Work Text:
It starts because Steve is not only a disaster of a human being but an asshole on top of that.
Unintentionally, Bucky's sure. At least with this certain aspect of his asshole personality. That's how it comes off, at least, to Bucky. In all fairness though, Bucky is maybe not as big of a disaster but he is most definitely an asshole, he knows this.
But Steve? Steve is the king of asshole, unintentional and intentional.
The worst part of it is that it somehow doesn't make Bucky's heart stop doing somersaults every time he's near him. It should, it really should, and part of him is annoyed that it doesn't. But Steve pulled him into this mess and Bucky let himself get attached, disaster and asshole or not, and there's no way out of it.
That doesn't mean Bucky is any less annoyed about their whole situation, though.
○ ○ ○
It starts like this:
After returning home from his third tour overseas that ended abruptly when he lost most of his left arm, Bucky needs a place to live. He spends a few, insufferable weeks sleeping on a shitty couch in his friend Clint's mess of a living room slash kitchen before he stumbles upon an ad searching for a roommate in a two bedroom apartment, no smokers.
It's a rainy Monday and Bucky has just finished his third and final fitting for a prosthetic when he sees it, hanging on the board in the building's lobby, pinned by a red pin that, for some reason, is what catches his eye in the first place. He jots down the phone number scribbled at the bottom of the crookedly hung paper and leaves, hood of his jacket up to protect his hair from the pouring rain.
He doesn't respond to it right away, though he probably should. It's not until two days later when Clint comes rushing inside with Lucky, his one eyed dog, panting at his heels and throws his hearing aids at the wall, shattering them, that Bucky decides to give the ad person a call. For his own and Clint's sake.
The apartment, when Bucky goes to check it out, is nice. It's roomy, has a great view, and looks fairly clean while still looking and feeling like a lived in place. Bucky likes it immediately and can already see himself living there and making this a place to call home after the first half of the tour is over.
And then there's his hopefully soon-to-be roommate.
His name is Steve and he's handsome in a way that makes Bucky a little weak in the knees. He's got a mop of floppy, blond hair atop of his head, bangs falling over his forehead that he keeps sweeping to the side. It's an absent habit, it looks like, and he does it three times throughout the tour and once more after.
His skin is white and fair, maybe even pale. There's a seemingly permanent flush to his sharp cheekbones that Bucky doesn't know if is because he's constantly a little short of breath – he's heard him wheeze twice – or for a different reason. Either way, it's a healthy looking flush.
Steve is skinny and short, the top of his head only just reaching Bucky's own shoulders. His thin arms, revealed when Steve rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, are covered in beautiful, artistic, and colorful tattoos that disappear under the rest of his shirt. Bucky has a brief moment of wander, eyes traveling over Steve's body and imagining how many tattoos he could possibly be hiding.
Steve's eyes, that's a whole other thing. They're bright blue and full of kindness when he smiles, his lips pink and plush and, Bucky notes in the back of his mind, kissable. If Bucky were a poet, he'd describe Steve's eyes as an ocean he wouldn't mind taking a dive into. But he's not so he keeps that to himself.
Steve is very polite and kind and has just the right amount of snarky sass during their first meeting that Bucky feels confident enough to take the deal once the tour is over and Steve asks what he thinks, tentatively and fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. And when he gives his answer, Steve beams at him and Bucky's knees nearly malfunction.
A week later, Bucky gets his prosthetic arm. He moves into Steve's (and now, his) apartment the following day. Clint is a good enough friend to help him move and Steve comes rushing down to help too but ends up wheezing after carrying a mere two boxes.
Ignoring the pang of immediate worry, Bucky snipes at him and Steve flips him off and calls him a jerk.
For the first couple of weeks, everything is nice. It's normal and, while he still wakes up sweating and shaking from nightmares every once in a while, Bucky likes this place. He likes being back and becoming a person again rather than the expandable weapon that he was over there.
He likes living with Steve, too. Steve is a good roommate, although a bit resigned but, then again, so is Bucky. Steve keeps mostly to himself, either behind his closed bedroom door or splayed out on the couch with headphones on as he draws.
Steve's an artist, Bucky learns. A good one, at that. Bucky has seen a few of his sketches and a few of his paintings and he may not know a lot about art but even he can tell when something's good.
Steve works from home most days, drawing and painting and whatever else he gets up to when Bucky isn't around. He stays up late most nights and sleeps well into the mornings, coming out of his room blurry eyed and wearing glasses and a shirt that's a bit too big on him.
It always sends Bucky for a loop, seeing him like that. It doesn't help his growing crush on the guy, nor does their occasional dinner get-togethers that usually consists of take out food that Bucky picks up on the way home and a movie that either of them pick, sometimes a few episodes of a show they've decided to watch together.
What definitely doesn't help Bucky's problem of a crush is how easy it is to be around Steve. Their humor matches flawlessly, they're both a bit nerdy one way or another, they're both assholes and they know it, they fit.
It's perfect and it's terrible.
Bucky likes it there.
He finds a job at a coffee shop a few blocks from their building. It's a nice, little place that he scopes out for a good handful of days before he approaches the counter to ask about the Help Wanted sign in the front window. He can't work behind the counter, can't make coffee because he's still getting used to his prosthetic and can't deal with customers, but what he can do is clean and he does it well so he gets the job.
Bucky has always been a clean man. He likes to keep things organized, likes to keep it clean. Having joined the army and getting organization beat into his brain had only made it worse and now the smallest mess makes his fingers twitch and his palms sweat. It annoys him, seeing a mess. He can ignore it, usually, but he has days where he just can't. Messes stress him out.
Cleaning, for him, is very therapeutic. Getting paid to do it on the regular does wonders for his mental health in a surprisingly short amount of time. No one bothers him while he cleans, only a few of his coworkers, America and occasionally Teddy, who he's befriended. He likes it, it's a good job.
