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Steve had never thought much of himself. You’re useless, everyone said. You’ll never amount to anything.
He never showed it, but every word they spoke were like poison arrows to his heart, the sickness infecting him and dragging him down so far that nobody could see him (not that anyone did before).
But he couldn’t deny that they were all completely right. He worked a dead-end job, bagging groceries at a lifeless shopping center. He lived in a tiny apartment (Steve wasn’t sure it was big enough to be considered an apartment) , by himself. It was just him, his thoughts, and his sketchbook.
Steve wasn’t an artist, it was all just a hobby. He would paint and color to his heart’s delight, if he had the money for paints, pastels, or colored pencils. But he was happy with his sketchbook, worn pencils and borrowed (stolen) sticks of charcoal.
This was why when a man shook his hand with a friendly grin (‘My name’s Brock. Brock Rumlow’), he was surprised. Surprised because he was the only one who bothered to ask his name (he pointed at his own nametag. “Its Steve. Says so right there.”). He was the only one who laughed at his dry tone and said he liked Steve. Brock said he’d seen him around, and that he’d like to take him out when his shift ended. (His eyes narrowed. “Is this a fucking prank? Do you think this is funny? Ha ha, hilarious, let’s make fun of the awkward cashier. Who the hell put you up to this?”)
Brock didn’t stop smiling, in fact, his eyebrows raised and his smile only got wider. (‘Oh Steve, why would I do that?’ Brock reached over the counter to put a hand on Steve’s. Steve jerked away as if he’d been burned. ‘I just think you’re cute, and I wanna take you out. Is that a crime?’)
One hour later, Brock met Steve outside. They went to dinner, and Steve thought that maybe he could fall in love with Brock.
Two months later, Steve was right. They were together, had been for a while. Steve thought he was in love with Brock. He thought that Brock was in love back (‘Hey baby? I love you.’ Brock’s grin was just as big as it was the first night they met.) Steve’s sketchbook filled with Brock’s happiness, his excitement to have Steve as his own. Brock had insisted that Steve move in with him, (‘Baby, you can’t keep living in that shitty little apartment. I swear, you won’t be in the way!’) so he did. He liked living with Brock, he loved having the constant contact with someone else, loved not being alone.
Steve’s sketchbook filled up with drawings of Brock’s smile, his eyes, his love.
Four months later, they celebrated being together for half a year. The dinner was the first time Steve had been out of the house in a while, Brock having insisted that Steve quit his job (‘Baby, I can support us both. You don’t need to keep working yourself into the ground! I love you and I know this will make you happy, I swear!’). Steve was glad that Brock hadn’t ordered any alcohol tonight, the accidental fingerprint shaped bruises on his arm were just starting to heal. He was happy, they were perfect together.
Steve’s sketchbook filled up with drawings of Brock’s blank eyes and glasses filled with whiskey.
Six months later, they didn’t celebrate their first anniversary. Steve didn’t think Brock remembered, and he was in one of his moods. Steve wasn’t willing to get another black eye, so he kept quiet and hurt silently. He went to pick up a call from Natasha, but the phone was gingerly taken from him and thrown out the window from the 6th floor. (‘You don’t need her, baby,’ His eyes were dark and terrifying. ‘Not when you have me.’) . Steve didn’t give an answer, just nodded and let Brock kiss his forehead. He only let the tears fall when Brock breezed past him, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
Steve’s sketchbook filled up with drawings of shattered plates and broken beer bottles held by a strong, furious hand.
Seven days later, he screamed and sobbed for his sketchbook, begging and clawing at Brock to give it back. He toppled over with a punch to the face. Steve had to sit and watch it be tossed out the window to the 6th floor. Brock snarled at Steve to shut up when he let out a choked cry as he saw his book sail through the air as gravity pulled it down to it’s demise. (‘You fuckin’ stay there, you little bitch. That’s what you get for talkin’ back to me.’) .
Brock walked out, slamming the door. Steve knew he was on his way to work, and waited patiently for his car to disappear from sight.
Steve pried the window open like he had so many times before, walking out onto the fire escape only in his socks. He ran like hell down the stairs to the floor, terror and adrenaline pumping through his veins. He’d gone out to get fresh air before, but never had gone down to the actual ground.
His sketchbook was sprawled out on the ground, and god how he ran to it. Steve kneeled down in front of it, picking it up gingerly. It was relatively unharmed, just a bit dusty with a page or two falling out.
