A/n: I got some writing in over the holidays! And I keep making promises about when new chapters will be up and I always fail that, so I will stop promising things. XD Semester 2 has begun, and I have a moment to breathe, so here's a new chapter! Major thanks to the best beta in the land, stars_inthe_sky.

Also: yes, Steve swears (fight me). And if you have eagle eyes, the clues are coming for why this kid Steve met looks so familiar... ;)

[ STEVE ]

"Then I saw it: I saw a mom who would die for her son, a man who would kill for his wife, a boy, angry and alone, laid out in front of him the bad path. I saw it, and the path was a circle, round and round. So I changed it." —Joe, Looper

The world rearranged itself slowly around him, piece by piece.

A constant murmur of voices and footsteps, the hushed whirring of machines. Steve was laying down. Everything hurt. The cloying smell of antiseptic and stale air surrounded him. Too much light focused on a blank, paneled ceiling—the ceiling of a hospital, he realized.

Steve blinked and sucked in a deep breath, stopping when his chest and ribs protested.

"Ow, shit."

A pale blue blanket covered his body. His hands were bruised and scraped, and his left wrist was wrapped with gauze and a tensor bandage. Touching his hand to his ribs, wrapped with bandages under the blanket, Steve noticed a curtain separating him from viewing the rest of the room. He heard swift footsteps, murmured voices, the noise of rolling beds and tools and machines—the soundtrack to a busy emergency room.

He vaguely remembered colliding with the car and…the boy. Steve spotted his pants draped over a chair beside the bed. His shirt was nowhere to be found—probably unwearable after the accident.

He eased himself to a sitting position, hissing and biting back a hundred colorful words. Every move sent aching, shooting pain ripping through his torso. His head spun and he stopped to breathe, letting the world right itself.

The curtains yanked back and a lanky woman with her red hair tugged up in a bun strode forward.

"Hello there! You're awake," she said briskly. She glanced at his chart and back up at him, her eyes going wide with surprise. "Wow, your…your face is already starting to…"

"I'm a really fast healer," he said quickly. He wondered how bad he'd looked when he'd come in—how he looked now.

Steve caught a glimpse of the ER behind the nurse—full beds, more curtains, stretchers and nurses, bustling activity—before she rearranged the curtain, cutting off his view.

"No kidding…" she mumbled in awe. She cleared her throat, regaining her brisk tone. "Do you know where you are, sir?"

"Ninety-seventies Chicago," Steve answered grimly. He wished she'd correct him. No, sir, you took a hit to the head. It's 2012, New York. I already called the rest of the Avengers.

She didn't.

"That's right," she said, her lips quirking up a little. "Cook County Hospital, Friday, May 20, 1977. Do you remember what happened?"

He nodded. "I got hit by a car." He gingerly touched his fingers to the back of his head, which was throbbing and sore, but whole, at least.

"Bingo." She jotted some notes down on the chart in her hand.

"How long was I out?"

"A few hours. Sprained wrist, couple cracked ribs, plenty of bruising and scrapes, and then six stitches on your forehead. Few other nicks and bumps." She tapped her own face with her pen to indicate the other cuts he sported. "Though…most of them are already healing...at a phenomenal rate…" She stared at him and gave her head a shake. "Can you tell me your name?"

"My name?"

"Yeah—you came in with no ID. Is there someone we can call for you?"

"It's Steve." He swallowed. "And...no. No one."

Her expression softened. "Right. Well, you wanna tell me why you were standing in the middle of a busy street, Steve?"

"What happened to the kid?"

"Kid?" said the nurse. "Don't know. The paramedics said there was another person on site with a few scrapes, but he was gone before they could treat him or get a statement."

"So he was okay?"

"I really don't know, sorry," she said. "Do you know him?"

"No," he answered honestly.

But what about the men in the alley? Had they quietly gone on their way? Chased after the boy? Steve had to find the kid, make sure he was safe. And find out what the hell was going on. Someone that young shouldn't have any reason to have been threatened by six thugs.

As soon as he attempted to stand, the nurse rushed to his side, reaching out to settle him back down.

"Whoa there, tiger. Not so fast." She gently pushed on his shoulder until he was sitting again. "Now that you're awake, we'll need to get the doctor to look at you. He'll clear you to leave if he thinks you're good enough to go."

A ripple of panic went through Steve. Being cleared to leave meant getting stuck with a bill for his treatment. Money he absolutely did not have. Not to mention, he had to find the kid—the sooner, the better, lest those goons find him first. He had no idea how he was going to do that, but he'd figure that part out later.

He didn't want the nurse to sense he'd flee, however—she might put someone on him to make sure he didn't bolt. So Steve groaned, nodded, and laid back down.

