Work Text:
"I believe the polite thing to do when you go up to somebody’s house is to knock on the door."
Steve jumped back from where he had been peering in the window of the log cabin to find himself face-to-face with a rifle.
Well, that was not strictly true: the rifle was hanging loosely from the man’s hand like he barely knew it was there. Steve had seen his fair share of shooting, and knew how deceptive a hold like that could be. Some of the best shots he’d ever known had held their guns like that.
The hand holding the gun was big, angular and dirty. So was the arm it was attached to, and the man’s bare chest was slick with the kind of sweat that came from good, hard work. One cheekbone seemed to be smeared with grease. Faded blue jeans hung from his hips, held up by a worn leather belt that didn’t have a lot of enthusiasm when it came to doing its job. There was a small, ragged towel around his neck, and his mussed up hair was plastered to his forehead.
Based on the even tan of his skin, working shirtless wasn’t exactly a rarity with this guy, and his body was compact and lean. His posture seemed bored, heavily averse to expending any more energy than he had to.
It reminded Steve of sculptures he’d seen grainy photographs of in books, and his fingers twitched with the thought of taking out his sketchbook and foregoing the landscape sketches he’d had planned to instead draw the view in front of him.
The man’s face was impassive, and bright blue eyes were locked to Steve’s from under dark brows. A strong jaw, slightly inclined, and five o’clock shadow did little to take away from the picture presented of powerful, masculine self-sufficiency.
Steve said, “Um,”
The man waited for something further, and nothing else came. He pursed his lips for a moment before speaking again.
"Look, kid, that’s my porch you’re currently trespassing on. Is there anything I can help you with, or do you get your kicks by runnin’ round other folks’ property?"
Steve bristled at the word ‘kid’. In the first place, he was definitely taller — and possibly older — than whatever low-life drifter this guy was.
Except he didn’t talk like a drifter.
He talked like a city kid, a tenement punk from the wrong side of the tracks; drawling and words richly shaped by some accent or another. Brooklyn, maybe?
Steve blinked, shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to remember what his problem was. Aside from not being able to count on work or having enough money to pay the docs back for the treatment they’d done for his ma back when she’d been alive and laid low with consumption.
"I, uh, got lost."
He tried not to squirm under the roving gaze he was subjected to.
It had to be at least a minute before he got a response.
"Hiker, huh?"
Steve just nodded. Might as well say that than say that he’d felt like his head was stuffed with cotton in the city, and he’d needed a breather.
More silence.
"Mudslide."
He looked up from where his eyes had trained on his boots, examining the dirt he’d picked up on them while trudging through the loam.
"Sorry?"
The man gestured loose and fluid with the rifle in the direction Steve had come from.
"There was a mudslide a week or so back in that area. Wiped out the trail."
Steve nodded, and felt like even more of a chump for not having noticed when the footing changed. He’d been trying to name a bird call he’d been hearing, got lost in thought. Trying to immerse himself in his surroundings so that he could forget some of his other troubles for a while.
And then he was just plain lost.
To his surprise, he was treated to a devilish smirk.
"Well, I guess you’d better come inside."
That smile did things to Steve. Stomach-flipping, finger-tingling, mouth-drying things.
He heard himself say, “If that wouldn’t be too much trouble,” but paid little attention to his own words, seeing as he had just noticed the dimples in the man’s lower back when he walked past him. Truthfully, there was a bit of a swagger in the liquid movement. Steve would not admit that his mouth watered. That wasn’t something a man admitted to.
But Lord, if this man wasn’t fine.
This was what a body was for; this was the human form in all its glory. He could reach out and—
"Well, cityslicker?" The knowing glint in the man’s eyes made Steve certain that he knew exactly what sort of effect he was having on him.
Steve flushed. You didn’t look at a man like that, and they certainly didn’t look back at you in any kind of the same way. Especially not with amusement under their words and challenge in their posture.
That just wasn’t how things were done.
