Archive of Our Own

Clint says Bucky has a drinking problem. 

But he just doesn't understand his Eastern European genetics okay, Natasha totally has his back on that. And who gives a shit about what Clint says anyway, he's only right like 16 percent of the time. 

And also, fuck that. This is college. Whatever.

"I hate it when you're right," Bucky moans, rolling onto his back. Clint's spinning in Bucky's desk chair and snacking on white cheddar flavoured popcorn, occasionally taking time to lob some at Bucky's head which is so beyond cruel, because Bucky is a dying man. This is what dying feels like and Bucky is dying.

"It's not so much being right but knowing the basic human knowledge that drinking a bottle of --"

"Fuck, don't say it oh god--"

"-- Jack Daniels and missing dinner would only end in this." Clint says flippantly and ends it with a popcorn toss that sticks in Bucky's hair.

"I hate you." Bucky says.

"Oh please. You love me. And I brought you that bottle of water for a reason. Come on. Sober up. Chop, chop. We have orientation in 3 hours."

Bucky gets to his elbows with one eye closed because it's still too damn bright and unscrews the lid, taking a generous chug which he knows isn't wise, it'll only make him puke (again) but really, he's only human.

"I think it's adorable that you think I can even get out of bed let alone go to orientation. I'm a sophomore why the hell do I need to be there." Bucky throws himself back on the mattress.

"Um, hot guys and girls on the beach?" Clint says and looks at him like he's an idiot. "And food. Food okay? Nat’s meeting us there and she had more than you last night so yeah, look at your life." Clint gets up, carrying his popcorn like he's cradling a baby. 

"I'm coming back for you and you better be dressed." And heads to the door of Bucky's dorm. "Also open a window it smells like whiskey and bad decisions."

"You smell like whiskey and bad decisions," Bucky mumbles into his pillow but Clint is already gone and it was a miserable come back anyway. 

Bucky calls it a victory that he’s up and dressed five minutes before Clint returns with two large slurpees. 

When Bucky takes a sip he chokes. Clint’s eyes light up. 

“Is that vodka? Are you demented?” Bucky asks wildly to Clint’s retreading back as he makes it out of the dorm room and Clint levels him with a look over his shoulder, eyebrow quirked.

“It’s not like you’re never going to drink again. And it’s orientation.”   

“You keep saying that like that matters to me.” Bucky almost forgets, and turns back into his room for his baseball duffel carrying his mitt and ball. He might as well try and have fun and get some practice in if he’s going to be dragged against his will. He shoulders it and follows Clint out, kicking the door shut behind him. Clint presses the elevator button. “You’re gonna be thanking me when you’re neck deep in homework and living in the library stacks.” 

“I wouldn’t hold my breath,” Bucky mutters when the doors open and reluctantly, takes another sip.

The beach is packed and littered with so many students, it’s hard to tell who’s just at the beach and who is here for orientation week. A couple of food trucks are parked on the board walk and there’s a volleyball net set up close to the water but mostly there’s just teenagers, sitting on the sand or benches or standing, nursing solo cups and laughing under the sun. Bucky hates to admit it but, it’s kind of nice.  

Natasha is already there, her red hair topped with a straw hat and she’s sipping on iced tea and smiles when they approach her. “Well somebody looks chipper after last night.” 

Bucky stops. “I was going to hug you but I don’t think you deserve it any more.” 

She laughs over Clint’s shoulder who pulls her into a crushing hug and then reaches for him anyway and Bucky is already too much of a sucker for her to not respond in kind.  “You boys going to toss a ball around like father and son?” She asks and Clint slaps a hand on Bucky’s right shoulder and holds on.  

“Someone’s gotta make sure this guy gets into the big league.”  Bucky elbows Clint in the side, but he’s smiling, fond. Natasha takes another sip, smiling around it. “I’ll get us something to eat. Unless, you’re still in that phase where food is the enemy Bucky.” She winks when Clint just barks out a laugh and Bucky groans to the sky.  

“I am never drinking with you two again, I mean it this time.”  

“You’re kind of doing it now.” Clint points out. 

“That’s iced tea.” Bucky says to Natasha's drink. She quirks a perfect eyebrow just as Clint loses it, shoving Bucky a little too hard through it.  

Their twin jumbo slurpees are half way finished and melting in their spots in the sand and Bucky is already feeling the warm buzz of stepping into the precipice of being moderately tipsy. They make sure to find a spot not too crowded with people and take turns in pitching and catching. Right now, Bucky’s throwing a good couple of feet away from Clint who catches the ball perfectly every time. Bucky has always side-eyed his reflexes and frighteningly accurate precision. Don’t even get Bucky started on their dart matches. Not that he isn’t skilled himself, but that’s credited to having a father in the army. As far as Bucky knows, Clint’s parents are therapists.  

Natasha had brought back three fish tacos and a girl named Kate who she met waiting in line. Apparently Kate had made a comment against the food trucks “Level 666” hot sauce for being mediocre and almost made the man cry and Natasha had to introduce herself. They left to go play volleyball further down but Clint – 

“I’m in love with her,” he says for the eighth time, catching the curve ball without even a challenge, his eyes look dazed and unfocussed even from where Bucky is standing.  

“You don’t know anything about her.” Bucky calls, and when Clint sends the ball back, he feels the impact hard through the mitt.  

“This is serious Barnes. Are they not coming back?” Clint sounds a little distraught and it makes Bucky snort and roll his eyes.  “I’m sure you’ll see a lot of her once classes start up you weirdo. And she’s a freshman.” Bucky adds as an afterthought and pitches the ball perfectly to where Clint receives it without even looking, eyes cast at the volleyball net.  

“And your point?” Clint shouts, and tosses the ball back and forth between the mitt and his hand, clearly thinking something over.  

“I didn’t think I needed one. Freshman dude.” 

“That’s only one year.” 

“I repeat: freshman.” Bucky calls, cupping his hands over his mouth for projection and almost gets a ball to the nose. He catches it, instincts saving him easily enough and retaliates. 

Only he over does it and the ball does a wicked curve and it’s so off track.

It misses Clint by its speed even though he ducked anyway and Bucky can only watch in silent horror as it makes its way down. Further than he expected, and he can’t even appreciate or admire the distance before it clocks someone over the head. Hard. 

“Oh shit,” Bucky says, practically feeling his face ashen and he’s sprinting down across the sand to where the person is splayed on the ground. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit. 

“Oh god, I am so fucking sorry. Please tell me you don’t have a concussion,” Bucky says fast, falling to his knees as the boy is already sitting up and blinking owlishly over and over and Bucky is really hoping he doesn’t need a brain scan because he’s broke okay? He’s a college kid with no money and he is going to kill Clint – 

The guy is feeling the back of his teal coloured head, the dye job fading a little and then looks at his palm as though expecting blood. There isn’t any, thank god, and looks at Bucky. He’s small and pale, dressed plainly in torn jean shorts that cut off at the knee and a basic white t-shirt under a black cardigan and he’s still blinking behind his glasses, eyes a startling blue. Fuck, Bucky thinks, mid panic, I could have killed him he’s so tiny.  

“I think if I was sitting any closer I would have,” he says, and shocks Bucky by how deep his voice is. He shakes his head like a wet dog and then winces. “Ow.” 

“I’m so, so sorry. I usually have pretty good aim.” Bucky apologizes again and picks up the ball. “You sure you’re okay?” Please don’t sue me. 

“Well, despite the throbbing pain I think I’ll live,” and Bucky picks up the sarcastic undertone in that and is sort of impressed at how not mean he managed to say it. “I’ll be okay. I’ve had worse.” 

“Uh.” Bucky doesn’t know how to properly respond to that but gets distracted by what’s scattered around them: there’s a sketch book lying face down and a metal container open with assorted charcoals next to a Tupperware with sliced cucumbers and red peppers.  “Did I fuck up you’re drawing?” Bucky says and he doesn’t know why he’s still kneeling here next to a kid he doesn’t even know and almost murdered. He really should be getting back to make sure Clint doesn’t do anything stupid and scare off Natasha’s new friend.  

But. 

“Nah,” the guy says and shifts, reaching for his sketchbook and dusting the sand off. “I was just doodling anyway. My friend’s late.” It’s only a glance, but Bucky catches the drawing of the sea and horizon done in deep, rich black. It’s really good.  

“Well my friends’ a dumbass so you should be so lucky,” and the edges of the boys’ mouth quiver, like he’s holding back laughter and his eyes crinkle a little bit. Bucky doesn’t know why that particular expression makes his stomach turn. And not in the way it did this morning. But in that other way when Kimberly in the fourth grade kissed him on the cheek.  

“Steve,” he holds out a hand and it takes a while for Bucky to realize he’s introducing himself. His wrists are small just like the rest of him, skin smooth and almost translucent looking even though they’re in the sun. It's a stark contrast to the tan Bucky was able to get this summer, but his hand shake is strong.  

“Bucky,” and shrugs when Steve’s dark eyebrows furrow for a second. “Only my ma calls me James.”  

“Ah.” 

“Dude, what’re you doing?” calls Clint from behind them, coming in with a light jog with his sunglasses on. “We’re gonna go to Oliver’s for early dinner before Nat’s party tonight.” 

Bucky frowns up at him and sighs because this is the tenth time. “I’m not going to Natasha’s party.” 

“Oh come on.” 

“I just had alcohol poisoning. How do you not get that?” Bucky clarifies and after Clint’s very much exaggerated eye roll, he notices that they’re not alone. “Oh hey,” he pauses, looking him up and down. “Cool, you’re alive.” 

Steve blinks. “Hooray?”

Bucky snorts as Steve smiles, his cheeks dimpling.  He gets to his feet, board shorts scattering more sand and takes his baseball with him. “You sure you’re okay?” He's finding a hard time to get his feet down with the program and leave.  

