(nice vibrations)

Jeff looks down at the products on the conveyer belt and then up at the customer. He blinks.

“What?” the guy grunts, after a minute of awkward silence.

Jeff clears his throat. “Uh, nothing.” Is this guy some kind of professional athlete, or something? Fuckin’ stacked, Jeff thinks to himself, appreciatively. Coach has been on his ass about networking with some real-deal NFL guys, maybe this guy’s got connections. Jeff starts checking out his items. Tampons, more tampons, pack of batteries, two bottles of red wine, a discount tub of ice cream.

The guy slaps down a chocolate bar. Then he swipes his card and starts following the directions, even though he has to pull off one of his gloves to do it. Jeff grins.

“What?” the guy asks again.

“Looks like you’re in for a long night,” Jeff says, trying for coolness and sympathy. “She must be a handful.” The guy’s face is blank. “You know,” Jeff says, looking knowing. “That time of the month.”  

“Excuse – what?” he says, squinting. Oh, shit. “The fuck does that mean?”

“I just–”

“I swear to God,” the guy mumbles, grabbing his bags. “Y’know, we didn’t used to just fucking talk about shit like this. But, hey, you wanna know? Tell you anyway. When’s the last time you been so close to your girl she lets you buy her this shit?” He gives a condescending, tight smile. “Thought not.” He reaches over and claps Jeff on the shoulder. His hand is hard, and Jeff stumbles a little. “You shouldn’t even have the privilege of livin’ in the same city as her, pal. Or any woman, probably, for that matter. This is why you ain’t married.”

“How do you know I’m not married?” Jeff asks.

“This is why,” the guy repeats, “You ain’t married. Shape up, son. Shape up.”

“Jesus Christ,” Steph huffs, laughing. They’re on 1978 with Saturday Night Live – the clothes are hilarious, but Steph doesn’t think that’s supposed to be the joke – and Steve Martin is doing some crazy accent. Two wild and crazy guys! Stephanie laughs again. Buck is quiet, and on instinct she looks down at him. 

“Oh my God,” she mumbles. He’s dead asleep on top of her, which would explain why he’s feeling so heavy. His brow is relaxed and his mouth is open a little, his head pillowed on her breasts, his left hand curled in a loose fist at her ribs. Steph reaches down for the remote where it fell on the ground, and she turns the volume of the television down. 

He doesn’t sleep a lot, her guy. She doesn’t either, but she can usually tell when she’s had a long enough, strange enough day to merit those nightmares that wake her up screaming. Buck’s still hit him out of the blue sometimes. Stephanie strokes her hand through his hair and he makes a little noise. The TV glows blue in the dark room over his face, his body – his legs are hanging off the couch and it makes her smile. He’s out cold. She doesn’t want to wake him up now he’s finally sleeping soundly; it’s not even too uncomfortable, she can still breathe, and she can feel his heartbeat, slow and steady and calm, against her belly – that’s where his chest is. It’s funny, sure – of course Buck would fall asleep laying like this, so predictable – but she likes it too much to really be exasperated, something protective and big welling inside her, not something she feels a lot. She can’t help it; she smiles. There’s just something sweet about it, she doesn’t know, and she’ll let herself enjoy it. 

Buck shifts, nuzzling his face into her, and starts to stir.

“Hey, go back to sleep,” Stephanie murmurs, stroking her hand over his head, but he’s already awake, at least kind of. 

“I fall asleep?” he mumbles. 

“Mmhmm.” 

He heaves a sigh and slides his arms all the way around her, under her back, hugging. “S’not morning?” 

“No, Buck.” 

“Good,” he murmurs. “Good.” He sighs again and squeezes her a little, and then he tilts his head and looks up at her, his eyes bleary. He smiles a little.

“What?” Steph asks.

“Nothin’,” Bucky says. He slurs, sleepy, “I wanna lay like this aaall the time.” 

“I bet you do,” she huffs, grinning. She strokes her hands through his hair again.

“M’I crushin’ you?” 

“Nah.” 

He nuzzles against her breast again, and she scritches her nails at the back of his neck. He likes that; he hums. “How come we never sleep like this, hmm?” he mumbles. 

“Think you’ll make it through a night this way?” 

“Worth a try.” He sighs. “You’re sweet to me.” 

“Buck.” 

“You are, you’re sweet,” he murmurs. “My sweet girl.” He looks up at her again and props himself up a little on his elbows to kiss the tops of her breasts, visible above her shirt. He nuzzles her collarbones and her throat. “Can I get this off you?” he asks. 

“Sure, Buck,” Steph says, and it turns out that what Buck meant was her bra, because his hands, both of them warm, are up under the back of her shirt, and he unclasps it one-handed and slides the straps down her shoulders and pulls it off under her shirt, dropping it to the floor. Then he just…lays back down. 

“That all you want?” Steph asks, laughing a little.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Bucky huffs, poking her in the side. She squirms and chuckles. He looks up at her. “Now, you wiggle around like that, you really will get me turned on. Let a guy rest, huh?” 

“Sure,” she agrees again, and curls her legs around him, a little. Buck kisses her nipples over her shirt, which gets her a little hot, but it’s sweeter the way he just does that and lays down again, left arm wrapped underneath her back, right hand cupping her ribcage. 

“I like bein’ around you better’n,” he mumbles, and yawns. “Better’n I like bein’ around anyone, you know that?” 

“You’re prettier’n me,” Buck murmurs, in her low throaty voice. That’s Buck all over — a proper lady outside, and then behind closed doors…