#THE SELF PORTRAIT AS THE PORTRAIT OF A SE | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ezlebe · 2 years ago

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i simply adore your work more than I could possibly say. and I'd give my life for more SE AK content!!!

Greg finds consciousness with a jerk, eyes darting around the dim cabin, then blinking blearily up at Tom, who’s pulling back from shaking him awake. He rubs into an eye while reaching out with the other hand, catching weakly on a curve of Tom’s fingers, half asleep and eager to stay that way, so hoping maybe he can distract Tom from making him get up.

Tom barks a quiet laugh, briefly squeezing back with a shake of his head. He leans in, heavy and half-pinning Greg to the bed, as if to play along. while shoving words low and taunting into Greg’s ear. “No,” he says, disappointingly, “You got to go get your wallet and buy us coffee.”

Greg feels a groan at the back of his throat. “But you’re –”

“Uh-uh, I’m the boss,” Tom interrupts, pulling away with a smack at Greg’s thigh, then turning and grabbing a hanging hoodie to throw in his face. “Up and at ‘em. Go get me a coffee, wage slave.”

“Isn’t that –” Greg tugs the hoodie crookedly over his head, “Like, a conflict of interest?”

“While you’re out getting the coffee, you can complain to whatever raven hanging around that’s HR.”

“I think it was an eagle,” Greg mumbles, as he grabs and pulls on a pair of crumpled jeans with a bleary blink. “Marketing was a gull… And accounting was that… weird duck.”

“What the hell are you – ? Oh, oh… forgot we even talked about that,” Tom says, reaching up and scratching under his chin. He looks across the slip through the window. “What was the raven?”

“Legal? I-I don’t remember,” Greg says, digging out a boot from where it’s wedged under the table. “Should have… written it down.”

Tom hums lowly and looks back down to an orange on the table, as he peels a segment off, then offers it with a wag. “I want just an americano, maybe some syrup.”

Greg takes the segment with a heavy sigh.

“Oh, cheer up,” Tom says, overly chipper and definitely who should be going to deal with the café at… whatever time it is, later than usual, since Greg was woken by Tom, not an alarm. The flat of his palm makes contact with Greg’s side with a squeeze. “You slept in for three hours.”

Greg realizes exactly why they didn’t go out when he sees the full effect of the night’s freezing rain storm. It’s not the worst they’ve ever got, but definitely the worst it’s been without ever leaving the protection of the marina, and he braces himself up to fall from stepping off the vessel and every step on the way into town.

He feels some surprise and relief when he crests the ramp to see someone from the city came through the lot. He jogs up to the Forester, carefully stepping on melted patches, while breathing pale puffs of vapor into the cold, foggy air. He reaches out and jerks the handle of the car, then grimaces when it snaps against his hand, as the door sticks fast, staying determinedly closed. He squints through the window, confirming the lock is popped on the inside, and shoves hard into the door to try to crack the ice around it, as well as what’s frozen inside – he doesn’t even know how water gets into it, but it’s probably something wrong with the rubber seal.

“Problem?” A voice asks, wry and a bit smug.

Greg turns around with a start. He blinks at Shiv in a navy blue coat, slightly puffed with layers to keep out the cold, a reusable coffee mug in one hand and the other in a pocket. He raises his brows, as he looks from Shiv to the car door, then back again, clearing his throat. “Uh, it’s… frozen.”

Shiv offers a slow, judgmental blink. “Don’t you have a spray?”

Greg tilts his head down toward the marina.

Shiv huffs low under her breath, jerking her chin slightly backward at the café. “Stew does.”

“Right, yeah,” Greg mutters, ducking his chin a bit, as he glances toward the café with a quick blink.

“Not going out today?” Shiv says, proceeding into, somewhat incredibly bafflingly, continuing the conversation. “Or you just hang back and let Tom go out alone?”

Greg feels his brow furrow at an unexpected note of a scold in her voice. “Oh, uh – no? We’ve actually been out a lot, really, without breaks? And it’s… maybe sort of that time of year like where he decides he hates the seine.”

Shiv blinks and quirks a brow, plainly bemused, then her brows relax while she exhales a huff through her nose.

“And, you know, it’s really icy today,” Greg mutters, peeking down at the car, completely encased in a thin layer like a pottery glaze. “Like, more than usual.”

