Work Text:
He didn’t plan to do this, never intended to violate anyone’s privacy like that. There was something inherently wrong about forcing your presence where you weren’t invited.
But it just happened, he walked into the living room and there it was, left on the coffee table, right next to the empty mug and plate with a pile of uneaten cookies. Steve’s sketchbook, open at a blank page, but then, the window was open, and the wind did the work for him. Once he caught sight of the drawing, he just couldn’t go past it and pretend he hadn’t noticed.
So he took the thing in both hands, careful not to stain it with perhaps not very clean fingers. And he just stared, first taking in the overall image, then concentrating on details and devouring each one with his eyes, his heart racing, his mind spiraling just like it was in the image.
There was a man sitting cross-legged in the center of the page, long dark hair, metal arm, a haunted look on his face, hunched shoulders. His eyes were unfocused, somehow blank, but filled with emotions at the same time. He was surrounded by a tornado of threads. Just threads, with skeins scattered all around the man’s legs, filling the space loosely and some tightening around the man’s chest and head, tying his arms, controlling him.
They were a scattered, chaotic mass, revolving around the lonely figure. There was something about this man that suggested he was trying to watch them, to follow at least one, but couldn’t. There was something in the way he held his arms that told a story about how he wanted to untangle them, to put them back in order, roll them into those skeins, to break free from the thready prison.
But then again, his eyes. Was that fear? Or helplessness in them? Why couldn’t, why wouldn’t he just tear them apart? He had enough muscle to do that, and yet… and yet… Some of these threads were so fragile and so important that, despite his vulnerability, the man refused to destroy them.
Maybe he just didn’t know which ones were worth preserving and which ones could be neglected. Maybe he really couldn’t tell the difference between the threads that strangled him and those that just surrounded him.
He looked so lost. Like he didn’t dare hope for anyone to come and help him with the threads, like he was just afraid of the possibility that someone could actually come and try. And give up, and then leave him, because that was a hell of a task, the threads tied in complicated knots and all. Who would possibly want to even try to be patient enough to work through this?
There was a motion to his right, but Bucky didn’t react. He was captivated, he just couldn’t tear his eyes off the drawing, even though he knew someone had just entered the room and halted in the doorway, not interrupting him.
Bucky took his time, somehow trying to form his own thoughts into something orderly, trying to define his own feelings. There was some mixture of overwhelming panic, emotion and a sense of some support in him. He set his jaw and raised his eyes at Steve.
“How did you know what it feels like?”
He was genuinely afraid and somehow calm at the same time. The question he asked felt both uncomfortable and reassuring. He wasn’t sure what to make of it all. There was something very scary in knowing that another person can understand you just so perfectly without you telling them a word about how you feel. But it also felt like the best thing in the world, like the least plausible dream coming true. He still wasn’t sure if the drawing contributed to boosting his trust in Steve or if it just killed the remnants of the trust he managed to build so far.
He felt vulnerable and exposed, and still didn’t know if he felt fine with this or not. He wanted to throw the sketchbook out of the window and run away, but then, he also wanted to sit down, wrap himself in a blanket and look at it forever.
There was something very, very scary about the fact that Bucky was so easy to read. That despite his efforts to put on a mask, Steve still knew exactly what was happening in his mind. He knew him so well there might be no way to escape it.
But somehow Bucky couldn’t read Steve’s face so easily. There was some kind of tension, but he didn’t know if Steve regretted leaving the sketchbook on the table or not. If he resented Bucky’s curiosity, or maybe his own carelessness.
“Any improvements that I can make with this?” he asked with a brief smile, pointing to the book with his chin.
Bucky was at a loss. What improvements? This was the most accurate representation of his mind that he could imagine. He wouldn’t describe anything better than this drawing did.
“You tell me.”
He knew that if Steve already noticed this much, he would surely know when – if? – the drawing needed alterations or a remake.
He wasn’t quite sure if he was ready to choose such a quick, even if implicit, declaration of trust. But then, he didn’t have much choice. Somehow the situation required some kind of reaction from him, some kind of choice. There was no way to close the sketchbook and pretend none of this happened. They both learned something about each other this day, and had to respond.
Steve crossed the distance between them and reached out for the sketchbook, waiting for Bucky to hand it back. He didn’t touch it until Bucky just placed it in his hand, watching him somewhat suspiciously.
“Give me a few minutes.” Steve sat down, sharpened the pencil and started drawing. Bucky had no idea what he might want to change at this point, for a moment he even felt the urge to stop him, afraid that Steve may distort the truth for the sake of Bucky’s humor. But that was not how the trust he just declared should work, so he just grabbed Steve’s empty mug and retreated to the kitchen.
He returned with the mug filled with hot tea to find Steve sitting cross-legged on the armchair, still drawing, the sketchbook in his lap, his shoulders hunched over the paper. In a way, he was mirroring the position he put the man in the picture in, but Bucky couldn’t tell if it was intentional.
He set the mug on the table right in front of his friend and lowered himself on the couch. Steve was so focused on drawing that he paid no attention to Bucky, but there was something oddly calm and comforting about it, so Bucky just lay on the couch.
He wasn’t sure when he fell asleep, but when he finally woke up, Steve was gone, the sketchbook left on the table, closed, with a bookmark inside. He sat up and opened the sketchbook at the marked page.
The long-haired man in the drawing hadn’t changed much, but a few threads that had been wrapped around his chest and arms were missing. And then, nor far from him, but still at a safe distance, was another man, a broad-shouldered blond, several strings of thread hanging in his hand. But the most mesmerizing thing were his eyes.
Bucky hadn’t realized before that a pair of eyes sketched on a yellowish sheet of paper could speak. But they did. They spoke of a whole lot of things, things he had forgotten existed or things he hadn’t believed he could hope for.
And then trust and understanding were somehow less scary, less of a potential enemy to run from. They were more of a goal. More of a reason. More like truth.
My dear friend suturacoronalis was kind enough to actually draw what Steve did in the fic. Thank you! <3
Also, please don't repost it anywhere! If you want to share on Tumblr, reblog from HERE!
