Work Text:
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK CITY, 1942.
Steve’s eyebrows furrow as he studies the piece of paper before him. The bit of charcoal in his hand scratches at the surface, pressing down harder in certain areas, working smoothly, fluidly, confidently in deep concentration as he draws. Steve’s blue, focused eyes flick upwards, taking in his subject for a moment before diving back down, continuing the piece in masterful likeness to the man in front of him.
The next time his eyes glance above his sketchbook, his model is gone, and his concentration breaks. Then--
“Whatcha doin’ Steve?” a voice says from somewhere behind him, and Steve snaps his sketchbook shut, spinning around.
“Nothin’.” Steve responds stubbornly, glaring at his best friend.
Bucky raises an eyebrow, stretching out his hand. “Let’s see it.” When Steve doesn’t extend his book, he wiggles his fingers.
“It’s nothing,” Steve stresses, holding it still farther away. Bucky crosses their tiny shared kitchen easily in two steps, reaching forward and snatching it away from Steve’s bony fingers, though they tried desperately to hold on. He flips open the sketchbook, turning through several sketches--hand studies, architecture, people on the boardwalk--before he reaches the most recent page.
His hands pause, staring at the piece of art that so skillfully, completely, captured his own likeness. “Stevie,” he begins, ghosting his fingertips above the blended charcoal. “Is this me?”
Steve snatches it back, hugging it to him. Bucky knows he draws, and frequently praises him for his skill, but he still somehow feels shy about it. It’s been his way to help support their shared apartment for awhile--he sets up a small station on the boardwalk and offers portraits to passersby for a quarter, plus tips. It’s not much, but it helps them, helps Bucky, so that’s what matters to him. “It was s’posed to be for your birthday, jackass.”
Bucky just smiles down at him--that little smirk that curls the right corner of his mouth upwards, dimpling his cheek. “I love it, Stevie.”
Steve can’t help but return the grin, closing his sketchbook and placing it on the table beside him. “Yeah, yeah.” Bucky leans down then, and kisses him fervently on the cheek.
Steve pulls back, chuckling a little breathlessly, looking back up at his boyfriend with quickly-reddening cheeks. “What was that for?”
Bucky just smirks again, the kind that makes Steve’s knees weak, and sucks on his own finger, using the moistened digit to wipe his lips clean from charcoal. “There was charcoal on your cheek, Sweetie, I was just helping.”
Steve blushes harder, looking away and laughing lightly, feeling like a naughty schoolboy. Their relationship is still new, and they’ve been keeping it under wraps from friends, and especially from family. Any physical affection is enough to light Steve’s insides on fire.
Bucky just struts over to the counter, preparing Steve a coffee. Steve watches him closely, noting his simple white button-down shirt and suspenders, not yet dressed in uniform. Despite himself, Steve welcomes this. Every time he looks at Bucky’s uniform, a hot flash of jealousy twinges within him, hating his own weak body for disallowing him to fight for what’s right--for what he believes in. As he sits at home while Bucky goes to war, a horrible feeling of uselessness washes over him, and, in fits of desperation, he gives himself asthma attacks as he attempts too many sit-ups with his feet curled underneath the couch, cursing loudly in the empty apartment. In his dreams, he’s fighting beside Bucky, punching Nazis with a strength he’s never known, then turning around and kissing his lover on the mouth without giving a shit about who’s watching.
Steve glances down and eyes his baggy slacks that hang off of him, his bony wrists that attach hands too large for his frail body. But then Bucky’s in front of him, holding out a cup with that same damned smile.
“Here. Made you a cup of joe,” he says, before deciding to toss Steve an apple as well. “C’mon, Steve, you haven’t eaten anything all day.”
Steve catches the apple and takes the coffee, smiling shyly. “Thanks, Buck.”
Bucky just claps Steve’s shoulder in response, turning to leave the kitchen before he throws over his shoulder, “Don’t forget, lunch at Eisenberg’s later, okay, Stevie?”
Steve bites deep into the apple, chewing purposely loudly as he waves a hand behind him. “Yeah, yeah.”
---
A few hours later, Steve and Bucky walk together down the busy streets of Brooklyn, dodging hurried passersby and occasionally knocking their hands together. For a few impulsive seconds, Steve boldly slips his arm under Bucky’s, holding onto the crook of his elbow. Though he’d never admit it, he loves feeling like Bucky’s dame sometimes, acting like a pretty little thing, willingly acting as Bucky’s eye candy. His cheeks flame again as the thought passes through his head, and he feels Bucky’s hand rub his back for a moment. They reluctantly drop each other’s arms, stuffing their hands into their pockets, but exchange secret smiles with sparkling eyes.
A pretty girl flounces past them, staring at Bucky. Slipping into character, Bucky winks and smirks at her, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops. “Hi sugar, are you rationed?”
The woman giggles and swishes her skirt in response, obviously enjoying the attention. Beside Bucky, Steve clenches his hands into fists inside his trouser pockets. He knows Bucky doesn’t mean it--he’d always been a flirt, but now he does it to protect his--and Steve’s--reputations. Nobody likes a fag.
