Wow, this got sappy in a hurry. Ugh, tooth-rotting fluff abound! This was written for a prompt over on the kink meme involving scar worship and it just kind of spiraled from there. This is SLASH so please don't read if this offends you. There's nothing too too explicit (because I'm complete crap at writing sex scenes) but there are some implied sexytimes toward the end. Hope you all enjoy it!

Disclaimer: I own nothing! =/

"You want to draw me?" Bucky asks incredulously, quirking an eyebrow at the man sitting across from him.

Steve just barely glances up from the pencil he's sharpening in his lap. "Yep."

"Why?"

"Because," Steve says, carefully wiping away the dust from the newly sharpened pencil with a napkin. "I haven't gotten to draw you in a long time and I have a new set of charcoal pencils that I need to break in." He unfolds himself slowly from the chair and walks around the table to the other man. "Besides," he continues, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to the outer corner of his mouth. "I like the view."

Bucky feels the barest hint of a smirk tug at his lips. "I'd call you a dirty old man but it's not really an insult if we're the same age."

"Nope," Steve agrees easily. "Doesn't have the same ring to it."

The smirk fades a bit and Bucky's eyes darken. "You don't want to draw me," he mutters softly, metal fingers flexing slightly on the table. His voice is quiet and filled with self-loathing when he speaks. "Not like this."

"I do," Steve tells him gently, fingers carding through soft, dark hair. "All of you." He traces the outline of Bucky's eyebrow, his thumb coming to rest lightly against his temple. "Down to the last detail."

"I'm not a good model," Bucky insists, the metal arm feeling heavy and bulky at his side. The red star has almost faded completely, scratched away one layer at a time. A power sander had taken away most of it but a faint red outline still remained. He hates that star and the arm and everything it stands for. He hates what it made him and the things it had done. And he hates that it's a part of him and he can't get rid of it.

This thing between them is still new and cautious, all careful touches and gentle words. Steve had worked tirelessly for months to slowly but surely help him break away from the lingering effects of decades of brainwashing. It couldn't have been easy in the beginning, moments of relapse or slips in reality and Bucky would revert to violent outbursts and cursing viciously in Russian, all previous progress completely forgotten.

There were still times when he would forget who he was entirely, a blank slate to be molded and used as necessary. He wouldn't remember his name, his past, or what year it was. But he would remember Steve; he always remembered Steve. Steve with his concerned blue eyes and warm, loving smiles. Steve who had taken him in and forgiven him without question and held him tightly when the nightmares shook him awake each night. Steve who was far too good for him but too damn stupid to realize it. Bucky sometimes wasn't sure if he should love him or hate him for that.

A small part of him hopes that one day Steve will wake up and realize he deserves so much more. That he can do so much better than the broken, unstable man who's currently living with him. He wants him to realize this because then he'll be safe and he'll be happy. And if Bucky doesn't remember anything else from his previous life, he knows he at least wanted Steve to be happy. But Steve, like the stubborn idiot that he is, stands by him undaunted and endlessly patient every single day.

"You're perfect," Steve tells him firmly, completely undaunted by the other man's protests. "I used to use you as a model all the time when we were younger. It was always easier to draw you when you didn't know I was watching, though."

"You mean when you thought I didn't know you were watching," Bucky counters slyly, smirking a bit at the other man. "I always knew what you were doing, Steve. Sometimes before you even knew what you were doing."

"Is that how you always found me getting my teeth kicked in in back alleys?" Steve asks casually, flipping his sketchbook open to a new page.

"Something like that," Bucky grants, the smirk fading into a soft smile. When he'd first shown up on Steve's doorstep all those months ago, it was one of the first decisions he remembered consciously making since pulling the other man out of the river. Steve represented something although he wasn't sure what at the time. Redemption? Recovery? He didn't know. He kept trying to label it, kept trying to figure out why he had come here and why he had stayed. And the only thing that made sense was that he belonged here. He was supposed to be here, with Steve, the two of them facing the world. He's not sure why but that was how it had always been and that's the way it should always be. When he was with Steve, he was home.

