Look out for the New Pop Sensation: The Avengers!
The Avengers were just a nobody pop group a few years ago with less than one album on the racks, but their recent success has proved to millions of fans that hard work and dedication can really shoot you forward. Just look at them now! Tony Stark: lead singer and guitarist says it’s all thanks to an amazing team of dedicated fans and a love of music none of them could deny.
The band consists of Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff and Thor Odinson - perhaps a big group of people for only one band, but you have to agree they make the best music nowadays. Sold out in all fifty states, the Avengers go on tour next spring, starting in the hometown of guitarist and singer Steve Rogers; New York.
The band has been dubbed ‘the S Club Seven’ of the 2015 and will surely be around for years to come with this years ‘Avengers Assemble!’ hitting Number one in eleven different countries around the world and in all fifty states. The band has hundreds of fangirls (and boys) all over the world and the group say they will be releasing world tour dates at the end of their state tour next year.
For more information on the Avengers and their perfect career, subscribe to our blog and get all the latest top gossip on the group. Is Clint Barton really dating Natasha Romanoff? Is Tony the bad boy he makes himself out to be or just sweet on the band's manager: Pepper Pott’s? Find out the answer to these and so many more questions right here! Remember to like and reblog! Tour dates available in the link below (x)
It’s not that Bucky hates the Avengers. He’s got nothing against them as people. He doesn’t even know them as people, so it’s not like he even could have anything against them, even if he was a follower of their crazy fangirl cult (which he is not - one hundred percent not in their crazy fangirl cult because seriously those girls - and guys - are freakin’ scary. He’s ninety-nine percent certain that some of them have weird cult gatherings where they sacrifice good classic music to the accent music gods for their awful crazy pop group. He’s ninety-nine percent certain; that’s how crazy they are).
But he doesn’t hate them. Not in the traditional sense. His Ma always said ‘save words like hate and love for when you mean them’ and he always has. He’s never hated anyone he didn’t know well enough to make that judgment upon, not once in his life. He didn’t even hate the people who were shooting at him out there in Afghanistan, and he’d lost some close friends to those creeps as well as his left arm. His ideology always remained the same though: how could he hate them? He was certain he’d killed plenty of their friends as well.
So he doesn’t hate the Avengers, that’s not the problem - there’s not even really a problem at all. More of a weak annoyance, like a fly buzzing in your ear. It’s nothing at first - but it gets old pretty quickly - probably be easily solved by batting it away with your hand.
Problem is this fly just won’t go away.
He would just like to be able to go into one cafe without ‘Save the World’ being played through the sound system, lighting up the background of his world in a pattern of hard red spikes of irritation. He would just like to go into one supermarket where ‘Avengers Assemble’ isn’t bombarding him from the crappy white speakers knocked into the corners of the ceiling. He would just like to be able to tune into one radio station without ‘Asgard’ wrapping it’s catchy tune around the inside of his car.
It’s not that he hates the Avengers.
He just really really doesn’t like them.
He almost flipped out entirely when his niece got into them. He loves Becca’s kid to pieces, there’s no denying that, but the fact that she hums all their songs (mainly ‘the First Avenger’) like keeping up the tune is something necessary, like the notes hold the same necessity as breathing: well, he’s a damn good uncle not to threaten to leave the family if her mum doesn’t start teaching her not to get involved with bands like this - if she doesn’t learn some classic Nirvana sometime soon Bucky’s going to hit something (Not her, never her. Just something. He would say he’d go back and join his gym and take a few goes at the punching bags but hey guess what his gym likes to play through the sound speakers every. Fucking. Day.)
Each time he thinks they’ll fade away they don’t. Each time he thinks they’ll fizzle out of everyone's memories, guess what? They bring out some new, even catchier album that he’s forced to listen to over and over. It’s his own personal tormented hell and they’re the fire that keeps flaring up no matter how much water he pours over the flames (and he’s almost ninety-nine percent certain he can blame that on the raging fangirls who are sacrificing his favourite songs to the ancient music gods to keep these demons on earth).
