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Your gown's a most rare fashion." -Much Ado About Nothing"
Bucky Barnes was proud to think of himself as more or less a gentleman. He might go out with a lot of girls, but he brought them home with no more than a kiss.
It wasn't that he had no interest in anything else, but he had to know them first, and somehow he never ended up getting to know them that well.
He'd never been anywhere close to being in a position to get a girl in trouble, whether danger to her heart or anything more pragmatic. He’d never connected with anyone to the point where it seemed worth it to get physically close. Sometimes he worried there was something wrong with him, that he never wanted to tomcat it up like the fellas he worked with, but he was how he was, he guessed. He liked showing girls a good time—he liked dancing, he liked music, he liked talking to girls—but he liked bringing them to their doors and going home to his best friend Steve more.
Steve never seem to have any fun when Bucky talked him into coming out with him; not that Bucky had stopped trying, but he didn't much like it when Steve was a big wet blanket because it meant his friend wasn't enjoying himself. Bucky didn't get it, but he didn't have to get it to see that Steve was happier when it was just the two of them.
All of which was to say that although he liked a good time, he'd never want to endanger a girl's reputation, and that was why he was so nervous about today, even though the situation was strictly professional. In his two years as a photographer, Bucky had never had a job quite like this one; it wasn't blue, but it was the next closest thing: shooting ads for a lingerie company.
It was something of a test run—most companies hired artists to draw their wares, but this one wanted to try photography. They had a certain look in mind, and Bucky had asked the modeling agency to send him a delicate blonde. He'd used this agency before for some of his more artistic photos, but he'd never done a shoot like this, and he was nervous about making the girl uncomfortable. If he was lucky, maybe they'd send him one of the gals who'd modeled at the art school—he'd taken a few life drawing classes, and those ladies were not shy.
He'd set up a changing screen in a corner of his studio; he ran a practiced eye over the garment rack there. He had multiple samples from the company: brassiere and lingerie sets, garters, a few dressing gowns, and a flowing peignoir that would photograph dramatically. He had a few different backdrops set up, lights and reflectors, and the big south-facing window that gave excellent natural light. That had been the selling point for this studio, a studio so new that Steve hadn't even been here yet. He had everything he needed. All he lacked was his model.
No one had been more surprised than him when his photography hobby had turned into paying work, but what had started as a side job had quickly picked up steam until it was his main source of income, and he could pay more of the rent on his and Steve's apartment.
Steve's health was uncertain enough that he took an assortment of odd jobs as he was able. Steve cared a lot more than Bucky ever had about who was paying how much of the rent; he just worried when Steve wasn't well, and was happy that his newest line of work could support them both.
Bucky fussed with a backdrop one more time, tilting and re-angling reflectors that were already perfectly set up. He could admit to himself that he was nervous. This wasn't his usual type of shoot.
A knock on the door startled him, even though a glance at the clock told him his model was precisely punctual. He smoothed the backdrop out one more time, then went to answer the door.
When it opened, he didn't know who was more surprised, him or—
"Steve?"
Steve froze, his hand arrested mid-knock. "Bucky?"
Bucky ran his fingers through the short hairs at the back of his neck, unaccountably thrown by Steve finding him here at the new studio right before the shoot that had him so apprehensive. It was going to be at least a little racy, and he didn't want Steve to think that all his shoots were like that.
"What are you doing here?" Bucky asked. "I'm happy to show you the studio, only I'm actually about to shoot. The model should be here any minute now."
Steve's face was wearing an expression Bucky couldn't read and he didn't much like that. "Yeah," Steve said slowly. "About that."
He held out a sheet of paper with the modeling agency's logo on top, the time Bucky had specified, and his studio's address written out under the name JAMES in block letters. Ordinarily, the agency attached Bucky's card, but he hadn't had a chance to get any made yet with his new address.
"There's been some kind of mistake. You’re not right for this shoot," Bucky said before he could think. As soon as the words were out, he wanted to eat them. The surest way to get Steve Rogers to dig his heels in was to tell him he couldn't do something, and even worse was to suggest that it was because of his physical limitations. “You can’t—”
"Oh, can't I?" Steve said. "What kind of ad are you trying to make, exactly? Are you selling shirts? Athletic equipment? Someone at the agency thought I'd be right for what you requested. Are you going to tell me I can't do it?"
Bucky could see that Steve was working himself up to a good head of steam now, and he didn't know what he could possibly say to make him unwind. Instead, he took Steve's arm, pulled him into the studio, and shut the door behind them. He walked across the sunlit room to the changing screen, and pulled it to the side so that Steve could see the garment rack draped with gauzy silk, satin, and lace.
"I'd never say you can't do it," Bucky said, trying to lighten the mood, "but I don't think it's exactly what the company has in mind."
If Steve had just smiled right there like Bucky wanted him to, everything would have been fine. They'd have laughed it off, Steve would have gone back to the modeling agency for a kill fee, and they'd have joked about it over dinner that night. But instead, Steve squared his jaw, an expression Bucky knew only too well—Steve when he was was about to double down instead of backing off.
"Maybe it's not what the company had in mind, but I'm who the agency sent. Get your camera set up, Buck."
Bucky's jaw dropped open, he could feel it. He shut it with a snap. What the fuck was Steve up to? He couldn't possibly mean to put on the lingerie, could he? And he certainly couldn't think that Bucky could sell photographs like that. A man in women’s lingerie was—well, it was unthinkable to the company, Bucky was sure. It should be unthinkable to him. It should be unthinkable to Steve, even caught in the midst of a challenge.
And yet, Steve had disappeared behind the changing screen. Bucky could hear the sound of cloth sliding over cloth, Steve’s faint movements. Seemed like they were thinking it, all right. Unless Steve was joking, but that didn’t seem likely.
Bucky walked over to his camera as if in a dream, although it was already perfectly set up and ready to go. He adjusted the reflectors again anyway, his hands busy while his mind was curiously blank.
He was surprised to feel that his hands were shaking.
When he heard a footstep behind him, he almost couldn't bear to turn around. What if Steve had dressed like the model? What if he hadn't? Bucky wasn't sure what he would do in either of those situations. But then Steve cleared his throat, and Bucky had to look. He turned around.
Steve was standing there, jaw squared as though he were ready to fight, wearing a pink silk slip with thin straps, the hems edged in lace, the bodice drawn together over Steve's narrow rib cage with a thin satin ribbon. The silk cupped his chest, flowed over the jut of his hip bones. The satin straps followed the arch of his clavicles, the compact muscles of his shoulders. He looked—he looked—
Bucky wasn't completely ignorant. They lived in a cheap neighborhood, and one of the reasons it was so cheap was that it was full of queer and artsy types. He knew about men that dressed in women's clothes, he knew which bar to go to see them perform, singing along to piano accompaniment. The thought of it as something he’d want to see had never crossed his mind; that was for other people, but not for him. But he found now, looking at his best friend in a filmy negligee, that he suddenly understood the appeal.
