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Steve is twenty-seven years old, and he’s finally at a place in his life where he’s got money in the bank. His rent is paid, his health insurance is paid, his internet and utilities are paid, and his bank account’s not sitting at 47 cents.
Okay, he doesn’t have a lot of money. He has more than 47 cents, sure, but it’s not like he can go buy a car if he wanted. He doesn’t want a car. But the point is: he has some financial stability. He feels like an adult.
And he’s still sleeping in a twin mattress.
On the ground.
It makes him feel like he’s still in college, with the plastic sheet cover because there were no regular mattress pads left by the time he went to the store and his roommate told everyone on their floor he wet the bed.
(Even though he didn’t.)
And Steve is small, and skinny, and he fits just fine on a twin mattress. But it just feels juvenile. He already lives in a tiny studio that’s wedged in a corner on the third floor, beneath the high-heeled lawyer and next to the guy with three Huskies. He doesn’t have a real table, just a card table he puts his computer on. He feels embarrassed to have anyone over.
Not that Steve actually has anyone to have over. He does have some friends, but Sam moved back to D.C. before Steve moved in here. Natasha’s been out of the country for work for months and hasn’t seen his place yet. And…well, they’re pretty much the only people Steve would have over, now that things with Peggy are over. Slightly depressing to realize he has two good friends and they’re both far away.
But Steve would like to have someone over specifically in his bed. So a twin mattress on the floor doesn’t seem like it’s going to cut it. Most people are larger than Steve. Even someone the same size as Steve wouldn’t fit on the bed with him there. What’s he going to do, ask someone to sleep on the couch after they have sex? Where are they even going to have sex if the other person doesn’t fit on his bed? The ground? Will he have to tell said person they’re going to have to have sex on the ground?
That’s weird.
So, one day, he gets tired of it. And he orders a new mattress and a bed from the furniture store. They’ll send a delivery guy next Thursday when Steve’s home from work. He’s going to have at least one thing in his apartment that makes him feel like a semi-financially-stable adult.
But, of course, the day goes terribly, just because he’s trying to feel responsible and cool. He misses the train that gets him to the gallery on time, so he’s twenty minutes late for work. There’s a group of fourteen-year-olds on a field trip who keep trying to touch the art, despite his best disappointed adult voice and looks. And he ends up having to stay late because a new artist they’re showcasing is being finicky about where her work is placed.
Steve rushes up the stairs, praying the delivery guy isn’t there yet. Judging by the large man holding a large box in front of his door, his prayers are not being answered.
“Hello, sorry, hi!” Steve says quickly. “I’m Steve Rogers. Are you here for me?”
The guy blinks his—wow, very blue—eyes at Steve. He looks about Steve’s age. Or maybe he’s older? Steve can never tell. He just knows he himself looks way younger than he is.
“Yeah,” the delivery guy says. “Got your bed.”
“Thanks,” Steve says, unlocking the door. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
The guy shrugs. “I get paid either way,” he points out, grinning. Steve feels his knees go weak. Hell, that’s a great smile.
“Wow, the whole mattress fits in this box?” Steve asks, eyeing the box in question. It’s big, sure, but he ordered a California King.
“No,” the guy laughs. “This is the bed frame.”
“The bed frame fits in there?”
The guy tilts his head. “It’s in pieces,” he says slowly. “You have to put it together.”
“Oh.” Steve hopes his dismay doesn’t show. He doesn’t have anything to put a bed together. What would he need, a screwdriver or something? Probably some muscles, which he certainly doesn’t have.
“Where should I put this?” The guy asks. Steve waves him inside and lets him put the box down in the living room. “I’ll be back with the mattress,” he says.
Steve blows out a breath. Great. Now he has to figure out how to put his bed together. Not to mention he’s got to do something with his old mattress. This is starting to seem more and more like a bad impulse-buy.
Then the delivery comes back, huffing and puffing (and Steve has no idea how he got that thing up the narrow stairs), and Steve’s heart sinks. That mattress is huge. And Steve is tiny. The guy probably thinks Steve is the weirdest person on earth.
Steve just figured, well, he’s attracted to both men and women. Men can get large. He doesn’t want to count anyone out in his hypothetical future bed-sharing fantasy. He needed a big bed. And besides, he has a bad back. The extra memory foam seemed necessary.
Now the thing looks like a monstrosity. Steve realizes, with a horrible sinking stomach, that he can lie across it width-wise. And not hang off either end. This bed is gigantic.
“Jeez,” he says involuntarily.
“It’s a big bed,” the guy agrees. Steve blushes. He can’t imagine what the guy’s thinking. Why would Steve need a bed so big? He’s way too small.