“For the millionth time, yes Bucky.” Steve says, looking up at him and from this new vantage point, Bucky can see his hair dye job with more consideration and frankly, admiration. It seems like it was once all one shade of blue, but the sun has been bringing out the natural colours, mingling them into one. Blonde and blue.  

“Alright, see ya around,” Bucky says and feels a little clumsy, waving and Steve waves back, just as his phone starts to ring.

It takes Bucky all of three seconds after walking away that he doesn’t even know if Steve is a student here.

It takes another three seconds for him to pause and ask himself why that notion bothers him so much. 

There’s already a platter of assorted appetizers waiting at the table when Bucky and Clint arrive.

Thankfully, Natasha picked a table out on the second floor patio so he has a place to put his things and not get looked at weird by the waiting staff. Clint tries not to look disappointed that Kate isn’t there, but he does a terrible job at it.  “Keep it in the pants Clint, god,” Natasha says but she’s shaking her head smiling fondly and Clint sticks his tongue out at her because he’s a child before pulling a plate of fries to his side and starts compiling a platter.  

“You make it sound so crass,” he mumbles and he gets a raspy laugh from Natasha at that. “And it’s not like that.” Bucky throws him a look, pausing in scraping the rest of the calamari onto his own mini plate.

“You sure about that?” 

“Oh like you’re one to talk.” Clint speaks with his mouth full and Natasha raises an eyebrow. Bucky feels his face burn and hopes his eyes can convey what his brain is desperately chanting: shut up, shut up, shut up, for once in your fucking life – 

And because Clint and Natasha share a telepathic bond and always have since they were kids, Clint turns to her questioning look. “Bucky has a crush on a kid he almost knocked out cold.” He shrugs and then swallows his food with a chug of soda.  Bucky groans and Natasha’s eyes spark.

“Oh?” 

“That’s it, I’m going back to bed.” Bucky says, half joking and gets up to leave but Clint grabs his arm and shoves him back into his seat with one strong arm, not looking up at all.  

“A crush huh?” Natasha teases, voice almost sing song like. “Tell me about him.” 

“It’s not a crush. I don’t even – “ Bucky pauses to squeeze a sliced lemon onto his calamari and tries his best not to pout because he’s an adult. “He seems nice. That’s all,” he finishes lamely.  

The way Clint’s looking at him makes Bucky want to dig a very deep hole in the sand and keep his head in there for the rest of time. Natasha just smiles around the straw in her mouth. He really should have stayed in bed.  “Oh my god, you’ve lost it. You’ve lost it on a 90 pound hipster kid.” Clint gapes.

And Bucky shoots him a glare, the force of it defensive by nature.  “Fuck you. Like you’re any better.”  

Clint shifts a little in his seat. “I told you it’s not like that.”  

“That’s a shame.” Natasha chimes in, a falsified nonchalance in her tone. “Because she’s going to be at my party tonight. She even asked if you’d be coming.”  

Bucky is surprised Clint doesn’t get whiplash for how fast he snaps his head up from where he buried it into his plate. Natasha laughs and really, Bucky can’t hold his own back either.  

Bucky tells himself he only sticks around after that because the food at Oliver’s is legendary and should be respected for the gift it is, instead of taken in a doggy bag to eat alone in his dorm. It’s not because he has no back bone and the more he stayed, the more he drank and, well – 

He ends up going to Natasha’s party and he’s not even surprised when an hour later he’s shot-gunning cheap beer with Clint on their way there. But that’s okay.  It’s not like he expected anything else.  

Like always, Natasha’s parties have gathered a following and news spread like wildfire. Word of mouth of it bouncing around at orientation and her sorority house outside of college campus is filled with music, chatter and more people than Bucky is entirely comfortable with. Or at least, would normally be comfortable with because right now he’s pressed into a corner on the second floor, nursing a gin and trying his best to hear Clint over the bump of the top 40 playlist that’s playing downstairs.  

“Clint, I can’t hear a word you’re saying but you’re smiling and it’s creeping me the fuck out,” Bucky calls, leaning in and then thinks about it. “Oh. Kate?”  

Clint nods, bouncing a bit to the beat, his knees bobbing. “She said she has a couple of beers she wants to try out with my funnel. My funnel dude. Mine. Me.”

Bucky wants to make fun of him, but there’s something genuine and happy in Clint’s eyes that has nothing really to do with the mass consumption of alcohol he had prior to getting here and he doesn’t want to step on that. Bucky, on the other hand, is trying to pace himself. “Well, don’t fuck it up.” And slaps a hand on Clint’s shoulder.

Clint just squints at him.  “You’re too sober.” 

“Did you forget about last night?” Bucky says, looking at him weirdly.  Clint just stares and then makes an exaggerated eye roll, head actually going along with it. “Oh my god are you still bummed because you didn’t get that guys number or something? Because that was hours ago man.” 

Bucky tries not to feel offended but the gin is making his tongue loose and, “I’m not bummed or anything, seriously, stop that,” he points to Clint giving him a “just who do you think you’re trying to lie to” face that he gets way too often. “I guess I just still feel bad or okay – fine – fuck Clint fine – maybe I feel a little fucking cheated because I don’t know if he even goes here – do not, do not make the reference I know you want to I swear – just let me drink in peace and can we just drop it?”  

Bucky witnessed about six different dramatic facial expressions pass and go over Clint’s face to not take the current one any more seriously and takes a heavy gulp of his drink. Only Clint’s face isn’t changing and he looks like he just got a new archery set. Or that Kate Bishop said okay to their wedding or something stupid like that. 

“Okay what the hell is wrong – “ Bucky looks over his shoulder and yeah, there’s Steve, nursing a red solo cup and standing in one of the lines to the bathroom, his other hand typing on his phone. He’s dressed in black jeans with the knees ripped and a white shirt rolled up to his bony elbows and his hair is sweaty, front bangs plastered to his forehead. He takes a sip, eyes not leaving his phone. Bucky thinks he has a tattoo on his arm but it’s too dark to make sure. 

“Fuck my life.” Bucky says immediately, staring like a creep and Clint shoulders him.  

“Merry fucking Christmas. Go talk to him.” Bucky looks at Clint wildly and wishes he didn’t drink so much.

“Are you fucked in the head?”

Clint just shrugs.  “You’re being such a downer, go say hi and maybe you can be fun again.”

“He probably doesn’t even remember who I am.” Is Bucky’s excuse, even though the real one is blaring in his head; that he doesn’t want to come off as that guy. Creepy and too comfortable when he doesn’t even know Steve. Even though he wants to see. Wants to try.  

“Remember senior year when the yearbook committee voted you ‘Biggest Daredevil’ after you climbed onto one of roofs? All because you didn’t want to choose truth?” Clint randomly asks.  

Um. “Yeah, and I got detention for smoking while I was out there?” 

“Yeah. I miss that Bucky.” Clint finishes.  Bucky wants to kick him in the chins.

“What, are you seriously daring me to say hi? Oh hey Steve, remember me? Yeah I’m that asshole who almost gave you a concussion on the beach!” Bucky recites and extends an arm in the general direction to where Steve is, which proves to be dumbest thing he’s ever done because even though it’s loud as hell and Steve isn’t that close at all, the movement must have caught in Steve’s peripheral and he turns and blinks a bit at Bucky who is frozen and most likely looks like an idiot and lowers his arm slowly. Clint bites his bottom lip. Steve takes a moment, and then nods his head and waves from across the room.  

Bucky returns it, albeit weakly.  “Have I mentioned I hate you?” 

“Everyday partner.” Clint says. 

Clint disappears or in Bucky’s mind, abandons him when Kate finds them minutes later, ready to try out his beer funnel. She’s with a group of friends, none of them Natasha who Bucky lost in the sea of new people that rushed in after midnight.  

Kate truly is beautiful, and Bucky can appreciate it through his drunken haze although he’s been drinking more water than gin because he does not want to be caught doing anything stupid, or worse, say anything stupid now that he knows Steve is here.  And it’s completely insane to think that way because he refuses to admit to himself that he likes the guy. He doesn’t. Honest. He just, finds him interesting. Different than the people he’s come to know at school. And his hair is kinda cool.  

But what really takes the cake and what makes even less sense is that moments after Clint leaves, a smiling Kate pulling him towards the staircase by the wrist, her long black hair in a braid, is the sight of Steve coming out of the bathroom and making his way over to Bucky. Bucky, who is alone and standing with his back to the staircase, sandwiched between a bunch of sweaty and boisterously loud strangers and trying very hard not to freak out. 

“Hey Bucky,” he says. His cheeks are rosy and Bucky holds back the pride he feels that he remembered his name. He’s looking up a bit – six or seven inches shorter than Bucky and his eyes are so blue they match the hue in his fading hair. “Crazy seeing you here. Thought I’d have to spend the night without a familiar face.”

Bucky feels clumsy, words fumbling for purchase and support in his head and he scrambles for something to say. He runs a hand through his hair, a constant nervous habit and the alcohol induced sweat makes his front bangs stay there, forehead exposed. “My friend is actually the one hosting this whole thing,” to Steve’s encouraging nod, “so I guess I should be saying the same thing to you.” And then he registers what Steve just said. “Wait, you came alone?”  

Steve’s smiling and digs a hand into his back pocket to retrieve his flip phone. Bucky is surprised he can fit anything in them, they’re so tight. “Well, Sam is taking forever to show up so for now I am.” 

A side of him, the more dangerous side scratches to ask if Sam is a boy or a girl. And if they’re an item. But Bucky shoves it down with all his left over willpower. “Newsflash. That’s like, unsafe-party-rule number one pal.” Is what he says instead. Steve rolls his eyes, shaking his head like he’s tolerating Bucky just because. 

