Work Text:
Brock Fucking Rumlow and his piece of crap car. The physical manifestation of the pile of garbage the man really was.
He’d been nice at first. Steve fumes at the car parked outside his apartment block. They’re all nice at first. Then you refuse to put out thirty seconds after meeting and then the whole fucking truth comes out.
Steve kicks at one of the tyres, but the piece of shit refuses to spontaneously combust.
Brock Fucking Rumlow with his face like a bag of spanners and his sweet mouth. Sweet enough to talk his way past Steve's many defenses and into his bed. Less sweet when he actually got there. Even less sweet when he started borrowing money, and when Steve ran out of money to lend, started just taking it. Money, then books, then anything he could sell.
Steve should have kicked his fucking teeth in when he had the chance.
He clenches his fists in his pockets, hands wrapping around his work keys.
Come crawling back, have you? Steve thinks to himself. He pulls the keys out of his pocket and stomps through the snow to the front of the car, wiping his damp sleeve across the paintwork.
Steve is a good artist. A damned good artist, if he says so himself. And a heavy set of work keys isn’t exactly the most elegant stylus, but he can work with what he’s got. he always has done.
The bonnet is his best work, after the initial cocks and hairy balls all over the doors and ‘FUCK YOU’ across the boot, he takes his time inscribing Brock Fucking Rumlow getting his prick gnawed off by otters. Dozens of them. One of them dragging the bloody ballsack to the drivers wing mirror.
He’s crosshatching the shadows where Brock is on his knees in the visceral, ottery mire when he hears a yelp, not unlike an asthmatic hamster getting stepped on.
Not enough to kill it, just maim it a little
“What are you doing to my fucking car?!”
Steve looks over. It’s not Brock Fucking Rumlow.
No. It’s the annoyingly sexy and bad tempered guy from down the hall. Standing on the apartment steps in pyjamas and overcoat, his feet hastily shoved into his unlaced boots.
For a moment, before the panic sets in, Steve is surprised that NASA make pyjamas.
Bed tempered guy comes down the steps, and Steve takes a panicked step backwards, slipping on the ice and landing on his ass. Oh god, he’s going to get punched to death by sexy, bad tempered neighbour in his stupid pyjamas.
Instead of beating seven shades of shit out of him, sexy NASA pyjamas squints at the bonnet for a moment.
“Is that Brock Rumlow?” He asks eventually.
Steve doesn’t move from his prone position, his hands still half raised with his keys clenched in his fist. “Yes?”
Sexy NASA pyjamas makes a little ‘huh’ noise.
“Where are his balls?”
Steve blinks at him. “Wing mirror,” he says, pointing a shaking finger.
Sexy NASA pyjamas follows the direction he’s pointing and snorts under his breath.
“Nice.”
“You know him?” Steve asks after a moment of silence.
“Hmm?” Sexy Nasa pyjamas tilts his head, still looking at the writhing mass of otters.
“Rumlow? You know him?’
“Yeah. Shitbag owed me money. So he gave me his car in exchange for not rearranging his face.”
“Oh,” Steve says weakly.
Sexy NASA pyjamas looks over at him. “You thought he was here..?”
Steve nods.
“He owe you money?”
Steve nods again.
“You want me to beat him up for you?”
After a moment of consideration, Steve nods again.
“I’ll get it fixed,” Steve says nervously. “I’m not sure how I’ll pay for it, but I’ll get it fixed.”
Sexy NASA pyjamas shrugs. “Might keep it like this. Maybe not the cocks on the door.”
He waves a hand at the less artistic display. “You’re pretty good, though.”
“Thanks,” Steve mutters.
Sexy NASA pyjamas gives Steve a long, lingering look.
“You an’ Rumlow…?”
“yeah,” Steve mutters. “Not my finest hour.”
“Me neither.”
Steve pales. Then sneezes, and covers his face with his sleeve.
Sexy NASA pyjamas holds out his hands. “C’mon, inside before you freeze to death.”
He hauls Steve to his feet, wrapping an arm around him and leading him up the steps.
It’s… nice.
“You gotta name?” the guys asks, holding the door open for him.
“Steve.”
They walk to the stairs in silence.
Steve clears his throat. “What about you? I can’t keep calling you sexy NASA pyjamas.”
.
.
.
“What?”
Steve flushes pink. “What?”
“Sexy?”
“I like the little astronauts.”
“Sexy?”
Steve clamps his mouth shut.
“...seriously?”
Steve nods and chews on his lip.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“The whole little blond firecracker thing is pretty sexy too.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“So. Are you. Um.”
“Versatile. Um. I switch.”
“Right. I was gonna say ‘single’, but…”
“Oh, fuck. Sorry.”
“Nah. Good to know.”
“This is my place.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks for, y’know. Not beating me to death.”
No problem. Thanks for. Uh. The otters.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You want to…”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t finish.”
“Still yes.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Bucky?”
“Yeah?”
“Are those… glow in the dark stars on your ceiling?”
“Uh.”
“Hey, I can see Orion!”
“Um. Yeah.”
“You’re such a fucking nerd.”