Chapter Text
Chapter 1 – Meat Cute
Every day.
Every goddamned day.
Steve shot a two-middle-fingered salute at the driver of the tricked out Chevy Camaro that nearly clipped him when he crossed Atlantic Avenue. Who turned right on a red in the middle of fucking Brooklyn on a busy Wednesday morning? This asshole, that was who, the same guy who thought taillights in the shape of skull-and-crossbones and a Connecticut vanity plate that read “THEMAN” were the height of cool.
“Go back to your greige McMansion in New Canaan and stay there, jackass!” To Steve’s amusement, if not satisfaction, the Camaro stalled out behind a city bus half a block down. He would have chased after whatever dirtbag finance bro was behind the wheel to give him a piece of his mind—and had, in the past—but he’d tripped over the edge of the sidewalk leaping to safety and twisted his ankle.
A glare as hot as a thousand suns would have to suffice. Steve huddled in the entrance of a bodega so that he didn’t get trampled by the rush hour crowds as he stretched the kink out of his ankle and the anger out of his system. He’d probably have to skip his run for the rest of the week, maybe even for two, given how tender it still felt as he hobbled toward Caffeine Fiend—not his local café but his place of employment. The idea of standing on his feet all day had held little appeal before the latest incident. Now, it sounded excruciating, especially against a backdrop of revving engines and squealing tires, and the occasional thunderous exhaust pop, let alone the fumes that wafted through the windows.
Ever since the auto-body shop opened across the street, muscle cars roared up and down Atlantic as if it were the freaking Daytona International Speedway. His morning commute became a game of Grand Theft Auto, with Steve as the pedestrian minding his own business who became an obstacle in a wild car chase. Over the past three months of crossing the damn street—not even jaywalking!—he’d sprained his wrist, gotten road burn on his left leg, bruised his ass the color of spring violets, and nursed a black eye after mouthing off to a coked-out trust-fund baby in a vintage Road Runner who almost ran him over. At this point, Steve considered asking the Maximoffs for hazard pay.
Except that he was on thin ice there as well. The Maximoff Center for Universal Wellness, aka the building Steve paused in front of to find his center or balance his chi or whatever the fuck would help him bank his temper for the next twelve hours, was the brainchild of Wanda and Pietro Maximoff, Sokovian émigrés who defected after Pietro won all three sprinting events at the 2004 Summer Olympics in Athens and became a personal trainer to the Bravoverse of reality stars. His twin sister Wanda put the ‘woo-woo’ in the wellness aspect of the center, offering astrology readings, nutritional cleanses, and the latest in bullshit treatments to their distinguished clientele: hipster celebrities, one-hit wonders, Real Housewives, strollerazi moms and their small army of nannies, and other uber-wealthy residents of Brooklyn’s artiest neighborhoods.
Most MCU-Dubs patrons kept their caffeine addictions on the DL, savoring the deluxe drip of their Aarke Coffee Systems in the privacy of their million-dollar townhouses, or followed a personalized regiment of protein shakes designed by Pietro himself. But enough of their clients subsisted on redeyes, nicotine patches, and Ozempic for Wanda and Pietro to build a rooftop ‘solarium lounge’ that served hot beverages and cheat-day vegan baked goods. Steve thought they’d named it Caffeine Fiend as a sort of warning of what the excesses of caffeine addiction could do to the body.
Joke was on them, because it became way more popular than the green juice bar or the salad counter, so much that they had to open it to outside business. Which Steve was eternally grateful for, because it meant he could sneak up the back staircase, avoiding not only Wanda and Pietro, but all his other obnoxiously perfect and unbearably smug colleagues—in MCU-Dubs parlance, the guru squad.
Steve would rather stick his hand in a smoothie blender than spend one more second of his precious life listening to them condescend to him about his size, his height, his scars, his BMI, his hearing aid, the extra brown sugar he sprinkled on his morning oatmeal, the fact that he struggled to find clothes that fit at thrift stores, that time he dyed his hair the wrong shade of green and had to shave his head, that he never took advantage of his employee discount on spa treatments, the against-policy “political” T-shirts he wore, et cetera. The list was bottomless, really, as were their reservoirs of pretentiousness.