“I’m a freshman I’m not dead.”  

“Well you’re lucky you found me then,” Bucky counters, and immediately wants to take those words back for how they did not come out the way they sounded in his head, but Steve doesn’t seem to have noticed and is chuckling. Which is good. Honestly. Because now Bucky can wrap his head around the new piece of information Steve just dealt him. Ferris-wheeling “fresh man fresh man” over and over like a taunting record. It sounds like Clint.  

“I can take care of myself. I survived that air strike earlier didn’t I?” Steve says and raises his eyebrows playfully, his eyes are shining behind his dark rimmed glasses and takes a sip of whatever’s in his cup. Bucky can see amber liquid swish.  

He winces. “I’m still really sorry about that.” 

Steve waves him off. “I’m only joking Bucky. Besides, it’s nothing some Kraken can’t soothe,” he gestures to his solo cup and Bucky blinks dumbly. The last time Bucky had Kraken he was at prom. He doesn’t talk about prom. Ever.  

This guy just keeps surprising him, he doesn’t know if he can keep up.

Steve tilts his head, thinking like an afterthought. “It’s actually a good story, in retrospect. Most original retelling of meeting a new friend and all. Very Nicholas Sparks.”

Bucky’s stomach burns and constricts hot over the double edged revelation of being accepted as a “new friend” and the cheesy romance reference that he doesn’t notice that someone is shouting his name and running up to him, harrowing their way through the throng of people.

“Dude, dude,” Clint pants, eyes bleary. “She just funnelled beer from down the staircase like a pro. Dude.” Clint clarifies.  

“Please don’t get down on one knee and do something crazy. Nat likes her and she will murder you.” Bucky says, even though he’s really impressed and kind of wishes he saw it. 

“Can you not shit on my happiness for two fucking seconds?” Clint exasperates, but he’s still grinning and a little wild eyed and then shares that grin down at Steve who nods in greeting, a little shy and not at all as confident as he was talking to Bucky seconds ago.  “Oh hey dude. Steve right? Good you made it out. It took a lot to convince this one to,” Clint says like they’re all old friends. It works to the benefit of Steve who looks a little relieved but Bucky feels uneasy all of a sudden.  

“Anywhere there’s free beer I won’t be too far from,” says Steve, his glasses slide a little off his nose that’s begun to collect sweat and Bucky’s fingers itch to push them up for him. “And Bucky’s not too bad I guess.” Steve says more to Bucky than to Clint, like he’s being a jerk just for his benefit and Bucky lets out an incredibly embarrassing snort. Clint grins between them, throws his head back and laughs harder than strictly necessary. He’s probably high on elation or maybe he’s also just high, Bucky thinks.  Steve raises both eyebrows at Bucky that mirrors that exact thought. Bucky feels his mouth twitch and mouths a ‘sorry’. Steve sneaks a wink, smiling too.  

“Oh man, can we keep him?” Clint asks and Bucky feels his ears burn. Thankfully, Steve’s phone lights up and the sound of its ringing would be heard if the music wasn’t so loud. Bucky watches as something in his face ignites and his face splits into a grin. Bucky can read the incoming call on the tiny screen: Sam W.  

“Hey, I gotta go make sure Sam doesn’t get lost in here. Just made it! I’ll catch you around okay Bucky? Oh, actually, here,” Steve says quickly, and takes out a random sharpie from his back pocket. It’s dark blue and he takes Bucky’s arm gently in his nimble hands. His fingers are surprisingly long and warm. But the pale expansion of his thin wrists are still as heartbreakingly beautiful as Bucky remembers. Steve scribbles down his number up Bucky’s forearm and signs it with a S.R and smiles lopsidedly up at him. “Cool. See you around fellas,” he says again and darts towards the staircase, bringing his phone back to his ear and plugging the other. Bucky stares down at the number imprinted neatly on the inside of his forearm and not for the first or last time, doesn’t know what to think.

Clint woops and elbows him in the ribs fondly, excited and wiggles his eyebrows.  “When I’m right I’m fucking right, right?”  

“Yeah,” Bucky echoes. He’s still staring strangely at the dark blue script on his arm and softly and suddenly, feels somber.  

Bucky stays up in bed battling over following up on texting Steve that night.  

The thing is, Steve doesn’t seem like the type to want to double-time anyone. But he shoots that notion down as soon as it takes flight because he doesn’t have to right to assume Steve is the type for anything. He barely knows the guy. And as much as he likes to think of Steve as an all amazing, outstanding, top of the line guy, who has a charming smile and type of rare genuineness to his everything, the fact of the matter is that that idea is fuelled by other more selfish reasons. Selfish thoughts and wants.  

And frankly, it is way too late and Bucky is still too drunk to think about this shit seriously. So he rolls onto his side and jots down the number on the corner of one of his course syllabus sheets and throws himself back onto his pillows.  

Let’s himself give into the lull and pull of sleep and doesn’t think about pale teal hair and even paler, freckled skin. 

The good news is, Bucky doesn’t have a hangover the next morning.  

The bad news is he has to deal with a hung-over Clint – actually, Bucky is entirely convinced that Clint is still drunk. It’s only eleven thirty in the morning and just staring across at Clint at the college campus cafeteria is enough to broadcast the message that Clint is not entirely there right now. Bucky breaks his blueberry muffin in half, right as rain.

“Karma, oh karma,” he sings and laughs when Clint gives him the finger. His sunglasses on even though it’s raining outside and they are sitting inside a perfectly fluorescent and live cafeteria.  “Go fuck yourself James,” Clint retorts and rests his head on his palms. 

“You’re acting as if you’ve never been hung-over before. Also,” Bucky adds and nudges the other half to Clint as an extension of an olive branch. “There’s not much for you to mope about. I mean, you and Kate really hit it off last night.” Clint raises his head and he offers a small smile and it doesn’t matter that Bucky can’t see his eyes, he knows he’s giving him that dreamy look that makes Bucky a little sick to be honest.  

“Yeah,” sighs Clint and makes for the portion of muffin and pops it into his mouth. The next words he says is through a mouthful of food. “But don’t cut yourself short pal.” It says a lot about their relationship that Bucky doesn’t make a comment about the crumbly bits that fall from Clint’s mouth throughout his entire sentence. The pieces that made it to his side of the table are brushed off and Bucky watches them fall with more interest than necessary.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bucky doesn’t need to see Clint’s eyes to know there was a heavy eye roll behind his sunglasses because his head goes along with it. The drama queen.

“Oh give me a break Bucky. The kid was next to creaming himself when he saw you.” 

“I think you’re a little confused.” 

“What? In mistake for you? Fine, you both were next – “ 

“You don’t need to repeat yourself – “ 

Clint throws his arms up in another dramatic gesture. “Okay, how fucked up was I last night. And be honest.” 

Bucky gives him a look, but he’s smiling. “Beyond fucked up. I had to carry you out with Bruce.”  

“Exactly!” Clint says, entirely unashamed. “And even I noticed that he was into you. Pull your head out of your ass. And come on, does he look like someone who would openly flirt with one guy and have a boyfriend on the side?” 

“We don’t know that,” Bucky mumbles, fiddling with his now empty tray. “Sam is a very common unisex name.” 

“Woah, wait, wait, hold the phone. So you didn’t even see this Sam person last night? You just completely bailed?” 

“I, well --,” Bucky looks around the crowded cafeteria, as though any moment a blonde and blue coloured head would come around and hear. “It was a big party. And I – “ didn’t want to end up bumping into Steve and seeing him be with – or kiss – someone else. Because that’s knowing for sure.  Bucky settles with just making a face, suddenly disgusted at his own thoughts.  

“Oh my god.” Clint says. Bucky shifts and wishes he had another food element on his table to stuff in his mouth so he can just not talk about this anymore. Or that he had somewhere to be now instead of at one in the afternoon. Anything than to have to listen to Clint just be his best friend and support him and give him hope over something so dismal and has a negative zero success rate–  

“Okay, I’m calling an end to this conversation. Forever. Okay? So let’s drop it. Forever.” Bucky ends up saying. “What time is your class?” 

Clint pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head and rubs at his eyes. He humors him, “I’ve got a twelve thirty seminar, an hour break and then an hour tutorial. Also, you’re pathetic.” Clint gets up and stretches with a boisterous yawn.  “I’m gonna get some coffee down at work. You still coming down after class?” 

Bucky glares up at him. “You know, sooner or later the ‘because I’ve known him since t-ball’ excuse is going to stop being good enough and I’m just going to have to dump you as a friend.”

Clint ignores him. Flaps a hand over his mouth over another yawn and shoulders his knapsack, walking out into the court yard.  

After being thoroughly intimidated by his Physics professor and calculating the most acceptable drop in his GPA, Bucky is dropping his things onto his bed back at his dorm.  

It’s ridiculous. It’s literally a slip of paper that he should have tossed away because it’s just an extra piece. But it feels as though it weighs a ton and is taunting him from where it sits on his bedside. Bucky picks up the syllabus and stares at the drunkenly scribbled number belonging to Steve.  

“I’m not fuckin’ pathetic,” he mumbles under his breath and digs for his cellphone. He’s going to do it.  He’s gonna message Steve and Steve is going to be disinterested and remorseful for giving out his number so easily because he was drunk and alone at a party with no one he knew. But he's going to do it. If only to prove it to Clint so he can finally just get the hell off his back and things can go back to normal. 

Bucky Barnes 2:39pm: Hey Steve, it’s Bucky. You gave me your number last night? Just saying hey. Did you find Sam ok? 

Bucky reads it over after letting it fly into cyberspace and then tosses it somewhere in the direction of his hamper and throws himself onto his bed because he’s pathetic and buries his head under the pillow.  

