Pretty Boy

by Spinning-In-Infinity

Stucky Pretty Woman AU. Bucky Barnes is a prostitute whose life is on a downward spiral before he's rescued by a handsome stranger called Steve Rogers. When Steve offers Bucky 10,000 to spend the week with him, little does Bucky know he's about to fall down the rabbit hole of travel, adventure, and even the possibility of true love.

Bucky Barnes was running.

This wasn't an unusual event – having a smart mouth and a great body meant that there were some people that needed to be avoided – but this time it wasn't his fault. He cursed his roommate as he rounded the corner, spotting a bar entrance and darting towards it. It wasn't one he knew – none of the bars his people frequented had bouncers in such expensive suits – but if he could camouflage himself amongst the queue of partyers he might avoid Rumlow's goons. The lump rising above his eye throbbed painfully and he rubbed another smear of blood from his eyebrow.

The men and women lined up were very obviously better dressed than Bucky was, but he hoped his pursuers wouldn't expect him to stop and just pass him by if he kept his head down. He slowed as he reached the end of the line, pulling up behind two tall men and a redhead in a short black dress. He couldn't see Rumlow's guys yet – he'd learned how to run fast in his years on the street – but they couldn't be much further behind. He wished he'd brought his hoodie or cap this morning – that could at least have concealed his face a little better. He untucked his long hair from behind his ears and pulled it forward, ducking his head and fixing his gaze on the back of the taller of the two men – a blond in a brown leather jacket – in front of him.

His head was pounding and his vision swam in and out of focus. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on not swaying too much. That asshole had really done a number on him. Tyler would have had to owe money to the dealer with the most thuggish hoods in the city, and somehow that had become Bucky's problem, even though he'd never so much as popped a pill in his life. Not voluntarily, anyway. He needed a new roommate.

He heard the sound of heavy footsteps, people running, and forced himself to stand still, though his knees were shaking and his breath was ragged. He vaguely registered the redhead saying something to him before the blood drained from his face and he buckled. A pair of strong arms caught him before he hit the ground and slowly sat him down against the wall.

"Hey, you alright?" an attractive-sounding voice asked. Bucky opened his eyes blearily and raised his chin to see who it was. An icy blue gaze set in a strong, masculine face, well-shaped lips parted in concern, and a broad frame. He looked to be in his early thirties, and damn the guy was hot. His friend, a good-looking African American with wideset dark eyes, pushed back a lock of Bucky's hair and winced.

"That's quite a shiner, kid," he said.

A chorus of guys' voices was drawing too close for comfort. Bucky twisted away and tried to get to his feet, suddenly feeling far too exposed just sitting there on the sidewalk.

"Whoa, steady," the blond guy put a hand on his shoulder to stop him from rising.

"Steve," the second guy had spotted Rumlow's men making their way purposefully towards them.

"Them again?" the redhead said. The dark glint in her eye promised she was not a woman to be taken lightly. "Didn't we paint the floor with them last month?"

"New recruits, I'm guessing. Rumlow must be getting desperate," the second guy snorted.

'Desperate' wasn't exactly the word Bucky would have used to describe Rumlow – the guy was the biggest drug lord in the city.

"We'll take care of it, Cap," the redhead said to the blond guy – Steve – who still had his hand on Bucky's shoulder. Bucky wondered if he could feel the metal of his prosthetic beneath his long-sleeved T-shirt. "You get this kid to a hospital."

"If you think you can handle it," Steve said.

The redhead laughed. "Please. Go on, get him out of here."

Steve pulled Bucky's arm around his shoulders and eased him to his feet. There was a line of cabs a little further down the street, and they started in that direction. Bucky couldn't turn his head, but from the sounds behind them, someone was getting their butt kicked.

"Nearest hospital," Steve told the driver, gently lowering Bucky into the backseat and stepping round to the other side, slamming the door as the cab pulled out into the heavy Saturday night traffic.

Bucky's head was starting to clear a little now some of the blood had returned to it. He turned to look at Steve, whose gaze was fixed on the road between the two front seats, a small frown creasing his brow. His profile was perfect – straight nose, strong chin, and a jawline any red-blooded woman would like to press their lips against.

This guy should be on coins, Bucky thought.

It took them about fifteen minutes to get to the Stark Hospital – these days there were very few establishments that didn't have Tony Stark's name attached to it somewhere – by which time Bucky had had time to analyse every detail of Steve's appearance, and he was fairly certain someone was drilling a hole in the side of his skull. He let Steve haul him out of the cab and practically carry him up the steps into the clean, white building. He knew he was going to have to pay his saviour back at some point, but he'd worry about that later when they were back at his shitty apartment. He kept a secret roll of cash in the tank of their toilet – classy, he knew, but it was the one place Tyler wouldn't find it. He really needed a new roommate.

While they waited to be seen, Steve got three soda cans from the vending machine – one for himself, one for Bucky, and one for Bucky's head. The sugar rush helped ease the pain between his eyes, and he started to feel a little more human again.

"Right," Steve was holding a clipboard against his thigh, pencil poised above the paper. "What's your name?"

"Bucky Barnes," Bucky said. He hadn't used his real first name since he'd left Brooklyn. His nickname was something his mom had come up with, derived from his middle name, Buchanan.

Steve scribbled on the form. "Date of birth?"

"March 10th. '89."

"Height and weight."

"Five-nine, err . . . one seventy-eight, I think. Why do they need to know that?"

Steve shrugged. "Almost as good as this one – sexual orientation."

Bucky felt the heat rise in his face. He wasn't exactly ashamed of his sexual preferences, but for some reason Steve's intense gaze fixed on him made him nervous.

"I'm sure we can just leave that blank," Steve said.

"No, it's fine," Bucky said defiantly. "Guys."

"Fine," Steve ticked the correct box. He didn't seem to have any other reaction, negative or otherwise. "Occupation."

Again, Bucky paused. His line of work wasn't illegal in the city, but it was generally considered a dirty secret, especially among some of his higher-ranking clients.

"Escort," he said. It was better than prostitute, rent-boy or hooker on an official form.

"Any medical history?"

Bucky flexed the fingers of his left hand, hidden beneath one of the black leather gloves he always wore when he was hitting the street.

"Prosthetic left arm," he said, keeping his eyes on Steve's face to see how he'd process this information. As he expected, Steve's eyes strayed to the sleeve of his shirt, and he lifted his cuff just enough to expose the segmented metal under it. Steve's eyes widened, but he didn't comment or ask questions, just writing the words in the box.

Bucky was starting to panic a little bit when he saw the blank section related to medical insurance supplier. He got himself checked out every month at the free clinic for anything nasty, but other than that he wasn't covered for anything. But Steve just quickly filled in the boxes and took the form back to the reception desk without a word.

A tired-looking nurse called Bucky through to a small room, partitioned in the middle by a white curtain. Bucky fudged the details of his injury by saying he'd been mugged – no reason to bring up anything too unsavoury. The nurse cleaned and examined his head and assured him he wouldn't need stitches, just some gauze, painkillers and bedrest.

Steve was still in the waiting room when Bucky came out, his forehead bulked out with thick white padding. It was nearly midnight – Bucky felt it was really beyond the call of duty for the guy to still be here for some street walker he didn't even know.

The nurse spoke to Steve, presuming they were friends or partners or whatever. Bucky noticed her checking out Steve's impressive physique. He couldn't blame her – the guy obviously worked out.

"It'd be best for him not to be alone tonight. I don't think he has concussion, but just in case."

"Right," Steve nodded. "Thank you. We're okay to leave?"

"Yes," the nurse said, looking rather like she wished he wouldn't.

The summer air had cooled when they stepped outside, and Bucky was surprised when Steve – without question – shrugged off his jacket and slipped it round Bucky's shoulders. His bicep muscles showed clearly under the blue sweater he'd been wearing underneath, and Bucky's stomach gave a small lurch. He didn't often get to be in such close proximity to such a good-looking guy. The sorts of guys who went to people like him weren't always the sort who could have anyone they wanted – hence where Bucky came in. The jacket was warm and smelt like old leather and coffee. Bucky slipped his arms in.

"Thank you," he said. It seemed like such a small thing to say for everything Steve had done for him that night, but it was all he could think of.

"Glad I could help," Steve smiled. "Do you live alone?"

For a moment Bucky thought Steve was trying to come on to him, before remember what the nurse said about not spending the night on his own.

"I have a roommate," he said. "He should be back at about four."

Steve's brow furrowed again and he glanced at his watch. "You'd be alone for four hours."

"I'm fine," Bucky insisted. "You heard her – I don't have concussion. There's not much more damage could be done, anyway," he joked, bumping his finger against the other side of his head.

Steve still didn't look convinced. "She said she didn't think you had concussion. Doesn't mean you don't. Look, my place is just a couple of blocks from here. You'd be welcome to stay."

"Really, it's fine," Bucky said. "I have neighbours."

"D'you have a cell phone?" Steve asked.

Bucky smirked. "You offering to give me your number?"

Steve laughed. "In case of emergencies." He pulled out a small notebook and scribbled a number on a page before tearing it and holding it out to Bucky. "Please, it'll help me sleep better."

Bucky took the paper and glanced at it – the name at the top read Steve Rogers.

"Thanks," he said, slipping it into his jeans pocket.

"At least let me see you home," Steve said. "Those jerks might still be hanging around."

"And you can protect me?"

Steve shrugged. "Let's just say I've dealt with their kind before. C'mon, we can get a cab over there."

They flagged down a car and Bucky gave the driver his street. He counted his blessings as he relived the night's events. Okay, so maybe it hadn't started out so well – being cornered by Rumlow's thugs demanding Tyler's whereabouts before they decided to send a message for him via Bucky's face wasn't exactly how he'd wish to begin every evening – but being rescued by a handsome guy and being escorted home wasn't too shabby.

"Sorry you never got to go to the bar," Bucky said, as the car passed it by. He glanced at the sidewalk for any signs of blood, but it seemed Steve's friends cleaned up their messes well.

"Don't worry about it," Steve said. "I wasn't all that bothered in the first place – Sam and Nat wanted to go. You made for a much more interesting evening, actually."

