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Bucky Barnes shifts from foot to foot and scuffs a few dead, soggy leaves along the sidewalk. The streetlight he’s standing under flickers, and he pushes his hands further into the pockets of his jacket. He bounces on his toes a couple more times, and then digs his phone out.
3:40AM
Allowing a deeply beleaguered sigh to escape him, he unlocks the screen, taps on his text messages. Nothing. Tapping again, he pulls up his chat history with Wanda, which...is predictive. He scrolls back through several months of Where are you?! You’re late!!! ETA?! And his personal favorite, WAKE UP WANDA!!
He taps out the latest contribution to the collection, a relatively subdued on ur way? And his phone buzzes a minute later omw sorrryyyyyy
Bucky’s a shift supervisor at Starbucks, and he works the opening shift 5 days a week, which seems to result in him freezing his ass off outside before 4AM more often than not. That aside, it’s not a bad job, even if it’s not his first choice of employment. Hell, it’s not his second or third choice either.
But, Bucky has roughly 75% of a bachelor’s degree and isn’t qualified to do much else, and anyways, he gets affordable health insurance, which makes up for the crummy tips. He’s worked the opening shift for the last few years, so while he has to get up at 3AM, he’s done by noon each day and can run the opening shift in his sleep.
And really, Starbucks is okay - he still likes making coffee, enjoys working the espresso bar during a rush and he likes his little crew of baristas, even when they have only a passing acquaintance with punctuality. He gets endless free coffee, and well, even if customers are sometimes rude or condescending, he’s caffeinated enough all the time that the bad energy just vibrates right off him.
He really does want to finish school, but somehow, semester after semester goes by and he just can’t quite find the motivation to re-enroll. It’s not a cheerful thought, makes him feel even colder than the weather currently warrants. Unwilling to commit any more emotional energy to examining his ennui in depth, he distracts himself by imagining a pleasant alternate universe where he is still at home, cozy in bed, with his large orange cat Seamus curled on his chest in a smug loaf.
He’s thinking about how good it would feel to just shut off his alarm and roll over, falling back into blissful, uninterrupted sleep when Wanda finally shuffles up, mouth stretching wide in a yawn, backpack slung over one shoulder. Her stompy boots are unlaced and trailing, and she picks at her chipped black nail polish while Bucky, interrupted from his daydreams, tries to get his half frozen fingers to cooperate with getting out his keys.
The lock of the front door is notoriously finicky, and Bucky and Wanda go through their usual routine to convince it to open. This necessitates Bucky jamming the key in the lock and then hanging his full weight off the door to get the internal tumblers lined up and Wanda firmly kicking the supporting frame a number of times to jar it loose. Bucky’s key finally turns, and the two of them tumble into the blissfully warm, dark store, the air heavy with the scent of coffee and bleach while the alarm screeches a welcome.
Bucky hurries to shut it off while Wanda ambles over to the tower of pastries waiting to be opened and put out. Quiet restored, he points at Wanda, who is sorting through the pastry stack in a desultory manner.
“I’m writing you up! You’ve been late like, every day this week.”
She snorts and continues arranging hunks of coffee cake. “Yeah right, who else you gonna get to work this shift?”
She has a point. Wanda is always late, but she does show up, which is more than can be said of her predecessor.
Rather than continue with an argument he can’t win, Bucky counters “Take off your nail polish before we open. And the nose ring!”
Wanda extends a glove covered middle finger in his general direction, and Bucky elects to ignore the gesture in favor of hiding in the office to take care of the money. He tells himself firmly he is in charge. He’s still telling himself that as he begins to count the tills.
And counts them all again.
And then has to close his eyes and take some deep, soothing breaths, because every single one of the 4 tills has exactly $69.69 in it.
“Hey, Bucky can you turn on…” Wanda’s voice trails off as she makes eye contact with him, and then she beats a hasty retreat out of the office, back to the front of the store. Coward. Bucky had been trying to stay calm, but he thinks his face is probably doing something weird.
See, Bucky really does (mostly) like his job. The only real fly in his ointment (other than fluctuating levels of depression and a lack of personal fulfillment he refuses to admit to) is one Steven G. Rogers, the closing shift supervisor.
Bucky fucking hates Steve Rogers.
On paper, Steve doesn’t look bad. He’s tall, well over 6 feet, with unruly blond hair and deceptively earnest blue eyes. His nose looks like it’s been broken once or three times, and his lips are full and always look half a second away from a smile or a smirk or a grin. Sometimes he grows a beard, which has the unfortunate effect of both hiding his face and improving it immensely.
He’s built like a truck. Not one of those rusted out nightmares Bucky’s uncle drives, with mismatched doors and chipped paint and a MAGA sticker on the back; Steve is something powerful, attractive, and vaguely ridiculous in its proportions.
