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The 7:30 train to Manhattan was never Bucky’s favourite place to be. It was crowded, smelly and loud; just ten minutes on it caused an anxious tightening in the pit of his stomach, a common occurance since his return from overseas. It didn’t help that, by the time they were within five stops of his station, there were too many commuters flowing through the carriage’s sliding doors to count.
However, there was one good thing about the 7:30- Bucky’s shameless crush. The man was blonde and tall, heavily defined muscles juxtaposed beautifully by his delicate features and sparkling blue eyes. Every day the mystery man boarded the train one stop after Bucky did, then disembarked one stop before. He always carried a worn leather satchel and wore a crisp, dark suit, but often his shoes didn’t match the clothing. Bucky wondered if it was a fashion statement or if he’d just left home in a rush. More often than not, the man would lean against the divider by the doors to read throughout the journey, but from time to time he would draw in a sketchbook pulled from the front pocket of his bag.
Bucky had spent many a commute attempting to work out exactly what he did for a living- the man never checked his emails like a businessman would, or travelled with the drooping eyelids of an office worker. He dressed too formally to be a shop assistant, tour guide or security guard, and his suits weren’t expensive enough for him to be a lawyer. Once, Bucky caught sight of the man reading something about Michelangelo, but his tastes seemed to vary from historical romances to science fiction to psychological thrillers, so it didn’t necessarily mean much. Maybe he just liked art.
(A quality that Bucky, who struggled to draw a stick man, found very attractive.)
Despite his speculation, and the strange pull he felt whenever he was in sight, Bucky had never actually interacted with his crush. So when the man contravened every societal rule concerning public transport and sat down next to him, he was surprised. He was even more surprised when the man spoke.
“You keep staring at me. Why?”
Bucky blinked, gathering his thoughts. For some reason, he hadn’t expected the man to be so blunt. It hit him then- the fact that he had been crushing on his fellow commuter for a good six months when he actually knew nothing about him, that the person his mind had painted the man to be likely didn’t exist.
“Why not?”
The man frowned, staring at Bucky intently. Bucky stared back, somewhat confused and slightly terrified that he was about to be punched. One thing the army hadn’t been able to burn out of him was his instinctive reaction to being antagonised. Namely: sass, a skill hard won in the corridors of Bridgework High School.
Strangely, though, the man’s features relaxed in to a rueful smirk.
“Touché. But, seriously- have you been looking at me a lot or am I going crazy?”
“Erm...” Bucky said eloquently. He had no idea if he was being flirted with, asked an honest question or... whatever the hell else that tone could mean.
Evidently the man interpreted Bucky’s silence as the wrong, if-I-don’t-ackowledge-it-maybe-it-will-go-away kind. His face fell and- before Bucky could open his mouth to protest- he had scrambled away, flushing deeply.
Bucky groaned, embarrassed at his own failure. It wasn’t until he rose to go that he noticed the man’s signature sketchbook lying haphazardly on the seat next to him, presumably having fallen out of his front pocket in his haste to get away. After a few quick seconds of deliberation, Bucky snatched it up and sprinted out of the already closing doors.
The sketchbook sat heavily in Bucky’s bag all the way from the station to the main office of Stark Industries Product Development, where he worked as a consulting physicist and technician. Should he hand the sketchbook in to Lost Property at the station on his way back home? Bucky baulked at the idea. Somehow he got the impression that the sketchbook was far too precious to leave in the hands of strangers, who would simply throw it on to a heap of junk and maybe incinerate it after a few days.
When he arrived at Stark Industries and had made it through security, nodding hello to Thor (a nickname collectively bestowed upon the imposing Norwegian security guard within two weeks of his arrival) , Bucky slid the sketchbook in to his locker. Soon, he was lost to the comforting rhythm of work and chat. At the moment, the senior techs- he, Jane, Bruce and Helen- were in the last stages of testing a prosthetic that took current bionics one step further, incorporating not only the ability to grasp objects or bend toes, but high level sensitivity. So far, the limb had created different signals in response to a variety of differentiated surfaces. They hoped to recreate those results today, hooking it up to another sort of monitor- the prosthetic hadn’t been thoroughly tested enough to trial with human or animal subjects yet, but they needed to maintain a fair test.
