fossilised | It's AU time

Having lived his whole life in New York City, Steve wasn't prone to going to see what every loud noise was. Most of them were innocuous, or too far away for him to pinpoint. It had nothing to do with his own personal safety, sometimes he forgot that he needed to be more aware of his own environment, and just because he knew it was typical city noise.

It wasn't until the second crash followed by a curse through the ducts thst connected all of the apartments that Steve dried his hands off from the clay work he was doing and headed upstsirs. There wasn't an elevator in the building even if it was four stories up, a remenant of the old tenements that once filled the borough. And though Brooklyn was definitely gentrifying for young professionals and families, this building had not been touched. Most of the apartments were rent controlled and their owners sublet out to renters. That's what kept the place always so lively, and cheap, and still pretty safe. No one wanted to rent to people that were just going to make a mess.

Which was why Steve manned the stairs today. Mrs. Johnson, who had the place upstairs, had been a friend of his mother's. After her husband died and she moved in with her daughter, she has started to sublet the place out. If thst renter was already making a mess, Steve was going to tell him off!

He was wheezing a little as he hit the top step and then paused, blinking, at the blue eyed man trying to get his boxes together. He was hopelessly attractive in the way guys in teen movies were, which made Steve peg him for an actor, new to the city. He would probably be waiting tables with Nat soon, as both tried to make it big in a city that spit you out when it was done chewing you.

That said, there was no reason that Steve couldn't be nice. He cleared his throat and smiled.

"Hey. Need a little help?" Yep. Scrawny little Steve was offering his services here.

Bucky had already decided that he hated boxes. Boxes were evil and out to destroy his life, boxes were clearly the villains that nobody saw coming that would take over the world and enslave mankind. Or maybe he was just being overdramatic in his own head so that he didn't have to focus on all the things he didn't want to. Like the way his prosthetic hand was stuffed into one pocket of his jeans so that the way the arm hung loosely wouldn't be too obvious - someone had told him about semi-robotic ones in development, but he didn't have the kind of money or health insurance for that. Or the way that this was the first time he had been on his own since leaving the hospital.

He was determined to be fine.

Nobody here knew about him or his past, that's why he had come here. He had ignored all offers of VA subsidised housing in Queens where his hospital had been, and fled to Brooklyn to the first apartment that he could just about afford on his army pension cheques. He was determined to make a good impression with the neighbours, to get a job, to get a life back.

Which was why he smiled at the newcomer. Small and skinny, looked like a strong breeze might blow him over, but with devastating blue eyes.

"Yeah, that would be great," he said, not hesitating at all in accepting the offer. Surely the guy wouldn't make it if he couldn't handle it? "Don't know what's wrong with me today, just clumsy, I think I ruined literally all my plates. You live downstairs?"

"Just under you. You're renting from Mrs. Johnson right? She's a great lady. You'll really like her as your landlord," Steve said, already crouching to lift over of the boxes that had been left in the hallway. It was...wow. Heavy. "Did you pack bricks?" A few of these might be it for him, but he had his inhaler in his pocket if he had an attack. He'd just have to do his best not to. This guy might just feel guilty about accepting his help and Steve didn't like being seen as weak.

He lifted with his back and carried the box marked 'Bedroom' towards what looked like an IKEA bed frame that had yet to be built propped up against a thin mattress. Evidently the little alcove was going to be the bedroom. Good choice. Steve's bed was a futon that he usually just left folded up into the couch position.

He was small. He could stretch out there. And he needed the space. It wasn't like he was ever having company over. Natalia sometimes, but they mostly went to the bar downstairs for a beer or to a little used bookstore with a nice attached coffee shop at the end of the block.

Her schedule was terrible considering her work and practice time.

He put the box down and went back to the man, right hand raised. "My manners are terrible. I'm Steve by the way."

Bucky didn't have a whole lot of furniture, but he had just about enough to have the essentials in his apartment and once he got a job then he could afford to kit it out better. He'd have a big flat screen TV and some games systems, he'd have all the shit he'd wanted as a kid and not been able to afford. It would be great.

"James," he said in response, never so glad as right now that hand shakes were always offered with the right hand. It would have got really awkward really fast otherwise. "But most people call me Bucky. It's dumb, I know, but it's from my middle name. Buchanan, like the president."