He’d never run back up to the apartment so quickly. Once in front of the window, he peeled off his socks and threw them into a bush way down on the bottom floor.
He went to his room and pried up one of the loose floorboards. Perfect. Steve grabbed every art supply he had and shoved them into the gaping hole in the ground, praying that they’d be safe (pencils, charcoal, and a sharpener, that was all he had).
Steve’s sketchbook filled up with tear stains.
One year later, Steve was wearing a pound of makeup to cover a black eye while walking through the aisles of the grocery store. A hand held his wrist in a bruising, bone-breaking grip. He never thought he’d miss his old workplace, but this was the first time he’d seen the light of day in over a year.
Brock had decided that Steve had been good enough to take him to go grocery shopping with him. Steve hoped he’d be good enough more often.
A hand landed on his shoulder, startling him, making him cower and flinch, expecting the fist or slap that was bound to come afterwards.
Instead, a kind, familiar voice called to him (‘Steve? I haven’t seen you in years, I thought you died or something! Why haven’t you contacted me, Steve? Where have y-’). Brock stepped in front of him, cutting the redheaded girl off, his best friend’s face going blank. Brock’s mouth curled into a fake, predatory grin. (‘Hey there, sweetheart, hands off of my boy here. What’s your name, girl?’ Her eyes flashed, god Brock don’t do it you don’t know her she’ll eat you alive .)
(‘My name is Natasha Romanoff, I’m Steve’s best friend. And you are?’)
Brock told her, stressing the fact that he was Steve’s boyfriend , but the way he said it made it sound more like he was asserting dominance, making sure she knew Steve was his.
He tried to speak up, but was silenced by a squeeze to the wrist so hard he whimpered. Natasha’s eyes flicked down to his wrist, then up to his face. They narrowed ever so slightly, and Steve knew that she’d realized exactly what was happening. Save me, he thought. Save me from him, take me away from here.
She dropped her defensive stance and plastered on the sugary sweet grin Steve knew all too well, the kind that told him she was about to raise hell. (‘I’m sorry Mr. Rumlow, I didn’t realize. May I just give him a hug before I leave you two alone together? I’ll be out of your hair right after that.’ )
Natasha always knew just what to say, because Brock seemed content with the level of control he had over the situation. She hugged him gingerly, just in case there were any bruises. There were. He mentally thanked her. As she pulled away from the hug, she rubbed his cheek up against her sleeve. The foundation covering the blackened green bruise on his cheek smeared off enough to see most of it. He saw Natasha’s eyes go wide and furious, he saw hellfire ignite in her eyes. He saw her fists clench and he knew exactly what was coming next.
She immediately turned and kicked Brock in the stomach, followed by a quick punch to the throat, eliciting a pained OOF and a choked yelp. From there, Natasha took him down (‘You’re never laying a fucking finger on him again, do you understand? You’re going to rot. Just like the garbage you are.’). She got up and kicked him a few more times, just for good measure.
Natasha picked Steve up like she did when they were kids (When had he ended up on the floor? He didn’t remember that, didn’t remember any of it) and began carrying him to the car, knowing that words weren’t necessary sometimes. This was one of those times. They drove to his (Brock’s) apartment in silence. Steve walked her up the stairs to the apartment (prison) , only for them to find it locked. She let out an aggravated yell as he turned back to go to the car (he didn’t need anything inside he was okay he just wanted out), but he was quickly startled by the noise of splintering wood.
She’d kicked the door in, and was now stalking inside to get everything he needed. Steve walks in, feeling like he’s floating. He goes directly to the loose floorboard next to his bed and pries it up, surprised he has the strength to even do that.
Natasha found him prying up one of the floorboards, digging out a stash of art supplies from underneath it. a few pencils, a sharpener, some sticks of charcoal, and a sketchbook were all he had, and he clutched them to his chest with tears in his eyes.
They walked down the stairs, and he silently slid back into Natasha's car. On the way home, she said nothing about the choked sobs coming from the back seat.
Steve walked inside and fell asleep on her couch almost immediately after they get to her apartment. Natasha drapes a blanket over his bruised and battered body, internally tearing at herself for not looking for him more avidly, for not trying harder. She gingerly took the sketchbook out of his hands and carefully began to go through it.
It went from sketches of Brock laughing and sleeping next to him to anger in his eyes and bruises on Steve's body. The emotions were so raw and Natasha can't help but shed a few tears, wishing she'd found him sooner. Steve’s sketchbook filled up with someone else’s tear stains.
