Work Text:
Sam draped his arm over his eyes as Steve puttered around him, getting his gun ready or mixing ink. It was better if Sam didn’t see the process. He loved to watch Steve work when it wasn’t his body he was working on. He couldn’t watch medical needles go in either.
“So I was telling her that there was no way she could get that whole entire dragon on that arm,” Steve continued, voice growing louder as he swung back around to Sam’s side. “But she was adamant. I changed the dimensions of that thing like thirty times.”
“Did you manage it?” Sam asked.
“Yeah. And it did look super badass,” Steve said. His voice was an odd mix of dejection at having been wrong and pride at making it work. “The colors we came up with…” He blew a breath out through pursed lips. “I should work with other artists more often.”
He touched the alcohol wipe to Sam’s waist and Sam startled just a little, though it still drew a snicker from Steve. “Come on, man. You know the process,” he teased. “I’ll tell you when I start with the needle.”
As always, he checked on the color and line work from his last pieces on Sam’s abdomen, and then the one on his thigh when he asked to lift Sam’s shorts leg. Almost everything Sam had on him was from Steve. There were a handful of small, bad-decision tattoos from when he was fresh out of high school that were from other artists, but once he got a good head on his shoulders about this obvious addiction he had to the tattoo needle, he settled on Steve pretty heavily. Their visions often aligned in a way that was so natural and complete it could be scary and Steve was the only shop around that Sam found could actually tattoo color on dark skin in a clean, saturated, beautiful way.
Steve was the artist behind the wings that spanned over Sam’s back and down his arms—the beauty of which would’ve been enough to convince Sam to never leave—but it was Steve’s suggestion to add a hidden detail in the work, the dogtags nestled in downy feathers between Sam’s shoulder blades, that really let Sam know that this was his guy.
He liked the other artists at the shop too and he’d gotten to know a few of the other regulars. Despite being located in the heart of DC, no one who walked through the doors ever looked like the kind of person Sam hated in this town. The shop had become a sanctuary of sorts for him. A place he went to decompress and touch back down to the ground.
Steve ghosted his fingers over the scrawl under Sam’s pecs that read, in Riley’s handwriting, “These things we do” “that others may live” and brought Sam out of his thoughts. “Everything looks good,” Steve assured. “You took a little bit of time off since your last one,” he added, attaching ink and needles.
“Yeah, I took a vacation,” Sam said, settling in as Steve touched the gun to his side for the first time. Sam sucked in a slight hiss but made sure not to jostle his stomach too much. “I was in Louisiana for a few weeks.”
He was about to launch into a story about little league games and elementary school graduations when someone yelped and then howled in pain from the room next door. Even Steve looked up, scrunching his nose so his glasses went back where they belonged on his face.
“That’s dramatic,” he scoffed and went back to the linework on Sam’s side.
“I’ve been thinking about this piece for a while though,” Sam offered.
Steve nodded. “I know. I’ve had a bunch of sketches sitting in my book since you mentioned it to me. I was thrilled when you finally decided to jump off the diving board.”
Sam tsked at the light teasing. “It’s a big piece. I had to save up for it.”
“You need to do payments?” Steve asked. “We can do half and half. Or thirds, depending on how long the coloring takes.”
“Nah, it’s alright,” Sam assured. He sucked in another breath, but it was drowned out by another shout of pain. “Seriously, is Nat trying to kill someone in there? That’s not Barton is it?”
Steve sighed and didn’t look from his work this time. “It’s not Barton. He’s in New York for a while, apparently. I don’t think she’s trying to kill the client, but she might be sulking about having this guy in the first place.”
“I’m gonna tell her you said that,” Sam threatened. “What’s the tat?”
“Just script,” Steve said. “And the guy’s already got tattoos. He’s still acting like this.” He shook his head in admonishment and Sam felt like he might be missing something. The artists could get sarcastic about bad clients, but not usually while said clients were in the chair.
Steve sat back to examine what he’d done so far. The delay allowed some of the pain to flow through Sam’s side and he grimaced a little. “Y’all aren’t joking that this location is sensitive.”
“You’ll be okay,” Steve assured. “You’re doing great so far.”
“It’s been five minutes,” Sam snorted. But he relaxed again as Steve brought the gun back to his side. There were a blissful few minutes where all Sam had to concentrate on was the buzz of the gun and the traveling sensation of pain up, over, and back down his side. He traced his fingers over the falcon on his chest–its wings spread under his clavicles, its head resting at the hollow of his throat. It was the first tattoo he’d gotten that Steve had warned him about the pain with. He’d done it all in one session, give or take a few extra minutes of shading a few weeks later, and he often let it reassure him that no matter how much a certain needle or spot pinched and bruised, it wasn’t going to be anything like this one. And hopefully it would look as good as his falcon did.
But he couldn’t keep his mind on his bird when the guy next door shouted again. Sam tapped the chair and Steve sat back with a confused look on his face.
“You good? You were barely reacting there. Did I hit you too hard?”
Sam looked down at his side and realized Steve had gotten much further than he’d thought. “Uh, no. No. Sorry. It’s just…” The man next door cried out again and Sam waved an irritated arm in that direction. “That.”
