Chapter 6
“Do you know how hard it is to paint kindness?” She leaned her hip against a desk in the corner of the room, still watching me. “It’s the only part of a person I really want to capture. Everything else seems to get lost in layers of deception or defensiveness. But not kindness. You can’t hide it. And people either are or they aren’t.”
― Laura Anderson Kurk, Perfect Glass
Steve had a spring in his step that he hadn’t expected to have following no longer officially working on Peggy Carter’s loft. The truth was, when she had asked him to decorate her walls, he was ready to jump and immediately say yes. Any reason to keep a relationship with her. Not a relationship, he scolded himself. Just a maybe friendship. Acquaintanceship would be fine too. If she’d prefer that. He’d start anywhere. And he’d paint her anything she wanted.
Steve hadn’t even considered payment until she had assured him he’d be generously compensated for his work. He would have done it for free, even planned on insisting on it, until she fixed him with a no-nonsense-my-word-is-law stare that he wasn’t fool enough to contest. Instead he showed her the sample sketches he’d drawn up for her the previous night. They were nothing more than graphite on paper, but he figured it’d be best that she be convinced he had any sort of talent for drawing flowers.
Apparently his preparedness and initiative took her by surprise.
The fact was, he’d gone home after hearing her say floral, and spent a pleasant couple of hours drawing her flowers. The longer he thought of Peggy, the more he wanted to give her options, especially without knowing which flowers were her favorite.
Peggy had liked his rough sketches, but other than a few comments on preferred colors and flowers, she said she trusted his artistic sensibilities.
Steve’s only disappointment came from having to wait a day to see her. His Wednesday therapist appointment was the one permanent thing on his calendar. Peggy had been more than understanding, even asking how it’d been going, and insisting she could make Thursday work just as well instead.
Steve stopped by the hardware store for color samples in the colors Peggy had mentioned. So far, he knew she liked red flowers: tulips, poppies and roses of course. He spent a long time deliberating between coordinating the right range of reds and complementary colors. He liked the careful and concentrated choosing and mixing of colors. The rose, carmine and amaranth already beheld the magic meld of a fragrant bouquet.
It was nice to have a project, one that actually stimulated his creativity. It was nice to be able to provide someone with a touch of beauty.
And to be going home with a smile, a project and Peggy’s phone number was thrilling.
Steve’s head always felt a little fuzzy after therapy, and he needed some quiet time alone afterwards to reflect. Usually his commute home filled the requirements; headphones and staring out the window worked wonders. But that Wednesday he headed to the art store. He walked leisurely through the aisles, fingers trailing against the long rows of paint tubes. The previous night he had refined a few of his designs for Peggy, this time with color. He then started to transfer them onto canvas panels. It’d be easier for Peggy to get a realistic idea of how a pattern would look on her wall if she actually saw it rendered in paint. Steve grabbed another couple canvas panels and a few extra tubes of oils. The urge to paint had been growing and growing. On his way to the register, on a whim, he grabbed a medium-sized linen canvas.
Steve was barely out the door when he received a text. It was from Peggy. His heart jumped as it had the other two times she had texted him since they exchanged numbers the day before. The fact that they were succinct and business-like was irrelevant.
Tomorrow, 5:30pm at my place works well for me.
The tiny confirmation of their planned meeting was enough to occupy his head the whole way home.
Steve was so overwhelmed with the past few days’ development, and his head full of potential plans for Peggy’s walls, he didn’t think twice about the light on in the living room. Both he and Bucky had a bad knack for leaving the house with the lamps turned on that he just assumed it was Bucky who had forgotten to turn it out as usual on his way out for the night.
But to his surprise, Bucky was spread out on the couch watching TV.
“You’re not going out?” Steve asked.
Bucky gestured to his prosthetic. “My arm’s killing me so I had to take a Vicodin. You’re not supposed to drink with medicine.”
“I knew that. Just didn’t know that you did,” Steve replied with his arms crossed.
To his further surprise, Bucky only chuckled.
“You wanna watch something with me?” Bucky asked. “I ordered food.”
Steve hesitated. He had a lot of work left to do, and he had been itching to get started. But when was the last time Bucky had wanted to spend time with him? When had been the last time they just hung out?
“I gotta work on something.”
Bucky nodded, but Steve noticed, just before he turned his face away that Bucky actually looked disappointed.
“But I can do it out here,” he amended.
“Cool. We can watch something stupid so you can half pay attention,” Bucky said, his mouth stretching into a lazy smile.
Steve snorted. “More like so I can be your excuse for watching those terrible reality shows.”
“See you act like a snob, you know with all your whining about the superiority of black and white cinema and real actors, but you know you get just as caught up in the storylines.”
