Work Text:
“What about you, Mr. Barnes? Got your eye on any red carpet ladies?” asked the interviewer.
He gave her a cheeky smile, eyes breezing right past Steve to fixate on the mass of glittery, colorful dresses that were shimmering like sparklers in the sea of flashbulbs. “Oh, you know me, I can always appreciate a well-dressed woman,” he said, with a wink to the camera. “But seriously – the designers have really outdone themselves this year, and gosh, these actresses deserve it. Such good performances. There’s so many powerful, talented women here tonight, they sure as hell deserve to look like a million bucks.”
The interviewer beamed at him, then swiveled her microphone on Steve. He could feel his palms sweating through the pants of his cobalt blue suit. God, he wished he could be as suave as Bucky: all smooth words, easy smiles, his attitude as sleek as the midnight blue velvet of his jacket or the shine of his slicked-back hair. Even his eyes were shining, twinkling in the light of all these glitzy red carpet snapshots. A real star.
Eyes forward, Rogers, he thought, reminding himself of his publicist’s instructions. Smile. Open your chest. Keep your gaze away from your handsome costar.
…Okay, maybe he’d added one. But the publicist didn’t need to know that. God knows she had enough to worry about when they shoved him in front of a camera without a script.
“What do you have to say about that, Steve?”
Steve swiveled his attention back to the topic at hand: red carpet ladies. Performances. Women in Hollywood.
Steve pictured Peggy, radiant in her scene opposite him, the day they’d filmed her emotional monologue. He could feel the goosebumps he’d gotten then, at the tail end of a long night shoot, the whole crew holding their breath as her raw energy brought an electric intensity back into the room. Then the feeling of her triumphant hug after they’d wrapped that day, her grin squished up against his shoulder. They’d gone to get some hot cocoa packets from crafty to celebrate, as dawn was peeking into the sky, then promptly fell asleep against each other in Peggy’s trailer, satisfied with a good day’s work.
Mental target in place, Steve cracked a warm smile for the interviewer.
“Oh, I completely agree,” he said, pouring as much earnestness as he could into the statement. “Women are continuing to do such great work in the film industry. Our costar, Peggy Carter, is such a phenomenal actress, it was truly an honor to work with her. Honestly, if anyone out there hasn’t seen the film yet” – he turned his gaze to the camera (what a segue, he could practically hear his publicist cheering) – “you should watch it just for her performance. It was incredible.”
The interviewer’s mouth curled into what could only be described as a coo. “Oh, you are such a gentleman! And I don’t think I’m alone in saying that our viewers should watch the film for more than one performance – you did such a great job too! Both of you,” she added, nodding at Bucky too.
“That’s so kind of you to say,” said Bucky, voice dripping like syrup as he swooped in to save Steve from reverting to his default setting of churning out more compliments. Steve felt Bucky’s hand touch his back, steadying him. The feel of the warm palm resting gently between Steve’s shoulder blades gave him the impression that Bucky could detect his heart rate through his suit. Like he was conducting readings, a silent communication between their bodies. Between them. Steve focused on the interviewer, and tried not to give away the feeling that Bucky’s hand was burning a hole in his suit.
“Speaking of Peggy Carter, I’m surprised that you two didn’t arrive together tonight,” began the interviewer, a suggestive hint in her voice, and there it was – the question he had been dreading.
Shit.
I don’t date, he’d confessed to his publicist, like it was as big and messy of a secret as an addiction or a past criminal offense. Of course, he knew it wasn’t bad, there wasn’t anything wrong with inexperience… but still. That’s okay, she’d said. Just make something up, or make a deal with one of your costars. Everyone does it. Just fake a girlfriend or people will start to think you’re gay – not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course. But if you are, we’ve gotta talk strategy.
But he wasn’t gay. Or, well, he might be, but… there just wasn’t enough data to go off of. Sure, Hollywood was full of beautiful people flaunting their beautiful bodies, and sure, maybe he’d been swept away by the way that one or two of them curved and hollowed like Classical statues in a museum. Maybe he’d spent enough time at networking events to know what flirting felt like, and why it was fun. Maybe he’d admired the photoshoots he saw in magazines, with all those successful people stretched out across the pages with their colorful fabrics and smooth-satin skin… or was it just their success he admired? The dream of making it, of using your body for your art, of being seen?
It was so hard to know which feelings were real or just projected. After a long session in the private studio, warming up to his characters’ fullest potentials and then dialing it back down to something more realistic, containing their emotions, embodying them, stepping into their mannerisms and frames of mind, it was so easy to strip himself down into the blankest of slates before walking out the door and back into the real world. Maybe he’d just gotten used to stripping more and more away. Sexuality was something that his characters felt, usually leaning towards the heterosexual end of things, and when he slipped into their minds, he looked at bodies differently, he wanted different things. But when he was just “Steve,” sitting in a bar or at home, even at the beach, surrounded by all these bodies just flaunting themselves… he found that he didn’t want anything from them. Just a hug, maybe, or an arm around his shoulders. Like a sweater, or a warm cup of coffee, or a cat purring in his lap.
