Work Text:
There’s a pile of borrowed dishes in the sink taller than the Empire State Building, the counter is barely even visible anymore beneath ingredients and garbage alike, and now the bag of flour is on the floor, spilled all across the linoleum. And Steve is supposed to arrive home at any moment.
The oven dings, startling Bucky out of the hard stare he’s giving the floor. Trying his best to skirt around the fine coating of flour and failing miserably, dirtying his shoes, he pulls the door open hard enough it nearly comes off the hinges and plunges his mitt-covered hand into the oven. There’s a hole in the mitten though, right over his palm, and the scalding pan kisses the naked skin peeking through the torn fabric.
He doesn’t drop the cake, thankfully, but he does swear loud enough a thumping starts up in the apartment below theirs. Bucky returns the gesture by stomping his feet like a child, kicking up more of the flour and spreading it even further.
“Hey, Mrs. Bowes,” he shouts at the floor, all but dropping the cake onto a clean spot on the countertop, “why don’t you shove that broom where the sun don’t shine, huh? Christ almighty.”
The banging stops almost immediately. Bucky tears the oven mitt off and throws it beside the cake and, mumbling a string of obscenities under his breath, flicks the sink on and shoves his throbbing hand beneath the ice-cold spray. The water catches on the pile of dirty dishes, and he manages to soak the front of his shirt, too.
Bucky curses some more, enough to make a sailor blush, and he wraps his hand up in a dishtowel. The cake is moved, very carefully, over to the open window in the living room and perched precariously on the sill. When he turns back around, Steve is standing in the doorway. There are dark circles beneath his eyes, and the way his shoulders are sagging the tiniest bit tells Bucky he had a long day, but he’s smiling.
“Boy, you’d make a terrible housewife.”
Despite the stress headache forming at Bucky’s temples, and the way his hand is aching something fierce, a laugh forces its way up his throat. “Hey! I try to make my fella a cake for his birthday, and this is the thanks I get?”
Steve is quick to shut the door behind him with a quiet, “Jesus, Buck,” and a flush that tints his pale cheeks. Bucky is patient while he kicks off his shoes and hangs his coat on the rack, standing in the midst of their mess of a kitchen. Steve surveys the damage with a fond shake of his head and throws his arms around Bucky’s neck when he's near enough.
Bucky presses his face into his fine hair, feeling the disastrous afternoon ooze out of him almost instantaneously. “Happy birthday, punk,” he scratches his fingers along Steve’s spine with the hand that isn’t wrapped up in a dirty old towel. “I didn’t get to tell you before you left.”
“That’s what you get for sleeping past noon.”
Bucky slaps his behind with an incredulous gasp. “It’s my day off! Be glad I got out of bed at all!”
Steve pulls away with a soft snort, hand on the back of Bucky’s neck and toying with the sweat-damp hair there. He glances over his shoulder at the sink, and a small furrow forms between his brows. “Where’d all those dishes come from?”
Bucky squeezes Steve’s side. “That old bird down the hall who’s always askin’ us for sugar. Figured she owed us a favor.”
“And the ingredients for the cake?” He cranes his head to take a peek into the living room where said cake is still cooling in the window.
“Mr. Dimecky at the corner store let me have them so long as I watch his scrappy little dog while he and the missus visit her folks in Philly next weekend.”
Steve settles his big blue eyes on him and gives Bucky that look , the one where he goes all soft around the edges and his eyebrows touch his hairline and there’s this little quirk of his mouth. It makes Bucky itch, when he fixes him with that look.
“You’re something else. Why’d you go through all this trouble? Twenty-two isn’t a big birthday.”
And somehow his voice is even softer. Bucky’s ears get a little hot and he ducks his face, bashful like a schoolgirl with a crush. He wants to say, Because I’ve been in love with you for nearly five years now but I haven’t even said those three words yet and I'm getting real tired of it.
But what comes out is: “I kinda like you, what can I say?”
“Oh, kinda?” Steve stretches onto his toes and pecks Bucky on the mouth. “That’s all?”
Bucky pulls him back in by his tie and kisses him once more. “Maybe a bit more. Maybe really . That better?”
Steve considers this, still on his tiptoes, looking moments away from honest-to-God tapping his chin. “Yeah,” he says eventually, “yeah, I think that’ll work. I really like you, too.”
“So you’ll eat the cake then? Because I got a whole lotta gentlemen callers down at the garage who’ll—”
Steve slaps a hand over his mouth, laughing. “I better be your only gentleman caller. And of course I’ll eat the cake, Buck. After dinner though.”
Bucky shakes Steve’s hand off. “Get your sweaty paw off my gob like that. I don’t know where those hands have been.”
Steve wipes his palms on his slacks and goes to pour himself a glass of orange juice. “Wrapped around a charcoal pencil for the last four hours.”
Bucky begins sweeping up the flour from the floor with the old broom they keep in the corner next to the refrigerator. He sweeps it up into a neat little pile and struggles to get it all into the dustpan without spilling it right back onto the floor. “How’s office life workin’ for ya? Your co-workers ain’t ruffing you up at all, are they? Because say the word, sweetheart, and I’ll be right down there.”
Steve sets his empty glass next to the full sink and leans back against the counter, watching Bucky clean up his mess. “It’s nice, yeah. Got my own cubicle and everything.”
Once the floor is devoid of flour (what a waste ; half a bag, in the trash) and the broom and pan put back in their rightful places, Bucky props his fists on his hips and raises his brows at Steve. “And your co-workers? How are they?” He feels very much like his ma all of a sudden, and the thought makes his stomach twist with something akin to fondness.
