Chapter Text
The cake is actually the burnt end of a meatloaf, but Steve doesn’t mind. The single candle is threatening to drip wax onto the crusty meat, the flame flickering from the drafty kitchen window. His mother sits across from him, telling him in serious tones about making a proper wish. Because it’s not just his birthday – it’s his Name Day.
Being fifteen is the last time Steve’s wrist will be blank. He doesn’t know which wrist the name will appear on, although it will probably be his right. Most people’s are on the right. Would it appear all at once, or smudge itself together over the stretch of weeks? His nerves are taut at the prospect.
“Wish for someone who will make you very happy, Steve,” his mother whispers, giving his arm a squeeze. The name on her wrist is covered with a tied handkerchief for the sake of modesty. He saw it once, when he was little and his dad was still alive. But it wasn’t his father’s name etched into his mother’s skin, and Steve couldn’t help but wonder how many of their troubles were because of that.
Dutifully, he looks at the flickering candle. Maybe someone out there already has his name on their wrist, or maybe they are still years away from their Name Day. Maybe he will be Unmatched or Unmarked. He glances down at the pale skin of his wrists, taking a deep breath. When he blows out the candle, he wishes for someone to spend the rest of his life with.
His mother claps, which makes him smile. She’s trying her best to give him a celebration, even if it’s just the two of them. She gets two forks, and together they eat the leftover meatloaf from the diner where she works.
“You could have invited some friends,” she says.
“Everyone’s busy,” Steve replies, a poor lie that neither of them are keen to point out. They both know he doesn’t have any friends.
“Maybe next time,” his mom smiles at him, and they eat the rest of the meatloaf together.
He almost doesn’t notice it at first, the smudge like black ink on the inside of his left wrist. He was born at 7:40 p.m. It’s almost 8:30 now.
“It’s coming in!” his mother exclaims, and he wonders if she’s more excited than he is. “Do you think it’ll be someone you know?”
God, he hopes not. “Does that actually happen?” Steve asks rhetorically, mesmerized by the dark swirling threads under his skin. There are so many theories – names destined from birth, or actions until your sixteenth birthday determining who you would be paired with. No one knows how the names came to be.
“I’ve heard of childhood sweethearts getting their names on each others’ wrists,” his mother says wistfully, although Steve doesn’t have a childhood sweetheart so he doesn’t know why that would matter.
“Mike and Betsy were dating until another name showed up on Mike’s wrist,” Steve says, suddenly feeling upset. What does it matter who shows up on his wrist? He’ll probably never find this person, it’s not like he can afford a fancy soul match search.
“Have hope,” she says, with a faint smile. “Look now, it’s coming together.”
The ink under his skin starts to coalesce into letters, forming three neat rows on his wrist. And then he reads them, and fear clenches in his guts. His right hand snaps over his left wrist, although it was too late, his mother already saw the words, and she’s paled.
“Mom, I’m not—” his breath hitches a little.
Silence stretches for a long moment, the curtains fluttering from the draft. She’s shaking her head, tears collecting at the corners of her eyes. “Do you think I didn’t know my boy is gay?”
He flinches at the word.
“I had just…I had hoped this…” Her unspoken words hang heavy in the air.
Steve just stares at the hand covering his wrist, feeling sick. He’d never been with anyone, so he thought that maybe, in this he’d be normal. He’d have a nice girl’s name on his wrist to look at for the rest of his life and it would be fine. Even though he’d always…thought about boys, he’d never expected…
His mother’s hands cover his own. “You know that you don’t have to be with this person.” Her tone is a dreadful mix of hope and fear and it makes Steve’s guts twist.
“I know – I know,” he whispers, thinking of the name that isn’t his father’s on her wrist.
She gives his arm a squeeze. “You’ll have to cover it.”
Steve just nods, numbly. “I’ll wear something over it. I…I think I need to go to bed.”
