Steve was an artist. It was a part of him, really. Sure, he was Captain America and all, but he was also Steven Rogers, who doodled in the margins of mission files and drew with whatever he had on hand and had filled up every sketchbook he owned with drawings done in charcoal and pencil and one or two done with pink Crayola crayons (it was the only thing he had).

Back in Brooklyn, when they couldn't risk being seen together in public lest they become outcasts, Steve drew for Bucky as well as himself. He professed his love in the form of the city skyline, a garden, a sketch of an eye (Bucky's, but he wouldn't tell anyone that). Now, in the twenty-first century, where their love is hardly rare, he draws to deal with his mental stress, mainly his trauma from the war. Barely anyone knows this fact, aside from Bucky, Tony, who often handed Steve a small bag full of art supplies ranging from colored pencils to watercolors, and Natasha, who, with her uncanny sense for sniffing out secrets, often provided a new sketchbook whenever Steve was about to finish his current one.

Bucky never looked at the drawings, not for lack of want, but out of respect for Steve. And, quite frankly, he was scared about what he might find in those sketchbooks. There was never a rationale for the fear, just the general sense of dread whenever his mind wandered to the books piled in the drawers and on the desk in their room.

.xXx.

"You never ask to look," Steve says suddenly one day.

It was a rather uneventful day, and Bucky and Steve had taken advantage of the fact to just stay in the room, Bucky reading and Steve sketching, both laying next to each other on the bed, hands sometimes finding their way on the other person's chest or arm, playing with their hair.

"Well, I mean, it's your drawings," Bucky tries, stumbling over his words. "I didn't wanna be rude, and I figured if you wanted to share them, you would."

"Do you want to?" Steve's question is barely louder than a breath.

Bucky hesitates and then nods. Steve gets up from the bed and crosses the room in three strides, picks up a book from the desk, and tosses it to Bucky who catches it easily.

"Aren't you coming over here?" Bucky teases when Steve remains on the other side of the room.

Steve shakes his head. "No. There's some things…some things that I'd rather just draw to get out of me and then forget. Well, I can't forget - just look, you'll know what I mean."

Bucky raises an eyebrow and then opens the book. The first page is random doodles, mainly of flowers and birds, a cute page full of nothing but sweet things.

"These are cute, Steve," Bucky says.

Steve smiles faintly. "That's not what you'll be saying on the next page."

Bucky turns the page and feels his heart stop. His hair is shorter and his face is younger, but he could never forget the day portrayed in the picture. His hand outstretched in a vain attempt to grab the train already several feet out of reach. His face contorted in a shout of fear and denial.

"It...It's when I fell," Bucky whispers.

Steve almost seems to shrink into the wall. "Yeah."

Bucky glances up at Steve, then back at the page. The detail, the exact shading...Steve must have spent hours on this full page picture.

"Why?" And Bucky's voice isn't sharp or harsh or condescending or rude. It's curiosity and love and something edging on pity, but not as humiliating.

"Because…" Steve's words are shaky. "Because….it needed to be somewhere besides my head. It was fucking eating me alive, Buck, and even when you came back, and you're back, but I couldn't...shake the feeling...the guilt...and…"

Before Steve can choke out another word, Bucky walks across the room and hugs him tightly. Steve's trembling and Bucky can swear something wet falls on his shoulder.

"It's fine," Bucky soothes. "You're all good now. I'm right here, darling, and I don't plan on going anywhere, ever."

Slowly, Steve's coming back to him, and soon, he's standing straight up and his eyes are red but his mouth is smiling.

"The rest of them aren't as depressing," Steve promises and they spend the rest of the time looking at Steve's sketches and laughing at the one that's neon pink because, hey, when you only have a crayon, you gotta make do.

It's a bit longer than normal, but I had to write this one. I'm posting this a bit soon because I'm gonna be away Friday-Monday and needed to push something out.