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onlymy7babies · 3 years

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Straight Out of the Museum

Summary: A routine school trip to the Captain America Museum leads to a very unexpected reunion—and to the promise of a safe haven in dire times for a sergeant the whole of America thought KIA.

Sequel to this post.

A/N: Couldn't keep the teacher reader out of my head. Also, I'm retconning her profession to elementary school teacher bc it's hard to manage kindergarteners on a field trip.

Taglist: @dirtyweenerking

"Alrighty, does everyone have their buddy's hand?"

A chorused call of chirpy 'yeses' rings out into the open. Ah, music to your ears.

"Let's get going then!"

Their excitement was more than audible when you pointed out to the towering building that is the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum. You know they aren't particularly hyped about looking at old aircrafts, but that they're at least enthused to see one exhibit, in particular, is enough for you. The two other faculty spared to accompany you as chaperones are nothing more than student teachers but when looking after 24 hyper-active little heads out in the open, you're happy with whatever hand or two you can get.

Frankly, you're surprised the principal authorized the trip. When you were learning about airplanes and the like, you thought showing them old pictures would suffice. But once the subject of Captain America was brought up, you just couldn't keep it out of their minds.

That's how the idea of taking an itsy-bitsy trip came to mind.

But that was something easier said than done. To say that the faculty didn't trust you was an understatement. You were a great teacher, even they admitted that you had a way with kids that couldn't compare to any other they'd seen during their years of teaching. You connected to them easily and could understand them on an emotional level that many disregarded as too immature to deal with or nonexistent altogether. You knew better though. That's why the kids trusted and listened to you. Why your classes were always the most fun. And exactly why the faculty disliked the idea of you being out in the open with the children.

Most of the older staff thought you childish. Just another kid in the body of a grown-up.

How insulting really. The fact that you were positive and very open-minded didn't mean that you were a ditz that couldn't take care of the children.

And you're so ready to prove their sorry butts wrong.

The museum welcomes you with open arms and as scheduled, your tour guide is ready to take the crew of children and three adults. Although you're not quite the aircraft person either, you try to pay a bit of attention as you watch over the kids. It's not until you get to the part of the museum that they're all excited about that you finally have to put all your attention on them as they start getting a little too excited.

You knew it'd be bad when they got to the Captain America Exhibit, just not this bad.

"They're barely paying attention to the guide," one of the student teachers says aloud.

"We'll never get through it this way," the other calls out.

They're right. Time for Plan B.

Raising your hands over your head, you wave them around until a good handful of them have seen you. Once in their sight, you cross your hands in front of your face and pull them apart to your sides before placing your finger to your lips. The few who have you in sight mimic your gesture and stay quiet so long as their fingers are on their lips. Those who hadn't noticed but see their classmates do it, put their fingers to their lips before turning to you.

Silence falls on your group as they huddle closer and have their total attention on you. You smile at them and thank them for their attentiveness before addressing them all.

"Now, I know you're all excited about this exhibit. I also think you all want to go to different places too." An outburst comes out in response but the moment you repeat the crossing then shushing of yourself, their voices quiet down quickly as they shush each other. "So, this is what's gonna happen. Each of us is going to take a small group of you and decide where each group gets to go first. Remember to keep with your buddy and listen to the teachers helping, alright?"

You remove your finger from your lips for them to do the same. All at once, they cheer a giant 'yes!'. Parting them into groups of eight for each of you goes quickly enough and once you decide to meet up at the entrance in an hour, you set off to visit the exhibit.

Your group's first stop: the exhibit of the Howling Commandos. There, one of the tour guides that was nice enough to join your split group, tells you all about the group of soldiers led by Captain America during their ambushes against Hydra bases. You're marveled by how eye-catching the whole thing is. The mural of the team and the mannequins with their uniforms stands at the forefront. As the guide is explaining to the children, your gaze wanders towards the rest of the exhibit and in one corner see something that catches your eye.

It's a beautiful glass memorial.