Steve picks at a loose thread on his sleeve and shrugs faux-nonchalantly. “They're fine.”
Bucky sighs. “You're such a bullshitter. What's the matter?”
Steve does this thing with his face that looks almost like a wince, and he cocks his head to the side. Bucky knows what he’s about to say.
“And don’t tell me it’s nothing, Stevie, alright?”
Steve crosses his arms over his chest and looks anywhere but at Bucky when he comes to stand toe to toe with him. But Bucky relents, tilting Steve’s face up with a finger beneath his chin. Steve flutters those long, blonde lashes of his in a way that makes Bucky’s knees go a little weak.
“You gonna tell me?” He doesn’t move his finger.
“I’m thinkin’ about it.”
Bucky leans his full weight on Steve then, pinning him against the counter. Steve actually does wince then, and any silliness bleeds right out of him. Bucky eases up on him, places his hands on Steve’s biceps. That familiar sense of worry that's ever-present when it comes to Steve flutters to life in his chest.
“Hey, you okay? You hurting?”
Steve wraps his arm around his waist, and as Bucky searches his face he notices the slight redness on the side of his jaw, the blood crusted in his left nostril. He steps back, sucking in a deep breath.
“Goddammit, Steve,” he’s more exasperated than angry. He doesn’t think he could ever be angry with Steve.
“I know, I know—”
“No, you don’t know—”
“Bucky!”
Bucky drops his shoulders from where they were hitched up by his ears. The furrow between Steve’s brows is so deep it looks almost painful.
“Can you not pick a fight for one day?” Bucky says, quieter, though he knows it really isn’t his turn to speak at all. He continues anyway. “One of these days you’re gonna get yourself in a predicament you aren’t gonna be able to get out of.”
Steve rubs his hand on the sore spot on his ribs, shaking his head along with the motion. “Believe it or not, it wasn’t my fault this time. One of the new photographers caught me when I stepped out for lunch; called me a few colorful names and shoved me around a bit. That's all .”
Bucky shakes his head, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. “What kinda names?”
Steve huffs. “I’d rather not repeat ‘em. He’s just peeved because they chose me to do an illustration for some new piece instead of putting his photos in, that’s all.”
“I’ll kill him,” Bucky tells him seriously. “I will, Stevie. Where does he live?”
Despite the hand on his ribs, Steve grins. “Buck, c’mon.”
“No, really,” Bucky crosses the kitchen and settles his hands heavily on Steve’s shoulders again. “What’s his address, I’ll welcome him to the neighborhood with a nice knuckle sandwich.”
Steve pats Bucky’s chest. “Stand down, soldier. You baked me a cake; that’s enough.”
Bucky presses a gentle kiss to the barely-there bruise on his jaw. “You’ll let me know if he bothers you again?”
Steve rolls his eyes. “Yessir.”
He kisses him on the lips. “Good boy.”
“Now are you gonna tell me who you got into a fight with?” Steve lifts Bucky’s cloth-wrapped hand.
“The cake pan,” Bucky tells him sheepishly.
Steve begins to slowly unwrap the towel. “How many times have I asked you to fix that oven mitt? The sewing kit is under the bathroom sink; it’ll take five minutes, Buck. Oh, ouch .”
An angry red welt stares up at them from Bucky’s palm, and the cool air on it makes him suck air through his teeth sharply. Steve drags Bucky into the bathroom by his wrist, and shoves him down onto the closed toilet lid.
“How the tables have turned.”
Steve laughs as he rummages around beneath the sink. He first pulls out the sewing kit, slapping it down on the counter above him pointedly, then he rises with the first aid kit in hand. It’s the size of an Altoids tin, and Bucky hopes one day they can buy a larger one, for how often they actually use it.
“Does it hurt?”
Bucky shakes his head. “Nope.”
Steve looks at him like he doesn’t believe him, but flips the metal tin open without another word. He plucks out a small nondescript tube of ointment and a Band-Aid. He’s pretty sure that ointment was here when they moved in.
The cool cream on the fresh burn makes Bucky nearly jump out of his socks, and Steve settles him with a single bony hand on his thigh. He sticks the bandage firmly over the slick little glob and when the wound is all covered up, Steve presses his mouth gently against his palm.
Bucky swallows as he watches Steve, kneeling on the hard tiled floor at his feet, kissing his palm, and thinks: Damn, I love you.
Steve looks up suddenly then, with a smile like a cat that just caught the canary, and for one foolish second, Bucky is afraid he could actually read his mind.
“All fixed up,” Steve tells him, pulling himself back up straight with a hand braced on the edge of the sink. His knees pop like a cap gun with the movement. “You gonna live?”
Bucky flexes his hand and stands as well. “I don’t know,” he tilts his face close to Steve’s, “am I, Doc?”
Steve leans in, so unbearably close, says, “You’ll be fine,” and leaves the bathroom.
Bucky is left standing there, grinning like a love-struck idiot. Which he is. He really, truly is.
When he steps out of the bathroom, Steve is attempting to wrangle the dishes in the sink. He's got his sleeves pushed over his elbows and his tie slung over his left shoulder.
“Hey, now,” Bucky calls, walking over to the janky little radio they have sitting on the fireplace mantle, “your arthritis’ll act up if you do that.”
He twists the knob on the radio this way and that until the static gives way to a man's voice, Bing Crosby, he recognizes after a few moments, and he turns the volume up a notch. Steve ignores him, though there's a smile on his face when Bucky comes up behind him.
