Summary: Steve works up the nerves to call Bucky, and Bucky pays him a visit.

Notes: More slow burn, more thinking deeply about feelings. Just another day in the life.

-o-

The days ticked just as slowly by for Steve as they had for Bucky until Wednesday evening rolled around. Steve had been staring at Bucky's handwritten numbers and letters in his neat print on and off for an hour and a half, trying to convince himself to just do it. Bucky would be easy to talk to—he knew this logically and yet he couldn't bring himself to dial more than the first four digits. He told himself it was because of the increased workload as he'd received a few commissions in the days since their last interaction, but that would have been a lie.

Finally he sucked it up and called at 11:05pm, well aware of the late hour but also that Bucky (and Nat, he presumed) would most likely still be closing up.

"'Sup, Steve!" Bucky greeted cheerfully. He sounded much more relaxed, most likely a result of not being on the clock anymore.

"I was just thinking about you," he continued after Steve's returned greeting and the universe pressed pause for a moment. "Well, uh, wondering what you thought about the other version."

Steve didn't allow himself to read into it more than was necessary (liar) and he swallowed hard to pick up his end of the conversation.

"It's legendary," said Steve and they both laughed, easing his nerves. Something about it felt right. "I felt bad for hogging it so I was going to ask if you wanted it back. I thought about stopping by tomorrow."

"It's not hogging, man," Steve heard the shuffling of paper money and coins in the background and Bucky counting rapidly under his breath he finished his sentence. He waited for Bucky to continue. "I'm just glad you're enjoying it, but I wouldn't mind playing it in the store now that you mention it."

"Cool. So I'll plan on seeing you tomorrow?"

"Actually-" the sound of a safe door shutting and locking came through, then a soft sigh, "could I swing by tonight? Since I'm about to head home."

Steve couldn't believe he'd heard that particular string of words from Bucky and had to clear his throat to get his voice back, glancing around at the messy drawing table in the middle of the living room. He wasn't really prepared for guests—all he had in the fridge was beer and water wasn't it? He had no idea what the pantry was like—but he guessed Bucky wouldn't be staying for too long.

Some part of him hoped he wouldn't, if only for the excuse not to make an idiot out of himself (though the rest of him, down to his very nerve endings, was screaming for him to be around).

"Sure, yeah," he stammered. "It's great, I mean that's great-fine-well, anyway, I'm close by."

"Sure you don't mind? I know it's late." He couldn't detect any hint of apology in Bucky's voice but he didn't care if it had been two-thirty in the morning; he'd still say he didn't mind.

"Nah, I was still up working. I'm on Rose Avenue, in the first apartment complex after Marigold. In 5G."

"Oh, great. See you in ten, cool?"

"Yeah, of course."

Steve rushed around, tidying up the kitchen and living room—for no real reason, as they weren't incredibly untidy except for the table, which he'd just moved to when four short knocks sounded on the door. He checked his watch, previously neglected. It had been twelve minutes. Shit. He shoved the remaining pieces under a few others, hoping Bucky wouldn't be observant enough to pick them out amid the pile, and padded over to the door, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans.

He opened the door to find Bucky in a leather jacket, dark pants and his boots, hair back in the ponytail again. He looked as relaxed and relieved as he had sounded, a smile wide across his face. Steve didn't think it was possible to get tired of looking at him.

"Sorry 'bout the short notice," Bucky said, accepting the beer Steve handed him.

Steve grinned. He felt nervous with the warmth coursing through him.

"No problem. I haven't even had the chance to call," he gestured to the art table, only a half-lie. "Actually, it's in my player now."

He lifted the cover but stopped when Bucky said, "Wait."

He turned to look at him and found Bucky shrugging out of his jacket. He was mesmerized as he watched him, eyes drawn to the silver metal of Bucky's left arm, glinting as he shifted out of the jacket arm. Most of it was exposed by the T-shirt he wore and was made of many individual plates and appeared highly maneuverable as Bucky moved smoothly. Steve caught the glimmer of a metal ball-chain around his neck that he figured belonged to dog tags, tucked under the front of the shirt.

"We should use it as an excuse to listen before I snatch it away again," he said as he sat on the sofa. Though unexpected, Steve wasn't disappointed in his decision to stay, and the way Bucky made himself comfortable made him feel good. "Do you mind?"

"No," Steve's voice came out rough and he cleared his throat—to not much avail. "No, I don't mind. That's a good idea."

He placed the needle just at the end of track A2's groove and sat next to Bucky as the beginning of "The Very Thought of You" sounded. It set his heartbeat into a calmer rhythm, as if he could relax now that it muffled the sound of that thudding against his ribcage.

"To Billie and new friends," Bucky said, holding up his beer bottle.

"Billie and new friends." Steve echoed, still feeling warm before he even took a drink.

They clinked together their bottles and let the tones of the early fifties wash over them. Bucky's eyes closed pretty early into the song and Steve used the excuse to watch him, taking in his features—chiseled jawline, those broad shoulders and the slope of the dog tags' chain over the collarbones curving above the t-shirt collar, the hair against his forehead. Steve chalked it up to the artist in him but he knew the actual reason was more complicated than that. Or simpler, depending on perspective.