It’s only when he’s alone in his shoebox of a room that he allows his hand to unclench from around his wrist. His fingers left red marks across his skin, and he stares down at the name. James Buchanan Barnes. Steve lets out a low, harsh breath. He wonders if this James got his name as well, or if Steve is destined to be Unmatched. A part of Steve hopes that, if this is the person he’s going to love forever, that James gets someone better.
Steve goes to sleep with his wrist still bare, his fingers closing around the name, wondering about a life he’ll never have.
The billboard at the corner of 41 st and Kings reads “Caroline Greer, I can’t wait to meet you. –Jack.” There’s a phone number and email listed, of course. Jack must be getting pretty desperate to find Caroline if he’s taking out billboards in this part of town. Even if he did locate her, he might not like what he finds. For the rich there are registries, detective agencies, and matching websites. They all promise to find your soul mate.
Steve pushes his hands deeper into his pockets, hunching against the cold as he walks past the billboard like he does every day. The handkerchief wrapped around his left wrist sticks out, a little clumsily tied but serving its purpose.
He’s finally well enough to not cough up a lung every time he steps outside, but his breathing is still raspy. Pushing open the door to the diner is a relief, warm air rushing into his aching chest.
“Steve! Good good, you’re here. Barb is sick, you can bus tables for me.” The owner of the restaurant, Will, pushes a wet rag into Steve’s hands. Steve has to juggle with his sketchbook, placing it on the counter before getting to work. After Steve’s mom died four years ago, Will made a point to give Steve any odd jobs he could find around the diner. Unfortunately Steve is a horrible handyman, can’t cook, and most of the cleaning supplies screw up his breathing. So instead, he sketches for Will. His drawings line the walls, each neatly framed, showing different views of Brooklyn. But for the moment, he scrubs tables.
The TV in the corner is the only noise in the restaurant, Steve having entered during the morning lull. He doesn’t have TV at home, and he half pays attention before losing interest. It’s some morning talk show. The host, a pretty brunette with red lipstick, is interviewing a young man. He’s laughing, and obviously they’re discussing the fashionable leather straps covering his left forearm.
“So you won’t give us a hint? The whole world’s dying to know who’s on that wrist.”
He laughs, lounging on the couch, one arm draped over the side. He seems to take up a lot of space, oozing money and confidence. “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell. I just hope I meet her someday, and find out she’s a fan.”
Will is rolling his eyes. “You know this guy?” he gestures to the TV with his chin.
Obviously he doesn’t mean personally, but Steve doesn’t know of him at all, so he says, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before.”
“He’s the lead singer of the Howling Commandos. My daughter’s in love with him – she’s convinced his name is going to show up on her wrist in a few years.”
Steve smiles faintly. “Maybe he’s a nice guy.”
“He’s a player, that’s what he is,” Will snorts. “All these young girls thinking they’re the one for him. It’s part of the appeal. People will do anything these days for money.”
Steve just shrugs, “You never know who you’re going to get. Hey, isn’t there a game on?” They change the channel to baseball and Steve doesn’t think about the pretty boy rockstar again.
On Fridays and Saturdays, Steve takes the train to downtown New York City with a box under one arm and a portfolio bag in hand. He sets up on a nice corner, one without rain puddles where the shop owners don’t complain too loudly, and sells his art to tourists. Sometimes people ask him to sketch caricatures, which he hates, but does anyway for a few bucks. Sometimes it’s slower than others.
When a man wearing a grey suit under his fashionably dark coat stops to look at the drawings Steve has propped up, Steve pauses in the sketch he’s working on. The man pushes up the glasses on his nose as he studies the Steve’s rendition of the Brooklyn Bridge. He doesn’t look like a tourist. “Good afternoon,” Steve greets him.
The man grunts; definitely a native, then. He turns to look at Steve. “Do you accept commissions?”
The question makes Steve’s eyebrows go up. A guaranteed sell is welcome after all the hard work he puts into his drawings. “Yeah, you can request whatever you want.”
The stranger nods, looking through the sketches again. After a while he says, “If I gave you a picture of something, could you draw it?”
