Dew Drop
April 20th, 1941.
The morning Steve Rogers was fired, he woke up with a headache. It wasn’t an uncommon ailment for him, a simple headache, but it was grating. He’d long categorized the affliction as something associated with guilt, like irritated nerves were somehow conscious and karmic. For instance, he believed it to be that you might come down with a truly terrible headache after a long day of leisure, one of the activities, or rather lack of activities, that he associated with guilt most. But on this particular morning, the only possible culprit behind the headache could be sleep, which he found unfair. It was the first bad omen of the day.
The second bad omen was that he missed his bus. Steve was a block away, scrubbing at the toothpaste stain on his dress shirt, when he heard the familiar sound of clunking metal and whistling wheels that always served as his second alarm clock. He took off in an awkward run, choppy steps to ensure his one-size-too-large trousers wouldn’t slip from around his waist, and attempted to wave down the driver. But the bus reached the stop, an unremarkable little spot, hovered, and without anyone to board, was off again. Steve kicked at rocks on the pavement as he waited for the next one.
Fortunately, the only fortunate fact about that morning, it was Sunday. That meant Steve couldn’t be late to work because he wasn’t formally scheduled. Everyone else who worked in the same print shop, a small band of printing press operators, was likely still dredging through the early-morning chore of readying for church. Steve could, and did, imagine what his co-worker's faces must look like as they scurried through the city, scattering in different directions but all ending up under the shadow of crosses. He didn’t envy them. Churches made him wary with their oppressive elegance and exaggeration. To Steve, ‘God’s house’ felt more like a showroom, a space manicured to fit the idea of what a home could be, rather than something lived-in. He’d instead make a few extra dollars on his next paycheck and spend his day in a sweaty room, tying up stacks of newspaper.
After successfully boarding the next bus, Steve watched the world go by through hard water stained windows. The city was waking up with him, around him. The sun was still waking, too, revealing itself through long, near-parallel beams of red and yellow. His head hurt, a dull ache behind his eyes and across the bridge of his thin nose, but he tried to let that slip from his focus. He instead watched as smoke rose from chimneys and steam from sidewalks. As vendors took to their corners, opening shop. As shuttered window homes fluttered open. He intended to draw the scene later; he could likely hold the cityscape in his mind until the end of the workday.
There wasn’t much to do in the print shop on a Sunday. No deadlines to meet, no postmen to greet. Plenty of time to brew weak coffee and read through the previous day’s paper, an unfortunately unpleasant read, given the headlines and featured stories. There was hardly any domestic news these days. America had its eyes overseas, on the European continent, which had now twisted into the European theater. War. Less news of bombing now, that was too common to be reported on every day, but more news on the politics behind it all—next moves. Like war was supposed to be read like a chess game and not what it truly was: a chaotic assortment of unwarranted deaths.
So Steve resigned himself to reading the war stories, drank coffee, and set out to accomplish whatever tasks he could: cleaning machines, sweeping, and preemptive packaging for the following day. It was meditative to be in a space that was often so loud, but instead of hearing the thrumming of machines, he only heard the noise of his own creation. His feet shuffling along the concrete floors, his hands tossing down stacks of newspaper, like isolated noise was almost a product in its own right. He ended up getting a lot done.
The sun was reaching its peak, casting broad rays of light through the small windows of the shop, when the front door opened. Steve spun on his heel, abandoning the task he had appointed himself. It was Mr. Adler, a weathered older man, a veteran of the Great War, the print shop's owner, and Steve’s boss. Steve internally kicked himself for being so jumpy but smiled at the man. IIn return, Mr. Adler gave Steve a half-smile; the smile didn’t feel honest but instead was a knee-jerk reaction to meet societal norms. It instantly had Steve feeling uneasy.
“I thought you’d be here today,” Adler spoke slowly, like he always did, with a cadence that made every word feel labored. He surveyed what Steve had done and supplied him with another smile, this one more genuine, “You’ve made tomorrow easier on the rest of the boys, huh?”
“That was my goal, sir,” Steve replied, shifting on his feet. “Hope you don’t mind it.”
Mr. Adler shook his head, his few gray hairs swaying a little, “No, son. You do good work. I don’t mind it.”
They stood there for an odd moment, Steve unsure if he should respond or return to work. Something in him told him Adler had more to say, so he refrained from doing either.
