Well, she's blushing now. "You're very kind. I... I'll try."
She spends the next couple of hours thinking about what he'd said while sketching another portrait of him on a blank page she'd found in the book she has. It's as she imagines him at the end of his day, the top buttons of his shirt unbuttoned, holding a glass of wine as he winds down for the evening. That's what rich people are like, right?
Then, in a burst of inspiration, she adds a some more details to the background. Half a frame in the corner, since he'd said he was going to frame the sketch she'd given him. Part of a table, with a meal waiting for him. A woman's hand, her fingers slender though calloused from housework, covering his left hand, obscuring whether there is or isn't a wedding ring. She likes to think there is, just as she pretends that the woman's hand is hers.
She quickly shuts the book when he returns to the room, having forgotten that he'd said he was going to come back to bring her some paper and pencils. "Hi," she greets, suddenly shy.
Bucky comes in and while he's technically off-shift for the evening, he does give Steph a cursory look, trying to see if she looks any different than when he'd seen her this afternoon. If anything, there's more color in her face and that can only be a good thing. If he didn't know she was very ill, he'd think she was blushing.
"Your color is better, Miss Rogers," he says, flashing her a smile. "That can only mean good news. Have you been drawing this evening or am I not allowed to know?"
Maybe this is borderline flirting and he should stop but she's very easy to talk to, easier than anyone else these days.
She glances away, her blush darkening. "Don't be mad," she mumbles before handing the book on her lap to him, opened to the page with the new sketch. "I was just thinking about what you said..."
She's been thinking about him a lot more, actually, because he's nice and cute and he's said there's no one back home who might get angry that some strange woman in the hospital is drawing pictures of him. She knows she's not supposed to, since he's her doctor and all that, but she can't help it. Then again she's not supposed to pick fights either, but that hasn't stopped her before, has it? At least this time no one's getting hurt.
She watches his face, bracing herself to be berated for being weird and inappropriate and not acting like she ought to — but also curious how that might look on him, how the lines and curves on that handsome face might change. In fact, she starts to imagine how he might wear more intense emotions: anger, desire, pleasure...
Bucky is a little surprised at the portrait but only because of its intimacy. Does his face ever get soft like that or did she just imagine it? Just like he had with the portrait before, he traces a fingertip over the lines of it. It strikes him that there's a woman's hand in the portrait that's covering his own but he can't tell who it belongs to.
"This is beautiful," he says softly. "More than the other one, even. How is it that you can see me like this? I don't think anyone has ever seen right through me the way you do."
He doesn't lift his head as he says it, too fascinated by the drawing, and a lock of hair falls over his forehead.
"I don't know. I just... think about you a lot, I guess." Wait, what? "I mean—"
She thinks to explain, but quickly decides against it before she can admit that she's imagined him in far more, ah, intimate scenarios. She just slowly sinks back beneath the covers, mortified, and hopes he'll also just pretend this is a side-effect of some drug she'd been taking or something.
But because she can never really shut up: "I feel like I know you. Maybe in another life." Oh God Stephanie stop being fucking weird.
The question seems stark in the room and even though he'd asked it softly, Bucky feels as if he's almost said it too loudly because it's something that can get him in trouble - not that she is attracted to him, that happens, but that he's attracted back.
It's hard not to be. She's beautiful, talented, and in spite of her illness she has a passion for life that can't be matched. She seems pretty adamant that she'd be better than his ex fiancee at a lot of things, most notably the emotional ones, and that is tempting. He is lonely, after all.
"You don't have to tell me. It's just, I am attracted to you. More than I should be. It's not something I should do as a doctor. It's unfair to you to pretend that I'm not, though."
She's visibly startled by the question, the answer already there on her face, clear as day. Then she gets defensive and skittish, sinking into her pillows while she makes a vain attempt to hide her face by pulling the covers up to her chin. "Yeah, so what? I bet you get that all the time. And it's not like I'm asking you to like me back." She already knows he doesn't, because nobody who does will call her Miss Rogers, and besides, rich boys like him don't hang around girls like her.
