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Steve has been at Shield High School for three months and he still hasn’t gotten up the courage to talk to Bucky Barnes.
“There’s no reason this needs to be this hard,” Sam tells him at lunch when he catches him staring at Bucky again. “Do you know how many girls at this school would jump at the chance to go out with you?”
“This is different,” Steve says, tearing his gaze from Bucky’s table. “You know I’m not into girls like this.” Bucky is eating lunch with the other members of the D&D club like he does every day. Sometimes Tony and Bruce will join them, but a lot of the time they’re too busy taking advantage of the empty chemistry labs to work on whatever experiments they’re cooking up.
“It’s just crazy to me how that knowledge doesn’t give you even the single iota of confidence you need to talk to him,” Sam says. “We’re talking about Bucky Barnes here. James Buchanan Barnes.”
“Yeah,” Steve says. Without meaning to his eyes have flicked back to Bucky’s table. He’s laughing at something Clint just said. He gets the nicest eye crinkles when he laughs, and Steve wants so fucking badly to know what to say so he can put them there.
“I don’t think he talked to anyone for the entirety of eighth grade because he was too busy reading all of Terry Pratchett. He tried to teach himself how to speak Elvish in fifth grade. He is the founder and president of the D&D club. This is the guy you’re too relentlessly intimidated to start a conversation with?”
“I just have no idea why he’d want anything to do with me,” Steve says, pushing some rapidly congealing cafeteria mac and cheese around with his fork. “You said it yourself, he’s really smart.”
“I would usually say that you’re also really smart, but judging by how wildly you’re misinterpreting me I might have to re-evaluate my judgement. Can we be serious for two fucking seconds here? You touched down at this school and landed a first string spot on the varsity baseball team. You hold doors open for everyone, even the cleaning staff, when most of the kids here are too much of assholes to even acknowledge them. You drive yourself to school on a fucking motorcycle. ‘Hottest guy at Shield’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
“Still,” Steve says. “He probably thinks I’m just a dumb jock.”
Sam sighs with a weary resignation. “If he thinks that then he’s the dumb one. Look, do you think you can get out of your full time pining schedule this Friday night?”
“I am not pining,” Steve says.
“Like a goddamn Christmas tree,” Sam says. “Nat Romanoff’s band is playing a gig and I need you to come with me.”
“Who’s pining now?” Steve says. Sam has been nursing a thing for Nat since before Steve even arrived at Shield. Nat is maybe one of the scariest (although also hottest, if you’re into girls) people Steve has ever encountered; but if anyone can hold their own with her, it would be Sam.
“The difference is I’m actually gonna do something about it,” Sam says. “Which is why you gotta make yourself available Friday night.”
“Why do you need me to come?” Steve asks.
“Because it’ll look weird if I show up on my own,” Sam says. “Besides, you got any other plans?”
“Not really,” Steve says. He was gonna spend the night at the rec center’s pottery studio open hours (he takes a class there every Tuesday) but decides not to share that with Sam.
“That’s settled,” Sam says. “8 pm at Fury’s. Look good but don’t look better than me.”
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Steve shows up to Fury’s at 7:45 on the dot. He wasn’t sure if Sam meant to be there at 8 or if the show starts at 8; either way, he refuses to be late. The bouncer marks the back of his hands with sharpied X’s to stop him from trying to buy alcohol, and Steve enters the dimly lit club. There’s a slightly raised stage, a dancefloor, and a bar against one wall. It’s decently full, people milling about and chatting as they wait for the band to come on.
Steve grabs water and waits for Sam. His friend shows up about 5 minutes later.
“Motherfucker, what did I say about looking better than me?” Sam says.
“You look phenomenal,” Steve says. He really does: tight black t-shirt and jeans, fitted out with black boots instead of his usual sneakers.