The old man sucked in a breath and spoke on the heavy exhale, “Steve.” Steve had rarely ever heard his name spoken in such a solemn manner, as if the common name carried weight. The last time he could think of his name being spoken like that was years before, at his mother's funeral. “You do good work, I mean that.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“That’s what makes this hard for me.” Steve’s brow furrowed as he heard the words. “We have to let you go.”
Of course, Steve could not see his own facial expression but was sure his eyes had opened wider. As if expanded pupils could make this blow clear, “Why?”
Mr. Adler shook his head again like this moment was a result of greater fate, not his decision, “I’m retiring. My son is going to take over. We’ll be scaling back the operation.”
“Oh,” Steve nodded, the gravity of the situation still setting in. “You’re retiring?”
“I am.”
“Congratulations,” Steve couldn’t smile, but the word was honest.
Another odd beat. Looking over Mr. Adler’s sagging shoulder, Steve watched a bus pass the shop, a stark reminder that the world was continuing on a timeline. Reality had not suspended itself then, and Steve would have to journey back home, never to return to the little print shop where he’d spent the better part of the last two years.
“I’m sorry, Steve.”
“S’okay,” Steve’s gaze was still lost somewhere out the window, escaping. He shook himself awake again, “Sorry. It’s okay. Thank you.” Steve wasn’t quite sure why he said thank you. The words just exited him without thought. He began to tidy the area he’d been working at.
“I can do that, Steve,” Mr. Adler raised a sun-spotted, wrinkled hand and swiped at the air. Steve stepped back and nodded, grabbing his keys and instinctively shoving them into the left pocket of his khaki pants, the side without the hole.
“Congratulations on the retirement,” Steve mumbled again, starting to feel desperate to get out of the shop.
“I’m sorry, Steve,” Mr. Adler was like Steve’s record player, broken and skipping. Repeating a mournful song.
Steve pulled on a tight smile, one he wore out of respect and nothing more. He nodded again and hustled past Mr. Adler, who was repeating another round of apologies. Steve just kept nodding as he opened the front door and stepped outside.
The air that met him was a thick wall of heat. The morning had been cool; Steve faintly remembered watching dew frost the blades of grass in the little patch of sod near his bus stop. It was far from cool now. That grass was likely sweltering under this reign of heat. Steve considered how the grass could go yellow under sun like this. It was as if his brain was trying to provide him with anything else to consider besides his new unemployment. He walked to catch a bus home with a feeling that something was caught in his throat and tears brimming in his eyes.
The cityscape he had considered that morning was far from thought as the bus tumbled along the uneven road. Instead, elbow to elbow with folks in their Sunday best, Steve considered his finances. He had some money saved. He liked to call that money his inheritance, even though he knew he had twisted the definition of the word to fit his situation. It wasn’t inheritance. His mother had died with nothing except a house and her belongings. Steve had lived in his mother’s place for a while after she died, but as he saw her things daily, he started to feel that he was living in a mausoleum, like his life was disturbing her being at rest. It hadn’t been logical, but when has grief ever concerned itself with logic? In one cold month he’d sold her things and house, and the money he was left with he called inheritance. So he had that, inheritance.
But the inheritance wasn’t much. Steve could stretch it for a while and cut even further back on meals, but without work, he knew rent would become an issue. His headache steadily worsened, and he closed his eyes and tried not to think for the rest of the ride back to his stop. He couldn’t sleep, but he let the rocking of the bus lull him into the closest thing he could find to peace.
His apartment was suffocating—another small space to feel trapped in. Steve liked to call it a hovel. It had low ceilings and carpets that had been stained long before he had moved in. The windows were small, and because the place was so sandwiched between other buildings, they hardly let in any natural light. On hot days, the smell of the dumpster outside would waft up; Steve imagined it to have visible green lines of stink like a scene from a comic. He swore he could smell garbage through the walls even if the windows were closed. His best friend, Bucky Barnes, ignored the assortment of putrid smells and called the place homey. Bucky was the antithesis to Steve. He had two living parents, a beautiful apartment in a nice area of Brooklyn, and the kind of job anyone would be proud to have. When he first saw Steve’s place, he strode through the tiny home and chirped about it having ‘good bones,’ focused on the hardwood kitchen floors rather than the stained carpets of the living room, and told Steve he believed in him to make the place feel good.
