Chapter 2
i.
Sarah smiled softly down at her arms, where a small baby was cradled. It waved its arms up at her, grabbing at her light blond hair with a garble. Her vision blurred at the edges, a wet chuckle escaping her chapped lips. Stroking his small cheek, she whispered out a song, "Hush little baby, don't say a word.."
Steve grinned as another punch rattled his small frame.
Mama's gonna buy you a mocking bird.
"Ya like a shiny new punchin' bag, ain't that right Rogers?"
Steve straightened up, spitting directly into the taller boy - John Dacey’s - pudgy face. He was two grades above Steve and about a foot taller in stature, but the younger boy, quite frankly, didn’t give a shit about his chances of winning - not when Dacey had been picking on someone far smaller than Steve himself.
And if that mocking bird don't sing,
Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring.
The young girl fled, and Steve smiled at her. Purple bloomed across his cheek, flowers of maroon and sky blue. James sees little Steve Rogers get to his feet again, smoothing his dust-covered hair back, steeling his shoulders and flashing a cocky smirk. A light of reckless determination flashed in his bright blue eyes. His grunt echoed through the street, product of the kick he earned from his efforts.
"Hey! Fuck off, John!"
Steve recognised the new boy - Barnes - and stared with a furrowed brow as the brunette curled his fist in Dacey’s shirt, shoving him firmly away. John scoffed, throwing his hands up in surrender and stalking away.
"You alright, kid?"
"'M fine," he groaned, pushing back off the wall, "an' I'm no kid."
He chuckled, "Sorry pal. I'm James."
"I know who you are."
“Uhm, you - you’re Rogers, right? 8th Grade?”
“Yep.” Steve walked back down the alley, head down, angry but slightly grateful for the help. He sighed, thinking about what his mother was going to say when a hand curled tight around his upper arm, drawing him to a halt. Barnes stared down at him, eyes dark.
“You know Susie Darwin?” he nodded suspiciously, “There’s uh- a party, at her place. Saturday. Wanna come?”
“You makin’ fun of me?”
“What? No!” The younger boy tugged his arm free of his grip.
“What could make ya think I’d want to go to a party with you?”
“Christ, I dunno. I guess I’ll see ya around Rogers.”
James stared at the small boy stomping off, and right then and there, some part of him knew that he’d be pulling the kid out of scraps like that for the rest of his goddamn life.
The fury coursed through him, his blood boiling on high heat. The day he let a bully get away would be the day he dies; his mother taught him better than that.
Yes, Steve Rogers may be small, but he gave as good as he got. They tumbled on the floor of the alley, limbs flying in attempts at hits, Bloody ribbons stuck to sweaty skin, gravel scraping their backs like sandpaper. He blindly reached behind him, searching for his textbook. When he grasped it, he turned and brung it down onto the boy’s chest with a grunt, heart-pounding against his ribcage. “Little one has bite, huh?” The larger boy pushed him off with ease. “Fine, keep ya goddamn money.”
Once he’d stormed off, Steve stumbled to his feet, wiping angrily at his dripping nose. When the blood wouldn’t stop its flow, when his head grew light and his ribs began aching, he sighed, frustration hitting him like a wave.
Chatter brought his attention up, and there, at the opening of the alley, woven in between a group of people, was Barnes.
Barnes, who was staring at him.
“Yous go on, I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
Steve crossed his arm, trying to blend back into the shadows that were the corners of the walls, as a certain brunette strolled towards him, worry clear on his face.
When he stood in front of him, he brought his hand up, looking to touch him, when he abruptly stopped and shook himself. “What’d you do, Rogers?” His voice was soft, small - like he was genuinely worried. Like they were friends. As if someone like James Barnes would be friends with Steve Rogers.
Steve shrugged, in reply to the question, but also in confusion at the older boys new-found need to talk to him.
“Do ya need help cleaning up?”
“No.” Catching James face fall slightly before his kind mask slipped back on, Steve let his defences drop, just a little. “My Ma’s a nurse, she can look after me.”
“And she’s okay with you gettin’ into fights?”
“Well, no, bu-”
“Then let me help ya.” Steve tried to interrupt, but he held up a hand, “S’no big deal, I’ve got nothin’ else to do.”
Steve succumbed, following him out onto the street. “I saw your friends; ya were goin’ somewhere. Why help me instead?”
