Work Text:
Steve’s kinda new to the building, so he’s not 100% sure how things go when something breaks. The rent covered the gym, the underground parking, laundry room and ‘general repairs’ to goods already in the apartment – the plumbing and appliances like the stove and dishwasher.
It’s a nice building in an okay area and he’s been pretty careful with his pay checks to afford it – he can walk to work rather than drive or take the subway, he can drop his expensive gym membership and he doesn’t need to worry about hauling his clothes to the cleaners any more.
But he’s not really sure if this counts as general repairs.
The showerhead had fallen and cracked the tile. It had cracked his head first though, so he had a large purple bump on his forehead, which had made his boss roll his eyes and comment on the amount of times Steve had shown up to work with some kind of bruise or cut. He’d left off calling the superintendent because he’d thought he’d be able to fix it himself, but after looking at the tile, cracked right down the middle, he wasn’t quite sure where to start.
He dialled the number he’d been given when he moved in and waited for the line to pick up. “Barnes.” The voice said, sounding a little sleep rough. For a moment, Steve panicked that he’d called too late, but it had only just turned 6pm and he didn’t think that was a bad time to call.
“Um, hi?” He said, and then kicked himself for the waiver in his voice. “This is Rogers from apartment 409. I have a cracked tile and a broken showerhead that um… I think is covered in the general repairs?”
The man on the other side of the line sighed, and Steve was sure he could hear blankets moving. “Yeah, okay. 409?” He asked, and hung up as soon as Steve confirmed.
“Oh, okay.” Steve said to the cleared tone, and stood holding the phone for a second before he hung up too. “Right.”
Steve once had dreams of joining the Army. His high school councillor had tried to sway him from that path, tried to let Steve down gently – point him in a more suitable direction. It hadn’t worked.
The Army recruitment officer had been less kind. Steve hadn’t ever quite gotten over the rather pointed look that he’d been given when he’d tried to enlist. He never did forget the fact that they let him do the tests, or the pat on the back when he’d collapsed half way through the fitness drill. “You’ve got guts.” They told him. “But you’ll never pass the medical, son.”
He’d been heartbroken, and had tried so hard to improve – but there were a few things he just couldn’t fix. He couldn’t force himself to grow (he’s stopped at 5’4 and never got any taller) and trying to ‘bulk up’ just gave him a pot belly that looked out of place when combined with his skinny arms and legs. He couldn’t fix his heart murmur, his colour-blindness, his scoliosis – or any of his other long lists of medical ailments. He went to the gym though, and worked through the list of exercises that he’d been given from his physical therapist. He could do a little running – although it still took him a lot longer than it should to ‘sprint’ 100 meters. He’d always been warned about pushing himself to hard, but Steve had wanted to prove to the world (and himself) that he could do mote – he could be more – if he just worked hard.
Working at Stark Industries as a graphic designer had been a great step up the ladder for Steve, and he’d rewarded himself with a whole new life – new apartment, new clothes, new diet, new outlook on life. Mostly he’d stuck to it – he used the running machine in the morning, and he worked on his upper body after work. He upped the amount of water he drank and he’d almost convinced himself that he was getting a little bit of a six-pack if he clenched his muscles in front of the mirror. But when he opened the door to the repairman, he felt every single one of his insecurities bubble to the surface.
What did it matter that he’d bought a nice pair of designer glasses, perched on his face with thick black rims, when the man in front of him had the most stunning navy blue eyes he’d ever seen? What did it matter that he’d bought some nice skinny jeans that made his legs look a little longer when the man in front of him looked like a Levi’s pin-up in loose fit well-worn jeans, hanging off his hips? What did it matter than Steve had rolled up his shirt sleeves of a nice crisp shirt and a fitted cardigan when the man in front of him was wearing a crumpled white tee-shirt that showed off his muscular, tanned arms – and his full sleeve tattoo?
Steve had been the founding member of his high schools LGTB club, and his little rainbow badge on his satchel hadn’t made him many friends there, but did when he’d gotten to college – he knew he was attracted to guys.
The thing was: the guy standing at his door was probably attractive to everyone.
“Roger?” He said, looking at Steve like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Steve.” He found himself saying stepping back to allow the repairman into the apartment.