It took him a second to realize Bucky's eyes were back open and focused on him.

"Steve, I don't want you to take this the wrong way," he started, leaning forward and swirling the remaining beer in his bottle around, "but I've never been this comfortable around someone right off the bat. Maybe before the Army but that part of me's gone."

He cleared his throat.

"This sounds crazy but it almost feels like I've met you before. Has ever since I first saw you in the store."

He dropped his gaze to the bottle, dragging his index finger through the condensation beading on the glass, a motion Steve watched intently. "You ever get that with anybody?"

"Yeah," he grinned to hide his nervousness but it felt as though it just made his shaking even more noticeable. "Maybe we knew each other in another life."

"Maybe."

Steve couldn't read the look on Bucky's face but he wasn't given much time, either, as the song ended. To his surprise (again), Bucky stayed seated but used the new song to transition into a different subject.

"You're the first person outside Nat and my Army buddies who's seen my arm," he said before swigging more, his knee knocking against Steve's (whether intentionally or unintentionally was beyond him). "I figured you'd be cool about it but it's always good to know when you're right. I always kinda expect the worst."

"People are jerks about it?" Steve shook his head. "You're not a guy I'd try to piss off. But even if you were, I sure as hell wouldn't use that as a reason." He drank another big gulp of his beer.

"Because you're a good person inside," Bucky lifted his bottle in a second cheer. "I could tell, that's why I lent you the record."

"Well, I know what it's like to be different. Besides, it makes you look even more like you could kick their asses."

Considering Steve hadn't had Bucky's strength to fend off bullies, who'd picked on sickly, young him as an easy target, he'd always challenged them to fights and had lost miserably every time, except for once. That had been his biggest personal victory to date. Maybe he could live vicariously through Bucky, who looked like he could eat bullies for breakfast.

Bucky laughed. "Yeah, I guess I could kick a few. That's what the guys who designed it for me planned for me to do, all because they were the cowards."

He finished off the beer and let it hit the table with a clunk when setting it down.

"But I won't bore you with that shit."

He stood and removed the record from the turntable before slipping it into the cover effortlessly, as if he'd done it a thousand times before.

"Thanks for letting me borrow it," said Steve, following suit and standing.

"Stop in tomorrow anyway, okay?" he replied and the crooked grin that made Steve's spine shiver flashed over his face again.

He didn't feel as guilty as he had before when he let his eyes linger on that smile, but probably out of all the practice he'd been getting. Then, before he could intervene, Bucky turned toward the door and as he did, his eyes fell on the table full of drawings.

"Steve, man." He said, setting down the record to pick up the ones on top, glancing at the others. "No wonder you've been in shows."

Steve's face flushed hot. Normally Bucky's behavior of helping himself was the type to annoy him but he was too nervous for any other emotion.

"I just got those—um, commissions, that's a rough draft—they're not really my best—" Luckily, for the both of them, Bucky interrupted his useless stammering.

"You're one of the most interesting guys I've met, Steve," he looked at a few more scattered across the surface.

Steve definitely didn't imagine the way his gaze lingered on one in particular. His stomach sank; anything but… But then Bucky grabbed his record again, heading toward the door and Steve's legs felt like lead as he followed.

"Thanks for making the move here easier. I…"

He turned in the doorway and paused to lick his lips, teeth settling on the bottom for a split second. He didn't need to say it and yet Steve still knew he meant more than the move. He stepped closer and lifted a hand to grip the door just above Steve's, positioned on the doorknob.

Steve's breath caught in his throat as he became acutely aware of Bucky's own breath rolling across his neck and of the shorter space between them, closing as Bucky stepped even closer; but whatever he had been thinking about doing seemingly dissipated as he moved back into the hallway, hand falling back to his side.

"It's hard to adjust back to life once you've gone through shit. People like you help, though."

"Glad to hear it. You too." Wow. Astounding choice of words, Rogers.

Steve felt frustrated at his inability to convey all the thoughts that swirled in his mind, but it was probably better he didn't anyway. He was grateful he'd finally made a local friend-which made the speed of his deepening feelings a little worrying-who seemed to like being around him as much, but his mind was still processing the fact that he'd echoed the feeling Steve had about him. And which drawing had caught his attention? Steve hoped against hope it hadn't been one of the sketches of him but what else would have garnered extra attention?

"Take care, Steve. See you Thursday?"

"I'll be there."

Steve shut the door after Bucky turned the hallway corner, watching as his figure retreated. He used the excuse of potential unexpected company to tidy up the art table (hands still shaking), and with abject horror realized one of the sketches scattered in eyesight was, in fact, one of the compilations of sketches of Bucky. It couldn't have been just one-no, not with Steve Rogers' luck. It just had to be a series of sketches. There were two of Natasha on it, luckily, and one of Peggy, but those didn't count when there were three hundred (okay, six) of Bucky.

He retreated to the shower, trying to wash away the self-annoyance, and immediately went to bed afterward. He replayed the tiny last snippet of their conversation for any clues Bucky had been freaked out. He found none that he could pinpoint, but that didn't mean he wasn't missing something his brain had repressed.

He went to sleep frustrated with himself and nervous about the next day.