"Fine," he says, letting out a long-suffering sigh. "What do you want to draw?"

"Everything," Steve tells him again, adjusting the lighting above the table and pulling up a chair.

"You're going to need a lot of paper," Bucky says, trying one last time to divert the Captain's sudden artistic urges.

"Got a fresh book right here," Steve tells him, dancing his fingers over the clean sheet of paper below his hand.

Bucky shakes his head but relents to the request. "Where do you want to start?"

That earns him a brief stretch of contemplative silence as Steve looks him up and down slowly. His eyes travel the length of his body, the curves of muscle and bone and texture. Finally, he nods to himself and settles on a body part. "Let's start with the hands," he tells him, his voice a bit softer and more subdued as he focuses on the task before him. "You've always had beautiful hands."

Bucky wants to deny this and point out that now his hands are ugly and twisted but he doesn't. The look on Steve's face stops him, the focused expression and the sharp eyes that take in every detail. Steve had always managed to see the best in the world, to take something ugly and grotesque and make it amazing. He doesn't know how he sees anything good in him but somehow he does. The concentration on his face makes it clear that he sees something beautiful in Bucky even if he can't see it himself.

"You just like what I can do with my fingers," he says after a moment because the silence makes him squirm and it's much easier to crack a joke than it is to sit in the wordless void.

Steve smirks and keeps sketching faint outlines into his book. "That's beside the point," he mumbles but Bucky takes a small amount of pride in the blush that creeps along Steve's cheeks and up to the tips of his ears.

Steve continues to sketch in silence for a few more seconds before he stops and reaches forward, fingertips brushing feather-soft across the back of his hand. "What is this from?" he asks quietly, eyes locked on the long, thick scar that runs from the outside of Bucky's hand and wraps around to the inside of his wrist. It's pale and raised, a deep wound that more than likely should have been stitched closed and was left to heal on its own. Bucky shrugs flippantly.

"Knife fight in Belarus," he tells him simply, eyes flickering over the scar and remembering snapshot memories of a brick roof and pouring rain. "The target was armed and I got careless."

Steve says nothing, he just continues to stare at the scar for several more silent seconds. The expression on his face is unreadable: anger? Disgust? Honestly he can't tell. His blue eyes are dark and stormy and his eyebrows knit together slightly as he continues to examine the scar. Finally, warm fingertips trace the length of it, from one end to the other, all the way across the back of the hand. The touch is light and gentle, the warmth of Steve's fingers just barely felt beneath thick layers of scar tissue. He traces it like he's trying to see the story behind it and make sense of it.

When he lets go, the absence of the warmth is almost enough to be disappointing. Bucky resists the urge to reach out and grab Steve's hand again. He forces himself to remain still though, watching silently as the other man returns his attention back to his book and begins sketching the details of the scar.

"Why are you drawing that?" Bucky asks, the disgust palpable in his voice.

"Because it's a part of you," Steve tells him simply, adding a few more careful details to the scar.

"It's ugly."

"It's not," Steve counters gently, smudging a few lines to create shadows. "It's beautiful. Just like you."

Bucky scoffs in disbelief and shakes his head. "You're out of your mind."

"Maybe," the Captain allows, tracing the delicate lengths of fingers and the curve of joints. "But it's not a bad place to be."

The former assassin opens his mouth to say something but then closes it a second later. In all the time he's spent with the other man, he's learned that swaying the Captain's opinion of him would take and act of God and Congress. Steve knows full well the things he's done, the crimes he's committed and the ones he was accused of. He knows about the murders and the kidnappings and the torture. He knows all of this and yet he adamantly refuses to believe that his best friend did any of it willingly. He clings to the belief that Bucky was not acting under his own authority and was used as a tool for decades.