None of this particularly bothered Steve outside of being boring and unoriginal. He’d learned to weather this kind of bullying-disguised-as-concern in the trial-by-fire that was the Brooklyn public school system. Except word of Steve’s numerous injuries struck the gossip circuit like lightning to a drought-ridden forest. Rumors spread like wildfire, most related to Steve’s mysterious personal life. (There was no mystery. He was a scrawny power bottom in a borough where service tops hoarded pillow princesses like dragon’s gold, and he couldn’t get a second date to save his life.) Said rumors wound their way to Wanda and Pietro, who had questioned him about his “home situation” and begun to speculate on whether he was “the right fit” for the “emotional dreamscape atmosphere” they aimed to create. And Steve did understand their concern, because no one wanted to be served coffee by someone who looked like they’d been mowed down by a monster truck.
The thing of it was, Steve needed this job. Liked it, really—the gurus sucked rotten eggs, but the Fiend staff were solid. MCU-Dubs paid a scandalous amount per hour for him to pour coffee and dish up flourless brownies and draw artistic renderings of chai spices on the menu board. They offered an incredible benefits package, much-needed in the Rogers household with all of Steve’s ongoing afflictions and his ma’s recent, successful cancer battle. Wanda and Pietro may be purveyors of ethically dubious advice, but they took their employees’ health seriously and supported them in every way they could.
Immigrants, they got the job done.
Steve had never been afraid to lodge a complaint a day in his life, and would have gladly expounded on the delinquency of the auto-body shop’s patrons to Wanda and Pietro, except the owner of said body shop was Pietro’s oldest, dearest client, and every single one of the hirsute, Magic Mike-worthy demigods who bent all that metal to their will, aka worked there, also trained at MCU-Dubs. Every crack of dawn, they assembled in the state-of-the-art gym to pump iron with Pietro, then joined Wanda for a breakfast shake and acai bowl. At noon sharp, the former drill sergeant who ran the members-only gourmet cafeteria wheeled over a tray of bento boxes that conformed perfectly to each shop-bro’s personal dietary plan. (To be fair, Steve also received a bento box. He just supplemented that with bodega snacks and day-old baked goods during his breaks.)
Though Steve had both a temper and a kamikaze streak a mile wide, even he wasn’t stupid enough to rely on Wanda and Pietro to solve the problem. Which led to a bigger problem: what the fuck was he going to do? With his luck, one of these Max Verstappen-lite speed freaks would kill him one day.
He mused on this as he wrapped up his ankle with napkins under a tight layer of masking tape, grateful he’d worn black slacks—which never fit him quite right, given his unusual proportions—rather than jeans. He’d come up with the usual zero solutions by the time Darcy bounced into the locker room, fresh as a daisy in a tank top and leggings despite just finishing a hot yoga class. Unlike Steve, Darcy took full advantage of employee discounts when it came to Eastern-influenced exercise.
“Aww, fuck, again!” Darcy’s already pouty lips made a moue upon seeing him. “Who was it this time?”
“Lime-green Camaro,” Steve grumbled, “skull and crossbones taillights.”
“‘80s headband guy?” She growled under her breath. “I knew he was trouble. Bet he stiffed them on the tip, too.”
Steve scoffed. “Do you tip the guys who detail your car for tens of thousands of dollars?”
“You do if you’ve got any decency.” Darcy sifted through her mental catalogue of the body shop’s clientele. “That one soft-spoken dude with the Edgar cut?”
“Just because you can’t hear him when you’re craning over the edge of the terrace doesn’t make him soft-spoken,” Steve pointed out, because really. They were three stories up.
From the minute it opened, the body shop became the MCU-Dubs staff’s favorite spectator sport. A constant subject of gossipy speculation and dubious conspiracy theories for the guru squad and the Fiend baristas alike, it was a wonder any actual work got done in the center, since employees and even some members spent 90% of their time thirsting after the shop bros. All except for Steve. (Wanda and Pietro only abstained because they could get any one of them, any day, anytime.)
It wasn’t that Steve was immune to the gun show on permanent display across the street. Like anyone who worked in an environment where people sought to perfect themselves, Steve experienced awkward moments of unexpected arousal. But to him, the shop bros were like a beautiful but horny painting hanging on a colleague’s wall, like Dali’s Tuna Fishing or De Lempicka’s Women Bathing—something to glance at quickly but contemplate later, during your private alone time.
He didn’t need daily visual proof that they were over there being cock-thickeningly gorgeous, flexing their voluptuous muscles and showing off their ass-sets in the tightest jeans known to man. That most of them sported the long, wavy hair he favored, some in Viking-style braids. That many of them were comfortable enough in their sexuality to wear the occasional leather skirt, or harness-style tank top, or guyliner. That one glimpse of a farmer’s tanned thigh would be enough to send him into a sex toy and wet dream-fueled frenzy, because of course, of course, of course the brawny, beefy, rugged gentle giant type was exactly what turned Steve’s crank. The kind of guy who made Steve’s head spin but who never, ever swiped right on him.
