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Bucky always did have sticky fingers—getting at the pie his ma left cooling despite her strict instructions to do not touch, don't you dare, James Buchanan, lifting toys off his little sisters before they could break—but he'd never been an actual thief until Steve came along.
The trouble was Bucky was too good at stealing and Steve was too good at getting along with too little. Steve would never in a million years ask Bucky to steal anything, or even to buy him anything, but Bucky would see just a flash of want in Steve's eyes as he looked at something, quick before Steve tramped it down, and Bucky wouldn't even stop to think or hesitate before securing that item for Steve.
The first time it happened, Bucky was twelve and Steve was eleven. They'd been inseparable for almost three years by then, which to children their age might as well be eternity, and Bucky had already bled more and spilled more blood for Steve than he thought one person should even have in their body. But there was no limit to what he'd do for Steve. He'd give Steve the heart pounding away in his chest—in fact, he wished he could, because Bucky's heart beat strong and true and Steve's often stuttered in a way Steve's metaphorical heart never would. It seemed unfair.
Bucky couldn't swap hearts with Steve. But he could get little things for Steve. So that summer, when Bucky was twelve, he and Steve were walking down the street rather aimlessly, as they often did on summer afternoons. Steve's ma made him read the classics in the mornings, to keep sharp for when school started back up in the fall, and Bucky often joined because he liked the stories of heroism and bloodshed and the good guy getting the girl in the end, girls being a subject Bucky was newly interested in. When the sun started to dip toward setting, the neighborhood boys usually struck up a ball game before dinnertime, but the afternoons were too hot to really do much of anything but wander or flop into a patch of grass in the park.
This ambling took them past the ice cream parlor every single day, and every single day Steve licked his lips, just once, as they passed the big glass window. They never made empty promises to go inside someday, because Brooklyn boys like them knew better than to pretend someday was ever going to come to pass, and Bucky never even looked in because it made his stomach ache more, but Steve could never resist. It was about two weeks of Steve glancing in and licking his lips before Bucky broke.
“Wouldja look at that?” Steve piped up that day. Bucky followed the trajectory of his eyes to see a guy and a girl, a few years older than them, dipping into an alley. Bucky had recently become imaginative enough to give him an idea or two about what was going to happen. But they must've been planning to be awful quick, because they'd left an ice cream sundae sitting on the outside tables. It even had two spoons. Steve licked his dumb, perpetually-chapped pink lips at the sight of that sundae, and Bucky honestly lost track of himself a little. Next thing he knew he was pulling Steve along by one arm and carrying the glass dish with the sundae in it and they were hot-footing to the park.
“Bucky!” Steve gasped, either from shock or the exertion mixed with the heat. Bucky slowed down, because they were out of sight of the ice cream parlor and his theft would be pointless if Steve keeled over before he even got to eat the sundae. “You just stole that!”
“Well.” Bucky shrugged, pretending his heart wasn't yammering away with fear and his own shock. “They just left it there, you know. It was gonna melt anyway. Someone may as well enjoy it.” It was, really, already melting, because Bucky's hand holding the dish was sweating. He prayed to God he wouldn't get caught—he only prayed when he was getting into mischief or Steve was sick. Whenever his ma told him to say his prayers, he just closed his eyes and thought about baseball. But Steve was still alive, and Bucky hadn't yet been beaten up for his crimes, so he figured God must not have been too annoyed by the baseball-and-help arrangement.
Bucky insisted Steve eat the lion's share of the sundae, because he liked seeing Steve's wide grin around each spoonful. This, of course, resulted in Steve getting a terrible stomach ache, on account of almost never eating rich, sweet food like that, and they had to forgo the nightly ball game so Bucky could rub circles on Steve's back. They had to stay in the park rather than getting Steve home to his bed and his ma because Sarah Rogers was an honest woman who would ask a lot of troublesome questions about what Steve had eaten to make him sick and then they'd both get in trouble for stealing and Bucky really didn't want Steve's mom to think he was a bad influence. Though, he thought ruefully as Steve groaned, the evidence was right in front of his eyes.
