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Steve was getting too old for this.
It was one thing to wake up voluntarily at five every morning to go on a run, Steve thought to himself, but quite another to pass out at five, the taste of liquor and beer still on his taste buds.
The alarm clock ringed in his ears relentlessly. A dog's bark cut through Steve's bones and resonated in his skull. His head was throbbing. An han reached out to stop the screeching coming from the nightstand. Right now he felt really fucking grateful to not have bought that chase-after-it-to-stop-it-thing. Finally turned off, the dog whined and slobbered all over his hand.
Steve opened one eye slowly and regretted it immediately. It was too bright in his bedroom, the curtains mocking him from where they hung uncooperatively beside the floor-length windows, doing exactly nothing to keep the warm sunlight out. The air in the room was stale and smelled of sweat, alcohol and wet dog (what the fuck?!). Disgusting, that's what it was. It made him want to be sick. Instead, Steve groaned and got up at a speed that made every sloth his rightful competitor.
“C'mon Dodger.” Steve rasped, patting his thigh to signal his four-legged buddy to follow him. Steve's boxers had been riding their way up through the few hours of slumber and now rested uncomfortably around his hips. He pulled them off while stumbling into the kitchen blindly, banging his toe on the door frame on his way in.
“Ouch, fuck!” Steve hissed, and in his hungover state it was like his life flashed before his eyes.
Steve had moved to Manhattan when he had been twenty-three and fresh out of art school, the ink on his diploma still drying. His best girl Peggy had needed help at her Nightclub Nine. She had had to be with her family at the time, so he pretty much took over the place. Skip forward six years and that's when Peggy had told him she was thinking about opening another club over in Brooklyn. There was no denying that he had wanted to go back home. Six years was enough to realize that he might not have made good use of his diploma yet, but he enjoyed his work and it payed the bills.
So Peggy had handed over almost all responsibility of project One to him and he'd moved back home, back to Brooklyn. Spending months and months supervising construction work, decorating marathons and staff recruitment events. The club was still technically Peggy's baby though, and she insisted on taking the lead on the opening night. So Steve got to have... fun. And way too much alcohol.
Today was not going to be his day.
Hobbling towards the cupboards, the blond retrieved some Aspirin and a glass. His hands moved mechanically as he poured Dodger the breakfast ration of his dog food. The Viszla chewed happily, unaware of his human's struggles. The fridge door opened, but to Steve's dismay there was nothing actually edible in it, despite a tub of mustard maybe. Appetizing. He downed the ice cold tap water on his way to the bathroom. The hamper was overflowing and that was an understatement. There were scattered items of clothing on the floor tiles and in the bathtub. They were screaming at him to take them to the laundromat around the corner. The washing machine had broken down weeks ago. He'd have to do that later. But not right now. There was too much to be done. He needed to check the online reviews of the opening, go through the paper work, call Peggy and get some fucking coffee first. He still felt a bit queasy and the headache just wouldn't subside.
But first; clothes. Smelling a pair of jeans that he had grabbed from a chair beside his bed proved them to be wearable enough. There was only one clean shirt remaining in his dresser and that was a low-cut tank top that he put on without thinking about it. Tossing a worn-out jacket over it and grabbing his keys, wallet and phone, he was ready to go. Steve spared one look into the mirror and actually somewhat approved of his appearance. His facial hair could do with some grooming, sure, but he only had to run a hand through his hair a few times to flatten the spikes.
“Dodger! Good boy, let's go.” No matter how unwell Steve felt, the dog never failed to put a smile on his face. He put him on a leash and closed the door behind him.
The One was only a few blocks over, which gave Dodger and him the perfect excuse to take a walk. Peggy had sent him a four minute voice memo that he listened to as he maneuvered through the crowds of people.
Steve, darling. I hope you got home okay. Last time I saw you was around three and you seemed quite a bit intoxicated, I might say. That's okay, though. The last guests left at around half past six, so now it's just Sharon and me cleaning everything up. You don't have to hurry, everything is just fine. The night was rather a success, honey. I'm real glad, though not surprised. You did a great job. I'm sure you'll continue to outdo yourself on this one.