"Sitting in a hospital waiting room with a half-conscious hooker is your idea of interesting? You can't get out much." Bucky smirked.

"You're probably right," Steve said, adding after a moment: "So that is what you do?"

Bucky realised how he'd just described himself and shrugged. Indifference had always been one of his favourite forms of armour.

"I didn't mean to offend you," Steve said. "You just seemed . . . I don't know. Better than that."

Because that's not offensive at all, Bucky thought.

"It pays well," he said, far more defensively than he'd meant to. "I can make three-hundred bucks an hour."

"I guess that is impressive," Steve said, obviously humouring him. "Do you enjoy it?"

Bucky didn't answer. He didn't like the way Steve was talking now – one more step and he'd start to see Bucky for was he really was. Perhaps he already did.

The cab driver slowed up just opposite Bucky's building and he quickly got out, his head spinning a little at the sudden change in altitude. Steve quickly stepped out and reached to steady him, but Bucky batted his hands away.

"I'm fine," he said.

"Sorry if I insulted you," Steve said. "It was thoughtless of me."

"It's okay," Bucky tried for his usual cocky grin. "The guys who normally insult me aren't half as good-looking as you, so that's a plus."

Steve didn't smile.

"You have my number," he reminded him. "Call me if you need me."

What if I don't need you? Bucky thought.

If he'd been any other type of person, he might have suggested they get together for a drink sometime. But he wasn't, and Steve was much too good for his kind of company. He'd done his random act of kindness – now he could return to his world of class and beautiful people.

"Good to meet you, Bucky," Steve said, holding out his right hand. Bucky reached out and took it, briefly wishing he wasn't wearing gloves so he could feel how Steve's hand felt against his.

"You too, Steve," he said. "Thanks again."

"My pleasure. Take care of yourself."

"I always do," Bucky grinned.

Steve shook his head with an exasperated grin. "See you around."

He stepped into the cab and said an address to the driver. Bucky kept his eyes on Steve, meeting his gaze, as the car pulled out onto the road and headed off towards downtown. It was only once they'd turned the corner and disappeared from view, that he realised not only had he not offered to pay Steve back, but he was still wearing his jacket.

Steve kept his eyes on Bucky until he lost sight through the trees lining the sidewalk. He didn't like leaving him standing there alone, but he'd sensed a familiar stubborn streak in Bucky that he recognised well in himself. Plus there was the fact that he'd insulted him about his job – he probably wasn't Bucky's favourite person at that moment, smirks and smart mouth or not. It seemed strange to him that such a person could be a hooker – black eye and head injury aside, the guy was stunning. Steve had almost believed he could be a private escort as opposed to a common street walker. He supposed that face and body made him popular in his line of work. Still, it seemed almost like seeing graffiti on the Mona Lisa – a work of art sullied by the touch of people barely worthy to lick the ground he walked on.

He felt like such a snob thinking it. He was pretty sure it wasn't the career path Bucky had chosen for himself willingly – he knew sometimes you had to accept whatever shit life threw at you to get by. He wished he'd waited until he'd seen Bucky inside his building, or better still insisted he take him back to his place, where he could have known for sure he was safe. At least for one night. It was strange how protective and concerned he felt for a kid he'd just met. A kid whose life was probably far more complicated than he could imagine, if he had Rumlow's guys after him. It surprised him because Bucky didn't look like a drug user – he'd been around the poor bastards enough (informants, witnesses) to reckon he could recognise one. Perhaps he just got caught in the crossfire, or managed to piss Rumlow off in some other way. The scumbag had fingers in enough pies to cause trouble for anyone.

The cab pulled up on his street and he paid the driver and stepped out into the night air. It was almost one o'clock, but people were still out. He wondered where Sam and Natasha had ended up after they'd dealt with those thugs – a good butt-kicking was often better than booze to get Nat in the party mood.

His stomach gave a loud grumble and he realised how hungry he was, since he'd missed out on dinner in lieu of dropping his next-door-neighbour Sharon off at the airport. He'd intended to pick something up when he got back, but Nat had appeared at his door and insisted he join her and Sam for a couple of drinks. There was a 7-Eleven at the end of the street, so he headed off in that direction. Twenty minutes later, armed with a sandwich and a cup of decaf, he took the elevator to his top-floor apartment and wondered what Bucky was doing, and whether he was okay. He fished for his keys and let himself in, flipping the switch for the lights and the room came into view. The apartment was a reasonably large, open-plan space with floor-to-ceiling windows down one side, overlooking the city, with two separate rooms for the bedroom and bathroom, and a small closet for the washing machine and drier. It was a pretty swish deal, included in his job description – he was risking his life every day for the powers-that-be, the least they could do was provide a few creature comforts.

He went to shrug off his jacket, before realising he wasn't wearing it, and Bucky must still have it. Oh well, if it kept the kid warm, it wasn't too much hassle to buy a new one. He pulled a plate from one of the kitchen cupboards and arranged his ham and cheese on white on it, moving towards the living space to relax properly for the first time that day. He ate the sandwich in four bites and leaned back to sip his coffee. He could see the sky from this angle, the stars bright through the breaks in the clouds.

His cell phone started to ring and his pulled it out of his back pocket. "Hello?"

"Hey, Cap," Natasha's voice said through the speaker. "D'you get home yet?"

"Yeah, 'bout ten minutes ago," Steve said, running a hand over his face. His eyes were starting to itch. "You and Sam see those guys off okay?"

"They quit before we got a chance to book 'em, but we dealt a few good knocks," she said, a smirk in her voice. "Rumlow's getting cockier, and he's got Saunderson in his pocket."

Steve thought of the weak-willed mayor of the city. "Well, wait 'til Pierce is in charge – he's more of a crook than Rumlow."

Alexander Pierce was an FBI-director-turned-politician who had recently risen to great levels of power through his connections in the underground community. He was a crowd favourite for mayor in the upcoming election, after which Steve could see his job becoming ten times harder. It would certainly be a change to have a mayor in power over the mafia and drug trafficking sect, which would have been welcome were he not worse than all of them.

"Did you get that kid home okay?" Natasha asked. "He looked pretty out of it."

"He was okay," Steve said. "Didn't even need stitches – dropped him off at his street about forty-five minutes ago."

"I'm surprised you didn't take him home with you," Natasha said.

"I tried," Steve sighed. "He insisted on going home, then I insulted him."

"You? Surely not," Natasha laughed. "What did you say?"

"He's a hooker, Nat."

She gave a low whistle. "He's much too pretty for that."

"Basically what I said, though I don't think I said 'pretty'," Steve leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. "He's probably self-conscious about it, anyway. Pretty thoughtless of me, really."

"Probably didn't help he most likely thought you were hot."

Steve smiled wanly. He knew he wasn't exactly a wallflower in the looks department, and his job required him to keep in top physical shape, but it still amused him when he considered how he used to be. 'Hot' would not have been the word used to describe him.

"So you just left him there?"

"Yeah, wish I hadn't, but he didn't want to come. I gave him my number in case he needs anything."

"He's probably sleeping with it under his pillow."

"He's a sweet kid, Nat." Well, sweet wasn't maybe the right word – hot as hell, perhaps.

"Maybe you'll run into each other again. We can go to that bar again and you can stalk the neighbourhood."

"Yeah, right."

"See you Monday, Cap."

"See you, Nat."

He hung up and glanced at the clock – one-forty, time to get some sleep. Hopefully Bucky was doing the same thing.

The building was uncharacteristically quiet as Bucky climbed the stairs to the fifth floor. The usual rave music from number two-oh-seven was still blaring, but it wasn't so easy to hear from his floor. He dodged around someone sleeping on the third floor landing and took the last flight of steps two at a time. The apartment he shared with Tyler was small and cramped, though he tried to keep it as neat as was possible with Tyler's clutter. First thing he did was go to the bathroom and check the little plastic box floating in the water of the toilet tank. The two rolls of notes were still securely inside, and he breathed a sigh of relief. There was nearly two thousand dollars there, painstakingly saved over five years of working in this godforsaken city. One day there might be enough for him to leave, to start a real life, somewhere far, far away from here. He replaced the tank lid and went through to the tiny kitchen, taking the pills the nurse had given him out of his pocket. They'd help his sleep and speed up the healing process, she'd said. He'd always been a quick healer anyway, but he could certainly do with some unbroken sleep. He took a couple of pills and washed them down with a swig of water. He didn't have a client 'til four-thirty tomorrow, so he could get some rest before then and be fresh for whoever it was.

The bedroom he and Tyler shared was divided by a flimsy black curtain, fixed to the ceiling with thumb-tacks. Tyler's side was a mess, Bucky's side immaculate. A futon mattress, a bedside table with a lamp and alarm clock, and a slim chest of drawers holding all his clothes. A small box at the foot of the mattress held his more personal possessions. He slipped off Steve's jacket and folded it carefully next to his pillow, which might have seemed creepy, but he kinda wanted to hold close to something that reminded him there were still kind, handsome men left in this city. Plus, it smelled really good. He pulled off his shirt, carefully avoiding the bulky padding on his forehead, and replaced it with the ratty Guns N' Roses T-shirt he slept in. He retrieved the slip of paper Steve had given him from the pocket of his jeans and removed those too, folding them with his shirt atop his dresser. He took a moment to look at Steve's handwriting – neat and clear – the number written below his name teasing him, like an invitation he wasn't sure he should answer to. He should at least try and contact Steve, to pay him back for the hospital bill and cab fare. Perhaps he'd do that tomorrow. He slipped it into his box of treasures, feeling a bit stupid for feeling so attached to a note, and went to use the bathroom.

He slept right through the night, not even waking when Tyler came in, and woke up to find the sun already high and his headache rejuvenated. He staggered to the kitchen for water and found Tyler, still fully dressed, passed out at the kitchen table. Bucky rolled his eyes and went to the fridge for water, slamming the door behind him. Tyler's head jerked into an upright position, his hair stuck to one side of his face and a line of drool at the corner of his mouth. A vision of loveliness.

"Morning," Bucky said acidly, swallowing a couple of painkillers with a long drink.

"Wha' time issit?" Tyler slurred, his eyes unfocused on the kitchen clock.

