Ink on his heart
Summary: Hereâs how Bucky Barnes got a haircut and then decided it was about damn time he controlled his own destiny - starting with a bit of ink.Â
Star Spangled Bingo Square: âA thoughtful giftâ
Characters: Bucky Barnes x TattooArtist!Reader
Words: 7,400 Warnings: Tattoo experiences, a couple stories about war. Some swearing. Mostly lots of feels and fluff.
A/N: This one has been in my head a long time, I love tattoos and I love the idea of Bucky getting them! While I desperately wish I could draw the designs in my head, hopefully you get enough of a word picture to imagine. And yes, it is kinda long (I know, I know), but I couldnât stop myself!Â
Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!
*****
Not that Buckyâs counting, but itâs been three days, 18 hours and 26 minutes and he canât get over it.
In the damp, chilly hours before dawn, he sits on the floor of the tower living room, watching the marshmallows in his hot chocolate melt in white swirls. Now and then, he lifts his eyes to the windows, finds the faint edges of his reflection in the dark glass, and tilts his head. Tentative fingers scratch through close cropped hair and a slow smile appears. Even now, he expects long strands trailing through his fingers. Believes he can feel the phantom tug of a snarl.
It was just a haircut. What a simple, ordinary thing. Â
But Bucky Barnes has never been ordinary.
That small act triggered a startling transformation. Decades of heartbreak fell away with that dark hair, revealing the shape of a man he begins to remember, and it makes him think. About small things, about change. About simple acts making an extraordinary difference.
The last haircut Bucky remembers before the beginning of his first ending, was January 1945. The memory came back one evening, of a tent in Austria, the heavy silence of snow drifting down. He remembers Steve with a dull scissors, snipping carefully along his ear, remembers the catch of a knife gently shaving his neck. It was a ritual they shared for years. When pennies were tight and life was tough, they took care of each other.
And then? Then there was after.
After the fall, after capture, after the world went pear-shaped. Hydra wasnât concerned with the formalities of self-care, a haircut was functional. Sharp scissors biting into his scalp, rough hands tearing his hair, a harsh slap if he considered resisting. Get it done and get it done fast. The Asset has work to do.
He despised those haircuts.
But now, here he is. No more handlers and horrors. No more running. No more hiding. No more ropes dragging him somewhere he doesnât want to be.
Wresting back his independence was exhilarating.
When Steve had finished this haircut - because Bucky still preferred a Steve Rogers special to anything - heâd dusted off Buckyâs shoulders and waited. Sam stood behind him, and Bucky rolled his eyes, expecting a barrage of sassy comments.
But Sam just ruffled the freshly cut hair and laughed.
âNot bad old man. Still not as handsome as yours truly, but hey - maybe someday.â
Such a simple thing, a haircut.
It makes him wonder what else he might do, just for himself. Â Â Â
Fuzzy and disconnected, an old memory flickers to life. It buzzes in his brain, images and connections filtering through the cracks and Bucky lets out a breathless laugh.
âYeah,â he murmurs to himself. âOkay.â
He closes his eyes and sips his hot chocolate.
*****
Steve yawns when he answers the door. Blond hair spikes in every direction and he rubs his eyes, looking for all the world like a sleepy, overgrown toddler.
âHey, man. Everything okay?â
Bucky leans against the doorframe and chews his thumbnail while he gathers his thoughts.
âSure, just - can I get a favor?â
Bemused, Steve ushers him inside and Bucky plops in the red bean bag chair Steve keeps tucked beside his dresser. Stretching out his legs, he waits for Steve to flop back into bed and snuggle his pillow, before he speaks.
âRemember back in â37 when we were coming home from that shitty bar in Midtown, and we saw that sailor getting a tattoo?â
Whatever Steve expected, it wasnât this. It takes him a moment to conjure the image, but when it comes he belts out a laugh.
âThat terrified kid gettinâ a big heart on his arm? Looked ready to shit his pants?â
Bucky grins at the memory, a milk-faced kid with hair dark and shiny as an oil-slick. Â
âThought he was gonna puke on the guy.â
âYeah, and didnât we stand outside that window arguing while you tried to convince me we both needed one? Something about good girls liking bad boys?â Â
âHey, I stand by that statement!â
âOh fuck off, you know exactly what your Ma wouldâve said if weâd come home with tattoos.â
âYeah,â Bucky chuckles. âGod, sheâd a skinned me alive.â
âDamn straight,â Steve agrees and they fall quiet, momentarily lost in shared memories of a woman with a voice of steel and a heart of gold.
Bucky leans forward and rests his chin on his knee.
âYou know, all these years and Iâve never really - done anything like that,â he admits wistfully. âGotten something done to me, I mean. Something I decided on my own. If that makes sense?â
Controlling his own destiny, choosing to do something by himself, instead of always accepting things done to him - the idea is intoxicating. He remembers the pained grimace on that sailorâs face and he relishes the prospect.