“I like to see things in person,” Steve admits. “But you can tell me what you want, and I’ll do my best.”
The man nods. “You’ll be here tomorrow?” Steve tells him the times that he’s there, and the stranger leaves.
The next day is colder than is seasonal, and Steve huddles on his usual corner in his secondhand coat. He was busy sketching, his handkerchief doubling as a cloth to smudge out the shading on the Chrysler Building. It’s almost exactly the same time as yesterday, and the man strides across the street at a crisp pace. He’s wearing the same coat, although the suit underneath has changed. The large case in his right hand is another addition to the ensemble. He’s not menacing looking, per se, just a little serious. And Steve likes to give people the benefit of the doubt. “You came back,” he smiles, as the man opens the case. Steve had been planning on going home early because of the weather, but he’s glad he stayed.
“I would like to commission a drawing from you,” he says, all business. He hands Steve a stack of photographs, which Steve takes clumsily and starts to leaf through. They’re images of Brooklyn, the skyline and the landmarks. All intimately familiar to Steve after spending his life in the city. The next pictures are of a man’s head, a side profile, his mouth open, a straight on shot.
“These are…interesting,” he says tactfully.
“I want you to draw a composite of these images, somewhat stylized. The man eating Brooklyn.”
Steve isn’t one to argue with someone’s taste, but it is an oddly specific request. He looks through the pictures for a second time, trying to visualize how he would do it.
“What are your rates?”
“How big do you want the picture?” Steve asks, a little thrown by how serious this conversation is. Most “commissions” were five minute portraits, not briefcases full of preliminary materials and specific instructions.
“I have materials I’d like you to use.” The man pulls out several sheets of paper the size of the case, larger than the usual sort Steve uses. He also pulls out a package of pencils, freshly sharpened and never used. Steve’s pencils – especially the 2H and 4B – are almost stubs. He touches the box of pencils with quiet reverence, the cold momentarily forgotten.
“I’ll give them back after I finish your picture,” he says.
“No, consider them a part of the payment. How much will you charge?”
Steve hesitates, mentally calculating in his head how much time he will spend on the drawing. Not that it matters; people don’t like to spend a lot of money on art. “Maybe $70?”
The man must find this fair, because he nods. He pulls out a card from his briefcase, handing it to Steve, who juggles with all the new things to carry. He doesn’t want to get the paper wet. The business card is stark white, on heavy paper. Alexander Pierce is printed in small, legible print, followed by a phone number and email. No company or additional information, not that Steve really expected it.
“You can contact me when you’re finished,” Pierce says.
“It might take me a week or two.” Steve is creating a neat little pile of the pictures, paper, and pencil box. He tucks the card in his jacket pocket. He has other pictures to work on and sell.
“That’s fine. I’ll be expecting your call.”
And just like that, he leaves. Steve packs up shortly after that, trying desperately to keep things from getting wet or bent. Luckily he has a battered portfolio case that he can store everything in, but he’s still convulsively smoothing the edges of the large paper sheets. He heaves up his burden, walking to the train to go home.
It takes two weeks. Steve has never had a serious commission before, and he makes more preliminary sketches than he thought possible. A part of him wants this to be perfect, something he’s proud of. The more he sketches, the less bizarre the concept seems. It’s more surrealist than anything he’s done before, and he’s stretching creative muscles he never used before. When he’s finally satisfied with a design, he scans the sketch at the library and emails a copy to Pierce for approval. He gets a short email in reply, agreeing that it’s what he wanted.
So Steve works on the real thing. He draws until his hand cramps, until the pencils are significantly shorter and his floor is covered in eraser shavings. After he signs a small S. Rogers in the corner, he takes a moment to just stare at it. The man eating Brooklyn. It’s fanciful, but oddly realistic. The man’s half-open eyes glint, his eyelashes casting soft shadows on robust cheeks. Each line of stubble is carefully crafted. The buildings express a range, some small and toy like, other iconic views of Brooklyn. And all are going into the man’s mouth. Steve buys a protective sleeve for the work, then sandwiches it in cardboard. He calls Alexander Pierce.
