Stella

by neversaydie

Summary:

"'Scuse me, miss. Can I just—" He's cut off by some sailor shoving past him like he's not even there and he taps on the woman's shoulder again. "Sweetheart, can I get past you here?"

"Oh, sorry." She finally hears him and steps to the side, letting him through the crush. Steve glances over his shoulder to thank her and freezes dead in his tracks.

He painted a swatch of those blue eyes just a week ago.

"Bucky?"

[When Steve puts up an ad for a model and Bucky walks into his life, things don't exactly turn out the way he was expecting.]

Notes:

Bucky is a transwoman in this story, but Steve doesn't know that when they first meet so we get impressions/understandings from his POV at his pace, hence the pronouns in this chapter.

Also Sam makes a passing reference to the Harlem Renaissance, which is a fascinating period of history if you feel like looking it up.

Chapter 1: first time ever I saw your face

He takes the attic rooms for the light.

He'd seen the sign in the window one night, illuminated by the reedy streetlights as he stumbled out of his regular bar, clinging to Sam and coughing from the cigarette smoke when he could take a breath between laughs. Jazz spilled out behind them like the wine some fairy had stumbled into Steve's shirt and all over their table, and they'd stopped under a lamppost for Sam to roll a cigarette where he could see his tobacco in the darkness.

"I bet that place has a skylight." Steve had pointed drunkenly at the white card in a nearby window, advertising the top floor apartment for rent. "If I set up on my own then Stark couldn't keep scalping me on the rent."

"I told you that nine hundred times." Sam had rolled his eyes as he ran the edge of the cigarette paper over his tongue, patting Steve's shoulder when he finished rolling. "Tomorrow, buddy. They're not gonna rent to you if you wake them up in the middle of the night."

The following morning, hungover as hell and struggling to try and look like the sort of respectable guy you'd want to rent to, Steve had secured the rooms and Sam had helped him haul his art supplies out of the shitty apartment he'd been sharing with three other guys. The new rooms were bare, stark, but airy and full of light from the (correctly predicted) skylight. Steve set up his easel and put an ad for a model in the grocery store window the very next day.

Three days later, he gets a response.

A soft knock at his door draws him away from nervously adjusting the backdrop he's set up directly under the bright shaft of sun pouring through the skylight. The elderly shopkeeper told him a young man had taken the card, when he called in for milk this morning, and Steve has been anxiously waiting for his model to call ever since. He's got a gallery spot to fill in three weeks, and the large canvas will take enough time to perfect that he needs to get started right away.

He opens the door (it always creaks fit to burst his eardrums, he needs to oil the hinges sometime before he loses his hearing altogether), unashamed in his rolled-up shirtsleeves and paint-flecked trousers because he's about to ask the guy to take his shirt off so propriety isn't a big issue, and stops dead in his tracks.

The man standing in his hallway isn't handsome, he's beautiful. A few inches shorter than Steve, he has carefully-sculpted dark hair and intense blue eyes framed with thick lashes, full lips and cheekbones in a contrast of angular and soft that makes Steve's stomach lurch uncomfortably. The guy is wearing the dusty clothes of a labourer, cigarette tucked behind his ear and eyebrows knitting curiously when Steve doesn't immediately say anything.

Oh, fuck. How is Steve going to look at this face for weeks and not humiliate himself?

"This is the modelling job, right?" The guy looks slightly self-conscious all of a sudden, and it's enough to have Steve recover from his aesthetic reverie and usher him inside.

"Yeah, yeah. Come in." He tries to blink the stars out of his eyes as he closes the door behind them and sticks out his hand. "Steve Rogers, I put the ad."

"Bucky Barnes." The guy wipes his hand on his pants before he takes Steve's, shaking it firmly. He's got a lot of nervous energy running through him that he's trying to tamp down, eyes darting around to take the room in, and Steve briefly worries if he's going to be a terrible sitter. "So, uh, what's the deal here?"

"You ever sat before?" Steve leads him through to the part of the rooms he's dedicated as studio space. It's small, but there's a threadbare couch in the corner and his stuff set up near the backdrop. Bucky takes it all in with an appraising nod.

"At the art school once or twice. About an hour at a time." He tugs at the corner of his pants pocket anxiously, the nervous tell of a smoker without a cigarette between his fingers.

"This is gonna be a bit longer than that, but you can take breaks." Steve smiles, trying to be reassuring because an anxious model is a difficult model. "And you're gonna have your shirt off. That okay?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure. No problem." His fingers twitch again and Bucky plucks the cigarette from behind his ear. There's a control to his movements that might be self-consciousness, Steve wouldn't be surprised since a lot of sitters are uptight in the beginning. "You mind if I smoke?"

"Go ahead. Just crack a window, my lungs ain't the best." Steve waves vaguely towards the window and crosses the room to get his paints set up. His planned colour scheme has totally gone out the window now he's got a look at his model and had his mind blown six ways to Sunday. "This might take me a couple weeks altogether, you okay sitting that long?"

"Forty cents an hour and you can take as long as you want, pal." Bucky is actually leaning out of the window to smoke when Steve turns back to look at him. It's an oddly touching gesture, because people generally think he's being dramatic when he says his lungs are shitty. Nobody's ever not smoked next to him indoors except Sam, until now. "You want me here every day?"

"Yeah, if you're not working around another job." Steve beckons him over to the stool he's set up, a coat rack standing behind it to give him something to lean against. Bucky tosses his smoke out of the window before he slouches over, nerves seemingly slightly calmer. "Take your shirt off and stand up on here, put your arms behind your back like you're tied to the coat rack. You can put your stuff on the couch."

"This isn't some kinda blue comic, is it?" The words are a little cocky, a little forced, and Steve carefully doesn't watch as Bucky strips his shirt off in case he blushes and gives himself away.

"Nah, I'd be paying you fifty cents an hour if you had to get your cock out." It's a flippant statement, supposed to be reassuring, but Bucky is bright red all the way down to his navel when Steve turns back, and his expression softens slightly at the sight. "It's a portrait of Saint Sebastian, you know the type?"

"Arrows, right?" Bucky's forearms are darker than his chest, stark and tanned as the V in a print of his open shirt collar against the pale flesh hidden from the sun. He must have been recently laid off wherever he was working outdoors, tan barely faded and a few glints of lighter brown in his hair catching the light as he moves into position. "Arms behind my back like this?"

