Work Text:
“What was that, Buck?”
“I said, what’re you making, Stevie—”
Steve and Bucky both sat up. Steve, swallowed up by the large, squishy arm chair in the sunroom, pulled his sketchbook closer to his chest and dropped his pencil on his lap. Bucky, sprawled out with a beanbag and a throw blanket on the floor, turned around to look up at Steve, loosely holding the book he was reading by the spine, letting the pages flop closed.
“Why do you wanna know?”
“Eh, just curious,” Bucky shrugged, smirking up at him from the floor.
Steve nervously tapped his foot —wrapped in an oversized wool sock— on the edge of the chair. “It’s uh… not done yet.”
“Well, when can I see it?”
Steve watched as the wind rustling the tree branches caused the shadows cast into the sunroom to sway back and forth across Bucky’s legs, stretched out across the beanbag chair, soft and relaxed in a pair of grey sweatpants. Bucky bit his lip and tucked a stray strand of brown hair behind his ear, cocking his head to the side as he glanced up at Steve, waiting for an answer while Steve was…distracted.
“Later, Buck, when I’m finished.”
“Ugh, fine, guess I can wait,” Bucky whined playfully, rolling back around and settling back into his book. Steve watched him for a second, peacefully reading as the sunlight moved across the floor towards him. When he glanced down at the sketchbook in his lap, it was a mirror image in black and white, the shadows of the oak tree leaves speckled across Bucky’s thighs, a tiny smile visible on the corner of his face as he read, the strand of brown hair he had just fixed still hanging down gently over his left cheek.
Steve brushed some eraser marks from the page and went back to carefully shading below Bucky’s chin.
“How was Dr. Johnson?”
Bucky was leaning against the bathroom doorframe, dangling his wet toothbrush in his hand. Steve was in bed, passively scrolling through emails.
“It was good.” He kept scrolling.
Bucky paused. “What did you— what’d you talk about? If you don’t mind me asking.”
Steve sighed, setting the iPad down on his right and turning to look at Bucky, still standing shirtless in the doorway. “I don’t mind, c’mere.” He patted the space on the bed next to him and Bucky set his toothbrush on the counter behind him. He sauntered over to the bed, his sweats hanging low on his hips as he pulled back the covers. He sat up against the headboard, resting his right arm across over the top of the pillows. Steve wiggled closer, placing his palm flat on Bucky’s stomach and resting his cheek against his chest. Bucky's hand flopped down and he twisted his fingers in Steve’s hair.
Steve sighed and nestled closer to Bucky. “We talked about—um, your last mission, and how to uh— distract myself if I get worried or anxious while you’re away—”
“Does your art help?”
Steve glanced up at Bucky, slightly taken aback by the question.
“Uh, yeah, doing art definitely helps.”
Steve could hear Bucky’s smile when he spoke, “Your art sure is swell, Stevie. Those kids don’t know how lucky they got.”
Steve chuckled, “I’m pretty sure I’m the lucky one.”
The bedroom went quiet for a moment while Bucky continued petting his hair.
“Have you ever thought of doing a gallery? Like your own exhibition?”
“Huh?”
“Y’know, a show just for you. It could have your paintings and sketches, and hey— I bet the Smithsonian has some of your old stuff archived. You could donate the ticket proceeds, or even have it open to the public.”
Steve was listening, certainly engaged, but he felt his eyes begin to droop. “You sure thought this through, Buck,” he yawned.
“I dunno.” Steve felt him shrug. “You’re just so talented, Stevie, and I just think you oughta share it with the world, y’know? More than just charity auctions.”
There was another stretch of quiet, longer this time. Bucky’s right hand slowly migrated from Steve’s head to his shoulder. He gave gentle squeezes while rubbing tiny circles with his thumb.
A car drove past. Bucky sighed. “You ever think about… telling people? About us?”
Steve felt Buck’s heartbeat pick up below his cheek. He was holding his breath.
“You mean more than just our friends?”
“Yeah, I mean everyone.”
Silence.
“Have you been thinkin’ about this a while, Buck?” Steve closed his fist over Bucky’s sternum.
“Yeah, I guess so. I mean—” he let out an exasperated breath, “I’m just so damn proud of you, bud, and sometimes, well, I just wanna tell everyone how much I love you.”
Steve felt a warmth start growing in his chest and went stiff against Bucky’s side. Another beat of silence.
“Can we… can we talk about this in the morning, Buck?” Steve felt Bucky breathe in and squeeze his shoulder a little tighter than before.