Shiv oddly tenses a bit more while taking a sip from her mug, as her face tightens and loosens, then she clears her throat with a cough. “But not quite like the Bering Sea. Real crabbing.”

Greg feels his face pinch, “I-I guess not, no. We do still get kind of iced up in the gulf, sometimes – ”

“It was the ice, alright,” Shiv interrupts, tight, followed by a weak scoff. “That shit.”

Greg looks over with a blink, now his turn to be bemused. “Like, today is – What?”

“The stupid argument about his job,” Shiv says, shifting her weight on her feet with a sneer somewhere to the side of Greg’s shoulder. “With my dad, when we broke it off? I know he told you.”

“Oh,” Greg intones, exhaling a weak cough into a loosely curled fist. “Um… I do vaguely remember –”

“Jesus, Greg, I know he’s still pissed I changed the plan on him,” Shiv says, taking an arch sip from her mug, now staring so hard into Greg’s face that it almost seems intended as oppositely avoidant. “But I had to sit through… a lot of footage, doing some temporary outreach work with the AMSEA board, and it – I overreacted, maybe, but it wasn’t because I didn’t think he couldn’t do it. I just… I decided I would feel better if he didn’t.”

“Sure,” Greg mumbles, feeling his hands curl awkwardly against his elbows, as he glances toward the marina, then to the café. It is pretty clear that Shiv has decided he could be a Tom proxy? And that is… very unexpected, near to the point of fight or flight.

Mostly flight; maybe all flight.

“Apparently, it’s selfish, or whatever, giving a shit if he drowns a thousand miles away,” Shiv says, exhaling a harsh breath through her nose. “But the cannery job made just as much money and Dad needed someone, and I – ” She takes another sip, jaw clenching, “I really didn’t think he’d take it so fucking personally.”

“No, I-I get it,” Greg says, hurriedly, then immediately regretting it when a sharp look gets narrowed up toward him. “You can track the vessel, you know, but it’s not the same; not like knowing… If it’s not too appropriate that I – ”

“I think everyone is pretty aware by now,” Shiv interrupts, flat and sneering, but she doesn’t sound half as venomous as the last time similar words crossed between them. It had seemed like a good reason for the c-store to spontaneously produce a second check-out, if there ever was one.

“But even if it wasn’t, you know, like that,” Greg continues, insistent while lifting his shoulders in a shrug and exhaling a weak, awkward cough. “I think I still would have…” He drags his teeth across his lip, looking down across the pebbly gravel thrown out across the lot for traction. “I wasn’t, uh – wasn’t forced to? But I searched up a lot of stuff about… that sort of unwelcome, unlikely occurrence, too.”

Shiv tips her head, breathing into the lip of her mug. She makes an odd noise, somewhat pained and reluctant, then sharply clears her throat. “I got interested in it in a sick sort of way, actually.”

“Oh, uh – yeah, same,” Greg admits, weakly, looking away while shoving his hands into his pockets. “It’s, like… sort of educational?”

Shiv stares into some middle distance, thumb scraping along the edge of her mug. “I found a pretty good one a couple days ago.”

“You did?” Greg says, stretching his fingers in his jacket.

Shiv drops her head in a tight jerk, digging into her pocket for her phone. “It’s not amazingly produced, or anything, just some nosy asshole, but it’s got cliff notes from a recent investigation of an incident out in the Aleutians: diagrams, 3-D models, displacement math, a lot of NTSB hearing clips for good measure.”

“Oh, that’s, uh –” Greg looks down, as his phone buzzes faintly in his hip pocket. “Thanks?”

Shiv leans slightly to peer in the Forester’s icy window, as she takes a sip that’s decidedly more savoring than any previous. “Looks like that’s your wallet?”

“Like, maybe,” Greg admits, then once again bodily shoves into the car door. He hears a faint crack and tugs the handle, but it’s still stuck fast; could he have forgotten to – No, yeah, it is unlocked. He already checked it.

“I’m in a good position to know you can replace this shit box.”

Greg curls his nose, a bit, as he looks over and down at her with a limp shrug.

Shiv holds Greg’s eyes for a quick beat, then rolls her own, as she turns around toward her particular SUV of the month. She gestures backward at him around her phone. “Let Tom know what I said, alright?”