If it hadn’t been Bucky saying the apartment was nice, Steve would’ve thought anyone arguing that point was a liar. But Bucky wasn’t a liar; he was an optimist—the kind of guy who always sees the bright side. It wasn’t as if Bucky had reached some internal nirvana, though. It was just that Bucky had been brought up on the bright side, born lucky. Some people just are. No one would ever think of Steve as having won a genetic lottery; he was skinny and short, with straw-blonde hair, pale skin, and a propensity for picking fights. He’d spent his whole life fighting tooth and nail to survive, and then, when he had a moment to breathe, he always found himself physically fighting. He’d been born to go to bat against a cold world.
But people did consider Bucky to have won the genetic lottery. Bucky was tall but proportional, solid, and handsome. Generally level-headed, with some exceptions, but only noble ones. Even Steve’s mother, who had been historically impartial about Steve’s friends, once referred to Bucky as ‘well-bred.’With his quiet confidence and boyish good looks, he could have girls eating out of the palm of his hand just by saying hello. If it weren’t for Bucky’s unrelenting kindness toward him, Steve would probably be jealous of Bucky.
Steve sat on his couch, a lumpy and moth-bitten old assortment of cushions he’d found for a bargain, and distantly stared at a water stain on the wall. The stain resembled a figure, and his mind wandered to Bucky. It often did. He’d spent his whole life with Bucky, Bucky pulling him out of fights on playgrounds and in alleyways. They’d only separated when school had unceremoniously ended, and working life began. Now, in any free moment, Steve missed Bucky. As annoying as it had initially been to hear Bucky yammering on about how his apartment wasn’t half bad, Steve let the words ring in his ears. Good bones. What a silly phrase. But still, it prompted him to rip his eyes from the water stain and instead look at the hardwood in the kitchen. It wasn’t horrible.
But good kitchen floors or not, the apartment was still smothering him. He had to get out, so in a trance, he grabbed his things, locked up the apartment, and let his feet take him to Dew Drop.
Steve by no means frequented the local bar; he hardly drank, but more than that, he hardly ever had the funds to support a day of imbibing. But if he were to drink, he would do it at Dew Drop. The shabby little bar was a local spot in Brooklyn, cheaper than other places, and ready to serve stiff drinks at any hour. Bucky liked the place. In fact, the last time Steve could remember going to Dew Drop had been with Bucky, that same day years back, when Bucky had spent the morning telling Steve the apartment wasn’t a total bust. Steve had asked Bucky then, half-joking, if Dew Drop also had ‘good bones.’ Bucky had answered the question thoughtfully, saying no and then rattling off a list of reasons why. Reasons only a mind like Bucky’s could come up with, like how the foundation of the place was obviously uneven because if you tried to roll a coin along its side on one of the tables, it would veer off to the right. Or how the bartop had a crack and only half the lights over the tables worked. Or how there were hardly ever any dames in the place.
Dew Drop was surprisingly populated for a Sunday afternoon. The usually quiet bar was teeming with life, not just the usual rough crowd but also women and girls, many of them still dressed in their church clothes. The little bell above the door rang as Steve entered, but the usual barman didn’t spin to greet what could be his only customer of the day; no one in the thick crowd paid him any mind. Only then did Steve remember that there’d been a Brooklyn Dodgers baseball game that day, an away game at the New York Giants stadium. Overheard conversations discussing the score solidified Steve’s belief that the Dodgers must’ve won. The hard day for Steve was now a day for celebration for the rest of Brooklyn. Steve liked baseball as much as the next guy, but at that moment, he didn’t have the emotional capacity to care about the score. He simply found an open barstool, sunk onto it, and ordered a beer.
“Jeez,” Steve had been at the bar for a while when the large, red-faced, and sweaty man sitting next to him whistled through his teeth, whispering to his buddy, “Get a look at that girl, 6 o’clock.”
The buddy, another mountain of a man with thick, grease-stained hands, grabbed his glass of beer and looked over his shoulder. “Whew,” He chuckled, turning back to the first man, “Now, that’s a godly girl, wouldn’t ya say?”
“Not after I get through with ‘er.”
Steve discreetly looked over his shoulder. The girl, not woman, that the men were referring to couldn’t have been more than seventeen. She looked sweet, obviously one of the earlier churchgoers, with her hair up in ribbons. Steve bit at the inside of his lip as a small flame of anger grew in him. The men talking about her had no right to say those things.