Steve, I cannot thank you enough. For everything you have done for me and the business. For being a great friend. You're my rock. I hope- I hope you are as happy as I am, Steve. And not just with your work. You know. You seemed to have had quite a dashing time with that girl last night, did you take her home? Well now, that is none of my business, of course. I sort of hope you did, though. Anyway, I am rambling. My train leaves at nine sharp, so I'm afraid we don't get to see each other before I depart, but I'll be back soon. Okay. That's it. Bye!
Steve huffed a laugh and put his phone away. Of course he had not taken the girl home. That wouldn't have been right in his state. Or hers, really.
Hearing Peggy's reassuring words was nice, but he was just too tired to answer her yet. Coffee first.
There was a Starbucks across the street that he had never set foot in before, mainly because he almost always made sure to have enough coffee at home, and Steve went in and stood in line studying the list of fancy drinks. He just wanted coffee. Strong, hot, perfect coffee.
“Hi, what'll you have?” a deep, friendly voice asked. Steve answered with his eyes still on the menu.
“Uh, a tall triple-shot mocha to go, please.” he managed to get out, opening his wallet and handing over enough money to cover the coffee.
“And what's your name?”
“Steve.” The guy scribbled something down on the cup in his hands and then took his money.
Steve held onto Dodger's leash tightly in the crowded coffee house, distractedly thanking the barista and putting the change into the tip jar.
There was one text from Sam in his inbox that he answered while his cup was being pushed over to the redhead behind the fancy looking coffee maker. Steve's eyes felt heavy and he couldn't help yawning obscenely, only barely managing to cover his wide agape mouth with the back of his hand. The older woman with the stern look and teacher-glasses next to him in line (waiting for a Vanilla Latte with soy milk, no whipped cream and only one pump syrup – why had he memorized her order?!) shot him a displeased look. Her daughter, or what would have certainly qualified as such, licked her lips glancing over his body and Steve nodded in their general direction with a tired, apologetic smile.
He let his gaze wander around, the smell of coffee already making him more alert.
The redhead with the looks to kill worked the machinery effortlessly while chatting with her colleagues quietly, the beginning of a smirk in one corner of her lips. She looked over to Steve just then, her lips twitching, before her head whipped around and she said something under her breath to the guy who had taken his order. Who was now over at the sink washing his hands. From what Steve could make out his cheeks were slightly flushed. He didn't think any of it; the hot coffee and all.
Then he turned around and Steve took his sight in properly. The guy behind the counter – James, his name tag proclaimed - was around his age, maybe one or two years older, but a few inches shorter. A subtle stubble on his face and dark hair long enough that it would have fallen into his face, had he not gelled it back stylishly. Positively adorable. Kind of hot, really hot.
“There ya go, Steve. One caffeine-induced coma in a cup. Have a nice day!” James smiled impishly, snatching Steve's cup from the redhead's hands and placing it in front of him, the Starbucks emblem facing the blond.
“I'll see how it goes. Thanks. To you too, James.” taking a risk, he winked at him, raising his cup of strong, hot coffee in a lazy salute.
He thought he might have heard the redhead cooing as he left, but he was too busy enjoying the caffeine pulsating through his veins to pay it any mind.
***
Steve unlocked the One, let himself in and the dog loose in his office. The coffee had lasted the short way up without getting cold. Steve took his time draining the liquid, sighing happily in appreciation. Maybe he'd make his way over to that place more frequently now. He put the cup down for the first time since picking it up to open his E-mails, when something caught his eye. Picking the cup right back up he inspected it. Untidy letters spelled out Captain Steve on the side of it. For a moment, Steve was confused. Captain? What the hell? He hadn't served, he'd never – believe it or not – actually set foot on a boat in his life. It didn't make any sense.
Only then it did.
