Megan woke the next morning absolutely dreading the day ahead. Breakfast was a sullen affair. They were both quiet while they showered and dressed for the funeral, or rather, Megan was quiet. Steve was angry. Megan realized she'd never seen him like this before. It was a dark, dangerous mood that poured off of him in waves. She kept her distance and held her tongue. There was nothing she could say or do that would change the fact that they were going to the funeral of a little boy who didn't deserve his fate.

"How can you just sit there?" he growled at her once as he stormed back to his bedroom to try a different shirt to wear under his dress uniform. His cast was causing him problems dressing as it was too thick to fit through the sleeve of his shirt. His hair wasn't lying flat in front. He was out of distilled water for the iron that he was heating to press his slacks. In short, the universe was being uncooperative and he wasn't in the mood to deal with it.

Megan took a deep breath and tried to let the comment roll off of her. He hadn't meant it like that. She stayed at the dining room table, quietly sipping tea while he grumbled. If he wanted help, he could ask for it. Otherwise, she decided, he needed to be grumpy for a bit. At the funeral, he'd hold his emotions in and let the family draw strength from is presence and composure. Right now, he needed the freedom to be a grieving human. He certainly didn't need her swooping in to his rescue until he was ready for help.

"Megan… please—" his voice broke.

That was her cue.

"How can I help?" she asked cheerfully as she went back to his bedroom where the ironing board was set up.

"I need you to find something to cut the cast off."

"Wrong answer." She held up her hand to cut off additional protests. "Trust me, okay?"

He nodded and ran his good hand through his hair. "I'm sorry I snapped at you. It's just…"

"It's called being human, Steve. I know why you're grumpy and it's alright." She gave him a hug. "The family is going to lean hard on you today, and that's one reason why you're going. But you get to lean on me, okay? Would you like me to iron your shirt?"

"It won't fit over the cast. Neither will the jacket. I'm serving as pallbearer, and I need to be in uniform."

"Want, not need." Megan put her fingers on his lips, silencing the next protest. "And you will be. Take a deep breath. I assume uniform shirts are pretty easy to replace, correct? It's the dress coat that's the real challenge."

He nodded wearily.

"Do you have a sewing kit?"

"Other than the sutures in my med kit, no."

Megan shook her head, laughing. "Only you! Okay, pull a t-shirt on and get your sling on. We can take care of this at my place. I'll pack the shirt, tie, and coat in your garment bag. We can iron them at my apartment. Is there anything else you need that isn't packed in the bag?"

"Just my shield, which we'll leave in the car."

"Do you want help tying your shoes, just to make it easier?"

He sighed heavily. "Fine."

Megan knelt down and helped him put on his dress shoes, then tied them for him. "Steve, I understand why you're grouchy. It doesn't bother me. The only way you could hurt me today is by being deliberately cruel and I don't think that's likely to happen. If it does, I'll deal."

"How can you be so calm about this?"

"Because one of us has to keep it together and you're closer to this than I am. I'll do my crying when we get back. Unplug the iron and get your shield. I'll carry your clothes."

"Hey," he grabbed her arm before she was out of reach. "Thank you. You look nice."

"Thanks. You look confused," she teased, glancing at the t-shirt he was wearing with his dress uniform slacks and shoes. "Maybe we should get you a cowboy hat and a clown nose to complete the look."

He bent down so his forehead was touching hers. "B.J. would love that idea."

Steve sat on Megan's couch and watched her use a seam ripper on his sleeve. "What are you doing to my shirt?"

"I'm taking the seam out of the sleeve so it will fit over your cast. I can sew it back in later. I had to snip the sleeve placket, but I put Fray-Check on it so it won't ravel today. Your coat sleeve is even easier to open up. I'll have to hand-stitch the lining back in place later, and it won't look as good on the inside as it does now, but no one will see any difference from the outside once I repair it. For now, the open seam will be hidden in your sling. You can keep the cast on and still be in dress uniform." Standing up, she handed him the shirt. "Try this on over your cast. I can open up the seam more if I need to."

