Work Text:
Steve hasn't been doing this job for too long, to be honest. He minored in photography, it was never his life plan. His plan was to be an artist, maybe even an animator; he had considered that Disney College thing, but he couldn't move too far away when his ma was so sick. But his plan was always to go into art, because he loves art. He loves drawing and painting, coming home with ink stained fingers and paint on his clothes. He loves creating something so beautiful from splodges of colour. He chose photography because it was still an art form, capturing life in its most beautiful moments, but it was never his plan.
And yet here he is snapping Polaroids of models to go to be scanned for some magazine - because apparently a scanned Polaroid is a better effect than a normal digital photograph.
It's not the he doesn't enjoy it. He wouldn't do it if he didn't enjoy it, because his ma always made a point of never doing something he didn't actually want to do, and he figures that applies to his career as well. He really does enjoy photography. He's more freelance than anything else; he doesn't have his own company, just a business card with his phone number scribbled on that he occasionally gives out to people at parties, but usually he gets calls from companies or people who have gotten his number from a friend of a friend, that sort of thing. He doesn't mind. He gets enough work to keep the money flowing in, enough to live pretty well, to support himself. He must just be that good; not that he ever thinks of himself like that. Sometimes, but not often.
He snaps a few photographs of the models in question; it's nothing really, just work for a magazine. These photos of models in various autumn colours are going straight into their fashion pages, and they're trying to sell the retro look - again, hence the Polaroid.
"That's great," Steve says, standing up and shaking the last photo out. "That's it. Thanks, ladies."
They all give him a smile as they turn away and go back off to wardrobe; with a soft sigh, Steve carefully collects the photographs and puts them in an envelope for the fashion editor. He looks them over and gives Steve an appreciative smile, which isn't as good as it sounds; it makes Steve wonder what the hell he was expecting when he looks so impressed.
"These are good," he says, and he nods. "You know our sister magazine, or brother magazine, I guess, are doing a formal wear shoot in two weeks time, and they don't have a photographer yet. Would you mind if I recommended you?"
As if Steve's going to say no. He shakes his head and gives the guy a smile, "'Course not. Recommend me to whoever you want."
The guy laughs, and Steve gives a smile back. He takes his money - cash in hand, he's sort of getting used to that - and goes, his camera still hanging around his neck.
~*~
He gets the phone call a few days later; Nick Fury from SHIELD magazine asks him to come in and do their next formal wear shoot, and of course, Steve agrees. He has to take his own camera, but SHIELD will provide him with anything and everything else that he needs. He tells Steve just to bill him when he sends the photographs in, and then, he makes Steve splutter.
"And if they're good, Mr. Rogers, you can be sure we'll be offering you a job. Our old photographer, Erskine, just retired."
Steve nearly dies. He's been working as a freelance for so long that he hadn't considered a steady job, but- fashion photography for a men's magazine?
Yeah. Yeah, he thinks he could get used to that.
"Well, uh," Steve says, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'd have to think it over, y'know?"
"We'll see how the shoot goes first." Fury says, and Steve nods despite Fury not being able to see him. "See you next week, Rogers."
"Goodbye." Steve murmurs, as Fury puts the phone down.
Well. That was unexpected.
~*~
He's at the venue an hour earlier than SHIELD told him to be, but surprise surprise, they're already there. They've blocked off part of Central Park for the day and they're already dragging things out of a van. Steve thinks that's it, just one little van full of tech, until he sees a massive RV and assumes that's where they're doing hair and makeup and stuff.
It's cold for late September and it's freaking freezing, so Steve is all wrapped up, jacket on hiding his tattoos and a scarf wrapped around his skinny neck, jeans and doc martins on to keep out the cold as much as possible. He's wearing layers, a plaid shirt over a t-shirt under his jacket; he's come prepared. He'll stand in the cold for as long as SHIELD need him, quite happily.
They bring the first model out - there's four, apparently, eight pages with four models and four outfits each, so already Steve knows it's going to be a long day. But the first guy is co-operative, even if his pea green three piece suit is pretty freaking awful. Steve doesn't comment; he's a photographer, not a fashion designer.
They get him out of the way fairly quickly; the next guy comes out in a black and silver number that actually looks kind of good, if Steve's being honest. He takes a little longer than the others because he won't stop talking, but when Maria Hill, their fashion editor, gives a stern, "Barton," he shuts up and pouts.
