bakerstreet | ( other-wordly )

[He catches Steve watching him a lot. Not that it's some big secret as to why - Steve shows him the pictures, when they're done, and sometimes he even sits for them. There are whole sketchbooks full of pictures of his hands, fingers curled into different arrangements.

Hands are tricky, one of the girls in Steve's art class tells Bucky one day, when he's waiting outside. She takes one of her hands in his, and flushes, and tells him hands are just tricky to get right. They're so complex.

And Bucky smiles and tells her his hands may be complicated, but he's simple as anything. And they're laughing together - Bucky trying to get her to blush just a little more - when Steve comes out.

So Bucky knows why Steve watches. Though, sometimes, he thinks there's a little more to it, too. Like today, where he's in the bathroom in his braces, sleeves rolled high, and he can see Steve through the door watching him shave. His fingers curl careful around the razor as he lets it drag against his skin, and he watches Steve in return.]

You could probably stand to do this now and then, y'know. [He calls out.] I think you're getting a little scruff.

[But Steve's never had to do this, and that's part of why Bucky thinks he watches. And maybe there's something else.

So he catches Steve's eye in the mirror, and he pauses a minute as he weighs something up. And then he thinks, to hell with it, and he says]

C'mere.

[ Steve most often draws what he knows. His books are filled with pictures of all kinds, cartoons he's doodled off the top of his head to encapsulate something he feels, a point he wants to make without saying anything. He sketches the stoops and clotheslines and shady alleyways outside their apartment. And yes. Bucky has featured in his sketchbook more than a few times.

Bucky doesn't move like anyone else he knows, not really. The way he leans and cocks his head, the way his fingers rest on the arm of a chair when he's relaxed, they're things he captures because they are, aesthetically, beautiful to him. Maybe it's just an artist's perspective after all, but he finds himself doing it more and more often, finding different poses and reasons to accompany them.

He thought he was being subtle about it. But then he's never been all that great at hiding anything, especially from Bucky. When the other calls out from the bathroom his eyes zip back down to the page he's working on with a thoughtful noise, as though agreeing with him.

He doesn't, of course. Steve never needs to shave. He's probably never going to outgrow looking like a twelve year old kid, and the reminder kind of smarts. Even if Bucky's trying to be generous about it.

When he chances a glance up again, Bucky's looking at him in the mirror's reflection. Brow furrowing in puzzlement, he quickly flips the book shut and pulls to his feet. ]

You're not serious.

About the scruff? [His eyeline lowers as Steve comes closer, stopping just before the point where Bucky needs to duck his head. He's still got white foam licking up his neck, a swathe of clean pink on one side of his jaw and the rest a frothy beard.

Which hides it well when his mouth twitches in a brief wince of maybe shouldn'tve said that, before he shrugs.] No.

[He'll tease, and he'll tell the truth, but he never patronises. That's how it works.]

But you could stand to know how it works. Here.

[The razor Bucky uses is fancy, or fancy so far as what they own goes. But Bucky's always had a tendency to spend where he shouldn't, he's got a magpie's eye his means can't match. Anyway, it's silver handled (stainless) and kept sharp, and he passes it into Steve's hands.

Backs up all the two steps it takes to cross the cupboard they call a bathroom, and sits on the edge of the tub.]

You're always telling me I missed a spot.

That's because you let yourself get distracted yapping away in here.

[ Steve can't tell at first if Bucky's having him on or not, glancing down at the glinting razor in his hands before glancing up again at the frothy mess covering most of Bucky's face. He looks a little skeptical at first, but Bucky looks to be in earnest.

With a quiet sigh that isn't quite put-upon, he wraps his fingers securely around the bright handle. It's still warm from where the other had been gripping it just moments before. One eyebrow arches as he steps closer. ]

I could slip.

[ He wouldn't. He's got a list of ailments as long as his leg, but unless he falls to coughing his hands are as steady as they come. Art would probably be a lost cause, otherwise. ]

Then I'll get a scar and you'll get a mean reputation. Girls love that.

[He knows his friend too well to think he won't rise to a challenge, trusts him too well to believe he'll get a single nick. It just wouldn't be worth how long Steve'd kick himself for it.

But Bucky's seen the way his hands work, clasped round a pencil. It's like they're dancing, and he's not worried at all. So he tips his head back, exposing his neck like it's an offering, and watches from under eyelids lowered to half mast. He's been the subject of enough canvases. Never been the canvas before.

