Fic prompt: IDK if this is where you want to go with this, but I saw fan art of Peggy and Bucky asking Steve to decide who had the better chest, and Steve getting blushy and well... it would make a great fic, yes?
(YES! Love it!)
The worst part of not getting drunk, Steve decided, was how hard it made it to understand his friends when they were trashed.
“Not a chance, Queenie,” Bucky slurred, half-sliding off the bar stool. “Ten out of ten Brooklyn dock workers agree. These pecs are made for smoochin’.”
Peggy wagged her empty shot glass at Bucky. “Dock workers, but not tortured sensitive artist types--” she paused to hiccup--“with super soldier serum . . . who know . . . these knockers would crush a man given half a--a chance.”
Steve strode up to them--his best girl and his best guy--and slung his arms around both their shoulders. “Do I even wanna know what’s happening here?”
(Steve Rogers had plenty of good reasons to keep the two of them apart. But somehow, the sight of them together, bonding through alcohol and unknown competitions, set a secret thrill down his spine.)
“Steve Rogers.” Bucky clapped his hand over Steve’s. “Steven Fucking Rogers. Just the goddamned man we need to settle a little--disagreement. Between friends.”
“No disagreement,” Peggy said quickly. “There’s simply no contest. There’s a reason these ladies are painted on five airplanes in the RAF--”
“Listen.” Bucky turned toward Steve, eyes turned conspiratorial. As he did so, he lowered one hand to goose Steve, who jumped. “Hah. Sorry. Listen, Cap--”
“--You’ll have to be our tiebreaker,” Peggy said. As she leaned over the bar, she knocked a few empty shotglasses over. “There’s no other way.”
“Tiebreaker for what?” Steve asked.
Bucky loosened his dress uniform’s tie. “For who has the better chest.”
“Whoa. Okay, okay.” Steve clamped his hand down on Bucky’s to keep him from undressing further. “How did this even . . . Never mind, I don’t want to know.”
“But you’ll be our judge, won’t you?” Peggy asked. “Come now, Captain, be a good sport.” Even drunk, her lilt still sounded so commanding, so agreeable, that he couldn’t help but want to comply.
“I don’t exactly think the pub is the place for that kind of show. I mean--it’s not that kind of pub.” Steve could feel the heat all over his entire body as he turned beet red. He’d seen hints of Bucky’s pecs before, after all--and the lacy trim of Peggy’s brassiere--
“Then we’ll go elsewhere. How about my flat?”
Steve and Bucky turned as one to stare at Peggy.
“What?” She waved a nonchalant hand through the air. “It’s only a few blocks.”
Bucky laughed, low, to himself and smacked Steve on the arm. “I gotta hand it to you, Steve. You sure know how to pick ‘em.”
Steve smiled at him in spite of himself. “You know, I think I do.”
“Come on, boys. Let’s not dally. Besides.” Peggy slid off the stool with a clang of her heels and held out her arm. “I’ve got half a bottle of scotch with both your names.”
Steve looped his arm through Peggy’s. He was still bright red, he was sure, but embarrassment wasn’t the only thing he was feeling anymore. Then he held his other arm out for Bucky. His best guy and his best girl, and he pressed his hands to the smalls of their backs.
“Well,” Steve said. “I’d hate for half a bottle of scotch and the two best chests in London to go to waste.”