“Honestly? I think you’re the most interesting thing here, Steven Rogers.”
Steve snorted.
“Let me be ya friend. I promise you won’t regret it.”
He sighed, fighting the smile threatening to take over his face, “Alright. I’ll be your friend.”
James was 14 years old the first time he pulled Steve from a fight.
James was 14 years old the first time he had to stop the bleeding.
James was 14 years old when he stopped being James and started being Bucky.
"James Buchanan Barnes, I'm telling Ma," Becka whined.
James huffed, attempting to push his stubborn younger sister out of the door frame; she had a pout on her flushed face, chubby arms crossed defiantly over her chest.
Steve snorted behind him.
"James Buchanan - like the president?"
"Hey, don't start Rogers, I ain't the one who chose it."
"Buck.. ain't he that fella from that play?"
"That's Puck, dumbass."
“James, don’t swear!”
“Shut it Becks!”
Steve stepped forward to boop the little girl's nose, grinning at James. "Bucky. I like that, there's too many James'" Bucky smiled at it and the way he stumbled over the latter name.
"James-es?"
"Shuddup Bucky."
Bucky was 15 years old when he realised that he’d do anything for Steve.
"Hey Mrs Rogers, how are ya! Is Stevie 'ere? I got a surprise for him."
Sarah smiled warmly down at him and let him through the door.
"He's in his room, finishing up a sketch,"
"Ah thanks, ma'am," he started walking through the cramped living room, before turning fully on his feet, "I forgot, my Ma made this for you. 's apple pie!"
He rocked on his heels as she took it from him; "Give Wini my thanks," and he sped down to Steve's room.
The room was a small rectangle, with a regular wire framed bed pushed against the wall and a sliding window that looked out onto the fire escape, heading down onto the busy thrum of Brooklyn life. The walls were beige but were covered in scraps of paper - newspaper cutouts, sketches, photographs. Pinned over the collage was an image that centred the small room - a large framed portrait of an angular blonde man, staring ahead under a dark army cap: below that, sitting on the floor, a smaller boy that was in small resemblance to the man in the frame. He was wearing an oversized jumper, paired with gloves of charcoal and not much else. Bucky smiled affectionately at the boy, engrossed in his own world and sketching furiously.
He strolled over to him and knelt next to him, "Hey Punk." When he got no reply he chuckled and gripped his chin, turning his face to his own "Whatcha drawing?"
Steve shook out of the older boys grip, "Look ya self, jerk," Bucky did. He felt his heart grow warm at the talent of his friend. "How long did this take ya, Stevie? It's a fuckin' masterpiece,"
Steve laughed bashfully and shrugged. “It’s not but... Thanks, Buck.”
"Really, 'S swell. Oh, I almost forgot! I got a surprise for ya," he reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a metal bottle cap, a faded orange, the words 'Worlds Best' written in swirling cursive, "It's a badge - see," he opened up the safety pin glued to the back. He pulled Steve's jumper forward and pinned it on. The blonde reached his hand up and held it. "'Cause you're my best guy,"
Steve laughed brightly, muttering “Sap,” and sliding his pencil back into his pocket.
"'s no trouble Stevie, some fella was sellin' 'em near the corner store."
"Ya coulda got yourself somethin',"
"I wanted to get you it,"
"Why?"
"'cause I want ya to be happy."
"I am. Thanks, pal,"
The Barnes house was big, his parents - Father owning a body shop and Mother a nursery school teacher - having a significant amount of money in comparison to most living in worn down Brooklyn. When Steve had one day inquired, Bucky merely flashed him a smile and dragged him to George Barnes repair shop. And in the boot of the only car? Moonshine. Bucky had placed a finger on his lips - lips which were grinning - and Steve had whispered ‘promise’. Steve hadn’t asked again but was pleased with the fact that they shared a secret.
"I'm gonna fly!" His brother called, running around the tall room. Becka was chasing him, shouting out 'William, I'm the best pilot there is!' And 'Ya gonna crash without me.' Steve was sat on the floor, bouncing Nancy on his lap; the girl had a smile akin to Becka, with a grin mirroring Bucky’s. Bucky fiddled with their old radio until a jaunty tune began through the speakers. Bucky sprang to his feet, hands out to his youngest sister, "C'mon Nancy, let me show ya how to dance." He pulled her up from Steve’s lap, holding her tight to his chest.
