mile radius of work that you could’ve gone to instead.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes at her. “You’ve made your point.”
“What? That you go there just to see Steve? Дорогой, that was established a long while back.”
“You didn’t have to go talk to him. I told you not to go talk to him.”
Natasha took a moment to pause. Then: “He thought we were dating.”
Bucky scoffed. “Oh, please. As if.”
She quirked a sculpted eyebrow. “Apparently, he doesn’t know that female isn’t your type.”
Bucky began to fiddle with the watch on his wrist. “Did he say something to you?”
“It was obvious enough.”
“That’s ridiculous, ‘Tasha. I kissed him not two weeks ago.”
“Well then, you’d better say something to him about it. The level of miscommunication between the two of you could fuel a telenovela.”
Bucky let his eyes focus on the street life outside his window. “Yeah. I’ll… I’ll talk to him. Or something.”
Natasha rolled her eyes. “There’s only so much I can do.”
--
It’s Sunday, and it’s raining, and it’s spectacular. The rain left a light sheen over Bucky’s skin and he drew sleeves a little farther onto his hands so he could bunch his fingers into his henley. A crack of thunder resounded from somewhere or the other, but more importantly, Bucky’s unreasonable sense of direction led him to an intersection that he probably shouldn’t have wound up at.
Oh, fuck it.
He hurried down the block, the puddles at his feet splashing water up the calves of his jeans, but it was alright, he’d be indoors soon anyway.
He pushed the door to the Stork Club open. The rush of warmth might’ve warmed his chilled skin but the sight of Steve warmed everything else in him (fuck you, that’s not cheesy, it’s just true). The blond, wiping down a table in the corner of the little café, stopped his motions to push his sliding glasses back up his nose, and the jingle of the door must’ve caught his attention because he blinked up at Bucky.
Bucky shifted on his feet. Brought a hand up to wave. “Hi.”
A crease appeared between Steve’s eyebrows, and his head tilted a little to the side, bangs flopping. He dropped the cloth in his hand down onto the table and wiped his palms on the apron around his waist. “Hi.” Then, “Did you come for coffee? It’s late, I was just about to close up.”
It occurred to Bucky that people didn’t always make a habit of running around at six p.m. during a storm, and that’s probably just something that Bucky does.
“No, that’s –” he shook his head, and a few drops of water dripped from the ends of his hair down to his shoulders, but he ignored them, “that’s not it. I just wanted to. To talk, I guess.”
Steve blinked again, and from behind his glasses it looked a little owlish. The silence stretched for what felt like longer than just a moment before Steve responded. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Sit down somewhere, then,” he gestured vaguely to the empty chairs, “and I’ll finish cleaning.”
“Okay.”
He fidgeted for a minute and plopped down into one of the chairs. Sweeping a lock of sopping wet hair off his forehead, he trained his eyes on Steve as the blond made his way around the café. He wasn’t paying attention to the things being done so much as just to the man himself; he knew he was staring, but. Why not.
“Real nice weather we’re having,” he mused.
The corners of Steve’s mouth lifted and he let out a laugh. “Yeah. Right gorgeous, much like your conversational skills.”
“Hey now, you weren’t sayin’ anything. This is what happens when you leave things to me. And it worked, didn’t it?”
“Sure, sure. But now I’ve got nothing left to say.”
“Not to worry. I’ve got more marvelous conversation starters in my arsenal. Let’s… hm, let’s start with this. Favorite flavor of ice cream?”
“Really, Buck?”
“Answer the damn question, Stevie. It works every time, I’m tellin’ ya.”
“Right. Okay, um… cookies n’ cream.”
“Cookies n’ cream? Really? I’d’ve thought you’d say coffee. You’re running a coffee shop, aren’t you? Doesn’t love of all caffeinated things come in the job description?”
“It’s not my shop, it’s Peggy’s.”
“Peggy?” Sharon had a cousin named Peggy. From everything he’s heard about that woman, he would have a better chance of living past the age of thirty if he never met her.
“Yeah, she needed someone to watch the shop while she was out with the baby, and I had some time on my hands so I said I’d do it.” Something had shifted in Steve’s voice. It was very much noticeable, a stark difference from the banter they had been throwing back and forth, but he spoke about this woman with fondness and admiration rolling off his words.
(It made Bucky feel all stretched out inside. Jealousy.)
“Well, you’re a real good friend, then. That’s an amazing thing to do.”
