Work Text:
“I feel like a housewife,” griped Bucky. He stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the den with his hands resting indignantly on his hips, having just finished cleaning up the breakfast dishes in the little cottage he shared with Steve just outside Washington, DC. “Or a homemaker, or whatever they call them now. I should be on one of those reality TV shows about real housewives and change my name to Heather.”
It wasn’t like Bucky hated doing the dishes. The compulsively organized side of him actually enjoyed the process of washing plates until they looked shiny and new, and lining them up on the drying rack according to size and color. It was efficient, especially as compared to Steve’s completely random way of swiping at them with a soapy sponge and leaving them in the sink to drip dry.
Steve looked up from his tablet, cocked his head thoughtfully and scanned Bucky from head-to-toe. “You don’t look like a housewife, if that helps.”
Bucky huffed a stray piece of hair out of his eyes and flopped down next to Steve on the sofa. “It really doesn’t, no.”
“Unless you want to look like a housewife…” Steve’s voice trailed off and his eyes glazed with a dreamy, faraway look. “…With an apron that ties in the back. I could help you with that.”
Bucky swatted the side of Steve’s head with the back of his hand. “No.”
“There are websites for that stuff, you know. Nurses, French maids, the whole she-bang. I’m sure there’s a hot housewife apron out there somewhere.”
“No. Let it go.”
“But why?” pressed Steve. “You brought it up, and let’s face it, you’d look so hot in nothing but an apron and a smile.” He waggled his eyebrow like the perve that he was.
“Because, screw you,” complained Bucky. “If you stare at my ass any harder than you already do, you’ll go blind.” Truth be told, he liked it when Steve ogled him, but they were arguing and it was the principle of the matter.
Steve chuckled and laid his tablet on the coffee table. “Seriously, though. You’re not anyone’s housewife or househusband or house anything, unless that’s what you’d like to be. Lots of people nowadays, men and women, choose to not work and take care of home and family instead.”
Bucky slumped back against the armrest. “Yeah, but that’s different. They weren’t stuck at home under house arrest and 24 hour surveillance for six months until the government decided they weren’t crazy.” He shrugged and continued. “Whatever. I do all the cooking-”
“Not all of it,” Steve interrupted, miffed. “I’ve offered to do more.”
“Frozen pizza does not count, and we are not having that awful BBQ in a crock-pot crap you attempted last week ever again. Ever. If I die, it’s not going to be from food poisoning.” Bucky wrinkled his nose and continued. “And I do all the cleaning, too.”
“That’s not fair and you know it,” protested Steve, turning on the sofa to look Bucky in the eye. “Every time I try to do anything around here to help out, like the dishes or laundry, you bark at me about doing it wrong.”
“Steve, my underwear is now pink.”
“I have no idea how that red t-shirt got in with the whites.”
Bucky snorted. “Anyway, I hardly ever leave the house, and even then it’s to counseling sessions or psych evaluations or to play X-box with Clint while you and Nick Fury hash out the world’s problems.”
“Is there somewhere you want to go?” Steve’s brow creased with concern. “All you have to do is ask.”
“Well, no, but…”
“You need a project,” declared Steve, suddenly inspired. “Something to really sink your teeth into.”
Oh, no. “A project is the last thing I need. Really.” Bucky knew where Steve’s sudden inspirations led, and they usually involved him doing something pointless or ridiculous or both. The last time Bucky had announced he was bored, Steve brought home an ancient record player with a missing needle and a wonky turntable that blew a fuse every time Bucky plugged it in. He now knew the fuse box was in the guest bedroom closet, that fuses cost $19.93 per box at Home Depot and that he could change one out in under two minutes. The record player currently sat in a dark corner of the bedroom closet, waiting to be taken back to Goodwill.
The time before that it had been model airplanes, which lasted until Bucky accidentally glued the TV remote to the coffee table. There’d been painting and sketching and even a weak attempt at sculpting that resulted in two terribly misshapen ashtrays. Neither of them smoked.
“Come on, Buck. It’ll be fun.” Steve buzzed with giddy anticipation. He seemed to derive a perverse pleasure in planning random things for Bucky to do.
Bucky sighed. When Steve got an idea in his head, it was easier just to let him finish the thing. “Fine. One project. A small one.”
Predictably, Steve looked thrilled. Just as predictably, Bucky regretted the entire conversation.
~*~
Bucky knew a disaster when he saw one, and the biggest one he’d ever laid eyes on sat under the carport like the aftermath four-car interstate pileup.
