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“Hey,” Steve says when he opens the door, fresh and glowing in the early morning sunlight. “Thanks for coming.”
“No problem,” Bucky tries to say, but it gets drowned under the massive yawn. “Except with the time.”
“That’s how it is on this bitch of an earth,” Steve says, merciless and unnaturally bright considering it’s barely 5 a.m. Bucky dislikes him so much. “Farm schedules, up with the roosters, down with the sun.”
“That’s not the kind of cock I want to wake up to,” Bucky mutters, but then Steve’s waving him in, ignoring his amazingly good-bad joke. Bucky follows him—or the aroma of coffee that’s beckoning him into the kitchen—and is at least a little appeased by the generous breakfast Steve’s got laid out on the small table in front of the window.
Steve points to a chair and Bucky slumps in it gratefully, still not happy about being awake even though he drove all the way through the quiet country roads to Steve’s place and therefore is actually more alert than he’s acting. He’s been up since 4 a.m., because the trip takes almost 45 minutes, and unlike Steve, he’s definitely not a morning person. But the farmer’s market starts at 7 a.m., and Steve’s sunflowers need cutting, and vegetables need picking, and Bucky is a hopeless fool in love with his best friend and therefore ready to do the stupidest things, like help.
“Come on, drink this,” Steve says, shoving an enormous mug in front of Bucky. “I like you better when you’re awake.”
“Liar,” Bucky yawns. “You hate my smart mouth.”
“I do,” Steve agrees fondly. “But I don’t have the time to drive you to the hospital when you snip your finger off.”
Bucky makes a face at the thought and hunches protectively around the mug. Steve has his dumb little man bun going on, a ratty t-shirt straining over his muscles, and his beard looks so soft that Bucky wants to push his face into it and never surface. He’s so painfully handsome, and it will be even more painful when they’re done with the produce and Steve will skip upstairs to wash his pits and change into a clean shirt, because a clean shirt means Farmer’s Market Steve, and Bucky hates that Steve with burning passion.
Farmer’s Market Steve beams at his customers, engages in light flirtation, receives phone numbers scrawled onto napkins and spare receipts by the dozen, and never, ever looks at Bucky with that sly, amused expression that makes every customer leave dazed and a little flustered.
It’s fine, though, Bucky’s used to it. That’s why nowadays he helps Steve unload his truck and set up the booth, and then takes his leave—he’s not a masochist, or at least he’s not that much of a masochist.
After breakfast they head out to the fields, the sunflowers towering over them both. Steve’s plot is starting to look a little empty, because the summer is winding down, but there’s still some fresh flowers to cut, and the rest will end up harvested for seeds.
“Here’s the stool,” Steve says, setting the step ladder down and folding it out for Bucky, lifting the water bucket on the highest step like a fussing dad. “Remember to cut--”
“Only those that aren’t all the way open, I know,” Bucky interrupts. “Seriously, Steve, your sunflowers aren’t the first American giants I’ve climbed.” He grins, not really feeling it, and looks away to find the cutters in his hoodie pocket. “And hopefully not the last, either.”
When he glances up, Steve’s mouth has twisted into that little moue he gets on his face whenever Bucky even hints at any sexual or romantic shenanigans he might be having. Bucky’s never known what to make of it—it’s almost like Steve’s unhappy hearing about Bucky’s love life, but it definitely can’t be jealousy, because Steve seems perfectly fine not taking their friendship any further, and very happy with being single. So maybe Bucky is just projecting—the only people he goes out with look like B-grade Steves, and he never gets past the third date because he’s so hung up on his buddy.
He doesn’t really like to talk about his love life with Steve, mostly because it makes Steve close off, and that in turn makes Bucky feel like he’s been pushed out. But sometimes he can’t help but drop a bait and see if Steve will take it, even knowing it will never happen.
“I’ll be fine,” Bucky says and turns away to climb the ladder so he doesn’t have to look at that disappointed frown. “Go take care of the tomatoes or something.”
There’s a long silence, and then Steve says, “Yeah, of course, yell if you need something,” and finally goes away. Bucky clenches his jaw so hard that his teeth hurt, and then slowly forces himself to relax and focus on the task. The ladder is fairly tall, but the sunflowers are easily twice Steve’s height, and Bucky, unlike him, is not exactly a giant himself, so it takes some careful tiptoe maneuvers to reach the optimal cutting height.
Cutting the sunflowers is meditative—staying balanced on the ladder and picking the perfect flowers requires all of his early morning brain space, which is probably why he doesn’t register the thud of Steve’s footsteps approaching, and gets the scare of his lifetime when Steve’s voice suddenly says behind him, breathless and urgent, “Bucky, I--”
Bucky, stretched out to reach a sunflower, yelps and loses his balance, and it’s only Steve’s quick reflexes that save him from a really embarrassing fall and maybe a few broken bones. Steve catches him by the hips, but Bucky’s sneaker has already slipped from the step, and that’s how they do end up in an undignified pile on the dewy grass next to the rows of sunflowers, after all.
“Jesus, Steve,” Bucky moans, trying to calm his racing heart. “Don’t do that, fuck.”
“Ow,” Steve says somewhere under Bucky, and that makes Bucky realize the compromising position they’re in and scramble upright and back, eyeing Steve nervously.
At least the bucket of sunflowers is miraculously intact on the step ladder.
“Are you okay?”
“Ow,” Steve says again, but then he opens his eyes and looks up at Bucky, smiles a little. “I’m fine, just got the wind knocked out of me.”
He sits up and rolls easily to his feet, moving his limbs like he’s checking for any potential injuries, and for some reason it makes Bucky feel guilty, even though it most definitely wasn’t Bucky’s fault that he fell off the ladder. Steve’s still looking at him, though, his gaze unreadable and almost penetrative, like if he looked hard enough, he could see all the way into Bucky’s heart and read it like a book.
Bucky draws a shaky breath and breaks the eye contact to try to wipe his grass-stained knees. “What’s so important that you had to pop up like that?”
“I want to be the last,” Steve says, low and intent, and it makes Bucky look back up, confused.
“The last what?”
“The last American giant you climb,” Steve says, taking a step forward, and oh, oh, Bucky’s been so stupid to even dream he could ever survive getting looked at the way Steve looks at him now. It’s nothing like the hot, flirtatious Farmer’s Market Steve; it’s serious and honest and attentive as if the only thing he wants to look at for the rest of his life is Bucky. Bucky’s never felt smaller than when pinned down by it, but there’s hesitant, flabbergasted joy ballooning inside him at the same time, pushing his heart against his throat.
Bucky swallows, tries to force the happiness back down. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Steve takes another step closer, and Bucky can’t help but let him, until they’re toe-to-toe and Bucky has to tip his head back to see Steve’s face. “If—if you’ll have me.”
“Yes,” Bucky says, “yes, Steve, yes,” and it comes out urgent and laughing, and then Steve’s breaking into a grin and picking Bucky up, swinging him around until they’re just hugging so tightly that Bucky feels it in his bones, deliriously happy.
When Steve kisses him, Bucky closes his eyes, and sees the yellow blaze of the sunflowers behind his eyelids as he kisses back.
They turn up late to the market, but Farmer’s Market Steve never appears again, and instead there’s just Bucky’s Steve---earnest and genuine and unable to stop smiling, one arm around Bucky, tender and sunny like his flowers.