Chapter 1
Steve Rogers was never the strongest man, nor was he the smartest. He was a young man that couldn’t breathe right and he was too stubborn to listen to people. Steve had grown up sickly and it was a miracle he’d lived to see double digits. After his mom died, he’d been eighteen and threw himself into schooling thanks to the scholarship he’d been able to get for kids that lost their parents considering his dad was KIA in Vietnam when he was little. Now his small apartment in a complex in the heart of Brooklyn New York had become his studio.
Once he finished art school, Steve started running commissions from his house so that he didn’t have to risk a medical emergency thanks to his grocery list of health issues. Now he made portraits, designed murals, comic book covers, and whatever else anyone told him to do. One day he left the apartment to go fetch some art supplies and as he was leaving, he spotted his landlord leaving hers. She lived in the complex because it was easier to tend to everything.
“Steve hon, come here!” She called and Steve’s scrawny self trotted over.
Mrs.Garcia was an older woman and a widow who was short and stocky and was never afraid to tell you how it is and Steve loved her for that.
“Yes, Mrs.Garcia?”
“Just so you know you’ve got a new neighbor moving in hon, his name is James but he was adamant I call him Bucky. I’ve never understood why people do that…” Mrs.Garcia trailed off in the way that rambling old ladies did.
“Thank you for telling me Mrs.Garcia,” He assured her. “I’ll definitely say hello if I see him.”
With that, Steve shook her hand and then scampered off to go and pick up his art supplies. When he got back, rain was gently drizzling outside and as he went into the stairwell, he saw the most hauntingly beautiful man he’d ever seen. He was tall, easily about six foot, and probably over a hundred pounds. He was an absolute unit. He had long dark brown hair that looked almost black. And his eyes. This man’s eyes were like haunting pools covered with a thin sheen of ice and as much as Steve felt bad about it, the dark rings around them made them look even more captivating.
“H-hey.” He managed to stammer out the greeting. The man’s head snapped over to look at him, those eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m Steve, I live in the apartment below you.”
“Bucky.” The man greeted after a moment, his words clipped and guarded.
“Do you need any help moving anything?” Steve asked, trying to remember his manners and how to be sincere. God his mother must be rolling in her grave at his foolishness.
Bucky looked him up and down as if trying to read him and shook his head. “No thank you,” He said. “I can manage.”
Steve wanted to slap himself. This guy was massive, there was no way Steve’s scrawny asthmatic self could help. As Bucky turned away to disappear from the stairwell, Steve realized that his left arm was metal.
–
The apartment wasn’t bad, Bucky decided. He’d slept on far worse and in far more concerning places. He managed Afghanistan, he could handle New York. The apartment was a bit dingy. There was wallpaper that had to be from the 40s, a couch that seemed to be mostly springs instead of cushion, and there was the faint smell of mildew that Mrs.Garcia had assured him disappeared when it wasn’t raining. Other than that, the lights worked and the appliances worked so honestly he didn’t care. He’d only brought one box with him and a duffel bag, so he didn’t need to unpack much. Instead, he explored the other rooms.
The bathroom was surprisingly clean, all things considered. The shower may need a new curtain and the mirror to the vanity was chipped and cracked in a few places but Bucky didn’t plan on looking in there much. He’d been in the hospital for a few weeks following the accident, then was living with his mom and sister, but that ended when he almost strangled his sister to death one night. They hadn’t told him to leave, but Bucky didn’t plan on going back anytime soon.
He opened his box of stuff which contained a few of his essentials. Some silverware, plates, bowls, and other kitchen utensils. He put those away in their respective water-stained cabinets and drawers then moved on to his duffel bag. It held all his clothes, a clean-up bag with shampoo, conditioner, shave gel, razors, deodorant, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and toilet paper. Anything else he wanted, he’d have to grab at a later point.
Bucky sat down on the springy couch and thought to himself about his odd neighbor. How did that guy stay upright? He’d been able to sense the sickness on him the second he met him like a damn bloodhound. He seemed frail and sickly but that overconfident gleam in his eyes when he greeted him and asked if he wanted help felt like a sucker punch to the gut and Bucky knew the guy had heart.