Honestly, Bucky doesn't know if he acted on his own or not during all that time; everything just sort of blurred together as the years passed by. One era would transform into another and he was just there to complete his mission and then be dragged back into cryo. None of it made sense and none of it mattered; it didn't matter until he found Steve.

Steve tells him he's beautiful but he's not; he's twisted and diseased, all jagged edges and painful memories. He's a jigsaw puzzle that's only barely been put together while the other pieces remain scattered around, distorted and warped beyond repair. He can see the blood on his hands even if Steve can't/won't. Like Lady Macbeth, only he can see it but unlike her's, his is more than a spot, it's a pool. If he accepted even a fraction of this truth, Steve would get far, far away from him and leave all those broken, fractured pieces to slowly disintegrate into dust. He doesn't though, Goddammit, he doesn't, and Steve remains permanently fixed by his side.

The Captain reaches out again, his thumb brushing over scarred and calloused knuckles, down long fingers that are crooked from being broken too many times. His touch is light and soothing, a calming presence that brings just a bit of clarity and solidity to the constant turmoil in his mind. The pressure increases minutely and Steve strokes the back of his hand, fingers tracing over scar tissue and damaged skin. He outlines each one with careful touches and intense concentration like he's trying to memorize every imperfection.

"What are you doing?" Bucky asks quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper as he continues to watch the other man.

"Comparing texture," Steve answers, squeezing Bucky's hand lightly. He brushes his lips along the scar that runs along the back of his hand, lingering to press a soft kiss to the scars that criss-crossing his knuckles. "I want to make sure I get the details right."

Bucky chuckles quietly and curls his fingers around Steve's. "You're so strange."

"No, just thorough," Steve says with a smile, gently releasing his hand and turning his attention back to the sketchbook. He works on the sketches of the hand silently for another minute or so before moving on toward the arm. His eyes flicker up from the page occasionally, taking in length and definition and structure. He shades in the outline of muscle and bone, contouring the sketch with shadows to create a deeper effect. It's mesmerizing to watch and Bucky finds himself captivated by the process.

The sketching stops and Steve leans forward again, fingertips brushing over another scar that slices across his outer bicep. "What about this one?" he asks, frowning slightly as he traces the scar. Unlike the one on the back of the hand, this one is dented in, a deep gouge that warps the outward appearance of muscle and flesh.

"A bullet from the bodyguard of a French ambassador," Bucky tells him quietly, watching as Steve continues to examine the scar carefully. He doesn't tell him that both the bodyguard and the ambassador died by his hands that night or that another car full of people met a similar fate when they tried to intervene. Steve is smart enough to figure that out on his own and, even if he wasn't, the thick file containing every scrap of information on the Winter Soldier would have told him all about it. But Steve doesn't ask and he doesn't want elaboration; either he already knows or wants to remain blissfully ignorant. Bucky is silently glad he doesn't press for information.

Steve's fingers follow the line of the scar, curving in a diagonal slant along the outside of his arm. The edges are rough and raised, the center of the scar depressing into the muscle. It creates a perfect groove in his skin, a lasting reminder of a previous mission.

Just as he did before, Steve examines the scar with careful scrutiny, measuring depth and length and texture with his fingertips. He probes the healed wound gently, fingers kneading into muscle and flesh. When he's finished, he leans forward and brushes his lips over this scar as well, the kiss light and tender. Bucky frowns slightly at the repeated gesture.

"Why do you keep doing that?" he asks quietly as Steve pulls back, the Captain's hand still lingering on his arm.

"Because they're a part of you," Steve tells him simply, his fingers brushing lightly over undamaged flesh and solid muscle. "And that makes them important. Each one has a story and each one means you survived." Steve's eyes soften a bit, a small frown tugging at his lips. "I went for so long thinking you were dead, Buck. These scars prove you survived. You may think they're ugly but I think they're beautiful because they mean you're still alive."

His thumb traces the length of the scar again. "Drawing them and learning about them…it's like following a path leading me back to you after all these years." He looks at him then, blue eyes warm and accepting and God, does it make his stomach clench. "I knew every scar you had before the war. Now I'm learning about the new ones."

