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“Bucky,” Joaquín says, as seriously as he can manage, both of his hands coming up to cup Bucky’s cheeks. His hands are rough, and his brow creases as seriously as he can manage, though the gesture loses its effect as his body lilts to the side, his drunk, barely-focused eyes trained on Bucky’s nose.
“Bucky,” he repeats more emphatically as his hands press Bucky’s cheeks together. “I need a hotdog so bad.”
“You’re talkin’ t’the wrong guy,” Bucky slurs as he attempts to bat Joaquín’s hands away, giggling as his friend sways forward and wraps an arm around his shoulders for balance. “I think Sam is over there.” He points over behind his shoulder, though he lost Sam about an hour ago, so where he’s ended up is truly anyone’s guess.
Their evening had started innocently enough, dinner and drinks at a local bar with Joaquín to celebrate making it through another work week. Sam had joined later, with Nat and Clint in tow. Bucky knew he was done for the second Clint started ordering tequila shots.
Joaquín gasps, loud and dramatically enough that Bucky jumps back at the sudden noise, taking in his own shuddering gasp. “Bucky! I don’t want your hotdog,” he whines, and honestly, okay, rude. Before Bucky can protest that Joaquín would be lucky to have his hotdog, thank you very much, Joaquín continues. “I’m fucking starving; if I don’t have a hotdog in the next five minutes, I will die. ”
“A’right, a’right,” Bucky grumbles, wrapping an arm around Joaquín’s middle and tugging him toward where he’s sure the late-night food carts are. They shuffle down the sidewalk slowly; bodies bowed together for balance rather than a desire to be close. “Don’ die, there’s a cart over here,” he says, hoping that he sounds more confident than he feels. He’s sure they’re heading in the right direction. Probably.
He’s no better prepared for Joaquín’s gasp this time around, and he flinches at the sudden sound as they round the corner, the toe of his shoe catching on a crack in the cement. Bucky stumbles as he tries to right himself, hands digging into Joaquín in an effort to stay upright. “Joaquín,” he groans as the Earth stills around him, his two feet planted firmly on the ground. “What?”
Oblivious to Bucky’s struggle, Joaquín turns to him with a wide smile, his eyebrows raised so high that Bucky’s sure they will disappear into his hairline. “Hotdogs,” he says through the grin, pointing over Bucky’s shoulder.
Before Bucky has a chance to respond, Joaquín’s grip tightens around Bucky as he pulls him in the direction of the cart.
Bucky turns to watch the people gathered around the hotdog cart as they join the line. Several people appear to be in a similar state to Bucky and Joaquín, drunk and giggly as they wait for their food. When Bucky turns to see who hopped in the queue behind them, his breath catches in his throat, his eyes going wide as his gaze falls to a man several feet away, observing the crowd.
“Oh my God,” he says, bringing an elbow up to jab at Joaquín’s ribs to get his attention. “Oh my God,” Bucky repeats, louder this time, unable to peel his eyes away from the fireman. He’s tall, with cropped blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard shining under the street lamps. The fireman’s wearing uniform-issued yellow overalls over a tight – so fucking tight – white t-shirt, and Bucky absentmindedly brings a hand up to wipe at his chin, surprised when no drool comes away.
He shrugs Joaquín off his shoulder, who is too distracted by the street vendor to pay any attention to the 6’2” hunk that’s barely a few paces away. Bucky is left on his own as he gawks openly at the fireman.
A shrill buzz pulls him from his thoughts, and Bucky scrambles to pull his phone out of his pocket to silence the noise. His thumb slips against the glass screen, and he answers the call, Sam’s voice ringing through the speaker.
“Buck! I lost Joaquín – please tell me he’s with you.” Sam doesn’t sound any better off than they are, and Bucky sighs as he tucks the phone up against his ear. His eyes don’t leave the fireman across the sidewalk.
“Sam,” he says seriously, instead of answering, as he shuffles out of the line. “Sam, I think I just met my future husband.” The words come out harsh and fast, slurred from the alcohol that’s floating through his system.
“You say that every time you get drunk,” Sam says through a laugh, and Bucky can hear Natasha’s agreement through the line. Rude. “Did’ya really meet him, or are you just watching him like a weirdo?”
Bucky yanks the phone away from his ear, head turning wildly as he checks to see if Sam is around; he’s a little too on the nose for comfort. The movement makes his head spin, and Bucky squeezes his eyes closed as he brings the phone back up. “I’m jus’saying,” he says, ignoring Sam’s question once more, “he’s a firefighter, Sam. He’d save me when you abandon me with Joaquín an’ the hotdog guy.”
Sam laughs again – or maybe he’s still laughing; Bucky can’t tell. “So?” he asks, and Bucky feels himself huff. “S’not like you’re gonna actually talk to him.”
Though Sam can’t see him, Bucky crosses his arms over his chest petulantly. “I will,” he promises, “I’ll go ask ‘im right now to rescue me.”
“Sure, buddy,” Sam starts, and it’s all the encouragement Bucky needs before he ends the call and crosses the short distance between him and the fireman. Phone clutched tightly in his hand, Bucky flips over to the camera app, only glancing up when he finds himself face-to-face with the dreamboat.