Before Bucky knew it, the sun was setting and it was time to go home.
****
The next morning, the 7:30 was unreasonably crowded. Bucky ended up pressed in to a corner, surrounded on all sides by strangers and trying desperately hard not to panic. It was pathetic.
“Hey.”
How could he face battle with only a grim flicker of uncertainty but be loosing it over a commute?
“Hey!”
Wait, was someone talking to him?
Bucky dragged in a deep, sooty breath and looked up. The man was there, in front of him, a concerned pucker between his golden brows.
Acknowledging that Bucky was now listening, he said “I know you probably don’t really want to talk to me at all considering yesterday, but are you okay? You looked as if you were having a panic attack.”
Bucky nodded slowly, unwilling to let the man know what he was agreeing with but wanting with an odd sincerity to remove the worry from his features. The man looked as if he wasn’t entirely convinced, but thankfully decided to let it go.
“That’s good.” he said instead, moving back a few centimetres to give Bucky a little more room. There was an uncomfortable silence. The man seemed unwilling to go.
“Again, sorry for yesterday.”
Bucky cleared his throat, thumb and forefinger moving to clasp and unclasp the hem of his navy blue coat “It’s okay. I was staring at you.”
The man’s expression danced between surprise, smugness, wariness and disbelief. It was quite a sight to see.
Suddenly, Bucky remembered the sketchbook. A few moments were spent rummaging around to find it in the cavernous depths of his rucksack.
“Is this yours?” he asked, handing it over to the man.
His eyes widened in surprise when he registered what he held, a wide smile gracing his features. Bucky’s heart skipped a beat. He fervently hoped that none of the pages were bent.
“Yes.” the man said “Thank you.”
Bucky shrugged, slightly uncomfortable in the face of such gratitude and admiration “No problem.”
The man smiled kindly, holding out one large hand “I’m Steve.” he said as Bucky shook it “Steve Rogers.”
Bucky smiled “You happen to know anyone called John Smith?” Steve huffed a laugh “I’m James Buchannan Barnes, but I like to be called Bucky.”
“Bucky.” Steve repeated, as if they were in a dance hall way back when instead of a swaying metal carriage “I wouldn’t mind getting to know you better.”
Four weeks later, their relationship had ploughed straight through acquaintances and right in to friendship. Initially their conversations had been superficial, but even then Bucky valued every minor revelation: Steve was an art history teacher at the University, he served one year in the Army when he was eighteen (Bucky didn’t yet know what prompted him to leave), his favourite colour was blue and he was raised an only child by a single mother. Soon they delved deeper: Steve was bisexual but he’d never dated a man, he was catholic, he fought any injustice with smarting words and- if necessary- flying fists. Bucky opened up in turn, telling Steve things he’d never told anyone but Becca and Natasha: his first kiss, the moment he realised he was gay, how he never really wanted to be soldier in the first place but it happened anyway.
In their hours apart Bucky found himself daydreaming about Steve’s smile. In meetings the memory of his rich laugh would taunt his thoughts, at night he dreamt of laying delicate kisses on the bridge of his crooked nose. One Friday evening he met up with Natasha for drinks and she spent the whole two hours giving him knowing looks over the top of her Martini. Ten minutes after crossing the threshold of his apartment, Bucky’s phone buzzed with a notification.
From Nat: You have a crush. Tell me.
Bucky rolled his eyes, tapping back a quick reply.
From Bucky: We spent 2hrs together and you’re asking me now?!??!
From Nat: Well yeah, you wouldn’t say anything if I asked you there
Bucky sighed, diverting to the kitchenette. He needed coffee to deal with this conversation.
From Bucky: K, I have a crush. So what?
From Nat: Knew it!!! XP What’s he like?
From Bucky: Hot, friendly, considerate, intelligent
He figured that about summed Steve up, though given the slightest encouragement Bucky could go on.
From Nat: MMmmmm...one of your nerds?
Bucky had no idea why Natasha always assumed he was crushing on his co-workers. Although, on second thoughts they were pretty much the only people Bucky interacted with outside of family (occasionally) and Natasha herself. Well, recently Steve as well.
From Bucky: No. Art History Professor
From Nat: .....Um, how??
From Bucky: Our eyes met across a crowded subway. *eye roll*
From Nat: How cliched.
