Another one. This one was inspired by My Blood by Ellie Goulding.
Bucky tugged Steve's sweatshirt tighter around his shoulders, fending off the chill from the poorly insulated window. The metal of his arm conducted cold pretty well, leaving the attachment points in his shoulder to practically freeze, but it served to distract him from the scritch-scratching of Steve's charcoal on paper.
He thought he'd never be okay with Steve watching him like this again. Capturing him. The Egyptians believed that if you captured a person's likeness perfectly, their soul would be stolen from their body and given to the image. Steve's eyes were like that - they pinned you down, stripped away the excess, and laid you bare, took you in. Eye contact with Steve was like being precious enough to steal.
Somehow, since the summer, Bucky had grown into his skin. He didn't like his arm, he didn't like his unfamiliar strength and speed, he didn't like that his body had been tampered with.
But he liked the way Steve looked at him, and he liked that there was a record.
Steve's drawings meant someone knew where he was, and instead of raising Bucky's hackles like it had since he'd been captured, it filled him with warmth.
He was protected. He was loved.
Steve kept drawing, and Bucky took another sip under his watchful gaze.