fattiest fat cat
*sarcasm*
the dusty stone floors of your heart.
by fattiest fat cat and scamander
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the dusty stone floors of your heart.
- Thread starter fattiest fat cat
- Start date
the dusty stone floors of your heart.
by fattiest fat cat and scamander
fattiest fat cat
*sarcasm*
At 25 years old, Steve is in the state you’d expect most people of his generation to be in: poor, tatted up, and bitter. Also, surprisingly, Catholic. He takes out his earrings every Sunday when he puts on his Sunday best, long-sleeved to cover up the colours going up his entire left arm and the top half of his right.
He was wearing his Sunday best just a month ago at his mother’s funeral. The cancer had finally been too much for her, and she had died in her sleep, exhausted from a losing battle. At her funeral, a lawyer had asked him to give her a call when he had time, and a week later he had found out that his family had a rather sizeable estate in a small town in the north of New York state.
In an impulsive move, he’d… well, moved. He’d only had a couple boxes of things, making the decision to sell off any of his cheap furniture. He’d kept his mattress and his favourite lamp. Other than that, he’d just hauled his art supplies, his clothes, his books, and a still-edible baguette with him to town.
After arriving, he’d gone to the market, ordered furniture, and then he’d sat down on the dusty floor of his new home—it’s 150 years old and it looks the part. A bit drafty, but solid, made of brick and oak with a fireplace. He’s also got a fair chunk of land, which he has no idea at all to do with. He runs his toes through the musty carpet he has to remember to throw out when all his limbs hurt less. Moving boxes has kind of taken the wind and energy out of him. He’s only 5’6”, and he might be buff, but muscles don’t make his arthritis or asthma go away.
He’s already opened the windows to let out some of the dust, but he can hear himself wheezing. Making an executive decision, he pulls on his shoes and hauls ass to the local library, which is a great idea in theory, but in practice, he manages to knock over a pile of book within the first five minutes.
He was wearing his Sunday best just a month ago at his mother’s funeral. The cancer had finally been too much for her, and she had died in her sleep, exhausted from a losing battle. At her funeral, a lawyer had asked him to give her a call when he had time, and a week later he had found out that his family had a rather sizeable estate in a small town in the north of New York state.
In an impulsive move, he’d… well, moved. He’d only had a couple boxes of things, making the decision to sell off any of his cheap furniture. He’d kept his mattress and his favourite lamp. Other than that, he’d just hauled his art supplies, his clothes, his books, and a still-edible baguette with him to town.
After arriving, he’d gone to the market, ordered furniture, and then he’d sat down on the dusty floor of his new home—it’s 150 years old and it looks the part. A bit drafty, but solid, made of brick and oak with a fireplace. He’s also got a fair chunk of land, which he has no idea at all to do with. He runs his toes through the musty carpet he has to remember to throw out when all his limbs hurt less. Moving boxes has kind of taken the wind and energy out of him. He’s only 5’6”, and he might be buff, but muscles don’t make his arthritis or asthma go away.
He’s already opened the windows to let out some of the dust, but he can hear himself wheezing. Making an executive decision, he pulls on his shoes and hauls ass to the local library, which is a great idea in theory, but in practice, he manages to knock over a pile of book within the first five minutes.
scamander
New Member
Taking up an almost permanent residence in Rochester, New York's sleepy suburban library, James Barnes has, against all his childhood dreams, retired himself to the "quiet life" at the ripe young age of twenty-seven. His weekdays here on the corner of Olde Town Road and University Drive are occupied with the sound of harsh shushing from the strict, older women who work at the library, kids giggling from the children's section, and students scrawling notes frantically or typing away at the provided—though ancient—computers. They're quite different noises from the whoosh of shells flying overhead or the pained shouts of wounded men, but they're torturous in their own way. Working at a library wasn't Bucky's first choice despite his enjoyment of the escapism reading has always provided him, but it could be a lot worse. He knew a lot of good men, even ones he'd been acquainted with since his substandard childhood in Brooklyn, who died fighting for this country; he sometimes ponders whether his life would mean more had he joined them, but there are rare moments when life chooses to show him otherwise. It's a sleepy Wednesday afternoon when it decides to do so yet again.