They break for lunch, and Steve is fiddling around with his camera when they bring the next guy out. He's total model material; well-cut cheekbones, rugged looking, and tidy despite the chin-length hair pulled back into a knot at the nape of his neck. He's the living embodiment of tall and dark and handsome, nothing Steve hasn't seen before.
And yet he makes Steve swoon.
"Where d'you want me?" He asks as he steps forward, and Steve has to swallow thickly. His voice is deep and full of Brooklyn twang; Steve gets like that, but only when he's around other people from Brooklyn. They tend to bring his accent out. He coughs, hoping it's not going to be so obvious when he says, "Just on that X, there."
He nods, and moves to stand on the white X Steve has placed on the gravel in front of the fountain. His suit is well tailored, seemingly cut to fit, navy blazer and waistcoat over a white shirt and navy tie, all hanging perfectly. He makes Steve's knees feel weak; not that that's anything knew, actually. His knees always feel weak.
The guy is a natural. He poses but he doesn't make it seem forced, he shifts so that the suit hangs just right even without Steve's direction, and he seems to know how to make a photoshoot his own. Steve takes way more photos than he meant to. When they're done he almost feels sad, but at least he'll be able to edit the photos and get another look at them.
"That was great, thanks." Steve says, his voice a little gruff. The guy grins; Steve doesn't even know his name. Huh. He looks down, making sure he has enough memory for the last guy as he steps down.
It's only as he's walking away that Steve notices the sun glinting off metal fingers.
~*~
They finish the shoot in good time, and Maria tells him to edit the photos within a week and email them to her. Steve doesn't ask about the job offer. Nick Fury seems the kind of person to make the call if he wants you.
So Steve is sat in a Starbucks in the middle of town, photoshoot open, clicking through each photograph on offer. There's literally no way to make that pea green number look better, and Sam guffaws when he sees it. He sits opposite Steve, only calling in to grab a quick coffee before he heads over to VA.
"That's awful, man," He says, as he peers around the screen to look at the photographs. "Awful. Is that the new fashion? You'll not get me wearing that. I'd have to be dead. And even then my spirit would put up a fair fight."
Steve laughs, and swats at him to get him back in his own seat. His pumpkin spice cappuccino sits untouched beside him as he clicks though everything. He'd like to pick out the photographs he thinks are best, but it's not exactly his place. So instead he just begins editing, and makes conversation with Sam as he does so.
When the door opens with a ding, Steve ignores it. Every gust of cold air makes him shiver, but he doesn't look up until Sam mutters, "Hey, isn't that one of the guys from that shoot?"
Steve looks up immediately, something like hope curling in his gut. He hasn't dared to look at the third model's photographs yet; he's saving them until last. He has a feeling they're going to be hard to work through, so it might be best to get everything out of the way first.
And it is. It is him. Dressed far more casually, dark jeans and a light denim shirt, a white t-shirt just about visible underneath. Damn. He looks like a model even when he's not being a model.
Steve blushes, and looks down. Thankfully, he never set himself up to think he had a single chance with this guy. He just imagined taking that suit off with his teeth. So at least he's not disappointed as he keeps clicking through the photographs, editing each one in turn.
"Hey," Sam says again, and Steve's eyes only flick up high enough so as to look at him. "He's coming over. Looks like he wants to talk to you."
"He doesn't want to talk to me," Steve hisses, just as Sam loudly announces, "Hey so, I gotta be back at the VA. I'll see you later, Steve."
"Steve?" The voice belongs to the other guy; Steve recognises it. He looks up, and nods, and Sam grins as he leaves the shop. "I'm Bucky, Bucky Barnes. One of the models from the fall formal shoot."
"Yeah." Steve nods, throat dry. "Yeah, I know. I'm just editing those photos, actually." He says, and though he knows he's not, he wonders why he's letting his mouth run. He could have just said yeah and packed up the laptop to save himself the embarrassment, but whatever. Too late now.
The guy's face lights up as he sits down, and Steve knows exactly what he's going to say. "Can I see?" He asks, and Steve nods.
He opens up Bucky's photographs, and shows them to him. He sees Bucky's eyebrows shoot up, and a slow smile tug at his lips.
"Wow," He says, and he looks up at Steve, who's taking a sip of his coffee as a distraction. "These are good. Really good. I mean Erskine was good, but-"
Steve blushes, but he doesn't comment. He takes his praise in silence.