One year later, Steve had a restraining order on Brock, and he knew for a fact that he’d moved out of town, maybe even out of state. As for him and Natasha, they’d moved as well. They lived in a cute little town, with relatively friendly people and a nice atmosphere. He was content.
Steve still flinched whenever someone raises their hand next to him, and someone raising their voice to him made him fall into a defensive stance, fists clenched at his sides, but he was getting better.
Some nights he still crawled into Natasha's bed at one in the morning, silent tears being shed. On those nights, Natasha just held him and pet his hair until he fell back asleep. But he was getting better.
Steve was the closest he'd been to happy in a long time.
He was finally figuring out who he was. His sketchbook had become his best friend (Natasha resented that) , and he'd learned that he loved dumb graphic T-shirts with sarcastic or funny things on them. He’d learned that he was good at using colors, and he’d learned that having enough money to buy a few things you wanted was a wonderful thing.
He’d gotten a job at a little hole in the wall bookstore slash coffee shop, and it made him realize just how awful bagging groceries was. He’d take a dumbass in a flannel complaining that soy latte he ordered had soy in it over a soccer mom demanding to see his manager any day.
He loved his job, it was nice and calm, and the clientele was wonderful. He could lie and say there were no disputes with the customers, but there was always that one asshole who was never happy with what they were served. They were always taken care of properly by the managers, thankfully. He got free coffee and on his breaks, he was able to sit around and read as many new books as he wanted to.
Steve loved his job.
It was just another day at the job, Steve was just making coffee, doing his job, minding his own business.
ding ding
The bell on the door signaled a customer, and he turned with a smile to welcome them, but stopped dead in his tracks. He realized that his mouth was opening and closing with no words actually coming out, but his brain seemed to have shorted out.
There was a new customer, which wasn’t uncommon, he was just more used to his regulars. The difference was that the new customer was beautiful. He pulled his tousled brown hair up into a small ponytail (The world was cruel, and it sure as hell was trying to fuck with Steve at that moment) , and he stuffed his hands in his pockets, walking towards the front counter. The front counter, where Steve was still standing with his mouth open (He snapped it shut so hard he bit his tongue. He tried not to wince too much) .
They locked eyes, and now he was looking into vibrant steel blue eyes, soft and kind. Steve was so lost in thought that he nearly missed the customer calling his name.
It wasn’t Blue Eyes calling his name. It was a woman named Brenda, with her two kids (She’d named them Mint and Chip. Who in the hell names their kids Mint and Chip?!).
She was bitching him out for putting ice in her iced coffee, because ice didn’t belong in coffee, even when said coffee was iced .
Blue Eyes was standing behind her, glaring at her with a raised eyebrow, obvious disgust and annoyance painted on his face. A look Steve wished he could be giving her as well. Steve took a moment to notice the tattoos snaking their way up his arms, some colorful and others not so much. He itched to drag Blue Eyes over to see the art, if it looked so nice from where he was, Steve was sure it’d look even better up close. He shook his head, turning back to the lovely banshee, who somehow still had more to say.
Steve bit out an apology and offered to make her a new coffee. Of course, she just huffed and walked away after threatening to talk to his manager later on. Steve told her to have a nice day in a deadpan voice, trying to keep from going over to shove both her and her snotty little candy-named kids out the door.
(“Hey, sorry you had to deal with that,” Blue Eyes was talking to him, eyes filled with sympathy and warmth. “I shoulda said somethin’ about it.”
Steve shook his head no and furrowed his brow. “It wouldn’t have mattered either way. She probably would have gotten angrier. Thanks anyway. May I take your order?”)
Blue Eyes stood and stared at the menu for a good long while, mouth slightly open in concentration. Steve totally didn’t notice his cherry-chapstick lips, and he definitely didn’t notice the black tongue piercing. He obviously didn’t notice that it really suited him, or that Steve really liked it.
(“D’ya think I could have a medium iced black coffee? I promise I won’t yell at you for giving me ice.” Blue Eyes was giving him a shining lopsided grin, one that nearly got one out of Steve as well. Instead, Steve nodded because of course he can have one, he’s the goddamn customer.)
He loved it when people ordered black coffee. Making it was so nice and easy and impossible to get the cup, pour in the coffee and ice, slap on the lid, and hand it to him . Blue Eyes gladly took it, immediately going to sip at it as if it was the only thing keeping him alive. He sighed contentedly, a soft smile spreading across his face.