“You said Roger on the phone,” the guy said, sounding exhausted.
“Steve Rogers.”
“Right.” He shrugged, walking through to the bathroom without needing directions. Steve assumed all the apartments had the same layout, but it was weird for a stranger to know the inside of his home. “Broken tile, broken showerhead.” He said as he walked and Steve tried to keep his own eyes off the firm, toned ass. The jeans weren’t tight, but they were tight enough. Steve had never felt like such a letch in his whole life.
“Ah, yeah.” He said. “Sorry. It landed on my head first, I didn’t catch it in time to stop it from hitting the tile.”
The man stopped and turned, eyes sweeping over the bruise Steve had almost forgotten about. He knew it was an ugly purple colour, because his work friends winced every time they saw him. “Right.” He said, and nodded.
Bucky wanted to bury himself under the floorboards of the bathroom where Steve had left him. The tiny guy had even offered to make him a mug of herbal tea (apologising for the lack of coffee, but he’d cut it out of his diet) or a fruit juice. Bucky had refused them both with a shrug.
Shit, the dude was tiny, 100lbs soaking wet (if that) looking like he’d walked off some fucking fashion magazine – complete with those dorky glasses. He’d even tied the thin laces of his leather brogues with little bows. Bucky felt like a fucking cave troll standing beside him. He was acutely aware of the fact his jeans were worn out, and he’d picked his t-shirt off the floor, he probably still carried the stink of cigarette smoke and vomit on his skin because he’d fallen directly into bed when he’d finished working the door at the Red Room the night before. Being a bouncer was a shitty job at the best of times, but that place was a fucking nightmare, and every day he promised he’d start looking for work somewhere else, and every night he ended up standing in the cold telling drunk thugs to take it somewhere else.
And now he was standing in the bathroom of the hottest twink in New York and he looked like shit on a stick. He’d crawl under the floorboards but he was pretty sure he’d end up falling through to 309 and the couple that lived there might not appreciate that.
Shit, he was pretty sure he’d not even bothered to brush his damn hair. A glance in the mirror proved him right, and he resisted the urge to smack his head off the sink.
Steve wasn’t exactly sure what the procedure was when a stranger was in your house. He’d done the ‘host’ part and offered a drink – he knew he should have kept some coffee or regular tea (even a can of soda or something) but his new diet was fairly strict and Steve’s self-control wasn’t so great first thing in the morning when his entire body was begging for that morning cup of Joe.
So he’d left the repair man in the bathroom with a smile and wondered if he should hover in the hall or go sit in the living room. He didn’t want the guy to think he was checking up on him, but he also didn’t want him to think that Steve was ignoring him. He hissed through his teeth in frustration – he was over thinking it. He certainly wouldn’t be so concerned if the repair man wasn’t the hottest thing Steve had ever laid eyes on. Squaring his jaw, he walked into the living room and brought out his sketch pad. He’d been working on some charcoal pieces for the apartment, to add a little life into the drab walls – and at least it gave him something to do with his hands.
Bucky took longer than he needed to make sure the shower-head wasn’t going to land on the tiny guy again. Christ, the bruise on his head was testament enough that another run-in with the shower would probably knock him out. Bucky was pretty sure he’d never forgive himself if Steve drowned after being knocked unconscious by a shoddy repair job he’d done. The tile was easy work, almost every single person in the building had chipped, smashed or broken one in the four years he’d worked there. The old lady in 106 broke at least two a month, although Bucky kinda thought that was because she liked the company.
So when he finally stepped out into the hall, Steve wasn’t there. He coughed before he walked towards the main room, to let Steve know he was there – and stepped through.
All the apartments were identical – aside from the one he had. They came with appliances but not much else – so new tenants had to get their own stuff, couches, beds, that kind of thing.
The couple below him had picked a colour scheme that ran through the whole apartment – teals and warm golds. The lawyer across the hall had hired a bunch of people to decorate for her, mismatched but cohesive.
Steve… Steve had a beat-up couch and boxes. Bucky tried to remember when he’d moved in. 4 months ago, probably – enough time to unpack, enough time to buy some actual furniture, surely? He was sitting on the couch (the one that looked like he’d found it in an alley) with an open sketchpad on his knees and a charcoal stain across his cheek.