"Nearly noon," Bucky said. Pulling out the other chair and sitting down to glare at his slovenly roommate. "So I met some of your mates last night."

"Mates?" Tyler grinned sloppily. "You're my only mate, Buck."

"Couple of guys from Rumlow." The grin disappeared from Tyler's face. "Four of them, actually. Something about you owing them a shit load of money?"

"Did they hurt you?"

"You think I got this walking into the fucking door?" Bucky growled, pointing to his bruised eye. "Jesus Ty, why'd you get mixed up with that lot?"

"Rumlow's stuff's the best," Tyler whined. "I only owe a couple hundred—"

"Well fucking pay it to them, then," Bucky got to his feet. "Or you'll end up worse than me. At the bottom of Long Island Sound, I'm guessing."

He left Tyler to languish in his self-pity, and locked himself in the bathroom. He stripped his clothes off and stood in front of the tiny cabinet mirror above the sink. His eye was an impressive shade of purplish-black, but the cut on his head seemed to have stopped bleeding. He slowly peeled back the gauze and gently cleaned the congealed blood from around the inflamed skin. The cut was a lot smaller than it felt, but he still hoped it wouldn't affect his appointment this afternoon. Most guys were used to their hook-ups being a little beat up sometimes. He took a long shower, taking care as he washed his hair not to get soap in the cut, and felt much more alive after. He dressed in a pair of casual sweatpants and a black T-shirt and went to the jar they kept on the kitchen window-sill for that week's grocery money. Inside was five dollars.

"Tyler!" he shouted, nearing the end of his already short tether.

"Whaaat?" Tyler moaned from the living-room, where he was draped over the couch, smoking a joint.

"What is this?!" Bucky brandished the solitary money note in Tyler's face.

His roommate squinted at it. "Money?"

"Yeah, or lack thereof!" Bucky kicked the corner of the couch and hurt his big toe. "Where's the two hundred that was in there yesterday?"

A deep blush spread up Tyler's neck into his cheeks. "I dunno."

"You're unbelievable," Bucky sat down on the sagging armchair and pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead, his head starting to pound again. "That was half our rent and food for the week. Tell me you at least spent it on something useful?"

"Umm," Tyler tried to conceal the rather obvious roll-up he was holding.

"I hate you," Bucky spat and stalked from the room.

"Aww, Buck, I'm sorry!" Tyler whined after him. "I've got a one-thirty today, I can get it back!"

Bucky sighed and looked back at his friend. As infuriating and thoughtless and stupid as he was, he was his friend. He'd been the only one willing to put Bucky up when he'd first arrived in Manhattan, and had showed him the ropes of the business without asking much in return.

"Make sure you do," he said, less viciously, and went to get a twenty out of his secret stash.

He didn't really get that many strange looks as he walked the three blocks to the grocery store. Most people probably just assumed he'd been in a bar fight or whatever, it wasn't anything new. As he perused the aisles, he wondered where Steve was right now, and what he was doing. Probably not worrying about some street rat he'd rescued – still, he'd seemed genuinely concerned about Bucky being alone last night. He fingered the soft leather of the jacket he'd slipped on before leaving the apartment, and breathed in the scent that clung to the inside of the collar. He wondered if Steve smelt this good without it. Had he really been as attractive as Bucky remembered? Surely no guy could be that gorgeous and a nice guy, and not just one of those assholes who claimed to be and expected a medal for it.

He stocked up on condoms and lube as he passed the personal health aisle, along with some anti-inflammatory cream for his eye. He also picked up a tube of cheap concealer, in the hope that it might make the damage less noticeable. Men were very visual – they paid for what they liked to see.

Tyler was at least washed, dressed and conscious by the time he got home, his light brown hair combed and his baby face only a little unfocused.

"You shouldn't smoke pot before every client," Bucky said reproachfully, ruffling Tyler's hair as he passed.

"It helps me relax," Tyler protested, smoothing it down again. "Also this guy freaks me out a little – easier if I'm a little doped to start with."

"You were the one who taught me we choose who we fuck. This is why we don't have a pimp. Why d'you take this guy if he's a creep?"

"He pays good money." Tyler shrugged. Bucky couldn't argue with that, so he just started unpacking the groceries.

"Where's he meeting you?"

"The Timson."

The Timson was a low-class hotel used by a lot of men with 'special guests'. The hotel managers didn't care – they almost used it as a marketing ploy. It was where Bucky, Tyler and a lot of the other street walkers took their clients – it was clean (for the most part), cheap and, more importantly, safe. Better than some seedy guy's apartment where you didn't always know the nearest way out.

"Text me when you're there."

"And when I'm about to leave," Tyler nodded. It was the same mantra they repeated every time.

"And make sure you stay out of Rumlow's way, least 'til you can pay him back."

He nodded, looking scared. He was such a moron. Hopefully Bucky could get his four-thirty to cough up a little extra that might help him out. Tyler headed off to meet his client, and Bucky went to stare at Steve's cell number again. He'd been rehearsing what he'd say to him if he did call all morning, provided Steve kept to the script Bucky had imagined for him. He didn't want Steve to think he was some scrounging opportunist. He pulled out his cell phone and let his thumb hover over the number he'd already stored in his contact list. Did the rule of not calling the next day apply to hookers? But then what they'd done last night hadn't exactly constituted a date. That would've been too much to hope for.

Before he could think twice (or fifty times) about it, he pressed the call button and felt his heartrate double as he let the phone ring. On the fifth ring, he answered.

"Hello?"

Bucky swallowed. He'd forgotten what Steve's voice actually sounded like.

"Steve."

"Bucky?"

Bucky blinked in surprised – he hadn't expected Steve to recognise his voice either.

"Yeah."

"Is everything okay? How are you feeling?"

A pleasant warmth spread through Bucky's chest. Steve really did sound concerned about him.

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"How did you sleep?"

"Fine, thanks. Look, it's about last night."

"I guessed it might be."

"I owe you for the cab. And the hospital bill."

"What?" he sounded surprised. "No you don't, don't be stupid."

"I'm not," Bucky said, a little put out at being called stupid. "I can't just let you pay for all that. It was cool enough for you to just take me there."

"I said it was my pleasure."

"But I don't want you to think I'm just some slut who coasts by on anyone kind enough to give me a helping hand."

Steve was quiet for a moment. "I don't think you're a slut. You didn't offer to blow me or anything."

"I could if you like," Bucky said, trying to shock him. A part of him wanted to see if he could catch Steve off-guard, make him a little uncomfortable. He was too composed, even when he'd found out about Bucky's arm. There couldn't be many semi-mechanical hookers in Manhattan, yet he'd just taken it almost as standard. "If you'd prefer that kind of payment."

"You don't have to say that," Steve said, clearly unruffled.

"I have money," Bucky said. "I might have to pay you half now, half later, but I can pay you."

"Bucky, really," Steve said firmly. "It's fine. Don't worry about it."

Now Bucky was quiet. Steve honestly sounded like he wanted to do this for him, like a gift, and what was that saying about gift horses?

"I appreciate it," Bucky said.

"You're welcome," Steve said. He sounded satisfied, smug bastard. Bucky stifled a chuckle. "So what are you up to?"

"Unusual – most guys ask what I'm wearing first," Bucky smirked.

"Fine, what are you wearing?"

"Nothing."

"At one-thirty in the afternoon."

"Yeah, I always go naked on Sundays."

"That makes two of us."

Bucky laughed, and heard Steve do the same. This was nice, almost like flirting.

"So what are you doing?"

Bucky shrugged, though Steve couldn't see. "Not much. Got a client in three hours. Just killing time before that."

"I see. I'm not doing much either."

There was a rather pregnant pause, in which Bucky wondered if that was Steve's way of asking if he wanted to hang out. 'Hang out'. He sounded like a teenager.

"Sounds boring."

"It is, rather. You could come and make it more interesting, if you want."

Bucky couldn't help but wonder if this was also Steve's way of saying he wanted to hire him – in the sense to which Bucky was accustomed. Steve was clearly quite well-off, and even rich guys wanted casual sex from time to time. Who better to ask it from than a pro? For all Bucky knew, this was a regular gig for Steve – rescue some poor street walker from the bad guys and have them pay him back with something more enjoyable than money.

"Why not?" he said, trying to sound casual. "Where d'you wanna meet?"

"There's a café four blocks over from your place," Steve said.

"Café Bleu, yeah I know it."

"Meet you there in fifteen minutes?"

"Eager, aren't you?"

"Just hungry. See you then."

He hung up before Bucky could say goodbye and he was left just staring at the phone, wondering if he'd done the right thing. Hookers didn't go on dates with high-class guys like Steve – it just wasn't done, not outside of novels and rom-coms – and he didn't want to like Steve, not if he was just going to fuck him and toss him back in the trash. Steve wasn't like other guys he usual fucked – he was sweet and kind. Or at least seemed to be. Only one way to find out, he guessed.

Twenty minutes later, he was approaching the white-and-blue striped awning of Café Bleu, trying to catch sight of Steve before Steve saw him. There he was, sitting at a small table laid out for two, wearing a grey T-shirt, jeans and a pair of tinted Ray-Bans. He was staring out across the road, seemingly in a world of his own, before he turned his head and saw Bucky walking towards him. He raised a hand and smiled, and Bucky's stomach lurched. He suddenly became very conscious that his red shirt was a little threadbare and his jeans had a rip in one of the knees.

Steve rose to his feet and stepped back to pull Bucky's chair out for him. These were manners Bucky had only heard about in fairy-tales, but he sat down nonetheless.

"Good afternoon," Steve said, his smile warm and easy. "You're late."

"My driver has the day off," Bucky said. Steve grinned and poured him a glass of iced water from the jug in the centre of the table.

"Your eye looks miraculously better," Steve said. Bucky gingerly touched the concealer he'd painstakingly applied to the purple skin.

"I'm a quick healer," he said. He held out the folded jacket he had tucked under his arm. "You left this on me."

"Oh," Steve looked at the jacket, then up and Bucky's face, before waving a hand and sitting back. "Keep it."