“You gotta start wearing baggier clothes,” Sam says. “I can’t keep competing with your biceps.” Steve is wearing a mirror image of Sam’s outfit: white t-shirt and blue jeans. He’s got a flannel tied around his waist too; although they’re in the full swing of spring, he’s found that the Ohio nights can get cold in a way that the Brooklyn ones rarely did. Perhaps too many buildings and people to let the warmth of the day dissipate as it seems to do in the flatness of the Midwest.
“Here,” Steve says, handing his friend a glass of water.
“Let’s get a good spot,” Sam says. “I want her to see that I showed up.”
They push their way into the crowd until they’re a couple of people away from the stage. “What kind of music is it anyway?” Steve asks. He likes all types but it’s best to know what he’s getting into.
“Nat said it was mostly rock with a little punk,” Sam tells him. “Guitar, drums, vocals: nothing too fancy.”
“Do you even know who else is in the band?” Steve asks.
“Nat’s sister is the lead singer,” Sam says. “She’s only been in the states for a year or so, I think there was some bullshit about international custody agreements. They started the band when she got here; they’ve been playing shows around town for a couple of months.”
“Okay, who else?” Steve asks. Before Sam can respond, the lights go down and the crowd starts cheering. Apparently the band has played here often enough to garner a fan base.
A girl with shaggy blonde hair enters and strides over to the mic. In the back, he sees a flash of red shining in the lights as Nat settles in behind the drum kit. Before he can take anything else in, Nat knocks her drum sticks together over her head and the band launches into their first song.
It’s good, fast, and the audience seems to know it judging by their enthusiastic whoops. Nat’s sister has a strong voice, her snarl occasionally giving way to some beautiful notes. She’s got a guitar slung across her shoulders as well and plays it seamlessly even while singing.
After their first song concludes she says into the mic “Welcome! We are the Winter Widows. Hold on to your asses.” Nat begins pounding on the drums once again and the show continues. Steve steals a look at Sam. The lights from the venue make it look like he literally has stars in his eyes as he gazes at Nat. Steve leans over and whisper-shouts “Wipe that drool off your chin.”
“Fuck you,” Sam says. “She’s a really fucking good drummer.”
“She is,” Steve agrees. He takes in the rest of the band. The second guitarist is a girl he doesn’t recognize, red streaks in her dark hair and eyeliner smudged around her lids. He glances over at the bassist. Steve doesn’t know much about the instrument but he can tell this guy is good, keeping a steady rhythm with Nat’s beats even as his fingers travel up and down the neck of the bass. The lone man in the group, he’s in a black tank top, his dark hair hanging around his face. He flicks it out of the way with a shake of his head and Steve’s heart leaps into the back of his throat.
“Holy shit,” he says involuntarily because the bassist for Nat’s band is none other than Bucky Barnes.
“What?” Sam asks.
“Bassist,” Steve says dumbly. It takes him a minute but then Sam says “Oh my god.”
Steve doesn’t have the capacity to form words. He thought Bucky was hot in t-shirts under harsh fluorescent lights; his brain almost can’t handle Bucky with his biceps out as beams of purple and red glance off the planes of his face. His hands look huge on the bass, fingers dancing and spreading and adding fuel to the fire of Steve’s fantasies.
“I kinda get it now,” Sam says. “If I swung that way . . . yeah, I see the vision.”
Steve can’t tear his eyes away from Bucky. One leg is cocked forward, bass resting on his thigh. He watches him thrust his hips slightly as he hits a chord and he almost moans.
“Who’s drooling now?” Sam teases.
“Fuck off,” Steve says.
It’s almost too much to handle that his dream man is also in a band, and that that band is good. They seem to have written most of the songs themselves, except for a couple of covers thrown in. Steve doesn’t know the first thing about music theory but he knows they play well together, cohesively bouncing off each others’ strengths and keeping the crowd’s energy up. It’s not hard at all to bop and shimmy with the music.
“This is our last song,” Nat’s sister announces after about an hour. “Let me introduce the band. On rhythm guitar, we have Wanda Maximoff-she’s got magic in her fingers. On drums, we have Nat Romanoff-she can hit you just as hard as she hits those drums, and do it so good you’ll thank her and ask her to do it again. On bass, we have Bucky Barnes-the only man I trust to keep up with us. I am Yelena Belova, and we are the Winter Widows.”