Bucky picked up another of the boxes himself, one of the lighter ones, tucking it under his right arm only and carrying it one handed into the apartment to put down by the bed.

"I'll try not to practise plate tossing too much if you're living underneath. Sorry about the noise." He grinned, a lop sided and charming sort of grin, the one he always used to use on the ladies.

Steve had no doubt that the ladies probably swooned at regular intervals around Bucky. He was hopelessly good looking in a way that most people were either envious of or wanted. Steve was neither. He saw beauty in almost everything. It's what made him a good artist, not that he fully believed his teachers when they told him how amazing his pieces were. They had to tell everyone that to encourage them, right?

Besides, he wasn't that interested in the fine arts. Painting, charcoals, clay? Yuck, clay. He could take them or leave them. All he really wanted to do was get a job with one of the big comic companies here and find a story writer that he could work with to bring characters to life on the page. Man. That was just a really hard industry to get into. And he knew that. He really did. That didn't mean he wasn't determined to get his dream with both hands and his teeth if need be.

At the offer of the name, Steve laughed, squeezing the hand offered to him firmly. "Bucky it is. And you won't believe this, but my middle name is Grant. As in Ulysses S." What a small world, sometimes! "I think that we need to get you some paper plates. Or the plastic ones from Ikea."

All of these boxes were just insanely heavy!

Steve did his best, but after three he needed to take a break.

He seemed a nice guy. It was surprising, Bucky had thought that everyone living in these super cheap apartments would probably be sketchy, or people like him either running or hiding from things in their past. And hell, maybe Steve was, but he seemed so-- normal. The look in those impossibly blue eyes was honest and genuine, and Bucky found his smile becoming more genuine in return.

Hopefully Steve wouldn't notice that Bucky never took his left hand out of his pocket and lifted all the boxes with just his right, maybe he'd think that Bucky was showing off his muscles and pretending that one hand was all he needed? That would be okay by him, make him seem much cooler than the truth.

"Hey, you okay?" Steve was starting to look a bit pale and his breathing seemed shorter. "You want to sit down for a bit?"

Steve really did think that Bucky was just doing everything one handed because he could. He was too focused on himself, or with making eye contact -- which was strange, he knew, even Nat had told him to cool it with that sometimes -- to really pay attention to the hand in the pocket. He had just sat down a KITCHEN box in the tiny kitchen before wiping his brow.

"Nah, I'm fine," Steve promised, though he did take the chance to lean back against the oven. It was half the usual size so it could fit under the counter and only had a two burner stove on top but it would do for a guy living alone. How the Johnsons managed was anyone's business. Maybe they just ate out a lot or had delivery brought in. Steve and his mom had a pretty good sized kitchen downstairs in the two bedroom unit and his mom used to run casseroles up before her health got too bad for that.

Steve surveyed the boxes and the furniture. Or lack there of.

"Not sure where I'd sit anyway. Maybe on those brick boxes? What brings you to New York? Are you going to get into acting?"

"They're not bricks, they're books."

Bucky snorted, crossing to the sink and filling a glass of water to offer to Steve anyway because the poor guy looked like he was about to collapse in a corner somewhere. Bucky had always liked to read. He had been almost obnoxiously good at school, athletic and smart, he supposed that at least he had a lot of good years under his belt so some worse ones weren't a big deal now.

The idea of him acting, though. God, that made him laugh.

"No... Jesus, that sounds terrible, put me on a stage and the whole thing would close in a night. Actually, I'm-- kind of between jobs at the moment, but I'm going to start looking tomorrow. Maybe a gas station or fast food joint? I'm not picky. How about you, Steve, what do you do?"

Water! Steve was thankful for that, taking three large sips before he held the glass between both hands. He didn't judge Bucky for his lack of work. A lot of people here were between jobs or doing odd ones to get themselves on their feet. It was a tough town. The rent was insanely high everywhere and nothing paid that well unless you were on Wall Street or were in law or something.

He chuckled along with Bucky though. The conversation was nice and normal and sweet. "You just look like the acting type," Steve admitted.