(“My friend was right, the coffee here is fuckin’ amazing!” He looked like he expected a response from Steve, looked hopeful. Steve couldn’t. He wasn’t going to let another one in.
“Cash or credit?”
“Actually, do you think I could add somethin’?” Blue Eyes gestured over to the pastry display. “Would it be alright if I got a strawberry cake pop?”)
Steve quirked a brow and looked over at the display in disgust. For some reason, he had a special kind of hatred for cake pops. They were just so goddamn ridiculous and pointless. They were just a tiny ball of cake coated in icing and a few sprinkles on top. Not only that, but they were so overpriced for how small they were. He’d never actually had one, but his personal vendetta against them prevented him from ever ever ever trying one. Blue Eyes seemed to catch Steve’s obvious disdain.
(“What can I say, I just really like sweet things.” He shot Steve a pointed look and a wink. Steve ignored the blush that decided to paint his cheeks a rosy pink and quickly turned to go get Blue Eyes his stupid cake pop.)
When he came back over with the pathetic little pastry in hand, he and Blue Eyes traded the cake pop for his debit card. Blue Eyes grinned at him, putting his coffee down to stick his hand out to shake Steve’s.
(“My name’s Bucky. Bucky Barnes. What’s yours?”) Steve looked at him in surprise, because nobody asked him his name. They were nice, but everyone was just here for their caffeine fix or a fancy drink. (he pointed at his own nametag. “Its Steve. Says so right there.”).
Bucky was the only one who laughed at his dry tone, not maliciously, but a genuine laugh. Steve handed Bucky his card back and went to escape to the back, but Bucky stopped him.
Bucky said that he worked across the street at the tattoo parlor (because of course he did) , that he’d seen Steve around, and that he’d like to take him out when his shift ended.
Steve was suddenly hit with a horrible sense of deja vu, being transported back to his first time talking to Brock, remembering just how quickly he’d said yes.
Remembering just how quickly he’d ended up broken.
He stood, frozen in place. Bucky’s expression went from hopeful to concerned in seconds.
(“Steve? Are you o-”)
Steve shoved the receipt at Bucky.
(“Have a nice day.” He turned and disappeared until he heard the door jingle, telling him that Bucky had left. Steve left work early that day.)
It would have been easy to forget Bucky Barnes. After all, he’d only come in once. Steve came in the next day just a bit shaken up, but after the rest of his shift went well, he was fine.
It would have been easy to forget Bucky Barnes.
You know, if he hadn't decided to become a regular at the coffee shop.
Bucky came in every day, without fail, and ordered the same thing, every day . He always came in with a warm hello with a flirty grin, then strutted up to the counter to order a strawberry cake pop with a medium iced black coffee.
When he got his order, he'd always sit by the front counter and try talking to Steve. Steve always responded with clipped, one or two word answers. Bucky would shrug and go sit down, leaving Steve alone until the next day. He was relentless, and it was absolutely fucking infuriating.
What he appreciated about Bucky was how perceptive he was. If he noticed that Steve was having a bad day, he’d get his things and leave. Whenever he noticed that Steve might not be in the mood for talking, he’d get his things, make sure to smile and say thank you with as much warmth as possible. Those were the days where Steve felt better after Bucky left, for some reason.
Some days, he’d be thinking about Brock, he wouldn’t be able to get any of what happened out of his head, he couldn’t get away from it. The first time Bucky noticed, he struck up a small conversation.
(“So what’s your favorite pastry?” Steve didn’t answer, he just looked down at the counter and prayed for a customer to come in. “Alright. So, can I have a medium black iced coffee, a strawberry cake pop, and a coffee cake muffin?”)
Steve had looked up in surprise, but went to go get everything nonetheless. They traded the coffee and the pastries for the debit card, a daily ritual, and once Bucky had been given his receipt and card back, he went to go find a seat. He took his coffee and cake pop with him, but left the plate with the muffin on the counter.
(Steve called Bucky back over. “You left your thing here.” He said, no emotion in his voice. Bucky looked over and smiled. It made Steve feel a bit better. “That’s for you,” Steve’s eyebrows practically shot up to his hairline, and Bucky shrugged. “It was kind of an impulse buy, and I realized I don’t really want it. You can have it.”)
