[Bucky likes Steve a little bit more for not asking about the coffee or making a deal about it, he likes him for not asking why he always keeps his left hand in his pocket or wears long sleeves when it's such nice weather, because he's compassionate but not pitying and that's a rare thing to find. Jesus, he's starting to really like him, and he's only met the guy twice, this could be dangerous as hell.
He pads after him on silent bare feet, as if moving as quietly as possible is now second nature to him, over to where all the sketchpads and canvases are kept. He looks through the framed and bigger painted pieces first, giving each one time and proper consideration, before he moves onto the sketchpad. He doesn't speak, but the silence isn't a judgemental or awkward one, it's just because he's so absorbed in what he's looking at.
These are gorgeous.
Even the basic pencil drawings of people in his sketchpad. These ones that keep cropping up, of people he doesn't know. A man with a bow and arrow shooting in some kind of tournament, that same guy flopped on a sofa eating pizza, playing a video game, messing around with others. The ballerina in athletic poses, in martial arts gear, smiling in sweatpants. They're such simple lines, but they're full of life and vitality, almost like he knows the people just from the pictures.
And then he turns the last page and-- oh. That's him. Sat in profile with the hint of a six o'clock shadow, long hair escaping from the bun at the back of his head as he worked on the drawing of a boat. He looks intense, he looks handsome. His eyes flick up to Steve, something equally as intense in his eyes now.]
You drew me?
[It's neutral, not approving or disapproving. But he hasn't noticed any pictures of the rest of the class in this book.]
no subject
He pads after him on silent bare feet, as if moving as quietly as possible is now second nature to him, over to where all the sketchpads and canvases are kept. He looks through the framed and bigger painted pieces first, giving each one time and proper consideration, before he moves onto the sketchpad. He doesn't speak, but the silence isn't a judgemental or awkward one, it's just because he's so absorbed in what he's looking at.
These are gorgeous.
Even the basic pencil drawings of people in his sketchpad. These ones that keep cropping up, of people he doesn't know. A man with a bow and arrow shooting in some kind of tournament, that same guy flopped on a sofa eating pizza, playing a video game, messing around with others. The ballerina in athletic poses, in martial arts gear, smiling in sweatpants. They're such simple lines, but they're full of life and vitality, almost like he knows the people just from the pictures.
And then he turns the last page and-- oh. That's him. Sat in profile with the hint of a six o'clock shadow, long hair escaping from the bun at the back of his head as he worked on the drawing of a boat. He looks intense, he looks handsome. His eyes flick up to Steve, something equally as intense in his eyes now.]
You drew me?
[It's neutral, not approving or disapproving. But he hasn't noticed any pictures of the rest of the class in this book.]