This is a tiny little sort of coda to And Shadows Will Fall Behind (strong skinny artist Steve/Winter Soldier Bucky) for @onyourleftbooob. I started writing a quick ‘This is what Bucky ends up doing now that he’s not fighting’ meta and it rapidly spiralled out of control. Oops? (Approx 1900 words)
For the first little while after he officially stopped fighting, it was hard. Bucky’d never spent time doing nothing (his time in SHIELD custody didn’t count; he was barely even Bucky then) and it took time to get used to. Whenever the Avengers hit the news he couldn’t help the tiny pangs of guilt, even though he knew they were irrational.
Steve was good at distracting him, at finding things for him to do. Fred the pink not-a-dog got a blue boyfriend and they acquired a herd of rainbow coloured pups, each of them not-quite-a-dog in different ways.
The plants migrated out of Bucky’s bathroom, to be joined by cousins better suited to the not-so-humid air of the living room, the bedroom, the kitchen, of the hall and the office, until Bucky’s apartment resembled an indoor jungle.
Steve loved it, thought it was beautiful, Bucky knew that. Which was why he was so surprised when Steve stood in the living room, frowning slightly, and asked, “What do you think about losing some of the plants?”
“You don’t like the plants?”
“It’s not that.” Steve braced himself, spine, shoulders, arms uncertain, but his eyes were locked with Bucky’s and they held not an ounce of doubt. “It’s just, I’m not sure there’s room for Mildred.”
Bucky froze, staring at Steve for long seconds, then stood. “You think Mildred wants to move in with me?”
“I think she might,” Steve said. Bucky was walking slowly towards him, a panther’s prowl, face filling up with joy. “I think she might want to be with you all the time. I think she might want to share her life with you, all of it, every bit. Good, bad, everything. And you know how attached couches can get.”
“I do love Mildred.” As Bucky reached him, Steve let his hands rest on Bucky’s chest.
“There’s one problem, though.” Steve tilted his head, eyebrows raised in question, and Bucky cupped his cheek. “If Mildred moves in, you’d have to come with her.”
Steve’s smile was pure sunshine, golden and bright, and Bucky held him tight, warmth rolling through him. “I think I could manage that.”
Mildred took pride of place in all her hideous glory, but Steve brought his paintings, his books, his photos, a few pieces of furniture. Together they rearranged the apartment and Bucky redesigned his jungle, new pots, new shelves, hung some from the ceiling, and Bucky’s apartment became their apartment, a reflection of them both.
One day Steve came home from the studio to find Bucky rearranging his jungle, a tiny waterfall having appeared at the end of a shelf, and he stopped dead. The apartment was beautiful, the plants filling it were gorgeous, each one perfectly placed, it was art, the way Bucky put them together, and they were happy, healthy, thriving.
It took Bucky a minute to get what Steve was talking about, and when he did, he shrugged it off. But the idea took root, growing slowly, until he was enamoured with it. With the idea of bringing growing things, living things, into indoor spaces, into tiny places, of bringing them to people with nothing green.
“Do you think I could?” he asked a week or so later.
“Yeah, Bucky. You could. This is amazing, what you’ve done in our place. And I’ll help you as much as you need.”
It didn’t turn out to be all that much. Bucky had a gift for seeing how things fit into a space, for perspective and lines of sight. Mostly Steve ended up watching, offering a suggestion here or there, about colours and shapes, as Bucky put together a portfolio of sorts. If he was going to convince anyone he could create them an indoor garden, he’d need something to show them.
“That, and make sure I keep this hidden.” He tapped his metal arm, making it ring, a faint shadow sliding into his eyes. Steve pulled him close and kissed him. He knew how Bucky felt about the fear he was so sure his arm caused. Steve wasn’t sure Bucky was right about the fear, but he knew Bucky would never let the gleaming metal show. So Steve kissed him again, and again, and kept kissing him until the shadow faded and Bucky was smiling again.
Steve got the idea flipping through a magazine someone had left in the kitchen at the studio. It had an article on tattooing: blackwork, traditional, watercolour, and an interview with a tattooist who specialised in turning mastectomy scars into works of art, into flowers and fruit, into birds and blossoms.
Bucky’s metal arm was simply Bucky’s arm to Steve, an indelible mark of what HYDRA had done to him, yes, but still his arm. For Bucky he knew it was a scar, a brand, forever marking him as something to be feared.
The idea wouldn’t let him go.
It would take more than normal paint, because the arm had to move, flex, each plate shifting like a muscle, and nothing he had, nothing he knew of, would do.
He went to Stark. Not directly; he called on the Black Widow, except she’d commissioned her painting so she was Natasha and also willing to help. Stark hmm’d and haw’d and conferred with Bruce; eventually they decided on the same paint Stark used on his suits with a couple of tweaks, an additive or two, to make it dry fast and go on smooth with a brush. To let it stay on through almost anything Bucky could throw at it.
“As many colours as you want, as much as you want, just let JARVIS know.” Steve hadn’t been sure he was going to like Stark—too loud, too brash, everything he did too much of a performance—but for that? Yeah, he could learn. For that, he wanted to.
