Chapter 17: Out of the Loop
"So I get Natalia to get me out in a way he doesn't notice, and I'm pretty sure he won't put two and two together in time for it to matter."
"He's going to notice that Happy isn't on drums."
Pacing in the small space between Tony's desk and the door leading out of his office in the back of the venue, Bucky waves off Tony's point. "He will, but he won't think much of it. By the time he sees Happy setting up to play bass, I'll be heading out."
Tony rubs his goatee, eyeing the rough plan Bucky sketched out during their quick meeting before Bucky's shift starts. Outside Tony's office, there's a general bit of commotion as the restaurant gets ready for business. "All right, it might work. You're sure he's never seen your drums?"
It really is a godsend that Steve never made it into his apartment, Bucky reflects. "He's seen the Winter Soldier's drums, I mean, everyone and their dog has, but I've taken off the logos. I'll just say Happy got a new kit. It'll hold. And if it doesn't, well, credit to Steve for figuring it out early."
"Hm." Tony leans back in his chair. "Okay, I like a good surprise. Let's do it. I'll send a guy to get your drums after your shift and you can get them set up at the place we usually do rehearsals."
Relief at his plan coming together takes a weight from Bucky's shoulders. "Thanks, Tony."
"Mhm. You'll just have to bring that cat of yours to every session; Pepper insists. Now get out there and do what I actually pay you for."
Bucky mock-salutes and heads out of Tony's office, mind still firing on all cylinders while he irons out his plan's next steps. As though summoned by the conversation about him, Steve is waiting at the bar, chatting with Clint.
"Welcome back," greets Clint with a wave. "I was just telling Steve here about how you've refused to try your hand at archery again. It's the craziest thing, I really don't—"
"I'll do it," Bucky interrupts, and then continues before Clint can look too surprised, "if you let me use your bow."
Clint flinches at the very thought, remembering as well as Bucky does the crunch of the bows Bucky had crushed by accident with his left hand.
"Or," Bucky continues, "we can play another round of darts, and start this whole thing over again. Right now, we're even. I'm happy to change that." He flashes a winning smile, confident he'll finally find peace from Clint's bragging. Judging by his frown, Clint is also reaching the conclusion that there's no good way out of this.
He sighs and raises his hands in surrender. "All right, you got me. We're tied. For now."
"For now," Bucky agrees. He leans on the bar by Steve while Clint continues prepping. For his part, Bucky's already finished what he needs to do—Tony wouldn't have spoken to him otherwise. "So, what brings a handsome guy like you to a place like this, huh?"
Steve goes red, widening Bucky's smile. It's so fun to make him blush; he makes it so easy, too. "I could ask you the same question."
"Oh, that's easy." Bucky lets it hang just long enough that Steve opens his mouth again, then finishes with: "Money."
Rolling his eyes, Steve leans back in his chair. "Well, I was going to ask if we could hang out at your place after your shift, but now I'm reconsidering."
As if Bucky is going to let Steve anywhere near his door when he's still got incriminating evidence sitting in plain sight. "Reconsider away, pal. I've got plans with Tony tonight. You'll have to get your Alpine fix another day."
Steve deflates and Bucky can't help feeling a little guilty at letting him down. "Oh."
"C'mon, don't be like that. Jealousy's a bad look on you, Steven."
"I'm not jealous!"
"And James is too smart to get on Pepper's bad side again," Clint tosses in on his way to the kitchen, an extraneous tablecloth bundled in his arms.
"That too. Point is, tonight's not gonna work, but we can do…hm, well, tomorrow's no good either. We can hang out this weekend, though."
"I just feel like you're trying to keep me out of your home," Steve confesses. Bucky can't help another stab of guilt; it's kind of true. Initially because his place is, truly, a shithole, and now because of the aforementioned incriminating evidence. "And I do want to see your place, y'know? If my boyfriend really is living in a shithole, maybe I want to see if I can do anything to make it a little less of a shithole. Put up some art, or—why are you looking at me like that?"
He didn't even notice what he did. Bucky tries to subdue his goofy smile and utterly fails; there's no force on this Earth that could hold back the radiant warmth pouring out of his chest. "You called me your boyfriend."
