#pre-serum steve

bucky spends the first night sitting across from steve at steve's table, trying to read him, dig a little deeper inside the brittle shell of this skinny thirty-something artist with spots of paint staining his careworn jeans, and his small frame swallowed up by these colorful sweaters and too-long sleeves, and somehow he walks away feeling like those gleaming blue eyes read him instead - a lot more intimately than he would have liked.

steve won't admit it out loud, but he's scared. he's scared shitless, about everything. and a gentleman sleuth in exquisite three-piece suits showing up out of the blue to save his life wasn't on his bingo card this year, but what the hell, sure, he'll take that.

they bond over a shared fondness for old-fashioned diner pies and steve's personal brand of dry humor.

they play chess. steve beats bucky five times, each time in fewer moves than the last. by the fifth ludicrously swift defeat, bucky's frustrated and delighted and a little bit in love.

the sixth and final time steve completely obliterates him, he bursts out laughing, head thrown back, shirtsleeves rolled up, his vest unbuttoned and his suit jacket draped over the back of the chair, and the tea in his cup has grown cold, untouched, and the firelight from steve's humble hearth softens bucky's features into something beautiful and breathlessly tender, and steve wants to kiss him more than he's ever wanted anything in any other moment of split-second perfection in his life before.

steve's hands are always cold, but bucky's aren't. they're warm, big, welcoming; a whole embrace onto themselves. the palms a little rough, the hold ever so gentle.

perhaps steve was never supposed to learn this.

perhaps bucky wasn't supposed to know, either. he wasn't supposed to find quiet contentment in the way steve's hand fits in his, nor this sense of tender fulfillment in feeling steve's hand grow steadily warmer in his own.

they drive around in bucky's vintage car. at some point steve dozes off on the way home, exhausted by a whirlwind of events, and something about that feels momentous. it feels momentous, to be - however briefly - the place where steve feels safe enough to let his guard down for once.

they nearly get themselves killed. twice.

they save each other's lives; once each.

when it's all over, they say their goodbyes.

a handshake. a moment's hesitation. a shared look that speaks louder than any bumbling words ever could. the sun is high and bright above the road. they part ways.

it's only when bucky climbs back in his car that he realizes, steve forgot his big lumpy scarf in the backseat. (it should be alarming, the way that he could have recognized it by scent alone.)

so bucky has a choice. he could keep it as a memento, drive off and take the interstate, be home by this time tomorrow. never look back.

or.

somebody knocks on steve's door, and steve's door reveals him inch by inch like a surprise reverently pulled out of a gift bag. tall, dark and handsome in his winter coat; a white woolen scarf held awkwardly in both hands, and a great deal of hope shining in his eyes.

"mr. barnes," steve says. call me bucky, the man said days ago; and if he's lucky, who knows, maybe steve will let him earn that someday soon. maybe tomorrow. maybe the next time he kicks bucky's ass at chess.

the way bucky smiles down at him, nearly shy, endearing in all its hopefulness, it could melt the ice off a glacier.

"do you have time for a slice of pie?"

steve grins wide.

"sure."

"I didn't say that." Squirming out of Bucky's hold, he didn't feel better until his feet touched the ground. Bucky finding him beat up in alleyways and the back of parking lots was a normal thing for them but this was the first time Steve had been beaten to this degree. His ribs ached with each breath and his face throbbed horribly, wrist cradled protectively to his chest while blood dripped from the cut on his temple. It was his fault; opening his mouth when he saw a guy giving a women hell, ignoring her telling him to leave her alone until finally Steve intervened. The woman was able to get away but it was only because the man was beating the shit out of him.

"I think my pride took enough of a hit without you carrying me. I can walk, okay? It's just a few scratches." A step forward earned a sharp hiss between clenched teeth followed by a defeated sigh, wincing at the pain shooting through his ribs. "I'm going to go home and get cleaned up."

Pairing: Pre-serum!Steve Rogers x gn! Reader

Summary: When working on fixing a boat on a hot day, Steve can't help but compare himself to Bucky again. Luckily, Y/N is there to remind him what really matters.

Word count: 555

Warnings: self-estime issues, self-worth, other than that, none, pure fluff

Author's note: finally up to date! WOO!

Author's feelings: wasn't too sure about it at first (at think you can tell by reading it) but I'm really glad with the end and the way it turned out!