Chapter Text
By the time Bucky finally kicks shut the heavy door of his apartment behind him and drops his keys on the side table in the hallway, he’s sweating profusely. His OOTD, consisting of an old tank top, shorts and flip flops, with his hair piled on top of his head in a messy bun, is never going to win any fashion prizes, but with the way the temperatures have soared the past week, Bucky cares a lot more about staying cool than looking it. He’s laden with heavy shopping bags containing his weekly shop. Three bags on each arm, his pinky aching with the effort of trying to hold on to that one bag that slipped down his wrist when he ascended the final flight of stairs to his floor. Because Bucky lives on the fourth floor of an apartment building without an elevator.
Of course.
He huffs, carefully lowering the bags – canvas, since he does try to do his bit for the environment where he can – to the floor and groaning as he rubs his wrists to try and get some circulation back into his hands.
“Honey, I’m home,” Bucky calls out into his tiny apartment. He receives no reply, but seeing as he lives alone with just his cat Alpine for company, it would’ve been disturbing if he had.
Leaving most of the bags by the door for the moment, Bucky just grabs the one containing the frozen items and takes it into his diminutive kitchen. His apartment is sweltering – hell, the whole of New York is sweltering – so he half expects his frozen pizzas to have cooked in their boxes in the time it took him to walk down from the supermarket two blocks away to his place, but they seem to still be mostly frozen. Small wins.
It takes some maneuvering, but once he’s managed to stash them in his miniscule freezer, Bucky makes a beeline for the couch, where Alpine is stretched out like some kind of regal, snow white empress - bored of the heat and fully expecting to be doted on. Bucky does, dote on her, quite a lot all the time, as it happens, and she lets him. It’s a mutually satisfactory relationship the two of them have.
“It’s so hottttt,” he complains, sinking down beside her on the couch and kicking up his bare feet on the coffee table. Futilely, he hopes for the slight breeze blowing in from the wide-open, barred windows to the far end of his shoebox apartment on his bare legs, but it offers none. It’s only early July, but the heat has made its home in the city last week and doesn’t appear to be going anywhere anytime soon.
Alpine meows pitifully. “I know, honey,” Bucky coos, idly stroking her beautiful white fur. “I know. It’s no fun.”
Four years ago now, Bucky had gotten Alpine as a present from his family: his very own Scottish Fold kitten, to celebrate the publication of Bucky’s second novel. Bucky has always been crazy about Scottish Folds. There’s just something about their round faces and eyes, their folded little ears, that absolutely melts him. Alpine is without a doubt his most prized possession. Although, if he’s honest, he doesn’t think he really owns her so much as she owns him, but the point is that Bucky is besotted with her, and lives in constant low-key fear that someone might snatch her in the street someday, because she’s strikingly beautiful and Scottish folds are worth a few bucks. Fortunately, Alpine isn’t the outdoorsy type. She prefers to make her own adventures within the safety of his apartment, where her meals are served at set times every day, and where she can retreat to her throne whenever she’s had enough of playing with her copious toys. Bucky may have bought the couch – a faded velvet, vintage cabriole – with his own, hard earned money, but he is under no illusions as to whom it actually belongs to. Besides, it’s a fitting throne for his princess.
When Alpine has had enough of Bucky’s affection and haughtily turns away from him, Bucky drags himself to his feet again and get started on putting away the rest of his groceries. Organic granola. Low fat yogurt. Kiwis, bananas, apples. Freshly baked spelt bread. Three bars of Hershey’s that he immediately puts away in the fridge (he’s aware it’s a sin to put chocolate in the fridge, but it’s the only way to keep it from turning into chocolate milk right now). A new bag of his favorite coffee beans from the place on the corner gets pride of place on his shelf. Bucky buys as much organic produce as possible, but it isn’t always easy when you’re on a budget, so he tries not to beat himself up too much about having the occasional frozen Quattro Formaggi or instant ramen. He may no longer be a student, but he’s found that some old habits certainly do die hard.
There’s a clang somewhere above his head, followed by a piercing scream. Bucky doesn’t even flinch. He’s long gotten used to the noise. The first few times, he’d dropped what he’d been doing and ran upstairs to check what was happening and whether he could help, but it’d turned out to be a false alarm every time, so now he doesn’t bother anymore. Apparently that’s just what living in a tiny apartment with thin walls and floors with two adults, a toddler and a baby sounds like. There are still mornings where Bucky is jerked from his dreams by a wailing infant, but by and large he’s adjusted to the excessive noise well enough.
