A/N: Warning for mentions of domestic violence, hints of child abuse, child labor, some gore.

Just so you guys know, the chapter names will each come from songs of the year that the chapter takes place in.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

The day Bucky discovered the cause of Steve's illness was the day Steve nearly lost his legs.

The boys had become fast friends, spending every waking moment playing with each other. Whenever Bucky had a free moment, he ran over to Steve's door, banging his fist against the wood until either his weary mother or his best friend answered.

Bucky hated spending time at his own place; like Steve, he lived with his mother, for his dad had died before he was born in some kind of war. Although Bucky didn't struggle for money as much as Steve did, by no means did he live an easy life. Bucky's mom had a 'friend' now, a man who stayed in their house, slept in her bed, and helped pay the rent.

His name was Jon.

Bucky hated Jon.

Jon, once he got back from work, was often so drunk that he either passed out onto the couch or went out looking for a fight. Often he came home bruised and bloody. If not, he beat Bucky's mom till she was bruised and bloody.

Which was why Bucky stayed outside so much. His place always reeked of alcohol and blood, and he hated hearing his mom cry. Steve had become like an escape for him. Steve was his refuge.

Bucky spent so much time with Steve that he began to notice little things about him: he never came to school on Thursdays or Fridays, he was always gone midday Sunday, and he wheezed so much that sometimes he keeled over with the effort.

Steve was a tiny kid; honestly, Bucky didn't know where he'd gotten it, because he'd seen the old photograph of Steve's dad. He was a tall, well-built man. Where had Steve gotten his slight build, short height, and wheezing cough? It didn't make much sense. Bucky assumed, then, that Steve would grow out of it. And the sickness, too. They were only seven now, after all, so Steve still had time to grow.

But there was something else. It seemed to Bucky that Steve was perpetually exhausted and dirty, so something in the back of his head told him it couldn't have just be the illness. Illness didn't leave dark streaks on your clothes. Illness didn't make your hair smell like smoke. Illness didn't leave your fingers raw and bloody.

So when Bucky knocked on Steve's door to ask him to come and play, and he heard Steve's screams instead of his usual laughter, he grew frantic. "Steve!" he wailed. He pounded on the door, and then tried the doorknob, discovering the door was unlocked.

In his seven years of life, Bucky has never been so scared for someone outside of his family.

Steve was lying on the bed with his back flat, screaming and moaning and crying. From the shin down, both of his legs were a bloody mess, pink and red against stark white. His mother was trying to calm him, but it was impossible for her to pin him down, comfort him, and fix his legs at the same time.

When her tired eyes landed on Bucky, she gasped, "Bucky, quickly! Shut the door!"

Frightened, he did as she asked, slamming the door and rushing to her side as she beckoned to him. Her blue-and-white nurse's uniform was spotted with Steve's blood. Bucky's hands shook. "M-Mrs. Rogers?"

She didn't even glance at him; instead, she pinned Steve's legs beneath her strong arms and poured something over them that made Steve scream.

Bucky knew that scream.

It meant pain and blood and locked doors and fear and more pain— "Stop!" he screeched. "You're hurting him!"

"Bucky," she snapped, and he went quiet. Bucky had gotten to know her pretty well over the past few months, and he knew what most of her expressions meant. He had never seen this expression on her face before. It terrified him. "You must keep him calm. Hurry!"

Bucky ran to his friend's side. Steve's mouth was twisted in pain, his eyes scrunched shut. Carefully, Bucky placed on his friend's arm, one on the wrist and one by the elbow. "Steve!" His voice was whiny with fear, and his whole head surged with it, the goosebumps on his arms standing at attention."Steve!"

The blonde boy's bloodshot eyes met his, and all of a sudden their hands were intertwined, tiny fingers overlapping over tinier ones. "It hurts," he whimpered, as Mrs. Rogers stilled for a moment. His thin face was pink and grimy, cuts littering his skin. What had happened to him?