The finale is raucous; Steve can feel Bucky’s bassline thrumming in his chest. When the band finishes he cheers and whoops with the rest of the people there. “See you next time!” Yelena hollers into the mic and the band exits the stage.
Bucky has spent most of the night looking at the position of his fingers on his instrument, so Steve has no idea if he saw him in the crowd. He can’t tell if he wants Bucky to catch a glimpse of him or not; the musician’s eyes passing over him without recognition might utterly crush him. But Bucky doesn’t spare a look to the audience, just holsters his bass and walks off.
“Wow,” Sam says. “Maybe I’m gonna become a groupie.”
“Do you wanna stay and talk to her?” Steve asks. His palms sweat at the thought of seeing Bucky up close in his rockstar get up.
“That’s the whole point,” Sam says. “This is the moment when the deal is sealed. You should try it out yourself.”
“Let’s get more water,” Steve says, deflecting. They head to the bar, refilling their cups from the cooler at the end. A lot of the audience has cleared out but some people are still milling around chatting.
“There she is,” Sam says. Steve glances up and sees Nat standing by a door to what’s presumably the green room. Sam claps Steve on his shoulder. “Wish me luck.”
“I thought you needed me to wingman,” Steve says.
“I just needed you to show up,” Sam says. “I can take over from here.”
“But-” Steve doesn’t know how to handle being in this venue alone knowing that Bucky might emerge at any moment.
“While I'm busy getting the girl you should talk to him.” He heads over to Nat, leaving Steve at the bar staring into his glass.
“You guarding the water or something?” he hears from over his shoulder. He turns and his breath catches in his throat. Bucky’s standing right there; Steve can see the faint gleam of sweat on his shoulders. He wonders how they would feel against his palms.
“All you,” he says, swallowing hard and moving out of the way. Bucky goes to the cooler and begins filling up a cup. Steve can’t stop staring at the lines of his arms.
“You were great,” he says. “Up there. I mean, the whole band was great. You play really good.” Internally he winces. He’s not doing a very effective job of presenting himself as anything other than a dumb jock.
Bucky takes a gulp of water. “Thanks,” he says. “For saying that, and for showing up.”
“Do you guys play here a lot?” Steve says. He’s desperate to keep Bucky talking to him.
“Once a month or so,” Bucky says. “It’s definitely the most convenient place we play; sometimes we gotta borrow a van and go a couple of towns over.”
“It would be great to see you guys again,” Steve says. “I’m Steve, by the way.”
Bucky snorts. “I know who you are,” he says. “I don’t know if there’s anyone in the whole school who doesn’t know who you are.”
“Oh,” Steve says. “Is that a good thing?”
“You’re the golden boy of Shield,” Bucky says. “I’d say that’s pretty good. When you’re the reason we go to the state championships they’re probably gonna put a statue of you up in front of the school.”
“It’s really a team effort,” Steve says.
“Well, the team wasn’t clearing bases until you became part of it,” Bucky says.
“You come to the games?” Steve says. He hasn’t noticed Bucky in the stands, but he tries to focus on just the game whenever he plays.
“Yeah,” Bucky says. “The games were a lot more boring before you showed up. Because you’re really good,” he adds somewhat hurriedly.
“Thanks,” Steve says.
“I didn’t think you’d wanna come to something like this though,” Bucky says.
“What, you think playing baseball and having good taste in music are mutually exclusive?” Steve says.
“I’d hardly call us the height of musical talent. Just . . . isn’t there a party or something you’re missing to be here?”
“That’s not really my scene,” Steve says. “Honestly, if Sam hadn’t asked me to come, I’d probably be spinning pottery with a bunch of octogenarians."
“Wow,” Bucky says. “You re-create that scene from Ghost with any of them yet?”
