#agghhhh i'm so fucking nervous

[im-just-a-random-fandom-girl]

Snippet:

Pairings: Bucky/Original Female Character; Bucky/Steve

A/N: Ok, I’m finally posting a snippet of the fic I’m writing. I’m really happy with how this snippet turned out, and considering my writing track record (i.e. losing motivation and never finishing) I figured sharing it might be a good way to generate the excitement I need to follow through. I am extremely grateful to @its-tortle for double checking my writing, and whose supportive comments and lovely feedback really bolstered my confidence to post this. 

29 September, 1940

Steve lounges lazily on the couch in the amber glow of the side table lamp with his head against the arm rest and his legs propped up. The apartment is quiet except for the soft scratch of pencil against paper as he carefully sketches Bucky’s lips, trying to get the corners curved up just so. 

Bucky’s mouth is a nightmare to draw, but Steve’s dreams are consumed by it. How his lips purse slowly around his cigarette when he takes a long drag. How the right side twitches up when he smirks. Imagining the feeling of his lips pressing softly against Steve’s own, and the beginning of his smile as they pull away from each other.  

A sudden fumbling with the lock on the door rattles Steve out of his fantasy. He sighs and glances at the clock; it’s just after 9pm. Steve’s brow furrows and he slides his feet off the couch, sitting up. It was too early for Bucky to be back. He’d taken his girl Louise out for dinner and dancing at 7, and Steve knew, from when Bucky would drag him along for yet another unbearable double date, that the two of them could dance for hours before finally wandering back to Louise’s apartment, out of breath and grinning from ear to ear. 

But when the door swings open, Bucky shuffles into their tiny apartment. Although Steve would never admit it out loud, his heart skips a beat. He knows this routine. Sure, Louise had lasted longer than the rest, and Steve was surprised Bucky had even drawn it out, but this happened like clockwork. 

Every couple months, Bucky would stumble home early from one of his dates, and Steve would know just from the sight of him that his latest gal had decided to end their little fling. 

To anyone else, Bucky looks almost exactly the same as he normally does coming home from any date, but Steve notices each minute difference.

His normally slicked-back hair would be tousled from running his calloused fingers through it while he sat alone at the bar. Instead of swollen, pink lips, his cheeks would be flushed from having too many drinks. An eventful date would leave him with rumpled clothes, pants hanging low on his hips thanks to a slightly-too-loose belt. On these nights, he appears nearly just as crisp as when he’d left, only the top few buttons of his shirt undone.

More than anything, Bucky would be somber, his usually bright spirit and charming confidence replaced with dismal uncertainty. Steve would usually hear a soft shuffling outside the door, and when Bucky had finally mustered up the confidence to come inside, he did so with his shoulders slack and head tilted down. As if Steve would be ashamed of him.

God, he couldn’t be further from the truth. Steve knows he should want Bucky to find a steady girl to make him happy, but he can’t help but look forward to these nights. 

The first few times Bucky was dumped, Steve hadn’t known what to do. He’d pushed down the aching desire to rub Bucky’s back until he fell asleep and press soft kisses to his broad shoulders, opting to simply guide Bucky to his bed with a glass of water for the morning. The fourth time, as Steve stood up to go back to the kitchen, Bucky’s calloused hand grabbed his wrist.

“Stay,” he’d slurred, “please.” Looking down into clouded blue eyes, Steve was helpless to resist. Stripping off his clothes, he crawled in behind Bucky and pulled him flush against his chest. In an instant, he felt Bucky’s muscles release their tension as they both fell into a deep sleep.

Since that night, it had become a ritual. Each time Bucky stumbled inside, Steve would crack a joke, or show Bucky his latest sketch, desperate to be the reason his deep blue eyes twinkled again, before eventually taking him by the hand and leading them both to bed. Curled up behind Bucky, Steve would allow himself to imagine that Bucky returned the feelings he always felt bubbling beneath his skin, and that they fell asleep like this every night, wrapped up together, legs tangled and hearts beating softly for each other. 

Bucky is always a sight, but seeing him like this -- loose and soft and vulnerable -- never fails to make Steve’s heart pang.

From his place on the couch, Steve longs to stare, to go up and press himself against Bucky’s chest, run his fingers through his dark locks and tug him down, crashing their lips together. Instead, he only allows himself the slightest glance and follows the routine.

“Finally decided to dump your ugly mug, did she? I’m impressed, Buck. It took her 5 months to figure out what a pain--”

“Lou is pregnant.”

Steve snaps his head up, jaw slack.

The apartment is suddenly too loud. He can hear his blood pulsing in his ears, and his head is full of static, only Bucky’s echoing words cutting through.