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“Yes, please have a seat anywhere you like and we can begin.”
Bucky didn’t expect the man to look so… American, for lack of better word. Of course, he hasn’t been in America for long, perhaps everyone is like this. There’s no question that the man defies the stereotype of American obesity, but that’s not to say that he’s the pinnacle of health with a reedy chest and waiflike extremities. He’s good looking with swept back blond hair, intelligent blue eyes and a smile painted red and white with perfect teeth and rosy lips.
But the tie, with its stars and stripes, is a little much.
He walks into Steve Rogers’ office and perches on the edge of a comfy looking recliner, watching the man’s body move along the bookshelf and retrieve books. Honestly, Bucky’s never had a teacher who looked quite like the man does. Hell, he looks a few years younger than Bucky to add to it, but that’s more Bucky’s fault than his own.
“I presume you’re James?” Rogers asks, offering up a small smile.
“I go by Bucky,” Bucky replies.
“Bucky, then.” Bucky likes the way his name sounds in the American’s mouth. He smiles and nods.
Rogers grabs a few more things off the bookshelf before he’s walking back to Bucky, setting down the frankly intimidating pile on the tasteful coffee table positioned between them. He plucks one of the books up and holds it out to Bucky before asking his questions.
“So,” Rogers begins. “Where are you from?”
“Russia, Novosibirsk is where moya mama has a house.”
Bucky watches as Rogers nods, folds his legs into a pretzel and leans back in his chair. He sits like that for what seems likes minutes, appearing to only be thinking about what it is Bucky just said, and then just as quickly he snaps out of his daze. He smiles up at Bucky, blushes a little as he brushes his fingers through his hair.
“And you’d like to learn English,” he says, grinning. “Well, I suppose we should start with introductions. I’m Steve Rogers, I graduated from New York University with a degree in linguistics. I grew up in Brooklyn with my ‘ma, and still live there in an apartment in DUMBO.”
He waves as though to indicate Bucky should carry about his own introductions; Bucky hesitates a moment before actually speaking.
“I am James Barnes, but you know I like Bucky,” he pauses to swallow. The man’s eyes are pinned on him, not missing a thing from the way his face cringes at the way his accent butchers his words to the way he sucks on his lip when he doesn’t have the right words. “I like to write, but I am not good enough to write in English yet. I have a house in Soho-”
“You have a house in Soho?” Steve interrupts, looking, for lack of better comparison, like an overexcited puppy. “No way!”
Bucky wrinkles his nose. “Yes, that is what I just told you.”
“Oh, shit, no I know.” Steve laughs and Bucky decides he likes the sound of it very much. “Sorry, I interrupted, go on.”
“There is not really much more to speak of,” Bucky replies.
“Right.” Steve grabs a book off the top of the pile and flips through the pages, putting a finger on the page he wants to keep before leaning forward in his seat and fixating Bucky with a wide, eager grin. “Well, from that I figured that you’re pretty damn good at English, you just need a little grammar help and some conjugation advice, but aside from that I can speak some Russian, so if you ever are at a loss, then feel free to say what’s on your mind however way you can convey it.”
Without hesitation, Bucky smirks and says, “Ty ochen' krasivyy, dlya amerikantsa.”
It gets a snort from Steve, and he pushes to his feet. “Dolzhen li ya byt' oskorbil?” he asks, raising a brow. Bucky shakes his head and grins; Steve knows a lot more than ‘some Russian’. He takes the book that Steve offers and opens to the page Steve’s finger is marking.
The page is completely in English, line upon line of English script punctuated by marks Bucky knows and a few Bucky doesn’t. He forces himself to focus as he tries to decipher a few of the first sentences. It’s difficult, but he can manage to interpret the text at its most basic understanding if he concentrates on nothing else.
Steve gives him a few minutes, thankfully, before asking him what he thinks of it.
“I have read this once,” Bucky replies. “Is it French?”
“Yeah.” He can hear the unspoken do you know what it is?
Bucky thinks hard to men waving flags, revolutionaries and patriots, starving women and men begging in the streets for something as simple as a loaf of bread. His country had a similar trite, but his ancestors had been well off enough to avoid eating another member of their own family. He hopes so, at least, because he can’t imagine anyone being honest of such a thing.
“It’s Les Miserables,” he says, knowing he’s correct. To affirm his assertion, Steve nods.
“I’m going to start you on harder texts,” he says. He rubs his chin for a moment before perching on the chair beside Bucky. “Are you good with comprehending written word or do you prefer to listen?”
“Written English is simpler.”
Steve nods, grabbing the book out of his hands and placing a marker on his page. “I want you to read the whole thing in time, but for now just read the more… Well, I don’t want to say they’re more interesting, but you’ll be more interested in the content.”