In character, he’d been in love with Peggy. He’d traced the curve of her cheekbones with his eyes, catalogued the way she walked in those tall high heels and admired the swish of her dress against her body. When he’d kissed her in the scene, he’d meant it.
But the moment they were out of it, they were just friends again.
It was weird, the way that circumstances could alter the way you saw a person so much that you could have a passionate love affair with them one moment, and then cheerfully help them set up a Tinder profile while eating pizza and bingeing a TV show within the same day. And how sometimes it could go the opposite way, realities bleeding together, until you weren’t sure whether admiring a friend for their looks or their charm had crossed the line into wanting more.
…Maybe there wasn’t always a line. Maybe sometimes you just slid from one feeling to the other, as smooth as midnight blue velvet.
All this snapped by in the span of a flashbulb, and suddenly Steve was back on the red carpet, keeping his face as calm as possible, willing away a blush as he felt the hand on his back snow-angel a little bit, fingers moving back and forth. Imperceptible, almost, but Steve knew it was there.
“Well, Peggy is a great friend of mine, and I’m so proud of her, but I know how important this night is for her and I know she’s been looking forward to bringing her mom as her date. I couldn’t think of anyone who deserves to be here more. And as for me, well… I prefer to keep my professional life separate from my private life. I’m just here to support my cast and crew tonight.” He gave a tight grin, already picturing the headlines. His private life. Damn, why’d it sound so much like he was hiding something? Couldn’t people just watch his movies if they wanted to picture him sleeping with people so bad? Why should they know about his real life, anyway?
Thankfully, Bucky took the opportunity to close off the interview with a manly bro-slap on the back and a smooth line or two to the interviewer and then to the camera, as Steve stood there trying his best to look friendly and professional. Then it was over, and Steve found himself itching to go to a corner and peel the facade off, step out of costume, but they were on to the next set of cameras, and the next line of journalists. There were shouts from cameramen to look, and backgrounds to stand back against; Steve let Bucky go ahead and be the darling of his own shots before stepping out by himself, feeling a little bit lost without the touch of Bucky’s hand on his back. He forced a smile, thinking of his publicist, thinking of Peggy.
The rest of the night passed in a blur. There was food, there was alcohol, there were cameras everywhere, filming everything, so much that Steve just pictured that he was on set and this was one of his paid gigs as an extra; that made it easier to sit through, along with the joyful bundle of nerves that was Peggy’s mother, dressed in silver sequins, and the surge of pride he felt when he glanced over and saw Peggy for the first time in her extravagant floaty-pink sculpture of a mermaid-tail gown. Her smile dazzled the worries out of his head for an instant, as he felt his expression melt into a grin to mirror hers.
Finally, finally – after the afterparty, and saying goodbye to Peggy and her mom at the hotel, and getting a cab with Bucky back to one of the quieter neighborhoods, filled with quaint little bungalows – Steve stepped out onto the sidewalk and was met with a crisp, blissful quiet. The rumble of car motors in the distance was muffled against the flowering trees and warm summer air. Steve took a deep breath in, recalibrating his senses.
Somewhere behind him, he heard the jingling of Bucky fishing keys out of his pocket, followed by a triumphant sound. “Here it is!” Bucky announced, and Steve opened his eyes to see him pointing at a shiny, vintage-style car.
“No way,” said Steve, grinning, walking over to run his hands along the sides of it to better admire the texture. This wasn’t quite what he’d imagined when Bucky had leaned over in the cab and mumbled “hey, I’ve got something really cool to show you at my place,” in his ear, that low voice practically egging him on to say yes. But the nervous thrill he’d felt when Bucky said it was back, sitting easier this time, waiting to see what would happen next.
“Wanna get in?” Bucky asked playfully.
“No, there’s no way either of us are driving tonight, not with how much we drank–” began Steve, but Bucky laughed and shook his head.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. Here, you can hold onto these,” he said, unlocking the front door of the car and then tossing the keys to Steve.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah… are you?” asked Bucky coyly, then sat down in the driver’s seat and shut the door.
Well. Steve pocketed the keys, and walked around to the other side, as Bucky rolled down the window with a lever by his feet. Steve got in.
“It’s nice, huh?” murmured Bucky, his head leaned back against the headrest like he was planning to just doze off right then and there. Steve smiled and imitated him.
“Yeah. The leather’s cool.”
They didn’t say anything else for a while after that, just breathing in the smell of the car, and their sweat, and the breeze that was drifting in through the open window.
After a few minutes of quiet dozing, Steve reached up to loosen his tie. His fingers were halfway through fumbling with the knot when he realized that Bucky was watching them, quietly. He dropped his hand, just to see what Bucky’s eyes would do; they blinked and then traced up to his face, as slow as the breeze but just as refreshing. Steve held his gaze for a long moment, neither of them moving. Then Steve let his own eyes do what he’d been keeping them from doing all evening long: he took a good, long look at Bucky’s face. Caressing those cheekbones, those lips, those strands of hair that hung down from the sleek hairstyle they’d been assigned to.
