“For me? Why?” Steve asked, just as stupid and awkward as that sixteen-year-old kid in the Brooklyn back alley. Bucky rolled his eyes and dug through the pockets of his coat, coming up at last with a small lump wrapped in newspaper and tied with twine. Steve took it, turned it over in his hands, making no move to unwrap it. Bucky rolled his eyes again and shoved at Steve’s hand before shaking his last cigarette out of its pack and making a show of hunting through his pockets for matches so Steve could unknot the twine under a guise of privacy.
“I asked Her Majesty to pick it up for me, guess she got it when she went to London last month,” Bucky was saying, his voice seeming to come from a long way off as Steve turned the little leatherbound book over in his hands. “Slipped it to me right before we left. I dunno...guess I just missed seeing you with...seems like you never used to leave home without...anyway.”
Steve looked up from the creamy blank pages of the sketchbook and forced his hand to relax around the bundle of pencils before he snapped them all in half. Bucky was smoking with his eyes fixed determinedly on a point a couple of hills over, and Steve was torn between gratitude that he wasn’t witnessing whatever expression was on his face, and wishing that Buck would turn and look at him. After a long moment hanging suspended between disbelief and a kind of absurd gratitude that made him feel like he might actually break down and weep, Steve bowed his head and said simply, “Thank you, Bucky.”
Buck’s easy smile when he turned his head at last, the strength of his grip on Steve’s shoulder, Steve was grinning too, swaying as Bucky jostled him with an arm hooked around his neck, tucking the sketchbook into his pocket and saying, “I didn’t get you anything, though, didn’t want the other guys to get jealous,” just because he knew it would make Bucky laugh.
It did, the sound better than silver bells on city street corners. Their frosty breath commingled and fogged the air in front of their faces and Bucky’s freezing cold fingers squeezed the back of Steve’s neck once more. “Yeah, yeah. Merry Christmas, Punk.”
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timeasmymeasure
Re: Fill — MCU, Steve and Bucky, 2/2
Date: 2021-05-16 01:37 am (UTC)“I asked Her Majesty to pick it up for me, guess she got it when she went to London last month,” Bucky was saying, his voice seeming to come from a long way off as Steve turned the little leatherbound book over in his hands. “Slipped it to me right before we left. I dunno...guess I just missed seeing you with...seems like you never used to leave home without...anyway.”
Steve looked up from the creamy blank pages of the sketchbook and forced his hand to relax around the bundle of pencils before he snapped them all in half. Bucky was smoking with his eyes fixed determinedly on a point a couple of hills over, and Steve was torn between gratitude that he wasn’t witnessing whatever expression was on his face, and wishing that Buck would turn and look at him. After a long moment hanging suspended between disbelief and a kind of absurd gratitude that made him feel like he might actually break down and weep, Steve bowed his head and said simply, “Thank you, Bucky.”
Buck’s easy smile when he turned his head at last, the strength of his grip on Steve’s shoulder, Steve was grinning too, swaying as Bucky jostled him with an arm hooked around his neck, tucking the sketchbook into his pocket and saying, “I didn’t get you anything, though, didn’t want the other guys to get jealous,” just because he knew it would make Bucky laugh.
It did, the sound better than silver bells on city street corners. Their frosty breath commingled and fogged the air in front of their faces and Bucky’s freezing cold fingers squeezed the back of Steve’s neck once more. “Yeah, yeah. Merry Christmas, Punk.”
“You too, Jerk.”