Everything is fine and nice and relatively normal for the first month or so. And then everything starts going south quick.
○ ○ ○
It goes like this:
Bucky comes home one day to find the dishwasher still full and done even though he left it exactly like that hours ago. He'd rushed out because he accidentally spaced out in the bathroom and made himself late, but he assumed Steve would empty it for once because Steve works from home so why wouldn't he?
He didn't, apparently, because it's still full and there are dishes stacked on the kitchen counter above it. It's a little annoying but it's fine. It's fine. Bucky can deal with it.
But then he ventures further into the place and finds that the kitchen isn't the only part that's a mess. The living room is one too, even bigger than the one in the kitchen. It makes Bucky stop in his tracks, brain failing and ending up with a repeated error message.
Steve is in the middle of the mess. Well, he's sitting by the windowsill, a canvas propped up on an old looking easel by the window and a painting of their view slowly taking form on the white background. He's covered in paint, a brush between his teeth, another between his fingers, a third and a fourth in his back pocket.
He looks like a mess, fitting for his surroundings, while at the same time looking like a work of art and Bucky doesn't know how he's supposed to react to this.
So he doesn't and just stands there, mouth agape and eyes on Steve. It takes a whole minute before Steve turns to him and, when he does, he plucks the paintbrush out of his mouth and smiles at him, like everything is completely fine and normal and not at all a disaster.
“Hey, Buck,” Steve greets him, happy as ever. “How was your day?”
“Did a fucking bomb explode in here?” Bucky asks, the words stumbling out of his mouth before he even realizes it.
Steve blinks at him, smile slipping from his lips. His brows furrow, creating that little wrinkle between them, and he looks away from Bucky, dragging his eyes over to the mess around him. He winces and rubs the back of his neck, accidentally swiping his wet paintbrush over his cheekbone and leaving a line of light blue paint there.
“Yeah, sorry,” Steve says with a sigh. “I would've stayed in my own room but I needed a change of scenery. I was driving myself up the fucking wall in there. I'll clean up after myself, I promise.”
Bucky nods absently, eyes drifting back over to the mess. He itches to get it cleaned up immediately. He would even do it himself but his head is tired after spending hours cleaning up after messy customers at the coffee shop already and he doesn't feel like cleaning more.
“It's fine,” he says instead and steps around the mess to get to his bedroom where he drops off his bag and takes off his arm.
He passes through the living room again and Steve is already back in his zone, dragging his wet brush over the canvas in sure yet careful strokes. Bucky pauses to watch him for a moment, the annoyance of the mess around them somehow not stumping the crush that sends his heart galloping in his chest.
Bucky hurries to the bathroom and takes an unnecessarily long shower.
○ ○ ○
The next morning arrives and when Bucky emerges from his room, he finds that the living room is still as much of a mess as it was when he went to bed the night before. Instead of at his easel that is now holding up a nearly finished painting of their view, Steve is fast asleep on the couch, mouth hanging open in soft snores and glasses askew on his crooked nose.
He looks peaceful and for a moment Bucky forgets about the mess. For a moment he only sees Steve, the soft features on his face and the steady rise and fall of his chest, the long, artist fingers splayed out on his flat stomach, the paint splatter on the already art filled, skinny arms.
For a moment, that's all Bucky sees. And then he takes a step forward and knocks over a mug of paint water with his foot, adding to the mess.
Bucky somehow succeeds in not losing it right then and there.
○ ○ ○
Steve is cleaning up the mess in the living room when Bucky returns from work.
Naively, Bucky thinks that's the end of it.
It's not. Because it keeps happening.
○ ○ ○
Now, Bucky is mostly a good person (sometimes, when he feels like it) so he keeps his mouth shut about it for the first little while and takes to cleaning up after Steve when Steve doesn't do it fast enough, takes to making passive aggressive comments that Steve is somehow completely oblivious to.
He shouldn't be surprised by that, though. Steve is oblivious to a lot of things, after all, including Bucky's occasional, careful flirtations.
Bucky would have thought Steve's obliviousness, to the flirting at least, is because he's straight but he knows he isn't. Steve being bisexual was one of the first things he'd told him in Bucky's first week there. In return, Bucky had told him he's gay and they'd high fived and not made a big deal out of it because it wasn't. It isn't.
Bucky would also think Steve's obliviousness is because he just isn't interested. He has a gut feeling that isn't the case though, if the occasional lingering looks are anything to go by.
Bucky isn't stupid, he knows how he looks. The army helped him bulk up nicely, his hair is finally growing out of the short, clipped army style, and his face isn't all bad. Sure, he has days where all he can see is the ugly stump that's left of his arm but he's got a robot prosthetic and that's pretty sweet.
He honestly, truly thinks he and Steve could be great together, has imagined it several times. But he doesn't want to push and make a comfortable situation awkward. They do live together, after all. Even though he's imagined it more times than he can count, kissing Steve probably isn't a good idea.
That's beside the point, anyway.
The point is that Bucky is a clean man, always has been. He spends most of his every days cleaning in a coffee shop so what he doesn't need is to come home to a pigsty and feel like there's more work to do even though he clocked out a while ago.
Steve fucking Rogers is a literal human disaster who doesn't know what a laundry basket is and has never heard of a fucking dishwasher. Bucky knew he's too good to be true. It's only surprising that it took him over a month to find an actual, real flaw.
Bucky is a good person, most of the time. He can be patient when he needs to or tells himself to be. He lived with Clint Barton who's an even bigger disaster of a human being for weeks, he can handle this. It's annoying but he sucks it up because, despite everything, he really does like Steve.
He doesn't last long.
○ ○ ○
Bucky doesn't know what it is about it but today just really is not his day. He wakes up grumpy and irritated at nothing and everything, shoving his face into his pillow and letting out a long, miserable groan. It takes an eternity to get his arm on right without any pieces digging uncomfortably into his skin. It probably only takes about a minute but it feels like an eternity and Bucky damn near chucks the thing at the wall.