"I need some new headshots." Bucky says, after a moment. "I work for HYDRA- the modeling agency? We have to update our headshots every so often and I've been looking for a good photographer." He gives Steve a grin, and a strand of hair falls into his face. Steve's fingers twitch around the stark white mug; he wants to reach over and tuck it back into place behind his ear, but he doesn't. He's good. He's got some self control, even if it's just an ounce.
"What do you say?" Bucky asks, and Steve nods dumbly. "Yeah." He agrees. "Yeah."
Bucky grins. "Awesome. I uh, I don't know a date or a time yet, but I'll call you?"
"Uh, sure." Steve nods, and Bucky's grin seems to widen, his eyes lighting up.
"Awesome," He says, as he stands. Steve hadn't noticed he was holding a takeaway cup. "I have to go. HYDRA thing. But I'll call you." He reiterates, and Steve just nods again. His cheeks are pink, and he has to take off his glasses in the end because they're starting to steam up at the corners.
"Talk to you later!" Bucky calls as he leaves, and Steve smiles after him, receiving an arched-eyebrow look from a girl across the cafe.
Steve burrows down in his seat, and once he's saved everything, he closes his laptop. He pulls out the moleskin pocket notebook instead, the one with plain paper rather than lined which has ma had looked high and low for, and he begins to sketch. He doesn't have Bucky's features committed to memory yet, but he manages to sketch the line of his shoulders, the basic outline of features and his hair, tied back at the base of his neck in a knot. Steve shades a little before he decides to leave, heading back home.
It's only when he gets inside that he realises he never gave Bucky his number.
~*~
It's only about three days after the encounter at Starbucks that Steve gets a call from an unknown number. Steve never hesitates to answer an unknown number, because that's where he gets half his jobs, but when he hears Bucky's voice on the other end of the line, he nearly chokes on his coffee.
"Hey, Steve, it's Bucky-- the model? From the-"
"Oh, from the Fall Formal shoot," Steve says, trying to feign nonchalance. He's not nonchalant. "Yeah, sure."
"Right. I hope this isn't too creepy, or anything- Maria Hill gave me your number."
"No, no," Steve says, and he smiles softly. He'd been painting with water colours, but he abandons it now; his focus has shifted and he doesn't want to ruin the painting. It's a commission, after all. "It's not creepy. It's how half of my clients get my number, anyway."
Bucky gives a chuckle, soft and maybe even a little breathy, and Steve feels himself swoon. "Awesome. So I was wondering about that shoot we were going to do- I don't have a location, but I'm free this weekend?"
It's only Monday; this weekend would mean he has to wait a week to see Bucky properly. He can do that. He's a very patient person. Sometimes. "Sure, this weekend is fine. As for a location, you can always come over to my apartment; my studio has floor length windows, lets the light in. It's good for a backdrop."
"Great," Bucky says, and only then does Steve realise what he's just said. Steve's studio (where he actually does most of his art and has never done any photography in his time there) is in Steve's house. He's just invited Bucky over to his house. "That's fine by me." Bucky continues. "Just text me the address, and I'll be there. About 10am, maybe?"
"Ten's great." Steve agrees. "I'll see you Saturday."
"See you then, Stevie."
There's a click as Bucky hangs up, and Steve huffs out a sigh. He's going to have to clean up the place for Bucky's arrival, but he's got just less than a week. He's sure he'll manage.
~*~
He doesn't manage.
His commission takes him the rest of the week, after the next door neighbour's cat (he left the window open and the little shit crawled along the ledge) ruined the first one. He draws it out again, and to be honest it looks better than the last one, but the painting takes him right up until midnight on Friday night, where he promptly falls asleep at his desk.
He wakes up in the morning and groans. The position slumped over his stool has given him both back and neck ache, and he'd been leaning against his palette, so now there's a thick smudge of blue on his cheekbone. He tries to rub it off, but it just spreads.
He heads into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee and maybe some breakfast, the time now reading 9.15. It's a good job he's got nothing going on today, he thinks, because he really needs a rest after rushing last night and-
Bucky.
"Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god-" Steve chants, as he jumps up, and manages to spill his cup of coffee all down himself. He cusses like a sailor and then heads to the bathroom in a rush. He has to change out of his t-shirt and sweats and into a plaid shirt and a pair of jeans, and when he decides his hair is too bad to be saved, he pulls a beanie on. He rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, and then goes to clean up his studio.