“Um, yeah,” Greg says, looking down and flicking at ice on the edge of the window with a nod. He listens to a door slam, then an engine start up, and peeks up to watch her circle wide out of the lot.

He isn’t really sure why Shiv decided now to say all that – probably it was the timing with the weather, or something – since it’s been months. He rubs at his brow, feeling a little vaguely irked that she cared about that, about Tom’s safety, but not the him of it enough to just like say she didn’t want to get married to him.

…Greg is a bit grudgingly appreciative, in any case, though; it didn’t happen, and like everyone is far better for it, but it wouldhave made him feel better, if it did. He could’ve weathered endless, complaining calls, as long as he didn’t have to wonder what happened when they stopped, even if it was just a day with crappy weather for signal.

He gives the door another yank, then inhales cold, damp air deep into his lungs, slumping back toward the marina ramp. He can probably get Tom to think it’s like funny to have to come up here and get it out for him? If the door breaks, then like it’s Tom’s fault, too, so he has to fix it.

And the ignition, finally, and maybe even the clunky sound with the passenger rear wheel.

Tom is leaning against the rail of the deck, swiping at something at his phone; he looks up when Greg climbs up, face brightening, as he shoves the phone into his bibs. “Where the hell did you go – get lost in the fog? Are you actually some organism now come to spore me with your fiddlehead?”

“No, uh – like, I was…” Greg grimaces, reaching up and tugging nervously at the lip of his hood. He could lie, only like Shiv did ask him to relay what she said, plus he doesn’t exactly want Tom to hear from Stewy they were talking, then really jump to some like super weird conclusion. “Perhaps conversing with Shiv about how we’re like both happy that you aren’t dead?”

Tom stares for a few beats, expression twisting with befuddlement, as a brow swiftly raises up his forehead.

Greg scrubs at his hair under his hood. “We like got talking about ships icing up, um… because of the weather.”

“Oh, what a cheery topic.” Tom mutters, under his breath, as his hands settle into his pockets across his hips.

“Like, when you first told me, right, you were going out there? I watched and, uh – and read a lot about the dangers of the whole procedure, and like got super… concerned you were going to sink?” Greg says, briefly biting at the inside of his lip, while slipping his hand down his cheek to scratch against his upper jaw. “And I guess Shiv did, too, because she was on some committee, so that’s… I guess, the real reason she asked Uncle Logan to put you in Naknek. Or something. Not, like… because she didn’t think you were a good captain?”

Tom blinks slow, then his eyes flick toward the other end of the marina and the parking lot. “What the hell do I even say to that?” He asks, elbows cocking out with a jerky shrug. “I appreciate the sentiment, but fuck off I didn’t grow up fishing out there to get stuck in a cannery?”

“I-I think she just wanted you to know? And even texted me this…” Greg pulls out his phone to tap the link to the video. He feels his face fall, gut clenching, as it opens to a clip of a tight-voiced captain calling mayday minutes before… like, before he dies; he hears between his ears, against his will, an echo that sounds too close to Tom.

“We don’t need to listen to that –” Tom wrestles the phone from Greg and pauses the video just as the narrator voiceover starts up. He glances down at the screen for a beat, then looks up with a deeply furrowed brow, throwing his other hand out in askance. “What the hell is wrong with you two? If you want to get sad, then watch My Girl; don’t talk about my untimely death over fucking coffee – which is where, by the by?”

“The cash is still locked in the car,” Greg mumbles, rocking back on his heels. In a queasy way, he really sort of just wants to watch the video even more after the intro. “Door is sort of stuck… from the rain.”

Tom sighs hard through his nose, head dropping and tapping the phone to his forehead.

Greg feels himself hunch closer into himself with a glance to the deck.

“Okay, let’s just…” Tom’s hand lifts and sweeps chilly up Greg’s nape, pulling him into the slightly rough collar of his work coat. He neck is prickly with his beard, but Greg turns his face into it anyway, like he always does, swallowing thickly from the back of his throat; he wonders how his face must have looked, though it doesn’t exactly take a lot for Tom to go in for a hug. “It’s not like that never happens here – jeez, we’re standing on it. The shit that manages to get you emotional. And her. Mind-bottling.”

Greg snorts weakly, breathing for a few beats. “It’s not even, like… real cold, out there,” he says, thinking about back home with freezing eyelashes and crispy wet hair. “But it-it’s got the potential of worse?”

