Bucky wakes up hungover.
He immediately regrets everything, but unfortunately does not have the pleasure to lay in bed and linger in his pain. No, the alarm clock is incessantly buzzing, telling him to get his ass out of bed and to work. The very early hour does nothing but remind him that he has barely squeezed his eyes shut.
"Behh," a voice moans from across the room. A dark head of hair obscures the face of his best friend, who was sleeping with only a blanket and pillow on the floor of his studio apartment. He must have been flailing in his sleep again, because usually she just slips in beside him. "Why did you do this to me?"
"I didn't do anything you didn't want," he says with all the suaveness of a headless chicken. He tries not to puke.
Darcy aims blindly, lands a light punch around his ear. "Your. Fault. I think I might die."
He snuggles deeper into bed, pulling the covers over his head and turning away from the menace. So, perhaps it was slightly his fault. Not that he will admit guilt to Darcy, of all people. Who will never let him live it down.
"You have agency," he says, muffled from the blankets. "Right to vote. Right to own land. Right to consent. So many rights, D."
"Is that all law school taught you?" she mumbles grumpily. "Women have rights. Geez golly, how progressive! I still blame you for this hangover. No, it's not even a hangover yet because I am still drunk! One more drink, he says. We should do shots, he says. I am the innocent lamb in the woods at mercy of your alcoholic slaughter." She snags the blankets, stealing his cocoon. "Lucky for me, I don't have to work. Have fun, loser."
"Hate you," he rolls, literally, out of bed, on to the floor, and crawls to the bathroom.
Darcy's laughter is like tiny nails shooting him in the back of the head as he goes.
The day does not get much better.
Summers in DC are stifling at the best of times. The humidity hits hard, the temperature can hover in the 90s, and even when the sun isn't beating into a hungover man's head, the mugginess sits uncomfortably, cloying. Despite this, Bucky loves DC. The city is clean—impressively so, a contrast to the city streets he grew up—and while every city has a stench, this one does not make your eyes water. He also loves the energy. The city is in constant flux, changing, shaping, creating the laws and policy of the future.
He walks to work, which takes him past the edge of the National Mall, skirting the Supreme Court. The building is beautiful. Neoclassical style, made of marble and lined with sculptures, and boasting an interior is that, surprisingly, small but regal. He had seen the inside a few times now, having taken the official tour twice and nipped over to listen to oral arguments a handful more.
The western front of the building bears the motto "Equal Justice Under Law." Those words, carved into the highest court in the nation, never fail to send a shiver down his spine. He could sit there for hours and marvel in simply feeling the importance of where he is.
Today, he has little time to stand and stare. Walking is a struggle, mostly due to the pounding headache pulsing between his temples and the steadily rising nausea. The fresh air does a little to ease his pain. But indisputably his tolerance for alcohol has decreased. He no longer carries the ability to drink all night, pop up the next day unscathed, and be productive. He mourns the loss.
His office is closer to the White House than Supreme Court, which sits off center of the Mall, more to the west than east. While it would be faster to route along the parallel streets, he wouldn't get the same ambiance. He does not vary the routine now, and makes his way past the Capitol Reflecting Pool.
His breathing is labored, his vision wobbly. That last shot of whisky really screwed him, and even the mere thought of drinking is enough to send terrible pangs of nausea shooting to the surface.
Bucky staggers, folding over in half in what his yoga teacher would commend as a good swan dive.
He is far from alone, despite the early hour. A few people jogging ignore him, and other early morning tourists amble along without a spare glance. Those dressed in suits don't turn away from their phones.
He closes his eyes, focuses on his breath, and tries to push down the consequences of his poor life decisions.
"Are you okay?" a deep voice asks, apparently not getting the memo that all the others had about ignoring the pathetic figure near the pool.
Bucky grunts an affirmative, but the sound is more a groan. He tries again. "Yes, this is my own fault. No worries, man."
He expects the man to leave then, good deed of the day accomplished.
Because his eyes are closed, he does not see what the stranger does until he feels a water bottle being thrust into his hands. "Here, drink. I promise I don't have any diseases."
It is the last thing Bucky is worried about, and he gratefully accepts the bottle and chugs water. Dehydrated, he realizes, like a noob.