Steve didn't look like a woman; he looked like a man draped in a woman's underthings, and the juxtaposition, the in-betweenness of it, was doing something to Bucky's brain.
"Steve," he said, and then was helpless to finish the sentence. But he had to say something. Steve was looking at him, mouth tight and defiant, but in his eyes was an uncertainty that Bucky didn't like, like maybe he had jumped headfirst into this and only then realized that he hadn't thought it through. But Steve was never one to bend, so Bucky needed to do it for him, make it clear that he wasn't upset or disgusted or whatever Steve was thinking right now.
He cleared his throat. "You just need some makeup before we get you under the lights."
"Where is it?" Steve stood up. His crooked spine was never going to be straight, but he pulled it taller anyway. Bucky's stomach swooped a little. He'd seen Steve every day of his life, but this was different.
"By the sink," he managed to say. He had a mismatched collection of makeup that would have to do at the moment.
Steve shot him a look and drifted off to the sink by the window. Bucky was utterly powerless not to follow him.
"If you need me to help," Bucky found himself saying, "I'd be happy to."
Steve turned his head, just enough to look over his shoulder. "If I need your help, I'll let you know."
Bucky's breath caught as Steve picked up the powder puff, then lowered it, apparently unsure of what to do next.
Bucky cleared his throat. "I've got some rouge," he said hoarsely. "You've got to blend it."
Steve's eyes flicked toward him and Bucky found himself drawn closer without any conscious intent. He picked up the rouge and brush and started applying it to Steve's cheekbones. It shouldn't have been possible, but Steve's eyes seemed even bluer. Bucky wanted to do his makeup, wanted to tuck him underneath his arm—he was all too aware that Steve would probably sock him one if he tried anything like either of those impulses.
Steve's eyes were trained on him, watching closely. Bucky wished he knew what to say to dissipate the strange charge in the air.
Steve took the brush and trailed pink over his cheeks, then took the powder puff and layered powder over the rouge. He picked up the pot of kohl, looked at it for a moment, then swiped a shadow onto his eyelids. Bucky's heart was racing as though he'd run a mile, and he couldn't take his eyes off Steve.
Steve, on the other hand, was only looking in the mirror. He took a lipstick off the counter, opened his mouth, and traced a perfect O of red onto his lips. Only then did he twist to look at Bucky over his shoulder.
"How do I look?"
Bucky could barely breathe. He only just stopped himself from saying perfect. He didn't understand anything he was feeling right now, he only knew that he wanted to get Steve on camera.
"Like you're gonna look good on film," he managed to get out. He pointed toward the settee arranged under the window, the lights and reflectors pointed toward it.
Steve shot him an unreadable look and walked in that direction, pausing only when he drew even with the edge of the seat.
"How do you want me?" he asked, and panic bubbled up into Bucky's throat, sharp and sour.
But Steve only meant how did he want him to pose, of course. Any other meaning was just Bucky's subconscious telling him—telling him—
Calm down, Barnes, he told himself.
"Facing forward, at first," he said out loud.
Steve sat down on the settee and looked at Bucky expectantly. Bucky breathed in, the familiar smells of wood polish and chemicals from his darkroom calming him so he could turn to take Steve in. The light pouring through the window limned Steve in gold, turned the dust motes floating in the sunbeam into rare and precious jewels.
"Turn your legs to the side," Bucky said. "Away from the window. Now look over your other shoulder." Steve did, and it looked good but not quite right. Bucky told himself to treat Steve like any other model, and touched him lightly on the elbow to arrange his arm the way he wanted it. Steve inhaled sharply as the pads of Bucky's fingertips brushed his skin. Bucky touched his shoulder, his bicep, the strong line of his chin, moving him into position.
When he was finished, Steve's knees were pointed into the shadows, and his torso was turned toward the window. One hand rested on his knee while the other draped languidly along the back of the settee. His face was turned toward the light. The golden sunlight poured over him like honey, deepening the shadows beneath his jaw, along his shoulder, in the notch where his neck met his collar bones. The silk glowed around him, highlighting every curve and every angle that it covered. The strap had slid off of Steve's shoulder, but Bucky couldn't bring himself to fix it. There was a vulnerability about seeing it fallen, about the exposed line of Steve's shoulder, the arc where the bone pressed against the skin.
Steve called himself skinny, but all Bucky could see was the gracefulness of his lines, the efficiency of the muscles sliding beneath his skin as he moved. Steve was elegant and sparse, and for all that Bucky never had any complaints, he felt clumsy next to Steve, fumbling and too-big.
Bucky licked his lips. "That's good, Steve," he said, aware that his voice was hoarse. Bucky went to his camera, and pointed it at him. Looking through the aperture, Steve was even more perfect a picture, a study in light and shadow, an anatomy more beautiful than any Bucky had ever seen. Steve had often spoken of his fingers itching to draw, and Bucky thought he'd never really understood it until now, because he wanted to take a thousand pictures of Steve, didn't think he would ever run out of new angles from which to look at him. He'd always thought that the idea of a muse was so much bullshit, but he was coming around to the idea.
The shutter clicking quietly and their quiet breaths were the only sounds in the studio. Bucky took a few shots, then asked Steve to move.
"Lean back," Bucky said. His voice was still rough, but at least it wasn't trembling. He was surprised; all of him was shaken, but his hands were still steady on the camera.
Steve did as he asked, reclining against the back of the settee. His face was in shadow at that angle, still discernible but mysterious, powerful, and almost unrecognizable, the kohl around his eyes smudging into deeper black. The sunlight still illuminated his chest, and maybe the silk stretched over the flat planes of his muscles should have looked silly, but instead it emphasized their gentle curve, the slight swell of his nipples against the fabric. The silk pooled around his narrow waist.
"Stay right there," Bucky said, and pressed the camera button. His heart was beating too fast and too hard, crashing against the inside of his ribcage, and his breath was ragged. He sunk his teeth into his bottom lip, trying to stop the feeling swelling his chest and tightening his throat.
"Lean forward," Bucky said. "Put your hands between your knees on the edge of the chair." Steve leaned forward, his oversized hands wrapping around the edge of the chair, the bony knuckles white with the force of his grip. He looked up at Bucky, and his hair flopped forward onto his forehead. His lower lip caught between his teeth.
"Just like that," Bucky said, his voice full of an urgency even he could hear. "Exactly. That's perfect."