Maybe he’s exaggerating.
The thing is that his life’s not exactly a picture perfect canopy right now, and it’s easier to take his frustration out on a crappy band than it is to actually deal with his problems.
Such is life.
Today’s the day though: he hasn’t heard one song by The Avengers - not on the radio on his drive to work, not in the supermarket he popped into to pick up some lunch, not in that awful coffee shop he’d ducked into on his break to find some form of fuel in that kind-of-maybe-coffee-stuff they sell dirt cheap.
Today he has not heard a single Avengers song once.
Today is a good day.
Correction: it was a good day. See reference: getting a good look at your ex snogging some dude from IT (IT - seriously? So fucking cliché) in the elevator.
He takes the stairs.
Still - no Avengers songs, he’s counting that as a good omen as he slips into his car.
He gets about halfway to his house when he realises that maybe - just maybe - he deserves some form of pick-me-up. His job at SHIELD is going okay, he’s finally stable enough to function as a regular human being, even with his amputated arm and yeah, maybe he’s going to have to go to VA meetings for the rest of his life, but he’s going to be okay. For a second he’s pretty goddamn proud of himself. Coffee from an actual nice coffee shop instead of the awfully crappy one in the midst of downtown Brooklyn sounds like the perfect way to treat himself (he’s always been a coffee junkie after all). He knows a place, it’s secluded, nice, full of warm smiles and even warmer drinks (mainly coffee. Lots and lots of coffee).
His good mood fades as soon as he walks through the door.
Super Soldier is playing just a little too loud through the speakers on the back wall. Super Soldier by The frickin’ Avengers.
Yep. His life sucks again.
He honestly considers walking out, but then again - that’d be a bit childish right? Walking out of a coffee shop just because his least favourite band in the whole world happens to be playing over the sound system? No. No. He’s going sit down and drink his goddamn coffee and then leave. He is not running away from a coffee shop because of a band. He is not running away from a band full stop.The song will be over soon.
Besides, he’s supposed to be feeling proud of himself. Horrible ex’s and crappy bands notwithstanding, Bucky can actually see an upturn in his life. He’s proud. And proudness is the kind of thing which deserves coffee even if the worst band in the world is playing over the speakers while you drink it.
Sitting down, he orders himself some coffee.
The song will be over soon.
The song is over soon. But it turns out they’re playing the whole album. Perfect.
His head thunks down on the table with a soft ‘bang’, a groan of frustration escaping his lips, all senses of pride slipping away like grains of sand through a clenched fist.
“Hey, you alright over there? You look rough.” he hears the voice but doesn’t register it. It’s far off, somewhere in someone else's world. A world without the stress of jackass ex’s, (kinda) awful jobs and probably their world even has two arms to help them through the day (not that he’s bitter). They’re not talking to him.
“Hello? Dude with awesome hair who just died in the middle of a coffee shop?” this time he’s paying more attention if only because the voice sounds...worried? Actually worried not fake stranger worried: not I-don’t-really-care-but-I’m-gonna-ask-so-the-world-doesn’t-see-me-as-a-bastard kind of worried but actually concerned. Bucky is also pretty sure he is the only person who can be described as dying right in the middle of a coffee shop and he does have pretty awesome hair - so the voice is most likely talking to him.
He takes a second to glance up, every muscle in his body moving slowly, aching after a long day of sitting at a computer desk and wondering why the hell he decided it was a good idea to leave the army and get a job working for the evil succubus's of hell he works for now. SHIELD isn’t that bad, to be fair, but watching Brock Rumlow kiss everything that moves is really getting old.
He glances around, long brown hair (that is apparently ‘awesome’) falling in front of his eyes as he does so, ever so slightly obscuring the view of the rather tall, rather attractive man sat in the booth next to his.
No, okay take that back, attractive is one hell of an understatement.
He looks like he possibly just walked out of some magazine: a lazy smile illuminating his face, full lips that look just a little too kissable for Bucky’s mental health right now, crystal blue eyes that are far too fucking bright to be legal staring across at him with a sort of mild worry.
