Work Text:
The plain, black leather exterior was no match for the colour residing in its pages. A large 'B' on the front. When she found it she had flicked to a random page, surprised to see it at all, it was always clung to his side, yet here it was left on the dining room table. On the page, there was a man, a very good looking man dressed in nothing but swimming trunks and he was walking in to a lake of some kind; his head turned to look back at her. The detail in this drawing was astounding to the point where she concluded that no mind could concoct such a face, this man was real and this drawing was from a real moment in time. His time. She found herself sinking in the depth of his eyes, they were so full of light, humour and more surprisingly love. She wanted to keep looking, and so thought if she left the building no one would find her snooping, therefore no one would know. Not even Steve. Sliding on her trainers and a coat, she left the building walking in no particular direction, her thoughts running wild. Who is this man? And why would Steve draw him so intimately? It felt like mere seconds, but was probably around an our later, when she found a large park, with an unoccupied bench facing a large pond, with a fountain pathetically spouting water. Sitting on the bench, she lays the book on her legs and turns to the first page. And what she finds in each of these pages start to fill in the blanks as to why he kept this hidden. Because each drawing is the man. All of them. The first is him sat at a table in a dimly lit room, puffing out smoke from a cigarette in an extremely obscene way. She turns the page and gasps out loud. The next drawing is very crude to say the least, it has her heart thumping three times faster, the man is surrounded in a mound of blankets. But the look on his face, lustful bliss, appears as if someone is blowing him. Looking over to the adjacent page, he's stood in what looks like a WW2 uniform, a cocky smirk on his face. His hands in his pockets. And then it clicks in to the place. This man is someone Steve knew from the war. Yet she still couldn't seem to comprehend why he would draw another soldier in this light. She knows that at this time he was in love with Peggy, she knows all about Peggy, and so seeing him drawing a man-like this-at a time where this would be considered illegal is stifling. She considers whether he drew them recently or back then. She wants to stop, respecting Steve's boundaries, but hardly knowing
the man and wanting to know more she decides this might be a way to know him better. Turning the page again, has her gulping. Her eyes dilate to the point where there's more black than her personal blue. He's fully clothed, and yet he looks completely naked, the clothes are clinging to his form due to being wet, and everything is intricately drawn. Down to every water droplet and his refined 6 pack, which can be seen clear as day under a white dress shirt. Averting her gaze to the right page, he can be seen preparing to hit another boy in the face, hair tousled and sweaty hanging over his eyes, the ferocity in his eyes is tremendous; there isn't an ounce of fear in his face just pure determination. Looking closer she can see his knuckles, the ones ready to hit again, are bruised purple with specks of blood clotted there. Frankly, he looks like a wrathful God. Then he's sat next to a fire. Alone. Definitely during the war, he's resting his chin on his knee looking directly at her or Steve, with a masterpiece of hooded eyes and collection of shadows behind him each expressing something she can't pin point. But the best thing about this drawing is his pout, huge plushie lips perched in a dark and sensuous pout. Over the course of the next pages; she sees the man as a youth, no older than 17, and is practically the embodiment of a heart throb, then in an immaculate black suit with slicked back hair, which is the complete opposite to the drawing on the right. He's playing soccer, face all sweaty and hair going in different directions, seriousness etched on his face. Before turning the page, she feels a buzz from her pocket. Pulling her phone out she sees a text from Nat, in all capitals, stating that Steve is basically having a mental breakdown and to be wary. She knows why. Although she knows she should return home and have it out with Steve, she hasn't seen them all yet and handing it back over to Steve, closing all doors of ever seeing them again. She can't. She needs to understand and he won't willingly tell her and so this might. She's close but not 100% sure as of yet. So she turned the page...
