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Steve's arms ache. They burn like they've been stretched four feet from his body and spun around like jump-rope. His legs ache and his heart pounds as he lugs the trash bag along the forest floor, feeling every log and stone it bumps over as if it's him being dragged all over the place.
It was an accident. Steve would swear it until he's in his grave. Just a few poor decisions and a poor taste in men and suddenly there he is; dressed in a black ensemble, at god-knows-o'clock, scouring the woods for a good place to bury a body.
See, little Steve Rogers is a good guy. He attends church every Sunday, has a respectable job and never has a bad word to say about anyone. It's just that he has a severe hero complex. One that goes as far as the urge to kill. He could never stand a bully.
There are some words, particular ones, that turn Steve from the sweet choir boy he is, to a raging lunatic. The man in the bag, said all of them, whilst trying to grab Steve's ass. So Steve retaliated - in a big way.
The little guy would like to justify his actions by believing that he's saved another young man like him from getting harassed by Mr. Big-Tall-and-Ugly in the bag. Yes, a bad deed for good reasons. But Steve will have all the time in the world to fret over his actions and their consequences after he buries the body. Where? He really doesn't care.
However, that's not entirely true. A few weeks back, during a detour on his way home from work, Steve stumbled across a place so discreet that a body could be perfectly hidden there for years without being found. Well that was the plan...
Steve stops at the edge of a rugged circle of shrubs and trees that surround a huge area of dirt in the centre. Just as he goes to pick up the shovel he had dragged along with him, a soft yet forceful voice interrupts him.
"What are you doing?" A man says from across the patch. He's hidden, but the light of the full moon casts a silhouette over the dark figure in the bushes.
"I-I'm uh.. Ahem.. I'm burying some uh.. Gardening waste." Steve lies, unconvincingly.
The man laughs low (and sexy), "At midnight?" He scoffs, "Listen little guy, I'm guessing you're new at this?"
"New at what?" Steve continues to play innocent, "If you're talking about gardening, then yes I'm very new."
"I'm talking about murder." The guy walks forward to lean on one of the trees. The moonlight illuminates half of his face, displaying gorgeous blue-grey eyes and shoulder-length brown hair, "Sweet, sweet murder. Feeling the plunge of your blade as you drive it through a stranger's gut. Squeezing your victim's neck and feeling the life drain out into your cold, killer hands. Taking someone's life, happily, and getting rid of the evidence... In that bag is a body and you're about to dispose of it. What'd he do? Call you short? Diss your mama? Or did you just feel like driving a knife through his heart?"
"Hey! Shut up!" Steve hisses, "You don't know anything."
"I'm just asking a question, little guy!" The man says, mock incredulous, "Huh, you're cute y'know. Like a chihuahua on crack."
"He tried to fuck me without my consent, so I hit him." Steve narrows his eyes, "Forty times."
The guy in the trees (which is frickin' weird by the way) whistles and walks towards him, finally revealing his handsome face. "A badass. Who'd have thought?"
"Look I have to get on with this. So-"
"Oh no you can't do that."
"What? But I-"
"This is my spot." He says matter-of-factly, crossing his arms and stepping closer until he's in Steve's space, breathing his air.
"Oh yeah? Because you've killed so many people that you can't possibly afford to house one more body in your secret hiding place!" Steve hits back sarcastically.
"Exactly, Baby-Blues." He says simply, voice even.
Steve blinks at him twice, then scoffs, shaking his head and grabbing his shovel once again. He sticks it in the dark, moist ground ever so slightly, eyes trained on his invisible target on the floor.
"I mean it, Blue." The man is closer now, much closer. And Steve can feel his body pressing itself, full length, against his back. He tries to turn and look the intimidating character in the face but strong hands had unrelenting grips on his hip and jaw, "This is my spot. Back off."
Steve gulps, contemplating whether or not he should try to face off with this guy, who seemed more than capable of breaking his jaw given their current position.