Before Steve could remind him of tattoo shop decorum, he slipped out of Steve’s cubicle and into Nat’s. The woman was bent over her client, one arm across his chest while she worked on a stencil that curled around his ribs with the other hand. Sam was pretty sure that was a terrible way to tattoo someone. But the guy was still shifting around and squirming, even under her hold, so who was he to judge?
Steve wasn’t lying about the client being tatted. The guy didn’t have as many tattoos as Sam did, but the ones he did have were large. He had a full sleeve on his arm that was full of bright, shiny colors. Under the leg of his shorts, Sam could see a very large decorated skull on one thigh. It might’ve been a wolf, since there was a very detailed white wolf head on the other thigh. He was missing his other arm at the shoulder, but Sam thought he might’ve lost a tattoo with it because there were splashes of color along his shoulder which disappeared into the scarring in a way that was definitely not like a coverup. Not only that, but he had bars in both nipples. There was no reason for him to be reacting like this to fancy cursive script.
“Dude,” Sam breathed. “What is your problem?”
Nat looked up at him with simmering rage and the guy looked up at him with spacey eyes.
“Magnolia blossoms,” he half-slurred. “That’s pretty.”
Sam looked at the cuff above his right elbow and raised his eyebrows. “You know your flowers.”
The man nodded. “Steve’s ma had a tree. I used to be able to make shit out of the petals. They were so soft.”
“Why do you sound like a World War II soldier dying in the trenches?” Nat scoffed with a roll of her eyes. “Move your arm.”
The man begrudgingly did, lolling it across his chest dramatically. Nat had to adjust it so she could continue to work on his ribs without his skin being pulled. Stepping closer, Sam could see that the script read “‘til the end of the line” and he was pretty certain the handwriting was Steve’s, though he’d never seen him write in cursive before.
The client was kind of handsome, Sam thought. Irritating. But handsome.
No. No. He was not doing this.
Sam turned to look at Steve, who was glowering around the room, a smear of ink across his hand. “Are you all done now? I’ve got a schedule.”
Nat blew out a puff of air and shook her hair out of her face. “You clear out your afternoon when Sam comes in,” she said flippantly, though the thought made Sam’s chest warm.
The man on the chair lifted his head again. “You’re Sam?” he asked. “Let me see the wings.”
Sam glanced at Steve again and Steve sighed, throwing his hands up in the air. “I’ll go mix some colors or something. The bruising’s just gonna get worse the longer you don’t sit though.”
Sam gave him a half salute of acknowledgement and then walked over to the side of the chair Bucky was half sliding out of, turning to expose his back and the silver wings that transversed his skin.
He jumped slightly when the man reached out to touch him. He heard Nat snap at him to stay still. “I can’t believe they actually look like this,” the man breathed.
“Steve knows what he’s doing,” Sam pointed out.
“Steve’s an asshole,” the man scoffed and his fingers fell away from Sam’s back.
“Bucky, if you don’t stop moving,” Nat threatened.
“Bucky?” Sam asked. “The best friend Bucky?”
Bucky hissed in another breath. “That one,” he said. “It’s his fault I’m doing this now.”
Sam turned to look at the man again with a thousand new stories to go along with the handsome face. “Is that why you’re being such a baby about it?”
Bucky coughed out a laugh. “Yeah, mostly. That and my ribs are still tender and he knows that.”
“It’s been months,” Nat argued. “You’re fine.” As she went back over a curved letter, Bucky whined and pitched his hips off of the chair. It was…incredibly distracting.
“Oh my God, if I hold your hand, will you be quiet?” Sam asked.
Bucky’s eyes lazed over him for a second before he nodded. “Yeah, probably. That’d be a good distraction.”
Sam rolled his eyes, which matched the scoff Nat let out. She nodded to a stool under her desk and Sam pulled it out with his foot before sitting on it on Bucky’s other side and offering out his hand..
“Your fingers are so long,” Bucky said.
“I thought you didn’t tat people when they were drunk,” Sam said to Nat.
“I don’t,” Nat snapped. But she was more or less gentle as she moved Bucky’s arm further away from his side. “He took pain medication and didn’t tell me before coming in.” This, she punctuated with a quick draw of the gun over a delicate swirl.
Bucky yelped and squeezed Sam’s hand. “What are you putting on your side?” he asked.
Sam looked down at the half outlined design. “It’s a bald cypress tree over a reflective water front,” he said. “My family’s work boat is under the tree.” Even though their boat was a sea boat, not a river boat. It didn’t matter. He wanted the two elements together and most people wouldn’t recognize the difference. “Steve’s gonna add some UV or glow in the dark type fireflies in the tree and over the water.”
“No way,” Bucky breathed, eyes squeezing shut. “That sounds really fucking cool. I should do a glow in the dark tattoo.”
Nat glared up at him with an unimpressed look.
“What happened to your ribs that you’re in so much pain?” Sam asked.
“They got hit a whole bunch,” Bucky said. “Two of them were broken.”
Sam grimaced. “Are you a boxer?” he asked.