And then he says he... does?
She gives him an incredulous, disbelieving look. "Really?" But her distrust quickly disappears because he keeps looking at her with that earnestness he says he's not sure how she sees — because it's right there.
Then another thing occurs to her. "Oh shit. Are you in trouble? Did my sketches get you in trouble?"
Edited (need more coffee lmao) 2025-06-19 06:26 (UTC)
"In trouble? Absolutely not," Bucky says. "No one would care about those except me and I care a lot about them. Besides, I brought you a sketchbook and pencils to further your art."
He pulls them out and puts them on her lap. This is much easier to talk about than feelings.
"You wanted me to sit for another portrait, right? You're already great at drawing me but I thought you might want a live model. And yes, really. I am drawn to you even if I shouldn't be. You're amazing. I've never met a woman quite like you before."
She was relieved that he wasn't in any trouble, but that relief quickly turned into shock when he placed the art supplies on her lap. She straightened up and ran a hand over them, fingertips gingerly touching the surface. "I..." She was stunned. "These are new." When she'd requested some supplies she'd expected pieces of scrap paper and equally used pencils, not brand new, expensive items. "They're beautiful. No one's ever given me... I can't accept—"
He knows just how to make her agree though, because when he offers to sit for her, how could she say no to that? She couldn't even resist bringing her hand up to lightly touch his cheek, especially when he compliments her. Thankfully she's seated because her head might be spinning a little.
"I'm sorry I'm not..." Rich. The kind of girl his parents would want him to bring home, who he should be with. And yet she can't pull away either. "But I really like you." She then adds, in a whisper, because it feels too intimate and somewhat forbidden, "James." Of course she knows his name, has taken note of it off his nameplate and prescriptions and paperwork.
"Sorry you're not what?" he asks, just as softly. He's said his name and it feels so good that he wants to beg her to say it again and again. It's inappropriate, however, and he doesn't. What he does do next is highly inappropriate and he covers her hand on his cheek.
"Stephanie, I like you too. I shouldn't, you're my patient, but I do. I want to be the one to go home and take care of you so you don't have to work and get sick again. It tears my heart out to know you're going to leave this hospital and wind right back up here because you need to work. You deserve a chance to rest and heal."
He closes his eyes for a moment and savors the touch. "Do you still want me to sit for you?"
"I'm dirt poor and an orphan, James. My Ma managed to send me through nursing school but I've been too sick to actually work as one." Too sick for a regular job, basically, so she cleaned and waitressed and did laundry and repaired people's clothes and whatever odd job was available whenever she was feeling well enough for it. "You deserve better than that."
And yet she knows she can make him happy in other ways. Which is why she doesn't pull away, and even says, "I won't always be your patient." Maybe she can try what he'd suggested and sketch for rich people. That would be work she'll love, and pretty easy too, unless the clients were mean and she'd get into fights with them.
"Yeah, I do. You wanna do it now, or..." She pauses for a moment, biting her lower lip. "Wait until after I'm discharged? I can go to your house. You'll be more comfortable there."
"Who says you can't do more than one sitting?" Bucky says, giving her a little bit of a smile. "Because I don't really want to leave, necessarily, even though I'm off-shift right now."
Normally he would be standing while examining her but right now, he sits on the edge of her hospital bed; Stephanie is so thin that he has plenty of room to do so.
"Unless you don't want to draw me tonight? As to you being poor and an orphan, do you think I care about that? I don't."
He has a really nice smile that she can't help smiling back. And he smells really nice, too. "Have you eaten your dinner? I can wait until after you have." He might've gotten too engrossed with his work that he'd forgotten to eat. They still have a bit of time before visiting hours end anyway.
At his insistence that he didn't care about her social status, she ducks her head and releases him to fidget with the supplies he'd brought her. "I'm glad you don't," she admits quietly. "I'll work hard. I'll make you happy."