That was the way of madness.
“But he was!” Darcy exclaimed. “Remember a couple weeks ago when Guru Shang hid one of the spinning class mics in their office? Were you there for that?”
“Unfortunately,” Steve sighed.
“It was a dark day when the battery ran out.” Darcy flopped down beside him, patted her thigh. Steve stretched out his leg so she could inspect his handiwork. “A dark, dark day.”
“Not for personal privacy.”
She snorted. “Surprised you didn’t narc us out, Captain Justice.”
“That would have meant acknowledging that I knew about it,” Steve reminded her, “and cared.”
“Which you don’t.” Darcy smirked over at him, sly. “At all.” They exchanged a challenging glare. “Their broad shoulders. Their juicy thighs. The low purr of their voices. How the sweat drenches their T-shirts—”
“Do you want me to pop a boner this close to the start of our shift.”
“Nope.”
“Then let’s talk strategy.” Steve winced when she attempted to turn his ankle. “How purple do you think Pietro would turn if I hired a personal injury lawyer?”
“See, now I’m just thinking about boners again.”
“Shut up.” Steve heeled at her far thigh, regretted it as pain shot up his calf.
“You should have wrapped some ice in there.” Darcy concluded her inspection with a worried frown. “Are you gonna smack me if I say the words ‘urgent care’? It looks really swollen.”
Sayonara, morning run. For the foreseeable. Ugh.
“I’ll go after work if it’s still bad,” he promised. Without his fingers crossed behind his back—he was too busy managing the pain. The ice would have been smart, damn it. “You think if I soak one of the shammies and chill it in the freezer it’ll reduce the amount of drip? I don’t want anyone else to slip and fall.” MCU-Dubs had a strict no plastic rule, so Steve’s options for a cold compress were limited.
Darcy shook her head. “The lengths you go for counter duty.”
“Trust me, I’d rather bus a thousand tables than have to explain this one to my ma,” Steve retorted. “Especially if we have to spend the night at urgent care. She’s there enough as it is.”
“Yeah, yeah, you come from a family of literal saints.” She fished a rubber swim cap out of her bag, presented it to him with flourish. “Lucky for you, I thought it was a pool day. Think you can manage to stay off it till the ice machine does its thing?”
“Guess that means I’m on cookie-baking duty too.” Steve shined his best shit-eating grin her way. “Everything’s coming up me all of a sudden.” He took the cap, cradling it to his chest like a newborn babe. “Seriously, you’re a lifesaver, Darce.”
She shrugged with one shoulder. “Gives me a better chance to scope out the new guy.”
“New guy?”
“At the body-ody-ody shop.” Off Steve’s eyeroll, she added, “Tall, dark, built like a brick shithouse, jaw that could chop wood, ten o’clock shadow and, get this, a metal arm.”
Steve scowled. “Like a prosthetic?”
“More like forged by medieval cosplayers,” she insisted, “or if Tony Stark— Oh, wait, that makes sense.”
“I’m glad something about this does.”
“But why—”
“Leer at the guy all you want,” Steve advised, “but please don’t fetishize his prosthetic arm.”
The sly smirk returned with a vengeance. “Wait till you see it, judgy. The thing screams auto-erotic asphyxiation.”
Steve let out a long, tortured sigh, scrubbed his face with his hands. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“You’ll have to.” Darcy stuck her tongue out at him before delicately shifting his injured leg back onto the bench. “Being stuck on counter duty and all.”
*
Seven hours, five rushes, and three MacGyvered bandages later, Caffeine Fiend finally hit its late-afternoon lull. After restocking the pastry case and prepping the fancy drink mixtures, Steve shuffled over to the terrace rail for some much-needed air—not a full break, but a respite from being chained to the coffeemaker, aka the non-stop steam machine.
A cathedral-shaped glass dome atop the MCU-Dubs complex, the Fiend was all-window, all the time. Some of the side and ceiling panels could be shifted or darkened to moderate the heat, depending on the season. Patrons lounged in ultra-plush seats surrounded by a jungle of plants, which gave off the expected serene-but-comfy vibe. But a bamboo canopy shaded the service counter, nicknamed the boiler room at the height of summer. The only escape was the eastern terrace, encased by a ‘bulletproof glass’—actually industrial-strength plastic—rail strewn with ivy to hide its unsustainability. The exit beside the counter led to a semi-private, employees only section, with a perfect view of the auto-body shop lot.