Pain you choose to feel holds a different meaning, than the torture he knows.
âSânever too late, Buck,â Steve says drowsily. âYou can do anything you want.â
Bucky contemplates Steveâs words. He can do anything he wants. Heart beating fast, he takes a deep breath.
âSo listen, I was thinking -â
*****
For two straight weeks, Steve works on ideas.
The floor of his bedroom is littered with sketches and concepts, crumpled sheets of paper dappled with flowing lines. Finally, after midnight on a dreary Thursday, he knocks on Buckyâs door. The moment it opens, he shoves his tattered leather portfolio in Buckyâs hands.
âSo, I guess, uh - here.â
Steve crosses his arms, his toe tapping nervously, and Bucky chokes down a laugh. Some things about Steve Rogers remain comfortingly unchanged. No matter how incredible his work, all confidence seems to evaporate the moment Bucky lays eyes on anything.
â
âGive it back asshole!â
âGod dammit Steve, YOUâRE the one who asked me to look!â
âYeah well, I changed my mind, now give it back!â
â
Bucky remembers laughing while Steve chased him around their apartment. He remembers the neighbors banging on the wall, shouting at them to shut up, and he remembers the smell of their forgotten scrambled eggs burning. But most of all, he remembers that drawing - he tucked that portrait of his mother in his rucksack the day he shipped out and it stayed there, a good luck charm all through the war.
Steve had cried when Bucky told him.
Because Buckyâs opinion was always the one that mattered. Seventy years changes nothing.
Tonight, he opens the leather case, revealing three separate drawings. Outlines of black ink and a rainbow of colors paint over the curves and breaks of a human form and he pores over each page. Each drawing is utterly unique, telling the story of Bucky Barnes in metaphors and moments. Â Â
There are no words.
His throat feels suddenly thick, cotton lodged in his windpipe.
âI can redo them,â Steve blurts out. He snatches at the paper, but Bucky spins sideways, blocking the reach.
âThe fuck you will. You ainât touching these,â his voice cracks. Blinking back the flood of emotion, he looks up. âThis is - theyâre perfect, Steve. Thank you.â
Steve blushes petal pink and coughs to hide his delight. He fails miserably, of course, but thatâs one more reason Bucky loves the little punk.
*****
One week later, Bucky stands before a demure brick storefront on a slow Brooklyn side street, the portfolio housing Steveâs three precious drawings clutched tight in a sweaty hand. Glancing at the address in his hand, he looks up to find stenciled letters curving across a glass window.
BROOKLYN INK ESTABLISHED 1973
âHere we go,â he mutters. Before he can lose his nerve, he shoves forward.
Three steps inside the tattoo parlor, he pulls up short.
Wow.
Black iron chandeliers hang from the ceiling, splashing sparkles across plush velvet chairs, rich violet and bright turquoise. The floor is an eclectic mix of reclaimed barn board, full of knots and whorls in every shade of brown. Artwork in black and white frames line the brick wall, tattoo designs, letters and fonts, photos of finished work. The entire space overflows with warmth, and Bucky feels instantly at ease. Â
The front desk is empty, but he hears someone rattling around back, so he takes a seat. Piled high on an end table are bundles of photo albums, full of work; he sinks into the cushions and starts flipping through. Â
Immersed in the images, he misses the sound of quiet footsteps.
âAre you James?â
The voice startles him and in one swift move, he manages to throw the album on the floor and tumble from the chair. Pages of photographs spill everywhere and he crawls over, hastily scooping them up and babbling one inappropriate apology after another.
âShit! Sorry, Iâm sorry! Shit, I mean Iâm sorry for saying shit. Fuck, I didnât - oh my god, Iâm sorry, Iâm not usually so - â
Soft laughter greets him and he looks up in panic, a more refined apology on his lips, but the words evaporate.
Crouching beside him, graceful hands gather up the mess of photos, slipping them back into the album. Dropping it carelessly on the end table, she bounces back to her feet and offers him a hand.
âNo worries,â she says with a breathtaking smile. âI shouldnât have startled you.â
Although he has no need for the support, Bucky reaches mutely for her outstretched fingers because he canât help but take them. When she tugs, he allows her to pull him up. Â
âIâm, um - Bucky. Please, call me Bucky.â
âHello Bucky,â she says. She shares her name and he repeats it slowly. Clearing his throat, he takes a deep breath.
âThanks for meeting me so late, I know itâs after hours.â
âSure,â she says lightly. âSo, what can I do for you?â
This is the tricky part.
âOn the website, it mentioned you had experience with - with tattooing around scars,â he begins carefully. âScar tissue I mean. Is that right?â
With his question, her expressions turns serious. She observes him for a long moment.