There were a ton of really beautiful people in this city. They flocked here. Almost everyone that came from the outside were here for just one reason. To make it big.

"I work at a tattoo parlor in Manhattan," Steve said, though he didn't look like he had any tattoos at all. "It's called Mickey's on the Lower Eastside. And I go to school."

"Really?" Bucky couldn't help the surprised expression that took over. Steve didn't look like someone who worked a tattoo parlour, he was pretty sure nearly everyone who did that were covered in tattoos and piercings of their own. Steve seemed so clean cut, so not a tattooist. "I mean, I just met you, but you don't seem the type."

He flopped onto one of his own boxes with a glass of water for himself and took a sip. This was good, this was normal. He was having an actual conversation with someone and it was no big issue.

"Then again, you don't seem like a removal guy either, and you did a good job of bringing my boxes up, so what do I know?"

His smile said that he didn't intend to be condescending or a jerk, but he had no idea how often people underestimated Steve because of his size. "So you do the art yourself?"

It had stopped bothering him, being underestimated, such a long time ago that he barely felt it when Bucky put him down. He really didn't look like he worked in a tattoo parlor, but then, most of the guys and girls he worked with didn't either. Their shop catered to high end clients, the ones that were using daddy's money to get tramp stamps or trust fund babies trying to feel cool. It was a bit niche when it came to the tattoo world but Steve really liked it there. He had his own studio and he got to work with some pretty idiotic people that let him do all of the design work without too much input.

Steve had gotten a job there because he could draw but Mickey wasn't about to let him pick up a gun and start inking someone with the way he was prone to attacks. She didn't want to be sued after all.

"I do the art, mostly. I work on custom pieces and run the sterilizer...and I do some of the ink ordering too. They pay pretty good for the city. And no. I don't have any tattoos. I don't know if I'd ever get one either. I can't decide on anything in particular. You're not really going to work at a fast food place are you? You've got to have more marketable skills than that," Steve insisted.

It was weird, but for a moment Steve seemed like someone who had stepped right out of a bohemian novel or something like that. Some skinny kid on his own in a crummy apartment, doing art work to get through school. Added in those blue eyes and the way he made eye contact like everyone was his best friend, or he was determined not to be looked down on, it was just so... American Dream.

"Well, apparently I have skills as an actor that I never knew about?"

Bucky shot the answer back as a joke with a smile, but he felt a twist of something knot his stomach. He had no marketable skills; hell, he had no idea if even a fast food place would hire him with the mess he was in most of the time. But he'd rather nobody knew about that. He'd come here to escape that life.

"Maybe I'll end up a famous movie star by the end of the week, what d'you think?"

"I think that you should have gone to California if you wanted to be in movies," Steve said, joking right on back. "You're going to shut down Off Broadway shows, remember?" He pulled himself up onto the empty counter next to a lot of stacked boxes and the poor little stove. His feet swung a good two feet above the ground and his clay spotted white tee followed the curve of his torso. In this lighting, with the strong south facing Windows, and the indigo backspace of the tile work, his eyes looked even bluer.

He had an easy smile, the sort that said he could make friends without much effort at all but he rarely did. The roll of his shoulders told Bucky that he was relaxed and earnest. There was nothing about him that seemed dangerous or attemoting to get one over on anyway.

He wasn't wearing anything fancy. There were no brands on him at all. And his hair, straw blond and messy, was just a little too long and without any color damage. He probably trimmed up himself between visits to the barber.

"If you do decide to go to Hollywood, don't look at me to help you move all of this stuff back out- I have to finish whatever ashtray I'm being forced to make for pottery class." It was supposed to be an amphora but...it was turning into an ashtray anyway. He was no good at this and forgot to book time in the wheel room so his protect was going down the tubes. He didn't mind. He'd do a killer glaze job on it once it dried.

The poor guy looked really thin now that the light was catching him properly, like he wasn't getting enough to eat or he was really sick. Maybe he was. He had that sort of drawn complexion that people sometimes got when they were always ill, maybe his new downstairs neighbour had some kind of serious health problems. No, he wouldn't be at school and working if he was that ill, right?

"You're making pottery downstairs?"