He's dancing with someone. She can't really tell because like all the other photo's he's drawn perfectly, every crease in his clothing is there, the twinkle in his eyes larger than in
any of the other drawings; yet the other figure, assuming it's a girl, is undefined. The motion rendered exquisitely. She finds herself smiling at his nose-scrunched smile, all his inhibitions non-existent, she can tell at the time his main focus was on this girl. Whilst Steve's was on him. Why? The next two pages showcase a two-parter, the first is him disassembling a rifle with his uniform hanging open, dog tags dangling from his neck, whilst on the other page is a close up on his hands holding the rifle, one long finger stretched and curled around the trigger. Ready to kill. She flicks back to the cover of the sketchbook, running her index finger over the 'B' wondering if it means something. Or did Steve just pick up a random book to draw in? Granted they are magnificent, but the time and effort he put in to them must mean something, no one concentrates that much on another human being. Going back to where she left off she finds a few simple drawings; one of him smiling a filthy grin whilst holding a bottle of liquor, eyes alight with something atrocious. There's another that piques her interest, he's telling a story to some other figures, also undefined, but his hands are in the air clearly emphasising a part of the story, but yet again it's his eyes that caught her attention. Filled with wonder and nostalgia. This is when she realises just how beautiful this man is. Maybe that's why Steve drew him? The 'B' on the front could stand for beautiful. Bit of a wild guess but it's possible. Then he's leaning under the hood of a car, pants tight around his ass, grease smothering his hands and arms, with a grin that was probably meant to be sly but is actually utterly filthy. She finds herself fluttering under his gaze and then mentally smacks herself. 'It's a drawing!' she reminds herself. Plus, he is obviously not hers. Turning the page, she has to stifle a moan due to a couple of old ladies walking past. He's asleep in a bed, covered in sweat and half falling out, the twisted sheets the only thing preserving his modesty, his hair a complete mess. "What the fuck, Steve..." she whispers out loud. Suddenly, realization engulfs her entire body. This man is Steve's. She feels stupid for not realising it sooner. Turning the page for the last time, she comes to the last two drawings. One of which is in colour. It's the only one in colour and the only one not of him. It's a landscape of the grand canyon at sunset, bursting with reds and oranges, with splashes of pink and yellow, and she instantly remembers a trip he took there a couple of months ago. Next to it, is him from the shoulders up smiling sweetly and lovingly at her, a few strands of hair falling out of place on to his forehead. However, there on the right is some writing. "We made it Bucky. We made it." As she rereads it over and over again tears stream down her face. This isn't friendship or even an symbol of best friends. This...this is love. Not puppy love from when you first start dating someone, this is love that spreads over the course of many years, the kind that consumes your soul. Then the guilt comes crashing down. Right now, Steve is panicking over the loss of this memorabilia dedicated to someone he loves, and she's the one causing it. She needs to get home. Standing abruptly, she starts walking home, trying to be quicker, when another puzzle piece represents itself. She doesn't know much on Steve's past, her knowledge mainly consists of what he's said about Peggy; she remembers Nat mentioning something about the loss of a friend years ago. And if she remembers correctly his name began with a 'B'. Entering the building she can instantly feel the change of the atmosphere, and it isn't a good one. Everyone besides Steve is in the living room, speaking harshly being extremely hostile to one another. Ignoring them, she makes her way up the stairs as quickly and quietly as she can, fear rising up in her, when she reaches his bedroom door. Taking a few big breaths she knocks. Once. Twice. Thrice. No answer. Turning the knob she opens the door. His room has a wall of windows, which have the blinds closed all the way, a grey tone to the room, his desk facing the windows has been raided; every draw pulled open with paper scattering the floor and the top of his desk. His bed is facing her, the light from the hallway illuminating Steve laying on the bed. Any other day, Steve sleeps with his legs straight either facing the right or laying on his back. However, at this very second he was in the foetal position, eyes red and puffy from excessive crying, and most heart-breaking of all was the constant shake of his body. Regret. This was her fault. "Steve..." she whispered, taking a step inside. No response. He didn't even turn to look at her and acknowledge her presence. "Steve, is it 'B' for boy or beautiful?" she quietly asked, waiting to see if he'd catch on. His head shifted to look at her, glassy eyes examining her face, before looking at her hand which held up the sketchbook. He squinted at the light and then leaped off of the bed, lunging for the sketchbook and snatching it from her. "Where did you find it?" he rapidly asked. Eyes imploring her for answers and then she knew she couldn't lie to him. Not like this. And so she told him everything, apologizing profusely, and telling him that each and every one of his drawings were exceptional. He didn't get angry or rage at her, he simply sat on his bed and stroked the old leather. "The 'B' is Bucky." he mumbled when she had finished. She smiled, mostly from relief that he wasn't livid with her, and then went and sat next to him. "You love him, don't you?" she replied in question, hoping her instincts weren't wrong. Steve's scandalised face turned to hers, gaping at her, yet before he could say anything she started explaining her question, "It's just, friends don't draw each other like that, not even best friends; dedicating an entire book to them is on an entirely different level. But you don't have to hide anymore, you are allowed-no entitled-to love whoever you damn well please, okay?" She looked deeply in to his eyes as he broke down, head falling to cry on her shoulder, hands gripping the book tighter. His cries were breathy and took over his whole body as he began to shake again. She reached round and pulled him closer trying to transfer her heat to him. "But...he's dead!" Steve sobbed, head falling in to his hands, murmuring about how he was a freak for loving someone who has been dead for 70 years. Rubbing large circles on his back she reasoned with him, "Love like yours is one that isn't easily lost or forgotten, you guys were so connected that not even death could stop your love, and so I'd call you a freak if you didn't still love him." A sad laugh bubbled out of him, as he glanced down at the book, opening it to the last page and stroking his thumb over Bucky's portrait. "This one is my
favourite." Steve smiled sadly. She told him it was hers too. "He's so Beautiful."