Bucky shakes his head slowly and catches Steve's hand with his own. He sighs and bring his hand up, pressing his lips to the underside of his wrist and breathing against his skin. "Some of these scars don't have the nicest stories attached to them."

Steve's hand comes to rest against his cheek and he cups his face. "I don't care," he tells him quietly. "It's your story. That's the only thing that matters to me." He steals another chaste kiss and reclaims his sketchbook, adding in new outlines and structure. He sketches the scar carefully, shading in the depth and length with measured pencil strokes. It takes several minutes for him to complete the sketch, to be satisfied with the finished product, but once he's done, he blows the dust off the page and sets it aside.

A new page is pulled and Steve turns his attention to the gleaming metal arm tucked against the assassin's side. He keeps it as close as possible, far away from the other man and nearly hidden against his body. He doesn't touch Steve with his metal hand, not if he can help it. That hand has been responsible for more deaths than he can remember, more destruction than he can think of. That hand has been soaked in blood and has broken bones and choked the life out of people simply labeled as targets. That hand had helped pull the trigger that fired three bullets into his best friend's body all those months ago and had nearly beaten him to death in the crumbling remains of the helicarrier. It doesn't matter that that same hand had been the one to fish Steve's unconscious body from the river and drag him up onto shore. When Bucky looks at that hand, all he sees is a weapon.

Steve doesn't see it as that, however; at least, it doesn't appear that way. He's staring at the arm intently, eyes flickering over interlocking plates and carefully constructed metal joints. He studies the way the plates come together to form the wrist, forearm, and shoulder, focusing more attention on the smooth, flexible joints of the fingers and the elbow. He studies the reflection of the light off the metal, the different variations of illumination and shadow that fall across the metallic limb. For several minutes, Steve says nothing, he simply studies the arm like it's the most amazing thing he's ever seen.

When he does reach for it, Bucky can't quite hide the way his body stiffens minutely. Steve notices but remains undeterred. "Bucky," he says gently, his voice holding a very soft pleading quality as he speaks. He's asking for permission but he's also saying it's okay, you won't hurt me and dammit, he's never been able to deny Steve anything. He sighs heavily and lifts the arm up onto the table so Steve can get a better look.

The other man shifts his chair around and comes to the other side of the table, getting closer to the metal appendage. He reaches for it again and this time Bucky doesn't flinch so much as hold his breath. Steve's fingers brush along the back of the metal hand, sliding over smooth, gleaming plates that lead up to the forearm. It's not the first time he's touched it but the feeling of his fingers running along the metal plates causes Bucky to stiffen ever so slightly.

Several weeks ago, when this thing between them had fallen into something more than friendship, Bucky had finally allowed Steve to touch the arm for the first time since getting punched by it on the helicarrier. They had been sprawled out across the mattress, Steve's arms locked around him and his face pressed into the side of his throat, whispering soft reassurances as Bucky gasped his way out of another nightmare. He'd woken up choking on a Russian curse and gripping the sheets tight enough to rip the fabric. Steve had held on for nearly an hour, calm and solid and grounding. Ever so carefully, he had reached out and touched the very tips of his fingers to the curve of the metal elbow.

"You can't feel anything on this side, can you?" he'd mused quietly, thumb brushing over the joint that connected the elbow to the upper arm.

Bucky had shaken his head a bit, breathing still slightly halted and uneven. "Nothing really. Pressure, vibrations…" He shrugged that shoulder slightly, the movement easy in spite of the weight of the arm. "It's mostly numb though."

Steve had frowned darkly, expression grim in the darkness of their now shared room. "This never should have happened to you," he'd muttered quietly, eyes flickering with barely suppressed guilt.

One of the first things he'd learned after coming back into Steve's life was that the Captain blamed himself entirely for his death. He'd held onto the guilt and anguish of being just a split second too late when he'd fallen from that train in the Alps for years after it happened. He probably would have blamed himself until he died (again) had Bucky not come back.

