A Pack of Smokes

1938-

It really pisses Bucky off that people- actual doctors, with fancy degrees from expensive schools who wear pristine white coats and drink expensive Scotch- think that asthma is some kind of physiological illness. 

That Steve’s head is broken, not his lungs. That he needs some sort of extended visit to Creedmoor down in Queens, rather than a doctor who will listen to his lungs and help his boy breathe easy again. They’ve been to doctors, of course, back when Sarah was still alive and working at the TB Ward. Once, a few days after Steve’s fourteenth birthday and a rather spectacular attack caused by the Hughes twins chasing him all the way through DUMBO and kicking the shit out of him in an alley, Sarah was able to convince that old bat Dr. O’Connell to take a look at Steve with a smile and a hand pressed to his upper arm. The next day, at the beginning of her shift, Steve and Bucky meet the doc with Sarah in the North waiting room, only for the graying man to tell them that all of Steve’s wheezing was because he was crying out for his mama, and that he was probably depressed from the lack of her presence at home.

“You mean that all his rattlin’ in his chest is because he misses his mama so much? And you can’t do a thing to help him?”

(And frankly, since that doctor told him yes there is nothing to be done, because nothing is really wrong, Bucky has prided himself being smarter than every doctor in at least one way- he knows asthma isn’t just in Steve’s head. He has seen Steve’s fits, the way his lips and fingernails turn blue, how his eyes turn big and wide. Bucky has felt the way his body shakes as he holds Steve’s arms above his head to try to get air into his lungs, how his skinny ribs heave with the effort of coughing and inhaling. Bucky knows asthma is all too real, because he has seen it almost take Steve’s life several times before. And is just something that no doctor could ever learn.)

 Bucky couldn’t believe that schmuck- sure, he didn’t really understand what words like “physcosomatic” meant, but Sarah sure did, if the paleness in her cheeks meant anything.

Sarah quickly escorted her boys out by their elbows while calling her profuse thank you’s! over her shoulder. At the door, she grips both boys by the back of the neck, and quickly brings them in for a kiss on both of their foreheads. And then, she sends them both out the door and back to the Roger’s apartment with a small smack on their bottoms.

And that was it- no doctor could help Steve, because the only option was to let them go rattling around in his head, and Bucky knew Sarah would die before she let those monsters get to Steve. And after stepping over Sarah’s dead body, any white coat coming for Steve would have to go through him.

Sarah isn’t around anymore, nearly two years cold in her grave, but Steve’s asthma sure as hell is. The Brooklyn sky is turning grey and the air is turning sharp, and there is no time for Bucky to feel relief that Steve finally gave in and moved in with him (Steve tried to live on his own for almost a year, before pneumonia almost did him in last winter and brought him under Bucky’s roof) before terror raps its icy hand around his neck. Steve’s lungs have been kicking up a racket for days now, and it’s not even November yet, and if it is this bad now, what is it going to be like in January-

No- Bucky is going to fix this, just like he learned how to fix Becca’s jack-in-the-box and the engine of that old ford his dad inherited when Uncle Timmy died. On the way home from the docks, he stops at the pharmacy run by the O’Neils up in Vinegar Hill to ask about their asthma cigarettes. The cigarettes were the newest thing, shipped all the way over from Brittan, filled with God knows what (Bucky always wanted to be an engineer, not a damn pharmacist). Bucky doesn’t understand what’s in them, or how they work, and to be honest, he is pretty skeptical because he knows the way Steve coughs at the second hand smoke of his cigarettes and even the smell of them on his clothes after a night out with some nice dames. Also, one pack of Potter’s costs a whole 75 cents- about an hour’s wages at the docks.

Fuck it- if the cigarettes work, it will be worth it. Besides, Bucky is well off enough that it should only set him back a few rounds at the dance hall.

(Its true- the Barnes were never as poor as the Rogers. George’s book keeping job was enough to not only keep a roof over his wife and children, as well as to pay for gasoline for a car that ran, and to make sure his children always had nice Sunday bests, for both Church and Temple.)

By the time Bucky gets back to their apartment in Brooklyn Heights, he has somewhat of a plan for giving the cigarettes to Steve. Last thing he needs is to deal with pissy alley cat Steve on a Friday night, especially when he was planning on going out. He doesn’t even hesitate before sticking the key in their rusted out lock and go striding into the apartment.

“Hey Punk! I got somethin’ for ya,” Bucky calls out into their too small apartment before his body is fully through the door. Steve is standing over their bathtub turned kitchen table, laying two plates of potatoes and spam down on the ply wood. Bucky crosses the room and throws the asthma cigarettes down, along with a new pack of Lucky Stripes for him. Steve frowns down at the boxes before he plops his skinny ass down on the chair and begins to poke at his dinner. Steve rests his chin in his hands and pops boiled potatoes in his mouth. Bucky’s old sweater that he is wearing is cuffed several times at the wrist and slips off his collarbones.

“Come on Buck, you know I can’t smoke. Since when you tryin’ to kill me?”

