I started thinking absently about Steve Rogers’ jogging route during my run today and then i couldn’t STOP thinking about it because there’s literally NO WAY it makes sense unless you accept that he is specifically fucking up his entire morning routine to get another look at the cute boy he clocked on his run. I got home and started to make a post about it but it was like
so you’re just going to have to trust me
Enough people asked me to Get Into This that, you know what, fine. Let’s get into it. Under the cut please enjoy my doctoral dissertation, There Is No Carol In HR, or Captain America Is a Big Ol’ Creep and I Can Prove It with Maps.
people: steve, this is how things are gonna be
steve: i am going to have to respectfully disagree with you and walk away calmly
steve: [walks away calmly]
steve: [rides back in on a motorcycle ready to fuck shit up] oN SECOND THOUGHT–
@sonatine said something about an uber driver AU and then i accidentally a thing, soooo i’m just gonna leave this here
buckysam, stevesam, eventual stevebuckysam, 4.3k
“I didn’t call for an Uber,” says Sam.
He called for a lot of other things. Help, for instance. Because, one, there happens to be an angry pterodactyl-like thing gliding across the sky above Brooklyn, knocking off the top of every building it passes, and two, he left his own wings at home. All he wanted was to go to the store in his sweatpants and buy some yogurt for his superhero boyfriend, but apparently being a normal guy just isn’t an option any more.
Bucky keeps his gun trained on the guy, now he’s managed to throw him far enough away to use the damn thing. He shakes his head impatiently, flicking sweaty hair away from his eyes, blowing impatiently at the strands that won’t shift.
“There’s your problem, right there,” he’s told, the man’s palms held high and facing him like surrender, like some kind of weird blessing. His voice is all soft Southern vowels pulled somehow tight and angry and out of place, like he’d sound better singing. It reminds him of the archer, and Bucky has to flex his fingers around the weapon in an effort not to lower it.
“I’ve got no problems, buddy,” he says, first time he’s spoken, and he’s met with a snort.
“I don’t even know you and I know that’s a lie.” He steps closer and Bucky makes no movement – he’s watched enough of this century’s television to know that taking the safety off is always used like a threat, here, but Bucky’s not stupid enough to pull his gun on anything he’s not willing to shoot at. The man stops, in any case, like the stillness tells him more than it doesn’t.
“Look, I don’t want to fight you,” he says. “You’ve got the look of a man only killing’d keep down, and I don’t do shit like that any more.”
Stand down, Steve says in his ear. They’re friendlies.
Really,really, overly friendly, Sam adds.
Redwing? an unfamiliar voice says, high with excitement, Can I take him apart? Can I pet him?
When Bucky lowers his weapon the guy releases tension that looked enough a part of him that his smile is a gut-punch surprise.
“Eliot,” he says, holding out a hand.
“What’s my problem?” Bucky asks him, squinting, suspicious, as he holsters his gun.
Eliot shrugs and drops his hand, mutters, “it’s like another goddamn Parker, I swear. Here.” He fumbles something from around his wrist – a loop of elastic that’s wrapped in black cotton. Bucky takes it, regards it, absently pushes his hair behind his ear.
“That and conditioner, man,” Eliot tells him. “I swear it’ll change your life.”
Kimchi and Justice 