Fuck. 

An hour and a half passes just as Bucky’s phone buzzes hard from the top of his clothes pile.

It’s muffled and he pulls his pillow off from his head, looking over his shoulder at it. Sighing, Bucky shuffles over to it and hesitates for only a breath of a second before sliding it open.

There’s one text and it's from Natasha, and honestly, he expected to feel indignant and better, now that he knows where Steve’s intentions lie. But right at this moment, he just feels nothing but a kind of hollow disappointment. Maybe even with an accompanying twinge of embarrassment to have to admit it to Clint with abiding proof. 

Natasha’s text is pretty cut and dry. Telling him to get his ass in gear and meet at Snakes and Lattes before they start without him. Bucky's changing out of his striped blue shirt for a plain black one and when his phone bleeps another notification. 

It’s a Snapchat photo. Clint smushing his face against Natasha's, wearing his work apron and copying Natasha’s cross-eyed expression. And it somehow makes everything so much better.

For a late afternoon and a school night, the cafe is pleasantly filled enough that it isn’t much work to spot Natasha. Not that it ever is – her red hair noticeable from miles away.It’s straightened and grown long past where she usually comfortably kept it at her collarbone. She’s sitting alone, but there’s a seat next to her at the front bar that she saved with her school bag. She’s talking candidly to Clint, who has a pen tucked behind his ear and she sees him come in as soon as he steps in, smiling softly and twiddling her purple painted nails.  

“Took you long enough sailor,” she chides and moves her bag and hands it to Clint who puts it behind the front desk. Bucky's usual order of plain hazelnut dark roast already steaming and waiting for him.

“I’m technically the boss tonight,” Clint supplies, sliding it over to him.

“Well in that case – “ 

“Don't push it Barnes.” 

Natasha laughs and winks at Bucky, “lucky for you, I got you covered,” and opens her bag to pull out the feta and spinach panini he was about to ask for. Bucky could weep.

“I knew there was a reason why I still come around here,” Bucky says, taking it gratefully.  

“Oh, believe me, you have no idea yet.” Clint says a little too ominously and Bucky gives him a strange look as he takes a generous bite.   

“What?” Bucky says around a mouthful and looks at Natasha for support who just smiles that enigmatic smile that creeps the shit out of Bucky when it’s accompanied by Clint’s weird comments.  “What?” He stresses again after he swallows. Clint just nods and Bucky twists in his seat and thanks every god in the history of every book that he swallowed before because he can’t even get past his own saliva.

Steve Rogers has his back to him, but it’s still so obviously him it doesn’t even matter. His blonde hair is dyed entirely a bright shade of misty pink this time and his hands are on his hips. There's definitely some sort of tattoo on his right left elbow. His taupe shirt is fitted and he’s wearing the same tight black jeans that he wore at the party but has a wrapped green flannel tied around his hips. And true to any hipster, a pair of shiny red Doc Martens. He’s standing on the make shift stage with five other guys and they’re all positioned around a microphone, listening intently to whatever Steve is saying – maybe even ordering – and Bucky turns wildly back in his chair to a smiling duo of faces belonging to his best friends. Former best friends. 

“What the fuck.” He says.  

“Hey don’t look at me. I didn’t realize he plays here on the regular until someone struck a fancy,” Clint bargains, raising his hands up and then is signalled by a customer and makes a strategic retreat. Bucky turns to Natasha, a little betrayed because they don’t even know. They don’t know that Steve made it clear and isn’t a least bit interested and he’s going to have to tell them this and make a huge fool of himself. Bucky coddles his sandwich close to his chest for comfort. Natasha quirks an eyebrow. 

“Relax. This isn’t a set up. He showed up right after I called you,” she shrugs and leans back, shoulders sharp by her black tank top and lifts her coffee to her lips. “He’s cute. Seems like the universe might be telling you something.” 

“Yeah,” Bucky scoffs. “That I need new friends.” 

“No,” she rolls her green eyes. “That you need to stop being a fucking baby. Jesus. You’re so dramatic these days.” Bucky doesn’t answer that and takes another bite of his sandwich, chewing angrily and Natasha shakes her head fondly at him. “Sometimes, I think you haven’t aged at all since the seventh grade."

Thankfully, Natasha and Clint drop all sentiment to set Bucky up which is great, because it means Bucky doesn’t have to go through the horrific motions of telling them that he did end up texting Steve, only to get a mum response and it only makes Bucky want to just leave because if Steve notices him it will erect a whole new wave of awkward he’d really much rather avoid. 

Still, Bucky can’t not watch when Steve and his group go on stage and perform an impressive rendition of Ella Fitzgerald’s “How High the Moon” with Steve as the front man. The shop attracted more people as they set up and Bucky finds himself grateful for how it obscures that he’s there. Making it harder for Steve’s eyes to find him in the crowd.

But Steve’s gaze is fixated somewhere else, transfixed even, and nails the scat portion of the song. Improvises and hits all these notes so well with the support of the assemble of older guys next to him.

When the routine comes to an end, the crowd erupts into claps and cheers and the lights make it impossible to hide the flush high on Steve's cheekbones. He does a clumsy bow and tries to scurry off the stage only to have the guy with the funny moustache and bowler hat pull him back by the scruff of his shirt and force him to face the applause. Bucky can't stop the pull of his mouth at the way Steve rubs the back of his head bashfully, staring at his shoes.

“Is it too early to ask for whiskey?” Bucky asks offhandedly only ten minutes after the show is over to Clint who slaps a towel over his shoulder. 

“I thought I was the dirty rotten enabler.” He counters using air quotes and Bucky shrugs, already looking through his wallet to see if he can afford maybe two. He can, if he forfeits his routine breakfast sandwich tomorrow morning. 

“You are,” Bucky adds. 

“And as if you really care about an appropriate time,” Natasha chimes in, leaning on her elbows and looking at Bucky oddly like she’s cataloguing something to keep stowed away for later. Bucky digs out a twenty dollar bill when a gentle hand touches his left shoulder. Out of his periphery, he notices the pale skin. 

“Hey! Bucky!” Steve calls, smiling wide with teeth but he doesn’t take the open seat beside Bucky. With Bucky sitting, they’re at the same height and Bucky discovers that he hates it because it puts him at perfect, even level to his blue eyes and pink hair.  “I’m so damn sorry about not answering your text. Just caught it before the gig. My phone is shit,” and he pulls out the beaten up Nokia that has to have been produced in 04’ at least. The front of the flip screen is cracked when it wasn’t the last time Bucky saw it. “It does this weird thing where it sends me texts hours after. I’ve been meaning to get it fixed. Sam always complains about it,” and he shrugs like it can’t be helped and he can’t just buy a normal, functioning phone.  

Bucky experiences a disproportionate mix of feelings: a soar of happiness that Steve wasn’t ignoring him and is just a die-hard hipster who would rather use a piece of shit and outdated phone than get an up to date one. And then a twinge of trepidation at that name again – Sam.  “Also, the wifi in this place is beyond crap.” Steve finishes. “But, what have you been up to?” 

Natasha left her stool seat, Bucky can feel her absence and it only takes a flick of the eye to see Clint preoccupying himself with the orders of customers for once. Which is a change from him getting into trouble for just talking to Bucky all the time and eating all the peanuts whenever he comes to visit.  “Just getting to know all my classes,” Bucky says, trying out his voice and Steve nods supportively, urging him on. He has three moles in the shape of a triangle on his throat and – what the fuck? 

“I’m in the engineering program. Although my physics class is scaring the hell out of me right now. Seems out of my depth.” 

Steve hops onto the stool that was always open with an, “oh! Professor Stark’s class?” 

Bucky squints. “You in that class?” 

Steve laughs, really hard and then up-chucks an odd sounding cough. It looks like the force of it surprises even him and he rattles it with when he coughs again into his closed fist. “No, god no, a friend of mine – well, sort of a friend of a friend of mine, that’s his dad. Pretty intense.” The sound of Steve’s violent cough is still ringing in Bucky’s ears but he lets it slide because Steve continues, “and if you got in, you must be good.” Steve plants his fingers on the flat of the counter surface and looks around, looking for the barista. His short nails are painted navy, and he has a star tattoo on his elbow. The point of his bone playing as the centre.

Luckily, the girl with the lip piercing comes to his aid instead of Clint and thank the fucking lord, because Bucky was staring like an imbecile. “Oh, hey Steve, usual?” She says and Steve nods, already unfolding a five dollar bill from his front pocket.  

“You got it. Thanks Lillian,” he says and Bucky finds Clint trying to catch his eyes from the other corner of the bar top. He jerks his head towards where Steve is drumming a beat on the counter, biting his lip and in his own world and it’s not hard to interpret Clint's gesture as: talk to him you dumbass.  

“So, you, uh,” he starts and Steve turns to him, somehow managing to smile with his whole body and seem at ease. Like he acts like this with everyone. “You come here often?” And yep, wow, Bucky really wants to just lie face down somewhere and die.  Steve doesn’t seem to have noticed the humiliation that Bucky’s trying to hide but his head quirks to the side. “I mean only,” Bucky salvages and picks up his sandwich just so he can do something instead of looking at those mirrored blue eyes. “Cause’ I’m always here cause of Clint and I don’t think I’ve seen you around much.” 

“Well,” Steve says and then turns to thank Lillian when she hands him a cup of what smells like chai tea and a plate stacked with two raisin cookies. “I'm new this year. But I’ve been staying around campus since the beginning of summer and the owners are really nice. They let me play and practice here when I can,” Steve dunks his tea bag a few times before letting it steep. “And it’s also the only place that has a nut free kitchen.” He laughs and sticks up his left wrist.