"Yeah, perfect. Is that comfortable enough to hold for a while?" Steve takes a moment to assess his pose as Bucky nods, chest pushed slightly forwards, hairless but for a dusting of dark curls disappearing into his worn pants, shoulders dropped back against the coat rack and arms crossed behind his back. He has the lithe muscle of someone working hard and not eating enough, and Steve has to fight down his reaction as his face threatens to heat up like coal. "Alright, stay still."

They're quiet for the first hour, little snatches of conversation swelling up here and there only to ebb again like a tide. Bucky spends a lot of his time looking at Steve when he thinks he can't be seen, only to turn his eyes to the skylight when the observed is caught observing. The sun turns his eyes translucent, like cheap stained glass trying to pass as sapphire, and Steve paints a swatch to remind himself of their colour before he's even finished with his sketch.

They take a break once the sketch is half done, Steve brewing murky coffee on the stove while Bucky rolls out his shoulders and hurriedly pulls his undershirt back on. Steve politely doesn't ask about whatever job he lost, but Bucky is very interested in the whole process of making art and before Steve realises what's happening he's lost half an hour rambling about anatomy while Bucky listens, chin on his hand and totally enraptured. Staring at Steve's mouth like he's wondering what it would feel like against his own.

It's not like Steve hasn't hooked up with models before, sometimes the tension created by being alone in a room staring at each other for hours can only be dispelled by a quick roll in the sack, but something about Bucky makes him hold off on closing the gap between them. There's something different about this guy, an air that Steve wants to know better, wants to breathe in and be around for as long as possible before, like every fleeting hook-up in the art world, he's gone with the wind. So he holds back, for now.

He calls time around five, when the light has faded enough that he needs to pick things up in the morning. Bucky gets dressed quickly and leaves, collecting his money at the door with a smile and a too-long look into Steve's eyes. Steve has his pants around his knees and his cock in his hand before Bucky's halfway down the street, probably, pulling himself off like a teenager with a time constraint. Maybe holding back from hooking up with his model isn't the easiest idea he's ever had.

At the next sitting, they're taking a break and brewing more bad coffee when Bucky reaches past Steve for cups and accidentally presses against him in the tight space. They both freeze for a moment, before Steve takes a chance and presses back into his body, just a little. Bucky makes a breathless sound in the back of his throat, then he's pulling away and asking Steve some shit about pigment like nothing happened. Steve has to stay at the stove until the coffee's even more over-brewed than usual just so he doesn't embarrass himself by turning around with a boner. Bucky's cheeks are still flushed when he accepts his mug and doesn't quite meet Steve's eyes.

They carry on like this for the next week, the slow car crash of coming together in between Steve trying to get work done and Bucky pulling stupid faces to try and put him off. They learn more about each other, get closer, but that's as far as it goes. Steve pushes, Bucky pulls back. Bucky pushes, Steve reciprocates, and then Bucky pulls back like he's scared of what will happen if he allows himself to cross the line into actually acknowledging that they want to fuck each other's brains out.

It's all very confusing to Steve, which means Sam has to hear about it all the fucking time.

"I'm really not here to listen to your bullshit problems until I get a lot more to drink." Sam rolls his eyes and signals to the waiter for a refill of cheap rum. They're in their usual bar early and he needs to be way more prepared to listen to Steve mooning over this Bucky character again. "I have my own trouble, man. Your problem boils down to whether you bone him now or later, I dunno why you're getting dizzy with this guy."

"Oh yeah? And what are your intense fuckin' problems?" Steve thanks the waiter with a nod when he tops them up, inadvertently checking out the guy's ass as he walks away. Maybe he's just hard up right now, it wouldn't be the first time.

"I'm a black man trying to organise a gallery show outside Harlem without white critics writing about how primitive the art is. That's a problem. What you have is an opportunity." Sam raises his eyebrows pointedly and Steve ducks his head in acquiescence because yeah, okay, that's true. Sam's twice the painter he is and his work flies under the radar in comparison because critics are always the last people to get with the times. "Why don't you just not fuck him until the end of the project? He might be thinking the same thing."

"Because I'm in love, man. I'm totally stuck on this guy." Steve lets his head bang down on the table in frustration to the background of the band tuning up between sets, and Sam pats him on the back of the neck sympathetically. "Every time I try and make a move he backs off."

"Maybe he's not into guys. There are straight people left in this neighbourhood." Even Sam can't keep a straight face when he says that, and Steve picks his head up to look at him incredulously. "Alright, I don't know any, but theoretically they exist."

"I'm telling you, I'm not the only one vamping. He's picking up what I'm putting down, he just won't make the leap." 

"Maybe he's got a guy already. Other people must notice this unearthly beauty I keep having to hear about." The level of sarcasm is far higher than someone as nice as Sam should rightly be capable of, and Steve narrows his eyes to glare at him sideways. Maybe he goes a little overboard describing Bucky's looks, Sam can bite him.

"Even if he does, he's flirting back. He almost kissed me the first fuckin' day." He rubs a hand over his face and pushes back the stubborn lock of hair that no amount of hair oil will keep off his forehead, letting out a grunt of frustration when it falls straight back in his eyes again. He stands up, sighing in his most put-upon fashion just to annoy his friend. "You've got no sense of romance. I'm gonna take a leak."

"Maybe you should pick up some trade in there, take the edge off." Sam suggests, ducking Steve's predictable slap to the back of his head with a smirk. Steve regularly rethinks their friendship at moments like this, when all Sam seems to do is drink on his tab and have terrible ideas about anonymous bathroom dick.

The bar is starting to get crowded now the band are playing, and Steve has to alternate between pushing and shoving and carefully navigating his way to the bathroom. It's at times like this, squeezing between a woman with very sharp embroidered beads on her dress and a man who looks like he's probably concealing at least one weapon, that he's relieved he didn't really bulk up muscle-wise when he got taller as a teenager. He's not as skinny as he used to be, but he's still slight enough that he can squeeze through the crowd without upsetting any drinks over anyone who might get him kicked out.