Subconsciously looking down on himself he belatedly took notice of the red, white and blue symbol on the shirt he'd grabbed from his dresser. The Captain America shirt he'd had for ages, ever since he'd been introduced to the world of comics and Super-Soldier Captain America. Back when he'd given drawing comic panels a chance. It seemed like decades ago now; the shirt having transitioned from t-shirt to top, a few tiny holes decorating the seam.
Steve found himself smiling, although he didn't really know why. It didn't mean anything. So this James fella read comics, big deal. It was easy enough to interpret something into his actions, but with Steve's luck that guy was straight as an arrow. Yet, he found himself reliving their encounter. James had been well built, his thin black sweater hugging his muscular torso just so. Nice features, strong jawline. Dark hair and gray eyes staring out at him. And that smile. That definitely promised trouble.
Shaking his head Steve drained the last of the coffee and put the cup down beside his desktop.
Time to get working.
Only that stupid smile wouldn't leave his face.
Oh, but he'd definitely go back to get some more coffee.
***
Ridiculous, that's what this was. Nobody should put so much effort into their looks just to get the approval of a barista. (Or maybe the phone number. Or both.) And yet, here he was. Wearing a light gray smedium, tight-fitting jeans and a soft brown leather jacket on top. Hair styled up and beard trimmed neatly, he looked a lot more on top of his game than the last time he'd been to Starbucks.
He was nervous. About coffee, obviously.
Steve stepped through the doors and scanned the room, a smile appearing on his lips when he found the cute barista and his red-headed coworker standing behind the counter, counting money. It wasn't quite as crowded as the last time, so he didn't have to wait long.
He wasn't sure if it was his imagination playing tricks on him, but he thought to see James' expression shift from confused to giddy to collected within a second.
“Oh no! Did you eat the dog in your coma? Shame, he was real cute.”
Steve laughed. “No, no, don't worry. He's safe and sound. Promise.”
James nodded approvingly. “That's good to know. Anyway, what's it gonna be today?” James smiled at him contently, a pen already in his hand.
Steve envied the person that got to see him smile like that every day. Because someone this cute just had to be taken, right? Too bad. Still; nobody ever said something about a harmless enough flirt. He'd never pursue anyone in a relationship like that, he had manners. And momma had raised him better than that.
“I'd like a tall iced Americano to go." Steve grinned and pulled his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. Inwardly, he high-fived himself for the innuendo. James looked at him incredulously, then laughed.
When Steve got the money out and looked back up, James was staring down at a cup while writing on it with black marker, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Although, you know what? Don't make it iced, please. I'd rather take out something hot.”
James let his eyes shift and roam over his customer's physique, then looked Steve in the eyes. James' were gray like the sky on a stormy day, with just a tinge of the lightest blue. Steve was positive he would never get the color right on them, should he ever paint them.
(Sketches were easy. Black and gray. No color. No eyes to get lost in. Just streaks of pencil, jutted and smeared and just not right. Maybe he was creepy. Maybe he behaved like a school girl. And maybe he didn't really fucking care at all about any of that.)
“Well, who wouldn't want a tall hot Americano to take out, right, Steve?” Now, see, that? Totally flirting. Steve bit his lip to keep from smiling. And while half of his brain got out party hats and confetti (he even remembered the name, yay!!), the other half panicked and left him standing there dumbfounded for just a second too long.
The redhead peeked over James' shoulder, raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow and elbowed him into the side softly enough to let it pass as accidental in the tight space behind the counter. The lopsided smirk returned on her lips as she rolled her eyes and took the cup from his hands, getting started on brewing the Espresso.
“Ugh, yeah right.” Nailed it. Steve groaned inwardly and wanted to either smack his head against a wall repeatedly or descend into the underworld beneath his feet. Top notch reply, Steve. He handed the money over, again putting the change into the tip jar and ran a hand through his carefully tousled hair and down his face.
“So, Steve” James smiled at him, making sure there were no more customers to attend to and then resting an elbow on the coffee machine and his head on his hand. A stray hair fell into his face. Steve wanted to reach out and swipe it behind his ear, but stopped himself in time. “Where're you taking your hot Americano?”
He groaned. “Not where I would like to take it.” Apologetic smile, looking up at the barista from under his lashes.
