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“Just water,” said Bucky, leaning his weight on the bar counter.
The bartender frowned and put a disgruntled-looking hand to his ear, miming over the throbbing music and flashing lights. Bucky leaned forward.
“Water,” he yelled, trying his very best not to sound like an obnoxious American.
The bartender pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge but shoved the card reader at him, holding the water hostage. “Yeah, whatever,” said Bucky, pulling out his credit card. He glanced back at the group. At this point, he didn’t even bother to do the math – whatever it was, even twenty dollars for a lousy bottle of water, was worth it. He needed to sober up fast before he ended up doing something he’d regret in the morning.
Water secured, he made his way back to the group of fellow exchange students who had currently staked out a corner of the dance floor next to some tables. Gabe, Jacques, and Jim were dancing with some local college girls they’d found, while Dugan chatted up a much older-looking couple, probably asking for nightlife recommendations or something. Falsworth was still at the bar. Bucky debated going back and worming his way to the front of the crowd to ask the bartender for something stronger, if only to watch those guys in their black shirts, soaked with sweat and water and probably some spilled alcohol too, shaking up cocktails with those muscular arms of theirs. Maybe that was a better idea. Just sit there, watching, yell a proposition at one of them and watch them pretend like they can’t hear.
But his eyes tracked back to the corner table, almost on impulse – because there was Steve, heels tucked up on the stool, that bashful smile written all over his face.
And sitting opposite him, draping her frilly red shirt all over the table, was Peggy fucking Carter.
He didn’t have anything against her, personally. It wasn’t like her perfect fucking hair and those shiny gold hoops and the red of her lipstick did things to him, or might have done, if the circumstances were different. She had a great body, he could give her that. And she certainly knew it. No, it was the way that Steve noticed those things too – the way those timid blue eyes tracked down to the sliver of skin between the red crop top and white shorts, the way that he turned pink when she leaned across the table and took a playful sip of his drink.
Bucky took an impulsive gulp of his own drink, almost choking on it when the taste hit his mouth and he remembered that it was only water. God, he needed something stronger. Much stronger.
He must have coughed a little too loud, because when he glanced up again, Steve was looking at him, those blue eyes locked on his and his cheeks still tinged with pink. Bucky returned his grin sheepishly, and made his way over to the table.
“You okay?” asked Steve, shouting to be heard over the music.
“Yeah,” winced Bucky. “Just went down the wrong pipe.”
“Ah, right,” said Steve, gesturing widely. His eyes landed on the bottle in Bucky’s hand. “Hey, is that water?”
“Yeah. Here, have some.” Bucky pushed the bottle at him and Steve took it gratefully. “Just be careful, it bites,” he added, trying for a joke.
Peggy chose that moment to interject. “I’ve been trying to get Steve to dance,” she said, addressing Bucky, even though his body was angled away from her. He gave in and turned to face them both more squarely.
“Oh, I’ve been trying that for years,” said Bucky.
“Oh that’s right, I keep forgetting you two know each other already,” she said, eyes flitting over to lock on Bucky’s.
“Yeah.” And you’d better remember it, bitch.
…Whoa. Bucky reeled himself back. Too far? Too close? What was going on with him tonight? He glanced back at Steve, looking for an anchor, but Steve’s blush was back again, and that just set off more alarm bells in Bucky’s mind. Steve never blushed in front of girls. Not in high school, anyway – or even in the first couple years of college, not any time that Bucky had seen. Maybe he blushed when you weren’t there. The thought unsettled him. Steve, his best friend, the guy he’d practically grown up caring for? The idea of Steve fooling around with girls that Bucky didn’t know about sent an uncomfortable wave lurching about his stomach. He would have told me, he thought rationally. Or maybe irrationally… he hadn’t exactly told Steve everything, had he?
But that was different. That involved a coming-out moment, something truthful, more than just a cute crush they could joke about as friends. He’d come close, when they’d shown up to find the city not only chock-full of old architecture and culture clash, but also strewn with rainbow flags in preparation for Pride Month celebrations. When he’d seen two men kissing between cigarettes at an outdoor cafe table, bold and happy and in fucking Europe, and he’d realized that the world was at his fingertips, he could hop on a plane and just fly wherever he wanted to go, he was an adult now, he could have adventures and kiss men and chase happily-ever-after if he wanted. They were halfway across the world, and it was starting to feel like anything was possible.