It cost him an arm (ha, literally) so he doesn't.
He's run out of clean clothes so he has to put on a shirt from his laundry basket, the only one that can pass as clean, and wear a pair of pants that has a coffee stain below the knee. All things considered, he looks somewhat presentable, he decides in front of the bathroom mirror after he's brushed his teeth and fixed his hair.
On his way out of the apartment, with a quick ruffle of Steve's hair on his way through the living room because Steve has fallen asleep on the couch again, he bumps into a chair in the kitchen, knocks his shoulder, his bad one, against the door frame, and nearly slips down the stairs in his rush.
Today is definitely not his day.
At least he manages to make it through the day with a minimal amount of damages done, only accidentally dropping one cup where he expected to drop several. It's fine, though. Everyone there has dropped cups before and America helps him pick up the pieces while calling him an idiot.
America is great. She's got the kind of attitude that Bucky loves. Plus, they're both gay and that's always a great thing to bond over because they both get it.
The rest of the day consists of a lot of bumping into things and Bucky just knows he's gonna find himself bruised to all hell and probably sore tomorrow. At least he doesn't screw anything else up and manages to clean the place by the time America and Teddy close up.
When Bucky returns home, dragging himself up the stairs, he's ready to head straight to bed and crash for the foreseeable future.
But Steve is an asshole and a disaster so of course that doesn't happen. Honestly, Bucky doesn't know why he's surprised anymore.
He stops the second he comes into view of the living room. He stops, stares, and lets out a long, exasperated groan.
Steve's easel is by the window again, a white, plastic tarp under it to protect the hardwood floor. Paints, brushes, and mugs of dirty water are scattered over the floor around the easel. There's a palette with a bunch of colored paint mixed together in the middle of it too, a wet paint brush resting in the lump of red.
Bucky doesn't even glance at the artwork on the canvas but it's fine. It's fine. That mess he can handle, it's just in the corner and Bucky has grown used to Steve's art laying around and taking up space. He doesn't mind that.
What he does mind is the rest of the living room.
There's one sock – not a pair, one sock – poking out from under the three person couch and the blanket that's usually nicely folded over the back of said couch is sloppily thrown over it, the edge of it touching the floor. The pillows are discarded, all but one thrown to the floor in the direction of the two person couch.
Bucky usually keeps a small pile of three or four books stacked on the coffee table and now he regrets it because, even though they're still there and untouched, there's a mess all around them. At least two plates, both dirty, are stacked on the corner and a row of half empty and nearly empty glasses are stood beside them.
The television is on, some cartoon that Bucky doesn't recognize, and Steve is sat on the couch, back against the arm and laptop in his lap. He's got a small, crooked smile on his lips that's directed at the screen in front of him, and his hair looks freshly washed.
Any other day, Bucky would probably have needed to sit down because Steve looks soft like this. But he's had a pretty terrible day and has come home to a mess yet again. He's not particularly happy and he's definitely not in the mood to give in to his crush.
“You're joking, right?” he blurts out. Even to his own ears, he sounds annoyed.
Steve's eyes flicker to him. He loses his smile as soon as he turns his head all the way over to fully look at Bucky, brows furrowing behind the frames of his glasses and the corners of his lips slowly tugging down.
Bucky would feel bad for making Steve lose the soft, peaceful look but he's had a rough day and isn't in the mood to feel bad.
“What?” Steve asks, tentatively.
Bucky gestures to their surroundings and raises his brows pointedly. He gestures to the mess in the corner, at the mess on the table and on the floor. Steve blinks and looks around, and it's like he's seeing the place around him for the first time. Bucky sees the second realization dawns on him.
“Oh,” Steve says and winces guiltily. He sits up properly, closing the laptop slowly while his eyes return to Bucky. “Sorry. I, uh... I meant to have this cleaned up by the time you got back.”
Bucky takes in a deep breath and closes his eyes. With his prosthetic hand on his hip, he reaches up with his real hand and pinches the bridge of his nose in a half assed attempt to stop the headache that's been building for hours now. He sighs and tries really hard to prevent it from turning into a groan.
“Is that your way,” he asks, “of telling me our apartment is a mess the second I leave?”
“Well,” Steve says and puts his closed laptop by his feet. “Not the second you leave.”
Bucky drops his hand and looks at him. Steve's avoiding his eyes, fidgeting with his sweatpants. There's a flush rising to his cheeks and he looks guilty as hell.
“Go on,” Bucky says.
Steve shrugs, rubs the back of his neck, and says, “I mean, I gotta get out of bed first.”
Bucky looks heavenward and groans.
“I know I'm a mess,” Steve hurries to say. “And I know you don't like that.”
“Don't make it sound like it's you I don't like,” Bucky says and looks at him. “I like you just fine. I'm not overly fond of the mess that comes with you, to be honest. I mean, can't you at least make an effort? It's really annoying.”
“I can try,” Steve says. “But it just... I forget. Or, I don't realize. I get so in my own head that I don't see my mess has spread.” He shakes his head, waving a hand as he stands. “That's not a good excuse. I promise, Bucky, that I will try to get better at cleaning up after myself.”
“Yeah, okay,” Bucky says dryly. “I'll believe that when I see it.”
It's like flipping a switch. The second the words are out of Bucky's mouth, Steve goes from being relatively calm – or as calm as Steve Rogers can be – to pissed off and downright furious. It's actually a little terrifying, seeing so much anger come from such a tiny man.
Bucky isn't sure whether he's supposed to be scared or turned on.
He's a little of both but he's also still in a bad mood so he meets Steve's glare with his own.
“You're a giant fucking asshole,” Steve spits out, narrowing his eyes. “Did you know that?”
“Takes one to know one,” Bucky spits right back.