It’s Friday in the city, and Pierce comes to his corner just after 2 o’clock. He inspects the drawing, his lips twitching up in the first appearance of a smile. “It’s excellent.”
Steve beams. Pierce gives him an envelope in exchange for the work, and Steve straps the drawing back into the cardboard for safe transport. A part of Steve is sorry to see it go. While it isn’t his own personal taste, he put a lot of work into the piece and is proud of how it turned out.
Pierce shakes his hand in a surprisingly friendly manner, and leaves in a cab. When Steve finally checks the envelope, he finds two hundred dollar bills. He blinks, surprised and warmed despite the cold afternoon.
He goes grocery shopping that evening, pays the electric bill, and feels like maybe things are looking up.
Six months go by too quickly. Steve spends half of winter too sick to do much of anything but sketch in his apartment and accept the pity meals his neighbors bring him. Will stops by regularly with leftovers from the diner, and Steve can’t help but be grateful. It isn’t until the first buds of spring that he starts to feel like himself again.
Sam wants to buy a new camera, and for some reason wants to bring Steve along. Steve, who has trouble with televisions that have more than one remote. It may be a ploy to get him out of the house, but Steve is none the wiser. It becomes apparent fairly early in the process when words like DSLR are thrown around that Steve will be no help at all, and he wanders through the other sections of the store while Sam chats with the salesman. The wall of televisions is dizzying in size, and he walks past them on his way to the music section when something catches his eye.
The show host is sitting across from a vaguely familiar 20-something with shaggy hair, and Steve surprises himself by placing the man as the rockstar Will’s daughter is in love with. But that’s not what makes him stop. On thirty TVs, the host holds up a CD, talking to the singer. “—loving the retro feel of this album. Where did you get your inspiration?”
“We really got back to our roots with this one, looking at what made us who we are. It came together so organically…”
Steve stops listening, world narrowing. Because the CD cover is the man swallowing Brooklyn. His man swallowing Brooklyn. His stomach churns, a wave of sickness washing over him.
A sudden hand on his shoulder makes him jump. “So I picked out the model, want to help me decide which color to – hey man,” Sam frowns. “You alright?”
“I have to go,” Steve replies, his voice coming out at a higher pitch than usual.
He can’t get out of the store fast enough. He tears through his apartment, finally finding the card at the bottom of his portfolio case. His fingers shake as he dials, trying to breathe. The phone rings. And rings. “You’ve reached the voicemail of Alexander Pierce…”
Steve waits through the message, shifting from foot to foot, and when the beep sounds he feels like he’s been shot. “I…hello, this is…this is Steve, Rogers,” he says, trying to steady himself. “I wanted to discuss…that drawing I did for you last fall. I um, you can…call me back, please.” He stutters out the number, and mashes the end button. His inhaler is sitting innocently on the counter, and he tries not to use it more than he needs too – but he’s on the verge of losing it, and the puff of medicine helps him feel like he’s not suffocating in his own skin.
The next thing he does is go to the record store on the corner. While it caters more to a hipster crowd with its stacks of records, it also carries CDs. He ends up in the H section, thumbing through the cases with a slow rising level of dread. He finds three Howling Commandos albums, the last one with a ‘Staff Pick’ sticker on the front. He clutches it in front of himself, the image on the cover strange and small behind clear plastic.
“Hey, good choice man,” the cashier gives Steve a nod of approval as he rings up the purchase.
Steve just nods, a little dazed. It takes all the crumpled bills and change in his pockets to come up with $16.89. He walks slowly back to his apartment, clutching the CD through the bag, the feeling of sickness low level and constant now.
Sam is outside the door when he gets there. He pushes off the wall when he sees Steve approach, giving his trademark friendly smile. “You ran off pretty quick. Everything alright?” He’s looking at the purple plastic bag that Steve is clutching with white knuckles, always astute and this side of concerned.
“I had a...” his voice trails, eyes distant. He draws a shaky breath. “I don’t know what to do, Sam.”
