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Steve isn’t trying to be creepy. He swears he isn’t.
But he’s stressed and anxious and the train is delayed for some fucking reason and he just wants to get home. He can’t think about DC, about Brock and everything he was stupid enough to leave home for in the first place.
He needs a distraction, is the thing. It’s not creepy. The guy sitting opposite him has been in the same position since they left two hours ago – Steve had almost thought he was asleep or unconscious, except for the fact that his eyes are open and staring out the window while his fingers tap on the table rhythmically.
Steve isn’t trying to be creepy, but he needs the distraction, and the guy is positioned perfectly for a portrait.
His sketchpad and pencils are out before he can help himself, and slowly the shape of the man takes form in front of him. The arch of his brow, the line of his nose and the way the reflection of the window catches in his eye. The man’s left arm is missing, and Steve notes this absently as he sketches the folds of the rumpled blue shirt he’s wearing, the slight stain by the collar and the brush of stubble covering his jaw.
Then he draws the hair, messed up like he’s been running his hand through it, but Steve hasn’t seen him move since he got on the train, not even when the delay was announced.
Steve’s so intrigued by him, he doesn’t even notice when the train starts moving again, until the view outside the window changes from trees to buildings, turning taller as they approach the city. Even then, Steve hardly registers it until the man moves, tilting his head like he’s trying to work out a kink in his neck. He turns his attention from the window and looks around him. His eyes land on Steve, then.
Steve isn’t being creepy, but he cringes when he realises he’s too late in closing the sketchpad.
“Was that… Were you drawing me?” the stranger asks. His voice is soft and warm, and Steve decides it suits him.
“I, um. I was going to give it to you when I got off the train. Sorry, I know it’s weird, I just–”
The man narrows his eyes. Holds out his hand. “Can I see it?” he asks, when Steve just stares at him.
“Oh! Right. Of course. Sorry.” Steve pulls out the page and hands it over.
The man stares at it in silence for long enough that Steve worries they’ll already be at the station before he says anything.
“It’s… really good. How long did that take?”
Steve hesitates before answering. “About an hour?” he offers.
The man frowns. “An hour? But–”
“Train’s delayed,” Steve offers. The man nods.
“Right. Right. Can I keep this? It’s really– Really good.”
Steve nods. “Of course! Absolutely, I want you to have it. Honestly, I just needed to keep my fingers busy and you were the only thing still enough to really – not that you aren’t a great subject, of course, it was very nice to draw you, but I–”
The man is smiling now, or at least trying not to laugh. “It’s fine. Really.”
He slides the drawing back over to Steve. “You should sign it. Only fair I know the artist’s name, right?”
Steve sighs in relief and scribbles his signature in the corner.
“I’m Steve,” he says, sliding it back over.
“Well, Steve, it was nice to meet you. I’m Bucky.” Bucky holds his hand out again, and this time Steve knows what to do, reaching out to shake it.
“Nice to meet you too, Bucky.”
The train slows as it enters the station, and Steve checks the time. He swears. He won’t make it home before his mom leaves for work, and he’d left in such a hurry he hadn’t thought to pack his key. He sends up a silent prayer that Marge next door will still have a spare.
“Late for something?” Bucky asks.
“Nah, I was just gonna visit my mom, but she’ll be at work.”
Bucky nods and stares out the window as the train comes to a stop. They both stand, and Steve throws his bag over his shoulder with everything he thought to bring with him. He probably won’t ever get the rest of his stuff back, but he can’t think about that now.
“What brings you to the city?” Steve asks, as they walk out into the station concourse.
“I live here,” he laughs. “Or, well – Brooklyn. I was in DC for work.” Bucky gestures vaguely. Steve guesses the work trip wasn’t exactly fun, by the intensity of the way Bucky had been staring out the window.
“Hey, me too! The Brooklyn part, not the work part.” Steve stumbles over his words a little, and he’s relieved when Bucky smiles.