“Trust me,” Tom says, squeezing at the back of Greg’s neck with a shift of his thumb. “I’ll get you out to St Paul for Christmas, and you’ll wish you were back in Whitehorse.”

Greg hums a soft disagreement. “We go hunting –”

“In September,” Tom says, shaking Greg a bit with a gentle, if jerking shift of his arm. “That’s not even the same.”

Greg thinks that the weather probably still won’t be as bad on the island, as it could be out on a vessel. It’ll be like here, where it’s just sort of annoying until it’s open water rocking the boat, ice freezing in layers with every misty, crashing wave to cement everything to the deck.

“Alright, now,” Tom says, pulling back and looking Greg in the face while his brows rise up his forehead, clapping him across the shoulder. “I’ve got my wallet, greenhorn, if I don’t get some caffeine, I’m going to throw a – ” He abruptly jerks, unbalancing and hand yanked from Greg’s shoulder, then just as swiftly he turns on a heel. “Excuse me, Mondale.”

Mondale moves to shove at Tom again, back hard against his knees in a vaguely punchy manner.

“Are we not the center of attention, hm?” Tom says, crouching down and rubbing at Mondale’s jowls with both palms. “Or you mad about us taking vacation, you workaholic?”

Mondale pulls from Tom after a few pats more with a shimmy, then bounds toward a crack between pots a few feet away. He emerges with a familiar red rubber toy that he tries to shove in Tom’s hands.

Greg furrows his brow, leaning in, as Tom lifts the oblong sort of ball with a tut.

“I thought we lost this?”

“Maybe, a – “ Greg lifts a shoulder to shrug. “Uh, a seal brought it back?”

Tom hands it back to Mondale while lifting his other hand in a vague waving assent.

“Look,” Tom says, a wry curl at the edge of his mouth. “I do appreciate it, alright, but – ” His brow furrows, as he looks over suddenly with a sharp narrow of his eyes, taking a turn for legitimate concern. “You’re not scared of being on the Como now, right?”

“No, like – A lot of it was I wouldn’t… be there to know, you know,” Greg says, looking over at Tom, then away, tipping his head into his shoulder. “I’d just like be freaking out every time you went dark.”

“Would you?” Tom says, leaning in with a condescending tut to smack his fingers flat against Greg’s jaw. He bounds off toward the edge of the deck. “That’s so sweet.”

Greg flattens his mouth.

“Ships go down, planes go down, cars turn into flaming wrecks,” Tom says, hopping off down onto the dock with a spin of one hand. “You going to lock me up in a box?”

Greg rolls his eyes, feeling an irked tug just behind his sternum. He is like at least concerned about Tom’s actual safety, not like… say, trying to keep him away from certain people. “Seriously? You get like so…” He exhales hard, while trailing Tom toward the ramp. “You don’t even like when I go out with Kendall to –”

“That’s different,” Tom interrupts, voice lilting into a mocking scold while shaking his head.

Greg sweeps his eyes up toward the white, foggy sky. “Why?”

“Because he’s going to teach you bad habits,” Tom says, turning around at the waist to actually wag a finger.

“He doesn’t even… do anything,” Greg says, catching up with a shuffle of his feet. He likes the boat and the crew, but not a lot about the Captain Kendall part of it; he’s okay at charts and inventory stuff, sure, it’s the rest of it – he gets seasick. “He just – I mean, you know. He never gives me anything to do.”

Tom abruptly loops his arm around Greg’s neck, barking a laugh into his ear with a bodily shake. He smacks a loud kiss across his jaw. “I do like that whenever you sneak away with him, it makes you appreciate a real captain.”

Greg awkwardly angles his chin to look across Tom’s shoulders as they halfway stumble onto the wood walkway toward the café. He clears his throat, as Tom lets up on the chokehold to grab the door to pull open. “He’s got his own, uh – his mini espresso machine, though.”

“Oh, fuck off and go order,” Tom says, shoving Greg toward the counter with a sharp tut. “I spoil you in better ways.”

“Trouble in paradise?” Stewy says, head popping up with an undeniable glint to his eyes.

“Latte and americano,” Greg says, somewhat hurriedly, just as Tom opens his mouth to respond. He looks down at the display case, furrowing his brow down across the shelves. “With vanilla? And uh, no gingerbread… you’re out of gingerbread?”