A smidge of luck must be on Steve’s side today, because the swelling in his ankle had reduced enough for him to avoid that trip to urgent care, if not having to pay for an Uber home. He sipped from his MCUW-branded, Stanley-style tumbler of iced ginger tea, doing his best impression of a dog with its head out of a car window, basking in the breeze. He felt sticky and grumpy and annoyed with himself, as well as exhausted by the idea of slathering on another layer of sunscreen, but his Victorian orphan complexion tended to go from zero to lobster, and sunburns were yet another thing Wanda and Pietro disapproved of.
Because the universe forfend that anyone display evidence of having had actual fun.
A retina-searing glare from across the street cut off Steve’s inner rant. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, almost lost his balance. He recovered in time to catch a glimpse of a surly figure peering out one of the garage doors—
Oh, shit, Darcy wasn’t kidding about the arm. Or the new guy’s hotness factor.
Steve gawked, grateful that no one was around to witness it. Not proud of it. No other word for it. New guy was a stone-cold stunner: thick, shoulder-length dark-brown hair, chiseled jaw, roughshod stubble, powerful thighs, muscles upon muscles packed into a black T-shirt with a fucking robot arm that he hoped vibrated in at least three settings. Steve was fetishizing—I couldn’t help myself, Your Honor, have you seen that thing?—but that was a goddamned fetish object. Whoever designed that must have some deep-seated kinks, hopefully not of the murderous variety.
And that threw a much-needed bucket of water on Steve’s libido, because of course. Of course that kind of modification came with a purpose, and it wasn’t nursing abandoned kittens back to health. The realization prompted Steve to look closer, at the man’s body language—hunched, hesitant, as if trying to make himself appear as non-threatening as possible—and manner—patiently waiting for a break in some of his colleagues’ conversation, a hoodie clutched tight between his hands. As soon as Steve caught the unmistakable outline of dog tags in the center of his chest, it was game over.
He'd make it his personal mission to get everyone in this stupid complex and beyond to treat this man, this veteran, with respect.
(And if Tony Stark didn’t make that arm… he shuddered to think who had.)
Steve continued to sip his tea and indulge revenge fantasies until one of the shop bros flexed a mighty arm and aimed it in his direction. This startled Steve so bad he almost fell off the step ladder he’d wedged under his ass. (Wanda and Pietro frowned upon employees sitting anywhere a patron could see them.)
No, not at him, but at the Fiend. Steve had about ten seconds to absorb the following: the new guy wanted coffee; he’d put his hoodie and ball cap on; he was headed this way.
“Shit fuck, shit fuck, shit fuck!” Steve continued to curse a blue streak under his breath as he hobbled back over to the counter.
“Did a pigeon poop on you again?” Darcy underlined the ‘poop’ in that question, since Wanda and Pietro weren’t afraid to issue a serious warning to anyone caught swearing in front of the patrons. “There’s a real black cloud over your day, huh? I think it’s affecting your aura.”
She also tended to flavor her conversation with wellness speak wherever anyone might eavesdrop. Steve rolled his eyes all the same.
“You should take your second break,” Steve suggested, in a totally not curt and harried and borderline psychotic fashion.
“What? Why?”
“It’s dead. We’re done restocking. I’m the walking wounded.” He scrambled for a reason that might win him some brownie points. “If you go now, you might catch Guru Val before the end of her shift.”
“Aww!” She batted her doe eyes at him. “Since when do you care about my sex life?”
“Since you started fetishizing a war veteran’s prosthetic.” The wrongness of that sentence hit him as soon as it left his mouth.”
“Wait! How do you know he’s a vet?” Darcy’s gasp was operatic. “You saw him!”
Steve scowled. “That’s not the point.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And you want me gone because…” She gasped with such force it seemed like she almost unhinged her jaw. “He’s coming?! He’s coming over here?!?”
“No,” Steve pronounced. Something people didn’t expect about him was that he had a deep voice. He could sound intimidating even if he couldn’t follow that up physically. “Maybe. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care. This is the best time for you to take your break, so go drool over someone you’ve actually got a chance with.”
“Harsh, Steve.” Darcy appeared hurt for two-point-five seconds before… “You think I’ve got a chance with Guru Val?!”
