Chapter Text
You never really gave much thought to your birth.
Of course, you’d been told on many occasions how a mutt bayed outside the window when your poor mother went into labor. You came into the world screaming and flailing around like a fish according to your father. Your lungs were strong and your heart beat a steady rhythm when you were laid, bloody and shivering, on your mother’s chest. She carded her fingers through your thick dark hair and pressed gentle kisses on your forehead all the way home.
Years passed and you could run faster than the kid next door and hit harder than any bully who was dumb enough to mess with you. You never fought for air or struggled to walk upright and you had charm oozing out our ears, so said your ma.
You didn’t start paying attention to birthdays until you met him and suddenly the possibility of not making it another year was so real it put the fear of God in you more than anything your folks read you at night.
- - - - - - - -
He’s twelve and he’s the smallest kid you’ve ever seen.
All bones and tight skin and scabbed knees with bruised knuckles; this kid is a walking injury waiting to happen. You can’t let the slaughter go on so you’re halfway across the courtyard before your brain’s come up with a plan. The kid braces for a kick and it lights a fire in your blood something brutal.
Standing in front of him, you plant your feet as if they could grow roots into the concrete and snarl at the bully – Mikey or something.
“Hey beat it before I give you a beatin’ so fierce it makes you look like the mincemeat in the butcher's window.”
Now, you’re not near as small as the kid you’re shielding, but Mikey could still pummel you, if his goons get in on the action. Mikey runs away like the punk that he is and you let out a sigh of relief. You didn’t really feel like explaining to your ma any injuries a fight might have left you with.
You turn around and sigh in exasperation as the kid looks up at you, all timid and tense like you’re gonna finish what those jerks started.
“Jesus kid, didn’t your ma ever teach you not to go picking fights with guys twice your size?”
He doesn’t answer you right away, so you help him up and nearly swear at how light he is: Kid can’t be no more than seventy pounds wet.
“Yeah, but I didn’t think breathing was a reason to get beat up.”
His reply sends you into a small fit of laughter, it’s ridiculous but you can’t help it. This kid might just be gutsy enough to hang around, so you say as much.
“I like you – and the people I like don’t get messed with so stick with me and they won’t bother you anymore.”
To your amusement, the kid scows and puffs out his chest like he’s ready for another fight. He looks you straight in the eye and it’s kind of intimidating.
“I can take care of myself. I don’t need you to look after me.”
Your head is shaking before you can stop it. There’s something about this kid, burning under his skin like the damn sun and it’s captivating and inspiring in a way no punk brat should be. Seven minutes is all it takes for you to decide that you’re gonna look after this kid.
“Ok tough guy. Maybe you don’t need me to look after you, but maybe I want to.”
You can see the confusion on his face and it’s kinda adorable, like a puppy that was left out all night only to be given a bone the next morning. So you let him lean on your shoulder and he guides you to his place, where his Ma is probably gonna pitch a fit when she sees his bloodied lip – your Ma sure would.
After a block of silence, you introduce yourself the way manners dictate and you flash him a quick grin to assure him that you’re serious about the friends thing.
“The name’s Bucky by the way. Seeing as how we’re friends now it’s only fair that we know what to call each other.”
“My name’s S-steve.” He replies.
Steve’s stammer makes your grin widen and you shake his hand cheerfully as if you’d met due to normal circumstances. You’re feeling pretty damn proud about the whole thing too – Ma’s always telling you to make new friends. You help him up the stairs and raise your hand to knock, but someone beats you to it.
The door swings open and she must be his Ma, because their eyes are the same shade of blue and you clear your throat quickly.
“Hi there ma’am, my name’s Bucky and I just wanted to make sure my friend Steve got here safely: All kinds of ruffians out there during this time of day.”
Your Ma raised you to be polite to your elders and you really wanted to make a good impression and by the way her eyes soften at your words, you’d say you did a pretty great job.
“Thank you Bucky,” she says, “That was very nice of you.”
