fossilised | It's AU time

Though Steve had readily agreed to Bucky coming down to his place for dinner and was sctuslly in the tiny kitchen nook looking at the menus, as soon as Bucky started that last run on thought, Steve felt his heart literally break. He ended up dropping the menu and had turned with wide eyes towards the other man, laying there as if this was an alley and not his apartment.

"Why would you want to kill yourself?" Steve asked, though it wasn't his business and he had no right to do it. He should pick up the phone and call 911. He should tell someone-- But instead, he decided to fix the world himself. He decided that he was going to make sure that this Bucky in front of him was going to get through this. "You're going to deprive the whole world of your acting ability. Thst really seems wrong to me."

Steve slipped the menu under his arm and grabbed Bucky's keys from the ring by the door before he offered him a hand up.

"On your feet. No more talking about dying young, okay? And don't worry. I know your landlord. I'll get her to give you an extension. Come on. Up we go." Work with him, Buck. He's not strong here.

The arm could stay on the counter for now. Steve saw passed the fact that it wasn't even there when he had Bucky lean on him. If they didn't both do a header down the stairs, it would be a miracle.

All of this seemed really surreal, and Steve's reaction to his confession only made it seem more so. The weird off-colour joke about his acting and the genuine kindness only endeared him to this strange skinny artist even more, and he contentedly let Steve help him up and then leaned on him all the way down to his apartment.

God only knows how they managed to get there without falling, but someone must be smiling on them to make it so.

"You know... your eyes are really blue."

It was a mumble as Steve got his own door unlocked, obeying the order to not talk about dying young any more, which meant no explanation about why was going to be forthcoming. If this was a dream, a nice evening with a friend, he was going to enjoy it to the full before reality crashed in.

"If-- f'I wasn't so-- fucked, I'd've asked you out already. Fucking sexy."

"My eyes are really blue and that's all the criteria you have for asking someone out?" Steve asked because drunk brain was not a brain to be trusted. Steve found all sorts of things amazing or attractive when he was drinking even if his sober brain would but the kibosh on it immediately. He didn't blame Bucky. Bucky smelled like a distillery. And while thst was so much better than smelling like body odor, it was only just.

Steve got Bucky on his couch before he locked up and called in for pizza. It was cheaper to go and pick it up but he wasn't leaving some guy in his apartment.

"You don't even know my last name. And I don't know yours. I don't know anything about you, Bucky. Other then you have good taste in scotch and terrible taste in beer." He slipped his phone into his pocket and joined the other man on the sofa. The blue of the walls just made the blue of his eyes that much more pronounced. "So how about we start with that? James Buchanen... What?"

Truthfully, Bucky didn't need a whole lot more than a nice set of eyes to ask someone out. Or he hadn't done back in the old days, something would catch his eye, girl or guy, and he'd ask them out to get to know them better. Maybe Steve wouldn't have been his ideal, he probably never would have noticed the eyes past the skinny body, but he sure noticed them now.

"Barnes."

The gentle warmth of Steve's voice made this less like an interrogation, which was good, because he only had one pre-programmed response to that sort of questioning. Name, rank, and regiment unit.

"James Barnes, s'pretty boring. There's not much to tell you 'bout me, tell me about you instead? Steve. Steve Grant. Steve the artist. Comic books. Wanna know more."

James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. Not Jimmy. He liked that. It was strange enough that it really fit this guy. Right down to his core. Steve kicked off his shoes and pulled up his knees. He stretched his arm along the back of the couch, bending it at the elbow so that he could rest his ear against his palm. He wasn't sure what to make of Bucky. He'd figured some stuff out kn his own but they were all just guesses at this point he didn't have anyone to really fill him in and he wasnt going to ask. This man's privacy was obviously one of the only things he had left right now.

"Rogers. Steven Grant Rogers. I'm twenty-two." Of course he was. He had innocence and sweetness pretty much just leaking from his pores. "I've lived in this apartment since I was five. I go to the Brooklyn Institute of Fine Arts and I work for a tattoo parlor part time. Just drawing. But you knew that."