Bucky was so fucked.
Steve had never been more aware of the disarray of his apartment before Bucky walked into the living room. There wasn’t anything he could do about it other than accept it, but he made himself a vow to get his finger out of his ass and actually commit to buying things.
It was still in the back of his mind that Stark had made a mistake. That any moment they were going to realise Steve wasn’t as good as they’d thought and fire him, leaving him unable to pay the rent. He’d been working there for 5 months, surrounded by people who excelled at their jobs while Steve just plodded along, fighting to keep his head above the water. He’d been loath to buy furniture (especially as he’d just revamped his entire wardrobe, which was incredibly expensive) until he’d settled into the job a bit more. Now though, he realised that Bucky would be looking at the boxes and the sofa he’d found free on craigslist and he’d be thinking that Steve wasn’t just a shrimpy dork with glasses and a bruise bigger than his head, he’d also think Steve was a slob.
He wondered if he could crawl under the floorboards and die.
“I’m done.” He said, holding his bag (filled, Steve assumed) with his tools. “Should be okay now.” His eyes were looking everywhere but at Steve, taking in the stacks of boxes, the beat up couch, the lack of anything personal at all.
“Right.” Steve said, putting down his sketchbook and getting to his feet. “Ah, thanks.”
“S’my job.” Said the repairman in a blank tone, and Steve nodded.
“Thanks any way.” He said, and followed him out, shutting the door firmly before leaning against it and cursing a blue streak.
He’d saved Steve’s number on his phone. He told himself that he did that will all of the tenets, which he did. He just felt like he needed to justify it to himself. Because he was a fucking loser.
So when, two weeks after the tile and the showerhead, he got a call from ‘Steve Rogers’ on his phone, he made sure he answered right.
“Bucky Barnes.” He said, voice clear. Not half asleep that time, he felt like high-fiving himself.
“Um, hi.” Steve said, sounding unsure. “It’s Steve from apartment 409.”
“Hi Steve.” He said, pleased that he sounded pretty relaxed. Cool, even. Bucky could be cool. He was pretty sure he’d been thought of as cool back in high school. “How can I help?”
“The sink in the kitchen, it’s… well it’s spitting water at me.” He sounded… mortified.
“It’s sprung a leak?”
“Eh… maybe?”
The apartment looked different, smelt different too – like bread, like home – when Bucky arrived at the door, bag in hand. It was another fairly common issue in the building, one he’d learned from long ago. Don’t wear a white tee-shirt when the faucet is about to spew cold water all over you. It was a lesson he’d chosen to forget – his dark jeans and white tee-shirt were both clean and pressed, he’d brushed his hair – had it tied back into a messy bun at the back of his head in a style that he knew suited him. He’d even taken the precaution of popping a mint into his mouth on the way up – not that he thought that they’d be making out or anything… but… if it happened, Bucky was ready.
Steve opened the door wearing pretty much the same as last time, although his shirt was a soft blue and he was in his bare feet, jeans rolled up his slim calves. Bucky thought he managed to look even better than before – the light dusting of blond hairs on his legs had him picturing him out of those jeans. “Sorry,” He said, opening the door to let Bucky in. “It’s getting worse and I’m trying to stop it from spreading.”
He didn’t seem to notice the extra care that Bucky had put into his clothes, almost running back into the kitchen. Bucky took a quick glance through the open door as he passed and saw that the living room had been totally re-done. A new couch, chairs, a table and a couple of bookcases, the whole place looked completely different. Steve had obviously been mid-decorating when Bucky had shown up last time. Considering that Bucky took a year to put a shelf up if it wasn’t his job, he was impressed.
The kitchen was a mess though.
Steve was going to die – actually die, if the water spewing out of his sink didn’t stop soon. If he ended up flooding his apartment and the one below, he’d never, ever forgive himself – because he’d done it on purpose. He’d deliberately sabotaged the faucet. He’d spent 2 weeks decorating the apartment with the help of pintrest and google images. He’d always had a good eye for colour and design so he’d been able to put things together fairly quickly, and a couple of trips to Ikea (and four days of trying to work out how to put most of the stuff together) he’d been really proud of the result. Proud enough that he was willing to let Barnes the repair-man (Bucky, he’d said on the phone his name was Bucky) back into the apartment. Maybe try to show off a little, prove he wasn’t a slob.
