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Bucky knows he's pretty much okay these days because when the doorbell rings, he answers it without thinking. Without peeking through the keyhole or without waiting for Steve to answer it for him while he kind of hangs around the foyer like a disdainful, but potentially friendly cat.
The fact that Steve isn't home is a moot point. He's ignored doorbells before, usually waiting until the delivery person puts the package by the door with a resigned sigh and waiting for them to walk away before opening up and grabbing it. Sam says it's normal to not assault potential delivery people when they come to your door.
He has roughly four seconds to regret the action before he assesses the potential threat.
Steve has answered the door to no (read: zero) threats in the past year and half they've been living together, with the exception of Natasha Romanova in various disguises. His favorite disguise is still the tattooed bike messenger, because even he couldn't see through that. She'd plunked her helmet into Steve's chest before he even caught on.
The girl at the door peers at him through purple cat-eye glasses. He finds this charming. He smiles at her, tentatively and watches as she blushes from the neck down all the way to her forearms, which are exposed to him because she is holding a large brown box. She is simply but expensively dressed, and he detects a faint whiff of a very expensive cologne.
"Hello." He says, formally. He makes a mental note to tell Steve that their apartment is so exposed, seriously. The security in this building is a joke. Children can find them. Children.
"Hi." She smiles at him, obviously struggling to get the blush under control. "James Barnes?"
He wants to throw his hands up to high heaven. Since when did teenage girls know his real name? Their identities are supposed to be a secret. How did she ID him by sight?
His old handlers would have a conniption.
Bucky doesn't acknowledge the name. He wants to raise an eyebrow at her and give her a cold look, but something about the blushes, and the glasses and frail limbs makes him stop and just assess. She reminds him of Steve at thirteen, vaguely. He notes the way her shoulder and back muscles tense and takes appropriate action by widening his stance.
"I have something for you." She says and shoves the box into his arms. "This is Steve's."
"What?" He says dumbly. He was prepared for the action, but not the statement.
"Well, it was Steve's." She says. Now that her arms are free she relaxes a little and beams at him. "I inherited it."
It makes absolutely no sense. He feels his mouth drop open slightly.
"Goodbye now." She says and he is too dumbfounded to follow or protest when she runs down the hall and bypasses the elevator. He can hear her feet hit the stairs and the heavy metal door slam behind her.
Bucky places the box on their shared kitchen table and forgets about it until after lunch. Lunch is important. Whatever's in the box can wait.
He "accidentally" jostles it after he makes a bit of oatmeal (steel cut oats, goat's milk yogurt, fresh strawberries and the vegan granola from down the street). The box flaps come down to reveal Steve's sketchbooks.
There are only a few. A couple of Steve's old makeshift sketchbooks with cardboard covers and thin gray paper and two of the the newer ones more artfully made with leather and thicker paper. He wonders where the rest went. Steve must have had at least 20 by the time they left for war.
The cracked leather covers break his heart a little. Steve used to keep them in good condition, using spare oil or whatever was at hand to clean them. There are at least five that he can see, and he burns with curiosity. It's a good feeling, curiosity. Usually it's only evoked by food or a really good book cover. Lately, it's been triggered by glimpses of Steve's skin. Mouth. Hair. Presence.
He's not sure if it's because he's a duckling of some sort, imprinted on his best friend or if Steve, in general, makes him feel curious. He's certain from memories that the old Bucky had some sort of feeling to that regard.
He's not sure what they are though. He remembers that Steve let him see most of his drawings and that it was okay, but he feels so much like a stranger now that it feels very much like a violation.
It takes him a minute to place the sensation that starts at his fingertips, runs up his forearm, and the tingling in his belly. This wicked feeling that unfurls through him is temptation. He knows this feeling well, but has had no occasion to feel it before now. It's an old friend.
Out of instinct more than anything else, he turns away to make himself a cup of coffee. He knows that trouble normally follows him after it. He brews a cup without guilt because one thing Bucky really loves about the future is the sheer abundance of food. Steve still buys groceries like the apocalypse will happen tomorrow, and he better be able to eat his metric weight in Gruyere if this was the case.
Bucky loads his coffee with cream (whipped and heavy) and sugar because super soldiers don't get fat. Then he watches the skyline and the street for a bit because he's not really a super soldier anymore, at least for now.
