The boot slammed into Steve's ribs, he felt his whole body jerk at the impact. Lying down he wretched blood, his asthmatic lungs struggling for breath as the familiar dull ache of pain coursed through his side. He rolled onto his back, damp from the ground seeping through his thin shirt, his body screaming as the movement caused a new wave of agony. He was sure a few of his ribs were broken. From the point where he lay he could see his attacker out of the corner of his eye, as the familiar hands punched jokingly at the air, bystanders stood a few meters back egging him on.
This wasn't right. None of this was right.
"Get up and on your knees, punk" his attacker joked, the familiar tone cut through Steve like knives, a pain worse than whatever bones he had broken.
Steve never backed away from a fight. He always got back up, ready to take the next hit until he could take no more. But this time was different.
"No" He coughed, blood dribbling onto his chin. Suddenly he was being picked off the ground and shoved heavily against the wall, fists clenched around the loose fabric of his shirt as knuckles dug into his collar bone, pinning him in place.
"I said get up!"A chorus of cheers erupted from the bystanders, several chants of "fight, fight" and a cry of bloodthirsty frustration "C'mon, just hit 'him". Steve's head hit the brick with brutal force. The edges of his vision became blurry and distorted.
"Stop." He spoke quietly, barely managing a whisper, his voice a desperate plea. "Stop, please. Bucky, this isn't you. Please." A look of mild confusion momentarily spread across the boy's face as he held Steve against the alley wall, and then the pressure was gone. Bucky's hands were back at his sides as Steve slid down onto the ground, unable to keep himself up. Bucky was staring at the crumpled boy with complete concentration, a look that was so familiar to Steve and yet in this context so foreign, his eyes were empty of their usual joyous light replaced by an emptiness Steve found unsettling in a way he couldn't quite put his finger on. His friend was gone.
Without warning Bucky delivered one final kick to the stomach, which caused Steve's entire body to spasm. As he turned away – much to the disappointment of the on looking crowd – Steve thought he heard Bucky mutter something to himself that filled Steve with as much confusion as was in the boy's voice as he said it. "Who the hell is Bucky?"
As the crowd dispersed with a few final taunts, Steve made no effort to get up. He continued to lie on the ground until dusk began to settle. He lay in that dirty alley, bruised and bloodied and contemplated all the times Bucky had chased off the attackers. All the times Bucky had picked him off the street in a similar state he had now left him. He remembered the look in his eye the times he had helped Steve wash the blood from his face and hair and gently wrapped his wounds in white gauze, the way his nostrils flared in anger as he noticed the dark bruises Steve had desperately tried to hide – knowing the quiet fury Bucky held against anyone who harmed his friend. The memories were such a stark contrast to emptiness Steve had just witnessed, and for the first time in a long time, Steve felt truly alone.