Bucky huffed fondly. Natasha may play it cool, but he knew that inside she was squealing.
From Bucky: IKR. I mean it’s not like I got to watch him in a suit every day for like 6 months.
From Nat: Still cliched
Bucky smirked, taking a gulp of his milky coffee.
From Bucky: Cute guy. Suit. A cute guy in a suit.
From Nat: C L I C H E
From Bucky: S U I T
From Nat: ....fine. What’s he called?
From Bucky: Steve Rogers
A few minutes of quiet coffee consumption passed until his phone beeped again. Upon reading the message, Bucky groaned.
From Nat: Oooh, he IS cute. If things don’t work out I might have to try riding some trains myself ;)
From Bucky: YOU CAN’T STALK PEOPLE NAT. Also, calm down I haven’t told him yet. ALSO also...No. Just. No.
From Nat: I CAN AND I WILL. Wdym you haven’t told him?!?! :O Someone else will make a move and then you’ll be all sad and drink all of my good vodka :( Unless you’re just all goo goo eyed and he’s actually a total dick.
Bucky’s coffee was nearly finished; he swirled the remainder around, mood sinking a notch or two at the truth of Natasha’s words (and emoticons, as if emojiis didn’t exist).
From Bucky: Stg he’s not a dick. I’m just gonna give it time.
From Bucky: Btw, how did you know I had a crush?
Bucky swallowed the last dregs of his coffee and refilled the cup.
From Nat: Ok...(I asked how you were finding the subway and you smiled)
****
Two weeks later, when autumn had draped a blanket of crisp cold over the city and Bucky was drooping against his seat from many late nights fine tuning the prosthetic, Steve entered their usual carriage with a determined set to his jaw.
When he had managed to worm his way over to Bucky’s side and greetings had been exchanged he declared “We should exchange phone numbers.”
“Yeah, of course!” Bucky agreed immediately “I mean, we have been friends for like two months now.” Bucky replied, confused when Steve grimaced.
“Yeah, that’s not what I meant. Shit. Um, Sam says get on with it.”
Bucky mouthed his bewilderment. A deep blush had crept up Steve’s neck. He was rubbing the back of his neck like a teenager trying to ask their date to the pr- oh.
“Oh.” Bucky said, words falling flat in his realisation “Ok.”
Steve opened his mouth, looking like he was about to start gushing apologies. Bucky couldn’t have that, slamming a hand over his mouth to shut him up- Steve’s eyes widened in surprise. Asides from the inevitable sardine impressions, there was hardly any need for them to be tactile on the subway.
“Are you trying to ask me on a date?”
Steve nodded quickly. A warm glow spread across Bucky’s chest.
“You’re not doing very well.”
Bucky could feel the corners of Steve’s lips twitch up under his hand as he shrugged in agreement.
Bucky ignored the old woman glaring at them from the seat opposite, ignored the press of people hemming them in and took a moment to just look at Steve. To admire every tiny, perfect imperfection on his face, the flecks of turquoise in his irises and the benevolent righteousness that seemed to radiate from his every pore . Steve raised an eyebrow in question.
“There is nothing I would like more than to go on a date with you.” Bucky grinned.
In one motion he moved his hand to cup the back of Steve’s head and placed his lips in its former position. The kiss was chaste, slightly uncoordinated and sent electricity fizzling through Bucky’s veins. He curled a hand in Steve’s silken hair, smiling in to Steve’s mouth as two warm palms settled on his waist. Too soon, Steve pulled back, a slightly dazed expression on his face. Bucky couldn’t help but smirk.
“As much as I would love to continue,” Steve murmured in to his ear “there are about five of my students directly behind you and they look like Christmas has come early.”
Bucky snorted, dropping his head to Steve’s shoulder in mirth “Way to kill the mood.”
“What?” Steve laughed “I want to be able to actually deliver my lecture y’know.”
Bucky swatted at Steve, mock glaring “Do ya, punk?”
Steve responded in kind, puffing up his chest and posturing exaggeratedly “Yeah, jerk.”
Bucky hummed, reaching up to poke Steve in the nose “I like you.”
Steve tugged at Bucky’s ponytail “And I like you. Isn’t that neat?”
'Yeah', Bucky thought, 'it is'.