And Steve’s not a terrible co-worker, not exactly. He’s hard working - he has his own graphic design business, and works at Starbucks for the health insurance. He leaves the store in good shape each night - the safe is always accurate, everything clean and neat, prep work done. Their chalkboards, advertising drink specials and featured coffee, have been the envy of the district since Steve transferred here. His baristas love him.
Ostensibly, with Bucky as the morning shift and Steve as the night shift, they should rarely interact. They should be two ships passing in the night, making brief contact for keys to be handed over, Bucky the sun and Steve the moon making their opposite ways through the sky.
However, Steve Rogers does his best to make an...impression on Bucky. It’s not every day, but as soon as Bucky starts to think that Steve may have forgotten about him, he engineers another fucking prank guaranteed to rile Bucky up and make him tear his hair out.
It had started with the timers. Steve had nestled one into a box of tea one morning, just above where the coffee timers live. When it had gone off, Bucky had frantically checked and rechecked the same area, driven half crazy by the beeping until he finally tore into the tea boxes. Upon locating the timer, he promptly smashed it.
Bucky hadn’t been able to sell any of the boxes of Zen tea he’d destroyed, and he’d ended up drinking it all, because he couldn’t stand the waste. Now, his blood pressure automatically rises a few points whenever he even sees a bag of Zen tea, which is definitely not the intention of the brew.
It wasn’t the last time Steve hid timers around the store, set to go off at different intervals. He’d left a timer inside the time-locked safe, where it had beeped continuously until Bucky could access the safe at 8AM.
Bucky starts work at 3:30AM. He’d smashed that timer too.
Steve locked timers into paper towel dispensers, tucked them into apron pockets, hid them in cabinets, set them to go off in staggered two minute intervals. The timers were just the beginning.
One morning, Bucky thought the patio furniture had been stolen. The first customer of the morning found it all, neatly stacked in the women’s bathroom. Another time, the furniture was carefully arranged into a kind of abstract modern sculpture, stretching towards the ceiling and fixated with bungee cords.
Mocha powder baked into brownies, expired pastries carefully arranged and bedecked with caramel sauce hearts, pink whipped cream (only one, Steve is not a complete monster), Bucky’s name written in coffee grounds, Steve does it all.
One particularly memorable morning, Bucky had found a sleeve of cups with little cartoons painstakingly drawn on each one. Most depict Bucky in some state of chaos. They were not particularly flattering. In contrast, a week later, an overly favorable and completely horrible haiku had appeared, inked inside his apron.
Serene Bucky Barnes
King of coffee, tea, my heart
Lovely he rules all.
Bucky had felt a lot of emotions when he saw that. None of them with even a passing acquaintance with serenity, and his eyes had rolled so far back in his head, he’d been surprised when they came back out.
The haiku had not come out of his apron, and he ordered a new one after the Sharpie bled through into a big, inky mess after being washed.
Just a few days ago, Steve had programmed the music to play Uptown Girl on repeat. That day, there had been absolutely no serenity in Bucky’s brain. He’d kept his game face on, but the screaming trash fire in his head all day long was...distracting. That day, his pleasant, welcoming smile had more in common with a grimace. It had been tested further when he received a strongly worded note from his manager, threatening terrible things if he continued to order new timers and aprons with such regularity.
Bucky had miscalculated early on. It had taken him a while to catch to the pranks - writing off the first few as annoying things that just happened. By the time he realized there was a repeated and targeted pranking effort in place, he had already inadvertently established a policy of non-response.
And there was most definitely a concerted pranking effort happening. The tills with their rude dollar amounts are just another thing to deal with, so Bucky deals with it, adding money to each till, and then shuffling them all out to the front, where Wanda has done a nice job setting up the store. The coffee is brewed, the pastry case is full, and somehow they’re only opening a few minutes late.
After he unlocks the door and they serve their first few customers, Wanda sidles up beside him, pushing a cup of coffee towards him. Before he takes a sip, he surreptitiously looks her over, checking for dress code violations. Wanda has the distinct honor of being the only barista he’s ever had to tell that wearing pants is mandatory, since her usual dresses were short enough she had risked second degree burns whenever she was handling hot liquids.
But, the nail polish and nose ring are gone, her dyed red hair is pulled neatly back, and she’s definitely got on pants today (they’re skintight and made of pleather, but he’s not picky, he just has zero desire to put his first aid skills into practice).
When he takes his first sip of coffee, he almost chokes, it’s so sweet with caramel and cream. It’s exactly how he likes his coffee though, and he nudges Wanda.