“Sorry I made you sick,” Bucky said in parting after he'd supervised Steve getting home safely. Steve smiled up at him and Bucky thought from the rolling in his stomach maybe he was getting sick now.
“It was worth it,” Steve whispered conspiratorially, laughing a little, and that was it—stealing went right to the top of the list of things Bucky would do for Steve, no questions asked.
Bucky wanted to grow up to be a good man, he did, but there were certain things that good men did, according to Sister Mary Catherine, that Bucky just couldn't commit to. Good men, according to her stern voice, were always honest and never told lies and never took what did not belong to them. Bucky didn't even squirm, because there was not a speck on his conscience about stealing. He only did it for Steve, and to him that justified it completely.
The stealing part of her general lesson was definitely pointed at him, but he wasn't worried about getting in trouble for real. They had an inkling he was the thief, but they'd never caught him and they had no evidence. They'd searched his pockets and his desk and his book bag, but nothing was out of sorts there. Even if they wised up enough to search Steve, they wouldn't find anything. Bucky had found a loose brick on the wall behind the school, and he could pull it out to make a big enough space to stash some small loot.
Everyone was currently in a tizzy because three whole chocolate bars had been stolen from Molly Sanders. Why a fourteen-year-old had access to three whole chocolate bars did not seem to be a topic of conversation, except between Bucky and Steve. The funny thing was Steve would normally be up in arms about this type of injustice—chocolate was expensive and three bars of it was almost an unfathomable amount—but there were a few reasons he was on Bucky's side. For one thing, it was Bucky, and Steve always listened to Bucky's rationalizations before anything else. Molly's dad was a big-wig banker, and they obviously had plenty of chocolate if they were sending her around with three bars of it. If they didn't have more, they were certainly rich enough to buy it.
More importantly, and Bucky's real selling point, Molly Sanders was an absolute bully. She did the whole simpering innocent eyes and ribbon in her hair, but she'd talk about the other girls' mended dresses and mismatched stockings with enough bite to send them to the washroom in tears. Steve didn't know what to do about this kind of bullying; girls' psychological warfare was beyond him, and he'd get in serious trouble if he punched a girl.
Bucky hated Molly Sanders. He truly hated her, with no thought to all those sermons he heard about loving your enemy. Molly Sanders made comments about the other girls, sure, but her favorite target was Steve Rogers. She'd laugh cruelly when Steve wheezed partway through a recitation. She'd remark that her daddy, the powerful banker, thought anyone with a nervous constitution should go to a special institution. (Bucky hated that people classified Steve as “nervous” just because he got sick a lot. Steve's nerves were stronger than any of the doctors saying these things, but his body just couldn't keep up.) Worst of all, she'd make comments, in a high, loud, faux-flattering voice, about how Steve's hair or Steve's eyelashes or Steve's thin little wrists were just as pretty as a china doll, and she wished she could just dress him up in pretty lace. Those comments made Steve flush the darkest, because china dolls broke and Steve Rogers refused to.
So Bucky hated her, and fumed over her words, and thought of ways to get back at her without physically hurting her because he wasn't allowed to hurt a girl, minus a few scraps with his sisters here and there. Molly had bragged so loudly about the chocolate bars her daddy, the powerful banker, had bought for her. She'd waved them around like a fan and left them in the corner on her desk so everyone could see them. It wasn't exactly hard to wait for the room to get empty and for Steve to stand lookout while Bucky casually walked by and swiped them. He was almost disappointed with how easy it was.
“Do you think what I did was wrong?” Bucky asked as they broke the first bar into pieces, the other two tucked safely into his book bag to be dispersed amongst Bucky's sisters and the neighbor kids. They couldn't risk sharing with their parents for fear of being found out.
Steve took his half with a serious look on his face, considering Bucky's question. “I'll turn myself in and never steal again if you think it was wrong,” Bucky added. Steve put the chocolate on his tongue and his eyes went so wide Bucky got worried for a second. But then he grinned wide and shook his head.