"What? No," Bucky frowned, "I already accepted your charity, you can't give me your coat, too. I'm not homeless, you know."

Steve smiled. "I know you're not. And it wasn't charity, it was my pleasure."

"So you keep saying," Bucky said, still holding out the jacket. "You rather come across as some kind of philanthropist, though. Unless you rob the rich to feed the poor."

"I think I'm lacking the bow and green tights for that," Steve said. "Trust me, I'm not a philanthropist. Keep the jacket, it looks good on you."

Bucky lowered his arms and folded the jacket over the back of his chair. "If you insist. You can't backtrack now, though."

Steve flagged down a waiter and ordered a cappuccino and a niçoise salad. Bucky glanced at the expensive menu and tried to decipher the seemingly random French words. Eventually he asked for a latte and tomato and basil soup bowl, and the waiter left.

"So," Steve said. "What did you do to piss off Rumlow's thugs?"

Bucky considered this for a second before deciding to just tell the truth – partially because he couldn't think of a convincing lie.

"My roommate buys shit off him," he toyed with the table's ornamental flowers. "He's an idiot and owes Rumlow money. They decided to take it out on me when he wasn't around."

Steve frowned. "That's rough."

Bucky shrugged. "C'est la vie."

"If you ever have any trouble with them again, I want you to call me," Steve said. It wasn't a request.

"I can take care of myself," Bucky said, before realising this was a pointless argument considering the state he'd been in last night before Steve had helped him. "Last night notwithstanding. I wasn't on my game."

"Right," Steve said. "Still, call me."

"Yes, sir," Bucky raised his hand in a salute, and Steve laughed.

The waiter brought them their drinks and food, and for a minute neither of them spoke as they ate. Bucky found he was starving, helping himself to three baguette pieces from the bread basket and hoping Steve didn't think he was greedy.

"Have you always lived in Manhattan?" Steve asked.

Bucky shook his head. "Brooklyn, 'til I was twenty-two, then I came here."

Steve grinned. "I'm from Brooklyn too."

"Yeah? Whereabouts?"

They fell into the kind of easy conversation both couple only dream of having on a first date. Bucky could almost kid himself that this was a date – that they were just two ordinary people meeting for lunch on a warm June Sunday. Bucky tried not to think about what the evening held for him, what he was going to leave Steve to do. He hoped Steve could forget about it too, at least until he left.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket at the clock hit three.

"Sorry, one second," he said to Steve, glancing at the screen.

Heading home, went ok, $400. T.

"Anything important?" Steve asked.

"It's my roommate," Bucky explained. "We have this code, we always text when we're arriving and leaving a job."

"You keep each other safe," Steve said.

"Well, try to," Bucky said. "It's not always so easy."

"I can imagine," Steve looked again at the bruising around Bucky's eye. "So, please stop me if you want to."

"Uh-huh?" Bucky said, bracing himself for whatever was about to follow.

"Why do you do it?"

"Do what?" Bucky knew what he meant, but he wanted to hear him say it.

Steve lowered his voice. "Rent yourself out to whomever wants to buy you."

"It's not whomever," he said. "I choose who. You think I just say yes to any guy who calls?"

"I don't know," Steve shrugged. "I've never met anyone in your line of work before."

"You've probably never needed to," Bucky said. He ran a hand through his longish hair. "When I came here, it was because of a guy. Everyone said he wasn't any good for me but I ignored them. He dumped me, and I was left stranded. My parents died when I was twelve and I didn't have anyone else to go back to. I met Tyler and he gave me a bed and set me up with this gig, let me share some of his clients. It's not what I'd imagined, but it was easy money. It still is."

Steve's bright blue gaze met his. "How long d'you intend to do it?"

"Until I've made enough to get out," Bucky said. "I want to see places. My dad was a traveller before he met my mom. I want to go to the places he did."

"Sounds like a big dream," Steve said.

"I'm going to make it happen," Bucky said. "I've already got two-thousand dollars saved, just a little more and I could at least get out of New York." He glanced at the face on Steve's watch. "I have to go."

He tried not to feel so pleased at the look of disappointment on Steve's face. "Right. Okay. If you have to."

"I do. I have to go home and get ready first. My clients expect certain standards, you know?" He tried to sound jovial, though he was so tempted to just forgo the payment to spend more time with Steve.

"Text me when you're home," Steve said. "I'd like to be in that loop too."

"If you insist," Bucky said. He reached in his pocket for his wallet, but Steve shook his head.

"Please, let me."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "You can't pay for everything – at least let me contribute." He tossed a five dollar bill on the table. "It was good to see you, Steve."

More than good. Great. Wonderful.

"You too, Bucky," Steve smiled. "Stay safe."

"I always do," Bucky said. "Last chance to go back on the jacket."

Steve shook his head again. "It's yours."

"Be careful, I could get used to this," Bucky joked, slipping his arms through the sleeves. It was a little big for him, but he liked it.

"See you later, Bucky," Steve said.

"So long," Bucky raised a hand in farewell, before turning and heading back down the street. He didn't look back – it would have made it so much harder to keep walking away.

Bucky arrived at the Starcrest Hotel ten minutes before four-thirty. The Starcrest was a little fancier than the Timson, but this client was a secretive one. His name was Carl Earlham, and he always asked for an evening of Bucky's time once a month when his wife was out of town, visiting her mother in Connecticut. Personally, Bucky thought the guy was scum for doing this, but it wasn't his place to think – it was his place to do his job and take Carl's money. He was a good tipper, after all. He always booked two rooms, and asked Bucky to wear a suit, so they could pretend to the hotel staff that they were simply co-workers on a business trip together. Bucky suspected the staff knew exactly the nature of their relationship, but it was two rooms payed for every month, so nobody had said anything. Bucky tugged at the tie he had around his neck. The suit was a cheap one Carl had paid for, and it wasn't the most comfortable.

Bucky pulled out his cell and tapped out a text to Tyler, saying he was at the hotel. Then, after a moment's thought, he sent the same text to Steve. Five seconds later, a text pinged back from Steve, simply to words: Which hotel?

Bucky smiled and shook his head. Sorry, that goes against client/hooker confidentiality.

"Bucky!"

Bucky looked up and the smile faded from his face. Carl was hurrying towards him, his glasses lopsided, the hem of his tan trench-coat flapping around his knees. It wasn't that Carl was a wholly unattractive guy – he was by no means in any league near Steve – but he was just so pathetic Bucky couldn't help but feel a certain distaste for him. That and the fact that he was cheating on his unsuspecting wife in what was possibly the worst way, he could almost say he despised him. But it was only one night, and it was three-hundred dollars more in the housekeeping jar, and three-hundred more in his savings box.

"Sorry I'm late," Carl said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Have you been waiting long?"

Bucky shook his head and followed him into the hotel lobby.

"Ah, Mr. Conway, Mr. Redman," the girl behind the counter said, smiling welcomingly at them both. Carl had insisted they use fake names when checking into the hotel, in case his wife asked if he'd been there. "Your usual rooms are all ready for you. Will you be paying cash or credit card today?"

"Cash," Carl said, as usual, his fingers fumbling as he handed over the notes for both rooms.

"Have a good evening," the receptionist said, and Bucky followed Carl to the elevator, his stomach sickened a little at what he knew was coming next. No matter how many times it happened, it still made his skin crawl just a little bit. As soon as the doors closed, Carl's hands were on him – his waist, his butt, raking through his hair, but even he knew better than to kiss him. Bucky had a strict rule of no kissing on the mouth – it was too personal, and besides, the thought of kissing most of his customers made the bile rise in his throat.

"I've missed you," Carl whispered, his breath ticking the skin beneath Bucky's ear. "You look so gorgeous. Have you missed me?"

Carl was one of the needy types of people Bucky and Tyler encountered in their line of work. Some guys simply wanted to get off without having to go through the rigmarole of flirtation, some wanted the chance to dominate someone – to feel powerful when in all other aspects of their life they were submissive, and then there were the guys like Carl. Guys who were so desperate for the touch and intimacy of someone they deemed desirable, they were willing to go so far as to pay for it. Bucky had found himself actually feeling sorry for some of the other clients who fell into this category – the ones who weren't married – especially when they cried. And some of them did cry. Afterwards he let them just hold him, or he held them, until their sobs subsided and they were satisfied enough to return to their ordinary lives. Carl could have a mental breakdown in front of him, and Bucky didn't know if he could bring himself to do more than pat his shoulder.

However, he wasn't here for that. He was here for one purpose, and that was to make Carl feel good, to make him feel desirable. So he wound his arms around Carl's neck and whispered back, "Of course I've missed you."

He undressed slowly for Carl when they reached the room, who watched open-mouthed from the bed. He undid his tie, wrapping it around his wrist, and flung his jacket away to slowly unbutton his shirt, revealing his smooth chest and flat stomach. His metal arm gleamed in the half-light He saw Carl squirm as he unzipped his pants, and slid them down his firm thighs, until he was standing in nothing but his black boxer briefs. He wasn't hard, but that didn't seem to bother Carl – whose mind was nearly always on his own erection.

"Come here, baby," Carl said, patting the mattress beside him, and Bucky crawled into his expected position. He heard Carl disposing of his own clothes, his fingers clumsily pulling down Bucky's shorts, exposing his ass.

"There's a rubber and lube in my backpack," Bucky reminded him before Carl got too excited to bother. Anal sex was never exactly comfortable, but it could at least not be excruciating. Carl pulled on a condom and applied some of the clear gel to his length, before lining himself up against Bucky's hole and forcing himself in. Bucky's forehead hit the bed at the sudden thrust, the new cut stinging at the friction, and he gasped as his body hastened to accommodate the intrusion. It occurred to him that Carl hadn't even noticed, or not seen fit to mention, the injury that was – despite Bucky's attempts to hide it – obvious to anyone who looked at his face. He claimed to feel towards Bucky, but he wasn't concerned that he'd recently received a fist across the face. Steve noticed, Steve had asked how he was just the second day of knowing him. His body rocked in time to the movement of Carl's thrusts, and he tried to think of Steve's face as a comfort to each blow. It seemed strange that just an hour ago he'd been sitting with Steve at the café, talking like two normal people on a regular date, and now he was being fucked by some nobody who didn't even know his last name. Steve had said he thought Bucky was better than this. Was he?

