True North [Stucky Fanfiction - IN PROGRESS]

15 - Timid Inspiration

Steve is feeling good. He deserves it, he thinks, for as lonely as he's felt these past few months. It's like his world isn't quite as empty anymore, which of course it still is, but something has changed in him that makes the sun seem a little brighter and the grass a little greener than usual.

When he gets to his home, he grabs a large bag of dog food from the stack that's nearly nine feet high. He must have three hundred bags here in the shed he built especially for storing animal supplies. He hoists it easily on his shoulder and takes a look at some of the toys sitting in a pile in the corner. With a smile, he picks a pig-shaped squeaky one off the top and goes around to the makeshift kennels, dumping food in each dog's bowl and pausing to give them each an affectionate scratch behind the ear. When he reaches the far end, Olive the Bernese Mountain Dog is waiting for him at the gate, wagging her tail madly and pawing at the latch. He lets her out momentarily so he can pour a handful of food into her crate and offers her the toy as she leaps around his feet. She accepts it happily, laying down and chewing on it immediately while still managing to give Steve those irresistible puppy dog eyes. He kneels down to ruffle her thick fur before thinking to himself, hell, why don't I just let a couple of them run around with me for a while?

He relatches the gate and watches as Olive realizes she doesn't have to go back in. Pig toy still half hanging out of her mouth, she circles around to his side and looks up, eyes asking where to?

She was a service dog for a man who lived in the outskirts of New York City and one of the first Steve found. At that time, he had used a pickup truck to get around with crates stacked in the back, and Olive was one of the first he found. Steve had happened to hear a radio playing from the inside of a house just by pure chance and paused to investigate. He had found the radio playing in the living room with the window partially open, but when he searched through the rest of the house, he discovered an attentive Olive draped over her collapsed owner, still wearing the vest declaring her as a service animal. She had perked up when she heard him and it took a lot of convincing to get her to join him in his car, but she was so well behaved that Steve let her sit in the passenger seat. It had been a productive day that day, and Steve would be lying if he said she wasn't one of his favorites.

He picked a couple more dogs and spent another hour feeding and cleaning the cages of all the other animals on the property, including a variety of cats, birds, hedgehogs, mice, reptiles, chickens, and a surprisingly docile peacock. That took a lot of help from J.A.R.V.I.S. to try to find the right food, how to set up a good environment, and what kinds of things to stay away from. Just out of curiosity, Steve had asked the A.I. if peacocks were even legal in New York City. The answer is still a little dubious, but it's not like it matters much anymore. His name is Galileo, as announced by a labeled picture frame in his old owner's home. Steve finds it hilarious.

His arms ache and he paces inside his house, leaving the screen door open so the cool breeze can make its way in. The seven dogs he let out trot after him, curling up on the various recliners and comfy rugs he has laid out especially for them. Olive comes and sits within arms reach and he rubs her under the chin, whispering compliments that make her tail wag even if she can't understand them.

On the mismatched end table he has set up next to the couch lies one of his many sketchbooks and a chipped graphite pencil. He stares at them curiously, or rather the fine layer of dust that covers them. It has been a while since he's drawn anything. With one finger, he draws a smiley face in the dust. The image is so basic and the circle a little wobbly, but it makes him happy to look at. He grabs the sketch pad eagerly, twirling the pencil between his fingers and flipping to a random page.

Argh. Artist's block.

But then a face comes to mind. Steve wets his lips unconsciously and draws a circle lightly on the page. He extends a vertical line down toward the bottom of the paper and starts sketching in a few horizontal marks. Hairline, brows, eyes, nose, lips, chin. He draws the cheekbones and a gentle outline of the face, erasing and redrawing as he goes. He adds light streaks of floppy hair and draws a line where he wants the mouth to curve up. When his hand cramps, which it shouldn't do, he stretches his fingers and shows the bare-bones sketch to Olive. She sticks her tongue out a fraction in approval. Steve ruffles the fur between her ears and continues drawing, filling in the lines darker and making them more detailed until he has a fully shaded, finished portrait of Bucky Barnes sitting on his lap.

He erases a stray smudge on Bucky's forehead. There, now it's finished.

The way his fingers ache from holding the pencil and how his forehead creases from squinting at the fine details makes him almost satisfied. He really hasn't felt like this in a while and definitely hadn't put this much effort into a drawing since he got out of the ice. It's always been little sketches here and there, some more detailed than others, but few completed to this kind of precision.

It makes him happy to see that his old art skills were coming back to him. Moreover, he is happy to see Bucky's face smiling up at him with that thrilling smile he sent girls as he settled a hand on the small of their backs, showering them in compliments about their dresses and hair as he paid for everyone's drinks and games and food and flowers...

Steve's mood twinged sour faster than he would have liked. He thumbs the metal binding on the sketchbook and wishes it was his friend's jawline he was caressing.

He almost didn't see Olive work her way around to the front of the couch until she shoves her cold, wet nose under Steve's hand, effectively distracting him from his jealous thoughts. He sets the sketchbook aside, tucks the pencil behind his ear and runs his fingers through her beautiful fur, making her wag her tail vigorously. He coos quietly and thinks about what the media would think about Captain America baby-talking such a big dog. It doesn't matter, he supposes. Olive loves it, and her opinion is one of the few that makes an impact on him.

She stretches her fuzzy neck forward and licks his chin with her long tongue. He pulls away laughing but still petting her, wiping his face on the hem of his sleeve. "Olive, baby, personal space!"

She wags her tail harder. At the sound of Steve's voice, some of the other dogs perk up, and before he knows it, Steve is surrounded by all seven of the dogs he let inside. He makes sure to pet them all equally, lifting a small chocolate dachshund named Waffles high in the air and pulling Caesar the bulldog onto his lap.

He's going to have to talk to Bucky about this. Even if he doesn't remember, feelings like the ones Steve is having can't stay a secret forever.