As it was now, though, he still blamed himself but for different reasons. He blamed himself for Bucky getting captured by the Soviets, for the injury that left him with a metal limb and no memory or who he was. He blamed himself for the horrible things that had happened to his best friend and being powerless to stop any of it. He blamed himself because if he had been just a little bit faster, a little more careful, Bucky wouldn't be the damaged, broken man he was today.

Bucky couldn't stand that, any of it, and refused to let Steve take the blame. All the shit that had happened to him after the fall? Yeah, it sucked and there had been more than one occasion when he'd considered brushing his teeth with a pistol and being done with it all but he would be damned if he allowed Steve to take a single ounce of the blame for that. Because Steve was the only good thing he had left in the world, the only thing that mattered to him anymore, and if he lost that, he's not sure what he would do.

He sees the same guilt beginning to surface in the younger man's expression, the dark flickering in his eyes as he studies the arm. He needed to cut that off at the pass before it got ahead of him and he could only think of one way to do that. "I know you're enjoying the view and everything, Rogers, but I can't sit here all night. I'm starting to get hungry."

Steve blinks in surprise and looks up, guilt vanishing from his expression and replaced with something like bemusement. He shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "You were always so impatient," he mutters quietly, shoving the other man's arm lightly.

He smirks a bit and leans forward, bumping his forehead against Steve's. "And you were always cute when you got all flustered."

Steve's lips twitch like he can't decide if he wants to scowl or smile. "You're a jerk."

"Punk," Bucky retorts, topping off the remark with a soft kiss. He leans back against the chair and rotates the arm for a better view. "If I agree to sit still and be your model for the rest of the afternoon then you at least owe me dinner."

Steve smirks a bit and nods. "Fair enough," he says as he begins sketching light outlines of the arm. "But that means I get to drawn all of you." He looks up with a mischievous glint in his eye. "And I do mean all."

Bucky offers a very small mock salute at the offer. "Oh Captain, my Captain."

This earns him another smirk and an eye roll and then Steve goes quiet as he continues his sketching. He traces smooth lines and glinting metal, shading in the different reflections of light that shine along the surface. The details are sharp and precise, dark lines and shaded grooves of interlocking plates. Steve works silently for several minutes and manages to copy an exact replica of the arm in his book. It's amazing really.

Bucky strips off his shirt without being asked, following the lines of the sketch and figuring it was coming sooner or later. He peels the shirt off over his head and drops it onto the floor beneath the table, leaning back in the chair once he's through. Steve's eyes track the lines and angles of his torso, the smooth planes of his chest, coming to stop at the ugly, criss-crossing network of scar tissue that attaches the metal arm to his shoulder. His eyes linger on the patchwork of scars curving around Bucky's upper left shoulder and chest for several silent moments, his expression tight with concentration. Finally, his gaze drifts downward to a thick, jagged scar that slices a long, deep line across his lower ribs.

"What about this one?" Steve asks, reaching forward and dragging his thumb along the length of the scar.

"Hunting knife in Anchorage," Bucky answers quietly but he doesn't really remember much else from that mission. The target had put up one hell of fight before he was finally brought down, one of the blows catching him in the stomach. The knife had nearly gutted him and the wound it left had been deep and bled freely. He'd survived, barely, but had passed out from blood loss in a parking lot once it was mission was complete. He didn't regain consciousness again until his handlers were dragging him back to the cryo chamber.

Steve runs his thumb along the scar a few times, analyzing the raised, uneven texture and the varying width. It's long, extending from just beneath his lower ribs and arching up over his navel. The scar itself is red and dark, the damage to the muscle and underlying tissue still pronounced beneath the skin. It's shallow toward the ends but deep and thick in the middle, the blade severing several layers of tissue as it sliced through. It's definitely not the worst injury he's ever had but it was still significant.

