#bad first date

WinterIron - Wine  

Request: @summerpipedream Tags: first date, bad date, drinking, Tony has issues Wordcount: 1,889

Summary:

Tony asks Bucky on a date. This is great, this is wonderful, Bucky is very excited...

Tony discovers that Bucky is not Steve...

(In which a case of mistaken identity involves a LOT of necessary wine) (and in which case Bucky discovers champagne is good for getting red wine out of silk shirts.) (and Tony discovers that Bucky not being Steve is probably a good thing)

Bucky was pretty sure the date was in the toilet about five seconds after he sat down. He’d been running a little late, which meant Tony was already seated by the time Bucky walked over to the table. Bucky caught the man in profile, desperately handsome, comfortable in his own skin, and fucking owning the suit he was wearing, like he spent all day in tailored slacks and a three button jacket. He was absently rocking a glass of whiskey on the rocks in one hand and people watching.

Bucky took a seat and watched as Tony blinked. Absolutely zero recognition on those coffee brown eyes.

“Hey, Tony,” Bucky tried to prompt him, “good to see you again.” He offered a hand to shake and Tony took it on autopilot.

“Yeah, I… uh… James?”

Bucky nodded. He’d just met the man last week at a three-day, long weekend seminar thing for team building. Kinda like summer camp, but worse, really. Fury’d assigned Steve, Bucky, and Clint to go, since, as Fury always said “the three of you need a map and a compass and a flashlight to find your way out of a wet paper bag.”

Which wasn’t true at all, but none of them were really team players.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Bucky said, awkwardly. How did Tony not know who he was? Tony had called him two days after the seminar and been charming as fuck on the phone for a ten minute conversation, rehashing some of the seminar, and closing off with I was really impressed with your attitude and intelligence. Oh, and humor, very amusing, and I was wondering, you know, if you’re single and everything… you might want to go out for dinner with me?

Tony had sounded a little overeager, his words spilling quickly, as if he was talking from a script in his head that he’d been rehearsing, and it had given Bucky chills and made him feel squirmy at the same time to think he’d managed to impress Tony Stark. He’d said yes without even thinking about it.

“I guess I thought you were blond,” Tony blurted out, and then, seemingly realizing how rude that was, grabbed his menu and buried his face behind it.

Oh.

Oh.

“You got me mixed up with Steve,” Bucky said. Of course that had happened. Of course, of fucking course. It would be easier if Bucky could hate Steve, but he couldn’t. They were best friends, had been for way longer than Steve had been the unobtainable fuck that everyone wanted and no one got, and Bucky was the one occasionally picking up Steve’s leavings. And spent a lot of time nursing a little ball of jealousy that was going to give him an ulcer one of these days.

Bucky sighed, pushed his chair back, folded the napkin back up and threw it on his plate. “No need of us wasting our time or your money.”

Tony’s hand snapped out and caught Bucky’s wrist. “No, no,” he said. “Come on, okay. Wrong first move, I know. I have exactly zero brain-to-mouth filters and I had a ton of business cards at the end of the weekend, and I’d been sorting them into piles when I got them. So… you were still in the left pocket, right? I just, thought you were the other guy, no harm, no foul. I mean, we’re already here, might as well…”

Bucky gave Tony a flat look. Steve would have already walked out if he’d known any of that stuff, hell, Steve probably wouldn’t have said yes to Tony in the first place. Steve had… weird dating requirements, and there was a -- no shit, Bucky had actually seen it -- a 27-item long list of deal breakers to get to a second damn date with Steve Rogers. “If it’s Steve you want, I ain’t him, an’--”

“Come on, just stay, would you? I went through a lot of trouble to get a table here tonight, and--”

“You told someone you had a date, and you don’t want to deal with the fallout if you don’t actually have a date?”

Tony actually blushed, and was all kinds of not fair that he looked damn adorable when he did so. “My ex,” he confessed.

Bucky didn’t quite sigh when he dropped back into the chair, but his hopes for the evening were pretty much shot. On the other hand, as the asker, Tony was still footing the bill. Bucky might as well eat, and then have a really horrible bad-date story to tell at the office on Monday. Anything had to be better than listening to Clint and Sam rehash the plot for the latest Bad Movie they’d watched. (It was one of their things, the bad movies. Which, as Bucky had at least two of them inflicted on him, were truly terrible. The one with the hopping vampires had been so bad that it wrapped around to being good again, and then kept on going right in to what the fuckery territory.)

“And they’re gonna know you didn’t actually go on a date how?”

Tony delivered Bucky’s signature flat look right back to him with a side order of really, were you not paying attention. “Zero. Brain-to-mouth filters.”

Bucky glanced at the menu and didn’t quite choke. The prices, written in neat little calligraphy numbers, were… yeah, ow. Tony must have really wanted to impress Steve. (They weren’t even like normal prices, $22.95 or anything, no decimal places. Bucky did a quick run of numbers and even if he stuck to Pepsi and a main meal, Tony wasn’t getting out of here for less than $200, which was a lot just to not have to lie to an ex.)

