Bucky is bored.
He has no right to be bored, and he knows it. His parents certainly are not bored. Dad has barely been home since Tuesday before last; when he is, he's talking about "stocks" and "crashes" and "Winnie, please don't fret; dearest, you help me keep the books, you know that we're fine." Mom has been very busy the past few days, converting one of the guest rooms into a bedroom for the maid whose husband already lost the means to pay rent; cooking up a feast in the kitchen for the other maid to take back home with her; and canning whatever beans and corn she thinks they can spare. She's enlisted Rebecca in this endeavor, so whenever his little sister isn't at school, she's been busy with Mom either making food or making deliveries.
Truth be told Bucky would love to be helping out, too. Mom's had him in the kitchen with her since he was small; he baked his first cake when he was six, and on Sundays he makes lunch for the whole family by himself. But instead he's laid up on the couch in the first floor parlor, because he'd been dumb enough to wander into a crowd on the way home from school on Thursday, hoping to figure out a little more of what had his folks so on edge, and had come home bruised and limping for his stupidity. Crutches and a splint have been his constant companions ever since.
He's done the schoolwork that Rebecca brought home for him from his teachers. He's bored of reading, which is something he never thought he'd say about himself, but he's discovered that he only wants Jules and Verne when it's a free choice, and not something he's forced to do for lack of other options. He's bored of playing Solitaire, too, and even if he was talented at drawing, nothing is coming to mind when he stares at the sheaf of blank pages that had been left for him. There's been nothing but news reports and doomsday prophecies on the radio. He's too awake to nap, and too isolated to listen in on anyone's conversation.
For want of any other pastime he sings. Loudly. Not particularly well, either, apparently, because someone on the floor above him keeps stomping their foot, to shut him up. Because of that he almost misses the sound of someone knocking on the front door. It throws him, briefly, when he realizes what the noise is, but then he remembers that their bell is broken and, given the past few days, no one's gotten around to fixing it.
"I'm coming!" he yells, trying to sit up without jostling his "bad sprain, probably a strain on top of it" too badly, as whoever is at the door continues to knock. "Hold on!"
The knocking stops, and he hears "Okay!" from the other side of the door. He reaches for his crutches and gets them under his arms in record time, he's proud to tell himself. Limping to the door goes by pretty quickly too, because he only remembers that he's not supposed to answer the door by himself after he's already opened it.
No danger here, though. His caller is a kid smaller than Bucky, but probably around the same age going by the face. He's dirty blond, with blue eyes; his shirt is baggy, loose from a lack of suspenders; his pants look too small for him, and his shoes too big. Behind him, across the doorstep, lies the long handle to a red wagon that had been left on the front concrete lawn; the wagon itself is laden with bottles of different-colored liquids and rags in varying states of obvious use.
"Oh, hey."
They know each other, vaguely. Winifred Barnes, nee Buchanan, is still a proud Scotswoman for all the years she's spent in the States, and consequently First Presbyterian is a second home to the Barnes. Steve Rogers, on the other hand, is at church only rarely, never unaccompanied by his grandmother, and never accompanied by anyone else. That wouldn't be especially remarkable, if his grandmother weren't the only Indian that Bucky and probably everybody else there had ever seen in their lives. They look nothing like each other, too-where Steve is blond and pale, his grandmother is dark-haired and brown; where she is tall and imposing, he looks like a strong wind will pick him up and dump him in the Upper Bay one of these days-which makes them even more noticeable. Mom and Dad tried to approach them once, but they had barely gotten in a cursory greeting and introductions before the pair excused themselves. Steve had kept glancing back at them, Bucky remembers, like he expected to be followed.
"Oh. Hey," Steve parrots back at him, his face falling. "I didn't know this was your..." Steve trails off, and then straightens up; his expression changes to one of practiced professionalism. "Can I talk to your father?"
"Um. He's...he's out."
"Then can I talk to your mother?"
"She's out, too. But you can talk to me," he offers, when he sees a little shadow of disappointment cross over Steve's eyes. "Why'ya here?"
"I'm here to...to offer my services," Steve says, stepping to the side and glancing back at his wagon. "Rogers Custodial, established 1929. I'm offering a full cleaning for a three-story house for five dollars."
"We got maids," Bucky says, taken aback.
"Five dollars or best offer," Steve quickly amends.
"They're working today," Bucky says, swaying a bit on his crutches. "Can't ask 'em to leave, you know?" he says, with a weak laugh.