“And where would that be?” Smirking, biting his lip. Yeah, they were so not talking about coffee anymore, were they? Steve's stomach clenched pleasantly. Well, two could play at this game. He licked his lips slowly and peered up into James' eyes.
“Home.”
The redhead put a cup of coffee down on the counter with a loud clank and shoved it right in front of her coworker, an unreadable expression on her face as she glanced from James to Steve and turned around to rinse a measuring cup. James picked the cup up and pushed it into Steve's hand.
“Take care, Steve.” James said, tapping the lid twice. Their fingers touched for the briefest moment, leaving Steve's skin tingling in surprise.
“You too, James.”
As he left, he peered back over his shoulder, but James wasn't looking at him. Already lost in conversation with the redhead, he swatted her hand away from his face and turned to face another customer.
Steve checked the cup as soon as he was out the doors and was pleasantly surprised to find a little something on it. There was no name written on the cup, instead the same sloppy handwriting as the last time proclaimed a secret message with an arrow pointing towards the bottom of the cup, where some printed words have been blacked out, so that it said Careful, the beverage you're about to enjoy is extremely hot.
Steve snorted happily. Maybe he'd actually have a shot at this.
***
Saturday nights were The Worst. Capital letters and all. Though this time, everything started off perfectly enough; Jessica and T'Challa secured the doors to make sure no-one too intoxicated or inappropriately dressed made it into the club. Luke and Clint stocked another hundred shot glasses behind the bar. The dancers were in position as well and Peter Quill, Steve's favorite DJ, was already behind the turntables. The music blasted through the speakers loud enough to enjoy it, but not too loud to leave hearing impairments. The crowd filled in. People danced. Got wasted. Made out on the dance floor. Spilled liquor. Threw their hearts up all over the bathroom stalls. But as weekend nights went, something big was bound to go to shit. Tonight it was one of the overhead lights overheating, smoke slowly infiltrating the already foggy air. Steve hated the smell of those fog machines; it reminded him of strawberry vomit. No clue why people seemed to like it, but he'd begrudgingly accepted that fog machines were a necessary evil in this business.
Getting someone to come in and repair that thing before Monday however was practically impossible. But so was turning the overhead light off; it was crucial to the light concept of the room. Fuck.
So he did what he disliked to do and called his friend Tony, who spent his free nights either mingling with fancy rich people or working on some possibly-dangerous robotics in his lab. Tony got there within fifteen minutes and demanded someone bring him a ladder, a scotch and ear plugs, before even putting his car into park. He was quite the handful.
But since neither of the staff could abandon their posts long enough to tend to his wishes, Steve took the fall and stayed the night. (Dodger would hate him in the morning, that was for sure.)
Steve was putting every screwdriver and lose screw away when Tony had repaired the light and taken off without any further adieu. His shirt was pretty much soaked from both running around like a headless hen and standing too close to the lights. He ran a hand over his forehead to catch the beads of sweat accumulated at his eyebrows. A shower sounded magnificent right now. Maybe a beer. Heading towards the bar to wish everyone a good night, he felt a hand wrap around his wrist from behind. His first instinct was to fight it off. But then he heard the laughing and the familiar voice cutting through the air.
“It's Captain America!” That did put a smile on his lips. Lifting his eyebrows he turned around to muster the man in front of him. Drunk off his ass, a glass (possibly Jager-Coke) in his free hand, eyes glassy and a bright smile on his lips. His sweaty hand slipped from his wrist, but took hold of his hand. He intertwined their fingers. Steve let it happen, curious as to what would come next. His response, of course, first of all.
“Just Steve is fine. Hi, James.”
“I didn't expect to see you here!”
“Well, this is my club so I'm here most nights.”
James eyes nearly bulged out of his head.“Wait, this is yours? That's amazing. Good place. We're having such a great night, we're- Tasha and I, I mean, we're- Tasha?” he whipped his head around to look for someone and pointed his half-full glass at someone at the bar. “That's her, that's Natasha. She's busy right now though, I'll introduce you two a later time.” he mumbled naturally.
