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Bucky’s mood increased dramatically. He watched with a muted interest as people walk by and he seemed to be at ease with himself. A sweet sort of calm came over him and he let himself get tucked into Steve's side, warm and easy like a cup of tea on a cold day. Steve was solid against him and warmed his side like a furnace. Bucky loved the feeling and he met Steve’s eyes as they promenaded down the street. Bucky’s pale blue eyes were nothing compared to the color in Steve’s that matched his costume when he was Captain America, especially when he was in this low light. There was a haze in those eyes, almost like sleep, but much more tender and affectionate. Bucky’s lips parted and he eased up into a smile. He could smell himself on Steve through the shirt. He was on the same side he had slept on in the church. Steve’s shirt was still wrinkly where his face had been laying.
The pavement was still wet with rain and steam was licking at the hem of Bucky's jeans. It was an unsettling feeling, and Bucky picked up his feet a little more, but that only led to him kicking water onto his ankles. They managed to reach a decent looking bar soon enough. The neon flashed in their eyes and cast a red shadow on Steve’s face. Bucky grinned, appreciating how soft his features looked. His eyes slid closed for a moment, relishing in their friendship and all that Steve had sacrificed for his sake. He felt a familiar tug of pain as he remembered that he hadn’t given anything in return. The smile turned to a grimace. When he opened his eyes, Steve was staring at him, and Bucky’s face fell to neutral, but was strikingly vulnerable to anyone who looked at him. Steve was looking all over his face, and Bucky swallowed as he settled on his lips. Bucky drew his lower lip in with his teeth and felt heat creeping up his neck all the way to the root of his hair. That sort of scrutiny was unsettling as flashes of Steve’s friendship and the reason they were living together played in his mind.
Bucky knew that people were more accepting of that sort of thing, but it was Captain America, for Christ’s sake. He screamed ‘old-fashioned America’ like nobody else. He was a blond haired, blue eyed. straight Christian white boy. He was simple.
Bucky had been on the outside of society for a long time, but he wasn’t blind. Captain America was that person. Steve Rogers sure as hell wasn’t.
But that didn’t mean that Steve was attracted to Bucky. What was the likelihood that Steve had had a boyfriend (or girlfriend, for that matter) since he had been de-iced? Bucky knew he was single at this point. Bucky also knew that Steve knew Bucky was in some serious need of a physical, spiritual (whatever that entailed), and emotional relationship where he could actually trust someone with his heart and mind instead of just puppeting what trust was supposed to look like on the outside. It would be too illogical for Steve Rogers to be attracted to or want to date Bucky Barnes. It was too soon, anyway. Bucky still wasn’t right, though he didn’t quite know what the learning curve for him was. It was definitely slow at this point, but he was leaps and bounds better than when he had started.
“This looks good,” said Bucky, stepping away from Steve before anyone moved anywhere that was not conducive to Bucky thinking straight. Honestly, the bar looked like the shadiest one on the block, but the shorter man needed to imbibe copious amounts of alcohol if this was ever going to go Steve’s way, which, of course, was out of the question since Steve most certainly wasn’t interested romantically in Bucky. The brunette pinned it under ‘professional curiosity.’ Steve grabbed the door and pulled it open, gesturing for Bucky to enter before him. Bucky stared for a moment, hesitating. It was just a polite gesture. He stepped inside.
It felt like they had walked back into their home decade. Smoke filled the room and Steve coughed and Bucky feel the familiar urge to protect him from his old asthma and all the crap that the world had thrown at him. It was irrational. Steve was king of the world and Bucky was just a side-effect.
