Imagine Steve liking Bucky a lot and every time Bucky touches him, he'd get all blushy and flustered because Steve has been thinking about Bucky touching him in 'other way.'
It starts as far back and he can remember.
Steve’s always had long artists’ fingers- delicate, almost. There’s never been anything wrong with his hands. Well, the look of them. They used to hurt something terrible when it rained back when he was small. They were big, even then. Bucky used to tell him, “Your hands are the biggest thing on you, ‘cept for that nose of yours.” Then he’d reach out one of his fingers and poke at Steve’s nose. They’d laugh and Steve would make a face at Bucky to cover up that all he wanted to do was start gushing about Bucky’s hands right back at him.
Bucky’s hands were always so different from Steve’s. The skin on them was a little darker. They were strong in ways that Steve’s could never be. They were calloused from days and days of hard work where Steve’s weren’t. Later on, they were calloused from holding a rifle, keeping it steady. Bucky’s hands fascinated Steve. Steve thought it was an artistic obsession for a while, then maybe he thought it was jealousy. It took him longer than he’d like to admit for him to realize what it really was.
Steve wanted Bucky to touch him. Everywhere.
One of Bucky’s hands is metal now, and that hand is just as beautiful as the left hand that Steve was previously acquainted with. Steve watches Bucky stir sugar into his coffee with it, watches as the joints in it click and whir. He has to swallow hard. He likes Bucky’s left hand, alright.
“Hey, pal,” Bucky greets him. He slaps his right hand onto Steve’s shoulder and uses it to brace himself so he can lean over Steve to read the newspaper. “What did the Mets do yesterday?”
Steve stumbles over his words, feeling his cheeks heat up at the firm pressure of Bucky’s hand on him. He clears his throat. “Lost.”
Bucky clicks his tongue. “Shame.” Then he removes his hand and Steve can breathe again.
He doesn’t mean for his obsession with Bucky’s hands to take over, but he can’t help that it does.
Bucky’s obviously annoyed. They’re in a meeting at the Avengers Compound and he’s rapping his metal fingers loudly on the table, each one of them rolling down to tap the wood in time. Steve’s staring. Steve’s cheeks are so, so red. Steve needs to stop staring. The fingers stop suddenly and Steve looks up to their owner. Bucky’s giving him a curious look with an eyebrow raised. Steve shrugs, but his cheeks don’t regain their normal color for what feels like an hour.
Bucky follows Steve into the elevator as he always does so they can head back home. He faces Steve as the doors close, giving him a hard look.
“What?” Steve questions, feeling his cheeks heat up again. Oh, God, enough with the blushing.
Bucky doesn’t answer, just slams on the emergency stop button with his left hand. Before Steve can ask what he’s doing, he’s crowding Steve up into the corner of the elevator. He places his metal hand hard onto Steve’s chest and lets his right one slowly climb up from Steve’s shoulder to the side of his neck. “Is it the metal one that does it for you?”
Steve shakes his head, “uh, both of them.”
Bucky narrows his eyes, but they’re sparkling, amused. “Is that why you used to draw my hands all the time?”
“You remember that?”
“Of course I do, it was weird.” Bucky slides his metal hand up to join the right one and cup Steve’s face. “But it’s okay, I like weird.”
“Good,” Steve says, still blushing, practically shivering at the feel of Bucky’s hands on him. Bucky closes the distance between them and kisses him.
Over the intercom, FRIDAY asks if they need assistance. Bucky breaks them apart and says, “Give me a minute. I got somethin’ to do that I should have done a long time ago.”