“It’s almost February,” Stewy says, dry, as he taps out grounds into the portafilter. “Do you need at calendar, Baby Roy? I got a couple wallet ones from the fuel station lady, maybe might interest you if – ”

“No,” Tom interjects, turning his head to make eye contact with Greg, cheek twitching, a smirk badly hidden at the edge of his mouth. “How about you leave angling to people who can catch something. Just make the coffee.”

Stewy widely rolls his eyes, starting up the machine, and proceeds to pull the shot somehow sarcastically, then opens his mouth again while he pours the shot into a cup of water. “Come on, I saw him talking to Shiv outside.”

“Seriously?” Greg mutters, tilting his head, as he reaches up and scratches at the side of his nose. He think Stewy might like have some addiction-to-drama issue.

“You did, you did,” Tom says, dropping his head with a nod while he take a step forward, leaning into the edge of the counter with both palms on the silver edge. “They’re simply both glad I’m hale and hearty.”

Stewy appears dubious, as he steams milk, expression only deepening as he presses the grinder for the next shots. His eyes sweep away from Tom, over to Greg, as he slides the portafilter a second time into the machine. “Is that code for planning his murder?”

“Hah, uh… no,” Greg says, shaking his head, lifting his voice while the machine hisses between them. “We, like – we had parallel concerns about an incident that never came to pass?”

Stewy blinks slow, mouth twisting at the side. He looks down, as the shot finishes and he has to pour it into the milk. “That’s way more boring than what I texted Jess.”

#se ak tomgreg #tomgreg #i've been watching a lot of uuuuuhhhh sinking videos #so this is just a self portrait in a way #featuring meddling with tom's life

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espinosaurusrexex · 1 year ago

Text

Happy Little Accidents

Veteran!BuckyBarnes x Female!ArtTeacher!Reader

summary: In a world after the war, Bucky tries to get pieces of his old self back by joining an art class. He meets you and instantly falls head over heels. Now he just has to work up the courage to ask you out.

a/n: wrote most of this on my lunch break after finally feeling the creativity spark again. I hope you all get a cozy fall feeling.

word count: 3.3k

warnings: adapting to life after war, frustration, a little angst, love-dazed Bucky, just so much fluff and wholesomeness 💕

･ﾟ✫* 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ｡✭･ﾟ

↑ the face of a man too whipped to listen - this is the Bucky vibe today

Steve Rogers was an artist. A lot of people knew about it. Hell, the Smithsonian even had a gallery full of sketches from a notebook of Steve’s he had lost back in ‘45. But Steve never needed people to recognize his work. Just like he never needed all the fame that came with his shield or all the honors he got for doing what he thought normal human decency implied - stopping bullies.

But what not many people knew was that Steve loved his art so much, he even held little sketch workshops in the camps on the western front. He drew each member of the howling commandos with impeccable accuracy. He loved drawing portraits and he loved to help.

Which was why, sooner or later, Bucky had been talked into trying his first sketches back in the day as well. Back when he was still left-handed, back when he found joy in little things such as drawing with his best friend. Back when he was not who he was now.

Yeah, he was bitter about it...

Bucky wasn’t too shabby of an artist per se. He was rather quick with his sketches always able to find the right spot for his next line and even though they weren’t perfect, one could always see what his pictures were meant to present.

Yes, they were crooked and not nearly as good as Steve’s but he had fun with it. Sketching had been an escape for his soul while bombs were exploding only miles away from his camp. It had reminded him of his best friend when they were apart, and most importantly, it taught him patience.

God, so much patience.

Bucky had never been good with it. Always fast, always right away. But the amount of times Steve made him erase carefully constructed lines and shapes had him feel scolded like a kid.

Later, he was grateful for it.

Now? He hated just touching a pencil. Every time he was reminded of his recovery, of months of frustration and anger, of grief and sadness. All because he’d lost his arm, and with it, all that had brought him joy in life.

When he had to learn to write with his right hand, he screamed at the papers before him, the crooked and shaky lines mocking him with vigor.

You’ll never be the same, they said, You’ll never have true joy back.

He felt like a child. Unable to do the most mundane of tasks, whilst fully aware of what had to be done to get it right.

But he missed it. The way drawing would clear his mind and the ease he felt when thinking of nothing but the next step in the process.