Right before the turn into the tiny corridor that contains the bathrooms, though, he hits a bottleneck. There's a line for the ladies and way too many guys hanging around the bar to do anything but cause a traffic jam of people. Steve gets an elbow to the ribs as someone squeezes past him and he sighs irritably to himself because apparently he becomes invisible at times like this. He lightly touches the shoulder of a woman standing in front of him, blocking his only path to the bathrooms. Her green dress is shabby and slightly frayed at the edges where he touches it to get her attention, probably one of the hookers who hang out here so they don't get bothered before they start working.

"'Scuse me, miss. Can I just—" He's cut off by some sailor shoving past him like he's not even there and he taps on the woman's shoulder again. "Sweetheart, can I get past you here?"

"Oh, sorry." She finally hears him and steps to the side, letting him through the crush. Steve glances over his shoulder to thank her and freezes dead in his tracks.

He painted a swatch of those blue eyes just a week ago.

"Bucky?"

It's definitely Bucky, who turns chalk-white under the powder on his face, the artificial rouge somehow obscene on top of his panic. Not only would Steve know those eyes anywhere, but once he gives the woman more than a second glance he can tell she's a man in a cheap wig, hair pulled around his face unfashionably to try and hide his jawline.

"Who the hell is Bucky? I don't know a Bucky." He stutters out quickly, wide-eyed and cringing into himself when someone standing in front of him turns to witness their conversation. He stands frozen in front of Steve for another second or two, then he's shoving his way out of the bar the moment Steve opens his mouth again.

"Wait—" is all he gets out before Bucky is disappearing out onto the street, a flash of green and loose dark hair before he's gone like he was never there in the first place.

Well. That explains nothing and a lot all at the same time.

Chapter 2: star light, star bright

To Steve's complete and utter surprise, Bucky shows up on time to the studio the next day.

He'd been fully expecting to have to finish the painting from memory, having sat up half the night turning the image of Bucky in drag over and over in his head and concluding that maybe this is why the guy keeps pulling away from him. He doesn't understand it though, because they live in the gay quarter and fairies in makeup are ten a penny here. Drag queens are common in the bars, not just hanging out but putting on shows at least. Perhaps it was just the shock of seeing someone he didn't expect that sent Bucky fleeing. Perhaps nobody knows he drags up, perhaps his work and personal life never intersect for a reason. Perhaps Steve stumbled into a secret he didn't know was being kept.

He feels like he's walked in on someone changing, seen a scar they've been trying to hide. Somehow seeing Bucky with his shirt off didn't feel like he'd seen him naked, but with a dress on was something far more intimate.

Bucky turns up on his doorstep at ten a.m. looking pale and drawn, giving off the distinct impression that he probably didn't sleep much either and is likely hungover. The waft of cheap whiskey when he passes Steve as he walks reluctantly into the apartment confirms his suspicions, and he figures it's probably a good idea to make some coffee before they clear the air or get to work. He's not going to jump down the guy's throat, not when he looks like he's about to fall over if he stays standing too long.

Still unfairly gorgeous, of course, but Steve tries to push that from his mind. If he doesn't get them back on the same page then he might never be able to do anything about it.

"Rough night?" Steve gestures to the couch and Bucky perches on it nervously, hands clasped in his lap like he's afraid they might shake if he leaves them to their own devices. The couch is third-hand, patched in various places with scraps of fabric from old pants or worn out curtains, and the stitching on some of the patches squeaks with the way Bucky's trembling too finely to see.

"Yeah." Bucky nods, looking a little green around the gills when he moves his head. The morning light filters through the skylight at an angle and catches the paler strands of his hair, giving him an unnatural glow in spite of his pallor. "Got a little tighter than I meant to."

"I got aspirin somewhere if you need one." Bucky waves away the offer, hand visibly unsteady before he holds it tightly in his lap again. The anxiety rolling off him along with the whiskey fumes is palpable in the space between them, and Steve concentrates on getting the coffee into his hands so he has something to hold.

He feels like he knows this guy now, they've been talking to each other for hours a day and they've shared secrets like schoolboys hiding from being sent back to class. But this morning, in this pale light, he feels like he's looking at Bucky and through him at the same time. Like he really doesn't know as much about him as he thought. It's unsettling, makes his heart pick up like missing a step at the top of a long, long fall.

"Thanks." The hot liquid sloshes over the side of the chipped mug slightly when Bucky takes it, but he doesn't seem to notice if it burns him. Steve pulls up his battered painting stool so he doesn't have to sit on the couch beside Bucky, because it looks like he might vibrate right out of his skin if someone got that close.

"You didn't have to run off, y'know." Steve breaks the silent tension, watching the coffee stain spread across Bucky's cuff and fighting down the urge to take his hand and hold it. The statement makes Bucky look stricken all over again, and Steve really hopes he's not going to hurl on his clean-ish floor. "Really. I didn't mean to surprise you like that, I wasn't gonna embarrass you."

"How could you embarrass me?" Bucky finally meets Steve's eyes, his own just as wide as they were last night like he can't believe what Steve is saying. They look totally different in Steve's memory, ringed with black and lashes brushed out like the thick bristles of his favourite paintbrushes. Bluer, somehow, and he wishes they hadn't been shot through with fear he'd been the cause of.

"I just, y'know. I just want you to know it's not strange to me. Dragging up." He's trying to make Bucky feel better, but the guy just seems to shrink further into himself at Steve's words. It makes Steve's chest hurt, because there's definitely something going on here that he doesn't understand. "I went to art school, I know plenty of guys around here who drag now and then. It's not a big deal."

"I…"

"I mean, if that's why you were pulling away from whatever we, uh, have going on here." He feels like a presumptuous asshole for a second, once he hears what he says, because what if he's the only one feeling it? What if he's been imagining the tension between them and Bucky's been hurrying out every evening because he thinks he's going to get groped? But then Bucky looks away and the twitch of his lips confirms that Steve isn't the only one feeling this thing between them. It's a bigger relief than he'd expected it to be. "If you thought I was gonna have a problem with it, or something."

"It's not that." Bucky takes a hurried sip of too-hot, bitter coffee like he's trying to shut himself up, and Steve's heart sinks a little. Maybe he has completely misread the situation after all and just made a massive fool of himself. Wouldn't be the first time.

"Oh. Maybe I—"

"I mean. It's… It's not drag." This time, Bucky really does look like he might be sick all over his battered work boots. He mumbles the words quietly, hunched in on himself like all the life has left his body and he's running on fumes. Steve is struck by the idea that he looks like some kind of marionette, like he's done up in a costume that doesn't quite fit.