Bucky had noticed the rainbow bracelet before and the red white blue and green threaded one from string but the medical I.D band is new. Well, obviously not new, but Bucky hadn’t recognized the metallic band before.

Steve points to his wrist. “This threaded one right here is from the ninth grade when Sam and I took an art class. That’s how we met,” he recites fondly. “And this is to avoid an untimely death by anything nut-related,” and then snaps his cookie in half before popping a small piece into his mouth. When he chews, it’s done politely and without a mess, but that doesn't stop the soft moan he makes around the bite. “Fuck. Do you know how hard it is to get good quality desserts with a serious nut allergy? Mr. Lehnsherr was nice enough to make some changes.” Steve grins. 

Bucky blinks. “Mr. Lehnsherr is nice?”

Because Bucky has met that man a lot of times and his stare is enough to make any sane human being want to tuck their tail and run. Sure, his coffee is sort of mind-blowing and makes Bucky weak in the knees and is probably the source of why Bucky has been able to stay alert for his eight am classes but the man is scary. Bucky looks at Steve who is occupied with his cookies. His Doc's dangling from the height of the stool, tattooed and pink haired and – 

“Sure he is. Although,” he laughs, and sucks excess sugar off his finger. Bucky gets tunnel vision. “I think it’s his husband that softened him up.” 

“Husband?” 

“Please. He only did that because you got your nose broken fightin' that creep who wouldn’t leave his daughter alone.” Lillian says, in the middle of decorating a customers’ coffee with caramel sauce.  

Steve flushes, hard, biting back whatever he wants to say. Bucky smiles when Steve sinks in his chair a little and grumbles, as though embarrassed. For what reason, Bucky doesn’t know. “I’m sure it’s not that. He's a good guy and someone had to.” 

Lillian giggles and smiles at Bucky who knows he’s staring at Steve with some kind of raw wonder. She whispers to Bucky like a secret, teasingly. “Steve is a gift to mankind.” 

I fucking bet, he thinks and even the voice in his head sounds gone and sappy. 

“Anyway,” Steve says pointedly, changing the subject and giving Lillian a certain look that Bucky can’t decipher. “What else do you do around here Bucky?” 

“Well, my singing is definitely not good enough to be in a scat group.” Bucky says dryly and Steve huffs out a laugh. 

“Sorry, we don’t have any spaces open anyway. But seriously, what are you into?”  

Bucky’s faced with that same, earnest look in Steve’s eye and it’s a simple question. He doesn’t know why he hesitates to respond. “I’m on the baseball team on scholarship.” 

“Even with your shitty aim?” 

Bucky groans. “You’re never gonna let that go are you?”  

Steve pops open the lid of his tea and dunks another piece of his cookie in it. “I mean, I just really hope you’re not team captain or anything. Think of the poor skulls that haven’t gone through enough beatings like I have.” 

A hot spike of outrage hits Bucky right in the middle of his chest at the picture of Steve, small, kind Steve, getting beat up enough times to make him speak about it in such a nonchalant, unbothered tone. He wants to say something. Ask him who those bullies are so he can personally rip out their spleens. But he doesn’t. Because Steve is still shining that indulgent smile and it’s a moral crime to rob that look away. Bucky steals a cookie from Steve’s plate and stuffs it into his mouth before Steve can say anything. Steve just smiles innocently.  

“Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of a jerk?” Bucky says around a mouthful and tries not to show how good the cookie actually is.  

“Just callin’ it like I see it.” 

“Well I’ll have you know Rogers, that I’m pretty fucking spectacular.”  Steve perks his chin up, like a challenge but that lip quiver exposes the lack of seriousness in it.

“Gonna have to see it to believe it Buck.”  

And if Bucky agrees to it and even gives him a set time for his next team practice, he’s going to entirely blame it on the way his brain swims at the new moniker of a name that settles into place like it was always just waiting to be beckoned.  

To be honest, Bucky doesn’t think Steve is going to show up.

His next practice is a week away and even though he has his number and they’ve had a few conversations in completely randomized situations, Bucky has only known Steve for a handful of days and there isn’t much of an incentive for him to come anyway. It was a joke, all told. So when Bucky goes to the baseball pitch a quarter past noon for his one pm practice, he brings Natasha along because she refuses to be in the library on such a beautiful day. And she’s right. The sun is bright in the sky without a cloud to obscure it, but there’s still a light breeze that kills any chance of humidity. Just like Bucky likes it.  

Natasha is walking at his side, backpack hanging off one shoulder and one of Isaac Asimov’s books under her other arm. “Is that where all the sports’ girlfriends sit?” She nods her head to the towering row of bleachers. 

“Basically,” Bucky shrugs, not bothering to look and getting a close and thorough look at the gathering crowd of players. He doesn’t recognize some of them and wonders where Pietro went. “Sorry, there isn’t a specialized spot for horrifying Russian sleeper-agent lady friends.” 

“I guess the gender-biased assumption of being your girlfriend isn’t so bad,” and Natasha chuckles when Bucky puts a hand on his chest, mock-flattered. “Good luck,” and she parts from him and heads up to the stands.  

Apparently Pietro got suspended for ‘illegal drug abuse’ and is taking online-classes at home which sucks because he was Bucky’s only friend on the team. The majority of them privileged, snotty jerks that Bucky has always made sure to steer clear from since the third grade.  

He swings his baseball bat experimentally and waits for his batting turn at the diamond gates. The familiar grip on his bat is strong, nuanced and Bucky feels no shade or twinge of fear or trepidation as he gets close to the batting spot. It’s what he knows. What he tells himself, in his father’s voice, what he’s good at.

The baseball cracks into a rocket of a soar into the distance at the first swing and Bucky makes a break for it as the other members scramble to catch it in time to call him out.  But he’s always been quick. And being the older brother of four little sisters whose favourite sport when they were younger was “who can catch Bucky first” definitely plays a part for when he makes it to a sandy and near-perfect home run.  

The sound of cheering makes Bucky look up at the stands, panting and grinning and he takes off his cap and runs a gracious hand through his wet hair. Natasha is standing at the very top, clapping and grinning so wide he can see it from his much lower vantage point. But she’s not alone.  Bucky throat closes up at the sight of a sitting small figure beside her, clapping along with her with pink hair.  

“Hey guys,” Bucky greets as Natasha and Steve walk down the benches towards him once the final whistle sounds. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand and rubs it on his pants just as they approach. Steve’s dressed in chinos and a white button up shirt that’s rolled up past his elbows and dons a new black band bracelet around his left wrist to join the rest. He’s carrying a sketch book under his arm and a pencil tucked behind his ear.  

“Look who I found,” Natasha says and swings an arm around Steve’s shoulders like they’re old time friends. Steve’s two inches taller than her, and he reciprocates with a hand around her waist. His hands are strangely larger compared to the rest of him. Not like Bucky has noticed.

“Good game, by the way.” She adds. 

“Yeah, thanks for coming.” Bucky bores his eyes into her smiling, green ones, hoping he is conveying “what the fuck is going on here” perfectly before looking at Steve. His dye job is fading yet again. Probably not a permanent dye thing.  “You actually came.” Bucky says and Steve politely shrugs himself out of Natasha’s friendly grip.  

“I don’t make promises I don’t keep Bucky. And I take it back, you’re really good.” Steve shifts his sketchbook into his other hand and adjusts his glasses.  

“Just good?” 

Steve huffs and rolls his eyes on a small smile. “Is he always so modest?” He asks to Natasha who is looking between them, beaming.  

“Believe it or not, this is him modest,” Natasha replies and Bucky really, really, does not like this new friendship.  

“Yikes.” 

“Oh, I know.” 

Bucky puts his foot down – metaphorically. “So how did you two meet?” 

"Steve got here a little late and I remembered him from – “ Bucky glares at her, “my party last week. You know Clint right?” She turns to Steve who makes an apologetic face.

“I mean, we’ve talked.” He clarifies. 

“So, a friend of my boys is a friend of mine. And we have that Russian Art History Class together. Small world huh?” Natasha nudges Steve softly and he laughs, re-adjusting his glasses and spares a quick look to Bucky.  

“Very. I don’t  know many people around here. I’ve only really had Sam for the longest time. And Peggy. But she’s in college back home in England, so, sorry if I’m just hangin’ around too much.” 

Bucky barely recovers from the sunken feeling in his gut whenever he hears Sam’s name to protest, a little too assuredly. “Pal, have you seen my friends?” And makes sure to look at Natasha long enough for Steve to get the hint. “You’re a fucking breath of fresh air. I’m tired of being bullied by those two.” 

“Aw, James,” Natasha puts her sunglasses back on. Steve snorts, a little dorkily.

“Thought I was a jerk?” Steve reminds him and Bucky opens his arms wide.

“Clearly that’s all I can attract.” 

This time, when Steve smiles, it’s with his teeth. They’re perfect.

“Idiot.” 

It doesn’t take long really.

Within the next two weeks and the help of Natasha and an over-zealous Clint, Steve integrates himself into Bucky’s small friend circle. Which is great because he’s pretty much impossible to avoid. It’s impressive, in hindsight, given that the school is massive. 

Steve has an elective class with Natasha every Wednesday and Thursday and plays on the weekends at Clint’s shop. And even though his phone – a flip phone Nokia that made Bucky laugh for three minutes straight – is still a piece of shit, Steve always puts in effort to meet up with Bucky once they align their schedules and see when they have time to maybe walk to a department together or get a quick snack.  Apparently, Sam goes to the same college as them but is specializing in health, communications and nursing. A faculty that is literally across campus and makes it impossible for Steve to trek there to visit without invoking his asthma.  

(“And that program is no joke. Really competitive as Sam tells it. So whenever we have the time to hang, I take it.” Steve had said once after meeting Bucky in line at the bagel shop. Bucky nodded because he gets it and it must suck to barely see your boyfriend – or girlfriend – when you’re both in the same college.) 