Bucky needed alcohol approximately sixty years ago. He told the bartender so, and was served something that he didn’t recognize. He slid onto the chair, its red leather cracked and the white stuffing puffing out a little bit. It groaned under Bucky’s weight and he shifted uneasily. He swallowed it down and immediately felt something sway in his mind. He glanced at Steve, who was casually sipping a beer and eyeing Bucky with a half-lidded gaze. Bucky frowned. He was the one who looked sleepily at other people. He had seen himself in the reflection of windows before. His neutral face was sleepy, lethargic. Steve was the opposite. He was always alert and had a sort of intelligence about himself. His face was leadership and organisation and all of the things that people admired in a person. Steve closed his eyes sleepily and scratched at the side of his head. Maybe it was a mirroring thing that the psychologists talked about when people were comfortable with each other. Steve seemed more at ease with Bucky than before, what with the clothes-sharing and parading around half-naked sometimes after a workout or training.
Bucky ran his tongue over his lips and knew that they were that red color that happened whenever he was drinking. Some things from the old life never left him. He didn’t particularly care where those memories came from, but as long as flashes of his pre-shitstorm life kept coming, he was happy. Perhaps happy wasn’t quite the word, but he saw a glimmer of hope regardless.
Steve had always watched him from the corner of his eye when he was drinking, reciprocating the protectiveness and the anchor that Bucky needed when he was getting handsy. Then, something else flashed into Bucky’s brain and he swallowed, his pupils dilating and his lips parting to give him better purchase to the minuscule amount of oxygen in the room.
“Buck? Are you alright?” Steve slid off the chair and his hips swayed as he walked over slowly. Surely this was some sort of unwarranted daydream. Steve wasn’t a panther or any other member of the cat family when he walked. What he hell had he just drank? Bucky captured his bottom lip in his teeth again and he shook his head, an awful smile crinkling his eyes. Surely he had imagined it and there was some Freudian excuse for finding Steve’s brow something that he needed to smooth with his thumb and those lips too damn dry for his liking. Steve’s hand was on his shoulder and massaging the place where the metal reached the scarred skin. Bucky’s senses reeled to life. Steve didn’t get drunk like this, even when he was tinier. This curiosity was pretty damn obvious at this point. Bucky pretended he didn’t notice.
Steve’s hand smoothed his shirt and all of a sudden, Steve’s palm was against Bucky’s neck and Bucky’s eyes fell shut. He breathed in the cigarette smoke and he could smell the alcohol on his own breath and he could smell Steve more, just a few inches away from him, but it felt like half of a world as he heard him laughing and pulling Bucky to the stool.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice crackling and awful in his head. “I just need to sit down. It’s been a while.” The smile he offered Steve was self-mocking. Steve just raised his eyebrows and went back to sipping his beer.
~~~
As with any night with twenty-somethings drinking, two AM arrived and Bucky and Steve were sufficiently drunk and tipsy, respectively. Loud music with a decent beat had turned on around eleven PM and the bar was surprisingly full for a Tuesday night. Some girls had half-recognized the pair and they danced in ways that Bucky had never experienced and Steve firmly disapproved of, but was too much of a gentleman to admonish. Bucky, though, had his mind on other things (blessedly) and swayed his hips and, with abandon, wrapped his arms around a plethora of women. The cool metal of his arm scared them, though, and quickly their smiles faded and they retreated into the oasis of the back corners of bars where the alcohol flows a little more freely and assassins don’t disrupt your idea of a good time.
Steve and Bucky had returned to their original positions on bar stools and stared up at some bad movie that played on the screens behind the bar. Bucky glanced over at Steve, dark rings around his eyes and Steve nearly started at the appearance. Bucky’s hair was in his eyes, too, the gel or whatever he put in it long sweated out. He felt very tired and rested his forehead on his glass of beer, but it slipped and he smacked his head against the bar table itself.
Steve reached over and grabbed the hair at the back of Bucky’s head, gently pulling him up. Bucky’s eyes were watering slightly, a line of spit was dripping from his bottom lip, and his eyes barely fluttered their consciousness. His hand stroked down from the back of his head, down his jaw scraggly with stubble, to cup his chin in his long fingers. Bucky lazily opened his eyes and the corners of his mouth turned up at Steve. “Thanks, pal,” he slurred, his voice overly smooth but awkwardly cracking at the end, and there may have been a hint of some sort of accent. Steve’s eyebrows shot up again and he looked toward the bartender, but Bucky’s eyes never left Steve’s face. Bucky ran a tongue over his lips and the look in his eyes darkened. He felt his pulse start to thump a little faster and his muscles become overly loose.