He does manage to get things put away, and he carefully sets the painting on the wrack to continue drying. He smudges paint up his arms, over his tattoos as he clears them all away, and then he almost spills dirty water all over himself as he clears his desk.
He's literally just finished cleaning up when he hears a knock at the door. He hasn't had time to clean the paint off his arms, but he supposes that doesn't matter too much. When he opens the door Bucky gives him a grin, and Steve locks his knees to make sure they don't fail him. Bucky always manages to look like a model even when no one's dressing him, the light grey jumper clinging to his skin, accenting his lean muscles, his jeans clinging to his thighs. Steve wants to take them off.
Bucky's eyes flick over him, giving him the once over, but Steve must just imagine that, right?
"Hey, Stevie," He says, and he gives him a small smile. "You ready for me?"
"Yeah." He nods. "Come on in."
He smiles as he steps back and lets Bucky inside. "The Studio's just on your left," He directs, and Bucky nods as he steps through. Steve hears a distant woah; his hallway is pretty tiny, giving the impression that the rest of the apartment is tiny too, but the studio is easily the biggest room in the place. It takes up half of the whole apartment, but Steve doesn't care. It's all open plan, just a plain room with plain wooden floorboards and plain white walls and the big floor-length windows. It's pretty perfect, to be honest. Easily his most favourite room in the house.
"This is amazing." Bucky says as Steve enters, and he smiles.
"I'll tell my landlord." He grins, and reaches for the stool at his desk. He rarely uses it; he has one with a proper back now, because he has scoliosis and sitting on a one of those chairs used to wreck his back. He keeps it around anyway, though; he was never sure why, but at least now he has a reason.
He sets it down in the middle of the room, away from the dark and in the light, which streams around Bucky's shoulders as he sits down on the stool.
"How do you want me?" Bucky asks, and Steve thinks about asking against the wall or in his bed, but he swallows that down and shrugs his shoulders.
"They're your headshots." He says. "How do you want 'em to look?"
"Natural." Bucky answers. "Just- natural."
Steve nods. "Then give me a small smile. Tiny. Just like- nearly your resting face, but a little bit of a smile."
Bucky nods to show his understanding; he crosses his hands in his lap, and Steve once again sees metal fingers glinting in the light. He looks away; he thinks nothing of it. Or at least, he tries to.
When he looks back up at Bucky with that tiny half-smile, Steve feels his stomach drop, his heart beat a little faster. How Bucky manages to look so damn perfect is behind him, even when he's not even smiling.
"Hang on," Steve murmurs. He hangs his camera around his neck and moves forward, pulling the tie out of Bucky's hair. When it falls loose Steve tucks it behind his ears.
When he pulls away, Bucky isn't smiling, but he's blushing.
"There." Steve says, and he clears his throat. "Natural."
Bucky just nods, and he looks down at the floor before looking back up at Steve, giving him his little half smile. Steve looks at the display, and begins to take his photographs. He takes more than he should, too many, putting the black and white filter on eventually. It's better than adding it in Photoshop. He takes more photos than he can count, and then begins to upload them to his computer.
"It might take a while," He says sheepishly, shifting a little on his feet. "Fancy a coffee whilst you wait?"
Bucky gives a grin. "Sure."
They go through to the living room; it's all open plan, just a step separating the living room from the kitchen. They sit at the breakfast bar, and they've chatted for a little about Steve's art, Bucky telling him how amazing it is, before Steve's lips start moving without his brain's permission.
"I have a client who wants a commission- a portrait. She doesn't care who of. I was wondering, if- If I could-"
"You want to draw me?" Bucky asks, eyebrows shooting up, before he gives a smirk. "Like one of your French girl?"
"I was thinking with a few more clothes on." Steve chuckles, fingers wrapped around his mug. His hands are always cold. He doesn't note that only Bucky's right hand is up on the table. "But, yeah- I'd be asking a model anyway. Why not?"
It's a lie. He wants to draw Bucky because he thinks he'd be an amazing subject, because he wants to see him again, and if that's the last chance he gets, he wants to immortalise him on paper. Or something. It has nothing to do with a commission.
"Well, I'd be honoured." Bucky says, grin firmly in place. "Just tell me when you want me and-"
He's cut off by a rhythmic beeping, and Steve gives a soft smile. "The photos are done."