She opens her arms and you carefully hand Steve over to her. When you’re sure that Steve’s safe and sound and he’s clinging to his mother’s dress, you pull back and say your goodbyes.
“See ya later Steve!” you exclaim and you’re down the stair and around the corner before Steve can reply.
You race home, smile big on your face and you tell your Ma all about your day and she insists on meeting Steve before you’ve even finished your story. You promise to bring him around as soon as you can and you go to bed that night imagining all the things you’re gonna do together.
The next morning you race around the house getting ready for school faster than you ever have before and your Ma can’t stop laughing as you forget your shoes and bag and even your books before finally shooing you outside because she can’t take the ruckus you’re making.
You manage to make it to the foot of Steve’s steps before he comes outside and the smile that graces his face when he sees you sticks in your mind for days.
- - - - - - - -
You spend the next years of your life by Steve’s side every second you can spare.
You’re there when he catches a nasty flu that leaves him bedridden for three weeks. You get kicked out four times before Mrs. Rogers gives up and she makes up the couch after making sure you tell your Ma where you’ll be. When she’s at the hospital taking care of other kids, you spend your free time nursing Steve back to health. You even skip a couple days of school, which everyone scolds you for – even Steve, but you ignore it. He’s shaky and feverish and you’re not even sixteen but you know you have a gray hair or two.
Steve’s more important than good grades, no matter what your teachers says.
You’re there when he picks a fight with the wrong guy and you have to carry him through the hospital doors with a twisted ankle and broken elbow from a nasty fall you took after jumping the asshole that was dumb enough to try and get Steve from behind. It’s a flutter of activity and you nearly deck the nurse who tries to separate you two. Eventually they give up and you’re both resting in hospital beds by the end of the night because Steve can’t see out his left eye and his asthma is laying into him like it’s got nothing better to do than scare you to death. You tell Steve to pick his fights more carefully and he just chuckles wetly and says there’s no such thing as a careful fight and you want to cry because this kid’s gonna get himself killed.
But, Steve’s a thousand times stronger than the bullies he fights, no matter what the doctor’s say.
You’re there when Steve walks dejectedly home after a dame shoots him down. It makes your chest fill with anger and you wanna forget all your manners and shout at every single gal you’ve ever seen just how amazing Steve Rogers is. You don’t get it: Don’t understand how they can’t see what you see every time you look at him: His passion, his goodness, the way his eyes light up when he’s happy and that stupid little smile that drives you nuts whenever he uses it against you like a weapon. You catch up to him, leaving your own date behind and pull him under your arm like it’ll soothe the sting of rejection. Steve leans into you and you light up like a Christmas tree, talking animatedly about ‘guys night’ and that Steve shouldn’t get so down just because one dame was too blind to see how great he is. Steve starts to argue, but you shush him and take him out for dinner and he spends the entire night smiling softly at you and you’re kind of glad Nancy or Tracy or whatever her name was isn’t here to see his smile.
Steve’s the greatest guy you know and anyone would be lucky to have his love, no matter what those dames say.
You’re there when his mother dies and you refuse to let him live alone. You promise Sarah you’ll take care of him and when he caves and you move in with him, you can smell her perfume and you know she heard you.
- - - - - - - -
You both settle into a nice routine that feels as easy as breathing.
He takes work where he can get it, when he’s well enough to work that is, and you pour your time and muscle into the docks. You don’t make enough to live well, but you make enough to live and whenever you can get extra work you’re there with shoulders squared in determination.
The soreness is always worth it when you can bring Steve home something that doesn’t come from a can. He shakes his head at the expense, saying the same old same old: “You shouldn’t waste your money,” and “Aw, Buck we don’t need that,” and your personal favorite, “You’re being irresponsible again.”
You live for that furrow in his brow and the way his shoulders sag in exasperation because his body may be mad at you, but Steve’s eyes betray him every time you come home with meat for dinner or fresh fruit and vegetables for breakfast. You try to be subtle in your spoiling and heaven forbid Steve ever spends a cent of his on you, but you love living with him.