A later time. Steve liked the sound of that.
Steve recognized his red-headed coworker at the bar, Clint pouring a shot of Vodka for her. The two were conversing animatedly. A tug on his hand pulled him out of his observations. “That's not the point, though.”
Steel gray eyes were looking at him. Through him, really and Steve felt himself swallow. The way James slowly licked his lips and bit down on the bottom one, his eyes either unfocused or focused entirely on the blond's own lips was no fair. James nodded absentmindedly, before speaking up again. “The point is, that you're here and I'm here, though I'm really drunk, sorry. But I just gotta get this off my chest.” He pulled his eyebrows in, thinking. Steve stood there dumbfounded, again, mouth dry and heart racing in his chest. “And I'm kind of really hoping you're not straight 'cause I'm way too drunk to defend myself properly in a fight. I don't wanna fight with you, Steve, I want... Listen, I don't know you, I know, but I want to, so I want to take you on a date. If- if you'd like, that is. Maybe, maybe you'd like Coney or... Prospect, I don't know. I don't know what you like, but the thing is, I'd really like to find out. You work weekends, so I guess Monday should work. If you want. So what'd you say?”
Fuck yes. James looked so hopeful and shy and perfect, worrying his bottom lip and staring up at the other man from under his lashes. Steve reached out with his free hand and swiped that ever present lock of stray hair out of his face. “I'd like that, James. How's six o'clock on Monday?”
James grinned. Nodding, he exclaimed: “Six is good!”
“Okay. So Monday, you and me. Six o'clock on the dot. Don't you dare be late.” Steve squeezed his fingers gently. He knew he was smiling like an idiot, but he couldn't help it. He felt like a giddy teen again.
“I'll be there.” James promised, just before Natasha slung an arm around his shoulders. Which she could only really pull off because she was wearing insane heels, Steve noticed. James let go of his hand then, and his fingers felt cold at the sudden loss.
“Time to go, Bucky.” she said quietly, taking the glass out of James' hand and downing it. She put the empty glass on the bar. Then she looked at Steve, holding her hand out. He took it and shook it firmly. “Hi Steve. I'm Nat. Sorry I didn't get a chance to introduce myself earlier. Bucky and I are heading home now. Guess I'll be seeing you around sometime?”
Steve nodded. “Bucky?” he asked curiously.
“You'll find out.” she promised, patting James on the back.
And wasn't that something to look forward to.
***
“Bucky, heart-eye emoji alert!” Natasha smiled at Steve sweetly. A second later James came into view, drying his hands on a towel.
“Jesus Nat you couldn't've said that any louder, could y-” When his gaze fell upon Steve, he froze visibly. His eyes went almost comically huge for a second there. That probably meant he remembered. Good? “Morning, Stevie.”
Stevie.
“Hey. I hope you're still up for tonight, 'cause otherwise this might become very awkward in a second. I just realized I have no idea where you wanted to meet.” Steve bit down on his lip to hide a smile.
James brightened visibly. “Pick me up here at six?” he smiled “That means you're still coming, right? Look, I'm really sorry for what happened the oth-”
“Nah, it's all good. Don't worry. I'll pick you up at six.” he noticed Natasha's interest in the conversation and turned to her. “Will I have to put up with you chaperoning?”
Natasha's perpetual smirk widened in response and she turned to him with wide, questioning eyes. “You'd let me do that?”
“Tasha!” James screeched at the same time Steve said: “No, frankly, I would not.”
Natasha laughed at the both of them.
***
Six o'clock rolled around sooner than expected. Steve had spent half an hour in front of his now clean clothes and contemplated what to wear, before he happened to look at the alarm clock on his nightstand. Fuck, he was going to be late. In a blind panic he quickly showered and threw on a blue sweater and black jeans. Done. Easy.
Now he was looking at James waiting in front of his workplace, looking like God had had a field day with him, facing the other direction with a frown.
“Hey. Not bailing out on me at the last second, are you?” Steve joked as he approached.