He didn’t know how, but somehow, that erased any thoughts he’d been having earlier. Steve wasn’t sure how Bucky had guessed, but the stupid damn muffins were his favorite pastry, or whatever it qualified as. Cautiously, Steve picked it up and took a bite. Having skipped breakfast, it was possibly the best thing he’d had in a century, or so his tastebuds told him. It lifted his mood immediately, and hell if he wasn’t happy about that.
(“Thank you,” Steve called out to Bucky, happiness shining out of every pore, a smile spread across his face. “Thank you so much.” Bucky winked and grinned right back. “If it got that smile outta you, it was worth it.”)
They went on like this for about a month, Bucky coming in each day and ordering his coffee and ridiculous cake pop, him gauging Steve’s mood and acting accordingly. Over the month, Steve realized that he’s begun to enjoy Bucky’s company, that he’s started talking to him when Bucky started a conversation. He realized that he knows more about him than he thought he did. Steve realized that Bucky, the one with the beautiful and delicately bold tattoos, with the radiant grin, the shining eyes, the stupidly happy laugh, he’d dug a place in his heart. Steve wasn’t sure when it happened, all he knew is that it had.
Bucky walked in on one of Steve’s bad days, and it suddenly became a not-so-bad day. Instead of coming to the counter, he found a table and simply sat. Steve didn’t try to hide his confusion or disappointment, wondering what had happened, wondering if he’d done something. Hoping he hadn’t somehow fucked up.
Five minutes before Steve was off of work, Bucky came up to order.
(“D’ya think I could have an iced black coffee, a cake pop, a pastry of your choice, another coffee however you like it, and some of your time after you’re done with your shift?” He looks expectant and nervous, waiting for Steve’s answer.)
The last time Steve had done this, he’d ended up in a place worse than hell itself. The last time he’d done this, he’d ended up the way he is now, bitter and scared and constantly on guard. He really shouldn’t have said a thing, he should have just hung up the apron and left.
For some reason, Steve said yes.
It was worth it for the look on Bucky’s face. It was worth it for the way they walked around town, Steve with his piping hot coffee and thirty layers of clothes (it was freezing out!), Bucky with his iced coffee and light sweater (Bucky swore up and down that it was nice out, even with the snow falling, the flakes decorating his hair) .
Steve learned that Bucky had drawn all of the art he had painted on himself, Bucky learned that Steve had drawn all of the art he kept inside to keep him safe. Bucky said Steve could come visit to see his art whenever he’d like. Steve said Bucky could ask to see his art whenever he’d like (don’t trust too much don’t trust too much don’t trust too much), and Bucky sprung at the idea. Steve always kept his sketchbook with him, so when Bucky said he’d love to see it as soon as humanly possible, he hesitantly went to his pack, wondering if he really wanted to do this.
Before he could overthink any of it, Steve took it out and thrust it towards Bucky. When he opened the book, Steve couldn’t help but to look over at it along with him, just to remember everything he’d drawn.
Bucky went through his drawings, most of them being sketches of his regulars, some are pastels of people who walk into the coffee shop occasionally. Unfortunately for Steve, there were also several of Bucky that he completely forgot about. There were more of him than of anyone else, pastels and colored pencils and charcoal and and and.
Bucky's face softened at those, he let out a breathy laugh while the tips of his ears and cheeks went pink. Steve didn’t know if he was actually blushing or if it was because of the cold, but while he was mortified, it’s possible that Bucky’s reaction was worth the embarrassment.
They walked and talked endlessly, Bucky eating his cake pop, and Steve eating his (Bucky wouldn’t stop teasing about it, and Steve ended up liking it a whole lot more than he’d ever say).
They ended up walking back to Steve’s (Natasha’s) apartment complex.
It was too soon, and while Steve knew he’d see Bucky tomorrow, but somehow, that was just so different to being there at that moment.
They exchanged a quiet, bashful goodbye, smiles on their faces as the snow fell around them. He’d barely turned and taken one step toward the building when someone suddenly spun him back around and-
And Bucky's arms were around him, hugging him cautiously until steve wraps his arms around him too. With that, suddenly Steve was enveloped in a bear hug where there was warmth, safety and happiness. Bucky smelled like coffee and strawberries.
When Bucky let Steve go, he gave Steve the biggest, most radiant grin he’d ever seen. (“Thank you for saying yes. I had a really good time,” Bucky planted a soft kiss on his forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Stevie.”)
