For Steve

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[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

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[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.

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[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.

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[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?