The shadow of Steve's body made a valley between his pectoral muscles, a tempting line of darkness that still, even like this, in no way made him look like a woman. No, with his square jaw, the familiar furrow between his eyebrows, and his lip full and lush where his teeth sank into it, he was all Steve, someone neither masculine nor feminine but with elements of both. Bucky wished that his camera could capture the color as well as the shape of him. As it was, the perfect white of his teeth against his red, red lips would be ephemeral, preserved only in Bucky's memory. And he would remember this for a long time.
"All right," Bucky said. "I need you to change clothes."
Steve had gotten more confident as the shoot went on, moving where Bucky put him, looking where Bucky directed him, but at this, his eyes snapped back to Bucky's face and he suddenly looked uncertain.
"I'm not sure all of those things are going to fit me," he said. Bucky thought he knew what the problem was; Steve had too little up top and too much below for most of the lingerie sets. Bucky swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat. He knew exactly what he wanted Steve to wear. He knew precisely what image he wanted to preserve forever.
"Just one, Steve. Would you put on the black one?"
"The black one," Steve repeated, his eyes not leaving Bucky's. "All right, Buck."
He went behind the changing screen and Bucky closed his eyes, pulse hammering in his throat. He could hear the sounds of the silk slithering off Steve's body and he had to swallow hard against the simmering warmth that suddenly flooded him, the champagne burst of desire in his gut. He had felt it often enough to know what it was, and he might try to rationalize it away later, but he couldn't lie to himself right now. He liked what he saw of Steve, all right; it wasn't the same, exactly, but Steve was as beautiful to him as any girl he'd ever wanted.
Not that he'd say that out loud; he liked his face unpunched, thank you.
He opened his eyes and went to change the backdrop behind the settee. He'd had the plain wall and wainscoting behind Steve for the first shoot, but he wanted something different for this. He pulled down white gauze draperies that were tied up with several other lengths of cloth. These were billowy and transparent and would be a sharp contrast to Steve wrapped in black lace.
He had just arranged them to his liking when he heard Steve come out from behind the changing screen. If his pulse had been rapid before, it was a jackhammer now. He inhaled slowly to calm himself, then turned around.
"Steve," he breathed, and if it sounded like a prayer, maybe it was.
Steve was standing in front of the changing screen, his hands folded a little defensively in front of him. He looked— he looked—
Bucky would no more tell Steve that he looked like an angel than he would tell him that he was beautiful, because either one would get him socked in the jaw, but angel was the first word that occurred to Bucky, although he was not a particularly religious man.
Steve's skin looked even paler against the stark black of the lace peignoir. His hair was burnished gold even in the shadows, and Bucky knew how bright it would shine in the light from the window. His eyes looked bluer ringed with black, his lashes impossibly long. The lace wrapped his torso, then billowed away over his legs, and it was sheer enough that Bucky could see the suggestion of whatever underthings Steve had put on beneath it. His mouth went dry; they definitely weren’t his shorts, but something from the garment rack; black with a satiny sheen to it.
"Well?" There was just the faintest hint of a tremor in Steve's voice. "What do you think?"
"I think you look incredible," Bucky said, and he hoped that Steve could hear the raw honesty in his voice, while at the same time hoping that he couldn't tell how affected Bucky was by the sight of him.
The very faintest hint of a smile curved Steve's lips. "Where do you want me to go?"
Bucky nodded wordlessly at the settee with its billowing white gauze curtains. "Just make yourself comfortable right there."
Steve proceeded to do just that; he sat down on the settee, leaned back, and spread his arms out on either side. His back was straight, and his eyes intent as he stared at Bucky. Bucky didn't even try to move him, just took his picture. After he'd gotten a few in that pose, he asked Steve to stand up.
"Go stand by the curtain, will you?"
Steve stood by the window looking out, and the way the light hit the planes of his face struck Bucky with the same sharp pain he imagined an arrow to the heart might give him.
"Hold on," Bucky murmured, and came up behind Steve to put him into position. He put his hand on Steve's chin and tilted it a little bit closer toward the window, until Steve was looking over his shoulder. Steve watched him out of the corner of his eye, and this close, Bucky could see the flutter of his pulse in his throat, each movement of his heartbeat against his skin.
Bucky put his hands on Steve shoulders to adjust the angle of his stance. The lace was skin-warm against his fingertips. He couldn't help but look down and was transfixed by a single freckle on Steve's neck, just above the lace collar.
He made himself let go of Steve's shoulders and step back. The camera in his hands felt much steadier than he himself did. He set up the shot and looked through the lense.
It was almost too much for Bucky to bear. The light emphasized the angular beauty of Steve's face, the fullness of his lower lip; it turned his hair bright and shining gold, just as Bucky had known it would. Though his back was in shadow, Bucky could see the lines of his vertebrae through the sheer lace of the negligee, the elegant wings of his shoulder blades. The glow of the sunlight on Steve's face and the dark black of the lace against his skin were such a contrast. Bucky already knew how striking the photograph would be.
Bucky took a picture, and then another, and then he just let himself stare. He was helpless against the tide of longing crashing inside of him.
After a few moments Steve must have noticed that there was no click of the shutter. He turned around.
"Bucky?"
All of Bucky's words dried up in his throat. Steve was haloed by the light, the lace of the negligee sliding back to frame an arrow of skin from his throat to where the sash held the fabric together. Bucky wanted to press his mouth to Steve's flat sternum and follow that arrow down to where he could see the shadow of Steve's navel through the sheer lace. He wanted to slide his fingers underneath the fabric, rest his thumbs against Steve's hip bones, feel Steve's fingers wrap around his biceps.
And he couldn't open his mouth, because if he did all of those wants would come tumbling out, and Steve—
He didn't know what Steve would do. He would never in a million years have guessed that Steve would be here, dressed like this, bathed in light, letting Bucky see him like this.
Steve stepped forward. "Bucky?" he said again. "What is it?"
Bucky set the camera down. His hands were shaking. "I just—" He had to stop and lick his dry lips before he could go on. Steve just waited, his blue eyes intent on Bucky's face, lace draped over him. Steve didn't look uncertain any longer, so maybe it was only Bucky who felt like his world was coming to pieces around him.
But Steve was Bucky's best friend, and he'd never hid a thing from him in his life. He wasn't sure he knew how.
"I can't stop looking at you," Bucky said. "I think I could take a thousand pictures of you and not get tired of looking at you."
Steve ran a hand down one side of the negligee. "Is it because of this?"
"No," Bucky replied. "That's just what made me notice."
"Notice what?"
Bucky made himself not look away. His pulse was rabbiting in his veins. "How much I want to touch you."
Steve's pupils went wide, and he stepped close again. He was no longer in the sunlight, but the beam through the window still glowed like benediction and Bucky was completely incapable of thinking that this could be a sin.
There was only an arm's length between them, and it was the most intimate of spaces and a distance as vast as the ocean at the same time.
"How do you want to touch me?" Steve's voice always seemed so much deeper than should be possible for his slight frame.