“Hey, now,” he says again, quieter, and reaches over to turn the tap off. Steve leans his head back on his chest. Bucky kisses his hair. “The dishes can wait. It's your birthday. You've been working all day.”
“So?”
“So? So I wanna take you out.”
Steve turns around, drying his hands on his shirtfront. “Take me out? We don't have two pennies to rub together, Buck.”
Bucky pins Steve against the counter again, gentler this time, mindful of his side, and pushes Steve’s hair off his forehead with sugar-sticky fingers. Steve scrunches his nose up, making him look much younger than twenty-two, and shakes Bucky’s hand off him.
“I'm serious,” he says, laughing. “Where're you taking me? The Ritz-Carlton?”
Bucky shakes his head, but he's stalling. He had nothing planned for the evening, not really. A dinner of peanut butter sandwiches lit by the candles they kept in the top drawer for special occasions, a few slices of cake on the couch with the radio going. Maybe they’d turn in early and get a little handsy in the dark and that's when Bucky would spill his heart.
But Steve deserves more than that; he deserves the world . He just wishes he could afford to give it to him.
“It's a surprise,” Bucky settles on with a reassuring smile. “Now go and get your best tweed on, alright? I'll be waiting.”
Steve stares at him for a moment longer like he can see right through Bucky’s bullshit, but eventually he pecks Bucky’s jaw and disappears into the bedroom.
He lets out a breath. Where on God’s green earth is he going to take him?
Shaking his head, Bucky heads over to the radio and switches the station. He settles on a news program, and something the host mentions catches his ear.
“That's right, folks! Frank Sinatra and Tommy Dorsey’s band will be playing tonight at seven o’clock sharp at Shapiro’s in Frank’s good old hometown of Hoboken! Be there or be square!”
Bucky freezes. He looks to the haphazard stack of vinyl records sitting on the coffee table with Sinatra smiling from the top of the pile, thinks of how many pages of Steve’s sketchbook are full of the guy’s face, thinks of how at this very moment he can hear Steve humming “Polka Dots and Moonbeams” quietly to himself from the bedroom, and the smile that splits his face so suddenly almost hurts.
He rushes into the bathroom to put some tonic in his hair and comb it back, then runs to the coat closet and rifles through it until he finds his nicest jacket. He finds his wallet with the five bucks and change he was saving for groceries and shoves it in his pocket. He's just settling the cooled cake on the kitchen counter when Steve finally emerges from the bedroom, wearing a tweed jacket that used to be his father’s and a different, less rumpled pair of slacks. He’s absolutely drowning in the jacket, and the pants still need to be hemmed, but Bucky doesn't think he's seen a more handsome person.
“Take a picture,” Steve laughs, running his fingers through his hair self-consciously, trying and failing to push it off his forehead, “it'll last longer.”
“Maybe I will,” Bucky tells him, not being able to hold back the beaming smile that pulls at his mouth. He crosses the living room and takes Steve's hand. “I heard they finally got a photo booth down at Coney Island. Maybe I'll get a coupla pictures.”
Steve shakes his head, but the blush on his cheeks is obvious. “Is that where you're taking me? Coney Island? Gonna have me make a fool of myself wearing a suit on the Cyclone?”
“No, I wouldn't do that to you.” Bucky certainly would do that to Steve, just not tonight. Tonight he's gonna show him a real good time.
Hopefully.
It takes everything in him not to grab Steve’s hand as they walk down the sidewalk away from their apartment complex, so Bucky settles on shoving his fists deep into the pockets of his slacks and bumping his shoulder periodically against Steve’s.
They’re almost three blocks away from their place when Steve says with a crooked smile, “you have no idea where we’re going, do you?”
Bucky gapes at him, but his ears are a little hot. “Of course I do! Of course I do.”
But Steve doesn’t believe him, and that’s okay.
They pass restaurant after restaurant, all of them too expensive to even look at, and Bucky would rather die than buy Steve a hotdog from a corner cart for his birthday. He’s starting to become dispirited when they make it another block, convinced he’s gonna have to take Steve home and actually make him a skimpy peanut butter sandwich like they didn't have that for dinner last night, when the bright, blinking sign for Brooklyn’s Best Pizzeria comes into view at the end of the strip they’re passing. And in a moment of blind joy, he grabs Steve’s hand and picks up the pace.
When Bucky drops his hand and holds the door open for him, Steve pauses, though his eyes are sparkling. “The Ritz looks different.”
Bucky shakes the door so the little bell hanging from the jamb jingles again, grinning. “Just go in, will you?”
They take a seat by the long expanse of windows, luckily shaded a bit from the horrid July heat by the cartoons painted on the glass. It's small and cheap and definitely not the sort of place Bucky wanted to take Steve, but the smile he's shooting him from across the table and the way he's pressing his feet against Bucky’s makes it worth it. Plus, he's hoping on catching a glimpse of Frank Sinatra tonight, too.
“God, we haven't been here in forever,” Steve says, wistful. He leans back in his rickety chair to get a better view of the place. Bucky hooks his foot under the seat and holds him in place so he doesn't go ass over teakettle. “Your ma used to give us money when we babysat the girls—”
“To get groceries but Becca always needed a slice of pizza from here—”
“Or else she threatened to tell your pops that it was you who broke the window on the shed—”
“And not the neighbor boy like we'd said.”
They're both laughing hard enough now they're tearing up, and it takes them a while to compose themselves. When they do, still grinning like loons, a girl with a waist apron and a notepad in her hands bounds up to them, lips cherry red and matching the little paper hat perched on her head.