Bucky does think it’s ironic, since he himself is very quiet. He never turns his music up loud, never throws parties, and most days he only talks to Alpine, hoping that if his neighbors can hear him, they’ll think he’s talking on the phone to someone.
His mother is always nagging at him to move, ideally to Indiana, where Winnie and George moved after Bucky and his sister Rebecca had flown the nest, but despite how small his apartment is and despite the fact that it’s run down and has a family of four living upstairs, Bucky likes it. He likes Crown Heights, with its diverse shops and restaurants, and how close it is to Prospect Park, and Bucky’s place may be poky, but it’s home. Or as close to one as he has right now, anyway. Real home would’ve been the ground floor of the brownstone in Park Slope Bucky’s family lived until he was nineteen. But since they moved away, back to Indiana where Bucky’s dad was originally from and still had family, Bucky had been living by himself. First in student digs, while he was studying Astrophysics & Cosmology at NYU, then sharing a flat with Wanda for two years once they’d graduated. Wanda may be four years younger than Bucky, but she and Bucky started the course in the same year. She’d been a veritable child prodigy – one of those rare ones who’s since gone on to actually fulfill their potential. Right now, Wanda works as a junior astrophysicist at a prominent observatory, already leading a team of six even though she’s not yet thirty.
Bucky could’ve gone down that road too, he muses over the sound of his little electric coffee grinder, and who knows, maybe in a few years’ time he could be where Wanda is now. Unfortunately, though, he’s just not as much of a genius as she is, and he doesn’t have the patience to do it the long way around. The thing is, Bucky had been crazy about space and science-y stuff ever since he was a young boy, and he’d been lucky enough to get his parents’ financial support to pursue his dream degree, supplementing it by working as a paid lab assistant throughout uni. But after he got his degree, he realized he’d have to do years and years as lecturer and research assistant before he could get a proper scientist job, and, well. He just didn’t want to do that, to be quite frank.
As it happens, in his limited spare time Bucky has always written short stories. Fantastical tales about space travel and apocalypses, just as an outlet for his overactive imagination. One day, Becca had asked to read some of them; most likely because she thought she could make fun of him for them, but to both their surprise, she’d actually been impressed. Kind of a novelty for the both of them. Becca encouraged Bucky to send the best ones to a few publishers, and somehow, an independent one called Maria Hill had actually picked it up. His first publication had been a collection of his short stories, and after they’d done well enough, he’d secured a four-book contract. Bucky still isn’t sure how exactly it happened, but he is now a published author, working on his second series of sci-fi novels. Not hugely successful, but once Bucky secured the contract for his first series, he’d been able to start renting his little apartment, and since then he’s even managed to pay off his student loans already.
At thirty-two, Bucky may not be a genius scientist, but he’s a moderately successful author, and he’s actually not unhappy with that outcome, either.
Well, not in a general sense, at least. His current situation right at this very moment, he is less than thrilled with.
Bucky sighs, carefully carrying the extra-large iced coffee that he just fixed for himself to his study – a nook, it’s a nook in his living room – and plops himself down at the white, railroad style table. He cracks his fingers, takes a deep breath, and types ‘Chapter 14’, after which he stares at his blinking cursor for a good ten seconds before he deflates.
“Nope,” he mutters, dropping his head on the table. “I got nothin’.
It’s been like this for over a month now. Worst case of writer’s block Bucky’s ever had. Only case of writer’s block Bucky’s ever had, actually.
He can’t afford to throw in the towel, though. He has to keep trying. He only has about a quarter of this book left to write, but the deadline is creeping closer every day, and Bucky has written one measly chapter in the past three weeks. Not even a very good one. And the worst thing is, he was supposed to writing on the beach in Mauritius right now. As early as November last year, he had planned to join Clint and Natasha on their annual holiday this summer, but he’d been forced to cancel after he had a panic attack about his approaching deadline (in less than three months from now) in front of Nat. She’d sternly ordered him to stay home and finish his book, claiming that she didn’t need him ruining her vacation with his long face and his fretting. Still, Bucky’s known her long enough to know the real reason for her wanting him to stay home was concern. Nat knows how much Bucky’s career means to him, and she wouldn’t want him to jeopardize it in any way, especially not for a vacation. Even if that vacation was to a tropical island.
