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"Need a hand?"
Steve tries to position the boxes he's carrying on his hip with one hand while he frustratedly flips through his keychain with the other. He can feel his grip on the boxes slipping but can't remember which one of the six—SIX—new keys he was given to get in and around his new apartment complex actually opens his apartment. Just as he finds the right key, the entire stack of boxes starts to tip. He looks up in time to see the topmost box, marked "GLASSWARE" in black Sharpie, go careening towards the floor.
"Whoa, I got it!"
Steve braces for the sound of breaking glass, but nothing comes. He cranes his neck back and turns as best he can to see the box securely in the hands of the most gorgeous man Steve's ever seen. He's tall, well, taller than Steve anyway, which isn't saying much, and is wearing a pair of well-worn jeans and a faded band t-shirt whose logo Steve can't quite make out.
He smiles at Steve and a lock of floppy brown hair falls into eyes crinkled with laughter.
Steve feels his knees go a little weak, and his remaining boxes wobble. The guy's smile drops and he smoothly tucks the box under his right arm like it weighs nothing and reaches out with his left.
"Here, I'll get these, you get the door." Without asking, he wraps his arm under the other two boxes Steve is carrying, labeled "KITCH ASS'D" and "TOWELS" respectively, and steps back. Steve, now free from his cardboard burdens, turns back to the door. As he fumbles with the lock he feels his neck and cheeks begin to burn. How dare this guy, this beaming, dimpled guy he's never met, just think he can grab Steve's stuff without asking?!? What, does he want to show off how much stronger he is, how easy it is for him to carry boxes in one hand that had Steve sweating and cursing up two flights of stairs?
Well fucking good for fucking him, Steve thinks angrily as the lock finally clicks and he pushes the door open. Oh I'll just show off my big strong arms and my big strong shoulders so the poor little shrimp can see how nice it is to be all big and strong!
A small part of Steve's mind reminds him the guy saved every glass Steve owns from shattering on the landing, but he ignores it in favor of his growing indignation.
"Where can I put these?" the guy asks.
"Anywhere is fine," Steve bites out as the guy follows him into his apartment. The place is small but gets great light, with huge windows taking up an entire wall. They're the reason he picked the place, even though it's just far enough out of his price range that it means he's going to have to live off ramen until he gets his first paycheck. He knows he should be thankful for getting a job right out of art school, but aside from the desperate need for income, there weren't exactly any perks to moving. And at the moment, spending his last dollar to move all the way to Chicago for an entry level design job doesn't really feel like a blessing.
Chicago! The damn city can't even do pizza right.
The guy bends down and sets the boxes on the floor quickly and easily. Steve doesn't even hear a glass rattle. When he stands and turns to Steve, his smile is back.
"Just moving in, huh? It's a nice building, pretty quiet, except for Mrs. Lyon's kids who like to race their toy cars in the halls sometimes. I'm Bucky, I live two doors down.
He sticks his hand out and Steve's mother would roll over in her grave if Steve was rude enough to ignore it, so Steve shakes the g—Bucky's hand. He tries not to notice the engulfing warmth of it, or the rough calluses. He even tries to smile back. Maybe Steve was over-reacting. Maybe Bucky didn't mean anything by it and was just trying to be neighborly.
"I'm Steve."
"Steve," Bucky's grin goes from merely stunning to absolutely blinding. "Nice to meet you, Steve." Bucky drops Steve's hand and turns to look around the apartment.
There's not much to look at. Aside from the three boxes Bucky just brought in, all that Steve's brought up so far are a few of his paintings and his art supplies. Which in retrospect, was a poor choice, because now Steve's worried about leaving his apartment unlocked between trips, just in case, and has to deal with the hassle of unlocking it every time he brings up another load of boxes. Hence the scene in the hall and now, well... Bucky.
While Bucky looks around, Steve takes the opportunity to look at Bucky. His mental diatribe from earlier was accurate if somewhat unfair. Bucky is definitely big and strong. But not in a creepy bodybuilder way. He's toned, with planes and angles that make Steve's fingers itch for his charcoals. His t-shirt and jeans look so soft too, worn to a comfort and thinness that they just brush against his body, hinting at the muscles beneath without revealing anything. There's a tear in the denim just under the back right pocket but Steve can't tell if--
"So you got much else? Looks like you could really use some help, especially with the heavier stuff."
