"Fucking elevator."
Steve turned around and eyed the staircase. He would have to walk up all eleven floors to get to his flat.
Overkill.
His lungs didn't like him and he didn't like his lungs, because they made him stop every so often, threatening to just give up on him. He pulled his rucksack off his shoulders and rummaged around with clumsy fingers until he finally found his asthma spray.
Sometimes he genuinely wondered why he hadn't died as a child. That would've been easier than the life he had to lead now...
"Whatever," he shoved the spray into the back pocket of his jeans and continued his way up the stairs.
The amount of relief he felt when he finally reached his door was insane and he jammed his keys into the lock, slamming the door behind him once he stepped inside. It took him another moment or two to catch his breath again so he was able to take off his shoes and jacket.
If it hadn't been so late already, he wouldn't have hesitated to wake the housekeeper, but he didn't feel like waking the old man at this unholy hour. Even though...
-but no, he couldn't blame poor for the terrible state his health was in.
He flung his rucksack aside and slouched to the kitchen, raiding the fridge for something edible before he made himself comfortable on his shabby couch.
Not that he minded it being shabby, not at all. He loved his flat. It was spacious and cheap, so he wouldn't complain. Sure, it could use fresh paint on the walls and the floor was creaking in several spaces, but he loved the huge windows and the gorgeous view he had from up here. And the best thing- nobody was living above him (because there simply was no other floor) and he had the whole 11th floor for himself too. Nobody ever wanted to move into the flat opposite from his and he liked it like that.
He wasn't anti-social or anything, he just liked to be alone from time to time and he saw enough people at work every day. Besides, people usually ignored him, seeing that he wasn't particularly handsome and most women were taller as well... and with his poor health and all.
Steve sighed heavily and grabbed the remote control next to him, zapping through the channels until he found something that might interest him.
Something scratched on his door and he shot up, looking around sleepily. The only light was coming from the TV and he scrambled to his feet to switch the light on when he heard the noise again.
Did someone try to break into his flat?!
It sounded like something metallic was scraping on the lock and Steve dashed to the kitchen to grab a knife. Just to be sure.
A couple of moments passed in silence and then he heard a loud curse and someone kicking against the door, causing the wood to groan in protest. Steve frowned.
Burglars wouldn't try to kick in a door, would they? At least they would try to be not too loud... right?
"Hello," he called out and listened. It was silent again, then-
"Ey, you punk! What are you doing inside my flat!?"
He didn't know the voice. However, this was his flat.
Curious as he was, he put the knife aside and walked over to pull the door open, almost being knocked over by the man looming outside.
"Excuse me, sir, but this is my flat. Not yours."
The man swayed slightly and he seemed to have trouble to focus on Steve. Drunk. Obviously.
"Ya gotta be kidding me."
Steve shook his head and hoped that the other man wouldn't loose his balance, because there was no way that Steve could help him to his feet again. He looked the stranger up and down and, to his astonishment, saw that he had a metal hand.
"Lemme in."
Said metal hand grabbed his shoulder and pushed him aside, almost knocking him into the wall.
"Hey! Mister! You have to get out!"
The stranger grunted something and walked down the hall and straight through the living room to Steve's bedroom.
Steve hurried after him and decided on calling the police, because he wouldn't have a stranger in his flat. No. Way.
The man kicked his shoes off and settled down on the bed, curling up in the middle of it. His dark hair in stark contrast with the white sheets and the metal hand glowing faintly in the light that shone through the window.
"Uh... Can you please get out of my bed?"
Grey-blue eyes found his and looked at him for a moment before they closed again.
"Boy. Listen. 'M tired..."
Boy?! He was 25, not a boy. Steve snorted and shook his head.
"Yeah. Whatever. This is my home and my bed, so please get up and leave."
He got no answer, but a deep, rumbling snore filled the air a second later.
Great.
He rubbed his face with both hands, then eyed the stranger on his bed wearily.
Maybe he shouldn't call the police. That dude really seemed too drunk to go anywhere and as long as he was knocked out there was nothing to fear.
Something hard prodded his side and he growled, turning around in order to get away, but knocked into something solid instead.
A body.
"Woah!"
Steve scrambled out of the bed and found himself sitting on the floor, staring at the stranger in his bed.
"What-?"
It took him a moment, but then it all came back to him. Last night that stranger had just come into his flat and crashed on his bed... but how the hell did Steve end up next to him!?
The stranger laughed, a sound that made Steve's spine tingle in a pleasant way.
"Calm down boy. Nothing happened. You just suddenly, in the middle of the night, snuggled into bed next to me. I was too drunk to do anything, really."
Steve felt himself blush and opened his mouth to reply something, but no sound came out. The stranger laughed again.
"How about I make us breakfast?"
His mouth was watering and he quickly grabbed his plate of bacon and eggs, but still eyed the stranger wearily.
"Who are you?"
"James, but friends call me Bucky... So you can call me whatever you want-?"
"Steve," he managed to mumble around a mouthful of bacon.
Bucky smiled, "Yeah, you look like a Steve."
Steve frowned, but didn't inquire any further.
"Ya know, I actually live downstairs. No idea why I came up here last night... Too much Tequila, I guess."
Well, that was news.
"How come I've never seen you before?"
Bucky sat down as well and took a few bites before he answered.
"Just moved in a week ago. Didn't have any time to introduce myself."
"Maybe you should've done so. Wouldn't have freaked me out as much as it did this way."
The other man grinned sheepishly, "I didn't do anything inappropriate, did I?"
Steve quickly shook his head and looked down at his plate again when he felt the heat creep into his cheeks.
That deep, rich laughter filled the air again and it caused Steve to blush even more.
"Should I have done something inappropriate?"
He had no idea what to say so he kept his mouth shut, concentrating on eating instead. Thankfully, Bucky decided to let it be for the time being and started chatting about the troubles he'd had when moving in.
"That old Jerkins... Name's fitting, really, he's a jerk."
Steve chuckled, "Why? What did he do?"
"Told me I couldn't bring my piano and my guitar. That he doesn't like 'those people who make music'... Saying we're all drug addicts and scum."
"He was always nice to me..."
Bucky shrugged, "He doesn't have to be nice to me. As long as he doesn't cause me any troubles, I am fine with him being an asshole."
"Sounds legit."
Steve was just about to finish the last of his breakfast when Bucky got to his feet.
"You leaving?"
He nodded and Steve felt himself pout, even though he didn't mean to.
"Aw, don't look like that. You know where to find me."
He winked at Steve and then sauntered out of the kitchen without another word.