“Uh…” his brain is so not connecting with his mouth right now. He’s too caught up on this dude who seems to be actually concerned for this wellbeing in the middle of a goddamn coffee shop with the Avengers playing over the speakers in that annoying upbeat fashion they have. And maybe he shouldn’t be staring but…. this dudes chest through - his chest is so broad, a freakin’ ocean or wasteland or something and for a second - a stupid, momentary lapse of judgment second - he aches to run his fingers over that tight fitting shirt - possibly under that tight fitting shirt and feel exactly what’s lying under there. He’s pretty sure it’s a million gazillion abs, he’s ninety nine percent certain that it’s a million gazillion abs.
The man's brow furrows even more at the lack of response, his lips forming a little frown that radiates protectiveness and worry and all the things normal people in New York do not extend to strangers. This guy is seemingly both hot and weird.
Although Bucky doesn’t actually think that he himself can quite comment on the weird thing. After all he is freaking out about some pop sensation like they’re some kind of prophesied end to the world and he is just staring at the rather hot guy holding a cup of coffee in his hands, hair so unstyled it looks like he’s spent ages on it and Bucky would be willing to bet all of his savings that he actually didn’t. Just born with naturally good looking messy hair.
Some people have all the luck.
“Can you hear me or-”
Bucky springs back into action, and what do you know, there’s a blush covering his cheeks. Perfect. He probably looks like some stupid teenager who just got their first whiff of hot. He’s not even trying to hide the fact that he’s staring, which probably comes across as pretty weird and pretty stalkerish.
“No, hey, sorry, it ain’t been the best of days,” Bucky offers a sad smile and the guy nods as if he completely understands and the thing is he actually looks like he does. It’s not fake-stranger-understanding. It’s actual empathy that covers the whole of that guys face. Bucky has to wonder if he actually knows he’s in New York at all, because most of the people around here do not act like Hot-Guy is with just anyone. Most people around here don’t act like this with friends, let alone strangers having mental breakdowns because of crappy catchy pop groups.
“I get it,” the Hot-Guy says and then all of a sudden he’s just sliding into the seat across from Bucky, just like that, as if they’ve know each other for years. “How about I buy you some cake to cheer you up, huh? My treat?” And then he fucking winks.
Bucky’s not sure this guy is even human. If he is human he’s very possibly blind because seriously, Bucky’s not exactly a looker. And sure, this isn’t exactly flirting but it’s pretty damn close, what with an added wink to boot. Bucky’s not even in the same league as the guy now sitting across the table from him. Bucky’s not even close. If these leagues were turned magically into some sort of sport, he wouldn’t even be able to watch the league Hot-Guy is in because the bouncers would kick him out before he got to even see at the actual game.
But he’s never said no to cake or hot guys. See reference: Brock Rumlow. Yeah, maybe he should be a little bit more careful with the people he sees as hot.
Still Hot-Guy doesn’t remind him a lick of Brock and he’s offering cake (which Brock never did). That’s a win win situation in Bucky’s books if ever he saw one. So he nods, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear.
The grin hot-guy offers him should be frikin’ illegal. He’s this close to contacting Nelson and Murdock and asking if he can fill out some and of complaint to make it illegal. The guy looks so happy to be buying a random stranger cake.
Yep, definitely a weird one.
Two minutes later hot-guy’s managed to flag down a waitress to bring over ‘some of her best cake madam’ (he called her madam for crying out loud. The guy radiates ‘mother's boy’ inside out) and now he’s sat there, tapping his finger against the table, looking over at Bucky with a little grin on his face like he’s the one who hit jackpot here and Bucky’s the lucky prize.
Bucky would like to repeat: this guy is: So. Fucking. Weird.
“So...you wanna talk about your bad day? Or at least why you felt the need to die in a coffee shop of all places?” the guy teases (flirts? Maybe flirts. Bucky wants to think it’s flirting, but he’s never been that lucky. See reference: one missing arm).