"I had something," he assures her. "I grabbed a sandwich from the cart before they were all out. Trust me, I listen to my stomach even if I don't listen to anything else."
Bucky hears her say she'll work hard and he shakes his head. "Only if you want to, Stephanie. I don't require you to have a job or work yourself half to death. It's not something you have to do to prove yourself to me."
"A sandwich? You need to eat better." Not nagging, just concerned. He works so hard. "I can cook for you once I get discharged," she offers with a blush. He'd said she doesn't have to work too hard to prove herself, but taking care of someone you like isn't work at all.
She scoots a bit more to the side so he has more room on her bed, then picks out a pencil from the set he'd brought her. "These are so nice," she comments, before finally selecting one and opening the sketchpad to its first page. She scrawls Stephanie Grace Rogers on the bottom right corner in a neat cursive, then flips to the next page to begin her first sketch.
She peers up at him. "You don't gotta stay still or anything, we can keep talking." She does reach up with her free hand to tuck a stray strand of his hair back so his face is clear, then takes a long, good look before starting to sketch the outline of his profile.
“You are doing no such thing. My housekeeper is going to cook for you when you get discharged. You need to rest before you’re on your feet doing anything approaching labor. Afterward, sure, you can cook for me some night if you want to but if I have to park you in my bedroom so you don’t go and get yourself sick again, I will.”
Bucky says it fairly sternly; he isn’t kidding when it comes to her health and he’s gotten the sense that Stephanie is more reckless with it than she should be out of necessity. Not anymore. Not when he can help alleviate that.
All the fire drops out of him when she says the art supplies are nice and reaches her hand out to brush a lock of his hair off his forehead. He touches people all day but none of those are intimate touches and he’s suddenly reminded of how much he’s missed touches like these.
She blinks owlishly at him, not quite believing what she's hearing. "You want me to stay with you?" she asks in a whisper, because she's sure this kind of thing isn't allowed and would get him in trouble.
Despite that, however, she doesn't actually protest. Especially since he's so casually dropped that he's letting her stay in his bedroom and she's not about to turn that down. Well, as long as she's careful if she visits him at work, maybe they can get away with it? It's not like they're having sex right here and now, that would be after she's discharged—
OH GOD STEPHANIE WHY ARE YOU THINKING THAT
She pauses in her sketching. It wouldn't do if she's distracted, and she's definitely already distracted. Maybe even mildly panicking. "We should... probably get to know each other a little more, if I'm staying with you."
"Oh, well, I didn't mean for it to rush you," Bucky says, shaking his head quickly. "Just that I have the sense you won't rest and take care of yourself when you get discharged if you're not actually forced to and if you're in my house, I can make sure that actually happens."
Bucky thinks he might be coloring a little and he coughs to cover it up. When was the last time he got shy around a woman? 1932?
"I just want you feeling your best so you can do more of the things you love and spend less time in the hospital and I feel like you're very stubborn Miss...Stephanie."
First the art supplies, now this? God, she could kiss him — if it wasn't unappropriate. "You're too kind," she says, a bit more bashful now too. "But thank you. I've never... had anyone take care of me before. Or even want to. Other than my Ma anyway, but she caught TB from the ward and died."
She rests the tip of the pencil on the pad but doesn't really resume sketching, smiling to herself when she hears him use her name again. "Just Stephanie is fine," she offers, but again in a whisper, because he has to be professional and everything. "And I am very stubborn. I'm glad you never gave up on me." She'd been purposely difficult on occasion, that's for sure, but he'd been so patient and kind, she promises herself that she'll make it up to him.
"Well, I've always loved a lost cause," Bucky says. "But you're too fiery to give up even if your body wants to. That's one of the things that attracts me to you, you know?"
Bucky takes care not to move very much so she can sketch him with ease.
"That doesn't mean you can keep pushing yourself every time and expect to come out all right, though. Your body does need the rest and I'm going to make sure you get it."