Steve clenches his fists by his side and puffs his chest out a little, breathing in sharply. Bucky is briefly reminded of an angry chihuahua growling and about to bark but he quickly pushes that thought away and saves it for later, when this situation can be laughable. It's not laughable at the moment, not when Steve is stepping toward him and looking like he wants to fight.
“I clean up after myself,” Steve says and moves forward, not seeming bothered when he steps right onto a pillow on the floor.
“You really don't,” Bucky argues and crosses his arms, mindful to press his right arm to his chest rather than his prosthetic. He does care about his ribs, after all.
“Yes, I do,” Steve says and comes to a stop a step or two from him.
Bucky scoffs and says, “Rarely.”
“Only 'cause you don't let me get to it,” Steve says. He's raising his voice now. “You ever think that maybe, just maybe, I'm a little slower than you?”
“And that'd be fine if you cleaned up after yourself but you don't!” Bucky says and lets his voice raise along with Steve's. “Or I have to remind you at least four fucking times before you even bother!”
“You are so fucking infuriating!” Steve says, or, well, he's nearly yelling at this point so it can't be qualified as saying anymore. “We can't all be super quick to clean up!”
“I'm not asking you to be super quick, Steve!” Bucky say– yells back. Jesus, the neighbors are gonna be furious at them. “I'm asking you to not let it get this messy! You have two– Jesus fuck, three glasses in here! Have you never fucking heard of a dishwasher? We have one! Use it!”
“It was full!”
“Then empty it, stupid!”
“I was busy!”
Bucky rolls his eyes. “That's the most bullshit excuse I've ever heard.”
“Oh, shut up!” Steve exclaims angrily and takes another step forward.
He really looks like he's about to start a fight, his skinny arms nearly shaking with how hard he's clenching his fists. Bucky may be in a bad mood but he's definitely not up for having a physical fight with his roommate. That can only end badly, for both of them.
With a groan and another roll of his eyes, Bucky drops his arms and walks around Steve. He makes sure to take a step back first, stepping out of Steve's space, so Steve won't think he wants any part of the fight Steve is looking for.
“Clean this shit up, Rogers!” Bucky calls over his shoulder and heads straight for his room.
“Fuck you, asshole!” Steve yells back.
Bucky slams the door and throws himself onto his bed, groaning out his frustrations into his pillows.
○ ○ ○
They don't talk to each other, after. When Bucky emerges from his room a few hours later to get himself some dinner, he finds Steve packing away his paintbrushes. The living room looks a lot better than when Bucky came home and that eases up some of the anger Bucky was still feeling.
Their eyes lock and, from where he's crouched on the floor, Steve narrows his eyes into a glare and continues to pack away his brushes. Somehow, he does it in a very angry way that makes Bucky's anger rise back up.
Bucky glares right back and stalks past him. Steve grumbles an insult under his breath that Bucky choose to ignore.
Steve wants to be an asshole? Fine. Bucky can play his game, if that's what he wants.
○ ○ ○
One of the first things Bucky noticed after moving in was that all the top shelves in all the cabinets in the kitchen are empty. Judging by the layer of dust up there, they probably always have been.
Steve is short and it doesn't take a genius to figure out that he can't reach that high, so of course the top shelves are empty. They are of no use to him and are probably nothing but an annoying reminder of his height.
Bucky, however? Bucky can reach those top shelves no problem.
He looks up at the top shelf of the mug and glass cabinet the morning after their fight, a clean mug from the dishwasher in his hand and index finger tapping absently against it as he considers. He doesn't think long about it before he reaches up and puts the mug there. It's easy for him to reach but it won't be for Steve.
Bucky's ma would scold him for being such a dick, would probably smack the back of his head and tell him to grow the fuck up or act like the adult he pretends to be. She'd be right, too. But Bucky is still grumpy and pissed off at his roommate.
Besides, Steve started it and Bucky may be a lot of things but a pushover ain't one of them.
He stacks the plates and bowls on various top shelves too, lines all the mugs up there and even shoves all spoons and forks there too. By the time the dishwasher is empty and ready to be filled with the dirty dishes in the sink, the top shelves are fuller than they've been in months.
After putting the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, Bucky makes himself a cup of coffee and sits down by the table. He pulls his phone out to text with America and scroll through the social media he's on while he waits for Steve to get up. It's Bucky's day off so he can wait for as long as he needs to.
As it turns out, he only has to wait a good twenty minutes before there's a door opening and Bucky hears a yawn and socked feet getting dragged over the hardwood floors. It's only a minute later that Steve comes walking into the kitchen, blurry eyed and not fully awake yet.
Bucky doesn't let himself look for too long and focuses on the text America has send him instead, lifting his mug of lukewarm coffee to his lips and taking a sip.
In his peripheral vision, Bucky watches as Steve shuffles over to the coffee machine to start brewing a cup for himself because of course Bucky emptied what was left. Steve yawns as he does it and Bucky responds to America's meme with one of his own as a distraction.
His heart doesn't need to be doing stupid somersaults right now, he's getting his sweet, sweet revenge.
The coffee starts brewing and Steve moves over, reaching up to open a cabinet. He lifts himself up on his toes and reaches for a mug that isn't there. Because there's nothing there.
Bucky sips his coffee and sends America a cackling emoji.
Meanwhile, Steve seems a lot more awake now. He frowns and stares up at the empty bottom shelf before his eyes shift further up to the top shelf that's filled with all the mugs, including Steve's favorite that's standing in the center and mocking him.
Bucky keeps his eyes on his phone when Steve turns slightly and glares at him over his shoulder. Bucky can feel those eyes burning through his skull and he ignores all of it, hiding his grin behind his own now nearly empty mug.
He takes a long, mocking sip and lets out a satisfied sigh pointedly that has Steve grumbling incoherently.