“It’s nothing, it’s stupid,” Bucky mutters, taking a futile bite of chocolate cake.
“I can do stupid,” the guy replies easily, “in fact, I’ve been called stupid more than a few times, myself.”
Bucky doesn’t doubt that, the guy’s being nice to a random stranger and bought said random stranger cake for no reason. In some people’s books that’s very stupid - again, not that he’s complaining. This chocolate cake is nice.
“It’s just...I just really hate that song,” Bucky admits, sheepish, eyes cast downwards.
Hot-Guy blinks, tilts his head to the side, and then laughs.
“Hey, it’s not funny!” Bucky protests, futilely trying to defend himself, “they follow me everywhere. They’re like my hell demons.”
“They?” Hot-Guy questions, obviously trying to stop giggling although he’s just as obviously failing miserably. If hot-guy wasn’t so obviously nice and so obviously hot Bucky might be tempted to hit him for it.
“The Avengers,” Bucky explains, groaning, fingers wracking through his hair (it’s always been a nervous tick of his), “they’re following me. I mean, they’re just so awful. It’s like they don’t even know what music is, you know? I just want to whack them over the head with an actual good album one day. Although hey, I don’t really want to be a murderer, they might die if they actually heard anything good. Melt like the wicked witch of the west or whatever.”
Hot-Guy’s got a sort of twinkle in his eyes, obviously finding this extremely funny - far funnier than he has any right to. It’s kind of adorable, but Bucky would die before he admitted it. He is not finding someone finding him funny adorable. No way. “You honestly think that they’re that bad?” Hot-Guy finally asks, getting his expression into something more controllable.
“Every damn song. Maybe they wouldn’t be so bad if they weren’t everywhere.” Bucky frowns, stabbing his cake with his fork a little more viciously than he might have had to.
“Awe, hey, come on, maybe they’ll be a big scandal soon or something. One of them will come out as being gay and thousands of upset teenage fans will hire assassins to kill them,” the blonde teases, and he’s still laughing but at least he’s being semi-kind about Bucky’s problem.
Bucky snorts, “we can only hope,” he says earnestly and the sly smile on the other man's face makes him feel like perhaps that was exactly the right thing to say.
They chat for a while, about other things. Hot-Guy is actually a lot of fun: add that to the list of weird, kind and understanding. He jokes with Bucky about his weird hate for popular bands, sympathises with Bucky over his job, doesn’t ask once about the arm (or the lack of) like every single other person Bucky’s met. He’s sweet and charming and maybe Bucky likes him a little more than he should.
After about an hour Hot-Guy apologises and says he has to go. Bucky’s honestly disappointed, or at least he would be, if Hot-Guy didn’t scribble down his number and hand it over just before he leaves. Bucky doesn’t even hear the Avengers music playing in the background as he makes a little whoop of victory (once Steve is safely out of the door and out of hearing distance) and puts the number into his phone.
From behind the counter Darcy - who Bucky knows mainly from her beautiful coffee and easy-to-joke-around-with attitude - laughs at him.
It’s only a few minutes before he realises he didn’t even get Hot-Guys name.
My niece won’t stop singing The Avengers. I’m going mad. Send help. Or possibly an ambulance - ninety-nine percent certain my ears are bleeding. JBB
When Bucky texts Hot-Guy the first time (he still doesn’t have a name, which sort-of embarrassingly means that Hot-Guy is just down as Hot-Guy on his contact list, something Bucky would be mortified if Hot-Guy actually found out about) he’s moaning about something again - and he honestly does not expect a reply at all. Which means he gets the shock of his life when Hot-Guy responds about ten seconds later.
Haha, that sucks, pal. How old is she? SR
SR. Bucky has initials now that aren’t just ‘HG’. That shouldn’t feel as big a victory as it does.
Ten. I love her to pieces, but I’m starting to rethink that: the Avengers have hypnotized her into their own personal slave. JBB
Bucky types out the message and hits send, foot tapping against the ground as he waits for a response. Again it comes around about ten seconds later (9 and a bit actually, but who’s counting?) and Bucky’s thrilled. He met a hot guy who bought him cake, sympathized with him and then gave him his number. And now they’re texting. Since when did he get lucky?