"Sometimes I think dying would be easier," she admits. It's a thought she's had plenty, especially during cold winter nights when she has to fight a fever alone. Death would've meant rest, at long last. "But I'd like to live first. See the world, maybe even fall in love, while I still got time."
Blushing at her admission, she ducks her head to focus on her sketching. The modeling is just an excuse, really; she's watched him closely and long enough that she can draw him from memory. But it's nice to be able to see the finer details without having to be furtive about it.
She starts shading his eyes. "I wish I could see blue. I bet your eyes are even prettier in the right color," she compliments, her tone unabashed despite the flush on her cheeks.
"No, you're too young to die. You're going to live and you're going to have all the things you want while you do it," Bucky says. He doesn't say love even though that's something he's seeking too because it's too early and too fragile for something like that but he's thinking it.
She says that she wishes she could see blue and he tries not to move too much when he frames his next question even though he can feel the frown lines forming on his brow in spite of himself.
"What color does it look like, then? Describe it to me?"
She gestures to the potted plant on her windowsill with the hand holding the pencil. "Something like that, but the nurse I asked said that's green." That was the best way for her to describe her colorblindness. She then looks down at her sketch. "But you're handsome even in just black and white, so it doesn't really matter."
Her eyes are blue too, but she hasn't particularly cared. In fact she's never actually drawn herself.
"I like to go to the movies, when I can," she says after a moment. You know, since they're getting to know each other. "Or the dancehalls, sometimes, but just to watch. I'm not a good dancer. I can't keep up."
“I’m a hell of a dancer,” Bucky says, grinning at her. “Have a sister, which means I had to learn so she could learn. Turns out that the best way to get all the girls is to know how to dance with them so I think it worked out in the end.”
Steph talks about going to the movies and it reminds him that he hasn’t been in forever. His smile softens a bit.
“I should take you to the movies then. There’s at least a hundred of them I haven’t seen because I’m too busy so anything we see will be brand new to me even if it’s old news to you. I manage to keep up with the war on the radio and in the papers. Luckily, it’s still in Europe and we are an entire ocean away.”
She gives him a disbelieving look for a moment. Not because he claims to be a hell of a dancer, but because she believes him and that he can dance his way to a girl's heart — yet here he is, hanging out with one who isn't made for dancing in a place furthest from a dancehall. So she says, "I gotta see it to believe it," because she wants to know how that might feel. She'll find a way to keep up.
Her expression brightens when he mentions taking her to the movies. She doesn't even think about it being a proper date or how being seen with him would look like to other people. "You should. You're doing the Lord's work here, Doc, but even God rested and so should you," she teases.
She doesn't comment on the war. She tries to avoid any talk of it, as much as possible. Her father had died in the last one and she'd seen for herself how miserable it had made her mother.
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She spends the next couple of hours thinking about what he'd said while sketching another portrait of him on a blank page she'd found in the book she has. It's as she imagines him at the end of his day, the top buttons of his shirt unbuttoned, holding a glass of wine as he winds down for the evening. That's what rich people are like, right?
Then, in a burst of inspiration, she adds a some more details to the background. Half a frame in the corner, since he'd said he was going to frame the sketch she'd given him. Part of a table, with a meal waiting for him. A woman's hand, her fingers slender though calloused from housework, covering his left hand, obscuring whether there is or isn't a wedding ring. She likes to think there is, just as she pretends that the woman's hand is hers.
She quickly shuts the book when he returns to the room, having forgotten that he'd said he was going to come back to bring her some paper and pencils. "Hi," she greets, suddenly shy.
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"Your color is better, Miss Rogers," he says, flashing her a smile. "That can only mean good news. Have you been drawing this evening or am I not allowed to know?"
Maybe this is borderline flirting and he should stop but she's very easy to talk to, easier than anyone else these days.
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She's been thinking about him a lot more, actually, because he's nice and cute and he's said there's no one back home who might get angry that some strange woman in the hospital is drawing pictures of him. She knows she's not supposed to, since he's her doctor and all that, but she can't help it. Then again she's not supposed to pick fights either, but that hasn't stopped her before, has it? At least this time no one's getting hurt.