“Alright bud, let’s go to sleep.” He slid further down the pillows until Steve was settled in the crook of his neck, wrapping his metal arm around Steve’s right shoulder. “G’nite, bud, love you.” He pressed a kiss to the top of Steve’s head.
“Love you too, Buck.”
“Good afternoon, April.”
“And the same to you, Steve. Come right in.” The doctor smiled at him as he sat down across from her. “Is Bucky still at home?”
Steve gave her a shy smile in return, “Yeah, he doesn’t ship out until next week.”
“Good, good…”
Steve felt the low rumbling of a train below them.
“What does he normally get up to while you’re at our sessions?”
“He and Sam usually work out together. Sometimes we go out for lunch afterwards.”
Dr. Johnson nodded.
“Do you spend most of your time together when he’s at home?”
“Yeah, we stay pretty much attached at the hip.”
She laughed, then pulled her notebook into her lap and took out her pen.
“What’s that like for you? Are you… comfortable going out in public together?”
Steve started tapping his fingers on his right knee. He took a breath, intending to speak, but he hesitated.
April noticed. “Like I said, it’s okay if you want to change the subject—”
“No, no it’s… it’s fine,” he stuttered. “I just—“ Steve looked over April’s shoulder. A bird flew by the window behind her. “We were talking about this last night, and—” Steve stared down at his lap, twisting his fingers together. “Buck, he… he wants to go public, with our relationship.”
“How did you feel when he told you that?”
He heard a car drive by on the street below them.
“I felt—” Steve sighed, “I felt frozen, like I didn’t know what to say back, and… and I’m scared that he took that the wrong way, y’know?”
April nodded, listening.
“It’s not— it’s not that I don’t want to come out to people, I mean, I’m already out to my friends, I just—”
“It would be different.”
“It’s just so big, y’know? I’m very aware of the fact that if I come out—and Buck too for that matter—it’ll be a thing, and I’m not sure I’m ready for all that attention again. I mean, it feels like just yesterday Buck and I started—” He paused, gesturing with his hands “y’know, and I don’t know if I’m ready for the whole world to see that part of my life yet. It’s like living under a microscope.”
“And how does Bucky feel about coming out?”
Steve huffed, turning to look at the clock on the wall.
“He just…doesn’t. I feel like we have something special, just the two of us, and now he wants to share it with everyone. And I get why, I really do, I mean— I know how much he loves me, and how badly he wants to tell people, y’know? I’m just… I’m scared.”
April set her pen on her lap. “What about all this scares you the most?”
“I’m not ready to come out, and I don’t know if I’m more scared of the consequences if it happens or if it doesn’t. I don’t want this to be the thing that tears us apart.”
She gave him a knowing look. “Steve—”
“Yes, I know, I know I should tell him how I feel,” He sighed again, training his eyes down to his lap. “The words just don’t always come so easy to me.”
April tapped her pen against the side of her notepad. “Who said you had to use words?”
Steve perked up.
“Hey pal, how was work today?”
Steve heard the door slam shut but kept his eyes on his sketchbook. He was sitting in the corner of the couch with his knees pressed to his chest, facing the window that connected to the fire escape. The window was propped open and a gentle breeze caused the curtains to roll up and down in gentle waves.
Bucky grabbed a bottle of beer from the cold box and cracked it open on the counter before trudging into the living room, kicking off his work boots and flopping down on the couch.
He landed with his head on top of Steve’s foot. Steve’s toes reflexively squirmed, but Bucky stayed put, taking a swig of beer and setting it down hard on the coffee table. “You didn’t answer me, bud. How was work today?”
Steve didn’t look up, but he did flip to a clean page in his sketchbook.
“It was fine.”
His mind flashed to him standing over the bathroom sink in the back of the print shop, gripping the porcelain while he coughed up his lungs.
“Mmm…” Buck took another swig. Steve felt the warm weight of Bucky’s head, and the softness of his short brown hair over his toes. “Pretty sure I got a sunburn— ‘tween my shoulders.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t lay on it like that.”
Bucky groaned while he readjusted slightly. Now he was laying completely flat, staring up at the ceiling with his head resting on Steve’s two feet like a pillow. Steve could see spots of pink rising up the back of his neck.
He took another sip. “Still got that skin ointment from the doctor, right?”
Steve didn’t respond.
“Think I’ll put some of that on tonight.”
“Sure thing, Buck,” Steve mumbled.