So after a particularly frustrating session with his therapist, Bucky had walked through a gallery on his way home. Beautiful pieces, each more impressive than the next hung on bright white walls until he reached a small corner with sketches and photographs. They weren’t less good than the rest, but other than the huge paintings, they seemed approachable - and they reminded him of times far gone.

“Hello, would you be interested in signing up for a sketching class?” An angelic voice had asked after holding a leaflet into his line of sight. And when he followed the hand up to your face, his breath hitched in his throat.

“I- I don’t think I’d be any good…” he had said with a pitiful smile as his left arm raised next to his head, the sleek silver of his hand shining in the showroom light.

“Oh don’t be silly. Everyone can be an artist.”

And that was all it took.

Now he was here. Sitting in a room with about eight other people, listening to you talk. Though Bucky didn’t pay much attention to your words. He was distracted by the way your lips curved when you spoke, and how your hands looked in the light when you flailed them in the air. He wanted to draw you, only you. But he knew he could never do you justice. And that frustrated him a little.

His first task was easy. A series of connected squiggles and shapes. The second was harder - finding and highlighting familiar motives in his work. But when he tried to connect his shapes, his hand began to tremble and the line on his paper got dented, he huffed in surrender.

A look to the front to you talking with another woman and he was getting off his chair.

This was useless. He should have never come here.

But when he moved to gather his things, your voice stopped him once again.

“Oh that’s interesting,” you said with a tilted head, your eyes following the little dent in his drawing.

“Yeah, I messed it up.” He shook his head and added a careful, much more quiet ‘I always do”.

“You see, it’s only a mistake if you make it one.” You turned to him and smiled and his heart began racing now that all your attention was on him. Bucky looked around to see if anyone noticed, but the other participants were all focused on their work. “I’m not going to tell you that this line isn’t supposed to be the way it is. You alone can decide that.”

You stepped closer as he eyed his paper again. “So, Bucky,” holy crap you remembered his name. And it sounded so good coming from your lips. “Are you gonna make it a mistake or not?”

❁ ❁ ❁

That was a month ago. And Bucky had come to your class every Sunday night since then. But now his crush had only intensified.

Every time you stepped behind him to watch him work, his hand began to sweat. Every time you gave him a suggestion, his eyes were so drawn to your lips, he barely heard what you were saying. Just yesterday this had caused him to get into a particularly awkward situation. He hadn’t listened, of course - those stupid mesmerizing lips of yours were at fault for it. And when Bucky finally came back from his daydream of imagining what they would feel like on his lips, he knocked over a jar of water as he noticed you had moved next to him. And to make matters even worse, you had caught him talking to himself as he cleaned up the mess.

Bucky was beyond embarrassed. He wasn’t normally that clumsy, all his moves were calculated. No limb out of control, but when you were around, he seemed to have lost that trait of his - which was actually kind of nice...

He was in deep. And he didn’t know how to handle it.

He was contemplating never going back to your class. He would probably end up ruining somebody’s work and - besides - it wasn’t like he could ever work up the courage to ask you out. It was just all too scary.

“Bucky, is that you?” Bucky froze as he studied the coffee menu above the barista. He was going to order black anyway. But the voice that called out his name almost made him want to pretend he was still studying the sign.

“Bucky.” Your voice came closer and when you were standing next to him, he finally looked at you. And there you were, with a bright smile and a scarf shielding you from the cool fall breeze outside.

“Oh, hey.” He paused, treading, not knowing what to do with his hands or pretty much any part of his body. At least, in your workshop, he had something to do. “...hey.”

“It’s nice to see you, how’s your homework going?” You rubbed your hands together to warm them and at the sight of your delicate fingers, he felt his cheeks heating up when he imagined holding them.

“It’s... well, it’s going...” He sighed and watched his feet as they shuffled on the tiled floor. “It’s not going well if I’m being honest.” And with a shy smile, he rubbed the back of his neck, watching as you nodded in understanding.

“I know it sounds stupid, but sometimes it really helps to just get started without thinking about it too much.”

He chuckled. That was exactly his problem. Because every time he wanted to start, he wondered what you would think about it. And then his thoughts drifted to you entirely and how your neck would bend when you watched him draw over his shoulder, or how your fingers swayed over his artwork to point out the parts you were talking about. God, he loved when you did that.