You can't quite see the writing etched on it but you can somewhat tell the picture of the man it commemorates. Something about it piques your interest even from a distance yet you can't quite tell what it is about it.

You motion back to the guide and point at the memorial. They seamlessly take you to it and the children stare in awe as the guide begins to explain. You usher the children forward so that the people behind you can still watch the memorial unhindered. Plenty of people pass you by, some even glancing or pausing long enough to hear the guide who's telling you about the soldier depicted on the glass memorial.

It reads 'Bucky Barnes.' The tour guide says his full name though. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. Huh, rolls off the tongue quite nicely. You will say he was quite handsome, too.

The longer you stare at the memorial though, something about it has your brow furrowing more and more. Something about those eyes felt strangely familiar.

You shake your head and put a hand to your temple. God, you must've eaten something bad to be thinking such crazy things.

"Miss, we're moving!" You startle at the sudden tug of your dress by one of the students. So much so that you jump back and bump into someone behind you.

You turn on your heel and apologize briefly. The man doesn't answer and you can’t quite see what lies beneath that cap he's wearing, but you take his silence as acceptance and continue on with your group.

The rest of the tour is quite uneventful aside from the children's rowdiness and excitement. Thankfully, the two-hour trip soon comes to an end as your bus is soon to arrive to take you back to the school grounds. Once outside of the museum and while you wait for the bus, you do a quick headcount as the student teachers hand out some snacks you brought along for them to eat before leaving.

20. 21. 22. 23.

Wait a minute.

You count again, your brow knitting downward the closer you get to the right number yet not once getting to that elusive 24. You ask the student teachers to help you count and sure enough, there's only 23.

Oh no.

Raising your hand to get their attention, the kids raise their hands to mimic you. As calmly as you humanly can, you ask that everybody take their trip buddy's hand and for those missing a buddy to keep their hands in the air.

All but one hand remains up.

"Henry, where did Luca go?" you ask calmly, coming close and bending over to have him at eye level.

"He had five dollars and said he'd buy some ice cream for us."

Henry points towards the street vendor near the road then. Clear as day, you see Luca who's receiving said ice cream from the vendor—in the middle of a crowd that's starting to move as the crossing light turns green.

In the blink of an eye, he's swept into the crowd as if it were a mighty wave out at sea.

Sprinting towards the crossing, you try pushing your way through to get to the open street itself. The thick crowd however is seemingly immovable as people curse and yell at you. You pay no attention to them while calling out for Luca. You catch a glimpse of his redhead popping in and out of the crowd before getting shoved out of the way. His cries are instant when he falls, but nobody pays him any mind.

Not even when the crossing lights switch to red and the streetlight to green.

You don’t let yourself be pushed around any longer then. Making use of your small stature, you duck beneath the way of the crowd and surface on the other side of an empty street. You hear the car honking at you from a distance, but you don’t even spare it a glance. All you care about is getting to Luca.

Instantly, you throw yourself and wrap your arms around him to brace him from the impact that comes half-second later.

Screams, screeching tires, and the scratching of metal reverberate in your ears as you're thrown to the other side of the road. The pain that surges through you is mild with so much adrenaline but even then, you think that what little pain you’re feeling shouldn’t be this mild.

A car just hit us for fudge’s sake.

“Are you okay?”

Your heart pounds at that deep voice. One that you thought you would have already forgotten after the past few weeks. Yet it's as vividly in your mind after a few weeks as it was the night it happened. Eyes wide, you push through the arms holding you—when? —and lift your head out of that warm protective hold to meet a steeled blue-eyed gaze.

One you couldn’t readily forget even if you tried.

Before you can even say anything, Luca’s crying snaps you out of your stupor and you instantly turn down to the child that’s safely tucked between both your bodies. The blue-eyed man from before helps you sit up and you preoccupy yourself with checking every inch of Luca’s body. Thankfully, there’s not even a scratch on him.

