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."

"It's not Peggy, Y/N." Steve speaks softly, "It's you."

Now it's your turn to widen your eyes. "Me?"

You catch Bucky's gaze glancing to you from the rearview mirror. He smirks to himself before noticing that you've seen him—then he moves his gaze back to the wet road.

"Yeah, you. I thought it was kinda obvious..." Sounding a bit disheartened, Steve frowns at his masterpiece.

"No, it's really good! It's just... I didn't see myself at first, that's all. You've just drawn her so..." You struggle to find the word, "...pretty. And besides, why would I expect to see myself in your notebook?"

"Of course she's pretty." Steve makes a few short strokes along the paper near your character's hairline. You watch him work, mystified now to know that the drawing is you, and wonder why the hell he's picked you out of all people for his subject.

"I like the dress," you say after a short while.

"Do you?" Steve sounds sort of proud now. "I was thinking about making it blue. I don't usually color these things, but I thought it'd look real nice that way." He glances back at you and his eyes are sparkling in a manner that you don't think you've ever seen so up-close. Your head hovers just above his shoulder. "What do you think?"

"Blue's nice," you reply. "But so is green."

Steve nods. "You're right. Green's better. It'll look better with your eyes," he states so surely as if it's a well-known fact.

You laugh lightly. "So... do you have sketches of everyone else on the team, too?"

Steve swallows. Before he can answer, Bucky's piped up from the front seat:

"Nope, doll, that'd just be you. He only draws you."

Steve grits his teeth at Bucky before turning back to you. "Not only. I draw other things. But you're a good subject, so I uh, I've drawn you a few times."

"A few?!" Bucky bellows with a belly laugh. "More like a hundred!"

"Okay, okay, that's enough, Buck." Steve rolls his eyes. "Ignore him, Y/N. He got hit in the head pretty hard by one of those agents back there." At the insult Bucky sobers and grunts. He goes back to driving without another peep.

"Can I see the others?" Curiosity has gotten the best of you as you ask.

Steve looks unsure, but eventually nods. Then he passes back the journal and pretends not to be anxiously sitting there waiting to hear what your reaction will be. This notebook is only halfway filled, but you imagine he has others. Steve wasn't lying—he draws other things (lots of other things, like buildings and memories). But Bucky wasn't lying, either. A lot of those sketches are of you. You easily find fifteen. Your favorite isn't really of you at all, but of your eyes. It's drawn sideways and larger than life. Your eyelashes are long and pupils blown wide. You can tell it's you from the signature eyeliner and playfully cocked eyebrow.

You look above the notebook to where Steve is already watching you. You smile softly, realizing now that you've never known that he was so dedicated in knowing all of your features. He's even got the crinkles from your smile right.

"You're very attentive," you tell him.

Steve shakes his head softly. "Not for everyone."

"For god sake, Steve, ask her out already," Bucky groans from the front seat.

Nat rips her headphones out. "Yeah—seriously. This is getting ridiculous. I'm tired of watching you pine over her."

"Grow some balls, Cap," Sam says in the middle of his conversation on the phone.

Wanda nods. "She's not gonna turn you down."

"I'm sitting right here, guys!" you laugh. You're blushing, and if you looked over at Steve you'd see that he is, too.

"Yeah—but he's clearly not getting anywhere without help." Bucky rolls his eyes and turns down a narrow street.

You decide to finally look at Steve. "Well?"

The whole van has gone quiet. Steve scratches the back of his neck. "...Well?"

You wave a hand—gesturing him to go on. Encouragingly you smile.

"I uh, I think you're amazing, Y/N. And I would really love to take you out sometime." A small smile crosses his face.

"I'd love that, too." You grin.

Laying your head on his shoulder, you feel him let out a deep breath. "You would?"  he asks, almost sounding unconvinced- as if it's impossible to believe you'd ever say yes.

"Of course she would!" Clint's voice pops up from the very back. You jump in surprise. "She's been writing sappy love poems about you in her diary for months!"

Your jaw drops to the floor. You try to hide your mortified face behind your hands as the whole van erupts in laughter. All but Steve, that is. He turns his head so that his lips can whisper into your ear: "You write poetry?"

You cringe. "I mean, a little."

He grins—not in a teasing way, but something really sweet. "Can I see it?" At your shocked expression he decides to add, "I mean it's only fair since you got to see my drawings..."

You sigh. "Okay, okay. You can read them." You watch his happy smirk before being dawned on by a clever idea. Whispering gently into his ear so that NO ONE else can hear, you speak, "On one condition, Cap."

Steve raises an eyebrow and his blood pressure at how close your lips are to his neck. He feels your hot breath. "And, uh, what's that?"

Making sure the others won't see, you subtly press the gentlest kiss to Steve's neck right below his ear. You smirk as his knuckles whiten around the pencil. Drawing out the peck, you whisper quietly, "You gotta draw me like one of your French girls, Stevie."

Steve swallows stiffly, but his smile is loose and carefree. "I understood that reference."