Chapter Text
It wasn't the first time Steve Rogers had fallen. The first time had been after a particularly nasty fight, though it had been more of a beating, when a scruffy kid with a wide, curling smile had rescued his sorry ass and offered to walk him home. It was the first time anyone had ever been bothered with him, save his mother.
It wasn't as if he didn't talk to people; he did, and a lot of the time they had no trouble talking back. But that was the long and short of it, he didn't capture attention or interest - he was nothing more than a person to talk shop with; quick and trivial and trite. And when he left their sight, for them he stopped existing.
The fights changed things. When he was ambushed after school, Steve could remember thinking two things. The first was that he'd been right to tell the teacher about the ones bullying Francis Miller at the back of the class. The second was that they remembered him. They must have planned for when and where they would find him, and in Steve's books, that definitely meant he'd gotten their attention.
So maybe, he didn't stop. Maybe he realised that fighting for something was the only way people would ever see him properly. The only time he didn't fade away. Fading was different from falling for many reasons. To fade was to lose slowly, to achingly, gradually find that something had changed. Falling was instant and dealt in a currency of consequence; a single moment that reverberated forever. Steve fell when the boy offered to walk him home, fell when he'd heard the crack of a punch that hadn't hit or belonged to him, fell, when a toothy grin had been sent his way and he was too unused to smiling to return it.
The kid liked to talk, a lot. Steve didn't mind because he was a good listener, because it was something that other people saw in him that he didn't mind conforming to. He had learnt from experience the vast contrast between hearing and listening, and more often than not, people struggled just to hear him. The boy didn't though. He asked questions and he waited for the answers before responding. Steve found himself smiling at nothing but the novelty of feeling interesting.
"So, what's your name then?"
"Steve Rogers. Yours?"
"James Buchanan Barnes. But most 'my friends call me Bucky."
Bucky wasn't an unhygienic sort of scruffy, he was untidy but clean. His trousers were short like most of the boys in Steve's class - Steve's mother wouldn't allow him for fear he'd catch cold. Bucky had a light blue cotton shirt and he tucked his thumbs behind his braces awkwardly, like he was mimicking people he'd seen do it before. He had dark brown hair, a large dimple in his chin and his face was round, but his best feature by far was his smile. It was unadulterated, honest - it made his face - and it made Steve feel like he was seeing part of a soul.
Bucky threw an arm around his shoulders as they walked and Steve tried to act like this sort of thing happened to him all the time. Steve spoke more tentatively than usual. "Hey, Bucky... I know I said this already but... Those guys, they're in my class and it's not the first time I'd- We'd done that. I just mean, they know you now. They're gonna come after you."
There was a short huff of a laugh. "I knocked those greaseballs on their asses, they ain't gonna come anywhere near me."
"Yeah, but that wasn't all of them. The rest of them could band together and attack you; ambush you when you're alone. You've made a target for yourself by helping me."
Bucky stopped walking then and pulled Steve round to clap two hands either side of his arms. He was about half a head taller and plenty rugged too after what Steve had witnessed.
The corner of Bucky's mouth pulled up and he sighed. "You wanna know why I helped you?"
Steve nodded his head.
"Well, one, because you were getting beaten to a pulp. And two, because I've seen that look you've got before. Some guys just don't care what happens to themselves. And you woulda kept going 'till they'd killed ya. They'd probably have to kill ya!" Bucky sighed again. "Steve, I helped you because bullies ain't no good to anyone, but neither's your dead body."
Steve had forgotten how to speak, and he stared into the face of the boy before him, his eyes glinting just slightly with the yellow of the streetlights and the rest of his face contoured with the evening shadows. Bucky looked older than he was, he looked strong and important and it made no sense for him to be spending time with Steve. Steve wondered if this had come from one of his nightly prayers.
"Where did you come from?" Steve marvelled aloud. He hadn't the strength to feel embarrassed.
"Just down the street there. I'm staying with some friends of my dad's."
When Bucky frowned slightly, Steve realised he hadn't acknowledged his response. "Right. Yes, I- I wasn't just fighting for fun, you know."
"I figured that much - looked about as far away from fun as you could get."
"No, I mean, they were bad people."
"They always are." Bucky pulled on Steve's sleeve and they started up the street again. Steve attempted to figure out what Bucky meant by that.
"Just because there are a lot of bullies, doesn't mean beating them is any less important." Steve tested.
Bucky was quieter. "I know."
His statement hung between them for a long moment and Steve was hit with a small wave of panic that he might have offended the only chance he had at a friend.
Then the words suddenly released from Bucky's mouth like he'd been fighting with them. "Maybe it gets to you after a while, when the enemy never retreats. You beat one and then there's two more. Just seems more and more pointless." Steve caught a sharpness in his voice. "The only way you truly show how much you care for a cause is by dying for it. Everyone knows there ain't nothing so inspiring as a dead man."
There was something there that Steve was reluctant to press; they'd only just met and Bucky's hurt was rooted deep. Steve kept his voice casual and even.
"You know what bullying cowards are scared of most?"
Bucky turned to look at him and Steve pretended not to notice his watery eyes.
"What?"
"Believers. They're scared of people that won't give in. People who give as good as they've got, and who'll hit back pound for pound until they've carved out some clarity. Bullies are broken people that exist to break other people. And if my mother taught me anything, it's that standing up for what's right is how you make your way in this world. And it's how you make a better one."
Steve watched Bucky swallow and clear his throat. "Ha, well, I saw you fight back there, Steve, and I ain't gonna lie - you're a tiny son of a bitch. But if anyone's a believer... You just better watch that believing of yours doesn't getcha someplace too dirty, huh?"
Steve saw the gate to his apartment building and smiled up at Bucky. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"Giving a guy some back-up. I mean, I had him on the ropes, but, uh, I appreciate it."
The fond look Bucky gave him made him blush. "Uh-huh. On the ropes. Course you did." There was a content moment of quiet before Bucky clapped him on the arm. "I'll find you after school tomorrow."
"Okay." Steve forced out, grappling with the urge he had to scream with joy. Bucky hadn't even proposed to come see him again, he had stated it, definitely, absolutely. Steve waved with an uncontainable excitement as Bucky set off down the street, and Bucky sent him a quick salute and a smile in the dark.
When he sat up in bed that night, asthma keeping him awake, all Steve knew was that he'd never fallen so fast or grinned so wide.