He takes Bucky through the back, and shows them to him. Bucky chooses his two favourites, Steve edits them a little, and then prints them out. He promises to email them to Bucky, too.
"Thanks so much, Stevie," He says, and the nickname makes Steve feel warm. He shrugs his shoulders a little, and pushes his glasses up his nose with his index finger. "Can I give your number to my friend Natasha? I know she hasn't got her headshots done yet; she doesn't work for HYDRA, she doesn't really have an agency, but it'd still be nice."
Steve nods dumbly; he's getting another client. Well, he might be getting another client. Natasha might not take him up on the offer. But Bucky thinks he's good enough to give his friend a recommendation. Bucky thinks he's good.
"So how much do I owe you?" Bucky asks, digging around in his back pocket for his wallet. Steve gives a shrug of his shoulders, looking over to Bucky. He hadn't even thought of the price. He's not sure he minds. It's not like he's really done anything, so-
"How much can you pay?" Steve asks. "I mean, it's not like this has been particularly difficult. Not like some shoots. So whatever."
Bucky gives him a small smile. "I wouldn't dare pay you any less than $200. Y'know with the camera and the photos and you having to upload them, email them to me-"
"Well let's call it $100," Steve says, grinning, "And you can pay the rest off by modeling for me."
Bucky grins and nods, handing Steve a handful of bills. Their fingers brush, and Steve feels electricity shoot up his arm.
"So I'll see you soon." Bucky says as he leaves, and Steve nods. "Looking forward to it." He murmurs, as he shuts the door behind him.
~*~
[ SMS: Bucky : 21.32 ] Hi, Bucky. This is Steve, the photographer. I was wondering if you could come over Saturday to sit for the commission?
[ SMS: Bucky : 21.32 ] I mean if you can't, that's fine.
[ SMS: Bucky : 21.33 ] I was just thinking we'd have all day.
[ SMS: Steve : 21.33 ] Saturday's fine
[ SMS: Steve : 21.33 ] I have nothing going on.
[ SMS: Steve : 21.33 ] What time do you want me?
[ SMS: Bucky : 21.34 ] Maybe 11am? Unless that's too early, I know you models need your beauty sleep ;)
[ SMS: Steve : 21.34 ] Cheeky. Can't get more beautiful than this.
[ SMS: Steve : 21.34 ] I'm kidding, of course. 11am sounds fine. Care to clue me in on what this commission entails?
[ SMS: Steve : 21.34 ] Or is it a big secret?
[ SMS: Steve : 21.35 ] Oo, is it nude?
[ SMS: Bucky : 21.35 ] Ahaha no, it's not a secret. And it's not nude either.
[ SMS: Bucky : 21.35 ] Well, kind of. I was thinking shirtless, sort of with your back to me? I thought it'd look good. Artistic.
[ SMS: Steve : 21.59 ] Yeah
[ SMS: Steve : 21.59 ] That's fine
[ SMS: Steve : 22.00 ] I'll see you on Saturday. Might be late.
[ SMS: Bucky : 22.01 ] That's fine. I'll see you then!
~*~
Steve tries not to think about how off Bucky seemed, even just over text, at the mention of being shirtless. Steve is a liar if he says he's not interested in the metal hand, but shirtless should still be fine, right?
Well, Bucky hasn't backed out. He just said he might be late.
Steve takes a deep breath, and tries not to think about it. It's not like it's really for a commission anyway.
He'll just have to wait until Saturday, he supposes.
~*~
"Will you shut the hell up and help me move the table?"
"Well sure, but why are we doing this again?"
Steve rolls his eyes as Sam stands and moves to help him, shifting the table in the studio from up against the wall to the centre of the room, where the stool had been just a week previously. The stool now is stood in the corner, waiting for the time it will next be needed, but Steve doesn't have too much use for it.
"So loverboy's coming round to sit for you? Just out of the blue?" Sam asks, eyebrows raising. "Good of him. I always thought models were shallow. Or maybe that's why he's doing it."
Steve pulls a face. "Not exactly. He's not shallow, for a start, but-" He flushes as he lifts the table; he only gets it a centimetre off the floor, but it's enough. "I told him it was for a commission."
Sam puts the table down in the desired spot, and he looks at Steve incredulously. "Dude. You lied?"
"Am lying." Steve corrects, rubbing his lower back. "Present tense."