“Are you kidding? I thought you might stand me up.”
“I'm only two minutes late.”
“That's two too many.”
Steve grinned sheepishly, a hand in his hair. “Sorry.”
“I find it in me to forgive you. You're lucky you're cute, though.”
“You're a jerk.” Steve laughed. Biting his lips, he took James' hand and tugged at it. “What now?”
“Punk. Okay, so don't laugh. I had this whole thing planned, but there's supposed to be a thunderstorm.” the wind had indeed already picked up “So I'm gonna go with Plan B here.”
Apparently, Plan B included pizza and beer, a film and Mario Kart on James Barnes' (thanks, name tag on the door) couch. Day turned into night and they didn't hate each other yet. Far from it, Steve found he really liked James. He had a great personality; passionate and kind and funny. The looks were only the cherry on top.
“So. Natasha called you Bucky the other night.” Steve pointed out eventually, an arm around Bucky's body where they had ended up cuddling on the couch. A Netflix documentary was on, but they didn't really pay attention to it.
“Did she.”
“She did indeed. Why'd she do it?”
James bit his lip (and damn, that was so distracting, all Steve wanted to do was to kiss them), a blush creeping into his cheeks. “Probably 'cause that's my name.”
“How do you get Bucky out of James?” Steve asked incredulously.
“You don't. But way back when, my friends in school got Bucky out of Buchanan. James Buchanan Barnes. It stuck.”
Steve hummed, thinking about the new information. “Bucky Barnes. I kinda like that.”
***
Steve took Bucky to Prospect three days later. They fed the ducks, ate hot dogs and ice cream until their stomachs hurt. They ended up stargazing, when the night rolled around, but neither of them wanted to end the night just yet. Steve eventually took Bucky home on his Harley, the promise of more lingering with Bucky's arms around his waist.
Since it was still warm out, with August just around the corner, they went berry picking with Natasha and Clint. In the end, the only one who actually ate any of the wild berries was Clint, because neither of the others trusted that they weren't poisonous.
So they ended up walking through a pick-your-own strawberry field, where the fruit was 100% guaranteed to be non-poisonous and stuffed their faces.
The activity also had the upside of Bucky bending down to pick a berry quite a lot, which meant Steve got to check out his backside uninterruptedly.
Sometime, Steve picked up a big, beautifully red strawberry.
“Give me that!” Bucky demanded upon seeing it.
Steve stared at him. “Get your own, maybe? I don't know if you've noticed it, but we're surrounded by 'em.”
Bucky shook his head, launching forward and taking hold of Steve's wrist. “No, but I want that one.”
Steve just stared at him. But, damn, he could feel his resolve crumbling under Bucky's impressive pout. He was already so gone on the cute barista, he'd give him everything he wanted.
“Please.” Bucky beckoned. “Please, Stevie.”
Sighing, Steve raised his hand and held out the strawberry. Instead of taking it in his hand, Bucky checked back with Steve and bit a piece off of it. Strawberry juice trickled down his chin. Bucky closed his eyes and moaned in delight at the taste.
“Any good?” Steve asked, voice thick with emotions bubbling through him. The red liquid left a sticky path behind on his lips, which looked so damn kissable right now.
Bucky hummed, eyes opening slowly. “That was so good.” he said, taking a step closer. Steve couldn't think straight with the barista looking up at him like that.
“You got a little...” he trailed off, wiping a droplet from the corner of Bucky's mouth.
He didn't know who leaned in first. All he knew was that one second Bucky's hands were on Steve's hips and Steve's were tangled in Bucky's luscious hair and then they were kissing. Lips moving ever so slowly, the kiss sweet and gentle. Bucky pulled away first, resting his forehead against Steve's. He licked his lips trying to savor the sweet taste.
“Well, that was even better.” James smirked unabashedly, taking the blond's hand in his own.
“You two are adorable.” despite the words, Natasha's voice was nothing but dry. “Clint agrees.” she said over her shoulder as she passed the two where they were blocking the way. When James gave her a shove, she moved away pretending to gag.