"My name's not Blue." He grumbles, and turns to walk away and find another spot, "And I'm goin'"
"Alright, alright, alright," the stranger says, and Steve stops in his tracks, but refrains from turning around, he won't give him the satisfaction, "Then what is your name?"
Steve doesn't answer, instead he picks up the bag from where he dropped by the bushes and stalks off, glad to be rid of the mysterious, handsome stranger.
~~~~
Steve's next murder is justified, he swears.
He works in a gardening centre, a florist and cashier. It's a nice job, fulfilling as it can be, and calm. He enjoys it, on most days.
This morning however, his manager, Mr Fury, a tall and robust man who is a lot nicer than he looks or even pretends to be, pulls he and rest of his colleagues into the staffroom, looking tense.
"Our head of department in visiting." He says nervously, watching Steve with particularly surveying eyes.
Steve tenses just slightly, remembering the onslaught of unwanted attention he was exposed to the last time his boss's boss came to town.
"Ugh, that old pig. I'm surprised Steve hasn't thrown up at the mere mention of his name!" Steve's best friend Sam complains, earning a murmur of agreement from his co-workers.
Fury sighs, "If he tries anything -"
"It'll be fine." Steve dismisses gliding out of the room with ease.
He goes through the day happily, having lost the initial feeling of impending doom within his first hour of work. It's during closing hours that Steve feels his skin crawl, as if he could sense the danger before it arrives.
"Steven! It's so good to see you!" He hears him before he sees him, and Steve feels his shoulders hunch. He plasters on a smile and turns around.
"Mr Smith, hello." He says professionally, he wasn't about to lose his job just because the boss is a pig.
When Mr Smith puts a hand on Steve's shoulder, it's not that bad, and can be passed off as an innocent gesture. However, when that hand slides down and grips his skinny biceps, feels the muscles (lack thereof) and rest there for an unnecessarily long time, it becomes inappropriate.
Steve is left alone at that, after having been subject to a lustful stare and a comment that he hasn't changed "one bit". He shivers.
When he finally gets to close up and go home, it's an hour after closing time, since Mr Smith wanted to be "thorough in his investigation". The co-workers said that it was code for 'wanting to ogle Steve for as long as possible'. Steve didn't comment.
He locks the store behind him, face illuminated by the dim streetlights above him. Suddenly he feels a soft breath on the back of his neck, and he whips around, coming face to face with his head of department.
Steve steadies himself, "Mr Smith," he takes a breath, "I thought you had left."
Mr Smith shakes his head, "No," he says, crowding Steve, "I waited."
Steve blinks, moving to the side so as to leave, "Ah."
The older man put a hand out, gripping Steve's wrist, "Steven, I waited for you."
Steve's eyes narrow slightly and he tugs his wrist back, attempting to stalk off.
"Oh come on Steven, don't pretend you don't want me."
"Oh please, if I was pretending, then I could do it in my sleep." Steve spits, storming passed his harasser.
"Do you like this job, Steven?" Mr Smith calls after him, smirking in satisfaction when Steve stops in his tracks, "Because if you do, it'd be best not to upset me."
It's then that Steve feels a hand slide its way down his back, to rest on his behind.
Snap.
There it goes. Steve's inhibitions. His morals. His restraint.
He can't stand bullies.
~~~
So here he is, just north of spot that the handsome nutcase swore him from ever using.
Steve had just finished digging a hole so deep he could jump into it and struggle to climb out. Though to be honest, Steve struggles with climbing period.
He looks down into the hole proudly, then glances at the bag lying at his feet. He crouches down next to it, leaning in close.
"I'm sorry," He says, "I don't know how this happened-"
He gathers up all of his strength and kicks the large bag into the hole.
"- But you shouldn't have touched me." He concludes, digging his shovel into the pile of dirt and dropping it over the bag.
"Rule one of serial killing: No remorse."
Steve spins around mid-shovel.
"Ugh, what do you want?" He says, not in the mood for the creepy guy's antics, "What have I done wrong this time?"
"You apologised." The guy tells him, walking closer to the hole, coming to stand by Steve, "You've killed two people now. You've crossed the line of being sorry. Hell, you saw the line, drove over it a couple times, and are staring at it in your rearview mirror."