"Man," Sam huffs. "You wanna get in his pants that much?"
"It's not that!" Steve protests, but- well, it kind of is, to be honest. He can't lie. "It's just- I just wanted to draw him. And I need an excuse- You can't just ask someone to pose while you draw them for no reason at all. It's weird."
Sam shrugs, and takes a seat on the newly placed table. "Well I'll pay for it, man. It'll make a good Christmas present for you."
Steve rolls his eyes, and there's a knock at the door. His heart stops as he checks his watch; Bucky's actually early, despite having said he would be late. He looks twitchy, though; obviously off. Steve had sent him his headshots during the week, and he hadn't had a reply. Something had obviously put him off, and Steve knows it has something to do with the shirtless thing, but he just can't-
"Hi." He smiles, and Bucky gives him a tight smile in return, a small nod. "Hey."
"You're early." Steve nods, and Bucky shrugs his shoulders.
"Sooner we start the sooner we finish, right?" He says, and Steve's heart sinks. Bucky doesn't even want to be here, so what's the point?
"Right." He murmurs, as he leads Bucky inside. He clocks Sam in the studio and stops dead, so that Steve ends up walking into his back. He's warm and firm and his leather jacket smells fucking brilliant, but Steve doesn't have time to appreciate that.
"Who's this?" Bucky asks, eyebrows pulling together. He looks adorable, but Steve ignores that too.
"This is Sam," Steve says. "He's just my friend."
"And he's just going." Sam adds, giving the two of them a smile. "Catch you later, Steve."
Steve nod as Sam slips behind them. Bucky's shoulders are tense, but they relax just a tiny bit. When it's just the two of them, Bucky walks into the room, and he takes a deep breath. "Where do you want me?"
"I was thinking up on the table; the side facing the window. I've got the easel set up back here, but all I need is the basic sketch." Steve shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant. He's not. Neither is Bucky.
"Okay." He murmurs. He stands for a moment, reluctant, before he takes off his jacket. He's wearing a short sleeve t-shirt, and Steve gapes. The metal hand isn't just a hand; it's an arm. It has so many different links, each one shifting as he pulls his shirt over his head, a red star painted on the shoulder.
It's beautiful.
Steve feels a blush come over his cheeks, and he looks away as Bucky takes the t-shirt off too. He discards them at the side of the room, and suddenly Steve feels awful; he should tell Bucky to go home. He should tell him to just go. He's far too good for Steve anyway.
"Just up on the table?" Bucky asks. His voice is gravelly, low. Steve pretends to be looking at the canvas.
"Yeah." He murmurs. "Yeah, up on the table."
Bucky nods and pulls himself up, facing away from Steve. He's tense, and Steve was hoping he wouldn't be; he wants to reach out and run his hand along the line of his back, between his shoulder blades, in an attempt to help him relax. He begins to draw, and only then does he realise Bucky's hair is still in a knot, but it's completely forgotten when he starts speaking.
"I didn't think you'd want to draw me when you saw the arm. It- It puts a lot of people off, y'know? It's not pretty, and the scarring-"
"I think it's beautiful." Steve murmurs, but it comes out louder than he had intended in the almost empty room. He sees Bucky stiffen, and so he sets down his pencil. With the table, and Steve being so small, it's awkward. But he reaches out to untie Bucky's hair, and feels him inhale sharply.
"I think your arm is beautiful," He says again, as he pulls his fingers through Bucky's hair to fan it out, move it around to where he wants it to be. "I know- I mean, I'm assuming -it wasn't a choice. But it is- you've got no idea. It's amazing."
Bucky turns to look over his shoulder, peeking out of the corner of his eyes at him. There's a small smile on his face, a genuine light in his eyes. "You're shitting me."
"I'm really not." Steve murmurs, and there's a grin turning up the corner of his own lips, smiling back at him. He leans down slowly, carefully, and presses a kiss to the top of the shoulder, and before either of them can say anything, he scrambles across the table back to his canvas. "Now sit still," He says. "It shouldn't take too long."
Steve thinks he sees a hint of a grin as Bucky turns away, but he doesn't say a word. Instead he grips his pencil, and begins to draw.
~*~
It takes about an hour and a half, and then Bucky tugs his shirt back on, giving Steve a goofy kind of grin as he leaves. They don't make any more arrangements, but Bucky tells Steve to tell him how it goes, so Steve takes that as an invitation to talk to him again.