“Muriel keeps hinting but I’ve been pretty good at dodging her so far,” Steve says. Before Bucky can respond, a brunette blur bounds up to him.
“You were so good!” the girl gushes. “That was maybe your best show ever. When did you guys learn that Green Day song?”
“Last week,” Bucky says. “And weren’t you raised with better manners than to interrupt?” The girl turns towards Steve, revealing a face with baby fat still clinging to the cheeks. Despite that, he can see shades of Bucky in the shape of her nose. “Steve, this is my little sister Becca.”
“Oh my god,” Becca says. “This is the Steve?”
“The Steve?” Steve asks with confusion.
“Becca, don’t you have somewhere else to be,” Bucky hisses.
“Yeah, home,” Becca says. “Mom texted us, she’s outside. Are you ready?”
“Uh,” Bucky says, shooting a look at Steve. “Can you tell her to wait a bit?”
“I can give you a ride,” Steve says. “If you wanna stay and mingle.”
“Oh, I’m sure my brother would absolutely love a-” Steve’s not sure but he thinks he might see Bucky step on his sister’s foot. “Becca, will you take my bass home?” he says. “It’s all packed up, just get Nat to let you into the green room.”
“Fine,” she says. “It was nice to meet you, Steve.” She heads to the back of the club and leaves them standing alone once more.
“Sorry,” Bucky says. “She’s fourteen and doesn’t know how to handle herself yet, especially not around cool high schoolers.”
“I’m not nearly as cool as you seem to think I am,” Steve says.
“What do you mean?” Bucky says.
“I spent most of my time in Brooklyn getting beat up on various street corners and subway stops,” Steve says.
“Who would be stupid enough to pick a fight with you?” Bucky says.
“Well, at the time I weighed about 90 pounds, I was legally blind in one eye, and I had the bone density of a pigeon,” Steve says. “Probably the easiest target next to a fourth grader.”
“Holy shit,” Bucky says. “What changed?”
“I got taken in by a foster family who had good enough insurance to take me to a bunch of specialists,” Steve says. In response to Bucky’s questioning look, he says, “Never knew my dad and my mom died when I was twelve.”
“Ah fuck,” Bucky says. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks,” Steve tells him. “It sucked for a long time; still does. But getting placed with my foster mom and dad really helped, they've been amazing. I got corrective surgery for my eyes and an inhaler prescription that actually worked for me. So over the summer I found a job at the Post Office hauling boxes; I also ran everywhere I went. Didn’t hurt that I also had a crazy growth spurt. When school started again, guys knew better than to try and start shit anymore, but I was still too much of a freak for anyone to be friends with. Coming here, being treated like hot shit . . . it feels kinda surreal. Like I’m gonna wake up in a hospital back in Brooklyn on a breathing machine and this will have all been a hallucination.”
“How did you end up in Lebanon?” Bucky says.
“My foster mom got a job here,” Steve says. “Working in the surgery center at the hospital. I didn’t wanna be separated so I moved with them. I miss Brooklyn, but having actual friends is nice too.”
“Yeah, you and Sam seem close,” Bucky says.
Steve tries to not visibly react to the knowledge that Bucky has been paying attention to him. “He’s actually the reason I’m here tonight,” he confesses. “He’s got a big crush on your drummer.”
“Nat?” Bucky laughs a little. “Anyone else, I’d say Nat would eat them alive, but I think Sam can go toe to toe with her.”
“Speaking of,” Steve glances back to the green room door and doesn’t see either Sam or Nat. He pulls out his phone; there’s a message from his best friend. “Son of a bitch,” he says. Sam has texted him:
Offered to go back to Nat’s to help her move her drum kit. Don’t wait up
“Seems like he pulled it off,” Steve tells him, pocketing his phone. “He’s helping her with her drums.”
“Nat absolutely doesn’t need help with those,” Bucky says. “I’ve seen her carry more by herself than most guys on your team could. She’s luring him in for sure.”