Steve's ears go bright red and then his face follows suit, but he tries to play it off. "Yeah, of course I did. That's what we are, you weirdo." Buried in that insult is a quiet, nervous question: we are boyfriends, right?
"Well, boyfriend," Bucky says, leaning in close and enjoying Steve's embarrassment entirely too much, "I promise things will get better next month. I'll even have more time to see you. I've just got a lot of stuff to take care of this month."
"Anything I can help with?"
"Nah. If there was, I'd let you, I promise. But this is shit I've been putting off ever since leaving the band. Emails, legal paperwork, all that stuff." As lies go, it's not bad, and he's grateful to Natalia for helping him workshop it. He's not an awful liar but he's not the best when it comes to improvisation. "This weekend, though. What do you want to do?"
"Well, I haven't put together my costume yet. I was hoping for a second set of eyes to make sure I do it right this year."
"What, was last year a horror story?"
"I didn't make a very good Mona Lisa."
"Please tell me there are pictures of that."
"Yup!" Clint puts in from the other end of the bar. "I'll send 'em."
"I regret saying that," Steve mutters, pointedly ignoring Bucky's grateful wave. "Anyway, care to help me out? They're setting up a Spirit Halloween nearby, and between that and a few thrift stores I think I can whip up something halfway decent."
"An offer like that, how can I refuse?"
Steve's kitchen smells like garlic. To be more precise, it smells primarily of garlic. Below that sits a stew of other mouthwatering scents: onion, paprika, parmesan, too many other spices to name, and the special herb blend Sam's mother swears by.
For the third time in ten minutes, Steve's stomach growls. Next to him at the stove, Sam chuckles. "Forget to eat lunch?"
"I had that video interview that went long, and then I kind of…forgot." His stomach growls again.
"Seems your stomach didn't. Or it smells that good. How'd the interview go?"
"Good, they're interested in moving forward with it."
Sam bumps him. "A whole animated movie poster series. Pretty sick."
"I'm excited. And so anxious I don't think I'll sleep tonight."
"C'mon, with this in your stomach," he gives the alfredo-soaked pasta a pointed stir, "you'll be out the second you're horizontal, I promise. Are you done babying the chicken yet?"
"I'm not—yes, fine." He carefully dumps the chicken into the pasta and Sam sets to stirring it all together. While he puts the finishing touches on their dinner, Steve fetches plates from the cupboard. Only two, though. Because Tony's gone. Like he's been gone every night this week.
Bucky's claimed he's doing paperwork. Tony's claimed he's working late on projects of his, and Pepper's corroborated his story. Even Natasha and Clint haven't poked holes in anything.
But the timing is too damn convenient.
"Sam?"
In the middle of scooping the pasta into a large bowl, Sam glances over his shoulder in expectation of a question.
"What's Tony actually doing right now?"
Sam refocuses on his pasta pouring. "I dunno, man. You know how he is. Probably one of his projects or some band rehearsal. He's gotta practice before the bash."
Steve is a bad liar. He knows this. Sam is a good liar, provided he's not caught by surprise. Unfortunately for him, Steve knows all his tells. And refusal to make eye contact is a big one. Maybe some of what he said is true, but not all of it. Which means, whatever Tony's doing, Sam is in on it.
"Does Nat know? Does Clint?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about." Sam brings the bowl over to the table and sits across from Steve while serving himself a generous portion.
"Does everyone know besides me?"
"I'm starting to think you're not hearing what I'm saying."
Steve rolls his eyes. "I'm starting to think you're not saying what you're thinking."
"Ouch, the sass hurts."
"I just…I keep telling myself he's not, but it really feels like he's avoiding me. I haven't even been to his place."
"Well, it's—"
"A shithole, I know. And he is letting me visit this weekend." He sighs. "If it was anything bad, I know you guys wouldn't still be hanging out with him but it's, I don't know."
"It just sucks to be out of the loop," Sam surmises.
"Yeah."
"Well, I think he'll be okay with me telling you it won't be for much longer. He's almost got it all taken care of."
"And 'it' is…?"
"His secret to tell."
"Course it is. Fine, I get it. I'll let it go."