Steve rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.
They settled on some cooking show instead. Bucky kept up a ready stream of commentary as he slurped his takeout carton of noodles. Steve had his head bowed toward his lap, both his sketchbook and a canvas panel resting side by side. He was painstakingly copying a design, preparing for it to be painted.
“What are you concentrating so hard on?” Bucky asked during a commercial.
Steve lifted his head from his hunched position in the armchair. “Huh?”
“You’re drawing,” Bucky said, pointing with his chopsticks. “It’s not nudes is it?”
He grinned at Steve’s annoyed frown and the way his pencil had awkwardly slipped from his grip and rolled all the way over towards the opposite wall. By the time Steve had set himself back into the armchair, sketchbook firmly shut over the canvas panel, he was flushed down to his neck. It may have had something to do with the proximity of Bucky’s comment to the brown-haired beauty he had been thinking about in the same moment. Not that he was thinking lewd thoughts about Peggy. Because he wasn’t. He was just thinking of her and her smile at the flowers he had drawn her. That was it.
Steve had never been more thankful to know that Bucky could not read his mind.
“No,” Steve finally said. “Just something for work.”
“For work?”
“Yeah. Just some decoration for a wall.”
“Oh nice. Miller asked you to do that?” Bucky asked with interest.
“Actually the woman who lives there wanted it so…” he trailed off. “Yeah. She wants something like a floral pattern.”
Bucky nodded. “Well that’s cool. Gotta be more exciting than just painting solid blocks of boring colors, huh?” He slurped at his noodles again. “And you’re good at flowers. Roses and all that shit.”
Steve nodded.
“You been drawing a lot lately?” he asked, his voice a little quiet, like he’d just realized he didn’t know what his best friend had been up to recently.
Steve wasn’t sure how much he really wanted to tell him. Especially not about Peggy. Not when he’d likely make some crude jokes about the situation. Not when there was a huge probability of him cheering him on in finally finding a girl that could get him laid. He didn’t want to hear any of it. And the recent burst of creativity felt personal. Even worse, Steve honestly wasn’t sure he trusted Bucky enough yet to share. And that was a depressing realization. To not feel comfortable talking to the guy he use to share everything with.
Steve shrugged off the question. “Here and there.” He turned back to his sketchbook.
It was much quieter, the living room more tense as they moved into the next episode. Bucky’s commentary had dropped off to consist mostly of grunts of disapproval and the occasional highlights Steve missed.
“I could use a fucking drink,” Bucky growled during a commercial.
Steve looked up to see him rubbing at the junction of where his left shoulder met the prosthetic. In the brief moment that Bucky hadn’t noticed he had Steve’s attention, Steve could plainly see the full extent of his pain. Agony, that’s what Bucky was going through. And then in a flash, his face had fallen back toward blankness. It was the second time in an evening Bucky had hid his emotions from Steve. Apparently they were both keeping walls up. And it ate at Steve.
“But you took a Vicodin.”
“Fuck,” Bucky bristled through gritted teeth. “I fucking know.”
Steve bit back his sigh. Bucky needed his support not his lectures. Not tonight.
“When can you take another?”
“Not for a couple more hours.” He hissed as he rubbed at his shoulder. “Not likely to help anyway when it still feels like my left arm’s on fire when it doesn’t even exist anymore.”
Steve frowned. “Didn’t know the phantom pains were still so bad.”
Bucky shrugged then scrubbed a hand down his face.
“Maybe you could go back to your doctor. Try something different.”
“It’s fine,” Bucky said with an edge. “It’ll pass.”
Steve dropped his sketchbook and stood.
“How about some tea?” he asked on his way towards the kitchen. Bucky looked at him in bewilderment. “What?”
“Tea?”
Steve crossed his arms defensively. “Yeah, tea. What’s wrong with tea?”
Bucky snorted in amusement. “I can’t remember the last time I had tea. Actually, I think the last time I had tea was the last time your ma made me some.” When Steve looked over he was frowning. This time it wasn’t because of his arm. “Sorry.”
“S’Okay.” Steve shook his head and continued into the kitchen. He still felt his mother’s absence, but it no longer hurt to talk about her. In fact, Bucky mentioning her oddly felt like bonding.
He pulled out a green box from one of the cabinets, taking out two tea bags before reaching into the dishwasher for two clean mugs.
“What the hell is this?”
Steve looked up to see Bucky had followed him. He was manhandling his box of tea.
“Irish breakfast tea?” Bucky laughed. “Shamrock green box don’t make up for the fact that this isn’t tea from yer ma’s motherland.”