Still, Steve feels a little jealous, so he drags Bucky into an alleyway, and, after checking if the coast is clear, grabs onto the lapels of Bucky’s jacket and kisses him hard and wet on those, pink, pink lips. He can feel Bucky trying to talk, but he ignores him and just keeps kissing, his eyes squeezed shut, feeling himself float in a sort of high. Finally, he breaks away, panting, enjoying the look he sees on his boyfriend’s face.
“What?” He breathes, chest still heaving. “Maybe I got a little jealous.”
Bucky smirks down at him, enjoying the banter. “Aww, Stevie, you know I didn’t mean it.”
“I know that--” he starts, then kisses Bucky, “--and you know that--” he kisses him again, “--but she didn’t know that.”
Bucky squints, shrugging his shoulders in a swaggering motion. “That kinda dame is used to attention. She probably wouldn't known what to do with herself if I hadn't given it to her.”
Steve gets an idea then, stretching up to press his lips on the cleft of Bucky’s chin. “And I don't know what I'll do if you don't give me attention, Darling.” It's relatively new territory for him; usually the pet names are Bucky’s forte, but this one rolls off of his tongue and he closes his eyes halfway, leaning limply against Bucky, waiting to see what he's going to do about it. When Steve’s being mouthy, Bucky likes to take control and remind him of his place, which is what he does now.
Mouth set, he takes Steve by the shoulders and spins him around, pinning him to the brick wall of the alleyway, changing their positions. Sandwiched between the wall and Bucky, Steve looks up at his lover, lips parted, glistening. He's so drunk with desire he doesn't even remember where they are. Bucky stares him down for awhile, still holding Steve but more carefully now--feeling his narrow shoulders under his large hands--his movements become deliberately gentle as he leans down and kisses Steve. They pick up speed, and Steve’s mouth is suddenly filled with Bucky’s tongue, and his eyes roll back into his head, shamelessly shifting his crotch towards Bucky’s leg.
Then, all of the sudden, Bucky stops, pinning protective arms on both sides of Steve, his entire body tensing.
“Buck--” Steve begins, struggling to see over his broad shoulder, trying to adjust his trousers.
He looks closer, and there--at the entrance of the alleyway, two men-shaped silhouettes.
Shit.
They walk closer, snickering towards each other, but looking dangerously towards them. “Hey, lookit, a couple of fags,” one says to his friend, and Steve feels Bucky twitch at the slur.
Still shielding Steve’s body, he turns towards the men, straightening his posture. “Come on, fellas, take a powder.”
The first man walks closer, not quite touching Bucky, but almost. “Whatcha hiding behind your back, you little bitch?” Steve bristles, eyes narrowing as he shifts sideways and away from Bucky’s protection.
“Hey, you wanna shut up?” Steve glares at the man, ignoring the look Bucky sends him--a mix of desperation, annoyance, worry, and a flash of pride.
The man walks towards him as his friend advances on Bucky. “Take it back, freak.” He pushes Steve against the wall, just as Bucky had minutes before, but his movements had been gentle and loving and enticing; this man’s eyes are dark and tipsy, and hatred is all over his face.
Steve looks up into those eyes, and doesn’t back down. He sets his mouth into a hard line, squares his feet, and holds up his fists. To his right, Bucky is grappling with the other man, unable to come to his aid. Steve has just sealed his fate, but he doesn’t care. He wants to fight. He almost craves it.
And then knuckles crack into his delicate cheekbone, and Steve feels his jaw pop. Pain sears through him but he reaches up, somewhat recklessly, and throws a punch towards the guy’s nose. He stumbles back a little--and Steve can’t help but feel proud of himself--before he lunges back, more angry than before, and slams Steve against the bricks, hot pain flashing through the back of his skull on impact.
Then he’s swinging, bleeding, kicking his knee up to strike him in the groin. The man pulls back--and Steve thinks that maybe he’s won--but then he sees Bucky’s hand gripping the back of his shirt collar, physically dragging him back before kicking him to the ground. Steve breathes out, slumping against the wall, feeling his chest tighten.
When Steve looks back up, the men are slumping out of the alleyway, and Bucky is rushing over to him. “What the hell were you thinking, Steve?!” Bucky whispers, sucking his teeth and wincing as he uses the cuff of his sleeve to wipe the blood from his nose.
Steve just coughs, waving his hand. He’s fine, he’s fine. When he looks into Bucky’s eyes, he sees an ocean of compassion and worry there in his icy blue irises--so clear, he thinks he’d like to swim in them.
Bucky crouches in front of him, taking off his jacket and draping it across Steve’s shoulders. “Just breathe. Just breathe, Stevie.”
Steve leans forward into his boyfriend’s chest, just breathing, inhaling his cologne and the smell of his freshly laundered clothes, smearing small stains of red on them. Bucky holds onto him as the blood returns to his head, and then he helps him home--their home,--an arm wrapped around his tiny waist the whole time.
And, as Steve clings to him, despite what they’d both just been through, he thinks he’s never felt so safe in the entire twenty-one years he’s been alive. And when he sleeps next to Bucky that night, he breathes easy.