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Saturday Morning, 10:01am
Steve cracks one eye open, then immediately squeezes it shut as the sunlight streaming in through his bedroom window immediately attempts to sear his eyeball. Mentally cursing past Steve for leaving the curtains open, he takes inventory of himself. He’s clearly overslept, and his head...no, his whole body is aching with a dull, steady throb. The gritty, dried out sensation behind his eyelids means he stupidly left his contacts in last night. He’s already dreading peeling them off his eyeballs, once he can get himself up and out of bed.
His second attempt at getting his eyes open is more successful, but leaves him feeling more disoriented. He’s turned around the wrong way on the bed, his head is hanging half off the edge, and the blankets are a bunched up, unruly mess. His dick is hanging out of his underwear in an undignified fashion, and he’s pretty sure he’s only got one sock on. Ugh, what the hell did he get up to last night? Summoning his will, he leverages himself upright, struggling out of the tangled blankets that are wrapped around him like a particularly amorous octopus.
“Mmmff what the…?”
Steve freezes in horror, because his foot just connected with something soft and warm, and the resulting deep voice is definitely...not his own. And on the opposite of his narrow bed, a mass of tangled brown hair emerges from Steve’s (oh, God, why) dinosaur sheets, and Steve finds himself staring at the handsome, bleary face of Hot Game Store Guy...no...Bucky. Who is somehow in his bed. His memories of the previous night come crashing back, and Steve feels his face slowly, inevitably turn beet red.
Last (Friday) Night
Steve lives a few blocks from a game store that is desperately trying to re-brand itself as a gamer’s bar. They’ve got a shiny new liquor license, snacks that mostly come from boxes, and a random assortment of wobbly tables and chairs arranged in little clusters throughout the store. It's not the most professional operation, but they’ve got a pretty decent game library and they’ve been running drink specials every Friday night, and well, it’s the closest night spot (Steve uses that word loosely) within walking distance.
So, most Fridays now, Steve finds himself wandering over and drinking companionably with his buddies and playing board games. He doesn’t usually play with strangers, because he’s a competitive son of a bitch, and the owners threatened to ban him when he upended an entire table four hours into an extremely intense game of Risk. Natasha and Sam had had to do some fast talking, but in the end Steve got off with buying a few rounds of hard root beer for the whole bar.
After the Risk debacle, he mostly plays with Sam and Natasha until they cut him off for bad behavior. Then, he usually spends the rest of the night staring at the hot guy who is also usually there on Friday nights with his own friends, playing their own games. The guy in question has long, messy dark hair, wicked eyebrows, and a strong looking chest that is never successfully camouflaged by his dorky t-shirts.
Steve has imagined inviting this guy to play a game with him, or asking him out on a date, or hell, even just talking to him a half a dozen times. But, he’s also jerked off to elaborate fantasies featuring the two of them probably twice as many times; the game store is always conveniently empty while they make out on one of the wobbly tables; Steve’s fingers tangle into soft, brown hair while game pieces scatter around them. As a result of these extracurricular imaginings, it’s sometimes hard for Steve to stare covertly without his face turning red, but he usually manages to make it happen.
This particular night is no different from any others, except Steve has had a drink or two more than usual (he had a rough week, alright). He’s happily engaged in arguing with Sam regarding the parameters of his role as Operations Specialist in Pandemic, when the object of his distant affections walks in, effectively stealing Steve’s attention. Steve’s not usually so immediately enraptured, but his head is pleasantly fuzzy from the alcohol and Hot Guy is wearing the most frankly indecent pair of jeans that Steve has ever had the pleasure of seeing. Sam and Natasha roll their eyes in stereo, but Steve is oblivious, unable to tear his eyes away.
The light grey denim is absolutely skin tight; hell, Steve is pretty damn sure those jeans were painted on. The rest of his crush's outfit is pretty standard with what Steve has seen before; black loafers without socks, bare ankles. His t-shirt has a howling wolf on the front, and the loose cardigan on top looks soft and fuzzy. Steve notices the sleeves of the sweater are worn, one bony elbow poking through, and for some reason, that’s the impetus his lizard brain needs to get him up and out of his chair.
