A/N: Jump starting my muse with a series of '100 Themes Writing Challenge' prompts. I'll be working on these everyday, though I don't know if I'll be able to post one each day.

The stories are partially inspired by the song "Never Be the Same" by Red. It fits Steve and Bucky's friendship very well.

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Prompt 1: Introduction

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An Introduction to Art

"A penny for the spool of thread; a penny for the needle. That's the way the money goes…" -folk song "Pop Goes the Weasel"

...

Bottle rockets spluttered and fizzed, leaping from their canisters with a start, while poppers snapped, spitting confetti and streamers onto the sidewalk in front of the Nickel and Dime General store. Ecstatic over their success, the young boys convened in a huddle, fists reaching into pockets to see what money they had. With shouts of renewed, energetic, excitement, they rushed back into the store, ready to spend another nickel on their Independence Day celebrations.

Waiting till the last young scamp had passed him, Bucky entered behind them, the breath of fan stirred air slightly cooler than the muggy atmosphere outside. Bypassing the firework display (where the boys huddled with less than discreet voices), a slight smirk crossed his face as his eyes ran over the shop's wares, finding the items he was looking for. Approaching the counter, giving a nod and good-natured grin, he greeted the shopkeeper.

He remembered frequenting the shop from a young age, the many shelves seeming to contain a treasure trove. Feet pounding upon the floorboards, sight locking on the desired object, eager fingers snatching up the item, he'd been a rascally reoccurring customer. Plenty of pennies had been lost to the cause of candy over the years. Presents for his siblings had also earned his coins away, regardless of whether it was for a spur of the moment gift or to celebrate a birthday. Bottle rockets and poppers, like the group of boys were currently interested in, had always been a major source of his spending as he'd always stocked up on the Fourth of July. It was too good to pass up that Steve's birthday could receive special celebration in firework and sparklers. Though Steve had come to hate the traditional celebration, it wasn't a habit he could break Bucky from.

Returning the grin, Harry, the shopkeeper, asked, "And what may I do for you today, Mr. Bucky Barnes?"

Shaking his head, a light chuckle escaping him, Bucky leaned his forearms on the counter, so they could converse easily. Ever since he had informed elderly gentleman that he had gotten a job, the man had insisted in acknowledging him as 'Mr. Bucky Barnes', gently teasing him on how mature he was becoming. If it had been anyone other than old Harry, Bucky might've grown irritated at it, but Harry had always run the Nickel and Dime General and was a Grandfather figure to the neighborhood.

"Just need a few things today, Harry," Bucky replied.

"Ah." Harry smiled knowingly. "And where's Steve? I hope he hasn't gotten himself into a new fix."

"Nah," Bucky returned, waving away the idea. "Last I checked, he'd locked me out of his house. Something about 'Not needing a big party'."

"I see, well tell him happy birthday for me. He's eighteen now, after all."

"Will do," Bucky promised. "If he let's me in," he added with a laugh.

Nodding in satisfaction, eyes sparkling in agreed laughter, Harry moved away from the counter, hand half going to the shelves behind him in unconscious preparation to fill Bucky's order. "All right now, let me have that list."

"A sheet of papers, a pound of candy, and a few sparklers," he rattled off, watching Harry scurry to retrieve the items he had named. In particular, he watched the papers closely, possessively, intent that no harm would come to them. Steve would've protested against his purchases, if he had known, saying that Buck didn't need to buy anything for him. But Bucky had already thought it through, having set the pennies he earned aside every week to ensure that he could buy his friend a worthwhile gift. And he knew it was an expense Steve would never buy for himself. The money was needed elsewhere.

This was a present he had had planned for months.

Setting a slim stack of papers on the counter, Harry tied them together, dexterous fingers wielding the string easily. Scooping the candy into a sack, leveling it off, and placing it in a larger sack along with the papers and sparklers, he pressed a few keys on the register and, without looking at him, informed Bucky casually, "Ten cents."

Shooting him a sharp look, Bucky pulled the handful of bills from his pocket, shaking his head firmly. "The paper alone is-" he started at argue, but Harry stopped him.

Giving the young man a steady glance, he answered, "As a gift from me. Ten cents."

Smiling wryly, Bucky returned the dollars to his pocket and fished out a dime. "Thanks Harry."

"Make sure he enjoys them," Harry said, reaching across the counter to pat him on the shoulder.

"I will, sir," Bucky promised.

Patriotic banners stretched above the streets, the red, white, and blue canvases tied from building to building. Streamers, made from scraps of fabric, decorated the clotheslines, masking them behind a flutter of bright colors. On doorsteps, penny pinwheels listed, waiting for a breeze or breath of air to give it movement.

Though ravaged by the Depression, New York was beginning to move past it. Five years ago, Bucky would've been amazed to see bottle rockets and poppers in the General store, and willingly would've stolen a handful, too, for the sake of giving his friend and siblings something to smile about.