Steve resolved to be a little more discreet as he trailed inside.
"Steve." He blurted out suddenly.
Or not.
"My name is Steve."
One side of his rescuer-and-hopefully-not-ax-murderer’s mouth was still twisted upward when he turned to look at Steve from where he was hanging his rifle — one of several, Steve now noted — on pegs set in the wall.
He whipped the towel from around his neck, the muscles in his arms rippling with the movement. He wiped off one hand and extended it to Steve.
Steve took it.
"Bucky."
Steve almost laughed— of course the strange loner who walked around half-naked in the mountains with a shotgun would be named Bucky.
The strong grip and rough callouses of the dry hand gripping his was enough of a jolt that he didn’t.
The smirk stretched a little wider, and Steve could see how the corners of Bucky’s eyes crinkled in response.
He held on a bit too long before letting go too quickly.
"So, um, do you live up here on your own?"
Bucky went over to a chest of drawers, pulled out a tank top, and Steve did not allow himself one last look to the sculpted muscles of his chest and stomach. Not to mention the dark hair across his pecs and the rather thrilling line of it that descended from his navel below the waistband of his jeans and—
Bucky snorted.
"You see anybody else?" He waved one hand carelessly in an all-encompassing gesture at the one room cabin.
"Aside from the occasional lost hiker, I’m all on my lonesome. Like it that way, too."
The tank top wasn’t much better.
It clung to his body and rode up when he bent to unlace his boots before kicking them off either foot.
"Sorry," Steve said automatically. "For butting in."
Bucky gave him a look over his shoulder that was as dark and heated as sin, and he could see how his eyes squinted with the smirk that undoubtedly accompanied it.
"You’re no trouble, Steve. Some company I don’t mind at all."
The way his eyes dragged up Steve’s frame made it obvious that he was referring to attractive company. Steve’s breath quickened for a moment before Bucky turned away, and he was free of the piercing gaze that had, in all honesty, gone straight between his legs. This was not good. Not good at all.
It had been a long time since Steve had felt so tongue-tied just because of one person.
About as long as it had been since he’d last exchanged words with someone like Bucky.
Charming, laid back, cheeky. Someone who could make unlacing their boots become something completely engrossing.
"I was just wondering if I could get some water, maybe a map? I can be out of your way before you know it." Steve found his voice, tried to sound normal. Jesus, what did normal sound like? He sounded normal, right?
Bucky shook his head.
He crossed his arms over his chest and chewed on the inside of his cheek a moment, looking out the grimy window.
"Storm’s coming. I ain’t taking any old punk out in anything less than full daylight."
Bucky let a long breath out of his nose and cocked one eyebrow at Steve in a way that could only be described as rakish.
A smile played over his lips when he spoke.
"Guess you’re sticking around for tonight, big guy."
"But… you’ve only got the one bed."
The smile broke into a full out grin.
"Wow, Steve, you some kinda detective or somethin’?"
"No, I just…"
"Don’t worry," Bucky said. "I don’t snore. You eat yet?"
**
Bucky was from Brooklyn. He enjoyed a good football match and liked dancing. When he laughed, Steve felt warm all over.
Steve told him about his ma and his art, about city living and his cramped tenement apartment.
When he answered Bucky that no, he was not seeing anyone, the other man scoffed.
"Handsome guy like you? I bet they’re lining up at the door."
Bucky had his feet up on the table and a cigarette dangling from two fingers, smirk firmly in place.
Steve rubbed the back of his neck, ducking his head.
"Naw, I don’t— don’t impress ‘em much after I open my mouth and it all comes out in the wrong order."
Not to mention swinging the other way more often than not.
Bucky laughed again, loose and open. Steve wasn’t quite sure how he managed not to be laughing at him, but he smiled despite himself.
"Com’n, city boy. Let’s get you bunked up."
Bucky stubbed out his cigarette, swung his feet off the table and stood.