“Not if you stick around here trying to one-up me.”
“Point,” she conceded, already unlacing her apron. After which she thrust her index finger in his face. “I want full, elaborate details if new guy does show up here, considering this is the second major favor I’m doing you today. You are gonna owe me, Rogers. Big time.”
“I’ll perform a one-man play during cleanup.” Steve crossed a finger over his heart. “I’ll even use props.”
“You better,” Darcy warned without much heat. “If I’m doing all the mopping, I expect to be entertained.”
“Greatest show this side of Broadway, pinkie swear.”
She scoffed before scampering off. “They broke the mold when they made you, Steve.”
“That’s what they always say,” Steve sighed.
He rearranged the step ladder at the order section of the counter so he could surreptitiously lean on it during breaks in service. He’d just about struck the right balance when he sensed he wasn’t alone.
Steve glanced up to find New Guy towering over the far side of the counter, so broad and massive that he blacked out the entire rectangle of space, his head sneaking in just under the ‘Orders’ sign. Six-foot-something and even more stunning in person, he nevertheless cowered into his hoodie, his left (metal) arm shoved deep into his pocket and ultra-dark sunglasses masking his eyes. Steve recognized the same crouched, vulnerable stance from before and found his tongue.
“Welcome to the Fiend.” He tempered his smile to the moment, gentle but enthusiastic. “What can I get you?”
To his mild shock, New Guy slid a card across the counter:
Hello, my name is James.
I’m having a quiet day today.
I would like a large black coffee.
Thank you.
Steve stole an extra moment to read the card a second time while his heart shattered into a million pieces, then reformed into a stronger, meaner, implacable thing.
A shield, you might say.
He knew then that he would protect James’ right to quiet with his life.
“Coming right up.” Steve amped his smile up to full wattage. “I’m Steve, by the way.”
The corner of James’s lip quirked up, the only outward indication that he had heard him.
“Listen, I gotta do this whole upselling song and dance, so feel free to take a mental nap,” Steve explained. James arched a brow. “Unless you really would like a brownie? They’re fresh-baked, they’re flourless, and they are super fudgy.” He pointed to them in the display case, so James had a reference. “I could warm it up for you.”
James stilled for far too long, his brow furrowed as if Steve had asked him the meaning of life.
Taking a gamble, Steve added, “Thumbs up for yes, thumbs down for no.”
A blustery little huff of a laugh accompanied a resounding thumbs up.
Small victories, Steve thought to himself, then set about fulfilling James’s order. Pouring a coffee and plating a brownie didn’t require too much movement, but Steve had no choice but to hobble over to the deluxe mini-oven that blast-heated their pastries. By the time he returned, James’s eyebrows dipped into a deep ‘V’ of concern, his lips firmed in upset.
Steve slid the brownie—which made his mouth water, such did it smell of molten chocolatey goodness—across the counter in the hopes of distracting James.
No luck. (Theme of the day.) James pointed at Steve’s leg. Though Steve couldn’t even see the outline of his eyes, he felt the force of the guy’s glare.
“It’s nothing,” Steve blurted before he could think twice. “Tripped over the curb crossing the street, if you can believe.”
James’s expression turned into an outright scowl. He searched around the counter, grabbed a marker from the pile, flipped his card over, and drew… a skull and crossbones headlight on a Camaro-shaped car.
Well, shit.
“Yeah, that guy,” Steve couldn’t help but grumble. He was always three-point-seven seconds away from a full-on rant on a good day, let alone the shit sandwich he’d been served by fate that day. “Turned right on a red, if you can believe it. Musta thought he was in rural Vermont or something.”
James let out a low growling noise that did things to Steve’s insides. Then, he drew a dick on the card, tapping it twice with the butt of the marker.
“He was a dick!” Steve vehemently agreed. “You must get a lot of ‘em over there.” By the way James nodded, it seemed like he also rolled his eyes. “Yeah, same here. Although things aren’t too bad at the Fiend. We got a few cool regulars, and the really obnoxious wellness crowd won’t do caffeine, so—”
A moan, rough and throaty, cut him off. James had taken his first bite of brownie, startling himself with how much he approved. He almost dropped his plate in the rush to cover his mouth.
“Told you,” Steve chuckled, resisting the urge to fan himself.
James wasted no time in devouring the rest—sans porn-worthy sound-effects, alas—then jabbed a finger into the side of the display case, right beside the tray of remaining brownies.