"What d'you mean it's not…" This time it's his eyes that get wide as he trails off and thinks he's starting to comprehend what Bucky is saying. His mind whites out and he feels suspended in the moment, stuck in time because he's got no idea what to do with this, if he's thinking correctly. "You mean, you…"

"Just don't hit me, okay? I'll go on my own if you want me to." The words are mostly air, soft and resigned and scared all at once. Bucky's holding himself stiff, defensive and ready to duck, and it makes Steve hurt right inside his chest to see him looking like a rat in a cage.

"I won't hit you." He promises, and Bucky nods like he's thinking sure, pal behind the tight line of his lips. He's clearly been burned before, clearly sat and had someone who promised not to hurt him turn on a dime and break their word without a second thought.

It takes him a minute to force the words out, but Steve waits.

"I'm not a man." Bucky still looks like he might cry, hunched in on himself and clearly wishing he had something stronger than coffee in his cup, but there's nothing unsure about his words. It all comes out in a stuttered rush after that, a staccato waterfall of anxious syllables that Bucky only seems partly in control of. "I dunno why the fuck I'm telling you this. Please don't hit me. I… I have a man's body but I'm not… I'm not a man."

"You…" Steve doesn't know what to say, because he's never encountered this before. He's met transvestites and drag queens and butch dykes and fairies, but he's never come across something, someone, like Bucky before if he's understanding what he's getting at. He doesn't understand this, it's like he's looking into a funhouse mirror and can't see the edges where reality begins.

"That's why I keep pulling away. I like you, I think we've got something going on here, but I've lied to people before and I don't want to do that to you. You're one of the nicest people I ever met and you don't deserve that." Bucky sets his coffee cup on the floor and straightens up, twisting his fingers together tightly and still not looking at Steve. "So, uh. I'll leave now. I'm sorry, I just figured you… that I owed you an explanation after you saw me. Thanks for not hitting me. I'll see myself out."

"I don't want you to leave, Buck." Steve feels awkward about this, because it's brand new to him and he's struggling to wrap his head around what Bucky's saying, but he knows how to buy himself time to think. "How about we get to work? Then at least you get paid for spilling your guts to me."

"Who says I'm gonna spill my guts?" Bucky is finally looking at him now, curious and maybe a little suspicious around the edges because he can't comprehend that he's still sitting here and not getting his ass kicked. It's not difficult to imagine how badly admitting his big secret has gone with other people, so Steve can't blame him for playing his cards close to his chest, but he really doesn't want Bucky to walk out of his life so soon.

Even if… Well, maybe if. He needs to make sure he's really on the same page as Bucky here, because he's reeling and trying to wrap his head around it all. He went with a guy in art school who dragged up on the weekends, had the makeup and the stockings and all the unmentionables, but he's never imagined someone might do that full time. That they might be… something else entirely.

"I mean, I like you too. I think we've got something going on here too, and I wanna understand what you're saying." He might sound as awkward as he feels, but Bucky isn't running for the door at least. "If you wanna tell me about it."

"Yeah." Bucky nods slowly, looking at Steve like he's not quite sure he's human. It's hopeful, in a strange way. Steve feels like they've stepped out of time, like they're in a starry little bubble of the universe where normal rules as suspended for the moment. "I guess I could do that."

The story comes out slowly as Steve paints, steady dribs and drabs of tongue-tied awkwardness interspersed with shocking splashes of sure colour. Bucky growing up stealing his sister's clothes, leaving home early after his father caught him wearing makeup and strongly suggested he find somewhere else to live, lurching from shit job to shit job. The string of ill-advised boyfriends and girlfriends who were fine with Bucky being Bucky right up until they found out who Bucky was. The suicide attempts.

("Only twice." He says, oddly proud, like he fought back from it being many more, and the only makes Steve drop his paintbrush. The red stain never comes out of the floor.)

Bucky knows exactly who he (she, Steve tries it out in his head and finds it fits) is, and isn't about to waste time with another person who doesn't accept that. If that means being alone, then it'll suck but that's the way things will just have to be. He looks sad when he says that though, raising his eyes to the skylight again like he would rather fly away than be trapped down here alone. That's the expression Steve steals for his portrait: the longing to escape the slings and arrows, the weariness of suffering.

It's beautiful, in spite of how painful it looks from the outside.

"You look like you're pretty much done, except the background." Bucky is buttoning up his shirt as the light fades, glancing sidelong at the canvas like he doesn't want to look at himself directly. Steve painted like a demon for hours today while he listened to Bucky talk, and the canvas shows it. Bucky's throat sounds dry and he looks drained, like he hasn't spoken to someone this much for a long time, and he's definitely avoiding the subject now. "You sure you even need me to come back tomorrow?"

Steve takes a long glance at him from the corner of his eye, taking in the tired slope of his shoulders and delicate, nervous movement of his fingers fumbling buttons. The half-light makes Bucky's skin somehow translucent, like he's not quite of this planet and fell to Earth by some freak accident to somehow end up in Steve's orbit. It's official, Steve is still utterly smitten and nothing he's heard today has changed that. Perhaps that's a mistake on his part, he feels like he should object somehow, but he can't find it within himself to be logical about this. About Bucky.

"Well, I do have another slot in this gallery space I need to fill. I thought I was gonna have to hire a different model, but…" This time he's the one who feels like he's under a magnifying glass when Bucky looks at him head on, like Steve's been weighing him up all day and now it's his turn to be examined. "How would you feel about sitting again, but as you this time?"

"As me? You mean…" He blinks, brow creasing as he turns the suggestion over in his head, looking for tricks or traps or insincerity. He's only just stopped shaking in the last hour, and Steve's pretty sure the only reason he doesn't start again is sheer exhaustion. "Are you sure?"

"Look, I'm kinda dizzy about you. I'd like to give this a try, if you want." Steve feels nervous now, like his heart is sitting right below his Adam's apple and threatening to choke him, and he can't imagine how Bucky has been feeling this whole time. "Not just the painting. I mean I'd like to take you out, date you. Be your guy, maybe."

The silence stretches between them like cotton candy, spun in the machine on the pier Steve had visited a couple of years ago and marvelled at while kids took their treats like it was nothing. Maybe one day he could take Bucky there, show him the beach and the delicate, spun sugar of their tension.

