What Goes Around...

December 1940

Steve pulled the blanket over his head, and waited for the door to shut behind Bucky, so he could go back to sleep. He knew Buck was pulling on his overshoes… now grabbing his lunch pail… and then Steve opened his eyes.

Was Buck…? He heard it again, a loud ker-choo! Sniffling, nose blowing as Bucky went out the door.

Slowly Steve pushed the blanket aside and propped himself up on his elbows to stare at the closed front door. It had been a week since Bucky got that cold. Was he still fighting it? Granted, the weather had been wild and wet, and his latest job down at the docks had him out in it all.

Frowning, Steve stared at the ceiling and recalled Bucky coughing, late last night when he should have been asleep. Dang. It wasn't like Steve really needed to worry, but Bucky so rarely fell ill, it was… unsettling. And there was always the nasty possibility of missing work, and so falling behind in things like rent, and Steve's doctor's bills from last month.

Steve sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. He had been up late last night, finishing two posters, one for a carnival, the other for a Christmas concert, and then he had two extra classes today, since he was still trying to catch up, and he had to take a load of washing down to Mrs. Yamamoto on the second floor… Sure, mam, I could use a bit of your help right about now.

That was a cold, drizzly day. Steve kept glancing out the window of his classroom, and missing what the professor was saying. When he stopped at the advertising agent's office, on his way home, he rashly accepted three more commissions, all to be completed before the end of the week. And today was Wednesday.

He actually wasn't sure whether to smile or cry when Buck stumbled in the door, half-an-hour late, supper getting cool on the stove. He was wet to the skin underneath his greatcoat, and shivering uncontrollably.

Bucky tried to grin at his friend, as Steve forced him into a chair and knelt to pull off his shoes and socks. "If Hell-l-l was in th'Arctic, th-th-th-that's where I was today. G-g-g-good gosh."

Only when he was bundled up in bed, with three cups of hot mint tea in him, and a plateful of beef stew, did Bucky stop shivering.

"For crying out loud," he said, sounding more like himself as he pulled up the blankets, "go to bed yourself. I'll be fine in the morning." He was asleep as soon as his eyes shut.

Steve slipped back into the living room, but he didn't sleep. There was too much work to do.

By the morning, Bucky was running a fever, to go with a stuffed nose and a ripping headache. After running down to the Yamamoto's to tell Mr. Yam, who worked with Buck, that he would not be in today, Steve sat at his side bathing his forehead with a cool cloth, praying this malady would move fast. Bucky kept trying to get up to go to work, and every time Steve pushed him back down. And every time Buck muttered, "Who made you the boss?"

Finally he drifted into a hazy sleep, making feeble complaints whenever Steve woke him with an order to drink some water.

The fever did not drop, but held steady through the day. As evening fell, Steve found it was actually climbing. He knew from experience that the breaking point would be sometime that night. Bucky was strong, and, please God, this shouldn't linger. They certainly couldn't afford more doctor's bills.

He found that reading aloud, as Bucky often did for him, or describing what he was sketching, kept Buck from tossing and turning. When Steve's voice faltered over 'Damon and Pythias' in his mother's old Book of Legends, the one she had read to them several times, a hot hand fumbled out from the blankets and rested on his knee.

The evening wore into night. They often used candles to cut down on electricity costs, and Steve's was burning low, as he slumped wearily forward to lay his head on the pillow near Bucky's, just for a moment…

He jerked awake to something poking his shoulder, and found Bucky in the morning light looking like he'd been through hell, but awake and kicking.

"Come on, nurse. Sleeping on the job, tsk, tsk. I'm dry as the Sahara."

Even in his weariness and worry, Steve found the role reversal amusing. Personally, he thought he had a much nicer bedside manner than Bucky did. Heck, he even ran down to Buck's favorite pub on the corner for a pint of Hamm's, when his cranky patient insisted he couldn't take another drop of Adam's ale.