“You’re okay.” Your whisper is hoarse from the fright as you bring him to your lap and wrap your arms around him, reassuring both him and yourself as you repeat those words over and over. Meeting that blue-eyed gaze once more, you offer a weary yet reassuring smile. “W-We’re okay. Just a tad bit startled.”

Beneath the cap he’s wearing, you see his brow furrow as he looks at you and his nose scrunches because of it. Before you can say anything, you see his hand reach out—his left one that’s now gloved up.

In the distance, the sound of sirens makes his hand flinch mid-reach, and he looks away towards the end of the street where an ambulance and cruiser just turned into. A memory of that night flashes before your eyes—no ambulances, no authorities.

“Go.” That blue-eyed gaze turns to you and remains for a moment. Yours doesn’t waver and neither does your determination to get him out of here. “Now!” you hiss.

He blinks a few times before rising to his feet and leaving, shouts of the crowd calling after him in concern hurting your ears from the volume. One of the student teachers reaches you as the ambulance and cop car stop not far a few minutes later.

“Are you guys al—oh shit, your head.”

“Language,” you quickly say and pass Luca onto them. “I’m fine. Luca’s fine too but let the paramedics look at him.”

“But your head!”

“I said take him!” you sternly shout. That seems to bring some sense into them. You don’t matter right now. Your students will always come first and foremost.

Thankfully, the cut that’s on your temple isn’t as bad as it looked. After a quick visit to the hospital and a couple of stitches, the gash is as good as gone sans the nasty-looking redness and residual pain. Luca is fine just like you thought if not a bit shook. He’ll surely need a few visits to a therapist to get through the shocking experience though.

And as for you…

You can’t help but heave a long sigh after such a long day as you’re dropped by a cab at the street of your complex. What a horrible way to end an excursion. Now it’s for sure that they’ll never again let you leave with the kids on a trip.

What a bummer.

Entering your apartment and kicking the door closed behind you, you toss the keys onto the banister as you enter the living room.

“Alpy, I’m home.” When nothing is pressing against your legs or even meowing incessantly for food it surprises you. “Alpy?”

He meows. You find him at his window, sitting on the windowsill and looking out the window while scratching at the glass. Odd. But you weren’t in the best of moods to deal with him right now. Groaning under your breath and holding onto your temple, you saunter over to him.

“Yes, yes, I know. Sorry I forgot to leave it open this morning.” You pull the window open enough for him to go through, but even with that, he’s refusing to go out and simply stares, tail swaying back and forth. “What’s wrong? Didn’t you want to go out—”

“Hey.”

A scream instantly leaves you at the sound of a voice on the other side. You jump and instantly try shutting the window but before you even can, a leather-clad hand catches the bottom of it and rather easily keeps it open against your every bit of strength. You’re this close to snatching the closest thing to hit with when a pair of steel-blue eyes peek through the glass pane.

It takes you a moment to calm your racing heart at the sight of him. Once it does, you curse a ‘son of a gun’ under your breath as you pry open the window with great ease with his help.

“A little warning would’ve been nice!” you reprimand with a frown.

“I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Well, you gave me a heart attack and a half, I’ll tell you that.”

It’s tough staying angry at that face, though, especially when that stoicism from before has turned into something quite different and very much concerning. Your tone changes as you lean forward to see him better in the falling light of the evening.

“Are you alright?”

His brow furrows at the question. “What?”

“Are you alright?” you repeat. “The accident this afternoon—you protected us from the impact. You shouldn’t be moving around so willy-nilly like this.”

“Willy-nilly?”

Shaking your head at his absurdity, you’re about to tell him off when a knock comes on your door. And from the nasal voice calling your name from the other side of the front door, you can already guess who it is. You audibly groan and raise a finger for your blue-eyed guest to wait before darting to the other side of the apartment. Quickly, you put the chain on the lock and open the door, holding it steady with both hands and your foot for what’s surely to come.

“Are you alright?! I heard you scream! What’s happening in there?”

