A.W. Faber, illustrated price list of lead and colored pencils, 1897. USA. Via Melissa Easton. The complete list online: University of Houston
This looks like the kind of stuff that a wee Steve Rogers might have stared at wistfully whenever he had the opportunity to wander into an art store or two.
Which means that these are the things that Bucky Barnes might have been saving up for, getting odd jobs and doing errands, and maybe every once in a while he’d earn enough for a pencil or two, with just enough for a small sketchbook left over, and - imagine Bucky hiding these treasures in his pockets and slipping them into Steve’s things and -
How would Steve have thanked Bucky for the gifts? Pages and pages of things that made Bucky smile. The irascible old moggie across the way, sneer-meowing at the world from her sunny patch. Mrs Liebgott from next door as she peeled apples and oranges in long practiced strokes and a single unfurling curl of bright fragrant skins. A black-and-white Brooklyn sunset and the soaring spires of the Brooklyn Bridge.
And Bucky, Bucky, Bucky. His smiles, the faintly nautical quality of the way he ran, an ingratiating grin or two or ten, the way he snored and the way he played the piano.
Did Steve ever learn how to work in ink? Maybe he did. Maybe the only subject he’d ever commit to vivid blue-black permanence was Bucky’s profile, because he knew those lines and planes so well. Bucky growing up through pencils worn down, pens carefully cared for, ink and lead.
He’d gone back to pencils after Prospect Park; he’d learned his hands all over again, learned the strength he’d been granted, and again he filled scarce paper and lined pages, Bucky, Bucky, Bucky, over and over again.