Chapter Text
It all starts when they’re young, barely 18, if that. They find an apartment together, grateful for the breathing space apart from everyone else (never from each other, always glad to be close at hand to one another), even if it always smells of Mrs. Hu’s cooking, and Mr. Stepanovich’s dog barks all through the night. Bucky catches Steve at it one evening, when he comes home much too early from a date with a dame more interested in talk of God than of drinks, and Steve is sitting on his mattress with a hand mirror, carefully applying lipstick with more practised ease than half the girls Bucky knows. In that moment, before Steve notices, Bucky remembers that Steve is an artist, and sees the color of the lipstick as carefully chosen as any of Steve’s paint tubes, and the motion of the tube as the motion of the brush upon a canvas. Steve is beautiful, and Bucky can’t breathe. He doesn’t have a memory for these things, not like Steve, who knows the perfect color to paint a sunset or the navy of a soldier’s uniform, but he thinks this image, Steve in profile with soft red lips and a dusting of pink rogue across his cheeks, will be burnt into his brain better than his own name.
Steve finally sees him, and the moment ends. He watches Steve set the mirror down carefully, mindful of his now-trembling hands, put the cap back on the lipstick, and sigh. It’s soft, and the slump of Steve’s shoulders screams resignation, as though he’s already accepted the worst and is just waiting for the follow-through. Bucky is still, stuck to the spot he stands on. Steve turns to him, and there are tears at the corners of his eyes, and all Bucky can think is He’ll ruin all that hard work, so he moves toward Steve, who flinches back in anticipation of a blow. Bucky crouches down, and the tremor in Steve’s hands is now running through his whole body, but everything stops again as Bucky brushes the pad of his thumb under the edge of Steve’s eye, wiping away the tears, before copying the movement with his other hand, cradling Steve’s face gently in his hands. At this distance, he can see more than the rogue and lipstick, can see the silver-grey shadow on Steve’s eyelids, admires the way they make his blue eyes even brighter. Steve looks ethereal, better than any woman Bucky’s ever laid eyes on. Words escape him, so Bucky just smiles, leaning in to kiss Steve’s forehead, and feels the tension leak from Steve’s body as he wraps his arms around Bucky’s middle.
They stay there for a few brief moments, and Bucky hopes, prays (in a way he’s never really prayed before, never really had the need for until tonight) that it is enough. He prays that he tells Steve with his touch what he needs to say aloud: I’m always here for you; I’ll always protect you; Nothing can change that.