"You… You know this isn't gonna go away, right?" Bucky looks cautious, not about to leap into this feet first the way Steve always seems to do without looking. He holds his arms across his stomach and watches Steve closely for a reaction. Careful, careful. "I've been with people before who figured it was a phase or I could ignore it. That's not gonna happen, I'm telling you straight."

"I know that. I'm pretty sure I don't care. I feel like I've got to know you pretty well the last couple weeks and I'm kinda falling for this, whatever it's sitting on top of." He reaches out and Bucky flinches away instinctively before Steve gently taps his temple, the ghost of pressure. "I'm not saying I know what the hell I'm doing. You might have to hold my hand a little bit, I might fuck up a lot, but I'd like to try. I mean, if you want."

Bucky hesitates for a long, agonising pause before a smile grows, slow and disbelieving.

"Yeah." The smile lights up her entire face as she nods, and Steve feels like he's seeing the stardust underneath her skin for the very first time. "I want."

Chapter 3: makes no difference who you are

The first time Bucky sits for Steve as herself, it's… awkward.

They're both nervous from the get-go, which is no surprise to Steve at all because he's leaping into this head-first with his eyes shut and just hoping he doesn't break his legs when he hits the ground. Bucky, on the other hand, is skittish when she shows up at his door promptly at nine, out of breath from walking too fast because it's harder to blend into the background in daylight. Her eyes are like a cornered animal's, constantly searching for signs that something is about to hurt her and checking for exits, that's the first thing Steve notices when he opens the door.

It's going to take a lot of work on his part to make her feel safe, clearly, so he sucks up all his courage and smiles. He doesn't have to fake being happy to see her, as always.

Bucky smiles back, a lot more tentative, and steps over the threshold gingerly when Steve waves her inside. She's wearing the same tattered green dress she had been at the bar, and the runs in her stockings have been carefully dealt with to try and make them last longer. Still, she looks battered somehow, like the hookers Steve sees walking home from the night before with weaving steps, a little too old and a little too drunk and just worn out. Seeing Bucky worn out makes him unexplainably sad, especially after everything he heard about her life yesterday. It's just not fair.

"I don't, uh." She twists her fingers in the bottom of her unfashionable long sleeves when she catches him looking, trying to ground herself and keep her feet planted on without running straight back out the door. She's embarrassed as much as she's nervous, she knows exactly how she looks. "I only got the one dress, so."

Her wig is ratty, well-worn and clearly cared for by a novice hand. Its dark strands no longer shine, long and pulled down to hang loosely around her shoulders in some effort to obscure both them and her jawline. The pressed powder on her cheeks is a shade too light, the dusting too thick in an effort to stave off the inevitable regrowth of a five o'clock shadow. There's something desperate about it, the bloody nail marks on a locked door when every other means of escape has been exhausted.

"Steve, I…" Bucky sucks in a short breath, quick like she's trying to calm herself. She's softer somehow, the walls are down and Steve's seeing the real her without all the shields she's devoted most of her energy to maintaining. "This is a bad idea. I should just—"

"You should come have a cup of coffee." Steve reaches out – slowly this time, after yesterday's flinch – and touches her elbow, a little gesture of reassurance. I'm not going to hurt you, he wants to say, but he's pretty sure Bucky doesn't believe that yet. "And I'll tell you about the project."

Understandably, it takes a while for both of them to relax back into their usual, easy banter. Bucky's hands are trembling again, maybe they never really stopped, and she makes it through a few minutes of stilted conversation before she says fuck it and hikes the hem of her skirt up, revealing the flask she pulls from the top of her stocking. Steve's eyes must bug out of his head, because he can see her garters and wow that's a hell of a stem and the sudden heat in his cheeks makes Bucky laugh. That cracks the tension, finally, and her hand is a little steadier as she tops off both of their coffee cups with cheap, pungent whiskey.

The project is very different to his Saint Sebastian piece, and he sketches out the details as Bucky sits and listens with her chin on her hand, head cocked delicately like she's really interested. This piece needs to be modern, for a fashionable gallery that wants to be at the forefront of the scene.

"So, I was thinking… space?" He says it like a question, forehead crinkling with uncertainty until Bucky laughs at the expression.

"Space, okay. Like stars?" She's relaxed a little now, and it's strange to see because she's somehow transforming before Steve's eyes. It's only subtle things – the way she crosses her legs at the knee as she leans back, the lightness of her voice – but they feel like she's not holding herself in check anymore. "Or like little green men?"

She arches an eyebrow at that, and Steve can't help but snort a laugh himself – unattractively, he's sure. He always manages to embarrass himself in front of guys he likes, why would Bucky be any different?

People he likes, he corrects himself internally. Shit.

"Definitely stars." He confirms, swallowing the stab of guilt for betraying Bucky, even if it was only in his head. This is a whole new world for him, and it seems like it might take some effort to get his head straight on a few things. "I sketched out a few ideas, I think maybe if I paint you from behind…"

He fumbles through his sketchbook and passes it over, watching as Bucky flips through the preliminary drawings with a thoughtful noise. The knuckles on her right hand are scraped up and bruised, and Steve's gaze must linger for a little too long because she self-consciously tucks her hand under her thigh when she hands the book back. Steve doesn't ask who she had to punch, it feels too intimate somehow.

"Looks good." Bucky's foot is tapping anxiously in the air now, as she leans back on the couch and tries to look nonchalant. "You want me shirtless?"

"Uh. I mean." The question throws him, and Steve scrambles to find words as his brain comes up empty and Bucky just watches him steadily, waiting. He'd done the sketches as a nude instinctively, hadn't considered the idea of actually asking her to pose that way. "Only if you're comfortable."

"You've been looking at me half naked for the last couple weeks, Steve." She says it gently, not like he's being an idiot, and somehow that causes heat to rise in Steve's cheeks. He knows he's fumbling, as does Bucky, but the important thing is that he's trying.

"I know. It's just, that was before I knew you were… a nice girl." He cringes as he says it, neck-deep in uncharted waters and trying to figure out how to float.

"I'm pretty far from a nice girl." She gives him a look, something flirtatious in her eyes that only makes Steve's blush intensify. It's the moment he feels her begin to trust him, when he's thrilled by her interest rather than angry, and some of the tension bleeds out of her face as the fond expression returns. "I don't mind, but thanks for checking. You're sweet."