"There we go," she said softly. "We'll take good care of you, Steve, don't you worry." She smiled warmly at him and pulled his blankets up over his chest.

"Thank you," he said, and meant it.

The stitches on his forehead itched and his ribs still screamed, but he knew he'd be much worse off without her and the other staff's care. He already felt guilty about skipping out, but as far as he could tell, there wasn't really anything he could do about it. He simply couldn't stay.

His chance came not ten minutes later. The nurse left him alone, and Steve hurried to get dressed despite his injuries. He tucked the hospital gown into his pants with a grimace—without a shirt, it'd have to do until he could get another one. Then, a huge commotion picked up outside his curtain—sirens and yells and storming footsteps. Steve wobbled over and took a peek; half a dozen stretchers flowed into the ER. The paramedics shouted over the din about gunshot wounds and a multi-vehicle car accident, and the whole place flew into action.

Steve edged away from his bed into the open, but no one paid him any mind. He walked straight for the exit, only limping a little from his sore hip, and stumbled outside. He dodged another wave of paramedics and put some distance between himself and the ER.

The warm late-afternoon sun splashed over him and he squinted at the brightness. Nearby was a patch of grass and trees, and sitting cross-legged in the shade reading a comic book, was the kid Steve had saved.

"Hey," said Steve sharply.

The kid looked up. "Hey," he said mildly. "You're not dead." He climbed to his feet and tucked the comic book into his back pocket.

Steve ambled over, holding his ribs which jarred and ached with every step. He knew they'd heal faster than a normal person's would, but couldn't help wishing they'd heal instantly.

"What," Steve said, trying to breath without making his ribs move. "You wait around all day just to say that?"

The kid ducked his head guiltily. "Thanks for saving my life," he mumbled.

Steve braced his hand against the tree to keep himself upright as his head swam. "You gonna tell me what's going on now?"

"You...you don't look so good…"

"Yeah, that'd be because I got hit by a car," Steve bit out. He closed his eyes and took a few, slow, shallow breaths. It hurt, but the pain eased as he stayed still. He was in no mood to do this dance, any dance, with the kid right now.

"Did you leave before they let you?" asked the boy.

Steve opened his eyes. "Obviously."

The kid nodded knowingly. "Okay. C'mon. I know a good place we can go." He gestured Steve to follow. "C'mon, before somebody starts looking for you."

Steve bobbed his head a little and eased out another slow breath. He really was in no shape to leave, and he probably really should have stayed horizontal in that hospital bed. But instead, he followed the kid down the sidewalk.

"D'you have somewhere you can get some clothes?" the boy asked.

"You have a name?" Steve shot back.

The kid rolled his eyes. "It's Michael."

"Last name?" Steve pressed, thankful he'd finally gotten something out of the boy.

"Rogers," he said readily.

Steve chuckled. "Well, how 'bout that. Me too."

"Yeah, right."

Steve grunted, too sore and tired to bother arguing.

"So, do you have clothes, or what?" Michael tried again. He cast a dubious look over Steve. "You're a little conspicuous in the hospital shirt."

"This is all I got."

Michael's hard expression eased. "Are you homeless?"

"Short answer?" Steve replied. "Yeah. You?"

He shrugged. "Short answer? Yeah."

They took frequent breaks whenever Steve leaned against a wall to fight off a dizzy spell. He didn't have the energy to keep the talk up, so he fell quiet and Michael followed suit, only speaking up to offer directions as they walked. Eventually, Steve began to recognize where they were, and he couldn't help letting out a surprised chuckle when the kid turned a corner and crossed the street towards Sal's All-American Diner.

"What?" said the boy.

"I've actually been here before." So much for not coming back.

"You know Sal and Irma?"

"I've met Irma." Steve nodded. "She gave me a slice of pie."

Michael smiled, genuine and warm. "Yeah, she's good people." He pushed open the diner's door.

Steve trudged in behind him, looking forward to sitting down and not moving for a while.

"Hey Irma," greeted Michael.

Irma lazily held her hand up in a wave, but did a shocked double take when she saw Steve. "Michael! What on God's green earth—"

"Everything's okay," Michael promised.

Steve grimaced and offered her a sheepish smile. Irma stared, then waved for them to sit down. Steve followed Michael's lead; he cracked another smile when Michael chose the far booth Steve had sat in both times.

Michael flopped into the booth with a huff. Steve sat down gingerly, holding back as much as he could from making any pained hisses and moans. His face grew warm with effort and he finally exhaled shakily, settling against the old vinyl as the pain subsided.

"You look like shit," Michael remarked softly. "What happened to you?"

Steve shook his head. "You mean aside from the car thing?"

Michael colored and looked away.

Steve was about to pry about the thugs, when Irma bustled over.