Bucky hadn’t added much to that conversation and tried not to show any degree of disappointment on his end. Steve never really talks about Sam too often anyways and always, maybe even politely or maybe just out of habit, avoids any pronouns and keeps it short whenever Bucky would try and get more information out of him. In the end, Bucky stops trying altogether. Which, in all fairness makes hanging out and spending time with Steve that much more tolerable. Because then it’s just them. Without the looming threat and reality that Steve is taken. 

So he’s everywhere, and it doesn’t even surprise Bucky when nearly a full two months into the new school term, looking to find a quiet corner to start on his thesis paper, he finds Steve in the middle of one of the stacks on the fourth floor of the library, standing on a stool with a trolley of books at his side.  Bucky stops in his tracks when he catches sight of him, reaching on tiptoe to get to the highest ledge on a stepping ladder.

“Steve?” Steve turns at his name and his eyebrows shoot up in delightful surprise.

“Buck! What’s goin’ on?” He asks as Bucky makes his way into the space between aisles. It’s a little tight, what with his knapsack and the trolley that’s behind Steve but he figures it works in his favour to be that much closer to Steve. His hair has been consistently a sea-foam green for the past two weeks and he’s dressed simply in that same white tee that Bucky has grown accustomed to. But his acid wash jeans are new.  

“Got that essay to start on,” Bucky answers and shrugs the shoulder that’s carrying almost his weight in books.  

“For that ‘Intro to Roman History’ elective?”  Bucky blinks at Steve, who is too busy riffling through his pockets to notice. He told Steve about that class like, a week ago. In passing. When they bumped into each other and Bucky was late for that class and Steve was fighting the cola dispenser in the same hallway.

“Uh, yeah that’s the one.” 

Steve eventually pulls out a squished packet of tissue paper. “Sounds interesting.” 

“Yeah but I really fucking hate secondary sources.” 

Steve sniffles, unfolding the kleenex and takes one step down. “They’re not so bad. Especially if you need to reach a word count and --” he sniffs again, and Bucky hates himself a little for finding it disgustingly adorable, before letting out a loud sneeze. He makes a scrunchy face. “Sorry, I meant to say that was Sam’s advice to me back in high school when I’d say the same thing.” Steve breaks off for another sneeze, only this time louder, into his Kleenex and the loudness of it is only more amplified due to the complete silence around them. Steve comes out of it looking a little dazed, and Bucky turns to glare at the kids sitting in the cubicles behind them studying, for their looks of annoyance at Steve.  "Sorry,” he apologizes again. “It's so damn dusty in here.” 

“Yeah no kidding.”  

“Um, anyway, so --" he sneezes again. And again. And again. Bucky crowds himself into him as if his space can stop and silence the sneeze attack that has gotten from marginally worrying him to being sort of hilarious.  

"You good?" he asks, rubbing a hand on Steve’s hunched shoulder. He’s blushing.  

“Yeah, it’s just my stupid hay fever."  

At this point, Bucky doesn’t know where to stop being in awe and start being seriously shocked at how he’s managed to stay alive for his entire life. "Steve, buddy. Have you seen the stacks? Not exactly known for its tidiness." Steve just blows his nose finally, and makes a face at the bunched up tissues in his hand before putting them in his back pocket and takes out a mini hand sanitizer from the satchel he wears.

“I've written a few complaints,” Steve says simply like that’s enough and rubs his hands together and replaces the tube back. 

"You do realize no one actually reads those comments," Bucky says and lets his knapsack fall off his shoulder to retrieve his sandwich.

Steve just looks at him and says flatly, "are you kidding me?"

"What?" Bucky calculates which side has the most distribution of mayonnaise and takes a bite. 

"Bucky you're not allowed to eat in here."

"But m'ungry," he reasons through his tuna fish sandwich.

Steve pins him with a hard look and maybe it's cause he's a lot taller than him now, standing on a ladder that it's kind of hot with how he's glaring. Bucky can’t help his brain from immediately going into over-drive. Flooding him with naughty librarian porn cause he’s long accepted the fact that Steve's hipster glasses does shit for him. It's a huge turn on now that Bucky can't make fun of them (anymore). He still feels bad for that. 

("Five." Steve said proudly a week ago.  He looked different without them and Bucky found that the mirrored lenses hid how brilliantly blue his eyes really are. He never saw the freckle of pale green in them before and it’s hard to get a grip on all this new information just from looking into his eyes plainly for once. He thought he knew the depth of them before.  "Can I put them back on now?"

"Hold on a sec." Bucky had said and shuffled back a bit from where they sat on the benches after Steve came to watch another dull baseball practice. He held up eight fingers this time. “Last time.” Bucky had made a jab at Steve earlier about only wearing his glasses for fashion, to which Steve, defiant as always, took them off and set aside his Art History text and agreed to play a childish game to prove just how blind he actually was.

Steve visibly squinted. "Fuck."

"No way."

"I'm not far sighted you dick. I legitimately need them. I’m astigmatic."

"Damn." Bucky cursed and handed Steve his glasses back. He blinked a few times before finally focussing back on Bucky, a small smile growing.

"That's better.")

"Buck."

Bucky blinks innocently. 

"You're not getting any special treatment ‘cause we're friends."

Bucky swallows and offers the wrapped sandwich up at Steve who is trying very hard not to break eye contact. 

"Is that from Zeta's?"

Bucky wriggles his eyebrows and Steve huffs out a breath. "I regret ever meeting you." And takes the sandwich with a big bite. 

The look of complete betrayal on the librarian’s face when she catches Steve, laughing with a tuna fish sandwich halved between the two of them is enough for Bucky to feel at least a little bit guilty when she exiles them to the area where eating is allowed.  

They don’t end up going there though. Steve doesn’t like the crowded noise and he’s already a little hard of hearing, and shows Bucky a secret spot on the fifth floor where no one goes. It’s a small crook, small enough that they have to sit with their knees almost to their chests.  

Or at least Bucky does, but its fine.  

“For the love of – Buck, it’s okay you can stop apologizing you can’t get me fired anyway,” Steve laughs, hands on his knees. “I volunteer here.” 

“Of course you do.” Bucky teases and Steve’s nose scrunches up, elbowing him gently but his elbows are pointy.  

“Ow.” 

“Baby.” 

Comfortable silence falls between them, the humming of the old lights above buzzing in the back.  “So I gotta say,” Steve says, breaking it. “I was a little surprised to hear you’re studying applied engineering.” 

“Why? Cause of my amazingly good looks?” Steve huffs, but he looks conflicted when Bucky turns and isn’t met with a similar jab back. He nibbles at his bottom lip.

“No, I mean,” Steve makes a face, frustrated and then turns to Bucky. Up this close, and they’ve never been this close before, Bucky can make out the brown moles on his jaw and his eyelashes that are so long. “I guess it doesn’t make sense because of your baseball scholarship. How are you going to manage both?”

And the way in which the breath is kicked out of Bucky’s chest is staggering because, how did he know? How much can Steve see right through Bucky?

He tries not to fidget but in a way that is now so common between them, the more time they spend together, Bucky finds himself being honest and talking about it for the first time, out loud. “I don’t know. I honestly am barely afloat right now.” 

Steve’s face is impossible to read, but his silence means it’s okay. That he can go on. Bucky picks at his jeans. “We don’t have all that much money back home and, well, baseball was always something I was good at as a kid. Somethin’ me and my dad used to do together before he enlisted. My grades were always good enough to get in here alone. I just,” he breaks off, picking his words carefully. A slim hand rests on his folded knee and it all comes into place. “I just think I panicked, you know? I like science. I'm good at it. At physics and building and seeing how things can advance. Help others. But I panicked ‘cause..." he breathes, "what if something happens over there to him and – “ Bucky shakes his head and shrugs a smile. “Guess I figured doing baseball can be somethin’ to keep him close no matter what happens.”  

When he finally has the courage to meet Steve, his eyes are soft and tender behind his glasses and lifts his hand from Bucky’s knee to adjust his glasses. His voice is low and hushed when he speaks. “You know. I thought I wanted to enlist in the army. Thought I could follow in my own dad’s footsteps before he passed. Follow. Serve. But, they wouldn’t let me in. I mean,” Steve gestures to himself lamely, and Bucky wants to reach out. It wouldn’t be hard – and tell him he’s perfect. There’s nothing he should ever want to change about himself.

“I have a list of illnesses longer than my arm. But I was so angry Buck. So pissed at everyone and myself. Like my body had betrayed me and what I could do. What I know I could do if,” Steve bites his lip. “Anyway. But then Sam said to me, asked, what makes me happy? And I realized drawing was it. Drawing in my sketchbooks makes me happy. And now I’m here and I got the chance to meet so many amazing people. And it’s not so bad. Maybe I can help protect the people who need it right here at home instead of overseas.”  Steve smiles, and it’s so bright it’s blinding even in their shoddy light and Bucky’s brain is swimming with how much he can see and feel right now.  

I am so fucking screwed, he thinks. Steve knocks his knee into Bucky’s in an attempt to lighten the mood and it works.

Bucky grins back and tries not to fight it. Lets it go -- his jealousy, his resentment, everything, because whoever Sam is, at least their making Steve happy.  

Fall season comes and with that, complete and utter pandemonium of sheer panic over mid-terms that are right around the corner.  

Bucky hasn’t seen Clint or Natasha for days now that Clint has shortened his hours at the coffee shop and only lifts his head from his notes to grab enough coffee to fuel an army or text Bucky that he’s alive. Natasha is even worse, juggling dance classes and an Ethics course she knew would conflict with her elective in Computer Tech but she refuses to let them get the best of her and so Bucky hasn’t seen her either.  