Steve pushes his shovel into the ground forcefully, "Okay." He says, emphasising it with a dig, "Point. Taken."
He spends a little while coating the body with dirt, until it's almost completely covered.
"I got an idea." Creepy Guy pipes up. It startles Steve. He thought he was long gone.
"What?"
Creepy Guy smirks and reaches into a huge navy blue rucksack, (where did that come from?) and pulls out something that makes Steve gag.
An arm. A literal human arm, torn just below the shoulder. Flesh and everything.
"Let's drop this in there. Give the cops a real fright."
Steve blinks and puts his shovel down, "Who.. who's is that?!"
Creepy Guy blinks back at him, then at the arm, looking at it as if they were having a conversation, "Mine?"
It's then that Steve looks at the shimmering reflective surface on the guy's left side. A prosthetic. Steve takes a visible breath.
"So... you just carry your dead, rotting arm... in a backpack?"
"Well, I was gonna bury it with one of my bodies..." he trails off, then gestures to Steve's handiwork, "But this works too. In fact, it'll be even better."
Steve squints his eyes, "You're asking me to bury your own dead arm in a pit with the second body I've killed for..a joke?"
His companion nods, "So, yes?"
Steve scoffs and shakes his head, "I don't even know who y-"
"James Buchanan Barnes." He sticks out a hand, "Bucky for short."
Taken aback, Steve shakes the hand offered to him, "Should you have told me your full name?"
"Well... No." 'Bucky' tells him, then pauses, "But at least now you can trust me."
Steve narrows his eyes, and for a reason unbeknownst to him, he says, "Steven Grant Rogers."
~~~~
Two weeks after the 'incident' and Steve's back at work.
His department was given the day off for the purpose of 'Bereavement'. Which was really spent getting blind drunk and eating foods that really shouldn't be put in a human body. He thought he deserved it, after the month he's had.
The time after had been peaceful; with no little 'accidents' dampening Steve's days. He finds himself thankful that his life has finally calmed itself down.
He also finds himself regretting ever thinking that.
It's a Thursday when it happens. Steve hates Thursdays. He hates that they're so close to Fridays, but aren't. Like he's being mocked.
And contrary to popular belief, he does know that he isn't all there on the sanity side of things.
But there Thursdays are.. mocking him - again.
He's putting away some plants in the green house section of the store, arms crying out for rest after carrying kilo after kilo of garden soil, when he hears something that can only mean.. trouble.
“I'd know that perky ass and baby blue eyes anywhere.”
Shit.
Steve moves quickly, turning to face Bucky, hoping he was just hallucinating.
But sure enough he's there, shimmering prosthetic and all. Steve notices that his eyes are much more grey than blue. He also notes that Bucky is – infuriatingly – even more attractive in good light.
“What are you doing here?” Steve gets out through gritted teeth.
“I could ask you the same question, Baby-Blues.” Bucky says cockily, handling a huge rake with the care of a musician handling a cello.
“I - work here.” Steve says, a little mesmerised by Bucky's whirring metal arm as it lifts and moves the rake.
“In that case,” the taller man begins, quickly flipping the rake in his hands, gesturing to it “Which brand is best?”
Steve narrows his eyes suspiciously, but humours the brunet nonetheless, “Depends. What result do want from it?”
Bucky grins, stepping closer the the blond, “Let's say I'm tryna cover an,” he smirks, “unwanted growth.”
Steve scoffs and glances away. When he looks back, Bucky is even closer, and he finds himself backed against the cashier's desk, caged in by Bucky's hands on the surface, a few inches from his hips.
He clears his throat, trying his hardest not to stare into Bucky's ohsodreamy eyes, “I-uh. I never imagined you with green-fingers.”
And just to make Steve even more uncomfortable, (was he even uncomfortable in the first place?) he leans in even closer, until his lips are brushing Steve's ear, “Trust me, Blue, there's a whole host of things these fingers can do.”