They went on like that; Bucky staring up at the ceiling, slowly drinking his beer as the condensation dripped onto his hand, Steve making little scratching sounds with his pencil, occasionally erasing something and brushing the little pink shavings off the page with his hand. A few cars drove by, honking their horns. Some kids were kicking a ball around the street, and the laughing and bouncing echoed off the sides of the buildings. The breeze was steady, and a strip of sunlight slowly moved across the room. It eventually landed on Buck’s belly, where he’d lifted his shirt to scratch himself and ended up leaving his hand behind.
Steve flipped his pencil over and started erasing.
“Watcha’ drawin’?” Buck had just finished his beer and placed it down hard on the table, this time fully letting go of the bottle. He stretched his arms up, folding them behind his head while he glanced up at Steve.
Steve peaked over the top of his sketchbook. “Nuthin’.” He drew the book closer to his chest. As soon as he moved, he knew he was asking for trouble.
“C’mon, lemme see!”
“No! Buck I’m not done.”
Bucky reached up to grab the book from him, but he held on tighter. Sometimes, when Buck asked to see his drawings, he was just asking to be nice, but other times, well— he got curious, and when he got curious, he also got pushy.
“C’mon punk, I wanna see it! Is it for work?” Bucky whined, like he used to do all the time as a snot-nosed kid. He had an intentionally loose grip but he still hadn’t let go completely.
Steve sighed, fingering the edge of the paper. “It’s nothin’ interesting, Buck. Just a drawing exercise of the chair in the corner, with the way the light hits it and all.” They had one of the old wooden dining chairs shoved into the opposite corner of the room, next to the window. Buck had set it there for those hot, sticky summer nights when he was sore from working down at the docks and didn’t feel like climbing out on the fire escape to smoke. He’d crack open the window—if it wasn’t already open in a sad attempt to circulate the humid Brooklyn air—and sit there with his cigarette when he was too restless to sleep. He used to smoke in the bedroom, but it upset Steve’s lungs and he’d wake up in a coughing fit in the middle of the night. As the afternoon sun crossed the room, it would always clip the chair, splitting it in half diagonally, a clean strip of light slicing it in half.
Steve actually had been sketching the chair earlier, before Bucky got home.
“Well, can I see it when you’re done?”
He flipped back a page.
“Sure thing, Buck.”
“Buck stop, you’re disgusting!” Steve tried to protest, but he couldn’t stop laughing. Once again, they found themselves in their usual positions in the sunroom; Steve curled up in his armchair, sketchbook and pencil in hand, Bucky sprawled out on his bean bag on the floor. Steve had been innocently resting his bare feet on Bucky’s shoulders while he read, when Bucky decided to put one of them in his mouth.
“You’re a hundred years old but you act like you’re five!” Bucky was holding Steve’s left foot up to his mouth by the ankle, while he kept his right foot trapped in his right armpit.
“I’m a hundred and two, asshole.” Bucky brought Steve’s left foot to his lips and started kissing it over and over. “Show some respect.” The onslaught of tiny kisses made Steve squirm.
While Bucky was distracted with his… ministrations, Steve managed to wriggle his right foot out of Bucky’s armpit and give him a playful kick in the back of the head, causing him to let go. Steve swiftly wrapped his thighs around Bucky’s neck and squeezed.
“Okay, okay!” Bucky coughed, tapping Steve’s leg. “You win!” Steve loosened his grip, but kept his legs draped over Bucky’s broad shoulders, while Bucky leaned down to pick his book up off the floor.
Steve leaned back in his chair. “How’s the book going?”
Buck nodded. “It’s good. The biologist is finally going down into that creepy tower thing I told you about.”
Steve hummed in approval as he flipped open his sketchbook again.
“What about you? How’s your drawing coming along?”
Steve smiled. “I think it’s gonna turn out good.”
He tapped the end of his pencil lightly against the page. It was another attempt at the sketch of Bucky he’d started earlier that week—one of many, across time and space—this time in a familiar pose, and nearly finished: him, flopped over on his beanbag chair at Steve’s feet, nose in a book, his free hand resting on his stomach, shirt pushed up. The windowpanes in the sunroom were old, crisscrossing squares that cast beautiful shadows all over the room as the sun moved across the sky—over Bucky’s tan skin, the fine hairs on his arms and legs, and the longer curtain of shiny brown hair, draped over his shoulders, little individual strands sticking to his face, the twitch of his brow as he brushed them away, the twitch of strong, tense muscles in his right arm, and the gleam of a ray of sunlight reflecting off of his left. Little dots of sunshine, scattered across the room like stray drops of paint, catching the light on Bucky’s exposed ankle, or his fingers gently gripping the spine of a book, or those same fingers splayed across his stomach, moving up and down steadily with the rhythm of his breathing, like a ship on the ocean. Something about this version was warmer, brighter, softer—less like a memory and more like a moving picture you could reach into with your fingers and touch.
