Who Am I? » [Stucky]

77. Covert Commination

"Bucky, can you please stop messing around with the laptop and come and help lay the table?" Steve complained in a tense voice, his tone full of nerves and stress. He looked like his eyes were about to pop out of his head and his face had turned a ghastly pink. "Sharon will be here in about five minutes and I've not even cleared the kitchen or the table!" He ranted, throwing his hands about and then rubbing at his face.

Bucky edged away from his laptop slowly, just rapping away swiftly at a few more keys and clicking away through a few more complex interfaces before he regrettably parted from his treasured device. As he walked away, a song started playing quietly through the sound system, but the low volume did the dazzling song no justice.

"Is that really necessary?" Steve whined, fumbling with an unbalanced stack of plates and bowls.

"The right ambience is integral to a good dinner party, Stevie..." Bucky boldly stated, strolling into the kitchen and taking the white porcelain out of Steve's hands.

"And what's this song, dare I ask?" Steve asked as his hands dived into the cutlery drawer for matching stainless steel utensils.

"This song is called Jesus of Suburbia... It's by this band called Green Day. I've just put American Idiot, one of their albums, on shuffle."

Bucky swept about the circular dining table, taking lengthy strides and kicking up a bristling swathe of air behind him, sweeping up random articles of junk into his cradled arms as he went, collecting cluttering paraphernalia of all kinds, descriptions and weight and dumped them in a messy pile atop the kitchen counter. He ordered them vaguely and shoved them back into the corner against the cool tiled wall, overshadowed by cupboards, in much the same way that a snow plough shovels away snow off roads: in one clean swipe.

Steve dropped the heavy handful of cutlery with a clatter, the barely noticeably mismatched knives, forks and spoons pooled on the table, spreading out and skittering across the glossy wooden surface. Steve haphazardly tossed about table mats and straightened them with the tips of his fingers until he was satisfied they were perfectly parallel. He planned out the knives and forks meticulously, spreading them out an even distance around the mats and then placing the glasses exactly on the corner.

"Jeez, who knew you were so fussy about table placements..." Bucky chuckled, his arms capturing Steve from behind and cuddling him in tight, giving his muscled chest a squeeze and pecking the base of his neck.

"I just want tonight to be perfect, Buck..." Steve admitted in a defeated voice, rather lacking in its usual resilience. "I've never done this before, not that I would've invited people to our old place in Brooklyn: the flat would have probably crumbled around our guests. That or the stench would have driven them off, not to mention the damp and the rats." Steve covered his face with his hands, hiding the stress lines appearing on his complexion.

"Calm down, you big dum-dum. It's all going to be absolutely fine. Don't panic. I've got this. Okay?" Bucky reassured him, consoling him through his panic.

Then came a couple knocks at the door. Both of their heads snapped in that direction.

"Hello?" Came an angelic voice through the wood, cooing like a dove on a summer evening.

"I've got this. I'll get the door. You check on the food. And remember not to panic!" He insisted, giving him a brisk strike on the hip. "Okay?"

"Okay..." Steve sighed.

Bucky gave Steve a raunchy but encouraging slap on the rear as he went, like a jockey trying to spur on a horse.

"I love you, you complete moron..." Bucky called over his shoulder as he swanned over in a daze.