The Avengers conspiracy theory #1: their songs are just hypnosis and you’re the only one immune. SR
Yes. God, yes. Bucky loves this guy. Literally. Well, maybe not literally (‘save words like love and hate for when you mean them’ Bucky’s mother's voice sings in his head) but he’s certainly feeling a strong level of liking here.
We should start a club. The Avengers Hate Club: set on proving them to be demons of hell raised by angry cult fangirls. JBB
For a moment, he thinks he might have gone a bit too far. Bucky counts to twenty (one of the longest twenty seconds of his life) before he gets a response, somehow convincing himself that in that time, Hot-Guy totally decided Bucky was far too crazy and left to find some other sad fuck to buy cake for.
You’re a little odd, aren’t you? It’s a good job I like odd. I want to meet you again, I’m so glad you text me, I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t. We could meet up for the first Avengers Hate Club tomorrow - say over dinner? SR
Wait - wait, did Bucky just get asked out on a date by hot guy? Dinner certainly sounds like a date. The usual connotations of asking someone to dinner implies a date. Bucky swallows, heart pounding in his chest. His mind sways briefly to Brock: the last person he dated, also known solely as ‘the jackass’ and for a moment he almost types in a no. Because Brock- Brock was a lot of things, and none of them were trustworthy, even if it might have felt that way at the start.
What if Hot-Guy is just another Brock in disguise?
But no, he can’t be. Bucky would know (even if he hadn’t the first time). And besides, it’s not been specified as a date yet - it’s a club meeting. Over dinner. Which Bucky is totally not panicking about already (seriously, what is he going to wear?).
So he forces himself to type out a response and hopes it wasn’t too long a wait in between the texts for Hot-Guy to get it into his head that Bucky isn’t interested (like Bucky had done about ten seconds ago when Hot-Guy hadn’t texted him back for twenty seconds). Because he is. Extremely interested. He just doesn’t really want to get hurt again.
Bucky has a habit of getting himself hurt. Be it war or a bad choice in Boyfriends….he usually ends up getting hurt.
But Hot-Guy did buy him cake - it’s not exactly a recipe for hurt. More like a recipe for chocolate and cream.
I’d love to. Where and when? JBB
Pause in which Bucky’s holding his breath and then-
Meet me at the coffee shop we met at tomorrow night at 7:00 and I’ll walk you to my favourite restaurant. It’s a little Italian place (I know that’s cliche but I swear the food is worth it) you’re going to love it, I’m sure. SR
Bucky grins, heart pounding in his chest. Date or not date, he’s been thinking about Hot-Guy non-stop since he met the man and the man cheered him up with cake. He hopes they’ll be cake tonight along with Italian food (and maybe just a few kisses if he’s in any way lucky).
I wouldn’t miss it for the world. JBB
The ‘Avengers Hate Club’ is a total success.
Bucky meets Hot-guy exactly where he told Hot-Guy he would, and even though Bucky’s a whole fifteen minutes early (because apparently he’s that much of a dork and that egger) Hot Guy’s waiting for him when he gets there. He checks his watch just to make sure he didn’t accidently mess up the timings but it’s still saying quarter to seven and Bucky’s read that text enough times to know that they’re definitely meeting at seven. Definitely.
Hot-Guy came early. Just for him. (Bucky desperately tries really hard to not let himself think of the innuendo which clings to that thought like syrup. He might fail, just a little bit.)
It’s kind of a floaty feeling. Not once did Brock bother to show up early to any of their dates. In fact, Brock had a habit of leaving him waiting. And Brock had known him a hell of a lot longer than one encounter at a coffee shop and a string of texts.
Hot-Guy’s yet to leave him waiting (which really shouldn’t be a plus this early on. And he’s not counting the twenty seconds of waiting time he did for that text because that would totally be pushing it - that was not waiting. Twenty seconds is not waiting.)
Hot-Guy also brought flowers.