âYes, I do. Can I ask how long you served?â she asks delicately and Bucky acknowledges her perception with a short nod. He toys with the zipper on Steveâs portfolio, debating his response.
âSeemed like forever,â he finally says, and itâs the most honest answer he has.
Nodding silently, she motions him behind the counter.
âCome on back, letâs see what you had in mind.â
Hugging the pictures to his chest, Bucky follows, eyes saucer wide as they weave through the work area to her space. The shop smells like the woodsy smoke from the candles sitting along her table, mixed with ink and latex and an odd sterile tang. He inhales and discovers he likes it, the strange scent lighting him up. Â
Dropping to her stool, she gestures for him to have a seat. Bucky sits gingerly, wide eyes still staring. When she catches his eye, he flushes.
âSorry. First time Iâve been in a shop.â
âThatâs okay, thereâs lots to see,â she says easily. Looking at the portfolio still clutched against his chest, she grins. âDid you have some ideas already?â
He thrusts the portfolio at her. Propping it on her knees, she flips it open and he beams when he hears her astonished gasp.
âI like the colors there, if you think theyâre possible?â
âSure, might take some extra time, but I can do it,â she murmurs, pinching her lip. Turning the page sideways, she examines every minute detail, shaking her head in disbelief. âThis is exquisite.â Â
âIâll tell my artist. Heâs a real diva sometimes.â
âIâd say heâs earned that right,â she laughs, tracing the paper with a light finger. She flips to the second picture and tilts her head. âThe grays and silvers might look nice with midnight blue for contrast?â
Bucky nods eagerly. âYeah, I love that idea.â
She looks again, examining the intricate design.
âCan you tell me about your pain tolerance? The designs are beautiful, but theyâre complex. Each will take multiple sessions to finish.â
Bucky drops his eyes. He heaves a sigh at the obligatory question.
âItâs high,â he mutters. âVery - high.â
Silence follows his admission. When he dares to look up again, he feels a twinge in his chest at the compassion he finds. He offers a rueful smile and she slowly returns it.
âWould you like to come after hours? It can get noisy during the day, if you prefer things quieter. Most soldiers like that better.â
There is a sweep of relief at her casual acknowledgement. He huffs out a shaky breath.
âThat would be great. If you donât mind, I mean.â
âNot at all. Iâm a night owl anyway.â
âYeah,â Bucky says quietly. âMe too.â
She looks back to the portfolio, carefully shuffling the pages.
The third picture appears.
And Bucky sees it, that precise moment when realization sinks in. When she realizes exactly who is sitting in her chair tonight. There is no doubt the drawing gives that fact away. Heart pounding, he flinches, steeling himself for the inevitable.
But nothing happens.
She meets his nervous gaze head on and yet - that gentle smile remains.
âBucky,â she repeats and this time she understands. âOh. Itâs nice to meet you, Bucky Barnes. Come back tomorrow night, 9pm. Donât be late.â
He leaves the tattoo shop feeling lighter than he has in years.
*****
TATTOO 1: FOREARM
âShow me a man with a tattoo and Iâll show you a man with an interesting past.â - Jack London
*****
Perpetually early for everything, Bucky arrives at 8:45pm the next night.
The bell over the door tinkles when he enters, and she looks up from the front desk and waves. His stomach unexpectedly leaps and he thinks it must be nerves.
âHey, Bucky,â her voice is soft.
âEvening,â he says shyly. Â
âYou ready to do this?â
âCould hardly sleep last night,â he confesses with a grin.
Sliding timidly into her black leather chair, he watches her arrange tools on a shiny silver tray. An arm rest is attached to his right side, and he dries his sweaty palm on his jeans before easing his arm onto the cushion, palm up. When she drops onto her stool at his side, he offers a weak smile. Â
âYou got the email I sent with all the information, right? Did you have any questions?â
He scrunches his nose, recalling the long, detailed summary she shared. For each of the three tattoos he requested, she gave him a detailed analysis of the process for creating each design; broke down how long each session would take; gave explicit instructions on the healing and care process; confirmed each individual color and how it would be applied; clarified the tools that would be used, including their brand names and how each one worked; she even provided floor plans of her shop - outlining entries and exits and bathrooms and locations of fire extinguishers.
It was a novel of information that mustâve taken her hours, and he was inexplicably grateful for the time she spent just to make him comfortable.
âNo questions, I just, uh - thanks. For putting all that together. It was helpful to have all the information. Helps me keep my head on straight.â
âOf course,â she says. âSo this first design should take probably 5-6 hours. Since youâre new, weâll start with short blocks and see how it goes.â
Bucky gives a jerky nod and she pauses, pressing her fingertips against the smooth skin of his forearm.
âHere are the rules. Youâre in charge, okay? We can go as fast or as slow as you need. This is not a race, and I have nowhere to be but here. Any time you want to stop, you say the word and I stop. We can take a breather, grab a cup of coffee and start again - or we can call it a night. This is your experience, Bucky. Youâre in control. Understand?â
There is a fierce surge of gratitude at her words. Gratitude for her kindness, for her acceptance. Gratitude for her.