Steve smiled a little wider. Lifted a shoulder. “Not really. Just the right thing to do. Not like I had so much to do, anyway. I’d just finished a project, and now… well, I do have a new project now.” His attention slid over to rest on Bucky, and Bucky’s skin prickled with the feel of Steve’s gaze on him. He shifted in his seat. “But I don’t mind this. Watching over the café’s been fun.”
“Seems like a popular place, though. I can’t imagine you’re the only one who keeps it going.”
“ ‘m not. The employees, a lot of them are still in school, so they come to work after classes, ‘round four. It’s why I’m always here when you show up for your caffeine fix.”
“And I’m glad for it.” The words fell off his lips before he could stop them, and when Steve stopped in heaving the chair up on top of the table, Bucky wanted to stuff the words back where they came from. But Steve just slid the chair where it belonged and smiled at Bucky. It might’ve looked a little strained, but the sight made Bucky melt into his seat.
He was so screwed. So, so screwed.
“I wanted to ask,” Steve began, “and you don’t have to answer this, but that conversation we overheard at the charity art showing, do you remember?”
All Bucky remembered about that gala was the feel of Steve’s warmth against his chest and the smell of Steve’s hair and how the faint light shone off Steve’s golden hair when they were outside.
How had he ever tried to deny to himself how much he wanted to wrap Steve in his arms and kiss him senseless?
“Yeah, I remember. Pierce? What about it?”
“Sounded awfully ominous. Ever find out what he was talking about?”
Bucky blinked at Steve. That’s all he was going to mention about that party? “No. No, I guess I never did. I should look into it, shouldn’t I?”
Steve fixed him with a dry look. “Yes, just perhaps you should look into it. Not like you yourself told me he was shady. Not like it could be dangerous. Just think about investigating.”
Bucky felt a laugh bubble out of him. “Alright, alright, don’t let your sarcasm drown me. I can’t swim.”
Steve’s jaw dropped open a little bit. (He had a really nice jaw. A really nice jaw.) “You can’t swim?”
Under the incredulous stare, Bucky found himself heating up. Undoubtedly a blush would now be crawling its way up his neck. Oh, dear. “I… just never learned. Quit lookin’ at me like that!”
“Like what?”
“Like I grew another head. It’s not that weird.”
Steve laughed. Officially, it was Bucky’s life goal to make him laugh again. Life goal. “Okay, then. Fine. Tell me something else that’s not so weird, then. Something I don’t know.”
“I dunno, Stevie, there’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.”
Steve hesitated. “Enlighten me.”
Bucky settled his shoulders back against the chair. “Alright, then.”
--
It’s still Sunday, and it might still be raining outside but Bucky honestly couldn’t care less, because he felt as if he’d just had the best two hours of his life.
He hooked an ankle around the covers at his feet and fumbled until he was sufficiently burrowed underneath his blankets. He pulled it over his head and curled his knees up to his chest, and let out what was possibly the most satisfied sigh he’d ever heard.
Easy conversation with Steve, flirting with Steve, teasing Steve, and seeing Steve smile and knowing he was smiling because of something Bucky’d said – it all added up to a knot of longing in Bucky’s ribcage, despite the heavy weight of satisfaction in the pit of his belly. Because oh he wished his life could just be simple, that Steve could just feel the same way about Bucky, but when had the universe ever been so kind to Bucky? When had it ever been that easy?
Never. It’s never been that easy.
The satisfaction in his belly began to dissipate. No, no, no, no. Don’t leave, please. It was the best feeling. No, no, no. Please stay.
(The satisfaction disappeared completely.)
Well, if Bucky was being realistic, rather than painting reality in his own shade of lucky romance… then it was all useless, wasn’t it?
There goes the last bit of hope from his night.
But, he supposed, if he couldn’t be Steve’s boyfriend, he might as well be Steve’s friend. He might as well move on. What else was there to do?
Go the fuck to sleep, Barnes. You’ve depressed yourself enough for one night.
--
It’s been two days since their rainy day rendezvous but anything and everything that reminds Bucky of Steve only served to ignite an ache in his chest.
The need for coffee has been sated by the Starbucks down the street from his office building, which to be honest is amazing coffee but it’s really just not the same when he’s not talking with Steve.
There’s an employee of his that works on the same floor as he does. A fairly new employee, with short blond hair and hipster-frame glasses and every time he caught a glimpse, Bucky had to fight the urge to slam his head against a wall.