“You couldn’t find a man more willing to be lured,” Steve says. He takes in the club; it’s emptied out far more than he realized while they’ve been talking. The bartender is putting glasses in the dishwasher, mop leaning up against the counter. “Looks like it’s closing up,” Steve says. “I can take you home.”
“Alright,” Bucky says. Steve’s hoping he’s not imagining the disappointment he sees on his face.
They leave Fury’s; Steve’s motorcycle is resting where he left it by the curb. “I only have one helmet,” he says, going to grab it. “So we’ll just hope I don’t crack my head open.”
“Wait,” Bucky says. “My curfew’s not till midnight if you want to go somewhere else.”
Steve’s pulse picks up. This is going better than he could’ve possibly dreamed when Sam asked him to come to the gig. “I’d like that,” he says. “But where? Nothing’s really open this late that you don’t have to be twenty one to get into.”
“I know a place,” Bucky says. “Just take your bike down Broadway heading towards the post office and stop when you get outside the building.”
“Okay,” Steve says. He swings his legs over the bike before looking at Bucky. “Have you ever been on a motorcycle before?” he asks.
“Nope,” the other boy says.
“Luckily you don’t have to do any of the work,” he says, handing him the helmet. “Just wrap your arms around me and hold on.”
“If you crash I'll haunt you for the rest of your life,” Bucky says. He puts the helmet on and settles in behind Steve; he can feel the other boy’s warmth seep through his t-shirt. His arms circle around Steve’s waist, palms clasped against Steve’s ribcage. Steve revisits the theory that he’s having an intense dying hallucination while trapped in a hospital room because this has to be some kind of heaven. He kicks his bike to life and takes off down the road.
It doesn't take too long to get to where Bucky navigated him; Steve almost wishes it were a longer ride so he could keep Bucky pressed against him. But Bucky knows the contours of the town far better than he does, and would notice any unnecessary loops. So he guides them to the side of the road and turns the engine off.
“Follow me,” Bucky says, swinging off and leaving the helmet behind. “We’re technically not supposed to be here at night so don’t be super loud.”
“Stealthy. Got it,” Steve says.
Bucky cuts across the park behind the post office, feet finding a well trod desire line. Steve falls in behind him and watches the moon settle on his back. He sees Bucky shiver and strides forward to catch up with him. “Do you want my flannel?” he asks. “It’s a little chilly now.”
“Don’t you need it?” Bucky asks.
“Nah,” Steve says, untying the sleeves. “I run hot.” He passes the flannel over to Bucky, who shrugs it on. “Thanks,” Bucky says. “I’ve got bad circulation, so I’m always a little cold.”
“Any time,” Steve says, hoping Bucky can’t hear the utter sincerity in his voice.
Bucky leads them down a mulch trail into the woods while Steve’s eyes adjust to the darkness. They’re not very deep into the forest when Bucky pulls up short. “There’s a rope bridge,” he says. “Right over the river. Technically the trail is closed after dark but no one ever comes out here to check. It’s a cool view.”
“I trust you,” Steve says. Bucky steps forward and Steve follows. He can make out the lines of the bridge in the darkness, the ropes crisscrossing the air like spider webs and the solid wooden slats underneath.
Bucky steps on it and Steve can see the structure sway a little bit. He follows him onto the wood. His eyes have adjusted to the dark by now and he places his feet on the planks with confidence. The bridge is about a hundred feet across, spanning the length of the river.
Bucky takes him right to the middle before plopping down and sitting cross legged. Steve follows suit, folding his limbs up as he sits facing him. He’s glad his eyes have acclimated because this way he can more fully take in Bucky in his flannel shirt. He misses having his arms out on full view but there’s something undeniably hot about Bucky wearing his clothes.
“Me and Becca and our older sister used to come out here and jump up and down to make the bridge bounce,” Bucky says. “Until our parents told us that if we kept doing that it was gonna snap. Making it sway is still fun though.”
“So there’s three of you?” Steve says. “Sorry, I just spouted off about me earlier, should’ve asked you more about you.”
