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All the places Bucky has ever lived have three things in common: cheap rent, loud neighbors, and on-site (but never in-unit) laundry services. The first one's a necessity: five years in SpecOps doesn't really count for much job experience. The second two... Well, those probably come on the causality list of the first condition. It's no skin off Bucky's back. He's roughed it in far worse than this and at least all the noise keeps him grounded. Plus, it means Bucky has more chances to run into Steve.
Steven Rogers is, without a doubt, the best commodity that any of his apartment complexes has ever come with. 90 pounds dropping wet, Bucky has watched him punch out a cat caller and take on a group of four drunk bikers harassing the sweet gay couple two floors down. He's never seen anyone lose a fight so beautifully or with so much persistence. Steve's lungs rattle when he walks, and Bucky has watched him struggle to lift grocery bags on bad days. He looks like a good bout of the flu would have him keeling over. Bucky has never been so in love in his life.
They run into each other twice a week. Once right before Steve goes out for whatever he constitutes as a run every Tuesday, and then again on Thursday night for the trip down to the laundry room. They haven't actually said anything to each other yet, but the contact is there all the same.
In no way does Bucky plan his life around these occurrences because he is a grown ass man that has looked into the face of terror and laughed. He was the best goddamn soldier the country's seen in a decade, according to his commanding officer. The uniform he keeps in a box in the back of his closet (the very back, far as he can manage) has more ribbons and medals than he can count on one hand. He’s been to the darkest parts of the world. Things like spiders, the dark, clowns (and seriously, fuck clowns) haven’t scared him in five years. Bucky’s hardened from the inside out. And yet…
The prospect of talking to skinny little Steve Rogers with his snakebites and ink stained hands scares him shitless.
It's just that Steve, Steve is a good person. The kind of good that can't help itself. One day Bucky came home from work to find Steve helping Mrs. Leighton from down the hall get all her boxes sorted, and he knows that Steve gave the last part of his paycheck to Laura Finley, the single mother with three kids one floor up, because he's heard her singing Steve's praises in the laundry room. That kind of good deserves monuments. That kind of good deserves a hell of a lot better than Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, formerly of the 107th and the Special Operations. Steve can do better than broken.
So the first time Bucky talks to him, really opens his mouth and forms normal human words; it's 4 am on a Friday, they've both got hampers full of laundry, and the elevator's broken down.
Bucky resists the urge to cry as the elevator shudders to a stop halfway between floors 5 and 6. Just his dumb fucking luck. He's got a hamper full of gym clothes that smell worse than his grandma and Steve has somehow managed to make dark circles look sexy. He wants to kiss him so much it makes the arm he hasn't had for years hurt like hell. It also makes him want to brain himself against the elevator wall. Honestly he doesn't know which option would be less embarrassing.
Steve looks up as Bucky lets out a strangled whimper. "Are you alright?" He asks, putting down his hamper. "You're not scared of small spaces, are you? I've heard you're a vet, do I need to call for help?"
Small spaces are so the least of his worries. "Stevie, our lift won't move. Think you're gonna need to call for help anyways."
Steve's ears turn pink. It's not very punk. "So you're not scared of small spaces, then?"
"Not even slightly."
There's a pause where Bucky thinks Steve's sense of mercy has kicked in and they'll let it drop.
"Then are you scared of me?" Steve asks, and he has absolutely no sense of mercy.
Little Steve Rogers looks like he can't decide whether he should laugh or assure Bucky he's harmless.
The corner edges of the elevator look mighty appealing.
"I- no." Even to his ears, that sounds petulant.
"Should I be honored?"
"You should shut your punk mouth, more like."
The snakebites lift up as Steve smiles. Not like Bucky would notice, because he's doing his best to pretend not to look at the way Steve holds himself.
"Didn't know soldiers were allowed to be this mouthy."
"Clearly you don't know many soldiers."
"No," Steve says, his voice softer and more honest than Bucky knows what to do with. "Just you."
Bucky doesn't know what to say to that, so he settles for saying nothing at all. Instead he jams the emergency contact button a few times, even though there's definitely no one on duty to come get them out. He knows this because he watches as the morning maintenance person, a lovely woman named Jan, comes in every day at six. That means he’s got two more hours to make a complete idiot out of himself in front of Steve Rogers. He may very well have to move when this is all over.
"So," Steve says. "I know why I'm doing laundry at four in the morning, but what brings you here?"