You love those lazy Sunday mornings when Steve will stare out the window and sketch as you enjoy a lukewarm cup of coffee. Bird songs will fill the apartment and the sunlight will hit Steve at just the right angle that you swear he’ll sprout wings and leave you for Heaven without a second thought.
Steve would never leave you though.
The war makes you leave him.
- - - - - - - -
When the notice comes in the mail, you hide it in an old newspaper under your mattress.
If you don’t acknowledge it, maybe it’ll cease to exist. You’re being foolish and even worse, selfish, but you’d rather give up a leg than get shipped off to war and leave Steve behind: Steve, who is smarting from his fourth rejection.
You’re glad.
There’s not a word yet invented for how happy you are that the Army won’t take him. He’d get himself killed the second he set foot on enemy soil and you’d die right along with him. Steve’s everything good in the world, everything good about you. The idea of him not existing makes you want to hurl until there’s nothing left in you.
Yet, here you are clinging to a draft notice and there’s no stopping it. Here you are getting ready to leave Steve when you want nothing more than to hop in a car with him in the passenger seat and drive far away from this damn war. You want to scream and swear and drink until you can’t see straight and the Army realizes you are not the kind of man they want.
You don’t even know how to shoot a gun.
You’re pacing when Steve gets back and he’s instantly by your side asking you what’s wrong and you wanna kiss him. Just, pull him into your arms and never let go because how are you supposed to function without him? You nearly give yourself away so you step back and shake it off and lie until you can’t stand it.
“I’m joining the Army Stevie. Gotta go do my part – teach those bullies who is boss and whatnot.”
The way Steve’s face falls and his eyes darken make you wanna put a bullet in your brain right then and there; fall to your knees and beg forgiveness for something completely out of your hands. You tried lying to the recruitment center, faked all kinds of illnesses but they saw through it. Thought you were a coward at best, unpatriotic at worse and you wanted to grab them all by the shoulders and shake them until they realized it was unthinkable asking him to leave Steve.
“Oh, you can’t separate those two boys! Not even for a war, it’s just criminal.”
Steve’s your guiding light, your north star.
How the hell are you supposed to be good without him? How the hell are you gonna do the right thing without Steve making you want to be better? To be worthy of being in his life because Steve makes you want to be better.
Your entire existence is tied up in Steve Rogers, so tangled and knotted you’re not even sure who you are without his name attached to yours.
Steve congratulates you and normally you’d let him sort through his emotions by himself, but you’re scared and you can’t tell him so you shake your head and pull him into a fierce hug and you ignore his soft whimper and the way his fingers clutch to your shirt like a life vest.
If the war doesn’t kill you first, leaving Steve just might.
- - - - - - - -
Training is a cakewalk and when they put the sniper rifle in your hands something clicks into place.
Your worth has gone up and for the first time in years it’s not connected to the approval of a punk with soft golden hair and an easy grin. You spend that night throwing up at the thought of killing someone and you miss Steve more than you could put into words. As much as it hurts, missing him, you’re grateful that he’s safe in Brooklyn. Watching the innocence drain from his ocean eyes would kill you faster than any bomb or bullet could.
Time passes differently in the Army and the first time your feet touch foreign soil you wish Steve could see what do it and put it into his sketchbook. It’s beautiful and dangerous and it’s not long before your platoon is under fire and you’re killing kids who are playing at war. Something in you hardens with every body that drops and you doubt Steve would even recognize the man you had become.
You're thrown into fire fight after fire fight and when it goes wrong, it goes so wrong that you find yourself strapped to a table and liquid Hell is being forced through your veins until you’re screaming for death in your skull and your serial number is falling from your lips easily and without conscious thought; like kissing those dames back home when all you wanted to do was kiss Steve.