If Steve thought his face was hot before, he wasn't prepared for the next wave of fire at being called sweet. Bucky laughs loudly at that, uninhibited in a way he's not yet seen her, and Steve decides that – on balance – the humiliation is worth it.

In the end, Bucky arranges herself sitting backwards on one of Steve's rickety chairs, dress unfastened and slip pulled down off her shoulders so he can see her whole back. She'd held her breath when Steve saw her unsteady fingers fumble with the clasp on her dress, came over to help and brushed her hair out of the way so gently, fingers inadvertently tracing across her neck as he paused for permission. It's the most intimate anyone has ever been with her like this, waiting for her permission to continue like she's a real woman, not some pantomime they have to humour. Nobody has ever acted like they wanted to touch her like this, not unless they were paying for it.

"Look over your shoulder for me?" Steve is stuck, once again, by the flash of blue eyes as she follows his instruction. They're more striking today, ringed with black by a careful hand, as much vulnerability in them as there is defiance. She's laying herself open, and Steve intends to treat that as the gift it is. "Beautiful."

Bucky has to turn away again for a moment at that. Nobody's ever called her beautiful before.

The sitting passes painlessly, even enjoyably, despite the lingering tension between them. It's more sexual tension than nerves, by now, with Steve's knuckles turning white around his brush every time Bucky makes a suggestive comment. She's doing it out of nerves more than anything else, at first, but starts to relax and do it on purpose after the first time Steve lets out a wounded noise at a particularly pointed piece of innuendo. It's reassuring to realise very little has changed between them, no matter what she's wearing.

She kisses him on the cheek when she leaves, long after the light has faded. Steve needs a stiff drink. Immediately.

"Oh, so there's a girl now. You've always gotta steal my thunder." Sam rolls his eyes expansively and shakes his head, unlit cigarette dangling from his fingers as he finally manages to get a word in edgeways in the face of Steve's gushing. "What happened to that Bucky character you were dizzy for? I swear to god, you fall in love with all your goddamn models."

"I got a big heart." He shrugs, smiling self-consciously when Sam laughs.

The lie of omission feels oily in the back of his throat, but he can't find the words to explain the situation to Sam – there's no vocabulary to draw on, no term to neatly sum up what Bucky is. He doesn't know if his friend would understand, or even want to try, and since he doesn't know how Bucky would feel about being outed, he decides to operate under the same conditions he would around someone else's queerness. It's not his secret to tell.

"So, what's she like?" Sam goes to light his smoke, remembers who he's sitting with, and tucks it behind his ear instead. Steve really loves his friend sometimes, they've been thick as thieves since growing up on the same block way back when. Sam hadn't blinked at him announcing he was into a girl, same as he'd never reacted when Steve told him he was into guys. Steve doesn't think he'd mind knowing about Bucky, but he keeps it to himself for now.

"Kinda shy, she's had a rough life." He plays with his glass, swilling the dishwater rum around thoughtfully. "But she's sharp as hell, got a mouth on her too."

"Yeah I bet you'd like to get a mouth on her." Sam quips, just for the satisfaction of seeing Steve's ears turn red. He barks out a laugh and then gets up, finishing the dregs of his drink as he goes. "C'mon, I gotta smoke and the music in here is fucking terrible."

"You say that every time Nat isn't playing." Steve rolls his eyes and gets up with him, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair where he'd discarded it against the smoky heat of the bar. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, forearms still flecked with black paint from the day's work. "She can't hear you, y'know. It's not gonna make her any more interested."

It's a relief to step outside into the cooler street, Steve's lungs losing some of their tightness as he breathes in slightly cleaner air. It's still relatively early, nowhere near closing time, so the streets are fairly empty as Sam lights his cigarette and they wander vaguely in the direction of home.

"I'm trying to woo her, Steve. It's a process." Sam smacks his friend on the arm, sobering up a little when a pair of women coming in the opposite direction cross the street to avoid them. Him. Steve probably doesn't even notice, but Sam always feels the sting no matter how used to it he is. "Anyway, she's coming to the opening on Wednesday so I'm doing something right."

"You gonna buy her flowers?" Steve slides his eyes sideways at Sam with a poorly concealed smirk, and his friend shoves him off the kerb indignantly as he laughs. Sam's a little self-conscious about one of his rare attempts to flirt with a woman rather than a man, but not enough to let his asshole friend make fun of him for it.

"Take your schoolboy shit outta here, man." He pulls Steve into a familiar, tight hug at the corner where they usually part ways. "See you Wednesday. Get there early, I need to move some stuff around and you're helping."

"Gee, thanks. What an honour." Steve snorts sarcastically, squeezing Sam back before they let go and head off in their respective directions. He calls over his shoulder when he's confident Sam's far away enough to not shove him into the street again. "They've got promise rings on discount at Bernie's."

"Fuck you, man." He looks back to see Sam giving him the finger without even bothering to turn his head, and Steve grins at his own childishness before he turns another corner to head home.

There's always noise in the city – the sound of music floating out from clubs, snatches of conversation and arguments drifting out from apartment windows, the occasional car or cart heading through to a better neighbourhood – but it's a quiet night, all told. Steve has a lightness to his step as he walks the few blocks home, whistling tunelessly to himself as he does when he's happily distracted.

This thing with Bucky is strange, sure, and he doesn't quite know what he's doing with it, but he feels brighter than he has in months. There's a saturation to colour he's sure wasn't there before, a filter over the world that makes things seem just that little bit richer, better. It might be love, or maybe he's just punch-drunk from the newness of everything, but damn if it doesn't feel like things are looking up for him now.

At least, he feels that way up until he reaches his building. Fumbling with his keys, he doesn't notice the crumpled figure on the doorstep until he's right in front of the door – stopping in his tracks when the streetlight glints off the shiny blood on Bucky's lip.

"My, uh, my apartment fell through." She explains before Steve can get a word out, voice hoarse and raspy as if she's been choked. She's not wearing her dress, curled in on herself in men's clothing and seeming smaller than she had during the day, cowed. Her busted lip and purpling eye tell all the story she's not putting voice to as Steve stares. "I… I really hate to do this, but I got nowhere else to go tonight and…"

Before he knows what he's doing, Steve is dropping to his knees and wrapping his arms around her, right there on the doorstep for anyone to see. Bucky starts, like she was expecting something different, but she soon responds in kind, fingers shakily curing into the worn fabric of Steve's shirt and clinging on for dear life.

