Bucky

Of course the first thing Bucky had done when he even entered the building was map his escape routes six ways from Sunday. He was a little less than pleased to find out that the attic only had one way in (or out), and no way in hell could he fit through those windows. He decided the worst of it was that the bakery itself only had one exit-unless he counted the large front windows (he did)-and that he had no way of getting to it except through his only exit. It was less than ideal but, at least, it was cheap.

Which led to another problem that he had: lack of income. He had money saved up in a few offshore accounts, of course; more cash than he knew what to do with. But he had no way of explaining that to Steve. He was under the impression that Bucky had a job, a steady income; he had neither. Bucky had told him he worked nights-only after learning the bakery's hours and Steve's schedule-at the docks. So he would just hoof it around town during the day and then hole up when Steve left, avoiding the public eye, where he could be spotted not working.

He was starting to notice-whether it was a good thing or not, he didn't know-that he was becoming somewhat the talk of the town. He could hear the conversations drift up from the bakery, locals asking Steve about the man with the metal arm he had saved from the fire-Bucky scoffed at that and wondered just what Steve had been telling these people-but Steve hadn't said a word. He was very good at deflecting questions, Bucky thought.

Bucky was starting to wonder if Steve knew that Bucky preferred to fly below the radar, even though Bucky hadn't really tried to go unnoticed. He was out and about most of the time anyways. He wanted to be known, but his unusual appearance and sudden arrival had left something to be desired with the townsfolk. So not only was he known, he was now local gossip.

This was certainly new to him. Before, when he did what he did, he usually kept the metal arm hidden. For some reason he didn't feel the need to worry about the stares or the whispers. He was ready to use his usual story whenever anyone asked about the strange prostethic: war vet, this is a new cybernetic arm that the government is trying out. It wasn't entirely dishonest. He did serve in the military, and it is a new cybernetic prostethic that the government was trying out. It just wasn't the US government that was tinkering with amputee veterans.

But, to his dissatisfaction, nobody had actually asked about his arm. He was approached by strangers, asking if he was new in town and where he moved from-yes and New York-but either everyone here was extremely polite or pitied him and didn't want him to feel bad.

He knew it was the latter. It always was, when no one pried, but he wanted people to ask. He wanted that story to spread. Not that he was strange, or that he was becoming a local oddity.

He wanted, more than anything, he realized, for Steve to ask. He would even go so far as to stop using his right hand completely and make sure Steve noticed, but the guy just looked elsewhere. He wasn't even obvious about it, made it look like glancing from Bucky's arm to his face the most natural thing. But Bucky knew. And Steve knew that Bucky knew. But he still never asked and Bucky was sure it was because Steve thought he felt bad about it, like he was ashamed of it. And it wasn't that he was totally wrong, but Bucky didn't feel one way or the other about his arm. It just was to him. Because he had gotten this on a particularly difficult job and had a splitsecond decision to make. Whether he made the right choice or not, he wasn't sure, but he didn't care. He didn't then and he didn't now.

"Hey, Bucky?"

Bucky cracked open one eye and turned his head towards the door.

"Mnnf?" he managed to grunt out. He sat up when Steve poked his head in, and smirked when he saw the streak of flour on his cheek.

"What?" Steve asked, and when Bucky pointed to his own cheek, Steve blushed and dipped his head as he wiped it off. "Sorry."

Bucky shook his head and stretched, making sure his shirt lifted a little. Steve's glance downwards did not go unnoticed.

"What's up?" he asked, pulling his shirt straight. He ran a hand through his hair and yawned.

Steve pushed the door open and invited himself in. "Oh, uh. You're leaving soon, right?" Steve asked.

Bucky paused and was about to ask what Steve was talking about, but stopped himself short.

Right, he thought, working man.

"Uh, yeah, why?"

"I was just gonna ask if you wanted to come out with me and a couple of friends," he replied, seemingly uncomfortable. "But you're working, so it's fine..."

Bucky blinked. This was a first. He'd been living above Steve's bakery for almost a week, and they had fallen into a routine pretty quickly. Steve would get in at around four A.M.-Bucky cringed at the memory of the first night when he had almost clocked Steve with the frying pan-and Bucky would head to the bathroom downstairs and shower, staying out of Steve's way while he worked. He stuck around the basement for a while the first couple of days, but Steve was no fun when he was working, so he mostly kept to himself and meandered around town, waiting until Steve left. He always got back just in time to see Steve off, and then he would pretend to get ready for work.

It wasn't a great system, but it worked; for now anyways.

"I mean, I can take the night off," Bucky said, shrugging one shoulder.

"Oh, it's not, it's uh..." Steve stumbled over his words and bit his lip to cut himself off. "It's not that important, really."

"They won't miss me," Bucky said, rolling out of bed. "Besides, I could use a day off." Sure.

Steve blinked. "I'll..." He glanced around the room, then back at Bucky. "You sure?"

Bucky dug around in the top drawer of the old dresser for a fresh shirt, one that he thought showed off his shoulders pretty well, and stripped off his rumpled one. He was aware of Steve's eyes on him, and relished every second of it. He could practically feel Steve silently mourning when he slipped the button-up on. He idly wondered what he thought of the scarring on his shoulder, but didn't feel like actually asking.

He turned and checked his hair in the small mirror he'd knicked from Steve's mom's stuff, and nodded at Steve's reflection. "I wouldn't mind meeting your friends," he said.