He might’ve told himself that being on completely platonic terms with Steve would serve him just fine, because he would be spending time with Steve and making him smile and that was enough on its own, but Bucky Barnes was a notorious liar, and only proving it to himself.
Because no, being platonic was absolutely not okay, who was he kidding, it would never be fine.
And this, this revelation, is the reason he found himself absentmindedly texting Clint at ten thirty at night, TV remote left forgotten on the couch as he propped his feet up on the coffee table and shoved Cheetos into his mouth, straight from a family-sized bag.
Clint 10:37pm
man i think u need to get laid
Bucky 10:37 pm
look u traitor u don’t need to take tasha’s side its ok
Clint 10:38pm
no im srs
Bucky 10:38pm
whatever
Bucky 10:38 pm
it doesn’t matter anyway bc the master plan failed
Clint 10:39pm
sounds to me like ur sulking
Bucky 10:39pm
it’s true. u get an award. im sulking
Bucky 10:39pm
steve and i are friends and i hate this
Clint 10:39pm
as ur bro friend im obligated to tell u to find a hookup
Clint 10:40pm
even tho i think u should just fuck steve
Bucky 10:40pm
wow
Bucky 10:40pm
got any options for me?
Bucky 10:40pm
i really do need a hookup
Bucky 10:47pm
clint where did u go did u die
Clint 10:49pm
sry i was tlking to nat
Clint 10:49pm
have officially set u a date tmrw at 6
Bucky 10:50pm
wtf
Clint 10:50pm
ur welcome buddy bro
Clint 10:50pm
dont b late
Clint 10:50pm
;)
--
Steve would be lying through his teeth if he said that he hadn’t felt an awful kind of hurt when Bucky hadn’t showed up at all on Monday or Tuesday. He might’ve tried to brush it off by convincing himself he really didn’t care what Bucky did anyway, but that would be a lie as well, because oh he cared, all right.
He kept himself busy, obviously. After Monday’s rush hour came and went with no sign of Bucky, and Steve had to go home and hand off closing duties to one of the older employees, Steve hoped with no abandon to see Bucky on Tuesday, but none of Tuesday’s customers had crystal blue-grey eyes, and none of Wednesday’s customers had soft brown hair that made Steve want to tug on it, and basically Bucky didn’t seem to want to show his face after the delightful rainy Sunday evening they’d spent together.
That night had left him with a recognizable fuzzy feeling in his body commonly known as happiness, but the feeling faded considerably when Bucky failed to show up on the days following it.
The light banter and more meaningful conversation of Sunday had Steve thinking that maybe the brunet would be interested in him, that maybe he could finally have a relationship. Something that didn’t end in disaster.
Apparently, the world did not want Steve to feel this way, and so the thought was crushed entirely on Wednesday evening, the one day that week that he had decided to stay late and close up the shop himself.
A man bundling a scarf around his neck pushed past the doors, bells jingling to alert Steve of a new customer. He ran a hand through his close-cropped dark hair to pull the damp droplets out.
Steve greeted the man with the widest smile he could muster, given that his mind was elsewhere. He wiped his hands on the thighs of his jeans and he really, really wished he could just go home.
“I’ll have… I’ll have one tall black espresso, and a, um… what was it? Right, a… caramel macchiato. Iced.” The man smiled at him.
Steve felt like maybe his mouth had frozen shut. He allowed himself all of three seconds to blink at the register in utter confusion. Iced caramel macchiato? Now, Bucky’s obviously not the only person in Brooklyn who drinks those sugar-bomb drinks, but…
Well.
Steve smiled. (Again.) “It’ll just be a moment.” His hands became busy with shoving a cup under the espresso machine, but his mouth obviously had different ideas, as it chose to shoot off.
“What brings you out at such an odd time? If it’s not too forward of me to ask.”
The man at the counter, who had been picking at some of the fibers in his coat, looked up and blinked. His lips quirked. “Ah, no, you’re fine. I’m out on a date, actually. First one in a few weeks. Apparently we had a mutual friend who decided we needed some more action in our lives.” He chuckled, and turned so he could see out the window on the door, presumably to where his date was waiting. “I have to say, I’m having a good time.”
Steve hummed. That’s not so bad. Bucky hadn’t said anything about a date of any sort on Sunday, and it’s not like dates get planned within forty-eight hours. That’s just… implausible. Improbably. Not likely at all. So it’s okay. It’s not Bucky and Steve still has a chance.
