12. Remember

Steve's lungs burned as he gasped air into them. His feet, pounding along the concrete of the sidewalk, ached inside his shoes, and his legs felt rubbery, like they might turn to jello at any moment.

"C'mon Steve, c'mon Mary-Ann, we're gonna miss the streetcar!" Easy for Bucky to say; his long legs carried him effortlessly, and he didn't have an asthma demon holding him back.

"We wouldn't… miss the streetcar… if you hadn't stopped… for popovers at… the baker's," Steve gasped.

Bucky slowed to a jog for a moment, giving the others a chance to catch up. "I can't help it, I love them so much!"

"I'm running as fast as I can," Mary-Ann panted. "But I think my legs are gonna fall off."

"I can see the streetcar up ahead!" Bucky said.

He reached out to grab Mary-Ann's left hand, and Steve's right hand, and picked up the pace once more. Steve felt his legs move at a speed they'd never experienced before, and Mary-Ann let out a small shriek as she was pulled forward. Any minute now, his legs were gonna give way. He'd go sprawling, flat on his face, bust his lip open and break his nose. Any minute now…

They reached the streetcar just as the departure bell sounded, and piled on before they could miss it. Even Bucky was breathing hard as he threw three coins into the fare tray. Steve reached out a shaky hand to grasp one of the hand rails, and fought to pull air into lungs that felt like they wanted to collapse in on themselves.

Breathe.

He gasped air in. It felt like sandpaper going down his throat. Made a swarm of frenetic black flecks dance across his vision. Somehow reached his lungs, and seemed to sit there for a thousand years, going stale and dry as the air in some long-forgotten tomb.

Breathe.

He let the air out, then took another in. This one was easier. The black flecks were smaller, less air not quite so stale in his burning lungs. Legs still felt like jelly, though.

A hand clapped his shoulder. "Y'okay, Steve?"

He nodded, not yet trusting his lungs to let him speak. Bucky used his hand to direct Steve to a seat, then plopped down beside him. Mary-Ann squeezed herself in between them.

"Whew. That was quite a race!" Bucky grinned. "You sure you're okay? You look kinda sweaty."

"I'm fine," Steve insisted, giving his friend a tight smile. Bucky was the first person he'd met who didn't treat Steve like he needed to be wrapped in swaddling. When they went to the park and played baseball, Bucky pitched like he did for anyone else. When they play-fought with their wooden swords, his blows were no weaker for Steve than they were for Ty or Davey.

"Here, this'll make it all worth it." Grinning, Bucky reached into the paper bag and handed a popover to Steve, and another to Mary-Ann. With his breath finally under control, Steve bit into the delicious treat. The taste of strawberry jelly exploded over his tongue. Bucky was right; it was worth it.

"You wanna come over after school, and play in the fort?"

Steve shook his head, and swallowed his mouthful of sweet popover. "Can't. Got something to do."

"But we're gonna be doing the Alamo! Mary-Ann and Johnny are gonna be the Mexicans."

"I hate being Mexicans," Mary-Ann scowled. "Why've I always gotta be on the losing side?"

"Because you're the youngest. And you get Bingo, so that makes up for it. He can be your… uh… Mexican war-dog." Bucky turned his attention back to Steve. "You don't wanna miss the Alamo."

"I know. But I have to help my mom with something. Family stuff." He shrugged. "Sorry."

"Alright. Maybe we'll do the Alamo at weekend, then. Tonight we can do something else."

Steve gave his friend a grateful smile. The last day of June marked a full month at his new school… but it was also an important time for another reason. He wanted to tell Bucky what he had to do, but he wasn't sure the taller boy would understand. The last day of every month was a special day; the only time he got to be a part of a real family.

o - o - o - o - o

The flowers in his arms made his nose itch and his eyes water, but Steve kept his back straight and his head high as he walked beside his mom in his finest, slightly oversized suit. The groundskeeper, Old Mr. Higgins, nodded to them both as they passed; he knew them by sight. Knew exactly where they were going, and would have spent the morning making sure every blade of grass around the headstone was cut to a uniform height. That no weeds marred the pristine green grass around the grave.

Together, he and his mom walked down the path, the crunch crunch of gravel underfoot the only accompaniment to their passing. All around, birds sang out from the trees, a symphony of life amongst the dead.

In loving memory of Joseph Steven Rogers. Devoted husband and father. September 25th, 1895 – May 8th, 1918. Always in our thoughts, forever in our hearts.