"One of them might not make it." Steve said. "She's pretty busy."

Bucky raised an eyebrow. Steve sounded relieved, almost.

"I feel like I'm introducing you to my parents," Steve said, stuffing one hand in his pocket and leaning against the doorframe.

"Huh," was all Bucky said, swallowing the comment that he liked to suck his boyfriend's dick at least once before he met his parents. He spun on one heel and held his arms out, making a show of his outfit-which he was admittedly proud of. "How do I look?"

"Approachable," Steve said with an almost admiring nod.

Bucky snapped and shot a finger pistol at him. "Not sure what you mean by that, but I'll take it." He grabbed his jacket from the chair by the door and walked past Steve.

-x-

Steve

"The man, the myth, the legend," Sam said, clapping Steve on the shoulder, and gesturing his drink towards Bucky.

Steve cringed. "Uh, yeah," he said, and he could feel Bucky smirk at the blush climbing up his neck. "This is-"

Bucky beat him to the punch. He held out his right hand and Sam shook it, both of them keeping a firm grip.

"I'm Bucky," he said, giving a curt nod.

"Sam," Sam said, releasing his hand and falling back in his seat. "So."

Steve side-eyed Sam. He had absolutely no idea where this was going, but was just glad that-

"Hi, boys." There she was. Natasha, hair pulled back in a tight bun, leather jacket draped over one arm, smiled down at Steve. She rested her hip against the booth, on Bucky's side.

Steve could feel the color drain from his face. His head whipped around to look at Sam.

"I didn't think-"

Sam's expression was guarded, and he just looked down at his nails, flipping his hand around nonchalantly.

"Oh my god-"

"You did say friends," Bucky said quietly, leaning over the table, enunciating the 's'.

Steve's eyes slowly drifted towards Bucky and he swallowed, hard, when he saw Natasha wink at Sam.

Sam pushed Steve out of the booth and pat the now-empty seat next to him, bowing his head towards the unoccupied seat next to Bucky when Steve gave him a bewildered look.

He reluctantly took it, avoiding Bucky's gaze.

Bucky, of course, seemed to be quite amused.

"This is Natasha," Steve mumbled, nodding his chin towards Nat, who was now seated comfortably next to Sam, looking extremely smug. "Who I thought was away on business."

"Oh, I was," she said, nodding. "I'm home early." She spread her hands on the table and turned her head, ever so slightly, to look at Bucky. She smiled. "Hi."

He gave a small wave. "Hey." They stared at each other; for longer than was necessary, Steve was almost certain.

Steve wasn't sure what was happening but he didn't like the look on Nat's face.

"How do you like living above the bakery?" she asked, leaning back against the bench, elbowing Sam a little so he'd give her more room.

He obliged and then nodded his head at Steve. "He bug the hell outta you yet?"

Steve eyes narrowed slightly but he didn't say anything; he was genuinely curious about Bucky's answer.

Bucky just shrugged and leaned back against the bench as well, his left hand staying in his lap. "He's not too bad." He rolled his head to the side and smirked at Steve.

Steve appreciated the answer, and the smirk.

Sam nodded and then turned towards Nat, nudging her with his elbow. "So, where'd you go this time?"

And then the strangest thing happened. Nat looked directly at Bucky and said, "Germany. Berlin, actually." Her smile was sweet as syrup.

Steve and Sam gaped at her. They hadn't even guessed yet.

Bucky stared at Nat, wearing an almost bored expression, before he leaned forward on the table, resting his chin in his right hand. "What were you doing there?"

She shrugged dramatically, and then looked back at Sam while she answered his question. "Work things. Did you know the German who died here was actually not German, but Swiss?"

"I did not know that," Sam said, and his eyes shot to Steve: what the hell?

"Did you get fired?" Steve asked, leaning over the table and eyeing Natasha.

"Like, that's why you're actually saying anything?" Sam asked, elbow resting on the table, turning to face her.

She shrugged dramatically again. "No," was all she said, and then the waiter brought their drinks and she asked Sam about Mrs. Brinsky and she asked Steve about the bakery and she asked Bucky about how he liked the town and where he was from. She didn't leave an opening for anyone else to ask her anymore questions.

-x-

"So," Steve said, once he and Bucky were walking back to the bakery.

"They're nice," Bucky said, hands in his pockets. Steve noticed he didn't watch the ground, but walked along the uneven stones with ease.

"Do you know Nat?" Steve asked. He had meant to work up to that question, but it'd been bugging him too much. She never just told them where she went.

Bucky looked shocked, for a split second, before he shook his head. "No, she's cute, though," he said.

Steve looked away. "Yeah."

"Are you two...?"

Steve had to physically stop himself from blanching. "God, no, she'd break me like a toothpick."

Bucky just nodded with a small, "Ah."

"She's not dating anyone," Steve said. And then it hit him. Was she... flirting with Bucky? It was odd, but he realized he'd never seen Nat actually hit on anyone before. He thought she'd be... smoother?

Bucky hissed through his teeth. "Nah. I, uh, don't swing that way," he said, looking at Steve. Almost expectantly.

Steve was so grateful for the moonless night he almost fell to his knees. The heat that rushed to his face was unbearable.

But he didn't say anything. Maybe he should have. Say something like, "Yeah, no, I'm kind of a double whammy, yunno?" Oh, no, don't say that. "I swing both ways?" That would be better.

But he just nodded with a small hum, and watched the stones underneath his feet.