“Afternoon, fellas!” She flips the notepad open and pulls a pencil from a pocket on her apron. “My name is Marlene. Drinks?”
“Water’s fine,” Bucky tells her, dimming his smile down to something more polite.
“For both of ya?”
Steve clears his throat, and when Bucky looks at him he sees he's rubbing at his chest. “Yes, thank you, Marlene.”
Marlene nods, and snaps the bubblegum she was chewing. “Sure, sugar. Be back in a jiff!”
When she's gone, Bucky leans across the table. “You okay, sugar ?”
Steve removes his hand from his chest in favor of running his fingers through his hair again. Bucky refrains from reminding him if he keeps doing that he'll be bald by thirty. “My asthma doesn't like too much laughing. I'm fine, though.”
Bucky squints at him.
Steve kicks him softly beneath the table. “Really, Buck. I'm good. Swear it.”
“You better be,” he tells him, skeptically. He knows Steve. He knows how he pushes himself, going from okay to bad all because he doesn't want to let someone down. “Because I don't feel like scraping your sorry behind off the sidewalk.”
Marlene comes back with two sweating glasses of water, setting them on the table with a pleased little sound. She whips out her notepad again. “Ready to order?”
Steve rights his chair and reaches across the table for one of the glasses. As he's gulping down a considerable amount, he waves at Bucky, telling him to order first.
“I'll have a slice of Sicilian, ma'am,” Steve is still drinking, so Bucky snorts and says, “and Parched Perry over here'll have a slice of white pizza.”
Steve knocks on the tabletop.
“With mushrooms.”
He knocks again.
“And spinach.”
Marlene nods as she writes it down, her hair bouncing, and skips back off.
Steve finally puts his glass of water down, now more ice than water, and wipes his lips on the back of his hand. His mouth is slick and pink as the bubblegum-colored paint on the window, and Bucky can't stop staring. Steve notices, too. He always notices.
The sharp tip of a shoe snakes its way up Bucky’s calf through his trouser leg, up and down, around his ankle. The touch is familiar, comfortable. Safe. He can't reach across the table and take Steve’s hand, but they can play a little footsie and no one’ll know. He traps Steve’s foot between his own two, and they smile like two goofs until Marlene comes back with their food.
“Goodness,” she says when she catches sight of Steve’s nearly-empty glass. “Would you like a refill?”
“No, sweetheart, I'm fine. Thank you.”
Bucky just barely waits until the girl patters away to the next table before he dumps a mountain of parmesan cheese onto his slice of Sicilian and digs into it with a knife and fork. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until there was food in front of him. Go figure, he spent the entire afternoon in the kitchen and he forgot to eat.
At the sight of the cutlery though, Steve laughs at him, of course.
“Where'd the sudden manners come from, Buck?”
Bucky feels himself go red, and he pops a little square of pizza in his mouth. “Don't want my hands smelling like tomato sauce all night, that's all.”
Steve shakes his head and picks up his slice from the paper plate. He folds it lengthways and tilts it to the side. Cheese gets on his chin and grease is dripping all over the place, and he definitely took a bite too big for his small mouth, but Bucky can't look away as he works on his own slice. It's like watching a car wreck.
“Manners, huh?” Bucky comments when Steve finally comes up for air. He slings back his glass and lets an ice cube fall into his mouth. “I think maybe you should find some.”
“Mind your beeswax, pal, I didn't eat much on my lunch break,” Steve laughs as he says it, and taps the back of Bucky’s ankle thrice. “And besides, it's my birthday. Manners are exempt.”
“That's dangerous, coming from you.”
Steve points his drooping slice at him, cheeks full like a chipmunk. “You know it.”
“I don't know where you put it,” Bucky says, holding the door for Steve and patting his stomach as he walks through. After he'd finished his own slice, he cajoled Bucky into letting him have the abandoned quarter of Sicilian left on his grease-stained plate. Bucky handed it over with a grin and a shake of his head.
“I got a hollow leg,” Steve tells him casually, coughing into his shoulder once.
Bucky throws his arm around his neck and pulls him close. “You don't say?” And after a beat, not removing himself from Steve, “I wonder what it'd be like to have a fake limb.”
“Let's hope we don't find out,” Steve reaches up and squeezes Bucky’s hand quickly before dropping his arm back to his side. “Remember our one teacher back in elementary school who only had one arm?”
“Yeah. I thought the prosthetic one he had was the coolest thing in the world.”
“And then you wrapped tinfoil around your left arm and pretended you lost it fighting in some big space battle. Got it replaced with a robot arm or something.”
Bucky sighs faux-wistfully. “I loved my robot arm.”
“Too bad you had to give it up when your ma yelled at you for wasting all the Reynold’s Wrap.”
“Always killing my dreams, that woman. I'll show her, though. One day I'm gonna be a hero.”
“With one arm?”
“With one arm.”
Steve shakes his head, and Bucky can feel his hand slip into his back pocket, hidden by the hem of his jacket. “You and your imagination.”
They walk three more blocks before Bucky decides to sneak a peek at his wristwatch. It's nearing six-thirty, god almighty. Where has the time gone?
Steve looks up at the shift of Bucky’s arm near his face, and catches him checking the time. He removes the hand from his pocket and pinches his side. Bucky bites his cheek to keep from flinching.
“You got a hot date or something?”
Bucky checks their surroundings and pulls Steve’s head into his neck so he can kiss the crown of his head. “Oh yeah, a skinny blonde. Bright blue eyes. A real looker.”