“Guess we’re headed the same way, then?” he nods in the vague direction of the subway, and they start walking.
Steve feels relaxed in a way he hasn’t for months, not since moving in with Brock. He learns Bucky’s a manager at some garage that Steve’s pretty sure he’s walked past before, that he was meeting with some rich investor type who was talking about buying them out and adding them to some big chain.
“He’s clearly gonna fire everyone and shut the place down if this goes through, but at the same time, he’s slimy enough that he almost had me agreeing by the end.”
Steve makes a face. He tells Bucky about his art, how he’d been drawing since he was a kid.
“Do you draw for a living?” Bucky asks.
Steve cringes. “No. I wish, but no. I work – worked in a coffee shop back in DC, nothing fancy.”
“Past tense?” Bucky’s perceptive when he’s not staring at scenery.
“Yeah. I kinda left in a rush,” Steve explains. “And I’m not planning on going back. I’ll find something here, I’m sure. Stay with Ma in the meantime.”
They lapse into silence as they get to the subway station and catch the train – still going the same way.
“Hey, I don’t wanna be presumptuous,” Bucky breaks the silence once they’re seated on the second train of the day.
Steve nods for him to go on.
“I just – I could really go for a drink right about now, and I kind of get the impression that you might need one too. Would you like to–”
Steve almost refuses, instinct telling him you can’t, and think what Brock will say if he finds out, but he catches himself at the last minute. Brock’s opinion doesn’t matter anymore. He’s in the past.
“Sounds great,” Steve says, and he watches as Bucky smiles again.
“Perfect.”
They get off the train together and Bucky leads Steve to a small little bar he’s never been to before. The bartender greets Bucky by name when they order.
“Hey, Nat. Usual for me, and a–”
“Whatever beer’s on tap is good, thanks,” Steve says.
The bartender, Nat, raises an eyebrow as she pours the drinks. “Enjoy,” she winks, passing the glasses over. Bucky pays, and Steve grumbles.
“Relax, you can get the next one,” Bcuky reassures him. Steve relents.
They wind up at the bar for hours, though they only have two drinks each. They’re too busy laughing, regaling each other with stories about family, work, childhoods. Steve even alludes to Brock, though only in the vaguest of terms. Bucky seems to get it though, reaching over to lay a hand atop Steve’s on the table.
And that’s when Steve catches sight of Bucky’s watch.
“Shit,” he says.
“What is it?”
“I was gonna borrow a key to Mom’s place from the neighbor, but she’s always in bed by nine.”
Bucky looks at the time and confirms that it’s past ten already.
Steve’s running through options– waking Marge up, or going to the hospital and hoping his mom isn’t too busy to hand over her key, or–
“You can come back to my place, if you want?”
Steve looks up and sees a soft, almost shy expression on Bucky’s face.
“You–”
“I didn’t mean, you know… It doesn’t have to be–”
“Doesn’t have to be?” Steve asks, smiling again as Bucky turns pink.
“I just meant–”
“I know what you meant,” Steve puts Bucky out of his misery. “I’d love to come back to yours.”
Bucky leads the way, and Steve finds his hand falling into Bucky’s as they walk. It’s nice. It’s warm and comforting, and then Bucky stops at the entrance.
“Like I said, this doesn’t have to be– I know you’re just getting out of something, and if you want to just crash on the couch you’re more than welcome to–”
Steve reaches up and kisses him, and it seems to be all the reassurance Bucky needs.
Steve wakes up to a dead phone and Bucky drooling beside him in the bed. He gets up quietly and plugs his phone in, seeing dozens of missed calls and texts from Brock. He deletes them all, blocks the number.
Then he sees his bag, the sketchpad peeking out.
He picks it up and glances at the prone figure on the bed. Bucky’s lying on his front, face turned towards Steve. A patch of sunlight sneaks in the window and plays over his face.
Steve picks up a pencil.
He’s not looking for a distraction this time as graphite flows across the paper. He’s glad to be exactly where he is.