“Coffee’s good.” She nudges him back,
“Dude, it’s barely coffee.” She’s gulping at a mug of black brewed coffee, and Bucky knows the coffee she’s made him is as close to an apology as he’ll get for her ongoing tardiness. It’s the calm before the morning rush, and he savors it, sipping at his coffee while he sorts through the packaged cookies and mints and other crap in the impulse buy at the register.
“Steve still fucking with you?” Abruptly, he feels his inner calm dissipate and Wanda holds up her hands.
“Sorry, sorry! Never mind!” Bucky realizes his face must be doing something unsolicited again, and Wanda backs off, starts messing with the espresso bar, timing shots and organizing milk. The rush hits a few minutes later, and Bucky does not have to think about Steve for the rest of the morning, and he flies through morning on autopilot.
He doesn’t have to think about Steve until the afternoon, when Steve strolls in to take over the store and start the closing shift. He knows he really should say something to Steve; he’s pretty done with Steve’s weird shit, has been done with it but he’s not sure how to address it now that he’s let it slide for so long.
He just keeps not responding, and Steve keeps fucking around, but Bucky feels like the camel and he knows at some point, Steve’s gonna do something, he’s gonna dye all the milk green or program My Heart Will Go On into the coffee grinder, or stick all the furniture to the ceiling and Bucky. Will. Fucking. Lose. It.
His back will break and it will be game over and Bucky will be out of work because you don’t get to keep your job when you chuck your co-worker in the compost bin after setting fire to their collection of polo shirts, no matter how much they provoked you. He might be able to collect unemployment though?
But, Bucky’s a fucking coward, and also not in the mood for difficult conversations. So, he sticks to his usual protocol when dealing with Steve Rogers. He greets him politely and distantly, counts over the safe, and reports any weird shit (excluding whatever weird shit Steve left the day before). He deflects Steve’s questions about his plans for the day, does not comment on Steve’s new haircut that makes his hair look extra fluffy and soft, and pointedly ignores Steve’s offer of some fancy ass chocolates.
Steve tries to give Bucky chocolate every few weeks, hiding it in his apron pocket, or leaving it in Bucky’s drawer in the desk. It’s not always candy: Bucky has found hairbands (after his had snapped at shift change), a Tide pen after Steve trashed his apron, a tiny pencil drawing of Seamus on a napkin.
Bucky sees it for the tactic it clearly is. Steve has got a pattern - he spends some time building Bucky up, getting him to relax, and then tears him back down with a series of incredibly irritating pranks. So, Bucky tries to ignore Steve’s offerings, but it’s difficult because if Bucky loves anything, he really fucking loves his cat and chocolate, and Steve always has the good stuff.
Chocolate landmine successfully navigated, Bucky gets another another cup of coffee and dips, barely pausing to hang up his apron and get into his jacket.
The rest of his day is unremarkable. He works out at the gym, putting in his miles on the treadmill and avoiding eye contact with one of his customers on the elliptical across the way, a woman who swaddles her for-here cup in roughly 30 napkins and refuses to take her change from the cashier’s hand, but apparently has no problem with the germ-infested gym equipment.
After, he shops for groceries. Bucky goes through the same pattern every month or so where he resolves to cook more regularly. He makes shopping lists and dives deep into Pinterest meal prep boards, until entropy inevitably prevails, and he reverts to living off free coffee, expired food from Starbucks, and take out when the first two are not available. He’s early on in this particular cycle, and he feels virtuous as he roasts an assortment of vegetables and prepares a marinade for some chicken he’s been dragging his feet on cooking.
After dinner, he’s got his feet up, Seamus purring contentedly on his lap, and a big glass of wine at his elbow when he gets a text from Wanda. Ppl are getting together at Carol’s if u wanna come
Bucky very briefly considers going out, but he’s already got his comfy clothes on and Seamus does not seem interested in being relocated. And, when he thinks about the last party he went to fuck, had it really been 5 months, he feels affirmed in his decision. It had been a disaster and he has no desire to repeat that.
Carol, one of his baristas, had hosted then, too, in her tiny apartment near the local college. He’d arrived irritated, after he’d had to park far enough away that he might as well have walked the entire way and had been late enough that nearly everyone had passed pleasantly tipsy and were well on their way to sloppy.
The 2nd floor apartment had been crowded and hot and Bucky had winced when he’d opened the door and been assaulted with someone’s haphazard EDM Spotify playlist. In the kitchen, he’d found Carol, who was sliding into the sloppy portion of the evening with abandon. She’d mixed him a drink with more enthusiasm than skill, and as Bucky had leaned against the counter, he’d been frankly alarmed at the mixture of liquors being slopped together.
