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.i.
“Since when do you not know where the forks are?”
“My super came in and rearranged everything.”
“And you just… let her?”
Bucky shrugged. “Yeah, the super’s actually a temp, her grandmother owns the building. She’s stepping in while her Nonna’s on a cruise.”
Steve nodded and disappeared back into the kitchen. Bucky ducked back into the mess of wires sprawled all about his living room. Should he call it quits? There was no need for a cable box or a dvd player when he could hook up an HDMI to the flatscreen and call it a day.
Steve reappeared with a dish of lasagna and two spoons plunked down beside him. “Your microwaves busted.”
“That’s why it’s in ceramic,” Bucky looked up, “you could have put in the oven.”
Steve stared. “Who are you even?”
Bucky grunted. That tone was not appreciated.
.ii.
Bucky shut off his laptop and cracked his spine.
Steve was braced against the door to his living room, arms crossed and staring at him expectantly.
“Christ, man!” and then, “how are you in here?”
“How?” asked Steve incredulously, “the door was open,” the ‘you idiot’ went unspoken.
“Oh.” Bucky stood and grabbed his jacket off the floor. “Let’s go. Games in twenty? Clint went ahead and picked up the tickets this morning, he said to meet him at C13,”
“That’s it?”
“Hmm?”
“Nevermind, man.”
.iii.
The waitress was a pretty thing, popping gum, pad in hand, pen at ready.
Tigers had won 42-44. Bucky was two hundred bucks lighter. Steve and Clint both had cat in the cream, shit eating grins plastered on their stupid mugs.
She smacked her gum again. “It’s a diner. Everything will give you diabetes. Pick something now, or I leave and won’t be back for another twenty minutes,”
Steve ordered a burger and fries, Clint went for meatloaf. Bucky asked for a burger, but the waitress informed him that he was getting chicken casserole. Bucky agreed. She flicked him off and turned heel.
Bucky went back to his truly awful cup of decaf. Not only had he lost the bet, he’d picked short straw as designated driver.
Steve pulled his phone and buzzed off a quick text. Clint’s watch dinged, he checked the incoming message and dipped his head into a pint of amber and foamy, snickering.
Bucky hoped he choked on it.
.iv.
Distant screeching broke Bucky out his reverie.
Steve was prowling his kitchen. Again. The man was never ending pit.
These plans should have been drafted hours ago. Sighing, he pushed the laptop off his knees.
Oh. Wait. The cat.
“Yeah, she’s out of town for the weekend,” Bucky ruffled the back of his head sheepishly. “I figured it was easier to feed the little bugger if he was with me. And if I broke something at hers, I’d never hear the end of it.”
“Her again?”
Bucky nodded. “But there’s another lasagna in the freezer. Wanna call in for pizza instead? Delivery is gonna be extra tonight with the Super Bowl. Didn’t you grow out of that cat allergy?”
“So she let you have carte blanche into her apartment to feed her cat?”
“Yes?”
“Dude!”
.v.
“How long is this cruise anyway?”
“Six months, an extended tour of Europe and the Mediterranean islands.”
“And she’ll move out then?”
“I guess,”
That look again. Bucky's remote accidentally met the back of Steve's head.
“It’s not like that,”
Steve grinned.
“Fuck you.”