“Would you like names on the cups?” Steve spun the Sharpie around in his hand. The man considered it for a moment.
“Yes, please. The espresso’s for me, Brock.” He waited a moment while Steve scribbled the name down on the correct cup. “And that one’s for Bucky. The date.”
The quiet of the shop was suddenly far too loud and something in his ribcage constricted and he went a few seconds without breathing in. Oh. Oh.
If it took an extra few seconds for Steve to carefully write the name on the cup (so he wouldn’t end up dropping the cup in haste), Brock didn’t mention it. Steve slid the cups over to him, which he picked up before flashing a smile in Steve’s way and heading back out the door.
“Thank you,” he called back behind him, and the door shut with a final sort of thud but Steve wasn’t really paying attention. He was paying more attention to the fact that yeah, it really had been Bucky.
Which meant that… that on Sunday, Bucky hadn’t even thought to mention it to Steve. A date was kind of something you mention, wasn’t it? At least, you’d mention it to a friend. Goddammit, if Steve wasn’t even Bucky’s friend, who was he to him?
Steve collapsed into a chair. Dropped his head onto the table. He’d known it. He’d totally known it. He’d told Peggy, and these were his exact words, he’s not interested, Peggy. Then, he could have anyone he wanted.
But Peggy’d gone and convinced him that he had a chance and he’d gone and believed her and let hope wind its way under his skin and really all he’d done all along was set himself up for all this stupid fucking disappointment.
What was he thinking?
He.
Was.
Not.
Interested.
Okay, then. Perfectly fine. Completely alright. Totally okay. Steve could deal with that. Steve was a grown man, Steve was capable of dealing with a little misleading hope and a little disappointment. He could do it.
(Oh, boy. He was in for a long night.)
--
Bucky pushed up the sleeve of his jacket and the watch blinked up a relieving 7:41. Good. It was Wednesday, which meant the Stork Club would be open until eight o’clock, so if Bucky hustled the two blocks between the subway and the café, he could make it before Steve locked up.
Or, he hoped it would be Steve there. Steve’d said that he closed up sometimes, right? When the college kids were busy? Or when he wanted the easy evening shift.
Bucky waved a quick goodbye to Brock, who was stepping into the subway car. It might’ve been a nice date, promising even, if Bucky hadn’t been so pathetically distracted all night. The whole event felt a little off to him, like he was betraying Steve, even though rationally, he knew full well that he and Steve were just friends and that meant they could both date people, which meant Bucky could date people, but that’s just the thing.
He didn’t want to.
Seeing the car pull away from the station left him with a rising excitement because now he was free to go see Steve.
Oh, Bucky was such a bad person. What kind of person feels good about their date leaving just so that they could go see someone else?
Well, it’s not like Steve and Bucky are together. (But oh, how he wished.)
Bucky turned on his heel and jogged up the steps, back up to the streets. If he hurried…
It took him the upside of ten minutes to wind his way to the little café, and as soon as he spotted Steve’s head of glossy blond hair his face split into a grin that he couldn’t hold back.
“Hey, Stevie,” he started, first poking his head in past the door. Steve’s entire body stiffened for one short moment before he turned to Bucky with his lips twisted in a frown but his eyes narrowed in scrutiny. “What’s up?”
Steve didn’t say anything.
“How are ya?” Bucky tried again, this time stepping all the way in past the door, and shoving his hands in his pockets.
Steve dropped the stack of cups he was holding. “Good. You?”
“Great.” Silence. “Right, so I haven’t dropped by the last couple’a days, jus’ wanted to say I… got caught up in things at work.” Lie. He’d just been too nervous to see Steve again, afraid he’d just jump his bones at first sight if he didn’t keep away. “But I was in the area tonight, and I was hopin’ you’d be the one here, locking up.”
Steve was still quiet, and now his knuckles were curling against the counter. He wouldn’t meet Bucky’s eyes, staring fixedly at one of the displays. The elation he’d felt upon seeing Steve again began to seep slowly out of his veins, and he stepped a little closer. “Steve? Something wrong?”
Steve left the cups where they’d haphazardly fallen onto the counter and pulled the apron off from where it was tied around his hips. “Nothing’s wrong, Buck,” and though it didn’t sound correct given the context, it sounded sincere. Truthful. “I just…” finally, finally he looked up to meet Bucky’s eyes but his blue eyes looked more confused than anything and Bucky needed to fix that – “You never told me you had a date today.” He brushed past Bucky to hastily pull chairs out from where they were strewn and stack them on top of the tables.