Bucky reached out and set his hand on Steve's hip like he'd been wanting to for at least all day and possibly much longer. "However you want me to."
Steve put his hand, so familiar and yet so strange emerging from all that lace, over Bucky's. His touch felt like a brand, hot against Bucky’s skin, and Bucky found himself wishing that Steve's fingerprints could burn into his skin, marking him forever.
"That's not what I'm asking," Steve whispered. "What do you want?"
Bucky had that same champagne burst of sensation in his gut. "I want to kiss you."
Steve's eyes went wide, like maybe it wasn't what he had thought Bucky would say, or maybe it was just that he hadn't thought he would actually say it. Steve put his other hand on Bucky's side, and Bucky felt the heat of his touch even through the cotton of his shirt. Steve pressed into him, just a little, just enough to pull Bucky closer; Bucky came willingly.
Bucky laid his hand over the familiar angle of Steve's jaw. Stubble invisible to the eye as anything more than a faint glint of gold was scratchy beneath his fingertips. He closed the tiny distance between them. He had to bend his head down, but Steve met him halfway, tilting his head up. This close, Bucky could see Steve's freckles beneath the rouge on his cheeks, see the fine gold of his eyelashes against the black of the kohl around them. His lashes were so long, and his eyes so blue and so wide.
Bucky liked to kiss. He'd kissed a lot of girls, and it had been exciting every time, but it had never been like this, like every particle of his being was focused on the place where he was touching Steve. Maybe it was because he had never felt anything like the depth of emotion that he felt for Steve.
Steve's lips were soft and full, and Bucky felt an electric shock when their lips met. His mouth tasted faintly of the peppermints that he liked and strongly of lipstick. At first it was just the press of lips against lips, and Bucky thought that might be enough for him, that if those were all the points their bodies ever touched, he could be happy with it. But then Steve opened his mouth against Bucky's, and Bucky knew that he would never be satiated.
He stroked his thumb gently over Steve's cheekbone, then slid his hand down along his neck to his shoulder, feeling the contrast between Steve smooth skin, and the roughness of the lace. He leaned into the kiss. Steve's body was a line of warmth against his. Steve's tongue darted out to lick along his lower lip, and Bucky groaned at the feel of it, hot and wet, an invitation to more.
"Can I—?" Bucky gasped against Steve's mouth.
Steve picked up their clasped hands from his own hip and lay them flat against his sternum. His skin was soft, smooth beneath Bucky's fingers, the bronze hair sparse on his chest a different texture, still soft. Bucky slid his hand to the side, beneath the lace, over the slight swell of Steve's pectoral muscle. His thumb caught over Steve's nipple, and Steve tilted his head back. The line of his throat was long, framed in black lace, the muscles that traced a line between the corner of his jaw and the notch of his clavicle, stark and beautiful. Bucky wanted to put his mouth on them, so he did, sucking gently at the sensitive skin of Steve's neck. He rubbed his hand over Steve's nipple again, and again he made that breathy noise that left Bucky electrified, his every nerve a live wire. He wanted to touch every inch of Steve’s skin with his mouth, hear him make every noise that Bucky could draw out of him, speak to him with his body the same way, he now realized, they had always been speaking with their souls.
Steve made a mournful little noise as Bucky moved his hand away from his nipple, but it was only so that he could get both of his hands on his ribs, slide the lace negligee further apart with both hands, run his fingers back up over the elegant arch of Steve's rib cage. Bucky pinched gently at Steve's nipples, rolling them beneath his thumbs, dropping kisses on the flat of his chest. Bucky thought he had never experienced anything like this, nothing so sweet as Steve whispering his name, as Steve's body arching against his beneath his hands and mouth.
He moved up again to kiss Steve, to taste him, to lick into his mouth. He sucked gently on his lower lip, the taste of lipstick mingled with the taste of peppermint, and of Steve. It had never really occurred to Bucky to think of how his body might interact with another man's, of what they might do with each other, but now he could think of nothing else. His body was alight with desire, and more than anything in the world, he wanted Steve to feel the same way. He wanted to be the one to make Steve feel the same way. And given the state of things, it seemed pretty stupid to keep it to himself.
"Steve," he breathed, and Steve pulled back just enough to look at him through eyes gone dark with need. "I want you."
Steve blinked. He drew back, and looked down at Bucky's hands on his chest, at the faint red mark that Bucky had sucked into his skin.
"Oh," he said, and Bucky felt suddenly cold, like a cloud had cut off the sunlight, even though it was still streaming through the window behind Steve.
"Is that all right?" Bucky asked uncertainly.
"Yeah, Buck," Steve said, but his expression was less desire and more hesitant. Bucky didn't like seeing it, not directed at him.
"What's wrong?" Bucky asked, because you didn't have to know Steve as well as he did to see that something about this was bothering him, when only moments before he had seemed as eager as Bucky felt.
"I tell you what," Steve said. "Why don't you finish up here, and come home. If you still want to, we will. And if you've changed your mind, no hard feelings."
"Not going to change my mind, Steve," Bucky said.
"Maybe not," Steve said. He pulled the peignoir tighter around him and tied the sash again where it had come loose. His fingers lingered over the lace, long and elegant, and sadly no longer touching Bucky. "But if you think about it, and it turns out that it was just this, and not me after all, then that's okay too."
Bucky felt like he'd been slapped. He'd already told Steve that it wasn't just seeing him in this context, but Steve didn't believe him.
"If that's what you want," he said, but even now his voice sounded more plaintive than angry, and still rough with longing.
"What I want," Steve told him, "is for you to never think of anything you did with me with regret."
It hit Bucky then that for all this talk of his wants and his possible regrets, Steve had not yet said what it was that he wanted.
"What about your regrets?" Bucky asked quietly.
Steve leaned forward and pressed a soft, closed-mouth kiss to Bucky's lips. "We can talk about that when you get home, too."
~o~
Once Steve had changed clothes and cleaned his face and left—which they had done without much more conversation than trivialities—Bucky took his camera into the darkroom. There were other jobs he could be working on, but none that were pressing, and he didn't think he'd be able to concentrate on anything else today.
He was proud of his darkroom; it was a converted wash room with no windows, and he had carefully caulked off any leaks in the room that might have let light in. There was a big tin sink to one side and he had his trays and chemicals on a shelf to the other. A big wooden table with an enlarging projector butted up against one wall. Above it all he had a red light that would not damage the developing film.
Bucky mixed chemicals and set up his developing trays. He carefully removed the film from the camera and ran it through its chemical baths. While he waited for it to dry, he pulled out his photosensitive paper, a strange yellow color in the red light rather than the pure white he knew it to be.