After just five minutes, he felt Carl's fingers grip tighter on his hips, his jerks becoming more erratic, his breath hot and harsh between Bucky's shoulders, until he stopped moving and grunted, his cock pulsating inside Bucky's ass as he came. Bucky just bit his lip and tried not to cry.

Steve had been waiting in the car for about two hours before the phone in his pocket beeped.

Done. Coming home now.

The notion that Bucky had spent the last hour in some damn hotel room, with some guy using his body as some kind of human sex doll was almost more than he could bear thinking about. He doubted they took much time, if any, in making Bucky feel good throughout the whole experience. To his knowledge, the types of guys who frequented hookers weren't exactly concerned with how much pleasure their partner was getting. In just the short time he'd had in getting to know him, Steve knew Bucky would be sensible enough to use the right protection, but it didn't necessarily make the experience any more enjoyable. How could Bucky believe he was good for nothing more than this? Then again, Steve didn't believe anyone was good for nothing more than selling themselves to the highest bidder, and yet so many people seemed to. Bucky was smart, charming, and incredibly pleasant to look at – there were so many jobs he could go for without having his body violated night after night.

Steve couldn't claim to be an expert on these matters – for all he knew, it wasn't as bad as he was painting the situation. Bucky could just be able to grin and bear it and be right as rain after, but something told him that wasn't the case. He'd looked too sad to leave, behind the smartass grin, that afternoon at the café.

He didn't know exactly which one of these buildings was Bucky's, so he'd been keeping an eye on all of them since Bucky had sent that first text. He considered the fact that Bucky had messaged him to be a good sign – it proved Bucky didn't think Steve was trying to impose in on his life, or if he did, he didn't mind. Perhaps he was just used to doing what he was told by now.

A flicker of movement in his rear-view made Steve focus, his stomach leaping a little when he saw a dark-haired man approaching from the corner. It was Bucky. He was walking slowly, a little awkwardly, which Steve expected was something to do with his evening's activities and he felt angry again. How could someone do that to him and then just let him walk home alone? Steve knew he was acting like a mother hen, but he didn't give a shit. Bucky turned and started up the front steps of one of the buildings, and Steve quickly opened the car door and stood on the sidewalk. He was only a few doors away, but Bucky didn't seem to see him. He was wearing an ill-fitting black suit with a white shirt and loose tie which he looked entirely uncomfortable in – Steve supposed it was an outfit his client favoured more than him.

"So how about this?" he called. Bucky stopped and stared at him in disbelief. His eyes were dull and tired, the makeup around his eye starting to rub off, his bruise exposed in all its colours. Steve took a few steps towards him and cleared his throat. "How about this," he repeated. "I will pay you ten-thousand dollars if you stay the week with me in my apartment."

Bucky didn't seem to register what he'd said and just looked confused.

"You don't like charity, that's obvious," Steve continued. "So I'd like to hire you, officially. Spend the week with me. I've taken a leave of absence, and I'll be bored. You'd be doing me a favour, really."

"If this is some kind of joke," Bucky said, "I'm not really in the mood."

"I'm serious," Steve said. "I like you, and I think you'd be fun to have around."

"Fun," Bucky shook his head. "If you want sex, just ask for it. You don't have to play footsie – I'm kind of a sure thing."

Steve shrugged. "If it happens, it happens. If not, I'd like to just spend time with you. You're very nice to look at."

Bucky almost seemed to blush, but retained his composure.

"Ten thousand bucks, huh?"

"I can give you one and a half each night, cash, if you'd like," Steve said.

"That comes out to an extra five hundred."

Steve chuckled. "Math never was my strong suit. Do we have a deal?"

Bucky considered it for a moment, his blue eyes scanning Steve's face for signs of insincerity.

"Right. You're on," he said. "Give me a sec to gather some stuff." He paused. "Wanna come up – see how the other half live?"

"I wasn't born with a silver spoon up my ass, you know," Steve said, following Bucky up the steps.

The apartment block was like any other in that part of town – cramped, a bit dirty, with the faded sound of music and a lingering smell of pot smoke. There wasn't an elevator, so they climbed four flights of stairs to Bucky's apartment. Bucky walked a little slower than Steve, so Steve pulled back a bit, almost tempted to offer to carry him, but he thought Bucky might find it undignified. When they reached number four-oh-eight, Bucky unlocked the orange door and stepped aside to let Steve in first. The apartment was tiny and cluttered, but it at least looked clean.

"Which one of you is the slob?" Steve asked, glancing inside the bedroom.

"Tyler," Bucky smirked. "He's probably out with a client right now. Or getting high." He shook his head and moved on towards the bathroom. Steve watched with interest as he lifted the ceramic lid of the toilet tank and pulled a small blue plastic box out of the water. He dried it off on a dish-towel that was hanging off a hook on the wall, and zipped it safely in a compartment on his backpack.

"Let me just get changed," he said, tugging at his tie like it was choking him. "I hate this suit."

"It's the wrong size," Steve observed. "It's about two sizes too small."

Bucky nodded. "Mr. Earlham likes things to be tight."

"Well, then he's a moron," Steve said, making a mental note to take Bucky on a trip to the tailor's at some point that week. "Suits are much sexier when they fit."

Bucky ripped off the suit jacket and shirt, tearing off a couple of buttons in his haste to get out of it. Steve noticed a trail of red fingertip marks etched into the pale skin at his waist, almost like a brand.

"Shit," he muttered. Bucky looked up and followed his eye-line, shrugging his shoulders. "Is this guy rough?" Steve asked.

"No more than most," Bucky said. "Guess I bruise easily, but I heal fast." He unzipped his pants and stared at Steve. "Enjoying the show?"

"It's not unpleasant," Steve admitted, turning his back while Bucky changed into fresh clothes. When Steve looked around, he was in a pair of dark blue jeans and the black long-sleeved T-shirt he'd been wearing the previous night.

"Mustn't forget this," he said with a grin, picking up the jacket Steve saw he had folded by the head of his futon, and felt a rush of affection for the younger man. There wasn't much in the room for Bucky to pack – a few extra clothes and a small teak box that he tucked under his arm.

"Ready," he said. "If you're still sure you want me?"

"Let's go," Steve said.

While nice, Steve had never really considered his building a particularly impressive one – certainly not by the standards set by Tony Stark, some of whose buildings made the White House look a little shabby. Bucky however, seemed to think otherwise.

"Jesus," he said when they stepped into the lobby. "I thought you said you weren't rich."

"I said I wasn't born rich," Steve said. "And I'm not, enormously. I live comfortably, I guess. Besides, the apartment's just a bonus of my job."

"What is it you do, again?" Bucky asked as they stepped into the elevator, soaring up towards the top floor.

"I'm in national security," Steve said.

"Your friends, too?"

"Yup."

"Rumlow's guys must be pretty screwed right now, then," Bucky chuckled with delight at the thought.

"I'd say they're probably regretting it," Steve agreed. "Nat's been in the business since she was eighteen – she's practically a trained assassin. Apparently they pussied out before she and Sam could drag them in."

"For this week can I pretend you're, like, my bodyguard, or something?" Bucky laughed, his jaw dropping a little when he saw the top floor landing. It had only three rooms – one directly ahead (Steve's), one to the left, and another to the right (Sharon's). The polished wood floor reflected the chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and the two windows installed between the three doors showed an impressive view of downtown Manhattan. If Bucky was impressed by this, Steve couldn't wait to see his face when he saw one of Tony's buildings.

"This is me," Steve said, unlocking the middle door and holding it open. Bucky stepped inside and gazed around the wide room.

"Your kitchen is bigger than my whole apartment," he said flatly, running his fingers across the black marble countertop. "Oh my God, your view's amazing." He rushed to the window and pressed himself against it, staring out at the ocean of lights stretched out beneath them. "Look, you can see Stark Tower from here."

"Yeah," Steve said, unenthusiastically. Having a preference for more classical architecture, he considered Tony's recent attribute to society as a blemish on his daily view.

Bucky dropped his backpack on the sofa and turned to look at Steve. "I should be paying you to let me stay here," he said. "So this'll be my bed?" he said, indicating the wide, L-shaped couch.

"If you want," Steve shrugged, "though the actual bed is more comfortable."

"Will you be in it?" Bucky grinned flirtatiously. "'Cause I gotta warn you – I spread out. I'm like a starfish."

Steve – trying to ignore the blood-rush he'd got when Bucky said 'spread out' – smiled. "That's fine. I tend to sleep like a toy soldier – throwback to my army days."

"You were in the army?" Bucky asked.

"107th Infantry Regiment," Steve said. "That's why Nat calls me Cap."

"You were a captain?" Bucky walked towards him in rather sultry fashion. "I'll bet you look great in your regimentals."

"I wouldn't know," Steve laughed. "Besides, you wouldn't have thought so when I first signed up."

"Why not?"

Steve took his wallet out of his pocket and showed Bucky the black-and-white photo he kept inside it. It showed a small, scrawny adolescent looking rather ridiculous in an oversized helmet, his face serious and full of pride. "My mom took that just after I got in. She died a month later – leukaemia."

"I'm sorry." Bucky said, his face earnest.

"Me too," Steve said. "About your folks, I mean."

"So how did you go from this guy to . . ." Bucky glanced Steve's muscled arms and torso. "You."

"Bit of a long story," Steve said, taking the picture back and stowing it away. "This scientist guy was concocting this new kind of performance enhancement serum, which accelerated growth of muscle and a few other changes. Kind of a cleaner version of steroids, with none of the nasty side effects. As you can guess, I was the first volunteer for the experiment. Took a few months, combined with hard training, but it worked."

"Damn. I didn't think things like that really existed," Bucky said in amazement.

"It doesn't, not anymore," Steve said. "He died, three days after I was promoted to captain. Heart attack. The other scientists looked, but they could never find his entire research. Guess he didn't trust anyone except himself to use it properly. There was only me and a handful of others who received the serum."

"That's incredible. How come you keep that photo in there?"