“Let’s go in,” Sam gestures with a tilt of his head. He takes Steve’s keys from him, unlocking the apartment and leading the way inside. “Tell me what’s up.”
Steve sits heavily at the kitchen table, still gripping the CD through the bag. With trembling hands he withdraws the CD, trying to pick off the plastic wrap.
Sam’s eyebrows furrow at the sight, tipping his head to see the front of the CD. “Is that…that’s yours,” he says, realization dawning. Steve’s drawings are everywhere, his style distinct enough that Sam knows it. “They stole your art?”
“I…this guy bought it. He commissioned it for $200.” Steve’s nails are too short to get the edge of the plastic up, just scraping again and again over the same spot. “But he didn’t say it was for…for this.”
“That can’t be legal,” Sam says, frowning. He gently takes the CD, tearing the plastic off and handing it back to Steve. Finally getting the case open, Steve ignores the CD itself and slips out the front booklet. He flips to the back where it says, “Cover artwork copyright Hydra Records.” Steve just stares.
“Can you imagine,” he says, voice low. “Designing an album cover for a well known band? The exposure that would come with that?” He blinks at the booklet, barely gripping it.
“Hey, we’re going to figure this out.” Sam turns the CD case over, looking at the rest of it while Steve just sits there dazed. “You’ll get paid for this.”
“I just need recognition. It’s mine.” He exhales a shaky breath, trying to keep himself from needing his inhaler again so soon.
Sam reaches forward, the sweatband around his wrist pressing against Steve’s arm as he gingerly takes the booklet. “Let’s go then.”
“Where?”
Sam waves the booklet, “Hydra Records. Let’s go pay that guy a visit.”
The record company is located in a high-rise in the financial district. It’s one of twenty labels that occupy the staggering number of floors.
The receptionist taps away on her keyboard, speaking in clipped tones into her headset. She ignores Steve and Sam for about five minutes before she finally turns to them, seeming to acknowledge that they aren’t going to just go away. “Can I help you?” she asks, already sounding exacerbated.
“I’d like to see Alexander Pierce,” Steve says, voice clear and direct. They looked Pierce up on the way over. It took some digging on the Hydra Records website, but he is a producer for the company.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but I can make one.”
“No,” Sam cuts in, “He’ll see him today. It’s important.”
The receptionist arches a finely plucked eyebrow at them. Her fingers tap away without looking at the keyboard or computer. “Name?”
“Steve Rogers.”
She types some more. “You can have a seat. When Mr. Pierce is available, I’ll let you know.”
It’s a dismissal if Steve has ever heard one, and it frustrates him to no end. They move over to the plush white couch in the lounge and sit down. Steve doesn’t know anyone who owns white furniture, it seems impractical. And expensive.
Steve is antsy, his leg bouncing as he watches the receptionist. People come in and out, some speaking with the woman at the desk, others heading straight for the elevator. Sam flips through a magazine. No one joins them in the lounge.
Sam gets up twice to ask the receptionist how long it might be, when is Pierce free, anything, and she’s equally vague. Steve knows they’re being led on, and his frustration bubbles. He finally stands, taking a deep breath. Sam’s leg was bouncing, but it stills and he perks up. “I’m just going to use the bathroom,” Steve says, and Sam crumples. They are going to be here a while.
Steve goes to the desk, asking the receptionist where the men’s room is. He walks down the hallway she indicates, finding the bathrooms unfortunately close to the reception area. He dawdles for a moment, and then takes a few steps further down the hallway. Finding the directory isn’t hard. Consisting of three black boards with slide-on white letters, the building directory goes by floor, listing out companies and studios. He scans quickly, quickly, and spots Hydra Records near the bottom of the second board, listed on the 17 th floor.
“Sir, you’re not allowed in this area—”
Steve jumps as someone tries to grab his arm, and he twists away. “Oh, sorry,” he steps back from the security guard, giving a sheepish smile. He doesn’t even think about it. He turns, and takes off at a dead run.