You stumble back a little at the force with which your next-door neighbor tries pushing your door open. Thankfully, the chain lock is doing a fantastic job in keeping him out. The little space that's still open however gives him enough space to try and peek into the small apartment.

“I-I’m fine, thank you,” you say, attempting to sound as calm as possible.

“Are you sure? I heard you got hurt at work today.”

You freeze and instantly feel a bit of bile rising in your throat. Please tell me he didn't.

“I-I’m sorry,” you stammer, the nervousness you want to hide very much escaping through your voice. “Have you been following me again?”

“What!? No! Of course not. I would never. It’s just that—I overheard the neighborhood talking about the field trip you said you were gonna take and well, I happened to be going there today, too. That’s all, I swear!”

Ugh. Hadn’t you been through enough today?

“Please leave,” you finally say, your voice straining a bit from how uncomfortable this is getting.

“No, it’s okay! Whatever is happening in there, I can help you!” The instant his hand snakes its way through the opening and goes for the chain link your blood runs cold as you try to push the door closed by force.

“Stop it—”

“She told you to leave.”

A cry of pain comes through the slit and all you register is the leather-clad hand that has your neighbor’s arm in a vice-grip, twisting it at an awkward enough angle that he releases your unfastened lock. With little preamble, your guest takes the doorknob and opens it wide enough to push him out before slamming the door shut. On the other side, you can hear your neighbor cursing up a storm and swearing he’d call the police.

As if calling his bluff, you shout through the closed door with a slight giddy tone. “You call them, and I’ll let them know you’ve attempted a B&E!”

Surely that’ll keep him far away for now. A good sense of accomplishment surges through you and you turn up to your guest who’s still holding the door closed with his left hand, keeping you in place between him and the wall. You clear your throat and smile through the awkwardness of the situation.

“Sorry about that.”

Not wanting to stay there longer than you had to, you duck under his arm and walk over to the window. You close it just enough for when Alpine comes back and turn to see your guest standing rather stiffly in the middle of your living room.

Despite how broody and menacing he looks at a first glance, he’s also kind of cute in a quaint sort of way.

“You can go ahead and sit down if you’d like.” Walking up to him, you notice how he stiffens even further. You purse your lips and wait a few paces away from him until he moves, taking your offer and sitting on the stained couch. Alpine accompanies him and you smile as you head over to the kitchenette and open the fridge.

“I don’t have much of a selection, but if you’d like, I have some orange juice, water, or milk.”

“Why aren’t you freaking out?”

You pause at grabbing the orange juice carton. “What do you mean?”

“You were in the museum. You saw that exhibit.”

The way his voice trembles ever the slightest is something that catches you off guard and that makes your heart ache a little. You don’t want to scare him away though and keep a level head as you try to toe your way through this conversation.

“Well, yes. We all did. It was a school trip after all.”

“But you saw that memorial, too. The one for that sergeant. And I know you know what I’m talking about.”

“I frankly don’t,” you say, with a chuckle as you serve two cups of juice.

The sound of clothes shuffling doesn’t take your eyes away from the cups you’re pouring. Not even when his hands lean on the banister and he’s practically inches away from you do you falter.

“Don’t lie to me,” he growls. “I saw it in your eyes. You recognized me.”

You pause your capping of the carton and purse your lips as you give it a brief thought.

What he’s insinuating is beyond crazy. Really how could someone from the 1940s be alive in this day and…age… The realization hits you a bit too late and you groan to yourself. It’s not crazy in the least. There’s a reason Captain America exists today, isn’t there?

Finally, you allow yourself to think that maybe, just maybe, that you thought at the sight of that memorial and of the man who is now inches in front of you could be true. It’s insane. Maybe. But not impossible.

Wanting to make sure you wouldn’t just be throwing around ludicrous ideas, you look up from the cups and into that gaze that bears into you. One that’s mostly obstructed by long strands of dark hair. You give him a thin smile and raise your hand to your chest, inching it closer to him but stopping so he can see it.