Steve studies it for a few more silent second before he's satisfied with the details. Then, just as before, he leans forward and brushes his lips lightly over the scar. His breath ghosts over the other man's torso, warm and close, and it causes him to shiver slightly. Steve smirks up at him and quirks an eyebrow. "Something bothering you?"

Bucky sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly through his teeth. "You're a dirty tease, you know that?"

Steve just gives him another devious smile. "I'll keep that in mind." He turns his attention back to the book and begins carefully sketching out the angles and lines of the other man's torso.

He doesn't ask about the small surgical scar that pierces his lower right abdomen or the puckered puncture wound that cuts clean through to the other side on the fleshy portion of left side. He doesn't ask because he already knows the stories behind them: the first from an appendectomy when he was nine and the second from a Nazi's gun during the war. A simple through-and-through, no vital organs hit and only moderate blood loss but serious enough to leave a lasting and visible scar. Steve doesn't ask about them but that doesn't stop him from pressing a tender kiss to each of them before he sketches them into the book.

His eyes come to rest on another jagged scar that cuts just beneath his collarbone on the right side. It's crooked and uneven, whatever had caused the wound having clipped the edge of the clavicle when it made contact. Steve reaches out and touches it lightly, following the line and palpating the solidity of bone beneath the skin.

"Broken glass from jumping out of a window," Bucky tells him without being asked, his eyes fluttering closed just a bit as Steve's fingers continue to caress the scar. That one was old, back when he first started taking missions. His tactical gear hadn't been as advanced as it was now, a few weaknesses and kinks in the design leaving him open for injury. The wound hadn't been severe but it was a bit too close to the throat and better, thicker padding was added in for the next mission.

Steve kneads the combination of muscle and bone gently for a few more seconds, fingers moving along of their own accord. Unlike the deep scar in his abdomen, this one is significantly more shallow and not quite as dark. Steve takes that into consideration before he commits it to the book. But not before he leans in close and drags his lips along the length of the scar, following it's path and stopping just at the base of the bone near the hollow of Bucky's throat. He smirks and presses forward a bit more, placing a soft kiss against the stuttering jump of the pulse that throbs beneath his lips.

Bucky squirms a bit in his seat, his breathing hitching slightly. "I swear to God, Rogers…"

Steve just smiles up at him with clear, blue eyes. "Later, I promise."

"You're damn right later," Bucky grumbles back but he sits still and refuses to give in to the urge to hoist Steve over one shoulder and drag him into the bedroom like a caveman finding a wife. He has more self-control than that and, by God, if Steve could be a relentless tease then so could he. Besides, hijacking him away to the bedroom right now probably wouldn't be the best idea...the furniture company is beginning to get suspicious with how many bed frames they've had to replace recently.

Steve gives him another smile and sits back, adding the new details into the book. His hands move carefully, the pencil tracing precise, sharp angles and deep lines. He glances up occasionally, eyes lingering on the scars for a moment or two before his focus returns to the page. Eventually, the pencil comes to a stop and he sets it down on top of the page, his gaze settling on the network of scars lining the socket of Bucky's shoulder.

The assassin sits motionless for several minutes as the other man's eyes travel over the damage, his mouth pressed in a tight line. He forces himself to relax a bit and settle back into the chair; if Steve is planning on taking in every minute detail of the scars connecting the metal arm to his shoulder then he's going to be in for a rather lengthy wait. Steve had been incredibly thorough with the design and detail of the other scars on his body and none of them had been half as complex as the interweaving patchwork of scar tissue that lined the robotic arm. This was going to take a while and he settles himself into as comfortable a position as he can manage in the stiff-backed kitchen chair.

Just as he'd done with the others, Steve reaches out and carefully runs his fingers over the outermost edges of the scar, working his way in and tracing each slash and tear of the underlying tissue. The scars are rigid and thick, muscle and sinew and cartilage all torn away and ruined from the fall. They're raised and uneven, dipping in and protruding outward and webbing across the upper half of his chest and disappearing behind his shoulder. Steve maps out every single one, fingers careful and gentle as they brush over each different cluster. As curious as he is, his touch is endlessly careful and tender as well.