âGot it,â he whispers.
And with that, they begin.
Bucky follows each step, while she measures his arm, while she considers the contours and angles of his muscle, while she cleans and preps his skin. When she finally applies a stencil, his heart is hammering so hard his teeth are chattering.
The low buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears with a click.
When the needles touch his skin, sweat instantly beads his neck. Adrenaline drenches his tongue and for one wild moment, Bucky panics. Wonders if this was a terrible idea, because what idiot asks for pain, seriously Barnes, what the hell is wrong with you, whyâre you so stupid all the -
And then - oh.
Huh.
Interesting.
Wide-eyed, Bucky follows her careful strokes, black lines appearing on his skin.
It does hurt - sort of. Obviously nothing he canât handle; in the grand scheme of his life, this would register as a minor inconvenience, but there is a pinch.
But that spark of pain vanishes, when the raw symbolism behind Steveâs design hits him full force.
Holy shit.
How many times through the decades did Bucky Barnes die? And how many times did he rise, born again from the frozen ash of oblivion? It was simply what the Soldier did. But it was a shadow-life, nothing more. Bucky never knew how close he was to giving up, until that day above the Potomac, Steveâs bloody face beneath his furious fists. He was so far gone, so lost and forgotten, until those memories cracked the Soldierâs fierce veneer.
And suddenly he was Bucky again. Awake and alive. For the first time in 70 years he felt fire in his soul. For the first time in 70 years he could breathe.
Tears inexplicably fill his eyes. Â Â
âAll okay?â
Through a tunnel, Bucky hears her voice. Hypnotized by the metaphor inking itself into his skin, his head feels waterlogged when blinks up at her.
âSorry?â
She scans his face, her thumb rubbing the pulse thrumming at his wrist.
âEverything okay?â She asks again and Bucky feels a potent rush of euphoria.
âYes,â he says slowly. The excitement bubbles over and he lets out an ecstatic laugh. âYes! This is incredible. This is - fucking hell, this is amazing.â
Chuckling to herself, she bends back to her task.
âSo I guess weâll keep going?â
âYeah,â he laughs. âYeah, letâs keep going.â
Two hours later, the outline of the Phoenix is inked into his skin, crisp black lines like fresh paint. Long tail feathers are curled around his wrist, the lush feathered body splashed over his forearm, her wings spread open and curving around his arm, her head reaching toward the sky.
Born from ash. Alive again.
Bucky hates to cover it up, but she insists.
âFollow the cleaning instructions and it should be fine. We need to wait between the sessions, give you time to heal.â
At that comment, he fidgets.
âActually, I heal pretty - fast.â
âI assumed you might. Usually I say 2-3 weeks between sessions, so how about you come back in 1 week and we can see. Letâs just make sure. Does that work?â
Bucky glances at the crisp white bandage on his arm.
âOkay, that works,â he says.
She squeezes his hand and he meets her eyes.
âYou did great,â she tells him.
Bucky smiles in return. And he doesnât stop for the next six days.
*****
When he walks into the shop for his next session, he carries a large coffee for himself and an extra large iced peach green tea for her. When he gets to the front desk, he thrusts the cup at her. Â
âEvening. Um, here. Saw you had one last time, so - anyway.â
âBucky, thank you. Iâve been craving one all day.â She gives the straw an experimental bite, before taking a long drink and for some reason, the silly quirk makes his heart bounce.
After a quick check on how heâs healed, she declares him perfect and they get started, settling into a comfortable silence. After an hour of buzzing, Bucky clears his throat.
âIs it okay to talk while you work?â
âIt is,â she affirms, dabbing at the ink. Glancing up, she sees hesitant blue eyes. âIâm good at listening too. Sometimes itâs nice just to listen.â Â
Bucky figures thatâs a fair statement. He fiddles with a stray thread on his shirt.
âDo you read much?â He asks hopefully, picturing the teetering stack of books beside his bed. She perks at the question.
âI love to read. Have a pile of books on my nightstand waiting for me to find time. What about you? Are you reading anything good now? Any favorites I should know?â
Bucky swallows the happy surprise. If he could, heâd be content to spend the rest of his years with a comfortable chair, a cup of coffee, and an unending supply of stories. He could talk about books for days, he just normally keeps quiet, because most people arenât interested in that facet of Bucky Barnes.
So he begins to talk.
He tells her how Natasha lent him all her Russian copies of Pushkin and Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, insisting that reading in the original language was infinitely better. He describes how he found a copy of Rumiâs poetry at a yard sale, and what an incredible treasure it was. He flusters recounting how much he cried reading âA Fault in our Starsâ and says he was scared shitless to even see a clown for a full year after reading Stephen King. Â Â
He talks and talks and talks, and when he finally stops to breathe, she glances up.
