Bucky was staring down at his MP3 player and frowning, ‘cos somehow his running playlist had segued into some weird indie shit and totally thrown him off his groove. So he only caught the movement from the corner of his eye, couldn’t catch himself in time to prevent himself tripping over the leash. He lost his balance entirely, braced for impact, but it was sooner and warmer than he’d anticipated.
“…rry,” the guy was saying when he yanked the earbuds out of his ears, “my dog is a half blind asshole.” His hands were big and calloused against the skin of Bucky’s shoulders, and his mouth flooded with saliva at the sight of the guy’s fuckin’ obscene arms.
“Hey,” he said, “us disabled fuckwits have to stand together.”
The guy snorted out a laugh, his nose wrinkling adorably, and maybe Bucky was seeing that from closer than he should 'cos he hadn’t pushed away from the guy’s chest yet, was kinda revelling in being saved like a damsel in distress, but that was between him and the logo on the guy’s shirt that had cracked with the stretching, jesus.
“Yeah, that’s pretty much why I stole him,” he said, turning his head so Bucky could see the purple aids behind his ears.
“You have a habit of taking things that aren’t yours?” He said.
“Dunno,” the guy said, and gave a sheepish smile, running his hand through his straw blond hair. “Gimme your number and find out?”