Natasha, Bucky's friend, comes round two weeks later. She's freaking gorgeous, red hair curled over her shoulder, eyeliner thick and black, framing bright green eyes, but she looks like the type of dame who could snap a guy's neck with her thighs - Steve's definitely not ready for that type of gal.
And anyway, he hasn't been able to stop thinking about Bucky. Bucky, who let Steve kiss his metal arm without kicking up a fuss, who sat still for a full hour and a half without complaint and then praised Steve on his skills, who had looked at Steve like he hung the fucking moon when he had told him how much HYDRA had liked his headshots-
Yeah. He can't stop thinking about Bucky.
So he lets Natasha in, and they take a few photographs; of course, the camera loves her. Steve's not sure he's ever photographed someone so photogenic before. Except, maybe for Bucky. Bucky, whose jaw line was so strong, so perfect, whose hair hung just below his chin and looked tidy and unkempt all at the same time, whose eyes shone even in the black and white photographs, whose-
Dammit, Steve. He thinks to himself. Stop it.
Natasha smirks like she knows something he doesn't. Her shoot is a little something more. She stood by the window, head tilted so that the sun only hit about half of her face, her body perfectly curved - not that the camera sees anything below the waist. She looks mysterious, dark when he puts on the black and white filter, but she looks amazing. He's pretty happy with the shoot, to be honest.
"They'll take a little while to upload," He says, as he turns away from his laptop. "Do you want anything? Tea, coffee-?"
"Tea would be great." She nods, and so does Steve, leading her through to his apartment to the kitchen. He makes himself a cup of tea too, and when he sits down at the breakfast bar, hands curled around the mug, he takes a sip. It tastes good. Relaxing. Natasha seems to like it too.
"So, James recommended you to me." It takes a moment for Steve to connect James to Bucky. He hadn't even thought about it, but of course his parents wouldn't have christened him Bucky. Steve nods. "You're all he's been able to talk about the last couple of days."
Steve nearly chokes on his tea.
"Wh-what?" He asks, face flushing red. She chuckles; she knows.
Although to be honest, it's kind of obvious that Steve has a thing for Bucky with the reaction he just gave.
She smiles, and it looks oddly feline. "Honestly." She says. "Steve this, Steve that. He wanted to come with me today but he had to work."
"Oh." Steve murmurs, sounding somewhat strangled. She smiles, and takes another sip of her tea.
"He won't make a move, y'know." She says. "He's not in denial about all that-" She waves her hand flippantly, and Steve assumes she means the fact that Bucky likes guys. Bucky likes guys. It's too good to be true. "-but he's a big baby. And you... well, I think you seem like the brave type." Another smile, and she says, "You should try making a move."
Steve blinks a few times, and he's honestly not sure how to respond. He opens his mouth to speak, or to cry, maybe, but then he hears his laptop beep from the next room, and he deflates.
"The photographs are done."
He shows them to her, and she picks a few of her favourites before grabbing her coat. "Think about what I said, Steve." She says at the front door. "I look forward to seeing you again."
And then she's gone, and Steve can only stare after her.
~*~
He's back in Starbucks, only a few days later, clicking through the photographs of another shoot, when his phone rings. He recognises the number: SHIELD. He shrugs to himself as he flicks his thumb across the screen of the phone, and pulls it to his ear.
"Rogers?" Fury asks, and Steve shifts in his seat. "Speaking. Hi, Fury. Got another job for me?"
"Damn right we have. Your photographs were amazing; best we've seen out of all our candidates. We want to offer you a job- our permanent photographer. Or one of them, anyway." Fury says, and Steve nearly chokes on his coffee. He needs to stop drinking when he's talking to people, he's going to end up killing himself.
"R-Really?" He asks.
"Really." Fury assures him. "How soon can you start?"
"Whenever you want me." Steve answers, finger tracing a circle around the rim of his mug.
Fury huffs softly. "Then we'll see you next Monday, 9am, my office on the tenth floor. I assume you know where our HQ is."
"Yeah." Steve nods. The Triscelion is pretty hard to miss, to be honest. "I'll see you then."
"Bring your camera." Fury instructs. "Goodbye, Rogers."
"Goodbye, Sir." Steve murmurs, taking his phone slowly away from his ear when Fury hangs off. As fun as freelance had been, he has a feeling he's going to like working for SHIELD.