"Well now, Steven Grant Rogers, letting something go. Let me write this down—"
Steve laughs. "Asshole. Pass the spoon."
After so long spent begging off Steve coming over on the excuse that his place is a shithole, Bucky being so willing to let Steve come over that weekend ahead of costume shopping leaves Steve at a bit of a loss.
"They fixed the elevator!" Bucky tells him cheerfully when Steve buzzes his apartment.
One shaky, loud, and lurching elevator ride later, Steve is both resolved to only ever take the stairs and knocking on Bucky's door.
"I thought you didn't want me here," he confesses when Bucky answers. "After that elevator, I'm sure you don't."
Bucky laughs. "Well, you did start a fight the last time. I was trying to have mercy on my neighbors."
"You're a drummer."
"And you'll notice," Bucky steps aside to let Steve in, "a distinct lack of drums in casa Barnes."
"Wow. This is…"
"A shithole?"
"A studio," Steve amends diplomatically. "And who's this?" Alpine comes trotting out from where she'd been menacing a toy felt mouse under the couch and proceeds to bonk her head against Steve's outstretched hand. "I guess you remember me. You're far too cute for him, you know that, right?"
Alpine meows in his face and he rewards her with scratches. Bucky scoffs and flops down onto his couch. "You spoil her."
Ignoring that, Steve picks Alpine up and moves to join Bucky on the couch. He pauses partway there, his eyes catching on a framed photo nestled between two cacti on the windowsill. The glass is cracked but Steve can still make out him and Bucky as kids. Bucky is absolutely beaming as he holds out a painted skateboard for the camera and Steve's got his own—shyer, but no less proud—smile on display. It's very similar to a photo that, like many that have Bucky in them, has been buried in the bottom of Steve's desk drawer for years. Maybe it's time for him to dig them out; looking at them won't hurt anymore.
Alpine shifts in Steve's arms, reminding him to move. He drops down next to Bucky. "So where are your drums? Did you get to keep them?"
"Yeah, they were mine, just had to get rid of the band logo on the bass drums."
"Bass drums?"
"Double bass, Steve. You've listened to the songs, that's not something you can do without either two bass drums or a specific kind of pedal."
Steve shakes some of Alpine's loose fur off his hand. It drifts slowly to the floor as a clump of white. "I don't think I've ever paid that much attention to the drumming."
"I'm hurt. Point being, yes I have my drums, no they're not here. I couldn't fit them and all of the stuff I had to buy for princess purr over there."
"Who's spoiling her now?"
"You, clearly."
Rolling his eyes, Steve asks, "Do you miss them? Your drums, I mean. You used to play all the time." Especially, he adds silently, at night when you couldn't sleep, which drove me nuts when I slept over.
"I still get to play whenever someone asks at Tony's," Bucky deflects. "I'll get them out soon, anyway."
"Are you moving?"
"What? No. Well," he backtracks, "maybe. Depends."
Steve lets his raised eyebrows speak for him and Bucky blows out a sigh.
"I've been eyeing a few places, nothing's for certain. But we're absolutely not talking about my real estate problems right now, got it? I'm in too good of a mood watching you play with her."
"I think she likes me more than you."
"Bull. I feed her."
"Yeah? I'll stop petting her, we'll see where she goes."
"By all means." Bucky makes a gesture for him to get on with it, so Steve does. He stops petting Alpine, picks her up, and sets her down in the tiny sliver of cushion space between his thigh and Bucky's. For a second, Alpine simply stands there, befuddled by the sudden banishment from Steve's lap. Bucky and Steve both stare at her, neither making a sound or gesture because they would instantly accuse the other of cheating if they did.
After a few seconds remarked upon only by someone's sharp laugh from the sidewalk carrying up through Bucky's window, Alpine turns and clambers up onto Bucky's lap with a plaintive meow. Triumph pours into Bucky's expression like molten gold from a ladle.
"It's only because you probably smell like food," Steve says.
"I took a shower since I last fed her."
"Then it's because I picked her up. She figured I didn't want to pet her anymore."
Bucky lifts Alpine and lets her boop her nose against his. "Sounds like an excuse to me."