“There’s not much to tell,” Bucky says. “Born and raised here, barely travelled anywhere. Read a lot as a kid because that’s as close as I got to being somewhere else. That’s why I like D&D too; you can go anywhere you want, be anyone you want.”
“I’ve never played,” Steve says. “I don’t know if I’d be good at it.”
“You just gotta come up with a character and then be willing to commit to the bit,” Bucky says. “Silly voices encouraged.”
“Maybe I could come to the club sometime, try it out,” Steve says.
“I mean, not if-” Bucky cuts himself off. “Shit, don’t know why I’m shooting myself in the foot here, it’s still just weird to think you’re not too cool for any part of my bit.”
“I didn’t know you thought about me at all,” Steve says.
“Steve, do you really think I was going to your baseball games due to a sudden, never before seen interest in organized competitive sports?” Bucky flops back on the bridge and speaks the next sentence to the stars. “I’ve been into you since the very first day you showed up to school. Roaring into the parking lot on that fucking motorcycle, you were gay seventeen year old catnip. I think I dropped the book I was reading when you took your helmet off. And then on top of being the best looking person I’ve ever seen you just had to go and be incredibly nice to everyone. And you’re good at sports! What the hell was I supposed to do under those circumstances?”
Steve is conscious of letting silence drag on too long but feels like every word he’s ever learned is swirling around in his head and he doesn’t know how to let the right ones out. “You were reading Book Five of The Dark Tower series,” he says. “After school ended, I went to the library and put in a request for the first one. I’m still stuck on the third; those books get really fucking long.”
Bucky bolts up and looks at him. “Steve, you better not be fucking with me,” he says.
“Swear,” Steve says. “Right now the Ka Tet is heading towards Lud on the path of the beam.”
“Holy shit,” Bucky says. “You’re actually reading The Dark Tower? Why?”
“So I could have something to talk to you about if I ever got the chance,” Steve admits. “So you wouldn’t think I’m just a guy who can hit a ball and run fast.”
“I never thought that,” Bucky says. “And I’ve thought about you a lot.”
“Me too,” Steve says. “About you, I mean. I’ve been thinking about you for months.” He draws his courage in. “Can I kiss you?” he asks.
“Please,” Bucky says. “Please, please kiss me.”
Steve shifts to his knees. He leans in towards Bucky and reaches out to cup his face in his hand. The first touch of their lips is soft, almost reverent. Steve feels the heat of Bucky’s skin and the gentle puffs of his breath. Then Bucky moans and opens his mouth, tangling his hand in the hair at the back of Steve’s head at the same time he presses his tongue up against his.
Steve has not kissed a lot of people, so rating this the best kiss of his life feels like doing it a disservice. Still, it’s the only value system he has. and he’s confident that this is far and away the best kiss of his life.
He doesn’t know how but somehow Bucky ends up sprawled on top of him. They kiss until his lips are swollen, kiss until his head is full of sparks.
Eventually Bucky pulls away. “You haven’t even seen the best part of the bridge yet,” he says.
“There’s no way what we were just doing isn’t the best part,” Steve says.
“Look down,” Bucky tells him, sitting up and moving off Steve. Reluctantly, Steve pulls his back off the wood and looks at the river below. “Oh my god,” he breathes out. The night is lit up with pinpricks of light that dance and move, bobbing and weaving around each other. There’s hundreds of them darting across the river, a visual symphony of fluorescence.
“Bet you didn’t have fireflies like this in Brooklyn,” Bucky says.
“No, we didn’t,” Steve tells him. He looks back at Bucky. “Still not the best thing about this bridge. Or this town.”
Bucky draws a deep breath in. “If it wasn’t clear from everything I’ve done and said tonight, I’m stupid into you. I wanna take you on a date. Unless you want this to be just a hook up thing, I can live with that.”
“I can’t,” Steve says. “I wanna date you, not just make out with you. Not that the making out isn’t really nice, I’m really into kissing you. But I like you, I like you a lot.”