Organizing has never been Bucky's forte, but it's what most of his job consists of. He sits now, perched on a stack of outdated textbooks (70s, he decides?), peering at an order sheet he's been tasked with confirming and occassionally checking off each book as he takes it out of one of the cardboard boxes before him. He started this task an hour and a half ago after alphabetizing his next shelf-load, but doesn't let passing time wear him down. If he can escape a foreign fight (mostly) unscathed, he can take inventory. As he marks off another confirmed delivery on the sheet, slightly crumpled, on his knee, Bucky blows stray strands of dark hair out of his face, those of which have fallen out of his loose bun. He's not a conventionally attractive man in the terms of Hollywood, but he is certainly someone that's often mistaken for a "coffee shop hipster" on the street. He resents this label, but it's understandable... With his long, almost shoulder-length hair, somewhat maintained facial hair, and unkempt style, it's not difficult to see why this assumption might be made. However, he still resents it. A heavy 'Rochester Hills Public Library' sweatshirt's sleeves cover his biggest loss to the war, something else that he resents; he avoids drawing attention to it as much as possible, even now, when no one's around.
Bucky's nearly done with his inventory sheet when he hears a noise that makes his heart stop beating inside his chest—the sound of the meticulously alphabetized books behind him being sent, scattered, to the ground. He stands, whirling around, looking completely exasperated, especially when his suspicions are confirmed. Icy blue eyes immediately fall on the culprit, a short blond with a clumsy look to him, and he frowns.
"Shit..." He mumbles under his breath, clearly disappointed and perhaps even a little angry. His swears are perhaps evidence of that last assumption. "Dammit... That took me an hour..." His voice doesn't carry to the checkout desk or grab the head librarian's attention, perhaps out of practice, but the emotion projected in his voice is loud and clear. So much for an early lunch...
Defeated, as there's nothing he can really do to challenge a customer, Bucky drops to one knee and starts gathering up the books, impatience writ across his brow. If only they could assign him to something less stressful.
Organizing has never been Bucky's forte, but it's what most of his job consists of. He sits now, perched on a stack of outdated textbooks (70s, he decides?), peering at an order sheet he's been tasked with confirming and occassionally checking off each book as he takes it out of one of the cardboard boxes before him. He started this task an hour and a half ago after alphabetizing his next shelf-load, but doesn't let passing time wear him down. If he can escape a foreign fight (mostly) unscathed, he can take inventory. As he marks off another confirmed delivery on the sheet, slightly crumpled, on his knee, Bucky blows stray strands of dark hair out of his face, those of which have fallen out of his loose bun. He's not a conventionally attractive man in the terms of Hollywood, but he is certainly someone that's often mistaken for a "coffee shop hipster" on the street. He resents this label, but it's understandable... With his long, almost shoulder-length hair, somewhat maintained facial hair, and unkempt style, it's not difficult to see why this assumption might be made. However, he still resents it. A heavy 'Rochester Hills Public Library' sweatshirt's sleeves cover his biggest loss to the war, something else that he resents; he avoids drawing attention to it as much as possible, even now, when no one's around.
Bucky's nearly done with his inventory sheet when he hears a noise that makes his heart stop beating inside his chest—the sound of the meticulously alphabetized books behind him being sent, scattered, to the ground. He stands, whirling around, looking completely exasperated, especially when his suspicions are confirmed. Icy blue eyes immediately fall on the culprit, a short blond with a clumsy look to him, and he frowns.
"Shit..." He mumbles under his breath, clearly disappointed and perhaps even a little angry. His swears are perhaps evidence of that last assumption. "Dammit... That took me an hour..." His voice doesn't carry to the checkout desk or grab the head librarian's attention, perhaps out of practice, but the emotion projected in his voice is loud and clear. So much for an early lunch...
Defeated, as there's nothing he can really do to challenge a customer, Bucky drops to one knee and starts gathering up the books, impatience writ across his brow. If only they could assign him to something less stressful.
fattiest fat cat
*sarcasm*
The apology on Steve’s tongue dies at the sight of the man that he’s inconvenienced. Now, Steve’s not saying he’s the most bisexual man on the entire planet Earth, but an embarrassing amount of blood goes from his brain to uhh…
“Hi,” he says, voice climbing up to prepubescent levels. His face goes hot as he drinks in the width of the man’s shoulders, the shape of his torso, the… veins in his hands. Damn. He’s got an amazing ass, too, and thighs and Steve just wants to die between.