He’d accepted the cup anyways, and a wet kiss on the cheek. When he straightened up to follow Carol into the living room, his clothes had detached from the sticky surface of the counter with a squelching noise, and yeah...that had been...gross.
As Bucky wandered through the apartment, disgusting medley of booze firmly in hand, he’d begun to feel...old and very over Starbucks. People are drunkenly bitching in corners - about obnoxious customers and shitty staffing and ridiculous corporate mandates. Everyone looks too young, too drunk, too dressed up for a lame house party, and he knows for a fact that at least two of the people present have to open in less than four hours.
One of them is Wanda, who hugs him with uncharacteristic exuberance, introducing him to her boyfriend, Viz, a tall, cadaverous white dude. He looks way too old to be dating Wanda, who is only a sophomore despite her black lipstick and world-weary manner.
Not your business, not your business, she’s a grown ass woman Bucky chants to himself. Wanda’s nose ring had caught on his ponytail when she’d hugged him, and Viz’s unhelpful oversight as they tried to untangle themselves had made him want to punch the guy even more, so he’d pretended he wanted to talk to Carol and had escaped.
Carol is actually in no condition to be spoken to, being forced to drink water and calm the fuck down by her girlfriend Maria, who has the long-suffering expression of someone who has been to this particular rodeo one too many times.
Carol isn’t the only mess in the room. Some people from another store are attempting to dance, sloppily grinding on each other and looking like they got lost on their way to the club. A bunch of the closing baristas from his own store are attempting to play Cards against Humanity, but they’re too drunk to focus, giggling at each new card that gets pulled. Pietro in particular is drooping into the couch cushions, half asleep. Bucky had been relieved Steve wasn’t there - like Bucky, he rarely attends social things, but Bucky thinks it’s probably because he’s busy running a business and planning ways to make Bucky miserable.
He’d attempted small talk with a supervisor from another store, but he couldn’t hear her over the music, and it’s suddenly too much, the hot air stinking of sweat and spilled booze and weed, and he’d escaped again, this time to the balcony.
The cold air hit him, sharp in his lungs, and he’d leaned over the railing, pouring out the rest of his drink. Patting his pockets, he’d pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with a sigh of relief. It’s a bad habit, one he’s mostly quit, but situations like this bring out the worst in him, bring all his self-destructive urges back.
When he’d first moved out here, started college, started working, he’d loved nights like this. Loved the slow spin of the room as he moved from tipsy to drunk, the loud laughter and artificial closeness that intoxication brings, the feel of his cheeks flushing and the room going dark.
Now, he just feels..old. Too old for it all, and tired. Tired of seeing college students come and go, graduating and moving on or dropping out like him and staying. Tired of the excuses people like him make for not finishing.
He doesn’t want to be a lifer, but he’s kinda starting to feel like a lifer.
He’s starting to feel a little panicky, breath coming a little too fast and vision tunneling in when a blond guy stumbles out onto the balcony. He’d interrupted Bucky’s downward spiral with a cheesy pick up line, something about the stars and gravitational pull, and then had tried to bum a cigarette.
Bucky had only the one, but he’d been charmed against his better judgement, and he liked the way the guy (Peter, not to be confused with baby Peter who works weekends) looked; a little soft around the edges and trying too hard in a red leather jacket. So, he’d shared, and they’d stood side by side, smoke curling gently around them as they’d passed the cigarette back and forth.
He’d felt the guy’s gaze on him, knew he was admiring the way Bucky filled out his tight jeans and soft gray shirt. Peter had been silly and earnest, and Bucky had flirted back, trying to distract himself from the tight feeling in his chest. He’d ended up sharing more than a cigarette when Peter pulled him into the bathroom and Bucky had gone, trading messy, lazy kisses. It’d been good, fun, until Peter had gone for his belt buckle and the panic still hovering at the edges of Bucky’s brain had come roaring back.
He’d pushed frantically at Peter, ignored the judgy look Wanda had shot him when he’d emerged from the bathroom, Peter trailing after him. He’d gotten home somehow, didn’t quite remember the drive home.
He’d texted Peter a few times after, hadn’t gotten a response. Bucky can’t exactly blame him, and anyways, it might have been a one time thing for Peter even if it had gone well. Bucky had deleted his number and eaten an entire pepperoni pizza with extra cheese, after tossing the last of his cigarettes. Christ, he’s too old to be hooking up in a bathroom anyways.
Biucky snaps out of his reverie when Seamus delicately sinks his claws into Bucky’s forearm. His hand on Seamus’ soft fur had been still for a little too long, and the cat has exacting standards for appropriate petting frequency. Bucky taps out a response to Wanda Busy! Sorry. Don’t be late tomorrow!