Bucky knows Steve won't ask for help. Steve never asks for help, not for anything. He doesn't ask for help now either, he just reaches up with both hands, one grabbing a shelf and the other reaching, and goes onto the tips of his toes as he struggles to reach his favorite mug.
Bucky makes the mistake of glancing over at him. It's a mistake because once his eyes land there, he can't seem to look away, not when Steve's shirt is riding up and revealing so much skin and the band of his underwear poking out from his sweatpants.
Steve has a lot of tattoos. Like, a lot. His thin arms are covered in them and Bucky has spotted some on his collarbones too. With his shirt riding up like that, Bucky learns that Steve's tattoos travel down his sides to his hips as well and he has a sudden urge to get his hand on them, trace them with his fingers and maybe with his tongue, too.
Bucky shifts in his seat, his face heating, and looks down at his phone where America has send him a selfie, her middle finger raised and her girlfriend, Kate, sticking her tongue out over her shoulder.
Steve manages to get his mug down after a minute, one leg lifted onto the counter to hoist himself up long enough to get his hand around it. He's a bit flushed when he gets both feet back on the ground, his cheeks a pretty pink, and he's panting a little, the usual wheeze present.
A month ago, that wheeze would have worried Bucky. But he knows better now, knows that Steve wheezes occasionally and openly worrying about it will only piss him off.
Bucky doesn't meet Steve's eyes but he does feel them glaring daggers at him. Steve keeps glaring at him as he pours himself some coffee, his movements and actions unnecessarily aggressive, pointedly so.
Bucky tries not to feel smug. He fails.
With his mug full of steaming coffee, Steve walks– stalks over to Bucky and punches his right shoulder. It's weak. Bucky knows for a fact that Steve can throw a proper punch that probably hurts like a motherfucker. There's a hole in the wall, covered by a painting, as evidence of that.
“The top shelf has been empty for a reason, jerk,” Steve says and sits down.
“Sorry,” Bucky says without taking his eyes off his phone. “Guess I wasn't thinking.”
“Yeah, I bet you weren't,” Steve grumbled and takes an angry swig of his coffee.
They sit in silence for what probably isn't more than a couple of minutes but it feels like an eternity, the tension between them heavy and awkward and full of anger and bitterness. Bucky tries to ignore it, tries to ignore the urge to stretch his leg out and accidentally kick Steve. His revenge doesn't involve a physical fight, he reminds himself.
They sit there for a while, both sipping at their coffees and Bucky scrolling through twitter now that America has stopped replying to his texts, until Steve breaks it.
“Listen, Buck,” he says. The fact that he's using Buck and not Bucky says a lot. “I think we should talk about yesterday. We didn't really end the day on a good note.”
Bucky hums, keeps scrolling, and mutters, “Wonder whose fault that is.”
Steve glares at him and kicks his shin under the table. “Can you put your phone down and stop being an asshole for one fucking second? I'm trying to apologize.”
Bucky drops his phone onto the table and looks at him, making sure to look as annoyed as he possibly can. Steve glares back at him, his jaw set and clenched. The hand that's resting on the table has curled into a tight fist while his grip around his mug seems awfully tight too.
Okay, so maybe he's not over his anger yet. Good. Bucky isn't either.
“I know you don't like messes,” Steve says after letting out a heavy breath. “And I could give you a million excuses but–”
“Give me one,” Bucky interrupts, challenging.
Steve blinks at him. “What?”
“Give me one excuse.”
Steve stares at him silently for a beat. “Depression,” he says.
Bucky blinks, his face falling and anger seeping out. “Depression?” he repeats quietly. Shit.
“Yeah,” Steve says and shrugs. “I don't always realize how bad it's gotten until someone points it out to me. I mean, I know it's bad but, well, sometimes I just can't get myself to care. But that doesn't mean I can't try to be better at keeping my mess to a minimum.”
Well, Bucky thinks, that's a pretty decent excuse. He feels the last bit of anger seep out of him as he sighs, deflating and shoulders slumping a little. He shifts, rests his elbow on the table, and angles himself a bit more toward Steve.
“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe I was... overreacting a little, too.”
“You, overreacting?” Steve huffs and drawls, “No.”
Bucky narrows his eyes at him, the corner of his lips twitching.
“Don't give me that look,” Steve says, smiling. “You're not innocent here.”
“Maybe not,” Bucky says. “But you started it.”
“What are you, five years old?”
“You figured me out,” Bucky says dryly.
Steve laughs next to him, a little chuckle that tells Bucky they're okay. It feels like a relief, settles the slight worry that Bucky has been ignoring since they blew up at each other last night, and it's good.
Which, of course, is why his heart decides to do a somersault into a burning fire when Steve knocks their knees together under the table. That tiny, little touch reminds Bucky of his feelings for Steve and he goes from being annoyed to right back into the pining fest.
It's terrible but Bucky returns Steve's smile with one of his own, letting their knees touch.
“Could you just fix the shelf issue?” Steve asks after a minute. “It's really annoying, actually.”
Bucky huffs a little and says, “Sure, I'll get right on that.”
“Thanks,” Steve says and clasps his hand on Bucky's shoulder for a second. He squeezes once, then grabs his mug and walks out of the kitchen.
Bucky looks after him, aware that he probably looks like the human embodiment of the heart eyes emoji. Then he whines and lets his head thunk against the table.
He's screwed.
○ ○ ○
The next morning, Bucky empties the dishwasher like normal. He keeps eyeing the top shelf of the mug slash glass cabinet as he's putting away the forks, knives, and spoons but he tells himself to not do it, tells himself to stop even considering it.
They made up yesterday. Yesterday had been back to normal; they'd played video games and watched movies and Bucky had even let Steve draw him. Why would he mess that up?
Because Bucky Barnes is an idiot who is slowly falling in love with the king of assholes and he doesn't know how to deal with it, that's why.
He puts Steve's favorite mug onto the top shelf, right smack in the center, and goes to make himself breakfast. He's not proud of himself, aware that he's a piece of shit and an asshole.