"When is their day off?"
"Um...Sunday."
Steve looks relieved. "Good. I can work any day except Saturday."
"No you can't, you got school," Bucky laughs; he stops when he sees Steve's face, and realizes that it's Wednesday today.
"Could you let your folks know I was here?" Steve asks. "I'll come back over on Sunday, after you get home from church."
"Uh...sure, I guess. I'll let 'em know."
Steve smiles. "Thanks. Um...it's James, right...?"
"You can call me Bucky." Rebecca had invented the nickname, wanting something to match "Becky", and despite its origins he likes it; it sounds a little more manly than "Jamie", but doesn't have the same you're in trouble, young man ring to it as his actual Christian name.
"Okay. Thanks, Bucky. I guess I'll see you Sunday."
"Um," Bucky says, loudly, when Steve turns away and it dawns on Bucky that he isn't wearing a coat. "Do you..." Steve turns back. "Do you wanna come inside for a bit?"
Steve shakes his head. "Can't."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. There are a couple houses on this block I didn't get to yet." Steve turns away again.
"You know now I think about it, I got work you can do," Bucky says, before he thinks about it at all.
Steve regards him with surprise and more than a little suspicion. "What kinda work?"
"Well I'm stuck here," Bucky says, indicating his crutches. "And everyone else is either gone or busy. You could...if you could stay for a couple hours until my folks get back, I'll pay you for your time. I got an allowance. Ten bucks a week."
Steve's jaw nearly drops onto the ground before he recovers. "Whadaya want me to do?"
"Just...stick around? I'm bored. I got some games I need another person to play with, and my sister's not home. And...and, y'know, if I get hungry you can run over to the kitchen to get a snack for me. Stuff like that. You'd be like...like my personal manservant or something, for the day."
Steve looks troubled.
"I'll still pay you the five bucks," Bucky says, with a cheeky grin. "Please, it's so boring being laid up."
Steve looks even more troubled; he glances at the other houses lining the street, and Bucky can tell he's calculating the likelihood that anyone else would take him up on his offer of janitorial services. A gust of wind blows by, coating Bucky's face with cold; he sees Steve shiver and, unconsciously, fold his arms across his chest.
"Goin' once, goin' twice..."
"Okay," Steve interrupts. "Five dollars, you promise?"
Bucky leans hard onto one crutch so he can offer a hand. "Cross my heart, hope to die."
"Okay." Steve shakes his hand, sealing the deal.
Bucky swings his crutches back, hopping backwards to let Steve in; Steve closes the door behind them. Bucky hobbles his way back to the couch as Steve wipes and stomps his feet on the doormat, and then follows him fully inside the room, glancing around like he can't figure out what to take in first.
"Couldja turn off the radio?" Bucky asks, and Steve hastens to do so. "Thanks, it was drivin' me nuts. Been listenin' to it all day; it's nothin' but people panicking about the crash."
"It's pretty bad," Steve says, a little strangled. "My ma was talkin' about it. She says a lot of people are gonna be losin' their jobs soon."
"Lotsa people already did," Bucky says, a little forlorn. "My dad says we're okay, so I'm not real worried about us, but I know some people who aren't doing so great already."
"You just gotta be careful with your money, that's all," Steve says, sounding wise and not quite confident. "We got some saved up, so we'll be fine as long as we all keep workin'."
"What's your dad do? He in the cleaning business, too?"
Steve falters; he stops looking at the room and instead looks down at the floor. "My dad died last year."
"Oh." Bucky grimaces. "I'm sorry." Come to think of it, Steve had shown up for a rash of Sundays, more in a row than he ever had, at one point last year. "I didn't know, I don't remember it gettin' announced at church..."
"It wasn't," Steve says, a little quickly. "He wasn't buried there."
Ah. That explains...not very much; in fact that leaves Bucky with more questions than answers, but Steve looks mighty uncomfortable, so a change of subject is in order. "Oh, okay. So your mom works?"
Steve nods. "She's a nurse. And my grandmother makes things and sells them. Bags and jewelry and things like that."
"Neat." Bucky smiles at Steve, who smiles back. "My dad does a lot of things. We've got a couple stores around the city. And we got farmland out west that we rent out."
"You rent it out fair, right?" Steve asks, his eyes suddenly narrow.
"'Course we do," Bucky says, a little defensively, but mostly matter-of-factly; he doesn't want Steve to get upset and go away. "And Mom used to be a cook, but then she married my dad." Steve nods. He doesn't look quite convinced by Bucky's nonchalance. "Hey, could you get me a glass of water if I tell you how to get to the kitchen?"