Steve watched Bucky walk away, suddenly feeling all too warm despite the snow falling all around him. He was completely silent and dazed on his way up the stairs. As he went to get his keys from his pocket, his brain finally finished registering what just happened.
The door opened on its own, and Natasha looked out to find a blushing Steve Rogers, frozen in place with his keys clutched tightly in hand. Smirking, she dragged him inside and suggested they order pizza. It was only then that he seemed to return to the real world, eyes immediately focusing directly on his pack. Steve mumbled a “Sure, sounds good.” and ran to his room, eager to put everything that had just happened on paper. It had been too good a night for it to become a simple memory.
Steve thought that maybe he should give Bucky a chance.
The next day, Steve had his day off. He bought an iced black coffee along with two strawberry cake pops, then walked to the tattoo parlor across the street.
ding ding
Strangely enough, it was nice to hear the familiar ringing of the bell as he walked into Bucky’s workplace. He looked around cautiously for Bucky. Steve called out a hello, and before the dirty blonde man at the front desk could answer, from another room there was thumping and a crash, followed by silent curses. Steve and the receptionist exchanged a worried look, and as the receptionist opened his mouth to speak, he was interrupted once more, this time by Bucky practically flying through the doorway of another room. His eyes lit up when he saw Steve, and it warmed his heart. (Holding up the coffee, Steve waved as best he could with it in hand. “I uh, brought coffee.”) He stood like a dumbass, still holding the coffee up, unsure of what to do with himself. Bucky made the most ridiculous happy noise and made grabby hands like a damn five year old. Steve laughed and handed him both the coffee and the cake pop. Surprisingly, he gave Steve a warm hug.
(“Thank you so much, Stevie," Steve wasn’t one for nicknames, but he thought he might be willing to make an exception for Bucky. “I was dyin’ without my caffeine and sugar fix!”)
(He took a bite out of his pastry and turned to the receptionist and gestured at Steve. “Hey Clint, this is Steve, in case ya hadn’t noticed yet.”)
Steve had expected to run into some of Bucky’s coworkers. He didn’t expect to have everyone run into the front room as soon as he’d been introduced to Clint. (“Jesus, Sam. You scared the hell outta us! Scott, Wanda, what are you all doin’ out here?” Steve noticed Clint waggling his eyebrows at Bucky. “So this is the famous Steve Rogers?” Clint had come around to stand with the rest of the group, and offered his hand to Steve. “Nice to meet you, Bucky never shuts the fuck up about you!” )
Bucky shot him a glare that made even Steve wince. Clint’s eyebrows immediately ceased their incessant waggling as he clamped his mouth shut so quickly that Steve swore he could have heard Clint’s teeth clack together.
The rest of Bucky’s coworkers had seemingly disappeared, and Bucky just led Steve over into the other room. They both sat and made the regular old small talk. Steve ate his dumb cake pop along with Bucky, who paused every so often to sip at his coffee. He offered some of it to Steve at some point, and after tasting it, Steve decided that anyone who liked that was an absolute goddamn heathen.
It hit Steve that somewhere in here, Bucky had some of his own artwork. He demanded to see it, no matter how mediocre Bucky claimed it was. Steve opened the binder he was handed the second he got his paws on it and-
And there were no words for how gorgeous Steve thought it was. He’d fallen for Bucky’s art on sight, and immediately he made a decision.
(“Bucky, I want a tattoo right now.”)
Bucky stared at him like he was just a little bit crazy.
(“Stevie, that’s somethin’ you’ve gotta think over for a good while.” Steve shrugged. “I did think it over for a good while. I like a design I’ve had in mind for a while, and I want it on me. I want you to put it on me. Today.”)
They argued over it until Sam yelled at Bucky for it.
(“Jesus, Barnes. Give him the damn thing or I’ll do it myself just so you’ll both stop bitching.” Bucky’s glare didn’t work on Sam, apparently. Steve decided he liked Sam.)
Steve told Bucky what he wanted, and waited for him to draw up his own version of it. He loved it, of course. When Bucky asked him what it meant, Steve refused to tell. He swore up and down that it wasn’t anything vulgar, anything that Bucky would refuse to put on him, but other than that, his lips were sealed.
He decided to get it down his back, vertically along his spine. Bucky hesitated, insisting that Steve put it somewhere else (“That’s gonna hurt like a bitch, especially because you’re kinda bony. I love it, don’t take that the wrong way, but it’s gonna be real bad.”). Steve couldn’t have cared less. He’d endured worse, much worse, this would be nothing.