Bucky had way more information about him than the other way around.

"Dad died during the Gulf War. Mom died almost four years ago. So it's just been me since then. No siblings of grandparents or anything..."

So he was a prime murder target. Steve needed to be more selective about his information.

Poor bastard. To have lost both his parents by the time he was eighteen really sucked, he had done well for himself to stay in school and support that, rather than having to drop out and work full time just to be able to survive. It was sort of amazing he was as nice as he was with that much pain in his past.

It made Bucky feel kind of guilty, like an asshole, when he remembered that he had family who were still waiting on word from him. His Dad had died when he was little too, though of illness rather than war, and his mother had always been protective. She had been dead against him going into the military, so had his sister Rebecca, but he had done it anyway. He didn't want to go back to them like this, the Bucky they knew had died in Afghanistan and it was kinder not to let them see him this way.

"Sorry, man, s'rough."

He reached out to clap a clumsy hand on his shoulder.

"You mus'-- must really resent the military, huh?"

He found that a lot of people who had lost a parent to war were pretty anti-military, anti-war, having felt that loss so keenly themselves. Some of them even went so far as to blame the soldiers and call them selfish for leaving loved ones to do something so dangerous. Rebecca had said that to him before he went, she had been a sophomore in high school then, spirited and angry that her big brother was leaving. She'd be in college now, if she'd chosen to go.

The hand on his shoulder was a little bit heavy, but Steve managed not to since so that was a plus. Losing his mom was still hard on him sometimes. She'd worked so hard to make sure he had money, scrimped and saved to let him stay in his rent controlled apartment and made him promise not to give up on school when she got sick. But yeah. It was still rough. So he smiled at Bucky and shrugged.

"I don't resent the military at all," Steve said, not just because he was sure that Bucky was in the armed forces, but because it was true. "I mean, okay, maybe a little. I tried to sign up for the Marines right after mom passed, but they laughed at me. Army too. And okay, laughed isn't the right word but my asthma-- They told me that I'd never cut it."

He'd not been strongly pro or anti war. He still wasn't. But he did love his country. He loved it very much.

"What branch were you in?" That was a good segway right?

Bucky's gaze sharpened just a bit on Steve when he asked that question so innocently, but damned if he wasn't so drunk that he couldn't remember if he'd actually told him or not. So Steve's deductions got the benefit of the doubt rather than an irritated snap about what made him think that Bucky had ever been in the army.

"Army. 107th."

He scrubbed a hand over his face as if talking about it pissed him off, which is sort of did.

"You should resent the military, I fucking do. I did-- I did everything, I never broke, and what did I get? A medal and a discharge, fucking thanks for everything but you're too broken for us now."

He hated them for that. The six months he had been a POW had been the worst of his life, but he had done everything that his training had told him to do, he hadn't broken under torture. And then when they got him back, they gave him a medal as if that made up for any of it, and discharged him. Like he just wasn't worth bothering over any more. What the hell good was a medal to him?

I never broke.

The arm wasn't an IED then. It wasn't combat loss. It wasn't friendly fire. It was either the product of or the prelude to torture. Steve's eyes softened and though Bucky hadn't quite taken his hand back, he reached for him and lightly set his fingers against his knuckles. "Thank you for your service," he said with a soft reverence and then changed the subject. This man was a PTSD sufferer. That made so much sense. Everything did. So it was the least that Steve could do to keep him from falling into that hole again. "So hey, how about you ask me questions. Ask me anything. We need to figure out what will be the ultimate turn off so you don't have to look at my eyes and fall madly in love with me when the beer wears off."

Steve took his hand back and let his eyes roam over Bucky's oh so handsome face.

The guy was going to kill himself.

And he called Steve over instead. That made Steve responsible for his life and the blond, luckily, was more than up for that task. Bucky, he could tell, was a really great guy under the damage.