“You want ‘em all?” Steve laughed outright. James was something else.
He appeared to consider this, raised three fingers.
“Warm?”
Thumbs up.
“To go?”
A nod.
Steve packed everything up and fetched a paper lid for his coffee. James’ scowl returned when he observed Steve struggling; Steve didn’t miss how he dropped a twenty in the tip jar. He wished he was financially stable enough to refuse it, but no. The gesture officially confirmed James as Steve’s new favorite customer, though, so it was with genuine regret that he rung up the purchase.
“Hope to see you again soon,” was a customer-service mainstay that Steve never thought he’d utter, let alone mean, not in all his time at the Fiend.
Steve almost fainted at the adorable little wave he got in response.
In his not-so-humble opinion, James deserved the world.
***
A sentiment borne out at ass-o’clock the next morning, when Steve crawled up out of the subway like one of the infected in a zombie horde. He’d come straight from urgent care, where he’d dozed intermittently throughout the night on the most uncomfortable metal chairs known to man, his ma having insisted as soon as she’d spotted his limp. Personally, Steve thought the limp would be easier to deal with than another night of no sleep and a flash-wash in a grody YMCA shower. But being the son of a shrewd, capable, and caring nurse had its consequences, and this was one.
Turned out, subsisting on vending machine coffee and pretzels didn’t exactly prepare a person for the non-stop obstacle course that was the MTA. Steve might have walked, even from as far as urgent care on a bum leg, but he now sported a deeply annoying boot brace, which made the hairpin turns and tight staircases of the subway even more impossible to navigate than usual. He emerged cranky, dazed, and craving a raspberry-oatmeal breakfast muffin with extra apple butter.
Little wonder he all but crashed into someone not two paces onto the sidewalk. The fact that the someone smelled really, really good, like chai spices mixed with crack-level pheromones, was the only reason Steve mumbled, “Sorry,” before attempting to side-step the person. Who clamped a hand on his shoulder that felt suspiciously like a vise.
“Hey—" The protest strangled in his throat, with no help from the gloved metal hand that held him in place, despite Darcy’s insinuations the day before.
James. It was James.
“What…” Steve was way too sleep-deprived to contend with six-foot-whatever of leather-clad James, muscles straining the seams of his jacket, stubble a shade darker from the day before, blackout sunglasses still concealing what must be very expressive eyes if he kept them hidden on the regular. “Hey. Hi.”
James smirked in a way that made Steve want to bite it off his mouth, then offered Steve his arm.
“Are you…” He wanted to curl up in the bend of James’s elbow. “What are you…?”
As Steve continued to struggle to form a simple sentence, James grabbed Steve’s closest arm, laced it through his, and nudged him into action. To Steve’s never-ending shock, James matched his strides to Steve’s pace, his bulk and general air of surliness warding off anyone who tried to get in their way. It took every last ounce of energy Steve had not to slump against him. What to others might seem intimidating to Steve looked extra comfy.
They even made it across Atlantic Avenue unscathed, though they had a close call. Some delivery biker attempted to swerve around them and through the light, but James shot his metal arm out at the level of the biker’s throat, and he slammed the breaks but quick.
Steve realized this was a full-on protective escort around the time they reached the MCU-Dubs entranceway. James’s Terminator glare made the actual security guards cower—anyway, they recognized Steve. They made it all the way to the elevator without drawing any unwanted attention, it being too early for any of the usual gossipy gurus to be lingering in the lobby. He’d assumed James would drop him there, but no. They rode up to the fourth floor in blissful silence, except for Steve’s rousing gasp every time he almost passed out on James’s… well, he couldn’t quite reach his shoulder, but the crook of his elbow called to him.
James guided him all the way to the bench in the locker room, helped Steve off with his bag, then waited until he sat down. Satisfied, he about-faced—
“Wait!” Steve squawked.
James stilled, but did not turn back around.
Steve inhaled deeply in a bid to corral his last functional brain cells. “Only take me a minute to turn everything on. Nothing’s fresh-baked yet, but I could warm up one of the day-olds. Got some apple cinnamon scones, blueberry crumble muffins…”
James thumbs-downed every one of his suggestions. Steve appreciated the bodyguard routine, but he wasn’t giving up his raspberry oatmeal for love or money. James raised a hand to stop him before he could get to the multigrain bagels, which… fair.
“Okay, well…” Steve cleared his throat, tense and nervy all of a sudden. “Will I see you later?”
Thumbs up.