He was pulled out of imagining Steve's health issues by that admission, and he couldn't help but laugh a little bit.

"Are you shitting me right now? Pottery is like-- artsy or romcom movie stuff, nobody actually makes that in their homes."

"Ah, I knew it! Actor all the way. You'd totally make a fantastic male lead opposite whoever is really popular right now. Like Brie Larson or Jennifer Lawrence," Steve insisted, hands on his knees of faded blue jeans. He might have been offended if Bucky thought he was really that sickly, or that he looked particularly gaunt. He ate a whole lot but that didn't do much for him. He was just skinny and small. The asthma was really the only problem now, even if sometimes in the winter he got some really bad colds that turned into pneumonia.

But he wasn't offering that up. No way, no how.

"But luckily, I'm not Jennifer Lawrence so you're safe. And trust me, Buck, I'm not into pottery. I just have to do it for class. It'll go in the trash as soon as I get a C." Yeah, maybe he shouldn't have mentioned pottery. He seemed like Ike a big loser now compared to this guy.

Buck.

Nobody had called him Buck before, Bucky sure, but not Buck. He had met this guy all of half an hour ago and already he had shortened his nickname into a new nickname, was that a good sign? Was he making a friend in his new neighbour. Jesus, he had never overthought this sort of thing before, it had all been so easy in the past.

"You have to show me that now, you can call it payback for the glass of water."

Not like the water itself wasn't payment for Steve helping him out with the boxes.

"I bet it's like Ghost or something, some wheel and a fancy clay pot to spin sensually while Patrick Swayze holds you from behind."

Oh-Kay. Steve's face fell. So the guy was making fun of him, huh? It's not like he hadn't been called all sorts of things before. Faggot was just one of those words he really hated. Steve liked women just fine. They just didn't really like him except in a sort of little brother sort of way. And guys were all right too, if he was honest with himself, but going through school being made fun of really put him off.

Down went the corners of his lips and he shoved off of the counter, setting the glass in the tiny, ineffectual sink.

"I think I just won one of your boxes of books," he said, a little stiffly now since he wasn't sure if Bucky was just going to come out laughing or if he'd try to hurt him. Steve could stand up for himself...but he also could get a nice black eye for himself too. "You just lost your bet. There's no wheel or a fancy pot. And no Patrick Swayze either. Sorry to burst your bubble. And hey, maybe another time. My place is a mess. Good luck with the apartment, man."

He gave a silly little salute that felt forced.

What a shame. The pretty people were always the jerks.

Shit, had he said something wrong? He had thought that since Steve had seemed down on the pottery making, it would be okay to make fun of it. Tease just a bit. Not about Steve, he honestly had no thought whatsoever about his sexual preferences, but just about the act of making a pot. Apparently that had been wrong, and his idea of making a possible friend out of a neighbour was shot down.

He floundered enough that he hadn't quite managed to recover himself by the time Steve had stiffly excused himself without polite but stilted words, and disappeared back down to his own apartment. Well, fucking good job, Barnes.

Steve wouldn't see Bucky around for another three weeks, not unless he went looking for him. He might hear him moving about upstairs sometimes, but he never came to knock on his door to apologise, and he never seemed to pass him in the hallway. Maybe they never would have seen each other again, but Steve would find a package addressed to the apartment above his accidentally left outside his front door. Unfortunately for Steve, it was pretty heavy, being a new microwave oven from Amazon.

Steve almost tripped over the thing on his way out that evening. He was supposed to meet up for something called a Ramen Ball with Nat, but as she had canceled due to her boyfriend getting the night off, Steve had planned on going himself to get some take out and bring Nat the leftovers the next morning whenever she crawled in from what she said in a thick Russian accent was her 'walk of shame.'

He was wearing a brown bomber jacket and a lot of sweat by the time he knocked on Bucky's door and was actually fumbling for his inhaler by the time anyone came to answer it. The microwave was at his feet and in a moment, Steve was going to be too as he tried to get the inhaler in his mouth and the medication dispensed to open up his airways.

This really was not how he wanted to meet his homophobic new neighbor again. It really wasn't.

Man, the guy was going to punt him down the stairs. He just hoped he could get his lungs working before he did.