It takes close to twenty minute before Steve is finally satisfied with his examination. His hand falls away and he leans forward, pressing a line of soft, gentle kisses along the seam where flesh connects to metal. He works his way outward slowly, lips brushing over tangled masses of scar tissue and damaged flesh. This time, however, he doesn't immediately commit them to his sketchbook. Instead, he stands slowly and cups the other man's face between his hands, leaning down and capturing his lips in a warm, loving kiss.

The gesture is slow and sweet, filled with compassion and acceptance and love and all the words neither of them can say. It holds memories of the past and promises of the future. For a moment, nothing else exists but the two of them and it is absolutely everything.

When Steve finally does pull away, he says nothing about the depth and meaning behind the kiss but then there really is nothing to say. He simply smiles and sits back down in his chair and begins sketching. If it's possible, Bucky falls even more in love with him in that moment.

Steve sketches on quietly for close to half an hour, adding in every detail and feature of the metal arm and the scars that surround it. He's so engrossed in the sketch that he doesn't immediately notice when Bucky stands slowly and smoothly slides out of his jeans. The pants suffer a similar fate as the previously discarded shirt and a second later his boxers join the ever growing pile of clothing on the floor of the kitchen. The wide-eyed expression and adorable blush that creeps across Steve's cheeks when he does look up makes the show worthwhile.

Bucky smirks and leans his hip against the table. "You did say you wanted to draw everything," he teases, enjoying the heightened flush that colors Steve's cheeks. It didn't matter that they had been sleeping together for weeks; Steve still blushed like a goofball everytime he saw the other man naked. Shy and awkward all the way down to his core...it's nice to know some things never changed.

Steve huffs a small laugh and nods. "That I did."

Bucky smirks again and crosses his arms over his chest. "Need a minute?"

The Captain just quirks an eyebrow and offers a smirk of his own. "Do you?"

"Not a chance," the assassin answers, leaning into the table a bit more and adjusting the angle of his hips. "Where would you like to start?"

Steve's eyes sweep downward, tracking over the definition of muscle in his legs and the solidness of bone and tendon. His gaze drifts over a few of the scars: the various scrapes and scratches from countless skinned knees, the slightly indented mark on the back of his calf from a dog bite when he was eleven, the burn on his thigh from where he'd knocked a pot of boiling water off the stove and onto his leg in their first apartment. He recognizes most of these but there are a few that stand out.

His gaze stops on one, a very tiny scar compared to the others. It's little more than an inch long, dented and grooved and located near the center of his shin. His fingers brush over it and he feels the nub of calcified bone beneath the skin.

"Compound fracture from the fall," Bucky tells him as Steve continues to inspect the damage. "Bone was broken in half and sticking out through the skin when they found me."

Steve says nothing about the cause of the wound and simply leans down to press his lips to the indentations of the scar. His fingers travel around to the back of his calf, ghosting over a few more puckered and sunken wounds. "And these?"

"Shrapnel," the other man answers carelessly and really there are too many stories to tell about each one individually so he just groups them together into one category.

Steve doesn't press for more information and takes the explanation at face value. Once again, either he already knows or he's fine with accepting the answer Bucky gives him. He goes back to the sketchbook and adds them into a new page that is slowly but surely becoming filled with nothing but drawings of the other man's legs.

He looks up after a moment, eyes landing on a particularly large scar extending from the top of his hip and slicing downward toward a rather sensitive area of the body. It stop at his inner thigh, just a few short inches from his groin. It could have very easily severed his femoral artery on the way down but he had gotten lucky. It also could have gone a little bit more toward front and center but, once again, he'd gotten lucky.

It was another knife wound, the blade bouncing off his hip and arching down rather than in. He's insanely grateful for the dense fabric of tactical pants because the blade could have gone just a bit further down and then he would be left with an entirely new set of problems to deal with.