He broached the subject one night when they were lying in bed, Steve running his fingers over Bucky’s metal arm, slowly tracing the edge of each plate, imagining how it would look vibrant with colour. “I know you worry about people seeing it, about how you think they’ll react.”
“How I know they’ll react,” Bucky interjected, but he didn’t sound upset, just…matter-of-fact. That was worse, tugging at the space in Steve’s heart that belonged to Bucky.
He pressed a swift kiss against the metal. “You know I love all of you, every bit of you.”
Bucky smiled softly. “I know.”
“So you know this offer is for you, not me.” Bucky looked at him questioningly and Steve drew his fingers in swoops from Bucky’s shoulder to his elbow. “I can paint it, turn it into something else, something new.” Bucky stilled, gaze dropping to his arm, and Steve wrapped his hand around it. “I read about this tattooist, he covers scars, turns them into these incredible pieces, into symbols of strength, into something beautiful.” He kissed Bucky’s arm again, kissed his shoulder, the metal cool against his lips. “I can’t tattoo your arm, but I can paint it, I can make it into something you choose, something that’s yours.”
Bucky was quiet for a long time. Steve didn’t try and talk, didn’t interrupt his silence, just nudged his way under Bucky’s arm to curl into his side and rested his head over Bucky’s heart, listening to it beat.
“What were you thinking?” Bucky finally asked.
There was almost a laugh in Bucky’s voice: warm, affectionate, brimming with love. “I know you’ve got something in mind.”
A beat, then Steve admitted, “I might.”
Bucky pressed a kiss to the top of Steve’s head, metal fingers sliding through Steve’s. “Tell me.”
And so Steve described what he saw when he closed his eyes, his hand sketching pictures in the air: green growing things and pale flowers, sunlight and curling vines, picked out like stained glass, each plate its own individual painting, coming together to create a perfect whole.
“Yes.” Bucky’s voice was faint and Steve shifted so he could see his face. It was filled with wonder. “Yes,” he said again, firmer, stronger, catching Steve’s chin in his metal hand, tilting it up to kiss him, long and slow and deep, until Steve’s breathing was ragged, fingers digging into Bucky’s skin. “Yes. Make me something new.”
Steve mapped Bucky’s arm. His heart wanted to lay Bucky down on the floor and wield his brush, to simply paint whatever came to him. But he couldn’t do that. He needed to be precise. Exact. Each plate had to be painted individually or the whole thing would come apart the first time Bucky moved it. And so he mapped Bucky’s arm and created a template with each plate outlined, JARVIS proving surprisingly helpful for more than just paint.
When he asked Bucky to help design it, he smiled, kissed the top of Steve’s head, said, “I trust you,” and left it in Steve’s hands.
It was simultaneously the best and scariest moment of his life.
When he was ready to start, he did lay Bucky down on the floor. But first he put down a plastic sheet and Mildred’s cushions and a soft blanket, and got Bucky settled, then taped more plastic to his skin, right where the metal joined flesh, covering Bucky and blanket and cushions. He needed Bucky to be comfortable, but he didn’t want fluff in his paint.
Steve worked through the day, moving Bucky, rearranging him as needed, hyper-focused, intent; Bucky was patient, watching him, and never asked to see. Steve was aching, spine and hips and shoulders screaming protest by the time he was done, but he managed it in a single endless session.
When he was finished the silver gleam of Bucky’s metal arm was almost completely gone. In its place was a cascade of stained glass, each plate an integral part of the whole, shades of Mucha in the delicate grace of the shapes, but the colours were bold: a golden sun rising over Bucky’s shoulder, the rays trailing back to meet the ropes of scarring. Vines and leaves in a dozen shades of green, dappled by light and shadow, twisted down his arm, broken by the pink tinged yellow-cream of lush peace roses. Only Bucky’s fingers were still silver, and a coil of green curled over his knuckles.
Steve stood with Bucky in the bathroom, where he’d first seen Bucky’s scars, and waited. Waited while Bucky stared at his arm in the mirror, at the colours, at the sun and the plants and the roses. Bucky touched his shoulder, tracing the rays of the sun, voice brimming with warmth as he murmured, “Angry brave sunshine.” He met Steve’s eyes. “So I’m always gonna have you with me?” Before Steve could reply, Bucky raised his metal fingers, tilting his hand back and forth, staring at the rose wrapped around his wrist, the green vine curled around his knuckles, at the leaves and dappled light, then he cupped Steve’s cheek, cradling his face. “I never thought I could look at it and see something beautiful.”
Steve leaned into Bucky’s hand. He felt almost weightless; exhausted, hurting, but it was distant, unreal, Bucky’s touch keeping him from floating away. “Something that’s yours.”
“Yeah, Steve.” Bucky’s voice was deep, rich, resonant with emotions too powerful for words. “Something that’s mine.” He kissed Steve’s forehead and pulled him close, and Steve sighed into Bucky’s chest, Bucky’s skin warm under his cheek. “I love you.”
Things were fading. Bucky was happy, he was happy, he’d given Bucky something good, and now he could let go. He snuggled closer, eyes drifting shut, knowing Bucky would take care of things from here. “I love you, too.”
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