And somewhere under the foam, his lips quirk into a grin.]

[ There's only a moment's hesitation before Steve's jaw gets that determined set to it, his eyes getting that focus so familiar to his work. A challenge? Serves to prove just how well Bucky knows him by now.

He lifts his hand, steady as you please, and the first soft rasp of metal against skin can be heard in the quiet of the bathroom. It glides upward easy enough, against the long slope of his neck, curving just under his jaw. ]

Do they?

[ His lips twist faintly, voice just deadpan enough to betray his lack of genuine interest. It's going to take a lot more than a reputation to get any of those girls to look at him twice, and that's a fact.

He's grown past caring about it. Maybe he's got something better, just the way things are. ]

[And Bucky laughs, a single note low in his throat, a faint vibration under Steve's hands. His voice dips to the lower end of the register when he replies.]

So I hear.

[He's not that type, himself, but then he's never had to treat anyone mean to keep them keen. It's more shaking them off that's the problem. And he's more of a gentleman than he needs to be, more than most would be, given his opportunities. He's dated enough girls, but never one who didn't leave with her reputation intact. Maybe that's why so many of them are on good terms with him, despite the way he spins through them like he's on a fairground carousel.

He brings girls back, but not often, aware not just how it looks for them, but of how Steve retreats to the other room, alone. Leaves them to it. Sometimes Bucky wonders if he's watching then, too.]

You gotta get closer than that, or I'll have to do over in five minutes. [He wraps his fingers round Steve's wrist, only to guide.] Here.

You're a regular caveman.

[ Steve manages to look stern when his eyes shoot towards Bucky's, lips twisting in frustration -- or something like it at least -- when the other's hands close around his bird-like bones and pull his hand a little closer. He can see the indention of skin as the blade's edge turns to scrape over it again, and the smell of the shaving foam has a rich muskiness to it. Must have splurged on it again, it's the same stuff he smells on Bucky's shirts come laundry day.

It's nice. Kind of warm and sharp, like bourbon. He'd get some himself, but it's like Bucky said, he never manages to grow more than peach fuzz. All he really wants is the smell, anyway, familiar in the way that autumn leaves and old newspapers and worn-in leather shoes smell.

The blade comes away covered in the stuff and it takes a flick into the sink to be rid of it, swiping it against the hand towel nearby before going to all over again, eyes very deliberately studying the soft jut of Bucky's very square jaw. ]

...doesn't seem like you need the help, anyway. Girls like you just fine. Why wouldn't they?

Yeah, someone's gotta lower the tone.

[And that's how Bucky's comfortable. Being the less perfect of the two of them (and sure somebody might laugh to hear it put that way given how Steve's body tries to fall apart on him every second Sunday, but the kid's soul is pristine and Bucky could get on his knees every Sunday of his life and never quite scrub his own that clean). So he scratches together jobs he doesn't talk about, and dates girls he's not planning on settling with, and it's comfortable because then it's not like he's trying too hard to measure up.

He never could, he knows. He still tries a little.

Right now what's oddly comfortable (oddly pleasant) is the glide of metal over his skin. He can feel Steve still being careful, avoiding, for now, the sharp angles of his mouth. One hand reaching back to curl around the edge of the tub, he closes his eyes. There's that hum in his throat again.]

See, most girls just want someone who'll smile when they see them, and treat them nice, and listen while they talk. There's none of that you don't got in you, Steve. [Most girls, it turns out, want someone at least a half a head taller than them, with a shoulder span broader than their hips and a jawline that's got a little shadow by the end of the day. But what does Steve want with someone that's important to, anyhow?

Most girls don't have a clue what they're missing out on, but pointing that out to them - or Steve - has always been a battle on the steep side of the hill.

The hand not braced against the tub comes to settle blindly somewhere at Steve's hip. A thumb hooks over his belt. It's not much of a grip, just enough to keep steady since, with his eyes closed, the motion of the blade's making him sway.]

You got a nice smile.

Uh huh.

[ Part of him is sure Bucky's just having him on at this point, and his eyes narrow just a touch, reaching up to swipe with the pad of his thumb at a stray fleck of foam. It's smooth enough so far, despite Bucky's complaints.

He gets the unbidden image in his head of one of those girls curling up to Buck at the movies, close enough to feel that smooth rub against her cheek and giggling softly. Biting at the inside of his cheek he brings the razor up again, the firm press leaving that soft scratching sound in its wake as it slides up his bared throat. ]

Sure. Explains why Ms. Potts always manages to bake too many cookies every Sunday.

