Captain America and Bucky Barnes Imagines

36. STEVE: Like One of His French Girls

Words: 1.7K

(A/N: Dang, look at that pretty man^^^)

You sit in the farthest back seat of a crowded minivan post-mission in Prague. The cobblestone streets are bumpy and jagged but Bucky Barnes does a pretty decent job at maneuvering down them without hitting any pedestrians. It's slightly drizzly outside, which you appreciate as you lean your cheek against the window and press your nose into your newest novel. The book's nearly finished and there seems to be a bit of a plateau in the action. Growing bored, you sigh and look away from the crinkled pages and long-spelled words. Nat's to your right with her headphones in and an iPad in front of her face—watching instructional videos on the fastest ways to clean all types of newly marketed guns. Clint is passed out and snoring in the very back on top of the luggage piles. Sneaking a quick peek over your shoulder shows him clutching his bow to his chest like a stuffed toy. Chuckling, you shake your head and look away.

Up at the front of the minivan Bucky drives with Wanda giving soft-spoken directions. Steve's not allowed to give Bucky directions anymore, because they just end up pulling over on the side of the road and bickering.

Speaking of Steve, the blond haired man is sitting directly in front of you. He too leans his head slightly against the cool window—temple touching condensation that cools his warm, tattered skin. His outfit is wrinkly from the fight and torn in some places and a little bit of blood is still there on his collar. Next to him Sam Wilson talks very loudly into the phone to someone—the conversation sounds like the beginning of a petty argument.

"...Nah man—I told you to take out the fucking trash! How could you tell me to do it if I told you first?!"

Steve doesn't seem to be paying Sam any mind. Curious about what Steve's doing to occupy his time, you scoot up until you're on your knees. Peering over the chair barrier you see that he's got a lined paper notebook on his lap and a number 2 pencil in his clutch. His huge hand looks comically large with the pathetic pencil in it. You think maybe he's writing post-mission notes to give to Tony or Fury when you get back, but upon closer inspection you see that it's not words at all: its art. Steve Rogers is drawing something. Something beautiful, as far as you can tell. The details in shading and the meticulous manner he strokes the page shows the utmost care and skill. But you can't exactly see the picture itself. The subject or even the size is a complete mystery.

You lean closer until your chin is resting on the flat part of Steve's shoulder. He startles—trying to close the page.

"Too late. I already saw," you laugh lightly into his ear.

Steve, smiling a bit, opens back to the same page. "And what do you think?" This time he angles it closer to you—so that you can properly see.

"Wow," is the first word that flows from your lips. You bring the page closer by touching his hand with yours. "This is amazing, Steve. I had no idea you were so talented." On the paper is a pencil sketch drawing of a gorgeous 1940s woman. You can tell that she's from Steve's era by the way he's styled her hair and the dress he's put her in. But she's not cooking or cleaning or doing anything mundane like that: she's holding a gun and looking very bad-ass.

Steve chuckles softly. "Thanks, Y/N." He takes the notebook back and looks at it closely like you're doing.

"She's beautiful," you tell him. Steve's eyes dart to you—big, blue, and sort of confused. "Who is she?" Your head tilts slightly more to one side.

"Are—are you kidding?" Steve questions you.

You blink. "Uh no." You raise an eyebrow. "At first I thought it might be Peggy," Steve glances down to stare at the paper with your words, "But it really doesn't look anything like the pictures I've seen of her."