âItâs nice to hear a man whoâs so well read,â she says and Bucky preens at the compliment. âDo you have an all time favorite? Something you never get tired of?â
A favorite? No question.
âYeah, I do. Something I read during the war and kinda fell in love. Itâs about here, I guess. About Brooklyn.â
At the description, her mouth quirks, but she keeps working.
âDid you ever think about a book quote for a tattoo?â
Now thereâs an idea. He makes a mental note to think of a quote he could add as another tattoo. Or maybe another couple tattoos. Hell, one session in and heâs already addicted. Â
The comment tumbles free before he realizes heâs spoken out loud. He blushes at her laughter.
âIt can be addicting,â she agrees. Bucky understands completely, seeing the vibrant crimson ink soak into his skin, painting the birdâs feathers. And then she pauses, meeting his eyes with a peculiar expression. âThe right words can make you feel invincible.â
Setting the tattoo machine down, she rolls her chair back a bit and sits up straight. Lifting the hem of her shirt, Bucky sees a line of gold text inked below her ribs, his eyes following the flowing cursive.
âShe was all of these things and of something more,â he reads aloud.
ââA Tree Grows in Brooklynâ is my favorite book too,â she says quietly. There is a long, unbroken moment where they stare into each others eyes. He should say something, he thinks. Something intelligent or witty or anything, but instead he just thinks about the fact that he found a woman in Brooklyn to permanently carve pictures into his skin and she has the same favorite book as him.
Bucky always was a sucker for fate.
âThatâs - thatâs really - I love that,â he finally says instead.
*****
A week later, Bucky arrives with a bundle of folders and an exasperated expression.
âThis is really annoying, but do you mind if I finish some reports while you work? Got behind, someoneâs gonna have my ass.â Bucky raises the papers apologetically.
âNo problem,â she says easily. âLetâs keep your ass safe.â
Bending back to her task, Bucky snorts a laugh. Theyâre just a handful of mission reports, normally he types them soon as he returns, but lately heâs been slacking, because lately he has other things he finds more interesting.
Like the scene in front of him.
Together they work, each with their own pen. Bucky writes, she colors, and the clock on the wall ticks along. After awhile, she takes a break to stretch. Rolling her shoulders, she observes him.
âAre you left-handed?â she asks curiously and it takes Bucky a moment to think.
âOh. Uh, not really,â he says. âBut I can switch. Never been a problem.â
At the confession, she raises her eyebrows.
âThatâs impressive. I wish I had a talent like that.â
He ducks his head at the praise. And he keeps writing, of course. Maybe adds a bit more flair. After all, the old Bucky Barnes did like to swagger. Â Â
*****
âWell, I think thatâs it.â
It takes a beat before Bucky understands what she means. Confused, he peers up at her with a dopey expression and she gestures at his arm.
He feels his heart lurch.
It flames to life along his arm, painted in vibrant ruby red and rich crimson and deep plum, highlights edged in shining gold. Mesmerized, Bucky stares down at the lines of ink and he flexes, the tendons of his arm shifting, and the bird moves. For one wild moment, he believes if he stays still, it could leap from his skin and take flight. Â
It leaves him breathless.
âGod, this is better - fuck, itâs so much better - than I ever imagined. How did you - wow. I donât know how you did it, but - thank you. Thank you so much.â
Unanticipated emotion makes his voice tremble. Because this is the first time Bucky Barnes chose something permanent for himself. Serums and metal arms and bullets and blades, those were always forced upon him, his pleading refusals met with violence and sneering indifference.
But this?
This.
This.
This is all his.
*****
TATTOO 2: BACK
âWear your heart on your sleeve in this life.â - Sylvia Plath
*****
âSo, uh, how exactly does this work?â
Standing beside the leather chair while she organizes her inks, Bucky wrinkles his nose. She looks up and motions for him to turn, straddling the chair with his chest pressed against the back.
âAre you comfortable completely removing your shirt? Or would you prefer to leave it part way on? Iâll just need it out of the way for the right side of your back.â
Bucky grimaces. Eventually sheâs going to see his shoulder - he knows that - but heâs not in the mood to rip that band-aid off yet. Â
âUh - letâs do part of the way if thatâs okay?â
âThatâs okay,â she confirms and he awkwardly tugs his right arm free, baring the broad expanse of his back. Tucking his arms in front of him, he slings a leg over the chair and rests his chin carefully on the headrest.
He says nothing, simply stays still while she absorbs the sight. Littered up and down his back are a litany of scars, puckers from the occasional bullet, thin lines from errant blades, and a few other marks he prefers not to define. His voice is muffled when he warily asks.
âAre you able to - work with it?â Â Â
âAbsolutely,â she answers firmly and Bucky warms at the decisiveness in her tone. Her confidence makes him feel infinitely more positive.