The epitaph greeted Steve's eyes, and he read it again as he always did. For a long moment he stood there, drinking in the words, letting them drown out the cheerful birdsong and the quiet crunch crunch of passing mourners. The whole world came crashing down, until nothing was left except Mom, and Dad, and Steve.

He stepped forward and lowered the flowers onto the ground in front of the headstone. He didn't have names for the flowers, but they were beautiful, a rainbow of colour that punctuated the perfect green grass.

"Hi Dad," he said, kneeling down beside the flowers. He reached out a hand, to trace the carved letters with his fingertips. He liked to feel the stone against his skin. Mom had told him that Dad was in those words, and this was the closest Steve could ever get to being with his dad. "It's me. Steve. Obviously."

He glanced up at his mom, and she took a few steps away, to give him a little privacy.

"So. I guess a lot's happened since we last came to visit," he began. "I told you I was starting a new school, didn't I? Well, I did, and so far it's pretty nice. The teachers are strict, and I got detention once, but I'm doing my best to learn lots and make you proud. Mom told me how clever you were at school, and if I wanna be like you, I've got to be clever at school, too.

"You won't believe this, but I've got some new friends at school. I don't think I would have made friends at all, if it wasn't for Bucky. He lives a couple of blocks away, and he's a lot of fun. He always has great ideas for games, and he doesn't treat me like I'm some sickly kid who can't do anything.

"I like Bucky's friends, though I'm not sure they'd be friends with me if it wasn't for Bucky. We hang out together during the moms' bridge club… but I guess Mom will tell you about that when I'm finished. The weather's been real nice lately, so while Mom plays bridge, Mr. Barnes takes us to the park, and we play baseball. Bucky says I'm miles better than Mary-Ann, but I don't think that's saying much. I'm not very good, but I'm getting better. When I first started batting, I couldn't hit anything, but now I get three out of ten. We've gotta be quick catching the ball after, otherwise Bingo gets it. He's Bucky's dog. He likes running after the ball, but it's hard to get it back off him, after. He can run even faster than Bucky."

He stopped to inspect a speck of moss that was forming in the '8' of 1918. He picked at it until it came away, then continued.

"I wish you were here, Dad. I wish you could come to the park with us, and teach me how to bat properly, and help us get the ball back from Bingo. And I wish you could walk me and Mom home, after bridge, and we could tell Mom all about the park, and she could tell us about her bridge game, and we could go up to the apartment together, then sit in the living room and listen to the music on the radio. And you and Mom could dance, and I'd pretend to be more interested in reading my books than watching you dance with Mom. But I'd secretly be glad to see Mom happy and smiling. She doesn't smile as much as some of the other moms."

He reached up and scrubbed his fists across his eyes, wiping away the tears that spilled onto the bunch of flowers. Stupid pollen, he lied to himself. Clearing his throat, he continued.

"Anyway. That's what's happened since our last visit. I'm gonna let Mom talk to you now, and I'll see you next month. I just wanted you to know that I still think about you every day, and I miss you more than ever. Even though I never got to meet you, I know that you would've been a great dad."

He stood up and dusted the dried grass from his pants, then joined his mom underneath the nearby sycamore tree. She gave him a sad smile, and reached out to smooth his hair down with the palm of her hand.

"Did you say everything you wanted to?" she asked, even though he knew she'd been able to hear some of it.

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He liked Mr. Barnes just fine, but he wanted so bad for his own dad to be there, doing those things with him, that it made his chest ache painfully. Not like an asthma sort of ache, but a deep, tear-wrenching ache, like some part of him was missing, and would always be missing, and he was only just starting to understand the depths of his own loss.

"I'll just be a few minutes, honey," Mom said. She cupped his chin for a moment as she studied his face. "You have his eyes, you know."

"Thanks, Mom," he whispered, and she gave him a quick, hard hug, punctuated by another sad smile.

As Mom went over to the headstone, to talk to Dad, Steve sank down onto the ground beneath the sycamore, and brought his knees up to his chin, wrapping his arms around them tight. Life, he decided, was very unfair.


A/N: Popovers are a roundish, hollow roll made from batter, and can be filled with jam/jelly/fruit/cream to be a sweet breakfast treat, or meat to be a savoury dinner-time food. In England, these would be Yorkshire Puddings (or very similar).