Author's note: I haven't really read the Captain America comics, so I have just a passing familiarity with these characters outside of the movie-verse. No griping if it doesn't match the comics canon. Kthnx :)

There was a skinny, sandy-haired kid sitting on the curb. His shirt was torn and dirty, and one bright-blue eye was slowly swelling shut. Skinned knees oozed smudges of blood into a layer of ingrained dirt. One shoe was conspicuously absent.

The boy's nose was oddly out of proportion - too big for his thin, angular face - and it had clearly seen the wrong end of a fight. The kid's lip was split and trembling. He was a mess. One thing he wasn't, however… was crying.

James Barnes was big for his age. He was slowly growing into his handsome face and sturdy limbs, and though he'd turned 8 years old only a few days earlier, he was already cock-sure and headstrong.

Nobody around here ever tried to rough him up. His parents weren't rich, but they weren't the broke sad-sacks that drifted around this neighborhood, either. The police didn't bother much with the rougher bits of Brooklyn; but a clean kid from a nice family getting jumped would certainly bring them down. The neighborhood boys avoided him. Too much trouble.

James felt bad for the little guys. There was always some unlucky kid who had smarted off to the wrong guy getting creamed around here. This was the littlest one he'd ever come across, though - didn't look more than 4 or 5 years old at best. Way too young to be getting kicked around like this.

"Who was it?" He asked, sitting down next to the kid. He fished a faded red-paisley handkerchief out of his pocket, the one that his mother made him carry, and handed it over. The boy took it hesitantly, glancing askance before pressing it gingery to his bloody lip.

"Doesn't matter." The kid muttered. "...Thanks for this." He held up the blood-soaked fabric for a moment before returning it to his face. "Don't know if you're gonna want it back though…" He wheezed a little when he talked, as if breathing were a chore that he just wasn't quite up to.

"It matters." James told him firmly. "Tell me who it was. I'll teach 'em to pick on somebody their own size. Jerks that pick on little kids gotta answer to somebody. Might as well be me."

The kid started to answer, then coughed, a jagged ugly sound. He took a second to catch his breath, though it still rattled in his scrawny chest.

"I can take care of myself."

James had to admire the stubborn little punk. This kid sure thought he was a tough guy… all 3 foot nothin' of him.

"Sure you can, kid. Sure. Can't hurt to get a little help, though, right? Name's James Barnes. My folks call me Bucky. You can too, if you want."

"Bucky? What the heck kinda name is Bucky?" The kid stared at him incredulously.

"It's a nickname, stupid. Short for Buchannan. That was my grandad's name. Who're you?"

"Steve Rogers. I don't have a nickname."

"Ok, Steve, so who was it?" James circled back around to the point.

"Look, it doesn't matter, Bucky, ok? Just some jerk. Said some stuff about my mom he shouldn't have and I set him straight."

"Bigger than you?"

"Yeah… I got him good in the shins though."

Bucky whistled through his teeth.

"Rogers, you're one crazy little bastard, you know that? You don't pick fights with guys bigger than you or you get creamed. Even if he was askin' for it."

"I said I can take care of myself." The stained handkerchief was stiffly returned to him. The kid was wobbling to his feet to leave.

"Hey, hey, take it easy." James stopped him, his broad warm hand on Steve's little pallid shoulder. The boy nearly tipped over with the weight of it. "I didn't say you can't take care of yourself. Just pick your battles, kid. ...Tell you what." He was feeling generous today. "I'll walk you back to your folks' house, make sure nobody bothers ya, ok?"

"...Yeah. Yeah, ok. … Thanks Bucky."

"No problem, kid. … How old are you, anyway? Like 5?"

The kid turned to him with that same incredulous face and James resisted the urge to crack a grin. It was a funny sight.

"I'm 7 and a half. What are you, blind?"

"Nah. Just old." Bucky replied casually, tossing an arm around his new friend "Can't tell the difference anymore. Happens when you're 8, just wait."

"It does not!" Steve fell into a scurrying step beside him, trying to match Bucky's longer stride. Bucky slowed down to let him catch up.

"Sure it does. All downhill from there, Rogers. Next thing you lose your teeth."

"Liar."

"Punk."

"... Do you really lose your teeth?"