“You know what? " the man with the greasy hands muttered, laughter in his voice. “One moment.”
His friend laughed, and Steve felt his stomach turn. The colossal man pushed himself from the barstool, displaying an abnormal build of muscle and fat that only years of hard labor and heavy drinking could push a human body to twist to. He stank of beer but didn’t appear horribly intoxicated as he made his way to the table where the young girl sat.
“He’s a forward man,” The man sat closest to Steve turned and spoke directly to him. If the man was expecting some fraternal back-and-forth banter about women from Steve, he was barking up the wrong tree. “You’ve gotta’ respect it.”
Steve just looked back at the man, expression plain but not quite calm enough to be described as neutral. “I don’t respect it.”
The large, drunk man stared at Steve with glossy eyes as his lips slowly crept up into a smile. Then suddenly, he laughed hard and said, “Okay, buddy.” He slapped a hand onto Steve’s shoulder.
Steve frowned and promptly pushed the man’s hand away, “I’m not your buddy.”
The man’s laughter ceased, and his smile began to fall, distorting until he almost looked like a dog, a glimpse of his yellow teeth peeking through slightly parted lips.
“Hey!” He turned, calling to his friend, who had now taken up residence next to the girl at the table. “I think the twig over here has got a problem.”
“Oh?” The greasy man diverted his attention from the girl and looked at Steve, “You got an issue, kid?”
If Steve had been wise at that moment and let something more than emotion fuel him, perhaps rational thought, he would’ve told the man that he didn’t have a problem, finished his drink, and left. But Steve’s self-preservation skills had been tossed out the window long ago, and after being fired and drinking three-quarters of a beer, Steve said, “Yeah, I do. Why don’t you leave her alone?” The two large men exchanged looks, smiled, and erupted into laughter. Steve felt ashamed as his cheeks grew pink in embarrassment and anger. “There’s nothing funny about harassment.”
“Harassment,” The man sat next to Steve mocked through laughs. Steve caught a glimpse of the table, which was now empty. The girl was gone; if the fight proceeded, it would be run by ego alone.
“You want to see harassment?” The man with the greasy hands asked, and before Steve could respond, he’d lashed out, moving at what seemed like impossible speed for his size, and tossed what was left of his beer onto Steve.
Steve’s chest tightened as raw anger coursed through him. He was hardly aware of how the bar had gone quiet, tens of pairs of eyes glued to what was the beginning of a fight. He was on his feet and moving towards the man, ready to get his ass kicked, when he felt something block him.
“Gah, gross.” It was Bucky; he was like an apparition, somehow the only person with a sixth sense for when Steve Rogers had gotten into trouble, consistently appearing just in time. At the current moment, Bucky was shaking beer from the hand he had touched Steve with when he’d blocked him from fighting. Bucky looked at the large man, “Sorry, is there an issue here?”
The man practically snarled at Bucky, which got a smile out of him. “What’s it look like?” The man asked.
“Looks like you can’t handle your liquor, sir.” Bucky quipped, now getting a smile out of Steve.
The greasy man snarled again, face curling into a sardonic smile. He lumbered toward them, and simultaneously, the man at the barstool stood up.
“Alright,” Bucky quickly reached the bar and grabbed Steve’s glass, “Sorry, fellas, we’ve gotta get going.”
Before either of the men could reach them, Bucky ducked a little, took an exaggerated swig of Steve’s beer, threw down the glass, letting it break, and hurried toward the door. Steve followed.
The little bell above the door chimed twice as Steve and Bucky hurried out of Dew Drop, the two giant men still on their tail. They took off in a trot down the street, only turning back when they reached the end of the block, and Steve silently thanked God and sent the heavenly father a quiet apology for not going to Church when he saw the men no longer followed them. Bucky just laughed and pushed Steve’s shoulder, a movement that Steve knew to be Bucky’s most authentic display of affection.
“You’re such a little punk,” Bucky spoke through laughter, his blue eyes still wide and wild even as he felt the surge of adrenaline begin to decline. “Did’ya see them, Steve? Those two were huge. Hell, I wonder how a man even gets that big.”
“They were harassing that girl,” Steve said as if starting his own conversation instead of continuing Bucky’s, “And I’m not little.”
“Alright, big punk.” Bucky’s laughing had subsided, but he was still grinning, “I’m sure they were in the wrong, but that ain’t mean you need to get punished for it.”