The sleeve easily slid over his wrist.

"Good. Loose the t-shirt and get that on while I work on your jacket. If you need help with your tie, let me know. You need to keep your left arm still, and I know you keep avoiding that little truth. Are you always this bad of a patient?"

"Usually I'm worse," he admitted a bit sheepishly as he took off his sling and t-shirt.

"You're lucky S.H.I.E.L.D.'s doctors keep agreeing to patch you up then."

"I frustrate them. Much of what they learned in medical school doesn't apply to me."

Megan eyed him. "You still look human to me."

He rolled is eyes. "I'm talking about medications. I don't get infections. Their pain medicines don't work, and they have to mainline any type of general anesthesia in super-high doses to keep me out for surgery. As long as they can keep me from bleeding out and line things up to heal correctly, I recover."

"So far. You might want to avoid testing your luck on that too much. There are new pathogens emerging all the time that might take you down fast, among other things."

"Like what?"

Megan gave him a significant look and pointed to her ears. She wasn't about to tell their audience about the potential for different toxins and venoms to work or ask Steve what experience he had with them. "Ebola is one example," she said aloud, covering for him. "Patients dehydrate and bleed out. With time and supportive care, some people pull though, but it's got a scary-high mortality rate. I wouldn't want to see you exposed to it." In fact, she was confident that Steve would be fine since his immune system was so effective at fighting off new pathogens. "Here, try this coat sleeve on over your cast. I want to see if I need to tear more of the seam out."

Steve's cast caught the fabric almost immediately.

"Okay, another inch should do it," she said, sliding it off his arm. "How you keep from sweating to death in this is beyond me. The fabric's too heavy for summer weather."

"I'm used to it and it's not supposed to get really warm until later this afternoon," he said as he fumbled with his necktie.

"Get your shirt tucked in and I'll fix your tie. I'm just going to whip stitch this a bit so it doesn't come apart beyond what I tore out. Why don't you find something in the freezer to heat up before we go. It's been awhile since breakfast and we have the services at the church and gravesite to go to."

Megan finished her adjustments to his jacket while Steve found something for them to eat. In silence, she tied Steve's necktie and they sat down for a quick brunch. "Why'd you give him Bucky's nickname?"

"First day I met him, he called me a jerk," Steve explained.

He went on to tell more about that first meeting and Megan ended up both laughing and crying. Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she tried to compose herself. "You have to share that story at the funeral.

"I'm not scheduled to speak. Besides, I can't make people laugh at a funeral."

Megan put her hand on his arm. "Yes, you can. A story like that is about finding the joy and humor in a difficult situation. From what you have told me, that's what B.J. did every day. A funeral is supposed to celebrate his life. It needs to include the joy he brought to people. A few laughs amidst all of the tears can be healing. Ask B.J.'s parents if you can have a few minutes to share your memories of B.J. with everyone.

Megan sat in the pew behind Steve during the service. He was sitting with the other pallbearers: two uncles and a family friend. It had been hard to watch the four of them carry the tiny casket into the church and up the center aisle to rest in front of the altar. Now, as she listened to speaker after speaker try to offer come comfort and solace, she couldn't focus on the words. She just kept staring at the white casket, nearly hidden beneath a blanket of red roses, thinking about the little boy who had touched so many lives. She wasn't even sure if Steve had asked to speak or not. As soon as they'd arrived, she had sent him off to prepare for his role and she had tried to make herself useful, mainly by staying out of the way and fetching a box of tissues when she realized that none had been provided in the front pew for the family.

She was pulled from her thoughts when she noticed Steve standing up in response to a cue she must have missed. Solemnly, he went to the pulpit and met her eyes. She nodded slightly in encouragement.

"My name is Steve Rogers and I've been told by someone a lot smarter than me that I should share with you the day I met B.J. for the first time since it does a pretty good job of conveying everything you need to know about B.J.'s personality in just a few minutes. On my days off, I sometimes visit the pediatric units in the local hospitals, especially Children's National. People think I do it for the kids, but I go because I'm actually pretty selfish and need what the kids give back to me. No matter what kind of mood I'm in when I get there, I get a reminder of what's really important. I always leave feeling good about the world.

