For Steve

[advanced]

[The little apartment building at the south end of Brooklyn was not a fashionable place to live, it wasn't even a pleasant place to live. The apartments were cheap, tiny, and often had a plethora of faults that the landlord didn't care enough about fixing. The people that lived there were often desperate for money, sometimes illegal immigrants, sometimes people running from a bad situation, sometimes just people who had fallen on hard times.

Bucky looks up at the outside of the building and feels his stomach sink, but it's this or sleeping on his sister's couch again, and he can't cope with that any longer. She's treated him like he's some fragile thing ever since he got discharged, just because he's down an arm and his brain sometimes fucks up. He's still him, and being treated like glass was driving him nuts, so he got the best place he could afford on an army pension.

This shit-hole.

Doesn't matter, this is a fresh start. He has his prosthetic on, so nobody will be able to tell that he's only got one arm, he's even got his hair tied back in a loose bun, and he's ready to face the world. Make friends, get a job, be less fucked up.

...right up until he accidentally drops a box containing the plates and glasses his sister got him as a moving in present right outside his neighbour's door with the loudest crash possible, and then a fairly loud Shit to follow. Oops.]

Comments

[1943]

[ For all that the graveyard shift makes Steve feel like someone steamrollered him and then tossed him in a spin cycle, he kinda likes the mornings after. Quiet, with the whole day stretched out in front of him — sure, he sleeps for at least half of it, but then he has the rest of the time to do whatever he wants. In his pyjamas.

Like right now. Steve feels a yawn coming and indulges it before finally clambering out of bed, sleepy and ruffled, to trudge to his cramped little kitchen for something to eat.

He’s just got the tea kettle going and is taking out a frying pan from under the sink when an almighty crash right outside his door nearly makes him jump right out of his skin.

What the hell was that?

Maybe it’s a murderer, comes the helpful suggestion from the back of his mind, and Steve silently tells his brain to shut up as he jumps to his feet, pulse hammering. The loud curse that follows almost reassures him, considering how frazzled it sounds. Besides, it’s the middle of the afternoon. Can’t possibly be a murderer.

… But. A little caution can’t hurt, anyway, so Steve takes the pan with him on the way over to the front door before leaning up to the smudgy peephole. Relief sweeps over him at the sight of what appears to be a regular dude outside and — Steve squints, raises up on his toes a little to see clearer — something on the floor. A box? Something scattered?

Wait, does this guy need help? Steve hesitates for a second with one hand hovering over the doorknob, his frying pan held forgotten in the other, before cracking the door open and peering outside. ]

You okay, pal? [ And that's when he sees the mess of shattered glass and china on the floor, and grimaces in sympathetic realization. ]

Oh, shit.

[advanced]

[Well, great.

Bucky's one hope had been that his neighbours might not be in; it was, after all, the middle of the day and the odds were good that they would be out at work, which would leave nobody around to have heard or witnessed his spectacular entrance to the building. But of course that wasn't to be, of course the person who lived right next door to his new place would be there.

For a moment, Bucky's first uncharitable thought is that it's a teenager that's opened the door. Small, scrawny... but no, it's an adult, just one who looks like he might get bowled over by a light breeze. At least he's not yelling at the noise, though seeing that he's in his pyjamas doesn't make him feel any better. The guy must work nights and had been sleeping, and Bucky woke him up. Good job, Barnes, excellent first impression.]

Sorry, I'll get this cleared up as soon as I can. It wasn't really my style, anyway, a bunch of fancy plates from my sister.

[He smiles a bit awkwardly, crooked.]

I'm Bucky. James. I mean James Barnes, I'm moving in next door.

[Good God, this was already going terribly. He might as well sink into the floor right now, instead he held out his good hand for a shake, the prosthetic hand neatly tucked into his pocket so it looked normal.]

[1943]

[ No wonder the guy sounded upset earlier. That was a lot of broken, expensive-looking dishware, especially considering the amount of stairs he must’ve had to carry it up. Jeez.

Steve tears his eyes away from the mess at the sound of the man’s voice, taking in his new neighbour's appearance properly without the grime of the peephole obscuring his already weak vision. Tall, dark, and wow handsome built. Also friendly, which is always a nice surprise in this part of town. Steve returns the crooked smile tossed his way with one of his own, stepping forward while being careful to avoid the glass. ]

Hey, it could happen to anybody. You should see me bussing tables.

[ And that definitely sounded better in his head, so he adds hastily, ] Steve Rogers, by the way. [ and reaches out to shake his hand. Or at least he tries to, but ends up offering him the frying pan instead, like the genius he is. ]

Wait, no, that’s — sorry, lemme just… [ He fumbles it into his other hand, his ears going warm, and then takes James’s (Bucky’s?) hand in a firm and thankfully non-clammy grip. ]

I was, uh — breakfast. [ I was breakfast. Brilliant. ] I mean, I was about to have some. [ Probably best not to mention he’d brought the pan along for safety purposes, ahem. ] Anyway, welcome to the building. I’ve got a broom and dustpan handy, I'll help clean this up.