“Stop!” he hears behind him, and Steve rounds the corner, skidding as he dashes down another hall.
Then he sees it, the blessed holy grail: The elevator. “Hold the door!” he yells, barely registering the surprised man’s face before he barrels into the open elevator, his breathing ragged as he hits the far wall with his hands, momentum too strong.
“Stop that man!” the security guard yells, distance rapidly lessening between him and the tiny box Steve backed himself into.
Steve’s heart hammers in his chest, opening his mouth to say something – right as the man presses the close door button and the elevator doors slide soundlessly closed just as the security guard bangs into the door and curses.
Steve bends in half, hands on his knees, wheezing as he tries to catch his breath. He realizes that the man isn’t the only person in the elevator; to one side stands a pair of nude pumps, and he follows the legs up to a red headed woman. She raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him. “They still won’t listen to your demo, I promise you that.”
The man snorts, drawing Steve’s full attention. Now that he can really look at him, Steve feels like he’s seen him before. His brunette hair is tied back in a loose bun, his full lips quirked in a half smile. It’s the blue eyes that draw him in, wiping his mind of every other thought. Steve straightens subconsciously. “You never know,” the stranger says to the woman. Then to Steve, “Where you headed?”
They’re already moving, and Steve didn’t even realize it. The elevator is smooth and silent. “17,” he rasps.
“Us too,” the man says with a grin. “We can sneak you in.”
The woman rolls her eyes. “Are you a singer or a musician?”
“Neither. I’m an artist — I draw.”
She studies him a little more closely. “Did you bring a portfolio to show?”
Steve starts to sweat under the collar of his shirt. “No, one of my pieces was used as an album cover.”
“Yeah? Congrats,” the man says, giving Steve a smile that makes his heart beat a little faster.
The door slides open, revealing a stylish room with records prominently displayed on the walls. Hydra Records is spelled out in huge block letter above the receptionist’s desk, which is presently empty. Posters and signed photos add to the décor, a pair of red leather chairs completing the lounge. The man and woman exit the elevator without hesitation.
“Why were you running then?” the woman asks.
Steve hesitates for a moment. “Mistaken identity, I suppose,” he tries to smile.
“You’re a horrible liar,” she replies, but doesn’t say anything else. She’s striding to the hallway that branches off to their right.
Steve’s stress level rises, and he wonders how long he has until the security guard joins them up here.
The man lingers by Steve, hands in his pockets. He’s wearing some sort of intricate leather strapping around his left wrist, and Steve can’t help but look at it for a moment before mentally shaking himself. He’s not usually so rude. “So do you know where to go from here?”
“Not really,” Steve admits.
“Who are you here to see?”
“Alexander Pierce.”
“That’s easy, he’s over here,” he tilts his head, leading the way down the hallway.
Getting further from the elevator calms Steve marginally – maybe they won’t come after him. He finds himself staring at the back of the man’s neck as they walk. His hairline is a little crooked, and he finds it oddly endearing. He’s about to ask for the man’s name when they stop in front of a door and he knocks twice before pushing it open to lead Steve in.
Alexander Pierce is unperturbed, sitting behind his desk like it’s any other Tuesday. “Bucky, you’re late for your session,” he says, as if Steve doesn’t exist.
And suddenly, it all comes rushing to the surface. Anger vibrates inside him, clawing up his throat and making it hard to breathe again. “What kind of person – who does this?” he demands.
“Mr. Rogers, I don’t believe you made an appointment with the receptionist downstairs,” Pierce says, baring his teeth in a mockery of a smile.
Something changes in Bucky’s face – his eyebrows draw together, looking at Steve with a lingering gaze, then Pierce. “What’s going on?” he asks finally, his cutting gaze back on Steve.
“He stole my work.” Steve is sure he’s going to combust.
“I did no such thing,” Pierce replies smoothly. “I commissioned Mr. Rogers for a piece, which he completed and was paid for with a mutually agreed upon price.”