"Couldn't sleep." Bucky admits. There's no lying to a face like that. Steve looks as gentle as his sister Becca's golden retriever.
Steve hums.
Bucky doesn't feel pressured to answer, so he does. "Sometimes everything's just too damn real when I close my eyes." Sometimes he's so fucking scared of the nightmares that face him he just doesn't bother to sleep.
"When I was 15, my friend Sam dared me to dress up like Sailor Moon."
“What?” Bucky asks, thrown completely out to sea on this one.
“When I was 15, my friend Sam dared me to dress up like Sailor Moon.”
Steve stays on his side of the elevator, lounging against the wall, but everything about him radiates comfort. Even with his dyed tips and the day old smudged eyeliner Bucky can practically feel the way Steve would hug him right now. He hopes the reality lives up to the premonition.
"You going somewhere with this?” Bucky asks, trying to suss out where this conversation may lead. He hopes Steve isn’t gong to try and fix him. God, he’s so damn sick of people trying to fix him. “Some sort of soul searching ‘It Gets Better’ crap?"
Steve shrugs. "Not really.” If he notices the way Bucky instantly relaxes, he doesn’t mention it. “Just telling a story. I did it though. Even made the yearbook."
Bucky can't decide if he's embarrassed on Steve's behalf or just impressed. Mostly he thinks he's impressed.
"Sam dressed up as my Tuxedo Mask. I think the school board nearly had a hernia. Not sure what freaked 'em out more; the black Tuxedo Mask or the little white boy in drag."
"Maybe it's the fact Tuxedo Mask and Sailor Moon get hitched."
"Do they really?" Steve is the absolute picture of earnest innocence even as the snakebites under his lip twitch. "Gee I had no idea. Maybe that's why Sam dipped me in the hallway."
The stupid little punk looks so damn proud of himself, all serene and righteous, that Bucky can't help himself. With a burst of laughter (the true honest kind he's been faking for years) he moves until he can knock their shoulders together. Even though Steve has no way of knowing it's the first willing physical contact Bucky's had in weeks he goes still for a moment as if he's just been handed some great gift.
"Looks like I underestimated you Stevie." He says once he can breathe.
The silence is question enough, so Bucky continues.
"I thought a spitfire like you couldn't have been causing trouble for more than five years."
Somehow his words make Steve seem a little bit taller.
"Aw, my mom disagrees. She likes to say I came into the world picking fights I can't win and ain't nothing changed sense."
"Your Ma's talking sense. I've seen the fights you pick."
It's the first time Bucky's admitted to noticing Steve outside of this elevator. Besides him Steve goes rigid.
"Yeah?" He says.
"Yeah. And if you're gonna go up against Rumlow again, you're gonna need to work on you're left hook. It'd make my boot camp Sergeant cry."
Steve slumps into Bucky's shoulder. "Thought you were a boot camp Sergeant."
"Nah, SpecOps and the Army. But trust me punk; your left-hook makes me cry too. And your right-hook for that matter. Who the fuck taught you to throw a punch Stevie?"
"The Internet."
Bucky makes a pained noise. Figures.
"Hey," Steve says after a moment.
He's got his head pillowed against Bucky's bicep and the only thing keeping Bucky from freaking out is the droll inner voice that asks him if he's ever gonna wash that shirt again. His droll inner voice sounds an awful lot like Natasha from 6B. He's not sure what that means.
"Hey what?"
"How d'you know so much about Sailor Moon anyways?" His words are starting to slur, like this is the first time their bodies have realized it's now well past 5 AM.
"Got three sisters. Comes with the territory."
They're both on the ground by now, leaning against each other and droopy eyed. Bucky can feel every rattled breath Steve takes.
"Hey Buck," Steve slurs.
Bucky's insides warm. He hasn't heard that name since Becca moved to DC.
"Yeah?"
"Show me to throw a punch."
"Sure Stevie. Sure."
*
Steve makes for good conversation. This isn't entirely surprising. Natasha from 6B has apparently known him for ages. She finds the way Bucky pines absolutely hilarious. So does her friend Clint, though he's taken to turning his hearing aids off and yelling, "what?" in Bucky's direction every time Steve comes up in conversations. Natasha thinks this is hilarious, too. Bucky wants to know how he only managed to befriend jerks. Though, judging by how Steve keeps accidentally drifting off on Bucky's shoulder, maybe not all his friends are jerks.