Steve won that one as well, this time thanks to Clint and Scott. He decided he liked them too.
That was how Steve ended up with an unrelenting needle painting his feelings onto his skin.
желание
Longing.
ж
е
Steve longed to be strong enough to defeat the demons of the past that haunted him.
л
а
Steve longed to learn how to properly love someone again.
н
и
Steve longed to learn how to become his own person again.
е
Steve longed to find someone to show him that love could be something other than hell.
With the dull pain of the needle biting into his back, he could almost feel all of the poison from the past years of his life escaping from the tiny holes being made in his skin.
When they were done, Bucky showed Steve the results with both a mirror and a photo he snapped on his phone, and Steve thought he’d fallen a bit in love with it. If he could, he would have kissed the tattoo, but at the moment, he could settle for kissing the tattoo artist.
Steve spun around and pulled Bucky down for nothing more than a quick peck on the lips and a thank you that conveyed every emotion he was feeling. He tasted like coffee and strawberry icing, and Steve thought that maybe he really liked it.
Steve went to pay, leaving Bucky there, frozen in shock. Clint knew exactly what had just happened, based on the look on his face. Steve just gave him a cheeky grin and practically danced out the door once the money had exchanged hands.
Steve thought he might be in a little bit too deep. Steve also thought that maybe he didn’t mind at all.
One hour later, Steve was sitting on a bench at the city park next to Bucky, making stupid jokes and poking fun at each other. It had surprised Steve to have Bucky run out after him immediately after he’d begun walking back home, but it sure as hell was a damn nice surprise.
Steve had no idea that they even had a park, much less one with a pond and ducks. They fed the ducks, and steve laughed so hard he nearly cried when bucky pissed off a goose. The sight of him running was only hilarious until the damn thing started going after Steve too. Never had they run faster than they did at that moment.
At the end of the night, when he sat alone in his bed, butterflies made a home in his stomach. Steve thought that maybe he could fall in love with Bucky.
Two months later, he was right. Bucky still came in every day for his usual order, and Steve had started coming in to sit and talk to his friends. They’d started as strangers, but as the days went by, Bucky had encouraged Steve to interact and talk to Sam, Scott, and Clint. Steve was extremely happy that he had, because now he had three more friends than he had two months ago. About a month after Bucky and Steve’s date at the park, Natasha had insisted on meeting Bucky and the others. After the first meeting, they’d all clicked somehow, and now Steve had a wonderful little group. Instead of Pizza Fridays between him and Natasha, they all had one big reunion each week, watching stupid movies and gorging themselves on whatever food they decided to order.
Steve and Bucky still preferred to walk everywhere they could, enjoying being able to spend as much time with each other as they could. No matter what time of day or night it was, Bucky was always adamant about walking Steve home, refusing to let him go alone. (“It sounds stupid, I know. I just don’t want you gettin’ hurt, and I know you can protect yourself, but I want to do this for you.” He’d always kiss the top of Steve’s head, then his forehead, the tip of his nose, then finally press their lips together, a sweet and smiling kiss.)
Bucky would always give him the most adoring looks, and whenever he did, Steve couldn’t help but think that he didn’t deserve this, what in the world did he do to deserve this. He’d always voice his thoughts, and he’d always get the saddest look back. Bucky would caress his cheek, where bruises had bloomed so long ago. Bucky would hold him tight, with love instead of possessiveness. It made him feel warm and safe, something he hadn’t felt in years. (“I’m in love with you,” He whispered. “I’m so in love with you, Stevie.”)
Somehow, that was different than a simple spoken I love you . The soft, sweet look on his face said it all, there wasn’t even any need for words. But Bucky wanted him to know it, knew that Steve needed to hear it. (He clung to Bucky, tears in his eyes. Steve covered Bucky’s face in kisses, whispering silent I love you I love you I love you’s between each one.)
Steve’s sketchbook filled up with flushed cheeks and ecstatic grins paired with sparkling eyes.
Four months later, Steve woke up to breakfast in bed and the biggest kiss he’d ever gotten. Bucky laughed at Steve’s baffled and somewhat annoyed expression. All annoyance went away when he practically threw himself in bed with Steve and went on and on about how it was six months that day, how it was special and they should go do something that day!