“I used to be.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Nat scolded and shifted where she was working. By now, the words were almost fully formed on his ribs. Sam wondered how much elaboration she was going to add. How many shadows and curls, if there’d be any color. Nat had an insane array of talents behind her, but she was known for her Impressionism-esque art style and water colors. Her text was also astounding. She had an uncanny ability to mimic fonts, even without a stencil.
“Oh, shit, your arm,” Sam realized suddenly, cheeks warming fiercely and painfully. “Sorry, man.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Bucky said with a shake of their hands that Sam thought was supposed to be a wave of his arm. “I quit boxing before I lost it. I was a teenage sensation. Not a professional.”
“You wish you were a teenage sensation,” Nat scoffed. She made sure Bucky was sitting still before putting the gun back to his side. Sam watched her work silently, stroking his thumb over the back of Bucky’s hand absently.
Until Bucky said, “You really do like this.”
Sam looked over at him. “Tattooing? Yeah. Nat and Steve elevate it.”
Bucky nodded faintly. “Steve’s always had that artistic drive. You know, he went to school for painting? Like, oils. He hated that, but he was really good.”
Sam did know that. They’d talked about it while watching Nat tattoo an elaborate watercolor on someone’s back. “Well, he’s amazing at this stuff too.”
“And it makes him happier. I can see why now, if he gets his hands all over you.”
Sam’s cheeks heated again. “You really are a flirt, huh? I thought he was just putting you through the wringer.”
“He’s worse than a flirt,” Nat said, sitting back and wiping away some ink and blood. “He actually means what he’s saying.”
“Sam, I really need to get started on that piece again,” Steve said, appearing in the door.
“Good,” Nat added. “I’m just about done here. Wanna see?”
Steve came over to Bucky’s other side and a wide, pleased grin split across his face. “It looks great, Nat,” he complimented.
“That makes me think you put a dick in it,” Bucky grumbled.
“There’s no dick in it,” Sam promised. Not one that he’d seen at any rate. But who was he to judge the full scope of Nat’s work? “It’s just a handsome piece of script.”
Bucky nodded and released Sam’s hand carefully. “Thanks for the distraction,” he said. He sat gingerly and almost touched his fingers to the ink before thinking better of it and shooting an apologetic look at Nat.
Inconspicuously, Sam wiped his sweaty hand off on his pants. “Sure, Bucky. Anything for the best friend.”
Bucky fumbled with his own pants, producing a phone eventually. “Hey, do you wanna–”
“Yes,” Sam said quickly. He took the phone from Bucky, put in his number, and then called it so it’d be on his phone.
Bucky smiled, pleased as punch. “Great. So, I’ll see you around,” he said.
“Gotta know what it looks like once it’s all healed, right?” Sam agreed.
“Obviously.”
Steve steered Sam back to his room. “I can’t believe you fell for that. Actually, I can’t believe you’d encourage bad behavior like that,” he corrected.
“He’s harmless,” Sam said with a shrug, lifting his arm over his head so Steve could settle at his side again. “It does make me realize how good of a client I am.”
“You sit like a pro,” Steve agreed with a grin. He wiped down Sam’s side again and reoriented himself with the work he’d done. “Alright, gonna start using the gun,” he warned.
Sam turned to look out the door instead of watching Steve work. Bucky was saying goodbye to Nat in the foyer and when he turned and caught sight of Sam, he grinned and waved. Sam waved back without thinking and earned a sharp, “Sam!” from Steve. Who knew bad habits were contagious.
A few nights later, Sam laid on his side in his bed, curled around a pillow as he half dozed off.
“They really do glow,” Bucky breathed, tracing his fingers over Sam’s side. “Looks like they should fly right off your skin.”
Sam hummed. The tattoo looked amazing, of course. But even if he hadn’t thought so at first, the amount of pampering and complimenting it had received from Bucky in the following days should have been enough to convince him.
“But you should see what the silver’s doing in the light,” Bucky added, moving back to the established tattoo that he was far more obsessed with.
Sam hummed again. He hadn’t thought to look at his wings in the UV light. He’d have to try that tomorrow after Bucky left. “What’s it look like?” he asked into his pillow.
Bucky’s fingers traveled over his shoulders, his spine, his ribs. “You look like you’re glowing. Like a real angel, Sammy,” he breathed and put his mouth back where it had been for hours by now in the time they’d known each other. Sam left him alone for a few moments before he turned onto his back and wrapped his arms around Bucky’s ribs and tugged him close.
“Maybe I’ll let you pick out the next one,” he murmured, dropping his head back against the bed.
Bucky kissed a bite mark he’d put around the curve of Sam’s neck. “Maybe I’ll memorialize this one,” he said. He kissed up Sam’s neck. “Or maybe I’ll put my name right here,” he said, kissing the corner of his eye.
“You’re not very artistic, are you?” Sam asked.
Bucky snorted. “A little songbird right behind your ear.” He kissed to the soft spot behind Sam’s ear and then down to his shoulder. “Or a sweetheart candy, for my sweetheart.”
“Eternal flirt,” Sam laughed.
“Sweetheart, I’m just getting started,” Bucky promised.
Sam wrapped his arms around Bucky’s head as he traced a path over tattoos that were already there and laid out a thousand new ones.