“Sorry,” he adds on, once he remembers why it is that they’re even speaking in the first place. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.” Duh. “I’m kind of clumsy.” Duh. “Here, let me…”
He bends himself in half rather than use his knees, because he knows if he goes down he won’t be able to come back up, and he’s made enough of an idiot of himself already. He grabs an armful of books and then starts stacking them.
“Hi,” he says, voice climbing up to prepubescent levels. His face goes hot as he drinks in the width of the man’s shoulders, the shape of his torso, the… veins in his hands. Damn. He’s got an amazing ass, too, and thighs and Steve just wants to die between.
“Sorry,” he adds on, once he remembers why it is that they’re even speaking in the first place. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.” Duh. “I’m kind of clumsy.” Duh. “Here, let me…”
He bends himself in half rather than use his knees, because he knows if he goes down he won’t be able to come back up, and he’s made enough of an idiot of himself already. He grabs an armful of books and then starts stacking them.
scamander
New Member
Bucky may still be reeling from his time overseas and fumbling over basic social cues every now and again, but he isn't stupid—he knows when he's being checked out. He raises an unamused eyebrow as the blond before him stumbles over his words, eyes not-so-discreetly trailing across the length of his body. It makes him feel self-concious of course, and he sticks his metal hand into his pocket out of habit, but it's not like this is something foreign to him; Bucky's been given a once-over many times by men and women alike. Perhaps what bothered him most this time was that he wasn't even trying? And maybe that this guy just happened to fit into Bucky's two favorite categories, short and blond?
He's still mad about the books, though.
His voice doesn't waver from annoyance. "It's fine." However, he doesn't stop the guy from helping him, as it gives him less to do later. He also is able to get a better look at him. From here he can see blue eyes, a little darker than his own, hiding out behind long lashes, and strong arms that seem to contrast with the rest of his build. Damn, he's pretty, is what Bucky thinks, but all of the books are stacked before he can get too imaginative. He wishes all of his work could go by that quickly.
"Thanks," he says absently; he can't help his tone, as it's just how it's always been since a few years into the war. At least he helped, he tells himself. If he had a dollar for everytime someone knocked stuff over in this place and didn't clean up after themselves, he might realistically be able to treat himself to a nice dinner. It was nice to have someone with manners roll through every once in a while. Speaking of, this guy must have been to town... Bucky has never seen him before, and he thinks he would remember if he had.
"Thanks," he says again, rising to his feet once more. The books aren't alphabetized, but he'll figure that out later. It's not as important as his sudden curiousity. "Can I help you find something?" He asks it in a voice that sounds vaguely like a recited line he doesn't quite mean, but he says it, and that's something.
He's still mad about the books, though.
His voice doesn't waver from annoyance. "It's fine." However, he doesn't stop the guy from helping him, as it gives him less to do later. He also is able to get a better look at him. From here he can see blue eyes, a little darker than his own, hiding out behind long lashes, and strong arms that seem to contrast with the rest of his build. Damn, he's pretty, is what Bucky thinks, but all of the books are stacked before he can get too imaginative. He wishes all of his work could go by that quickly.
"Thanks," he says absently; he can't help his tone, as it's just how it's always been since a few years into the war. At least he helped, he tells himself. If he had a dollar for everytime someone knocked stuff over in this place and didn't clean up after themselves, he might realistically be able to treat himself to a nice dinner. It was nice to have someone with manners roll through every once in a while. Speaking of, this guy must have been to town... Bucky has never seen him before, and he thinks he would remember if he had.
"Thanks," he says again, rising to his feet once more. The books aren't alphabetized, but he'll figure that out later. It's not as important as his sudden curiousity. "Can I help you find something?" He asks it in a voice that sounds vaguely like a recited line he doesn't quite mean, but he says it, and that's something.
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fattiest fat cat
*sarcasm*
There’s something super prickly about the guy, which on the one hand makes Steve ready to fight cause when you’re a tiny dude, you either get pushed around or you fight people. Guess which one Steve picked. He’s got a mean left hook.
