A/N: Saw a thing, got some inspiration. Feedback is always nice. :)

xoxo,
La

Bucky closed up the garage a few minutes earlier than he probably should have. But seeing as he was the only one in the place at the time, who was going to tell. It was a slow day anyway, being Friday, and he had no pressing jobs to get done. It was the end of the week, people were heading out of town for the weekend, likely toward the Hamptons, as many New Yorkers did in the summer. The hour was closing in on eight o'clock when the brunet jumped on his bike—a 1956 BMW R9 he had fixed up himself—and after purchasing a six pack of beer from the nearest liquor store, he left Brooklyn behind him.

Bucky loved riding through the city on his motorcycle. Many considered it a dangerous way to travel, but Bucky found it freeing. No constraining seat belts or tightly shut windows. Even in the freezing New York winters, Bucky could be found zipping through the taxi-crowded streets, wind blowing through his rich brown hair.

Veering off the congested highway, it was mere minutes later that Bucky pulled into the driveway of his best friend's house. The familiar cars were already there and a quick glance at his phone told the mechanic he was a good twenty minutes late. Hanging his helmet on a handlebar with one hand, and after grabbing the six pack from the back compartment—his contribution for the night—with the other, Bucky walked up the pathway and straight into the house.

A rousing chorus of hey's sounded as he stepped into the living room and gave a wave to the small group gathered. A broad-shouldered blond rose from a barcalounger in the corner and crossed in front of the television, showing a Yankees game, and clamped a hand on Bucky's shoulder.

"You're late, Barnes," he said with a smile worthy of a toothpaste commercial.

"Sorry," he muttered through a grin that was only slightly apologetic. He was the only one of the gang who still lived in the city. The others had all packed up and migrated to the suburbs within the last couple of years, to start their 'grown up' lives.

"I owe Wilson five bucks now. Thanks." Steve Rogers, Bucky's oldest friend, aimed an accusing finger at him and reached for the six pack. "You want a cold one?"

"Yeah, that'd be great."

"All right. Go say hi." Steve slapped the back of his hand to Bucky's chest and moved toward the kitchen, while Bucky remained awkwardly in the doorway between the living room and the entryway.

It wasn't that he wasn't comfortable with Steve's friends; he just wasn't as close to Sam Wilson and Phil Coulson as he was to Steve. And Nick Fury, an intimidating man with an eye patch hiding an old injury sustained during his first tour in Afghanistan, was a relative newcomer to their Friday night get togethers.

"Here you go." Steve popped off the top of a cold bottle and held it out to Bucky, who accepted it and took a healthy swig. "Busy at the garage today?" the blonde asked before sipping from a glass of what looked like iced tea.

Always the Boy Scout, Bucky thought with a silent chuckle.

"No, not really. Got a '96 Chevy waiting for a brake change and a Ford Focus needing a tune-up but nothing that couldn't wait 'til tomorrow. Traffic," he stated in lieu of an explanation for his tardiness. Though there wasn't much; he just took his time, enjoying the ride.

"Mm," Steve nodded as he sipped from his tea. "Well, go on and join them in the living room. I'm going to see if my girl needs any help."

Most of the Friday nights Bucky had come to Steve's house, it was merely to catch up on their week, have a couple of beers, and watch the Yankees play—if they didn't already have tickets for a game. Things had taken a decidedly more dinner party atmosphere since Steve had proposed to his girlfriend of two years, Peggy Carter. Now the others were free to bring their female companions—ever-changing as they were. Though, Bucky never brought anyone.

No one ever asked him about his personal life. He had always assumed Steve simply told them it wasn't on the list of topics to discuss. Bucky wasn't ashamed of being gay; he just didn't feel the need to fly a rainbow flag every time he stepped out of his apartment. And he wasn't much for dating or relationships, preferring to keep his social life limited to brief, nearly anonymous, encounters. And even that was sporadic and dependent on his mood.

In an odd mood at the moment, Bucky chastised himself for being anti-social, and taking a deep breath, he forced himself to step further into the room and be friendly.

Dinner had been had and discussions of a varying nature had already taken place, when the first of the group, Phil, decided to leave. Steve and Peggy walked him out, and it was while they had stepped away that Bucky learned that Peggy hadn't simply accepted a marriage proposal; she had moved in. Because his best friend and his girlfriend were a quiet couple, they had decided to forego a large wedding, and were planning a small ceremony at the church Steve attended every Sunday. They planned to wait a few months, to tell Peggy's family and give them time to plan their travels from England.

On their return, the subject of bachelor and bachelorette parties had come up while they all dived in to a homemade cheesecake. Bucky remained silent through most of it, silently praying no one would ask his opinion. But he was to be the Best Man, and as such, responsible for the groom's last hurrah. He was carefully rolling up a cigarette when Sam Wilson, one of Steve's rowdier military friends, elbowed him in the ribs.

"You like strippers, right?"

Bucky's icy blue eyes lifted from the paper cigarette between his fingers to Sam's wide smile, and darted to Steve, who gave him a small sympathetic smile and encouraging nod. The corners of the mechanic's mouth dipped as he gave a shrug. "Doesn't really matter what I like does it? It's for Stevie."

"I always knew I liked you, Bucky," Peggy said in her sweet British accent.

Bucky grinned, looking down and away at the compliment. He stuck the finished cigarette between his lips and rose to excuse himself. He had been outside for just a few minutes, enjoying his cigarette in silence, when he felt another's presence. He didn't have to look to know it was Steve. "I'm fine," he murmured while exhaling a thick plume of smoke.