Bucky rolls his eyes and joins Steve at the table.

“You idiot. The Lucky Stripes are for me, and I picked up the Potter’s for you. Denny down at the docks says they helped his older brother, and that his mom and pa used to buy ‘em by the cartons before he moved out to marry Addie Steward – we went to school with her younger brother Billy, you remember? And then when they were cleaning out his old room they found a few left over packs. And I’ve bought Denny a few drinks after work before, and he was askin’ how you were feelin’, anyways, he gave me a pack to give to you, see if they would make you feel better.”

Sometimes, lying was the easiest way to deal with Steve, especially if his own health was in the way. Bucky couldn’t bring himself to regret his lies, and besides, he was doing God’s work. The way he saw it, Steve was all things good in this world, if only his own stupidity didn’t get in the way. So, Bucky thought of it as a good deed to protect Steve, and that God himself would approve of such methods of trickery and deceit. Judging by Steve’s raised eyebrow, he didn’t buy into Bucky’s story. Steve picked at his food again, letting a few moments pass before he addressed Bucky.

“Really? That’s awfully charitable of him, don’tcha think?”

Bucky hummed in agreement, thankful that Steve seemed only to be skeptical, not full on dismissive and confrontational. “Yeah I guess it was. Did you want to go catch that new movie showing down at the Cameo? I remember you loved Robin Hood-“

“And you bought drinks for Denny, you said?” Steve was still looking down at his plate, pushing around small bits of his food. Bucky blinked at him in surprise, “Yeah, just as a way to kick off the weekend, ya know? I don’t really see why that matters though-“

Steve stood up from his chair, and turned away before Bucky could finish his sentence. “I’m going to go try to work on some sketches before the sun goes down. Make sure to wash up.”

With that, Steve leaves for the bedroom at the back of the apartment. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving Bucky and the two packs of cigarettes at the table.

That certainly went a lot better than Bucky was expecting, but worse than he hoped. What did it matter that he said he bought Denny a few drinks? He had before, but it wasn’t like he and Denny took regular trips down to the St. George Hotel. He took a deep breath before standing and getting the cheesecloth to wrap their plates. They both didn’t finish their dinners, and at least the potatoes would keep until tomorrow night. He snatches up the pack of Lucky Stripes off the table, and stared spitefully down at the asthma cigarettes.

“Stupid fucking punk couldn’t tell a good thing if it hit him in the fuckin face- Steve! I’m going out! Don’t wait up for me doll face!”

From inside of the bedroom, Bucky heard something that sounds vaguely like Steve’s shoe being thrown at the wall.

“Yeah! Screw you, you jerk!”

Bucky laughed his way out of the apartment.

When he came home later that night, almost empty pack of cigarettes in his pocket, lipstick on his collar and booze heavy on his breath, he forgot to check if the smokes were still on the kitchen table before he crashes on the couch for the night.

A few weeks later, he comes home from the docks, and just about smacked in the face by some sort of smell the moment he walks into the apartment. He scrunched his nose up, and is about to call out to Steve to ask what the actual hell is burning, when he catches sight of him through the bedroom doorway. Steve is sitting on the bed, next to the open window, smoking one of the asthma cigarettes. Every so often, he lets out a dry cough, but it isn’t harsh enough to even worry Bucky slightly.

He watches Steve lift the cigarette to his mouth again, and catalogues how the setting sun makes his hair look like spun gold and casts sharp shadows of his eyelashes on his cheeks. The hand that doesn’t hold the smoke holds a pencil between long, thin fingers, which has paused in its pursuit of drawing the soda fountain from the diner down the street. Bucky leans his back against the doorframe, hands in his pockets with crossed ankles, and raps his knuckles against the doorway, just to let Steve know that he is there. Steve looks up from his drawing to Bucky, letting the smoke spill forth from slightly puckered lips, and smiles at him.

“Looks like the alley cat likes his little present, hmm? Ya know, you could say thank you!”

Steve snuffs out the smoke and tosses it out the window, all while rolling his eyes at Bucky. He gets off the creaking bed and crosses the few feet to the doorframe, stopping just short of Bucky’s legs to look up at him.

 “Alright, yeah, yeah I get it. Thanks, Buck.”

On his way out of the door into the living room, Steve’s shoulder brushes Bucky’s chest, his light linen shirt catching and dragging across the cotton of Bucky’s dock working shirt, causing Bucky to inhale sharply, and get another whiff of the strange smell.

Sure, it wasn’t the regular tobacco he was used to smelling, but it didn’t smell nearly as bad as the docks did midday in August. He supposed he could put up with the smell if they helped Steve. (Bucky would put up with anything for Steve.)

With a smile, he pushed up from the doorframe and followed Steve out into their apartment.

“Gee, what’s for dinner, Steve? I hope it is potatoes- no, I bet it is potatoes! You know, even if I had all the money in the world, I’d still want-”

“Ya know, you really ain’t as funny as you think you are.”

“So… are we not having potatoes?”

“Fuck you. Of course we are having potatoes. The hell you think this is, the Plaza?”