Work Text:
Brooklyn, New York, 1940s
The charcoal slid across the paper, leaving behind strokes of deep black. Steve’s skillful fingers guided the pencil to every corner of the sheet, in wide curves or tighter ones, some sharp angles, bold or delicate arabesques. Shapes, silhouettes, or more detailed objects and landscapes...
It was a sight Bucky never grew tired of. A whole universe came to life beneath Steve’s hand. Day after day, the young man filled the yellowing pages of his sketchbooks. As soon as he reached the last pages of one, Bucky made sure to buy him a new one so that he would never run out. Of course, Steve would protest and try to pay him back, but he eventually gave up, defeated by his friend's stubborn silence. Instead, Steve would let him choose the subject of his next drawing.
Bucky often picked an object from their apartment, a passerby in the street below, sometimes even a stray dog or cat. Once, he had asked Steve to draw him. But Steve had refused flatly, his face turning crimson, and locked himself in his room for the rest of the day. Bucky hadn’t pressed him.
Watching Steve draw was one of his favorite pastimes. Bucky had noticed that Steve tended to stick out his tongue when certain details or perspectives gave him trouble. Bucky found that endearing. Just like Steve’s expressions when he tried to capture a face. Steve’s face would align with the emotions he was drawing in a rather comical way.
While Steve appeared stoic and impassive in public, despite his outbursts of anger at the idiots he crossed paths with, his face would light up when he was alone with his sketchbook. His blue eyes would sparkle every time Bucky pointed out a beautiful landscape, a bird, or anything he thought worthy of being immortalized in his notebook. And his cheeks would always flush when Bucky complimented his creations.
***
New York, 2010s
With his head resting against Steve's chest, Bucky smiled as his friend placed a kiss on his hair. They had just finished one of their many movie nights, just the two of them, lying in Steve's bed.
"Hey, Stevie..."
"Hm?"
"Have you ever drawn me?"
Bucky felt his friend tense beneath him. The silence stretched for a few seconds before Steve finally answered.
"Maybe..."
"That's not an answer, punk!"
"Jerk..."
Steve sighed and motioned for Bucky, who was sprawled across him, to shift so he could sit up. Bucky complied, watching Steve as he kneeled in front of his desk and began rummaging through the bottom drawer. After a few minutes, he pulled out a thick sketchbook, its black cover worn and scratched in places. Some of the pages seemed warped, as if the book had been submerged in water and then dried, page by page. Bucky guessed it had seen a lot of use and must be very dear to Steve for him to keep it, even in such a state...
With the old sketchbook in hand, Steve sat down next to Bucky on the bed. He placed the sketchbook on his lap, and his fingers absentmindedly traced the damaged cover.
"I’d drawn you a few times, secretly, when we lived together in Brooklyn, but unfortunately the drawings had to be destroyed or lost." (Steve paused, a small embarrassed smile on his lips) "Actually, maybe it’s a good thing. I wouldn’t have been too comfortable if my portraits of you had ended up in a museum for everyone to see..."
Bucky burst out laughing.
"Why? Did you draw little hearts around my portrait, like the hopeless romantic you are?"
Steve punched him in the shoulder, but Bucky noticed the tips of his ears turning red.
"Whatever! It was just private, that's all. I’m definitely glad they’re gone. You didn’t deserve to see them if it was just to make fun of me!"
Bucky was about to retort indignantly when Steve interrupted him.
"Anyway, they're gone... But I did more, after."
Bucky’s gaze shifted from Steve’s face, which now bore a melancholic expression, to the sketchbook in his hands, which he opened.
Bucky's breath caught in his throat as he discovered a black-and-white version of himself, leaning against the wall of what looked like the apartment they had shared before the war. His arms crossed over his chest, the drawn Bucky stared back with a challenging look in his eyes. But one detail didn’t match. The Bucky in the drawing was wearing his blue and brown uniform. The very one now on display in a museum. It was the uniform he had worn in Europe, when he fought alongside the Howling Commandos, before falling into a ravine in the Alps. Bucky had never had the chance to bring that uniform back to Brooklyn, let alone into their apartment.
Bucky turned back to Steve, confused.
"When did you make this drawing?"
Steve ran a hand over his neck, his sad eyes staring ahead. He swallowed.
"It was when I woke up... When they thawed me out."
"But you— I—"
"No, you weren’t there. You weren’t there anymore, and I—"
His voice broke, and a second later, Bucky's arms were around him.
"Shhh... It's okay, it's okay, I'm here..."
Bucky could feel the tremors of Steve's silent sobs, and it broke his heart. He squeezed him a little tighter and placed a kiss in his hair.
The sobs quieted, and Steve gently pulled away from the embrace, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He still avoided Bucky’s gaze when he resumed his story.
"It was hard. I won’t lie to you, it was really hard to start over, to begin a new life in this world that had nothing to do with everything I knew..." (Bucky gently stroked his back in sympathy) "But little by little, I managed to find my bearings, to adapt... And you were with me every step of the way." (Steve looked at the sketchbook on his lap with an infinitely sad tenderness) "I never would’ve made it without you, so I decided you would discover it with me."
Bucky felt his heart tighten as the realization hit.
"Every new place, every new experience, I recorded it in this sketchbook, drawing you by my side. If you want to look..."
Steve hesitated but handed him the sketchbook, and Bucky accepted it, beginning to flip through it carefully. The sheer number of sketches made his head spin. There were hundreds, one after another, across page after page. Landscapes: a view of present-day New York with all its skyscrapers, seen from a Bucky leaning against one of the large glass panels of 30 Hudson Yards—according to the caption—Bucky posing in front of Mount Rushmore, a street in New York clogged with cars and taxis... Buildings: Bucky in the middle of the moving crowd in modern Times Square with its giant screens, Bucky posing in front of the One World Trade Center, a row of skyscrapers somewhere in New York... Sometimes just objects: Bucky listening to music with headphones, Bucky on the couch, watching a movie on a flat-screen TV, Bucky sitting backward on a chair, watching a dish heat up in a microwave...
Bucky was everywhere, like a carbon copy always at Steve's side, while the original Bucky was a thousand miles away, slaughtering innocent people under Hydra's orders... The former soldier let out a strangled sound, then gently closed the notebook and handed it back to Steve.
"I’m so sorry, Stevie... I should’ve been there for you... I promised you..."
It was Steve's turn to embrace him, and Bucky let himself be pressed against his chest, head down, heart heavy. Steve gently rocked him against him.
"It’s okay, Buck. You couldn’t help it, it’s not your fault..."
"But I promised you, I—"
"Shhh... It’s okay..."
A kiss was placed on his temple, and Bucky let himself relax against Steve.
"I’m sorry."
"Buck. You’re here now. It was unexpected, a real miracle that you survived as long as I did... And that we ended up finding each other again..."
Bucky let out a sad laugh.
"We always end up finding each other..."
He felt Steve smile, his lips pressed against his skull.
"What can I say, Bucky. Our unconditional love is stronger than anything..."
"Shut up, Rogers..."
The tone was somewhere between embarrassment and affection. Steve kissed his forehead in return.
"I love you too, jerk..."