She watches his face, bracing herself to be berated for being weird and inappropriate and not acting like she ought to — but also curious how that might look on him, how the lines and curves on that handsome face might change. In fact, she starts to imagine how he might wear more intense emotions: anger, desire, pleasure...
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"This is beautiful," he says softly. "More than the other one, even. How is it that you can see me like this? I don't think anyone has ever seen right through me the way you do."
He doesn't lift his head as he says it, too fascinated by the drawing, and a lock of hair falls over his forehead.
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She thinks to explain, but quickly decides against it before she can admit that she's imagined him in far more, ah, intimate scenarios. She just slowly sinks back beneath the covers, mortified, and hopes he'll also just pretend this is a side-effect of some drug she'd been taking or something.
But because she can never really shut up: "I feel like I know you. Maybe in another life." Oh God Stephanie stop being fucking weird.
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The question seems stark in the room and even though he'd asked it softly, Bucky feels as if he's almost said it too loudly because it's something that can get him in trouble - not that she is attracted to him, that happens, but that he's attracted back.
It's hard not to be. She's beautiful, talented, and in spite of her illness she has a passion for life that can't be matched. She seems pretty adamant that she'd be better than his ex fiancee at a lot of things, most notably the emotional ones, and that is tempting. He is lonely, after all.
"You don't have to tell me. It's just, I am attracted to you. More than I should be. It's not something I should do as a doctor. It's unfair to you to pretend that I'm not, though."
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And then he says he... does?
She gives him an incredulous, disbelieving look. "Really?" But her distrust quickly disappears because he keeps looking at her with that earnestness he says he's not sure how she sees — because it's right there.
Then another thing occurs to her. "Oh shit. Are you in trouble? Did my sketches get you in trouble?"
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He pulls them out and puts them on her lap. This is much easier to talk about than feelings.
"You wanted me to sit for another portrait, right? You're already great at drawing me but I thought you might want a live model. And yes, really. I am drawn to you even if I shouldn't be. You're amazing. I've never met a woman quite like you before."
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He knows just how to make her agree though, because when he offers to sit for her, how could she say no to that? She couldn't even resist bringing her hand up to lightly touch his cheek, especially when he compliments her. Thankfully she's seated because her head might be spinning a little.
"I'm sorry I'm not..." Rich. The kind of girl his parents would want him to bring home, who he should be with. And yet she can't pull away either. "But I really like you." She then adds, in a whisper, because it feels too intimate and somewhat forbidden, "James." Of course she knows his name, has taken note of it off his nameplate and prescriptions and paperwork.
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"Stephanie, I like you too. I shouldn't, you're my patient, but I do. I want to be the one to go home and take care of you so you don't have to work and get sick again. It tears my heart out to know you're going to leave this hospital and wind right back up here because you need to work. You deserve a chance to rest and heal."
He closes his eyes for a moment and savors the touch. "Do you still want me to sit for you?"
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And yet she knows she can make him happy in other ways. Which is why she doesn't pull away, and even says, "I won't always be your patient." Maybe she can try what he'd suggested and sketch for rich people. That would be work she'll love, and pretty easy too, unless the clients were mean and she'd get into fights with them.
"Yeah, I do. You wanna do it now, or..." She pauses for a moment, biting her lower lip. "Wait until after I'm discharged? I can go to your house. You'll be more comfortable there."
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Normally he would be standing while examining her but right now, he sits on the edge of her hospital bed; Stephanie is so thin that he has plenty of room to do so.
"Unless you don't want to draw me tonight? As to you being poor and an orphan, do you think I care about that? I don't."
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At his insistence that he didn't care about her social status, she ducks her head and releases him to fidget with the supplies he'd brought her. "I'm glad you don't," she admits quietly. "I'll work hard. I'll make you happy."
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Bucky hears her say she'll work hard and he shakes his head. "Only if you want to, Stephanie. I don't require you to have a job or work yourself half to death. It's not something you have to do to prove yourself to me."