"Are you okay?" He can feel her trembling with the effort of keeping herself together, acting like this is an everyday occurrence. It dawns on him that perhaps it is for her, and the realisation only makes him hold her tighter.

"I-I was stupid. I should've been more careful." She shakes her head, keeping her face pressed into Steve's shoulder even though it must be painful with the bruising. "I lost all my stuff."

"We'll figure it out." He promises, not knowing exactly how they'll manage it but sure to his bones that if there's a way, he'll find it. He's not going to let anything else happen to Bucky, not on his watch. "C'mon, let's get you cleaned up."

She lets him help her up off the step and usher her inside, every attempt to apologise for the situation gently shushed. The heavy door closes behind them and the street is quiet once again, life carrying on unchanged in the surrounding apartments. Although in Steve's, at least, things will never quite be the same again.

Chapter 4: je ne regrette rien

"Take it off after ten minutes, or it'll make it worse," Steve gently presses the chunk of ice from the icebox, wrapped in his cleanest dishcloth, to Bucky's swollen cheekbone. She winces and takes it from him with a hand which hasn't stopped trembling since they got inside, fingers cold from waiting on the doorstep for who knows how long. "I've got arnica, hold on."

"Rather have whiskey," Bucky sniffles, managing a small smile when Steve raises his eyebrows but goes to the kitchen anyway. It's meant to be a quip but they could both use a drink, truth be told.

The permanently dusty floorboards creak the same way they always do as he crosses the room, and Steve holds onto the familiarity with everything he's got to keep himself grounded. Seeing Bucky like this - crumpled into herself like a ragdoll, shaking, shocked and bruised - is somehow doubly unsettling after how punch-drunk in love he's felt all evening.

He hasn't asked about what happened, is savvy enough to put two and two together and realise she probably doesn't usually leave the house in a dress when the wrong person might see her. The guilt of being the one who asked her to take the risk has his hands shaking just as badly as he slops whiskey into two relatively clean mugs, and he silently tells himself to find some calm.

"Steve," Bucky gets a look at him when he comes back, handing the mug to her where she's perched awkwardly on the edge of the couch, and sets the ice down to put a hand on his arm. "I'm okay. This is nothing, okay? It's just annoying, it's not the end of the world."

"They hurt you," Steve chokes out, feeling useless and raw and guilty for it because it's not like he got beaten up and lost his apartment, and Bucky pats the lumpy cushion beside her until he sits down heavily.

"Sweetheart," she rests her hand gently on the back of his neck, and Steve notices dimly that the knuckles of her other hand are scraped up and busted to hell. Part of him is viciously proud that she clearly gave as good as she got. "If this is too much for you, then you should bow out now. It ain't the first time I've got my ass kicked and it won't be the last."

"It's just so fucking… unfair," he shakes his head, taking a sip from the chipped mug and trying to pull himself together. "Sorry, I know you know that. I'm just mad as hell."

"It's okay if it's too much," Bucky insists, softly, and something about her tone makes Steve look at her - really look. The resignation is what gets him, strewn across her face just as clearly as the lamplight which softens her edges somehow. She'd been expecting this to happen, and from the set of her jaw he thinks she's partly relieved that it's happened before she invested too much of her heart in this. In them.

But Steve - who's never been able to let the unjust stand - isn't about to be just another person who let her down.

Before he really thinks about what he's doing (and isn't that the story of his life), he's shifting to face Bucky and reaching up slowly, mindful of the last time he moved too fast and she flinched away, to cup her uninjured cheek. Her lips part slightly as he brow furrows, a question on the tip of her tongue, but before she can ask it Steve's leaning forward to kiss her.

The gentle press of lips in the low light seems to go on forever, the street noise below them fading to the soft cosmic hum of the stars as if their present is something escapable. As if the blood and bruises and crude matter of flesh are merely a temporary prison which can't dampen the brightness of their souls - which Steve knows is a far too artistic way to look at it, but he figures that's his prerogative. Neither feels any steadier when they part, but it's the uncertain balance of flying they feel this time, not the gut wrenching drop of a fall with an unknown landing.

"I'm not going anywhere," Steve promises, pressing a kiss to Bucky's forehead and wiping away the smear of blood that's leaked from her busted lip. "Let me find that arnica."

"Okay," she says hoarsely as he gets up, blinking in a slightly stunned way and pressing two fingers to her bottom lip. She lets out a soft laugh which sounds like she doesn't believe him as he walks away, and Steve's pretty sure she's not talking about the arnica. "Okay."

They sleep together that night, strangely platonic even after Steve offers to take the couch and Bucky rolls her eyes and tugs him into bed with a grumble about not being fragile. She strips down to her underwear to sleep - the soft pink chemise revealed beneath the rough work clothes and explained to Steve's accidentally questioning expression as 'I got changed in a hurry' - and Steve keeps his boxers and undershirt on because he's not sure what's appropriate. It's been a very long time since he was in bed with a woman.

Bucky pillows her head on his chest without hesitation, wrapping around him and tucking herself under his arm like she needs an anchor. Steve puts his arms around her and holds them steady, watching the watery street lights outside play across the ceiling long after she's drifted off to sleep.

He's not sure if he's ready for this, whatever it is, but he's not ready to give up at the first hurdle - no matter how high it turns out to be.

Morning has long since spilled across the sky when Steve wakes, blinking blearily into the grey light as he chases the last of his multicoloured dream of arrows and first aid kits and soft silk flowers. He rolls over to see Bucky hanging out of the window to smoke, worn white shirt draped over her shoulders to prevent any nosy neighbours getting a glimpse of her unmentionables.

"Hey, sleepy," she's smiling when she looks over her shoulder at his movement, but her face is worse in daylight. The swelling around her eye isn't as bad as it could have been, as far as Steve can tell from a distance, but it's going to be a while before she doesn't look like someone beat seven shades of shit out of her. "It's raining."

"There goes my good light," Steve groans, flinging an arm across his eyes dramatically and making Bucky laugh. "Come back to bed."