Steve found his frown slipping, even as he kept his arms crossed defensively. “It’s all they had at the store on the corner.”
“Since when do you buy tea anyway?”
Since Peggy Carter made me a cup of tea, he thought.
Bucky continued to chortle as Steve ignored him. “You’re not doing right by your heritage boyo.”
Steve plonked a teabag into a mug full of hot water and thrust it in Bucky’s face. “Here. Mug to shut your ugly mug up.”
Bucky snorted, but took the mug. “No but really. This ain’t the tea your ma used to get. What was that brand she drank?”
“Barry’s.”
Bucky laughed. “Good ol’ Barry’s.” He sipped noisily. “Top of the morning to ya,” he said with a smirk.
Steve rolled his eyes. “Idiot.”
Back on the couch, watching Bucky absentmindedly rub at his shoulder between long sips with eyes still glued to the screen, Steve was reminded of something he had wanted Bucky to know.
“Hey Buck?”
“Yeah?”
“You know you’re not on your own, right?”
Bucky looked from the TV and met Steve’s eyes. “Yeah, sure thing Steve.”
He was done early at the new job. By three he had been packed and cleaned up and itching to see Peggy. His day-to-day felt strange now that his morning commute’s destination was no longer the luxurious loft. Work was back to its rote and boring routine. There were no surprises, no potential for excitement and no opportunities of glimpses of Peggy.
At the new job, the paint remained white all the way, no eggshell, definitely not Casa Blanca. Strictly plain, industrial white. He spent his days painting with pure muscle memory, while he thought up more and more intricate possibilities of brightening up Peggy’s walls. He was eager to give her home some color, to make her an ideal space of her own. Admittedly, he was pretty pleased with the patterns he had made up for her. He only hoped she’d agree.
At five-thirty on the dot, Steve was at Peggy’s building. He approached her familiar door full of butterflies, trying to swallow them as his knuckles knocked at it.
She was there a moment later, looking beautiful in a deep red pencil skirt paired with a crisp white blouse. He spotted her suit jacket draped on one of the armchairs within his view.
“Hello Steve,” she said in a cheery voice, ushering him inside.
The butterflies in his stomach intensified.
“It’s nice to see you Peggy,” he ended up saying.
“And you Steve,” she replied. “Would you mind so terribly if I took a few minutes? I hate to be rude but I had just got in and I’d love to change.”
Steve nodded fervently. “Take all the time you need. I need to get myself organized.”
“Thank you,” she said. “At the risk of being a terribly improper host, please feel free to anything in the fridge. Water, juice. There might be a Coke or two. Help yourself.”
“I’m fine Peggy. Really. Take your time.”
She gave him one final smile before turning towards her bedroom.
Steve settled on her couch, pulling out his work from his backpack, and laying out all his designs for her to peruse. He laid out the sketches next to the mockups he painted, fiddling with the order until he was satisfied it was the best possible viewing arrangement.
“My apologies,” she called as she exited her room some minutes later. “The office called, and of course everything goes to hell the moment I leave,” she said in dramatic exasperation. “Anyway, best to get it out of the way. You have my complete attention.”
He fought the butterflies that threatened to fly up toward his throat.
“It’s okay,” he promised, unable to look away from Peggy who was now wearing a pair of jeans. He’d never seen her in jeans before. In skinny jeans. How was it that she made jeans look incredible?
“Steve!” she exclaimed, and Steve who had been so distracted by her outfit, was worried he’d just done something to offend her, like staring obviously and for way too long. He was working for her. He needed to remain polite and professional. “Did you do all these? Sketches and paintings?”
Unable to find the appropriate response, he shrugged. “I just wanted you to know what it would look like. So we could make sure you’ll love your walls.”
Peggy sat down in an armchair to his left and began picking up each piece with a careful touch and a keen eye.
“You’re already done so much work,” she told him. “These are wonderful.”
Steve shrugged again. “Well, I promised you some options, and once I started, I just had so many ideas I wanted to try out.”
“But to have gone to so much trouble…”
He wanted her to know how much he’d enjoyed coming up with designs for her. “It was fun,” he told her truthfully.
Every single time she smiled at him, he swore his heart sped up. And she was smiling at him again. All of his efforts were worth it to even receive one, single solitary pleased look from Peggy Carter.
“You said you liked red and that you liked both poppies and roses, and honestly both would look nice. And I saw some great wallpaper designs for both that I’m positive would look good painted straight onto a wall. I went for a more classic vintage look paired with some modern designs. Thought that would be more your taste,” he babbled on with nervous energy, jiggling his right leg as Peggy continued to peruse his art. “And there are those salmon colored poppies which I thought could give some nice contrast. Or yellow ones if you wanted.”