“You got me flowers?” Bucky can’t help but blurt as soon as he is standing beside him.
Hot-Guy chuckles, “isn’t that what you're supposed to do on annual Avengers Hate Club meetings?” he asks, all innocent wide blue eyes and just-sort-of-smirking-yet-vaguely-sincere smile. Taking a moment to examine Hot-Guy’s attire, Bucky finds himself swallowing away anxiety. The simple combination of a casual shirt and skinny jeans has absolutely no right looking so beautiful. Absolutely no right whatsoever.
Bucky may or may not be caught up on the word annual though. He’s almost certain this guy doesn’t mean once a year with that smirk/smile thing he’s wearing. At least he hopes the guy doesn’t mean once a year. Maybe once a week - or twice. After all, Bucky has a lot of hate (very strong dislike, his mother’s voice reminds him in his head) for these Avengers fellows, which means a lot of ranting, and a lot of seeing Hot-Guy. Hopefully.
Bucky smiles - both at his own thoughts and at the beautiful bouquet of flowers Hot-Guy is holding in his hands (red, white and blue - for once Bucky finds himself actually liking the Avengers theme colours, even if he knows the colouring is a total inside joke) and it’s soft, his smile, not like the usual expression he wears behind a smile a hard edge that he gained from living through the army, the war, and all the shit that followed, “thank you,” he says finally, taking the flowers from Hot-Guy in his hand. It leaves him with no hand to reach forward and take Hot-Guy’s hand with - but he’s not entirely sure that Hot-Guy would want to hold his hand anyway. Even if he brought Bucky flowers, it’s not like hot guy actually thinks Bucky’s hot as well, right?
Blinking, Bucky takes a second to force himself to realise how ludicrous it is that he’s getting wound up about holding this guy’s hand. Holding a hand should not put him in this much stress. Holding a hand should not put him in any stress whatsoever. And it’s not stress, it really isn’t - at least the handholding thing isn’t the stress. The stress is hidden within the fear of rejection.
Bucky may or may not be a twelve year old child who needs to grow up.
“So, Avengers Hate Club meetings? You got nothing better to do with your Thursday evening?” Bucky asks absently as they start walking.
“Not much,” Hot-Guy grins a little lopsidedly, and Bucky mind, strangely enough, pulls up the loopy face of a golden retriever puppy - “I usually just hang out with the ba- friends. I usually just hang out with my friends.”
Bucky cocks his head a little, about to ask what Hot-Guy was about to say (the bad guy? the backstreet boys? The what?) before he catches the terrified look on Hot-Guy’s face. Bucky frowns a little but then shrugs. It’s not like he’ll lose much sleep over a little mess up of words. He can’t read anything past happiness to be here in Hot-Guy’s gaze (the brief look of terror passing over so quickly Bucky’s not entirely sure he didn’t imagine it) so he’s at least ninety nine percent sure that it isn’t something to do with rejecting Bucky - not yet at least. It’s not going to ruin his life. It’s not like ‘ba’ can lead anywhere close to ‘boyfriend’ unless you have a really strange accent. Wrong vowel second letter, Bucky’s safe as can be.
And, unsurprisingly, it really doesn’t ruin his night (mainly because he’s forgotten all about it about five minutes later when Hot-Guy’s halfway through a story about himself, his friend Dumdum and some stupid bowler hat a kid stole from down the road, describing every part of their adventure to retrieve the stolen clothing). It doesn’t feel like anything could ruin a night like this.
Avengers Hate Club is officially his new favourite thing.
The restaurant is small and sweet, the kind you see in Hollywood movies that Bucky has always been ninety-nine percent sure don't exist in real life - that is until Hot-Guy brings him right through the front door of one. Candles furnish every table, violins play dutifully through the speakers and that soft romantic glow of many vacated tables, leaving the illusion of intimacy and privacy.
The waiter who serves them clearly knows Hot-Guy. He greets him courteously, leading him to one of the tables near the back of the room. The waiter offers them wine, and Bucky sort of shakes his head absently, causing Hot-Guy to snort a little and ask for ‘two of your finest beers please good sir’.
