Bucky stands before him, stepped up onto a low pedestal, three mirrors surrounding him as he turns to look at himself in a dashing maroon suit jacket. His cheeks have remained flushed, but that could be for a number of reasons: lingerings of his handling at the spa, the way Steve himself had handled Bucky directly afterwards, the continuous pour of champagne he’s slowly been sipping for over an hour.
Maybe it’s Steve’s ravenous eyes on him as he strips out of one outfit and puts on another, again and again.
Maybe it’s Steve’s show of money in closing down the shop for the afternoon so they can have this experience all to themselves.
It’s for Bucky, this shopping spree, but it’s very much for Steve as well.
“I like that one,” Steve husks out from his spot on the velvet couch, bringing his own glass of champagne up to his lips as he takes a sip.
“Yeah?” is all Bucky asks as he meets Steve’s eyes over his shoulder in the mirror, and Steve takes the bait in an instant.
“Yeah. S’fucking delicous. That color was made for you. Want to take it off of you as much as I want to see you in it.”
Steve refrains from mentioning it reminds him of the color of blood. He also avoids telling his husband that does something to him, plays with something deep in Steve’s being. Before either of them can speak up again, Steve is pointing to the rack of clothes to Bucky’s left, to the growing group of purchases.
And as per usual, as if on cue, Bucky makes a gentle, pathetic noise.
“Steve, there’s no way. We can’t—”
“Oh, there’s a way.”
“This price tag has four digits on it, Steve. Four.”
Adorable.
“Make it six. I don’t give a fuck,” Steve tells him sternly, using the tone he knows goes right to Bucky’s balls. “Put it on the goddamn rack..."