Five minutes earlier, Steve had rolled up grinning from ear-to-ear in one of Tony’s enormous SUVs with an old Army surplus rag-top Jeep in tow. Calling it a Jeep was being generous. At this point in its mechanical life, it was merely a collection of worn out parts held together by a bad paint job and a prayer.
“What in the blue hell is that?” Bucky’s lips furled downward in dissatisfaction.
“It’s an old Jeep,” Steve replied, stating the obvious.
Bucky blinked. “Yeah, I got that part, but why is it here? Isn’t there a scrapyard nearby that’s dying for a rusted fender and a busted tail light?”
“It’s a project! I told you I’d find one. We can get out here in the afternoons when it’s sunny and work on it. It’ll be running in no time,” chirped Steve, who wore his self-satisfaction like a damned merit badge.
The ‘we’ of course meant Bucky. Steve didn’t know a wrench from a screwdriver, and Fury kept him too busy on Avengers business to get his hands dirty learning the difference, so this sad hunk of metal now belonged to Bucky and Bucky alone. Lucky him. He walked over and kicked at the front left tire, which wobbled feebly in response. “This thing needs a priest to give it last rites.”
“But we have all the time in the world, Buck,” Steve said with that earnest enthusiasm that Bucky found ridiculously endearing. “Sure it may take us a little while to get it running, but just think of how much fun it will be to drive around town…sun on our faces, wind in our hair. We’ll have a blast.”
Again with the ‘we’, but Bucky rolled his shoulders back and reluctantly acknowledged Steve did have a point. Now that he had been cleared by the government to move around freely, he did need his own vehicle, and without a job, a worn out Jeep was about all he could hope to get. He also quickly figured out Steve’s other motive for buying the Jeep. “You just want to sit in the carport and stare at my ass while I’m bent over the hood,” he accused.
“Would I do that?” Steve looked the very picture of boyish innocence. Bucky knew better.
“Abso-fucking-lutely,” stated Bucky flatly. “I’m shocked you haven’t already set up a chair in the corner for your viewing pleasure.”
Steve’s smile turned wolfish and draped an arm around Bucky’s shoulders. “Yeah, okay. I probably would do that,” he admitted. “But I really do want to help you however I can. It’s gonna be great. All we have to do is get it street ready.”
“Oh, is that all?” snorted Bucky. He shook his head and smiled wryly up at Steve. “I guess I should probably say thanks.”
“You’re welcome. What can I say? I’m full of great ideas,” beamed Steve.
“Well, you’re full of something.”
~*~
The Jeep quickly devoured most of Bucky’s spare time, but very little of Steve’s, who was suddenly extremely busy with meetings or paperwork or whatever SHIELD drama-of-the-week Fury threw at him. Bucky had figured that would happen, so he accepted it with a shrug of indifference. It was his Jeep, after all, so he should be the one to fix it up. He’d never admit it to Steve, but he enjoyed the process more than he thought he would. It was like working a giant jigsaw puzzle, trying to see which pieces fit, which ones were missing, which ones could be salvaged. Zen and the art of Jeep maintenance. It had a nice ring to it.
When he wasn’t tinkering under the hood, he was searching online for replacement parts. One Monday morning, he sat in his boxer shorts sipping his steaming mug of coffee while he looked at replacement headlights online.
“Whatcha got there?” Steve padded into the den barefooted and roamed over to where Bucky sat, squatting down beside him. His hair stood up at a 90 degree angle from the side of his head from where he’d had it tucked against Bucky’s shoulder for most of the night.
“Looking for headlights. I think there are some at the auto parts store on Atmore Street that will work until we can find some vintage ones.” Bucky pointed to the address on the screen. “They open at 9:00.”
“What time is it now?” Steve asked coyly, with a smile as sweet and wholesome as a newborn lamb. The warm palm that landed on Bucky’s bare knee, however, was anything but.
“7:45.” He dropped his eyes and watched that large hand crawl slowly up the inside of his thigh.
Steve’s smile turned positively feral. “Hmm. Got any ideas on how to kill some time?”
“Maybe one or two.” Bucky sat his coffee mug aside. His pulse quickened, and not from the caffeine. Even bed-rumpled and bleary-eyed, Steve was hot and perfect and everything was completely unfair.
“Whaddya know? I have a couple ideas myself.”
By the time that roaming hand on his thigh reached its final destination, Bucky decided Steve’s ideas were brilliant.