He had lost more than his heart in Afghanistan, his left arm was gone now too. It ached every once and a while, even though it wasn’t there anymore. His doctor had said something about phantom limb. Thanks to a veterans program through Stark Industries, he now had a very advanced prosthetic arm. It was nice actually, he had full mobility and was able to feel pressure to make sure he wasn’t gripping things too hard and breaking them, or too light and dropping something.
With a grunt he laid down and closed his eyes, his arms folded over his chest like a dead man. As he felt himself drift off into sweet nothingness, his thoughts were only of the sickly blonde-haired neighbor with artist's hands.
–
Steve had returned from the store now, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up as he scampered into the building and his apartment, arms full of brushes and paints, the paper bag the shop gave him having not lasted long in the rain and shreds of it still wetly clung to his sleeves. When he finally made it inside, he slammed the door behind him probably a little too hard, and realized that now it just wasn’t closing right. Nothing goes right for him dammit! Now the breeze from outside was free to seep into his apartment and undoubtedly compromise his already weak immune system.
With a huff he tossed his supplies onto the island that doubled as a kitchen table, already having various colored splotches dried onto it from his previous projects. His chest was filled with the weight of exhaustion and he just wanted to lie down. He turned his head into his sleeve and rasped out a cough. It wasn’t that wet rattling wheeze when his asthma truly kicked in, but he knew that it meant it was coming soon.
He looked at the blank canvas that sat on the easel in his living room and he took a moment to think. He’d been doing almost all commission work right now and he hadn’t found the time to do any art for himself like he really wanted. It wasn’t like he didn’t like doing commissions, it’s how he made money after all, but he enjoyed making his own creations for his own joy and not other people.
Steve pries himself off of the island and walks into the living room. He feels the ideas hit him all at once and begins mixing colors together, occasionally closing his eyes to allow himself to fine-tune the image in his head. The colors on his palette eventually line up the way he wants them to and he begins putting gentle swatches of paint onto the white canvas. Most artists sketch their designs out before they really start painting, but Steve wants this painting to come to life in the same way that the reference came into his life. Sudden and vibrant.
He stands there working for what feels like hours, his mind focused on nothing but the image in his head and the canvas in front of him. It’s enough that he’s stopped focusing on the ache in his lungs and even his coughing has subsided in favor of allowing him to create this figure. It’s a portrait he comes to realize, the lines and colors beginning to make sense on the canvas the same way that they do in his head.
By the time it’s dark outside, the painting has come to life fully now. The painting is detailed and designed in the way closest to the real image that he can possibly imagine without a genuine photo next to him to go off of. The painting is a bust of a person, a man judging by the gentle stubble on the face. There are small stress lines and wrinkles under the eyes even though the man could not be much older than thirty. The face has pale and haunted blue eyes that look like they stare through you instead of at you. It bears long and slightly unkempt dark brown hair, thin scars here and there that wouldn’t quite be visible if it wasn’t up close, and wears a uniform made of sand and broken dreams.
–
Bucky wakes up screaming. Sweat pours off of him in buckets and he immediately thrashes to turn around to look for his rifle. Where the hell is it? You’re supposed to keep your rifle with you at all times! His heart rate begins to slow as his surroundings change from a dimly lit mudbrick house whose roof has been torn apart thanks to air support, but Bucky knows better than to think that it means the house is empty of hostiles. The room becomes what it is, a dingy and mold-smelling apartment in the middle of Brooklyn New York that he’s almost positive was a trap house at some point.
He groans and runs a hand through his messy hair. He’d been allowed to grow it out a little, as well as his beard to better blend in with the locals when they were doing those types of operations. For some reason, he lost the beard immediately but the hair stayed. Maybe it was the symbolism of it, his own personal middle finger to the United States Military, but he didn’t think he stooped that low yet.
He went to roll over but was unfortunate enough to hit the floor with a thud. Bucky groaned, holding the metal arm and feeling the ache where it connected to the flesh. He lay there for a moment, staring up at the water-stained popcorn ceiling and contemplating how he got here. Bucky hauled himself up snatched his pack of cigarettes out of the bowl sat on the counter by the door where he threw his keys and wallet.
