Meeting His Shadow

All characters belong to Marvel Comics

I own nothing.

The sound of laughter erupted in the humid, surly air; neighborhood boys played war games with old tracker tires in the junkyard. They didn't care about the amount of scrapes and bruises that littered over their knees, and elbows, they relished the pain as their freedom from the dreary world around them. A world made of brownstone factories, coal dust, and empty bank vaults. Their empty stomachs released growls of discontentment, but the laughter, cocky attitudes and warm breeze of summer gave them the strength to carry on their own missions.

Steven Grant Rogers was always the kid of Brooklyn left out of the dirt track baseball games, tire swings, and jumping off the bridges. He was known as the pale ghost child, the sickly bag of bones that everyone avoided. His lungs were smaller, than most boys, heart weakened by scarlet fever, and breath strained by asthma attacks. If he tried to run, his lungs would seize in his narrow chest, and his throat would close up, and the fluid would in the barriers of his rib chest, making his chest knot with intolerable tremors that rattled through his frail bones.

He tried to cover up his wheezing, but the other boys scoffed him off, when he watched on the sidelines, he could understand baseball, he knew how the game worked and the positions of each player. He couldn't throw a cow leather ball far, and he was too thin, small in size, and clumsy to catch a ball in a mitt or swing a wooden bat at home plate. But he could play the simple actives in the schoolyard, follow the leader, and role play famous characters-heroes found on pages of five cent comic books. Every day, he wished he was brave and strong enough to be the leader, to race, and throw a curve ball. Every day, he imagined himself as an invincible hero, he drew on newspapers he found in backdrops alleys, and spent his days wishing he had a friend that helped him picked himself up when other boys pushed him down. That day would come when he least expected it...

It was also sun down, the amber glow of fading summer rays gleamed over the tin roofs of the heart of Brooklyn, Steve was getting his usual treatment of daily abuse from neighborhood bullies, stocky boys who ate like greedy pigs in a trough, they either slammed him in the brick wall or boarded fence, if he was lucky he wouldn't arrive home with a bloody nose.

Tonight, he was lying in the heaps of trash, shedding tears and tasting drops of blood stream from his nose and over his split lips. If he fought back, they punched him until his vision became blurry. He was in the schoolyard, his clothes tattered, thin, and gawky pale features littered with fresh bruises, and deep blue eyes burning with unbreakable defiance. The kids were cruel, kicking their feet into his ribs, and listening to him yelp in pain.

"Come on, little Stevie..." One reddish haired, freckled face boy taunted, biting into an apple. He was the leader of the pack. "Fight back." He kicked Steve again, with a sneer of amusement plastered on his face. "Come on you pathetic little runt, fight back...ยป

Steve coiled his lanky frame into a fetal position, blood coated his face, and tears rolled over his temples. He parted his lips, and unleashed anguished cries, his breath wheezed out of his lungs. He could hardly speak. Suddenly, he heard the sound of boots pounding the dirt ground, he blinked his eyes, and craned his neck, and stared, just stared at a tall boy charging closer, like a raging bull. He seen him before in the schoolyard, and knew he was of Irish decent, but he didn't know his name.

"Hey, you jerks," the boy hollered loudly with a Brooklyn accent, he lunged, and slammed the red-haired punk into the fence with his weight. "Leave that kid, alone." He clenched his heavy jaw tightly, and showed the bullies his fists. "Unless you want to deal with this Brooklyn kid? I'll warn ya, I'm not someone you wanna mess with..." he dared, and gave Steve a fast wink.

"You got a nerve of nerve comin' on our turf, Barnes." the leader hissed, throwing his apple core at Steve. "What makes him so special? He's a sick runt...probably will die in a few days."

The tall, defiant brunette shrugged his broad shoulder causally, "So why are you and your friends messin' around with him? Don't you know that whatever he's carrying will kill you." he shock back, and roved his eyes at the other dumbfounded boys, withdrawing a few steps back from Steve Rogers. "Hell, you're probably all infected." he smirked, cocking his brows up. Steve pretended to cough. "I'd clear away if I were you...Unless you guys want to take dirt naps..."

The leader glared ruefully down at Steve, and nodded at his friends, they retreated, and left Steve and the Barnes' boy alone.

"You okay, kid?" Barnes extended out his hand; Steve shook his head in refusal. "Come on, kid. Don't be a kill joy...Take my hand."

Steve looked up at the taller boy, and swiped the back of his hand under his bloody nose. "No one has ever come to my rescue before..."

"Well, my ma taught me to never let another boy gets his boots taken from him." the boy replied, with a bright smirk. "I respect my ma words, if I don't she'll throw the book at me." he chuckled lightly, and took Steve's frail hand, and haul him up. "My name is James Buchanan Barnes, by the way. But you can me Bucky, since only my ma calls me James." He ripped a piece of his shirt, and handed to Steve. "Here, clean the blood with this...it's better than using your hand, kid."

Steve gave him a small, grateful nod. "Thank you, Bucky Barnes." he said with sniffle, and stared up at the other boy. Bucky had a humble baby face, rounded cheeks, and full rosy lips with an arch. His ivory features were a mixture of Irish, and Eastern European, and his chin had a dimple in the center. His bright eyes were startling blue, a pale color of a winter sky. He wore his dark brown hair messy, with bangs hanging in his eyes. His smile was truthful and gaze filled with trust. He never displayed judgment over Steve's unhealthy appearance and never blanched back when he coughed. He was tough, reeking with stubborn defiance, and he needed a friend-a little brother.

"What's your name?' Bucky asked, looking directly into Steve's hazy blue eyes.

Steve gave him a thin smile, "Steven Grant Rogers." he answered, firmly, almost like he was proud of his name. "Steve Rogers." he coughed.

Bucky nodded, "Easy to remember," he smiled, and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, and turned to walk away. "Don't do anything stupid, Rogers. I mean it." Steve chuckled lightly, and started to head in the opposite direction, but paused when Bucky called out his name. "Hey, Stevie, do you wanna to play some ball?"

Steve's blue eyes lit up, "You wanna to play with me?" he stammered, and slicked back his short blonde curls.

"Yeah," Bucky returned, with a curt of a nod. He looked at the disquieted blonde hair boy. "I don't care if you're small, and if you can't run fast. It doesn't bother me, Stevie. You're the only kid around here I wanna to play ball. I got a spare glove back at home. I'll throw the ball nice and slow for you. I promise." he winked, his lips twitched into a cocky smirk.

"But no ones' ever asked me to play with them." Steve saddled Bucky a pained frown.

"Hey," Bucky walked closer, and placed his hand on Steve's bony shoulder. "That's because those jerks aren't Bucky Barnes." he smiled, his eyes warm against the fading sun. "You stick me, Steve Rogers, and I'll show you the ropes."

Steve gave him a lopsided smirk, "Thank you, Buck." he said with an honest voice. "I mean Bucky..."

"For what?" Bucky asked.

"For noticing me when other kids didn't." he answered, with a wheeze in his muffled voice.

'You're welcome, Stevie Rogers." Bucky smirked, stretching his lips wide, "Just stay close to me, pal." he whispered, pointing to his chest. "I'll teach you how to show those jerks, that you're not a skinny runt, because I know you've got somethin' in you...You're kid from Brooklyn after all. No two-cent punk messes with a Brooklyn boy, no matter how small he may look.." He looked down at Steve, and gave him a wink before saying, "You know what, Rogers, I think we're going to become the best of pals. You just need to put a bit more meat on those bones."

Steve smiled sheepishly, with tears welling in his eyes, and both boys walked out of the schoolyard.