I'M HAVING THE WORST DAY so I would lovvvve to read stucky "it's 2am and I'm drunk and need salt for my fries and I know you're awake so OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR" 😁😁
“You need /what/?” Steve asks the handsome man who has lived across the hall for three weeks.
“Salt,” the man says, holding a soggy McDonald’s bag in one hand and a flashlight in the other. He is tearing up. “I need salt.”
“Why?” Steve asks.
“To exorcise demons,” the man says, then winces. “No, that sounded so much cooler in my head, but I can’t lie to you. I have all of these french fries but none of them are salty. I need salt for them, or else the world may end.” He pauses, then amends, “/My/ world may end.”
Steve gives him a once-over. The guy from across the hall is typically put-together. Steve has only ever seen him in a suit, with his hair slicked back. Now, he’s stubbled, wearing a t-shirt so worn that Steve can practically see his nipples through it, and a leather jacket. He also smells like a brewery.
Honestly? Steve kind of likes him better this way.
“How many fries will you give me?”
The man’s eyes go wide, like this question has caused him actual thought and, frankly, hurt. He groans. “Five!” he shouts. Steve holds back a laugh. “I will give you five french fries in exchange for your salt.”
“Ten,” Steve counters.
The man’s mouth opens, like he genuinely cannot believe that Steve would have the audacity to ask this of him. Steve can barely restrain his laughter. Then he shuts it, straightens up, and nods with firm resolve. “Fine,” he says, “but only because they are getting cold.”
“‘Course,” Steve says, then opens the door wider. “C’mon in.”
He’d feel more self-conscious about the way his apartment looked if he thought that the guy from across the hall would remember this in the morning. As it is right now, he doesn’t feel self-conscious in the least, and is actually sort of excited for his fries.
“So what’s the occasion?” Steve asks. “Why all the fries?”
“My fiancé dumped me for a secret agent.”
Admittedly, that wasn’t what Steve was expecting. “Sit,” he says, pointing to the couch. The guy from across the hall sits. “I’m Bucky,” he says, then adds with wide eyes, “and I’m really sad.”
“I’m Steve,” Steve says, “and I’ll get the salt.”
“Thank you,” Bucky says, then starts to cry.
The next morning, there’s a knock on the door.
Steve opens it, blurry-eyed and tired. “Hi,” he says, when he sees it’s Bucky. “You feeling okay?”
“No,” Bucky says, “but I brought you a present.”
“What?” Steve asks.
Bucky holds out a cylinder of Morton’s salt with a red bow on top. “I’m sorry for last night,” he says.
Steve can’t help but smile as he takes the salt. “It wasn’t a problem, really. Made my night a lot more interesting.”
Bucky looks down, straightens out his shirt. “You’re really chill,” he says. “And I know I’m a mess, but I appreciate you letting me into your apartment and everything.”
“We could do it again the next time you have a break down,” Steve suggests, then adds, “or whenever, really.”
Bucky looks up. “Yeah?” he asks, looking kind of cute and shy beneath long lashes.
Steve shrugs. “Sure,” he says. Then, “But the fry tax goes up if you’re in a good mood. I’ll need my own order.”
Bucky groans, Steve laughs, and together, they empty that new container of salt.