Bucky sighs, sitting up and running a hand over his face. For a long moment, he stares unseeingly at the NASA poster on the opposite wall.
It’s sagged sideways again.
Whatever Bucky tries, somehow the thing just doesn’t want to stay centered.
He’s about to start looking for a piece of blue tack, but he stops himself. He knows he’s just dying for a distraction, anything to take his mind off how much of a failure he is as a writer, but he’s already gone for a run very early this morning, before the heat got too stifling, and he’s done his groceries, so now he’s fresh out of excuses. Bucky fleetingly considers seeing if Wanda wants to hang out, but he’s well aware she’s swamped with work right now. He would call his sister, only he knows she’d just tell him to stop procrastinating. Becca is something of a genius herself, having secured a scholarship for a degree in Information Studies at Syracuse University and then sticking around there for some fancy job that Bucky doesn’t understand once she’d graduated.
At least Nat and Clint are “just” martial arts instructors. Granted, they own their own, very successful gym in downtown Manhattan and can afford to go on a month long holiday to a tropical island once a year, but still. Bucky met them when he’d signed up for one of their taekwondo courses, back when he had to leave his usual gym because he kept running into a former fling there who he had no desire to ever speak to or even see again. Bucky had given up on martial arts pretty quickly, but the friendship he struck up with the instructors, bonding over a shared loathing for herbal teas, is somehow still going strong.
For the next hour, Bucky really does try to write, and he gets in four whole sentences, but it’s so so hot, even though his windows are wide open, and the fan on his desk is on full blast. He does have AC, but it’s the noisiest son of a bitch on the planet. Bucky doesn’t need peace and quiet to write, fortunately – or he’d be fucked, living in Brooklyn. But in addition to the loud family upstairs and the constant noises from the street below, especially the sirens, the constant droning of the AC is just too much.
On a whim, Bucky opens Google and types in ‘how to fix noisy AC’.
One of the first results is a YouTube video, so Bucky clicks on it. It’s a tutorial, but all it tells him is that he’s nowhere near handy enough to fix it by himself. He sighs, about to close the tab and give up, when another video catches his eye. One that promises to show him how to fix a leaking faucet. Since Bucky’s kitchen faucet started leaking a few weeks ago, that one piques his interest. He knows how much water a leaking faucet wastes and he doesn’t like to be more of a strain on the environment than he already is by just existing in a capitalist society, but it just so happens that the building’s super is his ex-something (not really boyfriend, more like prolonged hook up) and a massive asshole to boot. No way he’s letting Brock into his apartment again, not after how much effort it took to get him out last time. Sure, he could have just called an independent plumber, but he doesn’t really like strangers in his place. He figures he might as well check out the tutorial and see if he might even be able to fix it himself and spare himself having to deal with either strangers or exes.
Bucky clicks play, fully expecting another balding, middle-aged guy. So when who he sees instead is some kind of blond, built demi-god, Bucky gasps. Actually gasps out loud.
Steven, as the guy is called according to his YouTube handle of StevenGrantRogers, is absolutely stunning. Wide shoulders fill the screen, along with a full head of blond, artfully mussed hair, chiseled jawline and a beautiful, strong nose. His eyes are blue, so very blue, and his mouth… his mouth makes Bucky want to do a quick prayer, and he’s not even religious.
“Oh, hello,” Bucky says, out loud, at his computer screen.
“Hi, I’m Steve,” the god says, “and today, I’m going to show you how to easily fix a leaking faucet.”
Steve is beaming as he says it, as if he couldn’t imagine a greater joy in life than helping strangers on the internet make minor adjustment to their homes. So not only is he scorching hot, Steve is also a cutie, with a deep, sexy voice and a crooked smile that’s making Bucky swoon like a teenage girl. Steve’s eyes, big and bright, sparkle with humor, and even the fact that his nose has clearly been broken at least once is endearing.