A chuckle sounded beside him. "How'd you know I was gonna ask you that?"

"'Cause I know you."

"Ha, yeah." Both men went quiet again, the crickets' song and the clinking of ice in Steve's tea the only sounds between them. "You gonna come around on Sunday?"

Bucky glanced at his friend, in the middle of taking another drag from the cigarette. "Remind me…?"

"Peggy's birthday."

"Oh! Yeah, absolutely."

"Good," Steve breathed the word out on an almost relieved sigh. "I need you here. Peggy and me, we're gonna tell Abraham about the engagement."

"Shut the fuck up." Steve barked out a laugh. "No—sorry," Bucky chuckled. "You know what I mean." The blond nodded and took another drink of his tea. Bucky frowned in thought and glanced at his childhood friend. "I didn't know you still kept in touch with him."

Steve shrugged. "He and his wife raised me, Bucky."

The mechanic's lips twitched. "You lived with them for four years, Steve," he pointed out. "Until you aged out."

"I know," the soldier said softly. Bucky took one last drag before stubbing out the cigarette and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "He wrote me, Buck," Steve mumbled into the silence. "His wife sent me stuff…while I was over there." He continued to speak softly, but with conviction, as the soldier always did when he spoke of his time in Iraq.

Bucky stood completely still, forcing himself not to shuffle his feet or make some excuse to go inside. He always felt a little uncomfortable when Steve brought up Iraq. Without ever delving too much into his reasons, he blindly assumed it was guilt; guilt he carried for not going back for a second tour with Steve, for choosing to walk away from the army to be a regular mechanic in a regular garage in a regular city, leaving Steve without the expert sniper that was his best friend.

That Steve had a rougher time there, saw worse things than the first time, and lost some men, only made Bucky feel worse. They never discussed it after that first time. And even now, as the two friends, who had known each other since they were boys in Brooklyn, stood under the dim yellow porch light, it grew more tense by the second.

"I better get going," Bucky finally said, unable to take it another minute.

Steve's head shot up. "Already? You sure you're all right to ride?"

"Had a long week. And I'm fine, Stevie. Don't worry so much." Bucky held out a hand to him, and Steve gripped his tightly. "I'll see you on Sunday. Promise." He released Steve's hand and moved to head down the walkway to his motorcycle parked in front on the street.

"You're not gonna say bye to the others?" Steve aimed a thumb behind him at the house, even as Bucky swung a leg over the bike and reached for his helmet.

"Do it for me?" He chuckled at Steve's eye rolling, and started up the motorcycle. "See you later, buddy."

The air had cooled as Bucky neared the city, so he was glad he kept a jacket on the bike and slipped it on before leaving Steve's house. He rode directly to his apartment building, down into the garage to park the bike and headed for the elevator. He had gotten as far as his door before he decided he didn't want go inside. All he would do is drink another beer, smoke another joint, and watch some trash tv before he finally fell asleep. He felt like a little company.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Bucky turned back to the elevator, got back out to the street, and walked to the nearest subway stop. After a short half hour ride, the mechanic made it back to street level and headed to a gay bar he frequented, among others. He ordered a beer at the bar and scoped out the scene while he nursed it, spotting a few lookers here and there, and had some interested glances thrown his way.

After his second beer, Bucky moved to the dance floor. He wasn't so much asked to dance as he was taken by the hand and dragged there. Whatever. Halfway through the dance, his partner found someone new and Bucky maneuvered his way back to the bar, where he ordered a straight bourbon.

The DJ was playing good music on this night, and Bucky went through two more straight bourbons while bouncing in place, bopping his head to the beat. He'd gotten so into it, his head dipped back at one point, eyes closed, as his body swayed. It was when he opened his eyes again that he spotted the palest man he had ever seen watching him, his own eyes glittering in the strobe lights, pale red lips quirked up ever so slightly on one side.

They locked gazes for a few brief seconds before the other man turned away to shout something at a small gathered group around him, and walked away. Bucky didn't hesitate—too much—to follow. The man was tall and thin, but his hips swayed invitingly as he walked down a smoky hallway. A couple were heavily making out against a wall and one decided to push the other against the opposite wall, blocking Bucky's way for a moment.

He looked up just in time to see the dark-haired man turn into the men's room. Bucky decided at that moment he needed to piss.

Pushing his way in, Bucky spotted the good-looking stranger, standing at the end of a line of urinals. Bucky moved to one, another man between them, eyeing the man as best he could from his spot.

Bucky had never pursued anyone like this before. But there was something intriguing about this one. The mechanic had never seen him before, here or in any other club, but then it was a big city. And Bucky knew he would have remembered seeing him before. His profile, from what Bucky's blue eyes could catch before he zipped up and walked away, was damn near perfect.

Like a little creeper, Bucky watched him leave. Finally, he finished himself and washed his hands before heading out to the floor again, searching for the tall man. But he, of course, had lost him among the crowd.

His dance partner from earlier found him once again, a little drunker and a little more handsy. He bought Bucky another drink and drunkenly grinded himself against the mechanic and licked at his ear. Bucky was too amused by him to be turned on and shied away from the man's sloppy tongue as best he could. He laughed at a nip to his neck and through the hazy air and strobe lights, suddenly caught sight of his mystery man. He was watching Bucky and the man slobbering all over him with an undoubtedly amused look on his face.

And all it took was a pointed nod at the door from the Mystery Man for Bucky to slip away from the slobbering mess in his arms and follow him out of the club.