“-only if you want, of course.” Your nose crinkled when Bucky’s mind brought him back to the coffee shop again. You were staring at him expectantly, your smile growing nervous with every second he took to register that you had just asked him a question.

Bucky had no idea what you had just said. He had been too lost in his daydream yet again and now he made you look stupid in the middle of this coffee shop. There wasn’t much time to decide what his response would be, but under no circumstance did he want to admit just how scattered he was around you. So without thinking, he just nodded with a tight-lipped smile and willed his knees to stay strong when your eyes brightened.

“Awesome! When are you free?” Free? Did you just ask him out and he hadn’t even paid attention?

“Uh, Sunday?” Bucky stammered as his heart began to pound in his chest. This has got to be a prank.

You laughed, and Bucky got weak in the knees. “Sunday is workshop, silly.”

Stupid, stupid, Bucky. “Right, uh... Friday then.” The rapid beat in his chest took his breath away.

“Okay, great. Here give me your phone so I can give you my number.”

“You’re–“ Bucky choked as his hands scrambled to fish his phone out of his pocket. “Yes, yeah sure, cool.” Cool? Oh god.

You took it from him, entered your contact with a little paintbrush emoji, called yourself, and handed it back to his sweaty hand.

“I’ll text you my address.” You stepped forward to pay and retrieve your coffee, gifting the barista a smile that made him blush - apparently, you were a regular because Bucky did not remember you ordering - but then again - he didn’t really pay attention apparently. “Oh, and bring your art supplies!”

And then you were out the door, letting crisp air into the cozy coffee shop, and Bucky standing dazed and confused as to what had just happened.

❁ ❁ ❁

Bucky stared at his phone for the fifth time now, making sure he was in front of the right door before ringing the bell. He was nervous, to say the least. He couldn’t even remember the last time he was on a date, not to mention the last time he felt this nervous about being on one. He was a strong believer in facts but you asking him out had to be a sign from the universe. One he would only get once and he could not screw it up.

His hands smoothed over his black button-up one last time before adjusting his leather jacket again. Then he rang the bell and not even a minute later, you greeted him with a warm smile and urged him to give you his jacket to hang up.

“I just made tea, do you want some?” Bucky followed you to the kitchen where the faint but homey scent of pumpkin spice filled the air. He watches as you scrambled to find your oven its and then retrieve something delicious smelling from the oven. “Cookies?”

“I’m good with tea for now.” He chuckled in awe at how nice your home felt. Once he could tear his eyes away from you, he peered over the kitchen island into your living room, where many different artworks and photographs were displayed on the walls. Every pillow on your sofa had a different color and the blankets sprawled on it and the chair were too inviting for him not to picture the both of you cuddled up beneath them.

“Alright then, suit yourself. But just know these are my specialty.” You snatched one from the tray before almost dropping it again. “Ouch, hot.”

Bucky felt drawn to the room. With all its warm light and fall-scented candles, hints of read books and discarded crocheting, with a crackling fireplace and soft carpeting. He also felt awfully intimate at the glimpse he got into your life by being here, but he had already declared this place his favorite in his mind.

“Are you ready?” Bucky turned to you and watched as you padded your hands on your jeans, leaving faint flour prints on the dark denim.

“Ready for what?” He smiled again, he seemed to be unable to stop around you. But he was just so happy to be here, to be close to you, and to finally spend more time with you.

You chuckled and set two cups of tea on the table. “For your sketches. That’s the whole reason you came here for, remember?”

You settled on the ground and padded the sofa for Bucky. But he could just stand there and stare at you while trying to ignore the lump that began to build in his throat. He clenched the bag with his art supplies in his hand and watched as the soft material wrinkled in his grasp.

Of, course. He took a breath. How could he have been so naive? Then stepped towards the sofa. The whole thing had been a mistake. And finally sat down with a heavy smile.

The sadness was filling him so fast, it threatened to spill right out of him, but Bucky wouldn’t let this little big dent in the road be shown in front of you. Instead, he focused on your hands when they pulled his sketch pad from his bag. And your eager smile when you flipped through his failed attempts on the paper.

The whole atmosphere was wearing a thin layer of sorrow all of a sudden, and Bucky felt his heartache when you leaned over to him to point out the parts you liked the most. Your perfume seemed just that much sweeter as if it were mocking him all of a sudden.