The first time Bucky watches the video, he doesn’t process a thing Steve says. All Bucky does is just stare at his face, and possibly drool a little over the width of his shoulders. Steve is standing in a kitchen – his own kitchen, as it turns out – as he addresses his viewers. And then, then he steps further away from the camera, revealing more of his lean, sculpted body, and holy shit. His outfit it simple, just a plain white tee and some faded blue jeans, but the shirt is at least two sizes too small, and the jeans are so worn there are tears in them. Of course, the rips could be a fashion statement, but somehow Steve doesn’t strike him as the fashion type of guy, for all that he could be an A&F model. Then, while Bucky is still picking his jaw up off the floor, Steve produces a wrench, before the image adjusts to show a close up of Steve’s faucet and Steve’s hands as he does something DIY-y that’s probably meant to stop an imaginary leak. Hands that are big and capable, long fingers curled expertly around the wrench’s handle.
Bucky is dying.
When the video ends, Bucky stares into space for about a minute. Then, without conscious input from his brain, he clicks on StevenGrantRogers’ profile, goes to videos, and plays the first video Steve ever posted, followed by the second. And then the third. You get the picture.
They’re all DIY videos, but Steve does also drop some nuggets of info about his personal life. Over the course of the first four videos, Bucky learns that Steve is actually an elementary school teacher in daily life. Over the summer holidays, Steve, who apparently isn’t the vacationing type and instead likes to stay busy and useful, fell into making DIY YouTube videos because he’s also pretty handy. Incredibly, Steve lives alone with his dog Rusty, a cute mutt that he got from a shelter. Steve reveals he lives somewhere in the New England countryside, but Bucky thinks he detects a New York accent - possibly even Brooklyn? – which in Bucky’s book only makes him more attractive. Steve’s DIY videos take him all around his house, which isn’t particularly big, although it could still easily fit Bucky’s apartment five times. It’s cozy and homey, though, styled in a way that’s both charming and effortless. According to Steve, he bought the place as a fixer-upper and did all the renovations himself over the past few years.
God, Bucky could seriously hate this guy if he weren’t already halfway in love with him.
Eventually, Bucky remembers he was supposed to be learning how to fix something. Right. His faucet. He blows out a breath, takes a big gulp of his iced coffee, and goes back to the first video he’d watched. This time, he actually tries to pay attention to what Steve’s saying. It still takes some pausing and reversing because he gets a little distracted, but eventually, Bucky digs out his rarely used toolset and manages to fix his faucet within five minutes. It’s laughably easy – all he has to do is tighten the nut. In fact, the hardest bit is actually trying not to laugh or groan at Steve saying ‘nut’ four times in the span of a minute.
Because he’s nice like that, Bucky decides to leave a comment under the faucet video, thanking Steve for the useful instructions and informing him that he managed to successfully fix the issue within minutes. On a whim, he adds, Also your dog is really cute – because why the hell not? Rusty had made an appearance in most videos. Propping his head on the table where Steve sat demonstrating how to fix up a broken picture frame, jumping on the couch behind Steve while he showed his viewers how to mend a crack in his fireplace, and running after squirrels in the backyard while Steve repaired a wonky gutter on the outside of the house.
While he hopes, Bucky doesn’t think he’ll get a reply. It doesn’t look like Steve replies to comments much, even though he’s got his fair share of admirers. Bucky isn’t surprised to see all kinds of lewd propositions, and he has a vivid image of fair-skinned Steve blushing prettily when he reads them.
Fuck, Bucky needs to get a life. Or get laid. Both.
By the time Bucky finally emerges from his DIY-YouTube-god rabbit hole, it’s five-thirty, and Bucky’s stomach growls angrily. He sighs, unplugs his fan and takes it into the kitchen, positioning it on the counter so it cools him a little while he cooks. Rustling up a simple pasta salad is all he can bring himself to do in this heat, and before he serves it, he adds fresh cat food to Alpine’s bowl. Bucky eats in front of his laptop like he normally does, watching a space documentary he started last night. When he’s done, he pushes his plate to the side and idly opens his email.
He has four new messages, and there, at the top, received at 6:32 p.m., is an email from YouTube that reads Reply to your comment on ‘How to fix a leaking faucet’ by StevenGrantRogers.’
“Oh my god,” Bucky mutters, fumbling to open the message.
Hi! Thank you so much for your message, I’m glad you found my video helpful. I’m sorry if this is weird, and I know it’s a pretty common name, but is there any chance this is James B. Barnes, the author of the 2132: Oblivion series?
Bucky gapes. Reads the message again, then squeals out loud, making Alpine hiss indignantly.
Because as it happens, Bucky is the author of the 2132: Oblivion series. Which means Steve knows his books. Which means Steve knows Bucky. Well, of him, at least, but even just that is blowing Bucky’s mind. Does that mean Steve likes space, too, if he likes Bucky’s novels?
