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The bathroom is hot and steamy when Bucky comes back from gathering his supplies, the little window and the mirror above the sink all fogged up. He puts the candles, the matches, and the six-pack of beer down on the closed toilet for now, then goes to check the state of the tub. It’s a little more than half full, the water hot enough to make him hiss.
Perfect.
Bucky shucks his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, then goes to rummage through the cupboard for one of the lavender and valerian bath bombs he saves for days when he needs an extra dose of relaxation. And the whole security department at work celebrating Brock and Jack getting engaged—a mere three months after Bucky got dumped by the former for the latter—definitely warrants an evening of drinking and getting all pruny, he figures.
While the bath bomb fizzes and bubbles away, Bucky lights the candles, arranging them along the edges at the foot end of the tub. Their myrrh and citrus scents go perfectly with the more flowery notes of the bath bomb, and Bucky inhales deeply, already feeling some of the tension starting to seep out of his shoulders.
He cracks open one of the beers, taking a long drink, and slowly, carefully lowers himself into the tub. He sighs happily once he’s submerged up to his chest, tipping his head back as his eyes flutter closed, and fumbles around a little with his toes to turn off the tap.
One of the candles gets shoved to the side a little in the process, but it doesn’t tip over, so Bucky doesn’t bother opening his eyes again. At least, not until there’s a loud crack of thunder, followed by a heavy weight settling on Bucky’s lower legs, sending a small wave of water towards Bucky’s face.
Spluttering and coughing, Bucky heaves himself upright, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “What the fuck?” he demands, blinking furiously.
“Well,” comes an amused voice from the other end of the tub, “isn’t this cosy?”
Bucky screams.
And rightfully so, he thinks, gaping at the other man suddenly sitting in his tub.
Although, man might be a little bit of a stretch. He has four thick horns Bucky’s pretty sure are actually growing out of his skull, a tail with a viciously pointy end that’s draped over the edge of the tub, his pupils are cat-like slits, and, Bucky sees when he opens his mouth to talk, his teeth are definitely too long and sharp to be human.
“So, what’s on the agenda for today?” the probably-not-a-man asks, gaze curiously roaming around the room before coming to settle on Bucky. “Jinxing someone? Tricking your boss into giving you a promotion? Oh, no, I know; growing a new arm, right?”
“What the fuck?” Bucky says again, clutching at his prosthesis, and pulling his legs up against himself. He’s not usually a self-conscious kind of guy, but he is bare ass naked, while the—the creature watching him is wearing what looks like a ridiculously expensive and, somehow, completely dry suit. “What—who are you? What’re you doin’ here?”
The name, supposedly, the creature introduces himself with is nothing Bucky could ever hope to even begin to pronounce. Which the creature must realise, too, laughing a little and offering, “Call me Tony. I’ve been told that rolls a little easier off the tongue for you mortals.”
Bucky keeps staring, heart beating wildly.
“This summoning has been an accident, I take it?” the creature—Tony asks, and doesn’t look too surprised when Bucky nods dumbly. “Ah. Don’t worry about it, it happens more often than you’d think.”
“People—summon you? On accident?” Bucky asks in disbelief. “What, are you some kind of—of demon or somethin’?”
“Demon sums it up pretty nicely, yes,” Tony says.
And doesn’t laugh. Because he’s serious. Demons are a real, existing thing. And Bucky just so happened to summon one with his scented candles from the dollar store.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Bucky groans, and downs the rest of his beer.
When he looks back at Tony, Tony is as naked as Bucky, holding the rest of the six-pack and frowning at it. Bucky can feel himself blush, and says a silent thank you to whoever might be listening that the bath bomb has turned the water a deep, dark purple, and he didn’t end up with an eyeful of demon junk.
“I don’t like this,” Tony proclaims with a grimace, setting the beer back down again. He snaps his fingers, there’s a small cloud of red smoke, and then he’s holding a bottle of champagne and two flutes, looking satisfied. “Much better.”