[ He knows plenty of women who like his smile and his manners and his considerate nature. Most of them look at him like a brother or a surrogate son or grandson. No girl their age is going to settle for him in any romantic sense, and he's told himself and Bucky a million and one times before now that it's fine. He doesn't need their attention. He's not looking for anything.

One person looking at you like you mean something is enough, if it's the right person.

With a scrunch of his nose he presses the flat of the blade to Bucky's cheek, nudging him to turn his head slightly before he continues. ]

Y'know, she's told me more than once how those things'll put hair on your chest. I thought better of asking what it is she puts in them.

[He grins despite himself, despite all his efforts to play the still surface for Steve to work on. He grins, lips curling wide. Mrs Potts likes Bucky well enough - her son's a drunkard and Bucky's been up there more than once to see him out when he's come round demanding her pocketbook to pay off his tab. She likes him, though she tells him he shouldn't intervene.

She likes Steve more. He's like the son she should have had, and Steve doesn't even know he does it but she always walks away from him looking like her day's gotten sunnier.

Bucky knows how that one goes.

He sighs softly, opens his eyes again just enough to watch Steve through the shutters of his eyelashes.] You're telling me Elizabeth Arden and control girdles don't do it for you? [There's a breath sucked through his teeth as if this makes it all a harder sell.] All right.

[There's a pause. He cants his head to the side under the urging of Steve's fingertips.]

So what does?

I don't know. It's not that important.

[ It's like he couldn't decide on a deflection method and chose the first two that came to mind. He doesn't know because he doesn't let himself think about it too hard, and it's not important because...

Well, because he's happy. Or happy enough. What he wants is someone to come home to, to share in his life, in the triumphs and sadness. Someone who gets him inside and out, someone to trust and love and support. You don't exactly roll out a list like that when you're picking out dates for Saturday night.

Teeth gently needle his lower lip as the blade curves around his ear, scraping carefully across his cheek. Another flick and the foam sticks to the bowl of the sink, the blade shiny and new again with a swipe against the towel, and he takes to a spot he missed with all the intensity of a bit of proper shading on one of his sketches.

Bucky's jawline is as familiar as a pen stroke. ]

People worry too much about that kind of thing, anyhow.

Jesus, Steve, no they don't. Some people just don't act like they're made of stone, is all.

[For the first time tonight there's something like a snap under the langour of his tone. See, Steve says it's not important and Bucky hears him saying he's not important, and nobody gets to kick Steve Rogers while he's down, not even when Steve's doing it himself. What kind of friend would he be to let that go on?

So he hauls in the same way he does when he's reaching for the collar of that oversized ape from the garage down the street who he's (twice) caught calling Steve a little girl, and who Steve insists on walking by anyhow, chin jutted up. And he knows it's deflection, really. Knows that when you can't have something it's gotta be easier not to want it.

When the world's unfriendly to the things you want. It's gotta be easier to take its side.

Bucky knows that.

But to hell with it, maybe there are some fights where he doesn't want to watch Steve back down. (He doesn't know if Steve's got any clue how much of Bucky's courage comes from watching him).

And he's reached up to catch Steve's wrist again, fingers curled around those bird bones not to guide this time but to stop him. He's not sure why, maybe just because he doesn't want to get sliced mid-protest. It's only held for a few seconds, but he opens his eyes enough to glance down at the point their hands almost meet, and the time seems to stretch out a while.

He lets go, though. In the end. Tips his chin up with a sigh for the last couple of scrapes.]

You know, I think Dina Appelbaum's got a sister you could like. Gina? Tina. Maybe I'll put in a word.

[ For a minute that razor could have cut the tension in the cramped bathroom, Steve staring back at Bucky like he's got him backed in a corner. For a minute his pulse beats quick and erratic under the clasp of his fingers, mouth going dry. Finally he swallows, lets some of that tension go. ]

It's not that. It's just...hard finding someone who wants the same things I do. That's all.

[ Not that he hadn't given it a try enough times, the reactions ranging from 'oh Steve, you know you're swell but' to 'I thought you went for the other sort' and after a while he's learned to gauge when a girl's gearing up to let him down, gentle or otherwise. He only ever goes through the motions when Bucky insists on dragging him along on a double date, and he spends more time watching Bucky and his date than anything else.