He’s got an irrational desire to hook his fingers into the hole, feel the soft fabric and warm skin underneath, run his hands over the solid body packed into those ridiculous pants. Steve’s seen incredibly realistic body painting before; he’s gotta make sure there’s actually fabric there. Next thing he knows, he’s tapping Hot Guy on the shoulder, who turns around promptly, eyebrows raised in inquiry. Steve opens his mouth and shit, he’s got no plan, no strategy here, and the silence stretches between them, horribly awkward until Steve chokes out some words.
“Hey, um, you wanna play Go Fish?”
Steve immediately wants to slap himself. Go Fish is an incredibly stupid game, and they are surrounded by probably fifty superior games they could play. But, also incredibly, Hot Guy is smiling at him, eyes warm and a little amused.
“Sure man, I’m Bucky.” And Steve goes on autopilot and sticks out his hand.
“Nice to meetcha, I’m Steve.” and instead of shaking his hand, Bucky takes it gently and holds it for a minute and Steve’s heart is absolutely not melting down into his belly.
“Hey Steve, wanna grab a table?”
And Steve does, and they do, and then he’s sitting across from Bucky and they’re trading cards back and forth, and Bucky ends up being super good at Go Fish. He seems to have an uncanny knowledge of Steve’s hand and ruthlessly takes cards from him one by one, issuing his demands in a low voice. Every time Steve has to pass a card over, the exchange feels unbearably intimate; Bucky’s dark gaze is so intense that Steve can’t bear it, has to drop his eyes until he feels the cards being tugged out of his hands. As the game goes on, his face gets hotter and hotter, and by the time Bucky has won, Steve feels like he’s been stripped bare and set loose on the surface of the sun.
He’s never cared less about losing.
When the weight of Bucky’s foot comes to rest delicately on top of his own, it’s too much for him, and he stands abruptly. His chair goes clattering to the ground, but Steve is immune to the racket he's caused, because Bucky is looking up at him. For the first time tonight, Steve can see a hint of uncertainty in his eyes, brows drawing together, and it's enough to decide him. He’s got no finesse about it.
“I live two blocks away.”
And Bucky’s expression lightens and he grins, pushing to his own feet. Steve holds out his hand, waits for three pounding heartbeats. Then, Bucky’s hand is in his own. It’s calloused, warm and a little damp, and Steve realizes that Bucky is maybe as nervous as he is. It doesn’t stop him from leading Bucky through the crowded store to the door, or from ignoring Sam and Natasha’s astonished faces.
Steve practically floats home, anchored only by Bucky’ grip on his hand. At the front door, Bucky helpfully lets his hand go so he can get out his keys, but then unhelpfully increases his distraction level by rubbing his stubbly cheek against Steve’s neck until he drops his keys. Twice. While Bucky is laughing at him, Steve manages to get the door unlocked. He shuffles them both into his dark apartment, kicking the door closed behind them.
Steve pulls Bucky roughly towards him, and Bucky goes, his laughter cutting off with a little yelp as their chests collide. When he wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist, his sweater is just as soft as it looked. Steve enjoys the feel of it under his hands, running his hands up and down Bucky's sides until Bucky makes an impatient noise in his throat, tilting his head up for a kiss that Steve’s eager to give him. Bucky’s warm mouth is even softer than his sweater, moving gently across Steve’s lips until his head spinning and they’re both breathless. Suddenly, Bucky pulls back from Steve.
“Oh, God, I didn’t even tell my friends I was leaving.”
Steve snorts “Um, me either. I was...distracted. But they know where I Iive.” He does not want to discuss his friends or Bucky’s in this moment, so he reaches out and hooks his fingers into Bucky’s belt loops, pulling him close again, fastening his mouth on Bucky’s throat, payback for the earlier door shenanigans until his conscious nags at him a little and he lets up.
“I think they’ll figure it out...but, do you want to text them? Or call?”
