Drabbles. Because homework is boring. My iPod is on shuffle, and the first song that came up was Adele's Daydreamer. Enjoy.
Bucky sat in the window of Steve's room, watching snow drift down lazily. He sipped at his hot chocolate - Clint insisted on the real thing, not the crap from packets - and licked the creamy remnants off his lip.
Steve, furtive, scribbled, charcoal clutched between the side of his forefinger and his thumb, hand an inky mess, and did his best to capture Bucky's profile.
He'd drawn Bucky countless times - hell, Bucky'd been his first life model. But ever since HYDRA had gotten their hands on him, he'd been unwilling to let Steve draw him. He didn't like being under observation. He didn't like being watched; he said he could feel eyes on his skin.
"Whatcha drawin', Stevie?" Bucky asked, smiling knowingly.
"The prettiest thing in the room."
"Self portrait, huh?"
But the night before, curled up against Steve's chest, Bucky said, "It's okay if you guys look at me. I don't think I mind it anymore."
"Nah, jerk. I'm drawin' your smug face."
Bucky's cheeks, which had started filling out since the summer, warmed. "Well, don't stop now, punk. I doubt you're done."
Steve grinned like a fool and put the tip of his charcoal back down against the page.