Vaguely, Bucky wanted to help, but he was frozen in his spot. “A date?” Oh. Right. With Brock. Shit. How did Steve know about that. Shit.
“Yeah. He was in here just about an hour ago.”
“… Oh. I, uh.” He licked his lips. This was not going at all how he’d expected. His heart was beating much louder than he remembered it to be. “Clint set it up for me. Thought it’d do me some good, apparently.”
“Okay.” A pause. “You just never mentioned it. I was confused.”
“Didn’t know about it until yesterday. I woulda told you otherwise. You know that, right? We’re friends. That’s what friends do, isn’t it? Tell each other. Stuff.” Forcefully, he dragged a hand over his own face, because shut up stop rambling.
“Yeah, I. I do, Buck, it’s just.” Steve let out a rush of cold air. He stalked towards the door behind and pulled it open about as wide as it would go. Expectantly, he glanced between the door and Bucky.
Bucky glanced between the door and Steve. “You… out? Finished here?” Weak. Stop it. Your voice sounds pathetic.
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” Silently, he backtracked a few strides, until the chilly night air was stinging his ears. The warmth of his coat didn’t stop the chill spreading to the rest of his body as he watched Steve fumble with turning a key in the lock of the café.
Steve finally turned to face him. Stuck his hands forcefully in his pockets. “I’m sorry, Buck, I just – I thought we might’ve.” He took a deep breath. “Sunday was nice. I liked Sunday. It didn’t feel so great to wait two days and then today find out you had a date with – that you had a date.”
Bucky stood still. His jaw unhinged a little bit, falling open the smallest bit. He searched Steve’s face for any sort of sign, something to decipher his words with – they weren’t too difficult to understand, but dammit Bucky wanted it to have a double meaning. Bucky wanted him to say the words.
“So you’ll forgive me for being a jerk today, but I don’t think I can stand here for that much longer and pretend it doesn’t bother me.”
Wait, what?
Steve’s uneasy shifting foot-to-foot turned into slowly dragging his feet backwards.
“Steve,” Bucky tried. His throat didn’t cooperate. It felt like the Thai dinner was coming back up his esophagus. “Steve.”
“It probably wasn’t the best time to dump all of this on you. But I also can’t find it in myself to apologize for it. So.” Steve spun on a wobbly heel. As he retreated it felt too fast and too slow at the same time; too fast for Bucky to stop him, he couldn’t think, but too slow, because he was still there, still agonizingly in sight.
Bucky didn’t know what to do.
(He didn’t stop him.)
--
He should’ve stopped him.
This is the thought that ran through Bucky’s head more times than he could count. Every damn time he remembered Steve’s drawn eyebrows, or his set jaw, the damn look of betrayal reflecting in his eyes, it made him want to punch something. More specifically, it made him want to punch himself. In the face.
(That would be well-deserved.)
His hand hovered over his phone, facing up on his desk, taunting him. The screen glinted with every rotation of the ceiling fan, practically counting the moments as Bucky’s resolve cracked and cracked and cracked until he finally gave up.
The phone rang a few times. With each ring, he became more and more hopeful that maybe nobody would answer.
“Yes, James?”
Damn it. She picked up. He spared himself another moment of quiet, to slowly let out a breath. “Natasha.”
She paused. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“What? Nothing’s wrong. Why do you assume things?”
“I’m not stupid, James, and it pains me to say this but I’ve known you long enough. I know something’s wrong.”
“You… you have to help me, ‘Tasha. I fucked up.” Hard exhale. “I fucked up real bad.”
She let out a breath with small semblance to a laugh. “You’ll have to be specific.”
Bucky let his head fall back against the back of his chair. “It’s really bad this time. I... I don’t…”
An unintelligible shout from the other end of the line cut him off. It took him a moment to process the meaning of a voice in Natasha’s vicinity. “You’re not home,” he realized out loud.
He could almost hear her slow smile. “No, I’m not. You were saying?”
“Are you out?” A pause. “You never work after seven. It’s Wednesday night.” Another pause. She seemed to be waiting for him to connect the dots. “A date?”
“Took you long enough, idiot. You were saying?”