“I wasn’t gonna get punished, Buck,” Steve shook his head, and he looked over his shoulder again as they crossed the road. They weren’t being followed.
“Say that to the beer on your shirt.”
Steve scowled at Bucky, “Where’d you come from anyway?”
“Work,” Bucky answered simply, ignoring Steve’s attitude. “I didn’t even get’a order before I saw you. You owe me one for savin’ your ass.”
They continued to walk down the tree-lined Brooklyn street, not going in any particular direction but just putting more distance between themselves and Dew Drop. The humid, hot hair felt like walking through the steam from a tea kettle. Nearly burning, so much for spring weather. Not even the shadows from the trees overhead could provide any comfort. Steve was at least grateful his shirt was drying relatively fast.
“I was fired today.”
“What?” Bucky came to an abrupt stop. Steve stopped, too, and faced Bucky’s bewilderment. There was almost something exciting to Steve about getting Bucky’s attention like this, like the only boy in New York had just stopped to lend him an ear. It would only be better if what had got Bucky’s attention wasn’t his employment status.
“I got fired-”
“I heard you,” Bucky interjected. Sometimes, it made Steve feel guilty to get such a kick out of holding Bucky’s attention. Like his side of their friendship was somehow less genuine than Bucky’s because of how highly he regarded him. How much he wanted Bucky to care about him. Steve thought back to his headache; maybe it had been associated with guilt after all. “Why?”
Steve shrugged, and as his shoulders fell, he felt wholly deflated. “Adler is retiring. They can’t keep me on.”
“Jesus,” Bucky said, “You can’t just let him do that.”
Steve smiled, not from joy. “I can’t let the man retire?”
“No, no, not that. You can’t just let him let you go, Steve. I know you. You’re the best employee they’ve got.” Steve appreciated Bucky’s words but knew Bucky didn’t get it. Bucky would never understand things like this. Bucky lived on the bright side. No one wanted to fire Bucky; no one wanted to say ‘no’ to him. Bucky was charming and individual. No one looked at him like he was replaceable. He didn’t go through the world like Steve; he just couldn’t get it.
“S’out of my hands, Buck.” Steve shrugged, “So it might take me a while to get you that beer I owe you.”
“Oh, forget the beer,” Bucky shook his head. “I’m sorry, Steve. That ain’t right.”
“It’s okay. I mean it. You know, I could always enlist.”
The government had plucked out about 6,000 young men for a historic first peacetime draft the previous Fall. That wasn’t the first sign that it was just a matter of time until America was involved overseas, but it was a big sign. Bucky and Steve didn’t have their number drawn in that draft, but it sparked conversations about what they would do if drafted. Bucky didn’t want to salt the unemployment wound by reminding Steve there was no way the military would take someone as scrawny as he was, so he neglected to mention the subject.
“Sure,” Bucky replied. They resumed their walk, still going in no particular direction. After a few minutes of thought, Bucky broke the silence, “You can always stay with me if you need to.”
Steve had heard Bucky make this pitch before. He was already shaking his head no, so Bucky smiled and feigned an attempt to sweeten the pot.
“You know, play maid. I’ve always got laundry to do. And you could shine my shoes, hell, maybe take out my trash.”
Bucky was playful, but he was honest, too. Steve knew he meant the offer, not the maid part. Bucky had his parents for a safety net, something to fall back on if times got tough. Steve had Bucky. The only issue was that Steve never could let himself take Bucky up on it.
“I can get by on my own, pal.”
“I know,” Bucky’s smile about the maid comment lingered, “But you don’t have to.”
Steve could hardly stomach hearing such kindness. “Where are we goin’, anyway?”
Bucky laughed, “No idea. Want to find food?”
“I can’t pay for food.”
“I can.”
So, the pair found a nearby diner. It was Bucky’s favorite kind of place: small and family-owned, affordable, the kind of restaurant that worked as a staple in plenty of people's diets. Inside, they were greeted by a waitress who smiled at Bucky like her entire check rode on the idea that Bucky would smile back at her. She hardly even glanced at Steve, even though he reeked of beer. They found a booth and settled in.
“So,” Steve began, watching as Bucky divided his fries, picked up a spare plate, and shoveled half onto the dish, “I lost my job and got in a bar fight. How’s life going for you?”