“You know, you could just tell them I stood you up? Or that we had a political discussion and you tucked some breadsticks in your bag and made a break for it.”

Tony laughed, bright and clear and obviously amused. “Oh, no, after that joke, you have to stay,” he said, eyes shining. “I insist. I remember laughing all weekend, doing projects and team building bullshit with you and your co-workers.”

“Oh,” Bucky said. “Then you probably meant to call Clint.” He waited until Tony gave him huge, hurt, wide eyes, before grinning. “Kidding, I kid.”

And it was on from there. Tony was snarky, sarcastic, bitterly cynical about the present, but so full of hope for the future that it was painful. They got some of the first date bullshit questions out of the way, and were deep in a conversation about the Brexit fallout, including some economic implications that Bucky hadn’t even considered, before he realized that they were finishing off their dinners.

Really, for eighty-five dollars a plate, he probably should have paid attention to the food. Or, like the four glasses of wine -- had he really had that much? He did vaguely remember the sommelier coming by with a second bottle. The house chiante was perfect with the braised wild boar and mushrooms that had made up Bucky’s selection.  

Their server came ‘round to see if they had room for dessert and Bucky let Tony talk him into sharing an espresso souffle. While they leaned closer to each other, dipping their spoons into chocolatey coffee goodness, the conversation turned lighter, favorite movies, books, music.

God, Steve would hate this guy, Bucky thought. A strict non-fiction, military memoirs sort of guy, with a side helping of literary fiction, if Steve Rogers ever read a science fiction novel in his life, Bucky would be shocked. When they were kids, Steve was constantly ripping Star Trek novels out of Bucky’s hands to give him books that were practically required reading for school, and what the fuck was up with that? Like anyone actually wanted to read Red Badge of Courage or Wuthering Heights.

Steve certainly wouldn’t be drinking with a guy he’d just met and giggling over bad Star Wars puns.

“Let me top you off, one last time,” Tony said, waving the bottle around. “No sense lettin’ it go to waste.”

Bucky considered it. He was already taking an Uber home, what was the harm?

“Oh, sure.” He went to push his glass, still half full, toward Tony--

Everything happened in that slow motion of a nightmare, where Bucky couldn’t possibly move fast enough to prevent anything. Like swimming in glue, he could only watch, with horrified eyes, as events spooled out.

He bumped the rim of the wineglass with his fingers, tipping the whole thing over. Brilliant red wine poured across the white tablecloth and headed straight for Tony’s expensive silk suit. “Oh, fu--”

Bucky didn’t even get the word all the way out before Tony had a lapful of cold wine and a splatter of red up his white shirt that looked like a bloodstain.

“--ck.”

Tony took a deep breath, looked down at his soaking wet legs.

“Jesus, I am so, so sorry,” Bucky said. He handed Tony his napkin -- even four cups in, Bucky wasn’t brave (or stupid) enough to try to pat Tony’s lap dry -- and bunched up the tablecloth to keep any more of the wine from spilling over.

Tony’s napkin looked like a victim of a crime scene, and the one Bucky gave him didn’t fare much better. He sighed, stood up, grimaced. “Ug, right down my leg into my shoe,” Tony complained, his face bunching up. (Was it wrong that Bucky found that damn adorable? It was wrong. It was so wrong. He was so screwed.) “I’m going to the men’s room and see what I can do about this.” Tony pointed a finger at Bucky. “Don’t you dare leave.”

Bucky considered the mess, the remains of wine in the bottle. Sighed. The server was already over, gathering up the dishes and folding away the tablecloth. Someone already had a fresh one ready. They were probably gossiping about him in the back. “Can I get the check?”

“Mr. Stark has an account here, sir,” the server informed him with just a hint of… sympathy.

“I need to do something, I just practically drowned him in chianti.”

The server considered that for a moment, then made a suggestion, along with quoting him a price. Bucky kept his grimace to himself. “Sure, sounds good.”

A few minutes later, Tony was back. He’d closed up his jacket to hide the wet, still slightly pink stain, and the rumpled fabric was evidence that he’d used the hand dryer in the bathroom to some effect.

Tony was barely back in his seat before the server brought them two slender crystal glasses holding their mid-line champagne, the bubbles clinging to the flutes.

“What’s this?” Tony asked, but he took the stem anyway.

“Get me the dry cleaning bill for your suit, please,” Bucky said, “and… well, I didn’t want to risk dumping more wine on you, but champagne makes everything just a little better.” He held up the glass to Tony. “To a bad first date that you can tell your ex about.”

Tony scowled at the glass, then gave Bucky a huge pair of doe eyes. “I was hoping to toast to a potential second date.”

Bucky almost choked on the champagne, the burned toast flavor dancing over his tongue. “Really?”

“Really.”