Bucky climbed down the stairwell and walked out of the building, sitting himself down on the concrete steps. He grabbed his lighter from his pocket, an old zippo that his dad had gifted him. He flicked open the lighter and closed it once the cigarette between his teeth was lit. Bucky sighed out a cloud of smoke and felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle up. He knew his body well enough by now that it was alerting him that someone was near. It was correct too because a moment later, he heard the sound of footsteps coming down the stairwell. When he turned to look, a very disgruntled-looking Steve Rogers was right there. His artists' hands were covered in dried paint in various colors.
“Uh, hi?” A very surprised-sounding neighbor squeaks.
“Hi,” Bucky greets back tonelessly as he takes another drag of his cigarette.
“I heard something fall upstairs, are you alright?” Steve asks and Bucky wants to protect that concerned glimmer in his eyes with his life.
“Yeah, I’m alright.” He replies, not bothering to explain that it was actually him who fell. “Just couldn’t sleep.”
–
Steve nods slowly and settles beside the soldier, trying to judge the appropriate distance to keep from him so that it’s not uncomfortable. He looks exhausted, he thinks, but he knows that he probably doesn’t look much better himself.
“Where did you serve?” Steve decides to ask carefully.
“I did two tours in Afghanistan.” Bucky cleared his throat. “And a deployment in Germany beforehand.”
Steve nodded and they fell into an oddly comfortable silence. Bucky continued to smoke his cigarette and Steve picked at the paint that was slowly peeling off of his hands.
“So why are you awake at this hour?” Bucky asks suddenly as he snuffs the cigarette into an ashtray that had been out there since Steve moved in.
“Oh you know,” Steve began, trying not to sound awkward. “Late night motivation, couldn’t sleep. You?” He tries to ignore the fact that he’s already committing the colors and shadows of this scene to memory so that he can paint them later.
Bucky is silent for a long moment. “Sort of the same thing I guess, thoughts racing too much.”
They lapse into more silence that still isn’t uncomfortable when Steve speaks up again.
“So you're a soldier, but what are you doing for work now?” He asks.
“I'm a mechanic,” Bucky replies. “I fix cars and whatnot.”
“Oh, cool.”
This time the silence is rather awkward so Steve feels an obligation to fill it considering he’s the one that started it.
“I’m an artist. I work from home.”
This causes Bucky to raise an eyebrow.
“Really? What type of art do you do?
Steve feels himself beam with pride at getting Bucky to take an interest in something he is passionate about.
“I’m glad you asked.”
–
Bucky is grateful that he indulged Steve in his passionate ramblings about art and for a moment he thinks that he really wants to kiss this little bastard right now. He thinks better of it though, knowing that would probably be awkward. Plus he hasn’t dated anyone since Brock and oh boy, was that a disaster. It wasn’t that Brock was a bad guy, actually it was. That was the whole reason.
“I’m glad you have something you're passionate about,” Bucky tells Steve when he’s done rambling and Bucky finds that he means it.
“What about you?” Steve asks and Bucky is proud of himself for not flinching. “What are you passionate about?”
This is the first time he hasn’t really had an answer to a question that someone has asked him. His mother used to say that he had a sly response to everything but now he can’t even bring himself to really think of anything to say. He was passionate about fighting, but how does one even begin to say that one of their favorite things is to watch the brain matter seep out of a person's skull with a perfectly placed shot between the eyes? Bucky is more than a little fucked up and he’s not sure he’s fully ready to admit that to Steve yet. So he settles for what he knows.
“Math,” He decides. “But only for practical purposes. You know, like building and what not.” He says and he hopes he makes sense.
Steve nods slowly like he’s digesting it all very carefully.
“I was never very good at math, to be honest, actually I failed it if I remember correctly.”
Bucky finds himself laughing softly, something he hasn’t done since he woke up in the hospital.
“Good thing your career doesn’t require much of it.”
“Amen to that.”
They sit there in a comfortable silence once more and Bucky feels his shoulders roll back slightly. He remembers feeling like this the last time that he went out drinking with the commandos before they deployed. They’d drank like monsters and taken their time to have fun. Eventually, Bucky gets up, ready to retreat into his apartment for the night because he still has work tomorrow.
“Gonna turn in, night Steve.”
“Night Bucky.”
As Bucky lays down that night he thinks to himself that you, James Barnes, are going to marry that artist. But before then, you must fight.