He didn’t listen. He just watched you with the same longing he’s had ever since he met you. Back to square one. Back to the distance he had with you before he foolishly thought you had asked him out. Except now he’d lost all the confidence left in him to take the next step.

Bucky let the evening wash over him. Trying to concentrate on your tips and examples, tasting the tea you had offered to him with the sweetest smile. And before he knew it, he was standing in front of your apartment building again - with a box of those pumpkin cookies in hand and a heart that felt heavier than the bricks he was staring at.

He sighed and began his walk back home.

❁ ❁ ❁

On Sunday he decided that he wouldn’t give up. Bucky didn't know what changed his mind. He just knew that he couldn’t stop thinking about you and him on that incredibly comfortable sofa of yours and the scent of your cedar and cinnamon candle which seemed to linger on his skin for days after his visit. He wanted to play the sketching games he had half-heartedly endured last time and he wanted to become a better artist.

Bucky had left your cookie box at home as an excuse to meet up with you again. And even though he was sweating ferociously when he approached you after class, you had agreed to meet with him again.

He’d left the gallery with a bright smile that evening. Excited for the next time he’d see you again and eager with daydreams on the subway home.

You and Bucky met up every week. Every time, spending a little longer not just drawing and it filled his heart with warmth and happiness. You shared laughter, and, in Bucky’s eyes, a growing connection with every passing meeting.

He learned about your dreams and aspirations and told you about his past, his interests, and his most treasured fantasies.

As weeks turned into months, Bucky found himself drawn to you in more ways than the warmth radiating from your smile he’d noticed the first day he met you, or your talent of calmly helping him in every way possible. He admired your passion for art, your kindness, and your enchanting presence. The fear and the shyness that had gripped him at first, slowly faded away - replaced by a sense of comfort when he was with you.

And soon he realized that there was nothing he didn’t love about you. This was how he got the courage to, on one calm evening spent on your sofa, between the colorful pillows he had been thinking about falling asleep on for weeks, place his hand in yours and intertwine your fingers with his.

“I got something for you,” he whispered between dialogues of the Halloween movie playing on TV, watching as your eyes aimed up at him with curiosity.

With reluctance, he peeled himself out of the warm blanket you shared and trudged to the sketchbook hidden in his bag. The initial idea had been dipped in silly confidence. But it was too late to back out now. He’d already told you about it.

So despite his nervous heartbeat, Bucky came back to the sofa and handed you the book.

“Open it,” he nudged when you carefully inspected the black leather binding, unaware of the confession hidden beneath.

And when you did, he felt he could read every expression on your face like a poem.

The book was filled with sketches of you. The first pages were scattered in hasty pencil drawings, misplaced lines, and unintentional dents. Then followed the section in which he had tried to pay attention to detail. The curve of your nose or the arch of your fingers when they pointed at his artwork. He could see them now, hovering over the sketches himself, and when you turned to the last page of the section, he could see the striking resemblance between them. And so did you. On the next turn, you revealed the latest portraits he’d added to the book - finally confident enough to attempt doing what he saw you as justice, to finally look past his mistakes - or happy little accidents as you called them - and just try it.

Bucky had discovered that your weekly sketch sessions had done him good. And that you had secretly given him back what he had mourned after for so long.

“I couldn’t keep my eyes off you from the moment we met.” He whispered still, too afraid to break the moment you’d just created. “Thought it was time for me to tell you.”

Your eyes were glassy when you tore them from the pages in your hand, a shaky laugh escaping your lips when Bucky beamed down at you. “You did all of this for me-”

“Because of you,” he corrected and wiped a lonely tear from your cheek. “I never thought I could get the joy of drawing back until you showed me how.”

Bucky leaned in closer until your noses touched. “How to be less critical of myself.” He closed his eyes and let his hand linger on your skin. “And how to welcome a mistake by making it an accident-”

And before he could finish that sentence, he felt your lips press to his and your warm hands wrap around his neck to pull him into your body. Bucky shivered in excitement, letting his hands trail down your back and falling into the soft cushions of your sofa while he pressed you to his chest protectively.

He sighed into the kiss, feeling his heart burn with excitement.

Fascinating, how fast a mistake can turn into a happy little accident.

I love you Bob Ross <3

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