And when it would have left him with a huge hole of loneliness last year when he was a freshman, he barely notices their absence because after his talk with Steve nearly a month ago, he can’t quiet the tug of war in his mind.

The longing to dive head first into his physics classes with full vigour and excitement versus baseball practice that keeps pulling him closer to the big game in the start of the new year. He stares at his laptop daily, never closing the tab that reflects the steps to “change your major” like it’s taunting him. 

He’s organizing his history notes to staple when his phone starts to buzz. He grins at the caller-ID. They’ve stopped texting after they agreed that Steve’s phone is hopeless and a piece of shit.  “Hey Steve,” he answers.  

“Hi,” he chirps back. There’s a bustle of activity on his end. “You got anything to do for the next hour?” 

Bucky looks at his desk, an organized mess and haphazard pens scattered around. “Nope. What’s up?” 

“I’m outside in front of Stong College on a break. Wanna hang out for a bit?” He asks, and doesn’t even hide the hopeful note in his tone and Bucky is already digging for his jean jacket as he tells him he’ll be there in ten.  

“Thank you,” Bucky says, accepting the hot dog Steve hands to him and starts to build. It’s one of the chillier days on campus, Bucky glad that he layered his jacket with his thick blue flannel and squirts heavy ketchup and banana peppers.  

“No mustard?” Steve says, his own hot dog simply done with just that and sweet relish. Bucky doesn’t answer because he’s a slob and couldn’t wait two seconds before lobbing off nearly half of it but shakes his head. Steve starts to walk down the strip at a leisurely pace. “Mustard’s the best part. Hey, is here good?”

He points with his food to a stone bench encompassing a large tree and some bushels without any flowers. Bucky finally gets the chunk of food down. “Sure.” 

Steve sits and crosses his legs, angling his first bite away from where a vintage looking camera hangs from around his neck. He’s heavily layered, his black cable-knit cardigan sweater falling to his knees and acting as a jacket over a purple stripped hoodie. The sleeves are long enough to cover half his hands.  

“Not that this isn’t great but I’d die for a New York style pretzel right about now,” Bucky says after he finishes and wipes his hands on a napkin. Steve moans over his last bite, eyes closing in agreement and it sends a hot spike up Bucky’s spine, spreading like live-wire.  

“You’re telling me pal. I miss everything Brooklyn.”  

“Still can’t believe you lived on 8^th street,” Bucky says, and doesn’t think he’ll stop being amazed that they lived so close. “Fucking weird.” 

Steve shrugs but his shoulders barely move under the weight of his clothes. “I still can’t believe I never ran into you at Hunan’s. I think I single-handedly was responsible for their shortage on shrimp dim-sum.” 

“That was you?” Bucky jokes and Steve nudges him playfully with the tip of his Doc’s. 

“Anyway, I wanted to ask you for a favour.” Steve starts and he’s fiddling with his camera, turning it on but putting in far too much attention. Bucky lifts an eyebrow, lets him continue. “I uh, need to hand in a collection of photographs on my lighting and scenery portfolio and it would be a big help if you could maybe,” he makes a funny gesture with his fingers, still not looking at Bucky who smirks.

“So that’s why you invited me out huh. Tried to buckle me down with food and use me? You know Steve, most people offer me money in exchange for services,” and does that eyebrow wriggle he knows tickles Steve. 

But Steve’s eyes only widen and he leans in seriously. “So you’re a sex worker. You know,” and he snaps his fingers. “It all makes sense now. What with the hair and the whole mouth thing you got goin’ on – “ 

What.

Bucky just stares at Steve who cracks into deep chuckles, lifting his camera into position.

“You’re such a shit. No one ever believes me.” Bucky says, and shuffles back on instinct, tries to flatten his hair but Steve leans forward and cards his fingers through it, sticking it back up. 

“Just shift a little to your right please, yeah just like that, perfect, okay.”

“Should I pose or something?” Bucky says, laughing a little oddly and tries to ignore the way his scalp still feels the aftershocks of Steve’s nimble artistic fingers. It’s a little awkward but Steve shakes his head and aims his camera. 

“Just smile. Be yourself. Okay, in one, two –“ 

There’s no flash but the click of the shot being taken sounds and Steve pulls back and looks at the preview and something melts in the way his shoulders were hitched up. “Here,” he says and lifts the camera from around his neck, holding it out to Bucky. “Don’t drop it,” Steve teases. 

“I’m gonna smash it,” Bucky says and stares at the photo. 

There’s a sheen of sunrays peeking down from where they escaped through the tree above them. Steve must have picked the place specifically for it, and the light hits the left side of Bucky’s face, making one side of his face luminescent and the blue of his eye shine almost white. His hair is mussed but stylish and the shot is a little zoomed in, cutting off at where his shoulders begin. Bucky didn’t think he was smiling when Steve took it, and he’s not, not really. But his eyes are sending something soft and tender. Rich. It’s serene. Intimate. 

“Good huh?” Steve says softly and Bucky has to fight to tear his gaze away from the face staring back at him. Clears his throat and looks at Steve who is sharing almost the same look of unadulterated, pure, affection and it’s too much. Too much to believe is real and it’s not making any lick of sense because if it’s true, then – 

Steve’s phone chooses that time to bleep a received text from inside his jean pocket and the moment is over when he checks it. “Oh,” he says softly and reads it. “It’s from Sam. He’s finishing class early and wants to meet up. Wanna come? You guys haven’t met yet right?” 

The world sways into sharp, painful focus.

And before Bucky knows it, he’s getting to his feet and presses the camera into Steve’s chest, heart thudding in his ears and he feels sick. “I just remembered I have an office hour with Stark. Sorry. Gotta run Steve, I’ll catch ya later," he rambles over Steve's, "Buck, wait a sec--" and takes off, but not before he catches the look of confusion and hurt on Steve’s face.

Bucky’s re-reading the same introduction passage of chapter five when Clint walks in without knocking. Not that he normally does, but this is different. 

“Yo, really?” Clint says, coming up beside him and then looks at Bucky, cheek smushed in one hand and other hand spinning his pen. “For real?”

Bucky doesn’t try to pretend they don’t know what’s going on. He sighs. “Clint, seriously, not now.”

“You don’t – “

“Clint,” Bucky says, and closes his eyes. Fighting back the urge to just sink into his bed and hide there forever. Until this all just goes away. “I just need some time. I’ll be okay. I’ll live. Just,” and he leaves it there. Doesn’t want to be rude and actually vocalise how bad he wants him to fuck off.

Clint stands there for a beat before making an annoyed sound and heads back towards his dorm door. “Fuckin’ insanity.”

Steve texts him at a quarter past seven when Bucky finally finishes his paper and is on his third Red Bull:

Steve Rogers 7:45pm: Bucky are you ok? Are you mad at me? Tell me what’s wrong.

If it’s possible, and he seriously doubts it is, Bucky’s heart twists in his chest from the pure earnestness resounding in that text. He knows Steve is trying to do right. To be a friend and he is. Probably one of Bucky’s best friends now, but he can’t continue pretending and taking Steve's kindness for granted. So he's got it all figured out. He just needs some time is all. Space to learn how to just be friends with Steve and want nothing else. It's sure fire. Theoretically. 

He’s not cruel, and texts back before turning his phone on vibrate and setting his alarm for the next day, physically and emotionally drained:

Bucky Barnes 7:50pm: You didn’t do anything Steve. I’m just real busy.

“Steve is not dating Sam,” Natasha says three days later, sitting on his bed and dressed in jogging pants. She came to borrow a sweater because his dorm was closer than the sorority house.

Bucky doesn’t look at her from his desk, and flips through his History textbook, sleep-deprived and bone-achingly tired after one of the last baseball practices before the upcoming exam schedule. They’ve been good distractions from the ache that took Steve’s place but he has never felt so torn and split in half in his life. Steve’s comforting words still echoing in his head day by day. “You can’t know that.”

“And you can’t not,” she snaps. “You’ve been avoiding the library ever since. He looks for you, you know.”

Bucky scoffs. He refuses to buy into that. Steve hadn’t shown to any of his baseball events since he got some sense knocked into him. Albeit very late sense, but still.

When he says nothing, Natasha sighs and gathers his sweater with her as she gets up. “Boys.”

“You do realize that you’re a) being an idiot,” Clint says, after dragging Bucky out of his dorm later in the evening to go to the cafeteria because apparently, living off chocolate bars, energy drinks and coffee is no way to live, “b) just because he hasn’t contacted you doesn’t mean he doesn’t care and most importantly, c) you’re being an idiot.”

“Gee, thanks,” Bucky says flatly and pushes the doors to the food court, baseball cap on and follows Clint up the steps to the smallest line. Clint orders for them both, memorized Bucky’s order a long time ago and Bucky shoves his hands in his pockets, looking around.

He thinks he has a homing device when it comes to Steve. Like there’s some kind of sadistic, invisible line that always brings him back to him. Always makes sure he finds Steve regardless of the odds.

Steve’s sitting in one of the seats, his shape in profile as he sits across from someone else. He’s swimming in a brown leather jacket and his hair isn’t coloured at all. Just blonde. Bucky doesn’t believe he’s ever seen it naturally until now and from the minimal distance, he’s still beautiful. He’s holding a fork in the middle of the table and his friend is holding his own, the tongs of their utensils stuck together and they lazily play a game of tug-a-war. The guy’s skin is dark and his hair is buzzed but he’s in a medical looking uniform. Sam. Bucky thinks he can feel his heart break all over again.

“Oh hell,” Clint says from behind him, holding a large brown paper bag and then nudges Bucky. “Okay, I’m totally against this but we can go back to my dorm if you want.”

“That,” Bucky’s voice is choked, clogged in his throat. “That sounds good.”