Steve repositioned his pencil and kept shading in the shadow Bucky’s eyelashes cast over his cheeks, just barely visible from where he sat behind him.
“Did your session go well?”
Steve paused. He brushed off some eraser shavings.
“Yeah, it was good.”
This time, Bucky was the one who waited to answer. A hummingbird fluttered by the screen door, then retreated to the feeder hanging from the tree in the back of the garden.
“What..what did you guys talk about? If you don’t mind me asking…”
Another beat of silence. Bucky still had his book in his hand. Steve put his pencil down.
“I talked about you—about us, and what you said last night.”
Bucky closed his book in his lap.
“About coming out?”
“Yeah, Buck.”
In seconds, he’d rolled onto his belly and reached up to hold Steve’s free hand, stroking the knuckles gently with his fingers, talking a mile a minute. Like he always had when he’d gotten nervous.
“Y’know, it’s okay if you don’t want to, bud, I really mean that. I didn’t mean to make you feel nervous or pressured or anything, I just thought we could…I don’t know, at least talk about it—”
“Buck—Buck it’s fine, I promise.” Steve let his sketchbook fall closed, placing his other hand on top of Bucky’s and leaning down close to his face. “We talked about this—at the session, I mean—and I…I’m not sure if I’m ready yet, but I wanna come out, and I wanna be seen with you. I just need to do it on my own terms.”
Bucky smiled up at him, with that same stupid grin he used to give to Steve all the time before the war, when Steve was bedridden on long, cold winter nights, and all they had for warmth was each other. The type of grin he’d give to Steve when Steve told him with a cough that he was getting better, and Bucky would laugh and call him a punk and mess up his floppy blonde mop of hair, always having his fingers resting there for just a little too long.
Bucky leaned forward too, resting his head on Steve’s lap. Now Steve was the one tangling his fingers in Bucky’s hair.
“I’m drawing a picture of you, ya’ know.” Steve teased him, wrapping a loose brown curl around his right index finger.
“Of me? Oh, Stevie, I’m flattered.” Bucky dramatically threw his hand on his chest and fluttered his lashes up at Steve.
Steve gently nudged Bucky’s neck with his leg. “You better be, jerk. Takes a lot of hard work to make your ugly mug look good.”
Bucky laughed, nuzzling his face in the crook of Steve’s knee.
“I love you so much, y’know that, baby?”
Steve chuckled. “Yeah, Buck, I love you too.”
Steve leaned down even farther, to where his neck started to ache, and planted a kiss on the top of Bucky’s head.
3 Months Later
“Hey baby, ugh…I’m sorry, it was an emergency. Fury called in while you were sleeping and I didn’t wanna wake you on your big day. I’m gonna try as hard as I can to make it tonight, I promise. I love you.”
Steve sighed, staring into the harsh blue light of his phone screen. It was 6am.
1 new voicemail
The room was dark, the curtains still drawn. Steve had woken up to the notification and was lying on his side under the covers, holding his phone out into the empty space next to him on the bed. He stayed still there for a moment, his body melted into the mattress, alone in the dark.
He let out another breath that rattled between his ribs, then rolled out of bed and pushed open the curtains. It was cloudy outside.
“Is it gonna rain today?”
His phone beeped.
“Expect showers throughout the day, starting around 10am.”
He dropped his hands from where he’d been clutching the curtains, leaving behind hand-sized wrinkles on the edges.
“Call Candace.”
“Relax, Steve, everything will be fine.” He and Candace were standing together in a big empty Manhattan gallery, listening to the ticking of Steve’s vintage military-issued watch strapped to his wrist. She put a calming hand on his back, between his pointed shoulder blades. She could feel his lungs vibrate with every shaky breath.
Just outside, the city streets had gone dark. Lamps and neon signs and headlights illuminated the people walking by, on their way home from work, or heading out to a bar, or making their way to the nightshift; the blur of bodies between artificial lights. Normally, it would be something that Steve would stop to draw, whipping out his sketchbook for just a moment. But not now, with his stomach churning as his past work stared back at him from every single wall, the same face over and over again, holding such an intimate gaze. He thought for a split second he may never draw again after this.