"That's what you're payin' me for, I guess."
"Go out this door and straight down the hall, make the second left, then a right by the stairs; you'll walk right into it. Anyone asks, just say you're a friend who came to visit."
"Okay."
Steve trots back into the parlor much quicker than Bucky had planned on; he had grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil and was preparing to doodle the next few minutes away when Steve comes back, clutching a glass.
"You draw?" Steve asks, setting the glass down on the table in front of the couch, looking at Bucky's hand.
"Not really. Do you?" Steve nods. "Whadaya draw?"
"Anything, really," Steve says, with a shrug, trying to remember his last few projects. "Trees. People. Animals."
"Can I see?" Bucky pushes the stack of paper towards Steve, and plants the pencil atop it like a cherry on a sundae. "I'll pay you extra if you draw something for me."
"O-...okay," Steve says, looking flustered. "Whadaya want me to draw?"
"Um. Whatever, I guess. Me?"
"I can do that, sure."
"Do I gotta pose?"
"It'd help."
"How do you want me?"
"It doesn't matter. Whatever you want."
Bucky thinks for a second, considering a position he'd be willing to hold for a long time, and then reaches for a book he had previously discarded and reclines on the couch. "This way I can read while you're drawing."
"Smart." Bucky can't tell if Steve is being sarcastic or not, but he makes a face at him just to be sure. Steve makes a face back.
Unlike fetching water, it takes Steve quite awhile to finish the sketch. Bucky glances up from War of the Worlds occasionally, to watch Steve glare down at the page, turn it this way and that; when he rubs at the lead with his fingertip he sticks his tongue out of his mouth, and he mutters "no, no" to himself and shakes his head every once in awhile. Bucky wants to talk, but he feels like Steve would be distracted by it, so he focuses on his book. It's a bit more interesting now that his day's monotony has been interrupted, and he finishes three chapters before Steve finally puts the pencil down.
"Lemme see it," Bucky says immediately, draping his book over the back of the couch, to keep his page, and sitting up.
"It's not very good," Steve says in a low voice, and Bucky has to reach over to take the paper for himself.
It actually is very good. It's not going up in the Met any time soon, but it looks more realistic than anything Bucky could ever come up with, with his features mostly in proportion, and some shading on his face that must be from the shadows cast by the front window. Steve even drew him mid-page flip, and Bucky is forever impressed and flabbergasted by the ability of artists to capture action on page.
"I like it! I really like it. You should do this instead of cleaning. If you set up in Coney Island you could make a killing." Steve mumbles something, and goes a little more pink when Bucky takes a few seconds to study the sketch again. "Maybe when my folks get back you can draw them. Becky'll want a drawing, too. She's my little sister."
"Maybe," Steve says bashfully, noncommittally. Bucky admires the sketch for a few seconds more, before he reaches up for his book and carefully sandwiches the drawing into the spine, to use as a bookmark. "Whadaya want me to do now?"
"Uh..." Bucky casts his mind about for something, and settles on reaching for another piece of paper and the pencil; he draws out a tic-tac-toe board, and places an O in the center square.
They play upwards of twenty games, each one ending in a tie; when Bucky can tell they're both growing bored of it, they switch to playing Hangman. His stomach rumbles about halfway through Steve trying to figure out the word MARTIAN, and after Steve loses that round Bucky sends him off to the kitchen again, this time returning with an armful of apples.
"Do you want one?" Bucky asks, when it seems like Steve is watching him eat.
"No thanks. They're yours."
"I don't mind."
"It's okay."
Bucky has an unsettled feeling about Steve's refusal, but he swallows it down along with the bite he just took. "Can you go up to my room? Take the stairs up to the third floor and go all the way down the hall. I got a couple games and puzzles and stuff we could do. Grab whatever; I don't care."
"Okay." Steve gets up.
"Oh yeah, my allowance is in my desk, in the top drawer; you should just get it now."
When Steve comes back down again this time it's with Elizabeth, the maid who isn't worried about losing her own apartment; she has Steve held by the ear, Bucky's money crumpled in her other fist. Impressively, Steve is still clutching whatever game he took out of Bucky's room.
"James, this person says you sent him upstairs."
"He did," Steve spits.
"I did!" Bucky wants to jump up, but can't, so he settles for sitting up as straight as he can. "That's Steve. He's my friend."