One time his date noticed, and had some very sharp observations to make about it before she flounced off, and he'd spent the rest of the date sick to his stomach that she'd go and be spiteful and repeat them elsewhere, but he hadn't heard a thing since.

Maybe she was right. Maybe her and those other girls and that brutish mechanic and a slew of others are right about him. But even if that's the case, he'd be at peace with it. It doesn't make what he really wants any more attainable, and it doesn't get in the way of what he has now. Not so long as it never actually gets said out loud, not when they can't use it as ammunition against Bucky, too. The other might hold him up like he set the sun in the sky, but Bucky hung the moon and stars as far as he's concerned.

There's nothing he won't swallow and lock down to keep him safe.

Luckily it seems like Bucky's back to his usual tactics of setting him up with the unfortunate friend of one of his girls, and Steve lets out a breath, shaking his head with wry amusement before setting the razor back to his skin. ]

And you say I don't know when to quit.

[Usual tactics, old routines. They talk a lot (Bucky doesn't think there's another person in the world he could tell anything to, even when he doesn't tell him everything) but most every conversation gets danced around a while before the truth outs itself. It's just how they are together, neither one of them likes to wind up without first figuring out how to soften the blow.

I just don't want you to be alone are the words that go unsaid most often in talks like these. It's the start of a new decade, and the whole world knows America'll have joined the war before its done. The whole world bar Steve Rogers knows that, when that happens, one of them will get shipped out and the other wont. The closest Bucky's ever gotten to admitting it out loud's been after the third date in a week - the third girl - and a waylay by the liquor store on the way home before telling Steve how the thing is,

The thing is he's just making up for lost time in advance.]

Or there's Rosie Farley on the 7th floor. The hairy lip's not so noticeable, and now you know you've got a talent as a barber-

[And of course there are the times when Bucky Barnes just enjoys being an ass. He's got one eye half open to see how that goes down, a wicked slit of blue.]

The truth is, in the end, most everyone wants the same thing.

[And that's not meant to be insinuating anything about what, but there's something in the drawl of it that could make it sound that way.

And he watches how that goes down, too.]

Speaking of quitting. How close are you to done?

[ Steve pulls the razor away just enough to make it safe to kick Bucky in the side of the shin, giving him a warning look that's half-indignation on Rosie's behalf and half 'you know better'. Judging by the fact that Bucky's actually looking at him, he saw it coming a mile off. ]

Yeah, well, everyone seems in agreement that what they want isn't me.

[ It's not a ploy for pity, and he doesn't sound sorry about it. Just matter of fact. Maybe that's worse, but he's gone back to focusing on working that razor's edge around the last of the foam, still clinging to his chin. The blade taps just under his lower lip and Steve frowns thoughtfully, reaching to swipe at the remaining foam like it's a smear of charcoal on one of his sketches, before quickly dropping his hand again and straightening. ]

It's a good thing you clean up pretty, if this is how you talk to everyone giving you a shave.

[ It's a wry endearment, a half-truth to hide the whole of it, but he's not good at lying, and even skating that close has his heart pounding in his throat. ]

[What a world, where Steve Rogers gets to think he isn't wanted. What a world.

Bucky looks over at him a minute, just about done and pulling away to wash the blade off under the tap and set it by the side of the sink. Just watches him. Features that haven't changed a whole lot since they were kids. Same eyes too big for his face, smile taking up whatever room's left. World full of damn idiots, that's what it is.

He watches, stretching a leg out a little, letting one shoulder dip in a loose shrug.]

Hey, I mean, I'd kiss her. I don't figure I'd mind a little peach fuzz.

[Fingers brush exploratory paths across his jawline, skin like damp silk for a few transient moments before the air gets to it. He catches his thumb against the corner of his mouth, palm curling over as he goes on, like he's trying to catch and keep the words.]

But don't you speak so soon. You missed a spot.

[There's a little amused reproach there, but it's not meant for Steve. Of all the stupid, reckless things - and at least it's usual that he can claim he didn't think these things through. Not this time. C'mon, Buck, what a line.]

What? No I didn't...

[ Steve's face screws up with indignation and he leans in for a better look, studying for even the faintest shadow of prickle left behind. He even puts his fingers to Bucky's jaw to tip his head, though it is in fact under the honest, innocent pretext of looking for whatever spot he must have missed. ]

[Steve Rogers: innocence's last gasp. It's probably a crime to do this to someone so unsuspecting (more than it's a crime anyhow, more than the guys at the dock talk about it like there must be some kind of sickness involved, so that while Bucky likes to look sharp he does not - thank you - ever let that slip toward pretty).