Once the film was dry, he slotted it into the enlarger and began the real work of developing the prints. The projected image was all in negative, Steve a shadow dressed in white lace. He adjusted the image until it was the correct size and as sharp as it could be, then turned it off, slid the paper into place, and turned it on again. Once the time was up, he again turned the enlarger off, and slid the paper into the first chemical bath. He swirled the paper gently in the developer with a pair of tongs, watching with eager eyes for the first ghost of the image to show up.
Steve's face appeared in increments, first the shape of his jaw and chin, his pale hair, the deep black of the lace, his red lips deep gray in black-and-white. Then Steve's features appeared, slowly darkening, until his eyes were staring challengingly through the liquid into Bucky's. Bucky took a shuddering breath, then transferred the paper to the stop and then the rinse that would fix the image.
He repeated the process with every shot, even the shots that were so similar as to be near-identical. In the end there were a myriad of Steves looking at him from the clothesline on which they were drying; uncertain Steve, fierce Steve, coy Steve looking over his shoulder. Each iteration of his face was beautiful and infinitely precious to Bucky. The clothes were tantalizing, yes, and Bucky felt he had learned something new about himself, but at the heart of it, what was important to him was that it was Steve.
He turned on the lights now that there was no longer any danger of overexposing the film or paper, disposed of his chemicals, and cleaned up the darkroom while the photographs dried.
He knew that Steve would be waiting for him when he was done, and he wasn't mad that Steve had asked him if he meant it, not anymore. Because as he'd watched Steve's face bloom into the pictures over and over again, he knew. It wasn't what Steve had worn, but him being open the way he had; vulnerable. He had the memory of Steve's lips against his, the press of their bodies together, and unless Steve didn't want it, Bucky wanted so much more.
He cleaned up the studio, pulled back the white backdrop curtains, and picked up the phone to ask the operator to connect him to the modeling agency to schedule another model for the lingerie ad. The secretary on the other end of the line apologized for the mix-up; Bucky had to stop himself from thanking her.
He unclipped the photographs from the clothesline and stacked them, straightening the corners, and then sliding the stack into a manila envelope. After a moment’s thought, he put the film in a separate envelope. He knew he needed to destroy it so that no one else could ever make prints of it, but...not yet.
He put on his coat, picked up both envelopes, and left, locking the studio behind him.
It was a little early, but he was ready to go home.
~o~
Bucky's pulse was thumping a little fast as he unlocked the door to their apartment.
"Steve?" he called out.
"In here," Steve called back.
Buck hung up his coat and hat, and walked back through the kitchen and living room into the bedroom. They were in the ongoing process of repainting the trim, and Steve was perched on the dresser, paint can in one hand, brush in the other. He was wearing one of Bucky's old shirts as a smock, and it hung loose around his slender frame. Bucky swallowed around a sudden tightness in his throat; Steve had worn his clothes before, but he'd never been so aware of Steve's body, and it gave him a possessive thrill to think of his shirt against Steve's skin. He wanted to unbutton every button, slowly, unwrap Steve like a present. Slow down, he told himself. You don't even know that he wants that.
"I didn't expect you home so early." Steve wiped his brush on a rag and sealed the paint can.
"Couldn't concentrate on work," Bucky said. "For some reason."
Steve gave him a crooked smile at that, and set down the brush and the can. He moved to jump off the dresser, and Bucky offered his hands. Steve gave him a flat look, but then that smile came back, and he took Bucky's hands, set them on his hips, and let him swing him down.
Well. That seemed promising.
"I printed the photos," Bucky said. "Do you want to see?"
Steve went very still, but then he smiled at Bucky, and this one wasn't crooked at all. This one was wide and happy. "Yeah," he said. "Show 'em to me."
They ended up at the kitchen table, with the photographs fanned out between them. Steve kept tapping them gently with his fingertips like he was making sure they were real.
"I know you can't use 'em," Steve said. "But you've got a good eye."
It was nothing he hadn't said to Bucky before, but every time Steve said he was good at what he did, it made Bucky want to puff his chest out. He guessed now he had a better idea of why. "These can be just for me and you," Bucky said. "Steve—"
Steve looked up. There was still a faint black smudge of kohl on his left eyelid, nothing that couldn't be dirt or soot from outside—only Bucky knew it wasn't. He wanted to kiss that smudge, a visible reminder of how they'd touched earlier. "I'm guessing you thought about it," Steve said.
"Couldn't think about anything else." Bucky looked down at the photos, then back up at Steve, real and in the flesh, sitting next to him. "It's not just the clothes. It's you. I think maybe it's always been you and I was just blind to it. I already knew I loved you one way, I didn't even think to wonder if I could love you another." His heart was pounding, because they didn't say things like this; but if Steve could make himself vulnerable, then so could Bucky. It was what he had to give. "I liked how you looked dressed up like that. But the clothes weren't what was important. They just made me see it."
Steve was breathing a little fast, his eyes wide. "You gotta know I love you too, Buck. I never thought I could have you like this."
Bucky leaned across the table so he could take Steve's hand, rub a thumb over the ridge of his knuckles. "You can have me however you want me. There's nothing about you I could ever regret."
Steve picked up their entwined hands and kissed the back of Bucky's hand, and the sweetness of it took Bucky's breath away. Then he set Bucky's hand down on the table; before Bucky could be disappointed at being let go, Steve's hands were at his own collar, unbuttoning his shirt.
"You could let me do that," Bucky began, but as Steve got the second button undone, something shone at his neckline, and the words dried up in Bucky's mouth.
A gleaming string of pearls peeked out beneath the faded blue cotton.
"What—?" Bucky managed, and Steve looked at him through half-lowered lids, his eyelashes a frame for his blue eyes. His long fingers worked another button loose to reveal royal blue silk with a dipping neckline.
"I liked it too," Steve said, simply. "I liked how soft it was. I liked feeling...different to how I usually feel. And..." He took a breath. "I liked the way you looked at me.
"Steve," Bucky whispered. "Please, can I touch you?" He wanted to smooth that silk over Steve's skin.
"Yeah, Buck." Steve bit his lip. Bucky tried not to focus on how red it was, how soft he knew it to be against his own, but that was a losing game. Steve pushed back from the table and stood, his shirt half-undone, and Bucky eased out of his own seat and was close enough to Steve to get his hands on him in an instant.
Bucky started by unbuttoning the rest of Steve's shirt. He pushed the cotton to the side, exposing more of the blue silk underneath. It was tucked into Steve's trousers, and Bucky felt something in his brain short out at the contrast between Steve's everyday clothes and the soft underthings, warm with the heat of Steve's body.
Bucky undid the last button and Steve's shirt hung open, exposing the blue silk beneath it. Narrow straps followed the curve of Steve shoulders, and the neckline was edged in lace. The string of pearls draped over the bony line of his clavicle. Bucky reached out and slowly slid the worn cotton of his shirt over Steve's narrow shoulders and down his arms.
