Steve was going to go in to the building. Honestly, he was. He was just working himself up to it. Catching his breath. Gathering his thoughts. Admiring the architecture.
He stood in front of Shield studios lot, the guard at the gate eyeing him warily, with his portfolio clutched in white-knuckled fingers.
"I knew it," Sam said from behind him.
Steve was too preoccupied to be startled at Sam sneaking up on him, but not enough to not be annoyed.
"I'm going to go in," he said, scowling at his friend and roommate.
"So why aren't you in already?"
"I'm catching my breath," Steve said defensively. "Gathering my thoughts—"
"Admiring the architecture?" Sam finished. Steve scowled deeper. "Imma drag your useless ass inside if you don't start moving right now."
Steve could just picture it, so he finally moved up to the guard's booth.
"I'm here to see Mr. Fury," he said.
"Steve Rogers?"
Steve nodded, and tried to listen to the guard's directions on how to reach the costume department, but the gate was opening, and he was out of excuses.
Steve was generally a pretty confident person. Once he'd turned 17 and shot up and out like a bad weed with a six pack, he hadn't had much reason not to be. Sure, he still harbored some of the social anxiety that went with being a scrawny, sickly kid in high school, but mostly he'd gotten past all that.
The thing was, he really really really wanted this job. Like, really. Designing costumes for Shield studios under Nick Fury would be a dream come true. The man had won two Oscars for costume design and was a Hollywood legend. If it turned out working on films wasn't Steve's thing, he could go back to theater after a year or so, but so many more doors would be open to him after the experience. No show on Broadway would be too big.
The pressure that knowledge put on this interview was immense.
Steve stopped, realizing he'd been walking while deep in thought and now had no idea where he was. The corridor was abandoned. There was a door up to the right, but it was locked. He heard voices coming toward him and spun a tight, panic-induced 360, but there was nowhere to go. So he leaned his back against the wall and tried to look casual.
"OK, see ya, Bruce," one voice said, and one set of footsteps continued toward him and rounded the corner.
"Hey," a man said, then stopped. "You don't look so good, you need a bucket or something?"
"Huh, what? No, I'm fine," Steve said hurriedly. Obviously he hadn't done as good of a job at looking casual as he'd hoped. He must've looked rather sick. That would go over real well in an interview, along with being late.
Steve's brain finally caught up with his eyes and he realized the cute brunette he was staring at James goddamn Barnes, who was looking at him with concern.
"You sure? Can I help you find something?" His hair fell just below his ears, and he had the top half pulled back. It was very distracting.
"I, uh," Steve stammered, when one corner of James's mouth turned up. God, he was making a fool of himself. "I have an interview with Mr. Fury?" It came out as a question, and Steve wanted to punch himself in the face.
"Saint Nick?" James said with a smile. "Don't be so nervous, the guy's a puppy dog. He sounds terrifying, and he's a hard ass at first, but say something about chiffon and he'll be putty in your hands."
Steve let out a breath and offered a small grateful smile. "Thanks."
"And you're like, in the complete opposite direction of wardrobe," James said apologetically, with a smile.
Steve had to laugh at that. "I'm afraid I didn't pay much attention to the directions at the gate."
"No problem, I'll take you," James said, starting off back the way Steve had come. Steve fell in step next to him and tried not to trip over himself. He wondered what James was doing for Shield studios. They always had a million and two projects going. He was sure he wouldn't have the good (bad?) luck to be working on the same project as him.
He'd seen James in a few indie movies over the past few years, and Hollywood was just starting to pick up on his talent. Steve was comfortable enough with himself to admit he'd harbored a little bit of crush on him since seeing him on screen the first time. In fact, that was when he first began to understand and accept his bisexuality.
And now Steve was walking next to him. Talking to him.
Well, listening to him.
Well, sort of.
"Sorry?" Steve prompted, when James was looking at him with raised eyebrows, as if he'd just asked him a question.
James smiled apologetically again, like he knew Steve was a little star struck. "I asked how long you'd been in costume design?"
"Oh, I've been working at little theaters here and there for about five years now. I went to school for fine art, but took an internship doing costumes for Othello, and fell in love."
James looked genuinely interested in his background, and Steve felt the blush that had been present for the past ten minutes intensify. He was trying to sneak discreet glances to the man on his right without outright staring, and thought he was doing rather a good job of it.
James was wearing jeans low on his hips with grey converse shoes and a long-sleeved button down shirt in blue and green plaid. He'd rolled the sleeves up to his elbow, and there was black and red ink peeking out from under the sleeve on his left arm.
Steve hadn't known James had any tattoos, and it made his brain sort of misfire. Luckily they were crossing the open air lot and someone called out to "Bucky" from an open warehouse door, so he didn't see Steve's steps stutter.
"Sorry, I gotta go," James apologized. "Just go through that red door and it's the last door on the left," he said, pointing across the lot. He held out his hand and Steve shook it, thanks solely to his ingrained courtesy and muscle memory.
"Good luck, man, I hope you get the job," he said sincerely and made to turn away, but turned back again. "Oh, I'm Bucky by the way!" He said as he walked backward a few steps.
Bucky? James goddamn Barnes wanted him to use his nickname? Steve felt vaguely as if he were going to float away at any moment.