"You gonna have all those fellas fighting for a dance, ain't ya? You gotta promise you always save one for me though, alright?"
Nancy giggled and shook her head, pointing behind her, "Stevie!" Bucky gasped dramatically at that, grasping his heart, who stood, chuckling, behind her.
"I see how it is, go on - leave me. It’s fine" He wiped his eyes with a loud sniff, placing her on the floor. She waddled to Steve, squeezing his legs with all of her might.
Bucky resumed his seat on the floor, watching his friend, who was smiling brightly and felt his heart grow. A few minutes passed and decided that he was content to stay there for the entirety of his life.
"So, how have you been pal?"
"The usual," Steve laughed "Though Ma's taking longer shifts so's I can get more meds,"
Buckys smile fell a little at that. "Ya think it's going to be a tough winter?"
"Always is."
Buckys hand moved to the younger boys knee in comfort, warmth blooming under his touch, and they stayed in the eyes of each other for a beat longer, the room silent, save for the quiet thump of their pulses, mute to the other but at momentous volume to themselves. The brunette searched his friend’s bright blue eyes - 'ocean blues', as he often called them - before breaking the trance in a low murmur; "I got a date next week, a nice dame - Penny - a pretty blonde. Ya want me to see about one of her friends for ya?" His words were slow and hesitant.
They stayed silent for a beat longer, before Steve whispered a sturdy "No."
The radio was an echo on the walls, blurring into the sound of receding footsteps.
Bucky was 15 the first time he started a fight for Steve.
At a party, arm around his wonderful girlfriend - Penny - and a cup of shoddy homemade ale in his hand, Bucky wasn’t happy.
He and his friends were sat in a circle, playing as all Teenagers do, spin the bottle. The party had been fun, a pleasant hum thrumming through his body. The night was late, exams had just passed and he was in need of a well-deserved break. At a party - even small ones - you could lose yourself. Forget.
His night had been filled with lazy kisses, casual conversations and pints of questionable alcohol.
He looked around the room, vision hazy and a loose smile on his face. He took a drag of his cigarette and further melted onto the floor, the world outside of the room disappearing like the smoke drifting from the fag between his calloused fingers.
The bottle spun, clinking repeatedly against the cold floor. They held their breath as it spun around, round, round, round- and settled just to the left of Bucky. Lucy sighed frustratingly, crawling forward to grab the glass when Brad snorted. “Hey, Barnes, imagine if you’d brought Rogers,”
Lucy grimaced, going to spin the bottle a second time, “God, imagine having to kiss that.”
Bucky’s focused drew back, building up from his Barnes-puddle on the floor. Throwing his cigarette down, he scowled, “Excuse me?”
“Rogers. You two are joined at the hip,”
“Yeah, I got it, Brad,”
“Pal, it was just a joke. Go ahead, Luce”
He stood, anger flaring under his ribs like lava, waiting to erupt.
“Well, it wasn’t fuckin’ funny,”
Penny tugged on his sleeve, concern evident in her voice when she spoke, “Jamie, how much have ya had to drink?”
Bucky stepped forward, eyes dark, and tugged his friend to his feet.
“Apologise.”
“James, it was a goddamn joke, I ain’t gonna apologise.”
“Fine,” he sighed, letting go of Brad’s shirt. When the shorter boy blinked, surprise etched in his drawn eyebrows, Bucky raised his fist, delivering one, two, three, sharp blows to his stomach. When the gasps had finished rippling through the crowd - the crowd of his friends - he ran.
He didn’t sleep. Instead, he stared up at the ceiling, trying to decipher the feeling that settled deep in his bones. He didn’t understand why he’d done that. Steve’s his best friend, so of course he’d be angry. But punching Brad? Bucky sighed and turned over, trying to ignore the fear that threatened to swallow him whole.
There was a buzz in the air; city traffic a few streets away, cicadas hidden somewhere. The sky was white - a low fog ran through the streets of Brooklyn, chasing away the sun.
"You boys be back before the rain starts - don't want ya gettin' another cold," Bucky was tired and his head was pounding, fists bruised and mind swirling with thoughts and ideas.
"Don't worry Mrs Rogers, I'll make sure Stevie don't get too wet."