A lot of people had thanked him for his service. All the doctors and nurses at the military hospital where he recuperated, his commanding officer when he came to give him the discharge papers, the woman from the VA when she came to offer him counselling, the man from the military pension office when he signed on to get his cheques... but all of it felt like rote, something they said almost every day because it was their job. The way Steve said it, it loosened a little knot in his chest and made him smile.

And then snort with laughter when those words sunk in. Hard to believe he had been ready to kill himself earlier in the evening, but sometimes it only took a little bit of light to chase the darkness away for a while.

"Jesus, I'm pretty sure I'm already sunk. Nice guy, likes comics, good sense of humour, gorgeous eyes-- ain't any turn offs there." So maybe he was a little more flirty when drunk too. "Okay, uh-- why comics? What was your first comic? Where's-- where's all your other friends? What's the worst tattoo you ever did? Where's the pizza?"

He probably should have put a one question at a time caveat in there but it didn't matter because Bucky was still somplinenting him, still flirting with him and-- And it was actually starting to get to Steve. He'd been on dates before, mostly because Nat never let it go, but they never involved guys that were this sweet. And girl expected you to be the sweet one. Which Steve was, right to the point that they invariably said that he was more like a brother to them.

How come he didn't feel like Bucky was being brotherly towards him then?

"Uh. Okay. Superman was my first because I used to watch the cartoon all the time. Mom got me started on them so I wouldn't rot my brain you know? If I was going to be watching this stuff I might as well read. And okay, it wasn't going to further my career as a monkey in a zoo or anything but I really liked them. So I started to trace them and then draw them myself."

He let his voice taper off for a moment before he drew back, hands folded in his lap. His eyes traced the lines where his fingers were knitted together.

"I don't really-- I have friends sure. But they're like... Certain activity friends. I'd rather stay in and draw. I know. I'm lame. My best friend lives across the hall but she's a ballerina. I told you about her I think? She doesn't have s lot of time. Suits me all right. Erm... Almost all the tattoos I design are the worst. Seriously. So bad. There's like no real thought to them and-- hey. Not my body. And give the pizza dude a break. They said forty minutes. It's been fifteen. You haven't been grilling me long enough yet."

Despite being drunk as hell, Bucky gave the impression that he was listening to every word, and he really was. He had only known this guy a matter of weeks, and only met him all of three times, but he had sunk under Bucky's skin in a good way. He was a nice guy, like genuinely nice, and that was so rare. The last few years had painted Bucky's world in colours of blood and violence, he had forgotten people like this existed, so forgive him for getting attached fast.

"S'not lame, I think it's good to know what you wanna do and do it. Better'n hanging out with a bunch of people you don't even like. 'Sides, your art is amazing, that picture-- I put it on my fridge, I love it. Six shooters in each hand, he's a fucking badass."

He really wanted the pizza now. The scones had helped, but he needed grease, and he wanted more cheese than the human body had ever been made to handle.

"Say, Steve-- m'not in any of your activities, but I want to be your friend. I'm not a good friend, but I really like you. Liked you when I first saw you. I don't know why, but you don't scare me, everybody... everybody else scares me. Even Mrs. Johnson, kept-- I kept looking for where she might be hiding a gun on her."

The offer of friendship did more for him than all of the flirting ever could. Steve was a nice guy and people liked him but they didn't generally want to be friends. He was too good and for some reason that really rubbed people the wrong way sometimes. Sure. He had his flaws. Bucky had already seen a few. But to see that and still like him?

That was just really amazing. Steve was touched.

"You are my friend. You ate the bread." He mock laughed to downplay it. "Mwahaha!" A bright smile followed. "But you are. My friend. We can hang out and-- you probably won't remember any of this so I'll remind you when you sober up. But you call me. Anytime. Whenever you get low. Okay? And in return I'll tell you about Mrs. Johnson's hollow leg where she keeps her bazooka."

Steve winked and his phone buzzed telling him that the pizza guy was already here.

That was pretty damned fast!

