An old man and a young boy are sitting on the back steps of a small, quaint house. The man's wrinkles seemed to be carved into his face like deep chasms carved into the earth by the elements, while his hair was thinning and whitening at a steady rate. Despite this, the man wore his age well, like a comfortable sweater, his shoulders unbowed, and his large hands steady as they looked through the cards nestled in them.
The boy at his side looked to be only seven, his face still holding onto chubby cheeks which would have given him a sweet cherubic look had it not been for the bruise blossoming upon one of them and around one of his soft blue eyes. His fluffy brown hair hung over his forehead and into his eyes but he paid it no attention, focused entirely on the cards in his hands.
The old man glanced over at the boy before looking back at the cards he held. "Quite the shiner you've got." The boys stiffened. "Gonna tell me how you got it?"
The boy hunched his shoulders and stared at the cards he held without speaking. The man didn't push him and simply continued shuffling his cards. Finally the boy spoke up.
"I got beat up."
The old man snorted. "Well I can see that, but I want to know how."
"Brett Standers is how." He mumbled.
The old man pursed his lips. "You can't let that boy push you around forever you know. You'll have to stand up to him some day, hopefully before you graduate."
"But he's a giant!" The boy exclaimed, blue eyes wide and earnest. "And I'm," he gave a hopeless sigh, staring down at his shoes, "I'm not. I'm small"
Once more the two sat in silence. The old man looked at the disheartened boy then at the cards he was holding. Finally he began to speak.
"Before I went off to war I did my basic training at Camp Lenigh."
The boy perked up a bit, always eager to hear one of his grandfather's war stories.
"One day we were going through our regular exercises and drills, same as every day. Until someone nearby yelled grenade. Of course everyone ducked and scrambled for cover. Except for one man. He was a little guy, skinny as a twig, looked like a good breeze would knock him over. But he jumped right onto that grenade without hesitating, no second thoughts, just curled his tiny little body around it and yelled at everyone to get back."
The boy was staring at the old man with wide eyes.
Shrugging he said, "Turned out to be a dummy, no danger. But I never forgot that little guy and his courage."
He paused for a moment, his eyes distant, caught up in his memories. Looking at the boy he asked, "Do you know who that little guy was?"
The boy shook his head
"Steve Rogers."
The old man laughed at the boys flabbergasted expression. "That was about the same reaction I had when I found out. That's right, Captain America himself. So you see, you don't need to be big to fight bullies like Brett Standers. You just have to be brave. Brave like Steve Rogers."
The boy looked at the vintage, near mint cards in his hands, slightly foxed around the edges from being held, in awe. "Wow." He whispered.
The old man smiled at him fondly before ruffling his hair and putting his arm around his shoulders. "Come on Phil, dinners probably ready." The two stood and the man took the cards and slipped them into his pocket as they went inside. Later they would go back into the same box that held his uniform, dog tags, and other assorted war memorabilia, until he pulled them out for his grandson to look at. And years later, after his death, Lieutenant Greg Coulson's vintage Captain America trading cards would be given to his beloved grandson Phil Coulson, who would look at them and remember what it was to be brave.