He hesitated. “Oh, it’s. It’s okay. I’m fine.” A date? Everyone else in the world must’ve been happy. Everyone but him. What the fuck was he doing with his life? “Enjoy your date, ‘Tasha.” He tried very hard to keep out the bitterness that was creeping its way into his throat. For good measure, he threw in some lewd charm: “Don’t have too much fun, hm?”
“James, tell me what’s wrong.”
“Tell Clint I said hi, yeah?” Then. Then he hung up.
But what the hell was he supposed to do? As his eyes drifted shut, he considered a few possibilities.
1. He could buy a one-way ticket to Moscow. Get on the flight. Never come back. Natasha had family there, anyway, and they knew him like their own son, from the few years he’d spent with them studying abroad.
“You never told me you had a date today.”
“You just never mentioned it. I was confused.”
2. He could dig out his hammer from his adventure-filled, thing-building days. He could then connect that hammer to his phone. Easy fix; he wouldn’t have to speak with anybody. At all. To make it even better, he could also lock the front door and never ever open it again. And never ever face Steve again.
“I know this isn’t the best time to dump this on you. But I couldn’t not. So. I’m sorry.”
3. An entirely implausible option, with such a large margin for error, a likely possibility of mass destruction and pain for weeks to come, he could seek Steve out. He could, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t because… he just couldn’t.
There’s nothing else that his mind wants to supply him with. Nothing useful, nothing extremist, nothing at all.
As if it’s waiting for him to fucking realize something. Presumptuous little shit.
(But it’s right. Because now. Now he’s gotten up. And he’s halfway to the door, and if he’s leaving the house without his coat on it could only result in one of his three plans.)
--
He didn’t know what he expected when he showed up back to the exact street he’d left behind two hours ago, but he definitely hadn’t expected company.
A single, dim light shone from inside the Stork Club, and through the darkened window he could sort of make out a shape. Too tall to be Steve.
He rested his hand on the handle to the door. He could always turn back, now. He still had the chance to turn around and head back and pretend he’d never had this stupid idea in the first place.
For some strange reason, a very compelling, adrenaline-based, YOLO sort of reason, he didn’t turn around. He leaned his weight on the handle and the door swung open and oh no he had to go through with it now.
Left foot forward. Right foot forward. Left again. Soft talking floated through the air, but stopped abruptly when his foot scuffed against the floor. The figure he’d seen earlier became a little clearer but not enough for him to recognize whoever it was, but he could see enough to tell that it was a woman, with a vague baby-shaped bundle resting at her chest.
He hesitated. “Steve?”
The woman turned toward him. “Bucky? Is that you?” She had a clear English accent, a voice that rang. “Come on back here, then. We’ve got things to talk about.”
“No!” A frantic whisper. “What are you doing?” That. That was Steve. Oh.
Who was the woman?
He took a step back, uncertain. He was beginning to feel his heart thumping loudly against his ribcage, and it was a painful sort of thud that he didn’t really want to keep feeling.
“No, don’t leave,” she called again. “I can see you, looking like a deer caught in headlights. I swear, I don’t bite. Just want to talk. Steve’s here, too.”
Oh, fuck it.
He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and maneuvered past the tables and stacked chairs to where the stranger, and also presumably Steve, was waiting in the back room.
“Hi, Bucky. I’m really glad you came to pay us a visit. Steve’s been telling me so many things.”
A glance at Steve. He sat with his head buried in his arms, but the tips of his ears were pink. He said a few muffled words, something sort of like I hate you, and it pained Bucky a little to think it might’ve been directed towards him.
The woman smiled. Her hair was pinned away from her face in perfect curls despite the hour of night, but Bucky suspected she would look beautiful even if she didn’t look so put-together. “Now, I’ve spent quite long enough listening to Steve’s side of the story, though he doesn’t believe a word I try to offer in response, so to prove him wrong I’d please like to hear it from you now, Bucky.”
The gears in Bucky’s head had been a little too focused on trying to identify the woman, so when it all finally clicked into place, he blurted this instead of a response to her question: “Are you Peggy?”
A corner of her mouth lifted. “That would be me.”
“Oh.” Quiet, for another moment, as he processed it. “Okay.”
She waited, and he realized he still hadn’t answered her question. His eyes slid over to Steve, completely still, and all of a sudden the words that had been waiting to spill from his mouth were nowhere to be found. All of a sudden, he had nothing to say at all.
He kept his jaw firmly hinged.