In his defense, Steve has been letting his mess spread for far longer than Bucky has even thought about this petty revenge.
It doesn't help him feel better about it but, well, too late now.
He doesn't have time to fix it either because it's only six minutes after Bucky has sat down to eat his cereal that Steve comes out from his room. He's fully dressed in actual pants and looks more awake than usual this early in the morning. It's a Friday so he's probably going out to meet with Sam and Natasha, his best friends.
Bucky hasn't met Natasha but he has met Sam a couple of times, first time was a few days after he moved in. Sam's a great guy and, despite having met so few times, Bucky likes to think they're friends.
Friends is stretching it a little, maybe. They've never had an actual conversation, at least not one that Steve wasn't a part of, so maybe acquaintances is a better word for them. Bucky likes Sam though. Sam's pretty great.
“Morning, Buck,” Steve says as he comes walking into the kitchen, fiddling with his hearing aid.
“Morning,” Bucky says around his mouthful of cereal, his eyes lingering on Steve's fingers.
“Any coffee left?” Steve asks and reaches up to open the cabinet. He stops abruptly, head tilted back a little.
Bucky bites back a chuckle and stuffs his mouth with a spoonful of cereal.
“Bucky,” Steve says and turns around, crossing his arms. He looks at him, annoyed. “Did I not tell you the top shelves are empty for a reason?”
“Oops,” Bucky says around his mouthful and doesn't bother hiding the smug look on his face.
Steve narrows his eyes at him and slams the cabinet shut. Without breaking the eye contact, he walks over and grabs Bucky's mug of coffee. Bucky makes a noise of protest around his mouthful and Steve just smiles in return.
“Hope you know you've just started a war, asshole,” Steve says and lifts the mug to take a sip, then cringes. “Gross, how the fuck do you drink this shit?”
Bucky swallows and says, “You can't steal something and then complain about the quality.”
“Obviously I can 'cause I just did.”
“If you don't want it, give it back.”
Steve hums as he slides into the seat opposite Bucky. “Nah,” he says and sips, cringing again.
“Stop making that face,” Bucky says and kicks him lightly under the table. “It's not that bad.”
“It's gross,” Steve says but keeps sipping at it anyway.
“Then stop drinking it, idiot.”
Steve looks at him. “No.”
Bucky rolls his eyes and scoops up a spoonful of cereal. “You're stupid.”
“And you're an asshole.”
“So are you.”
“I'm not the one putting things where you can't reach them.”
“You stole my coffee.”
Steve reaches across the table and pulls Bucky's bowl of cereal over to himself. “And your cereal,” he says. “I told you, this is war.”
“A war between children?” Bucky asks and reaches out for his bowl, but Steve pulls it off the table and away. “Steve, come on. Give me my cereal.”
“Nope,” Steve says. He stands and walks over to the sink where he first down the rest of the coffee and then the cereal, a few drops of milk dripping down his chin. Once both the mug and the bowl are empty, he pointedly puts them in the sink instead of the dishwasher that's an inch from him and gives Bucky a look.
Bucky narrows his eyes at him. “Oh, you're fucking on.”
“Fight me, asshole,” Steve says. He walks backwards out of the kitchen, eyes on Bucky as he raises his clenched fists. Right before disappearing into the other room, he raises both his middle fingers and sticks his tongue out at Bucky.
“Fuck you!” Bucky calls after him, though there's no heat in his words.
Steve cackles in the distance and Bucky rolls his eyes, smiling to himself as he eyes the sink.
○ ○ ○
It becomes a thing.
When Bucky got his revenge, he didn't think it would become a thing but it does. He's not entirely sure what to make of it, either. For him, he likes to pretend it's a form of courting, even if it's only partially that and more him being as much of an asshole to Steve as Steve is to him.
But for Steve, he has no fucking clue. Pay back, probably.
Steve starts letting his mess spread on purpose, purposely making it worse. He completely forgoes putting his dishes in the dishwasher and stacks them on the counter instead. Occasionally, he leaves them wherever he used them and won't even bother moving them.
Once, Bucky leaves his room to find a stack of used dishes in front of his door and Steve sitting on the couch with an innocent smile on his lips.
Bucky retaliates by using the top shelves more often. Not for his own things, oh no. He puts all the art supplies on the top shelf of the bookcase where, before, there had been a row of Bucky's own books. Steve's favorite mug finds permanent residence on the top shelf of the mug cabinet.
Steve hates him for it, keeps blowing up at him and even once accidentally calls him Fucky, of all things, because he's so annoyed. That, too, becomes a thing when Steve is extra pissed and Bucky hates it.
It quickly goes out of hand, like when Steve somehow manages to sneak into Bucky's room to steal his prosthetic arm and hides it in his own pile of laundry next to his almost empty laundry basket or when Bucky hides Steve's phone on top of his window, causing them to yell at each other for a solid thirty minutes.
None of it makes Bucky like Steve any less. Actually, it makes him like him a lot more and the thought of kissing Steve silent happens more and more frequently.
Sam stops by once, a few weeks into their... courting or whatever this is.
It's Bucky's day off. He's been home for barely an hour after hanging out with America and he's now sitting spread out on the couch, book in hand and prosthetic off, when he hears the door open.
Steve's laughter comes rushing in and it's followed by Sam saying, “And he still hasn't taken the damn thing to the shelter!”
“You're a cat owner now,” Steve says and Bucky listens to their footsteps approaching. “Deal with it.”
Sam says something that Bucky can't hear. He glances up from his book when Steve comes into view and his heart does that stupid somersaulting thing it does whenever Steve looks like this; smiling and happy and so fucking bright that Bucky has half a mind to put on a pair of sunglasses or let himself go blind by looking.
Steve looks back at him and his smile turns into that grin that Bucky has gotten so familiar with. Bucky returns it with a deadpan stare and closes his book, preparing himself for the worst.