"Someone wants a good tip," he laughed and pulled himself up, wiry but graceful, to run downstairs to the buzzer door.

Steve maybe should have put on a coat to go downstairs or sent Bucky, because opening that buzzer door would hit him with a blast of cold that would be sure to go to his lungs over the next few days. And it didn't help that the pizza guy had a streaming nose from a cold either, usually Steve only had to be in proximity to someone and he'd catch one. So-- another couple of days of health and then it would all go to shit.

Happened every time.

But at least he had two big boxes of hot pizza and a drunken friend waiting for him upstairs? Except when he got up there, drunken friend had passed out on his couch. Bucky was curled in on himself in a protective position, as if it had become instinctive to cover all his vital organs while sleeping, and he was snoring fit to raise the roof.

If Steve didn't wake him, he'd stay there until he woke up on his own about seven the next morning, head pounding and mouth dry from the world's worst hangover.

Steve would not wake his new friend. He'd put one pizza in the oven with a note in case Bucky woke up and would bring the other over to Natalia's to ask for her help. He had Bucky's keys and a strong desire to put together furniture. Thankfully, not only was Natalia home, but so was her brand new meat head of a boyfriend and a pizza was exactly the thing to bribe them upstsirs with him.

No unpacking would be done, just a bed and the couch that came in pieces from ikea built. Nat chattered away at him and Steve tried to answer her without giving too much away, and also to avoid being set up with one of Thor's big dumb friends. He'd gone down that road with the last boyfriend and he didn't really want to visit a whole new group of insane people. Thank you.

With one pizza demolished and Thor proving his might or whatever by boldly carrying Nat over one shoulder and Steve over the other back downstairs, Steve bid the odd couple a good night and hurried inside. Shoes off again, he covered Bucky with a blanket, put the untouched oven pizza away in foil in the fridge and changed the notes he'd left.

A comic of post it notes featuring the bad ass bounty hunter would direct Bucky to anything he needed come morning. Aspirin. Where the glasses were kept, the pizza, his keys, and the rest.

There was a note on the door asking him to thumb the lock on the knob if he was leaving and to text Steve if he could.

'Don't worry of that simian doesn't respond right away, mate,' the drawing stated. ''The Deputy has life drawing class today!'

Natalia was whip-smart and she knew there was more here than Steve was letting on. Besides, what sort of guy moved into the building and still hadn't assembled his own bed? She hoped that Bucky wasn't using Steve for free labour, taking advantage of his good nature to get stuff done for him or free things bought for him. She'd have to keep an eye out and do some ass kicking if she found out anything bad.

But she was a little wrapped up in Thor. He was a sweetheart, a fire fighter with the body to prove it, and a little brother who worked in a bookstore not far away that he seemed devoted to. It was sweet, he was sweet, like a giant golden retriever puppy. Steve needed someone like this.

Unfortunately, all he had was a very hungover Bucky waking on his couch feeling like death warmed over.

He barely even recognised where he was for a few minutes, last night a haze of drink and bad decisions. But he saw the adorable notes, and found the cold pizza and the aspirin, before he sank back onto the couch and fumbled his phone out to text Steve.

FROM: Bucky
TO: Steve

Hey. Sorry about last night. I don't remember much, but I woke up on your couch, so I can only imagine I made a dick of myself. I'll clean up before I leave.

He was as good as his word, cleaning up as best he could before making it to his apartment and-- wow, his furniture was built and none of his boxes touched. That was really sweet, and really nice to respect his privacy. Jesus, what had he done to deserve a friend like Steve?

FROM: Bucky
TO: Steve

I just saw my apartment. Thanks so much. Let me cook you dinner to say thanks properly?

As foretold, Steve wouldn't get back to Bucky until almost three hours later during a break. He was getting charcoal all over himself but instead of texting, he holed up in the corner of the room and actually gave Bucky a call.