So why was he so worked up about Steve flirting with a pretty girl? Surely if he could have his happily-ever-after, why shouldn’t Steve?
Peggy was tugging at Steve’s hand, laughing, as Steve downed the bottle of water. When he finished he looked at the empty bottle like he was surprised at it, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Shit, I’ll pay you back,” he told Bucky, that earnest expression in his eyes.
“Yeah, whatever,” agreed Bucky, because he knew that if he tried to argue, either Steve would end up winning the fight or a sneaky twenty would somehow find its way into his luggage.
Peggy was pulling at Steve’s hand again. “Come on, it’s ABBA! You have to dance to ABBA!”
“I’ll dance with you,” Bucky interjected, partly because it looked like Steve might say yes. Peggy fixed him with that look again, the one that said I know what you’re doing. But what was he doing? Helicopter-parenting this date? Throwing himself in the path of a temptress so that Steve could escape with his wits intact?
“Oh, I’m not giving up that easily,” she said smoothly, fingers still curled around Steve’s wrist.
“Me neither,” Bucky insisted boldly. “And I’m really good at dancing.”
Peggy’s eyes settled into something a little more calculating. “Okay.”
Game on.
Peggy let go of her grip on Steve’s wrist and they stepped out away from the table, sinking into the beat of the music. Bucky kept his eyes fixed on her as he moved his hips, his thighs screaming out from the past couple weeks of bike commuting. He leaned into the ache, letting it dig at his muscles, back and forth, the sweet pain blending with the buzz of alcohol until he felt like nothing more than a throbbing ball of determined energy. Peggy was a good dancer, too – the way she pivoted on the hinge of her waist would usually have driven Bucky crazy, but all he could picture now were those hips edging up to Steve, on the dance floor or in one of their crappy dorm beds, her being the first to touch him because Steve would never make the first move.
Bucky imagined that Steve’s eyes were burning into his back, setting off this tingly angry energy, but he couldn’t bring himself to glance over to check. He didn’t want confirmation that Steve was looking at Peggy instead.
Finally, after what felt like several songs’ worth of a silent dance battle, Peggy broke off to ask Steve if he wanted another drink.
“I’m gonna find the bathroom,” said Bucky in their general direction, escaping before Peggy could drape herself all over Steve under the guise of being worn out from dancing or something. The thought made him sick. God, he hoped he wasn’t gonna be sick. He hadn’t had that much to drink, had he?
He managed to find the bathroom without throwing up, which he counted as a success. Small blessings. It was cramped and unisex, the stalls narrow and covered in graffiti. He made out a handful of lines scribbled in English, among other languages – a suicide hotline, a labeled dick drawing, some quote from a poem or something about flowers blooming after the rain. Steve would probably know the quote. Bucky considered taking a picture to show him, later, but that was stupid. Hey, pal, I was thinking about you in the bathroom. Yeah, no. He had to get a grip on himself.
After a couple of deep breaths, Bucky stood up and managed to wedge himself out of the stall and into the narrow space in front of the sinks. He splashed some water on his face, watching it drip down off his reflection’s chin. He looked gnarly. His hair needed a cut; it was shaggier than usual, but he’d held off spending money at the barber until at least the middle of the trip. He should probably look into that soon. At least the rest of his face wasn’t too bad – the dark circles he’d had under his eyes the first couple of days from jetlag were gone, but he had a feeling that all this clubbing was gonna bring them back by morning. It was already past midnight. This morning? he thought, trying to bring his thoughts back into order.
A body passed through the bathroom doorway, blocking off the colored lights for a moment.
“Bucky?”
He glanced up; sure enough, there was Steve.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” said Bucky, pulling himself together enough to grab a paper towel and start blotting the water off of his face. “Just sweaty from dancing.”
