Those Were the Nights

September 1938

With a groaning sigh, Steve sat back, laying his pencil down and rubbing his eyes. Gosh, inking in these magazine illustrations was a job. He got up and shambled across the living room—which doubled as his bedroom—to the kitchen, glancing at the clock as he passed. Half-past-eleven. Bucky should get home soon.

He got a Coke from the icebox, popped the top, took a few gulps. He leaned against the counter, savouring it, staring out at the street lights and passing taxis. Typical Saturday night. He was always glad their apartment faced the street, instead of another brick wall. Rain streaked the glass, blurring the lights. Pretty. Cozy.

He supposed he should get back to work. Four more pictures to get done for Monday and he disliked working on Sundays. Well, he shouldn't complain about the work, he reminded himself, as he headed back to his easel. It was all part of keeping this roof over his and Buck's heads; especially as he had classes five days a week.

Feet sounded in the hallway, someone fumbled with a key, and Bucky came in, dripping, but smiling. He tossed his hat and coat on the hook and kicked off his overshoes.

"Well, old boy," he said, bending down to remove his shoes. "We had a gay old time."

"Got Minna home alright?" Steve asked, sitting forward, propping his elbows on his knees.

"Yep." With a long sigh, Bucky threw himself down on the couch, and stretched out, folding his hands behind his head. "Wow, that girl can dance. And the plumbing was the cat's pajamas." He sighed and closed his eyes. "Just the cat's pajamas, pal. Cat's pajamas."

Without looking away, Steve fumbled for his sketchbook on the desk. As Bucky rambled on, describing the club, the dances, the music, Steve's pencil moved swiftly over the page, capturing the lipstick smear still visible on his jawline, his now undone tie, his hair rumpled up, his blissfully exhausted expression, those long legs now propped up and still.

'I could have danced all night' he wrote underneath. Grinning quietly, he stood and stretched to pin it to the wall above his drawing board.

"Want anything before you hit the sack?" he asked, heading back to the kitchen.

"Any of your ginger crinkles left?"

"Yep." Steve grabbed a plate, filled it with cookies and poured two glasses of milk. As he came back, he saw Bucky pulling a paper off the wall.

"Hey–"

Bucky crumpled it in his hands, then held it above his head as Steve lunged at him. "Thought I told you to stop sticking up scrawls of me."

"Aw, come on, your girlfriends love 'em." Steve jumped, missed, and fell against Buck. Bucky jumped back and made a beeline for the bedroom, Steve hot on his heels. As he came through the doorway, a pillow caught Steve smack in the face. He staggered back, cracking his head on the door jam in the process.

"Bucky!" he snapped, losing patience.

"Gimmie a minute," was the cheerful reply. Buck tossed the ball of paper out the window and slammed down the sash. "There." He turned back, dusting his hands together. "Stevie? You 'kay?"

Angrily, Steve turned and stalked away. He thumped down at his desk, and hunched over the next drawing.

He pointedly ignored Bucky the whole time his friend was preparing for bed, until he paused behind him.

"Stick up whatever you want, punk."

Steve really didn't want to answer, but the word came anyway. "Jerk."

"Good luck burning the midnight oil."

"Go burn yourself," he growled, with a lot less vehemence. He could hear Bucky smirking even after he'd shut the door.

May 1939

"Hey, Ma," Bucky called as they came in. "We're home." Over his mother's protest: "Don't call me Ma!" from the kitchen, he added, "And we picked up a couple slick chicks on the way."

Lizzy smacked him with her purse. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?" Anna asked, shrugging out of her coat. She smiled gratefully when Steve helped her.

Rebecca came out of the kitchen, face flushed and shining, to hug her brothers.

"Frank's one lucky guy," Steve said, grinning at her.

She laughed and squeezed his hand, the little diamond on her finger catching the light. "Well, I don't think it would have ever happened without your help."

Frank Procter was the same age as Steve, but for a while had been too shy to ask Becca out. Then in the boys' senior year, when she'd started to become Steve's regular 'date', Frank had dredged up the courage before the Christmas dance, and well… Steve had been to one dance since, when Anna's date bailed on her the day of.

Not that he minded. The girls would go dance with all the nice fellows and Steve would wind up in a corner, with his little pocket sketchpad, trying to catch the swirl of skirts and happy faces.

Anna turned on the radio in the sitting room and Bucky grabbed his sister's hand for a vigorous version of a waltz. As they finished—Steve and the other girls applauding—Becca spun out of his arms, laughing. "You're such a jitterbug."

"Save a dance for me," Frank called, putting his head in, and she ran to kiss him, making the others groan.

"Re-becca!" came Aunt Margarita's shrill call from the kitchen. "Anna? Eliza-beth! Come and help your mother!"

The dinner table was crowded that night, for the first family supper in the Barnes' new home. They dug into plates piled high with food, which made the Depression days seem like a distant memory. After dessert, everyone gathered in the sitting room to listen to the radio and make toasts and tell stories. Steve felt his ears get hot every time he spotted his drawing of Brooklyn Bridge hanging on the wall. Everyone danced, except Steve, and Rebecca sang, and the fire in the hearth burned cheerfully.

Once or twice, when Steve glanced up from his quiet corner, he half-expected to see Sarah Rogers's face smiling at him from the doorway or across the room. Now, though, he only held the memories close, and dove back into The Hobbit. He had started reading the book last week, but Bucky had been stealing it and taking it to work to read on his lunch break. He could tell how far Buck had gotten, thanks to the breadcrumbs in the pages. Good, he hadn't passed Steve.

He felt eyes on him, glanced up. Bucky, frowning, asking with his eyebrows, Why the heck aren't you partying? Steve held up the book, the frown changed to a knowing grin.

Punk, Buck mouthed.

Jerk.

Author's notes: Have to thank the Hunter Brothers for this title.

Words from the day:
Plumbing: trumpeter in a jazz band
Jitterbug: person who HAS to get up and dance, esp. when listening to swing music

The Hobbit was published in 1937, and from the beginning, I loved the idea of Steve reading it. I actually had quite an internal argument about whether he should be reading it or another book here, but The Hobbit won out.