Eventually, the gentle anchor of Candace’s hand went away. Steve was left alone and adrift. “We should start getting ready,” She said softly. “Staff should be here soon, and then people will be lining up outside, and you know if they see you in here there’ll be mass panic.” She finished with a laugh. Steve chuckled too, if only a little.
They made their way to the back room, where about half a dozen catering and service staff were arriving, bustling about quietly, occasionally asking questions which Candace kindly answered. Steve mostly sat, or stood in the corner alone, watching the second hand on his watch keep ticking…
ticking…
ticking…
“Uh…hi, everyone, hello, welcome.” Steve couldn’t even begin to remember the last time he was this nervous in front of a crowd. Maybe Azzano? He thought. He hoped this time no one lobbed a tomato at him. “Thank you so much for coming out tonight. As you know, all the ticket proceeds from this opening are going to support veterans’ mental health programs, so I appreciate you all so much for being here, it—uh, it means a lot to me—um…”
Steve felt the microphone begin to shake in his grip as he peered out across the room: lots of ritzy art-scene people, some folks from the VA, some reporters, a few familiar faces like Pepper, hiding in the back so as not to draw attention. But two people were noticeably absent. Steve felt like his heart was gonna drop into his stomach.
“I—uh…” Candace must have noticed what a wreck he was, because she planted a firm hand on Steve’s shoulder. He stood up a little straighter. “This collection is very, uh, personal to me, which is why none of the pieces are for sale, but, uh…” He looked around one last time, a knot forming in his throat, “Bucky and I both thought this was something about our lives that we’re finally ready to share with you all, so, uh, try to be kind I guess,” The audience chuckled along with him, “—and, uh, enjoy the show.” Applause echoed throughout the room before people began to disperse, grabbing hors d'oeuvres and shuffling towards the different displays throughout the room. Steve had never been somewhere that had felt more crowded and yet more empty at the same time.
After a few moments of relative peace, the reporters started to swarm the small platform he was standing on. Candace stepped a little out in front of him, giving another affirming squeeze on the shoulder. “One question at a time, please.” She pointed at a young woman with her hair in a messy bun.
“Captain Rogers, would you say this collection is a way of coming out to the public?”
Steve shuffled his feet nervously before clearing his throat.
“Uh, yeah, I suppose so, I mean, these drawings span back over 80 years, so if that gives you an idea of how long I’ve felt this way about Buck—”
Another reporter piped up as a camera flash went off in his face, “Captain, would you say you identify as gay or bisexual?”
He felt Candace reel up to shoot down the question, but Steve straightened his shoulders and motioned to her that he could take it, even though he felt his palms start to sweat as he spoke.
“I, uh—I don’t really like labels, but I wanted to stand with the queer community by going public about my relationship through this exhibition.” Steve made eye contact with a young man wearing big blocky glasses and nodded to him.
“Uh, thank you, Captain,” he stuttered, “What did, uh, Sergeant Barnes have to say when you posed the idea of holding an exhibition?”
Steve couldn’t help his face lighting up as he remembered, “Oh he loved it, he and Sam were my biggest supporters, and, uh, Candace of course.” He turned to her and she squeezed his shoulder again. “It was actually Bucky’s idea to go public with our relationship.”
Someone else in the small crowd piped up, “What were Sergeant Barnes’ motivations for coming out?”
Suddenly, the whole room seemed to fall away, and Steve was brought back to his comfy chair in their warm sunroom, Bucky smiling up at him from the floor.
Steve sighed, “He told me…he told me he wanted to show everyone how much he loved me, and that he couldn’t hold it in anymore.”
Steve wiped his brow and huffed, taking in the leftover napkins and plastic cups that littered the now-empty gallery. Well, not completely empty—Candace was still there, obviously, and so was Pepper. They stood by the door with one of the wealthier art collectors in the city, talking about establishing some type of fund or scholarship. Steve wasn’t really listening. He reflexively checked his watch. Still ticking.
“Hey, Candace?” She turned and smiled at him. “I’m gonna head back and pack up.” He motioned to the back room where staff were moving in and out with garbage bags. She nodded and gave him a thumbs up.
He turned and trotted into the back room, taking a moment to decompress while he sorted through his messenger bag full of sketch paper, pencils, and now quite a few business cards.