"Lazy ass," she tosses the butt of her cigarette out of the window and leans over to brush a kiss to Steve's lips on her way to the kitchen, pulling back coyly when he tries to pull her back into bed. There's a humour to the enforced chasteness now, like their sexual tension was merely on hold for the night and has come back full-force with the cloudy light of day. "I'm making coffee."

"You could make time instead?" He tries his cutest face and pouts when Bucky laughs, bright and happy as if her face isn't more purple than flesh right now. He props himself up on his elbow to watch her go, astounded by the speed with which she's managed to brush off the sudden violence of the night before. "Hey, you sure you're okay?"

Bucky gestures over her shoulder, a delicate flutter of fingers which Steve takes to mean she's okay enough to not want to think about it. Which is enough, he figures, especially if this is something she's had to get used to happening on a regular basis.

He clumsily shrugs some clothes on and heads down the hall to the bathroom before he can think too hard about that. He's not going to spoil the mood with anger… not yet, anyway. He knows himself too well to think that'll last forever.

The apartment smells like pungent, slightly burnt coffee when he gets back. Bucky is hanging out of the window again, smoking with one elbow resting on the sill and her hand on her chin, legs crossed at the ankle and one foot twisting absently as she watches the world go by. Steve quietly turns the stove off and picks up his sketchbook from where he'd left it on the rickety table, quickly picking out the lines of her body in broad, charcoal strokes before she can turn around.

"Are you drawing me?" He looks up to see Bucky looking over her shoulder, pulling a ridiculous face with her tongue out just to spoil the tranquil image. He grins guiltily and sets the sketch down to pour coffee, suddenly desperate for something in his stomach.

The strangely intimate and yet anxious calm of a first morning spent together stretches between them, Bucky telling some story about the time she tended bar at the Angonquin Hotel (Steve can't figure out if it's heavily embellished fact or straight up fiction, but it's entertaining as hell anyway), and Steve trying to match the pace with his best gallery woes.

He figures out quickly that Bucky talks when she's nervous, and notes the studied way she avoids referring to herself in any terms more specific than 'I'. Not that he points it out, of course, because he doesn't want to press on any bruises - fresh or old.

"Can I borrow some of your clothes?" She breaks into his thoughts as he drains the last of his coffee, bunt dregs catching on his lips as he makes a mental note to make the coffee himself, in future. "I need to go see a friend, I left some of my stuff with her."

"Sure, take whatever you want," Steve gestures vaguely towards the closet in the back corner of the bedroom. There isn't a lot in there - not that isn't paint-stained or too old to be worn outside the apartment - and he's not sure if it'll fit Bucky, but she's welcome to it. "There's a couple smaller shirts in the trunk under the bed, I think."

"Thanks," Bucky kisses him on the cheek and goes to get dressed, deliberately choosing to be out of sight when she broaches the next topic - out of what Steve can only assume are those oh-so-talkative nerves. "She, uh. I might be able to stay with her for a couple days. Until I find something else."

Steve frowns at the tentative tone, but bites back his immediate response as he - for once in his life - manages to think before he speaks. They're only beginning this thing, whatever it turns into, and he doesn't want to trap Bucky into staying with him just because she's desperate.

"You can stay here as long as you want," he calls back, measured as he can be when he's quietly scared to death of her being hurt again if he's not there to get in the way. It's an irrational impulse to protect, he knows, but he'll be damned if anyone else is going to hurt her if he can do anything about it. "But go where you're comfortable, honey."

"You really don't mind?" She emerges in one of Steve's old shirts, still slightly too big as she buttons it up. The pants fit better, since Steve's always had slim hips, but there's still something about the way the fabric doesn't hang right which makes him stand up and hug her.

Bucky doesn't object to the contact, burying her face in Steve's shoulder and staying there for a minute, just because she can. It feels like stealing something precious, touching each other like this - an intimacy which is at once complicated and more simple than anything else.

"Like I said," Steve presses a clumsy kiss somewhere in her hair, and some of the lingering tension in Bucky's shoulders untangles itself. "You're welcome here as long as you want to be, but I'm not gonna be offended if you'd rather stay with your friend. Honest."

"How'd I find you?" Bucky shakes her head, a disbelieving little smile creeping out from amongst the mottled purple. It's enough.

After she leaves, as incognito and therefore safe as she's going to get, Steve finds her chemise draped across the foot of the bed - neatly folded as if she intends to come back to it. The fact it isn't hidden in the bottom of the closet or concealed in the back of a drawer gives him a funny feeling in his stomach, and he goes to work on his project before he can do anything silly like get emotional about it.

It's possibly irresponsible that he starts a new project - expanding on the sketch of Bucky at the window under the flimsy excuse that he doesn't have his model around - instead of working on the currently commissioned one, but at least he's prolific. That's his excuse, anyway, and he's sticking to it.

They know Bucky at this boarding house - half of the girls greeting her as she passes them in the halls, the housemistress having long since relaxed the 'no men' rule after it became apparent that was far from the case. Not that anyone has ever acknowledged it in words, and Bucky figures they probably consider her a very committed drag queen if they bother to think about it to hard.

All except for Natasha, that is.

"Oh darling," her eyes widen when she finally answers her door, draped in one of her more elaborate dressing gowns after being up late playing a club the night before. She takes one look at Bucky's face and ushers her inside, Russian accent thicker than usual with tiredness and concern as she cups her friend's cheek with slim, strong fingers. "Was it the painter?"

"No, no. He took me in," Bucky reassures her, ducking her head against Natasha's penetrating gaze. The small bedroom is crowded with clothes and the accessories of a performer, one wall piled high with instrument cases. If Bucky stayed here, she'd end up sleeping under the dressing table. "Landlord caught me coming home."

"You have to be more careful," Natasha murmurs, lifting Bucky's chin and turning her face so she can see the damage. "If you stay here-"

"They'll know where to look, I know," Bucky really doesn't want to think about her parents right now, not when she knows it's only a matter of time before they come after her again. "It's okay, Steve said I can stay at his place."

Natasha raises one manicured eyebrow at that, and Bucky can't exactly blame her for the scepticism. She's been there through most of her friend's worst relationship disasters, and it's no wonder she's already bracing for this to be another.

"Does he know?" About you is unsaid, but it doesn't need to be.

"He does," Bucky can't help but smile, hopeful for the first time in a long while. "Yeah, he knows."