“Long as you only steal from people who deserve it,” Steve said slowly. “I think it's probably not that bad.”
Bucky thought maybe Steve just wanted to ensure a supply of sweets, but then Steve looked up from his chocolate to flash a shy little smile at Bucky and Bucky knew Steve kind of liked that Bucky stole for him. Bucky's heart fluttered and he crammed the chocolate in his mouth to cut off his dopey smile.
“My ma,” Steve said brokenly as they sat on the steps of the tenement. He was too pale and Bucky had bullied him into getting some sunlight. “She—she's not doing so well, Buck. The doctor was here and he thinks...” He gulped a breath. “He thinks she probably won't make it through the night.”
Bucky's limbs went cold and weightless. “Didn't he give her anything?” He asked weakly. Steve shook his head, cheeks flushing, and mumbled. Bucky didn't actually catch the words, but he knew what Steve was saying—they couldn't afford whatever she needed. Between her long illness losing her the nursing job she'd had their whole lives and Steve's usual maladies keeping him from working, there wasn't anything left after paying for their drab, cold apartment.
“What's she need?” Bucky demanded. Steve's head shot up to meet Bucky's eyes.
“Don't you dare,” he warned in a low voice, glancing around to make sure no one could hear them. He knew already Bucky would steal whatever medicine he named. “This isn't a chocolate bar, Buck. You could get in serious trouble.”
“I don't care,” Bucky said stubbornly. “What did he say she needs?”
Steve hesitated. “Bucky.”
“Steve.” Bucky looked Steve straight in the eyes. “I love her too, you know,” he added softly. Steve's face crumpled on itself a little, and his breath hitched as he tried to fight tears.
“He said she needs to eat a lot meat,” Steve reported, somewhat reluctantly.
“Meat?” Bucky echoed.
“Protein to build up her immune system.” Steve shrugged. “He said she should probably go back to the sanatorium but...” He bit his lip. “But it doesn't really matter anymore.”
Bucky felt numb. If the doctor wasn't even bothering sending her away, he thought she was going to die either way. It also meant he thought Steve was doomed and didn't much care if he caught it, either. Rage flared through his stomach.
“I'll be back,” He bit out, rising quickly.
“Hey.” Steve stopped him. “Just, um...just be careful, okay? Please?”
“Shucks, Stevie, you know me—always careful.” Bucky gave his best shit-eating grin and it was enough to get Steve to roll his eyes. Bucky was almost never careful.
Bucky didn't run; that would attract attention. He moseyed down the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, whistling quietly, the way he always walked down the street. He tipped his hat to the ladies he passed and helped old Mrs. Rayburn with her heavy basket of washing. He was the portrait of a good little gentleman. He got to the butcher and practiced being invisible. This heist was going to be a hell of a lot harder than grabbing something from a table and running—the butcher kept most of the meat behind the glass, and he carried a giant cleaver besides.
But Bucky staked the place out a little like any thief worth his salt would, and made sure to go in just at the same time as Josiah Hancock. Josiah was a religious fanatic and the best distraction Bucky could have hoped for. The butcher chased Josiah off, and while he was looking away Bucky made off out the back door to the alley with three wrapped packages under his jacket. He didn't even know what type of meat he'd gotten; they'd been set out for someone who'd ordered it earlier. It didn't much matter.
Steve was inside again when Bucky got back, wiping his ma's brow with a cool cloth, and he had tears in his eyes as Bucky unwrapped the first package to get started on a broth.
“Is that James?” Sarah asked, voice weak and raspy with coughing.
“Sure is, sweet thing.” Bucky came closer and bent down to kiss her sweaty hair. She batted him away weakly.
“Don't you come around here with your charm. I know how you spread it to all the girls,” she teased, having to stop and take a few breaths halfway. Bucky thought his heart might be breaking, but it was nothing compared to the agony on Steve's face. Bucky felt guilty, because he did love Steve's ma, but most of his terror was focused on Steve catching her consumption and being the one fading away in the bed.