Bucky pulled Steve's arms free from the frayed cuffs, rubbing his thumbs gently over the smears of white paint; Steve watched the movements of Bucky's hands intently. There was a pearl bracelet at his wrist to match the pearls around his neck. Bucky tugged at it gently, watching the beads move on Steve’s bony wrist, then he traced up Steve's arms, reversing the course he’d just taken, his fingers trailing lightly over the crook of Steve's elbow, the compact curve of his bicep. Steve shivered under his touch, and tilted his head back.
"Where did you get this?" Bucky asked, rubbing the silk of the strap between his finger and thumb.
"I picked it up on the way home," Steve said breathlessly. "Said it was a present for my gal."
"I'm glad you knew I was a sure thing," Bucky said.
"I didn't." Steve smoothed the blue silk over his stomach. "But I hoped."
"I am," Bucky said. "However you want me."
Steve looked him straight in the eye and undid the button on his own trousers. Bucky felt like all the air had just been sucked out of his lungs, like he couldn't look away from Steve's strong, sure hands on the button of his fly.
"I’m a sure thing, too," Steve said, and pushed his trousers down over his slim hips.
The skirt of the silk slip unfurled like a waterfall, sliding down over his legs, transforming him in an instant from the Steve that Bucky knew as well as he knew himself into something magical, unexpected—but still Steve.
Bucky would have been on fire for him whether he was wearing trousers or a skirt, but the silk looked so soft, and Bucky had to know how it felt beneath his fingers. He put his hands on Steve's hips, and ran them up his torso. He could feel every dip of Steve's rib cage, the bunch of Steve's muscles as he moved beneath Bucky's touch. He dropped a kiss on Steve's collarbone, right next to the gleaming pearls.
Steve's breath hitched, so Bucky did it again, stopping over his clavicle to suck gently and taste the salt of his skin. He put a hand on the rope of pearls and rolled them slowly over Steve's neck, letting himself feel the satin-hard pearls against the satin-soft of Steve's skin.
"Bucky," Steve breathed. Bucky lifted his head to kiss Steve, and this time he let his hands drop to Steve's sides and slide down. Steve arched his back, and Bucky kissed him again, then dropped his head to lick at Steve's nipple through the fabric. Steve's skin was hot beneath the warm silk, and he reached out to put his hands on Bucky's shoulder. Bucky's hands were full of Steve's waist, pulling him closer.
Bucky let his hands slide a little lower, and moaned into Steve's hair when he realized that Steve was wearing nothing at all beneath the slip.
"Steve, sweetheart, you're killing me," he whispered, gripping at the swell of Steve's ass, surprisingly full and muscular beneath the thin fabric.
Steve's fingers dug into the meat of his shoulders and Bucky looked up. "What are you going to do about it?" Steve said.
Bucky leaned down to kiss him and then slid his hands lower, under Steve's thighs, hitching him up onto his waist.
"Asshole," Steve muttered against his lips, but his arms were twined over Bucky's shoulders and it was said fondly instead of in actual complaint, so Bucky decided he was allowed, even if it was just this once.
He walked them back toward the bedroom, thankful that it wasn't far, grateful that every step ground his hard cock against Steve; over the goddamn moon that he could feel that Steve was hard beneath his silk, proof that he was desired as much as he desired. And maybe it should be strange, wanting Steve this much, but it felt as easy as breathing. It felt as comfortable as his favorite shirt, like he'd been wearing it all along and never noticed.
It was possible that he was an idiot.
He finally came alongside the bed—his bed—and let Steve down onto it.
Steve landed gracefully and shoved himself up onto his elbows, staring up at Bucky. The pearls around his neck were distracting, Bucky decided, too shiny against his skin, too pale where they overlapped the silk slip. Either way they made Bucky want to touch too much; but it was allowed, Steve wanted this too.
Bucky kicked off his shoes—Steve must have shed his when he stepped out of his trousers, if he'd even been wearing any—and climbed onto the bed next to Steve. He trailed a finger down Steve's arm, over his chest, over his nipple, and Steve vibrated like a violin string.
"Oh, sweetheart," Bucky said.
Steve looked at him like a challenge, like nothing but the silk was sweet about him, and Bucky leaned forward and ran his hand down the length of Steve's thigh. The muscle twitched under his finger, and Bucky stroked him again, his touch half trying to soothe, half trying to agitate.
Steve let his head fall back against the mattress, and Bucky moved to kneel between his legs. He gathered handfuls of silk and ran them slowly up Steve's thighs, the material bunching as he moved it. Steve looked at him through half-lidded eyes, a glint of blue between his lashes, his cheeks red. Bucky could drink in the sight of him for days and not look his fill, the familiar face in this new context, a sight for him and him alone.
Steve was hard beneath his slip, and maybe it should have given Bucky pause, the thought of touching another man's dick, but all it did was inflame him, because Steve was flushed and wanting because of him.
Bucky kept the silk gathered in his hand and ran it over the length of Steve's cock, feeling the blood-heat of it through the fabric. Steve's hands fisted in the cotton sheets and he moaned, his chest heaving beneath the slip, the pearls caught in the hollow of his clavicles.
"Does it feel good?" Bucky asked, his eyes on Steve's face. He stroked up, then down again, taking his time.
Steve laughed breathlessly. "You got no idea how good."
Bucky couldn't help but feel smug at the note in Steve's voice, but he took it as a personal challenge that he could make him feel better. He smoothed the silk flat over Steve's cock and mouthed him through the fabric.
Steve took in a shocked breath, and Bucky had to reach down and squeeze his own dick to try to relieve the pressure. He was hard, aching with it, but it didn't seem as important as making Steve wild with wanting him. He licked up Steve's length over the fabric, wrapped his hand around Steve's cock, and settled in to tease at the head. He could feel the glans through the silk, and he traced it with his tongue until Steve was writhing on the bed.
"Bucky," Steve said, and maybe it was a plea; but Bucky had no intention of making Steve beg. He slid his hands under the skirt of the slip and pushed it up Steve's legs, this time touching Steve's skin.
Steve's cock was flushed dark, the skin smooth and hot when Bucky wrapped his fingers around it. Steve arched his back against the mattress. Bucky fit his free hand over Steve's angular hipbone and licked up his cock. He was worried, a little, that he wouldn't be good at this, and god, he wanted it to be good for Steve; but Steve was so responsive, gasping out his name at the touch, Bucky thought as long as he watched and listened, he could figure it out.
He licked up and down a few times, and then took Steve into his mouth. It was maybe a little awkward, but Steve pushed up toward him and then tangled his hand in Bucky's hair, the pearl bracelet sliding over his forehead, and when Steve tugged a little, Bucky thought he might actually die of wanting him.