This is the largest of his three tattoos, stretching from the tip of his shoulder blade and flowing down to his waist. It will also take the longest, but Bucky assures her he has no issue sitting perfectly still for hours.
Itâll be worth it. He canât wait to show Sam - heâll get a kick out of this one.
Once she applies the stencil over his skin, she goes to work, dropping into that headspace of deep focus. She works so quietly for so long, he falls into a trance, lulled by the melodic buzz.
When she speaks, it startles him.
âWhat made you decide you wanted a tattoo?â
He lays his cheek along the edge of the chair so he can see her from the corner of his eye when he answers.
âSârandom, but back in â37, me and Steve were out and I remember walking by this old tattoo shop over in Midtown. They had one of those big glass windows with the chair in front, so people could stand and watch. Anyway, we walk by and there was this kid sitting in the chair, and no fuckinâ joke, he was getting a big heart on his arm with âMOMâ written in the middle.â
âAh yes, the ever popular âmomâ tribute. Iâve done a few of those,â she says and Bucky grins.
âWell anyway, I always kinda wanted something, you know? Thought about getting one before I shipped out, but I didnât, and then it was - â he pauses for a moment, but she encourages him with a questioning hmmm? and Bucky bravely pushes forward. âI had lots of years where I didnât get to make my own decisions. And there was so much - bad shit that happened to me. Anyway, I guess I thought if someoneâs gonna do something to me, I wanted it to be on my own terms. You know?â
âYeah,â she murmurs. âI think that makes perfect sense.â
Bucky sits quietly, contemplating. The question has been rattling around his brain for awhile and it spills free before he can stop himself.Â
âThe whole process, it feels sort of  - intimate, doesnât it?â
He flushes at the insinuation, but intimate is the best way to describe it, he thinks, this practice of someone permanently carving their art into your skin.
âIt is intimate,â she says softly, leaning closer. âItâs almost like youâre - leaving a piece of your soul under someoneâs skin? I donât know if that makes sense, but thatâs what itâs always felt like.â
Bucky nods, watching her capable, artistic, beautiful hands as they move, slowly transferring bits and pieces of herself to him.
What a gift. He holds on tight.
*****
It was bound to happen at one of the sessions.
Itâs been dark and rainy for days, buckets dumped from the heavens, the perpetual grumble of thunder always near. When Bucky comes through the front door, he feels like a wet dog. He shakes out his jacket, stomps his boots. He feels off base tonight, the result of bad sleep, bad dreams, and one particularly bad mission. Heâs frustrated with himself for bringing it with him, thinks maybe he shouldâve cancelled, but the thought of skipping his session - both the ink and her - was too depressing.
So instead of holing up in his room and moping under the covers, he braved the storm.
The one inside and out.
Searching for calm, he licks chapped lips.
âHey,â he says, cringing when his voice cracks.
âHey, Buck,â she turns cheerfully, but when she sees him squinting at her through the droplets cascading down his face, his shoulders hunched and tense, she stops. Looks him up and down and her expression softens. Beckoning him back, she digs up a towel and a dry t-shirt with âBROOKLYN INKâ stamped across the front, ushering him to the bathroom.
âTake all the time you need. No rush.â
Bucky mumbles his thanks and shuts the door. Gripping the sink, he glares at the mirror, at the smudge of dark beneath his eyes, at the clench of his jaw. Closing his eyes, he breathes slow and deep.
âYouâre okay. Youâre okay.â
He repeats the mantra, determined to settle. Heâs been eager for this session all week, heâs sure as hell not ruining it because he canât get his idiot brain to stop spinning.
When he finally emerges, he finds her arranging her work space. Halting in front of her, he keeps trembling hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes downcast.
âIâm afraid Iâm poor company tonight,â he admits quietly.
âThatâs okay. We can reschedule, Bucky,â she says softly and Bucky feels the disconcerting sting of tears. He rubs the heel of his hand against watery eyes. Â
âIf itâs okay, Iâd - Iâd rather go ahead. Been looking forward to seeing you - uh, seeing you work, all week. It was just - â he pauses and fights the temptation to spill his guts. No, he snarls internally, she doesnât need to hear all your shit.
He clamps his mouth shut and shrugs instead.
She says nothing, but when she gives his hand a comforting squeeze, Bucky feels that familiar surge of gratitude. She guides him carefully toward the chair and he slumps into the seat, automatically tugging up his new shirt. Â
âJust close your eyes and breath. Youâre okay.â
Bucky rests his chin on the edge of the chair. Troubled eyes flutter shut, and the comforting buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears, muting the sound of the storm raging outside. When he feels the prick of the needles, he lets out a weary breath. And when he feels the easy pressure of her fingers, he begins to relax.
For hours, she works. Firm strokes, painting the story across his skin.
