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Bucky used to think he was the only one. For all of who Steve Roger was, nobody else seemed to care.
Growing up in New York City meant growing up rough. Bucky has memories of picking out deep shards of glass from his arms, and spitting out hot, bloody fluid, and dodging punches. With Steve — the clumsy, skinny asthmatic, with a medical record for high blood pressure, scarlet fever, rheumatism, heart arrhythmia, and god knows what else — he was an easy target.
Steve wiped the dirt off his lip, hopping to his feet and raising his fists. He taunted his bullies when getting attacked.
It impressed the hell out of Bucky.
Every time.
Maybe that's why Bucky seethes quietly, glaring on occasion as the members of SSR flock to Steve. They look at him in respect, admiring him, and that's not right. He deserved to be looked at like this — like Steve was worth a damn — before gaining super strength and speed and quicker reflexes.
The perfect US soldier already lived in Steve's heart when he was only ninety pounds.
His determination and selflessness — that's what Bucky sees. That's why he's gonna follow Steve into hell and back.
One of the Howling Commandos claps Steve's shoulder, offering him a frothing, golden beer.
Jacques Dernier, Bucky thinks. He's still learning names.
Steve politely declines, shaking his head and holding out his hand as the other man keeps insisting.
Jim Morita snatches up the beer, chugging with gusto with roaring applause from Dum Dum and belching into Jacques' face.
Steve searches the crowd, his blue eyes gazing up to Bucky. So clear and bright blue. Bucky never saw a clear sky like that until he was shipped off to another goddamn part of the world. But looking up, when Bucky felt alone, always reminded him of Steve.
All of these people, and Steve notices him instead and brightens with a grin.
Maybe he is a little jealous, Bucky considers. Not jealous of Steve, but... of everyone else who works alongside him and keeps his attention. Steve heads up the balcony-stairs in this low lit, dingy pub, and Bucky watches him in amusement, half-saluting with his own glass of beer. "You tired of having me around yet?" Bucky mumbles, teasing his best friend climbing to the last stair.
Steve's expression hardens. He drops into a leaning position against the wood railing, their shoulders brushing.
"Never…"
His voice sounds so earnest.
"Never, Buck," Steve repeats, glancing to the piano player now drunkenly singing and Junior Juniper smoking a cigar like he was born for it. Bucky's lips part. He doesn't know what to do about the heartfelt declaration, chuckling and lowering his head.
"You sure about that… 'cause I see a pretty broad waiting for a dance…"
Bucky nods to Peggy Carter down below. She's walking around in decadent red silk, excusing herself from a conversation with a private officer batting her eyelashes and frowning when Peggy vanishes. Lorraine scoffs, tossing back her yellow curls.
"Let's face it… you could take your pick of any of them," Bucky observes, sipping.
Steve makes a low, neutral noise. "True," he says, peering at Bucky. "I kind of had someone else in mind though."
It's a slow, purposeful gaze from Steve. Bucky raises an eyebrow, facing him.
"You still got two left feet?"
"One way to find out."
Bucky snorts. Jesus, he wants that.
He wants to drink and dance the night away with his best friend. They could reminisce about home. Shut everyone else out. His head doesn't feel right. None of him does since being captured and taken to the weapons facility and being found by a frantic, wide-eyed Steve, strapped down and with no idea how he got in that room.
"We'll get our asses thrown out," Bucky points out, sipping on his beer again. "That much I know."
The corner of Steve's mouth tilts up. Oh, no, Bucky knows that face.
"Did you hear that right?" Steve questions faintly. It's like a challenge. They can dress him up in a real fine uniform, sure, but Steve is Steve. "Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes — of the 107th Infantry Regiment — is terrified of someone else's opinion?"
Bucky sends him an obviously grumpy scowl.
"… You really wanna do this right now?"
"Absolutely," Steve replies immediately, almost cheerfully. His smile both infectious and arousing and pesky to Bucky. There's a glint of overhead light in Steve's blond, fine hair. His teeth look straighter. Bucky felt guilty about doubting the person in front of him was really Steve. Not just once, but a few times in secret.
He's built… different.
Not wrong, but it's not what Bucky is used to.
Bucky grunts and finishes his drink, setting it down on the railing.
"You're such a pain in my ass, Steve… you know that?"
Steve smiles harder at this, lowering his eyes almost bashfully. And, by god, if that doesn't get Bucky's blood going.
"I don't think you would like me any other way," Steve murmurs.
Bucky's fingers clench together, knuckling at nothing.
There's too many eyes wandering. Bucky grasps tightly onto the front of Steve's uniform button-up, checking for any onlookers, gently leading them from the upstairs railing. Steve hisses out Bucky's name, perplexed and halfheartedly knocking Bucky's hand away. He doesn't pull away when they're finally lingering in the shadows, Steve's warm hand resting to Bucky's forearm.
"I can think of some more ways I'd like you, pal," Bucky says gleefully.
He moves in, hearing a breathy rumbling laugh out of Steve.
The tips of their noses touch. Mouths and fingers on each other like ghosts. Plenty of women have kissed him, but this is… different. Not wrong, not at all, but it's not what Bucky is used to.
It seems like forever between them up until Steve's lips press firmly to his. Sliding, kissing, opening for air.
Bucky tilts his head, getting better access to Steve's mouth and locking, re-locking their mouths. His tongue prods lightly in. Oh god, god, should they really be doing this? Where anyone could wander further into the pub and see them embracing?
Steve has him hot and heavy, cornered and pinned, Bucky's back thumping to an old bookcase. He's stabilized right here.
Bucky opens his mouth wider, sucking in during a longer, harsher kiss. Steve's upper lip rubs to his. Everything smells like dark, ashy cigar smoke and liquor. Gun powder. Bucky lets out a moaning noise, feeling over lines of solid, hidden muscle. His hands fumble to touch Steve, drifting over his chest and torso, and both of Bucky's arms wrap possessively around his middle.
"God, Steve…"
"Bucky," Steve huffs, one of his hands nesting into Bucky's dark hair. His lips puffy-red. His teeth drag against Bucky's skin, as Steve nudges his face down. He kisses along the other man's neck. Each wet, warm press of lips gets Bucky a little harder.
He hasn't exactly… done anything resembling sex. Not really. Bucky hasn't admitted that to Steve either.
They're still against the old, creaking bookcase, panting and writhing in desire. Nobody can hear them from up here. His cock throbs, needing reprieve. Friction. Bucky tightens his arms and grinds until he can feel Steve to his thigh. He lets go, clutching onto Steve's shoulder with one hand and the other groping.
Steve moan-mutters into his ear.
"… bala lilas?" Bucky asks, torn between lust and growing confusion. What did he say?
"Bucky, lower," comes Steve's ragged voice.
He huffs out a laugh and Bucky does the same, soundlessly and shaking, knocking his forehead against Steve.
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