Tony pops the cork, fills the glasses, and Bucky takes the one he’s offered on autopilot, watching speechlessly as Tony puts the bottle down in a bucket filled with ice that has appeared on the floor next to the tub.
“All right, gorgeous,” Tony says once he’s done, settling in more comfortably. “Talk to me. What has you so messed up that you unintentionally reached across plains to bring me here?”
“Are you flirtin’ with me?” Bucky demands incredulously, then shakes his head, changing tracks. Gesturing at his glass, he wants to know, “No, wait, hold on. Can I even drink this? Will you take my soul or somethin’ like that if I do?”
“That’s the fae you’re thinking of,” Tony dimisses, as if that makes any sense at all. “And my company doesn’t deal in souls anymore, anyway. The stocks have gone down drastically over the last couple of centuries, and, let’s be real here, trading in souls is a total dick move. You can tell mortals they’ll end up in hell without a soul, but they won’t ever really be able to understand what that means. Not really fair, if you ask me.”
Before he can stop himself, Bucky blurts, “What do you deal in, then?”
Tony shrugs, taking a sip of his champagne. “This and that, whatever is currently in demand on our plain. Gold and silver are always popular, jewels, anything with personal value. KFC, ice cream, Swiss cheeses—”
“You’re shittin’ me,” Bucky snorts, but stretches his legs back out again so he can lean in a little closer. “People summon demons an’ try to barter with cheese?”
“Hey,” Tony raises an eyebrow, “have you ever had Gruyère? I’d give my soul for a lifetime supply if I had one. Here.”
Another smoke cloud, this time revealing a bathtub tray filled to bursting with cheeses, crackers, dried meats, an assortment of fruit, and two glasses of red wine. Bucky’s stomach gives a traitorous grumble, making Tony laugh softly.
“Go on, handsome, dig in.”
Bucky doesn’t need to be told twice this time.
It should be weirder, probably, and definitely scarier, to sit in his tub with a demon, sharing food and sipping wine, and arguing good-naturedly about what tastes best and what goes best with what, while the water somehow never goes cold. But Tony’s charming and engaging with a wicked sense of humour, regaling Bucky with stories Bucky’s about 50% sure are exaggerated because Tony’s trying to impress him, like the fact that Tony is a magical creature alone isn’t blowing Bucky’s mind already.
And it definitely helps that Tony’s pretty easy on the eyes, too.
Bucky has no idea how long they’ve been talking when there’s another crack of thunder. He drops his glass, but at least he doesn’t scream. Much.
“Aw, come on,” Tony whines, and pouts up at the woman standing on Bucky’s bath mat in heels that make Bucky’s feet hurt just from looking at them. “Five more minutes? Please, Pep?”
The woman sighs, rubbing at her forehead between the two horns growing there. “You’ve missed two meetings,” she scolds, but Bucky’s pretty sure she’s trying not to smile. “Five minutes, not a second longer, or I’ll be back to personally drag you to back to our plain.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tony says, grinning, saluting her jauntily.
The woman sighs again, nods at Bucky, and vanishes with a pop.
“That’s my cue,” Tony says with an apologetic smile. “She didn’t look like she was kidding, so I better head back. Here, give me your arm.”
Bucky does, and Tony traces his finger along his forearm, leaving behind a series of black, faintly tingling digits. “Call me sometime?” he asks, almost shyly. “I still want to know what had you so upset earlier. Maybe over coffee this weekend?”
“Wait,” Bucky is still looking down at the numbers, wide-eyed, “you have a phone?”
Tony raises an eyebrow at him. “It’s 2019, sweetheart.”
He grins, leans forward to brush a feather-light kiss across Bucky’s cheek, winks, there’s another pop, and then he’s gone.
Bucky stares at the air where Tony used to be for a moment, then glances back down at his arm and the shimmering phone number there. “Well,” he mumbles to himself, “here’s to hopin’ hell has decent service.”
(It does, he finds out the next day, but the charges are kind of, well. Hellish. He stocks up on cheap candles instead.)