So he’d maybe taken a wrench to the faucet. He’d only intended to loosen it enough for a small leak, which was what had happened. At first.
Now the damn thing was throwing up water all over the room and Steve had a cold sweat and enough guilt to pack the pews of every Catholic Church in the country. He was a terrible person.
Somewhere in the back of his guild riddled, panicking mind, he noticed that Bucky was wearing some much nicer clothes. His jeans were a little tighter than before, showing off his thighs really well, and the white tee was…
Well, it was rapidly getting soaked, was what it was. Soaked and see-through.
Steve was going to hell. He was so going straight to hell.
Worth it.
Three weeks after he’d helped Steve dry off his kitchen floor, Bucky was wondering if it would be worth turning off the boiler for the building just so Steve might call down as ask him to take a look at his heating. The only thing that actually stopped him was he was pretty sure this would result in him getting fired, and he’d never be able to afford rent without the superintendent job that supplemented it. His own apartment was much smaller than the other units in the building, because it was really only meant for the ‘help’ – they called it a studio because calling it a shoebox wasn’t in keeping with the aesthetic the owners were going for. His bedroom was combined with the living room slash kitchen, and the bathroom was just a shower, sink and toilet crammed tightly together. His pay covered his rent though, and the area was nice enough. He really shouldn’t risk his job so one guy (who probably didn’t even notice him) would call. He wasn’t quite that path-
The phone ringing snapped him out of his thoughts, and the caller ID made him grin.
“Bucky Barnes.” He said, wondering if the gods were smiling down on him.
“Um, hi. It’s Steve from 409.” He always sounded so unsure, like he didn’t want to disturb Bucky. He found that kinda adorable.
“Sure.” Bucky nodded. “How can I help?”
“I think I saw a mouse?”
There was no mouse. Steve wanted to kick himself for even suggesting it, because now that he’d thought about it, a rodent infestation wasn’t something to lie about. He felt like the boy who called wolf one too many times and it was now just a case of waiting for all of his sheep to be eaten. Bucky probably wouldn’t come up himself, would probably call an exterminator and Steve was a fucking idio-
The doorbell snapped him out of his thoughts. Bucky must have come directly up. Steve really hoped he hadn’t interrupted a more pressing problem that Steve’s made-up mouse.
“Hi.” He said, when Steve opened the door, and Steve could feel his mouth drop slightly at the sight in front of him. Bucky was wearing a pair of tight (so tight!) black jeans and a soft grey Henley he’d pushed up his forearms. His hair was pulled back again, in that messy bun thing that made Steve want to tug it out and run his fingers through the long strands. He looked good enough to eat. Steve felt like a starving man.
“Hi.” He managed, before he was able to haul his eyes away from Bucky’s jeans. They were really tight. Like… Steve could probably see if he’d been circumcised if he looked close enough.
“So,” Bucky said, running a hand over his head as he stood in the doorway. The movement made his biceps bulge and Steve wasn’t sure where was safe to look anymore. Every single part of Bucky Barnes made his mouth go dry. His arm tattoo went all the way up, covering most of his shoulder too – Steve knew because the white tee he’d worn last time had not stood up well to the water, clinging to his skin and showing off every muscle. Steve didn’t even know he had a thing for tattoos until he’d seen Bucky’s. Now he wanted to lick that thing all the way up. “Mice, huh?”
“Huh?” Steve said, before his brain kicked in. He’d always been so terrible at lying, getting caught out in everything. “Oh! Err – yeah. I saw one.” He quickly nodded. “I mean, I think I saw one.” He wanted to kick himself. “I might have been wrong?”
Bucky didn’t seem to notice his stumbling and just nodded. “Yeah, better make sure though, huh?” He grinned. Steve hadn’t been on the receiving end of Bucky smiling before, and felt like he’d been hit by a truck.
Oh god.
Straight to hell.