Bucky just nods his head, though he knows what Steve is trying to say; interesting books are easier to comprehend no matter the language spoken. It’s partially why Bucky chose America, both because of the offered marginal freedom, the culture, and the literature.
“I’ll read what you tell me to read,” Bucky murmurs.
The rest of the meeting is trying to feel each other out. Bucky learns very little about Steve, including the fact that he wanted badly to join the military but he was unable to because he has asthma. Bucky only tells him slightly more; he prattles on about his sisters and his mother, purposefully navigating past when Steve asks him about his absent father.
All in all, it’s a pretty great day. He’ll be happy to learn English with this fascinating man.
The next time they meet, it’s a Thursday.
Bucky had gotten a job as an software designer at a small computer company, and he’s earning enough not to completely subside on his grandparents’ money. He tells Steve about the job, tells him about his boss. Steve just grins his usual grin and tells him he’s happy for him.
“Did you manage to read what I asked you to?” he asks after the small talk is long past.
Bucky nods. “Of course,” he replies, pulling the book out of his bag. He sets it on the table. “I read the whole book, but I know you wanted me to just read about the revolutionaries. I greatly liked Grantaire.” He doesn’t mention that he liked Feuilly more the first time he read the book.
Steve hums. “I prefer Enjolras,” he says, rubbing his chin in that way he does.
This time, instead of discussing each other, they talk about the book. Bucky finds himself immersed in Steve’s words, in why Enjolras is the greatest character in historical fiction because he died for his cause, he was a martyr and Steve imagines he would’ve liked that if he was alive during the revolution.
“But Grantaire died for the cause too,” Bucky interrupts, frowning.
“No,” Steve says, brushing his hair out of his eyes. Something like steel burns low in his eyes. “He died for his cause. He only cared about Enjolras.”
“Can you blame him?”
“Of course I can! He was selfish, he didn’t care about the future of his country. He only cared about his future with his friend.”
Bucky scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Konechno, vy by skazal, chto,” he mutters. “Vy amerikantsy i vasha tendentsiya k demokratii. Blago mnogiye men'she blaga nemnogikh.”
He doesn’t realize Steve even moved before he’s in his face, all five and a half feet of him pushing Bucky back into the chair as he glares down his nose. “The good of the many,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “You should know better than anyone that the good of the many is a necessity, and that the good of the few results in disaster and, if anything, turmoil.”
Bucky wants to speak, but he doesn’t have any words to speak with, or any air to even breathe in. He just stares at Steve’s eyes, burning blue and determined, and his lips, parted slightly and breathing cool air onto Bucky’s chin.
They sit like that for more than a few moments, just breathing each other in and not knowing quite what to do, before they are aware enough of how close to each other they are and blush beet red.
“I-”
“Um-”
“I should probably be on my way, um, home,” Bucky says, trying to avoid letting his eyes get near Steve’s, or letting the strange warmth building hot and low in his gut flourish too far out of his control. “I have to, um, feed my cat.”
He doesn’t know it, but he’s pretty sure Steve nods. “Yes, of course,” Steve replies, voice tight and too professional for Bucky’s liking. “You don’t want to… keep your cat waiting.”
“Yes, well, proshchaniye.”
“Proshchaniye,” Steve replies, just as Bucky’s sprinting out the door and pulling it shut behind him.
The walk home is spent trying not to think about Steve’s tiny ferocity, or the way he can manage to intimidate Bucky even though Bucky’s probably got a good fifty pounds on the guy in pure muscle. He tries not to think about the way Steve’s eyes spark when he’s considering something that interests him, or when Bucky asserts something he agrees with even if he can’t properly convey it in English. He likes the way Steve rolls his vowels when he intones in Russian, and enjoys the way his nose wrinkles when he can’t think of the correct verbs to use, grins when Bucky supplies one.
He hails a cab, though he probably should by a car soon enough, and stares at the passing New York landscape as he passes through, tipping the driver a hundred before walking through his gate and pushing through the door.
Bucky is thankful for his family’s wealth. Without it he wouldn’t have been able to come to America, much less learn the language with enough private tutors to constitute opening a private school. He also wouldn’t have a beautiful house he had a hand in designing, with high ceilings and Spartan décor.
The solitude of it is what relaxes him, if he’s honest. And when he decides to just strip and leave his clothes lying wherever and climb into his bed completely naked, well that’s his business.
He falls asleep to the sound of rain pattering against his window quickly, lulled by the soft notes of horns honking from streets afar and the quiet chatter of hoards of people wandering his street at all hours.
Bucky goes back to Steve’s office on Wednesday the following week.