Bucky thinks Elizabeth is trying to frown, but it looks more like a glare, and a poisonous one at that. "You need better friends, then. This," she brandishes the ten-dollar bill, "was in his hand."
"That's okay, I sent him up to get it." Elizabeth raises her eyebrow, and Bucky has to come up with something quick; he gets the feeling that "I'm paying him to spend time with me" is something that she would get weird about. "I was gonna show him a magic trick." He opens his hand for Elizabeth to put the money in; once he has it, he shows off a trick he learned from one of the boys at school, a certain way of folding an upright bill that, after unfolding, reveals it to have been turned upside-down with no one noticing how.
"That's pretty neat, Buck," Steve says, to seal the deception; Elizabeth loosens her hold enough for him to slip out of it. "Can you teach me?"
"Yeah, sure!" Bucky moves over, to make room on the couch for Steve. Elizabeth gives them a onceover, her weird frown-glare never leaving her face, and backs out of the room, watching the two boys until she no longer physically could. "Okay, so, you fold it first like thi-"
"I am not a thief."
The low, almost trembling tone in Steve's voice brings Bucky up short. Steve's face is red, his hands closed into fists. It occurs to Bucky that Elizabeth didn't apologize to Steve.
"Yeah, I know you're not," Bucky says slowly. "But I guess it did look suspicious, I mean, she doesn't know you..."
"Yes she does. She lives near me."
"...Oh. She does?"
Steve bobs his head harshly. "Her husband runs a store across from my building. We're not allowed in there."
"What? Why not?"
"They don't like us."
"How come? Because your grandma's...?" Mom had tut-tutted after that one time she tried to speak with the woman; "Everyone's so cold to her that she doesn't know what to do with warmth, poor dearie."
"Yeah, that's part of it," Steve says, as if tasting something bitter.
Bucky wants to press, to find out the rest of it, but more than that he wants Steve to stop looking so upset, so he snaps the bill between his fingers to get Steve's attention. "So like I was saying, you gotta fold it a certain way for it to work."
He walks Steve through the trick two times, before letting Steve try it for himself. Steve seems to brighten a little bit when he successfully pulls it off, and Bucky goes to work setting up the game Steve had chosen-Pegity, an oldie that Bucky hasn't played in a long time-while Steve tries the fold three more times, to make sure the first time wasn't a fluke.
They play two and a half rounds of Pegity-Bucky wins the first time, Steve the second, and they're in the middle of the third-when they hear a key turning the lock; Winifred ushers Rebecca into the house ahead of her, and audibly shivers when she shuts the door against the cold.
"We're home," she announces, and pauses when she sees her son with a companion.
"Hi Mom," Bucky says brightly. "This's Steve. From church, remember?"
Winifred blinks, less like she's trying to remember who Steve is, and more like she's trying to figure out why Steve is here. "Oh! Yes." Steve stands up as she goes to him and takes her hand when she offers it. "It's very nice seeing you again, Steve."
"Same to you, Mrs. Barnes."
"Is that your wagon out front?"
"Yes ma'am."
"What are you doing with all those cleaning supplies?"
"Oh, Steve has a cleaning business," Bucky says. "He's offerin' to clean the house for us on Sunday."
"I can do the whole place in one day for five dollars," Steve adds.
The smile on Winifred's face falters a little bit and she takes a second to figure out the best way to approach this. "I'll talk to Mr. Barnes about it when he comes home," is what she finally settles on.
"Pegity!" Rebecca suddenly crows, and makes a beeline for the coffee table. "Can I play with you?"
"Sure thing, Becks," Bucky says, and Rebecca settles herself on the floor, spreading her skirt out around her folded legs. "Hey, you wanna see what Steve drew for me?"
"Yeah!"
Bucky fetches the drawing from his book and balks; he makes it so he holds the paper gently on the sides, between his fingertips. "You gotta be real careful with it, Becky; I don't want it to wrinkle. You promise you're not gonna hurt it?" Rebecca nods eagerly. "Okay..."
Rebecca is as careful with it as an eight-year-old can be, and Winifred crouches down behind her daughter to get a good look at it, as well.
"This is very good, Steve," she says, glancing up at him. "You have a real gift."
"Thank you, ma'am." Steve is blushing again.
"I want one too!" Rebecca says, putting the drawing on the table with a little more recklessness than Bucky was comfortable with; he reaches over and takes it back quickly.
"Becky, no, Steve is visiting..."