Yup, he is definitely busy, he thinks, as he takes a big gulp of wine and starts the next episode of Great British Bake Off. He’s got plans to finish this season of GBBO and maybe learn how to bake a sponge. He’ll probably do a face mask later, coffee oil is hell on his skin, and he’s firmly committed to a bedtime that will give him a good night’s sleep even when you wake up at the ass crack of dawn.
He’s in bed by 8PM, and deliberately does not think of any of the blond men who have caused him grief as he drifts off to sleep.
The next morning, Wanda is only 5 minutes late, and doesn’t even seem too hungover.
“Gotta finish a lab report before class.” is the muttered response when he comments on her timeliness and relative alertness. Things start smoothly enough, with Bucky and Wanda dispensing caffeine to their shambling, zombie like regulars with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine.
Then, Steve’s closing barista calls out sick, and Bucky’s morning goes off the rails. He spends the next couple of hours in the office, calling everyone and their mother, trying to find coverage. He calls every district in their store, with no luck. Bucky himself has the next day off, and his manager begs and pleads him to work a double and close the store.
Bucky holds out until he is promised overtime pay and an extra day off the next week, and then he agrees. It’s only after he hangs up that he realizes he’s going to have to work with Steve all night. And he’s gonna have to close, which he hasn’t done since he was hired.
Oh well. Bucky makes a habit of not projecting the screaming chaos that runs in his brain 24/7 to the outside world, and he’s not gonna start now (uncontrollable facial expressions aside when the topic of Steve Rogers arises). He’ll suck it up, get through the night, and then enjoy his extra day off. In preparation for the upcoming hell, he treats himself to an extra large coffee with a generous amount of caramel and whipped cream, and fairly buzzing with energy, flies through the remaining morning rush.
At noon, Steve comes in, and Bucky, crashing a little from all the sugar and caffeine, explains the situation. To his shock, Steve seems to be delighted, grinning and clapping him on the shoulder. “Bucky! you’re the best! We’ll have a great night, don’t worry, I’ll even clean the bathrooms.” Bucky is momentarily distracted by the sight of Steve’s biceps, which seem like they are trying to murder the sleeves of his white polo shirt.
And, ugh, while the Starbucks dress code is somewhat flexible (collared black or white shirt, black or khaki pants), in Bucky’s opinion, Steve makes ALL the wrong choices inside of that flexibility. He seems to have a personal mission to torture the smallest polo shirts he can find into submission, forcing them over his frankly ridiculous biceps and shoulders. His pants are no better - he voluntarily wears khakis, and while Bucky has never been privy to seeing him complete any of the closing tasks, he can’t imagine that pants that tight allow for much freedom of movement.
Though, Bucky does (personally, in the very back of his mind) treasure the day he came in from the bank run and was treated to a really phenomenal view of Steve, entire upper body in a bar fridge, ass hanging out and lovingly encased by straining khaki pants. For all Steve’s faults and crimes against clothing, the man has quite a nice behind.
Steve, who is still talking, tries to ruffle Bucky’s hair, which Bucky skillfully ducks (he styles his hair unlike some people okay and flees to the bathroom (which he had zero intention of cleaning in the first place, thanks).
In the bathroom, Bucky takes the time to check himself out. He’s pretty much accepted his current lot in life as a glorified food service employee in a green apron, but he still tries to look nice, take care of himself, for all that he’s up at the asscrack of dawn each day to sling coffee and arrange pastries and direct sleep deprived college students.
He’s usually pretty happy with what he sees in the mirror - his consistency with regular sleep and skin care somewhat mitigates his disaster of a diet and he tries to stay hydrated (no one likes dry, worn looking skin). His habit of running a few days a week keeps his legs lean and strong while not completely flattening his ass.
As far as Bucky is concerned, he makes the right choices within the constraints of the Starbucks dress code, favoring well fitting black pants and button-downs or turtlenecks. He keeps his long, brown hair neatly tied or braided back, limits his ear piercings to small studs, and always, always keeps a clear retainer in his tongue piercing while he’s on the clock.
Now, faced with working with Steve for another full shift, he finds himself more critical of his appearance than usual. Despite his commitment to maintaining a clean neat appearance, he’s managed to dump a metric fuckton of mocha powder down himself while doing prep work. A matcha latte had exploded on him, leaving an acid green stain on his shoulder. He looks tired, purple smudges under his eyes and little creases across his forehead. Strands of hair are escaping from his braid.
He pivots. Well, at least his ass looks great in these pants. And Bucky has heard he has nice arms - his forearms are muscled from years of slinging coffee, and he makes a point of rolling up his sleeves to show them off.