“Wait,” Bucky mumbles, frowning at his screen, “don’t get ahead of yourself. You don’t even know if Steve likes your work.” For all he knows, maybe Steve tried reading them once, hated them, and is about to give Bucky a piece of his mind.
Nah. Steve doesn’t seem like the type to be callous like that. If he’s asking after his books, that must mean he likes them. Right?
Bucky takes a deep breath. Only one way to find out.
Hey, Bucky types, fingers shaking just a little. Yeah, that’s me actually. Don’t tell me you’re one of the three people apart from my mom who’s actually read my books?
As he waits for Steve to reply, Bucky bites his nails, waters his plants and bothers Alpine, until a ‘ding’ notifies him of a new email. Practically tripping over his own feet, he rushes back to his laptop.
Oh my god. Wow, that is incredible. I am a huge fan. HUGE. I must’ve read that series at least five times. I’m eagerly awaiting your new one, too.
Bucky’s jaw drops. “Well, this is a turn-up for the books,” he says out loud, so flabbergasted that he doesn’t even giggle at his own pun. What the hell is he supposed to reply to that? ‘Thanks, I’m having a huge case of writer’s block so I have no idea if there’s even going to be a new one’?
Before he can type up a reply, there’s another notification on his phone, this time from Instagram.
Message from Steve G. Rogers. What.
Bucky clicks the pop up.
Hi, James. I hope it isn’t inappropriate of me to reach out through Instagram but I figured it’s a little easier to chat this way than through public YouTube comments. I’ve been following you on here for a while now.
Steve follows him on Instagram? An actual Adonis has been following him on Instagram for a while now, and Bucky didn’t even know? What the fuck. He doesn’t even have that many followers, just a few thousand, and all he posts are pics of his cat, blinking cursors, and occasionally a pic of him signing books at sci-fi and literary conventions.
Another message comes in then: Okay that sounded less creepy in my head, I’m sorry. Anyway. Huge fan. Feel free to ignore this.
Chuckling, Bucky clicks on Steve’s profile picture, which takes him to his account. A quick look through his Instagram tells Bucky Steve is annoyingly photogenic (but then he knew that already), and he really loves his dog. Every other picture is one of Rusty (some of the two of them cuddling up on the couch, and on one devastating occasion, in bed) interspersed with some artistically framed shots of what appear to be the woods around his house. Bucky’s curiosity is piqued by a couple of pictures of drawings, which, when he opens them, turn out to be done by Steve. So not only is Steve gorgeous and a DIY god, he is also a really talented artist. And he’s a fan of Bucky’s writing?
“Sounds fake,” Bucky mumbles, nervously pulling the elastic band from his bun and ruffling his hair, before retying it. He takes a breath to steady the butterflies already foolishly fluttering around his stomach, and types his reply.
Hey, Steve! Please call me Bucky, James is what I go by professionally, but it makes me feel like I’m working :p And don’t worry, Instagram is fine. I had no idea you were following me on here, such a small world. Thanks again for helping me fix my tap. He thinks for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip, before adding, Let me know if there’s anything I can do to repay you. Bucky has absolutely no idea if Steve is into guys, but there is a slight possibility that what they’re doing right now is flirting, so he’s just testing the water.
Steve’s reply comes in only seconds later: Nice to meet you, Bucky :) It’s no problem, it’s my hobby! I’m just glad I can help people out. Although I wouldn’t say no to a sneak preview of your new book…
Bucky snorts. Okay, so Steve either isn’t picking up on the flirtation, or he’s just not interested. Bummer if it’s the latter, but that doesn’t mean it’s not still flattering that Steve likes his writing so much.
Sorry Steve, Bucky types, my publisher would have my head if I showed you before I showed her. What I can do is tell you what happened to Lavinia and Michael after they left the Trink…
Steve eagerly takes the bait, and the next half hour is spent chatting about the ending to Bucky’s first series, and the fates of the characters whose endings he’d left purposely unresolved. Steve wasn’t kidding when he said he was a fan – he seems to remember more details than Bucky himself does, and Bucky finds himself more excited about his own writing than he has for a long time.