He felt like… well, at the moment, he felt like a character who could love somebody like that. If they wanted him to.
Steve’s mouth was dry, from the champagne and the nervousness of the whole night; he licked his lips, trying to bring the breath back so that he could make a sound if his voice willed it. Bucky inhaled.
It was now or never.
“Thank you for handling that interview,” Steve murmured. They were the first words that came to mind.
Bucky’s face hesitated, then crinkled into a smile. “Of course,” he said, looking pleasantly confused.
“You’re just always so suave,” Steve clarified, trying to convey how honest his gratitude was. “I never know what to say, but you always come up with the perfect way to deflect their questions.”
“That’s showbiz, baby,” said Bucky, laughing. “It’s all about the persona. God, but you’ve got yours pretty well worked-out too, don’t you?”
“What, being polite and not answering any personal questions? Yeah, I’m sure people love me.”
“No no no, the whole ‘friendly feminist’ thing! Everybody loves a man who refuses to objectify his coworkers. It makes you real… gentlemanly.”
Steve snorted. “What, you don’t think it’s evasive?”
Bucky sighed. “Look, there will always be people who want to know all of your secrets, no matter what kind of celebrity you are. If you’re trying to deflect their questions about your love life, you’ve either gotta tell them that it’s none of their business – because it isn’t – or you’ve gotta suck it up and lie.”
“…Like what you do?”
Bucky took a long pause, gazing out the windshield. “I don’t necessarily lie.”
Steve must have made a face, because Bucky turned to face him before saying the next bit. “Look, it’s all about the character, okay? I play an enhanced version of myself. Just like you play an enhanced version of yourself – or you will, when you learn how to handle interviews better. Just think of it as another character. People think I’m a flirt, so what? I never actually say that I’m sleeping around with a thousand women; I just laugh at those comments and people run with it. They don’t care who you are, really. So just make up a character of who you want to be.”
“Who I want to be… I don’t know who I want to be.”
“That’s okay. How about… what do you want?”
“What do I want?” repeated Steve, turning the words over in his mouth. Bucky was watching him think, those deep eyes sparkling with more than one meaning behind them. It was a look Steve recognized from years of knowing him: in the trenches, on their latest film, when Bucky’s character had been bursting to tell Steve’s character his plan; off-camera, when they went drinking with Peggy and the rest of the crew in a British pub near location, and Bucky had glanced up at Steve to acknowledge an inside joke; even as kids, before Hollywood had even been a dream for either of them, when they played sardines with the other kids or whispered secrets at sleepovers. Before the long hiatus. Before Steve had had to re-learn his friend’s face, so different in adulthood.
“How about now?” asked Bucky, his voice like a caress. “Just this moment, nothing too big picture. What do you want, right now?”
Steve looked at his friend. He looked at how Bucky was looking back at him, like he was captivating, or at least worth looking at.
Like he liked who he saw.
“I wanna say ‘fuck the consequences,’” said Steve, struck by the sudden thought. Bucky coughed out a laugh, surprised.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he said, feeling more sure every second. “You’re right, it’s my life. They don’t need to know everything about it.”
Bucky was smiling, that lazy grin that made Steve’s insides squirm at the adorableness of it. “Hell yeah,” said Bucky.
“Yeah…” echoed Steve, looking at the strands of Bucky’s hair that were hanging askew from the others. He reached out to smooth them back, and brought his fingers down, gently, over Bucky’s ear and down his jaw. Bucky inhaled as Steve brushed his thumb over his cheek, the rest of him frozen, staring at Steve with wild eyes full of things not yet deciphered. When Steve’s hand trailed down his neck, Bucky’s eyes fluttered closed and he let out a small laugh.
“Does that tickle?” asked Steve, laughing in spite of himself. His hand slipped off Bucky’s skin, but Bucky reached up a hand to hold it there, against his neck.
“Yeah, but it’s good,” Bucky mumbled through his smile.
Then Steve was leaning forward, slowly, watching for Bucky to duck away, but he was leaning in too, and then, inexplicably, their lips met, and it was like Steve’s insides had fainted and were now sliding down the walls of his ribcage. Their hands were still touching, held to Bucky’s neck, but Bucky loosened his grip and slid his hands under Steve’s collar and up into his hairline, almost cradling the back of his skull, and… wow. He hadn’t imagined it would be anything like this. So easy.
When they broke apart, Bucky’s lips were red and his eyes were dark, eyelashes fluttering open and closed with his short breaths. He looked up at Steve, and Steve, collecting himself, looked back at Bucky, so close that he could feel his hot breath against his face, mingling with the cool breeze from outside the window. The velvet, the leather of the seat cushions, the sounds they were making as they caught their breath with a few breathless laughs – it was all new, but Steve felt the electric energy settle down in his belly, comfortable, waiting for whatever happened next.
“Kiss me again,” murmured Bucky, when they’d had their fill of drinking in each other’s expressions.
So he did.