“My bike’s down the way. Can you watch him while I go get it?” Something along those lines came out of Steve’s mouth, but Bucky reached out with his metal arm and his fingers dug into Steve with a visceral grip. Steve winced just a bit and Bucky realized that he had hurt him more than that wince indicated. Steve didn't wince for a little pain. He was Captain America, for Christ’s sake.
“I’ll walk,” said Bucky. He let Steve go with a ghost of an apology on his lips and in his eyes and slid off the bar stool. His knees buckled and Steve needed to wrap his arm around Bucky’s waist in order to keep him in a semblance of being upright. This would be a long walk.
It was less muggy outside than it had been when they had entered. There was also virtually no one on the street, and taking one look at two rather large men would definitely dissuade anyone should they be in the mood for a poor life decision.
Bucky’s toes dragged on the pavement and Steve grunted with the extra weight saddled onto him. Bucky was smaller than him, but not by much, and regardless that metal arm was a massive dead weight. He’d have to talk to Tony soon about maybe getting a prosthetic that was more human-like so they didn’t get stared at all the time. It would break the recognition in their eyes when they saw Steve with Bucky. They’d stop breaking away when Bucky walked into a store or touched someone without really thinking about it because that arm was part of him just like his large intestine was part of him.
Somewhere along the line Bucky had lost consciousness. His breathing was slow and deep and he was drooling on himself again. His lips were still red and his hair was sticking up a little more in the humidity. He looked child-like, despite his size. Steve grunted at his placed his arm around Bucky’s legs and lifted him over his shoulder. Bucky let out an undignified noise as he woke from his slumber and his hands snatched for purchase as his face came inches closer to the ground due to his sudden struggle. He pulled at Steve’s shirt and the cool metal knuckles brushed against the small of his back and he didn't let go as Steve bent to set him on his feet again. When Steve’s shirt was half-way over his head, Bucky realized that he was the reason and quickly released his hold, blushing.
“I said I’d walk,” he muttered, a tick forming in his jaw. He studied the ground, angry at how he had been reoriented so quickly and he staggered a bit, dizzy from the alcohol and his inner ear being thrown off. He strode off in front of Steve, who had to jog a bit to catch up with the pace that Bucky was going, albeit not exactly straight, down the sidewalk. He spotted his bike parked on the corner and fished for his keys in his back pocket. No metal met his hand.
“Bucky,” he said, concern mounting in his voice. “Did you see my keys?” He realized that asking a very drunk person where his keys were wasn’t a good idea, now that a good amount of the alcohol was out of him and he’d have to make a conscious effort to register red lights and such, but he was okay to drive. Bucky looked at him like a caged animal: scared and panicky but also quite pissed off. He swallowed thickly and ran his tongue over his lips. It was a nervous habit of his and Steve tingled sometimes when he did it. Bucky as Bucky-looking-pissed was way more appealing than it had any right to be and Steve felt an urge to push him against the brick wall of that drugstore on the corner and make it so he could feel exactly what that mouth felt like when it was taken by wet, sloppy surprise.
Steve felt alert and ready for whatever Bucky was about to say. His drunk face didn’t hide much of anything and the darkness in his eyes was not a trick of the light. “I have them,” he said, a challenge in his eyes. Bucky was really drunk. If he had to, Steve could floor him to get what he needed, but something told him that Bucky was going to somewhat peacefully let Steve get his keys back.
“May I have them?” He stared at Bucky, trying to figure out what was going through that brain. It was either moving incredibly quickly or incredibly slowly. Bucky’s eyes tore away from Steve’s face and dropped ever so slowly to his jeans pocket. His hand rested there and he sent a pointed glance Steve’s way.