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She scoots a bit more to the side so he has more room on her bed, then picks out a pencil from the set he'd brought her. "These are so nice," she comments, before finally selecting one and opening the sketchpad to its first page. She scrawls Stephanie Grace Rogers on the bottom right corner in a neat cursive, then flips to the next page to begin her first sketch.
She peers up at him. "You don't gotta stay still or anything, we can keep talking." She does reach up with her free hand to tuck a stray strand of his hair back so his face is clear, then takes a long, good look before starting to sketch the outline of his profile.
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Bucky says it fairly sternly; he isn’t kidding when it comes to her health and he’s gotten the sense that Stephanie is more reckless with it than she should be out of necessity. Not anymore. Not when he can help alleviate that.
All the fire drops out of him when she says the art supplies are nice and reaches her hand out to brush a lock of his hair off his forehead. He touches people all day but none of those are intimate touches and he’s suddenly reminded of how much he’s missed touches like these.
“Good. I didn’t want to have to be quiet.”
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Despite that, however, she doesn't actually protest. Especially since he's so casually dropped that he's letting her stay in his bedroom and she's not about to turn that down. Well, as long as she's careful if she visits him at work, maybe they can get away with it? It's not like they're having sex right here and now, that would be after she's discharged—
OH GOD STEPHANIE WHY ARE YOU THINKING THAT
She pauses in her sketching. It wouldn't do if she's distracted, and she's definitely already distracted. Maybe even mildly panicking. "We should... probably get to know each other a little more, if I'm staying with you."
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Bucky thinks he might be coloring a little and he coughs to cover it up. When was the last time he got shy around a woman? 1932?
"I just want you feeling your best so you can do more of the things you love and spend less time in the hospital and I feel like you're very stubborn Miss...Stephanie."
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She rests the tip of the pencil on the pad but doesn't really resume sketching, smiling to herself when she hears him use her name again. "Just Stephanie is fine," she offers, but again in a whisper, because he has to be professional and everything. "And I am very stubborn. I'm glad you never gave up on me." She'd been purposely difficult on occasion, that's for sure, but he'd been so patient and kind, she promises herself that she'll make it up to him.
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Bucky takes care not to move very much so she can sketch him with ease.
"That doesn't mean you can keep pushing yourself every time and expect to come out all right, though. Your body does need the rest and I'm going to make sure you get it."
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Blushing at her admission, she ducks her head to focus on her sketching. The modeling is just an excuse, really; she's watched him closely and long enough that she can draw him from memory. But it's nice to be able to see the finer details without having to be furtive about it.
She starts shading his eyes. "I wish I could see blue. I bet your eyes are even prettier in the right color," she compliments, her tone unabashed despite the flush on her cheeks.
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She says that she wishes she could see blue and he tries not to move too much when he frames his next question even though he can feel the frown lines forming on his brow in spite of himself.
"What color does it look like, then? Describe it to me?"
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Her eyes are blue too, but she hasn't particularly cared. In fact she's never actually drawn herself.
"I like to go to the movies, when I can," she says after a moment. You know, since they're getting to know each other. "Or the dancehalls, sometimes, but just to watch. I'm not a good dancer. I can't keep up."
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Steph talks about going to the movies and it reminds him that he hasn’t been in forever. His smile softens a bit.
“I should take you to the movies then. There’s at least a hundred of them I haven’t seen because I’m too busy so anything we see will be brand new to me even if it’s old news to you. I manage to keep up with the war on the radio and in the papers. Luckily, it’s still in Europe and we are an entire ocean away.”
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Her expression brightens when he mentions taking her to the movies. She doesn't even think about it being a proper date or how being seen with him would look like to other people. "You should. You're doing the Lord's work here, Doc, but even God rested and so should you," she teases.
She doesn't comment on the war. She tries to avoid any talk of it, as much as possible. Her father had died in the last one and she'd seen for herself how miserable it had made her mother.
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