“Well, that’s enough of an answer for me, I think I’ve learned more than I have to. Steve, I know you’re listening, and I know that you know I’ve always been right. I’m going to leave now, and get some much-needed sleep, so don’t you dare leave this shop without sorting yourself out, do you understand?”
An indistinct sound came from within his arms. Possibly an okay, possibly a go away, take your pick, both of them fit perfectly well.
And just like that, seemingly satisfied, Peggy adjusted her grip on the child in her arms and stood up. “I’ll see you around, Bucky,” she said, and then she was gone, and then it was just Bucky and Steve in the dimly lit room, and Bucky didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to do now.
“I, um.” He began, intelligently. “I don’t really know why I’m here.” When he got no response (what was he expecting?), he amended his statement: “Well, I do know why I’m here. I’m just not sure I’ve admitted it to myself yet, and I’m not sure I’m ready to tell you either, because I’m really just afraid.”
Steve’s knee began to bounce up and down, lightly. He only did that when he was unsure of what to do, and you see, Bucky knew this because he was fucking head over heels for this small blond, the one who he couldn’t even properly say anything to because he was tying his words in knots.
He was a mess.
“It didn’t feel so great to wait two days, and then find out you had a date.”
“I know I must be coming off as an awful person to you right now, Stevie, and I swear I didn’t mean to.” Pause. “It’s just, I was so sure you’d never go out with me. I was so sure. You’d been calling us friends for so long. And I don’t think you saw how much that hurt.”
Steve’s knee stopped bouncing. He burrowed his head deeper in his arms, and Bucky let out a huff. “Still hurts, you moron. Clint set me up with a date because he said I looked pathetic, and it took me a while to figure it out but it was because I was so sure I’d fallen for a guy I could never have. Because look at you, Steve.”
And now he was rambling, he was never going to stop talking, not unless Steve stopped him, telling him to leave, telling him he’d gotten it all wrong, tell him to never speak to him again – but that would be fine, because it was the first time Bucky had said any of this out loud, said any of this at all, and he needed to finish the thought now –
“Look at you. You’re five foot two and the angriest person I know, but you’ve got the kindest heart and the sweetest thoughts and I kissed you once, just once and I was drunk off my mind, and you don’t know how hard it was not to kiss you again every time I saw you, but I managed it. And you were so upset with me after, you didn’t speak to me again until I told you it didn’t mean anything, and it hurt, Stevie. And I’m telling you everything you don’t want to hear, but I’m only doing it in hopes that you won’t let it come between us.”
He stopped, stopped for longer than thirty seconds, only thirty seconds. But it stretched for more time than Bucky cared to count, as his heart pounded somewhere in his throat.
Steve hadn’t moved. There really wasn’t anything left to say.
“I understand if you don’t want anything to do with me anymore, but I’d be more than fine just bein’ your friend, Stevie. I just want you around.”
Carefully, as if too loud a sound might fracture the loud silence ringing through his ears, Bucky stood.
To his surprise, Steve copied him. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back away from his face, and on his features was an expression that Bucky couldn’t analyze, didn’t want to analyze, because oh the meaning might just hurt more than everything he’d just said to him.
“You got it all wrong.”
… “What?”
“I said, you got it all wrong. From that damn party, that damn drunk kiss, you had it backwards.”
“Backwards?”
“I was upset because you were drunk when you kissed me. Never showed any interest before, did you? Figured I was just the nearest mouth you could find.”
It took a while longer than desired for his words to register, but when they did, he couldn’t stop frantic words from tumbling out. (It must’ve been because it was so late. He would blame it on the hour of night.) “That’s not it, that’s never been it, I don’t know why you would think that –”
Steve held up a hand to stop him. “But I think I understand now. And I think Peggy was right, when I told her before.”
“I don’t understand –”
His protest was cut off by Steve’s lips suddenly pressed tightly against his, Steve’s fingers wrapped around the back of his neck, Steve’s chest pressed against his, Steve, Steve, Steve. The surprise of the moment left him slack-jawed, and Steve took the opportunity to press deeper against him, and then all that Bucky could feel was Steve, and he’d never felt anything better, not once before, not even the one kiss they’d shared earlier – because that kiss, that one had been drunk, miscommunication.
This one, perhaps, made a little more sense.
Bucky’s hands came up to rest on Steve’s waist and threaded through his hair, and then Steve made the best sort of noise that Bucky had ever heard, and smiled against his lips, and he didn’t have to say anything more at all.
Oh, it was the best sort.