"What the hell happened?" she asked urgently, her tone low enough that the other patrons couldn't hear her. She raked her eyes over Steve then glared at Michael. "Did you get him mixed up in this Underwood business?"

"No!" Michael said defensively.

"What Underwood business?" said Steve.

"I told you to stop," Irma continued, fierce worry creasing her forehead. "Go back home to your family, wherever they are, and stop worrying about this."

"That's not going to happen." Michael crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm not letting this go—not until it's over. Henry deserves—"

"Justice, yes, which is why you need to give this to the police."

"I did," Michael snapped. "They said it was suicide and it wasn't—I know it wasn't."

Irma frowned and shook her head. She finally properly looked at Steve, taking in his bruised features, hospital gown, and ever-growing beard and hair.

"And what happened to you since I last saw you? You look like a caveman who got into a fight and lost."

"He got hit by a car, uh, instead of me," Michael admitted before Steve had the chance to reply.

Irma's eyes went wide and swung back to Michael. "Hit by a car?" she growled.

Michael flushed bright red and he slid down in his seat under Irma's withering glare. "He doesn't have any clothes," he mumbled. "I thought you could help."

She straightened and pressed her lips together, like she very much wanted to tell off Michael, but couldn't, not with half a dozen tables bearing customers. And possibly because the language she wanted was not exactly suited for a thirteen-year-old's ears.

"Wait here," she snapped. The fire in her eyes didn't abate as she stormed away to tend to the other patrons, then she disappeared into the back room.

Michael crouched in the booth, his face burning. Steve was desperate to pry about what he'd heard, but held his tongue—the kid looked like he'd just shut him out if he tried right now. Besides, Michael wasn't going anywhere, if his reaction to Irma was anything to go by.

Irma came back with a stuffed plastic bag. She set it on the table between them and faced Steve.

"These are my son's," she said. "I was gonna drop them by Goodwill after my shift. They oughta fit you—he had big arms, too. Bathroom's in the back..."

"Steve," he supplied. "And, thank you." He smiled gratefully and Irma softened a little. She shot another scowl at Michael and left to refill the coffee pot at the main counter.

Steve worked himself out of the booth and hobbled to the bathroom. Inside the bag, he found a pair of brown polyester pants, a long-sleeved striped shirt, a honey colored sport jacket, a bottle of aspirin, and an old shaving kit. He shed his rank sweat pants and the paper-thin hospital gown and looked himself over in the mirror.

His ribs were wrapped with bandages and medical tape, and a rainbow of bruises covered his hip, chest, arms, and face. Steve rubbed his hand over the thick beard he'd grown in the six days he'd been stranded here. He washed his face and shaved, then downed four or five aspirin, and put on the borrowed clothes with a slow, careful sigh of relief. He felt about a hundred times better and let out another long, slow breath that didn't make his ribs protest too much.

When Steve rejoined Michael at the table, Irma brought out two burgers, each plate piled high with fries.

"Oh, I didn't—" he started.

"This is for making sure his sorry ass wasn't killed today," Irma said sternly.

Steve bit back a laugh, knowing it'd do him no good to argue. His stomach growled loudly, anyway, and he eased into the booth. A fresh wave of aches stabbed through him, though they were blessedly dulled now that he had some painkillers in him. He and Michael scarfed down their food, too hungry and tired to talk. Irma brought them dessert—apple pie for Steve, vanilla ice cream for Michael—and finally when their plates were gone and the diner mostly empty, Irma took a break and sat down beside Michael.

"So, you gonna tell him, or should I?" she muttered to Michael.

Michael shrugged, avoiding both her and Steve's gazes.

Irma sighed through her nose and looked to Steve. "Figured since you got yourself hurt on his account, at least you oughta know why."

"Does this have to do with the men who cornered him in the alley today?" asked Steve.

Irma shot a shocked glare at Michael, who nodded sullenly.

"They work for Charles Underwood," Michael said quietly.

"He's a big deal in this city—rich developer, owns all kinds of real estate." Irma leaned forward and lowered her voice even more. "He's a seedy as seedy can be—has his fingers in all sorts of illegal pies, all the while keeping his public face clean."

"Can't the police do something about him?" Steve asked.

Irma shrugged. "They've tried. For years. No one can nail him to the wall. He's too well-connected. Nothing ever goes to trial, witnesses and evidence go missing, that sort of thing."

Steve's stomach turned over uneasily.

Irma turned to Michael. "You want to tell the next part?" she said gently. "He was your friend, kiddo."

Michael didn't move for a second, staring a hole through the speckled table top. Finally he sucked in a deep breath and spoke.

"His name was Henry. He was the janitor at my school a few years ago, and then part time at Underwood after that. We both like...liked comic books—Henry saw me reading some once and we got talking. He was a really good guy."

