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It’s. It’s not that Bucky wants to be a dame or anything. James B. Barnes is a man, okay, and if he looks a little too much at what the girls he takes out are wearing than the girls themselves, well, that’s his business.
Which is why he’s here, alone in his and Steve’s tiny apartment, while Steve’s out trying his luck with enlistment for the third time, with the door locked and the blinds shut, because you can’t really be too careful with matters like this, can you? He knows it’ll be his last chance for some actual privacy, because there’s some things he keeps even from Steve, and that he’s got no choice but to keep from the army.
So here he is, perched on the side of the bathtub, running his razor along his calf, because if he can shave his face he can shave his fucking legs, and if he left them then the stockings would feel strange when he slips them on, pulling against the grain of hair.
His collection is small, and hard-won. He can’t exactly go out shopping, not if they want to pay the rent, if he wants Steve and him to eat. So they’re little things, bought after everything else, a gift for a girl if Steve raises an eyebrow. Or stolen, once or twice, something nicer, from girls with too much money to be hanging around with Bucky, who’re just playing with a rough boy. He doesn’t mind, not when it lets him touch satin and silk, and lift a few things that won’t be missed. Bucky might be twice Steve’s size at least, but he’s still not the biggest guy, and sure, they’re snug, but they fit.
Legs smooth, Bucky leaves the bathroom, sits on his bed, and carefully empties out the pillowcase he usually keeps in the darkest corner beneath his bed. He starts with the panties - they’re soft cotton, and slid smoothly over his legs to sit with the waistband just beneath his navel. They’re tighter than his usual underwear, hug his cock to his body, and stretch over the bulge. The garter-belt comes next, fastened with hooks above his hips. He sits and bends to pull the stockings up his legs, careful not to pull or catch them and cause a run. His fingers fumble just a little as he hooks them onto the suspender straps. He stands, checking they’re tight enough in the front, that there’s enough slack to bend in the back.
Bucky jumps, though, when there’s a clatter by the door - fuck, Steve shouldn’t be back yet - but exhales hard when he hears high-pitched laughter; it’s just the kids from upstairs. He doesn’t know what he’d do if Steve walked in on him like this, what Steve’d do. Although, Steve being Steve he’d probably ask to draw him. Bucky laughs, half-panicked breath, and runs his hands over his face, before he turns to the last item of his bed.
He doesn’t see the point of bothering with a bra, not when he’s got nothing to fill it with, and when he pulls the silky, blue slip over his head, and lets it settle to his knees, the darted cups on the chest gape just a little. He doesn’t dislike the way the lace trimmed neckline rubs against the hair on his chest. The same trim on the hem whispers against his thighs.
And that’s everything, so he smooths the front of the slip, and turns to their small, dirty mirror that sits in one corner, and tries to see as much of himself as he can. Bucky bits his lip hard, to see it flush a deep, dark red, and pinches his cheeks for the same, pushes his hair about. He’s half-dressed - couldn’t step out into the hallway like this, and his hair’s too short, his jaw still a little scruffy, the breadth of his chest a little tight as the soft fabric pulls across his back - but he looks good, he thinks, as he stands up on the balls of his feet, mimicking the way his posture would shift if he had high-heeled shoes.
And - after a somewhat self-conscious spin, to see how the slip’s skirt flared - as he sits back on his bed, attempting to cross his legs demurely - maybe he wouldn’t mind too much, if Steve walked in, and picked up his pencils and sketchbook.