The dark night begins to fade before she finally sets her tools aside. When he climbs to his feet, she pulls him into a gentle hug. Â Â
Bucky sinks into her arms.
That morning, the sun begins to shine.
*****
Buckyâs been sitting for a couple hours now, eyeing the brick wall behind the chair. A question pops into his head and he feels like a jerk for not asking sooner.
âHey - all these hours together, and I never asked you - what made you want to draw on people for a living?â
She hums at the question, and he can hear the happiness in her reply.
âWell, I always wanted to be an artist. For my eleventh birthday, my best friend Mike gave me this set of gel pens, there were a million colors. When I told him I wanted to be a tattoo artist, he let me draw pictures all over him for practice. He insisted on being the first person I inked, once I got my license. Would always tell people he was the âoriginal canvasâ for my brilliance.â
When she laughs, Bucky chuckles with her; it reminds him of Steve.
âSounds like a good man,â he says.
âYeah, he is - he was,â she quietly corrects herself. âHe was an EOD specialist in Afghanistan. Right before he left for his last tour, I drew up plans for the arm sleeve he always wanted; he planned to get it when he finished. A month later, he was in a convoy that was moving through the Gereshk Valley in the Helmand Province, when an IED hit his vehicle. He didnât make it home.â
The story hits home like a kick in the face.
Too many soldiers, too many lives. Bucky reaches back to still her hand. He slowly turns to face her, gently tugging the tattoo machine free and setting it aside. Wordlessly, he offers his hand and she accepts it gratefully, weaving her fingers through his. It takes a few attempts before she speaks again. Â
âIt took me a long time to get through that. One day I met a friend working down at the VA, and I heard a vet talking about the scars on his legs. He sounded so - sad about them, you know? Kept saying he didnât recognize himself anymore. And I just stood there thinking, maybe I couldnât help Mike, but I could still do something.â Staring resolutely down, she considers her fingers still entangled with Buckyâs. âI did some research and took some classes and - learned how to tattoo on scar tissue.â
Bucky gazes at her. He feels a sweep of pride at the way she turned her tragedy into something beautiful.
âIâm so sorry that happened,â he says and she finally looks up, meeting blue eyes bright with compassion. âBut you should know, what youâre doing for people, itâs incredible. And if you donât mind me saying, I think heâd be real god damn proud of you.â
A tear slips down her cheek and she ducks her head, her whisper so low he nearly misses it.
âThank you Bucky.â
*****
Hours later, Bucky hears a clatter of tools and her huff of relief.
âAll done.â
Wiping her hands, she pops excitedly up from the stool and Bucky pushes back from the chair to follow. Without a thought, she grabs his metal hand, tugging him impatiently over to a set of floor length mirrors along the wall. Bucky grips tight and obediently follows, his pulse racing. When she positions him at the mirror, she adjusts the panels so he can see himself from all angles.
âThere, have a look.â
Along his spine, the single metal wing bursts free, so intensely realistic, Buckyâs jaw drops. It arches gracefully up, curving over his shoulder blade and sweeping down his back, razor sharp feathers tickling his rib cage before billowing out above his waist. Made from silvers and grays and shaded hints of midnight blue, it glows in the light. When Bucky reaches toward the sky, the muscles shift beneath the ink and it creates the strangest sensation of feathers unfolding. Â
All the scars littering his back, a flesh and bone patchwork of memories left by vicious handlers and fights too close for comfort, have disappeared. Blending into the steel of his new wing, their only purpose is to strengthen the image.
After all this time, heâs come to terms with the metal arm so unwillingly gifted all those years ago. But itâs remained a relic of a past life, something heavy, to drag him down.
But now, he rolls his shoulder back and his new metal wing lifts him higher than heâs felt in a long, long time.
*****
TATTOO 3: SHOULDER
âI can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.â - Haruki Murakami
*****
âSo our last session.â
âOur last session,â he murmurs.
Bucky thinks for a moment that she seems glum, but maybe thatâs wishful thinking.
âThis is a tough one,â she warns, âbut I think we can do it in one session. I wonât try and cover them up, it wonât work. The best solution is to incorporate your scars into the design. Make sense?â
Bucky pictures the pattern Steve drew, bright green leaves and vines tracing the seam of his arm, melding with the thick ribbons of raised tissue. It doesnât matter, but he timidly asks anyway.
âWill it hurt?â
âNo,â she says gently. Pressing her hand to his galloping heart, she shakes her head. âIt wonât hurt much there, but you need to tell me if it hurts here. You need to tell me if I should stop. Remember, youâre in charge, okay?â
âOkay,â he whispers.
Steeling himself, he whips off his shirt, balling it up in nervous hands. The cool air blowing through the shop is a relief for his overheated body.
âDo you mind if I feel the skin here? So I can make sure I approach it right?â
âYeah, âcourse,â Bucky mumbles. Staring at his hands, he waits.