They walked, the cold was biting at them like a rabid dog; Bucky shook his head at the way Steve’s small frame shook, his friend clearly annoyed at how his body had betrayed him in displaying how cold he was.
"You should have worn another coat,"
"I weren’t gonna wear two coats, Buck,"
Bucky let out a loud, heavy breath and turned to look at him. "You want mine?"
Steve elbowed him.
"C'mon Punk, ya gonna get sick,"
"No ya jerk, I'm fine-"
"Sarah would kill me," he said in a firm tone, promptly cutting Steve off. "You want that? A life without ya best Pal? And your Ma in prison for the murder of the most handsome fella in Brooklyn?"
“Pal, you know she’d get away with it. Sarah Rogers is a sly little woman,”
“True,” He slid out of his red varsity, carefully draping it over Steve's slender shoulders. "Don't argue with me on this Pal - look, jus' one more street,"
Steve grumbled under his breath, but tightened the jacket around his torso nonetheless - Bucky glanced at him from the corner of his eye and smiled; the blonde had a blush high on his cheeks and neck, the rest of his body drowned in the coat - and they made their way to the Barnes household.
When they opened the door, warmth burst through them. Simultaneously sighing deeply, a strange duet, they laughed.
"Stevie!" Becka called, entering the hall.
"Hey, sugar," he grinned, wiping his feet on the floor mat.
"I thought I was ya sugar," Bucky frowned playfully, moving to ruffle Nancy's fine brown hair.
"Depends on the day,"
Bucky feigned exaggerated tears, earning laughs from Becka, and turned to call down the narrow blue hallway "Ma, Pa, I’m home!"
"Thank God - James, come help with dinner!"
"But I just got in!"
"What, ya got something better to do?"
"I got Stevie ma,"
"Well he can help too, can’t he?"
George came rushing in, ushering the two up the stairs. Thank fuck, God, I’ll cook for ya whenever you want.
"I'm comin' sweetheart!".
They mouthed their thank-yous, before scrambling up the stairs.
"So, how was the party?"
Bucky grimaced, not wanting to remember, being vague in hopes to move on. "It was good -played spin the bottle,"
The brunette held the door to his room open for Steve. The blond grinned, "Scandalous.”
"Oh, shuddup."
Sitting on Buckys single bed, Steve couldn't help but steal a glance at his lips, where another pair had been just a day before - yeah, he knew he had a girlfriend, and yes, he knew it was wrong and perverted to think of his friend kissing. It was just curiosity. He caught himself, forced his eyes up to the older boys. He got a smile as Bucky shuffled closer, the smell of his fading cologne irritating his senses - he was hyper-aware of own self, but oblivious to the world around him.
Bucky stared at him, trying to unscramble the expression coded on his friends face. Something was on his mind. He knew his Steve. He wanted to know something. Did he know about last night? How? Who the fuck told him, I’ll-
Steve looked up. "What was it like?"
Bucky startled. "What was what like?"
"Kissing."
Bucky stared into the pools of his eyes, confused, the conversation taking a u-turn to somewhere he hadn't expected.
Steve froze, retracing his words, regret swallowing him. I wasn’t that obvious, was I? Bucky pressed his lips to the shorter boys, surprising Steve with its suddenness; he kept his eyes open, gaze studying the shape of Bucky's nose, the colour of his lashes. He'd asked, and this was his answer, so he let his own eyes flutter shut when a hand came up to knead the back of his head. Bucky hesitated, before tilting his face to the left and easing Steve to relax against him. The smell of warm soup drifted around them, matching the taste of bitter smoke on Steve's lips. He could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, pulsing to the rhythm of Steve's breaths; his lips were silken, pillowy against his own, and the warm, soft trickle of breath beneath his nose dazed him as he carded his fingers through short blonde hair.
All he knew was the feel of Steve's shirt beneath his fingers, their pounding pulses, their short inhales of breath, the- "James!"
They jumped apart, Steve's eyebrows furrowed, Bucky's own raised high on his head.
"I'm gonna go,"
Bucky nodded minutely, gaze fixed on where his friend had just sat, as Steve sped from his room, still drowned in his red varsity.
Fuck.
Bucky was just helping. That’s what friends are for. Who better to lose your kiss card to than your best friend, right? No need to linger on it. No reason at all.