They ate breakfast together in their little apartment, the one they’d worked so hard for. It was right across the street from Natasha’s apartment complex, and they wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Afterwards, they ran (literally ran, Steve could barely keep up) to the park. Bucky gave Steve his present, the beautiful set of ink pens and pastels he’d been aching to get for ages. Steve gave Bucky his present, a Keurig that he’d been aching to get for ages.
(“This doesn’t mean I’m going to stop going in for coffee and cake pops, I hope you know that!”) . Of course Steve knew that. He wouldn’t have had it any other way.
They fed the ducks, and amazingly enough, the exact same goddamn goose chased them away (This time, it managed to bite Bucky in the ass. He complained about it for weeks.).
Steve’s sketchbook filled up with drawings of a sleeping Bucky with a sharpie moustache, and the resulting chase that came afterwards.
Six months later, they celebrated their one year anniversary with a cliché fancy restaurant. They drank champagne and ate really good (and really expensive) food, and enjoyed every minute of it. They ended it back at home with a dessert of strawberry cake pops. What else would it have been?
Steve’s sketchbook filled up with drawings of sparkling champagne held delicately in Bucky’s hand as he pointed out all of the constellations in the sky, an awestruck look on his face.
Seven days later, it was a full moon and Bucky insisted on going to have a midnight picnic in the middle of nowhere, just so they could see it. (“There’ll be less light pollution there,” He enthused. “We have to go, please, Stevie?” Steve never could resist his puppy eyes, so they went on their way.)
They ended up on a comfy blanket, staring up at the moon. It cast a beautiful glow upon them both, and already he knew what he’d be drawing the next day. (Bucky pushed himself up to look over at Steve. “Hey Stevie? You know I love you, right?” Steve scoffed and rolled his eyes, a smile on his face. “Of course I do, jerk. Why do you ask?”)
Bucky grabbed the pretty much useless picnic basket. It was midnight and neither of them had been hungry, but he’d insisted on bringing it anyway.
In the pale moonlight, Bucky pulled out a little box, the kind that everyone knows exactly what’s inside. He pursed his lips and tried to hide the tears that sprung to his eyes.
(“You know I love you, and honestly? God, Stevie, I wanna stay with you forever,” Bucky opened the box to show a shining silver band, simple, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen besides the man sitting next to him. “So, will you marry me?”)
Steve’s sketchbook filled up with drawings of him choking out a joyful, tearful, (“Yes. A million times yes.”).
One year later, Steve could hear Natasha outside his dressing room, chastising Bucky because (“No, you can’t go inside to see him. It’s bad luck to see your partner before they walk down the aisle!”). Clint’s daughter and Bucky's fellow coworker, Wanda, flitted around him. She had insisted on being the one to fix up his suit, his hair, and anything she thought was out of place.
(“You look wonderful, Steve,” She gushed. “Bucky’s jaw is going to drop to the floor in awe!”)
Natasha was the one to walk him down the aisle, and while she tried her best to stay stoic, he could see the happy tears in her eyes. At the altar, she gave him the biggest, warmest hug she could.
At the altar, he saw his Bucky standing there, handsome as ever. Just as Wanda had said, he stared in awe of Steve, looking like he was the happiest man on earth. Steve knew he mirrored that expression, and that he really was the happiest man on earth.
They said their vows, they were given the rings that show that they’re each other’s forever, they’re perfect together.
(“You may kiss the groom.”)
Bucky and Steve shared a happy, tearful kiss (everyone seemed to show their emotions through tears lately, it seemed.), and everyone cheered for them. Everyone cheered for their happiness and prosperity.
Steve had been adamant about having a bouquet of flowers anyway, entirely because he wanted to dramatically throw it and see who got it. Of course, it was Clint and Natasha, and everyone cheered for that too.
(Natasha yelled “YES!”, while Clint laughed and pulled her down for a kiss. Steve and ran over to initiate an enormous group hug.)
Everyone swarmed to the cake, which everyone loved. A tower filled to the brim with strawberry cake pops, enough to feed an army. Only Steve and Bucky understood what it really meant, and every compliment they got resulted in the smallest shared grins. They shared more strawberry kisses that day.
As he and Bucky danced for the first time, Steve realized that he was finally happy. He had learned who he was, he’d learned to love, and he’d found someone who had taught him how to in the best way possible. He realized that he loved his life, and he loved everyone in it.
Steve had everything he needed right there, with his Bucky.