What he gets is Steve stepping over to him, toeing out of his shoes, and pointedly putting them on the table in front of him. “Hey, Buck,” he says casually and smiles sweetly.
Bucky stares at him for all of one second before he puts his book down and stands. He grabs the shoes and walks over to the bookcase where he reaches up and puts the shoes on top of it. He flops back onto the couch and doesn't bother hiding the smug look on his face when Steve pouts and glares at him.
Whatever. He deserved it.
“You guys have the weirdest way of flirting,” Sam says from where he's stood behind Steve, an amused smile crookedly on his lips and eyes flickering between them.
Bucky flips him off while Steve blushes furiously and shoves at his best friend. Sam doesn't come back over, at least not when Bucky is there too.
America comments on it too. Not because she sees it happening as well, she doesn't come over much (or at all) but because Bucky likes to complain to– well, at her while she's making coffee for customers and Bucky is waiting for someone to spill something for him to clean up.
“Just kiss him, chico,” she says. “You're an adult, act like one.”
“But it sucks,” Bucky whines and leans heavily onto his mop. “Why can't he just, I don't know, read my mind or stop being fucking oblivious and see that I fucking like him?”
“And why can't you just tell him it yourself?” America asks, quirking a pointed brow.
Bucky makes a face at her. “Because you suck.”
“You're a manchild,” she tells him, deadpan.
“You're not helping.”
“I'm trying to but you're not listening,” she says and pokes at his forehead. “Open your big mouth and say hey Steve, wanna make out with me?”
“We're roommates,” Bucky reminds her. “I'll only make it awkward if I–”
“Excuse me,” a customer says and their conversation is over.
Bucky pouts and America gives him a pointed look.
She's right, though. And he knows she is, he just doesn't want to admit it. Not out loud, at least. He can admit it to himself, admit that this thing he's doing, this childish way of courting Steve, isn't working. Well, not really. It's working in the sense that he's getting revenge on Steve when Steve is being annoying but it's not working in the sense that it's getting him nowhere closer to kissing him.
Not that that is really the whole point of this but, well, he would like it to be.
It's a never ending cycle of assholery and Bucky doesn't know how to stop it. He doesn't even really try, actually, and, as it turns out, he doesn't even need to.
Because, as fate would have it, they end up working things out without having to stop being dicks.
○ ○ ○
In hindsight, Bucky probably should have suspected something isn't right when noon comes around and Steve has yet to leave his room.
To be fair, Steve's sleeping habits are hard to keep track of. Sometimes, he'll be sleeping the entire day away and, other times, he won't sleep at all and will walk around acting like a grumpy zombie the next day.
Bucky knows to steer clear of him those days. He would love to say that he's learned his lesson and he likes to think that he has but, evidently, he hasn't.
He assumes Steve is sleeping while he grabs most of Steve's belongings and puts them not on the top shelves in the kitchen but on top of the cabinets. But then the door to Steve's room opens and Steve comes out with heavy bags under his eyes and looking more sluggish than usual, and Bucky knows he's fucked up.
“Morning, sunshine,” Bucky says, eyeing Steve from where he's splayed out on the couch, the television on and playing a documentary on black holes. “Or should I say, afternoon. Sleep well?”
Steve grunts and starts walking toward the kitchen. “Not in the mood,” he says, voice rough.
Bucky sits and listens to Steve's footsteps as they fade out and disappear into the kitchen. His eyes drift back to the television but he doesn't really pay attention to what's going on, can't even focus on the subtitles he's put on. All he can focus on is the sound of Steve puttering around in the kitchen.
He knows he's fucked up. He holds his breath a little and listens to a cabinet being opened, the hinges whining a little. A minute passes and then Steve apparently notices what's on top of the cabinet and Bucky winces when he hears the reaction.
“Bucky, you fucking asshole!”
The curse comes out pointedly, like it's spat out. Bucky can imagine Steve's face long before he comes storming back into the living room. His imagination is pretty spot on, if he does say so himself. Steve is fucking furious, his eyes fiery and chest heaving and fists clenched.
Bucky immediately feels bad. Hiding the guilt in his eyes, he pauses the documentary and sits up properly.
“Problem?” he asks, because he's a dumbass and an asshole.
“You,” Steve says and points an angry, accusing finger at him. “You are so fucking infuriating, it's ridiculous! Can we just fucking stop with this stupid fucking thing already?”
Bucky tosses the remote onto the couch and stands. “What thing?” he asks, trying to remain calm even though Steve yelling is making him want to yell back.
“This!” Steve exclaims and his cheeks flush. “This– I don't know, this fucking asshole game!”
“I don't know about you,” Bucky says and takes a step closer, “but I'm not playing any games.”
“Yeah, right,” Steve scoffs. “Eat my fucking ass, Buck, you are so playing games.”
Bucky rolls his eyes and says, “That's not what I'd call it.”
“Uh huh, okay. What would you call it, then?”
“Courting,” Bucky says before he can stop himself. He ignores the heat that rises to his cheeks the second the word is out.
“Court–” Steve starts repeating and then promptly stops. He blinks at Bucky, his face smoothing over slightly. “Wait. What?”
“What?” Bucky repeats and moves a bit closer. “What part of that confused you?”
Steve blinks owlishly at him for a second before he scoffs and, with his cheeks bright pink, he shoves at Bucky. It's a light shove and Bucky is expecting it but he lets himself be budged slightly anyway.
“Stop it,” Steve says and glares. “It's one thing to be an asshole about my height but you don't get to be an asshole about that too.”
“About what?” Bucky asks, pushing. This is playing right on the edge of a confession and his heart is pounding in his chest with excitement and nerves, both of which make him want to puke.
He's suddenly grateful that his breakfast consisted of nothing but a banana and a cup of coffee.
