Chapter Text
When the explosions hit New York City, Steve isn't even surprised that he's caught up in them. He's working the day-long shift at Morgan's cafe in Midtown, supporting too many empty plates for his skinny frame and wondering how far his tips will stretch, and if they'll stretch to drinks with Sam tonight.
He's just serving a couple their joint platters of marinara-soaked chicken when a laundrette he used to go to before it shut down explodes in a fireball of glass and metal. He ducks the blast and hears the high screeches of something sharp and harsh and unhuman above him, raising his head in time to see scores of metal boards, warriors clad in armour descending on them.
"Get everybody inside!" Steve yells to Beth, the blonde girl on shift, who is already shooing the terrified customers into the restaurant and away from the streets which have become full of fire and screams before Steve can even begin to comprehend the situation fully.
Explosions begin to rain down on the street outside, and Steve curses his asthma and running speed when he feels singeing, albeit brief heat, pool across his back, as he rushes inside and slams the doors shut behind him.
Inside the restaurant, Beth is calming customers, encouraging them backwards towards the general vicinity of the kitchen, where Carl, frowning and red underneath his blonde buzzcut is marching forward. "What the Hell is going on?"
Steve opens his mouth to speak, although it really wouldn't be much more than 'I have no idea, explosions are just blowing up downtown Manhattan', when an explosion shatters the restaurant's glass front in a shower of razor-sharp shards.
And something enters.
Steve sees steel and alien features and a humanoid figure, the kind he's used to sketching in his Thursday night art class; but this is nothing like the life models or statues in his class. This creature is skittering and clicking and aiming a steel rifle the size of a baseball bat right at Steve and Beth and the customers -
- that s until an almighty arm bursts out of nowhere and punches and sends the creature soaring sideways, crunching into a wall with a sickening yelp.
Steve looks up, cuts across his forehead and cheek, and finds himself staring into the hulking form of a man, silhouetted by the streaming afternoon sun. Long hair framing his face.
"Are you alri - " The man starts to ask, before the creature recovers, snarling and moaning, his gun flashing blue energy and Steve has his silver drinks tray in his hands before he can recognise it, the hooded man now sporting a nasty burn along a shoulder.
"Get down!" Steve yells and he summons every inch of strength, swinging his arm, and the tray becomes a discus as it arcs through the air, slicing through the creature's suit with a sharp clunk.
The creature slumps, the light fading fom its helmet. Steve staggers back against the counter. Behind him, he can hear Beth and Carl rushing people out of the building through the kitchen entrance. To safety. Steve stays where he is.
The man who stands up, is clad in black, A swathe of silver running down one arm, that Steve soon realises is metal; the arm that sent the creature flying. The hood of his jacket is pushed back, revealing dark hair that needs a haircut and a wash, and intense dark eyes.
Steve really hopes he didn't pick the wrong side here.
"Thanks." The man says, gruff, and staring at Steve.
"No - no problem. Always hated bullies." Steve says, standing as straight as he can with a sprained ankle and burning lungs and secondhand fear sinking into his stomach.
"Me too. Don't worry, it'll be over soon. Romanov and Barton are doing their thing." The man says.
"Who?"
"You'll find soon enough. The whole world's got a goddamn video camera." The black-clad man mutters under his breath, as if the very nature of online social media offends him to his core.
"What's your name?" Steve asks, bolder than he feels.
"Do you need to know it?"
"All the men who save me, I like to get their names."
"That happen a lot?"
"Getting saved? Not really. I can fight my own battles. I just can't... win them." Steve is highly aware of the bruise along his neck, several days old, from breaking up an abusive bar fight.
"Damn. Just... stay safe, alright, kid? We don't need anymore good people getting themselves killed today. Particularly heroes like yourself." The man looks concerned, desperately so, and he plants a solid, warm hand on Steve's shoulder. The heat burns through the tatters of Steve's shirt, and Steve wants nothing more to lean in, to steal this man's heat when Steve feels so desperately cold.
He leans in, lips brushing Steve's ear. "My name's Bucky. Don't tell a soul."
Steve blinks, then whispers back. "I promise. I'm Steve Rogers."
The man leans back, a smirk tugging at his lips. His hair is a mess, overgrown, but his eyes are intense and green and cut Steve to the core; even as he stands in what used to be his second best work pants and his white work shirt and his garish purple and gold apron. He must look a mess. Why he even cares about that around a handsome hero is... somewhat understandable under the circumstances.
"Nice to meet you, Steve Rogers. I'll make sure to keep seeing you around."
And the man is gone.