“Well, there you go,” the guy says, putting the mattress down on the empty space Steve had created by putting his old mattress up against the wall. God, this is humiliating. Stop, he tries to rationalize, his inner voice sounding oddly like Sam. This guy must see weirder stuff every day.
“Thanks,” Steve says, panic seizing him as he realizes he might need to tip him. Does he need to? Steve’s never had a delivery guy from a furniture store bring him anything. He doesn’t tip the UPS guy for bringing him packages. Then again, he’s never ordered a package from Amazon this big.
Usually he googles these things ahead of time, but it hadn’t even occurred to him, and now he’s kicking himself. He doesn’t have any cash.
“Uh, look,” the guy hesitates. “Do you, um, do you need any help putting together?” He glances at his watch. “I’ve got like forty-five minutes free.”
“Really?” Steve asks.
“Sure,” the guy says with a shrug. “It’s big, and it’s not going to be easy to put together by yourself. I mean, if you are alone.”
“I am,” Steve admits without really meaning to. “Um, well, that’s really nice, but I don’t have, like…anything. A screwdriver or whatever.”
The guy raises his eyebrows. “You don’t have a screwdriver?” He asks. “Okay, that’s fine. I’ve got some tools in my truck. How about I go grab them?”
“Thank you,” Steve says, heartfelt. What a nice guy. The guy gives him a little smile that sends his heart cartwheeling again and then heads back out the door. Steve takes the opportunity to lean against his kitchen counter and try not to die. He doesn’t bother googling his tipping question. The answer is definitely yes if he’s staying to help Steve put the bed together.
The delivery guy comes back with a toolbox and Steve wonders if this is the kind of sex-fantasy people have if they’re into mechanics or something. Steve’s never really thought about it, but his mind is putting in overtime now. He’s blushing again.
“Really, thank you so much,” he repeats.
“Hey, no problem,” the guy says. “I’m Bucky.”
Steve blinks. “Bucky?”
He gets a rueful laugh in response. “Yeah, Bucky. Bucky Barnes. Was a nickname my little sister gave me that never went away.”
“That’s sweet,” Steve murmurs against his will. He wants to crawl into a hole. “Um, okay, well, let’s get started, I guess. I don’t want to keep you too long.”
“You don’t?” Bucky asks with a smirk. Holy shit. Is he flirting? Is that a come-on? Steve almost dies.
Bucky pulls out a pocket knife to open the box and Steve wonders when he suddenly started finding men carrying knives attractive. Right at that second, apparently. There are directions that Bucky studies for a minute before handing them off to Steve, and then they get to work.
They’re mostly quiet, only talking when they’re trying to figure out which screw goes where, and Steve keeps trying to think of topics of conversation and coming up blank. He doesn’t know this guy at all. His mother’s going to kill him when she finds out he let a complete stranger into his house.
If the complete stranger doesn’t kill him first.
“I know it’s weird,” Steve blurts out of nowhere, earning him Bucky’s full undivided attention as he stops muttering over the drawing he’s trying to follow. “Getting such a big bed for such a small guy.”
Bucky shrugs. “So you like room.”
“It’s just, you know, I need it big enough to share with another guy.”
“Oh,” Bucky says, going still for a second. “Yeah, of course.”
“Not that I have another guy!” Steve adds quickly, hoping he’s right about what Bucky’s thinking. “Not yet. But. Eventually. I’d like to have a guy to share it with. My bed. Or a woman. Sharing the bed, I mean! I’m bisexual.” He cuts himself off and clenches his teeth together. Why the fuck is he still talking? God.
Bucky cracks up laughing. “Okay,” he says. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“You are?” Steve asks. Bucky stops laughing.
“Yeah,” he says. He bites his lip. “Yeah, I am glad to hear it.”
They finish putting the bed together in less-awkward silence, smiling at each other every so often, and then Bucky asks Steve out for coffee, and then, a few weeks later, Steve gets to see what someone else looks like in his gigantic new bed.
It’s a good look.
Even if Bucky likes to make fun of Steve for how big the bed is. “Steve,” he says one night, dramatically stretching out his arm. “Steve, are you there? I can’t tell. You’re so far away. Steve?”
“Stop,” Steve huffs. He’s curled into Bucky’s side, exactly where he always is.
“This bed…” Bucky says. “It’s just so big. You could be anywhere.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says, rolling his eyes.
As it turns out, Steve probably could’ve gotten by with a full. Because even though the bed takes up almost half the apartment, Steve and Bucky sleep wrapped around each other, holding on tight. And Steve can’t find it in himself to feel bad about that at all.