Chapter Text
The newspapers were gone.
Steve stared at the empty spot in front of his doorway, ignoring the police sirens. One of their neighbors had been robbed. The neighborhood robberies had been happening for a while.
The newspapers, however, started disappearing only a week ago. Steve sighed, looked at the cloudy sky, asked God why he hated him, and then returned to the kitchen.
“They took them again,” Steve whined as he sat next to Buck, who barely reacted to his presence. He scrolled on his phone, humming without looking up.
“The papers?” he asked, his Brooklyn accent always stronger in the early morning. When Steve nodded, he took a sip of his coffee.
“Maybe we should let them rob us.” Steve sighed.
“I am not letting people rob us so you can get your newspapers back. Plus, we’re not even sure it’s them who are taking them.”
“Well, who else?” Steve asked, stealing a piece of toast from Buck’s plate. He took one bite and grimaced, realizing it was burnt to a crisp. “God, how do you eat that?”
“Blasphemy, Steve. What would your mother say?” Buck said seriously as he stole the toast back. “Better burnt than raw.”
“Ma wouldn't bat an eye. Winnie though…” They both shivered at the mention of Buck’s mom.
“A week of church going for sure,” Buck said.
“And toast can't be raw. And who else would be stealing my newspapers if not the robbers?”
Their neighbourhood had been hit with a series of robberies, all happening during the night while the owners were out. Steve didn’t see how anybody had the strength to do anything with the heatwave hitting New York. They had said it would only last a week, but it had been a month now, and Steve had just accepted his fate of dying from heat whenever he stepped outside of their air-conditioned apartment and diner.
The same apartment and diner that would have probably been robbed as well, had it not been for the security measures Natasha, Buck, and Yelena had installed, making them less vulnerable to an attack. They, of course, did it thinking of Thanos and murderous assassins and not low-level robbers.
“A lot of people, Stevie,” Buck answered, but Steve could tell he didn’t really care. Steve stood behind him, watching as Buck scrolled through the newest article regarding the stock market of all things, before switching to The New York Times, where he tried to solve the Connections.
“Try these four,” Steve said.
“Why the fuck would I do that? Steve, what group would APPLE, KEY, TRUNK, and SUN possibly all belong to?” Steve did not pout. He didn’t. He simply looked at Buck, all sad and disappointed. Buck sighed, and Steve smiled, knowing he won.
“You happy now?” Buck had asked grumbly as he lost a try in the game, and for a second, Steve was back in their old apartment, 18 and 19, Bucky trying to solve the daily crossword and Steve not knowing a single answer but helping(bothering) anyway.
Finally, as the coffee in Buck’s cup turned to just a few sips, Buck went to the drama section of his phone.
“Who’s Billie?” Steve asked, taking a bite of Buck’s burnt toast, now covered in a thick layer of Nutella. “Is that the singer you and Sam mentioned last week?”
“It’s HYDRA,” Buck said suddenly. “They are stealing your newspapers to punish me.”
Steve lasted 0.3 seconds before hitting him on the head. “I told you not to joke about that.”
“Nat would have laughed.”
“That’s not really an accomplishment,” Steve said. “And I told you who it is.”
“Right. The robbers who are petty enough to keep stealing our newspapers as retaliation for not being able to rob us properly.”
“My newspapers, and yes.”
“Yours, ours, it’s all the same, right?” And Steve knew Buck was just trying to be a little shit, but he was right. It was all the same. It’s been all the same since Bucky kissed him the first time when they were just 16 and 17.
“Yeah, Buck, it’s all the same,” he said softly, causing Buck to smile that soft smile that not even a hundred years nor any amount of torture changed. Buck smiled, and it was the Buck Steve had known his whole life.
“Punk,” Bucky sighed before finally abandoning his phone to kiss Steve.