On the other hand, though, part of Steve is super into it. He had a really shitty habit of punching guys way bigger than him right in the jaw, and a surprising number of them came to respect him as a result. He has gone to, like, a lot of biker bars, and he’s been into more than his fair share of gruff, mean dudes with a gooey caramel centre.
He’s pretty sure there’s a church in town. God, he hopes so. He should definitely go to confession after today. He used to hate going to confession, and he spent a long time dealing with all the Catholic guilt that regularly thinking about boning hot people brings. He even stopped going to church for a few years, there, which let him process his guilt, and then decide that he God loves him too much to want him to feel bad.
So, he goes to confession, and he drops off the part about sin, just sits there, talks to whoever will listen while he communes with God. Watchful parent, right? Just wants to know all His children are doing all right. It makes him feel better to have someone to talk to about all the stuff he’s going through.
“Uh, I guess your fantasy section?” Steve says, realizing he doesn’t have an actual reason to be here other than getting out of his super dusty house. “Or just… somewhere near a window?”
On the other hand, though, part of Steve is super into it. He had a really shitty habit of punching guys way bigger than him right in the jaw, and a surprising number of them came to respect him as a result. He has gone to, like, a lot of biker bars, and he’s been into more than his fair share of gruff, mean dudes with a gooey caramel centre.
He’s pretty sure there’s a church in town. God, he hopes so. He should definitely go to confession after today. He used to hate going to confession, and he spent a long time dealing with all the Catholic guilt that regularly thinking about boning hot people brings. He even stopped going to church for a few years, there, which let him process his guilt, and then decide that he God loves him too much to want him to feel bad.
So, he goes to confession, and he drops off the part about sin, just sits there, talks to whoever will listen while he communes with God. Watchful parent, right? Just wants to know all His children are doing all right. It makes him feel better to have someone to talk to about all the stuff he’s going through.
“Uh, I guess your fantasy section?” Steve says, realizing he doesn’t have an actual reason to be here other than getting out of his super dusty house. “Or just… somewhere near a window?”
scamander
New Member
It would be excruciatingly simple for Bucky to just point this newcomer in the direction where the fantasy books were—he knows the area all too well, as he often finds himself reading such fairytales to his youngest sister on Skype calls every blue moon when she remembers and misses him—but something in him resists such an easy way out. Perhaps it's the fact that he doesn't just want to sit down and slowly organize books again, or maybe it's even just because he wants to be helpful... Neither of those explanations seem particularly correct, however, when compared to the fact that Bucky just might want to test his waters and this guy's interest in him. Sure, he's not looking for anything serious, but he's quite sure that having a simple conversation won't suddenly lead to that. It's not everyday that a handsome blond with a sharp jawline comes into your workplace and checks you out.
Bucky's eyes travel to the shelving area ahead and to his right, behind the clumsy book-kicker, and nods as he starts to walk, leading the way toward the fantasy section. "C'mon," he mumbles, still not risking too many words; he isn't as talkative as he once was. The brunet also keeps his left hand in his hoodie pocket, just out of habit. Even if he were concious of it, though, it's uncertain if he would remove it. But probably not.
He stays ahead of the blond, who he now notices is at least six inches shorter than he is, only falling into step beside him again when they reach their destination. Two large oak bookcases create a small little alcove full of fantasy books, both for children and adults alike, all separated into their own sections. There are old stickers on the wall of dragons and princesses, but they're mostly unrecognizable now, having been picked off and chipped away over the span of a decade. They make him feel really sick inside for some reason, so he keeps his eyes on the floor or on the stranger.
"Here you are. If you don't have a card you can just get one when you're checking out." He assumes he doesn't, since he doesn't know where to find things around here. "If you need something, you know where to find me." He offers his own brand of humor that he just can't resist: "Just try not to knock anything over, okay?"
Bucky smirks from behind the dark strands of hair that've fallen in his face before—almost shyly—averting his gaze and starting back toward the piles of books. It's back to work again, but not without a thousand distracted thoughts.
Bucky's eyes travel to the shelving area ahead and to his right, behind the clumsy book-kicker, and nods as he starts to walk, leading the way toward the fantasy section. "C'mon," he mumbles, still not risking too many words; he isn't as talkative as he once was. The brunet also keeps his left hand in his hoodie pocket, just out of habit. Even if he were concious of it, though, it's uncertain if he would remove it. But probably not.