It’s nice. The effortless banter, too. Steve is easy to talk to, funny and smart and genuinely interested in what Bucky has to say, and soon, they find themselves seguing into other topics of conversation. Bucky mentions Brooklyn, to which Steve responds by telling him he’s Brooklyn born and raised, too. So Bucky had heard that right, then. He knows it’s silly, but he feels a little thrill at that. Knowing Steve is from the same area as Bucky, is familiar with the streets and the shops and the train lines he knows so intimately. It feels like they have a connection, and wow, maybe Bucky should be writing romance novels instead of sci-fi, he thinks, rolling his eyes at himself. He narrowly refrains from asking Steve which street he grew up on and what school he went to, figuring that’s maybe a bit much for a first conversation. He’s forcing himself to at least try to be cool and collected, not that that’s ever been a particular strength of his, when Steve surprises him by asking,
Hey, no worries if not, but do you wanna maybe switch to texting? Just a little easier to use, more options and all that :)
Bucky’s heart does a little jump. He doesn’t even have to think about it, sending Steve his number straight away. Nat would probably have his head if she knew, telling him he’s too trusting, that he’s an idiot for getting so carried away over someone he hardly knows and who could easily be out steal his savings rather than his heart. Whatever. Bucky just can’t help trusting Steve. Call it a gut feeling, but he truly feels like with Steve, what you see it what you get. He may have only just met the guy online, but he can’t imagine there being as much as one deceitful bone in that man’s magnificent body.
When it starts to get dark, Bucky closes his curtains, then makes himself comfortable on the couch with a Popsicle from the freezer. They talk all night, about Rusty and Alpine, about Steve’s job, about space. It shouldn’t be a surprise, given how much Steve seems to love Bucky’s books, but Bucky is still pleased to find that Steve is almost as much of a space nerd as he is.
S: Whoa. How the hell is it midnight?
Bucky frowns. That can’t be right. But lo and behold, the time at the top of his screen displays all zeroes.
B: Huh. Guess time really does fly when you’re having fun.
S: I’ve gotta go let Rusty out before bed.
B: Yeah of course, go do what you need to do. Sorry to keep you past your bedtime, old man
S: Hey. Pretty sure you’re older than me.
For a second, Bucky wonders how Steve could possibly know that, before he remembers he has a Wikipedia page. It’s short, but it’s easily googleable, and it does contain his date of birth.
B: Oh yeah? How old are you?
S: Just turned 31 last week. So we’re only about a year apart, right?
B: Oh, happy belated birthday. I’m still gonna lord this over you from now on, young’un.
S: Just you wait, once you start going grey and creaky and I’m still running 5 miles before breakfast every morning you’ll wish you were as young and sprightly as I am.
Bucky snickers, trying not to let his mind wander to the image of Steve jogging in a pair of tiny shorts and a muscle tee, and failing miserably.
B: Whatever you say, Steve. Now go walk your dog, ttyl.
At least, he hopes so.
S: Absolutely. You still need to tell me about that one time you visited the Kennedy Space Center.
Bucky smiles to himself. Steve not only wants to hear about what was possibly the greatest experience of Bucky’s adolescent life, but he’s clearly implying they’ll talk again tomorrow, and possibly after that. It makes something warm unfurl in Bucky’s gut, something that means he’s going too fast, but that he already knows he can’t suppress. Truth be told, he was in trouble the first time he saw Steve’s stupidly beautiful face on his laptop screen.
Knowing they’ve got so much in common, and that Steve is intelligent, funny, kind and talented… Well, that only cements his fate.
B: Tomorrow. Have a good night, Steve.
S: Ask Alpine to check for bedbugs before you get in.
B: Please. She’s insulted you'd think that any bedbugs could enter her domain without her knowing.
S: Of course. Please pass on my sincerest apologies.
B: She says ‘mmrrrww’ so I think you’re good. For now. Goodnight, Steve
S: Goodnight, Bucky
Bucky goes through his nightly routine of turning off lights, brushing his teeth and kissing Alpine goodnight in a daze. He feels lighter than he has for ages. Despite the fact that his bedroom is still boiling, Bucky is hard-pressed to be annoyed by the heat tonight. He gets into bed, setting his alarm for seven, so he can squeeze in another morning run before the sun is too high in the sky.
It takes a while for sleep to come, his conversation with Steve running through his head like some sort of ‘best bits’ reel, but when he finally does drift off, the final thing in Bucky’s mind before he sinks into sleep is a flash of blue, blue eyes and golden hair.