The waiter looks at Hot-Guy like he’s very well gone mad but accepts the order and walks away.
Bucky has to hide the snort of laughter behind his hand, something he fails at. Awfully.
“So, you’re not a wine guy?” Hot-Guy asks as soon as the (rather disgusted) waiter is safely gone and out of earshot, leaning his hands on the table, body leant ever so slightly forward, as if he’s hanging onto Bucky’s every word, is desperate to hear the answer that may flow from Bucky’s lips.
“Definitely not. Me being a wine guy would imply me actually liking the taste of washing up liquid in my mouth,” Bucky throws back. Honestly, he hates the stuff. Red? White? All of it tastes no better than bitter cheap washing up liquid to Bucky’s taste buds. He has no idea how someone could actually drink that stuff and come out at the end with a happy experience seared into their memories.
Hot-Guy laughs a little. It’s a beautiful sound. Bucky would like to hear it more, if he can.
He really hopes he can.
So Bucky tags on lightly, “plus the Avengers probably drink it.”
As he hopes, it gets even more of a laugh plucked from the (kissable) lips Hot-Guy has managed to quirk into a smile.
“So, Avengers Hate Club? What’s first on the agenda?” Hot-Guy sounds like a little kid. He’s leaning forward in his chair, like he’s on the edge of his seat.
Like he cares about what Bucky has to say.
It’s been a long while since someone who wasn’t family cares about what Bucky has to say.
“The first on the agenda is roles. I honestly think I should be leader. I bet you used to listen to that crap before I freed you from their hypno musical words,” Bucky’s words are light, teasing. He feels like a kid again, in some stupid club.
He supposes they’re both acting like kids. It’s rather relaxing. It feels like he hasn’t acted like a kid in years - even when he was a kid, he always wanted to be older, he never looked around long enough to realise the best years of his life were passing him by without his consent
“Ah, yes, okay, mighty leader - does that mean I get to be the treasurer?” Hot-Guy asks, voice managing to sound both humble and teasing.
“Ah, ah, ah, no way.” Bucky shakes a finger at him, “I control the money. You can be...the founder. Seen as you suggested all this.”
Hot-Guy pouts, “that’s a lame job.”
“Live with it,” Bucky tosses back.
“I only decided to ask you to set this up because I wanted to go on a date with you. This fonder business doesn’t really seem to fit that idea,” Hot-Guy points out.
Bucky’s heart almost stops beating in his chest.
This is a date. It’s Hot-Guy asking him out on a date - nope, nope it’s Hot-Guy taking him on a date and disguising it as a club. A little kiddy Avengers Hate Club which is either the most twelve-year-old thing he’s heard in years or it's the cutest. Maybe both.
He’s on a date with Hot-Guy and honestly, he’s got no idea how he got so lucky but hey, if the world's willing to give him a gift, he’s not about to look at it too closely. At least not yet. Maybe this is another Brock, but Hot-Guy doesn’t seem like a Brock he seems like a….John. Or a Jason or something solid and strong sounding. The kind of guy who wouldn’t, in a million years try and cause you heartache.
“You’re still the founder,” Bucky decides finally, “and don’t try and argue with me on it. You’re very much the founder.”
Hot-Guy laughs again but doesn’t say anything more on the matter. Bucky takes that as yes. He’s definitely making Hot-Guy a badge that has founder written on it, there is absolutely no way he’s not doing that.
And so the night continues.
Hot-Guy is sweet, funny and all round amazing. He makes Bucky laugh way more than is most likely healthy and makes him forget all about the troubles in his life.
When Hot-Guy finally leaves, he kisses Bucky’s cheek and says he’ll text him tomorrow to discuss the next Avengers Hate Club meeting, the flowers are back in Bucky’s hand and he’s very sure he’s just had the best night of his life in a long time. Hot guy, flowers, Avengers hating testimonies (very strongly dislike, his mother's voice reminds him again). What could go wrong with this?