He toyed with the salt shaker and shook his head sadly.

"He was young, too—maybe twenty- or thirty-something. It was like finally having a brother, and I could tell him anything." His voice grew softer. "After he quit at the school, we used to go for shakes every Saturday before his shift started at Underwood. He'd drive me home after Little League practice on the days when Mom worked late and he'd stay for supper."

He shoved the shaker away.

"One day, he was acting really weird and on edge," Michael went on. "He didn't want to tell me what was wrong, but I wouldn't leave him alone. He said he was worried about some friend of his, who'd accidentally seen something really illegal and didn't know what to do about it."

"It wasn't a friend, was it?" Steve asked.

Michael shook his head and grabbed the salt shaker again. "I told him his 'friend' should go to the police, and Henry got even more antsy, saying he couldn't, and then he left—I didn't see him again."

Irma took up the story. "Henry went missing for a week and turned up dead in his apartment. The police said it was suicide."

"But it wasn't," Michael insisted. "I know it was Underwood. I think Henry found out that Underwood's smuggling drugs into the city, and Underwood had him killed to keep him quiet about it. Except the police said there was no evidence of that, no evidence of foul play, nothing. Henry wouldn't commit suicide—he was saving up money to go back to school!"

"They wrote Henry off as a man with problems," Irma added sadly. "And Underwood remains untouchable and unconnected to yet another murder."

"And he continues to traffic drugs into the city," finished Steve grimly.

Silence descended as Steve processed Michael's story. Irma left to tend to some new customers and Michael idly spun the salt shaker, not looking at Steve.

"So you're trying to take Underwood down?" Steve finally said. "By yourself?"

Michael's cheeks colored but he nodded. "My family wouldn't help me—we fought for weeks about it, until I left. I've been living at a friend's house for a few months since—dodging cops and figuring this whole thing out. They don't know where I am."

Steve stared. "You're choosing to have no contact with your family, who're probably worried sick—"

"I'm not letting Underwood win again!" Michael slammed the salt on the table. "I'm not letting him get away with killing Henry."

"I didn't mean…"

"Whatever you're going to say, Steve, I promise you, someone else has already said it," Michael bit out. "Only thirteen, shouldn't be doing this alone, at all, leave it to the police, go home kid, you can't do anything about it…"

"Yeah," said Steve. "Pretty much all that."

"He's smuggling cocaine into our neighborhoods, Steve."

"I hear that, but you gotta realize how insane this is. You're a kid, trying to topple some giant businessman and his crime empire."

Michael crossed his arms over his chest. "That's why he's not going to see me coming."

Steve sighed. He wanted badly to talk Michael out of this and send him home. He could only imagine the kind of stress his family was going through knowing Michael was roaming the streets and nearly dying in his pursuit of justice. Or maybe they didn't know at all, and Steve couldn't say which was worse.

But the stubborn set of Michael's jaw and the hardness in his eyes told Steve all he needed to know. Michael meant it when he said he wasn't going to let this go. Which meant either succeed or die trying. Steve frowned, knowing well before he formed the words that he was going to help. Hell, he felt like he'd known it from the minute Michael had smashed into him with the coffee.

Besides, Steve had never been able to walk away from bullies either.

"I'll help you," he said. Michael blinked in surprise. "On one condition: when this is over, you go home to your family. You move on. You find a way to fix these kinds of situations—without doing it like this."

"Are you serious?" said Michael. "You'll really help?"

"Promise me," Steve pressed, staring Michael down. "Become a police officer or an FBI agent or a judge or whatever it takes, but not this...not out on your own, with no support, no lifelines, no family. You hear me? No more abandoning the people who care about you and trying to do all by yourself, ever."

He swore he could hear the echo of Bucky in his voice, at that moment, telling Steve that he didn't have to get by on his own. Bucky would probably find it ironic that Steve was giving the same advice to someone else.

"You're really big on promises, aren't you?" Michael mumbled.

"Yep."

Michael looked at the table and thought for a long moment before he met Steve's eyes and nodded. "Okay."

Steve held out his hand, wincing as his ribs protested. "Promise me," he repeated. "You promise me, and you promise Irma, and your family, and anyone else who cares about you."

Michael swallowed and shook Steve's hand. "I promise," he said somberly.

"Good." Steve relaxed into the booth. "Now tell me everything you know so far."

A/n: So they used to wrap broken ribs, but they stopped doing that in later years because it forced you to breathe shallowly and therefore put you at risk of getting pneumonia. I couldn't really find an exact date for when they stopped doing this, but I figured they likely were still doing it in the 70s. :)

Secondly: I assume Steve can still take regular painkillers, but he has to take at least double the dose twice as often, if not more, to be effective because of his hyper-metabolism.