Steve's hand returns to Bucky’s back pocket. The weight is like an anchor, comforting and secure.
“Long fingers. Pianist fingers, Ma would call ‘em. The nicest lips for kissing, too. And a great ass.”
A startled laugh breaks through those lips, and Steve shakes his head until his hair falls into his eyes. Without thinking about it, Bucky brushes the hair from his forehead with a light touch. “Now I know you're not talking about me.”
Bucky scoffs, broken up by an incredulous laugh. “I’ll show you just how much I'm talking about you, pal.”
He whispers it in Steve’s ear, and Steve goes positively red in the face. He pushes Bucky off him when a young woman passing them on the sidewalk with a baby carriage gives them a look. They put some distance between themselves then, but Bucky is still smiling. And when he looks over, Steve is too.
Bucky throws his hand out when he spots a cab coming their way, and waves emphatically until it pulls up to where they’re standing. Bucky leans down and pokes his head through the passenger side window. The cabbie, a little old guy with a gap between his two front teeth wide enough to fit a cigarette, nods at him.
“Evening, son,” his voice is so rough Bucky hopes there are no more cigarette going anywhere near his mouth. “You fellas need a ride?”
“Yes sir, we do,” Bucky pulls his wallet from his back pocket. He hopes the grimace on his face when he looks inside it isn't visible to the cabbie. He definitely didn't think this through. There's enough money left for a cab ride, but not enough for tickets when they get to the music house. Bucky wouldn't mind walking (if they had enough time to do so in the first place), but one look back at Steve tells him that's damn near impossible unless he carried him over his shoulder the whole time. He leafs through the bills and asks, “how far’ll five bucks get us?”
The cabbie rubs at his chin. He looks at Steve over Bucky’s shoulder, then back at Bucky. “Where are you boys headed?”
“Shapiro’s Music House in, uh, Hoboken.”
He can practically feel the wide-eyed gaze he knows Steve is boring into his back.
The old man squints at him, and Bucky is sure he's going to peel away when he throws his hand up and says, “aw, what the hell? I'm feeling patriotic today. Hop on in.”
Bucky slaps his palm down where it was resting in the window and beams. He pulls the back door open and gestures for Steve to climb in. Once they're both buckled in and situated, and the cabbie has pulled away from the curb, Steve surprises him by whacking Bucky on the knee.
“Jersey?” He stresses, a glint of betrayal in his eyes. “You're taking me to fuckin’ New Jersey for my birthday?”
“Watch it, back there, or I’ll have you drop a dime in the swear jar.”
“Sorry, sir, excuse my French,” and quieter, to Bucky, “geez, Buck, I didn’t know you hated me that much.”
Bucky shakes his head, which is all the two of them ever seem to do at each other, and stretches out in the back seat. He makes sure to slide his left hand across the vinyl until his pinky is touching Steve’s. “Swallow your pride for one night, wouldja? I know what I’m doing here.”
Steve’s eyes soften considerably, and he brushes Bucky’s fingers with his own before pulling his hands in his lap. He turns his head to look out the window, but even from his vantage point, Bucky can still see the smile tugging at his mouth. He watches him far longer than appropriate, just...looking at him. At his eyelashes, like honey in the late afternoon light, the slope of his freckled nose, his rosy cheeks and his chest that stutters with every other breath. And he knows Steve is aware of his eyes on him. He's glad.
He really hopes he knows what he's doing.
The cabbie swears up a storm when they hit traffic, leaving the two of them in the backseat in absolute stitches, but they end up at Shapiro’s almost ten after seven which makes Bucky a nervous wreck. He practically throws the money at the poor old man behind the wheel, and drags Steve by the wrist up to the front doors.
“Bucky, you're gonna pull my arm out of its socket,” Steve laughs behind him. “You didn't even tell the cab driver thank you! Weren't you just telling me something about manners?”
But Bucky barely listens to him, instead plastering on his most charming smile for the gentleman in the tuxedo standing at the door.
“Evening,” he drops Steve's hand. “Any room for two more?”
The guy looks down at the two of them and gives them a very obvious once-over. Bucky doesn't miss the way his nose wrinkles. “All the seats are taken. And even if they weren't, you boys don't look like you even got a pot to piss in.”
Now Bucky knows how they must look, him wild-eyed at being late and Steve with his too-big clothes and both of them sweating and a bit out of breath, but a comment like that is so out of line Bucky almost forgets why they’re there. He's filled with such a sudden, unbridled rage. This must be how Steve feels.
“What the fuck did you say?” It’s out of his mouth before he can stop himself, and he dares to take a step closer to this guy that has to be half a foot taller than him. Steve pulls Bucky back by his shoulder roughly and shoves himself in front of him.
“Sorry, sir,” he laughs nervously, backing up away from the doorman and pushing Bucky back with him. “Sorry, he's uh, been drinking. You know, Independence Day and all. Who's playing tonight?”
“Frank Sinatra is singin’ with the Tommy Dorsey Band. I ain't letting either of you in, though. Not a chance.”
At the mention of Sinatra, Bucky feels Steve limp as a rag doll, and despite the anger still coursing through his veins, he grabs Steve’s arms in case he decides to make more of a fool of them by passing out.
The gentleman stares at them, crossing his arms, and even spreads his legs like he's the bouncer at a nightclub. He stares until they're at the bottom of the front steps, and when they're on the sidewalk, Steve clamps his hand around Bucky’s wrist hard enough to hurt and pulls him around the side of the building. They end up in an alley, right next to a stinking dumpster that's been permeating in the heat all day. Steve shoves him up against the wall right next to the rancid dumpster, and for one foolish second Bucky thinks he may punch him.