It’s tense, awkwardly so, and Steve obviously notices it as well. Bucky twitches in his usual seat, fingers nervously dog-earing the page Steve has indicated he should read aloud, and he’s stuttered an astonishing seven times on a twelve word sentence. Obviously, things aren’t working out as they should, and obviously Bucky should say something.
So, he does. In the simplest Russian he knows, Bucky murmurs, “Ya ne zhaleyu, chto sluchilos.’” I’m not sorry for what happened.
“Me neither.”
It rouses him, somewhat, out of the awkward trance that had been bothering him the past few days. Heat blooms warm on his cheeks, bleeding down his neck and blossoming over his chest. He thanks his choices, that he’s, to paraphrase his sister, original and creative in how he dresses with popped collars galore and scarf layered upon scarf. Unfortunately, it doesn’t obscure the way he can see Steve blushing bright pink in front of him, plump lip sucked beneath his teeth.
Neither says anything for a few moments, and then Steve clears his throat and asks Bucky to recite the paragraph once more.
“Love had c-caught him out of trivi-um-triv-uh,” Bucky stutters, peering up at Steve for instruction. He leans up into his space and murmurs, “Triviality,” against his cheek, breath warm and soft where it brushes over Bucky’s skin.
He nods before continuing, “Triviality and Maurice out of be-bewil-bewilderment in order that two imperfect souls might touch perfection,” Bucky finishes, translating the words in his mind and considering the meanings.
It’s only when Steve’s plucking the book out of his grasp that he fully understands it, that he remembers the books banned that he’s never given opportunity to read and absorb where his mother and a tyrant leader prevented knowledge of homosexual practices in literature.
Of course, Bucky knew of it. Of course Bucky read up on what he’d wanted to read about, learned about who he was and in turn who he could become.
“Maurice,” he murmurs, glancing up at Steve.
“It’s a favorite,” Steve replies, brushing his hair out of his face. “I usually don’t introduce my students,” he pauses at the word, winces slightly when his eyes land back on Bucky. “Introduce people looking to learn English to my preferred texts right away, but I assumed it would be something you’d like.”
Bucky nods. “Ya lyublyu eto.” And he does love it; the book, of course. He’d worked tooth and nail trying to find it, finally coming across a shop near his grandmother’s apartment in St. Petersburg, persuaded her to keep it on her shelf and to let him come to her house to read it. Mother wouldn’t have liked it had she found out. “I-we don’t have much like it, so I was happy to come across it.”
“Of course,” Steve replies, pushing himself to his feet. Bucky tracks his movement with his eyes, watching as he settles in beside him, tentative thin hand wavering above where Bucky’s grips the book. After a minute, the thin fingers tug at Bucky’s thumb, and Bucky relinquishes the book without a second hesitation.
When Steve’s hand lands on his again, the warm palm brushing flush against Bucky’s, he doesn’t pull away.
“This is incredibly unethical.”
“I know.”
“You should request a different teacher; you should demand a refund.”
“I should.”
“Are you going to?”
“No.”
Steve’s hand twitches where it rests within Bucky’s, so he curls his fingers around it, entwining his fingers with Steve’s and pulling it up to his face, pressing a soft kiss to the back of his hand. He doesn’t let his eyes drift from Steve’s watching as they widen when he moves his lips to each of Steve’s knuckles, relishing in the peachy blush that blooms over his cheeks.
He pulls away, but doesn’t say anything. The tension is almost palpable, and Bucky’s tempted to run, to scream, to push and pull and take, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he leans forward and meets Steve halfway.
Bucky knows Steve is tiny, even for someone of his age. He feels even smaller pressed against Bucky, skinny arms wrapped around his neck that wouldn’t let go even if Bucky tried to force himself away. His face is thin too; Buck can feel the sharp angles of his cheekbones catching on his thumbs when he brushes them over his face, rubs over the corners of Steve’s eyes as he twists his head this way and that, deepening the kiss until it’s something he can get lost in.
It hardly lasts a minute, but when they part they’re both breathing rapidly. Bucky keeps a hand on Steve’s side, checking for any wheezing or any sign of asthmatic panic. He’s pleased to catch none, and dives back in to kiss the side of Steve’s mouth.
They part with matching grins, matching blushes. Bucky memorizes every inch of Steve’s face as best as he can, slides his hands down to catch Steve’s.
“Khotite, chtoby poluchit' uzhin?” Bucky asks, grinning so wide his face feels as though it’s going to split in two.
Steve catches the last word in his mouth when he arches up, swollen lips pressing fevered kisses to Bucky’s. When he pulls away, he’s grinning from ear to ear.
“It’d be my pleasure.”