July, the season where the world would turn into goddamn fire hurling through space, Bucky mused to himself. Wait, fuck, that’s just what the sun is.
The night was warm, the sun a bright umber in the sky - it had begun descending later now that winter had made its move. Steve was laying on the floor, pencil between his crooked teeth, cheek pressed against the hard wood of his bedroom. Despite the warm glow the sun brought, his room was dark, a lone candle that lay beside his head the only source of light. It was serene; it was gentle; Steve focused on the sound of his own calm breaths, the crackle of the flame, the gentle boom of life outside his win- "Ow- fuck! Stevie, le' me in," and the bang of a fist against his window.
Steve mumbled groggily, sitting up carefully and letting the pencil fall from his mouth. "Buck?" he walked over to the window, eyebrow raised, "It's..." he glanced at the clock and sighed, "Nine. The hell ya doin' here?"
"Just let me in an' I'll tell ya,"
"Fine," he heaved a heavy sigh as he unlatched the window, pulling it towards himself. Bucky bundled in, along with the warm summer air. He left it open and turned to his friend, arms crossed. "So..?"
Bucky tilted his head, a cocky grin plastered on his face, "No reason,"
Steve snorted and lay back down on the floor, Bucky joining him, joy etched in his features; "So, how ya been? Haven' seen ya in coupla weeks," his voice was low, breath hot against the blonde's ear.
"Alright - nothin' exciting. You?"
"Been okay. Had my music thing on the weekend,"
Steve turned his head to face him, "Yeah? How'd it go?"
"I passed!"
Steve shoved him back to the floor, a bright smile plastered on his face. "I told you ya would, Buck! Damn, you my very own George Gershwin,"
"Nah, I don’t think I'm that good Stevie,"
"Just give it a couple years pal. You're gonna be famous, I jus' know it,"
Bucky chuckled, gaze on the lines drawn in the corners of Steve's eyes, then to the dusting of stars on his scrunched nose, the faint blush that warmed his soul, then further down, to the way one corner of his lip curled up. His focus stayed for just a beat too long, before he cleared his throat and sat up.
"So, uh- it's your birthday next month, huh? Seventeen. Excitin'."
Steve shrugged lazily, following Bucky and sitting up too; "Not really. 's not like I got nothin' planned or anything." He sighed, "Hey, you got a smoke?" Outside came the bustling sounds of the Brooklyn nightlife; the cobblestones of the city street below radiated the heat of the day, just like the floor of a brick oven. The gentle air drifted through to his small room, feeling light and fresh to both the lungs and the skin.
"Yeah, here," he passed it to him, stretching his arms above his head. "Hey, how 'bout we go out?"
Steve brought the cigarette to his lips, the soft glow of the tip illuminating his soft features, the distant calls of drunkards drifting through the open window as he exhaled slowly. "What would we do?"
"Anythin' you want pal,"
"Hm. How 'bout that new film, Murder In The... something,"
The brunette chuckled, plucking the cigarette from Steve's slender hands, "Sounds like a plan - maybe we'll catch the fireworks after," he took a long drag, eyes closed, before rubbing it on the tin by Steve’s bed.
Steve lay back down, half asleep, body positioned like he was about to make snow angels. He sighed heavily, the heat clearly getting to him. Bucky averted his eyes, not looking as his friend fumbled with the buttons of his shirt in an effort to cool off. He pushed himself off of the floor, reaching to the twin bed to bring pillows down to the floor. His eyelids felt heavy. The long, hot day, was clearly weighing on them both, Steve evidently giddy with exhaustion; he yawned deeply, throwing his sketchbook to the other side of the room and curled on his side, face to Bucky as he settled back down. When he rested his head on the pillow - one hardly thick enough to cover the feel of nailed wood beneath his skull - Steve was close enough to touch, yet still felt so far away.
“G’night Buck,” he yawned, drifting off almost instantly.
“Night, Stevie,” he whispered, following, as he always did.
He awoke in the early hours of the morning to the harsh white noise outside, pounding at his head. Startled, he sat up halfway in a daze. It was only rain. In the dark, not much was visible, the little light turning the room a hundred shades of black and grey. The world was foggy at the edges, the contrast between black and white as sharp as ever. The world hummed in radio static. It wasn't real.
He went back to sleep.