"About a year ago, I was having a pretty bad day and was making my rounds, taking pictures with the kids, talking to them, helping some of them with their blood draws… standard stuff. I thought I was doing a pretty good job of faking a good mood and was starting to feel better when I got to B.J.'s room. He was lying in bed hooked up to all sorts of tubes, wires, and machines than any kid should ever see. Half of them had labels for drugs I've never heard of and probably can't pronounce. He looked at me with those beautiful brown eyes and asked me why I was so sad. He said if I'd sit down and play him a game of cards, he'd try to cheer me up.

"He went on to say if I beat him in a game of crazy eights, he'd give me the bag of M&M's he'd hidden in the top drawer of his bedside table. When I won, he ducked his head and looked up under his lashes, then called me a jerk under his breath."

Steve paused, looking around the room. He smiled slightly as he continued, "His mother was mortified. She hadn't raised her son to act like that. But I was a five-year-old kid sick in bed when my friend Bucky called me a jerk, so I knew exactly what to do. I called him a punk and challenged him to best two out of three. He was Bucky Junior from then on."

Megan heard a few chuckles break out and she smiled at Steve, nodding encouragement to him. The Captain America facade was slipping away, letting those assembled see the man and not the legend.

Steve continued with growing confidence, "I think that's when Themba figured out she was actually dealing with two kids, one of whom was just a little bit taller than the other." He shrugged shyly. "Things degenerated from there. He ended up beating me but sharing his M&Ms. Every time I saw him after that, he had some new names to call me. I think he must have written them down somewhere because he never once repeated himself. I got called brontosaurus breath. frog slime… dinglehopper. That was a new one. If you are not up to date on your Disney movies, that's what mermaids call forks. I've served in the army so I know all sorts of insults. I also know I don't much like the taste of soap and B.J.'s parents were always sitting right there. I couldn't keep up with him, so I finally resorted to calling him Russian and German words for different animals without telling him what they words meant.

"The only thing he was afraid of was blood tests. One day, we were playing cards and I was being insulted in new and creative ways, when one of the vampires—that's what we called the phlebotomists—came in looking for blood. B.J. clammed right up. His parents had told me how much B.J. hated the phlebotomists and wanted to know if I had any ideas. I didn't, but I happen to have a buddy who is good at that sort of thing…

"What color is your blood, B.J.?" Steve asked, surreptitiously passing a special vacutainer tube and needle to the phlebotomist who was in on the plan.

"Red," he said in a meek voice barely louder than a whisper.

"Are you sure? Mine's red, white, and blue, the same as all the Howling Commandos.'"

"That's not possible!"

"I can prove it. It does take a special needle, though, to collect all the colors. It's a really big needle. Do you want to see?"

B.J. looked at him, eyes wide.

"Don't worry, I won't let Sally use it on you."

B.J. nodded.

Sally held up the large bore needle. "And this is the one we normally use to collect blood," she said gently, holding it up beside the first for comparison.

"That other needle is tiny. No wonder it won't get all the colors," Steve observed.

"You're joking," B.J. insisted. "No one has blood with all those colors in it."

"I'm Captain America, B.J. Of course I have red ,white, and blue blood. I'll prove it," Steve said, sticking his arm out for Sally. "You watch and let me know what you see."

Sally applied the tourniquet to his arm, cleaned the skin, and then collected a vial of blood in the vacationer tube Steve had given her. Steve watched B.J.'s eyes grow wide as the blood flowed into the tube, separating into different bands of color as it swirled around. Sally removed the tube and handed it to Steve. "All done," she said, sliding the needle out and putting a Band-Aid over the puncture site.