Steve took one step toward the keeper of the keys and Bucky drew back like he was dancing. Dear God, he was drunk. Scratch that. Bucky had to be blacked out. Steve thought he had been careful enough, and the temptation was so real to do what he wanted but he was so much better than that. It nagged at him, though, as he chased Bucky around on the sidewalk, but Bucky was fast, even if he didn’t know what was going on, and Steve was the one forced up against the drugstore exterior, his head smacking against the glass and jarring his vision for a second.
“You’re gonna have to get it, Captain,” whispered Bucky. His breath was rancid in Steve’s face, but nevertheless, Steve inched his hand into Bucky’s pocket, his fingers ghosting through the fabric that was intimate with his strong left thigh, and hooked his finger through the key chain. He fished his keys from the too-tight pockets (strictly by design of Bucky’s jeans) and when he looked up to move away, Bucky’s face was much too close to his. He had leaned forward and his eyes were all Steve could see. He pressed his head back to the drugstore window and Bucky’s lips chased him. They were so close. If Steve just leaned in a little more--
With a grunt, Bucky fell off balance from leaning in too far and fell into Steve’s shoulder (from a clever maneuver) because otherwise Bucky wouldn’t remember the first time Steve finally got up the gumption to offer his love to him. “Damn it,” cursed the ex-assassin. Steve grabbed his arm and tugged him to the bike. He checked both ways before crossing the street and then dragged Bucky with him and almost had to moved his lethargic limbs himself to get him situated on the vehicle. Bucky’s face pressed against Steve’s shoulder and the bike roared to life. He kicked it in gear and Steve probably should have paid more attention to the traffic lights but his mind was more occupied with the sleeping, puppy-like ex-murderer who was, once again, drooling on him.
Steve knew he wasn’t a sidecar kind of guy, but sometimes he wished he was. It would be so much easier for him to install one, but at the same time his bike fit two, and one other was all he ever needed anyway. Bucky shifted his arms to wrap around Steve’s waist and he snuggled a little closer. He wished he could dump everything into that damn sidecar, but he didn’t have it so he had to keep it all on his bike.
By the time he ran the second light thinking about how he would even go about getting a second piece of hardware and how he’d feel if he had a hypothetical carrying case, they were at his apartment entirely unscathed. He detached Bucky first from himself and then from his bike. He wrapped his arms around him and tugged so that the bike almost fell over and he caught it with his hip while holding Bucky tightly. The bike was going to fall and possibly crush them under it, so Steve threw Bucky into the somewhat wet street and righted his bike before locking it in place, and then he picked up his he-didn’t-know-what-to-call-him and he took them up in the elevator to Steve’s floor. Bucky had woken up around the second floor and looked at Steve with a gentle fondness that made Steve wish that Bucky actually knew what was going on and how much Steve wanted to reciprocate. The elevator dinged for their floor and Steve stepped out first. He found his key on his keychain.
The lights were dim as to not disrupt the sleep of his hallmates. In that darkness and slight mustiness and the mandatory carpet to soften their steps, Bucky Barnes, really quite cognizant of what he was doing, especially after that nap on the way back, reached over and laced his fingers in Steve’s. He pressed their palms together and Steve stiffened. He actually stopped dead in his tracks and took a good look at Bucky’s face. Even though Bucky was clenching his jaw in determination and concentration of what exactly he was feeling, Steve saw that his brain had revved back to life. Bucky’s eyes were dark and never had Steve seen so much longing in one man’s face as Bucky’s gaze settled on Steve’s lips. Steve’s lips parted as he struggled to breathe. He felt an awful flipping in his stomach and his palm turned slick in Bucky’s grasp.
Their hands locked within each other’s, Steve tugged harder than strictly necessary and made bigger strides than before as he led them to the end of the hall. He fumbled around with the lock, muttering in frustration as he had to break contact to unlock his door, and once it was unlocked he threw it open, pulled Bucky inside, and kicked it shut behind them.