He slid his mouth up and down Steve's cock, his tongue flat, and fell into a rhythm. Steve encouraged him with a litany of moans and sighs, and his hand in Bucky's hair. It was wet and a little sloppy, but Steve didn't seem to mind. His thighs tensed, the muscles of his abdomen clenched, and his fingers tightened in Bucky's hair, on the good side of the border of painful, and Bucky could have moved off, but he didn't.
He stayed as Steve spilled down his mouth, the taste of him salty and strange, but good, too. He would have stayed longer, holding Steve in his mouth until he was soft, but Steve pulled at his shoulders, tugging him upwards. Steve was red-faced and breathing heavily, but it didn't sound like the beginning of an asthma attack. Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve and buried his face in his chest anyway, listening to his irregular heartbeat, beating fast as birds’ wings beneath the silk.
"Come here," Steve said, and when Bucky slid up his body, Steve wrapped his arms around him and kissed him, angling his hips to slide against Bucky's. Bucky shuddered against him, shaken by the strength of his own desire. He turned to his side so as not to crush Steve and kissed him hungrily.
"You've still got all your clothes on," Steve complained.
"You want me to take 'em off?" Bucky was already fumbling at the buttons of his shirt.
Steve pushed his hands away. "No, I want to do it."
He flipped Bucky onto his back and straddled him, the slip rucked up around his legs. Bucky settled his hands over Steve's warm thighs, and Steve shot him a look. Then he bent forward to kiss Bucky again and started in on the buttons. Bucky watched Steve's fingers moving down his chest, parting the shirt to reveal his undershirt.
"I'm sorry it's not as exciting as what you had on underneath," Bucky said.
Steve smirked at him. "Maybe another time."
Bucky let himself think of it, of wearing something silk or satin or lace, a secret present for Steve to unwrap, and he had to let his head fall back. "Yeah, if you'd want that, I want to."
"Surprise me sometime." Steve pulled Bucky up just enough to get his shirt off, and then tugged his undershirt over his head too, happy to let Steve manhandle him however he liked.
Steve put him back on the sheets and let his gaze roam all over Bucky's shirtless torso. God, Bucky liked it, Steve looking at him like he was a cut of steak. He put his hands up over his head and bowed up, trying to press his body against Steve's. He wasn't elegantly sparse the way Steve was, but Steve must have liked the muscles he’d put on boxing at the Y anyway.
Steve pushed him down into the mattress, and traced a line from his sternum to his navel, through the sparse, dark hairs that made a trail from his chest to his groin. Bucky spread his arms wide, wanting Steve to see him, to see all of him.
Steve bent over Bucky and undid the buttons of his fly. Bucky helpfully lifted his hips so Steve could pull his pants down. Steve caught his cotton shorts in the crook of his fingers as well, and before he knew it, Bucky was naked, laid out before Steve like an offering.
Steve looked down on him, spread out before him, and smiled. He walked his fingers up from Bucky's knees to his hips, while Bucky bit his lips and tried not to look as desperate to be touched as he was. "I don't know what I want to do first," Steve murmured.
"Anything at all," Bucky said. He was already wound so tight, it wouldn't take much.
Steve wrapped his long fingers around Bucky's cock, and Bucky was surprised at the strangled sound that made its way out of his mouth, unbidden. "Fuck, Steve, that feels so good," he managed to tell him.
Steve moved his hand in long, slow strokes, and it shouldn't have felt so earth-shattering, but it was, because it was Steve, and it was so intimate; Steve's hands on his body and Steve's eyes on his face, watching his every reaction so closely. And it was Steve, who knew him better than anyone, who could read him like a familiar and well-loved book. Bucky had never felt so exposed in his entire life, had never thought it could feel so good to be pinned like a butterfly to a board by the weight of Steve's gaze.
Steve sped his hand, just a little, and pleasure crested in Bucky like a wave, not breaking, not yet, but building higher. Steve smiled suddenly, the kind of smile that in Bucky's experience meant he was about to start some shit, but instead of going out to pick a fight, he just tilted his wrist so that his loose bracelet slid down into his hand and—
"Oh, fuck," Bucky said helplessly, "Fuck—Steve—" because Steve was sliding the pearls along the sensitive skin of Bucky's cock, the cool, satin-smooth beads a contrast to the heat of Steve's hands. Bucky hadn't felt anything like it before, an exquisite pleasure. His hips jerked forward, and heat flashed through his body, leaving pinpricks of sweat on his forehead.
"Is it good?" Steve asked, and Bucky couldn't answer him. Every muscle in his body clenched at once, and the wave broke, and he was coming, spilling over Steve's hand and all over his own stomach.
He lay there, gasping, while Steve pressed a kiss into his shoulder. He felt like a rung bell, still vibrating even though the sound was gone.
"Yeah, Steve," he said, when he could talk. "Holy shit, yeah."
Then he leaned over the bed to grab his undershirt, and wiped Steve's hand clean, then his belly. Then he slumped back against the pillow and pulled Steve into the crook of his arm. Steve settled his head against Bucky's chest, and Bucky ran his hand up and down his back, slowly tracing the slight curve of his spine beneath the slip.
They fit just right, the two of them curled around each other. Bucky pressed a kiss into Steve's soft hair, and he could feel Steve smile against his skin. Bucky didn't mean to doze off, but he was warm and happy with Steve in his arms.
When he woke up, Steve was sitting next to him, dressed in his shorts and an undershirt. Bucky had a moment of bleary confusion—how had Steve gotten up without waking him?—but then he stretched up his arms, and Steve laughed a little and leaned down to kiss him, which made everything all right again.
"Still no regrets?" Steve asked.
Bucky pulled him down so he was on top of him. Steve poked him with a very sharp elbow in retaliation. "None," Bucky said. "I'm really happy."
Steve's expression went soft in a way Bucky had never quite seen it before. "Good," he murmured. "Then so am I."
~o~
And they were.
Maybe it should have been difficult for their friendship to undergo such a huge change, but it was as easy as falling. They were still best friends, they still lived together, still knew each other inside and out. It was just that now they also fucked. Bucky thought that he must have been in love with Steve forever and not known it for it to feel so simple and so right.
Bucky didn't think he had ever been happier.
He was happy when they made dinner together. He was happy when they went walking in the park, almost vibrating with how much they wanted to touch each other, unable to do it until they got home. He was very happy when they got home and tried touching each other all the ways that they could think of, learning each other's bodies. The hardest thing about their new arrangement was not being able to kiss Steve the way he'd like to when they were out in public, but their apartment was a haven for the two of them to be however they liked with each other, and it was there that he was happiest.
He was happy when Steve wore satin or lace for him, and he was just as happy when Steve wore trousers and a button-down shirt, or nothing at all. He was happy the time Steve kissed him with made-up lips, turning his own lips red with smeared lipstick. Steve had laughed and told him it looked good on him, and when Bucky made up his own face the next night, Steve had pushed him back on the bed and driven him out of his mind.