Through it all, Steve said nothing about his work, but it was mid-afternoon before he had time to sit down at his drawing board. He already had several sketches, but here was where the real work began. He shuffled through the pages, counting. Five, six advertising designs, to be handed in Monday morning. But if they were good enough, they could easily make up for one of Bucky's missed workdays. For crying out loud, there went any sleep.

When Bucky got home from his Saturday night date, he found Steve slumped over on his desk, dead to the world. Steve woke up the next morning in Bucky's bed, with a headache, a frog in his throat, and one order: "Take those ads to Mr. Hawthorne first thing Monday morning."

Bucky shook his head, a fond smile on his lips. "You little punk. How many time do I have to tell you not to hang around sick people?"

Steve muttered something uncomplimentary, and pulled the quilt over his head.

April 1941

Steve was tired. And Bucky, who had finished drying his hands on the roller towel, was reaching for his jacket.

Steve repressed a sigh. He had hoped for one of those quiet evenings lying around with a sketchpad, Bucky with a book, maybe reading aloud.

"Have fun," Steve said to Bucky's back, before heading for his drawing table. Imagine his surprise, when a hand grasped his arm, towing him in the opposite direction.

"You're having fun with me, pal," Bucky said firmly. "Or else it won't be fun." And when he turned on that brilliant crooked grin, how could Steve say 'no'? Especially after Alice Cooper had dumped him a week ago, and Bucky still wasn't really over it; as much as he tried to pretend he was.

So, even though there was work to be done, and commissions to fill, Steve let Bucky tow him out the door.

Of course they ended up at Skinny's pub—Steve preferred his mother's Irish term—with a glass for Steve and a pint for Buck, listening to all the war news. At least until the fight broke out.

It was Bucky who caught the angry, raised voices. Steve followed his gaze to about half-a-dozen men crowded at the front counter.

One voice rose above the others. "Well, ain't none of Hitler's men welcome here, so scram."

Steve's shoulders jerked straight, as he recognized the figure all the other men seemed to be glaring at. "Mr. Lovitz!" he exclaimed.

In a moment he was on his feet, hurrying across the room. "Hey, fellas, what's wrong? Mr. Lovitz." He nodded to the soda shop man, who had always treated his young customers with as much importance as any grown-ups.

The bespectacled, grey-haired man nodded back, but without quite meeting Steve's gaze. He had become old and frail since Steve last saw him. His hand on his glass was trembling.

"Who do you think you are?" A weasely black-bearded fellow stuck his face down at Steve. "Hey, Skinny," he called over his shoulder. "Didn't know you let kids in this place."

One of the others, a beefy, blond man, accidently/on purpose jostled Mr. Lovitz's arm, spilling his drink. And Steve saw red.

The next thing he knew, he and Bucky were out in the alleyway, fighting for their lives. There seemed to be twice as many men out here, and Steve tasted blood more than once.

A fist in the mouth, and Steve went down, caught his breath, hauled himself to his feet again.

A kick in the calf, he fell, got up.

A blow to the side of his head, and he reeled, the world going black with stars. As he lay on the pavement, Steve glimpsed Bucky standing over him, ducking and swinging with practiced grace. Then the world faded to only the pain in his head.

They limped home, Bucky half-carrying Steve, cursing his friend's impetuosity between his teeth.

"Why the heck you can't leave well enough alone, Steve, I'll never see," Buck was saying as he let Steve fall onto the couch.

Steve looked up at his best friend, his brother, his pal, his protector. Saw the love and admiration lurking behind the exasperation. Saw the bruises forming on his forehead, a swollen bloodied cheek, the blood on his knuckles.

"Someone had to stand up for him," Steve said. "If I hadn't, you would have."

"You're a punk," Bucky sighed. "The bravest, best punk I've ever met."

Smiling through his busted lip, Steve kicked Buck in the shin. "Go wash your face, jerk."