He stays ahead of the blond, who he now notices is at least six inches shorter than he is, only falling into step beside him again when they reach their destination. Two large oak bookcases create a small little alcove full of fantasy books, both for children and adults alike, all separated into their own sections. There are old stickers on the wall of dragons and princesses, but they're mostly unrecognizable now, having been picked off and chipped away over the span of a decade. They make him feel really sick inside for some reason, so he keeps his eyes on the floor or on the stranger.
"Here you are. If you don't have a card you can just get one when you're checking out." He assumes he doesn't, since he doesn't know where to find things around here. "If you need something, you know where to find me." He offers his own brand of humor that he just can't resist: "Just try not to knock anything over, okay?"
Bucky smirks from behind the dark strands of hair that've fallen in his face before—almost shyly—averting his gaze and starting back toward the piles of books. It's back to work again, but not without a thousand distracted thoughts.
fattiest fat cat
*sarcasm*
If ice could grow on people, this guy would straight up be Frosty the Snowman. It’s not like he’s being unfriendly or aggressive, or any of those other things that would drive Steve to put his dukes up, it’s just that there’s a careful detached neutrality, probably specifically bred for… something. Is he uncomfortable? Shit… did he catch Steve checking him out? That would be so awkward, especially if he’s like, you know… straight, which given Steve’s luck is not just fairly possible but highly probable.
In all honesty, Steve’s pretty sure a lot more guy are bi than they’re willing to admit, but guys are just so shitty about it. Straight guys get freaked out, gay guys think it’s gross or think it means he’ll cheat… He’s been known to call himself gay for the sake of simplicity. Dude culture is just not great about people they can’t box up. That’s culture in general, really, but especially dude culture.
Sticking his hand out in a desperate attempt to relieve the tension and also introduce himself as a human being with rights and feelings, Steve gives Bucky his friendliest, boy-next-door smile.
“Hey, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m gay—” the words die on his tongue, the embarrassment going through him as a flush of hot colour runs from his neck to his ears. “Steve. I’m Steve. Oh my God.”
In all honesty, Steve’s pretty sure a lot more guy are bi than they’re willing to admit, but guys are just so shitty about it. Straight guys get freaked out, gay guys think it’s gross or think it means he’ll cheat… He’s been known to call himself gay for the sake of simplicity. Dude culture is just not great about people they can’t box up. That’s culture in general, really, but especially dude culture.
Sticking his hand out in a desperate attempt to relieve the tension and also introduce himself as a human being with rights and feelings, Steve gives Bucky his friendliest, boy-next-door smile.
“Hey, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m gay—” the words die on his tongue, the embarrassment going through him as a flush of hot colour runs from his neck to his ears. “Steve. I’m Steve. Oh my God.”
scamander
New Member
For the first time in what might possibly have been this entire week, James Barnes smiles. He actually smiles. It's nothing more than a curl at the corner of his lips that he can't help at the blond's introduction, but it's something. Steve? That has to be the most vanilla-sounding name he's ever heard. It's the stumble that he made before that, though, that really caught Bucky's attention—and that nearly blinding smile. Geez... Does the guy brush with bleach? Bucky doesn't think he's ever seen teeth so perfect. He freezes, though, and shakes Steve's hand with his own, the right one. He's glad that it worked out that way and he didn't have to make any embarassing explanations at the moment.
"James... But I go by Bucky," he responds, shaking Steve's hand firmly and lingering for a second before letting it fall back to his side. He chooses not to bring up the "gay" thing, even though he found the introduction to be equal parts obvious and adorable, and admittedly the reason he's still standing in front of this guy and not stacking books in a dusty corner. He doesn't want to embarass the guy more than he already is; Steve already looks as red as a rose in full bloom.
Bucky would be lying if he said he hasn't made the same mistake before—once overseas he introduced himself as "Bi—" before correcting himself. It was incredibly embarassing, but he ended up half-drunkenly making out with the guy in the back of the bar later, so it wasn't a total failure. Plus, he found out that the rumor of French guys being good kissers was true. He's still not met someone who has rivaled him to date, not that he's been keeping track.
"Where are you from? I've never seen you here before."