Two days ago, Steve had worn one of the negligees that they kept in a standing armoire labeled PHOTOGRAPHY COSTUMES AND PROPS among other things that Bucky might use in a shoot. Steve had worn that string of pearls that he'd worn the first time. Somehow in the rush for Bucky to get his mouth on Steve's dick, the strand of pearls broke.
"I'm sorry," Bucky apologized once they were both panting for breath in the aftermath.
"It doesn't matter, Buck," Steve said. "It's not like they were real pearls."
"Yeah, but they had sentimental value," Bucky said. They had both laughed about it, but Bucky was flush with cash from a series of big jobs he'd picked up after the reshoot for the lingerie ads, and today after he closed the studio, he went visiting jewelry stores. Some might think it was a stupid thing to spend money on, he supposed, jewels that Steve could never wear outside of the apartment, but he deserved beautiful things, and Bucky wanted to give them to him.
He opened the apartment door with a small, velvet-flocked box in his pocket. "Steve," he called, "are you home?"
"In the bedroom," Steve said. "Just finishing up."
He was nearly done repainting the trim and Bucky watched as he painted the last few feet of it, his heart swelling with fondness as Steve helped make their apartment home. Steve wiped the brush clean and put away the can. He stretched up, Bucky wincing in sympathy as his vertebrae cracked.
"Been at it long?" Bucky asked.
"Yeah," Steve said. "I was so close to the end, I wanted to get through. I'd have finished it months ago, but someone keeps distracting me every time I go to the bedroom." He flashed a smile at Bucky.
"Oh no, that sounds really terrible, what a jerk." Bucky leaned in close to kiss him. "Got something for you."
"Oh yeah?" Steve raised an eyebrow. it wasn't that Bucky had never given him anything before, but the gifts they got each other tended to be more practical: something special for dinner, something for the apartment, tickets to a baseball game. But this was different. This was the first thing Bucky wanted to give him since their friendship transformed, like a butterfly, to something even more beautiful. That might not be the kind of thing that he could say to Steve, except late at night, under cover of darkness, maybe, but this—this was something tangible, some things that he could touch, a reminder of what they felt.
Steve's eyes widened as Bucky took the box out of his pocket and handed it to him.
"What's this for?" He popped the lid open, and then looked at Bucky.
"I broke the other one," Bucky said. It wasn't close to the real reason, but Steve would know that.
Steve shook his head, seemingly speechless as he pulled the necklace from the box. It alternated white and black pearls with silver beads in an art deco style. Bucky had looked for a while to find a necklace he thought Steve would like.
"You didn't need to do that," Steve said, but he was already fumbling at the clasp.
Bucky took it from his hands and moved behind him so he could put it on him. The pearls looks lustrous against Steve's skin, like they belonged there, even under the collar of Bucky's old shirt.
"They suit you," Bucky said softly. "I know you can't wear them out, and it's not exactly a ring, but..."
"I love them," Steve said breathlessly, and turned in Bucky's arms to kiss him. "I love you."
With that kind of encouragement, it didn't take long before they were on the bed, Bucky enthusiastically stripping Steve of his clothes until he was naked except for the necklace. Bucky took his time, kissing up and down Steve's torso, stroking him until they were both on fire for each other. Steve straddled him and got his big hand around both of their cocks, and they thrust against each other in Steve’s grip, hot and wanting, until both of them came, Steve leaning forward to mouth at Bucky's shoulder, the pearls cool between their heated skin. Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve, pulling him close so he could run his hands up and down his spine.
Steve had gone to work the next day when Bucky noticed the broken pearl necklace in the wastebasket of their bedroom. He knew they were fake, probably just glass, but some impulse had him rescue them from the trash and pocket them. Call him a sap, call him a romantic—Steve would probably say both of those things—but they were a memento, and he wanted to keep them.
He got in the habit of carrying them in his pocket, like his wallet, his keys, and his pocket knife. They went with him wherever he went, and at night he put them in a little dish on top of their dresser.
Steve didn't notice at first. He wasn't in the habit of going through Bucky's pockets, usually being much more interested in getting his pants off. But one day, Bucky absent-mindedly asked him to grab his wallet so that he could pay the ice delivery man, and Steve came back with a dollar bill and the strangest expression on his face. He didn't say anything until the man was gone and the ice was put away in the icebox, and then he turned to Bucky.
"What?" Bucky asked.
"You kept it," Steve said and his expression was strange. Bucky didn't know what he was talking about until Steve stretched out his hand and uncurled his fingers around the broken remains of the necklace. Bucky held out his hand, and the beads clacked as Steve tipped them into his hand.
Bucky felt himself flush, his face hot to the tips of his ears. He didn't even know why he was embarrassed; this was Steve, and Steve knew every dumbass thing he'd ever done.
"Of course I kept it," Bucky said. "It was from the day we got together. It wasn't when I fell in love with you. It was when I realized that I've always been in love with you."
Steve stood on his tiptoes so he could bury his fingers in Bucky's hair and tilt his face down. He kissed Bucky fiercely, like he was trying to prove something, and then he kissed him gently, on his eyelids, on his mouth, on the cleft in Bucky’s chin, and when he was done he rested his forehead against Bucky's. "I've been thinking about what you said, and I was going to wait for a special occasion or something, but I don't want to."
Steve reached into his pocket and pulled out a faded blue velvet envelope, the size of a business card, held together with a snap.
Bucky's breath caught in his throat, and suddenly his eyes were hot with tears. He drew in a shuddering breath. Of course he recognized all of Sarah Rogers's meager collection of jewelry, passed down to her son after her death; of course he knew the bag that held her wedding rings.
"I had them resized." Steve opened the bag and poured them into his hand; Joseph Rogers's wide band, and Sarah's narrow, both of them pale yellow gold. "I know we can't—it's not public the way it should be. But you gotta know I'm in it one hundred percent."
If he could have laughed past the lump in throat, Bucky would have. Steve was always in anything he did one hundred percent; Bucky had never doubted that. His fingers trembled as he picked up the smaller ring—Sarah's ring—and slipped it over Steve's ring finger.
Bucky inhaled hard, but he still couldn't speak as Steve put the larger ring on Bucky's finger. Instead he took Steve's hands in his and clasped them hard, the unfamiliar weight of the rings pressing against their fingers, and kissed him like a vow, joy welling up to surround them both, vast and overpowering.
When he could talk, he said, "You should come with me to the studio in the morning. We'll put on our Sunday best, bring our rings."
"Should I?" Steve was smiling at him like he couldn't stop, eyes bright.
"Yeah," Bucky said, and kissed him again. "I'm going to take our wedding pictures."
~o~