And Bucky smirks up at him and there’s just enough light that Steve can see that Bucky’s eyes are dilated, wide and glossy. Steve shivers as Bucky runs a hand up the back of his neck, fingers firm as they twine in his hair.
“Nah Steve, I want you...to keep doing that.” And he pulls Steve back down to his throat, even as he angles his head back, offering and demanding and Steve is helpless to refuse. They gradually make their way to Steve’s bedroom, exchanging kisses and leaving shirts and shoes and Steve’s pants strewn behind them. Bucky collapses on Steve’s bed, legs hanging over the edge, and Steve takes a moment to look him over, appreciating the dark hair that covers his chest and disappears into his stupid pants. Bucky’s cheeks are flushed pink and when Steve kneels before him, Bucky’s breath catches for a minute, and then picks up, chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Bucky. Can I take these off?” And Steve plucks at his waist band, is amused as Bucky gasps his assent and squirms under his questing fingers. Steve immediately goes to work, and as each button pops free, Steve feels genuinely worried for the state of Bucky’s dick. His erection has clearly been pushing the tensile strength of the fabric to its absolute limits and it just does not seem...comfortable.
Thinking about relative comfort levels, he can’t help but laugh, even though it’s kind of a rude thing to do when seeing someone naked for the time. Despite his laughter, It's a good sight, and Steve appreciates the hell out of it as he peels Bucky’s jeans down his thighs and past his calves, underwear along for the ride.
“Jesus, Buck, how did you even get into these? Not sure if I’m impressed or horrified.” Luckily, Bucky doesn’t seem offended by his laughter. He cranes his head up, grins down at Steve.
“Wore em for you. Wanted you to notice me.”
Steve freezes, hands tangled up in Bucky’s pants.
“What? Seriously?”
Bucky sits up all the way, perches naked at the edge of Steve’s bed, stomach folding in soft creases as he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. Steve sits back on his heels.
“Yeah Steve, I’ve been uh...noticing you for weeks now. I thought the pants might help? I was too shy to talk to you before, but they’re my good luck pants. Nice things always happens when I wear them? But they’re really old, like from high school, so I save em for the important stuff.”
This time, Steve manages to keep himself from cracking up, barely. The idea that anyone wouldn’t do anything for Bucky when he was wearing those pants was absurd; the man could probably stop traffic, no luck necessary. On the heels of his amusement, the earnest confession pulls something tender and protective from his chest, an urge to pull Bucky to him and keep him safe.
Overcome, he bends forward, takes his time with extricating Bucky’s feet. Tossing the pants aside, he presses a kiss to Bucky’s ankle bone, exposed and delicate, then a second to his calf, then his thigh, mumbles his own confession to a bony knee.
“Been noticing you too, s'not just the pants"
And then Bucky’s tugging at him, pulling him up on the bed and Steve can’t stop the frantic movement of his lips over Bucky’s, can’t keep himself from tangling their limbs together and the feeling of their bodies sliding together is so good that Steve doesn’t have another coherent thought that night.
Saturday Morning, 10:04am
Face red, Steve waves at Bucky, who’s now sitting up at the opposite end of his bed.
“Um, hi, good morning.” Buck smiles at him, slow and sweet, hair a truly epic disaster. Steve has to make sure sure his jaw doesn't drop too far when Bucky stretches, arms crossed overhead, spine popping, really things happening to Bucky's chest.
“Mm, morning.”
Steve’s not exactly sure what to do now. He doesn’t really make a habit of dragging guys home with him, particularly guys he meets at his local game store. He wants to see Bucky again, but he also needs to take his contacts out and think for a minute. He scoots his foot under the discarded blankets until it touches the side of Bucky’s bare hip.
“Hey, uh, you want some coffee?” Bucky gropes at his side, curls his fingers around the sole of Steve’s foot, pressing his fingers gently into the muscles there.
“Yeah Steve, that’d be good. If it’s not too much trouble.” Steve manages to pull himself away from Bucky’s touch, ungracefully clambering out of bed and going in search of caffeine.
