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Steve's never particularly cared for prepackaged food, but he's got a certain fondness for the man delivering it to him. He should probably feel a bit guilty when he flags the man down a third time under the guise of needing some more packets of salt, but the food really is a bit bland if he's being honest.
"I'm really sorry to bug you," he offers, and the attendant shakes his head with a smile, all teeth and sincerity. Steve breaths a sigh of relief.
"It's okay, sir. It's my job to make sure you're comfortable." The man says, and as he turns to go fetch the salt, Steve reads the nametag that lays over his heart.
James Barnes.
Steve knew a James in college. The guy was all muscle and no brain, unfortunately, but he had a certain passion in him that left a favourable impression in Steve's memories. Other than that he used to know a Jamie, but she was a girl, and his first kiss no less. The whole affair left a sour taste in his mouth, but he supposed everyone's firsts were the same. Memories preferably forgotten yet cherised because they were real, and at the time they happened they were as important as breathing air.
Steve had a lot of regrets in his life. Minor ones, mostly. Last Tuesday he agreed to write an article on the up-and-coming stars of Hollywood that was all drivel and pomp, and absolutely not his style. But he was pushing for a raise and couldn't afford the luxury of saying no.
He worked for a tiny newspaper called The LA Patriot, which printed a 25 page issue every Wednesday, and a 50 page issue every Saturday. Steve's goal was to one day write a piece for the Saturday issue, but his boss claimed he would need at least another year of experience for that to happen. So he had agreed to the Hollywood article because if experience was what they wanted, who better to write it than friend of self-made billionaire Tony Stark, CEO of Stark Industries.
Not that he and Tony were best friends or anything. They had gone to the same college for four years. Tony had a decade or so on Steve, and he was pretty sure the only reason Tony attended college was to get his father off his back. They had only been around each other on their breaks. Steve took Journalism, because he believed it the necessary path to the career he desired, though apparently a degree wasn't enough for a Saturday article. Tony was in the Engineering program, but from what Steve could tell, half the time he might as well have been paying tuition to better his sleeping habits. Yet the man still aced all his exams and graduated top of his class. It was baffling to Steve, why someone so intelligent had bothered to befriend him.
Yet here he was, 30,000 feet in the sky, on his way to attend the wedding of Tony Stark and long time high school sweetheart Pepper Potts.
Tony had insisted on a private jet, but Steve had just as vehemently declined. So the compromise they had reached was a first class American Airlines flight straight to Italy. Considering the extravagance was all paid for by Tony, it really didn't feel like much of a compromise to Steve but he told himself that sometimes in life it was okay to take such opportunities for what they were. Chances. Moments.
It was for this reason that when James Barnes came back clutching a handful of salt packages in his fist, gently depositing them on the pull out tray in front of Steve, that Steve took the risk and placed a hand on his arm before he could leave.
“I'm sorry,” he said, and he thought he detected a hint of amusement in the other man's eyes. “I'm a little bit nervous about flying. I talk a lot when I get nervous and you're the only attendant that comes up to this section.”
“If you'd prefer another, I'd be happy to--” the man began.
“No!” Steve interjected, releasing the man's arm from his tightened grip. “I'm sorry. Your name is James, can I call you that?”
James' eyes seemed to get brighter as they widened. His mouth slid in to an easy smile, and Steve found he really couldn't take his eyes off of him. Hesitantly he sat down in the empty seat across the aisle, elbow propped up on the chair's armrest. “You can. Do I get to call you something other than sir?” he asked.
“Steve Rogers,” Steve answered with a grin, extending his hand and when James took it he had a distinct feeling that this was one of those moments in life he would never regret.
“So Clint just slams his fist down on the table and screams, but Steve! The children are our future!” James' laughter fills the room and Steve's really starting to enjoy hearing it. “It was so loud, you have no idea. I thought we were done for.”
James leans back in his seat and bites his bottom lip, grinning. “Your friend sounds interesting,” and the fact that he honestly does sound interested warms Steve to the core.
“Well you know... journalists.” He replies, waving his hands in the air, earning another laugh from James.
“I really should check on the other guests,” James says, rubbing at the back of his neck. It's only been ten minutes since Steve managed to convince the attendant to stay and chat with him, and he realised that's ten minutes the guy really hasn't been doing his job. He feels a little guilty and it must show, because James quickly shakes his head. “No, no, it's fine. It's only a formality. My primary job is serving first class, and since you're the only one up here... well. But I should check on the other attendants as well. It won't take long.”