He calls Sam. Even though he's busy, because he keeps regular office hours like any other therapist, he takes a minute out to let Steve freak out at him on the other end of the line.
Steve thinks about calling Bucky, too, but he quickly lays that idea to rest, and carries on with his day.
~*~
Steve runs into Bucky by pure chance, once again at Starbucks, and as Bucky sits down opposite Steve, he flushes, and guiltily admits, "I was kinda hoping to run into you."
That just makes Steve beam even wider.
"How was the commission? Did the buyer like it?" Bucky asks. He's got a Frappucino, and he twirls the spoon around in the cream on top before picking up a lump and quickly popping it in his mouth. For a moment, Steve is transfixed by the way Bucky's lips curve around the straw, tongue flicking out to grab some whipped cream left over. There's a spot of it on his lip, and Steve wants to lean over and get it with his own, but he stays rooted to the spot.
And then it hits him.
The commission; i.e the big fat freaking lie he had fed to Bucky in an attempt to get him shirtless.
Steve's about to make up some bullshit about it being great, the buyer loving it, but then he feels the truth bubbling at the back of his throat and he can't stop it, can't help it, he's going to spill-
"There was no commission! I just wanted to spend more time with you and then I was thinking shirtless because you're you, y'know, and I was a little curious, I know, it's perverted, but then I saw how much you didn't want to do it and I thought about calling it off and I felt awful for lying and I just- I was going to tell you, I swear, but then you got over it, y'know, so I thought maybe you were okay with it, and god I swear I feel awful and I get it if you hate me and I just I'm sorry okay I should have told you I-"
Steve has to take a breath on his inhaler. Bucky's eyebrows have officially been introduced to his hairline.
"O-kay." He says, slowly. "So you lied."
Steve nods around his inhaler.
"But you-" Bucky shifts. "You meant well."
Again, Steve nods. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, an Bucky reaches out to rub his back. That doesn't help at all, to be honest.
"Well, I'm not mad." Bucky says. Steve breathes a little easier."Well, a little bit mad." He corrects. "You should have just told me you wanted to draw me. I would've been flattered, and I might have even got naked."
"Hey-" Steve says, finally getting his breath back. "That's third date stuff."
"So that was a date?" Bucky questions, a grin tugging at his lips.
Steve goes even more red than before, and sets his inhaler down carefully. "If you want it to be. But I don't think it counts."
Bucky shifts closer to him, an arm slipping around him. When Steve turns to look at Bucky he finds he has to look up, and they're now incredibly close, noses almost touching.
"No," Bucky breathes. His breath smells sweet, like chocolate, and it's warm against Steve's features. "I don't think it counts either. This might just, though."
Steve nods, shifting forward till he can rest a hand on Bucky's knee. The call it their first date, and it's a pretty damn good one.
~*~
3 months later
They stand in the middle of a studio; there are other people milling around, but it feels like they're alone, just the two of them. The background and the floor is white, and there are silvery trees all around Bucky as he stands wrapped in a navy coat and a dark black scarf, dark chinos and dress shoes to match. They have the AC turned on, despite it being January and pretty freaking cold, so that the models don't get too hot. SHIELD take their models' comfort seriously. But it means Steve is wearing a big jumper that may or may not belong to Bucky, a scarf wrapped around his neck, wearing fingerless gloves.
"Perfect," He says, as he looks down at the camera and pushes his glasses up his nose, only for them to slip back down. Bucky chuckles as he approaches, standing close by his side. "As always." Steve adds, looking up with a small smile.
"Flattery'll get you nowhere, punk." Bucky mutters fondly, but Steve just grins.
"I know, from experience, that that's bullshit." he says, grinning up at him. He uses the lapels of his jacket to pull him into a kiss, crashing their lips together. The kiss makes him feel warm all over, and they only actually pull away when Darcy, their make up artist, coughs.
"Eat face on your own time, lovebirds," She teases, grinning as she waves a make up brush at them. "You're needed in wardrobe, Barnes. And Steve, you're not allowed to accompany him. Just Bucky. We don't have time for you to get handsy again."
She grins, as does Bucky, who leans down and presses a kiss to Steve's lips briefly. Steve looks down at his camera and gets ready for the next model, muttering something about Darcy over-exaggerating.
But really, the wardrobe thing only happened once.