Leaning close, her fingers brush over him, feeling the lines and ridges, assessing the canvas. For ten minutes, she tests his skin, lightly pushing and pressing, observing the scars and bumps where metal meets man. Â
âDoes it still hurt?â
She doesnât want to ask, but needs to know what sheâs working with. With a grim smile, he shrugs.
âNot really. Aches sometimes, but doesnât hurt. Canât feel much there besides some pressure.â
Nodding, she pinches her lip. âI was thinking last night, um - would you want to add anything else into the design? Nothing big, but a few flowers? Some daisies maybe?â
âSure, Iâd like that. Any reason for daisies?â Bucky asks curiously.
Pulling out a few additional bottles of ink, she absently touches the necklace at her throat, and Bucky sees a silver daisy spinning.
âDaisies represent new beginnings. Thought it might be a nice way to end, if you like?â
Does he like it? The idea of having this small thing in common?
Hell yes he likes it.
Maybe - maybe he even more than likes it?
âYeah. That sounds perfect,â he says softly. He swallows hard and she nods encouragingly.
âOkay. Remember - stop me if you need a break.â
This one, Bucky knows will be hard. It was the reason he left it to the end - the mental fortitude required here is much different.
As she begins, he contemplates the pink furrows gouged into his skin. The memory of how they got there flashes before him, a sick image of shredded skin raked bloody beneath his blunt fingernails. Faint screams of a past life echo in his ears, the smokey cry of his own voice desperate for relief from the pain.
Cold sweat slides down his face and he slams his eyes shut, but that seems to make it worse. The images glow technicolor bright, and he grunts a frustrated breath.
And then, through the thin latex of her glove, he feels her cool hand press against his pounding heart. Cracking an eye open, he finds her calm face and he focuses on her, until his breathing begins to ease. Blinking rapidly, he drinks in the curve of her nose, the shape of her mouth, the beauty of her eyes.
His heart stutters, stunning him into a different kind of breathless.
âOkay?â
âYeah,â he murmurs, wide eyes locked on hers. âYeah, Iâm okay. You can keep going.â
When she bends back to her task, Bucky melts. It occurs to him, that perhaps if she might let him, he could be content watching her forever.
But for tonight, this forever lasts only a few hours before sheâs done.
And there it is.
Shades of green line his shoulder, the vines curling and winding around his scars, blending them seamlessly into the foliage covering his skin. Spidering vines trail across his chest, and it seems incompatible in a way, something alive bursting from the stark metal, but the leaves look so real, he swears they flutter with each breath he takes. Strewn throughout the greenery, small splotches of yellow and white reveal her daisies and he sucks in a breath.
For the first time in his life, Bucky stares at his scars and a foreign word comes to mind, one he never, ever thought to use.
âBeautiful,â he breathes. âTheyâre beautiful.â
*****
And so, after 3 months and 30 hours together, they were done.
Hands in his pockets, Bucky gazes at her. Ink on her hands, ink on his heart. It hits him then, this is it. They shuffle, making small talk, neither ready to say goodbye.
âPromise youâll come back if you decide on anything else. Tattoos, piercings, anything,â she teases and Bucky laughs.
âTold you, I might be a little addicted,â he admits, knowing full well he means to tattoos and to her. âSoon as I can think of a reason, Iâll be back.â
âI hope so,â she says. There is a brief moment where she seems to gather her courage and then she leans in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. âYouâre a work of art, Bucky, but - you were before any of this. Remember that.â
Dazed, Bucky touches his cheek.
Indelible and perfect, the tattoo of her lips inks itself straight onto his heart.
*****
When she arrives at the shop the next day, there is a new sight sitting on the front desk.
Daisies, their white petals and yellow faces as fresh as the afternoon sunshine filtering through the window. Bemused, she looks around the bustling shop and spies the card propped beside the overflowing vase, her name scrawled across the front.
-
âWhen I got home, I stood in front of the mirror for hours, staring at your artwork. Every time I told myself to go to sleep, I found something new I loved. The tail feathers on my Phoenix or the petals of your daisies. What youâve given me is more than I ever hoped - I can never thank you enough.
But anyway, I remembered what you said - how this kind of art is like leaving a piece of your soul under someoneâs skin.
Well, I wonât lie - you must have done, because I miss you already.
So at the risk of being forward (although I did break into your shop and leave this, so maybe this wonât seem that forward), would you have dinner with me? Â
I think thereâs another new beginning waiting out there, if youâd like to find it with me. Â
Yours,
Buckyâ
-
At the bottom of the note, a phone number is printed.
Brushing her fingers over the delicate white petals, she pictures him, that dark haired man with eyes like blue ink, so heartbreakingly beautiful inside and out. She feels the unconscious pull of her heart, telling her all she needs to know.
A new beginning.
She says yes.
*****