“Uh, hello,” Dreamboat says, and God, Bucky is going to die right here in front of the hotdog vendor. His voice is deep, sugar-sweet, and slow like molasses. The arms that he has crossed across his chest would put treetrunks to shame, and Bucky finds himself wanting to reach forward and squeeze them.
He doesn’t, but it’s close.
“Hey,” Bucky says, his voice a poor imitation of the cool and collected that he wishes he was. He wants to ask Dreamboat what his actual name is and what he’s doing out here all on his own. What comes out of his mouth, however, is, “can I take a picture with you?”
Dreamboat's lips twitch with a small smile, obviously amused by Bucky’s abruptness. “Sure,” he says slowly, though he doesn’t move from his position. He quirks a brow as Bucky leans in close, tapping the button to begin recording.
He smiles widely at the camera, Dreamboat up close to him in the frame – suck it, Sam. “This is the hottest firefighter I’ve ever seen in my life,” he tells the camera as he leans closer, his head pushing into Dreamboat’s personal space. He watches as Dreamboat’s lips twitch with another smile, a pink flush making its way to the apples of his cheeks. “Protect me,” he singsongs, bringing a hand up to wave in the air. “Protect me!”
Bucky quickly ends the video before navigating over to Instagram and posting the video there – suck it again, Sam. When he drops his phone into his pocket, Dreamboat chuckles, finally uncrossing his arms and meeting Bucky’s eyes.
“You do this often?” he asks, eyebrows raised in barely-contained humor. Bucky’s still pretty drunk, but he doesn’t think that he’s imagining the way that Dreamboat’s eyes seem to sweep down his body. The thought makes him warm all over, future husband ringing in his head.
“Never,” Bucky laughs, body swaying with the movement. “But Sam didn’t believe that I’d talk to you after I told ‘im about how I knew you’d rescue me,” Bucky overexplains.
“Do you need rescuing?”
“Well, not right now, ” Bucky says with a frown. He really wishes he did need rescuing – he’d love for Dreamboat to throw him up over his shoulder and bring him to safety. “But s’good to have options.”
Dreamboat tilts his head back with a laugh, taking a small step closer to Bucky. “Tell you what,” he says, “if you need rescuing, all you gotta do is call 9-1-1, and I’ll come running.”
“9-1-1?” Bucky asks, looking up at Dreamboat through his lashes. “You’re not even gonna give me a direct line?”
When Bucky wakes, the sun is high in the sky, and there’s a thumping behind his eyes that reminds him why he never drinks. Face still buried in his pillow, Bucky groans as he blindly reaches a hand out to feel around for his phone.
His hand slaps against the bedside table, knocking a pill bottle and a few hair ties to the floor before his fingers wrap around the familiar device. Bucky cracks an eye open as he taps on the screen, unsurprised to find that it’s well past noon.
Memories from last night are foggy at best; he remembers walking around with Joaquín after leaving the bar, but he can’t remember anything after that. Bucky’s just happy that he made his way home – alone – and into bed.
Bucky groans again as he rolls over and sits up as much as he dares before unlocking his phone. He knows he should touch base with everyone and make sure they made it home okay, but he’s quickly distracted by an Instagram notification.
Okay, notifications.
Bucky’s entire lock screen is covered in Instagram notifications, the pink polaroid camera watching him mockingly from the side of the screen. He doesn’t remember posting anything last night, and he nervously clicks into the app to see what he could have done to warrant this many notifications.
He doesn’t even know this many people.
Bucky watches in horror as the video at the top of his profile begins playing, his loud, slurred voice echoing through the speaker. In the video, Bucky’s eyes are half-lidded, and his hair is wild, curls falling from the bun he had tied them in and falling around his face.
‘This is the hottest firefighter I’ve ever seen in my life…’
Mortified, Bucky scrolls further to see that the video has over 50,000 likes and nearly half as many comments. If the hangover wasn’t going to kill Bucky, the embarrassment surely would.
“What the fuck,” he says through a whine, quickly closing out of the app. If he doesn’t look at it, it doesn’t exist, right?
He notices several unread text notifications at the bottom of his screen and hesitantly taps on the icon. There are texts from the usual suspects: Joaquín, Sam, Nat, and even his sister had chimed in, surely after she had seen the video. Bucky’s most recent text, however, catches his attention.
!!!!! HOT !!!!! FRIEFIGHTER STEVE 💋 🔥 ♥️ 🚒 10:27 AM
Something tells me that you might need rescuing this morning. Let me know when you’re up, and we’ll see if some pancakes can save you :)
Tucking his legs up under his body, Bucky sits up a little straighter as he reads the message. His mouth turns up in a slow smile, and he bites down on his lower lip in an attempt to keep it contained.
The previous night comes back in flashes – Joaquín, the hotdog cart, Steve – and Bucky flushes at the thought of how much of a mess he must have been.
Sure, maybe Bucky embarrassed himself in front of the hotdog vendor and 50,000 random internet strangers, but as his phone buzzes with Steve’s confirmation on where to meet, Bucky can’t find it in himself to feel bad about it.
Not when he’s got a date lined up with his future husband.