Chapter Text
“We’d like to thank you for tuning in, and God bless”
Steve blinks at his computer screen, having finished the 16th episode of his Bob Ross: Beauty is Everywhere marathon. Netflix had put up the whole first season and he had taken the whole day off from his boring government job of files and answering phones to dedicate it to Bob. He hits the pause button to stop the automatic play of episode 17, which promised ‘weathered old barns’ and ‘deep blue skies’ and stretches his thin arms above his head. It’s late afternoon, and the sun is getting a little low in the sky, and he knows he should take a break from his pal Bob and make something to eat, but spending the whole day curled in bed with his laptop has made him too lazy. He briefly courts the idea of ordering in, but throws it out because he knows he’ll regret it the next day. He can do better; he’ll walk to the Chinese place two blocks down and three over and pick it up himself.
He hauls his ass out of bed, still wearing the sweats and white t-shirt he had slept in the night before. He pairs them with a faded red sweater that’s coated in basically every kind of paint that exists on earth, and several that one of his weird coworkers insists were from ‘Asgard’, whatever the hell that was. Probably some fancy art store in Manhattan that Steve couldn’t even afford to breathe in. He shoves his feet in his shoes while placing an order on the phone because hey, his multitasking skills are excellent. He doesn’t bother to lock the doors to his apartment, because there’s nothing worth stealing anyway, unless some poor burglar thought that amatuer art was valuable.
When Steve gets to the Chinese restaurant, he’s told his order isn’t ready, but it’s no big deal, he’ll just kill 15 minutes in the art store two shops down the road. He’s only been in there once or twice, and could do with exploring it and all the products they carried that he couldn’t afford on his current paycheck.
The store is surprisingly cozy, and very empty, which Steve supposes is probably typical for dinnertime on a Wednesday. For such a small shop they have really, really good selection, and Steve finds himself picking up a few items he knows he needs, but can’t really afford. After some difficult decision making he decides to pick up the gloss polymer and gesso he needs, figuring he’ll skip lunch for the rest of the week to even out his budget. As he brings his 5’3” frame up to the cash, he sees the cashier and stops in his tracks. The cashier is leaning against the counter, flipping through a catalogue idly, and yeah, just happens to be the most gorgeous man Steve has ever seen in his entire life. The way the fading light is filtering through the window illuminates the cashiers chestnut hair and further defines his jaw and cheekbones. Steve’s hands itch to whip out a sketchbook and start drawing him right there and then. He shakes his head at the absurdity of himself and steps up to the counter.
“Hey,” he says, placing his items down to be scanned. The cashier puts down his catalogue with a sigh, revealing a name tag that has ‘James’ scratched out with ‘Bucky’ written in red underneath pinned onto his shirt.
“Find everything alright?” Bucky asks in a disinterested tone.
“Yeah! This store is really amazing,” Steve says enthusiastically, immediately regretting the decision when Bucky looks at him long and hard. Steve can feel Bucky’s eyes scraping over him and his paint-stained sweater, and finding him inadequate. Steve wishes that he’d bothered to get dressed like a regular human being who didn’t use sick days to marathon Bob Ross shows.
“Well,” Bucky says, like he could not care any less, “That’s just great. Your total is 32 dollars and 37 cents.” Steve wishes he could sink right through the floor, and meekly hands over two twenty dollar bills, hating the feeling of the bills leaving his hands. He really needs to work on his impulse spending, or work on getting raise.
Bucky hands him back his change with a bored expression as the receipt prints slowly. He tears it off the second it’s done printing, “Receipt in the bag okay?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure,” Steve replies. He takes the bag and practically runs out of the store and over to the Chinese place. Nice going, Rogers, he thinks as he shells out an additional 13 dollars and 7 cents for dinner, Real stand up job there, Steve.
***
After five more hours of therapeutic Bob Ross streaming, Steve has completed the series, his Chinese food, and a messy sketch of Bucky the cashier. He plugs his crappy smartphone into the charger and closes his laptop that still has the credits from The Beauty of Painting paused on the screen and curls into a ball to sleep.
***
More than a week passes after the events in the art supply shop, which Steve never plans on visiting ever again, when he realizes his bottle of matte varnish is completely dried out, with no hopes of salvaging it. Normally it wouldn’t be a big deal and he’d just pick some up later, but he’s planning to submit this painting in a contest, and he needs to get it mailed in two days, and it needed 24 hours to dry.
Again, not a big deal, except for the fact that he would be caught in the Friday night rush-hour traffic if he went to his usual art store. He cusses under his breath before sliding out of his painting sweater and into a grey cardigan his ex, Peggy, had given him for Christmas two years previously.
He counts out 15 dollars, hoping that the store will carry the brand of varnish he uses; the only one he trusts to not ruin his hard work. He walks the two blocks down and three over to the shop, cursing his inability to properly tighten the lids on his art supplies the entire way there.
He slips into the store, the bell chiming too loudly in the silent shop. Steve takes a moment to consider that it was really nice to have the store to himself, yet again, despite the fact he was afraid of the staff. The very, very handsome staff. Steve zeros in on what he needs and pulls himself up to the cash without even glancing around at whatever deals the store has going on at the moment. There’s a moment of pride until Steve realizes that Bucky is manning the cash register again, and he shrinks a little. Or as much as his slight frame will allow.
“Find everything alright?” Bucky asks, his tone a touch warmer than it had been on the previous trip.
“Yep,” Steve said quickly, rocking a little on his heels in anticipation of leaving the store as quickly as possible and getting back to his apartment to finish the piece.
“Alright. Your total is is 11 dollars and 27 cents,” Bucky says, sounding a little deflated. Steve’s attention is too invested in counting out the correct amount of quarters and pennies to notice. He hands over the pile of coinage a little sheepishly. Bucky takes one look at it and throws it into the till without bothering to count it. “Have a good night.”
“Yeah, uh, you too,” Steve says, taking his bottle off the counter and making a beeline straight for the exit.
***
The next few weeks are spent in a state of anticipation; Steve has never applied for any kind of contest really. He wasn’t able to do anything that required physical prowess. With all his allergies, poor circulation, and his asthma, it was best if he just sat out when it came to anything more strenuous than walking. Sports of all kinds were out, and that was 95% of any and all contest types. Sure, he’d longingly looked at other kinds of art competitions, but he’d never submitted anything to them.
Art was more of a hobby for him; a life consuming, money-gobbling, attention-hogging hobby.
But he’d seen the prompt for this contest, and he’d instantly connected with it. To commemorate the 75th anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbour, artists of all skills and styles were invited to create pieces of art using any mediums and of any size, as part of a government ceremony. Steve had heard about it at work, some flyer half-heartedly pinned to a bulletin board. He'd had an idea, of splashes of rich colours, collages of vintage newspapers and memorabilia, and just had to create the piece he saw in his mind’s eye. He’d tried to avoid it, but thoughts of it wouldn’t leave him alone, and he’d given in. Steve had spent more money on the piece, hunting up things on Craigslist and eBay, than he had on the rest of the pieces he had completed that year, combined.
He really wanted to win, but he was proud of the piece regardless, and he would be proud to hang it in his scruffy apartment in Brooklyn, even if he was the only one who ever got to see it. Watershed he’d called it, the name had come to him the moment he’d signed S.G Rogers in the bottom left hand corner.