He stands and smooths his hands down his uniform, and Steve uses the moment to really admire him. His uniform is normal, really. Just a pair of dark blue slacks and a lighter button down collared shirt, over top of which he has on zippered airline sweater. It's only zipped up half way so Steve can see the tiny logo pinned to the collar of his shirt. It's immaculately pressed, and Steve gets the impression that this man cares a lot about his image. His hair is dark, short, and very neat. But it's his eyes that really capture Steve's attention, and he's been trying to name the colour in some fancy way, because they aren't just blue, though nothing seems to do them justice.
“By the way,” he says, placing a hand on Steve's shoulder and bending down a bit. “My name is James Buchanan Barnes. My friends call me Bucky. You can too.”
Steve barely manages a nod because Bucky's very close to him now, and he smiles. “Okay, Bucky.”
There it is, he thinks, as he watches the man leave.
Bucky's eyes are the colour of winter.
Bucky does return a few minutes later, but it's only to inform Steve that an issue has arisen with one of the guests in the back. Something about a man having drunk too much wine and getting a bit too vocal about a crying baby. Steve's thankful for Tony's insistence on first class now, but loneliness sets in again when Bucky leaves to deal with the situation. He stubbornly trains his eyes on the empty seat in front of him and slowly nods off to sleep.
When he wakes up it's because the plane is landing. Another attendant comes to help him exit, and when he's finally standing in the crowded terminal, he panics and walks back to the lady directing the guests off the plane. “Excuse me?” He asks, trying to get her attention.
She smiles, and it's very different from Bucky's smile and Steve's heart hurts just a little bit. “Can I help you with something, sir?”
“Yes,” he says, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “There was a flight attendant, James Barnes. I was just wondering--” and he stops because what exactly is he supposed to tell her?
He couldn't just write down his phone number and trust that she'd deliver it to Bucky, could he? Wouldn't that be a bit too forward anyway? Was Bucky even interested in him like that?
“Ah, yes, we apologise for any inconvenience. There was a misunderstanding with one of our guests, and Mr. Barnes was asked to help deal with it. His injuries were very minor and he will be completely fine in no time, don't worry.”
“I'm sorry?” Steve asked, confused. “He was injured? How?”
“Oh,” she realised her mistake. “I assumed you were asking... As I said, he helped another flight attendant in trying to escort the man to a quieter area. In the process the man hit him in the face.” She watched the worry wash over Steve's face and smiled gently. “He's okay. He won't be joining us on our flight back anyway. If you wait around you might see him.”
“Thank you,” he said, leaving her to usher the last few guests out. He really had no other plans for today. The wedding was tomorrow, and Tony said the resort allowed check in at any time. So he found a seat facing the exit and waited.
When Bucky finally exited, closing the doors behind him, he was wearing a simple jeans and t-shirt combo. He pulled a small suitcase behind him and held an ice pack to his left eye. Steve stood up and approached him, trying to erase the worry from his expression.
“Heard you got in to a little fight,” he said by way of greeting, and Bucky glanced up at him with a grimace.
“Don't remind me,” he mumbled, pulling a cellphone out of his pocket. “Sorry I never got to come back.” He halfheartedly checked his phone for messages and looked up at Steve again, smiling this time. “So what brings you to Italy?”
“Friend's getting married,” was his answer. He never liked mentioning Tony's name because he didn't want people thinking he was flaunting the friendship.
Bucky's answering grin was unsettling. “Tony Stark, you mean.”
“I guess you've heard of him.”
“No. I mean, yeah, heard of him. But it's not like Tony Stark's wedding is small news. Everyone here knows about it. Plus you were the only one on that plane in first class. Let you in on a little secret?” Bucky smirked. “Word between the attendants is that Tony Stark bought the entire first class cabin.”
Steve sighed. “Of course he did,” he said mostly to himself. “Any other rumours I should know about?”
“Yeah,” Bucky supplied, passing over his phone. “Word also is that there was a passenger shamelessly flirting with a flight attendant. No word yet on if the flirting was mutual, but if you just put your phone number in there for me, I'll get back to you on that one.”
Steve looked at him in awe, grasping the phone in his hand. He stared down at it, and the empty spot under his name stared back at him, as if daring him to refuse.
Slowly, a grin spread over his face, and he quickly put his phone number in, passing it back. “Sounds like a story,” he joked.
“Only if you want it to be.”
Steve laughed.