“May I?”

He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t decline you either. Pursing your lips, you take that as consent before reaching out to brush the long tresses away from his face. Carefully, you brush them behind his ear and expose his rough expression. His dark beard feels rough against your palm, but you take his jaw into your hand anyway and lift his face into the light.

You can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity that stands before you.

“Should I call you Sergeant Barnes, or do you prefer Bucky?”

Bucky doesn’t move.

His steel-blue eyes narrow and he pulls back from your hand. It’s strange how you unconsciously chase after it even after he turns his back to you. You bring your hand back to the banister and lose the humor you used to try and cut through the heavy atmosphere.

“It’s not just me then.” His voice is heavy with confusion and tinged in desperation that's not hard to catch. “There’s a resemblance.”

“I would agree with you if it weren’t for the fact that someone like Captain America exists,” you answer as you come around the banister with the cups of juice in your hands. “But you look a tad too much like him for this all to be a coincidence, I think. So, my question is, what happened to you?"

"I-I don't know."

"How did you survive all these years?"

"I don't know."

"And why aren't you with Captain America? From what I read, Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers were pretty close childhood friends—”

“I don’t know!”

Your eyes widened and pain shoots through your hands as metal slaps at you to force you back and in the process smacks the cups out of your hands. They shatter on impact and the juice in them runs quickly between your feet.

You don’t move. Maybe you flinch from the sudden pain but don’t move otherwise. All you do is stare after him, watching his behavior as he begins to pace the small space of your living room. You catch his eyes fleeting from the ground to your feet to your face before averting once more. He’s so skittish and wound-up, that it doesn’t surprise you the way he responded. Especially after how much you were prodding just now.

Your students tend to be the same when they’re overwhelmed. They throw a tantrum and start throwing stuff until they’ve calmed down. Those who aren’t physical though, tend to do what Bucky’s doing. They cave back into their shell and don’t say a word from how overtaken by their emotions they are.

Blinking away the shock, you take one deep breath before going about to pick up the broken pieces of ceramic from the floor. You shoo Alpine away when he starts licking up the orange juice and clean that up too before long. Once that’s over with you glance up at Bucky who’s now sunk himself against the window, his forehead pressed against the pane and expression hidden.

As careful as humanly possible, you approach him again, rubbing away the aching in your hands.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” you say, enunciating each word calmly. "I'm sorry."

“I know…I’m…I’m sorry. That I hit you, I…I didn’t mean…”

“I can tell.” You smile when he spares a brief glance over his shoulder. “Thank you for apologizing.” Leaning against the wall, you try and give him enough space for him to be comfortable around you. “When you said that you didn’t know, did you say that because you can’t grasp the idea or because you don’t remember?”

His shoulders visibly tense at the latter part of your question and you ready yourself to step back and give him more time if he needs it. But after a moment, he manages to at least respond.

“I don’t remember.”

“What is it you don’t remember?” you ask calmly.

“Everything.”

This time it’s your turn to be taken aback. “At all?” Bucky shakes his head, those dark strands of hair following suit. Well, that’s unexpected. But then… “What made you go to the museum?”

“I…met Captain America recently and he told me…that he knew me. It didn’t make sense. At least not until I saw that memorial.”

“I see.”

You nod a couple of times. His story is very disjointed. You can tell there’s a large part of it that he’s not telling you, and although it might help in breaking through, you don’t pry any further than he’s willing to go. With the way he is now, it might just shut him down worse than he did just a second ago.

So instead, you try something else.

“What did you decide in regard to Bucky Barnes then?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“You say you don’t remember anything. Okay, that’s fine. But you saw something in that memorial that sparked something in your memory, right?”

“Not so much a memory, no,” he explains after a minute. “Just…a strange familiarity.”

“That’s good,” you add with a smile. “Is that feeling enough for you to come around to the idea that maybe you are Bucky Barnes?”