It isn’t that he cares what Steve thinks of him. He decidedly does not. It’s only that Steve is so very attractive, and Bucky is so very irritated by him and he has always had the personal mantras of look good feel good and dress for success running through his head. And he really feels like he needs to look good to get through the next eight hours of hell, but it looks like he’s gonna have to settle for brushing the matcha off himself and re-braiding his hair. And drinking a second very large cup of coffee with extra caramel sauce and whipped cream.
Once he emerges from the bathroom, he deigns to hand over the keys. Steve is very vocally appreciative of the condition of the store, and then promptly settles him on bar while he gets lunch breaks out of the way.
The day gets weirder, partly because Bucky is really fucking tired, his first wave of exhaustion hitting him shortly after hour 10, and partly because he had been on guard for relentless hazing from Steve, which…does..not..happen. In fact, Steve is really pleasant to work with - friendly and cheerful towards customers, directing the remaining baristas with easy competence, and being unfailingly considerate towards Bucky.
In fact, Steve seems to be going out of his way to be welcoming towards Bucky. Steve goes out for his lunch break, and when he comes back, he’s brought a sandwich for Bucky as well. Bucky is suspicious, as is his nature, but the sandwich is really fucking good and also he never says no to free food.
When Bucky gets a little woozy in hour 16, Steve sends him on a second break and discourages him from having a third very large coffee.
Well, he’s kind of rude about it. “What, you think pounding more caffeine at this time of night is gonna end well for you? Bud, I got no need to scrap you off the ceiling, my nights are long enough.” But, the sentiment is delivered with a big cup of water and a marked out protein plate that Bucky picks at while listlessly scrolling through Instagram.
Back at work, Steve patiently walks Bucky through breaking down the espresso machines, voice low and measured and doing really amazing things deep inside of Bucky that he resolutely ignores. Steve also is true to his word, and cleans the bathrooms and only very gently teases Bucky about his lack of knowledge around closing.
The night goes on in a similar fashion, as mid-day baristas and the pre-closing shifts finish their tasks, go home. Steve compliments Bucky on his bar skills and asks for his feedback on the most recent (and frankly beautiful) chalkboard design. He keeps the bar fridges stocked for Bucky, bringing out milk before he even thinks to check what he’s low on.
Instead of relaxing, Bucky’s feelings of unease only ramp up, tension building as he waits for the other shoe to drop, to open a door and find that Steve’s made a swimming pool of dairy product, or attached the safe to the ceiling, or hired a band to serenade him while he serves customers.
He keeps catching Steve staring at him, which only causes his paranoia to escalate to previously unreached heights. Distracted by his dark thoughts, he forgets to close the hopper when he goes to clean the second espresso machine, causing roughly fifty pounds of espresso beans to pour onto the floor and scatter to the four corners.
Outraged and spluttering, but glad that Steve was in back doing inventory and missed the whole debacle, Bucky gets to cleaning up, pulling out the vacuum to get behind the fridges. He’s gotta get on his hands and knees to stretch out enough to reach the back of the fridge, and he’s pretty absorbed in this task when he feels eyes on him. Turning abruptly (narrowly missing hitting his head on the counter), he catches Steve staring at him again, for the umpteenth time.
…is Steve staring at his ass? No, definitely not, he’s probably staring in amazement that anyone could be so clumsy. And Bucky’s probably got crap all over him now from grubbing around on the floor.
Bucky glares at Steve, fully aware he looks dumb, but tries to get to his feet with some modicum of dignity. Steve seems un-bothered to be caught staring, continues to make deliberate eye contact with Bucky. There’s a small, annoying smirk on his perfect lips.
Bucky imagines a large spider suddenly dropping from above onto Steve’s shiny blond hair. It comforts him a little, so he also imagines that he himself is on a lovely beach with a cocktail in hand and no large blond men for miles. For miles.
Soothed, he turns back to the espresso bar and starts shuffling milk pitchers around, trying to look busy. He promptly fumbles and then drops a pitcher filled with milk. Luke warm milk cascades across the counter, dripping down into the milk fridges. Bucky watches as little streams of milk begin to emerge from under the fridges and converge into a big pool, errant espresso beans from the earlier mess floating along.
He’s beginning to feel like this night will never end. He can still feel Steve’s eyes burning into him and he will not, absolutely cannot bear to see the expression on his face, so he starts dropping bar towels onto the mess at random, pushes a towel around with his toe and watches it immediately become soaked with milk.
He’s gonna have to clean inside and behind the fridges again, because he has no desire to be subjected to the smell of spoiled dairy a day or two from now. Delaying the inevitable, he drops a few more towels down. When he finally turns around, Steve is gone, but the mop has been pulled out, hot water steaming in the bucket with a pile of clean towels next to it. Bucky sighs, and sincerely regrets his life decisions as he pulls the fridge back out and starts cleaning.
