Chapter Text
Bucky sighed, closing the last cardboard box with an old roll of masking tape he'd stolen from his friend's place the last time he'd visited. Wiping his brow, he looked up to the empty space surrounding him, remembering that just a month ago, it had been entirely cluttered with trinkets from all over the place.
He wouldn't miss this apartment, that much he was sure of. From the cockroaches, to the persistent mosquitos in the middle of winter (for God's sake get your head in the game, mosquito, this isn't your season), the always-broken lift that caused little old ladies far too much trouble, the cobwebs that lined the railings of the stairs, and oh, to wake up every morning to that sweet aroma of mould.
Bucky had taken great care in choosing his next apartment; had even gotten Becca's stamp of approval before finalising his purchase. Windows that actually opened, and consequently a great view, working heaters, beautiful mahogany staircases and an elevator for those who required it. It was even just those few minutes closer to his work, and that meant three seconds more of sleep.
God, Bucky couldn't wait.
~*~
"... Well, this is a farewell from yours truly, but don't you worry, I'll be back in no time. This has been Bucky Barnes from Bucky Barnes Daily, and I'll..."
Bucky sighed, replaying the particular section of the audio over and over again. Something wasn't right - was it the acoustics in the room now that everything was in cardboard boxes? Or was there something wrong with him?
"...hope you look forward to hearing all about my move from the slums to the not-so-slums!"
This would have to do for now. Clint and Natasha had promised him a farewell party, and if he didn't get this damned podcast finished now, he wouldn't be able to have it posted until he was moved in.
The party was unnecessary, all things considered, but Bucky wasn't one to complain when faced with the chance for a free meal. With a huff, he uploaded the latest episode to his podcast, and snapped his laptop shut, just in time for his phone to buzz.
Snint Snarton: Oi douchebag, let us up
He hoped that they were going for noodles. He could do with a nice hot bowl of ramen. Or some phở. Oh yeah, that sounded good.
Snint Snarton: O
Snint Snarton: I
Snint Snarton: D
Snint Snarton: O
Snint Snarton: U
Snint Snarton: C
Snint Snarton: H
Snint Snarton: E
Snint Snarton: B
Snint Snarton: A
Snint Snarton: G
Bucky told himself every day that he needed some new friends. Maybe it was about time he dropped these two losers in search for some better ones at his new home.
Paying for a good moving company really had its benefits, Bucky thought, watching the burly men carry his furniture up to his apartment for him. He had to admit he'd been a little reluctant to begin with, but boy, would it have helped to have these people with him back when he'd moved into his last place. Then maybe he wouldn't have had to endure Natasha's teasing while he nursed his left shoulder back to health.
(That sofa was not a one-man job.)
He looked to the buzzer at the entrance to the apartment and smiled. Apartment 4B's plaque was neatly printed "James Buchanan" in Bucky's neatest handwriting, without all the usual loops and curls.
It was a dare Clint had set up, to not display his surname. He doubted anybody would notice, but if the odd guest knocked on one of his neighbour's doors and exclaimed: "You live with the 15th President of the United States?" well, then he would take it as a win.
Bucky paid the movers for their hard work, and settled into his apartment for the afternoon. If he got to unpacking right away, then maybe he would be able to update his podcast in just a few days.
~*~
Steve made his way to his apartment after a meeting with the author of the latest children's book he would be illustrating. The woman seemed lovely, although perhaps... in the wrong business? The story was wonderful, truly, and he was looking forward to illustrating it but Maria Hill seemed different, if that was the word to use. Unlike most authors Steve had worked with, she dressed in a crisp suit, and he could have sworn he saw the silhouette of a gun for one moment when Maria had stood up to greet him.
He shook the thought out of his head when his eye caught on the name next to apartment 4B.
James Buchanan? Steve thought, then shrugged. There were better presidents to be named after, but he could take parents trying to be funny. At least he would finally have a neighbour again, after Sharon had moved away six months ago when she'd gotten promoted at work.
He shot off a simple text to Sam (new neighbour in town) and attached a photo of the buzzers.
He then walked up to his own apartment, 4A, and set to baking a housewarming gift, because Steve was a good neighbour like that.
With his mother's recipe piping hot in his hand, Steve knocked on his new neighbour's door with every intention of making a good impression, although the plan severely backfired in a matter of seconds. The guy was... ok, so Steve would just outright admit it. He was hot, alright? So instead of the introduction that he had planned on giving (and had spent 5 minutes mulling over in his mind) Steve opened his mouth and...
"Mr. President," he nodded.
A grin took over the man's face, and he burst out laughing. "Well howdily doodily, neighbourino," he held out a hand.
"I-I-I'm so sorry," Steve rubbed his face before holding out his free hand for a shake. "If you can tell, my brain kind of short-circuited for a second. I'm Steve."
"James," the man replied. "S'alright, you know. It's the best welcome I've had from anyone in a long while. Maybe I'll run for president."
"I uh... come bearing gifts," he held out the apple pie without further ado, ready to high tail his way out of embarrassing himself any further, but trust his luck that James would ruin that plan as well.
"That's sweet of you, Stevie," he grinned, and opened the door further. "Come on in and have a slice with me. I just finished unpacking the kitchenware."
Steve was sure James hadn't missed the way a blush had quickly bloomed on his cheeks and travelled down his neck (it was definitely not a reaction to being called Stevie), but the man just turned around and opened every draw before finding two forks, a knife, and some plates, clearly not yet familiar with the layout of his new home, currently furnished with piles of cardboard boxes and not much else.
"So Steve McSteverson, tell me about yourself," James set down a plate before him, taking a seat.
Neither of them expected to end up chatting their way through half the night before Steve turned in for bed. Not, of course, that that was a bad thing.
Oh, not at all.