~*~
After an hour and two futile attempts to leave the house that had both been derailed by Steve’s wandering hands, Bucky squatted in front of a row of headlights, trying to determine the right size. He tugged at his hoodie and hoped the bruise Steve had sucked onto the side of his neck half an hour ago didn’t show.
“Can I help you?” asked a female voice from behind him.
Bucky rose to his feet and regarded her with interest. Steve had schooled him on the fact that auto mechanics was now an equal opportunity field of employment, but it still seemed strange to see a woman in an auto parts store. “Yeah, that’d be great,” he said, eyeing her nametag. “Caitlyn.” She smiled brightly and after a few minutes, they’d located several headlight options that would work.
“Thanks,” he said, expecting her to wander off. When she didn’t, the corner of his mouth twitched up with familiar expectation. He knew the look, the way her eyes kept dropping to the floor and the faint blush that colored her cheeks. She liked him. Steve had warned him that girls these days were a lot more forward than they used to be, but he hadn’t expected for one to ask him out so soon. He’d be kind, polite, let her down easy. After all, he was taken. Tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his faded jeans and grinned at her.
“I…um…Is that Steve Rogers over there by the air fresheners?” She flicked her eyes over to where Steve stood sniffing his way through an assortment of dashboard crowns and cardboard pine trees dangling from strings. “I heard he likes brunettes,” she added as she smoothed her long dark hair.
The air rushed right out of him. “Yeah, that’s him,” Bucky said, turning his attention back to the row of headlights, his pride slowly deflating.
“Oh my God, I knew it,” she squealed. “What’s he like? How long have you known him?”
Bucky shot a look of pure irritation at Steve, who guilelessly looked up at him as if on cue.
“Bucky! Look! They come in fruit scents,” he exclaimed, holding up an air freshener shaped like a pineapple.
Bucky rolled his eyes. He was not here for an in-depth discussion of Steve’s personal attributes with a woman he’d just met who was supposed to be interested in him. With a bored shrug, he pulled a light off of the shelf and turned it over in his hands to read the description on the box. “I dunno. A long time.”
“He’s so cool. I’ve seen him around campus, but I’ve never talked to him before.”
Campus? Bucky’s head snapped up. What the hell was Steve doing on a college campus?
But by that time, Caitlyn had dug her cell phone out of her pocket and asked if Bucky would take a photo of her and Steve together by the checkout register. Which he did. For her and every other girl working in the store. And a guy named Jake.
“Since when do you cruise college campuses for girls?” Bucky asked on the way back to Steve’s motorcycle.
“Since never,” Steve replied as he fished his keys out of his pocket. “I was in the neighborhood and heard the campus bookstore had a huge selection of aprons.”
“Shut up.”
~*~
The thing about old Army Jeeps was that they were designed to be basic. No frills, no need for ‘em. Soldiers didn’t need comfort, they needed a way to get from Point A to Point B quickly with the least amount of hassle possible. For Bucky, though, that meant that his Jeep had seats that were as rigidly uncomfortable as church pews and nearly as unfit for riding. At first he thought he could salvage them, but after taking a closer look at the torn vinyl upholstery and not-to-code seat belts, he decided to strip them down to the seat frames and start over.
As it turned out, an auto supply store just east of the city had exactly what Bucky needed. He and Steve set out bright and early on a Saturday to go check it out. At the front of the strip mall, a sea of tents and canopies and quite a few cars already covered half the parking lot. Steve pulled the motorcycle into a spot near the back.
“What’s going on?” Bucky frowned at the bustling crowd of people. Why would anyone get up early on a Saturday if they didn’t have to? Bed was much nicer, especially if you had a warm Steve to share it with. If he hadn’t needed seats, they could be back home snuggling and kissing and…He forced those thoughts out of his mind before his little head took control of his big one.
“It’s the first Saturday of the month,” Steve replied, checking the date on his phone. “Oh, a farmer’s market! I’m going to go walk around while you look at seats.” Steve sounded strangely excited for someone who had never expressed even a remote interest in fruits or vegetables.
“Knock yourself out,” Bucky shrugged. If Steve wanted to dig around in vegetable bins and chat up a couple of farmers, fine by him. “I’ll text you when I’m finished.”
It didn’t take long for Bucky to find the make and model of seats he needed for the Jeep on the showroom floor, and he placed an order to have them delivered to the cottage within the next few business days. Wandering back outside, he fired off a text to Steve.
Where R U?
At back by cauliflower
Cauliflower? Really? Steve was being weird. Well, he was always kind of weird. Probably a by-product of being frozen for seventy years, and Bucky could certainly relate to that, but his current level of weirdness was alarming, even for him.