It’s a miracle when two days afterwards, Bucky gets out of his physics exam alive.

It wasn’t as horrific as he imagined it would be. The equations coming to him easily enough and he didn’t need any extra time to complete it. He'd be offended at how easy it was if he wasn't relieved that it was. But it’s still grossly early and by the time he gets to his dorm, he's bone achingly exhausted in every way a person can be. Bucky tugs his sweater off and kicks off his jeans to change into thin jogging pants. He's asleep as soon as he shuts his eyes against the pillow. 

Bucky doesn’t know what time it is when he hears his door open and shut softly. But he does know the only person who has the guest key to his college dorm is Clint and he’s not in the mood for a pep talk. “Clint. Fuck off,” his voice is muffled from underneath the mountain of comforters.

Clint doesn’t say anything and Bucky makes an offended sound, huddling into himself more. What a part of: “give me some goddamn space I’m trying to get over him” does anyone not under—

“Bucky.”

Bucky freezes. That’s not Clint’s voice. He’d recognize that baritone anywhere, and his heart jams itself into his throat. He can’t fucking breathe.

“Bucky,” and Steve sighs, breath rattling a little as he does it in a way that is so achingly familiar. “I talked to Clint.” He says and that’s enough for everything to be put into perspective. It’s over. He knows.

I have shit for friends and he’s going to – I’m going to have to hear this, Bucky thinks miserably. He refuses to look at him.

“Fuck,” he responds. He takes a shuddering breath. “Okay, Steve – “

“Shut up for a second,” Steve interrupts and Bucky withers, thankful to all hell that Steve can’t see his face right now. And then, “you’ve been a real dumb jerk Buck, and -- oh my god, can you look at me you big baby?”

With surprisingly strong strength, Steve robs Bucky of the covers, leaving him feeling bare and naked, which he kind of is, save for his sleep pants. He reaches a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and rolls him over and Bucky can’t not look at him.

Steve is standing in his dorm, a green and black plaid shirt unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows like always, flaunting his tattoo and bracelets and wearing the same ripped black jeans and dirty converse. His hands are on his hips, one hand holding what looks like Clint's key card and he doesn’t look happy, glaring at him a little behind his glasses. But he's still the most magnificently unique and beautiful thing Bucky has ever seen. Nothing in his wildest imaginations could have created him and Bucky hasn’t seen him up close in a week and it all still hurts. It hurts so bad and he’s going to have to listen to him say all the right things and nod and be supportive even though all he wants to do is touch him again. A friendly nudge or arm around his slender shoulders.

But then, the glaring glint in Steve’s blue eyes dwindles away and his shoulders sag. All hint of defiance and strength trickling into nothingness. Steve takes a deep breath and covers his face with his hands and Bucky braces for it –

“I can’t believe I still want to kiss you, you fucking idiot.”

Bucky opens his mouth around a heartfelt apology but he stops 'cause he has somehow, obviously walked into some cruel, alternate universe because –

“What.”

Steve drags his hands away and he’s smiling a little, but he’s looking at Bucky with a twinge of annoyance. “I said I can’t believe I --," Steve exhales and collects himself, running a hand through his fringe. "You complete ignoramus," he finishes instead but it's without heat. "Jesus. If you'd just opened your eyes from the beginning and used your words like the functional, intelligent human being I know you are, you’d have seen it.” Steve throws his arms up. “I mean, hell, Buck, I’ve been trying to work up the courage to ask you out since Natasha’s party.”

And the thing is, Bucky’s brain is trying to switch channels from the white noise it’s on currently, but it’s also short circuiting over what Steve is trying to say to him.

So Bucky just stares, coming up to sit. “What,” he repeats dumbly.

Steve puffs a sigh upwards and it makes his blonde bangs flutter.

“But,” he finds his voice. “I almost killed you.”

Steve blinks dubiously down at Bucky and then says very clearly. “Can we never, ever, mention that ever again? And for the record, and I’m only going to say this once okay? So listen up. You ready?”

Bucky nods slowly, heart beat pounding in every cell of his body and he keens towards Steve. He thinks he might burst with it.

“I’m not dating Sam. I never have. Sam’s my best friend. He’s actually been seeing Natasha.”

“What?!” Bucky exclaims, a million and nine questions bouncing in his head and he jerks forward, sheets pooling further down to his waist and he catches the way Steve notices and then bites his plump bottom lip.  

“Can I kiss you now?” Steve says, braver than Bucky could ever hope to be. “I brought my inhaler and everything. I’ll tell you the rest later just, ugh, I can't believe I still wanna kiss you,” and he reaches down at Bucky, his blue fingernails are chipped. Bucky surges up instantly and pulls him in. Steve’s mouth crashes into his and it’s glorious and sweet to taste as he climbs onto Bucky’s lap, legs straddling his naked hips. Bucky cards a hand through his hair and lets Steve take charge and control, tilts their heads to get a deeper angle.

“You’re so ridiculous, I can’t believe you,” Steve pants against his mouth wetly, his glasses are getting fogged. But he’s grinning like a loon.

“But you still --” and Bucky pauses. He feels drunk all the way to his toes but still can't manage to voice the --want me anyway-- that he hopes Steve can piece together. “Right?”

Steve rolls his eyes and kisses him again, a little off mark. “Yes.” And when Bucky pulls away for a breath of a second, he noses Steve’s jaw like he’s always wanted and clutches his hipbone. Steve sighs happily and rests his head on Bucky’s tanned shoulder, presses a firm kiss to the bone there.

“I know Buck, I know.”

In Natasha’s defence, she only withheld that very important piece of information because: (“It wasn’t my responsibility to spoon-feed you something you could have figured out if you just used your words.”) And Bucky really wanted to argue, but he finds he has nothing to be mad about these days.

Still, Bucky thinks she throws the end of first semester bash at her sorority house as some sort of offhanded apology in early December. Bucky’s in the thick of the party on the main floor, small bottle of whiskey in his hand to keep warm from the fall of winter outside and tries to hide how nervous he is when Steve comes through, wearing Bucky’s leather jacket and pulling someone behind him.

“Bucky, this is Sam, Sam, this is my boyfriend,” he announces. His hair is blue again and doesn’t waste time to step to Bucky’s side and lace their fingers together. Sam’s about Bucky's height, but just a hair stockier in build. He clasps Bucky’s other hand in a handshake, giving him a wide, gap toothed grin.

“So this is who you dumped me for?” Sam jokes and Steve groans out loud just as Sam breaks into laughter. Bucky wants to sink into the floor.

“Sam, you promised!”

It becomes clear why Sam is Steve’s oldest and dearest friend. He’s outlandish, clever, wickedly hilarious that Bucky actually has to walk away from laughing so hard and together, they make an unstoppable force at beer pong. Steve beams, watching from the sidelines, admittedly not a beer fan but cheers almost viciously protective and ends up calling out the drunk guy who shoots on Bucky's turn and gets the shot in.

It's infectious. Bucky loves the way Steve can shout out a "hey!" from across an over crowded room and catch everyone's attention. Sam rolls his eyes at Bucky after getting Steve to calm down.

"I've basically been best friends with an hyper-active chihuahua since the ninth grade. It's fucking exhausting." But Sam says it fond. He has a friendship bracelet that resembles the one Steve wears on his wrist, only his is purple and yellow.

Bucky drops his keys on his desk loudly and lets Steve lock his bedroom door behind them as he kicks off his shoes.

Steve had convinced Bucky to leave early with him. And by early, it was actually half past one in the morning but the sea of people refused to die off. But that was alright with Bucky who did not need to see a newly un-single Clint make out with Kate any more than he already had and Sam disappeared upstairs with Natasha not long before that.

Steve’s still dressed in his jacket when he lies down beside Bucky, the bed just fitting them enough if they cuddle just right and Bucky watches him shift into something comfortable before saying, “I quit.” 

Steve takes off his knitted toque and ruffles his hair. “Hm?” He scoots in closer, smaller body bracketing Bucky who should change his clothes but he needs to say this.

He runs a hand through Steve’s fine hair and leaves it there, loving the way that he can touch freely now. Is welcomed to it every time by the way Steve always moves with it. “Baseball. I dropped out.”

It takes seconds for Steve to register what Bucky is saying and stares at Bucky intently. “And how do you feel about that?” 

“Well,” Bucky sighs, “it wasn’t easy. But I think, if I could talk to him, he’d be happy with anything I wanted to do. As long as it makes me happy.” Steve nods.

“I don’t need a sport to remember him. He’s not going anywhere. Not yet.”  

Steve grins and Bucky removes his hand from his hair to peel his glasses away and puts it on the counter behind him. He brings up Steve’s hand and kisses the knobbly knuckles there. “Thank you. I mean it Steve. And I don't know why you still wanna deal with my stupid -- ”

"Hey, only I get to call you that," Steve says fondly and runs a hand up and down Bucky's arm and says seriously, "no more apologies. We're here now. And as much as I wish I was kissing your dumb face sooner," Steve shrugs like it's nothing. Like you can shrug away months of wasting this.

Steve grins wide, perfect white teeth blinding in their proximity and Bucky, amazed, doesn't think he will ever refuse a moment in time not to claim those red lips again and again.  

They refuse to wake to the sound of Bucky’s alarm.

Steve’s snoring heavily, asthma the source behind it and his arm bent over his head. Bucky’s curved around him, left arm thrown across Steve's middle and entire body basically half thrown over him like another blanket. Steve coughs lightly and smacks his lips, whispers raspy, “Buck…?”  

Bucky in a half-daze and eyes still shut, rolls over and swipes at his alarm clock, hitting snooze hard enough to dislodge the baseball that sits vicariously on his desk.

It falls to the floor and rolls.