"Oh no, he's here on business," Bucky says, drawing himself up like a grown-up. "I paid him for the drawing."
"You did?" Bucky nods, and an odd combination of emotions passes over Winifred's face. "Not that it isn't good enough to be paid for, of course," she assures Steve.
"Mommy can I have one?" Rebecca asks, bouncing up and down. "Can I can I can I ple~ase?"
"Well. If Steve doesn't mind..."
"I don't mind," Steve says.
"Yay!"
"Of course we'll pay you for it, dear," Winifred says.
"You're gonna have to pose, Becks," Bucky informs his sister.
"Why don't you just sit right where you are and play your game while Steve draws you," Winifred says, correctly surmising that Rebecca isn't old enough to hold a pose for very long. "If the artist agrees," she again addresses Steve.
"Yeah, she can stay there."
When George comes in about fifteen minutes later, Steve is so engrossed in his work that he doesn't notice, even with "Hi Daddy!" and "Hi Dad" and "Welcome home, sweetheart" floating through the air around him. George stoops to kiss Rebecca's cheek, leans over to ruffle Bucky's hair, and sends a confused glance to his wife over Steve's head; she beckons him to follow her out of the parlor, and Bucky can hear them whispering as they leave the room.
Rebecca runs to go show her parents the drawing once Steve is finished; this time Steve had drawn not only his designated sittee, but also Bucky again, and the table between them as well as the board game. It's a little messier than the one he did of Bucky alone, having more details to fudge, but both George and Winifred come back into the room all smiles and praise.
"It's really nothin' great," Steve mumbles, his whole face red.
"Don't you be saying things like that, young man," Winifred scolds gently, with a wag of her finger. "You have a talent, and talent is a gift from God. You oughtta take pride in what the Good Lord gave you; He could've given it to somebody else."
Steve doesn't know how to answer that, so he looks at the floor.
"Maybe one of these days we'll ask you to draw the whole family," George says, to lighten the atmosphere. "But right now I think it's about time for dinner." Rebecca is out the door making a beeline for the dining room before anyone can say anything further, and the remaining four share a laugh. "Steve, will you be staying to eat with us?"
"No thank you," Steve says, a little quickly, and stands up from the couch. "I oughtta be gettin' home if it's dinner time."
"Oh, where do you live? We can drop you off."
"Not too far. I can walk."
"Steve lives over by where Miss Elizabeth lives," Bucky tacks on.
Winifred looks alarmed. "Steve, did you walk here from there?" Steve shuffles under the question and doesn't answer. "Oh no, dearie, you're not walking all the way back there tonight. It's black as the Earl's waistcoat already, and you'll catch your death in this cold. We'll drive you."
"I really can walk," Steve mutters to the carpet. "Don't wanna make you miss dinner..."
"It'll keep," Winifred says kindly, but definitively. "You stay here and help Bucky clean up the parlor; Mr. Barnes and I'll pack up your wagon."
Steve bites his lip and obviously wants to protest, but knows he can't argue with a grown-up, so he turns to do as Winifred says while she and George get their coats. Bucky is quiet for a bit as he helps, until his parents have stepped out the door and closed it behind them.
"Thanks for keepin' me company."
"Thanks for makin' the offer," Steve mumbles back.
"Oh, here." Bucky slides the ten-dollar bill across the table towards Steve. "What I owe you."
"I don't have any change."
"It's okay, you can keep the whole thing."
"But you said five dollars."
"Five dollars for stayin' with me," Bucky says, taken aback by how insulted Steve sounds. "Two-fifty each for the drawings. Told you I'd pay you extra."
Steve doesn't say anything, but he does speed up, packing up the game and straightening out the stack of papers before Bucky has a chance to do anything. He takes the game back up to Bucky's room before he's asked, too.
"Even if Mom and Dad say they don't need you to clean on Sunday, you could still come over," Bucky says, when Steve is quiet after his return. "I'm gonna be laid up for another week."
"Okay," Steve says, voice low. "If I don't have any other takers."
The door creaks open, and Winifred sticks her head in. "Steve? You're all packed up. We're ready to go if you are."
"I'm ready," Steve says, not quite looking at her as he stands up.
"'Bye, Steve," Bucky says, a little hesitant when he lifts his hand to wave good-bye, and not sure why. "I'll see you Sunday. Maybe."
"'Bye, Bucky," Steve replies, giving his own stilted little wave in return. "See you Sunday. Maybe."