Bucky didn't know what to do. "It's okay," he said, gripping Steve's hand tightly. "You're gonna be okay." Steve was shaking violently, his fingers trembling, but still Bucky held fast. Steve was his friend, and he was never going to let him go.

It seemed like hours instead of minutes as Mrs. Rogers mended Steve's legs, and by the end of it, Steve was clenching his fingers so tightly that Bucky could scarcely feel his own.

The minute dose of morphine that she had administered to her son worked fast; soon, Steve's vicelike grip loosened, and he fell into a fitful sleep. Mrs. Rogers wound white cloth around Steve's legs and finally slumped to her knees at her son's bedside. They sat together in silence, both of them watching Steve intently. From Mrs. Rogers radiated fierce worry and boundless love, while Bucky was frightened out of his mind. "What—" He gulped. "What happened to him, Mrs. Rogers?"

She removed the nurse's cap from her head, wiping her face with one shaking hand. Her hands were Steve's hands, Bucky noticed, strong on the outside but malleable on the inside. Mrs. Rogers, in this moment, had been stripped of her courageous outer skin and now was tasked with answering Bucky's question. She sat on the on the bed opposite of Bucky, brushing the hair away from Steve's sticky forehead. Her voice was a rootless tree. "We needed the money," she whispered, "or they would've put us on the street."

Bucky frowned in thought. "I don't understand. Why—"

"I told him to go find a job," she explained, still staring at her son's pained face. "Newspapers or something, like the other little boys, but I—" Her voice broke. "He came home every time dirty and bloody, so I asked him where he—what happened, and he'd just smile and tell me, 'I got a job, Mama,' and hand me his pay. I knew it was at one of those factories, but we needed the money, so I didn't—"

It was the first time Bucky had seen Mrs. Rogers cry.

She was sobbing now, one hand pressed against her mouth as though to hold her anguish inside of her. "And—a-and then a man came today with my Steve in his arms, told me there'd been an accident—" Bucky glanced at Steve's legs and the blood staining Mrs. Rogers' front. "—and he dumped him on the floor and told me they'd be giving his job to someone else."

Bucky knew kids who worked, especially in family businesses making toys or clothes, but not many who worked in factories who were as young as Steve.

"He w-wasn't old enough," said Mrs. Rogers, answering his silent question. "He wasn't supposed to be—he shouldn't have been there, not yet, but they needed someone small enough to fit in the machinery… And Steve was so small; he'd always been a sickly kid, so he was so little…" She hiccuped. "They promised they'd still let him go to school, and they'd give us extra money because it wasn't technically allowed for someone so young… So I had to. I had to. And then it started making him sick, but we needed the money—I couldn't live on the streets with him, not again, not again…"

All of a sudden, Bucky understood. Unlike Bucky's own mother, Mrs. Rogers was all alone in taking care of her son. She didn't have a second income supporting her, so she relied partially on Steve to help her pay the rent. That must have been why Steve always tried to spend his lunch money so sparingly; it explained why Steve was gone so often from school. The way a couple of Steve's fingers were crooked, the way his cough rattled inside of his chest… It all made sense now.

Mrs. Rogers slipped into Gaelic, cursing into her blood-spotted hands and mumbling to herself. In this moment, Mrs. Rogers looked like Bucky's mom, blood beneath her fingernails and despair staining her face.

Bucky stared at Steve, something like pride swelling inside of him. How could someone his age, only seven years old, be so impossibly brave? Bucky knew kids died in those factories every day; that's why his mother had refused to let him work and had instead taken Jon into her bed. A few bruises, she told him once after Jon had punched her face into a bloody pulp, cupping his face in her hands, is nothing compared to what losing you would do to me.

Bucky tightened his grip on Steve's fingers and rested his cheek against his friend's pale wrist, feeling the light pulse of blood rushing beneath Steve's skin.

How could someone so little be so brave?

Challenges used:

Fanfiction Writing Month: December [1543]

Avengers Training Camp - Boot Camp - (theme) friendship