He's more than aware of the way the world works, and the world's gone hard enough on Steve already. There's no sense in making things rougher. No sense in risking a good thing.

But something's gotta make sense, here. Something has to explain the way Bucky always knows when Steve's watching him, and why there's no feeling in the world like being close enough to be absolutely sure.]

You did. Right here.

[He taps his fingers against the arch of his mouth, and from there it's only a short way to reach to tug Steve down to him, and maybe he'll finally figure it out in those couple of seconds before Bucky kisses him, closed-mouthed and deliberate.

He's waiting, the whole time, for the hand twisted in his collar, shoving him away. This is one time Steve could hit and get a KO in one.]

What are you--

[ Steve goes still and quiet the second their lips touch, though his eyes couldn't be wider. He's imagining this, he has to be, despite all evidence to the contrary. Bucky can't and he wouldn't and he's got a new girl every time he turns around and why would he even think to...

He's having him on, and it isn't funny at all.

Maybe they're all right about him, but Bucky never said, never acted like he knew. There's a soft noise he hates himself for lodged in the back of his throat before he presses back. That hand in his collar comes, but it's not to push him away. He's just holding on, breathing in the smell of the shaving foam and old newspapers and the things that feel like home to him.

He never said. ]

[So Bucky guesses he doesn't have to apologise for the corny line. He almost wishes he did. He could take a groan, could take being laughed at. He's not sure how to deal with this wide eyed look, and Steve freezing like a rabbit caught in a sudden sweep of light. And he's wondering if maybe he's broken something, somehow. Except Steve doesn't pull away, when he finally wakes up to it, just makes a noise that has Bucky shifting where he sits.]

You can shove me back into the tub any time you want, [He offers, the words tight between his teeth because he's barely pulled back half a breath from Steve's mouth to say so.

If not, though, well. If not then Bucky'll part his lips just enough to catch that air between them and kiss him again, his hand splaying under the neckline at the back of Steve's oversized shirt.]

Shut up.

[ And then Steve really has a hold on his shirt, and the way he has to lean is all awkwardness and a little uncomfortable, and despite Bucky's best efforts to teach them when they were young and hidden away in their pillow forts all about how to kiss a girl, he hasn't really learned anything at all.

Instead it feels like his chest is in a vice, and God, he hopes he's not about to have an attack of all things, right in the middle of whatever this is. He fights it like he fights everything, and he kisses like he fights. It's all heart, no grace at all, earnest to the core. ]

[He tries not to laugh at that, though its an effort, and he's kissing Steve open-eyed, lips just parted, around a wicked kind of grin. He'd offer some kind of salute if it didn't mean letting go, and he's not so steady where he sits anymore, legs kicked out either side to give Steve room to press in.

He keeps his eyes open because he doesn't know Steve so well from this angle, looking up into his face instead of down. And he doesn't know him quite this close up, not the front of him anyhow. He's always pulled him back against his chest instead, on the colder nights when he's seen Steve's shoulders start to heave.

And he can feel what's maybe the beginning of that kind of tension now, the way Steve's holding himself braced for a fight. Mind you he's kissing like it's a full scale attack and maybe that's part of it. It takes Bucky a minute to even manage to break away, mouth bruised already and teeth grazing Steve's lip as a parting gesture.]

You okay?

[His hands, both of them, find Steve's shoulders and settle, keeping them down.]

You can stop to breathe, there's nowhere I gotta be.

[Except he's meant to be out tonight, but maybe that plan's falling by the wayside now.]

[ Steve's a little ruffled by this point. Somehow or another his hair manages to tuft up on one side, as if to betray his flustered state even further, as if the red high on his cheeks or the slightly dazed, out of breath look on his face couldn't do that well enough on his own.

Then one skinny fist finds Bucky's shoulder in a solid punch. ]

You could have said.

[ It's not about him going anywhere, though it could certainly be misconstrued that way. Instead he looks torn, like he wants to back away and pretend this didn't happen if only to protect the way things are, they way they've always been, which is good. It's better than he could have hoped for.

Except that's not quite true. He could have hoped for this, even if he didn't quite let himself, and now that it's here and Bucky's grinning like the cat who stole the cream he feels a little cheated. Like he's been playing him this whole time.

He wouldn't. But it still feels like the carpet just got yanked out from under him, just the same. ]

( other-wordly )

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