You keep his face safe behind your eyelids and pray that he’s okay before another wave hits and you’re screaming. You think you’re screaming his name and you hope not, please no. They can’t have him. Get away, he’s mine. Who’s gonna take care of him now?
I’m so sorry Steve.
I’m so sorry.
The pain has left your bones like jelly and your muscles burning like pincushions and it’s so dark you can’t see a thing. In the back of your mind you can hear rustling papers and you’re ready to get down now, but no one comes to untie you. You repeat your number because it’s the only thing you can remember and when you hear your name you’re back in Brooklyn.
It’s another dream and all you want to do is stay, just stay in it until your heart gives out. Dying with Steve being the last thing you see can’t be so bad.
Wait.
“Steve?”
- - - - - - - -
You nearly tell whoever it waiting in the doorway to piss off.
You’re tired and sore and you want to sleep for a week, but when you see who it is suddenly you’ve never felt more awake. You’re finally alone: No nurses or grunts, or Colonels asking to hear your story one more time. It’s just you and Steve and you thought you’d forgotten to smile when you feel your lips twitch.
You’re in his arms before you can say anything and it’s different.
He’s different, but he’s still the same old punk from home and he’s studier so you’ll take it as a plus and not yell at him for taking a stupid risk. Because you may not know how he got bigger, but you know it had to have been risky and you’re too tired to berate him. As if sensing your internal dilemma, he laughs softly into your hair and you fall in love all over again.
“Getting emotional on me Stevie?” you tease when he pulls back and you can see tears in his eyes. Your eyes sting too, but you ignore it when you see the way Steve glances down at your lips.
Something in you snaps; something that no one could break but Steve and with strength you didn’t know you had, you tighten your grip on his jacket and pull Steve towards you until you can taste smoke on his lips. They’re softer than you had imagined and when his hands cup your face, you’re sure you died on that table because there’s no way you deserve that feeling of security. You push into his touch, wanting to sink into his skin until no one can tell the two of you apart. You have to breathe, but you whimper when Steve pulls away.
You’re on him before he can get more than two breaths in his lungs and then you tell him with every touch and every kiss and every ounce you have in your broken body how much you love him. Steve slowly backs up and you sprawl across his chest as he lies on the cot and you feel like a new man when he moans into your mouth.
You never want it to end; want to keep Steve sweaty and begging underneath you until the sun explodes, but when he decided to take on HYRDA you’re right there beside him. The Howling Commandos fit you better than the Army ever did, even when they tease you and Steve ‘til he flushes and you threaten to shot them all in their kneecaps.
War isn’t supposed to be easy.
You’re not meant to joke and tease and flirt until you nearly forget your mission. War demands sacrifices and makes no allowances for happiness until its run its course. You’d been played, fell into a false sense of security and as you follow Steve down a zip line to a train you wonder when your number will be up.
War makes orphans of everyone, takes what it wants and never apologizes and you realize this as you ready yourself to grab that shield and do what you were put on this Earth to do: Protect Steve Rogers.
You don’t expect to grab onto anything and when he reaches for you, you let yourself hope for one second that war will be kind. The metal gives way and all you see is his stricken face as you fall: Your name ripped from his throat as your stomach threatens to leave yours.
You don’t have time to think about death even though it’s getting ready to greet you. You have just enough time to recall how warm he felt in your arms and when your body slams into the cold ground, bones shattering and your brain colliding with your skull so hard you see darkness, you thank God it was you and not Steve.
When you come to, there is blood and strange men who start to drag you away. Horror fills your lungs and you try to fight them, try to crawl back to where you landed and die properly, like you were promised as the air whipped over your ears. They stick a needle in your arm and you’re struggling because this is not how your story was supposed to end.
It was supposed to end in a ratty apartment in Brooklyn, curled next to Steve after coming home from the war.
Your screams are the last thing you remember for a long time: Brooklyn becomes the faint memory of a past slowly being erased along with soft golden hair and ocean eyes that blur and fade into nothing.