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The first thing that comes to mind when a beat-up leather wallet unceremoniously falls into his lap is an embarrassing time for an upgrade. It’s not half a second later that Steve reaches for what he already knows will be an empty pocket.
Prying open the mouth of his wallet reveals his missing cash, and Steve sighs in resignation. At least his license is where it should be, tucked between an old picture he’d folded over and a loyalty card for Bed Bath & Beyond. Last thing he needs is to go to the DMV in fucking Nevada.
“Didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to carry your ID on a job.” His new companion almost looks disappointed, even as he slips gracefully onto the empty stool at Steve’s side. “Rookie move, don’t you think?”
Steve grits his teeth, bristling despite his best efforts. It’s been a hot second since anyone’s called him a rookie.
Regardless, he has to admit he’s impressed, wounded pride aside. “Haven’t seen that smooth a lift since Laufeyson himself.”
The stranger waves away the compliment in lieu of moving on to stealing one of his three bottled waters lined up on the bar. “So, Steve Rogers at the jewelry trade show of the year. Should the exhibitors be worried?”
Neither of them bother to keep their voice to a whisper. They’re hardly in the thick of the crowd, the convention center’s capacity of 12,000 people mostly congregating at the more exciting booths boasting rubies and gold. No one comes to JCK to lurk at an abandoned bar on the outskirts of the floor.
“Should probably be more concerned with your sticky fingers,” Steve huffs, slipping the bulging wallet back in its place.
“Maybe, but no one’s heard of Bucky Barnes,” the stranger—Bucky—remarks not without resentment, even as he goes on to chirp a bright, “can’t keep an eye out for who you don’t know.”
Steve can’t decide if Bucky giving up his name so easily in the same breath he’s announcing the benefits of his begrudging anonymity should be as easy to comprehend as it is. He understands too well, really, having all but left calling cards back when he’d been trying to make a name for himself.
“Bucky?” Steve can’t help but try on for size, his tongue curling strangely around the moniker.
“I know, I know.” Bucky rolls his eyes, flicking away some invisible lock of hair and cracking open the bottled water he’s apparently keeping for himself. “At least it’s memorable.” One sip and he’s spitting it back out, making a face at Steve that truly does reek of judgment this time.
“That’ll teach you not to touch what isn’t yours,” Steve chides, and uncontrollable laughter takes over Bucky’s lean build.
Steve looks over his conspicuous ensemble as Bucky gets himself together, a sheer printed shirt showing off his skin and a pair of pants that’d fit better on the Strip than it does in a convention center. It’s a little mind-boggling, how he still manages to blend into the sea of tan suits and polo shirts.
Bucky’s fucking good at this. Steve may not recognize him by name, but he’s starting to think he should.
“Don’t look at me like that. No one told me the dress code, alright?” Bucky tugs at his neckline with a grimace. “This guy promised me a weekend in Vegas. Never mentioned going to a fucking trade show of all things.”
It’s only then that Steve realizes Bucky’s bored. The fact that he’d swiped Steve’s wallet out of restlessness is somehow endearing enough that Steve’s downright charmed. “And you thought my cash would be a better take than what’s on display?”
Bucky shrugs, glancing at the nearest booth flaunting rows and rows of tennis bracelets covered in diamonds, pearl necklaces and earrings in between. “I’ve got a much easier way of getting stupid jewelry. All I gotta do is ask my date real pretty.” A furrow makes it between his brows then, as Bucky searches the floor with a more attentive sweep and a grumbled, “If I can even find him.”
“Let me guess…” Steve plucks the bottled water from Bucky’s grip while he’s sufficiently distracted. “You picked him up at a country club.”
Bucky doesn’t look ashamed more than he does disdainful of his methods. “Played the flirty kid manning the juice bar.” Must be dull, running basically the same con over and over again as is the fate of many in their line of work. It’s a rut Steve’s been in once or twice himself.
Gesturing at his own bearded cheeks, Steve offers what is surely an unwelcome, “You should shave the stubble if that’s the game.”
As expected, Bucky pouts and rubs at his jaw, clearly displeased that he doesn’t quite pull off jailbait anymore. “On that note,” he sighs, putting on an almost comically forlorn expression, “I’ll leave you to whatever it is you’re up to.” As he waits on the literal edge of his seat, Steve starts to gather that despite Bucky’s clear set of skills, subtlety isn’t one he chooses to employ all that often. “Fine, don’t tell me. I could help but oh no, the great Steve Rogers is too good to work with amateurs.”