When Steve reaches out to brush his fingers along this one, the touch is still gentle but a little more deliberate. The pressure increases marginally, fingertips drag down intentionally slow, and Steve's lips twitch a bit when the muscles on either side of the scar tense and shudder slightly beneath his touch. Bucky's previously stoic posture falters a bit and the fingers of his metal hand dig into the edge of the table he's still leaning against.

His breath hitches slightly when Steve leans forward to press his lips to the uppermost part of the scar, trailing it down lower all the way toward the end. His breath is warm against his skin, almost uncomfortably so, and the scrape of teeth coupled with a hot rasp of tongue tears him somewhere between agony and arousal. Steve follows the scar down, and then further, and Bucky momentarily forgets how to breathe.

In the end, neither of them are sure how they end up on the floor, laying on top of a pile of discarded clothing with the sketchbook sitting in the nearest chair, all but forgotten. Steve is sprawled bonelessly across his chest, his head tucked against his right shoulder, and Bucky is silently staring up at the under side of the table, his eyes tracing the wood grain lines that cut across the bottom.

"Have to go back and add in those details later," Steve mumbles against his chest, the fingers of one hand fitting neatly into the grooves between his ribs.

"Later," Bucky agrees, brushing a stray lock of hair away from the other man's face. "You still owe me dinner, remember?"

"I never forgot," Steve counters easily, letting out a long, slow breath that sounds suspiciously like a yawn. "Just got distracted."

Bucky smiles and presses a kiss to the top of his head. "Yeah, well I kinda like it when you're distracted."

They lay in comfortable silence for a few more moments, both sated and content to simply remain sprawled out all over the dining room floor. At some point, a flutter of something catches Bucky's attention from the corner of his eye. One of the loose pages from Steve's sketchbook slips from the edge of the chair and drifts down to the ground. Bucky reaches out and catches it between his fingers before it can hit the floor.

It's one of the first pages, the paper covered in careful, meticulous drawings of his hands, both flesh and metal. The details are striking, every curve and joint appearing to stand out from the page like it could come to life at any second. Each sketch is so lifelike and faithful to even the most miniscule detail that it looks like a photograph has been copied onto the page. Bucky had always known that Steve was a talented artist but these sketches were breathtaking.

He lets out a low whistle and hugs the other man a bit closer to him. "Not too shabby, Rogers."

Steve smiles and props himself up on one elbow, dropping a soft kiss to the scar beneath his collarbone again. "See? I told you they were beautiful."

Bucky rolls his eyes slightly. "They're only beautiful because you drew them that way."

"No," Steve protests, catches his gaze when he looks back up. "They're beautiful because they're you." He leans down and brushes a kiss along the assassin's jawline, rough stubble scraping against his lips lightly. "They make you unique," he says, kissing the outer corner of his mouth. "And irreplaceable." Another kiss catches his bottom lip softly. "And perfect."

Bucky catches him then, metallic hand coming up to cradle the back of his head and pull him into a deeper kiss. Metal fingers card through soft, blonde hair while the fingers of his flesh hand spread over the expanse of Steve's back, relishing the warmth and unwavering strength of the muscles beneath his hand.

He finally pulls away and drops his head back down to the floor. A bemused sigh escapes his lips but he pulls Steve closer against him. "You know I wouldn't put up with this sappy shit from anyone but you, right?"

Steve smiles and nuzzles back down into his arms. "Yeah I know. But that makes me happy."

That's why he came back, why he was so desperate to get to Steve and stay with him and never leave him again. He loves Steve, he always had even if he had forgotten that for a while. Steve was his world, his everything, and making sure he was happy had been one of the only things Bucky was hellbound on ensuring. He wanted to make sure Steve was happy, always, and he would make certain of it until his last breath.

In the end he just smiles and wraps the Captain in his arms. "Me too, kid. Me too."

There will be a follow-up chapter for Steve next! Thanks for reading guys! :D