Sure enough, there stood Steve holding two heads of cauliflower and a rutabaga while a farmer in overalls and a flat-billed cap glowed with pride that Captain America was inspecting his produce.
“So, when you roast it, is it better to use butter or olive oil?” Steve asked, gesturing wildly with a head of cauliflower. The farmer took it out of his hand before he could drop it, and placed it into a reusable canvas bag next to the rutabaga.
If Bucky’s jaw hadn’t been attached to the rest of his face, it would have literally been on the ground. “So now you’re into roasted cauliflower. This coming from a man who thinks vegetable is a four letter word.”
Steve looked over his shoulder at Bucky. “I’m supporting local growers, Buck.”
And how could Bucky snark at that? Complain, sure. He’d kick up a storm of irritation when they got back to the cottage and the job of actually roasting the cauliflower fell to him, but for now, he merely raised an eyebrow and shot the farmer a knowing look. “It’s been so long since he’s voluntarily eaten a vegetable that his body might physically reject it.”
“Oh, come on. You know for a fact anything you put in front of me goes in my mouth.” The way the corner of Steve’s mouth curled up was absolutely wicked.
“Shame to cook these, though, since I know how much you like things raw.” Bucky’s lips pursed into a cocky little smirk because two could play that game. But before he could plunge the innuendo down to a whole new level of raunch, the farmer handed him the bagged produce with a grateful smile.
“So,” began Bucky on their way back to Steve’s motorbike, “you admit that you can’t keep your mouth off of me.”
Steve stopped, grabbed a handful of Bucky’s hoodie and pulled him in for a sudden kiss, so hot and deep and passionate that it made Bucky’s stomach flip.
“Yeah.”
~*~
One bright, sunny Thursday afternoon, Bucky stood back from the Jeep and gave it a critical assessment. Everything under the hood finally worked, and after a little trial and error and a lot of WD-40, most of the exterior parts worked, too. The things that should move, moved, and the things that shouldn’t, didn’t. Sure, the doors still squeaked when he opened them and the green paint on the rear left panel had peeled all the way down to the gray primer, but the Jeep started when he cranked it and behaved like it wouldn’t fall apart at the first traffic light. Time to take her for a spin.
“Hey, Steve!” Bucky stepped into the house through the back door and pulled on a hoodie over his old, grease-stained T-shirt. “Wanna go for a ride?”
“Now?” Steve sat at the kitchen table hunched over his laptop, which he slammed shut when Bucky walked into the room.
Bucky’s eyes twinkled. “Something on there you don’t want me to see? Porn?”
Steve licked his bottom lip and gave Bucky a leer flagrant enough to make him blush. “Are you kidding me? I don’t need porn. You’re hotter than anything on the internet.” Grinning, he tapped the laptop with his finger. “Just doing a background check on someone for Fury. It’s classified.”
Fair enough. Fury asked Steve to do a lot of things that didn’t involve Bucky. “I’m gonna take the Jeep out for a test drive.”
Steve glanced at his watch and shook his head. “Can I ride with you tomorrow? I have a strategy meeting in half an hour.”
A strategy meeting at 4pm? Bucky’s inner red flags flew up. “Oh, okay. Sure,” he said with practiced nonchalance. “No problem.” Lately, it seemed like Steve was always out of the house. Strategy meetings, guest lectures, target practice, mid-afternoon takedowns of random Hydra cells. Seemed normal, most of it, but a strategy meeting this late in the day was odd, even for Steve.
“Next time, I promise.” Steve hopped up from the table, tucked the laptop in a navy blue backpack and flung Bucky a grin over his shoulder. “See you in a couple of hours!”
As Steve’s motorcycle rumbled off into the distance, Bucky tugged his keys out of his pocket. It wouldn’t technically be considered stalking if he’d been planning to head in the same direction as Steve in the first place, right? And if he just happened to drive by Stark Industries, well, that couldn’t be helped.
~*~
Turns out, the road did take Bucky straight to Stark Industries. Pure coincidence, of course. And since he was there, no harm in swinging through the parking lot to see if he could spot Steve’s bike.
He made the turn and drove slowly through the nearly empty lot, but didn’t recognize any of the scattered vehicles. Bucky’s stomach sank. Where ever Steve was, he wasn’t here at Stark Industries. Could he have parked around back? Bucky didn’t hold out much hope. He wheeled the Jeep into a parking spot and hurried inside, punching the elevator button for the third floor. When the doors opened into the vast common meeting space, it was completely empty. Bucky stepped out onto the black marble tiled floor and sighed. No Steve.