Steve grins in delight, thoroughly enjoying the show Bucky’s putting on, flailing air quotes and all. Bucky seems to be having one hell of a time, too, if the telling twitch of his flushed cheeks is any indication.
“I’m not on a job,” Steve finally clues him in, much to Bucky’s clear dismay. “Well, not at this exact moment.”
Bucky looks between him and the rest of the floor, gears all but visibly turning. “You’re casing the place.”
Steve hums an affirmative. “JCK’s shiny, sure, but the real money’s gonna be at CES.” He follows the path a nearby staff member takes, for the fifth time in the last 75 minutes. “January, right here in Mandalay Bay. Same security and everything.”
“You’re hitting the Consumer Electronics Show?” Bucky looks intrigued, if a little lost. Steve wonders what Bucky’s biggest job has been so far, and how exactly he knows CES off the top of his head. It must be obvious because Bucky grunts a slightly offended, “I don’t actually spend all my time behind the juice bar.”
Steve purses his lips in apology and confesses a long-suffering, “Access is tough. Registered exhibitors get background checked to hell, and they’ll be on the lookout for aliases buying up guest passes.”
Bucky suddenly gets a twinkle in his eye, all-knowing and just maddening enough to unspool something long dormant in the pit of his stomach. He only speaks up when Steve growls a commanding spit it out with a faux-threatening glare. “I may know a guy.”
Well, that explains it. “Someone from your country club?” Steve guesses, knowing he’s right. “You double dipping, Buck?”
Bucky doesn’t justify the jab with anything more than a warning side-eye. “He’s a scheduled keynote speaker for the Leaders in Tech dinner.”
“You’re—” Steve keeps being surprised by Bucky, each new revelation dashing whatever expectations he’d had in mind—“you’re sleeping with the Nasdaq guy?”
“If you wanna be crude about it,” Bucky scoffs, which, alright, is probably very well deserved.
“Sounds tedious, is all,” Steve murmurs, shrugging in a show of indifference. “To be a one-trick pony. Hell, you pickpocketed me for a cheap thrill. Doesn’t sound like your work’s very fulfilling.”
Bucky’s brows smooth out from their indignant furrow, and his shoulders come down with them in a slump. “Well, in my neck of the woods, you don’t go much farther than swindling rich guys at the country club.” There’s a familiar resignation behind the snark, somehow fitting right in with the put-on liveliness that had been plaguing Bucky so far.
Steve can’t say he likes the growing fondness suddenly spreading through his insides, taking over when he’d rather push it aside. It brews—under his skin, at the back of his throat—and he has to swallow against the rising tide. “You gotta think bigger to be somebody,” he repeats the age-old counsel someone had said to him a lifetime ago. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
Bucky doesn’t look all that willing to own up to what is a relatively tame desire, though perhaps it rings too true to admit aloud. But he eventually looks Steve in the eye, and he must see the same reverie that had once taken root in Steve’s own tumultuous climb to the top.
“Who doesn’t?”
The noise of the crowd ratchets up for half a second when someone takes the main stage, and Steve waits it out before asking, “How much of an amateur are you exactly?”
A smile creeps onto Bucky’s lips, slow and victorious as he pulls away and gets to his feet. “Why don’t you finish out your recon and then call me up after? Left my card behind that picture you’ve got all squared away. I’m sure the rest of your crew’s gonna want to check me out first before you get me on board.”
Steve tries his best shot at a poker face, a feat he wouldn’t usually have to work so hard to pull off. He settles for a short and sweet, “I haven’t asked you yet,” before Bucky can take his leave, knowing full well this one’s won and over with—and Steve isn’t the one walking away better off than he was a handful of minutes ago.
Sure enough, Bucky doesn’t justify the weak claim with a response, making for the thick of the attendees to presumably look for his date.
“I want my 15 bucks back!” he manages to yell after Bucky’s retreating back, unashamed of the limited cash he’d kept on hand.
Bucky only pauses long enough to motion at Steve’s decade-old wallet and suggest a self-assured, “Make use of that card and you can skim it off my take. With interest.” It’s the last Steve sees of Bucky Barnes that weekend, Vegas proving too large a city to cross paths a second time.
The card is exactly where Bucky said it would be, though card is a generous term for what he finds. Bucky had put down his name and number on a flyer for De Beers, folded it up into the shape of a diamond, and put little arrows around a scribbled open me!
Steve laughs himself silly and tucks it back into place, the thick paper soon leaving an irreparable indentation on the aging leather.
For the first time in six months—long, unbearable nights of rudderless planning with no end in sight—he thinks it’s not so far fetched that they might just pull this off.