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A week or so after Bucky moves into the Tower with Steve, he looks at him across the dinner table and asks, “did you used to draw?”
Steve freezes, pasta-laden fork raised halfway to his mouth, and clears his throat. “Yeah. I did.”
Bucky nods a little and thinks about it some more. “A lot. You used to draw a lot.”
Steve puts his fork down on his plate. “I did. I used to….” draw you, Steve doesn’t say, not sure how much Bucky remembers and not wanting to pressure him in any way. He hadn’t yet indicated he remembered the full extent of their shared history, and that was something Steve felt Bucky needed to recall on his own.
“You used to…?” Bucky prompts softly when it became clear that Steve wasn’t going to continue.
“I used to take art classes, went to school for it. Sometimes I got commissions and earned some money that way. Ads and signs and things like that.”
“Hmm,” Bucky says, frowning and looking away. Steve can see the gears turning and waits for Bucky to work through whatever it was he was remembering.
“Did you…” he starts, pausing and frowning a little deeper. “I remember you looking at me a lot. When you were drawing.”
Steve closes his eyes and swallows heavily against the pressure in his throat. “Yeah, Buck. That’s a real memory.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Were you drawing me?”
Steve sighs. He wants to let Bucky remember as much as he can on his own, but he doesn’t want to lie to him, either. Truth it is, then. “Because you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It was true then and it’s true now.”
Steve stands and picks up his plate, setting it on the counter before he leaves the kitchen so he doesn’t have to watch Bucky work through that new information. He feels a little cowardly running away like this, and he knows it’s selfish to make this about himself, but sometimes watching Bucky struggle with the most basic things about their old lives together makes Steve feel incredibly lonely.
“Come in,” Steve calls out to the soft knock on his bedroom door a few hours later. Bucky opens the door and peeks his head in as if to make sure Steve means it, so Steve nods and puts his book down, patting the bed beside him.
Bucky walks over and sits on the edge of the bed, body facing Steve but not looking at him. “I’m sorry,” he says, shoulders hunching up.
“Bucky, hey,” Steve says, sitting up a little straighter. “Hey, look at me.” He waits until Bucky does to continue. “You have nothing to apologize for, okay? Nothing. I’m glad that you’re remembering, and I’m happy to answer your questions.”
“But you left.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry for that.”
Bucky nods and scoots a little closer to Steve. “It’s hard for you, too,” he says quietly. “Me remembering.”
Steve closes his eyes and nods. “Sometimes.”
“Good.”
Steve opens his eyes in surprise. “Good?”
Bucky nods and smiles a little. “Means you care.”
Steve snorts. “I guess it does.”
Bucky’s smile widens and he scoots up even further on the bed. “Can I ask you a question? About the drawing?”
“Yeah. Course you can.”
“Did it make you happy? Drawing?”
“I…” Steve pauses, wanting to think through his answer before he continues. “Yeah. It did. Or as happy as it could when our lives were so hard, I suppose. More so it made me feel...lighter. Being able to make something, to create something. To share it with people. I liked it.”
“Why’d you stop?”
Steve exhales sharply. That’s the real question, he supposes. “I did a little bit after the ice, but it just...didn’t feel the same. Or I didn’t feel the same. Just...drawing...I need to feel a little light, I guess, and I just felt heavy.”
“And now? Do you feel heavy now?”
Steve meets Bucky’s eyes before he says, “a little less every day.”
Bucky smiles a little and ducks his head. “Okay. Good. That’s good. I’ll let you…” he trails off, smiling again and nodding a little before he gets up and leaves the room.
A few weeks later, a sketchbook and some nice drawing pencils show up on the coffee table. Steve raises an eyebrow and looks over to Bucky where he’s sitting on the couch, reading a book and pointedly not acknowledging Steve’s look.
Steve raises his other eyebrow and stares harder, which makes Bucky snort. He laughs and puts his book down, rolling his eyes goodnaturedly before saying, “just in case.”
“Oh, just in case, huh?”
Bucky, still smiling, shrugs and picks up his book again.
The thing is, though — the thing is, now that the sketchbook and pencils are there, just sitting on the coffee table, Steve can’t stop thinking about them. Bucky has been remembering so much more, and they’re together again how they’re used to be, though they’re taking things slow. And when he stops to think about it, he does feel better lately. Lighter. Happier. Maybe like he does want to start drawing again.
“Shut up,” he says to Bucky’s smug smile later that week when his fingers itch to draw and he picks up the sketchbook and pencils.
Bucky was right, loathe as he is to admit it. Once he starts drawing again, he can’t stop. He spends hours drawing Bucky and their apartment, things he can see out the window, his fellow Avengers, anything. Everything. He’d forgotten how much he loves the sound of the pencil over the paper, the soothing rhythm of it.
He draws until his pencils are dull, and then he puts his sketchbook away for the day. And every morning when he picks them up again, his pencils are sharp and ready to use. It makes him smile, knowing Bucky takes the time out of his day to do this for him. Even though he never actually sees him do it.
Bucky’s already in bed, reading, when Steve comes into their bedroom. He pulls off his clothes and puts on some flannel sleep pants with little cacti on them that Bucky bought him. He brushes his teeth and uses the bathroom before crawling into bed. Bucky is leaning against the headboard, reading a book, so Steve curls his body against Bucky’s side. He wraps his arm over Bucky’s waist, and Bucky raises his right arm so Steve can snuggle closer in and use his chest as a pillow. Bucky hums happily when Steve’s settled and starts trailing his fingers up and down Steve’s shoulder and upper arm.
Bucky has Jarvis dim the overhead lights and turn on the reading light, and Steve makes a happy sound in his throat and snuggles in closer. Bucky isn’t wearing a shirt tonight, either, and Steve soaks up his body heat for a while like a happy lizard sunning itself on a rock.
“Thank you,” he says into Bucky’s chest a while later. Bucky just hums.
“For the sketchbook. And for sharpening my pencils every night,” Steve continues.
“You’re welcome for the sketchbook, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t sharpen your pencils.”
“Oh, really,” Steve says. “Then who does?”
“Pencil faeries.”
Steve pulls away from Bucky and pushes himself up so he can see his face. “Pencil faeries,” he deadpans.
“Yeah. They come while we’re asleep, sharpen your pencils, and then leave. Pretty useful, if you ask me.”
Steve just stares at Bucky, who looks up from his book with such a look of fake innocence that Steve just has to get his hands on him. “You know what?” he says as he goes for Bucky’s ribs, digging in where he knows Bucky is most ticklish.
“Steve!!” Bucky shrieks as he bursts out laughing, throwing his book to the floor as he twists away from Steve before launching his own tickle counter attack. Steve yelps and laughs, rolling them over so he can pin Bucky beneath him. Or, well, that’s the plan, anyway, except it fails phenomenally as Bucky twists out of his grasp. It’s Game On after that.
Later, once they’re done laughing themselves breathless and have settled back under the covers together, Steve curled up against Bucky once again, Bucky whispers, “you’re welcome” and presses a kiss to the top of Steve’s head.
Steve falls asleep with a smile on his face.