“Don't play dumb, Buck,” Steve says. “You know what I'm talking about.”
Bucky bites back a sigh and purses his lips in annoyance. Slight annoyance, or maybe it's a lot, he's not sure anymore. He just wants Steve to say it, say the thing they've both been dancing around for way too long.
Bucky knows Steve knows exactly what he's hinting at, his blush is telling. But he also knows that Steve probably doesn't believe that Bucky feels the same way and therefore won't admit it. That's what's the most infuriating, actually.
Well, that and the fact that Steve won't fucking say it.
Maybe Steve's bad mood has rubbed off on him a little, Bucky absently notes but does nothing about.
“Uh huh,” Bucky says and rests his hand on his hip. “If I already know, then what's the problem with telling me?”
Steve makes a face, that face that Bucky has privately dubbed his Fury Face. His lips press together into a thin, tight line, his eyes narrow, and there's a small wrinkle between his furrowed brows.
Bucky returns it with a look of his own, annoyed and impatient.
“The problem is,” Steve says and steps right up to him, head tilted back to look him in the eye, “that you don't–”
“Jesus fuck, Steve!” Bucky snaps, cutting Steve off and throwing his hand up in exasperation. “I'm so tired of this– this dancing around! Why can't you just stop being a little asshole and admit you like me?”
“Fine!” Steve yells back and throws his hands up too. “I like you, asshole!”
“Great!” Bucky says loudly. “I like you too, asshole!”
“Awesome!” Steve pauses for a beat, his cheeks burning and chest puffing. “I really wanna kiss you!”
“And I really wanna kiss you too!”
“Then fucking do it already!”
“Fine!” Bucky says and does.
He raises his hand to cup Steve's face and leans down at the same time Steve leans up, their lips meeting halfway. It's not gentle and it's not perfect, their teeth knocking together painfully at the first contact.
But then Steve grabs onto the front of his shirt, rises up a little, and slots their lips together firmly and perfectly with a tilt of his head. Bucky follows his lead easily, tilting his head the other way and kissing him back while his hand slides around to the back of Steve's head, his fingers tangling with locks of blond, soft hair.
Their first kiss isn't perfect. Neither is their second. Their third try, however, is closer to perfect and Bucky can't help but smile when he feels Steve doing the same against his lips. All the fiery, angry passion from their first lip lock has washed away by now, both of them chuckling into the kiss that has turned soft but stayed firm.
In Bucky's eyes, it's perfect.
“I can't fucking believe,” Steve mutters against Bucky's lips, his hands smoothed out and resting on his shoulders now, “that you made us wait so long for this.”
“Uh,” Bucky says and pulls back, quirking a brow. “It takes two to tango, pal.”
“You knew how I feel,” Steve says. “I didn't know you feel the same way.”
“Oh, come on, Stevie,” Bucky says with a roll of his eyes. “I wasn't being subtle.”
“Well, you weren't exactly being forward either.” Steve takes his hands off of his shoulders and Bucky immediately misses them. “Doesn't help that you decided to be an asshole to me instead of just telling me.”
Bucky huffs. “You started it.”
“Shut up and go sit down.”
Bucky gives him a sloppy salute, keeping the displeased look on his face as he turns to walk back over to the couch. He tries to bite back the smile that tugs at his lips when he hears Steve groan at him but he fails. Not that he tried all that hard, anyway.
He sits down and follows Steve with his eyes as Steve walks over to him. There's something heated in Steve's eyes and Bucky swallows thickly. He's suddenly really glad that he's sitting down because he's pretty sure his knees are currently malfunctioning, all because of one look.
For such a small man, Steve holds a lot of power, especially over him. Bucky isn't afraid to admit that he's weak for him.
Steve comes to stand in front of him, their knees touching, and he reaches out to touch along the side of his head, fingers running through the growing hair. Bucky feels himself melt into the back of the couch the second Steve's thumb brushes against his cheekbone and he lets out a slow sigh, his eyes glued to Steve's.
He wants to reach out for him but his arm won't move. He wants to open his mouth and tell Steve to stop killing him but he doesn't get a word out before Steve leans down and kisses him, swallowing every word that was forming on his tongue. Bucky doesn't really mind.
Steve straddles him like it's the most natural thing for them, and Bucky finally makes his arm move. He lifts it, wraps it around Steve's thin waist, and pulls him closer. Steve, meanwhile, has cupped Bucky's face in his hands and is kissing the living shit out of him. And Bucky can do nothing but let him.
It feels good and it feels right, and at the first touch of Steve's tongue against his own, Bucky can't help but moan.
“You owe me breakfast,” Steve mumbles against his lips, shifting the tiniest bit closer while one of his hands slide into Bucky's hair.
“Okay,” Bucky whispers back, breathy and absently, and lets himself get pulled into another kiss.
○ ○ ○
Things don't really change much between them. Their little game of Who's The Bigger Asshole continues, except now, instead of blowing up at each other when it becomes too much, they have other ways to deal with it.
Steve continues to let his mess spread on purpose, now letting it spread all the way to Bucky's room because he spends time in there now. He leaves piles of his clothes everywhere and, to be fair, Bucky does too in the heat of the moment, but while Bucky has the decency to pick his clothes up after, Steve doesn't and he does it pointedly, a smile that's all too innocent on his lips.
Bucky continues to retaliate by putting Steve's things up high; his art supplies, his coffee mugs, his shoes, his glasses, his hearing aid that one time, any- and everything. Before, Steve would blow up at him for it, would yell at him until Bucky got the thing down, but now he's changed tactics.
Now, Steve plays dirty.
He'll kiss him, touch him, distract him and ask sweetly. And, because Bucky is weak and completely gone on this man, it always works. And it always makes him annoyed after which means he puts something up high again and Steve gets mad and leaves his mess everywhere and so on and so forth.
It's a never ending cycle of assholery and Bucky has never been more in love.