She smiled again. “Oh Steve, you’ve made my decision infinitely more difficult. These are all beautiful. It’s more than I could have ever expected.”
He grinned back. “I figured it you were going to decorate your walls, it deserves something special.”
His heart thumped against his ribcage with the look she gave him. He knew for certain that no one had looked at him quite like that before.
“I really do like these poppies,” Peggy said. “Elegant and unique. I know they have a bit of a morbid symbolism to them, yet I just find them so striking.”
“They are unique. And they symbolize remembrance. Which is important. It’s a nice metaphor of what should exist in a home. The memories of our lives, right? The good and the bad. Everything that makes us who we are.”
He’s not sure where the words came from, but he felt them. Peggy doesn’t seem put off by his words.
“Poppies it is,” she said firmly with a nod.
Steve started his mornings looking forward to his days, and came home energetic and enthusiastic. He had the excitement of having Peggy in his life. And even things with Bucky had been looking up. Steve had spent another evening working in front of the TV, this time working on making Peggy’s final choice into a stencil that he would transfer onto her wall for speed and precision. Bucky had joined him when he’d come in around nine without a hint of bar-stench or alcohol. He immediately took control of the remote and switched from the History Channel to a reality show.
The hollow dread that had been pressed against his chest the past few months no longer seemed debilitating. In the span of just a couple weeks, he felt full and upbeat. Maybe this new normal could be a perfect start of the new chapter in his life. Maybe the past was now behind him. Everything finally felt like it was finally settling.
Steve was marking out his stencil with light pencil strokes. Peggy was sitting with her back against the opposite wall keeping him company, chatting, having told him she wanted to observe the artist.
He had come in a half-hour earlier with a backpack full of pint-sized cans of paint. He had held up three of them in one hand to show them off.
“Had to go to two hardware stores to get these samples. Had to lay it on pretty thick on how particular and persnickety my client was to get all these colors. Think they ended up sympathizing.”
“Hey,” she had let out, affronted. “Cheeky bugger.”
“Of course I was referring to Mr. Stark.” He grinned playfully. “Never you Peggy.”
She smiled brightly at him. He loved her smile. He found her so incredible attractive, it was unfair.
“Well played Steve Rogers.”
And then she had helped him carry over his supplies, under the tarp they set up underneath the wall in question.
“You sure Stark won’t be upset?” Steve asked, turning toward her.
Peggy rolled her eyes. “Don’t you worry about Howard. I can handle him. Besides this is beautiful Steve. You’re very talented.”
Steve’s ears turned pink.
“How’re you doing?” And then not long later, “How’s Bucky?” she inquired.
It didn’t escape Steve’s notice that Peggy remembered his best friend’s name despite not having mentioned him again. And it didn’t escape him that somehow, unbelievably above all odds, he held a bit of her interest. At one point their hands brushed and Steve could feel the warmth spread across his body, from his head to his toes.
He was indoors, some kind of hall, maybe a banquet hall. He wasn’t sure. It seemed familiar but he wasn’t sure he’d ever been there before. It was bright, with warm yellows and reds in the center and mysterious, shadows lingering around the edges. And when he turned the quiet space full of vibrant life. Full of people dressed to the nines, sparkly liquor in equally sparkly glasses.
He looks down. His sleeves are perfectly cuffed, his shoes polished so they gleam. He’s in his full military dress, medals pinned. And it feels right. He’s not sure why he’s standing there in the middle, but it seems like it’s the place to be. Even if he’s alone.
But then he looks to his right. And there she is. She’s perfect and she’s in her full uniform too: full length skirt, tie neatly arranged. But her hair is unpinned and curled, flowing free around her face. And she’s smiling at him, lips fire red. They’re smiling at each other. She reaches out to him. And suddenly she’s slipping her hand into his and they’re dancing.
“The war’s over, Steve,” Peggy murmured against his cheek.
She was still smiling. So he spun her, out and then in, in toward him, in against his chest.
Steve awoke with a start, lurching in his bed. With bleary eyes he checked the time. 3:27 a.m. He felt something uncomfortable settle in his stomach as he wiped his forehead. Must have been Bucky coming in that woke him. Steve swallowed the displeasure that fact gave him and walked out to check on him. It was best to make sure he hadn’t passed out smacking into a wall or something equally befitting the uncoordinated movements of drunkenness.
But the hallway, living room and kitchen were empty. The apartment was dark with no sign of him. Apparently Bucky waltzing in drunk was not what woke him. Steve had gone to sleep hours and hours ago. Maybe Bucky had already come home.
Steve found Bucky’s bedroom door ajar. It was empty.