Bucky wanted to crow. Mice? Not in his building, he knew. He kept traps all over, hidden away from tenants and he checked them three times a week. Combined with the fact that Steve couldn’t apparently lie for shit (Bucky didn’t spend his nights as a bouncer looking at fake ID’s and minors trying to sneak past him for nothing) and was having a hard time looking anywhere but Bucky’s legs, arms or lips – Bucky knew he was lying.
He’d lied. Lied specifically to get Bucky to come up to his apartment. He hadn’t missed the rainbow magnet on the fridge last time, and he didn’t miss the pride sticker on the satchel by the door either. The skinny jeans were pretty restricting (he was sure he was losing feeling in his feet) but the effect was great – and going on Steve’s jaw hitting the floor – exactly what he wanted. Normally he’d only wear jeans like that for going out; he’d never failed to get laid in his lucky jeans. The Henley softened the look though, made it seem more casual than it was.
He’d brought a couple of traps though, just in case. “I’ll put these down in a few strategic places.” He said, smiling his best smile as he followed Steve into the apartment. Those strategic places would have him bending down a lot – he hoped Steve enjoyed the view. “Just to be on the safe side.”
“You don’t have to um… go out of your way.” Steve said blushing deep crimson. “I was probably just seeing things.”
Steve’s newly decorated apartment looked a lot more lived in since the last time Bucky had seen it, things looked a little less brand new – less ‘just out of the box’. He was obviously a neat guy. Bucky thought of his own apartment and decided he really needed to clean up a little. At least clean up some of the pizza boxes.
There were framed pictures on the wall of the hallways and he couldn’t help but stop to look at them. Charcoal drawings, cityscapes, a couple of highly detailed pencil sketches – they were high quality stuff that even a guy like him knew they were something special. “Woah.” He said, stopping in his tracks. “These are awesome.”
Steve just shrugged. “It’s just a hobby.”
Bucky was placing traps around the apartment, one at the back of a cupboard in the kitchen, one in the built in closet, one behind the couch. That one required him to half crawl behind the bulky sofa and Steve was pretty sure his feet were already hot from the flames of hell flickering at his legs, because he could not pull his eyes off of that ass.
He’d seemed pretty sure that the traps were a good idea, although Steve had wanted to talk him out of it. He should never have used mice as an excuse. He should have thought of something else, something less like rodents and more like... He wracked his brain trying to think of something else that he could have used. He couldn’t bust the pipes in the kitchen again, that had been a nightmare, and the shower head was perfectly fixed.
Christ, what was he thinking?
“So that should be that.” Bucky said, getting back to his feet, and Steve had the presence of mind to pull his mind out of the gutter before he got caught checking the other man out. “I’ll need to come back a few times, if that’s okay?”
He slid his hands into his back pockets as he talked, and Steve almost whimpered because it had the effect of tightening those already obscenely tight jeans even more. Although...
“You’ll come back?” Steve asked, before his brain could catch up with his mouth. “Um... I mean, okay?”
“I’ll need to swap out the bait a couple of times, just to make sure.” Bucky stated, before sliding his eyes up and down Steve’s body. Steve was pretty sure he’d just been checked out. He wasn’t sure, he was pretty sure no one had ever done it before.
“Oh.” He said, nodding stupidly.
“You know,” Bucky said, looking around. “It might be a good idea to leave, you know, to uh, let the mouse get a little braver?” He looked at Steve again and smirked. Jesus, Steve was already weak at the knees from the smile, he wasn’t physically able to deal with a smirk. “How’s about I take you out to dinner – just to give the mouse a chance?”
“Um...” Steve stammered. He was pretty sure Bucky just asked him out, but... no... surely?
“I know a great place a couple of blocks away, they do a great apple pie.”
“Uh, yeah.” Steve nodded. “Sure. I mean... you know... the mouse.”
“Yeah Steve,” Bucky smirked. “For the mouse.”
“There wasn’t a mouse.” Steve admitted, a few weeks later. Bucky was stretched out on his bed, wearing nothing but a sheet thrown over his hips.
“Yeah.” Bucky grinned, “I know.”
Steve frowned and hit him with a pillow. “You made me fill those traps three damn times!” He said.
“Yeah, well... I liked watching you bend over.”
“Asshole.”
“You love it.”
“Possibly.”