“That’s not – I didn’t–” Steve’s throat feels like it’s closing up. He’s survived so much, and now he’s going to drop dead on the floor of Alexander Pierce’s office. This room is bigger than his whole apartment.
A hand on Steve’s shoulder grounds him and brings him back from the brink. He looks up into concerned eyes. “We’ll figure this out, okay?”
“O-kay,” he said, voice rasping.
Pierce stands, buttoning his suit jacket as he does. “I’m sure we can come to an understanding. Bucky, you can go to your session now.” It sounds like a dismissal if Steve has every heard one, and for a brief moment he fears that if he doesn’t walk out of this office, it won’t be because he has a deadly asthma attack.
“No, I’m staying,” Bucky says with calm authority that Steve envies. “Tell me what happened.” He leads Steve over to one of the plush chairs in front of Pierce’s desk, and at a squeeze on his shoulder, Steve sits. Pierce is still standing, a vein in his forehead pulsing with barely controlled fury.
He points to the original drawing framed on Pierce’s wall. “I drew that.”
Bucky’s eyebrows go up. “You drew the man who ate Brooklyn?”
“But no one knows it was me.”
“I’m sure we can reach an understanding where everyone is happy,” Pierce tries again. “This isn’t really anything you concern yourself with, Bucky.”
“That’s my album,” Bucky says, and there is danger in his voice, a challenge.
Steve looks at him with new eyes, blinking. Of course, the shaggy haired man from the television interview. The wrist straps, Will’s daughter. “You’re in The Howling Commandos,” he realizes.
“Yes,” he says, but he’s looking at Pierce, jaw set.
Pierce is apathetic. “We will compensate Mr. Rogers for the misunderstanding.”
“I don’t want money. I need people to know that the piece is mine — this is how I make a living, if people knew–”
“It’s much too late for that, I’m afraid,” Pierce interrupts. “The albums are out, all the publicity done. I apologize for the inconvenience.”
Steve’s mouth opens and closes a few times, feeling like the water he’s been treading here is about to overtake him. And just before it does, “He’ll come on tour with us.” All eyes turn to Bucky, who looks determined. “He can make a new drawing of every city we visit, we’ll blow them up all over. With his name on them, and proper payment.”
The room is so silent, Steve can’t even breathe. He’s just staring at Bucky, completely speechless. “You…that’s okay with you?”
“I think it would be amazing. If you’re up for it, that is.”
Steve can barely manage a nod.
Pierce loudly opens a drawer, startling them both. “I will write up a contract detailing the terms of Mr. Rogers’ employment with Hydra Records.”
“I’ll take a copy of it when you’re done,” Bucky says coolly.
“I don’t need you to check the contract for me,” Steve says automatically.
“Oh,” Bucky looks at him again, really looks at him, and nods. “Yeah, okay.”
“It will take a few days to draft.” Pierce’s smile is forced around the edges. “You can make an appointment at the reception desk to come back and review it later this week.”
It feels wrong to thank Pierce, so he doesn’t. Instead he just stands, and Bucky does the same.
“Tour starts at the end of the month,” Bucky says as they walk to the door. “I’ll be seeing you then. Rogers, was it?”
Steve doesn’t know what to make of the note of flirting in the other man’s tone, brows furrowing. As Bucky opens the door as he says, “It’s Steve, actually. Steve Rogers.” He passes Bucky on his way into the hallway, starting for the elevators. It takes him a moment to realize he’s alone. He turns back around to see Bucky still holding the door, staring at him with an unreadable expression. “Are you coming?”
“Ah, yeah,” Bucky seems to come back to himself, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he takes several long strides to catch up with Steve. “I’ve got a recording session, actually, so, I’m that way,” he tilts his head down another hall.
“I know where the elevator is,” Steve says, starting to get an adrenaline let down from all the excitement.
“Don’t get arrested on the way down, yeah?” Bucky smiles at him again, a slight upturn of one side of his lips.
“No promises,” Steve says with a slight smile of his own.
“See you on the tour, Steve Rogers.”
“See you, Bucky.”