He finally gets the bar cleaned up without any further incidents. Steve’s in the back, counting down tills and checking inventory, and Bucky finishes up the remaining dishes and gets busy with rinsing out bar towels.
His legs are aching from a full day on his feet and his eyes are burning since he blew through his normal bedtime, oh, about three hours ago. But, this is his last task for the evening and he falls into a hypnotic routine; muddling each towel in warm water, wringing it and stripping the excess water out, and then piling them on the side of the sink.
He’s finished the last towel, and he bundles them all up, a feeling of triumph momentarily lifting the fatigue riding his body. He is really going to enjoy his extra day off, is going to go home and put his feet up, and definitely not think about Steve at all. He doesn’t want to spend any more time thinking about how confusing actually working with Steve is, with his...niceness and the staring and the rough courtesy and his silly small shirts.
Bucky chucks the wad of towels at the linen bin, noting belatedly that the linen bin is alarmingly full, cloth bag stretched precariously across the flimsy metal frame, and then the towels hit with a satisfying splut. It’s the proverbial straw on the camel’s back, a metaphor for Bucky’s entire night, and all he can do is stand dumbly as the bag gives way and dirty, damp towels and mop heads cascade onto the floor.
The odor is appalling, and of fucking course, Steve comes around the corner and witnesses it all; filthy linen all over the floor and Bucky, mouth hanging open, hand still raised where he’d released the towels. Incongruously, Steve starts to laugh, even as he comes over to help, pulling the bag back into place while Bucky belatedly gets his act together, holds the frame in place. “God Buck, you’re kind of a mess, aren’t you?”
The words seem affectionate, not intended to be mean, but they light Bucky on fire. He’d been gingerly poking the contents of the linen bin back in place, and he’s holding the last of it, a particularly disgusting mop head by his fingertips.
He has a moment of clear, intense focus; Steve’s laughter ringing in his ears, the smell of moldy fabric, his hands trembling from fatigue and too much caffeine, and oil from the coffee beans dark in the creases of his fingers and under his nails. He thinks, this is your life, Bucky, if only you’d stayed in school.
He slams the poor mophead into the bin, because he is a fucking professional and he does not think he could explain slamming it into Steve’s stupid face. And then he’s turning to face Steve, absolutely incensed and not able to hide it behind a bland smile.
“I’m..I’m..a mess?!…you…you..” Bucky can’t even get a word out, he’s so furious he could spit, apocalyptic with rage. “You are a literal agent of chaos! You made me listen to Uptown Girl for eight hours straight! I’d like to see you work under those conditions and be normal after it!”
Steve is staring at him with those big, dumb blue eyes and Bucky’s on a real roll now.
“All the…shit..you’ve pulled, the fucking timers and the furniture and the WHIPPED CREAM?! And the till tags?! What is wrong with you?!”
“Uh..well..” and Steve is scratching at the back of his neck and looking kind of sheepish.
Bucky tries to keep going, he’s on a rolll and it feels so fucking good to pour out his frustrations, but Steve’s next words stop him cold.
“I like you, Bucky, you leave the store set up like a dream, and you’re real good lookin’, and everyone who works with you thinks the world of you, even Wanda, and she doesn’t like anyone.”
Now, he’s squirming, looking uncomfortable. “I..uh..just wanted to make you laugh? And I did bring you chocolate!! Like, really, a lot of chocolate.”
Bucky is completely frozen. “You…like me? But…” and then he’s heating right up again, rage spilling over “Steven Rogers!! How old are you?! Were you going to pull my hair next?!”
And now he’s truly pissed and Steve is looking at him with a cocky little grin on his face, and the very sight of him is enraging, with his big, stupid shoulders, apron looking miniature across the expanse of his chest, wrapped tightly around his narrow waist. Bucky hates his stupid, fucking polo shirt, and those stupid, fucking khakis that are entirely too snug across his perfect, curved ass.
“You want me to pull your hair Buck? Not my normal thing, but I’d give anything a try for you.”
Bucky opens his mouth, and all that comes out is a strangled incoherent noise of rage.
He is going to murder Steve Rogers. He is going to murder Steve Rogers in the office of his workplace. Maybe he can hide the body in the walk in and get out of town before the delivery guys come.
He stalks forward, with every intention of making his murderous intentions reality, and, ugh, somehow, he’s trying to kill Steve Rogers. With his mouth. On Steve Roger’s stupid, perfect mouth.
Tactically, it’s not his best move. But oh, it’s good. It’s really fucking good. He has to lean on his tiptoes to reach, pressing right up against his chest, and Steve’s arms immediately wrap around his waist, pulling him in close. Steve’s mouth is warm and soft under his, and Bucky’s not a romantic, but he swears to God his lips are tingling.
