Steve sniffed and rubbed his nose on his sleeve. Normally he could handle the shoves he got (it's not his fault people were jerks all the time, he had to make it right) but this one was especially brutal. He stood up shakily, fighting tears the entire time. Steve looked down at his knee and his lip wobbled. He didn't regret it, of course not, but it hurt, and he didn't trust himself to say anything lest he start crying.

And he can't have that.

He doesn't need to add fuel to the fire, him being the smallest kid here in Brooklyn, not to mention that he's asthmatic, along with every other health problem possible (let's just be thankful he didn't have hemophilia, or he'd have passed long ago) on top of that.

"Y' okay?"

Steve started, head jerking up, hands balling into fists. He may be six, but he wasn't stupid (alright, maybe his mother would say otherwise, but back to the point). He turned around, ready to fight, and looked behind him.

It was a boy, same age as him, maybe a year older. He had dark curly hair, some in the cap on his head, and a blue shirt on. He had brown shorts on with holes in them, and brown boots, scuffed with dirt. He smiled toothily, and Steve felt a little self-conscious, with his too- big red striped shirt and black shoes.

"Y' okay? I saw them older boys beat y' up, and I got these from my momma."

He held his right hand out, uncovering a wad of gauze in his hand.

Steve's fists unclenched, as well as his jaw.

The boy looked at him, gauging his response. "Well? What do y' say?"

Steve nodded, head bobbing up and down. "Yes, yes please."

The boy brightened and came closer to Steve. "Can y' walk?"

Steve furrowed his brow. Of course he could walk, what kind of dumb question was that? He was about to vocalize his indignation, when he looked back down at his knee.

Oh.

"Don't think so. Not by myself."

He nodded. "Okay. I'm gonna get y' cleaned up real good." The he moved to his left, put his arm around his middle, and looked up at Steve from under his hat. "Y' ready? We're jus' gonna go to that bench over there, see it?"

"Yeah," Steve swallowed.

"Cool."

The two boys hobbled over to the bench, the dark haired boy smiling, the blond fighting tears.

He heard him sniffling and frowned. "Aw, come on now, don't cry. See, we're here now."

They disentangled themselves and Steve sat down lightly, careful not to get a splinter on top of his other injuries.

The boy got to his knees and unwound the gauze. "So what's y'r name? I'm James Buchanan Barnes, but e'erybody calls me Bucky."

Bucky looked up at him, a large grin displayed on his face.

Steve rubbed his nose once more, then opened his mouth to answer. "I-I'm Steven Rogers," he looked at Bucky with a small smile. "You can call me Steve, if you wanna."

Bucky nodded, and tied off the bandage. "Y' bet I will, Steve." He stood up and rubbed his hands on his pants, then sat down right next to him. "Y' know why, Steve?"

Steve shook his head.

"'Cause we're gonna be best friends."

Steve turned to him, hope lighting in his eyes. "Really? You mean it, Bucky?"

Bucky nodded, and Steve came to the conclusion that he was constantly smiling. "Course I do, y' punk. We're gonna stick together," Bucky thread his arm through Steve's, "'Cause I'm gonna stick with y' 'til the end of the line."