He makes record time with brushing his teeth and prying his contacts out of his eyes, and briefly meditates over the events of the previous evening while the coffee brews. Awkwardness aside...it had been a good night, a fun night, something he'd like to do again. Ears pink and a pleased smile on his face, he returns to the bedroom and Bucky.
He pauses. The door is closed, and he can hear...noises coming from inside. He taps the door once, with his foot since his hands are full with coffee, calling out “Buck, you okay?” The door’s not latched, and it swings open, and Steve stares, open mouthed at the sight before him.
Bucky’s laying on the floor, still bare chested (Steve saw Bucky’s wolf shirt hanging over the lamp in the living room) and...shimmying? He’s half into his pants, and as Steve watches, Bucky wriggles, first one way, then the other, gradually working his jeans back up his thighs, inch by inch. He looks like a flipped turtle, rocking side to side, little grunts escaping as he pulls on the belt loops. He pauses for a second when he notices Steve, dumbstruck in the doorway.
“Oh! Coffee? You’re the best!” and then goes back to his gyrations. Steve holds his own breath as Bucky sucks in, does up a button at a time. Finally decent, he clambers to his feet, takes a mug out of Steve’s hand. He leaves a kiss in return on Steve’s cheek.
Bucky’s so casual that Steve is suddenly, horribly sure that he’s been doing pants wrong all this time. Of course, his are not nearly as tight as Bucky’s but...they are pretty snug out of the dryer. Maybe it’s more efficient than his usual one leg-trip-catch himself-leg number two? He wouldn’t have to do as much...wiggling since his pants are looser, and he definitely would save himself from almost wiping out each morning.
Steve shakes himself. There is absolutely nothing normal about the bizarre routine he just witnessed, Bucky’s nonchalance aside. But...it was completely entertaining, and from what Bucky had said last night, the pants ritual is to be reserved for important things only. Presumably Bucky puts his pants on in a more sedate fashion normally.
Steve thinks he’d like to know how Bucky normally puts his pants on. He thinks he’d like to know...everything about Bucky. While he’s been thinking, Bucky’s been watching him, charming and ridiculous with Steve’s coffee cup in his hand, fairly exploding out of his jeans. Steve wants to see that more.
He takes Bucky’s free hand, twining their fingers together, offering a hopeful smile. “Bucky...I guess your magic pants worked. It’s a little backwards but...will you go out with me?”
Bucky squeezes his hand. His expression is serious, but Steve can see a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Steve, they’re lucky, not magic. And yeah, I’d love to go out with you.”
Friday Night, 3 Years Later
After that night, Steve doesn’t see the lucky pants for a while.He and Bucky keep going out, and it keeps being good; they wander down for Friday game nights, learn each other completely, let their lives slowly, inevitably merge. Bucky’s trips back to his own apartment become more infrequent, until his lease is up and he doesn’t renew it.
One night, Steve meets Bucky at the game store after work. It’s classier than it used to be - they serve mixed drinks now, the tables match, and the menu features foods not originating from packages.
When Steve spots Bucky, he freezes. Bucky’s wearing the same jeans he had on the night they met, and they’re even more worn and...obscenely tight than Steve remembered. After kissing him hello, Bucky holds up a deck of cards. “Go Fish?” Mute, Steve nods, lets Bucky pull him over to a table and deal him in. When he flips them over, he realizes they’ve been defaced.
It takes him a minute to read the cards (and then rearrange them, because they say Will marry you ? me). He looks up, and Bucky’s kneeling before him, pants stretched to their absolute limit. And he says yes, yes to Bucky, yes to getting those ridiculous pants off him again, and yes to a life together. Bucky is outwardly thrilled and secretly relieved, because it had been real touch and go getting into his lucky pants this time.
Later that night, as Steve peels the jeans off him, Bucky manages to take his first full breath of the night. (It's definitely the restrictive nature of the jeans and not the nerves that have been jangling through him since he hatched this plan.) Wrapping his arms around Steve's neck, Bucky silently wishes his lucky jeans a happy retirement.
He's not gonna need them anymore.