“I’m sorry,” he says honestly, avoiding Steve's eyes. “I was being an asshole, I just—I was hoping—”
But instead of punching him, Steve kisses him. Right there in broad daylight. Where anyone can walk by and see them plain as day. And yet he lets it happen, kissing back, dragging it on far longer than is safe. The door beside them flies open, startling them so bad Bucky sees spots and Steve ends up accidentally kneeing him in the crotch. They hurry around the other side of the dumpster and crouch down low. There's a snick of a lighter, and the stench of tobacco, and Bucky drops his head against the brick.
Steve, breathing hard enough to warrant a worried pat on the back from Bucky, falls heavily to his knees in the gravel. “You took me to see Frank Sinatra,” is all he says, almost to himself.
Bucky breathes out a laugh, scooting away from the dumpster a bit. “Well we can't get in, but. Yeah. You're not mad?”
“Mad?” Steve whisper-yells, grinning like an absolute loon. “Buck, I've only been mad at you, like, three times the whole time we've known each other. I was hoping you'd punch that bastard! I would! No, I'm so— gosh , I love you.”
And there they are. Those three words that have been nipping at Bucky’s heels for longer than he can remember. Steve said them, easy as pie, like he always does. So why can’t Bucky? He puts his head in his hands for a second, then looks back up.
He sees the nervous swallow that bobs Steve’s Adam’s apple, and the way his eyes do that stupid puppy dog thing. “Buck? You okay?”
“Hey, Joe! Come on, they're starting.”
Bucky presses his cheek against the wall and peers through the gap behind the dumpster. The guy drops his cigarette to the ground and stubs it out with the toe of his shiny black dress shoe, then disappears back through the door in a cloud of smoke. Bucky stares through the gap long after they're left alone again. It's only when Steve stands does Bucky look up.
He’s folding his arms across his chest and looking down at his feet. Bucky sees a muscle twinge in his jaw. This is definitely not how he imagined or even hoped the night would go.
He scrambles to his feet, immediately reaching for Steve with sure, steady hands. “Stevie…”
And that's when the music starts up. Bucky recognizes the opening song immediately as “Stardust”. It's one of Steve's all-time favorites. And Bucky’s, if he's being honest. He holds out a hand, palm up.
“Dance with me?”
Steve loosens his arms and looks down at the hand like he has no idea what it is. And then slowly, so slowly, lays his atop Bucky’s. “I can’t dance,” he tells him.
Bucky shrugs and pulls Steve close. “That never stopped no one before.”
He lays Steve's hand atop his shoulder, and puts his on Steve's narrow waist, and the other one just beside it. Steve cards his fingers in the downy hair at the back of Bucky's neck, his thumbs right over his pulse point. Bucky just sways with him, side to side, keeping them away from that godawful dumpster but not anywhere near the door where someone could come out at any moment and catch them.
“You are in my arms…” Frank Sinatra sings inside, and Bucky sings it right back to him, pulling him impossibly close. Steve lets out a sigh, audible only to Bucky’s near ears, and rests his head on Bucky’s chest, sliding his hands so they sit below Bucky’s arms. Bucky shuts his eyes and leans his cheek on the top of Steve’s head. Like two puzzle pieces.
When the song comes to a close with a gentle flourish and a tinkling of keys, which Bucky taps out with his fingertips at the base of Steve’s spine, Bucky keeps up the gentle sway, moves his face down, kisses the tip of Steve’s ear. He still can't find himself able to speak. His heart is lodged somewhere in his throat and hammering wildly.
The next song starts, but Bucky barely notices. Steve makes an appreciative hum, so it must be something good, and burrows his nose deeper into the folds of Bucky’s jacket. It’s so hot, too hot to be holding someone for so long, but Bucky wouldn’t let go for the world.
It's only when Frank belts out “when we met, I felt my life begin / So open up your heart and let this fool rush in” does Bucky feel like he's about to burst at the seams.
He squeezes his eyes shut tight enough his temples throb. “I had a whole speech prepared.”
Steve freezes, but Bucky doesn't stop slow dancing. He just holds him tighter, sweats a little more.
“I swear I did. I was up all night thinking about this moment. I recited it in my head thrice in the cab, but for the life of me, I can't remember a single word of it.”
“You always had a shitty memory.”
Bucky laughs louder than he meant to. “You really gonna ruin this for me, punk?”
Steve smooths his hands down Bucky’s back until they rest on his hips. He kisses his neck. “Sorry, sorry.”
And now the floor is his.
“Steve, you are the best person I ever met. Truly. I thank my lucky stars every day for you.”
Bucky gets the sense Steve wants to say something else, but for once in his life he keeps his mouth shut. He's thankful, and a little bit awestruck that he can have that sort of effect on him.
Bucky doesn't stop swaying.
“You make me crazy,” Steve huffs softly into his shirt. “No one has ever made me as nuts as you do, Steve Rogers, and yet...I love every minute of it. Every goddamn minute.”
There. He said that word, so the rest should be simple.
“When I—when I met you, I thought you were ridiculous. The blondest hair I ever saw, knee-high to a grasshopper, and pockets stuffed full of snot rags. You were getting the absolute hell beat out of you from the Vivino kids that lived down the cul-de-sac. You remember that?”
“How could I forget, honestly?”