“You know I only have eyes for you,” he choked out the familiar response. “'m gonna get some dinner ready for you.”
“Oh, not for me,” she protested. “You boys need dinner. You're growing.”
“Don't think I'm growing much more, ma,” Steve laughed a little but it was more sob than laugh.
“No, no, you'll grow to be so strong.” Her voice was fading into a wisp of a thing and Bucky focused on tearing the other packages open to see what he could do with them.
In the end, they got her through the night but not the week, and Bucky cried because he'd failed. Maybe if he'd gotten more, or if he'd stolen some milk, too—Steve shook his head and clung to Bucky that night after Bucky had finally convinced Steve to come home with him and let Bucky's ma cry and fawn over him and give him extra slice of cake and make sure the girls each gave him a kiss before bed.
“You kept her going,” Steve insisted, not bothering to hide the tears slipping down his cheeks. “You kept me going.”
“I'm sorry, Stevie, I'm so damn sorry you lost her. I'm sorry I'm bawling like a baby. I should be taking care of you.” Bucky swiped his fist under his nose to do something about the snot making a break for it. Steve burrowed his face into the crook of Bucky's neck, the couch cushions on the floor as always but, also as always, untouched since their unceremonial dumping into the middle of the room.
“You are, Buck,” Steve whispered against Bucky's skin. “You always do.”
“Dammit,” Steve muttered. The curse was quiet, but their little shoebox was small enough that Bucky heard it even in the other room.
“Wha' happened?” He called around his toothbrush. “Cut yourself?”
“No, I'm fine,” Steve answered quickly before Bucky could worry and come running out. “Just broke my pencil.” Steve's drawing pencils were special, some kind of fancy pencil just for artists or something Bucky didn't exactly pay attention to when Steve got going talking about it. All Bucky knew was they were damn expensive and Steve had been stretching his current stash for at least three years.
Bucky spat and laughed. “What's got you focused enough to break your pencil?”
“Just the usual,” Steve said vaguely, voice getting louder as he came in to brush his own teeth. His sketchbook, closed, was pressed firmly to his chest. Bucky didn't snatch it and look. Steve was notoriously modest about his drawings, and Bucky wouldn't look if Steve didn't want him to.
“It was my last one,” Steve commented absently, frowning at his reflection. “Shoulda been more careful.”
He hadn't meant anything by the comment, Bucky knew. But if he hadn't wanted Bucky to take it to heart, he should've been more tight-lipped. Bucky didn't even know where to get the fancy-ass pencils, because he knew the regular grocer they shopped at sure didn't have them. He couldn't ask around, in case anyone remembered and named him as the thief later, but he perused several stores before finding the right one. It was the kind of shop Bucky was going to have come back to later, maybe wearing his Sunday best, because when he came straight from the docks the girl behind the counter looked faintly terrified of him and the one other person inside looked too high-end for their neighborhood.
More than anything, Bucky longed for the money to buy Steve nice pencils and nice sketchbooks and pants that actually fit without having to be cuffed and a warm winter coat that no one else had worn before to leave behind holes to be patched in the elbows. He wished he could buy them a big house out in the country, with air clean and nice for Steve's lungs, with enough space that Bucky's sisters could come visit from where they lived with his aunt in Ohio now that they had no parents left.
They'd plant a little garden, too, with tomatoes and carrots and maybe potatoes because Steve was Irish as the day is long. They'd definitely have a cow, so they could have milk and butter and cheese—Bucky didn't exactly know how cheese was made but how hard could it be if you already had the cow?—and they'd eat cream dribbled over strawberries and peaches until their stomachs bulged and they'd be rich enough to have all the ice in the world so they could make ice cream, too.
Bucky let these fantasies keep his mind occupied while his fingers went light and quick and got the pencils he needed. As a cover, he bought a few pages of fancy scented stationery that cost almost half a day's wage. Who the hell was still buying this kind of stuff? The rumors were growing every day about war.