Bucky gave a cute little wave, and Steve decided to make an eye appointment, because it looked to him like Bucky's gaze traveled from his face to his shoes and back up again. It looked like he was smiling coyly.
Steve only just managed not to say "I know."
"Steve." Steve said, super smooth. "Rogers."
And then Bucky turned and jogged toward the open warehouse door, and the crew member with a goatee and a headset who'd called to him.
Steve glanced at his watch and cursed under his breath. It was 9:59. He dashed in the direction Bucky'd pointed, and found the door marked "Wardrobe."
Steve rapped on the door frame and poked his head inside the open door. There were racks of clothes to the right, a vanity framed with old-style exposed lightbulbs directly ahead and a couch and coffee table to the left, littered with fabric scraps, magazines, swatch books and sketch pads.
A man appeared from between a red and blue spangly gown. The contrast was so sharp it nearly made Steve cross eyed. Fury wore dark jeans, a grey cable-knit sweater, black beret and a legit eye patch.
He was either scowling hard at Steve or was afflicted with a resting bitch face. Either way, it took Steve a couple tries to form words.
"I'm—I'm Steve Rogers. I'm here for-"
"I know what you're here for, son. Come in, quit lurking in the doorway. It's rude."
Fury leaned back against the vanity and gestured for Steve to sit on the couch. Not an inch of it wasn't covered in debris, so Steve carefully swiped his arm across the cushion and sat quickly on the edge, holding his portfolio in his lap.
"You don't look like you'd be any good at this job," Fury said, holding his hand out expectantly.
Steve jerked and thrust his portfolio out.
"I, uh," Steve unfortunately reverted to total honesty when he didn't know what to say. "I resent that," he said finally, and Fury stopped flipping through his portfolio and glanced up at him. "I spent the better half of my life looking like a stiff breeze would knock me over, and everyone underestimated me then too. And to be completely honest, Mr. Fury, neither do you," Steve said, gesturing vaguely to Fury, from his eye patch to his crocs, which Steve was just now noticing.
To his great and unending surprise, Fury smiled.
The rest of the interview was a blur of auto-pilot, which would come back to Steve in snippets over the next two days and cause another bout of groaning and face-palming. He was sure he'd blown it. No one wanted a mouthy employee. Most of his face-palming, though, was due to his utterly horrific interaction with Bucky. He'd told Sam every detail of that nightmare first, through a throw pillow clutched against his face when he'd returned to their apartment after the interview.
"You're gonna be rubbing shoulders with lots of stars now, Steve. Don't worry about it, you'll get used to it," Sam had said to soothe him.
But lots of other stars weren't the problem. The problem was that he'd gotten a chance to meet Bucky Barnes and he'd wasted it. Steve always thought that if he ever met a celebrity he'd be super chill about it. They're just people after all. But the added stress of the interview, and the fact that it was Bucky, who just seemed to get Steve hot under the collar like nobody else, made him act like a 17 year old again. Two days later, and Steve felt like his blush was finally dissipating.
Though the simple fact that the interview was over was a huge relief, Steve still answered every unknown phone call with a bit of trepidation, until it finally came. Sam was chopping bell peppers as Steve sat at the counter with a beer when he answered.
"Yes, absolutely. Thank you, Mr. Fury. Nick, of course. I'll see you Monday morning."
Sam was grinning. "I told you, man! Congratulations!"
"Oh my god," Steve said, setting his forehead on the counter. The euphoria shot through him side-by-side with anxiety. Finally, he grinned. "Oh my god!"
"I'm calling Darcy. We need to celebrate," Sam announced.
Lucky for him, he had the whole of Sunday to sleep off the epic hangover from his congratulatory party. Darcy was a terrible influence, but heaps of fun. She'd brought her friend Jane, in an attempt to set Steve up, but it was clear they were going to be great friends and nothing more.
Steve strode directly to the gate on Monday morning. The guard grinned at him. He was an older gentleman, with white hair, a grey moustache and large brown glasses.
"Welcome back, Mr. Rogers," he said cheerfully, handing him a badge. "Swipe that at the door in the gate, and you won't even have to talk to this old man anymore."
"Thanks, Stan," Steve said, reading his name tag. "I appreciate it!"
Steve made his way to wardrobe and found Fury amongst the racks of pantaloons.
He was assigned two characters to dress: the leading man and lady. Steve was about to protest at such a big responsibility for someone so new, but found that he was quite excited for the challenge. Nick gave him a script to read and a sketch pad and pencils.
"Who's playing the leads?" Steve asked, as he made himself a nest in the couch debris that had doubled since he'd last been there.
"Peggy Carter and James Barnes," Fury replied, muffled from behind a plate of armor.
Steve's vision went white for a moment and he coughed violently as he choked on his own spit. There was always so much commotion in the studios; several movies, series and talk shows filming at once, he never even let himself dream that he'd be…
Nick poked his bald head out from behind a rack, a spear in one hand and a furrow in his brow like he wasn't sure if he was going to need to call an ambulance or perform CPR.
Bucky Barnes. He'd be dressing Bucky Barnes. He'd be measuring and having meetings and fittings with Bucky Barnes.
Steve leaned back against the couch, crumpling the magazine pages and sketches that were littered behind him.
He was utterly and completely fucked.
