Work Text:
Bucky flopped into the orthopedic office chair with a sigh, shoving documents completely off his desk and to the floor. He turned to Steve, who was dutifully clacking away on his laptop. “Your fault,” he griped.
“What did I do now?” Steve parried, eyes not leaving his computer screen. He had just two more bullet points to bullshit on this evaluation form, and then he could esign it and send the stupid thing off to higher.
“Join the Army, you said. Again, you insisted. It'll be fun, you swore. I hate you.”
“Buck.”
“I hate you.”
“Bucky.”
“Nope!” Bucky said, popping the ‘p’. “You said. You said--”
“I said,” Steve interrupted, “that you didn't have to join me. I said that I was fine with you staying behind. I said it was probably going to be boring. I said--”
“--And what, I'm supposed to listen? Not have your back in case shit goes down? In case we, oh, I dunno, stand up and deploy?! And you go off to fight a new war and I stay here? When is that me, pal? When has that ever been me?”
Steve sighed, rubbing his temples, but wisely stayed quiet. He didn't really have any defense. His decision to join the New York National Guard had kind of been a spur of the moment thing--a moment of wistful nostalgia upon seeing a parade for Memorial Day, soldiers marching through the streets looking simultaneously proud and broken. He'd contacted a recruiter the week after, and had only told Bucky once he was sure the paperwork would go through.
He had told Bucky in the middle of some enthusiastic sex.
He had been paying for it ever since.
And Bucky had bitched. God, but he had bitched. Long and hard and loud and Steve had reassured him and made all the right cooing noises and told him that under no uncertain terms did he expect him to follow in Steve's path, and what had Bucky done? Two drills into Steve's contract, and Bucky,fed up with his husband’s bitching about higher, had declared his commanders morons who ‘wouldn't know how to take care of an asset like Captain America and wouldn't know their ass from their head, anyway,’ and had gone ahead and signed up too.
And that had been when it had really began. The bitching, oh, it was endless.
“You seen Rogers-Barnes?” a harried looking First Sergeant asked, sticking his head into the Orderly Room. Bucky slouched further down in his chair, making himself as small as possible, as a chorus of officers all called out in stereo, “which one?”
“‘O’ type,” the sergeant said, and Steve poked his head out from around his cubical where he and Bucky were essentially hidden.
“Here, top. Whaddaya need?”
“Sign this.” The NCO shoved some papers at him like they had an STD.
Steve dutifully signed where the form needed, adding his rank and the date. Beside him, Bucky scoffed.
“Quit it,” Steve muttered out the side of his mouth.
“Make me,” Bucky retorted, before groaning as a folder was plopped on his desk by an apologetic looking specialist. “What is this?” he drawled, eyebrows in his hairline.
“Uhh, um, close out tasks? Lodging requests for April, Sir? I mean, Sergeant?” the specialist upspoke, glancing around for someone to help her, by God just help her. “I was told by my platoon leader that they needed to be turned in today. Otherwise we...can't...go...home?”
“They needed to be turned in two months ago,” Bucky bitched, reaching for the files. “And they weren’t. Because your platoon leader is a fuckin’ moron. Bring me your platoon leader. I'm gonna shoot your platoon leader.”
“S-sergeant?” the specialist questioned.
“Bucky.”
“Shoot them to death.”
“Sergeant?!”
“He's kidding,” Steve interrupted, grabbing the files out of Bucky’s hand. “He kids. Buck.” Bucky grunted. “You're dismissed, soldier, thank you,” Steve added genuinely.
“Sir,” the specialist acknowledged, nodding deferentially and backing away with wide eyes. Steve bit back yet another sigh as he flipped through the file of paperwork. Most of their unit had gotten over the shock and awe of having a Howling Commando and Captain America serving alongside them--it was hard to retain reverence when said Commando is apologizing for causing a stink in the shitter because “taco Tuesday, woo wee” and said Captain is blushing his way through a mandated SHARP briefing--but every once in a while they had to deal with a fresh newbie for whom the magic hadn't worn off yet, and whether it was the rank that scared them or the fact that Steve and Bucky were, well, Steve and Bucky had yet to be seen.
“Stop terrorizing the privates,” Steve snapped.
“Fear is good,” Bucky responded. “Fear motivates. Anyway, she was a sham shield.”
“Sham shield or no, you know the kind of effect we have on folks.”
“Because handsome,”
“Because. . .” At that, Steve again didn't have an argument. “Yeah, okay, because you're handsome, Bucky. And grouchy. Also, assassin. Deadly assassin.”
“Bored assassin. And holding that against me, psh. That's cold, doll.” Holding that against a man.
“Mmm hmm,” Steve responded absently, still thumbing through the files. “This is for you. You need to sign--”
“No.”
“You have to,”
“Mmmno.”
“Bucky!”
“Steve, you said,” Bucky declared fervently, snatching the file away and laying it down to sign, “you said we'd be helping soldiers. You said we'd be training the ‘next generation of armed forces, off to fight and kill and help do right and win the hearts and minds, blah blah blah,’ You said.”
“And we are!”
“And we’re not! We’re staff!” Bucky spit like the words were a curse. “Staff. And I'm bored.”
“I didn't tell you to come!”
“You didn't not though!”
Just then, a harried NCO stuck his head into the Orderly Room. “Is Rogers-Barnes in here?”
“Which one?” chimed the peanut gallery.
Bucky sunk lower into his seat, shooting Steve a death glare. “You said...”