[advanced]

[Wow, this guy was such a dork. Of all the people he had expected as a neighbour in this part of town, finding someone who looked ninety pounds soaking wet and got flustered over a friendly hello really wasn't it. But it was nice. Maybe once upon a time he might have even flirted a bit, but he had left that man behind in the desert somewhere, so he settled for just keeping his smile in place.]

You don't have to help out, but I'd love to borrow your broom, I don't really have one yet.

[He bends down to pick over a couple of bits of broken crockery, carefully sorting it back into the cardboard box as much as he can.]

If you bus tables then God knows you've probably had to sweep up enough broken plates without having to do it in your own hallway. So if you could let me borrow the dustpan, then you can get back to your breakfast, Steve Rogers.

[1943]

I don’t know, James Barnes, my sweeping skills are a little rusty these days. I could do with some practice. [ Steve grins, quick and warm, and ducks back indoors. He returns a few moments later with a broom and dustpan in one hand, and a couple of plastic bags in the other. ]

Figured it’d be good to have something covering our hands, keep 'em from getting cut.

[ His tone is slightly apologetic as he puts on one of the bags like a makeshift glove and holds out the other one to James, hoping it doesn’t look too bad that he doesn’t have actual gloves handy. But. James (Bucky?} didn’t judge him for waiting on tables or anything, and he seems like a nice guy. (With a really nice smile.) So Steve crouches down next to him, feeling less self-conscious than before as he glances up at him. ]

Did you move in all your other stuff yet?

[ As he speaks, he sets the broom and pan to one side before starting to pick the largest pieces of china out of the way. It’d make it a cleaner sweep for the smaller shards. ]

[advanced]

[Damn. This is what he'd been hoping to avoid, he wanted his nice new neighbour to go back inside and not watch as Bucky awkwardly cleaned up one handed. Tasks like this made it hard to hide that the arm filling his left sleeve was nothing but plastic, metal, and straps. But he wanted to try, he didn't want anyone to know, he wanted to be seen as normal in this fresh start.

He wasn't going to fuck it up on the first day.

The bag was awkward to get open and slip onto his hand, but he managed to do it while Steve was looking down, distracted by setting the broom and pan to one side, and hopefully him keeping his other hand in his pocket will look more like him attempting to look cool than suspicious.]

Uh, yeah, that was the last of it.

[The truth was, he didn't have much stuff. He got used to living out of a backpack for safety, and the habit was hard to break. A few sets of clothes, a couple of pairs of boots, his medals, and a few books. His sister made sure that he had a bed and a couch, as well as these plates, but that was it. No TV, no computer, nothing else.]

So how long have you been living here? What's it like? The reviews online said the area was a shithole, is that true?

[He leans over to get some of the bigger pieces of china, his dog tags pressing against the inside of his shirt. He still wears them, it feels wrong to take them off, but he keeps them hidden.]

[1943]

[ Noting that James is picking up the other bits of crockery, Steve abandons the task in favor of starting to sweep up the smaller pieces, and can't hold back a snort at James's words. ]

Yeah. The reviews aren't wrong, exactly, but... I dunno. The place kind of grows on you.

[ Plus there hasn't been a pest problem since Steve moved in here, and he's about to follow through on that when the topic gives him pause. He remembers moving in here. Remembers what happened weeks before that, too; walking into his old house after he came back from his failed attempt at enlisting, to find out that while he’d been gone, his mom — ]

Moved in alone about three years back. I kinda lucked out, actually; it was no-fee and I paid three months upfront, so I didn’t have to prove income stability right off the bat. [ The words come easily as he finishes sweeping the shards into a neat little pile in a corner of the dustpan before dumping them into his plastic bag. ]

People mostly keep to themselves around here, but some asshat on the floor above ours likes to party real goddamn loud every once in a while. No pests, which is still a surprise to me. [ He ties the bag into a little knot, placing it into the cardboard box with the remainder of the broken dishware, and looks up at James with a lopsided smile. ] And that’s about it, I think.

[ Unthinkingly, his eyes drift to James’s hand that is still tucked into his pocket, but Steve doesn’t really ponder on it too much, aside from wondering if maybe his neighbour’s feeling a bit cold. ]

How about you? What brings you to this neck of the woods?

[advanced]

[Guy upstairs who likes to give loud parties, that's good to know, it means it won't take him by surprise when it happens. He's obviously lucked out with his new neighbour, unless Steve is one of those guys who seems all quiet and unassuming on the outside, but secretly has a collection of human skin or something.

Best not to think of that.

He grins, bringing a glib tease to his lips rather than the truth. He's not about to give his sob story, he'd rather make a joke of it, an amusing lie, and see if he can get Steve to laugh and then forget about pushing for the real answer.]

Isn't it obvious?

[He flicks a couple of strands of hair back where they fell out of his bun, an exaggerated broody pout at his lips.]

I'm here to break into Broadway. I'm just some incredibly handsome actor, out of work, who can't afford a better place to stay. But someday soon I'll be dancing in skin-tight lycra and living the high life.