“I-I can’t." He's quick to retort with only the slightest hesitation. "There’s too much that goes with that—all that history, all those people I don’t remember.”

Suddenly, his shoulders are tensing further. His breathing is spreading up a bit too. And against the glass of the window, you can see the way his hands begin curling into fists.

He’s panicking again.

“No, no. There doesn’t have to be.” Before you know it, your words are accompanied by your hand on his back soothingly stroking away the panic you see rising in him. You feel him tense under your touch but he makes no move to push you away. “You can set aside all that for now. Maybe come back to it when you’re ready to think about it. For now, settling on who you are comes first, don’t you think?”

He pauses, deep in thought. You simply purse your lips and wait.

This is a leap.

You have no idea what happened to him, how he’s here now, or even what he’s hiding from you. It could really be dangerous what you’re doing right now. But even so, you can’t just stand by and do nothing. Because for all that you don't know, the one thing that you are sure of is that this man isn’t well and that he doesn’t have much of anything or anyone to rely on.

After a bit, you hear his breathing slow down and feel his shoulders just relaxing the tiniest of bits. You pull your hand back as he turns towards you while staring at the floor again.

“If I decide…that I am Bucky…what happens then?”

“Nothing,” you answer with a smile. “Not until you’re ready and want it to.”

That seems to be enough. Bucky nods and finally lifts his gaze to meet yours, one you welcome with a warm smile. Suddenly his brow furrows as he reaches up to your head where he touches the stitches on your temple. You flinch but laugh to lighten the mood as you reach up to touch the surroundings of your wound.

“Oh, this? Yeah, there must’ve been a rock or something jutting out of the road that scratched me up on our way down.”

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah, I’ll be alright.” An awfully loud growl from your stomach interrupts you then and a deep blush tints your cheeks as you hold onto your abdomen. “I forgot I skipped dinner with everything that happened.”

With that same stoicism from before, he says, “You should eat.”

“I think so too.” A chuckle escapes you as you go back to grab your phone and look through your saved contacts. “Does Chinese sound okay with you? Or maybe burgers. You look more like a meat kind of guy.”

Bucky’s brow furrows at your question. “Why are you asking me?”

“Well, you have to eat too, don’t you?” You chuckle and walk over to him, scrolling through the different options to show him on your phone.

“So, what do you think? Burgers, Chinese or—oh! I think there’s a new sushi place that opened down the street. Want to try it out?”

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onlymy7babies · 3 years

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Finger Painting

Summary: you and Kyle spend the day finger painting

Warnings: None, this is pure fluff

Word Count: 2133

Paring: Franken Kyle x GN reader

Kyle was looking curiously over the various things at the table. You had told him to sit still and wait for you to finish setting everything up, and so far he was doing pretty good. He was just sitting at the table quietly, his hands gripping the sides of the chair to keep himself from grabbing at the items on the table.

You had thought it would be fun to introduce painting to Kyle. He was always watching you when you painted, sitting at your feet, his arms wrapped around your legs. His curious eyes taking it all in as you mixed the colors and turned nothing into a beautiful piece of art. You figured he wanted to try it but he wasn’t sure how to tell you. Because some of your paintings would go missing and you’d find them stashed away in his room, covered in messy strokes and muddied colors. You never got mad, you just put them back where you found them figuring he had hid them because he was scared you’d be mad at him for messing them up.

You finished filling up the cups of water and pouring the paint onto little palettes for the both of you. And since it was Kyle you had placed newspapers down on the table not wanting the paint to get everywhere. He watched your every movement, waiting for you to say it was okay for him to touch everything.

You smiled at him, he gave you a lopsided smile in return. “Stand up for me sweetie.” He did as you asked, stumbling to his feet as he roughly pushed in his chair, doing his best to imitate what you had taught him. You placed the apron over his head and as you did you pressed a light kiss to his forehead making him smile. “Turn around.” He spun in a quick circle, almost falling over. But you steadied him and tied the apron behind his back with a little bow. “There you go.” You smiled. “You look very handsome in your apron.”

