Steve is a terrible newsie
“Bucky.” Steve’s eyes were round as silver dollars. “Where did you get these?”
Bucky shrugged and hefted his pile of broadsheets up under his arm again. “I just did, okay? Look, we sell these, we keep the money, that’s enough to get us both to Coney Island.”
“You sure you didn’t—”
“I did not steal them.” He said it so vehemently, it was definitely a lie. He covered by shoving half the newspapers at Steve. “We’ll do it on opposite corners, all right? It’ll take half as long.”
Steve looked down at the headline. The papers were already starting to make his arms hurt. “What do I?”
“What do you mean, what do you do? You shout at people and get their money and get rid of these. It’s not building rockets!” Bucky grinned. Bucky had a way of grinning that inspired confidence in Steve, right until he walked away and thought about it more.
It seemed simple enough, and if Bucky really hadn’t knocked over Bill Hendricks, who usually newsied at this intersection, it shouldn’t be too much of a problem.
But Steve figured he ought to know something about the news he was hawking. Which was why, when Bucky crossed the street, pockets full and hands empty, Steve was still sitting on top of his pile, nose-deep in the World Happenings section. Bucky gaped at him.
“What’re you doing?”
Steve frowned. “Bucky, someone shot the president of Mexico. Don’t you think—hey!”
He hopped to his feet as Bucky yanked the newspapers from under him. “You’re hopeless,” Bucky said, shaking his head, and ran to chase down the next commuter he could.