At the start of the Depression, Harry, like other storeowners, had been hard pressed to keep the store stocked, and it was miraculous that he had managed to remain in business at all. Just as the city hadn't been able to afford fireworks, the shops hadn't been able to carry toy fireworks for the kids, and Fourth of July celebrations were something fondly recalled by those who remembered them.

It was only in the few recent years that they had made a gradual reappearance.

Close to Steve's apartment now, Bucky had already spotted the small flag Steve put next to his doorstep every year, when Bucky's steps were stayed, the quiet, distinct, sound of a fight reaching his ears. Backtracking, hurrying swiftly to find the source, adrenaline stirred in his veins, anger burning in his stomach. He had no doubt who was involved.

Ever since he had gotten a steady job, more and more often, he found Steve challenging a bully in an alley. The worst of it was that he couldn't tell if it had become more frequent because he wasn't there to dissuade the majority of the bullies, or if Steve went searching for trouble.

"Look at 'im," a snide voice laughed. "He's pathetic! What? You think you're gonna hurt us?"

Following the voice, sprinting past the buildings just up the road from Steve's apartment, blocking out all other sounds but that of flesh being hit, Bucky located the alley. Leaving the brown sack on a doorstep, having enough presence of mind to keep it out of the fray, he strode forward to confront the bullies, knuckles whitening in anticipation.

"Hey! Lay off him!" he barked, irate glare taking them all in.

It was four against one, Steve panting in a corner, hoarse breaths rasping in his chest, while the identically buff and beefy aggressors towered over him, confident in their victory. A few bruises already decorated the little guy's face, and at a guess, Bucky would say they had also hit him in the stomach, due to the way he was breathing. Surprised at being interrupted, the four turned to look at him, but Steve didn't outwardly react, having already accepted Bucky's appearance.

"Stay out of this," the one on left scoffed, giving him a vile jeer.

Not backing down, Bucky sized them up, eyes narrowing as he determined the leader. Bracing himself, falling into a familiar stance, he threw caution to the wind. Stepping in with a swift stride, closing the distance, he aimed low. Hitting soft tissue mass, the bully doubled over, exposing his face to the second punch that landed square on the bridge of his nose. With a sharp cry, hands shooting to his face, the bully stumbled as Bucky released him, tripping on his way out of the alley. Swinging around to confront the others, Bucky assessed their attitude, but with their leader incapacitated, the fight had left them.

Allowing room for the guys to escape, Bucky turned to Steve, offering a hand to help him up. "You're a mess," he commented.

"I had them on the ropes," Steve muttered, ignoring Bucky's hand as he picked himself up.

Giving him a look of disbelief, Bucky retrieved his paper sack. Not acknowledging the other's statement, he snorted, "What a way to spend your birthday. What were you doing challenging four of them?"

Gaining control over his breathing, his retort was slow in coming. "They were being disrespectful," Steve replied, straightening the collar of his shirt and patting the dust off his clothes.

"Of what?" Bucky demanded, not all that surprised. He had heard worse reasons before.

"They were singing the songs wrong, all right?" Steve sighed.

Granting him an exasperated look, Bucky didn't need to hear the rest to figure out the situation. At the nearby park, musicians performed patriotic themes upon the Fourth, sharing their love for music and country with the local picnickers and pedestrians who visited on the holiday.

"Here, this is for you."

"Buck, really?" Steve asked without enthusiasm, warily taking the brown sack, his tone one of reluctance to receive a gift.

"You'll like it," Bucky promised, crossing his arms.

Paper crinkling as his small, deft hands opened it, Steve's expression of concentration changed into one of confusion when he spotted the paper. Pulling the slim pile out, automatically running a hand across the blank surface in an artist's appreciation for the untouched page, he stared at it for several moments before shoving it back into the sack.

"Buck, you didn't have to," he said quietly.

Shrugging, Bucky gave a lopsided grin. "But I wanted to."

"Seriously though, you really didn't-"

"Hey." Bucky gave Steve a direct look; already knowing the argument his friend would give. "Don't tell me you can't use the paper. I've seen how you draw. And remember the 'Prince Valiant' comics we used to read, and how you would study them for hours? Well, now you can illustrate some of your own."

An embarrassed, but pleased, smile spread across Steve's face incrementally, unable to hide the fact that he really appreciated the gift. Shaking his head after Bucky finished speaking, he murmured, "Thanks, Buck."

Ruffling the blonde's hair, Bucky returned, "You're welcome punk."

Falling into step with each other, they meandered leisurely towards Steve's apartment, neither in any particular hurry. Every so often, Steve would glance inside the bag, checking on the paper, a giddiness filling him at the prospect of what he would draw.

Pleased for his friend, but not calling him out on his obvious excitement, he instead returned to an earlier conversation.

"You know," Bucky began, teasingly, an impish smile quirking at his lips. "Just because someone can't sing doesn't mean they're being disrespectful."