He blushed at your words, fumbling with the fabric as he looked down at his shoes. “Handsome.” He repeated, liking how it sounded when you called him that.

“Yes you’re very handsome.” He blushed even more and buried his face in his hands in embarrassment. You could still see him peaking through his hands, his smile at your compliment peaking through as well.

You put on your own apron, reaching back to tie a knot, Kyle imitated your movements and accidentally ended up undoing his apron. “Silly boy.” You cooed, moving back over to him to redo the knot. “There, now you’re ready to paint!”

“P-paint?” He asked, his eyes glittering with excitement. “L-like you?”

“Yes, like me, we’re gonna finger paint.” You tucked one of his stray hairs behind his ears. “Come on.”

He yanked at your hand and eagerly led you back to the table, pulling out your chair for you, and scrapping it against the floor. “Sit.” You giggled and did as you were told. He plopped back down in his chair, and looked at you with expectant eyes.

You moved a palette in front of him and placed a sheet of printer paper along with it. “Finger painting is like how it sounds alright darling, we’re gonna paint with our fingers.”

“P-paint with fingers.” He dipped his whole hand into the paint, and dragged it across the paper. He stared at the blob of paint he had created, all the colors mixing to forming into an unflattering brown color. He whined when it didn’t turn into a picture like yours usually did. He looked back up at you with watery eyes, wanting to know what he did wrong. “Help?” He asked, holding his messy hands towards you. You had taught Kyle that he needed to ask for help when he needed it instead of angrily lashing out. There were times when he still did but it seemed his determination to learn how to paint overpowered his desire to act out.

You took his hand in yours and wiped the paint off of it. “Like this sweetheart.” You took a new piece of paper out, setting his other one to the side so it could dry. You stood up and moved to stand behind him. You leaned over his shoulder and gently wrapped your fingers around his wrist. You guided his hand to dip into the yellow paint. You helped him to make a circle in the center of the page. Then you dipped it in red and moved his hand to draw the petals of the flower. “The picture doesn’t just appear like magic.” You explained as you finished up his flower .” You have to create it and be patient with it. And of course you need to practice.” Kyle watched as his hand drew the shape of a flower onto his page, staring at it as you finished. “Now you try.”

You let go of his wrist, allowing Kyle to try and make his own picture now that you had shown him how painting worked. You stood behind him as he worked, his brow furrowed in concentration as he looked over the colors. He decided to try and imitate the flower you had made. He shakily dipped his finger into the yellow paint and lifted it over to his page, some of it dipped off but that's why you had laid the newspaper down. He drew a misshapen circle, a little ways away from yours on the paper. Then he moved to the blue paint and began to draw the petals the best he could. Some were shorter than others and it was all one continuous line instead of individual petals. He finished his flower, smiling at how it looked next to the one you had helped him draw.

He motioned excitedly towards his paper, grunting to get your attention, wanting you to see what he had painted. “That’s pretty Kyle!” You praised, resting your hand on his shoulder as you pulled him into a side huge.” “It’s very pretty, I like that you used blue.” He wrapped his arms around your waist, wiping the blue paint on the side of your shirt that was exposed. But you didn’t even care, you were proud at him for learning something new. You kissed him on the top of his head like he liked, making him nestle his head into your side. “I think it’s so pretty it needs to be displayed.”

He looked up at you in confusion. You took his paper blowing on it lightly to make sure it was dry. You moved to walk away from him but Kyle tightened his grip on your hips, not wanting you to leave. “I’ll be back baby, it’s okay.” Kyle reluctantly let you and watched as you walked over to the fridge and hung up his picture with one of the magnets. “See now everyone can see your painting and how amazing it is.”

His face crinkled up at your praise, his dimples showing as he smiled widely. He made grabby hands at you, looking between his art on the fridge and you. “M-more.”

“You want more of your paintings to hang on the fridge?” You asked, sitting back down in your seat.”