"James... But I go by Bucky," he responds, shaking Steve's hand firmly and lingering for a second before letting it fall back to his side. He chooses not to bring up the "gay" thing, even though he found the introduction to be equal parts obvious and adorable, and admittedly the reason he's still standing in front of this guy and not stacking books in a dusty corner. He doesn't want to embarass the guy more than he already is; Steve already looks as red as a rose in full bloom.
Bucky would be lying if he said he hasn't made the same mistake before—once overseas he introduced himself as "Bi—" before correcting himself. It was incredibly embarassing, but he ended up half-drunkenly making out with the guy in the back of the bar later, so it wasn't a total failure. Plus, he found out that the rumor of French guys being good kissers was true. He's still not met someone who has rivaled him to date, not that he's been keeping track.
"Where are you from? I've never seen you here before."
fattiest fat cat
*sarcasm*
The guy—Bucky—has a delightfully strong grip that sets Steve’s mind running and his pulse racing, but he carefully tempers his thoughts, having already made a big enough fool of himself that he doesn’t need to add hitting on a potentially straight dude to the list. He hasn’t said anything either way, and he doesn’t look uncomfortable, but you never know. Maybe he didn’t hear the flub somehow, or maybe he’s one of those rare straight dudes who’s not instantly threatened by dudes who likes dudes.
“Oh. I just moved into town. I found my family’s got land here.” He grins a little and shrugs his shoulders. “I’m from Brooklyn, so I’m not really sure what I’m doing, but the air out here’s a lot better for my shitty lungs.”
He looks like the last guy to have asthma, but that was kind of the goal. Look healthy enough, and no one will assume that his body’s giving up on him the way that it is.
“Oh. I just moved into town. I found my family’s got land here.” He grins a little and shrugs his shoulders. “I’m from Brooklyn, so I’m not really sure what I’m doing, but the air out here’s a lot better for my shitty lungs.”
He looks like the last guy to have asthma, but that was kind of the goal. Look healthy enough, and no one will assume that his body’s giving up on him the way that it is.
scamander
New Member
"Small world," Bucky remarked. "I'm from Brooklyn too. Born and raised." He doesn't delve further into that, though, just because his upbringing and younger days aren't necessarily his favorite topic of conversation, especially with people he doesn't even know. Then again, people who do know him probably are just as much in the dark; he's not a very open guy, not since returning to New York. "But yeah. It's not exactly a great environment." Steve doesn't look like he has asthma, Bucky notes, but he should know by now not to judge a book by it's cover—librarian pun not intended.
"Have you been to the park yet?" Steve said he's new in town, so he probably hasn't gotten to experience much of it, and probably doesn't know half of what there is to offer. If that assumption wasn't evidence enough, he had somehow found his way to the library... He really needed to learn about something a lot more exciting. "If you're looking for fresh air, that's where it's at. People are usually playing softball there, or there's live music, other stuff... It's across the street."
Bucky himself goes there often, usually on evening runs or to walk his neighbor's dog when she's working late. It crosses his mind to offer to show Steve around some time, but he doesn't mention it out loud. As interesting and borderline "fateful"—if you believed in that kind of thing—their first impressions had been, Bucky still doesn't know anything about the guy. He wants to know more, sure, but he isn't about to embarass himself if it turns out the feeling isn't shared. Though, he has noticed that Steve's barely touched a book since arriving at the fantasy section... That's a little bit telling.
"Have you been to the park yet?" Steve said he's new in town, so he probably hasn't gotten to experience much of it, and probably doesn't know half of what there is to offer. If that assumption wasn't evidence enough, he had somehow found his way to the library... He really needed to learn about something a lot more exciting. "If you're looking for fresh air, that's where it's at. People are usually playing softball there, or there's live music, other stuff... It's across the street."
Bucky himself goes there often, usually on evening runs or to walk his neighbor's dog when she's working late. It crosses his mind to offer to show Steve around some time, but he doesn't mention it out loud. As interesting and borderline "fateful"—if you believed in that kind of thing—their first impressions had been, Bucky still doesn't know anything about the guy. He wants to know more, sure, but he isn't about to embarass himself if it turns out the feeling isn't shared. Though, he has noticed that Steve's barely touched a book since arriving at the fantasy section... That's a little bit telling.
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