Shoving his shoulder, not having any effect, though Bucky waved him off, Steve grinned. "C'mon, you know that wasn't the case."

oOo

Swallowing a majority of the water down in a few rapid gulps, Sam splashed the last of it on his face, washing off the sweat, and helping to cool down from their jog. Looking over at Steve, judging the super soldier's mood, he posed cautiously, "You okay man?"

Steve shook his head, rolling his shoulders in a stretch as he waited for Sam to recuperate. But a small frown furrowed the skin between his brows, and his hands kept moving in short, restless gestures, a good indication that something was eating at him.

"Seriously Cap," Sam pressed. "You ran twice as fast as you usually do, you can't tell me it ain't nothing."

"It's not," Steve answered, with a reassuring smile that wasn't quite believable.

Exercising patience with him, Sam gave him a few moments before speaking calmly. "Tell me."

Gaze dropping to the grass, Steve didn't remain quiet for long.

"It's Buck. I don't know how he'll do today. He's been doing better, but the fireworks might but too much, and I don't want him to sulk the rest of the week because the Winter Soldier was triggered."

"Does he know what today is?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, I told him."

"Will you do anything to celebrate?" Sam continued.

"I didn't tell him about that," Steve admitted.

"Maybe you should," Sam suggested. "It might help."

"I don't know," Steve answered doubtfully. "I don't want him to feel like he needs to do something about it. Tony already offered to host a party for me, Natasha said she'd drop by with a gift, and Clint's kids sent me a few drawings. I don't want him to feel the need to give one too."

"He might be hurt more by the fact that you withheld that fact from him instead of giving him a chance to decide for himself," Sam pointed out gently.

Absorbing that information, Steve was quiet, deep in thought, and they didn't bring it up again. Past the early hours, morning had settled into full daylight as they finished up their morning jog. Walking the short distance to the flat where Steve and Bucky resided, Sam remained respectful of Steve's space and didn't offer conversation, giving silent companionship, but not pushing to know what Steve had decided.

Inserting the key, giving a few knocks to let Bucky know they were there, Steve called out, "Buck, I'm home, and I brought Sam."

Preceding the way in, a slight frown creased his features as he listened for the quiet movement. There was almost always some telltale sign to inform him of where Bucky was, but the apartment was silent.

"Bucky?" he questioned aloud, moving towards the bedrooms, wondering if his friend was still asleep (which would be unusual, since Bucky always woke up when Steve got up), half afraid that Bucky might've fled.

"Hey, Steve," Sam called to him from the kitchen. "There's a note here."

"What's it say?" Steve demanded, rushing to look at it.

"'Be back'," Sam read, handing the square, yellow, sticky note over for Steve's inspection.

Skimming over the jagged handwriting, the two words giving nothing away, cold settled in his stomach. It was hard to believe that after searching for his old friend for so long, that he could lose him again without any warning.

Pouring two glasses of water, glancing at the super soldier to gauge his reaction, Sam commented softly, passing over one of the glasses, "He'll probably be back soon. He doesn't say much, so that might be why he didn't add 'soon'."

"I hope so," Steve whispered.

Making a quick call, Sam cleared his schedule, promising to stay with Steve until Bucky returned.

Hours passed, the sun peaking, then sliding downward, the rays angling through the window blinds showing its progress. As a good friend, Sam kept Steve occupied, politely ignoring how Steve remained unfocused. Although he did try to enjoy Sam's attempts at keeping him entertained, he couldn't stop worrying over Bucky.

At every noise from outside, he turned expectantly, praying that it was Bucky. Every phantom turn off the lock, he got up and went to the door. Every time a neighbor called out a greeting, he listened carefully in case the recipient was Buck.

It was well past three o'clock by the time Bucky did return.

Slipping through the door, he froze, listening to the two voices, placing whom they belonged to. Satisfied that there wasn't any danger, Bucky entered the living room, observing them for a moment before either Sam or Steve realized he was there.

"Here," he offered, monotone, causing them to jump at the unexpected sound of his low voice. Taking out the bag he had tucked under his jacket, he held it out to Steve.

Half rising in shock, eyes fixated on Bucky, Steve stammered, "You're back!"

Casting him a curious glance, looking to Sam for confirmation, Bucky offered a half shrug, not seeing where the merit was in Steve's actions. Slinging the bag, keeping his aim low, it thumped into Steve's chest, the soldier's hands reflexively trapping it there.

"What's this?"

Rising an eyebrow, waiting for Bucky's response, a steady stare was all he received. Keeping an eye on the other, Steve handed the plastic bag over to Sam (who, in turn, dropped it onto the arm of the couch), surprise filling his features as he caressed the cover of the book.

"A sketchbook?" he questioned Bucky, a lump forming in his throat, a byproduct of the strong emotions stirring within his heart.

"Happy birthday, punk," Bucky murmured softly.

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A/N: Apologies if the present time scene was a little rushed.

Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it!