“Barnes,” came a familiar voice from across the room. “What are you doing here?”
Natasha. She and Clint had been in DC for a while now, staying there in Stark Industries’ top floor apartment, but he’d assumed she’d be out. Dammit, he hadn’t noticed her draped over a love seat in the corner with a laptop balanced precariously on one leg, but considering her reputation as a spy, he decided not to beat himself up too much for that. “Looking for Steve,” he said. “He said he had a strategy meeting right now.”
“Not with SHIELD, he doesn’t. I’d know about it.” The corner of Nat’s mouth quirked up in a smirk. “Lose your boyfriend?”
“No,” he scowled before admitting, “not completely.” Technically, Steve wasn’t lost. He just wasn’t where he was supposed to be, not that Bucky would admit that to Natasha. He chewed on his bottom lip. Steve wouldn’t lie to him. Steve never lied about anything except eating the last of the chocolate, and Bucky made him pay dearly for that. Midnight chocolate runs were not unheard of.
“Easy solution,” Nat replied. “JARVIS? Where is Captain Rogers right now?”
JARVIS, the multi-platform AI that Tony had installed in every single one of his residences, offices and vehicles, responded with, “Captain Rogers is in class at Prince George Community College. Would you like for me to page him?”
Nat cocked her chin at Bucky, who said, “No, that’s okay,” and then plopped down onto the closest chair. “Why the hell would he be on a college campus this late in the afternoon?”
“There’s this thing called Google. I hear if you type stuff into it, you can find things out. Things like community education courses offered in Washington, D.C. at 4pm on Thursdays.” Nat’s fingers flew and after a few seconds she swiveled her laptop around so Bucky could see the results. “SAT Test Preparation, Aerobic Dance Instruction and Introduction to Cooking. Out of those options, I’d say he’s learning to boil water.”
Bucky couldn’t have been more surprised if Natasha had announced he was at the local meeting of the One Direction fan club. Steve, cooking? Bucky’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“It’s not that shocking, Barnes.” Nat hoisted an eyebrow in his general direction. “You know he’d rope the moon for you, and after your sad little housewife snit, I suggested he learn to cook.”
“Wait, he told you?”
“Not at first, but we’re friends, and when he twisted himself into a knot worrying about you being unhappy, I forced it out of him.”
“I’m not unhappy. I just feel like I do everything around the house.” Bucky folded his arms over his chest.
“Then stop doing everything. Let him do some of it. I know for a fact he’s offered.”
“You don’t understand,” Bucky sighed. “He’s a domestic disaster. My underwear is pink.”
“And?” Nat’s other eyebrow joined the first one in arched skepticism.
“Pink, Natasha,” repeated Bucky. Pink underwear was for toddlers and Victoria’s Secret models, of which he was neither.
“Do you go around showing people your underwear?”
“No.”
“Then, who cares?” Nat closed her laptop and leaned forward on the loveseat, elbows on her knees. “It doesn’t matter if your boxers are pink or your glasses have water spots or the vacuum tracks on your carpet don’t line up. Big fucking deal. Stop being a martyr and let Steve do some housework. He’ll get better at it, eventually.”
Bucky made a thoughtful face. She had a point.
“By the way, if you don’t want to feel like a housewife, don’t act like one. Nobody’s forcing you to spend all your time at home. Get over yourself. Get a life.” Nat assessed Bucky coolly. “Get some new clothes that don’t smell like motor oil and feet.”
Bucky sniffed at the collar of the hoodie he’d been wearing for the past four days and grimaced. She had a point about that, too. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“You’re in luck,” Nat replied, reaching for her cell phone. “I know a guy.”
~*~
“You were a make-up artist?” Bucky asked, incredulous. He sucked in his stomach and zipped up the jeans Clint had selected for him to try on. The changing room was small, especially with two grown men crammed inside, and the salesperson clearly disapproved of that particular arrangement. He’d dropped by three times in five minutes to ‘check’ on them.
“I was a stylist, too” Clint added. “You don’t grow up in a circus without absorbing a thing or two about wardrobes and outfits.” He scratched his chin and stared hard at Bucky before making a little twirling motion with his finger. “Turn around again.”
Bucky turned around, self-conscious about the skinny jeans that were so tight he couldn’t feel the lower half of his body. “I don’t know about these.”
“I do. You’re getting two pairs of them.”