He could feel his heart thumping in his chest, slowly inching its way up into his throat throughout the night. By now, it was choking him. He could still hear the second hand of his watch ticking loud and clear but everything else around him sounded like he was underwater.
While he was sifting through his belongings, a loose paper fell from his bag onto the floor. He flipped it over. Oh no. It was another rough sketch of Bucky, one he’d thought of exhibiting at first before he thought better. It was based off a memory of a hot summer evening—Bucky laying nude on their bed, seen from above. He was laughing at Steve, who’d been straddling his hips trying to tickle him. His hair splayed out across the pillows like rays of sunshine, and his smile was so big that his eyes were closed, and the few freckles on his face were all scrunched up. Steve felt his eyes start to water as he gently held the paper between his fingers. He swallowed the lump in his throat for the millionth time that night as he tucked it away in his bag for safe keeping.
Then, a text.
1 new message from Sam
sorry we r late
on ur left ;)
Steve immediately dropped his phone in his bag, rushing out the swinging kitchen door into the previously empty gallery space. He couldn’t believe his eyes: Sam and Bucky standing alone at the door, both dressed in black tuxes and bow ties. Sam had a cut on his cheek, but he was smiling. And Bucky—Buck had his hair slicked back, like he used to do when he’d take the girls dancing. He looked exhausted, based on the bags under his eyes and his slumped shoulders. He had his right hand tucked in his pocket, while his left one was holding a small bouquet of pink and yellow roses. He nodded at Steve shyly as he held up the flowers, the plastic wrapping crinkling in his hand. “Hope we’re not too late, bud.”
All of a sudden, Steve didn’t know what to do with himself.
Then it was limbs, flesh and metal and long brown strands of hair falling into faces, and strong arms, and watery eyes and choked up laughs, and “You made it”s and “of course”s and the smallest “I love you”s.
“Hey Steve—” Sam chuckled, nodding towards them. “You gonna give us the tour?”
Steve felt himself blush as Sam smiled a big cheeky grin at him. He looked up at Bucky, who was holding him to his chest and resting his stubbly chin on Steve’s hair.
“Yeah kid, show us around,” Bucky smirked.
So Steve gestured further into the gallery, and Sam and Buck followed. Steve left one hand trailing behind him while they walked through the exhibition, which Bucky dutifully held on to, gently squeezing Steve’s outstretched fingers to remind him he was there. They perused the various sketches, all of them either Bucky alone or Bucky and Steve together. Some from before the war, and some during. Other sketches from Steve’s memory, after he came out of the ice and all he had left of Bucky was behind his eyelids. And finally ones from now, from the last few years, some of the most joyful and intimate sketches he’d ever drawn. After a brief overview of the collection, Sam decided to step aside with Candace, who offered to show him around a little more. They wandered off together, chatting about the art programs Candace was working on throughout the city, Sam gently dangling the bouquet in his hand. Steve and Bucky continued on alone, the loose magnetic pull between them bringing them together and apart over and over again as they strolled, like waves rolling up to shore. Eventually, they stopped in front of Steve’s oldest and most recent sketches; mirror images of Bucky cast in afternoon sunlight. Bucky stepped closer to inspect them both.
He hummed to himself softly, then tapped the frame of the first drawing with his metal knuckle. “This from ’39?” He asked without turning around.
Steve watched as his eyes scanned the paper on the wall. He coughed. “Uh—yeah, it is, summer of ’39.”
“Hmm…” Bucky nodded, folding his hands behind his back. By now Sam and Candace had wandered off farther into the gallery, and it was just the two of them, standing side by side—as they always had—silently looking into the past.
Then, Bucky spoke, chuckling softly to himself, “You told me you were drawing the chair in the corner.”
Steve looked up at him, eyes wide, “You remember?”
He kept his eyes on the painting. “‘Course I remember.” He shifted on his feet a little, eyes still trained forward. “You been lookin’ at me like this since way back then?” He smiled, gesturing towards the newer sketch of him sprawled out in the bean bag chair.
“Like what, Buck?”
He turned and looked Steve in the eyes, “Like you’re crazy about me, dumbass.”
Steve laughed softly, his face warming up. He reached out and took Bucky’s right hand again, gently scratching his palm. “Yeah, Buck, I’ve always been crazy about you.”
Steve's voice faded out into the warm air around them. Bucky leaned closer, wrapping his metal arm around Steve’s lower back and drawing him close. “I know, bud.” He smirked, going in for a kiss. Steve met him halfway.