He takes another deep breath and finally feels good enough to open his eyes.
The sight that greets him makes his hands clammy and pulse race for a different reason than alcohol. He doesn't know what he was expecting—perhaps some older man who took pity—but it definitely was not the extremely, terribly, very, and oh my god all the adverbs were needed here, because he thinks the most perfectly formed man stands before him and he does not have adequate words.
"Um," he says eloquently, all three years of law school, and four of undergrad majoring in English, shining through.
The Extremely Terribly Very Gorgeous Man smiles with the whitest teeth Bucky has ever seen outside a Crest commercial. "Better now?" he asks politely. The man has cornflower blue eyes, light wheat colored hair, and the berth of a football player. Model, perhaps. But no, he is probably too broad for that. He is dressed in running clothes, but must have just started because he is sweat-free.
"Yes," is all he can respond with before his manners catch up and he adds a touch belated, "thank you!"
The man actually blushes.
Bucky cannot. even.
As Darcy would say: sooooo cute!
"It's no trouble," the gorgeous man says, looking more abashed by the second. He lifts his hand to rub at his neck, causing the muscles in his arm to tighten and oh my god, Bucky still cannot even believe this is happening to him.
Unfortunately, Bucky is a natural born talker, particularly when nervous or uncomfortable, and so babble begins to spill out before he can end the interaction with any grace or dignity. "I am seriously such a moron! I don't drink that much anymore, so goodbye tolerance I built up in school, but last night I wanted to celebrate this promotion and went a little overboard…so yeah, well, here I am. You probably just saved me from puking into the Reflection pool, which is probably at least some kind of misdemeanor, and definitely an affront to justice."
What the hell! Abort, Bucky, abort!
But it just keeps going: "I mean, perhaps this is a rite of passage when you live in DC—walking along the National Mall hungover—but I would prefer not to disgrace myself in front of the Supreme Court, ya know? But anyway, thanks, man, I really appreciate you stopping and having mercy on my poor soul."
He finally manages to shut his mortifying trap. The gorgeous man looks startled by the torrential downpour of words. Bucky wouldn't blame him if he just started running, with nary a wave.
Instead, he grins. Which makes Bucky nearly take another swan dive. The guy needs to moderate the power of his good looks. He could overcome a crowd with merely a smile.
"I'm glad I could be of assistance," he says with actual freaking sincerity.
Bucky dies on the inside.
"Well," the man says awkwardly when Bucky just stares while his insides are becoming mush piles, "I'm going to get back to running."
"Yeah," Bucky responds breathlessly, like he was the one who just ran a mile. "You run good."
What?!
"I mean," he corrects quickly, "you have a good run."
The man chuckles, because Bucky is clearly a riot with his inability to speak properly and obvious hot mess comportment. "Thanks. Keep the bottle," he says, turning and speeding off with a friendly wave.
That's when Bucky realizes that he was grasping the bottle to his chest like a damned fool.
"God has no mercy," he dramatically announces to the rather empty area. He turns to locate the super hot dude, to get one last visual of the man's likely-to-be delicious derriere, but he sees not an iota of the pretty man. Wow, hot dude is fast.
Forcing his legs to carry him onward to work, he fumbles in his pocket to remove his phone. He goes immediately to his #1 speed dial and hits FaceTime.
…and waits…
And re-dials…
Tries again…
Finally, when he is almost to work, Darcy's irritated face appears on his screen.
"This better be about life, death, or sex," she threatens.
"Oh my god, Darce, you will not believe the hunk of man flesh I just met!" Bucky gushes.
"Not life or death. Did you have sex with him?" she demands, her head barely visible from where she has taken his cocoon.
His brows furrow. "No, of course not. He gave me his water bottle when I was literally dying from our bad decisions last night."
"Your bad decision," she yells. And hangs up.
Rude.
Bucky is not to be deterred by her attitude and texts her the rest of the details while entering his building and making his way straight to his office. He manages to avoid his boss, brush up his appearance in the bathroom, slip on a spare suit jacket he has in the office for just this occasion, and be working on a writ within twenty minutes of arrival.
He is good.