By the time they left the department store, Bucky had three pairs of jeans, four t-shirts, and a new leather jacket. The haircut had been a last minute decision, but now his hair was stylishly long and shaggy instead of just long and shaggy. He hardly recognized himself in the mirror.
The sun had already set when he rolled up to the cottage in his Jeep. It sputtered to a stop, and Bucky collected the bags out of the back and headed to the back door. Steve’s motorcycle was parked in the carport.
“Hey, I’m home,” Bucky called as he struggled into the kitchen with his armful of bags. “Clint and I went shopping and- Holy shit!” The bags tumbled from his hands to the floor.
Steve stood at the stove sautéing zucchini and squash, wearing nothing but an apron and a smile. Bucky’s mouth went instantly and urgently dry. Steve’s ass had always been spectacular, but having it on prominent display, perfectly curtained by the apron like it was main attraction of some very indecent sideshow rendered Bucky completely stupid.
“Hi! Nat called and told me you and Clint were out shopping so I went ahead and started on dinner.” Steve chattered away, happily oblivious to Bucky’s drooling uselessness. “I took the farmer’s advice and used the olive oil for the cauliflower, and he was right. It gave it a unique flavor, a sort of nuttiness that I hadn’t counted on, and I’m sautéing some squash to go with it. The chicken piccatta’s still a work in progress, but you can help if you want to.” He turned around and swept his eyes over Bucky. “Hey, you look nice! Did you get a haircut?”
Bucky’s world tilted sideways on its axis and he leaned back against the counter to keep from being flung off into orbit as Steve prattled on aimlessly about...something. When Steve finally paused to take a breath, Bucky interjected. “Are we going to discuss this,” he said, pointing to the apron, which he could now see read ‘Is it hot in here or is it just me?’, “or are we just gonna ignore the fact your bare ass is hanging out the back?”
Steve craned his neck around to peer down at his bare bottom. “It’s a nice ass, dammit, and it’s cooking you dinner, so no complaining.”
“It’s a glorious ass,” Bucky managed to get out. “I’m just surprised to see it right now, is all.”
“Good, since that was the entire point.” Steve gave the veggies a stir, then turned back to Bucky. “It worried me that you felt like you did everything. We’re in this together, Buck, and I want to do the same amount of chores as you do…even if I can’t do them very well. It’s the effort that matters, right?”
Effort? Chores? What were those? Steve might as well have been speaking ancient Greek. Bucky couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move until Steve shifted and the muscle in his hip flexed and a fierce surge of raw need gripped Bucky by the crotch and demanded he take action. He closed the distance between them like he’d been fired out of a cannon.
“That fucking apron,” breathed Bucky, wrapping an arm around Steve and yanking him close. “Damn, Steve.”
Steve gasped happily and blinked his blue eyes nice and slow. “Those jeans aren’t bad, either.”
“You noticed?” Bucky’d already untied the apron and had helped himself to a handful of Steve’s pert bottom.
“How could I not? You’ve got the best legs in DC. They look amazing on you, but they’d even better on the floor next to the bed when you fuck me.” Steve’s eyes dropped to the space between their bodies, his long lashes fluttering in a way that was deceptively sweet, because the rough hew of his voice sounded anything but that.
That did it. Steve was so handsome and rugged and sweet and filthy and so perfectly him that Bucky’s chest kicked painfully. His hand slid around the back of Steve’s neck and kissed him eagerly, chasing his warm tongue and tasting those soft lips that always made his stomach dip and swirl with fluid desire. Bucky was fraying at the seams, the kiss slowly taking him apart until he was breathless and panting against Steve’s swollen lips.
Steve gently pushed Bucky away with a hand to his chest. “Hang on,” he chided as he turned off the stove. “Don’t want to be interrupted by sirens and men in fire suits.”
He made a move to tug the apron over his head until Bucky grabbed his wrist and held it tight. “Leave it on,” Bucky growled in a tone that left no question as to his intentions.
“Who has the apron fetish now?” laughed Steve as his lust darkened eyes sparkled and a pink flush spread upward from his chest.
“It’s not the apron. It’s the man wearing it.” Bucky raised Steve’s hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss on his knuckles. “I love you no matter what you’re wearing.” He let his eyes drift down to the bulge tenting out the front of Steve’s apron and added, “But that apron is hot as fuck.”
Steve bit his lip, then leaned in to steal another kiss. “I love you, too,” he said, tugging on Bucky’s hand. “Come on. Let’s find out how your jeans look in a pile on the floor.