He nodded rapidly. “More.”

“Then you have to make more.” You put yet another paper in front of him. Kyle took it eagerly and began to dip his fingers into the paint so he could get to work on his next masterpiece. As he worked you decided to paint as well, painting lazy doodles and small designs on your own paper.

Each time Kyle finished a piece he would tug on your sleeve to get your attention, wanting you to praise him like you did before. And you did each time, ruffling his hair and telling him how pretty his picture was. Then he’d watch you with an open mouth smile as you placed it on the fridge next to the other pieces.

You looked up at Kyle, he had a look of pure concentration on his face as he made his pictures. He had drawn the flower a couple more times before starting to draw other things. Like a simple dog, and a landscape with the sun in the corner and the grass like sticks at the bottom. He was working on something new, his whole body draped over the paper. “What are you working on sweetie?” You asked, slightly lifting out of your chair to see his picture.

He grunted and put his arms up protectively around the paper. “S-sec-“ he struggled to find the right word, his lips pursed as he searched for it. You patiently waited for him to say what he was drawing, after a while he found the word he was looking for. “S-secret.”

“A secret?” You asked playfully. He bobbed his head, repeating the word. He glanced at your paper and you imitated his position of blocking your paper. “Well then mines a secret too.” He huffed in amusement and went back to working on his piece.

You looked down at your paper, focusing on your own painting. You dragged your fingers across the paper, watching as it slowly turned into what you wanted it to be. You finished it up and waited for Kyle to finish as well that way you would show each other your pictures. Kyle made one last mark before looking back up at you. He pointed at you, signaling he wanted you to go first, he wanted to know what your secret painting was.

You lifted your paper up to show him and he stared at it with an open mouth expression, he shakily lifted his hand up to gentle touch the paper. “M-me.” He said looking at you, you smiled at his recognition. You had drawn him the best you could with finger paints but it seemed he knew who it was.

“Yes that’s you.” You confirmed. “I wanted to paint something pretty.” He bit his lip at your words smiling.

“I-I’m p-pretty?” He asked.

You leaned over the table and touched his nose with your index finger, leaving a dot of red on the top of his nose. “You’re very pretty.” He crinkled his nose at the odd feeling. Kyle dipped his finger in the paint and leaned over like you had. He tried to leave a dot like you did but he ended up smearing it all over your nose and cheeks. “Kyle!” You giggled out, surprised at his actions.

“P-pretty.” He said, calling you what you had called him.

“Thank you, now what did you draw?” You asked scooting your chair closer to his. He blew on his paper like you had the first time to make sure it was dry. Then he lifted it up for you to see. Tears welled in your eyes at seeing what he had painted. You let him explain the picture in his own words.

“Y-you.” He pointed at the stick figure on the right in the red apron like yours. “M-me.” He pointed at the other one in the blue apron. They were holding hands and standing next to a house that resembled the one you both lived in. In the corner on the paper he had messily written his name, signing his art. He smiled at you but his face dipped at seeing your tears. “S-sad?” He asked his voice cracking.

You shook your head, “No I’m not sad darling, these are happy tears.” You wiped them from yours eyes. “I’m love you so much.” You leaned forward and pressed your lips to his chapped one, smiling as he pushed back against the kiss. You leaned your forehead to his. “Let’s hang them up, yeah?”

You moved to stand up but Kyle stopped you. “I d-do it.” He took your paper and his and waddled over to the fridge. At this point it was covered from bottom to top in his paintings. But he found open spaces and placed the magnet on each paper, hanging them up next to each other. When he was done he came back to his chair and sat back down.

“Good job.” You praised, looking at the messily hung papers.

There were days when it was hard taking care of Kyle, and at times it became too much. But it was the little moments like this, when he tried so hard to learn and to show his love for you that made it all worth it. He smiled and wiped another stroke of color across your face. You laughed and did the same, making a green streak on his cheekbone. You both ended up smearing paint all over, it was a pain to clean up but it was worth it.

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