Steve shivers. He physically and visibly shivers. And just like that, Bucky's body is gone from his. No longer flushed against his own.
“Besides, I just really like... gardening.” Bucky winks.
Steve goes to reply, about to give him a sassy, not at all aroused, comeback, when they are interrupted.
“Hey Steve-” Sam starts, pausing when he sees that Bucky and Steve are still standing mere inches apart.
“Uh hey,” the shortest man coughs, backing well away from the other, “What's up?”
“Ya know, I'm gonna... just leave you to it..” Sam says, a small smirk decorating his face, and exits the room hastily, giving Steve a congratulatory pat on the shoulder.
After watching his friend leave, with rage filled eyes, Steve turns his heated glare back to Bucky.
“What was that all about?” He hisses, getting into Bucky's personal space.
“What was what all about gorgeous?” The man grins.
“Cut the bullshit Barnes, what are you doing?” Steve growls, he's dangerously close to losing it unprovoked, “Why are you here?”
Bucky sighs, picking up on the signals that Steve's temper is just seconds away from flaring, “Look Steve, I honestly didn't know you worked here. If I had, I wouldn't have shown up.”
“Bullshit-”
“No I mean it. I know how it is.” Bucky smirks, “Can't mix business and pleasure... Especially with what we do for fun.”
Steve glares, backing away and dropping down onto the stool behind the counter.
“I don't do it for fun.” It comes out as just a mumble.
“Stress release then. Anger management. Spiritual cleansing. Whatever you want to call it.”
“Murder!” Steve explodes, loud enough for Bucky to wince and look around at the, thankfully, empty section of the store, “It's murder, Buck. We kill people, and you act like it's game.”
“It is to me.” Bucky says softly.
They're silent for seconds, that feel hours.
“Then you're a psychopath.” Steve concludes.
It's then that Bucky looks him in the eyes. Stormy grey meeting ocean blue. His gaze is filled with pain, longing, and something so calm, that Steve is shaken to his core.
“I never said I wasn't.”
A moment's silence.
“Why?” Steve whispers, with Bucky standing inches from him. So close he can feel his body heat radiating off of him.
“Why what?” Bucky steps closer, “Why you?”
Steve looks up at him and nods.
“Because..” He's lost for words. For the first time in his life, when he isn't laughing, or cracking jokes, or squeezing the life out of some poor soul, Bucky has nothing to say.
And then suddenly he does.
“Because I see me.” He decides, “A better me. One with the same faults, but..” He sighs, taking Steve's hand, “But with a heart. With morals.”
“You like me.. Because I have morals?” Steve squints.
“And because you've got eyes to die for.” Bucky jokes, cocky smirk once again on his mouth.
“Be serious.” He's reprimanded.
“Sorry.. I just. Killing.. It's good. It's calming. It feels like the bad parts of me are dying with my victims.”
“So what do I have to do with it?” Steve questions, searching for the humanity in Bucky's eyes that's slowly emerging.
“Because you're proof that even if killing is bad; some killers are good... You're proof that there's still hope for me.”
“Bucky,” Steve sighs, jumping from the stool and wrapping his arms around the taller man's broad shoulders. He breaths in deeply, inhaling the man's scent. He kisses Bucky's neck softly, feeling the body relax and melt in his arms.
“I don't know you all that well, and you don't know me,” Bucky whispers, “And I've never been in love. But you're the one person I think I could feel that for.” He searches Steve's eyes, “And if you end up feeling the same, I'd believe that there's still some good in me.”
“Oh Buck.” Steve whimpers, cradling Bucky's head into his shoulder, “I'm not a good guy. And neither are you.”
“I know,” Bucky responds, running a thumb along Steve's skinny spine, “But a bad guy with a good moral compass is a lot better than I am.”
“You're good, Bucky.” Steve tells him, “You are good. Maybe not physically. You're murderer. And so am I. But if you think that I, of all people, am good - then you can't be far off.”
“You think?” Bucky says, a single tear slipping down his cheek.
Steve smiles softly, placing a kiss on the tear, before planting another onto Bucky's lips.
“I know.”