Bucky didn't much care about any of that when he left the pencils quietly beside Steve's sketchbook that night as he waited for Steve to get back from the barber shop, where Miles Henry let him sweep up for a dollar a week when he was well enough to leave the apartment. He could already picture the way Steve's eyes would go wide, those thick lashes sweeping all the way up to his brow, almost, and the smile that would stretch those perfect lips wide and happy. Nothing in the world meant more to Bucky than that.
“You been drinking, Buck?” Steve asked disappointedly when Bucky came home one night.
“A little,” Bucky admitted. “But 'm not drunk. Swear on a stack of Bibles, Steve.”
“The Bible's never meant much to you.” Steve sniffed judgmentally and Bucky had to admit he didn't exactly smell sober. Steve didn't usually care when Bucky drank, but Bucky only had a few nights left before he left for his Army training and Steve didn't want him snoring through them.
“Jimmy Jones spilled whiskey on my pants. I swear, Stevie. Bibles ain't enough for you, fine, I swear on your sketchbooks.” Bucky leaned down, pretending to be obliging, and blew a breath into Steve's face. “Smell my breath.” As predicted, Steve pushed his face away, huffing a little with barely-contained laughter as he strove to remain stern.
“Get that ugly mug away from me,” he commanded, but his lips were twitching suspiciously.
“You believe me?” Bucky asked, still breathing at Steve.
“Fine, I believe you!” Steve squirmed away from him, losing his fight with laughter, and Bucky flopped down onto the couch.
“How long you been home?” Bucky asked. Judging from the little smudge on Steve's fingers, it had been long enough to get drawing. Steve shrugged and looked away.
“Well, you know,” he said noncommittally, which meant he'd spent barely any time at all with his date.
“What happened?”
“What do you think happened, Buck?” Steve sighed and wouldn't meet Bucky's eyes. “Soon's you left, she said she had to go home and help her mother get her younger brothers in the bath.”
Bucky cursed internally. That was the third time in as many weeks that Steve's date had washed out, and this girl didn't even take the time to think of a good excuse.
“Ah, she wasn't pretty enough for you, anyway,” Bucky said flippantly. He said that every time. Didn't mean he didn't believe it. Steve snorted, a sure-fire sign he was irritated to high hell.
“Now I don't believe you weren't drinking,” he muttered darkly.
“Hey, now.” Bucky sat up and pointed at Steve. “You, Steven Grant Rogers, are a real swell fella and she must be a real idiot if she'd rather wash up naked babies than naked you.”
“Bucky!” Steve cried, trying to act scandalized even though Bucky knew Steve far too well to believe the innocent act. You couldn't live in a one-bedroom with a guy without hearing a jerk off or two over the years.
“I'm only speaking the truth,” Bucky insisted.
“Yeah, well, you're about the only one who thinks so.” Steve sucked his lower lip into his mouth and Bucky stared.
“Nuh-uh,” Bucky argued on auto-pilot. “Louise Frampton.”
“That was almost a year ago,” Steve pointed out, ears going pink the way they always did when Bucky brought up the girl Steve had lost his virginity to. They'd downed half a bottle of moonshine and Bucky had obligingly steered his date down the stairs to the street. For once, Bucky's date had left, offended, after a few minutes, but Bucky hadn't cared too much because the night was going so well for Steve.
“Hey, one a year ain't anything to thumb your nose at, pal.” Bucky was trying hard to focus on the conversation but he had had a whiskey with the guys from the docks and Steve was still chewing at that bottom lip like he thought he could eat it.
“But so far it's only one, total.” Steve pouted a little, though he'd never admit it, shoving Bucky over so he could drape himself dramatically over the other half of the couch.
“We're getting old,” Bucky mused. “The smart girls went off to college or secretary school, so we're stuck here with the dummies.”
“You seem to do all right.”
“Dummies are perfect for me.” Bucky shrugged. “Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am.”
