Sketches
.
Steve used to draw Bucky on whatever piece of paper he managed to put his hands on. Before the war they didn’t have enough money to buy high quality art tools, and during, well, they had other priorities. But Steve kept drawing Bucky whenever he could, because even though they didn’t want to talk or think about it, the fact that one of them could suddenly die, leaving the other alone in the blink of an eye, was perfectly clear. This way, maybe, who survived would have had something to cling on.
Steve has conserved some of his sketches - the ones that didn’t get lost in the seventy years he slept, anyway. They’re hidden in a binder in his closet, under a small pile of soft cardigans he never wears. He thought about showing them to Bucky, when Bucky was still struggling to find himself again, but they were drawings of someone who had died a long time ago. Even if Bucky healed completely from what Hydra had done to him, he would never be the James Buchanan Barnes Steve had grown up with, again. Which is fine, it’s natural, Steve himself isn’t the same person anymore. But those drawings? They are only another dear memory of a brave soldier who died fighting in the war, faithfully kept by their loved one.
He still takes them out from time to time, exchanging looks with his friend on the paper. He doesn’t do it often, the melancholy still too strong - perhaps it will always be, but it’s been easier to look at them since Bucky has been back in life. It’s easier to look at them when he knows that, even though changed, even though damaged, like they all are, Bucky he’s alive, he’s just in the other room, and he’s doing good.
He doesn’t even think about them that often anymore, which is why, when he suggests Bucky that if he wants to wear something nice for Tony’s Valentine’s party that night, he can borrow some of his elegant clothes, he doesn’t think of what Bucky could find in his closet. And, of course, when he realizes it it’s too late.
He finds Bucky sitting on the floor, one of the cardigan laid on his crossed knees, holding the drawings gently, carefully, in his metal hand. The paper is admittedly a bit fragile.
- Buck - he calls, voice low.
Bucky doesn’t jump, doesn’t flinch; he just raises his head to look at Steve, and his eyes look a little wet. He doesn’t have a complete grip on his emotion these days.
Steve hesitates. He could explain himself, he could apologize - for what?, he could… But in the end, it doesn’t matter. Bucky and Steve have always understood each other perfectly, and Bucky is still fine, he’s stable enough to see old pictures of himself. It’s not like Steve’s love for him is a secret, anyway, not since they were in their teen years, just like Bucky’s love for Steve isn’t.
- Are you okay? - he checks instead, sitting beside him.
Bucky nods, and smiles a little, lifting the hand that doesn’t hold the drawings to rub his eyes.
- They’re good - he says, in a rough voice. Steve passes an arm around his shoulders and tugs him against himself. Bucky settles against Steve’s side, lays his head on Steve’s shoulder.
- Not as hot as I am, but they’re good - he adds, and Steve smirks at that, kissing Bucky on the top of his head. He smells of shampoo and home.
- Happy Valentine’s Day - he murmurs in Bucky’s hair, smiling.
- Happy Valentine’s Day, you punk - Bucky answers, and Steve grins.
The next day, the binder is moved to their bookcase.
Steve used to draw Bucky on whatever piece of paper he managed to put his hands on. Before the war they didn’t have enough money to buy high quality art tools, and during, well, they had other priorities. But Steve kept drawing Bucky whenever he could, because even though they didn’t want to talk or think about it, the fact that one of them could suddenly die, leaving the other alone in the blink of an eye, was perfectly clear. This way, maybe, who survived would have had something to cling on.
Steve has conserved some of his sketches - the ones that didn’t get lost in the seventy years he slept, anyway. They’re hidden in a binder in his closet, under a small pile of soft cardigans he never wears. He thought about showing them to Bucky, when Bucky was still struggling to find himself again, but they were drawings of someone who had died a long time ago. Even if Bucky healed completely from what Hydra had done to him, he would never be the James Buchanan Barnes Steve had grown up with, again. Which is fine, it’s natural, Steve himself isn’t the same person anymore. But those drawings? They are only another dear memory of a brave soldier who died fighting in the war, faithfully kept by their loved one.
He still takes them out from time to time, exchanging looks with his friend on the paper. He doesn’t do it often, the melancholy still too strong - perhaps it will always be, but it’s been easier to look at them since Bucky has been back in life. It’s easier to look at them when he knows that, even though changed, even though damaged, like they all are, Bucky he’s alive, he’s just in the other room, and he’s doing good.
He doesn’t even think about them that often anymore, which is why, when he suggests Bucky that if he wants to wear something nice for Tony’s Valentine’s party that night, he can borrow some of his elegant clothes, he doesn’t think of what Bucky could find in his closet. And, of course, when he realizes it it’s too late.
He finds Bucky sitting on the floor, one of the cardigan laid on his crossed knees, holding the drawings gently, carefully, in his metal hand. The paper is admittedly a bit fragile.
- Buck - he calls, voice low.
Bucky doesn’t jump, doesn’t flinch; he just raises his head to look at Steve, and his eyes look a little wet. He doesn’t have a complete grip on his emotion these days.
Steve hesitates. He could explain himself, he could apologize - for what?, he could… But in the end, it doesn’t matter. Bucky and Steve have always understood each other perfectly, and Bucky is still fine, he’s stable enough to see old pictures of himself. It’s not like Steve’s love for him is a secret, anyway, not since they were in their teen years, just like Bucky’s love for Steve isn’t.
- Are you okay? - he checks instead, sitting beside him.
Bucky nods, and smiles a little, lifting the hand that doesn’t hold the drawings to rub his eyes.
- They’re good - he says, in a rough voice. Steve passes an arm around his shoulders and tugs him against himself. Bucky settles against Steve’s side, lays his head on Steve’s shoulder.
- Not as hot as I am, but they’re good - he adds, and Steve smirks at that, kissing Bucky on the top of his head. He smells of shampoo and home.
- Happy Valentine’s Day - he murmurs in Bucky’s hair, smiling.
- Happy Valentine’s Day, you punk - Bucky answers, and Steve grins.
The next day, the binder is moved to their bookcase.