It's 5:40 in the morning when Bucky catches Steve's eyes lingering on the empty sleeve on the left side of his body. Usually it takes people more than an hour to get curious. He's surprised Steve managed this long.
"You can ask, y'know."
Steve gets it, Bucky can tell. He just knows exactly what Bucky means regardless of what he's actually saying.
"You got three sisters and none of 'em have slapped you for owning that shirt?"
Bucky has to look down, startled. The shirt in question is old and ratty; a gift from one of his army buddies way back when. It's got ‘Cool Story Bro, Now Make Me A Sandwich’ in big block letters down it's front. The whole thing had been a joke. Bucky had rouged up plenty of cadets for saying things like what his shirt implied.
"It's laundry day." Bucky protests, unmentionably glad Steve hadn't taken the bait and asked about his arm. There's a prosthetic in his closet he never uses, and a very nice looking pile of papers that tell him he's been selected for a Stark Industries prototype gathering dust in his hall closet. He's managed this long without two arms, and he's not about to go changing to make someone else more comfortable.
"That's no excuse." Steve says. His eyes have this grave, disappointed look that makes Bucky's gut squirm, but his lips fight back a smile. "You could always go shirtless."
"You're wearing flannel." Bucky says, pointing at the black and blue-stripped shirt Steve has on. "And it's August."
"What's that got to do with your shirt and laundry day?"
"It's August!" Bucky wails. "You can't wear just parade around like it's October when I could fry an egg on Clint’s car yesterday."
"I like flannel. It's comfy."
"Flannel's not very punk."
"Neither is that shirt."
"I bet you drink Pumpkin Spice Lattes the moment they roll 'em out." Bucky crosses his arm and narrows his eyes. "You play punk all you want Rogers, but I have seen your hipster soul."
"What's a Pumpkin Spice Latte?"
Bucky nearly cries. "You've gotta be shitting me Stevie."
When Steve laughs, it bounces off all the walls. "Yeah, Buck. I'm shitting you."
Steve's face shines warm and open. The only word in Bucky's mind is home.
The elevator shudders, lights up, and begins to move.
"Looks like they're finally setting us free." Bucky says. He almost wishes they weren't. Talking to Steve outside of the confines of this elevator seems a task he will never accomplish. He's certain that the moment they step out of this elevator, all promises of punching lessons will get forgotten and he will have to go back to pining from afar. The thought itself proves distressing. Steve very graciously doesn't mention the fact Bucky looks like someone just shot his firstborn.
"Yeah, we'll get to do our laundry after all."
His temporary melancholy doesn't stop him from wondering what Steve has in his laundry.
"Or," Steve says, misinterpreting Bucky's silence. "Or we could put laundry off another day and go home and nap."
Something in Bucky's face must give away how appealing that sounds because Steve gets this look of quiet satisfaction, like he's done something life changing and beautiful.
"Then," Steve continues. "Once we wake up again, we can grab a Pumpkin Spice Latte and you can teach me to throw a punch."
"No one punches properly hyped up on caffeine."
"Alright. We could get coffee and then you could come back to mine and watch a movie."
Bucky's brain hasn't quite made it past: you can come back to mine. "What?"
"Coffee and a movie not a good enough first date?" Steve asks, unruffled.
Bucky's bottom jaw gets nice and acquainted with the floor. "You askin' me out Steve Rogers?"
Steve shrugs. "Seems a logical thing to do at," he checks his watch. "6:01 in the morning."
"How do you even know I wanna date you, punk?" Bucky isn't sure what he's trying to do here. Dating Steve Rogers is exactly what he wants to do. Hell he won't even care if they don't kiss through the movie.
"You're not exactly subtle."
Once again Bucky is struck with the strong urge to brain himself.
"Not that I mind." Steve adds as the elevator dings. They've reached his floor. "I like you watching me."
Bucky is only 80% certain it's impossible to die of embarrassment. "It sounds a lot creepier when you say it." He mumbles.
Steve laughs, clear as an August morning. "See you at noon!" He hollers as the doors begin to shut. "If you don't show up I know where you live!"
Bucky can only manage to flash Steve a thumbs up before the doors shut.
He has a date with Steve Rogers. God, Natasha from 6B is going to be so smug. But he has a date with Steve Rogers. He walks out of the elevator in a happy daze.
It only occurs to him as he sets down his hamper of dirty clothes in front of his door that he has nothing at all to wear.