This was not Bucky’s scene. He preferred to fully embrace the rumpled professor stereotype: it was comfortable, he didn’t have to iron, and he never had to think about what to wear. But when the Board decided to hold a fundraiser, inviting all the bright and beautiful (read: rich) alumni and anyone even vaguely connected to them, especially when the Dean, who was one of those rich alumni, decided to seize the opportunity to showcase (read: show off, and holy shit did Bucky ever hate that guy) his extensive art collection, it suddenly became his scene.
It became every professor’s scene, and Bucky had dug out his best (read: only) good suit and his best fancy fundraiser (read: fake fake fake) smile and here he was.
Staring at a painting that he was almost certain had…but no, that couldn’t be right. Could it?
He leaned closer, squinting slightly, because he was damn sure, hidden in the shadow of a tree, tucked far in the background of some pastorally picturesque and probably historically significant (Bucky didn’t know anything about art) farmers ploughing a field there were two pigs screwing.
The one getting, well, ploughed—to stick with the farming theme—bore a striking resemblance to the Dean. “What the hell?” he muttered.
“See something interesting?”
Bucky was so baffled by the porcine relations he didn’t register who’d spoken for long enough to reply, completely unselfconsciously, “Not sure interesting’s the word I’d use,” as he straightened. The questioning hum he received in response kicked his awareness into high gear and he stiffened and glanced sideways.
Oh yes, it was Professor Rogers (but everyone calls me Steve), ludicrously blue eyes looking up at him from behind elegant black-framed glasses, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. He was wearing a suit tonight, sharper than his cheekbones, the black so deep it seemed to eat the light, and Bucky felt the familiar hopeless longing settle into place like an old friend, because Steve couldn’t be more out of Bucky’s league if he’d been designed for the sole purpose of being out of Bucky’s league.
“Professor Barnes?” Steve prompted, one eyebrow quirking up slightly, sounding amused, and Bucky realised he’d been standing silently for way too long.
“James,” he said. “James is fine.” And he knew he’d told Steve that before. Truthfully Bucky would be even better, but he wasn’t sure he could handle it.
“But Professor Barnes is more fun,” Steve said, smiling wickedly, pressing the tip of one long finger to Bucky’s chest. Bucky’s brain flatlined, left him blinking down at Steve. Steve watched him for a bit, then his smile softened and his hand fell. “James, then. And you can explain what’s so fascinating about the painting.”
Bucky pulled himself together with an effort. “I think the artist who painted this was having some fun. Maybe he didn’t like the guy he was painting it for?” Steve looked at him sharply, which Bucky didn’t quite understand, but he pointed at the shadowy spot with the pigs. “Here. You can tell me if I’m imagining it.”
Steve leaned in, following the line of Bucky’s finger, one hand settling gracefully onto Bucky’s bicep for balance. His hand was warm, his long fingers strong and supple as they curled slightly, and Bucky swallowed hard and called himself nine kinds of idiot. He was a grown man, not some high school kid with a crush. Steve’s hand was on his arm, not anywhere interesting. This was stupid. His suddenly racing heart didn’t seem to have gotten the message. For fuck’s sake, Bucky.
Steve abruptly straightened and turned, standing between Bucky and the painting, studying him. Bucky looked back, not sure what Steve was after, when suddenly Steve smiled. It wasn’t like any smile Bucky had ever seen from him. Normally Steve’s smiles were… It wasn’t that they weren’t real, it was just that they were always so poised, so elegant, in a way Bucky would never be. This smile was wide and warm, felt like Steve was inviting him to share a joke, even if Bucky had no idea what the joke was. “You’ve got good eyes.”
Bucky shrugged, but he couldn’t stop a small, pleased smile of his own. “Did you notice? The pig on the, uh, receiving end looks like the Dean.”
Steve’s smile melted into a satisfied smirk. “It does, doesn’t it? Well you know what they say, there’s only so many faces in the world.”
Bucky nodded; he had no idea if that was what they said, but it sounded reasonable. Anything Steve said would have sounded reasonable with him standing that close, his hand on Bucky’s arm, that smirk on his face.
“So, I’m guessing you don’t know much about art?” Steve asked.
“Not a thing, except if I look closely enough I might find secret pigs.”
Steve laughed, deep and as warm as his smile had been, and it rolled over Bucky like a wave. “You’d be surprised how true that is.” He hooked his arm through Bucky’s and Bucky’s breath didn’t catch only because he used up an entire year’s worth of will power. “Come on, I’ll give you a guided tour.” His eyes danced as he tugged Bucky forward and Bucky fell into step with him, not quite sure how this had happened and not willing to question it in case it suddenly stopped happening. “Who knows what else you might find.”