"Hey, you gave me a Hulk Band-Aid!" Steve exclaimed. "I'll have to send him picture of this later." He handed the vial of blood to B.J. "See? I told you I have all three colors of blood. We can check and see if you have all the colors, too. You should since you're a Howling Commando now. But if you prefer, Sally can use the little needle and just take the red blood."

"Little needle, please."

"Down in the lab, they only need to test the red blood, so that's a good choice. Put your arm up here, soldier, and let's see how well you hold still."

B.J.'s lower lip quivered a bit and he looked at Steve. "It hurts."

"I know, buddy. But you're brave enough to do it anyway. I want you to squeeze my hand as hard as you can while Sally does her job."

Reluctantly, B.J. put his arm on the table and gripped Steve's hand. "Wow, that's quite a grip you have there. Have you been working out in the gym?"

B.J. shook his head. His eyes filled with tears as Sally put a tourniquet around his arm and swabbed his inner elbow with alcohol.

"It hurts less when you don't watch," Steve told him. "So while you're holding my hand as hard as you can, I want you to see if you can find a dent on my shield. If there are any dents, I have to get them fixed. Take a good look and see if you can find any." Steve held his shield up to the side so B.J. turned away from the blood draw and didn't see the needle.

"I don't see any dents."

"Are you sure? There were a lot of bullets being fired at me last time I was fighting the bad guys. Did you check the edges?"

"Uh, huh. The paint is scratched but I don't see any dents." B.J. pointed to the worst of the scratches.

"All done," Sally said.

"I'm proud of you for holding so still even though it hurts." Steve told the boy.

"What sort of Band-Aid do you want?" Sally asked him. "I have Iron Man, Hulk, Black Widow, and Hawkeye." Sally said. "I'm all out of Captain America."

"Iron Man. He can fly."

"Can I take a picture of you wearing his Band-Aid to send to him?" Steve asked.

B.J. nodded and posed with a grin as Steve took the picture.

"Give me just a second and I'll send it to him," Steve said, adding a note that this was B.J. and the special vacutainer had worked beautifully."

His phone pinged a minute later. "Awesome Band-Aid! He picked the most handsome Avenger, so clearly he is brilliant as well as brave. Tell him I'm proud of him. —T.S." Steve showed him the message and helped him read it. "That's from Iron Man himself," he told the boy.

"Thanks to B.J. and the phlebotomists at Children's National, I'm now jabbed multiple times during each of my visits there. The staff have found that giving the children a choice about what color of blood we're going to sample makes them more likely to cooperate, even when I'm not there to help. We all think of him every single time a blood test is a bit easier for a child to deal with. He made the hospital experience better for thousands of children and will do so for decades to come. That's his legacy." Turning his gaze to the casket, he added, "I miss you, Punk."

Once Steve was seated, Megan reached forward and briefly put her hand on his shoulder, well aware of how he was struggling to maintain his composure. He'd only told her about the name calling and had added the story of the blood draws on his own. Together, they painted a vivid picture of a precocious young man bringing joy to the people who knew him. She wished she had been given the chance to know him better.

Back at Steve's apartment, Megan pulled lunchmeat from the fridge and assembled sandwiches while Steve changed out of his dress uniform. She considered a moment, then decided to heat the rest of the soup, too.

Steve came out of the bedroom dressed only in a pair of jeans, carrying his sling and t-shirt in his hand. He laid them on the breakfast bar saying, "I'm not hungry."

"Too bad. I noticed at the funeral dinner that you ate a third of what you normally do. Your body is hungry even if you don't feel like eating. It was a nice service. I'm glad B.J.'s family has all of that support." She set a large sandwich down in front of Steve. "Sit. Eat."

"I forgot to give them the sketches."

"I took care of it. When we went back to the funeral home after the graveside service, I gave the box to the funeral director when you were talking to B.J.'s parents about the dinner. They'll deliver it later today when they take the floral arrangements to their house. I wrote them a note so they know what it is before they open it. That way they can do it when they're ready. It might be too raw for them to deal with right now."

"Yeah." Steve just stared as his sandwich.