Steve snaps back to reality at Bucky's words, "Excuse me?"
Bucky shrugs, "I don't mind, I just figured..."
"You just figured what? The skinny little guy couldn't handle some boxes? Better hope he doesn't faint if he picks up a chair? Well I got news for you, pal. We may not all have perfect swimmer's physiques, but I carried every single box and stick of furniture I own down five flights of Brooklyn walk up, another block and a half to the closest parking I could find, then onto the truck, loaded it, and drove it through New York traffic and all the way out on my own! Somehow I think I'll be fine."
Steve realizes he's shouting and has to stop and focus on slow, deep breaths. Working himself into an asthma attack would kind of undermine his point.
"Sorry," Bucky raises his hands as if in surrender, "I just thought you might need help."
"I think you've helped enough. Get out."
Bucky shakes his head but leaves without another word. A few minutes (and calming breaths) later, Steve follows him out, locks the door behind him, and heads down the stairs to get another load.
Steve's anger carries him through the next few, admittedly smaller, loads of boxes and furniture, but as he's wrestling his single mattress around a curve in the stairs he starts replaying his conversation with Bucky in his head. By the time he's brought up his Ikea dresser two drawers at a time, his thrift store chairs, and card table that he uses as a combination dinner table and desk even though the angle kills his back, he realizes he might have been kind of a dick.
Steve finally gets the last of his belongings into his apartment. He tears open the "TOWELS" box with laugh, because of course; of course he would need one of the ones Bucky carried, before hopping in his shower for a quick rinse. He might want to get this over with, but figures that showing up to apologize while grimy, sweaty, and smelling to high heaven might not be received as well.
With a quick run of fingers through his wet hair, Steve screws up his courage, walks two doors down, and knocks on the door. After a moment, the door opens and Bucky's there. He looks the same as he did before, if a little rumpled and with his hair sticking up on one side and flattened on the other, like Steve just woke him up from a Saturday afternoon nap. He squints at Steve in confusion, and along with the hair and everything else, it's the cutest thing Steve has ever seen.
Bucky opens his mouth to say something, but Steve cuts him off.
"So, it occurs to me that I was kind of an ass earlier and I'd like to apologize."
Bucky is still for a moment, then a corner of his mouth quirks up. "Oh?" he says. He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. "Do tell."
"I realize that you were being just trying to be helpful and neighborly and I was incredibly rude in response. I really am sorry about that." Steve clenches his jaw. Now for the hard part.
"As you probably figured, I'm a bit..."
"Snappy? Aggressive? Combative?" Bucky suggests, eyes wide with faux innocence.
"Sensitive," Steve continues. "About needing help from other people sometimes and it can make me..."
" Snappy? Aggressive? Combative?" Bucky tries again, full on grinning now.
Steve can't help the sheepish smile that creeps over his face. "Quick tempered," he finishes.
Bucky laughs, throwing his head back in a full body move that shows off the long curve of his neck. "Buddy, I had that figured out the moment you said 'Brooklyn'."
Steve laughs, "Yeah. That too. It's not an excuse though. Sorry again."
Bucky waves a hand, "Don't even worry about it. Moving sucks." He looks Steve up and down quickly with an expression that's too fast for Steve to catch. "I bet you have to return the truck now, huh? Tell you what, as a little welcome to the neighborhood present, I could follow behind and give you a ride back if you want?"
"Really? You'd do that?" Steve can't help but ask.
"Sure, I am so helpful and neighborly and all."
Bucky ducks back inside before Steve can respond and comes back out a moment later holding his keys in his teeth as he pulls on a short black leather jacket. Steve...Steve may need a moment.
Bucky's leather-clad arm brushes his as they walk down the hall towards the stairs.
"So," says Bucky, "Perfect swimmer's physique, huh?"
Steve looks straight ahead. He clears his throat, "I would prefer if you forgot I said that."
"But if I did that, I couldn't hold it against you later."
Steve whips his head over to look at Bucky. Was that... Did Bucky just... Bucky winks at him then jogs quickly down the stairs.
"C'mon," he yells back at Steve, "On the way back we can hit up this great little pizzeria I know. It's no Grimaldi's, but at least they know how to do a slice right."
Well, thinks Steve as he rushes down the stairs to catch up. Maybe there are some perks to moving after all.