[1943]

[ Gosh, there’s that smile again. Steve’s momentarily distracted by it, gaze following the movement of James's hand as it flicks his hair back, and the laugh that tumbles from his lips at James’s next words is as surprised as it is amused.

For a split second, he almost believes it; his new neighbour is definitely hot handsome enough. That brooding look he had going on just now, for example. It wouldn't be out of place on a poster covering the side of a building. The hair, too. Not every guy looks that good with long hair, but James pulls it off. Especially with his build, and —

Steve realizes he's practically checking the guy out at this point and looks away, clearing his throat gently. ]

Man, I should’ve guessed. Although ... [ His voice takes on a teasing note. ] Skin tight lycra, huh? Sure it’s acting you’re after at Broadway, and not the ballet?

[ ...wait, what if James takes that the wrong way. Suddenly flustered, he clarifies, ] Like Russian ballet, I mean. Guys — male ballet. Uh.

[advanced]

[Perfect, that went exactly to plan, now Steve was so amused that he wouldn't think to question him again. Obviously Bucky wasn't actually an actor, or a ballet dancer for that matter, though he had enjoyed swing dancing before he shipped out. A hobby shared between Becca and himself that he had got embarrassingly into.]

No way, I don't have the legs for the ballet.

[Having got all the big pieces of crockery up, Bucky stood and nudged the box out of the way a bit to see how much crap was left to clean up.]

I'll stick to being an out of work actor, rehearsing auditions while I clean buildings or something. I haven't decided that bit yet, maybe I'll be lucky and get my big break without all that minimum wage job stuff first?

[He'd be happy to have a minimum wage job. Any job, as long as he could hold it down and be somewhat normal.]

Thanks for helping. I'd say let me make you a cup of coffee to make up for it, but my mugs are all kind of busted now.

[1943]

[ Already flustered, Steve doesn't immediately grok what James means about his legs; used to as he is with his own creaky knees, he wonders if maybe he's got some kinda injury. ]

They look fine to me.

[ Said without thinking, and without his permission, Steve's eyes zero in on James' legs, taking in the shape of them — he's wearing jeans, not much to see there — and then he realizes he's doing it again. Checking him out. Get it together, man, he thinks to himself, feeling his face go warm as his eyes skitter away, upward and to the right. ]

Not that, uh — can't judge a book by its cover, right? [ Weak finish, Rogers. Steve winces internally and quickly moves the conversation along. ] Anyway, glad I could help. What kinda neighbour would I be if I didn't?

[ Hopefully, he's still coming across as the non-creepy kind. Steve hesitates, figures he's already put his foot in it so much that if he does it some more it won't make any difference now, and then nods his head toward his apartment, finally meeting James' eyes with a shy half-smile. ]

We could have coffee at my place, if you want. And breakfast, since I figure your plates are busted too.

[advanced]

[He's not an idiot, and he's well versed with what it feels like to be checked out. He used to be the guy that played the field a lot before he enlisted, he'd have a different girl or guy on his arm every other week, and none of them ever complained that he promised too much or didn't treat them right.

But he's not used to being checked out now. Not since he got back. But this is one of the benefits of coming someplace where nobody knows, his new neighbour only sees a guy his age, not a scarred up amputee veteran. Thank God for prosthetic limbs. He wants to flirt back, but he's kind of rusty, so he just ends up smiling in a way that he's nearly sure makes him look like a moron.]

You sure? I thought you were sleeping when I woke you with my graceful box moving skills?

[He doesn't want to keep this poor guy up any longer.]

I don't want to impose.

[1943]

[ Okay, this guy has the nicest smile Steve's ever seen, and it makes his stomach do a weird, happy little flip flop, even as his own small, shy smile evens out into something a lot more comfortable. Because not only is James good-looking, he's polite too. Out of your league, his good sense reminds him, and Steve shakes his head, hoping he hasn't been too obvious in checking him out. ]

Nah, been up for a while. You'd be doing me a favor, really. I haven't —

[ he almost says had a meal with someone in a while and stops himself just in time, thank God. He's already coming across as awkward (and probably dorky), he doesn't need to add Loner to that list. ]

I mean, I always ... make too much and end up having it for lunch. So you definitely wouldn't be imposing. [ a beat. ] Besides, I make a killer omelette.

[advanced]

[Usually he ignores the voice at the back of his head that says start socialising more, usually the voice sounds like his case worker at the VA, because being around people usually makes it feel like someone is scraping fingernails over his brain.

But for some reason that's not happening right now. Maybe it's because Steve is so obviously not a physical threat that it helps, or maybe it's just because he has a nice warm smile and he doesn't know that Bucky is anything but normal. So, in a move that surprises even himself, he nods.]

Sure, how could I resist a home cooked omelette? I'm a really bad cook, so it's pretty much the drawer of take out menus for my meals.

[He straightens up and picks up the box and its debris of ruined plates in one hand.]

I'll just put this in my place and change into something less, uh, covered in moving crap, okay?