Bucky looked like hell when he opened the door, but at least Steve might not notice given how he was in the middle of having an asthma attack. His hair was lank and greasy, he stank of stale sweat, and he seemed to be wearing the same jeans and hoodie that he had been wearing when he moved in. None of his boxes had been unpacked, though there were a few new ones now with other things he'd clearly ordered to be delivered.

Even the bed wasn't set up, the mattress just laid out on the floor with a grubby pillow on it, and a lot of take out containers littering the floor. Bucky almost hadn't answered the door at all, but he thought it had been the mailman with his package, he hadn't expected.

"Shit, Steve," he muttered, reaching up his right hand instinctively to steady him, voice concerned rather than hate-filled. "Sit down, breathe. Jesus."

"Breath-- Yeah-- Trying--" Steve wheezed because why not try to be snarky while sucking in medication and air? He plopped down beside the box, leaning on it, until he managed to get a good, clean breath in. There. That was better. He exhaled more slowly and tried again until he could tuck the inhaler away. There were tears in his eyes and his cheeks were red, but both were symptoms of the whole not breathing thing.

He wiped at his face as he looked up at Bucky, the concern there as real as that body odor, and he turned to glance over his shoulder at the apartment.

"Are you all right?" Says the guy who just about passed out dragging a box up one flight of stairs.

Bucky had known some people with asthma before, usually the kids in his school that had grown out of it, but he had never seen anyone bad enough to nearly stop breathing just from carrying a microwave up one flight of stairs. It made it a really nice gesture that Steve had even brought it up at all, especially considering he had done something dumb to offend him when they met.

But any thanks died on his lips and he very casually pulled the door a bit further closed behind him to block off the view to his apartment, expression shuttered.

"Yeah. Been busy, haven't got round to finishing unpacking yet, it's no big deal. Thanks for bring the package up."

Something was pretty wrong here. Something bad had happened. Maybe that bad thing was what happened to bring Bucky here or maybe he was still not able to get a job. That could make anyone depressed. Steve let his eyes drift back up to the handsome face, beautiful despite the stringy hair, and his smile softened. He wasn't good at hiding how he felt and though he didn't feel bad for Bucky, he wondered if maybe...maybe he had been wrong. The guy had actually been concerned at him instead of laughing like Steve thought he'd do.

"No problem. Next time I might just have you come down-- But hey. I was going to meet up with a friend but she's busy tonight. We got reservations for this crazy ramen ball place that just opened up in about an hour. Uh... Want to come?" There should be enough time if they got a cab instead of took the subway.

Bucky would probably want to shower. No judging but man, he did stink.

Shit, why was this happening now?

He had thought he had blown it making a new friend and convincing his nice neighbour that he was just a normal guy, but apparently not and now Steve was asking him to go and grab dinner. But just the thought of it curdled his stomach. He hadn't left his apartment since he moved in, always managing to psych himself out of actually going outside.

But he didn't want to refuse. The idea of coming up with some excuse and heading back into his stinking apartment to spend another night sitting on his mattress staring at the wall filled him with self loathing, he had to do better than this. He had come here for a new start, to be normal, so he had to make himself be fucking normal.

"Oh. Yeah, sure."

He could do this. No problem. No problem.

"You doing okay now? I'd invite you in to sit down for a minute, but if we're gonna-- I need to get changed."

For a minute there, Steve was pretty sure that he did something wrong, or that he misjusged and the guy just felt bad and now thought he was coming onto him with his sensual pottery wheel and his Patrick Swayze! Man! This was why Steve never made friends. He was just so bad at it!

And then Bucky accepted. And Steve thought about telling him to crack a window, but instead, he used the box to get back to his feet. "I'm just downstairs...so... Yeah! Just come and get me when you're ready amd I'll get a cab or an uber." The uber would be less expensive anyway, but at least they'd make the reservation.

He took his time getting downstairs. And he made sure to take some oral medication just in case. It would knock him out early but he didn't have any projects to do and his shift at the parlor was'nt until tomorrow afternoon. It'd be fine. And he was doing someone a favor. Whatever was happening to Bucky (he sort of assumed drugs), they could have a good time...and maybe he could help him get clean too.

Steve liked to help.

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