Steve's willingness to argue falls apart in the face of that adorable scene. "Fine, you win. She might—might—like you more than she likes me. But that doesn't mean she always will."
"Are you going to steal my cat?"
"Pepper might."
Bucky chuckles. "Yeah, she's been," he pauses, "asking to see her a lot. Can't really bring her to work, though, food prep and Tony's place not allowing pets and all." Alpine starts batting at his metal fingers and he indulges her with a soft smile that sends butterflies through Steve's stomach. "Kinda feel bad leaving her home alone, though."
They both watch her try and fail to slay the metal digits waving in the air around her. Steve shifts closer and throws an arm across the back of Bucky's couch so he can lean in and keep petting Alpine. Bucky leans into him.
"So," Bucky says after a while, "costumes."
"Costumes," Steve agrees as though all thoughts of Halloween hadn't completely fled his mind in the face of Bucky's proximity.
"Got any ideas?"
"A few. I usually try for something art-based, like a famous painting or sculpture."
Bucky gives him a considering look. "You'd make a good David." His cheeky grin immediately after speaking lets Steve know what kind of accuracy he's expecting of the costume, so Steve rolls his eyes.
"I'd rather not get arrested for public indecency, thanks. What are you planning? The emperor's new clothes?"
"If you want us to match, sure. But no, I'm not looking to have this," he raises his left hand, dragging Alpine—who has her paws around his wrist while she tries to bite his pinkie—along with it, "in the spotlight."
"Uh-huh."
"What's that look?"
"You're not going as the Winter Soldier?"
Bucky laughs. "C'mon, that would be way too predictable. No. I'm thinking mobster. I look damn good in a suit, you know. I just need the right clothes."
"What are those, exactly?"
"Well, the classic black and white old-timey shoes. A red collared shirt, probably. Pinstripe suit. A tie, a pocket watch with a chain. I'm thinking suspenders and a fedora, too. And the piece de resistance: a tommy gun."
"Quite a list."
"I like authenticity."
"Not sure how well an authentic tommy gun will fly."
"A toy gun, you punk. I had to leave most of mine in Russia anyway." He glances at the clock while Steve trips over the most. "If I'm gonna get through that list, we should probably start shopping now. The things I've already got are the shirt, pants, jacket, and watch, courtesy of my dad's inability to throw away his dad's things."
"That's a good amount."
"But not enough. C'mon, up."
Standing, Steve realizes the problem immediately: with all the attention he was giving to Alpine, she was paying him back—in the form of dozens upon dozens of long white hairs now dusting his legs, forearms, and stomach, some in clumps that could be mistaken for cotton balls. He tries to brush some of them off with little effect.
Bucky, enduring the same, doesn't bother trying to brush it off. "I've got a lint roller or three around here somewhere. Learned that lesson real quick."
While he goes hunting, Steve looks down at Alpine, who stares back with eyes begging for more affection and a body that holds many, many more loose hairs.
Well, Steve reasons, a little more before the lint rollers appear can't hurt.
Perusing the cramped shelves of the Spirit Halloween, Bucky lets out a thrilled yes under his breath when he spots the contents of the next aisle. Hustling over, he picks up the cardboard container and looks in wonder at the cheap plastic gun encased in zip ties and warnings about choking hazards.
"Fine something?" Steve asks, catching up with him.
"Look!"
"A tommy gun. You actually found one."
"You bet your ass I did. This is perfect, I've got everything."
"I really thought you'd go for the Winter Soldier," Steve admits. Bucky hides a smile; he'd been noticing Steve lingering by every Winter-Soldier-adjacent item on the shelves, throwing glances Bucky's way as though he'd catch Bucky in the act of slipping something into the cart when Steve wasn't looking.
"C'mon, you think I'm gonna go with the thing you'd guess first? I keep telling you, I can't be that predictable."
"Yes, you can. Don't try to lie to me, you're awful at it."
"I'll have you know I can be a great liar when I want to be." Or when he's actually practiced, he adds in the privacy of his own head. He's spared from Steve pressing him on that front by the buzzing of his phone—a text from Natalia.
"What is it?" asks Steve.
"Winter Soldier spotting," Bucky answers distractedly while he scrolls through the news story she sent. "In some small underground venue with shitty lighting in…Portland?"