“I took you home, snuck you in past Ma and to my room and patched you up from Dad’s first aid kit right there on my bed. And when I had to set your broken nose, and wrap your busted fingers...you didn't even flinch. You didn't move a muscle, Stevie, you just held your head high and let me do my thing. I was fuckin’ gobsmacked. You were a mangled mess, probably should've been to a hospital, but you acted like it was no more than a scratch. When I walked you home, I thought, “I like this kid. I admire this kid. I wanna be just like him”. And I still feel that way. Every day you amaze me. Your heart, it—it amazes me. And the fact you let me have it, boy, I’m so damn lucky, I can't believe it.”
“Funny, it's not a star I see, it's always you…”
If Bucky didn't know any better, he'd have thought all these love songs were written just for the two of them.
He takes a few moments to regain his bearings, enjoying the muffled music coming from inside the building, the distant city sounds from either open end of the alley, Steve’s fingers under his belt and the wild beating of his heart against his chest. He takes a deep breath, returns his cheek to the top of Steve's head.
“I always felt so much for you, Stevie. Ever since we were kids. I always knew I cared for you more than boys should for their best friend, but it wasn't until I was seventeen did I realize that what I felt for you wasn't brotherly affection. It was love.”
There it is again. He’s getting closer, better. This is getting easier.
Steve blows out a stuttered breath against Bucky’s neck, and he knows it's not from the asthma. He takes a second to think about what he’s going to say next.
“Pure, unadulterated love. You'd just turned sixteen, and I kissed you under the bleachers, and I almost passed out from the revelation. You kissed me back, then kissed me again and again and again . And you didn't stop. You still haven't stopped. You kissed me every day, whenever you could, and then graduation day, you told me you loved me. Right there in the hallway with my classmates a handful of feet away from us. And I couldn't believe it! This wonderful, ridiculous, handsome guy felt the same way! I don't even remember getting my diploma, I was riding so high.”
Bucky pulls away, his cheek warm and sweaty and Steve’s hair sticking to his skin. he pulls back and lifts Steve's chin up so he can look him in the eye. He's surprised to see the tears glistening in those baby blues. Bucky puts his hands on either side of his face, palms clammy and probably smelling like pizza despite the precautions he took, thumbs pressing into his razor-sharp cheekbones. Steve grabs hold of his belt buckle like if he doesn't Bucky might float away.
“You told me you loved me every night, every chance you got, but I only ever answered you with a kiss or a stupid smile. But that's not right. You don't deserve that. I'm sorry I never said it back.”
Steve shakes his head best he can from between Bucky’s unyielding grip. When he speaks, he sounds like he swallowed glass, like he hasn't spoken in a year. “Buck, you know I never cared about that. Actions speak louder than words, isn't that what they say? I always knew you loved me. I did. I do.”
“No, I know. I made sure you knew. But...I need to tell you. So bad. I need to tell you or else I'll explode. I always liked words better,” he laughs self-consciously, almost self-deprecatingly. “And yet...words are failing me right now.”
Steve mirrors Bucky’s position, scratching his fingernails along the day-old stubble coating his jaw, his chin, above his lip. He makes sure Bucky’s looking him in the eye. “You don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with, Buck. There's no pressure here. This doesn't change anything.”
But that's not what Bucky wants to hear. He can't explain it, he has to say it. He never heard his parents say it to each other, not once, nor did they ever say it to him or his sisters. It wasn't a part of the Barnes’s daily vocabulary. So hearing Steve say it, and so often…
Bucky puts his hand on the back of Steve’s head and presses his face back into his chest. If he looks at those eyes a second longer he'll turn into a puddle of goo and then the whole day will have been for nothing. Steve rubs his back in wide, comforting circles. What'd he ever do to get a fella like this?
And this fella deserves to know how Bucky feels. And not with a kiss or a dance or his arms around him, but with words . Was there anything so real as words?
Bucky takes Steve’s hand and pushes him away from their embrace as the song inside picks up its pace a little bit. Steve looks startled for half a second before a wide smile overtakes him and he tightens his grip on Bucky’s hand. Bucky, smiling right back, though not as bright, feeling like a nervous teenager all over again, spins Steve around and reels him back in so he has his chest pressed up snug against his back, his arm across Steve's chest holding him in place like the safety bar on a rollercoaster. Steve holds onto Bucky’s trembling arm with both hands.
Bucky presses his lips to the shell of Steve’s ear. Moves him side to side.
“This lovely thing that's so marvelous / But right from here the future looks awfully good…”
“I love you, Stevie. Always have, always will.”
He says it so softly and quickly he's almost afraid Steve didn't hear him. But he knows he did.
Steve spins in his arms, leans up on his tiptoes, and kisses him square on the mouth. “I know, I know, I know,” he breathes between his parted lips, right down his throat, filling up his chest. “I love you, too.”
There's the sudden whistle and pop of a firework, then another, and another. The sparks fizzle in the darkening sky above them, sounding like hail on a tin roof, and they both look up to watch.
“Look at that,” Bucky says, “They must've known it was your birthday.”
Steve snorts and slaps his chest. “You say that every year.” But he doesn't look away from the display, marveling at the sight. When Bucky looks down at him, he can see every color and flash of light reflecting in those wide, blue eyes.
“I love you,” he tells him again, just because he can.
Steve answers him by grabbing Bucky’s left hand and holding it up close to their chests, slotting their fingers together. His other rests against Bucky’s neck. Bucky knows he can feel the erratic flutter of his pulse there.