"To remind me where I came from, and who I used to be. Basically to stop my head getting too big." He smiled. "It helps me remember that there's more to being great than physical strength – it takes being a good person who watches out for the little guy."

"I'm guessing I'm the little guy here," Bucky said. "I'm starting to feel like a stray puppy."

Steve rested a hand on his shoulder. "You're far from just the little guy, and you're cuter than a dog."

"Gee, thanks," Bucky laughed, giving Steve's arm a playful thump.

"Besides, you're a pretty special yourself, aren't you?" Steve said, nodding at Bucky's left arm.

"I guess," Bucky said, flexing his silver fingers. "More of a robot than a super-soldier, though."

"How'd you get it?"

"I lost my arm a train accident when I was twenty-one," Bucky said. "There was this crackpot Swiss doctor who was experimenting with new forms of prosthetics. I agreed to let him try it out on me. I signed a waver not to sue if it went wrong, and they did it for free."

"That was brave."

"Not really. I was either getting an arm or keeping my stump. Worst case scenario I might have lost sensation in the left side of my torso. Worth the risk, I thought."

"Did it hurt?"

"Like all hell," Bucky said with a short laugh. "They had to fuse my nerves to the receptors in the wiring. It was like being stung by a hundred wasps all at once. I threw up."

"And you can still feel?"

"Yeah. Well, I can feel down my body, but I can only feel pressure with my arm, no texture. Took me a while to learn how strong it was."

"Did they do it to other people?"

"Well, now they know it works, the assholes only make it available to those who can afford it. Load of rich cyborgs out there in Europe. In twenty years or so it might be affordable to the everyman. I was one of the lucky ones, and just as well it didn't happen when I was younger, or it might have been short than my right one now."

"That's true." Steve ran a finger down the cool metal. "It's incredible."

"Thanks." Bucky grinned. "Look at us – a couple of freaks."

"Mm. Well, this freak is hungry. Have you eaten since lunch?"

"No."

"What d'you fancy? I can whip up something, or we can order take-out?"

"What're you thinking of whipping up?"

"Got some noodles, chicken and some vegetables. I can do a stir-fry?"

"Sounds good to me."

"Excellent. You can sit at the counter and look gorgeous while I cook."

"I reckon I can manage that."

Bucky couldn't believe where he was.

He sat at the marble kitchen counter and watched a gorgeous man cook him dinner. It was kinda comforting to know that there was something a little unusual about Steve, too. It made him feel like less of a freak, though he knew Steve didn't think of him as one. He was almost too good to be true – Bucky was almost waiting for him to rip off his face and reveal himself to be an alien or something. He followed Steve's movements as he chopped onions, mushrooms, carrots, green beans and baby corn, tossing them in with the noodles, chicken and black bean sauce – it smelled amazing. Once it was ready, Steve pulled out two white bowls and filled them with the glorious mixture, pushing one towards Bucky and taking the stool opposite.

"I have a dining table," Steve explained, "but it's covered in my art crap right now."

Bucky took a forkful of noodles and chewed them in ecstasy. "Art? You paint too? Now you're just showing off."

"No painting," Steve said, "I'm more of a sketcher. Portraits, mostly."

"You'll have to do mine."

"I'd love to," Steve said sincerely. "You'd be the perfect model."

"Why?" Bucky laughed. "Because you're paying me to be?"

"That," Steve said, "and you're the most beautiful guy I've ever seen."

Bucky swallowed his mouthful and gazed at the man opposite him. He could honestly say he'd never seen a man as close to physical perfection as Steve Rogers, and the fact that Steve thought he was even in the same league made it hard to breathe.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Steve said, moving towards the fridge. "Would you like a drink? I have beer, wine and juice."

"Wine, please," Bucky said, and Steve poured him a glass of fine-smelling Pinot Grigio.

"I'm afraid it's nothing fancy," Steve said.

"It's delicious," Bucky said, taking a sip and comparing it to the $2.99 brand he and Tyler normally bought – it was a vast improvement. He swirled the wine in his glass – he knew you were only really meant to do that with reds but it made him feel fancy – and took a breath.

"So, what's your deal?" he said to Steve.

"Which one?" Steve asked.

"You know from the hospital which sex I prefer," Bucky said. "What about you?"

Steve paused and chewed for a minute, considering his answer. Finally, he swallowed and said, "I don't really know. I've dated girls and guys before – I tend to just like whoever attracts me at the time. I'm sure the youth of the internet would have some specially allocated name for it."

"That's cool," Bucky said. "I dated a couple of girls in high school, but that was the last time. I've never slept with a woman."

"It's pretty nice," Steve said. "Have to say I prefer sex with guys. All the two I've slept with."

"You're so precious," Bucky snorted, trying not to count the men he'd let fuck him over the years, both in work and out of it. "What was your last serious relationship?"

Steve gave a sad smile. "Her name was Margaret Carter. We called her Peggy. She was an agent with the Special Forces when I had the serum. She was the only girl who liked me both before and after."

"What happened?" Bucky asked, sensing the story wasn't going to have a happy ending.

"She was killed in action overseas," Steve said.

"I'm so sorry," Bucky said, trying to put all his sincerity into his words.

"Thank you," Steve said. "I can talk about her now. She was the best girl – she taught me to never be ashamed of who you are. She knew I'd liked guys and just accepted it."

"She sounds great," Bucky said.

"She was. Her cousin lives next door – Sharon. She's great too, we get along well. We're just friends, though."

Bucky appreciated the confirmation. He wasn't the jealous type, but with Steve he had a feeling he could learn to be, which wasn't necessarily a good thing. He pushed the small collection of noodles remaining at the bottom of his bowl and puffed out his cheeks. "That was amazing," he said. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Steve said, depositing both bowls in the sink and picking up his glass of wine. "Shall we go through?"

They sat down together on the sofa in the living room and gazed out at the evening cityscape. Steve spotted the wooden box Bucky had brought from his apartment.

"If it's not a personal question," he said, "what's in the box?"

Bucky picked up the box and stroked the teak lid, sliding it across to reveal a small pile of photographs inside. He removed them and handed them to Steve, along with some blank travel postcards, and a small, battered paperback copy of Fahrenheit 451. The only item left in the box was a passport.

"That's my mom and dad," he said, pointing to the smiling couple in one of the photographs. "That was their first holiday, in London. Dad proposed in front of the Natural History Museum."

There were four other pictures, each seemingly taken in a different location – London, Rome, Canada, Paris and Barcelona. Steve noticed each of these locations was represented by a postcard.

"They went to so many places," Bucky said. "These were just their favourites. When I was a kid, I bought these postcards for when I was gonna travel the world, and I was going to send each postcard back to them when I got there and tell them what a great time I was having." He felt his throat close up a little and quickly cleared it.

Steve nodded and opened the book. On the inside of the cover was written: To Mary, my darling wife. Happy Birthday from your husband. All my love, James.

"It was my mom's favourite," Bucky said. Now he was definitely choking up, which was embarrassing. Steve looked politely away while he wiped his eyes, and handed the small pile of precious items back to him.

"Thanks for showing me," he said.

Bucky wasn't sure why he had shown him. Even Tyler didn't know what was in this box – he just knew not to touch it. Perhaps it was because Steve had already done so much for him, and that he was certain Steve wouldn't laugh. He knew Steve would understand the importance of each thing he'd kept to remember his parents by. He stashed each item carefully back inside and slid the lid across.

Steve reached out and slid an arm around Bucky's shoulders, pulling him in closer against his chest.

"Is this in my job contract?" Bucky asked, keeping his voice light.

"It is now," Steve said.

They sat there for a while, watching the city go by, talking about various things, until the clock struck eleven and Bucky yawned widely.

"Time for sleep?" Steve asked, and Bucky nodded sleepily. "Would you rather the bed or the couch?"

Bucky faked deep thought for a second, before twisting round in Steve's arms to flash him a grin. They took it in turns to use the bathroom, and when he returned, Steve found Bucky sitting cross-legged atop the sheets, wearing nothing but his boxers. The seam where his skin met metal was darker than the rest of his chest, the mechanics of the arm rippling beneath the flesh as he moved it. It was an incredible piece of machinery, but Steve's eyes were fixed instead on Bucky's face. Bucky admired Steve's perfect chest and ab muscles, the way his pyjama pants hung from his narrow hips, even his bare feet with their long, delicate toes. There were no flaws, save for a small knot of scar tissue in the centre of his torso. Steve brushed it with his fingertips when he saw Bucky looking.

"Wounded in action, bullet lodged in my sternum. Only injury I ever got in three years."

"It looks like a star," Bucky noted.

"That's a very romantic way of looking at it," Steve said, folding his shirt over a nearby chair and moving to join Bucky on the bed. He placed one long-fingered hand on Bucky's cheek and brought his lips to touch the line of his jaw. Bucky closed his eyes and revelled in how good Steve's touch felt, how soft his lips were. He remembered his and Tyler's rule of no kissing on the mouth and pulled back, his gaze meeting Steve's in a moment of tenderness. There was no lust in Steve's eyes, just affection. Lust would undoubtedly follow – it always did, eventually – but for now, it was nice for simply his presence to be enough.

"Not yet," he said.

Steve nodded, and planted a soft kiss on Bucky's forehead, just above the bruised skin. "Okay."

He switched the lights off and they buried themselves beneath the sheets, the moonlight casting a silver stream of light through a gap in the curtains. Bucky rolled over on his side to face the window, and caught his breath as he felt Steve wrap an arm around his waist and spoon against him. In all the five years he'd been working the streets on Manhattan, he'd never been held like this, before or after or without sex. He took Steve's hand, so much larger than his own, and entwined their fingers together, pressing his lips to the space between with his thumb and forefinger. He almost heard Steve smile and nestled back against his chest.

"Goodnight," Steve whispered.

Bucky settled down into the pillow and closed his eyes. "'Night, Steve."