He shouldn't be nervous. He shouldn't be. There was no reason to be nervous. Bucky was just a guy with some issues. He was a good guy but also a loaded weapon. Steve shouldn't be so invested. Nat pretty much told him that last night. And yet? Here he was, trying to take some broken thing under his wing--

Again. Her words. And that wasn't fair.

So when Bucky answered, Steve almost hung up. And that was dumb too. "Hey. It's Steve. Don't worry about taking me to dinner." Even if he'd already paid for dinner for Bucky twice now. "You used your rent money on booze. You could just stop over with whatever booze you didn't drink and... Well there's left over pizza. Or cup noodle? I'm a mean maker of cup noodle. Besides. I'm going to need your help. For a class. I gotta do a portrait and Nat has practice--"

And that was a lie. Then again she might have practice? He wasn't sure now, but it was already out.

Bucky hadn't been expecting the phone to ring. In fact, he had been in the middle of unpacking his first box when it did ring, and he nearly fell over the damn thing in darting across to the counter to pick it up. Only to be hit with a rush of embarrassment. Good, perfect, nothing like admitting to a near stranger that you were messed up enough to have spent your rent money on booze.

He rubbed at his nose, glad that Steve couldn't see him right now. What other embarrassing things had he admitted last night? God only knew, he could barely remember anything except Steve being nice to him, the tone of his voice rather than what had actually been said.

"Uh-- Yeah, sure. You mean you want to draw me?"

He was kind of nervous about that, but it wouldn't be a big deal. Unless:

"This isn't some nude stuff, is it?"

"What? Yesterday you wanted to check out my underwear and today you're all nervous about 'nude stuff?'" Oh God. Oh please, please let that play off as funny! Why hadn't he texted? He could have sent little smilie faces along to prove he was laughing and just joking! Instead, he was left with this sinking feeling that he had messed up. "But uh, no. Portraits are just neck up usually. I was actually thinking about this sort of different angle-- I mean, you can watch TV. Or the game or... Do you like baseball? The Mets are playing. Don't let me hear that you're a Yankees fan."

Oh good. Good God. What a rambling cover up!

Steve put his hand over his face and groaned into his palm so that Bucky wouldn't hear how stupid, so so stupid, that he actually was. Shit. Piss.

"If you're not cool with it, don't worry. About the portrait. Not the Yankees. We can't be friends if you're into the Yanks. I don't care how blue my eyes are or how many friendship breads you ate."

Edited 2017-03-15 22:29 (UTC)

Wow. Okay... one, Steve was the most adorable fucking thing he had ever come across; and two, he had asked to look at his underwear? Oh God, he was never drinking again for the rest of his life, apparently he made terrible decisions while drunk. And yet he couldn't stop himself from flirting back just a bit.

"Oh well, if you really wanted to get me undressed, you didn't have to make up some portrait. But sure, if you want to draw me watching the Yankees slaughter the Mets then-- no, I can't even finish that sentence for the joke, it hurts too much. Yankees suck, man, I wouldn't be friends with a fan of theirs either."

It was good, why was it good to joke with Steve? Felt like they had been friends a long time, even if they hadn't.

"What time will you be home?"

"Baby steps," Steve shot back, rubbing his fingertips against his eyes because damn it. Why was he doing this to himself? He sank back against the block walls and pressed his knuckles against his forehead. Man. These last few days. How much crazy could he get himself into?

At least the quip about the Yankees had him relaxing and he laughed happily to find out that they were both New York Baseball fans who happened to like the underdogs. That made him feel so much better and he glanced at the clock to tick away the moments in his head.

"Around 6. Can you wait that long for me?" He did not follow up with a remark about Bucky dying of boredom or otherwise. A little restraint was about all he could muster before he quickly followed up the question without waiting for an answer with some bogus excuse that their model was coming back.

He groaned at his phone and one of the guys he hung out with in class came over and gave him the eyes. Steve shooed him off. He was not in the mood for teasing now. His face was red enough!