“That's disgusting,” Steve informed him, not actually sounding all that disgusted. Bucky shrugged again.
“I'm despicable,” he said cheerfully. Steve let his head fall backward to rest against the couch and closed his eyes.
“What am I gonna do when you're gone?” He asked in a small voice.
“Well, I bet you're gonna try enlisting a few more times,” Bucky said with a small sigh. Steve nodded unabashedly, not opening his eyes.
“But what am I gonna do?” He repeats. “You're the only one who wants to hang around with me.”
“Aw, poor, morose li'l Stevie Rogers,” Bucky teased, poking at Steve's ribs. “Feeling so sorry for himself about his best pal heading out he doesn't realize everyone loves him.”
“Bucky, that's not even true.” Steve opened his eyes to fix a glare at Bucky.
“I'm not your best pal? What a cruel way to tell me. And after all this time.”
Steve knocked their shoulders together. “Shut up. You know what I mean.”
Bucky knocked him right back. “I get what you're saying, but you're wrong. You're too nice for people not to love you, Steve.”
They were quiet for a minute and Bucky fought to keep his eyes open. “I just wish we didn't have to be in different places,” Steve finally admitted softly. Bucky's whole body was awake again.
“I know,” he said just as softly. He didn't add that he wished they could both stay in Brooklyn, because he knew Steve meant he wished they could both go to war and they had an unspoken agreement to not fight about it for these last few days together.
“'m not used to being apart from you,” Steve mumbled. They were both looking straight ahead, not at each other.
“I'll write,” Bucky promised. He'd already made this promise countless times, and it would have gone without saying anyway. Steve nodded but didn't say anything. “And I'll be back, you know. A month out there and I'll come right back home to you.”
Bucky was watching Steve out of the corner of his eye and saw him look up sharply when Bucky said home to you. And then—oh, and then. Bucky turned his head just in time to see that quick flash of want he'd seen in Steve's eyes so many times. His heart starting yammering away like crazy and his mouth went dry but his hands went all weightless like they always did when he was about to slip into his thief-mode because what Steve wanted Bucky provided. His body and brain disconnected slightly and next thing he knew he was tugging Steve into his lap and tilting his head to steal a kiss.
Steve was giving back as good as he was getting, which was an intense relief. In all the times Bucky had fantasized this over the years, he'd never known quite how Steve would react. His best-case scenario had been Steve just freezing, but this was better than that. Steve must have felt that same tug Bucky had, because he settled right down into Bucky's lap and tilted his head just the same as Bucky did and kissed him back immediately.
Bucky got a little shock when Steve was the one to slip in the tongue but he wasn't exactly complaining. They broke apart when Bucky could feel Steve's chest rising and falling too quickly, and he rested his forehead against Steve's.
“Well,” he said, fairly gobsmacked. Steve laughed breathlessly.
“Left you speechless, did I? Better write the papers.”
“Better not,” Bucky shot back, tightening his arms around Steve's waist. He took another little nip at Steve's lips. “Don't think that's all the papers'd be writing if you told 'em about this.”
Steve laughed a little again, but then his fingers in Bucky's hair clenched a little and Bucky fought to stay coherent. Why were they having a conversation? There were more pressing matters at hand.
“Is this s'posed to make it easier when you leave?” Steve asked quietly, nuzzling their noses together. Holy hell, where had Steve even learned to do these things?
“Mm,” Bucky rumbled thoughtlessly before his brain could catch up. He pulled back from Steve, who whined a little in a way that made Bucky want to simultaneously moan and laugh. “That's a point, Steve. This gonna make it harder?” He ignored the joke he'd accidentally set himself up for, knowing Steve wouldn't take that cheap shot.
Steve kissed him again, long and quiet enough to hear the crickets chirping outside the window. “Nothing's gonna make it easier,” he whispered. He looked Bucky straight in the eye. “So. We only got one choice. We'll do what we've always done, Buck. Me and you against the world, right?” He kissed at the side of Bucky's face.
“We're gonna go ahead and take everything we can get.”