"I didn't know you unlocked the ability to teleport," Steve says, peering over Bucky's shoulder at the photos on screen. Bucky snorts.
"Yeah, no. Not even with the fanciest private jet I could charter on such short notice. His kit's also way simpler than mine. I am curious about that arm, though. Did they get a better picture?"
He scrolls through the article, finds a shaky phone video linked from Instagram, and pauses it when the lighting is something approaching decent.
"Well?" Steve asks. "How'd they do it? That looks accurate to me."
"It's silver and it's got the star for sure," Bucky agrees. He zooms in, biting his lip when the blown-up pixels don't offer more clarity. "Actually, no, look. His left arm is bulkier than his right."
"Is it? Oh, yeah. It is."
"Most likely, it's not a prosthetic. My money's on a cover of some kind. Yeah, look—his elbow. Even pixelated, it's too smooth. That's either body paint or a sleeve under the shell."
"Mr. Holmes, you outdo yourself."
"Can it, Watson. I know my arm's one of a kind. Anyone trying to replicate it is gonna have to use a workaround. There were some cosplayers a few times at our concerts, and honestly, it was pretty interesting to see how they tried to make it work. There was actually one guy who had an amputation below the elbow, and he used some 3D printed pieces above the joint and some modifications to his prosthetic to get really damn close. This guy, though. He must've spent days on this. No wonder it's got everyone wondering if I moved to Oregon."
"How long do you think it'll hold?"
"Not long. If anyone was really claiming to be the Winter Soldier—instead of cosplaying and letting the crowd draw conclusions—they'd have Hydra's lawyers so far up their ass they'd choke on the legal filings. But it's cool. Kinda wish someone had done it sooner."
"Why?"
"Would've thrown Tony off my scent."
"For a little while. He's a Holmes of his own when something's piqued his interest. He figured you out?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, he did. Maybe those could be our costumes, the detective duo. I could always do the mobster next year." As they'd been talking, they'd continued wandering the shelves, and now Bucky stops next to a couple bagged costumes.
"Detective and assistant detective," Steve reads. "Wow. How…generic."
"Drummers in Portland aren't the only ones trying to avoid a lawsuit. But yeah, these aren't great."
"I actually had an idea for my costume before you…"
"Miraculously returned?" Bucky offers.
"Before you turned up."
"Ouch. What's the art? Is it a two-person job?"
"It's not really a couple costume."
"Quit being secretive and just spit it out already."
"I don't want to spoil it, but I think I'm going to want some of that green face paint over there. Do you want any of the black paint for your eyes?"
"You really want me to dress as the Winter Soldier, huh?"
Steve smiles. "Maybe you're just a mobster who's very low on sleep."
"Sure," Bucky drawls, thoroughly unconvinced by that shit-eating grin. In retaliation, he decides to aim low. "You do remember that I gave up a million-dollar career, the place I called home for a decade, and all of the people I knew just to get out of that, right?"
Steve flushes and backpedals. "I didn't—I mean, you could wear whatever you want. Mobster, or," Steve blindly grabs a nearby bag and shoves it at Bucky, "this too, or anything else in here."
Bucky's eyebrows shoot for the ceiling as he takes the bag. What, exactly, is Steve trying to tell him with this? Very deliberately not looking up at Steve, he slowly reads the costume label: "Sexy firefighter. Axe not included. Oh, it even has an inflatable oxygen tank you can strap across your incredibly exposed chest. You know, I don't think this would do very well in a fi—"
Face bright red, Steve snatches the costume out of Bucky's hands and shoves it back on the shelf, nearly upsetting the skeleton draped suggestively over the top rack. "Never mind."
"Are you saying I wouldn't look good? Because I would."
"Forget I said anything."
"If you want me to wear less when we're out on the town, just say the word." He bumps Steve as they resume their perusal of the aisles. "I draw the line at naked. If we're taking layers away, though, I might have to stick close to you to stay warm. Just to be safe."
Steve groans and scrubs his hands over his face. "Have a little mercy, Buck," he says into his palms. Bucky grins, pulls his hands away, and presses a quick kiss to his lips before Steve can react.
"Not a chance."