"You gonna be alright sleepin’ in your skivvies, or do you want I should loan you something?"
Right. Sleeping. In the same bed as Bucky; handsome, quick witted, and charisma enough to beat the band.
Steve was in so much trouble.
He elected to stay in his own clothes and slide in to the far side, immediately rolling to face the wall and put his back to the other man.
"What," the bed dipped and springs creaked when Bucky got into the bed too. "No goodnight kiss?"
His tone was dripping with good-natured tease, but it struck a little too close for it to sit alright with Steve. He huffed out a breath through his nose.
"You wish."
Silence.
**
It was raining when Steve woke up.
More accurately, it seemed as if God had taken it into his mind to flood the earth again.
It was the bang of the door when Bucky came in that roused Steve, and the way his clothes stuck to his skin woke the rest of him up pretty quick.
Bucky grinned over, rivulets of water streaming down his face from where wet hair flopped over his eyes.
"Guess you’re stickin’ around, kid."
Steve looked out the window to see the branches bowing in the gale.
"Guess so."
Steve rubbed a hand over his face and grimaced. He hadn’t shaved yesterday, or the day before. Guess it would be some time until he did.
Bucky noticed his movement from where he was peeling himself out of his clothes.
"Not happy unless you’re clean shaven, huh?"
Steve averted his eyes and got out of bed, finding the clothes he’d worn yesterday and putting them on.
"Habit. Makes me feel better when I am. Don’t reckon you’ve got a mirror up here, huh?"
Bucky shook his head.
"If I need one, I use the river."
Steve sighed. It would have at least given him something to do.
Bucky toweled his hair vigorously, pulled on another shirt and began rolling up the sleeves.
"I could do it for ya."
Steve gave him a polite, if skeptical, look. Bucky had a good amount of scruff going.
Bucky rolled his eyes.
"Just ‘cause I can’t stay clean shaven for one day doesn’t mean I don’t know how to do it."
And that was how Steve ended up getting the most strangely exhilarating shave of his life.
**
It wasn’t that Bucky was bad at it and Steve feared for his life. He was very thorough, and two fingers that steadied Steve’s chin as he tilted his head back were gentle. He ran the backs of his knuckles over Steve’s cheek to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, and Steve had no idea if he made up the ghosting touch over his lips, but they parted anyways. His eyes flickered open to find Bucky giving him a proud, somewhat crooked smile.
"There y’are, kid. Gotta admit this suits you more than it does me." Bucky said, chucked him under the chin.
Steve used the towel he’d had around his neck to wipe off the rest of the shaving cream that Bucky had brushed on with smooth, even strokes of the brush and his brows drawing together in his concentration.
Steve was just going to pull his shirt over his head when Bucky spoke again, low and impassive.
"Say, is there some other reason you ain’t got yourself a dame?"
Steve didn’t move, and heard the floorboards creaking when Bucky stepped closer.
"Maybe— you’re not interested. If you catch my meaning."
Steve swallowed.
"I’m interested," he said. "Just— not too much."
Another step closer. Steve could already see him in his mind’s eye; knew how he moved. He would be stalking, almost predatory.
"Then what do you like, Steve?"
Bucky was right behind him.
"I like you just fine."
Another swallow; attempting to ease the tightness in his throat.
"That so?"
Steve could feel Bucky’s breath at the back of his neck. A tingle shot down his spine and spread out, warmth sparking just under his skin.
"It is."
Bucky’s hands, warm, rough and big, found Steve’s hipbones and squeezed.
"I like you, too."
Steve let his eyes slip closed and rocked back on his heels a fraction. Managed, “Yeah?”
"Yeah." Bucky nosed along his back, lips skimming his skin in what was not quite a kiss.
"Whaddaya say we do something about that?"
It felt very hard to breathe, heat blazing where Bucky’s hands and face pressed to his skin. Steve took a shuddering breath.
"Yeah."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
**
Fin.