The sunlight washed over the bedroom and Steve blearily opened his eyes. Bucky had rolled away at some point in the night, taking most of the sheets with him, wrapping himself in some sort of linen cocoon. Steve grinned and pulled himself into a sitting position, his eyes fixed on the younger guy for a moment – his shoulder-length brown hair was tangled around his face, his thick black lashes brushing the pale skin of his cheeks, his soft lips parted. The bruise around his eye was already starting to fade from purple to brown. Guess the kid really was a fast healer. Steve gently rose from the bed, careful not to wake him, and went through to the bathroom for a shower. He dressed quietly and was just adding some eggs to a pan in the kitchen when Bucky came padding in, rubbing at his good eye with the heel of his hand.

"Good morning," Steve said brightly, and Bucky screwed up his face against the light. "Sleep well?"

Bucky nodded and sat down at the counter, stifling a yawn. Steve reached across and pushed aside a lock of tousled hair – his sleepy face looked younger than normal, and Steve was hit by an almost overwhelming desire to wrap him up and cuddle him.

"Took me a second to remember where I was," Bucky said, playfully nipping at Steve's fingers as he traced the fine outline of his mouth. He inhaled the smell of buttery scrambled eggs and closed his eyes. "That smells awesome."

Steve poked a couple of bread slices into the toaster and added a pinch of salt to the pan. "Tomorrow we can go out for breakfast," he said. "This morning I thought you might like it in bed."

"Here's good," Bucky said. "I don't want to get crumbs on your sheets – they looked like they cost more than my rent."

Steve spread butter over the toast and ladled a few spoonfuls of eggs onto it, adding a slice of smoked salmon and pushing it towards Bucky.

"Coffee?" he offered, as Bucky ripped into the bread like a ravenous animal. He poured out a large cup, topped it up with cream and then made one for himself. He normally went to the gym about this time, but it seemed rude to just leave Bucky here by himself for two hours.

"So, is there anything particular you wanted to do today?" he asked. Bucky slowed his chewing and swallowed.

"I'm here at your disposal," he said. "We can do whatever you want."

Steve nodded, "Alright. Well, I guess I need to pick up a new jacket."

Bucky grinned ruefully.

Two hours later, they returned from an exstensive shopping trip, Steve carrying four expensive clothes bags, and Bucky sporting a new hairstyle.

"It feels so short," he said, running his fingers through it for the millionth time. "I just kept it under control with bathroom scissors before."

"It looks great," Steve assured him, setting the bags on the kitchen counter and pushing a loose strand behind Bucky's ear. "D'you like it?"

"Yeah," he smiled. "Makes me look like less of a hooker, for one thing."

Steve kissed his forehead and pulled his phone out of his pocket. "I've just got to make a quick call – why don't you go hang these up? There should be some spare hangers in the second wardrobe."

Bucky picked up the string handles of the bags and took them through to the bedroom, Steve shamelessly ogling his ass as he went. He cleared his throat and tried to focus, scrolling through his contacts until he found the number he needed.

"Hello, Starbucks, Amanda speaking?"

"Hey Tony," Steve said, keeping his voice low. "Listen, I need a favour."

Bucky carefully unpacked each of the clothing items Steve had bought him, and laid them out on the bed to examine them closer. Three shirts, two pairs of jeans, black chinos, a red cashmere sweater, and even shoes. He ran his fingers down the exquisite leather of his new Oxfords and tried to add up how much this must all have cost. Despite Steve's insistence that he wasn't rich, he'd certainly handed over his credit card without so much as a second glance. Factor in the ten grand he'd promised at the end of the week, and Steve was starting to come across as more of a sugar daddy than a client. Bucky touched the soft wool sleeve of his new sweater – he'd never owned anything this nice before, not even when his parents were alive. Most of the money he'd earned was used for rent, food, and bailing Tyler out. The rest went in his travel fund. His clothes were usually bought in thrift stores, and there was certainly no Oxfords or cashmere in there.

He quickly changed out of his old clothes – with looked even scruffier next to the new ones – and pulled on the pants, one of the shirts in pale blue, and the sweater. He laced up the shiny brown leather shoes, and went to look at himself in the full-length mirror that hung from the wardrobe door. His hair was now cut short and neatly pushed back from his face, exposing his cheekbones (he hadn't realised he had cheekbones before the stylist had pointed them out as one of his best features). He stared at the stranger looking back at him, the blue of his eyes more noticeable now they weren't hidden by his usual curtains.

"Wow," Steve said from the doorway. He leaned against the frame and looked Bucky up and down. "You look amazing."

Bucky cocked his head and shoved his hands in his pockets – he did look good, he just didn't look like himself.

"Do you like it?" Steve asked.

"They're incredible," Bucky said. "It's just . . . it's different."

"Is that bad?" Steve said. He walked over and stood behind Bucky, slowly wrapping his arms around his waist and resting his chin on his shoulder. They looked like a typical rich gay couple – all they were missing was a well-groomed dog. Bucky could've been a business owner, a model, a politician's son – no-one would have guessed what he really was. He turned in Steve's arms and gave his most seductive smile.

"Is there anything I can do to repay you, Captain?" he asked coquettishly. The guy had just forked out hundreds of bucks for just a couple of outfits – the least Bucky could do was pay him back the best way he knew how. To his surprise, Steve unhooked Bucky's arms from around his neck and gave him a chaste kiss on his forehead. Bucky didn't want to boast, but he could normally bring most men to their knees (figuratively speaking, of course – they normally wanted Bucky on his knees) with that smile.

"You're paying big bucks for me," he reminded Steve. "Don't you wanna get your money's worth?"

Steve shook his head. "We haven't even kissed yet," he said gently. "If we do make it to bed, I want it to be when you want it."

Bucky almost said that he did want it, but he stopped. He'd been satisfying the needs of other men for so long, had he really become so numb to his own? The last twenty-four hours had been some of the most enjoyable he'd spent in a very long time, and he didn't want to be getting something for nothing. Did he? It was nice being spoiled like this – he just didn't know if he completely trusted it not to come with strings attached.

He then realised that Steve had said 'if' – if they went to bed together. It was such a classy way of putting it, for one thing – he was more used to plain old 'fucking' – and it insinuated that Steve didn't mind if they didn't after just this one week. It was all so new and strange, like these expensive clothes, that he felt almost afraid of it.

The doorbell rang and Steve pulled away from him and grinned.

"Would you answer that?" he said. "I want to see her face when she sees you."

'Her' turned out to the attractive redhead who had been with Steve at the bar. She was dressed more casually in dark jeans and a black halter top, her immaculate scarlet mouth opening as she caught sight of Bucky.

"Holy shit," she said with a laugh.

Bucky smirked and stepped aside to let her in. "Nice job, Cap," she said to Steve, who was standing with his arms folded against the fridge and grinning. "I was digging the whole street-grunge look but this is even better." She pulled a small brown envelope from the satchel she had strapped across her and handed it to him. "As you requested."

Steve took it and slipped it into his back pocket. "Fancy a drink?" he asked her.

"Normally I'd say yes, but I'm on my way to meet Clint and Sam."

As she passed, she picked a piece of lint from Bucky's shoulder and smiled up at him. "Take care of yourself, kid," she said, then, lowering her voice, "and enjoy."

When she was gone, Bucky glanced at the paper sticking out of Steve's pocket. "What is that?" he asked.

"Just something I asked her to pick up for me," he shrugged. "How do you fancy an early dinner?"

Bucky decided not to push the hasty change in subject and waited while Steve changed into a suit jacket and pants, and a clean white shirt, the top two buttons undone. The restaurant Bucky could sense people's eyes on him as they walked the three blocks to the restaurant Steve had chosen, and at first felt his hackles rise up automatically – he was used to being judged by people he didn't know, who saw his scruffy clothes and long hair and made their own assumptions about what sort of person he was – but then he realised most of them were smiling. He counted six women who caught his eye and smiled flirtatiously, and even more trying the same trick with Steve. These strangers admired his classy clothes and good looks with interest and envy in their eyes and Bucky, following Steve's example, smiled politely back.

The restaurant was an Italian-American place, the sumptuous smell of herbs and bread wafting out through the door as they approached. The hostess gave them the briefest of analysing looks, smiled politely, and led them to a booth set for two along the far wall. Steve slid his arms out of his jacket and folded it on the leather seat beside him, Bucky quickly following suit. Even in his new clothes he felt underdressed next to Steve, who looked like an aftershave model, but nobody gave him any funny looks now. A pretty, dark-haired girl came to take their drinks order, and Steve asked for a bottle of some fancy wine Bucky had never even heard of. The waitress brought two small bowls of olive oil and balsamic vinegar and a basket of bread with the wine, and left again for them to look at the menu. Bucky was relieved that he recognised most of the dishes.

"The chicken marsala here is really good," Steve said, "but I also recommend the spaghetti and meatballs. Totally unoriginal, I know, but they're delicious."

Bucky helped himself to a piece of bread, dipped it in the oil and took a large bite – he'd never eaten home-baked bread before, and it tasted amazing. The waitress returned, took their order for two spaghetti and meatballs, and left them with a flirty smile.

"You've had that look on your face since you had your hair cut," Steve said.

"What look?"

"Like you can't believe everyone's looking at you. I'd have thought you'd be used to it."

"I'm used to people thinking I'm some kind of addict," Bucky said. "People actually look happy to see me now."

Steve slid his hand across the table and placed it over Bucky's, stroking his palm with his thumb. "You look wonderful," he said.

When their food came, Bucky had to exercise extreme restraint not to just plant his face in it, it smelled so good. He concentrated on trying not to slurp the pasta or spill anything on his sweater – it was a wonder to him that rich people managed to eat at all. They talked about a few things – films, books (not that Bucky had read that many) until Steve set down his fork and rummaged in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

"I was going to wait until after the meal," he said, pulling out the envelope Natasha had given him earlier. He held out to Bucky, who took it and opened the sealed flap – inside was a small set of keys and some folded papers. Bucky pulled them out and read what was printed on the first page. Stark Jets, confirmation of flight – New York (JFK) to London (LHR), 28/05/16.

He slowly raised his eyes to meet Steve's, who was smiling in anticipation for his reaction – except Bucky didn't know how to react.

"When did you . . .?" he trailed off.

"This afternoon," Steve said. "Tony owes me a couple of favours, so I cashed one in."

"As in Stark – the Tony Stark?"

"Mm-hmm. We don't always see eye to eye but he's a friend."