He pulls back, panting, and Steve follows him, eagerly scattering kisses across Bucky’s lips, his cheeks, his jaw, and oh fuck, he’s got his hand in Bucky’s hair, gently, inexorably pulling his head back. And now Steve’s sucking lightly under his jaw, running his tongue over the big tendon of Bucky’s neck, and biting at his clavicle which makes a funny little squeak come out of Bucky that he is sure he has never made before.
Bucky is light headed, dizzy with pleasure and somehow, absurdly, Steve lifts him. His strong arms are under Bucky’s thighs, his back is being pressed against the door of the walk in, and all the passive aggressive notes about dairy rotation and proper inventory management are fluttering to the ground around them like particularly unromantic petals in a windstorm.
Bucky does not care at all, because his lips are back on Steve’s lips and despite the fact that he hates Steve Rogers, he thinks he could kiss him forever. Bucky grinds his hips against Steve, swallows the gasping moan Steve gives him.
And then, horribly, he hears the front door unlock, and men yelling, and he jerks back from Steve, suddenly aware that he’s wrapped around his arch nemesis in the backroom of a fucking Starbucks, where he happens to work. As a supervisor. Where his arch nemesis happens to be his co-worker, another supervisor. “What…the..fuck is that?” Bucky hisses and he is not proud that his voice has a distinctively breathy quality.
Steve carefully lowers Bucky to the floor and it does not make Bucky’s heart flutter to see how Steve waits for him to put his feet down, accept his weight back before he lets go. “It’s just the delivery guys, Buck.” And now, he can see that Steve is smiling at him, eyes twinkling. “You know, the fresh milk and pastries that are waiting for you each morning? Where did you think they came from?”
Bucky flails at him in an incredibly dignified fashion, “I know it gets delivered, asshole, I didn’t know they came so early!”
“Buck, we’ve been here for like, a half hour. I’m usually out of here by now.” Gently, Steve tugs Bucky’s shirt back into place, doing up the buttons by his throat that mysteriously have come undone. Quickly, efficiently, he’s untying Bucky’s apron from his waist and pulling it over his head, carefully folding his collar back down. He starts to smooth down Bucky’ hair, and that’s enough for Bucky to start smacking helplessly at him again. “Leave off, I can undress myself!”
And Steve is definitely laughing at him now “Okay, but try..not to do that right now? We need the opposite, you dressed so we can get out of here, let the guys do the delivery.”
Bucky flushes, but folds his apron, shrugs into his jacket and gathers his bag like his futile attempts to gather the sad remaining scraps of his dignity. Steve gets into his own coat, and then they’re heading out of the office. After clocking out, Steve waves casually to the delivery guys, who wave back and agree to set the alarm. And then they’re walking through the parking lot, and he’s...touched when Steve escorts Bucky to his car.
Steve’s got his hands shoved into his pockets, watches silently as Bucky unlocks his car, chucks his bag into the backseat, and then turns to face Steve. Steve’s face, usually confident, looks a little unsure, the smirks and the jokes from earlier nowhere in evidence. Bucky’s been thinking hard, not sure which of them is dumber; Steve with his confusing mating rituals, and Bucky with his inability to interpret Steve’s signals. If they were an endangered species, they’d be screwed.
Bucky points at Steve, pokes him in the chest. “You! no more fucking pranks! No more hiding timers or getting all the change in pennies or changing my name to Hottie in the register, do you understand me?” Steve nods, hesitant.
“Do you close tomorrow?” Steve mutely shakes his head. “Good. Take me to dinner. I like Thai, or Indian. You have my number.” And then Bucky winks at him, hoping he doesn’t look like a cracked out owl and turns to get in his car. Then, he turns back. “I better not see you in khakis tomorrow, yeah?”
And Steve is nodding and grinning and Bucky himself is smiling as he pulls out of the parking lot to head home.
Epilogue:
Steve take Bucky to dinner, and they eat noodles and drink Thai tea and snark at each other all night. Steve wears jeans and his shirt actually kind of fits him, and later, Bucky demonstrates that he is actually adept in both undressing and dressing, despite his earlier poor showing.
Steve quits the pranks, but it’s largely irrelevant, because Bucky quits Starbucks to fucking finally finish his business degree and also to see Steve more frequently than at shift change 5 days a week.
Also, their boss threatens to fire both of them after he sees the security footage for that night, so he figures he should get out while the getting is good.
Bucky graduates, and he and Steve open their own, entirely too hipster coffee shop together, where pranks and khakis are definitely not allowed, but making out in the backroom is absolutely okay, as long as you are one of the owners of said coffee shop.