“I’ll save you a brownie. On the house.”
James raised three fingers.
“Fine, but you gotta pay for two of ‘em,” Steve groused. “Gotta make a living over here.” The snort caught him by surprise, enough to make Steve smile. “Thanks for having my back.”
James performed a short, sharp salute, then quick-marched out of there. Steve found himself desperate to learn some of James’s story.
Steve understood the negative space that was his allure as a person—a scrawny, cranky, accident-prone righteous asshole who alienated most people from word one. He’d grown up poor and sick and bullied, an only child whose best friends consisted of a threadbare, one-eared stuffed rabbit and his latest sketchbook. No one had done anything that nice for him… well, ever. His ma didn’t count.
The idea that upselling a fudgy brownie to a dark lord of hotness like James somehow unlocked the secret code to his protective instinct was a lot to process, and Steve’s neck still ached from being impaled on the chrome edge of a waiting room chair all night.
He rubbed the crick out of his neck and got to work.
*
As expected, the late-afternoon lull lured his favorite specter out of his garage lair. Seconds after Steve finished restocking the display case, a shadow fell over the trays of pastries and cakes Steve slid onto the racks. He’d made an extra batch of brownies, for reasons. Steve hadn’t managed to shoo Darcy down to ogle Guru Val today, but she was neck-deep in the books for the monthly account, which should keep her in the back office for at least the next half-hour or so. Long enough to execute the tactical maneuver he had been planning all day, conceived after he caved to Darcy’s pestering and downed three ginger shots from the ground floor juice bar. Steve hadn’t felt reenergized, exactly, but they had given him some wild daydreams.
And some thinky thoughts re: James. The pictograms yesterday, for instance. Did James struggle to write as well as speak some days? Did he have some sort of throat-related injury he didn’t care to address? Was conversation itself too much for him? Or was an overabundance of choice the problem? Maybe James just liked his coffee black and his whiskey neat, but someone who dressed in that much leather didn’t strike Steve as all that vanilla—especially given his nascent fudgy brownie addiction.
Steve somehow got it in his head that the psychedelic kaleidoscope that was their menu board overwhelmed James. It overwhelmed Steve, and he’d drawn the thing. Perhaps James just needed a little help navigating it…?
“Hey there.” Steve stood up from his crouch only to realize that he was not, in fact, taller than the display case. He limped over to the order counter; James followed him.
He’d wanted to greet James with a smile. A blinding smile. Steve didn’t smile often, or for just anyone, but he’d been told that when he did, when he meant it, it added a little sunshine to someone’s day. (Okay, to his ma’s day. His ma called him her sunshine boy. He only ever smiled that way for her, and now James.)
Except instead Steve almost swallowed his tongue. James hadn’t worn his hoodie. Because duh, he hadn’t been wearing it that morning. Instead, his dark brown hair billowed out in waves that perfectly framed his insanely handsome face. And worse. So much worse. James’s sunglasses nested in that gorgeous hair. For the first time, Steve got the full bore of James’ stormy blue eyes. They were the color of vast, open ocean, all-seeing, elemental, with a hint of ferocity hovering under the surface.
Steve almost fainted on the spot.
Illegal. It should be illegal to walk around inflicting that kind of hotness on unsuspecting baristas who were just trying to impress you.
Another adorable wave from James. Steve wasn’t sure what his face was doing, but it felt like it was melting off. With a bashful little bow to his head, James slid another card across the counter to Steve. He forced his hands not to shake as he picked it up.
Hello, my name is James Bucky.
I’m having a quiet fuck of a day today.
I would like a large black coffee and three brownies.
Thank you, Steve.
Steve stared stupidly down at the card for way too long, because it was so damn charming, and he didn’t trust himself not to leap across the counter and kiss Bucky senseless. Except that would have been weird and predatory, so shut up, dumb exhausted brain. You’re too tired for this.
“Nickname?”
A shy nod.
“Rich hotrod assholes out in full force today, huh?”
A vigorous nod.
“Hmm, well, you’ve come to the right place.” Steve unleashed the sunshine smile. He didn’t think he imagined Bucky going a little pink in the cheeks. Time for stage one of his master plan. “Listen, I know you’re a cup of joe kind of guy and all, but we’ve got a lot more than just triple-shot, no whip mochaccinos with extra sprinkles. I could give you some samples to go with your coffee and brownies? They’ll give me a sense of your palate, so I’ll know what to recommend. Same system, thumbs up or down.”