Bucky had a really full day once Steve hung up the phone. He spent a good hour drinking water and groaning into his pillow some more about a hangover, then another hour unpacking half a box very slowly. Then two hours psyching himself up to go to the corner shop and spend the last ten bucks he had since he wasn't going to make rent anyway and he was determined to cook Steve something to say thank you. Then another two hours recovering from going out by crying in the bathtub.

So it was half past six by the time he made it down to Steve's apartment, feeling both accomplished for having managed to go out and pathetic that it had taken him all day to literally go ten minutes down the street and grab half a bag of ingredients. He had on some fresh jeans and a fresh shirt, the prosthetic once more strapped on with the hand tucked into his pocket again. Hair washed and up. He almost looked presentable.

"Steve?"

He knocked on the door a bit hesitantly.

"I know you said you make a mean cup noodle, but I had some stuff that needed using up so I'm gonna make you meatballs."

Steve had only been home for half an hour before the knock on the door came and he ended up yelling through the shower curtain at Bucky for about two minutes before he realized that they likely couldn't hear each other as well as his next door neighbor could hear him. So, in a big, blue fluffy robe and suds in his hair, Steve dashed to the front door, unlocked it, yanked the damned thing open and ran back to the bathroom. "Go ahead-use whatever you need-lock up!" he called as the door slammed shut with some titilating bit of ankle shown in his wake.

He didn't take too much longer, rinsing out his hair had been easy and he didn't have a lot of skin to wash. He would return to find Bucky in the kitchen wearing black pajama pants and a navy t-shirt with the Mets logo on it. He might also have been wearing fuzzy socks. Natalia had given them to him for his birthday because he was also getting a chill. Evidently ballerinas put them over their toe shoes to protect them between dances. Steve hadn't wanted more information than that. He was just feeling a little under the weather. He popped some vitamin c on the way out and pulled up a stool.

"It's been years since anyone's cooked for me," he said, hair still damp but somehow fluffy. "Have you actually ever made meatballs?"

Bucky had been completely taken aback by the sight of Steve all lathered up, and he wasn't any less taken aback by the sight of him in pyjama pants and fuzzy socks. He looked adorable, and the more he saw him, the more he kind of wanted to kiss him. But that would be a genuinely terrible idea. They knew next to nothing about one another, and he was a giant fuck up right now.

"Yeah, not for a few years, but my Ma taught my how. Grew up in an Italian family, you really think my Ma wouldn't make sure that both of her kids knew how to cook pasta properly?"

He missed her. Rebecca too. He had written them one letter telling them that he had returned from Afghanistan and been discharged, but not that he had been a POW or that he was hurt, and that he had been offered a job across country. He said he'd write again when he was settled, and then he never had. Then he had fled to bury himself away from the world.

It was taking longer than he wanted to prepare the meatballs. Chopping onions was awkward, trying to pin them down with the weight of his prosthetic while he chopped with the other hand, but he was slowly getting there.

"I figured I owe you. You put up my furniture, and you left me aspirin, and I'm pretty sure I probably said some dumb stuff last night."

He tilted deep blue eyes to more spectacular blue eyes, a hint of questioning fear in there. He wanted to be reassured that he hadn't revealed how fucked up he was, but he also needed to hear the truth. How bad was the damage?

"Oh you said a lot of dumb stuff." But not about his family. So Barnes had an Itslian mother? Steve wondered what her maiden name had been. And he wondered what his sister's name was too.

Steve was already doodling on a pad he kept at the kitchen counter and not paying attention to the difficulty Bucky may or may not be having. There were a lot of things from Amazon that he could probably order to help him with cutting veggies or rolling meatballs but Steve wasn't going to say anything. He was mostly just outlining his new character being buried under bananas by Deputy Space Monkey. He probably should have given his own representation a little more bad assery but it felt good to poke fun at himself. It made him tougher when other people did.

"You were about ten seconds away from proposing marriage I think. I can't blame you. I have beautiful eyes, right?" He was just teasing. Sort of. But those beautiful eyes had indeed darted up towards Bucky for a moment before they dropped back to his comic. "I learned how easy it was to seduce you."

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