“Hm,” Bucky hummed, mulling over the question. He pushed the plate of fries toward Steve, “Here, you take those.”
“I don’t need your food.”
“I don’t need that many fries,” Bucky replied, expecting Steve’s retort, “Take ‘em, please.”
“Fine.”
Bucky smiled, took the bun off his burger, and began pulling off the raw onions. “How’s life?” He repeated to himself, “Life’s good. I've seen my family a lot lately.”
“That’s good,” Steve looked down at his peanut butter sandwich, the cheapest and maybe least appetizing menu item.
“Mhm,” Bucky mumbled in agreement, “Mm. And I’ve been keeping company with someone new, so that’s a bonus.”
“Oh, yeah?” Steve asked, flicking his eyes back to Bucky, “Do I know her?”
“Ugh,” Bucky grimaced, pulling more stringy strands of translucent onion from the burger. “Who chooses to leave onions raw when you can cook ‘em?”
“I don’t mind ‘em raw.”
“Mm, you have ‘em, then.” Bucky, still grimacing, picked up the pile of onion and tossed it onto Steve’s plate. He returned to inspecting his burger. “What were we saying?”
“The girl, Bucky.”
“Oh, right.”
“What’s her name?”
Bucky finally looked up to Steve. His cheeks were a little pink, and a smirk grew at the corner of his mouth, “I don’t kiss and tell.”
“Oh, come on!” Steve couldn’t help but explode into a grin, “You so do kiss and tell. I think I’ve known the name of every dame you’ve even thought about in the last decade.”
“You think that,” Bucky grinned and shrugged, “But I don’t tell you everything.”
The ribbing was comfortable, and Steve suddenly understood precisely why he missed Bucky so often. Sometimes, it took a while to pick back up, but once they were around one another for a bit, there was no one in the world Steve felt closer to. He felt like half a person until Bucky was there, effortlessly filling in the gaps.
“So secretive,” Steve teased, “You like her?”
“‘Course,” Bucky picked at his fries now, smile still simmering, “Why’d I be seeing someone if I didn’t like them?”
“The two of you going steady, then?”
“Eh.”
“Eh?” Steve repeated, amused, “Just eh?”
“Uh-huh,” Bucky said, “Just eh.”
“Why?”
“Ah, I don’t think it’ll last. It's just fun for now,” Bucky shrugged it off, and Steve was reminded that Bucky was a magnet. Seeing someone new wasn’t groundbreaking for him. “You seen anyone lately?”
“What do you think?” Steve asked, the words coming out more curt than he’d intended.
“I dunno,” Bucky replied, “That’s why I asked.”
“I haven’t,” Steve circled back to the question, “I think I’d be hard-pressed to find a girl in Brooklyn who’d give me the time of day. Much less go steady with me.”
“That ain’t true.”
“I don’t want you lyin’ to me, Buck. I know where I stand.”
“It’s funny you say that,” Bucky replied, chomping down on a fry, “‘Cause you don’t. You’re a handsome guy, Steve. A catch, even.”
“No,” Steve shook his head, “And the only thing I catch is cold.”
“Funny,” Bucky replied, voice flat, “I mean it though, Steve. I think you’re good-lookin’.”
“I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Mm,” Bucky directed his attention to his soda. He took a long drink, cleared his throat, and asked, “Would you rather talk about getting fired?”
“Jesus,” Steve rolled his eyes.
“It’s just a question!” Bucky laughed.
Bucky paid for both meals, citing there was no reason Steve should even bother to try to pay him back, as he still owed Steve for hot dogs they’d bought on the beach a year prior. Steve argued that Bucky had paid for those hot dogs, too, but Bucky played it up, breaking into a feigned argument about how Steve was attempting to change the narrative and declaring he simply could not listen to such lies. Steve tried to shove a few dollars into Bucky’s back pocket, but Bucky only caught Steve in the act and laughed as he stopped him.
“You want to come to mine?” Bucky asked, still closing his wallet on the step outside of the diner, “You could get started on my laundry.”
Steve smiled. “No, Buck. I’m going to head home.”
“Your loss, pal,” Bucky shrugged. He finally finished messing with his wallet and looked up. The light coming through the trees around them was spotted and yellowy; it played off Bucky’s tan skin beautifully and reminded Steve of that morning’s sunrise. He’d meant to draw it. “But alright. Get home safe, punk.”
“You too, jerk.”