To his surprise, he got two thumbs up.
It took Steve too many blinks to absorb the fact that Bucky wasn’t wearing his usual glove. His artist’s eye was immediately drawn to the intricate plating of the metal hand. He felt his attraction spread across his skin like a heat rash.
Illegal in all fifty states.
“Great,” he rasped, then darted behind the espresso machine.
Through an intricate breathing/panicking/self-berating process, Steve managed to get a hold of himself by the time he returned to the counter, bearing Bucky’s coffee and brownies, along with a tray of eight sample cups ordered in pairs of two. Bucky appeared intrigued as he sipped from his coffee, then reached for his first brownie.
Steve whistled him to a halt. “Wait on those a sec.” He set the initial test pairing in front of Bucky—level of bitterness. “Try these.”
A flash of uncertainty from Bucky’s vivid blue eyes, but he brought the first sample to his lips. He grimaced the second it hit his tongue. Thumbs down. The second got a thumbs up.
Steve placed three more samples in front of him. “These’ll give me a sense of how much body you like in your brew.”
Darcy sing-songing “Body-ody-ody” did not run on a loop in his head as he watched Bucky down each tiny cup. It did not.
As expected, he preferred full body. Insert joke here.
“Now, some syrup combinations,” Steve explained as he doled out the last three. “Take a second between each of these. I haven’t added any milk, but that’s an avenue we can explore later, if you’re interested.”
Bucky did not seem all that interested. The samples, though, provoked a whole range of new expressions, every one a delight. The first, hazelnut syrup, got two enthusiastic thumbs up. Bucky shoved his large coffee back at Steve, pointing at the empty sample.
“Try the others first,” Steve chuckled, savoring another sweet victory.
The second, caramel, Bucky seemed torn on. He set it to the side as if he needed time to ponder it in more detail. The third, flavored with a dark chocolate nib powder, made his eyes bug out.
Diagnosis: chocoholic.
Bucky stacked the first and third sample cups on top of each other, then mimed pouring them into his larger cup. Not that Steve needed such dramatic visuals to get the message. He stole Bucky’s cup back to remake his drink.
“I’m gonna add a touch of cream,” Steve warned him. “Not too much. Adds depth and richness—you’ll see. Any problems with lactose?” A head shake. “Good.”
Bucky almost grabbed it out of his hands when he returned with the drink. He held it under his nose for a full minute, basking in the aroma, before taking a sip. His pretty eyes just about rolled back in his head. By the way his jaw clenched, Steve could tell he bit back a moan, damn it.
“Yeah?” Moan or no, Steve was feeling very smug.
Bucky set the drink down and did the jazz hands gesture for applause that the deaf and hard-of-hearing use.
Steve just about jumped out of his skin with excitement. “You know ASL?” he signed.
Bucky froze for a full thirty seconds. Then, an explosion of movement.
“Yes!” he signed emphatically. “How do you—”
Steve turned so Bucky could see his hearing aid. “They weren’t sure how my hearing would develop as I got older, so my ma taught it to me when I was little, just in case.” Bucky’s lips curled into the closest thing to a smile Steve had ever seen on him. “I have a couple friends who also have hearing issues, so I’ve kept it up. If you ever need, you know…”
Bucky’s eyes twinkled. Steve gripped the edge of the counter for support.
“More than three brownies?” Bucky signed.
Steve snorted. “I did make an extra tray…”
“Really?”
He nodded. “All for you, if you want ‘em.” Feeling nosy, Steve decided to take the temperature of Bucky’s job situation. Someone as gentle and vulnerable as Bucky seemed like a bad fit with the shop-bro oafs. “Or you could bring them back to share.”
That got him an eyeroll that tickled his insides pink.
“Not enough kale,” Bucky quipped. “And when it comes to brownies, I don’t share.”
“Noted.” Steve busied himself with packing the extra tray of brownies up.
A few customers wandered in to claim tables before making their way to the counter. Bucky stiffened, canted his head to keep them in his peripheral vision. Steve watched him do a swift mental tally of all the exits, wondering how long Bucky had been back from overseas.
Tell me you’re military without telling me you’re military, Steve thought to himself. He entered the details into the cash register so Bucky could exfil.
Still, he couldn’t help himself. He had to know when he’d see Bucky again.
“Same time tomorrow?” Steve signed, attempting to project a confidence he didn’t feel.
With a shy nod and a hastily signed “Thank you”, Bucky made his retreat.
End of Chapter 1