The fact that Steve could be so blasé about being on first-name terms with one of the richest men in America – make that the world – boggled Bucky's mind.

"And he's okay with you using one of his jets to take me to London."

"Totally okay," Steve assured him. "He's been griping on at me for months to start dating again, so he can't complain."

"I don't know if it really counts as dating if you're paying for it," Bucky said, his heart pounding. Steve was willing to fly them out all the way to Europe, just because Bucky had said he wanted to go there.

"It counts," Steve insisted. "Tony has an apartment in Kensington we can stay in."

Bucky had done enough travel research to know that Kensington was pretty far up the scale in the real estate market. Steve had known him for just over two days, and was taking him to London to stay in an apartment that would most likely make Steve's place look like a slum. This, on top of the money he'd promised at the end of the week. Alarm bells were ringing in his ears – nobody was this generous to a hooker on the run from gang thugs.

"What's wrong?" Steve asked, his handsome face concerned, and Bucky realised he was gripping the papers so hard they'd creased.

The fought down the lump in his throat and shook his head. "Why're you doing this for me?"

Steve leaned forwards in his seat, staring deep into Bucky's eyes. "Because you deserve better than what life has thrown at you," he said.

"A lot of people do," Bucky said.

"True," Steve said. "But I'd rather it was just you and me this time. We can invite the rest of New York to join us later."

Bucky laughed – a little hysterically, he realised – an overwhelming feeling of excitement building up inside him, wondering if he was going to scream, cry, or be sick. Thankfully, the lesser of the three evils occurred.

"Hey, hey," Steve said softly, his face blurring as Bucky's eyes welled up. His fingers found Bucky's again. "It's okay."

"I know it's okay," Bucky said, trying to keep his voice from cracking. "It's amazing. It's just . . . no-one's ever done anything like this for me."

"Well, it helps when the person offering is buddies with a multi-billionaire," Steve grinned. Bucky wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and looked at the sheet of paper still clutched in his metal hand. "Wait, the twenty-eighth? But that's—"

"Today," Steve nodded. He looked so happy that his surprise had been well-received that Bucky felt his heart melt. "Tony said he could have a jet ready by eleven, and we should get into Heathrow by six tomorrow morning."

Bucky thanked his stars he'd renewed his passport, and practiced extreme restraint for a second time that afternoon – this time not to grab Steve by the shirt and kiss his face off.

Suffice to say, Bucky had never been on a private jet – hell, he'd never been on a plane at all – but it was certainly something he could grow accustomed to. There were comfortable leather chairs, a flat-screen TV, and even a mini-bar. Oh, and Pepper Potts. The CEO of Stark Industries and Tony Stark's (in Steve's words, long-suffering) girlfriend was waiting for them in the cabin.

"Steve, good to see you," she hugged him in greeting. "Tony sends his apologies that he couldn't be here to see you off."

"Tony sends his apologies?" Steve raised an eyebrow. "Was he drunk?"

Pepper gave a dry smile and held out her hand to Bucky, who shook it. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Barnes," she said.

Bucky wondered if she knew the circumstances of how he and Steve had met, or what the nature of their relationship was. If she did, either her manners were impeccable or more rich people were more open-minded than he'd originally thought. While Pepper explained a few details about their London lodgings to Steve, Bucky set down his borrowed suitcase and admired the cabin. A bottle of champagne in an ice bucket was sitting on the bar, along with two glasses and a tray of strawberries. He popped one in his mouth and sat in one of the chairs next to the window. Pepper bid them a safe trip and departed, and Bucky started to feel a little nervous.

"Have you flown before?" Steve asked, pouring two glasses of champagne and sitting down opposite him.

"Nuh-uh," Bucky shook his head and took the proffered glass Steve was holding out to him – the wine was light, fizzy and delicious, and he took another mouthful.

"Steady," Steve said. "It's a long flight – I don't want you hammered when we get there."

"C'mon, this is the best night of my life – I'm allowed to have fun," Bucky protested, but started to sip his drink rather than guzzle it.

Steve smiled warmly and placed his hand on Bucky's knee. Bucky looked into his kind, open, handsome face and thought, I could kiss him, right now, in this fancy airplane, but was distracted by the presence of the pilot, who had appeared so say they were about to take off. He felt only a little anxious, but topped up his glass to steady his nerves all the same. As the jet started speeding down the runway, he gripped the arms of his chair and took a deep breath, his stomach squirming as the wheels left the tarmac and they became airborne.

"Woo," he puffed out the breath he'd been holding. "That wasn't so bad."

"It's landing that I sometimes struggle with," Steve said. He brought over the plate of strawberries and ate one. "Hopefully we can just sleep through that."

Bucky didn't know how Steve expected him to sleep when they were riding the winds in a private Stark jet on their way to a multi-million dollar apartment in London. He felt wide awake and buzzed as hell (though that could have been the alcohol).

"So I was wondering," Steve said, reaching inside his bag and pulling out a large sketchpad, "since we've got seven hours to kill, if you'd be my muse for the night."

"Sure," Bucky mussed up his hair and opened three of his shirt buttons. "How do you want me?" he asked huskily.

Steve chuckled and smoothed his dark forelocks back down again. "Just as you are," he said. "Though maybe keep the shirt open," he added with a flirty grin. He pulled out a couple of pencils and stared unblinkingly at his model for a moment. Bucky watched as his long, dextrous fingers swept delicately across the page, a thin line following their movement. He saw the shape of his jaw and neck come into life, his hair, his eyes, and marvelled at the sheer raw skill Steve possessed. He lost track of how long they sat there, his eyes on Steve's as they occasionally flicked up to absorb another detail, adding it to the portrait, eating the strawberries that sat between them. After a while, his eyelids started to itch and he yawned, and Steve closed the book.

"You should get some sleep," he said. "This can wait."

Bucky allowed himself to be steered sleepily into a separate compartment at the rear of the cabin, where a large double bed was made up with crisp linen sheets. Steve came to a sudden stop and ran a hand over his eyes.

"Christ, Tony . . ." Bucky noticed the perfect heart-shaped pattern decorating the bed – he didn't think they made that many types of condoms. He giggled and picked one up.

"This one's 'ribbed for her pleasure'," he read. "How thoughtful."

Steve gathered the foil squares in his hands and dumped them on a small table. Bucky placed the one he was holding between his teeth and grinned slyly at him. "Sure you don't to?"

"Bucky, I'd happily have you six ways from Sunday," Steve replied. "But only when you want it."

"Right." Bucky dropped the condom to the floor – the idea of Steve having him in any which way was more pleasing that he could imagine. He couldn't actually remember the last time he slept with someone he genuinely desired.

"The bathroom's through there," Steve pointed to a door behind him. "After you."

After he'd brushed his teeth and splashed a little water on his face, Bucky stared resolutely into the mirror and was once more struck by how different he looked. Even a hooker's allowed to daydream, he thought. What if Steve really was all he seemed – kind, sweet, honest and good? It would be too much to ask for, but if it were true . . . Maybe once this week was over, he could give up walking the streets and get a normal job. Maybe he and Steve could meet for lunch, talk about their day. Maybe they could live together, in Steve's apartment, or leave the city altogether and live in the mountains, or by the ocean. Maybe, maybe, maybe . . .

"Idiot," he scolded himself – this was just the champagne talking. Steve had paid him for one week, and that was it. Once his moment of generosity was over, they'd go their separate ways and everything would return to normal, Steve feeling better about himself, and Bucky with enough cash to leave the city for good. It was what he'd always wanted, but it didn't feel as satisfying as it should have done.

He shoved open the bathroom door and almost hit Steve in the nose. He stopped the door with his hand and looked concernedly at Bucky - he'd removed his shirt and changed into a pair of grey drawstring pants.

"Everything alright?" he asked.

Bucky looked up into his handsome face, and their eyes met for a long moment. His heart hammered against his ribs as Steve lifted his hand to cradle Bucky's cheek against his palm, and Bucky automatically leaned into it, curling his fingers around Steve's wrist and holding him there. He kept his eyes open as Steve leaned down towards him, only closing them when their lips met. He couldn't have imagined a sweeter kiss – his first real kiss in so long – and his body moved closer to Steve's, his metal fingers lacing through his hair.

When they pulled apart, Steve's face was flushed, his lips parted.

"I don't normally do that," Bucky said, feeling breathless.

"What changed?"

Bucky shrugged and wound his arms round Steve's waist, resting his cheek against the taller man's warm chest, feeling his heartbeat reverberating through his skin, the pulse syncing with the blood pounding through Bucky's ears. Steve enveloped him in his muscular arms and for a minute they just stood there, caught in each other's embrace.

"Come on," Steve said gently, running a hand over Bucky's dark hair. "Let's get you into bed."

Bucky lay between the expensive linen sheets, watching the stars through the porthole-sized window beside him, while Steve was in the bathroom. For the first time in this situation, it was up to him whether the night's events advanced or not. Steve had said 'only when you want to', and he did want to. Didn't he? Eventually, certainly. But tonight?

He felt the sheets rise and fall as Steve slid into bed beside him, resting one arm across Bucky's waist, a contended sigh ruffling his hair. Bucky shuffled backwards, spooning himself against the curve of Steve's body. There was nothing sexual in it – Steve wasn't hard – but his nerves jangled at the contact nonetheless.

"Is there anything you want to do while we're here?" he asked, remembering he was supposed to be in Steve's employment. Also, he wanted to see what Steve would say. He felt Steve's head shake against the pillow.

"I'm good for now," he said. "Is that okay?"

Bucky found Steve's hand and squeezed it, holding it against his mouth like a comfort blanket. It wasn't exactly that he was relieved – though he couldn't say he'd entirely recovered from Carl's overzealous attentions – but this somehow just didn't feel like the right moment. They'd only just kissed, and – it felt foreign to him to even think it – but he wanted the first time with Steve to be special. It amazed and thrilled and terrified him to consider that Steve might actually care about him, but the evidence was starting to mount up, and years of barrier-building around his heart was already starting to crumble a little. He took one last look at the incredible night sky beyond the window, counting stars before closing his eyes and drifting off into an easy sleep.