He walks around the apartment and peeks into Steve's room. Steve is neat in all things except his art. "It's like the only place I'm allowed to be a bit scatterbrained." Steve says, and he remembers that this has been true for always. Half-finished sketches and an incomplete watercolor of a little girl with a balloon peek out at him. He grins at a rough sketch of an obviously irritated Sam he finds pinned to the cork board where Steve keeps his everyday detritus.
Coffee finished, he circles back to the kitchen and idly pushes the flap down.
He knows this sketchbook. It was the one right before the war -- the time they lived together in Brooklyn in a walk-up barely the size of their current kitchen. Steve went to art class and painted murals for America, even if the turpentine and paint sometimes left him down for days.
He had a good job at the docks, or something. He doesn't quite remember that. He remembers the pleasant burn of his muscles after a long day, the sting of the saltwater on his face and walking New York late at night to head home.
It doesn't break him as much as it used to, this not remembering.
He feels only a small twinge of guilt when he puts the mug down. He reaches down into the box to pick up the sketchbook. He opens it to the first page. The first drawing shocks him so much he drops it right back on the table. He picks it up again, guiltily smoothing down the cover as he stares that the first drawing Steve Rogers chose to bless this sketchbook with. He realizes how the girl recognized him by sight and if he could still blush, he would. Oh, he would.
His mouth curves upward and he feels it again. Temptation: silky smooth and a lot like ice cream. This is temptation tempered with happiness and somewhere there the Winter Soldier is planning a mode of attack.
It's a good feeling.
*
Steve smells it the moment he steps out of the elevator. He stops dead in the hallway, feeling that odd combination of heartbreak and happiness he seems to perpetually feel around Bucky. He carries it around with him all the time like a key to a lock he's sometimes hopeful to open.
Sam always shoots this idea down. The last time they talked about it he took the bike to DC and bought Sam coffee and a dozen cronuts he stood in line two hours for.
They dig in, watch a few passerby and Sam tells him. "It's not the same man, or the Winter Soldier or a combination of the two. It's not a simple matter of who is who, but more like Bucky discovering who he is. Again. He's just himself, now, whatever he is. You have to stop and pause and think before you say things."
Steve finds it harder and harder to not say anything because sometimes Bucky does things like this. Things from before that remind him of a long time ago. If he could travel back in time he'd tell stupid skinny Steve Rogers that he had it real good, he just didn't know it.
This time it's the spaghetti sauce recipe Mrs. Artuso taught Buck one summer night and that Steve could never make again despite the number of times he tried to duplicate it. The smell is both tart and sweet and he knows how good it is because Bucky's made it this good a thousand times before, thank the Italians, pasta and Bucky's unerring palette.
He laughs a little at that, and lets himself in. There's a huge pot of sauce on the stove and he spots the drained pasta on the counter, (enough for twelve, between the both of them they eat like a battalion) and the hunk of good Parmesan beside it. He takes in the pungent smell of garlic on butter coming from the toaster oven and thinks he could eat everything.
"You look like you're going to drop dead." Bucky says from where he reclines on the couch, bare feet on the table, hair mussed. Steve takes stock of himself. The uniform is dirty, and he's got soot on his face. He's bone tired and his shoulders ache. He props the shield up against the kitchen counter. "Doombots. He never seems to run out of them."
"I know." Bucky says, raising his metal hand in lieu of a wave. He's holding a thin, leather-bound book that looks strangely familiar in his real hand.
He grins suddenly and Steve feels his heart give a little kick. It's a smile he's rarely seen since Bucky came back. This smile lights up his blue eyes and gives him a debonair air. It's a smile he's not seen since --
He quickly takes in the pile of sketchbooks by Bucky's feet. His heart sinks a little. Since when did Bucky start to draw?
Bucky, the little shit, waves the sketchbook at him. He's still grinning.
It takes longer than it should, but then it hits him. He knowsthat sketchbook.
"You always were a little slow." Buck says. "I used to wonder if it was part of what was wrong with you. Besides everything else…" But his tone is lighthearted, and is he laughing?
Steve grins back automatically, delighted, before he remembers the other things he used to draw. He has a vivid memory of balancing the sketchbook on his knees, sketching out --
He feels his face freeze.
Buck stands up. This fluid economy of motion is all James -- what Steve calls the combination of the Winter Soldier and the best friend he grew up with. Bucky was all charm and dash, a man a confident with his body, his brains, and his looks. The Winter Soldier was nothing but empty economy and efficiency. There's a third person somewhere there. James. Bucky's fought hard to let him emerge, this person who walks like he's about to stomp on someone's face, albeit very gracefully.