"Do I need to force feed you?" Megan asked as she ladled the soup into two bowls and set them on the bar. "I can do that."

Steve closed his eyes and shook his head. "It's just…"

Megan put her hand on his. "Have you ever stopped to think about why funerals are traditionally followed by dinners?"

He shook his head slowly. "No."

"Eating is life. The communal meal is a reminder that those left behind have to go on living but they are doing it together."

"I need to run."

"I have an idea about how to get you some exercise but you'll have to eat before I tell you what my solution is."

"Megan, I'm not in the mood…."

"Do you honestly think I'm flirting with you right now?" Megan scoffed. "You have a one-track mind just like every other man on the planet. I'm talking about real exercise. But I won't tell you my idea until you eat all of the food in front of you, so tuck in."

"Yes, ma'am."

She changed out of her own dress clothes before joining him for lunch. As she'd predicted, Steve ate heartily once he set his mind to it.

He put his plate and bowl in the dishwasher. "What's your idea?"

"One handed push-ups. You'll work your core without stressing the wound on your leg or your broken arm. Do enough of them and you might even get tired."

"I should have thought of that."

Megan shook her head. "You needed to heal all over last week." She handed him the sling. "I forgot to add that you have to do them while holding me, so don't bother with your shirt. The extra weight will give you more of a challenge and wear you out faster."

He gave her a sheepish grin but put the sling on.

"Balance wise, is it easier for me to sit on your back or lie down on you?"

"Let's try lying down."

He led her into the living room where there was more space and dropped to the floor. Megan lay down on top of him, wrapping her arms around his chest while laying the tops of her feet on his ankles. She let her head rest on the curve of his neck.

He fell into a steady rhythm and she felt his muscles play under her hands as he did push-up after push-up while she did her best to stay still and centered over his back. "I'm quite disappointed, you know," she said after awhile. "You're supposed to be a superhero and you can't do no-handed push ups."

She heard a huff of amusement but he didn't break his rhythm.

He finally spoke a few minutes later, "It's not as good as running, but I think this might work."

"It's extremely unfair that you're not even breathing hard. Wake me when you're done," she teased gently. She resisted the urge to let her hands stray. That would come later, when he started to tire and needed some extra motivation.

He didn't weaken for a long time. And even then, she felt the signs in his muscles long before he began to slow his pace. It gave her a new appreciation for his abilities, both physical and mental, to feel the fatigue spreading across his back—betrayed by small muscle twitches and spasms—and realize that he wasn't letting it stop him. The fact he'd been at it almost an hour, just a week after being seriously injured, was nearly impossible to comprehend. She was immensely grateful that Dr. Eskrine had chosen someone like Steve to receive the responsibility of being a super soldier. She didn't want to imagine what sorts of damage he could do if he were an individual motivated by greed or lust for power.

Finally, the sustained effort caught up to him. He faltered once, twice, then lay on the floor.

"Is that all you've got? Try for ten more."

He grunted but rose beneath her. She felt his arm shake as he forced himself to keep going, though he had to pause before each repetition. When he was still once more, she rolled off of him and lay on the floor beside him. "Try ten more now."

He glowered at her but forced his body up. The last two push-ups were especially difficult, but he held his form and completed all ten before he lay panting in a puddle of sweat.

"Tired yet? Or are you up to a walk?"

"I can walk."

"Good." Megan got up and stretched a bit, feeling stiff from holding still for so long. "You get your shirt on and I'll mop up the floor. Drink some water before we go. If you keel over from dehydration there is no way I can carry you back here."

He nodded, still trying to catch his breath.

"Is your head clear yet?"

"Yeah. It was a good idea."

"I'll never understand what you find so pleasurable about sweating and pushing yourself to collapsing, but if it works, all the power to you. I'm quite content to play dead weight for you." She ran her hands over his chest. "I can't promise I'll always stay quite so still. I might just test you to see how well you can focus."

She laughed at the glare he gave her and went to the kitchen to fetch some paper towels.

AN: Who else wants to help Steve with push-ups? The line forms to the right...