“Cool,” Bucky says. “Can I . . . can I give you my number?”
“Yes,” Steve says. He pulls his phone out. “Here,” he says, thrusting it at Bucky. He sees Bucky type, and when the other boy hands him his phone back he presses call. “So you have mine too,” he tells him. He glances at his phone screen and sees the time. “I should get you home,” he says reluctantly.
“Yeah, Becca will definitely squeal if I’m not in before midnight,” Bucky says. He pushes himself off the bridge and gets to his feet. He offers a hand out to Steve; he takes it, pulling himself up until suddenly they’re chest to chest. He can’t help it; he leans in to kiss Bucky once more. He thinks he could spend a hundred years kissing Bucky and never get tired of him.
He pulls away far too soon. “Lead the way,” he says.
Bucky takes them back the way they came. In the darkness of the woods, Steve reaches out and grabs his hand. He doesn’t need to for guidance or balance; he just wants tangible proof of what he and Bucky shared pressed up against him.
They reach Steve’s motorcycle and Steve hands Bucky his helmet once more. “Which way to your place?”
Bucky gives him directions, and Steve takes off into the night. The weight of Bucky at his back already feels familiar, comfortable. He wants to carry the other boy with him as far and as long as he can.
All too long they pull up outside Bucky’s house. “When are you free next?” Steve asks.
“I’ve got band practice and family dinner tomorrow,” Bucky says. “Is Sunday too soon to see each other again?”
“Sunday’s perfect,” Steve says. He’s grateful that works for Bucky; most of his week is filled with baseball practice (and his pottery class) and he doesn’t know how he could keep it together if it was a full week before he could take Bucky out.
“Great,” Bucky says. “It’s a date.”
Steve couldn’t hold back the smile on his face if he wanted to; his cheeks feel impossibly wide.
“Is your family asleep?” he asks, gesturing to the dark windows of Bucky’s house.
“Becca’s probably up,” he says. “And if she heard that bike she’s peeking out a window at us. She’s been giving me shit for months about not talking to you.”
“Do you mind if I kiss you then?” Steve asks.
“I’m not missing out just because she’s too fucking nosy for her own good,” Bucky says. He draws Steve in and kisses him deeply. Steve sighs into his mouth, loving the press of Bucky’s lips against his.
Bucky pulls away. “Fucking curfew,” he grumbles, turning to the path leading to his house. “Oh shit, your shirt.” He goes to tug the sleeves off.
“Keep it,” Steve says. “Looks better on you anyway.”
“That can’t possibly be true,” Bucky says.
“Trust me,” Steve says. “Or at least trust that I really like how you look when you’re wearing it.”
“Fucking sweet talker,” Bucky says.
“Easy when it’s true," Steve says. “I’ll text you about Sunday. Sleep well.”
“You too,” Bucky says. Steve watches him go to his front door. Before he closes it behind him, Bucky looks back once more. He waves, and Steve waves back, smile stretching across his face.
When Bucky’s fully out of sight inside, Steve just takes a moment to breathe in. If it wouldn't be far too loud for this suburban street, he’d let out a whoop. As it stands, all he can do is sit there and grin like a twitterpated idiot. He pulls out his phone and sees that Sam’s texted him:
This night could not have gone better
Nat and I have a date set for next week
Steve texts him back:
Got you beat; me and Bucky are on for Sunday
Sam responds almost instantly:
Oh thank fucking GOD I was this close to locking you both in a closet
Steve doesn’t honor this with a response, just swings his legs back over his bike and kicks the engine to life. He shoots one last glance at Bucky’s house before heading down the road.
On the way home, he thinks about what he wants to do with Bucky on Sunday. Maybe they’ll catch a movie, fingers brushing as they share popcorn. Maybe Bucky will take him to another secret spot and keep unfolding the joys of his hometown to Steve. Maybe they’ll get burgers and Steve will get to witness up close as Bucky does his crinkle eyed laugh. It doesn’t matter; whatever the future may hold, Steve can’t wait to experience it with Bucky.