Steve hears nothing but the roaring of his ears. He feels a blush creep up the back of his neck and hang on to the tips of his ears. The lazy interest in Bucky's face deepens the color of his eyes, and his cheeks are flushed. He's wearing spaghetti sauce stains on his shirt and a pleased smile that keeps hovering around his mouth. Bucky pauses a foot away from him, head tilted and then he opens the sketchbook.
"Why on earth were you showing me all these boring-ass pictures of Brooklyn and apple carts and kids playing stickball and old ladies when your drawings were so much more --" He licks his lips and Steve feels brain cells dying. "Interesting."
Steve fights the urge to bring his hands up to cover his face. He thinks wildly of taking the shield and jumping out the window of their fifth floor apartment. When Bucky pries his fingers from his cheeks he realizes he's done it anyway.
Bucky's so close Steve can see the gray striations that streak his eyes, the crow's feet that a 29-year-old shouldn't have, the startling black of his eyelashes. He moves even closer, sealing Steve's hands to his sides and running his hands back up to pet his forearms, his shoulders. He frames Steve's face, petting his cheeks, thumbs rubbing the back of his jaw.
"Unless of course," He lifts an eyebrow. "You were only drawing me 'cause there was nothing else to draw. Besides boring old Mrs. Whittaker across the hall."
Steve says nothing, because now he's watching Bucky's mouth, the curve of it and the smile in it. It’s so hard to resist and he doesn't even try.
Steve starts the kiss by placing his mouth tentatively on Bucky's. Their eyes are open and he wonders if this qualifies as asking for permission. When Bucky's eyes drift shut and his mouth presses firmly back, Steve takes what it is as it is. He runs his hands up Bucky's back before settling on his shoulders, the cold metal of the arm seeping through the shirt. He hasn't felt this lightheaded in years. His heart is pounding and he feels like he's falling.
He hears the faint thud of the sketchbook hitting the floor and his eyes sweep shut.
Bucky gently prods at his mouth and then uses his metal thumb to force Steve's mouth open when he doesn't comply. For a moment Steve doesn't know what to do because both of them try to take control. Their teeth clash and Bucky pulls back, eyes bright. "Wait." He says, pushing at Steve's shoulders.
Steve pulls Bucky close. "Don't want to. Stop, I mean."
"Okay," Bucky agrees and then, quietly. "Did we ever? Before?"
"No." Steve replies. "I just never said anything, and I didn't think -- well, you had so many girls."
Bucky chuckles and leans right back in. The next kiss is longer. Bucky skillfully runs his mouth along Steve's lower lip, nipping quietly until it's all open mouth and tongue. Steve cradles the back of Bucky's head, his body waking up, the exhaustion slipping away.
Then Steve's stomach rumbles. Bucky chuckles against his mouth.
"You're not off the hook yet, Steve." He grabs the sketchbook from the floor. He thumbs through it and shows Steve a sketch.
The paper is yellow and fading and the ink is lighter, almost sepia. He had drawn Bucky in profile, a suggestive grin on his face. Bucky's shirtless in the drawing, but the tiny hearts Steve inked in corners is even worse than the pose. Even without the hearts, it's obvious that Bucky is drawn with desire. He flips it to the next page and it's Bucky in uniform. Flip. Bucky in just the dress pants. Flip. Bucky in just the hat.
"Oh God." Steve says. He'll never live this down and he knows it.
"He can't help you now." Bucky guffaws. Then he sweeps right back into Steve's arms and Steve wonders, really, if it's this easy for everyone. Bucky fits in his arms like he's made for them. "Someone came by and dropped this off today, and I would really want to thank her, but I don't know who the hell she is."
Steve closes his eyes and smells Bucky's hair, the apple and mint from their shared shampoo, the coffee he drinks constantly. "They sold my sketchbooks to private collectors when I died." He says. "Didn't know who got it, and figured I'd just draw new stuff, you know?"
"And you never, ever worried about who would find them?"
"I had other things on my mind."
Bucky shifts and then takes his mouth again, like he's starving. "Come, I'll feed you and then we can look through them. Then you can tell me why in hell you never told me you were so good at drawing porn."
*
"Buck?"
"Mm?"
"Some of the sketches are missing."
"What?"
"Yeah, they were kind of…"
"What?"
"Well, racy."
"Racy?" A chuckle. "Ever draw your fantasies, Rogers?" A leer. "Oh, that blush says it all. You did, didn't you?"
A clunk.
"Oh, you did."
A longer pause.
"Wanna show me?"
The End!