“Right,” said Steve, pausing for a second like he was waiting for something else, but then he went into one of the stalls and locked the door. Right. Bucky waited, bracing his arms on the sink, willing himself to sober up. When the door lock clicked open again, he straightened up and tossed the towel away, trying to act casual.
He stepped aside to let Steve wash his hands. The lights were playing across Steve’s face, bouncing off of the tile walls and sending tiny rainbows everywhere. Bucky didn’t even realize he was staring until Steve glanced up at him, looking amused.
“So… Peggy, huh?” Bucky blurted out, for lack of anything better to say.
“Yeah,” Steve said, looking a little bashful.
Son of a bitch.
“Do you like her?” asked Bucky. He didn’t know why he was talking, only that if he stopped, Steve might just walk away or Peggy might fucking apparate into the space between the sinks and the stalls.
Still, even though it felt like suicide, he kept staring at Steve’s face like they held all the answers. That shy little smile, that blush, sent knives pricking into Bucky’s back. “I don’t know,” admitted Steve, looking up at Bucky. Or down. Bucky held his gaze, although it felt like he was sinking to the floor. “Maybe.”
Bucky tried to nod, or shrug, or something, but just ended up with a hard swallow. He hoped Steve was too drunk to ask why he was acting so fucking weird.
…No chance in hell. Steve was never drunk, even though Bucky had seen his hands around that drink earlier.
Steve never flirted with girls either, pointed out the voice in his head.
“She’s nice,” added Steve, like he was spelling it out for himself, rationalizing all of her traits into a formula that would surely end with the revelation that he loved her. Bucky couldn’t let him get to the end. His lungs were screaming out inside of him, gasping, and yet Bucky couldn’t help but hold onto every word that hung off of Steve’s lips. To hear Steve talk like this – about anyone, even a girl he’d just met – or not just anyone, maybe the one, maybe the most important person in his life – Bucky couldn’t help but be a witness, a willing shoulder, just to hear Steve say such loving words about another being. Maybe Peggy knew a thing or two about love, but she couldn’t know how important this was. How much weight went into a holy appraisal by Steve, into being the object of such words, all that affection directed at her. Anyone would be lucky to have Steve speak so highly of them. Bucky could only hope that someday someone would direct such words at him.
Steve was still talking, still seeing Peggy in the curve of his eyes, but then he stopped and looked at Bucky directly, an odd expression on his face.
“What is it?” he asked.
Bucky didn’t know how to respond. She doesn’t deserve you was the first thing that came to mind, but he couldn’t say that.
Steve stepped closer, concerned, lifting a hand to touch Bucky’s face gently as though stabilizing him, and suddenly everything seemed to slip into place. Bucky’s heart rate was pulsing with the music pounding through the walls, his breath had stopped, his vision had narrowed down to only the person in front of him. Only Steve.
He leaned in.
His nose brushed against Steve’s cheek first, the first point of contact, Steve’s hand sliding off of Bucky’s face with the unexpected shift in gravity. Then he closed his lips around Steve’s mouth. It was nothing like he’d imagined, and yet exactly what he wanted; how had he missed this puzzle piece right in front of him? And even as he reached for it, itching to slot it into place, it retreated from him: Steve moved back, and Bucky closed his eyes, letting the moment slide away as ghost-like as a dream, to prolong the seconds before he would have to wake up. Then Steve’s lips were gone, and it was just the music, and the taste of alcohol, brushing up against Bucky’s tongue.
Bucky looked up at Steve. Steve was looking back, watching him with what must be shock, the expression frozen on his face.
“Sorry,” said Bucky, when he’d managed to get his voice back.
Steve just stared at him.
“Just – forget about it,” mumbled Bucky, and he couldn’t bear to look at Steve’s face any longer, that stupid face that simultaneously held the answer to all his feelings and none of the life he’d seen directed at Peggy. Just blankness, struggling to comprehend. “If it helps, I didn’t see it coming either.”
Then he made his retreat. He needed a drink. He headed towards the bar, already reaching for his wallet, forcing his mind away from the relationship he’d just shattered in the dingy club bathroom, and towards wet black bartender t-shirts instead.
He was in Europe, for fucks sake. Anything was possible.