They sway in silence as Frank Sinatra croons away, lulling them into a comforting sort of silence. He knows they should probably call it quits soon now that the sun is almost all the way down; the streets get crowded and rowdy on the Fourth of July, anyone can spot them here. But Bucky doesn't care. It's stupid of him, he knows it, but he'll be damned if he doesn't dance here with Steve all night long.
But all good things must come to an end, and that end arrives by the back door banging noisily against the brick wall what has to be a quarter of an hour later.
They startle apart, breathing heavily like they were doing more than just dancing. Bucky isn't sure when the music ceased playing, but it’s gone now. A stream of men come filing out, all lugging instrument cases and smoking cigarettes. None of them give Steve or Bucky a second glance as they chatter happily to each other and round the opening of the alley and out onto the sidewalk where a slew of taxicabs await them.
And then, just when it seems as if no one is coming out the door and Bucky is about to reach for Steve again, out shuffles Frank Sinatra himself in all his five-foot eight-inch glory. he pulls out a cigarette of his own from a weathered pack of Lucky Strikes from an inside pocket on his suit jacket, and lights it with a shiny silver Zippo with the initials F.A.S. engraved on the side.
“Oh, wow,” Steve murmurs.
Frank Sinatra smiles and plucks the cigarette from his mouth. He holds a hand out and Steve looks at it like he doesn't quite know what to do with it. “Hey, kid.”
Finally, Steve shakes it. He looks like he's seen a ghost and it makes Bucky want to laugh. “Evening, Mr. Sinatra. We really enjoyed the set.”
“Even though we couldn't get in,” Bucky supplies, almost bitterly. He wouldn't change the night for anything, though.
Frank laughs. “Oh, please. Mr. Sinatra is my old man. Call me Frank. Or Frankie, like all my fans do.”
He rounds on Bucky and shakes his hand next. Gee, his eyes sure are blue, aren't they? But they really don’t hold a candle to Steve’s.
“Good to meet you, Frank,” Bucky says. Steve is watching the interaction like Bucky is shaking hands with Roosevelt. “I'm James, but everyone calls me Bucky. That over there is Steve.”
Steve looks suddenly mortified at the fact that he forgot to properly introduce himself to Frank Sinatra and goes as red as a tomato. Frank sucks on his cigarette, waving the smoke away as he makes his way back over to where Steve is standing stock still.
“Say, Steve. What do you do?”
Steve flicks his eyes over to Bucky like Bucky will supply him with the correct answer. “I’m an artist, sir. Mr. Sinatra. Frank.”
Frank laughs jovially, the sound absolutely wracking his twig of a frame. Seeing the two of them next to each other is giving Bucky a real kick. He wishes he could photograph this moment. “An artist? He any good, Bucky?”
“Oh, yeah,” Bucky takes a step closer until he's at Steve’s side. He throws an arm around his shoulders. “Real good.”
“Maybe I should have you design my record cover, if I ever get around to recording one.”
“Me?” Steve looks like he's two seconds away from passing out. Bucky holds him a little tighter, just in case.
“Why not?” Frank shrugs his bony shoulders. “Us little guys, we gotta stick together, you know?”
That gets Steve laughing, and some color bleeds back into his cheeks. Steve is blushing in front of Frank Sinatra? Oh, Bucky is never going to let him live this one down.
“Heya, Frankie!” Comes a voice at the mouth of the alley. “Come on, Tom’s about to blow a gasket with all these bobbysoxers, or whatever the magazines are calling them.”
“Hey, you tell Tommy to leave my girls alone!” Frank shouts back. “Sorry, fellas, but I gotta hit the road before they give me the boot. Do you two live around here?”
“No, we came from Brooklyn,” Steve tells him.
“Brooklyn? You came all this way just to see little old me? Gee, I'm honored. What are your family names?”
“Rogers and Barnes.”
Frank rolls the cigarette around his mouth with his tongue. “Steve Rogers and James Barnes. Good names. Hey, I might call you, who knows? Bucky, what do you do?”
“Oh, nothing of use to you,” he laughs.
“You've got a pretty face, I'm sure we could find something for you.”
Now it's Bucky's turn to blush.
“Well, gentlemen, it's been a pleasure.”
“Oh, the pleasure is all mine,” Steve shakes his hand again. “Ours, I mean. Congrats on your little girl, by the way. Read about it in the paper.”
Frank’s face lights up like the fireworks that are still exploding overhead. “Thanks! She's almost four weeks old already, you believe that?”
“Frank, I swear on my mother!”
Frank rolls his eyes heavily and, with a two-fingered salute, turns away and jogs out of the alley.
When they're alone again, Steve sags against Bucky.
“Well how's that for a birthday present, huh?” Bucks asks, shaking him.
Steve scrubs a tired hand down his face, and in the fading light Bucky catches the dark bags beneath his eyes that seem to have gotten deeper, and how taxing each breath is getting to be. Bucky should have expected this.
“Hey, you doing okay, sweetheart?”
Steve beams up at him, takes his bandaged palm and kisses it like he did in the bathroom back at the apartment. “I'm swell. Real swell. Never felt better.”
Bucky narrows his eyes and starts to steer him out onto the bustling sidewalk. “You're full of shit, Rogers, but I'll let it slide since it's still your birthday for a few more hours.”
Once out of the safety of the alleyway, Steve puts an acceptable amount of space between them, sticking his hands in the pockets of his coat. He's still smiling. “Thank you, Buck. For everything.”
Bucky reaches over to pat his back gently. Steve looks up at him. Bucky nods. I love you.
Steve nods back. I love you too.